- | - - p. e w. s. | . t. - d * -- | ---||| |- | |. - g|| | | * - | | | |||||- --|| -- |-|--- --|| £ | - - |-| | - | | cornell university library date due gay lord printed in u.s a. t *''' r& w. s. gilbert’s plays. original plays by w. s. gilbert. in four series. st. mar'rm’s library edition, pott vo, cloth, gilt top, :. net each; leather, gilt edges, :. net each. the flrst series contains: the wicked world-— pygmalion and galatea-—chaiity—'l‘he princess—t he palace of truth-—trial by jury-iolanthe. the second series: broken hearts—engaged—- sweethearts — gretchen — dan’l druce-— tom cobb—- i-i.m.s. ‘ pinafore ’——the sorcerer -— the pirates of penzance. the third series: comedy and tragedy—fog- gety’s fairy—rosencrantz and gziildenstern——patience —princess ida-—the mikado—ruddig re—the yeomen of the guard—the gondolicrs—the mounteb'anks— utopia, limited. the fourth series: the fairy’s dilemma-—the grand duke—his exce lency—“l.iaste to the wedding” -—fallen fairies-—the gentleman in black—branting- hame hall—creatures of impulse—randa l’s thumb- the fortune-hunter-—thespis. the gilbert and sullivan birtilda\’ book: quotations for every day in the year, selected from plays by w. s. gilbert set to music by arthur sullivan. compiled by alex. w atson. royal i mo, cloth, :. .-:’. london : chatto & windus, iii st. m.\r'rix’s lane, w.c. original plays fourth series . l__ ellis -’ walery, photo. /p //$wz»° -m- original plays - by m w. s. gilbert fo uarth sea /e.s containing the fairy's dilemma, the grand duke, his excellency, “haste to the wedding,” fallen fairies, the gentleman in black, brantinghame hall, creatures of impulse, randall’s thumb, the fortune-hunter, thespis with a portrait i, o n do n c hat to & wind us i l ; /i/ ‘)')»r)'l\_ >- contents. the fairy’b dilemma tun: grand duke his excellency “haste to the wnnnlng” fallen fzmmzs tar. gentleman black brantinghame hall creatures or imrulse . randalu trmas . tm: fortune-hunter . tnes > _s . . . . the falry’s dilemma. an original doiliest./c pantomlme, in two acts. pro ducea’ at the garrick t healre, lomian, under the management ’ mr. a rllmr bourclzier. w; dramatis personze. s upernaturals. the demon alcohol mr. jerrold ronertsii.uv. tm: fairy roszsvn miss jessie bateman- imps, goblins, fairies, etc. unnaturals. col. sm tnnvoa mavmzvnnza, _ ba‘rt., ¢. the household cavalry mr. arthur bouroi’her. (afterwards clown .) the rev. aloysws par!‘itt, m.a., oj“s. pm-abola’.'e " ... _mr. . b. c.{.ari: _ici=.. (afterwards harlequin.) mr. justice wiior'i:i._e, of the high ' uz'lqfjuz icatm'c ... mr. syl)nl'zy vai.ii it niz. (afterwards ptmialoon.) the lanv arman we.u. >s ' ne, .da'u_qhte-rq/‘ the marquis ¢y‘harrow... m ss violet vaunrvgii._ ‘ (afterwards c'olimibiize.) clarisba, daughter qf mr. justice whortle... . ... m ss dogeotuy grt ttzsroge. mas. crumnle, iiousekeeper to mr. pm,"/i'tt _., ,,, m ss ewell. act i. b'nus . the abode of the demon al(johol. scem: . the vioarage, act ii. scene . mr. justice whortle;s cboquet lawn . scem: . cloudland. scene . grand.transformation scene: the revolving realms ,’ radiant rehabilitation! scem: . pastrycook’s and lcheesemongers, shops.; _°!¥_ i ? ._'. ’ ‘ .i_e \'i. ai"~age, the fairy's dilemma. act. i. scene .—the abode of the demon alcohol. imps discovered round cauldron, labelled “rhymes.” #y bustle about, fetching words that rhyme with each other, | and putting them into the cauldron, over which an imp presides. an imp goes off and fetches a label, “bones”; another goes off and fetches another label, “jones.” they both put labels into cauldron, which the presiding imp stirs up. a third imp fetches a label, “town"; a fourth fetches a label, “brown.” both labels are thrown into cauldron. first imp fetches label, “myth”; second imp fetches label, “smith.” both labels thrown into cauldron. presiding imp stirs them all up together. flames issue from cauldron as each pair of labels is thrown in. gong. the demon alcohol appears through scene. ) al. it is a demon's fate that every time he speaks he must express himself in rhyme, and though to do my utmost i endeavour, for rhyme and metre i've no ear whatever. so, business being slack, i've ordered you, my faithful imps (a most painstaking crew), with careful judgment and discretion wary, to cook me up a rhyming dictionary, which i can study in my hours of leisure. is the job finished? [imps imply assent. a large volume labelled “rhyming dictionary” rises out of cauldron amid flames. alcohol takes it and opens it. . - - here's indeed a treasure ! - (to imps) be off! i thank you all! (they go off.) now that . they've gone - - - - i'll have an hour's study all alone. (cauldron sinks through trap.) - [alcohol sits on rock and opens the fairy’s dil"emma. of jiugling rhymes here is a storehouse, quite-— (reads) “white, bright, light, tight, fight, might, sight, bite, hight, kite"; “ clue, jew, true, blue, rue, new, too, few, do, coo ! ” [gong-—faiuy rosmsuo appears. (annoyed) come in! rose. good morning! al. who the deuce are you? rose. a fairy-—and my name is rosebud. al. is it ! greatly indebted to you for this visit. what do you want? rose, with worry i’m quite dizzy: (implov-z'n_ql_ /) i want your help ! al. (reverting to book). some other time : i’m busy. rose. that’s very rude, and rudeness i detest. (pitiably) i’m in an awful fix ! al. are you ? poor old girl! all right, i’ll do my best. rose (almost crying). of all good fairies pm the most unlucky ! for everything goes wrong! al. " now look here, ducky, * .. i twig your methods. every blessed time you make a point of leaving it to me to find the rhy e; that’s an old dodge of yours—your favourite ticket-z it’s all very well, young woman, but it isn’t cricket. f rose (speaking prose). come, i don’t want to be hard on you. we’re quite alone, and nobody will know. your verse is abominably faulty ; suppose we drop into prose ? al. well, that’s very nice of you. it’ll save a lot of trouble. these confounded rhymes simply drive me crazy. rose. yes—they’re not your strong point. i’ve heard you rhyme “ side-board ” with “ school-board ” ! al. well, what’s the matter with that? rose. and “ well-wisher ” with “ extinguisher ” ! you know you’re a perfect goose ! _ al. well, never mind that now. sit down, rosy, and let’s be cosy._ come, that’s not so bad! rose. cosy, indeed ! you surely don’t expect me to be cosy with a person of your stamp! you seem to forget that i’m a good fairy. good fairies have to be very particular. / az. how dull. ‘\' rose. it is dull. now, "’’e an aunt who is a bad fairy- dark, black hair, heavy eyebrows, dresses in black and red satin—- - . al. i know her. z.a.e. a.a.a. y's dj.leam/ma. - rose. well, you’ve no idea what a good time she has— although she's not received. however, to business. al. (seductively). now, come and sit here—do ! rose. you've such a way with you, i never did! well, iust for once, although it's really very wrong. (she sits by him; he puts his arm round her waist.) now, do behave ! (removes his arm.) i'm not my aunt, you know ! now, it's my duty as a good fairy to watch over respectable young couples and bring their courtship to a happy termination, and it's your duty as a demon to thwart this intention by every means in your power. now, there's been very little doing in my line of late—and i've received a pretty strong hint from the fairy queen that if i don’t find a worthy young couple to protect, whose courtship is threatened with destruction by a malevolent demon, amy office will be abolished, and i shall be relegated to dance in the back rows with the stout ones. . and that's a pretty look-out, isn’t it? al. it isn’t cheery. but where do i come in ? rose. i’ll tell you. after a deal of trouble i’ve found the very people i want—a mild young clergyman of blameless life, and a very respectable hospital nurse, who are over head and ears in love with each other. now, the hospital nurse— al. pretty? rose. fine girl—is pursued by colonel sir trevor mauleverer, a wicked baronet in the life guards, whose intentions towards her are too dreadful to talk about. will you believe it, this bold, bad man actually intends to carry her off to his flat in- al. i know–shaftesbury avenue. itose. not this time—whitehall mansions. al. oh, naughty, naughty! but are you sure of your facts? • itose. no doubt at all about them. why, i’ve seen him making love to her ! al. sure he doesn’t want to marry her? rose. want to marry her ! don't i tell you he's a baronet! al. i see—a bad baronet! rose. why, aren't all baronets bad? one would think you'd never read a shilling shocker in your life now, i want you to introduce yourself to sir trevor mauleverer and explain that you’re his familiar spirit—that you know he entertains the worst designs against this young woman, and that you are willing to help him in every way. he'll jump at your offer. you'll carry her off to whitehall mansions, and i’ll interfer just in time—before any mischief happens, you know-f restore her to the arms of her faithful clergyman. the fairy’s dilemma. al. (who has been listening in amazement). well, i’m da-—- (reoollects himself )-—-i beg pardon! rose. oh, don’t mind me, george. . al. i really couldn't help it. it relieves one’s feelings. besides, it’s so expressive. rose. and so true. al. eh? ah—yes—-yes—exactly. but look here, for a good fairy you’re an uncommonly cool hand. rose. good fairies are naturally cooler than demons. al. but, i say, aren’t you playing it rather low down for a good fairy? ' '- rose. what do you mean? al. respectable young girl, you know—clerical over—bad baronet—flat in whitehall mansions, eh ?’ rose. well, you are squeamish! don’t i tell you that i mean to rescue her and restore her to her young man before any harm can possibly happene? a al. yes, you did say that. but, rosy—come a little nearer. rose. no, it’s not right. besides, your scales scratch. al. (wlleedlingly). what am i to get for this, eh ? rose. get for it l oh, you don’t wantto get anything for it. a good action is its own reward. (aside.) he’s rather a dear! i wish he wasn’t so spotty! . . al. now, if i get you out of this scrape—(pm thinking of settling, you know)—if i get you out of this scrape, and we make it all trumps, eh? what do you say, rosy? rose. oh, i couldn’t think of it! that is a .matter that i must absolutely decline to discuss—at present. now, i must be off. i’ve got to change a respectable young plumber and a good plain cook into harlequin and columbine——and the electric light is a consideration. [backing towards opening. al. but look here, don’t be in.a hurry. suppose it turns out all right, eh ? rose. well, if you carry off theyoung woman—and. if i interfere just in time—and if i succeed in reuniting the young people—and if the fairy queen is pleased—and if i'm not relegated to the back rows among the stout ones-—and if it all turns out trumps-— al. (eagerly). well? rose. well, i’ll see! [she steps back into opening, whicli closes. stage darkens. end or sceue i. .the fair y ’s dilemma. ' jam tart and custards sces]; ii.—izvt <:a oe or the vicarage or s. pmasola. the rev. aloysius pail <‘i'i." ‘ discovered playing “ ihe lost chord” on izarmonium. camera with stand, etc., mns. crumble, his housekeeper, also discovered. aloy. mrs. crumble? mrs. c. yes, sir. aloy. i am expecting a few friends to luncheon. sir trevor mauleverer, miss clarissa whortle mrs. c. the young lady which he’s going to marry, sir? aloy. never mind that—and' nurse jane collins, who is in attendance on lady whortle. fvlrs. c. yes, sii'—the young lady which you’re going to marry, sir. aloy. sir trevor and i are certainly engaged to these young ladies, but that is not now the question. we will confine our- selves, if you please, to the question, which is—what do you propose to give us for luncheon? mrs. c. there’s yesterday’s chicken, sir, which will make a beautiful “ devil.” aloy. er-—no, i think not. i should prefer yesterday’s chicken cooked in any other way. a salmi, for instance. mrs. c. and there’s a nice little leg of lamb that came from wales yesterday. that, with apple dumplings and an open . . aloy. will do extremely well. at half-past one, mrs. ‘ crumble. mrs. g. it shall be ready, sir. oh, sir, i do ‘hope miss clarissa will be happy with sir trevor! aloy. why should you concern yourself about that, mrs. crumble ? mrs. . why, sir, these military baronights! well, i can’t say as i holds with military baronights. aloy. (reproachfully). how unjust you are! what harm have military baronets ever done to you, mrs. crumble’! mrs. c. lor, sir, no harm whatever! the ideal only in all the stories as i ever read, whenever i come across a military baronight i know as he’s going to turn out unsatisfactory. aloy. you need have no apprehension in this instance. sir trevor mauleverer is one of my oldest friends—a thorough english gentleman of the best type. .the fairy ’s dilemma. mrs. c. i’m very glad to hear it, sir, for miss clarissa——- aloy. now never mind miss clarissa. you can go, mrs. crumble. mrs. . yes, sir. [emit mns. crumble. aloy. mrs. crumble’s questions are inconvenient, .and her deductions incorrect, but i am happy to say that i have con- trived to answer her without any violation the truth. sir trevor is engaged, but not to clarissa whortle. i am also engaged, but not to nurse collins. so far, all is satisfactory, but what did mrs. crumble mean by her remark about military baronets? mere ignorant prejudice, of course. trevor would never—no, no, of course not. it’s merely manner on his part- nothing but manner. still, i do sometimes wish that he-} (noise without.) who is that? not the new curate, i hope. enter sib. trevor in undress um:/'orm. sir t. aloysius, my dear fellow-—— aloy. trevor, my old friend! [they shake hands. sir t. this‘is a critical moment, aloysius! in an hour’s time we shall have achieved the good deed to which we solemnly pledged ourselves a year ago ! in one hour we shall be married men! aloy. yes—still, i cannot help wishing that the humane and unselfish work to which we have so earnestly dedicated ourselves could have been achieved without resort to a deception which, harmless though it be, is a deception nevertheless. sir t. i think you are, perhaps, over-sensitive on this point. recollect that, maddened with righteous indignation at the oppression to which weak, helpless, and submissive women are but too often subjected at the hands of arbitrary, dictatorial, and mercenary parents, we solemnly vowed that we would devote ourselves, heart and soul, to the emancipation of the very first instances of such oppression that came to our knowledge— even though it were necessary to take the extreme course of marrying them in order to release them from such inhuman thraldom. aloy. no doubt, no doubt. clarissa/s father, mr. justice ‘nhortle, an extremely irritable, arbitrary, and dictatorial old person, insisted upon her marrying one of three men of wealth and title. sir t. i had the honour of being one of the three. aloy. you had the honour of being one of the three. seeing no other way to avert the doom with which the helpless girl the f/t €y’s dilemma. was threatened, i promised her that as soon as she came of age i would go so far as to make her my wife. she came of age yesterday, and we are to be married before the registrar to-day. sir t. prompt. aloy. yes, short reckonings make long husbands. nurse collins is, i have no doubt, equally the victim of some description of oppression, and you, i am convinced, have equally sacrificed yourself at the altar of altruistic self- abuegation. sir t. (after a pause). aloysius, i am about to confide to you a secret which, hitherto, i have confided to no one. the lady whom you know as jane collins, the hospital nurse, is no other than the lady angela wealdstone, only child of the haughty and despotic marquis of harrow! aloy. the lady who ran away from home a year ago ? bless my heart, you don’t say so! sir t. the marquis had insisted on her marrying the wealthy but disreputable duke of danderly, whom she regarded with absolute detestation. at that time lady angela was a year under age and a ward in chancery. so, at my suggestion, she left her home, and, changing her name to jane collins, she entered herself as probationer at bushey heath cottage hospital. she is now a fully qualified nurse, and as such i procured her an engagement to attend on lady whortle, who, as you know, is a chronic invalid. lady angela also came of age yesterday, and we are also to be married before the registrar to-day. aloy. yes. there are, however, two points upon which i confess my conscience is uneasy. although i embarked upon my engagement to clarissa from a simple sense of duty, i cannot conceal from myself that, despite a certain tendency to frivolity, which it will be y constant study to correct, i have grown to be strongly attac ed to clarissa. sir t. and, between ourselves, i am devotedly fond of angela. aloy. indeed! ihad no idea of this. sir t. iam devotedly fond of angela, but as her affection for me is based entirely on the belief that i am sacrificing my life’s happiness to her interests, it won’t do to let her know, just yet, how particularly happy i am to be permitted to do so. now, what is the second point that exercises you ? aloy. why, the deception to which i have been a passive party—my having allowed everyone to suppose that i was engaged to lady angela, whereas i was really engaged to " io t he fa ? i/"s dileaima. clarissa! it is true that i never said as much to any one, but —i never contradicted it. ‘ sir t. my dear boy, the arrangement was made with the full consent and connivance of both ladies, and no one has any right to complain. after all, what does it amount to? you are supposed to be engaged to lady angela, whereas you are really engaged to miss clarissa. i am supposed to be engaged to miss clarissa, whereas i am really engaged to lady a.ngela—and both ladies enter, heart and soul, into the arrangement! [enter claaissa wnorvtle, and lam: angela wealdstone. lady angela is dressed in the costume of a professional hospital nurse, with long cloak, cottage bon/net, grey dress, white bib and apron, etc. clarissa wears a handsome mantle and elaborate picture hat. clar. (politely). good morning, sir trevor. aloysius, my dearly loved one! (embraces aloysrus.) . lady an. (politely). how do you do, mr. parfitt? trevor, dearest trevor, are we late ? (embracing sm tnevoe.) sir ll’. my dear angela, you could never be too soon, and you never are too late. lady an. (alarmed). hush, trevor—y u forget! sir t. n o. i have confided our secret to mr. parfitt. lady an. have you ? and i have told clarissa ! clar. yes ; j ane—i mean lady angela—has told me every- thing. lady an. you are not angry with me, mr. parfitt, for this innocent little deception? aloy. i have, alas! forfeited all right, lady angela, to be hyperoritical where an innocent deception is concerned. . lady an. oh, don’t take a professional view of so. small a matter, mr. parfittl if i had passed under my own name, i should have been discovered at once, and restored by my trustees to my inhuman father’s custody. . aloy. (calmly). and is clarissa happy? clar. happy! i should think so! are we not to be married to-day? am i not to be made his whose noble altruism has rescued me from a doom worse than death itself? (recollecting herself.) oh, i beg your pardon, sir ‘trevor! sir t. pray don't! i quite understand. clar. what i mean is that marriage, under compulsion, with any gentleman, however eligible, must be distasteful to a girl who . the fa[ry’.s‘ dilemiiia. : "sir t. but i was not eligible. i was already engaged to lady angela. . clar. now, if you had been free aloy. clarissa, let us not pursue this painful theme into the embarrassing fields of illusive hypothesis. it is enough that your father insisted upon your marriage with a gentleman who, for whatever reason, was not to your taste, and that i interfered to prevent it. lady an. it’s like a tale of old chivalry! two poor help- less maidens, in dire straits, rescued by two gallant knight- errants, who had pledged themselves to sacrifice their life’s happiness in their service! ah, trevor,i would that i were worthy of you! /sir t. take heart, angela, it may be that you are. lady an. dearest! clar. in one short hour we shall be each other’s. but before that can be, my father, who is going to open the commission, will stop here on his way that you may photograph him in his robes. aloy. it was so arranged yesterday. everything is pre- pared. there is one point to which i should like to draw your attention. in the presence of the judge it is unhappily necessary that i should address myself in terms of endear- ment to lady angela, and that trevor should direct his attentions to yourself. may i suggest that we do not over-act our parts? lady an. i’m sure, mr. parfitt, you are always most par- ticular upon that point. such perfunctory endearments as are necessary to the situation have been performed by you with a delicacy—a self-restraint which-—- aloy. a—yes. i—i was not referring to myself, lady angela. but, to be frank, i have noticed a teudency—unin- tentional, i need hardly say—on the part of our good friend trevor in his attentions to clarissa to unnecessarily accentuate the situation. that he does so and that she reciprocates it in the warmth of their enthusiasm in a good cause, i am con- vinced; but still—they do it. sir t. my dear fellow, if i am to be natural, i must not be hampered. it has ever been the maxim of the mauleverers to do what they had to do with all the energy at their command. it’s in the blood. aloy. i see. i didn’t know it was in the blood—that makes a difference, of course. at the same time? clar. aloysius, i think you are unjust. you cannot but be aware that we have to create a certain impression, and that we . the fair]/"s dilemma. must be realistic if we are to beconvincing. i love you, dearest aloysius, with a fervour—with a devotion—- enter ms. j ustrce wnontmr. in fall robes and full-bottomed wig, ushered by mas. crumble. eolarissa, turning to sir. tsevos with simulated afic- tion, continues- —with a devotion, with an enthusiasm which i can scarcely expect you, dearest trevor, to rival in the overflowing fulness of its intensity. it is not in man’s nature to do so, and i do not complain. (lady angela has crossed afectionately to aloysius, who, formerly holding her at arm’s length by the waist, is much preoccupied by the proceedings of clarissa with sis tnnvon.) lady an. aloysius, dearly loved one, tell me, shall the little sitting-room be pink or blue? aloy. (preoccupied). i think, perhaps, a quiet plaid judge (who has been watching them). nearly finished your endearments? they’re a little oloying! clar. (in afeoted surprise). papal you here already! judge. yes, come now, be quick. i can’t keep the grand jury waiting. where shall i sit? here? (goes to chair up stage.) . aloy. that will do excellently, sir john. permit me. (arranges robes, then foousses, rather nervously.) lady an. sir john, you must allow me to compliment you upon the impressive effect of your judicial robes. ' judge. rather tasty, i think. but it’s not so much the robes as the wig. there’s a great deal more in this wig than you’d . suppose, miss collins. lady an. that i can quite believe, sir john. judge. yes. now observe. without it (taking it of) i am simply an intellectual middle-aged gentleman of a refined and cultivated type; but with it, miss collins (putting it on), i am at once the embodiment of the abstract majesty of the law— three centuries of the concentrated wisdom of both houses of parliamentin tabloid form. (business offocussing.) clar. (aside to lady angela). papa always keeps his wig by his bedside at night, and whenever argument runs high he puts it on, and mamma knocks under at once. aloy. how would you like to be taken, sir john ? solemnly, as delivering a judgment"? judge. no, i think not. humorously, as cutting a judicial the fairy ’s dilemma. i joke. judicial humour is my strong point. a trial at law is an extremely serious matter for both parties, and both parties are generally in a condition of heart-aching despondency until the verdict is delivered. i hold it to be a kind act, a consider- ate act, and a consolatory act on the part of the judge to relieve that depression, to dissipate that despondency, and to cause both parties to forget, if possible, the important issues at stake by indulging them with a course of jocular comment—of light- hearted faceiias, and in short, with adisplay of general a—a—- sir t. tomfoolery? . judge. a—well, yes—thank you, sir trevor—that’s not quite the word i wanted, but something of that description. i flatter myself that “ roars of laughter, in which the learned judge could not help joining,” is a paragraph that appears more often in cases tried before me than in any other court of justice in the kingdom. aloy. (timidly). but, if i may venture to make a suggestion, sir john, a jooular attitude would be scarcely in keeping with: judge (angrily). but you may not venture to make a sug- gestion, mr. parfitt. i am not here to receive suggestions ! (aloysrus in great terror.) i am here to be photographed in my own fashion, and unless i am photographed in my own fashion, i will not be photographed at all. (very'angry.) ular. but, papa, do listen to reason—-—— judge. great seal! haven’t i been listening to reason all the time i’ve been talking ? (getting up.) however, there’s an end of the matter. call my carriage. (comes down.) aloy. oh, sir john, pray don’t be angry! indeed, i meant for the best ! judge. “ meant for the best!” ular. papa, i’m so sorry i vexed you ! judge. “ sorry you vexed me!” sir t. come, sir john, don’t be severe"with my darling clarissa—poor little popsy-wopsy, tiddle toddlecumsl (fond- ling her.) judge. “popsy-wopsy, tiddle toddlecums!” (during this, aloysws has been empressing annoyance at sir tnevor’s display of afection towards clamssa, and is gestieulating to him to re- frain.) if you are an epileptic, sir, say so, and you shall be treated accordingly. (sulkily resumes his seat. aloysrus at camera.) i am but little accustomed to be dictated to, and i will not submit to it—i will not submit to it. (boiling with suppressed anger.) are you ready, sir‘! ,_aloy. quite ready,'sir john. (judge suddenly assumes a i the fa ry’s dilemma. grotesque and jocular attitude and empression, in strong contrast with his recent anger.) steady, sir j ohn—keep your eye upon this picture. judge (fu/rious). i will not keep my eye upon that picture. i shall look where i please. (resumes jocular attitude.) aloy. (very frightened). now then-—one, two, three, four! (puts cap on camera.) thank you, sir j ohn. judge (resuming his fury). and so you may, sir. it is the last time i put myself to this inconvenience to meet your wishes. (to mes. crumble). call my carriage. good mo[rning. emit. [as soon as he has gone clamssa rushes to aloysius, lady angela to str teevoe. lady an. now that that grumpy old gentleman has gone we can talk at our crse. ’ clur. dearest aloysius, you are vexed. don’t be angry with poor papa! he’s really very funny in court. aloy. it is not your papa, clarissa, with whom i am vexed. i do think, trevor (i am sure it’s unintentional), but i do think that you and clarissa overdo it. sir t. my dear fellow, i must play the game! [j ange heard speaking without. clauissa runs to sir tnnvon, lady angela to aloysius. clabissa and sm tnnvoe as afectionate lovers, aloysius holding lady angela in a constrained attitude at arm’s length. j udgf. enters. judge. my threc—cornered hat—i forgot my three-cornered hat! oh, here it is! (finds his hat and eatit.) " ' ‘. lady an. has he really gone, clarissa ‘i. olar. yes, dear; the carriage has driven off at last! [clarissa reverts to aloysros and lady angela to sir teevoe. , aloy. then, my dear clarissa, we should do well to repair at once to the registrar, and beg the good man to unite us with all convenient despatch. i confess that it pains me to have to resort to an opposition establishment—it savours of disloyalty to my cloth—but there is no other way, and we will be married in church as soon as the civil process has made you mine beyond dispute. the fly is waiting. . sir t. and when you come back it will be our turn to enlist that gentleman’s good services-—and then it will be our painful duty to break the news to our respective fathers-in-law—i to the marquis—that won’t be pleasant—— ' the fa i'y’s dilemma. aloy. and i to the judge. that—that will require a little tact. sir t. just a little tact. by the way, excuse me for two minutes. they’ve been altering the regimental uniform——- lady a. what, again? sir t. yes—and i want to send a wire to my tailor. ’ll be back directly. [lflmit sm tnevor. om. are you ready, dear aloysius ? aloy. yes, yes; i’m ready. but if you will allow me to makefa suggestion, clarissa, it seems to me that the hat and mantle you are wearing are scarcely in accordance with the modest and unobtrusive nature of the process to which we are about to submit ourselves; wc—we desire rather to avoid_ observation than to court it. gla’r. why, i bought this ‘hat on purpose to do honour to the occasion! besides, it’s too late now--—i can’t go home and chanve. _ laciiy an. let me make a suggestion. pin up your skirt, take my bonnet and veil and apron and cloak, and then any one who sees you will be sure to take you for me. _ aloy. really, my dear clarissa, lady angela’s kind and thoughtful proposal appears to me to solve the difficulty. _f clar. _(r}: nt :zf .tg‘ hat aaéi z z m lzt l)e).d d yc ) u glllfik _\/velli you w s course i s a e one. u oysius, gave seven guineas for that hat! " [emit with ai~igela’s cloak, bonnet, veil, and apron, . leaving her own behind. " aloy. (very respeczf/'ully). and now, lady angela, that we are alone, permit me to express a modest hope that the per- functory embraces which the unfortunate but autocratic necessities of the situation have compelled me to bestow upon you have been conceived and executed with as much delicacy and personal repression as the distressmg circumstances of the case permitted. " _ _' lady an. m ‘. parfitt, you have been, if anythmg, too discreet. . . aloy. thank you, lady angela. if, in the reckless abandon- ment of the moment, i have been too fiery_—if i should unhappily have exceeded the strict limit of what is customary between engaged couples, i beg you will not attribute it to a desire to take an unmauly advantage of the relations which are supposed t ‘ t between us. . r o i/fxlzzsly an. mi". parfitt, you have shown yourself throughout the transaction to be a gentleman who is actuated by an ex- aggeratedly delicate appreciation of what is due to a lady whom the fair!/’s dilemma. circumstances have placed in a most difficult and equivocal situation. f aloy. lady angela, i most respectfully beg to thank you or—— [gong. at this moment the faiby rosenvn appears through back of scene. they are both conscious that a third person is present, though they have not seen her. aloysms suddenly changes his manner, and addressing lady angela with efusion, con- tinues—- as i was saying, i respectfully thank you for the overwhelming ove—the whole-souled affection—the unutterably tender de- votion with which you have so amply endowed me, my respect- fully adored young friend ! lady an. (as :/' suddenly conscious of the presence of a third person). but hush, my aloysius, we are observed! [they are much surprised at seeing the fairy. lady an. dear me, what a very singular young person! aloy. may i be permitted to ask--—whom i have the pleasure of addressing ! rose. i am the fairy rosebud. i am here to help both you and mr. parfitt, dear. such love as yours we fairies much admire, and i’ll afford the aid that you require. aloy. but there’s some mistake—we are not in need of any assistance at present. and in this costume—and at a vicarage! in all my experience i- never saw anything so—so inadequate! lady an. it’s perfectly scandalous—in a vicarage! rose. i understand your feelings, and would spare ‘em, but i’m : fairy, and i've got to wear ‘c . in the fond love that yoe’’e just now protested as a good fairy i’m much interested; though threatened by a scheme of foulest tissue, your love i’ l pilot to a happy issue ! aloy. but, really—— lady an. i think, mr. parfitt, that if we make it quite clear to this young person that we are thoroughly competent to conduct our own affairs without supernatural intervention, she will, perhaps, be so good as to apply her protective machinery to some young couple to whom it may be of service. aloy. really, miss—a—a—i did not catch your name? rose. i am the fairy rosebud —i am here?- aloy. really, miss rosebud. i assure you that we have no occasion for your services. and if you are blessed with parents who are still living, may we suggest that you repair at once to _-mm- the fairy's dilemma. old mr. and mrs. rosebud, and point out to them the absolute necessity of their providing you with an outfit that shall be in stricter accordance with prevailing prejudices. rose, don't be absurd, but listen ere i go. a wicked demon, my official foe, intends to carry off your bosom's pride- - the fair jane £ standing by your side- and place her in your hated rival's power: this he'll effect in less than half-an-hour. but do not fear, i shall be close at hand to thwart the ill my demon foe has planned. [going to opening. aloy. but, my good woman, permit me to assure you that you are entirely mistaken in supposing- rose. mistaken happily for both your sakes the fairy rosebud never makes mistakes : you'll live her faultless judgment to extol- but one word more-beware of alcohol! (disappears.) lady an. well, this places us in a pleasant predicament, mr. parfitt ! that muddle-headed young woman is about to put her foot into it to an extent of which she has no notion. aloy. it's extremely embarrassing, lady angela. she wouldn’t give me time to explain. lady an. and then, “beware of alcohol” indeed! as if we were addicted to anything of the kind. aloy. i am sure, lady angela, we are most abstemious— most abstemious. a glass of light claret or a little ginger beer— lady an. do you really think she's a fairy? aloy. well, lady angela, i set up no pretensions to be considered a judge of fairies, but she certainly appeared and disappeared in a most unaccountable manner. lady an. here comes clarissa—how astonished she will be aloy. i think, perhaps, lady angela, it would be better for me to break this embarrassing little incident to clarissa on our way to the registrar's. ah, here she is ! enter clarissa in lady angela's bonnet, apron, clo" streamers, etc., and looking, with her veil down, exact/ lady angela looked at her entrance. lady an. my dear clarissa, the disguise is perfect. no c would know you. iv. c the f ’ y ' <q. l.em l . . enter'_s a tm:vor.'. --i sir t. i’ve sent the wire. “(sees clarissa and takes her for lady angela.) my dear angela, they’ll be back in half-an- hour and then it will be our turn. (about to kiss her, with his arm around her waist.) clar. (raising veil). sir trevor, you mistake! aloy. really, trevor, it is getting beyond a joke. i don’t want to be selfish, but i beg you to. remember that, after all is said and done, clarissa is engaged to me. sir t. my dear fellow’,'a thousand pardons! really, miss whortle, i took you for angela. i did, indeed. it’s a com- pliment to the disguise, miss whortle, and should be so taken.“ ' . " " aloy. well, i think perhaps we had better be off before these compliments become overwhelming. by the way, clarissa, a rather remarkable incident has happened. i’ll tell you all about it as we go. as i was talkmg to lady angela . [exeunt aloysius and clasissa, talking. sir t. (to angela). our turn next, angela. lady an. yes, our turn next! oh, trevor, when i gaze upon you and reflect that, solely to rescue me from the detest- able clutches of a profligate old scarecrow .you have consented to szc-ifice the instincts, the emotion, the aesthetic essence of a lifetime, i am lost in adoringwonder! , ‘ sir t. my dear angela, you exaggerate—you do, indeed. it really gives me great pleasure to render you this service. lady an. i exaggerate nothing! one cannot exaggerate such heroic self-effacement. there are no words in the english language to express it. i doubt if it could be done even in german! how true it is that nobility of character is the only source of enduring love! before i saw you i had formed my own ideal of manly perfection—it was not at all like you. but when i came to know the calm beauty of your character, the noble and undemonstrative heroism with which you had devoted yourself to the succour of the helpless and ‘the oppressed, i realized how insignificant were questions of more physical attributes, and i longed to soar into the moral empyrean on the wings of such an angel of altruism as i had discovered my trevortobe! ‘ _ ' ' "‘ ' " sir t. thank you very much. ' but, really, i-‘am almost to be envied, for, if you will permit me to say so, you are really an extremely attractive lady. ‘ lady an. attractive? bah! why, look at me! what am the fairy's dilemma. i i? i ask you, am i the kind of woman to inspire a heroic passion ? sir t. i think so—i think so. pledged as i was to rescue, by process of matrimony, the very first oppressed woman i came across, without regard to age, station, or personal appear- ance, i consider myself most fortunate in having found an oppressed one who is not only endowed with considerable personal advantages, but who is, moreover, a very agreeable and intelligent companion." - - iady an. ah, you say this to comfort me ! sir t. no—no. when i think what you might have been and see what you are, i consider that i have really very little reason to complain. lady an. oh, trevor, how happy you make me ! sir t. and now may i suggest that, as mr. and mrs. parfitt may return at any moment, you would do well to clothe yourself in her hat and cloak then if we are seen on our way to the registrar by anyone we know i shall be supposed to be merely taking a drive with the young lady to whom i am supposed to be engaged. . - lady an. how thoughtful you are! i won’t be two minutes! - - [exit angel.a. sir t. (looking after her). now that's a most heavenly girl, and i’m the very happiest man in the world! dearest angela ! she little guesses that i have occupied myself for many nights past in composing a ballad in which the full intensity of my affection has been (not unhappily, i think) expressed. [sits down at harmonium-plays a symphony. at this moment the demon alcohol rises from trap immedi- ately behind him, unperceived by sir trevor. the demon is dressed like a man about town, but other- wise presents the same aspect as in act i. sir trevor sings the first note of the song, and the demon, standing behind him, joins in. sir trevor wheels round on music stool, and looks coolly at him, glass in eye. - al. good morning, guv'nor ! hope you're pretty well? sir t. may i ask whom i have the pleasure of addressing? al. now, what d'ye take me for ? sir t. really it is difficult to say. not the new curate. should imagine. al. bah! i'm no curate, though a man of merit. buck up, old hoss i'm your familiar sperrit! sir t. (stiffly). i recognize the familiarity. the fair y ’- ' dilemma. al. ' i am here to help you if you meze to persevere in your pursuit of jane, attractive gipsy ! . oh, she’s a fascinating pipsy-wipsy . [digs sm tmcvoe in m'bs_ " sir t. (coldly). if this conversation is to be pursued, i must beg that when you have occasion to refer to that lady, you will observe a becomingly respectful reticence. otherwise—— az. all right, i’m fly, and don't you ever doubt it. now give it lip, and tell us all about it. sir t. really, sir, you make a very cool request. you can scarcely expect me to _ discuss my most delicate private affairs with the very first demon i happen to come across. al. to that remark i merely answered pooh ! if you won’t tell me, why then i'll tell you. you love jane collins, nurse to some girl’s mother, but-but (botheredfor 'rh_yme)—but she’s a girl of taste, and loves another ! sir t. allow me to assure you that you entirely misconceive the situation. miss collins is no other than az. now do be quiet: it‘s the worst of crimes to interrupt a poor devil of . demon when he‘s fishing for his rhymes. to carry her away some means you search, and—and (bothered for rh_ /me)—and leave your hated rival in the lurch. sir t. once for all——no, i will speak. once for all i tell you that my intentions towards the young lady to whom you allude are of the most honourable description. in half an hour-—— al. get out ! don't try to veil your conduct shady. why, jn.e, by this time, is a married lady ! so zr. nothing of the kind, sir! al. oho ! you roguey-pogey ! bad young man l but never fear, ‘i will assist your plan. your rival shall be paid out, tit for tat. in half an hour you'll find her at your flat l [sinks through trap. sir t. here—stop! gone! what can he mean? does he presume to suggest that i, sir trevor mauleverer, the last representative of a long line of blameless baronets, upon whose escutcheon there has never been the shadow of a shade, am capable of entertaining designs against the purity and peace of mind of my devoted angela ?—angela, who will be my wife in half an hour! but this is what it is to be a baronet in the life . the fair y ’s dilemma. i guards. it is too generally assumed by those who derive their ideas from works of sensational fiction that we are all abandoned profligates! even my old friend aloysius seems to misconstrue my artificial attentions to his bride. in my moments of leisure i have composed a lament upon the subject which may tend, not infelicitously, to correct this unfortunate misconception. [symphony in orchestra. he takes music from his pocket and comes down as if to sing. at this moment enter aloysrus and clarissa; aloysrus somewhat preoccupied, clarissa in high spirits. clarissa (dancing about the room). we are married, sir trevor! married, married, married! i am mrs. parfitt, sir trevor, and my beloved husband may defy my flinty-hearted father to do his worst !_ ‘ sir t. (taking clarissa by both hands). my dear mrs. parfitt, i heartily congratulate you. aloy. (gently withdrawing her from sir tnevor, as if appre- hensive that he is about to embrace her). yes. . thank you. i confess i do not contemplate the prospect of defying sir john whortle without a certain degree of nervous apprehension. i am afraid he may not be altogether pleased at what has occurred. (aside, snifiing.) curious smell of cheap lucifer matches! sir t. he’ll be furious—simply volcahic—- aloy. (alarmed). oh, you think he will? sir t. i’m sure of it; but what of that? you can snap your fingers under his very nose, and he can do nothing. aloy. oh, yes, i could do that. no doubt i could do that. but i’m not at all sure that snapping my fingers under the very nose of an extremely irritable judge of the high court is quite the best thing i do. sir t. you must practise. it’s very easy. like this ‘ [sie trevor snaps his fingers. aloysius imitates him with ’’: ld’l:_flb ‘ 'l?t success. . enter angela in clarissa’s hat and cloak. lady an. i’m quite ready, trevor. clarissa, my dearest clarissa, a thousand congratulations! how do i look? clar. oh, too sweet! lady an. come, trevor. (snifl’ing.) what a curious smell of cheap lucifer matches ! sir t. yes. a rather remarkable incident has happened since you left the room. . lady an, an incident? the fairy's d/lemma. sir t. yes, i'll tell you all about it as we go. (talking as he goes off.) as i was sitting down to the harmonium just trow- [exeunt sir trevor and angela. clar. (at feet of aloysius). and now, aloysius, that we are alone together, and our married life has really begun, you must be frank with me and tell me all my faults, and i'll try to correct them. aloy. will you, really, clarissa? that is indeed joyful news. now, in the first place, i think my little girl is disposed, perhaps, to attach undue importance to the matter of costly raiment. clar. costly raiment? - aloy. if you knew how well a modest garb becomes you-- such as the dress you are now wearing clar. oh, aloysius, i look a pretty guy in these clothes! aloy. then i fear that frivolous and worldly distractions are not without a certain allurement for you. clar. of course i like to amuse myself, dear. harmless amusement- aloy. oh, i was not referring to school-feasts and mothers' meetings. i allude to dinner parties, dances, and theatres. clar. of course, aloysius, i shall do exactly as you wish. but have you ever been to a theatre, dear? aloy. (with energy). never! most surely never! clar. they are really not so bad as you think. good gracious! what's that! [the demon alcohol appears through wall. both rise, clarissa clinging to aloysius in great alarm. clar. oh, aloysius, protect me! - aloy. sir, this intrusion is unseemly. who are you, and whence do you come? -al. i come from where it is extremely warm, a most unpleasant duty to perform. for your return i have for sometime tarried. aloy. (shortly). engaged. - . an that—you're married : tsu- -h you may forget— a. - baronet! h - on can now pooh-pooh him we you to £ ! * f. \, whisking her away from to trap. they slowly descend. s: “clarissa ' " she screams, e'" he endeavours to follow, -the ’i"a ry"-.'s‘ dylemmai "but is restrained by half a score of imps, with flaming torches, who form a fiery circle round him. clarissa and drrren disappear from view, clarissa holding on to edge of trap, from which she is with dilficulty dislodged by irnps. ‘ prcture. ran fiee. end or aet i. acr" ; seena i.—ceoqnet lawn at sm jone wnoetle‘s country honse. ' fairy rosebud appears through a rosebush. rose. now i wonder what has happened? alcohol was to have met me here .at four to report progress, but of course he’s behind time. i do hope he hasn’t made some stupid mistake ! (ale hol appears through juniper bush.) oh, here you are at last! you’re late! al. athousand pardons! driving here from town my brand-new demon motor-car broke down; a puncture long delayed me—this fatality affects one's character for puncture-ality. rose. oh, d u’ talk nonsense! how are matters progressing ? al. capitally. i did just as you told me. _the clergyman and the hospital nurse were married by the registrar this morning. . ' fairy. good! al. as soon asthey returned home i appeared to them—tore the hospital nurse from her husband’s arms, and conveyed her to sir trevor’s fiat, where she now is. rose (much relieved). excellent! nothing could be better! i was getting quite anxious. ah, you don't know how we good fairies fret and worry when anything goes wrong! you see, we take such interest in our" work, and we‘re so con- scientious! - . . al. it must be a_ wearing life. ' but look here, rosy, i hope you won’t leave her there too long. it’s rather a compromising position for a young girl who?s just married. ‘ rose. well, you are a soft-hearted demon! _ al. not particularly. but, .frankly, to snatch a newly- married bride from her husband's arms, and carry her off to the the fairy ’s dilemma. fiat of a wicked baronet, is playing it rather low down, even for a gentleman in my profession. it’s true i stuffed up the key- hole with beeswax, so he can’t get at her. still, you oughtn’t to leave her there too long. rose. well, you’re a good fellow, and i’ll take care that she’s restored to her husband before any harm happens. i’ll see to it at once. now trot along like a good boy, and leave it all to me. ..l but, rosy—before i go—just one! rose. i won't ! get along with you! a.-. bother! [vanishes through juniper bush. rose. my fairies, hither! [music. fairies appear tripping down stage. they make obeisance. rose. it has come to pass thcre’s a young girl of decent middle class to whom we’ve promised our protecting mercies : d'you know june collins ? lat coryphée. well : her sphere‘s a nurse’s. rose. well, she is in mortal peril, there’s no doubt of it, and you must help me, please, to get her out of it. (impressively) she's in the power of alcohol, my foe, (sensation.) and we must rescue her ; but ere you go, dance on the sward before these stucco portals (to audience) (which i may state are mr. justice whortle’s), and when you‘ve finished wing yourselves away and bring june collins here without delay! [emit fairy rosesud. ballet. (at the end the fairies ezeunt.) enter mr justice whoetl :\:,in plain clothes. judge. well, i’ve done an excellent day’s work. a breach of promise, damages fifteen hundred; a serious libel action, damages five thousand; and a magnificent clerical scandal to top up with. they all “went" magnificently! court con- vulsed throughout! never heard such roars of laughter in a court of justice before! but where’s clarissa? i must tell clarissa all about it. clarissa! (angrily.) where is that girl? it’s a most unaccountable thing, but whenever i want that girl she‘s—-- hulloa, sir! what’s the matter with you ? enter aloysrus, breathless with terror and agitation. aloy. sir j ohn—a dreadiul thing—a terrible thing has occurred. (panting.) i— hardly know how to begin! judge. collect yourself, sir—and after you’ve collected your- self, recollect yourself, sir. . - . i’m doing my best, sir john! your daughter, sir?—l the _f. ry’s dilemma. judge. my daughter, sir? how are you concerned with my daughter, sir ? aloy. sir john, be prepared for a blow. your daughter, clarissa? judge (with dignity). if you allude to miss whortle, sir, be good enough so to describe her. aloy. pardon me, it would be a misdescription. it-—it would be untrue! judge. untrue? aloy. (trembling violently). the lady who was miss whortlc is now—mrs. parfitt! judge a violent passion). why, you—-—-! aloy. (warningly). clergyman of the church of england, sir john ! judge (swallowing his fury). do you mean to tell me that you—you-—with a stipend of two hundred a year—have pre- sumed to marry my daughter? aloy. yes, sir j ohn—in a way. i mean that we were married this morning before the registrar! judge. before the registrar ? aloy. before the registrar. i don’t know when the registrar was married, but, whenever it was, we were married before him. (aside) i don’t know what i’m saying! judge. well, of all the acts of audacity that have ever come under my notice (suddenly) and what will sir trevor say ? great chancellor! what will sir 'l‘revor say ? aloy. oh, that’s all right—-— judge. all right! aloy. yes—he knows all about it, and he’s delighted ! judge. delighted! ' aloy. yes—he presents his compliments and begs me to explain that his engagement to clarissa——- judge (furiously). miss whortle! aloy. to mrs. parfitt-—was a blind. judge (astounded). his engagement to clarissa a blind! house of lords and commons! aloy. but—but that is not the worst?- judge (who is pacing up and down in great agitation). it is! it is! there could be nothing worse! nothing! aloy. as soon as we returned from the cere—from the process -—a demon appeared - judge (severely). it served you right, sir! what less could you expect ? aloy. and wrenching cla—mrs. parfitt from my arms, carried her--down below! ‘ ' . . tiie fairy ’s dilemma. judge. down? whore? aloy. it—it is impossible to say, sir j ohn. i can only conjecture, but i fear the worst. i have notseen clarissa—— judge (furiously). miss whortle! aloy. mrs. parfitt—since. and i have come here as fast as a hansom would carry me to implore your pardon and beg your assistance to recover her! judge. recover her! how am i to recover her? a writ of habeas corpus doesn’t run down there! (struggling with his fury.) may a j udgé’s curse ' . fairy rosebud appears through bush. rose. hold! say not that which may not be unsaid! judge. and who may you be, madam ? rose (to aloysius). although most stupidly your scheme is laid, my fairy power, which once you did disdain, will rapidly put matters right again! aloy. miss rosebud, i cannot sulficiently thank you for your kind promise of assistance, or my regret for the thankless and inconsiderate attitude i adopted towards you this morning. if you can by any means restore to me my bride——- . judge. but, confound it, madam, they’re married! how can you put that right? whoever you are, you're certainly not the ' udge ordinary! rose (ignoring him). i’m not concerned with this abrupt old man, my duty is to thwart the demon’s plan, and join again these two young lovers dear : (waving wand.) . jane collins, come! appear! appear! appear! aloy. but, pardon me, there’s some mistake‘- judge. jane collins! nobody wants jane collins! [lady angela rises through trap. she has been inter- rupted at her toilet and appears standing in front ry“ looking-glass on a small toilet table, in dressing jacket, with her hair down and brush in her hand; also a long tail of false hair. j udge and aloysius put on their spectacles. ' lady an. (angrily). what is the meaning of this most indelicate intrusion on my privacy? (sees roseeuo.) ah! i thought it was you. how dare you presume to bring me here before these people without waiting until i was fit to appear? (during this she is doing up her hair.) i never was submittcd to such an outrage in my life—never!. (to aloysius and the fairy ’s dilemma. judge.) i really beg your pardon, both of you, but—will you be so good as to look the other way for a moment, until l’m fit to be seen. (judge and aloysrus take of their spectacles and look away.) " " rose (humbly). i’m really awfully sorry, i had no idea that-- lady an.‘no idea! no, you never have any ideas, except wrong ones! _ " k ' rose. i really meantto do you a goodturn. don’t be cross with me or i shall cryr!‘ indeed, i had no idea you were at yourtoilet, or i never should have thought of bringing you here! do give credit at least for good intentions! lady an. her mouth full of hairpins). i’ll give you credit for being a t oroughly wrong-headed, meddling, mischievous little donkey! rose (crying). i’m not a donkey! i’m a g—g—good fairy. lady an. you’re a good-for-nothing fairy! why did you bring me here? . . rose (sobbing). who, to rescue you from the b—bold—b-— bad—b—baronet of course; and restore you to the arms of your own true love! lady an. i thought as much! oh, you purblind little idiot! (to j udgr. and aloysros). you can look now. [she has finished with her hair. judge and aloys us put on their spectacles again. aloy. let us be just to miss rosebud. i have no doubt that the lady was actuated by a laudable motive, but she has gravely erred. i am neither engaged nor married to miss collins. my wife is cla+(checks himself as he catches the j u )ge’s eye) is the daughter of mr. justice whortle ! rose. of mr. j ustice whortle ! "judge. yes, madam, of mr. justice whortle, a judge of the high court of judicature. now this comes of "meddling with matters you don’t understand. i trust it may be" alesson to you. rose. i can’t make it out ! i’m quite bewildered! judge. i’ll make it quite clear to you, ma’am lady an. yes, and i’ll make it quite clear to you [judoe, lady angela, and aloysius all proceed to erplain at once. as they all speak together, very volubly and very emcitedly, nothing definite is heard. " ‘ ' ' ' ' ' rose (stoppi/ng" her ears and stamping angrily). will you all be quiet? (they stop graduallv , each wanting the last word.) alcohol! come here! (demon appears through ram- pire in bush.) what does all this mean ? didn’t i tell you to . . the fa ry's dilemma. carry off mr. parfitt’s bride, the hospital nurse, and take her to sir 'l‘revor’s fiat ? aloy. how disoreditable! al. (puzzled). well, so i did. (aloysrus, lady angela, judge and fairy all begi‘ to speak to him at once. stopping his ears.) will you be quiet? (all stop gradually as before.) judge. will you be good enough to tell me—what have you done with miss clarissa whortle ? . al. miss whortle ? don’t know the lady. aloy. yes—clarissa. (catches judoe’s eye.) mrs. parfitt. you took her from me, and i must beg you to restore her to me at once. where is cla—mrs. parfitt? enter sm tmsvoe with clabissa. sir t. mrs. parfitt is here. i found her at my flat, and brought her here without a moment’s delay. clar. aloysius! ’ lady an. trevor! [clarissa rushes to aloys us, lady angela rushes to sm tmsvon. fairy aghast and tottering. demon puzzled. aloy. ( rl yr‘acing clauissa). dearest, d n’t fear-— ’l yield you up to no man ! ' rose (to demou). you’ve been and carried off the wrong young yeoi anl fairy faints in judge’s arms. demon stands con- founded. aloysius embraces clabissa. teevoa embraces lady angela. scem: darkens. esn or scme . scene . cloudland. demon alo hol and fairy rosenud discovered. rose. well, we’ve made a nice mess of it between us ! al. we’ve muddled it up somehow; but, frankly, rosy, i cannot see that i’m to blame. rose. don’t “rosy ” me! you’ve simply capsized the entire fairy apple-cart, and what to do i don’t know ! az. my dear child, i’m extremely sorry, but i did exactly as you told me. rose (angrily). did i or did i not tell you to carry off jane collins and take her to sir 'l‘revor’s flat, and have you or have you not done so? i only ask that—that’s all! a’. you never said a word about jane collins.-— rose, what l the faia y's d/zeamma. . al. you merely told me to carry off the hospital nurse who was engaged to mr. parfitt. rose. well, suppose i did say “hospital nurse”—that's no reason why you should carry off clarissa whortle, who was never in a hospital in her life! al. the young woman was dressed like a hospital nurse, and had just been married to mr. parfitt; so i took her off to the flat of the bold bad baronet, just as you told me. oh, you are hard on a fiend, rosy, you are indeed! rose. there again—there's another mistake. he isn't a bad baronet; he's a good baronet, and is honourably in love with jane collins, and has married her like the real gentleman he is! al. well you said you knew all about him. anyway, we've made a nice mess of it between us! rose. it'll be a nice mess for me if it gets about! i'm not going to be put back among the extra ladies at a pound a week, and only allowed to walk on without a word to say! there's only one way out of it. we must transport them at once to the revolving realms of radiant rehabilitation, and transförm them into harlequin, columbine, clown, and pantaloon. that will get us out of the difficulty, and no questions asked. al. humph! rather rough on these poor people, isn’t it? rose. oh, i never saw such a demon as you—you're always raising conscientious difficulties! i ask you—isn't it the very greatest kindness that you can do two young people to change them into harlequin and columbine? al. it's a matter of taste. i shouldn’t like it myself. and the others? rose. oh, the others must take their chance. they'll all have a good time, any way. now, away we go! did you ever see the revolving realms of radiant rehabilitation—telegraphic address, “realms”? al. never. - rose. of course not. demons are not admitted. well, it's all revolvers— al. (startled). what? rose. yes. i mean everything turns round—like that. it makes you giddy at first, but you soon get used to it. you shall see a photo. (producing one.) there—it's a sweet spot. al. pretty, pretty are these real girls? rose. yes—no expense spared. that scene cost five-and twenty pounds, without the gas. al. might i have a peep? rose. certainly not! never heard of such a thing! toddle ! - the faiary's d/lemma. al. ta! ta! see you later on! (descends through trap.) [rosebud waves wand. scene disappears. trap half opens, and demon slyly puts his head through. fairy sees him, and says: “now that’s a most ungentlemanly thing to do !” demon disappears. by this time scene has cleared off, revealing— grand transformation scene. the revodving realms of radiant rehabilitation. sir trevor, lady angela (in her nurse's dress, aloy- sius, and judge (in full robes and full-bottomed vig), discovered, looking up stage with their backs to the audience (sir trevor represented by a “double”). the fairy rosbbud goes up stage and stands on pedestal. rose. attend to me—your destinies are strange : prepare to undergo a startling change. . . . happy young lovers who have plighted troth, • a rich and rare award attends you both. you, mr. parfitt, a new life begin, - as twirling, twittering, glittering harlequin aloy. as what? i beg your pardon, i didn't catch that remark. - rose. as twirling, twittering, glittering harlequin aloy. but, pardon me, i don’t know what that is: rose. you’ll soon learn—it’s quite easy. come, mr. parfitt, you must do as you're told. [she touches him with wand. his clothes fly off him, and - he is changed to harlequin, retaining his spectacles. aloy. but this is most embarrassing. i beg you will return me my coat and things at once. what on earth have i got on? this is certainly not the underclothing i put on this morning. rose. now you must dance, you know. aloy. but really i can't dance. it's quite out of my line. j'ose. then i'll give you a lesson. - - [waves wand over him. aloysius makes involuntary galvanic movements, awkwardly suggesting “anima- tion ” business. - rose, you, jane—his faithful jane-henceforth shall shine with him as his most loving columbine ! - - lady an. indeed i shall do nothing of the kind! are you aware that you are addressing the lady angela mauleverer, and that this gentleman is my husband? (indicating sir trevor.) rose. i think you are a very obstinate young woman. wilk you do as i tell you? you must-it's the game! the faia'y's dilemma, - aloy. (who has been dancing very awkwardly, stops). but permit me to assure you that this lady is not related to me in any way whatever. the arrangement you suggest is extremely inconvenient and unbecoming, and must prove most compro- mising to both of us. - - rose. i can't go into that. will you or will you not change into columbine? - - - lady an. no, i will not. itose. then i shall have to resort to force. give me my wand. [takes wand and waves it. lady angela changes to columbine, lady an. well, of all the intolerably disgraceful liberties—! (becomes suddenly conscious of her ballet skirts.) oh! oh! [bends her knees so that skirts touch the ground. rose. come, dance—both of you ! lady an. never! give me back my frills directly! rose. oh dear! dear! dear! [waves wand. aloysius and lady angela dance, aloysius galvanically as before, lady angela with her knees bent. t lady an. (dancing). oh, mr. parfitt—pray don’t look | aloy. (dancing). not for bishoprics, lady angela ! judge. {# i energetically protest— } (speaking sir t, \ angela, i must beg you to desist together.) rose, and as for you, you old high court buffoon, keep up that character as pantaloon | [judge changes to pantaloon, his wig flying into the air. he comes down leaning on crutch-stick, and coughing. judge. deary me! it's not as great a change as i should have supposed ! (looking at scene). oh, what a lot of barley sugar ! irose, and you, sir trevor, wander through the town, as merry madcap mischief-making clown! [sir trevor's “double” waltzes off stage, the real sir trevor (as clown) taking his place. sir t. hallo! here we are again! (dancing about.) oh dear, i do feel so loose and careless! (sees lady angel.a.) oh, what a pretty butterfly catchee! catchee! catchee! (pursues her, then suddenly.) hallo! lady an. (anxiously). what is it, dear trevor? . sir t. (diving deep in his pockets). i’ve lost my su farden the f/ '\’y’s dilemma. lady an. oh, is that all l (relieved)—thst is quite un- important ! (aside) excessive altruism has affected his reason! [fairy ceases to wave wand, sm tnevoa suddenly appears as one dazed. he gradually reverts to his original demeanour. sir t. angela! what has happened? what does it all mean ? am i dreaming ? lady an. alas, no! it is but too real! and oh, trevor, how changed-—how sadly changed you are! sir t. but tell me what has happened? aloy. trevor, my dear old friend, we have all undergone a remarkable, and, to me, quite unaccountable, change. i am led to believe that, in my case, it is the reward of avirtuous life. if that be so, the moral that is to be drawn from it is deplorable. judge. a more flagrant case of contempt of court i have never encountered. i have had experience of many cases of contempt of the court over which i preside, but never anything to equal this! sir t. (to rosennn). madam, you have presumed to take a series of unwarrantable and most unbecoming liberties with my lady and myself. you have, moreover, dared to interfere in a most discreditable manner with my friend, mr. parfitt, and with his father-in-law, sir john whortle. (oblige me by bending your knees, my dear angela.) i desire to give you notice that i shall at once place the matter in the hands of my solicitor! rose. in the whole course of my experience i’ve never had to do with such an obstinate troupe of pantomimists. but you’re quite helpless—i shall never be very far ', and whenever i wave my wand you’ll be obliged to play the game! now begin! [waves wand. pantomime rally, sm trevos and the j udes doing the “ business” like old hands. aloxsius dancing automatically and lady angela dancing as gracefully as is consistent with emtreme propriety. sm tmsvor and judge “give the slap.” all four form ring and dance round. aloxsxus and lady angela dance of, si tsevoe, on junce’s back of. scaus closss. the fa ry"s dilemma. scam i—pastaycook’s shop and cheesemonger’s. enter lady angela and aloysius (as harlequin and cqlumbine) very depressed. lady an. this is a most embarrassing state of things, mr. parfitt. aloy. terrible, lady angela, terrible! and so entirely un- foreseen. leaving my parish at a moment’s notice will, i fear, involve a most angry interview with my churchwardens. and what explanation can i give? i can’t imagine what has happened! lady an. oh, i know what has happened well enough! that meddlesome fairy has taken the liberty of changing us into harlequin and columbine. aloy. (puzzled). harlequin and columbine ? lady an. yes. i’ve often seen it happen to other people at christmas time, but i never, never thought it would happen to me. aloy. i beg your pardon-—it’s extremely stupid of me—but i cannot quite remember—am i a harlebine" or a columquin? lady an. neither—you’re a harlequin, and a very bad one. aloy. oh. i’m extremely sorry, lady angela, to appear to be so uninstructed upon a point of knowledge that seems to be so generally understood, but what, exactly, are the duties of a harlequin ? lady an. well, you’ll have to dance polkas and hornpipes about the streets with me. ' aloy. in the mud—and in all weathers? lady an. certainly. aloy. i shall require my goloshes. lady an. then you’ll have to change things. aloy. (eagerly, alluding to his clothes). shall i be permitted to change these things? lady an. n o, no. you’ll have to change things into other things. for instance, a man comes along in a fifteen hundred pound motor-car with “ fiscal policy ” on it. you slap the car with your bat, and it changes into a coster- m nger’s barrow labelled “ free food for everybody.” aloy. but that is not at all in accordance with my political views! lady an. then you’ll have to jump through people’s windows into their houses. aloy. i? never! no consideration shall ever induce me to take such a liberty! it would be a most unpardonable in— trusion upon the domestic privacy of an absolute stranger. v. d the fair y ’s dile iiaia. nothing could excuse it. ah, here at last is sir trevor in his new uniform. i am given to understand that these constant changes are very expensive to young oificers. enter sm tnevon as clowe. sir t. angela! at last we meet ! lady an. (rushing to his arms). trevor—my beloved husband—where in the world have you been ? - sir t. at the law courts, making butter-slides for the lords justices, while the learned judge bonneted the jurymen-in- waiting. the fairy was present all the time, and we had to conduct ourselves in a manner which was an absolute outrage on the most rudimentary sense of decency! lady an. my poor high-minded darling ! sir t. but whom have you with you? not aloysius ? my dear fellow, i’m delighted to see you ! aloy. yes, trevor, i am that most misplaced man ! lady an. he has been so good to me-—so noble! he has always looked the other way! sir t. (much afected). my dear friend! (grasps his hand.) aloy. tell me, trevor, have you seen my clarissa ? sir t. not recently, but here comes the learned judge, her father. he may give you news of her. enter judge as pantaloou. aloy. sir john, if you will permit one who has but little claim on your tolerance to express his profound sympathy with you in the painful degradation to which you have been submitted ' judge. not a word, sir! you have robbed an elderly gentle- man of his daughter! aloy. but she loved me so tenderly, and you would have wedded her to one with whom she would have been utterly miserable. (recollects that sib. trevor is present.) oh! i— beg your pardon _ sir t. not at all. i should have made a most unsuitable husband for miss whortle, whereas with angela-—— . . enter fairy. rosenuo. rose. oh, here you are, all of you! i’ve been looking for you everywhere. now, this loafing won’t do. come, get to work! jane collins (addressing lady angela), leave sir trevor and rejoin mr. parfitt." ; - _ ' lady an. but sir 'l‘revor.is.my husband—— the fair i/‘s dilemm/l._ rose. not a word ! i’m really surprised at you! a.c um- bine leaving her harlequin to hug a clown! such a thing was never heard of before! (lady angela sadly rejoins aloysius.) now, begin and enjoy yourselves at once ! no nonsense ! come ! [waves wand. they resume their pantomimic characters. music. angela and aloysius dancing together as before. sm tnevor and judge go to cheesemonger’s shop, lick butter and steal string of sausages. busi- ness of both trying to cram sausages into their pockets, each beginning at opposite ends. al ysrus slaps sm tmsvon on back with wand, and then dances of with lady angela. sm tnevor thinks blow was inflicted by judge, and gives him the “ slap.” judge falls backwards. sm tnevon picks him up by his breeches. enter pastrycook from shop, with large placard—“ wanted a handy young man.” displays it to audience and places it against shop-front. re-enters shop. sir t. oh, he wants a handy young man! i'll apply for the situation! judge. yes, yes, j oey—go and lr_v—there’s a good buy ! [sm tmsvon slaps three times on door post, then lies across doorrzay. pastrycook comes out and tumbles over im. sir t. (with his hand on his heart). oh, i beg yer parsnips! [pastrycook very angry, and empresses his feelings in gesture. sir tm-zvon takes him confidentially by the arm. sir t. i say, do you want a handy youn man? . g [pas' 'nyc k’s anger vanishes, and he empresses that he does. - sir t. then i'm the chap for you! tuppence a month, paid the year before next, and find my own motor-car ! [pastliycook is pleased with the suggested terms, takes of his apron, and puts it on to sm tnevoa, then emit into shop. apron much too long. sm tnevor stumbles over it half-a-dozen times. during this j udge has cautiously crept into pastryc ok’s shop, and stolen a tray of sausage rolls. judge. look here, joey! see what i've found ! vyhat bee-youtiful sausage rolls! let’s sit down, an v e em. mm f‘/l ry’s dilemma. judge. fairly, joey, fairly! sir t. oh, upon my honour! (placing his hand on his heart.) [they sit side by side on stage facing audience. judge r.c. sm teevoe l.c. sir t. n ow, there’s one for you, and there’s one for me—-- [gives sausage roll to judge, who places it on his . sm teevoe places his sausage roll on his l. sir t. (taking another). and there’s one for you, and there’s one for me—— [takes first sausage roll from n. of judge, behind his back, and gives it to him again. j udge supposes it to be a second sausage roll, and again places it on his r., sm teevoe placing another sausage roll on his own l. this business is repeated three or four times, until sir tnevor has four or five sausage rolls, while judge has only one. eventually judge detects the cheat. judge. now i saw you do it that time. you ain’t playing fair, joey! sir t. what! not playing fair? judge. n . ’ve only got one! sir t. then there’s another. [slaps him. he falls over backwards. judge. i won’t stand it ! i’ll go and fetch a policeman! . [emit j nooe. [sm tnevor begins to eat sausage rolls. loud “ miaw ” heard as he puts it to his mouth. tries again : another “ miaw” heard. tries a third time. loud “ miaws ” heard from all directions as a large number of profile cats appear everywhere.. sib tnevon throws down sausage roll disgusted, saying, “ why, it’s cold pussy-cat! ” policeman enters. sir t. (simply). oh! how-de-do, mister po-liceman? (show- ing rolls.) see what i’ve found! police. found, eh? that won’t do, you know! here, come along with me. i know yer! [collars him. sir t. (howling). oh, don’t take me away to prison, mister po-liceman! think of my par and my mar! police. i’ l par and mar you! come along! sir t. oh, he’s going to par and mar me! (suddenly, and with great emcitement). oh, oh! police. what’s the matter now? sir t. (pointing to the sky). bal-loon! ba!-loonl the fair]/’s dilemma. police. (much interested). where ? where? [takes his hand of sin tnevon’s collar, and shading his eyes with it, gazes upwards. sir t. there! [bonnets pomcsmae and smashes pasrryco k’s tray on his head. policeman calls for help and runs of stage with long strides. sir trevor convulsed with laughter. [fairy rosenud, who has been on and of during the scene, emits. sm teevor at once resumes his original individuality. sir t. (as if awaking from a trance). what have i been doing? what detestable acts of unbridled profiigacy have i been committing? i, a colonel of household cavalry, a baronet of the united kingdom, a deputy-lieutenant for half-a-dozen counties, a landed proprietor, and chairman of quarter sessions! surely, i so far forgot my manhood as to strike an aged man— and that aged man, a judge of the high court! enter judge, as pantaloon. he is very angry. judge. you did, sir, and you did much more. you have been guilty, sir, of an act of common dishonesty, which should exclude you from the society of gentlemen for the term of your natural life. sir t. (haughtily). sir john, you can scarcely be aware of the full import of your words. i must request you to be so good as to justify them, or withdraw them without qualification. judge. i will justify them, sir, and very briefly. a few sausage rolls are but a small matter in themselves, but even in small matters a gentleman does not resort to trickery and deception. i trusted you, sir! sir t. sir john, you must be aware that, under the singular influences by which we are controlled, , like yourself, am but the sport and toy of circumstances. i deplore the distressing necessity which compels me to commit acts which revolt my sense of what is due to yourself as a judge of the high court, and to myself as a gentleman of hitherto untarnished honour. but .when that judge of the high court has himself been guilty of the indiscretion of deliberately abstracting a tray of pastry from a confectionefs shop, i feel that i am entitled to expect that he will, at least, place a charitable construction upon acts which, under that supernatural control, find myself compelled to commit. judge (horrified). did i do that? god bless my soul, i believe i did! but, sir trevor, to constitute a criminal offence, the fair)/"s dilemma. the animus furandi must be proved, or reasonably presumed. in the absence of the mens rea the case comes under neither statute nor common law. i can lay my hand upon my heart and proudly say that, to all intents and purposes, i am innocent of this larceny l (much agitated.) sir t. judge, i believe you. (grasping his hand.) we are two most unhappy and most deeply injured men whom an unholy influence compels to commit outrages from which our manhood recoils. (fairy enters and listens.) for instance, i perceive a nursemaid approaching wheeling a double perambu— lator, and accompanied by a corporal major of my own regiment of household cavalry. conceive my distress when i tell you that i instinctively feel that it will be my painful duty to trip up that corporal major, and rob the poor girl of her hat, boa, and other cheap finery, while you sit upon the perambulator, and squash her helpless innocents! judge (horrified). no, no! i am a father—i cannot do it-— i cannot do it! [fairy waves her wand; they resume their’ pantomimic characters. sir ' '. oh, here’s such a lover-ly gal! oh, nioey-spiccyl nyum, nyum, nyuml judge. yes, she’s a beauty, j oey-—she’s a beauty! [sm tmcvoe takes a pound of butter from cheesemonger’s shop, and makes butter-slide. enter nursernaid with perambulalor with life-guardsman as de- scribed. soldier slips down on butter-slide, and makes inefectual attempts to get up. nursemaid proceeds, not having noticed what happened. sir trevor goes up to nurse saying, “i loves yer to substraclion! ” steals her hat, feather boa, and parasol, and puts them on. j udgs sits on perambu- lator, and children squeal. nurse runs ])’ scream- ing. sm trevoe pushes perambulator of, walking afectedly like a woman. soldier by this time has got up, and taking sm trevor for nursenzaid, walks alongside, flirting. [fairy remains, leaning on wand, and looking regretfully after them. rose. poor fellows! i’m really sorry for them! a truer, stauncher english gentleman than sir trevor doesn’t exist, and it’s really sad to see him reduced to the condition of a dishonest street buff onl and his bride—a noble lady of exalted rank as it appears—doomed to dance through life in the society and companionship of a gentleman who, worthy though he be, is the fairy’s dilemma. . nevertheless little more than a casual acquaintance! i’ve been very stupid over this, and i begin to think i’ve mistaken my profession. damon aloohol appears through scene. al. why, rosy, you seem out of sorts. what’s wrong ? rose. well, the fact is i’m not at all comfortable. these poor people whom i’ve transformed—highly respectable, all of good social position, and much looked up to in their respective capacities—and we’ve taken this monstrous liberty with them just to save our faces, and avoid confessing that we’ve made donkeys of ourselves! al. ye-—es. i always thought it rather an unhandsome thing to do. rose. what, really ? al. yes. it was a shifty way out of the difiiculty, and i hate anything underhanded. rose. do you? upon my word, you’re rather a dear! al. the fact is ’m not in love with my profession, and i’i thinking of retiring from business and selling the stock, fixtures, and goodwill at a valuation. rose. are you ? well, now, if you did that—-—- (coylg/.) al. (siétirzg by her on front of shop). yes, if i did that? rose. and never got tipsy any more? al. eh? oh, well, yes rose. and went through a course of waters to improve your complexion—— al. i see. marienbad. ' rose. well, i don’t know but that i should be disposed to say (very bashfully) “ yes,” if we could only find a clergyman who would consent to perform the ceremony ! don't! you do squeeze so, i never did! al. you would! oh, rosy, rosy, rosy, what a cosy little rosy-posy you are! as for a clergyman, there’s mr. parfitt! he’d do it. rose. i don’t know——i’m not so sure about that, and i fancy he’s just a teeny weeny wee bit vexed with i‘ for changing him into harlequin. people are very ungrateful. however, we can but ask him ; he’s now at the vicarage trying to jump through the portrait of his great aunt, for practice. we’ll go and speak to him at once. . ' . sceee mnkerrs. . ° _ the fair!/’s dilemma. scam: mhn last.—the vrcarmge, as in aet i. [sir tnevor, judge, aloysius, and lady angela, discovered in their pantomime characters, all in very low spirits. junce smoking cigar. sir tnevon lighting cigarette. lady angela at sin tmcvoris feet. aloysius at haw monium, playing “ the lost chord.” lady an. thank you, mr. parfitt, you play charmingly; your musical gifts will help to make the time pass during our enforced seclusion. aloy. there is but one course open to us, lady angela—to confine ourselves strictly within the four walls of the vicarage, and to deny ourselves to all comers while this embarrassing state of things continues. mrs. crumble, my housekeeper, to whom i have explained everything, is discretion itself, and no one will know anything about our most painful, and, to me, quite unaccountable adventures. judge. mr. parfitt, you have acted with timely discretion. it is most important that the discreditable‘ events with which we have been associated should be kept strictly to our four selves. sir t. most certainly. n one else must ever know. judge. except, of course, clarissa. i see clarissa coming; we must necessarily take her into our confidence, and in acknowledgment of the services you have rendered me, mr. parfitt, i withdraw my opposition to your union, and congratu- late you both on having acquired each other. enter clar ssa with “ the times ” in her hand. she rushes to aloysius. c'lur. aloysius—my own ! aloy. clarissa—i mean, mrs. parfitt-z judge. n , n —(with an e_fl'ort)—you may call her clarissa now! aloy. may ? oh, thank you, sir john! clarissa, dearest girl, at last we meet! judge (overcome). bless you, my children! bless you! olar. oh, papa, how odd you look in that dress! and aloysius, how strange to see you thus! aloy. dearest clarissa, i will explain all. clar. it is unnecessary. i know everything. all. what!!! clar. everybody knows—it’s all over the town! hero’s a favourable notice, a column and a half long, in— f all papers- the times i the fairy ‘s dilemma. judge. ruined! ruined! sir t. a favourable notice in the times? let me see it. [takes paper and opens it hurriedl_/. all. read it! read it! sir t. (reads). “ thereupon the fairy rosebud transported all the principal characters to the revolving realms of radiant rehabilitation (a scene inspired, no doubt, by the horatian description of the groves of the platonic academeia), and there effected a transformation, clearly suggested by the first and second essences of the categories of aristotle. lady angela became a graceful and singularly modest columbine, whose movements were widely differentiated from the dithyrambic bacchanalia of the attic-ionic race-—-” lady an. yes! i should think so ! sir t. (continuing). “ mr. parfitt will, perhaps, with a little practice, develop into an agile harlequin.” aloy. yes. i was getting on nicely. judge (taking the paper from sir timvon). “while sir trevor’s clown, which recalled the pantomimic triumphs of pylades and bathyllus ” sir t. (taking the paper from j udes). “ was ably supported by mr. justice whortle’s pantaloon, a marvellous picture of senile infamy, having but little in common with the ciceronic conception of dignified old age.” judge. ruined! my instant removal from the bench will be peremptorily demanded by both houses of parliament! aloy. the bishop and all my parishioners! how shall i explain it all to them? lady an. my father the marquis! it will break even his stony old heart! sir t. and i shall be tried by court-martial for conduct unbecoming an officer and a gentleman! [wall opens. fairy rosenoo appears in plain clothes. all the characters at once begin to act pantomimically. lady angela dancing, aloysius endeavouring to jump through his great annt’s portrait. sir tnevor taking red-hot poker out of fire and burning judge, who runs of. he is replaced by a “double,” who enters immediately. rose. stop! (all stop.) it’s not necessary to do that. (they resume their original characters.) i--—i have come to make an interesting announcement. i——i have got a young man! sir t. it is nothing to us, madam, it is no concern of outs. . the fairy ’s d lem l!a. rose. now don’t be so cross when i’m so happy! (goes to wing.) come in, george——don’t be shy ! [demon alcohol enters very bashfully in plain clothes, his head somewhat humanized by absence of horns and his wearing. a smooth black wig. his com- plexion is improved, and he has an air of having done his best to look respectable. rose (coyly). this is my young man! (aside to demon alcohol.) buck up, george, it's all right—they can’t eat you! (to aloysius.) we’re going to be married, and we want you to perform the ceremony! aloy. impossible! on no consideration whatever! lady an. i should think not indeed! rose (disappointed). oh, mr. parfitt, you are ungrateful! such a beautiful harlequin as i made you! aloy. i decline altogether to have any dealings with persons of your description! judge. quite out of the question! rose. but please we’ve both decided to retire from business as soon as we can make the necessary arrangemcnts—haven’t we, george? al. (civilly). yes, sir. i’m thinking of buying a snug little concern in the firework line. . rose. yes. and i’m going into the typewriting! aloy. well, in that case, and if you really mean to abandon your present discreditable calling, i consent on condition that, before the ceremony is performed, you restore us all to our original individualities. judge. mind, all. sir t. all. lady an. all. rose. all! [she waves her wand. scene darkens for a moment.' when the lights are turned up sm tnevor, lady angela, aloysius, and judge have been changed back to their original characters—sm trnvoe, lady . angela, and aijoysius by means of “doubles,” j udge (who lcg’t.stage at fairy’s entrance) appear- ing “ in proprid persond.” fairy and damou kneel. judge on a chair standing over them and blessing them. aloysrus embracing claeissa, and sm tsevoe embracing lady aegern. ricture. the grand duke, or, the statutory duel. a com/c opera, in two acts. produced at the savoy theatre, london, under the management of mr. r. d'oyly carte, on saturday, march th, . dramatis personze. ruuolrh, grand duke of pfennig halbpfennig mn. walter pass\lolte- ernest dummkorf, a theatrical manager mn. . kenningham. ludwic, his leading comedian l\ir' rutland barrington' dr. taxrihxvsizh, a notary mn. scott russizlh. the prince on monte carlo mn. scott fishi-:. viscount mentone mn. carlton. ben hasiinaz, a c'o.stumiez' mn. workman. herald \ih.§o*.~uss hewson. the princess or moms carlo, betrothed to rudolrh ... ... miss emmie owen. thii: baroness vou krakenfeldt, betrothed to rudolrh miss rosina brandram. julu jellicoe, an english comedi- enne mmii:. iuu von palmay. lisa, a soubrette miss florence perry. olga miss milimi<;n baker. gretchen members qfe!_nest i miss ruth vincent- bertha dummk pf, company ‘miss jessie ross. elsa miss etiiel wilsori. l\iartl-ia miss beatrice perry. chambcrlains nobles actors actresses c. _ , i , ) act i. public square of speisesaal. act ii. hall in the grand ducal palace. date-.— . t h e g r and du k e ; or, the statutory duel. act i. scene.—market place of speisesaal, in the grand duchy of pfennig halbpfennig. a well, with decorated iron-work. gretchen, bertha, olga, martha, and other members of ernest dummkopf's theatrical company are discovered, seated on several small tables, enjoying a repast in honour of the nuptials of ludwig, his leading comedian, and liba, his soubrette. elsa. bertha. olga. gret. chorus. chorus, won't it be a pretty wedding? doesn't lisa look delightful? smiles and tears in plenty shedding— which in brides of course is rightful, one might say, if one were spiteful, contradiction little dreading, her bouquet is simply fightful— still, it is a pretty wedding! oh, it is a pretty wedding ! such a pretty, pretty wedding ! if her dress is badly fitting, theirs the fault who made her trousseau. if her gloves are always splitting, cheap kid gloves, we know, will do so, if her wreath is all lop-sided, that's a thing one's always dreading. if her hair is all untidied, still it is a pretty wedding ! oh, it is a pretty wedding ! such a pretty, pretty wedding ! . . . the grand duke; or, chorws. here they come, the couple plighted—- on life's journey gaily start them. soon to be for aye united, till divorce or death shall part them. [ludwig and lisa come forward. duet.-—ludwig and lisa. ,lzul. pretty lisa, fair and tasty, tell me now, and tell me truly, haverft you been rather hasty? haven’t you been rash unduly? am i quite the dashing sposo that you fancy could depict you? perhaps_you think i’m only so-so? [she wrpresses admiration. well, i will not contradict you ! chorus. n , he will not contradict you ! i.isa. who am to raise objection? i’m a child, untaught and homely- when you tell me you’re perfection, tender, truthful, true, and comely—- that in quarrel no one’s bolder, though disseusions always grieve you-— why, my love, you’re so much older . that, of course, i must believe you! chorus. yes, of course, she must believe you! cirorws. if he ever acts unkindly, shut your eyes and love him blindly-— should he call you names uncomely, shut your mouth and love him dumbly—- should he rate you, rightly—leftly-- shut your ears and love him deafly. ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! thus and thus md thus alone ludwig’s wife may hold her own! [ludwrg and lisa sit at table. enter notary tauenliussen. not. hallo! surely i’m not late? [all chatter unintelligibly in reply. not. but, dear me, you’re all at breakfast l has the wedding taken place ? [all chatter unintelligibly in reply. not. my good girls, one at a time, i beg. let me understand the situation. as solicitor to the conspiracy to dethrone the grand duke-—a conspiracy in which the members of this com— pany are deeply involved—i am invited to the marriage of two the statutory duel. of its members. i present myself in due course, and i find, not only that the ceremony has taken place-which is not of the least consequence—but the wedding breakfast is half eaten—- which is a consideration of the most serious importance. [ludwlo and lisa come down. lud. but the ceremony ‘has not taken place. we can’t get a parson ! not. can’t get a parson ! why, how’s that? they’re three a penny l ' lud. oh, it’s the old story—the grand duke! all. ugh! lud. it seems that the little imp has selected this, our wedding day, for a convocation of all the clergy in the town to settle the details of his approaching marriage with the enormously wealthy baroness von krakenfeldt, and there won’t be a parson to be had for love or money until six o’clock this evening! lisa. and as we produce our magnificent classical revival of troilus and cressida to-night at seven, we have no alternative but to eat our wedding breakfast before we’ve earned it. so sit down, and make the best of it. gret. oh, i should like to pull his grand ducal ears for him, that i should ! he’s the meanest, the cruellest, the most spite- ful little ape in christendom! lga. well, we shall soon be freed from his tyranny. t - rnorrow the despot is to be dethroned ! lud. hush, rash girl! you know not what you say. lga. don’t be absurd ! we’re all in it—we’re all tiled, here. lud. that has nothing to do with it. know ye not that in alluding to our conspiracy without having first given and received the secret sign, you are violating a fundamental principle of our association ? song.-—lu )ig. by the mystic regulation of our dark association, ere you open conversation _ with another kindred soul, you must eat a sausage-roll ! (l’z-oducing one.) all. you must eat a sausage—roll ! lud. if, in turn, he eats another, that's a sign that he’s a brother-» each may fully trust the other. it is quaint and it is droll, but it’s bilious on the whole. all. very bilious on the whole. the grand duke ; or, lud. it’s a greasy kind of pasty, which, perhaps, a judgment hasty might consider rather tasty : once (to speak without disguise) it found favour in our eyes. all. it found favour in our eyes. lud. but when younve been six months feeding (as we have) on this exceeding bilious food, it’s no ill-breeding if at these repulsive pies our oifended gorges rise! ‘ all. our ofiended gorges rise! martha. oh, bother the secret sign! i’ve eaten it until i’m quite uncomfortable ! i’ve given it six times already to-day —and (whinipering) i can’t eat any breakfast! bertha. and it’s so unwholesome. why, we should all be as yellow as frogs if it wasn’t for the make-up! lud. all this is rank treason to the cause. i suffer as much as any of you. i loathe the repulsive thing-—i can’t contemplate it without a shudder—but ’ n a conscientious conspirator, and if you won’t give the sign i will. (eats sausage roil with an efort.) lisa. poor martyr! he’s always at it, and it’s a wonder where he puts it! not. well now, about troilus and cressida. what do you play ' ’ lud. (struggliny with his feelings). if you’ll be so obliging as to wait until i’ve got rid of this feeling of warm oil at the bottom of my throat, i’ll tell you all about it. (liba gives him some brandy.) thank you, my love; it’s gone. well, the piece will be produced upon a scale of unexampled magnificence. it is confidently predicted that my appearance as king aga- memnon, in a louis quatofze wig, will mark an epoch in the theatrical annals of pfennig halbpfennig. i endeavoured to persuade ernest dummkopf, our manager, to lend us the classical dresses for our marriage. think of the effect of a real athenian wedding procession cavorting through the streets of speisesaal ! torches burning—cymbals ljanging—flutes tootling —cithera: twanging—and a throng of fifty lovely spartan virgins capering before us, all down the high street, singing “ eloia ! eloia ! opoponax, eloia !” it would have been tremendous ! not. and he declined ? lud. he did, on the prosaic ground that it might rain, and the ancient greeks didn’t carry umbrellas ! if, as is confidently the statutory duel. expected, ernest dummkopf is elected to succeed the dethroned one, mark my words, he will make a mess of it. [emit ludwig with lisa. lga. he’s sure to be elected. his entire company has promised to plump for him on the understanding that all the places about the court are filled by members of his troupe, according to professional precedence. ernest enters in great emcitement. bertha (looking of). here comes ernest dummkopf. now we shall know all about it ! . all. well-—what’s the news? how is the election going ? ern. oh, it’s a certainty—a practical certainty! two of the candidates have been arrested for debt, and the third is a baby in arms—so, if you keep your promises, and vote solid, i’m cocksure of election ! lga. trust to us. but you remember the conditions ? ern. yes—all of you shall be provided for, for life. every man shall be ennobled—every lady shall have unlimited credit at the court milliner’s, and all salaries shall be paid weekl y in advance ! gret. oh, it’s quite clear he knows how to rule a grand duchy! ern. rule a grand duchy? why, my good girl, for ten years past i’ve ruled a theatrical company! a man who can do that can rule anything ! sosa. —ernest. were i a king in very truth, and had a son-—a guileless youth— in probable succession ; " to teach him patience, teach him tact, b how promptly in a fi to act, he should adopt, in point of fact, a managefs profession. to that condition he should stoop (despite a too fond mother), with eight or ten “ stars ” in his troupe, all jealous of each other! , the man who can rule a theatrical crew, each member a genius (and some of them two), and manage to humour them, little and great, can govern this tuppenny state! all. oh, the man, etc. both a and b rehearsal sli_ght-— _ they say they’ll be “ all right at night ” (tl ey’ve both to go to school yet) ; c in each act must change her dress, iv. the grand duke ; or, d will attempt to “ square the press” ; e won’t play romeo unless his grandmother plays juliet ; f claims all hoydens as her rights (she’s played them thirty seasons) ; and g must show herself in tights for two convincing reasons-— two very well-shaped reasons l oh, the man who can drive a theatrical team, with wheelers and leaders in order supreme, can govern and rule, with a wave of his fin, all europe-—with ireland thrown in ! all. oh, the man, etc. [emeunt all but easest. ern. elected by my fellow conspirators to be grand duke of pfennig halbpfennig as soon as the contemptible little occupant of the historical throne is deposed—here is promotion indeed! why, that instead of playing troilus of troy for a month, i shall play grand duke of pfennig halbpfennig for a lifetime ! yet am i happy? no-—far from happy ! the lovely english comédienne-—the beautiful julia, whose dramatic ability is so overwhelming that our audiences forgive even her strong english accent—that rare and radiant being treats my respectful advances with disdain unutterable ! and yet, who knows '.l she is haughty and ambitious, and it may be that the splendid change in my fortunes may work a corresponding change in her feelings towards me! ' enter julia jellicoe. julia. herr dummkopf, a word with you, if you please. ern. beautiful english maiden— - julia. no compliments, i beg. i desire to speak with you on a purely professional matter, so we will, if you please, dis- pense with allusions to my personal appearance, which can only tend to widen the breach which already exists between us. ern. (aside). my only hope shattered l the haughty londoner still despises me ! (aloud). it shall be as you will. julia. i understand that the conspiracy in which we are all concerned is to develop to-morrow, and that the company is likely to elect you to the throne on the understanding that the posts about _the court are to be filled by members of your theatrical troupe, according to their professional importance. ern. that is so. julia. then all i .can say is that it places me in an extremely awkward position. ’ ' the statutory duel. (~ ern. (very depressed). i don’t see how it concerns you. julia. why, bless my heart, don’t you see that, as your lady, i am bound under a serious penalty to play the leading part in all your productions ? _ ern. well? julia. why, of course, the leading part in this production will be the grand duchess ! ern. my wife? julia. this is another way of expressing the same idea. hern. (aside—delighted). i scarcely dared even to hope for t is julia. of course, as your leading lady, you’ll be mean enough to hold me to the terms of my agreement. oh, that’s so like a (rlnanl well, i suppose there’s no help for it—i shall have to o it. ern. (aside). she’s mine ! (aloud.) but do you really think you would care to play that part? (taking her hand.) julia (withdrawing it). care to play it? certainly not— but what am i to do? business is business, and i am bound by the terms of my agreement. ern. it’s for a long run, mind—a run that may last many, many years—no understudy—and once embarked upon there’s no throwing it up. julia. oh, we’re used to these long runs in england: they are the curse of the stage—but, you see, i’ve no option. ern. you think that the part of grand duchess will be good enough for you ? julia. oh, i think so. it’s a very good part in gerolstein, and oughtn’t to be a bad one in pfennig halbpfennig. why, what did you suppose i was going to play? ern. (keeping up a show of reluctance). but, considering your strong personal dislike to me and your persistent rejection of my repeated offers, won’t you find it difficult to throw your- self into the part with all the impassioned enthusiasm that the character seems to demand’! remember, it’s a strongly emotional part, involving long and repeated scenes of rapture, tenderness, adoration, devotion_—all in luxuriant excess, and all of the most demonstrative description. julia. my good sir, throughout my career i have made it a rule never to allow private feeling to interfere with my pro- fessional duties. you may be quite sure that (however dis- tasteful the part may be) if i undertake it, i shall consider myself professionally bound to throw myself into it with all the ardour at my command. _ _ _ern. (aside—with eflrlsion). i’m the happzest fellow “? ‘- the grand duke; or, (aload.) now—would you have any objection—to--—to give me some idea—if it’s only a mere sketch-—as to how you play it? it would be really interesting——to me—to know your conception of-— f—the part of my wife. julia. how would i play it? now, let me see—let me see. (consider-ing.) ah, i have it ! ballad.—julia. how would i play this part— the grand duke’s bride? all rancour in my heart- i’d duly hide- i’d drive it from my recollection and ’whelm you with a mock afiectiou, well calculated to defy detection—- that's how i’d play this part- the grand duke’s bride. “lith many a winsome smile i’d witch and woo; with gay and girlish guile i’d frenzy you—- i’d madden you with my caressing, like turtle, her first love c nfessing— that it was “ mock," no mortal would be guessing, with so much winsome wile i’d witch and woo! did any other maid with you succeed, i’d pinch the forward jade- i would indeed ! with jealous frenzy agitated (which would, of course, be simulated), i’d make her wish she’d never been created- did any other maid with you succeed ! and should there come to me, some summers hence, in all the childish glee of innocence, fair babes, aglow with beauty vernal, my heart would bound with joy diurnal ! this sweet display of sympathy maternal, well, that would also be a mere pretence ! my histrionic art, though you deride, that’s how i’d play that part- the grand duke’s bride! the statutory duel, ensnnrnle. eannsr. j ulia. oh joy ! when two glowing young my boy, when two glowing young hearts, hearts, ‘ from the rise of the curtain, from the rise of the curtain, thus throw themselves into their thus throw themselves into their parts, ' parts, success is most certain! success is most certain ! ifthe wile you’re prepared to endow the mile i’m prepared to endow with such delicate touches, with most delicate touches, by the heaven above us, i vow by the heavens above us, i vow you shall be my grand i will be your grand duchess ! duchess ! (dance.) enter all the chorus with ludwro, notary, and lisa—£lll greatly agitated. excmven chorus. my goodness me! what shall we do? why, what a dreadful situation ! (to lun.). it‘s all your fault, you booby you—you lump of indis- criminatiou! i’m sure i don’t know where to go—it's put me into such a tetter— . but this at all events i know—the sooner we are off, the better ! ez’n. what means this agitate ? what d’ye seek ? as your grand duke elect i bid you speak ! song.—lunwro. ten minutes since i met a chap who bowed an easy salutation— thinks i, “this gentleman, mavhap, belongs to our association.” but, on the whole, uncertain yet, a sausage-roll i took and eat-— that chap replied (i don’t embellish) by eating three with obvious relish. chorus (awzgrily). why, gracious powers, . no chum of ours could eat three sausage-rolls with relish ! lucl. quite reassured, i let him know our plot—each incident explaining; that stranger chuckled much, as though he thought me highly entertaining. i told him all, both bud and good ; i bade him call— he said he would : i added much—the more i muckled, . the more that chuckling chummy chuckled ! the grand duke .‘ ok, all (angrily). a bn. could see he couldn’t be a chum of ours it he chuckled! lud. well, as i bowed to his applause, down dropped he with hysteric bellow- and that seemed right enough, because i am a devilish funny fellow. then suddenly, as still he squealed, it flashed on me that i'd revealed our plot, with all details effective, to grand duke rudolph's own detective ! all. _ what folly fell, to go and tell our plot to any one’s detective! cnolws. (attackiizg ludwrg.) you booby dense—— you oaf immense, with no pretence to co nion-s-sse ! a stupid mufi who’s made of stuff not worth a puff of candle-snufi ! pack up at once and ofi we go, unless we‘re anxious to exhibit our fairy forms all in a row, strung up upon the castle gibbet! [exeunt chorus. maneutlunw g, lisa, emmst, julia, and notary. jul. well, a nice mess you’ve got us into l there's an end of our precious plot! all up—pop—fizzle—bang—done for! lud. yes, but-—ha! ha !—fancy my choosing the grand duke’s private detective, of all men, to make a confidant of !' when you come to think of it, it’s really devilish funny! ern. (angrily). when you come to think of it, it’s extremely injudicious to admit into a conspiracy every pudding-headed baboon who presents himself ! _ lud. yes—i should never do that. if i were chairman of this gang, i should hesitate to enrol any baboon who couldn’t produce satisfactory credentials from his last zoological gardens. lisa. ludwig is far from being a baboon. poor boy, he could not help giving us away—it’s his trusting nature—he was deceived. julia (furiously). his trusting nature! (to ludwig.) oh, i should like to talk to you in my own language for five minutes—only .five minutes! i know some good, strong the statutory duel. energetic english remarks that would shrivel your trusting nature into raisins—-—only you wouldn't understand them ! lud. here we perceive one of the disadvantages of a neglected education! em. (to j ulia). and i suppose you’ll never be my grand duchess, now! julia. grand duchess? my good friend, if you don’t produce the piece how can i play the part? em. true. (to ludwrg.) you see what you’ve done. lud. but, my dear sir, you don’t seem to understand that the man ate three sausage-rolls. keep that fact steadily before you. three large sausage-rolls. julia. bah !—lots of people eat sausage-rolls who are not conspirators. lud. then they shouldn’t. it’s bad form. it’s not the game. when one of the human family proposes to eat a sausage-roll, it is his duty to ask himself, “am i a con- spirator? ” and if, on examination, he finds that he is not a conspirator, he is bound in honour to select some other form of refreshment. lisa. of course he is. one should always play the game. (to notary, who has been smiling \plac£dly through this.) what are you grinning at, you greedy old man? not. n othing-—don’t mind me. it is always amusing to the legal mind to see a parcel of laymen bothering themselves about a matter which to a trained lawyer presents no difficulty whatever. all. no difficulty! not. none whatever! the way out of it is quite simple. all. simple? not. certainly! now attend. in the _first place, you two men fight a statutory duel. ern. a statutory duel? julia. a stat-tat-tatutory duel! ach! what a crack-jaw language this german is ! lud. never heard of such a thing. not. it is true that the practice has fallen into abeyance through disuse. but all the laws of pfennig halbpfennig run for a hundred years, when they die a natural death, unless, in the meantime, they have been revived for another century. the act that institutes the statutory duel was passed a hundred years ago, and as it has never been revived, it expires to-morrow. so you’re just in time. julia. but what is the use of talking to us about statutory duels when we none of us know what a statutory duel is ? not. don’t you ? then i’ll explain. the grand duke ; or, all. .“/t . all (aside). not. all. song.—notary| about a century since, the code of the duello to sudden death for want of breath sent many a strapping fellow. the then presiding prince (who useless bloodshed hated), he passed an act, short and compact, which may be briefly stated. unlike the complicated laws a parliamentary draughtsman draws, it may be briefly stated. we know that complicated laws, such as a legal draughtsman draws, cannot be briefly stated. by this ingenious law, if any two shall quarrel, they may not fight with falchioris bright (which seemed to him immoral) ; but each : card shall draw, and he who draws the lowest shall (so ’twas said) be thenceforth dead- in fact, a legal “ ghoest” (when exigence of rhyme compels, orthography foregoes her spells, and “ghost” is written “ ghoest.”) with what an emphasis he dwells upon “ orthogra hy ” and “ spells” ! that kind fun’s the lowest. when off the loser’s popped (by little legal fiction), and friend and foe have wept their woe in counterfeit aflliction, the winner must adopt the loser’s poor relations—- discharge his debts, pay all his bets, and take his obligations. in short, to briefly sum the ease, the winner takes the loser's place, with all its obligations. how neatly lawyers state a case! the winner takes the loser’s place, with all its obligations ! the statutory duel. ' lud. i see. the man who draws the lowest card— not. dies, ipso facto, a social death. he loses all his civil rights—his identity disappears—the revising barrister ex- punges his name from the list of voters, and the winner takes his place, whatever it may be, discharges all his functions and adopts all his responsibilities. _ ern. this is all very well, as far as it goes, .but it only protects one of us. what’s to become of the survivor ? lud. yes, that’s an interesting point, because i might be the sl x‘vlvoi'. not. the survivor goes at once to the grand duke, and, in a burst of remorse, denounces the dead man as the moving spirit of the plot. he is accepted as king’s evidence, and, as a matter of course, receives a free pardon. to-morrow, when the law expires, the dead man will, ipso facto, come to life again—the revising barrister will restore his name to the list of voters, and he will resume all his obligations as though nothing unusual had happened. julia. when he will be at once arrested, tried, and executed on the evidence of the informer ! candidly, my friend, i don’t think much. of your plot ! not. dear, dear, dear, the ignorance of the laity! my good young lady, it is a beautiful maxim of our glorious constitution that a man can only die once. death expunges crime, and when he comes to life again, it will be with a clean slate. er-n. it’s really very ingenious. lud.‘(to notary). my dear sir, we owe you our lives! lisa (aside to ludwra). may i kiss him? lud. certainly not: you’re a big girl now. (to ermest.) well, miscreant, are you prepared to meet me on the field of honour ‘e ern. at once. by j ove, what a couple of fire-eaters we are ! lisa. ludwig doesn’t know what fear is. lud. oh, i don’t mind this sort of duel! em. it’s not a duel with swords. i hate a duel with swords. it’s not the blade i mind—it’s the blood. . lud. and i hate a duel with pistols. it’s not the ball i mind—it’s the bang. not. altogether it is a great improvement on the old method of giving satisfaction. ¢ qum'mt.—lunwro, lisa, no-mar, ernest, julm. strange the views some people hold! two young fellows quarrel-— then they fight, for both are hold-— rage of both is uncontrolled-— the grand duke ; ?, both are stretched out, stark and cold ! prithee where’s the moral? = ding dong ! ding dong ! there’s an end to further action, and this barbarous transaction is described as “satisfaction ” ! ha ! ha! ha! ha! satisfaction! ding dong ! ding dong ! each is laid in churchyard mould- strange the views some people hold ! better than the method old, which was coarse and cruel, is the plan that we’ve extolled. sing thy virtues manifold (better than refined gold), statutory duel z sword or playing and the ha sing song! sing song ! pistol neither uses- card he lightly chooses, loser simply loses. ! ha! ha! ha! simply loses. sing song ! sing song! some prefer the churchyard mould ! strange not. (q/f'erin_q a card to emnrsr). e rn. (drawing a card). all. the views some people hold! now take a card and gaily sing how little you care for fortune’s rubs-— hurrah, hurrah !—i’ve drawn a king ! he’s drawn a king ! he’s drawn a king! sing hearts and diamonds, spades and clubs ! a ll (dancing). he‘s drawn a king ! how strange z thing! an excellent oard—his chance it aids- sing hearts and diamonds, spades and clubs— sing diamonds, hearts and clubs and spades ! not. (to lunwrc). now take a card with heart of grace- (whatever our fate, let’s play our parts). lud. (drawiny card) . all . hurrah, hurrah !-—i’ve drawn an ace ! he’s drawn an ace! he’s drawn an ace! sing clubs and diamonds, spades and hearts ! all (dancing). he’s drawn an ace! observe his face- such very good fortune falls to few-— sing clubs and diamonds, spades and hearts-— sing clubs, spades, hearts and diamonds too! not. that both these maids may keep their troth, and never misfortune them befall, i’ll hold ’em as trustee for both-— q zzz szta z'c/zoa' v dc/e/. all. he'll hold 'em both ! he'll hold 'em both ! sing hearts, clubs, diamonds, spades and all ! all (dancing). by joint decree as { : } trustee this notary { w. } will now instal- in custody let him keep { # hearts, sing hearts, clubs, diamonds, spades and all ! [dance and exeunt—ludwig, ernest, and notary off with the two girls. march. enter the seven chamberlains of the grand duke - rudolph. chorus of chamberlains. the good grand duke of pfennig halbpfennig, though, in his own opinion, very very big, in point of fact he's nothing but a miserable prig is the good grand duke of pfennig halbpfennig ! though quite contemptible, as every one agrees, we must dissemble if we want our bread and cheese, so hail him in a chorus, with enthusiasm big, the good grand duke of pfennig halbpfennig ! enter the grand duke rudolph. he is meanly and miserably dressed in old and patched clothes, but blazes with a pro- fusion of orders and decorations. he is very weak and ill, from low living. song.-rudolph. a pattern to professors of monarchical autonomy, i don't indulge in levity or compromising bonhomie, but dignified formality, consistent with economy, above all other virtues i particularly prize. i never join in merriment—i don't see joke or jape any- i never tolerate familiarity in shape any— this, joined with an extravagant respect for tuppence ha'penny, a keynote to my character sufficiently supplies. (speaking.) observe. (to chamberlains.) my snuff-box! [the snuff-boa is passed with much ceremony from the junior chamberlain, through all the others, until it is presented by the senior chamberlain to rudolph. wses it. that incident a keynote to my character supplies. all. that incident, etc. t he grand d uke ; or, rad. i weigh out tea and sugar with precision mathematical—-. instead of beer, a penny each-—my orders are emphatical-— (extravagance unpardonable, any more than that i call), but, on the other hand, my ducal dignity to keep— all courtly ceremonial—to put it comprehensively—- i rigidly insist upon (but not, i hope, offensively) whenever ceremonial can be practised inex ensively— and when you come to think of it, it s really very cheap l (speaking) observe. (to chamberlains.) my handkerchief! [hcmdkerchicf is handed by junior chamberlain to the next in owlenmzd so on until it reaches rudolrh, who is much inconvenienced by the delay. it’s sometimes inconvenient, but it’s always very cheap! all. it's stately and impressive, etc. rud. my lord chamberlain, as you are aware, my marriage with the wealthy baroness von krakenfeldt will take place to- morrow, and you will be good enough to see that the rejoicings are on a scale of unusual liberality. pass that on. (c"/zamber- lain whispers to the vice- chamberlwin, who whispers to the nemt, and so on.) the sports will begin with a wedding breakfast bee. the leading pastrycooks of the town will be invited to compete, and the winner will not only enjoy the satisfaction of seeing his breakfast devoured by the grand ducal pair, but he will also be entitled to have the arms of pfennig halbpfennig tatto ’d between his shoulder-blades. the vice-chamberlain will see to this. all the public fountains of speisesaal will run with gingerbierheim and currantweinmilch at the public expense. the assistant vice-chamberlain will see to this. at night, everybody will illuminate; and as i have no desire to tax the public funds unduly, this will be done at the inhabitants’ private expense. the deputy assistant vice-chamberlain will see to this. all my grand ducal subjects will wear new clothes, and the sub-deputy assistant vice-chamberlain will collect the usual commission on all sales. wedding presents (which, on this occasion, should be on a scale of extraordinary mag- nificence) will be received at the palace at any hour of the twenty-four, and the temporary sub-deputy assistant vice- chamberlain will sit up all night for this purpose. the entire population will he commanded to enjoy themselves, and with this view the acting-temporary sub-deputy assistant vice- chamberlain will sing comic songs in the market place from noon to nightfall. finally, we have composed a wedding anthem, with which the entire population are required to pro- vide themselves. it can be obtained from our grand ducal publishers at the usual discount price, and all the chamberlains the statutory duel. ! will be expected to push the sale. (c'hambe'rlains bow and emeunt.) i don’t feel at all comfortable. i hope i’m not doing a foolish thing in getting married. after all, it’s a poor heart that never rejoices, and this wedding of mine is the first little treat i’ve allowed myself since my christening. besides, caroline’s income is very considerable, and as her ideas of economy are quite on a par with mine, it ought to turn out well. bless her tough old heart, she’s a mean little darling! oh, here she is, punctual to her appointment ! enter baromcss voe kaakeunelnt. bar. rudolph! why, what’s the matter? rud. why, i’m not quite myself, my pet. i’i a little worried and upset. i want a tonic. it’s the low diet, i think. i am afraid, after all, i shall have to take the bull by the horns and have an egg with my breakfast. bar. i shouldn’t do anything rash, my dear. begin with a ju-jube. [gives him one. bud. (about to eat it, but changes his mind). i’ll keep it for supper. [he sits by her and tries to put his arm round her waist. bar. rudolph, don’t! what in the world are you thinking of? bud. i was thinking of embracing you, my sugarplum. just as a little cheap treat. ' bar. what here? in public? really you appear to have no sense of delicacy. rud. no sense of delicacy, bon-bon! - bar. no. i can’t make you out. when you courted me, all your courting was done publicly in the market place. when you proposed to me, you proposed in the market place. and now that we're engaged you seem to desire that our first téte-e -téte shall occur in the market place! surely you’ve a room in your palace—with blinds—that would do? rud. but, my own, i can’t help myself. i’m bound by my own decree. bar. your own decree? rud. yes. you see, all the houses that give on’ the market place belong to me, but the drains (which date back to the reign of charlemagne) want attending to, and the houses wouldn’t let—so with a view to increasing the value of the property, i decreed that all love episodes between affectionate couples should take place, in public on this spot, every monday, wednesday, and friday, when the band doesn’t play. o the grand duke; or, bar. bless me, what a happy idea! so moral too! and have you found it answer ? rud. answer? the rents have gone up fifty per cent., and the sale of opera glasses (which is a grand ducal monopoly) has received an extraordinary stimulus! so, under the circum- stances, would you allow me to put my arm round your waist? as a source of income. just once! bar. but it’s so very embarrassing. think of the opera glasses! rud. my good girl, that’s just what i am thinking of. hang it all, we must give them something for their money! what’s that ' bar. (unfolding paper, which contains a large letter, which she hands to him). it’s a letter which your detective asked me to hand to you. i wrapped it up in yesterday’s paper to keep it clean. rud. oh, it’s only his report! that’ll keep. but, i say, you’ve never been and bought a newspaper? bar. my dear rudolph, do you think i’m mad’! it came wrapped round my breakfast. rud. (relieved). i thought you were not the sort of girl to go and buy a newspaper! well, as we’ve got it, we may as well read it. what does it say ? bar. why-—dear me—here’s your biography “ our detested despot ! ” rud. yes—i fancy that refers to me. bar. and it says—oh, it can’t be! rud. w hat can’t be? bar. why, it says that although you’re going to marry me to-morrow, you were betrothed in infancy to the princess of monte carlo ! rud. oh yes—that’s quite right. didn’t i mention it? bar. mention it! you never said a word about it! rud. v /ell, it doesn’t matter, because, you see, it’s practi— cally oil? bar. practically off. rud. yes. by the terms of the contract the betrothal is void unless the princess marries before she is of age. now, her father, the prince, is stony-broke, and hasn’t left his house for years for fear of arrest. over and over again he has implored me to come to him to be married, but in vain. over and over again he has implored me to advance him the money to enable the princess to come to me, but in vain. i am very young, but not as young as that; and the princess comes of age at two to-morrow, why at two to.morrow i’m a free man, so that . the $ "/ tutory duel. .~ appointed that hour for our wedding, as i shall like to have as much marriage as i can get for my money. bar. i see. of course, if the married state is a happy state, its a pity to waste any of it. rud. why, every hour we delayed i should lose a lot of you and you’d lose a lot of me! bar. my thoughtful darling! oh, rudolph, we ought to be very happy! rud. if i’m not, it’ll be my first had investment. still, there is such a thing as a slump even in matrimonials. bar. i often picture us in the long, cold, dark, december evenings, sitting close to each other ‘and singing impassioned duets to keep us warm, and thinking of all the lovely things we could afford to buy if we chose, and, at the same time, planning out our lives in a spirit of the most rigid and exacting economy! rud. it’s a most beautiful and touching picture of conuubial bliss in its highest and most rarified development! duet.—baroness and rudolrn. bar. as o’er our penny roll we sing, it is not reprehensive to think what joys our wealth would bring were we disposed to do the thing upon a scale extensive. there’s rich mock-turtle—thick and clear—- rud. (confidentially). perhaps we’ll have it once a year! bar. (delighted). you are an open-handed dear! rad. though, mindyou, it’s expensive. bar. no doubt it is expensive. both. oh, he who has an income clear of fifty thousand pounds a year can purchase all his fancy loves- bar. conspicuous ha'ts-— rud. two-shilling gloves- bar. (doubt/'ully). two-shilling gloves ? rad. (positively). two-shilling gloves—- both. cheap shoes and ties of gaudy hue, and waterbury watches, too- and think that he could buy the lot were he a donkey-- rud. which he’s not .' bar. oh no, he’s not! rad. oh no, he's not.’ both. that kind of donkey he’s not .' _ the grand duke ; or, (davzcing.) then let us be modestly merry, and rejoice with a derry down derry. for to laugh and to sing is a rational thing- it’s a joy economical, very ! [emit baromsss. rud. oh, now for my detective’s report. ( pens letter.) what’s this! another conspiracy! a conspiracy to depose me ./ and my private detective was so convulsed with laughter at the notion of a conspirator selecting him for a confidant that he was physically unable to arrest the malefactor ! why, it’ll come ofll this comes of engaging a detective with a keen sense of the ridiculous! for the future i’ll employ none but scotchmen. and the plot is to explode to-morrowl my wedding day! oh, caroline, caroline! (weeps.) this is perfectly frightful! what’s to be done? i don’t know! i ought to keep cool and think, but you can’t think when your veins are full of hot soda water, and your brain's fizzing like a firework, and all your faculties are jumbled in a perfect whirl- pool of tumblication ! and i’m going to be ill! i knowlaml l’ve been living too low, and i’m going to be very ill indeed! so.\'g.—rudolrr-r. when you find you're a broken-down critter, who is all of a trimmle and twitter, ' with your palate unpleasantly bitter, as if you’d just eaten a pill— when your legs are as thin as dividers, and you’re plagued with unruly insiders, and your spine is all creepy with spiders, and you’re highly gamboge in the gill-— whcn you’ve got a beehive in your head, and a sewing machine in each ear, and you feel that you’ve eaten your bed, and youfve got a bad headache down he:-e— when such facts are about, and these symptoms you find in your body or crown— well, you’d better look out, you may make up your mind you had better lie down! when your lips are all smeary—like tallow, and your tongue_ isodecidedly yallow, with a pint of warm oil in your swallow, and a pound of tin-tacks in your chest- when you're down in the mouth with the vapours, and all over your new morris papers black-beetles are cutting their capers, and crawly things never at rest- tije statutory duel. when you doubt if your head is your own, and you jump when an open door slams-— then you've got to a state which is known to the medical world as “jim-janls." if such symptoms you find in your body or head, they’re not easy to quell—- you may make up your mind you are better in bed, for you're not at all well ! [sinks erehausted and weeping at foot of well. enter ludwro. lud. now for my confession and full pardon. they told me the grand duke was dancing duets in the market place, but i don’t see him. . (sees rudqlrh.) hallo! who’s this? (aside) why, it isthe grand duke! rud. (sobbing). who are you, sir, who presumes to address me in person? if you’ve anything to communicate, you must fling yourself at the feet of my acting temporary sub-deputy assistant vice-chamberlain, who will fling himself at the feet of his immediate superior, and so on, with successive foot-. flingings through the various grades—your communication will, in course of time, come to my august knowledge. lud. but when i inform your highness that in me you see the most unhappy, the most unfortunate, the most completely miserable man in your whole dominion-— _ rud. (still sobbing). you the most miserable man in my whole dominion? how can you have the face to stand there and say such a thing? why, look at me! look at me !_ (bursts into tears.) - lud. well, i wouldn’t be a cry -baby. rud. a cry-baby? if you had been told that you were going to be deposed to-morrow, and perhaps blown up with dynamite for all i know, wouldn’t you be a cry-baby? i do declare if i could‘ only hit upon some cheap and painless method of putting an end to an existence which has become unsupport- able, i would unhesitatingly adopt it ! i/ud. you would? (aside) i see a magnificent way out of this! by jupiter, i’ll try it ! (aloud.) are you, by any chance, in earnest? bud. in earnest? why, look at me! lud. if you are really in earnest—if you really desire to escape soot free from this impending—this unspeakably horrible catastrophe—without trouble, danger, pain, or expense—why not resort to a statutory duel? iv. '‘ the grand duke; ozr, rud. a statutory duel? lud. yes. the act is still in force, but it will expire to- morrow afternoon. you fight—y u lose—you are dead for a day. to-morrow, when the act expires, you will come to life again and resume your grand duchy as though nothing had happened. in the meantime, the explosion will have taken place and the survivor will have had to bear the brunt of it. rud. yes, that’s all very well, but who’ll be fool enough to be the survivor? lud. (kneeling). actuated by an overwhelming sense of attachment to your grand ducal person, i unhesitatingly offer myself as the victim of your subjects' fury. rud. you do ? well, really that’s very handsome. i daresay being blown up is not nearly as unpleasant as one would think. lud. oh yes, it is. it mixes one up, awfully! rud. but suppose i were to lose ? ' lud. oh, that’s easily arranged. (producing cards.) i’ll put an ace up my sleeve—you’ll put a king up yours. when the drawing takes place, i shall seem to draw the higher card and you the lower. and there you are! _. rud. oh, but that’s cheating. lud. so it is. i never thought of that. (going.) rud. (hastily). not that i mind. but i say—you won’t take an unfair advantage of your day of office ? you won't go tipping people, or squandering my little savings in fireworks, or any nonsense of that sort p .lud. i am hurt—really hurt—.by the suggestion. rud. you-—you wouldn’t like to put down a deposit, perhaps ? . . lud. n o. i don’t think i should like to put down a deposit. rud. or give a guarantee? lud. a guarantee would be equally open to objection. rud. it would be more regular. very well, i suppose you must have your own way. lud. good. i say—we must have a devil of a quarrel l bud. oh, a devil of a quarrel ! lud. just to give colour to the thing. shall i give you a sound thrashing before all the people p say the word—it’s no trouble. . . rud. no, i think not, though it would be very convincing and it’s extremely good and thoughtful of you to suggest it. still, a devil of a quarrel ! - lud. oh, a devil of a quarrel! bud. no half measures. big w rd -"tr . < -- d remarks. oh, adevil ofaquar°rell) ung “suave m q the statutory duel. i~ lud. now the question is, how shall we summon the people? bud. oh, there’s no difiiculty about that. bless your heart, they’ve been staring at us through those windows for the last half hour ! finale. rad. come hither, all you people- when you hear the fearful news, all the pretty women weep’ l, men will shiver in their shoes. lud. and they'll all cry “ lord, defend us !” when they learn the fact tremendous that to give this man his gruel in : statutory duel- both. this plebeian man of shoddy— ‘ i this contemptible nobody- your grand duke does not refuse ! [during this, chorus of men and women have entered, all trembling with apprehension under the impression that they are to -be arrested for their complicity in the conspiracy. cuomrs. with faltering feet, and our muscles in a quiver, our fate we meet with our feelings all unstrung ! if our plot complete he has managed to diskiver, there is no retreat— we shall certainly be hung ! rud. (aside to lvowrc). n ow you begin and pitch it strong—walk into me abusively—~ lad, (aside to rudolrh). i've several epithets that i’ve reserved for you exclusively. a choice selection i have here when you are ready to begin. rud. now you begin- luzl. no, you begin—- rud. no, you begé -- lud. , you begin ! chorus (trembling). has it happened as we expected? is our little plot detected ? duet.-—rudolrh and lonwm. rad. (furiously). " big bombs, small bombs, great guns and little ones ! put him in a pillory ! rack him with artillery l lud. (furiously). long swords, short swords, tough swords and brittle ones! fright him into fits ! blowhim into bits! the grand duke; or, rud. you muff, sir! you lout, sir! lud. enough, sir! get out, sir! (pushes him.) rud. a hit, sir? - take that, sir! (slaps him.) lud. (slappizzg rudor.vn). it’s tit, sir, for tat, sir ! chorus (appalled). when two doughty heroes thunder, all the world is lost in wonder; when such men their temper lose, awful are the words they use ! lud. tall snobs, small snobs, rich snobs and needy ones ! rud. (jostling him). whom are you alluding to ? lucl. (jostling him). where are you intruding to? rud. fat snobs, thin snobs, swell snobs and seedy ones! lud. i rather think you err. totwhom do yoe refer? rud, you, sir . lud. to me, sir? rad. i do, sir ! lud. we’ll see, sir! rud. i jeer, sir! (makes a face at lunwrg). grimace, sir ! lud. look here, sir— (makes aface at rudolrh). a face, sir! chorus (appalled). when two heroes, once pacific, quarrel, the eifect’s terrific ! what a horrible grimace ! what a paralyzing face! all. big bombs, small bombs, etc. lud. and rud. (recit.). he has insulted me, and, in a breath, this day we fight a duel to the death !_ not. (checkivzg them). you mean, of course, by duel (verbum sut.), _ a statutory duel. all. - why, what’s that? not. according to established legal uses, a card a-piece each bold disputant chooses- dead as a doornail is the dog who loses-— the winner steps into the dead man’s shoeses! ‘ all. the winner steps into the dead man’s shoeses ! rud. and lud. agreed ! agreed ! rud. come, c me—the pack ! not. (producing one). behold it here ! rud. i’m on the rack! lud. i quake with fear ! (notary ofers card to ludwig.) lud. first draw to you ! rad. if that’s the case, behold the king ! (dmwing card from his sleeve.) lud. (same busmess): . behold the ace! the statutory duel. chorus. hurrah, hurrah! our ludwig’s won, and wicked rudolph’s course is run— — so ludwig will as grand duke reign till rudolph comes to life again- rad. (aside). which will occur to-morrow l i come to life to-morrow! gret. (with mocking curtseg). my lord grand duke, farewell ! a pleasant journey, very, - to your convenient cell ‘ in yonder cemetery ! lisa (czu'tse_ /ing). though malcontents abuse you, f_, we’re much distressed to lose you ! ‘ you were, when you were living, ' so liberal, so forgiving ! bertha. so merciful, so gentle ! so highly ornamental! olga. ' and now that you’ve departed, you leave us broken-hearted ! all (pretending to weep). yes, truly, truly, truly, truly—- truly broken-hearted ! ha! ha . ha! ha! ha! ha! (mocking him.) rud. (furious). rapscallions, in penitential fires, you’ll rue the ribaldry that from you falls ! to-morrow afternoon the law expires, and then—look out for squalls ! [emit rudolrh amid general ridicule. chorus. give thanks, give thanks to wayward fate—- by mystic fortune's sway, our ludwig guides the helm of state for one delightful day ! (to luowro.) we hail you, sir! we greet you, sir ! regale you, sir! we treat you, sir! our ruler be by fate’s decree for one delightful day ! not. ' you’ve done it neatly ! pity that your powers are limited to four-and-twenty hours ! lud. no matter, though the time will quickly run, in hours twenty-four much may be done! sonc.-lonwro. oh, a monarch who boasts intellectual graces ' can do, if he likes, a good deal in a day- he can ut all his friends m conspicuous places, wit plenty to eat and with nothing to pay ! you’ll tell me, no doubt, with unpleasant grimaces, to-morrow, deprived of your ribbons and laces, you'll get your dismissa —with very long faces-— but wait ! on that topic i’ve somethmg to say ! the g i’a./vd duxe; or, (dancing.) l’ve something to say— l’ve something to say- ’-ve some- thing to say! ‘ oh, our rule shall be me'rry—i’m not an ascetic- and while the sun shines we will get up our hay- by a pushing young monarch, of turn energetic, a very great deal may be done in a day! chorus. oh, his rule will be merry, etc. [during this ludwro whispers to notary who writes. for instance, this measure (his ancestor drew it), [alluding to notaay. this law against duels-to-morrow will die- the duke will revive, and you’ll certainly rue it- he’ll give you “ what for ” and he’ll let you know why l in twenty-four hours there’s time to renew it- with century’s life i've the right to imbue it- it's easy to do-and, by jingo, i’ll do it! [signing paper, which notary presents. it’s done ! till i perish your monarch am i ! your monarch ah‘! ‘i-your monarch am i-your monarch am i . though i do not pretend to be very prophetic, i fancy i know what you’re going_ to say- by a pushing young monarch, of turn energetic, a very great deal may be done in a day! all (astonished). oh it’s simply uncanny, his power prophetic- ], ‘s perfectly right-we were going to say. by a pushing, etc. enter julia, at back. lud. (r cit.). this very afternoon-at two (about)- the court appointments will be given out. to each and all (for that was the condition) according to professional position ! all. hurrah ! julia (coming forward). according to professional position? lud. according to professional position ! julia. then, horror! all. why, what’s the matter? what’s the matter? what’s the matter ? sonc.-julia. (lisa clinging to her.) ah, pity me, my comrades true, who love me, as well i know you do, this gentle child, to me so fondly dear ! all. why, what's the matter ? julia. each sympathetic heart ‘twill bruise _ when you have learnt the frightful news- her love for him is all in all . ah, cursed fate ! that it should fall unto my lot to break my darling’s heart ! t ? statutory duel. ! all. why, what’s the matter? lud. what means our julia by those fateful looks? please do not keep us all on tenter-hooks- now, what’s the matter? julia. our duty, if we’re wise, we never shun. this spartan rule applies to every one. in theatre, as in life, each has her line- this part—the grand duke’s wife (oh woe !) is mine ! a maxim new i do not start_ the canons of dramatic art decree that this repulsive part (the grand duke’s wife) is mine! all. oh, that’s the matter! lisa (appalled, to lnnwm). can that be so ? lud. i do not know- but time will show if that be so. chorus. can that be so? etc. lisa (re'cit.). be merciful ! duet.—lisa and julia. liaa. . oh, listen to me, dear_ i love him only, darling ! remember, oh, my pet, on him my heart is set ! this kindness do me, dear- nor leave me lonely, darling ! be merciful, my pet, our love do not forget ! julia. now don’t be foolish, dear- you conldn’t play it, darling ! it’s “leading business,” pet, " and you’re but a soubrette. so don’t be mulish, dear-_ although i say it, darling, it's not you’re line, my pet- i play that part, you bet! i play that part- i play that part, you bet ! elisa overwhelmed with grief. not. the lady’s right. though ju ia’s engagement was for the stage meant—- it certainly frees ludwig from his connubial promise. though marriage c ntracts_ r whate’er you call ‘em - are very solemn, the grand duke; or, dramatic contracts (which you all adore so) are even more so ! that’s very true ! contracts, etc. a’l. . though marriage song.-—lisa. the die is cast, my hope has perished ! farewell, past, too bright to last, yet fondly cherished ! my light has fled, my hope is dead, its doom is spoken- my day is night, my wrong is right in all men’s sight- my heart is broken ! . [em't, weeping. lud. (z’ec’it.). poor child, where will she go? what will she do? juliri. that isn't in your part, you know. lud. (sighing). quite true ! (with an e_fl'm-t.) depressing topics we’ll not touch upon_ let us begin as we are going on ! for this will be a jolly court, for little and for big ! sing hey, the jolly jinks of pfennig halbpfennig ! from mom to night our lives shall be as merry as a grig ! sing hey, the jolly jinks of pfennig halbpfennig ! all state and ceremony we'll eternally abolish_ lve don't mean to insist upon unnecessary polish- and, on the whole, i rather think you'll find our rule tol- lolis . sing hey, the jolly jinks of pfennig halbpfennig ! but stay—your new-made court without a courtly coat is- we shall require some court attire, and at a mome ens notice. in clothes of common sort your courtiers must not gravel- your new floblcsse must have a dress original and novel ! old athens we’ll exhumc l the necessary dresses, correct and true and all brand new_ the compan possesses : henceforth our ourt costume shall live in song and story, for we'll upraise the dead old days of athens in her glory ! all. lud. all. lud. all. julia. lud. the statutory duel. all. , yes, let's upraise the dead old days of athens in her glory! all." agreed ! agreed ! for this will be a jolly court for little and for big ! etc. [they carry ludwig round stage and deposit him on the ironwork of well. julia stands by him, and the rest group round them. act drop, act ii. (the next morning.). scene.—entrance hall of the grand ducal palace. enter a procession of the members of the theatrical company (now dressed in the costumes of troilus and cressida), carrying garlands, playing on pipes, cithara, and cymbals, and heralding the return of ludwig and julia from the marriage ceremony, which has just taken place. chorus. as before you we defile, eloia eloia : pray you, gentles, do not smile if we shout, in classic style, eloia ! ludwig and his julia true wedded are each other to— so we sing, till all is blue, eloia eloia opoponax eloia : wreaths of bay and ivy twine, eloial eloial fill the bowl with lesbian wine, and to revelry incline— eloia | for as gaily we pass on probably we shall, anon, sing a diergeticon— - eloia eloia opoponax eloia ! recit.—ludwig. your loyalty our ducal heartstrings touches : allow me to present your new grand duchess. should she offend, you'll graciously excuse her— and kindly recollect i didn't choose her ! the grand l_j[/ke .' or, sonc. —lunwm. at the outset i may mention it’s my sovereign intention to revive the classic memories of athens at its best, for the company possesses all the necessary dresses and a course of quiet cramming will supply us with the rest. we’ve a choir hyporchematic (that is, ballet-operatic) who respond to the cho ‘ezlt(e of that cultivated age, and our clever chorus-master, all but captions criticaster, would accept as the choregus of the early attic stage. this return to classic ages is considered in their wages, which are always calculated by the day or by the week- and i‘ll pay ’em (if they‘ll back me) all in oboloi and drachmaa, which they’ll get (if they prefer it) at the kalends that are greek l (confidentially to audience.) at this juncture i may mention . that this erudition sham is but classical pretension, the result of steady “.cram.": periphrastic methods spurning, 'i‘o this audience discerning i admit this show of learning is the fruit of steady “cram.” ! chorus. periphrastic methods, etc. in the period socratic every dining-room was attic (which suggests an architecture of a topsy-turvy kind), there they'd satisfy their thirst on a reche’rché cold iipurrov which is what they called their lunch—and so may you, if you're inclined. as they gradually got on, they’d 'rpe' re|r at 'rrpbs rhv nl'rov (which is attic for a steady and a conscientious drink). but they mixed their wine with water—which i‘m sure they didn’t oughter— and we modern saxons know a trick worth two of that, i think ! then came rather risky dances (under certain circumstances) which would shock that worthy gentleman, the license: of plays, corybantian maniac kick—-dionysiac or bacchic-— and the dithryambic revels of those undecorons days. (covgfldentially to audience.) and perhaps i’d better mention, lest alarming you i am, that it isn’t our intention to perform a dithryamb- it displays a lot of stocking, which is always very shocking, and of course i‘m only mocking at the prevalence of “ cram." chorus. it displays a lot, etc. yes, on reconsideration, there are customs of that nation which are not in strict accordance with the habits of our day, and when i come to codify, their rules i mean to modify, or mrs. grundy, p’r‘aps, may have a word or two to say.‘ :he statutory duez. for they hadn't macintoshes or umbrellas or goloshes— and a shower with their dresses must have played the very deuce, and it must have been unpleasing when they caught a fit of sneezing, for, it seems, of pocket-handkerchiefs they didn't know the use. they wore little underclothing—scarcely anything—or no-thing— and their dress of coan silk was quite transparent in design- well, in fact, in summer weather, something like the “altogether.” and it's there, i rather fancy, i shall have to draw the line ! (confidentially to audience.) and again i wish to mention that this erudition sham is but classical pretension, the result of steady “cram.” you may classic love aggressive (if you'll pardon the possessive) is exceeding impressive when you're passing an exam. chorus. yet his classic love, etc. [exeunt chorus. manent ludwig, julia, and lisa. lud. (recit.). yes, ludwig and his julia are mated ! for when an obscure comedian, whom the law backs, to sovereign rank is promptly elevated, he takes it with its incidental drawbacks! so julia and i are duly mated ! [lisa, through this, has expressed intense distress at having to surrender ludw g. song.—lisa. take care of him—he's much too good to live, with him you must be very gentle: poor fellow, he's so highly sensitive, and o, so sentimental ! be sure you never let him sit up late in chilly open air conversing— poor darling, he's extremely delicate, and wants a deal of nursing ! lud. i want a deal of nursing ! lisa. and o, remember this— when he is cross with pain, a flower and a kiss- a simple flower—a tender kiss will bring him round again : his moods you must assiduously watch: when he succumbs to sorrow tragic, some hardbake or a bit of butter-scotch will work on him like magic, to contradict a character so rich in trusting love were simple blindness— he's one of those exalted natures which will only yield to kindness! . grand ; on; lud. i only yield to kindness ! lisa. _ and , the bygone bliss! and , the present pain that flower and that kiss—- that simple flower—that tender kiss i ne'er shall give again ! [emit weeping. julia. and now that everybody has gone, and we’re happily and comfortably married, i want to have a few words with my new-born husband. lud. (aside). yes, i expect you’ll often have a few words with your new-born husband! (aloud.) well, what is it? julia. why, i’ve been thinking that as you and i have to play our parts for life, it is most essential that we should come to a definite understanding as to how they shall be rendered. now, i’ve been considering how i can make the most of the grand duchess. lud. have you? well, if you’ll take my advice, you’ll make a very fine part of it. julia. why, that’s quite my idea. lud. i shouldn’t make it one of your hoity-toity vixenish viragos. julia. you think not? lud. oh, i’m quite clear about that. i should make her a, tender, gentle, submissive, affectionate (but not too affectionate) child-wife—timidly anxious to coil herself into her husband’s heart, but kept in check by an awestruck reverence for his ex- alted intellectual qualities and his majestic personal appearance. j ulia. oh, that is your idea of a good part? lud. yes—a wife who regards her husband’s slightest wish as an inflexible law, and who ventures but rarely into his august presence, unless (which would happen seldom) he should _ summon her to appear before him. a crushed, despairing violet, whose blighted existence would culminate (all too soon) in a lonely pathetic death-scene! a fine part, my dear. julia. yes. there’s a good deal to be said for your view of it. now there are some actresses whom it would fit like a glove. lud. (aside). i wish i’d married one of ’em ! julia. but, you see, i must consider my temperament. for instance, my temperament would demand some strong scenes of justifiable jealousy. hlud. oh, there’s no diiiiculty about that. you shall have i em. julia. what a lovely but detested rival— the • staz"uzoary doel. –m- lud. oh, i’ll provide the rival. julia. whom i should stab-stab—stab | lud. oh, i wouldn’t stab her. it's been done to death. i should treat her with a silent and contemptuous disdain, and delicately withdraw from a position which, to one of your sensitive nature, would be absolutely untenable. dear me, i can see you delicately withdrawing, up centre and off! julia. can you? lud. yes. it's a fine situation—and in your hands, full of quiet pathos! duet.—ludw ig and julia. lud. now julia, come, consider it from this dainty point of view— a timid tender feminine gender, prompt to coyly coo- yet silence seeking, seldom speaking till she's spoken to— a comfy, cosy, rosy posy innocent ingenoo ! the part you're suited to— (to give the deuce her due) a sweet ( , jiminy!) miminy-piminy innocent ingenoo ! ensemble. lud. julia. the part you're suited to— i'm much obliged to you, (to give the deuce her due) i don’t think that would do-- a sweet (o., jiminy') to play ( , jiminy ) miminy-piminy, miminy-piminy, innocent ingenoo ! innocent ingenoo ! julia. you forget my special magic (in a high dramatic sense) lies in situations tragic— undoubtedly intense. as i've justified promotion in the histrionic art, i'll submit to you my notion of a first-rate part. lud. well, let us see your notion of a first-rate part. julia (dramatically). i have a rival ! frenzy thrilled, i find you both together ! my heart stands still—with horror chilled— * hard as the millstone nether i the grand duke; ?, then softly, slyly, snaily, snaky— crawly, creepy, quaily, quaky-— i track her on her homeward way, as ganther tracks her fated prey l i fl at er soft white throat- the lily-white laughing leman ! on her agonizing gaze gloat with the glee of a dancing demon ! my rival the—i have no doubt of h‘r— so i hold on—till the breath is out of her ! -till the breath is out of her l and then—remorse l remorse ! cold unpleasant corse, avaunt ! avaunt ! that lifeless form i gaze upon- that face, still warm but weirdly wan-— those eyes of lass i contem p ate- and then, alas, too late-too late ! _ i find she is—your aunt ! (s/zudrler-hz_g".) remorse ! remorse! then, mad—mad— nad ! with fancies wild-—chimerical— now sorrowful-—silent—sad- now, hullaballoo hysterical ! ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! but whether i’m sad or whether i’m glad, mad l mad ! mad ! mad ! this calls for the resources of a high-class art, and satisfies my notion of a first-rate part ! [emit j uma. enter all the chorus, hurriedly, and in great emcitement. ci-rorws. your highness, there's a party at the door—- your highness, at the door there is a party—- she says that we expect her, but we do not recollect her, for we never saw her countenance before! with rage and indignation she is rife, because our welcome wasn't very hearty—- she’s as sulky as a super, and she's swearing like a trooper, , you never heard such language in your life ! enter banoesss vou krakenfeldt, in a fury. bar. with fury indescribable i burn i with rage i'm nearly ready to explode i there‘ll be grief and tribulation when i learn to whom this slight unbearable is owed! (i"uriousl_r/.) the statutory duel. for whatever may be due i’ll pay it double—— there’ll be terror indescribable and trouble ! with a hurly-burly and a hubble-bubble i’ll pay you for this pretty episode ! ' ' all. oh, whatever may be due she’ll pay it double !— it’s very good of her to take the trouble-— but we don’t know what she means by “ hubble-bubble "- no doubt it’s an expression la mode. bar. (to lunwlo). ddyou know who i am? lud. (examimng her). i don't; your countenance i can’t fix, my dear. bar. this proves i’m not a sham. (showing pocket-handkerchief.) lud. (emamining it). it won’t ; it only says “ krakenfeldt, six,” my dear. bar. express your grief profound l lud. i shan’t! this tone i never allow, my love. bar. rudolph at once produce ! lud. i can’t; he isn't at home just now, my love ! bar. (astonished). he isn’t at home. just now! all. he isn’t at home just now, (dancing derz'sively) he has an appointment particular vcry—- you’ll find him, i think, in the town cemetery ; and that's how we come to be making so merry, for he isn't at home just now! bar. but bless my heart and soul alive, it's impudence personified ! i've come here to be matrimonially matrimouified ! lad. for any disappointment i am sorry unaffectedly, but yesterday that nobleman expired quite unexpectedly—- all (robbing). tol the riddle l tol the riddle lo ! tol the riddle, lol the riddle, lol lol lay ! (then laughing wildly.) tol the riddle, lol the riddle, lol lol lay! bar. but this is most unexpected. he was well enough at a quarter to twelve yesterday. lud. yes. he died at half-past eleven. bar. bless me, how very sudden! lud. it was sudden. . bar. but what in the world am i to do? i was to have been married to him to-day ! all (singing and dancing). for any disappointment we are sorry unafiectedly, but yesterday that nobleman expired quite unexpectedly- tol the riddle lol ! bar. is this court mourning or a fancy ball? lad. well, it’s a delicate combination of both effects. it is intended to express _incon_s able grief for the decease of the late the grand duke; or, duke and ebullient joy at the accession of his successor. am his successor. permit me to present you to my grand duchess. (indicating j ulia.) bar. your grand duchess ? oh, your highness l (c.urtesying profoundly.) julia. (sneering at her). old frumpl bar. humph! a recent creation, probably? lud. we were married only half-an-hour ago. bar. exactly. i thought she seemed new to the position. julia. ma’am, i don’t know who you are, but i flatter myself i can do justice to any part on the very shortest notice. bar. my dear, under the circumstances you are doing admirably —and you’ll improve with practice. it’s so difficult to be a lady when one isn’t born to it. julia (in a rage, to ludwig). am i to stand this? am i not to be allowed to pull her to pieces ? lud. (aside to julia). no, n —it isn’t greek. be a violet, i beg. bar. and now tell me all about this distressing circumstance. how did the grand duke die? lud. he perished nobly—in a statutory duel. bar. in a statutory duel? but that’s only a civil death !- and tehe act expires to-night, and then he will come to life a am. glud. well, no. anxious to inaugurate my reign by con- ferring some inestimable boon on my people,i signalized this occasion by reviving the law for another hundred years. bar. for another hundred years? then set the merry joy- bells ringing! let festive epithalamia resound through these ancient halls l cut the satisfying sandwich—broaeh the exhila- rating marsala—and let us rejoice to-day, if we never rejoice avain! olud. but i don’t think i quite understand. we have already rejoiced a good deal. bar. happy man, you little reek of the extent of the good things you are in for. when you killed rudolph you adopted all his overwhelming responsibilities. know then that i, caroline von krakenfeldt, am the most overwhelming of them all! lud. but stop, stop — ’ve just been married to somebody else! julia. yes, ma’am, to somebody else, ma’aml do you under- stand, ma’am? ' 'o somebody else! bar. do keep this young woman quiet; she fidgets me l julia. fidgets youl –mm - "he statutory duez. # (aside to julia). be a violet—a crushed, despairing violet. julia. do you suppose i intend to give up a magnificent part without a struggle? lud. my good girl, she has the law on her side. let us both bear this calamity with resignation. if you must struggle, go away and struggle in the seclusion of your chamber. chorus. now away to the wedding we go, so summon the charioteers— no kind of reluctance they show to embark on their married careers. though julia's emotion may flow for the rest of her maidenly years, to the wedding we eagerly go, so summon the charioteers | now away, &c. [all dance off to wedding except julia. recit.-julia. so ends my dream—so fades my vision fair! of hope no gleam-distraction and despair ! my cherished dreams, the ducal throne to share, that aim supreme has vanished into air ! song.-julia. broken every promise plighted- all is darksome-all is dreary. every new-born hope is blighted! ad and sorry—weak and weary ! death the friend or death the foe, shall i call upon thee? no! i will go on living, though sad and sorry—weak and weary ! no, no ! let the bygone go by | no good ever came of repining: if to-day there are clouds o'er the sky, ... to-morrow the sun may be shining ! to-morrow, be kind, * to-morrow, to me ! with loyalty blind i curtsey to thee! to-day is a day of illusion and sorrow, so viva to-morrow, to-morrow, to-morrow ! god save you, to-morrow ! your servant, to-morrow ! god save you, to-morrow, to-morrow, to-morrow - - [ea. v. - c. the . ;-‘_ __r, enter _eanr.st.. ‘ ern. it’s of no use—i can’t wait any longer. at any risk i must gratify my urgent desire to know whatis going on. (look- ing of.) why, what’s that? surely i see a wedding procession winding down the hill, dressed in my troilus and cressida costumes! that’s ludwig’s" doing! i see how it is—he found the time hang heavyonhis hands, and is amusing himself by getting married to lisa. no-—it can’t be to lisa, for here she is! -. .enter lisa. lisa (not seeing him). i .ren'.ll.y- cannot stand seeing my ludwig married twice in‘ one day to‘ somebody else! ern. lisa! ' ‘ __ ' [lisa sees him, and stands as transfimed with horror ern. come hex'e—don’t"be a'little_fool—_-iwant you. [liza suddenly turns a/nd bolts of ern. why, what’s the matter with the little donkey? one would think she saw a ghost! but if he’s not marrying lisa, whom is he marrying ? (sualde'nly.) .julia! (much overcome.) i see it all! the scoundrel ! he had to adopt all my responsi- bilities, and he’s shabbilytaken advantage of the situation to marry the girl i’m engaged to! but no, it can’t be julia, for here she is! ' ‘ ‘ ‘ entes~jvr.m. julia (not seeing him). l’ve made up my mind. i wo u’ stand it! i’ll send in my notice at‘ once! ern. j ulial oh, what a relief! [j ulia gazes at him as if tranyizeed. ern. then you’ve not married ludwig? you are still true to me ? . ’ [j ulia turns and bolts in grotesque horror. eemss'r follows and stops her. _ . ern. don’t run away! listen to me. are you all crazy ? julia (in afected terror). what wouldyou with me, spectre ? oh, ain’t his eyes sepulchral‘! afnd ain’t his voice hollow! what are you doing out of your tombat this ‘time of day-—apparition ? ern. i do wish i could make you girls understand that i’m only technically dead, and that physically i’m as much alive as ever i was in my lif‘! . .. .. . . b julia. oh, but it’s an awful thing to be haunted by a technical ogie! . _ . ern. you won’t be hauntedmuch longer. the law must be on its last legs, and in a few hours i shall come to life again-— ’ ‘’,?z'.¢ tut (y _£_>u._el. resume all my social and civil functions, and claim my darling as my blushing bride! . . julia. oh—then you haven’t heard? _ ern. my love, i heard nothing. how could i? there are no daily papers where i come from. . julia. why, ludwig challenged rudolph and won, and now he's grand duke, and he’s revived the law for another century! ern. what! but you’re not seri us—you’re only joking ! julia. my good sir, i’m a -light-hearted girl, but i don’t chaff bogies. em. well, that’s the meanest dodge i ever heard of! julia. shabby trick, i call it. ern. but you don’t mean to say that you’re going to cry oil‘! julia. i really can’t afford to wait until your time is up. you know, i’ve always set my face against long engagements. em. then defy the law and marry me now. we will fly to your native country, and i’ll play broken-english in london as you play broken-german here! julia. no. these legal technicalities cannot be defied. situated as you are, you have no power to make me your wife. at best you could only make me your widow. em. then be my widow--my little, dainty, winning, win- some widow! julia. now what would be the good of that? why, you goose ! i should marry again within a month! dunt.—eaeasr and julia, em. if the light of love’s lingering ember has faded in gloom, ' you cannot neglect, o remember, a voice from the tomb l that stern supernatural diction should act as a solemn restriction, although by a_ mere legal fiction a voice from the tomb! \iulia' (in affected terror). . " i own that that utterance chills me—- it withers my bloom ! with awful emotion it thrills me—- that voice from the tomb! oh, spectre, won’t anything lay thee? though pained to deny or gainsay thee, in this case i cannot obey thee, thou voice from the tomb ! dancin . so spectre appalling ( ) ’ i bid you good-d,ay— perhaps you’ll be calling when passing this way. the grand duke ; or, your bogeydom scorning, and all your love-lorning, i bid you good-morning, ' i bid you good-day. em. (furious). my oifer recalling, ' your words i obey-— your fate is appalling, and full of dismay. to pay for this scorning i give you fair warning i’ll haunt you each morning, each night, and each day ! [repeat ensemble, and exeunt in opposite directions. re-enter the wedding procession dancing. cnoiws. now bridegroom and bride let us toast in a magnum of merry champagne-- let us make of this moment the most, we may not be so lucky again. so drink to our sovereign host and his highly intelligent reign‘-— his health and his bride’s let us toast in a magnum of merry champagne ! [march .heard. lud. (rccit). why, who is this approaching, upon our joy encroaching ' ’ some rascal come a-poaching who's heard that wine we’re broaching? ' all, who may this be? who may this be? who is he? who is he ? who is he? enter herald. her. the prince of monte carlo, . from mediterranean water, has come here to bestow ’ . on you his beautiful daughter. they've paid off all they owe, as every statesman oughter—- that prince of monte carlo and his be-eutiful daughter! chorus. the prince of monte carlo, &c. her. the prince of monte carlo, who is so very partickler, has heard that you’re also ' for ceremony a stickler— –m- the statutory duel. therefore he lets you know . by word of mouth auric'lar- (that prince of monte carlo who is so very particklar)- chorus, the prince of monte carlo, &c, her. that prince of monte carlo, from mediterranean water, has come here to bestow on you his be-eutiful daughter ! lud. (recit.). his highness we know not—nor the locality in which is situate his principality; but, as he guesses by some odd fatality, this is the shop for cut and dried formality! let him appear- he'll find that we're remarkable for cut and dried formality. [reprise of march. exit herald. ludw g beckons his court. lud, i have a plan—i'll tell you all the plot of it— he wants formality—he shall have a lot of it! [whispers to them, through symphony. conceal yourselves, and when i give the cue, spring out on him—you all know what to do! [all conceal themselves behind the draperies that enclose the stage, pompous march. enter the prince and princess of monte carlo, attended by six theatrical-looking nobles and the court costumier. duet.—prince and princess. prince, we're rigged out in magnificent array (our own clothes are much gloomier) in costumes which we’ve hired by the day from a very well-known costumier. cost. (bowing). i am the well-known costumier. princess. with a brilliant staff a prince should make a show (it's a rule that never varies), so we've engaged from the theatre monaco six supernumeraries. nobles. we're the supernumeraries. {ll at a salary immense, quite regardless of expense, six supernumeraries ! hey do not speak, for they break our grammar's l; and their language is lamentable- . ld they never take off their gloves, because their nails are not presentable. our nails are not presentable ! the grand duke; or, princess. to account for their shortcomings manifest we explain, in a whisper bated, they are wealthy members of the brewing interest to the peerage elevated. nobles. to the peerage elevated. all. { lvgleegere } very, very rich, and accordingly, as sich, to the peerage elevated. prince. well, my dear, here we are at last—just in time to compel duke rudolph to fulfil the terms of his marriage contract. another hour and we should have been too late. princess. yes, papa, and if you hadn’t fortunately discovered a means of making an income by honest industry, we should never have got here at all. prince. very true. confined for the last two years within the precincts of my palace by an obdurate bootmaker who held a warrant for my arrest, i devoted my enforced leisure to a study of the doctrine of chances—main‘ly with the view of ascertaining whether there was the remotest chance of my ever going out for a walk again—and this led to the discovery of a singularly fascinating little round game which i have called roulette, and by which, in one sitting, i won no less than five thousand francs! my first act was to pay my bootmaker-—my second, to engage a good useful working set of second-hand nobles—and my third, i hurry you off to pfennig halbpfennig as fast as a train de lume could carry us! ‘ princess. yes, and a pretty job-lot of second-hand nobles you’ve scraped together! prince (doublfully). pretty, you think? humph! i don’t know. i shouldsay tol-lol, my love——only tol-lol. they are not wholly satisfactory. there is a certain air of unreality about them-—they are not convincing. cost. but, my goot friend, vhat can you expect for eighteen- pence a day! . prince. now take this peer, for instance. what the deuce do you call him? cost. him? oh, he's a swell—he’s the duke of riviera. prince. oh, he’s a duke, is he? well, that’s no reason why he should look so confoundedly haughty. (to noble.) be affable, sir! (noble takes attitude of aflfability.) that’s better. (passing_ to another.) now, who’s this with his moustache coming off? cost. why, you’re viscount mentonc, ain’t you? noble. blest if i know. (turning up sword belt.) it’s wrote here—yes, viscount mentone. aura‘ st}? rz/‘tony duel. cost. then vhy don’t you say so? ’o d' yerself up—you ain’t carryin’ sandwic_:l_ _ boards now. [adjusts his moustache. _ prince. now, once for all, you peers—when his highness arrives, don’t stand likesticks, but appear to take an intelligent and sympathetic interest in what is going on. you needn’t say anything, but let your gestures be in accordance with the spirit of the conversation. now take the word from me. afiability! (attitude). . ‘submission! (attitude). surprise! (attitude). shame! (attitude). grief! (attitude). joy! (attitude). that's better! ‘you can do it if you like! . princess. but, papa, where in the world is the court? there is positively no one here to receive us! i can’t help feeling that rudolph wants to get out of it because i’m poor. he’s a miserly little wretch—that’s what he is. ' _ prince. well, i shouldn’t go so fares to say that. i should rather describe him as an enthusiastic collector of coins—of the realm—and we must not be too hard u n a numismatist if he feels a certain disinclination to part wit some of his really very valuable specimens. it’s a_ pretty hobby : i’ve often thought i should like to collect some coins myself. princess. papa, i’m sure there’s some one behind that curtain. i saw it move! ‘ prince. then no doubt they are "coming. now mind, you. peers—haughty aliability combined with a sense of what is due to your exalted ranks, or i’ll fine you half a franc each—upon my soul, i will! [gone]. the curtains fl. back and the court are dis- covered. they give a wild yell and rush on to the stage dancing‘ wildly, with prisce, perscess, and nobles, ‘who are taken by surprise at first, but eventually join in a reckless dance. at the end all fall down emhausted. lud. there, what do you think of that? 'that’s our ofiicial ceremonial for the reception of visitors of the very highest distinction. ’ prince (puzzled). it’s very quaint—vory curious indeed. prettily footed, too. prettily footed. lud. would you like to see how we say “good-bye ” to visitors of distinction? that ceremony is also performed with the foot. prince. really, this tone—ah, but perhaps you have not completely grasped the situation ‘! lud. not altogether. ' prince. ah, then i'll give you a lead over. ( significantly.) i am the father of the princess of monte carlo. doesn’t that convey any idea to the grand ducal mind? the _gr. vd duke; or, ficance.) lud. (stolidly). nothing definite. prince (aside). h’m—very odd! never mind—try again! (aloud) this is the daughter of the prince of monte carlo. do you take? " lud. (still puzzled). no—not yet. go on—don’t give it up —i daresay it will come presently. prince. very odd—never mind-—try again. (with sly signi- twenty years ago ! little doddle doddle! two little doddle doddlesl happy father—hers and yours. proud mother-yours and hers! hah! now you take? i see you do! i see you do! ' lud. nothing is more annoying than to feel that you’re not equal to the intellectual pressure of the conversation. i wish he’d say something intelligible. prince. you didn’t expect me ? lud. (jumping at it.) n o, no. i grasp that—thank you very much. (shaking hands with him.) no, i did not expect you! prince. i thought not. but ha! ha! at last i have escaped from my enforced restraint. (general movement of alarm.) (t crowd who are stealing of.) n , no—you misunderstand me. i mean l’ve paid my debts ! all. oh! (they return.) princess (aflectionately). but, my darling, i’m afraid that even now you don't quite realize who i am! (embracing him.) baroness. why, you forward little hussy, how dare you? [takes her away from lvnwle. lud. you mustn’t do that, my dear—never in the presence of the grand duchess, i beg! princess (weeping). oh, papa, he’s got a grand duchess! lud. a. grand duchess ! my good girl, l’ve got three grand duchesses ! princess. well, i’m sure! respectable court. prince. all these grand dukes have their little fancies, my love. this potentate appears to be collecting wives. it’s a pretty hobby—i should like to collect a few myself. this (admiring baroxess) is a charming specimen—an antique, i should say—of the early merovingian period, if i’m not mis- taken ; and here’s another—a scotch lady, i think (alluding to julia), and (alluding to lisa) a little one thrown in. two half-quarterns and a makeweight! (t ludwig.) have you such a thing as a catalogue of the museum? ' princess, buti cannot permit rudolph to keep a museum lud. rudolph? get along with you, i’m not rudolph ! rudolph died yesterday! papa, let’s go away—this is not a . l‘ the statutory duel. prince and princess. what ! lud. quite suddenly—of—of a cardiac affection. prince and princess. of a cardiac affection? lud. yes, a pack-of-cardiac affection. he fought a statutory duel with me and lost, and i took over all his engagements— including this imperfectly preserved old lady, to whom he has been engaged for the last three weeks. princess. three weeks! but i’ve been engaged to him for the last twenty years! baroness, lisa, and julia. twenty years! prince (aside). it's all right, my love—they can't get over that. (aloud.) he's yours—take him, and hold him as tight as you can | princess. my own l (embracing ludw g.) lud. here's another!—the fourth in four-and-twenty hours! would anybody else like to marry me? you, ma'am—or you-- anybody! i’m getting used to it! baroness. but let me tell you, ma'am— julia. why, you impudent little hussy lisa. oh, here's another—here's another ! (weeping.) princess. poor ladies, i’m very sorry for you all ; but, you see, i’ve a prior claim. come, away we go—there's not a moment to be lost! chorus (as they dance towards exit). away to the wedding we'll go to summon the charioteers, though her rival's emotion may flow in the form of impetuous tears— - [at this moment rudolph, ernest, and notary appear. all kneel in astonishment. recitative. rud., ern., and not. forbear! this may not be frustrated are your plans ! with paramount decree the law forbids the banns ! all. the law forbids the banns! lud. not a bit of it! i've revived the law for another century ! rud. you didn’t revive it ! you couldn’t revive it! y. you are an impostor, sir—a tuppenny rogue, sir! y never were, and in all human probability never will duke of pfennig anything! all. what!!! the grand duke. rud. never—never, never! (aside.) oh, my internal economy! lud. 'l‘hat’s absurd, you know. i fought the grand duke. he drew a king, and idrew an ace. he perished in incon- ceivable agonies on the spot. now, as tha’- settled, we’ll go on with the wedding. _ rud. it—it isn’t settled. you—you can’t. i—i—(to n - tary) oh, tell him—tell him! i can’t! not. well, the fact is, there’s been a little mistake here. on reference to the act that regulates statutory duels, i find it i expressly laid down that ace shall count invariably as lowest! all. as lowest! rud. (breathlessly). as lowest—lowest—lowest! so you’re the ghoest—ghoest—ghoestl (aside) oh, what is the matter with me inside here ! ern. well, julia, as it seems that the law hasn’t been revived—and as, consequently, i shall come to life in about three minutes—(consulting his watch)- julia. my objection falls to the ground. (resignedlg/.) very well ! princess. and am i to understand that i was on the point of marrying a dead man without knowing it? (to rudolrh, who revives.) oh, my love, what a narrow escape i‘ve had! bud. oh —you are the princess of monte carlo, and you’ve turned up just in time! well, you’re an attractive little girl, you know, but you’re as poor as a rat! [they retire up together. lisa. that’s all very well, but what is to become of me? (to ludz"ig.% if you’re a dead m —' [clock strikes three. lud. but ’m not. 'i'ime’s up—the act has expired—i’ve come to life—the parson is still in attendance, and we’ll all be married directly. all. hurrah! finale» happy couples, lightly treading, castle chapel will be quite full ! each shall have a pretty wedding, as, of course, is only rightful, though the bride be fair or frightful. contradiction little dreading, this will be a day delightful—- each shall have : pretty wedding ! such a iretty, pretty wedding ! uch a pretty wedding ! [all dance of to get married as the curtain falls. his excellency. a comic opera. written by w. s. gilbert, composed by osmond carr. dramatis personae. the prince regent, disguised as nils egilsson, a strolling player, george griffenfeld, governor of elsinore, erling sykke, a young sculptor. dr. tortenssen, a young physician. mats munck, syndic of elsinore. corporal harold, of the king's hussars, a sentry. - - - - first officer. second officer. christina, a ballad singer. nanna ) thora § - dame hecla cortlandt, a lady of property. blanca, a vivandière, elsa, a peasant girl. griffenfeld's daughters. act i. market place of elsinore. act ii. courtyard of the castle, date– , his excellency, act i. scene.—market place of elsinore. the townspeople (led by mats munok, the syndic) are assembled to congratulute erling sykke on the completion of the statue of the prince regent of denmark, which occupies the centre of the stage. colours flying, bells ringing, cannon firing, and general symptoms of rejoicing. opening chorus. set the merry bunting flying, fire the cannon-ring the bells- our great townsman glorifying, who with sculptor's skill undying, all competitors excels. he, with his artistic spells, so the stubborn marble quells, that, to all intents elastic, it assumes, in manner plastic, shapes heroic-shapes fantastic, as his mighty will compels ! mats munck. chosen from his fellow creatures all. by our king—’twas wisely done— to perpetuate the features of the regent prince, his son— then created, by a penmark, . at our gracious king's decree, sculptor to the court of denmark and the royal familee ! sculptor to the court of denmark and the royal familee' leisure take—festina lente— you have time before you, plenty, when at only two-and-twenty, (nemine dissentiente) you're created with a penmark, sculptor to the court of denmark- sculptor to the court of denmark and the royal familee s exc_ellen_cy. and the glory of knightly yr-ide': no blemish, orfault, or flaw, but perfect in all is he, i’ve learnt, in fine, what a god divine a chivalrous knight may be. "as gentle as lover’s lay, or the dawn of a bright may-day, yet cast iu_the knightly mould of the glorious days of old- my eyes are opened ; at last i see what he who would win my heart must be: why look at the men we've known- their mouths will open and close- they’ve ears likewise, and a couple of eyes, and the usual nubbly nose ; each has a head of his own, they've bodies, and legs, and feet—- l’m bound to admit that in every whit — the catalogue’s quite complete :- but where is the godlike grace that lights that marvellous face? where the brow serene? where is the lordly mien? ah, dullards and dolts are all i’ve known, compared with that marvellous, matchless stone ! [emit cenistma. erl. that’s a typical instance of feminine rversity—doesn’t fall in love with me, which would be rationa enough, but with the senseless inanimate work of my hands! my dear fellow (addressing statue), i little thought, when i cut you out, that in course of time you’d return the compliment! enter tortenssen. tor. erling, congratulate me! i’ve just received my patent of appointment as personal physician to his majesty king christian. i have let my house, sold my practice, and i start for copenhagen this day week! ' erl. my dear friend,i’m overjoyed. i'm in daily expectation of a royal command to take up my office as sculptor extra- ordinary to the royal family-—and we’ll travel together. of course you’ve heard that ‘i’ve been promised a countship ? tor. and i am to be created a baron! erl. you don’t say so! to think that we two, who have toiled in obscurity from boyhood for a bare subsistence, should his excellezvcy. both be raised at the same moment to such social and pro» fessional distinction! tor. it seems incredible! it can’t be—but, no-—that’s out of the question. erl. what can’t be ‘. _ tor. it can’t be one of governor griffenfeld’s practical jokes ? erl. my dear fellow, don’t suggest such a thing. it would be too cruel—why, it would be our ruin! tor. but he is cruel. when a scheme for a practical joke enters his head he sticks at nothing in its accomplishment. why, he has caused the very soldiers of the garrison-war- worn veterans as they are—to be drilled as ballet-girls, and to perform all their evolutions to dance steps, simply in order to make them ridiculous in the eyes of the girls they’re engaged to! erl. he’s a malicious devil enough, but he would hardly venture to play pranks in the name of his sovereign. besides, there’s the statue—a commission from the king. tor. true. by the way, i suppose it is a commission froi the king? that’s not one of his excellency’s practical jokes ? ' erl. nonsense! now, does that look like a practical joke? why, i’m to get ten thousand rix-dollars for it! now, as you know, i love his daughter nanna devotedly, and she has hitherto treated me with contempt, because, as she says, i’m a mere tuppenny-halfpenny stone-cutter. of course, that’s only her humorous way of putting it. tor. and i adore 'l‘hora, who has always treated my pre- tensions with derision, because, as she says, i’m only a pitiful pill-roller. that’s her epigrammatic way of expressing it. erl. but now that our positions are so immensely improved, surely we might renew our proposals with every prospect of success! tor. the very idea that occurred to me ! my incomparable 'l‘hora—- erl. your what! _ tor. my incomparable thora-—— ‘ erl. ah—exactly! but—don’t think me inquisitive—why don’t you think n anna _incomparable ? tor. why, my dear fellow, if for no other reason, because you do. ' - erl. what an obstinate dog you must be to refuse to consider her the divinest creature in the world, because i do! _ and you call yourself my friend! ' tor. well, but really ' erl. it’s most unjust to the poor girl. . $ excelle./vcy. tor. but if i loved n anna you’d call me out. erl. what, you—call you out ? call out my old friend because he was of the same way of thinking as myself ?—nol tor. but suppose i were successful? erl. ah, but you wouldn’t be. that is a contingency that we need not consider. now do give up thora and love n anna —do, to oblige me. ' to/r. do you want everybody to love nauna? erl. of course i do. what i want is that all the world shall go mad over her, and that i shall be triumphant. surely that’s an intelligible position! now mark :— song.—erling. when i bestow my bosou ’s store, no room for doubt ' must i descry: all men must love whom i adore, or we fall out, all men and i. ' though poor their chance and slight their hope who with my suit presume to cope, ' yet must all men to gain her try, or we fall out, all men and i. when i am wed i’ll hold them cheap ivho sing and shout with joyous cry. at such a time all men must weep, or we fall out, all men and i. as all men must my rivals be, when nanna gives her hand to me all men must broken-hearted, sigh, or we fall out, all men and . if i my lady vainly woe, and, her without, i pine and die, mankind at large must perish, too, or we fall out, mankind and i. who lives when i find life too long would seem to say that i am wrong. when i expire all men must die, or we fall out, all men and i ! enter n anna and teona. nanna (pretending not to see ermmo and toutesssrm). and they’re so clever, said i—such talented young men—so extraordinarily good-looking, to —and so kind to their poor old mothers! v. h his excelleivcy. tnoea. and now that they’re going to be raised to the peerage they’ll have nothing to say to a couple of middle-class nobodies like us! (sud/ienly.) oh my goodness, here they are ! oh what have i said! duet.—nanna and thona. thom. oh my goodness, here’s the nobility! nanna. gracious me, how very embarrassing! thom. we’re such every day gentility—- bless me, how exceedingly harassing‘! nanna. prey, you pardon us ! don't be hard on us ! thom. most confusing your regard on us ! both. never was i so dazed, i think! into the ground i’d like to sink ! thom. can't you see they’re high society ? norma, don’t they sneer like people of quality? there. if we seem to lack propriety, pray forgive our silly frivolity ! nanna. treat with charity our vulgarity- thora. ’twixt us there's so much disparity both. very superior persons, you ! gracious goodness, what shall we do? erl. then, miss nanna, you’ve heard of our good fortune? nanna. indeed i have! i’m quite uncomfortable in the presence of such grandees! thom. we’re so unaccustomed to aristocratic circles that really we hardly know how we ought to address you! tor. oh, we haven’t been ennobled yet. thom. haven’t you really ? come, that makes conversation easier. still, a personal physician to the king—— nanna. and a sculptor extraordinary to the royal family— thera. and we’re only the daughters of an obscure provincial governor ! oh, really i think we’d better go. it’s so much wiser to keep to one’, own rank in life ! erl. miss nanna, pray be reassured ; we have no desire to presume on our promotion. indeed, you overrate our im- portance. thora. it seems impossible. i really think we’d better go. tor. no, don’t do that. be quite unembarrassed—entirely at your crse, and try to imagine that we are nobody in particular. thora. oh, but that demands a tremendous effort of the imagination. still, i’ll try (tries). tor. have you got it? them. not yet, but i won’t be beaten. i’ll try again (tries- again). . s excelle./vcy. ' nanna (trying). oh, i shall never do it! did you say nobody in particular ? . erl. just a couple of mere everyday, commonplace profes- sional men. nanna. well, it can’t be done——that’s all! it’s ridiculous . to expect it. _ erl. (aside). now’s my time, i think! (aloud.) miss n arms, as you know, we have both loved you" and your sister—- and we’ve often told you so, and you snubbed us, and we deserved it. but now that we are well off, and court personages, and going to be ennobled, we venture to-—to nanna. not to offer us your hands. n —don’t say that- don’t turn our heads and give us ideas above our station ! thom. oh! (crying out). oh, i’ve got an idea above my station! oh, it’s all the way up there, ever so high ! [pointing up. . the thers (looking up). where? where? thom. bal-loon ! ha! ha! ha! erl. i do believe you are laughing at us ! thom (to n anna). oh, aren’t the nobility shrewd ? nanna. and isn’t the aristocracy quick at grasping a situation ? thom. but come, we’ll be serious. are you really in earnest when you make us this intoxicating offer? tor. absolutely. erl. more serious than we ever were in our lives. lfianna. very good, that’s business, and i’ll tell you what we do. quar' ‘ett.—nanna, tirons, enuxo, and tontnessnu. nanna. if all is as you say— if honour and wealth and glory of every sort are your’s— thom. in short, ' if you’re not telling a story-— namza. if you are count some day- thora. a baron if you’re created— . and all turns out beyond all doubt precisely as you’ve stated—- nanna. court sculptor and a peer, with oversomuch a year, precisely as you’ve stated— thom. physician to the king with honours and everything, precisely as you've_stated— roo ' $ excellence nmma and thora. then i will be your brlde-- ez-l. and tor. oh joy! nanna and thora. and i your bride will be ! erl. and t z". then let us make merry. it’s evident, very, that day we soon shall see- nanna and t/lora. when you are qualified— ev-l. and tor. oh joy ! namla and thom. to marry you we agree ! erl. and t z". oh happy decision ! oh vision elysian ! that day we soon shall see! erl. compared with our own ' all others are iukiness ! tor. they are, alone, ' two visions of pinkiness ! erl. pinkiness, veiled with ivory pellicle— t z". everywhere hailed as simply angelica! ! nanna. that isn’t true, ridiculous chatterer ! thom. g along, do, unscrupulous flatterer ! nanna. only a sweet individuality ! thom. dainty and neat, but merely mortality ! erl. and tor. merely mortality? merely mortality? with such a bewitehing individuality? namm and thom. merely two pretty young ladies of quality, piquante and pleasant»—but merely mortality ! all. then{y§u } will be my bride—oh joy! ana{ ;o§°;§,} bride will be! . [dance and emeunt emma and toetenssrm. nanna. oh, thora! (la,ug ing.) thom. oh, nanna! (laughrk'ng.) nanna. they believe it all ! thom. every word! nan’na. what geese! thom. personal physician to the king! nanna. sculptor extraordinary to the royal family! thom. it serves them right for presuming to aspire to our affections. it was papa’s idea! oh, it’s a grand thing to have a father who will condescend to play practical jokes on the very meanest rather than allow the family dignity to be insulted. namza. dear papa! he has such humour! thom. so much invention! i his excellency. blan. it’s a little unkind to complain of our laughing at you, for you know we can’t help it—from to . elsa. we can none of us help it—you’re all so ridiculous! her. i think my betrothed wife might sympathize with the absurdity of my position. i think all our betrothed wives might sympathize with the absurdity of all our positions. elsa. we sympathize with you as hard as we can, after . we can’t do it before , because we’re laughing all the time. blan. from to you’re men, and we’re engaged to you. from to you’re hoppedegigs, and it’s off. elsa. that exactly describes it. her. yes, but at that rate we shall never get any forrarder. besides, who knows what may happen from to ? you might get engaged to somebody else—to the sergeant-major, for instance—he's always fooling around you. blan. well, of course we don’t want to waste our mornings; but even if i were engaged to him from to , i should always be true to you from to . herr. lt’s not enough. it’s incomplete. elsa. take care, the governor’z coming. har. oh, confound it—off we go again! . [soldiers resume dancing. enter governoe gurrrenreln. he has a pound of butter in his hand. grif. (to soldiers). ah, my fine fellows, still at it? got your second wind? that’s right—capital exercise! nothing like it. here, you can ezt this—i’ve done with it. (giving butter to harold.) the syndic went down like a shot! har. (dancing). i beg your excellency’s pardon, but-—may we halt for a moment? we’ve danced for nearly three miles up—hill, and it’s a hot day, and we’re feeling a little faint. grif. always craving for some unreasonable indulgence! selfish dogs, all of you! well, you may halt for five minutes. har. thank you very much. (to soldiers.) selfish dogs— halt! (they halt.) grif. anything else? har. well, i have a request to make. the fact is, the troops do feel the humiliation of being drilled like ballet-girls. grif. bless my heart, you surprise me! don’t they like ballet-girls ? har. oh, they’re very fond of ballet-girls, but they don’t want to be ballet-girls, because when you are a ballet-girl, you don’t seem to care so much about ballet-girls as you do when—when you’re something quite different. his excellency. grif. but don’t your men see how much amusement they create? can’t they see that all the girls are laughing at them? have they no sense of humour? har. oh, they’ve a distinct sense of humour; but to enjoy this sort of thing completely you want to see it from a distance. you see it from a distance, and it ought to be devilish funny; but we are close to it—in "fact, we are it—and when you are it, you don’t seem to "care so much about it, as you do when—when you are something quite different. the fact is, the point of a . joke is like the point of a needle—hold the needle sideways and it’s plain enough, but when it is directed straight at you—well, it’s not always very easy to see the point of it. grif. nonsense! i can see a joke plain enough even when i’m its victim. take my unfortunate love aflair— — har. ah, ridiculous business that! [soldiers laugh. grff. no comments, sir! har. (to soldiers). n comments, gentlemen! grif. take my unfortunate love affair. the late governor, when i was only his deputy, was about to be married to an elderly lady of a singularly explosive disposition. they simply doted on each other. n ow when you see two old donkeys simply doting on each other, your course is obvious—you set to work he.. to wheedle the old lady——- grif. away from the old gentleman. har. ha! ha! you little rogue! [llarold digs griffenfeld in the ribs. gri_'/'. don’t do that, sir! har. (to soldiers). don't do that, gentlemen! gri_'f. well, after some respectful attentions, she accepted in this letter (producing a letter) in which she stipulated that the matter should be kept a profound secret until an excuse could be found for sending the old gentleman about his business. but, as luck would have it, the governor died suddenly and fucceeded him, before i had time to explain that it was only my un—- har. and soldiers. ha! ha! (suddenly serious)—i beg your pardon—i don’t know what they’re laughing at. grif. and so there i was—regularly trapped into a ridiculous engagement, which i can’t for the life of me see my way out of. the situation is most unpleasant—most unpleasant. but do you suppose i don’t see the fun of it? why, i can’t think of it without going into convulsions! ha! ha! her. and soldiers. ha! ha! ha! (?ri_'}". she’s sixty! . his excelle/vcy. he-. and soldiers. ha! ha! ha! grif. wears a wig! he.. and soldiers. ha! ha! ha! ‘grif. don’t overdo it, sir! har. don’t overdo it, gentlemen ! gri/'. that’s quite enough. it’s a very good joke, but not as good a joke as all that. impudent puppies !e—be off with you. har. (to soldiers). lmpudent puppies l—inwards turn -- chassez ! [harold and soldiers dance of, followed by girls laugh- ing and chattering. grif. upon my word, there’s no such thing as gratitude. i do all i can to make my soldiers amusing—i place them in all kinds of ridiculous situations—i make them a source of enter- tainment to a whole township of attractive girls, and instead of being pleased and grateful for the attention, they growl like so many sore-eared bears! enter dame corrtlzmot skittishly, with a folded note in her hand. dame. why, here’s my little man after all! i’ve been looking for him everywhere. why does he hide himself away from his loving hecla? gri/'. eh? oh, it’s you, is it? neck.) don’t do that+you rumple me. there ? ' dame. it’s a note, you jealous boy! not for you—oh dear no! it’s a pretty little pink and white billet dome addressed to a pretty little pink and white gentleman, begging him to make an appointment to meet a pretty little pink and white lady, all alone! that’s me ! n ow what do you think of that? grif. well, if you ask me, don’t think he’ll come. dame. oh yes, he will ! he’ll come fast enough. there—it’s cruel to keep my pet in suspense—— grif. god bless me, you don’t suppose care whom you meet! dame (suddenly furious). what's that? once more ! come, out with it! grif. (alarmed). i say that i’ve such perfect confidence in your moral character that i don’t trouble myself to inquire whom you make appointments with. dame (relieved). oh, was that all ? but you shouldn’t upset me, george. within this fragile bod two tremendous powers are in perpetual antagonism— a diabolical temper and an iron (she puts her arm round his what have you get but say that again ! i his excellezvcy. grif (earnestly). two to one on the will ! two to one on the will! dame. wins easy, george! it’s all right again. go on, dear. gm:/'. no, but really now, what would you say if you found out, quite unexpectedly, that i wasn’t in earnest, and that i only proposed to you because—because somebody bet me i wouldn’t? dame (working herself up). bet you you wouldn’t—bet you you wouldn’t ! what would i do—what would i do- what would i do ? grff. now don’t go on like that! it’s most unpleasant. don’t think you know how creepy you are when you do that. oh, lord, she’s off again! duet.—govennon and dame conrlandr. dame. now what would i do if you proved untrue, and the suit you pressed were an idle jest, and the conjugal yoke a brainless joke, and if marry your darling you eouldn’t? grif. yes, what would you do if proved untrue,’ and if marry my darling i couldn't? dame. what would i say if you owned some day that, a wager to win, you had taken me in, and the fact disclosed that you just proposed because somebody bet you you wouldn’t ? gri/'. if i owned some day that i sung that lay, because somebody bet me i wouldn’t? dame. why, the trembling rock from an earthquake’s shock, and the ocean’s roar on the rock-bound shore, and the hell-babe’s scream were a peaceful dream, to the terrible broth of my brewing ; the tiger’s guash, and the cut-throat’s gash, and the foeman’s clash, and the thunder-crash of eternal smash were unmeaniug trash, compared with my hullaballooing ! ensemnle. govnrmoa (aszde) . dans. it might, perhaps, be rather rash take care, you’ll find it rather rash the truth upon her mind to flash my matrimonial hopes to dash, if an earthquakes shock were idle for an earthquake’s shock were trash idle trash compared with her hulla- compared with my hulla- ballooing ! ballooing ! dame. like grey screech— wl (that hideous fowl) in a midnight cowl i'd slink and prowl till a horrible howl and a tiger's growl had told the world i’d found you ! with object fell and a yelp and yell, on vengeance’ wing at my foe i’d spring, and " ace to face in a close embrace i'd wind my arms around you ! your heart ’d tear from its loathsome lair--i’d pluck out your e ‘es, and your tongue likewise—and limb from limb, with a grow ing grim, i'd rend him who pooh poohs me ! . his excellency. ‘ i (recovering herself.) excuse me, please—when people tease, by slow degrees i kick up a breeze which you can’t appease—it's quite . disense—i’ll go and lie down-—excuse me ! [emit dame corvtlandt. gri/'. this is getting a little too hot to be pleasant. but this letter to the syndic is simply providential. it’s exactly what i wanted to make my innocent little plot complete (tears it up). now where are those two girls of mine? they ought to be back by this time. (enter namu and thora.) oh, here you are! well, have you seen the syndic? nanna. yes, and we’ve carried out all your instructions. gri/i good girls. nanna. we told him that we had the best possible reason to know that the wealthy old lady was particularly well disposed towards him, and that a declaration from him would receive polite and immediate attention. thom. so the silly old gentleman went off his head with joy —did extraordinary things with the office-stool, and at once wrote his declaration, and gave to us to deliver (produces it). here it is. grif. thank you (giving her the letter which he formerly received from dame cortlandt). the old lady's reply. thom. what, already ? nanna. wonderful invention, steam ! grif. hush! (aside to them.) it’s the very letter in which she accepted me under seal of secrecy, when i was only deputy governor! nanna. oh, you sly old papal grif. ha! ha ha! it will do for him just as well as it did for me. and it will make him so happy! tnro.igmri-' ~znrni’n, nauru, and thorm. all. oh what a fund of joy jocund lies hid in harmless hoaxes! what keen enjoyment springs from cheap and simple things ! what deep delight from sources trite inventive humour coaxes, that pain and trouble brew for every one but you ! grif. gunpowder placed inside its waist improves mild huvanah, its unexpected flash bums eyebrows and moustache. nu n rm. when people dine no kind of wine beats ipocaciianlia, but common-sense suggests you keep it for your ghosts-— i ' his excelle/vc y. t/l ‘(l- then naught annoys the organ boys like throwing rod-hot _ coppers, _ ll/anna. and much amusement hides _ in common butter-slides : grgf. and stringy snares across the stairs cause unexpected croppers. t hora.. coal scuttles, recollect, produce the same efiect. grif. a man possessed of common-sense need not invest at great expense- namza. it does not call for pocket deep, t hora. these jokes are all extremely cheap. all. if you commence with eighteenpcnce—it's all you'll have to pay; you may command a pleasant and a most instructive day. grijl a good spring gun breeds endless fun, and makes men jump like rockets— t hora. and turnip-heads on posts make very decent ghosts. _ grif. then hornets sting like anything, when placed in waistcoat pockets-— narzna. burnt cork and walnut juice are not without their use. grif. no fun compares with easy chairs whose seats are stul¥ed with needles-— t hora. live shrimps their patience tax when put down people’s backs— grif. surprising, too, what one can do with a pint of fat black- beetles-— nanna. and treacle on . chair will make a quaker swear! thom. then sharp tin tacks and pocket squirts- gr_i/'. and cobbler's wax _ for ladies’ skirts— — nanrza. and slimy slugs on bedroom floors- grif. and water jugs on open doors- all. prepared with these cheap properties, amusing tricks to play, upon : . friend a man may spend a most delightful day! [emeunt. enter two fiicers, who look cautiously round. st '. is the coast clear ? nd ff. quite—there’s no one in sight. [first fiicer beckons ofl‘. enter the regent dressed ' picturesquely as a tattered vagabond, both oflicers bow deferenttally, ' his excellenc y. reg. who were those who left as you arrived ? st .. the governor griffenfeld, your royal highness, and his two daughters. reg. the fellow whose disgraceful practical jokes are the subject of such general complaint ? nd f. the same, sir. reg. well, the expostulations of the townspeople have reached us in shoals, and we are resolved to judge for ourselves as to their truth or falsehood. for the purpose of our present disguise, we are nils egilsson-—a strolling player—a vagabond—and as such you may describe me if any question as to my identity should arise. you can leave me now, but hold yourselves in readiness in case of emergency. lst of. as your royal highness pleases. [ fiicers bow and emeunt. reg. whom have we here? (looking at statue). oho!' my princely self, eh? upon my word, fairly good for a provincial town. in truth, a very public-spirited thing to have done. governor griffenfeld must have inspired this—upon my word, my heart softens towards the little scoundrel. but no—on second thoughts, he would have commissioned a caricature. (enter cnnistma with her guitar.) who is this? a dainty maiden indeed! chris. (not seeing him). it is a strange fascination that draws me hither! i have yet three principal streets, two squares, and the castle green to sing to—and they are all sure pay.—(puts down her guitar.) then how comes it that i find myself, every half hour, instinctively drifting towards the market-place. it is not market-day, and there’s nobody here except—(looking at statue) and if i sing to him he does not hear me, and if i talk to him i must needs talk for two. as thus: good -morrow, my lord. “ah, christina—hast thou. done well to-day? ” but indifferent well, my lord prince, for i have taken naught and given all! “that were idly done, christina. what hast thou given, and to,whom ? ” my heart, my lord prince, and to your highness, for lo k you, i love you passing well—even i-, who never loved a living man! “ some- what unmaidenly, this avowal—is it not, christina?” it may seem so, my lord. “thou shouldst have waited until i gave some sign.” i might have waited long, my lord, for your highness is strangely reticent; and i might have peaked, pined, dwindled, drooped, and died in the waiting. “that were pitiful indeed, christina.” i thank your lordship. will you hear a poor ballad, my lord? “if it be fairly sung, christina, and not_ too long.” it is not long, my lord, and i no his excellency. will sing it with all my poor skill, so it shall please you. “ well, tune up, christina—but i have no small change.” i thank your highness; i sing to you, not for your money, but for your love. ' ‘he song runneth thus ;—(sees regent, who comes forward, qgfering her the guitar) oh, sir! chris. ah! [looks at statue, then at regent, and shows signs of terror. reg. why, what is amiss with thee? chris. sir, i am frightened! i thought at first—but i am a silly fool! i ask your pardon; but—you are so strangely like the regent’s statue, that, for the moment, i— h, who are you? reg. i am nils egilsson-—a strolling player-a flotsam and jetsam on the world’s tide—tossed hither and thither as the wild waves will; but come good, come ill, always at the service of all pretty maids who need my offices. chris. then-—you are not a prince? reg. not a prince? oh, but i am a prince—very often! every prince in turn from nebuchadnezzar down to louis the sixteenth, when an engagement offers. a trifle out of repair just now, but even your theatrical princes have their vicissitudes, and elsinore is not stage-struck. but times may mend, and who knows but that i shall yet play hamlet on his native battlements ? _ chris. still, a real prince-— reg. is not to be envied, take my word for it. why, the very fact that he can’t show his nose out of doors without an everlasting accompaniment of national anthem is enough to make him turn revolutionist, and cry aloud for his own down- fall ! soec. .-regent. a king, though he's pestered with cares, though, no doubt, he can often trepan them ; but one comes in a shape he can never escape- the implacable national anthem ! though for quiet and rest he may yearn, it pursues him at every turn—- no chance of forsaking its rococo numbers ; they haunt him when waking-- they poison his slumbers ! like the banbury lady, whom every one knows, he's cursed with its music wherever he goes ! though its words but imperfectly rhyme, and the devil himself couldn't scan them, with composure polite he endures day and night that illiterate national anthem ! his excellency. it serves a good purpose i own : its strains are devout and impressive- ' its heartstirring notes raise a lump in our throats as we burn with devotion excessive : but the king, who's been bored by that song from his cradle-—each day—all day long- who’s heard it loud-shouted by throats operatic, and loyally spouted by courtiers emphatic- by soldier—by sailor—by drum and by fife—- small blame if he thinks it the plague of his life ! while his subjects sing loudly and long, their king—who would willingly ban the'.m— sits, worr disguising, anathematizing that hogie, the national anthem ! chris. it is pleasant to know that we are of kindred lot, for if you are a strolling player, why i am but a poor ballad-singer, and our callings have much in common. i am at my ease now, but at first—you will laugh at me, i know—i almost thought i was speaking to the regent himself l reg. i have been given to understand that there is a certain resemblance. chris. it is marvellous! do you know his highness, sir? [anaoiously. reg. well, i can scarcely say. we have never met, face to face. chris. (disappointed). then you do not know him. reg. very good—then i do not know him: but—i know his tailor. chris. his tailor? reg. yes. i frequently see his tailor, and his tailor tells me, in strictest confidence, that (impressively) his highness is at least three inches more round the waist than he is here represented to be! so be prepared for a disappointment! chris. (laughing). why, sir, i believe there is nothing in this wide world that concerns me less than the measure of his highness’s waist! such a trifle weighs but little with me. reg. (aside). it weighs a good deal with me! (aloud.) and do you pass much time in the society of his highness’s elfigy? chris. why, in truth, much more than is prudent. reg. oh, he won’t hurt you—i should say that you were quite safe with him. but beware of the regent himself, for men say that he is a terrible turk! chris. the regent, sir, is nought to me. yet, to speak truly, i am loth to believe that there can be aught but good in one whom that statue so strongly resemblesl his excelleivcy. reg. then—i may take it that you do not believe there is much of evil in me? ' chris. (confused). why, sir—in truth—nay, this is scarcely fair dealing. i spake not of yourself, but of the regent. reg. and i so strongly resemble him! chris. i think, sir, i will go. reg. nay, be not angry with me for drawing so pleasant a conclusion from premisses of your own making! (tenderly.) i would fain hope that you are not angry with me. chris. nay, sir, i am not angry. i spake foolishly, and i am well served. but i have tarried too long; i have to go to the castle green—i am to sing there. reg. why, i am likewise bound thither, for i have to see the governor. (tendcrly.) who knows but that we may meet again! chris. (moved). it is very like. (recovering herself.) but the day is speeding, and i have to sing for my supper. so fare you well, master ! reg. nils egilsson. (kissing her hdnd.) chris. (dreamily). nils egilsson: i shall not forget that name, be very sure! [emit cnnistina. reg. i/vell, as a bachelor heir-apparent, i've had a tolerably comprehensive experience of young ladies; but of all the maids i ever met, this is the fairest, the most winning, and the most original! what a refreshing experience! its like the breath of the hay-field after a season of hot ball-rooms ! we shall meet again, my pretty ballad-singer, unless i greatly err. and now to encounter this precious governor. . enter govereoa gnrrraereln. grrf. the syndic has received his charmer’s letter, and he’s on the tip-toe of expectation and delight. i shall get rid of her ——i shall get rid of her! reg. not knowing the lady, but speaking on general principles, i should say that you couldn’t do better. grrf. hallo, sir, who are you who presume to convert into a duologue that which was intended for a soliloquy ? reg. i’m nils egilss n—strolling player—sadjy out of repair, and greatly in need of a handsome salary, paid weekly in advance. gri/'. a professional rogue, eh? reg. well—a technical rogue—much as a lawyer is a technical gentleman—that is to say, by act of parliament. grzf. you pipe to a sharp note, sir. we keep a cage for ms excellence such gaol-birds as you. (aside-) where have i seen this fellow’s face ? reg. well, i think i sing best behind bars. grif. (aside). where have i seen this fell w’s face? reg. surely you’re not the governor? grif. yes, sir, i am the governor of this province. reg. a thousand pardons! i took you for the borough con- stable. a hasty conclusion based upon a commendable absence of that superficial polish which the vulgar are but too apt to associate with the conception of a gentleman. the governor! (bowing) a worshipfnl gentleman, i’ll be sworn, appearances notwithstanding. a thousand pardons! . grif. (who, during this speech, has been studying the rngf.nt’s face). i have it! it’s the statue! why, he’s marvellously like it! (aloud) hark ye, sirrah! you are an actor, you say ? reg. a poor actor. grif. ready at a moment’s notice to play any part that may be entrusted to you ? kings, princes, and so forth ? reg. why, i’m famous for my kings. there’-, an air of aristocratic impudenoe about me—you may have remarked it—- which is eminently suited to your monarchs of genteel comedy. my tyrants, too, are much admired. “ what, bearded to our face, and by a very boy? the moat is dry—load him with chains, and stifle him in its reeking mud! ha! ha! i will be obeyed l”. ' grif. yes—that’s not good, you know. rather amateurish, i should say. played a long engagement in the theatre royal back drawing room, i should imagine. by the way, have you ever heard it remarked that you bear a close resemblance to a very dignified personage ? reg. eh? oh, you mean the man who mends boots on the quay. that’s very_like y—he’s my aunt. grif. the man who mends fiddlesticks! reg. i don’t think i know him. gri/'. no, sir—not to the man who mends boots—to no less a person than the prince regent of denmark. reg. the prince regent? grif. there he is. he’s a common-looking fellow, and you are singularly like him. [pointing to statue. reg. you flatter me, i’m sure (looking at statue). well, some fellows have the deuce’s own luck. here is a man—the heir to a throne—caressed, courted, and flattered by the highest in the land—pampered with every luxurythat the ingenuity of the devil or man can devise—and, hang me ! if, in addition to iv. h _ his hixcellezvcy. all this, he isn’t exactly like me! it’s enough to turn the fellow’s head! grt_'f. he’s an ugly fellow, sir, and so are you. therein lies the chief resemblance. n ow attend to me. if you will consent to personate his highness for twenty-four hours, acting exactly as i shall prescribe to you, you shall have—well, you shall have five golden freidrichs ! reg. five golden freidrichs l grif. then you consent? reg. consent? what is there that i wouldn’t consent to for five golden freidrichs? but my dress—it’s a convenient outfit for summer weather; but not, i should say, what the regent of denmark would wear—except, perhaps, in the bosom of his family after the cares of state are over for the day. grtf. i've provided for that. the sculptor of that statue borrowed a left-off suit of the regent’s from his higbness’s valet-—for artistic purposes. it's now at the castle, packed up, ready to be returned. i should say it would fit you to a nicety. reg. (aside). i’ve not the least doubt of it. when am i to begin ? grif to-morrow morning. it'll be great fun! reg. it will be a tremendous joke. gm)‘. so original! with such possibilities! fancy—a sham regent dispensing sham wealth and sham honours untold on all my sham friends-—and then their disappointment when they discover that it’s only my fun ! reg. ha! ha! l’m longing to begin! [during the last few lines christina has entered. she listens, concealed behind statue. dust.—rngnr»zt and griffenfeld. reg. i've grasped your scheme, if i may say as much without in— trusion : as regent-prince i must ennoble all without exclusion, and scatter honours all around in liberal profusion— then you’ll step in and with_a word, dispel the fond illusion l g - '/. then l’ll ste in— reg. hen you'll step in-— grif. ’ and with a word-— reg. and with . word» then you’ll step in and, with a word, dispel the fond illusion l gz-if. (ercitedly). exactly so ! exactly so ! exactly so! exactly so! for understand what i require— give every man his heart’s desire, then lfll explain the ins and out—- in half an hour or thereabouts ! both. then { ygllllu } explain the ins and outs- in half an hour or thereabouts ! ais excellency, reg. g #. both, chris. reg. chris. he is t ensemble. oh, human joy at best is brief- alas, too soon it's turned to grief! so it's our duty, you'll allow, our fellow creatures to endow with happiness complete and vast— although that happiness may last— although that happiness may last- but half an hour or thereabouts | but half an hour- but half an hour— - but half an hour or thereabouts! [exit griffenfeld. (coming forward from behind statue). i overheard | you did? confusion | but not a word of this delusion- no single phrase- no faint suggestion- to haply raise a doubt or question | if fault or blunder visible i make in this experiment- control your muscles risible, and check untimely merriment. address me most respectfully- regard with silent shyness me- with eyes cast down subjectively;— and mind you “royal highness” me ! now don't forget—now don't forget, be sure you “royal highness” me! with all devotion beautiful, i'll favour your expedient- i'll be your very dutiful— i'll be your most obedient— you'll find me all docility, you miracle of slyness, you! i'll curtsey with humility, and always “royal highness” you! i won't forget—i won't forget— i'll always “royal highness” you! ensemble. oh, never was seen such a pearl of a prince, with { his } dignified mien my onvince: i am j. sure to con u his excellence in } gracious address here is royalty shown—- and a baby could guess ilifins the heir to a throne! ha! ha! ha! ha!»-ha! ha! ha! ha! oh it baby could guess he’s the heir to a throne ! [emit in opposite directions. " enter the syumc, with dams coetlandt’s letter in his hand. syn. it’s 'a singular thing, but i never yet proposed to a very unattractive old lady without being immediately accepted. now here is an unattractive old lady—abont to be married to no less a personage than the governor of this province, and i have only to beckon to her, and down comes the confiding old dove with no further thought about the governor, except to stipulate that her change of intention shall be kept a secret from him for the present! here comes the old dear, true to the appointment of her own making. how—how rich she looks, to be sure! enter dame contlazrnt. dame (bashfully). master munck—i—i ventured to send you a letter this morning. syn. a most delightful letter, and one that, believe me, i shall prize while i live! dame (surprised). you are vastly obliging! (aside) col- lecting autographs, i suppose. (aloud) n ow, you will under- stand that, for the reasons explained in my letter, i am most anxious that the subject of our conversation shall be kept a profound secret. syn. madam, i will be most careful. you—you are the discreetest little gipsy in denmark ! dame. sir! syn. quite right—can’t be too cautious, even between our- selves. i quite grasp the idea. dame (aside). he is singularly effusive for a confidential family lawyer! (aloud) i daresay that -you are aware that i am well to do. . syn. well, i certainly have heard that dame cortlandt is a lady of some means—but oh, she does her lover a grave injustice if she imagines that he allowed a mercenary considera- tion to influence him. . ' dame (surprised). why, of course i know that! syn. such a dainty, tight, trim, bewitching little rogue re- quires no—- _ . ' his excelleavcy, )ame (suddenly furious). eh? what's that? i’m a little rogue! this man presumes to tell me that i am a little rogue! syn. but, my dear lady- dame. don't speak—they're fighting it out—they're fighting it out! syn. bless my heart, how very interesting ! dame (having swallowed her anger—severely). it's all right, master munck, and, for the moment, the tempter is floored, but don’t try that again. perhaps—perhaps we had better discuss my affairs at another time—when you have slept it off, whatever it is. syn. no, don’t go—let me gaze a little longer on—(dame about to break out.) i didn’t say it! i didn’t say it ! i stopped in time! dame (aside). he's very eccentric for a confidential family lawyer ! (aloud.) i wish you to take instructions about the settlements on the occasion of—(bashfully) my forthcoming marriage. syn. my dear lady! [takes out note-book. dame. there are my two freehold farms, the three houses in dentheim, and twelve thousand rix dollars in government securities. i wish to settle all this, absolutely, on my dear husband. syn. what, all !!! dame. every penny. - syn. dearest! (dame about to break out again. syndic checks himself) i didn't say it! i didn't say it ! i thought it, but i didn’t say it! duet.—dame and syndic. dame, now all that we've agreed upon, o- and all that's passed between us- no human soul must know, be he a friend or foe. syn, you lean no broken reed upon, o- in courts of law and venus (i've practised much in both) i'm always on my oath ! dame. what always? sym. always | dame, always? sym. always! always on my oath ! you'll find i am discreetly dumb, so trust me, ma'am— dame. the word is mum-- i his excellence syn. of all i know i'll give no clue, you little ro— guey poguey, ybu ! you little roguey poguey! dame (indiymmtly). sir ! syn. you little roguey poguey ! dame. . sir! ! s /z . you roguey poguey, rogney poguey, roguey poguey ! dame. sir! ! ! ensnmnm. dame (aside) . svemc (aside). although of men's vulgarity, o—— if called upon in charity, oq i'm no unfair inquisitor, to justify my visitor, i hate familiarity, — i'll quote my popularity, - in a family solicitor! as a family solicitor. both. as a family, family, family, family—- a family solicitor ! dame, your tone is not professional, o— it's neither grave nor courtly‘: such lack of_common-sense inspires no confidence. syn. by gradual steps progressions], o—- i‘ll reach the haven shortly ; but till that moment sweet i'll never be indiscreet. dame. what never ‘? syn. never ! dame. never ? syn . ‘never ! never be indiscreet! (danciny.) those lips command, and i obey, thoulgh close at hand, he joyous day when i may sip their honey dew— you little pip— . sy wipsy you ! you little pipsy wipsy l dame. . sir ! syn. you little pipsy wipsy ! dame. sir ! ! syn. you pipsy wipsy, pipsy wipsy, pipsy wipsy ! dame. sir! ! ! his excellency. i esssmsuz. damn (aside). snmrc (aside). what sentiments transgressioual ! these gradual steps progressional, __ - . _. it's bad, i’ve understood, for wait any time i would for them, . them- when gentlemen professional, o— when gentlemen professional, -- take more than is quite good gain widows r ch, t’s good for for them ! them! both. when gentlemen, gentlemen, gentlemen, igentlemen— take more than is good for them . widows gain, it’s good for them ! [eaceunt separately . enter ebling sykke, with large unopened ofiicial letter in his hand. erl. at last—the reply to my letter announcing to his majesty the completion of the statue! every hope and every fear of my life lies within the four corners of this document. what may it not contain? perhaps an order on the king's treasurer for my ten thousand rix-dollars! perhaps my appointment as court sculptor! perhaps even my patent of countship! i tremble so that i can scarcely open it ! [nanna has entered at the back. she creeps up to him with suppressed fun in her face. nanna. oh, what a big letter! whom is it from, and what’s it all about ? ert. nanna, this letter is to seal your destiny and mine—so, as you are as much concerned with it as i am, i think we ought to open it together. it’s—it’s from the king’s private secretary! nanna. oh, do be quick and let’s see what’s in it ! erl. you open it—i can’t! (giving her the letter.) nanna. i can. now then—one! two! three! [nanna opens it. erl. read-—read ! nanna (looking at it). oh! i don’t think you’ll like it. oh ! i’m sure you won’t like it! (reads.) “ sir-— n reply to a letter in which you announce the completion of a statue of his royal highness prince frederick, alleged by you to have been com- missioned by his majesty, i have to inform you that his majesty knows nothing about it.” erl. (stunned). knows nothing about it ! i i/is excellency. nanna. there seems to be some mistake. erl. some mistake! why, what do you mean ? nanna. why that, at the first blush, it bears the appearance of being one of dear papa’s practical jokes. erl. but it’s ruin ! absolute ruin ! why, i spent every penny i possessed on the marble alone! nanna. i’m so sorry! erl. sorry! i can’t realize it! it stuns me! it’s too cruel— too cruel! and the promise you made e? nanna. oh, the promise! ye — es — the conditional promise. erl. don’t tell me that was a hoax too! give me some hope to cling to! i can bear it all if you’ll only tell me that you won't discard me ! nanna. really, it’s extremely awkward; but one must be a little prudent. ’m a very expensive young lady, and as it seems that you have no immediate prospect of being able to maintain an establishment, it would be really criminal on my part to involve you in further embarrassments. [erling sinks helplessly on pedestal of statue, and buries his head in his hands. . soxe. —nanna. my wedded life must every pleasure bring on scale extensive !— if i’m your wife i must have everything that’s most expensive-- a nd ’s maid- ( y hair alone to do i am not able)- and i’m afraid i’ve been accustomed to a first-rate table. these things one must consider when one marries- and everything i wear must come from paris ! oh, think of that ! oh, think of that! i can’t wear anything that’s not from paris! from top to toes quite frenchified i am, if you examine. and then—who knows ?— perhaps some day a fam- perhaps a famine ! my argumentfs correct, if you examine, what should we do, if there should come a f-famine ! his excelleivcy. though in green pea yourself you needn’t stin in july sunny, ' in januaree it really costs a mi‘ti a mint of money ! no lamb for us- house lamb at christmas sells at prices handsome : asparagus, in winter, parallels a monarch‘s ransom. when purse to bread and butter barely reaches, what is your wife to do for hot-house peaches? . ah ! tell me that! ah ! tell me that ! what is your wife to do for hot-house peaches ? your heart and hand though at my feet you lay, all others scoruing ! .as matters stand, there’s nothing else to say except—g d morning ! though virtue be a husband’s best adorning, that won’t pay rates and taxes—so, good morning ! [emit nanna. erl. cruel, cold calculating girl! what on earth am i to do? ruin and desolation stare me in the face! enter toetenssen in great emcitement, with an open letter oi his hand. tor. erling! i am tricked, swindled, undone! i have just received a letter from the king’s secretary to say that my appointment is a hoax! i’ve sold my local practice, let my house, and thora repudiates me with indignation and con- tempt! erl. again the governor's doing! i, also, have just learnt that the commission for the regent’s statue is a heartless fabrication, and i, too, am ruined—utterly and completely ruined! tor. my poor erling! erl. but this is no time for idle regrets. a term must be put to this scoundrel’s practices. “to will call the people together, tell them of the infamous trick that has been played upon us, and then away to copenhagen to lay the whole matter before the regent himself! tor.. we will, we will! i azs excellaavcy. finale. erl, and tor, come hither, every one, come hither, all ! let every mother's son obey our call! come hither in your might, in stern parade, and learn the deadly slight upon you played ! during this the chorus, christina, harold, and blanca have all. entered. why, who the deuce has dared to play a trick, at elsinore, to-day? come, tell us quick, this scurvy trick, why, who the deuce has dared to play? erl. (passionately). that statue—who commissioned it? all. the king ! erl, and on that spot positioned it? all, the king! court sculptor who created me, and told me rank awaited me, which pleased you and elated me? all. the king! tor, (furiously). who raised me from obscurity? all. the king ! tor. and gilded my futurity? all. the king! tor. physician who appointed me? with baron's rank anointed me, till foolish pride disjointed me? all. the king! the king he did and said it all, he did this noble thing ! give him the fame and credit all, his majesty the king! god save the king ! hurrah! erl, a lie! no monarch honoured you by honouring us, or for that cursed statue gave commission; no monarch with perception generous, appointed tortenssen his court physician | no royal sunlight on on - shone- you have been chea: layed upon | all. we have been c. layed upon? who is th: for trifling! with cle, tling ! * - - –mm - am/s a.xca lleavcy. enter dame cortlandt in a towering rage, followed by syndic, who tries in vain to appease her. dame, the truth's revealed, the mystery dispelled— the culprit is—the governor griffenfeld ! he doesn't confine to lowly folks his base barbarian dealings, but dares to play his practical jokes upon my tenderest feelings! assuming that for you i glowed (to syndic), you syndical mountebank, you! he—(symptoms of an approaching outbreak). all. pray be careful or you'll explode ! dame (with an effort). i'm keeping it under, thank you! all. hurrah! hurrah ! hurrah! hurrah! she's keeping it under! thank you! dame, henceforth i vow, with hate intense, to crush that governor pagan | whatever the cost, at my expense, we'll go to copenhagen. there to the regent we'll complain, in volleys of vocal thunder– [further symptoms of an outbreak. all. now steady, or you'll be off again! dame (with an effort). all right, i'm keeping it under ! l, brava ! brava ! brava ! brava ! dame cortlandt's keeping it under ! enter griffenfeld, nanna, and thora, all, ah! here's the monkey undiscerning, who, all thought of mercy spurning, dares with men of light and learning thus to play the pranksome fool! launch at him our loudest thunder— tear him limb from limb asunder ! long enough we've suffered under his detested monkey-rule ! grif. what means this uproar which my comfort shatters! explain, i beg! are ye march hares, or hatters? dame, no madmen we—but matters not to mince, to copenhagen we depart, with rage and fury in each heart, to interview our sovereign regent-prince | grif. the regent? all. aye, the regent grif. not so loud. be pacified, i beg, excited crowd: this state of indignation do not foment- the regent's here, in elsinore, at this moment all. the regent here! grif, nanna, and thora. in elsinore at this moment i i his excellezvc y. trl .—governor, nmua, and taona. after a travellin troublesome, quit of the ourt and the quality-— weary of bobbery bubblesome— weary of party and polity, full of a jolly jocosity, ' out of the pale of propriety- hating the pride of pompo'sity— sick of that sort of society, regent is resting his brain here is our little domain ! (repeat) seeking a time of tranquillity, free from all fear of formality, finds it in jolly gentility here in this lovely locality-— dofling all duty and dignity (follies that fidget him fearfully), vows that our merry malignity favours his chirrupping cheerfully-— vows he'll again and again visit our little domain ! (repeat) all. seeking a time of tranquillity, etc. [griffenfeld, nanru, and tnoea dancing through this. chorus. this is our chance to explain- tell of our sorrow and pain! snxtnt. enlrzm, tonrausssu, syndic, hanol >, christina, and dame contlaunt. har. this is our opportunity-— it may not come again. gri/'., nanna, and thom (in aflected terror). no, no ! er. to lay bare with impunity our misery and pain. gri_'f., nanna, and thora (in afected terror). no, no ! tort. we’ll beg, with due severity, his speedy punishment. gri/'., nanna, and t hora (in afected terror). no, no ! the sir. and that with all celerity to gaol he might be sent! grifi, nanna, and thom (in afected terror). no, no ! no, no ! not that; avert our doom ! why it would be our ruin ! can you resist when we assume this attitude to sue in. ( kne¢'li'r_q—rep¢¢ll-) all. yes, yes! . ha, ha! yes, yes! ha, ha ! we can resist though you assume that attitude to sue in l azs excelleavc p. i laughing derisively at griffenfeld and daughters. ha, ha! ha, ha! ha, ha! ha, ha! grif. and daughters (as if crying). ho, ho! ho, ho! &c. grif. oh, pray have mercy! do not pour w' a hapless governor, ho trades a rather devious path, the vials of your mighty wrath! nanna and thora. oh, pray you be magnanimous, 'twill ruin him and ruin us— in sheer good humour it was done— oh, haven't you any sense of fun? oh, haven't you any sense of fun? oh, haven't you any sense of fun? (pretending to cry.) ah, don't be hard on one whose passion ruling was, from his birth, a taste for april fooling! ah, don't be hard, &c. go, traitress, go! of such a foe i scorn the vain appeal. with rage i fume ! your father's doom this day the prince shall seal. in vain you cry, and sob and sigh, in vain you kneel, i say! oh, pity me, pity me, pity me, pity me, pity me, pity me, pray ! of all that's mean and vile, i ween, in an underhand way, epitome-pitome-pitome-pitome-pitome-pitome they ! all three. thora. all three. erl. and tor, grif, : and thora. chorus. ensemble. - all (except griffenfeld, nanna, and thora). shall we endure this outrage, say ? - are we but toys to serve his whim p is he on heartstrings thus to play, as may, perchance, seem good to him ? all. to the regent, away! grif., nanna, } and thora. all. to the regent, away ! grif., nanna, and thora. } griffenfeld, nanna, and thora (aside). when a governor triumphs through quibble and quiddity, he may employ with a cheerful avidity, any amount of tol-lol-the-rol liddity, tol-the-rol, lol-the-rol, lol-the- rol-lay. tol-the-rol-the-rol-lay! tol-the-rol-the-rol-lay! his excelle./vcy.‘ all. to the regent-—the regent—the regent, away ! q; tol-the-rol-the-rol, -the-rol, lol-the-rol-lay! [all rush of furiously, emcept cneistina, who remains laughing up stage, and gerrrenreln, nanna, and thoea, who sink, emhausted with laughter, on seat at foot of statue. act ii. scens.—the castle court-yard. erlino, toeteesssn, syndi . damn cortlandt, cneisrma, and chorus of men and girls discovered. a sentry is mounting guard on the castle gate. orening cnonus. with anger stern and fierce determination, we wait to learn . the fate of our appeal. . - to r ent just e’ve given information, and this, we trust, the tyrant’s doom will seal. erl. this mite of a man who’ll plot and plan to ruin us all for his delight-— tor. the mannikin ape in human shape-— dame. this tuppenny ha’penny lump of spite ! all. _ this tuppenny ha’penny, tuppenny hafpenny, tuppenny ha’penny lump of spite ! ceeistrna comes forward. recit.—christina. be eomforted—his downfall i foresee, all who exceed_the bounds of strict simplicity, and, yielding to a taste for eccentricity, fly in the face of orthodox morality, must dearly pay for their originality- you know the story of the wilful bee ? all (furiously). we don’t ! we never heard it! etl who was he his excellezvcy. i soeo.-—currstnm. (guitar accompaniment.) a hive of bees, as i’ve heard say, said to their queen one sultry day- “ please, your majesty’s high position, the hive is full and the weather is warm. we rather think, with a due submission, the time has come when we ought to swarm?” buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz. outspake their queen, and thus spake she- “ this is a matter that rests with me, who dares opinions thus to form ? ]’ll tell you when it is time to swarm! ” buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz. her majesty wore an angry frown, in fact her majesty’s foot was down- her majesty sulked_declined to sup- in short her majesty's back was up. buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz, her foot was down and her back was up ! that hive contained one obstinate bee (his name was peter), and thus spake he— “ though every bee has shown white feather, to bow to fashion i am not prone- why should a hive swarm all together? surely a bee can swarm alone? ” buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz, upside down and inside out, backwards forwards round about, twirling here and twisting there, topsy turvily everywhere- buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz. pitiful sight it was to see respeetable elderly high-class bee, who kicked the beam at sixteen stone, trying his best to swarm alone ! buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz, trying his best to swarm alone ! the hive were shocked to see their chum (a strict teetotaller) teetotum— the queen exclaimed, “ how terrible, very ! it's perfectly clear to al the throng peter’s been at the old brown sherry. old brown sherry is much too strong-— buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz. of all who thus themselves degrade a stern example must be made, to coventry go, you tipsy bee ! ” so off to coventr town went he. buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz. his excelle./vcy. there, classed with all who misbehave, both plausible rogue and noisome knavc, in dismal dumps he lived to own the folly of trying to swarm alone ! buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz. all came of trying to swarm alone. chorus. all came of trying to, &c. enter mats muses from castle. all. well, well—what news ? does he refuse our rightful dues ? what news—what news ? lllats. good news ! the regent, whom we all revere, will read your neatly drawn appeal—- (i drew it !) without an hour’s delay he‘ll meet you here, and if we prove our case the governor'll rue it ! all. hurrah ! mats. if these our charges home we bring, he swears the governor's neck he'll wring ; and when he says he’ll do a thing, he'll do it! all. hurrah ! the sorrows that damped our lives are past, and happily all will end at last. as soon as the audience has been held, good-bye to the governor griffenfeld ! .men. good-bye ! girls. good-byc ! men. good-bye ! girls. good-bye ! all. good-bye to the governor griffenfeld ! enter n anna and ti-iora. they come forward humbly. e'rl. and tort. (recit.). ah, false one! tlzora. with humbled head—in desperation dire— i tidings bring from ‘my repentant sire. he much regretshis foolish whim- nanna. and hopes you’ll intercede for him ; for, though his gore at retractation rises, he’s very sorry-—and apologizes, thom. he can't say more—- both. hc’s very sorry—and apologizes ! . erl. and be comforted—i can’t resist that tear ! tor. . at once i’ll seek our sovereign prince’s ear, ' and tell him-—though our future you destroy it- i don’t mind ruination——i enjoy it! his excellency. i enter griffenfeld from castle. grif. (humbly). complying with the popular request, so prettily expresscd— syn. (aside). i drew it! grif. the regent comes»—forgive our little p ot- our enitence, do not ooh pooh it ! namuz. if still to press your grievance you agree, then i feel certain we shall rue it ! t hora. so please withdraw, as we are penitenl‘, that well-worn document. syn. (aside). i drew it! all. no, no ; no mercy will we show- away with you! you plead in vain ! n word of ours shall stop the blow ; your prayer we will not entertain ! flourish. enter regent. principals and chorus. hail, o regent prince. coming to requite us ! matters not to mince, you will nobly right us. your disgust evince— make the tyrant wince— — hail, o sovereign prince, whose decrees delight us ! racrr. —re a ~"r. i’ve read your dutiful memorial : if any other for reprisals call, or, suffering grievance, wish me to abate it, this is your opportunity to state it. . har. (recit.). may it please your highness ! _ am. hm‘. though we're eager for to sally ' the doughty field of mars-— soldiers. may it please your royal highness! har. and encounter, generally, any quantity of scars- soldiers. may it please your royal highness! har. yet for mischief, principally, he has turned us into ballet, and we feel it personally— it is rough on brave hussars ! req. yes, it’s rou h on brave hussars ! all. yes, you’re right, your oyal highness, it is rough on brave hussarsl har. if we urge, in accents courtly, that it wounds our proper pride-— soldiers. may it please your royal highness ! v. k . ‘ excelle./vcy. har. why, he answers as retortly, and for mutiny we’re tried— soldiers. may it please your royal highness ! ' har. we are soldiers grave and portly, and it aggravates us mort'lly, for, to put the matter shortly, well, it is not dignified ! all. no, it isn't dignified! reg. n , it isn‘t dignified ! all. look at this, your royal highness—it is far from dignified ! ballet or hussaas.. song.—rl£gen'l‘_. my people, who’ve submitted to the governor's absurdities, i sympathize most heartily with every word you say ; his ‘excellency‘s conduct is too bad—upon my word it is— but all his wrong .l'll rectify without undue delay. on erling, who has sufiered from his mischievous malignity, we shed the sunny summer of our sovereign benignity, and ratify all promises of dollars and of dignity. so consequently nanna will be his this very clay. all. so consequently nanna will be his this very day. lissssrnla. regent (aside to gran). gun‘. (aside to regent). erling (aside). oh, nanna will be your orders i am try- my orders you i -r— mine this very ing to obey, plicitly obey, day, ihope i don't exceed proceed with perfect and all my sorrows in any way ; certainty you hide themselves for so nobly you may; _ away; array me, now unmcrcifully for the trick he so magnificently flay me, dared to play me, pay me, and with punish- it will handsomely that your orders i am anxious to obey. nanna (aside). it's fortunate that this is all in play. ' i shouldn’t like to marry him to- dal’ . . it would terrible dismay be, if he really came to claim me, it is lucky that’s it’s only said in play. ment dismay me, or my orders you will if miss nanna will be surely disobey. repay me, mine this very day. thora, other principals. and chorus. oh, nanna will be his this very day, ‘ and all his sorrows hide them- selves away ; . i will handsomely array me in my very best to play me, for miss nanua will be his this very day !_ ‘ his excellezvcy. i you, tortenssen,—whom griffenfeld with impudent audacity appointed our physician—why, that gift is ratified with promised rank of baron—in that dignified capacity he‘s warranted in claiming pretty thora as his bride. and harold, gallant corporal, whom with a spite oppressional, was made to twist and turn about like ballet-girl professional, dispensing with the many" intermediate steps progressioual, a colonel he’s created at one mighty giant stride ! all. a colonel he's created at one mighty giant stride. eusnmnle. regent (aside to gnu-‘. (aside to hanoln and ton- gn rx). raoeut). tnussnu. i trust your excel- so far, my excel- upon my word, i'm lency’s satisfied, ency’s satisfied, truly gratified, to carry out your to carry out my to justify your choice wishes i have wishes you have will be my pride; tried-— . tried; for i think you’ve if i haven’t acted when you fail to chosen rightly, right! do it rightly and i thank you you wil mention it i will mention it most politely, politely, politely, for, upon my word, but i trust your ex' but, so far, my excel- ‘ i’m truly grati- cel ency’s satis- lency’s satisfied. fied. fied. tl-iora (aside). other principals and chorus. if he thinks that i intend to be his upon my word, we’re truly grati- bride, fied, he’ll find itamistake unqualified, to justify your choice will be if i know my feelings rightly, their pride; i will thank him most politel , for we think you’ve chosen and decline, on any terms, to e rightly, his bride. and we thank you most politely, ‘ for, upon my word, we’re truly gratified. and now for governor grifien£eld—we highly to extol you meant, but, finding you’re addictedto discreditablc pranks, we strip you of your dignity, position, and emolument, and name mats munck as governor—we don’t want any thanks. and, as in these proceedings we are handec all in unity, i think we couldn't find a more‘convenient opportunity of proving that imposture can’t be practised with impunity. ( to griffenfeld..) for all your impositions you’re degraded to the ranks !_ all. for all his impositions he’s degraded to the ranks ! i his excelle./vcy. eivsrmnle. rnc. (aside to gain). gnu‘. (aside to reg.). syndic. i think i have done you've done it pretty now really this is like exactly as you nearly as i’ve said, to turn my head, said, if you hadn’t you’d for i’m to rule as i am sure i hope i have sacrificed governorinstead! haven’t been mis- your head. _ when i get my led; you shall now re- quartefspayment, when i receive my ceive your pay- l’ll buy all his left- payments, ment, ofl raiment, i’ll surrender allthis so take oil’. that and it’s possible dame raiment, handsome rai- cortlandt i may and resume my old ment, wed. habiliments in— and resume your old stead. habiliments in- stead. nanna and tnona (aside to cnonus, and other principals. each other). assuredly there's nothing to be did you hear what that audacious said, fellow said? he's lucky in escaping with his my goodness, how exceedingly head ! ill-bred ! he loses all his payment, let us give the man his pay- and his most expensive rai- ment, ment, then he’ll doif his splendid and he'll take his turn at sentry- raiment, go instead ! and resume his own habiliments instead. reg. n ow all you men and maidens true, who troth have duly plighted— (i understand you’re not a few) your wrongs shall all be righted : at his expense a banquet to you’re cordially invited. and in the castle chapel you this day shall be united ! all. hurrah ! (all dancing) oh, bright delight—go, find a priest ! the wedding and the wedding feast, at your expense, will soon be held— so thank you, private grifienield ! ha, ha, ha, ha, etc. at your expense they will be held, three cheers for private grifienfeld! all. so thank you- gri . thank you— al . thank you- grifl". thank you- all. thank you, private griffenfeld ! [all dance of in couples, eaceptge ffenfeld and regent. his excellency. reg. (changing his manner—very humbly). i trust l’ve fairly carried out your excollency’s instructions ? g'n_'f. you’ve done pretty well, sir— nly pretty well! reg. may i ask in what respect i have failed? grif your manner is not sutficiently dignified for a royal prince—you want a great deal more of this sort of thing- (business) —you are not at all royal, sir ! reg. i see what you mean. (imitating him.) thank you, i’m sure—it will be most useful to me in my profession, and i’ll take care to remember it. but pray bear in mind that, as a poor stroller, i have not enjoyed your excellency’s many opportunitiesof making myself acquainted with the deportment of the very highest classes. grif true, but i told you this afternoon that you must endeavour t' assume an air of-—of this sort of thing‘—(business). then again, your instructions were to order me to be shot in twenty-four hours. why didn’t you do that? reg. well, i was about to give the order, but when i saw the temper of the people and how cordially you are detested— most unjustly, i’m sure—i was afraid to do so lest, in their fury, they should execute the order on the spot. gn'f. i see what you mean. reg. i might not have had time to stop them. gr?/‘. very true. reg. but it's not too iate—they can be sent for directly and the order given, without delay. (about to go of.) gm:/'. no—on second thoughts it’s not necessary. it will do as it is. reg. i trust you think i exercised a wise discretion ? grtf/'. well, on the whole, perhaps yes, i say-—it’s—it’s a good joke, isn’t it? reg. it’s a perfect monument of practical humour. only— forgive the suggestion—isn’t it a little risky? gm/'. risky? what do you mean? reg. somehow these practical jokes have such a tendency to recoil on the heads of their perpetrators. now, mere verbal humour is so‘ much safer—a quip, a crank, a jibe, jape or ‘est? j grif. nonsense, sir, don’t talk to me about japes and jests! return to the castle, and when you’ve resumed your rags, i will pay you the golden freidrichs i promised you. be off! reg. as your excellency pleases. [emit regsut into castle. gm]. what does he mean about practical jokes recoiling on their-perpetrator? i ought to know. i’ve played them with i h excelle./vcy. impunity for five-and-forty years! it’s all very. well to talk about verbal humour, but where is it to come from? why, everything of the kind has been said—t'here’s absolutely nothing left! sosa. -gltil<‘fenfeld. quixotic is his enterprise, and hopeless his adventure is, who seeks for jocularities that haven't yet been said. the world has joked incessantly for over fifty centuries, and every joke that’s possible has long ago been made. i started as a humourist with lots of mental fizziness, but humour is a drug which it’s the fashion to abuse ; .for'my stock in trade, my fixtures, and the goodwill of the business no reasonable offer i am likely to refuse. and if anybody choose . he may circulate the news ' ‘ that no reasonable offer i am likely to refuse. oh happy was that humourist-—the first that made a pan at all- who when a joke occurred to him, however poor and mean, was absolutely certain that it never had been done at . -- 'how popular at dinners must that humourist have been ! oh the daysiwhcn some stepfather for the query held a handle out, the door-mat from the scraper, is it distant very far? . ' and when no one knew where moses was when aaron. put the candle out, _ . " and no one had discovered that a door could be a-jar! but your modem hearers are in their tastes particular, and they sneer if you inform them that a door can be a-jar! in search of quip and quiddity l‘ve sat all day, alone, apart— and all that i could hit on as a problem was--to find analogy between a scrag of mutton and a bony-part, which ofiers slight employment to the speculative mind: for von cannot call it very good, however great your charity— ._ it'z not the sort of humour that is greeted with a shout-—_ and i've come to the conclusion that the mine of joculurity, ln present anno domini, is worked completely out! though the notion you may scout, i can prove beyond a doubt that the mine of jocularity is utterly worked out ! [emit into castle. enter harold (zl tll dre-.ed as colonel) followed by blanca. har. now, don’t worry me--i can’t attend to you now. i’ve the responsibility of a regiment on my shoulders, and i’ve no time to listen to ‘chatterboxes. if you’ve anything to say, mention it to the sergeant-major. ’ _ blan. the sergeant-major? oh, very good—only if i tell azs excelleavcy. blan. (confidentially to audience). the regent was weak in the head | jhar. she, taking the facts at a glance, to his bosom unblushingly flew— blan. and he was so deeply in love, i declare. - that he married her then, and he married her there- both. so it ends with a wedding at hanover square, as a three volume novel should do! [exeunt together. enter mats munck, now dressed in griffenfeld's uniform. mats. when a man is promoted unexpectedly to a position of the highest official distinction, it is always a satisfactory circumstance when his figure is calculated to set off his uniform to advantage. (sentry presents arms to him.) eh? oh, thank you very much. you're extremely polite, i'm sure! sent. please to remember the sentry. mats. eh? oh, certainly ! [gives him money. enter dame cortlandt unobserved. she comes forward. dame c. (putting her arm round him). mats! little man | mats. eh? oh, it's you. don't. i'm busy now. (aside.) it was all very well when i was only a syndic, but as a governor i can look a good deal higher than this sort of person. (aloud, to sentry.) will you kindly do that again? sent. certainly. [presents arms. mats. most gratifying, i’m sure! (tips him again. dame again embraces mats.) now, don’t worry—can't you see that i have business with a gentleman? [reverts to sentry. dame c. (suppressing her rage with difficulty). mats! take care! this is strange treatment—at the very outset of our engagement! * but, my good soul, you speak of our engagement as – dame c. don't deny it, mats. i have your letter of proposal in my pocket-you have my letter of acceptance in yours! i'm trying to keep it down, mats. mats. but as you very properly observed, that wasn't addressed to me but to the ex-governor. dame c. it does just as we' or you, mats. i accepted the governor, and you are the . mats. if it comes to were proposed to by the syndic, and i’m not the synd- d the syndic-go seek, go find– there's a good girl to sentry.) will you oblige me once more? [giving him money. his excellency. i dame c. (heaving with suppressed rage). i'm doing my best to subdue it, mats, but it’s a"tremendous effort. mats. hold your breath and count six, my dear. dame c. (does so). it’s all right, dear—it’s down again! mats. (occupied with sentry). so glad! dame c. we must settle this at once, mats. it’’ a very nice point. shall we refer it to arbitration? ’ mats. by all means. i find this gentleman (indicating sentry) full of delicate appreciation—supp se we leave it to him? dame o. you will undertake to abide by the result, mats? ' mats. with pleasure. (aside) i’ve tipped him till he doesn’t know whether he stands on his head or his heels! . quartet. ma'rs muuck, dame com-lasrrr, snxrrw, and afterwiu-ds gnrrmmrnln. mats (to sentry). one day, the syndic of this town (whose time of life is shady) alfectionately kneeling down, proposed to this old lady. now your opinion give politely and riddle me this and riddle me rightly-— who claims her hand? (asicle.) here's half-a-crown! . [t ippirlg him. sent. no doubt the syndic of this town. mats (dancing). exactly s —the truth you speak—- (to dame). away—your love-sick syndic seek-— you have no claim upon me, for unhappily i’m the governor! sent. oh yes, he is the governor! mats (delighted). ‘ there! sent. no doubt he is the governor! mats. there! sent. against you, ma’am, i must decln.re—- this gentleman is the governor ! mats. there ! dame. but bless my soul— mats. the man is right! dame. that’s not the whole-— mats. it/s settled quite ! ensemble- dame. mus. it’s now my turn my wrongs to i’ve taken steps the court to all, square, s governor munck for squalls so fire sway, ma’am—i don't prepare ! care ! i his excellency. [during the ensemble a corporal’s guard enters-—the sentry is relieved, and griffenfeld, now dressed as a private hussar, is left in his place. the change is not noticed by the dame or mxrs. dame. _ one moment, pray—your words retrace, oh, sentinel, shortsightedl i to the governor of this place, my troth securely plighted-— now pray don't treat this question lightly, but riddle me this and riddle me rightly—- who claims my conjugal embrace? grif. of course, the governor of this place ! dame. (dancing). exactly so! you well decide! i am, ha! ha! the governor’s bride- the governor you, you can't deny-— argal, the governor's lady, i! _ g;-ff, she is the governor's lady ! mats. what ! grif. of course, the goverer’s lady ! m'ats. “lhat! gri . you are the governor, are you not? then she’s the governor’s lady! mats. what! but bless my heart—- dame. (still dancing). that man is right! that’s but a part—- ddme. it’s settled quite! ensmrsls. dame. lllats. gnu‘. (aside). though basely you if i consent, may i be how capif’ally i plan may plan and plot, shot, and plot with me you’ll share with her to share my to cleverly cut the your governor's lot! governor's lot ! gordian knot ! [dame dances of in front of mats, who tries in vain to escape. grzf. (alone). it’s alright! they’re both committed to it,' and that little difficulty is off my hands at last! hallo! what's wrong now ? enter nanna and thora tidying their caps and much out of temper. thora. papa, a joke’s a joke,—but i don’t think it fair to _ make us plot against ourselves! nanna. i’m sure i enjoy a bit of fun as much as anybody, but when it comes to our being coupled, if only for an afternoon, with a brace of penniless admirers, who are disposed to take every advantage of the position in which they temporarily find themselves, why, it’s going a little too fnr—that’s all! azs excelleavcy, i grif. why, what have they been doing? thora. why, they've been unnecessarily realistic in their attentions. grif. unpleasantly so? thora. i said unnecessarily so. goodness knows, i don't mind realism when there's any prospect of its coming to any- thing definite, but as neither of these young men has a penny, the sooner it's put a stop to the better! grif. hasn't a penny! what are you talking about? why, they're magnificent matches l—court physician with the rank of baron!—sculptor extraordinary to the royal family with the title of count why, you grasping girls, what more do you want? nanna. oh, papa! that's all nonsense ! if these persons were really what they believe themselves to be, we wouldn't mind, but as they're both penniless young men, and we are penniless young ladies, the sooner we tell them the truth, the better. - - grif. but, my good girls, consider! don't go and spoil it all! think of the fun of it when they discover how they've been cheated ! oh, my dear girls, there's a rich and rare treat in store for us all! --- - [the girls, who have been chuckling through his speech, burst into hearty laughter. thora. upon my word, it ought to be extremely amusing ! patter trio, governor, nanna, and thora. grif. when a gentleman supposes that he comfortably dozes on a pleasant bed of roses (which are singularly rare)-- nanna. and discovers that it bristles, with uncomfortable thistles, in intemperate epistles his annoyance he'll declare- thora. when a man his temper loses his remarks he never choses, but expressive language uses, with a tendency to swear— grif. and when lovers are discarded their upbraiding will be larded with some epithets unguarded—you had better not be there ! nanna (disappointed). we had better not be there? thora (disappointed). we had better not be there? grif. (decidedly). you had better not be there ! il. '. had better not be there ! anna and thora. when these gentlemen conceited both they've been cheated, all our fun defeated—that's a thing we couldn't be so, however they may rave it, we'll und ably brave it; you may take your affid will certainly be there ! his excelleivcy. xii), } will certainly be thcre—- gév} will certainly be there— though {ylou} flout it, never doubt it, {twe } he y will certainly be there ! ) grif. their despair and their distraction and their keen dissatis- faction-—their exaggerated action, and the tearing of their hair— narma. their disgust and desperation when they see the situation some congenial occupation for the lawyers will prepare— t hora. we shall find their loud abusing both instructive and amusing, and of violent accusing there‘ll be symptoms in the air-— gz-if. and their libellous expressions and their angry indiscretions will be tried at quarter sessions, when i occupy the chair l nanna (gleefully). when you occupy the chair- thora (gleefully). when you occupy the chair-— gr_if. when i occupy the chair ! all three. when { yilm} occupy the chair. grif. when the case is quite completed, then the prisoner defeated with severity is treated as you’re probably aware- for it’s awfully provided that thejury shall be guided by my summary one-sided——which distresses labouchere. all three. it is rough on labouchere— it is hard on labouchere— oh, the dickens, how it sickens tender-hearted labouchere! [emit griffenfeld. nmma. really, thora, i can’t help feeling rather conscience- stricken. poor boys! i’m really afraid we’ve broken their hearts! . thora. it’s a pity they’re such nobodies. i sometimes think between ourselves . narma. hush! so do i—but here they come. . enter eemug and toateesssn. the girls retire up stage and listen. tort. do you know, i don’t care to be repulsed by : girl l‘m engaged to, count. erl. ' ‘hey certainly treated us very coldly, baron. mere innocent attentions—such as every girl expects from the man she’s going to marry . tort. remember, count, we are no longer a couple of adven- turers, we are great men, and we are entitled to expect that attentions shall be paid to us, now. (girls indulge in sup- pressed chuckles.) i think a little condescension on our part, a . . his excellency. _ , ]‘. little stand-offishness, an air of doing them a considerable favour, would not be misplaced. erl. i see what you mean, baron. a little of this sort of thing—“ good-day to you, my dear; good-day to you. pleased to see you, pleased to see you— — ” - tort. “ a little further off, please. we’ll tell you when we want the mixture as before.” don’t you think so, count? erl. i really think it’s only what is due to us, baron, i do indeed. [the girls comeforward pretending to weep bitterly. nanna (in afected tears). oh, please, we’ve been thinking it over, and we’re very sorry we were so un-kuk-kuk-kuk-kind to you just now. erl. (condescendingly). thank you, thank you. pray don’t name it. " tort. we thought you’d like a little attention-—but it’s not _ of ‘the smallest consequence. there—go away—there’s good r s. g thora (pretending to sob). oh, but we did like it—only— [bursts into tears. nanna (sobbing). we thought it more mai-mai.maidenly to be cuc-cuc-cuc-coy! [tears. nanna. by such a par-par-particular pa-pa-papa! thora. and we’re so afraid of mrs. gug-gug-gug-grundy! (violent burst of tears.) [both burst into floods of tears. erl. now, my darling child —nanna—dearest—d n’t cry like that! i can’t bear it! see, on my knees i swear to you that i will always-—always love you as i love you now! oh, don’t cry like that- you’ll break my heart—indeed you will! tort. my dearest thora—you mustn’t—really you mustn't ! it’s dreadful to see those pretty eyes so red with weeping—oh, i was a brute to be unkind to you, there—don’t be a little goose! i didu’t mean it . —upon my word i didn't! [both men are on their knees trying to console the two girls. the girls, who have been pretending to weep hysterically through this, suddenly burst into peals of hearty laughter. erl. (springing up). tortenssen, i do believe they’re laughing at us! thora. oh, aren’t the nobility shrewd! nanna. and isn’t the aristocracy quick at grasping a situation! toosrnnn. excellenc y. d.<memo. quartet. _ erling, tortenssen, nanna, and tl"iora. nanna. so this is how you’d liave us sue you- bowing, bending-—turniug to.you-— but you don't exact it, do you? that's so kind (erling kisses hcr). imper- tinence! (aside). thora. pleading party pray you pity ! you are wise and wondrous witty- d n’t despise our doleful ditty! thanks so much (tortenssen kisses her). what impudence ! (aside). ‘ erl. and tort. ha, ha ! ha, ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! nmma and thora. ha, ha! ha, ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! all, topsey turvey turn the tables ! tit for tat and tat for tit—- as in fusty fairy fables,' badly is the biter bit ! ' takes : time to tame a tartar ! dad's delightful darling darter, mostly makes a man , martyr—- here's a hero hardly hit ! ez-l.’ as you sue for pardon sweetly ' though you've acted indiscreetly, we forgive you both completely, ' _ thus i'll prove it-(tries to kiss her). . nanna. . that you won't ! tort. _ though you've ridiculed us sadly-— ' ' cheated and deceived us badly, _ . as we love you fondly-—madly— — i * ' we forgive you-(tr_ )ing to k< her). . . n , you don't! t hora. topsy turvey turn the tables, &c. [erling and tortenssen dance of—wcwing an adieu, _ ,_ to the two girls, who remain on the stage. thora, (sighing). oh, nanna, they’re good follows! i wish it was all real! . . _ nanna. no use wishing, dear. we’d better try and forgot all about them. (looking o_fl”.) oh— ok!-. all the people coming to get married ! thora. poor people! we—we must go .and find our bride- grooms. _ narma. poor bridegrooms ? it’s-—it’s acapital joke! (about to cry.) , . thora. capital! (looking at nanna’s face.) why, a real fear, i do believe! nanna (holding it on her finger). yes, it’s real this time. t hora (emamining it). funny, is i’t it? ‘ his excel].e vcl’. nanna. very amusing. 'lhora. put it back. (n anna does so.) all right now? nanna (brightly). all right now! [emeunt in opposite directions. l
iarcl-i, enter men and girls in couples for wedding. they come two and two down stage. chorus. (t bell accompaniment.) ring the bells and h) g the brasses ! cut the cake and fill the glasses ! lovers and their blushing lasses will be duly coupled soon. when, in castle chapel plighted, man and maid are once united, olf they’ll go in mood delighted on a happy honeymoon ! enter gnlrrnureln, also nuea with enlrsc, thora with tortenssen,‘ dame g li'rhand'l.‘ with syndrc, and chnis- tina alone. gri/'. stop! you can all go home. there will be no wed- dings to-day. erl. what do you mean? < grif. i mean that you’ve all been imposed up n—deluded— cheated. the regent is no regent, but a common vagabond personating him. ha! hal ha! here comes his royal high- ness in his true colours ! enter regen' ' in his vagabond dress. cr-mi-s' ‘ina runs to his _ arms. ._ er]. (to regent). now, sir,'the truth. are you a prince to be worshipped or a swindler to be whipped ? ' reg. really it’s a point upon which i’m not quite satisfied myself! i’ll think it over and let you know. . enter the two orrreens. st fliccr (kneeling). sir, the enemy’s fleet has entered the baltic, and your immediate presence at copenhagen is indis- nsable. [giving a dispatch to regent. grif. why, what’s all this? who are these jack-a-dandies? reg. (reading dispatch). merely two of my trusted officers. they bring me weighty news indeed! i his excellency. grif. why, you don’t mean to tell me that you are the regent after all? reg, the very regent, at your service. [all kneel. grifl i’ve made an ass of myself! _ reg. don’t say that. we are indebted to you for some invaluable hints for promotions, appointments, and marriage arrangements, all of which will take eflect to-day—as indeed will the best and wisestof your suggestions—your permanent degradation to the ranks. (regent sees ceeiscrnm weeping.) why, christina in tears! chris. i weep, sir, because my heart is broken, and, alas, it- is your highness’s doing, for your highness gave me nils egilsson, and he has gone from me for ever! reg. nay, christina, be not so sure of that. i have found the very love i have sought this many a year, and if my being heir to a crown is to stand in my way, why i’ll e’en be nils egilsson to the end! chris. (amazed). sir! reg. come, christina, what say you? chris. sir, i am your highness’s handmaid! [they retire up stage together". finale- erl. and tort. now all that we've agreed upon, , and all that's passed between us ; ere half an hour go by we‘ll surely ratify. nanna and thora. as life's career we speed upon, , so fondly we’ll demean us ; thy love shall never say that he repents this day. erl. and tort. what, never ' nanna and thora. never! erl. and tort. never? nanna and thora. _ never! all four. never repent this day ! erl. and tort. resentment !ll(,t my "r, .‘ nanna and t hora. but only think of poor papa, position low degraded to ! [pointing to griffenfeld, who is standing sentry. erl. and tort. (to griffenfeld). you little roguey poguey, you-— ’gyn. you little roguey poguey-— rif. (hurt). sir ! aff zs excelleavcy. har. you little roguey poguey— sir! ! grif. '# you roguey poguey, roguey poguey, roguey poguey ! grif. sir # all, we love with all sincerity, o, and pleasure is elating us— away with all celerity, o, the priest is there awaiting us! in verity, verity, verity, verity, priest is there awaiting us! [all except regent and christina dance off in couples finto castle, waving an adieu to griffenfeld, who stands as sentry, presenting arms to them as the curtain falls. “haste to the wedding.” aa operatta. written by w. s. gilbert. composed by george grossmith. aroduced at the criterion theatre, london, on wednesday, july th, . (this piece is original only as far as regards its musical setting. the plot is a very free adaptation of “le chapeau de paille d’italie,”) dramatis personae "woodpecker tapping (a bridegroom). mr. maguire (a market gardener). uncle bopaddy. - cousin foodle. - the duke of turniptopshire (an emotional peer). major-general bunthunder. cripps (a milliner's bookkeeper). wilkinson (a policeman). barns (a family retainer). jackson (a valet). the marchioness of market harborough (an emotional peeress). lady popton. maria (a bride). bella crackenthorpe (a milliner). patty parker (a lady's maid). wedding guests and members of the upper aristocracy, “haste to the wedding.” act i scene.—r m in me. woonrecksn 'l‘ar‘ ‘mo’s house. door . doors r. and l. j ackson discovered dusting chairs. ‘enter patty on tip-toe. patty. is it all right, mr. jackson ? ' jackson. all is right, patty. [kisses her. pat. now none of that, if you please. your master, mr. woodpecker tapping, is to be married to-day, and you told me i might come and see the wedding presents. where are they ? jack. in the next room-—you shall see them presently. pat. but how comes it that the wedding takes place from the bridegroom’s house, and why are all the wedding presents sent there ? jack. because the bride, miss maria maguire, lives at petty- twiddllm, in a remote corner of wales—and as mr. tapping can’t get leave to go down to a remote corner of wales, a remote corner of wales has to come to him. due'l‘.—jackson and patty. jack. to-day at eleven, young vlloodpecker ta in will enter the heaven pp g of matrimonee— . to ’ria maguire that beauty cntrapping woodpecker esquire ' united will be. (dancin_q.) and the bells they will jingle, the wine it will bubble, as woodpecker, single, turned woodpecker double, reforming his ways, which are rather too free, walks into the heaven of matrimonee ! “ haste t' the wedding." pat. young woodpecker tapping (professed lady-killer) is rarely caught napping by widow or maid, but her fascinations-— her gold and her siller— all considerations have thrown in the shade. (dancing.) so the bells they will jingle, the wine it will bubble, as woodpecker, single, turned woodpecker double, reforming his ways, which are rather too free, walks into the heaven of matrimonee. enter uncle boraddy, who catches them dancing. they stop abruptly when they see him. he is very deaf, and carries a band-bom. bopaddy. don’t mind me—it’s only uncle bopaddy—nobody minds uncle bopaddy! anybody come yet ? _ . jack. (with great show of deference). not yet, you ridiculous old rag-bag! not yet, you concentrated essence of disreputable senility. pat. (aside to jackson). hush! hush! you’ll make the old gentleman angry. jack. oh, no—he’s as deaf as a post—he can’t hear. (shout- ing to him.) you can’t hear, can you? (to patty.) i always talk to him like that; it amuses me very much. (to bomndy, who is much struck with patty.) don’t you think that at your age you might find something better to do than to go about chucking young girls under the chin, you disreputable old vagabond ? " b . yes, yes—yo_u are perfectly right. i told him so myself; but, bless you, you might as well talk to a post! (to patty.) here, my dear, take this (giving her parcel). it’s a little present for the bride—now, don’t crush it, there's a nice little gal ! pat. all right, old sixpennorth of halfpence! b . (much amused). yes—you’re quite right. i often do so myself. ha, ha ! . (i}m‘t pxtty with parcel.) what a nice little gal! very nice little gal! don’t know that i ever saw a nicer little gal! jack. go along, you wicked old pantaloon, you ought to be ashamed of yourself, at your age ! (gives hima chair.) there, sit down and hold your wicked old tongue ! [emit jackson. bo. (sits). thankee kindly. remarkably civil, well-spoken young man, to be sure! don’t know that i ever met a nicer- spoken young man. " /iste to the i/vedd ./vg.” [ ~ . . enter woonraoxer tarrmg. wood; well, here’s a pretty piece of business. bo. my nephew—my dear nephew (shaking his hand). where’s the wedding party—have they arrived? wood. they’re coming—in eight cabs. but listen to my adventure. i was riding in hyde park just now, and i acci- dentally dropped my whip——- bo. (shaking his hand). my boy, those sentiments do honour to your head and your heart. wood. what sentiments? oh, i forgot—he’s deaf. no matter. well, i dismounted and picked it up, and then dis- covered that the noble animal had bolted, and was at that moment half a iile away. bo. but i go farther than that. i go so far as to say that a good husband makes a good wife. wood. here’s an old donkey! bo. thank you, my boy, i am—i always was. wood. well, after a long run i came up with my spirited grey, and found him in the act of devouring a leghorn hat belonging to a young and lovely lady who was indulging in an affectionate téte-zr-téte with a military gentleman who may or may not have been her betrothed. i jumped on my horse—- apologized to the lady, threw her a sovereign (or it might have been a shilling—l’m sure i don’t know), and this is all the change i got out of it (showing the remains of a straw-hat). bo. dear me, that’s a very nice straw—a very nice straw ! i don’t know that i ever saw a nicer straw! ha! now that’s very curious. ' wood. eh? bo. nothing. it’s ourious— it’s a coincidence. it’s just like the one i’ve given maria for a wedding present. huh! at what time is the wedding? ' wood. eleven (shows him on fingers). bo. eh ? wood. eleven! (shouting). bo. you must speak a great deal louder—i can’t hear. wood. eleven (whispering). . bo. oh! eleven. why didn’t you say so at first? (looking at watch.) half-past ten—just time for a glass of sherry. i saw it on the sideboard as i came up—you’ll find me at the sideboard as you go down. [erit boraddy. wood. so in one hour i shall be a married man! married to the daughter of a human porcupine—one of the most ill- tempered, crotchety, exacting old market-gardeners in great i “haste to the wedding.” britain ! maria is a charming girl—she has only one drawback —a cousin, alfred foodle, who was brought up with her. he kisses her. it’s permitted in some families. it’s permitted in hers. i don’t quite see why—he’s as big as i am. the best of it is, i’m not allowed to. of course it’s all right, because they were brought up together. at the same time, i wish he wouldn’t. soeo.—woonr.ncn nu. maria is simple and chaste»- she's pretty and tender and modest— but on one or two matters of taste her views are distinctly the oddest. her virtue is something sublime-- no kissing-on that there’s a stopper—- when i try, she says, “all in good time- at present it’s highly improper.” such virtue heroic i call, to complain were the act of a noodle-— she's allowed to kiss no one at all but her cousin—her cousin : young foodle ; now a maiden could never ofiend by embracing her father or brother; but i never could quite comprehend why cousins should kiss one another. of course it‘s an innocent whim—- beneath it no mischief lies hidden. but why is that given to him which to me is so strictly forbidden? it's as innocent as it can be ; he's a kind of performing french poodle. but why withhold kisses from me which are freely accorded to foodle? enter cartain bar? and leonoba. wood. who’s this? bapp. this is the scoundrel’s house, and (seeing woonreckee) this is the scoundrcl! wood. confusion ! it’s the lady of the leghorn hat and her military admirer! leo. dear captain bapp, be careful! bapp. leonora, leave this to me. (to woonrecmze.) well, sir, suppose you offer this lady a seat! (woom-ecker gives leoxoea a chair, and is about to take another.) don’t sit down yourself, sir! how dare you attempt to sit down in this ' lady’s presence? now, sir, to business. you have grossly insulted this lady. ' wood. how? . “aaste to the weddjavg.” wood. here!—in my house? on my wedding-day? im- possible! mag. (without). woodpecker! wood. the wedding-party have arrived, and do not suppose that that is a bull of bashan. no—it is my father-in-law elect ! (shouts.) coming! (to leonora.) stop—i see a way of doing it. i’ll invent an excuse to call at a milliner's on the way to the registrar's, and tell her to send one here. mag. (without). woodpecker! wood. coming! (to bapp.) will that do? . bapp. (to leonora). will that do? leo. (to bapp): that will do. - bapp. (to woodpecker). that will do. maguire. (furiously). woodpecker! wood. he's coming up—he mustn't find you here. go in there—quick!... (places bapp in room r. and leonora in room l.) just in time ! [music, “haste to the wedding.” enter the wedding party, composed of semi-grotesque old-fashioned and countrified couples. they dance round the stage. maria, in bridal dress, dances on with foodle, a loutish simpleton; bopaddy follows, and finally maguire in a towering rage. chorus.–epithalamium. ring, ye joy-bells, long and loudly, happy hearts together tied— bridegroom's heart is swelling proudly as he takes his blushing bride! mag. (furiously). it's off! it's off! wood. what's off? mag. the wedding! i won’t have it! song.—maguire. you've kept us all waiting outside : such insults i never foresaw : you've insulted your beautiful bride— you've insulted your father-in-law ! you've insulted our excellent guests— you've pooh-poohed the connubial knot.— you've insulted the fly men who'd drive you to hymen— by george, you've insulted the lot ! all, yes, yes, yes, by george you've insulted the lot! it's off! her affection's misplaced ! it's off such a man i disown “ha.s‘.'l‘.e t' the wedding.” i it’s off! take your arm from her waist ! it’s ofi! let the lady alone ! and your beautiful bride, who belongs to afather who never ignores insults by the dozen, shall marry her cousin- here, foodle, be happy—she's yours ! all. yes, yes, yes, _ here, foodle, be happy—she’s yours ! [maria goes weeping to foonle, who embraces her. crronus. ring, ye joybells, long and loudly, happy hearts together tiod— bridegroom’s breast is swelling proudly as he takes his blushing bride ! wood. st! stlst! suppose i apologize. mag. then it’s on again. wood. then i apologize. mag. (joyfully). it’s on again! (to foonms, who is embracing maria.) foodle, my boy, it’s on again! food. (releasing her). oh, maria! [maria reverts to woooreckeu. cnonus. ring, ye joybells, long and loudly, happy hearts together tied- bridegroom’s breast is swelling proudly as he takes his blushing bride! maria. oh! (screams). mag. what’s the matter! maria. oh, something’s pricking me! wood. a pin? allow me (proceeds to remove it). mag. (stopping him). how dare you, sir! maria. how dare you! all. for shame! mag. foodles, remove the pin! (foonm: crosses to maria and removes the pin from maria/s back, kisses it, and pricks his lips accidentally.) they were brought up together (addressing woonrrcken, who is furious). now then, are we all ready? then away we go! [music commences “haste to the wedding,” the guests are dancing of. wood. stop! (music and guests stop short-—aside.) i must find some excuse to stop at a milliner’s—what shall i say ? can’t tell them i’ve got to stop and buy a hat for one lady on my way to be married to another! ' i “haste to the wedding." mag. (who, like the others, has been standing on one leg in the emact attitude in which he was stopped). nearly finished your soliloquy, woodpecker? wood. (aside). ha, i know! (aloud) hullol it’s very awkward—i’ve lost the licence ! mag. what! all. lost the licence ! ' mag. it’s off ! another instance of insulting. neglect! it’s off ! foodle shall have her! [hands her to foodle. food. (embracing her). maria! cnonus. ring, ye joybel s— wood. stop! don't be absurd—it’s very easily rectified. we must call at doctor’s commons on the way to the church, and get another. you can remain below in the cabs while i apply for it. (aside.) th‘h’re all country people, and don’t know the difference between doctor’s commons and a milliner’s shop ! (aloud) will that do? mag. it’s on again! (to foonle, who is embracing maria.) foodlc, my boy, it's on again ! cnonus. ring, ye joybells-— mag. will you stop that? foodie, take the bride—pair off and away we go! [music “ haste to the wedding." all dance of, w d- recker last. wood. if ever imarry again, it shall be into a family without a foodie! [emit, after the others. scene ii.-—a milliner’s show-room. some bonnets and two common milliners’ dolls’ heads on table up l. high desk with ledger r. wide opening ., with doors. enter bella crackenthorre. bella (calling o.). n ow, make haste, young ladies—attend to your work and don’t chatter. upon my life i’ve been very fortunate! i only purchased this business four months ago, and i’ve quite a large connection already! ah ! it’s not every- where that civility and punctuality, combined with the latest “aa.sz'e to the wedd/awg.” paris fashions, are to be obtained at a moderate advance on store prices. ballad.-bella. by dreams of ample profits lured, and overflowing till, by easy payments i secured stock, fixtures, and goodwill. but fixtures are but means to end, goodwill's a term misplaced, unless with them you deftly blend politeness and good taste. without you, money paid is waste, sohail, politeness and good taste! . without your calm unpurchased aid, work hardly as one may, the finest business in the trade falls off and fades away. the stock depreciates in tone, the goodwill dwindles fast, the humble fixtures, they alone are faithful to the last ! ye fixtures, though but means to ends, you do your best, my humble friends ! enter woodpecker (in breathless haste). wood, i want a hat of finest straw, at once—a handsome one. trimmed with an armadillo's claw, three truffles and a bun, two thingummies of peacock blue, a what's-its-name on each, a snuff-box and a cockatoo, two mackerel and a peach. if you have such a thing in stock, i'll buy it—(looking at watch) half-past ten o'clock | recit. bella (recognizing him). ah, heavens! "tis woodpecker! oh judge and juries ! wood. '. 'tis bella crackenthorpe, by all the furies ! (a oud). you've nothing like it in your shop? no consequence; good morning ! bella (holding his coat-tails). stop! ah, false one ! (woodpecker much depressed.) ballad. —bella. you offer to take me, one fine day to the naval exhibition; you borrow the money from me to pay. the price of our admission. i “haste to the i/veddiivg.” the rain pours down on my brand-new dress, and boots of thin prunella. _ do you stand me a hansom ? oh dear, no ! you stand me under a portico, like b. shabby young fellow, and ofi you ‘go to borrow : £riend’s umbrella . the rain goes on, and the days they grow-— to months accumulating ; and patiently under that portico they find me waiting-waiting. to her allegiance staunch and true stands your deserted bella. at length six weary months have passed; the weather, no longer overcast, clears up—and you return at last without that friend’s umbrella ! wood. i forgot the umbrella. i’ll go and fetch it. [go'iz g. bella (stops him). not if i know it! wood. (aside). confound it! and the wedding party at the door, in eight cabs! bella. to think that this contemptible creature actually promised to marry me! wood. marry you? why, of course i did! marry you? certainly i will ! ’ ' . bella. you will ? wood. why, of course! what do you take me for ? bella. and you dicln’t desert me in order to run after some- body else? wood. ha, ha! as if i’d dream of anybody else! bella. oh, what a relief! oh, woodpecker ! [in his .rms. wood. now, then; i want a leghorn hat trimmed with a parrot’s head, an armadillo’s claw, two mackerel, one peach, three truffles, and a bun. bella (jealous). oh, for some young lady, i sup ose .. wood. for some young lady! thut’s very li ely; come, you know me better than that. no; it’s for a captain in the guards, who wants it as a birthday present for‘-—for .his colonel. bella. well, by an odd coincidence, i believe i happen to have the very thing; and you shall have it on one condition: that we dine together at simpson’s this afternoon»-=- wood. (aside). very likely! bella. and that you take me to the adelphi theatre this evening! wood. capital! excellent ice¢! iwas just saying to myself‘ "has ‘e t' the i/ved._di vg.” as i came in, “ what in the world shall i do with myself this evening?” and the adelphi theatre is the very thing. now, then, where’s the hat? bella. in the next room. come along, and don’t let me catch you making eyes at the young ladies! [emit bella. wood. (in despair). here’s all the wedding party coming upstairs! [ll/iusic, “ haste to the wedding.” enter maguire, maria, foodle, boraddy, and the wedding party, two and two, dancing round the stage. the guests range themselves on the left of the scene. mag. so here we are in doctor’s commons ! (to woon- recker.) i think you told us this was doctor’s commons ? bwood. yes, yes—but why in the world have you left your ca s ? mag. never mind that—have you got the licence ? wood. no—the—the registrar has not arrived yet; that is, he’s busy. go back to your cabs and i’ll go and fetch him. oh, dim! dim ! dim! [emit hurriedy after bella. mag. it’s all right—it is doctor’s commons. my friends, let us behave ourselves, we are in doctor’s commons. let those who have gloves put them on. i—i am much agitated: and you, my child? maria. papa, the pin is still there! mag. walk about, my child, and it will work down. (goes to desk.) here is the entry-book. we shall all have to sign our names in it. maria. papa, what are they going to do to me ? mag. nothing, my child. the registrar will say to you, " do your parents consent to this marr age ? ” and you’ll reply, “i am.” (looking of.) oh, the registrar is coming. (to foonle, who has only got one glove on.) put on your other glove, will you? .foodle. i can’t—i’ve lost it! mag. then put your hand in your pocket. (foonms puts the gloved hand in his pocket.) not that one, stupid! the other one! (fooble does so.) now, then, prepare to receive the registrar! enter criprs, out of breath and wet through. air.—=crirrb and chorus: crippt. gfaciohs, how i have been running, backwards, forwards, in the rain= ifnpecuhious clients dtinning all my trouble, too, in vaini i “iiaste t' the wedding.” chorus. bow to the registrar ! he can the licence grant—- he is the man we want-— bow to the registrar! (all bow to carers.) cripps. sitting in wet things is odious, rheumatiz my nature loathes ; s , behind this desk commodious, i’ll at once change all my clothes ! chorus. this is the registrar ! he can the licence grant/— he is the man we want— bow to the registrar ! [in the meantime, crm‘ ‘s has dive/z under the desk and is concealed from view. rncrr. mag. why, where's he gone ? he's disappeared from view ! hallo, you sir ! hallo! [crani.ng over desk. cripps (showing his head only). good day to you ! jllag. this is my daughter, sir. cripps. one moment, pray, mag these are her bridesmaids—this her bridal day ! cz-rpips (aside). no doubt a wedding party, come to make some purchases! mag. our names, perhaps, you’ll tahe? [(jrn>rs, who has taken of his coat, puts it on again, and prepares to take their names. mag. my name is anthony hurricane egg, bartholomew capperboy property skegg—- i haven’t done yet—-conolly maguire-— cripps. but really-— mag. i haven’t quite finished—esquire ! chorus (rising from their seats, and dancing up to the registrar and back again). his name is anthony hurricane egg, &c. ‘ [all sit down suddenly._ cripps (speaking). sir, the christian names are immaterial. mag. oh ! (sings) oh, i was born at pettybun on a saturday—on a saturday- cripps (speaking). your place of birth is also immaterial. mag. oh! (sings) in eighteen hundred twenty-one, - on the fourth of may-—on the fourth of may- cripps (angrily). ‘my dear sir, i don’t want your biography --you have told me quite enough ! "haste to the wedding.” . i i mag. very good. (to boranny.) now it’s your turn. (loudly.) now it’s your turn. (in a whisper.) now it’s your turn. b . oh !—my turn (advancing with dignity). sir (to carrrs), before i consent to become a witness in this iatter—— all (bursting into chorus). on a saturday—on a saturday! bo. i should like to express my views as to the qualifications of a witness——— all’ (as before). on the fourth of may—on the fourth of may. cripps. what is he talking about? b . in the first place he should be of full age. i am. in the second, he.should be a briton by birth. i am. in the third— all. oh, he was born at pettybun, on the fourth of may—on the fourth of may, in eighteen hundred twenty-one, on a saturday— n a saturday ! [all sit suddenly. , food. (looking of r.). oh, uncle, uncle! look here! [during the dialogue that follows boraddy has been much fascinated with the two milliners’ dolls’ heads, flirting first with one, then with the other, as if unable to make up his mind which of them he prefers. mag. what! my son-in-law elect kissing a young woman! it’s ' ! it’s ' ! foodle, my daughter is yours! food. maria! [putting his arms round her. enter woonreckee c. from r. wood. why in the world haven’t you gone back to your cabs? _ mag. sir, we ofl ! it’s oil‘ ! wood. very good. mag. you ought to be ashamed of yourself ! wood. i am. what have i done ? mag. you dare to ask that when i saw you through that door with a young woman in your arms ! wood. (aside). he saw me! (aloud.) i admit it, sir! maria (crying). he owns to it! all (crying). he owns to it! food. my darling! [embracing maria. wood. will you stop that hugging ? food. she’s my cousin— we were brought up together. mag. it’s quite allowable—she’s his cousin. iv. m i “haste to the wedding.” - wood. his cousin ? oh, then, the lady i was embracing is my cousin! . . . all. oh indeecl-—that’s quite another matter ! mag. it’s on again! foodle, my boy, it’s on again ! food. (relinquishing maria). old teetotum! mag. introduce me to your cousin—i’ll invite her to the wedding. wood. (aside). bella at maria’s wedding! (aloud) it’s of no use—she can’t come-—she’s in mourning. mag. what, in a pink dress? wood. yes— it’s for her husband. mag. (convinced). oh. well, we’re quite ready, sir, when you are (to crirrs). [all sit in a row opposite desk. wood. what are they doing ? cripps. i really must make a complete change. i’ll go into the next room—there’s no one there. ' [going towards door with his dry clothes under his arm. mag. where are you going ? _ uripps. i shall catch my death of cold if i don’t-—i really can’t help it—you must excuse me. “ [emit door r. mag. my friends, let us follow the registrar! [musia they all dance after crirrs in couples, boradny last, with one of the doll’s heads, and kissing his hand to the other. wood. where the deuce are they allgolng? enter bella c. from r. bella. here’s your specimen (giving remains of hat). i’nr very sorry, but i can’t match it. wood. what! bella. if you like to wait three weeks i can get you onelfrom florence. wood. three weeks! bella. i only know of one like it in london. wood. buy it--mind, i buy it.“ . ’ _ bella. impossible! i sold it a’we_ek ago to—;i.: .' ’ wood. to whom? ' _. ' . ' bella. to the marchioness crannies hsrb ronghl . ‘ . ' . . [exit it’arm. wood. this is pleasant! a marchioness! i e'an’t call on a marchioness and ask her how much she wants‘ for her hat! enter carers in, with his dry clothes under his dfm, pursued / the wedding party dancing as before, b(rp'aln >y' last; witlt “haste t' the wedding.” i _ the doll’s head. they eéveamt ajter celrrs l. music forte while they are on—_pianissimo'when they are o.. . wood. hi ! mr. maguire, where are you going? _ _ [is about to follow. enter jackson. jackson. sir, i’ve just come from home. wood. well, is the captain there still ?.'; jack. yes, he’s there,'but he ‘ain’t still. the lady has fainted, and can’t leave the house. wood. wrap her up in a blanket and send her home at once ! (emit j a kson.),i must have this hat at any rate. (refers to blue book.) the marchioness ‘of market harbor ugh—carlt n gardens. ’ll get married first, and then i’ll call on her. but what shall.i do with the wedding party? i know. i’ll shut ’em up in the duke of york’s column. i’ll say to thekeeper-, “ i engage this column for twenty-four hours—let no one out.” [emit. enter csrrrsfrom. l., with his dry clothes, very breathless. cripps. why the deuce do the people follow me everywhere? it’s impossible for me tochange my clothes l enter all the wedding party as before. music forte. .criprs runs round stage and ?’, followed by wedding party. boranny last, with the doll’.s head. he is‘ much emhausted with running. . " . act ii. seeneaa handsomely furnished front and back drawing-room ' in.carlton gardens. the two rooms separated by hand- some doublecurtains which are closed during the early part of the act. a sumptuous luncheon is laid on the table in back-room, but concealed from audience by curtains. doors r. and l. window up stage l. small tableii. with ease and bouquet. grand piano l.o. enter barns, an old family retainer. ' barns (announcing). the duke of turniptopshire! enter duke. _emit_ baims. ' duke. admirablel magnificent! what gorgeous decora- tions! what refined taste! what have we here? (looks “haste t' the wedding." through curtains.) a most luxurious cold collation! seven- and-sixpence a head, if it cost a penny! i wonder if (looking around him) there’s no one coming—i wonder if i might venture to take just one tartlet! i will— [takes a tartlet from table and eats ll. enters the marchionesb or market habborough. march. well, duke. duke. marehioness (embarrassed, with his mouthful)—i-—i —delighted to see you. march. (more in sorrow than in anger). ah, duke, duke —you’ve been picking the luncheon again! now that’s too bad ! duke. pm sorry—very, very sorry. forgive me, it was thoughtless-——criminal if you will, but i was ever a wayward child, accustomed to have his every whim gratified, and now, in middle age, i find it difficult to shake off the shackles that custom and education have riveted on me. [in tears. march. (in tears). you were my late husband’s early friend! duke (with an eflbrl). and now, my dear marchioness, whom do you expect at your concert this morning? tell me all—do not fear-—you can trust me implicitly! march. i feel i can! well, then, there’s lord and lady popton, the duke and duchess of deal, colonel coketown, the dowager duchess of worthing, lord and lady pentwhistle, and the archbishop of bayswater. duke (aside). all dem snobs! (aloud) and who sings? march. the most delightful creature in the world—no other than the distinguished falsetto, nisnardi, who arrived only a week.ago from bologna, and who has already turned all the crowned heads of europe! he can go up to g! duke. gad bless me, what a gift! march. you have no idea how deliciously eccentric he is. duke. well, you know, a man who can touch an upper g is not like us common fellers: he’s a genius——a genius. march. exactly. i asked him to sing two songs this after- noon, and sent him a cheque for guineas; here is his reply: (reads), “madam,"y u ask me to sing two songs. i will sing three; you ofifer me guineas—it is not enough-—— ” duke. dem foreigner! march. “ it is not enough; my terms are—a flower from your bouquet!” duke. a what ? march. “ a flower from your bouquet!” is it not romantic ? duke. it’s a poem—a “ballade!” pardon this weakness! [wiping his eyes. “[ /iste to the wedding." i fllarch. dear, dear duke! (wiping her egs.) you know the princess po!petti—with the pretty feet? duke. i know her pretty feet. march. what do you think were his terms for singing at her concert ? duke. i don’t know. he seems fond of flowers—perhaps a pot of mignonette? march. nothing of the kind—one of her old slippers! duke (in tears). don’t—demme, i can’t stand it—i can’t, indeed! march. what tenderness—what sympathy! (pressing his hand.) you were my late husband’s early friend! (noise and carriage heard.) here are my guests, and i’ve been crying! i mustn’t be seen in this state! duke, oblige me by receiving them—i’ll be down in one minute. [emit marcerosess. duke (takes out snuf-bom, opens it as if about to take snuf, produces powder-pufi’, and powders his face to remove traces of tears). why am i cursed with this tremnlous scnsitiveness? 'why are my heartstrings the sport and toy of every wave of sympathetic second-hand sentiment ? ah! ye small tradesmen and other members of parliament, who think rump steak and talk bottled beer, i would give ten years of mylife to experience, for one brief day, the joy of being a commonplace man! soxc.—dmus. oh butcher, oh baker, oh candlestick-maker, oh vendors of bzcoe and snuff- and you, licensed vittler, and public-house skittler, and all who sell sticky sweet-stui’r'— ye harbors, and messrs. the bond street hair-dressers (some shave you, and others do not)- yc greasy porkpie-men—ye second-hand flymen—- all people who envy my lot ( taking up tambourine), let each of you lift up his voice-- with tabor and cymbal rejoice that you’re not, by some horrible fluke, a highly-strung sensitive duke ! an over-devotional, super-emotional, hyper-chimerical, extra-hysterical, wildly-resthetical, madly phrenetical, highly-strung sensitive duke ! you men of.small dealings, of course you've your feelings-' 'l‘here’s no doubt at all about that— . when a dentist exacting your tooth is extracting, you howl like im aristocrat, "haste to the pvedd ./vg." but an orphan cock-sparrow, who thrills to the marrow a duke who is doubly refined . would never turn paler a petty retailer or stagger a middle-class mind! so each of you lift up your voice»- with cymbal and tabor rejoice, &c. [dances to tambourine accompaniment. enter babns. barns. your grace, a gentleman is below who desires to speak with her ladyship. duke (seizing him by the throat, with startling energy). his name—his name! do not deceive me, varlet, or i’ll throttle you! ' barns. i have known your grace, man and boy,‘ these eighteen months, and i have never told you a lie yet. the gentleman declines to give his name, but he says that he wrote to her ladyship this morning. . duke. it is he—the falsetto—the supreme nisnardi! show him up, and treat him with the utmost courtesy. he can touch an upper g ! ' _ ’ barns. an upper gi gad bless me, what a"giftl [emit in amazement. enter wo drecl{er timidly. wood (mistaking the duke for a servant). i say—chawles, come here, my man. half-a-crown for you. (gives him money.) now then, just give this note to her ladyship (gives him a note), there’s a good fellow. duke (pocketing the coin). in one moment; the marchioncss will be here directly. in the meantime, permit me to introduce myself-—the duke of turniptopshiro! wood. the what! duke. the duke?- wood. go on, you’re joking! duke. not at all- observe—(twirls round and postures.) are you convinced ? - wood. i am! (aside) and i took him for a flunkey! i've given a live duke half-a-crown-—and i‘m going to ask a live marohioness how much she wants forher hat! i shall never be able to do it! duke (aside). he speaks english very well, but he’s clearly an italian, he has such a rummy waistcoat. i’ll draw him out a bit. (aloud) i’rincess»—pretty feet—' old slippers—ah, you dog! "h/iste t' the wedding.” wood (puzzled). pretty feet ? . duke. yes, pretty feet—pretty little tootsicums! i’ve heard all about it, you see. . wood (aside). the upper circles appear to have a method of expressing themselves which is entirely and absolutely their own. (aloud) could i see the marchioness? duke. yes, i’ll send word to her. ha! ha! (with deep meaning). .. songs-—old slippers—flower from a bouquet—three thousand guineas! my dear sir, you’re delicious—you.’re simply delicious! . [emit duke r. wood. it’s quite clear to me that i shall never be equal to the intellectual pressure of aristocratic conversation. so i’m married at last—really and truly married. on leaving bella’s, we started for the church—maria and i were made one—and now if i can only get the hat from the marchioness, everything will end happily. (looking out of window.) there’s the wedding party—in eight cabs—waiting patiently until i come down. i told them—ha! ha !—thatthis was the piccadilly hotel, and that i would go up and make arrangements for the wedding breakfast! and they believe it! i hear the mar— chioness. i hope she got my note. enter marchioness b. she approaches him melodramatically. march. stop—don’t move! let me gaze upon you until i have drunk you in. oh! thank you. (woodrecker, much astonished emhibits symptoms of ncrvousness—buttoning his coat, putting on his hat and taking it of again.) ah, you are cold— cold—cold! you are unaccustomed to the rigour of our detest- able climate. . wood. as you say, it’s a beast of a climate-—— march. ah, sir, i can offer you an hospitable welcome and an appreciative company, but i cannot—alas! i cannot ofier you an italian sky! wood. pray don’t name it—it’s not of the least consequence. (aaide.) i never shall understand the aristocracy! march. ah, bella italia! it’s a lovely country ! wood. it is a dooced lovely country! oh, i beg pardon! march. what a wealth of southern emphasis! what italian fervour of expression! wood. i—i did myself the honour of writing a note to your ladyship——- march. a most delightful note, and one that i shall always carry about me as long as i live; . wood. thank you. (aside) she’s very polite. (aloud) in that note i ventured to ask you to grant me a slight favour. i “haste to the wedding?’ march. oh, of course—how extremely dull of me ! well, you shall have what you want. wood. really? march. really-—though you’re a bold bad man ! . [turns to bouquet. wood. at last, at last the hat is mine! i wonder how much she wants for it. shall i beat her down? n , no, you can’t beat down a marchioness ! she shall have her price. march. (giving him a flower). there is the flower you asked for-—bold bad man ! . wood. a flower? there’s some mistake-—i want an article of attire. march. an article of attire ? wood. yes; didn’t you get my note ? mm.ch. yes, here it is. [taking note from her bosom. “ my terms are—a flower from your bouquet—nisnardi.” wood. nisnardi? what’s that? march. hush, eccentric creature-—niy guests arearriving. enter barns. barns (announcing). lord and lady popton, colonel coke- town, the marquis of barnsbury, lady pentwistle, the arch- bishop of bayswater, and the duke and duchess of deal. [emit door. enter loen and lady porton, colonel coketown, and other guests. march. my dear duke—my dear lady popton—allow me to present to you the incomparable n isnardi! [all bow reverentially to woonrackee. lady p. (crossing to him). and are you really n isnardi? wood (aside). i must brazen it out. (aloud.) i am. lady p. incomparable falsettist! wood. (aside). good heavens, i’m a singer—a falsettist ! why, i’m a bad baritone ! lady p. and are you really about to favour us with a specimen of your marvellous talent ? ll/[a/rch. signor nisnardi is most kindly going to sing three songs. how delightful ! all. charming ! what a treat! wood. (aside). i must get out of this fix at once. (aloud.) marchioness, i have a most extraordinary and—i am afraid you will say-—unreasonable request to make. “haste .to the wedding.” march. oh, name it ! wood. but it’s a secret! march. oh, i’m sure our friends will excuse us. [guests bow, and emeunt r. and l. wood. marchioness, i am the slave of impulse ! march. i know you are. wood. eh? oh! well, it’s a most remarkable thing, but when a whim enters my head, i lose my voice until it is grati- fied. a whim has just entered my head, and listen ! [grunt march. heavens, what is to be done? duet.—wo drecker and marchioness- wood. _ the slave of impulse i, born ’neath the azure sky, of beautiful firenze. with fierce desires i brim. wben i conceive a whim, that whim becomes a frenzy ! . a wish ungratified, wounds my italian pride, ~ like stab of sharp stiletto. my blood is turned to gall ; i cannot sing—i squall, and, this is worst of all-— away goes my falsetto, my exquisite falsetto ! maneh. (aside). wool). oh, heavens ! should it befall, my blood is turned to gall, my guests it will appal, i cannot sing‘, i squall, if, when assembled all— and, this is worst of all- away goes his falsetto l away goes my falsetto, his exquisite falsetto! my exquisite falsetto ! illarch. lord of the upper g, by peers of high degree assiduonsly courted ; falsettist all divine, no heaven-sent whim of thine ought ever to be thwarted. society should strain each nerve to spare thee pain, whatever’s on the tapis .- the impulse i admire that’s born of southem fire : i know what you r‘qui<ei here —take it, and be happy ! (takes off her shoe and gives it to him.) .“i /iste to the wedding.” manon. (hopping). woonrncknu (puzzled). the impulse i admire although i much desire that's born of southern fire : a part of your attire, i know what you require— that’s not what i require- so take it, and be happy! that will not make me happy! wood. but this is not what i want. march. (hopping). you said it was an article of my attire. wood. yes—but-—it’s the other end! march. the other end ? [still hopping. wood. you wear a straw hat. march. i was—i mean i do— wood. it is for that straw hat that i have conceived this indescribable longing! is it not a mad idea? march. mad? not a bit—most reasonable. i understand perfectly—you want it as a pendant to the slipper. _ wood (aside). the aristocratic mind seems to go about in slippers ! march. you shall have it at once, oh divine creature! [emit maucnroeess, hopping of. wood. in two minutes the hat will be mine, and then must be off before they have time to discover the imposture. i’ll tell maguire that thcy’ve no private room to spare at the piccadilly hotel. i wonder how the old boy is by this time (goes to uindow). there are the cabs—eight of them ! ha! ha! i can almost hear him growl! enter maguibe through curtains, rather tipsy, with a bottle of champagne in one hand and a glass in the other. woonrrzcken is leaning out of the window. racrl‘. maguire. now, woodpecker! until you come, my dear sir, we cannot budge a peg . wood. why, what the dickens are you doing here, sir? explain yourself, i beg! song.—maguire. why, we‘re all making merry on port and on sherry. it's liberal, very- at price you don’t sti-hicklc ! when you spoke of our fooding, thinks , hc’s allooding to chops and a pooding, bread, cheese, and a pi-hickle—- all very good things though they certainly be, but that’s not the mmoo at the piccadillec. “haste t tije wedding." ! why, bless us, there’s dishes of fowls and of fishes- of all that‘s delishes— there's muckle and mi-hickle! 'i‘here‘s puddings and ices, and jambong in slices- and other devices our palates to ti-tickle ! fine frenchified fixings—delicious they be—- but they do the thing well at the piccadillee. cnonus (within). there’s puddings and ices, and jambong in slices—- and other devices our palates to tickle ! fine frenchified fixings—delicious they be—- but they do the thing well at the piccadillee. wood. here‘s a pleasant state of things! we shall be lgicked out—given into custody—a honeymoon in holloway ail! enter mabchioness still hopping. march. well, have they brought you the hat? wood. (trying to hide maguire). not yet, my lady. if you would kindly ask them to hurry a little march. (seeing maguire). who is this nobleman? wood. that nobleman? oh, this nobleman is a nobleman who always accompanies me-—everywhere ! march. your accompanist? indeed, a good accompanist is invaluable. and you, sir, are also italian? maguire (also hopping sympathetically). ? oh, i come from pettytwiddllm. wood. (hastily). i’ettytwiddllm, a romantic village on the abruzzi. his name is magghia: he was formerly a brigand, but he’s reclaimed. he’s quite harmless. march. a reclaimed brigand? how supremely interestinv. then, if everything is ready, my guests shall come in—they’re dying to hear you. (to maguire.) will you oblige me with your arm ? maguire (gives his arm to marceroness). more guests! what a wedding this is, to be sure! [emeunt, both hopping. wood. i’m going mad-—i feel it‘. my reason totters on its throne! - enter patty with bandbom. pally. here’s the straw hat ! wood. the straw hat! hurrah! saved—saved! take this sixpence—and be happy. ( pens bandbox and takes out a i “haste to the wedding." black straw hat.) a black straw! positively a black straw! come here, miss, there’s some mistake. i want a leghorn hat, trimmed with a parrots head; an armadillo’s claw, two mackerel, one peach, three truffies, and a bun! patty. oh! my lady gave that one to her niece, mrs. major- general bunthunder. wgood. all the ground to go over again! where does she live. patty. , park street, grosvenor square. wood. right! vanish! (emit patty.) my course is olear—i must be off, and leave my father-in-law and the wedding party to square matters with the marchioness. [emit rapidly. re-enter maecnrouess and maguire with the maece om=:ss’s gue ts. march. now if you will kindly take your places, the concert will begin. why, where is signor nisnardi! enter duke, leading woonreckse by the ear. duke. he was actually bolting ! i napped him just as he was getting into eight cabs. wood. no—no, you are mistaken! i had forgotten my tuning- fork,, and i was going to fetch it! (aside.) oh dim! dim ! dim . all. (applauding). bravo ! bravo! wood. (aside). this is most awkward! i’i a bad baritone! what in the world shall i sing them? [maoume sits at piano and strikes a few discards. woonreokee begins on a ridiculously high note. bopaddy (behind curtains). ladies and gentlemen! all. eh? (movement of surprise.) bo. as the oldest friend of maria tapping, i beg to propose the health of the bride! ' ' [easclamations from masoeroness and her guests. wedding guests (behind curtains). hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! cuonus or wnnnlua gunsrs. hurrah for the bride with a right good will-- hurrah ! hurrah ! hurrah! for the bridegroom bold who pays the bill— hurrah ! hurrah! hurrah ! for his father-in-law give three times three, and three for her cousin—young foodie he— and three for this capital companee-— hurrah ! hurrah ! hurrah! “haste t' the ivedding.” [barns rushes on and draws aside the curtains, discover- ing the wedding party at luncheon. boraddy on a chair with one foot on the table, with d ll’s head in one hand and glass of wine in the other. music changes to “haste to the wedding.” party all rise and come down dancing two and two. they cross the stage from r. to l. dancing of l. boraddy last with doll’s head, woodrecker having disappeared as soon as the curtains opened. mar hioness faints in du (e’s arms. general consternation among her guests. curtain. act iii. scem: i.—dressing-room in major—general burztuunderfs house. to fold both ways. door r. and l. lar screen r,, with double hinges the ajor—ge.\‘eral is discovered within the screen in full uniform, taking a footbath; a blanket conceals his legs. c ‘ rl. his boots are on the floor l. of a hot-water can- stands near them. his trousers hang on the screen. (impressively. ) (diaappointed.) (eacplaim'ng.) (mortified .) soxe .—boetnunnnn. though called upon i’ve never been to court a warrior's tomb, or to defend my sovereign queen in battle's dread boom—boom ! resistless i, when i am stirred to doughty deeds of wrath, so on myself i have conferred _ the order of the bath ! you trace my hum ur’s devious path? you see my meaning through ? the knightly order the bath— i don’t believe you do! let me explain—you’re in the dark- the “bat ” a high degree oonferred no warriors of mark, but not conferred on me. from “ bath " we easily derive . this fo tbath-—common delf-- and that’s the compliment that i’ve couferred upon myself. this bath—of crockery or delf—- a play on meanings twain. i’m sorry: i forgot myself- it sha’n’t occur again. i “ iiaste t' the ' wedding.” bun. it’s a most extraordinary thing that my wife should not have returned—i can’t understand it at all. my wife said to me this morning, at a quarter to nine o'clock, “ bunthunder, i’m going out to buy a pint of barcelona nuts,” and it‘s now twenty minutes past five in the afternoon, and she has not yet returned. by dint of worrying myself. about her i’ve got a splitting headache, and for a splitting headache there’s nothing like putting one’s feet in hot water. where can she be? (rising.) oh, leonora, leonora, if i thought you were deceiving me, there is no vengeance that would be too dire! (knock at street door.) there she is—there she is at last! she’s coming upstairs. (resuming his seat. knock at room door.) come in, come in! i’ n taking a footbath, but come in. enter woonreckee. du et.—woonrncknn and bunthundlcn. wood. your pardon, sir. am i addressing the maj or-general bunthunder, i greatly wonder? in search of him i roam. bun. i am, as you are rightly guessing, that most unhappy warrior- no man sorrier—- but i am not at home. wood (suspiciously). you're not at home ? bun. no, sir, i'm not at home. wood. this information is distressing ; if you will shortly be returning, my soul is burning with keen anxiety to know ? bun. i’ve gone abroad on business pressing ; when home from places foreigneering i shall be steering is quite uncertain l go wood (doubtfully). uncertain ? oh! bun. it’s quite uncertain ! g ! solo.—.woon >ncker<- from the marchioness’s, whom nobody guesses to be of the rank of a peeress or peer—- in courtesy lacking they sent us all packing, and each with a very fine flea in his ear. those johnnies and jackies the overfed l wkies they “ went for” the bride and her guests with a rush—- ‘ the combat was heated but we were defeated by msolent armies of powder and plush. “if/iste to the wedding.” i and mister maguire, who's raging with ire, has taken an oath by the powers that he, that restaurant-keeper shall not close a peeper until she has published an apologee! ha! ha! ha! ha! until she has published an_apo ogee l bun. well, sir, wha’s all that to me, sir? will you go, sir? wood. oh, i see (raising blanket), you’re taking a footbath. bun. (furious). i won’t listen to you. i’m not well. i’ve got a headache! who are you ? wood. woodpecker tapping—married this morning : the wedding party is at your door, in eight cabs. “ bun. i don’t know you, sir! what do you want? wood. your wife. bun. (rising). my wife ! do you know my wife? wood. not at all, but she possesses something that i most anxious to purchase. bun. we don’t sell it. will you go? wood. not till i’ve seen mrs. bunthunder. bun. she's not at home. [_,s' ,'ngs_ wood. nonsense, i know better! i dare say she’s in here—at all events, i mean to look. [woonreoeer closes screen round bunthunder, conceal- ing‘him- from the audience, and leaving his‘ boots outside on his l. woonreckee then runs into room . bun. he’s a thief! he’s a burglar! wait one moment- only one moment, until i’ve finished dressing! enter maonnze l., limping. mag. my son-in-law is a most remarkable person; he invites us to his house, and when we get there, he shuts the door in our faces! fortunately the lock didn’t catch, and here i am. now, now i shall be able to take off these confounded tight boots which have been bothering me all day! bun. (in screen). one moment—only one moment! [taking his trousers, which.are hanging over the top of the screen. " _ = ' mag. hallo, woodpecker! he’s in here. ha! (seeing bue' 'hunnes’s boots.) the very thing; that’s uncommonly lucky! (takes of his own boots and puts on burzthnndsrfs.) the very thing ! (they are much too largefor him.) dear me, what a relief ! [puts his own boots by screen, where boe'rnum)es’s were. i "haste to the iveddi./vg." bun. (reaching round screen for his boots, and takes maguine’s). now for my boots-—wait one m ment‘—only one moment! mag. i say, my boy, your wife’s below. bun. oh, my wife’s below, is she? j ust one moment—i’m nearly ready ! mag. all right! come up. [emit maguire. at the same moment enter boraddy. bun. (in screen). my feet seem much swollen, i can scarcely get my boots on; but no matter. now, then! (coming out of screen sees borandy, whom he mistakes for woonreoken, swings him round.) now, you scoundrel, i’ve got you ! a b . d n’t—i don’t want to dance—l’m quite tired out l i’ll go downstairs and tell them all to bun. it’s not the same—it’s another of the gang! (noise heard within.) he’s in there ! [rushes of r. bo. another wedding guest, and in regimentals, tool dear, dear»-woodpecker is certainly doing it uncommonly well! [music, “ haste to the wedding.” enter maguibe, foonln, maria, and the wedding party, all dancing on in couples. they dance round the stage, and range themselves at back. mag. that’s right, my dears—stop there, because woodpecker hasn’t quite finished dressing—he’.s behind the screen, and he won’t be a minute, and you mustn’t look, any of you. (the screen is now open.) woodpecker, my boy, your wife is here; and while you’re completing your toilet, i'll give you both a bit of matrimonial advice, drawn from my own experience. sono.—ma<;ume. if you value a peaceable life, this maxim will teach you to get it: in all things give in to your wife,- i didn’t— lived to regret it. my wife liked to govern alone, and she never would share with another ; remarkably tall and well grown, . she had plenty of muscle and bone, with an excellent will of her own-— and my darling takes after her mother i oh, if early in life i had happily known how to humour : wife with a will of her own, we should not have been snarling all day at each other~ and, remember, my darling takes after her mother! . “iiaste t' the wedding." never wake up her temper,—i did- and smash went a window, instanter ; invariably do as you’re bid,- i didn’t-—bang went a decanter. give in to each whim,- declined—- at my head went a vinegar-cruet. whatever inducement you find, never give her advice of a kind that is known as “ a bit of your mind,’’—- i did—and the crockery knew it ! oh, if early in life i had happily known, dtc. though her aspect was modest and meek, she could turn on the steam in a minute : her eru tions went on for a week- esuvius, my boy, wasn't in it. give your wife of indulgence her fill, though your meals be unpleasantly scrappy-— never look at her milliner’s bill ; gulp down that extravagant pill, and you may, and you probably will, be bankrupt—and thoroughly happy ! oh, if early in life i had happily known, c'te. [mnsic, “haste to the wedding.” wedding party all dance ?‘. enter woooreckee l., with several hats in one hand, and the specimen in the other. duet.—woonraoken and bunrr-rurmnn. wood. i've come across hats of all colours and sorts, but none like this specimen, demure ! enter bunthunder l. bun. (seizing him). thief ! burglar! away to the criminal courts, with your skeleton keys and your jemmy ! wood. excuse me, you’re really mistaken in that- l’ll prove it, if patient you’ll be, sir: this mommg my horse ate a young ady’s hat- bun. well, what does that matter to me, sir? wood. but she's now at my lodgings—and leave them she won't until i’ve produced her another ! bun. by all that is prudent and proper, why don’t the young lady go home to her mother? already too long she has tarri.ed—- why don’t the young widow withdraw? wood. young widow? good gracious, she's married, and her husband can claim her by law ! v. n “haste to the wedding." elrssmnm. bunthunder. woonrlscrum. fire and fury ! cease your fury ! judge in ermine judge in ermine (with a jury) my injury shall determine shall determine ! how to treat this social wrong, your remarks are clearly wrong, s r— sir—- come along, sir-come along, much too strong, sir—much too sir! strong, sir! [blmthundeu drags woom'rzckee of .. music changes to “haste to the wedding.” the wedding party enter ., dance in couples across the stage, after them. boranny last with the doll’: head. scene cnengss. scene ii.-.—a street, with square in the distance. a rainy night. woodreoken’s house l., another house beyond it. police-station e. a lamp . supported by brackets from each side of the stage. a lamp-post l.u.e. window of first floor of police-station is ‘practicable. door-steps to woom>ecker’s house, a light in one window. a gutter crosses the stage. . [music, “ haste to the wedding.” wedding party enter from l. u. ., dancing in couples round stage, with umbrellas up. boraddy politely holding umbrella over doll’s head. hill/llag. (lg: d 'rtt_gf lht€} )’t). ghis way, my friends—this way! a o. ' on or egu er. [he jumps ovetr _it—all the wedding party follow, jump- ’ing over i in succession. maria. oh, papa, where's woodpecker ? mag. eh? isn’t he here? why, he has given us _the slip again! ._ . maria. papa dear, i’m so tired—i can’t go any farther! [sits on step of woodreckrm’s house. food. and my new boots hurt me so that i must sit lc ;zi\;n! . [crosses and sits er. mag. (stamping about in major-general’s boots). ha, ha! so did mine, but i’ve changed ’em ! ' ‘ maria. oh, papa, why did you send away the cabs ? mag. why? i’ve paid ’em clcvcn pounds fifteen already- isn’t that enough ‘! but where are we ? all. i don’t know! _ _ . maria. woodpecker told us to follow him to his l.ou.e. n . , little pickleboy gardens, mulberry square. “fl/ ste to the weddiivg.” mag. perhaps this is mulberry square. (to borandy.) your great grandfather used to live in london—is this mulberry square? i bo. yes-—yes, it is—splendid—splendid weather for ducks and peas ! ha, ha ! oh, yes—for ducks and peas ! mag. he’s doting—doting! enter wrlkmsorr, a policeman. wilkinson (sneezes). mag. here’s a policeman, l’ll ask him. (very politely.) i beg your pardon, but will you be so polite as to tell me if this is little pickleboy gardens, mulberry square ? willa. (sternly). move on! [emit. mag. and i pay taxes to support that overbearing under- ling! i feed him, i clothe him, i lodge him, and i pay him; and in return he tells me to move on! insupportable bureau- crat! food. (who has climbed up lamp-post and read name of street). hurrah! little pickleboy gardens. it’s all right— here we are ! mag. and here is no. . (to maria, who is sitting on the doorstep.) get up, my dear. maria. papa dear, it’s no use—i must sit down somewhere. mag. n ot in a muddy road, in a thirty-seven and sixpenny wedding dress, my love. why don’t they come ? [knocks. food. there’s a light in the first floor. mag. then woodpecker must have arrived before us. ( calls.) woodpecker! woodpecker! all. woodpecker! woodpecker! enter wmkinsos, r.i.e. wilkinson (to boranny, who has fallen asleep on step). now th can't have that noise here! shak h‘ . m on! , mdild on, will you? ( .s am) we [pushing his shoulder, which is muddy. bip. 'ji.‘ll lagk ygou, nily deiar friend; don’t you trouble to brush ito " ot atw en goin. , [emit wilkin}lson, l.u.e. jackson opens door of wood- ‘noker’s ouse. mag. hurrah! here we are! come in! [music commenples “haste hth; wedding” as the wed- ing party ance into t e ouse. of {lag}? itpp. ‘(all stop suddenly in arrested attitudes.) out s on,_ " “‘haste to t./[e wedding.” i i mag. eh? jack. impossible! more than my place is worth. why, the lady is still upstairs ! [movement mag. a lady! what lady ? jack. the lady who is stopping with master-—the lady without a hat. mag. a lady stopping with your master! food. on his wedding-day! ' maria. and without a hat! [faints into foonls’s arms. zllag. (furiously). it’s ! it’s off! i’ll get you divorced, my dear. foodie shall have you! food. maria! . mag. come along back to pettytwiddllm. there’s a train at eleven; we shall just catch it. ' maria. oh, papa--—papa mag. what is it, my child? maria (tragically). am i never—never to see woodpecker again ‘b mag. never! ‘ maria. woodpecker, whom i loved so fondly, and who was the very music of my little life ? mag. never! maria. oh! then hadn’t i better take back my wedding- presents? mag. my dear, you’re a very sensible girl. to be sure you had. (to jackson.) go and bring out all my daughter’s wedding-presents—mind—every one! [emit jackson into house. . enter woodrecker, as if pursued. all. here is the monster! mag. it’s "! it’s "! you—you serpent! wood. hold your tongue—be quiet ! i hear him—he‘s coming! mag. who’s coming? wood. major-general bunthunder. (listening.) no—he’s missed me—he’s got tight boots and he can’t run. there’ll be time to get leonora out of the house before he arrives. mag. ohol so, sir, you own to leonora? wood. of course i own to leonora! all. oho! he owns to leonora! enter j acksou from house with his arms full of wedding- presents, done up in parcels. jack. here are the wedding-presents. i "fl/ ste .to the weddi \lg.” mag. my friends, let us each take a parcel (jackson gives a parcel to each, maaume gets the bandboar given by borandy in act ). and now off we go to pettytwiddllm! ' wood. what’s all this? . ‘jack. wedding-presents, sir. . _ . wood. oh, this won’t do! drop those things directly! . . [all drop their parcels. mag. nonsense—pick them all up again! " [all pick up parcels. woonreckee and maoumr. struggle for the bandboac. . . bo. take care—you’ll crush it! it’s a leghorn hat worth twenty pounds! wood. what! bo. it’s my little present—i’m in the trade. i sent to florence for it, for my little niece! ‘ wood. give it here. (takes bandbox from macuree—.-takes out straw hat and compares it withthe fragments.) good heavens, it's the very thing! here’s the cockatoo—and the armadillo’s claw—and the mackerel—and the peach-—why, it’s the very thing i've been looking for all day! [shafes hands with bor. dy, holding the bandbom under is arm. . mag. (aside). a hat worth twenty pounds! he sha’n’t have it, the scamp! [takes hat out of bandbox unobserved, and shuts box again. . . ' wood. (who believes that the hat is in the bow). wait one moment-—i’ll give her the hat and then we’ll all go in and enjoy ourselves. . [emit into house. mag. (who has watched him of). now, my friends—off we go to pettytwiddllm. . _[all going. enter w lkrnson. wilk. hallo! what’s all this? what are you doing with these parcels? . ' mag. we—we are moving. . . . k wi'lk.iy;{vhat! at this time ’ night? this won’t do, you now- now you. . " -. . mag. sir! . r _ wilk. what have you got here, eh? : e lglalglé 'l(‘hat? } that’s -}? carriage }l%ck.th , k i . opens mu -bom and nds a mu . ats very i e a carriage clock! come along-—all on yer, in ‘yer go! [musz'c, “haste to the wedding.” they all dance into . “haste to the weaddiawg.” station-house, except bopaddy who is walking off slowly, talking to his doll's head. bo. (to doll's head). it was a nice ickle gal! it was a very nice ickle gal! don't know that i ever saw a nicer ickle gal! wilk. (coming out of station-house, crosses to bopaddy). now, then—come along—in yer go! - [wilkinson taps bopaddy on the shoulder, and points to station. bopaddy mildly expostulates, and resumes his flirtation with the doll's head. wilkinson seizes him roughly. bopaddy again remonstrates. wilkinson shakes him, bopaddy suddenly turns furious, flies at wilkinson, knocks him down, seizes his staff, thrashes him soundly, and finally drags him off triumphantly into station. enter woodpecker, captain bapp, and leonora from house. wood. come along, you are saved ! i’ve found the hat! make haste, put it on and be off before your husband arrives! - [he gives them the band-box. they open it. all. empty | - wood. it was there—i’ll swear it was! my old villain of a father-in-law has stolen it! (enter wilkinson from station- house.) where is my father-in-law? wilk. where? station-'us. . wood. and my wedding party? wilk. station-’us. run 'em all in. [exit wilkinson. wood. and they’ve got the hat! what is to be done? bapp. wait a moment—i know the inspector—he'll give it to me if i explain the facts. - - [exit into station-house. h bun. (without). stop! cabman! hi! put me down ere ! - leo. heavens! my husband! i'll run and hide in your house! - - - - wood. not for worlds! he's coming to search it! . leo. but what shall i do? - wood. i know! i'll give you in charge. hi! policeman. (re-enter wilkinson.) take this woman away. drunk and disorderly. [tipping him. wilk. (r. crosses to her). what, agin? come along-i know yer! [walks her into s' ". enter bunthunder, hobbling. bun. so, here you are! open your door! . i brains out, and your brains out, and my own brains . “ /asm ro res weddi./vg." wood. by all means—only take me last! [emit boethondee into house. [cartain barr appears at window of station-house, first floor. bapp. quick! quick! here’s the hat! wood. throw it out—make haste! _ [barr throws hat, which rests on the lamp—; 'ust out of reach. wood. confound it! [tries to unhook it with his umbrella, but in vain. re-enter bun' ‘l‘lunder from house. bun. she’s not there! forgive me, l’ve been unjust! wood. you have. come under my umbrella. [talees buntr uener’s arm, and puts up umbrella to conceal hat. they both stand under the lamp. bun. no, no—it doesn’t rain! put the umbrella down. it’s quite fine overhead. wood. but it’s so wet underfoot. bun. that’s true. l’ve made a great _fool of myself, sir. wood. you have. [he jumps to unhook the hat with his umbrella, and makes burrthuuner jump too. bun. i apologize, sir. wood. i think you should, sir. [jumps. bun. forgive me, sir. wood. i do, sir. [jumps. bun. what are you jumping for? wood. violent cramp—indigesti n. can’t help it-—always takes me so. bun. indeed! have you tried—-- (woonrecker jumps again and comes down on bunthunder’s toes.) don’t, sir! i won’t be trodden on by bridegrooms! enter leonora from station, followed by maoume, bomndy, and all the guests—one_of whom unhooks the hat, which falls to the ground.‘ mag. it’s all right—it’s all right! the captain has squared the inspector, and we leave the court without a stain on our characters! oh, it’s a great country ! finale. cuorws. free, free ! hurrah ! free free ! hurrah! false charges fride into thin air-— (this is a great countree !) - .- \" ’. '‘ ’ o . ; . . - . _. - . - . ’ . ‘ -‘ ’ ‘ . . - < .- " . . . " . . ‘" . . . _j " - . .. ’.‘ "‘: .’ fallen fairies; or, the wicked world. fallen fai ries; _ on, the wicked world. act i. sce>re.—fairyland, which for the purposes of the play, is sup- posed to be situate on the upper side of a clonal which floats over the earth. the scene represents a land of ideal beauty, with fountains, trees, waterfalls, the. at l. is the fairy queen's bower. darine and locnme are discovered on an eminence r.c., up stage, which overlooks gap in the cloud. locrine. oh, world below! oh, wicked world, where sin and woe lie all unfurled ! oh, world of shame, of guilt and greed, where joy in name is woe indeed! may angels‘ tzts be shed on thee, thou wicked world of misery ! [as locrine sings, fairies enter from diferent approaches and fill the stage, neonns, zayda, coea, lila, and others leading them. enter darine. som. darine. oh, picture to thyself a mortal crew sinning throughout their lives, as demons do ! fierce wild barbaric shapes, all foul within- howling with hunger for more sin—more sin ! fallen fa irie s ; or, chorus. neodie (re selene. zuydu. fierce wild barbaric shapes, all head and tail ; some like red raving apes, some clad in scale ; others like dead-fleshed ghouls with horny eyes, squatting on black toadstools of monstrous size ! all of them foul without and foul within ; all glimmering in the lurid light of sin ! all of them fonl without and foul‘ within ; all glimmering in the lurid light of sin ! ciz.). selene comes ; as silvery moon serene, radiant with lovelmess, our sister-queen ! enter: sslems. cnorws. pure as the air, sweet as the morning dew, cometh our queen ! bright in all eyes as heaven's ethereal blue, cometh our queen! spirit of love! as thou hast ever been, be to us evermore, oh sister-queen l unsullied source of tranquil joy, pursue thy course of pure employ- be thou, as thou hast ever been, our all-beloved sister-queen! dear sisters, i bring news. ere very long, lutin, who, by the will of that great king to whom we all yield faithful suzerainty, left fairyland to join him in mid-earth, will home return. he is the only one of our immortal race who has set foot upon that wicked world! lutin returning! he will set at rest our wild and wondering theories, and reveal, in picture-painting words, the demon deeds of all the goblin murder-mongers that infest that sink of seething infamy! enter ethais, a male fairy, followed by phyllon, another ethais. male fairy. in truth, dear sister, if man’s face and form were a true index to his character, he were a fearsome thing to look upon. fallejvfairies ; ox, darine. we to ascertain are eager all the ills that did beleaguer and assail thy mortal portals whilst thou wast among the mortals. f leta. didst thou join in_all their revels? drink and dance with all their devils? didst thou see, with awestruck daring, dicer dicing, swearer. swearing ? zayda. didst thou watch, with sorrow sobbing, liar lying, robber robbing, drinker drinking, gorger gorging, pinker pinking, forger forging? locrine. cooer cooing, biller billing, wooer wooing, killer killmg, prater prating, blabber blabbing, hater hating, stabber stabbingi all four. kicker kicking, beater beating, sticker sticking, cheater cheatmg ? tell us all that did befall— tell us some and tell us all ! chorus. tell us all that did befall-— tell us some and tell us all ! didst thou join in all their revels? didst thou dance with all their devils ? didst thou watch, with sorrow sobbing, liar lying, robber robbing? &c. tell us all that did befall- tell us some and tell us all ! latin (rcit.). what ! tell you all? not so ! all that down there occurred? ’twould numb your souls with awe— you know not what you ask! describe you all i know? repeat you all i heard? narrate you all i saw? god save me "from such a task! one tale i'll try to tell—it will suffice to illustrate their tendency to vice! sonc. —lutin. latin. one incident i’ll tell that will appal each gentle little heart and head. come, fairies, gather round me, one and all—- (the details to impart i dread !) a tale to cause a demon’s flesh to creep, and absolutely shock his ears ; _ 'txould silinimon tears to eyes that never weep, nd me t a re rock to tears! chorus. ’twonld melt a iigry rock to tears ! latin. so horribly bad that tale appears, it’s scarcely fit for fairy spheres; ’twould outrage e’en a demon's ears- and i’m going to tell it to you, my dears l . the wicked woxzp. i chorus (in great delight). he's going to tell it to us, my dears lutin. although 'twill make your blood run cold, the terrible details i’ll unfold ! chorus. so horribly bad that tale appears, it's scarcely fit for fairy spheres; 'twould outrage e'en a demon's ears- lutin. and i’m going to tell it to you, my dears : there was a gallant knight of portugee, who loved a moorish maid so well that he took ship and sailed for barbaree (that's where the little jade did dwell). he journeyed o'er the stormy sea apace (of nothing was that knight afraid), and when at last they met in an embrace, what do you think that naughty maiden said? chorus. we wonder what the little hussy said : lutin. she said—but no, their dark careers would shock your souls and draw your tears; they're quite unfit for decent ears— and i'm hanged if i'll tell 'em to you, my dears! chorus (*# e'll be hanged if he'll tell 'em to us, my dears! lutin. first thoughts are silver-second, gold; and i'm sorry to say that they can't be told ! chorus (vered). his tale is cast in mocking mould- he says it is both bad and bold; we hoped for details, and behold— lutin and chorus. # sorry to say that they can't be told ! ethais and phyllon enter. lutin. attend. obedient to our king's command, i met him in mid-earth. he bade me send both ethais and phyllon down below. ethais. down to mid-earth? lutin. down to mid-earth at once. he hath some gift, some priceless privilege, with which he would endow our fairy world, and he hath chosen phyllon and thyself to bear his bounty to this home of ours. ayda. another boon? why, brother ethais, what can our monarch give that we have not? phyllon. in truth i cannot say! ... 'twould seem that we had reached the sum of fairy happiness! selene. but then we thought the same before our k endowed us with the gift of melody; and now how tame our fairy life would seem iv. o ‘fallen fairies ; or, ethais. selene. were melody to perish from our land! well said, selene. come, then, let’s away, and on our journey through the outer air we will take note of its inhabitants and bring you full account of all we see. farewell, dear sisters—- brothers, fare ye well ! [etmus and phyllon take leave of the ¢'airies and zayda. darine. selene. emit lrrrm. now here’s a riddle that i cannot solve :- why do these mortals bear their weight of woe when they can end it at their will? they need not live unless they like. nevertheless, with swords and daggershanging at their sides, with drowning seas and rivers at their feet, with deadly poisons in their very grasp, men live, and live— and seem to like to live! how strangely inconsistent l _ not at all. with all their misery—with all the sin-— with all the elements of wretchedness that teem on that.unholy world of theirs, they have one great and ever-glorious gift that compensates for all they have to bear! descend through the gap in the cloud. soxc.—srsl <:ne. with all the misery, with all the shame that stain the earth, . one holy influence these mortals claim—- a gift of priceless worth ! the gift of l ve——shield against deadly foes that crowd in serried shoals— — a love that's anodyne to all the woes that wring their souls ! oh,.kindly love ! man sorrowing and oppressed, . beneath his load of shame would surely fall, but for the sweet enchantment in his breast that tells him that he bears no load at all! in its most pure and most enduring form it knows no end ; to deed of shame or stress of worldly storm such love will never bend. time cannot wither it, nor death destroy; when the relentless thief has robbed it of the power to live on joy, it lives on grief l . the. wicked world. oh, wondrous love-—pure as the silver sky ! even when death has set the loved one free, this love supernal doth not—cannot die ; it lives upon the loved one’s memory ! [during this song, the fairies, who at the commencement were scattered over the stage, have very gradually crept nearer and nearer to her, until, at the finish, they are grouped closely around her. ‘ darine. why, what have we in all our fairyland to bear comparison with such a gift! zayda. oh for one hour of such a love as that, o’er all things paramount! why, after all, that wicked world is the true fairyland! zara. why, who can wonder that poor, erring man clings to the world, all poisoned though it be, when on it grows this glorious antidote! zayda. and may we neverlove as mortals love? selene. no, that can never be. of earthy things, this love of theirs ranks as the earthliest. we do not need it in our perfect land. moreover, there’s this gulf ’tween it and us—- only a mortal can inspire such love, and mortal foot may never touch our land. zayda. but—is that so ? selene (surprised). of course! zayda. yet i have heard that there’s a half-forgotten law which says that, when a fairy quits his fairy home to visit earth, those whom he leaves behind may summon from that wicked world below that absent fairy’s mortal counterpart, and that that mortal counterpart may stay in fairyland and fill that fairy’s place till he return. is there not some such law? selene (horrified). and if there were, wouldst put that law in force? zayda (frightened). n.o, not for all the love of all the world ! selene. a man in fairyland! oh, horrible ! he would exhale the poison of his soul, and we should even be as mortals are- hating as man hates! i fallen fairies; or, darirze (enthusiastically). loving as man loves! [sslese looks at her in blank sm'_m"is»:. too horrible! still-— selene. w ? i see a trace da/rine. of wisdom lurking in this ancient law. selene. where lurks that wisdom, then ? i see it not! duet.-—darine and zayda. man is a being all accuse of every vice detestable : to virtue blinded, he pursues a course that’s unarrestable. yet if we let one man of shame observe our lives immaculate, he would (returning whence he came) ecstatically ejaculate- “ atone, stone! repent, repent! the pure alone know true content ! ” these tidings good, n doubt, he would ecstatically ejaculate! the news would take the world by storm, and be received with welcome warm ; those words he would, in some such form, ecstatically ejaculate ! man is a brute, oppressed by strange unintellectuality : enlighten him, and you will change his normal immorality. if we exhibited to some our course of life delectable, they might in course of time become comparatively respectable ! oh, picture then our joy sublime, if mortal men became in time-— suppose we say, in guarded way, comparatively respectable ! chorus. the news would take the world by storm, and be received with welcome warm, and all would be by this reform comparatively respectable ! darine. chorus. zayda. /# wicked world. selene (reflectively). there is some truth in this. zayda. some truth indeed ! oh, terrible, dear sister, to reflect that to our cold and culpable neglect ‘ all mortal follies may be chargeable ! selene (surprised). to our neglect? darine. it may in truth be so ! fleta. in very truth i’m sure that it is so! selene (after a pause). it shall be so no more! their sin is ours! but there—’tis easy still to make amends. a mortal shall behold our sinless state, and learn the beauties of our blameless life. come, let us summon mortal ethais ! [all delighted. darine. but- selene. not a word—l am resolved to this l darine. but, sister- selene. well ? darine (timidly). why summon only one ? selene. why summon more? darine. the world’s incredulous; let two be summoned to our sinless home; then should their wondrous story be received with ridicule or incredulity, one could corroborate the other. zayda. yes. phyllon has gone with ethais—let us call the mortal counterpart of phyllon too ! selene. two mortals! two unhappy men of sin in this untainted spot ! locrine. well, sister dear, two heralds of the truth will spread that truth at the least twice as rapidly as one ! selene. two miserable men! why, one alone will bring enough pollution in his wake to taint our happy land from end to end! zayda. then, sister, two won’t make the matter worse ! selene. there’s truth in that! [after a pause. the two shall come to us! [all the fairies are delighted. selene looks re- provingly at them, and they at once become demure. palleav fairies; or, (severely) we have deserved this fearful punishment ! - [all the fairies sigh. our power, i think, is limited to two ? locrine. unfortunately | selene, yes. more might be done had each of us a pupil to herself. scena.—selene. and now to summon them. but, sisters dear, receive our guests with gracious courtesies. show no repugnance to them while they're here; subdue your natural antipathies. kind, gentle, tender, pitiful be ye— be not severe, nor hastily condemn. treat them as though they were what they will be when they have seen what we shall be to them! all. we'll act as though they were what they will be when they have seen what we shall be to them : selene. what form of words accomplishes our aim ? darine. two roses shall be cast down from the skies, then, as each rose is thrown, pronounce the name of him whose mortal self it typifies, [giving her two roses. selene (taking them). ell then, fair rose, i name thee “ethais"— thy mortal counterpart we summon here. this rose is phyllon-come to our realms of bliss: by virtue of this talisman, appear! all. go, then, fair rose. we name thee “ethais”— thy mortal counterpart we summon here. sir phyllon, in our realms of blameless bliss, by virtue of this talisman appear! [hurried music. sir ethais and sir phyllon rise through the gap in the cloud, as though violently *mpelled from below. they are two handsome, barbaric hunnish knights, clad in picturesque skins and rude armour, and while bearing a strong facial resemblance to their fairy counterparts, present as strong a contrast as possible in their costume and demeanour. their swords are drawn, the knights having been interrupted in a duel. the fairies conceal themselves behind trees. recit. and duet.—sir ethais and sir phyllon. ethais. by god and man, who brought us here, and how? phyllon. where in the name of witchcraft are we now * - the wicked world, ethais (fiercely). why, who should answer that as well as thou? phyllon (surprised). - as i? ethais. • aye, devil's whelp, as thou! duet.—sir ethais and sir phyllon. ethais (fiercely). this is some wizardry of thy design to save thy sconce thou scurvy dog, no sorcery of thine shall serve e'en for the nonce : let all thy hell-hounds howl their requiem, and when i've done with thee i'll do with them | phyllon (savagely). bah! £ed no such devil-begotten stuff to flog a knavel this trusty falchion serves me well enough to make a coward cravel though demons swarm in myriads round about, or here or there we'll fight our quarrel out ! [they fight. the fairies, half concealed behind portions of the set, watch the combat with great interest. darine. what are they doing? selene. it's some game of skill. it's very pretty. darine. wery. [knights pause to take breath. oh, they’ve stopped ! phyllon. come, come-on guard | - zayda. now they begin again [they fight. ethais (seeing fairies, who have gradually surrounded him). hold, we are overlooked ! [ethais, who has turned for a moment in saying this, ts severely wounded in the right arm. selene. you may proceed, we like it much ! darine. you do it very well. begin again! ethais. black curses on that thrust! i am disabled ! ladies, bind my wound— and, if it please you still to see us fight, we'll fight for those bright eyes and cherry lips till one or both of us shall bite the dust! phyllon (aside to ethais). hold ! call a truce till we return to earth— -- bright eyes enough for both of us ! fallen fairies; or, ethais. i don’t know that ! well, there, till we return-— ' [shaking hands. ‘but, once on earth again, we will take up our argument where it was broken ", and let thy devils whirl me where they may we’ll reach conclusion and corollary ! [during this the fairies show that they have been very strongly influenced by the two knights. darine (gazing at phyllon). oh, fairyhood! how wonderfully like our phyllon! selene (gazingjin rapture at ethais). yes ! and see—how strangely like our ethais! (sighing.) thou hast a gallant carriage, gentle knight! ethais. it’s little wonder that i’m like myself! why i am he ! selene (sighing). no, not our ethaisl ethais. in truth i am the ethais of all who are as gentle and as fair as thou ! selene (tenderly). . ' ‘hat’s bravely said! thou hast a silver tongue ! why, what can gods be like if these be men? [during this dabine, zayda, looama, and other fairies show, by their manner, that they take a tender interest in ethus and phyllon. say, dost thou come from earth or heaven? ethais (gallantly placing his arm round selene and daema). i think l’ve come from earth to heaven ! selene (delightedly to zayda). oh, didst thou hear ? he comes from earth to heaven ! n , ethais, we are but fairies : this, our native home- our fairyland-—rests on a cloud which floats hither and thither as the breezes will. we see the world ; yet, saving that it is a very wicked world, we know it not. ' but on the lands o’er which our island hangs we shed fair gifts of plently and good-will, drop tears of love upon the thirsty earth and shower fair water on the growing grain. this is our mission. phyllon. ’l‘ a goodly one! but tell me now—why have you summoned us ? selene. because we seek to teach you solemn truths that now ye wot not of, poor gentlemen! (tenderly.) poor gentlemen! poor wayward gentlemen ! the pvicked pvorld. sosa.-—ss .ams. poor, purblind, untaught youths, we seek to teach ye truths which now ye wot not of, as we suppose! our aid ye sorely need, for ye are frail indeed- each a poor fragile reed swayed to and fro by every breeze that blows ! [taking his hand and stroking it tenderly. and we are good and pure, safe from temptations lure. (there are no tempters to disturb our rest!) unknown the fierce delights that lure attractive knights ‘ into disastrous plights ! (aside to zayda.) they are attractive, it must be confessed ! all. though worldly passions animate each breast, they are attractive, it must he confessed ! selene. poor maidens to deceive a potent spell ye weave, to which those all-too-willing victims yield ! . [kissing his hand. we fairies hope to show the ills that from it flow, and teach you to forego the marvellous enchautment that ye wield. [gently stroking his face. homeward returning then, pure, simple, guileless men, warn all poor maids with whom ye are in touch (would they live free from harm) to shun, in wild alarm, your strange mysterious charm ! (aside to zayda, siyhing.) the maids may shun it, but i doubt it much. all. would ye escape the plights that spring from love's delights, shun all attractive knights ! (aside to each other, sighirzg.) the maids may do so, but i doubt it much! [during s slene’s song and the chorus, darrne, zayda, and others have been dealing tenderly with phyllon. all show that they are deeply impressed by the two knights. ensemnle.—slr ethais and sm pmrlloe (nudging each other). phyllon. with keen remorse we tell you penitentially, our lives are coarse and villainous essential y—- fallen fairies ; ok, but bred and born in pagan principality, we view with scorn our former immorality. etlzais. of blameless state we've hope infinitesimal (we calculate its value to a decimal), unless at once you give, experimentally, each wayward duncc a polish-up, parentally ! phyllon (to ethais). this humble pie ls but a tough comestible w'hich he and i find rather indigestible ! ethais (to selene). that's just his way— an ill-bred oriental man. forgive him, pray-— of course he's not a gentleman ! phyllon. my penitence perhaps is unconventional. ethais (to selene). don't take ofl’ence-— i’m sure it's unintentional. both. we both are bound for fairy course probational ; so pray expound your system educational l trio.-—darine, zayda, and loonum. oh, gentle knights, with joy elate, we’ll teach you to abjure all earthly dross, and cultivate the blameless and the pure ! be docile pupils in our school, while we, with earnest heart, of all that's good and beautiful the principles impart ! reci' ‘.-—selene. . if my obedient pupils you would be, ' you must avow your loyalty to me. no doubt you recognize some formula, word-wise, that binds your heart in solemn fealty? courlets.—sm etmus and selene. ethais. when homage to his queen a subject shows (a queen that’s duly crowned), he puts his arm around that monarch’s waist—like this, [doing so. and plants a very long and tender kiss the wicked world. ; sometimes upon her cheeks of creamy rose, but, preferably, just below the nose! ' chorus. there is some reason—s we must suppose— “lhy preferably, just below the nose? phyllon. a still more binding process i propose: for though no doubt it’s true ne formal kiss might do, administered like this, [kissing damur. on cheek. the pledge works more effectively, i wis, when several dozen kisses he bestows- placed preferably just below the nose! chorus. i hope he'll tell us all before he goes why preferably just below the nose ? dririne (aside to selesa). ' a simple kiss a simple friendship shows. ’tis an insipid thing that no delight can bring, placed on the brow—like this. . [kisses selene’s brow. yet on these gentle knights’ hypothesis some unexpected virtue ’twill disclose, placed preferably just below the nose! chorus. some explanation certainly he owes—- why preferably just below the nose? selene. our outlook widens as experience grows. that form is quite unknown in our ethereal zone- a kiss is but a kiss. yet if these knights be surely bound by this, there is no need to ask them to disclose why preferably just below the nose? chorus. still there’s some reason—s we must suppose—— why preferably just below the nose. selene. that form is not in vogue in fairyland. still, as it holds on earth, no doubt ’twill have far greater weight with you, poor sons of earth, than any formula we could impose. ethais. its weight is overpowering! [about to kiss her. selene. but stay—- we would not wrest this homage from you, sir. or give it willingly, or not at all. phyllon. most willingly, fair queen, we give to you! selene. good—then proceed. [sm ethais kisses salese. sm pnvllon kisses darine. fallen fa iries ; or, ethais. there—does it not convey a pleasant sense of influence? selene. it does. ( to darine.) some earthly forms seem rational enough! [sir ethais staggers as though about tofaivzt. why, ethais, what ails thee? _ et/zais. nothing grave— i’m weak from loss of blood. here, take this scarf, and bind it round my arm—so—have a care! there, that will do till i return to earth, then -lutin, who's a very skilful leech, shall doctor it. selene (amazed). didst thou say lutin? ethais. yes. darine. how strange. sir ethais has a lutin tool lutin has entered unobserved. ethais. yes, he’s my squire—a poor half-witted churl, who shudders at the rustling of a leaf. he hath a potion that will heal my wound, a draught whose power works instantaneously. were he here i should soon- [sees fairy lutin, who has entered unobserved. why, here he is! by all the gods, pranked out in masquerade! (to lutin.) give me the potion! latin (in amazement). give thee what? ethais (impatiently). the draught! dost thou not see my wound? lutin (contemptuously). i have no draught! ethais. thou scurvy rogue, bade thee never leave thy home without it! thy hide shall pay! lutin. who is this insolent ? a mortal here in fairyland ? locrine. yes—two ! lutin. who are these men? . selene. the mortal counterparts of ethais and phyllon. look at them! . . dost thou not love them? imtin (indignantly). n o! cora. how very strangel . why, we all loved them from the very first! the wicked world. lutin. is this indeed the truth? darine (demurely). it is indeed. obedient to our queen’s command, we have subdued our natural antipathies. [fondling phyllon. zayda (demurely). they are our guests, all odious though they be, and we must bid them welcome to our home, as though e’en now they were what they will be when they have seen what we shall be to them. [fondling phyllon. lutin. be warned in time and send these mortals hence! why, don’t you see that in each word they speak they breathe of love ? selene (enthusia-stically). they do ! lutin. why, love’s the germ of every sin that stalks upon the earth! sosa.-lurm. ‘ the warrior, girt in shining might, knows, as he bares his sword, that, should he murderously fight, and cut and thrust and slash and smite (no matter wrong, no matter right), love will be his reward. the footpad nerves his coward arm with draughts of mead and mull, and stupefies his s ul’s alarm, and all his stealthy dread of harm, by pondering on the tipsy charm of some poor tavern trull ! oh, love’s the source of every ill ! compounded with unholy skill, it proves, disguise it as you will, a gilded but a poisoned pill ! love instigates the brawler bold ; for love the lover lies ; the miser hoards ill-gotten gold to buy the prize, so lightly sold, that looks so warm yet burns so cold— the love of two bright eyes ! for lawless love the wife elopes, and blights her husband’s lot ; for love denied the moper mopes, 'l‘o toast his love the tnper topes, with heavy heart the hoper hopes for love that loves him not ! oh, love’s a poison foul and fleet, nor is its horror less complete because, with devil-born deceit, it looks so fair and tastes so sweet ! fallen fairies; or, rscitatrve. zayda (to ethais). nay, heed him not! a tale has reached our ears that man is infamous in high degree, and he believes it—so indeed did we, till we beheld you, gallant cavaliers! darine (to selene). send him to earth—then we can summon here l‘lis mortal counterpart! [selene looks at her reprovingly. darine changes .he- ton e. another reed no doubt who stands in very sorest need of virtuous counselling and guidance clear! selene. well said, dariue! thy words are words of worth. lutin, begone at once! ethais. return to earth! insolent varlet, get thee quickly hence! lutin. oh, mortal plague! oh, walking pestilence! listen and learn, oh, incarnation of uncleanliness! song.—lutin. hark ye, you sir ! on yonder ball you’ve kings and queens to whom you fall, and humbly cringe and creep and crawl, cast dust and ashes too your head upon, that they some civil word may say to you. well, sir, there's not a king on earth, there's not a prince of royal birth, who would not barter all he’s worth to lick the very dust i tread up n- and i’m the meanest here! good day to you ! [lutin goes up stage and prepares to descend. cnonus. good day, to you-- away, to you— that’s all we have to say to you. don’t stay, to you— delay, to you—- dcnn' hurry back, we pray to you. away, to you— good day to you.- away ! good day ! [lutin descends. the fairies then turn to sir: emma and sz pnyllon. the ivicked world. eesmmus. fumes. oh, gallant gentlemen, you see our plight ; take pity on us, then, and give us light ! our prayer—ah ! do not spurn—- this we beseech : we brought you here to learn—- stay ye to teach ! we foolish fairies thought your guides to be, but we are all untaught, as ye may see. oh, gallant gentlemen, you see our plight, take pity on us, then, and give us light! take pity on us, list to our appeal as humble suppliants at your feet we kneel ! oh, grant this prayer, all other prayers above : teach us, oh, gallant gentlemen, to love! erhars and pl-iyllon to each other. as "allant gentlemen, we see their plight ; we will take pity, then, and give them light! their p‘rayer we will not spurn, so t ey beseech : they brought us here to learn—- we'll stay to teach ! these foolish fairies thought our guides to be, but they are all untaught, as we may see. as gallant gentlemen, (to fairies) we seek your plight ; we will take pity, then, and give you light! in pity, then, we list to your appeal as humble suppliants at our feet you kneel ! we’ll grant your prayer, all other prayers above, and show how gallant gentlemen can love. [some of the fairies kneel at the feet of the knights, selene embracing sm ethus; darine, zayda, and loonama hanging on sm puyllo ' ’s neck. the remaining fairies are grouped in attitudes of ent-reaty at the feet of the two knights. act ii. same scene by moonlight. the fairies, all but selene and darine, are discovered dis- contentedly watching the entrance to selen c’s bower. cuonus. for many an hour within her bower with ethais philandering, our excellent queen no doubt has been in roseate dreams meandering» fallen fairies; ?, as a matter of fact a risky act, so obviously detectab e— so very unfit we must admit is anything but respectable ! a fairy queen who dares conventionality despise, to put it very mildly, is exceedingly unwise. here is an act to which we cannot close our eyes, and must excite our indignation and surprise. fleta (dialogue). locrine. zctyda. chorus. zag/da. chorus. still, still selene watches ethais! for six long hours has she detained the knight within the dark recesses of her bower, under pretence that his unhappy wound demands her unremitting watchfulness! this, fairies, is our queen—the sinless soul to whose immaculate pre-eminence we, pure and perfect maidens of the air, accord our voluntary reverence! she is unfit to rule us as our queen! her conduct is an outrage on her sex! was it for this that we proposed to her to bring these erring mortals to our land ? is this the way to teach a sinful man the moral beauties of a spotless life? surely this knight might well have learnt on earth such mortal truths as she is teaching him! soxg.—zayda. i never profess to make a guess—- that smacks of perspicacity-— prophetical flight, my dears, is quite a cut above my capacity ; but such a barefaced display of taste for military society, ' the veriest dunce would deem at once a horrible impropriety ! _ a horrible impropriety ! i always view the acts unwise my sisters do with kindly eyes. but, truth to tell, such conduct-—well, lt smacks of impropriety ! it smacks of impropriety ! the wicked worzp. zayda, chorus. zayda. zayda. chorus. zayda. chorus. zayda. chorus. zayda. fleta (aside). selene. though it seems odd, and may offend, to kiss the rod i don't intend. it wrong i call to kiss at all ! a capital rule of life, my friend! was it for this to realms of bliss we summoned such rascality? is this the way to teach him, pray, the truths of pure morality? with wiles demure his love she'll lure, caressing and beseeching him ! no need to journey here to learn such truths as she is teaching him ! such truths as she is teaching him though sure we are that every youth should travel far to learn the truth, iie might, with care, have learnt, down there, such truths as she is teaching him ! such truths as she is teaching him ! you do not think me too severe ? we should not wink at faults, it's clear- we should not wink at all, i think. a capital rule of life, my dear! enter selene from bower. at last she comes. (to selene.) we are relieved to find that after such a lengthy vigil thou canst tear thyself away from ethais ! yes, he is sleeping now, but all day long he tossed and raved in wild delirium, shouting for arms, and, as it seemed to me, fighting his fight with phyllon o'er again. i watched him through the long and troubled ho- fanning the fever from his throbbing brow till he awoke. at first he gazed on me in silent wonderment; then, suddenly, seizing my hand, he pressed it to his lips iv. fallen fairies ,- or, and vowed that i had saved him from the grave! mark that—the grave! i—i had saved his life! he told me that he loved me-—loved me well-— that i had holy angel-eyes that rained a gentle pity on his stubborn heart- that i was fairer in his worldly eyes than all the maids on earth or in the clouds! zayda (spitefnlly). could any words more eloquently show the reckless of his delirium ? selene (surprised). nay, he was conscious then. _ fleta (very sweetly). no doubt he was. but, sister, in thy triumph recollect he scarce had seen us. zayda. thou hast wisely done to keep us out of sight. cage thou thy bird or he may fly to fairer homes than thine! selene (amazed). what mean you, sisters ? nay, turn not away! what have i done ? locrine (spitefully). indeed we do not know; but, lest we should affect his love for thee, we will at once withdraw ! [emit loceine curtesying ironically. leila (politely). good night to you! emit curtesying. neodie. good night! emit curtesying. zayda. good night! remember, cage thy bird! [eaeeunt all curtesg/ing. selene. how strangely are my sisters changed tome! have i done wrong? no, no, i’m sure of that! the knight was sorely stricken—he had died but for my willing care! oh, earthly love, thou mighty monarch, holding in thy grasp the holiest balm and most enduring woe, is it for good or ill that thou art here ? ethais has entered unperceined from the bower. he is very pale and weak, and his arm is in a sling. ethais. selene, i am weak; give me thine hand. [she goes to him. selene. my love, thou shouldst not yet have left thy couch. come,‘ thou hast need of rest.- the wicked i/vorld. efliuis. no, let me stay. the air revives me; i am strong again. and so thou trustest me? selene. ' ‘ in truth i clo although i cannot tell thee whence proceeds this strange, irrational belief in thee—- thee, whom i hardly know ! ethais. i see no marvel! selene. nay, my love—reflect: ' i am a woman, and thou art a man. well, thou art coine y—so, in truth, am i. we meet and love each other—that’s to say, i am prepared to give up all i have, my home, my very fairyhood for thee- thou to surrender riches, honour, life, to please the fleeting fancies of my will. and why? because i see in thee, or thou in me, astounding virtue, brilliant intellect, great self-denial, venerable years, rare scholarship or shining godliness? n ! because, forsooth, we’re comely specimens, not of our own, but nature’s industry! ballan.—selens. thy features are fair and seemly- _ a god among mortal men: ’m beautiful, too, extremely— granting all this, what then? the cause is beyond my ken. i blindly thus reply: “ suppose we were fated to be separated, assuredly i should die ! " oh, thine is the giving of dying or living ! i w onder, wonder why ? selene and ethais. _ _ . the cause beyond our ken, etc. a being of radiance rarer is the sun in his golden noon ; beyond comparison fairer the sheen of the silver moon. each is a god-sent boon, fairer than you or i- but when they’ve departed i’m not broken-hearted, aallen fairies, or, i neither despair nor die | the act of their setting i see without fretting— i wonder, wonder why ! selene and ethais. the cause is beyond our ken, etc. ethais. i’ll satisfy thy wonder in a word: the face is the true index to the heart- a ready formula whereby to read the morals of a mortal at a glance. selene. then, ethais, is perfect comeliness always identified with moral worth? ethais. the comeliest man is the most virtuous. that's an unfailing rule. selene. then, ethais, there is no holier man on earth than thou! take thou this ring—it is a pledge of love— [giving him a ring. wear it until thy love fades from thy soul. ethais. 'twill never fade while thou art true to me. selene (amazed). are women ever false to such as thou? ethais. are women ever true?—well, not to me! selene. but these are earthly maidens, ethais. my love is purer than a mortal's love. ethais. thine is no mortal love if it be pure. selene (horrified). then, mortal ethais, what love is thine? ethais. (taken back). i spake of women—men are otherwise ! selene. man's love is pure invariably ? ethais. pure ? pure as thine own | selene, poor trusting, cheated souls | song.—sir ethais. when a knight loves ladye– (hey, but a maid is a sorry little jade ) he sighs and he sings lackadaydy- hey, lackadaydy, o! of a love life-long he'll sing a song- (hey, but a sorry little jade ) of a love supre. he dreams a adaydy, o! t he. {wicked world. phyllon. well, it’s annoying ! darine (anriously). it is annoying? phyllon. yes, it’s annoying ! ensemble. these eyes-they burn for ethais, &c. phyllon. the state of your emotions you delineate succinctly : but, come—what would you have me do? tell me the truth distinctly. darine. do? hurl thyself to yonder earth, with sorrow unabated, and end a life from hour of birth to bitter anguish fated ! phyllon. i see your point, but (pardon me) _ did all heart-broken youths agree in death to drown their miseree, the world within a week would be depopnlated ! darine. depopulated ? phyllon. depopnlated ! exsnrrntn. pr-ryllou. danms. undoubtedly; but (pardon me) his difficulty i can see ; did all heart-broken youths agree did all heart-broken youths agree in death to drown their miseree, in death to drown their miseree, the world within a week would be the world within a week would be depopulated l depopulated ! [emit phyllon. darine (looking of). here comes the miserable, mincing jade, with a fair speech upon her lying lips, to meet the sister whom her evil arts have robbed of more than life. oh, hypocrite! enter semcee. selene. darine! darine (changing her manner). y sister-—my beloved one ! why, thou art sad; thine eyes are dim with tears. say, what has brought thee grief ? selene (with joy). darine, my own! thou dost not shun me, then ? darine. shun thee, my sweet selene ? n , not i ! selene. bless thee for that ! i feared to meet thy face, for all my loved companions turned from me with scornful jest and bitter mockery; thou, thou, darine, alone arttrue to me! darine. true to selene while selene breathes ! come, tell me all thy woes.‘ fallen fairies ; or, selene. my ethais— he whom i love so fondly—he is ill, and i am powerless to heal his wound ! darine, my love may die! darine (wildly). what can be done ? oh, i would give my fairyhood to save the man thou lovest, oh, my dearly loved ! but stay—the counterpart of lutin is at once his henchman and his cunning leech: lutin has gone to earth—cast thou this flower and summon mortal lutin to his aid ; he hath a charm to heal thy lover’s wound! selene. kind heaven reward thee for thy ready wit! my sister, thou hast saved both him and me— my darling sister! [embracing her. darine (aside). oh, thou hypocrite! selene. fair rose, i name thee lutin—go to earth and hither send the mortal counterpart of him whose name thou hast, and may kind heaven prosper thy mission ! kiss me, dear darine, for thou hast saved my ethais for me! [kisses her and exit. darine. n , not for thee, good sister—for myself! [emit deann:. hurried music. enter mortal lutin over the edge of the cloud, staggering on to the stage as though violently impelled from below. lutin (bewildered).' help ! help ! help ! whatever has become of me? help ! help! help ! wherever am i now? help! help ! help ! who’s made a tee-to-tum of me? when came i here, why came i here, whence came i here, and how ? uprising with velocity this impolite atrocity excites my curiosity- but stay, i’m coming to-— but stay, i’m coming to—- but stay, i’m coming to-— i’ve gained my senses ! i've died a death deplorable, for ever unrestorable, and left my wife adorable to weep, and pay my fu- to weep, and pay my fu- to weep, and pay my fu- neral expenses ! ha ! ha ! ila !‘ whatever has become of me? m‘. the wicked world. during this the fairies have entered, led by zayda, locrine, neome, fleta, and others. they emamine him curiously and with much amusement. zayda. a freak of nature-—not of art ! ’tis lutin, without wing ! f leta. his likeness to his counterpart is most astonishing! leila. how beautifully formed is he-- how delicately quaint ! zara. i wonder will he prove to be a sinner or a saint ? chorulv. we wonder will he prove to be a sinner or a saint? we lay no stress on blamelessncss, but still we wait to speculate on this—will he turn out to be a sinner or a saint ? lvtm (who has been much impressed with the beauty of the fairies). though i’m no mussulman, it’s true, yet by some strange device my soul has found its way into mahomet’s paradise ! if this is all i have to pay for my career perverse, it might have been, i‘m bound to say, considerably worse ! considering, i’ve had my fling, ’tis very well ; for, truth to tell, from what i glean, it might have been considerably worse l chorus. considering he’s had his fling, ’tis very well ; for, truth to tell, from what we glean, it might have been considerably worse ! [emit zeyoa. locrine (entering). why, this is lutin’s mortal counterpart! how quaint! how picturesquely rugged ! leila yes! such character and such expression ! fallen fairies; or, all (admiring him). lutin (with conviction). neodie. lutin. neodie. lutin. locrine. lutin. neodie. lutin. yes! it’s paradise! mahomet’s paradise! i’m comfortably dead, and all is well! alas! this is not paradise, nor art thou dead, thou art in fairyland! these are the clouds, and th ere’s the earth from which we summoned thee. of course! i recollect it all ! a mist enveloped me and whirled me safely here just as my fair but able-bodied wife ’ began to lay my staff about my ears. that’s all i know. i’m much obliged to it ! oh, tell me, are there many men on earth as fair and pleasant to the eye as thou ? not many—though i have met one or two who run me pretty close ! . tell us their names. well, let me see—sir phyllon has been thought a personable man ; then ethais—- he’s fairly well. but these are handsome men. we love thee for thy rugged, homely face ; oh, we are sated with mere comeliness, .we have so much of that up here! i love a homely face! i quite agree with you! what do a dozen handsome men imply ? a dozen faces, cast in the same mould. a dozen months, all lip for lip the same, a dozen noses, all of equal length. but take twelve plain men, and the element of picturesque variety steps in. you get at once unlo ked for hill and dale, odd curves and unexpected points of light, pleasant surprises, quaintly broken lines— 'all very charming, whether seen upon the face of nature or the face of man. song.—lutrn. suppose you take, with open mind, twelve handsome men—what do you find ? twelve people, twenty-five years old, twelve shapes, in even series ; twelve faces, cast in classic mould (a type that quickly wearies) ; the wicked world. twelve heads—the same from crown to nape, in tedious iteration ; twelve noses—a l alike in shape, without a variation ; two dozen cyes—all large and bright ; two dozen lips—all modelled quits like cupid’s bow——and underneath somewhere about three hundred teeth, by average calculation. this is a principle you may disseminate: good-looking men are effete and effemincte. as for variety, they haven’t got any—- morbidly mild in their mawky monotony ! but take twelve plain men, and you find variety of every kind ! you've eyes that swivel—eyes that squint, and dribbling eyes, and dozy; and mottled cheeks of every tint, and hair that’s red and rosy; you’ve months that grin and months that gape ; large ears that don’t ofiend us; uneven teeth grotesque in shape, and noses, too—tremendous ! y u’ve noses flat and noses snub, gigantic noses, noses club; you've noses long and noses short, and some that snore and some that snort with energy stupendous ! whk we're unpopular passes the wit ' me ! eac of his kind is a comic epitome, teeming with humours of dissimilarity-— quite a museum of peculiarity ! enter zayda unobserved. locrine. but stay! thou shouldst be faint for lack of food-— neodie. nay, let me minister unto his needs- zayda (coming forward). then go, beloved sisters. gather fruits and bring them here to him. such frugal fare will have a daintier flavour than its own when served by such fair hands ! [exeimt locaine, n eome, and the others. zayda, (changing her manner). we are alone! one word of cauti n—shun my sisters all ! lutin. are all these lovely girls your sisters? zayda all! rejoice that they are not thine own. lutin. i do. i very much prefer them as they are! you’re a fine family. fallen fa iries ; or, zayda. fair to the eye, but take good heed-—they are not what they seem! locrine, the fair-—the beautiful locrine— is the embodiment of avarice; darine is vain beyond comparison ; n eodie is much older than she looks ; camilla hath defective intellect; maia’s a bitter shrew, colombe’s a thief; and, last and worst of all, i blush to own, our queen selene hath a tongue that stabs— a traitor tongue that serves no better end than wag a woman’s character away ! lutin. l’ve stumbled into pretty company! it seems you fairies have your faults. zayda. alas! all but myself. my soul is in my face; i, only ', am what i seem to be; i, only i, am worthy of esteem. if thou wilt love me, i will dower thee with wealth untold, long years and happy life, thou gallant churl, thou highly favoured boor, thou pleasant knave, thou strange epitome of all tht’’ rugged, quaint, and picturesque! [kissing him on the tip of his nose. lutin. you don’t take long in coming to the point! zayda. forgive my clumsy and ill-chosen words ; we gentle, simple fairies never loved until to-day. lutin. and when you do begin, you fairies make up for the time you’ve lost !' [twelve fairies enter with fruit and wine. he sits and they group round him as he eats and drinks. neodie. hast thou a wife ? lutin. well, yes—that is down there! up here, i am a bachelor—as yet. cora. and does she love thee? lutin. w ell—we do fall out. we did to-day. neodie. and how came that about? lutin. why thus, to tell the‘ truth, between ourselves— ( whispering.) there was a lady in the case! ' zayda (much shocked). hush, hush ! such stories are unfit for maiden’s ears. confine thyself to matters that relate he wicked world. i to thine own sex. thy master ethais, he fought with phyllon. what was that about? lutin. oh, it's the old, old story! locrine. tell it ! lutin. well, there was a lady in the case ! zayda (shocked). then stop- go on to something else. where wast thou born? lutin. why in bulgaria—some years ago! (whispering.) there was a lady in that case ! zayda (severely). it seems there is a lady, sir, in every case ! lutin. in all those cases they do interfere! [exit zayda, offended. song.—lutin. in yonder world, which devils strew with worry, grief, and pain in plenty, this maxim is accounted true with nemine dissentiente : a woman doth the mischief brew in nineteen cases out of twenty chorus. a woman doth the mischief brew, in nineteen cases out of twenty ! in all the woes that joy displace, in all the blows that bring disgrace on much enduring human race, there is a lady in the case ! yes, that's the fix we have to face— her whims and tricks throughout you trace. in all the woes that curse our race there is a lady in the case. "horus. yes, that's the fix they have to face, etc. if woman from great nature's scheme were utterly eliminated, unruffled peace would reign supreme, no quarrels would be propagated. but that is a utopian dream of mortals unsophisticated. but that is a utopian dream of mortals unsophisticated ! palleav fairies, or, it's true that foes might then embrace, and earthly woes dissolve apace. but where would be the human race with never a lady in the case? yes, that's the rub we have to face— it gives a snub that kills the case. what would become of all our race with never a lady in the case? chorus. yes, that's the rub - that kills their case, etc. enter darine, unobserved. locrine. and, lutin, is thy wife as fair as thou? lutin. i thought her pretty till i looked on thee. zayda. her hair— lutin. is bright, but not as bright as thine. locrine. her figure? lutin. neat and graceful of its kind, but lacks thy pleasant plumpness. then besides she has a long, loud tongue, and uses it; a stout and heavy hand, and uses that; and large expressive eyes, and uses them! zayda. and doth she know that thou art here with us? lutin. no, that's the joke! zayda. the joke? lutin. of course it is | zayda. what joke? lutin. . . what joke? why this: my lovely wife is just as full of devil-born jealousy as woman's soul can hold! a pretty girl who comes within a hundred yards of me runs a fair chance to lose both eyes and hair! if i address a well-proportioned maid, my bones will ache for it a month at least! only the crooked, the palsied, and the blear are held to be fit company for me, and even they must mind their p's and q's. this comes of being quaintly picturesque! neodie (sighing). i understand—i'm not at all surprised. i should be just the same were i thy wife! locrine. and how's the lady called? fallen fairies .’ on, with all the madcap torrent of a soul that love has never kindled till to-day! lutin (aghast). thou lovest ethais? great heaven and earth! is the girl mad? darine. she is! mad as the moon! hast thou no pity for a heart-wrung girl who pines for love that thou canst help her win? lutin. she must be mad! oh, my beloved darine! [throwing himself at her feet. don’t break my heart—don’t make my life a curse! i’ve been a faithful husband——m re or less! and when ’ve earned a hearty cudgelling as i have, now and then, i’ve borne it meekly! oh, darine, my love, do not forsake me. treat me as thou wilt, i will bear all. be thou but true to me, my masterful but well-beloved wife! [wee in . darine (astonished). p g i am thy wife? thy well-beloved wife ? lutin. of course! darine. oh monstrous! (suddenlg) stay! there has been mistake; some dreadful error! see, i’ve found the clue! her name’s darine. here, set thy mind at rest—- no doubt i am her fairy prototype ! lutin (sobbing). her prototype? and what’s a prototype? darine. why, all the mortals on that wicked world have prototypes up here, and i am hers- in face resembling her, and that is all. lutin. then you are not my wife? darine. not i indeed ! lutin. you’re sure of that ? darine. quite sure! lutin (embracing her rapturously). my darling girl! and i’m permitted to disport myself with these fair maids? darine. undoubtedly you are! latin. kiss me again ! [embracing her and giving her the phial. . here—take the phialf two spoonsful to the dose! i never was so happy in my life! [emit dabine triumphantly. the wicked world. song..—lutin. when husband supposes his wife is a jade, n o bed of red roses for husband is made ; but when he discovers, his fears about lovers so grimly abhorrent are quite without warrant, with utter contrition he sends to perdition all silly suspicion- his fears are allayed ; " he, (dancing.) free from anxiety, free from timidity, ladies’ society seeks with avidity-— pleasant variety, perfect sobriety, no impropriety or insipidity ! fairies (dancing). free from anxiety, free from timidity, etc. lutin. with keen satisfaction and sense of relief he feels a reaction from trouble and grief. his fears heavy-hearted have uickly departed. he see s in enjoyment congenial employment, surrenders politely to maidens so sprightly, they’re all very sightly, but this is the chief! (indicating locrine.) oh ! (dancing) pure informality marks their civility— lovely locality, gems of gentility— happy fatality ! that it’s finality seems, in reality, improbahility ! fairies (dancing). pure informality marks our civility, etc. [the fairies dance of with lrrrin. as they go of, darrse enters. iv. q aalleav fairies; or, song.—darine. triumphant i | here is the charm || now to devise a plan to gain my end: if i restore his strong sword arm, he will become my friend. but will it gain the love that i prize all above? that all-enthralling love which i would fain yield up my very fairyhood to gain! and how shall i attain that dream oh, god of impudence, lend me thine art ! i have bethought me of a scheme that should enchain his heart! no matter sin or shame so, i fulfil my aim— the dictates of the heart must be obeyed. so, god of impudence, lend me thine aid : enter ethais from bower. he is very weak and ill. darine (tenderly). how fares sir ethais? ethais. why grievously! i am no leech and cannot dress my wound. i'm sick and faint from pain and loss of blood | idarine (aside). now for my plan! (aloud) sir ethais, if phyllon's words be true, thy wound is but a scratch! ethais (indignantly). a scratch, forsooth ! the devil's claws could scarcely scratch as deep ! darine. he says—i don’t believe him—but he says that thou hast magnified its character because thou fearest to renew the fight! he says thou art a coward | ethais (furiously). by my blood he shall atone for this! oh, phyllon, coward! why, a dozen times we two have fought our battles side by side, and i’m to quail and blanch, forsooth, because we two at last are fighting face to face! black curses on this wound! were lutin here, my sword arm soon would be in gear again! darine, lutin is here! . ethais (amazed). her n > darine, behold! [shows phia?. i have obtained charm from him. now, knigh nettle ! . the wicked world. ethais (furiously). give it me! give me the flask | darine. one moment, ethais ! this flask is precious, and it hath a price! ethais. name thou thy price, and i will give it thee— take money, jewels, armour, all i have so that thou leavest me one trusty sword darine. nay, ethais, i do not want thy wealth; i want thy love—yes, ethais, thy love! that priceless love that thou hast lavished on my worthless sister ! ethais. on selene? darine. aye, thou lovest her, and dost thou think that i will save thy life for her? ethais. selene? bah! true, she is fair. well, thou art also fair. what does it matter, her fair face or thine? what matters either face, or hers or thine, when weighed against this outrage on my honour? darine. give me that ring, and thou shalt have the charm ethais. 'tis thine. [gives ring and receives phial. and now, sir phyllon, take good heed ! [swallows contents of phial and is at once restored to health and vigour. enter sir phyllon. phyllon. why, ethais— ethais (furiously). so i'm a cur, sir liar, and my wound is but a scratch that i have magnified that i might shun the terrors of thy sword! phyllon. hands off, thou drunken madman | set me free! i never said these things! ethais. thou craven cur! dost thou then fear to reap before my face the crop that thou hast sown behind my back? phyllon (contemptuously). i am not wont to weigh the words i speak to such as thou! no need to taint thine honour with a lie; why, ethais, the truth is black enough ! i know thee for a brawling tavern-bully, a hollow friend, a cruel unsparing foe, fallen fairies; or, a reckless perjurer, a reprobate, the curse of women and the scourge of men-— is not the truth enough, that i should grudge the one brute-virtue of thy satyr-soul- the instinct courage of a hungry dog? " r [ethars is about to fly at peyrmon, but checks himself and turns to darine. ethais. didst thou not tell me he had said these things ? darine. ’twas but an artifice to gain thy love! [turns to phyllon. forgive me, phyllon ! phyllon. bah! release my hand- thou shameless woman, i have done with thee! [emit phyllon. darine turns to ethais imploringly. enter selene. selene. darine! thou here alone with ethais ? no, n —i will not doubt! darine. doubt whom thou wilt, thou hypocrite! thou shameless hypocrite! thou craven victim of thine own designs! enter all the fairies. selene. darine, what dost thou mean ? darine. doubt all of us, for we are false to thee, as thou to us. i am as thou hast made me, hypocrite! selene. thou art to me as thou hast ever been, most dearly loved of all these dearly loved! darine. away! thou art the source of all our ill. zayda. oh, miserable woman, get thee hence! thou art no queen of ours! darine. away with her! down with the traitress queen! . sceru. darine. thou art the source of all the ill that blights our fairyland! zayda. thine is the impious hand that worked our misery, until the very air we breathe was made to reek and seethe wit the accursed ofience of plague and pestilence ! the wicated world. darine. bow thee unto the storm that lowers | away! thou art no queen of ours! all. away, thou art no queen of ours : give place to our darine ! bow thee unto the storm that lowers : down with the traitress queen zayda. 'tis true we counselled thee to call these mortals here from earth. 'twas but to test thy worth ! we knew too well that thou wouldst fall, as thou indeed hast done. thy subjects every one thine infamy has seen, thou sorry, sorry queen : darine, zayda, locrine, and neodie. thou hast abused thy royal powers : away! thou art no queen of ours : all. away! thou art no queen of ours! give place to our darine ! bow thee before the storm that lowers | down with the traitress queen selene. so let it be, for i have proved unfit ! - i had a trust—i have forsaken it ! all. down with the traitress queen selene. though my default was born of good intent, mine was the sin, be mine the punishment ! all. hail to our loved darine ! selene, bows in remorse the head that ye contemn. [taking off her crown and placing it on dabine. well loved darine, wear thou this diadem all. down with the traitress queen! selene. see, my beloved sister-maidens, how imperially it rests upon her brow ! all, hail to our loved darine ! thou art our queen, beloved darine ! in loyalty we bow to thee--- we bow to thee in loyalty, beloved darine, henceforth our queen [the fairies march round darine and make obeisance to her. darine. so may i fall if i forsake my trust ! thy punishment is just. thou wast a queen what art thou now 'elene. i have a kingdom yet! i have a kingdom here in ethais' heart. a kingdom? nay, a world—my world-my w. = fallen fairies ,' or, a world where all is pure and good and brave—- a world of noble thought and noble deed- a world of brave and gentle chivalry- a very goodly and right gallant world ! this is my kingdom, for i am its queen! [turning to etha s, who comes down. darine. thou art no queen of his, for he is mine; aye, by the token that thou gavest him, thou fond and foolish maiden! [showing ring. selene (looking at it). n , no, no ! it is a counterfeit! no, no, darine ! the punishments of heaven are merciful! [takes ethals’ hand to kiss it; she sees that the ring is not there. oh, ethais! is that the ring with which i plighted thee ? ethais (sullenly). aye, that’s the bauble. i have naught to say! selene (to darine>. it fell from him! where didst thou find it ? speak ! ethais. i sold it for a charm, that i might have an arm to flog a lying cur withal; a traitor devil, whose false breath had blurred my knightly honour—dearer to my heart than any love of woman, hers or thine! i had no choice, my honour was at stake! selene. thine honour ! thou dost well to speak of that! can devils take the ‘face and form of gods ? are truth and treachery so near akin that one can wear the other’s countenance ? are all such men as thou? or art thou not of thine accursed race the most accursed? why, honourable sir, thou art a knight who wars with womankind! thy panoply a goodly form, smooth tongue, and fair, false face; thy shield a lie, thy weapon an embrace. the emblem of thy skill a broken heart! thine is a gallant calling, ethais ! thou manly knight—this soul of chivalry—- thou most discreet and prudent warrior! [he approaches her. away, and touch me not! my nature’s gone! may heaven rain down her fury on thy soul! __. may every fibre in that perjured heart quiver with love for one who loves thee not! the wicked world. ethais. selene. ethais. selene. may thine untrammeled soul at last be caught and fixed and chained and riveted to one who, with the love of heaven upon her lips, carries the hate of hell within her heart! stay! hear me out. 'tis true i trifled with thy love, but then thy love is not as mortal woman’s love. i did not know that it would move thee thus! thou didst not know ! art thou so dull that thou canst understand no pain that is not wreaked upon thy frame? hast thou no knowledge of the form of woe that comes of cheated hopes and trampled hearts? nay, hear me. i have wronged thee bitterly; i will atone for all thou shalt atone. song.—selene. hark ye, sir knight. i'll yield my fairy state, that i may follow thee to yonder earth, and join the whispering band of hidden hate who feed on falsehood and who war with worth; the '' band who stab in secrecy; the blighting band within whose lips is hung the deadliest weapon of earth's armoury ! a woman's tongue—a woman's blighting tongue! the talisman i will so deftly wield to twist and turn and torture good to ill, that, were it in thy traitor heart to yield to holy deeds of peace and calm goodwill, those deeds should seem of holiness bereft, from every form of righteousness averse— thy peace a war—thy charity a theft— thy calm a fury and thy prayer a curse! [she throws herself on a bank exhausted. enter locrine. locrine. selene, see!. through the far distant air with rapid flight our absent brothers wing their way to us! these mortals must return to our own earth ! zayda and lutin and other fairies have entered. lutin (shaking them off). zayda now, by my head, but this is welcome news! (horrified). - return to earth? no, lutin, no—not yet! life without lutin, what can that be worth? falleiv fairies; or, luti‘w i cannot tell you, for i never tried. nay, seek not to detain me, i’ve reformed ! and had i not, i don’t think i could much enjoy myself in the distracting company of one who, if she’s not in point of fact my wife, [alluding to darine. ls so uncomfortably like my wife that she may be my wife for aught i know! enter phyllon. phyllon. come, ethais, lutin, come, to earth again! [pi-iyllon descends with lutin. selene. ethais is about to follow them, but , detained by selene. n , no! thou shalt not go—thou shalt not go! my hope—my shattered hope, but still my hope! my love—my blighted love, but still my love ! my life—my ruined life, but still my life! i’ll work and toil for thee—i’ll be thy slave-— thine humble, silent, and submissive slave! ( 'uri usly.) - nay, but i’ll hold thee back ! i have the strength of fifty women! see, thou canst not go! ( with passionate triumph.) ethais. [throws of selena. nay, but i’ll wrest thy love away from thee and fetter it in bondage to my heart! i will be one with thee; ’ l cling to thee and thou shalt take me to that world of thine ! take thee to earth ? i love the world too well to curse it with another termagant ! we have enough of them. release me, fool- away from me ! i go to that good world where women are not devils till they die! selene, who falls senseless. he leaps through the cloud and descends. as ethais dis- appears the fairies, who have grouped themselves about the stage in attitudes of despair, appear gradually to wake as from a dream. the moon has disappeared, heavy thunderclouds that have gradu- ally gathered during the preceding scene suddenly disperse, the stage grows light, and the music becomes soft and lzyrnn-like. where am i? zayda ! n eodie! darine! oh, sisters, i am waking from a dream_-<- the wicked world. zayda. selene. a fearful dream—a dream of evil thoughts, of mortal passion and of mortal hate ! i thought that.ethais and phyllon had gone to mid—earth— nay, it was no drezm— a sad and sorrowful reality! yes, we have suffered much, but, heaven be praised, these mortal men have gone to their own earth and taken with them the bad influence that spread like an infection through our ranks. see, we are as we were! embracing her. darine ! arine ! my well-beloved sister, speak to me! darine (shamefacedly). selene. i dare not speak to thee—i have no words—- i am ashamed! oh, sister, let that shame hang heavily on all, for all have sinned! oh, let us lay this lesson to our hearts ! let us achieve our work with humbled souls, free from the folly of self-righteousness. behold, is there so wide a gulf between the humbled wretch who, being tempted, falls, and that good man who rears an honoured head because temptation has not come to him? shall we, from our enforced security deal mercilessly with poor mortal man, who struggles, single-handed, to defend the demon-leaguered fortress of his soul ? shall we not rather, seeing how we fell, give double honour to the champion who throughout his mortal peril holds his own, e’en though his walls be somewhat battered in the fight? oh, let us lay this lesson to our hearts! enter luti n followed by etuzus and phyllon as fairies. lutin. selene. ithais. your brothers have returned ! my ethais ! selene-—sisters all-—rejoiee with us! \ve bear the promise of a priceless gift, a source of new and endless happiness! take every radiant blessing that adorns our happy land, and all will pale before fallen fairies; or the wicked world. the lustre of this precious privilege. it is—that we may love as mortals love selene. no, no—not that! no, ethais, not that ! it is a deadly snare—beware of it! such love is for mankind and not for us. no, ethais, we will not have this love chorus. pure as the air, sweet as the morning dew, reigneth our queen! bright in our eyes as heaven's ethereal blue, reigneth our queen! spirit of love as thou hast ever been, be to us evermore, oh, sister-queen unsullied source of tranquil joy, pursue thy course of pure employ– be thou as thou hast ever been, our all-beloved sister-queen | [darine removes the crown from her head and places it on selene. the fairies all kneel in adoration at selene's feet. curtain. the gentleman in black. a musical play. written by w. s. gilbert. composed by frederic clay, dramatis personae. the baron otto von schlacabnstein mr. danvers. grumpff, his steward •- •- ... mr. terrott. hans gopp, a villager - •- ... miss e. fowler. the gentleman in black •- ... mr. flockton. tintelstein, syndic of schlachenschloss ... mr. f. robson. schlipps, an innkeeper •- •- ... mr. herbert. bertha... - •- - - - - ... miss emmeline cole. the baroness won schlachenstein ... miss maxse. maria • *- ... miss dalton. al - - - gretchen } market airls. { • * * ... miss roberts, emma ... - - • *- •- .., miss wilson. act i. market place of a german willage. act ii. gates of castle schlachenschloss. time in representation: one hour and a half. costumes-date about , th e gentleman in black. act i. sceni .—lllarket place of a german village. the golden flagon inn at back of stage. the s /ndic’s house, r. chorus of market girls, assembled in honour o_/'bertha’s betrothal to heus. ornnmc cnonus. to-day young hans matures his plans, and pretty bertha gratifies his whim. some men prefer a girl like her, but girls should not endure a man like him. an ugly chap not worth a rep, he’s very far from bright; not over tall. my future spouse must have a house- a cow as well, and several pigs withal ! hans enters r. u. e. and is received by them with some ridicule. he is a heavy, simple, idiotic fellow, but good-looking and honest. maria. well, hans, so you are really going to be married at ast ? hans. we l, yes, it looks like it, don’t it? (c'huckles.) but i've had a great deal of trouble to get bertha to consent. first she would, and then she wouldn’t—and then she couldn’t—and then she shouldn't--and then she’d think of it—and then she thought of it, and then she seemed to like it—and then she thought of it again, and then she didn’t seem to like it—then she thought she might do worse, and then she was sure that the gentleman in black. she might do better—and when she found that no opportunity of doing better presented itself, why she closed with me, and here we are! . [c/zuckles. gretchen. ah, it was a sad day for us, hans, when bertha consented. what’s to become of us now, i should like to know? we shall all die old maids ! hans. well, i could only have prevented that in one case, if bertha hadn’t consented. that is to say, in one case at a time! maria. yes, but who knows but that that case might have been mine ? _ hans. no, it wouldn’t have been yours-—i’m sure it wouldn’t have been yours. i never liked you much. [chuckles . gretchen. mine, then? hans. no. you’re a very good girl, gretchen, but you’re not clever. come, you know you’re not clever. now my wife must be very clever. gretchen (angry). yes, she must have cleverness enough for two! hans. yes, or she’d never catch me! [chuckles . gretchen. if she were clever she wouldn’t want to catch ou. y hans. that carries out what i told you just now. you wanted to catch me. gretchen. i didn’t. hans. well, you said you did. gretchen.. ah, you mustn’t believe all i say. hans. so i’m told. gretchen. do you mean to say people tell you that i tell stories? hans. oh, no, not exactly stories, that’s not the word. gretchen. what is the word, then ? hans. lies! [c’huckles. gretchen. abominable! i’ll pay you out for this, hans. i’ll give a party on our wedding-day, and invite all the young men. bertha will be disconsolate. hans. oh, bertha won’t mind. she isn’t selfish, and she knows you want ’em more than she does. maria. there’s a good deal of truth in that. gretchen. is there? i disagree with you. maria. yes, dear; you’re like a strasburg sausage, you dis- agree with everybody. as for the truth, i don’t believe you know it when you hear it. gretchen. i don’t often get the chance in this village! maria. no, your t ngue’s always going! the geav 'lemaav iaw black. enter schlipps, from the golden flagon, in great terror. he shuts the door after him, and puts his back against it. theresa. what's the matter? schlipps. i’m a weak man and a good man, and there's a strong man and a bad man coming after me. emma. a strong man and a bad man? whom in the world do you mean? schlipps. a mysterious stranger ! a person who has no right up here, on earth, i know. he's a supernatural person, my dears, and he dines off iron pokers and lumps of coal. he called for his dinner just now, and i sent it up to him—a beautiful roast turkey stuffed with chestnuts—well, he never touched the turkey, but he eat all the knives and forks! emma. eat the knives and forks! schlipps. yes, all of 'em, and then called for more! and when i said i hadn't got any more, he tried to collar me, but i escaped, and here i am. i’ll go to the priest and the syndic, and between them they’ll make the place too hot to hold him. that is, if any place can be too hot to hold such a person. i believe the hotter it is, the better he likes it! (noise heard.) here he comes! help me to hold the door! [all the girls run to the inn, and assist schlipps in keeping the door shut. the gentleman in black walks quietly through the wall of the inn at a considerable distance from the door that the girls are barring. he is eating a fork. he walks quietly down the stage, and addresses schlipps, who is quite hemmed in by girls round the door. gentle. schlipps, i don’t think your wife would like that. [schlipps leans against the wall in great terror. hans (chuckling). he hasn’t got a wife! gentle. oh yes, he has. a tall, stout wife, with yellow hair and freckles. haven't you, schlipps? (girls all recoil from schlipps in great horror.) her name's martha, isn't it, schlipps? and she has a fine, strong arm, hasn't she, schlipps? and she uses it, don’t she, schlipps? schlipps. well, my wife's neither here nor there. gentle. yes, she is, she's there, [points off r, schlipps. where? - gentle. nuremberg. [schlipps runs off in the opposite direct "aria. how do you know that tle. i know everything. the ge./vtlemaiv in black. gretchen. i don’t believe you. gentle. why should you? nobody believes you. gretchen. how do you know that? i mean, how dare you say such a thing? theresa. gretchen may be a story-teller—but she has her good points for all that. she says so herself. gretchen. i never said so. maria. then it may be true. (to gentleman.) now tell me something about myself. gentle. very good. that’s not your own hair. [touching a long plait that hangs down her back. maria (in a great rage). it’s false! gentle. exactly. [it comes of in his hand; all laugh. thebesa,gret hen, and emma, quietly take of their plaits and put them in their pockets. maria (indignantly). give me that directly. (snatohes it away.) my hair always comes off in the autumn. gretchen. perhaps you have some remark to make about my hair. gentle. yes, beautiful hair, and all your own. (pulling end of long plait quietly out of gretonen’s pocket.) with a reserve, to be used in cases of emergency. gretchen. i won’t stand it. my mind’s made up! maria. so‘s your face! [garrtonen and maria retire up, quarrelling. emma. n ow tell us something that’s going to happen. gentle. very good. you’ve heard of the wicked baron otto von schlachenstein ? all. yes, yes. gentle. well, he’s going to happen! he’ll be here to-day on his way to his native castle, schlachenschloss—twenty miles from here. _ hans. and who’s baron otto von schlachenstein ? maria, the wickedest man in the whole world! gretchen. yes, but there’s something worse than that about him, he’s the ugliest man in the whole world! - emma. he’s the most dreadful rake in the whole world! maria. yes, they say that although he’s so wonderfully hideous, no woman can possibly resist him. it’s infamous that any man should possess such power. emma. disgracefull theresa. abominable! _ gretchen. yes, they say he only has to look at you, and there’s an end of you! the gentleman in black hans (simply). of me? gretchen. not of you, of course, of me—.(./ill laugh)—that is, of any woman. it’s abominable ! well, he’ll be here in half an hour! all the girls. oh, how nice ! [they check themselves and look demure. hans. oh, dear! oh, dear! [crying_ maria. what on eath is there to cry about? hans. suppose he takes a fancy to my bertha? do you think she would resist him? gretchen. i don’t know any girl with weaker powers of resist- ing temptation. enter bertha running, l. u. ., as _ f pursued. rncrnr vn. bertha. oh, my gracious ! all. what’s the matter ? bertha. how audacious ! all. what a clatter. bertha. such a monster! hans. oh, how frightful ! bertha. tried to kiss me. all. how delightful ! bertha. then he chased me. all. how audacious ! bertha. and embraced me. . all. yet how gracious ! maria. tell us, bertha, what befell you— ' bertha. gar.her round, and i will tell you. listen. (sees haes.) no! hans. bertha, what in the world is the matter ‘? who’s been hitting you? " bertha (coquettishly). i haven’t been hit, i’ve been struck ! hans. struck! bertha. very much struck ! hans. bertha, you’ve been flirting. bertha. no, i haven’t. (demurelg/.) i’ve been receiving attention from a gentleman. . hans. from what gentleman ? -- bertha. from—well, i shan’t tell you. [hans, in despair. air.-—berti-ia. on second thoughts, i don’t suppose it matters much to you- your conduct very plainly shows you do not think me true. v. the gentleman in black. why, i declare, you tear your hair, because he touched his hat! if noble strangers think me fair, i’m not to blame for that! chorus. if noble strangers think her fair, she's not to blame for that ! if my complexion shames the rose, i didn't put it there ! i don’t suppose i made my nose, although i “ did my hair.” if noble strangers choose to think i’m good for looking at- and feel themselves compelled to wink, am i to blame for that? chorus. if noble strangers choose to wink, she’s not to blame for that ! maria. did he only wink ? ' bertha. oh, he did more than that—he put his arm round my waist and kissed me. hans. but you resisted? bertha. i couldn’t resist! hans (sulkily). you can sometimes ! bertha. yes, but he’s much stronger than you. gretchen. is he handsome? bertha. he’s the ugliest man i ever saw. hans. then you've no excuse! bertha. his hair is a fiery red, and his nose is diabolical; he has little green eyes, and his face is covered with moles like little hat-pegs. hans. if she goes on like this with a man whose face is covered with moles like little hat-pegs, how far will she go with a man who hasn’t got any moles at all? bertha. some girls choose men as they choose old china—the uglier they are the better they like them. hans. i wish i was like old china. bertha. so you are in one respcct—you‘re very much cracked! but although he is so dreadfully ugly, there’s some- thing very striking about his head. hans. there shall be something very striking about his head before he’s half an hour older! why what’s the matter with the syndic ? enter tintelsrein, l. u. e. tintel. congratulate me, congratulate me. hans. we do—heartily. why ? tintel. at last i have an ofiicial duty to discharge. for the gentle./van in black’. three years i have been syndic of schlachenschloss, and until this moment my office has been a sinecure. not a nobleman has visited the village—not a quarrel has taken place between the villagers. my term of ofiice expires in a month, and but for a glorious and wholly unexpected event which has just taken place, posterity would never have heard of me! the baron otto von schlachenstein has just arrived on his way to his native castle, schlachenschloss. all. the baron otto von schlachenstein! bertha. that was his name. hans. whose ? bertha. the man who tried to kiss me! fly, fly, girls, or he may try to kiss you too, for pretty and ugly are alike to him. _ gretchen. fly? we’d scorn the action. if innocence is to be insulted, flying won’t do any good. maria. i should like to catch him trying to kiss me! tintel. well, from all accounts you’re very likely to have your whim gratified. but don’t talk of flying-—-— gretchen. we are not talking of flying. tintel. because so great a man must be received with cor‘- mony. i must go and put on my robes! when i took office i spent thirty thalers on those robes, and from that day to this i’ve never had an opportunity of wearing them. gretchen. and won’t you speak an address ? tlntel. an address? i should rather think so! listen, when the empress was expected to pass through this village three years since, shortly after the birth of her two s ns—twins —i prepared a speech and had it engrossed on vellum. well, the empress changed her mind and never came, so the address was never used. that speech shall be spoken now! with a little modification it will do admirably. here comes the baron, attended by his steward grumpff. receive him with the enthusiasm so great a man deserves-—i won’t be a minute! come along, hans, and help me with my robes. [erit into his house :., followed by hans. enter baron and gnumrrr, l. u. e. cnonus. we hail you—- regale you— the flagon shall not fail you ! amuse you, and booze you—- there‘s nought we can refuse you. the geavtleman in blaca. baron. grumpff. grumpff. my lord. baron. did you flog that postillion who had the audacity to faint on his horse ? grumpff. my lord, i flogged him till i couldn't stand. baron. my own grumpff! grumpff, i love you. you're a man after my own heart. grumpff. no, no, my lord. baron. but i say yes. grumpff. i say no! baron. potz-tausend himmel sackerment noch emmal i shall say yes! - grumpff. hier sprich mann schloppenhausen teufelspitz, i say no! because—because—your lordship hasn’t a heart to "be after—ho, ho, ho! baron. ho, ho, ho! couplets. baron (to maria). how de do, miss | who are you? who are you? who are you? you who smile with wicked wile, how de do, miss! who are you? glad to see you—who are you? maria. my name's maria, i am she who shells the coy and bashful pea. supplies the priest, and syndic, too— happy to do the same for you! baron (to gretchen). how de do, miss! who are you? who are you? who are you? you with waist so tightly laced, how de do, miss! who are you? glad to see you—who are you? gretch. my name is gretchen; i'm the pride and boast of all the country side; i flirt all day—that's all i do— happy to do the same with you! baron (to theresa). how de do, miss! who are you? who are you? who are you ? - you with hair so long and f how de do, miss | who - glad to see you—who a theresa. my name's theresa grapes, and nuts, an well, the villagers i sel happy to do the ' he gentlemazv in black. : baron (to bertha). how de do, miss ! who are you ? who are you? who are you? you whose lips the rose eclipse-— how de do, miss ! who are you? glad to see you ? who are you ? bertha. my name is bertha, i’m the miss you complimented with a kiss. you gave me one—a good one, me—- happy to do the same to you ! enter tintelstein from house, r., with address. tintel. welcome, my lord! here is a small matter of an address, which i trust your lordship will condescend to hear. it is an address composed in honour of the expected visit of the empress immediately after the birth of her little twins, but the empress never came, and it’s on my hands. but it has never been used, my lord, and is as good as new, and if your lordship will make a slight allowance for the different circumstances under which the address is presented, i think you will find that it will answer every purpose. ahem ! (reads) “ much respected and ever to be worshipped madame ! ” baron. eh ? potz-tausend aimmels sackerment noch emmal! what’s that? tintel. that referred to the empress. “ we, the syndic of schlachenschloss, dazzled by the surpassing beauty of your angelic countenance—overwhelmed by the extraordinary lustre of those melting eyes? ” grumpfl’. that’s the empress’s eyes. baron. it applies equally to our own. proceed. tintel. it applies equally to his lordship’s. i proceed. “ those melting eyes, find ourselves quite unable to congratulate you, in fitting terms, on your happy recovery ” baron. recovery? tintel. that referred to an interesting event of a certain kind, which had recently occurred. but perhaps your lordship has been ill lately? baron. not at all-—never had a day’s illness in all my life. . _ _'intel. i’i very sorry to hear you say so, my lord, for as the particular kind of illness from which the empress was recovering isn’t specified,i was in hopes that it might have applied to you. but i’ll strike that out. i proceed. “ we are happy to think that the cares of maternity do not so monopolise your attention as to prevent your honouring us with a visit——- ” grumpfl. bah! . the gentleman in black baron. that’s all right. the cares of maternity do not monopolise our attention—it’s quite right. go on. tintel. exactly; in the empress’s case they did, and she never came. “and in the devout hope that these interesting little strangers may only be the earnest of many many more interesting little strangers to follow, we beg to subscribe our- selves, madame, your most obedient and very humble servant, tintelstein, syndic.” i composed that myself! baron. potz-tausend ! but it does you credit. tintel. allowing, your lordship, for the altered circumstances, i think? ' baron. exactly—get out. this is a pleasant village, grumpff ; i shall stop here a fortnight. . grumpfl’. your lordship might do worse. . baron. which is the prettiest girl in the village? gmmpfi’. this one, my lord. [indicating bertha. baron. good, grumpff! are you the prettiest girl in the village? bertha. i believe i am considered so, my lord. baron. what’s your name? bertha. bertha pompopplesdorf, my lord. hans. at present, my lord. baron. eh ? hans. to-morrow she changes it. _ baron. exactly—to-morrow she changes it-—syndic. tintel. my lord. baron. draw up a marriage contract between ‘bertha pom- popplesdorf and baron otto von schlachenstein. hans. here, i say—— tintel. but, my lord—-— _ baron (in a rage). potz-tausend himmel sackerment noch emmal! am i to be thwarted ? hans. you are! baron. potz-tausend himmel sackerment ‘noch emmal! hans. she’s betrothed to me, and we’re to be married to- morrow. baron. how blind are these poor earthworms! they design, and lo, they think they have completed! potz-tausend himmel sackerment noch emmal! bertha (aside). it will serve the jealous little donkey right to tease him for half an hour. (aloud) baron, it is true that i am betrothed to hans, in a sort of way—bl t—to be a baroness hans. to be a baroness! but look at his moles! you couldn’t marry a man with moles like hat-pegs! . the ge/vtle.ma v in black. bertha. one can but try, dear hans. if i find i can’t marry him, i will marry you with pleasure-—there! come, baron, and we will talk it over ! [repeat chorus, “ we hail you.” all emerunt l. u. e., emcept huts and the gentleman in black. hans. that girl’s going to throw me over! life without bertha, one long, long night ! gentle. (coming forward). and life with bertha? hans. one long, long day! gentle. you’d find one as monotonous as the other. but what is the matter? hans. matter? bertha has been and bolted bodily with a big, brutal, burly baron! 'i‘hat’s all. [s bln'ng. gentle. well? hans. that’s what it is to be a baron. rank is a fine thing! ugly as he is, i wish i was he ! gentle. do you mean that? hans. of course i mean that. gentle. good. are you aware that i have power of trans- ferring the soul of one man into the body of another at will. hans (terrified). no! gentle. it’s a fact,'though. i can accomplish that meta- morphosis whenever i please. at the end of the month your soul goes back to its proper body. hans. and who are you? gentle. the king of the gnomes. country orders executed with promptness and despatch. hans. and if my soul is transferred to the baron’s body, shall i become as wicked as the baron? gentle. that depends entirely upon youself ; you carry with you all your moral qualities, and, subject to them, you are a free agent. hans. and bertha won’t know anything about it? gentle. certainly not. she will notice a curious change in the baron’s voice and manner, and that’s all. hans. it will be a change for the better. (c/zuckles.) i agree. go it. gentle. go what? hans. change me. gentle. oh, but i must get the baron’s consent first. hans. why? gentle. why, if i- take your soul out of your body, without finding room for it in the baron’s, you will be what is called “ dead.” you may have heard the term ? hans. i think i have. the ge./vtleman in black gentle. good—then you know what i mean. ah, here he comes. enter baron, l. u. :. baron. potz-tausend himmel sackerment noch emmal l she don’t care a bit for me! she loves that booby after all ! she only did it to tease him ! gentle. how do you do, baron? baron. who are you, sir, when you’re at home ? gentle. never mind who i am when i’m at h me—you’ll find out all about that some day. it is enough for you that i wish to be known as the gentleman in black. come, you have fallen desperately in love with bertha pompopplesdorf ; she flirted with you in order to excite her lover’s jealousy, and having done that she allowed you to see that she didn’t care a straw about you. you are at this moment wishing you were that lover—true ? baron (amazed). quite true! gentle. i have the power of transferring your soul into his body for one calendar month—at the end of the month your soul lievertps to its original tabernacle. what do you say ? shall i it. . ba/ron. for one month only. gentle. only for one month. this is the thirteemli august, , on the thirteenth september your souls will revert to their proper bodies. baron. agreed. go it. gentle. very good. behold—i go it! rncrtatrve. otto's body, grim and rlroll, shrine young hans’s simple soul ; otto’s soul, of moral shoddy, occupy young hans’s body ! [he makes passes, and flashes fire. hans immediately assumes the ferocious demeanour of the baron—the baron assumes the loutish demeanour of hans. . n.b.—for the salsa of convenience, hans’s body with — the bar n’s soul will be distinguished as the “ false hans,” the baron’s body with hans’s soul as the “real hans.” gentle. there, it’s done ! how do you like it? false hans. potz-tausend himmel sackerment noch emmal ! this is a tight fit ! _ real hans (chuckles as hans did——l oking in mirror). what an ugly brute i am ! " the geivtleman ./v black. false ha/ns (indignantly). potz-tausend! what do you mean by that? you’re a devilish good-looking fellow, sir. look at me! here’s a sight ! and i’ve got to go about like this for a month—and in these clothes, to)! potz-tausend himmel sackerment noch emmal! [pulls at cloth of his coat. real hans; i say, baron, don’t do that—that’s my best doublet, and it won’t stand trifling with. by the bye, where do you keep your pocket handkerchief? oh, i’ve got it (uses it—- a letter drops out of his pocket). hallo! what’s this? (reads) “ dearest otto———” false hans. give me that letter, sir, immediately. real hans. oh, no—excuse me. false hans. it’s from a lady, sir. potz-tausend! real hans. can’t help that. (ohuekies.) you should have emptied your pockets before you changed. . false hans (feeling in pocket, and producing bread and sausage). yvhat’s this? real hans. 'ha’hs my dinner—at least, your dinner. you have meat for dinner to-day to commemorate your betrothal. you’re in luck, baron! [ 'huekles. false hans. bread and sausage for a month ! (enter bnwrha.) potz-tauseud, but she's a lovely girl and i’ll bear with the inconveniences of my position for her sake! real hans. bertha ! [runs to embrace her. bertha. go away, you monster, i hate the sight of you. (to false hans.) hans, i’m very sorry i treated you so badly, but it was because you were so ridiculous as to be jealous of that extravagant scarecrow! as if any girl could love a monster with moles like hat-pegs. false hans. h’m ! his body isn’t so_ bad, bertha, but his moral qualities are contemptible. real hans. bah! i’m the ugliest beast on the face of the earth ! false hans. you’re not, sir! real hans. i am, sir! false hans. look at your nose, sir. 'l‘here’s a nose! there’s character in that nose, sir! there’s blood in that nose, sir! 'i‘here’s an eye, sir! there’s a sonnet in every look-—there’s a leg ! potz-tausend himmel sackerment noch emmal ! real hans (feeling his legs). hallo! it’s padded. (c'huel.'.les.) here’s a lark ! oh, i say, he pads his legs! false hans. it’s all stuff ! bertha. well, well, don’t quarrel. it’s quite enough for you, dear hans (to false hans) that i think him repulsive. i’ve come to beg your pardon for flirting with such a monster and to the gentleman in black. tell you that a ready to marry you immediately, and be a good and faithful wife to the end of my days—there. (kisses him.) '.l‘here’s an earnest of what is to come! ‘ real hans. she never did that to me. ’ false hans. potz-tausend himmel sackerment noch emmal! bertha. eh ? “lhat an extraordinary remark! he’s caught it from the baron! poor fellow, he thinks to please me by imitating the expressions of people of rank! real hans. bertha, listen to me : there’s a great change, that you know nothing about and that i can’t explain-— bertha. a great change? yes, i see there is a great change, but your hypocritical mildness will have no effect upon me. "t ' enter tmtelstein, maria, geetouen, emma, tneres.’ ., l. u. e. tintel. my lord, the baroness has arrived! real hans. very good, it’s no aflhir of mine. i t/intel. the baroness otto von schlachenstein, your wife. real hans. my wife? he, he, he l i like that! ttntel. she says you have deserted her, and she has come with her five children to claim protection. _' real hans. five children! this is beyond a joke. i don’t object to the wife—but five children-—— false hans. potz-tausend! but this is a narrow escape! all (to real haus). oh, you monster! bertha. and he tried to kiss me, and he’s a married man! maria. with five children! _ real hans. but, listen, i "am not the baron otto von schlachenstein, and i never had a child in my life. all. oh, oh! real hans. i’m not, indeed! that’s the baron. theresa. ihat? why that’s hans——- tintel. however, here she comes. enter the baroness with five little children, l. u. e. baroness (embracing real hans). baron! cruel, cruel, baron! _ tintel. (aside). here is an opportunity that may not occur again. ahem! (pulls out his address and begins to read.) “much respected and ever to be honoured madame, we, the syndic of schlachenschloss, dazzled by the surpassing beauty of your angelic countenance ” h baroness (pushing tnrrlestersr out qf the way). come ome. . the gentleman in black i eldest child. father, dear father, come home! [they cling round him. real hans. here, i say (to false hans). these are your children, you know -- baroness. baron! h real hans. that’s your husband, ma’am—take him and be sppy! baroness. that my husband? oh, otto, i never set eyes on the young man before! false hans. no, never! potz-tausend himmel sackerment noch emmal, she never set eyes on the young man before! baroness. and yet that exclamation! the baron’s favourite own l false hans. exclamations are common property, ma’am. you didn’t marry an oath, you married a man—a very good- looking one too. take him and be happy. real hans. it’s all a mistake. go away, you bold woman, and don’t kiss me like that. baroness. otto, come home! .. real hans. i don’t know who you are, but you’re a very brazen person. i’m a single man, and consequently i haven’t a family, and i must beg that you will remove these young per- sons directly. tintel. stop a bit, here’s a chance of recording a judgment at last! have you any proof that this gentleman is your husband ? baroness. proof ? i sent him a copy of my marriage certi- lficate a week ago—to prove that i could get another if i iked. ‘ real hans. eh ? [feels in his p cket—takes out letter. baroness. and there it is! see-—my own handwriting-—and here is more of it. [undoes his shirt collar, and reads marking on his shirt, “ tto, si"..” all. “ otto, six! ” t/lntel. it is indeed in her handwriting. , here is a strong priméfacie case. let both parties appear before me to-morrow morning, and this matter shall be investigated! baroness. i’ll go to the archduke, and compel you to receive me, or forfeit your estates. you know how strict he is in his own conduct. real hans. ma’am, the stricter he is in his own conduct, the less is he likely to approve your quartering yourself on a single gentleman. you’re quite at liberty to go to the archduke—or any other potentate you please. the gentleman v use/< concerted piece. baroness. monster, do you want to leave me? you who swore you’d never grieve me? of your love at once bereave me— oh, alack and well-a-day! ' baron. ma’am, i don’t know what your game is, quite unknown to me your name is- this dead set at me a shame is! naughty woman, go away ! bertha. oh, you monster unrelenting, listen to her loud lamenting— better be at once consenting— take her, baron—take her, pray ! ge-umpfi‘ (aside to barzounss). money of me try to borrow .till a verdict ends your sorrow (which will happen, ma’am, to-morrow) in the cottage you may stay ! gentle. this certificate i’m reading trumpets forth your evil breeding, for your conduct thus unheeding you will surely have to pay ! baroness. monster, do you mean to leave me? you who swore yoe’' never grieve me ? will you take me ? baron. no, i won’t, nm’am. baroness. don’t forsake me ? baron. no, i don’t, ma’am ! - baroness. don’t forsake me? baron. no, i don’t. phorus. monster, monster, monster, monster! hana. baron, you’re behaving sadly ! she adores you, fondly, madly— you will disappoint her sadly : seek her in her sad array ! bertha now she says she means to love you, and but it doesn't seem to grieve you grumpf. of her love she will bereave you oh alack and well-a-day ! baron. she’s no kind of wife of mine. ’tis for her (indicating bertha) i sigh and pine. bertha. you’ve been drinking too much wine such a thing to dare to say! chorus. baron, you’re behaving badly ! she adores you, fondly, madly- you will disappoint her sadly: seek her in her sad array ! baron. i've been drinking? why how dare you l bertha. don‘t be thinking i could bear you ! grumpf. for a linking, pray, prepare you ! hans. chains are clinking to ensnare you! gentle. stop your winking, she must share you ! all. baron, you’re behaving badly, etc. [at end of finale, basosess rushes of frantically l. u. e. leaving real hans surrounded by children. the gentle/van v bla ¢. : act ii. soene.—gastle gates of schlachenschloss. (the market boys and girls of act i. discovered.) they are engaged in preparing . triumphal arch for the arrival of the baron. chorus. in service, now, against our wills, compelled, alas, to stop ! we polish panes and window sills, and twirl the airy mop ! with every kind of mortal dread, we hear the baron's yoke, contrast it with the life we led as happy market folk l enter gnumrrr, l. u. e., at the end of chorus, cracking at long whip, and carrying aroll of calico. grunnpfl’. now, then, this won't do! this ain’t business, you know. come, the baron will be here in a minute, and the preparations for his welcome are not half finished. here is the scroll which is to surmount the arch. it’s my own composition. (unrolls scroll, “ welcome little stranger.’ ’) come, up with it. [cracks /whip-—they hang up scroll. maria. if you please, we can’t work if you crack your whip like that. grumpfl’. why not? [c'ra,ck¢'ng whip. maria. it makes us jump. grurnpfl’. ha! dou’t you complain as long as you only get the crack of it. theresa. why, you wouldn’t hit a woman. grumpf. wouldn’t ? why not ? gre°tchen. what, hit a woman who couldn’t hit you back avam . °grmnp_fl’. why you don’t suppose i’d be such a fool as to hit anybody who could ‘. gretchen. yes, i do. grumpfl’. then you don’t know me. no, no, the baron keeps me to flog the women and children. all the strong men are flogged by machinery. but don’t you abuse my whip : i’m very fond of my whip—i always have it about me. gretchen. you deserve to_have it about you! and if you’re so fond of it, don’t give it to us. we don’t like it. the gentleman in black grumpfi’ (furious). what’s that ? gretchen. nothing, i didn’t speak. grumpfil you said that i deserved to have it about e. gretchen. i don’t call that speaking, i call that thinking out loud. grurnpf. think to yourself then, or my whip will take to thinking out loud. and when it once begins it doesn’t leave ' in a hurry. sonc.-gru\ rr ~'. n o giddy flirt is this good whip: if once it holds you in its grip, of fickleness you can’t complain it comes again, again, again ! (cracking whip.) you can’t forget it—ii you do, be sure it will remember gou— its warm attentions will.not wane, ’twill come again, again, again! (cracking whip.) a heedless whip—it little reeks of beauty, figure, age or sex ; if once it holds you in its rein it comes again, again, again ! ’(cracluing whip.) a demoerat—prepared to strike ! the old, the sick, the weak alike! where once it’s been, it's always fain to come again, again, again ! (c'z'acklng whip.) [noise heard without, all come down hurriedly. maria. my dears, here’s the baron? how do i look ? gretchen. beautiful, dear—for you! oh, i'm in such a state of mind ! _ maria. if he touches me, i shall pinch him. grumpfl’. now, then, welcome his lordship—hurrah! the others (very faintly). hurrah! enter real hans, l. u. e., preceded by four servants bowing and walking backwards. he carries two of the children in his arms, the others are hanging about him. (he still retains all the outward appearance of the baron, with the manner of hans.) grurnpf. now then, take care, he’s going to begin! [all very frightened. real hans (looking at the arch). oh, how sweetly pretty! (holding up child.) look at it, tommy, ain’t it sweetly pretty! (grumrrr makes a preposterous bow .which frightens real hans very much.) now look here, don’t you hit me, i'm the baron, and you must be respectful. if you’re rude i shall be seriously annoyed. ' the gentlem./ v in black. ; grumpfi’. rude? my lord, i was making a bow. raeal hans. oh, i beg your pardon—but, may i ask who you are . grumpfl‘. ho, ho! that’s good! who am i ? his lordship’s joke! ho, ho, ho! (aside to servants.) he don’t often joke —so laugh, or you’ll catch it! servants. ho, ho, ho! real hans. look here, i don’t want to appear inquisitive, but i’m a stranger here, and i should like to know your name. - grumpfl’. i’ve been ten years in your lordship’s service, but if your lordship wishes me to mention my name, i’m delighted to humour your lordship’s joke. it’s grumpfi". . real hans. grnmpff, of course. ha, ha! (aside) i suppose i ought to have known that. grumpfi’. ha, ha! he’s been drinking. real hans. it’s my amusing way, my friends. (sees tnarussa.) hallo, theresa ! don’t you know me? theresa. n o, my lord—that is, i’ve seen you real hans. seen me, that’s a good ’un. (c'huekles.) why i’ve driven you up to market every day these twelve years. therea. driven me ? oh, dear no ! hans drives me always. grampfl’ (aside). he's been drinking a good deal. (aloud) my lord, i've organised the servants of the castle. i had to engage villagers for the purpose, but i’ve spent a fortnight in drilling them into their work. they’ve done pretty well, but i’ve several complaints to make. this girl, maria, burnt the toast last night. real hans (going up to maria, and taking her hand). ah, maria, i’m so glad to see you, my dear! i hope they’vo made you pretty comfortable. grumpfl’. i’ve ordered her seven days’ black-hole, and all her hair out off ! real hans. what! maria? grumpfl”. yes. she actually burnt the toast! real hans. oh, dear me, you shouldn’t have done that, grumpff. you mustn’t out off maria’s hair, you know. maria and i are very old friends, and i couldn’t hear of such a thing. grumpf. oh. he’s mad ! quite mad ! real hans. any more complaints ? grumpfl. lots! theresa has dry bread and water for a fortnight. real hans. theresa fed on dry bread! theresa, who had such an appetite, too? ho, ho! why what has she done? . the gentleman in black’. grumpfi. spilt the milk! a pint! real hans. oh dear, dear, you mustn’t punish theresa for spilling a pint of milk ! grumpfl’. not punish her ? real hans. not on any consideration. why how hungry she must be! now look here, grumpff, i’m sorry to trouble you, but you’ll oblige me very much if you’ll be so good as to fetch theresa two or three nice slices of galantine and a bottle of—- what would you like a bottle of, theresa ? theresa. hock. real hans. and a bottle of hock. will you be so good ? grumpfl’. eh? oh, of course, if your lordship wishes it! real hans. you don’t mind ? grunipf. oh dear no ! not at all. real hans. well, trot along, grumpfll mind—the best . hock! maria. why, he’s as mild as curds and whey ! and grumpff told us you were a devil ! real hans. the devil he did! grumpfi, did you tell these ladies i was a devil? _ grumpfi’ (aside). ladies ! (aloud.) yes, my lord, i did. and so you are! real hans. oh, grumpff, you shouldnn‘ have told ’em that. that 'was very unkind of you, grumpfil i wouldn’t have believed it of you, grumpff—i wouldn’t indeed! now, my dears, if you will be so good as to go into the hall, grumpff will see that you have everything of ' the best, won’t you, grumpff ? and if he doesn’t, let me know, my dears, and he shall be dis- charged. grumpfll it’s my belief i’m fast asleep and dreaming. (aloud.) my lord, i don’t know whether i’m asleep or awake-— will your lordship be good enough to pinch me? real hans. with pleasure, grumptf. where would you like to have it? grump_fi". in the calf of the leg, my lord, if you don’t mind? real hans. certainly, grumpff—here ? [finches his leg. grumpf (screaming). i’m awake! [emeunt grumrff and seevaets laughing, l. real hans (surrounded by children). this is bertha’s wedding day ! this morning she marries that fearful baron who’s at this moment occupying my body! and he’s a married man! and i can’t prevent it ! [baby cries. st child. papa, baby’s hungry. real hans. i hear him, my dear, but i don’t know what to the gentleman v black. ' : give him; i ain’t used to children, my dear—it’s very awkward. do you think he would like achop, and a glass of beer? would it like a chop, then—a pickley wickley wee? never did know anything about children. take it away to giunipff, my dear, and tell him to do all that’s necessary. (eldest h l takes baby, and all children go of.) poor little things ! it’s a dreadful responsibility. oh, bertha, bertha, what am i under- going on your account!’ enter br;a ‘ua, r. u. e. bertha. my lord! real hans. bertha! you here? i came away here to get away gem you. your lover probably awaits you. you’d better to im. - g bertha. yes, my lord, but as you’ve engaged all my friends as your servants, i’ve come to ask if you will be so kind as to give thglgl a holiday this evening to enable them to be present at my we ing. real hans. are you not afraid to present yourself before such a bloodthirsty vindictive villain as i am represented to be? bertha. oh, but everybody says you’ve changed so wonder- fully in the past fortnight, that you’re now just as mild and good-hegted asum(yi' po'{)r glans used to bc! real ans. se to e. bertha. yes. (crying) he’s so strangenow! he swears so dreadfully, and he gets tipsy every night—so tipsy! so—so- ti sy. ‘ plteal hans. the dissipated beast! bertha. and when i won't sit on his knee—which i won’t— i won’t—i wo.\i"t do—he pinches me! real hans. the brute. i’ll pay him out for this! bertha. oh,_ its all my fault; i was so unkind to him that it turned his bram. _ but_i’m determmed to make amends for my wlck ;id il , ailig if lovmg-kmdness can brmg h m round, he’ll soon e a rig agam. soiw .-bertr-ia. ah, once he loved me blindly, all other girls above ! i treated him unkindly and sported with his love: i smiled on others sweetly and would not tell him why : i broke his heart completely a wretched girl am i ! ah, me, a wretched girl am ! iv. s ' the gentle./wazv v bla cs: his head is turned with sorrow: . he hates his’dearest friends—-‘ . i’ll marry him to-morrow, _ and then i'll make amends ! the grief with which he's laden i’ l lighten all my life: a gentle little maiden‘, a loving little wife! ah me, i’ll try to makoamends l ah me, i’ll try to make amends! ‘ [emit bertha, l. real hans. poor little girl !----and to think that all that devotion, under difficulties, she lavishes on that senseless brute, is, in reality, my property! -l_t’s enough to make a fellow swear that he’ll stick to his own body for the rest of his life! false hans (without). potz.tausend himmel sackerment noch emmal! where’s your.master? ’ enter gauiurrr, e.folll‘q ll/‘ed’ by) fhlsir. h.‘ans, whom he is‘endeav¢ruring’to stop. '.; ' ' grnmpfl”. come, ‘come, ypung man,'this _won’t' do. _ _ false hans. young inanl. you; _know whom you’re addressing, grumpff? . __._ _ ‘ _ _ __ _‘ _ _ - j_ ‘ __ grumpf. grumpff ! he calls me gijumplf ! -here come out of this! '_ . .' ' ' . _ [collars him—'reai. ha <s.pulls him oflfl and sends him ' spinning round the stage.‘ false hans has had his hair cut, and looks /much_ smarter and less stupid than he_ali¢t—real hus 'b _irs'ts into tears at seeing . him’., and falls sobbinrg at table. _ if ' ' false hans. ahem ! now fo'r"a ,bold stroke.‘ potz’-tausend, but i’m tired‘ of this péasant’s ‘life, and i can’t. s'tand_'ano't_her fortnight of it!‘ his_ confounded naster wollops_me when i don’t work, and w_heu_i do he gives me bread and sausage. so here goes fora good one.‘ ’(aioud.) hans! ' ' l ' real hans. eh ? why you’ve been and out my hair l' false hans. i have. real hans. and you’ve washed my face, too! false hans. i have. it’s my wedding-day. ‘ fra;p:lh.l ans. ‘l) at’s a very great liberty.’ and you’re afrai.f. c in co . " ‘ false llhns. n ; i am afraid. of nothing [weeps.< real hans. well,'f r a man who’s airaidof nothing, youseem; to cry a good.¢leal. ' kglse _han_s. {_a;i,firibz te it to remorse. -'. ; . gentleman. ./v black; : real hans. i will. false hans. i am a great scoundrell real hans. you are ! false hans. i have committed a fearful crime. real hans. you have—a many! false hans. one in particular. hans, i have done you an irreparable injury. real hans. i’i quite aware of that; you’re going to marry my sweetheart. (weeps.) and you’re a married man! and i can’t prevent it! false hans. yes, but this is a greater injury still—an injury that dates manymany years back! listen, and i will tell you all! there is no occasion to disguise our identities when we are alone with each other. i am ott —you are hans. real hans. in one sense i am. false hans. but—(and this is very secret)-—you are not hans! real hans. in one sense i am not. false hans. bah! i mean that you never were hans—i mean that you were changed at birth! real hans. eh ? bywhom? false hans. by.mel’ _. ‘ real hans. by you? you shouldn’t have d e that. false hans. i should not. that is the secret crime that is weighing me down—that is the misdeed that blights my present happiness. [ weeps. real hans. will you take anything? false.hans. nothing. i have already a weight here which is heavier than i can bear, and i would not add to it. i will tell you all ! listen ! real hans. i am all ears. ‘ false hans. you are! twenty-five years ago the infant son of baron rudolph von schlachenstein was put out to nurse, when two days old, in the family of hans gopp, a simple peasant. - real hans. my father! _. _ false hans. the simple peasant had a son of the same a e ‘ . . g_real hans. myself! _ .‘ . . false hans. the two children were fed by one common mother. and a commoner mother never stepped ! . real hans. she was common. false hans. potz-tausend! don’t interrupt me. fraulein gopp took the deepest interest in the young aristocrat, and brutally neglected her own child“ she provided the baron’s the gentleman in black. son with a beautiful cradle, and fed him all day long. her own son occupied a clothes-basket, and lived on chop-bones and cold pie-crust. envy rankled in the heart of that poor little boy. the young baron occupied his place at his mother’s breast— the young baron slept in his cradle—the young baron had his soothing syrup at night, and was dodged up with his powder puff in the morning. the peasant babe slept in : clothes- hasket, and had to take his chance of the pump for a morning’s wash. the peasant’s babe, as he saw lavished on the young baron all the attentions that should have been his own, gnashed his toothless gums with envy, and swore to be avenged. one night—the babes were three weeks old, and were wonderfully alike—the peasant’s babe crept from his clothes-basket, quietly removed the sleeping baron from his sumptuous cradle, placed the baron’s son in the clothes-basket, and creeping into the baron’s cradle, covered himself up and went to sleep. the cheat was never discovered! the peasant’s son was brought up as the young baron—the young baron as the peasant’s son. i was the peasant’s son, hans gopp; you-—y u were the babe of the baron von schlachenstein! real hans. this is very complicated. then i, before i occu- pied your body, was really the baron whom you represented yourself to be? false hans. you were! and i, who all my life passed for the baron otto von schlachenstein, was, it point of fact, hans gopp, the peasant! oh, remorse, remorse! but it is not too late to atone for the injury i have done you! real hans. but i think you must be mistaken, for you are twenty years older than i am. false hans. i am now-—but when i was three weeks old, of course i was the same age as you were when you were three weeks old. real hans (puzzled). of course, i see. false hans. you see i am naturally quicker than you are—- besides, i’m ashamed to say i’ve lived a very fast life. real hans. true; i forgot that. then i really am a baron ? false hans. you really are! real hans. .and you really are a peasant? false ha-ns. i really am! real hans. all right then—then that’s settled. false hans. but real hans. you can go. false hans. potz-tausend! don’t be in a hurry. we mustn’t neglect formalities. here is a statement of the fact that you . the gentle /if/i n [n bla ck’. are baron von schlachenstein, and i am hans gopp. we will both execute it-—here, sign. real hans. there you are. (signs.) hans gopp. false hans. and there you are. ( signs.) otto von schlachen- stein. real hans. good morning. false hans. eh ? real hans. you can go —- false hans. oh, no; i’ve not done with you yet. by our agreement with the gentlemen in black, hans gopp has to occupy the baron’s castle till the month is up, and the baron has to occupy hans’s hut, until the month is up. but you are the baron under this deed. so if you please you will be good enough to get out of this castle without further delay. real hans. but now, by your own showing i am the baron’s soul in the baron’s body false hans. no, you are the rightful baron’s soul in hans gopp’s body. i am hans gopp’s soul in the baron’s body. potz-tausend, you are very dull! real hans. well, let me see-—this is so confusing— false hans. look here, i’ll make it plain—here is hans gopp’s body—here is hans gopp’s soul—here is the baron’s body—here is the baron’s soul. well, hans’ body goes into the baron’s soul—the baron’s soul into hans’ body. (very rapidly). but hans’ body turns out to be the baron’s body, and the baron’s soul turns out to be hans’ soul; so, as the baron’s soul has to go into hans’ body and hans’ soul into the baron’s body, and as the baron turns out to be hans and hans turns out to be the baron, remembering that the baron and hans on the one side must be kept distinct from the baron’s soul and hans’ soul on the other, it follows that you are hans’ soul in the baron’s body—i am the baron’s soul in hans’ body; the baron is hans—hans is the baron—you are me—i am you—yours is mine—mine is yours—and out of this you go as soon as you conveniently can. i hope that’s clear. real hans (puzzled). perfectly. false hans. it’s as clear as day. real hans. it’s as clear as some days—in november. false hans. very good; then for another month—that is to say, till the thirteenth of september—you are the baron’s soul in hans’ body. . enter gentleman in black, l. u. e. real hans. my dear sir, your head’s clearer than mine—if you can tell me, certainly and once for all, who i am and whose the gezvtleiiia./v v blaca’. body~i am‘ occupying you’ll remove a great weight of doubt from my mind. as long as i’m occupying this beast of : body ‘ false hans (angrily). it’s a very nice body. real hans. it ain’t! false hans. it is ! [threatening him with dagger. real hans (frightened). well, now i look at it again it is a nice body—well as long as i’m occupying this very agreeable body, it doesn’t muchmatter to me whether i’m hans or the baron, so that it’s clearly understood which of thetwo i really am. (to gentleman.) here, perhaps you can tell me. gentle. oh, it has nothing to do with" me—settle it among y urselvcs—only whatever you decide upon you must stick to. false hans. this man is a pretender. - real hans. 'l‘here’s no doubt that i am a pretender, but whom i’ n pretending to be, is entirely beyond my comprehension. i’ve been chopped and changed about so often in the course of the last week that l’ve lost the thread of the story, and i’ll be damned if i know who i am! gentle. by this paper you admit that you are the baron’s soul occupying hans gopp’s body—he admits that he is hans gopp’s soul in the baron’s body. false hans. exactly. ' real hans. very good; then that’s understood-—that’s settled. i’ a peasant till the thirteenth september, then i shall be a baron. false hans (to geetlemae). before the fortnight is up, i shall destroy the paper, and prove by the fact that i am twenty years older than he is, its utterly impossible we could have been changed at birth— shall return to my rank, and-he will be punished as an impostor. good joke, isn’t it? gentle. excellent. . enter bentha and grumrrr, running, l. u. e. qumcrntte. ' bertha. baron, here is news alarming! grurnpfif. comes your wife, so fair and charming e ' bertha. mandate from the empress bearing ! grurnpf. perem ptorily declaring- bertha. since marriage you have sought her—- you must take her and support her ' baron. l’m perpetually harried ! if the baroness has married, otto, lord of schlachenstein. that is no affair of mine ! ‘. " =e the gentleman v black baron. potz-tausend himmel sackerment noch emmal! this won’t do! the month isn’t up yet! hans. he, he, he! i say, otto, ain’t you glad to get back again ? baron. potz-tausend! he calls me otto ! i am the baron otto von sohlachenstein. remember that when you presume to address me! hans. oh, no—by your own showing, and under this deed, am the baron. you know you changed me when we were three weeks old! you gnashed your toothless gums with envy, and swore to be avenged; and then, overwhelmed with remorse, you confessed all, and restored me to my estate and dignity. [c'huckles. baron. but we were to change for a month, and only a fortnight has elapsed. gentle. not for a month—it was from the thirteenth august to the thirteenth of september, . baron. well, that is a month, isn’t it? gentle. not in this case. thirteen days have been omitted from the calendar, and your mouth is only a fortnight. i’m sorry for you, baron, but hans takes your title and estate—you take his farm. baron. potz-tausend himmel sackerment noch emmal! i’ve been done! why i haven’t anything in the world! baroness. nothing, baron? do you call me nothing? do you call this interesting family, nothing? baron. get ut—i don’t want you! tintel. oh, but this won’t do, you know! here is the decree given under the sign manual of the emperor; there’s no getting over that! she’s your wife, and you must support her. baron. potz-tausend! but this is hard! baroness, come to my arms ! (to the others.) the communication need not be walled up. bertha (to haus). why, hans, how you’ve changed again! why, you’re just the same as you used to be. hans. bertha, i’m a baron, now, and you shall be a baroness. i was changed at birth by that big, bad man, but he won’t change me at birth any more, if i knowit! bertha. but what does it all mean? hans. why it means that i’m mad with happiness at the nalrirow escape you’ve had of being married to that unmitigated vi am. bertha. married to him, hans ? why such an idea never entered my head! hans. oh, bertha, how can you stand there, and tell such- the gentleman in bla ck. (recolleeti/zg)— n , no—of course not—it was to me you were going to be married, wasn’t it? bertha. of course! hans. and to me you shall be married. friends, i invite you all—except you—(to real hans)-—to my wedding, and you may give us three cheers, if you like, in honour of the approaching nuptials. finale. we will set the bells a-ringing, flowers, too, we will be bringing, marriage songs so gaily singing, keep it as a holiday ! brantinghame hall. first performed at the st. james's theatre, london, under the manage- ment of mr. rutland barrington, on tuesday, th november, . dramatis personze. lor ) saxmundham, of brantingharne hall mr. nu'rcoman gouu). hos. arthur redmayne, travelling in australia his sons hon. alaric redmayne, at eton mr. thursny, a country gentleman mr. rutland barr ngton. ralrh cramrton, travelling with mr. w. hernert. mr. duxczm fleet. arthur redmayne mr. l ':w s w.u.ler. rev. noel ross, a bush missionary mr. nor.\mn fornes. ‘ mr. parfit, a london solicitor mr. gilnert trent mr. paulry, a sydney solicitor mr. new.-\ll. d ck somers mr. c. dodswort -i. sm ti-iers /mr. dixon. crumr aufmllillfl stvckmen mr. 
[ ntagu- blueny j imr. f. lacy. baker mr. nicol pentland. parker, mr. t/tursb_|/'s butler mr. warden. lady saxmmmum mrs. gasa'on murray. ruth, wife qfzlrthur redmayne m ss julia neilson. manel, thursby’s daughter miss ros]: norreys. act i. brunts station, new south wales. eighteen months are supposed to elapse between act: i. and i i. acts ii. and iii. brantinghame hall. a fortnight is supposed to elapse between ac/s ii. and iii. act iv. morning room at mr. thursby’s. an interval e. two hours between acts hi. and iv. brantinghame hall. act i. sceee.—brunt‘s station, .n.s.w. house and verandah, l. palisade, r., with gate up stage. basket chairs, r.c. and l.c.. and under verandah. group of australian stockmen and cowboys discovered. the following song heard before the curtain rises. as the curtain rises the song finishes. soxg.—cuumr, and at/lers. your saturday night comes once a week, and once a month your pay day ; and once a year your birthday’s here (and i was born on a may-day). but honeymoons ’twixt women and me‘m they mostly happen but now and then ; so better sing, t the rol, and likewise, tooral lay. some years, mayhap, must needs go by ere you are likely to enjoy another wedding-day ! another wedding-day ! crump. whew ! singin’s warm work ! smithers. gar’ long. ’taint work—it’s play. call it work, and who’d do it? not bill crump, know ! blueby. that’s true. but here’s mr. redmayne cumin’. who’ll speak to him? baker (up stage, coming down r. ... i’ll speak him. clear a -space, mates; gie us elber room. smit. no, no. we don’t want no j ackaroo tospeak for us. dick somers ’ll speak; he's got larnin’. [pushes baker down r. blue. aye, and manners, too. ' all. aye, dick somers ! crump. dick somers it is. tail ofl’, johnny baker—you’re no good. bra n t inghame hall. somers (l. of crumr). all right, mates, here goes ! [baker sulkily. enter arthur redmayne and rev. noel ross from house. redmayne (from verandah). good day, my men. i hear you wish to speak to me. som. beggin’ your pardon, sir, but i’m the mouth of these hands, as the sayin’ is. . c _r . r i ' baker (down r.). hands ain’t got mouths. ‘ - crump. shut up, johnny. carry on, dick somers. sam. (bothered). i dunno’ where i was. baker. you was a sayin’ you was a mouth. oh you was. sam. of all these here cowboys. to be sure. leastwise they’ve arst me to convey to you'their sentiments on the recent aspicious occasion of your marriage with miss ruth. that’s right, mates, ain’t it ? . blue. aye, that’s right; carry on. som. well, i’m a doin’ my best. baker. aye, aye,_il’s your best, i dessay. . sam. (aside, with an efort). it’s ’ard to ‘old oneself in, but manners prewail. (aloud.) three months since you come here, unbeknown to us, and in that time you’ve won the ‘and- somest and the best, and the truest-’arted gal in the colony. well, sir, we don’t thank you for that—we’ll wait and see how you treat her, fust. that’s right, ain’t it mates? blue. ah, right enough, god bless her! som. we’ve know’d her longer than what you have most of us ’as seed her grow up from a babby to a gal, and from a gal to a young woman, and she’s allus had a kind word and a kind look for all of us. we?re a roughish lot, but there ain’t one of us as she ain’t softed. she softed me. baker. somebody has. you’re soft enough, anyhow ! sam. (rushing angrily wt baker. smithers and blueby catch hold of somers’s coat-tail, and hold him back). look ’ere, johnny baker. i’m a hot’un ; i can’t help it. i’m a ’olding of myself back by main force, but by thunder, next time you put your spade in, it’s a fair fight, so tail ff.! (to redmayne.) beggin’ your pardon, sir, for displayin’ a little ‘eat; but i ain’t a parliament man, and consekently, ain’t been brought up on interruptions. here’s wishin’ you both ’ea.lth and ’appiness, sir. and that’s all ! .. red. (on steps of verandah). my good friends, i’m much touched by your kind words. that i’ve won a treasuee, i know, and i’ll keep her as i’d keep a treasure. i won’t say what ’ll do, for nothing is easier than to do that now,.and go. * ... _ — _ — — " ___,,.__—_'... bra vt nghame hall. : from it afterwards. time will show. three months ago my friend, mr. ralph crampton, brought me here to brunt’s station, a poor thread-paper of. a man, deadly sick of a raging fever. stephen brunt knew nothing about me, except that i was a sick man, but that was enough for him, and he received me with generous hospitality; and as my friend was obliged to leave me to go to sydney, stephen brunt’s daughter tended me with angel hands and angel heart. so i fell in love with her, and we were married at. rathbone, three weeks since. we stopped there till three days ago, when we started on our ride home. and as there’s a good dinner spread for you under yonder gum tree, the first that gets there will get the most of it. ' . somers. thankee, sir. (stockmen going" of through gate.) hold hard, mates ! manners, mates, manners! three cheers for mr. redmayne. he ain’t arned. them yet, but he will. all. hurray! hurray! hurrayl . _ ' [eaaeunt crowd through gale. ross (coming down and sitting). by the way, redmayne, have you written to tell lord saxmundham that you have married ruth brunt ? . red. (standing). well, no-—not yet.. _ ross. i think you ought to let your father know. red. i ought, no doubt, noel ross. the question is, when and how? ‘ . [crosses to ross. ross. the answer is, at once, and in the plainest terms. red. ah, you don’t know my. father. he’s as pooras job, and as proud as lucifer; and if i wrote to tell himthat i., his oldest living son, and heir to the title, had married the daughter of an ex-convict, i don’t believe he’d liveto read any further. i might cover a ream of paper with thuzstory of how she saved my life, and how i’ fell in love with her; bit by bit, until she was more to me than the life shesavarl; t wouldn’t do. ‘no, i must take ruth to england with‘ me as soon as her father is well again, and let her gentle voice tell its own convincing tale. _ , . ’ . [crossss to r. . ross. well, as you please. i’ve said‘ my say, and i’ve done. by the way, i suppose you know that your friend crampton is expected backfrom sydney to-day ?’ _ . [ris §'ng. .red. yes, i’m sorry to say i do. ross. sorry ! i thought you were close friends ? red. we were—but i’ve just heard that ralph cramptonhas been proved to be a thorough scamp. it seems that he has an unacknowledged wife somewhere, whom he ill-treated, and who left him. it’s rather awkward, for he has advanced £ , to brantinghame hall. my poor father on the security of brantinghame hall, and it won’t do to quarrel with him just now. [seated r.c. ross. does he know of your marriage? red. no, he doesn’t. ross. and is ruth satisfied with this state of things? red. poor child, she knows nothing of the world outside brunt’s claim. it is enough for her that we love each other dearly, and that you have married us. i have told her that i will take her home to my father, and she is content. ah ! you old bachelors don’t know how far the devotion of a loving woman will carry her. ross. don’t i? my good friend, i was once the incumbent of a fashionable london parish. red. the deuce you were! then this bush-life must be a change to you? ross. it is; and that’s why i adopted it. between ourselves, my dear fellow, i had to leave london in a hurry. red. how was that? if it _isn’t a fair question, don’t answer it. ross. why the fact is—you'd never guess it-—but, between ourselves, i’m desperately impressionable, and with half the women of my parish setting their caps at me, i wasn’t safe. they never left me. presents showered down upon me. it literally rained carriage-rugs, altar-cloths, birthday books, paper- knives, letter-weights, pocket-diaries, knitted waistcoats, and presentation inkstands. i was the repository of all their con- fidences. i had to devote two hours every day to deciding cases of female conscience of the most complicated and delicate description. my photographs bought up as fast as they could be printed! half-a-dozen ladies of exalted rank were carried out in convulsions whenever i preached ! the situation became serious: it was more than a highly susceptible clergyman ought to be called upon to bear. to make a long story short, there was nothing for it but flight. so, one night—one dark november night—i fled ! i sailed at once for sydney, and here i am, a hard-working bush missionary, with thirty or forty miles to ride every day—a fine field of usefulness before me, and—except your wife, whom i am much obliged to you for having marriec_i—nothing in the shape of a handsome woman within a week’s march. i weathered ’em, sir; i weathered ’em. it was a hard fight, but, by jove! i won it, sir. by jove ! i won it. [takes stage l. __-__ -— brant ./vghaiiie hall. enter ruth, from house. ruth. who speaks of fighting on such a day as this ? noel ross! a clergyman! oh, noel ross! [goea. ross. it was a bloodless fight, my dear ruth, but a hard one, nevertheless. (redmayne comes down). i have been told that i am no dne’s enemy but my own. but a man who is his own enemy, and in that capacity conquers himself, has achieved a victory of which he may be permittedto crow alittle. (goes to steps of uerandah.) by the way, we were talking about you a minute ago. redmayne, my boy, tell her what we were saying. [emit ross into house. red. noel ross was saying that i ought to tell my father of our marriage, my darling. _ ruth. yes. it seems to me that that is right. why should you not do so? red. i wanted my father to see you first. ruth. he may not like me. [st'ttt'ng. real. ha ! ha! ruth. he is a very proud man, is he not? red. yes; and he will be prouder than ever when he sees the beautiful daughter i have given him. ruth. i do not quite understand. i am stupid, i think, because to tell him seems to me so easy, and so simple, and so plain a thing to do. he is a lord, you say? real. yes, he is a lord. ruth. is he very wise and good? red. very. good and wise in all he docs. ruth. and is that why he was made a lord? red. no. it is not for their wisdom or their virtues that lords are made. our fanflly has been noble for three centuries. ruth. then i suppose, you will be lord some day. red. yes, if i survive my father. and then you will be lady saxmundham. ruth. i! that is strange. it does not seem in reason. [risen red. why not, ruth? ruth. i have done nothing to deserve it. i am an untaught farmer’s girl—very foolish, i suppose, and quite ignorant of all. that a lady should know. lady saxmundham! no, it certainly does not seem right. red. (seated. ruth at his feet). my dearest child, there are many good and beautiful women in the british peerage, and there are, i am sorry to say, some who are neither good nor beautiful. they are as other women are—neither better nor iv. ' ‘ = brantinghame hall. worse. but be sure of this, my darling—that there is none among them who "wears her coronet more gracefully than the good and pure and gentle girl will do whom i have.made my wife." will you believe this ? ‘ . . . ruth. it seems strange that it should be so, but i believe everything you say to me. even now i cannot understandwhy you do not write to your father to say that yolf have married me. " " red. you believe me when i tell you that it is better that i should wait until he sees you. ruth (looking up at .him). yes, i believe that. you say so, and therefore i believe it. i love you, and therefore i am content to believe. i am untaught, and i do not know many things. but be sure that i believe. [redmayne'kisses her. red. and now, ruth (they rise), i have some news for you. my friend, ralph crampton, who had to go to sydney ten days after i was brought to your father's run, wrote a few days since to say that he was soon to return. i did not get the letter until i arrived to-day, and his horses are already in sight on the wabba road. ruth. m ". crampton! _ . red. yes. you don’t seem pleased. . ruth. no, i am not pleased. is he very dear to ‘your? lfted. well, no, he is not very dear. but why do you as ? . " » _ ruth. when you first came to us-—when your fever was at its very w rst—i saw him often. real. yes. ruth. during that time his bearing towards me made me think—that he hoped i should some day be to him what i am to you. ' red. why, what do you mean, ruth? . _ ruth. he seemed strangely interested in me; and, indeed, before he quitted us he gave me cause to think that it distressed him solely that he should have to go. at first i thought it was because he wished to be with you; but from what he said, i do not think it was that. red. do you mean to tell me that ralph crampton had the audacity to make love to you? ’ . ruth. he said little, but-—i am quite frank with you, as i always will be—and think he wished me to believe that he loved me. red. why the man is married! ruth. married! ‘ red. yes, secretly married, and parted from his wife!-i and bra v t ingha me hall. tliisfellow dared to cast his eyes upon you? why he is a scoundrel indeed. . ruth. it may be that i have misjudged him. still i am not glad that he is coming back. there is that in him which makes me fear him. red. (taking her hand). have no fear, ruth, while i am here. but say nothing to him about his marriage. i only heard of it by a side wind, and" i suppose he would resent any allusion to it. here he js—whom has he brought with him? ' [goes l. both goes r. enter ralrh cr:a _urton and ms. paulby, through gate. ralph. redmayne, my dear fellow, i’m overjoyed to see you well and hearty again. why you have picked up, indeed ! and it is to this kind and good nurse that we owe it that you are still with us. (to ruth.) thank you, thank you most heartily, my dear young lady (takes her hand). (to redmayne.) why you’re as bright as a pi pin! by the way, allow me to introduce my fellow traveller, r. paulby. i know his name, and that he has business with you; but he's a devilish close fellow, and he won’t tell me more than that. _ [ruth is up the stage at gate. ralrh goes to her. paulbg. mr. redmayne, i am a sydney solicitor, and i have business of the very deepest importance with you. will you kindly grant me ten minutes interview. red. business with me?‘ you bring me no bad news about my father or mother? paul. n , my business has no connection with them. red. then pray be so good as to step inside. mr. crampton will excuse me, i know. ' [emeunt renmmrse and paulby into house. ralph (up stage). mr. crampton will do so, with all his heart. (ruth crosses as if to enter house. ralrh intercepts her). miss ruth, i have taken it for granted, perhaps un- reasonably, that i may once more claim your hospitality. ruth. it is not my hospitality that you claim but my father’s. _ ralph. i would not accept his hospitality, unless i knew that it was endorsed by yourself. _ ruth. it is my duty to welcome my father’s guests. ralph. well, i must make the most of your answer. ruth. why must you make the most of it? i speak in plain and simple words. ' ralph. perhaps i expected more than a statement of duty. : brantinghame hall. if so, i was unreasonable. i finished my work in sydney four days since, and, as you see, i have lost no time in returning here. ruth. to see your friend, and to learn from his own lips that he is well again. that is natural. [crosses to l. ralph. he owes his life to you. ' _ [putting his riding crop down. ruth. nay, i did but tend him. heaven was good to him, and he lived. [seated. . ralph. he’s a lucky fellow. it is worth while travelling to death’s door, to be brought back by you. i would glad y—oh, how gladly !—have done so myself. [crossing to l. ruth. do not see why you should wish to do that. you have been well, while he has been sick. you should be thankful. ralph. i would gladly be what i should be. i would gladly learn what i should be, from you. ' ruth. from me! ralph. yes. i’ve passed a wild life enough, yet no worse a life than that of ten men out of a dozen—a heedless, reckless life, living for the day, and for the day only. i have thought lightly of women, and treated them lightly, and many of the women i have met deserved nothing better. but when fate threw me into your path, i saw in you, not what woman is, but what woman might be—(rutr rises alarmed)—something to idolize, something to worship with a sacred madness, some- thing that purifies by the emanation of her own purity, the incarnation of every psalm that has found favour in the creator's eyes! ruth. oh stop—stop, i pray you! [crosses to r. ralph. during the fortnight that i was with you, i had but one thought, and that was of you. i loved you, from the moment our eyes met, with a love that has become a religion, i have knelt to you, have prayed to you, night and morning. night and morning! every hour of the day and night, every minute. of every hour! oh, my god, every atom of time has been passed with you! well, i am here at last in your presence, and i hang on your answer, as a doomed man hangs on the hope of pity and of pardon. ruth. mr. crampton! you do not know what you are saying! (sees redmayne who enters from behind house, (li-]’(|.d_l'l"'l ."}l€ to him.) oh arthur! arthur! tell him—tell rm [renmayua seizes ralrh who has "followed ruth. ruth remains in great agitation. brantinghame hall. ross and paulby enter from behind house, and watch the scene from gate. red. you mean and miserable hound! you coarse and cowardly scoundrel! _ ralph. what do you mean? take your damned hands off ! are you all mad ? red. you aeoursed villain! you shall have good cause to repent tbis—this insult—this outrage! ralph. insult! outrage! i love this girl honourably, and i have told her so. what is there in this to justify your brutal insolence? it is the insolence of a coward who knows his strength. it is that, and no more and no less than that! red. you dare to characterise the insult you have ffered to this lady as honourable love? why, your love is a blasphemy; and the lady to whom you have offered it is my wife. ' ralph. your wife! red. yes. where is yours ? ralph. mine? i don’t understand you. red. you lie. i know your secret. you are married to one eva templeman. heaven pity and help her! (t' ruth.) my darling, don’t tremble; you are safe. i am with you. ralph (with suppressed fury). you have done well to make an enemy of me. you have done well and wisely. you fool ; was there no way to let me know this, but the way you have chosen? do you know the nature of the man on whom you have inflicted this deadly insult? do you know how much devil goes to make a determined and life-long enemy? if not, you shall learn. it may be sooner; it may be later. it may be to-day ; it may be to-morrow. but the reckoning will come —be sure of it—and it shall dog you to the grave! [emit ralrh through gate, which paulby politely opens. red. there, the pest has gone, and the air is sweeter for it. i beg your pardon, mr. ross; but he’s a villain, and i’ve told him so. ross (up stage). so you have. i think you made your meaning quite clear. don’t apologise, my dear f.llw. i should be sorry if i had been a restraint on your movements. ruth. but his threat. oh, my beloved; his threat ! red. (putting her over to c.). hush, my wife. you must not allow yourself to be frightened by such a turnip-headed ghost as that. if he rise, be sure know how to lay him. but in the excitement of dealing with that scoundrel, i forgot to tell you the news that mr. paulby has brought me. it is aaaawzyavgaa me - hall. good news, ruth though there's a death in it. my godfather, james crawshay, died in england a few weeks ago, and has left me the bulk of his fortune. it is a big thing—nearly three hundred thousand, i understand—enough to make me a rich man, and rich enough to enrich my poor old father. ruth. why that is a vast fortune, is it not ? ross (coming down.) pretty well, my dear. nothing to an american oilman; but a large fortune, indeed, to a poor englishman. - red. but that's not all my news. i am one of the trustees under the will—the affairs of the estate are in the greatest confusion, and, in short, we must leave for england at once. ruth. at once oh no, no! red. at once,—without an hour's delay. mr. paulby secured a cabin for us on board the “calypso.” before he left, and we sail in three days. a pair of fast cobs are already in the trap, and all that is necessary for the voyage we can purchase in sydney. [ruth dazed, turns to paulby, enquiringly. paul. (coming down). i am sorry to say mrs. redmayne, that, having regard to the enormous interest at stake, and the confusion in which sir james crawshay's affairs were left, it is absolutely necessary that your husband should return to england forthwith. ruth. but my father | i cannot leave my father! he is very sick and like to die! oh, arthur, you will not take me from my father! red. i know it is hard to have to leave him in his critical condition; still, means can, no doubt be found whereby he could be nursed during your absence. ruth (after a pause). no. i cannot leave my father to be tended by strangers. he is sick unto death, and am every- thing that he has. - - [paulby goes to ruth and attempts to console her. ross. redmayne, she's right. there is no knowing how long you may be detained in england, and her duty is with her father. ruth. yes, in th my father; that is plain... my my darling love, be comforted. it is a of us, but the interests at stake are sacrifice i mus as soon as-your you will follow noel ross and mr. that—and wi. but that in a few e in england - . d o f . r o. s s. r o s s braauznghmme huez. ” here is my will, made in ruth’s favour, and some other papers, which you will read and act upon. (grasping ross’s hand.) good-bye, old fellow. (music to the end of act.) and now, my beloved child (turning to ruth and putting her to l.c.) farewell, and may heaven protect and guide you, my darling, until we meet again. (embraces her. ruth is weeping bitterly through these lines. he make; as if to go—pauses—embraces her again.) mr. paulby, i am ready ! [backs from her. ruth. (about to faint.) arthur! arthur! [redmayne catches her in his arms as she falls fainting on the stage. act il interior of brantinghame hall. large oak writing table .; settee r. .; small table l.c. a little higher up stage than the settee; chair r. of table ; large doorway c. ; doors r. and ' l., at first entrances; fireplace and ooerrnantel ;’ al: staircase leading to gallery over centre door; a “cabinet” photograph of arthur redmayne stands on table. loan saxmnsnham discovered, seated on settee. lady sax- mundham at table. parfit standing r. of writing table, dealing with various legal documents. (eighteen months have elapsed.) lord sam. now mr. parlit, i am but an indifferent man of business, and my lady finds even greater difficulty than i do in grasping legal_ technicalities. will you be so obliging as to recapitulate, in the simplest terms, the present state of affairs ? par. my lord, matters stands thus: eighteen months since, your lamented son, mr. arthur redmayne, sailed from sydney, southampton, in the steamship “calypso.” no news of the ship came to hand until twelve months ago, when a bottle was washed on shore, near point dc galle, containing a slip of paper, on which was written in the captain’s hand, the words: “steamship ‘calypso’—lat., . n.; long., . e. ship sinking—no hope. god help us all.” your lord- ship, as heir-at-law to your son, is entitled to the estate demised to him by his godfather, the late sir james crawshay, and valued at £ , . lord sam. (impatiently). yes, yes, we know all that; but the proceedings that have been taken to support my claim?- braa'tlnghame hall. par. application has been made to the judge of the probate division for letters of administration as to the per- sonalty, supported by your aflidavit—(turning over the documents referred to) to which is annexed a letter from the deceased, written on board the “ calypso ”—proof that she is seventeen months overdue—proof that the document enclosed in the bottle is in the captain’s handwriting— proof of the absence of other tidings, save the date when she was last seen—proof that the underwriters have paid on the policies, as for a total loss. also by an affidavit of the ship’s agent, upon the general facts of the case. the applica- tion comes on for hearing to-day. it is practically unopposed, and if the court is pleased to accept this very strong presump- tive evidence, there is no doubt but that your lordship will be placed in immediate possession of this most valuable estate— [going. lady sam. then at any moment we may expect to hear that judgment has been given? par. (up stage). at any moment. my partner, who is in court, will at once wire the court’s judgment to you and to your friend, mr. thursby, as one of the executors under the will. [ea’it parrrt. ld. sam. janet, this sta‘ of suspense is terrible. with ample prosperity, and utter ruin staked on the chance of a judge’s caprice, it is difiicult, indeed, to preserve an appearance of composure. lady sam. (rising). my dear, you must not allow yourself to be agitated. suppose the worst—suppose that the court is not satisfied with the evidence of our dear son’s death—so con- clusive, alas, to all but lawyers! we shall, at least, be no poorer than we have been for many years past. ld. sam. true, but what a struggle it has been ! branting- hame mortgaged to the_ very tree-tops—rents reduced every- where, and the reduced rents unpaid-—creditors pressing on all hands, and alaric just on the point of leaving eton! lady sam. has not the last year's interest on mr. crampton’s mortgage been paid? ld. sam. no; and if the case is decided against us, heaven only knows how it is to be raised ! [rising. lady sam. but mr. crampton will surely not press you for payment? ld. sam. i am not disposed to place myself under an obligation to mr. crampton. as you know, the divorce proceedings, though they resulted in his favour, exhibited him in a most diflcfeflifflble light. i would make a large sacrifice, my dear brantinghame hall. janet, to be enabled to shake off the man’s hold on branting- hame hall. ' [emit loan saxmusdham. lady sam. the situation is indeed terrible; and yet how light these troubles seem, compared with the bereavement that is to place us beyond the reach of troullel heaven knows i would face very beggary to have my poor boy with us again. enter alaric from gallery. alan‘. mother, i want to talk to you on a very important matter. lady sam. indeed, alaric? then come down and tell me all about it. [alaslc comes down. alar. why, mother, you’ve been crying. and i am so chock-full of happiness. i’m awfully sorry i’m so happy. [site by her. lady sam. (seated). come, my darling boy, tell me all about it. alar. a—you are awfully fond of me, are you not? lady sam. very fond, my dear boy. you are the only son that is left to me now. alar. and anything that concerns my happiness, naturally concerns yours too, doesn’t it ? lady sass. most assuredly. alar. well, then (rising and calling to mabel, who appears in the gallery at the back of the stage), come down mabel, and don’t be a goose. come down you little mull’, and get it over. [he runs up the stairs and brings mabel down. she stands on his l. lady sar. oh, mabel is concerned in this, is she? alar. well, yes—indirectly. the fact is, mabel and i want to be married. lady sam. married? that’s rather sudden, is it not? alar. oh, no—it’s been going on for ever so many years-. about ten, i think—hasn’t it, mabel? mab. eleven, alaric. i was six when you began to-—t pay me attention. alar. and i was seven; yes, eleven years. marriage is much too serious a thing to hurry over, you know. what i say is, that however attractive a man may think a girl to be, when he first sees her—and when i first saw mabel i thought her the most attractive girl i had ever met—it is impossible to feel sure that she has those solid and sympathetic qualities, without which more beauty is a delusion and a snare. so mabel and i have been studying each other for eleven years, . and—well, we think we were made for each other. brantinghame hall. lady sam. but don’t you think that, at your age, you are rather young to marry ? mab. oh, but we don’t think of marrying yet, for a long time, lady saxmundham. ala/r. oh no—not for some months. no fellow with my serious responsibilities ought to marry until—well, until he has left eton. it wouldn’t be good form, you know. besides, a fellow would get so chafled. lady saw. i certainly think a young gentleman should not marry while he is at school. ' alar. mother, dear—now you are laughing at us. [crosses to r. lady sam. (rising and standing between them). no, my dear children, i love you both too tenderly to say or to do any- thing, intentionally, that would make you unhappy. i want you, alaric, to be a good and true man; scrupulously honour- able in all things, and, above all things, in chivalrous regard to all women. be strong and earnest in this, and you will be strong and earnest in all good things; and so i do not laugh at any love that is true and honest and straightforward. but a long time must elapse before such a topic can be seriously entertained; and in the meantime, you must content yourself with remembering that your father and i love you both very dearly, and that if you have a good and honourable wish at heart, we are not likely to stand in the way of its fulfilment. now that must satisfy you (crossing to r. c.)—so let me hear no more about it, you foolish children, for a long—a very long time to come. [emit lady saxmundham. alar. (on sofa). now, isn’t that a trump of a mother ? and mind, i didn’t chose her.—her being my mother is a pure bit of luck. mab (seated on stool at his l.). i am sure of that, dear. but what do you think lord ‘saxmundham will say ? alar. oh, i’ve no fear on that score. it is true that my father’s political principles are entirely opposed to my own ; but then, you know, i’vc given a great deal more attention to politics than he has. ' mab. i’m sure you have, dear. alar. yes. you know, one’s father may be a very fine fellow, even though his political views are still in their infancy, your own father, mr. thursby, is one of the finest gentlemen in england, yet he has the misfortune to hold political opinions that are still more ridiculously at variance with my own. lkgagz. poor papa! i'm afraid he’s a terrible—what is the wor . bra n tin ghame hall. alar. tory, mabel. mab. a terrible tory ! and he ought to be, and would be, if he knew as much about it as you and i do—a—a radical, isn’t it ? y alar. a radical. you know, i’ve explained to you what a radical is, haven’t i? . mab. oh, yes. (rises.) a radical is one who—he’s a person who holds that—he’s one who thinks that he’s everybody-. well, you're a radical, you know. ‘ alar. yes, but that is not sufiiciently definite. now listen to me. a radical is one who-—who considers that—all -men— and all women--are, in a way—that is to say, in a certain qualified sense—more or less—and generally more than less—a —a—well, tm a radical, you know. mab. (seated on stool). how clever you are, dear, and what a statesman you will make, some day! alar. yes. you know, radically speaking, evcryone’s equal. mab. equal to what, dear ? alar. oh, equal to what’s wanted of him. tories are not equal to what’s wanted of them. there you have the dis- tinction in a nutshell. and all property ought to belong to everybody or nearly everybody—equally. and there ughn’t to be any bishops, or rich men—or scarcely any—or anybody (or, at all events, very few) better or wiser than anybody else. mab. i see. but why are you so much better and wiser than anybody else ? that’s what i can't understand. alar. lt’s the fault of the detestable system under which we groan, my dear mabel. (rises mid crosses to l.) you see, the system required that i should go to eton. that’s how i came to be so much more intelligent than i have any right to be. mab. what a shame! but, when everybody is a radical, will they all be as good and wise as you, or will you be as foolish and bad as they—or, if not, how will you manage it? ‘ alar. well, you see, i expect we shall meet half-way. jklab. that’ll be a terrible come down for you. alar. yes. i’m not quite sure how that will be. (crossing to r. .) i'm going to think that out. it’s a large question. mala. then, of course, there will be no peers ? alar. (surprised at the question). oh, yes, there’ll be peers! mab. you are quite sure of that? alar. oh, quite. but they will be radical peers, you know, so it will be all right. mab. i see. and they wont have any more money than anybody else? . alnr. well, they must have a good deal of money, .or they brantinghame hall. couldn’t do the good that’s expected of them. oh, yes, . peer ought to have a lot of money. _ mab. but no social influence? alar. oh, yes, he’ll have a lot of social influenoe—but only for good. he’ll set an example, you know—that’s what he’ll do. come, let’s have a “knock-up.” (taking up tennis bat from settee.) ’m afraid you don’t quite understand radical principles, mabel. ’ mab. i don’t think i do, dear, but a few more lessons from you will make it as clear as day. oh alaric! a.r. what? ' mab. what a statesman you will make some day! . [emeunt mabel and alnie. enter servant, showing in mn. tnnnsny. thurs. tell his lordship i must see him at once. oh, here he is. - ' enter loan saxmundham. emit servant. ld. sax. (anmiously). thursby! any news ? thurs. news! i should think so! my dear saxmundham, i bring you the very best of all good news, and i congratulate you with all my heart! ld. sam. then the decision has been given ? thurs. to be sure it has; and a very first-class decision it is. the judge of the probate division deserves a peerage, and he shall have it, if he’ll wait till i’m prime minister. ha! ha! ld. sam. (anmiously). there‘s no possibility of doubt, thursby ? thurs. doubt? not a bit of it. (loen saxmundham sits on sofa.) look at that. (hands telegram to loan saxmundham.) why, it’s done, finished, settled, wiped off the slate. it’s done, my boy; done! ld. sam. and can no one dispute it? thurs. no. stop! yes; i can! as trustee under the will. and if you don’t play leap-frog for very joy over every arm- chair in the house, i’ll enter proceedings against you at once. come; here’sa little one to begin with (indicating chair). over you go! ha! ha! [sits astride on chair, which stood at table. ld. sam. and am i to understand that i can touch the personalty at once? thurs. to be sure you can! stuff your pockets with the personalty! roll in the personalty! swim in the personalty! feed the pigs with the personaltyl ha! ha! by george, i envy y - i’d willingly pass the next ten years in poverty to enjoy brantinghame hall! - the delightful sensation of having come into a large fortune without having done anything at all to earn it. but i had the misfortune to be born rich, and consequently never knew what it was to enjoy money. melancholy case, mine. (rising and replacing chair.) ha! ha! (suddenly.) i say, saxmundham! see those two young people, there ? [looking '. ld. sam. (msing). mabel and alaric? thurs. yes, mabel and alario. they’ve got their arms round each others waists! ld. sam. bless my heart, so they have. thurs. ha! nice, prudent, careful, considerate young gentle- man, alaric! by george, sir, he’s proposed to my girl ! proposed to her! wants to marry her! and she says, “ yes, my buck, and as soon as you please!”- ld. sam. (rather shocked). bless me, did mabel say that? thurs. something very like it. she barely out of the nursery, and he liable to be birched at eton, any day! birched, sir! fancy a married man who can’t sit down at his own fireside for the best of all possible reason, while his wife duns him for money to buy baby-linen for the doll! but there are no boys and girls nowadays. the race died out with the dodol [emit tnonssy. enter servant with c.r_. ser. a gentleman is in the library who wishes to speak with your lordship. ld. sam. (lreading card). ralph cramptonl returned to england at ast. i‘ suppose he waited for his divorce, the scamp! (to servant.) show hi in at once. it will be a- relief to square accounts with him, and have done with him for ever. enter ralrh crmmrtou. ld. sam. mr. crampton, your visit is unexpected. ralph. naturally. i have been travelling for three years, and i only returned to england two days since. _ ld. sam. mr. crampton, if i am rightly informed, you were with my poor son shortly before he left sydney. you have, of course, heard the terrible news. ‘ralph. i have heard that the ship in which he sailed was lost with all hands. lord saxmundham, let us be quite frank with one another. your son and i parted in hot anger. he passed a gross and cowardly insult on me, and his insult was based on a letter which he stated that he received from you. q _ brantingha./iie hall. ld. sam. it is true, sir, that i wrote to him to the effect that you had an acknowledged wife whom you had greatly maltreated. ralph. my lord, i am a man who. does not readily forgive. your s n’s infamous treatment of me, and the cause of that treatment have placed it out of the question’ that friendly relations can continue to exist between us. ld. sam. i am disposed to agree with you sir. i have a pardonable faith in my dead son’s a.ctions, and;if, as you say, he addressed you in terms of obloquy, it was no doubt for a- sufficient cause. that obloquy; sir, whatever it was, i cordially endorse! . . " ralph. as your lordship pleases. under these circumstances you will probably prefer that our business relations should terminate at once. ' ld. sax. (seated on sofa). you refer, of course, to the money you advanced me on the security of brantinghame hall. ‘as you say, sir, i greatly prefer that all relations between ‘us, of whatever kind, should terminate forthwith. ' . . " ralph. you are entitled to three months’ notice of foreclosure, but no more. ld. sam. (angrily). i wish for no notice, sir,—-i desire to have done with you at once. i desire that our account may be closed forthwith. the principal and arrears of interest shall be paid to you within a week. ralph (much surprised). within a week! am i to take that as definite ? . ' " ' ld. sam. you_ are to take that as definite. the money shall be placed to your account on thursday next. are you satisfied ? ralph. yes. that is, of course, sufficient. (aside) where is the money to come from, i wonder! he’s as poor as a rat ! lord sam. (rising.) you will pardon me if i put an immediate end to this interview. my son is dead, sir, and you" think yourself justified in coming to his sorrowing father with an attack upon his memory. it might have been done more delicately—you understand me, sir—more delicately. ra-lrh is about to reply ‘when mabeli eaters. mab. i did not know that you were engaged. ld. sam. (up stage.) don’t go, mabel, my dear: don’t gol . [putting her head. ralph (with an qflbrt at self-control). good morning, my lord. [e;m't_ mab. has anything happened to distress you? ld. _sam. (.with an attempt to speak cheerfully). no, my . brantingh/ le hall. dear, no. mr. grampton, who left as you entered, has wounded me a little. but it will pass—it will pass. say nothing to lady saxmundham. i have some good news for her, my dear, and i wish her to hear nothing but good news to-day. [emit loan saxmundham. mab. what has that man been saying to him, i wonder! it seems to me that everyone is destined to be miserable to- day except alaiic and me! [crosses to l. c. enter ruth. she is dressed as a widow. ruth. i ask your pardon. i wish to see lord saxmundham or mr. thursby. i called at mr. thursby’s house, and i was told that he was here. mab. lord saxmundham has just left the room, and mr. thursby, my father, has gone home. i—i am sorry to see that you have some great grief. ruth. forgive me. i have, indeed, a great sorrow, and it is fit that i should weep when i am here, for am the widow of ‘ lord saxmundham’s dead son. mab. the widow of mr. redmaynel i did not know that he was married. ' ruth. i was wed to him three short weeks before he left australia. i ask you to pardon my tears. it is natural that should be much moved, for i loved him with all the love that my heart could hold, and i am in his old home and he is dead. [sits on sofa. mab. (advancing to her.) poor lady! if there be words that can console such grief as yours, try and believe that i have spoken them. they are in my heart, but i do not know how to utt<r them. i have known so little of sorrow. ruth. may heaven spare you such sorrow as mine! mab. shall i tell lord saxmundham that you are here? ruth. yes, for he was my darling’s father. but my darling wrote to me before he left, commending me to mr. thursby, who would tell me what to do, if perchance he should never reach england. mab. my father will, i am sure, do all he can to serve one who was dear to his very dear friend. (going r. ruth rises.) may i—may i kiss you? ruth. i thank you. (kisses her. emit mabel). at last i stand in the house that was my darling’s home—the home in which he was born, and in which he grew to noble manhood! it is strange to know that every corner—every nook in this old house, so strange to me, was known, so closely known to him, [ira iv t ./vgha me ha l ,. my dearly lovcd ! (sees portrait of arthur redmayne on table, and kneels to it.) oh, my darling, dead and in heaven! my darling, dead and in heaven ! . enter loan sakmundham, buth recovers herself, and rises. ld. sam. madam, i hear that you would speak with mr. thursby. may i ask whom i have the honour of addressing? ruth (much moved). are you lord saxmundham? - ld. sam. i am. . ruth. i have come from far away to see you. i am ruth, the daughter of stephen brunt, of brunt’s claim, near sydney. . ld. sam. i recollect the name. surely it was from a place so called that my poor dead son’s last letter was dated? ruth. yes. the station then belonged to my father, but he is dead, and it is now my own. ld. sam. (taking her hand). pray tell me anything you may have to say to me. my poor son was inexpressibly dear to me, and all that relates. to him must interest me deeply. (he motions to her to be'seated. she sits at table.) was it not at your house that he fell ill ? ruth. his friend, ralph crampton, brought him to us, very sick with fever. (lord saxmundham sits.) we gave him shelter, and i tended him for many weeks, for he was sorely stricken, and like to die. but he was not to die then, and when the fever left him, he told me that he loved me, and bade me become his wife. and as he was very dear to me, i said “ yes,” and so my love married me, and we were happy beyond all telling l ld. sam. (much agitated). you were married to my son ! ruth. even so. ' ld. sam. but i knew nothing of this! ruth. no. it was my wish that he should write and tell you, but he said “ no,” for you were an old man, and a proud man, and i am but a convict’s daughter. (lord saxmnedaau overcome.) he said that if he wrote to tell you this, you would never pardon him. i do not know why, but so he spake; and all that he said was good and wise in my eyes, and i did not gainsay him. moreover, i was his wife, and a wife obeys. he told me that he would take me to england, and that then you would see me, and you would know that i was not a wicked woman—and that i had saved your son’s life; and that when you knew this, you would take me to your heart and brantinghaiiie hall. . call me “daughter ”-—-not the less because my father was a convict. (lord saxmundham mzwh agitated.) and in truth his sin was of long ago; and in his old age he was penitent, and he died as a good man should, and i grieved for him as for the best of all fathers, for so, in truth, he was to me! ld. saw. (aside). arthur married! and to the daughter of such a man ! ' ruth. one day he heard that one had died, and left him great wealth. so it was needful that he should return to england, and that at once. so my love kissed me, and departed, and i never saw him more. but his last kiss is still where he placed it, and his last look is still in my eyes; and i felt his heart beat as he took me unto him, and it is still beating against mine, and his hand is always‘in my hand—for i loved him dearly, dearly, dearly—and he is dead ! ld. sam. god help me, if this be true, for it is ruin, indeed! ruth. i waited for tidings of him, but no tidings came. week after week went by, and month after month, until nearly a year had passed away. then came the news: his ship was wrecked, and all had perished! so it was to be. i bowed my head, and wept bitterly—for many days i wept bitterly; and the rough men on the farm said, “let her bide, for he was brave and good, and they loved one another, and it is good for her that she should weep.” and the rough men had tears in their eyes as they spake, and their voices failed them as they bade god bless me. and my heart ached with its very fulness; it had more love in it than it could bear, and there was none to give it to ; so i said, “ he had a father whom he dearly loved, anda fond mother who prayed every night for him, and a brother who looked up to him. iwill take my love to them, and i will lay it at their feet, and when they know how dearly i loved the dead son who was so dear to them, they will not find it in their hearts to turn my love away.” and i have come over many miles of stormy sea _ (rising), and i have brought my love with me, and i am here to ask you if you will have it, for my heart is full of it, and he was very dear to me, and he is dead. ld. sam. (rising). i will not disguise from you that the news you have brought me amazes and distresses me beyond measure. if your tale be true ruth (in astomshment). if my tale be true? wherefore should it not be true ? ld. saw. you are no doubt provided with proofs ? ruth. yes; for noel ross bade me bring them with v. ' u . bra nt inghame ha ll. me. here is my marriage certificate, and here is my darling’s will, witnessed by mr. paulby and noel ross, who married us. ld. sam. (reading the document). “i hereby devise and bequeath unto my dear wife, ruth redmayne, all my real and personal estate, whatever and wheresoever, for her absolute use and benefit.” i see no reason to doubt your word. (returning the documents.) it may well be as you have said. . but i need not tell you that to such a marriage i should never have con- sented. you must be aware that to ask me to take to my heart, as my daughter, the daughter of a man in your father’s unhappy position—pardon me if i speak plainly—is not reason- able. no, not reasonable. . [leans against mantelpiece. ruth. i know little of such matters. it was my. poordead father who sinned’; it was not i. i have heard that you are a great lord. i do not know what that means, for i have lived at brunt’s station all my life, and at brunt’s station all men are alike. i know little, save that i loved your son; that he is very dear to me ; and that he is dead. that is all. . ld. sam. the news that you bring me is of graver import than you seem to imagine. in the full belief that my poor son died unmarried, i claimed his estate; and the claim has been allowed. but it is clear to me that the wealth i thought was mine, is yours; and i have no claim to it. ruth. but this may not be ! i knew nothing of this! i am not here for money ! i am your son’s widow, and my heart yearns to you; and that is why i am here. for you are his father, and i would be a daughter unto you, and all that i have is yours; and i pray you take it, for you are his father, and he is dead. ld. sam. (taking her hand). you speak kindly and gene- rously; but you do not understand these matters. it is impossible that such a thing could be. pray do not speak of this again. you are kind and good, i am sure, and you would not willingly give me pain. you would do well to go to my solicitor at once, and i will instruct him to afford you every possible facility to enable you to establish your claim to my son’s estate. leave me, madam, i. pray--i would be alone. [ruth pauses; kisses his hand ; walks slowly out. loen saxmundham burst into tears as the act drop falls. . _ ‘ bra vti v ;‘h'> me. hall. = act iii. ’ is scsne.-—same. the table l.c., should “be brought down level with the settee r.c., for this act. ‘ loan saxmundeam enters with mr. pimrit. ld. sam. (seated). the surrender of the estate, mr. parfit, can be made at once. par. (seated). this very day. the mortgagee, mr. cramp- ton, attended, as agreed at the rolls, made the usual affidavit, and applied for and obtained a final order of foreclosure. that order is the title deed shutting out your lordship’s equity to redeem. ld. sam. but the surrender—how is that to be effected ? par. that must be done, of course, by a deed under seal. as you are anxious to conclude this matter to-day, i will endorse a short deed on the mortgage, which your lordship and mr. crampton will execute. ld. sar. that is all you have to say ? par. as your legal adviser, that is all i have to say. but i think i am more than a legal adviser. i believe i am entitled to look upon myself as a friend. . ld. sam. most certainly, a friend. par. thank you. then speaking as a friend-—as a very true and devoted friend—let me implore you to consider whether you are acting reasonably in not making an eb'ort to preserve this old property? when mr. crampton is made acquainted with the circumstances, he will surely give time. moreover, there are a dozen of your friends who would gladly afford you every facility. even i myself, or my partner _ld. sax. mr. parfit, i will not hear you on this subject. brantinghame is mortgaged to the very crows’ nests. an appeal to mr. crampton’s consideration is absolutely out of the question: and if i were to borrow money to stave off the evil day, i should be staving it off--—th.at is all—and that with money for which i can ofler no adequate security. i have said enough. par. but the old place, in which nine generations of sax- mundhams have been born, and have lived, and died! ld. sam. mr. parfit, i protest that these considerations should not be submitted to me. these are points that i have . brantinghame hall. no right to consider. let me hear no more of this, i pray. nay, sir, i insist. par. as your lordship pleases. your lordship has made me feel that i have outstripped my duty. [rising to go. ld. sam. no, parfit, no, my dear old friend (taking parfit’s hand.) pardon me, if i spoke harshly, but i—i am much upset. i am an old man, and not strong—no, not strong. so you will pardon me, i know, and you will believe that all i would have said is, that i am resolved, and that i must not be gainsaid. i would have said this gently, parfit, but—'i am unstrung. par. pray say no more. it must be—that is certain; mr. crampton is due in ten minutes. i will get the papers together without delay. [emit parfit. ld. sam. (at fireplace). yes, it must be. oh, my old home, my old home! . enter lady saxmosnhan. lady sax. has mr. parfit gone ? ld. sam. (seated). yes, janet, mr. parfit has gone. lady sam. he can give us no hope ? ld. saw. there is no room for hope. with hope we have done. janet, the old hall in which three centuries of red- maynes have lived and died, must go! lady sam. (quietly). then i will make the necessary pre- parations. ld. sam. we shall be poor, janet. lady sam. that will matter but little, saxmundham. we must live quietly. ld. sam. very poor, janet. lady sam. well, we must live very quietly, my dear. that is all. ld. sam. janet, we are mined! [breaks down. lady sam. (going to him and sitting on his l.). my husband! my love of fifty years ago! my love, my cherished love of to- day! come, be brave. there is such a thing as ruin, but take heart, my dear, it has not come to us yet. ld. sam. why, janet, my girl, we have nothing left! lady sam. nay, we have much, for we have each other. ld. sam. yes, it is true. ‘i ask your pardon. we have much, for we have each other. lady sax. in this half century, we have seen many changes. children have been born to us, they have grown to manhood, and they have died in the very flower of their lives. friends brantjnghame hall. have fallen around us as leaves in autumn. our fortunes, that rose with the dawn of life have set'with its setting sun. but, throughout our changing fate, our love of long ago has been true to us-—it has never quitted us, even for one brief hour. let us thank god for this true and staunch friend, for through- out it has been our most precious possession, and we have it still. ld. sam. my own dear lady! . lady sam. in pain. sorrow and sickness, in the birth- chamber, in the death-chamber, have we not turned to one another for comfort, and have we ever turned in vain? ld. sam. no, no! never! never! (they rise.) as we were to one another in the sweet old days of courtship, when life was bright, and hope was young and strong, so are we now in the evening of our days—so shall we be, till the long night comes. for i am as i have ever been, your ladyship’s most devoted and most faithful lover! [kisses her hand with old'fashioned courtesy. enter alan_ c. alar. father, i hear that you want to speak to me. ld. sam. alaric, my dear boy, i have just broken some grievous news to your dear mother, and she has borne it superbly. it will affect you seriously, my boy. bear it as she has done alar. why, what has happened ? ld. sam. my dear child, a fortnight ago you told your mother of your attachment to the daughter of my old friend thursby. mabel will be rich—very rich, and i had good reason to believe that your own fortune would, in some measure, balance hers. but that is so no longer. i am a penniless old man, and you will have to make your own way. to do this, it will be necessary that you go to india for some years. under these circumstances, it is your duty, my dear fellow, to absolve mabel from her promise. [goes up. alar. absolve mabel from her promise! [crosses to lady saxmusnhaal lady s. (on sofa). oh, my poor boy! ld. sam. (coming down). for a time. you will have little, very little to live upon, and no son of mine would ever lay him- self open to the suspicion of being a fortune-hunter. so you will give me your promise not to take advantage of the regard that the child has for you, but to explain to her, frankly and honourably, the position in which you are placed. _ brantinghame hall. alma miss thursby, i am doing you a justice. i must go to india for some years, and i’ve promised my father that, in the meantime, i will abstain from communicating with you, except on the footing of a mere acquaintance. for, as he says very truly, you are not old‘ enough to judge for yourself. mab. (turning to alaric). that’s very rude of him. surely seventeen is the very prime of life ! alar. (bowing gravely). it would certainly seem so. mab. then we are to be mr. redmayne and miss thursby, i .suppose, in future. ala.r. yes; i believe that is what happens when an engage- 'ment is broken of. (takes her hand mechanically.) i beg your pardon. (releases it.) force of habit. mab (seated). then, mr. redmayne, i am greatly concerned to hear of your serious loss. alar. miss thursby, accept my sincere thanks for your sympathetic condolence. [alari sits on sofa. ll/fab. i presume that the loss of your fortune will not mate- rially affect your political principles, mr. redmayne ? alar. no, miss thursby. nothing has happened to shake my conviction that property should be equally divided. in fact, .i am more of that opinion than ever. may i trust that separa- tion from your political preceptor will not endanger the stability of your own convictions? mub. (rising, enthusiastically). no; i shall always be an out-and-out radical, in memory of the dear old days of poetry and sentiment ! it is a radical that i am, isn’t it, ric ? [crossing to alario. alar. yes, mab. oh, i forgot. jl/lab. so did i ! ‘ aim. accept, i beg, my sincere apologies, miss thursby. [rises. mab. mr. redmayne, we were both in fault. so you are going away for two years ? alar. yes, two or three years! mab. (sighing). it’s a long time to be separated from you, dear mr. redmayne! i suppose i may say, “dear mr. redmayne ? ” alma well, i don’t know. it’s rather strong, isn’t it, to a mere acquaintance ? " mab. \nhy, i should say that at the beginning of a letter to a mere acquaintance! alar. true, so you would. it’s a very good test. i think “ dear mr. redmayne ” may be conceded. mab. dear, dear mr. bedmayne ! [sighing. aaaawzzavga/ame halaz. alar. dear, dear miss thursby | [sighing. mab. then i suppose i may say that i am yours faithfully because that is what i should say at the end of a letter to a mere acquaintance. alar. true: you would say, “yours truly,” or “yours faithfully.” i think “yours faithfully” may be conceded. mab. then i am yours, ric—yours—yours—faithfully— oh, how faithfully always, always faithfully ! so faithfully | so faithfully | [sobs in his arms. alar. and i am yours—yours, mab—so truly, oh, so truly ever, ever, most truly yours | [embrace. mabel then withdraws herself demurely; goes towards door stops, turns and looks at alaric —they are about to rush into each other's arms, but they suddenly check themselves. mab. good morning, mr. redmayne ! alar. good morning, miss thursby ! (exit mabel.) how true it is a fellow never knows what he can do till he tries. if anyone had told me, an hour ago, that i could have schooled myself to address mabel upon a footing of the coldest and most ceremonious formality, i should have questioned his sanity ! [exit alaric. enter ralph crampton and mr. parfit. par. if you will take a seat, mr. crampton, his lordship will be with you directly. ralph (seated). good. i suppose i may take it mr. parfit, that lord saxmundham is much distressed at losing brantinghame? par. he is greatly, terribly distressed, mr. crampton, though he bears it with wonderful composure. ralph. ha! mr. parfit, i'm afraid you think me a very hard-hearted and vindictive creditor. par. sir, it is not form to comment on your action in this ' his lordship its that you are well within your rights. ralph. so i m. loubtedly am. now, mr. parfit, i mean to astonish ighteen months ago, arthur red- mayne, acting ation supplied by lord saxmundham, inflicted an o' n me that might well have constituted me the life of both. but i am not the altogether remorseles- ake me to be, and time has, in some sort, dulled the y resentment. i have had the satisfaction of show xmundham that i have him completely braav iavga/ame hall, and absolutely at my mercy. that mercy i am disposed to extend. par. mr. crampton, i find it difficult to express my sense of your generosity. ralph. it is not necessary. i have no desire to pose as a good angel, for i assure you i am nothing of the kind. par. if you will allow me, i will tell him the good news without delay. [going. ralph (rising). no, i wish to tell him myself. oblige me by saying no more than that i am here, and that i wish to speak to him. par. as you please, sir. be sure that i will lose no time. [exit parfit. ralph (seated on sofa). yes, saxmundham, the account may be said to be closed between us. i have set my heel upon your neck, and to such a man as you, that is punishment enough. it is well for you that i am rich. it is even better for you that i am disposed to remember that my quarrel is not so much with you, as with your dead son. [during this speech ruth crosses the gallery from l. to r., and comes down the stairs l. ruth. ralph crampton you here ? ralph (rising much agitated). mrs. redmayne ! this is a strange meeting : i did not know that you were in england. - [ruth pauses for a moment, then moves to leave the room. ralph (up stage). mrs. redmayne-–pray hear me ! ruth (down stage). i have no wish to hear you. i think of you with terror and shame. let me pass you. ralph. mrs. redmayne, go if you will; but you have greatly misjudged me. it is perhaps no fault of your own that you have done so, for i have been cruelly misrepresented to you. ruth. there is no need to say this. i judge you from my own knowledge of your wicked nature. ralph. of that nature you know nothing. i loved you deeply, | with an unspeakable devotion. it may be that i had no all you this, but i was carried beyond myself. i was und, like a madman, i spoke madly. that love has d me ever since. it has haunted me as a nightmare ecked my peace of mind. tell me to leave you, ; but, in common mercy, tell me in gentle words it is enough that you, who had a wife, dared to s to me. i care to know no more. [crosses l, yes, i had a wife—an unworthy wife, who left bra n tingiia me hall. her misconduct was a shame to me, and i hid my shame away. when i spoke to you, i had already taken steps to break the chain that bound me to her. i spoke with the certainty that in a few weeks i should be free. i have proofs of the truth of my words—you cannot refuse to hear them! ruth. i refuse utterly. ' it concerns me not to know. i think of you as one to be shunned, and as one would shun a sin. i am set against you. ralph. (with suppresed fur_ /). it is well. i am answered—- fully and finally answered. you do not know what you have done. i will tell you. i hold lord saxmundhaufs welfare in the hollow of my hand. it is in my power to ruin him—your dead husband’s father—by a stroke of the pen. you under- stand me? it is in my power to crush the light out of his life, and send him, a miserable pauper, to his grave. i came here to-day with some sort of pity in my heart for the broken old man—with the germ of that which, under fostering circum- stances, would have developed into mercy. but such an insult —such an atrocious insult—as you have placed upon me, it is not within man’s nature to endure. there is no room within me for mercy; so with mercyl have done. [turns away to l.(:. ruth. mr. crampton ralph. it is useless to appeal. you have spoken words that cannot be withdrawn. ruth. mr. crampton, i am not a woman who withdraws her words. i speak plainly, and my words tell you what is in my heart. still, it may be that you will not do this thing. you are my enemy, for the words that i have spoken. that is natural. but to strike at me through a helpless old man, who is dear to me—t stifle the mercy that had begun to plead for him, because i, who am nothing to him, have angered you, is the act of a coward; and it may well be, ralph crampton, that you are not a coward. [emit ruth. ralph. a curse on the ill -fortlme that caused you to cross my path at such an hour! you count on my love? yes, i love you, but take heed, ruth iledmayne, for there is a love that is more like hate than hate itself! . enter loan saxmundham and me. parrit. ld. sam. sir, i have come to hear what you have to say to me. mr. parfit is my solicitor, and i prefer that what takes place between us should take place in his presence. [pari'‘n' sits at table. ralph. lord saxmuudham, -i have little to say thatit will bra n t ingha me hall. please you to hear. i am here, as arranged, to take over your equity of redemption. pa/r. (rist'ng.) mr. crampton! sir! ld. sam. (seated). hush, ipray. (to ralrh.) sir you will understand that when i undertook that the mortgage debt and interest should be paid into court at a given day, i believed myself to be a man of wealth and substance. i—i have since been undeceived. i am advised that the surrender must be under seal, and mr. parfit is prepared to endorse such a deed on the mortgage. pm". mr. crampton !—nay, my lord, i will speak! sir, you have most cruelly misled me as to the object of your visit. you told me that you came to inform his lordship that you were disposed to be merciful ld. sam. (peremptorily). mr. parfit, i insist that you will not speak of mercy in relation to myself! on pain of my displeasure, sir! it is not a word that i am accustomed to introduce into my dealings with my creditors. the money is due, and cannot pay it. that is all. mr. parfit, you will be so obliging as to prepare the surrender without delay. . enter ruth and me. tmmsnv, hurriedly. . thurs. one moment, saxmundham ruth. stay, lord saxmundham. i must speak to you. ld. sam. this is an unaccountable interruption. thursby, what does it mean ? thurs. it means, saxmundham, that this poor great-hearted lady has just learnt that you are in grave trouble, and she insisted upon coming to you at once. i am ashamed to say that i did my best to prevent her, but, thank heaven,_ inetfectually ! ruth. yes, you must listen to me. i came to england to be a daughter to a bereaved iather—not to take an old man’s inheritance from him. if you will not take the wealth that was your son’s you cannot at least, prevent my paying this man his claim. ld. sam. madame, i thank you, but it is impossible for me to entertain such a proposal. thurs. (standing behind loan saxmundham). now, sax- mundham, don’t be quixotic. there will be no obligation on either side. reduced to its elements, mrs. redmayne, who is one of the shrewdest women of business i ever met, invests £ , at % per cent. on unimpeachable security! capital woman of business, mrs. redmayne ! bra n t ingha me hall. ruth. i have nothing to add to what i have already said. thu/ra. (ru¢y"uliy‘). well ma’am, then i suppose i’ve no right to oppose your intention to go. i dare say i ought to be glad to get rid of you. but i've grown to be very fond of you, ma’am—very fond indeed—and—and you’ve behaved abomin- ably—and—and—(enter mabel). now, mabel, my good girl, why do you invariably came in at highly inconvenient moments ? mab. papa, i’m very sorry. i did not know you were busy. [going. ruth (down). mr. thursby, i want very much to speak to mabel. (aside to 'i‘hursby.) i pray that you will not refuse me this. it is for the last time. i—i will do her no harm. t hm-s. well, i don’t know. i oughtn’t to, you know. but there—there’s a hat-fall of good in you, i verily believe—and its for the last time, poor soul. (crosses to poor soul! poor soul! [emit tnunsny r. mab: mrs. redmayne, what has distressed you? why have you been weeping? ruth (on sofa.) why have i been weeping, my dear? why, i bring you good news, and when we bring good news to those we love, our hearts swell, and you see that is why i weep. mab (sitting on her r.) you bring good news to me ? ruth. yes, great news. i have just left lord saxmundham. he was mistaken in believing that ruin had come upon him. he is rich and happy, and it should not be needful that alaric should leave you, and so a burden will be lifted from your own heart, and your father will be glad when he sees that his little daughter’s eyes are bright again! mub. alaric will not go away from me ! oh, mrs. redmayne, you have done this! [kneeling on rutn’s e. ruth. yes. do not ask me more. i have done this. _ mab. if there is any virtue in the prayers of two broken- hearted lovers, whom stern necessity has placed upon a footing of mere acquaintanceship, they are yours from the bottom of our hearts! [kisses her. ruth. and now, my child, i am going to make you sorry. a great trouble has befallen me, and it is needful that i return at once to australia. mftb. oh, mrs. redmayne, are you saying “ good-bye ” to me ? ruth. i have something more to say than _“good-bye.” i may never see you again, and i ask you to promise me, if ever you hear ill of me, not to believe it, but to believe that there is something kept back—something which, if it were known, would clear me of all blame. it will gladden me to know, m, vr vcz /ma hall. when i am far away, that there is one little heart in england into which my memory may creep for shelter, when the pitiless storm breaks upon it. mab. oh, i promise! i promise i never, never, never will i believe any one who says anything against you! oh, mrs. redmayrfe, tell them what it is, and look at them with those brave, steadfast, truthful eyes, and they will believe! ruth. it would be useless, mabel. (rising.) and now, good-bye, my dear! oh, my dear, good-bye! [embraces her—then turns towards the door— stops, trurns-—they rush into each other‘s arms. then emit uth. enter trwnsny. thurs. (_ to mabel, who is sobbing on the sofa). mabel, my girl ! come, come, you mustn’t cry like this ! mab. oh, she’s going—going from me, never to return ! °[sobs. thurs. well, yes, she certainly is going-—that is to say—oh, yes, she’s going. mab. but why is she going, and why don’t you stop her? thurs. why, she’s going because she—well, she has an appointment with her solicitor in australia—and she’s got some shopping to do in sydney. mab. (rising). i don’t believe a word of it. there’s some wicked plot to send her away. (thubsby interrupts her with attempts to emplain.) but ’ll find out what it is, if i die for it, you great, big, cruel, hard-hearted papa ! [emit mabel. thurs. now, why will women do things that can’t be explained to young girls? a woman ought always to argue thus : “can what i'm going to do be explained to young girls ? no, it cannot. then, dash my wig, if i do it !” enter parker. par. (announcing). mr. parfit. enter parrit. emit paam<:r. 'l'hurs. hallo, parfit! well, here’s a pretty kettle of fish! par. yes, mr. thursby; it certainly is extremely serious. . [sits on sofa. k thurs. there’s a thundering lot of good in that woman, you now . par. yes, i daresay there is. 'l‘here’s good in all of us, if we only knew it. but i suppose it is unnecessary to remind you brant vghame hall. that by uttering a forged will, to say nothing of the other docupments, she has brought herself within the pale of the law . thurs. well, what then ? you don’t expect me to prosecute her, i suppose? par. as you please, mr. tbursby. but it’s my duty to remind you, as one of the trustees under the will which this forgery was intended to set aside, that if you don’t prosecute her, you will be compounding a felony. thurs. felony, be hanged! it’s a family matter, entirely between ourselves. how is it to get about ? [crosses to r. . par. you forget mr. crampton. he is her declared and relentless enemy. if he should persist in prosecuting this unhappy woman, what would you do ? thurs. my dear parfit, what an absurd question. break every bone in his body, of course! the things obvious. par. (rising). well, mr. thursby, i’ve no wish to see this poor lady punished; but it was my duty to advise you, and i’ve done it. thurs. it was as you say, my dear parfit, your duty to advise me, and it was equally my duty to pitch your advice to the devil. very good; you've done your duty, and i’ve done mine. it’s a pleasant reflection. let’s shake hands on it. ralrh cramrton has entered during this speech. ralph (down l.c.). mr. thursby, i must ask you to hear me on this matter. thurs. mr. crampton, i prefer to have nothing to say to ou. y ralph. very likely, but you must and shall hear me! thurs. (with suppressed rage). mr. crampton! sir! i can guess the abominable motive which has prompted you to present yourself here. anticipating this interview, i have taken the precaution, as a magistrate, to bind myself over to keep the peace towards all her majesty’s subjects for the space of three calender months. that will give you a good start, sir! i advise you to make the most of it. ' ralph. mr. thursby, i have something of graver import to deal with than any terms of reproach you can frame. i have been witness, this afternoon, to an act of heroic devotion on the part of a most pure and blameless lady. it has moved me as i am not wont to be moved; the more so because my indefensible conduct is the cause of the inestimable sacrifice she has made. v. x bra./vtiivghame hal/.. ruth has entered unobserved. _ thurs. why, what do you mean, sir ? ralph. that mrs. redmayne, in denying her marriage, has uttered the noblest falsehood that ever fell from the lips of woman. i know mr. noel ross, and i had it from his own lips, after arthur redmayne’s departure, that he had solemnised this marriage. thurs. (turning to ruth). madam, is this true? ruth (up stage). it is true. [tnnnsnv grasps her hand. ralph. it is impossible for me to approach lord saxmundham on the subject, so have brought my repentance to you, in the belief that you will be willing to turn it to this blameless lady's advantage. i beg you most earnestly, in the name of common justice, to communicate with mr. noel ross, that my statement may be corroborated. thurs. now, if any one will show me how to treat an infernal rascal who has done an uncommonly fine thing, i shall be per- sonally indebted to him! [grosses to r. “ralph. i put forth no plea for consideration. i have most deeply wronged this lady, and i will leave nothing undone until i have atoned. [going l. ruth. mr. crampton—before you go, will you let me tell you that, from my heart, i pity and pardon you? it will, perhaps, comfort you in the days to come to remember this. ralph. mrs. redmayne, i believe there is no act of generosity of which you are not capable. from my very heart i thank you. [e:l;it_ralrh cramrton. thurs. now, there’s a fellow i should like to knock down with.one hand and pick up with the other ! (to ruth, taking her hand in his.) my dear young lady—my very dear young lady, i deserve to be kicked for having believed you. if you’re an average sample of australian produce, the sooner a ship-load of you is shot into london society the better! parfit, lord saxmundham is a sticklor for nobility. let us go and prove to him that heaven has blessed him with the noblest daughter in england! ‘ exeunt thubsby and parrit. ruth. ralph crampton, your eart was slow to turn; your eyes were closed. 'l‘o open them it needed that a woman should clothe herself with shame. that has been done; and now, you see! ~ _ ' enter parker with card. par. a gentleman wishes to seeyou, na’am. _ ruth. to see me ! who can wish to see me? [reads card. aramtinghame hall. rejoice the souls and brighten the lives of their fathers—and their mothers—and their children—and their loving, faithful, mourning wives ! ruth (who has become hysterical during the latter part of this speech). noel ross! noel ross ! why do you speak of mourning wives to me? [rising. ross (rising). now, my dear, be calm; bear this like a good and brave woman. ruth. tell me all ! you speak in parable ! you could not tell me of such things, unless—oh speak—speak! ross. my dear child, there is a happiness so overwhelming, that it calls for all our strength to bear it ! arthur redmayne rushes in, and folds ruth in his arms. ross crossing behind him. red. ruth, my own ruth ! ruth. my husband ! my husband ! oh, my husband red. ruth, my darling, look up—i am alive and well ! i have come to be with you, my own to love, to cherish, and to comfort you until death comes to us in very deed! look up, my darling, we will never part again! [puts her over to r.). [ruth shows symptoms of fainting—recovers—looks at her husband—then seems likely to faint again. she steadies herself with an effort, turns to nofl ross, and as she kneels, says, “let us pray!” creatures of impulse. a musical faia y tale - in one act. first performed at the royal court theatre (under the management of miss m. litton) on april nd, . creatures of’ impulse. scene.—emie ‘i r. of “ the three pigeons,” a country inn ; entrance to inn, r. ; entrance through gate, . j mooes and vrrmagens discovered. orening cnonus. did you ever know a lady so particularly shady, ' though a very nice old party she was thought to be ? i could see upon my honour, when i first set eyes upon her, that she wasn't any better than she ought to be. enter boomslehaent, l., with a very large bag of gold—they shake hands with him. boomblehardt. i give you good morning, ladies. i give you good morning, peter. jacques. what, for nothing? boom. yes, i don't charge for it. st villager. why, master boomblehardt, you’re getting liberal in your old age. boom. yes, my dear, yes—-he’s but a churl that keeps all his happiness to himself. it’s a lovely day! the very trees are waving their long arms in ecstasy at the bright blue sky above them, and the bright green fields below them; and the pretty little birds are oarolling a hymn of gratitude from their very topmost branches. it is indeed a good morning, and i give it you—i give it you! jacques. you've got some more happiness in that long bag of yours, if one may judge by the chink of it. can’t you spare some of that? ’ boom. ha, ha! do you know what that is? it’s go- - -old! nd v. all gold? boom. yes, my dear, all go- - -old! it’s my poor little rents that i’ve been collecting. . creatures or impulse. rd v. why, she’ll be starved! martha. no; she says she never felt better in her life. she says that food always disagrees with her! hpeter. it disagrees with me sometimes, but i take it for all t at! st v. why don’t you turn her out neck and crop? martha. turn out a woman who can live on nothing for three weeks ? why, she’s a fairy! she’d be in again through the keyhole in a twinkling ! peter. i know how to prevent that. martha. how ? peter. stuff up the key-hole. martha. peter, you’re a goose. enter p rettn, running from l. u. e. pipette. oh, aunt, aunt ! i've such news for you! (sees v l- laeees.) oh, i didn’t know anybody was here. oh, i beg your pardon! oh, gracious ! oh, how extremely awkward ! martha. why, what’s the matter with the girl? pipette. oh, i’m so confused! martha. why, what has confused you? pipette. oh, it’s all these people! oh, please go away! oh, i can’t bear people! boom. why, bless the girl, how shy she is! martha. shy! there isn’t a greater donkey in the country. why, there’s a portrait of her great grandfather in her bedroom, and she always turns its face to the wall before she does her hair. pipette. well, i’ve been properly brought up. a young girl can’t be too particular. peter. but what has happened ? pipette. oh, i can’t tell you before all these people! oh, please send them away ! lst v. oh, i’m sure, if we're in the way? [emit into inn. nd v. if it’s very improper, we wouldn’t hear it for the world. but i dare say mr. boomblehardt and peter won’t mind. [emit into inn. rd v. put it to them as delicately as you can, jenny. a young girl can’t be too particular. [emit into inn. boom. well, now that they’re gone, what is it? if it’s imperence, whisper! pipette. oh, if you please it’s a sergeant, and he’s coming here! martha. a sergeant! well, and what is there to blush at in that ? crea tures . of impulse. pipette. oh, but he’s such a long sergeant! you can’t think what a long sergeant he is! and oh, if you please, he’s got a moustache and all sorts of dreadful things. martha. a sergeant? it must be the famous sergeant klooque, who distinguished himself at johannesberg—he’s the bravest soldier in his majesty’s service. this is his native village, and he wrote to me to say that he would be here in the course of the week—on furlough. he’s going to make the three pigeons his headquarters. r pipette. a live sergeant coming to stop with us? martha. certainly. ‘ pipette. oh, then, if you please, and if it’s quite convenient, i should like to retire from the world and go into a monastery. lllartha. a monastery ? so should i. pipette. oh, if you please, i mean a nunnery. peter. a nunnery? so should i. martha. nonsense ; stop here and welcome the brave gentle- man, and if you don’t do it well you shall marry peter to- morrow. now, master boomblehardt, if you’ll step into the house we’ll see what we can do for you. boom. by all means. allow me to present you with—-— martha. with what, for gracious sake ? boom. my arm. exeunt boomnleearnt and martha into the house. pipette (crying). oh dear,-oh dear, what shall i do? i don’t know how to welcome a brave gentleman. peter. don’t welcome him. pipette. but if i don’t i shall have to marry you to-morrow. peter. never mind—it’ll serve me right. pipette. but i hate brave gentlemen. peter. but i am not a brave gentleman. pipette. you ? you’re the greatest coward between this and trent. peter. i am a coward. pipette. i hate a brave gentleman, but i detest a coward. peter. all men are cowards. pipette. what ? jacques bonpré, who gave you that thrash- ing at bontemps fair, and pierre pontois, who tied you on your horse wrong side before, for trotting over his turnips? and jean leroux, who dragged you through a horse pond for plundering his egg-roosts ? _ peter. all cowards ?—i’ve a theory about that. in danger, all men are equally frightened, but some men have the power of concealing their fears-—others haven’t. i’m one of those who creatures of impulse. haven’t. some men are afraid to own that they are frightened —other men are not. i’m one of those who are not. pipette. well, at all events sergeant klooque is a brave man, and i advise you to be civil to him. oh dear, oh dear, what shall i do ?—how i do hate a man! peter. so do i. pipette. oh, how iwish the world was full of women ! peter. so do i. _ . _ ' pipette. now, i’m not at all afraid of women. . peter. no more am i. . pipette. i like women. peter. so do i ! pipette. but men are so-—so-—soi- peter. oh, they are— — pipette. what? peter. so—so. very so—so. pipette. i mean they are so fond of staring at one, and putting their arms round one’s waist, and squeezing one‘s hand.‘ peter. yes, it’s their way; i’ve done it myself. pipette. they wink too. peter. yes, they would. pipette. now, women never winkat me. they let me alone. peter. they let me alone, too, worse.luck. pipette. you can say what you like to a woman—at least i mean i can. but i can’t even look at 'a man. peter. you can look at me. pipette. i don’t call you a man. peter. well, don’t call him a man, and then you can say what you like to him. he won’t mind it. pipette. that/s impudent. peter. it’s meant to be. pipette. if you want to be impudent, why don’t you be impudent to a man? peter. oh, i should be a fool! why, he’d box my ears! pipette. and you pretend to love me! peter. exaet y—i pretend to love you. that’s all. it. amuses you and gratifies me. (aside) i’ll show her that she’s not going to ride rough-shod over me! .(aloud.) _you’.ve got my snug little farm in your eye. pipette. peter! peter. well? pipette. peter, you’re a pig! peter. a pig ? pipette. a pig! _ peter. then you’ve got my snug little sty in your eye! crea tures ¢ impulse. enter sebgeant klooone. serg. young lady, i salute you! the hero of j ohannesberg salutes you ! pipette. oh, my goodness, he’s going to salute me! peter, if he salutes me, i’ll scream! serg. the young lady appears alarmed ? peter. the young lady is very shy. serg. shy ? peter. yes. you soldiers are such disreputable dogs. pipette. oh yes, if you please, sir, you soldiers are such disreputable dogs! oh, if you please, i didn't mean that ! oh, my ! what a dreadful thing to have said ! . serg. some soldiers are—but not the hussars of the king’s body guard. our colonel is extremely particular. serg. a soldier of the king’s hussars, although a gallant son of mars ; to no one may he be gallant, except his mother and his aunt ! all. except his mother and his aunt ! pipette. a very proper rule indeed, and one that surely should succeed. peter. but don’t you find it rather slow-— monotonous, in fact? serg. oh no ! each warrior who joins our corps, can count his mothers by the score ; and as for aunts—as i’m alive- each grenadier has thirty-five ! all. each grenadier has thirty-five. peter. i shonldn’t like to serve with him ; one's aunts are elderly and grim. pipette. ' one's mothers too, as facts will show, are always aged dames. serg. oh, no! the griinmest aunt in all our corps, is seventeen—or little more ; the oldest mother’s age may be, a little short of twenty-three! ensemnle. peter and pipette. oh, sergeant, i begin to take! i’m much afraid that you’re a rake ! serg. my meaning they begin to take, it’s pretty clear that ’m a rake ! enter martha from inn. martha. sergeant klooque, as i’i alive. serg. mistress martha ! i/vhy, how pretty you’re grown! creatures of impulse. martha. this is indeed a distinction you have conferred on us! pipette. oh! martha. well, what’s the matter with the girl ? pipette. oh, if you please, i was thinking that the sergeant has had so many distinctions conferred on him, that he can afford to spare us one. oh, if you please, i didn’t mean that! oh, dear, what have i said! martha. and what a big man you’ve grown! why, you were a little drummer boy when you left us, and now you’re a gigantic sergeant! serg. yes, i’ve risen in the service. peter. and some day, i suppose, you’ll be an officer ? serg. yes—but that will be a long time first. pipette. oh! all. well ? pipette. oh, if you please, i was thinking, if you’re six foot long as a sergeant, how long will you be before you’re a captain ? ()h, if you please, i didn’t mean that ! oh, my! i wish i hadn’t spoken. , martha. pipette, you’re a goose. (to snnonarrt.) but we’re very glad to see you, and i hope you’ll make the three pigeons your home as long as your furlough lasts. serg. with pleasure, martha. i’ve been roughing for the last six months, and it’s no little treat to look forward to six weeks’ holiday in a pretty inn, in a pretty village, with a pretty landlady to look after ne’s wants. [puts his arm round her waist. pipette. oh, if you please, aunt, perhaps your son would like to see his room. martha. my son ? pipette. your nephew, then i martha. my nephew ? pipette. oh, if you please, i thought he must be one or the other, as his colonel is very strict, and only allows his soldiers to kiss their mothers or their aunts. oh dear, i wish i hadn’t said that ! oh my! what a dreadful thing to have said! serg. when a soldier is on furlough, discipline is relaxed. (kisses martha.) but why are you sighing ? martha. i’m thinking of my old lady. she won’t pay my rent, and she’s eaten nothing and drunk nothing for a fortnight, and she looks as plump as .ever! (mystert'ously.) she’s a fairy . peter. bah! martha. eh ? creatures of impulse. peter. stufi ! i don’t believe it. ’ martha. and why ? _ " peter. fairies do everything with a wand, don’t they i martha. well? peter. well, she cleans her teeth with a toothbrush, l’ve seen her. ‘ martha. peter, you’re a goose! pipette. i say, peter. peter. well? pipette. it’ll be a bad look-out for you and me about michaelmas! serg. suppose we tackle the old lady by turns. martha. ah, but who’ll begin ? peter (boldly). i will. all. you. peter. i. she’s no more a fairy than i am—she’s an ugly old woman, and i’d rather tackle one ugly old woman than a dozen handsome men. afraid of an old woman! why, the older they are the less i fear ’em! emeu-nt ’n‘nt'rs, martha, and sergeant, to house, r. enter old lady, . peter. now for it. i say, old lady! . lady. well, young man ? peter. i’ve a bone to pick with you. . lady. can’t stop, my ’time’s valuable. peter. oh, but you must! . lady. must, eh ? peter. do you see that ? (showing his arm.) feel it. . lady. mercy, what a ridiculous little arm! peter (pointing to biceps). do you know what that is ? lady. well, i can guess ! - peter. what is it? . lady. i suppose it’s the bone you’re going to pick with me. w's may spare ourselves the trouble—there’s very little on it. ' ' ' peter (in a rage). i say, i’m not accustomed to stand that sort of thing from a woman of your age, you know. . lady. do you. know my age? peter. about eighty, i should say. (aside) 'that’ll put her back up! . lady. eighty! nonsense, i’m eight hundred and forty- two. peter. well, you don’t look it. . lady. peter, you’re a dangerous little man! creatures of impulse. peter. i am a dangerous little man as you’ll discover. now, look here, ma’am. . lady. i’m all attention, peter! peter. you’ve been here six weeks. . lady. true. peter. you’ve paid no rent. . lady. none. peter. you don’t mean to pay any. . lady. _not a penny. peter. you don’t eat anything. . lady. nothing. peter. you don’t drink anything. . lady. not a drop. peter. and if you did you wouldn’t pay for it. . lady. not a penny. peter. n ow hasn’t it occurred to you that on the whole you’re not a profitable customer ? . lady. yes, that reflection has occurred to me. but look at it from my point of view. if you could get all you wanted from a first-r-re inn without paying for it, how long would you stop there ? peter. i should stop there until somebody did to me what i’m going to do to you. ‘ ' . lady. what’s that ? peter. turn you out. c me—toddle—trundle—vanish! . [he squares up to her as if about to strike her. . lady. why, peter, would you strike an old woman ? peter. why not? you’re as big as i am. besides you’ve less to lose. you are very ugly, and no amount of thrashing would make you uglier than you are. now i am very beautiful, and a tap on the nose would play the very deuce with me ! come —toddle ! ‘ [squares up at her; . lady. very well, peter, you’re a coward to square up at an old woman, and as a punishment you will be so good as to go on squaring up to every one you meet and telling them to “ come on!” until further notice. peter. what, squaring up like this ? (squaring) come on! . lady. yes, just like that. peter. what, at everybody i eome across ? (s'quaring.) come on! . _ _ . lady. yes, at everybody you come across. peter. big and little! ( uaring.) come on! . lady. yes,_bi and litae. ‘ eter (howling). gut they won’t like it! (sguaring.) come on ! creatures of impulse. serg. what, like this? (du/cking.) don’t! . lady. yes, like that. d sery. but they’ll think i’m afraid of ’em ! (duckiny.) on’t . . lady. sure to ! serg. but ’m not afraid of any one ! don’t ! . lady. no, you are the bravest man in the army! serg. i shall lose my reputation! i shall be branded as a coward! don’t! enter pirette from inn; she stares at sengeawt in astonishment. pipette. oh, if you please, mistress marthais compliments, and have you been successful? serg. n , she won’t go! (ducking.) don’t! pipette. i wasn’t going to. oh! if you please, what’s the matter ? serg. oh, it’s nothing! it’ll pass . (dueh'ing.) don’t! pipette. wouldn’t you like to lie down? i’m not going to hurt you. serg. n , no, my dear, i’m quite well. (ducking.) don’t ! don’t ! pipette. it’s your fun, i suppose ? serg. exactly. it’s my fun! [ducking. . lady. he’s showing you how he fought the enemy at j ohannesberg. serg. no, my dear ! i’m showing you how the enemy fought us. this is the way they retreated. don’t! don’t ! don’t! [emit smzosazvt, ducking and barking. pipette. what a strange young man! . lady. he’s a very rude young man. pipette. rude ? . lady. yes. he put his arm round my waist. pipette. are you his mother ? . lady. no, my dear, i’m not. pipette. nor his aunt? . lady. no. pipette. then i'll tell his colonel, and he’ll be flogged l . lady. i should like to see him flogged. pipette. so should i ! oh my, what am i saying ? oh, dear, i didn’t mean that! . lady. well, my dear, and what do you want ? pipette. i want to ask you a great’——great favour. . lady. yes? ' ‘ v. y . creatures of iajpulse. . pipette. you’re'such a dear old lady, that i‘m sure you’ll grant it. . lady. yes, i’m a pleasant old person. . pipette. although you’re past your prime, you’ve such bright; eyes, and such"red cheeks, and such a happy expression of countenance, that you’re prettier than many z young girl i know. . lady. yes, pm attractive—attractive, nothing more. pipette. well, you’re such a dear old lady, and i’m so fond of you, and you’ve made yourself so pleasant and so agreeable, that what i want you to do is to—is to . lady. yes, is to—is to? pipette. is .to go. . lady.‘ go ? . pipette. go._ you see, they don’t appreciate you as much as do. i think you’re a dear old lady-—perhaps the dearest old lady i ever saw, but they don’t. . lady. oh, they don’t ? pipette. no, i can’t understand it, but it is so. now, i’m sure you’re too proud-—too noble—too high-spirited to remain where you’re not wanted. aren’t you, you dear—dear olrl lady ? (kisses her.) oh, i declare i could kiss those cherry cheeks all day long! . _ . lady. all day long ? pipette. all day long! [kisses her. . lady. very good——you’re telling stories, my dear, and must be punished. as a punishment you will be so good as to go about offering to kiss and fondle every one you meet, until further notice. pipette. what, like that? (makes ieissing noise.) kiss me! . lady. yes, like that! pipette. but people will think it so odd. kiss me! . lady. yes, they’ll be surprised at first. _ pipette. but i say—gentlemen and all? kiss me! . lady. yes, gentlemen and all. pipette. but they won’t like it! . lady. oh no, they won’t mind it. . pipette. but i’m so shy ! i can’t look at a gentleman without blushing. kiss e! , . lady. oh, you’ll get over your shyness after a year or two of that sort of thing. . . _ pipette. kiss me! oh dear, oh dear, i don’t know what . -people will say! kiss me! . lady.. do. they’ll say you quiet ones are always the worst. and so you are. ' ' creatures or impulse. enter boomnmearbt from inn. pipette. oh dear, here’s that disgusting old wretch, boomble- hardt. i hate the sight of him! (to boomblehabdt.) kiss me. boom. certainly, my dear. [kisses her. pipette. how dare you take such a liberty! you insolent old man! kiss me. boom. again! why, of course. [kisses her. pipette. oh, you disgusting old man! (bomes his ears.) i‘ll . tell my aunt, and she’ll turn you out of doors, and you shall be hooted through the village. kiss me. boom. (puzzled). thank you—no more this morning. pipette. thank you, i’m sure! oh dear, oh dear! what shall i do [emit crying into house. boom. what a very strange girl. . lady (seated). i am a very strange girl. boom. ah—i was not referring to you. but i want a word with you. i want to make a bargain with you. . lady. well, get on. boom. well, mistress martha has sent me to induce you to go; but i don’t want to do anything of the kind. .i want you to stay. so if you’ll fall in with my views, i’ll do all i can to prevent their turning you out. . lady. well, what are your views ? boom. you have the wonderful gift of living without food. . lady. yes—i have that gift. boom. for the last fifty years i’ve been trying to master that wonderful secret, but in vain. it’s true i’ve brought myself down to one hard-boiled egg and a tea-cup full of soup per diam, but i find even that a great drain on my resources. now, if you’ll teach me how to live oomfortably—i don’t say luxuriously, but comfortably—on nothing at all, l’ll give you—- yes, i’ll give you a guinea! . lady. you’ll give me a guinea? boom. yes—half down and half by a bill at six months. well, come—say a guinea down. there, look at it! a whole guinea! weigh it! taste it! look at the milling. oh, it’s a beautiful guinea! [she takes it and tests it. . lady. you’re a very mean old man, and you must be punished for it. you’ll have the goodness to go on ofiering guineas from your long bag to every one you meet until further notice. boom. what, like this—allow me to offer you a guinea? . lady. thank you. (takes it.) yes, like that. boom. to every one i meet? creatures or . . serg. hang the fellow, how shall i get rid of him? stop, here’? pipette—i have it! i’ll back from pipette on to him . enter prrette from house, sergean ‘ turns to her and backs from her on to boomslehasdt’s toes. -boom. here, i say, sir, look where you’re coming to! [seroeaet backs him the stage. serg. thank heaven he’e gone at lastl pipette (to serosarvr). kiss me! sery. eh? (ducking). don’tl pipette. i can’t help it. kiss me l serg. don’tl don’t! pipette. don’t be angry, sergeant, but it’s an irresistible impulse. kiss me! serg. i’m not angry—i like it. don’t, don't! enter peter, squaring. peter. hallo, jenny, kissing sergeant klooque! come on! pipette. please, peter, i can’t help it. it’s an irresistible impulse. kiss me! (to peter). peter. come on! come on! [squaring—he aqua/res at ser- geant who due/rs. pipette. oh dear, oh dear, they’re going to fight about me. my character will be gone in no time! . peter. come on! come on! serg. don’t, don’t! peter. please don’t be angry, sergeant, but i’m compelled to hit you. i am acting under an irresistible impulse. serg. and don’t you suppose i’m ducking and dodging because i’i afraid of you. i, too, am acting under an irresistible ' impulse. enter bc)omblehard'r. - boom. (to sergeant). allow me to offer you a guinea. serg. sir, i have great pleasure in taking it. _ [pztea hits boomel ehasnrr on the back. boom. (to patas). allow me to offer you a_ guinea. peter. a guinea ? thank you! come on ! boom. (to pirette). pipette, allow me to offer you a guinea. p'ipette. you’re a disreputable old scampl kiss me, kiss me . crea tl/res of impulse. enter martha and villagers from inn. martha (to vrllaoers, pushing them all away). go away! go away ! get out of this—get out of this ! serg. (ducking). why, martha, what’s the matter ? martha. don’t be frightened, sergeant—i don’t mean it. i tried with my three servants just now to make the old lady go, and she compels us to turn everybody out of my inn until further notice ! why i shall be ruined! go away-—get out of this! [to one and all in succession. boom. allow me, ma’am, to offer you a guinea. martha. certainly; thank you—goaway. boom. another. ' martha. thank y u—go away. (to the others.) go away- get out of this—go away. pipette (to sergeant). kiss me, kiss me! peter (to sebgeant). come on, come on! serg. don’t, don’t, don’t ! martha. go away ! go away—get out of this—go away ! boom. allow me to offer you a guinea. [to all in succession. enter old lady from inn—they all rush to her. martha (pushing her). go away—go away ! villagers. get out of this-—go away_l peter. ‘come on, come on! serg. (apart from the others). don’t, don’t l . pipette. kiss me ! kiss me! [trying to kiss old lady. boom. allow me to offer you a guinea. [they hustle her about the stage. . lady. stop! stop! stop! (they all desist.) i release you all. (all relapse.) i can manage you separately, but altogether you’re too many for me ! the spell is removed! martha. then you’ll go ? . lady (sulkily). yes--— ’ll go. pipette (to sergeant). then you’re not a coward ? serg. a coward ? no! and you don’t want to kiss every- body ? pipette. kiss everybody ? no ! (to peter.) and you’re not a brave man ? peter. a brave man? no! ( to martha.) and you don’t want to turn everybody out of your inn ? martha. out of my inn ? no ! ( lb boomnlehaent.) and you don’t want to give everybody a guinea ? i abo!om. give everybody a guinea? no, l’l be hanged if caaatures of impulsa. all. o. lady. all. finale. go away, ma'am, go away, ma'am, go away, ma'am, good day ! defeated and ill-treated, i'm vindictive as you'll find, so prepare you, for to spare you i am not at all inclined ! go away ma'am, &c. [they hustle her out of the gate. curtain. randall’s thumb. a n or/g/nal comedy in three acts. first performed at the opening of the royal court theatre, under the management of miss m litton, th january, . dramatis personze. dr. trotzvay mr. h. m \:i,l ~r. jon bangles . mn. edward r cmrofl randall, an adventurer mr. w. belford buckthorre, under his thumb mn. hermann vnzm mr. scantlenury, on his honeymoon mr. fmmx matt -ncws. mr. fumnoys, an old stager mr. astuzzy. cumming, a waiter ... . . mr. parry cumcn, a superintendent qf police... mn. jzmv s emma temrle, dr. trotway’s niece mlss kate bishor mas. scnvrliznunr mas. sn:r mus. mlss srnm ... m ss maggie brennan. mns. flamnoys miss eleanor burrou. act i. . gardens of beachington_ hotel. act ii. the clump rocks. act iii. gardens of beachington hotel. scenery by mr. bnnmwoon po' "rs and assistants. modern seaside d -esaes. randall’s dress rather seedy will pretentioua. ‘time in representation : two hours and a half. r./\nd’all’s thumb. act i. scene.—gardens of beachington hotel. entrance to hotel, l. ; garden table and two chairs, r. ; table and chair, l. ; gong at entrance to hotel; visitors’ book on r. table ,' entrance to hotel garden, . ; sea view. mr. and mes. flamnoys discovered sitting at table, r., but apart as if they had guarrelled—enter mn. bangles, from hotel. bangles. ha, flamboys! how d’ye do, mrs. flamboys? (aside) hallo, another rowl it’s a most extraordinary thing that these young people should quarrel as they do. flamboys is a capital fellow. mrs. flamboys is a pretty and agreeable woman. and they don’t speak half-a-dozen words a day. flamboys (yawning). oh dear! oh dear! it’s awfully slow here! say, bangles, don’t you find it awfully slow? bang. slow ? no! flamb. ah, you’re a single man, that makes all the difference at a watering place. bang. it does make a difference, no doubt, but it seems to me that the advantage is all on your side. (bowing to mes. flamboys.) flamb. unsophisticated soul! may that fond delusion never be disturbed. you’re a bachelor—takc an old stager’s advice and keep so. [mns. flamnoys rises, in a hulf, and retires up. bang. (crossing to flamboys). my boy, i don’t like to hear any man talk like that. it’s excusable in a half-fledged griff, with a pocket full of dangerous money and a body full of dangerous tastes, but a married man who speaks as you speak is a traitor to his order. you've taken the shilling—stick to ra ndall’.s‘ thumb. your colours like a man—and don’t damn the service because you don’t happen to hit it off with your commanding officer. flamb. my dear fellow, who does hit it off with his com- manding officer ? . bang. bosh! that’s the foolish fast sham-cynical cant of the day. i’ve heard many a youngster speak as you speak, and i’ve lived long enough to see nearly all of them happy husbands and happy fathers. those who stick to the professions of their youth are those whom no decent woman would have. mrs. flamboys. but it seems strange that so ardent an advocate of married life should have lived single so long. bang. it’s no fault of mine, mrs. flamboys-—i should have been married thirty years ago, if i’d had my way—to a lady twenty years older" than myself! perhaps it‘s as well that i didn’t. flamb. quite, i’m sure. bang. but i’ve turned the corner some time now, and l.’ n going down-hill pretty quickly, and i—l often wish, mrs. flamboys, that i had some one to put the skid on for me, and let me down easily. an old man feels the want of a wife more than a young one does, depend upon that. ll’s no joke to look forward to a solitary old age with death in apartments at the end of it; and the only symptom of regret, the demand made by your landlady on your executors for compensation on account of the house having got an ill name from your having died in it. _ __ ftamb. well, ‘if an old stager’s example can be of any service in inducing you to come to a practical conclusion‘ on the subject, you’re quite welcome to it! how longdo you propose to stay at" beachington '? . _ bang. stay? all the autumn—all the winter, perhaps. it’s a delightful place. by jove, sir, it suits me down to the ground. ‘ when i see a face i like, i want to speak to it; and at beachington one can do that without fear of a snub. i‘ve lived in london for the last three months, and i havcn’t made three acquaintances. i have been here three weeks and i’ve made thirty. i like most faces. by jove, i like yours-— though you do talk infernal nonsense. [shaking hands with fnnrnoys. mrs. '. (seated). strange taste! ‘ bang. and i like your wife’s. flamb. you’re easily satisfied. bang. i don’t dislike scantlebury’s face. mrs. f. and mrs. scantlebury’s? bang. well—yes, and mrs. scantlebury’s. rand/ ll’s thumb. mrs. f. take care, mr. bangles—she’s a bride! bang. oh, don’t misunderstand me—it’s purely aesthetic— purely msthetic. i admire mrs. scantlebury as i admire a‘ painting. mrs. f. oh, i see! if you look upon mrs. scantlebury as a work of art, i admit that there is some ground for your admiration. bang. ha, ha! you’re severe on the bride, mrs. *‘lamboys— but i say—how does she do it? mrs. f. indeed i don’t know—you had better ask mr. scantlebury. flamb. oh, he doesn’t know. he’s not been married long enough. husbands learn these things slowly and by degrees. mr. scantlebury has only been married a fortnight, and i suppose that at the present moment he’s at that stage of dis- covery which takes the form of a puzzled wonder why the deuce his wife will keep her dressing case locked. he’ll find out all about it some day. at least i did. mrs. f. mr. flamboys ! how dare you say such a thing? flmnb. well, and whom else do you admire? there’s trotway. ' bang. oh, jack trotway, of course. why, jack trotway is the oldest and dearest friend i have in the world. we were at school together—wa ked guy’s together—entered the service together as assistant surgeons—left it together as inspectors of hospitals. flamb. and miss temple, his niece? bung. edith temple ! yes, yes! god bless her—i like edith temple’s face. oh yes, i like edith’s face. mrs. f. well, then there’s miss spinn. _ bang. well, and l like—no, hang it, i do not like miss spinn. [takes stage, r. mrs. f. but that’s very ungrateful, mr. bangles, for i’m sure she likes you. why you are always together! bang. always together, iua’am ? we are siamese twins in everything but physical union! if we were physically united, a surgical operation might separate us; as it is, i’m not aware of any operation—surgical or otherwise—that will keep us asunder. that woman’s the pest of my life. flamb. i wonder you stand it. bang. stand it? confound it, you don’t want me to strangle the woman, do you ? flmnb. no, that would be an extreme measure. i shoulnln’l'. try that until all other means had failed. bang. all other means have failed. sir, the woman is too a aawda l’.s. z.a. uma. old a hand. she comes to attack me armed with an experience which i suppose is utterly unexampled. what is a simple- minded indian to do with a woman who in her time has been a governess, a lady's companion, a crimean nurse, a columbine, a missionary, a vivandière, a stewardess, and a bloomer ? enter miss spinn from hotel. miss s. talking about me, mr. bangles, as usual? (aside to bangles.) oh, you indiscreet man | bang. yes, ma'am i have been talking about you. i'm not aware there are any secrets between us. miss s. (aside to bangles). very judiciously passed off. (aloud.) secrets? certainly not... i haven’t a secret in the world! yes, mrs. flamboys, in my time, i’ve been everything, by turns flamb. except a wife. miss s. and nothing long. bang. except a spinster. mrs. f. (mischievously). do you know, miss spinn, i often wonder that, with your love of change, it has never entered your head to get married? mr. bangles was just saying so as you came in bang. i, ma'am . hang it, mrs. flamboys miss s. dear joe' (aside to bangles.) oh, you imprudent boy ! (aloud.) mrs. flamboys, i will tell you a secret. (confidentially.) it has entered my head to get married ! [exit bangles, unperceived. mrs. f. impossible ! miss s. but true. over and over again i have said to myself, “it is my duty to marry.” but whom? there's my difficulty. flamb. yes—i see your difficulty. miss s. he must be a good man—he must be a rich man— he must be a man of exquisite taste, and his admiration for me must be unbounded. now, it isn't easy to find this combination of qualities in one individual. flamb. that i can quite understand. miss s. exactly. above all, he must be furiously jealous in order to—to— mrs. f. to curb your love of change? miss s. exactly. when i find such a man, i will throw "f into his arms and i will say, “take me, and be happy!” * f. but, would not that be rather abrupt? s. what, the remark? oh, of course, as i put it; but suming that he has led up to it, aaazza/l’.s zzuma. flamb. but that's begging the question. miss s. oh, but that's often done. flamb. i believe it is. it was in my case. mrs. f. mr. flamboys! - flamb. ah! [sighs. mrs. f. ah! (sighs.) brute! miss s. um! pleasant people, these. (aloud.) but, mr. bangles—where's mr. bangles? flamb. gone. - miss s. gone? why, do you know, i came here on purpose to find him? - flamb. no! miss. s. i did, indeed. i’m organising a pic-nic to the clump rocks this day week, and i want mr. bangles to help me. mrs. f. well, miss spinn, mr. bangles went off very quietly, directly you came. miss s. very quietly? mrs. f. very. miss s. as if he didn't want to be observed? flamb. exactly. miss s. sly old gentleman—he meant me to follow him. silly fellow; as if there's anything to be ashamed of in our liking each other's society. but these indians are so sly. which way did he go? into the grove? thank you. good morning. exit miss spinn—mr. and mrs. flamboys rush to each other's arms. - flamb. my darling—now, at last, we are alone! [kisses her. re-enter miss spinn—they disengage. miss s. i beg your pardon—i forgot to ask if i might put your name down? flamb. oh, certainly. miss s. and mrs. flamboys? flamb. (brusquely). oh, she doesn’t want to go. she's got nothing to go in. besides, a pic-nic is no fun, when one's wife's there. mrs. f. indeed, but i shall go, if i have to wear my alpaca. put me down, if you please, miss spinn, as well as mr. flam- boys. (to flamboys.) brute! miss s. that's right. it will be delightful if we have a fine day. now for mr. bangles. [exit miss spinn. mrs. f. there now—she saw you kiss me ! it'll be all over the hotel! . rajvdalzjs thumb. flamb. but, my darling pet, you are my wife ! mrs. f. certainly, dear. but husbands don’t avail them- selves of every opportunity of kissing their wives after they have been married five years. it’s all very well at first, but people cool down. flamb. ah, it’s so difficult to remember the dreary fiction that we’ve been married five years, in face of the delightful fact that we’ve only been married three weeks. mrs. f. but you must try, my pet, you must indeed. only think, if it should be known in the hotel that we are on our honeymoon tour ! why we shouldn’t have a moie t’z peace ! flamb. it would be extremely awkward. well, l’ve done all i can. l’ve quarrelled with you over and over again in public. i’ve worn the oldest boots i could find. l’ve flirted with every woman i’ve come across. i’ve constantly referred to our numerous family, and i’ve never lost an opportunity of eating sake and onions. mrs. f. my pet, how good of you! (kissing him.) our numerous family! _ flamb. yes—four! both. ha, ha! mrs. f. now, mind— insist on your being extremely rude to me on all public occasions. you must say the unkindest things about my dress, and my complexion, and my hair—and you must snub me whenever you’ve an opportunity. flarnb. my love, i’ll be a perfect brute! mrs. f. i’m sure you will. think how much annoyance and observation we save ourselves by such a course. look at those two ridiculous old donkeys, the scantleburys, who are always advertising the fact that they are honeymooning, although she’s sixty, if she’s a day! look at them, with their arms round each oter’’ waists, as if they were two-and-twenty! it’s positively indelicate! fiumb. ah ! there are no fools like old ones ! enter mn. and mns. scan' ‘lebury,f ldli/zg. scant. now, my darling, i must insist on your wearing a shawl—it’s too cold to be out without one. ah, mrs. flam- boys ! assist me in persuading frederica that she will certainly catch cold, if she doesn’t wrap herself up. ' mrs. f. (seated). oh! i couldn’t presume to dictate to a lady of mrs. scantlebury’s age ! besides, it is not a cold day. flamb. not cold ?—it’s freezing! mr. scantlebury is quite right! it’s all very well for you to go about as you do- aaawdall’s thump. you're a mere girl! but when you're mrs. scantlebury's age you'll know better, won't she, scantlebury? scant. (aside). these persons are very insufferable ! mrs. f. and when mr. scantlebury has been married as long as we have, he will only trouble himself about one circumstance connected with mrs. scantlebury's toilette. scant. and that is—? mrs. f. that it is regulated with a due regard to economy. such, at least, is my experience. [looking savagely at flamboys. flam. there you are—at it again nag—nag—nag—all day long ! mrs. f. then you should give me something fit to wear ! will you believe me, mrs. scantlebury, when i tell you that he hasn’t give me a single dress since my marriage? i am positively wearing out my trousseau at this moment! scant. oh, flamboys! i'm ashamed of you! mrs. scant. oh, mr. flamboys, we're ashamed of you! flamb. ah! wait till you’ve been married five years! you are young at it just now, and you’re carried away by en- thusiasm. it's astonishing how that sort of thing dies out ! mrs. scant. horace, assure me that this sort of thing will not die out. tell me that you will always—always—always— love me as you do now ! scant. frederica, do you doubt me? mrs. scant. no-i cannot doubt those eyes! [gazing at him. scant. my own | mrs. scant. my love! flamb. (aside). old fools! (aloud.) ah! when i married, scantlebury, i believed in all that. mrs. f. so did i—but i have been bitterly undeceived ! oh, mrs. scantlebury it is a pleasant thing to dream that the honeymoon is to last for life!—but it is a terrible thing to awake and find that you have married an icicle ! [weeps. mrs. scant. horace, is it possible that you are an icicle in disguise ? scant. if i were, what would become of me before the blaze of those radiant eyes? mrs. scant. go, flatterer. scant. my own | mrs. scant. my love flamb. oh, this is intolerable ! scant. mr. flamboys, you must excuse us if we are a little effusive. this is the most interesting period of our existence. i dare say now that, under similar circumstances, you went on just as we do now? iv. z rand/ ll’.s' thumb. bandl of course you don’t—it’s a devilish serious position for you. but don’t you find it amuses your friends? scant. n o, sir, i do not find that it amuses my friends. rand. they must be dull dogs. scant. i believe there is nothing to be ashamed of in the fact that i am on my honeymoon ? rand. nothing at all. quite the reverse. it’s very credit- able to you at your time of life. scant. society, sir, i believe, could not be carried on without honeymoons. rand. quite out of the question. you’re a martyr in a good cause. soant. (aside). this fellow is laughing at me. he shall see that i’m not to be trifled with. (crosses to r.—then aloud.) good morning, sir. [eaz:it. rand. ha, ha! (refers to book.) “joseph bangles, m.d., late bengal army. dr. trotway and niece.” good. (aside) they are here. ba. (coming down). well, now that you’ve brought me all the way down to beachington, perhaps you’ll let me know what you want with me. band. i want you to help me to carry out a scheme by which i shall make a pot of money. buck. suppose i refuse ? rand. but you won’t refuse; you can’t help yourself. do you remember the night of the th of august, ‘. buck. i’m not likely to forget it. rand. probably not. we don’t commit murders every day. at least, i don’t. buck. it was no murder, and you know it. i was attacked by a stranger in the dark, at the edge of banton cliffe, and in self-defence istruck at him with a sword-stick. rand. you did. he fell over the cliff and was killed. at my suggestion you left england that night. the body was found, and your victim turned out to be a highly respectable commercial traveller named peters, and a coroner’s jury having the fact of the sword-thrust strongly before their eyes, returned a verdict of “ wilful murder” against some person or persons unknown. baa. in the sight of heaven i am innocent. rand. no doubt. but in the sight of the law you are guilty. a reward of three hundred pounds is offered for your apprehen- sion. i could earn that three hundred pounds this evening. i am extremely hard up. the letters you wrote to me from dijon, identifying you with the man who caused his randall thumb. ; death, are in my pocket, and the local police station is next door. buck. you know that i am innocent of any crime. rand. stop. w hat do you understand by the word “ crime ” ? buck. an offence against the law. rand. childish! a crime is that unfortunate combination of circumstances which induces a jury to return a verdict of guilty. believe me, i speak from experience. but don’t be afraid. i don’t intend to inform against you. i want you: you are very valuable to me. buck. you are very good. ra-rid. not at all. buck. well, perhaps not. rand. i am sure not. now for the work that i want you to do. buck. disagreeable, i suppose ' rand. very. there’s an extremely nice girl with thirty- eight thousand pounds, stopping in this hotel, and i want you to make love to her. buck. why don’t you do it yourself? rand. do you think i should be successful? buck. (looking at him coolly). n o. why am i to do this? rand. to explain that, i must go back to the history of my marriage. buck. i thought you were a bachelor? rand. so do a good many others—but i’m not. buck. heaven help your wife! rand. heaven has. she is no more. buck. was she pretty ? rand. very. buck. what did she die of? rand. old age. baa. you said she was pretty ? rand. she was—but that was long before i was born or thought of. i met her at beachington three years ago—she was then seventy-nine. she was a very afiectionate old lady; and, as i found that she had money, i proposed to her then and there, and then and there she accepted me. within three days we were married. buck. sharp work! rand. it was sharp. but when the bride is seventy-nine, time is of the essence of the contract. two hours after the ceremony, the tranquil joys of my honeymoon were inter- rupted by the information that i was wanted for felony. i bolted, it/l¢vdal.l’s thumb. enter de. trorrway, through . from .», smoking. (atoud.) i’m going round to the post-ofiice. i shall be back directly. have you a light? (crossing to l.—taking out cigar case). buck. n . you know i don’t smoke. trot. allow me to offer you one. [ fers lighted cigar. rand. thank you. eh! not dr. trotway ? trot. yes. should i know you ? rand. i had the pleasure of meeting you, many years ago, at your regimental mess in—in-—- trot. kurrachee ? rand. kurrachee. you sat vice, i remember. don’t remember me, i dare say. no! i had no whiskers then. this is my old chum, reggy buckthorpe—late th. we shall meet at dinner, i dare say. good morning ! _ [emit randall through gate, ., and of, l. trot. don’t know his face; don’t want to. friend seems a decent fellow. (aloud) th—el_ —mr. buckthorpe? knew them very well in the punjaub; but that’s before your time. back. yes, i joined in ’ —left in ’ . trot. half-pay? back" no. sold out. trot. (aside). bad! buck. hard up. trot. good! like a man who owns to that. enter enith. edith. uncle, this pic-nic promises to be a great success. buck. (astonished). edith! edith. mr. buckthorpel buck. how strange that we should meet thus ! trot. eh ? why, what’s this ? you are old friends ? edith. oh yes! i had the pleasure of knowing mr. buck- thorpe some years ago, before papa’s death. i then went to india, and we have never met since. i am very glad to see you. trot. so ami. i don’t know you, sir; but as a friend of my poor brother’s i am heartily glad to make your acquaint- ance. are you making a long stay ? back. well, yes—so ne weeks, i think. trot. 'l‘hat’s right! then we shall see something of each other. imust be off to join bangles. we are going to take shootings here, and we shall be delighted to give you a gun. randalds thumb. good morning, mr. buckthorpel you and edith can talk over. old times. [emit trotway, r. u. e. buck. this is a strange meeting, edith ! edith. it is, indeed, mr. buckthorpe! buck. mr. buckthorpe! edith. yes; we are merely friends now. buck. are—are you married ? edith. no. buck. are you engaged? edith. no. bitck. then you have quite ceased to love me ? edith. you have no right to ask me that. my poor father forbad me even to speak to you again. he is dead. buck. so i heard. he was very hard on me. edith. he was very just. buck; yes; but it is as hard to distinguish extreme justice from extreme injustice, as to distinguish extreme heat from extreme cold. i was a penniless spendthrift, and i suppose he was right; but it would have made a good man of me, if i had married you. edith. was he to know that ? buck. n ; but you knew it. edith. i believed it. i am sure i could have influenced on. y buck. why, from the first day i saw you, my life changed. during the six months that our acquaintance lasted i was an altered man. you loved me then—i know you did. was amazed—astounded when i learnt this; it opened out a pro- spect of a new and changed life to me; it had never entered my head that a good and pure woman could love such a man as i. i have known so few, edith; and those i have known have treated me as a hopeless outcast. edith. oh, mr. buckthorpe! buck. they have had good reason to do so. i had been left to my own ways all my life, to make what associates i pleased, and when i entered the service, i was banished to a foreign station where time hung heavily on my hands, and where the devil of mischief had full opportunity of working his worst with me. under different auspices i might have been a different man—i am sure of this, from the influence that association with so pure and good a woman as you had over me. oh, edith, i am a miserable fellow ! (sits at table.) edith. i—i am truly sorry to hear you say this. mr. buckthorpe, you pain me deeply. buck. after your father dismissed me from your presence, i r‘andall’s thumb. ; lived on in hope that ciroumstances—i knew not how-—might bring us together again. but he died, and you had to join your uncle in india, and the sun went down on the only bright day my miserable life had known! edith. mr. buckthorpe, it is not fair to tell me all this. i/vhen i told you that i loved you, i knew nothing of your past life—you seemed to me to be all thata man should be. i loved you, because you realised my dream of what a man should be; but when i learnt the circumstances of your past career, my eyes were opened to the folly of my dream, and if you had died on the day that i owned my love for you, i should not have suffered greater anguish. [sits. buck. but, edith, you could not say this to me if you had wholly ceased to love me. edith. mr. buckthorpe, do not mistake me; i love the memory of an ideal man. the man i love has no existence— he never lived. i loved the man whom i believed reginald buckthorpe to be. buck. i was a good man when we parted— may say so now; for i am good no longer. i look back on those six months in my life as on an episode in the life of another man. edith, have pity on me— give me another chance. edith. no ; i am bound by my father’s wishes. he is dead. buck. he is dead, and therefore cannot recall his words. he knew nothing, except that my career had been wild, reckless, extravagant. he attributed my altered life to interested hyp crisy—because you had wealth, and i was poor. but when he knew me, i was indeed a changed man. edith, you loved me. where is the man whose heart would not be purified by such love as yours ? [edith appears undecided how to act. enter randall from l. and through c. rand. (aside to buoktuoni>n). very good. buck. what do you mean ? rand. i mean very good. i mean that you’ve lost no time —you’ve been going it, you babe of nature ! buck. i don’t understand you. rand. don’t you ? i mean that you’ve lost no time in commencing operations. this is the young lady whose thirty- eight thousand pounds i claim. buck. edith temple ? rand. exactly. didn’t you know that ? introduce me. buvk. she is a lady. raivdalzys t h u/vb. rand. you‘d better do as i tell you. buck. (reluctantly). miss temple—mr. randall. [retires ujo. rand. miss temple, i had the pleasure of knowing your uncle, doctor trotway, in india, some years ago. edith. indeed ? rand. yes, we renewed our acquaintance this morning. (t buckthorre.) i had no idea that miss temple and you were acquainted. edith. yes, we are old friends, but we have not met for son_ e years. rand. (aside). this simplifies matters. young people who are old friends, and who haven't met for some years, generally get very confidential when they do meet. enter miss srinn and bangles. miss s. well, we’ve settled all preliminaries. there are three carriages, and a donkey cart, which i amgoing to drive. edith. how many names have you, miss spinn ? . ' mz'ss s. (referring to list). sixteen. [edith and buckthorre retire up. rand. (crossing to miss sr nn). have you really got sixteen names? fifteen of ’em aliases ! that beats me hollow. miss s. i really have! and i want one more to be com- plete. bang. (aside). i know you d —mine! but you won't get it. (aloud.) perhaps these gentlemen will join you ? rand. certain y—eh, buckthorpe ? miss s. oh, but that’s two, and it will throw out all my arrangements. never mind, mr. bangles, you and i will charter the donkey cart. bang. impossible! miss . why? bang. i don’t enjoy riding in donkey carts, besides we should never keep pace with the others, we should drop behind. ' miss s. (tenderly). a little, perhaps—half a mile or so-not more. that wouldn’t matter a bit! bang. it would spoil the whole thing, ma’am. it’s the essence of a thing of this kind that all should arrive at the same moment. miss s. then we two will start an hour before the others, and get everything ready-—there it’s quite settled, mr. bangles, that i take you in my trap. ra vdall’s t /mb. rand. (aside). egad, it looks like it! bang. no, no—it would be better if edith and i were to go together, eh—edith ?-—and—- miss s. wouldn’t do at all. it would never do to take the only young unmarried lady out of the party. besides, what would people think ? now two old fogies like us can do what we like ? bang. i wish we could. .miss s. mr. bangles, i’m shocked at you! there, that’s all settled, and if these gentlemen will give me their names— — rand. mr. randall—mr. buckthorpe. buck. excuse me, i can take no part in this excursion. i leave for london to-night. enter dr. teotway. edith. oh, buckthorpe ! buck. i leave for london to-night. [with deliberation. rand. (aside). are you mad? trot. what’s that? you told me you intended to remain some weeks. . buck. circumstances have occurred which render necessary my immediate presence in london. there is a chancery suit —involving my succession to a large fortune rand. but you knew of that this morning, my bloating lambkin, you knew of that this morning. edith (aside). is this on my account ? buck. it is. edith. then, on my account, stay. bacl. i eannot—y u don’t know all ! rand. i think on reflection you will see that this haste is unnecessary. (takes him aside.) if you attempt to leave this place until i give you permission, i will place your letters in the hands of the local poliee—you know me well. (aloud) ladies and gentlemen, i have the pleasure to inform you that i have convinced mr. buckthorpe that his intended departure is un- necessary. he will have much pleasure in joining your party ! . ibazvdallls‘ thuaib. act ii. scene.—t/ clump rocks. the entrance to a large cave occupies the foreground of stage, with seashore in the distance. the entrance from l. is over large loose rocks; the entrances, r., are open; the two large detached rocks in the centre should be sufiiciently flat on their surfaces to serve as tables, and they should be surrounded with rough ledges, about eighteen inches high, to serve as seats; the small detached rock, r., should be about twelve inches high; the stage is covered with other rock-work to mask the rising of the water. servai\" ‘s discovered arranging lunch, superintended by miss srini\'——bangles sitting moodily apart, endeavouring to turn out a jelly. miss s. well, mr. bangles, how are you getting on with that 'elly ? j bang. ma’ain, the confounded thing won’t come. miss s. put it back into the warm water. (coming down.) mr. bangles, i often think that i’m very like a jelly. a good and clever husband might melt me down and pour me into any mould he pleased. bang. ma’am, it’s a privilege of which he would be certain to avail himself at the earliest opportunity. but i don’t think you'd “turn out” well. jlliss . yes i should, dear. a little gentle warmth—such as i apply to this jelly. bang. gentle warmth ? nothing short of perpetual hot water would do it. ' miss s. (crossing to banoles). and would you try the hot water ? bang. i would, indeed, ma’am. miss s. (earnestly). perpetual hot water ? bang. perpetual hot water. miss is. hot water that would not cool down as time went on; water that would be always, always hot? bang. ma’am, it would be as hot as fire could make it.. a iss s. ardent soul! we will talk of this again. bang. really, miss spinn miss s. oh, joseph, i am so happy ! bang. hold up, ma’am, pray—this is extremely awkward. they are coming, ma'am, and we shall be caught ! miss s. you are right, we must be discreet—we must be very-—very prudent. i am not angry-—indeed i am not angry, . . ./vdall’s ihumb. you imprudent headstrong boy! there, hush, they are coming; we will speak of this again at a more convenient time. oh, joseph, i am so happy l enter dn. teotway and me. and mas. flamboys, over rocks. bang. miss spinn, i—that woman would extract a proposal of marriage from the pope of rome l [takes stage, r. trot. take care, mrs. flamboys, the rocks are very slippery. well, miss spinn, you have arranged everything, i see. bang. yes, miss spinn has arranged everything. trot. i always said she was a capital manager. bang. and i heartily endorse the observation ! mrs. f. here come the turtle-cloves. ah, i wonder how long it will last? [mr. and mus. i'‘l.u'uboys seat themselves in front of detached rock,’ .. enter mr. and mas. scantlebury, over the rocks. scant. come along, my angel. ladies and gentlemen, oblige me by looking the other way while mrs. scantlebury climbs over the rocks. (they do so.) n ow jump. mrs. scant. edward, if anybody is looking, i shall go and drown myself ! 'l‘here. [jumps. flamb. may we look now? scant. you may. [they stand in an attitude of embrace. all. beautiful! miss s. are we all here ? enter randall. rand. no, there's miss temple to come, and buckthorpe. i tell you what it is, i vote we don’t wait for them. trot. we won’t wait for them. it will serve them right. won’t it, bangles? miss s. oh, but that would be a pity. suppose, mr. bangles, you and i start off to meet them and hurry them on. trot. no, no, leave them alone. they must be taught that if they chose to separate themselves from the rest of the party, they must be prepared to take the consequences. (they seat thernselves—mr. and mas. scantlebury at lower rock, d z. trotway at higher 'r' ch‘—bangles on small rock, and miss srinn on hamper between bangles and mn. scantlebury— randall standing, e.) let them lunch together. rand. (aside). where shall i sit? (he makes one or two attempts to sit near mas. flamboys and mas. scantlebury, ra./vdall’s thumb. they close up to prevent his doing so.) somehow, i’ afraid i’m not z favourite here. there’s mrs. flamboys—she’s a nice little thing—black eyes, plump figure, and doesn’t get on with her husband. she’l do. (sits near mus. flamboys.) i know i’m not a pleasant person to look at, but my conversation is con- sidered sparkling. ’ll try and sparkle. (aloud) mrs. flamboys! mrs. f. yes. ‘ ' rand. (sentimentally). do you believe in first impressions ? mrs. f. sincerely. . rand. (taken aback). oh! but don’t you find that your first estimate of a man is sometimes a mistaken one? mrs. f. (with decision). never. (aside) i wish this person would go. . ifarzd. humph! cold shoulder! ' jllrs. f. mr. flamboys, if it’s not asking you too great a favour, i should like a little lobster salad. flamb. oh, hang it ! can’t you get it yourself? rand. wha_t an ill-bred boor it is. allow me, mrs. flamboys. [gives her salad. mrs. f. oh, thank you. (aside to flamboys.) i can’t touch it after that dreadful man; get me something _else— anything. ! flamb. my darling—there. [gives her c]n'c].'e'ri, mrs. f. ‘thank you, dearest. what are you eating? ' flamb. nothing. i live on love. mrs. f. my darling! flamb. my pet! trot. ha!—hem! flamb. (rudely). here, somebody give my wife somcthing-- she won’t touch anything i give her. jilrs. f. no, thank you; i’ve finished. ah, i had an appetite once! ‘ flamb. you had—enormous! mrs. f. brute! rand. (who has gone round to mrs. scantlebury). mrs.- scantlebury, do you believe in first impressions? [pathetically.- mrs. scant. (startled). bless and save the nan—what does he mean? rand. (reproachfully). ab, and you, too, give me the cold- shoulder! . mrs. scant. some cold shoulder for mr. randall. [turning away from him.- scant. certainly, randall. shall i put some mint sauce over it? ' . -* ;-'€...=__ ml raivdalds thumb. ‘ bafa . devilish odd; they don’t seem to like me at all. (aloud) thanks, i have some pigeon pie. trot. then ‘have some more. ' [gives him some. rand. is this pigeon ? trot. n , it’s rook. flamb. they go very well together, don’t they, randall? scant. it’s a great homburg dish, isn’t it, randall? trot. ‘rook and pigeon, with a good steak, is a dish you’re always glad to have a finger in, ain’t you, randall. mrs. scant. a finger? (to randall.) there’s no occasion to use your fingers, sir! allow me to hand you a fork. flamb. randall always prefers a spoon if he can get one; don’t you, randall? . scant. i can provide you with one. [ fers one. rand. i’m sure you can. thank you. scant. what do you mean by that, sir ? [rising. rand. you were born with a silver one in your mouth, were you not ? scant. well, sir, and if i was, sir-—and if i was, sir? rand. well, i meant that one. [goes round to miss srms. seant. (aside to mus. scantlebury). now, how the deuce did he know i was born with a silver spoon in my mouth. mrs. scant. he traced it in your conversation. scam‘. (angrily). frederica. mrs. scant. horace! scant. (recollecting himself). my own! mrs. scant. my love! ' flamb. scantlebury, leave your wife alone, do. mrs scant. sir! mr. seantlebury is not in the habit of letting his wife alone. if you are envious of mr. scautlebury’s happiness —- flamb. but i’m not. scant. you’re right, flamboys. mrs. scant. horace! [angrilg/. scant. frederica! mrs. scant. (recollecting herself). my love! scant. my own. . [they embrace. rand. miss spinn! [randall in the meantime has gone round to miss srnm, introducing himself between miss srnm and bangles. miss s. well? rand. do you believe in first impressions ? ' miss s. oh, i don’t believe in anything. rana’. i’m glad of that, it shows a sense beyond your years. randalds thumb. trot. young people joe—young people! we were young once, you know. bang. (sadly.) yes once. (aside) they’re always together—- on the beach, on the parade, on the pier—wherever she goes he’s sure to turn up with his confounded “miss temple, this is indeed an unexpected pleasure ! ” unexpected—bah! why, he knows her movements to a minute, and her plans for a week to come. trot. this is rather a critical moment in buckthorpe’s existence. he is expecting every minute to hear that a chan- cery suit has determined in his favour, and if it does, it will put him in possession of a considerable fortune. bang. the deuce it will! trot. yes. as edith and i were walking through beech- wood, yesterday, who should turn up of all people in the world but buckthorpe. “ dear me, miss temple,” said he, “ this is indeed an unexpected pleasure.” bang. bah ! trotway, do you ever go to the play ? trot. oh, yes; often. bang. very good. then here’s a little drama in two acts . and a moral that will interest you. act i—scene, the earth. time, sunrise. personage discovered: the astronomer-royal. the sun rises in the east. astronomer-royal speaks, “god bless my soul,” says he, “you rising in the east ? this is indeed an unexpected pleasure.” end of act . act —same scene. time, sunset. personages discovered: the astronomer- royal, and the sun about to set. astronomer-royal speaks, “god bless my soul,” says he, “you setting in the west? this is indeed an unexpected pleasure.” morn —the astro- nomer-royal’s a humbug. [emit bangles. trot. nonsense, joe, you’re hard on buckthorpe. it’s very odd that joe bangles who likes everybody should have taken such a dislike to young buckthorpe whom everybody else likes so much. i can’t account for it. enter enith and buckthosre over the rocks. trot. well, young lady, you’ve taken your time about it. we’ve lunched without you. edith. uncle, i was so tired, i was obliged to sit down. trot. well, we had to remove everything to the top of the cliff, as the tide is rising; so if you want any lunch you’d better come with me——come along buckthorpe. [exeunt tsotway and edith. as bockthoere -isfollowing them, randall enters. rand. stop-—i want to speak to you. iv. a c‘a vdall/s thumb. buck. well ? rand. well, you’ve been a week at work, and precious good running you’ve made in the time. buck. yes—pretty well. rand. nice girl, buck. yes. rand. pity she has to lose her money ? buck. it is a pity. rand. well, you’ve made good use of your time. i eouldn’t ‘ have got round her in a week as you have. buclr. oh, you’re too modest! rand. yes, i am modest. why, at this moment i know of half-a-dozen ladies—devilish fine women, too—who’d_ gi.ve a good deal to know where i am. ' buck. ladies ? rand. yes. buck. what kind of ladies i [ ontemptuously. band. landladies. don’t mistake me—it’s rent, not spoons. n o, no—jack randall is not the man to run away from that sort of thing. buds. no, he’s just the sort of man to run away with that sort of thing. . rand. what sort of thing ? buck. spoons. rand. my good friend, you don’t understand these things. i am not a strictly honest man, but i should no more think of sneaking down an area after a plate basket than you. would of sitting down to dinner with a dustman. damme, sir, pay some regard to social distinctions. if you are a swell, swindle; if you are a snob, sneak. always rob, according to your station in life. golden maxim. buck. then, by your own admission you’re a swindler. rand. i’ a chess-player. buck. but you cheat. rand. no—i finesse. buck. i don’t understand the distinction. rand. i’ll make it clear to you. . have a scheme to take your queen. to effect this, i arrange that my bishop shall occupy this square-—my knight that, my rock that,.and so forth. if you’re.a skilful player you detect my scheme and prepare to bafileit; if not, i gain my end. and because i don’t explain my tactics beforehand, you kick the board over. back. your games generally end that way, don.’t they ? ?¢md- generally. the art of losing with a good grace is an ii’/i n )al.l’s thu/p ’. accomplishment which is very generally neglected. i often wish it was otherwise. buck. no doubt. rand. but let’s get to business. what have you gathered from this girl about my lamented wife? buck. nothing. rand. not yet ? baa. no, not yet ? rand. then, as time’s getting on, and as i have very good reasons for not stopping here longer than is necessary, i think you’d better begin. buck. oh, you think that ? rand. yes, i do. look here, buckthorpe, i’m not going to stand any nonsense—i’ve got my fingers round your throat, and one squeeze will choke the life out of you. this eyening i must know all about this wife of mine—yo_u’ve got about an hour to do it in; you’d better begin at once. here comes the girl. i shall be within hearing, so you’d better be careful. buck. i would rather you did not listen. rand. no doubt; but i shall. [randall goes behind rock as enrth enters. edith. mr. buckthorpe, do you know where my uncle is ? buck. no; i have not seen him. edith. saw some one with you—— buck. yes—mr. randall. edith. oh! is mr. randall a great friend of yours ? [they sit—edith on lower rock with her back to randall, buckthorre on higher rock facing him. baa. no, he’s not a great friend of mine. edith. is he—you’ll think it a strange question—is he a very nice man ? buck. no, he’s not a very nice man. edith. he doesn’t look at all nic‘. buck. he is not at all' nice. (randall attempts to go.) it’s about two years since your aunt, miss brackenbury, died? [randall stays. edith. just two years, poor old lady. buck. so randall told me. edith. how in the world does he knowanything about her ? buck. he is a very well informed man. . edith. indeed ? he looks like a—a—you don’t mind my speaking openly about him ? buck. not at all. i like it. edith. he looks like a—.what do you call those people at fairs and races ? rand/lll’s ' ‘!!!/‘mb’. buck. punch and judy man ? edith. no, swell mob. surely he is not a gentleman ? buck. most surely not. edith. then how is it that you and he are so much together ? you are so entirely different. he is the worst looking man i ever saw. [randall going. buck. i’ll tell you all about that, some day. how old was your aunt when she died ? [randall stops. edith. seventy-nine. buck. so randall told me. edith. mr. randall seems to know a great deal about my aunt. buck. it is part of mr. randall’s profession to know a great deal about a great many people. edith. his profession ? is he at the bar ? buck. very often. he is a swindler-—a forger-—an adventurer—a low-bred thief, and an utterly unmitigated scoundrel l [emit raunall. buck. (rising). edith, that man has a terrible hold upon me. he has evidence which implicates me in a crime of which he knows me to be utterly innocent, and he threatens to make that evidence public if i withdraw from his society. edith (rising). a crime? buck. a crime of which, before heaven, i am utterly innocent! i have been weak, imprudent, selfish, dissipated, but my honour, as honour is esteemed by the world, is still unstained. edith. i am sure of it. quite, quite sure of it. but is there no prospect of your being able to shake off the influence of this fearful man i reginald— am—i am rich—forgive me for what i am going to say—i am rich, and my money is at your disposal. will you let me help you ? baa. edith, you have it in your power to help me as no other soul on earth can help me. there is a help that you can give me for which i, who do not often pray, will pray night and day—the help of your companionship—of sweet association with one as good and pure as you. edith, give me this hope—- tell me that, weak, wicked as i have been, i am not beyond the reach of your mercy ! . edith. who am i, reginald, that i should set myself up as a judge of your conduct ? i have been so hedged about from the very approach of temptation, that i can only guess at the meaning of the word. i have been jealously guarded through life, by strong, and wise, and loving counsellors. i have never had one wish thwarted. i have revelled in the happiest life ra./vdall’s thumb. that this world can bestow, and shall i sit in judgment upon you who have been left from boyhood to your own courses— turned adrift into the world without friends, without counsel, and without example—to fight the world unadvised, unaided, and alone ? oh, reginald, i am more just! buck. edith, your words give me new life—new hope. i have been an outcast so long, that i had almost given up the struggle with the world in despair. edith. still the world is a good world ; you were your worst enemy—— buck. yes; god help him of whom that may be said! a brave man can grapple with an outside foe—and if he falls, he falls with honour. but when one’s deadliest enemy is locked up in one’s own heart, ever present, and ever watchful to take advantage of weakness known only to itself—his case is desperate indeed ! yes; i was my worst enemy. i knew the strength of my weakness, and surrendered to it at discretion. edith. but there is yet time. you are young and strong and brave-—you have that within you, which, under due guidance, may yet place you high among your fellows. buck. and where shall i look for that guidance—to you ? edith. reginald, i am a poor, weak, inexperienced girl—a baby in the world—untempted and untried. i do not know myself, for i have been put to no proof. i am unfitted for so great a charge ! buck. (passionately). edith, in your hands i place my life—- do with it what you will. it is my last—my only hope ! tell me that you will take it into your keeping. edith (after a pause). if you think me worthy to under- take this great charge—yes. buck. bear in mind what i am—what i have been-—an adventurer—an outcast. edith. i think only of what you will be, when you have separated yourself from the evil influences that have hitherto surrounded you. it may be within my power to help you to do that ; if it is, i will help you with all my heart, with all my soul. reginald, i will be your guide. baa. for life ? editlt. for life. [they retire up, and go of. enter mas. scantlebury and flamnoys. lrs. scant. how delightful this is, mr. flamboys! how pure—how grand-—how calm! i don’t know whether i admire the ocean most under its present peaceful aspect, or when it is lashed into fury by the demon of the storm. razvdalijs thumb. flamb. i do. when it is lashed into fury by the demon of the storm, there’s no fish for breakfast next day. mrs. scant. i’m afraid you’ve no romance, mr. flamboys. flamb. not a grain; i had plenty of it when i was your age. mrs. scant. oh, mr. flamboys, you are surely younger than i! [ba.shfully. flamb. oh, muoh—in years—but i mean matrimonially speaking. i mean when i was first married. mrs. scant. oh! flamb. but mrs. flamboys soon knocked that out of me. mrs. svamt. indeed ? flamb. yes. mrs. flamboys has no romance. she is as matter-of-fact as the multiplication table, and quite as diflicult to master. now, when i married, my conversation was so metaphorical that no one understood me. in fact, mrs. flam- boys hooked me by placing a matter-of-fact interpretation upon a flowery invitation to dance. she married me through a metaphor, and fixed me witha figure of speech. and a pretty dance she’s led me ever since. mrs. scant. poor mr. flamboys! that was enough to cure you of romance. flamb. yes, but it didn’t. after my marriage, i surrounded myself with a mamelon of metaphor-—a palladium of poetry- a fortress of figure of speech—but it was of no good, mrs. flamboys battered it all down. mrs. scant. battered it all down ? what with ? flamb. babies. four of ’em’—george, thomas, william, and john. mrs. scant. and how old are they ? flmnb. oh, i don’t know! the youngest may be ten days. mrs. scant. ten days! [astom'shed. flamb. (confused) no, no—i mean ten years. mrs. scant. ten years! [h rrz_'fied. flamb. no, no—what am i saying ? ten months—months -—months! i know it’s ten something. (aside.) i wish this woman would go. mrs. scant. poor mr. flamboys! do you know, the more i see of mr. flamboys the more i pity you. flamb. the dcuce you do !—that is-—of course—thank you —thank you sincerely. (aside.) i wish scantlebury would come and fetch her away. mrs. scant. any one can see that you are not happily mated. it is a great pity, for you are young, and—and-—good-looking. fltlmb. e ? [frightened. rand/ ll’s thumb. edward still with that horrible woman—i’m sure he’s dying to get away from her. (aloud.) come, mr. scantlebury, you must take me to my husband. scant. (getting tipsy). your husband ? never! your husband’s a brute! mrs. f. well, never mind that. scant. he’s a brute, ma’am; he's not worthy of y u—is he worthy of you ? mrs. f. n , no—perhaps not—but still scant. but still you want to go to him ? it’s a beautiful trait in your character—a beautiful trait. (drinks.) yes, this is the cup i’ve heard of. it cheers, but it don’t inebriate. i'm quite cheerful now, ma’am. flamboys is a brute—he insults his wife, and beats his children. he beats his children, don’t he ? mrs. f. oh, yes, yes! [impatiently. scant. (indignantly). he beats his children. how many are there ? mrs. f. oh, four. scant. four! i'll drink all their healths. what are their names ? lllrs. f. oh, i don’t know. scant. don’t know? that’s nonsense. mrs. f. oh, jane, emma, mary, and kate. scant. jane, emma, mary, and kate! beautiful names! god bless ’em all. [drinks. mrs. f. now, mr. scantlebury, once for all, i must insist on your rejoining mrs. scantlebury. scant. never mind mrs. scantlebury. i’ve plenty of mrs. scantlebury at home. it’s astonishing how soon one gets sick of mrs. scantlebury. she’s a fine woman, but a very little of mrs. seantlebury goes a long way. i wish a great deal of mrs. scantlebury would go a long way—and stop there! mrs. f. mr. soantlebury! is this the way you speak of a wife to whom you haven’t been married three weeks ? scant. three weeks. thirty-five—(recollecting.) yes, three weeks ! she’s too good for me, mrs. flamboys. it’s too much happiness for one man! she’s a noble woman, ma’am, and l’ve much pleasure in drinking her health. take me to her! i’ll allow you to have the pleasure of taking me to her ! mrs. f. thank goodness, here she is. . enter mrs. soautlebury with flamboys, l. bis'c¢ znt. just as we were getting on so com-com-oomf, a y ' ra./vdalles thu/lib’. own just now! be off, and do your worst, for as there’s a heaven above us, i’ll do mine ! rand. buck thorpe, if i consulted my personal feeling towards you, i’d take you at your word to-night. if i spare you till to-morrow, it is because it is to my interest to give you one more chance. if you have not procured the information i want by twelve o’clock to-morrow, you’re a dead man. i give you this chance—not out of any consideration for you, whom i would gladly see dead at my feet—but because i prefer thirty- eight thousand to three hundred. and one or the other i will have. good evening. [emit itanoall. buck. what have i done? (makes a movement as if to call him back.) no, no! i mustn’t let him see that i feel his power over me. i’ve taken up my position, and i must stand or fall by it. no, no; i think i’m safe. 'l‘here’s a warrant out for his arrest on a charge of forgery. i might lay information against him, if i knew details of the charge; but then he would be brought to bay, and he’d turn upon me, and this miserable affair would come to light—and then, edith! no, i can’t do that—i can’t do that. entei" miss s ‘n~n~'. miss s. mr. buckthorpe, was that mr. randall who left you iust now ? buck. yes. miss s. humph. i don’t like mr. randall a bit. buck, indeed! miss s. no. he took me to see the caves, and he wanted to give half-a-crown to the woman who shows them. buck. well, there’s no harm in that. miss s. not a bit, only—he’d forgotten his purse. buck. i see; and he borrowed yours ? . miss s. no, he didn’t. fortunately, i had forgotten mine too. now, i don’t like other people who’ve forgotten their purses. buck. and how did you settle it? miss s. i promised to make it up to her in sandwiches; but she said she couldn’t drink sandwiches. “ well, but you couldn’t drink half-a-crown,” said i. “oh, couldn’t i !” said she. and i really believe she could! enter mb. bangles and edith. but:/-‘. edith! (going to her.) iea./vdall’s thumb. bang. that woman here ? how very annoying ! [sits on lower rock. miss s. mr. bangles, why, what in the world is the matter? (aside) oh, you foolish, you foolish, jealous boy! because he’s found me here alone with mr. buckthorpe! why, you silly child, mr. buckthorpe is dying for edith! see how glad they are to get together again. why, i came here to find you. bang. to find me ? miss s. yes; i began to think you had been punished enough. bang. so i have; too much! miss s. bless your heart, i only did it to tease you. [edith and bugkthorre are seated on high rook.— bangles and miss srins on low rock. bang. (looking at buckthoere). confound the fellow—how happy he seems! and how happy she seems too! . [during this conversation the tide has risen and sur- rounded both rocks. miss s. oh, mr. bangles! the water! we’re surrounded ! bang. eh? confound it, i thought we were above high- water mark. miss s. mr. bangles, this is a trick! bang. a trick, ma’am ? miss s. yes, i see it all. it’s a planned thing to get me alone. oh, mr. bangles, this is unmanly, unmanly! what will people say ? [pretends to weep. bang. absurd! what the deuce are we to do ? miss s. if i believed that this was a planned thing to enjoy my society alone, until the tide goes down, i’d never, never speak to you again! bang. you wouldn’t ? miss s. indeed, i wouldn’t. bang. you promise that ? miss s. i do! ba’ng. then l’l confess all. it was a planned thing. i settled it with buckthorpe an hour ago. there—now keep your promise. miss s. do you really mean to tell me this ? bang. certainly; no doubt about it. miss s. oh, joe, dear joe! bang. ma’am, you said you’d never speak to me again. miss s. but i didn’t mean it, joe. _bang. (aside). i must put an end to this. (aloud.) miss splnn, $ come to the point. it’s an awkward thing to ra vdall’s thumb. have to say to a lady, but i can’t close my eyes to the fact that you seem to think that i—in short that—i propose to marry you. miss s. you do ? . bang. (decidedly). idol miss s. you propose to marry me ? oh, joseph, how good you are to ne! bang. bang the woman ! (aloud) miss spinn, let me assure you that miss s. you may call me adelaide, joe. [shylg/. bang. miss spinn—-— miss s. i say you may call me adelaide. bang. well, then, adelaide, i am sorry if my manner has conveyed a false impression, but? miss s. no, j oseph—i knew that you were very'fond of me, but i hardly expected a formal declaration so soon; still, i am not angry—indeed, i am pleased—gratified—delighted! but, give me till to-morrow to decide before i take the final and irrevocable plunge! oh, the water-—the water! mr. bangles! we shall be drowned! miss temple—mr. buckthorpe! see- we are surrounded, and i shall be drowned !—and in my new silk! buck. hallo l (sees his situation) this is awkward !—but you are quite safe. the sea is as smooth as glass, and the tide is almost at its highest. at the very worst, you’ll only get a wetting. bang. edith, you will be drowned l buck. oh no—the water never covers this rock in calm weather, except at spring tides ; but as your rock will be a few inches under water, you had better signal for a boat. bang. but you—what will you do, edith ? buck. oh, we shall be all right. i’ll take care of miss temple till the tide goes down. miss s. oh !—i'm slipping, joseph! save me !—save me ! put your arm round me—like that—there—i’m better now. oh, what shall i do ! bang. if you’ll take my advice, ma/am, you’ll take off your shoes and stockings, and walk on shore. jfliss s. mr. bangles! bang. i won’t look, ma‘am—\ pon my honour! . randall enters in boat, in front of lower roc/c. buc .‘. here’s a boat. you’re quite safe, miss spinn. ra./v )all’s n /ms. miss s. saved-—saved! (aside) that man always turns up when he isn’t wanted. bang. come, buckthorpe. rand. the boat will only hold two. buckthorpe and miss temple are quite safe, as that rock is never covered. come along, bangles. [banales and miss srinn get into the boat. miss s. oh, mr. bangles ! bang. what ? miss s. if it had only been the other rock! [they are rowed of. e’lith. how slrange to be cut off so completely from the world ! buck. and how pleasant ! here we are on a little world of our own. edith. king and queen of a tiny kingdom. buck. with this advantage over other kings and queens- that we have no subjects. ' edith. but it’s such a very little kingdom. buck. it is large enough for our wants. edith. yes, for an hour or two. how shall we pass the time? shall i be robinson crusoe-—and will you be my man friday ? buck. yes. saved by you from enemies who would have destroyed me. edith. and true and faithful to me, in return, for ever after ? buck. for ever after ! edith..very well; that's settled. now, let me see—what happened when robinson rescued friday ? buck. friday kissed robinson. edith. are you sure ? " buck. quite! [kisses her. edith. i don’t remember that. well, then friday was taught to hunt for robinson’s dinner. hunt away ! ah, i’ve puzzled you now ! buck. no. he was taught to hunt for it. teach me. . edith. i can’t do that. however, in this case, robinson is not hungry. _ buck. in other words, robinson hauls down his colours ? edith. yes. surrenders at discretion. the analogy is im- perfect. let us try something else. buck. what shall we try ? i am a storm-tossed vessel, safely anchored in the haven of your love. edith. it’s a poor haven, reginald—‘a haven that will afford you little protection against the rude winds of the outer world. €a)vdall’s thumb. buck. it is a haven of peace and rest—a haven into which sorrow, care, and trouble can never enter. see—the sun is setting, and the sorrows of my life sink with it. from this hour i live a new life-—strong in your faith—faithful to my strength. who would not be strong in the certainty of such love as yours ? edith. my love is for you, reginald, for ever and for ever. baa. i have fretted sorely under the yoke that i have had to bear, but i would have borne it patiently had i known that those words were in store for me. would bear it all again to hear you speak them once more. edith. there is no need, reginald! buck. no need, edith, for my troubles are at an end. a good, grave, and earnest life is before me, and with your help and your counsel and your example, i will lead that life. edith, at last i am at peace ! enter randall, in boat. buck. (aside) randall l (aloud) why are you here ? rand. i have come to take you off. . buck. it is unnecessary. we are high and dry above high- water mark. rand. but the wind may rise. buck. the sea is calm enough now. rand. calm enough now! but don’t deceive yourself. there’s a storm brewing for you. if you want to escape it, you must do as i bid you. act iii. sci:ne—same as act i. mus. scantlebury seated imitting.—enter mus. flamboys from hotel with little basket. mrs. f. oh, mrs. scant ebury—i have such news ! mrs. scant. news, my dear ? mrs. f. yes; edith temple is engaged to mr. buckthorpe. ‘ [sits at table. mrs. scant. engaged ? how very indelicate ! mrs. f. indelicate? mrs. scant. certainly. why, they haven’t known each other a week! it’s very bad taste. randall’s thumb. lives are brief indeed-—but then you live through your short span at his lips. i declare i envy you the few moments during which each of you usurps my place ! enter flamboys. flamb. my love! mrs. f. theodore! flamb. what are these? mrs. f. cigarettes. pretty things with a pretty name. i declare i’m jealous of them. i wish cigarettes were not feminine. ' flamb. do you think i should let you roll them if they were masculine ? mrs. f. (earnestly) i hope not, dear; i hope you love me far—far too well. i’ve been at work at them all the morning, and i’ve made forty-two. flamb. what an industrious little woman. and whom are they for ? mrs. f. can’t you guess ? enter ba moms. flamb. can’t imagine. bang. (coming forward). perhaps they are for mr. flamboys. mrs. f. (contemptuously). mr. flamboys, indeed! bang. surely they are not for yourself. mrs. f. really, mr. bangles, i hope it’s not necessary to assure you that i don’t smoke. bang. well, let me see, they can’t be for trotway. (mus. flamboys shakes her head.) for randall, then? (mus. flamboys shakes her head.) why, they must be for me! mrs. e. (reluctantly.) why, of course they must. (aside) tiresome old man. (bangles takes them—mrs. f. to flam- roys.) theodore, get them away from him, they are for you. dearest theodore, he mustn’t have them. flamb. my love, what can i do? (al u.d—crossing to banales.) i say, bangles, take an old stager’s advice, don’t you smoke mrs. flamboy’s cigarettes—they’re beastly. bang. what am i to do? i don’t like amateur cigarettes as a rule, but she’ll be offended if i refuse them. flamb. no, no; i’ll square her. (aloud.) mrs. flamboys, call these cigarettes ?—ridiculous! come along with me, ma’am, and i’ll teach you how to roll cigarettes. here's a thing! look at it, ma’am; why, it's back's broken. examine iv. a ra./vdall’s thumb. it, ma’am; it’s a deformity. taste it, ma’am. (puts it in his mouth and lights it.) it’s—it’s—it’s—oh, it’s delicious ! [emeunt mn. and mas. flursoys. bang. strange people ! they little thought when they married, four years ago, that they were taking a yoke upon their shoulders that would gall them through life. well, i’ve steered clear of that sort of thing hitherto, and now i’m going on the rocks in my old age! i’m a wicked old scoundrel to fall in love with a girl of twenty! but she’ll never know it— she’ll never know it ! i’ve kept it to myself for two years, and i suppose it will die with me. it won’t die till then! (sits at table.) enter enitu. edith. why, you’re all alone—where’s miss spinn ? bang. (at table). washed out to sea, my dear, for anything i know or care. edith. do you know i’m very glad to hear you say that? because people think that—that ‘ bang. that i intend to marry her ? edith. no, that she intends to marry you—that’s worse. now, i can’t allow any one to marry you—because-— — bang. because i’m a confirmed old bachelor, eh, edith ? edith. oh, she told you what i said, did she ? yes, because you’re a confirmed old bachelor. i should be dreadfully jealous of any one you married. [sits on stool at his feet. bang. you would ? edith. certainly. what would become of me ? bang. of you ? edith. yes, of me! why, i’ve been your little wife since i was two years old, and do you think i’m going to allow any one else to light your cheroot, or warm your slippers, or nurse you when you are ill. why, what a wicked old man you must be to think of such a thing! bang. but i never did think of such a thing, and i never shall think of such a thing. edith. never? bang. never. edith. that’s all right. then you see you are a confirmed old bachelor after all. bomg. oh, i didn’t say that. edith. but do say it. promise me that you- will never, never marry. i can’t bear to think of you as a married man. besides you are married already. bang. indeed ? . ra./vdal,l’s thumb. i edith. yes, to me. bang. 'i‘hen—you will never marry ? edith. oh, i didn’t say that. that’s quite a different thing. bang. but if you are my wife ? edith. oh yes,—no doubt i am your wife—but then, you see, you are not my husband. bang. how do you make that out? edith. why, in the first place, a husband has black whiskers —n w yours are grey. " bang. they were black once. edith. dear me! well, i suppose they were. now, that's very odd, to think that you once had black whiskers. ' ‘hey’ve always been grey ever since i can remember, and i never associated them with any other colour. i believe i thought you were born with grey whiskers. it seems so strange to think that you were ever a young man—you are such 'a thorough old fogy ! bang. i am ! a thorough old fogy ! a growling, grumbling, discontented old fogy ! a bald old fogy ! a grey old fogy ! a gouty old fogy! i’ a nice sort of fellow to talk of getting married. married! and in ten years i shan’t have a tooth in my head. married ! with an outfit of flannel bandages, silver-gilt crutches, and a cellar of antimonial wine. no, no; joe bangles’ work is done. shelve hirn-—.superannuate him»- lay him up in avender—he’s only in the way. and if he wants to be a family man, let him go a-godfathering. it’s all he’s fit for now, god help him ! it’s all he’s fit for now! [sits and covers his face with his hands. edith (who has been laughing with mn. bangles through this speech, is alarmed at his emotion). oh! mr. baugles—i hope i haven’t vexed you. i can’t bear to see you look unhappy —and i am so happy, too ! bang. you? edith. yes—i have come to tell you some news. i—i think i am going to be married. bang. married—to—to edith. to mr. buckthorpe. oh, mr. bangles, i’m so happy! bang. (aside) then it’s over. (aloud.) god bless you, my love! i-i—hope and pray that you may be sincerely happy. edith. won’t you kiss me ? bang. (kisses her). bucktborpe is a good fe low—i’m sure of it. i—i—you may not think it, my dear, but i do believe i’m delighted to hear it! . raivdalj/s thumb. enter buckthorre. buck. thank you, mr. bangles—thank you heartily l edith speaks so kindly—so afl'ectionately—of you !—her heart is so full of the unvarying love you have borne her for eighteen years, that i am overjoyed to think so old and true a friend does not appear displeased at her engagement. [emit enitn into hotel. yes, mr. bangles, i’m going to be married to edith. and that’s not all—the vice-chancellor’s decision has just been telegraphed to me, and i’m owner in fee of ardleigh park, two- thirds of a coal-mine, and thirty-eight thousand pounds consols. b.ng. my boy, i don’t know much about you—i’ve only known you a week or so——but you come of a good stock, and i hope and believe you’re the hearty, straightforward, manly fellow i take you to be. buck. mr. bangles, i must be candid with you. if i’m a straightforward fellow, my straightforwardness is only a week old. bang. eh? back. when i came _down to beachington, i was an adventurer. . bang. confound it, sir! you don’t mean to say that that dear girl’s money brought you down here ? buck. no—i came down to beachington not knowing that edith was here; and when i learnt that she was here, i also learnt that she was penniless. ba.ng. penniless! confound it, sir! it’s all very well for a man with a park, a coal mine, and devil knows how many consols, to call edith penniless; but thirty-eight thousand pounds is a pretty sum, notwithstanding. your recent good luck has enlarged your views, mr. buckthorpe. buck. edith has not one penny she can call her own. she does not know this—but knew it all along. that thief randall secretly married her great-aunt after the date of the will, and he claims all that she left. there’s a warrant against him for forgery, and so he dares not declare himself. bang. the deuce there is! let me ask you, sir, if mr. randall is a forger, how do you and he come to be together ? buck. because i am under his thumb. mr. bangles, i’ll tell you all. twelve months ago, i killed a man in self-defence. randall holds evidence which makes my crime look like wilful murder. _ bang. do i understand you to say, sir, that you are an mfernal soouudrel ? bw_’k. i didn’t say that. i've been l i! prudent wunfortuuatc.— randalzjs thumb. dissipated; but i’ve done nothing to bring me within the grasp of the law. bang. hang it, sir, you confessed to having killed this miserable man ! buck. yes, under circumstances that would have justified an archbishop in killing him. bang. it may be so, sir, and it may not. does dr. trotway know that you killed this man ? buck. no! (abashed.) bang. does edith know it ? buck. no! bang. then, sir, i shall consider it my duty, sir, to place them in possession of all the facts. bang. i have no wish to deal hardly, sir, with a young man who, having fallen, through his own weakness, is struggling to right himself in the world’s opinion and his own. but in this charge that hangs over you the question of weakness does not arise. either you murdered this man, or you did not. and i tell you this frankly—if you murdered him, i’ll hang you ! buck. mr. bangles, let me tell you this—if this accusation reaches edith’s ears, whether i am guilty or whether i am innocent, i am lost beyond redemption. bang. come, sir, l’ll make a bargain with you. i’ll tackle this fellow randall myself. i think i know how to deal with him. if i see reason to be satisfied that his charge is a true one, i give you up to justice. if i have reason to believe it is false, i place no obstacle in the way of your marriage; and if you knew all that i could tell you, you would give me credit for some forbearance in making this promise. buck. but by what means bang. leave the means to me. i think i see my way to the end i propose to accomplish. if you are innocent your innocence will appear. buck. mr. bangles, will you shake hands with me ? bang. sir, i would rather postpone that ceremony until i have put my plan into operation. here comes that unspeakable scoundrel randall. be good enough to leave me to deal with him. (emit buckteoere). here’s a devil of a business. if i tell trotway, as i’m bound in honour and in duty to do, and the charge turns out to be false, it will appear as though i were taking a dastardly revenge on a man who has cut me out. if i let the matter rest, i allow edith to marry an admitted roué and a possible murderer! . randalijs thumb. enter randall from hotel. bang. now, sir. it appears by all accounts that you are an infernal villain. rand. you’re very good. [crosses to :. bang. i’ve just learnt from mr. buckthorpe that there is a warrant out for his apprehension on what he describes as a false charge of murder; and that you hold the means of bringing him to justice. rand. did he tell you that? bang. he did. now, sir, mr. buckthorpe may be guilty or he may be innocent. if he is guilty he ought to be hanged. if he is innocent you ought to be transported. now one or other of those events i propose to bring about. rand. you will take your own course, but what the deuce has it to do with you? bang. i’ll tell you what it has to do with me. you state that you know of your own knowledge that he is guilty ? rand. undoubtedly. bang. then if you don’t act upon that knowledge you are an accomplice after the fact. i shall detain you here while informa- tion is given to the police, and i shall give you both into their custody when they arrive. rand. what! (aside) devil take him; that won’t do. they’ll spot me as the rum customer directly. (aloud with much agitation.) mr. bangles, i am a man of the world. i don’t want to hang this poor devil, buckthorpe, if i can help it. he doesn’t deserve any pity, but i can’t help pitying him. i’m an infernal tender-hearted old lamb, i know; but still i can’t help it. but, look here, if you insist upon it, ’ l go and lay information myself—there ! [going. bang. stop! i shan’t let you leave this hotel. rand. by what right do you propose to stop me ? bang. by no right at all—by main force. rand. i’ll try that. [going. bang. stop! you see this gong? (going to gong at e_‘ntrance of hotel.) if you take one step further in that direc- tion, i’ll call every man in the house to my assistance, and i will denounce you as a murderer’s accomplice! now then, one step, and—— jfand. what do you want me to do ? . bang. write a note to the superintendent here, and send it by a pmater. yes or no ? come, one, two, three! [preparing to strike. randall’s . ; band. stop ! what am i to write? bang. this. (randall sits down to write at table.) “to the superintendent, beachington police station. - ir,—a notorious criminal, a warrant for whose arrest is out— — ” rand. but——- bang. ah, would you? (prepares to strike gong.) “is staying at this hotel. send a sergeant and two strong men, and i will give him into custody.” sign it. rand. wouldn’t it be better if you signed it ? bang. no, no—i wouldn’t deprive you of the three hundred pounds reward, on any account. (randall signs it.) “ post- script—let the two men be very strong.” rand._ i say bang. ah, would you? (about to strike gong--—randall finishes note—bangle takes note, and reads.) very good. now direct i!t to the superintendent. (randall does so.) good. waiter . enter commeo, from hotel. bang. take this note to the police station directly. [randall folds another piece of paper, aside. cu’mming. police station, sir? rand. immediately. there’s no answer. bang. oh, yes—there is. a sergeant and two strong men. bring them here with you. [cumming going. rand. stop! hadn’t i better direct it to the superintendent by name? i happen to know his name. [takes note back. bang. no doubt you do. [randall writes address on blank note, and hands it to cumming, retaining the note first written. rand. there—that’s better. " bang. (intercepting the note). allow me. (reads.) “ to mr. superintendent clench.” much better. ' rand. more regular, you know. bang. much more regular. ( pens it deliberately—rand.u.l very uneasy.) bless me ! how very odd ! the writing has disappeared! blank paper ! rand. dear me! that’s very strange. bang. very strange, indeed. rand. these mistakes will happen. bang. no doubt. ha, ha! rand. ha, ha! [uneasily. bang. come, mr. randall—in the confusion of the moment you changed the papers. oblige me with the original document. ra./vd. ll’s thumb. rand. exactly. in the hurry of business, i—that’s it. confound you! bang. thank you. (gives it to cumming—¢etmz"ning blank note to randall.) allow me. now, mr. randall, you are free to go. [emit cumming. rand. to go where i please? bang. to go where you please. rand. right away? bang. right away! rand. (aside). in ten minutes the express starts for london. i can pack in two, and reach the station in five. bangles, you're a muff ! [emit into hotel. enter bockthoare. bang. well, sir, i’ve done it. buck. done what? bang. laid information. mr. buckthorpe, i don't mind owning to you that my impression is that you’re a bit of a scamp, but that you’re not guilty of this murder. you told me there was a warrant out for randall’s arrest for forgery. i’ve made him write a note to the superintendent to the effect that a notorious criminal is staying here, but i haven’t said who the criminal is, or what he’s charged with. now, if he knows you to be guilty of this murder, he’ll give you into custody, and you’ll be hanged, and serve you right. if he knows you to be innocent, he’ll be off and away before the ofiicers arrive, for fear that he should be arrested on a charge of forgery. now, sir, you stand on your own deliverance ; and—hang it—which- ever way it goes, i shall be perfectly satisfied ! [em't. buck. (sin/rs into a chair). so, the end is at hand, and in a few minutes i shall know the worst. well, it is better that it should be so, than that i should drag on a miserable existence under the shadow of that cursed scoundrel’s ban! here he comes. enter randall, with portmanteau and travelling rug, from . hotel. he's going, and i am saved! (to randall, with forcerl calmness.) why, what’s this? you don’t mean to say you’re going to leave us? rand. yes. buck. this is rather sudden, isn’t it? rand. it is sudden. buck. pressing business ? randalds thumb. rand. very. buck. can i have a word or two with you before you go ? rand. no. back. must catch the express p rand. yes. [going. bac'c then you’ve thought better of your threat? rand. for the present. back. for the present? - rand. yes; until you’re married. then, look out! good morning‘. [going, enter waiter from hotel. waiter. beg pardon, sir. i took your cheque to master. he says—very sorry, sir, but he says he can’t take a cheque in payment of your bill. rand. why, he knows me. waiter, yes, sir—that’s it—he knows you. he says—beg pardon, sir—but he says he thinks there would be a difficulty at the bank. rand. nonsense—absurd. [going. waiter. beg pardon, sir, but i can’t let you go. rand. (violently). stand away, and let me pass. waiter. bless you, sir, i’m not afraid of you. my impression is you’re like your portmanteau. (taking it.) very. big to look at, but—(shaking it)—very little in you. [waiter sits on portmanteau at the back. rand. buckthorpe, if you’ll give me a cheque for three hundred pounds, and five pounds down, i’ll give up those letters. buck. the deuce you will? vi/'hy, you’ll get that sum from the home ofiice rand. yes, but i want to go. buck. but you’ve laid information against me—they’ll want your evidence. rand. no, i don’t want to be hard on you-—l’ll let you ' at cost price. buck. can’t you do it under that—for a friend, you know ? rand (aside). they’ll be here in five minutes, and i shall be nabbed. (aloud) say a hundred pounds and a fiver down, and the letters are yours. buck. suppose we say the fiver without the hundred pounds? rand (in desperation). done—here are the letters—give me the money. (looks at watch.) in the devil’s name, man, be quick, or it will be too late. they are right enough. ra_/vdall’s thumb. buck. one moment. i don’t doubt your word, but i would rather see that they are all here. [ pens them, and counts them very deliberately. rand. there are six of them—four from dijon, and two from st. valerie. look sharp! buck. quite right. . rand. come, the money. don’t put me in a hole—i’ve acted straightforwardly in this matter, at all events. baa. you have; i congratulate you. how do you feel after it ? rand. give me the money, man, in the devil’s name— — buck. there it is, mr. randall. (gives notes.) why, how your hand shakes. ba‘' (to cumumg). give that note to your master. [going. cumming. there’s ten shillings change, sir. rand. keep the change. poor devil, you look as if you wanted it! off at last! buck. don’t go, randall. rand. why not ? buck. because i’m going to detain you on a charge of forgery. rand. the devil you are! what do you know about that charge ? buck. nothing, except that you’re wanted for it. [holds mm. rand. and do you think i can’t break away from you ? buck. on the contrary, i think you can; but i don’t think you’ve the pluck to try. (randall much disconcerted.) yvhy, you haven’t! why, you trembling cur, you dare not move an inch when a man’s hand is on your throat. rand. don’t be a fool! you’ve got your letters—let me go. buck. let you go? you—who have held an unfounded charge over me for eighteen months ?—you, who have used that charge to wring from me the miserable remnant of my shattered fortune !—you, who have used that charge to foist your cursed company on me for eighteen months !—you, who have used that charge to pull me down when i was falling, and to keep me down when i might have risen! no, no, randall —my turn’s come! [randall struggles furiously to release himself—buck- thobre forces him into a chair, and places his hand on randali/s the-oat. buck. lie still, you our !—lie still !—or, by heaven, i’l choke the life out of you! -‘and. help, help! he’ll murder me! help, help! i’a vdall’s t h u/vb . enter bangles and tnotway from hotel—they seize randall. rand. here, bangles—trotway—take this fellow off! he’s a murderer! i denounce him !—seize him !—he has letters in his pocket at this moment that suffice to hang him half-a— dozen times over. don’t let him destroy them !—he will if he can. _ buck. i have no intention of destroying them. they are here. (places them in trotway’s hands.) dr. trotway, i might have destroyed those letters five minutes ago, but i have pre— served them, in order that you might know the full truth about this miserable business. trot. mr. buckthorpe, mr. bangles has told me all. i need not tell you that the truth of your story must be established before you are allowed to see my niece again. bang. (to buckthorre). i say, you sir! buck. yes. bang. when did this so-called murder take place ? buck. on the th august, . bang. you were attacked in the dark by a man in the prime of life, and you defended yourself with a swordstick ? buck. yes, yes! _ bang. (crossing to buckthorre.) you ran your adversary through the neck ? buck yes. _ bang. j ust-—just here ? [showing a scar on his neck. buck. yes. bang. and hang it, sir, do you mean to say that a coroner’s jury ever sat on me? all. on you ? bang. yes, on me, sir—on me! buck. but it was peters —a commercial traveller. k bang. peters be hanged, sir ! it was i. i think i ought to now. buck. then you didn’t die? bang. diel who the devil says i’m dead? do i look like a dead man ? did you ever see anybody look more like a live man? i’m good for a great many years yet, sir—a great many years yet ! trot. but the coroner’s jury bang (turning round suddenly.) coroner’s jury, sirl. no coroner’s jury ever sat on me ! (to buckthorre, in afurious rage.) why, confound you, sir—how dare you ? who the deuce are you, sir, that you consider yourself justified in spread- ing such a report? what do you mean by it ? hang it, sir, explain yourself ! . . randall’’s t h u/iib. buck. but randall told me that a jury had set on the body, and returned a verdict of wilful murder against some person or persons unknown. bang. oh! randall told you! do you mean to say you are spch an infernal fool as to believe a word that fellows tells you rand. let me tell you, sir—— bang. (crossing to randall.) let me tell you, sir, that you’re a miserable imposter! let me tell you, sir, that when you say my name’s peters, and that i’m a confounded bagman, you tell a group of lies, sir—a group of lies. and when you say that i’m dead, and that a coroner’s jury ever sat on me, you anticipate matters by a great many years, sir—a great many years . trot. but how did you escape ? bang. escape ? i tumbled over the cliff, and was caught- never mind how, sir—in a most ignominious manner, halfway down, sir—halfway down. i had attacked the wrong man. i mistook him for a fellow who had robbed me, and i got the worst of it, and serve me devilish well right ! i found out my mistake, and as i was all in the wrong, and as i had to sail for india next morning, and as the wound was only a flesh wound, why-—i plastered it up, and joined my ship. trot. buckthorpe, forgive me. my dear joe (to ban-gles) you have made us all extremely happy ! bang. made you all extremely happy ! i’ve made myself confoundedly miserable. if i had been killed right ofl‘. buckthorpe might have been tried for murder, and i might have married edith and been happy for the rest of my life! (to bnckthoere) now, sir, if you will allow me, i shall have a melancholy pleasure in shaking your hand. [he does . enter sergeam‘ and cumming. sergeant. (to randall). beg pardon, sir! are you the gent. that wrote this note ? rand. eh—yes! serg. well, here we are, sir. what can we do for you. i suppose your information’s along of bill burke, alias the rum cglgtomer. we’ve got information that he’s somewhere here- a uts. buck. burke! that’s an alias of randall’s! sergeant, that’s your man! serg. eh? oh, i see! (removes ram)all’s wig and beard.) lor’l so it isl william burke, i arrest you on raivd ll.’s thumb. scant. five years! we hadn’t so much as a squabble for the first fifteen. trot. fifteen! i thought you had only been married three weeks! scant. three weeks? nonsense—away, deception! thirty- five years. mrs. scant. it has seemed like three weeks, hasn’t it seamle- bury ? scant. my own! mrs. scant. my love! both. ugh! miss s. (coming forward with parcel). bless ! how very odd! all. what’s the matter ? miss s. (reads from the newspaper cover) “on the th instant, at trinity church, paddington, by the reverend reginald reredos, theodore flamboys, esq., to augusta, only daughter of caleb walker, of jamaica, west indies.” trot. why, you young rascal, i thought you had been married five years. flamb. (very much confused). it has seemed like five years, hasn’t it, augusta ! mrs. scant. then george, and thomas, and william, and john? scant. and jane, and emma, and mary, and kate flamb. (to scantlesoay.) some day. buck. (seated with enitu on bench at back of stage.) . so friday's enemies at last are gone, and friday owes his life to robinson. in gratitude to robinson he’ll bend true, faithful, and submissive to the end. edith. will friday always, always be the same? buck. even when robinson has changed her name ; the only change that we shall undergo. edith. no, you must change your name. buck. indeed ! how so? edith. from that day forth—that happy, happy high day, you shall be robinson and i' be friday ! dramatis personze. the dunc on dundee, an octogenarian peer. sm cuthn ':r ' jameson, a middle-aged baronet. manonrs de bnirvllle. vrcomrn armand de biu'rv lln, his son. l\i. lachaud, at french arnocat. mn. dudley coxn-coxn, on his travels. mn. barker, the duke's courier. mr. taylor, the duke’s valet. m. paillard, a french money-lender‘. mn. macquarrie, purser of p, and . ss. “ africa.” pollard, a detective. cartain munro, of the steam yacht “flying eagle." mn. mcfie, the duchess of dundee’s secrctarr/. quartermaster, p. and . as. “ africa." servants. tun duchess or dummrc, nee euphemia s. van zyl, if chieuyo. the marquise de breville, armand’s mother. diana .zvnmcl, an australian heiress. mas. dudley coxn-coxn, on her trauels. miss ‘somertof, passenger, p. and . ss. “af-rlea." miss bailey, the duchee.s's maid. 'passen_qez's, sailors, lascars, ifs. 'act i. port said. quarter-deck of p. and . as. “afr-ica.” twelve months elapse between acts i. and ii. act ii. paris. (vlcomte zle bréville's residence in the champs t'l_'/sees). eight months elapse between act; ii. and i !- act iii. \ monte carlo. l'ibrar_ / in the duchesshs villa. n 're.—by the rd article of the code olvile a frenchman who is . under the age of twenty-five cannot legally contract marriage unless he has obtained the consent of his parents if they be living. if, dispensing with this consent, he should go through the form of marriage, that marriage may be attacked by his parents or by himself. ‘it is open to his parent to give a post-nuptial consent to such a marriage, but he is not bound by such consent, and is entitled nevertheless to apply to the courts for a decree of nullity on his own responsibility. ' the fortune-hunter. act i. woo'd. scene.-quarter-deck of p. and o. ship “africa” (starboard side), looking aft. deck cabins l. bulwarks r. saloon skylight up l. awning overhead. the ship is at anchor at port said. chairs ranged on deck. afternoon. mr. and mrs. dudley coxe-coxe, miss somerton and other passengers discovered grouped in a semi-circle round sir. cuthbert jameson and the wicomte de brév ille, who are entertaining the group with a fencing bout. after a few passes, sir cuthbert hits de brăville over the heart. applause from passengers. de b. good! again you have pinked me! and precisely on the same spot! once more. - [they resume. after a few passes, sir. cuthbert hits de brévil le as before. de b. five times in succession! i give in. it is impossible to stand up to you. it is absolutely incomprehensible to me. i am not unskilled in fence, yet every time you hit me on exactly the same spot! - sir c. it's very simple—a mere trick. see? [they cross foils again, and with the same result. applause from spectators. - de b. a trick? yes! but when you hold all the trumps, tricks are easy to make. - - sir c. let's try again. “spot barred,” if you like. de b. no, no! enough for the moment. we frenchmen rather pride ourselves on our skill with the foils, but i must take off my mask to you, my dear cuthbert, i must indeed. (to spectators.) ladies and gentlemen, you see a vanquished frenchman | - [they both remove their masks. de bréville han. his mask and foil to sir. cuthbert, takes off hi. " fencing jacket, and puts on his coat. the for t u ve—li un t er. sir . (taking the mask and foil). i learnt the trick of jules j avot, maitre d’armes to the th cuirassiers, thirty years ago. poor fellow, he was knocked over in one of the battles round metz and his skull cracked with a drum-major’s staff. no one is skilled with all weapons. de b. ah! i was sure france had something to do with it. '( to spectators.) ladies and gentlemen, when you think lightly of the vicomte de bréville, remember drum-major jules javot. but, cuthbert, you must teach me the trick, some day. eh? will you not? sir c'. with pleasure, when we meet in england. the trick’s easy enough when you’ve got the hang of it. (bell.) ah! the dressing bell. you leave us to-night, but i shall see you before you go. ‘ [emit down companion, followed by all the passengers emcept mn. and mas. dudley coxls-coxe and miss somnrvrou. miss sam. never mind, m. de bréville. if sir cuthbert has the best of you with the foils, you beat him out and out with the rif"e. de b. yes, i believe i. have a little the best of hii with the rifle. . mrs. coace. is it true that you once saved his life when he was tiger shooting in india? de b. ah! pardon. it was the other way—he saved mine. a magnificent tiger held me under his claws when sir cuthbert dropped a bullet into his ear just as he was about to begin on my right arm. it was mv very narrowest escape! mrs. cooce. you must be a very brave man, m. de bréville, to care so little for tigers. de b. ah, but you mistake, mrs. coxe-coxe. i care a great deal for tigers! do you think that when i am face to face with a man-eater i am not frightened? my dear lady, i have killed twenty-three tigers, and each tiger has terrified me beyond expression. _ _ miss sam. but when one is terrified one runs away. de b. not from a tiger, for to run away from a tiger is death. frankly, i have not the courage to run away from a tiger. i prefer to stay and put a ball into him—not because i am brave, but because i a afraid to run away. mr. come. how did you come to take to tiger-shooting ? it's not the sort of fun that most frenchmen care about. de b. most frenchmen? no—nor most englishmen, my good mr. uoxe-coxe. it is an acquired taste, and one must have the chance to acquire it. but, given that chance, in the the for tune-hun' 'l'.' i’. desire not to be killed, your frenchman and your englishman are of one mind. so your frenchman and your englishman are equally disinclined to run away, when running away means certain death. by the way, have the duke and duchess of dundee come on board yet? mrs. come. n , but their luggage has. they are coming off in the harbour-master's launch. did you happen to meet the duchess when you were in the states? they say that she rose from nothing at all. de b. yes—when i was attaché at washington, i had the honour of meeting her grace many times. but she was not her grace then—she was miss euphemia s. van zyl, the charming millionaire orphan of absolutely self-made parents. her father, who was an aristocrat in pork, died, having made a vast fortune, every penny of which—ten millions of dollars—he bequeathed to her. little girl. ten millions of dollarsl if i had ten millions of dollars, i wonder what i would buy with it? de b. my dear child, if you werea grown-up young american lady, you would buy with it exactly what miss van zyl bought with it—you would buy an old, old english duke. little girl (puzzled). a doll-duke? de b. well, yes—a doll-duke. and you would nurse your poor old doll-duke as she nurses him—you would be kind to him, and you would be very careful not to break him—ancl when your poor old doll-duke fell to pieces you would renounce dolls for ever, for by that time you would be a very great lady, and very great ladies do not nurse dolls if they can help it. miss sam. and you are really leaving us to-day? de b. yes, alas! my luggage is already on board the “ cleo- patra,” and i sail for athens in an hour! jllrs. (lame. we shall miss you terribly, m. de bréville! de b. ah, mrs. coxe-coxe, you are so good! to me it will be like going from one planet to another, and this has been such a delightful planet. after you, miss somerton. [miss som:stou and dr: bnfivrlle go down companion. mn. and mns.!duolr:y coxa-coxs remain on deck.] mr. come. do you know, godiva, i’m quite glad that we are going to travel with a live duke and duchess. mz's. come. my dear dudley, what an extraordinary speech! what in the world are the duke and duchess to us? mr. come. absolutely nothing—except for the amusement they will indirectly aflord us. ,mrs. come. oh, from that point of view i admit they have their value. the for tune-hunter. pur. are you? well, you won’t have one this voyage-—- we’re full up. when do the duke and duchess come on board ? we get under weigh in half an hour. ‘ . bar. the launch is going back for them. i suppose you’ll be here to receive them ? pur. n —i don’t think that will be necessary. if the duke wants me he can send for me. i shall be in my ofifice. [e:z:it. bar. cool hands these merchant fellows, upon my honour! start in half an hour, do they? not before we come on board, i fancy. (arranging chairs.) whose chair’s this? (reads) mr. dudley coxe-coxe. now, who the deuce is mr. dudley coxe-coxe ? [coxe has strolled down. mr. come (with great deference). i beg your pardon—— bar. eh ? mr. come. you were good enough to mention my name, i think ? bar. oh, you’re mr. coxe. yes. i read it off your chair. you’ll be rather in our way here, i fancy. would it be troubling you too much to-- —- mr. come. oh, remove it at once-—pray permit me——quarter- master placed it there. (removing it.) charming weather. [barker throws away cigarette end. coxe picks it up, while barker is arranging rugs on chair, and puts it in his own oase.] bar. yes—smart breeze outside though. jllr. game. is there ? you yacht a good deal, i believe ? bar. yes—we usually winter in the mediterranean ; but this year we went up the nile to wady halfa. mr. coxe. indeed! how awfully good of you—i mean that must have been very pleasant. by the way, i trust my cigarette is not disagreeable to you ? if so, l’ll-—-— 'bar. not a bit. ’ll join you. may i ask you for one? i’ve mislaid my case. mr. gere (efusivelg). with the very greatest pleasure. pray permit me. [coxe ofers cigarette case. barker picks out cigarette end. bar. hallo! ]why, ijust threw this away! mr. coaee (confused). oh, i beg your pardon. i’m— ’m collecting cigarette ends ! bar. curious hobby ! come from far ? _ ]l'ir. come. calcutta. by the way, we travelled across india wizh the viceroy. bar. oh, elliston ? the foxzuvz- m vra‘ e. mr. come. yes, elliston. you know him, of course ? bar. know him? rather ! travelled all over europe with him a couple of years ago. quaint old fellow. ' mr. come. most quaint—most charming—most delightful. so frank and open-handed. bar. (doubtfully). humph! close-fisted old chap, i should say. mr. come. curiously close-fisted. never knew a more close- fisted man. he was travelling with the marquis of samborough. bar. ah ! good fellow, samborough. pretty daughters, to —espeoially lady arabella. sad business her marriage. mr. coxe. awful—frightful—deplorable. bar. turned out well, though, eventually. mr. come. turned out splendidl y—magnificentl y—eventuall y. you—you are bound for brindisi, i understand ? bar. yes—en route for monte carlo, where we spend a fort- night at our villa. wish we could make it longer, for i always pull off a pot of money at the tables. mr. ceace. really ! it’s all luck, i suppose ? bar. not altogether. if the tables are properly worked,luok simply influences the sum of the gains. mr. come. properly worked ? bar. yes—i mean worked on a scientific _system. mr. come. never found a system that was worth a da— (correcting himself) cent. bar. i’ve been more fortunate. i have a system that never failed me yet—but it wants a moderate hank. you can’t lose, and with average luck you double your capital every three- quarters of an hour. it may be two hours, but it averages about three-quarters. - mr. come. that sounds tremendous! (much interested.) bar. you see, zero’s the death of most systems, but in this case zero is all in your favour. the bank are mad about it— and it’s really hardly fair on them, for it’s playing on a certainty. . jllr. come. i can’t quite see that. 'l‘hey’d have no hesitation in rooking you on a certainty. bar. true-—true. mr. come. they’d have no qualms about it—s why should you? is it fair to ask—- bar. perfectly fair—but i’m sorry to say i mustn't reveal it. the fact is, it was confided to me by no less a swell than the apostate archimandritc poulos, on his deathbed in the carpathians, under a solemn promise never to reveal it. mr. come. i see. of course—a deathbed confidence . the f ‘ tune-hu./v e . bar. in the carpathians— — _ ’ mr. come. is sacred. i quite see that. . bar. as a man of honour my tongue is tied. i, now and then, play for a friend—but i never reveal the theory. mr. come. does it require a large capital? _ bar. you must be prepared to lose £ "at the outset. i don’t say you will lose it, but you must be prepared to do so. a couple of hundred is still better. ‘ . mr. gore. oh, that’s nothing! bar. nothing at all. mr. gome. now, i wonder whether—but, no-—hi.t’s asking too much—— ' ' - liar. .ah, i know what you were going to say. will i play with a couple of hundred on your behalf ? wasn’t that it ?_ hallie! ._ ' " ' mr. gere. well, really, that’s very remarkable. tliey are the very words i had on the tip of my tongue. can't imagine how you came to guess it. _ bar. my dear fellow, it’s quite simple. everybody i meet asks me the same question. yes, if you like to trust it to me: i’ve no objection. _ m'r. come. i can’t express my gratitude. if you'll allow me, i'll go to my state room and fetch the notes. bar. oh, any time will do. _ . . mr. come. well, we shall be under weigh in an hour, and when we’re under weigh my wife and i are under hatches, we’re such awfully bad sailors. so, as you leave the ship in three days, i’d better get the money now._ bar. as you please. by the way, where’s the bar? mr. come. forward of the saloon. bar. then let’s split a whisky-and-soda. come along-—after ou. . y mr. c' xe. i couldn’t think of it. really, it would be im- possible—quite out of the question. . " iar. as you please. . [emit barker down companion. mb. coxa-coxe about to follow him when de britiville, who has over- heard the latter part of the conversation from up stage, comes down. ' ' ‘ ‘. de b. ah, mr. coxe—one moment.’ ‘ . . - . mr. comc. can’t stop. ’m going to split a whisky-and: soda with the duke. ' ' "' . de b. the duke ? mr. come. yes, the duke of dundee. ' _ de b. ah, that was the duke you were speakingto ? the fortune-hunter. your nose is not long, and you can see no further than the tip of it. go—you are a good fellow, and i am a good fellow, and there are many on my side of the channel that are as good as you, and better—far better-—than i; but you do not per- ceive them because your nose is not long. sir c. well, i suppose it’s all confounded prejudice, but as a rule i certainly don't get on with frenchmen. but it’s different with you. you were brought up in england—went to eton and cambridge. you have all the good solid qualities of an englishman—you ride straight across leicestershire, you are conscientious with women, and there‘s no better hand at big game living. de b. ah, i kill things, and so you love me, big, bloodthirsty john bull that you are! well, i will go on killing, and you will love me more and more. tigers ? bah! tigers are nothing. when i come to england i will hire a slaughter-house, and poleaxe oxen until you are not able to contain yourself with joy! and then you will be merciful to my countrymen who shoot blackbirds, for the sake of your beloved armand, ' who swims in the blood of cattle ! sir . (laughing). my dear fellow, one such frenchman as you are redeems a whole department. i wish you’d complete the illusion by marrying an englishwoman. de b. (seriously). well, it may happen—who knows ? englishwomen make admirable wives. shall i confess ? it is the dream of my life to marry an englishwoman. sir . my dear fellow, i’m rejoiced to hear you say so. but a dream! why a dream? why not make it a matter of fact? to a man with your qualities there should be no difficulty in doing that. de b. ah, but i am not rich ; and although there are plenty of rich englishgirls, i am no fortune-hunter. i must first love—and if ichance to love a rich girl and to be beloved in return, it is well, and i shall marry her; but if she happened to be poor—well, i could not forego her on account of her poverty, nor could i marry her on account of mine. shall i tell you a secret which has been on the tip of my tongue for six weeks past? i once proposed to an enormously rich woman, and i confess that it was her wealth that fascinated me. it was the first time, and it shall be the last. sir c. an english girl ? . de b. not english, and no girl. an american, ten years older than i, but still sulficiently young. she accepted me—at least so it was understood. but it’s an old story. a better suitor presented himself, and i received my conga’, and it served the f <tu _v_e¢hwvte.fi‘.- enter stewann. stew. (to de bafivums). captain’s compliments, sir, and he would be glad if you could make it convenient to speak to him in his cabin before you go. j . ' ‘ de b. (aside). diable! (aloud.) my compliments to captain d’arcy, and i will be with him at once. [going. dia. i‘shall see you again ? "_ _ de b. be very sure of that. indeed, i have much to say to you before i go. in five minutes i shall return. (impressiveiy.) you will then perhaps, be alone. h - _ ' . [emit de bsfivrlw. " she looks after iiim, sir c (having written a reply to telegram and given it to punsnn). miss caverel, i hope you have not decided to go home allthe way by sea ? dia. i don’t know—i think so. i hate making up my mind beforehand. i shall trust to the impulse of moment when .'l’m within twelve hours. of marseilles. .i detest prearrangement. sir co. it is sometimes inevitable. dia. but not in this. my time is my own, you know. i have no one to control me. and. you? it was.but yester- day that you hoped i had decided not to disembark at marseilles. ’ sir . five minutes since i hoped so still. but ’ve just received a cable from my agent which makes it imperative that i should hurry across.the continent as rapidly as_pqssible. so i suppose that in three days it will be “ good-bye.” did. i am sorry. sir '. really sorry ? dia. really sorry. __ _ sir ‘. but you will not forget that fortnight at j erm yns"? dia. no, that is quite settled. .it will be a pleasant fort- night, i’m sure. . . sir . that’s kind of you. it will be sometliing--—muoh—to look forward to. i should be very sorry if i thought we were not likely to meet again. dc. you mean that, i’m sure. frankly, i shall be unhappy when we have to part, for you have been one of those who have made this voyage very delightful to me. sir ( . and you mean that, i’m sure. dia. unfortunately, it’s not in my nature to say things i don’t mean or to do things that are distasteful to me. i shall be heartily sorry to leave you and heartily glad to see you again. that’s blunt and outspoken, is it not ? sir . (after a pause). miss caverel, i am also blunt and _the for tune-hunter. outspoken, and but a poor hand at masking the emotion of the moment, whatever it may be, and so i hope you will bear with me, for it may well be that what i am going to say will cause you some pain. dia. sir cuthbert, i am sure that whatever you may desire to tell me will be better spoken than unspoken. sir . thank you. it may be so, but am no longer a young man. i have lost my hold on young people, and i have almost forgotten how that which. wish to say should be said. but in the goodness of your heart you wiil allow something for this, and when i tell you that i would your life were bound up with mine you will perhaps be sorry for me, but you will not be angry. _ _ _,dia_.= n —i am not angry. deeply moved-—not angry. sir.(.'. it is not much, god knows, that i have to offer to a young, rich, and brilliant woman. i too am rich, but that is little. it is perhaps more to the point that if i have the power i have assuredly the will to make your life happy. dia. you have not much to offer! sir cuthbert, you have everything to offer that should appeal to a properly constituted woman. to such a woman the world has nothing better in store than that she should" be the wife of such an englishman as you. to be that woman is to have attained the very crown and summit of the high hill of 'her'desires. but am not such an one. i am a strange woman—unlike others in many respects. i am wilful, wayward, not subject to control—a woman to whom excitement and adventure are as the breath of her life. i regard you with a deep and proud esteem. i am profoundly touched to know that such a man as you—a man whose name is a byword of punctilious honour and manly rectitude—deems me worthy to become his wife. ‘ but i must live among scenes of excitement—i cannot wear the livery of sober respectability. i am but half tamed—but hatf civilized. i do odd things—i say odd things—i shock people. there i< lire within me—therc is even a touch of devilry. as the squire’s wife i should have duties to discharge that would fret and gall me. i should have to busy myself with the poor—to play the ministering angel among the old, the halt, the lame, and the blind. oh, do not misunderstand me. i do not mean to speak lightly of those things or of those who do them. but, my dear friend, am not that woman, and so i may not be your wife. i have spoken plainly—partly because it is in my nature to be frank, but mainly because i am so proud of having gained the love of such a man that i can bear even the pain of telling him how un- worthy i am to possess it. shake hands on it, sir cuthbert, the fortune-hunter. and be the best, the truest, the most valued friend i have ever possessed. sir c’. (sadly). thank you, miss caverel, i thought it only too likely that you would tell me that it could never be—but i did not know that you would say it so gently. thank you, miss caverel! [emit sue cutsneet. dia. he would that my life were bound up with his! it would be a mad coupling—and would it last? no! i must move about the worl_d, or i am as a caged prisoner. i want fire and heat and colour—blue skies and bright sunshine—the hustle and movement of great cities—the whirl and torrent of rapid travel—and the give and take of bright brains. the dull, slate-coloured routine of english country-respectability would weigh me down as does the dull, slate-coloured english sky. thank me, cuthbert jameson, rather for my refusal than for the manner of it. and thank me, too, good woman, who- ever you are, who may one day be his wife—for there is no nobler life open to you than that with which such a man has the power to endow you. [emit diana. (the ducusss or dundee is heard speaking “ of ” on the companion ladder.) duchess. now, doody, just you mind how you toddle, or you’ll be "slipping under, and shall have to dive after you. (to quaatermastsa on gangway.) take you hold of him, please— he’s rather shaky on his pins. _ [ducness appears at gangway with the duke, who, being very infirm, is supported by quaatarmaster. mn. taylor and miss bailny come from deck cabins to meet them. taylor and quartermabter lead duke to a chair-—iake shawls, &c., from du hess, and emeunt. . " ' duke (to q,uartell'ma ' ‘er). i thank you—i thank you, my good man. am personally obleeged to you. ‘ [emit quaatesmasteu. enter puesne. duch. once more on board the old ship-—and for the fifteenth time t‘' well, i’m a cabin passenger this turn, thanks be! (sees pusser.) why, mr. macquarrie, how do you do ? very glad to see you again, mr. macquarrie—why, it’s quite like old times ! (shaking him heartily by the hand). par. (rather puzzled). i believe i have the honour of addressing the duchess of dundee ? duch. yes —that’s me, right enough. the for tune-hunter. ! duke (aside to ducrmss). no, no—“that’s i”—my love-- “ that’s .” dek. no, no, tommy-—he said “ duchess ”—that’s me. duke. —“ i am indeed the duchess of dundee.” duch. poor old boy—he’s wandering ! where’s his air- cushion? there—now you keep quiet—there’s a dear. (to puaser.) he’s not as young as he was, you know. pur. would your grace like to see the state rooms ? duch. no, mr. macquarrie, my grace knows the state rooms better than you do. besides, i can sleep in a butter-box—and as long as i’m near my maid, who always wants her head held in a sea way, that’s good enough for me. but the duke wants looking after, and l’ll feel obliged if you’ll fix him upas snug as may be. fur. most certainly. my instructions are that everything is to be done to make the voyage agreeable to your graces. you will find this a very comfortable ship. duch. then she must have changed quite a bit since i knew her. my sakes, how the old hooker used to dip her nose into it! pur. i was not aware that we had ever had the honour of your grace’s presence on board—and yet [as though recognizing her. duch. don’t you? why, mr. macquarrie, i was reported to you for incivility to a second-class passenger, and you tried your level best to give me a wigging and couldn’t do it for laughing! pur. i ? your grace was reported to me! duch. oh, i wasn’t “her grace” then. why, don’t you remember euphemia s. van zyl, under-stewardess? pur. euphemia—why, of course—but—— duch. of course you do—shake hands on it. you may shake hands now that i’ve qualified for that honour. . pur. (skaking her hand respectfully). i do assure you i’m perfectly thunderstruck. duch. so am i when i think of it. lord, what a world of ups and downs it is! duke (aside to doormss). euphemia, my love—a little reticence, i beg! duch. all right, tommy. pur. but may i ask—for i’ve been at sea for six weeks past—how dzwh. ask? why, of course you may. when i was last on board, poppa was in the small handware line, but he saved money and got into a little pork ring, and i cut the sea. and when the little pork ring became a big pork ring, poppa made his p.le, and i blossomed out as a society belle. well, the rest iv. d . . the for tune -h unte ii’. enter barker from cabin. bar. your grace ? duch. undress the duke and put him to bed. [as duke is helped of he kisses his hand to ducmsss. ducness looks after him. duch. (sighing). ah, ’taint all pie! [barker leads the duke ini _cal)[n. de baiizvrtta comes down. duchass turns and recognizes him. he bows. buch. (much agitated). why, it’s de bréville! this is altogether unexpected ! but you won’t be hard on me—you’ll shake hands, won’t you ? [he shakes hands with her. de b. duchess, we meet strangely. duch. yes, viscount. but after all the world is a veryjsmall potato, and this is a considerable big ship. de b. we parted in chicago—a year ago. duch. yes—at poppa’s pork works, after a tender scene- at the boiling room. i remember it well. de b. tell me frankly, duchess—have i been fairly dealt with, do you think ? duch. well, no. i can’t say you have—and when i think of it i feel real mean, and that’s so. de b. when i left, i carried with me a promise—need i recall it i duch. “lell, no— did that. i cabled to you and told you how i was fixed up—i guess i couldn't do more. i was very fond of you—there’s no denying that—and although i was the richest society belle in chicago i would have married you, poor as you are. but when a british duke dazzles her, what’s a chicago girl to do ? de b. is his grace so brilliant? duch. well, no, he’s eot exactly what you’d call brilliant, and that’s the truth. but he is his grace—and in common fairness don’t forget that i’m a republican. de b. true-—that should not be forgotten. and when the duke came—he is not in his first youth, i think ? duch. no, i can’t say he is. he’s eighty—five, and bad at that. - de b. and when the duke came—who is an indifferent eighty-five—poor de bréville—who was a well-preserved four- and-twenty—received his (range. oh, it is fit and proper! the duke has his precedence, and de bréville aoquiesces. he is not a discarded lover—he is the victim of social etiquette. duch. (rather surprised). he takes it pretty easy, though. the for tun.e- hunter. de b. he is a man of the world, duchess. (with feeling.) but shall i tell you what i suffered when your telegram came? shall i tell you of the blank despair that numbed my soul? no, you would say it was for your wealth that i wept. well, let it be so. it is the lost dollars that make my life quiver, even now, as i address your grace. [with emotion. duch. now, don’t for gracious sake talk to me like that, or i shall go soft. you don’t suppose i’ve nothing to blame myself with ? i ain’t chalk, if i ain’t cheese. i ci' treat you badly, and that’s the truth, and i’ n just as sorry as i can hold. but it’s done and over—and can’t be undone, and won’t be undone. i married the duke to be his wife-—and his wife i am, and his wife i mean to be—and a good and true wife too, to the end of the track. so let you and me start fresh and fair, with a clean slate and no reminiscences, for when l reminisce i go soft, and that don’t suit euphemia s. dundee. de b. be sure that i shall respect your grace’s wishes. but 'do not fear—your grace will not be long oppressed by a presence that revives so much that is painful in your grace’s mind. i am on my way to athens, and i leave this ship in ten minutes. duch. (rather disappointed). what—you’re not sailing with us? well, i don’t know that it isn’t all for the best. ‘ not that i shouldn’t like to see you again, only—i’m not prepared for it yet —and that’s the truth. so shake hands, armand, and good-bye—and when you’re in england, come and see us. i can’t say where we shall be, but you can always find our move- ments in the radical papers. but mind—l’m the duke’s wife, and don’t you forget it. i shan’t. [emit into cabin. de b. well, euphemia, go your ways in peace—the duke has nothing to fear from me. but, united statesmen, what a blind, illogical race you are! you profess to place eeormous import duties upon all commodities that you are unable to produce, and yet you admit, on free-trade principles, the british peer, who drains more dollars out of your country in a day than your customs will produce you in a twelvemonthl (enter diana.) ah, miss caverel, i have been waiting—waiting- waiting—and in ten minutes i leave you—it may be for always! dia. but we shall meet at j ermyn’s—that is understood. de b. yes, but that is six months hence—and is not six months an always? alas, that we can only see things with ‘our own eyes and not with each other’s! if i could see with your’s, i should see that october was but a few months'hence- it you could see with mine, you would see that it is an eternity away! dia. then it is well that i cannot see with your eyes. -the for t u./ve—h un t e r. de b. i do not know-—it might be well for you, for then you would see me as i am, and not as i seem to be, for i am artificial even to you. dia. how artificial ? de b. i study to please you, and in pursuit of that study i say not the thing that i mean, but the thing that will interest you—and yet you see me more nearly than other people do. dia. is it that i am more clear-sighted, or that you are more candid ? de b. it is because i have cheated myself into the audacious belief that we are in sympathy with one another. i have the honour to be cast in a gross and clumsy copy of your own mould. you have a strangely original nature-—so have i, but i push it too far. you have strong, passionate, unconventional impulses-—so have i, but they get me into discreditable trouble. you have a taste for adventure-—-so have i, but it is a brutal taste that leads me to destroy strong lives. miss caverel, i know you well. for three weeks past, day by day and hour by hour, i have studied you thoroughly, for you are, without exception, the most deeply interesting woman i have ever encountered. miss caverel, to you i would reveal myself—to you i would be the man i am—with the much that is bad and the somewhat that is _’_\;ood—but to no other woman i ever knew. dia. (earnestly). prove this to me, for indeed i would know you as you are. de r. then listen. i am vain -arbitrary—dictato -inl- self-sufiicient. i pretend that i attach no value to the world’s good word, but in that i lie, for praise is as the breath of my nostrils. i am headstrong—wilful—passionate—and so, many times unreasonable. on the surface i am honourable, but it is with the honour of a gamester who does not cheat his opponent but who ruins his tailor. in danger i am sufiiciently cool and steadfast, but here again i am instigated by the lust of praise to do that from which i should shrink were i unseen and alone. to those whom i love i am kind to the verge of folly. i am open-handed and generous—but not generous to men who are my rivals. to women? well, there are women and women. it may seem incredible, but i once behaved with honour to a married woman whom i loved and who loved me—but the circumstances were exceptional, and it might not occur again. still, let it weigh for something in a scale which suffers.much from counterpoise. in fairness to myself, let me add that much of me that is evil is perhaps evil because i have never loved worlhily until now. dear lady, this is the man with the much the for tune -h un t er. that is ill and the somewhat that is good, who lays his poor erring heart at your feet dia. (after a pause). shall i be frank with you? -(he bows.) you ask me to give you my life—to entrust my whole future to your guidance—your care-—your keeping. you bid me love you—honour you—obey you you ask me to mould my life on yours—to throw all else aside that i may, in all and all, devote myself to you and you alone. (he makes a gesture of deprecation.) ah, forgive me, but this is what you ask. . it is at my estimate of a wife’s devotion that your demand must be measured —not at yours. i well know what i have to give, and, whatever that may be, you ask .me to give it to you. well, ‘armand de bréville, take it, for it is your own. .(he seizes her hand and kisses it.) i take you as you are—knowing you well, loving you much, hoping all things, fearing none. shall i tell you that i have dreaded to look be) ond this parting of ours ? shall i tell you that i had not the courage to face the blank life that lay before me after you had gone out of my eyes ? well, well-—i did not know—how was i to know ?— that the moment of our parting would be the crowning joy of my life! [he takes her in his arms and kisses her rapturously, then moves to gangway. picture. eric ' a ‘ l act ii. wennen. (twzlve months have elapsed.) scnse.—ds ba §v llr;‘s a_part/nents in the champs elysees. de bartvrcle is discovered with m. paillaan, a money- lender. de breville seated at writing-table. paillard on sofa. pail. is it not rather late, m. le vicomte, to find fault with the terms upon which i advance money ? wo have bad deal- ings together for several years, and you owe me, in principal and interest, a very considerable sum—and now, for the first time, you complain of my terms. frankly, you are unreason- able, m. le vicomte. tiie fortune-hunzier. dia. oh, armand, armand, forgive me, my love —oh, forgive me! (kneels at llinfeet.) de b. what have i to forgive, diana ? dia. i promised you a life of happiness-—a life free from debt — . life of independence and enjoyment—and my heart leapt within me at the thought that i could keep this promise— and all i have done is to hamper you with a wife who seems to have lost even the power to make your home acceptable to you—oh, forgive me. armand, forgive me ! de b. you have given me much love and much devotion. these are not to be bought with money. if i am often from home it is because i am a poor man and must work. dia. the life i have provided for you is so diflcrent from the life i promised you. you were to have thrown off your office shackles, and we were to have wandered at our will over this beautiful earth, drinking our fill of the joy of travel--encounter- ing hazards which to you and to me are the very music of existence—daring everything—fearing nothing—the life of the mountain, the forest, the desert, and the seal oh, armand, i do not regret these things for my own sake. but i know how your restless spirit chafes under the gelling restraint of daily duty to be done, and how your mind frets over the bitter dis- appointmentl have ‘caused you. it stands between us like a dividing spectre—intangible—invisible—but there—-always and inevitably there—there—there ! ' de b. there is no spectre that is not the outcome of your own sensitiveness, my child. when we are divided it is at the command of my exacting chief. if there were no such chief there would be no such division. dia. that is true. when do you start for naples ? de b. in half an hour. lachaud, my lawyer, is to call for me here, and we are to travel as far as monte uarlo together. diu. and how long will you be away from me? de b. ah, it is not easy to say. diplomatic work is always uncertain, and neapolitan officials are not remarkable for expedition. perhaps three weeks—perhaps three months. . dia. three months ! three more weary months to be passed in this dismal solitude! de b. my child, be ust, even to paris. it is not dismal, and it is not a solitude. dia. to a lonely, heart-weary w man—knowing no one, known by none—paris is more irritatingly dismal than the dingiest london suburb. when you are here it is well, and i am content; but when you are away i am as a hungry woman looking on at a feast of which she may not eat, and who is tiie fortune-hunter. 'i‘here—go—what is all this to you? after all, i am only your wife ; it would be well for me if i could think of you only as a husband! de b. diana, you are utterly unreasonable. dia. do you think i don’t know that? do you think that any woman that was reasonable would stake her life’s happiness on the chance that the love of such a man as you would remain at the fever heat of its inception ? unreasonable? ‘why, i am mad ! de b. my child, what have i done to justify this outburst? have i ever spoken an unkind word to you ? dia. no—you are kind—kind-—kind—always and invariably kind—and no more! a curse on your kindness—it is not what i want of you ! i would as lief you were brutal as kind—your kindness is but one remove from indifference. between kindness and such love as i give you there is a great gulf fixed. i cross that gulf to go to you—you do not cross it to come to me ! [emit weeping. de b. ah, my poor child, how truly you speak, and how little you guess that you speak truly ! how am i to break the truth to you who have set your heart so fully on me? bah! it is not to be thought of—it must be done without reflection— done with closed eyes, a deadened heart, and every sense reduced to dull negation ! i!/rler m. la iiaui). lac/r. ah, my dear armand, ! am here in good time. have you taken your farewell of madame? ah, what a lucky husband you are ! de b. lucky? lach. yes-—doul>ly lucky—lucky in being able to make up your mind to quit so charming a lady, and lucky to have. so charming a lady to return to when your holiday is at an end. frankly, if i were in your case, even the duchess of du.ndee—- (“ hush! ”from de barivnmn)-—would not lure me from her side. with me, the end of my holiday would be its beginning. de b. my good lachaud, it is easy to theorize about the married felicity of one’s friends. but theories have this failing —that they are apt to be fallacies. h ].a.ch. what do you mean? in madame de bréville you ave de b. in madame de bréville i have a beautiful and blame- less wife, of whom everyone would approve except the only people whose approval is important to us—my parents. l¢wh' is it possible that your parents have any fault to find . the fortowe'hulvter' with her? to know madame de bréville is to accept her as a miraculous incarnation of an impossible abstraction! de b. perhaps; but my parents do not know madame de bréville. more than that, they never will know her. lach. you astound me! but you were of age when you married. twenty-nine, were you not ? de b. no, twenty-four. lach. but, my dear friend, what you have just told me is very serious. you are, of course, aware that by our civil code before a man who is under twenty-five may marry he must obtain the consent of his father and mother, or his marriage is voidable at their pleasure. de b. or at his own. lash. or at his own. de b. my dear lachaud, i know it but too well. my parents, as you are aware, are aristocrats of the purest blood. they are poor, but their pride of lineage is superlative, and they would rather have seen their son lying dead before them than that he should marry a girl, english or french, whose people belonged to the merchant class. my only hope was to marry her and rely upon their accepting her as a daughter- in-law rather than place her in the position of a nullified wife. lach. but your father and mother will justify your con- fidence in them? they will not condemn this innocent lady to a life of unmerited ignominy ? de b. alas! my friend, in crediting them with such bour- geois emotions you do injustice their pride of birth. lach. but m. le marquis is the soul of honour. de b. he is, but his honour is not so much heroic as heraldic. the de brissacs, the de vincennes, the de gallifets, and the de contades have contributed his ingredients, and my mother is descended in a direct line from the bretignys of poitou. from the tone of my father’s reply to the letter in which announced my marriage to him i am convinced (though i have not yet broken it to my wife) that he intends to apply at once to the civil tribunal for a declaration of nullity. lach. surely—surely you misjudge him ! de b. ah, i know him well! and now, my dear lachaud. i am in this difficulty: i love my wife dearly—i love my parents dearly. in marrying her i deceived them, and in taking the steps which i feel sure they intend to take they are well within their rights. this question, then, naturally arises: am i, who wilfully deceived them, justified in allowing the odium of these proceedings to rest upon their aged shoulders? in the for]'u ve'huzvter¢ other words, if these proceedings must be taken, is it not rather my duty to initiate them myself? . [carefully watching the efect of his words on lachaud. lach. to initiate them yourself? (de bs.r’:vrlls nods.) to apply in your own name for a decree of nullity ? . de b. rather than impose that terrible necessity.upon the shoulders of my father. lach. but you are jesting! you are incapable of such an act of infamy towards the woman you have sworn to cherish for life! if i am deceived in this— - de b. lachaud, i have too much respect for the sentiment that inspires a burst of honest indignation to criticize too.closely the shape in which it presents itself. you have described my proposal as an act of infamy. it is a strong expression, but let it remain until i have convinced you that it is an act of justice. enter diana. di'. i beg your pardon, armand—l thought you _were alone. de b. this gentleman, whom you will permit me to present to you, is m. lachaud, who is to be my travelling companion. (aside to lachann.) not a word about the duchess! (aloud.) m. lachaud—the vicomtesse de bréville. lach. madame la vicomtesse, i am overjoyed at the honour that is conferred upon me. (aside) poor lady i poor lady ! dia. (with assumed gaiety). you have come to rob me of my husband, m. lachaud. this is not kind, for he has only been home a week. will you. not relent, and spare him to me a little longer ? . lacli. madame, it distresses me beyond measure that my presentation to you should be associated in your mindwith so deplorable a circumstance as m. de bréville’s departure. but pardon me, madame—i do not take him from you. did. true-—he goes willingly! lach. m. de bréville has, no doubt, some adieux to make which it would ill become me to interrupt. if madame will permit me to retire dia. it is unnecessary. m. de bréville is so well accustomed to take leave of me that our farewells are of a very business—like description. and we pait for so short a time—three months—- perhaps only two! de b. pardon me, my child, but if lachaud will permit me, i would gladly be alone with you for a few minutes. [lachaud bows, and dia. (surprised). armand! what can you have to say to me that m. lachaud should not hear ? . l . the fozervwe-h / v:'ask. de b. (with some emotion). i have only to say farewell, diana. it is a little word, but—sometimes it means much. only farewell! dia. why—armandl (looking into his eyes.) one—one would think you were sorry to go! - de b. i am. deeply sorry, diana. dia. (surprised at his emotion). are you—are you in earnest, armand ? de b. (sighing). yes, diana-—i anrin earnest! dia. (looking earnesliy at him). armand! why, this is music from heaven! months have passed since you spoke to me in this way! what can it mean ? de b. you know that i have a foolish unreasoning faith in presentiment. well, i have a foreboding that a calamity is in store for you—that grave sorrow may come upon you before long. you are in the habit of laughing at my forebodings, but they impress me, and i cannot shake them off. and so, diana, i am very sad at leaving you. dia. a calamity! (b'u,ddenly.) you have no quarrel on hand ? you are not in any danger ? de b. no-—i know of none. (diana relieved.) yet if a heavy blow should fall on you during my absence——- dia. do you mean if you should die? de !. put it in that way, if you will. if my foreboding should come true—if it should come to pass that" you find yourself husbandless—hardee your heart towards me, my child, and remember that i am one who is not worth weeping for- that i am a cold, cruel, self-seeking man, who has so poor an appreciation of wifely love that he has dared to repay your priceless devotion with coldness, indiflerence, and neglect. bah! such a man is not worth a tear. dia. armand, it is cruel—it is foolish to say these things to m_e! there is a quiver in your voice which gives them the lie. oh, forget my reproaches! when you hold me to you as you hold me now, i know that i have misjudged you, and my heart harks back to the days when your love was as the torrid sun, and i live once more the supreme life that i lived then. it is not that you have not loved me enough, but that i have loved you too well. oh, my god, can it be that the love i had i have again? it will abide with you, armand, while you are away—and it will come back with.you—it wil come back with you? [kneels, sobbing at his feet. de b. yes, yes. diana—surely»—surely! there, there-—be brave and strong! i am not worth such love. diana— et me go, or i shall break down! the fortu ve—hu./vter. dia. n o—stop there-—stop there—give me time to stamp this moment on my memory! there—i have it—go—i can bear it now! . de b. farewell, diana! there-—think of me at my worst, and waste no time on me! adieu! [emit de bruévrrmn hastily. dia. (staggers to a table, on which she rests). he is gone! this parting, that has brooded over me like a bird of evil omen during the past week, it is over, and—god help me !—it has left me happier than i have been for ‘months past! what in heaven’s name is the cause of this strange sense of calm relief, as if some wringing pain had been suddenly assuaged ? (sud— denly, as if a light had broken on her.) the man loves me! loves me! ah, god, it is that! it has all come back to me again! there has been a dark and sombre interval-—an interval of gloom and deadness—but the cloud has passed, and the glorious sun beams full upon me in all its torrid fervour—as of old—as of old! [enter servant, with card. serv. a gentleman desires to see madame la vicomtesse. dia. to see me! (takes card.) sir cuthbert jameson l show this gentleman in, at once! (erit servant.) sir cuthbert jameson, of all men! it is well that he comes at this moment ; it is well that he comes when i can tell him, frankly and truth- fully, that i am as happy as he could desire me to be! (enter servant, showing in sir cuthbert.) ah, sir cuthbert, this is indeed a most welcome and most delightful surprise! i cannot tell you how overjoyed i am to see you, my dear, dear old friend! sir c. thank you heartily for your kind reception. i should have given you notice of my intention to call upon you, but i started for paris at an hour’s notice, and i arrived only an hour . ago, and—well, lcouldn’t wait! and how is armand, and where is he? _ dia. how unfortunate! he has just left for monte carlo on his way to naples. . he will be very sorry when he learns that he has missed you. ten minutes sooner and you would have seen him. str c. that’s unlucky indeed, for i have a proposal to make to which his consent is indispensable. dia. a proposal? sir . yes. i don’t, as a rule, interfere in other people’s affairs, but i confess i am not quite happy about this marriage of yours—without the consent and approval of his parents. dim. but you know how we were situated. i wrote and told you all. the fortune-hunter. sir c. yes, yes! well, ‘we won’t discuss that. you know my views on the subject of concealment in such matters, and there’s no necessity to repeat them. the mischief’s done, and now the only question is—what is the best thing to do, and can i be of any service in helping you to do it? dia. you are very, very kind. sir c. not a bit. i’m a fidgety old fellow, whose mind is not at rest upon this matter, and in my own interests i want to quiet it—that’s all. now, in the first place, have your husband’s parents been informed of his marriage? dia. yes. armand wrote to them (they are at tours—his father is the general commanding the district), telling them everything. sir . come, that’s well. and they ? dia. they contented themselves with a cold acknowledgment of the receipt of his letter. sir c. that is all ? dia. that is all. _ sir . then, surely, if there ever was a case for an inter- mediary this is one. i will wire to de bréville for his sanction, and as soon as i get it i will start for tours, and the deuce is in it if [don’t bring them round. i can start to-morrow and be back again in a couple of days, and perhaps bring them with me. n w—what do you say ? dia. i say that you are a good, true, and tried friend, and that whatever you think it right to do will be the best thing that could be done. sir c. then i take that as consent. now, tell me about yourself. you are well and thoroughly happy? dia. quite well, and, but for the difficulty you have referred to, as happy as ever i was in my life. sir g. come, that’s good news indeed. and you don’t find it irksome to be chained down to one spot? dia. i must make the best of a necessity which, after all, is not so very terrible. of course, this is very unlike the life i intended to lead, but since the failure of the brisbane bank our resources have been much straitened, and when armand has to go abroad he cannot afford to take me with him. but you must not suppose that i am complaining. sir c. you are a brave lady, indeed. and so armand is on his way to monte carlo ? di‘. for a few days only—on his way to naples. sir ( . he will find an old friend at monte carlo or at naples —her grace of dundee. dia. (surprised). the duchess of dundee ? v. e f lz’ _'u ve—f](/nter. . sir c. yes—didn’t you know she was .there? dia. (agitated). no. no, i did not know it. sir c. oh, yes. the jolly widow is (in her expressive vernacular) simply making the place hum. she has bought a lovely chéteau—the villa bonaventura. she gives magnificent fr?tes——plays heavily—d esn’t care what. she loses—and alto- gether, as she says, does her best to make up the lee-way that she lost when tommy was more or less alive. she spends her time between monte carlo and naples, running backwards and forwards in her fifteen hundred ton steam yacht, the flying eagle. altogether, she’s the presiding genius of the place. dia. (aside). he did not tell me that that woman was there. he must have known it--—why did he keep it from me? he_ knows that i hate her-—hate her! ‘ ‘ sir c. (noticing her agitation). my dear lady, what in the world is the matter ‘. dia. n othing-—nothing— (after a pause, throws her.-gel/" sobbing on the s fa)—oh, i see it all now! oh, my god, i see it all—— i see it all ! . ' _ . sir o. come, come—-this won’t do !" surely there is nothing to distress you in the fact that the duchess happens to be at monte carlo ? . _ _ ' ' dia. sir cuthbert, i told you justnow thatl was as happy as i have ever been. when i spoke it was true, for my husband —cold, polite, insensible a_s_a rule-'-had displayed an emotion at leaving me which filled me _with a' joy to which i have been for months a stranger. but i have good reason to believe that this woman attracts him-—he concealed from me the fact that she is lthere—and he has gone to her. that’s all—he has gone to her sir c. my dearvicomtesse, you are surely torturing yourself with groundless suspicions. the duchess is . dia. the duchess is an old flame of his—he was onceengaged to marry her. when he went to london he stopped at her house in park lane. his letters to me were dated_ from the embassy, and only learnt the truth through the gossip of a society paper. now, although we are desperately pressed for money, he takes monte carlo on his road to naples—whither she is in the habit of going—in her steam yacht—_in her steam yacht sir . but all this is open to very obvious explanations dia. it is open to an explanation that might, perhaps, satisfy anybody but arjealous woman. but lam a jealous woman, and i am not prepared to accept miraculous coincidences. it is well that you should know the truth. when i was rich, he loved me after the manner of his kin(l—when i lost all, his affection, . ' the for tune-hua/‘tea’. may appear to be illibcral and narrow-minded. still it exists, and must therefore be reckoned with. sir c. well, sir, now that i know your views upon this point, i must admit that in keeping his intended marriage secret from you, your son was not as blameworthy as i supposed him to be. - marquis. and you will pardon me, sir cuthbert jameson, if i remind you that he is always blameworthy who defies the laws of his country. sir . how do you mean ? what law has he defied ? . marquis. he has broken the rd article of the civil code, which declares that before a‘ man who is under the_ age of twenty-f-ve may marry he must obtain the consent of his father and mother—or whichever of them may be living.‘ sir c. but how does this apply? your son is eight or nine and twenty. _ _ marquise. forgive me, sir—six months since, when he married, our son wanled four months of twenty-five. ' sir c. you amaze me beyond measure !' marquise. you will not tell me, sir, that our son has deceived you upon this point? ‘ ' sir c. i certainly cannot, at this moment, charge my memory with any direct statement of his to that effect, but the impression on my mind? marquis. still, sir, it is beyond all question that he was under legal age when he went through the form of marriage with this lady—consequently his act in marrying her without our consent is not only unpardonable—il: is illegal. forgive me, sir, if we appear to you to be unreasonable, but you are an englishman, and you do not understand these things. we have the honour to wish you ood-day. they are about to leave the room. enter diana, deadly pale and tremblring with agitation. she holds an open letter in her hand. dia. stay—do not go yet. something has happened, and you must hear it. i have just received a lctter—froin your son. it was written-—before he left-—and has been brought to me—by a commissionaire from the railway station. sir cuthbert—read it to them—i can’t—i can’t ! (sm c-uthbert takes the letter and reads.) sir . (reads). “ it pains me deeply to have to reveal to you, by means of a letter, a terrible catastrophe which, i frankly admit, i had not the courage to break to you, face to face. when we were married i was, unfortunately, still under legal age. this ‘the for ' ‘u/ve-h un ‘er. stateroom no. , next to c . and mrs. pogson e. bewilder. her grace wrote to him on her arrival, two days ago, to tell him she intended to take him back with her in her yacht, and he wires from ventimiglia to say he’ll be here this afternoon. capt. well, that’s prompt. young gentleman, i believe, this time ? mcfic. young? just a rideeculously raw boy! sax-aud- twenty, sir! sax-and-twenty ! capt. well, that's only fair—eighty-four and twenty-six-— average that, and it pans out fifty-five. business man ? mcfie. well, not exactly, but i should say he's gifted with a varra remarkable business instinct. he’s as poor as a rat, and he’s secured a duchess with £ , ) a year. capt. well, it does him credit. good clay, mr. mcfie. you can tell her grace that the yacht will be ready to weigh any time after ten on thursday morning. mcfie. l’ll mention it. good day, captain munro. (emit carvrain.) ah, it’s a peety—a verra great peety! amagni- ficent wumman—in the prime ’ life—not a day over forty- with her intellect matured, and all her physical faculties in the highest state of development, just squandering hersel’ on an incomplete frenchman of sax-and-twenty! why, the man won’t be finished for a quarter of a century yet! but a wumman’s just anither name for a fule !—take ’em when ye “gill and where ye will and how ye will, that’s a’ ye can make ’em. enter duoeess. duch. mr. mofie, when mr. de bréville arrives put him in the pink room, please. ’tain’t over big, but it’s only for two days, and it’s the only spare room left. jl/[cfie. certainly, your grace. duch. now about these two swinrlliug pcople—the dudley coxes. is the detective here? mclrlie. yes, your grace. he’s sent wurrd to say that he’s just arrived from london with a warrant for their arrest on a charge of endeavouring to obtain a sum of £ from his late grace’s estate on a false pretence. the detective will be here, i expect, in about ten minutes. duch. very well. when he comes show him into the ante- room and let me know. when is mr. dudley coxe to call? mcfie. well, he’s due now. duch. have you got his letters ? mcfie. here are two which he wrote to his grace asking him what had become of the £ which he entrusted to his grace . ' he f t u./v z‘-h un er. mr. code. well, really it was such an insignificant matter that—well, it was partly this :-—as you no doubt know, the poor duke had an infallible system at roulette-—givcn him by some archimandrite or other on his death-bed. duch. the duke’s death-bed ? mr. come. no-—the archimandrite’s; and when we met at port said i left a trifle with him?- duch. with the archimandrite ? mr. gare. no, with the duke—to be staked on my behalf, and my letters were merely to-ask if anything had been done with it—that’s all. duch. and you received no reply ? mr. come. well, no— ddly enough. duch. as an old friend that must have surprised you. mr. come. well, it did, because we were always on such very good terms-—and i can’t tell you how delighted i was to hear that his grace was dead, because that explained his silence so satisfactorily. . jlfrs. c' a;e (aside). dudley's tact is wonderful! duch. he gave you some acknowledgment, i guess ? mr. come. oh, no-—no—we—we never took receipts from each other! duch. just like poor tommy! but we must be more business-like. now it’s quite clear that this sum—whatever it was mr. come. what was it, godiva? mrs. c‘re. two hundred pounds, dear, you said. duch. must be due to you now, because the duke was con- fined to his room with gout during the whole time of his stay here, and certainly never showec his nose inside the casino anyhow. ‘ . ' mr. gore. indeed? then, ha! ha! if we are to take a strictly prosaic view of the situation, as your grace insists, it does look as though i had some sort of claim on his grace’s estate, though, to be perfectly frank with you, it never occurred to me to look at it in that light until you mentioned it. ' duch. some sort of claim! why, my dear mr. coxe (coxe . murmurs “ooxe-coxe”), by your own showing it’s a distinct _ debt, and i may as well write you a cheque at once ! [w"rites. .mrs. come (aside). dudley, you’re a genius! mr. come (aside). told you i'd manage it! . duc/r. there you are. i’ll take a receipt, please, because i shall have to claim againstthe executors. mr. come. most certainly. _ _ [writes. mrs. oome. ‘it’s really most kind of your grace. you can the _ for tune -if u vtls'l<‘. : for your arrest, duly backed by a bow street magistrate. (put- ting hamicufls on them.) and it’s my duty to caution you that any statement you may make will be used in evidence against you. ‘ mr. coate. but—— . mrs. come. oh, dudley, dudley, say something, unless you wish to see your wife a galley slave! mr. coxe. this-—this is most unwarrantab e—most disgrace- ful. (to docnsss.) you shall pay for this, m’am. this is not the united states—this is a free country—at least england is—and you commit this outrage at your peril. [during this mns. coxe-coxe, who is sobbing, has been unsuccessfully endeavouring to get her handkerchief out of her handbag, but is prevented by handcufs. mrs. coxe. dudley—(sm'fl)-—my_ handkerchief-—(sn ifl°). ]l[r. come. certainly, my love (takes it out of her hand-bag ‘and dubs her eyes and nose with it). . enter barker. ll bar. your grace wished to speak to me? mr. coxe (astonished). why, there is the very man ilent the money to ! . mrs. coxe. oh, sir, you will endorse my husband’s statement —the £ that be entrusted to you at port said. 'l‘hey’ve put these dreadful things. upon us because he claimed the money. _ bar. i don’t know what the lady means. duch. this person is my courier—mr. john barker. mr. come. courier! y on a confounded courier ? why, this low-bred scoundrel allowed me to believe that he was—a—- a . duch. your old and intimate friend ? ‘ mr. come. a—yes-—and took the £ . a courier, godiva, a damned courier ! bar. i don’t know what you mean, sir. i have never repre- sented that i am the duke of dundee, and i never saw you in my life before. enter de ba §v lle, as from a journey. de b. that statement is not true, mr. barker. duch. armand l _ _ . de b. you certainly entered into conversation with mr. coxe at port said, and i happen to know that he was under the impression that he was speaking to the duke of dundee. ;; ma for rum-zzawrasr. bar. it’s not my fault if mr. coxe mistook me for his grace. the money was employed as mr. coxe directed. i lost it in fair play. _ duch. very good—y u can go, and don’t come back. take you your books to mr. mefie—he will settle with you; be off ! [emit barker. mr. come. mr. de bréville, we are deeply indebted to you for your timely interposition. (both shaking hands with him.) excuse me-—it’s difficult in these things: i’m not used to them. de b. no apologies, mr. coxe, i beg. (to pollard.) you may remove these things. (pollard takes of handcufs from both.) duchess, these are merely two of nature’s noblepeople who have got themselves into difiiculties through an amiable desire to associate with their superiors in mere social rank. do not let us press hardly on them. after all, it was a tribute to _ the charm of his grace’s society. mr. cooce. let me tell you, sir—— de b. it is an excusable ambition, mr. coxe, which you share with many of your amiable countrymen and women. but, my good coxe (coxe shouts “coxe-coxe, sir! ”), permit me to give you a hint. if you are an amateur of blaoking, lick the boots of as many noblemen as will permit you to do so— ah, there areplenty !—but before you begin, make quite sure that the blacking has the proper aristocratic bouquet. the blacking of a courier is not nice. mr. covce. why, you infernal frenehman— . [going_ up t/rreatem'nygiy .to dr. bmtvirmn, who turns suddenly on him). de b. well, sir ? . mrs. couce. oh, do come away, dudley! he's not a gentle- man—he’ll call you out! _ mr. come. you’re right. he’s beneath my notice! and as for you, ma’am (to ducrmss), take your cheque, ma’am; (handing it to her.) mz‘s. come. oh, dudley! . . mr. come. take your cheque! i’ve not the advantage of knowing what the code of etiquette may be in chicago pork circles, but it may interest you to learn that in a civilized country no one has a right to hold his head higher than an english gentleman ! ‘ mrs. come. oh, dudley, don’t be too hard upon her! you are so trenchant! . afr. come. trenchant! she’s brought it on herself, and it serves her right! come away, godiva. the for tune-hunter. [de beiivrlle opens window for mr. coxs. coxr: goes up to him. mr. g_re. you—you’d feel uncommonly small if you knew the profound contempt i have for you-—you mrs. come. oh, do come away, dudley ! (drags him of back- wards). [pollarn erits into ante-room. ducmcss looks after them for a moment, and then sits down to write. de b. duchess, have you no welcome for me? duch. welcome? why, i’m just bubblin’ over with it- only let me get these people off my mind first and you’ll see, my dear! de b. what people? duch. these poor dudley coxes. de b. ah, never concern yourself about those snobs ! duch. well, coxe is a snob-there’s no two ways out of that. but, lord bless you, so am i! i’ve worked a bit harder and paid a bit dearer than he has to get into good society—and, after all, he was only claiming what he believed to be his own. (rings.) so there’s his cheque—and much good may it do him. (enter servant.) take that note to the hotel de paris —there’s no answer. (emit seltvai\"r.) and now, armand-— now for the welcome l it’s real smart of you to turn up just in time. the yacht’s laying off nice, and we up-anchor on friday. in a- fortnight we ought to rise sandy hook, and in a week or so after that you’ll—well, you’ll be about the richest frenchman ’tween this and dunkirk. why, gracious, de bréville, what’s wrong? you look as down on your luck as a damp eagle on the moultl de. b. duchess, there is much that is wrong, and i must tell you at once that i am the wrong-doer. duch. why, what on airth are you steering at ? ])e b. i have been guilty of a mean and miserable injustice, and i have come here to ask you, as the good and great-hearted woman i know you to be, to encourage me to repair it. duch. w.hy, yes—if dollars will do it it’s as good as done. but whom, in pity's name, have you been injusring? not a woman, de bréville-—don’t say it’s a woman ! de b. alas, it is a woman! duch. not a young one, de bréville—don’t say it’s a young one ! de b. a young, beautiful, and blameless woman. duch. (aside). oh, what’s coming—wbat’s coming! (aloud.) who—who is she? de b. she is, at present, my wife. lv, f . the for tune-hunter. duch. your what! !! do you mean to tell‘me that when you came messing around me in park lane you were a married man! ' de b. before i became of age i went through the form of marriave with a lady. i need not tell you how good and how beautifiil a lady, for you knew her on board the africa as diana caverel. " duch. (moaning). oh, i might have guessed it—i might have guessed it"! de ob. as i had designedly omitted to obtain my parents’ consent, that marriage is voidable, and, as matters stand, will be annulled in a f rtni< ht’s time. ' duch. and do youamean to tell me that you—great, big brawny tiger-shooter as you are—:leserted that unhappyyoung critter because your poppa and your mumma refused their con- sent' ‘ de b. i had not even that poor excuse, for my parents, in gheir riglhteous indighgtilon at ta/lie outragel had committed, took er to t eir hearts an isown me. dach. bully for them, anyhow! well, i ’spose i’ve deserved this, but it comes hard and heavy for all that—vurry hard and vurry heavy ! but there‘-—i’!l take it that i treated you real mean two (years since, and you’re payin’ me back in my own coin. tain’t han seine de bréville but anyhow i’m not the sort of woman to nail a bad dollar to, the counter, so go you right away afore i break up, please. i’m a stupid, middle-aged woman with a thumping big_ british title, and a niagara of dollars pouring, dayhafter day, mto her bankmg accgunt, ang ylioou reba frenchman wit nary cent to your name an more e ts t an you could reckon up ’tw'ixt this and ’f ’risco, and for all that, at present speaking, i don’t rightly know how i’m going to fix myself up wrtliout you. well, some good ll come of it anyhow, for, by- well, by the president of the united states, to put zt no higher -—i’ll get such a sickener of frenchmen out of this as’ll set my l;er'cept ons right end up for the rest of my natural life, thanks e. de now, duchess, bring your kind and generous heart into this conference, and let it decide the point at issue. it is m my mind to atone for my misdoing, as far as atonement is : ? "ffg‘-“%‘"° z"‘°i‘i*"’; a i in er e again. now, duchess, i iinililore you to help nie to do this. “i know _your generous nature ;‘ i know it so well that i count implicitly on your readily settmg aside the injury i have worked upon you that i may be at liberty to repair the incalculably '. fortune-hun’ z:‘ i’. enter lionwni lach. (coldly). i received your message, and i am here. what do you want with me ? ' de b. i want to tell you that which will, i hope, re-establish me in your goodwill. . lach. de bréville, i am bound to presume that you are acting in accordance with what you believe to be your duty. i do not share your views, but as they are justified by the code i cannot refuse to carry them forward. i bear you no ill-will. de b. thank you. you will, then, be pleased to hear that i have abandoned my intention to apply for a decree. we have still three days—you must arrest these proceedings at once. lach. three days ?_ say, rather, three hours! .de b. what do you mean ? ‘ _ _ lach. (producing telegram). i have just heard that the great case of dupin against the paris, lyon, and mediterranean was unexpectedly settled this morning. your application will come before the court this afternoon. my pirtner, martel, will be there to represent you. dc b. this afternoon ? lach. in all probability this afternoon. de b. you must stop it by telegram. quick,‘lachaud, there . is not a moment to lose. lach. impossible. a case of such importance cannot be withdrawn at the last‘ moment by telegram. all the afiidavits are before the court, and no earthly power can stop it now. de b. (significantly). you are wrong, lachaud—you are wrong. for instance, if i were to die lach. ah! if you were to die—— ‘ ' de b. the death of a plaintiff puts a stop to all personal actions. lach. no doubt, but ' [de bs :vn.le turns away from lachaud, and takes a small phial from his waistcoat ocket. lachaitd watches him closely. as dr. brevilij'‘. is about to take out the stopper, lachaud rushes at him, and in the struggle the phial falls, broken, to the ground. de b. (furiously, during struggle). devil take you, let me go! curse you! let go, i say! lach. you'll not leave this house in your present state of mind. "(struggling with de bm’;v lle.) come come, be reasonable! de b. i tell you i am resolved. lacb. and so am i. great heavens, man, do you think-i am . . zhe fortune-huv/ea. cuthbert lunges, de breville stands bolt upright throws up both arms, and receives sir. cuthbert's point in his breast. he staggers for a moment, and falls round into sir cuthbert's arms. sir c. my god, he has killed himself! lachaud—witness that he threw up his guard intentionally. lachaud—call a doctor—alarm the house! [exit lachaud, hurriedly. de b. (as sir. cuthbert lays him tenderly on a cushion). ah, sir cuthbert—my friend—ever my friend, and my truest friend now—of all the kindly offices you have done me, this last is the best and the kindliest ! sir c. but why, in heaven's name, have you forced me to this de b. there is no time for details—enough that it became necessary that i should efface myself, and to do so, i forced this quarrel upon you. as a dying man i tell you that i am sorry and ashamed. enter duchess, lachaud, servants, visitors, and lastly diana. duch. for pity's sake, sir cuthbert, what has happened? what does this mean de b. madame, i have been most gravely wounded by sir cuthbert in a fair and honourable encounter which i violently forced upon him. he had no alternative; lachaud will tell you so. diana! (she kneels by him and supports him.) i have most grievously wronged you, and i implore you to believe my dying words that i repent from my very heart. i—i entreat you to kiss me, for i die. (she kisses him.) cuthbert —my friend—my old friend-you will forgive me for causing you this pain? ah, it was the only way! sir c. my poor de bréville! (takes his hand.) de b. i thank you. i am grieved to give you so much trouble, duchess (duchess is weeping), but # was much in the way of everybody—and when one is in everybody's way it behoves one to withdraw. cuthbert—my old friend—you will take good care of diana–i know you will take good care. (dies.) - ("rtain. dramatis personae gods. jupiter • * * - - - ... mr. john maclean. apollo aged ... • * * - - - ... mr. f. sullivan. mars deities • * * • * * ... mr. wood. diana • * * ... mrs. h. leigh. mercury ... • * * - - - - ... miss e. farren. the spians. thespis •- - •- - - - ... mr. j. l. toole. sillimon ... - - - - ... mr. j. g. taylor. timidon • - - - - - - - - - ... mr. marshall. tipscion ... • * * - - - - - ... mr. robert soutar. preposteros • - - - - - ... mr. h. payne. stupidas ... - - - - -- ... mr. f. payne. sparkeion ... - - - - - - - ... mdlle. clary. nicemis - - - - - - - ... miss constance loseby. prettela ... - - - - - ... miss berend. daphne - -- - - ... miss annie tremaine. cymon - - • * * - ... miss l. wilson. act i. ruined temple on the summit of olympus. act ii. the same scene, with the ruins restored. time in representation: one hour and three-quarters. thespis ; or, the gods grown old. i’m the slave of the gods, neck and heels, and i'm bound to obey, though i rate at ‘em ; and i not only order their meals, _ but i cook ‘em, and serve ’em, and wait at ’em. then i make all their nectar-- do— (which is terrible liquor to rack us is) and whenever i mix thern a brew, why all the thanksgivings are bacchus's ! well, well, it’s the way of the world, &o. then reading and writing i teach, and spelling-books many i‘ve edited ! and for bringin those arts within reach, that donkey iinerva gets credited. then i scrape at the stars with a knife, and plate-powder the moon (on the days for it), and i hear all the world and his wife awardin diana the praise for it ! vell, well, it's the way of the world, &c. [after s ng—very loud and majestic mus't'c is heard. dia. and mer. (looking of). why, who’s this ? jupiter, by jove! enter juriter, an emtremely old man, very decrepit, with ve-- thin straggling white beard, he wears a long braidai dressing-gown, handsomely trimmed, and a silk m'ght—cap on his head. mercury falls back respectfully as he enters. jup. good day, diana—ah apollo—well, well, well, what’s the matter p what’s the matter ? dia. why, that young scamp mercury says that we do nothing, and leave all the duties of olympus to him ! will you believe it, he actually says that our influence on earth is dropping down to nil. . jup. well, well—don’t be hard on the lad—to tell you the truth, i'm not sure that he’s very far wrong. don’t let it go any further, but, between ourselves, the sacrifices and votive oilerings have fallen off terribly of late. why, i can remember the time when people offered us human sacrifices-—no mistake about it—hurnan sacrifices ! think of that! dia. ah! those good old days ! jnp. then it fell off to oxen, pigs, and sheep. ap. well, there are worse things than oxen, pigs, and sheep. jup. so i’ve found to my cost. my dear sir—between our- selves, it’s dropped oil‘ from one thing to another until it has positively dwindled down to preserved australian beef ! what do you think of that ? a ». i don’t like it at all. thespis, or, the gods growm ozd. enter sparkeion and nicemis climbing mountain at back. spark. here we are at last on the very summit, and we’ve left the others ever so far behind! why, what's this? nice. a ruined palace : a palace on the top of a mountain. i wonder who lives here? some mighty king, i dare say, with wealth beyond all counting, who came to live up here— sp. to avoid his creditors! it's a lovely situation for a country house, though it's very much out of repair. nice. very inconvenient situation sp. inconvenient p nice. yes—how are you to get butter, milk, and eggs up here ? no pigs—no poultry—no postman. why, i should go mad. sp. what a dear little practical mind it is ! what a wife you will make! nice. don’t be too sure—we are only partly married—the marriage ceremony lasts all day. sp. i’ve no doubt at all about it. we shall be as happy as a king and queen, though we are only a strolling actor and actress. nice. it's very kind of thespis to celebrate our marriage day by giving the company a pic-nic on this lovely mountain. sp. and still more kind to allow us to get so much ahead of all the others. discreet thespis! - [kissing her. nice. there now, get away, do! remember the marriage ceremony is not yet completed. sp. but it would be ungrateful to thespis's discretion not to take advantage of it by improving the opportunity. mice. certainly not; get away. sp. on second thoughts the opportunity’s so good it don't admit of improvement. there ! [kisses her. nice. how dare you kiss me before we are quite married? sp. attribute it to the intoxicating influence of the mountain alr. nice. then we had better go down again. it is not right to expose ourselves to luences over which we have no control. -sparkeion and nicemis. sp. refar away from all the world, dissension and derision, ith nature's wonders all unfurled to our delighted vision, yhespis; or, the god.s"_grow./v old. with no one here (at least in sight) to interfere with our delight, and two fond lovers sever, oh do not free, thine hand from mine, i swear to thee . my love is thine, . for ever and for ever ! n ice. on mountain top the air is keen, and most exhilarating, and we say things we do not mean in moments_ less elating. so lease to wait, or thoughts that crop, en teite-$ -téte, on mountain top, may not exactly tally with those that you may entertain, returning to the sober plain of.yon relaxing valley. sp. very well—if you won’t have anything to‘say to me, i know who will. . . nice. who will ? sp. daphne will. " nice. daphne would flirt with anybody. sp. anybody would flirt with daphne. she is quite as pretty as ou and has twice as much back-hair. nice. s e.has twice as much money, which may account for it. “ sp. at all events, she has appreciation. she likes good looks. nice. we all like what we haven’t got. sp. she keeps her eyes open. ‘ nice. yes—one of them. sp. which one ?' nice. the one she doesn’t wink with. sp. well, i was engaged to her for six months and if she still makes eyes at me, you must attribute it to force of habit. besides—remember—we are only half-married at present. nice. i suppose you mean that you are going to treat me as shamefully as you treated her. very well, break it off if you like. i shall not offer any objection. thespis used to be very attentive to me, and i’d just as soon be a manager’s wife as _a fifth-rate actors! "' ' yhespis; or, the gods grown old. chorus heard, at first below, then enter darhne, pretteia, pberosteeos, sturrdas, tirseion, cymon, and other members of teesrls’ company climbing over rocks at back. all carry small baskets. cnonus—(wizh dance).* climbing over rocky mountain, skipping rivulet and fountain, passmg where the willows quiver, by the ever rolling river, swollen with the summer rain. threading long and leafy mazes, dotted with unnumbered daisies, scaling rough and rugged passes, climb the hardy lads and lasses, till the mountain-top they gain. first voice. fill the cup and tread the measure, make the most of fleeting leisure, hail it as a true ally, though it perish bye and bye ! second voice. every moment brings a treasure of its own especial pleasure, though the moments quickly die, greet them gaily as they fly ! third voice. far away from grief and care, high up in the mountain air, let us live and reign alone, in a world that’s all our own. fourth voice. here enthroned in the sky, far away from mortal eye, we‘ll be gods and make decrees, those may honour them who lease. chorus. fill the cup and tre d '. e measure, etc. after ceoens and courlsrrs enter thesris climbing over rocks. thes. bless you, my people, bless you. let the revels com- mence. after all, for thorough, unconstrained unconventional enjoyment give me a pic-nic. prep. (very gloomily). give him a pic-nic somebody! thes. be quiet preposteros—d n’t interrupt. prep. ha ha! shut up again! but no matter. [sturidas endeavours, in pantomime, to reconcile him. throughout the scene prer. shows symptoms‘ of breaking out into a furious passion, and sturidas does all he can to pacify and restrain him. thes. the best of a pic-nic is that everybody contributes what he pleases, and nobody knows what anybody else has * afterwards tran.'<pizmted to act i. of “ the i’imtcs ¢_>fpenzan¢¢'," nznspzs,-tor, the cops arson/ v old. ;; brought till the last moment. now, unpack everybody, and let’s see what there is for everybody. nice. i have brought you—a bottle of soda water—for the claret-cup. daph. i have brought you—a lettuce for the lobster salad. sp. a piece of ice—for the claret-cup. prett. a bottle of vinegar—for the lobster-salad. cymon. a bunch of burrage for the claret-cup! tips. a hard-boiled egg-—for the lobster salad ! slup. one lump of sugar for the claret-cup! prep. he has brought one lump of sugar for the claret-cup ? ha! ha! ha! [laughing melodramatically. stup. well, preposteros, and what have you brought? prep. have brought two lumps of the very best salt for the lobster salad. thes. oh-—is that all? prep. all! ha! ha! he asks if it is all! [sturidas consoles him. thee. but, i say—this is capital so far as it goes—nothing could be better, but it doesn’t go far enough. the claret, for instance! i don’t insist on claret—or a obster—i don’t insist on lobster, but a lobster salad without a lobster, why, it isn’t lobster salad. here, tipseion ! tirseion (a very drunken bloated fellow, dressed, however, with scrupulous accuracy and wearing a large medal round his neck). my master? [falls on his knees to thes. and kisses his robe. thes. get up—don’t be a fool. where’s the claret? w arranged last week that you were to see to that ? tips. true, dear master. but then i was a drunkard! thes. you were. tips. you engaged me to play convivial parts on the strength of my personal appearance. thes. i did. tips. you then found that my habits interfered with my duties as low comedian. thes. true— — tips. you said yesterday that unless i took the pledge you would dismiss me from your company. thes. quite so. tips. good. i have taken it. it is all i have taken since yesterday. my preserver ! [embraces him. thes. yes, but where’s the wine? tips. i left it behind, that i might not be tempted to violate my pledge. rzzzspzs; on, the cops growmold. r " i‘. prep. minion ! " ' ' . [attempts to get at him, i- restrained by sturidas; thee. now, preposteros, what is the matter with you? ' prep. it is enough that i am down-trodden in; my pro-' fession. i will not submit to imposition out of _it. - lt'. is enough that as your heavy villain i get the worst of it every night in a combat of six. i will not submit to insult in the day time. i have come out, hal ha ! to enjoy myself! . ‘_ thes. but look here, you know—‘virtue only triumphs at night from seven to ten—vice gets the best of it during the other twenty-three hours. won’t that satisfy you ? _ _ "' [sturmas endeavours to paotfy him‘. prep. (irritated to stur.). ye are odious to‘ my sight! get outofit! ' — . " stup. (t great terror). what have i done? thes. now what is it, preposteros, what is‘ it ? _ prep. i a—hate him and would have his life! ' ' . ' ‘ - t/zes. (to stu >.). that’s it—he hates you and would have your life. now go and be merry. ‘ " ‘ ‘ ' " ‘ " stup. yes, but why does he hate me ? _ ‘ ' ‘ thes. oh—exactly. (to _’eer.)* why do yonihdte him? ' ' prep. because he isarninion!_' . ‘ = _ " ' tires. he hates you because you'r" jre.tii'ntlnlbn. »‘ 't'explhine itself. now go and enjoy yourselves. ha! hell "“'it‘is well'for those who can laugh—let themdo so—there is no extra charge. the light-hearted cup and the convivial jest‘ for them—but .for ine—what is there for me? . ' sillimon. there is some claret cup and lobstersalad. i . ' ‘ [handing some. thee. (taking it). thank you. " (reauming.) what is there for me but anxiety—ceaseless gnawing anxiety that tears at my very vitals and rends my peace of mind asunder? there is nothing whatever for me but anxiety of the nature i have just described. the charge of these thoughtless revellers is my unhappy lot. it is not a small charge, and"itis rightly termed a lot, because they are many. oh why’did the gods make me a manager? . - sill. (as guessinga riddle). why did the gods make him a manager? ' '- sp. why did the gods make him a manager? dap. why did the gods make him a manager ? prctt. why did the gods make him a manager ? thea. no-—no—what are you talking about? what do you mean ? ‘ ‘ ' dap. i’ve got it—don’t tell us——- i!{esp s,"o \’, ’ y{e gods grown old. all. no—no—because—because—- thcs. (annoyed). it isn't a conundrum—it’s a misanthropical question. why cannot i joinyou? [retires up centre. dap. (who is sitting with srarkeion to the annoyance of n roams who is crying alone). i’m sure i don’t know. we do not want you. don’t distress yourself on our account—we are getting on very comfortably-—_aren’t we, sparkeion ? spar. we are so happy that we don’t miss the lobster or the claret. what are lobster and claret compared with the society of those we love ? [embracing darnue. dap. why, nicemis, love, you are eating nothing. aren’t you happy, dear ? nice. (spitefnlly). you are quite welcome to my share of everything. i intend to console myself with the society of my manager. [takes tnnsris’ arm afectionately. thes. here i say—this wgn’t do, you know—i can’t allow it —at least before my company—besides, you are half married to sparkeion, sparkeion, here's your half-wife impairing my influence before my company. don’t you know the story of the gentleman who undermined his influence by associating with his inferiors ? all. yes, yes,—we know it. prep. (furiously). i do not know it! it’s ever thus l doomed to disappointment from my earliest years . [sturn)as endeavours to console him. thes. there—that's enough. preposteros—you shall hearit. . soxe.-trmsrrs. i once knew a chap who discharged a function on the north south east west diddlesex junction, he was conspicuous exceeding, for his affable ways and his easy breeding. although a chairman of directors, he was hand in glove with the ticket inspectors, he tipped the guards with bran-new fivers, and sang little songs to the engine drivers. ’twas told to me with great compunction, by one who had discharged with.unction, a chairman of directors function, on the north south east west diddlesex junction. fol diddle, lol diddle, lol lol lay. each christmas day he gave each stoker a silver shovel and a golden poker, he’d button-hole flowers for the ticket sorters, and rich bath-buns for the outside porters. thespis ; or, the gods; grown old. he’d mount the clerks on his first-class hunters, and he built little villas for the road-side shunters, and if any were fond of pigeon shooting. he'd ask them down to his place at tooting. ’twas told to me, etc. in course of time there spread a rumour that he did all this from a sense of humour, so instead of signalling and stoking, they gave themselves up to a course of joking. whenever they knew that he was riding, they shunted his train on lonely siding, or stopped all night in the middle of a tunnel, on the plea that the boiler was a-coming through the funnel. ‘twas told to me, etc. if he wished to go to perth or stirling, his train through several counties whirling, would set him down in a fit of lurking, at four a.m. in the wilds of barking. this pleased his whim and seemed to strike it, but the general public did not like it, the receipts fell, after a few repeatings, and he got it hot at the annual meetings, ‘twas told to me, etc. he followed out his whim with vigour, the shares went down to a nominal figure, these are the sad results proceeding from his affable ways and his easy breeding l the line, with its rails and guards and peelers, was sold for a song to marine store dealers, the shareholders are all in the work’us, and he sells pipe-lights in the regent circus. ’twas told to me with much compunction, by one who had discharged with unction a chairman of director's function, _ on the north south east west diddlesex junction, fol diddle lol diddle lol lol lay ! [after song. zes. it’s very hard. as a man i am naturally of an easy disposition. as a manager, i am compelled to hold myself aloof, that my influence may not be deteriorated. as a man, i am inclined to fraternize with the pauper—as a manager i am compelled to walk about like this: don’t know yah! don’t know yah! don’t know yah ! [strides haughtily about the stage. j uriter, mans and arollo, in full olympian costume appear on the three broken columns. thespians scream. jupiter, mars and apollo (in recit.). presumptuous mortal! thes. (same business). don’t know yah! don’t know yah! thespis ; , the cops grown old. jup. mars and apollo (seated on three broken pillars, still in recit.). presumptuous mortal! . thes. i do not know you, i do not know you. jup., mars and apollo (standing on ground, recit.) pre- sumptuous mortal! thes. (recit.). remove this person. [stur. and paar. seize aroll. and mars. jup. (speaking). stop, you evidently don’t know me. allow me to offer you my card. [throws flash paper. thes. ah yes, it’s very pretty, but we don’t want any at present. when we do our christmas piece i’ll let you know. (changing his manner.) look here, you know, this is a private party and we haven’t the pleasure of your acquaintance. there area good many other mountains about, if you must have ' a mountain all to yourself. don’t make me let myself down before my company. (_resuming.) don’t know yah! don’t know yah! jup. i am jupiter, the king of the gods. this is apollo. this is mars. [all kneel to them emcept thesris. thes. oh! then as i’m a respectable man, and rather par- ticular about the company i keep, i think i’ll go. jup. no-—no—stop a bit. we want to consult you on a matter of great importance. there! now we are alone. who are you ? thes. iam thespis of the thessalian theatres. jup. the very man we want. now as a judge of what the public likes, are you impressed with my appearance as the father of the gods? thes. well to be candid with you, i am not. in fact i’m disappointed. jup. disappointed? thes. yes, you see you’re so much out of repair. no, you don’t come up to my idea of the part. bless you, i’ve played you often. jup. you have! thes. to be sure i have. jup. and how have you dressed the part? thes. fine commanding party in the prime of life. thunder- bolt—ful beard—dignified manner—a good deal of this sort of thing “don’t know yah! don’t know yah! don’t know yah! " _ [imitating, crosses l. jup. (much afected). i—i’m very much obliged to you. it’s very good of you. i—i—i used to be like that. i can’t tell you how much i feel it. and do you find i’m an impressive character to play ? zzzespis, oa, zzzz go/ds growm o/ld. thes. well no, i can’t say you are. in fact we don't use you much out of burlesque. jup. burlesque ! [offended, walks up. thes. yes, it's a painful subject, drop it, drop it. the fact is, you are not the gods you were—you're behind your age. jup. well, but what are we to do? we feel that we ought to do something, but we don’t know what. thes. why don't you all go down to earth, incog, mingle with the world, hear and see what people think of you, and judge for yourselves as to the best means to take to restore your influence? jup. ah, but what's to become of olympus in the mean- time? thes. lor bless you, don't distress yourself about that. i’ve a very good company, used to take long "parts on the shortest notice. invest us with your powers and we'll fill your places till you return. jup. (aside). the offer is tempting. but suppose you fail? thes. fail! oh, we never fail in our profession. we’ve nothing but great successes ! - jup. then it's a bargain? thes. it's a bargain. [they shake hands on it. jup. and that you may not be entirely without assistance, we will leave you mercury, and whenever you find yourself in a difficulty you can consult him. enter mercury (trap c.) quartette. jup, so that's arranged—you take my place, my boy, while we make trial of a new existence. at length i shall be able to enjoy the pleasures i have envied from a distance. mer. compelled upon olympus here to stop, while other gods go down to play the hero, don't be surprised if on this mountain top you find your mere down at zero! ap. to earth away to nortal acts, and gather fre rials to write on, investigate mo several facts, that i for ave thrown some light on . dian. i, as them. with crescent bow, have a a light to nightly scandal, i musts ke to go below, and game is worth the candle ! - thespis, or, //e gods growm old. enter all the thespians, summoned by mercury. mer. here come your people ! thes. people better now ! air.—thespis. while mighty jove goes down below with all the other deities, i fill his place and wear his “clo,” the very part for me it is. to mother earth to make a track, they all are spurred and booted, too, and you will fill, till they come back, the parts you best are suited to. chorus. here's a pretty tale for future iliads and odyssies, mortals are about to personate the gods and goddesses. now to set the world in order, we will work in unity, jupiter's perplexity is thespis's opportunity. chorus. chorus, solo.—sparkeion. phoebus am i, with golden ray, the god of day, the god of day, when shadowy night has held her sway, i make the goddess fly. 'tis mine the task to wake the world, in slumber curled, in slumber curled, by me her charms are all unfurled, the god of day am i? the god of day, the god of day, that part shall our sparkeion play. ha! ha ! &c. the rarest funland rarest fare, that ever fell to mortal share ! ha! ha ! &c. solo.—nicemis. i am the moon, the lamp of night. i show a light—i show a light. with radiant sheen i put to flight the shadows of the sky. by my fair rays, as you're aware, gay lovers swear—gay lovers swear, while greybeards sleep away their care, the lamp of night am ii the lamp of night—the lamp of night, nicemis plays, to her delight. ha! ha ! ha i ha ! the rarest fun and rarest fare, that ever fell to mortal share. ha ha ! ha ! ha ! zaaspis, or, he gods grown old. act ii. scene.—the same scene as in act i., with the exception that in place of the ruins that filled the foreground of the stage, the interior of a magnificent temple is seen, showing the back- ground of the scene of act i, through the columns of the portico at the back. high throne l.u.e. low seats below it. all the substitue gods and goddesses (that is to say, thespians) are discovered grouped in picturesque attitudes about the stage, eating, drinking, and smoking, and singing the following verses — chorus. of all symposia, the best by half, upon olympus, here, await us, we eat ambrosia, and nectar quaff— it cheers but don't inebriate us. we know the fallacies of human food, so please to pass olympian rosy, we built up palaces, where ruins stood, and find them much more snug and cosy. solo—sillimon. to work and think, my dear, up here, would be, £ height of conscientious folly, so eat and drink, my dear, i like to see, young people gay-young people jolly. olympian food, my love, i'll lay long odds, will please your lips—those rosy portals, what is the good, my love of being gods, if we must work like common mortals? chorus. of all symposia, &c. [exeunt all but nicemis, who is dressed as dr. pretteia, who is dressed as venus. t. sillimon's arm and bring him down. thespis; or, the gods_ groi/vn old. sillimon. bless their little hearts, i can refuse them nothing. as the olympian stage-manager i ought to be strict with them and make them do their duty, but i can’t. bless their little hearts, when i see the prettylittle craft come sailing up to me with it wheedling smile on their pretty little figure-heads, i can’t turn my back on ’em. i'm all bow, though i’m sure i try to be stern ! p.rett. you certainly are a dear old thing! sill. she says i’m a dear old thing! deputy vcnus says i'm a dear old thing ! nice. it’s her'affectionate habit to describe everybody in those terms. i am more particular, but still even i am bound to admit that you are certainly a very dear old thing. sill. deputy venus says i’m a dear old thing, and deputy diana, who is much more particular, endorses it! who could be severe with such deputy divinities? . prett. do you know, i’m going to ask you a favour. sill. venus is going to ask me a favour ! prett. you see, i am venus. sill. n one who saw your face would doubt it. nice. (aside). no one who knew her character would. prett. well venus, you know, is married to mars. sill. to vulcan, my dear, to vulcan. the exact connubial relation of the different gods and goddesses is a point on which we must be extremely particular. prett. i beg your pardon—venus is married to mars. nice. if she isn’t married to mars, she ought to be. sill. then that decides it—call it married to mars. prett. married to vulcan or married to mars, what does it signify ? sill. my dear, it’s a matter on which i have no personal feeling whatever. prett. so that she is married to some one! ’ sill. exactly! so that she is married to some one. call it married to mars. prett. now here‘s my difficulty. presumptios takes the place of mars, and presumptios is my father! sill. then why object to vulcan? prett. because vulcan is my grandfather! sill. but, my dear, what an objection! you are playing a part till the real gods return. that‘s all! whether you are supposed to be married to your father—or your grandfather, what does it matter? this passion for realism is the curse of the stage! prett. that’s all very well, but i can’t throw myself into a thespis; or, the gods grown old. part that has already lasted a twelvemonth, when i have to make love to my father. it interferes with my conception of the characters. it spoils the part. sill. well, well, i‘ll see what can be done. (emit pretteia l.u.e.) that's always the way with beginners, they’ve no imaginative power. a true artist ought to be superior to such considerations. (nicemis comes down r.) well, nicemis—i should say diana—what’s wrong with you? don’t you like your part? nice. oh, immensely! it’s great fun. sill. don’t you find it lonely out by yourself all night? nice. oh, but i’m not alone all night! sill. but—i don’t want to ask any injudicious questions- but who accompanies you ? nice. who? why sparkeion, of course. sill. sparkeion? well, but sparkeion is phoebus apollo. (enter srmekaroe) ho’s the sun, you know. nice. of course he is; i should catch my death of cold, in the night air, if he didn’t accompany me. sp. my dear sillimon, it would never do for a young lady to be out alone all night. it wouldn't be respectable. sill.. there's a good deal of truth in that. but still—the sun-—at night—i don’t like the idea. the original diana always went out alone. nice. i hope the original diana is no rule for me. after all, what does it matter '? _ sill. to be sure—what does it matter? sp. the sun at night, or in the daytime! sill. so that he shines. ' ‘hat’s all that’s necessary. (e-xit nicemis r.u.e.) but poor daphne, what will she say to this? sp. oh, daphne can console herself; young ladies soon get over this sort of thing. did you never hear of the young lady who was engaged to cousin robin ? sill. never. sp. then i’ll sing it to you. so ~ o-srankaron. little maid of arcadee sat on cousin robin's knee, thought in form and face and limb, nobody could rival him. he was brave and she was fair. truth, they made a pretty pair. happy little maiden, she- happy maid of arcadee! thesp s; or, the gods grown old. moments fled as moments will happily enough, until, after, say, a month or two, robin did as robins do. weary of his lover’s play, jilted her and went away. wretched little maiden, she- wretched maid of arcadee l to her little home she crept, there she sat her down and wept, maiden wept as maidens will- grew so thin and pale—until cousin richard came to woo ! then again the roses grew! happy little maiden, she— happy maid of arcadee! [emit sraekerou. sill. well, mercury, my boy, you’ve had a year’s experience of us here. how do we do it? i think we’re rather an improve- ment on the original gods—don’t you ? mer. well, you see, there’s a good deal to be said on both sides of the question; you are certainly younger than the original gods, and, therefore, more active. they are certainly experience. £lh 'l s id - sono.—mnncunr. olympus is now in a terrible muddle, the deputy deities all are at fault ; they splutter and splash like a pig in a puddle, and dickens a one of ’em’s earning his salt. for thespis as jove is a terrible blunder, too nervous and timid-—too easy and weak— whenever he’s called on to lighten or thunder, the thought of it keeps him awake for a week ! then mighty mars hasn't the pluck of a parrot, when left in the dark he will quiver and quail ; and vulcan has arms that would snap like a carrot, before he could drive in a tenpenny nail ! then venus’s freckles are very repelling. and venus should not have a squint in her eyes ; the learned minerva is weak in her spelling, and scatters her 's all over the skies. then pluto, in kindhearted tenderness erring, can't make up his mind to let anyone die— the times has a paragraph ever recurring, “ remarkable instance of longevity.” on some it has come as a serious onus, t' others it’s quite an advantage-—in short, while ev’ry life office declares a big bonus, the poor undertakers are all in the court! on the other hand, older than you, and have, therefore, more on the whole i prefer you, because your mistakes thespis; or, the gods grown old. then cupid, the rascal, forgetting his trade is to make men and women impartially smart, will only shoot at pretty young ladies, and never takes aim at a bachelor's heart. the results of this freak—or whatever you term it — should cover the wicked young scamp with disgrace, while ev’r_v young mzn is as shy as a hermit, young ladies are popping all over the place ! this wouldn’t much matteréfor bashful and shy men, when skilfully handled, are certainjto fall, but, alas ! that determined young bachelor hymen refuses to wed anybody at all ! he swears that love’s flame is the vilest of arsons, and looks upon marriage as quite a mistake ; now, what in the world’s to become of the parsons, and what of the artist who sugars the cake? in short, you will see from the facts that i’m showing, the state of the case is exceedingly sad; ' if thespis’s people go on as they’re going, olympus will certainly go to the bad ! from jupiter downwards there isn't a dab in it, all of ’em uibble and sheff’e and shirk ; a premier in owning street, forming a cabinet, couldn't find people less fit for their work ! enter tuesris, l.u.e. thes. sillimon, you can retire. sill. sir, i— the:. don't pretend you can’t when i say you can. i’ve seen you do it—go! (emit sillimon bowing emtmvagantly, thesris imitates him.) well, mercury, i’ve been in power one year to-day. mer. one year to-day. how do you like ruling the world ? thee. like it ! why it’s as straightforward as possible. why there hasn’t been a hitch of any kind since we came up here. lor! the airs you gods and goddesses give yourselves are perfectly sickening. why it’s more child’s play l mer. very simple, isn’t it ? thes. simple? why i could do it on my head ? mer. ah—i daresay you will do it on your head very soon. t/ms. what do you mean by that, mercury? mer. i mean that when you’ve turned the world quite topsy- turvey you won’t know whether you’re standing on your head or your heels. thes. well, but, mercury, it’s all right at present. h --r- ;__,; -w,..__ thespis; r,‘t./{e gkotfilfivfitii‘ mer. oh yes—as far as we know. . . . -. . thes. well, but, you know, we know as much‘ as anybody knows; you know_, ibelieve, that"the worl_d’s still going on. zller. yes—as far as we can judge/—_n_ uch as usual. . thes. well, then, give the father of the drama his due, mercury. don’t be envious of the father of the drama. thes. well, but you see you leave so much to accident. mer. well, mercury, if i do, it’s my principle. i am an easy man, and i like to make things as pleasant as possible. \vhat did i do the day we took office ? why i called the company together and i said to them: “ here we are, you know, gods and goddesses, no mistake about it, the real thing. well, we have certain duties to discharge, let’s discharge them .intelligently. don’t let us be hampered by routine and red tape and pre- cedent, let’s set the original gods an example, and put a liberal interpretation on our duties. if it occurs to any one to try an experiment in hisown department, let him try it, if he fails there’s no harm done, if he succeeds it is a distinct gain to society. take it easy,” i said, “and at the same time, make experiments. don’t hurry your work, do it slowly, and do it well.” and here we are after atwelvemonth, and not a single complaint or a single petition has reached me. jller. no—not yet. _ thes. what do you mean by “ no, not yet” ? mer. well, you see, you don’t understand these things. all the petitions that are addressed by men to jupiter pass through my hands, and it’s my duty to collect them and present them once a year. . fllzes. oh, only once a year ? . jller. only once a year. thes. and the year is up+? ' mer. ' ‘o-day. _ thes. oh, then i suppose there are some complaints?- mer. yes, there are some. ' . ‘ thes. (disturbed). oh. perhaps there are a good many . mer. there are a good many. thes. oh. perhaps there are a thundering lot? mer. there are a thundering lot. thes. (very much. disturbed). oh .l . mer. you see you’ve been taking it so very easy—andi sir have most of your company. ‘ thes. oh, who has been taking it easy " mir. well, all except those who ‘have been trying experii men s. _ thes. well but i suppose the experiments are ingenious“?' thespis ; or, the gods grown old. mer. yes; they are ingenious, but on the whole ill-judged. but it’s time to go and summon your court. thes. what for? mer. to hear the complaints. in five minutes they will be here. [exit. thes. (very uneasy). i don’t know how it is, but there is something in that young man’s manner that suggests that the father of the gods has been taking it too easy. perhaps it would have been better if i hadn’t given my company so much scope. i wonder what they’ve been doing. i think i will curtail their discretion, though none of them appear to have much of the article. it seems a pity to deprive ’em of what little they have. . enter darhne, weeping. thes. now then, daphne, wha’’ the matter with you? daphne. well, you know how disgracefully sparkeion—- —- thes. (correcting her). apollo daphne. apollo, then—has treated me. he promised to marry me years ago, and now he’s married to nicemis. thes. now look here. i can’t go into that. you’re in olympus now and must behave accordingly. drop your daphne—assume your calliope. dap. quite so. that’s it! [mysteriously. thes. oh-—that is it? [puzzled dap. that is it, thespis. i am calliope, the muse of fame. very good. this morning i was in the olympian library, and i took down the only book there. here it is. thes. (taking it). lempriere’s classical dictionary. the olympian peerage. dap. open it at apollo. thes. (lppegis it). it is done. dap. a . thes. “apollo was several times married, among others to issa, boliua, coronis, chymene, cyrene, chione, acacallis, and calliope.” dap. and calliope. thes. (musing). ha ! i didn’t know he was married to them. dap. (severely). sir! this is the family edition. thes. quite so. dap. you couldn’t expect a lady to read any other ? thes. on no consideration. but in the original version—— dap. i go by the family edition. thes. then by the family edition, apollo is your husband. . '*rn— ‘c aj_';"- thespis; or, the gods grown old. enter nrcemis and smskeroe. ' nice. apollo your husband? he is my husband. dap. i-beg your pardon. he is my husband. nice. apollo is sparkeion, and he’s married to me. dap. sparkeion is apollo, and he’s married to me. nice. he’s my husband. dap he’s your brother. _ flies. look here, ‘apollo, whose husband are you? don’t let’s have any row about it; whose husband are you? sp. upon my honour i don’t know. i’m in a very delicate position, but i‘ll fall in with any arrangement thespis may propose. dap. i’ve just found out that he’s my husband, and yet he goes out every evening with that “thing” ! thes. perhaps he’s trying an experiment. dap. i don’t like my husband to make such experiments. the question is, who are we all and what is our relation to each other. _ quartettec sp. you’re diana, i’m apollo— and calliope is she. dap. he’s you’re brother. nice. you’re another. he has fairly married me, dap. by the rules of this fair spot i’m his wife, and you are not- sp. and dap. by the rules of this fair spot, : . } his wife, and you are not. nice. by this golden wedding ring, i’m his wife, and you‘re a “ thing." dap., nice, and sp. ey this golden wedding ring, stands} his wife, and you’re a “ thing.” all. please will some one kindly tell us, who are our respective kin? all of {slim } are very jealous, neither of { ghsem will give in. nice. he’s my husband i declare, i espoused him properlee. sp. that is true, for i was there, and i szw her marry me. dap. he’s you're brother-—i’m his wife, if we go by lempriére, sp. so she is, upon my life, _ really that seems very fair. n"-‘h you’re my husband and no other. thespis; on, the cons grown old. jup. what did we leave you behindfor ? mer. please sir that’s the question i asked for when you went away. jup. was it not that thespis might consult you whenever he was in a difficulty ? mer. well, here l’ve been, ready to be consulted, chockful of reliable information—running over with celestial maxims-— advice gratis ten to four—after twelve ring the night bell in cases of emergency. jup. and hasn’t he consulted you ? mer not he—he disagrees with me about everything. jup. he must have misunderstood me. i told him to consult you whenever he was in a fix. _ mer. he must have thought you said insult. why when- ever i opened my mouth he jumps down my throat. it isn’t pleasant to have a fellow constantly jumping down your throat —especially when he always disagrees with you. it’s just the sort of thing i can’t digest. jnp. (in a rage). send him here l’ll talk to him. enter teesris. he is much terrified. jup. (recit.). o monster! ap. (recit.). oh monster! jllars (recit.). oh monster! tnesris sings in great terror, which he endeavours to conceal. jug). well sir, the year is up to-day. ap. and a nice mess you’ve made of it. mars. you’ve deranged the whole scheme of society. thes. (aside) there’s going to be a row! (aloud and very familiarly.) my dear boy—i do assure you-—- jup. (in recit.). be respectful! ap. (in recit.). be respectful! mars (in recit.). be respectful! thes. i don’t know what you allude to. with the exception of getting our scene-painter to “run up” this temple, because we found the ruins draughty, we haven’t touched a thing. jup. (in recit.). oh story teller! ap. (in recit.). oh story teller! mars (in recit.). oh story teller! enter tnesrrass. i/zes. my dear fellows, you’re distressing yourselves unneces- sarily. the court of olympus is about to assemble to listen to the complaints of the year, if any. but there are none, or next to none. let the olympians assemble! thespis; on, the $ grown . . enter tmasruus. [tunsris la]..es chair. j ur., ar. and masa sit below him. thea. ladies and gentlemen. it seems that it is usual for the gods to assemble once a year to listen to mortal petitions. it doesn’t seem to me to be a good plan, as work is liable to accumulate; but as i’m particularly anxious not to interfere with olympian precedent, but to allow everything to go on as it has alway been accustomed to go—why, we’ll say no more about it. (aside) but how shall i account for your presence? jup. say we are gentlemen of the press. thea. that all our proceedings may be perfectly open and above-board i have communicated with the most influential members of the athenian press, and i beg to introduce to your notice three of its most distinguished members. they bear marks emblematic of the anonymous character of modern journalism. (business of introdewtiun. thesris very uneasy.) now then, if you’re all ready we will begin. mer. (brings tremendous bundles of petitions). here is the agenda. . t/res. what’s that. the petitions ? mer. some of them. ( pens one and reads.) ah, i thought- there’d be a row about it. thea. why, what’s wrong now ? mer. why, it’s been a foggy friday in november for the last six months and the athenians are tired of it. thes. there’s no pleasing some people. this craving for perpetual change is the curse of the country. friday’s .' very nice day. mer. so it is, but a friday six months long !—it gets monotonous. jnp., a . and mars (in recit. rising.) it’s perfectly ridiculous. ibes. (calling them). it shall be arranged. cymon ! cymon (as time with the usual attributes). sir! thes. (introducing him to three gods). allow me-—father time—rather young at present but even time must have a beginning. in course of time, time will grow older. now then,father time, what’s this about a wet friday in november for the last six months? cym. well, the fact is, l’ve been trying an experiment. seven days in the week is an awkward number. it can’t be halved. two’s into seven won’t go. thes. (tries it on his fingers). quite so—quite so. cym. so i abolished saturday. thl‘sp s; ?, the cops grown old. jup., a . and mars. oh but— — [rising tires. do be quiet. he’s a very intelligent young man and knows what he is about. so you abolished saturday. and how did you find it answer? gym. admirably. t/zes. you hear ? he found it answer admirably. gym. yes, only sunday refused to take its place. thes. sunday refused to take its place ? . cym. sunday comes after saturday—sunday won’t go on duty after friday, sunday’s principles are very strict. that’s where my experiment sticks. t hes. well, but why november ? come, why november? cym. december ean’t begin till november has finished. november can’t finish because he’s abolished saturday. there again my experiment sticks. thes. well, but why wet? come now, why wet? cym. ah, that is your fault. you turned on the rain six months ago, and you forgot to turn it off again. jup., mars and ap. (rvising-—radiative). oh this is monstrous! all. order, order. th.es. gentlemen, pray be seated. to the others.) the liberty of the press, one can’t help it. (tot c three gods.) it is easily settled. athens has had a wet friday in november for the last six months. let them have a blazing tuesday in july for the next twelve. jup., mars and a . but——- all. order, order. thes. now then, the next article. mer. here's a petition from the peace society. they com- plain that there are no more battles. _ mars (springing up). what! t/zes. quiet there ! good dog—soho; timidon ! tim (as mars). here. thes. what’s this about there being no battles ? tim. i’ve abolished battles; it’s an experiment. mars (spz"in_(]’i'r g up). oh come, i say ’i ws. quiet then! (to tim.) abolished battles? tim. yes, you told us on taking office to remember two things, to try experiments and to take it easy. i found i coulcn’t take it easy while there are any battles to attend to, soi tried the experiment and abolished battles. and then i took it easy. the peace society ought to be very much obliged to me. ' thes. obliged to you! why, confound it ! since battles have been abolished war is universal. . thespis; or, the gods grown old. tim. war universal? thes. to be sure it is! now that nations can't fight, no two of ’em are on speaking terms. the dread of fighting was the only thing that kept them civil to each other. let battles be restored and peace reign upreme. mer. (reads). here’s a petition from the associated wine merchants of mytilene. thes. well, what’s wrong with the associated wine merchants of mytilene ? are there no grapes this year? mer. plenty of grapes; more than usual. thes. (to the gods). you observe, there is no deception; there are more than usual. mer. there are plenty of grapes, only they are full of ginger beer. three gods. oh, come i say. [rising, they are put down by thesris. thes. eh? what. (much alarmed.) bacchus? tips. (as baocnos). here! thes. there seems to be something unusual with the grapes of mytilene; they only grow ginger beer. tips. and a very good thing too. thes. it’s very nice in it's way, but it is not what one looks for from grapes. tips. beloved master, a week before we came up here, you insisted on my taking the pledge. by so doing you rescued me from my otherwise inevitable misery. i cannot express my thanks. embrace me l [attempts to embrace him. thes. get out, don’t be a fool. look here, you know you’re the god of wine. tips. i am. thes. (very angry.) well, do you consider it consistent with your duty as the god of wine to make the grapes yield nothing but ginger beer? tips. do you consider it consistent with my duty as a total abstainer, to grow anything stronger than ginger beer? t/zes. but your duty as the god of wine— — tips. in every respect in which my duty as the god of wine can be discharged consistently with my duty as a total . abstainer, i will discharge it. but when the functions clash, everything must give way to the pledge. my preserver ! [attempts to embrace him. thes. don’t be a confounded fool! this can be arranged. we can’t give over the wine this year, but at least we can improve the ginger beer. let all the ginger beer be extracted from it imn ediately. tijespis; or, y'he gods grown old. jup., maw's., ap. (aside). we can’t stand this, we can’t stand this, it's much too strong, we can’t stand this. it would be wrong, extremely wrong, if we stood this, if we stand this, if we stand this, we can’t stand this. - dap., sparkx, nice. great jove, this interference, is more than we can stand ; of them make a clearance, with your majestic hand. jove. this cool audacity, it beats us hollow (removing mask) i’|n jupiter ! mars. i'm mars ! ap. i'm apollo! enter diana and all the other gods and goddesses. all. (kneeling with theirléoz-eheads on the ground). jupiter, are and apollo, have quilted the dwellings of men; the other gods quickly will follow, and what will become of us then. oh, pardon us, jove and apollo, pardon us, jupiter, mars; oh, see us in misery wallow, cursing our terrible stars. enter other gods. ~chor.us and ballet. all the thespians. let us remain, we beg of you pleadiugly ! three gods. let them remain, they beg of us pleadingly ! thea. life on olympus suits us exceedingly. gods. life on olympus suits them exceedingly. thea. let us remain, we pray in humility!- gods. let ’em remain, they pray in humility. thea. . if we have shown some little ability. gods. if they have shown som_e little ability. let us remain, etc. jupiter. enough, your reign is ended ; upon this sacred hill let him be apprehended, and learn our awful will. away to earth, contemptible comedians, and hear our curse, before we set you free ; you shall all be eminent tragedians, whom no one ever goes to see! all. we go to earth, contemptible comedians, we hear his curse before he sets us free, we shall all he eminent tragedians, whom no one ever ever goes to see ! - .! -‘li. . . . . . | ||||| |, b ||| º: |. º \º harvard u c o l l e ge l i b r a ry __ ! shakespeareps library: a collection of the romances, nowels, poem s, and histories, us ed by s h a k e s p e a r e as the foundation of his dramas. now first collected, and accurately reprinted from the or iginal editions. with introductory notices, by j. payne collier, esq. f.s.a. wol. i. london: thomas rodd, , great n e w p or t s t r eet. . . c! a (, , º, * london : compton and r chie, print ers, middle st reet, cloth fair. pr e fa c e. the following work supplies an important defi- ciency in our literature as regards shakespeare: it brings into one view all that has been recovered of the sources he employed, in various degrees, in the composition of such of his dramas as are not derived from grecian, roman, or english history, or were not formed upon some earlier play. the romances, novels, and poems, to which he resorted are scattered over many volumes, some of them of the rarest occurrence, existing only in our public libraries: these are included in the ensuing pages. we have ventured to call the work “shakespeare's library,” since our great dramatist, in all probability, must have possessed the books to which he was indebted, and some of which he applied so directly and minutely to his own purposes. until now the ordinary reader ii preface. of shakespeare's plays has enjoyed very imperfect means of judging how far, and in what respects, our most original poet was obliged to others, and what he owed only to the exhaustless resources of his own mind. he employed the materials supplied by some of his predecessors and contemporaries merely as a great painter uses what is called a lay-figure: he borrowed the position, but invested it himself with drapery, colour, character, and senti- ment. he exceeded all art, by communicating to it life and action. it is remarkable, after all that has been written and accumulated regarding shakespeare during the last century and a half, that it should have been left to us, and to our time, to perform this under- taking, so necessary to the formation of a just esti- mate of his productions. an unsatisfactory attempt of the kind was made about a century ago, and the commentators have here and there furnished ex- tracts from most of the pieces we have reprinted; but those extracts afford no adequate opportunity of judging of the works as a whole. preface. iii the editor has had time to do little more than to afford a general superintendence, and to prepare the introductory notices: the intelligent publisher, who has devoted so much time and study to shakespearian literature, has often saved him the trouble of searching for materials in public and private depositories, and of collating the re- prints with the originals. for this part of the task, therefore, mr. rodd is responsible; and in the per- formance of it he gladly, and thankfully, acknow- ledges the ready assistance he has received from the rev. dr. bandinel, of the bodleian library, oxford, and from the rev. mr. smith, of trinity college library, cambridge. kensington, july , . shakespeare's library. vol. i. contents. greene's pandosto, the story on which is founded the winter's tale. lodge's rosalynd, the novel on which is founded as you like it. the historie of hamblet, the history on which the tragedy of hamlet is constructed. apollonius, prince of tyre, from which the incidents of the play of pericles are derived. introduction to r. g r e e n e's p and ost o. the more we become acquainted with the sources from which shakespeare derived the plots of his dramas, the more room we find to wonder at the extent, power, and variety of his genius. we cannot justly estimate his excellence with- out the knowledge which this publication, and others of a like kind by which it will be followed, are intended to furnish. those who are best informed regarding the productions of his contemporaries and rivals are most ready to admit his immeasurable superiority to all of them. he seems greater by comparison than when judged of by his own positive and separate merits; and this position will be completely esta- blished by the instance before us. robert greene was a man who possessed all the advan- tages of education: he was a graduate of both universities— he was skilled in ancient learning and in modern languages— he had, besides, a prolific imagination, a lively and elegant fancy, and a grace of expression rarely exceeded; yet let any person well acquainted with the winter's tale read the novel of “pandosto,” upon which it was founded, and he will be struck at once with the vast pre-eminence of shake- speare, and with the admirable manner in which he has converted materials supplied by another to his own use. the bare outline of the story (with the exception of shake- speare's miraculous conclusion) is nearly the same in both ; but this is all they have in common, and shakspeare may be said to have scarcely adopted a single hint for his descriptions, . ii introduction. or a line for his dialogue"; while in point of passion and sentiment greene is cold, formal, and artificial: the very op- site of every thing in shakespeare. it is fair to observe, however, that greene ceased to write not long after shakespeare had commenced his career. greene died in september , and the plausible conjecture seems to be, that by this date shakespeare had not composed any of his great works, and had probably not written any thing original for the stage prior to the year or . all the known facts regarding the life of greene may be found in the preliminary matter to the rev. mr. dyce's excellent edition of greene's poetical works. he was certainly an author in , and perhaps before that date. it is a point not hitherto touched, that there was, perhaps, an earlier im- pression of “pandosto” than any yet discovered; but it depends not upon obvious facts or inferences, but upon minute circumstances not worth detailing, and upon a close observation of the errors of the press, which, in the edition of , appear to be those which would be made by a com- positor engaged rather upon a reprint than upon a manu- * some verbal resemblances and trifling obligations have been in- cidentally pointed out by the commentators in their notes to “the winter's tale.” one of the principal instances occurs in activ, sc. , where florizel says, “the gods themselves, humbling their deities to love, have taken the shapes of beasts upon them : jupiter became a bull and bellow'd; the green neptune a ram and bleated; and the fire-rob'd god, golden apollo, a poor humble swain, as i seem now. their transformations were never for a piece of beauty rarer, nor in a way so chaste.” - “this (says malone) is taken almost literally from the novel,” when, in fact, the resemblance merely consists in the adoption by shakespeare of part of the mythological knowledge supplied by greene. “the gods above disdaine not to love women beneath. phoebus liked daphne; jupiter io; and why not i then fawnia?”—wide p. . the resemblance is any thing but literal. g * ~ *, p. st j introduction. iii script." it is a well ascertained fact, that there must have been an earlier edition of one of the same author's pieces (a “quip for an upstart courtier”) than any that has come down to us. as the means of comparison, page by page, and scene by scene, are now for the first time afforded to the modern reader, it is not necessary to point out the particular instances in which shakespeare follows or differs from his original. the variation in the conclusion has already been mentioned: nothing can well be more lame, unsatisfactory, and even offensive than the winding up of greene's novel, where he makes pandosto first fall desperately and grossly in love with his own daughter, and then, without any adequate motive, commit suicide. here the genius of shakespeare triumphed over all competition: he saw at once how the preceding incidents might be converted to a great dramatic and moral purpose, the most pathetic and the most beautiful. in other places the skill and judgment of our great drama- tist are scarcely less conspicuous: as, for instance, in the very outset of his play, where he represents polixenes (the egistus of the novel) as previously prepared to take his departure in his ships, which had only, therefore, to weigh anchor; while in greene's novel the determination of the visitor to quit the kingdom of his royal friend is sudden, and all his vessels have to be got ready on the instant. the variation in the time of the disclosure of the decision of the oracle may also be noticed as a proof of the knowledge shakespeare pos- sessed of dramatic effect. it is, nevertheless, to be admitted, that a mere prose narrative and an acting drama would re- quire different treatment. steevens correctly stated (prel. rem. to the winter's * mr. dyce (greene's works, ii, ) prints from an edition of “pandosto,” as late as a “love-passion,” addressed by dorastus to fawnia, observing that he had met with it in no earlier impression. the poem is unquestionably old, and it may possibly have been taken from the earliest, and now lost, edition of “pandosto.” iv introduction. tale) that “the parts of antigonus, paulina, and autolicus, are of shakespeare's own invention;" but he ought to have added the shepherd's son to the list, and he committed a strange blunder (which shews that he had read greene's work with very little attention), when he asserted that the leontes of shakespeare is the egistus of the novel. pandosto is leontes, and egistus is polixenes. none of the other com- mentators corrected the error, or, perhaps, were able to do so, from not having taken the trouble to go through the incidents in the original story, and to compare them with those of the play. there is one circumstance that ought not to be passed over without observation; and it will serve to strengthen the position, that the tempest was produced anterior to the winter's tale. the rev. mr. hunter, if he have not es- tablished that the tempest was written in (“disqui- sition on the scene, origin, date, &c. of the tempest,” p. ), has at all events shewn that it was written earlier than , to which year malone assigns both it and the winter's tale. (shakespeare, by boswell, ii, ). now, the reason for the opinion, that the winter's tale was posterior in composition to the tempest is this—that, in his novel of “pandosto,” greene describes the turning adrift of fawnia (the perdita of shakespeare) at sea in a boat, very much in the same manner as prospero describes what had happened to himself and miranda under similar circumstances. shake- speare having already employed this species of incident in the tempest, was obliged to vary it in the winter's tale, or he would probably have followed greene's description, which is certainly one of the prettiest and most natural portions of his narrative. shakespeare, also, without any very apparent reason, reverses the scene: his play opens in sicily, and perdita is exposed on the coast of bohemia; while greene's novel begins in bohemia, and fawnia is found by the old shepherd on the coast of sicily. bohemia is, how- ever, over and over again spoken of by greene as a maritime introduction. v country, and shakespeare, supposing he knew better, did not think it worth while to disturb the popular notion. we have the evidence of taylor, the water-poet, in his “travels to prague,” that in it was not considered a piece of very unusual ignorance in an alderman of london not to be aware that “a fleet of ships” could not arrive at a port of bohemia. “pandosto" appears to have been extraordinarily popular, and mr. dyce enumerates twelve editions: to these at least two others are to be added, with which he was not acquainted, viz. in and . no doubt several more have been lost, as we do not find it to have been reprinted between and , a period during which it would probably have been most attractive. the only known copy of the edition of is in the british museum; but it is defec- tive in one place, and we have necessarily been compelled to complete our impression from a later copy. whether the story were the invention of greene, or whether, as was not unusual with him, he adopted it from a foreign language, cannot now be ascertained; but it is not known abroad in any other form than that in which it has been received from this country. it will not be out of place to take some notice here of a production by greene, which mr. dyce had never seen, con- taining a good deal of poetry which ought to have been in- cluded in his two volumes of greene's works. it is asserted by the bookseller to have come from the pen of that prolific author; but at all events he could have had nothing to do with the title-page, which runs thus:—“greenes vision: written at the instant of his death. conteyning a penitent passion for the folly of his pen. sero sed serio. imprinted at london for thomas newman, and are to be sould at his shop in fleetestreete, in saint dunstons churchyard.” it is in to, and in black letter, but without date, though we need not hesitate in assigning it to the close of . it is autobio- graphical, which renders the tract more interesting, and in * vi introduction. the address to the readers, greene expresses deep regret that his lighter pieces had ever been published, adding, “many things i have wrote to get money, which i could otherwise wish supprest: povertie is the father of innumerable infirmi- ties.” the first poem is called “greene's ode on the wa- nitie of wanton writings,” which after six introductory lines, thus speaks of himself under the name of tytirus:— “telling in his song how faire phillis eie-browes and her haire: how her face past all supposes for white lillies and red roses. though he sounded on the hils such fond passions as love wils, that all the swaines that foulded by flockt to heare his harmonie, and vowed by pan that tytirus did poet-like his loves discusse; that men might learne mickle good by the verdict of his mood; yet old menalcas, over-ag'd, that many winters there had wag'd, sitting by and hearing this, said their wordes were all amisse,” &c. the ode is followed by a prayer full of self-reproach, and afterwards the author represents himself as lying down upon his bed, and in a vision seeing chaucer and gower, both of whom he describes in verse. the portrait of chaucer runs thus:– “his stature was not very tall; leane he was, his legs were small, hosd within a stock of red; a buttond bonnet on his head, from under which did hang, iweene, silver haires both bright and sheene. his beard was white, trimmed round, his countenance blithe and merry found. a sleevelesse jacket, large and wide, with many pleights and skirts side, i introduction. vii of water chamlet did he weare. a whittell by his belt he beare. his shoes were corned, broad before ; his inckhorne at his side he wore, and in his hand he bore a booke: thus did this auntient poet looke.” the “description of john gower” may be found extracted in “farther particulars regarding shakespeare and his works,” p. . both are curious, as they were probably derived from some then existing painting or illumination, not now known. in the course of the tract greene acknow- ledges various works, but he especially repudiates “the cobbler of canterbury," which had been falsely attributed to him. he speaks of his “never too late,” printed in , and of his “mourning garment,” as if it were then in the press; but according to mr. dyce ( , cv.) it had been printed two years before. greene’s “repentance,” the title of which is also introduced, bears date in . chaucer and gower discuss the merits and vices of greene's productions, and king solomon is called in as an umpire, who exhorts greene to abandon folly and to seek wisdom. another tract by greene, with a copy of which mr. dyce could never meet, is entitled “the royal exchange,” printed in , and dedicated to the lord mayor of that year. it is a mere prose translation from the italian, and does not contain a line of poetry, nor a word to throw farther light upon greene's history. pandosto. the triumph of time. jwherein is discopered by a pleasant historie, that although by the meanes of sinister fortune, truth may be concealed yet by time in spight of fortune if is most manifestly reuealed. pleasant for age to auoyde drowsie thoughtes, profitable for youth to eschue other wanton pastimes, and bringing to both a de- sired content. temporis filia veritas. * by robert greene, maister of artes in cambridge. omne tulit punctum qui miscuit vtile dulci. imprinted at london by thomas orwin for thomas cadman, dwelling at the signe of the bible, neere wnto the north doore of paules, . to the gentlemen readers health. the paultring poet aphranius, being blamed for troublinge the emperor trajan with so many doting poems, adventured notwithstanding stil to present him with rude and homely verses, excusing himselfe with the courtesie of the emperour, which did as friendly accept, as he fondly offerd. so, gentle- men, if any condemne my rashnesse for troubling your eares with to many unlearned pamphlets, i will straight shroud my selfe under the shadowe of your courtesies, and with aphranius lay the blame on you, as well for frendly reading them, as on my selfe for fondly penning them. hoping, though fond, curious, or rather currish backbiters breathe out slaunderous speeches, yet the courteous readers (whom i feare to offend) will requite my travell at the least with silence : and in this hope i rest, wishing you health and happines. robert greene. to the right honorable george clifford, ea r i, e of cum ber land, robert greene wisheth increase of honour and vertue. the rascians (right honorable), when by long gazing against the sunne they become halfe blinde, recover their sightes by looking on the blacke loade-stone. unicornes, being glutted with brousing on roots of licquoris, sharpen their stomacks with crushing bitter grasse. alexander vouchsafed as well to smile at the croked pic- ture of vulcan, as to wonder at the curious counterfeite of venus. the minde is sometimes delighted as much with simall trifles as with sumptuous triumphs; and as wel pleased with hearing of pans homely fancies, as of hercules re- nowmed laboures. syllie baucis coulde not serve jupiter in a silver plate, but in a woodden dish. al that honour esculapius decke not his shrine with jewels. apollo gives oracles as wel to the poor man for his mite, as to the rich man for his treasure. the stone echites is not so much liked for the colour, as for vertue, and giftes are not to be measured by the worth, but by the will. mison, that unskilfull painter of greece, adven- tured to give unto darius the shielde of pallas, so roughlie shadowed, as he smiled more at the follie of the man, then at the imperfection of his arte. so i present unto your honour the triumph of time, so rudelic finished, as i feare your honour wil rather frowne at my impudencie, then laugh at my igno- a the epistle dedicatorie. rancie: but i hope my willing minde shal excuse my slender skill, and your honours curtesie shadowe my rashnes. they which feare the biting of vipers doe carie in their hands the plumes of a phoenix. phydias drewe vulcan sitting in a chaire of ivory. caesar's crow durst never cry, ave, but when she was pearked on the capitol. and i seeke to shroude this imperfect pamphlet under your honours patronage, doubting the dint of such invenomed vipers, as seeke with their slaunderous reproches to carpe at al, being oftentimes most unlearned of all; and assure myselfe, that your honours renowmed valure, and vertuous disposition shall be a sufficient defence to protect me from the poy- soned tongues of such scorning sycophants; hoping that as jupiter vouchsafed to lodge in philemons thatched cotage, and phillip of macedon to take a bunch of grapes of a country pesant, so i hope your honour, measuring my worke by my will, and wayghing more the mind than the matter, will, when you have cast a glaunce at this toy, with minerva, under your golden target cover a deformed owle. and in this hope i rest, wishing unto you, and the vertuous coun- tesse your wife, such happy successe as your honours can desire or i imagine. your lordships most duetifully to commaunde, robert greene. the historie of dorastus and fawnia. among al the passions where with humane mindes are perplexed, there is none that so galleth with restlesse de- spight as the infectious soare of jealousie; for all other griefes are eyther to bee appeased with sensible perswasions, to be cured with wholesome counsel, to be relieved in want, or by tract of time to be worne out, (jealousie only excepted) which is so sawsed with suspitious doubtes, and pinching mistrust, that whoso seekes by friendly counsaile to rase out this hellish passion, it foorthwith suspecteth that he geveth this advise to cover his owne guiltinesse. yea, who so is payned with this restlesse torment doubteth all, dystrusteth him-selfe, is alwayes frosen with feare and fired with sus- pition, having that wherein consisteth all his joy to be the breeder of his miserie. yea, it is such a heavy enemy to that holy estate of matrimony, sowing betweene the married couples such deadly seedes of secret hatred, as love being once rased out by spightful distrust, there oft ensueth bloudy revenge, as this ensuing hystorie manifestly prooveth; where- in pandosto (furiously incensed by causelesse jealousie) pro- cured the death of his most loving and loyall wife, and his owne endlesse sorrow and misery. in the countrey of bohemia, there raygned a king called pandosto, whose fortunate successe in warres against his foes, and bountifull curtesie towardes his friendes in peace, made him to be greatly feared and loved of all men. this pan- dosto had to wife a ladie called bellaria, by birth royall, the historie of [winter's learned by education, faire by nature, by vertues famous, so that it was hard to judge whether her beautie, fortune, or vertue wanne the greatest commendations. these two, lincked together in perfect love, led their lives with such fortunate content that their subjects greatly rejoyced to see their quiet disposition. they had not beene married long, but fortune (willing to increase their happines) lent them a sonne, so adorned with the gifts of nature, as the perfection of the childe greatly augmented the love of the parentes, and the joy of their commons; in so much that the bohemians, to shewe their inward joyes by outwarde actions, made bonefires and triumphs throughout all the kingdome, appointing justes and turneyes for the honour of their young prince : whether resorted not only his nobles, but also divers kings and princes which were his neighbours, willing to shewe their friendship they ought to pandosto, and to win fame and glory by their prowesse and valour. pandosto, whose minde was fraught with princely liberality, entertayned the kings, princes, and noble men with such submisse curtesie and magnifical bounty, that they all sawe how willing he was to gratifie their good wils, making a generall feast for subjects, which continued by the space of twentie dayes; all which time the justes and turneys were kept to the great content both of the lordes and ladies there present. this solemne tryumph being once ended, the assembly, taking their leave of pandosto and bel- laria, the young sonne (who was called garinter) was nursed up in the house to the great joy and content of the parents. fortune envious of such happy successe, willing to shewe some signe of her inconstancie, turned her wheele, and dark- ned their bright sunne of prosperitie with the mistie cloudes of mishap and misery. for it so happened that egistus, king of sycilia, who in his youth had bene brought up with pandosto, desirous to shewe that neither tracte of time, nor distance of place could diminish their former friendship, pro- vided a navie of ships and sayled into bohemia to visite his old friend and companion; who hearing of his arrivall, went tale.] dorastus and fawnia. himselfe in person, and his wife bellaria accompanied with a great traine of lords and ladies, to meete egistus; and espying him, alighted from his horse, embraced him very lovingly, protesting that nothing in the world could have happened more acceptable to him then his comming, wishing his wife to welcome his olde friend and acquaintance: who (to shewe how she liked him whom her husband loved) inter- tayned him with such familiar curtesie as egistus perceived himselfe to bee verie well welcome. after they had thus saluted and embraced eche other, they mounted againe on horsbacke and rode toward the citie, devising and recount- ing howe being children they had passed their youth in friendely pastimes: where by the meanes of the citizens egistus was receyved with triumphs and shewes, in such sort that he marvelled how on so small a warning they coulde make such preparation. passing the streetes thus with such rare sightes they rode on to the pallace, where pandosto entertained egistus and his sycilians with such banqueting and sumptuous cheare, so royally as they all had cause to commend his princely liberality; yea, the verie basest slave that was knowne to come from sycilia was used with such curtesie, that egistus might easily perceive how both he and his were honored for his friendes sake. bellaria (who in her time was the flower of curtesie), willing to shew how unfaynedly shee looved her husband by his friends intertainement, used him likewise so familiarly that her countenance bewraied how her minde was affected towardes him, oftentimes comming her selfe into his bed chamber to see that nothing should be amis to mislike him. this honest familiarity increased dayly more and more betwixt them; for bellaria, noting in egistus a princely and bountifull minde, adorned with sundrie and excellent qualities, and egistus, finding in her a vertuous and curteous disposition, there grew such a secret uniting of their affections, that the one could not well be without the company of the other : in so much, that when pandosto was tale.] dorastus and fawnia. meane time pandostoes minde was so farre charged with jea- lousy, that he did no longer doubt, but was assured, (as he thought) that his friend egistus had entered a wrong pointe in his tables, and so had played him false play : whereupon, desirous to revenge so great an injury, he thought best to dissemble the grudge with a faire and friendly countenance, and so under the shape of a friend to shew him the tricke of a foe. devising with himself a long time how he might best put away egistus without suspition of treacherous mur- der, hee concluded at last to poyson him; which opinion pleasing his humour he became resolute in his determination, and the better to bring the matter to passe he called unto him his cupbearer, with whom in secret he brake the matter, promising to him for the performance thereof to geve him a thousande crownes of yearely revenues. his cupbearer, eyther being of a good conscience or will- ing for fashion sake to deny such a bloudy request, began with great reasons to perswade pandosto from his deter- minate mischief, shewing him what an offence murther was to the gods; how such unnaturall actions did more displease the heavens than men, and that causelesse cruelty did sel- dome or never escape without revenge : he layd before his face that egistus was his friend, a king, and one that was come into his kingdome to confirme a league of perpetuall amitie betwixt them; that he had and did shew him a most friendly countenance; how egistus was not onely honoured of his owne people by obedience, but also loved of the bohe- inians for his curtesie, and that if he now should without any just or manifest cause poyson him, it would not onely be a great dishonour to his majestie, and a meanes to sow perpetuall enmity between the sycilians and the bohemians, but also his owne subjects would repine at such treacherous cruelty. these and such like perswasions of franion (for so was his cupbearer called) could no whit prevaile to dis- swade him from his divellish enterprize, but remaining reso- lute in his determination (his fury so fired with rage as it the historie of [winter's could not be appeased with reason), he began with bitter taunts to take up his man, and to lay before him two baites, preferment and death; saying that if he would poyson egis- tus, he would advance him to high dignities; if he refused to doe it of an obstinate minde, no torture should be too great to requite his disobedience. franion, seeing that to perswade pandosto any more was but to strive against the streame, consented as soone as an opportunity would give him leave to dispatch egistus: wherewith pandosto re- mained somewhat satisfied, hoping now he should be fully revenged of such mistrusted injuries, intending also as soon as egistus was dead to give his wife a sop of the same sawce, and so be rid of those which were the cause of his restles sorrow. while thus he lived in this hope, franion being secret in his chamber began to meditate with himselfe in these termes. ah, franion, treason is loved of many, but the traitor hated of all: unjust offences may for a time escape without danger, but never without revenge. thou art servant to a king and must obey at command; yet, franion, against law and con- science it is not good to resist a tyrant with armes, nor to please an unjust king with obedience. what shalt thou doe? folly refused gold, and frenzie preferment: wisdome seeketh after dignity, and counsell keepeth for gaine. egis- tus is a stranger to thee, and pandosto thy soveraigne: thou has little cause to respect the one, and oughtest to have great care to obey the other. thinke this, franion, that a pound of gold is worth a tunne of lead; great gifts are little gods; and preferment to a meane man is a whetstone to courage: there is nothing sweeter then promotion, nor lighter then report. care not then though most count thee a traitor, so all call thee rich. dignity (franion) advaunceth thy posteritie, and evill report can but hurt thy selfe. know this, where eagles builde falcons may prey; where lyons haunt, foxes may steale. kings are knowne to commaund, servants are blame- lesse to consent: feare not thou then to lift at egistus; pan- tale.] dorastus and fawnia. dosto shall beare the burthen. yea but, franion, conscience is a worme that ever biteth, but never ceaseth : that which is rubbed with the stone galactites will never be hot. flesh dipped in the sea aegeum will never bee sweete: the hearbe trigion beeing once bit with an aspis never groweth, and conscience, once stained with innocent blood, is alwaies tyed to a guiltie remorse. prefer thy content before riches, and a cleare minde before dignity; so beeing poore thou shalt have rich peace, or else rich, thou shalt enjoy disquiet. franion having muttered out these or such like words, seeing either he must die with a cleare minde, or live with a spotted conscience, he was so cumbred with divers cogita- tions that hee could take no rest, untill at last he deter- mined to breake the matter to egistus; but fearing that the king should eyther suspect or heare of such matters, he con- cealed the device till opportunitie would permit him to re- veale it. lingring thus in doubtfull feare, in an evening he went to egistus lodging, and desirous to breake with him of certaine affaires that touched the king, after all were com- maunded out of the chamber, franion made manifest the whole conspiracie which pandosto had devised against him, desiring egistus not to account him a traytor for bewraying his maisters counsaile, but to thinke that he did it for con- science: hoping that although his maister, inflamed with rage or incensed by some sinister reportes or slanderous speeches, had imagined such causelesse mischiefe, yet when time should pacifie his anger, and try those talebearers but flat- tering parasites, then he would count him as a faithfull ser- uant that with such care had kept his maisters credite. egis- tus had not fully heard franion tell forth his tale, but a quak- ing feare possessed all his limmes, thinking that there was some treason wrought, and that franion did but shaddow his craft with these false colours: wherefore he began to waxe in choller, and saide that he doubted not pandosto, sith he was his friend, and there had never as yet beene any breach of amity. he had not sought to invade his lands, to conspire with his enemies, to disswade his subjects from their allege- - the historie of [[pinter's ance; but in word and thought he rested his at all times: he knew not therefore any cause that should moove pan- dosto to seeke his death, but suspected it to be a compacted knavery of the bohemians to bring the king and him to oddes. franion staying him the middst of his talke, told him that to dally with princes was with the swannes to sing against their death, and that if the bohemians had intended any such mischiefe, it might have beene better brought to passe then by revealing the conspiracie : therefore his ma- jestie did ill to misconstrue of his good meaning, sith his intent was to hinder treason, not to become a traytor; and to confirme his promises, if it pleased his majestie to fly into sicilia for the safegarde of his life, hee would goe with him, and if then he found not such a practise to be pretended, let his imagined treacherie be repayed with most monstrous tor- ments. egistus, hearing the solemne protestation of franion, beganne to consider that in love and kingdomes neither faith nor lawe is to bee respected, doubting that pandosto thought by his death to destroy his men, and with speedy warre to invade sycilia. these and such doubtes throughly weyghed he gave great thankes to franion, promising if hee might with life returne to syracusa, that he would create him a duke in sycilia, craving his counsell how hee might es- cape out of the countrie. franion, who having some small skill in navigation was well acquainted with the ports and havens, and knew every daunger in the sea, joyning in coun- sell with the maister of egistus navie, rigged all their ships, and setting them a flote, let them lie at anchor to be in the more readines when time and winde should serve. fortune, although blind, yet by chaunce favouring this just cause, sent them within six dayes a good gale of winde ; which franion seeing fit for their purpose, to put pandosto out of suspition, the night before they should sayle he went to him, and promised that the next day he would put the device in practice, for he had got such a forcible poyson, as the very smell thereof wold procure suddain death. pan- tale.] dorastus and faw nia. : dosto was joyfull to heare this good newes, and thought every houre a day till he might be glutted with bloudy revenge; but his suit had but ill successe. for egistus, fearing that delay might breede danger, and willing that the grasse should not be cut from under his feete, taking bagge and baggage, by the helpe of franion conveied himselfe and his men out at a posterne gate of the cittie, so secretly and speedily that without any suspition they got to the sea shoare; where with many a bitter curse taking their leave of bohemia, they went aboord. weighing their anchors and hoisting sayle, they passed as fast as wind and sea would permit towards sycilia, egistus being a joyfull man that he had safely past such treacherous perils. but as they were quietly floating on the sea, so pandosto and his cittizens were in an oproare; for seeing that the sycilians without taking their leave were fled away by night, the bohemians feared some treason, and the king thought that without question his suspition was true, seeing the cup-bearer had bewrayed the sum of his secret pretence. whereupon he began to imagine that franion and his wife bellaria had conspired with egistus, and that the fervent affection shee bare him was the onely meanes of his secret departure; in so much that incensed with rage he commaundes that his wife should be carried straight to prison untill they heard further of his pleasure. the guarde, un- willing to lay their hands one such a vertuous princesse and yet fearing the kings fury, went very sorrowfull to fulfill their charge. comming to the queenes lodging they found her playing with her yong sonne garinter, unto whom with teares doing the message, bellaria, astonished at such a hard cen- sure and finding her cleere conscience a sure advocate to pleade in her cause, went to the prison most willingly, where with sighes and teares shee past away the time till she might come to her triall. but pandosto, whose reason was suppressed with rage and whose unbridled follie was incensed with fury, seeing franion had bewrayed his secrets, and that egistus might well be rayled on, but not revenged, determined to wreake the historie of [winter's all his wrath on poore bellaria. he therefore caused a generall proclamation to be made through all his realme that the queene and egistus had, by the helpe of franion, not onely committed most incestuous adultery, but also had conspired the kings death; whereupon the traitor franion was fled away with egistus, and bellaria was most justly imprisoned. this proclamation being once blazed through the country, although the vertuous disposition of the queene did halfe discredit the contents, yet the suddaine and speedy passage of egistus, and the secret departure of franion, in- duced them (the circumstances throughly considered) to thinke that both the proclamation was true, and the king greatly injured: yet they pittyed her case, as sorrowful that so good a lady should be crossed with such adverse fortune. but the king, whose restlesse rage would remit no pitty, thought that although he might sufficiently requite his wives falshood with the bitter plague of pinching penury, yet his minde should never be glutted with revenge till he might have fit time and opportunity to repay the trechery of egistus with a totall in- jury. but a curst cow hath oftentimes short hornes, and a willing minde but a weake arme; for pandosto, although he felt that revenge was a spurre to warre, and that envy alwaies proffereth steele, yet he saw that egistus was not onely of great puissance and prowesse to withstand him, but had also many kings of his alliance to ayde him, if neede should serve, for he married the emperours daughter of russia. these and the like considerations something daunted pandosto his courage, so that he was content rather to put up a manifest injurie with peace, then hunt after revenge, dis- honor and losse; determining, since egistus had escaped scot-free, that bellaria should pay for all at an unreasonable price. remayning thus resolute in his determination, bellaria continuing still in prison and hearing the contents of the proclamation, knowing that her minde was never touched with such affection, nor that egistus had ever offered her such discurtesie, would gladly have come to her answere, that both tale.] dorastus and faw nia. shee might have knowne her just accusers, and cleared her selfe of that guiltlesse crime. but pandosto was so inflamed with rage and infected with jelousie, as he would not vouchsafe to heare her, nor admit any just excuse; so that shee was faine to make a vertue of her neede and with patience to beare those heavie injuries. as thus shee lay crossed with calamities (a great cause to in- crease her griefe) she founde her selfe quicke with childe, which as soone as she felt stirre in her body she burst forth into bitter teares, exclayming against fortune in these termes. alas, bellaria, how infortunate art thou, because fortunate better thou hadst beene borne a beggar then a prince, so shouldest thou have bridled fortune with want, where now shee sporteth her selfe with thy plentie. ah happy life, where poore thoughts and meane desires live in secure con- tent, not fearing fortune because too low for fortune. thou seest now, bellaria, that care is a companion to honor, not to povertie; that high cedars are crushed with tempests, when low shrubs are not touched with the winde; pretious diamonds are cut with the file, when despised pibbles lye safe in the sand. delphos is sought to by princes, not beggers, and for- tunes altars smoke with kings presents, not with poore mens gifts. happie are such, bellaria, that curse fortune for con- tempt, not feare, and may wish they were, not sorrow they have beene. thou art a princesse, bellaria, and yet a pri- soner; borne to the one by descent, assigned to the other by dispite; accused without cause, and therefore oughtest to dye without care, for patience is a shield against fortune, and a guiltlesse minde yeeldeth not to sorrow. ah, but infamy galleth unto death, and liveth after death: report is plumed with times feathers, and envie oftentimes soundeth fames trumpet: the suspected adultery shall fly in the ayre, and thy knowne vertues shall lye hid in the earth; one moale staineth the whole face, and what is once spotted with infamy can hardly be worne out with time. die then, bellaria, bellaria die; for if the gods should say thou art guiltlesse, yet envie the historie of [ winter's would heare the gods, but never beleeve the gods. ah, haplesse wretch, cease these tearmes: desperate thoughts are fit for them that feare shame, not for such as hope for credite. pandosto hath darkened thy fame, but shall never discredite thy vertues. suspition may enter a false action, but proofe shall never put in his plea: care not then for envie, sith re- port hath a blister on her tongue, and let sorrow baite them which offend, not touch thee that art faultlesse. but alas, poor soule, how canst thou but sorrow ! thou art with childe, and by him that in steed of kinde pittie pincheth thee in cold prison. and with that, such gasping sighes so stopping her breath that shee could not utter more words, but wringing her hands, and gushing forth streames of teares, shee passed away the time with bitter complaints. the jaylor, pitying those her heavie passions, thinking that if the king knew she were with childe he would somewhat appease his fury and re- lease her from prison, went in al hast and certified pandosto what the effect of bellarias complaint was ; who no sooner heard the jaylor say she was with childe, but as one pos- sessed with a phrenzie he rose up in a rage, swearing that shee and the basterd brat she was [big] withall should die if the gods themselves said no; thinking that surely by computation of time that egistus and not he was the father to the childe. this suspitious thought galled a fresh this halfe healed sore, in so much as he could take no rest untill he might mittigate his choller with a just revenge, which happened presently after. for bellaria was brought to bed of a faire and beautifull daughter, which no sooner pandosto hearde, but he determined that both bellaria and the young infant should be burnt with fire. his nobles hearing of the kings cruell sentence sought by perswasions to divert him from his bloodie determination, laying before his face innocencie of the childe, and vertuous disposition how she had continually loved and honour derly that without due proofe he coul tale.] dorastus and fawnia. to appeach her of that crime. and if she had faulted, yet it were more honourable to pardon with mercy then to punish with extremity, and more kingly to be commended of pitty than accused of rigour: and as for the childe, if he should punish it for the mothers offence, it were to strive against nature and justice; and that unnatural actions doe more offend the gods then men; how causelesse cruelty, nor innocent blood never scapes without revenge. these and such like reasons could not appease his rage, but he rested resolute in this, that bellaria being an adultresse the childe was a bastard, and he would not suffer that such an infamous brat should call him father. yet at last (seeing his noble men were importunate upon him) he was content to spare the childes life, and yet to put it to a worse death. for he found out this devise, that seeing (as he thought) it came by fortune, so he would commit it to the charge of fortune, and therefore caused a little cock-boat to be provided, wherein he meant to put the babe, and then send it to the mercies of the seas and the destenies. from this his peeres in no wise could per- swade him, but that he sent presently two of his guard to fetch the childe: who being come to the prison, and with weeping teares recounting their maisters message, bellaria no sooner heard the rigorious resolution of her mercilesse husband, but she fell downe in a swound, so that all thought she had bin dead : yet at last being come to her selfe, shee cryed and screeched out in this wise. alas, sweete infortunate babe, scarce borne, before envied by fortune! would the day of thy birth had beene the terme of thy life; then shouldest thou have made an ende to care and prevented thy fathers rigour. thy faults cannot yet de- serve such hatefull revenge; thy dayes are too short for so sharpe a doome, but thy untimely death must pay thy mothers debts, and her guiltlesse crime must bee thy gastly curse. and shalt thou, sweete babe, be committed to fortune, when thou art already spited by fortune? shall the seas be thy har- bour and the hard boate thy cradle? shall thy tender mouth, b the historie of [winter's in steede of sweete kisses, be nipped with bitter stormes : shalt thou have the whistling windes for thy lullabie, and the salt sea fome in steede of sweete milke alas, what des- tinies would assigne such hard hap! what father would be so cruell, or what gods will not revenge such rigor? let me kisse thy lippes (sweete infant) and wet thy tender cheekes with my teares, and put this chayne about thy little necke, that if fortune save thee, it may helpe to succour thee. this, since thou must goe to surge in the gastfull seas, with a sorrowfull kisse i bid thee farewell, and i pray the gods thou maist fare well. such, and so great was her griefe, that her vitall spirits being suppressed with sorrow, she fell againe downe into a trance, having her sences so sotted with care that after shee was revived yet shee lost her memorie, and lay for a great time without moving, as one in a trance. the guard left her in this perplexitie, and carried the child to the king, who quite devoide of pity commanded that without delay it should bee put in the boat, having neither saile nor other to guid it, and so to be carried into the midst of the sea, and there left to the wind and wave as the destinies please to appoint. the very ship-men, seeing the sweete countenance of the yong babe, began to accuse the king of rigor, and to pity the childs hard fortune; but feare constrayned them to that which their nature did abhorre, so that they placed it in one of the ends of the boat, and with a few greene bows made a homely cabben to shrowd it as they could from wind and weather. having thus trimmed the boat they tied it to a ship and so haled it into the mayne sea, and then cut in sunder the coarde; which they had no sooner done, but there arose a mighty tempest, which tossed the little boate so vehemently in the waves that the shipmen thought it could not continue long without sincking; yea, the storme grewe so great, that with much labour and perill they got to the shoare. but leaving the childe to her fortunes, againe to pandosto, who not yet glutted with sufficient revenge devised which way tale.] dorastus and fawnia. he should best increase his wives calamitie. but first assem- bling his nobles and counsellors, hee called her for the more reproch into open court, where it was objected against her that she had committed adulterie with egistus, and conspired with franion to poyson pandosto her husband, but their pre- tence being partely spyed, she counselled them to flie away by night for their better safety. bellaria, who standing like a prisoner at the barre, feeling in her selfe a cleare conscience to withstand her false accusers, seeing that no lesse than death could pacifie her husbands wrath, waxed bolde and desired that she might have lawe and justice, for mercy shee neyther craved nor hoped for; and that those perjured wretches which had falsely accused her to the king might be brought before her face to give in evidence. but pandosto, whose rage and jealousie was such as no reason nor equitie could appease, tolde her, that for her accusers they were of such credite as their wordes were sufficient witnesse, and that the sodaine and secret flight of egistus and franion con- firmed that which they had confessed; and as for her, it was her parte to deny such a monstrous crime, and to be impu- dent in forswearing the fact, since shee had past all shame in committing the fault: but her stale countenaunce should stand for no coyne, for as the bastard which she bare was served, so she should with some cruell death be requited. bellaria, no whit dismayed with this rough reply, tolde her husband pandosto that he spake upon choller and not con- science, for her vertuous life had beene ever such as no spot of suspicion could ever staine. and if she had borne a frendly countenaunce to egistus, it was in respect he was his friende, and not for any lusting affection; therefore, if she were condemned without any further proofe it was rigour and not law. the noble men which sate in judgement said that bellaria spake reason, and intreated the king that the accusers might be openly examined and sworne, and if then the evidence were such as the jury might finde her guilty, (for seeing b the historie of [winter's she was a prince she ought to be tryed by her peeres) then let her have such punishment as the extremitie of the law will assigne to such malefactors. the king presently made answere that in this case he might and would dispence with the law, and that the jury being once panneld they should take his word for sufficient evidence, otherwise he would make the proudest of them repent it. the noble men seeing the king in choler were all whist; but bellaria, whose life then hung in the ballaunce, fearing more perpe- tuall infamie then momentarie death, tolde the king if his furie might stand for a law that it were vaine to have the jury yeeld their verdict; and therefore she fell downe upon her knees, and desired the king that for the love he bare to his young sonne garinter, whome she brought into the world, that hee woulde graunt her a request; which was this, that it would please his majestie to send sixe of his noble men whome he best trusted to the isle of delphos, there to en- quire of the oracle of apollo whether she had committed adultery with egistus, or conspired to poyson him with fra- nion? and if the god apollo, who by his devine essence knew al secrets, gave answere that she was guiltie, she were con- tent to suffer any torment were it never so terrible. the request was so reasonable that pandosto could not for shame deny it, unlesse he would bee counted of all his subjects more wilfull than wise: he therefore agreed that with as much speede as might be there should be certaine embassadores dispatched to the ile of delphos, and in the meane season he commanded that his wife should be kept in close prison. bellaria having obtained this graunt was now more carefull for her little babe that floated on the seas then sorrowful for her owne mishap, for of that she doubted: of her selfe shee was assured, knowing if apollo should give oracle according to the thoughts of the hart, yet the sentence should goe on her side, such was the clearenes of her minde in this case. but pandosto (whose suspitious head still remained in one song) chose out six of his nobility whom hee knew were scarse tale.] dorastus and fawnia. indifferent men in the queenes behalfe, and providing all things fit for their journey sent them to delphos: they willing to fulfill the kinges commaund, and desirous to see the situation and custome of the iland, dispatched their affaires with as much speede as might be, and embarked themselves to this voyage, which (the wind and weather serving fit for their purpose) was soone ended. for within three weekes they arrived at delphos, where they were no sooner set on lande but with great devotion they went to the temple of apollo, and there offring sacrifice to the god and giftes to the priest, as the custome was, they humbly craved an aunswere of their demaund. they had not long kneeled at the altar, but apollo with a loude voice saide: bohemians, what you finde behinde the altar take and depart. they forthwith obeying the oracle founde a scroule of parchment, wherein was written these words in letters of golde,- the oracle. su pition is no proofe: jealousie is an unequall judge: bellaria is chast; egistus blamelesse : franion a true subject; pan- dosto treacherous : his babe innocent, and the king shall live without an heire, if that which is lost be not founde. as soone as they had taken out this scroule the priest of the god commaunded them that they should not presume to read it before they came in the presence of pandosto, unlesse they would incurre the displeasure of apollo. the bohe- mian lords carefully obeying his commaund, taking their leave of the priest with great reverence, departed out of the temple, and went to their ships, and as soon as wind would permit them sailed toward bohemia, whither in short time they safely arrived; and with great tryumph issuing out of their ships went to the kinges pallace, whom they found in his chamber accompanied with other noble men. pandosto no sooner saw them but with a merrie countenaunce he wel- comed them home, asking what newes? they told his ma- the historie of [winter's jestie that they had received an aunswere of the god written in a scroule, but with this charge, that they should not reade the contents before they came in the presence of the king, and with that they delivered him the parchment: but his noble men entreated him that, sith therein was contayned either the safetie of his wives life and honesty or her death and perpetuall infamy, that he would have his nobles and commons assembled in the judgment hall, where the queene, brought in as prysoner, should heare the contents. if shee were found guilty by the oracle of the god, then all should have cause to thinke his rigour proceeded of due desert: if her grace were found faultlesse, then shee should bee cleared before all, sith she had been accused openly. this pleased the king so, that he appointed the day, and assembled al his lords and commons, and caused the queene to be brought in before the judgemente seate, commaunding that the indite- ment shoulde bee read wherein she was accused of adultery with egistus and of conspiracy with franion. bellaria hear- ing the contentes was no whit astonished, but made this chearefull aunswer:— if the devine powers bee privy to humane actions (as no doubt they are) i hope my patience shall make fortune blushe, and my unspotted life shall staine spightful discredit. for although lying report hath sought to appeach mine honor, and suspition hath intended to soyle my credit with infamie, yet where vertue keepeth the forte, report and suspition may assayle, but never sack: how i have led my life before egis- tus comming, i appeale, pandosto, to the gods and to thy con- science. what hath passed betwixt him and me, the gods onely know, and i hope will presently reveale: that i loved egistus i can not denie; that i honored him i shame not to confesse: to the one i was forced by his vertues, to the other for his dignities. but as touching lascivious lust, i say egis- tus is honest, and hope my selfe to be found without spot: for franion, i can neither accuse him nor excuse him, for i was tale.] dorastus and fawnia, not privie to his departure; and that this is true which i have heere rehearsed i referre myself to the devine oracle. bellaria had no sooner sayd but the king commaunded that one of his dukes should reade the contentes of the scroule, which after the commons had heard they gave a great showt rejoysing and clapping their hands that the queene was cleare of that false accusation. but the king, whose conscience was a witnesse against him of his witlesse furie and false sus- pected jealousie, was so ashamed of his rashe folly that he entreated his nobles to perswade bellaria to forgive and for- get these injuries; promising not onely to shew himselfe a loyall and loving husband, but also to reconcile himselfe to egistus and franion; revealing then before them all the cause of their secrete flighte, and how treacherously hee thought to have practised his death, if the good minde of his cupbearer had not prevented his purpose. as thus he was relating the whole matter, there was worde brought him that his young sonne garinter was sodainly dead, which newes so soone as bellaria heard, surcharged before with ex- treame joy and now suppressed with heavie sorrowe, her vitall spirites were so stopped that she fell downe presently dead, and could never be revived. this sodaine sight so appalled the kingessences, that he sanck from his seate in a sound, so as he was fayne to be carried by his nobles to his pallace, where hee lay by the space of three dayes without speache. his commons were, as men in dispaire, diversly distressed: there was nothing but mourning and lamentation to be heard throughout al bohemia: their young prince dead, their vertuous queene bereaved of her life, and their king and soveraigne in great hazard. this tragicall discourse of fortune so daunted them, as they went like shadowes, not men; yet somewhat to comfort their heavie hearts, they heard that pandosto was come to himselfe, and had recovered his speache, who as in a fury brayed out these bitter speaches: o miserable pandosto! what surer witnesse then conscience the historie of [winter's what thoughts more sower then suspition? what plague more bad then jealousie! unnaturall actions offend the gods more than men, and causelesse crueltie never scapes without re- venge. i have committed such a bloudy fact, as repent i may, but recall i cannot. ah, jealousie! a hell to the minde, and a horror to the conscience, suppressing reason, and inciting rage; a worse passion than phrensie, a greater plague than mad- nesse. are the gods just then let them revenge such brutishe crueltie. my innocent babe i have drowned in the seas; my loving wife i have slaine with slaunderous suspi- tion; my trusty friend i have sought to betray, and yet the gods are slack to plague such offences. ah, unjust apollo' pandosto is the man that hath committed the faulte, why should garinter, seely childe, abide the paine ! well, sith the gods meane to prolong my dayes to increase my dolour, i will offer my guiltie bloud a sacrifice to those sackles soules whose lives are lost by my rigorous folly. and with that he reached at a rapier to have murdered himselfe, but his peeres being present stayed him from such a bloudy acte, perswading him to think that the common- wealth consisted on his safetie, and that those sheepe could not but perish that wanted a sheepheard; wishing that if hee would not live for himselfe, yet he should have care of his sub- jects, and to put such fancies out of his minde, sith in sores past help salves doe not heale but hurt, and in thinges past cure, care is a corrosive. with these and such like per- swasions the kinge was overcome, and began somewhat to quiet his minde; so that as soone as he could goe abroad hee caused his wife to bee embalmed, and wrapt in lead with her young sonne garinter; erecting a rich and famous sepul- chre wherein hee intombed them both, making such solemme obsequies at her funeral as al bohemia might perceive he did greatly repent him of his forepassed folly; causing this epi- taph to be ingraven on her tombe in letters of golde — tale.] dorastus and faw nia. t the epitaph. here lyes entombde bellaria faire, falsly accu sed to be un chaste : cleared by apollos sacred doome, yet slaine by jealo usie at last. what ere thou be that pass est by, cursse him that causde this queene to die. this epitaph being ingraven, pandosto would once a day repaire to the tombe, and there with watry plaintes bewaile his misfortune, coveting no other companion but sorrowe, nor no other harmonie but repentance. but leaving him to his dolorous passions, at last let us come to shewe the tragicall discourse of the young infant. who beeing tossed with winde and wave floated two whole daies without succour, readie at every puffe to bee drowned in the sea, till at last the tempest ceassed and the little boate was driven with the tyde into the coast of sycilia, where sticking uppon the sandes it rested. fortune minding to be wanton, willing to shewe that as she hath wrinckles on her browes so shee hath dimples in her cheekes, thought after so many sower lookes to lend a fayned smile, and after a puffing storme to bring a pretty calme, shee began thus to dally. it fortuned a poore mercenary sheepheard that dwelled in sycilia, who got his living by other mens flockes, missed one of his sheepe, and thinking it had strayed into the co- vert that was hard by, sought very diligently to find that which he could not see, fearing either that the wolves or eagles had undone him (for he was so poore as a sheepe was halfe his substaunce), wandered downe toward the sea cliffes to see if perchaunce the sheepe was browsing on the sea ivy, whereon they greatly doe feede; but not finding her there, as he was ready to returne to his flocke hee heard a child crie, but knowing there was no house nere, he thought he had mistaken the sound and that it was the bleatyng of his sheepe. wherefore looking more narrowely, as he cast his eye to the sea he spyed a little boate, from whence, as he the historie of [winter's attentively listened, he might heare the cry to come. stand- ing a good while in a maze, at last he went to the shoare, and wading to the boate, as he looked in he saw the little babe lying al alone ready to die for hunger and colde, wrap- ped in a mantle of scarlet richely imbrodered with golde, and having a chayne about the necke. the sheepeheard, who before had never seene so faire a babe nor so riche jewels, thought assuredly that it was some little god, and began with great devocion to knock on his breast. the babe, who wrythed with the head to seeke for the pap, began againe to cry a fresh, whereby the poore man knew that it was a childe, which by some sinister meanes was driven thither by distresse of weather; marvailing how such a seely infant, which by the mantle and the chayne could not be but borne of noble parentage, should be so hardly crossed with deadly mishap. the poore sheepheard, perplex- ed thus with divers thoughts, tooke pitty of the childe, and determined with himselfe to carry it to the king, that there it might be brought up according to the worthinesse of.birth, for his ability could not afforde to foster it, though his good minde was willing to further it. taking therefore the chylde in his armes, as he foulded the mantle together the better to defende it from colde there fell downe at his foote a very faire and riche purse, wherein he founde a great summe of golde; which sight so revived the shepheard's spirits, as he was greatly ravished with joy and daunted with feare; joyful to see such a summe in his power, and feareful if it should be knowne that it might breede his further daunger. neces- sitie wisht him at the least to retaine the golde, though he would not keepe the childe: the simplicity of his conscience scared him from such deceiptfull briberie. thus was the poore manne perplexed with a doubtfull dilemma untill at last the covetousnesse of the coyne overcame him; for what will not the greedy desire of golde cause a man to doe! so that he was resolved in himselfe to foster the childe, and with the summe to relieve his want. resting thus resolute in this tale.] dorastus and fawnia. point he left seeking of his sheepe, and as covertly and secretly as he coulde, went by a by way to his house, least any of his neighbours should perceave his carriage. as soone as he was got home, entring in at the doore, the childe began to crie, which his wife hearing, and seeing her husband with a yong babe in his armes, began to bee somewhat jealousse, yet marveiling that her husband should be so wanton abroad sith he was so quiet at home: but as women are naturally given to beleeve the worste, so his wife, thinking it was some bastard, beganne to crow against her goodman, and taking up a cudgel (for the most maister went breechles) sware solemnly that she would make clubs trumps if hee brought any bastard brat within her dores. the goodman, seeing his wife in her majestie with her mace in her hand, thought it was time to bowe for feare of blowes, and desired her to be quiet, for there was non such matter; but if she could holde her peace they were made for ever: and with that he told her the whole matter, how he had found the child in a little boat, without any succour, wrapped in that costly mantle, and having that rich chaine about the neck. but at last, when he shewed her the purse full of gold, she began to simper something sweetely, and, taking her husband about the neck kissed him after her homely fashion, saying that she hoped god had seene their want and now ment to relieeve their poverty, and seeing they could get no chil- dren, had sent them this little babe to be their heire. take heed in any case, (quoth the shepherd) that you be secret, and blabbe it not out when you meete with your gossippes, for if you doe, we are like not only to loose the golde and jewels, but our other goodes and lives. tush (quoth his wife), profit is a good hatch before the doore: feare not, i have other thinges to talke of than this; but i pray you let us lay up the money surely, and the jewels, least by any mishap it be spied. after that they had set all things in order the shepheard went to his sheepe with a merry note, and the good wife learned to sing lullaby at home with her yong babe, wrap- the historie of [winter's ping it in a homely blanket in sted of a rich mantle; nourishing it so clenly and carefully as it began to bee a jolly girle, in so much that they began both of them to be very fond of it, seeing as it waxed in age so it increased in beauty. the shepheard every night at his comming home would sing and daunce it on his knee and prattle, that in a short time it began to speake, and call him dad, and her mam: at last when it grew to ripe yeeres that it was about seven yeares olde, the shepheard left keeping of other mens sheepe, and with the money he found in the purse he bought him the lease of a pretty farme, and got a smal flocke of sheepe, which when fawnia (for so they named the child) came to the age of ten yeres hee set her to keepe, and shee with such diligence performed her charge as the sheepe prospered marveilously under her hand. fawnia thought porrus had ben her father, and mopsa her mother, (for so was the shep- heard and his wife called) honoured and obeyed them with such reverence that all the neighbours praised the duetifull obedience of the child. porrus grewe in a short time to bee a man of some wealth and credite, for fortune so favoured him in having no charge but fawnia, that he began to pur- chase land, intending after his death to give it to his daughter, so that divers rich farmers sonnes came as wooers to his house. for fawnia was something clenly attired, being of such singular beautie and excellent witte, that whoso saw her would have thought shee had bene some heavenly nymph and not a mortal creature, in so much that when she came to the age of sixteene yeeres shee so increased with exquisite perfection both of body and minde, as her natural disposition did bewray that she was borne of some high parentage; but the people thinking she was daughter to the shephard porrus rested only amazed at her beauty and wit; yea, she won such favour and commendations in every mans eye, as her beautie was not onely praysed in the countrey, but also spoken of in the court; yet such was her submisse modestie, that although her praise daily increased, her minde was no whit puffed up with pride, but humbled her selfe as became tale.] dorastus and fawnia. a country mayde and the daughter of a poore sheepheard. every day she went forth with her sheepe to the field, keep- ing them with such care and diligence as al men thought she was verie painfull, defending her face from the heat of the sunne with no other vale but with a garland made of bowes and flowers, which attire became her so gallantly as shee seemed to bee the goddesse flora her selfe for beauty. fortune, who al this while had shewed a frendly face, began now to turne her back and to shew a lowring countenaunce, intending as she had given fawnia a slender checke, so she would give her a harder mate; to bring which to passe, she layd her traine on this wise. egistus had but one only son, called dorastus, about the age of twenty yeeres; a prince so decked and adorned with the gifts of nature, so fraught with beauty and vertuous qualities, as not onely his father joyed to have so good a sonne, and al his commons rejoyced that god had lent them such a noble prince to succeede in the kingdom. egistus placing al his joy in the perfection of his sonne, seeing that hee was now marriageable, sent embassadors to the king of denmarke to intreate a mariage betweene him and his daughter, who willingly consenting made answer that the next spring, if it please egistus with his sonne to come into denmarke, hee doubted not but they should agree upon reasonable conditions. egistus resting satisfied with this friendly answer thought convenient in the meane time to breake with his sonne: finding therefore on a day fit opportunity, he spake to him in these fatherly tearmes:— dorastus, thy youth warneth me to prevent the worst, and mine age to provide the best. oportunities neglected are signes of folly: actions measured by time are seldome bitten with repentance. thou art young, and i olde; age hath taught me that which thy youth cannot yet conceive. i therefore will counsell thee as a father, hoping thou wilt obey as a childe. thou seest my white hayres are blossomes for the grave, and thy freshe colour fruite for time and fortune, so that it behooveth me to thinke how to dye, and for thee to the historie of [winter's care how to live. my crowne i must leave by death, and thou enjoy my kingdome by succession, wherein i hope thy vertue and prowesse shall bee such, as though my subjectes want my person, yet they shall see in thee my perfection. that nothing either may faile to satisfie thy minde, or increase thy dignities, the onely care i have is to see thee well marryed before i die and thou become olde. dorastus, who from his infancy delighted rather to die with mars in the fielde then to dally with venus in the chamber, fearing to displease his father, and yet not willing to be wed, made him this reuerent answere. sir, there is no greater bond then duetie, nor no straiter law then nature: disobedience in youth is often galled with despight in age. the commaund of the father ought to be a constraint to the childe: so parentes willes are laws, so they passe not all laws. may it please your grace therefore to appoint whome i shall love, rather then by deniall i should be appeached of disobedience. i rest content to love, though it bee the only thing i hate. egistus hearing his sonne to flie so farre from the marke began to be somewhat chollericke, and therefore made him this hastie aunswere. * what, dorastus, canst thou not love? commeth this cynicall passion of prone desires or peevish frowardnesse what durst thou thinke thy selfe to good for all, or none good inough for thee! i tel thee, dorastus, there is nothing sweeter then youth, nor swifter decreasing while it is increasing. time past with folly may bee repented, but not recalled. if thou marrie in age, thy wives freshe couloures will breed in thee dead thoughtes and suspition, and thy white hayres her lothesom- nesse and sorrowe; for venus affections are not fed with kingdomes, or treasures, but with youthfull conceits and sweet amours. vulcan was allotted to shake the tree, but mars allowed to reape the fruit. yeelde, dorastus, to thy fathers perswasions, which may prevent thy perils. i have chosen thee a wife, faire by nature, royall by birth, by vertues famous, tale.] dorastus and fawnia. learned by education and rich by possessions, so that it is hard to judge whether her bounty or fortune, her beauty or vertue bee of greater force. i mean, dorastus, euphrania, daughter and heire to the king of denmarke. egistus pausing here a while, looking when his son should make him answere, and seeing that he stoode still as one in a trance, he shooke him up thus sharply. well, dorastus, take heede; the tree alpya wasteth not with fire, but withereth with the dewe: that which love nourisheth not, perisheth with hate. if thou like euphrania, thou breedest my content, and in loving her thou shalt have my love; otherwise and with that hee flung from his sonne in a rage, leaving him a sorrowfull man, in that he had by deniall displeased his father, and halfe angrie with him selfe that hee could not yeeld to that passion whereto both reason and his father perswaded him. but see how fortune is plumed with times feathers, and how shee can minister strange causes to breede straunge effectes. it happened not long after this that there was a meeting of all the farmers daughters in sycilia, whither fawnia was also bidden as the mistres of the feast, who having attired her selfe in her best garments, went among the rest of her companions to the merry meeting, there spending the day in such homely pastimes as shepheards use. as the evening grew on and their sportes ceased, ech taking their leave at other, fawnia, desiring one of her companions to beare her companie, went home by the flocke to see if they were well folded, and as they returned it fortuned that dorastus (who all that daye had bene hawking, and kilde store of game) incountred by the way these two mayds, and casting his eye sodenly on fawnia he was halfe afraid, fearing that with acteon he had seene diana; for he thought such exquisite per- ſection could not be founde in any mortall creature. as thus he stoode in a maze one of his pages told him that the maide with the garland on her head was fawnia, the faire shepheard whose beauty was so much talked of in the court, dorastus, the historie of [winter's desirous to see if nature had adorned her minde with any inward qualities, as she had decked her body with outward shape, began to question with her whose daughter she was, of what age, and how she had bin trained up ! who answered him with such modest reverence and sharpnesse of witte, that dorastus thought her outward beautie was but a counterfait to darken her inward qualities, wondring how so courtly beha- viour could be found in so simple a cottage, and cursing fortune that had shadowed wit and beauty with such hard fortune. as thus he held her a long while with chat, beauty seeing him at discovert thought not to lose the vantage, but strooke him so deepely with an invenomed shafte, as he wholy lost his libertie, and became a slave to love, which before con- temned love, glad now to gaze on a poore shepheard, who before refused the offer of a riche princesse; for the perfection of fawnia had so fired his fancie as he felt his minde greatly chaunged, and his affections altered, cursing love that had wrought such a chaunge, and blaming the basenesse of his mind that would make such a choice; but thinking that these were but passionat toies that might be thrust out at pleasure, to avoid the syren that inchaunted him he put spurs to his horse, and bad this faire shepheard farwell. fawnia (who all this while had marked the princely gesture of dorastus) seeing his face so wel featured, and each lim so perfectly framed, began greatly to praise his perfection, com- mending him so long till she found her selfe faultie, and per- ceived that if she waded but a little further she might slippe over her shooes: shee therefore, seeking to quench that fier which never was put out, went home and faining her selfe not well at ease got her to bed; where casting a thousand thoughts in her head she could take no rest: for if she waked, she began to call to minde his beautie, and thinking to beguile such thoughts with sleepe, she then dreamed of his perfection. pestered thus with these unacquainted passions, she passed the night as she could in short slumbers. dorastus (who all this while rode with a flea in his eare) tale.] dorastus and faw nia. could not by any meanes forget the sweete favour of fawnia, but rested so bewitched with her wit and beauty, as hee could take no rest. he felt fancy to give the assault, and his wounded mind readie to yeeld as vanquished: yet he began with divers considerations to suppresse this frantick affection, calling to minde that fawnia was a shepheard, one not worthy to be looked at of a prince, much lesse to bee loved of such a potentate; thinking what a discredite it were to himselfe, and what a griefe it would be to his father, blaming fortune and accusing his owne follie that should bee so fond as but once to cast a glaunce at such a country slut. as thus he was raging against him selfe, love fearing if she dallied long to loose her champion, stept more nigh, and gave him such a a fresh wounde as it pearst him at the heart, that he was faine to yeeld, maugre his face, and to forsake the companie and gette him to his chamber, where being solemnly set hee burst into these passionate tearmes. ah, dorastus, art thou alone " no not alone, while thou art tired with these unacquainted passions. yeld to fancy thou canst not by thy fathers counsaile, but in a frenzie thou art by just destinies. thy father were content if thou couldest love, and thou therefore discontent because thou doest love. o, devine love! feared of men because honoured of the gods, not to be suppressed by wisdome, because not to be compre- hended by reason; without lawe, and therefore above all law. how now, dorastus! why doest thou blaze that with praises, which thou hast cause to blaspheme with curses? yet why should they curse love that are in love? blush, dorastus, at thy fortune, thy choice, thy love: thy thoughts cannot be uttered without shame, nor thy affections without discredit. ah fawnia, sweete fawnia, thy beauty fawnia! shamest not thou, dorastus, to name one unfitte for thy birth, thy digni- ties, thy kingdomes? dye, dorastus, dorastus die. better hadst thou perish with high desires, then live in base thoughts. yea, but beautie must be obeyed because it is beauty, yet framed of the gods to feede the eye, not to fetter the heart. c the historie of [winter's ah, but he that striveth against love, shooteth with them of scyrum against the winde, and with the cockeatrice peck- eth against the steele. i will therefore obey, because i must obey. fawnia, yea fawnia shall be my fortune in spight of fortune. the gods above disdain not to love women beneath. phoebus liked sibilla, jupiter io, and why not i then fawnia? one something inferiour to these in birth, but farre superiour to them in beautie, borne to be a shepheard, but worthy to be a goddesse. ah, dorastus, wilt thou so forget thy selfe as to suffer affection to suppresse wisdome, and love to violate thine honour ! how sower will thy choice be to thy father, sorrowfull to thy subjects, to thy friends a griefe, most gladsome to thy foes! subdue then thy affections, and cease to love her whome thou couldst not love unlesse blinded with too much love. tushe, italke to the wind, and in seeking to prevent the causes i further the effectes. i will yet praise fawnia; honour, yea, and love fawnia, and at this day followe content, not counsaile. doo, dorastus: thou canst but repent. and with that his page came into the chamber, whereupon hee ceased from his complaints, hoping that time would weare out that which fortune had wrought. as thus he was pained, so poore fawnia was diversly perplexed; for the next morn- ing getting up very earely shee went to her sheepe, think- ing with hard labours to passe away her new conceived amours, beginning very busily to drive them to the field, and then to shifte the foldes. at last, (wearied with toile) she sate her down, where (poore soule) she was more tryed with fond affec- tions; for love beganne to assault her, in so much that as she sate upon the side of a hill she began to accuse her owne folly in these tearmes. infortunate fawnia, and therefore infortunate because fawnia! thy shepherds hooke sheweth thy poore state, thy proud desires an aspiring mind: the one declareth thy want, the other thy pride. no bastard hauke must soare so hie as the hobbie, no fowle gaze against the sunne but the eagle: actions wrought against nature reape despight, and thoughts tale.] dorastus and faw nia. above fortune disdaine. fawnia, thou art a shepheard, daughter to poore porrus: if thou rest content with this thou art like to stande; if thou climbe thou art sure to fal. the herb anita growing higher then sixe ynches becommeth a weede. nylus flowing more then twelve cubits procureth a dearth. daring affections that passe measure are cut shorte by time or fortune: suppresse then, fawnia, those thoughts which thou mayest shame to expresse. but ah, fawnia, love is a lord who will commaund by power, and constraine by force. dorastus, ah, dorastus is the man i love! the woorse is thy hap, and the lesse cause hast thou to hope. will eagles catch at flyes! will cedars stoupe to brambles, or mighty princes looke at such homely trulles! no, no; thinke this: dorastus disdaine is greater then thy desire; hee is a prince respecting his honour, thou a beggars brat forgetting thy calling. cease then not onely to say, but to thinke to love dorastus, and dis- semble thy love, fawnia; for better it were to dye with griefe, then to live with shame. yet in despight of love i will sigh, to see if i can sigh out love. fawnia somewhat appeasing her griefes with these pithie perswasions began, after her wonted maner, to walke about her sheepe, and to keepe them from straying into the corne, suppressing her affection with the due consideration of her base estate, and with the impossibilities of her love; thinking it were frenzy, not fancy, to covet that which the very destinies did deny her to obteine. but dorastus was more impatient in his passions, for love so fiercely assayled him, that neither companie nor musicke could mitigate his martirdome, but did rather far the more increase his maladie : shame would not let him crave counsaile in this case, nor feare of his fathers displeasure reveyle it to any secrete friend; but he was faine to make a secretarie of himselfe, and to participate his thoughtes with his owne troubled mind. lingring thus awhile in doubtfull suspence, at last stealing secretely from the court without either men or page, hee went to see if hee could espie fawnia walking c tale.] dorastus and fawnia. of pan and his cuntrey prankes, as ladies to tell of venus and her wanton toyes. our toyle is in shifting the fouldes and looking to the lambes, easie labours: oft singing and telling tales, homely pleasures: our greatest welth not to covet, our honor not to climbe, our quiet not to care. envie looketh not so lowe as shepheards: shepheards gaze not so high as ambition. we are rich in that we are poore with content, and proud only in this, that we have no cause to be proud. this wittie aunswer of fawnia so inflamed dorastus fancy, as he commended him selfe for making so good a choyce, think- ing if herbirth were aunswerable to her wit and beauty, that she were a fitte mate for the most famous prince in the worlde. he therefore beganne to siſte her more narrowely on this manner. fawnia, i see thou art content with country labours, because thou knowest not courtly pleasures. i commend thy wit, and pitty thy want; but wilt thou leave thy fathers cottage and serve a courtlie mistresse ! sir (quoth she) beggers ought not to strive against fortune, nor to gaze after honour, least either their fall be greater, or they become blinde. i am borne to toile for the court, not in the court, my nature unfit for their nurture: better live, then, in meane degree, than in high disdaine. well saide, fawnia (quoth dorastus): i gesse at thy thoughtes; thou art in love with some countrey shephearde. no, sir (quoth she): shepheards cannot love that are so simple, and maides may not love that are so young. nay, therefore (quoth dorastus) maides must love because they are young; for cupid is a child, and venus, though olde, is painted with fresh coloures. i graunt (quoth she) age may be painted with new shadowes, and youth may have imperfect affections; but what arte con- cealeth in one, ignorance revealeth in the other. dorastus seeing fawnia helde him so harde, thought it was vaine so long to beate about the bush; therefore he thought to have given her a fresh charge, but he was so prevented by certaine of his men, who missing their maister came poffing to seeke s the historie of | winter's him, seeing that he was gone foorth all alone: yet before they drewe so nie that they might heare their talke, he used these speeches. why, fawnia, perhappes i love thee, and then thou must needes yeelde, for thou knowest i can commaunde and con- straine. trueth, sir, (quoth she) but not to love; for con- strained love is force, not love: and know this, sir, mine honesty is such, as i hadde rather dye then be a concubine even to a king, and my birth is so base as i am unfitte to bee a wife to a poore farmer. why then (quoth he) thou canst not love dorastus. yes, saide fawnia, when dorastus becomes a shepheard. and with that the presence of his men broke off their parle, so that he wente with them to the palace and left fawnia sitting still on the hill side, who, seeing that the night drewe on, shifted her fouldes, and busied her selfe about other worke to drive away such fond fancies as began to trouble her braine. but all this could not prevaile; for the beautie of dorastus had made such a deepe impression in her heart, as it could not be worne out without cracking, so that she was forced to blame her owne folly in this wise. ah, fawnia, why doest thou gaze against the sunne, or catch at the winde starres are to be looked at with the eye, not reacht at with the hande: thoughts are to be measured by fortunes, not by desires: falles come not by sitting low, but by climing too hie. what then, shal al feare to fal because some happe to fall! no, lucke commeth by lot, and fortune windeth those threedes which the destinies spin. thou art favored, fawnia, of a prince, and yet thou art so fond to reject desired favours: thou hast deniall at thy tonges end, and desire at thy hearts bottome; a womans fault to spurne at that with her foote, which she greedily catcheth at with her hand. thou lovest dorastus, fawnia, and yet seemest to lower. take heede: if hee retire thou wilt repent; for unles hee love, thou canst but dye. dye then, fawnia, for dorastus doth but jest: the lyon never prayeth on the mouse, nor faul- cons stoupe not to dead stales. sit downe then in sorrow, tale.] dorastus and fawnia. ceasse to love and content thy selfe that dorastus will vouch- safe to flatter fawnia, though not to fancy fawnia. heigh ho! ah, foole, it were seemelier for thee to whistle as a shepheard, then to sigh as a lover. and with that she ceassed from these perplexed passions, folding her sheepe and hying home to her poore cottage. * but such was the incessant sorrow of dorastus to thinke on the witte and beautie of fawnia, and to see how fond hee was being a prince, and how forward she was being a beg- gar, that he began to loose his wonted appetite, to looke pale and wan; instead of mirth, to feede on melancholy, for courtly daunces to use cold dumpes; in so much that not onely his owne men, but his father and all the court began to mar- vaile at his sudden change, thinking that some lingring sick- nes had brought him into this state. wherefore he caused phisitions to come, but dorastus neither would let them mi- nister, nor so much as suffer them to see his urine; but remained stil so oppressed with these passions, as he feared in himselfe a farther inconvenience. his honor wished him to ceasse from such folly, but love forced him to follow fancy. yea, and in despight of honour, love wonne the conquest, so that his hot desires caused him to find new devises; for hee presently made himselfe a shepheards coate, that he might goe unknowne and with the lesse suspition to prattle with fawnia, and conveied it secretly into a thick grove hard joyning to the pallace, whether finding fit time and oportu- nity he went all alone, and putting off his princely apparel got on those shepheards roabes, and taking a great hooke in his hand (which he had also gotten) he went very anciently to finde out the mistres of his affection. but as he went by the way, seeing himselfe clad in such unseemely ragges, he began to smile at his owne folly and to reprove his fondnesse in these tearmes. well, said dorastus, thou keepest a right decorum; base desires and homely attires: thy thoughtes are fit for none but a shepheard, and thy apparell such as only becomes a shepheard. a strang change from a prince to a pesant! what, the historie of [winter's is it thy wretched fortune or thy wilful folly! is it thy cursed destinies, or thy crooked desires, that appointeth thee this penance ah, dorastus, thou canst but love; and unlesse thou love, thou art like to perish for love. yet, fond foole, choose flowers, not weedes; diamondes, not peables; ladies which may honor thee, not shepheards which may disgrace thee. venus is painted in silkes, not in ragges; and cupid treadeth on disdaine, when he reacheth at dignitie. and yet, dorastus, shame not at thy shepheards weede. the heavenly godes have sometime earthly thoughtes. neptune became a ram, jupiter a bul, apollo a shepheard : they gods, and yet in love; and thou a man appointed to love. devising thus with himselfe hee drew nigh to the place where fawnia was keeping her shepe, who casting her eye aside and seeing such a manerly shepheard, perfectly limmed and comming with so good a pace, she began halfe to forget dorastus and to favor this prety shepheard, whom she thought shee might both love and obtaine. but as shee was in these thoughts, she perceived then that it was the yong prince dorastus, wherefore she rose up and reverently sa- luted him. dorastus taking her by the hand repaied her curtesie with a sweete kisse, and praying her to sit downe by him, he began thus to lay the batterie. if thou marvell fawnia at my strange attyre, thou wouldest more muse at my unaccustomed thoughtes: the one disgraceth but my outward shape, the other disturbeth my inward sences. i love, fawnia, and therefore what love liketh i cannot mislike. fawnia, thou hast promised to love, and i hope thou wilt performe no lesse. i have fulfilled thy request, and now thou canst but graunt my desire. thou wert content to love dorastus when he ceast to be a prince and to become a shepheard, and see i have made the change, and therefore not to misse of my choice. trueth, quoth fawnia, but all that wear cooles are not monkes: painted eagles are pictures, not eagles. zeusis grapes were like grapes, yet shadowes: rich clothing make not princes, nor homely attyre beggers: shepheards are not tale.] dorastus and fawnia. called shepheardes because they were hookes and bagges, but that they are borne poore and live to keepe sheepe; so this attire hath not made dorastus a shepherd, but to seeme like a shepherd. well, fawnia, answered dorastus, were i a shepherd, i could not but like thee, and being a prince i am forst to love thee. take heed, fawnia: be not proud of beauties painting, for it is a flower that fadeth in the blossome. those which disdayne in youth are despised in age. beauties shadowes are tricked up with times colours, which being set to drie in the sunne are stained with the sunne, scarce pleasing the sight ere they beginne not to be worth the sight; not much unlike the herbe ephemeron, which flourisheth in the morning and is withered before the sunne setting. if my desire were against lawe, thou mightest justly deny me by reason; but i love thee, fawnia, not to misuse thee as a concubine, but to use thee as my wife. i can promise no more, and meane to performe no lesse. fawnia hearing this solemne protestation of dorastus could no longer withstand the assault, but yeelded up the forte in these friendly tearmes. ah, dorastus, i shame to expresse that thou forcest me with thy sugred speeche to confesse: my base birth causeth the one, and thy high dignities the other. beggars thoughts ought not to reach so far as kings, and yet my desires reach as high as princes. i dare not say, dorastus, i love thee, because i am a shepherd; but the gods know i have honored dorastus (pardon if i say amisse), yea, and loved dorastus with such dutiful affection as fawnia can performe, or do- rastus desire. i yeeld, not overcome with prayers but with love, resting dorastus handmaid ready to obey his wil, if no prejudice at all to his honour, nor to my credit. dorastus hearing this freendly conclusion of fawnia em- braced her in his armes, swearing that neither distance, time, nor adverse fortune, should diminish his affection; but that in despight of the destinies he would remaine loyall unto death. having thus plight their troath each to other, seeing the historie of [winter's they could not have the full fruition of their love in sycilia, for that egistus consent woulde never beegraunted to so meane a match, dorastus determined, as sone as time and oportunitie would give them leave, to provide a great masse of money, and many rich and costly jewels for the easier cariage, and then to transporte themselves and their treasure into italy, where they should leade a contented life, until such time as either he could be reconciled to his father, or els by suces- sion come to the kingdome. this devise was greatly praysed of fawnia, for she feared if the king his father should but heare of the contract, that his furie would be such as no lesse then death would stand for payment. she therefore tould him that delay bred daunger; that many mishaps did fall out be- tweene the cup and the lip; and that to avoid danger, it were best with as much speed as might be to passe out of sycilia, least fortune might prevent their pretence with some newe despight. dorastus, whom love pricked forward with desire, promised to dispatch his affaires with as great hast as either time or oportunitie would geve him leave, and so resting upon this point, after many imbracings and sweete kisses, they departed. dorastus having taken his leave of his best beloved fawnia went to the grove where hee had his rich apparel, and there uncasing himself as secretly as might be, hiding up his shepheards attire till occasion should serve againe to use it, he went to the pallace, shewing by his merrie coun- tenaunce that either the state of his body was amended, or the case of his minde greatly redressed. fawnia, poore sowle, was no lesse joyful, that being a shepheard, fortune had favoured her so as to reward her with the love of a prince, hoping in time to be advaunced from the daughter of a poore farmer to be the wife of a riche king; so that she thought every houre a yeere, till by their departure they might prevent danger, not ceasing still to goe every daye to her sheepe, not so much for the care of her flock, as for the desire she had to see her love and lord, dorastus, who often- times, when oportunitie would serve, repaired thither to feede tale.] dorastus and fawnia. his fancy with the sweet content of fawnias presence. and although he never went to visit her but in his shepheards ragges, yet his ofte repaire made him not onely suspected, but knowne to divers of their neighbours; who for the good will they bare to old porrus tould him secretly of the matter, wishing him to keepe his daughter at home, least she went so ofte to the field that shee brought him home a yong sonne, for they feared that fawnia, being so beautifull, the yong prince would allure her to folly. porrus was striken into a dump at these newes, so that thanking his neighboures for their good will, he hyed him home to his wife, and calling her aside, wringing his handes and shedding forth teares, he brake the matter to her in these tearmes. i am afraid, wife, that my daughter fawnia hath made her selfe so fine, that she will buy repentance too deare. i heare newes, which, if they be true, some will wish they had not proved true. it is tould me by my neighbours that dorastus, the kings sonne, begins to looke at oure daughter fawnia; which if it be so, i will not geve her a halfepeny for her honestie at the yeeres end. i tell thee, wife, now- adaies beautie is a great stale to trap young men, and faire wordes and sweete promises are two great enemies to a maydens honestie; and thou knowest, where poore men in- treate and cannot obtaine, there princes may commaund and wil obtaine. though kings sonnes daunce in nettes they may not be seene; but poore mens faultes are spied at a little hole. well, it is a hard case where kinges lustes are lawes, and that they should binde poore men to that which they themselves wilfully breake. peace husband (quoth his wife), take heede what you say: speake no more than you should, least you heare what you would not: great streames are to be stopped by sleight, not by force, and princes to be perswaded by submission, not by rigor. doe what you can, but no more than you may, least in saving fawnias mayden-head you loose your owne head. take heede, i say: it is ill jesting with edged tooles, and bad sporting with kinges. the wolfe had his skinne the historie of [winter's puld over his eares for but looking into the lions den. tush, wife, (quoth he) thou speakest like a foole: if the king should knowe that dorastus had begotten our daughter with childe (as i feare it will fall out little better) the kings furie would be such as, no doubt, we should both loose our goodes and lives. necessitie therefore hath no lawe, and i will prevent this mischiefe with a newe devise that is come into my head, which shall neither offend the king nor displease dorastus. i meane to take the chaine and the jewels that i found with fawnia, and carrie them to the king, letting him then to understand how she is none of my daughter, but that i founde her beaten up with the water, alone in a little boate wrapped in a riche mantle, wherein was inclosed this treasure. by this meanes i hope the king will take fawnia into his service, and we, whatsoever chaunceth, shal be blamelesse. this device pleased the good wife very well, so that they determined, assoone as they might know the king at leisure, to make him privie to this case. in the meane time dorastus was not slacke in his affaires, but applyed his matters with such diligence that he provided all thinges fitte for their journey. treasure and jewels he had gotten great store, thincking there was no better friend then money in a strange countrey: rich attire he had provided for fawnia, and, because he could not bring the matter to passe without the helpe and advice of some one, he made an old servant of his, called capnio, who had served him from his childhood, privie to his affaires; who seeing no perswasions could prevaile to divert him from his setled determination, gave his consent, and dealt so secretly in the cause that within short space hee had gotten a ship ready for their pas- sage. the mariners seeing a fitt gale of winde for their pur- pose wished capnio to make no delayes, least if they pre- termitted this good weather they might stay long ere they had such a fayre winde. capnio, fearing that his negligence should hinder the journey, in the night time conveyed the trunckes full of treasure into the shippe, and by secrete meanes let fawnia understand that the next morning they tale.] dorastus and fawnia. meant to depart. she upon this newes slept verie little that night, but gotte up very early, and wente to her sheepe, look- ing every minute when she should see dorastus, who taried not long for feare delay might breede daunger, but came as fast as he could gallop, and without any great circumstance tooke fawnia up behinde him and rode to the haven where the shippe lay, which was not three quarters of a mile dis- tant from that place. he no sooner came there but the marriners were readie with their cockboate to set them aboard, where being coucht together in a cabben they past away the time in recounting their old loves till their man capnio should come. porrus, who had heard that this morning the king would go abroade to take the ayre, called in haste to his wife to bring him his holyday hose and his best jacket, that he might goe like an honest substantiall man to tell his tale. his wife, a good cleanly wenche, brought him all things fitte, and spungd him up very handsomlie, giving him the chaines and jewels in a little boxe, which porrus for the more safety put in his bosom. having thus all his trinkets in a readi- nes, taking his staffe in his hand he bad his wife kisse him for good lucke, and so hee went towards the pallace. but as he was going, fortune (who meant to she we him a little false play) prevented his purpose in this wise. he met by chaunce in his way capnio, who trudging as fast as he could with a little coffer under his arme to the ship, and spying porrus, whome he knewe to be fawnias father, going towardes the pallace, being a wylie fellow, began to doubt the worst, and therefore crost him by the way, and askt him whither he was going so earely this morning ! porrus (who knew by his face that he was one of the court) meaning simply, told him that the kings son dorastus dealt hardly with him; for he had but one daughter who was a little beautifull, and that the neighboures told him the young prince had allured her to folly: he went therefore now to complaine to the king how greatly he was abused. capnio (who straight way smelt the whole matter) began to soth him in his talke, and said that dorastus dealt not the historie of [winter's like a prince to spoile any poore manes daughter in that sort: he therefore would doe the best for him he could, because he knew he was an honest man. but (quoth capnio) you lose your labour in going to the pallace, for the king meanes this day to take the aire of the sea and to goe aboord of a shippe that lies in the haven. i am going before, you see, to provide all things in redinesse, and if you wil follow my counsaile, turne back with me to the haven, where i will set you in such a fitte place as you may speake to the king at your pleasure. porrus giving credit to capnios smooth tale, gave him a thou- sand thanks for his friendly advise, and went with him to the haven, making all the way his complaintes of dorastus, yet concealing secretlie the chaine and the jewels. as soone as they were come to the sea side, the marriners seeing capnio came a land with their cock-boote, who still dissembling the matter demaunded of porrus if he would go see the ship? who, unwilling and fearing the worst because he was not well acquainted with capnio, made his excuse that he could not brooke the sea, therefore would not trouble him. capnio, seeing that by faire meanes hee could not get him aboord, comaunded the mariners that by violence they should carrie him into the shippe; who like sturdy knaves hoisted the poore shepheard on their backes, and bearing him to the boate launched from the land. porrus seeing himselfe so cunningly betraied durst not crie out, for hee sawe it would not prevaile, but began to intreate capnio and the marriners to be good to him, and to pittie his estate: hee was but a poore man that lived by his labour. they laughing to see the shepheard so afraide made as much haste as they could, and set him aboorde. porrus was no sooner in the shippe but he saw dorastus walking with fawnia; yet he scarse knew her, for she had attired her selfe in riche apparell, which so increased her beauty that shee resembled rather an angell then a mortall creature. dorastus and fawnia were halfe astonished to see the olde shepherd, marvailing greatly what wind had brought him thither, til capnio told him al the whole discourse; how tale.] dorastus and faw nia. porrus was going to make his complaint to the king, if by policie he had not prevented him, and therefore now, sith he was aboord, for the avoiding of further danger it were best to carrie him into italy. dorastus praised greatly his mans devise, and allowed of his counsaile; but fawnia (who stil feared porrus as her father) began to blush for shame, that by her meanes he should either incure daunger or displeasure. the old shephard hearing this hard sentence, that he should on such a sodaine be caried from his wife, his country, and kinsfolke, into a forraine lande amongst straungers, be- gan with bitter teares to make his complaint, and on his knees to intreate dorastus, that pardoning his unadvised folly he would give him leave to goe home; swearing that hee would keepe all thinges as secret as they could wish. but these protestations could not prevaile, although fawnia in- treated dorastus very earnestly; but the mariners hoisting their maine sailes waied ankers, and hailed into the deepe, where we leave them to the favour of the wind and seas, and returne to egistus. who having appointed this day to hunt in one of his forests called for his sonne dorastus to go sport himselfe, because hee saw that of late hee began to loure; but his men made answer that hee was gone abroade none knew whither, except he were gone to the grove to walke all alone, as his custome was to doe every day. the king willing to waken him out of his dumpes sent one of his men to goe seeke him, but in vaine, for at last he returned, but finde him he could not, so that the king went himselfe to goe see the sport; where passing away the day, returning at night from hunting, hee asked for his sonne, but hee could not be heard of, which drave the king into a great choler: where upon most of his noblemen and other courtiers poasted abroad to seek him, but they could not heare of him through all sicilia, onely they missed capnio his man, which againe made the king suspect that hee was not gone farre. the historie of [winter's two or three daies being passed, and no newes heard of dorastus, egistus began to feare that he was devoured with some wilde beastes, and upon that made out a greate troupe of men to go seeke him; who coasted through all the coun- trey, and searched in everie daungerous and secrete place, untill at last they mette with a fisherman that was mending his nettes when dorastus and fawnia tooke shipping; who being examined if he either knewe or heard where the kinges sonne was, without any secrecie at all revealed the whole matter, how he was sayled two dayes past, and had in his company his man capnio, portus and his faire daughter fawnia. this heavie newes was presently caryed to the king, who, halfe dead for sorrow commaunded porrus wife to bee sent for. she being come to the pallace, after due examination, confessed that her neighbours had oft told her that the kings sonne was too familier with fawnia, her daughter; whereuppon, her husband, fearing the worst, about two dayes past (hearing the king should goe an hunting) rose earely in the morning and went to make his complaint; but since she neither heard of him, nor saw him. egistus perceiving the womans unfeyned simplicity, let her depart without incurring further displeasure, conceiving such secret greeſe for his sonnes recklesse follie, that he had so forgotten his honour and parentage by so base a choise to dishonor his father and discredit himselfe, that with very care and thought he fel into a quartan fever, which was so unfit for his aged yeeres and complexion, that he became so weake as the phisitions would graunt him no life. but his sonne dorastus little regarded either father, coun- trie, or kingdome in respect of his lady fawnia; for fortune smyling on this young novice lent him so lucky a gale of winde for the space of a day and a night, that the maryners lay and slept upon the hatches; but on the next morning, about the breake of day the aire began to be overcast, the winds to rise, the seas to swel, yea, presently there arose such a fearfull tempest, as the ship was in danger to be swallowed tale.] dorastus and fawnia. up with every sea, the maine mast with the violence of the wind was thrown over boord, the sayles were torne, the tack- lings went in sunder, the storme raging still so furiously that poore fawnia was almost dead for feare, but that she was greatly comforted with the presence of dorastus. the tem- pest continued three dayes, at which time the mariners everie minute looked for death, and the aire was so darkned with cloudes that the maister could not tell by his compasse in what coast they were. but upon the fourth day, about ten of the clocke, the wind began to cease, the sea to wax calme, and the sky to be cleare, and the mariners descryed the coast of bohemia, shooting of their ordance for joy that they had escaped such a fearefull tempest. dorastus hearing that they were arrived at some harbour sweetly kissed fawnia, and bad her be of good cheare: when they tolde him that the port belonged unto the cheife cittie of bohemia, where pandosto kept his court, dorastus began to be sad, knowing that his father hated no man so much as pandosto, and that the king himself had sought secretly to betray egistus: this considered, he was halfe afraide to goe on land, but that capnio counselled him to chaunge his name and his countrey, until such time as they could get some other barke to transport them into italy. dorastus liking this devise made his case privy to the marriners, rewarding them bountifully for their paines, and charging them to saye that he was a gentleman of trapolonia called meleagrus. the shipmen, willing to shew what friendship they could to dorastus, promised to be as secret as they could, or hee might wish; and uppon this they landed in a little village a mile distant from the citie, where after they had rested a day, thinking to make provision for their mariage, the fame of fawnias beauty was spread throughout all the citie, so that it came to the eares of pandosto; who then being about the age of fifty had notwithstanding yong and freshe affections, so that he desired greatly to see fawnia; and to bring this matter the better to passe, hearing they had but one man, d the historie of [winter's and how they rested at a very homely house, he caused them to be apprehended as spies, and sent a dozen of his garde to take them: who being come to their lodging tolde them the kings message. dorastus no whit dismayed, ac- companied with fawnia and capnio, went to the court (for they left porrus to keepe the stuffe) who being admitted to the kings presence, dorastus and fawnia with humble obey- sance saluted his majestie. pandosto amazed at the singular perfection of fawnia stood halfe astonished, viewing her beauty, so that he had almost forgot himselfe what hee had to doe: at last with stearne countenance he demaunded their names, and of what countrey they were, and what caused them to land in bohe- mia sir (quoth dorastus) know that my name meleagrus is, a knight borne and brought up in trapolonia, and this gen- tlewoman, whom i meane to take to my wife, is an italian, borne in padua, from whence i have now brought her. the cause i have so small a trayne with me is for that her friends unwilling to consent, i intended secretly to convey her into trapolonia; whither as i was sailing, by distresse of weather i was driven into these coasts: thus have you heard my name, my country, and the cause of my voiage. pandosto, starting from his seat as one in choller, made this rough reply. meleagrus, i feare this smooth tale hath but small trueth, and that thou coverest a foule skin with faire paintings. no doubt this ladie by her grace and beauty is of her degree more meete for a mighty prince, then for a simple knight, and thou like a perjured traitour hath bereft her of her pa- rents, to their present griefe and her insuing sorrow. till therefore i heare more of her parentage and of thy calling i will stay you both here in bohemia. dorastus, in whome rested nothing but kingly valor, was not able to suffer the reproches of pandosto, but that he made him this answer. it is not meete for a king without due proofe to appeach any man of ill behaviour, nor upon suspition to inferre beleeſe: tale.] dorastus and fawn ia. straungers ought to bee entertained with courtesie not to bee intreated with crueltie, least being forced by want to put up injuries, the gods revenge their cause with rigor. pandosto hearing dorastus utter these wordes commaunded that he should straight be committed to prison untill such time as they heard further of his pleasure; but as for fawnia, he charged that she should be entertained in the court with such curtesie as belonged to a straunger and her calling. the rest of the shipmen he put into the dungeon. having thus hardly handled the supposed trapolonians, pandosto, contrarie to his aged yeares, began to be somwhat tickled with the beauty of fawnia, in so much that hee could take no rest, but cast in his old head a thousand new devises: at last he fell into these thoughtes. how art thou pestred, pandosto, with fresh affections, and unfitte fancies, wishing to possesse with an unwilling mynde, and a hot desire troubled with a could disdaine! shall thy mynde yeeld in age to that thou hast resisted in youth ! peace, pandosto: blabbe not out that which thou maiest be ashamed to reveale to thy self. ah, fawnia is beautifull, and it is not for thine honour (fond foole) to name her that is thy captive, and an other man's concubine. alas, i reach at that with my hand which my hart would faine refuse; playing like the bird ibys in egipt, which hateth serpents yet feed- eth on their egges. tush, hot desires turne oftentimes to colde disdaine: love is brittle, where appetite, not reason, beares the sway: kinges thoughtes ought not to climbe so high as the heavens, but to looke no lower then honour: bet- ter it is to pecke at the starres with the young eagles, then to pray on dead carkasses with the vulture: tis more honour- able for pandosto to dye by concealing love, than to enjoy such unfitte love. dooth pandosto then love? yea: whome a maide unknowne, yea, and perhapps immodest, stragled out of her owne countrie; beautifull, but not therefore chast; comely in bodie, but perhappes crooked in minde. cease then, pandosto, to looke at fawnia, much lesse to love the historie of [winter's her: be not overtaken with a womans beauty, whose eyes are framed by arte to inamour, whose hearte is framed by nature to inchaunt, whose false teares knowe their true times, and whose sweete wordes pearce deeper then sharpe swordes. here pandosto ceased from his talke, but not from his love : although he sought by reason and wisedome to suppresse this franticke affection, yet he could take no rest, the beauty of fawnia had made such a deepe impression in his heart. but on a day, walking abroad into a parke which was hard adjoining to his house, he sent by one of his servants for fawnia, unto whome he uttered these wordes. fawnia, i commend thy beauty and wit, and now pittie thy distresse and want; but if thou wilt forsake sir meleagrus, whose poverty, though a knight, is not able to maintaine an estate aunswerable to thy beauty, and yeld thy consent to pandosto, i wil both increase thee with dignities and riches. no, sir, answered fawnia; meleagrus is a knight that hath wonne me by love, and none but he shal weare me: his sinister mischance shall not diminish my affection, but rather increase my good will: thinke not, though your grace hath imprisoned him without cause, that feare shall make mee yeeld my consent: i had rather be meleagrus wife and a begger, then live in plenty and be pandostos concubine. pandosto hearing the assured aunswere of fawnia would, notwithstanding, prosecute his suite to the uttermost, seeking with faire words and great promises to scale the fort of her chastitie, swearing that if she would graunt to his desire meleagrus should not only be set at libertie, but honoured in his courte amongst his nobles. but these alluring baytes could not entise her minde from the love of her newe betrothed mate meleagrus; which pandosto seeing he left her alone for that time to consider more of the demaund. fawnia being alone by her selfe began to enter into these solitarie meditations. ah, infortunate fawnia! thou seest to desire above fortune tale.] dorastus and fawnia. is to strive against the gods, and fortune. who gazeth at the sunne weakeneth his sight: they which stare at the skie fall ofte into deepe pits: haddest thou rested content to have bene a shepheard, thou needest not to have feared mischaunce: better had it bene for thee by sitting lowe to have had quiet, then by climing high to have fallen into miserie. but alas, i feare not mine owne daunger, but dorastus displeasure. ah sweete dorastus, thou art a prince, but now a prisoner, by too much love procuring thine owne losse: haddest thou not loved fawnia thou haddest benefortunate: shall i then be false to him that hath forsaken kingdomes for my cause! no: would my death might deliver him, so mine honour might be pre- served with that, fetching a deepe sigh, she ceased from her complaints, and went againe to the pallace, injoying a libertie without content, and profered pleasure with smal joy. but poore dorastus lay all this while in close prison, being pinched with a hard restraint, and pained with the burden of colde and heavie irons, sorrowing sometimes that his fond affection had procured him this mishappe, that by the disobedience of his parentes he had wrought his owne despight: an other while cursing the gods and fortune, that they should crosse him with such sinister chaunce, uttering at last his passions in these words. ah, unfortunate wretch! borne to mishappe, now thy folly hath his desert: art thou not worthie for thy base minde to have bad fortune could the destinies favour thee, which hast forgot thine honor and dignities? wil not the gods plague him in despight that payneth his father with dis- obedience oh, gods ! if any favour or justice be left, plague me, but favour poore fawnia, and shrowd her from the tirannies of wretched pandosto; but let my death free her from mishap, and then welcome death. dorastus payned with these heavie passions sorrowed and sighed, but in vaine, for which he used the more patience. but againe to pandosto, who broyling at the heat of unlawfull lust, coulde take no rest, but still felt his minde disquieted with his new the historie of [winter's love, so that his nobles and subjectes marveyled greatly at this sudaine alteration, not being able to conjecture the cause of this his continued care. pandosto, thinking every hower a yeare til he had talked once againe with fawnia, sent for her secretly into his chamber, whither though fawnia un- willingly comming, pandosto entertained her very courte- ously, using these familiar speaches, which fawnia answered as shortly in this wise. pandosto. fawnia, are you become lesse wilfull and more wise to preferre the love of a king before the liking of a poore knight! i thinke ere this you thinke it is better to be favoured of a king then of a subject. fawnia. - pandosto, the body is subject to victories, but the minde not to be subdued by conquest: honesty is to be preferred before honour; and a dramme of faith weigheth downe a tunne of gold. i have promised to meleagrus to love, and will performe no lesse. pandosto. fawnia, i know thou art not so unwise in thy choice as to refuse the offer of a king, nor so ingrateful as to dispise a good turne. thou art now in that place where i may com- maunde, and yet thou seest i intreate : my power is such as i may compell by force, and yet i sue by prayers. yeelde, fawnia, thy love to him which burneth in thy love: melea- grus shall be set free, thy countrymen discharged, and thou both loved and honoured. fawnia. i see, pandosto, where lust ruleth it is a miserable thing to be a virgin; but know this, that i will alwaies preferre ſame before life, and rather choose death then dishonour. tale.] dorastus and fawnia. pandosto seeing that there was in fawnia a determinate courage to love meleagrus, and a resolution without feare to hate him, flong away from her in a rage, swearing if in shorte time she would not be wonne with reason, he would forget all courtesie, and compel her to graunt by rigour: but these threatning wordes no whit dismayed fawnia, but that she still both dispighted and dispised pandosto. while thus these two lovers strove, the one to winne love, the other to live in hate, egistus heard certaine newes by merchauntes of bohemia, that his sonne dorastus was imprisoned by pan- dosto, which made him feare greatly that his sonne should be but hardly entreated: yet considering that bellaria and hee was cleared by the oracle of apollo from that crime wherewith pandosto had unjustly charged them, he thought best to send with all speed to pandosto, that he should set free his sonne dorastus, and put to death fawnia and her father porrus. finding this by the advise of counsaile the speediest remedy to release his sonne, he caused presently too of his shippes to be rigged, and thoroughly furnished with provision of men and victuals, and sent divers of his nobles embassadoures into bohemia; who willing to obey their king, and receive their yong prince, made no delayes for feare of danger, but with as much speede as might be sailed towards bohemia. the winde and seas favored them greatly, which made them hope of some good happe, for within three daies they were landed; which pandosto no sooner heard of their arrivall, but he in person went to meete them, intreating them with such sumptuous and familiar courtesie, that they might well perceive how sory he was for the former injuries he had offered to their king, and how willing (if it might be) to make amendes. as pandosto made report to them, how one maleagrus, a knight of trapolonia, was lately arived with a lady called fawnia in his land, comming very suspitiously, accompanied onely with one servant and an olde shepheard, the embassa- dours perceived by the halfe, what the whole tale ment, and the historie of [winter's began to conjecture that it was dorastus, who for feare to bee knowne had chaunged his name; but dissembling the matter they shortly arrived at the court, where after they had bin verie solemnly and sumptuously feasted, the noble men of sicilia being gathered togither, they made reporte of their embassage, where they certified pandosto that me- leagrus was sonne and heire to the king egistus, and that his name was dorastus; how contrarie to the kings minde he had privilie convaied away that fawnia, intending to marrie her, being but daughter to that poore shepheard porrus : whereupon the kings request was that capnio, fawnia, and porrus, might be murthered and put to death, and that his sonne dorastus might be sent home in safetie. pandosto having attentively, and with great mervaile, heard their embassage, willing to reconcile himselfe to egistus and to shew him how greatlie he esteemed his labour, although love and fancy forbad him to hurt fawnia, yet in despight of love hee determined to execute egistus will without mercy; and therefore he presently sent for dorastus out of prison, who mervailing at this unlooked for curtesie, found at his comming to the kings presence that which he least doubted of, his fathers embassadours; who no sooner saw him, but with great reverence they honored him, and pandosto em- bracing dorastus set him by him very lovingly in a chaire of estate. dorastus, ashamed that his follie was bewraied, sate a long time as one in a muse, til pandosto told him the summe of his fathers embassage; which he had no sooner heard, but he was toucht at the quicke, for the cruell sen- tence that was pronounced against fawnia. but neither could his sorrow nor his perswasions prevaile, for pandosto commaunded that fawnia, porrus, and capnio, should bee brought to his presence; who were no sooner come, but pan- dosto, having his former love turned to a disdainful hate, began to rage against fawnia in these tearines. thou disdainfull vassal, thou currish kite, assigned by the destinies to base fortune, and yet with an aspiring minde tale.] dorastus and fawnia. gazing after honor, how durst thou presume, being a beggar, to match with a prince by thy alluring lookes to inchant the sonne of a king to leave his owne countrie to fulfill thy disordinate lusts o despightfull minde a proud heart in a beggar is not unlike to a great fire in a smal cottage, which warmeth not the house, but burneth it: assure thy selfe that thou shalt die. and thou, old doating foole, whose follie hath bene such as to suffer thy daughter to reach above thy for- tune, looke for no other meede but the like punishment. but capnio, thou which hast betrayed the king, and hast con- sented to the unlawfull lust of thy lord and maister, i know not how justly i may plague thee: death is too easie a pu- nishment for thy falsehood, and to live (if not in extreme miserie) were not to shew thee equitie. i therefore award that thou shall have thine eyes put out, and continually while thou diest, grinde in a mil like a brute beast. the feare of death brought a sorrowfull silence upon fawnia and capnio, but porrus seeing no hope of life burst forth into these speeches. pandosto, and ye noble embassadours of sicilia, seeing without cause i am condemned to die, i am yet glad i have opportunitie to disburden my conscience before my death. i will tel you as much as i know, and yet no more than is true. whereas i am accused that i have bene a supporter of fawnias pride, and shee disdained as a vilde begger, so it is, that i am neither father unto her, nor she daughter unto me. for so it happened, that i being a poore shepheard in si- cilia, living by keeping other mens flockes, one of my sheepe straying downe to the sea side, as i went to seeke her, i saw a little boat driven upon the shoare, wherein i found a babe of sixe daies olde, wrapped in a mantle of skarlet, having about the necke this chaine. i pittying the child, and de- sirous of the treasure, carried it home to my wife, who with great care nursed it up and set it to keepe sheepe. heere is the chaine and the jewels, and this fawnia is the childe whome i found in the boate. what shee is, or of what pa- e - the historie of [winter's rentage i knowe not, but this i am assured that shee is none of mine. - pandosto would scarce suffer him to tell out his tale, but that he enquired the time of the yeere, the manner of the boate and other circumstaunces; which when he found agree- ing to his count he sodainelie leapt from his seate and kissed fawnia, wetting her tender cheeks with his teares, and cry- ing, my daughter fawnia ah sweete fawnia i am thy father, fawnia. this sodaine passion of the king drave them all into a maze, especially fawnia and dorastus. but when the king had breathed himselfe a while in this newe joy, hee rehearsed before the embassadours the whole matter, how hee had entreated his wife bellaria for jealousie, and that this was the childe whome hee had sent to floate in the seas. fawnia was not more joyfull that she had found such a father, then dorastus was glad he should get such a wife. the embassadors rejoyced that their yong prince had made such a choice, that those kingdomes, which through enmitie had long time been dissevered, should now through perpetual amitie be united and reconciled. the citizens and subjects of bohemia (hearing that the king had found againe his daughter, which was supposed dead, joyfull that there was an heire apparent to his kingdome) made bonfires and showes throughout the cittie. the courtiers and knights appointed justs and turneis to signifie their willing mindes in gratifying the kings hap. eighteene daies being past in these princely sports, pan- dosto, willing to recompence old porrus, of a shepheard made him a knight; which done, providing a sufficient navie to receive him and his retinue, accompanied with dorastus, fawnia, and the sicilian embassadours, he sailed towards sicilia, where he was most princelie entertained by egistus; who hearing this most comicall event, rejoyced greatly at his sonnes good happe, and without delay (to the perpetuall joy of the two yong lovers) celebrated the marriage: which was tale.] dorastus and fawnia. no sooner ended, but pandosto (calling to mind how first he betraied his friend egistus, how his jealousie was the cause of bellarias death, that contrarie to the law of nature hee had lusted after his owne daughter) moved with these desperate thoughts, he fell into a melancholie fit, and to close up the comedie with a tragicall stratageme, hee slewe himselfe; whose death being many daies bewailed of fawnia, dorastus, and his deere friend egistus, dorastus, taking his leave of his father, went with his wife and the dead corps into bohemia, where after they were sumptuouslie intoombed, dorastus ended his daies in contented quiet. fin is. notes. page , line , “this, since thou must goe,” &c.; we ought to read “thus since,” &c. as it stands in some of the later editions. page , line , “having neither saile nor other to guid it,” &c.; we ought to read, “having neither saile nor rudder to guid it." the error is corrected in the impressions subsequent to that which is con- sidered the first. page , line , for “his babe innocent,” read, “his babe an inno- cent." page , line , “sackles" is guiltless; and in some of the later editions (as in that of ), the one word is substituted for the other. page , line , “thou seest my white hayres are blossomes for the grave,” &c. percy in his “reliques,” ii, , edit. , quotes the following as part of an old song on the story of the beggars daugh- ter of bethnall green:— “his reverend lockes in comelye curles did wave, and on his aged temples grewe the blossomes of the grave.” page , line , “we are rich in that we are poore with content.” so shakespeare, othello, act iii, scene :— “poor and content is rich, and rich enough." page , line , “starres are to be looked at with the eye, not reacht at with the hand.” so shakespeare, two gentlemen of verona, act iii, scene :— “wilt thou reach stars, because they shine on thee ?” page , line , “though kings sonnes daunce in nettes, they may not be seene.” alluding to the old story of the fisherman's daughter who was ordered to dance before a great lord, so that she might be seen, yet not seen, to effect which she covered herself with one of her father's nets. the italian fool and jester gonella for the same purpose is said to have put himself behind a sieve. page , line , “who willing to obey their king, and receive the yong prince,” &c. ought we not to read relieve instead of receire, though the old copies follow the edition of ° page , line , “and to shew him how greatlie he esteemed his labour." later editions read favour for labour, which is clearly right. rosalynd. eu phues’ golden legacie, found after his death in his c e l l a t s i l e x e d r a. &c. by thomas lodge, gent. upon which shakespeare founded his “as you like it.” reprinted from the edition of . london : thomas rodd, , great newport street. mdcccxli. introduction. steevens, speaking of the obligations of shakespeare to the novel we have here reprinted, says, that our great dra- matist followed it “more exactly than is his general custom, when he is indebted to such worthless originals.” let it be remembered, that this opinion as to the value of lodge's “rosalynd” was given by the commentator who asserted that the force of an act of parliament would not be sufficient to compel people to read shakespeare's sonnets, and who pro- nounced watson a more elegant writer than shakespeare in that department of poetry. comparing “rosalynd” with “as you like it,” the former may indeed be termed “worthless,” inasmuch as shakespeare's play is so immeasurably superior to it; but steevens spoke in the abstract of works of the kind of which shakespeare had availed himself; and placing lodge's novel by the side of other productions of the same class, we cannot hesitate to declare it a very amusing and varied composition, full of agreeable and graceful invention (for we are aware of no foreign authority for any of the incidents), and with much natural force and simplicity in the style of the narrative. that it is here and there disfigured by the faults of the time, by forced conceits, by lowness of allusion and expression, and sometimes by inconsistency and want of decorum in the characters, cannot be denied. these are errors which the judgment and genius of shakespeare taught him to avoid; but the admitted extent and nature of his general obligations to lodge afford a high tribute to the excellence of that “ori- ginal,” which steevens pronounced “worthless.” it may almost be doubted whether he had even taken the trouble to ii introduction. read carefully that performance upon which he delivered so dogmatical and definitive a condemnation. as in the case of greene's “dorastus and fawnia,” so in that of lodge’s “rosalynd,” the means of exact comparison between it and the play being now (for the first time) afforded to the modern reader, it would only be a waste of time and space for us to enter into any details on the point. the re- semblance throughout will be found rather general than par- ticular; and the characters of jaques, touchstone, and au- drey are entirely new in shakespeare. the names of the other personages engaged in the drama have also been changed, with the exception of those of the heroine, phoebe, adam, and charles the wrestler. the edition we have followed is that of , in to, b. l.; and by our notes it will be seen that we have carefully col- lated it with the impression of . “rosalynd” originally came out in ; but ritson was unacquainted with its ex- istence, and as no perfect copy of the first edition is known, we have necessarily adopted the text of the second. it was reprinted at least ten times before the breaking out of the civil wars—a sufficient evidence of the popularity of the story. on the title-page lodge tells us that it was “fetched from the canaries;” and in the dedication he informs lord hunsdon that he wrote the novel “to beguile the time” while he was on a voyage “to the islands of terceras and the canaries,” with captain clarke. he does not speak of it as a transla- tion (as he does of his “margarite of america,” printed in , and written in while lodge was at sea with ca- vendish), and there is no reason to suppose that it was not an original production. several of the poems interspersed in “rosalynd” were copied into “england's helicon,” to, . we have it on lodge's own evidence (see the dedication), that he was educated at oxford under sir edward hobby, and that he was contemporary there with two of the sons of lord hunsdon. in fact, he was entered at trinity college introduction. iii in , and, as anthony wood states, took “one degree in arts;” after which he went to london. there he joined a theatrical company, became an actor and a dramatic author, and about wrote a defence of stage-plays, in answer to stephen gosson’s “school of abuse,” which had been printed in the preceding year. lodge's defence was sup- pressed by the public authorities, and only two copies of it are now known, both of which have been mutilated, being without title-pages. his oldest production with a date is his “alarum against usurers,” to, , in which he mentions the fate of his answer to gosson. it seems likely that he en- tered the army soon afterwards, and accompanied captains clarke and cavendish on their several expeditions. at the close of his “rosalynd,” lodge promises a work which, as far as we know, was never printed, to be called “the sailor's calendar,” and it most likely had relation to his sea adventures. however, we find him again in connec- tion with the stage soon after ; and his tragedy called “the wounds of civil war” was published in . this is the only extant dramatic piece which he wrote alone, though he had joined robert greene in “a looking glass for london and england,” which must have been composed be- fore september , and was printed in the next year. if any other dramas came from his pen, we have no record of them either in print or in manuscript; but as he certainly wrote with much facility, it is likely that he produced several other plays for the association of actors with which philip hens- lowe was connected, and of which lodge was a member. as early as , we learn from the title-page of his “scilla's metamorphosis,” that he was a “student of lincoln's inn,” and he still styled himself “ of lincoln's inn, gentle- man,” when he published his “fig for momus,” in . how soon, and from what motive, he abandoned the study of the law and took up that of medicine, we have no infor- mation: probably it happened about the year , when he published his latest miscellaneous work, “wits miserie,” iv ntroduction. and dated it “from my house at low layton.” wood says that he took his degree in medicine at avignon; but we hear no more of him until , when he printed “a treatise on the plague,” which was then raging in london; and of which disorder he is supposed to have died in . in the interval he practised as a physician, and is mentioned by his contemporary dramatist and actor, thomas heywood, in his troja britannica, , in that capacity. lodge was the author of a translation of josephus, in , and of seneca in ; and in he obtained a passport from the privy council, that he might “travel into the arch duke's country,” to “recover debts,” said to be due to him, though circum- stances make it appear likely that it was to avoid his own creditors. it seems not improbable that our novelist and poet was in some way related to sir thomas lodge, who was lord mayor of london in , and regarding the necessity of supporting whose credit a letter from the lord treasurer is preserved among the lansdowne mss. in the british mu- seum (no. .) sir thomas lodge was one of the persons who fitted out the minion and primrose for the coast of guinea in (see hakluyt's voyages); and it is very possible that the author of “rosalynd” accompanied clarke and cavendish on their respective expeditions in conse- quence of his family connection with one of the promoters of previous naval adventures. he speaks of his “birth,” and of “the offspring from whence he came,” in his earliest dated production, and for aught that appears to the contrary, he might be the son of sir thomas lodge, who met with misfortunes both during and subsequent to his mayoralty. this, however, is a new point of speculation, not touched by any of those who have hitherto adverted to the particulars of the life of the author of the ensuing novel. | roſalynde. euphues golden legacie, found aſ- ter his death in his cell at sile- xedra. b e q v e a t h e d to ph i l a v t v s sonnes, nursed vp with their father in england. fetcht from the canaries by t. l. gent. l on do n printed by abel ieffes for t. g. and iohn bushi.e. . to the right honorable and his most es- teemed lord the lord of hunsdon, lord chamberlaine to her majesties houshold, and governor of her towne of barwicke : t. l. g. wisheth increase of all honourable vertues. such romanes (right honorable) as delighted in martiall exploites, attempted their actions in the honour of augustus, because he was a patron of souldiors : and virgil dignified him with his poems, as a maecenas of schollers; both joyntly advancing his royaltie, as a prince warlike and learned. such as sacrifice to pallas present her with bayes as she is wise, and with armour as she is valiant; observing heerein that excellent ro resrow, which dedicateth honours according to the perfection of the person. when i entred (right honora- ble) with a deepe insight into the consideration of these pre- misses, seeing your l. to be a patron of all martiall men, and a maecenas of such as apply themselves to studie, wearing with pallas both the launce and the bay, and aiming with augustus at the favour of all, by the honourable vertues of your minde, being myselfe first a student, and afterwards falling from bookes to armes, even vowed in all my thoughts dutifully to affect your lordshippe. having with captaine clarke made a voyage to the ilands of terceras and the canaries, to beguile the time with labour i writ this booke; rough, as hatcht in the stormes of the ocean, and feathered in the surges of many perillous seas. but as it is the woorke of a souldiour and a scholler, i presumed to shrowd it under your honors patronage, as one that is the fautor and favourer of all vertuous actions; and whose honorable loves, growne from the generall applause of the whole common-welth for your higher desertes, may keepe it from the mallice of every b the epistle dedicatorie. bitter toong. other reasons more particular (right honourable) chalenge in me a speciall affection to your lordshippe, as being a scholler with your two noble sonnes, maister edmund carew, and m. robert carew, (two siens worthy of so ho- norable a tree, and a tree glorious in such honourable fruite) as also being scholler in the universitie under that learned and vertuous knight sir edward hobby, when he was batcheler in artes, a man as well lettered as well borne, and, after the etymologie of his name, soaring as high as the winges of knowledge can mount him, happie every way, and the more fortunate, as blessed in the honor of so vertuous a lady. thus (right honourable) the duetie that i owe to the sonnes, chargeth me that all my affection be placed on the father; for where the braunches are so pretious, the tree of force must be most excellent. commaunded and imboldened thus, with the consideration of these forepassed reasons, to present my booke to your lordship, i humbly intreate your honour will vouch of my labours, and favour a souldiers and a schollers penne with your gratious acceptance, who an- sweres in affection what he wants in eloquence; so devoted to your honour, as his only desire is, to ende his life under the favour of so martiall and learned a patron. resting thus in hope of your lordships curtesie, in deyning the patronage of my worke, i cease, wishing you as many honorable for- tunes as your l. can desire or i imagine. your honors souldiour most humbly affectionate: thomas lodge. to the gentlemen readers. gentlemen, looke not heere to finde anie sprigs of pallas bay tree, nor to heare the humour of any amorous lawreat, nor the pleasing vaine of any eloquent orator: nolo allum sºpere, they bee matters above my capacitie: the coblers checke shal never light on my heade, ne su!or ultra crepi- dam, i will go no further than the latchet, and then all is wel. heere you may perhaps finde some leaves of venus mirtle, but hewen down by a souldier with his curtlaxe, not boght with the allurement of a filed tongue. to bee briefe, gentle- men, roome for a souldier and a sailer, that gives you the fruits of his labors that he wrote in the ocean, when everie line was wet with a surge, and every humorous passion countercheckt with a storme. if you like it, so; and yet i will bee yours in duetie, if you be mine in favour. but if momus or any squinteied asse, that hath mighty eares to con- ceive with midas, and yet little reason to judge, if he come abord our barke to find fault with the tackling, when hee knowes not the shrowds, ile downe into the hold, and fetch out a rustie pollax, that sawe no sunne this seaven yeare, and either well bebast him, or heave the cockescombe over boord to feed cods. but curteous gentlemen, that favour most, back- bite none, and pardon what is overslipt, let such come and welcome; ile into the stewards roome, and fetch them a kanne of our best bevradge. well, gentlemen, you have euphues legacie. i fetcht it as farre as the ilands of terceras, and therefore read it: censure with favour, and farewell. yours, t. l. the scedule annexed to eu phues testament, the tenour of his legacie, the token of his love. the vehemency of my sicknes (philautus) hath made mee doubtfull of life, yet must i die in counsailing thee like socrates, because i love thee. thou hast sons by camilla, as i heare, who being yong in yeres have green thoghts, and nobly born have great minds: bend them in their youth like the willow, least thou bewayle them in their age for their wilfulnes. i have bequeathed them a golden legacie, be- cause i greatly love thee. let them read it as archelaus did cassender, to profit by it; and in reading let them medi- tate, for i have approved it the best methode. they shall find love anatomized by euphues with as lively colours as in appelles table: roses to whip him when he is wanton, reasons to withstand him when he is wilie. here may they read that vertue is the king of labours, opinion the mistres of fooles; that vanitie is the pride of nature, and contention the overthrow of fa- milies: here is elleborus, bitter in taste, but beneficial in triall. i have nothing to sende thee and camilla but this counsel, that in stead of worldly goods you leave your sons vertue and glorie; for better were they to bee partakers of your honours then lords of your mannors. i feele death that summoneth me to my grave, and my soule desirous of his god. fare- well, philautus, and let the tenor of my counsaile be applyed to thy childrens comfort. euphues dying to live. if any man find this scrowle, send it to philautus in england. rosalynde. there dwelled adjoyning to the cittie of bordeaux a knight of most honourable parentage, whome fortune had graced with many favors, and nature honoured with sundry exquisite qualities, so beautified with the excellence of both, as it was a question whether fortune or nature were more prodigall in deciphering the riches of their bounties. wise he was, as holding in his head a supreme con- ceipt of pollicie, reaching with nestor into the depth of all civil governement; and to make his wise.dome more gratious, he had that salem ingenii, and pleasant eloquence that was so highly commended in ulisses: his valour was no lesse then his witte, nor the stroke of his launce no lesse forcible than the sweetnesse of his tongue was perswasive; for he was for his courage chosen the principall of all the knights of malta. this hardy knight thus enricht with vertue and honour, sur- named sir john of burdeux, having the prime of his youth in sundry battailes against the turkes, at last (as the date of time hath his course) grewe aged. his haires were silver hued, and the map of his age was figured on his forhead: honour sate in the furrowes of his face, and many yeares were pourtrayed in his wrinckled lineaments, that all men might perceive his glasse was runne, and that nature of necessitie chalenged her due. sir john (that with the phenix knewe the tearme of his life was now expired, and could, with the swan, discover his end by her songs) having three sonnes by his wife lynida, the very pride of all his forepassed yeares, thought now (seeing death by constraint would compel him to leave them) to bestow upon them such a legacie as might bewray his love, and increase their insuing amitie. calling therefore these yong gentlemen before him, in the presence of eu phues golden legacie. his fellow knights of malta, he resolved to leave them a me- morial of all his fatherly care in setting downe a methode of their brotherly dueties. having therefore death in his lookes to moove them to pittie, and teares in his eyes to paint out the depth of his passions, taking his eldest sonne by the hand, he began thus. sir john of burdeaux legacie he gave to his sonnes. oh my sons, you see that fate hath set a period of my years, and destenies have determined the final ende of my dayes: the palme tree waxeth away ward, for hee stoopeth in his height, and my plumes are ful of sicke feathers touched with age. i must to my grave that dischargeth all cares, and leave you to the world that increaseth many sorrowes: my silver haires conteineth great experience, and in the number of my yeares are pende downe the subtleties of fortune. therefore, as i leave you some fading pelfe to counterchecke povertie, so i will bequeath you infallible precepts that shall lead you unto vertue. first, therefore, unto thee saladyne, the eldest, and therefore the chiefest piller of my house, wherein should bee ingraved as wel the excellency of thy fathers qualities, as the essentiall fortune of his proportion, to thee i give foureteene ploughlands, with all my mannor houses and richest plate. next, unto fernandine i bequeath twelve ploughlands. but, unto rosader, the youngest, i give my horse, my armour, and my launce with sixteene plough- lands; for if the inwarde thoughts be discovered by outward shadows, rosader wil exceed you all in bountie and honour. thus (my sonnes) have i parted in your portions the substance of my wealth, wherein if you be as prodigall to spend as i have beene carefull to get, your friendes wil greeve to see you more wastfull then i was bountifull, and your foes smile that my fal did begin in your excesse. let mine honour be the glasse of your actions, and the fame of my vertues the loadstarre to direct the course of your pilgrimage. eu phues golden legacie. ayme your deedes by my honorable endevours, and shew yourselves siens worthy of so florishing a tree, least, as the birdes halcyones, which exceede in whitenesse, i hatch yong ones that exceed in blacknes. climb not, my sonnes: as- piring pride is a vapour that ascendeth hie, but soone turneth to a smoake; they which stare at the starres stumble upon the stones, and such as gaze at the sunne (unless they be eagle eyed) fal blinde. soare not with the hobbie, least you fal with the larke, nor attempt not with phaeton, least you drowne with icarus. fortune, when shee wils you to flye, tempers your plumes with waxe; and therefore eyther sit stil and make no wing, or else beware the sunne, and hold dedalus axiome authentical (medium tenuere tutissimum.) low shrubs have deepe rootes, and poore cottages great pa- tience. fortune looks ever upward, and envy aspireth to nestle with dignitie. take heed, my sonnes, the meane is sweetest melodie; where strings high stretch, eyther soone cracke, or quickly grow out of tune. let your countryes care be your hearts content, and thinke that you are not borne for your selves, but to levell your thoughts to be loyal to your prince, careful for the common-weale, and faythful to your friendes; so shal fraunce say, these men are as excellent in vertues as they be exquisite in features. oh my sons, a friend is a pretious jewell, within whose bosome you may unload your sorrowes, and unfold your secrets, and he eyther wil releeve with counsaile, or perswade with reason; but take heed in the choyce: the outward shew makes not the inwarde man, nor are the dimples in the face the calenders of truth. when the liquorice leafe looketh most dry, then it is most wet: when the shoares of lepanthus are most quiet, then they forepoint a storme. the baarran leafe the more fayre it lookes, the more infectious it is, and in the sweetest wordes is oft hid most trechery. therefore, my sonnes, chuse a friend as the hiperborei do the mettals, sever them from the ore with fire, and let them not bide the stampe before they be currant: so trie and then trust: let time be the touch- eu phues golden legacie. stone of friendship, and then frends faithful lay them up for jewels. be valiant, my sonnes, for cowardice is the enemy to honour; but not too rash, for that is extreme. fortitude is the meane, and that is limited within bonds, and prescribed with circumstance. but above al, and with that he fetcht a deep sigh, beware of love, for it is farre more perillous then pleasant, and yet, i tel you, it allureth as ill as the syrens. oh my sonnes, fancie is a fickle thing, and beauties paintings are trickt up with times colours, which, being set to drie in the sunne, perish with the same. venus is a wanton, and though her lawes pretend libertie, yet there is nothing but losse and glistering miserie. cupids wings are plumed with the feathers of vanitie, and his arrowes, where they pierce, inforce nothing but deadly destres: a womans eye, as it is pretious to behold, so is it prejudicial to gaze upon; for as it affoordeth delight, so it snareth unto death. trust not theyr fawning favours, for their loves are like the breath of a man uppon steele, which no sooner lighteth on but it leapeth off, and their passions are as momentary as the colours of a polipe, which changeth at the sight of every object. my breath waxeth short, and mine eyes waxeth dimme: the houre is come, and i must away; therefore let this suffice: women are wantons, and yet men cannot want one : and therefore, if you love, choose her that hath eyes of adamant, that wil turne onely to one poynt; her heart of a diamond, that will receive but one forme; her tongue of a sethin leafe, that never wagges, but with a south-east winde: and yet, my sonnes, if she have all these qualities, to be chast, obedient, and silent, yet for that she is a woman, shalt thou finde in her sufficient vanities to countervaile her vertues. oh now, my sonnes, even now take these my last wordes as my latest legacie, for my threed is spunne, and my foot is in the grave. keepe my precepts as memorials of your fathers counsailes, and let them bee lodged in the secrete of your hearts; for wise.dome is better than wealth, and a golden sentence worth a world of treasure. in my fal see and marke, my sonnes, eu phues golden legacie. the folly of man, that being dust climbeth with biares to reatch at the heavens, and ready every minute to dye, yet hopeth for an age of pleasures. oh, mans life is like lightning, that is but a flash, and the longest date of his yeares but as a bavens blaze. seeing then man is so mortal, be careful that thy life be vertuous, that thy death may bee ful of admirable honors: so shalt thou chalenge fame to be thy fautor, and put oblivion to exile with thine honorable actions. but, my sonnes, least you should forget your fathers axiomes, take this scroule, wherein reade what your father dying wils you to execute living. at this hee shrunke downe in his bed, and gave up the ghost. john of bourdeaux being thus dead was greatly lamented of his sonnes, and bewayled of his friends, especially of his fellow knights of malta, who attended on his funerals, which were performed with great solemnitie. his obsequies done, saladyne caused, next his epitaph, the contents of the scroule to bee pourtrayed out, which were to this effect. the contents of the scedule which sir john of bourdeaux gave to his sonnes. my sonnes, behold what portion i do give. i leave you goods, but they are quickly lost: i leave advise, to schoole you how to live : i leave you wit, but wonne with little cost: but keepe it well, for counsaile still is one, when father, friends, and worldly goods are gone. in choice of thrift let honour be your gaine, winne it by vertue and by manly might; in dooing good esteeme thy toyle no paine; protect the fatherlesse and widowes right: fight for thy faith, thy country, and thy king, for why? this thrift wil prove a blessed thing. in choise of wife, preferre the modest chast; lillies are faire in shew, but foule in smell. the sweetest lookes by age are soon defast; then choose thy wife by wit and living well. who brings thee wealth and many faults withall, presents the hony mixt with bitter gall. eu phues golden legaci e. in choise of friends, beware of light beliefe ; a painted tongue may shroud a subtill heart: the syrens teares doe threaten mickle griefe. foresee, my sonnes, for feare of sodaine smart: chuse in your wants, and he that friends you then, when richer growne, befriend you him again. learne with the ant in summer to provide ; drive with the bee the droane from out the hive: buyld lyke the swallow in the summer tyde; spare not too much (my sonnes) but sparing thrive: be poore in folly, rich in all but sinne, so by your death your glory shall beginne. saladyne having thus set up the scedule, and hangd about his fathers hearse many passionate poems, that france might suppose him to be passing sorrowful, hee clad himselfe and his brothers all in black, and in such sable sutes discoursed his griefe: but as the hiena when she mourns is then most guilefull, so saladine under this shewe of griefe shaddowed a heart ful of contented thoughts. the tyger, though he hide his claws, wil at last discover his rapine: the lions looks are not the maps of his meaning, nor a mans phismomie is not the display of his secrets. fire cannot be hid in the straw, nor the nature of man so concealed, but at last it will have his course: nurture and art may do much, but that natura natu- rans, which by propagation is ingrafted in the hart, will be at last perforce predominant according to the olde verse, naturam expellas furca licet, tamen usque recurret. so fares it with saladine, for after a months mourning was past, he fel to consideration of his fathers testament; how hee had bequeathed more to his yoonger brothers than himselfe, that rosader was his fathers darling, but now under his tui- tion, that as yet they were not come to yeares, and he being their gardian, might (if not defraud them of their due) yet make such havocke of theyr legacies and lands, as they should be a great deal the lighter: wherupon he began thus to meditate with himselfe. eu phues golden legacie. saladynes meditation with himselfe. saladyne, how art thou disquieted in thy thoughts, and perplexed with a world of restlesse passions, having thy minde troubled with the tenour of thy fathers testament, and thy heart fiered with the hope of present preferment! by the one thou art counsaild to content thee with thy fortunes, by the other, perswaded to aspire to higher wealth. riches (saladyne) is a great royaltie, and there is no sweeter phi- sick than store. avicen, like a foole, forgot in his apho- rismes to say that gold was the most precious restorative, and that treasure was the most excellent medecine of the minde. oh, saladyne, what, were thy fathers precepts breathed into the winde! hast thou so soone forgotten his prin- ciples' did he not warne thee from coveting without honor, and climing without vertue did he not forbid thee to ayme at any action that should not bee honourable! and what will bee more prejudiciall to thy credite, than the carelesse ruine of thy brothers prosperitie! and wilt thou become the subversion of their fortunes is there any sweeter thing than concord, or a more precious jewel then amitieſ are you not sonnes of one father, siens of one tree, birds of one neast, and wilt thou become so unnaturall as to robbe them, whom thou shouldest relieve " no, saladyne, intreat them with favours, and enter- taine them with love, so shalt thou have thy conscience cleare and thy renowne excellent. tush, what wordes are these ? base foole, farre unfit (if thou be wise) for thy humour. what though thy father at his death talked of many frivilous matters, as one that doted for age and raved in his sicknes, shal his words be axioms, and his talk be so authenticall, that thou wilt (to observe them) prejudice thy selfe! no no, sala- dyne, sicke mens willes, that are parole and have neither hand nor seale, are like the lawes of a cittie written in dust, which are broken with the blast of every winde. what, man, thy father is dead, and hee can neither helpe thy for- eu phues golden legaci e. tunes, nor measure thy actions; therfore bury his words with his carkasse, and be wise for thy selfe. what, tis not so olde as true, non sapit, qui sibi non sapit. thy brother is yoong, keepe him now in awe; make him not checke mate with thy selfe, for nimia familiaritas contemptum parit. let him know litle, so shall he not be able to execute much : suppresse his wittes with a base estate, and though hee be a gentleman by nature, yet forme him anew, and make him a peasant by nourture. so shalt thou keepe him as a slave, and raigne thy selfe sole lord over all thy fathers possessions. as for fernandyne, thy middle brother, he is a scholler and hath no minde but on aristotle: let him reade on galen while thou riflest with golde, and pore on his booke til thou doest purchase landes : witte is great wealth; if he have learning it is enough, and so let all rest, in this humour was saladyne, making his brother rosader his foote boy for the space of two or three yeares, keeping him in such servile subjection, as if he had been the sonne of any country vassal. the young gentleman bare all with patience, til on a day, walking in the garden by himselfe, he began to consider how he was the sonne of john of bour- deaux, a knight renownied for many victories, and a gentle- man famozed for his vertues; how, contrarie to the testament of his father, hee was not only kept from his land and in- treated as a servant, but smothered in such secret slaverie, as hee might not attaine to any honourable actions. as, quoth hee to himselfe (nature woorking these effectuall passions) why should i that am a gentleman borne, passe my time in such unnatural drudgery were it not better either in paris to become a scholler, or in the court a courtier, or in the field eu phufs golden legacie. a souldier, then to live a foote boy to my own brother na- ture hath lent me wit to conceive, but my brother denied mee art to contemplate: i have strength to performe any honor- able exployt, but no libertie to accomplish my vertuous in- devours: those good partes that god hath bestowed upon mee, the envy of my brother doth smother in obscuritie; the harder is my fortune, and the more his frowardnes. with that casting up his hand he felt haire on his face, and per- ceiving his beard to bud for choler hee began to blush, and swore to himselfe he would be no more subject to such slaverie. as thus he was ruminating of his melancholie passions in came saladyne with his men, and seeing his brother in a browne study, and to forget his wonted reverence, thought to shake him out of his dumps thus. sirha (quoth he) what is you heart on your halfepeny, or are you saying a dirge for your fathers soule what, is my dinner readie! at this ques- tion rosader, turning his head ascance, and bending his browes as if anger there had ploughed the furrowes of her wrath, with his eyes full of fire, hee made this replie. doest thou aske mee (saladyne) for thy cates! aske some of thy churles who are fit for suche an office: i am thine equal by nature, though not by birth, and though thou hast more cardes in the bunch, i have as many trumpes in my handes as thy selfe. let me question with thee, why thou hast feld my woods, spoyled my manner houses, and made havocke of suche utensalles as my father bequeathed unto meet i tell thee, saladyne, either answere mee as a brother, or i wil trouble thee as an enemie. at this replie of rosaders saladyne smiled, as laughing at his presumption, and frowned as checking his folly: he ther- fore tooke him up thus shortly : what, sirha, wel i see early pricks the tree that wil proove a thorne: hath my familiar conversing with you made you coy, or my good lookes drawne you to be thus contemptuous ! i can quickly remedie such a fault, and i wil bend the tree while it is a wand. in faith (sir boy) i have a snaffle for such a headstrong colt. eu phues golden legacie. you, sirs, lap holde on him and binde him, and then i wil give him a cooling carde for his choller. this made rosader halfe mad, that stepping to a great rake that stood in the garden, hee laide such loade uppon his brothers men that hee hurt some of them, and made the rest of them run away. saladyne seeing rosader so resolute, and with his resolution so valiant, thought his heeles his best safetie, and tooke him to a loaft adjoyning to the garden, whether rosader pursued him hotlie. saladine, afraide of his brothers furie, cried out to him thus: rosader, be not so rash: i am thy brother and thine elder, and if i have done thee wrong ile make thee amendes: revenge not anger in blood, for so shalt thou staine the vertue of old sir john bourdeaux; say wherein thou art discontent and thou shalt bee satisfied. brothers frownes ought not to be periodes of wrath: what, man, looke not so sowerly; i know we shalbe friendes, and better friends then we have been. for, amantium ira amoris redintegratio est. these wordes appeased the choller of rosader (for he was of a milde and curteous nature) so that hee layde downe his weapons, and upon the faith of a gentleman assured his bro- ther hee would offer him no prejudice: wherupon saladyne came down, and after a little parley they imbraced eache other and became friends; and saladyne promising rosader the restitution of all his lands, and what favour els (quoth he) any waies my ability or the nature of a brother may per- forme, upon these sugred reconciliations they went into the house arme in arme togither, to the great content of all the old servants of sir john of bourdeaux. thus continued the pad hidden in the strawe, til it chaunced that torismond, king of france, had appointed for his pleasure a day of wrastling and of tournament to busie his commons heades, least, being idle, their thoughts should runne uppon more serious matters, and call to remembrance their old banished king. a champion there was to stand against all commers, a norman, a man of tall stature and of great strength; so valiant, that in many such conflicts he alwaies bare away the victorie, not onely eu phues golden legacie. overthrowing them which hee incountred, but often with the weight of his bodie killing them outright. saladyne hearing of this, thinking now not to let the ball fal to the ground, but to take opportunitie by the forehead, first by secret meanes convented with the norman, and procured him with rich rewards to sweare, that if rosader came within his clawes hee would never more returne to quarrel with sala- dyne for his possessions. the norman desirous of pelfe, as (quis nisi mentis inops oblatum respuit aurum) taking great gifts for litle gods, tooke the crownes of saladyne to performe the stratagem. having thus the champion tied to his vilan- ous determination by oath, hee prosecuted the intent of his purpose thus:—he went to yoong rosader (who in all his thoughts reacht at honour, and gazed no lower then vertue commanded him), and began to tel him of this tournament and wrastling, how the king should bee there, and all the chiefe peeres of france, with all the beautiful damosels of the countrey. now, brother (quoth hee) for the honor of sir john of bourdeaux, our renowned father, to famous that house that never hath bin found without men approoved in chivalrie, shewe thy resolution to be peremptorie. for my- selfe thou knowest, though i am eldest by birth, yet never having attempted any deedes of armes, i am yongest to per- forme any martial exploytes, knowing better how to survey my lands then to charge my launce: my brother fernandyne hee is at paris poring on a fewe papers, having more insight into sophistrie and principles of philosophie, then anie war- lyke indeveurs; but thou, rosader, the youngest in yeares but the eldest in valour, art a man of strength, and darest doo what honour allowes thee. take thou my fathers launce, his sword, and his horse, and hye thee to the tournament, and either there valiantly cracke a speare, or trie with the nor- man for the palme of activitie. the words of saladyne were but spurres to a free horse, for hee had scarce uttered them, ere rosader tooke him in his armes, taking his proffer so kindly, that hee promised in what hee might to requite his c eu phues golden legacie. curtesie. the next morrow was the day of the tournament, and rosader was so desirous to shew his heroycal thoughts that he past the night with litle sleep; but assoone as phoebus had valled the curteine of the night, and made aurora blush with giving her the bezoles labres in her silver couch, he gat him up, and taking his leave of his brother, mounted himselfe towardes the place appoynted, thinking every mile ten leagues til he came there. but leaving him so desirous of the journey, to torismond, the king of france, who hav- ing by force banished gerismond, their lawful king that lived as an outlaw in the forest of arden, sought now by all meanes to keep the french busied with all sports that might breed their content. amongst the rest he had appointed this solemne turnament, wherunto hee in most solemne maner resorted, accompanied with the twelve peers of france, who, rather for fear then love, graced him with the shew of their dutiful favours. to feede their eyes, and to make the be- holders pleased with the sight of most rare and glistring ob- jects, he had appoynted his owne daughter alinda to be there, and the fair rosalynd, daughter unto gerismond, with al the beautifull dammoselles that were famous for their features in all france. thus in that place did love and war triumph in a simpa- thy; for such as were martial might use their launce to be renowned for the excellency of their chevalrie, and suche as were amorous might glut themselves with gazing on the beauties of most heavenly creatures. as every mans eye had his several survey, and fancie was partial in their lookes, yet all in general applauded the admirable riches that nature bestowed on the face of rosalynde; for uppon her cheekes there seemed a battaile betweene the graces, who should be- stow most favours to make her excellent. the blush that gloried luna, when she kist the shepheard on the hilles of latmos, was not tainted with such a pleasant dye, as the ver- milion flourisht on the silver hue of rosalyndes countenance: her eyes were lyke those lampes that make the wealthie euphues golden legacie. covert of the heavens more gorgious, sparkling favour and disdaine; courteous and yet coye, as if in them venus had placed all her amorets, and diana all her chastitie. the tra- melles of her hayre, foulded in a call of golde, so farre surpast the burnisht glister of the mettal, as the sunne doth the meanest starre in brightnesse: the tresses that foldes in the browes of apollo were not halfe so rich to the sight, for in her hayres it seemed love had laide herselfe in ambush, to intrappe the proudest eye that durst gaze uppon their excellence. what should i neede to decipher her particular beauties, when by the censure of all shee was the paragon of all earthly perfection? this rosalynd sat, i say, with alinda as a be- holder of these sportes, and made the cavaliers cracke their lances with more courage: many deedes of knighthood that day were performed, and many prizes were given according to their several desertes. at last when the tournament ceased, the wrastling beganne, and the norman presented himselfe as a chalenger against all commers, but hee looked lyke hercules when he advaunst himselfe agaynst achelotis, so that the furie of his countenaunce amazed all that durst at- tempte to incounter with him in any deed of activitie: til at last a lustie francklin of the country came with two tall men, that were his sonnes, of good lyniaments and comely personage: the eldest of these dooing his obeysance to the king entered the lyst, and presented himselfe to the norman, who straight coapt with him, and as a man that would tri- umph in the glorie of his strength, roused himselfe with such furie, that not onely hee gave him the fall, but killed him with the weight of his corpulent personage; which the yoonger brother seeing, lepte presently into the place, and thirstie after the revenge, assayled the norman with such valour, that at the first incounter hee brought him to his knees: which repulst so the norman, that recovering him- selfe, feare of disgrace doubling his strength, hee stept so stearnely to the yoong francklin, that taking him up in his armes hee threw him against the grounde so violently, that hee c eu phues golden legacie. broake his necke, and so ended his dayes with his brother. at this unlookt for massacre the people murmured, and were all in a deepe passion of pittie; but the franklin, father unto these, never chaunged his countenance, but as a man of a cou- ragious resolution tooke up the bodies of his sonnes without shewe of outward discontent. all this while stood rosader and sawe this tragedie; who, noting the undoubted vertue of the francklins minde, alight- ed of from his horse, and presently sat downe on the grasse, and commanded his boy to pul off his bootes, making him ready to try the strength of this champion. being furnished as he would, he clapt the francklin on the shoulder and said thus. bold yeoman, whose sonnes have ended the tearme of their yeares with honour, for that i see thou scornest fortune with patience, and thwartest the injury of fate with content in brooking the death of thy sonnes, stand awhile, and either see me make a third in their tragedie, or else revenge their fal with an honourable triumph. the francklin, seeing so goodly a gentleman to give him such curteous comfort, gave him hartie thankes, with promise to pray for his happy suc- cesse. with that rosader vailed bonnet to the king, and lightly leapt within the lists, where noting more the companie then the combatant, he cast his eye upon the troupe of ladies that glistered there lyke the starres of heaven; but at last love willing to make him as amourous as hee was valiant, presented him with the sight of rosalynd, whose admirable beautie so inveagled the eye of rosader, that forgetting him- selfe, hee stood and fedde his lookes on the favour of rosalyndes face; which shee perceiving, blusht, which was such a doubling of her beauteous excellence, that the bashful redde of aurora at the sight of unacquainted phaeton, was not halfe so glorious. the normane seeing this young gentleman fettered in the lookes of the ladyes drave him out of his memento with a shake by the shoulder. rosader looking backe with an an- grie frowne, as if hee had been wakened from some pleasaunt eu phues golden legacie. dreame, discovered to all by the furye of his countenance that hee was a man of some high thoughts: but when they all noted his youth, and the sweetnesse of his visage, with a general applause of favours, they grieved that so goodly a yoong man should venture in so base an action; but seeing it were to his dishonour to hinder him from his enterprise, they wisht him to bee graced with the palme of victorie. after rosader was thus called out of his memento by the norman, he roughly clapt to him with so fierce an incounter, that they both fel to the ground, and with the violence of the fal were forced to breathe : in which space the norman called to minde by all tokens, that this was hee whome saladyne had appoynted him to kil; which conjecture made him stretch every limbe, and try every sinew, that working his death hee might recover the golde which so bountifuly was promised him. on the contrary part, rosader while he breathed was not idle, but stil cast his eye upon rosalynde, who to in- courage him with a favour, lent him such an amorous looke, as might have made the most coward desperate: which glance of rosalynd so fiered the passionate desires of rosader, that turning to the noman hee ranne upon him and braved him with a strong encounter. the norman received him as valiantly, that there was a sore combat, hard to judge on whose side fortune would be prodigal. at last rosader, calling to minde the beautie of his new mistresse, the fame of his fathers honours, and the disgrace that should fal to his house by his misfortune, rowsed himselfe and threw the nor- man against the ground, falling uppon his chest with so will- ing a weight, that the norman yelded nature her due, and rosader the victorie. *- the death of this champion, as it highly contented the francklin, as a man satisfied with revenge, so it drue the king and all the peeres into a great admiration, that so yoong yeares and so beautiful a personage should contain such martiall excellence; but when they knew him to bee the yoongest sonne of sir john of bourdeaux, the king rose from eu phues golden legacie. his seat and imbraced him, and the peeres intreated him with all favourable curtesie, commending both his valour and his vertues, wishing him to go forward in such haughtie deeds, that hee might attaine to the glory of his fathers honour- able fortunes. as the king and lordes graced him with embracyng, so the ladyes favoured him with theyr lookes, especially rosalynd, whome the beautie and valour of rosader had already touched: but she accounted love a toye, and fancie a momen- tary passion, that as it was taken in with a gaze, might be shaken off with a winke, and therefore feared not to dally in the flame; and to make rosader know she affected him, tooke from her necke a jewel, and sent it by a page to the yong gentleman. the prize that venus gave to paris was not halfe so pleasing to the trojan as this jemme was to rosader; for if fortune had sworne to make himself sole monarke of the world, he would rather have refused such dignitie, then have lost the jewel sent him by rosalynd. to return hir with the like he was unfurnished, and yet that he might more than in his lookes discover his affections, hee stept into a tent, and taking pen and paper writ this fancie:— two sunnes at once from one faire heaven there shinde, ten braunches from two boughes tipt, all with roses, pure lockes more golden than is golde refinde, two pearled rowes that natures pride incloses; two mounts faire marble white, downe-soft and dainty, a snow died orbe, where love increast by pleasure full wofull makes my heart, and body faintie: hir faire (my woe) exceeds all thought and measure. in lines confusde my lucklesse harme appeareth, whom sorrow clowdes, whom pleasant smiling cleareth. this sonnet he sent to rosalynd, which when she read shee blusht, but with a sweet content in that she perceived love had alotted her so amorous a servant. leaving her to her intertained fancies, againe to rosader, who triumphing in the glorie of this conquest, accompanyed with a troupe of eu phues golden legacie. yoong gentlemen that were desirous to be his familiars, went home to his brother saladynes, who was walking before the gates, to heare what successe his brother rosader should have, assuring himself of his death, and devising how with dis- simuled sorrowe to celebrate his funerals. as he was in his thought, he cast up his eye, and sawe where rosader re- turned with the garland on his head, as having won the prize, accompanied with a crue of boon companions: greeved at this, he stepped in and shut the gate. rosader seeing this, and not looking for such unkind entertainment, blusht at the disgrace, and yet smothering his griefe with a smile, he turned to the gentlemen, and desired them to hold his brother excused, for he did not this upon any malitious intent or ni- gardize, but being brought up in the country, he absented himselfe as not finding his nature fit for such youthful com- pany. thus he sought to shadow abuses proffered him by his brother, but in vaine, for hee could by no meanes be suf- fered to enter: wherupon he ran his foot against the doore, and brake it open, drawing his sword, and entering boldly into the hall, where he found none (for all were fled) but one adam spencer, an english man, who had beene an old and trustie servant to sir john of bourdeaux. he for the love hee bare to his deceased maister, favored the part of rosader, and gave him and his such entertainment as he could. ro- sader gave him thanks, and looking about, seeing the hall empty, saide, gentlemen, you are welcome; frolike and be merry: you shall be sure to have wine enough, whatsoever your fare be. i telyou, cavaliers, my brother hath in his house five tunne of wine, and as long as that lasteth, ibeshrew him that spares his lyquor. with that he burst open the buttery doore, and with the helpe of adam spencer covered the tables, and set downe whatsoever he could find in the house; but what they wanted in meat, was supplyed with drinke, yet had they royall cheare, and withal such hartie welcome as would have made the coursest meats seeme delicates. after they had feasted and frolickt it twise or thrise with eu phues golden legacie. an upsey freeze, they all tooke leave of rosader and departed. assoone as they were gone, rosader growing impatient of the abuse, drewe his sword, and swore to be revenged on the discourteous saladyne; yet by the meanes of adam spencer, who sought to continue friendshippe and amity betwixt the brethren, and through the flattering submission of saladyne, they were once againe reconciled, and put up all forepassed injuries with a peaceable agreement, living together for a good space in such brotherly love, as did not onely rejoice the servantes, but made all the gentlemen and bordering neigh- bours glad of such friendly concord. saladyne, hiding fire in the straw, and concealing a poysoned hate in a peaceable countenance, yet deferring the intent of his wrath till fitter oportunity, he shewed himselfe a great favorer of his bro- thers vertuous endevors: where, leaving them in this happy league, let us returne to rosalynd. rosalynd returning home from the tryumph, after she waxed solitary love presented her with the idea of rosaders perfection, and taking her at discovert stroke her so deepe, as she felte her selfe grow passing passionate. shee began to cal to minde the comlinesse of his person, the honor of his parents, and the vertues that, excelling both, made him so gra- tious in the eies of every one. sucking in thus the hony of love by imprinting in her thoughts his rare qualities, shee began to surfet with the contemplation of his vertuous condi- tions; but when she cald to remembrance her present estate, and the hardnesse of her fortunes, desire began to shrink, and fancie to vale bonnet, that betweene a chaos of confused thoughts she began to debate with herselfe in this maner. rosalynds passion. infortunate rosalynde, whose misfortunes are more than thy yeares, and whose passions are greater then thy patience the blossoms of thy youth are mixt with the frosts of envy, and the hope of thy ensuing fruits perish in the bud. thy eu phues golden legacie. father is by torismond banisht from the crown, and thou, the unhappy daughter of a king detained captive, living as dis- quieted in thy thoughts, as thy father discontented in his exile. ah rosalynd, what cares wait upon a crown! what griefs are incident to dignity what sorrows haunt royal pallaces ! the greatest seas have the sorest stormes, the highest birth subject to the most bale, and of all trees the cedars soonest shake with the wind : smal currents are ever calme, lowe valleys not scorcht in any lightnings, nor base men tyed to anie baleful prejudice. fortune flies, and if she touch poverty it is with hir heele, rather disdaining their want with a frown, then envying their welth with disparagement. oh rosalynd, hadst thou beene born low, thou hadst not falne so high, and yet beeing great of blood thine honour is more, if thou brookest misfortune with patience. suppose i contrary fortune with content, yet fates unwilling to have me any waies happy, have forced love to set my thoughts on fire with fancie. love, rosalynd! becommeth it women in dis- tresse to thinke on love! tush, desire hath no respect of persons: cupid is blind and shooteth at random, assoone hitting a ragge as a robe, and piercing assoone the bosome of a captive, as the brest of a libertine. thou speakest it, poore rosalynd, by experience; for being every way distrest, sur- charged with cares, and overgrowne with sorrowes, yet amidst the heape of all these mishaps, love hath lodged in thy heart the perfection of yong rosader, a man every way absolute as wel for his inward life, as for his outward lynia- ments, able to content the eye with beauty, and the eare with the report of his vertue. but consider, rosalynde, his fortunes, and thy present estate: thou art poore and without patrymony, and yet the daughter of a prince; he a yonger brother, and voyd of such possessions as eyther might main- taine thy dignities or revenge thy fathers injuries. and hast thou not learned this of other ladies, that lovers cannot live by looks! that womens ears are sooner content with a pound of give me, then a dram of heare me ! that gold is eu phues golden legacie. sweeter than eloquence? that love is a fire, and wealth is the fewell that venus coffer should be ever ful! then, rosalynd, seeing rosader is poore, thinke him lesse beautiful, because hee is in want, and account his vertues but qualities of course, for that he is not indued with wealth. doth not horace tell thee what methode is to be used in love! querenda pecunia primum, post nummos virtus. tush, rosalynd, be not over rash: leape not before thou looke: either love such a one as may with his landes purchase thy libertie, or els love not at all. chuse not a faire face with an empty purse, but say as most women use to say, sinihil attuleris, ibis homere foras. why, rosalynd, can such base thoughts harbour in such high beauties? can the degree of a princesse, the daughter of gerismond harbour such servile conceites, as to prize gold more than honour, or to measure a gentleman by his wealth, not by his vertues no, rosalynd, blush at thy base resolu- tion, and say, if thou lovest, eyther rosader or none. and why? because rosader is both beautiful and vertuous. smiling to her selfe to thinke of her new intertained passions, taking up her lute that lay by her, she warbled out this dittie. rosalynds madrigall. love in my bosome like a bee doth sucke his sweete: now with his wings he playes with me, now with his feete. within mine eyes he makes his nest, his bed amidst my tender brest: my kisses are his dayly feast, and yet he robs me of my rest. ah, wanton, will ye? eu phues golden legacie. and if i sleepe, then pearcheth he with pretty flight, and makes his pillow of my knee the livelong night. strike i my lute, he tunes the string; he musicke playes if so i sing. he lends me every lovely thing, yet cruell he my heart doth sting: whist, wanton, still ye! else i with roses every day will whip you hence, and binde you, when you long to play, for your offence. ile shut mine eyes to keep you in, ile make you fast it for your sinne, ile count your power not worth a pinne. alas, what hereby shall i winne, if he gainsay me? what if i beate the wanton boy with many a rod? he wil repay me with annoy, because a god. then sit thou safely on my knee, and let thy bower my bosome be; lurke in mine eies, i like of thee, o cupid, so thou pittie me, spare not but play thee. scarce had rosalynde ended her madrigale, before toris- mond came in with his daughter alinda and many of the peers of france, who were enamoured of her beauty; which torismond perceiving, fearing least her perfection might be the beginning of his prejudice, and the hope of his fruit ende in the beginning of her blossomes, he thought to banish her from the court: for, quoth he to himselfe, her face is so ful of favour, that it pleads pittie in the eye of every man: her beauty is so heavenly and devine, that she wil prove to me as helen did to priam: some one of the peeres wil ayme at her love, end the marriage, and then in his wives right at- tempt the kingdome. to prevent therefore had i wist in eu phues golden legacie. all these actions, shee tarryes not about the court, but shall (as an exile) eyther wander to her father, or else seeke other fortunes. in this humour, with a sterne countenance ful of wrath, he breathed out this censure unto her before the peers, that charged her that that night shee were not seene about the court: for (quoth he) i have heard of thy aspiring speeches, and intended treasons. this doome was strange unto rosa- lynd, and presently covred with the shield of her innocence, she boldly brake out in reverent tearms to have cleared her- self; but torismond would admit of no reason, nor durst his lords plead for rosalynd, although her beauty had made some of them passionate, seeing the figure of wrath pourtrayed in his brow. standing thus all mute, and rosalynd amazed, alinda, who loved her more than herself, with grief in her hart and teares in her eyes, falling down on her knees, began to intreat her father thus. alindas oration to her father in defence of rosalynde. if (mighty torismond) i offend in pleading for my friend, let the law of amitie crave pardon for my boldnesse; for where there is depth of affection, there friendship alloweth a priviledge. rosalynd and i have beene fostered up from our infancies, and noursed under the harbour of our conversing togeather with such private familiarities, that custome had wrought an unyon of our nature, and the sympathie of our affections such a secret love, that we have two bodies and one soule. then marvell not (great torismond) if, seeing my friend distrest, i finde myselfe perplexed with a thousand sorrowes; for her vertuous and honourable thoughts (which are the glories that maketh women excellent) they be such as may challenge love, and race out suspition. her obedience to your majestie i referre to the censure of your owne eye, that since her fathers exile hath smothered al griefs with pa- tience, and in the absence of nature, hath honored you with all euphues golden legacie. dutie, as her owne father by nouriture, not in word uttering any discontent, nor in thought as (far as conjecture may reach) hammering on revenge; only in all her actions seeking to please you, and to win my favor. her wisdome, silence, chas- titie, and other such rich qualities, ineed not decypher; onely it rests for me to conclude in one word, that she is innocent. if then, fortune who tryumphs in variety of miseries, hath pre- sented some envious person (as minister of her intended stra- tagem) to tainte rosalynde with any surmise of treason, let him be brought to her face, and confirme his accusation by witnesses; which proved, let her die, and alinda wil execute the massacre. if none can avouch any confirmed relation of her intent, use justice, my lord, it is the glory of a king, and let her live in your wonted favour; for if you banish her, myselfe, as copartner of her harde fortunes, will participate in exile some part of her extremities. torismond (at this speech of alinda) covered his face with such a frown, as tyranny seemed to sit triumphant in his forhead, and checkt her up with such taunts, as made the lords (that only were hearers) to tremble. proud girle (quoth he) hath my looks made thee so light of toong, or my favours incouraged thee to bee so forward, that thou darest presume to preach after thy father hath not my yeares more experi- ence than thy youth, and the winter of mine age deeper in- sight into civil policie, than the prime of thy florishing dayes! the olde lion avoides the toyles, where the yoong one leapes into the nette: the care of age is provident and foresees much: suspition is a vertue, where a man holdes his enemie in his bosome. thou, fond girle, measurest all by present affection, and as thy heart loves, thy thoughts cen- sure; but if thou knowest that in liking rosalynd thou hatchest up a bird to pecke out thine owne eyes, thou wouldst intreat as much for hir absence as now thou delightest in her presence. but why doe i alleadge policie to thee! sit you downe, huswife, and fall to your needle: if idlenes make you so wanton, or libertie so malipert, i can quickly tye you to a eu phues golden legacie. sharper taske. and you (mayd) this night be packing, eyther into arden to your father, or whither best it shall content your humour, but in the court you shall not abide. this rigorous replie of torismond nothing amazed alinda, for stil she prosecuted her plea in the defence of rosalynd, wishing her father (if his censure might not be reverst) that he would appoynther partner of her exile; which if he refused, eyther she would by some secret meanes steale out and followe her, or else ende her dayes with some desperate kind of death. when torismond heard his daughter so resolute, his heart was so hardened against her, that he set down a definitive and peremptory sentence, that they should both be banished, which presently was done, the tyrant rather choosing to hazard the losse of his onely child than any wayes to put in question the state of his kingdome; so suspitious and fearfull is the conscience of an usurper. wel, although his lords perswaded him to retaine his owne daughter, yet his resolu- tion might not be reverst, but both of them must away from the court without eyther more company or delay. in hee went with great melancholy, and left these two ladyes alone. rosalynd waxed very sad, and sate downe and wept. alinda she smiled, and sitting by her friend began thus to comfort her. alindas comfort to perplexed rosalynd. why how now, rosalynd, dismayd with a frowne of con- trary fortune? have i not oft heard thee say, that hygh mindes were discovered in fortunes contempt, and heroycal seene in the depth of extremities? thou wert wont to tel others that complained of distresse, that the sweetest salve for misery was patience, and the onely medicine for want that pretious implaister of content. being such a good phisi- tion to others, wilt thou not minister receipts to thy selfe' but perchance thou wilt say, consulenti nunquam caput doluit. eu phues golden legacie. why then, if the patients that are sicke of this disease can finde in themselves neither reason to perswade, nor art to cure, yet (rosalynd) admit of the counsaile of a friend, and applie the salves that may appease thy passions. if thou grievest that being the daughter of a prince, and envy thwarteth thee with such hard exigents, thinke that royaltie is a faire marke, that crowns have crosses when mirth is in cottages; that the fairer the rose is, the sooner it is bitten with caterpillers; the more orient the pearle is, the more apt to take a blemish; and the greatest birth, as it hath most honour, so it hath much envy. if then fortune aymeth at the fairest, be patient rosalynd, for first by thine exile thou goest to thy father: nature is higher prised then wealth, and the love of ones parents ought to bee more pretious then all dignities. why then doth my rosalynd grieve at the frowne of torismond, who by offering her a prejudice proffers her a greater pleasure! and more (mad lasse) to be melancholy, when thou hast with thee alinda, a friend who wil be a faithful copartner of althy misfortunes; who hath left her father to follow thee, and chooseth rather to brooke al ex- tremities then to forsake thy presence. what, rosalynd, solamen miseris socios habuisse doloris. cheerly, woman: as wee have been bedfellowes in royaltie, we wil be felow mates in povertie: i wil ever be thy alinda, and thou shalt ever rest to me rosalynd; so shall the world canonize our friendship, and speake of rosalynd and alinda, as they did of pilades and orestes. and if ever fortune smile, and we returne to our former honour, then folding our selves in the sweete of our friendship, we shal merily say (calling to mind our forepassed miseries) olim haec meminisse juvabit. at this rosalynd began to comfort her, and after shee had wept a fewe kinde teares in the bosome of her alinda, shee eu phufs golden legacie. gave her heartie thankes, and then they sat them downe to consult how they should travel. alinda grieved at nothing but that they might have no man in their company, saying, it would bee their greatest prejudice in that two women went wandring without either guide or attendant. tush (quoth rosalynd) art thou a woman, and hast not a sodeine shift to prevent a misfortune i (thou seest) am of a tall stature, and would very wel become the person and apparel of a page: thou shalt bee my mistresse, and i wil play the man so properly, that (trust me) in what company so ever i come i wil not be discovered. i will buy me a suite, and have my rapier very handsomly at my side, and if any knave offer wrong, your page wil shew him the poynt of his weapon. at this alinda smiled, and upon this they agreed, and presently gathered up al their jewels, which they trussed up in a casket, and rosalynd in all hast pro- vided her of robes; and alinda being called aliena, and rosalynd ganimede, they traveiled along the vineyardes, and by many by-waies, at last got to the forrest side, where they traveiled by the space of two or three dayes without seeing anye creature, being often in danger of wilde beasts, and payned with many passionate sorrowes. now the black oxe began to tread on their feet, and alinda thought of her wonted royaltie; but when she cast her eyes on her rosalynd, she thought every daunger a step to honour. passing thus on along, about midday they came to a fountaine, compast with groave of cipresse trees, so cunningly and curiously planted, as if some goddesse had intreated nature in that place to make her an arbour. by this fountaine sat aliena and her ganimede, and forth they pulled such victuals as they had, and fedde as merely as if they had been in paris with all the kings delicates, aliena onely grieving that they could not so much as meete with a shepheard to discourse them the way to some place where they might make their abode. at last ganimede casting up his eye espied where on a tree was ingraven certaine verses; which assoone as he espied, eu phues golden legacie. he cryed out, be of good cheare, mistresse: i spie the figures of men; for heere in these trees bee ingraven certaine verses of shepheards, or some other swaines that inhabite here about. with that aliena start up joyful to hear these newes, and looked, where they found carved in the barke of a pine tree this passion. montanus passion. hadst thou been borne wher as perpetuall cold makes tanais hard, and mountaines silver old: had i complainde unto a marble stone, or to the flouds bewraide my bitter mone, i then could beare the burthen of my griefe : but even the pride of countries at thy birth, whilste heavens did smile, did new aray the earth with flowers chiefe; yet thou, the flower of beautie blessed borne, hast pretie lookes, but all attirde in scorne. had i the power to weep sweet mirrhas teares, or by my plaints to pearce repining eares: hadst thou the heart to smile at my complaint, to scorne the woes that doth my hart attaint, i then could beare the burthen of my griefe: but not my teares, but truth with thee prevailes, and seeming sowre my sorowes thee assailes: yet small releife; for if thou wilt thou art of marble hard, and if thou please my suite shall soone be heard. no doubt (quoth aliena) this poesie is the passion of some perplexed shepheard, that being enamoured of some faire and beautifull shepheardesse, suffered some sharpe repulse, and therfore complained of the crueltie of his mistresse. you may see (quoth ginimede) what mad cattel you women be, whose harts sometimes are made of adamant that wil touch with no impression, and sometime of wax that is fit for every forme: they delight to be courted, and then they glory d eu phues golden legacie. to seeme coy, and when they are most desired then they freese with disdaine: and this fault is so common to the sex, that you see it painted out in the shepheardes passions, who found his mistres as froward as he was enamoured. and i pray you (quoth aliena) if your robes were off, what mettal are you made of that you are so satyrical against women? is it not a foule bird defiles his own nest? beware (ganimede) that rosader heare you not, if hee doe, perchance you wil make him leape so farre from love, that he wil anger every vaine in your heart. thus (quoth ganimede) i keepe deco- rum: i speak now as i am aliena's page, not as i am geris- monds daughter; for put mee but into a peticoat, and i wil stand in defiance to the uttermost, that women are curteous, constant, vertuous, and what not. stay there (quoth aliena) and no more words, for yonder be caracters graven uppon the barke of the tall beech tree. let us see (quoth ganimede); and with that they read a fancy written to this effect. first shall the heavens want starry light, the seas be robbed of their waves, the day want sunne, and sunne want bright, the night want shade, the dead mens graves; the april flowers, and leafe, and tree, before i false my faith to thee. first shall the tops of highest hils by humble plaines be overpride; and poets scorne the muses quils, and fish forsake the water glide, and iris loose her coloured weed, before i faile thee at thy need. first direful hate shall turne to peace, and love relent in deepe disdaine, and poets scorne the muses quils, and fish forsake the water glide. and iris loose her coloured weed, before i faile thee at thy need. eu phues golden legacie. first direfull hate shall turn to peace, and love relent in deep disdain, and death his fatall stroake shall cease, and envy pitie every paine; and pleasure mourn and sorow smile, before i talke of any guile. first time shall stay his staylesse race, and winter blesse his browes with corne; and snow bemoysten julies face, and winter spring, and summer mourn, before my pen, by helpe of fame, cease to recite thy sacred name. mont anus. no doubt (quoth ganimede) this protestation grew from one full of passions. i am of that minde too (quoth aliena) but see, i pray, when poore women seeke to keepe themselves chaste, how men woo them with many fained promises; al- luring with sweet words as the syrens, and after prooving as trothlesse as aeneas. thus promised demophoon to his phillis, but who at last grew more false? the reason was (quoth ganimede) that they were womens sonnes, and tooke that fault of their mother, for if man had growne from man, as adam did from the earth, men had never been troubled with inconstancie. leave off (quoth aliena) to taunt thus bit- terly, or els ile pull off your pages apparell, and whip you (as venus doth her wantons) with nettles. so you will (quoth ganimede) perswade mee to flattery, and that needs not; but come (seeing we have found here by this fount the tract of shepheardes by their madrigalles and roundelaies) let us forwarde; for either wee shall finde some foldes, sheep- coates, or els some cottages wherin for a day or two to rest. content (quoth aliena) and with that they rose up, and marched forward till towards the even, and then comming into a faire valley (compassed with mountaines, whereon grew many pleasaunt shrubbes) they descrie where two flockes of sheepe did feed. then, looking about, they might perceive where an old shepheard sate (and with him a yoong swaine) d euphues golden legacie. / under a covert most pleasantly scituated. the ground where they sate was diapred with floras riches, as if she ment to wrap tellus in the glorie of her vestments: round about in the forme of an amphitheater were most curiously planted pine trees, interseamed with lymons and cytrons, which with the thicknesse of their boughes so shadowed the place, that phoebus could not prie into the secret of that arbour; so united were the tops with so thick a closure, that venus might there in her jollitie have dallied unseene with her deer- est paramour. fast by (to make the place more gorgious) was there a fount so christalline and cleare, that it seemed diana with her driades and hemadriades had that spring, as the secret of all their bathings. in this glorious arbour satte these two shepheardes (seeing their sheepe feede) play- ing on their pipes many pleasant tunes, and from musicke and melodie falling into much amorous chat. drawing more nigh we might descry the countenance of the one to be full of sorrow, his face to bee the very pourtraiture of discontent, and his eyes full of woes, that living he seemed to dye; we (to heare what these were) stole privily behinde the thicke, where we overheard this discourse. a pleasant eglog between montanus and coridon. ſr. coridon. say, shepheards boy, what makes thee greet so sore? why leaves thy pipe his pleasure and delight? yoong are thy yeares, thy cheeks with roses dight: then sing for joy (sweet swain) and sigh no more. this milk-white poppy, and this climbing pine both promise shade; then sit thee downe and sing, and make these woods with pleasant notes to ring, till phoebus daine all westward to decline. fu phu es golden legaci e. montanus. ah (coridon) unmeet is melody to him whom proud contempt hath overborn: slain are my joyes by phoebus bitter scorn; far hence my weale, and nere my jeopardy. loves burning brand is couched in my breast, making a phoenix of my faintfull hart: and though his fury doo inforce my smart, ay blyth am i to honour his behest. preparde to woes, since so my phoebe wils, my lookes dismaid, since phoebe will disdain; i banish blisse and welcome home my pain: so stream my teares as showers from alpine hils. in errors maske i blindfold judgements eye, i fetter reason in the snares of lust, i seeme secure, yet know not how to trust; i live by that which makes me living dye. devoyd of rest, companion of distresse, plague to myselfe, consumed by my thought, how may my voyce or pipe in tune be brought, since i am reft of solace and delight? coridon. ah, lorrell lad, what makes thee herry love? a sugred harme, a poyson full of pleasure, a painted shrine full-fild with rotten treasure; a heaven in shew, a hell to them that prove. a gaine in seeming, shadowed stil with want, a broken staffe which follie doth upholde, a flower that fades with everie frostie colde, an orient rose sprong from a withred plant. a minutes joy to gaine a world of griefe, a subtil net to snare the idle minde, a seeing scorpion, yet in seeming blinde, a poore rejoice, a plague without reliefe. eu phues golden legacie. for thy, montanus, follow mine arreede, (whom age hath taught the traines that fancy useth) leave foolish love, for beautie wit abuseth, and drownes (by folly) vertues springing seede. montanus. so blames the childe the flame, because it burnes, and bird the snare, because it doth intrap, and fooles true love, because of sorry hap, and saylers cursse the ship that overturnes. but would the childe forbeare to play with flame, and birds beware to trust the flowlers gin, and fooles foresee before they fall and sin, and maisters guide their ships in better frame; the childe would praise the fire, because it warmes, and birds rejoyce to see the fowler faile, and fooles prevent before their plagues prevaile, and saylers blesse the barke that saves from harmes. ah, coridon, though many be thy yeares, and crooked elde hath some experience left, yet is thy mind of judgement quite bereft, in view of love, whose power in me appeares. the ploughman litle wots to turn the pen, or bookeman skils to guide the ploughmans cart; nor can the cobler count the tearmes of art, nor base men judge the thoughts of mighty men. nor withered age (unmeet for beauties guide, uncapable of loves impression) discourse of that whose choyce possession may never to so base a man be tied. but i (whom nature makes of tender mold, and youth most pliant yeelds to fancies fire) do build my haven and heaven on sweet desire, on sweet desire, more deere to me than gold. thinke i of love, o, how my lines aspire how hast the muses to imbrace my browes, and hem my temples in with lawrell bowes, and fill my braines with chast and holy fire! eu phues golden legacie. then leave my lines their homely equipage, mounted beyond the circle of the sunne: amazed i read the stile when i have done, and herry love that sent that heavenly rage. of phoebe then, of phoebe then i sing, drawing the puritie of all the spheares, the pride of earth, or what in heaven appeares, her honoured face and fame to light to bring. in fluent numbers, and in pleasant vaines, i robbe both sea and earth of all their state, to praise her parts: i charme both time and fate, to bless the nymph that yeelds me love sicke paines. my sheepe are turnd to thoughts, whom froward will guydes in the restles laborynth of love; feare lends them pasture whereso ere they move, and by their death their life renueth still. my sheephooke is my pen, mine oaten reed my paper, where my many woes are written. thus silly swaine (with love and fancie bitten) i trace the plaines of paine in wofull weed. yet are my cares, my broken sleepes, my teares, my dreames, my doubts, for phoebe sweet to me: who wayteth heaven in sorrowes vale must be, and glory shines where daunger most appeares. then, coridon, although i blith me not, blame me not, man, since sorrow is my sweet : so willeth love, and phoebe thinkes it meet, and kind montanus liketh well his lot. coridon. oh, staylesse youth, by errour so misguided, where will proscribeth lawes to perfect wits, where reason mournes, and blame in triumph sits, and folly poysoneth all that time provided ! eu phues golden legacie. with wilfull blindnesse bleard, prepard to shame, prone to neglect occasion when she smiles: alas, that love, by fond and froward guiles, should make thee tract the path to endlesse blame! ah (my montanus) cursed is the charme, that hath bewitched so thy youthfull eyes. leave off in time to like these vanities, be forward to thy good, and fly thy harme. as many bees as hibla daily shields, as many frie as fleet on oceans face; as many heards as on the earth do trace, as many flowers as decke the fragrant fields: as many stars as glorious heaven contains, as many storms as wayward winter weepes, as many plagues as hell inclosed keepes, so many griefs in love, so many pains. suspitions, thoughts, desires, opinions, prayers, mislikes, misdeedes, fond joies, and fained peace, illusions, dreames, great paines, and small increase, vowes, hope, acceptance, scorns, and deepe despaires; truce, warre, and wo do wait at beauties gate; time lost, laments, reports, and privy grudge, and lust: fierce love is but a partiall judge, who yeelds for service shame, for friendship hate. montanus. all adder-like i stop mine eares (fond swaine) so charm no more, for i will never change. call home thy flocks betime that stragling range, for loe, the sunne declineth hence amaine. terentius. in amore haec insunt vitia: induciae, inimicitiae, bellum, pax rursum : incerta haec si tu postules, ratione certa fieri nihilo plus agas, quam fides operam, ut cum ratione insanias. eu phues golden legaci e. the shepheards having thus ended their eglogue, aliena stept with ganimede from behind the thicket; at whose sodayne sight the shepheards arose, and aliena saluted them thus: shepheards, all haile (for such wee deeme you by your flockes) and lovers, good lucke, (for such you seeme by your passions) our eyes being witnesse of the one, and our eares of the other. although not by love, yet by fortune, i am a dis- tressed gentlewoman, as sorrowfull as you are passionate, and as full of woes as you of perplexed thoughts. wandring this way in a forrest unknown, onely i and my page, wearied with travel, would faine have some place of rest. may you appoint us any place of quiet harbour (bee it never so meane) i shall bee thankfull to you, contented in my selfe, and gratefull to whosoever shall be mine host. coridon, hearing the gentle- woman spéake so courteously, returned her mildly and re- verently this answere. faire mistresse, wee returne you as hearty a welcome as you gave us a courteous salute. a shepheard i am, and this a lover, as watchful to please his wench as to feed his sheep: ful of fancies, and therefore, say i, full of follyes. exhort him i may, but perswade him i cannot; for love ad- mits neither of counsaile nor reason. but leaving him to his passions, if you be distrest, i am sorrowfull such a faire creature is crost with calamitie: pray for you i may, but releeve you i cannot. marry, if you want lodging, if you vouch to shrowd your selves in a shepheards cottage, my house for this night shall be your harbour. aliena thankt coridon greatly, and presently sate her downe and ganimede by hir, coridon looking earnestly upon her, and with a curious survey view- ing all her perfections applauded (in his thought) her excel- lence, and pitying her distresse was desirous to heare the cause of her misfortunes, began to question her thus. if i should not (faire damosell) occasionate offence, or renew your griefs by rubbing the scar, i would faine crave so much favour as to know the cause of your misfortunes, and why, and whither you wander with your page in so dan- eu phues golden legacie. gerous forest! aliena (that was as courteous as she was fayre) made this replie. shepheard, a friendly demaund ought never to be offensive, and questions of curtesie carry priviledged pardons in their forheads. know, therefore, to discover my fortunes were to renew my sorrowes, and i should, by discoursing my mishaps, but rake fire out of the cynders. therefore let this suffice, gentle shepheard: my dis- tress is as great as my travaile is dangerous, and i wander in this forrest to light on some cotage where i and my page may dwell: for i meane to buy some farme, and a flocke of sheepe, and so become a shepheardesse, meaning to live low, and content mee with a country life; for i have heard the swaines saye, that they drunke without suspition, and slept without care. marry, mistress, quoth coridon, if you meane so you came in good time, for my landlord intends to sell both the farme i tyll, and the flocke i keepe, and cheape you may have them for ready money: and for a shepheards life (oh mistres) did you but live a while in their content, you would say the court were rather a place of sorrow then of solace. here, mistresse, shal not fortune thwart you, but in mean misfortunes, as the losse of a few sheepe, which, as it breedes no beggery, so it can bee no extreame prejudice: the next yeare may mend all with a fresh increase. envy stirres not us, we covet not to climbe, our desires mount not above our degrees, nor our thoughts above our fortunes. care cannot harbour in our cottages, nor doe our homely couches know broken slumbers: as wee exceed not ill dyet, so we have inough to satisfie: and, mistresse, i have so much latin, satis est quod sufficit. by my trueth, shepheard (quoth aliena) thou makest mee in love with your countrey life, and therfore send for thy landlord, and i will buy thy farme and thy flocks, and thou shalt still under me bee overseer of them both : onely for pleasure sake i and my page will serve you, lead the flocks to the field, and folde them. thus will i live quiet, un- knowne, and contented. this newes so gladded the hart of eu phues golden legacie. coridon, that he should not be put out of his farme, that putting off his shepheards bonnet, he did hir all the reverence that he might. but all this while sate montanus in a muse, think- ing of the crueltie of his phoebe, whom he wooed long, but was in no hope to win. ganimede, who stil had the remem- brance of rosader in his thoughtes, tooke delight to see the poore shepheard passionate, laughing at love, that in all his actions was so imperious. at last, when she had noted his teares that stole down his cheeks, and his sighes that broke from the center of his heart, pittying his lament, she demanded of coridon why the yong shepheard looked so sorrowfull ah sir (quoth he) the boy is in love. why (quoth gani- mede) can shepheards love i (quoth montanus) and over- love, els shouldst not thou see me so pensive. love, i tell thee, is as pretious in a shepheards eye, as in the lookes of a king, and we cuntry swains intertaine fancie with as great delight as the proudest courtier doth affection. opportunity (that is the sweetest friend to venus) harboureth in our cot- tages, and loyaltie (the chiefest fealty that cupid requireth) is found more among shepheardes than higher degrees. then, aske not if suche silly swains can love what is the cause then, quoth ganimede, that love being so sweet to thee, thou lookest so sorrowfull ! because quoth montanus, the party beloved is froward, and having curtesie in her lookes, hold- eth disdaine in her tongues ende. what hath she, then, quoth aliena, in heart desire (i hope madame) quoth he, or else my hope lost: dispaire in love were death. as thus they chatted, the sunne being ready to set, and they not hav- ing folded their sheepe, coridon requested she would sit there with her page, till montanus and hee lodged theyr sheepe for that night. you shall goe quoth aliena, but first i will intreate montanus to sing some amorous sonnet that hee made when he hath beene deeply passionate. that i will quoth montanus, and with that he began thus. eu phues golden legacie. montanus sonnet. phoebe sate, sweet she sate, sweet sate phoebe when i saw her, white her brow, coy her eye: brow and eye how much you please me ! words i spent, sighes i sent; sighs and words could never draw hir. oh my love, thou art lost, since no sight could ever ease thee. phoebe sat by a fount, sitting by a fount i spide her: sweet hir touch, rare her voyce: touch and voyce what may distain you ? as she sung i did sigh, and by sighs whilst that i tride her, oh mine eyes! you did loose hir first sight whose want did pain you. phoebes flockes, white as wooll, yet were phoebes locks more whiter. phoebes eyes dovelike mild, dovelike eyes, both mild and cruell. montan sweares, in your lampes he will die for to delight her. phoebe yeeld, or i die. shall true hearts be fancies fuell? eu phues golden legacie. montanus had no sooner ended his sonnet, but coridon with a lowe curtesie rose up, and went with his fellow, and shut their sheepe in the folds; and after returning to aliena and ganimede, conducted them home weary to his poore cottage. by the waye there was much good chat with mon- tanus about his loves, hee resolving aliena that phoebe was the fairest shepherdice in al france, and that in his eye her beautie was equal with the nimphs. but, quoth he as of all stones the diamond is most cleerest, and yet most hard for the lapidorie to cut, as of all flowres the rose is the fairest, and yet guarded with the sharpest prickles: so of al our country lasses phoebe is the brightest, but the most coy of all to stoop unto desire. but let her take heed quoth he, i have heard of narcissus, who for his high disdain against love, perished in the folly of his owne love. with this they were at coridons cottage, where montanus parted from them, and they went in to rest. aliena and ganimede glad of so con- tented a shelter, made merry with the poore swaine; and though they had but countrey fare and course lodging, yet their welcome was so greate, and their cares so little, that they counted their diet delicate, and slept as soundly as if they had beene in the court of torismond. the next morne they lay long in bed, as wearyed with the toyle of unaccus- tomed travaile; but assoone as they got up, aliena resolved there to set up her rest, and by the helpe of coridon swapt a bargaine with his landslord, and so became mistres of the farme and the flocke, her selfe putting on the attyre of a shepherdesse, and ganimede of a yong swaine: everye day leading foorth her flockes, with such delight, that she held her exile happy, and thoght no content to the blisse of a countrey cottage. leaving her thus famous amongst the shep- heards of arden, againe to saladyne. when saladyne had a long while concealed a secrete reso- lution of revenge, and could no longer hide fire in the flax, nor oyle in the flame, (for envy is like lightning, that will appeare in the darkest fog) it chaunced on a morning very eu phues golden legacie early he cald up certain of his servants, and went with them to the chamber of rosader, which being open, hee entred with his crue, and surprised his brother when he was a sleepe, and bound him in fetters, and in the midst of his hall chained him to a post. rosader, amazed at this strange chaunce, began to reason with his brother about the cause of this so- daine extremity, wherin he had wrongd, and what fault he had committed worthy so sharpe a penance saladyne an- swered him onely with a look of disdain, and went his way, leaving poore rosader in a deepe perplexity; who, thus abused, fell into sundry passions, but no means of releefe could be had: wherupon for anger he grew into a discontented me- lancholy. in which humour he continued two or three daies without meat, insomuch that seeing his brother would give him no food, he fel into despaire of his life. which adam spencer, the old servant of sir john of bourdeaux, seeing, touched with the dutie and love hee ought to his olde maister, felt a remorse in his conscience of his sonnes mishap; and therefore, although saladyne had given a generall charge to his servants that none of them upon pain of death should give either meat or drink to rosader, yet adam spencer in the night rose se- cretly, and brought him such victuals as he could provide, and unlockt him, and set him at liberty. after rosader had well feasted himselfe, and felt he was loose, straight his thoughts aymed at revenge, and now (all being a sleepe) hee would have quit saladyne with the methode of his own mis- chiefe. but adam spencer did perswade him to the con- trary with these reasons. sir, quoth hee, be content, for this night go againe into your olde fetters, so shall you trie the faith of friends, and save the life of an old servant. tomorrow hath your brother invited al your kinred and allyes to a solempne breakefast, onely to see you, telling them all that you are mad, and faine to be tied to a poast. assoone as they come complain to them of the abuse proffered you by sala- dyne. if they redresse you, why so; but if they passe over your playntes sicco pede, and hold with the violence of your eu phues golden legacie. brother before your innocence, then thus: i will leave you unlockt that you may breake out at your pleasure, and at the ende of the hall shall you see stand a couple of good pollaxes, one for you and another for mee. when i give you a wincke, shake off your chaines, and let us plaie the men, and make havocke amongst them, drive them out of the house and maintaine possession by force of armes, till the king hath made a redresse of your abuses. these wordes of adam spencer so perswaded rosader, that he went to the place of his punishment, and stood there while the next morning. about the time appointed, came all the guestes bidden by saladyne, whom hee intreated with curteous and curious entertainment, as they all perceived their welcome to be great. the tables in the hall, where rosader was tyed, were covered, and saladyne bringing in his guests togither, shewed them where his brother was bound, and was inchainde as a man lunaticke. rosader made reply, and with some in- vectives made complaintes of the wrongs proffered him by saladyne, desiring they would in pitie seeke some meanes for his reliefe. but in vaine, they had stopt their eares with ulisses, that were his words never so forceable, he breathed onely his passions into the winde. they, carelesse, sat downe with saladyne to dinner, beeing very frolicke and pleasant, washing their heades well with wine. at last, when the fume of the grape had entered peale meale into their braines, they began in satyricall speeches to raile against rosader: which adam spencer no longer brooking, gave the signe, and rosader shaking off his chaines got a pollaxe in his hande, and flew amongst them with such violence and fury, that he hurt many, slew some, and drave his brother and the rest quite out of the house. seeing the coast cleare, he shut the doores, and being sore an hungred, and seeing such good victuals, he sat him downe with adam spencer, and such good fellowes as he knew were honest men, and there feasted themselves with such provision as saladyne had provided for his friends. eu phues golden legacie. after they had taken their repast, rosader rampierd up the house, least upon a sodeine his brother should raise some crew of his tennants, and surprise them unawares. but sala- dyne tooke a contrary course, and went to the sheriffe of the shire and made complaint of rosader, who giving credite to saladyne, in a determined resolution to revenge the gentle- mans wrongs, tooke with him five and twentie tall men, and made a vow, either to break into the house and take rosader, or else to coope him in till hee made him yeeld by famine. in this determination, gathering a crue togither, hee went forward to set saladyne in his former estate. newes of this was brought unto rosader, who smiling at the cowardize of his brother, brookt al the injuries of fortune with patience, expecting the comming of the sheriffe. as he walked upon the battlements of the house, he descryed where saladyne and he drew neare, with a troupe of lustie gallants. at this he smilde, and calde adam spencer, and shewed him the envious treacherie of his brother, and the folly of the sheriffe to bee so credulous. now, adam, quoth he, what shall i do? it rests for me either to yeeld up the house to my brother and seek a reconcilement, or els issue out, and break through the company with courage, for coopt in like a coward i will not bee. if i submit (ah adam') i dishonor my selfe, and that is worse then death, for by such open disgraces, the fame of men growes odious: if i issue out amongst them, fortune may favour mee, and i may escape with life; but suppose the worst: if i be slaine, then my death shall be honorable to me, and so inequall a revenge infamous to sala- dyne. why then, master, forward and feare not: out amongst them: they bee but faint hearted lozels, and for adam spencer, if hee die not at your foote, say he is a dastard. these words cheered up so the heart of yong rosader, that he thought himselfe sufficient for them al, and therefore prepared weapons for him and adam spencer, and were readie to en- tertaine the sheriffe; for no sooner came saladyne and he to -p eu phues golden legaci e. ward and fickle, delighting in the povertie of the lowest, and the overthrow of the highest! to decypher thy inconstancy thou standest upon a globe, and thy wings are plumed with times feathers, that thou maist ever be restlesse: thou art double faced like janus, carrying frownes in the one to threaten, and smiles in the other to betray. thou profferest an eele, and performest a scorpion, and wher thy greatest fa- vours be, there is the feare of the extreamest misfortunes, so variable are all thy actions. but why, adam, doest thou ex- claime against fortune she laughes at the plaintes of the distressed, and there is nothing more pleasing unto her, then to heare fooles boast in her fading allurements, or sorrowfull men to discover the sower of their passions. glut her not, adam, then with content, but thwart her with brooking all mishappes with patience. for there is no greater check to the pride of fortune, then with a resolute courage to passe over her crosses without care. thou art old, adam, and thy haires waxe white: the palme tree is alreadie full of bloomes, and in the furrowes of thy face appeares the kalenders of death: wert thou blessed by fortune thy yeares could not bee many, nor the date of thy life long : then sith nature must have her due, what is it for thee to resigne her debt a little before the day.—ah, it is not that which grieveth mee, nor do i care what mishaps fortune can wage against mee, but the sight of rosader that galleth unto the quicke. when i remember the worships of his house, the honour of his fathers, and the vertues of himselfe, then doo i say, that fortune and the fates are most injurious, to censure so hard extreames, against a youth of so great hope. oh, rosader, thou art in the flower of thine age, and in the pride of thy yeares, buxsome and full of may. nature hath prodigally inricht thee with her favours, and vertue made thee the myr- ror of her excellence; and now, through the decree of the unjust starres, to have all these good partes nipped in the blade, and blemisht by the inconstancie of fortune! ah, rosader, could i helpe thee, my griefe were the lesse, and eu phues golden legacie. happie should my death be, if it might bee the beginning of thy reliefe : but seeing we perish both in one extreame, it is a double sorrow. what shall i doo! prevent the sight of his further misfortune with a present dispatch of mine owne life? ah, despaire is a merciless sinne! as he was readie to go forward in his passion, he looked earnestly on rosader, and seeing him chaunge colour, hee rose up and went to him, and holding his temples, said, what cheere, maister though all faile, let not the heart faint: the courage of a man is shewed in the resolution of his death. at these wordes rosader liſted up his eye, and looking on adam spencer, began to weep. ah, adam, quoth he, i sorrow not to dye, but i grieve at the maner of my death. might i with my launce encounter the enemy, and so die in the field, it were honour, and content: might i (adam) com- bate with some wilde beast, and perish as his praie, i were satisfied; but to die with hunger, o, adam, it is the ex- treamest of all extreames! maister (quoth he) you see we are both in one predicament, and long i cannot live without meate; seeing therefore we can finde no foode, let the death of the one preserve the life of the other. i am old, and over- worne with age, you are yoong, and are the hope of many honours: let me then dye, i will presently cut my veynes, and, maister, with the warme blood relieve your fainting spi- rites: sucke on that till i ende, and you be comforted. with that adam spencer was ready to pull out his knife, when rosader full of courage (though verie faint) rose up, and wisht a. spencer to sit there til his returne; for my mind gives me, quoth he, i shall bring thee meate. with that, like a mad man, he rose up, and raunged up and downe the woods, seeking to encounter some wilde beast with his rapier, that either he might carry his friend adam food, or els pledge his life in pawn for his loyaltie. it chaunced that day, that gerismond, the lawfull king of france banished by toris- mond, who with a lustie crue of outlawes lived in that forest, that day in honour of his birth made a feast to all his bolde e eu phues golden liegaci f. yeomen, and frolickt it with store of wine and venison, sitting all at a long table under the shadow of lymon trees. to that place by chance fortune conducted rosader, who seeing such a crue of brave men, having store of that for want of which hee and adam perished, hee stept boldly to the boords end, and saluted the company thus:— whatsoever thou be that art maister of these lustie squiers, i salute thee as graciously as a man in extreame distresse may : know, that i and a fellow friend of mine are here fa- mished in the forrest for want of food: perish wee must, un- lesse relieved by thy favours. therefore, if thou be a gentle- man, give meate to men, and to such as are everie way woorthie of life. let the proudest squire that sits at thy table rise and incounter with mee in any honorable point of activitie whatso- ever, and if hee and thou proove me not a man, send me away comfortlesse. if thou refuse this, as a niggard of thy cates, i will have amongst you with my sword; for rather wil i dye valiantly, then perish with so cowardly an extreame. geris- mond, looking him earnestly in the face, and seeing so proper a gentleman in so bitter a passion, was mooved with so great pitie, that rising from the table, he tooke him by the hand and badde him welcome, willing him to sit downe in his place, and in his roome not onely to eat his fill, but the lord of the feast. gramercy, sir (quoth rosader) but i have a feeble friend that lyes hereby famished almost for food, aged and therefore lesse able to abide the extremitie of hunger then my selfe, and dishonour it were for me to taste one crumme, before i made him partner of my fortunes: therefore i will runne and fetch him, and then i wil gratefully accept of your proffer. away hies rosader to adam spencer, and tels him the newes, who was glad of so happie fortune, but so feeble he was that he could not go; wherupon rosader got him up on his backe, and brought him to the place. which when gerismond and his men saw, they greatly applauded their league of friendship; and rosader, having gerismonds place assigned him, would not sit there himselfe, but set downe ; eu phues golden legacie. adam spencer. well, to be short, those hungry squires fell to their victuals, and feasted themselves with good delicates, and great store of wine. assoone as they had taken their repast, gerismond (desirous to heare what hard fortune drave them into those bitter extreames) requested rosader to dis- course, (as it were not any way prejudicall unto him) the cause of his travell. rosader (desirous any way to satisfie the curtesie of his favourable host, first beginning his exordium with a volley of sighes, and a fewe luke warme teares) pro- secuted his discourse, and told him from point to point all his fortunes: how he was the yongest sonne of sir john of bour- deaux, his name rosader, how his brother sundry times had wronged him, and lastly, how for beating the sheriffe, and hurting his men, hee fled. and this old man (quoth he) whom i so much love and honour, is surnamed adam spencer, an old servant of my fathers, and one (that for his love) never fayled me in all my misfortunes. when gerismond heard this, he fell on the neck of rosader, and next discoursing unto him, how he was gerismond their lawfull king, exiled by torismond, what familiaritie had ever been betwixt his father, sir john of bourdeaux, and him, how faithfull a subject hee lived, and how honourably he dyed; promising (for his sake) to give both him and his friend such curteous entertainment as his present estate could minister; and upon this made him one of his forresters. rosader seeing it was the king, cravde pardon for his boldnesse, in that hee did not doo him due reverence, and humbly gave him thankes for his favourable curtesie. gerismond, not satisfied yet with newes, beganne to enquire if he had been lately in the court of torismond, and whether he had seene his daughter rosa- lynd, or no! at this, rosader fetcht a deep sigh, and shedding many teares, could not answere: yet at last, gathering his spirits togither, he revealed unto the king, how rosalynde was banished, and how there was such a simpathie of affec- tions betwixt alinda and her, that shee chose rather to be partaker of her exile, then to part fellowship: whereupone the eu phues golden legacie. unnaturall king banished them both; and now they are wan- dred none knowes whither, neither could any learne since their departure, the place of their abode. this newes drive the king into a great melancholy, that presently hee arose from all the company, and went into his privie chamber, so secrete as the harbour of the woods would allow him. the company was all dasht at these tydings, and rosader and adam spencer, having such opportunitie, went to take their rest. where we leave them, and returne againe to torismond. the flight of rosader came to the eares of torismond, who hearing that saladyne was sole heire of the landes of sir john of bourdeaux, desirous to possesse such faire revenewes, found just occasion to quarrell with saladyne about the wrongs he proffered to his brother; and therefore, dispatching a herehault, he sent for saladyne in all poast haste. who marveiling what the matter should be, began to examine his owne conscience, wherein hee had offended his highnesse; but imboldened with his innocence, he boldly went with the herehault unto the court; where, assoone as hee came, hee was not admitted into the presence of the king, but presently sent to prison. this greatly amazed saladyne, chiefly in that the jayler had a straight charge over him, to see that he should be close prisoner. many passionate thoughts came in his head, till at last he began to fall into consideration of his former follies, and to meditate with himselfe. leaning his head on his hand, and his elbow on his knee, full of sor- row, grief and disquieted passions, he resolved into these tearmes. saladynes complaint. unhappie saladyne! whome folly hath led to these misfor- tunes, and wanton desires wrapt within the laborinth of these calamities. are not the heavens doomers of mens deedes' and holdes not god a ballance in his fist, to reward with favour, and revenge with justice " oh, saladyne, the faults eu phues golden legacie. of thy youth, as they were fond, so were they foule, and not onely discovering little nourture, but blemishing the excellence of nature. whelpes of one litter are ever most loving, and brothers that are sonnes of one father should live in friendship without jarre. oh, saladyne, so it should bee; but thou hast with the deere fedde against the winde, with the crabbe strove against the streame, and sought to pervert nature by unkindnesse. rosaders wrongs, the wrongs of rosader (saladyne) cryes for revenge: his youth pleads to god to inflict some penaunce upon thee, his vertues are pleas that inforce writtes of displeasure to crosse thee: thou hast highly abused thy kynde and naturall brother, and the heavens cannot spare to quite thee with punishment. there is no sting to the worme of conscience, no hell to a minde toucht with guilt. every wrong i offred him (called now to remembrance) wringeth a drop of blood from my heart, every bad looke, every frowne pincheth me at the quicke, and saies, saladyne thou hast sinned against rosader. be penitent, and assigne thyselfe some pennance to discover thy sorrow, and pacifie his wrath. in the depth of his passion, hee was sent for to the king, who with a looke that threatened death entertained him, and demaunded of him where his brother was saladyne made answer, that upon some ryot made against the sheriffe of the shire, he was fled from bourdeaux, but he knew not whither. nay, villaine (quoth he) i have heard of the wronges thou hast proffered thy brother, since the death of thy father, and by thy means have i lost a most brave and resolute chevalier. therefore, in justice to punish thee, i spare thy life for thy fathers sake, but banish thee for ever from the court and countrey of france; and see thy departure be within tenne dayes, els trust me thou shalt loose thy head. and with that the king flew away in a rage, and left poore saladyne greatly perplexed; who grieving at his exile, yet determined to bear it with patience, and in penaunce of his former folies eu phues golden legacie. to travaile abroade in every coast till he had found out his brother rosader. with whom now i beginne. rosader, beeing thus preferred to the place of a forrester by gerismond, rooted out the remembrance of his brothers un- kindnes by continuall exercise, traversing the groves and wilde forrests, partly to heare the melody of the sweete birds which recorded, and partly to shew his diligent indea- vour in his masters behalfe. yet whatsoever he did, or how- soever he walked, the lively image of rosalynde remained in memorie: on her sweete perfections he fed his thoughts, proving himselfe like the eagle a true borne bird, since that the one is knowne by beholding the sunne, so was he by re- garding excellent beautie. one day among the rest, finding a fit opportunity and place convenient, desirous to discover his woes to the woodes, hee engraved with his knife on the bark of a mir tre, this pretye estimate of his mistres perfection. sonnetto. of all chast birdes the phoenix doth excell, of all strong beastes the lyon beares the bell, of all sweet flowers the rose doth sweetest smel, of all faire maydes my rosalynd is fairest. of all pure mettals gold is onely purest, of all high trees the pine hath highest crest, of all soft sweets i like my mistris brest, of all chast thoughts my mistris thoughts are rarest. of all proud birds the eagle pleaseth jove, of pretie fowles kind venus likes the dove, of trees minerva doth the olive love, of all sweet nimphs i honour rosalynd. of all her gifts her wisedome pleaseth most, of all her graces vertue she doth boast: for all these gifts my life and joy is lost, if rosalynde prove cruell and unkind. eu phues golden legacie. in these and such like passions rosader did every day eternize the name of his rosalynd; and this day especially when aliena and ganimede (inforced by the heat of the sun to seeke for shelter) by good fortune arrived in that place, where this amorous forrester registred his melancholy pas- sions. they saw the sodaine change of his looks, his folded armes, his passionate sighes: they heard him often abruptly cal on rosalynd, who (poore soule) was as hotly burned as himselfe, but that shee shrouded her paines in the cinders of honorable modesty. whereupon (gessing him to be in love, and according to the nature of their sexe being pittifull in that behalfe) they sodainly brake off his melancholy by theyr approach, and ganimede shooke him out of his dumps thus. what newes, forrester hast thou wounded some deere, and lost him in the fall ! care not man for so small a losse: thy fees was but the skinne, the shoulder, and the horns: tis hunters lucke to ayme faire and misse; and a woodmans fortune to strike and yet go without the game. thou art beyond the marke ganimede (quoth aliena): his passions are greater, and his sighs discovers more losse : perhaps in traversing these thickets, he hath seene some beautifull nimph, and is growne amorous. it may be so (quoth ganimede) for here he hath newly ingraven some sonnet: come, and see the discourse of the forresters poems. reading the sonnet over, and hearing him name rosalynde, aliena lookt on ganimede and laught, and ganimede looking backe on the forrester, and seeing it was rosader, blusht; yet thinking to shrowd all under her pages apparell, she boldly returned to rosader, and began thus. i pray thee tell me, forrester, what is this rosalynd for whom thou pinest away in such passions ! is shee some nymph that wayts upon dianaestraine, whose chastitie thou hast deciphred in such epethites? or is she some shep- herdesse that hants these playnes whose beautie hath so be- witched thy fancie, whose name thou shaddowest in covert eu phues golden legacie. under the figure of rosalynd, as ovid did julia under the name of corinna! or say mee forsooth, is it that rosalynde, of whome wee shepheards have heard talke, shee, forrester, that is the daughter of gerismond, that once was king, and now an outlawe in the forrest of arden? at this rosader fecht a deepe sigh, and sayde, it is she, o gentle swayne, it is she: that saint it is whom i serve, that goddesse at whose shrine i doe bend all my devotions: the most fayrest of all faires, the phenix of all the sexe, and the puritie of all earthly per- fection. and why (gentle forrester) if shee be so beautifull, and thou so amorous, is there such a disagreement in thy thoughts? happily she resembleth the rose, that is sweete, but full of prickles' or the serpent regius that hath scales as glorious as the sunne, and a breath as infectious as the aconi- tum is deadly so thy rosalynd may be most amiable, and yet unkind; full of favour and yet froward, coy without wit, and disdainfull without reason. oh, shepheard (quoth rosader) knewest thou her person- age, graced with the excellence of all perfection, beeing a harbour wherein the graces shrowd their vertues, thou wouldest not breath out such blasphemy against the beaute- ous rosalind. she is a diamond, bright, but not hard, yet of most chast operation: a pearle so orient, that it can be stained with no blemish: a rose without prickles, and a princesse absolute, as well in beauty as in vertue. but i, unhappy i, have let mine eye soare with the eagle against so bright a sun, that i am quite blind: i have with apollo enamoured myselfe of a daphne, not (as she) disdainful, but farre more chast than daphne: i have with ixion laide my love on juno, and shall (i feare) embrace nought but a clowde. ah, shepheard, i have reacht at a starre: my desires have mounted above my degree, and my thoughts above my for- tunes. i being a peasant, have ventured to gaze on a princesse, whose honors are too high to vouchsafe such base loves. why, forrester, quoth ganimede, comfort thy selfe: be blyth and frolike man. love sowseth as low as she soar- euphues golden legacie. eth high: cupid shootes at a ragge assoon as at a roabe; and venus eye that was so curious, sparkled favour on pole- footed vulcan. feare not, man, womens lookes are not tied to dignities feathers, nor make they curious esteeme where the stone is found, but what is the vertue. feare not, for- rester: faint heart never woone faire ladye. but where lives rosalynde now! at the court! oh no, quoth rosader, she lives i knowe not where, and that is my sorrow, banished by toresmond, and that is my hell: for might i but finde her sacred personage, and plead before the bar of her pitie the plaint of my passions, hope telles me shee would grace me with some favour, and that would suffice as a recompence of all my former miseries. much have i heard of thy mistres excellence, and i know, forrester, thou canst describe her at the full, as one that hast survaid all her parts with a curious eye; then doo that favour, to tell me what her perfections be. that i wil, quoth rosa- der, for i glorie to make all eares wonder at my mistres ex- cellence. and with that he pulde a paper foorth his bosome, wherein he read this. rosalyndes description. like to the cleere in highest spheare, where all imperiall glorie shines, of selfe same colour is her haire, whether unfolded, or in twines: heigh ho, faire rosalynde. her eyes are saphires set in snow, refining heaven by every wincke: the gods do feare when as they glow, and i doo tremble when i thinke : heigh ho, would she were mine. her chekes are lyke the blushing clowde that bewtifies auroraes face, or lyke the silver crimsin shrowde, that phoebus smiling lookes doth grace: heigh ho, faire rosalynd. eu phues golden legaci e. her lippes are like two budded roses, whome ranckes of lillies neighbour nie, within which bounds she balme incloses, apt to intice a deitie: heigh ho, would she were mine. her necke, like to a stately tower, when love himselfe imprisoned lies, to watch for glaunces every houre, from her devine and sacred eyes: heigh ho, faire rosalynde. her pappes are centers of delight, her pappes are orbes of heavenly frame, where nature molds the deaw of light, to feed perfection with the same: heigh ho, would she were mine. with orient pearle, with rubie red, with marble white, with saphire blew, her body every way is fed, yet soft in touch, and sweet in view: heigh ho, faire rosalynde. nature her selfe her shape admires, the gods are wounded in her sight, and love forsakes his heavenly fires, and at her eyes his brand doth light: heigh ho, would she were mine. then muse not, nymphes, though i bemone the absence of faire rosalynde, since for her faire there is fairer none, nor for her vertues so devine: heigh ho, faire rosalynde. heigh ho, my heart, would god that she were mine ! periit, quia deperibat. beleeve me (quoth ganimede) eyther the forrester is an exquisite painter, or rosalynde farre above wonder; so it makes me blush to heare how women should be so excellent, and pages so unperfect. rosader beholding her earnestly, answered thus. truly, gentle page, thou hast cause to complaine thee, wert thou the eu phues goldtn legacie. substance, but resembling the shadow, content thyselfe; for it is excellence inough to be like the excellence of nature. he hath aunswered you, ganimede, quoth aliena, it is enough for pages to wait on beautiful ladies, and not to be beautiful them- selves. oh, mistres, quoth ganimede, hold you your peace, for you are partiall: who knowes not, but that all women have desire to tye soveraintie to their petticotes, and ascribe beauty to themselves, wher, if boies might put on their gar- ments, perhaps they would prove as comely, if not as comely, as courteous. but tel me, forrester (and with that she turned to rosader) under whom maintainest thou thy walke gentle swaine, under the king of outlawes, said he ; the unfortunate gerismond, who having lost his kingdome, crowneth his thoughtes with content, accounting it better to governe among poore men in peace, then great men in danger. but hast thou not, said she, (having so melancholy opportunities as this forrest affoordeth thee) written more sonets in commendations of thy mistris i have, gentle swaine, quoth he, but they be not about me: to morrow by dawn of day, if your flocks feed in these pastures, i will bring them you; wherein you shall read my passions, whiles i feele them, judge my patience when you read it: til when i bid farewel. so giving both ganimede and aliena a gentle good night, he resorted to his lodge, leaving them to their prittle prattle. so ganimede (said aliena, the forrester being gone) you are mightily be- loved: men make ditties in your praise, spend sighs for your sake, make an idoll of your beauty: believe mee, it greeves mee not a little to see the poore man so pensive, and you so ah, aliena (quoth she) be not peremptory in your judg- ments. i heare rosalynde praisd as i am ganimede, but were i rosalynde, i could answere the forrester: if he mourne for love, there are medicines for love : rosalynde cannot be faire and unkind. and so, madame, you see it is time to fold our flocks, or else coridon will frown and say, you will never prove good huswife. with that they put ( eu phues golden legacie. their sheepe into the coates, and went home to her friend coridons cottage, aliena as merry as might bee that she was thus in the company of her rosalynde; but shee, poore soule, that had love her loadstarre, and her thoughtes set on fire with the flame of fancie, could take no rest, but being alone began to consider what passionate pennance poore rosader was en- joyned to by love and fortune, that at last shee fell into this humour with her selfe. rosalynde passionate alone. ah, rosalynd, how the fates have set down in theyr sinode to make thee unhappy: for when fortune hath done hir worst, then love comes in to begin a new tragedie : she seeks to lodge her sonne in thyne eyes, and to kindle her fires in thy bosome. beware, fond girle, he is an unruly guest to harbour: for entring in by intreats, he will not be thrust out by force, and her fires are fed with such fuell, as no water is able to quench. seest thou not how venus seekes to wrap thee in her laborynth, wherein is pleasure at the entrance, but within, sorrowes, cares, and discontent! she is a syren, stop thine eares to her melodie; she is a basiliscke, shutte thy eyes, and gaze not at her least thou perish. thou art now placed in the countrey content, where are heavenly thoughtes and meane desires: in those lawnes where thy flocks feed diana haunts: be as her nymphes chast, and enemie to love, for there is no greater honour to a mayd, than to account of fancie as a mortal foe to their sexe. daphne, that bonny wench, was not turned into a bay tree, as the poets fain, but for her chas- titie: her fame was immortall, resembling the lawrell that is ever greene. follow thou her steps, rosalynd, and the ra- ther, for that thou art an exile, and banished from the court; whose distresse, and it is appeased with patience, so it would be renewed with amorous passions. have minde on thy forepassed fortunes; feare the worst, and intangle not thy selfe with present fancies, least loving in hast, thou repent thee at . eu phues golden legacie. ( leisure. ah, but yet, rosalynd, it is rosader that courts thee: one who as he is beutifull, so hee is vertuous, and harboureth in his minde as manie good qualities as his face is shadowed with gratious favours; and therefore rosalynde stoope to love, least, beeing eyther too coy or too cruell, venus waxe wroth, and plague thee with the reward of disdaine. rosalynde thus passionate, was wakened from her dumpes by aliena, who sayd it was time to goe to bed. coridon swore that was true, for charls waine was risen in the north; wheruppon each taking leave of other, went to their rest, all but the poore rosalynde, who was so full of passions, that she could not possesse any content. well, leaving her to her broken slumbers, expect what was performed by them the next morning. the sunne was no sooner stept from the bed of aurora, but aliena was wakened by ganimede, who, restlesse all night, had tossed in her passions, saying it was then time to go to the field to unfold their sheepe. aliena (that spied where the hare was by the hounds, and could see day at a little hole) thought to be pleasaunt with her ganimede, and therefore replied thus: what, wanton; the sun is but new up, and as yet iris riches lies folded in the bosome of flora: phoebus hath not dried up the pearled dew, and so long coridon hath taught me it is not fitte to lead the sheepe abroad, least the deaw being unwholesome, they get the rot: but now see i the old proverbe true, he is in hast whom the devill drives, and where love prickes forward, there is no worse death then delay. ah, my good page, is there fancie in thine eye, and passions in thy heart? what, hast thou wrapt love in thy looks, and sette all thy thoughts on fire by affection i tell thee, it is a flame as harde to be quencht as that of aetna. but nature must have her course: womens eies have faculty attractive like the jeat, and retentive like the diamond : they dally in the delight of faire objects, til gazing on the panthers beautiful skin, repenting experience tel them he hath a de- vouring paunch. come on (quoth ganimede) this sermon of eu phues golden legacie. yours is but a subtiltie to lie stil a bed, because either you think the morning cold, or els i being gone, you would steale a nappe: this shift carries no paulme, and therefore up and away. and for love, let me alone: ile whip him away with nettles, and set disdaine as a charme to withstand his forces; and therefore looke you to your selfe: be not too bold, for venus can make you bend, nor. to coy, for cupid hath a piercing dart, that will make you crie peccavi. and that is it (quoth aliena) that hath raised you so earlie this morning. and with that she slipt on her peticoat, and start up; and assoone as she had made her ready, and taken her breakfast, away goe these two with their bagge and bottles to the field, in more pleasant content of mynd then ever they were in the court of torismond. they came no sooner nigh the foldes, but they might see where their discontented forrester was walking in his melancholy. assoone as aliena saw him, she smiled, and sayd to ganymede, wipe your eyes, sweeting, for yonder is your sweet heart this morning in deep prayers, no doubt, to venus, that she may make you as pitifull as hee is passionate. come on, ganimede, i pray thee, lets have a litle sport with him. content (quoth ganimede) and with that, to waken him out of his deep memento, he began thus: forrester, good fortune to thy thoughts, and ease to thy pas- sions. what makes you so early abroad this morne! in con- templation, no doubt, of your rosalynd. take heede, for- rester; step not too farre, the foord may be deep, and you slip over your shooes. i tell thee, flyes have their spleen, the antes choller, the least haires shadows, and the smallest loves great desires. tis good (forrester) to love, but not to overlove, least in loving her that likes not thee, thou fold thy selfe in an endlesse laborinth. rosader, seeing the faire shep- heardesse and her prettie swayne in whose company he felt the greatest ease of his care, hee returned them a salute on this maner. gentle shepheards, all haile, and as heathfull be your flocks as you happie in content. love is restlesse, and my bedde is eu phues golden legacie. but the cell of my bane, in that there i finde busie thoughtes and broken slumbers: heere (although every where passionate) yet i brooke love with more patience, in that everie object feedes mine eye with varietie of fancies. when i looke on floraes beauteous tapestrie, checkered with the pride of all her treasure, i call to minde the faire face of rosalynd, whose heavenly hue exceeds the rose and the lilly in their highest excellence: the brightnesse of phoebus shine puts mee in minde to think of the sparkeling flames that flew from her eyes, and set my heart first on fire: the sweet harmony of the birds, puts me in remembrance of the rare melody of her voyce, which lyke the syren enchaunteth the eares of the hearer. thus in contemplation i salve my sorrowes, which applying the perfection of every object to the excellencie of her qualities. she is much beholding unto you (quoth aliena) and so much, that i have oft wisht with my selfe, that if i should ever prove as amorous as oenone, i might finde as faithfull a paris as your selfe. how say you by this item, forrester! (quoth ganimede) the faire shepheardesse favours you, who is mistresse of so manye flockes. leave of, man, the supposition of rosalynds love, when as watching at her, you rove beyond the moone, and cast your lookes upon my mistresse, who no doubt is as faire though not so royall, one bird in the hand is worth two in the wood: better possesse the love of aliena, then catch furiously at the shadowe of rosalynd. ile tel thee boy (quoth rosader) so is my fancy fixed on my rosalynde, that were thy mistresse as faire as laeda or danae, whom jove courted in transformed shapes, mine eyes would not vouch to entertaine their beauties: and so hath love lockt me in her perfections, that i had rather onely contem- plate in her beauties, then absolutely possesse the excellence of any other. venus is too blame (forrester) if having so true a servant of you, shee reward you not with rosalynd, if rosalynd were more fairer than her self. f euphues golden legacie. but leaving this prattle, now ile put you in mynd of your promise about those sonnets, which you sayd were at home in your lodge. i have them about mee (quoth rosader) let us sit downe, and then you shall heare what a poeticall fury love will infuse into a man. with that they sate downe upon a greene banke, shadowed with figge trees, and rosader, fetching a deep sigh, read them this sonnet. rosaders sonnet. in sorowes cell i layd me downe to sleepe, but waking woes were jealous of mine eyes, they made them watch, and bend themselves to weepe, but weeping teares their want could not suffice: yet since for her they wept who guides my hart, they weeping smile, and triumph in their smart. of these my teares a fountaine fiercely springs, where venus baynes her selfe incenst with love, where cupid bowseth his faire feathred wings, but i behold what paines i must approve. care drinkes it drie ; but when on her i thinke, love makes me weepe it full unto the brinke. meane while my sighes yeeld truce unto my teares, by them the windes increast and fiercely blow: yet when i sigh the flame more plaine appeares, and by their force with greater power doth glow: amids these paines, all phoenix like i thrive since love, that yeelds me death, may life revive. rosader en esperance. now, surely, forrester (quoth aliena), when thou madest this sonnet, thou wert in some amorous quandarie, neither too fearfull, as dispairing of thy mistresse favours, nor too glee- some, as hoping in thy fortunes. i can smile (quoth gany- mede) at the sonettoes, canzones, madrigales, roundes and roundelaies, that these pensive patients powre out when their eyes are more full of wantonnesse, then their hearts of pas- s eu phues golden legacie. sions. then, as the fishers put the sweetest bayt to the fairest fish, so these ovidians (holding amo in their tongues, when their thoughtes come at hap hazard) write that they bee wrapt in an endlesse laborinth of sorrow, when walking in the large leas of libertie, they only have their humours in their inckpot. if they find women so fond, that they will with such painted lures come to their lust, then they triumph till they be full gorgde with pleasures; and then flye they away (like ramage kytes) to their own content, leaving the tame foole, their mistresse, full of fancie, yet without ever a feather. if they misse (as dealing with some wary wanton, that wants not such a one as themselves, but spies their subtiltie), they ende their amors with a few fained sighes; and so theyr excuse is, their mistresse is cruell, and they smoother passions with patience. such, gentle forrester, we may deeme you to be, that rather passe away the time heere in these woods with wryting amorets, then to be deeply enamoured (as you say) of your rosalynde. if you bee such a one, then i pray god, when you thinke your fortunes at the highest, and your desires to bee most excellent, then that you may with ixion embrace juno in a cloude, and have nothing but a marble mistresse to release your martyrdome; but if you be true and trustie, eye-paynd and heart sick, then ac- cursed be rosalynd if she proove cruel: for, forrester (i flatter not), thou art worthie of as faire as shee. aliena, spying the storme by the winde, smiled to see how gany- mede flew to the fist without any call; but rosader, who tooke him flat for a shepheards swayne, made him this an- swere. trust me, swayne (quoth rosader), but my canzon was written in no such humor; for mine eye and my heart are re- latives, the one drawing fancy by sight, the other entertein- ing her by sorrow. if thou sawest my rosalynd, with what beauties nature hath favoured her—with what perfection the heavens hath graced her—with what qualities the gods have endued her, then woulst thou say, there is none so fickle that f eu phues golden legacie. could be fleeting unto her. if she had been afneas, dido, had venus and juno both scolded him from carthage, yet her ex- cellence, despight of them, would have detained him at tyre. if phillis had been as beautious, or ariadne as vertuous, or both as honourable and excellent as she, neither had the philbert tree sorrowed in the death of dispairing phillis, nor the starres been graced with ariadne, but demophoon and theseus had been trustie to their paragons. i wil tel thee, swayne, if with a deep insight thou couldst pierce into the secrets of my loves, and see what deep impressions of her idea affection hath made in my heart, then wouldst thou con- fesse i were passing passionate, and no lesse indued with ad- mirable patience. why (quoth aliena) needs there pa- tience in love or else in nothing (quoth rosader); for it is a restlesse sore, that hath no ease; a cankar that still frets; a disease that taketh away all hope of sleepe. if then so many sorrowes, sodaine joyes, momentary pleasures, con- tinuall feares, daily griefes, and nightly woes be founde in love, then is not hee to bee accounted patient that smothers all these passions with silence thou speakest by expe- rience (quoth ganimede) and therefore we hold al thy wordes for axiomes. but is love such a lingring maladie' it is (quoth he) either extreame or meane, according to the minde of the partie that entertaines it; for, as the weedes grow longer untoucht then the prettie floures, and the flint lyes safe in the quarry, when the emerauld is suffering the lapidaries toole, so meane men are freed from venus injuries, when kings are environed with a laborinth of her cares. the whiter the lawne is, the deeper is the moale; the more purer the chrysolite, the sooner stained; and such as have their hearts ful of honour, have their loves ful of the greatest sorowes. but in whomsoever (quoth rosader) hee fixeth his dart, hee never leaveth to assault him, till either hee hath wonne him to folly or fancy; for as the moone never goes without the starre lunisequa, so a lover never goeth without the unrest of his thoughts. for proofe you shall ! -: i eu phues golden legacie. heare another fancy of my making. now doo, gentle for- rester (quoth ganimede); and with that he read over this sonetto. rosaders second sonetto. turne i my lookes unto the skies, love with his arrows wounds mine eies; if so i gaze upon the ground, love then [in] every floure is found. search i the shade to flie my paine, he meets me in the shade againe: wend i to walke in secret grove, even there i meet with sacred love. if so i bayne me in the spring, even on the brinke i heare him sing: if so i meditate alone, he will be partner of my mone. if so i mourn, he weeps with me, and where i am, there will he be. when, as i talke of rosalynd, the god from coynesse waxeth kind, and seems in self same flames to fry, because he loves as well as i. sweet rosalynd, for pitty rue; for why, then love i am more true: he, if he speed, will quickly flie, but in thy love i live and die. how like you this sonnet (quoth rosader)? marry (quoth ganimede), for the pen well, for the passion ill; for as i praise the one, i pitie the other, in that thou shouldest hunt after a cloude, and love either without reward or regard. tis neither frowardnesse (quoth rosader), but my hard for- tunes, whose destenies have crost me with her absence; for did shee feele my loves, she would not let me linger in these sorrowes. women, as they are faire, so they respect faith, and estimate more (if they be honourable) the wil than the wealth, having loyaltie the object wherat they ayme their eu phues golden legacie. fancies. but leaving off these interparleyes, you shall heare my last sonnetto, and then you have heard all my poetry; and with that he sight out this:– rosaders third sonnet. of vertuous love myself may boast alone, since no suspect my service may attaint : for perfect faire she is the only one whom i esteem for my beloved saint. thus, for my faith i only beare the bell, and for her faire she only doth excell. then let fond petrarch shrowd his lawraes praise, and tasso cease to publish his affect, since mine the faith confirmd at all assaies, and hers the faire, which all men do respect. my lines hir faire, hir faire my faith assures; thus i by love, and love by me indures. thus (quoth rosader), here is an ende of my poems, but for all this no release of my passions; so that i resemble him that, in the deapth of his distresse, hath none but the eccho to answere him. ganimede, pittying her rosader, thinking to drive him out of his amorous melancholy, said, that now the sunne was in his meridionall heat, and that it was high noone, therefore wee shepheards say, tis time to go to dinner; for the sunne and our stomackes are shepheards dials. there- fore, forrester, if thou wilt take such fare as comes out of our homely scrips, welcome shall answere whatsoever thou wantest in delicates. aliena tooke the entertainment by the ende, and tolde rosader hee should bee her guest. he thankt them heartily, and sat with them downe to dinner, where they had such cates as countrey state did allow them, sawst with such content, and such sweete prattle, as it seemed farre more sweet than all their courtly junkets. assoone as they had taken their repast, rosader, giving them thankes for his good cheare, would have been gone; but ganimede, that was loath to let him passe out of her | | l euphues golden legacie. presence, began thus: nay, forrester, quoth she, if thy busi- nes be not the greater, seeing thou saist thou art so deeply in love, let me see how thou canst wooe: i will represent rosalynde, and thou shalt bee as thou art, rosader. see in some amorous eglogue, how if rosalynd were present, how thou couldst court her; and while we sing of love, aliena shall tune her pipe and plaie us melodie. content (quoth rosader), and aliena, shee, to shew her willingnesse, drew forth a recorder, and began to winde it. then the lovyng forrester began thus. the wooing eglogue betwixt rosalynde and rosader. rosader. i pray thee, nymph, by all the working words, by all the teares and sighs that lovers know, or what our thoughts or faltring tongue affords, i crave for mine in ripping up my woe. sweet rosalynd, my love (would god, my love) my life (would god, my life), aye, pitie me! thy lips are kind, and humble like the dove, and but with beautie pitie wil not be. looke on mine eyes, made red with rufull teares, from whence the raine of true remorse descendeth, all pale in lookes, and i though yoong in yeares, and nought but love or death my dayes befriendeth. oh let no stormy rigour knit thy browes, which love appointed for his mercy seat: the tallest tree by boreas breath it bowes; the yron yeels with hammer, and to heat. oh, rosalynd, then be thou pittifull, for rosalynd is only beautifull. rosalynde. loves wantons arme their traitrous sutes with teares, with vows, with oaths, with lookes, with showers of gold; but when the fruit of their affects appeares, the simple heart by subtil sleights are sold. euphues golden legacie. thus sucks the yeelding eare the poysoned bait, thus feeds the hart upon his endles harmes, thus glut the thoughts themselves on self deceit, thus blind the eyes their sight by subtil charmes. the lovely lookes, the sighs that storme so sore, the deaw of deep dissembled doublenesse, these may attempt, but are of power no more where beauty leanes to wit and soothfastnesse. oh, rosader, then be thou wittifull, for rosalynd scorns foolish pitifull. rosader. i pray thee, rosalynd, by those sweet eyes that stain the sun in shine, the morne in cleare, by those sweet cheeks where love incamped lyes to kisse the roses of the springing yeare. i tempt thee, rosalynd, by ruthfull plaints, not seasoned with deceipt or fraudfull guile, but firm in payn, far more than toong depaints, sweet nymph, be kind, and grace me with a smile. so may the heavens preserve from hurtfull food thy harmless flockes; so may the summer yeeld the pride of all her riches and her good, to fat thy sheepe (the cittizens of field.) oh, leave to arme thy lovely browes with scorne: the birds their beake, the lyon hath his taile, and lovers nought but sighs and bitter mourne, the spotlesse fort of fancie to assaile. oh, rosalynde, then be thou pittifull, for rosalynde is onely beautifull. rosalynde. the hardned steele by fire is brought in frame. rosader. and rosalynde, my love, that any wooll more softer; and shall not sighes her tender hart inflame? rosalynde, were lovers true, maydes would beleeve them ofter. : eu phues golden legacie. (quoth rosader) and laught. content (quoth ganimede) and chaunged as red as a rose: and so with a smile and a blush, they made up this jesting match, that after proved to a mar- riage in earnest, rosader full little thinking hee had wooed and woonne his rosalynde. but all was well; hope is a sweet string to harpe on, and therfore let the forrester a while shape himselfe to his shadow, and tarrie fortunes leysure, till she may make a metamor- phosis fit for his purpose. i digresse; and therefore to aliena, who saide, the wedding was not worth a pinne, unless there were some cheare, nor that bargaine well made that was not striken up with a cuppe of wine: and therefore she wild gani- mede to set out such cates as they had, and to draw out her bottle, charging the forrester, as he had imagined his loves, so to conceipt these cates to be a most sumptuous banquet, and to take a mazer of wine and to drinke to his rosalynde; which rosader did, and so they passed awaye the day in many pleasant devices. till at last aliena perceyved time would tarry no man, and that the sun waxed very low, readie to set, which made her shorten their amorous prattle, and end the banquet with a fresh carrowse: which done, they all three arose, and aliena brake off thus. now, forrester, phoebus that all this while hath beene par- taker of our sports, seeing every woodman more fortunate in his loves than he in his fancies, seeing thou hast woon rosa- lynde, when he could not woo daphne, hides his head for shame, and bids us adiew in a clowd. our sheepe, they poore wantons, wander towards their foldes, as taught by nature their due times of rest, which tels us, forrester, we must de- part. marry, though there were a mariage, yet i must carry this night the bride with mee, and tomorrow morning if you meete us heere, ile promise to deliver you her as good a mayd as i find her. content (quoth rosader) tis enough for me in the night to dreame on love, that in the day am so fond to doate on love; and so till to morrowe you to your folds, and i will to my lodge. and thus the forrester and they parted. eu phues golden legacie. he was no sooner gone, but aliena and ganimede went and folded their flocks, and taking up their hookes, their bags, and their bottles, hyed homeward. by the way aliena (to make the time seeme short) began to prattle with ganimede thus. i have heard them say, that what the fates forepoint, that fortune pricketh downe with a period; that the starres are slicklers in venus court, and desire hangs at the heele of des- tenie: if it be so, then by all probable conjectures, this match will be a marriage: for if augurisme be authenticall, or the devines doomes principles, it cannot bee but such a shadow portends the issue of a substance, for to that ende did the gods force the conceit of this eglogue, that they might discover the ensuing consent of your affections: so that ere it bee long, i hope (in earnest) to daunce at your wedding. tush (quoth ganimede) all is not malte that is cast on the kill: there goes more wordes to a bargaine than one. love feeles no footing in the aire, and fancie holdes it slippery harbour to nestle in the tongue: the match is not yet so surely made, but hee may misse of his market; but if fortune be his friend, i will not be his foe: and so i pray you (gentle mistresse aliena) take it. i take all things well (quoth she) that is your content, and am glad rosader is yours; for now i hope your thoughts will bee at quiet: your eye that ever looked at love, will now lende a glaunce on your lambes, and then they will prove more buxsome, and you more blyth, for the eyes of the maister feedes the cattle. as thus they were in chat, they spyed olde coridon where he came plodding to meet them, who told them supper was ready, which news made them speed them home. where we will leave them to the next morrow, and returne to saladyne. all this while did poore saladyne (banished from bourdeux and the court of france by torismond) wander up and downe in the forrest of arden, thinking to get to lyons, and so travail through germany into italie; but the forrest beeing full of by pathes, and he unskilfull of the country coast, slipt out of the way, and chaunced up into the desart, not farre from the place eu phues golden legacie. where gerismond was, and his brother rosader. saladyne, wearie with wandring up and downe, and hungry with long fasting, finding a little cave by the side of a thicket, eating such fruite as the forest did affoord, and contenting himselfe with such drinke as nature had provided and thirst made de- licate, after his repast he fell in a dead sleepe. as thus he lay, a hungry lyon came hunting downe the edge of the grove for pray, and espying saladyne began to ceaze upon him: but seeing he lay still without any motion, he left to touch him, for that lyons hate to pray on dead carkasses; and yet de- sirous to have some foode, the lyon lay downe and watcht to see if he would stirre. while thus saladyne slept secure, fortune that was careful of her champion began to smile, and brought it so to passe, that rosader (having stricken a deere that but slightly hurt fled through the thicket) came pacing downe by the grove with a boare-speare in his hande in great haste. he spyed where a man lay a sleepe, and a lyon fast by him: amazed at this sight, as he stoode gazing, his nose on the sodaine bledde, which made him conjecture it was some friend of his. whereuppon drawing more nigh, he might easily discerne his visage, perceived by his phishomie that it was his brother saladyne, which drave rosader into a deepe passion, as a man perplexed at the sight of so unexpected a chance, marvelling what should drive his brother to traverse those secrete desarts, without any companie, in such distresse and forlorne sorte. but the present time craved no such doubting ambages, for he must eyther resolve to hazard his life for his reliefe, or else steale away, and leave him to the crueltie of the lyon. in which doubt hee thus briefly debated with himselfe. rosaders meditation. now, rosader, fortune that long hath whipt thee with net- tles, meanes to salve thee with roses, and having crost thee with many frownes, now she presents thee with the bright- euphues golden legacie. oh rosader, what though saladyne hath wronged thee, and made the live an exile in the forrest, shall thy nature bee so cruell, or thy nurture so crooked, or thy thoughts so savage, as to suffer so dismall a revenge what, to let him be de- voured by wilde beastes? non sapit, qui non sibi sapit is fondly spoken in such bitter extreames. loose not his life rosader, to win a worlde of treasure; for in having him thou hast a brother, and by hazarding for his life, thou gettest a friend, and reconcilest an enemie: and more honour shalt thou purchase by pleasuring a foe, than revenging a thousand in- juries. with that his brother began to stirre, and the lyon to rowse himselfe, whereupon rosader sodainly charged him with the boare speare, and wounded the lion very sore at the first stroke. the beast feeling himselfe to have a mortall hurt, leapt at rosader, and with his pawes gave him a sore pinch on the brest, that he had almost faln; yet as a man most valiant, in whom the sparks of sir john bourdeaux remained, he re- covered himselfe, and in short combat slew the lion, who at his death roared so lowd that saladyne awaked, and starting up, was amazed at the sudden sight of so monstrous a beast lying slaine by him, and so sweet a gentleman wounded. he presently (as he was of a ripe conceipt) began to conjecture that the gentleman had slaine him in his defence. where- upon (as a man in a traunce) he stood staring on them both a good while, not knowing his brother, being in that disguise: at last he burst into these tearmes. sir, whatsoever thou be (as full of honour thou must needes be, by the view of thy present valour) i perceive thou hast redressed my fortunes by thy courage, and saved my life with thine own losse, which tyes me to be thine in all humble service. thankes thou shalt have as thy due, and more thou canst not have, for my abilitie denies me to performe a deeper debt. but if any wayes it please thee to commaund me, use mee as farre as the power of a poore gentleman may stretch. rosader seeing hee was unknowne to his brother, woondered s eu phues golden legacie. to heare such courteous wordes come from his crabbed nature; but glad of such reformed nurture, he made this answere. i am, sir (whatsoever thou art) a forrester and ranger of these walkes, who, following my deere to the fall, was conducted hither by some assenting fate, that i might save thee, and disparage myselfe. for comming into this place, i saw thee a sleepe, and the lyon watching thy awake, that at thy rising hee might pray uppon thy carkasse. at the first sight i conjectured thee a gentleman (for all mens thoughts ought to bee favorable in imagination) and i counted it the part of a resolute man to purchase a strangers reliefe, though with the losse of his owne blood, which i have performed (thou seest) to mine owne prejudice. if therefore thou be a man of such worth as i value thee by thy exteriour liniaments, make dis- course unto me what is the cause of thy present misfortunes; for by the furrowes in thy face thou seemest to be crost with her frownes: but whatsoever, or howsoever, lett emee crave that favour, to heare the tragicke cause of thy estate. sala- dyne sitting downe, and fetching a deepe sigh, began thus. saladynes discourse to rosader unknowne. although the discourse of my fortunes be the renewing of of my sorrowes, and the rubbing of the scarre will open a fresh wound, yet that i may not proove ingratefull to so cour- teous a gentleman, i wil rather sitte downe and sigh out my estate, then give any offence by smothering my griefe with silence. knowe therefore (sir) that i am of bourdeaux, and the sonne and heyre of sir john of bourdeaux, a man for his vertues and valour so famous, that i cannot thinke but the fame of his honours hath reacht further than the knowledge of his personage. the infortunate sonne of so fortunate a knight am i, my name, saladine; who succeeding my father in possessions, but not in qualities, having two brethren com- mitted by my father at his death to my charge, with such golden principles of brotherly concorde, as might have pierst like the syrens melodie into any humane eare. but i (with eu phues golden legacie. ulisses became deafe against his philosophicall harmony, and made more value of profit than of vertue, esteeming gold suf- ficient honour, and wealth the fittest title for a gentlemans dignitie. i sette my middle brother to the universitie to bee a scholler, counting it enough if he might pore on a booke while i fed on his revenewes; and for the yoongest (which was my fathers joye) yoong rosader—and with that, naming of rosader, saladyne sate him downe and wept. nay, forward man (quoth the forrester) teares are the un- fittest salve that any man can apply for to cure sorrows, and therefore cease from such feminine follies, as should drop out of a womans eye to deceive, not out of a gentlemans looke to discover his thoughts, and forward with thy discourse. ah, sir (quoth saladyne) this rosader that wrings tears from my eyes, and blood from my heart, was like my father in exteriour personage and in inward qualities; for in the prime of his yeres he aymed all his acts at honor, and co- veted rather to die than to brooke any injury unworthy a gentlemans credite. i, whom envy had made blinde, and covetousnesse masked with the vayle of selfe-love, seeing the palme tree grow straight, thought to suppresse it, being a twig; but nature wil have her course, the cedar will be tall, the diamond bright, the carbuncle glistering, and vertue wil shine though it be never so much obscured. for i kept rosader as a slave, and used him as one of my servile hindes, until age grew on, and a secret insight of my abuse entred into his minde: insomuch, that he could not brooke it, but coveted to have what his father left him, and to live of himselfe. to be short, sir, i repined at his fortunes, and he counter- checkt me, not with abilitie but valour, until at last, by my friends, and ayde of such as folowed gold more than right or vertue, i banisht him from bourdeaux, and hee, poore gentle- man, lives no man knowes where, in some distressed discon- tent. the gods, not able to suffer such impietie unrevenged, so wrought, that the king pickt a causelesse quarrel against me, in hope to have my lands, and so hath exiled me out of g euphues golden legacie. france for ever. thus, thus, sir, am i the most miserable of al men, as having a blemish in my thoughts for the wrongs i profered rosader, and a touch in my estate to be throwne from my proper possessions by injustice. passionat thus with many griefs, in penance of my former follies i go thus pil- grime like to seeke out my brother, that i may reconcile my- selfe to him in all submission, and afterward wend to the holy land, to ende my yeares in as many vertues as i have spent my youth in wicked vanities. rosader, hearing the resolution of his brother saladyne, began to compassionate his sorrowes, and not able to smother the sparkes of nature with fained secrecie, he burst into these loving speeches. then know, saladyne, (quoth hee) that thou hast met with rosader, who grieves as much to see thy dis- tresse, as thy selfe to feele the burthen of thy misery. sala- dyne casting up his eye, and noting well the phismomy of the forrester, knew that it was his brother rosader, which made him so bash and blush at the first meeting, that rosa- der was faine to recomfort him, which he did in such sort, that hee shewed how highly he held revenge in scorne. much ado there was betweene these two brethren, saladyne in craving pardon, and rosader in forgiving and forgetting all former injuries; the one submisse, the other curteous; sala- dyne penitent and passionate, rosader kynd and loving, that at length nature working an union of their thoughts, they ear- nestly embraced, and fell from matters of unkindnesse, to talke of the country life, which rosader so highly commended, that his brother began to have a desire to taste of that homely content. in this humor rosader conducted him to gerismonds lodge, and presented his brother to the king, discoursing the whole matter how all had hapned betwixt them. the king looking upon saladyne, found him a man of a most beautifull personage, and saw in his face sufficient sparkes of ensuing honors, gave him great entertainment, and glad of their friendly reconcilement, promised such favour as the povertie of his estate might affoord, which saladyne gratefully accepted eu phues golden legacie. s and so gerismond fell to question torismonds life. saladyne briefly discourst unto him his injustice and tyrannies with such modestie (although hee had wronged him) that geris- mond greatly praised the sparing speech of the yoong gentle- illan. many questions past, but at last gerismond began with a deepe sigh to inquire if there were any newes of the welfare of alinda, or his daughter rosalynd! none, sir, quoth sala- dyne, for since their departure they were never heard of. injurious fortune (quoth the king) that to double the fathers miserie, wrongst the daughter with misfortunes! and with that (surcharged with sorrowes) he went into his cell, and left saladyne and rosader, whome rosader straight conducted to the sight of adam spencer. who, seeing saladyne in that estate, was in a browne study; but when he heard the whole matter, although hee grieved for the exile of his maister, yet he joyed that banishment had so reformed him, that from a lascivious youth he was proved a vertuous gentleman. look- ing alonger while, and seeing what familiaritie past betweene them, and what favours were interchanged with brotherly af- fection, he sayd thus. i marry, thus it should be: this was the concord that old sir john of bourdeaux wisht betwyxt you. now fulfil you those precepts hee breathed out at his death, and in observing them, looke to live fortunate and die honorable. well sayd, adam spencer (quoth rosader), but hast any victuals in store for us? a piece of a red deer (quoth he) and a bottle of wine. tis forresters fare, brother, quoth rosader: and so they sat downe and fel to their cates. assoone as they had taken their repast, and had wel dined, rosader tooke his brother saladyne by the hand, and shewed him the pleasures of the forrest, and what content they en- joyed in that mean estate. thus for two or three dayes he walked up and downe with his brother to shew him all the commodities that belonged to his walke. in which time hee was mist of his ganymede, who mused greatly (with aliena) what should become of their forester. some while they g euphues golden legacie. thought he had taken some word unkindly, and had taken the pet: then they imagined some new love had withdrawne his fancie, or happely that he was sicke, or detained by some great businesse of gerismonds; or that hee had made a reconcile- ment with his brother, and so returned to bourdeaux. these conjectures did they cast in their heades, but specially ganimede, who, havyng love in heart, prooved restlesse, and halfe without patience, that rosader wronged her with so long absence; for love measures every minute, and thinkes houres to bee dayes, and dayes to bee moneths, till they feede theyr eyes with the sight of theyr desired object. thus per- plexed lived poore ganimede, while on a day, sitting with aliena in a great dumpe, she cast up her eye, and saw where rosader came pacing towardes them with his forrest bill on his necke. at that sight her colour changde, and shee said to aliena, see, mistresse, where our jolly forrester comes. and you are not a little glad thereof (quoth aliena), your nose bewrayes what porredge you love: the winde cannot be tyed within his quarter, the sun shadowed with a vayle, oyle hidden in water, nor love kept out of a womans lookes: but no more of that, lupus est in fabula. assoone as rosader was come within the reach of her tongues ende, aliena began thus. why, how now, gentle forrester, what winde hath kept thee from hence! that being so newly marryed, you have no more care of your rosalynd, but to absent yourself so many dayes! are these the passions you painted out so in your sonnets and roundelaies! i see well hote love is soone cold, and that the fancy of men is like to a loose feather that wan- dreth in the ayre with the blast of every wynd. you are deceived, mistres, quoth rosader; 'twas a coppy of unkindnes that kept me hence, in that, i being married, you caried away the bride: but if i have given any occasion of offence by ab- senting my selfe these three daies, i humbly sue for pardon, which you must grant of course, in that the fault is so friendly confest with penance. but to telyou the truth (faire mistresse, and my good rosalynd) my eldest brother by the injury of eu phues golden legacie. torismond is banished from bourdeaux, and by chance hee and i met in the forrest. and heere rosader discourst unto them what had happened betwixt them, which reconcile- ment made them glad, especially ganimede. but aliena, hearing of the tyrannie of her father, grieved inwardly, and yet smothered all things with such secrecy, that the conceal- ing was more sorrow then the conceipt: yet that her estate might bee hyd stil, she made faire weather of it, and solet all passse. fortune that sawe how these parties valued not her deitie, but helde her power in scorne, thought to have about with them, and brought the matter to passe thus. certaine rascals that lived by prowling in the forest, who for feare of the provost marshall had caves in the groaves and thickets to shrowde themselves from his traines, hearing of the beautie of this faire shepheardesse, aliena, thought to steale her away, and to give her to the king for a present; hoping, because the king was a great leacher, by such a gift to purchase all their par- dons, and therefore came to take her and her page away. thus resolved, while aliena and ganimede were in sad talke, they came rushing in, and layd violent hands upon aliena and her page, which made them crye out to rosader; who having the valour of his father stamped in his hart, thought rather to die in defence of his friends, than any way bee toucht with the least blemish of dishonour, and therefore dealt such blowes amongst them with his weapon, as he did witnesse well upon their carkasses that hee was no coward. but as ne hercules quidem contra duos, so rosader could not resist a multitude, having none to backe him; so that hee was not onely rebatted, but sore wounded, and aliena and ganimede had been quite carryed away by these rascalles, had not fortune (that meant to turne her frowne into a favour) brought saladyne that way by chance, who wandring to find out his brothers walk, encountred this crue: and seeing not onely a shepheardesse and her boy forced, but his brother wounded, he heaved up a forrest bill he had on his neck, and eu phues golden legacie. the first he stroke had never after more need of the phisition; redoubling his blowes with such courage that the slaves were amazed at his valour. rosader, espying his brother so fortu- nately arrived, and seeing how valiantly he behaved himselfe, though sore wounded rushed amongst them, and layd on such loade, that some of the crue were slaine, and the rest fled, leaving aliena and ganimede in the possession of rosader and saladyne. aliena after shee had breathed awhile and was come to her selfe from this feare, lookt about her, and saw where gani- mede was busie dressyng up the woundes of the forrester: but shee cast her eye upon this curteous champion that had made so hotte a rescue, and that with such affection, that shee began to measure every part of him with favour, and in her selfe to commende his personage and his vertue, holding him for a resolute man, that durst assaile such a troupe of unbrydeled villaines. at last, gathering her spirits together, she returned him these thankes. gentle sir, whatsoever you bee that have adventured your flesh to relieve our fortunes, and to have as many hidden ver- tues as you have manifest resolutions. wee poore shep- heardes have no wealth but our flocks, and therefore can wee not make requitall with any great treasures; but our recom- pence is thankes, and our rewards to our friends without fain- ing. for rannsome therefore of this our rescue, you must content your selfe to take such a kinde gramercy as a poore shepheardesse and her page may give, with promise (in what wee may) never to proove ingratefull. for this gentleman that is hurt, yoong rosader, hee is our good neighbour and familiar acquaintance: weele pay him with smiles, and feed him with love-lookes; and though he be never the fatter at the yeares ende, yet weele so hamper him that he shall hold himselfe satisfied. saladyne, hearing this shepheardesse speake so wisely, began more narrowly to pry into her perfection, and to survey all her liniaments with a curious insight; so long dallying in euphues golden legacie. the flame of her beautie, that to his cost he found her to be most excellent. for love that lurked in all these broyles to have a blow or two, seeing the parties at the gaze, encoun- tered them both with such a veny, that the stroke pierst to the heart so deep as it could never after be raced out. at last, after hee had looked so long, till aliena waxtred, he re- turned her this answere. faire shepheardesse, if fortune graced me with such good hap as to doo you any favour, i hold my selfe as contented as if i had gotten a great conquest; for the reliefe of distress- ed women is the speciall point that gentlemen are tyed unto by honor: seeing then my hazard to rescue your harmes was rather duty than curtesie, thankes is more than belongs to the requitall of such a favour. but least i might seeme either too coy or too carelesse of a gentlewomans proffer, i will take your kinde gramercie for a recompence. all this while that he spake, ganimede lookt earnestly upon him, and sayd, truly, rosader, this gentleman favours you much in the feature of your face. no marvell (quoth he, gentle swayne) for tis my eldest brother saladyne. your brother, quoth aliena' (and with that she blusht) he is the more welcome, and i hold myselfe the more his debter: and for that he hath in my behalf done such a piece of service, if it please him to do me that honor, i will cal him servant, and he shall cal me mistresse. content, sweet mistresse, quoth saladyne, and when i forget to call you so, i will be unmindfull of mine owne selfe. away with these quirkes and quiddities of love, quoth rosader, and give me some drinke, for i am passyng thirstie, and then will i home, for my woundes bleed sore, and i will have them drest. ganimede had teares in her eyes, and passions in her heart to see her rosader so payned, and therefore stept hastily to the bottle, and filling out some wine in a mazer, she spiced it with such comfortable drugges as she had about her, and gave it him, which did comfort rosader, that rysing (with the helpe of his brother) hee tooke his leave of them, and went to his lodge. ganimede, assoone eu phues golden legacie. as they were out of sight, led his flocks downe to a vale, and there under the shadow of a beech tree sat downe, and began to mourne the misfortunes of her sweet heart. and aliena (as a woman passyng discontent) severing her- selfe from her ganimede, sitting under a lymon tree, began to sigh out the passions of her new love, and to meditate with hir selfe in this maner. alienaes meditation. aye me! now i see, and sorrowing sigh to see, that dianaes lawrels are harbours for venus doves; that there trace as well through the lawnes wantons as chast ones; that calisto, be she never so charie, wil cast one amorous eye at courting jove; that diana her selfe will chaunge her shape, but shee will honour love in a shaddow; that maydens eyes bee they as hard as diamonds, yet cupide hath drugs to make them more pliable than waxe. see, alinda, how fortune and love have interleagued themselves to be thy foes, and to make thee theyr subject, or els an abject, have inveigled thy sight with a most beautiful object. alate thou didst hold venus for a giglot, not a goddesse, and now thou shalt bee forst to sue suppliant to her deitie. cupide was a boy and blinde; but, alas, his eye had ayme inough to pierce thee to the hart. while i lived in the court i held love in contempt, and in high seats i had small desires. i knew not affection while i lived in dignitie, nor could venus counterchecke me, as long as my fortune was majestie, and my thoughtes honour: and shall i now bee high in desires, when i am made lowe by des- tinie! i have heard them say, that love lookes not at low cottages, that venus jettes in roabes not in ragges, that cupide flyes so high, that hee scornes to touch povertie with his heele. tush, alinda, these are but olde wives tales, and neither authenticall precepts, nor infallible principles; for experience tels thee, that peasauntes have theyr passions as well as princes, that swaynes as they have theyr labours, so euphues golden legacie. they have theyr amoures, and love lurkes assoone about a sheepcoate as a pallaice. ah, alinda, this day in avoyding a prejudice thou art fallen into a deeper mischiefe; being rescued from the robbers, thou art become captive to saladyne: and what then? women must love, or they must cease to live; and therefore did nature frame them faire, that they might be subject to fancy. but perhaps saladines eye is levelde upon a more seemlier saint. if it be so, beare thy passions with patience; say love hath wrongd thee, that hath not wroong him; and if he be proud in contempt, be thou rich in content, and rather dye than discover any desire: for there is nothing more pre- tious in a woman than to conceale love, and to die modest. he is the sonne and heire of sir john of bourdeaux, a youth comely enough. oh, alinda, too comely, elshadst not thou been thus discontent: valiant, and that fettered thine eye: wise, else hadst thou not been now wonne; and for all these vertues banished by thy father, and therefore if he know thy parent- age, he wil hate the fruit for the tree, and condemne the yoong sien for the old stock. well, howsoever, i must love, and, whomsoever i will; and, whatsoever betide, aliena will thinke wel of saladyne, suppose he of me as he please. and with that fetching a deep sigh, she rise up, and went to ganimede, who all this while sat in a great dumpe, fearing the imminent danger of her friend rosader: but now aliena began to comfort her, her selfe being over growne with sor- rowes, and to recall her from her melancholy with many pleasaunt perswasions. ganimede tooke all in the best part, and so they went home togither after they had folded their flocks, supping with old coridon, who had provided there cates. hee, after supper, to passe away the night while bed time, began a long discourse, how montanus the yoong shep- heard, that was in love with phoebe, could by no meanes ob- taine any favour at her hands, but still pained in restlesse passions remained a hopelesse and perplexed lover. i would i might (quoth aliena) once see that phoebe. is she so faire eu phues golden legacie. that she thinks no shepheard worthy of her beauty' or so froward that no love nor loyaltie will content her or so coy, that she requires a long time to be wooed or so foolish that she forgets, that like a fop she must have a large harvest for a little corne! i cannot distinguish (quoth coridon) of these nice qualities; but one of these dayes ile bring montanus and her downe, that you may both see their persons, and note their passions; and then where the blame is, there let it rest. but this i am sure, quoth coridon, if al maidens were of her mind, the world would grow to a mad passe; for there would be great store of wooing and litle wedding, many words and little worship, much folly and no faith. at this sad sentence of coridon, so solempnly brought forth, aliena smiled, and because it waxt late, she and her page went to bed, both of them having fleas in their eares to keep them awake, ganimede for the hurt of her rosader, and aliena for the affection she bore to saladyne. in this discontented humour they past away the time, till falling on sleepe, their sences at rest, love left them to their quiet slumbers, which were not long. for as soon as phoebus rose from his aurora, and began to mount him in the skie, summoning plough-swaines to their handy labour, aliena arose, and going to the couch where ganimede lay, awakened her page, and said the morning was farre spent, the deaw small, and time called them away to their foldes. ah, ah! quoth ganimede, is the wind in that doore then in fayth i perceive that there is no diamond so hard but will yeeld to the file, no cedar so strong but the wind will shake, nor any mind so chast but love will change. well, aliena, must saladyne be the man, and will it be a match! trust me, he is faire and valiant, the sonne of a worthy knight, whome if he imitate in perfection, as he represents him in proportion, he is worthy of no lesse than aliena. but he is an exile. what then? i hope my mistresse respectes the vertues not the wealth, and measures the qualities not the substance. those dames that are like danae, that like jove in no shape but in : f º ſ ! eu phues golden legacie. a shower of gold, i wish them husbands with much wealth and little witte, that the want of the one may blemish the abundance of the other. it should (my aliena) stayne the honour of a shepheards life to set the end of passions upon pelfe. loves eyes looks not so low as golde: there is no fees to be payd in cupids courtes, and in elder time (as coridon hath told me) the shepheardes love-gifts were apples and chest- nuts, and then their desires were loyall, and their thoughts constant. but now, quaerenda pecunia primum, post nummos virtus. and the time is grown to that which horace in his satyres wtote. on : omnis enim res virtus fama decus divina humanaque pulchris divitiis parent: quas qui constrinxerit ille clarus crit, fortis, justus, sapiens, etiam et rex et quicquid volet– but, aliena, lette it not be so with thee in thy fancies, but respect his faith and there an ende. aliena, hearing gani- mede thus forward to further saladyne in his affections, thought shee kist the child for the nurses sake, and woed for him that she might please rosader, made this reply. why, ganimede, whereof growes this perswasion! hast thou seene love in my lookes, or are mine eyes growne so amorous, that they discover some newe entertayned fancies! if thou mea- sured my thoughts by my countenance, thou maiest prove as ill a phisiognomer, as the lapidarie that aymes at the secret vertues of the topaze by the exterior shadow of the stone. the operation of the agate is not known by the strakes, nor the diamond prized by his brightnesse, but by his hardnesse. the carbuncle that shineth most is not ever the most pretious; and the apothecaries choose not flowers for their colours, but for their vertues. womens faces are not alwayes calenders of fancie, nor do their thoughts and their lookes ever agree; for when their eyes are fullest of favors, eu phues golden legacie. then are they oft most emptie of desire; and when they seeme to frowne at disdain, then are they most forward to affection. if i bee melancholie, then, ganimede, tis not a consequence that i am intangled with the perfection of saladyne. but seeing fire cannot be hid in the straw, nor love kept so covert but it will be spyed, what shoulde friends conceale fancies knowe, my ganimede, the heautie and valour, the wit and prowesse of saladyne hath fettered aliena so farre, as there is no object pleasing to her eyes but the sight of saladyne; and if love have done me justice to wrap his thoughts in the foldes of my face, and that he be as deeply enamoured as i am passionate, i tell thee, ganimede, there shall not be much wooing, for she is already wonne, and what needes a longer battery. i am glad, quoth ganimede, that it shall be thus proportioned, you to match with saladyne, and i with rosader: thus have the destenies favoured us with some pleasing aspect, that have made us as private in our loves, as familiar in our fortunes. with this ganimede start up, made her ready, and went into the fields with aliena, where unfolding their flockes, they sate them downe under an olive tree, both of them amorous, and yet diversly affected, aliena joying in the excellence of saladyne, and ganimede sorowing for the wounds of her rosader; not quiet in thought till shee might heare of his health. as thus both of them sate in their dumpes, they might espie where coridon came running towards them (almost out of breath with his hast). what newes with you (quoth aliena) that you come in such post! oh, mistres (quoth co- ridon) you have a long time desired to see phoebe, the faire shepheardesse whom montanus loves; so now if you please, you and ganimede, to walke with mee to yonder thicket, there shall you see montanus aud her sitting by a fountaine, he courting her with her countrey ditties, and she as coy as if she held love in disdaine. the newes were so welcome to the two lovers, that up they rose, and went with coridon. assoone as they drew nigh eu phues golden legacie. : the thicket, they might espie where phoebe sate (the fairest shepherdesse in all arden, and he the frolickst swaine in the whole forrest) she in a petticote of scarlet, covered with a green mantle, and to shrowd her from the sunne, a chaplet of roses, from under which appeared a face full of natures excel- lence, and two such eyes as might have amated a greater man than montanus. at gaze uppon this gorgeous nymph sate the shepheard, feeding his eyes with her favours, wooing with such piteous lookes, and courting with such deepe strained sighs, as would have made diana her selfe to have beene com- passionate: at last, fixing his lookes on the riches of her face, his head on his hande, and his elbow on his knee, hee sung this mournefull dittie. montanus sonnet. a turtle sate upon a leavelesse tree, mourning her absent pheare, with sad and sorry cheare: about her wondring stood the citizens of wood, and whilest her plumes she rents, and for her love laments, the stately trees complaine them, the birds with sorrow paine them. each one that doth her view, iier paine and sorrowes rue; but were the sorrowes knowne that me hath overthrowne, oh how would phoebe sigh, if shee did looke on me? the love sicke polypheme, that could not see, who on the barraine shore, his fortunes doth deplore, and melteth all in mone for galatea gone ; and with his piteous cries, afflicts both earth and skies, and to his woe betooke, doth breake both pipe and hooke; eu phues golden legacie. for whom complaines the morne, for whom the sea nymphs mourne: alas, his paine is nought; for were my woe but thought, oh how would phoebe sigh, if shee did looke on me? beyond compare my paine; yet glad am i, if gentle phoebe daine to see her montan die. after this, montanus felte his passions so extreame, that he fel into this exclamation against the injustice of love:- helas tirant, plein de rigueur, modere un peu ta violence: que te sert si grande dispense p c'est trop de flammes pour un cueur. esparguez en une estincelle, puis fayton effort d'esmovoir, la fiere qui ne veut point voir, en quel feu je brousle pour elle. execute, amour, ce dessein, et rabaisse un peu son audace: son cuer ne doit estre de glace, bien que elle ait deniege le sein. montanus ended his sonet with such a volley of sighs, and such a streame of teares, as might have moved any but phoebe to have granted him favor. but she, measuring all his passions with a coy disdaine, and triumphing in the poore shepheards patheticall humors, smiling at his martyrdome as though love had beene no maladie, scornfully warbled out this sonet. phoebes sonet, a replie to montanus passion. downe a downe, thus phyllis sung, by fancie once distressed: who so by foolish love are stung, are worthily oppressed. and so sing i. with a downe, downe, &c. euphues golden legacie. gratious looke my passions are many, my loves more, my thoughts loyaltie, and my fancie faith: al devoted in humble devoire to the service of phoebe; and shall i reape no reward for such fealties? the swaines dayly labours is quit with the evenings hire, the ploughmans toyle is eased with the hope of corne, what the oxe sweates out at the plough, he fatneth at the cribbe; but infortunate montanus hath no salve for his sorrowes, nor any hope of recompence for the hazard of his perplexed passions. if, phoebe, time maye plead the proofe of my truth, twise seaven winters have i loved faire phoebe: if constancie be a cause to further my sute, montanus thoughts have beene sealed in the sweete of phoebes excellence, as far from change as she from love: if outward passions may dis- cover inward affections, the furrows in my face may discover the sorrows of my heart, and the mappe of my looks the griefs of my mind. thou seest (phoebe) the teares of despayre have made my cheeks full of wrinckes, and my scalding sighes have made the ayre eccho her pittie conceived in my plaintes: philomele hearing my passions, hath left her mournfull tunes -to listen to the discourse of my miseries. i have pourtrayed in every tree the beauty of my mistres, and the despaire of my loves. what is it in the woods cannot witnes my woes! and who is it would not pittie my plaints! only phoebe. and why? because i am montanus, and she phoebe; i a worth- les swaine, and she the most excellent of all faires. beautifull phoebe! oh, might i say pittifull, then happy were i, though i tasted but one minute of that good hap. measure montanus, not by his fortunes, but by his loves, and ballance not his wealth, but his desires, and lende but one gratious looke to cure a heape of disquieted cares. if not, ah! if phoebe cannot love, let a storme of frownes end the discontent of my thoughts, and so let me perish in my desires, because they are above my deserts: onely at my death this favour cannot be denied me, that al shal say montanus died for love of hard hearted phoebe. at these wordes she fild her face full of frowns, and made him this short and sharpe reply. eu phues golden legacie. importunate shepheard, whose loves are lawlesse, because restlesse, are thy passions so extreame that thou canst not conceale them with patience? or art thou so folly-sicke, that thou must needes be fancie-sicke, and in thy affection tyed to such an exigent, as none serves but phoebe | well, sir, if your market can be made no where els, home againe, for your mart is at the fayrest. phoebe is no lettice for your lips, and her grapes hang so high, that gaze at them you may, but touch them you cannot. yet, montanus, i speake not this in pride, but in disdaine: not that i scorne thee, but that i hate love; for i count it as great honor to triumph over fancie as over fortune. rest thee content therfore, montanus: cease from thy loves, and bridle thy lookes, quench the sparkles before they grow to a further flame; for in loving mee thou shalt but live by losse, and what thou utterest in wordes are all written in the wind. wert thou (montanus) as faire as paris, as hardy as hector, as constant as troylus, as loving as leander, phoebe could not love, because she cannot love at all: and therefore if thou pursue me with phoebus, i must flie with daphne. ganimede, overhearing all these passions of montanus, could not brooke the crueltie of phoebe, but starting from be- hind the bush said: and if, damzell, you fled from mee, i would transforme you as daphne to a bay, and then in contempt trample your branches under my feet. phoebe at this so- daine replye was amazed, especially when shee saw so faire a swaine as ganimede; blushing therefore, she would have bene gone, but that he held her by the hand, and prosecuted his reply thus: what, shepheardesse, so faire and so cruell? disdaine beseemes not cottages, nor coynesse maids; for either they be condemned to be too proud, or too froward. take heed, faire nymph, that in despising love, you be not over-reacht with love, and in shaking off all, shape yourselfe to your owne shadow, and so with narcissus prove passionat and yet unpitied. oft have i heard, and sometime have i seene, high disdaine turnd to hot desires. because thou art h eu phues golden legacie. beautifull be not so coy: as there is nothing more fair, so there is nothing more fading; as momentary as the shad- dowes which growes from a clowdy sunne. such (my faire shepheardesse) as disdaine in youth desire in age, and then are they hated in the winter, that might have been loved in the prime. a wringled mayd is like to a parched rose, that is cast up in coffers to please the smell, not worne in the hand to content the eye. there is no folly in love to had i wist, and therefore be rulde by mee. love while thou art yoong, least thou be disdained when thou art olde. beautie nor time cannot be recalde, and if thou love, like of montanus; for if his desires are many, so his deserts are great. phoebe all this while gazed on the perfection of ganimede, as deeply enamored on his perfection as montanus inveigled with hers; for her eye made survey of his excellent feature, which she found so rare, that she thought the ghost of adonis had leapt from elizium in the shape of a swaine. when she blusht at her owne folly to looke so long on a stranger, she mildely made answere to ganimede thus. i cannot deny, sir, but i have heard of love, though i never felt love; and have read of such a goddesse as venus, though i never sawe any but her picture; and, perhaps, and with that shee waxed red and bashfull, and with all silent: which ganimede perceiv- ing, commended in her selfe the bashfulnesse of the mayd, and desired her to go forward. and perhaps, sir (quoth she), mine eye hath been more prodigal to day than ever before: and with that she stayd againe, as one greatly passionate and perplexed. aliena seeing the hare through the maze, bade her forward with her prattle, but in vaine; for at this abrupt period she broke off, and with her eyes full of teares, and her face covered with a vermillion die, she sat downe and sighed. whereupon aliena and ganimede, seeing the shepheardesse in such a straunge plight, left phoebe with her montanus, wishing hir friendly that she would be more pliant to love, least in penance venus joyned her to some sharpe repentance. phoebe made no reply, but fetcht such a sigh, that eccho made eu phues golden legacie. relation of hir plaint, giving ganimede such an adieu with a piercing glance, that the amorous girle-boy perceived phoebe was pincht by the heele. but leaving phoebe to the follies of her new fancie, and montanus to attend uppon her, to saladyne, who all this last night could not rest for the remembrance of aliena; inso- much that he framed a sweet conceited sonnet to content his humor, which hee put in his bosome, being requested by his brother rosader to go to aliena and ganimede, to signify unto them that his woundes were not dangerous. a more happy message could not happen to saladyne, that taking his forrest bill on his neck, he trudgeth in all haste towardes the plaines where alienaes flockes did feede, comming just to the place when they returned from montanus and phoebe. fortune so conducted this jolly forrester, that he encountred them and coridon, whom hee presently saluted in this maner. faire shepheardesse, and too faire, unless your beautie be tempred with curtesie, and the liniaments of the face graced with the lowlinesse of mynd, as many good fortunes to you and your page, as your selves can desire or imagine. my brother rosader (in the grief of his green wounds stil mynd- ful of his friends) hath sent me to you with a kynd salute, to shew that he brooks his paines with the more patience, in that he holds the parties precious in whose defence hee re- ceived the prejudice. the report of your welfare will be a great comfort to his distempered body and distressed thoughts, and therefore he sent me with a strickt charge to visite you. and you (quoth aliena) are the more welcome in that you are messenger from so kynd a gentleman, whose paines we compassionate with as great sorrow as he brookes them with griefe; and his wounds breeds in us as many passions as in him extremities, so that what disquiet he feeles in bodie, we partake in heart, wishing (if wee might) that your mishap might salve his malady. but seeing our wils yeelds him litle ease, our orizons are never idle to the gods for his re- covery. i pray, youth, (quoth ganimede with teares in his h eu phues golden legacie. eyes) when the surgion searcht him, held hee his woundes dangerous? dangerous (quoth saladyne) but, not mortall, and the sooner to be cured, in that his patient is not impa- tient of any paines: whereupon my brother hopes within these ten dayes to walke abroad and visite you himselfe. in the meane time (quoth ganimede) say his rosalynde com- mends her to him, and bids him be of good cheare. i know not (quoth saladyne) who that rosalynde is, but whatsoever shee is, her name is never out of his mouth, but amidst the deepest of his passions hee useth rosalynde as a charme to appease all sorrowes with patience; insomuch that i conjec- ture my brother is in love, and shee some paragon that holdes his heart perplexed, whose name he oft records with sighes, sometimes with teares, straight with joye, then with smiles; as if in one person love had lodged a chaos of confused pas- sions. wherin i have noted the variable disposition of fancy, that lyke the polype in colours, so it changeth into sundry humors, being as it should seeme, a combat myxt with disquiet, and a bitter pleasure wrapt in a sweet preju- dice, lyke to the sinople tree, whose blossomes delight the smell, and whose fruit infects the taste. by my fayth (quoth aliena) sir, you are deep read in love, or growes your insight into affection by experience howso- ever, you are a great philosopher in venus principles, els could you not discover our secret aphorismes. but, sir, our countrey amours are not lyke your courtly fancies, nor is our wooing lyke your suing; for pore shepheards never plaine them till love paine them, where the courtiers eyes is full of passions, when his heart is most free from affection: they court to discover their eloquence, wee wooe to ease our sor- rowes; every faire face with them must have a new fancy sealed with a fore-finger kisse, and a farre fetcht sigh: we heere love one, and live to that one, so long as life can main- taine love, using few ceremonies, because we know fewe subtilties, and litle eloquence, for that we lightly accompt of flattery: onely faith and troth, thats shepheards wooing; eu phues golden legacie. and, sir, how lyke you of this? so (quoth saladyne) as i could tie my self to such love. what, and looke so low as a shepheardesse, being the sonne of sir john of bourdeaux' such desires were a disgrace to your honors. and with that surveying exquisitely every part of him, as uttering all these wordes in a deepe passion, she espied the paper in his bosom; wherupon growing jealous that it was some amorous sonnet, she sodeinly snacht it out of his bosome, and asked if it were anye secret! she was bashfull, and saladyne blusht, which she preceiving, sayd: nay then, sir, if you waxe redde, my life for yours tis some love matter. i will see your mistresse name, her praises, and your passions: and with that she lookt on it, which was written to this effect. saladynes sonnet. if it be true, that heavens eternall course with restlesse sway and ceaseless turning glides; if aire inconstant be, and swelling sourse turne and returns with many fluent tides; if earth in winter summer pride estrange, and nature seemeth onely faire in change; if it be true, that our mmortall spright, derivde from heavenly pure, in wandring still in noveltie and strangenesse doth delight, and by discoverent power discerneth ill; and if the body for to worke his best doth with the seasons change his place of rest; whence comes it that (inforst by furious skies) i change both place and soyle, but not my hart, yet salve not in this change my maladies? whence growes it that each object workes my smart? alas, i see my faith procures my misse, and change in love against my nature is. et florida pungunt. aliena having read over his sonnet, began thus pleasantly to descant upon it. i see, saladyne (quoth she), that as the sun is no sun without his brightnesse, nor the diamond ac- euphues golden legacie, counted for precious unlesse it be hard, so men are not men unless they be in love; and their honors are measured by their amours, not their labors, counting it more commendable for a gentleman to be ful of fancy, than full of vertue. i had thought otia si tollas periere cupidinis arcus, contemptaeque jacent, & sine luce faces: but i see ovids axiome is not authenticall, for even labour hath her loves, and extremitie is no pumice stone to race out fancy. yourselfe exiled from your wealth, friendes, and country by torismond, (sorrowes inough to suppresse affec- tions) yet amidst the depth of these extremities, love will be lord, and shew his power to bee more predominant than for- tune. but i pray you, sir, (if without offence i may crave it) are they some new thoughts, or some olde desires? saladyne (that now saw opportunitie pleasant) thought to strike while the yron was hotte, and therefore taking aliena by the hand, sate downe by her; and ganimede, to give them leave to their loves, found her selfe busie about the foldes, whilest saladyne fell into this prattle with aliena. faire mistresse, if i be blunt in discovering my affections, and use little eloquence in levelling out my loves, i appeale for pardon to your owne principles, that say, shepheards use few ceremonies, for that they acquaint themselves with few subtilties. to frame my selfe therefore to your country fashion with much faith and little flattery, know, bewtifull shepheard- esse, that whylest i lived in the court i knew not loves comber, but i helde affection as a toy, not as a malady; using fancy as the hiperborei doo their flowers, which they weare in their bosome all day, and cast them in the fire for fuell at night. i lyked all, because i loved none, and who was most faire, on her i fed mine eye; but as charily as the bee, that assoone as shee hath suckthonny from the rose, flies straight to the next marigold. living thus at mine owne list, i wondred at such as were in love, and when i read their passions, i tooke them onely for poemes that flowed from the quicknesse euphues golden legacie. of the wyt, not the sorrowes of the heart. but now (faire nymph) since i became a forrester, love hath taught me such a lesson that i must confesse his deitie and dignitie, and saie as there is nothing so pretious as beuty, so there is nothing more piercing than fancy. for since first i arrived at this place, and mine eye tooke a curious survey of your excellence, i have been so fettered with your beautie and vertue, as (sweet aliena) saladyne without further circumstance loves aliena. i could paynt out my desires with long ambages; but seeing in many words lyes mistrust, and that truth is ever naked, let this suffice for a country wooing, saladyne loves aliena, and none but aliena. although these wordes were most heavenly harmony in the eares of the shepheardesse, yet to seeme coye at the first courting, and to disdaine love howsoever she desired love, she made this reply. ah, saladyne, though i seeme simple, yet i am more subtile than to swallow the hooke because it hath a painted bayt: as men are wily so women are wary, especially if they have that wyt by others harmes to beware. do we not know, sala- dyne, mens toongs are like mercuries pipe, that can inchant argus with an hundreth eyes! and their words are prejudiciall as the charmes of circes, that transforme men into monsters. if such syrens sing, we poore women had need stoppe our eares, least in hearing wee prove so foolish hardy as to believe them, and so perish in trusting much, and suspecting litle. saladyne, piscatorictus sapit, hee that hath been once poisoned, and afterwards fears not to bowse of every potion, is worthy to suffer double pennance. give mee leave then to mistrust, though i doo not condemne. saladyne is now in love with aliena, hee a gentleman of great parentage, shee a shep- hardesse of meane parents; he honorable, and shee poore: can love consist of contrarieties! wyll the fawlcon pearch with the kistresse, the lyon harbor with the woolfe? will venus joyne roabes and rags togither, or can there be a sym- pathie betweene a king and a begger ? then, saladyne, how eu phues golden legacie. yoong ganimede: first his locks, which being amber hued, passeth the wreath that phoebus puts on to make his front glorious: his browe of yorie was like the seate where love and majestie sits inthronde to enchaine fancy: his eyes as bright as the burnishing of the heaven, darting forth frowns with disdaine, and smiles with favour, lightning such lookes as would enflame desire, were she wrapt in the circle of the frozen zoane: in his cheekes the vermillion teinture of the rose florished upon naturall alabaster, the blushe of the morne and lunaes silver showe were so lively pourtrayed, that the troyan that filles out wine to jupiter was not halfe so bewti- full: his face was full of pleasance, and al the rest of his lini- aments proportioned with such excellence, as phoebe was fettred in the sweetnes of his feature. the idea of these per- fections tumbling in her mynde made the poore shepheardesse so perplexed, as feeling a pleasure tempred with intollerable paines, and yet a disquiet mixed with a content, shee rather wished to die than to live in this amorous anguish. but wishing is litle worth in such extreames, and therefore was she forst to pine in her malady, without any salve for her sor- rows. reveale it she durst not, as daring in such matters to make none her secretarie; and to conceale it, why, it doubled her griefe for as fire supprest growes to the greater flame, and the current stopt to the more violent streame, so love smothered wrings the hart with the deeper passions. perplexed thus with sundry agonies, her food began to faile, and the disquiet of her mind began to worke a distem- perature of her body, that, to be short, phoebe fell extreme sicke, and so sicke as there was almost left no recovery of health. her father, seeing his faire phoebe thus distrest, sent for his friends, who sought by medecine to cure, and by coun- saile to pacifie, but all in vaine; for although her body was feeble through long fasting, yet did shee magis agrotare animo quâm corpore. which her friends perceyved and sorrowed at, but salve it they could not. the newes of her sicknesse was bruted abroad though all eu phues golden legacie. the forrest, which no sooner came to montanus eare, but hee, like a mad man, came to visit phoebe. where sitting by her bed side he began his exordium with so many teares and sighes, that she, perceiving the extremitie of his sorrows, be- gan now as a lover to pittie them, although ganimede helde her from redressing them. montanus craved to know the cause of her sicknesse, tempred with secret plaints, but she answered him (as the rest) with silence, having still the forme of ganimede in her mind, and conjecturing how she might reveale her loves. to utter it in wordes she found her selfe too bashfull; to discourse by any friend shee would not trust any in her amours; to remain thus perplexed still, and conceale all, it was a double death. whereupon, for her last refuge, she resolved to write unto ganimede, and therfore desired montanus to absent himselfe a while, but not to de- part, for she would see if she could steale a nappe. hee was no sooner gone out of the chamber, but reaching to her standish, shee tooke penne and paper, and wrote a letter to this effect. phoebe to ganimede, wisheth what she wants her selfe. faire shepheard (and therefore is phoebe infortunate, be- cause thou art so faire), although hitherto mine eyes were adamants to resist love, yet i no sooner saw thy face, but they became amorous to intertaine love; more devoted to fancie, than before they were repugnant to affection, addicted to the one by nature, and drawn to the other by beauty: which being rare, and made the more excellent by many vertues, hath so snared the freedome of phoebe, as shee restes at thy mercie, either to bee made the most fortunate of all maydens, or the most miserable of all women. measure not, ganimede, my loves by my wealth, nor my desires by my degrees; but thinke my thoughts as full of faith, as thy face of amiable favors. then, as thou knowest thy selfe most beautifull, suppose me eu phues golden legacie. most constant. if thou deemest mee hard harted because i hated montanus, think i was forst to it by fate: if thou saist i am kind hearted, because so lightly i loved thee at the first looke, think i was driven to it by desteny, whose influence, as it is mighty, so is it not to be resisted. if my fortunes were any thing but infortunate love, i would strive with fortune: but he that wrests against the will of venus, seekes to quench fire with oyle, and to thrust out one thorn by putting in ano- ther. if then, ganimede, love enters at the eye, harbours in the heart, and wil neither be driven out with phisicke nor reason, pittie mee, as one whose malady hath no salve but from thy sweet self, whose griefe hath no ease but through thy grant; and think i am a virgin who is deeply wrongd when i am forst to woo, and conjecture love to be strong, that is more forceable then nature. thus distressed unless by thee eased, i expect either to lyve fortunate by thy favour, or die miserable by thy denyall. living in hope. farewell. she that must be thine, or not be at all, phoebe. to this letter she annexed this sonnet. sonnetto. my boate doth passe the straights of seas incenst with fire, filde with forgetfulnesse: amidst the winters night, a blind and carelesse boy (brought up by fond desire) doth guide me in the sea of sorrow and despight. for every oare he sets a ranke of foolish thoughts, and cuts (instead of wave) a hope without distresse: eu phues golden legacie. the winds of my deepe sighes (that thunder still for noughts) have split my sayles with feare, with care and heavinesse. a mightie storme of teares, a blacke and hideous cloude, a thousand fierce disdaines doe slacke the haleyards oft: till ignorance doe pull, and errour hale the shrowds, no starre for safetie shines, no phoebe from aloft. time hath subdued art, and joy is slave to woe: alas (loves guid) be kindl what, shall i perish so? this letter and the sonnet being ended, she could find no fit messenger to send it by, and therefore she called in montanus, and intreated him to carry it to ganimede. although poore montanus saw day at a little hole, and did perceive what passion pinched her, yet (that he might seeme dutifull to his mistresse in all service) he dissembled the matter, and became a willing messenger of his owne martyrdome. and so (taking the letter) went the next morne very earlie to the plaines where aliena fedde hir flocks, and there he found ganimede, sitting under a pomegranade tree, sorrowing for the hard for- tunes of her rosader. montanus saluted him, and according to his charge delivered ganimede the letters, which (he said) came from phoebe. at this the wanton blusht, as being abasht to thinke what news should come from an unknowne shepheardesse; but taking the letters, unript the seales, and read over the discourse of phoebes fancies. when she had read and over-read them ganimede beganne to smile, and looking on montanus, fell into a great laughter, and with that called aliena, to whome shee shewed the writinges. who, having perused them, conceipted them very pleasantly, and smiled to see how love had yokt her, who before would euphues golden legacie. not stoop to the lure. aliena whispering ganimede in the eare, and saying, knew phoebe what want there were in thee to performe her will, and how unfit thy kind is to be kind to her, she would be more wise, and lesse enamoured; but leav- ing that, i pray thee let us sport with this swaine. at that word ganimede, turning to montanus, began to glaunce at him thus. i pray thee, tell me, shepheard, by those sweet thoughts and pleasing sighes that grow from my mistresse favours, art thou in love with phoebe | oh, my youth, quoth montanus, were phoebe so farre in love with me, my flocks would be more fatte, and their maister more quiet; for through the sorrows of my discontent growes the leannesse of my sheepe. alas, poore swaine, quoth ganimede, are thy passions so extreame, or thy fancie so resolute, that no reason wil blemish the pride of thy affection, and race out that which thou strivest for with- out hope nothing can make me forget phoebe, while mon- tanus forget himselfe; for those characters which true love hath stamped, neither the envie of time nor fortune can wipe away. why but, montanus, quoth ganimede, enter with a deep insight into the despaire of thy fancies, and thou shalt see the depth of thine owne follies; for (poore man) thy pro- gresse in love is a regresse to losse, swimming again the streame with the crab, and flying with apis indica against wind and weather. thou seekest with phoebus to win daphne, and shee flies faster than thou canst follow: thy desires soare with the hobbie, but her disdain reacheth higher than thou canst make wing. i tell thee, montanus, in court- ing phoebe, thou barkest with the wolves of syria against the moone, and roavest at such a marke with thy thoughts, as is beyond the pitch of thy bow, praying to love, when love is pittilesse, and thy malady remedilesse. for proofe, mon- tanus, read these letters, wherein thou shalt see thy great follyes and little hope. with that montanus tooke them and perused them, but eu phues golden legacie. with such sorrow in his lookes, as they bewrayed a sourse of confused passions in his heart: at every line his colour changed, and every sentence was ended with a period of sighes. at last, noting phoebes extreame desire toward ganimede, and her disdaine towards him, giving ganimede the letter, the shepheard stood as though he had neyther won nor lost. which ganimede perceiving wakened him out of his dreame thus: now, montanus, doest thou see thou vowest great ser- vice and obtainest but little reward: but in lieu of thy loy- altie, she maketh thee, as bellephoron, carry thine owne bane. then drinke not willingly of that potion wherein thou know- est is poyson: creepe not to her that cares not for thee. what, montanus, there are many as faire as phoebe, but most of all more courteous than phoebe. i tell thee, shepheard, favour is loves fuell: then since thou canst not get that, lette the flame vanish into smoake, and rather sorrowe for a while then re- pent thee for ever. i tell thee, ganimede, (quoth montanus) as they which are stung with the scorpion, cannot be recovered but by the scor- pion, nor he that was wounded with achilles lance bee cured but with the same truncheon, so apollo was faine to cry out that love was onely eased with love, and fancy healed by no medicine but favour. phoebus had hearbs to heale all hurts but this passion: cyrces had charms for all chances but for affection, and mercurie subtill reasons to refell all griefs but love. perswasions are bootles, reason lends no remedy, coun- sell no comfort, to such whome fancie hath made resolute; and therefore though phoebe loves ganimede, yet montanus must honor none but phoebe. then, quoth ganimede, may i rightly tearme thee a de- spairing lover, that livest without joy, and lovest without hope. but what shal i do, montanus, to pleasure thee! shall i despise phoebe, as she disdaines thee! ah (quoth montanus), that were to renew my griefs, and double my sorrows: for the sight of her discontent were the censure of my death. alas, ganimede! though i perish in my thoughts, let not her die in eu phues golden legacie. her desires. of all passions, love is most impatient: then lette not so faire a creature as phoebe sinke under the burden of so deepe distresse. being love sicke, she is proved hart sicke, and all for the beautie of ganimede. thy proportion hath intangled her affections, and she is snared in the beauty of thy excellence. then, sith she loves thee so deare, mislike not her deadly. be thou paramour to such a paragon: she hath beauty to please thine eye, and flockes to enrich thy store. thou canst not wish for more than thou shalt win by her; for she is beautifull, vertuous and wealthy, three deepe perswasions to make love frolicke. aliena seeing montanus cut it against the haire, and pleade that ganimede ought to love phoebe, when his onely life was the love of phoebe, an- swered him thus. why, montanus, dost thou further this motion, seeing if ganimede marry phoebe thy market is cleane mard ah, mistres (q. he) so hath love taught me to honour phoebe, that i would prejudice my life to pleasure her, and die in despaire rather than shee should perish for want. it shall suffice me to see her contented, and to feed mine eye on her favour. if she marry, though it bee my martyrdome, yet if she be pleased i wil brooke it with patience, and tri- umph in mine owne stars to see her desires satisfied. there- fore, if ganimede be as courteous as he is beautifull, let him shew his vertues in redressing phoebes miseries. and this montanus pronounst with such an assured countenance, that it amazed both aliena and ganimede to see the resolution of his loves; so that they pitied his passions and commended his patience, devising how they might by any subtiltie get montanus the favour of phoebe. straight (as womens heads are full of wiles) ganimede had a fetch to force phoebe to fancie the shepheard, malgrado the resolution of her minde: he prosecuted his policie thus. montanus, quoth he, seeing phoebe is so forlorne, least i might be counted unkind in not saluting so faire a creature, i will goe with thee to phoebe, and there heare her selfe in word utter that which shee hath discourst with her pen; and then, as love wils mee, i will set fu phufs golden legacie downe my censure. i will home by our house, and send coridon to accompany aliena. montanus seemed glad of this determination, and away they goe towards the house of phoebe. when they drew nigh to the cottage, montanus rai. afore, and went in and told phoebe that ganimede was at the doore. this word ganimede sounding in the eares of phoebe, drave hir into such an extasie for joy, that rising up in her bed, she was halfe revived, and her wan colour began to waxe red: and with that came ganimede in, who saluted phoebe with such a courteous looke, that it was half a salve to her sorows. sitting him downe by hir bed side, he questioned about hir disease, and where the paine chiefly helde hir! phoebe looking as lovely as venus in her night gear, tainting her face with as ruddy a blus has clitia did when shee be- wrayed her loves to phoebus, taking ganimede by the hande began thus. faire shepheard, if love were not more strong than nature, or fancie the sharpest extreame, my immodesty were the more, and my vertues the les; for nature hath framed womens eyes bashfull, their harts full of feare, and theyr tongs ful of silence; but love, that imperious love, where his power is predominant, then he perverts all, and wrests the wealth of nature to his owne wil: an instance in my selfe, fayre ganimede, for such a fire hath he kindeled in my thoughts, that to finde ease for the flame, i was forced to passe the bounds of modesty, and seek a salve at thy hands for my harms. blame me not if i be over bold, for it is thy beauty, and if i bee too forward it is fancie, and the deepe insight into thy vertues that makes me thus fond; for let me say in a word what may be contained in a volume, phoebe loves ganimede. at this shee held downe her head and wept, and ganimede rose as one that would suffer no fish to hang on his fingers, made this reply. water not thy plants, phoebe, for i do pity thy plaints, nor seek not to discover thy loves in teares, for i conjecture thy truth by thy passions: sorrow is no salve for loves, nor sighs no remedy for affection. therefore frolick, phoebe; for if ganimede can cure thee, l eu phues golden legacie. doubt not of recovery. yet this let me say without offence, that it greeves me to thwart montanus in his fancies, seeing his desires have been so resolute, and his thoughts so loyall. but thou alledgest that thou art forst from him by fate: so i tell thee, phoebe, either some starre, or else some destenie, fittes my mind, rather with adonis to die in chase, than be counted a wanton on venus knee. although i pitie thy mar- tyrdome, yet i can grant no marriage; for though i held thee fair, yet mine eie is not fettred. love grows not, like the hearb spattanna, to his perfection in one night, but creeps with the snaile, and yet at last attaines to the top. festina lenter, especially in love, for momentary fancies are often- times the fruits of follies. if, phoebe, i should like thee as the hiperborei do theyr dates, which banket with them in the morning and throw them away at night, my folly should be great, and thy repentance more. therefore i wil have time to turn my thoghts, and my loves shall growe up as the water cresses, slowly, but with a deepe roote. thus, phoebe, thou maist see i disdaine not, though i desire not; remaining indifferent til time and love makes me resolute. therefore, phoebe, seek not to suppresse affection, and with the love of montanus quench the remembraunce of ganimede: strive thou to hate mee as i seeke to like of thee, and ever have the du- ties of montanus in thy minde, for i promise thee thou mayest have one more wealthy, but not more loyall. these wordes were corasives to the perplexed phoebe, that sobbing out sighes, and straining out teares, she blubbered out these words. and shall i then have no salve of ganimede but suspence, no hope but a doubtfull hazard, no comfort, but be posted off to the will of time! justly have the gods ballanst my fortunes, who, being cruel to montanus, found ganimede as unkind to my selfe: so in forcing him perish for love, i shall die my selfe with over-much love. i am glad, quoth ganimede, you looke into your own faults, and see where your shoo wrings you, measuring now the pains of montanus by your owne passions. truth, q. phoebe, and so deeply i repent me of my eu phues golden legacie. frowardnesse towards the shepheard, that could i cease to love ganimede, i would resolve to like montanus. what if i can with reason perswade phoebe to mislike of ganimede, wil she then favour montanus! when reason (quoth she) doth quench that love i owe to thee, then will i fancie him; conditionally, that if my love can bee supprest with no reason, as being without reason, ganimede will onely wed himselfe to phoebe. i graunt it, faire shepheardesse, quoth he ; and to feed thee with the sweetnesse of hope, this resolve on: i wil never marry my selfe to woman but unto thy selfe. and with that ganimede gave phoebe a fruitlesse kisse, and such wordes of comfort, that before ganimede departed shee arose out of her bed, and made him and montanus such cheare, as could bee founde in such a country cottage, gani- mede in the midst of their banket rehearsing the promises of either in montanus favour, which highly pleased the shep- heard. thus all three content, and soothed up in hope, gani- mede tooke his leave of phoebe and departed, leaving her a contented woman, and montanus highly pleased. but poore ganimede, who had her thoughtes on her rosader, when she cald to remembrance his wounds, fild her eies full of teares, and her heart full of sorrowes, plodded to finde aliena at the folds, thinking with her presence to drive away her passions. as she came on the plaines shee might espy where rosader and saladyne sat with aliena under the shade; which sight was a salve to her griefe, and such a cordiall unto her heart, that shee tript alongst the lawnes full of joy. at last coridon, who was with them, spied ganimede, and with that the clown rose, and, running to meet him, cried, oh sirha, a match, a match! our mistres shal be maried on sun- day. thus the poore peasant frolict it before ganimede, who comming to the crue saluted them all, and especially rosader, saying that he was glad to see him so wel recovered of his wounds. i had not gone abroad so soone, quoth rosader, but that i am bidden to a marriage, which, on sunday next, must bee solempnized betweene my brother and aliena. i i eu phues golden legacie. see well where love leads delay is loathsome, and that small wooing serves where both the parties are willing. truth, quoth ganimede; but a happy day should it be, if rosader that day might be married to rosalynd. ah, good ganimede (quoth he), by naming rosalynd, renue not my sorrowes; for the thought of her perfections is the thrall of my miseries. tush; bee of good cheare, man, quoth ganimede: i have a friend that is deeply experienst in negromancy and magicke; what art can do shall be acted for thine advantage. i wil cause him to bring in rosalynde, if either france or any bord- ring nation harbour her; and upon that take the faith of a yoong shepheard. aliena smilde to see how rosader frownd, thinking that ganimede had jested with him. but, breaking off from those matters, the page (somewhat pleasant) began to discourse unto them what had past between him and phoebe; which as they laught, so they wondered at, all confessyng that there is none so chast but love will change. thus they past away the day in chat, and when the sun began to set they tooke their leaves and departed; aliena providing for their marriage day such solemne cheare and handsome roabes as fitted their country estate, and yet somewhat the better, in that rosader had promised to bring gerismond thither as a guest. ganimede (who then ment to discover herselfe before her father) had made her a gowne of green, and a kirtle of the finest sendal, in such sort that she seemed some hea- venly nymph harboured in country attire. saladyne was not behind in care to set out the nuptials, nor rosader unmindfull to bid guests, who invited gerismond and all his folowers to the feast, who willingly granted, so that there was nothing but the day wanting to his marriage. in the mean while, phoebe being a bidden guest made her self as gorgious as might be to please the eye of ganimede; and montanus suted himself with the cost of many of his flocks to be gallant against the day, for then was ganimede to give phoebe an answer of her loves, and montanus either to heare the doome of his miserie, or the censure of his hap- s eu phues golden legacie. pinesse. but while this geare was a brewing, phoebe past not one day without visiting her ganimede, so far was she wrapt in the beauties of this lovely swaine. much prattle they had, and the discourse of many passions, phoebe wish- ing for the day (as she thought) of her welfare, and gani- mede smiling to thinke what unexpected events would fall out at the wedding. in these humors the weeke went away, that at last sunday came. - no sooner did phoebus hench-man appeare in the skie, to give warning that his maisters horses should be trapt in his glorious coach, but coridon, in his holiday sute marvellous seemely, in a russet jacket, welted with the same and faced with red worsted, having a paire of blew chamblet sleeves, bound at the wrests with foure yeolow laces, closed afore very richly with a dozen of pewter buttons; his hose was of gray karsie, with a large sloppe bard over thwart the pocket holes with three faire gards, stitcht of either side with red threed; his stock was of the owne, sewed close to his breech, and for to bewtifie his hose, he had trust himselfe round with a dozen of new thredden points in medley colour: his bonnet was greene, wheron stood a copper brooch with the picture of st. denis; and to want nothing that might make him amorous in his old dayes, hee had a faire shyrt band of fine lockeram, whipt over with coventry blew of no small cost. thus at- tired, coridon bestird himselfe as chiefe stickler in these ac- tions, and had strowed al the house with flowers, that it seemed rather some of floraes choyce bowers than any coun- try cottage. thether repaired phoebe with all the maides of the forrest, to set out the bride in the most seemliest sort that might bee; but howsoever shee helpt to prancke out aliena, yet her eye was still on ganimede, who was so neat in a sute of gray, that he seemed endymion when he won luna with his lookes, or paris when he playd the swain to get the bewtie of the nymph oenone. ganimede, like a prettie page, waited on his mistresse aliena, and overlookt that all was in a readines eu phues golden legacie. against the bridegroom shuld come, who, attired in a forres- ters sute, came accompanied with gerismond and his brother rosader early in the morning, where arrived, they were so- lemnly entertained by aliena and the rest of the country swains; gerismond very highly commending the fortunate choice of saladyne, in that he had chosen a shepheardesse, whose vertues appeared in her outward bewties, being no lesse faire than seeming modest. ganimede comming in, and seeing her father, began to blush, nature woorking affects by her secret effects. scarce could she abstain from teares to see her father in so low fortunes: he that was wont to sit in his royall pallaice, attended on by twelve noble peeres, now to be contented with a simple cottage, and a troupe of revelling woodmen for his traine. the consideration of his fall made ganimede full of sorrowes; yet, that she might triumph over fortune with patience, and not any way dash that merry day with her dumps, she smothered her melancholy with a sha- dow of mirth, and verie reverently welcommed the king, not according to his former degree, but to his present estate, with such dilligence as gerismond began to commend the page for his exquisit person and excellent qualities. as thus the king with his forresters frolickt it among the shepheards, coridon came in with a faire mazer full of sidar, and presented it to gerismond with such a clownish salute that he began to smile, and tooke it of the old shepheard very kindly, drinking to aliena and the rest of her faire maydes, amongst whom phoebe was the formost. aliena pledged the king, and drunk to rosader: so the carowse went rounde from him to phoebe, &c. as they were thus drinking and ready to goe to church, came in montanus, apparalled all in tawny, to signifie that he was forsaken: on his head hee wore a garland of willow, his bottle hanged by his side, whereon was painted dispaire, and on his sheephooke hung two sonnets, as lables of his loves and fortunes. thus attired came montanus in, with his face as full of griefe as his heart was of sorowes, shewing in his counte- s : eu phues golden legacie. nance the map of extremities. as soon as the shepheards saw him, they did him all the honor they could, as being the flower of all the swaines in arden; for a bonnier boy was there not seen since that wanton wag of troy that kept sheep in ida. he seeing the king, and gessyng it to be gerismond, did him all the reverence his country curtesie could afford; insomuch that the king wondring at his attire, began to question what he was. montanus overhearing him, made this reply:—i am, sir (quoth he), loves swaine, as ful of inward discontents as i seeme fraught with outward follies. mine eyes like bees delight in sweet flowers, but sucking their fill on the faire of beauty, they carry home to the hive of my heart farre more gaul than hony, and for one drop of pure deaw, a tun full of deadly aconiton. i hunt with the fly to pursue the eagle, that flying too nigh the sun, i perish with the sun : my thoughts are above my reach, and my desires more than my fortunes, yet neither greater than my loves. but daring with phaeton, i fal with icarus; and seeking to passe the mean, i die for being so mean: my night sleeps are waking slombers, as full of sorrowes as they be far from rest; and my dayes labors are fruitlesse amors, staring at a star and stombling at a straw, leaving reason to follow after repent- ance: yet every passion is a pleasure thogh it pinch, because love hides his wormeseed in figs, his poysons in sweet po- tions, and shadows prejudize with the maske of pleasure. the wisest counsellers are my deep discontents, and i hate that which should salve my harm, like the patient which stung with the tarantula loaths musick, and yet the disease incurable but by melody. thus (sir) restlesse i hold myselfe remediles, as loving without either reward or regard, and yet loving bicause there is none worthy to be loved but the mis- tresse of my thoughts. and that i am as full of passions as i have discourst in my plaintes, sir, if you please, see my sonnets, and by them censure of my sorrowes. these wordes of montanus brought the king into a great wonder, amazed as much at his wit as at his attire, insomuch eu phues golden legacie. that he tooke the papers off his hooke, and read them to this effect. montanus first sonnet. alas! how wander i amidst these woods, whereas no day bright shine doth finde accesse; but where the melancholy fleeting floods (dark as the night) my night of woes expresse. disarmde of reason, spoilde of natures goods, without redresse to salve my heavinesse i walke, whilest thought (too cruell to my harmes), with endles grief my heedles judgement charmes. my silent tongue assailde by secret feare, my traitrous eyes imprisºned in their joy, my fatall peace devourd in fained cheare, my heart inforst to harbour in annoy, my reason robde of power by yeelding eare, my fond opinions slave to every toy. oh, love! thou guide in my uncertaine way, woe to thy bow, thy fire, the cause of my decay. et florida pungunt. when the king had read this sonnet he highly commended the device of the shepheard, that could so wittily wrap his passions in a shaddow, and so covertly conceale that which bred his chiefest discontent; affirming, that as the least shrubs have their tops, the smallest haires their shaddowes, so the meanest swaines had their fancies, and in their kynde were as charie of love as a king. whetted on with this device, he tooke the second, and read it: the effects were these— montanus second sonnet. when a dog full of rage, with his irefull eyes | frownes amidst the skies, the shepheard to asswage eu phues golden legacie. the fury of the heat, himselfe doth fafely seat by a fount full of faire, where a gentle breath (mounting from beneath) tempreth the aire. there his flocks drinke their fill, and with ease repose, whilest sweet sleepe doth close eyes from toylsome ill; but i burne without rest, no defensive power shields from phoebes lower: sorrow is my best. gentle love, lowre no more: if thou wilt invade in the secret shade, labour not so sore. i my selfe and my flocks, they their love to please, i my selfe to ease, both leave the shadie oakes: content to burne in fire, sith love doth so desire. et florida pungunt. gerismond, seeing the pithy vaine of those sonets, began to make further enquiry what he was whereupon rosader discourst unto him the love of montanus to phoebe, his great loyaltie and her deep crueltie, and how in revenge the gods had made the curious nymph amorous of yoong ganimede. upon this discourse the king was desirous to see phoebe, who being broght before gerismond by rosader, shadowed the beauty of her face with such a vermilion teinture, that the kings eyes began to dazle at the puritie of her excellence. after gerismond had fed his lookes a while upon her faire, eu phues golden legacie. he questioned with her why she rewarded montanus love with so little regard, seeing his desertes were many, and his passions extreame? phoebe, to make reply to the kings de- maund, answered thus:—love (sir) is charitie in his lawes, and whatsoever hee sets downe for justice (bee it never so unjust), the sentence cannot be reverst: womens fancies lende favours not ever by desert, but as they are inforst by their desires; for fancy is tied to the wings of fate, and what the starres decree, stands for an infallible doome. i know mon- tanus is wise, and womens ears are greatly delighted with wit, as hardly escaping the charme of a pleasant toong, as ulisses the melody of the syrens. montanus is bewtifull, and womens eyes are snared in the excellence of objects, as desirous to feede their lookes with a faire face, as the bee to suck on a sweet floure. montanus is welthy, and an ounce of give me perswades a woman more than a pound of heare me. danae was won with a golden shower, when she could not be gotten with all the intreaties of jupiter. i tell you, sir, the string of a woman's heart reacheth to the pulse of her hand; and let a man rub that with gold, and tis hard but she wil proove his hearts gold. montanus is yoong, a great clause in fancies court: montanus is vertuous, the richest argument that love yeelds; and yet knowing all these perfections, i praise them, and wonder at them, loving the qualities, but not affecting the person, because the destenies have set downe a contrary censure. yet venus, to ad revenge, hath given me wine of the same grape, a sip of the same sauce, and firing me with the like passion, hath crost me with as ill a penance; for i am in love with a shepheards swaine, as coy to mee as i am cruel to montanus, as peremptory in disdain as i was perverse in desire; and that is (quoth she) alienaes page, yong ganimede. gerismond, desirous to prosecute the ende of these pas- sions, called in ganimede, who, knowing the case, came in graced with such a blush, as beautified the christall of his face with a ruddie brightnesse. the king noting well the phismomy of ganimede, began by his favours to cal to mind eu phues golden legacie. the face of his rosalynd, and with that fetcht a deepe sigh. rosader, that was passing familiar with gerismond, demanded of him why he sighed so sore? because, rosader (quoth hee), the favour of ganimede puts mee in minde of rosalynde. at this word rosader sight so deeply, as though his heart would have burst. and whats the matter (quoth gerismond) that you quite mee with such a sigh pardon me, sir (quoth rosader), because i love none but rosalynd. and upon that condition (quoth gerismond) that rosalynd were here, i would this day make up a marriage betwixt her and thee. at this aliena turnd her head and smilde upon ganimede, and shee could scarce keep countenance. yet shee salved all with secrecie; and gerismond, to drive away his dumpes, questioned with ganimede, what the reason was he regarded not phoebes love, seeing she was as faire as the wanton that brought troy to ruine ! ganimede mildly answered, if i shuld affect the faire phoebe, i should offer poore montanus great wrong to winne that from him in a moment, that hee hath labored for so many monthes. yet have i promised to the bewtiful shepheardesse to wed my selfe never to woman except unto her; but with this promise, that if i can by reason suppresse phoebes love towards me, she shall like of none but of montanus. to that, q. phoebe, i stand; for my love is so far beyond reason, as wil admit no persuasion of reason. for justice, q, he, i appeale to gerismond: and to his censure wil i stand, q. phoebe. and in your victory, q. montanus, stands the hazard of my fortunes; for if gani- mede go away with conquest, montanus is in conceit loves monarch: if phoebe winne, then am i in effect most miserable. we wil see this controversie, q. gerismond, and then we will to church: therefore, ganimede, let us heare your argu- ment. nay, pardon my absence a while (quoth shee), and you shall see one in store. in went ganimede and drest her self in womans attire, having on a gowne of greene, with kirtle of rich sandall, so quaint, that she seemed diana triumphing in the forrest: upon her head she wore a chaplet of roses, which gave her eu phues golden legaci e. such a grace that she looked like flora pearkt in the pride of all her floures. thus attired came rosalind in, and presented hir self at hir fathers feete, with her eyes full of teares, crav- ing his blessing, and discoursing unto him all her fortunes, how shee was banished by torismond, and how ever since she lived in that country disguised. gerismond, seeing his daughter, rose from his seat and fel upon her necke, uttering the passions of his joy in watry plaints, driven into such an extasie of content, that he could not utter one word. at this sight, if rosader was both amazed and joyfull, i refer my selfe to the judgement of such as have experience in love, seeing his rosalynd before his face whom so long and deeply he had affected. at last gerismond recovered his spirites, and in most fatherly tearmes entertained his daughter rosalynd, after many questions de- manding of her what had past betweene her and rosader? so much, sir (quoth she) as there wants nothing but your grace to make up the mariage. why, then (quoth gerismond) rosader take her: shee is thine, and let this day solemnize both thy brothers and thy nuptials. rosader beyond measure content, humbly thankt the king, and imbraced his rosalynde, who turning to phoebe, demanded if she had shewen sufficient reason to suppresse the force of her loves. yea, quoth phoebe, and so great a perswasive, that if it please you madame and aliena to give us leave, montanus and i will make this day the thirde couple in marriage. she had no sooner spake this word, but montanus threw away his garland of willow, his bottle, where was painted dispaire, and cast his sonnets in the fire, shewing himselfe as frolicke as paris when he han- seled his love with helena. at this gerismond and the rest smiled, and concluded that montanus and phoebe should keepe their wedding with the two brethren. aliena seeing saladyne stand in a dumpe, to wake him from his dreame began thus. why how now, my saladyne, all a mort! what melancholy, man, at the day of marriage! perchaunce thou art sorrowfull to thinke on thy brothers high fortunes, and thyne owne base desires to chuse so meane a shepheardize. cheare fu phufs golden legacie. up thy hart, man; for this day thou shalt bee married to the daughter of a king; for know, saladyne, i am not aliena, but alinda, the daughter of thy mortal enemie torismond. at this all the company was amazed, especially gerismond, who rising up, tooke alinda in his armes, and said to rosalynd, is this that faire alinda famous for so many vertues, that forsake her fathers court to live with thee exilde in the country! the same, q. rosalynde. then, quoth gerismond, turning to saladyne, jolly forrester be frolick, for thy fortunes are great, and thy desires excellent: thou hast got a princesse as famous for her perfection, as exceeding in proportion. and she hath with her beauty won (quoth saladyne) an humble servant, as full of faith as she of amiable favour. while every one was amazed with these comicall eventes, coridon came skipping in, and told them that the priest was at church, and tarried for their comming. with that gerismond led the way, and the rest followed; where to the admiration of all the countrey swains in arden their mariages were solemnly so- lemnized. as soone as the priest had finished, home they went with alinda, where coridon had made all things in readines. dinner was provided, and the tables being spread, and the brides set downe by gerismond, rosader, saladyne, and montanus that day were servitors: homely cheare they had, such as their country could affoord, but to mend their fare they had mickle good chat, and many discourses of their loves and fortunes. about mid dinner, to make them mery, coridon came in with an old crowd, and plaid them a fit of mirth, to which he sung this pleasant song. coridons song. a blyth and bonny country lasse, heigh ho, the bonny lasse! sate sighing on the tender grasse and weeping said, will none come woo me? a smicker boy, a lyther swaine, heigh ho, a smicker swaine! . that in his love was wanton faine, with smiling looks straight came unto her. eu phues golden legacie. when, as the wanton wench espied, heigh ho, when she espied' the meanes to make her selfe a bride, she simpred smooth like bonny bell: the swaine, that saw her squint eied kind, heigh ho, squint eyed kind! his armes about her body twind, and, faire lasse, how fare ye, well? the country kit said, well, forsooth, heigh ho, well forsooth ! but that i have a longing tooth, a longing tooth that makes me crie: alas! said he, what garres thy grief? heigh ho, what garres thy grief? a wound, quoth she, without reliefe, i fear a maid that i shall die. if that be all, the shepheard said, heigh ho, the shepheard said! he make thee wive it gentle mayd, and so recure thy maladie. hereon they kist with many a oath, heigh ho, with many a oath ! and fore god pan did plight their troath, and to the church they hied them fast. and god send every pretie peate, heigh ho, the pretie peateſ that feares to die of this conceate, so kind a friend to helpe at last. coridon having thus made them merry, as they were in the midst of their jollitie, word was brought in to saladyne and rosader that a brother of theirs, one fernandine, was arived, and desired to speake with them. gerismond over- hearing this newes, demaunded who it was . it is, sir (q. rosader) our middle brother, that lives a scholler in paris; but what fortune hath driven him to seek us out i know not. with that saladine went and met his brother, whom he welcommed with all curtesie, and rosader gave him no lesse frendly entertainment: brought he was by his two brothers into the parlour where they all sate at dinner. fernandine, eu phues golden legacie. as one that knew as many maners, as he could points of so- phistry, and was as wel brought up as well lettered, saluted them all. but when he espied gerismond, kneeling on his knee, he did him what reverence belonged to his estate, and with that burst forth into these speaches. although (right mighty prince) this day of my brothers marriage be a daye of mirth, yet time craves another course; and therefore from dantie cates rise to sharpe weapons. and you, the sonnes of sir john of bourdeaux, leave off your amors and fal to arms: change your loves into lances, and now this day shew your selves valiant, as hitherto you have been passionate. for know, gerismond, that harde by at the edge of this forrest the twelve peeres of france are up in arms to recover thy right; and torismond, troupt with a crue of desperate runnagates, is ready to bid them battaile. the armies are ready to joyne: therefore shewe thy selfe in the field to in- courage thy subjects. and you, saladyne and rosader, mount you, and shew your selves as hardy soldiers as you have been harty lovers: so shal you for the benefit of your country, dis- cover the idea of your fathers vertues to be stamped in your thoughts, and prove children worthy of so honorable a parent. at this alarum, given him by fernandine, gerismond leapt from the boord, and saladyne and rosader betooke them- selves to their weapons. nay (q. gerismond) go with me: i have horse and armor for us all, and then, being well mounted, let us shew that we carry revenge and honor at our fauchons points. thus they leave the brides full of sorrow, and especially alinda, who desired gerismond to be good to her father: hee, not returning a word because his hast was great, hied him home to his lodge, wher he delivered saladyne and rosader horse and armour, and himselfe armed royally led the way, not having ridden two leagues before they dis- covered where in a valley both the battailes were joyned. gerismond seeing the wing wherein the peeres fought, thrust in there, and cryed s. denis' laying on such load upon his enemies, that he shewed how highly he did estimate of a crowne. when the peeres perceived that their lawful king eu phues golden legacie. was there, they grew more eager; and saladyne and rosader so behaved themselves, that none durst stand in their way, nor abide the furie of their weapons. to be short, the peeres were conquerors, torismonds army put to flight, and himself slain in battaile. the peers then gathered themselves to- gether, and saluted their king, conducted him royally into paris, where he was received with great joy of all the citti- zens. assoone as all was quiet, and he had received againe the crowne, he sent for alinda and rosalynd to the court, alinda being very passionat for the death of her father, yet brooking it with the more patience, in that she was contented with the welfare of her saladyne. wel, assoone as they were come to paris, gerismond made a royal feast for the peeres and lords of his land, which continued thirtie dayes, in which time summoning a parliament, by the consent of his nobles, he created rosader heire apparant to the kingdome: hee restored saladyne to all his fathers land, and gave him the dukedome of nameurs: he made fernandine principall secretarie to himselfe; and that fortune might every way seeme frolicke, he made montanus lord over all the forrest of arden, adam spencer captaine of the kings gard, and coridon maister of alindas flocks. heere, gentlemen, may you seein euphues golden legacie, that such as neglect their fathers precepts, incur much preju- dice; that division in nature, as it is a blemish in nurture, so tis a breach of good fortunes; that vertue is not measured by birth but by action; that yonger brethren, though inferiour in yeares, yet may bee superiour to honors; that concord is the sweetest conclusion, and amity betwixt brothers more forceable than fortune. if you gather any fruits by this le- gacie, speake wel of euphues for writing it, and me for fetch- ing it. if you grace me with that favor, you incorage me to be more froward: and assoone as i have overlookt my labors, expect the sailers kalender. th. lodge. finis. notes. p. , l. , “the schedule annexed to euphues testament" is not in the edition of , but was first added to that of . it appears in all the subsequent impressions that have fallen under our notice. p. , l. , ought we not to read unitie for vanitie, as it stands in the old copies? p. , . , “having the prime,” &c. “having passed the prime,” &c. edit. . p. , . , “essential fortune of his proportion,” edit. , reads “essentiall forme,” which is no doubt right. p. , . , “the baarran leafe.” edit. reads “the baatan leafe.” p. , l. , the edit. reads “honour” for “humour,” which is, perhaps, right. p. , . , “as, quoth hee,” &c. the edit. of has it “alas, quoth hee,” which must be the true reading. p. , l. , “ lap holde on him:” the correct reading seems to be “lay holde on him,” and so it stands in the edit. . p. , l. , “the dead mens graves:” the edit. of reads “the dead men graves,” which seems right. p. , l. . this stanza is clearly surplusage, and is made up, by error of the printer, from parts of the preceding and succeeding stanzas. the poem is correctly given in the edit. of , consisting of only four stanzas. p. , l. , “greet so sore,” or “grede so sore,” is “cry so sore.” this pastoral has several other achaisms, as “lorell” for lost, “herry” for bless or praise, “for thy" for therefore, &c. and is obviously written in imitation of spenser. p. , l. , “as we exceed not ill dyet"—so both the edit. of and ; but ought we not to read “in dyet?” p. , l. , “it chaunced that day:" the edit. of reads “it hapued that day." p. , l. , “but the lord of the feast." the word be seems to have dropped out after but. p. , l. , “as it were:" the edit. of reads “if it were," which seems right. p. , l. , “this newes drive the king.” the edit. of has it “drace,” which, of course, is the correct reading. k notes. p. , l. . the edit. of reads still more corruptly “pale- footed;” but the true word is “polt-footed.” p. , l. , “when love himselfe:" the edit. of more correctly reads “where love himselfe.” p. , l. , “which applying:” the true reading is “with apply- ing,” and so it stands in the edit. . p. , l. . ought we not to read reaching instead of watching p. , l. , ganimede is misprinted for rosader in the editions of and . p. , l. . the edit. of properly reads is instead of “are sold,” as it stands in the copy of . p. , l. . we ought to read “than any wooll more softer.” p. , l. . the edit. of reads, no doubt correctly, mill for “ will.” p. , l. , for “touch in my estate,” the edit. of reads “couch in my estate." p. , l. . a word (perhaps seem) has evidently dropped out in this line, and it is not supplied by the old copies. p. , l. . perhaps this is the oldest instance of the use of the word fop in our language, although shakespeare has it in “king lear." it means a foolish fellow. the sentence in the text ought obviously to run thus, “ or so foolish that she forgets, like a fop, that she must have a large harvest for a little corne.” p. , l. . the edit. of reads “if thou measurest," which seems right. p. , l. . lodge appears to have been rather vain of his french compositions, and this is not the only instance in which he has intro- duced them, either in his own works or as laudatory of those of others. to put french verses into the mouth of montanus is a gross piece of indecorum as respects the preservation of character. p. , l. , “condemne mee for an abject” seems the true reading, and we have before had the same species of antithesis. p. , l. , for kistresse, as it is printed in the old editions, we ought to read kistrelle. p. , l. . the edit. of reads “in not salving so faire a creature.” p. , l. , “home to our house,” edit. . p. , . . the edit. of reads amongst for “alongst." p. , l. , “but what a happy day,” is the reading of edit. . p. , , . the edit. of reads, no doubt correctly, “when the dog,” &c. p. , . . ought we not rather to read “love (sir) is charie in his lawes,” though not supported by the old copies? the h is to r y of h a m l e t, prince of denmark; upon which shakespeare is supposed to have founded his tragedy. reprinted from the only known copy, published in . london : thomas rodd, , great newport street, midcccxli. introduction. the only known copy of the following novel is preserved among capell's books, at cambridge, and bears date in : it was printed by richard bradocke, for thomas pavier, a well-known stationer of that time. there can be little doubt that it had originally come from the press considerably before the commencement of the seventeenth century, although the multiplicity of readers of productions of the kind, and the carelessness with which such books were regarded after peru- sal, has led to the destruction, as far as can now be ascer- tained, of every earlier copy. that which we have used for our re-impression, of a considerably later date, has alone escaped. should any accident unluckily befall that interest- ing and valuable relic, the misfortune could never be repaired; and it seems almost a matter of duty, therefore, accurately to reprint such productions, that they may not at any future time be utterly lost. that a play upon the story of hamlet had been written some years before , we have every reason to believe. robert greene (according to mr. dyce, whom it is generally safe to follow, especially on questions of date) published his iv introduction. “menaphon” in , prefixing to it an epistle by thomas nash, in which he alludes to a tragedy of that name; and on the th june , henslowe registers in his ms. diary, preserved at dulwich college, that “hamlet” was performed by his company, while acting at newington butts, apparently, in conjunction with the association to which shakespeare belonged: it was then an old play, and produced him only eight shillings as his share of the receipts; though, when new pieces were represented, his proportion at the same period was usually more than three pounds. malone, who erred as to the date of greene's “menaphon" (shakesp. by boswell, ii, ) confidently, though conjecturally, assigned the “hamlet,” spoken of by nash and mentioned by henslowe, to thomas kyd : it is often alluded to by contemporaries, and there is not a moment's doubt that it was written and acted many years before shakespeare's tragedy of the same name was produced. it is most probable that kyd's play (sup- posing it to be his) was founded upon the novel under con- sideration, which, therefore, must have been originally printed before , and that, to a certain extent, our great dramatist availed himself both of the old drama and of the still older “history.” an earlier copy of shakespeare's “hamlet” than that with which malone was acquainted has turned up comparatively recently, and is now in the library of the duke of devon- shire; but it was not deposited among the extraordinary rarities of that now matchless dramatic collection, until, by permission of his grace, a reprint had been made of it, we believe under the superintendence of messrs. payne and foss, introduction. v of pall mall. it is one of the most faithful and accurate re- impressions ever completed, and a minute collation of it with the original only detected two or three trifling literal variations. this quarto bears date in , and it was printed by n. l. (nicholas ling), who was interested in the known quarto of , which, until this discovery was made, was looked upon as the first edition of shakespeare's “ham- let.” from a careful comparison of the two, it seems nearly certain that the copy of was printed from ms. taken down in short-hand from the players' mouths, as the dialogue was delivered on the stage; and the additional lines there found were, for some reason, omitted in the more authentic edition published in the succeeding year. we are well sa- tisfied that the “hamlet” of was not shakespeare's first draught of the tragedy, which he enlarged and improved as it appeared in . it will be found that the tragedy varies in many important particulars from the novel, especially towards the conclusion; that nearly the whole conduct of the story is different; that the catastrophe is totally dissimilar, and that the character of the hero in the prose narrative is utterly degraded below the rank he is entitled to take in the commencement. the murder of hamlet's father, the marriage of his mother with the murderer, hamlet's pretended madness, his interview with his mother, and his voyage to england, are nearly the only points in common. we thus are able to see how far shakespeare followed the “history;” but we shall probably never be able to ascertain to what extent he made use of the antecedent play. vi introduction. the prose narrative of is a bald, literal, and, in many respects, uncouth translation from the histoires tragiques of belleforest, who was himself by no means an elegant writer for the time in which he lived: he began publishing his series of novels in , and his story of “amleth" was professedly copied from an earlier author, whom he does not name, but who was either saxo grammaticus, or some writer, who had intermediately borrowed the incidents, and converted them to his own purposes. belleforest gives it the following title:– avec quelle ruse amleth, qui depuis fut roy de danne- march, vengea la mort de son pere horvuendile, occis par fengon, son frere, et autre occurrence de son histoire. the english translator, especially in the descriptive portion of his work, has multiplied all the faults of belleforest, including his lengthened and involved periods, and his frequent con- fusion of persons. it may be suspected that one or two of the longer speeches, and particularly the oration of hamlet, occupying nearly the whole of chapter vi, was by another and a better hand, who had a more complete knowledge of french, and a happier use of his own language. we need not have much hesitation in believing that the oldest copy (perhaps printed about the year ) was suf- ficiently corrupt in its readings; but the corruptions increased with the re-impressions, and a few portions of the edition of seem almost to defy correction. some passages might be rendered more intelligible, such as “distill a field of tears" (p. ), instead of “distill a flood of tears”—“deface his desire of revenge” (p. ), instead of “deferre his desire of revenge"—“she thought fit for no men but herself” (p. ), introduction. vii instead of “she thought fit for no one but herself”—“desired she to see" (p. ), instead of “desired her to see"—“with- out and any faithfull assurance” (p. ), instead of “ with- out any faithfull assurance,” &c.; but it was thought best to present the curious relic, as nearly as it could be done, in the shape and state in which it issued from the press not quite two centuries and a half ago. for this reason it has not been considered right to make the orthography of the name of the hero uniform: sometimes he is called hamblet (as, no doubt, it stood in the first impression), and at other times hamlet, as we have every reason to suppose it was altered in the old play, and as we find it in shakespeare. all the introductory matter to the ensuing pages is by belleforest, the translator having deemed it necessary to pre- serve the french “argument,” and to convert some prelimi- nary observations into what he terms a “preface.” the hy s to rie () f h a m b l e t. london : imprinted by richard bradocke, for thomas parier, and are to be sold at his shop in corne-hill, neere to the royall exchange. . the argument. it is not at this present, neither yet a small time since, the dou. of rule caus- that envy raigning in the worlde hath in such sort blinded ºn"...". men, that without respect of consanguinitie, friendship, or ; º: favour whatsoever, they forget themselves so much as that they spared not to defile their hands with the blood of those men, who by all law and right they ought chiefly to defend and cherish. for what other impression was it that entered into romulus heart, when, under pretence of i know not what lawe, he defiled his hands with the blood of his owne brother, but the abhominable vice of desire to raigne? which, if in all the accurrences, prosperities, and circumstances thereof, it were well wayed and considered, i know not any man that had not rather live at his ease, and privately without charge, then, being feared and honored of all men, to beare all the charge and burden upon his shoulders; to serve and please n ... the fantasies of the common people; to live continually in . .". feare, and to see himself exposed to a thousand occasions of hi. " danger, and most commonly assailed and spoiled when hee thinkes verily to hold fortune as slave to his fantasies and will, and yet buyes such and so great misery for the vaine and fraile pleasures of this world, with the losse of his owne soule; making so large a measure of his conscience, that it is not once mooved at any murther, treason, deceit, nor wicked- nes whatsoever he committed, so the way may be opened and made plaine unto him, whereby hee may attaine to that miser- a.m. able felicitie, to command and governe a multitude of men ... "... no cause, (as i said of romulus), who, by a most abhominable action, |... ." prepared himselfe a way to heaven (but not by vertue). the ambitious and seditious orator of rome supposed the xii argument. degrees and steps to heaven, and the wayes to vertue, to consist in the treasons, ravishments, and massacres committed by him that first layd the foundations of that citty. and not to leave the hystories of rome, what, i pray you, incited ancius martinus to massacre tarquin the elder, but the desire of raigning as a king, who before had bin the onely man to move and solicite the saide tarquinius to bereave the right heires and inheriters thereof." what caused tarquinius the proud traiterously to imbrue his hands in the blood of servius tullius, his father in law, but onely that fumish and un- bridled desire to be commander over the cittie of rome! which practise never ceased nor discontinued in the said prin- cipall cittie of the empire, as long as it was governed by the greatest and wisest personages chosen and elected by the people; for therein have been seen infinite numbers of sedi- tions, troubles, pledges, ransommings, confiscations and mas- sacres, onely proceeding from this ground and principle, which entereth into mens hearts, and maketh them covet and desirous to be heads and rulers of a whole common wealth. and after the people were deprived of that libertie of election, and that the empire became subject to the pleasure and fantasie of one man, commanding al the rest, i pray you peruse their bookes, and read diligently their hystories, and do but looke into the meanes used by the most part of their kings and em- perours to attaine to such power and authoritie, and you shall see how poysons, massacres, and secret murthers, were the meanes to push them forwards that durst not openly attempt it, or else could not compasse to make open warres. and for that the hystory (which i pretend to shew unto you) is chiefly grounded upon treason, committed by one brother against the other, i will not erre far out of the matter; thereby desiring to shew you, that it is and hath been a thing long since practised and put in use by men, to spill the blood of their neerest kinsmen and friends to attaine to the honour of being great and in authoritie; and that there hath bin some, that being impatient of staying till their just time of succes- argument. xiii sion, have hastened the death of their owne parents: as ab- ...” solon would have done to the holy king david, his father; iº" and as wee read of domitian, that poysoned his brother titus, the most curtious and liberall prince that ever swayed the empire of rome. and god knowes we have many the like examples in this our time, where the sonne conspired against the father; for that sultan zelin, emperour of turkes, was nº." so honest a man, that fearing baiazeth, his father, would die baiareth. of his naturall death, and that thereby he should have stayd too long for the empire, bereaved him of his life; and sultan soliman soliman, his successor, although he attempted not any thing tº ºr against his father, yet being mooved with a certaine feare to tºº,” “ bee deposed from his emperie, and bearing a hatred to mus- tapha, his son (incited therunto by rustain bassa, whom the jewes, enemies to the yong prince, had by gifts procured thereunto), caused him to be strangled with a bowe string, without hearing him (that never had offended his father) once speake to justifie his innocencie. butlet us leave the turkes, like barbarians as they are, whose throne is ordinarily esta- blished by the effusion of the blood of those that are neerest of kindred and consanguinitie to the empire, and consider what tragedies have bin plaid to the like effect in the me- morie of our ancestors, and with what charitie and love the neerest kindreds and friends among them have bin inter- tained. one of the other, if you had not the hystories extant a.º.". before you, if the memorie were not in a manner fresh, and age. known almost to every man, i would make a long discourse thereof; but things being so cleare and evident, the truth so much discovered, and the people almost, as it were, glutted with such treasons, i will omit them, and follow my matter, to shew you that, if the iniquitie of a brother caused his bro- ther to loose his life, yet that vengeance was not long after god staveth delayed; to the end that traitors may know, although the h. yet reveng- punishment of their trespasses committed be stayed for awhile, º, yet that they may assure themselves that, without all doubt, "...". they shal never escape the puisant and revenging hand of;..." xiv argument. god; who being slow to anger, yet in the ende doth not faile to shew some signes and evident tokens of his fearefull judge- ment upon such as, forgetting their duties, shed innocent blood, and betray their rulers, whom they ought chiefly to honour, serve, and reverence. the p. r. e. f. a. c. e. although in the beginning of this hystorie i had de- termined not to have troubled you with any other matter than a hystorie of our owne time, having sufficient tragicall matter to satisfie the minds of men; but because i cannot wel discourse thereof without touching many personages whom i would not willingly displease, and partly because the argument that i have in hand, seemed unto me a thing worthy to bee offered to our french nobilitie, for the great and gallant accurrences therein set downe, i have some- what strayed from my course, as touching the tragedies of this our age, and, starting out of france and over neither- landers countries, i have ventured to visit the hystories of denmarke, that it may serve for an example of vertue and contentment to our nation (whom i specially seeke to please), and for whose satisfaction i have not left any flower what- soever untasted, from whence i have not drawne the most perfect and delicate hony, thereby to bind them to my dili- gence herein; not caring for the ingratitude of the time pre- sent, that leaveth (as it were rejecteth) without recompence such as serve the common wealth, and by their travell and diligence honour their countrey, and illustrate the realme of france: so that oftentimes the fault proceedeth rather from xvi preface. them, then from the great personages that have other affaires which withdraw them from things that seeme of small con- sequence. withall, esteeming my selfe more than satisfied in this contentment and freedome which i now injoy, being loved of the nobilitie, for whom i travell without grudging, favoured of men of learning and knowledge, for admiring and reverencing them according to their worthinesse, and honoured of the common people, of whom, although i crave not their judgement, as not esteeming them of abilitie to eternize the name of a worthy man, yet i account my selfe sufficiently happy to have attained to this felicitie, that few or no men refuse, or disdaine to reade my workes, many ad- miring and wondering thereat; as there are some that, pro- voked by envie, blame and condemne it. to whom i con- fesse my selfe much bound and beholding, for that by their meanes i am the more vigelant, and so by my travell much more beloved and honored then ever i was; which to mee is the greatest pleasure that i can injoy, and the most abundant treasures in my coffers, wherewith i am more satisfied and contented then (if without comparison) i enjoyed the greatest treasures in all asia. now, returning to our matter, let us beginne to declare the hystorie. the hystorie of hamblet, prince of denmarke. c h a p. i. how horvendile and fengon were made governours of the province of ditmarse, and how horvendile marryed geruth, the daughter to roderick, chief k. of denmark, by whom he had hamblet: and how after his marriage his brother fengon slewe him trayterously, and marryed his brothers wife, and what followed. you must understand, that long time before the kingdome of denmark received the faith of jesus christ, and imbraced the danes the doctrin of the christians, that the common people in those ºut dayes were barbarous and uncivill, and their princes cruell, "" without faith or loyaltie, seeking nothing but murther, and de- posing (or at the least) offending each other, either in honours, "...". goods, or lives; not caring to ransome such as they tooke "*". prisoners, but rather sacrificing them to the cruell vengeance naturally imprinted in their hearts: in such sort, that if ther were sometime a good prince or king among them, who beeing adorned with the most perfect gifts of nature, would adict himselfe to vertue, and use courtesie, although the peo- ple held him in admiration (as vertue is admirable to the most wicked) yet the envie of his neighbors was so great, that they never ceased untill that vertuous man were dispatched out of the world. king rodericke, as then raigning in denmarke, º: after hee had appeased the troubles in the countrey, and driven marke. l the hystorie of hamblet, jutie at this time, called then dit- inarsse. h or vendile a king and a pirate. collere king of norway. horvendile slew collere. the sweathlanders and slaveans from thence, he divided the kingdom into divers provinces, placing governours therein; who after (as the like happened in france) bare the names of dukes, marqueses, and earls, giving the government of jutie (at this present called ditmarsse) lying upon the conntrey of the cimbrians, in the straight or narrow part of land that sheweth like a point or cape of ground upon the sea, which neithward bordereth upon the countrey of norway, two va- liant and warlike lords horvendile and fengon, sonnes to gervendile, who likewise had beene governour of that pro- vince. now the greatest honor that men of noble birth could at that time win and obtaine, was in exercising the art of piracie upon the seas, assayling their neighbours, and the countries bordering upon them; and how much the more they used to rob, pill, and spoyle other provinces, and ilands far adjacent, so much the more their honours and reputation in- creased and augmented: wherin horvendile obtained the highest place in his time, beeing the most renouned pirate that in those dayes scoured the seas and havens of the north parts: whose great ſame so mooved the heart of collere, king of norway, that he was much grieved to heare that horven- dile surmounting him in feates of armes, thereby obscuring the glorie by him alreadie obtained upon the seas: (honor more than covetousnesse of richer (in those dayes) being the reason that provoked those barbarian princes to overthrow and van- quish one the other, not caring to be slaine by the handes of a victorious person). this valiant and hardy king having challenged horvendile to fight with him body to body, the combate was by him accepted, with conditions, that hee which should be vanquished should loose all the riches he had in his ship, and that the vanquisher should cause the body of the vanquished (that should bee slaine in the combate) to be ho- nourably buried, death being the prise and reward of him that should loose the battaile; and to conclude, collere, king of norway (although a valiant, hardy, and couragious prince) was in the end vanquished and slaine by horvendile, who prince of den marke. presently caused a tombe to be erected, and therein (with all honorable obsequies fit for a prince) buried the body of king collere, according to their auncient manner and superstitions in these dayes, and the conditions of the combate, bereaving the kings shippes of all their riches; and having slaine the kings sister, a very brave and valiant warriour, and over runne all the coast of norway, and the northern ilands, re- turned home againe layden with much treasure, sending the most part thereof to his soveraigne, king rodericke, thereby to procure his good liking, and so to be accounted one of the greatest favourites about his majestie. the king, allured by those presents, and esteeming himselfe happy to have so valiant a subject, sought by a great favour and coutesie to make him become bounden unto him per- hamlet petually, giving him geruth his daughter to his wife, of whom someº. he knew horvendile to bee already much inamored. and the more to honor him, determined himselfe in person to conduct her into jutie, where the marriage was celebrated according to the ancient manner: and to be briefe, of this marriage pro- ceeded hamblet, of whom i intend to speake, and for his cause have chosen to renew this present hystorie. fengon, brother to this prince horvendile, who [not] onely fretting and despighting in his heart at the great honor and re- putation wonne by his brother in warlike affaires, but solicited his and provoked by a foolish jealousie to see him honored withi royall aliance, and fearing thereby to bee deposed from his part of the government, or rather desiring to be onely gover- nour, thereby to obscure the memorie of the victories and conquests of his brother horvendile, determined (whatsoever happened) to kill him; which hee effected in such sort, that no man once so much as suspected him, every man esteeming that from such and so firme a knot of alliance and consan- guinitie there could proceed no other issue then the full effects of vertue and courtesie: but (as i sayd before) the desire of bearing soveraigne rule and authoritie respecteth neither blood nor amitie, nor caring for vertue, as being vendile. fengon, conspira- against s brother. l the hystorie of hamblet, if a man be deceived by a woman, it is lis owne beastlinesse. easily support the crosses they endure, without complaining so often and so strangely, seeing it is their owne beastlinesse that overthrowes them. for if it be so, that a woman is so imperfect a creature as they make her to be, and that they know this beast to bee so hard to bee tamed as they affirme, why then are they so foolish to preserve them, and so dull and brutish as to trust their deceitfull and wanton imbrace- ings. but let us leave her in this extreamitie of lacivious- nesse, and proceed to shewe you in what sort the yong prince hamblet behaved himselfe, to escape the tyranny of his uncle. chap. ii. how hamblet counterfeited the mad man, to escape the tyrannie of his uncle, and how he was tempted by a woman (through his uncles procurement) who thereby thought to undermine the prince, and by that meanes to finde out whether he counterfeited madnesse or not : and how hamblet would by no meanes bee brought to consent unto her, and what followed. geruth having (as i sayd before) so much forgotten her- self, the prince hamblet perceiving himself to bee in dan- ger of his life, as beeing abandoned of his owne mother, and forsaken of all men, and assuring himselfe that fengon would not detract the time to send him the same way his father horvendile was gone, to beguile the tyrant in his sub- tilties (that esteemed him to bee of such a minde that if he once attained to mans estate he wold not long delay the time to revenge the death of his father) counterfeiting the mad man prince of denmarke. with such craft and subtill practises, that hee made shewe as if hee had utterly lost his wittes: and under that vayle hee covered his pretence, and defended his life from the treasons and practises of the tyrant his uncle. and all though hee had beene at the schoole of the romane prince, who, because hee counterfeited himselfe to bee a foole, was called brutus, yet hee imitated his fashions, and his wisedom. for every day beeing in the queenes palace, (who as then was more carefull to please her whoremaster, then ready to revenge the cruell death of her husband, or to restore her sonne to his inheritance), hee rent and tore his clothes, wallowing and lying in the durt and mire, his face all filthy and blacke, running through the streets like a man distraught, not speak- ing one worde, but such as seemed to proceede of madnesse and meere frenzie; all his actions and jestures beeng no other than the right countenances of a man wholly deprived of all reason and understanding, in such sort, that as then hee seemed fitte for nothing but to make sport to the pages and ruffling courtiers that attended in the court of his uncle and father-in-law. but the yong prince noted them well enough, minding one day to bee revenged in such manner, that the memorie thereof should remaine perpetually to the world. beholde, i pray you, a great point of a wise and brave spirite in a yong prince, by so great a shewe of imperfection in his person for advancement, and his owne imbasing and despising, to worke the meanes and to prepare the way for himselfe to bee one of the happiest kings in his age. in like sort, never any man was reputed by any of his actions more wise and prudent then brutus, dissembling a great alteration in his minde, for that the occasion of such his de- vise of foolishnesse proceeded onely of a good and mature counsell and deliberation, not onely to preserve his goods, and shunne the rage of the proude tyrant, but also to open a large way to procure the banishment and utter ruine of wicked tarquinius, and to infranchise the people (which were before brutus es- teemed wise, for counter- feiting the foole. read titus livius and halicar- tlassius. prince of den marke. ciall to their prince, saying, that under colour of such rudenes he shadowed a crafty pollicy, and by his devised simplicitye, he concealed a sharp and pregnant spirit: for which cause they counselled the king to try and know, if it were possible, how to discover the intent and meaning of the yong prince; and they could find no better nor more fit invention to intrap him, then to set some faire and beawtifull woman in a secret place, that with flattering speeches and all the craftiest meanes she could use, should purposely seek to allure his mind to have his pleasure of her: for the nature of all young men, (especi- ally such as are brought up wantonlie) is so transported with º: the desires of the flesh, and entreth so greedily into the plea- sures therof, that it is almost impossible to cover the foul af- fection, neither yet to dissemble or hyde the same by art or industry, much lesse to shunne it. what cunning or sub- tilty so ever they use to cloak theire pretence, seeing occa- sion offered, and that in secret, especially in the most inticing sinne that rayneth in man, they cannot chuse (being con- strayned by voluptuousnesse) but fall to naturall effect and subtilties working. to this end certaine courtiers were appointed to "...º.º. leade hamblet into a solitary place within the woods, whether “” they brought the woman, inciting him to take their pleasures together, and to imbrace one another, but the subtill practises used in these our daies, not to try if men of great account bee extract out of their wits, but rather to deprive them of strength, otº vertue and wisedome, by meanes of such devilish practi- º," tioners, and inteſernall spirits, their domestical servants, and º. ministers of corruption. and surely the poore prince at this assault had him in great danger, if a gentleman (that in horvendiles time had been nourished with him) had not showne himselfe more affectioned to the bringing up he had received with hamblet, then desirous to please the tirant, who by all meanes sought to intangle the sonne in the same nets wherein the father had ended his dayes. this gentle- man bare the courtyers (appointed as aforesaide of this treason) company, more desiring to give the prince instruc- the historie of hamblet, tion what he should do, then to intrap him, making full ac- count that the least showe of perfect sence and wisedome that hamblet should make would be sufficient to cause him to loose his life: and therefore by certain signes, he gave hamblet intelligence in what danger hee was like to fall, if by any meanes hee seemed to obaye, or once like the wanton toyes and vicious provocations of the gentlewoman sent thither by his uncle. which much abashed the prince, as then wholy beeing in affection to the lady, but by her he was likewise informed of the treason, as being one that from her infancy loved and favoured him, and would have been ex- ceeding sorrowfull for his misfortune, and much more to leave his companie withoutinjoying the pleasure of his body, whome shee loved more than herselfe. the prince in this sort having both deceived the courtiers, and the ladyes expectation, that affirmed and swore that hee never once offered to have his pleasure of the woman, although in subtilty hee affirmed the contrary, every man there upon assured themselves that without all doubt he was distraught of his sences, that his braynes were as then wholly void of force, and incapable of reasonable apprehension, so that as then fengons practise took no effect: but for al that he left not off, still seeking by al meanes to finde out hamblets subtilty, as in the next chapter you shall perceive. prince of denmarke. chap. iii. how fengon, uncle to hamblet, a second time to intrap him in his politick madnes, caused one of his counsellors to be secretly hidden in the queenes chamber, behind the arras, to heare what speeches passed between hamblet and the queen; and how hamblet killed him, and escaped that danger, and what followed. among the friends of fengon, there was one that above al the rest doubted of hamblets practises in counterfeiting the madman, who for that cause said, that it was impossible that so craftie a gallant as hamblet, that counterfeited the foole, another - - - subtilty used should be discovered with so common and unskilfull practises, ..." which might easily bee perceived, and that to finde out his po- hamblet. litique pretence it were necessary to invent some subtill and crafty meanes, more attractive, whereby the gallant might not have the leysure to use his accustomed dissimulation; which to effect he said he knewe a fit waie, and a most con- venient meane to effect the kings desire, and thereby to intrap hamblet in his subtilties, and cause him of his owne accord to fall into the net prepared for him, and thereby evidently shewe his secret meaning. his devise was thus, that king fengon should make as though he were to goe some long voyage concerning affaires of great importance, and that in the meane time hamblet should be shut up alone in a chamber with his mother, wherein some other should secretly be hidden behind the hangings, unknowne either to him or his mother, there to stand and heere their speeches, and the complots by them to bee taken concerning the accomplishment of the dis- sembling fooles pretence; assuring the king that if there were any point of wisedome and perfect sence in the gallants spirit, that without all doubte he would easily discover it to his mother, as being devoid of all feare that she would utter or , the hystorie of hamblet, hamblets subtilty. a cruell re- venge taken by hamblet upon him that would have betraid him. make knowne his secret intent, beeing the woman that had borne him in her bodie, and nourished him so carefully; and withall offered himselfe to be the man that should stand to harken and beare witnesse of hamblets speeches with his mother, that hee might not be esteemed a counsellor in such a case wherein he refused to be the executioner for the behooſe and service of his prince. this invention pleased the king exceeding well, esteeming it as the onelie and soveraigne remedie to heale the prince of his lunacie; and to that ende making a long voyage, issued out of his pallace, and road to hunt in the forrest. meane time the counsellor entred secretly into the queenes chamber, and there hid himselfe behind the arras, not long before the queene and hamblet came thither, who beeng craftie and pollitique, as soone as hee was within the chamber, doubting some treason, and fearing if he should speake severely and wisely to his mother touching his secret practises he should be understood, and by that meanes inter- cepted, used his ordinary manner of dissimulation, and began to come like a cocke beating with his armes, (in such man- ner as cockes use to strike with their wings) upon the hang- ings of the chamber: whereby, feeling something stirring under them, he cried, a rat, a rat! and presently drawing his sworde thrust it into the hangings, which done, pulled the counsellour (halfe dead) out by the heeles, made an end of killing him, and beeing slaine, cut his bodie in pieces, which he caused to be boyled, and then cast it into an open vaulte or privie, that so it mighte serve for foode to the hogges. by which meanes having discovered the ambushe, and given the inventer thereof his just rewarde, hee came againe to his mother, who in the meane time wepte and tormented her selfe to see all her hopes frustrate, for that what fault soever she had committed, yet was shee sore grieved to see her onely child made a meere mockery, every man reproaching her with his folly, one point whereof she had as then seene before her eyes, which was no small pricke to her conscience, esteeming that the gods sent her that punishment for joyning incestu- prince oe denmarke. ously in marriage with the tyrrannous murtherer of her hus- band, who like wise ceased not to invent all the means he could to bring his nephew to his ende, accusing his owne queene naturall indiscretion, as beeing the ordinary guide of those º: “. that so much desire the pleasures of the bodie, who shutting up the waie to all reason, respect not what maie ensue of of their lightnes and great inconstancy, and how a pleasure of small moment is sufficient to give them cause of repent- ance during their lives, and make them curse the daye and time that ever any such apprehensions entred into theire mindes, or that they closed their eies to reject the honestie requisite in ladies of her qualitie, and to despise the holy institution of those dames that had gone before her, both in nobilitie and vertue, calling to mind the great prayses and commendations given by the danes to rinde, daughter to king rothere, the chastest lady in her time, and withall so rinde a - - princes of an shameſast that she would never consent to marriage with any ...his prince or knight whatsoever; surpassing in vertue all the chastitie. ladyes of her time, as shee herselfe surmounted them in beawtie, good behaviour, and comelines. and while in this sort she sate tormenting herselfe, hamlet entred into the chamber, who having once againe searched every corner of the same, distrusting his mother as well as the rest, and perceiving him- selfe to bee alone, began in sober and discreet manner to speak unto her, saying, what treason is this, o most infamous woman! of all that ever prostrated themselves to the will of an abhominable whore monger, who, under the vail of a dissembling creature, covereth the most wicked and detestable crime that man could ever imagine, or was committed. now may i be assured to trust you, that like a vile wanton adultresse, altogether im- pudent and given over to her pleasure, runnes spreading forth her armes joyfully to imbrace the trayterous villanous tyrant that murthered my father, and most incestuously receivest the villain into the lawfull bed of your loyall spouse, imprudently entertaining him in steede of the deare father of your miser- prince of denmarke. whelpes; and birds that have beakes, claws, and wings, re- sist such as would ravish them of their yong ones; but you, to the contrary, expose and deliver mee to death, whereas ye should defend me. is not this as much as if you should be- tray me, when you knowing the perversenes of the tyrant and his intents, ful of deadly counsell as touching the race and image of his brother, have not once sought, nor desired to finde the meanes to save your child (and only son) by sending him into swethland, norway, or england, rather than to leave him as a pray to youre infamous adulterer? bee not offended, i praye you, madame, if transported with dolour and griefe, i speake so boldely unto you, and that i respect you lesse then duetie requireth: for you, having forgotten mee, and wholy rejected the memorye of the deceased k. my father, must not bee abashed if i also surpasse the bounds and limits of due consideration. beholde into what distresse i am now fallen, and to what mischiefe my fortune, and your over great light- nesse, and want of wisdome have induced mee, that i am con- strained to playe the madde man to save my life, in steed of using and practising armes, following adventures, and seeking all meanes to make my selfe knowne to bee the true and un- doubted heire of the valiant and vertuous king horvendile. it was not without cause, and juste occasion, that my ges- tures, countenances, and words, seeme all to proceed from a madman, and that i desire to have all men esteeme mee wholly deprived of sence and reasonable understanding, by- cause i am well assured, that he that hath made no conscience to kill his owne brother, (accustomed to murthers, and allured with desire of governement without controll in his treasons), will not spare, to save himselfe with the like crueltie, in the blood and flesh of the loyns of his brother by him massacred: and, therefore, it is better for me to ſayne madnesse, then to use my right sences as nature hath bestowed them upon me; the bright shining clearnes therof i am forced to hide under this shadow of dissimulation, as the sun doth hir beams under some great cloud, when the wether in sommer time overcast- eth. the face of a mad man serveth to cover my gallant the hystorie of hamblet, countenance, and the gestures of a fool are fit for me, to the end that guiding my self wisely therein, i may preserve my life for the danes, and the memory of my late deceased fa- ther; for the desire of revenging his death is so engraven in my heart, that if i dye not shortly, i hope to take such and so great vengeance, that these countryes shall for ever speake thereof. neverthelesse, i must stay the time, meanes, and oc- casion, lest by making over great hast, i be now the cause of we must mine owne sodaine ruine and overthrow, and by that meanes ..",". end before ibeginne to effect my hearts desire. hee that hath to person. doe with a wicked, disloyall, cruell, and discourteous man must use craft and politike inventions, such as a fine witte can best imagine, not to discover his interprise; for seeing that by force i cannot effect my desire, reason alloweth me by dissimulation, subtiltie, and secret practises to proceed therein. to conclude, weepe not (madame) to see my folly, but rather sigh and lament your owne offence, tormenting your conscience in regard of the infamie that hath so defiled the ancient re- ...ſº nowne and glorie that (in times past) honoured queene geruth; º", "... for wee are not to sorrowe and grieve at other mens vices, but "" for our owne misdeedes, and great folloyes. desiring you, for the surplus of my proceedings, above all things (as you love your owne life and welfare) that neither the king nor any other may by any meanes know mine intent; and let me alone with the rest, for i hope in the ende to bring my purpose to effect. although the queene perceived herselfe neerly touched, and that hamlet mooved her to the quicke, where she felt herselfe interested, neverthelesse shee forgot all dis- daine and wrath, which thereby she might as then have had, hearing her selfe so sharply chiden and reprooved, for the joy she then conceaved, to behold the gallant spirit of her sonne, and to thinke what she might hope, and the easier expect of his so great policie and wisdome. but on the one side she durst not lift up her eyes to beholde him, remembering her of fence, and on the other side she would gladly have imbraced her son, in regard of the wise admonitions by him given unto her, which as then quenched the flames of unbridled desire prince of denmarke. that before had moved her to affect k. fengon, to ingraff in her heart the vertuous actions of her lawfull spouse, whom in- wardly she much lamented, when she beheld the lively image and portraiture of his vertue and great wisedome in her childe, representing his fathers haughtie and valiant heart: and so, overcome and vanquished with this honest passion, and weep- ing most bitterly, having long time fixed her eyes upon ham- let, as beengravished into some great and deepe contempla- tion, and as it were wholy amazed, at the last imbracing him in her armes (with the like love that a vertuous mother may or can use to kisse and entertaine her owne childe), shee spake unto him in this manner. i know well (my sonne) that i have done thee great wrong in marrying with fengon, the cruell tyrant and murtherer of thy father, and my loyall spouse: but when thou shalt consider the small meanes of resistance, and the treason of the palace, with the little cause of confidence we are to expect or hope for of the courtiers, all wrought to his will, as also the power hee made ready, if i should have refused to like of him, thou wouldest rather excuse then accuse me of lascivious- nes or inconstancy, much lesse offer me that wrong to sus- pect that ever thy mother geruthe once consented to the death and murther of her husband: swearing unto thee (by the majestie of the gods) that if it had layne in my power to have resisted the tyrant, although it had beene with the losse of my blood, yea and my life, i would surely have saved the life of my lord and husband, with as good a will and desire as, since that time, i have often beene a meanes to hinder and impeach the shortning of thy life, which being taken away, i will no lomger live here upon earth. for seeing that thy sences are whole and sound, i am in hope to see an easie meanes invented for the revenging of thy fathers death. neverthelesse, mine owne sweet soone, if thou hast pittie of thy selfe, or care of the memorie of thy father (although thou wilt do nothing for her that deserveth not the name of a mother in this respect), i pray thee, carie thine affayres wisely: m the hystorie of hamblet, bee not hastie, nor over furious in thy interprises, neither yet advance thy selfe more then reason shall moove thee to effect thy purpose. thou seest there is not almost any man wherein thou mayest put thy trust, nor any woman to whom i dare utter the least part of my secrets, that would not pre- sently report it to thine adversarie, who, although in out- ward shew he dissembleth to love thee, the better to injoy his pleasures of me, yet hee distrusteth and feareth mee for thy sake, and is not so simple to be easily perswaded that thou art a foole or mad; so that if thou chance to doe any thing that seemeth to proceed of wisedome or policie (how secretly soever it be done) he will presently be informed thereof, and i am greatly afraide that the devils have shewed him what hath past at this present between us, (fortune so much pursueth and contrarieth our ease and welfare) or that this murther that now thou hast committed be not the cause of both our destructions, which i by no meanes will seeme to know, but will keepe secret both thy wisedome and hardy interprise; beseeching the gods (my good soone) that they, guiding thy heart, directing thy counsels, and prospering thy interprise, i may see thee possesse and injoy that which is thy right, and weare the crowne of denmarke, by the tyrant taken from thee; that i may rejoyce in thy prospe- ritie, and therewith content my self, seeing with what courage and boldnesse thou shalt take vengeance upon the murtherer of thy father, as also upon all those that have as- sisted and favoured him in his murtherous and bloody enter- prise. madame (sayd hamlet) i will put my trust in you, and from henceforth meane not to meddle further with your affayres, beseeching you (as you love your owne flesh and blood) that you will from hence foorth no more esteeme of the adulterer, mine enemie whom i wil surely kill, or cause to be put to death, in despite of all the devils in hel ; and have he never so manie flattering courtezans to defend him, yet will i bring him to his death, and they themselves also shall beare him company therein, as they have bin his perverse prince of denmarke. counsellors in the action of killing my father, and his com- panions in his treason, massacre and cruell enterprise. and reason requireth that, even as trayterously they then caused their prince to bee put to death, that with the like (nay well, much more) justice they should pay the interest of their fellonious actions. you know (madame) how hother your grandfather, and home. father to the good king roderick, having vanquished guimon, ºi. turn caused him to be burnt, for that the cruell vilain had done º'o": the like to his lord gevare, whom he betrayed in the night we must observe nei- time. and who knoweth not that traytors and perjured ...:”." persons deserve no faith nor loyaltie to be observed towardes . . them, and that conditions made with murtherers ought to parricides. bee esteemed as cobwebs, and accounted as if they were things never promised nor agreed upon : but if i lay handes upon fengon, it will neither be fellonie nor treason, hee being neither my king nor my lord, but i shall justly punish him as my subject, that hath disloyaly behaved himselfe against his lord and soveraigne prince. and seeing that glory is the rewarde of the vertuous, and the honour and praise of those that do service to their naturall prince, why should not blame and dishonour accompany traytors, and ignominious death althose that dare be so bold as to lay violent hands upon sacred kings, that are friends and companions of the gods, as representing their majestie and persons. to con- clude, glorie is the crown of vertue, and the price of con- stancie; and seeing that it never accompanieth with infelicitie, but shunneth cowardize and spirits of base and trayterous conditions, it must necessarily followe, that either a glorious death will be mine ende, or with my sword in hand, (laden with tryumph and victorie) i shall bereave them of their lives that made mine unfortunate, and darkened the beames of that vertue which i possessed from the blood and famous memory of my predecessors. for why should men desire to live, when shame and infamie are the executioners that tor- ment their consciences, and villany is the cause that with- m the hystorie of hamblet, holdeth the heart from valiant interprises, and diverteth the minde from honest desire of glorie and commendation, which indureth for ever ! i know it is foolishly done to gather fruit before it is ripe, and to seeke to enjoy a benefit, not knowing whither it belong to us of right; but i hope to effect it so well, and have so great confidence in my fortune (that hitherto hath guided the action of my life) that i shall not dye without revenging my selfe upon mine enemie, and that himselfe shall be the instrument of his owne decay, and to execute that which of my selfe i durst not have enter- prised. after this, fengon (as if hee had beene out some long journey) came to the court againe, and asked for him that had received the charge to play the intilligencer, to entrap ham- let in his dissembled wisedome, was abashed to heare neither newes nor tydings of him, and for that cause asked hamlet what was become of him, naming the man. the prince that never used lying, and who in all the answers that ever he made (during his counterfeit madnesse) never strayed from the trueth (as a generous minde is a mortal enemie to untruth) answered and sayd, that the counsellor he sought for was gone downe through the privie, where being choaked by the filthynesse of the place, the hogs meeting him had filled their bellyes. prince of denmarke. chap. iiii. how fengon the third time devised to send hamblet to the king of england, with secret letters to have him put to death: and how hamblet, when his companions slept, read the letters, and instead of them counterfeited others, willing the king of england to put the two messengers to death, and to marry his daughter to hamblet, which was ef- fected; and how hamblet escaped out of england. a man would have judged any thing, rather then that hamblet had committed that murther, nevertheless fengon could not content himselfe, but still his minde gave him that the foole would play him some tricke of liegerdemaine, and willingly would have killed him, but he feared king rodericke, his grandfather, and further durst not offend the queene, mother to the foole, whom she loved and much cherished, shewing great griefe and heavinesse to see him so transported out of his wits. and in that conceit, seeking to bee rid of him, determined to finde the meanes to doe it by the ayde of a stranger, making the king of england minister of his massa- creing resolution, choosing rather that his friende should de- file his renowne with so great a wickednesse, then himselfe to fall into perpetuall infamie by an exploit of so great cruel- tie, to whom hee purposed to send him, and by letters desire him to put him to death. hamblet, understanding that he should be sent into england, presently doubted the occasion of his voyage, and for that cause speaking to the queene, desired her not to make any shew of sorrow or griefe for his departure, but rather counterfeit a glad- nesse, as being rid of his presence; whom, although she loved, yet she dayly grieved to see him in so pittifull estate, deprived of all sence and reason: desiring her further, that she should the hystorie of hamblet, hamblets craft to save his life. hang the hall with tapestrie, and make it fast with nayles upon the walles, and keepe the brands for him which hee had sharpened at the points, then, when as he said he made arrowes to revenge the death of his father: lastly, he coun- selled her, that the yeere after his departure being accom- plished, she should celebrate his funerals; assuring her that at the same instant she should see him returne with great contentment and pleasure unto her for that his voyage. now, to beare him company were assigned two of fengons faithfull ministers, bearing letters ingraved in wood, that contained hamlets death, in such sort as he had advertised the king of england. but the subtile danish prince (beeing at sea) whilst his companions slept, having read the letters, and knowne his uncles great treason, with the wicked and villain- ous mindes of the two courtyers that led him to the slaughter, raced out the letters that concerned his death, and in stead thereof graved others, with commission to the king of england to hang his two companions; and not content to turne the death they had devised against him upon their owne neckes, wrote further, that king fengon willed him to give his daughter to hamlet in marriage. and so arriving in england, the messengers presented themselves to the king, giving him fengons letters; who having read the contents, sayd nothing as then, but stayed convenient time to effect fengons desire, meane time using the danes familiarly, doing them that honour to sit at his table (for that kings as then were not so curiously, nor solemnely served as in these our dayes) for in these dayes meane kings, and lords of small revenewe are as difficult and hard to bee seene, as in times past the monarches of persia used to bee: or as it is reported of the great king of aethy- opia, who will not permit any man to see his face, which or- dinarily hee covereth with a vaile. and as the messengers sate at the table with the king, subtile hamlet was so far from being merry with them, that he would not taste one bit of meate, bread, nor cup of beare whatsoever, as then set upon the table, not without great wondering of the company, abash- prince of denmarke. ed to see a yong man and a stranger not to esteeme of the delicate meates and pleasant drinkes served at the banquet, rejecting them as things filthy, evill of tast, and worse pre- pared. the king, who for that time dissembled what he thought, caused his ghests to be conveyed into their chamber, willing one of his secret servantes to hide himselfe therein, and so to certifie him what speeches past among the danes at their going to bed. now they were no sooner entred into the chamber, and those that were appointed to attend upon them gone out, but hamlets companions asked him, why he refused to eate and drinke of that which hee found upon the table, not honouring the banquet of so great a king, that entertained them in friendly sort, with such honour and courtesie as it deserved? saying further, that hee did not well, but dishonoured him that sent him, as if he sent men into england that feared to bee poysoned by so great a king. the prince, that had done nothing without reason and prudent consideration, answered them, and sayd : what, think you, that i wil eat bread dipt in humane blood, and defile my throate with the rust of yron, and use that meat that stinketh and savoureth of mans flesh, already putrified and corrupted, and that senteth like the sa- vour of a dead carryon, long since cast into a valt! and how woulde you have mee to respect the king, that hath the coun- tenance of a slave; and the queene, who in stead of great majestie, hath done three things more like a woman of base parentage, and fitter for a waiting gentlewoman then beseem- ing a lady of her qualitie and estate. and having sayd so, used many injurious and sharpe speeches as well against the king and queene, as others that had assisted at that banquet for the intertainment of the danish ambassadors; and therein hamblet said trueth, as hereafter you shall heare, for that in those dayes, the north parts of the worlde, living as then under sathans lawes, were full of inchanters, so that there was not any yong gentleman whatsoever that knew not something therein sufficient to serve his turne, if need required: as yet the hystorie of hamblet, in those dayes in gothland and biarmy, there are many that knew not what the christian religion permitteth, as by read- ing the histories of norway and gothland, you maie easilie perceive: and so hamlet, while his father lived, had bin in- structed in that devilish art, whereby the wicked spirite abuseth mankind, and advertiseth him (as he can) of things past. it toucheth not the matter herein to discover the parts of devination in man, and whether this prince, by reason of his over greatmelancholy, had received those impressions, de- vining that, which never any but himselfe had before de- clared, like the philosophers, who discoursing of divers deep points of philosophie, attribute the force of those divinations to such as are saturnists by complection, who oftentimes speake of things which, their fury ceasing, they then alreadye can hardly understand who are the pronouncers; and for that cause plato saith, many deviners and many poets, after the force and vigour of their fier beginneth to lessen, do hardly understand what they have written, although intreating of such things, while the spirite of devination continueth upon them, they doe in such sorte discourse thereof that the authors and inventers of the arts themselves by them alledged, commend their discourses and subtill disputations. likewise i mean not to relate that which divers men beleeve, that a reasonable soul becometh the habitation of a meaner sort of devels, by whom men learn the secrets of things natural; and much lesse do i account of the supposed governors of the world fained by magitians, by whose means they brag to effect mer- vailous things. it would seeme miraculous that hamlet shold divine in that sort, which after prooved so true (if as i said before) the devel had not knowledg of things past, but to grant it he knoweth things to come i hope you shall never finde me in so grose an error. you will compare and make equall derivation, and conjecture with those that are made by the spirit of god, and pronounced by the holy prophets, that tasted of that marvelous science, to whome onely was de- prince of denmarke. clared the secrets and wondrous workes of the almighty. yet there are some imposturious companions that impute so much devinitie to the devell, the father of lyes, that they at- tribute unto him the truth of the knowledge of thinges that shall happen unto men, alledging the conference of saul with the witch, although one example out of the holy scriptures, specially set downe for the condemnation of wicked man, is not of force to give a sufficient law to all the world; for they themselves confesse that they can devine, not according to the universal cause of things, but by signes borrowed from such like causes, which are all waies alike, and by those con- jectures they can give judgement of thinges to come, but all this beeing grounded upon a weake support, (which is a simple conjecture) and having so slender a foundation, as some foolish or late experience the fictions being voluntarie, it should be a great folly in a man of good judgment, specially one that imbraceth the preaching of the gospell, and seeketh after no other but the trueth thereof, to repose upon any of these likelihoods or writings full of deceipt. as touching magical operations, i will grant them somewhat therein, finding divers histories that write thereof, and that the bible maketh mention, and forbiddeth the use thereof: yea, the lawes of the gentiles and ordinances of emperors have bin made against it in such sort, that mahomet, the great hereticke and friend of the devell, by whose subtiltyes hee abused most part of the east countries, hath ordained great punishments for such as use and practise those unlawfull and damnable arts, which, for this time leaving of, let us returne to hamblet, brought up in these abuses, according to the man- ner of his country, whose companions hearing his answere reproached him of folly, saying that hee could by no meanes show a greater point of indiscretion, then in despising that which is lawfull, and rejecting that which all men receaved as a necessary thing, and that hee had not grossely so for- gotten himselfe as in that sort to accuse such and so excellent a man as the king of england, and to slander the queene, the hystorie of hamblet, being then as famous and wise a princes as any at that day raigning in theilands thereabouts, to cause him to be punished according to his deserts; but he, continuing in his dissimula- tion, mocked him, saying that hee had not done any thing that was not good and most true. on the other side, the king being advertised thereof by him that stood to heare the dis- course, judged presently that hamlet, speaking so ambigu- ously, was either a perfect foole, or else one of the wisest princes in his time, answering so sodainly, and so much to the purpose upon the demaund by his companions made touching his behaviour; and the better to find the trueth, caused the babler to be sent for, of whome inquiring in what place the corne grew whereof he made bread for his table, and whether in that ground there were not some signes or newes of a battaile fought, whereby humaine blood had therein been shed? the babler answered that not far from thence there lay a field ful of dead mens bones, in times past slaine in a battaile, as by the greate heapes of wounded sculles mighte well appeare, and for that the ground in that parte was become fertiler then other grounds, by reason of the fatte and humours of the dead bodies, that every yeer the farmers used there to have in the best wheat they could finde to serve his majesties house. the king perceiving it to be true, according to the yong princes wordes, asked where the hogs had bin fed that were killed to be served at his table? and answere was made him, that those hogs getting out of the said fielde wherein they were kepte, had found the bodie of a thiefe that had beene hanged for his demerits, and had eaten thereof: whereat the king of england beeing abashed, would needs know with what water the beer he used to drinke of had beene brued! which having knowne, he caused the river to bee digged somewhat deeper, and therin found great store of swords and rustie armours, that gave an ill savour to the drinke. it were good i should heere dilate somewhat of merlins prophesies, which are said to be spoken of him before he was fully one yeere old; but if you consider prince of denmarke. wel what hath al reddy been spoken, it is no hard matter to divine of things past, although the minister of sathan therein played his part, giving sodaine and prompt answeres to this yong prince, for that herein are nothing but natural things, such as were wel known to be true, and therefore not needfull to dreame of thinges to come. this knowne, the king, greatly moved with a certaine curiositie to knowe why the danish prince saide that he had the countenance of a slave, suspect- ing thereby that he reproached the basenes of his blood, and that he wold affirme that never any prince had bin his sire, wherin to satisfie himselfe he went to his mother, and lead- ing her into a secret chamber, which he shut as soone as they were entred, desired her of her honour to shewe him of whome he was ingendred in this world. the good lady, wel assured that never any man had bin acquainted with her love touch- ing any other man then her husband, sware that the king her husband onely was the man that had enjoyed the pleasures of her body; but the king her sonne, alreadie with the truth of the danish princes answers, threatned his mother to make her tell by force, if otherwise she would not confesse it, who for feare of death acknowledged that she had prostrated her body to a slave, and made him father to the king of england; whereat the king was abashed, and wholy ashamed. i give them leave to judge who esteeming themselves honester than theire neighbours, and supposing that there can be nothing amisse in their houses, make more enquirie then is requisite to know the which they would rather not have known. neverthelesse dissembling what he thought, and biting upon the bridle, rather then he would deprive himselfe by publishing the lasciviousnes of his mother, thought better to leave a great sin unpunished, then thereby to make himselfe con- temptible to his subjects, who peradventure would have re- jected him, as not desiring to have a bastard to raigne over so great a kingdome. but as he was sorry to hear his mothers confession, on the otherside he tooke great pleasure in the subtilty and quick the hystorie of hamblet, spirit of the yong prince, and for that causerwent unto him to aske him, why he had reproved three things in his queene convenient for a slave, and savouring more of basenes then of royaltie, and far unfit for the majesty of a great prince the king, not content to have receaved a great displeasure by knowing him selfe to be a bastard, and to have heard with what injuries he charged her whom hee loved best in all the world, would not content himself untill he also under- stood that which displeased him, as much as his owne proper disgrace, which was that his queen was the daughter of a chambermaid, and with all noted certaine foolish counte- nances she made, which not onely shewed of what parentage she came, but also that hir humors savored of the basenes and low degree of hir parents, whose mother, he assured the king, was as then yet holden in servitude. the king admiring the young prince, and behoulding in him some matter of greater respect then in the common sort of men, gave him his daughter in marriage, according to the counterfet letters by him de- vised, and the next day caused the two servants of fengon to be executed, to satisfie, as he thought, the king's desire. but hamlet, although the sport plesed him wel, and that the king of england could not have done him a greater favour, made as though he had been much offended, threatning the king to be revenged, but the king, to appease him, gave him a great sum of gold, which hamlet caused to be molten, and put into two staves, made hollow for the same purpose, to serve his tourne there with as neede should require; for of all other the kings treasures he took nothing with him into denmark but onely those two staves, and as soone as the yeere began to bee at an end, having somewhat before ob- tained licence of the king his father in law to depart, went for denmarke; then, with all the speed hee could to returne againe into england to marry his daughter, and so set sayle for denmarke. prince of denmarke. chap. v. how hamblet, having escaped out of england, ar- rived in denmarke the same day that the danes were celebrating his funerals, supposing him to be dead in england; and how he revenged his fathers death upon his uncle and the rest of the courtiers; and what followed. hamblet in that sort sayling into denmark, being arrived in the contry, entered into the pallace of his uncle the same day that they were celebrating his funeralls, and going into the hall, procured no small astonishment and wonder to them all, no man thinking other but that hee had beene deade: among the which many of them rejoyced not a little for the pleasure which they knew fengon would conceave for so pleasant a losse, and some were sadde, as remembering the honourable king horvendile, whose victories they could by no meanes forget, much lesse deface out of theire memories that which apperteined unto him, who as then greatly rejoyced to see a false report spread of hamlets death, and that the tyrant had not as yet obtained his will of the heire of jutie, but rather hoped god would restore him to his sences againe for the good and welfare of that province. their amazement at the last beeing tourned into laughter, all that as then were assistant at the funerall banquet of him whome they esteemed dead, mocked each at other, for having beene so simply deceived, and wondering at the prince, that in his so long a voyage he had not recovered any of his sences, asked what was become of them that had borne him company into greate brittain? to whome he made answere (shewing them the two hollow staves, wherein he had put his molten golde, that the king of eng- land had given him to appease his fury, concerning the mur- the hystorie of hamblet, ther of his two companions), and said, here they are both. whereat many that already knew his humours, presently conjectured that hee had plaide some tricke of legerdemane, ( and to deliver himselfe out of danger, had throwne them into the pitte prepared for him; so that fearing to follow after them and light upon some evil adventure, they went presently out of the court. and it was well for them that they didde so, con- sidering the tragedy acted by him the same daie, beeing ac- counted his funerall, but in trueth theire last daies, that as then rejoyced for their overthrow; for when every man busied himselfe to make good cheare, and hamlets arivall provoked them more to drinke and carouse, the prince himselfe at that time played the butler and a gentleman attending on the ta- bles, not suffering the pots nor goblets to bee empty, whereby hee gave the noble men such store of liquor, that all of them , rºº. being ful laden with wine and gorged with meate, were con- common in - - the north, strained to lay themselves downe in the same place where tº of the they had supt, so much their sences were dulled, and over- come with the fire of over great drinking (a vice common and familiar among the almaines, and other nations inhabiting the north parts of the world) which when hamlet perceiving, and finding so good opportunitie to effect his purpose and bee revenged of his enemies, and by the means to abandon the actions, gestures, and apparel of a mad man, occasion so fitly finding his turn, and as it were effecting it selfe, failed not to take hold therof, and seeing those drunken bodies, filled with wine, lying like hogs upon the ground, some sleeping, others vomiting the over great abundance of wine which without measure they had swallowed up, made the hangings about the hall to fall downe and cover them all over; which he nailed to the ground, being boorded, and at the ends thereof he stuck the brands, whereof i spake before, by him sharpned, which served for prickes, binding and tying the hangings in such sort, that what force soever they used to loose them- selves, it was unpossible to get from under them : and pre- sently he set fire in the foure corners of the hal, in such sort, prince of denmarke. that all that were as then therein not one escaped away, but were forced to purge their sins by fire, and dry up the great aboundance of liquor by them received into their bodies, all of them dying in the inevitable and mercilesse flames of the whot and burning fire: which the prince perceiving, became wise, and knowing that his uncle, before the end of the ban- quet, had withdrawn himselfe into his chamber, which stood apart from the place where the fire burnt, went thither, and a strange re- venge taken entring into the chamber, layd hand upon the sword of his by hamlet. fathers murtherer, leaving his own in the place, which while he was at the banket some of the courtiers had nailed fast into the scaberd, and going to fengon said: i wonder, disloyal king, how thou canst sleep heer at thine ease, and al thy pallace is burnt, the fire thereof having burnt the greatest part of thy courtiers and ministers of thy cruelty, and detestable tirannies; and which is more, i cannot imagin how thousholdst wel assure thy'self and thy estate, as now to take thy ease, seeing hamlet so neer thee armed with the shafts by him prepared long since, and at this present is redy to revenge the traiterous injury by thee done to his lord and father. fengon, as then knowing the truth of his nephews subtile practise, and hering him speak with stayed mind, and which is more, perceived a sword naked in his hand, which he already lifted up to deprive him of his life, leaped quickly out of the bed, taking holde of hamlets sworde, that was nayled into the scaberd, which as hee sought to pull out. hamlet gave him such a blowe upon the chine of the necke, that hee cut his head cleane from his shoulders, and as he fell to the ground sayd, this just and violent death is a just reward for such as thou art: now go thy wayes, and when thou commest in hell, see thou forget not to tell thy brother (whom thou trayterously slewest), that it was his sonne that sent thee thither with the message, to the ende that beeing comforted thereby, his soule may rest among the blessed spirits, and quit mee of the ob- ligation that bound me to pursue his vengeance upon mine owne blood, that seeing it was by thee that i lost the chiefe thing that tyed me to this aliance and consanguinitie. a a mockebut yet sharp and stinging, given hamlet to his uncle. the hystorie of hamblet, man (to say the trueth) hardie, couragious, and worthy of eternall comendation, who arming himself with a crafty, dis- sembling, and strange shew of beeng distract out of his wits, under that pretence deceived the wise, pollitike, and craftie, thereby not onely preserving his life from the treasons and wicked practises of the tyrant, but (which is more) by an new commenda and unexpected kinde of punishment, revenged his fathers, '''", death, many yeeres after the act committed: in no such sort ** that directing his courses with such prudence, and effecting his purposes with so great boldnes and constancie, he left a judgement to be decyded among men of wisdom, which was more commendable in him, his constancy or magnanimitie, or his wisdom in ordring his affaires, according to the preme- ditable determination he had conceaved. now just if vengeance ever seemed to have any shew of justice, it is . be then, when pietie and affection constraineth us to remember our fathers unjustly murdered, as the things wherby we are dispensed withal, and which seeke the means not to leave treason and murther unpunished: seeing david a holy and just king, and of nature simple, courteous, and debonaire, yet tº "... when he dyed he charged his soone salomon (that succeeded "tº him in his throane) not to suffer certaine men that had done venge him of , . - - - - - - * his him injurie to escape unpunished. not that this holy king (as then ready to dye, and to give account before god of all his actions) was carefull or desirous of revenge, but to leave this example unto us, that where the prince or countrey is in- teressed, the desire of revenge cannot by any meanes (how small soever) beare the title of condemnation, but is rather commendable and worthy of praise: for otherwise the good kings of juda, nor others had not pursued them to death, that had offended their predecessors, if god himself had not inspired and ingraven that desire within their hearts. hereof the athenian lawes beare witnesse, whose custome was to erect images in remembrance of those men that, revenging the injuries of the commonwealth, boldly massacred tyrants and such as troubled the peace and welfare of the citizens. hamblet, having in this manner revenged himselfe, durst prince of denmarke. not presently declare his action to the people, but to the con- trary determined to worke by policie, so to give them intel- ligence, what he had done, and the reason that drewe him thereunto: so that beeing accompanied with such of his fathers friends that then were rising, he stayed to see what the peo- ple would doe when they shoulde heare of that sodaine and fearefull action. the next morning the townes bordering there aboutes, desiring to know from whence the flames of fire proceeded the night before they had seene, came thither, and perceiving the kings pallace burnt to ashes, and many bodyes (most part consumed) lying among the ruines of the house, all of them were much abashed, nothing being left of the palace but the foundation. but they were much more amased to beholde the body of the king all bloody, and his head cut off lying hard by him; whereat some began to threaten revenge, yet not knowing against whom ; others be- holding so lamentable a spectacle, armed themselves, the rest rejoycing, yet not daring to make any shewe thereof; some detesting the crueltie, others lamenting the death of their prince, but the greatest part calling horvendiles murther to remembrance, acknowledging a just judgement from above, that had throwne downe the pride of the tyrant. and in this sort, the diversities of opinions among that multitude of people being many, yet every man ignorant what would be the issue of that tragedie, none stirred from thence, neither yet attempt- ed to move any tumult, every man fearing his owne skinne, and distrusting his neighbour, esteeming each other to bee consenting to the massacre. n prince of denmarke. king, but of an execrable tyrant, and a parricide most detesta- ble. oh danes! the spectacle was much more hydeous when horvendile your king was murthered by his brother. what should i say a brother nay, rather by the most abhominable executioner that ever beheld the same. it was you that saw horvendiles members massacred, and that with teares and lamentations accompanied him to the grave ; his body disfi- gured, hurt in a thousand places, and misused in ten times as many fashions. and who doubteth (seeing experience hath taught you) that the tyrant (in massacring your lawfull king) sought onely to infringe the ancient liberties of the common people ! and it was one hand onely, that murthering horven- dile, cruelly dispoyled him of life, and by the same meanes unjustly bereaved you of your ancient liberties, and delighted more in oppression then to embrace the plesant countenance of prosperous libertie without adventuring for the same. and what mad man is he that delighteth more in the tyrany of fengon then in the clemencie and renewed courtesie of horvendile? if it bee so, that by clemencie and affabilitie the hardest and stoutest hearts are molified and made tractable, and that evill and hard usage causeth subjects to be outragi- ous and unruly, why behold you not the debonair cariage of the first, to compare it with the cruelties and insolencies of the second, in every respect as cruell and barbarous as his bro- ther was gentle, meeke, and courteous! remember, o you danes, remember what love and amitie horvendile shewed unto you; with what equitie and justice he swayed the great affaires of this kingdome, and with what humanitie and cour- tisie he defended and cherished you, and then i am assured that the simplest man among you will both remember and acknowledge that he had a most peaceable, just, and righteous king taken from him, to place in his throane a tyrant and murtherer of his brother: one that hath perverted all right, abolished the auncient lawes of our fathers, contaminated the memories of our ancestors, and by his wickednesse polluted the integritie of this kingdome, upon the necke thereof having n the hystorie of hamblft, placed the troublesome yoak of heavie servitude, abolishing that libertie wherein horvendile used to maintaine you, and suffered you to live at your ease. and should you now bee sorrie to see the ende of your mischiefes, and that this miser- able wretch, pressed downe with the burthen of his offences, at this present payeth the usury of the particide committed upon the body of his brother, and would not himselfe be the revenger of the outrage done to me, whom he sought to de- prive of mine inheritance, taking from denmark a lawfull successor, to plant a wicked stranger, and bring into capti- vitie those that my father had infranchised and delivered out of misery and bondage? and what man is he, that having any sparke of wisdom, would esteem a good deed to be an injury, and account pleasures equal with wrongs and evident outrages it were then great folly and temerity in princes and valiant commanders in the wars to expose themselves to perils and hazards of their lives for the welfare of the com- mon people, if that for a recompence they should reape hatred and indignation of the multitude. to what end should hother have punished balder, if, in steed of recompence, the danes and swethlanders had banished him to receive and accept the successors of him that desired nought but his ruine and overthrowe ? what is hee that hath so small feeling of reason and equitie, that would be grieved to see treason rewarded with the like, and that an evill act is punished with just de- merit in the partie himselfe that was the occasion who was ever sorowfull to behold the murtherer of innocents brought to his end, or what man weepeth to see a just massacre done upon a tyrant, usurper, villaine, and bloody personage? i perceive you are attentive, and abashed for not knowing the author of your deliverance, and sorry that you cannot tell to whom you should bee thankefull for such and so great a benefit as the destruction of a tyrant, and the overthrow of the place that was the storehouse of his villanies, and the true receptacle of all the theeves and traytors in this kingdome: but beholde (here in your presence) him that brought so good prince of denmarke. an enterprise to effect. it is i (my good friends), it is i, that confesse i have taken vengeance for the violence done unto my lord and father, and for the subjection and servitude that i perceived in this countrey, whereof i am the just and law- full successor. it is i alone, that have done this piece of worke, whereunto you ought to have lent me your handes, and therein have ayded and assisted me. i have only ac- complished that which all of you might justly have effected, by good reason, without falling into any point of treason or fellonie. it is true that i hope so much of your good willes towards the deceased king horvendile, and that the remem- brances of his vertues is yet so fresh within your memories, that if i had required your aide herein, you would not have denied it, specially to your naturall prince. but it liked mee best to doe it my selfe alone, thinking it a good thing to punish the wicked without hazarding the lives of my friends and loyall subjects, not desiring to burthen other mens shoul- ders with this weight; for that i made account to effect it well inough without exposing any man into danger, and by publishing the same should cleane have overthrowne the de- vice, which at this present i have so happily brought to passe. i have burnt the bodyes of the courtiers to ashes, being companions in the mischiefs and treasons of the tyrant; but i have left fengon whole, that you might punish his dead carkasse (seeing that when hee lived you durst not lay hands upon him), to accomplish the full punishment and vengeance due unto him, and so satisfie your choller upon the bones of him that filled his greedy hands and coffers with your riches, and shed the blood of your brethren and friends. bee joy- full, then (my good friends); make ready the nosegay for this usurping king: burne his abhominable body, boyle his lascivious members, and cast the ashes of him that hath beene hurtfull to all the world into the ayre : drive from you the sparkes of pitie, to the end that neither silver, nor christall cup, nor sacred tombe may be the restfull habitation of the reliques and bones of so detestable a man: let not one trace the hystorie of hamblet, of a parricide be seene, nor your countrey defiled with the presence of the least member of this tyrant without pity, that your neighbors may not smell the contagion, nor our land the polluted infection of a body condemned for his wickednes. i have done my part to present him to you in this sort; now it belongs to you to make an end of the worke, and put to the last hand of dutie whereunto your severall functions call you; for in this sort you must honor abhominable princes, and such ought to be the funerall of a tyrant, parricide, and usurper, both of the bed and patrimony that no way belonged unto him, who having bereaved his countrey of liberty, it is fit that the land refuse to give him a place for the eternal rest of his bones. o my good friends, seeing you know the wrong that hath bin done unto mee, what my griefs are, and in what misery i have lived since the death of the king, my lord and father, and seeing that you have both known and tasted these things then, when as i could not conceive the outrage that i felt, what neede i recite it unto you? what benefit would it be to discover it before them that knowing it would burst (as it were with despight) to heare of my hard chance, and curse fortune for so much imbasing a royall prince, as to deprive him of his majesty, although not any of you durst so much as shew one sight of sorrow or sadnes? you know how my father in law conspired my death, and sought by divers meanes to take away my life; how i was forsaken of the queen my mother, mocked of my friends, and dispised of mine own subjects: hetherto i have lived laden with griefe, and wholy confounded in teares, my life still accompanied with fear and suspition, expecting the houre when the sharp sword would make an ende of my life and miserable an- guishes. how many times, counterfeiting the mad man, have i heard you pitty my distresse, and secretly lament to see me disinherited and yet no man sought to revenge the death of my father, nor to punish the treason of my incestuous uncle, full of murthers and massacres. this charitie ministred prince of denmarke. comfort, and your affectionate complaints made me evidently see your good wills, that you had in memorie the calamity of your prince, and within your harts ingraven the desire of vengeance for the death of him that deserved a long life. and what heart can bee so hard and untractable, or spirit so se- vere, cruel, and rigorous, that would not relent at the remem- brance of my extremities, and take pitty of an orphan child, so abandoned of the world? what eyes were so voyd of moysture but would distill a field of tears, to see a poore prince assaulted by his owne subjects, betrayed by his mother, pursued by his uncle, and so much oppressed that his friends durst not shew the effects of their charitie and good affection o(my good friends) shew pity to him whom you have nourished, and let your harts take some compassion upon the memory of my misfortunes! i speak to you that are innocent of al treason, and never defiled your hands, spirits, nor desires with the blud of the greate and vertuous king horvendile. take pity upon the queen, sometime your sove- raign lady, and my right honorable mother, forced by the tyrant, and rejoyce to see the end and extinguishing of the object of her dishonor, which constrained her to be lesse pitiful to her own blood, so far as to imbrace the murtherer of her own dear spouse, charging her selfe with a double burthen of infamy and incest, together wtth injuring and dis- annulling of her house, and the ruine of her race. this hath bin the occasion that made me counterfet folly, and cover my intents under availe of meer madnes, which hath wisdom and pollicy therby to inclose the fruit of this vengeance, which, that it hath attained to the ful point of efficacy and perfect ac- complishment, you yourselves shall bee judges; for touching this and other things concerning my profit, and the managing of great affairs, i refer my self to your counsels, and ther- unto am fully determined to yeeld, as being those that tram- ple under your feet the murtherers of my father, and despise the ashes of him that hath polluted and violated the spouse of his brother, by him massacred; that hath committed felony the hystorie of hamblet, leaste do his endeavour. this promise incited the barbarous king to massacre hamlet, but the alliance presenting it selfe before his eies, and beholding the one deade, although his friend, and the other alive, and husband to his daughter, made him deface his desire of revenge. but in the end, the conscience of his oath and promise obtained the upper hand, and secretly made him conclude the death of his sonne in law, which enterprise after that was cause of his own death, and overrunning of the whole country of england by the cruelty and despight conceived by the king of denmarke. i have purposely omitted the discourse of that battaile, as not much pertinent to our matter, as also, not to trouble you with too tedious a discourse, being content to shew you the end of this wise and valiant king hamlet, who revenging himselfe upon so many enemies, and discovering all the treasons prac- tised against his life, in the end served for a sport to fortune, and an example to all great personages that trust overmuch to the felicities of this world, that are of small moment, and lesse continuance. the king of england perceiving that hee could not easilie effect his desire upon the king, his son in lawe, as also not being willing to break the laws and rights of hospitality, determined to make a stranger the revenger of his injury, and so accomplish his oath made to fengon without defiling his handes with the blood of the husband of his daughter, and polluting his house by the traiterous massacring of his friend. in reading of this history, it seemeth, hamlet should resemble another hercules, sent into divers places of the world by euristheus (solicited by juno) where he knew any dangerous adventure, thereby to overthrow and destroy him; or else bellerophon sent to ariobatus to put him to death; or (leaving prophane histories) an other urias, by king david appointed to bee placed in the fore front of the battaile, and the man that should bee first slain by the bar- barians. for the king of englands wife being dead not long before (although he cared not for marrying an other prince of denmarke. woman) desired his sonne in lawe to make a voyage for him into scotland, flattering him in such sort, that he made him beleeve that his singular wisdome caused him to preferre him to that ambassage, assuring himselfe that it were impossible that hamlet, the subtillest and wisest prince in the worlde, should take any thing in the world in hand without effecting the same. now the queen of scots beeing a maid, and of a haughty courage, despised marriage with al men, as not esteeming any worthy to be her companion, in such manner that by reason of this arrogant opinion there never came any man to desire her love but she caused him to loose his life: but the danish kings fortune was so good, that hermetrude (for so was the queens name) hearing that hamlet was come thither to intreat a marriage between her and the king of england, forgot all her pride, and dispoiling herselfe of her sterne nature, being as then determined to make him (being the greatest prince as then living) her husband, and deprive the english princesse of her spouse, whome shee thought fit for no men but herself; and so this amazon without love, dis- daining cupid, by her free wil submitted her haughtie mind to her concupiscence. the dane arriving in her court, de- sired she to see the old king of englands letters, and mocking at his fond appetites, whose blood as then was half congealed, cast her eies upon the yong and plesant adonis of the north, esteeming her selfe happy to have such a pray fallen into her hands, wherof she made her ful account to have the posses- sion: and to conclude, she that never had been overcome by the grace, courtesie, valor, or riches of anie prince nor lord whatsoever, was as then vanquished with the onelie report of the subtilties of the dane; who knowing that he was already fianced to the daughter of the king of england, spake unto him and said: i never looked for so great a blisse, neither from the gods nor yet from fortune, as to behold in my countries the most compleate prince in the north, and he that hath made himselfe famous and renowned through all the nations of the the hystorie of hamblet, world, as well neighbours as strangers, for the only respect of his vertue, wisdom, and good fortune, serving him much in the pursuite and effect of divers thinges by him undertaken, and thinke myselfe much beholding to the king of england (although his malice seeketh neither my advancement nor the good of you, my lord) to do me so much honor as to send me so excellent a man to intreate of a marriage (he being olde, and a mortal enemy to me and mine) with mee that am such a one as every man seeth, is not desirous to couple with a man of so base quality as he, whom you have said to be the son of a slave. but on the other side, i marvel that the son of horvendile, and grand-child to king roderick, he that by his foolish wisedom and fained madnesse surmounted the forces and subtilties of fengon, and obtained the kingdom of his ad- versary, should so much imbase himselfe (having otherwise bin very wise and wel advised in all his actions) touching his bedfellow; and hee that for his excellency and valor surpass- eth humane capacity, should stoope so lowe as to take to wife her that, issuing from a servile race, hath only the name of a king for her father, for that the basenes of her blood will al- waies cause her to shewe what are the vertues and noble qua- lities of her ancestors. and you, my lord, said she, are you so ignorant as not to know that mariage should not bee measured by any foolish opinion of an outward beautie, but rather by vertues, and antiquitie of race, which maketh the wife to be honored for her prudence, and never degenerating from the in- tegritie of his ancestors: exterior beauty also is nothing, where perfection of the mind doth not accomplish and adorn that which is outwardly seen to be in the bodie, and is lost by an accident and occurrence of small moment: as also such toyes have deceived many men, and drawing them like entic- ing baits, have cast them headlong into the gulf of their ruine, dishonor, and utter overthrow. it was i to whom this advan- tage belonged, being a queen, and such a one as for nobility may compare my selfe with the greatest princes in europe, being nothing inferiour unto any of them, neither for antiqui- prince of denmarke. tie of blood, nobilitie of parents, nor abundance of riches; and i am not only a queene, but such a one as that, receiving whom i will for my companion in bed, can make him beare the title of a king, and with my body give him possession of a great kingdome, and goodly-province. think then, my lord, how much i account of your alliance, who being accus- tomed with the sword to pursue such as durst imbolden them- selves to win my love, it is to you only to whom i make a present both of my kisses, imbracings, scepter, and crown: what man is he, if he be not made of stone, that would refuse so precious a pawn as hermetrude, with the kingdome of scotland accept, sweete king, accepte this queene, who with so great love and amitie, desireth your so great profit, and can give you more contentment in one day then the princesse of england wold yeeld you pleasure during her life: although shee surpass me in beauty, her bloud beeing base it is fitter for such a king as you are to chuse her- metrude, lesse beautiful but noble and famous, rather then the english lady with great beawtie, but issuing from an un- known race, without any title of honor. now think if the dane, hearing such forcible resons and un- derstanding that by her which he half doubted, as also moved with choller for the treason of his father in law, that purposely sent him thether to loose his life, and being welcomed, kist, and playd withal by this queen, yong and reasonable fair, if he were not easie enough to be converted, and like to forget the affection of his first wife, with this to enjoy the realme of scotland, and so open the waie to become king of all greate britain: that, to conclude, he marryed her, and led her with him to the king of englands court, which moved the king from that time for- ward much more to seek the meanes to bereave him of his life; and had surely done it, if his daughter, hamlets other wife, more careful of him that had rejected her then of her fathers welfare, had not discovered the enterprise to hamlet, saying: i know well, my lord, that the allurements and per- swasions of a bold and altogether shameles woman, being the hystorie of hamblet, more lascivious then the chast imbracements of a lawful and modest wife, are of more force to intice and charm the sences of yong men; but for my part, i cannot take take this abuse for satisfaction, to leave mee in this sorte without all cause, reason, or precedent faulte once known in mee, your loyall spouse, and take more pleasure in the aliance of her who one day will be the cause of your ruine and overthrow. and al- though a just cause of jealousye and reasonable motion of anger, dispence with mee at this time to make no more account of you then you do of me, that am not worthy to be so scorn- fully rejected; yet matrimoniall charitie shal have more force and vigour in my hart, then the disdaine which i have justly conceived to see a concubine hold my place, and a strange woman before my face injoy the pleasures of my husband. this injury, my lord, although great and offensive, which to revenge divers ladies of great renown have in times past sought and procured the death of their husbands, cannot so much restrain my good wil, but that [i] may not chuse but ad- vertise you what treason is devised against you, beseeching you to stand upon your guard, for that my fathers onely seek- ing is to bereave you of your life, which if it happen, i shall not long live after you. manie reasons induce me to love and cherish you, and those of great consequence, but especially and above all the rest, i am and must bee carefull of you, when i feele your child stirring in my wombe; for which re- specte, without so much forgetting yourselfe, you ought to make more account of me then of your concubine, whome i will love because you love her, contenting my selfe that your sonne hateth her, in regard of the wrong she doth to his mother; for it is impossible that any passion or trouble of the mind whatsoever can quench those fierce passions of love that made me yours, neither that i shold forget your favours past, when loyallie you sought the love of the daughter of the king of england. neither is it in the power of that thiefe that hath stoln your heart, nor my fathers choller, to hinder me from seeking to preserve you from the cruelty of your dissembling prince of denmarke. friend (as heeretofore by counterfetting the madman, you pre- vented the practises and treasons of your uncle fengon), the complot being determined to be executed upon you and yours. without this advertisement, the dane had surely been slain, and the scots that came with him; for the king of england, inviting his son in law to a banquet, with greatest curtesies that a friend can use to him whom he loved as himself, had the means to intrap him, and cause him dance a pittiful gal- liard, in that sort to celebrate the marriage betweene him and his new lady. but hamlet went thither with armour under his clothes, and his men in like sort; by which means he and his escaped with little hurt, and so after that hapned the battaile before spoken of, wherein the king of england losing his life, his countrie was the third time sacked by the barbarians of the ilands and countrie of denmark. chap. viii. how hamblet, being in denmarke, was assailed by wiglerus his uncle, and after betrayed by his last wife, called hermetrude, and was slaine: after whose death she marryed his enemie, wiglerus. hamlet having obtained the victory against the king of england, and slaine him, laden with great treasures and ac- companied with his two wives, set forward to saile into den- marke, but by the way hee had intelligence that wiglere, his uncle, and sonne to rodericke, having taken the royall trea- sure from his sister geruth (mother to hamblet) had also seazed upon the kingdome, saying, that neither horvendile nor any of his helde it but by permission, and that it was in him (to whom the property belonged) to give the charge therof to whom he would. but hamblet, not desirous to the hystorie of hamblet, shake and overthrowe the naturall slipperie loyaltie of the variable steppes of women, wholy without and any faithfull assurance of love, or true unfained constancy: for as a woman is ready to promise, so is shee heavy and slowe to performe and effect that which she hath promised, as she that is without end or limit in her desires, flattring her selfe in the diversitie of her wanton delights, and taking pleasure in diversitie and change of newe things, which as soone shee doth forget and growe weary off: and, to conclude, such shee is in all her actions, she is rash, covetous, and unthankefull, whatsoever good or service can bee done unto her. but nowe i perceive i erre in my discourse, vomitting such things unworthy of this sects; but the vices of hermetrude have made mee say more then i meant to speake, as also the authour, from whence i take this hystorie, hath almost made mee hold this course, i find so great a sweetnesse and live- linesse in this kinde of argument; and the rather because it seemeth so much the truer, considering the miserable successe of poore king hamlet. such was the ende of hamlet, sonne to horvendile, prince of jutie; to whom, if his fortune had been equall with his inward and naturall giftes, i know not which of the auncient grecians and romans had been able to have compared with him for vertue and excellencie: but hard fortune following him in all his actions, and yet hee vanquishing the malice of his time with the vigour of constancy, hath left us a notable example of haughtie courage, worthy of a great prince, arm- ing himselfe with hope in things that were wholy without any colour or shewe thereof, and in all his honorable actions made himselfe worthy of perpetuall memorie, if one onely spotte had not blemished and darkened a good part of his prayses. for that the greatest victorie that a man can ob- taine is to make himselfe victorious and lord over his owne affections, and that restraineth the unbridled desires of his concupiscence; for if a man be never so princely, valiant, and wise, if the desires and inticements of his flesh prevaile, prince of den marke. lsl and have the upper hand, hee will imbase his credite, and, gasing after strange beauties, become a foole, and (as it were) incensed, dote on the presence of women. this fault was in the great hercules, sampson; and the wisest man that ever lived upon the earth, following this traine, therein impaired his wit; and the most noble, wise, valiant, and discreet per- sonages of our time, following the same course, have left us many notable examples of their worthy and notable ver- tues. but i beseech you that shall reade this hystorie not to resemble the spider, that feedeth of the corruption that shee findeth in the flowers and fruites that are in the gardens, whereas the bee gathereth her hony out of the best and fayrest flower shee can finde : for a man that is well brought up should reade the lives of whoremongers, drunkards, inces- tuous, violent, and bloody persons, not to follow their steps, and so to defile himselfe with such uncleannesse, but to shunne paliardize, abstain the superfluities and drunkennesse in banquets, and follow the modestie, courtesie, and conti- nencie that recommendeth hamlet in this discourse, who, while other made good cheare, continued sober; and where all men sought as much as they could to gather together riches and treasure, hee, simply accounting riches nothing comparable to honor, sought to gather a multitude of vertues, that might make him equall to those that by them were es- teemed as gods; having not as then received the lighte of the gospell, that men might see among the barbarians, and them that were farre from the knowledge of one onelye god, that nature was provoked to follow that which is good, and those forward to imbrace vertue, for that there was never any na- tion, how rude or barbarous soever, that tooke not some plea- sure to do that which seemed good, therby to win praise and commendations, which wee have said to be the reward of vertue and good life. i delight to speak of these strange histories, and of people that were unchristned, that the vertue of the rude people maie give more splendor to our nation, the hystorie of hamblet. who seeing them so compleat, wise, prudent, and well ad- vised in their actions, might strive not only to follow (imita- tion being a small matter), but to surmount them, as our religion surpasseth their superstition, and our age more purged, subtill, and gallant, then the season wherin they lived and made their vertues knowne. fl nis. of gtheratterne painefull ad- uentures : § § . containing the moſt excel- ; ślent, pleaſant and variable hi- ſtorie of the ſtrange accidents that be- p fell vnto prince apollonius, the lady lucina his wife, and tharſia his daughter. //herein the vncertaintie of this world,and the fickle ſtate of mans life are liue- ly deſcribed. gathered into engliſh by lavr e n c e tvvi ne gentleman. imprinted at london by va- lentine simmes for the widow newman. to the worshipfull master john donning, custo- mer and jurate of the towne of rie, in sussex. being diversly mooved in mind to signifie my good will and hartie love towardes you, gentle m. donning, i could not devise any meanes more effectual, then by presenting the same to you, which had cost me some small labor and travel. not seeming therby to acquite your manifold curtesies, to- wards me diversly extended, but rather to discharge me of the note of ingratitude, which otherwise i might seeme to incurre. wherefore in steede of a greater present to counter- vaile your friendlines, i am bold, in the setting foorth of this simple pamflet under your name, to make a proffer of my thankeful heart to you againe. wherin, though want of farther abilitie appeare, yet is there no let, but that a wel-wil- ling heart may be exprest, yea, in the smallest gift. now if haply the argument hereof appeare unto you other than you could much wish, or i well afford, yet have i no feare of any great misliking, considering your natural disposition, which is to be delighted with honest pleasure, and commendable re- creation, and not to lie evermore weltering, as it were, in dole- full dumpishnesse. which thing did put me in the greater hope, that this worke would be the welcommer unto you, especially considering the detectable varietie, and the often changes and chances contained in this present historie, which cannot but much stirre up the mind and sences unto sundry affections. what ever it be, take it, i beseech you, in good part, in stead of some better thing which i might well affoord, promising the same when occasion shall serve, not being at this present so well furnished as i could wish of god: to whose good grace i recommend you and yours, both nowe and evermore. your worships to use, laurence twine. vi the table. how pirats which stole away tharsia brought her to the citie machilenta, and sold her to a common bawd; and how she preserved her virginitie .................... chap. xiii. how tharsia withstood a second assault of her vir- ginitie, and by what meanes shee was preserved ..... chap. xiv. how apollonius, comming to tharsus, and not finding his daughter, lamented her supposed death, and taking ship againe, was driven by a tempest to ma- chilenta, where tharsia was .............................. chap. xv. how athanagoras, prince of machilenta, seeing the beautie of apollonius ship, went aboord of it, and did the best he could to comfort him .................... chap. xvi. how athanagoras sent for tharsia, to make her father apollonius merrie; and how, after long circumstance, they came into knowledge one of another .............. chap. xvii. how apollonius, leaving off mourning, came into the citie machilenta, where he commanded the bawd to be burned, and how tharsia was married unto prince athanagoras .................................................. chap. xviii. how apollonius, meaning to saile into his owne countrey by tharsus, was commanded by an angell in the night to goe to ephesus, and there to declare all his adventures in the church with a loud voice ... chap. xix. how apollonius came to the knowledge of his wife the ladie lucina; and how they rejoyced at the meeting of ech other .................................... .............. chap. xx. how apollonius departed from ephesus, and sailed, himselfe, and his wife, his sonne and daughter, unto antiochia, and then to tyrus, and from thence to thar- sus, where he revenged himselfe upon stranguilio and dionisiades ........................................... .. chap. xxi. how apollonius sayled from tharsus to visite his father in law, altistrates, king of pentapolis, who died not long after apollonius comming thither........ .... chap. xxii. how apollonius rewarded the fisherman that relieved him after he had suffered shipwracke; how he dealt also with old calamitus, and likewise with the pirates that stole away tharsia.................................... chap. xxiii. how apollonius had a yong sonne and heire by his wife lucina, likewise of apollonius age, and how hee died; with some other accidents thereunto incident chap. xxiv. finis. the patterne of painfull adventures. chap. i. howe antiochus committed incest with his owne daughter, and beheaded such as sued unto her for marriage, if they coulde not resolve his ques- tions. the most famous and mightie king antiochus, which builded the goodly citie of antiochia in syria, and called it after his own name, as the chiefest seat of all his dominions, and most principal place of his abode, begat upon his wife one daughter, a most excellent and beautifull yoong ladie; who in processe of yeeres growing up, as wel in ripenesse of age, as perfection of beautie, many princes and noblemen resorted unto her for intreaty of marriage, offering inestimable riches in jointure. howbeit the king, her father, evermore requiring deliberation upon whom rather than other to be- stow his daughter, perceived eftsoones an unlawfull concu- piscence to boyle within his breast, which he augmented with an outragious flame of crueltie sparkling in his heart, so that he began to burne with the love of his owne childe more then it was beseeming for a father. thus being wrapped in the toyle of blind desire, hee sustained within himselfe a fierce conflict, wherein madnesse put modestie to flight, and he wholly yeelded himselfe unto love. wherefore, not long after, on a certaine day hee came into his daughters chamber, p the patterne of [pericles. and bidding all that were there for to depart, as though he had had some secret matter to conferre with her, the furious rage of lust pricking him forward thereunto, he violently forced her, though, seely maiden, she withstood him long to her power, and threwe away all regard of his owne honestie, and unlosed the knot of her virginitie. now, when he was departed, and she, being alone, devised within herself what it were best for her to doe, sodainelie her nurse entred in, and perceiving her face al be blubbred with teares, what is the matter, deare childe and madam (quoth she), that you sit thus sorrowfully o, my beloved nurse, an- swered the ladie, even nowe two noble names were lost within this chamber. howe so! saide the nurse. because (quoth shee) before marriage, through wicked villanie i am most shamefully defiled. and when the nurse had heard these wordes, and looking about more diligently perceived indeede what was done, being inraged with sorrowe and anger, and almost distract of her wittes, alas! what wretch or rather in- fernal feend (quoth she) durst thus presumptuously defile the bed of a princesse? ungodlinesse hath done this doede (quoth the ladie). whie, then, doe you not tell it the king your father, saide the nurse ah, nurse, answered the ladie, where is my father ? for if you well understoode the matter, the name of father is lost in me, so that i can have no remedie now but death onely. but the nurse, nowe by a few wordes perceiving the whole tale, and weying that the yong lady gave inkling of remedie by death, which she much feared, beganne to assuage her griefe with comfortable wordes, and to withdrawe her minde from that mischievous purpose. wherein she prevailed so effectually in short time, that she appeased the fresh bleeding of the greene wound, howbeit the scarre continued long time, as deepely stroken within her tender heart, before it could be throughlie cured. in the meane season, while this wicked father sheweth the countenance of a loving sire abroad in the eies of al his people, notwithstanding, within doores, and in his minde he the patterne of [pericles. cause of his comming thither. then saide the yoong prince, sir, i require to have your daughter in marriage. the king hearing that which he was unwilling to heare, looking fiercely upon him, saide unto him, doest thou knowe the conditions of the marriage! yea, sir king, said apollonius, and i see it standing upon the gate. then the king, being sharply moved, and disdaining at him, said, heare then the question which thou must resolve, or else die: i am carried with mis- chiefe : i eate my mothers fleshe, i seeke my brother my mothers husband, and i cannot finde him. apollonius having received the question, withdrew himselfe a while out of the kinges presence, and being desirous to understand what it meant, he found out the solution thereof in short space ‘through the help of god, and returned againe to the king, saying; your grace proposed a question unto me: i pray you heare the solution thereof. and wheras you said in your probleme, i am carried with mischiefe, you have not lied, for looke unto your owne selfe. but whereas you say further, i eate my mothers flesh, looke upon your daughter. now the king, as soone as he perceived that apollonius had resolved his problems, fearing lest his wickednesse should be discovered, he looked upon him with a wrathfull counte- nance, saying; thou art farre wide from the solution of my demand, and hast hit no part of the meaning thereof: where- fore thou hast deserved to be beheaded. howbeit, i will shew thee this courtesie, as to give thee thirtie daies respite to bethinke thyselfe of this matter. wherefore returne home into thine owne countrey, and if thou canst find out the solu- tion of my probleme, thou shalt have my daughter to wife : if not, thou shalt be beheaded. then apollonius, being much troubled and molested in mind, accompanying himself with a sufficient train, tooke shipping, and returned into his owne countrey. but so soone as he was departed, antiochus called unto him his steward, named thaliarchus, to whom he spake in maner following. thaliarchus, the only faithfull and trustie minister of my pericles.] painfull adventures. secrets, understand that apollonius, prince of tirus, hath found out the solution of my question. wherefore, take shipping and followe him immediately, and if thou canst not overtake him upon the sea, seeke him out when thou commest to tirus, and slay him either with sword or poyson; and when thou returnest i will bountifully reward thee. taliarchus promised to accomplish his commandement with all diligence, and taking to him his shield, with monie sufficient for the journey, departed on his way, and shortly after arrived at the coast of tirus. but apollonius was come home unto his . owne pallace long time before, and withdrawing himselfe into his studie, perused all his bookes concerning the kings pro- bleame, finding none other solution than that which he had alreadie told the king. and thus he said within himselfe: surely, unlesse i be much deceived, antiochus burneth with disordinate love of his daughter: and discoursing further with himselfe upon that point, what sayest thou now, or what intendest thou to doe, appollonius ! said he to himselfe. thou hast resolved his probleme, and yet not received his daughter, and god hath therefore brought thee away that thou shouldest not die. then brake hee off in the midst of these cogitations, and immediately commanded his ships to be pre- pared, and to be laden with an hundred thousand bushels of wheate, and with great plentie of gold, silver, and rich ap- parell, and taking unto him a few of his most trustiest ser- vants, about midnight imbarked himself, and hoysing up his sails, committed himselfe to the wide sea. the day following his subjects, the citizens, came unto the pallace to have seene their prince; but when they found him not there, the whole citie was forthwith surprised with won- derfull sorrowe, everie man lamenting that so worthy a prince [was] so sodainly gone out of sight and knowledge, no man knew whether. great was the griefe, and wofull was the wayling which they made, every man lamenting his owne pri- vate estate and the common-wealths in generall, as it alwaies hapneth at the death or losse of a good prince; which the in- the patterne of [pericles. ... habitants of tirus tooke then so heavily, in respect of their great affection, that a long time after no barbers shops were opened, the common shews and plaies surceased, baines and hoat houses were shut up, taverns were not frequented, and no man repaired unto the churches: al thing was full of sor- row and heavinesse. what shall i say!—there was nothing but heavinesse. chap. iii. how taliarchus, not finding apollonius at tirus, departeth joyfully; and apollonius, arriving at tharsus, relieveth the citie with vittell. in the middes of this sorrowfull season taliarchus commeth to tirus to execute the cruell commandement of antiochus; where, finding al-thing shut up, and a generall shew of mourn- ing, meeting with a boy in the streete, tell me, said he, or i will slay thee, for what cause is al this citie thus drowned in heavines to whom the child answered: my friend, doest thou not know the cause, that thou askest it of me? this citie mourneth because the prince therof, apollonius, return- ing back from king antiochus, can no where be found or heard of. now, as soone as taliarchus heard these tidings, he returned joyfully unto his ships, and tooke his journey backe to antiochia, and, being landed, he hastened unto the king, and fell downe on his knees before him, saying: all haile, most mightie prince, rejoice and be glad; for apollonius, being in feare of your grace, is departed no man knoweth whether. then answered the king: he may well flie away from mee, but he shall never escape my handes. and im- mediately he made proclamation, that whosoever could take that contemner of the king, apollonius prince of tirus, and bring him alive unto the kinges presence, should have an pericles.] painfull adventures. hundred talents of golde for his labour; and whosoever coulde bring his head, should have fiftie talentes. which procla- mation beeing published, not onely apollonius ennemies, but also his friendes, made all haste possible to seeke him out, al- lured thereto with covetousnesse of the money. thus was that poore prince sought for about by sea and by land, through woodes and wilde deserts, but could not be found. then the king commanded a great navie of ships to be prepared to scoure the seas abroad, if haply they might meet with him; but for that every thing requireth a time ere it can be done, in the meane season apollonius arriveth at tharsus, where, walking along by the sea side, he was espied by one of his owne servauntes, named elinatus, who landed there not long before, and overtooke him as he was going; and coming neere unto him, with dutifull obeisance said unto him: god save you, prince apollonius. but he, being saluted, did even so as noble men and princes use to doe, set light by him. but elinatus taking that behaviour unkindly, saluted him againe, saying: god save you, prince apollonius; salute me againe, and despise not povertie beautified with honestie : and if you knewe that which i know, you would take good heed to your self. then answered apollonius: if you thinke good, i pray you tell me. elinatus answered, you are by proclamation commanded to be slaine. and who, said apollonius, dares commaund by pro- clamation the prince of a countrey to be slaine! antiochus, said, elinatus. antiochus! for what cause ! demanded apollonius. for that, said elinatus, thou wouldst be unto his daughter which he himselfe is. then demanded apollo- nius, for what summe of mony is my life sold by that pro- clamation! elinatus answered, whosoever can bring you alive unto the king shall have an hundred talents of gold in re- compence; but whoso bringeth your head shall have fiftie talents of gold for his labour: and therefore i advise you, my lord, to flie unto some place for your defence. and when he had so said, he tooke his leave and departed. but apol- lonius called him againe, and said that hee would give him an the patterne of [pericles. hundred talents of gold; for, said he, receive thus much now of my povertie, where nothing is now left unto me but flight, , and pining misery. thou hast deserved the reward: where- fore draw out thy sword, and cut off my head, and present it to the king, as the most joyful sight in the world. thus mayst thou win an hundred talents of gold, and remaine with- out all blame or note of ingratitude, since i my selfe have hyred thee, in the kinges behalfe, to gratefie him with so ac- ceptable a present. then answered elinatus: god forbid, my lord, that by anie such sinister means i should deserve a re- ward. in all my life i never consented to any such matter in my heart; and, my lord, if the deed were good, the love of vertue were sufficient force to allure any man thereunto. but since it respecteth your life, to whome in consideration of the cause no man may doe violence without villanie, i com- mit both you and your matter unto god, who no doubt will be your defender. and when he had thus said, he departed. but apollonius walked forth along upon the shoare, where he had not gone farre, but he descried a man farre off coming towardes him with heavie cheere and a sorrowfull counte- nance; and his name was stranguilio, a tharsian borne, and of good reputation in the citie. to whom saide apollonius, god save you, stranguilio: and he likewise resaluted him, saying, and you likewise, my good lord apollonius: i pray you tel me what is the cause that you walk in this place thus troubled with- in your minde apollonius answered: because, being pro- mised to have king antiochus daughter to my wife, if i told him the true meaning of his question, nowe that i have so done, i am notwithstanding restrained from her. wherefore i request you it may so be, that i may live secretly in your citie; for why, i stand moreover in some doubt of the kinges farther displeasure. stranguilio answered: my lord apol- lonius, our citie at this present is verie poore, and not able to sustaine the greatnesse of your dignitie: and even now we suffer great penurie and want of vittell, insomuch that there remaineth small hope of comfort unto our citizens, but that pericles ] painfull adventures. we shall all perish by extreme famine: and now certes there resteth nothing but the fearefull image of gastly death before our eies. when apollonius heard these wordes, he said unto him: then give thankes into god, who in my flight hath brought me a land into your costes; for i have brought great store of provision with me, and i will presently give unto your citie an hundreth thousand bushels of wheate, if you will onely conceale my comming hither. at these wordes stranguilio being strooken, as it were, into a sodaine amazednesse, as it happeneth when a man is overjoyed with some glad tidinges, fell downe prostrate before prince apol- lonius feete, and saide : my lord apollonius, if you coulde, and also if it might please of your great goodnesse, in such sort as you say, to succour this afflicted and famished citie, we wil not onely receive you gladly, and conceale your abode, but also, if neede so require, willingly spend our lives in your quarrell. which promise of mine, to the intent you may heare to be confirmed by the full consent of all the citizens, might it please your grace to enter into the citie, and i most willingly will attend upon you. apollonius agreed thereto, and when they came into the citie, he mounted up into the place of judgment, to the intent he might the better be heard, and, gathering al the people to- gither, thus hee spake unto the whole multitude : ye citizens of tharsus, whom penurie of vittell pincheth at this present, understand ye, that i, apollonius prince of tirus, am deter- mined presently to relieve you: in respect of which benefite, i trust ye will be so thankfull as to conceale mine arriving hither. and know ye, moreover, that not as being driven away through the malice of king antiochus, but sayling along by the seas, i am happily fallen into your haven. wherefore, i meane to utter unto you an hundred thousand bushels of wheate, paying no more than i bought it for in mine owne countrey, that is to say, eight peeces of brasse for everie bushell. when the citizens heard this, they gave a shout for joy, crying, god save my lord apollonius' promising to live the patterne of [pericles. and die in his quarrell; and they gave him wonderfull thankes, and the whole citie was replenished with joy, and they went forthwith unto the ships, and bought the corne. but apollo- nius, doubting lest by this deede he should seeme to put off the dignitie of a prince, and put on the countenance of a merchant rather than a giver, when he had received the price of the wheate, he restored it backe againe to the use and commo- ditie of the same citie. and when the citizens perceived the great benefites which he had bestowed upon their citie, they erected in the marked place a monument in the memoriall of him, his stature, made of brasse, standing in a charret, holding corne in his right hand, and spurning it with his left foot : and on the baser foot of the pillar whereon it stoode was ingraven in great letters this superscription,-apollonius, prince of tirus, gave a gift unto the city of tharsus, whereby hee delivered it from a cruell death. chap. iiii. how apollonius, departing from tharsus by the per- swasion of stranguilio and dionisiades his wife, committed shipwracke, and was relieved by alti- strates, king of pentapolis. thus had not apollonius aboden many daies in the citie of tharsus, but stranguilio, and dionisiades his wife, ear- nestly exhorted him, as seeming very carefull and tender of his welfare, rather to addresse himselfe unto pentapolis, or among the tirenians, as a place most fit for his securitie, where he might lie, and hide himselfe in greatest assurance and tranquilitie. wherefore hereunto he resolved himselfe, and with convenient expedition prepared al things necessarie for the journey. and when the day of his departure was come, he was brought with great honour by the citizens unto --- the patterne of [pericles. , almightie god that i have escaped thy greedie jawes. where shall i now finde comfort! or who will succour him in a strange place that is not knowen and whilest he spake these wordes, hee sawe a man comming towardes him, and he was a rough fisherman, with an hoode upon his head, and a filthie leatherne pelt upon his backe, unseemely clad, and homely to beholde. when hee drewe neare, apollonius, the present necessitie constraining him thereto, fell down prostrate at his feet, and powring forth a floud of teares he said unto him : who- soever thou art, take pitie upon a poore sea-wracked man, cast up nowe naked, and in simple state, yet borne of no base degree, but sprung foorth of noble parentage. and that thou maiest in helping me knowe whome thou succour- est, i am that apollonius, prince of tyrus, whome most part of the worlde knoweth, and i beseech thee to preserve my life by shewing mee thy friendly reliefe. when the fisher- man beheld the comlinesse and beautie of the yoong gentle- man, hee was mooved with compassion towardes him, and lifted him up from the ground, and lead him into his house, and feasted him with such fare as he presently had; and the more amplie to expresse his great affection towardes him, he disrobed himselfe of his poore and simple cloke, and, dividing it into two parts, gave the one halfe thereof unto apollonius, saying: take here at my handes such poore entertainment and furniture as i have, and goe into the citie, where perhappes thou shalt finde some of better abilitie, that will rue thine estate: and if thou doe not, returne then againe hither unto mee, and thou shalt not want what may be performed by the povertie of a poore fisherman. and in the meane time of this one thing onelie i put thee in mind, that when thou shalt be restored to thy former dignitie, thou doe not despise to thinke on the basenesse of the poore peece of garment. to which apollonius answered : if i remember not thee and it, i wish nothing else but that i may sustaine the like shipwracke. pericles.] painfull adventures. and when hee had saide so, he departed on the way which was taught him, and came unto the citie gates, whereinto he entred. and while he was thinking with himselfe which waie to seeke succor to sustaine his life, he saw a boy run- ning naked through the streete, girded only with a tuell about his middle, and his head annointed with oyle, crying aloude and saying: hearken all, as well citizens as stran- gers and servants, hearken: whosoever will be washed, let him come to the place of exercise. when apollonius heard this, he followed the boy, and comming unto the place cast off his cloake, and stripped him- selfe, and entred into the baine, and bathed himselfe with the liquour. and looking about for some companion with whome he might exercise himselfe, according unto the manner of the place and countrey, and finding none, sodainelie un- looked for entred in altistrates, king of the whole land, ac- companied with a great troupe of servitours. anone he . beganne to exercise himselfe at tennis with his men, which . when apollonius espied, he intruded himselfe amongst them into the kings presence, and stroke back the ball to the king, and served him in play with great swiftnes. but when the king perceived the great nimblenesse and cunning which was in him, surpassing the residue, stand aside (quoth he unto his men) for me thinkes this yong man is more cunning than i. when apollonius heard himselfe commended, hee stept foorth boldly into the middes of the tennis court, and, taking up a racket in his hand, he tossed the ball skilfully, and with wonderful agilitie. after play, he also washed the king very reverently in the baine, and when all was done, hee tooke his leave duetifully, and so departed. when apollonius was gone, the king said unto them that were about him, i sweare unto you of truth, as i am a prince, i was never exercised nor washed better then this day, and that by the diligence of a yong man i know not what he is. and, turning back, go, said he unto one of his servants, and know what that yong man is that hath with such duty the patterne of [pericles. and diligence taken pains with me. the servant going after apollonius, and seeing him clad in a filthy fishers cloke, re- turned againe to the king, saying, if it like your grace, the 'yongman is a sea-wracked man. how knowest thou that! said the king. the servant answered: though he told me not so himselfe, yet his apparel bewraieth his state. then said the king to his servant: go apace after him, & say unto him, that the king desireth him to sup with him this night. then the servant made haste after apollonius, & did the kings message to him, which so soone as he heard, he granted thereto, much thanking the kings majestie, & came back with the servant. when they were come to the gate, the servant went in first unto the king, saying: the sea-wracked man, for whom your grace sent me, is come, but is ashamed to come into your presence, by reason of his base aray: whome the king commanded immediatly to be clothed in seemely apparell, and to be brought in to supper, and placed him at the table with him, right over against himselfe. immediately the boorde was furnished with all kinde of princelie fare, the guests fed apace, every man on that which he liked; onelie apollonius sate still and eate nothing, but earnestlie behold- ing the golde, silver, and other kingly furniture, whereof there was great plentie, hee could not refraine from sheading teares. then saide one of the guests that sate at the table unto the king : this yoong man, i suppose, envieth at your graces prosperitie. no, not so, answered the king : you sup- pose amisse; but he is sorie to remember that he hath lost more wealth then this is: and looking upon apollonius with a smiling countenance, be mery, yong man, quoth he, and eate thy meate with us, and trust in god, who doubtlesse will send thee better fortune. pericles.] tainfull adventures. chap. w. how lucina, king altistrates daughter, desirous to heare apollonius adventures, fel in love with him. now, while they sate at meate, discoursing of this and such like matters at the boord, suddenlie came in the king's daugh- ter and onlie child, named lucina, a singular beautifull ladie, and a maiden now of ripe yeeres for marriage: and she ap- proached nigh, and kissed the king her father, and al the guests that sate with him at the table. and when she had so done, she returned unto her father, and saide : good father, i pray you, what yongman is this which sitteth in so honour- able a place over against you, so sorrowfull and heavie ' o, sweete daughter, answered the king, this yong man is a sea- wracked man, and hath done me great honour to day at the baines and place of exercise, for which cause i sent for him to sup with me; but i knowe not neither what, neither whence he is. if you be desirous to know these things, demaund of him, for you may understand all things; and peradventure when you shall knowe, you will be mooved with compassion towardes him. nowe, when the lady perceived hir fathers mind, she turned about unto apollonius, and saide, gentleman, whose grace and comlinesse sufficiently bewraieth the nobi- litie of your birth, if it be not grievous unto you, shew me your name, i beseech you, and your adventures. then an- swered apollonius: madam, if you aske my name, i have lost it in the sea: if you enquire of my nobilitie, i have left that at tyrus. sir, i beseech you, then said the lady lucina, tel me this more plainly, that i may understand. then apolonius, craving licence to speake, declared his name, his birth and nobilitie, and unripped the whole tragedie of his adventures, in order as is before rehearsed; and when he had made an end of speaking, he burst forth into most plentifull teares. which when the king beheld, he saide unto lucina: the patterne of [pericles. deere daughter, you have done evill in requiring to know the yong mans name, and his adventures, wherein you have renued his forepassed griefes. but since nowe you have understoode all the trueth of him, it is meete, as it becommeth the daughter of a king, you likewise extend your liberalitie towards him, and whatsoever you give him, i will see it be perfourmed. then lucina, having already in hir heart professed to doe him good, and nowe perceiving very luckily her fathers mind to be inclined to the desired purpose, she cast a friendly looke upon him, saying: apollonius, nowe lay sorrowe aside, for my father is determined to inrich you: and apollonius, according to the curtesie that was in him, with sighes and sobbes at remembrance of that whereof he had so lately spoken, yeeld- ed great thankes unto the faire ladie lucina. then saide the king unto his daughter: madame, i pray you take your harpe into your handes, and play us some musike to refresh our guests withall, for we have all too long hearkened unto sorrowful matters. and when she had called for her harpe, she beganne to play so sweetely, that all that were in companie highly commended her, saying that in all their lives they never heard pleasanter harmonie. thus whilst the guests, every man for his part, commended the ladies cunning, onely apollonius spake nothing. then saide the king unto him : you are too blame, apollonius, since all praise my daughter for her excellencie in musike, and you commend not her, or rather dispraise her by holding your peace. apollonius answered: my soveraigne and good lord, might it please you to pardon me, and i will say what i think: the lady lucina your daughter is pretily entred; but she is not yet come to perfection in musike. for proofe whereof, if it please your grace to command the harp to be delivered unto me, she shall well perceive, that she shal heare that which she doth not yet know. the king answered: i see well, apollonius, you have skill in all things, and is nothing to be wished in a gentleman, but you have perfectly learned it: wherefore, hold; i pray you take the harpe, and let us heare pericles.] painfull adventures. some part of your cunning. when apollonius had received the harp, he went forth, and put a garland of flowers upon his head, and fastned his raiment in comly manner about him, and entred into the parlour againe, playing before the king and the residue with such cunning and sweetnes, that he seemed rather to be apollo then apollonius, and the kings guests confessed that in al their lives they never heard the like before. but when lucina had heard and seene what was done, she felt hir selfe sodainely mooved within, and was sharpelie surprised with the love of apollonius, and, turning to her father: nowe suffer me, good father, saide she, to give unto this yoong gentleman some reward, according as i shall thinke convenient. i give you leave to do so, faire daughter, saide the king. then she, looking towards apollonius, my lord apollonius, saide she, receive heere of my fathers liberalitie two hundred talents of gold, foure hundred poundes of silver, store of raiment, twentie men servants, and tenne handmaidens, nowe therefore, said she unto the officers that stood by, bring hither all these things which i have here promised, and jay them downe in the parlour in the presence of our friends, and immediately they were all brought into their sight as she had commaunded. when this was done, the guests arose from the table, and, giving thankes unto the king and laulie lucina, tooke their leave and departed. and apollonius, thinking it likewise time for him to be gone, most gratious king altistrates (quoth he) thou which art a comforter of such as are in miserie; and thou also, renowned princesse, a favourer of philosophie, and lover of all good studies, i bid you now most heartily farewell. as for your great deserts toward me, i leave them to god to requite you with deserved recompence: and, looking unto his wervants which the ladie lucina had given him, sirs, take up this geere, quoth hee, which is given me, and bring it away, and let us go seeke some lodgings. when lucina heard those words she was sodainlie stroken into a dump, fearing that she shoulde have lost her newe q the patterne of [pericles. lover, before she had ever reaped anie fruit of his companie, and therefore, turning to her father, said: i beseech you, good father and gratious king, forasmuch as it has pleased you this day to inrich apolonius with many great gifts, you would not suffer him now to depart so late, lest he be by some naughtie persons spoiled of the things which you have given him. the king willingly granted the ladies request, and com- manded forthwith that there should be a faire lodging pre- pared for him and his, where he might lie honourably; and when he sawe convenient time he went to bed, and tooke his rest. c h a p. v. i. how apollonius is made schoolemaster to lucina, and how she preferreth the love of him above all the nobilitie of pentapolis. when night was come, and every one was at rest, lucina laie unquietly tumbling in her bed, alwaies thinking upon apollonius, and could not sleep; wherefore in the morn- ing she rose very early, and came into the king her fathers chamber; whom when her father saw, what is the matter, daughter lucina (quoth he) that contrary to custome you be stirring so earelie this morning ! deere father, quoth lucina, i could take no rest al this night, for the desire i have to learn musicke of apollonius; and therefore i pray you, good father, to put me unto him to be instructed in the art of musicke, and other good qualities wherein hee is skilfull. when altistrates heard his daughters talke, he smiled within himselfe, when hee perceived the warmed affection kindled within her breast, which with so seemely a pretence she had covered, as the desire to learne, and determined in part presently to satisfie her request: and when time served, pericles.] pa infull adventures. he sent a messenger for apollonius, and when he was come, he said unto him : apollonius, my daughter much desireth to be your scholler, and therefore i pray you take her to your governement, and instruct her the best you can, and i will reward you to your contentation. apollonius answered, gracious prince, i am moste willing to obey your commaunde- ment. so hee tooke the ladie, and instructed her in the best maner he coulde, even as himselfe had learned ; wherein she profited so well, that in short time she matched, or rather surpassed her maister. thus increased shee not onely in learning, but grew also daily in more fervent love of apollonius, as, whether stand- ing in doubt of her fathers resolute good wil if he were moved concerning marriage, or fearing the time woulde be deferred in respect whereof she was presently ready, in so much that she fell sicke and became weaker everie day than other. when the king perceived his daughters infirmitie to increase, hee sent immediatlie throughout all the dominions for the learnedst phisitions to search out her griefe and to cure it, who examining her urine, and feeling her pulse, coulde finde out no manifest cause or substance of her dis- ease. after a few dayes that this happened, three noble yong men of the same countrey, which had been suters a long time unto lucina for marriage, came unto the court, and being brought into the kinges presence saluted him duti- fully. to whom the king said, gentlemen, what is the cause of your comming! they answered, your grace hath often- times promised to bestow your daughter in marriage upon one of us, and this is the cause of our comming at this time. wee are your subjectes, wealthie, and descended of noble families; might it therefore please your grace to choose one among us three, to be your sonne in law. then answered the king: you are come unto me at an unseasonable time, for my daughter now applieth her studie, and lieth sicke for the desire of learning, and the time is much unmeet for marriage. but to the intent you shall not altogither loose your labour, q the patterne of [pericles. nor that i will not seeme to deferre you too long, write your names every one severally in a peece of paper, and what joynter you will make, and i will send the writinges to my daughter, that she may choose him whom she best liketh of. they did forthwith as the king had counselled them, and delivered the writings unto the king, which he read, and signed them, and delivered them unto apollonius, saying: take here these billes, and deliver them to your scholler; which apollonius received, and tooke them immediatly into the ladie lucina. now when she sawe her schoolemaister, whom she loved so entirely, she saide unto him: maister, what is the cause that you come alone into my chamber apollonius answered: madame, i have brought writings from the king your father, which he willeth you to reade. lucina then received the writinges, and brake them open, and when she had reade the names of the three noblemen, her suters, shee threw away the billes, and looking upon apollonius, said unto him: my welbeloved schoolemaister apollonius, doth it not greeve you that i shall be married unto another apollonius answered, no madame, it greeveth not me, for whatsoever shall be for your honour, shall be unto me profit- able. then said lucina, maister, if you loved me you woulde be sorie; and therewithall she called for inke and paper, and wrote an answere unto her father in forme following. gracious king and deare father, forasmuch as of your goodnesse you have given me free choice, and libertie to write my minde, these are to let you understand, that i would marry with the sea-wrecked man, and with none other: your humble daughter, lucina. and when she had sealed it, she delivered it unto apol- lonius, to be carried unto the king. when the king had received the letters, he perused them, wherein he perceived his daughters minde, not knowing whom she meant by the sea-wrecked man; and therefore, turning himselfe towardes the three noblemen, hee demanded of them which of them had suffered shipwracke! then one of them, named ardo- pericles.] painfull adventures. nius, answered, if it like your grace, i have suffred ship- wrack the other twaine, named munditius and carnillus, when they heard him say so, waxed wroth, and fel into termes of outrage against him, saying: sicknesse, and the fiends of hell consume thee, for thy foule and impudent lie. do not we, who are thy equals both of birth and age, know right well that thou never wentest almost out of this citie gates, and how couldest thou then suffer shipwracke? now when the king altistrates could not finde out which of them had suffered shipwrack, he looked towards apollonius, say- ing: take these letters and read them, for it may be that i doe not knowe him whom thou knowest, who was present. apollonius receiving the letters, perused them quickly, and perceiving himselfe to be loved, blushed wonderfully. then said the king to apollonius, hast thou found the sea-wrecked man? but apollonius answered little or nothing, wherein his wisedome the rather appeared according to the saying of the wise man, in many words there wanteth discretion; whereas contrariwise, many an indiscreet person might be accounted wise if hee had but this one point of wisdom, to hold his tongue. wherin indeed consisteth the whole triall, or rather insight of a man, as signified the most wise philo- sopher socrates. chap. vii. how apollonius was married to the ladie lucina, and hearing of king antiochus death, departeth with his wife towards his owne countrey of tyrus. but to returne againe to my storie, from which i have digressed. when king altistrates perceived that apollonius was the man whom his daughter lucina disposed in her heart to preferre in love, before anie of the other three noble pericles.] painfull adventures. childe and daughter to thine instruction. as these have caused mee to preferre thee, so have they made my daughter to love thee, so that i am as well contented with one, as i am well pleased with the other. and for thy part likewise, i hope, apollonius, that as thou hast been glad to be my client, thou wilt rejoyce as much to be my sonne in law. tell me thy minde out of hand, for i attend thine answere. then apollonius, much abashed at the kinges talke, falling downe upon his knees, answered: most gratious soveraigne, your wordes sound so strangely in mine eares, that i scarcely know how to give answer, and your goodnesse hath been so great towardes me, that i can wish for no more. but since it is your graces pleasure that i should not be indebted to many, but owe all thing unto you, as life, and wife, honour, and goods, and all, you shall not find me unthankful, how- soever god or fickle fortune deale with me, to remaine loyall and constant to you and your daughter, whom above all creatures, both for birth and beauty and good qualities, i love and honour most intirely. altistrates rejoiced much to heare so wise and conformable an answere, and embracing apol- lonius, called him by the name of deare beloved sonne. the next day morning the king addressed his messengers and pursevants, to assemble the nobliest of his subjects and frends out of the confederat cities and countries, and to shew them that he had certaine affaires to communicat unto them : and when they were come altogither unto pentapolis, after due greeting, and accustomable intertainments shewed as in the maner of great estates, he said thus unto them : my loving friends, and faithfull subjects, my meaning was to let you understand, that my daughter is desirous to marrie with her schoolemaster apollonius, and i am wel pleased therwith. wherfore, i beseech you all to rejoyce thereat, and be glad, for my daughter shal be matched to a wise man. and know you, moreover, that i appoint this day six weekes for the solemnization day of the marriage, at what time i desire you all to be here present, that like friends we may rejoyce, and pericles.] painfull adventures. ment, and thus went they forth togither, hand in hand, after whom, as is already declared, the lordes and ladies followed by three and three in a ranke. when the solemnities were done at the church, and the wordes spoken, and the princes joyned in marriage, they returned home and went to dinner. what shall i nowe speake of the noble cheare and princely provision for this feast ! and after dinner of the exquisite musicke, fine dauncing, heavenly singing, sweete devising, and pleasant communication among the estates? i may not discourse at large of the liberall challenges made and pro- claimed at the tilt, barriers, running at the ring, joco di can, managing fierce horses, running a foote, and daunsing in armour. and at night of the gorgeous plaies, shewes, dis-. guised speeches, masks and mummeries, with continuall har-, mony of all kindes of musicke, and banquetting in all deli- cacie. all these thinges i leave to the consideration of them which have seene the like in the courts, and at the weddinges of princes, where they have seene more than my simple pen is able to describle, or may be comprehended within the recital of so short an historie. when night was come, and revels were ended, the bride was brought to bed, and apol- lonius tarried not long from her, where hee accomplished the duties of marriage, and faire lucina conceived childe the same night. the next daie every man arose to feasting and jollitie for the wedding triumphes continued an whole moneth. this while lucinas bellie began to grow, and as it fortuned that the lord apollonius and his ladie on a day walked along the sea side for their disporte, hee sawe a faire shippe fleeting under saile, which hee knew well to be of his countrey, and he hallowed unto the maister, whose name was calamitus, and asked of him of whence his ship was the maister answered, of tyrus. thou thas named my country, said apollonius: art thou then of tyrus, said the maister? yea, answered apollonius. then, said the maister, knowest thou one apollonius, prince of that countrey ! if thou doe, or shalt heare of him heereafter, bid him now be glad and re- the patterne of [pericles. joyce, for king antiochus and his daughter are strooken dead with lightning from heaven; and the citie of antiochia with all the riches, and the whole kingdome are reserved for apollonius. with these words, the ship being under saile, departed, and apollonius being filled with gladnes, immedi- atly began to breake with his ladie to give him leave to go and receive his kingdom. but when faire lucina heard him beginne to moove words of departing, she burst out into teares, saying: my lorde, if you were nowe in some farre countrie, and heard say that i were neere my time to be de- livered, you ought to make haste home unto me. but since you be nowe with me, and know in what case i am, me thinks you should not now desire to depart from me. how- beit, if your pleasure be so, and tarriance breede danger, and kingdomes want not heirs long, as i would not perswade you to tarry, so doe i request you to take me with you. this discreete answere pleased apollonius well; wherefore he kissed his lady, and they agreed it should be so. and when they were returned from walking, lucina rejoycing came unto the king her father, saying, deare father, rejoice i be- seech you, and be glad with my lord apollonius and me, for the most cruell tyrant antiochus and his daughter are by the just judgement of god destroied with lightning from heaven; and the kingdome and riches are reserved for us to inherite. moreover, i pray you good father, let me have your goodwil to travel thither with my husband. the king rejoyced much at this tidings, and graunted her reasonable request, and also commaunded all things to be provided im- mediatly that were necessary for the journey. the shippes were strongly appointed and brought unto the shoare, and fraught with al things convenient, as golde, silver, apparell, bedding, vittells, and armour. moreover, whatsoever for- tune might befal, the king prepared to sail with them ligo- zides the nurse, and a midwife, and all things meet for the childe whensoever lucina should neede them: and with great honour himselfe accompanieth them unto the sea side, when pericles.] pa infull adventures. the time appointed for their departure was come; where with many teares, and great fatherly affection hee kissed his daughter, and embraced his sonne in law, and recommended them unto god, in whome hee did wish unto them a most prosperous journey, and so returned unto his pallace. chap. viii. how faire lucina died in travell of child upon the sea; and being throwen into the water, was cast on land at ephesus, and taken home by cerimon, a phisition. the marriners immediatly merrily hoissed saile and de- parted; and when they had sailed two dayes, the master of the shippe warned apollonius of a tempest approching, which nowe came on, and increased so fast, that all the companie was amazed, and lucina, what with sea-sicknes and feare of danger, fel in labor of child, wherewith she was [so] weakened, that there was no hope of recoverie, but she must now die; yet being first delivered of a faire daughter, insomuch that. now all tokens of life were gone, and she appeared none other: but to be dead. when apollonius beheld this heavie spec- tacle no heart was able to conceive his bitter grief, for like a mad man distracted, he tore his cloths, and rent his haire, and laying himself upon the carkas, he uttered these wordes with great affection. o, my deare lady and wife, the daugh- ter of king altistrates, what shall i now answer to thy father for thee! would god thou haddest remained with him at home; and if it had pleased god to have wrought this his pleasure in thee, it had rather chanced with thy loving father, in his quiet land, than with me thy woful husband upon the wild seas. the whole company also made great lamentation the patterne of [pericles. for her, bewailing the death of so noble and beautifull a ladie, and so curteous a gentlewoman. howbeit, in the hotest of the sorrowe the governour of the ship came unto apollonius, saying, my lord, plucke up your heart, and be of good cheere, and consider, i pray you, that the ship may not abide to carrie the dead carkas, and therefore command it to be cast into the sea, that we may the better escape. then answered apollonius: what saiest thou, varlet? wouldest thou have me cast this bodie into the sea, which received me into house and favour, when i was in miserie, and drenched in the water, wherein i lost ship, goods, and all ! but taking further consultation, and advising himselfe what were best to do, he called certaine of his men unto him, and thus he devised with them. my trusty servants, whome this common mischance grieveth as wel as me, since sorow- ing wil not help that which is chanced, assist me, good sirs, to provide for the present necessity. let us make forthwith a large chest, and bore the lid full of small holes, and we will seare it all over within with pitch and rosen molten together, whereinto we will put cunningly a sheete of lead, and in the same we will inclose the tender corps of the wife of me, of all other a most unfortunate husband. this was no sooner said, but it was almost likewise done with semblable celeritie. then tooke they the body of the faire lady lucina, and arraied her in princely apparel, and layd her into the chest, and apollonius placed a great summe of golde at her head, and a great treasure of silver at her feet, and he kissed her, letting fall a flood of salt teares on her face, and he wrote a bill, and put it in also, the tenor whereof was in forme as foloweth:—whosoever shal find this chest, i pray him to take ten pieces of gold for his paines, and to bestowe tenne pieces more upon the buriall of the corpes; for it hath left many teares to the parents and friends, with dolefull heaps of sorow and heavines. but whosoever shall doe otherwise than the present griefe requireth, let him die a shamefull death, and let there be none to bury his body.—and then pericles.] painfull adventures. closing all up verie safe, commaunded the chest to be lifted overboorde into the sea, and willed the childe to be nursed with all diligence, that if ever fortune should so fall, he might pre- sent unto good king altistrates a neece in steede of a daughter. now fleeted away the ship fast with the wind, and the coffin tumbled backeward with the tide, and apollonius could not keep his eie from the bodie whereon his heart rested, untill kenning failed, and the sea rose up with a banke between. there were two days passed, and the night was now at hand, when the next day morning the waves rolled foorth this chest to the land, and cast it ashore on the coast of ephesus. not farre from that place there dwelt a physition, whose name was cerimon, who by chaunce walking abroad upon the shore that day with his schollers, found the chest which the sea had cast up, and willed his servants to take it up, and diligently to cary it to the next towne, where hee dwelt; and they did so. when cerimon came home he opened the chest, marveling what should be therein, and found a lady arayed in princely apparell and ornaments, very faire and beautifull to beholde, whose excellencie in that respect as many as beheld were strangely affectioned thereat, perceiving such an incomparable gleame of beautie to be resident in her face, wherein nature had not committed the least errour that might be devised, saving that shee made her not immortall. the haire of her head was naturally as white as snowe, under which appear- ed her goodly forehead, faire and large, wherein was neither blemish nor wrinkle. her eies were like two starres turning about in their naturall course, not wantonly roving here and there, but modestly mooving as governed by reason, repre- senting the stabilitie of a setled mind. her eie brows decently commending the residue of her countenance. her nose straight, as in were drawen with a line, comely dividing her cherry cheeks asunder, not reaching foorth too long, nor cut off too short, but of a commendable proportion. hir necke was like the white alablaster, shining like the bright sunne beames, wonderfully delighting the mindes of the beholders. her the patterne of [pericles. bodie of comely stature, neither too high nor too lowe, not scregged with leanenesse, nor undecently corpulent, but in such equality consisting that no man woulde wish it otherwise. from her shoulders sprang foorth her armes, representing two branches growing out of a tree, beautified with a white hand, and fingers long and slender, surpassing to behold. to be short, such was the excellencie of her beutie in each respect, that it could suffer no deformitie to accompany it, whereby also may be discerned a singular perfection of her minde, created by god and infused into her bodie, whereby it was mooved, and those good qualities of hers expressed in opera- tion; so that all outward beautie of the bodie proceedeth from the inward beuty of the mind, from whence sprang up the olde and true saying of the wisest philosophers, that the sun- dry nature of the forme or soule, diversely disposeth the matter according unto its owne qualitie; as it expresly ap- peared in the beutiful countenaunce and stature of this ladies bodie, whereof cerimon stoode amazedly taking the view. chap. ix. how lucina was restored to life by one of cerimon the phisitions schollers; and howe cerimon adopted her to his daughter, and placed her in the temple of diana. the surpassing beauty of faire lucina being such as is before recited, no woonder it was though cerimon were mar- vellously ravished at the sight, whereby his affection in- forced him to breake out into these words. alas, good, beau- tiful gentlewoman, what unhappy and cruell chance hath thus made thee away, and caused thee to be so wofully forsaken' and as he spake those wordes, hee perceived the golde that pericles.] painfull adventures. lay at her head, and the silver that lay at her feet, with a scroll of paper written, the which hee tooke up and read, the tenor whereof was this:—whosoever shal finde this chest, i pray him for to take tenne pieces of golde for his paines, and to bestowe tenne peeces more on the buriall of the corps; for it hath left many teares to the parents and friends, with dole- full heapes of sorrowe and heavinesse. but whosoever shall doe otherwise than the present griefe requireth, let him die a shamefull death, and let there be none to burie his bodie.— and as soone as he had read over the writing, he said unto his servants, now let us perfourme unto the bodie that which the sorrowe requireth; and i sweare to you, by the hope which i have to live, that i wil bestow more money upon the accomplishing of the same, than the sorrowful scedul requireth. wherfore, according to the maner of the buriall which was at that time to burn to bodies of the dead, and to burie the ashes, gathered up and put into pottes, he commaunded a pile of wood to be erected, and upon the top thereof he caused the body to be layed. now, cerimon had a scholler in physicke, whose name was . machaon, very towardly in his profession, of yeres but yong, . but antient in wit and experience, who, comming in while these things were doing, and beholding so beautifull a corps layd upon the pile, he stoode still and wondered at it: which thing cerimon perceiving, thou art come in good time, said he to machaon, and i looked for thee about this time: take this flagon of pretious ointment, and powre it uppon the corps, being the last ceremonie of the sepulture. then came machaon unto the corps, and pulled the clothes from the ladies bosome, and poured foorth the ointment, and bestowing it abroad with his hand, perceived some warmth in her breast, and that there was life in the body. machaon stoode aston- ished, and hee felt her pulses, and layde his cheeke to her mouth, and examined all other tokens that he could devise, and he perceived how death strived with life within her, and that the conflict was dangerous and doubtfull, who should the patterne of [pericles. prevaile. then saide he unto the servants: set fire unto the wood at the foure corners of the pile, and cause it to burne moderatly, and bring me hither a bed, that i may take the body out of the chest, and lay it thereon. this being done, he chafed the body against the fire, untill the blood, which was congealed with colde, was wholly re- solved. then went machaon unto his master cerimon and saide: the woman whome thou thinkest to be dead is alive, and that you may the better beleeve my saying, i will plainely proove it to be so. and when he had so saide, he tooke the body reverently in his armes, and bare it into his owne chamber, and layed it upon his bed groveling upon the breast. then tooke he certaine hote and comfortable oyles, and warming them uppon the coales, he dipped faire wooll therein, and fomented all the bodie over therewith, until such time as the congealed blood and humours were throughly resolved, and the spirits eſtsoones recovered their wonted course, the veines waxed warme, the arteries beganne to beate, and the lungs drew in the fresh ayre againe, and she opened her eies and looked about, and being perfectly come to her— selfe, what art thou! said shee unto machaon: see thou touch me not otherwise than thou oughtest to do, for i am a kings daughter, and the wife of a king. when machaon heard her speak these words, he was exceeding glad, and he ran unto his master and saide: sir, the woman liveth, and speaketh perfectly. then answered cerimon: my welbeloved scholler machaon, i am glad of this fortunate chaunce, and i much commend thy wisedome, and praise thy learning, and cannot but extoll thy diligence. wherefore be not unthankfull to thy knowledge, but receive heere the reward which is due unto thee, namely, that which by the writing was appointed to be bestowed uppon her buriall; for thou hast restored her unto life, and shee hath brought with her great summes of mony. when he had so saide, they came unto her and saluted her, and caused her to be apparelled with wholsome and comfortable clothes, and to be refreshed with good meats. pericles.] painfull adventures. a few daies after, when she had fully recovered strength, and cerimon by communication knew that she came of the stocke of a king, he sent for many of his friends to come unto him, and he adopted her for his owne daughter: and she, with many teares, requiring that she might not be touched by any man, for that intent he placed her in the temple of diana, which was there at ephesus, to be preserved there inviolably among the religious women. chap. x. how apollonius, arriving at tharsus, delivereth his yong daughter tharsia unto stranguilio and dio- nisiades to be brought up; and how the nurce, , lying in her death-bed, declareth unto tharsia who were her parents. let us leave now a while the lady lucina among the holy nunnes in the temple of diana, at ephesus, and let us looke backe unto sorrowful apollonius, whose ship with for- tunate winde, and the good providence of god directing the same, arrived at the shoare of tharsus, where hee immedi- ately came forth of the ship, and entred into the house of stranguilio and dionisiades, whom he saluted, and told them the heavy chances that had befallen him, both of the great stormes and tempests on the sea which hee had endured, as also of the death of the good lady lucina, his wife : howbeit, said he, god be thanked, my daughter remaineth alive, for the which i am very glad; wherfore, deare friends stran- guilio and dionisiades, according to the trust which i have in you, i mean in some things to use your friendship, while i go about to recover the kingdome which is reserved for me. for i will not returne backe againe unto king altistrates, my r the patterne of [pericles. father-in-law, whose daughter, alas! i have lost in the sea; but meaning rather to exercise the trade of merchandize, i commit my daughter unto you, to bee nourished and brought up with your yoong daughter philomacia, and i will that my daughter be called tharsia. moreover, i wil leave my deare wife lu- cinas nurce here also, called ligozides, to tend the child, that she may be lesse troublesome unto you. and when hee had made an end of talking, he delivered the infant and the nurce unto stranguilio, and therewithal great store of gold, silver, and raiment; and hee sware a solemne othe, that he would not poule his head, clip his beard, nor pare his nailes, untill hee had married his daughter at ripe yeares. they wondred much at so strange an othe, promising faithfully to bring up his daughter with all diligence. when these things were ended according to his mind, apollonius tooke his leave, departed unto his ship, and sailed into far countries, and unto the uppermost parts of egypt. therewhile the yoong maiden, tharsia, sprang up in yeeres, and when she was about five yeares olde, being free borne, she was set to schoole with other free children, alwaies jointly accompanied with philomacia, being of the same age that she was of the time passed forth apace, and tharsia grew up so wel in learning as in yeers; untill comming to the age of fourteene yeeres, one day, when she returned from schoole, she found ligozides, her nurce, so- dainly falne sicke; and, sitting beside her upon the bed, de- manded of her the cause and maner of her sickenesse. then saide the nurce unto her, hearken unto my wordes, deare daughter tharsia, and lay them up in thine heart. whom thinkest thou to be thy father and thy mother, and in what countrey supposest thou wast thou borne | tharsia answered, why, nurce, why aske you me this question? stranguilio is my father, dionisiades my mother, and i was borne in thar- sus. then sighed the nurce, and saide, no, sweete tharsia, no; thou art deceived. but hearken unto me, and i will de- clare unto thee the beginning of thy birth, to the intent thou - the patterne of [pericles. chap. xi. how, after the death of ligozides, the murce, dioni- siades, envying at the beautie of tharsia, conspired her death, which should have been accomplished by a villaine of the countrey. tharsia much lamented the death of ligozides, her murce, and caused her bodie to be solemnly buried not farre of in a field without the walles of the citie, and mourned for her an whole yeere following. but when the yeare was expired, she put off her mourning atire, and put on other apparel, and frequented the schooles and the studie of liberall sciences, as before. and whensoever she returned from schoole, she would receive no meate before she had visited her nurces sepulchre, which she did daily, entring thereinto, and carrying a flagon of wine with her, where she used to abide a space, and to call uppon her father and mother. now, on a day it fortuned, that as she passed through the street with dioni- siades, and her companion philomacia, the people, beholding the beautie and comlinesse of tharsia, said, happy is that father that hath tharsia to his daughter, but her companion that goeth with her is foule and evill favoured. when dio- nisiades heard tharsia commended, and her owne daughter philomacia so dispraised, shee returned home wonderfull wroth, and, withdrawing herselfe into a solitary place, began thus secretly to discourse of the matter. it is now fourteen yeares since apollonius, this foolish girles father, departed from hence, and he never sendeth letters for her, nor any re- membrance unto her, whereby i conjecture that he is dead. ligozides, her nurce, is departed, and there is no bodie now of whom i should stand in feare, and therefore i will now slay her, and dresse up mine owne daughter in her apparell and jewels. when shee had thus resolved her selfe uppon this wicked purpose, in the meane while there came home one of the patterne of [pericles. princely ornaments. o, said the mayden, would to god he had not done so! but i pray thee, theophilus, since there is no hope for me to escape with life, give mee'licence to say my praiers before i die. i give thee licence, saide the villaine; and i take god to record that i am constrained to murther thee against my will. chap. xii. how certaine pyrats rescued tharsia when she should have been slaine, and carried her unto the citie machilenta to be sold among other bond- slaves. as fortune, or rather the providence of god served, while 'tharsia was devoutly making her praiers, certaine pyrats which were come aland, and stood under the side of an hill watching for some prey, beholding an armed man offering vio- lence unto a mayden, cried unto him, and said: thou cruel tyrant! that maiden is our prey and not thy victorie; and ther- fore hold thine hands from her, as thou lovest thy life. when the villain heard that, he ran away as fast as he could, and hid himselfe behind the sepulchre. then came the pyrats and rescued tharsia, and carried her away to their ships, and hoysed saile, and departed. and the villaine returned home to his mistres, and saide unto her : that which you commaunded me to doe is dispatched, and therefore now i thinke it good that you put on a mourning garment, and i also, and let us counterfeit great sorrowe and heavinesse in the sight of all the people, and say that shee died of some greevous disease. but stranguilio himselfe consented not to this treason, but so soone as hee heard of the foule mischaunce, beeng as it were a mopte, and mated with heavinesse and griefe, he clad himselfe in mourning aray, and lamented that wo- pericles.] painfull adventures. full case, saying, alas, in what a mischiefe am i wrapped what might i doe, or say herein the father of this mayden delivered this citie from the peril of death; for this cities sake he suffered shipwracke, lost his goodes, and endured penury, and now he is requited with evil for good. his daughter, which he committed unto me to be brought up, is now de- voured by a most cruell lionesse : thus i am deprived as it were of mine owne eies, & forced to bewaile the death of an innocent, and am utterly spoiled through the fierce biting of a moste venemous serpent. then casting his eies up towards heaven, o god, said hee, thou knowest that i am innocent from the bloud of silly tharsia, which thou hast to require at dionisiades handes: and there withall he looked towards his wife, saying, thou wicked woman! tell me, how hast thou made away prince apollonius daughter thou that livest both to the slaunder of god and man dionisiades answered in manie wordes, evermore excusing herselfe, and, moderating the wrath of stranguilio. shee counterfeited a fained sorrowe by attiring her selfe and her daughter in mourning apparell, and in dissembling teares before the people of the citie, to whom shee saide: dearly beloved friendes and citizens of tharsus, for this cause we doe weepe and mourne in your sight, because the joy of our eyes and staffe of our olde age, the mayden tharsia, is dead, leaving untous bitter teares and sorrowfull heartes. yet have we alreadie taken order for her funerals, and buried her according to her degree. these wordes were right greevous unto the people, and there was almost none that let not fall some teares for sor- rowe. and they went with one accord unto the market - place, whereas her fathers image stood, made of brasse, and erected also another unto her there with this inscription: unto the virgin tharsia, in liew of her fathers benefites, the citizens of tharsus have erected this monument. the patterne of [pericles. chap. xiii. how the pirats which stole away tharsia brought her to the citie machilenta, and solde her to a com- mon bawd; and how she preserved her virginitie. the meane time, while these troubles were at tharsus, the pirats being in their course upon the sea by benefite of happie winde arrived at machilenta, and came into the citie. nowe, had they taken manie mo men and women besides tharsia, whom all they brought a shoare, and set them to sell as slaves for money. then came there sundrie to buy such as they lacked for their purposes, amongst whom a moste vile man- bawd, beholding the beautie and tender yeeres of tharsia, offered money largely for her. howbeit, athanagoras, who was prince of the same citie, beholding likewise the noble countenance, and regarding the great discretion of the may- den in communication, out-bid the bawd, and offered for her ten sestercies of gold. but the bawd, being loth to loose so commodious a prey, offered twenty. and i wil give thirty, said athanagoras. nay, i wil give forty, said the bawd; and i fiftie, quoth athanagoras: and so they continued in outbid- ding one an other untill the bawd offered an hundred sester- cies of gold to be payed ready downe: and whosoever wil give more, saide he, i will yet give ten sestercies more than he. then prince athanagoras thus bethought him secretly in his minde: if i should contend with the bawd to buy her at so hie a price, i must needes sell other slaves to pay for her, which were both losse and shame unto me. wherefore i will suffer him to buy her; and when he setteth her to hire, i will be the first man that shall come unto her, and i will gather the floure of her virginitie, which shall stand mee in as great 'steade as if i had bought her. then the bawd payed the money, and tooke the maiden and departed home; and when he came into his house, he pericles.] painfull adventures. brought her into a certaine chappel, where stoode the idoll of priapus made of gold, and garnished with pearls and pretious stones. this idoll was made after the shape of a . man, with a mighty member unproportionable to the body, alwayes erected, whome bawds and leachers doe adore, mak- ing him their god, and worshipping him. before this filthy idoll he commaunded tharsia with reverence to fall downe. but she answered, god forbid, master, that i should wor- ship such an idoll. but (sir), said she, are you a lapsa- tenian why askeest thou ! said the bawd. i aske, quoth she, because the lapsatenians doe worship priapus: this spake she of simplicitie, not knowing what he was. ah, wretch! answered he, knowest thou not that thou arte come into the house of a covetous bawd ' when tharsia heard that, she fell downe at his feet and wept, saying: o master, take compassion upon my virginity, and do not hire out my body for so vile againe. the bawd answered: knowest thou not that neither bawd nor hangman do regard teares or prayers? then called he unto him a certaine villaine which was governour over his maids, and said unto him: let this maiden be decked in virgins apparell, pretious and costly, and write this title upon her, whosoever defloureth tharsia shal pay ten peeces of golde, and afterward she shall be com- mon unto the people for one peece at a time. the villaine fulfilled his masters commaundement, and the third day after that she was bought, shee was with great so- lemnitie conducted through the streete with musicke, the bawd himselfe with a great multitude going before, and so conveyed unto the brothell house. when shee was come thither, atha- anagoras, the prince, disguising his head and face because hee woulde not be knowen, came first in unto her; whome when tharsia sawe, she threw her selfe downe at his feete, and saide unto him : for the love of god, gentleman, take pitty on me! and by the name of god i adjure and charge you, that you do no violence unto me, but bridle your lust, and hearken unto my unhappye state, and consider diligently from whence the patterne of [pericles. i am sprung. my father was poore apollonius, prince of tyrus, whome force constrained to forsake his owne countrey. my mother was daughter to altistrates, king of pentapolis, who died in birth of me, poore wretch! upon the sea. my father also is dead, as was supposed, which caused dioni- siades, wife to stranguilio of tharsus, to whom my father committed me of special trust to be brought up, being but an infant, envying mine estate, and thirsting after my wealth, to seeke my death by the handes of a villaine; which had beene accomplished, and i would to god it had before i had seen this day, but that i was suddenly taken away by the pyrates which solde me unto this filthie bawd. with these or such like wordes declared shee her heavie fortune, eſtsoones sobbing and bursting out into streames of tears, that for ex- treme griefe she could scarsly speake. when she had in this manner uttered her sorow, the good prince, being astonied, and mooved with compassion, said unto her: be of good cheere, tharsia, for surely i rue thy case; and i myselfe have also a daughter at home, to whome i doubt that the like chances may befall. and when he had so said, he gave her twenty peeces of gold, saying: holde heere a greater price or reward for thy virginitie than thy master appointed; and say as much unto others that come unto thee as thou hast done to me, and thou shalt withstand them. then tharsia fell on her knees, and weeping saide unto him: sir, i give you most hartie thankes for your great compassion and curtesie, and most hartily i beseech you upon my knees, not to descry unto any that which i have saide unto you. no, surely, answered athanagoras, unlesse i tell it unto my daughter, that she may take heede when she commeth unto the like yeares, that she fall not into the like mishappe: and when he had so saide, he let fall a fewe teares, and departed. now, as he was going he met with another pilgrime that with like devotion came for to seeke the same saint, who demaunded of him howe hee liked of the maidens company. truly, answered athanagoras, [pericles. chap. xiiii. how tharsia withstoode a second assault of her virginitie, and by what meanes she was preserved. when night was come the master bawd used always to receive the money which his women had gotten by the use of their bodies the day before. and when it was demaunded of tharsia, she brought him the mony, as the price and hire of her virginitie. then said the bawd unto her: it is wel done, tharsia: use diligence henceforth, and see that you bring mee thus much mony every day. when the next day was past also, and the bawd understoode that she remained a virgin stil, he was offended, and called unto him the villaine that had charge over the maides, and said unto him: sirra, how chanceth it that tharsia remaineth a virgin still? take her unto thee, and spoile her of her maidenhead, or be sure thou shalt be whipped. then saide the villaine unto tharsia: tel me, art thou yet a virgin? she answered, i am, and shal be as long as god will suffer me. how then, said he, hast thou gotten all this mony ? she answered, with teares, falling downe upon her knees, i have declared mine estate, humbly requesting all men to take compassion on my vir- ginitie. and nowe likewise, falling then downe at his feete also, take pitty on me, good friend, which am a poore cap- tive, and the daughter of a king, and doe not defile me. the villaine answered: our master the bawd is very covetous and greedie of money, and therefore i see no meanes for thee to continue a virgin. whereunto tharsia replied: i am skilful in the liberal sciences, and well exercised in all studies, and no man singeth or playeth on instruments better than i: wherefore bring mee into the market place of the citie, that men may heare my cunning; or let the people pro- pound any maner of questions, and i will resolve them, and i doubt not but by this practise i shall get store of money the patterne of [pericles. master, and demaunded what it meant. the master aun- swered, we rejoyce, and be you glad also with us, my lorde, for this day we doe solemnize the feast of your birth. then apollonius sighed, and said himselfe: all keepe hollyday save i onely, and let it suffice unto my servants that i only remaine in sorrow and heavinesse: howbeit, i give unto them ten peeces of gold, to buy what they will to keepe holyday withall. but whosoever shall call me unto the feast, or goe about to provoke me unto mirth, i commaund that his thighes shall be broken. so the cater tooke the money, and went aland, and provided necessaries, and returned againe unto the ship. chap. xvi. how athanagoras, prince of machilenta, seeing the beautie of apollonius ship, went aboord of it, and did the best he could to comfort him. as fortune thereto served, and delight to take the fresh aire moved athanagoras, prince of the citie, to walk toward the sea side, he sawe apollonius ships riding at anker: at the view wherof he tooke great pleasure, especially at the admi- rall, which was a great ship, and a beautiful, wherin apollo- nius himself was carried, the like whereof haply he had not seene often before. this was that athanagoras that loved tharsia so tenderly; and he haled unto the marriners, and asked of whence that faire ship was! the marriners an- swered, that she came now from tharsus. truly, said atha- nagoras, it is a faire shippe, and well appointed, and of all that i have seene i like best of her. now, when the marri- ners heard their shippe so highly commended, they desired him to come aboord, whereunto he willingly graunted. and when he was come abord, he sate downe with them at meat, pericles.] pa infull adventures. and he drue his purse, and laid downe ten peeces of gold upon the table, saying, you shall not say that you have bidden an unthankfull person: take this small summe of money at my handes for a reward; and they thanked him. but when he was set downe, and beheld al that sate at the boord, hee demaunded who was owner of the ship, and where he was the maister answered, our owner is sicke, and weake with , sorrowe and taking thought, and needes will die. he lost his wife uppon the sea, and his daughter in a strange land. athanagoras said unto one of the servants called ardalius, i will give thee two peeces of gold, to go down and tell thy master that the prince of this citie desireth him to come up out of darknesse into light. the servaunt answered : i cannot buy new thighes for thy golde, and therefore get some man els to go on the errand, for he hath said that whosoever troubleth him, his thighes shall be broken. that law hath he made over you, said athanagoras, and not over mee, and therefore i will go downe unto him: but first tell me, i pray you, what you call his name they answered, apollonius: and when he heard that name, hee remembred in his minde that hee heard tharsia call her father so, and he went downe unto him where he lay, whom when hee beheld, having a long beard, and rough fligged haire, and long nailes on his fingers, he was somewhat astonied, and called unto him with a soft voice, saying: apollonius ! when apollonius heard himselfe named, thinking it had been some of his men that had called him, arose up sodainly with a fierce countenance, and seeing a stranger looking verie comely and honourably attired, he held his peace. then spake athanagoras: sir, i thinke you doe marvell, that i, being a stranger, am so bold as to come to trouble you. you shall understand that i am prince of this citie, and my name is athanagoras. i walked by chance unto the sea-side, where beholding thy ships, especially commending this wherin thou art, for beautie and strength, i was by thy men desired to come aboord, which i did, and have eaten with them. then s the patterne of [pericles. inquired i for the owner, and they told me thy name, and that thou remainest in great sorrow, and for that cause i am come downe unto thee to bring thee, if i may, out of dark- nesse into light, hoping that after this heavinesse god shal restore thee unto gladnesse. apollonius lifted up his eies, saying: i thanke thee, my lord, whosoever thou art, and i beseech thee not to trouble me longer, for i am not worthy to eate meat, or make good cheare, and i will live no longer. athanagoras much mused at this answere, and wondred at the wilfulnesse of the man, and came up uppon the decke and saide unto the servauntes: i cannot perswade your lord to come up out of that darke place into the light: what way therefore, were i best to devise to bring him from his purpose, and to preserve him from an obstinate death for it were great pitie that a notable gentleman should so consume away in hucker mucker, and die by a dishonourable death. chap. xvii. how athanagoras sent for tharsia to make her father apollonius merry; and how, after long cir- cumstance, they came into knowledge one of another. and as he was devising with himselfe, it came into his mind to send for the maiden tharsia, for which purpose he called unto him one of his men, and saide unto him : go unto the baud; desire him to send tharsia hither unto me, for she hath wisdom, and can move pleasant talke, and perhaps she may perswade him not to die thus wilfully. the messen- ger went speedily, and returned immediatly, bringing the maiden tharsia with him unto the ship. whom when athanagoras beheld, come hither unto me tharsia, quoth he, pericles.] painfull adventures, and shew now the uttermost of thy cunning and knowledge, in comforting the owner of the ship, which lieth in darknes and will receive no comfort, nor come abroad into the light, for the great sorrow that he taketh for his wife and his daughter. goe unto him, good tharsia, and prove if thou canst perswade him to come into the light; for it may be that god hath appointed by thy meanes to bring him from sorrowe into gladnesse. which thing if thou canst bring to . passe, as i am a gentleman, i will give thee thirtie sestercies of gold, and as many of silver, and i will redeeme thee from . the bawd for thirtie dayes. when tharsia heard this, she went boldly downe into the cabin unto him, and with a milde voice saluted him, saying, god save you, sir, whosoever you be, and be of good comfort, for an innocent virgin, whose life hath been distressed by shipwracke, and her chastitie by dishoneslie, and yet hath both preserved, saluteth thee. then began she to record in verses, and therewithall to sing so sweetly, that apollonius, notwithstanding his great sorrow, wondred at her. and these were the verses which she . soong so pleasantly unto the instrument:— - amongst the harlots foule i walke, yet harlot none am i: the rose amongst the thorns grows, and is not hurt thereby. the thiefe that stole me, sure i thinke, is slaine before this time: a bawd me bought, yet am i not defilde by fleshly crime. were nothing pleasanter to me, than parents mine to know : i am the issue of a king, my bloud from kings doth flow. i hope that god will mend my state, and send a better day. leave off your teares, plucke up your heart, and banish care a way. shew gladnesse in your countenance, cast up your cheerfull eyes : s the patterne of [pericles. that god remaines that once of nought created earth and skies. he will not let in care and thought you still to live, and all for nought. when apollonius heard her sing these verses, lifting up his eyes and sighing, he said: alas, poore wretch as i am! how long shall i strive with life, and abide this greevous con- flict? good maiden, i give hearty thanks both to your wise- dome and nobilitie, requiting you with this one thing, that whensoever, if ever such occasion doe chance, i shall have de- sire to be merrie, i will then thinke on you, or if ever i be restored unto my kingdome. and perhaps, as you say, you are descended of the race of kings, and indeed you doe well represent the nobilitie of your parentage. but nowe, i pray you, receive this reward at my handes, an hundred peeces of golde, and depart from me and trouble me no longer; for my present griefe is renued by your lamentable recitall, and i consume with continuall sorrowe. when the maid had re- ceived the reward, she was about to depart. then spake athanagoras: whither goest thou, tharsia, quoth heel hast thou taken paine without profite, and canst thou not worke a deed of charitie, and relieve the man that wil consume his life with mourning ! tharsia answered: i have done all that i may, and he hath given me an hundred peeces of gold, and desired me to depart. i wil give thee two hundred, said athanagoras, and goe downe unto him againe, and give him his money, and say unto him, i seeke thy health and not thy money. then went tharsia downe againe, and set her selfe downe by him, and saide unto him: sir, if you bee deter- mined to continue alwaies in this heavinesse, give mee leave, i pray you, to reason a little with you. and i meane to pro- pose certaine parables unto you, which if you can resolve, i will then depart, and restore your money. but apollonius, not willing to receive the money againe, but thankefully to accept whatsoever shee should utter, without discouraging of her, albeit in my troubles, quoth he, i have none other feli- citie but to weepe and lament, yet because i will not want the pericles.] painfull adventures. ornamentes of your wisdome, demaund of me whatsoever shall be your pleasure, and while i am aunswering you, par- don me, i pray you, if sometime i give libertie unto my teares, and shall not be able to speake for sobbing. sir, i wil beare with you somewhat in that respect said tharsia, and nowe if it please you i will begin : a certaine house on earth there is, that roomths hath large and wide: the house makes noise, the guests makes none, that therein doth abide ; but house and guest continually, togither forth doe slide. now, if indeed you be a prince, as your men say you are, it behooveth you to be wiser than a simple maiden, and to resolve my probleme. apollonius answered: maiden, to the intent you may not thinke you were tolde a lie, hearken now to the resolution. the house on the earth is the sea or every great water: the fish is the dumbe guest, which followeth the water whither soever it runne. sir, you have answered truely, said tharsia; and now i assaile you the second time: in length forth long i runne, faire daughter of the wood, accompanied with many a one, of foote and force as good, though many waies i walke, but steps appeare none where i stood. apollonius answered: if i might be so bold, and opportu- nitie served thereto, i could declare unto you many things that you doe not knowe, faire maiden; but not interrupting your questions whereunto i have to answere, wherein i much wonder at your yoong yeares, so plentifully fraught with excellent knowledge, but to come to the purpose: the daughter of the wood is the tree whereof is made the long ship, which is accompanied with many companions, and pericles.] painfull adventures. and take compassion uppon mee! i was borne among the waves and troublesome tempests of the sea. my mother died in pangues and paines of childbed, and buriall was denied her upon the earth, whom my father adorned with jewels, and laid twentie sestercies of gold at her head, and as much in silver at her feete, and inclosed her in a chest, and committed her to the sea. as for mee, unfortunate wretch, i was at tharsus committed to stranguilio and wicked dionisiades his wife, whom my father put in trust with me, with mony and princely furniture, and their servants were commanded to slay me. and when i desired time to pray, which was granted me, there came pyrates in the meane while, and carried me away, and brought me unto this wofull city, where i was solde to a most cruell bawd, and with much adoe have preserved my virginitie; and i see nothing ensu- ing but continuall sorrowe, whereof i feele both nowe and every day some part, and shall doe ever more and more, until it please god to restore me unto my father apollonius. apollonius gave good eare unto her words, and was strange- ly moved within himselfe, knowing that all these signes and tokens were most certaine that she was his daughter, and hee cried out with a mighty voice and saide: o mercifull god, which beholdest heaven, earth, and hell, and discoverest all the secretes therein, blessed bee thy most holy name for ever! and when he had said those words, he fell upon his daughter tharsias hecke, and kissed her, and for extreame joy wept bit- terly, saying: o my most sweete and onely daughter, the halſe part of my life, for the love of thee ilust not nowe to die, for i have found thee for whome i had desire to die onely. and therewithall he cryed out aloude, saying: come hither my ser- vants and frends, come ye al hither, and see now the end of all my sorrow, for i have found my deare daughter and onelie childe which i had lost. when the servants heard the noise, they came hastily togither, and with them prince athanagoras; and when they came downe under the hatches, they found apol- lonius weeping for joy, and leaning upon his daughters the patterne of [pericles. shoulders, and he said unto them: behold here my daughter, for whom i have mourned; beholde the one halfe of my life, for whose sake i nowe desire to live. and they al rejoyced and wept with him for company, and thanked god for that happy day. chap. xviii. howe apollonius, leaving off mourning, came into the citie machilenta, where he commaunded the bawd to be burned; and how tharsia was mar- ried unto prince athanagoras. tharsia, hearing her fathers words, fell down at his feet and kissed him, saying, o father, blessed be god that hath given me the grace to see you, and that i may die with you! but apollonius liſted up his heart, and cast away his mourning apparell, and put on other sweet and cleane raiment. and when athanagoras and the servants looked earnestly upon him, and upon his daughter, they wondred, saying, o my lord apollonius, how like in countenance is your daughter tharsia unto you ! that, if you had no other argument, this were sufficient proofe to shewe that she is your childe. apollonius thanked them, saying, that now he stoode not in any doubt thereof. then tharsia beganne to discourse unto her father, howe she was sold unto the bawd, and howe hee thrust her into the common brothell, and by what meanes she alwayes preserved her chastitie, and howe much she was bounden unto good prince athana- goras, there present. now, athanagoras was a widower, and a lusty yoong gentleman, and prince of the citie, as it is declared; who, fearing lest tharsia should be bestowed in marriage upon some other man, and using the benefite of the time, cast him selfe downe at apollonius feete, and besought pericles.] painfull adventures. him for her, saying, most noble prince, i beseech you for the living gods sake, which hath thus myraculously restored the father unto his daughter, bestowe not your daughter upon any other in marriage then me onely. i am prince of this citie, and through my meanes she hath continued a virgin, and by my procurement she is nowe come unto the knowledge of thee her father. apollonius courteously embracing him, answered : i thanke you most heartily, good prince athana- goras, for your friendly offer, which i may in no wise gain- say, both in respect of your owne woorthinesse and for the pleasure which you have shewed my daughter, and, there- fore you have my good will to be her husband. then, turning his face towards tharsia, how say you, my deare daughter? said he: are you contented to bee wife unto athanagoras? tharsia, with blushing cheeks, answered : yea forsooth, father; for since i came from stranguilioes house, i never found rest nor pleasure saving through his alonely curtesie. nowe, whether athanagoras rejoyced at this answere or not, i referre me to the judgement of those, who, being passionate with the same affection, would be well pleased with a joyntly grant of the like good wil. when these matters were thus concluded, apollonius mooved athanagoras concerning re- venge to be executed uppon the bawd. then athanagoras tooke his leave for awhile of apollonius, and departeth unto the citie, and, calling al the citizens togither to the market place, he spake thus unto them. my friends, and welbeloved. citizens, understand ye that apollonius, prince of tyrus, and father unto tharsia, is arrived in our coast with a great fleete of ships, wherein hee hath brought a mighty army of men to destroy our city for the bawds sake, who placed his daughter in a common brothell, to hire out the use of her body for monie. wherefore looke unto your selves, and advise your selves what you were best to doe, for it were pittie that the whole citie should perish for one wicked mans sake. when, as hee had made an ende of this speech, the whole the patterne of [pericles. multitude trembled and was sore afraide, and foorthwith de- termined that they would all, as well men, women, and children, goe foorth to see prince apollonius, and to crave pardon of him. not so, said athanagoras, but we will de- sire him to come peaceablie into our citie, and what he list to commaund shall be fulfilled. the people liked well of that counsel, and committed the matter unto his discretion wholly to provide for their safetie. then went he foorth unto apollonius, and desired him, in the peoples name, to come into the citie, where he should be most heartily wel- come. apollonius refused not that friendly offer, but imme- diately prepared himselfe to goe with him; and caused his head to be polled, and his beard to be trimmed, and his nailes to be pared, and put on a princely robe upon his backe, and a crowne of golde upon his head, and so passed foorth togither upon the way. and when they were come into the citie, the citizens sa- luted apollonius, and hee was placed in the highest seate whence the prince was wont to give judgement, and his daughter tharsia by his side, and he spake unto the people in this manner following: good people of the city of ma- chilenta, you see the virgine tharsia, whome i, her father, have found out this present day: hir hath the most filthie bawd, as much as in him lay, constrained to dishonest her body, to her utter destruction. from which his devillish purpose no intreatie could persuade him, no price could allure him. wherfore, my request unto you (good people) is, that i may have due revenge on him for the injury done unto my daughter. when the people heard his rea- sonable demaund, they cried out with one accord, saying: my lorde apollonius, we judge that he be burned alive, and his goods be given unto the maiden tharsia. the re- venge pleased apollonius well, and forthwith they appre- hended the bawd, and bound him hand and foot; and they made a great fire, and at apollonius commaundement cast him alive into it, and burnt him to ashes. then called pericles.] painfull adventures. tharsia for the villaine, and saide unto him: because by thy meanes, and all the citizens, i have hitherto remained a virgine even untill my fathers comming, my will is that thou be free; and, moreover, here i give unto thee two hundred peeces of gold for a reward. secondly, she called for all the women that were in the bawdes brothell, and saide unto them : good women, whose chances, perhaps, hath beene as greevous unto you as mine was unto me, i set you al at liberty; and whereas heretofore you have gained money by hiring foorth the use of your bodies, receive of mee here this rewarde, that you may live hereafter more in the feare of god, and practise some more commendable way to sus- taine necessitie: and therewithall she gave to everie one of them a rewarde, and so dismissed them. and when all these things were ended, apollonius, minding to depart, spake unto the people, saying: noble prince athanagoras, and beloved citizens of machilenta, i acknowledge my selfe much bounden to you, and i yeeld you hearty thanks for all your benefites bestowed uppon me and my daughter. and now, in recompence thereof, i give unto you fifty poundes weight of golde to be divided amongest you, that, when i am gone from you, you may be mindefull of me. the citizens thanked him, and bowed their heads in token of reverence; and they agreed together, and they erected two statues of brasse, one unto him, another to his daughter, in the market place of the citie, with these superscriptions written in their bases: unto apollonius, prince of tyrus, the preserver of our houses; and unto his vertuous daughter tharsia, a virgin, the mindefull citizens of machilenta have erected those monuments. but apollonius, remembring the great curtesie of athanagoras, and his promise made unto him concerning tharsia, appointed a short time for their mariage, against which there was great provision as might be at so smal warning. the solemnities, riches, braverie, cost, feasts, revelles, intertainement, and all things else appertain- ing thereunto, and requisite for so great personages, i shall pericles.] painfull adventures. an angell to turne my course unto ephesus; and there in the temple to declare aloud al my adventures that had befallen me, since my youth unto this present day, which hath hitherto guided me in all my troubles, will nowe send an happy end unto all mine afflictions. chap. xx. how apollonius came to the knowledge of his wife, the ladie lucina; and how they rejoyced at the meeting of ech other. the ladie lucina was not so busie in executing her office in the church, but that she gave also attentive eare unto her lord apollonius talke, whom at the first she knew not. but when shee heard the long discourse, whereby she knewe by all signes that hee was her husband, and shee was his wife, her heart burned within her, and she could scarce temper her affections untill hee had done talking. yet measuring her love with modestie, as nowe of long time having learned the true trade of pacience, shee gave him libertie to make an end, which done, shee ran hastily unto him, and embraced him hard in her armes, and woulde have kissed him. which thing, when apollonius sawe, hee was mooved with disdaine, and thrust her from him, as misliking such lightnesse in her, whose modestie and good grace hee had so lately before com- mended in his heart, and nothing at all suspecting that she had been his wife. then shee, pouring foorth teares aboun- dantly, o, my lord apollonius, said she, the one halfe of my life, why deale you thus ungently with me ! i am your wife, daughter unto altistrates, king of pentapolis, and my name is lucina. and you are apollonius, prince of tyrus, my lord and deare husband, and you are my schoolemaister, which taught mee musicke: and moreover you are the sea- the patterne of [pericles. wrecked man whom i especially loved above many, not for concupiscence sake, but for desire of wisedome. when apollonius heard these words, he was sodainly astonied; and as the strangenes of the chance appalled him much, so the great joy revived his spirites againe, and he cast his eies earnestly uppon her, and immediatly called her to remem- brance, and knewe her, and fell uppon her necke, and for exceeding joy brast out into teares; and then, lifting up his handes and eyes to heaven, hee saide : blessed be the moste mightie god of heaven, which sitteth above and beholdeth the state of men on earth, and dealeth with them according to his great mercie; who nowe also of his unspeakeable goodnesse hath restored unto mee my wife and my daughter. then did hee most lovingly embrace and kisse his ladie, whom he supposed long before to be dead; and shee like- wise requited him with the like fruites of good will and courtesie, whom she surely thought she should never have seene againe. and when they had continued a good space in intertaining the one another, o, my moste deare lord apollonius, saide the lady lucina, where is my childe whereof i was delivered apollonius aunswered: my best beloved ladie, it was a daughter, and she was named tharsia, and this is she and there withal he shewed her tharsia. then kissed and embraced she her daughter, and likewise her sonne in law athanagoras, and they greatly rejoyced one in another. and when report heereof was spread abroad, there was great joy throughout all the citie of ephesus; and the report has blowen about in everie place, how prince apollonius had found out his ladie and wife among the nunnes in the temple. then lucina discoursed unto her lord and husband, apollonius, of the strange accidents that happened unto her after his casting her forth into the sea; namely, howe her chest was cast on land at the coast of ephesus, and taken up by a phisition; and how she was revived and by him adopted, and, for preservation of her honestie, placed among the nunnes in the temple of diana, pericles.] painfull adventures. where hee then found her, accordingly as it appeareth before in the historie; wherefore they blessed the name of god, and yeelded most heartie thankes unto him, that hee had pre- served them hitherto, and graunted them so joyfull a meeting. chap. xxi. how apollonius departed from ephesus, and sailed himselfe, his wife, his sonne, and daughter, unto antiochia, and then to tyrus, and from thence to tharsus, where he revenged himselfe upon stran- guilio and dionisiades. apollonius and lucina his wife, and the residue of their traine, having rested themselves and made merrie sufficient time at ephesus, when the winde served, tooke leave of their friendes, and went aboord of their ships, and lanched from the shore, and departed unto antiochia; where, according as calamitus, the maister of the ship of tyrus, had tolde him before, the kingdome was reserved for him since the death of antiochus. but when the citizens heard that he was arrived, they were all exceeding glad, and put on their bravest apparell, and garlandes of bayes upon their heads, and went forth in procession to meet him, and brought him in triumph into the citie, and crowned him king with all joy and gladnesse. and when all the solemnities of the corona- tion, the feastes, triumphes, largesses, and pardons, were finished, hee abode with them certaine daies to dispose some matters in order that required redresse, and to establish certaine lawes for the due administration of justice. which being all accomplished according to his desire, he tooke his leave of the citizens, and with his wife, sonne, and daughter, departed to the sea, and sayled unto tyrus, his owne native t pericles.] painfull adventures departed this life. and as for hir grave, you have seene it, and also the monument of brasse erected by the whole citie in the memoriall of her, and, moreover, you have read the superscription. then apollonius commaunded his daughter to stand foorth in the presence of them all; and shee saide unto dionisiades: beholde, thou wicked woman, dead tharsia is come to greete thee, who, as thou diddest well hope, shoulde never have been forth comming to have bewrayed thy wick- ednesse. but when the miserable woman beheld tharsia, her heart quaked for feare, and shee fell to the ground in a swoond; and when shee recovered againe, shee cried out up- pon the just judgement of god, and cursed the time that shee was borne. and all the people ranne thronging about thar- sia, and wondered at her, thinking howe greatly they had been of long time abused by stranguilio and dionisiades; and they rejoyced much in her safetie, and all knewe by her coun- tenance that it was shee, and none other. o, now, who were able to declare the bitter griefe and intol- lerable care which eftsoones assaied the wearisome consciences of these twaine, the husband and the wife, when they sawe her living and in good liking before their faces, whose death they had so traiterously conspired? even hell it selfe is not comparable unto so heavie a burden, the unspeakable weight whereof all men ought to feare, and none can sufficiently de- scribe unlesse hee have been semblably plunged in the like gulfe of horrible desperation. then tharsia called for theo- philus, stranguilios villaine, and when he was come into her presence, shee saide unto him: theophilus, aunswere mee aloud, that all the people may heare, who sent thee forth to slay me! hee aunswered, dionisiades, my mistresse. what mooved her thereunto saide tharsia. none other thing, i suppose, saide the villaine, but to enjoy the money and orna- mentes, and also because thy beautie and comelinesse were commended above philomacias, her daughters. nowe, when the people heard this, they ranne uppon stranguilio and dioni- siades, and tooke them violently, and bound them, and drew the patterne of [pericles. time (god knowes) in smaller causes than at the death of husband, father, or mother. but as al things have their time, so have sorrowe and teares also, which are best dried up with the towell of continuance; which gave nowe just occa- sion unto apollonius to cast off drowsie sorrowe, and to pro- vide for the funeralles of his father-in-lawe, which he accom- plished with so seasonable expedition, and in so honourable a sort, as was seemely for so mighty a king and so vertuous a prince, whome hee buried among the auntient race of kings, his auncestours, in the temple within the citie of pentapolis. which beeng all finished, as it is also a worke of charitie to fulfill the will of the dead, he applied himselfe to execute his fathers testament, wherin he had given halfe his kingdome unto apollonius, and the other halfe to tharsia his neece, to have and to holde to them and to their heires for ever. chap. xxiii. how apollonius rewarded the fisherman that re- leeved him after hee had suffered shipwracke: howe hee dealt also with olde calamitus, and likewise with the pyrates that stole away tharsia. by this time, when all cares were banished, and apollonius injoyed his kingdome in quiet possession, he gave himselfe sometimes to delight, as other princes are wont to do. and it fortuned that on a day when he had dined, he walked foorth for recreation unto the sea side, with his wife and a fewe servants. and when hee came there, he sawe a small fisher boat fleeting under saile, which hee thought by all signes he should knowe well; for hee supposed it to be the fish- ermans boat which succoured him when he had suffered ship- al introduction. the hero, at the oldest date at which we hear of him in eng- lish, was called “kynge appolyn of thyre:" in , under this title, wynkyn de worde printed the romance, as it had been translated from the french by robert copland. this was its first appearance in our printed literature. who was the anthor of the french version used by copland we are without information; but it is more than probable that the foundation of it was the narrative in the gesta romanorum (printed late in the th century), to which belleforest was also to a certain extent indebted in his histoires, tragiques, the pub- lication of which was commenced in . belleforest, how- ever, claims to have gone to a distinct source, a manuscript having fallen in his way, which purported to be tiré du grec: in fact, it seems to have had its origin in that language, from which it was translated into latin, and subsequently into french, spanish, italian, and english. these different ver- sions are enumerated by mr. douce in the work we have al- ready referred to, but the anglo-saxon translation (not long since printed under the learned care of mr. thorpe) does not seem to have fallen in his way. latin mss. of it, as early as the tenth century, appear to be in existence. the prose romance, which occupies the principal part of the succeeding pages, was first published in , and how soon afterwards it was adapted to the stage in london can- not be decided. it professed originally to be “gathered into english" by lawrence twine, and it is singular that malone, steevens, and even douce, fell into the error of attributing the translation to thomas twine, “the continu- ator of phaer's virgil." lawrence twine was brother to thomas twine, and both were sons of john twine, lawrence being the eldest, and, as anthony wood says, “a fellow of all souls college, bachelor of civil law, and an ingenious poet of his time” (ath. oxon. vol. i., , edit. bliss). he left nothing behind him in verse, as far as we now know, but certain commendatory lines to books by his friends, and the song and riddles of tharsia hereafter inserted. how fre- introduction. iii quently, and at what intervals, lawrence twine's “patterne of painefull adventures, containing the most excellent, plea- sant, and variable historie, &c. of prince apollonius of tyre", was reprinted after , we have no exact informa- tion; but a new edition of it came out in , the very year before the play of “pericles,” as adapted to the stage by shakespeare, would seem to have been acted. our re-pub- lication of the romance is from an edition hitherto unknown, without date, but, as we may judge from the type and other circumstances, published before the opening of the seven- teenth century. the grounds for our opinion, that shakespeare's “peri- cles,” (as far as he may lay claim to its authorship) was first acted early in the year , are stated in detail in “farther particulars regarding shaskespeare and his works,” vo, . as only fifty copies of that tract were printed, it may be necessary to add here, that a narrative entitled “the painfull adventures of pericles, prince of tyre,” was pub- lished in , purporting to be “the true history of the play of pericles, as it was lately presented by the worthy and ancient poet john gower.” this “history” is derived directly from the play, as the play had been derived mainly from twine's translation of “prince apollonius, of tyre;” and it was printed in consequence of the great success that at- tended the performance of “pericles,” when it was brought out with shakespeare's additions and improvements. at the time the “farther particulars regarding shakespeare and his works” were collected and composed, the author was not aware of the evidence preserved in dulwich college, and re-. cently inserted in the “memoirs of edward alleyn,” of the existence of an earlier drama upon the same story, and under the same title as what we have been accustomed to call shakespeare's “pericles.” those who are in possession of the “farther particulars,” &c. will see that the author traces and compares, in curious detail, the parallel passages in the play and in the “history" founded upon it; and he may be iv introduction. said to have gone the length of establishing that certain ex- pressions, and even lines, originally recited by the players, have been omitted in the impression of “pericles,” as it has reached us. the reason why shakespeare, or his predecessor, introduced “ancient gower" to open the drama, and to deliver certain in- terlocutions in the course of it, will be sufficiently obvious to those who are aware that gower makes the whole story part of his confessio amantis ; a work full of variety and beauty, to which due justice has, perhaps, never been done, in conse- quence of the comparison which must be drawn between gower, as a poet, and his greater contemporary chaucer. lid- gate has laboured, in a degree, under the same disadvantage; but the publication last year of some of his “minor poems,” by the percy society, will tend to elevate him in the scale of our early poets. the confessio amantis was three times printed prior to the reign of elizabeth, viz. by caxton in , and by berthelet in and . we have appended gower's versified history of “appollinus, the prince of tyr” to our reprint of twine's prose version of the romance, because it is pretty evident, from particular ex- pressions, that shakespeare, or his dramatic precursor (al- ways supposing two separate writers to have been engaged on the subject) had reference to it when composing the play of “ pericles.” malone inferred this fact also from the circumstance that pericles is called “prince of tyre” in the play, and in gower's version, whereas, in copland's transla- tion, he is called “ring of tyre;” but the commentator omitted to remark that prince de thyr are the words of a french translation by corozet in ; and that the hero is spoken of as “prince apollonius” in twine's “patterne of painefull adventures,” which the play more immediately follows. our readers will be enabled to judge from what succeeds of the precise degree of obligation to the one or to the other. - for our text of gower's poetical narrative we have not re- introduction. v sorted to either of the three printed copies of the confessio amantis: we were anxious to give the story, with as much fidelity as possible, in the words of the old poet, and for this reason we have gone to a fine and nearly contemporary ms. upon vellum preserved in the british museum (harl. )*, corrected by another ms. in the same library (harl. ). it will be found, that the variations between this ms. and the printed copies are chiefly verbal, excepting in one or two instances, where a line has been omitted in the one or in the other: the divisions of the poem, with the latin headings, are differently arranged. generally speaking, the ms. has the advantage of the printed copies; but such is not always the case, as on p. , l. , where, in the ms., theophilus is designated “a fals clerke,” instead of “a fals cherle,” as it properly stands in the first edition by berthelet. we are not aware that it is necessary to say more by way of introduction to what follows, than to add that gower avowedly adopted his incidents from a metrical version in the pantheon, or universal chronicle of godfrey of viterbo, which was compiled at the latter end of the twelfth century, though not printed until . “of a cronique in daies gone, the wich is cleped panteon, in loves cause i rede thus," are gower's introductory lines; and he subsequently more than once refers to “the booke” to which he was indebted, much in the same way that ariosto professes his obligations to the narrative by bishop turpin, respecting the conquests of charlemaine and the atchievements of orlando. on one * for the following description of this ms. we are indebted to the kindness of j. holmes, esq. :—“at the foot of some of the pages are emblazoned various coats of arms, being those of reade, james, handlo, borstall, st. amand, de la pole, cottesmore, &c. in all pro- bability, therefore, the ms. belonged to (if indeed it were not written for him) sir william reade of borstall, co. bucks, living temp. henry vii. all the above were quartered by him." vi introduction. occasion, when gower breaks off from one part of his story in order to return to another, he opens a chapter as follows (p. ):- “bot nowe to my matere ayen, to telle as olde bokes seyne;" as if he had consulted more than one authority; but it is very evident that he had looked no farther than the work, the title of which we have already given, the pantheon of godfrey of viterbo. appollinus, the prince of tyr. * hic loduitur adhuc contra incestuosos amantum coitus; et narrat mi- rabile exemplum de magno rege antiocho, qui, uxore mortua, pro- priam filiam violavit, et quia filiae matrimonium penes alios impedire voluit, tale abeo exiit edictum, quod si quis eam in uxorem peteret, nisi quoddam problema questionis, quam ipse rex proposuerat, veraciter solveret, capitali sententia puniretur. super quo veniens tandem discretus juvenis, princeps tyri, appollinus, questionem solvit. nectamen filiam habere potuit, sed rex indignatus ipsum propter hoc in mortis odium recollegit. unde appollinus a facie regis fugiens quam plura, prout inferius intitulantur, propter amorem pericula passus est. * of a cronique in daies gon, the wich is cleped panteon, in loves cause i rede thus: howe that the grete antiochus, of whome that antioche tooke his ferst name, as seith the booke, was cowpled to a noble quene, and hadde a douhter hem by twene. bot such fortune came to honde, that deth, wich no kynde may withstonde, bot every liff it mote obeye, this worthi queene tooke aweye. the kynge wich made mochel moone, tho stode, as who seith, alle hym oone with oute wif: but natheles his douhter, wich was pereles of beaute, dwelte aboute hym stille: bot whan a man hath welthe at wille the flessh is frele, and falleth ofte; and that this maide, tendre and softe, wich in here faders chamber dwelte, within a tyme wiste and felte : for likyng of concupiscence, with oute insiht of conscience, x appollinus, the the fader so with lustes blente, that he caste alle his hole entente his owhne douhter for to spille. the kyng hath leyser att his wille, with strength, and whan he tyme seyhe, this yonge maidenn he forleyhe. and she was tendre and fulle of drede, she couthe not here maydenhede defende, and thus she hath for lore the floure wich she hath longe bore. it helpeth nouht alle thouh she wepe, for thei that sholde here body kepe of wommen were absent as thanne; and thus this maiden goth to manne. the wilde fader thus devoureth his owne flessh, wich non socoureth, and that was cause of mochel care. bot after this unkynde fare oute of the chamber goth the kyng, and she lay stille, and of this thyng within here selfe suche sorowe made, there was nouht that myht here glade, for fere of thilke horrible vice. with that came inne the norice, wich fro childhode here hadde kepte, and axeth if she hadde slepte, and with here chere was ungladde? bot she, wich haith ben over ladde of that she myht not be wreke, for shame couthe unethes speke : and natheles mercy she preide with wepynge ihe, and thus she seide:— helas, my suster, wayloway, that evere i sihe this ilke daye thyng, wich my body first be gate in to this worlde, only that prince of tyr. my worldes worshippe hath byreſte. with that she swoneth nowe and efte, and ever wissheth aftir the deth, so that welle nyhe hire lakketh breth. that othir, wich here worde herde, in confortyng of here answerde : to lette here faders foule desire she wiste noon recoverire. whan thinge is do, ther is no bote; , so suffren thei that suffren mote : ther was non othir wich it wiste. thus hath this kynge alle that hym liste of his likyng and his pleasauns, and laste in suche continuauns, and such delite he tooke ther inne, hym thouht that it was no synne, and she dorste hym no thinge withseye. bot fame, wich goth every weye to sundry regnes alle abowte, the grete beaute telleth oute of such a maide of hihe parage; so that, for love of mariage, the worthie princes come and sende, as thei the wiche alle honoure wende, and knewe no thinge howe that it stode. the fader, whanne he understode that thei his douhter thus bysouhte, with alle his wit he caste and souhte howe that he myht fynde a lette; and thus a statute than he sette, and in this wise his lawe he taxeth— that what man that his douhter axeth, but if he couth his questionn assoile, uponne suggestion of certen thinges that bifelle, the wich he wolde unto hym telle, x appollinus, the he sholde in certeyn lese his hede. and thus ther were many dede, here hedes stondyng on the gate, tille atte laste, longe and late, for lakke of answere in the wise, the remenaunt, that weren wise, escheweden to make assaie. * de adventu appollini in antiochiam, ubi ipse filiam regis antiochi in uxorem postulavit. tille it befelle upon a daie, appollinus, the prince of tyr, wich hath to love a grete desire, as he wich in his hihe mode was likyng of his hote blode, a yonge, a fressh, a lusty knyht, as he laye musynge on a nyht of the tidynges wich he herde, he thouht assaie howe that it ferde. he was with worthie compaignie araide, and with gode navie to shipp he goth; the wynde him dryveth, and saileth, tille that he ary veth saf in the porte of antioche. he londeth, and goth to aproche the kinges courte of his presence. of every naturel science, whiche eny clerke couth hym teche, he couthe inouh; and in his speche of wordes he was eloquent. and whan he sihe the kyng present he prayeth he moste his douhter have. the kynge a yen beganne to crave and tolde hym the condicionn, howe ferste unto his question prince of tyr. he mote answere, and faile nouht, or with his hedde it shal be bouht; and he him axeth, what it was. * questio regis antiochi: scelere vehor, materna carne vescor, quero patrem meum, matris meat virum, uxoris meae filium. " the kyng declareth hym the cas with sterne loke, and sturdy chere, to hym and seide in this manere: with felonie i am up bore, i ete, and have it nouht forbore, my moders flessh, whos husbonde my fader for to seche i fonde, wich is the sone of my wife. herof i am inquisitiff, and who that can my tale save, alle quyte he shalle my douhter have of his answere ; and if he faile he shal be dede with oute faile. for thie, my sone, quod the kyng, be welle avised of this thyng which hath thy liff in jupartie. responsio appollini. appollinus for his partie, whan he this questionn hath herde, unto the kyng he hath answerde, and hath rehersed oon and oon the poyntez, and seide theruppon. the questionn wich thou hast spoke, if thou wolt that it be unloke, it toucheth alle the pryvete bytwene thyn owne childe and the, and stant al hoole upponn yowe two. indignatio regis antiochi super responsione appollini. the kyng was wonder sory tho, appollinus, the and thouht, if that he seide it oute, than were he shamed alle aboute. with slie wordes and with felle, he seith : my sone i shalle the telle, thouh that thou be of litel wit, it is no grete merveile as yit, thynn age may it nouht suffice; bot loke welle thou nouht dispice thyn owne liff, for of my grace . of thritty dayes fulle a space i graunt the to ben avised. * de recessu appolini ab antioch. and thus, with leve and tyme assised, this yonge prince forthe he wente, and understode welle what he mente, within his herte, as he was lered ; that for to make him affered the king his tyme hath so delaied. wherof he dradde, and was amayed of treson that he deye sholde, for he the kyng his soth tolde: and sodenly the nyhtes tide, that more wolde he nott abide, alle prively his barge he hente, and home ayen to tyr he wente. and in his owne wit he seide, for drede if he the kynge bewreide, he knewe so welle the kynges herte, that deth ne sholde he not asterte, the kyng hym wolde so pursue. bot he that wolde his deth eschewe, and knew alle this to fore the honde, forsake he thouht his owne londe, that there wolde he not abide; for welle he knewe that on som side prince of tyr. howe that the prynce of tyre is fled, so was he come a yen unsped. the kynge was sory for a while, bot whan he seyh, that with no wile he myght a cheve his crualte, he stynte his wrath, and lete hym be. * qualiter appollinus in portu tharsis applicuit, ubi in hospitio cu- jusdam magni viri, nomine stranguilionis, hospitatus est. * bot over this nowe for to telle of aventures, that byfelle unto this prince of whome y tolde. he hath his riht cours forth holde by stoon and nedle, tille he came to tharse, and ther his londe he name. a burgeys rich of golde and fee was thilke tyme in that cite, wich cleped was stranguilio, his wiff was dionise also. this yonge prince, as seith the booke, with hym his herbergage toke; and it be felle that cite so, by fore tyme and thanne also, thurh stronge famyne, wich hem ladde, was none that eny whete hadde. appollinus, whan that he herde the myschef howe the cite ferde, alle frelych of his owne yifte, his whete a monge hem for to shifte, the wich be shippe he hadde brouht, he yaff, and tooke of hem riht nouht. bot sithen ferst the worlde be ganne, was never yit to such a man more joye made, than they hym made; for they were alle of hym so gladde, ° appollin us, the that they for ever in remembraunce made a figure in resemblaunce of hym, and in comonne place they sett it upp; so that his face miht every maner man by holde, so that the cite was by holde. it was of latonn over gilte; thus hath he not his yifte spilte. ºr qualiter helycanus, civis tyri, tharsim veniens, appollinum de insidiis antiochi praemunivit. * uppon a tyme with a route this lorde to pley goth hym oute, and in his weye of tyr he mette a man, wich on kneys hym grette, and helican by name he hihte; whiche preide his lorde to have in sihte upponn hym self, and saide hym thus: howe that the grete antiochus a waiteth, if that he myht hym spille. that othir thouht, and helde him stille, and thonked hym of his warnyng, and badde hym telle for no tidyng, whan he to tyr came home ayenn, that he in tharse hym had seynn. * qualiter appollinus portum tharsis relinquens, cum ipse per mare navigio securiorem requisivit, superveniente tempestate, navis cum omnibus, praeter ipsum solum, in eadem contentis, juxta penta- polim periclitabatur. "i fortune hath ever be muable, and may no while stonde stable; for nowe hit hiheth, nowe it loweth, nowe stante upriht, now overthroweth, prince of tyr. nowe fulle of blis, nowe fulle of bale, for as in tellyng of my tale here aftirwarde a man may lere, wich is grete routh for to here. t this lorde, wich wold don his beste, withinn hym self hath litel reste, and thouhte he wolde his place chaunge, and seche a contre more strange. of tharsiens his leve anon he toke, and is to shippe gon. his cours he name with seile updrawe where as fortune doth the lawe, and sheweth, as i shal reherse, howe she was to this lorde dyvers, the whiche upponn the see she ferketh. the wynde aros, the weder derketh, it blewe, and made such tempeste, noon anker may the shippe areste, wich hath to broken alle his gere. the shippmen stode in such a fere, was noon that myht hym selfe by stere, bot ever a wayte uppon the lere whan that thei sholde drynche at ones. there was inouh with inne wones of wepyng, and of sorowe tho. this yonge kyng maketh mochel wo so for to see the shippe travaile; bot alle that myht hym not availe. the maste to brake, the saile to roff, the shippe upponn the wawes droff, tille that they sihe a londes coste. tho made a vowe, the leest and moste, by so thei myht come to a londe. bot he wich hath the see on honde, neptunus, wolde nouht acorde, bot alle to brake cable and corde prince of tyr. if nyh were eny towne for hym he seide, ye, pentapolym, where bothe kynge and qwene dwellenn. whan he this tale herde tellen he gladeth hym, an gan byseche that he the wey hym wolde teche: and he hym tauht, and forth he wente, and preide god with goode entente to sende hym joye aftir his sorwe. it was not yit passed myddemorowe. * qualiter appollino pentapolim adveniente, ludus gymnasii per urbem publice proclamatus est. " than the derwarde his wey he name, where soone uponn the none he came. he ete such as he myht gete, and forth a non whan he hadde ete he goth to se the towne a boute; and came there as he fonde a route of yonge lusty men with alle, and as it shude tho by falle, that day was sette of such assise, that theisholde in the londes gyse, as he herde of the people seye, the comonne game thanne pleye : and cryed was, that theisholde come unto the game, alle and some of hem that ben delyvere and wiht, to do suche maistrye as thei myht. thei made hem naked as thei sholde, for so that ilke game wolde, and it was the custume and us, amonges hem was no refus. the floure of alle the towne was there, and of the courte also ther were, appollin us, the and that was in a large place, riht evene afore the kynges face, wich arcestrates hiht. the pley was pleide riht in his siht; and who moste worthi was of dede recey've he sholde a certeyn mede, and in the cite bere a prys. appollinus, wich war and wys of every game couthe an ende he thouht assay, how so it wende, * qualiter appollinus ludum gymnasii vincens, in aula regis ad coenam honorifice receptus est. and felle amonge hem in to game; and there he wan hym such a name so as the kynge hym self accompteth, • that he alle othir men surmounteth, and bar the prys above hem alle. the kynge bade that in to his halle at souper tyme he shalle be brouht, and he came than, and lefte it nouht with oute compaignie alone. was none so semely of persone, of visage, and of lymes bothe, if that he hadde what to clothe. at souper tyme natheles, the kyng a myddes alle the pres lete clepe him uppe amonge hem alle, and bade his marchall of his halle to setten hym in such degre that he uppon hym myht se. the kyng was sone sett and served, and he wich hath his prys deserved, aftir the kynges owne worde, was made by gynne a myddel borde, prince of tyr. whan that it was of hir opposed, with inne here herte hath welle supposed that he is of grete gentilesse: his dedes been therof wittenesse, forth with the wisdome of his lore it nedith not to sechen more. he myht not have such manere of gentile blode bot if he were. when he hath harped alle his fille the kynges heste to fulfille, awey goth dissh, away goth cuppe, downe goth the borde, the cloth was uppe, they rysen, and gon oute of halle. the kynge his chamberleynn lete calle, and bade that he by alle weye a chambre for this man purveye, whiche nyh his owne chambre be. it shall be do, my lorde, quod he. * qualitur appollinus cum rege pro filia sua erudienda retentus est. appollinus, of whome i mene, tho toke his leve of kyng and qweene, and of the worthi maide also, wich preide unto hire fader tho, that she myht of the yonge man of the science, wich he can, his lore have. and in this wys the kynge here graunteth his apprise, so that hym self therto assent. thus was accorded er they wente, that he with alle that ever he may, this yonge faire fressh may of that he couth sholde enforme. and fulle assented in this forme, thei token leve as for that nyht, y appollinus, the t qualiter filia regis appollinum ornato apparatu vestiri fecit. et ipse ad puellae doctrinam in quam pluribus familiariter intendebat, unde placata, puella in amorem appollini exardescens infirmabatur. " and whan it was a morowe liht, unto this yonge man of tyr of clothes and of good a tyr, with golde and silver to despende, this worthi yonge ladye sende: and thus she made hym welle attease, and he, with alle that he can please, her serveth welle and faire ayeyn. he tauht hire til she was certeyn of harpe, of citole, and of rote, with many a tune, and many a note uppon musique, upponn mesure, and of hire harpe the temprure • he tauht here eke, as he welle couth. bot as men seyn, that frele is youth ' with leiser and contynuans, this maide felle upon a chauns, that love hath made hym a querele ayeyn hire youth fressh and frele; that malgre where she wole or nouht, she mote with alle hire hertes thouht to love and to his lawe obeye, and that she shalle full sore abeie: for she wote never what it is, bot ever amonge she feleth this, touchynge upon this man of tyr hire hert is hote as eny fyre, and othirwhile it is a cale. nowe is she redde, nowe is she pale, ryht after the condicion of hire imaginacion. prince of tyr. and ever amonge here thouhtes alle she thouhte, what so may befalle, or that she lauh or that she wepe, she wolde here goode name kepe for fere of womannysshe shame. bot what in ernest and in game she stant for love in such a plitht, that she hath loste alle appetite of mete, of drynke, of nyhtes reste, as she note what is the beste. bot for to thenken alle hire fille, she helde hyr ofte tymes stille within here chambre, and goth not oute, the kynge was of hire liff in doute, wich wiste no thyng what it mente. * qualiter tres filii principum filiam regis sigillatim in uxorem suis tº supplicationibus postularunt. . …” bot felle a tyme, as he owt wente to walke, of prynces sones thre ther come, and felle to fore his kne, and eche of hem in sondrie wise by souht, and profreth his service, so that he myht his douhter have. the kynge, wich wolde his honour save, seith, she is seke; and of that speche tho was no tyme to by seche, bot eche of hem do make a bille he bade, and write his owne wille, his name, his fader, and his gode; and whanne she wiste howe that it stode, and hadde here billes overseynn, they sholden have answere ayenn. of this conceile thei weren gladde, and writen, as the kynge hem badde; y appollin us. the and every man his owhne booke into the kynges honde by toke; and he it to his douhter sende, and preide hire for to make an ende, and write ayen hire owne honde, riht as she in here herte fonde. ºf qualiter filia regis, omnibus aliis relictis, appollinum in maritum praeelegit. * the bylles were welle receyved, bot she hathe all here loves weyved; and thouhte tho was tyme and space to put here in here faders grace, and wrote ayen, and thus she seide. the shame wich is in a maide with speche dar not ben unloke, bot in writyng it may be spoke; so write i to yowe, fader, thus:– but ify have appollinus, of alle this worlde what so bytide, i wolle noon othir man abide : and certes if i of hym faile i wote riht welle, with outen faile, ye shull for me be douhterles. this lettir came, and ther was prees to fore the kyng, there as he stode; and whan that he it understode, he yaff hem answere by and by : bot that was do so pryvely, that noon of othir counceile wiste. thei toke here leve, and whan hem liste thei wente forth uppon here weye. the kyng newolde not bewreye the conceil for no maner hihe, bot suffreth tille he tyme sihe. prince of tyr. * qualiter rex et regina in maritagium filiae suae cum appollino con- sentierunt. and whan that he to chambre is come, he hath in to his conceile nome this man of tyr, and lete hym se this lettir, and alle the pryvete the wiche his douhter to hym sente. and he his knee to grounde bente, and thonketh hym and here also and er thei wente than a two, with gode herte, and with gode corage, of fulle love and fulle mariage the kynge and he been hole accorded and aftir, whan it was recorded unto the douhter howe it stode, the yifte of all the worldes gode ne sholde have made hir half so blithe. and for with alle the kynge as swyth, for he wolde have hire gode assent, hath for the queene hire moder sent. the qweene is come, and whanne she herde of this matere, how that it ferde, she sihe debat, she sihe disese, bot if she wolde hir douhter please, and is therto assented fulle: wich is a dede wonderfull, for no man knewe the soth cas bot he hym self, what man he was; and natheles, so as hem thouht, hise dedes to the soth wrouht, that he was come of gentile blode, hym lakketh nouht bot worldes gode. and as therof is no despeier, for she shal be hir faders heir, appollinus, the and he was able to governe. thus wolle they not the love werne of hym and here in noon wise; bot, alle accorded, thei devise * qualiter appolinus filiae regis nupsit, et prima nocte cum ea concu- biens ipsam impregnavit. the day and tyme of mariage. wher love is lorde of the corage him thenketh longe, er that he spede bot att the laste unto the dede. the tyme is come, and in here wyse, with grete offrynge and sacrifice, thei wedde, and make a rich feste, and every thynge was riht honeste. withinn howse, and eke with oute it was so doon, that alle a boute of grete worshippe, and grete noblesse, ther cryde many man largesse unto the lordes hihe and lowde. the knyhtes, that ben yonge and prowde, they jouste ferste, and aftir daunce. the day is go, the nyhtes chaunce hath derked alle the bryht sonne : this lorde, wich hath his love wonne, is go to bedde with his wyff, where as they ladde a lusty lyff: and that was aftir somdele sene, for as they pleiden hem betwene they gete a childe by twene hem two, to whome felle aftir mochel wo. prince of tyr. * qualiter ambassiatores a tyro in quadam navi pentapolim venientes, mortem regis antiochi appollino nunciaverunt. t now, have i tolde of the spousailes; bot for to speke of the merveiles whiche aftirwarde to hem byfelle, - it is a wonder for to telle. " it felle a daye they riden owte the kyng, and qweene, and alle the rowte, to pleyn hem upponne the stronde, where alle thei seen towarde the londe a shippe seilyng of great aray. to knowe what it mene may, til it be come thei abide : than thei stonde on every side, endlong the shipes borde, to shewe of penonceals a ryche rewe. thei axen, when the shippe is come ! fro tyr anon answered some. and over this theiseiden more, the cause whic thei come fore was for to seche, and for to fynde appollinus, wich is of kynde hire liege lorde: and he appereth, and of the tale wich he hereth he was right gladde; for thei hym tolde that for vengeaunce, as god it wolde, antiochus, as men may wete, with thonder and lihtenyng is sor smete. his douhter hath the same chaunce, so be thei bothe in o balance. for thi owre liege lorde we seie, in name of alle the londe, and prey, that lefte alle othir thyng to done, it like yow to come sone, appollinus, the and see youre owne liege men, with othir that be of youre kyn, that lyven in longyng and desire til ye be come ayen to tyr. this tale, aftir the kinge yt hadde, pentapolym alle over spradde, ther was no joye for to seche; for every man it hadde in speche, and seide alle of oonn accorde, a worthy kyng shalle ben oure lorde: that thouht us ferst an hevynesse is shape us nowe to grete gladnesse. * qualiter appollino cum uxore sua impregnata a pentapoli versus tyrum navigantibus contigit uxorem mortis articulo angustiatam, in navi filiam, quae postea taysis vocabatur, parere. thus goth this tydyng over alle, bot nede he mote that nede shalle. appollinus his leve tooke to god and alle the londe by toke, with alle the peple longe and brode, that he no lenger ther abode. " the kyng and qweene sorowe made, bot yit somdele they were glade of suche thyng as they herden tho: and thus by twene the wele and wo to shippe he goth, his wif with childe, the wich was ever meke and mylde, and wolde not departe hym fro, such love was be twene hem two. lychorida for hire office was take, wich was a norice, to wende with this yonge wifſ, to whome was shape a wofull lyf. withinn a tyme, as it be tidde, whan they were in the see a mydde, appollinus, the a thowsande sithes he here kyste, was never man that sihe ne wiste a sorwe unto his sorwe liche. was ever amonge uppon the liche he felle a swone, as he that souhte his owne deth, wich he by souhte unto the goddes alle above, with many a petous worde of love. bot such wordes as tho were yit herde never mannes ere bot only thilke wich he seide. the maister shippman came and preide, with othir such as be ther inne, and seyn, that he may no thyng wynne ayeyn the deth, bot they hym rede he be welle ware, and take hede. the se by wey of his nature recey've may no creature, with inne hym self as for to holde the wich is dede ; for thi thei wolde, as thei counsellen alle aboute, the dede body castyn oute : for bettir it is, theiseiden alle, that it of hire so by falle, than if theisholden alle spille. " the kyng wich understode here wille, and knewe here conceile that was trewe, byganne ayen to sorwe newe with pitous herte, and thus to seye: it is alle reason that ye pray. prince of tyr. riht as the corps was throwe on londe, there came walkyng upponn the stronde a worthy clerk, a surgyen, and eke a grete phisicien, of alle that londe the wisest oon, wich hiht maister cerymon: there were of his disciples somme. this maister to the cofre is come, and peyseth ther was sommewhat inne, and bade hem bere it to his inne, and goth hym self forth with alle. all that shall falle, falle shalle. thei comen home, and tarye nouht: this cofre in to chambre brouht, wich that thei fynde faste stoke, bot thei with crafte it have unloke. thei loken inne, where as thei founde a body ded, wich was i wounde in cloth of golde, as i seide er: the tresour eke they founden ther forth with the lettir, wich thei rede, and tho thei token bettir hede. unsowed was the body sone: as he that knewe what was to done, this noble clerke, with alle haste be ganne the veynes for to taste, and seih hire age was of youthe: and with the craftes wich he couthe, he souht and fonde a signe of liff. with that this worthi kynges wiff honestly thei token oute, and maden fires alle aboute. thei leide hire on a couche softe, and with a shete warmed ofte here colde breste be ganne to hete, here herte also to flakke and bete. prince of tyr. as fertorthly as she it wiste. and he here tolde howe in a kiste the see here threwe uppon the londe, and what tresoure with here he fonde, wich is alle redy att hire wille, as he that shope hym to fulfille with alle his myht what thynge he sholde. she thonketh hym, that he so wolde, and alle here herte she descloseth, and seith hym welle that she supposith here lorde be dreynt, hire childe also: so seih she nouht bot alle wo. wherof as to the worlde no more ne wole she torne, and preieth therfore, that in some temple in the cite, to kepe and holde here chastite she myht a monge the women dwelle. whanne he this tale here herde telle he was right gladde, and made hire knowenn that he a douhter of his owne hath, wich he wole unto hir yeve, to serve while thei bothe lyve, in stede of that, wich she hath loste: alle only alle att his owhne coste, she shalle be rendred forth with hire. she seith, graunte mercy, leve sire, god qwyte it yowe, ther i ne may. and thus thei dryve forth the daye, til tyme come, that she was hole : and tho thei taken here conceile hole to shape upon gode ordynaunce, and made a worthie purveaunce ayen the daie that theiben veiled. and thus whan that thei be conceiled, in blake clothes thei hem clothe, this lady and the douhter bothe, appollinus, the and yolde hem to religion. the feste, and the professionn, aftir the rule of that degre, was made with great solempnite, where as diana is seyntefied. thus stant this lady justified in ordre where she thenketh to dwelle. * bot nowe ayenwarde for to telle in what pliht that hire lorde stode inne. he seileth, tille he may wynne the havene of tharse, as i seide er. whan appolinus was arryved there, * qualiter appollinus tharsim navigans, filiam suam. thaysim strangu- lioni et dionysiae uxori suae educandam commendavit; et deinde tyrum adiit, ubi cum inestimabili gaudio a suis receptus est. tho yit was thurh the cite knowe, men myht se with inne a throwe as who seith alle the towne at ones, that come ayen hym for the nones to yeven hym the reverence, so gladde they were of his presence. and thouh he were in his corage dishesed, yit with glad visage he made hem chere; and to his inne, where he some tyme sojorned inne he goth hym strauht, and was recey'ved. and whan the pres of peple is weyved, he taketh his oste unto hym tho, and seith : my frende strangulio, lo thus, and thus it is by falle: and thou thi self arte oon of alle, forth with thy wiff, that i most triste: for thi if it yow both liste, my douhter thayse, by youre leve, i thenke shalle with yow bileve prince of tyr. - as for a tyme; and thus i pray that she be kepte by alle weye : and whan she hath of age more, that she be sette to bokes lore. and this avowe to god i make that i shal never for hire sake my berde for no lykyng shave, tille it befalle that i have, in covenable tyme of age, by sett hire unto mariage. thus thei accorde, and alle is welle, and for to resten hym somme delle, as for a while he there sojorneth, and thanne he taketh his leve, and torneth to ship, and goth hym home to tyr; where every man with grete desire awaiteth uppon his commyng. bot whan the shippe came in seilyng, and thei a parceyven it is he, was never yit in no cite suche joye made, as thei tho made. his herte also be gan to glade of that he sihe his people glade. lo thus fortune his happe hath ladde: in sondry wise he was travailed, but how so ever he be assailed his latter ende shal be gode. " and for to speke howe that it stode of tayse his douhter, where she dwellith in tharse, as the cronique telleth. she was welle kept, she was welle loked, she was welle tauht, she was welle boked; so welle she spedde hire in hire yowth that she of every wisdome kouth, that for to seche in every londe so wys an othir no man fonde, z prince of tyr. and lede here oute of alle siht where that no man hire helpe myht, upponn the stronde nyhe the see, and there he shalle this mayden slee. this cherles hert is in a trance, as he wich drad hym of vengeance whan tyme comith an othir day, bot yit durste he not sey nay; bot swore, and seide he shalle fulfille here hestes atte hire owne wille. * qualiter dionysia, thaysimut occideret, theophilo servo suo tra- didit, qui cum noctanter longius ab urbe ipsam prope litus maris interficere proposuerat, piratae ibidem latitantes thaysim de manu carnificiseripuerunt, ipsamgue usque civitatem mitelenam ducen: tes, cuidam leonino, scortorum ibidem magistro, vendiderunt. * the treson and the tyme is shape, so felle it that this cherlysch knape hath ladde this maiden where he wolde uppon the stronde, and what she sholde she was a dradde; and he oute braide a rusty swerde, and to here seide, thow shalt be ded: alas, quod she, whi shal i so lo thus, quod he, my lady dyonise hath bede thou shalt be mortherde in this stede. this maide tho for fere shrihte, and for the love of god alle myht she preyth, that for a litell stounde she myht knele upponn the grounde towarde the he vene, for to crave here wofulle sowle that she may save. and with this noise and with this crye owte of a barge faste by, wich hidde was there on scomerſare, men sterte owte, and weren ware z prince of tyr. clos in a chambre by hire self, • eche aftir othir ten or twelve of yong men to here in wente; bot such a grace god hire sente, that for the sorowe wich she made, was noon of hem wich power hade to don hire any vilenie. this leonyn lete evere aspie, and waiteth aftir grete byyete; bot alle for nouht: she was for lete that no man wolde there come. whan he therof hath hede nome, and knewe that she was yit a maide, unto his owhne man he saide, that with strenth ayen hire leve, tho sholde hire maidenhede by reve. this man goth in, but so it ferde, whan he here wofulle pleyntes herde, and he therof hath take kepe, hym luste bettir for to wepe than doon ouht elles to the game. and thus she kept hire self fro shame, and kneleth down to the erthe, and preyde unto this man, and thus she seide. if so be, that thi maister wolde that i his golde encrece sholde, it may nott falle by this weye; but soffre me to go my weye owte of this hous, where i am inne, and i shall make hym for to wynne in somme place elles of the towne, be so it be of religioun where that honest women dwelle. and thus thou myht thi maister telle that whanne i have a chambre there, let hym do crye ay wyde where prince of tyr. that she to leonyn hath wonne. and thus here name is so bygonne, of sondry thinges that she techeth, thatt alle the londe unto hire secheth of yonge women for to leere. * nowe lete we this maiden here, and speke of dyonyse ayen, and of theophile, the vileyn of wich i spake of nowe tofore, whan tayse sholde have be forlore. * qualiter theophilus ad dionysiam mane rediens affirmavit se thaysim occidisse; super quo dionysia una cum stranguilione marito suo dolorem in publico confingentes, exeguias et sepulturam honorifice quantum ad extra, subdola conjectatione fieri constituerunt. this fals clerke to this ladye, whan she came home alle pryvely, he seith: madame slayn i have this maide thaise, and is by grave in pryve place as ye me bede; for thi madame taketh hede, and kepe conceile howe so it stonde. this fende, wich this hath understonde, was gladde, and weneth it be soth: nowe herkene here aftir howe she doth. she wepeth, she soroweth, she compleyneth, and of sykenesse, wich she feigneth, she seith, that tayse sodeynly by myht is dede, as she and i to gedre leyn nyh my lorde. she was a woman of recorde, and alle is leved that she seith; and for to yeve a more feith here husbonde, and eke she, both in blake clothes they hem cloth. appollinus, the for she hym neweth ever amonge, and medeleth sorowe with his songe. bot sith it may no bettir be he thonketh god, and forth goth he seyling towarde tyrayeynn; bot sodeynly the wynde and reynn bygon uppon the see debate, so that he soffre mot algate, * qualiter navis appollini ventis agitata portum urbis mitelenae in die quo festa neptuni celebrari consueverunt, applicuit, sedipse prae dolore thaysis filiae suae quam mortuam reputabat, in fundo navis obscuro jacens lumen videre noluit. • the lawe, which neptune ordeyneth ‘wherof fulle ofte tyme he pleyneth, and helde hym welle the more esmayed of that he hath to fore assaied : so that for pure sorwe and care of that he seith his worlde so fare, the reste he lefte of his caban that for the conceile of no man, ayeyn therinne he nolde come, bot hath by neth his place nome, where he wepyng alone lay, there as he sihe no liht of day. and thus to fore the wynde they dryve tillonge and late thei aryve with grete distresse, as it was sene, upponn this towne of mitelene, wich was a noble cite tho. and hapneth thilke tyme so, the lordes bothe, and the comune the hihe feste of neptune, upponn the stronde attry vage, and as it was custume and usage, solemlich they by syhe. whan thei this strange vessel sihe prince of tyr. in many a subtile questioun; bot he for no suggestioun wich towarde hym she couthe stere, he wolde not o worde answere, bot as a madde man atte laste, his hed wepyng awey he caste, and half in wrath he bade here go: • bot yit she wolde nouht do so, and in the derke forth she goth 'til she hym towchith, and he wroth, and aftir hire with his honde he smote : and thus whan she hym fonde diseasyd, courtesly she seide avoy, my lorde, i am a mayde; and if ye wiste what i am, and owte of what lynage i cam, 'ye wolde not be so salvage. * qualiter, sicut deus destinavit, pater filiam inventam recognovit. with that he sobreth his corage, and put a wey his hevy chere. bot of hem two a man may lere what is to be so sybbe of blode, noon wiste of othir howe it stode, and yit the fader atte laste his herte upponn this maide caste, that he hire loveth kyndely; and yit he wiste never whic, bot all was knowe er that thei went; for god, wich wote here hole entent, here hertes both he desclosith. this kyng unto this maide opposeth, and axeth ferst, what is hire name, and where she lerned al this game, and of what kyn that she was come and she, that hath his wordes nome, appollinus, the answereth, and seith : my name is thaise that was some tyme welle at ayse. in tharse i was forth drawe and fed ther lerned i tille i was spedde, of that i can: my fader eke, i not where that i sholde hym seke: he was a kynge men tolde me. my moder dreynt was in the see. fropoynt to poynt alle she hym tolde that she hath longe in herte holde, and never dorste make hire mone but only to this lorde alle one, to whom hire herte can not hele, torne hit to wo, torne it to wele torne it to gode, torne it to harme. and he tho toke here in his arme; bot such a joye as he tho made was never seen : thus be thei glade that sory hadden be to forn. fro this day forth fortune hath sworne to sett hym upwarde on the whiel : so goth the worlde, now wo, now weel. * qualiter athenagoras appollinum de navi in hospitium honorifice recollegit, et thaysim patre consentiente, in uxorem duxit. * this kyng hath founde newe grace, so that oute of his derke place, he goth hym up into the liht; and with hym came that swete wint, his douhter tayse, and forth a noon thei bothe into the caban goon, wich was ordeyned for the kyng: and there he did of alle his thyng, and was arayed really, and owt he cam alle openly, where athenagoras he fonde, the wich was lorde of alle the londe, prince of tyr. and preyth the kynge to come and see his castell bothe, and his cite. and thus they goon forth alle in feere, this kyng, this lorde, this maiden dere. this lorde tho made hem riche feste, with every thyng wich was honeste to please with this worthie kynge. ther lacketh hym no maner thyng; bot yit for alle his noble araye, wyfles he was unto that day. as he that yit was of yonge age, so felle there in to his corage the lusty wo, the glade peyne of love, whiche no man restreygne yit never myht, as nowe to fore. this lorde thenketh alle his worlde for lore bot if the kynge wolde doonn hym grace, he waiteth tyme, he waiteth place, hym thouhte his herte wolle to breke tille he may to this maide speke, and to hire fader eke also for mariage: and it felle so that alle, was do riht as he thouht: his purpos to an ende he brouht, * she weddeth hym as for here lorde, ' thus be thei alle of oonn accorde. * qualiter appollinus, una cum filia et ejus marito, navem ingredientes a mitelena usque tharsim cursum proposuerunt, sed appollinus in somnis admonitus versus ephesim, ut ibidem in templo dianae sacrificavet, vela per mare divertit. * whan alle was do riht as thei wolde, the kynge unto his sone tolde of tharse thilke traiterie, and seide, howe in his compaignie prince of tyr. to shapyn hym in such a wise, that he may by the morowe arise and doon aftir the maundement of hym wich hath hym thider sent. and in the wise that he thouht, upponn the morowe he so wrouht: his douhter, and his sone he nome, and forth in to the temple he come, with a grete rowte in compaignie, his yeſtes for to sacrafie. the citezeyns tho herden seye of such a kyng, that came to preye unto dyane, the goddesse, and lefte alle othir besynesse: they comen the der for to se the kyng and the solempnite. * qualiter appollinus ephesim in templo diane sacrificans, uxorem suam ibidem velatam invenit, qua secum assumpta in navem versus tyrum regressus est. t with worthi knyhtes environed, the kynge hym self hath abandoned in to the temple in good entente. the dore is uppe, and in he wente, where as with gret devocioun of holy contemplacioun with inne his herte he made his shrifte, and aftir that a rich yeſte he offreth with grete reverence; and there in open audience of hem that stoden alle aboute he tolde hem, and declareth owte his happe, suche as hym is byfalle: ther was no thyng foryete of alle. his wifſ, as it was goddes grace, wich was professed in the place, a a prince of tyr. and token leve, and goon to shipe with alle the hole felashippe. * qualiter appollinus, una cum uxore sua et filia sua, tyrum applicuit. t this kyng, wich nowe hath his desir, he seih he wole holde his cours to tyr. thei hadde wynde at wille, tho, with topselle cole, and forth thei go, and stryken never tille thei come, to tyr, where as thei havene nome, and londen hem with mochel blisse. tho was there many a mouth to kysse, ech on welcometh othir home; bot whan the queene to londe come, and thayse hire douhter by hire side, the joye wich was thilke tyde ther may no mannes tunge telle. theiseiden alle, here cometh the welle of alle womannessh grace. the kyng hath take his real place: the queene is in to chambre go. there was grete feste arayed tho. whan tyme was thei gon to mete, all olde sorwes ben foryete, and gladen hem with joys newe, the discolourde pale hewe is nowe bycome a rody cheke : ther was no merthe for to seke; * qualiter appollinus athenagoram, cum thayse uxore sua, super tyrum coronari fecit. " bot every man hath that he wolde. the kyng, as he welle couth and sholde, maketh to his people riht goode chere, and aftir soone, as thou shalt here, prince of tyr. with strenth of men, and comen sone and as hem thouhtitt was to done. atteynt thei weren by the lawe, and demed for to honge, and drawe, and brent, and with the wynde to blowe, that alle the worlde it myht knowe. and upponn this condicioun the dome in execucionn was put anon with oute faile. and every man hath grete merveile wich herde tellenn of this chaunce, and thonketh goddes purveaunce, wich doth mercy forth with justice. * slayn is the mordrer, and mordrice thurh verey trouth of rihtwessnesse; and thurh mercy sauf is symplesse of hire, whome mercy preserveth. thus hath he welle, that welle deserveth. * qualiter artestrate pentapolim rege mortuo, ipsi de regno epistolas super hoc appollino direxerunt, unde appollinus una cum uxore sua ibidem advenientes, ad decus imperii cum magno gaudio coro- nati sunt. £ . " whan alle this thyng is doon and ended, this kynge, wich loved was and frended, a lettre hath, wich came to hym by shippe fro pentapolim; in wich the londe hath to hym write, that he wolde understonde and wite how in goode mynde and in goode pees, ded is the kyng artestrates; wherof thei alle of oon accorde hym preieden, as here liege lorde, that he the lettre wole conceyve, and come his regne to recey've wich god hath youe hym, and fortune. and thus bysouht the comoune, ; „ illustrated jr nr ncili. l/lb v; ki i: t'ur.'ur^r.'ur.^r.'ur.'ur.'ur.'urxur.'ur/jr.'ur.'un'ur ,t r. >.- harvard college library u ,-< r- * jt r n vfe * -j r, % ~jl r. % bought with the income of the t $ emily louise kissner ! $ book fund *t r i, • :x: / v^ =h v^-—• . ^' ,j* «^ jf' «^ @ s' <"• >*w v/^ <jje!oij^s to imagination is at the bottom of all the world's advancement develop your child's imagination with the wonders of a fairyland that has a, message to grown-ups as well. no living writer of children's tales today talks to a larger or more enthusiastic audience than does l. frank baum "the wizard of oz man* perhaps your boy or girl has already had one of the oz books. then you don't need to be told the intense pleasure children find in these delightful tales. go to your bookseller when next you have a present to select, and ask to see the oz books. they will make you wish you were a youngster again yourself. read one of them at the bedtime hour—you will enjoy it as much as the kiddies do. the famous oz books the land of oz ozma of oz dorothy and the wizard in oz the road to oz the emerald city of oz the patchwork girl of oz tik-tok of oz the scarecrow of oz rinkitink in oz the lost princess of oz the tin woodman of oz the magic of oz glinda of oz big books, x * inches, each with or more illus- trations, in full color. each volume with some distinctive bookmaklng feature. gay picture jackets. _ v rcsi /ta 'princessjdq&otsy - -. . i ir the tin woodman of oz a faithful story of the astonishing adventure undertaken by the tin woodman, assisted by woot the wanderer, the scarecrow of oz, and polychrome, the rain- bow's daughter by l. frank baum "royal historian of oz" author of all the oz books illustrated by john r. neill the reilly c lee co. chicago ftu <wl.s, . made in .u s. a. 'ifllj ® <s s © to my readers i know that some of you have been waiting for this story of the tin woodman, because many of my correspondents have asked me, time and again, what ever became of the "pretty munch kin girl" whom nick chopper was engaged to marry before the wicked witch enchanted his axe and he traded his flesh for tin. i, too, have wondered what became of her, but until woot the wan- derer interested himself in the matter the tin woodman knew no more than we did. how- ever, he found her, after many thrilling adventures, as you will discover when you have read this story. i am delighted at the con- tinued interest of both young and old in the oz stories. a learned college professor e] recently wrote me to ask: "for i) readers of what age are your books intended?" it puzzled me to answer that properly, until i had looked over some of the letters i have received. one says: "i'm a little boy years old, and i just love your oz stories. my sister, who is writing this for me, reads me the oz books, but i wish i could read them myself." another letter says: "i'm a great girl years old, so you'll be surprised when i tell you i am not too old yet for the oz stories." here's another letter: "since i was a young girl i've never missed getting a baum book for christmas. i'm married, now, but am as eager to get and read the oz stories as ever." and still another writes: "my good wife and i, both more than years of age, believe that we find more real enjoyment in your oz books than in any other books we read." considering these state- ments, i wrote the college professor that my books are intended for all those whose hearts are young, no matter what their ages may be. and while on this subject of letters i am reminded that a good many of my correspondents neglect to slip a -cent postage-stamp into their letters, for the answer. you are sending but one letter, you know, while i get so many hundreds of letters that to prepay postage on all the answers to them would be no small burden to me. i think i am justified in promising that there will be some astonishing revelations about the magic of oz in my book for . always your loving and grateful friend, l. frank baum, royal historian of oz. "ozcot" at hollywood in california . list of chapters woot the wanderer the heart of the tin woodman ... i | roundabout the loons of loonville mrs. yoop, the giantess the magic of a yookoohoo the lace apron the menace of the forest the quarrelsome dragons tommy kwikstep ii jinjur's ranch ozma and dorothy the restoration the green monkey the man of tin captain fyter the workshop of ku-klip the tin woodman talks to himself the invisible country over night polychrome's magic nimmio amee through the tunnel the curtain falls iff cozrrf. dress woot the wanderer chapter the tin woodman sat on his glittering tin throne in the handsome tin hall of his splendid tin castle in the winkie country of the land of oz. beside him, in a chair of woven straw, sat his best friend, the scarecrow of oz. at times they spoke to one another of curious things they had seen and strange adven- the tin woodman of oz tures they had known since first they two had met and become comrades. but at times they were silent, for these things had been talked over many times between them, and they found themselves contented in merely being together, speaking now and then a brief sentence to prove they were wide awake and attentive. but then, these two quaint persons never slept. why should they sleep, when they never tired? and now, as the brilliant sun sank low over the winkie country of oz, tinting the glistening tin towers and tin minarets of the tin castle with glor- ious sunset hues, there approached along a winding pathway woot the wanderer, who met at the castle entrance a winkie servant. the servants of the tin woodman all wore tin helmets and tin breastplates and uniforms covered with tiny tin discs sewed closely together on silver cloth, so that their bodies sparkled as beautifully as did the tin castle — and almost as beautifully as did the tin woodman himself. woot the wanderer looked at the man servant — all bright and glittering — and at the magnificent castle — all bright and glittering — and as he looked his eyes grew big with wonder. for woot was not very big and not very old and, wanderer though he chapter one was, this proved the most gorgeous sight that had ever met his boyish gaze. "who lives here?" he asked. "the emperor of the winkies, who is the famous tin woodman of oz," replied the servant, who had been trained to treat all strangers with courtesy. "a tin woodman? how queer!" exclaimed the little wanderer. "well, perhaps our emperor is queer," admitted the servant; "but he is a kind master and as honest and true as good tin can make him; so we, who gladly serve him, are apt to forget that he is not like other people." "may i see him? " asked woot the wanderer, after a moment's thought. "if it please you to wait a moment, i will go and ask him," said the servant, and then he went into the hall where the tin woodman sat with his friend the scarecrow. both were glad to learn that a stranger had arrived at the castle, for this would give them something new to talk about, so the servant was asked to admit the boy at once. by the time woot the wanderer had passed through the grand corridors — all lined with orna- mental tin — and under stately tin archways and the tin woodman of cl through the many tin rooms all set with beautiful tin furniture, his eyes had grown bigger than ever and his whole little body thrilled with amazement. but, astonished though he was, he was able to make a polite bow before the throne and to say in a respect- ful voice: "i salute your illustrious majesty and offer you my humble services." "very good!" answered the tin woodman in his accustomed cheerful manner. "tell me who you are, and whence you come." "i am known as woot the wanderer," answered the boy, "and i have come, through many travels and by roundabout ways, from my former home in a far corner of the gillikin country of oz." "to wander from one's home," remarked the scare- crow, "is to encounter dangers and hardships, espe- cially if one is made of meat and bone. had you no friends in that corner of the gillikin country? was it not homelike and comfortable?" to hear a man stuffed with straw speak, and speak so well, quite startled woot, and perhaps he stared a bit rudely at the scarecrow. but after a moment he replied: "i had home and friends, your honorable straw- ness, but they were so quiet and happy and com- -> chapter one fortable that i found them dismally stupid. nothing in that corner of oz interested me, but i believed that in other parts of the country i would find strange people and see new sights, and so i set out upon my wandering journey. i have been a wan- derer for nearly a full year, and now my wanderings have brought me to this splendid castle." "i suppose," said the tin woodman, "that in this year you have seen so much that you have become very wise." "no," replied woot, thoughtfully, "i am not at all wise, i beg to assure your majesty. the more i wander the less i find that i know, for in the land of oz much wisdom and many things may be learned." "to learn is simple. don't you ask questions?" inquired the scarecrow. "yes; i ask as many questions as i dare; but some people refuse to answer questions." "that is not kind of them," declared the tin wood- man. "if one does not ask for information he seldom receives it; so i, for my part, make it a rule to answer any civil question that is asked me." "so do i," added the scarecrow, nodding. "i am glad to hear this," said the wanderer, r chapter one the boy ate in silence for a time, being really hungry, but after his appetite was somewhat satis- fied, he said: "how happened your majesty to be made of tin, and still be alive?" "that," replied the tin man, "is a long story." "the longer the better," said the boy. "won't you please tell me the story?" "if you desire it," promised the tin woodman, leaning*- back in his tin throne and crossing his tin legs. "i haven't related my history in a long while, the tin woodman of oz because everyone here knows it nearly as well as i do. but you, being a stranger, are no doubt curious to learn how i became so beautiful and prosperous, so i will recite for your benefit my strange adven- tures." "thank you," said woot the wanderer, still eating. "i was not always made of tin," began the emperor, "for in the beginning i was a man of flesh and bone and blood and lived in the munchkin country of oz. there i was, by trade, a woodchop- per, and contributed my share to the comfort of the oz people by chopping up the trees of the forest to make firewood, with which the women would cook their meals while the children warmed themselves about the fires. for my home i had a little hut by the edge of the forest, and my life was one of much content until i fell in love with a beautiful munch- kin girl who lived not far away." "what was the munchkin girl's name?" asked woot. "nimmie amee. this girl, so fair that the sunsets blushed when their rays fell upon her, lived with a powerful witch who wore silver shoes and who had made the poor child her slave. nimmie amee was obliged to work from morning till night for the chapter one old witch of the east, scrubbing and sweeping her hut and cooking her meals and washing her dishes. she had to cut firewood, too, until i found her one day in the forest and fell in love with her. after that, i always brought plenty of firewood to nimmie amee and we became very friendly. finally i asked her to marry me, and she agreed to do so, but the witch happened to overhear our conversation and it made her very angry, for she did not wish her slave to be taken away from her. the witch commanded me never to come near nimmie amee again, but i told her i was my own master and would do as i pleased, not realizing that this was a careless way to speak to a witch. "the next day, as i was cutting wood in the for- est, the cruel witch enchanted my axe, so that it slipped and cut off my right leg." "how dreadful!" cried woot the wanderer. "yes, it was a seeming misfortune," agreed the tin man, "for a one-legged woodchopper is of little use in his trade. but i would not allow the witch to conquer me so easily. i knew a very skillful mechanic at the other side of the forest, who was my friend, so i hopped on one leg to him and asked him to help me. he soon made me a new leg out of tin the tin woodman of oz and fastened it cleverly to my meat body. it had joints at the knee and at the ankle and was almost as comfortable as the leg i had lost." "your friend must have been a wonderful work- man!" exclaimed woot. "he was, indeed," admitted the emperor. "he was a tinsmith by trade and could make anything out of tin. when i returned to nimmie amee, the girl was delighted and threw her arms around my neck and kissed me, declaring she was proud of me. the witch saw the kiss and was more angry than before. when i went to work in the forest, next day, my axe, being still enchanted, slipped and cut off my other leg. again i hopped — on my tin leg — to my friend the tinsmith, who kindly made me another tin leg and fastened it to my body. so i returned joyfully to nimmie amee, who was much pleased with my glittering legs and promised that when we were wed she would always keep them oiled and polished. but the witch was more furious than ever, and as soon as i raised my axe to chop, it twisted around and cut off one of my arms. the tinsmith made me a tin arm and i was not much worried, because nimmie amee declared she still loved me." the heart of the tin woodman tee chapter the emperor of the winkles paused in his story to reach for an oil-can, with which he carefully oiled the joints in his tin throat, for his voice had begun to squeak a little. woot the wanderer, having satisfied his hunger, watched this oiling process with much' curiosity, but begged the tin man to go on with his tale. chapter two more fear of the wicked witch, for she was powerless to injure me. nimmie amee said we must be married at once, for then she could come to my cottage and live with me and keep me bright and sparkling. "' i am sure, my dear nick,' said the brave and beautiful girl — my name w?js then nick chopper, you should be told —' that you will make the best husband any girl could have. i shall not be obliged to cook for you, for now you do not eat; i shall not have to make your bed, for tin does not tire or require sleep; when we go to a dance, you will not get weary before the music stops and say you want to go home. all day long, while you are chopping wood in the forest, i shall be able to amuse myself in my own way — a privilege few wives enjoy. there is no temper in your new head, so you will not get angry with me. finally, i shall take pride in being the wife of the only live tin woodman in all the world!' which shows that nimmie amee was as wise as she was brave and beautiful." "i think she was a very nice girl," said woot the wanderer. "but, tell me, please, why were you not killed when you were chopped to pieces?" "in the land of oz," replied the emperor, "no one can ever be killed. a. man with a wooden leg or a the tin woodman of oz tin leg is still the same man; and, as i lost parts of my meat body by degrees, i always remained the same person as in the beginning, even though in the end i was all tin and no meat." "i see," said the boy, thoughtfully. "and did you marry nimmie amee? t "no," answered the tin woodman, " i did not. she said she still loved me, but i found that i no longer loved her. my tin body contained no heart, and without a heart no one can love. so the wicked witch conquered in the end, and when i left the munchkin country of oz, the poor girl was still the slave of the witch and had to do her bidding day and night." "where did you go?" asked woot. "well, i first started out to find a heart, so i could love nimmie amee again; but hearts are more scarce than one would think. one day, in a big forest that was strange to me, my joints suddenly became rusted, because i had forgotten to oil them. there i stood, unable to move hand or foot. and there i continued to stand — while days came and went — until dor- othy and the scarecrow came along and rescued me. they oiled my joints and set me free, and i've taken good care never to rust again." chapter two "who .was this dorothy?" questioned the wan- derer. "a little girl who happened to be in a house when it was carried by; a cyclone all the way from kansas to the land of oz. when the house fell, in the munchkin country, it fortunately landed on the wicked witch and smashed her flat. it was a big house, and i think the witch is under it yet." "no," said the scarecrow, correcting him, "dor- othy says the witch turned to dust, and the wind scattered the dust in every direction." "well," continued the tin woodman, "after meet- ing the scarecrow and dorothy, i went with them to the emerald city, where the wizard of oz gave me a heart. but the wizard's stock of hearts was low, and he gave me a kind heart instead of a lov- ing heart, so that i could not love nimmie amee any more than i did when i was heartless." "couldn't the wizard give you a heart that was both kind and loving?" asked the boy. "no; that was what i asked for, but he said he was so short on hearts, just then, that there was but one in stock, and i could take that or none at all. so i accepted it, and i must say that for its kind it is a very good heart indeed." the tin woodman of oz "it seems to me," said woot, musingly, "that the wizard fooled you. it can't be a very kind heart, you know." "why not?" demanded the emperor. "because it was unkind of you to desert the girl who loved you, and who had been faithful and true to you when you were in trouble. had the heart the wizard gave you been a kind heart, you would have gone back home and made the beautiful munch- kin girl your wife, and then brought her here to be an empress and live in your splendid tin castle." the tin woodman was so surprised at this frank speech that for a time he did nothing but stare hard at the boy wanderer. but the scarecrow wagged his stuffed head and said in a positive tone: "this boy is right. i've often wondered, myself, why you didn't go back and find that poor munchkin girl." then the tin woodman stared hard at his friend the scarecrow. but finally he said in a serious tone of voice: "i must admit that never before have i thought of such a thing as finding mmmie amee and making her empress of the winkies. but it is surely not too late, even now, to do this, for the girl must still be chapter two living in the munchkin country. and, since this strange wanderer has reminded me of nimmie amee, i believe it is my duty to set out and find her. surely it is not the girl's fault that i no longer love her, and so, if i can make her happy, it is proper that i should do so, and in this way reward her for her faith- fulness." "quite right, my friend!" agreed the scarecrow. "will you accompany me on this errand?" asked the tin emperor. the tin woodman of oz "of course," said the scarecrow. "and will you take me along?" pleaded woot the wanderer in an eager voice. "to be sure," said the tin woodman, "if you care to join our party. it was you who first told me it was my duty to find and marry nimmie amee, and i'd like you to know that nick chopper, the tin emperor of the winkies, is a man who never shirks his duty, once it is pointed out to him." "it ought to be a pleasure, as well as a duty, if the girl is so beautiful," said woot, well pleased with the idea of the adventure. "beautiful things may be admired, if not loved," asserted the tin man. "flowers are beautiful, for instance, but we are not inclined to marry them. duty, on the contrary, is a bugle call to action, whether you are inclined to act, or not. in this case, i obey the bugle call of duty." "when shall we start?" inquired the scarecrow, who was always glad to embark upon a new adven- ture. "i don't hear any bugle, but when do we go?" "as soon as we can get ready," answered the emperor. "i'll call my servants at once and order them to make preparations for our journey." roundabout £cq = chapter woot the wanderer slept that night in the tin castle of the emperor of the winkies and found his tin bed quite comfortable. early the next morning he rose and took a walk through the gardens, where there were tin foun- tains and beds of curious tin flowers, and where tin birds perched upon the branches of » ii the tin woodman of oz tin trees and sang songs that sounded like the notes of tin whistles. all these wonders had been made by the clever winkie tinsmiths, who wound the birds up every morning so that they would move about and sing. after breakfast the boy went into the throne room, where the emperor was having his tin joints care- fully oiled by a servant, while other servants were stuffing sweet, fresh straw into the body of the scarecrow. woot watched this operation with much interest, for the scarecrow's body was only a suit of clothes filled with straw. the coat was buttoned tight to keep the packed straw from falling out and a rope was tied around the waist to hold it in shape and prevent the straw from sagging down. the scare- crow's head was a gunnysack filled with bran, on which the eyes, nose and mouth had been painted. his hands were white cotton gloves stuffed with fine straw. woot noticed that even when carefully stuffed and patted into shape, the straw man was awkward in his movements and decidedly wobbly on his feet, so the boy wondered if the scarecrow would be able to travel with them all the way to the forests of the munchkin country of oz. chapter three the preparations made for this important journey were very simple. a knapsack was filled with food and given woot the wanderer to carry upon his back, for the food was for his use alone. the tin woodman shouldered an axe which was sharp and brightly idont near anij bnqle polished, and the scarecrow put the emperor's oil- can in his pocket, that he might oil his friend's joints should they need it. "who will govern the winkie country during your absence?" asked the boy. the tin woodman of oz "why, the country will run itself," answered the emperor. "as a matter of fact, my people do not need an emperor, for ozma of oz watches over the welfare of all her subjects, including the winkies. like a good many kings and emperors, i have a grand title, but very little real power, which allows me time to amuse myself in my own way. the people of oz have but one law to obey, which is: * behave yourself,' so it is easy for them to abide by this law, and you'll notice they behave very well. but it is time for us to be off, and i am eager to start because i suppose that that poor munchkin girl is anxiously awaiting my coming." "she's waited a long time already, seems to me," remarked the scarecrow, as they left the grounds of the castle and followed a path that led eastward. "true," replied the tin woodman; "but i've noticed that the last end of a wait, however long it has been, is the hardest to endure; so i must try to make nimmie amee happy as soon as possible." "ah; that proves you have a kind heart," remarked the scarecrow, approvingly. "it's too bad he hasn't a loving heart," said woot. "this tin man is going to marry a nice girl through the tin woodman of oz for both of us. after i have found nimmie amee and she has managed to control her joy at our reunion, i shall take her to the emerald city and introduce her to ozma and dorothy, and to betsy bobbin and tiny trot, and all our other friends; but, if i remem- ber rightly, poor nimmie amee has a sharp tongue when angry, and she may be a trifle angry with me, at first, because i have been so long in coming to her." "i can understand that," said woot gravely. "but how can we get to that part of the munchkin country where you once lived without passing through the emerald city?" "why, that is easy," the tin man assured him. "i have a map of oz in my pocket," persisted the boy, "and it shows that the winkie country, where we now are, is at the west of oz, and the munchkin country at the east, while directly between them lies the emerald city." "true enough; but we shall go toward the north, first of all, into the gillikin country, and so pass around the emerald city," explained the tin wood- man. "that may prove a dangerous journey," replied the boy. "i used to live in one of the top corners of the gillikin country, near to oogaboo, and i have chapter three been told that in this northland country are many people whom it is not pleasant to meet. i was very careful to avoid them during my journey south." "a wanderer should have no fear," observed the scarecrow, who was wabbling along in a funny, hap- hazard manner, but keeping pace with his friends. "fear does not make one a coward," returned woot, growing a little red in the face, "but i believe it is more easy to avoid danger than to overcome it. the safest way is the best way, even for one who is brave and determined." the tin woodman of oz "do not worry, for we shall not go far to the north," said the emperor, "my one idea is to avoid the emerald city without going out of our way more than is necessary. once around the emerald city we will turn south into the munchkin country, where the scarecrow and i are well acquainted and have many friends." "i have traveled some in the gillikin country," remarked the scarecrow, "and while i must say i have met some strange people there at times, i have never yet been harmed by them." "well, it's all the same to me," said woot, with assumed carelessness. "dangers, when they cannot be avoided, are often quite interesting, and i am willing to go wherever you two venture to go." so they left the path they had been following and began to travel toward the northeast, and all that dag they were in the pleasant winkie country, and all the people they met saluted the emperor with great respect and wished him good luck on his jour- ney. at night they stopped at a house where they were well entertained and where woot was given a comfortable bed to sleep in. "were the scarecrow and i alone," said the tin woodman, "we would travel by night as well as chapter three by day; but with a meat person in our party, we must halt at night to permit him to rest." "meat tires, after a day's travel," added the scare- crow, "while straw and tin never tire at all. which proves," said he, "that we are somewhat superior to people made in the common way." woot could not deny that he was tired, and he slept soundly until morning, when he was given a good breakfast, smoking hot. "you two miss a great deal by not eating," he said to his companions. "it is true," responded the scarecrow. "we miss suffering from hunger, when food cannot be had, and we miss a stomach-ache, now and then." as he said this, the scarecrow glanced at the tin woodman, who nodded his assent. all that second day they traveled steadily, enter- taining one another the while with stories of adven- tures they had formerly met and listening to the scarecrow recite poetry. he had learned a great many poems from professor wogglebug and loved to repeat them whenever anybody would listen to him. of course woot and the tin woodman now listened, because they could not do otherwise — unless they rudely ran away from their stuffed comrade. the tin woodman of oz one of the scarecrow's recitations was like this: "what sound is so sweet as the straw from the wheat when it crunkles so tender and low? it is yellow and bright, so it gives me delight to crunkle wherever i go. "sweet, fresh, golden straw! there is surely no flaw in a stuffing so clean and compact. it creaks when i walk, and it thrills when i talk, and its fragrance is fine, for a fact. "to cut me don't hurt, for i've no blood to squirt, and i therefore can suffer no pain; the straw that i use doesn't lump up or bruise, though it's pounded again and again! "i know it is said that my beautiful head has brains of mixed wheat-straw and bran, but my thoughts are so good chapter three i'd not change, if i could, for the brains of a common meat man. "content with my lot, i'm glad that i'm not like others i meet day by day; if my insides get musty, or mussed-up, or dusty, i get newly stuffed right away." chapter four wild and uncultivated and there were no houses of any sort to be seen. but our friends kept on walking even after the sun went down, hoping to find a good place for woot the wanderer to sleep; but when it grew quite dark and the boy was weary with his long walk, they halted right in the middle of a field and allowed woot to get his supper from the food he carried in his knapsack. then the scarecrow laid himself down, so that woot could use his stuffed body as a pillow, and the tin woodman stood up beside them all night, so the dampness of the ground might not rust his joints or dull his brilliant polish. whenever the dew settled on his body he carefully wiped it off with a cloth, and so in the morning the emperor shone as brightly as ever in the rays of the rising sun. they wakened the boy at daybreak, the scarecrow saying to him: "we have discovered something queer, and there- fore we must counsel together what to do about it." "what have you discovered? " asked woot, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with his knuckles and giving three wide yawns to prove he was fully awake. "a sign," said the tin woodman. "a sign, and another path." chapter four "i'd like to see what loonville looks like," re- marked the tin woodman. "when one travels, it is foolish to miss any inter- esting sight," added the scarecrow. "but a warning means danger," protested woot the wanderer, "and i believe it sensible to keep out of danger whenever we can." they made no reply to this speech for a while. then said the scarecrow: "i have escaped so many dangers, during my life- time, that i am not much afraid of anything that can happen." "nor am l " exclaimed the tin woodman, swing- ing his glittering axe around his tin head, in a series of circles. "few things can injure tin, and my axe is a powerful weapon to use against a foe. but our boy friend," he continued, looking solemnly at woot, "might perhaps be injured if the people of loonville are really dangerous; so i propose he waits here while you and i, friend scarecrow, visit the forbidden city of loonville." <l don't worry about me," advised woot, calmly. "wherever you wish to go, i will go, and share your dangers. during my wanderings i have found it more wise to keep out of danger than to venture in, but the tin woodman of oz at that time i was alone, and now i have two power- ful friends to protect me." so, when he had finished his breakfast, they all set out along the path that led to loonville. "it is a place i have never heard of before," remarked the scarecrow, as they approached a dense forest. "the inhabitants may be people, of some sort, or they may be animals, but whatever they prove to be, we will have an interesting story to relate to dorothy and ozma on our return." the path led into the forest, but the big trees grew so closely together and the vines and underbrush were so thick and matted that they had to clear a path at each step in order to proceed. in one or two places the tin man, who went first to clear the way, cut the branches with a blow of his axe. woot followed next, and last of the three came the scare- crow, who could not have kept the path at all had not his comrades broken the way for his straw-stuffed body. presently the tin woodman pushed his way through some heavy underbrush, and almost tumbled headlong into a vast cleared space in the forest. the clearing was circular, big and roomy, yet the top branches of the tall trees reached over and formed a chapter four complete dome or roof for it. strangely enough, it was not dark in this immense natural chamber in the woodland, for the place glowed with a soft, white light that seemed to come from some unseen source. in the chamber were grouped dozens of queer creatures, and these so astonished the tin man that woot had to push his metal body aside, that he might see, too. and the scarecrow pushed woot aside, so that the three travelers stood in a row, staring with all their eyes. the creatures they beheld were round and ball- like; round in body, round in legs and arms, round in hands and feet and round of head. the only exception to the roundness was a slight hollow on the top of each head, making it saucer-shaped instead of dome-shaped. they wore no clothes on their puffy bodies, nor had they any hair. their skins were all of a light gray color, and their eyes were mere purple spots. their noses were as puffy as the rest of them. "are they rubber, do you think?" asked the scarecrow, who noticed that the creatures bounded, as they moved, and seemed almost as light as air. "it is difficult to tell what they are," answered woot, "they seem to be covered with warts." the tin woodman of oz the loons — for so these folks were called — had been doing many things, some playing together, some working at tasks and some gathered in groups to talk; but at the sound of strange voices, which echoed rather loudly through the clearing, all turned in the direction of the intruders. then, in a body, they all rushed forward, running and bounding with tremendous speed. the tin woodman was so surprised by this sud- den dash that he had no time to raise his axe before the loons were on them. the creatures swung their puffy hands, which looked like boxing-gloves, and pounded the three travelers as hard as they could, on all sides. the blows were quite soft and did not hurt our friends at all, but the onslaught quite bewil- dered them, so that in a brief period all three were knocked over and fell flat upon the ground. once down, many of the loons held them, to prevent their getting up again, while others wound long tendrils of vines about them, binding their arms and legs to their bodies and so rendering them helpless. "aha!" cried the biggest loon of all; "we've got 'em safe; so let's carry 'em to king bal and have 'em tried, and condemned and perforated!" they had to drag their captives to the center of chapter four the domed chamber, for their weight, as compared with that of the loons, prevented their being car- ried. even the scarecrow was much heavier than the puffy loons. but finally the party halted before a raised platform, on which stood a sort of throne, consisting of a big, wide chair with a string tied to one arm of it. this string led upward to the roof of the dome. arranged before the platform, the prisoners were allowed to sit up, facing the empty throne. "good!" said the big loon who had commanded the party. "now to get king bal to judge these terrible creatures we have so bravely captured." as he spoke he took hold of the string and began to pull as hard as he could. one or two of the others helped him and pretty soon, as they drew in the cord, the leaves above them parted and a loon appeared at the other end of the string. it didn't take long to draw him down to the throne, where he seated himself and was tied in, so he wouldn't float upward again. "hello," said the king, blinking his purple eyes at his followers; "what's up now!" "strangers, your majesty — strangers and cap- tives," replied the big loon, pompously. the tin woodman of oz "dear me! i see 'em, i see 'em very plainly," exclaimed the king, his purple eyes bulging out as he looked at the three prisoners. "what curious animals! are they dangerous, do you think, my good panta?" "i'm 'fraid so, your majesty. of course, they may not be dangerous, but we mustn't take chances. enough accidents happen to us poor loons as it is, and my advice is to condemn and perforate 'em as quickly as possible." "keep your advice to yourself," said the monarch, in a peeved tone. "who's king here, anyhow! you or me?" "we made you our king because you have less common sense than the rest of us," answered panta loon, indignantly. "i could have been king myself, had i wanted to, but i didn't care for the hard work and responsibility." as he said this, the big loon strutted back and forth in the space between the throne of king bal and the prisoners, and the other loons seemed much impressed by his defiance. but suddenly there came a sharp report and panta loon instantly disap- peared, to the great astonishment of the scarecrow, the tin woodman and woot the wanderer, who saw chapter four on the spot where the big fellow had stood a little heap of flabby, wrinkled skin that looked like a collapsed rubber balloon. "there!" exclaimed the king; "i expected that would happen. the conceited rascal wanted to puff himself up until he was bigger than the rest of you, and this is the result of his folly. get the pump working, some of you, and blow him up again." "we will have to mend the puncture first, your majesty," suggested one of the loons, and the prisoners noticed that none of them seemed surprised or shocked at the sad accident to panta. "all right," grumbled the king, "fetch til to mend him." one or two ran away and presently returned, fol- lowed by a lady loon wearing huge, puffed-up rub- ber skirts. also she had a purple feather fastened to a wart on the top of her head, and around her waist was a sash of fibre-like vines, dried and tough, that looked like strings. "get to work, til," commanded king bal. "panta has just exploded." the lady loon picked up the bunch of skin and examined it carefully until she discovered a hole in one foot. then she pulled a strand of string from the tin woodman of oz her sash, and drawing the edges of the hole together, she tied them fast with the string, thus making one of those curious warts which the strangers had noticed on so many loons. having done this, til loon tossed the bit of skin to the other loons and was about to go away when she noticed the prisoners and stopped to inspect them. "dear me!" said til; "what dreadful creatures. where did they come from?" "we captured them," replied one of the loons. "and what are we going to do with them?" inquired the girl loon. "perhaps we'll condemn 'em and puncture 'em," answered the king. "well," said she, still eyeing the captives, "i'm not sure they'll puncture. let's try it, and see." one of the loons ran to the forest's edge and quickly returned with a long, sharp thorn. he glanced at the king, who nodded his head in assent, and then he rushed forward and stuck the thorn into the leg of the scarecrow. the scarecrow merely smiled and said nothing, for the thorn didn't hurt him at all. then the loon tried to prick the tin woodman's leg, but the tin only blunted the point of the thorn. "just as i thought," said til, blinking her purple the tin woodman of oz eyes and shaking her puffy head; but just then the loon stuck the thorn into the leg of woot the wan- derer, and while it had been blunted somewhat, it was still sharp enough to hurt. "ouch!" yelled woot, and kicked out his leg with so much energy that the frail bonds that tied him burst apart. his foot caught the loon — who was leaning over him — full on his puffy stomach, and sent him shooting up into the air. when he was high over their heads he exploded with a loud "pop" and his skin fell to the ground. "i really believe," said the king, rolling his spot- like eyes in a frightened way, "that panta was right in claiming these prisoners are dangerous. is the pump ready?" some of the loons had wheeled a big machine in front of the throne and now took panta's skin and began to pump air into it. slowly it swelled out until the king cried "stop!" "no, no!" yelled panta, "i'm not big enough yet." "you're as big as you're going to be," declared the king, "before you exploded you were bigger than the rest of us, and that caused you to be proud and overbearing. now you're a little smaller than the rest, and you will last longer and be more humble." chapter four "pump me up — pump me up!" wailed panta. "if you don't you'll break my heart." "if we do we'll break your skin," replied the king. so the loons stopped pumping air into panta, and pushed him away from the pump. he was certainly more humble than before his accident, for he crept into the background and said nothing more. "now pump up the other one," ordered the king. til had already mended him, and the loons set to work to pump him full of air. the tin woodman of oz during these last few moments none had paid much attention to the prisoners, so woot, finding his legs free, crept over to the tin woodman and rubbed the bonds that were still around his arms and body against the sharp edge of the axe, which quickly cut them. the boy was now free, and the thorn which the loon had stuck into his leg was lying unnoticed on the ground, where the creature had dropped it when he exploded. woot leaned forward and picked up the thorn, and while the loons were busy watching the pump, the boy sprang to his feet and suddenly rushed upon the group. "pop" — "pop" — "pop!" went three of the loons, when the wanderer pricked them with his thorn, and at the sounds the others looked around and saw their danger. with yells of fear they bounded away in all directions, scattering about the clear- ing, with woot the wanderer in full chase. while they could run much faster than the boy, they often stumbled and fell, or got in one another's way, so he managed to catch several and prick them with his thorn. it astonished him to see how easily the loons exploded. when the air was let out of them they go chapter four were quite helpless. til loon was one of those who ran against his thorn and many others suffered the same fate. the creatures could not escape from the enclosure, but in their fright many bounded upward and caught branches of the trees, and then climbed out of reach of the dreaded thorn. woot was getting pretty tired chasing them, so he stopped and came over, panting, to where his friends were sitting, still bound. "very well done, my wanderer," said the tin woodman. "it is evident that we need fear these puffed-up creatures no longer, so be kind enough to unfasten our bonds and we will proceed upon our journey." woot untied the bonds of the scarecrow and helped him to his feet. then he freed the tin woodman, who got up without help. looking around them, they saw that the only loon now remaining within reach was bal loon, the king, who had remained seated in his throne, watching the punishment of his people with a bewildered look in his purple eyes. "shall i puncture the king?" the boy asked his companions. king bal must have overheard the question, for lie fumbled with the cord that fastened him to the the tin woodman of oz throne and managed to release it. then he floated upward until he reached the leafy dome, and parting the branches he disappeared from sight. but the string that was tied to his body was still connected with the arm of the throne, and they knew they could pull his majesty down again, if they wanted to. "let him alone," suggested the scarecrow. "he seems a good enough king for his peculiar people, and after we are gone, the loons will have something of a job to pump up all those whom woot has punc- tured." "every one of them ought to be exploded," declared woot, who was angry because his leg still hurt him. "no," said the tin woodman, "that would not be just fair. they were quite right to capture us, because we had no business to intrude here, having been warned to keep away from loonville. this is their country, not ours, and since the poor things can't get out of the clearing, they can harm no one save those who venture here out of curiosity, as we did." "well said, my friend," agreed the scarecrow. "we really had no right to disturb their peace and comfort; so let us go away." they easily found the place where they had forced chapter four their way into the enclosure, so the tin woodman pushed aside the underbrush and started first along the path. the scarecrow followed next and last came woot, who looked back and saw that the loons were still clinging to their perches on the trees and watching their former captives with frightened eyes. "i guess they're glad to see the last, of us," remarked the boy, and laughing at the happy ending of the adventure, he followed his comrades along the path. mrs. yoop, the giantess ecog — chapter when they had reached the end of the path, where they had first seen the warn- ing sign, they set off across the country in an easterly direction. before long they reached rolling lands, which were a succession of hills and valleys where constant climbs and descents were required, and their journey now be- chapter five came tedious, because on climbing each hill, they found before them nothing in the valley below it — except grass, or weeds or stones. up and down they went for hours, with nothing to relieve the monotony of the landscape, until finally, when they had topped a higher hill than usual, they discovered a cup-shaped valley before them in the center of which stood an enormous castle, built of purple stone. the castle was high and broad and long, but had no turrets and towers. so far as they could see, there was but one small window and one big door on each side of the great building. "this is strange!" mused the scarecrow. "t& no idea such a big castle existed in this gillikin country. i wonder who lives here?" "it seems to me, from this distance," remarked the tin woodman, "that it's the biggest castle i ever saw. it is really too big for any use, and no one could open or shut those big doors without a step- ladder." "perhaps, if we go nearer, we shall find out whether anybody lives there or not," suggested woot. "looks to me as if nobody lived there." on they went, and when they reached the center of the valley, where the great stone castle stood, it was the tin woodmanof oz beginning to grow dark. so they hesitated as to what to do. "if friendly people happen to live here," said woot, "i shall be glad of a bed; but should enemies occupy the place, i prefer to sleep upon the ground." "and if no one at all lives here," added the scare- crow, "we can enter, and take possession, and make ourselves at home." while speaking he went nearer to one of the great doors, which was three times as high and broad as any he had ever seen in a house before, and then he discovered, engraved in big letters upon a stone over the doorway, the words: "yoop castle" "oho!" he exclaimed; "i know the place now. this was probably the home of mr. yoop, a terrible giant whom i have seen confined in a cage, a long way from here. therefore this castle is likely to be empty and we may use it in any way we please." "yes, yes," said the tin emperor, nodding; "i also remember mr. yoop. but how are we to get into his deserted castle? the latch of the door is so far above our heads that none of us can reach it." they considered this problem for a while, and then woot said to the tin man: chapter five "if i stand upon your shoulders, i think i can unlatch the door." "climb up, then," was the reply, and when the boy was perched upon the tin shoulders of nick chopper, he was just able to reach the latch and raise it. at once the door swung open, its great hinges making a groaning sound as if in protest, so woot leaped down and followed his companions into a big, bare hallway. scarcely were the three inside, how- ever, when they heard the door slam shut behind them, and this astonished them because no one had touched it. it had closed of its own accord, as if by magic. moreover, the latch was on the outside, and the thought occurred to each one of them that they were now prisoners in this unknown castle. "however," mumbled the scarecrow, "we are not to blame for what cannot be helped; so let us push bravely ahead and see what may be seen." it was quite dark in the hallway, now that the outside door was shut, so as they stumbled along a stone passage they kept close together, not knowing what danger was likely to befall them. suddenly a soft glow enveloped them. it grew brighter, until they could see their surroundings dis- the tin woodman of oz tinctly. they had reached the end of the passage and before them was another huge door. this noise- lessly swung open before them, without the help of anyone, and through the doorway they observed a big chamber, the walls of which were lined with plates of pure gold, highly polished. this room was also lighted, although they could discover no lamps, and in the center of it was a great table at which sat an immense woman. she was clad in silver robes embroidered with gay floral designs, and wore over this splendid raiment a short apron of elaborate lace-work. such an apron was no protection, and was not in keeping with the hand- some gown, but the huge woman wore it, nevertheless. the table at which she sat was spread with a white cloth and had golden dishes upon it, so the travelers saw that they had surprised the giantess while she was eating her supper. she had her back toward them and did not even turn around, but taking a biscuit from a dish she began to butter it and said in a voice that was big and deep but not especially unpleasant: "why don't you come in and allow the door to shut? you're causing a draught, and i shall catch cold and sneeze. when i sneeze, i get cross, and chapter five when i get cross i'm liable to do something wicked. come in, you foolish strangers; come in!" being thus urged, they entered the room and approached the table, until they stood where they faced the great giantess. she continued eating, but smiled in a curious way as she looked at them. woot noticed that the door had closed silently after they had entered, and that didn't please him at all. "well," said the giantess, "what excuse have you to offer?" "we didn't know anyone lived here, madam," explained the scarecrow; "so, being travelers and strangers in these parts, and wishing to find a place for our boy friend to sleep, we ventured to enter your castle." "you knew it was private property, i suppose?" said she, buttering another biscuit. "we saw the words, 'yoop castle,' over the door, but we knew that mr. yoop is a prisoner in a cage in a far-off part of the land of oz, so we decided there was no one now at home and that we might use the castle for the night." "i see," remarked the giantess, nodding her head and smiling again in that curious way — a way that made woot shudder. "you didn't know that mr. the tin woodman of oz yoop was married, or that after he was cruelly cap- tured his wife still lived in his castle and ran it to suit herself." "who captured mr. yoop?" asked woot, looking gravely at the big woman. "wicked enemies. people who selfishly objected to yoop's taking their cows and sheep for his food. i must admit, however, that yoop had a bad temper, and had the habit of knocking over a few houses, now and then, when he was angry. so one day the little folks came in a great crowd and captured mr. yoop, and carried him away to a cage somewhere in the mountains. i don't know where it is, and i don't care, for my husband treated me badly at times, forgetting the respect a giant owes to a giantess. often he kicked me on my shins, when i wouldn't wait on him. so i'm glad he is gone." "it's a wonder the people didn't capture you, too," remarked woot. "well, i was too clever for them," said she, giving a sudden laugh that caused such a breeze that the wobbly scarecrow was almost blown off his feet and had to grab his friend nick chopper to steady him- self. "i saw the people coming," continued mrs. yoop, "and knowing they meant mischief i trans- chapter five formed myself into a mouse and hid in a cupboard. after they had gone away, carrying my shin-kicking husband with them, i transformed myself back to my former shape again, and here i've lived in peace and comfort ever since." "are you a witch, then?" inquired woot. "well, not exactly a witch," she replied, "but i'm an artist in transformations. in other words, i'm more of a yookoohoo than a witch, and of course you know that the yookoohoos are the cleverest magic-workers in the world." the travelers were silent for a time, uneasily con- sidering this statement and the effect it might have on their future. no doubt the giantess had wilfully made them her prisoners; yet she spoke so cheerfully, in her big voice, that until now they had not been alarmed in the least. by and by the scarecrow, whose mixed brains had been working steadily, asked the woman: "are we to consider you our friend, mrs. yoop, or do you intend to be our enemy?" "i never have friends," she said in a matter-of- fact tone, "because friends get too familiar and always forget to mind their own business. but i am not your enemy; not yet, anyhow. indeed, i'm the tin woodman of oz glad you've come, for my life here is rather lonely. i've had no one to talk to since i transformed polychrome, the daughter of the rainbow, into a canary-bird." "how did you manage to do that?" asked the tin woodman, in amazement. "polychrome is a power- ful fairy!" "she was,"said the giantess; "but now she's a canary-bird. one day after a rain, polychrome danced off the rainbow and fell asleep on a little mound in this valley, not far from my castle. the sun came out and drove the rainbow away, and before poly wakened, i stole out and transformed her into a canary-bird in a gold cage studded with diamonds. the cage was so she couldn't fly away. i expected she'd sing and talk and we'd have good times together; but she has proved no company for me at all. ever since the moment of her transforma- tion, she has refused to speak a single word." "where is she now ?" inquired woot, who had heard tales of lovely polychrome and was much interested in her. "the cage is hanging up in my bedroom," said the giantess, eating another biscuit. the travelers were now more uneasy and suspicious chapter five of the giantess than before. if polychrome, the rainbow's daughter, who was a real fairy, had been transformed and enslaved by this huge woman, who claimed to be a tookoohoo, what was liable to happen to them? said the scarecrow, twisting his stuffed head around in mrs. toop's direction: "do you know, ma'am, who we are?" "of course," said she; "a straw man, a tin man and a boy." "we are very important people," declared the tin woodman. "all the better," she replied. "i shall enjoy your society the more on that account. for i mean to keep you here as long as i live, to amuse me when i get lonely. and," she added slowly, "in this valley no one ever dies." they didn't like this speech at all, so the scarecrow frowned in a way that made mrs. yoop smile, while the tin woodman looked so fierce that mrs. yoop laughed. the scarecrow suspected she was going to laugh, so he slipped behind his friends to escape the wind from her breath. from this safe position he said warningly: "we have powerful friends who will soon come to rescue us." j the tin woodman of oz "let them come," she returned, with an accent of scorn. "when they get here they will find neither a boy, nor a tin man, nor a scarecrow, for tomorrow morning i intend to transform you all into other shapes, so that you cannot be recognized." this threat filled them with dismay. the good- natured giantess was more terrible than they had imagined. she could smile and wear pretty clothes and at the same time be even more cruel than her wicked husband had been. both the scarecrow and the tin woodman tried to think of some way to escape from the castle before morning, but she seemed to read their thoughts and shook her head. "don't worry your poor brains," said she. "you can't escape me, however hard you try. but why should you wish to escape? i shall give you new forms that are much better than the ones you now have. be contented with your fate, for discontent leads to unhappiness, and unhappiness, in any form, is the greatest evil that can befall you." "what forms do you intend to give us?" asked woot earnestly. "i haven't decided, as yet. i'll dream over it tonight, so in the morning i shall have made up my chapter five mind how to transform you. perhaps you'd prefer to choose your own transformations'?" "no," said woot, "i prefer to remain as i am." "that's funny," she retorted. "you are little, and you're weak; as you are, you're not much account, anyhow. the best thing about you is that you're alive, for i shall be able to make of you some sort of live creature which will be a great improvement on your present form." she took another biscuit from a plate and dipped it in a pot of honey and calmly began eating it. the tin woodman of oz the scarecrow watched her thoughtfully. "there are no fields of grain in your valley," said he; "where, then, did you get the flour to make your biscuits?" "mercy me! do you think i'd bother to make bis- cuits out of flour?" she replied. "that is altogether too tedious a process for a yookoohoo. i set some traps this afternoon and caught a lot of field-mice, but as i do not like to eat mice, i transformed them into hot biscuits for my supper. the honey in this pot was once a wasp's nest, but since being trans- formed it has become sweet and delicious. all i need do, when i wish to eat, is to take something i don't care to keep, and transform it into any sort of food i like, and eat it. are you hungry?" "i don't eat, thank you," said the scarecrow. "nor do i," said the tin woodman. "i have still a little natural food in my knapsack," said woot the wanderer, "and i'd rather eat that than any wasp's nest." "every one to his taste," said the giantess care- lessly, and having now finished her supper she rose to her feet, clapped her hands together, and the supper table at once disappeared. <tb the magic of tiyookoohoo chapter woot had seen very little of magic during his wanderings, while the scarecrow and the tin woodman had seen a great deal of many sorts in their lives, yet all three were greatly impressed by mrs. yoop's powers. she did not affect any mysterious airs or indulge in chants or mystic rites, as most witches do, nor so &l the tin woodman of oz was the giantess old and ugly or disagreeable in face or manner. nevertheless, she frightened her prisoners more than any witch could have done. "please be seated," she said to them, as she sat herself down in a great arm-chair and spread her beautiful embroidered skirts for them to admire. but all the chairs in the room were so high that our friends could not climb to the seats of them. mrs. yoop observed this and waved her hand, when instantly a golden ladder appeared leaning against a chair opposite her own. "climb up," said she, and they obeyed, the tin man and the boy assisting the more clumsy scare- crow. when they were all seated in a row on the cushion of the chair, the giantess continued: "now tell me how you happened to travel in this direction, and where you came from and what your errand is." so the tin woodman told her all about nimmie amee, and how he had decided to find her and marry her, although he had no loving heart. the story seemed to amuse the big woman, who then began to ask the scarecrow questions and for the first time in her life heard of ozma of oz, and of dorothy and jack pumpkinhead and dr. pipt and tik-tok and many other oz people who are well known in the chapter six emerald city. also woot had to tell his story, which was very simple and did not take long. the giantess laughed heartily when the boy related their adven- ture at loonville, but said she knew nothing of the loons because she never left her valley. "there are wicked people who would like to cap- ture me, as they did my giant husband, mr. yoop," said she; "so i stay at home and mind my own business." "if ozma knew that you dared to work magic without her consent, she would punish you severely," declared the scarecrow, "for this castle is in the land of oz, and no persons in the land of oz are permitted to work magic except glinda the good and the little wizard who lives with ozma in the emerald city." "that for your ozma!" exclaimed the giantess, snapping her fingers in derision. "what do i care for a girl whom i have never seen and who has never seen me?" "but ozma is a fairy," said the tin woodman, "and therefore she is very powerful. also, we are under ozma's protection, and to injure us in any way would make her extremely angry." "what i do here, in my own private castle in this the tin woodman of oz secluded valley — where no one comes but fools like you — can never be known to your fairy ozma," returned the giantess. "do not seek to frighten me from my purpose, and do not allow yourselves to be frightened, for it is best to meet bravely what cannot be avoided. i am now going to bed, and in the morning i will give you all new forms, such as will be more interesting to me than the ones you now wear. good night, and pleasant dreams." saying this, mrs. yoop rose from her chair and walked through a doorway into another room. so heavy was the tread of the giantess that even the walls of the big stone castle trembled as she stepped. she closed the door of her bedroom behind her, and then suddenly the light went out and the three pris- oners found themselves in total darkness. the tin woodman and the scarecrow didn't mind the dark at all, but woot the wanderer felt worried to be left in this strange place in this strange manner, without being able to see any danger that might threaten. "the big woman might have given me a bed, any- how," he said to his companions, and scarcely had he spoken when he felt something press against his legs, which were then dangling from the seat of the »......". chapter six chair. leaning down, he put out his hand and found that a bedstead had appeared, with mattress, sheets and covers, all complete. he lost no time in slipping down upon the bed and was soon fast asleep. during the night the scarecrow and the emperor talked in low tones together, and they got out of the chair and moved all about the room, feeling for some hidden spring that might open a door or window and permit them to escape. morning found them still unsuccessful in the quest and as soon as it was daylight woot's bed suddenly disappeared, and he dropped to the floor with a thump that quickly wakened him. and after a time the giantess came from her bedroom, wearing another dress that was quite as elaborate as the one in which she had been attired the evening before, and also wearing the pretty lace apron. having seated herself in a chair, she said: "i'm hungry; so i'll have breakfast at once." she clapped her hands together and instantly the table appeared before her, spread with snowy linen and laden with golden dishes. but there was no food upon the table, nor anything else except a pitcher of water, a bundle of weeds and a handful of pebbles. but the giantess poured some water into the tin woodman of oz her coffee-pot, patted it once or twice with her hand, and then poured out a cupful of steaming hot coffee. "would you like some?" she asked woot. he was suspicious of magic coffee, but it smelled so good that he could not resist it; so he answered: "if you please, madam." the giantess poured out another cup and set it on the floor for woot. it was as big as a tub, and the golden spoon in the saucer beside the cup was so heavy the boy could scarcely lift it. but woot managed to get a sip of the coffee and found it delicious. mrs. yoop next transformed the weeds into a dish of oatmeal, which she ate with good appetite. "now, then," said she, picking up the pebbles, "i'm wondering whether i shall have fish-balls or lamb-chops to complete my meal. which would you prefer, woot the wanderer?" "if you please, i'll eat the food in my knapsack," answered the boy. "your magic food might taste good, but i'm afraid of it." the woman laughed at his fears and transformed the pebbles into fish-balls. "i suppose you think that after you had eaten this food it would turn to stones again and make r ^nt the tin woodman of oz you sick," she remarked; "but that would be impos- sible. nothing i transform ever gets back to its former shape again, so these fish-balls can never more be pebbles. that is why i have to be careful of my transformations," she added, busily eating while she talked, "for while i can change forms at will i can never change them back again — which proves that even the powers of a clever yookoohoo are limited. when i have transformed you three people, you must always wear the shapes that i have given you." "then please don't transform us," begged woot, "for we are quite satisfied to remain as we are." "i am not expecting to satisfy you, but intend to please myself," she declared, "and my pleasure is to give you new shapes. for, if by chance your friends came in search of you, not one of them would be able to recognize you." her tone was so positive that they knew it would be useless to protest. the woman was not unpleasant to look at; her face was not cruel; her voice was big but gracious in tone; but her words showed that she possessed a merciless heart and no pleadings would alter her wicked purpose. mrs. yoop took ample time to finish her breakfast chapter six and the prisoners had no desire to hurry her, but finally the meal was concluded and she folded her napkin and made the table disappear by clapping her hands together. then she turned to her captives and said: "the next thing on the programme is to change your forms." "have you decided what forms to give us?" asked the scarecrow, uneasily. "yes; i dreamed it all out while i was asleep. this tin man seems a very solemn person " — indeed, the tin woodman was looking solemn, just then, for he was greatly disturbed — "so i shall change him into an owl." all she did was to point one finger at him as she spoke, but immediately the form of the tin woodman began to change and in a few seconds nick chopper, the emperor of the winkies, had been transformed into an owl, with eyes as big as saucers and a hooked beak and strong claws. but he was still tin. he was a tin owl, with tin legs and beak and eyes and feathers. when he flew to the back of a chair and perched upon it, his tin feathers rattled against one another with a tinny clatter. the giantess seemed much amused by the tin the tin woodman of oz owl's appearance, for her laugh was big and jolly. "you're not liable to get lost," said she, "for your wings and feathers will make a racket wherever you go. and, on my word, a tin owl is so rare and pretty that it is an improvement on the ordinary bird. i did not intend to make you tin, but i forgot to wish you to be meat. however, tin you were, and tin you are, and as it's too late to change you, that settles it." until now the scarecrow had rather doubted the possibility of mrs. yoop's being able to transform him, or his friend the tin woodman, for they were not made as ordinary people are. he had worried more over what might happen to woot than to him- self, but now he began to worry about himself. "madam," he said hastily, "i consider this action very impolite. it may even be called rude, consid- ering we are your guests." "you are not guests, for i did not invite you here," she replied. "perhaps not; but we craved hospitality. we threw ourselves upon your mercy, so to speak, and we now find you have no mercy. therefore, if you will excuse the expression, i must say it is downright i chapter six wicked to take our proper forms away from us and give us others that we do not care for." "are you trying to make me angry?" she asked, frowning. "by no means," said the scarecrow; "i'm just trying to make you act more ladylike." "oh, indeed in my opinion, mr. scarecrow, you are now acting like a bear — so a bear you shall be!" again the dreadful finger pointed, this time in the scarecrow's direction, and at once his form began to change. in a few seconds he had become a small <* • the tin woodman of oz brown bear, but he was stuffed with straw as he had been before, and when the little brown bear shuffled across the floor he was just as wobbly as the scarecrow had been and moved just as awkwardly. woot was amazed, but he was also thoroughly frightened. "did it hurt?" he asked the little brown bear. "no, of course not," growled the scarecrow in the bear's form; "but i don't like walking on four legs; it's undignified." "consider my humiliation!" chirped the tin owl, trying to settle its tin feathers smoothly with its tin beak. "and i can't see very well, either. the light seems to hurt my eyes." "that's because you are an owl," said woot. "i think you will see better in the dark." "well," remarked the giantess, "i'm very well pleased with these new forms, for my part, and i'm sure you will like them better when you get used to them. so now," she added, turning to the boy, "it is your turn." "don't you think you'd better leave me as i am?" asked woot in a trembling voice. "no," she replied, "i'm going to make a monkey «'\ chapter six of you. i love monkeys — they're so cute! — and i think a green monkey will be lots of fun and amuse me when i am sad." woot shivered, for again the terrible magic finger pointed, and pointed directly his way. he felt him- self changing; not so very much, however, and it didn't hurt him a bit. he looked down at his limbs and body and found that his clothes were gone and his skin covered with a fine, silk-like green fur. his hands and feet were now those of a monkey. he realized he really was a monkey, and his first feeling was one of anger. he began to chatter as monkeys do. he bounded to the seat of a giant chair, and then to its back and with a wild leap sprang upon the laughing giantess. his idea was to seize her hair and pull it out by the roots, and so have revenge for her wicked transformations. but she raised her hand and said: "gently, my dear monkey — gently! you're not angry; you're happy as can be!" woot stopped short. no; he wasn't a bit angry now; he felt as good-humored and gay as ever he did when a boy. instead of pulling mrs. yoop's hair, he perched on her shoulder and smoothed her soft cheek with his hairy paw. in return, she smiled the tin woodman of oz at the funny green animal and patted his head. "very good," said the giantess. "let us all become friends and be happy together. how is my tin owl feeling?" "quite comfortable," said the owl. "i don't like it, to be sure, but i'm not going to allow my new form to make me unhappy. but, tell me, please: what is a tin owl good for?" "you are only good to make me laugh," replied the giantess. "will a stuffed bear also make you laugh?" inquired the scarecrow, sitting back on his haunches to look up at her. "of course," declared the giantess; "and i have added a little magic to your transformations to make you all contented with wearing your new forms. i'm sorry i didn't think to do that when i trans- formed polychrome into a canary-bird. but per- haps, when she sees how cheerful you are, she will cease to be silent and sullen and take to singing. i will go get the bird and let you see her." with this, mrs. yoop went into the next room and soon returned bearing a golden cage in which sat upon a swinging perch a lovely yellow canary. "polychrome," said the giantess, "permit me to the tin woodman of oz introduce to you a green monkey, which used to be a boy called woot the wanderer, and a tin owl,x which used to be a tin woodman named nick chopper, and a straw-stuffed little brown bear which used to be a live scarecrow." "we already know one another," declared the scarecrow. "the bird is polychrome, the rainbow's daughter, and she and i used to be good friends." "are you really my old friend, the scarecrow ?" asked the bird, in a sweet, low voice. "there!" cried mrs. yoop; "that's the first time she has spoken since she was transformed." "i am really your old friend," answered the scare- crow; "but you must pardon me for appearing just now in this brutal form." "i am a bird, as you are, dear poly," said the tin woodman; "but, alas! a tin owl is not as beau- tiful as a canary-bird." "how dreadful it all is!" sighed the canary. "couldn't you manage to escape from this terrible yookoohoo?" "no," answered the scarecrow, "we tried to escape, but failed. she first made us her prisoners and then transformed us. but how did she manage to get you, polychrome?" chapter six "i was asleep, and she took unfair advantage of me," answered the bird sadly. "had i been awake, i could easily have protected myself." "tell me," said the green monkey earnestly, as he came close to the cage, "what must we do, daughter of the rainbow, to escape from these transformations? can't you help us, being a fairy?" "at present i am powerless to help even myself," replied the canary. "that's the exact truth!" exclaimed the giantess, the tin woodman of oz who seemed pleased to hear the bird talk, even though it complained; "you are all helpless and in my power, so you may as well make up your minds to accept your fate and be content. remember that you are transformed for good, since no magic on earth can break your enchantments. i am now going out for my morning walk, for each day after break- fast i walk sixteen times around my castle for exercise. amuse yourselves while i am gone, and when i return i hope to find you all reconciled and happy." so the giantess walked to the door by which our friends had entered the great hall and spoke one word: "open i" then the door swung open and after mrs. yoop had passed out it closed again with a snap as its powerful bolts shot into place. the green monkey had rushed toward the opening, hoping to escape, but he was too late and only got a bump on his nose as the door slammed shut. the tin woodman of oz "you cannot open any door or window in this enchanted castle unless you are wearing the magic apron," said the canary. "what magic apron do you mean?" asked the tin owl, in a curious voice. '» "the lace one, which the giantess always wears. i have been her prisoner, in this cage, for several weeks, and she hangs my cage in her bedroom every night, so that she can keep her eye on me," explained polychrome the canary. "therefore i have discov- ered that it is the magic apron that opens the doors and windows, and nothing else can move them. when she goes to bed, mrs. yoop hangs her apron on the bedpost, and one morning she forgot to put it on when she commanded the door to open, and the door would not move. so then she put on the lace apron and the door obeyed her. that was how i learned the magic power of the apron." "i see — i see!" said the little brown bear, wagging his stuffed head. "then, if we could get the apron from mrs. yoop, we could open the doors and escape from our prison." "that is true, and it is the plan i was about to suggest," replied polychrome the canary-bird. "however, i don't believe the owl could steal the the tin woodman of oz her prisoners found not the slightest chance to leave the big hall in which they were confined. the green monkey thought it would be wise to make a friend of the big woman, so as to gain her confidence, so he sat on the back of her chair and chattered to her while she mended her stockings and sewed silver buttons on some golden shoes that were as big as row-boats. this pleased the giantess and she would pause at times to pat the monkey's head. the little brown bear curled up in a corner and lay still all day. the owl and the canary found they could converse together in the bird language, which neither the giantess nor the bear nor the monkey could understand; so at times they twittered away to each other and passed the long, dreary day quite cheerfully. after dinner mrs. yoop took a big fiddle from a big cupboard and played such loud and dreadful music that her prisoners were all thankful when at last she stopped and said she was going to bed. after cautioning the monkey and bear and owl to behave themselves during the night, she picked up the cage containing the canary and, going to the door of her bedroom, commanded it to open. just then, however, she remembered she had left the tin woodman of oz her fiddle lying upon a table, so she went back for it and put it away in the cupboard, and while her back was turned the green monkey slipped through the open door into her bedroom and hid underneath the bed. the giantess, being sleepy, did not notice !this, and entering her room she made the door close behind her and then hung the bird-cage on a peg by the window. then she began to undress, first taking off the lace apron and laying it over the * bedpost, where it was within easy reach of her hand. i as soon as mrs. yoop was in bed the lights all lwent out, and woot the monkey crouched under the ji bed and waited patiently until he heard the giantess { snoring. then he crept out and in the dark felt '. around until he got hold of the apron, which he at once tied around his own waist. * next, woot tried to find the canary, and there was just enough moonlight showing through the window to enable him to see where the cage hung; but it was out of his reach. at first he was tempted to leave polychrome and escape with his other friends, but remembering his promise to the rainbow's daughter woot tried to think how to save her. a chair stood near the window, and this — showing dimly in the moonlight — gave him an idea. by push- chapter seven ing against it with all his might, he found he could move the giant chair a few inches at a time. so he pushed and pushed until the chair was beneath the bird-cage, and then he sprang noiselessly upon the seat — for his monkey form enabled him to jump higher than he could do as a boy — and from there to the back of the chair, and so managed to reach the cage and take it off the peg. then down he sprang to the floor and made his way to the door. "open!" he commanded, and at once the door obeyed and swung open. but his voice wakened mrs. the tin woodman of oz yoop, who gave a wild cry and sprang out of bed with one bound. the green monkey dashed through the doorway, carrying the cage with him, and before the giantess could reach the door it slammed shut and imprisoned her in her own bed-chamber! the noise she made, pounding upon the door, and her yells of anger and dreadful threats of vengeance, filled all our friends with terror, and woot the mon- key was so excited that in the dark he could not find the outer door of the hall. but the tin owl could see very nicely in the dark, so he guided his friends to the right place and when all were grouped before the door woot commanded it to open. the magic apron proved as powerful as when it had been worn by the giantess, so a moment later they had rushed through the passage and were standing in the fresh night air outside the castle, free to go wherever they willed. w the menace of the forest so: chapter "quick!" cried polychrome the canary; " we must hurry, or mrs. yoop may find some way to recapture us, even now. let us get out of her valley as soon as possible." so they set off toward the east, moving as swiftly as they could, and for a long time they could hear the yells and struggles of the im- the tin woodman of oz prisoned giantess. the green monkey could run over the ground very swiftly, and he carried with him the bird-cage containing polychrome the rain- bow's daughter. also the tin owl could skip and fly along at a good rate of speed, his feathers rattling against one another with a tinkling sound as he moved. but the little brown bear, being stuffed with straw, was a clumsy traveler and the others had to wait for him to follow. however, they were not very long in reaching the ridge that led out of mrs. yoop's valley, and when they had passed this ridge and descended into the next valley they stopped to rest, for the green mon- key was tired. "i believe we are safe, now," said polychrome, when her cage was set down and the others had all gathered around it, "for mrs. yoop dares not go outside of her own valley, for fear of being captured by her enemies. so we may take our time to consider what to do next." "i'm afraid poor mrs. yoop will starve to death, if no one lets her out of her bedroom," said woot, who had a heart as kind as that of the tin wood- man. "we've taken her magic apron away, and now the doors will never open." chapter eight "don't worry about that," advised polychrome. "mrs. yoop has plenty of magic left to console her." "are you sure of that?" asked the green monkey. "yes, for i've been watching her for weeks," said the canary. "she has six magic hairpins, which she wears in her hair, and a magic ring which she wears on her thumb and which is invisible to all eyes except those of a fairy, and magic bracelets on both her ankles. so i am positive that she will manage to find a way out of her prison." "she might transform the door into an archway," suggested the little brown bear. "that would be easy for her," said the tin owl; "but fm glad she was too angry to think of that before we got out of her valley." "well, we have escaped the big woman, to be sure," remarked the green monkey, "but we still wear the awful forms the cruel yookoohoo gave us. how are we going to get rid of these shapes, and become ourselves again?" none could answer that question. they sat around the cage, brooding over the problem, until the mon- key fell asleep. seeing this, the canary tucked her head under her wing and also slept, and the tin chapter eight sunshine very trying to his big eyes, so he shut them tight and perched upon the back of the little brown bear, which carried the owl's weight with ease. the canary sometimes perched upon the green monkey's shoulder and sometimes fluttered on ahead of the party, and in this manner they traveled in good spirits across that valley and into the next one to the east of it. this they found to be an immense hollow, shaped like a saucer, and on its farther edge appeared the forest which polychrome had seen from the sky. "come to think of it," said the tin owl, waking up and blinking comically at his friends, "there's no object, now, in our traveling to the munch kin coun- try. my idea in going there was to marry nimmie amee, but however much the munchkin girl may have loved a tin woodman, i cannot reasonably expect her to marry a tin owl." "there is some truth in that, my friend," remarked the brown bear. "and to think that i, who was considered the handsomest scarecrow in the world, am now condemned to be a scrubby, no-account beast, whose only redeeming feature is that he is stuffed with straw!" "consider my case, please," said woot. "the cruel ill the tin woodman of oz giantess has made a monkey of a boy, and that is the most dreadful deed of all!" "your color is rather pretty," said the brown bear, eyeing woot critically. "i have never seen a pea-green monkey before, and it strikes me you are quite gorgeous." "it isn't so bad to be a bird," asserted the canary, fluttering from one to another with a free and grace- ful motion, "but i long to enjoy my own shape again." "as polychrome, you were the loveliest maiden i have ever seen — except, of course, ozma," said the tin owl; "so the giantess did well to transform you into the loveliest of all birds, if you were to be trans- formed at all. but tell me, since you are a fairy, and have a fairy wisdom: do you think we shall be able to break these enchantments?" "queer things happen in the land of oz," replied the canary, again perching on the green monkey's shoulder and turning one bright eye thoughtfully toward her questioner. "mrs. yoop has declared that none of her transformations can ever be changed, even by herself, but i believe that if we could get to glinda, the good sorceress, she might find a way to restore us to our natural shapes. glinda, as you know, is chapter eight the most powerful sorceress in the world, and there are few things she cannot do if she tries." "in that case," said the little brown bear, "let us return southward and try to get to glinda's castle. it lies in the quadling country, you know, so it is a good way from here." "first, however, let us visit the forest and search for something to eat," pleaded woot. so they con- tinued on to the edge of the forest, which consisted of many tall and beautiful trees. they discovered no fruit trees, at first, so the green monkey pushed on into the forest depths and the others followed close behind him. they were traveling quietly along, under the shade of the trees, when suddenly an enormous jaguar leaped upon them from a limb and with one blow of his paw sent the little brown bear tumbling over and over until he was stopped by a tree-trunk. instantly they all took alarm. the tin owl shrieked: "hoot — hoot!" and flew straight up to the branch of a tall tree, although he could scarcely see where he was going. the canary swiftly darted to a place beside the owl, and the green monkey sprang up, caught a limb, and soon scrambled to a high perch of safety. the tin woodman of oz the jaguar crouched low and with hungry eyes regarded the little brown bear, which slowly got upon its feet and asked reproachfully: "for goodness' sake, beast, what were you trying to do?" "trying to get my breakfast," answered the jag- uar with a snarl, "and i believe i've succeeded. you ought to make a delicious meal — unless you happen to be old and tough." "i'm worse than that, considered as a breakfast," said the bear, " for i'm only a skin stuffed with straw, and therefore not fit to eat." "indeed!" cried the jaguar, in a disappointed voice; " then you must be a magic bear, or enchanted, and i must seek my breakfast from among your companions." with this he raised his lean head to look up at the tin owl and the canary and the monkey, and he lashed his tail upon the ground and growled as fiercely as any jaguar could. "my friends are enchanted, also," said the little brown bear. "all of them?" asked the jaguar. "yes. the owl is tin, so you couldn't possibly eat him. the canary is a fairy — polychrome, the chapter eight daughter of the rainbow — and you never could catch her because she can easily fly out of your reach." "there still remains the green monkey," remarked the jaguar hungrily. "he is neither made of tin nor stuffed with straw, nor can he fly. i'm pretty good at climbing trees, myself, so i think i'll capture the monkey and eat him for my breakfast." woot the monkey, hearing this speech from his perch on the tree, became much frightened, for he knew the nature of jaguars and realized they could climb trees and leap from limb to limb with the agility of cats. so he at once began to scamper through the forest as fast as he could go, catching at a branch with his long monkey arms and swinging his green body through space to grasp another branch in a neighboring tree, and so on, while the jaguar followed him from below, his eyes fixed steadfastly on his prey. but presently woot got his feet tangled in the lace apron, which he was still wearing, and that tripped him in his flight and made him fall to the ground, where the jaguar placed one huge paw upon him and said grimly: "i've got you, now!" the fact that the apron had tripped him made the tin woodman of oz woot remember its magic powers, and in his terror he cried out: "open!" without stopping to consider how this command might save him. but, at the word, the earth opened at the exact spot where he lay under the jaguar's paw, and his body sank down- ward, the earth closing over it again. the last thing woot the monkey saw, as he glanced upward, was the jaguar peering into the hole in astonishment. "he's gone!" cried the beast, with a long-drawn sigh of disappointment; "he's gone, and now i shall have no breakfast." chapter eight the clatter of the tin owl's wings sounded above him, and the little brown bear came trotting up and asked: "where is the monkey? have you eaten him so quickly?" "no, indeed," answered the jaguar. "he disap- peared into the earth before i could take one bite of him!" and now the canary perched upon a stump, a little way from the forest beast, and said: "i am glad our friend has escaped you; but, as it is natural for a hungry beast to wish his breakfast, i will try to give you one." "thank you," replied the jaguar. "you're rather small for a full meal, but it's kind of you to sacri- fice yourself to my appetite." "oh, i don't intend to be eaten, i assure you," said the canary, "but as i am a fairy i know some- thing of magic, and though i am now transformed into a bird's shape, i am sure i can conjure up a breakfast that will satisfy you." "if you can work magic, why don't you break the enchantment you are under and return to your proper form?" inquired the beast doubtingly. "i haven't the power to do that," answered the the tin woodman of oz canary, "for mrs. yoop, the giantess who trans- formed me, used a peculiar form of yookoohoo magic that is unknown to me. however, she could not deprive me of my own fairy knowledge, so i will try to get you a breakfast." "do you think a magic breakfast would taste good, or relieve the pangs of hunger i now suffer?" asked the jaguar. "i am sure it would. what would you like to eat?" "give me a couple of fat rabbits," said the beast. "rabbits! no, indeed. td not allow you to eat the dear little things," declared polychrome the canary. "well, three or four squirrels, then," pleaded the jaguar. "do you think me so cruel?" demanded the canary, indignantly. "the squirrels are my especial friends." "how about a plump owl? " asked the beast. "not a tin one, you know, but a real meat owl." "neither beast nor bird shall you have," said poly- chrome in a positive voice. "give me a fish, then; there's a river a little way off," proposed the jaguar. "no living thing shall be sacrificed to feed you," returned the canary. chapter eight "then what in the world do you expect me to eat?" said the jaguar in a scornful tone. "how would mush-and-milk do?" asked the canary. the jaguar snarled in derision and lashed his tail against the ground angrily.' "give him some scrambled eggs on toast, poly," suggested the bear scarecrow. "he ought to like that" "i will," responded the canary, and fluttering her wings she made a flight of three circles around the the tin woodman of oz stump. then she flew up to a tree and the bear and the owl and the jaguar saw that upon the stump had appeared a great green leaf upon which was a large portion of scrambled eggs on toast, smoking hot. "there!" said the bear; " eat your breakfast, friend jaguar, and be content." the jaguar crept closer to the stump and sniffed the fragrance of the scrambled eggs. they smelled so good that he tasted them, and they tasted so good that he ate the strange meal in a hurry, proving he had been really hungry. "i prefer rabbits," he muttered, licking his chops, "but i must admit the magic breakfast has filled my stomach full, and brought me comfort. so fm much obliged for the kindness, little fairy, and til now leave you in peace." saying this, he plunged into the thick underbrush and soon disappeared, although they could hear his great body crashing through the bushes until he was far distant. "that was a good way to get rid of the savage beast, poly," said the tin woodman to the canary; "but i'm surprised that you didn't give our friend woot a magic breakfast, when you knew he was hungry." chapter eight "the reason for that," answered polychrome, " was that my mind was so intent on other things that i quite forgot my power to produce food by magic. but where is the monkey boy?" "gone!" said the scarecrow bear, solemnly. "the earth has swallowed him up." the quarrelsome dragons chapter the green monkey sank gen- tly into the earth for a little way and then tumbled swiftly through space, land- ing on a rocky floor with a thump that astonished him. then he sat up, found that no bones were broken, and gazed around him. he seemed to be in a big underground cave, which was ssfc chapter nine dimly lighted by dozens of big round discs that looked like moons. they were not moons, however, as woot discovered when he had examined the place more carefully. they were eyes. the eyes were in the heads of enormous beasts whose bodies trailed far behind them. each beast was bigger than an ele- phant, and three times as long, and there were a dozen or more of the creatures scattered here and there about the cavern. on their bodies were big scales, as round as pie-plates, which were beautifully tinted in shades of green, purple and orange. on the ends of their long tails were clusters of jewels. around the great, moon-like eyes were circles of diamonds which sparkled in the subdued light that glowed from the eyes. woot saw that the creatures had wide mouths and rows of terrible teeth and, from tales he had heard of such beings, he knew he had fallen into a cavern inhabited by the great dragons that had been driven from the surface of the earth and were only allowed to come out once in a hundred years to search for food. of course he had never seen dragons before, yet there was no mistaking them, for they were unlike any other living creatures. woot sat upon the floor where he had fallen, star- the tin woodman of oz ing around, and the owners of the big eyes returned his look, silently and motionless. finally one of the dragons which was farthest away from him asked, in a deep, grave voice: "what was that?" and the greatest dragon of all, who was just in front of the green monkey, answered in a still deeper voice: "it is some foolish animal from outside." "is it good to eat?" inquired a smaller dragon beside the great one. "i'm hungry." "hungry!" exclaimed all the dragons, in a reproachful chorus; and then the great one said chid- ingly: "tut-tut, my son! you've no reason to be hungry at this time." "why not?" asked the little dragon. "i haven't eaten anything in eleven years." "eleven years is nothing," remarked another dragon, sleepily opening and closing his eyes; "i haven't feasted for eighty-seven years, and i dare not get hungry for a dozen or so years to come. children who eat between meals should be broken of the habit." "all i had, eleven years ago, was a rhinoceros, and that's not a full meal at all," grumbled the young chapter nine one. "and, before that, i had waited sixty-two years to be fed; so it's no wonder i'm hungry." "how old are you now?" asked woot, forgetting his own dangerous position in his interest in the conversation. "why, i'm —i'm— how old am i, father?" asked the little dragon. "goodness gracious! what a child to ask questions. do you want to keep me thinking all the time? don't you know that thinking is very bad for dragons?" returned the big one, impatiently. "how old am i, father?" persisted the small dragon. "about six hundred and thirty, i believe. ask your mother." "no; don't!" said an old dragon in the background; "haven't i enough worries, what with being wakened in the middle of a nap, without being obliged to keep track of my children's ages?" "you've been fast asleep for over sixty years, mother," said the child dragon. "how long a nap do you wish?" "i should have slept forty years longer. and this strange little green beast should be punished for fall- ing into our cavern and disturbing us." <*,.. j«rt*-»».*?&*" the tin woodman of oz "i didn't know you were here, and i didn't know i was going to fall in," explained woot. "nevertheless, here you are," said the great dragon, "and you have carelessly wakened our entire tribe; so it stands to reason you must be punished." "in what way?" inquired the green monkey, trembling a little. "give me time and i'll think of a way. you're in no hurry, are you?" asked the great dragon. "no, indeed," cried woot. "take your time. i'd much rather you'd all go to sleep again, and punish me when you wake up in a hundred years or so." "let me eat him!" pleaded the littlest dragon. "he is too small," said the father. "to eat this one green monkey would only serve to make you hungry for more, and there are no more." "quit this chatter and let me get to sleep," protested another dragon, yawning in a fearful manner, for when he opened his mouth a sheet of flame leaped forth from it and made woot jump back to get out of its way. in his jump he bumped against the nose of a dragon behind him, which opened its mouth to growl and shot another sheet of flame at him. the flame was bright, but not very hot, yet woot screamed with the tin woodman of oz terror and sprang forward with a great bound. this time he landed on the paw of the great chief dragon, who angrily raised his other front paw and struck the green monkey a fierce blow. woot went sailing through the air and fell sprawling upon the rocky floor far beyond the place where the dragon tribe was grouped. all the great beasts were now thoroughly wakened and aroused, and they blamed the monkey for dis- turbing their quiet. the littlest dragon darted after woot and the others turned their unwieldy bodies in his direction and followed, flashing from their eyes and mouths flames which lighted up the entire cavern. woot almost gave himself up for lost, at that moment, but he scrambled to his feet and dashed away to the farthest end of the cave, the dragons following more leisurely because they were too clumsy to move fast. perhaps they thought there was no need of haste, as the monkey could not escape from the cave. but, away up at the end of the place, the cavern floor was heaped with tumbled rocks, so woot, with an agility born of fear, climbed from rock to rock until he found himself crouched against the cavern roof. there he waited, for he could go no farther, while on over the tumbled rocks slowly crept the tin woodman of oz "none of them," returned the jaguar, with a sly grin. "i had a dish of magic scrambled eggs — on toast — and it wasn't a bad feast, at all. there isn't room in me for even you, and i don't regret it because i judge, from your green color, that you are not ripe, and would make an indifferent meal. we jaguars have to be careful of our digestions. farewell, friend monkey. follow the path i made through the bushes and you will find your friends." with this the jaguar marched on his way and woot took his advice and followed the trail he had made until he came to the place where the little brown bear, and the tin owl, and the canary were con- ferring together and wondering what had become of their comrade, the green monkey. the tin woodman of oz glinda may be able to restore us to our proper forms." "if we turn south now," the tin owl replied, "we might go straight into the emerald city. that's a place i wish to avoid, for i'd hate to have my friends see me in this sad plight," and he blinked his eyes and fluttered his tin wings mournfully. "but i am certain we have passed beyond emerald city," the canary assured him, sailing lightly around their heads. "so, should we turn south from here, we would pass into the munchkin country, and con- tinuing south we would reach the quadling country where glinda's castle is located." "well, since you're sure of that, let's start right away," proposed the bear. "it's a long journey, at the best, and i'm getting tired of walking on four legs." "i thought you never tired, being stuffed with straw," said woot. "i mean that it annoys me, to be obliged to go on all fours, when two legs are my proper walking equip- ment," replied the scarecrow. "i consider it beneath my dignity. in other words, my remarkable brains can tire, through humiliation, although my body can- not tire." "that is one of the penalties of having brains," chapter ten remarked the tin owl with a sigh, "i have had no brains since i was a man of meat, and so i never worry. nevertheless, i prefer my former manly form to this owl's shape and would be glad to break mrs. yoop's enchantment as soon as possible. i am so noisy, just now, that i disturb myself," and he flattered his wings with a clatter that echoed throughout the forest. so, being all of one mind, they turned southward, traveling steadily on until the woods were left behind and the landscape turned from purple tints to blue tints, which assured them they had entered the coun- try of the munchkins. "now i feel myself more safe," said the scarecrow bear. "i know this country pretty well, having been made here by a munchkin farmer and having wan- dered over these lovely blue lands many times. seems to me, indeed, that i even remember that group of three tall trees ahead of us; and, if i do, we are not far from the home of my friend jinjur." "who is jinjur?" asked woot, the green monkey. "haven't you heard of jinjur?" exclaimed the scarecrow, in surprise. "no," said woot. "is jinjur a man, a woman, a beast or a bird?" the tin woodman of oz "jinjur is a girl," explained the scarecrow bear. "she's a fine girl, too, although a bit restless and liable to get excited. once, a long time ago, she raised an army of girls and called herself * general jijur.' with her army she captured the emerald city, and drove me out of it, because i insisted that an army in oz was highly improper. but ozma punished the rash girl, and afterward jinjur and i became fast friends. now jinjur lives peacefully on a farm, near here, and raises fields of cream-puffs, chocolate- caramel and macaroons. they say she's a pretty good farmer, and in addition to that she's an artist, and paints pictures so perfect that one can scarcely tell them from nature. she often repaints my face for me, when it gets worn or mussy, and the lovely expres- sion i wore when the giantess transformed me was painted by jinjur only a month or so ago." "it was certainly a pleasant expression," agreed woot. "jinjur can paint anything," continued the scare- crow bear, with enthusiasm, as they walked along together. "once, when i came to her house, my straw was old and crumpled, so that my body sagged dreadfully. i needed new straw to replace the old, but jinjur had no straw on all her ranch and i was chapter ten really unable to travel farther until i had been restuffed. when i explained this to jinjur, the girl at once painted a straw-stack which was so natural that i went to it and secured enough straw to fill all my body. it was a good quality of straw, too, and lasted me a long time." this seemed very wonderful to woot, who knew that such a thing could never happen in any place but a fairy country like oz. the munchkin country was much nicer than the gillikin country, and all the fields were separated by blue fences, with grassy lanes and paths of blue ground, and the land seemed well cultivated. they were on a little hill looking down upon this favored country, but had not quite reached the settled parts, when on turning a bend in the path they were halted by a form that barred their way. a more curious creature they had seldom seen, even in the land of oz, where curious creatures abound. it had the head of a young man — evidently a munch- kin — with a pleasant face and hair neatly combed. but the body was very long, for it had twenty legs — ten legs on each side — and this caused the body to stretch out and lie in a horizontal position, so that all the legs could touch the ground and stand firm. the tin woodman of oz from the shoulders extended two small arms; at least, they seemed small beside so many legs. this odd creature was dressed in the regulation clothing of the munchkin people, a dark blue coat neatly fitting the long body and each pair of legs having a pair of sky-blue trousers, with blue-tinted stockings and blue leather shoes turned up at the pointed toes. "i wonder who you are?" said polychrome the canary, fluttering above the strange creature, who had probably been asleep on the path. "i sometimes wonder, myself, who i am," replied the many-legged young man; "but, in reality, i am tommy kwikstep, and i live in a hollow tree that fell to the ground with age. i have polished the inside of it, and made a door at each end, and that's a very comfortable residence for me because it just fits my shape." "how did you happen to have such a shape?" asked the scarecrow bear, sitting on his haunches and regarding tommy kwikstep with a serious look. "is the shape natural?" "no; it was wished on me," replied tommy, with a sigh. "i used to be very active and loved to run errands for anyone who needed my services. that the tin woodman of oz was how i got my name of tommy kwikstep. i could run an errand more quickly than any other boy, and so i was very proud of myself. one day, however, i met an old lady who was a fairy, or a witch, or something of the sort, and she said if i would run an errand for her — to carry some magic medicine to another old woman — she would grant me just one wish, whatever the wish happened to be. of course i consented and, taking the medicine, i hurried away. it was a long distance, mostly up hill, and my legs began to grow weary. without think- ing what i was doing i said aloud: 'dear me; i wish i had twenty legs!' and in an instant i became the unusual creature you see beside you. twenty legs! twenty on one man! you may count them, if you doubt my word." "you've got 'em, all right," said woot the monkey, who had already counted them. "after i had delivered the magic medicine to the old woman, i returned and tried to find the witch, or fairy, or whatever she was, who had given me the unlucky wish, so she could take it away again. i've been searching for her ever since, but never can i find her," continued poor tommy kwikstep, sadly. "i suppose, said the tin owl, blinking at him, chapter ten "you can travel very fast,,with those twenty legs." "at first i was able to," was the reply; "but i traveled so much, searching for the fairy, or witch, or whatever she was, that i soon got corns on my toes. now, a corn on one toe is not so bad, but when you have a hundred toes — as i have — and get corns on most of them, it is far from pleasant. instead of running, i now painfully crawl, and although i try not to be discouraged i do hope i shall find that witch or fairy, or whatever she was, before long." "i hope so, too," said the scarecrow. "but, after all, you have the pleasure of knowing you are unusual, and therefore remarkable among the people of oz. to be just like other persons is small credit to one, while to be unlike others is a mark of distinction." "that sounds very pretty," returned tommy kwik- step, "but if you had to put on ten pair of trousers every morning, and tie up twenty shoes, you would prefer not to be so distinguished." "was the witch, or fairy, or whatever she was, an old person, with wrinkled skin and half her teeth gone?" inquired the tin owl. "no," said tommy kwikstep. "then she wasn't old mombi," remarked the trans- formed emperor. the tin woodman of oz "i'm not interested in who it wasn't, so much as i am in who it was" said the twenty-legged young man. "and, whatever or whomsoever she was, she has managed to keep out of my way." "if you found her, do you suppose she'd change you back into a two-legged boy!" asked woot. "perhaps so, if i could run another errand for her and so earn another wish." "would you really like to be as you were before?" asked polychrome the canary, perching upon the green monkey's shoulder to observe tommy kwik- step more attentively. "i would, indeed," was the earnest reply. "then i will see what i can do for you," promised the rainbow's daughter, and flying to the ground she took a small twig in her bill and with it made several mystic figures on each side of tommy kwikstep. "are you a witch, or fairy, or something of the sort?" he asked as he watched her wonderingly. the canary made no answer, for she was busy, but the scarecrow bear replied: "yes; she's something of the sort, and a bird of a magician." the twenty-legged boy's transformation happened so queerly that they were all surprised at its method. first, tommy kwikstep's last two legs disappeared; the tin woodman of oz then the nest two, and the next, and as each pair of legs vanished his body shortened. all this while poly- chrome was running around him and chirping mys- tical words, and when all the young man's legs had disappeared but two he noticed that the canary was still busy and cried out in alarm: "stop — stop! leave me two of my legs, or i shall be worse off than before." "i know," said the canary. "i'm only removing with my magic the corns from your last ten toes." "thank you for being so thoughtful," he said grate- fully, and now they noticed that tommy kwikstep was quite a nice looking young fellow. "what will you do now? " asked woot the monkey. "first," he answered, "i must deliver a note which i've carried in my pocket ever since the witch, or fairy, or whatever she was, granted my foolish wish. and i am resolved never to speak again without tak- ing time to think carefully on what i am going to say, for i realize that speech without thought is dangerous. and after i've delivered the note, i shall run errands again for anyone who needs my services." so he thanked polychrome again and started away in a different direction from their own, and that was the last they saw of tommy kwikstep. jinjur's ranch chapter as they followed a path down the blue-grass hillside, the first house that met the view of the travelers was joy- ously recognized by the scare- crow bear as the one in- habited by his friend jinjur, so they increased their speed and hurried toward it. on reaching the place, how- ever, they found the house so the tin woodmanof oz deserted. the front door stood open, but no one was inside. in the garden surrounding the house were neat rows of bushes bearing cream-puffs and maca- roons, some of which were still green, but others ripe and ready to eat. farther back were fields of caramels, and all the land seemed well cultivated and carefully tended. they looked through the fields for the girl farmer, but she was nowhere to be seen. "well," finally remarked the little brown bear, "let us go into the house and make ourselves at home. that will be sure to please my friend jinjur, who happens to be away from home just now. when she returns, she will be greatly surprised." "would she care if i ate some of those ripe cream- puffs?" asked the green monkey. "no, indeed; jinjur is very generous. help your- self to all you want," said the scarecrow bear. so woot gathered a lot of the cream-puffs that were golden yellow and filled with a sweet, creamy sub- stance, and ate until his hunger was satisfied. then he entered the house with his friends and sat in a rocking-chair — just as he was accustomed to do when a boy. the canary perched herself upon the mantel and daintily plumed her feathers; the tin owl sat on chapter eleven the back of another chair; the scarecrow squatted on his hairy haunches in the middle of the room. “ i believe i remember the girl jinjur,” remarked the canary, in her sweet voice. “ she cannot help us very much, except to direct us on our way to glinda’s castle, for she does not understand magic. but she’s a good girl, honest and sensible, and i’ll be glad to see her.” “ all our troubles,” said the owl with a deep sigh, “ arose from my foolish resolve to seek nimmie amee and make her empress of the winkies, and while i chapter eleven the back of another chair; the scarecrow squatted on his hairy haunches in the middle of the room. “ i believe i remember the girl jinjur,” remarked the canary, in her sweet voice. “ she cannot help us very much, except to direct us on our way to glinda’s castle, for she does not understand magic. but she’s a good girl, honest and sensible, and i’ll be glad to see her.” “ all our troubles,” said the owl with a deep sigh, “ arose from my foolish resolve to seek nimmie amee and make her empress of the winkies, and while i the tin woodman of oz wish to reproach no one, i must say that it was woot the wanderer who put the notion into my head.” “well, for my part, i am glad he did,” responded the canary. “ your journey resulted in saving me from the giantess, and had you not traveled to the yoop valley, i would still be mrs. yoop’s prisoner. it is much nicer to be free, even though i still bear the enchanted form of a canary-bird.” “do you think we shall ever be able to get our proper forms back again?” asked the green monkey earnestly. polychrome did not make reply at once to this important question, but after a period of thought- fulness she said: “i have been taught to believe that there is an antidote for every magic charm, yet mrs. yoop insists that no power can alter her transformations. i realize that my own fairy magic cannot do it, although i have thought that we sky fairies have more power than is accorded to earth fairies. the yookoohoo magic is admitted to be very strange in its workings and different from the magic usually practiced, but perhaps glinda or ozma may understand it better than i. in them lies our only hope. unless they can help us, we must remain forever as we are.” __ chapter eleven “ a canary-bird on a rainbow wouldn’t be so bad,” asserted the tin owl, winking and blinking with his round tin eyes, “ so if you can manage to find your rainbow again you need have little to worry about.” “ that’s nonsense, friend chopper,” exclaimed woot. “ i know just how polychrome feels. a beau- tiful girl is much superior to a little yellow bird, and a boy—such as i was—far better than a green monkey. neither of us can be happy again unless we recover our rightful forms.” “ i feel the same way,” announced the stuffed bear. “what do you" suppose my friend the patchwork girl would think of me, if she saw me wearing this beastly shape?” “ she’d laugh till she cried,” admitted the tin owl. “ for my part, i’ll have to give up the notion of marrying nimmie amee, but i’ll try not to let that make me unhappy. if it’s my duty, i’d like to do my duty, but if magic prevents my getting married i’ll flutter along all by myself and be just as con- tented.” their serious misfortunes made them all silent for a time, and as their thoughts were busy in dwelling upon the evils with which fate had burdened them, none noticed that j injur had suddenly appeared in __ chapter eleven “ a canary-bird on a rainbow wouldn’t be so bad,” asserted the tin owl, winking and blinking with his round tin eyes, “ so if you can manage to find your rainbow again you need have little to worry about.” “ that’s nonsense, friend chopper,” exclaimed woot. “ i know just how polychrome feels. a beau- tiful girl is much superior to a little yellow bird, and a boy—such as i was—far better than a green monkey. neither of us can be happy again unless we recover our rightful forms.” “ i feel the same way,” announced the stuffed bear. “what do you" suppose my friend the patchwork girl would think of me, if she saw me wearing this beastly shape".z ” “ she’d laugh till she cried,” admitted the tin owl. “ for my part, i’ll have to give up the notion of marrying nimmie amee, but i’ll try not to let that make me unhappy. if it’s my duty, i’d like to do my duty, but if magic prevents my getting married i’ll flutter along all by myself and be just as con- tented.” their serious misfortunes made them all silent for a time, and as their thoughts were busy in dwelling upon the evils with which fate had burdened them, none noticed that j injur had suddenly appeared in the tin woodman of oz the doorway and was looking at them in astonish- ment. the next moment her astonishment changed to anger, for there, in her best rocking-chair, sat a green monkey. a great shiny owl perched upon another chair and a brown bear squatted upon her parlor 'rug. jinjur did not notice the canary, but she caught up a broomstick and dashed into the room, shouting as she came: “ get out of here, you wild creatures! how dare you enter my house? ” with a blow of her broom she knocked the brown bear over, and the tin owl tried to fly out of her reach and made a great clatter with his tin wings. the green monkey was/so startled by the sudden attack that he sprang into the fireplace -—- where there was fortunately no fire — and tried to escape by climb- ing up the chimney. but he found the opening too small, and so was forced to drop down again. then he crouched trembling in the fireplace, his pretty green hair all blackened with soot and covered with ashes. from this position woot watched to see what would happen next. “ stop, jinjur -— stop!” cried the brown bear, when the broom again threatened him. “ don’t you know me‘? i’m your old friend the scarecrow‘? ” chapter eleven “ you’re trying to deceive me, you naughty beast! i can see plainly that you are a bear, and a mighty poor specimen of a bear, too,” retorted the girl. “that’s because i’m not properly stuffed,” he assured her. “ when mrs. yoop transformed me, she didn’t realize i should have more stuffing.” “ who is mrs. yoop? ” inquired jinjur, pausing with the broom still upraised. “a giantess in the gillikin country.” “ oh; i begin to understand. and mrs. yoop trans- formed you? you are really the famous scarecrow of oz?” “i was, jinjur. just now i’m as you see me--a miserable little brown bear with a poor quality of stuffing. that tin owl is none other than our dear tin woodman -—nick chopper, the emperor of the winkies—~ while this green monkey is a nice little boy we recently became acquainted with, woot the wanderer.” “ and i,” said the canary, flying close to j injur, “ am polychrome, the daughter of the rainbow, in the form of a bird.” “goodness me!” cried j injur, amazed; “that giantess must be a powerful sorceress, and as wicked as she is powerful.” chapter eleven “ you’re trying to deceive me, you naughty beast! i can see plainly that you are a bear, and a mighty poor specimen of a bear, too,” retorted the girl. “that’s because i’m not properly stuffed,” he assured her. “ when mrs. yoop transformed me, she didn’t realize i should have more stuffing.” “ who is mrs. yoop? ” inquired jinjur, pausing with the broom still upraised. “a giantess in the gillikih country.” “ oh; i begin to understand. and mrs. yoop trans- formed you”? you are really the famous scarecrow of oz? ” “i was, jinjur. just now i’m as you see me--a miserable little brown bear with a poor quality of stuffing. that tin owl is none other than our dear tin woodman -—nick chopper, the emperor of the winkies—~ while this green monkey is a nice little boy we recently became acquainted with, woot the wanderer.” “ and i,” said the canary, flying close to j injur, “ am polychrome, the daughter of the rainbow, in the form of a bird.” “goodness me!” cried j injur, amazed; “that giantess must be a powerful sorceress, and as wicked as she is powerful.” the tin woodman of oz “ she’s a yookoohoo,” said polychrome. “ fortu- nately, we managed to escape from her castle, and we are now on our way to glinda the good to see if she possesses the power to restore us to our former shapes.” “ then i must beg your pardons; all of you must forgive me,” said j injur, putting away the broom. “ i took you to be a lot of wild, unmannerly animals, as was quite natural. you are very welcome to my home and i’m sorry i haven’t the power to help you out of your troubles. please use my house and all that i have, as if it were your own.” at this declaration of peace, the bear got upon his feet and the owl resumed his perch upon the chair and the monkey crept out of the fireplace. j injur looked at w'oot critically, and scowled. \ “ for a green monkey,” said she, ‘“ you’re the blackest creature i ever saw. and you’ll get my nice clean room all dirty with soot and ashes. whatever possessed you to jump up the chimney?‘ ” “ - was scared,” explained woot, somewhat ashamed. “well, you need renovating, and that’s what will happen to you, right away. come with me! ” she commanded. chapter eleven “what are you going to do?” asked woot. “ give you a good scrubbing,” said j injur. now, neither boys nor monkeys relish being scrubbed, so woot shrank away from the energetic girl, trembling fearfully. but j injur grabbed him by his paw and dragged him out to the back yard, where, in spite of his whines and struggles, she plunged him into a tub of cold water and began to scrub him with a stiff brush and a cake of yellow soap. _ this was the hardest trial that woot had endured since he became a monkey, but no protest had any influence with jinjur, who lathered and scrubbed him in a business-like manner and afterward dried him with a coarse towel. the bear and the owl gravely watched this oper- ation and nodded approval when woot’s silky green _ fur shone clear and bright in the afternoon sun. the canary seemed much amused and laughed a silvery ripple of laughter as she said: “very well done, my good jinjur; i admire your energy and judgment. but i had no idea a monkey could look so comical as this monkey did while he was being bathed.” “ i’m not a monkey!” declared woot, resentfully; ()zma and dorothy ( . . % chapter in her magnificent palace in the emerald city, the beauti- ful girl ruler of all the won- derful land of oz sat in her dainty boudoir with her friend princess dorothy be- side her. ozma was studying ()zma and dorothy ( . . % chapter in her magnificent palace in the emerald city, the beauti- ful girl ruler of all the won- derful land of oz sat in her dainty boudoir with her friend princess dorothy be- side her. ozma was studying the tin woodman of oz times stooped to pat a shaggy little black dog that lay at her feet. the little dog’s name was toto, and he was dorothy’s faithful companion. to judge ozma of oz by the standards of our world, you would think her very young—perhaps fourteen or fifteen years of age—yet for years she had ruled the land of oz and had never seemed a bit older. dorothy appeared much younger than ozma. she had been a little girl when first she came to the land of oz, and she was a little girl still, and would never seem to be a day older while she lived in this wonderful fairyland. oz was not always a fairyland, i am told. once it was much like other lands, except it was shut in by a dreadful desert of sandy wastes that lay all around it, thus preventing its people from all contact with the rest of the world. seeing this isola- tion, the fairy band of queen lurline, passing over oz while on a journey, enchanted the country and so made it a fairyland. and queen lurline left one of her fairies to rule this enchanted land of oz, and then passed on and forgot all about it. from that moment no one in oz ever died. those who were old remained old; those who were young and strong did not change as years passed them by; the tin woodman of oz times stooped to pat a shaggy little black dog that lay at her feet. the little dog’s name was toto, and he was dorothy’s faithful companion. to judge ozma of oz by the standards of our world, you would think her very young—perhaps fourteen or fifteen years of age—yet for years she had ruled the land of oz and had never seemed a bit older. dorothy appeared much younger than ozma. she had been a little girl when first she came to the land of oz, and she was a little girl still, and would never seem to be a day older while she lived in this wonderful fairyland. oz was not always a fairyland, i am told. once it was much like other lands, except it was shut in by a dreadful desert of sandy wastes that lay all around it, thus preventing its people from all contact with the rest of the world. seeing this isola- tion, the fairy band of queen lurline, passing over oz while on a journey, enchanted the country and so made it a fairyland. and queen lurline left one of her fairies to rule this enchanted land of oz, and then passed on and forgot all about it. from that moment no one in oz ever died. those who were old remained old; those who were young and strong did not change as years passed them by; chapter twelve the children remained children always, and played and romped to their hearts’ content, while all the babies lived in their cradles and were tenderly cared for and never grew up. so people in oz stopped counting how old they were in years, for years made no difference in their appearance and could not alter their station. they did not get sick, so there were no doctors among them. accidents might happen to some, on rare occasions, it is true, and while no one could die naturally, as other people do, it was possible that one might be totally destroyed. such incidents, however, were very unusual, and so seldom was there anything to worry over that the oz people were as happy and con- tented as can be. another strange thing about this fairy land of oz was that whoever managed to enter it from the outside world came under the magic spell of the place and did not change in appearance as long as they lived there. so dorothy, who now lived with ozma, seemed just the same sweet little girl she had been when first she came to this delightful fairyland. perhaps all parts of oz might not be called truly delightful, but it was surely delightful in the neigh- chapter twelve the children remained children always, and played and romped to their hearts’ content, while all the babies lived in their cradles and were tenderly cared for and never grew up. so people in oz stopped counting how old they were in years, for years made no difference in their appearance and could not alter their station. they did not get sick, so there were no doctors among them. accidents might happen to some, on rare occasions, it is true, and while no one could die naturally, as other people do, it was possible that one might be totally destroyed. such incidents, however, were very unusual, and so seldom was there anything to worry over that the oz people were as happy and con- tented as can be. another strange thing about this fairy land of oz was that whoever managed to enter it from the outside world came under the magic spell of the place and did not change in appearance as long as they lived there. so dorothy, who now lived with ozma, seemed just the same sweet little girl she had been when first she came to this delightful fairyland. perhaps all parts of oz might not be called truly delightful, but it was surely delightful in the neigh- the tin woodman of ()z borhood of the emerald city, where ozma reigned. her loving influence was felt for many miles around, but there were places in the mountains of the gilli- kin country, and the forests of the quadling coun- try, and perhaps in far-away parts of the munchkin and winkie countries, where the inhabitants were somewhat rude and uncivilized and had not yet come under the spell of ozma’s wise and kindly rule. also, when oz first became a fairyland, it harbored several witches and magicians and sorcerers and necromancers, who were scattered in various parts, but most of these had been deprived of their magic powers, and ozma had issued a royal edict forbid- ding anyone in her dominions to work magic except glinda the good and the wizard of oz. ozma her- self, being a real fairy, knew a lot of magic, but she only used it to benefit her subjects. this little explanation will help you to understand better the story you are reading, but most of it is already known to those who are familiar with the oz people ‘whose adventures they have followed in other oz books. ozma and dorothy were fast friends and were much together. everyone in oz loved dorothy almost as well as they did their lovely ruler, for the little the tin woodman of ()z borhood of the emerald city, where ozma reigned. her loving influence was felt for many miles around, but there were places in the mountains of the gilli- kin country, and the forests of the qnadling coun- try, and perhaps in far-away parts of the munchkin and winkie countries, where the inhabitants were somewhat rude and uncivilized and had not yet come under the spell of ozma’s wise and kindly rule. also, when oz first became a fairyland, it harbored several witches and magicians and sorcerers and necromancers, who were scattered in various parts, but most of these had been deprived of their magic powers, and ozma had issued a royal edict forbid- ding anyone in her dominions to work magic except glinda the good and the wizard of oz. ozma her- self, being a real fairy, knew a lot of magic, but she only used it to benefit her subjects. this little explanation will help you to understand better the story you are reading, but most of it is already known to those who are familiar with the oz people ‘whose adventures they have followed in other oz books. ozma and dorothy were fast friends and were much together. everyone in oz loved dorothy almost as well as they did their lovely ruler, for the little chapter twelve kansas girl’s good fortune had not spoiled her or rendered her at all vain. she was just the same brave and true and adventurous child as before she lived in a royal palace and became the chum of the fairy ozma. in the room in which the two sat —~ which was one of ozma’s private suite of apartments -— hung the famous magic picture. this was the source of con- stant interest to little dorothy. one had but to stand before it and wish to see what any person was doing, and at once a scene would flash upon the magic canvas which showed exactly where that person was, and like our own moving pictures would reproduce the actions of that person as long as you cared to watch them. so today, when dorothy tired of her embroidery, she drew the curtains from before the magic picture and wished to see what her friend button bright was doing. button bright, she saw, was playing ball with ojo, the munchkin boy, so dorothy next wished to see what her aunt em was doing. the picture showed aunt em quietly engaged in darning socks for uncle henry, so dorothy wished to see what her old friend the tin woodman was doing. the tin woodman was then just leaving his tin chapter twelve kansas girl’s good fortune had not spoiled her or rendered her at all vain. she was just the same brave and true and adventurous child as before she lived in a royal palace and became the chum of the fairy ozma. in the room in which the two sat —~ which was one of ozma’s private suite of apartments -— hung the famous magic picture. this was the source of con- stant interest to little dorothy. one had but to stand before it and wish to see what any person was doing, and at once a scene would flash upon the magic canvas which showed exactly where that person was, and like our own moving pictures would reproduce the actions of that person as long as you cared to watch them. so today, when dorothy tired of her embroidery, she drew the curtains from before the magic picture and wished to see what her friend button bright was doing. button bright, she saw, was playing ball with ojo, the munchkin boy, so dorothy next wished to see what her aunt em was doing. the picture showed aunt em quietly engaged in darning socks for uncle henry, so dorothy wished to see what her old friend the tin woodman was doing. the tin woodman was then just leaving his tin the tin woodman of ()z castle in the company of the scarecrow and woot the wanderer. dorothy had never seen this boy before, so she wondered who he was. also she was curious to know where the three were going, for she noticed woot’s knapsack and guessed they had started on a long journey. she asked ozma about it, but ozma did not know. that afternoon dorothy again saw the travelers in the magic picture, but they were merely tramp- ing through the country and dorothy was not much interested in them. a couple of days later, how- ever, the girl, being again with ozma, wished to see her friends, the scarecrow and the tin woodman in the magic picture, and on this occasion found them in the great castle of mrs. yoop, the giantess, who was at the time about to transform them. both dorothy and ozma now became greatly interested and watched the transformations with indignation and horror. “ what a wicked giantess! ” exclaimed dorothy. “ yes,” answered ozma, “she must be punished for this cruelty to our friends, and to the poor boy who is with them.” after this they followed the adventure of the little brown bear and the tin owl and the green monkey the tin woodman of ()z castle in the company of the scarecrow and woot the wanderer. dorothy had never seen this boy before, so she wondered who he was. also she was curious to know where the three were going, for she noticed woot’s knapsack and guessed they had started on a long journey. she asked ozma about it, but ozma did not know. that afternoon dorothy again saw the travelers in the magic picture, but they were merely tramp- ing through the country and dorothy was not much interested in them. a couple of days later, how- ever, the girl, being again with ozma, wished to see her friends, the scarecrow and the tin woodman in the magic picture, and on this occasion found them in the great castle of mrs. yoop, the giantess, who was at the time about to transform them. both dorothy and ozma now became greatly interested and watched the transformations with indignation and horror. “ what a wicked giantess! ” exclaimed dorothy. “ yes,” answered ozma, “she must be punished for this cruelty to our friends, and to the poor boy who is with them.” after this they followed the adventure of the little brown bear and the tin owl and the green monkey chapter twelve with breathless interest, and were delighted when they escaped from mrs. yoop. they did not know, then, who the canary was, but realized it must be the transformation of some person of consequence, whom the giantess had also enchanted. when, finally, the day came when the adventurers headed south into the munchkin country, dorothy asked anxiously: "can't something be done for them, ozma? can't you change 'em back into their own shapes? they've the tin woodman of oz suffered enough from these dreadful transformations, seems to me." "i've been studying ways to help them, ever since they were transformed," replied ozma. "mrs. yoop is now the only yookoohoo in my dominions, and the yookoohoo magic is very peculiar and hard for others to understand, yet i am resolved to make the attempt to break these enchantments. i may not succeed, but i shall do the best i can. from the directions our friends are taking, i believe they are going to pass by jinjur's ranch, so if we start now we may meet them there. would you like to go with me, dorothy?" "of course," answered the little girl; "i wouldn't miss it for anything. "then order the red wagon," said ozma of oz, "and we will start at once." dorothy ran to do as she was bid, while ozma went to her magic room to make ready the things she believed she would need. in half an hour the red wagon stood before the grand entrance of the pal- ace, and before it was hitched the wooden sawhorse, which was ozma's favorite steed. this sawhorse, while made of wood, was very much alive and could travel swiftly and without tiring. to the restoration chapter the tin owl gave a hoot of delight when he saw the red wagon draw up before jinjur's house, and the brown bear grunted and growled with glee and trotted toward ozma as fast as he could wobble. as for the canary, it flew swiftly to dor- othy's shoulder and perched there, saying in her ear: chapter thirteen "well," said dorothy critically, as she looked him over, "you're nothing to brag of, i must confess. but ozma will soon fix you up again." the green monkey had hung back, bashful at meeting two lovely girls while in the form of a beast; but jinjur now took his hand and led him forward while she introduced him to ozma, and woot managed to make a low bow, not really ungraceful, before her girlish majesty, the ruler of oz. "you have all been forced to endure a sad expe- rience," said ozma, "and so i am anxious to do all in my power to break mrs. yoop's enchantments. but first tell me how you happened to stray into that lonely valley where yoop castle stands." between them they related the object of their journey, the scarecrow bear telling of the tin woodman's resolve to find nimmie amee and marry her, as a just reward for her loyalty to him. woot told of their adventures with the loons of loonville, and the tin owl described the manner in which they had been captured and transformed by the giantess. then polychrome related her story, and when all had been told, and dorothy had several times reproved toto for growling at the tin owl, ozma the tin woodman of oz remained thoughtful for a while, pondering upon what she had heard. finally she looked up, and with one of her delightful smiles, said to the anxious group: "i am not sure my magic will be able to restore every one of you, because your transformations are of such a strange and unusual character. indeed, mrs. yoop was quite justified in believing no power could alter her enchantments. however, i am sure i can restore the scarecrow to his original shape. he was stuffed with straw from the beginning, and even the yookoohoo magic could not alter that. the giantess was merely able to make a bear's shape of a man's shape, but the bear is stuffed with straw, just as the man was. so i feel confident i can make a man of the bear again." "hurrah!" cried the brown bear, and tried clumsily to dance a jig of delight. "as for the tin woodman, his case is much the same," resumed ozma, still smiling. "the power of the giantess could not make him anything but a tin creature, whatever shape she transformed him into, so it will not be impossible to restore him to his manly form. anyhow, i shall test my magic at once, and see if it will do what i have promised." cop righter thirteen she drew from her bosom a small silver wand and, making passes with the wand over the head of the bear, she succeeded in the brief space of a moment in breaking his enchantment. the original scarecrow of oz again stood before them, well stuffed with straw and with his features nicely painted upon the bag which formed his head. the scarecrow was greatly delighted, as you may suppose, and he strutted proudly around while the powerful fairy, ozma of oz, broke the enchantment that had transformed the tin woodman and made a tin owl into a tin man again. "now, then," chirped the canary, eagerly; "i'm next, ozma!" "but your case is different," replied ozma, no longer smiling but wearing a grave expression on her sweet face. "i shall have to experiment on you, polychrome, and i may fail in all my attempts." she then tried two or three different methods of magic, hoping one of them would succeed in break- ing polychrome's enchantment, but still the rain- bow's daughter remained a canary-bird. finally, however, she experimented in another way. she transformed the canary into a dove, and then trans- formed the dove into a speckled hen, and then the tin woodman of oz changed the speckled hen into a rabbit, and then the rabbit into a fawn. and at the last, after mix- ing several powders and sprinkling them upon the fawn, the yookoohoo enchantment was suddenly broken and before them stood one of the daintiest and loveliest creatures in any fairyland in the world. polychrome was as sweet and merry in disposition as she was beautiful, and when she danced and capered around in delight, her beautiful hair floated around her like a golden mist and her many-hued raiment, as soft as cobwebs, reminded one of drifting clouds in a summer sky. woot was so awed by the entrancing sight of this exquisite sky fairy that he quite forgot his own sad plight until he noticed ozma gazing upon him with an intent expression that denoted sympathy and sorrow. dorothy whispered in her friend's ear, but the ruler of oz shook her head sadly. jinjur, noticing this and understanding ozma's looks, took the paw of the green monkey in her own hand and patted it softly. "never mind," she said to him. "you are a very beautiful color, and a monkey can climb better than a boy and do a lot of other things no boy can ever do." "what's the matter?" asked woot, a sinking the tin woodman of oz feeling at his heart. "is ozma's magic all used up?" ozma herself answered him. "your form of enchantment, my poor boy," she said pityingly, "is different from that of the others. indeed, it is a form that is impossible to alter by any magic known to fairies or yookoohoos. the wicked giantess was well aware, when she gave you the form of a green monkey, that the green monkey must exist in the land of oz for all future time." woot drew a long sigh. "well, that's pretty hard luck," he said bravely, "but if it can't be helped i must endure it; that's all. i don't like being a monkey, but what's the use of kicking against my fate?" they were all very sorry for him, and dorothy anxiously asked ozma: "couldn't glinda save him?" "no," was the reply. "glinda's power in trans- formations is no greater than my own. before i left my palace i went to my magic room and studied woot's case very carefully. i found that no power can do away with the green monkey. he might transfer, or exchange his form with some other person, it is true; but the green monkey we chapter thirteen cannot get rid of by any magic arts known to science." "but — see here," said the scarecrow, who had listened intently to this explanation, "why not put the monkey's form on some one else?" "who would agree to make the change?" asked ozma. "if by force we caused anyone else to become a green monkey, we would be as cruel and wicked as mrs. yoop. and what good would an exchange do?" she continued. "suppose, for instance, we worked the enchantment, and made toto into a green monkey. at the same moment woot would become a little dog." "leave me out of your magic, please," said toto, with a reproachful growl. "i wouldn't become a green monkey for anything." "and i wouldn't become a dog," said woot. "a green monkey is much better than a dog, it seems to me." "that is only a matter of opinion," answered toto. "now, here's another idea," said the scarecrow. "my brains are working finely today, you must admit. why not transform toto into woot the wanderer, and then have them exchange forms? the chapter thirteen inflicting upon anyone — man or dog — the form of a green monkey. also it is certain that in order to relieve the boy of the form he now wears, we must give it to someone else, who would be forced to wear it always." "i wonder," said dorothy, thoughtfully, "if we couldn't find someone in the land of oz who would be willing to become a green monkey? seems to me a monkey is active and spry, and he can climb trees and do a lot of clever things, and green isn't a bad color for a monkey — it makes him unusual." "i wouldn't ask anyone to take this dreadful form," said woof;; "it wouldn't be right, you know. fve been a monkey for some time, now, and i don't like it. it makes me ashamed to be a beast of this sort when by right of birth i'm a boy; so i'm sure it would be wicked to ask anyone else to take my place." they were all silent, for they knew he spoke the truth. dorothy was almost ready to cry with pity and ozma's sweet face was sad and disturbed. the scarecrow rubbed and patted his stuffed head to try to make it think better, while the tin woodman went into the house and began to oil his tin joints so that the sorrow of his friends might not cause the tin woodman of oz him to weep. weeping is liable to rust tin, and the emperor prided himself upon his highly polished body — now doubly dear to him because for a time he had been deprived of it. polychrome had danced down the garden paths and back again a dozen times, for she was seldom still a moment, yet she had heard ozma's speech and understood very well woot's unfortunate position. but the rainbow's daughter, even while dancing, could think and reason very clearly, and suddenly she solved the problem in the nicest possible way. coming close to ol,ma, she said: "your majesty, all this trouble was caused by the wickedness of mrs. yoop, the giantess. yet even now that cruel woman is living in her secluded castle, enjoying the thought that she has put this terrible enchantment on woot the wanderer. even now she is laughing at our despair because we can find no way to get rid of the green monkey. very well, we do not wish to get rid of it. let the woman who created the form wear it herself, as a just punishment for her wickedness. i am sure your fairy power can give to mrs. yoop the form of woot the wanderer — even at this distance from her — and then it will be possible to exchange the two the tin woodman of oz forms. mrs. yoop will become the green monkey, and woot will recover his own form again." ozma's face brightened as she listened to this clever proposal. "thank you, polychrome," said she. "the task you propose is not so easy as you suppose, but i will make the attempt, and perhaps i may succeed." the green monkey *= chapter they now entered the house, and as an interested group, watched jinjur, at ozma's command, build a fire and put a kettle of water over to boil. the ruler of oz stood before the fire silent and grave, while the others, realizing that an important ceremony of magic was about to be performed, stood quietly $a the tin woodman of oz in the background so as not to interrupt ozma's pro- ceedings. only polychrome kept going in and coming out, humming softly to herself as she danced, for the rainbow's daughter could not keep still for long, and the four walls of a room always made her nervous and ill at ease. she moved so noiselessly, however, that her movements were like the shifting of sun- beams and did not annoy anyone. when the water in the kettle bubbled, ozma drew from her bosom two tiny packets containing powders. these powders she threw into the kettle and after briskly stirring the contents with a branch from a macaroon bush, ozma poured the mystic broth upon a broad platter which jinjur had placed upon the table. as the broth cooled it became as silver, reflecting all objects from its smooth surface like a mirror. while her companions gathered around the table, eagerly attentive — and dorothy even held little toto in her arms that he might see — ozma waved her wand over the mirror-like surface. at once it reflected the interior of yoop castle, and in the big hall sat mrs. yoop, in her best embroidered silken robes, engaged in weaving a new lace apron to replace the one she had lost. the tin woodman of oz the giantess seemed rather uneasy, as if she had a faint idea that someone was spying upon her, for she kept looking behind her and this way and that, as though expecting danger from an unknown source. perhaps some yookoohoo instinct warned her. woot saw that she had escaped from her room by some of the magical means at her disposal, after her pris- oners had escaped her. she was now occupying the big hall of her castle as she used to do. also woot thought, from the cruel expression on the face of the giantess, that she was planning revenge on them, as soon as her new magic apron was finished. but ozma was now making passes over the platter with her silver wand, and presently the form of the giantess began to shrink in size and to change its shape. and now, in her place sat the form of woot the wanderer, and as if suddenly realizing her transformation mrs. yoop threw down her work and rushed to a looking-glass that stood against the wall of her room. when she saw the boy's form reflected as her own, she grew violently angry and dashed her head against the mirror, smashing it to atoms. just then ozma was busy with her magic wand, making strange figures, and she had also placed her left hand firmly upon the shoulder of the green chapter fourteen monkey. so now, as all eyes were turned upon the platter, the form of mrs. yoop gradually changed again. she was slowly transformed into the green monkey, and at the same time woot slowly regained his natural form. it was quite a surprise to them all when they raised their eyes from the platter and saw woot the wanderer standing beside ozma. and, when they glanced at the platter again, it reflected nothing more than the walls of the room in jinjur's house in which they stood. the magic ceremonial was ended, and ozma of oz had triumphed over the wicked giantess. "what will become of her, i wonder?" said dorothy, as she drew a long breath. "she will always remain a green monkey," replied ozma, "and in that form she will be unable to per- form any magical arts whatsoever. she need not be unhappy, however, and as she lives all alone in her castle she probably won't mind the transformation very much after she gets used to it." "anyhow, it serves her right," declared dorothy, and all agreed with her. "but," said the kind hearted tin woodman, "i'mafraid the green monkey will starve, for mrs. yoop the man of tin chapter ozma and dorothy were quite pleased with woot the wanderer, whom they found modest and intelligent and very well mannered. the boy was truly grateful for his release from the cruel en- chantment, and he promised to love, revere and defend the girl ruler of oz forever after- ward, as a faithful subject. =® u the tin woodman of oz "you may visit me at my palace, if you wish," said ozma, "where i will be glad to introduce you to two other nice boys, ojo the munchkin and button-bright." "thank your majesty," replied woot, and then he turned to the tin woodman and inquired: "what are your further plans, mr. emperor? will you still seek nimmie amee and marry her, or will you abandon the quest and return to the emerald city and your own castle?" the tin woodman, now as highly polished and well-oiled as ever, reflected a while on this question and then answered: "well, i see no reason why i should not find nimmie amee. we are now in the munchkin country, where we are perfectly safe, and if it was right for me, before our enchantment, to marry nimmie amee and make her empress of the winkies, it must be right now, when the enchantment has been broken and i am once more myself. am i correct, friend scarecrow?" "you are, indeed," answered the scarecrow. "no one can oppose such logic." "but i'm afraid you don't love nimmie amee," suggested dorothy. chapter fifteen "that is just because i can't love anyone," replied the tin woodman. "but, if i cannot love my wife, i can at least be kind to her, and all husbands are not able to do that." "do you s'pose nimmie amee still loves you, after all these years?" asked dorothy. "i'm quite sure of it, and that is why i am going to her to make her happy. woot the wanderer thinks i ought to reward her for being faithful to me after my meat body was chopped to pieces and i became tin. what do you think, ozma?" ozma smiled as she said: "i do not know your nimmie amee, and so i cannot tell what she most needs to make her happy. but there is no harm in your going to her and asking her if she still wishes to marry you. if she does, we will give you a grand wedding at the emerald city and, afterward, as empress of the winkies, nimmie amee would become one of the most impor- tant ladies in all oz." so it was decided that the tin woodman would continue his journey, and that the scarecrow and woot the wanderer should accompany him, as before. polychrome also decided to join their party, somewhat to the surprise of all. the tin woodman of oz "i hate to be cooped up in a palace," she said to ozma, "and of course the first time i meet my rainbow i shall return to my own dear home in the skies, where my fairy sisters are even now await- ing me and my father is cross because i get lost so often. but i can find my rainbow just as quickly while traveling in the munchkin country as i could if living in the emerald city — or any other place in oz — so i shall go with the tin woodman and help him woo nimmie amee." dorothy wanted to go, too, but as the tin wood- man did not invite her to join his party, she felt she might be intruding if she asked to be taken. she hinted, but she found he didn't take the hint. it is quite a delicate matter for one to ask a girl to marry him, however much she loves him, and perhaps the tin woodman did not desire to have too many looking on when he found his old sweet- heart, nimmie amee. so dorothy contented herself with the thought that she would help ozma prepare a splendid wedding feast, to be followed by a round of parties and festivities when the emperor of the winkies reached the emerald city with his bride. ozma offered to take them all in the red wagon to a place as near to the great munchkin forest as chapter fifteen a wagon could get. the red wagon was big enough to seat them all, and so, bidding good-bye to jinjur, who gave woot a basket of ripe cream-puffs and caramels to take with him, ozma commanded the wooden sawhorse to start, and the strange creature moved swiftly over the lanes and presently came to the road of yellow bricks. this road led straight to a dense forest, where the path was too narrow for the red wagon to proceed farther, so here the party separated. ozma and dorothy and toto returned to the emerald city, after wishing their friends a safe and successful journey, while the tin woodman, the scarecrow, woot the wanderer and polychrome, the rainbow's daughter, prepared to push their way through the thick forest. however, these forest paths were well known to the tin man and the scarecrow, who felt quite at home among the trees. "i was born in this grand forest," said nick chopper, the tin emperor, speaking proudly, "and it was here that the witch enchanted my axe and i lost different parts of my meat body until i became all tin. here, also — for it is a big forest — nimmie amee lived with the wicked witch, and at the other edge of the trees stands the cottage of my the tin woodman of oz friend ku-klip, the famous tinsmith who made my present beautiful form." "he must be a clever workman," declared woot, admiringly. "he is simply wonderful," declared the tin woodman. "i shall be glad to make his acquaintance," said woot. "if you wish to meet with real cleverness," remarked the scarecrow, "you should visit the munchkin farmer who first made me. i won't say that my friend the emperor isn't all right for a tin man, but any judge of beauty can understand that a scarecrow is far more artistic and refined." "you are too soft and flimsy," said the tin woodman. "you are too hard and stiff," said the scarecrow, and this was as near to quarreling as the two friends ever came. polychrome laughed at them both, as well she might, and woot hastened to change the subject. at night they all camped underneath the trees. the boy ate cream-puffs for supper and offered poly- chrome some, but she preferred other food and at daybreak sipped the dew that was clustered thick chapter fifteen on the forest flowers. then they tramped onward again, and presently the scarecrow paused and said: "it was on this very spot that dorothy and i first met the tin woodman, who was rusted so badly that none of his joints would move. but after we had oiled him up, he was as good as new and accom- panied us to the emerald city." "ah, that was a sad experience," asserted the tin woodman soberly. "i was caught in a rainstorm while chopping down a tree for exercise, and before i realized it, i was firmly rusted in every joint. there i stood, axe in hand, but unable to move, for days and weeks and months! indeed, i have never known exactly how long the time was; but finally along came dorothy and i was saved. see! this is the very tree i was chopping at the time i rusted." "you cannot be far from your old home, in that case," said woot. "no; my little cabin stands not a great way off, but there is no occasion for us to visit it. our errand is with nimmie amee, and her house is somewhat farther away, to the left of us." "didn't you say she lives with a wicked witch, who makes her a slave?" asked the boy. "she did, but she doesn't," was the reply. "lam the tin woodman of oz told the witch was destroyed when dorothy's house fell on her, so now nimmie amee must live all alone. i haven't seen her, of course, since the witch was crushed, for at that time i was standing rusted in the forest and had been there a long time, but the poor girl must have felt very happy to be free from her cruel mistress." "well," said the scarecrow, "let's travel on and find nimmie amee. lead on, your majesty, since you know the way, and we will follow." so the tin woodman took a path that led through the thickest part of the forest, and they followed it for some time. the light was dim here, because vines and bushes and leafy foliage were all about them, and often the tin man had to push aside the branches that obstructed their way, or cut them off with his axe. after they had proceeded some distance, the emperor suddenly stopped short and exclaimed: "good gracious!" the scarecrow, who was next, first bumped into his friend and then peered around his tin body, and said in a tone of wonder: "well, i declare!" woot the wanderer pushed forward to see what was the matter, and cried out in astonishment: cop righted fifteen "for goodness' sake!" then the three stood motionless, staring hard, until polychrome's merry laughter rang out behind them and aroused them from their stupor. in the path before them stood a tin man who was the exact duplicate of the tin woodman. he was of the same size, he was jointed in the same manner, and he was made of shining tin from top to toe. but he stood immovable, with his tin jaws half parted and his tin eyes turned upward. in one of his hands was held a long, gleaming sword. yes, there was the difference, the only thing that dis- tinguished him from the emperor of the winkies. this tin man bore a sword, while the tin woodman bore an axe. "it's a dream; it must be a dream!" gasped wool. "that's it, of course," said the scarecrow; "there couldn't be two tin woodmen." "no," agreed polychrome, dancing nearer to the stranger, "this one is a tin soldier. don't you see his sword?" the tin woodman cautiously put out one tin hand and felt of his double's arm. then he said in a voice that trembled with emotion: "who are you, friend?" the tin woodman of oz "but — dear me!" cried the tin woodman, sadly perplexed; "how came you to be made of tin?" "that," answered the soldier, "is a sad, sad story. i was in love with a beautiful munchkin girl, who lived with a wicked witch. the witch did not wish me to marry the girl, so she enchanted my sword, which began hacking me to pieces. when i lost my legs i went to the tinsmith, ku-klip, and he made me some tin legs. when i lost my arms, ku-klip made me tin arms, and when i lost my head he made me this fine one out of tin. it was the same way with my body, and finally i was all tin. but i was not unhappy, for ku-klip made a good job of me, having had experience in making another tin man before me." "yes," observed the tin woodman, "it was ku-klip who made me. but, tell me, what was the name of the munchkin girl you were in love with?" "she is called nimmie amee," said the tin soldier. hearing this, they were all so astonished that they were silent for a time, regarding the stranger with wondering looks. finally the tin woodman ven- tured to ask: "and did mmmie amee return your love?" "not at first," admitted the soldier. "when first chapter sixteen i marched into the forest and met her, she was weeping over the loss of her former sweetheart, a woodman whose name was nick chopper." "that is me," said the tin woodman. "she told me he was nicer than a soldier, because he was all made of tin and shone beautifully in the sun. she said a tin man appealed to her artistic instincts more than an ordinary meat man, as i was then. but i did not despair, because her tin sweet- heart had disappeared, and could not be found. and finally nimmie amee permitted me to call upon her and we became friends. it was then that the wicked witch discovered me and became furiously angry when i said i wanted to marry the girl. she enchanted my sword, as i said, and then my troubles began. when i got my tin legs, nimmie amee began to take an interest in me; when i got my tin arms, she began to like me better than ever, and when i was all made of tin, she said i looked like her dear nick chopper and she would be willing to marry me. "the day of our wedding was set, and it turned out to be a rainy day. nevertheless i started out to get nimmie amee, because the witch had been absent for some time, and we meant to elope before she got back. as i traveled the forest paths the rain the tin woodman of oz wetted my joints, but i paid no attention to this because my thoughts were all on my wedding with beautiful mmmie amee and i could think of nothing else until suddenly my legs stopped moving. then my arms rusted at the joints and i became frightened and cried for help, for now i was unable to oil myself. no one heard my calls and before long my jaws rusted, and i was unable to utter another sound. so i stood helpless in this spot, hoping some wanderer would come my way and save me. but this forest path is seldom used, and i have been standing here so long that i have lost all track of time. in my mind i composed poetry and sang songs, but not a sound have i been able to utter. but this desperate condi- tion has now been relieved by your coming my way and i must thank you for my rescue." "this is wonderful!" said the scarecrow, heaving a stuffy, long sigh. "i think ku-klip was wrong to make two tin men, just alike, and the strangest thing of all is that both you tin men fell in love with the same girl." "as for that," returned the soldier, seriously, "i must admit i lost my ability to love when i lost my meat heart. ku-klip gave me a tin heart, to be sure, but it doesn't love anything, as far as i can discover, g* the workshop of ku-klip iff* chapter it was not more than a two hours' journey to the house where nimmie amee had lived, but when our travelers arrived there they found the place deserted. the door was partly off its hinges, the roof had fallen in at the rear and the interior of the cottage was thick with dust. not only was the place vacant, but it tsx chapter seventeen that struck them all as being a good suggestion, so once more they started to tramp through the forest, taking the direct path to ku-klip's house, for both the tin twins knew the way, having followed it many times. ku-klip lived at the far edge of the great forest, his house facing the broad plains of the munchkin country that lay to the eastward. but, when they came to this residence by the forest's edge, the tin- smith was not at home. it was a pretty place, all painted dark blue with trimmings of lighter blue. there was a neat blue fence around the yard and several blue benches had been placed underneath the shady blue trees which marked the line between forest and plain. there was a blue lawn before the house, which was a good sized building. ku-klip lived in the front part of the house and had his work-shop in the back part, where he had also built a lean-to addition, in order to give him more room. although they found the tinsmith absent on their arrival, there was smoke coming out of his chimney, which proved that he would soon return. "and perhaps nimmie amee will be with him," said the scarecrow in a cheerful voice. the tin woodman of oz while they waited, the tin woodman went to the door of the workshop and, finding it unlocked, entered and looked curiously around the room where he had been made. "it seems almost like home to me," he told his friends, who had followed him in. "the first time i came here i had lost a leg, so i had to carry it in my hand while i hopped on the other leg all the way from the place in the forest where the enchanted axe cut me. i remember that old ku-klip carefully put my meat leg into a barrel — i think that is the same barrel, still standing in the corner yonder — and then at once he began to make a tin leg for me. he worked fast and with skill, and i was much inter- ested in the job." "my experience was much the same," said the tin soldier. "i used to bring all the parts of me, which the enchanted sword had cut away, here to the tin- smith, and ku-klip would put them into the barrel." "i wonder," said woot, "if those cast-off parts of you two unfortunates are still in that barrel in the corner?" "i suppose so," replied the tin woodman. "in the land of oz no part of a living creature can ever be destroyed." chapter seventeen "if that is true, how was that wicked witch destroyed?" inquired woot. "why, she was very old and was all dried up and withered before oz became a fairyland," explained the scarecrow. "only her magic arts had kept her alive so long, and when dorothy's house fell upon her she just turned to dust, and was blown away and scattered by the wind. i do not think, however, that the parts cut away from these two young men could ever be entirely destroyed and, if they are still in those barrels, they are likely to be just the same as when the enchanted axe or sword severed them." "it doesn't matter, however," said the tin wood- man; "our tin bodies are more brilliant and durable, and quite satisfy us." "yes, the tin bodies are best," agreed the tin sol- dier. "nothing can hurt them." "unless they get dented or rusted," said woot, but both the tin men frowned on him. scraps of tin, of all shapes and sizes, lay scattered around the workshop. also there were hammers and anvils and soldering irons and a charcoal furnace and many other tools such as a tinsmith works with. against two of the side walls had been built stout work-benches and in the center of the room was a the tin woodman of oz but my memory of some of the events i formerly experienced is quite hazy." "how long have you been in this cupboard? " asked the emperor. "i don't know." "haven't you a name?" "oh, yes," said the head; "i used to be called nick chopper, when i was a woodman and cut down trees for a living." "good gracious!" cried the tin woodman in aston- ishment. "if you are nick chopper's head, then you are me — or i'm you — or — or — what relation are we, anyhow?" "don't ask me," replied the head. "for my part, i'm not anxious to claim relationship with any com- mon, manufactured article, like you. you may be all right in your class, but your class isn't my class. you're tin." the poor emperor felt so bewildered that for a time he could only stare at his old head in silence. then he said: "i must admit that i wasn't at all bad looking before i became tin. you're almost handsome — for meat. if your hair was combed, you'd be quite attractive." chapter eighteen "how do you expect me to comb my hair without help?" demanded the head, indignantly. "i used to keep it smooth and neat, when i had arms, but after i was removed from the rest of me, my hair got mussed, and old ku-klip never has combed it for me." "i'll speak to him about it," said the tin woodman. "do you remember loving a pretty munchkin girl named nimmie amee?" "no," answered the head. "that is a foolish ques- tion. the heart in my body — when i had a body — might have loved someone, for all i know, but a head isn't made to love; it's made to think." "oh; do you think, then?" "i used to think." "you must have been shut up in this cupboard for years and years. what have you thought about, in all that time?" "nothing. that's another foolish question. a little reflection will convince you that i have had nothing to think about, except the boards on the inside of the cupboard door, and it didn't take me long to think of everything about those boards that could be thought of. then, of course, i quit thinking." "and are you happy?" "happy? what's that?" the tin woodman of oz "don't you know, what happiness is?" inquired the tin woodman. "i haven't the faintest idea whether it's round or square, or black or white, or what it is. and, if you will pardon my lack of interest in it, i will say that i don't care." the tin woodman was much puzzled by these answers. his traveling companions had grouped themselves at his back, and had fixed their eyes on the head and listened to the conversation with much interest, but until now, they had not interrupted because they thought the tin woodman had the best right to talk to his own head and renew acquaintance with it. but now the tin soldier remarked: "i wonder if my old head happens to be in any of these cupboards," and he proceeded to open all the cupboard doors. but no other head was to be found on any of the shelves. "oh, well; never mind," said woot the wanderer; "i can't imagine what anyone wants of a cast-off head, anyhow." "i can understand the soldier's interest," asserted polychrome, dancing around the grimy workshop until her draperies formed a cloud around her dainty the tin woodman of oz with a sigh the tin woodman closed and latched the cupboard door and turned away. "well," said the tin soldier, " if my old head would have treated me as coldly and in so unfriendly a man- ner as your old head has treated you, friend chopper, i'm glad i could not find it." "yes; i'm rather surprised at my head, myself," replied the tin woodman, thoughtfully. "i thought i had a more pleasant disposition when i was made of meat." but just then old ku-klip the tinsmith arrived, and he seemed surprised to find so many visitors. ku-klip was a stout man and a short man. he had his sleeves rolled above his elbows, showing muscular arms, and he wore a leathern apron that covered all the front of him, and was so long that woot was sur- prised he didn't step on it and trip whenever he walked. and ku-klip had a gray beard that was almost as long as his apron, and his head was bald on top and his ears stuck out from his head like two fans. over his eyes, which were bright and twinkling, he wore big spectacles. it was easy to see that the tinsmith was a kind hearted man, as well as a merry and agreeable one. "oh-ho!" he cried in a joyous bass voice; " here are chapter eighteen both my tin men come to visit me, and they and their friends are welcome indeed. i'm very proud of you two characters, i assure you, for you are so perfect that you are proof that i'm a good workman. sit down. sit down, all of you — if you can find anything to sit on — and tell me why you are here." so they found seats and told him all of their adventures that they thought he would like to know. ku-klip was glad to learn that nick chopper, the tin woodman, was now emperor of the winkies and a friend of ozma of oz, and the tinsmith was also interested in the scarecrow and polychrome. he turned the straw man around, examining him curiously, and patted him on all sides, and then said: "you are certainly wonderful, but i think you would be more durable and steady on your legs if you were made of tin. would you like me to —" "no, indeed!" interrupted the scarecrow hastily; "i like myself better as i am." but to polychrome the tinsmith said: "nothing could improve you, my dear, for you are the most beautiful maiden i have ever seen. it is pure happiness just to look at you." "that is praise, indeed, from so skillful a work- the tin woodman of oz i had hard work finding enough pieces to complete the job. i finally had to finish him with one arm." "who is chopfyt?" inquired woot. "oh, haven't i told you about chopfyt?" exclaimed ku-klip. "of course not! and he's quite a curiosity, too. you'll be interested in hearing about chopfyt. this is how he happened: "one day, after the witch had been destroyed and nimmie amee had gone to live with her friends on mount munch, i was looking around the shop for something and came upon the bottle of magic glue which i had brought from the old witch's house. it occurred to me to piece together the odds and ends of you two people, which of course were just as good as ever, and see if i couldn't make a man out of them. if i succeeded, i would have an assistant to help me with my work, and i thought it would be a clever idea to put to some practical use the scraps of nick chopper and captain fyter. there were two perfectly good heads in my cupboard, and a lot of feet and legs and parts of bodies in the barrel, so i set to work to see what i could do. "first, i pieced together a body, gluing it with the witch's magic glue, which worked perfectly. that was the hardest part of my job, however, because the chapter eighteen bodies didn't match up well and some parts were missing. but by using a piece of captain fyter here and a piece of nick chopper there, i finally got together a very decent body, with heart and all the trimmings complete." "whose heart did you use in making the body?" asked the tin woodman anxiously. "i can't tell, for the parts had no tags on them and one heart looks much like another. after the body was completed, i glued two fine legs and feet onto it. one leg was nick chopper's and one was chapter eighteen head," remarked the tin soldier. "i remember that head used to be very particular about its clothes." "as an assistant," the old tinsmith continued, "chopfyt was not a success. he was awkward with tools and was always hungry. he demanded some- thing to eat six or eight times a day, so i wondered if i had fitted his insides properly. indeed, chopfyt ate so much that little food was left for myself; so, when he proposed, one day, to go out into the world and seek adventures, i was delighted to be rid of him. i even made him a tin arm to take the place of the missing one, and that pleased him very much, so that we parted good friends." "what became of chopfyt after that?" the scare- crow inquired. "i never heard. he started off toward the east, into the plains of the munchkin country, and that was the last i ever saw of him." "it seems to me," said the tin woodman reflect- ively, "that you did wrong in making a man out of our cast-off parts. it is evident that chopfyt could, with justice, claim relationship with both of us." "don't worry about that," advised ku-klip cheer- fully; "it is not likely that you will ever meet the fellow. and, if you should meet him, he doesn't know the tin woodman of oz who he is made of, for i never told him the secret of his manufacture. indeed, you are the only ones who know of it, and you may keep the secret to yourselves, if you wish to." "never mind chopfyt," said the scarecrow. "our business now is to find poor nimmie amee and let her choose her tin husband. to do that, it seems, from the information ku-klip has given us, we must travel to mount munch." "if that's the programme, let us start at once," suggested woot. so they all went outside, 'where they found poly- chrome dancing about among the trees and talking with the birds and laughing as merrily as if she had not lost her rainbow and so been separated from all her fairy sisters. they told her they were going to mount munch, and she replied: "very well; i am as likely to find my rainbow there as here, and any other place is as likely as there. it all depends on the weather. do you think it looks like rain ?" they shook their heads, and polychrome laughed again and danced on after them when they resumed their journey. the invisible country £ccv - chapter they were proceeding so easily and comfortably on their way to mount munch that woot said in a serious tone of voice: "i'm afraid something is going to happen." "why? " asked polychrome, dancing around the group of travelers. "because," said the boy, so i the tin woodman of oz thoughtfully, "i've noticed that when we have the least reason for getting into trouble, something is sure to go wrong. just now the weather is delight- ful; the grass is beautifully blue and quite soft to our feet; the mountain we are seeking shows clearly in the distance and there is no reason anything should happen to delay us in getting there. our troubles all seem to be over, and — well, that's why i'm afraid," he added, with a sigh. "dear me!" remarked the scarecrow, "what unhappy thoughts you have, to be sure. this is proof that born brains cannot equal manufactured brains, for my brains dwell only on facts and never borrow trouble. when there is occasion for my brains to think, they think, but i would be ashamed of my brains if they kept shooting out thoughts that were merely fears and imaginings, such as do no good, but are likely to do harm." "for my part," said the tin woodman, "i do not think at all, but allow my velvet heart to guide me at all times." "the tinsmith filled my hollow head with scraps and clippings of tin," said the soldier, "and he told me they would do nicely for brains, but when i begin to think, the tin scraps rattle around and get so mixed the tin woodman of oz that fell upon him and while he could not see the scarecrow he managed to push him off and rose to his feet just as polychrome whirled against him and made him tumble again. sitting upon the ground, the boy asked: "can you see us, poly?" "no, indeed," answered the rainbow's daughter; "we've all become invisible." "how did it happen, do you suppose?" inquired the scarecrow, lying where he had fallen. "we have met with no enemy," answered poly- chrome, "so it must be that this part of the country has the magic quality of making people invisible — even fairies falling under the charm. we can see the grass, and the flowers, and the stretch of plain before us, and we can still see mount munch in the distance; but we cannot see ourselves or one another." "well, what are we to do about it?" demanded woot. "i think this magic affects only a small part of the plain," replied polychrome; "perhaps there is only a streak of the country where an enchantment makes people become invisible. so, if we get together and hold hands, we can travel toward mount munch until the enchanted streak is passed." chapter nineteen "all right," said woot, jumping up, " give me your hand, polychrome. where are you?" "here," she answered. "whistle, woot, and keep whistling until i come to you." so woot whistled, and presently polychrome found him and grasped his hand. "someone must help me up," said the scarecrow, lying near them; so they found the straw man and sat him upon his feet, after which he held fast to polychrome's other hand. nick chopper and the tin soldier had managed to scramble up without assistance, but it was awk- ward for them and the tin woodman said: "i don't seem to stand straight, somehow. but my joints all work, so i guess i can walk." guided by his voice, they reached his side, where woot grasped his tin fingers so they might keep together. the tin soldier was standing near by and the scarecrow soon touched him and took hold of his arm. "i hope you're not wobbly," said the straw man, "for if two of us walk unsteadily we will be sure to fall." "i'm not wobbly," the tin soldier assured him, chapter nineteen "bah i that's not straw," said the harsh voice, and the beast advanced along the line to woot. "meat! pooh, you're no good i i can't eat meat," grumbled the beast, and passed on to polychrome. "sweetmeats and perfume — cobwebs and dew! nothing to eat in a fairy like you," said the creature. now, the scarecrow was next to polychrome in the line, and he realized if the beast devoured his straw he would be helpless for a long time, because the last farmhouse was far behind them and only grass covered the vast expanse of plain. so in his fright he let go of polychrome's hand and put the hand of the tin soldier in that of the rainbow's daughter. then he slipped back of the line and went to the other end, where he silently seized the tin wood- man's hand. meantime, the beast had smelled the tin soldier and found he was the last of the line. "that's funny!" growled the hip-po-gy-raf; " i can smell straw, but i can't find it. well, it's here, some- where, and i must hunt around until i do find it, for i'm hungry." his voice was now at the left of them, so they started on, hoping to avoid him, and traveled as fast as they could in the direction of mount munch. the tin woodman of oz man added: "the scarecrow is our friend, and he would be useless without his straw stuffing. so, as we are comrades, faithful and true, we will defend our friend's stuffing against all enemies." the hip-po-gy-raf sat down and looked at them sorrowfully. "when one has made up his mind to have a meal of delicious straw, and then finds he can't have it, it is certainly hard luck," he said. "and what good is the straw man to you, or to himself, when the ditch keeps you from going any further?" "well, we can go back again," suggested woot. "true," said the hip-po; "and if you do, you'll be as disappointed as i am. that's some comfort, anyhow." the travelers looked at the beast, and then they looked across the ditch at the level plain beyond. on the other side the grass had grown tall, and the sun had dried it, so there was a fine crop of hay that only needed to be cut and stacked. "why don't you cross over and eat hay?" the boy asked the beast. "i'm not fond of hay," replied the hip-po-gy-raf; "straw is much more delicious, to my notion, and it's more scarce in this neighborhood, too. also i chapter nineteen the scarecrow hastily. "my head isn't stuffed with straw and i cannot part with it. when one loses his head he loses his brains." "very well, then; you may keep your head," said the beast. the scarecrow's companions thanked him warmly for his loyal sacrifice to their mutual good, and then he laid down and permitted them to pull the straw from his body. as fast as they did this, the hip-po- gy-raf ate up the straw, and when all was consumed polychrome made a neat bundle of the clothes and boots and gloves and hat and said she would carry them, while woot tucked the scarecrow's head under his arm and promised to guard its safety. "now, then," said the tin woodman, "keep your promise, beast, and lift us over the ditch." "m-m-m-mum, but that was a fine dinner!" said the hip-po, smacking his thick lips in satisfaction, "and i'm as good as my word. sit on my head, one at a time, and i'll land you safely on the other side." he approached close to the edge of the ditch and squatted down. polychrome climbed over his big body and sat herself lightly upon the flat head, hold- ing the bundle of the scarecrow's raiment in her hand. slowly the elastic neck stretched out until it the tin woodman of oz reached the far side of the ditch, when the beast lowered his head and permitted the beautiful fairy to leap to the ground. woot made the queer journey next, and then the tin soldier and the tin woodman went over, and all were well pleased to have overcome this serious barrier to their progress. "now, soldier, cut the hay," said the scarecrow's head, which was still held by woot the wanderer. "i'd like to, but i can't stoop over, with my bent leg, without falling," replied captain fyter. "what can we do about that leg, anyhow?" asked woot, appealing to polychrome. she danced around in a circle several times with- out replying, and the boy feared she had not heard him; but the rainbow's daughter was merely think- ing upon the problem, and presently she paused beside the tin soldier and said: "i've been taught a little fairy magic, but i've never before been asked to mend tin legs with it, so i'm not sure i can help you. it all depends on the good will of my unseen fairy guardians, so fll try, and if i fail, you will be no worse off than you are now." she danced around the circle again, and then laid chapter nineteen "good!" cried the emperor, again standing erect and strutting around to show his fine figure. "your fairy magic may not be able to accomplish all things, sweet polychrome, but it works splendidly on tin. thank you very much." "the hay — the hay!" pleaded the scarecrow's head. "oh, yes; the hay," said woot. "what are you waiting for, captain fyter?" at once the tin soldier set to work cutting hay with his sword and in a few minutes there was quite enough with which to stuff the scarecrow's body. woot and polychrome did this and it was no easy task because the hay packed together more than straw and as they had little experience in such work their job, when completed, left the scarecrow's arms and legs rather bunchy. also there was a hump on his back which made woot laugh and say it reminded him of a camel, but it was the best they could do and when the head was fastened on to the body they asked the scarecrow how he felt. "a little heavy, and not quite natural," he cheer- fully replied; "but til get along somehow until we reach a straw-stack. don't laugh at me, please, over night ff » -"'hj^^^ chapter the land of the munchkins is full of surprises, as our travelers had already learned, and although mount munch was constantly growing larger as they advanced toward it, they knew it was still a long way off and were not certain, by any means, that they had escaped all danger or encoun- tered their last adventure. the tin woodman of oz the plain was broad, and as far as the eye could see, there seemed to be a level stretch of country between them and the mountain, but toward evening they came upon a hollow, in which stood a tiny blue munchkin dwelling with a garden around it and fields of grain filling in all the rest of the hollow. they did not discover this place until they came close to the edge of it, and they were astonished at the sight that greeted them because they had imagined that this part of the plain had no inhabitants. "it's a very small house," woot declared. "i won- der who lives there?" "the way to find out is to knock on the door and ask," replied the tin woodman. "perhaps it is the home of nimmie amee." "is she a dwarf?" asked the boy. "no, indeed; nimmie amee is a full sized woman." "then i'm sure she couldn't live in that little house," said woot. "let's go down," suggested the scarecrow. "i'm almost sure i can see a straw-stack in the back yard." they descended the hollow, which was rather steep at the sides, and soon came to the house, which was indeed rather small. woot knocked upon a door that chapter twenty was not much higher than his waist, but got no reply. he knocked again, but not a sound was heard. "smoke is coming out of the chimney," announced polychrome, who was dancing lightly through the garden, where cabbages and beets and turnips and the like were growing finely. "then someone surely lives here," said woot, and knocked again. now a window at the side of the house opened and a queer head appeared. it was white and hairy and had a long snout and little round eyes. the ears were hidden by a blue sunbonnet tied under the chin. "oh; it's a pig!" exclaimed woot. "pardon me; i am mrs. squealina swyne, wife of professor grunter swyne, and this is our home," said the one in the window. "what do you want?" "what sort of a professor is your husband?" inquired the tin woodman curiously. "he is professor of cabbage culture and corn perfection. he is very famous in his own family, and would be the wonder of the world if he went abroad," said mrs. swyne in a voice that was half proud and half irritable. "i must also inform you intruders that the professor is a dangerous individual, for he files his teeth every morning until they are the tin woodman of oz "i shall sleep under the straw-stack tonight," woot decided, after he had eaten some of the vegetables from the garden, and in fact he slept very well, with the two tin men and the scarecrow sitting silently beside him and polychrome away somewhere in the moonlight dancing her fairy dances. at daybreak the tin woodman and the tin soldier took occasion to polish their bodies and oil their joints, for both were exceedingly careful of their personal appearance. they had forgotten the quarrel due to their accidental bumping of one another in the invisible country, and being now good friends the tin woodman polished the tin soldier's back for him and then the tin soldier polished the tin woodman's back. for breakfast the wanderer ate crisp lettuce and radishes, and the rainbow's daughter, who had now returned to her friends, sipped the dewdrops that had formed on the petals of the wild-flowers. as they passed the little house to renew their journey, woot called out: "good-bye, mr. and mrs. swyne!" the window opened and the two pigs looked out. "a pleasant journey," said the professor. chapter twenty-one of blue grasses and wildflowers, and mount munch seemed much nearer than it had the previous evening. they trudged on at a brisk pace, and by noon the mountain was so close that they could admire its appearance. its slopes were partly clothed with pretty evergreens, and its foot-hills were tufted with a slender waving bluegrass that had a tassel on the end of every blade. and, for the first time, they perceived, near the foot of the mountain, a charming house, not of great size but neatly painted and with many flowers surrounding it and vines climbing over the doors and windows. it was toward this solitary house that our trav- elers now directed their steps, thinking to inquire of the people who lived there where nimmie amee might be found. there were no paths, but the way was quite open and clear, and they were drawing near to the dwell- ing when woot the wanderer, who was then in the lead of the little party, halted with such an abrupt jerk that he stumbled over backward and lay flat on his back in the meadow. the scarecrow stopped to look at the boy. "why did you do that?" he asked in surprise. woot sat up and gazed around him in amazement. the tin woodman of oz "i can feel something hard — something smooth as glass," she said, "but i'm sure it is not glass." "let me try," suggested woot, getting up; but when he tried to go forward, he discovered the same barrier that polychrome had encountered. "no," he said, "it isn't glass. but what is it?" "air," replied a small voice beside him, "solid air; that's all." they all looked downward and found a sky-blue rabbit had stuck his head out of a burrow in the ground. the rabbit's eyes were a deeper blue than his fur, and the pretty creature seemed friendly and unafraid. "air!" exclaimed woot, staring in astonishment into the rabbit's blue eyes; "whoever heard of air so solid that one cannot push it aside?" "you can't push this air aside," declared the rabbit, "for it was made hard by powerful sorcery, and it forms a wall that is intended to keep people from getting to that house yonder." "oh; it's a wall, is it?" said the tin woodman. "yes, it is really a wall," answered the rabbit, "and it is fully six feet thick." "how high is it?" inquired captain fyter, the tin soldier. nimmie amee $q chapter we may be sure that at this moment our friends were all anxious to see the end of the adventure that had caused them so many trials and troubles. perhaps the tin woodman's heart did not beat any faster, because it was made of red velvet and stuffed with sawdust, and the tin soldier's heart was made of righter twenty-two "friends!" they all exclaimed. then they heard footsteps approach the door, which slowly opened and revealed a very pretty munchkin girl standing in the doorway. "nimmie amee!" cried the tin twins. "that's my name," replied the girl, looking at them in cold surprise. "but who can you be?" "don't you know me, nimmie?" said the tin woodman. "i'm your old sweetheart, nick chopper!" "don't you know me, my dear?" said the tin soldier. "i'm your old sweetheart, captain fyter!" nimmie amee smiled at them both. then she looked beyond them at the rest of the party and smiled again. however, she seemed more amused than pleased. "come in," she said, leading the way inside. "even sweethearts are forgotten after a time, but you and your friends are welcome." the room they now entered was cosy and com- fortable, being neatly furnished and well swept and dusted. but they found someone there besides nimmie amee. a man dressed in the attractive munchkin costume was lazily reclining in an easy chair, and he sat up and turned his eyes on the chapter twenty-two laughing, for she was greatly enjoying the confusion of the others. "the tin men are still themselves, as they will tell you, and so chopfyt must be some- one else." they looked at her bewildered, for the facts in the case were too puzzling to be grasped at once. "it is all the fault of old ku-klip," muttered the tin woodman. "he had no right to use our cast- off parts to make another man with." "it seems he did it, however," said nimmie amee calmly, "and i married him because he resembled you both. i won't say he is a husband to be proud of, because he has a mixed nature and isn't always an agreeable companion. there are times when i have to chide him gently, both with my tongue and with my broomstick. but he is my husband, and i must make the best of him." "if you don't like him," suggested the tin wood- man, "captain fyter and i can chop him up with our axe and sword, and each take such parts of the fellow as belong to him. then we are willing for you to select one of us as your husband." "that is a good idea," approved captain fyter, drawing his sword. "no," said nimmie amee; "i think til keep the the tin woodman of oz husband i now have. he is now trained to draw the water and carry in the wood and hoe the cabbages and weed the flower-beds and dust the furniture and perform many tasks of a like character. a new husband would have to be scolded — and gently chided — until he learns my ways. so i think it will be better to keep my chopfyt, and i see no reason why you should object to him. you two gentlemen threw him away when you became tin, because you had no further use for him, so you cannot justly claim him now. i advise you to go back to your own homes and forget me, as i have forgotten you." "good advice!" laughed polychrome, dancing. "are you happy?" asked the tin soldier. "of course i am," said nimmie amee; "pm the mistress of all i survey — the queen of my little domain." "wouldn't you like to be the empress of the winkies?" asked the tin woodman. "mercy, no," she answered. "that would be a lot of bother. i don't care for society, or pomp, or posing. all i ask is to be left alone and not to be annoyed by visitors." the scarecrow nudged woot the wanderer. chapter twenty-three come there, rather than go out and face the coming storm. but the scarecrow, who was a very thought- ful person, said to his friends: "if we remain here until after the storm, and polychrome goes away on her rainbow, then we will be prisoners inside the wall of solid air; so it seems best to start upon our return journey at once. if i get wet, my straw stuffing will be ruined, and if you two tin gentlemen get wet, you may perhaps rust again, and become useless. but even that is better than to stay here. once we are free of the barrier, we have woot the wanderer to help us, and he can oil your joints and restuff my body, if it becomes necessary, for the boy is made of meat, which neither rusts nor gets soggy or moldy." "come along, then!" cried polychrome from the window, and the others, realizing the wisdom of the scarecrow's speech, took leave of nimmie amee, who was glad to be rid of them, and said good-bye to her husband, who merely scowled and made no answer, and then they hurried from the house. "your old parts are not very polite, i must say," remarked the scarecrow, when they were in the garden. "no," said woot, "chopfyt is a regular grouch. the tin woodman of oz he might have wished us a pleasant journey, at the very least." "i beg you not to hold us responsible for that creature's actions," pleaded the tin woodman. "we are through with chopfyt and shall have nothing further to do with him." polychrome danced ahead of the party and led them straight to the burrow of the blue rabbit, which they might have had some difficulty in finding without her. there she lost no time in making them all small again. the blue rabbit was busy nibbling cabbage leaves in mmmie amee's garden, so they did not ask his permission but at once entered the burrow. even now the raindrops were beginning to fall, but it was quite dry inside the tunnel and by the time they had reached the other end, outside the circular wall of solid air, the storm was at its height and the rain was coming down in torrents. "let us wait here," proposed polychrome, peering out of the hole and then quickly retreating. "the rainbow won't appear until after the storm and i can make you big again in a jiffy, before i join my sisters on our bow." "that's a good plan," said the scarecrow approv- the tin woodman of oz in our sky mansions there is always joy and happiness." they were indeed sorry to part with their dainty and beautiful companion and assured her of their devotion if they ever chanced to meet again. she shook hands with the scarecrow and the tin men and kissed woot the wanderer lightly upon his forehead. and then the rain suddenly ceased, and as the tiny people left the burrow of the blue rabbit, a glorious big rainbow appeared in the sky and the end of its arch slowly descended and touched the ground just where they stood. woot was so busy watching a score of lovely maidens — sisters of polychrome — who were leaning over the edge of the bow, and another score who danced gaily amid the radiance of the splendid hues, that he did not notice he was growing big again. but now polychrome joined her sisters on the rain- bow and the huge arch lifted and slowly melted away as the sun burst from the clouds and sent its own white beams dancing over the meadows. "why, she's gone!" exclaimed the boy, and turned to see his companions still waving their hands in token of adieu to the vanished polychrome. chapter twenty-four fyt, being kept a prisoner by his wife, is too far away from anyone to bother either of you tin men in any way. if you hadn't gone where he is and discovered him, you would never have worried about him." "what do you care, anyhow," betsy bobbin asked the tin woodman, "so long as nimmie amee is satisfied!" "and just to think," remarked tiny trot, "that any girl would rather live with a mixture like chopfyt, on far-away mount munch, than to be the empress of the winkies!" "it is her own choice," said the tin woodman contentedly; " and, after all, i'm not sure the winkies would care to have an empress." it puzzled ozma, for a time, to decide what to do with the tin soldier. if he went with the tin woodman to the emperor's castle, she felt that the two tin men might not be able to live together in harmony, and moreover the emperor would not be so distinguished if he had a double constantly beside him. so she asked captain fyter if he was willing to serve her as a soldier, and he promptly declared that nothing would please him more. after he had been in her service for some time, ozma sent him h a rva r d c o l l e g e l i b r a r y * : º, tº the story of doctor dolittle the farevºl.h, ffast “after they had all finished eating the doctor got up” | r | º * > . . . –’ story or > sy’ --~~… tº s atz" arowa aava aszzowa.ºzava” aſavaay/z//ſºs zav /zzarazay awarrs. azwaraºzzº,” ºva. nº. *e gº jp ſ *s. . o . fº ^ j' tº- nº. tes —ſlº– £- *ee. - *n* * <> wa'ſ *** canºewy … " -d- - d with an introduction to the tenth printing by hugh walpole -/ * - (< * > . o . /q & / harvard college library c (ft of willis a, cought cn º % copyright, , by frederick a. stokes company all rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign languages first printing, aug. , second printing, dec. , third printing, april , fourth printing, july , fifth printing, sept. , sixth printing, oct. , seventh printing, dec. , eighth printing, april , ninth printing, aug. , tenth printing, nov. , eleventh printing, april , tweltfh printing, june , thirteenth printing, july , " fourteenth printing, aug. , printed in the united states of america to all children children in years and children in heart i dedicate this story =） --~ ~~ ~~ ~~~~ ~~ ~~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~~~~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~） introduction to the tenth printing there are some of us now reaching middle age who discover themselves to be la- menting the past in one respect if in none other, that there are no books written now for children comparable with those of thirty years ago. i say written for children because the new psycho- logical business of writing about them as though they were small pills or hatched in some espe- cially scientific method is extremely popular to- day. writing for children rather than about them is very difficult as everybody who has tried it knows. it can only be done, i am convinced, by somebody having a great deal of the child in his own outlook and sensibilities. such was the author of "the little duke" and "the dove in the eagle's nest," such the author of "a flatiron for a farthing," and "the story of a short life." such, above all, the author of "alice in wonderland." grownups imagine that they can do the trick by adopting baby w viii introduction language and talking down to their very critical audience. there never was a greater mistake. the imagination of the author must be a child's imagination and yet maturely consistent, so that the white queen in "alice," for instance, is seen just as a child would see her, but she con- tinues always herself through all her distressing adventures. the supreme touch of the white rabbit pulling on his white gloves as he hastens is again absolutely the child's vision, but the white rabbit as guide and introducer of alice's adventures belongs to mature grown insight. geniuses are rare and, without being at all an undue praiser of times past, one can say with- out hesitation that until the appearance of hugh lofting, the successor of "miss yonge, mrs. ewing, mrs. gatty and lewis carroll had not appeared. i remember the delight with which some six months ago i picked up the first "do- little" book in the hampshire bookshop at smith college in northampton. one of mr. lofting's pictures was quite enough for me. the picture that i lighted upon when i first opened the book was the one of the monkeys introduction ix making a chain with their arms across the gulf. then i looked further and discovered bumpo reading fairy stories to himself. and then looked again and there was a picture of john dolittle's house. - but pictures are not enough although most authors draw so badly that if one of them hap- pens to have the genius for line that mr. lofting shows there must be, one feels, something in his writing as well. there is. you cannot read the first paragraph of the book, which begins in the right way "once upon a time" without know- ing that mr. lofting believes in his story quite as much as he expects you to. that is the first essential for a story teller. then you discover as you read on that he has the right eye for the right detail. what child-inquiring mind could resist this intriguing sentence to be found on the second page of the book: "besides the gold-fish in the pond at the bot- tom of his garden, he had rabbits in the pantry, white mice in his piano, a squirrel in the linen closet and a hedgehog in the cellar.” introduction xi beings, is an extremely difficult one. lewis car- roll absolutely conquered the difficulties, but i am not sure that anyone after him until hugh lofting has really managed the trick; even in such a masterpiece as "the wind in the wil- lows" we are not quite convinced. john do- little's friends are convincing because their cre- ator never forces them to desert their own char- acteristics. polynesia, for instance, is natural from first to last. she really does care about the doctor but she cares as a bird would care, having always some place to which she is going when her business with her friends is over. and when mr. lofting invents fantastic animals he gives them a kind of credible possibility which is extraordinarily convincing. it will be im- possible for anyone who has read this book not to believe in the existence of the pushmi-pullyu, who would be credible enough even were there no drawing of it, but the picture on page settles the matter of his truth once and for all. in fact this book is a work of genius and, as always with works of genius, it is difficult to analyze the elements that have gone to make xii introduction it. there is poetry here and fantasy and humor, a little pathos but, above all, a number of crea- tions in whose existence everybody must believe whether they be children of four or old men of ninety or prosperous bankers of forty-five. i don't know how mr. lofting has done it; i don't suppose that he knows himself. there it is—the first real children's classic since "alice.” hugh walpole. chapter i ii iii iv v vi vii viii ix xi xii xiii xiv xv xvi xvii xviii xix xx xxi contents introduction . . . . . . . . . v. puddleby . . . . . . . . . . . animal language . . . . . . . more mon ey troubles . . . . . a message from africa . . . . . the great journey . . . . . . polynesia and the king . . . . . the bridge of apes . . . . . . the leader of the lions . . . . the monkeys’ council . . . . . the rarest animal of all . . . . the black prince . . . . . . . medicine and magic . . . . . . red sails and blue wings . . . . i the rats' warning . . . . . . the barbary dragon . . . . . . too-too, the listener . . . . . the ocean gossips . . . . . . . smells . . . . . . . . . . . the rock . . . . . . . . . i the fisherman's town . . . . . home again . . . . . . . . . illustrations “after they had all finished eating the doctor got up” frontispiece - page “a little town called puddleby-on-the-marsh” . . xviii “and she never came to see him any more” . . . “he could see as well as ever” . . . . . . . “they came at once to his house on the edge of the town” . . . . . . . . . . . . “they used to sit in chairs on the lawn” . . . . “one evening when the doctor was asleep in his chair” “‘all right,” said the doctor, ‘go and get married'’ “‘i felt sure there was twopence left’” . . . . “and the voyage began” . - - - - “at night she carried a tiny lantern” . . facing p. “‘we must have run into africa - - i “‘i got into it because i did not want to be drowned’” “and queen ermintrude was asleep” . . . . . “‘who's that?’” . . . . . . . . . . . “cheering and waving leaves and swinging out of the branches to greet him” . . . . . . . . “john dolittle was the last to cross” . . . . . “he made all the monkeys who were still well come and be vaccinated” . . . . . . . “‘me, the king of beasts, to wait on a lot of dirty monkeys?’” . . . . . . . . . . . xvi illustrations page “then the grand gorilla got up” . . . . . . “‘lord save us!' cried the duck. ‘how does it make up its mind?'" . . . . . . . . . . “he began reading the fairy-stories to himself” . . “crying bitterly and waving till the ship was out of sight" . . . . . . . . . . . . io “'they are surely the pirates of barbary’” . . . “‘and you have heard that rats always leave a sinking ship?’” . . . . . . . . . . . . i “‘look here, ben ali–’” . . . . . . . . “‘sh!—listen!—i do believe there's someone in there!’” . . . . . . . . . . . . “so he struck a match” . . . . . . facing p. “‘you stupid piece of warm bacon!’” . . . . . “‘doctor!' he cried. ‘i’ve got it!'” . . . . . “and she kissed the doctor many times” . . . . “the doctor sat in a chair in front” . . . . . “he began running round the garden like a crazy thing” the story of doctor dolittle º \ - \\ \ \ \\ a\\ºv, \\ the story of doctor dolittle the first chapter puddleby nce upon a time, many years ago —when our grandfathers were little children—there was a doc- tor; and his name was dolittle— john dolittle, m.d. "m.d." means that he was a proper doc- tor and knew a whole lot. he lived in a little town called, puddleby- on-the-marsh. all the folks, young and old, knew him well by sight. and whenever he walked down the street in his high hat every- one would say, "there goes the doctor!—he's a clever man." and the dogs and the children would all run up and follow behind him; and l º ,-- n - -- - ------------ -- - - - --------"-- - - - -" -- ~~ - *- -º-º-º- -----> --- - - f - - - - ---------- -- •r & *…*. - --- ºx-º-; - .*.*.*.* : i.e.: “ºx “and she never came to see him any more” - the story of doctor dolittle to see him any more, but drove every saturday all the way to oxenthorpe, another town ten miles off, to see a different doctor. then his sister, sarah dolittle, came to him and said, "john, how can you expect sick people to come and see you when you keep all these ani- mals in the house? it's a fine doctor would have his parlor full of hedgehogs and mice! that's the fourth personage these animals have driven away. squire jenkins and the parson say they wouldn't come near your house again—no mat- ter how sick they are. we are getting poorer every day. if you go on like this, none of the best people will have you for a doctor." "but i like the animals better than the 'best people'," said the doctor. "you are ridiculous," said his sister, and walked out of the room. so, as time went on, the doctor got more and more animals; and the people who came to see him got less and less. till at last he had no one left—except the cat's-meat-man, who didn't mind any kind of animals. but the cat's-meat- puddleby man wasn't very rich and he only got sick once a year—at christmas-time, when he used to give the doctor sixpence for a bottle of medicine. sixpence a year wasn't enough to live on— even in those days, long ago; and if the doctor hadn't had some money saved up in his money- box, no one knows what would have happened. and he kept on getting still more pets; and of course it cost a lot to feed them. and the money he had saved up grew littler and littler. then he sold his piano, and let the mice live in a bureau-drawer. but the money he got for that too began to go, so he sold the brown suit he wore on sundays and went on becoming poorer and poorer. and now, when he walked down the street in his high hat, people would say to one another, "there goes john dolittle, m.d..! there was a time when he was the best known doctor in the west country—look at him now—he hasn't any money and his stockings are full of holes!" but the dogs and the cats and the children still ran up and followed him through the town —the same as they had done when he was rich. animal language “that man's got sense. that's what you ought to do. be an animal-doctor. give the silly people up—if they haven't brains enough to see you're the best doctor in the world. take care of animals instead—they'll soon find it out. be an animal-doctor." "oh, there are plenty of animal-doctors," said john dolittle, putting the flower-pots outside on the window-sill to get the rain. "yes, there are plenty," said polynesia. "but none of them are any good at all. now listen, doctor, and i'll tell you something. did you know that animals can talk?" "i knew that parrots can talk," said the doc- tor. "oh, we parrots can talk in two languages— people's language and bird-language," said polynesia proudly. "if i say, 'polly wants a cracker, you understand me. but hear this: ka-ka oi-ee, fee-fee?" "good gracious!" cried the doctor. "what does that mean?" "that means, 'is the porridge hot yet?'—in bird-language.” io the story of doctor dolittle “my! you don't say so!" said the doctor. "you never talked that way to me before." "what would have been the good?" said polynesia, dusting some cracker-crumbs off her left wing. "you wouldn't have understood me if i had." "tell me some more," said the doctor, all ex- cited; and he rushed over to the dresser-drawer and came back with the butcher's book and a pencil. "now don't go too fast—and i'll write it down. this is interesting—very interesting —something quite new. give me the birds' a.b.c. first—slowly now." so that was the way the doctor came to know that animals had a language of their own and could talk to one another. and all that after- noon, while it was raining, polynesia sat on the kitchen table giving him bird words to put down in the book. at tea-time, when the dog, jip, came in, the parrot said to the doctor, "see, he's talking to you." "looks to me as though he were scratching his ear," said the doctor. i the story of doctor dolittle and the poor thing was terribly glad to find a man who could talk in horse-language. "you know, doctor," said the horse, "that vet over the hill knows nothing at all. he has been treating me six weeks now—for spavins. what i need is spectacles. i am going blind in one eye. there's no reason why horses shouldn't wear glasses, the same as people. but that stupid man over the hill never even looked at my eyes. he kept on giving me big pills. i tried to tell him; but he couldn't understand a word of horse-language. what i need is spec- tacles." "of course—of course," said the doctor. "i'll get you some at once." "i would like a pair like yours," said the horse—"only green. they'll keep the sun out of my eyes while i'm plowing the fifty-acre field." "certainly," said the doctor. "green ones you shall have." "you know, the trouble is, sir," said the plow-horse as the doctor opened the front door to let him out—"the trouble is that anybody animal language i thinks he can doctor animals—just because the animals don't complain. as a matter of fact it takes a much cleverer man to be a really good animal-doctor than it does to be a good people's doctor. my farmer's boy thinks he knows all about horses. i wish you could see him—his face is so fat he looks as though he had no eyes —and he has got as much brain as a potato-bug. he tried to put a mustard-plaster on me last week." "where did he put it?" asked the doctor. "oh, he didn't put it anywhere—on me," said the horse. "he only tried to. i kicked him into the duck-pond." "well, well!" said the doctor. "i'm a pretty quiet creature as a rule," said the horse—"very patient with people—don't make much fuss. but it was bad enough to have that vet giving me the wrong medicine. and when that red-faced booby started to monkey with me, i just couldn't bear it any more." "did you hurt the boy much?" asked the doc- tor. i the story of doctor dolittle “oh, no," said the horse. "i kicked him in the right place. the vet's looking after him now. when will my glasses be ready?" "i'll have them for you next week," said the doctor. "come in again tuesday—good p, morning “he could see as well as ever” then john dolittle got a fine, big pair of green spectacles; and the plow-horse stopped going blind in one eye and could see as well as ever. and soon it became a common sight to see farm-animals wearing glasses in the country round puddleby; and a blind horse was a thing unknown. animal language i ! and so it was with all the other animals that were brought to him. as soon as they found that he could talk their language, they told him where the pain was and how they felt, and of course it was easy for him to cure them. “they came at once to his house on the edge of the town” now all these animals went back and told their brothers and friends that there was a doc- tor in the little house with the big garden who really was a doctor. and whenever any crea- tures got sick—not only horses and cows and i the story of doctor dolittle dogs—but all the little things of the fields, like harvest-mice and water-voles, badgers and bats, they came at once to his house on the edge of the town, so that his big garden was nearly always crowded with animals trying to get in to see him. - there were so many that came that he had to have special doors made for the different kinds. he wrote "horses" over the front door, "cows" over the side door, and "sheep" on the kitchen door. each kind of animal had a separate door—even the mice had a tiny tunnel made for them into the cellar, where they waited patiently in rows for the doctor to come round to them. and so, in a few years' time, every living thing for miles and miles got to know about john dolittle, m.d. and the birds who flew to other countries in the winter told the ani- mals in foreign lands of the wonderful doctor of puddleby-on-the-marsh, who could under- stand their talk and help them in their troubles. in this way he became famous among the ani- mals—all over the world—better known even animal language i than he had been among the folks of the west country. and he was happy and liked his life very much. one afternoon when the doctor was busy writing in a book, polynesia sat in the win- dow—as she nearly always did—looking out at the leaves blowing about in the garden. pres- ently she laughed aloud. "what is it, polynesia?" asked the doctor, looking up from his book. "i was just thinking," said the parrot; and she went on looking at the leaves. "what were you thinking?" "i was thinking about people," said polynesia. "people make me sick. they think they're so wonderful. the world has been going on now for thousands of years, hasn't it? and the only thing, in animal-language that people have learned to understand is that when a dog wags his tail he means 'i'm glad!'—it's funny, isn't it? you are the very first man to talk like us. oh, sometimes people annoy me dreadfully— such airs they put on—talking about 'the dumb animals.' dumb!—huh! why i knew a is the story of doctor dolittle macaw once who could say 'good morning!' in seven different ways without once opening his mouth. he could talk every language—and greek. an old professor with a gray beard bought him. but he didn't stay. he said the old man didn't talk greek right, and he couldn't stand listening to him teach the language wrong. i often wonder what's become of him. that bird knew more geography than people will ever know.—people, golly! i suppose if people ever learn to fly—like any common hedge- sparrow—we shall never hear the end of it!" "you're a wise old bird," said the doctor. "how old are you really? i know that parrots and elephants sometimes live to be very, very old." "i can never be quite sure of my age," said polynesia. "it's either a hundred and eighty- three or a hundred and eighty-two. but i know that when i first came here from africa, king charles was still hiding in the oak-tree— because i saw him. he looked scared to death." the third chapter more money troubles nd soon now the doctor began to make money again; and his sister, sarah, bought a new dress and was happy. some of the animals who came to see him were so sick that they had to stay at the doctor's house for a week. and “they used to sit in chairs on the lawn” when they were getting better they used to sit in chairs on the lawn. and often even after they got well, they did not want to go away—they liked the doctor iq the story of doctor dolittle and his house so much. and he never had the heart to refuse them when they asked if they could stay with him. so in this way he went on getting more and more pets. once when he was sitting on his garden wall, smoking a pipe in the evening, an italian organ- grinder came round with a monkey on a string. the doctor saw at once that the monkey's collar was too tight and that he was dirty and un- happy. so he took the monkey away from the italian, gave the man a shilling and told him to go. the organ-grinder got awfully angry and said that he wanted to keep the monkey. but the doctor told him that if he didn't go away he would punch him on the nose. john dolittle was a strong man, though he wasn't very tall. so the italian went away saying rude things and the monkey stayed with doctor do- little and had a good home. the other ani- mals in the house called him "chee-chee"— which is a common word in monkey-language, meaning "ginger." and another time, when the circus came to puddleby, the crocodile who had a bad tooth- the story of doctor dolittle “john, you must send that creature away. now the farmers and the old ladies are afraid to send their animals to you—just as we were beginning to be well off again. now we shall be ruined entirely. this is the last straw. i will no longer be housekeeper for you if you don't send away that alligator." "it isn't an alligator," said the doctor—"it's a crocodile." "i don't care what you call it," said his sister. "it's a nasty thing to find under the bed. i won't have it in the house." "but he has promised me," the doctor an- swered, "that he will not bite any one. he doesn't like the circus; and i haven't the money to send him back to africa where he comes from. he minds his own business and on the whole is very well behaved. don't be so fussy." "i tell you i will not have him around," said sarah. "he eats the linoleum. if you don't send him away this minute i'll—i'll go and get married ſ” “all right," said the doctor, "go and get mar- more money troubles they began talking it over among themselves in whispers. and the owl, too-too, who was good at arithmetic, figured it out that there was only money enough left to last another week— if they each had one meal a day and no more. then the parrot said, "i think we all ought to do the housework ourselves. at least we can do that much. after all, it is for our sakes that the old man finds himself so lonely and so poor." so it was agreed that the monkey, chee-chee, was to do the cooking and mending; the dog was to sweep the floors; the duck was to dust and make the beds; the owl, too-too, was to keep the accounts, and the pig was to do the gardening. they made polynesia, the parrot, housekeeper and laundress, because she was the oldest. of course at first they all found their new jobs very hard to do—all except chee-chee, who had hands, and could do things like a man. but they soon got used to it; and they used to think it great fun to watch jip, the dog, sweeping his tail over the floor with a rag tied onto it for more money troubles year; and although the old lame horse hauled in plenty of wood from the forest outside the town, so they could have a big fire in the kitchen, most of the vegetables in the garden were gone, and the rest were covered with snow; and many of the animals were really hungry. -ae）_，_， } --~~~~）~– ~~~~）~~ ~ ~~ ~~ → --~~）*' + -- - ！••~–-------+* → *- ！---- the fourth chapter a message from africa _*- hat winter was a very cold one. and one night in decem- ber, when they were all sitting round the warm fire in the kitchen, and the doctor was reading aloud to them out of books he had written himself in animal-language, the owl, too-too, suddenly said, "sh! what's that noise outside?" they all listened; and presently they heard the sound of some one running. then the door flew open and the monkey, chee-chee, ran in, badly out of breath. "doctor!" he cried, "i've just had a message from a cousin of mine in africa. there is a terrible sickness among the monkeys out there. they are all catching it—and they are dying in hundreds. they have heard of you, and beg you to come to africa to stop the sickness.” the story of doctor dolittle “who brought the message?" asked the doc- tor, taking off his spectacles and laying down his book. "a swallow," said chee-chee. "she is out- side on the rain-butt." "bring her in by the fire," said the doctor. "she must be perished with the cold. the swal- lows flew south six weeks ago!" so the swallow was brought in, all huddled and shivering; and although she was a little afraid at first, she soon got warmed up and sat on the edge of the mantelpiece and began to talk. when she had finished the doctor said, "i would gladly go to africa—especially in this bitter weather. but i'm afraid we haven't money enough to buy the tickets. get me the money-box, chee-chee." so the monkey climbed up and got it off the top shelf of the dresser. there was nothing in it—not one single penny! "i felt sure there was twopence left," said the doctor. a message from africa i “there was," said the owl. "but you spent it on a rattle for that badger's baby when he was teething." "did i?" said the doctor—"dear me, dear me! what a nuisance money is, to be sure! well, never mind. perhaps if i go down to x > “‘i felt sure there was twopence left the seaside i shall be able to borrow a boat that will take us to africa. i knew a seaman once who brought his baby to me with measles. maybe he'll lend us his boat—the baby got well." so early the next morning the doctor went down to the sea-shore. and when he came back a message from africa “well, make sure," said polynesia. "because it's very important. you can't stop if you haven't got an anchor. and you'll need a bell." "what's that for?" asked the doctor. "to tell the time by," said the parrot. "you go and ring it every half-hour and then you know what time it is. and bring a whole lot of rope—it always comes in handy on voyages." then they began to wonder where they were going to get the money from to buy all the things they needed. "oh, bother it! money again," cried the doctor. "goodness! i shall be glad to get to africa where we don't have to have any! i'll go and ask the grocer if he will wait for his money till i get back—no, i'll send the sailor to ask him." so the sailor went to see the grocer. and presently he came back with all the things they wanted. - then the animals packed up; and after they had turned off the water so the pipes wouldn't freeze, and put up the shutters, they closed the the story of doctor dolittle house and gave the key to the old horse who lived in the stable. and when they had seen that there was plenty of hay in the loft to last the horse through the winter, they carried all their luggage down to the seashore and got on to the boat. the cat's-meat-man was there to see them off; and he brought a large suet-pudding as a present for the doctor because, he said he had been told, you couldn't get suet-puddings in for- eign parts. as soon as they were on the ship, gub-gub, the pig, asked where the beds were, for it was four o'clock in the afternoon and he wanted his nap. so polynesia took him downstairs into the inside of the ship and showed him the beds, set all on top of one another like book-shelves against a wall. "why, that isn't a bed!" cried gub-gub. "that's a shelf ſ” “beds are always like that on ships," said the parrot. "it isn't a shelf. climb up into it and go to sleep. that's what you call 'a bunk.'" "i don't think i'll go to bed yet," said gub- the story of doctor dolittle gub. "i'm too excited. i want to go upstairs again and see them start." "well, this is your first trip," said polynesia. "you will get used to the life after a while." and she went back up the stairs of the ship, humming this song to herself, i've seen the black sea and the red sea; i rounded the isle of wight; i discovered the yellow river, and the orange too—by night. now greenland drops behind again, and i sail the ocean blue. i'm tired of all these colors, jane, so i'm coming back to you. they were just going to start on their journey, when the doctor said he would have to go back and ask the sailor the way to africa. but the swallow said she had been to that country many times and would show them how to get there. so the doctor told chee-chee to pull up the anchor and the voyage began. the fifth chapter the great journey tººl ~~ow for six whole weeks they went sailing on and on, over the rolling sea, following the swallow who flew before the ship to show them the way. at night she carried a tiny lantern, so they should not miss her in the dark; and the people on the other ships that passed said that the light must be a shooting star. as they sailed further and further into the south, it got warmer and warmer. polynesia, chee-chee and the crocodile enjoyed the hot sun no end. they ran about laughing and look- ing over the side of the ship to see if they could see africa yet. but the pig and the dog and the owl, too- too, could do nothing in such weather, but sat at the end of the ship in the shade of a big s the story of doctor dolittle barrel, with their tongues hanging out, drink- ing lemonade. dab-dab, the duck, used to keep herself cool by jumping into the sea and swimming behind the ship. and every once in a while, when the top of her head got too hot, she would dive under the ship and come up on the other side. , in this way, too, she used to catch herrings on tuesdays and fridays—when everybody on the boat ate fish to make the beef last longer. when they got near to the equator they saw some flying-fishes coming towards them. and the fishes asked the parrot if this was doctor dolittle's ship. when she told them it was, they said they were glad, because the monkeys in africa were getting worried that he would never come. polynesia asked them how many miles they had yet to go; and the flying-fishes said it was only fifty-five miles now to the coast of africa. and another time a whole school of porpoises came dancing through the waves; and they too asked polynesia if this was the ship of the fa- the great journey mous doctor. and when they heard that it was, they asked the parrot if the doctor wanted any- thing for his journey. and polynesia said, "yes. we have run short of onions." "there is an island not far from here," said the porpoises, "where the wild onions grow tall and strong. keep straight on—we will get some and catch up to you." so the porpoises dashed away through the sea. and very soon the parrot saw them again, coming up behind, dragging the onions through the waves in big nets made of seaweed. the next evening, as the sun was going down, the doctor said, "get me the telescope, chee-chee. our journey is nearly ended. very soon we should be able to see the shores of africa." and about half an hour later, sure enough, they thought they could see something in front that might be land. but it began to get darker and darker and they couldn't be sure. then a great storm came up, with thunder the great journey i tree; and we'll hold the other end on the ship here. then those that can't swim must climb along the rope till they reach the land. that's what you call a 'life-line.’” “‘we must have run into africa’” so they all got safely to the shore—some swim- ming, some flying; and those that climbed along the rope brought the doctor's trunk and hand- bag with them. but the ship was no good any more—with the the story of doctor dolittle big hole in the bottom; and presently the rough sea beat it to pieces on the rocks and the timbers floated away. then they all took shelter in a nice dry cave they found, high up in the cliffs, till the storm was over. when the sun came out next morning they went down to the sandy beach to dry them- selves. "dear old africal” sighed polynesia. "it's good to get back. just think—it'll be a hun- dred and sixty-nine years to-morrow since i was here! and it hasn't changed a bit!—same old palm-trees; same old red earth; same old black ants! there's no place like home!" and the others noticed she had tears in her eyes—she was so pleased to see her country once again. then the doctor missed his high hat; for it had been blown into the sea during the storm. so dab-dab went out to look for it. and pres- ently she saw it, a long way off, floating on the water like a toy-boat. when she flew down to get it, she found one the great journey of the white mice, very frightened, sitting in- side it. "what are you doing here?" asked the duck. "you were told to stay behind in puddleby." "i didn't want to be left behind," said the mouse. "i wanted to see what africa was like —i have relatives there. so i hid in the bag- gage and was brought on to the ship with the hard-tack. when the ship sank i was terribly frightened—because i cannot swim far. i swam as long as i could, but i soon got all ex- hausted and thought i was going to sink. and then, just at that moment, the old man's hat came floating by; and i got into it because i did not want to be drowned." so the duck took up the hat with the mouse in it and brought it to the doctor on the shore. and they all gathered round to have a look. "that's what you call a 'stowaway,’” said the parrot. presently, when they were looking for a place in the trunk where the white mouse could travel comfortably, the monkey, chee-chee, suddenly said, the story of doctor dolittle “sh! i hear footsteps in the jungle!" they all stopped talking and listened. and soon a black man came down out of the woods and asked them what they were doing there. - n _/ “‘i got into it because i did not want to be drowned’” “my name is john dolittle—m.d.," said the doctor. "i have been asked to come to africa to cure the monkeys who are sick.” the great journey “you must all come before the king," said the black man. "what king?" asked the doctor, who didn't want to waste any time. "the king of the jolliginki," the man an- swered. "all these lands belong to him; and all strangers must be brought before him. follow me." so they gathered up their baggage and went off, following the man through the jungle. the sixth chapter polynesia and the king ~~hen they had gone a little way through the thick for- est, they came to a wide, clear space; and they saw the king's palace which was made of mud. this was where the king lived with his queen, ermintrude, and their son, prince bumpo. the prince was away fishing for sal- mon in the river. but the king and queen were sitting under an umbrella before the palace door. and queen ermintrude was asleep. when the doctor had come up to the palace the king asked him his business; and the doctor told him why he had come to africa. "you may not travel through my lands," said the king. "many years ago a white man came -- * **- ~ the story of doctor dolittle “i’m not that kind of a bird," said the parrot, climbing out of the pocket in the tail of the doctor's coat. "you see, i'm small enough to let through the bars of that window; and i was afraid they would put me in a cage instead. so while the king was busy talking, i hid in the doctor's pocket—and here i am! that's what you call a 'ruse,'" she said, smoothing down her feathers with her beak. "good gracious!" cried the doctor. "you're lucky i didn't sit on you." "now listen," said polynesia, "to-night, as soon as it gets dark, i am going to creep through the bars of that window and fly over to the palace. and then—you'll see—i'll soon find a way to make the king let us all out of prison." "oh, what can you do?" said gub-gub, turn- ing up his nose and beginning to cry again. "you're only a bird!" "quite true," said the parrot. "but do not forget that although i am only a bird, i can talk like a man—and i know these darkies." so that night, when the moon was shining through the palm-trees and all the king's men polynesia and the king si were asleep, the parrot slipped out through the bars of the prison and flew across to the palace. the pantry window had been broken by a ten- nis ball the week before; and polynesia popped in through the hole in the glass. she heard prince bumpo snoring in his bed- room at the back of the palace. then she tip- toed up the stairs till she came to the king's bedroom. she opened the door gently and peeped in. the queen was away at a dance that night at her cousin's; but the king was in bed fast asleep. polynesia crept in, very softly, and got under the bed. then she coughed—just the way doctor do- little used to cough. polynesia could mimic any one. the king opened his eyes and said sleepily: "is that you, ermintrude?" (he thought it was the queen come back from the dance.) then the parrot coughed again—loud, like a man. and the king sat up, wide awake, and said, "who's that?” the story of doctor dolittle “i am doctor dolittle," said the parrot—just the way the doctor would have said it. "what are you doing in my bedroom?" cried the king. "how dare you get out of prison! where are you?—i don't see you.” “‘who's that?’” but the parrot just laughed—a long, deeps jolly laugh, like the doctor's. "stop laughing and come here at once, so i can see you," said the king. polynesia and the king “foolish king!" answered polynesia. "have you forgotten that you are talking, to john do- little, m.d.—the most wonderful man on earth? of course you cannot see me. i have made my- self invisible. there is nothing i cannot do. now listen: i have come here to-night to warn you. if you don't let me and my animals travel through your kingdom, i will make you and all your people sick like the monkeys. for i can make people well: and i can make people ill— just by raising my little finger. send your sol- diers at once to open the dungeon door, or you shall have mumps before the morning sun has risen on the hills of jolliginki." then the king began to tremble and was very much afraid. "doctor," he cried, "it shall be as you say. do not raise your little finger, please!" and he jumped out of bed and ran to tell the soldiers to open the prison door. as soon as he was gone, polynesia crept down- stairs and left the palace by the pantry window. but the queen, who was just letting herself in at the backdoor with a latch-key, saw the par- the seventh chapter the bridge of apes ueen ermintrude had | never in her life seen her hus- band so terrible as he got that night. he gnashed his teeth with rage. he called every- body a fool. he threw his tooth-brush at the palace cat. he rushed round in his night-shirt and woke up all his army and sent them into the jungle to catch the doctor. then he made all his servants go too—his cooks and his gardeners and his barber and prince bumpo's tutor—even the queen, who was tired from dancing in a pair of tight shoes, was packed off to help the soldiers in their search. all this time the doctor and his animals were running through the forest towards the land of the monkeys as fast as they could go. gub-gub, with his short legs, soon got tired; and the doctor had to carry him—which made the story of doctor dolittle it pretty hard when they had the trunk and the hand-bag with them as well. the king of the jolliginki thought it would be easy for his army to find them, because the doctor was in a strange land and would not know his way. but he was wrong; because the monkey, chee-chee, knew all the paths through the jungle—better even than the king's men did. and he led the doctor and his pets to the very thickest part of the forest—a place where no man had ever been before—and hid them all in a big hollow tree between high rocks. "we had better wait here," said chee-chee, "till the soldiers have gone back to bed. then we can go on into the land of the monkeys." so there they stayed the whole night through. they often heard the king's men searching and talking in the jungle round about. but they were quite safe, for no one knew of that hiding-place but chee-chee—not even the other monkeys. at last, when daylight began to come through the thick leaves overhead, they heard queen ermintrude saying in a very tired voice that it the bridge of apes was no use looking any more—that they might as well go back and get some sleep. as soon as the soldiers had all gone home, chee-chee brought the doctor and his animals out of the hiding-place and they set off for the land of the monkeys. it was a long, long way; and they often got very tired—especially gub-gub. but when he cried they gave him milk out of the cocoanuts, which he was very fond of. . they always had plenty to eat and drink; be- cause chee-chee and polynesia knew all the different kinds of fruits and vegetables that grow in the jungle, and where to find them—like dates and figs and ground-nuts and ginger and yams. they used to make their lemonade out of the juice of wild oranges, sweetened with honey which they got from the bees' nests in hollow trees. no matter what it was they asked for, chee-chee and polynesia always seemed to be able to get it for them—or something like it. they even got the doctor some tobacco one day, when he had finished what he had brought with him and wanted to smoke, the story of doctor dolittle at night they slept in tents made of palm- leaves, on thick, soft beds of dried grass. and after a while they got used to walking such a lot and did not get so tired and enjoyed the life of travel very much. but they were always glad when the night came and they stopped for their resting-time. then the doctor used to make a little fire of sticks; and after they had had their supper, they would sit round it in a ring, listening to poly- nesia singing songs about the sea, or to chee- chee telling stories of the jungle. and many of the tales that chee-chee told were very interesting. because although the monkeys had no history-books of their own be- fore doctor dolittle came to write them for them, they remember everything that happens by telling stories to their children. and chee-chee spoke of many things his grandmother had told him—tales of long, long, long ago, before noah and the flood, of the days when men dressed in bear-skins and lived in holes in the rock and ate their mutton raw, because they did not know what cooking was—having never seen a fire. the bridge of apes and he told them of the great mammoths and lizards, as long as a train, that wandered over the mountains in those times, nibbling from the tree-tops. and often they got so interested listening, that when he had finished they found their fire had gone right out; and they had to scurry round to get more sticks and build a new one. - now when the king's army had gone back and told the king that they couldn't find the doctor, the king sent them out again and told them they must stay in the jungle till they caught him. so all this time, while the doctor and his animals were going along towards the land of the monkeys, thinking themselves quite safe, they were still being followed by the king's men. if chee-chee had known this, he would most likely have hidden them again. but he didn't know it. one day chee-chee climbed up a high rock and looked out over the tree-tops. and when he came down he said they were now quite close to the land of the monkeys and would soon be there. the story of doctor dolittle and that same evening, sure enough, they saw chee-chee's cousin and a lot of other monkeys, who had not yet got sick, sitting in the trees by the edge of a swamp, looking and waiting for them. and when they saw the famous doctor really come, these monkeys made a tremendous noise, cheering and waving leaves and swinging out of the branches to greet him. they wanted to carry his bag and his trunk and everything he had—and one of the bigger ones even carried gub-gub who had got tired again. then two of them rushed on in front to tell the sick monkeys that the great doctor had come at last. but the king's men, who were still following, had heard the noise of the monkeys cheering; and they at last knew where the doctor was, and hastened on to catch him. - the big monkey carrying gub-gub was com- ing along behind slowly, and he saw the cap- tain of the army sneaking through the trees. so he hurried after the doctor and told him to tui). then they all ran harder than they had ever “cheering and waving leaves and swinging out of the branches to greet him” the story of doctor dolittle run in their lives; and the king's men, coming after them, began to run too; and the captain ran hardest of all. then the doctor tripped over his medicine- bag and fell down in the mud, and the captain thought he would surely catch him this time. but the captain had very long ears—though his hair was very short. and as he sprang for- ward to take hold of the doctor, one of his ears caught fast in a tree; and the rest of the army had to stop and help him. by this time the doctor had picked himself up, and on they went again, running and run- ning. and chee-chee shouted, "it's all right! we haven't far to go now!" but before they could get into the land of the monkeys, they came to a steep cliff with a river flowing below. this was the end of the kingdom of jolliginki; and the land of the monkeys was on the other side—across the river. and jip, the dog, looked down over the edge of the steep, steep cliff and said, the story of doctor dolittle and the big one shouted to the doctor, "walk over! walk over—all of you—hurry!" gub-gub was a bit scared, walking on such a narrow bridge at that dizzy height above the river. but he got over all right; and so did all of them. john dolittle was the last to cross. and just as he was getting to the other side, the king's men came rushing up to the edge of the cliff. then they shook their fists and yelled with rage. for they saw they were too late. the doctor and all his animals were safe in the land of the monkeys and the bridge was pulled across to the other side. then chee-chee turned to the doctor and said, "many great explorers and gray-bearded naturalists have lain long weeks hidden in the jungle waiting to see the monkeys do that trick. but we never let a white man get a glimpse of it before. you are the first to see the famous 'bridge of apes.'" and the doctor felt very pleased. sÁ ×uouu ų} [[e ºpeu h,, the leader of the lions then he had another house made—a big one, with a lot of beds in it; and he put all the sick ones in this house. but so many were sick, there were not enough well ones to do the nursing. so he sent mes- sages to the other animals, like the lions and the leopards and the antelopes, to come and help with the nursing. but the leader of the lions was a very proud creature. and when he came to the doctor's big house full of beds he seemed angry and scornful. "dr you dare to ask me, sir?" he said, glaring at t e doctor. "do you dare to ask me—me, the king of beasts, to wait on a lot of dirty monkeys? why, i wouldn't even eat them be- tween meals!" although the lion looked very terrible, the doctor tried hard not to seem afraid of him. "i didn't ask you to eat them," he said quietly. "and besides, they're not dirty. they've all had a bath this morning. your coat looks as though it needed brushing—badly. now listen, and i'll tell you something: the day may the story of doctor dolittle come when the lions get sick. and if you don't help the other animals now, the lions may find themselves left all alone when they are in trouble. that often happens to proud peo- ple.” “‘me, the king of beasts, to wait on a lot of dirty monkeys?’” “the lions are never in trouble—they only make trouble," said the leader, turning up his nose. and he stalked away into the jungle, feel- ing he had been rather smart and clever. then the leopards got proud too and said they wouldn't help. and then of course the the leader of the lions antelopes—although they were too shy and timid to be rude to the doctor like the lion—they pawed the ground, and smiled foolishly, and said they had never been nurses before. and now the poor doctor was worried fran- tic, wondering where he could get help enough to take care of all these thousands of monkeys in bed. but the leader of the lions, when he got back to his den, saw his wife, the queen lioness, come running out to meet him with her hair un- tidy. "one of the cubs won't eat," she said. "i don't know what to do with him. he hasn't taken a thing since last night." and she began to cry and shake with nervous- ness—for she was a good mother, even though she was a lioness. so the leader went into his den and looked at his children—two very cunning little cubs, ly- ing on the floor. and one of them seemed quite poorly. then the lion told his wife, quite proudly, just what he had said to the doctor. and she got s the leader of the lions so the leader of the lions went back to the doctor and said, "i happened to be passing this way and thought i'd look in. got any help yet?" "no," said the doctor. "i haven't. and i'm dreadfully worried." "help's pretty hard to get these days,’ the lion. "animals don't seem to want to work any more. you can't blame them—in a way. . . . well, seeing you're in difficulties, i don't mind doing what i can—just to oblige you— so long as i don't have to wash the creatures. and i have told all the other hunting animals to come and do their share. the leopards should be here any minute now. . . . oh, and by the way, we've got a sick cub at home. i don't think there's much the matter with him myself. but the wife is anxious. if you are around that way this evening, you might take a look at him, will you?" then the doctor was very happy; for all the lions and the leopards and the antelopes and the giraffes and the zebras—all the animals of the forests and the mountains and the plains ” said the story of doctor dolittle —came to help him in his work. there were so many of them that he had to send some away, and only kept the cleverest. and now very soon the monkeys began to get better. at the end of a week the big house full of beds were half empty. and at the end of the second week the last monkey had got well. then the doctor's work was done; and he was so tired he went to bed and slept for three days without even turning over. the ninth chapter the monkeys' council hee-chee stood outside the doctor's door, keeping every- body away till he woke up. º then john dolittle told the monkeys that he must now go back to puddleby. they were very surprised at this; for they had thought that he was going to stay with them forever. and that night all the monkeys got together in the jungle to talk it over. and the chief chimpanzee rose up and said, "why is it the good man is going away? is he not happy here with us?" but none of them could answer him. then the grand gorilla got up and said, "i think we all should go to him and ask him to stay. perhaps if we make him a new house and a bigger bed, and promise him plenty º the story of doctor dolittle of monkey-servants to work for him and to make life pleasant for him—perhaps then he will not wish to go." then chee-chee got up; and all the others whispered, "sh! look! chee-chee, the great traveler, is about to speak!" and chee-chee said to the other monkeys, "my friends, i am afraid it is useless to ask | the doctor to stay. he owes money in puddle- by; and he says he must go back and pay it." and the monkeys asked him, "what is money?" then chee-chee told them that in the land of the white men you could get nothing with- out money; you could do nothing without money “then the grand gorilla got up” the monkeys’ council —that it was almost impossible to live without money. - and some of them asked, "but can you not even eat and drink without paying?" but chee-chee shook his head. and then he told them that even he, when he was with the organ-grinder, had been made to ask the chil- dren for money. and the chief chimpanzee turned to the oldest orang-outang and said, "cousin, surely these men be strange creatures! who would wish to live in such a land? my gracious, how paltry!" then chee-chee said, "when we were coming to you we had no oat to cross the sea in and no money to buy food to eat on our journey. so a man lent us some biscuits; and we said we would pay him when we came back. and we borrowed a boat from a sailor; but it was broken on the rocks when we reached the shores of africa. now the doctor says he must go back and get the sailor another boat—because the man was poor and his ship was all he had.” the story of doctor dolittle and the monkeys were all silent for a while, sitting quite still upon the ground and thinking hard. at last the biggest baboon got up and said, "i do not think we ought to let this good man leave our land till we have given him a fine present to take with him, so that he may know we are grateful for all that he has done for us." and a little, tiny red monkey who was sit- ting up in a tree shouted down, "i think that too!" and then they all cried out, making a great noise, "yes, yes. let us give him the finest present a white man ever had l’” now they began to wonder and ask one an- other what would be the best thing to give him. and one said, "fifty bags of cocoanuts!" and another—"a hundred bunches of bananas!— at least he shall not have to buy his fruit in the land where you pay to eat!" but chee-chee told them that all these things would be too heavy to carry so far and would go bad before half was eaten. the monkeys’ council “if you want to please him," he said, "give him an animal. you may be sure he will be kind to it. give him some rare animal they have not got in the menageries." and the monkeys asked him, "what are menageries?" then chee-chee explained to them that menageries were places in the land of the white men, where animals were put in cages for people to come and look at. and the monkeys were very shocked and said to one another, "these men are like thoughtless young ones —stupid and easily amused. sh! it is a prison he means." so then they asked chee-chee what rare ani- mal it could be that they should give the doc- tor—one the white men had not seen before and the major of the marmosettes asked, "have they an iguana over there?" but chee-chee said, "yes, there is one in the london zoo." and another asked, "have they an okapi?" but chee-chee said, "yes. in belgium, the story of doctor dolittle where my organ-grinder took me five years ago, they had an okapi in a big city they call ant- werp." and another asked, "have they a pushmi- pullyu?" then chee-chee said, "no. no white man has ever seen a pushmi-pullyu. let us give him that.” } the tenth chapter the rarest animal of all ushmi-pullyus are now extinct. that means, there aren't any more. but long ago, when doctor dolittle was alive, there were some of them still left in the deepest jungles of africa; and even then they were very, very scarce. they had no tail, but a head at each end, and sharp horns on each head. they were very shy and terribly hard to catch. the black men get most of their animals by sneaking up behind them while they are not looking. but you could not do this with the pushmi-pullyu—because, no matter which way you came towards him, he was always facing you. and besides, only one half of him slept at a time. the other head was always awake—and watching. this was why they were never caught and never seen in the story of doctor dolittle zoos. though many of the greatest huntsmen and the cleverest menagerie-keepers spent years of their lives searching through the jungles in all weathers for pushmi-pullyus, not a single one had ever been caught. even then, years ago, he was the only animal in the world with two heads. - well, the monkeys set out hunting for this animal through the forest. and after they had gone a good many miles, one of them found peculiar footprints near the edge of a river; and they knew that a pushmi-pullyu must be very near that spot. - then they went along the bank of the river a little way and they saw a place where the grass was high and thick; and they guessed that he was in there. so they all joined hands and made a great circle round the high grass. the pushmi- pullyu heard them coming; and he tried hard to break through the ring of monkeys. but he couldn't do it. when he saw that it was no use trying to escape, he sat down and waited to see what they wanted. s the rarest animal of all they asked him if he would go with doctor dolittle and be put on show in the land of the white men. but he shook both his heads hard and said, "certainly not!" they explained to him that he would not be shut up in a menagerie but would just be looked at. they told him that the doctor was a very kind man but hadn't any money; and people would pay to see a two-headed animal and the doctor would get rich and could pay for the boat he had borrowed to come to africa in. but he answered, "no. you know how shy i am—i hate being stared at." and he almost began to cry. then for three days they tried to persuade him. and at the end of the third day he said he would come with them and see what kind of a man the doctor was, first. so the monkeys traveled back with the pushmi-pullyu. and when they came to where the doctor's little house of grass was, they knocked on the door. s the story of doctor dolittle the duck, who was packing the trunk, said, "come in l’” and chee-chee very proudly took the ani- mal inside and showed him to the doctor. "what in the world is it?" asked john do- little, gazing at the strange creature. "lord save us!" cried the duck. "how does it make up its mind?" "it doesn't look to me as though it had any," said jip, the dog. "this, doctor," said chee-chee, "is the pushmi-pullyu—the rarest animal of the afri- can jungles, the only two-headed beast in the world! take him home with you and your fortune's made. people will pay any money to see him." "but i don't want any money," said the doc- tor. "yes, you do," said dab-dab, the duck. "don't you remember how we had to pinch and scrape to pay the butcher's bill in pud- dleby? and how are you going to get the sailor the new boat you spoke of—unless we have the money to buy it?” the story of doctor dolittle “i was going to make him one," said the doc- tor. "oh, do be sensible!" cried dab-dab. "where would you get all the wood and the nails to make one with?—and besides, what are we going to live on? we shall be poorer than ever when we get back. chee-chee's perfectly right: take the funny-looking thing along, do!" "well, perhaps there is something in what you say," murmured the doctor. "it certainly would make a nice new kind of pet. but does the er—what-do-you-call-it really want to go abroad?" "yes, i'll go," said the pushmi-pullyu who saw at once, from the doctor's face, that he was a man to be trusted. "you have been so kind to the animals here—and the monkeys tell me that i am the only one who will do. but you must promise me that if i do not like it in the land of the white men you will send me back.” - “why, certainly—of course, of course, the doctor. "excuse me, surely you are re- lated to the deer family, are you not?” ” said the rarest animal of all “yes," said the pushmi-pullyu—"to the abyssinian gazelles and the asiatic chamois —on my mother's side. my father's great- grandfather was the last of the unicorns." "most interesting!" murmured the doctor; and he took a book out of the trunk which dab- dab was packing and began turning the pages. "let us see if buffon says anything—" "i notice," said the duck, "that you only talk with one of your mouths. can't the other head talk as well ?" "oh, yes," said the pushmi-pullyu. "but i keep the other mouth for eating—mostly. in that way i can talk while i am eating without being rude. our people have always been very polite." when the packing was finished and every- thing was ready to start, the monkeys gave a grand party for the doctor, and all the animals of the jungle came. and they had pineapples and mangoes and honey and all sorts of good things to eat and drink. after they had all finished eating, the doctor got up and said, - the rarest animal of all families, still point down at it from the branches and whisper to their children, "sh! there it is—look—where the good white man sat and ate food with us in the year of the great sick- ness!" then, when the party was over, the doctor and his pets started out to go back to the sea- shore. and all the monkeys went with him as far as the edge of their country, carrying his trunk and bags, to see him off. the black prince nearly lost the medicine-bag in the under-brush. there seemed no end to their troubles; and nowhere could they come upon a path. at last, after blundering about like this for many days, getting their clothes torn and their faces covered with mud, they walked right into the king's back-garden by mistake. the king's men came running up at once and caught them. but polynesia flew into a tree in the garden, without anybody seeing her, and hid herself. the doctor and the rest were taken before the king. "ha, ha!" cried the king. "so you are caught again! this time you shall not escape. take them all back to prison and put double locks on the door. this white man shall scrub my kitchen-floor for the rest of his life i” so the doctor and his pets were led back to prison and locked up. and the doctor was told that in the morning he must begin scrubbing the kitchen-floor. they were all very unhappy. "this is a great nuisance," said the doctor. the story of doctor dolittle “i really must get back to puddleby. that poor sailor will think i've stolen his ship if i don't get home soon. . . . i wonder if those hinges are loose." but the door was very strong and firmly locked. there seemed no chance of getting out. then gub-gub began to cry again. all this time polynesia was still sitting in the tree in the palace-garden. she was saying noth- ing and blinking her eyes. this was always a very bad sign with poly- nesia. whenever she said nothing and blinked her eyes, it meant that somebody had been mak- ing trouble, and she was thinking out some way to put things right. people who made trouble for polynesia or her friends were nearly always sorry for it afterwards. presently she spied chee-chee swinging through the trees still looking for the doctor. when chee-chee saw her, he came into her tree and asked her what had become of him. "the doctor and all the animals have been caught by the king's men and locked up again,” the black prince whispered polynesia. "we lost our way in the jungle and blundered into the palace-garden by mistake." "but couldn't you guide them?" asked chee- chee; and he began to scold the parrot for let- ting them get lost while he was away looking for the cocoanuts. "it was all that stupid pig's fault," said polynesia. "he would keep running off the path hunting for ginger-roots. and i was kept so busy catching him and bringing him back, that i turned to the left, instead of the right, when we reached the swamp.—sh!—look! there's prince bumpo coming into the garden! he must not see us.--don't move, whatever you do!" and there, sure enough, was prince bumpo, the king's son, opening the garden-gate. he carried a book of fairy-tales under his arm. he came strolling down the gravel-walk, humming a sad song, till he reached a stone seat right un- der the tree where the parrot and the monkey were hiding. then he lay down on the seat the black prince “if i were only a white prince!" said he, with a dreamy, far-away look in his eyes. then the parrot, talking in a small, high voice like a little girl, said aloud, "bumpo, some one might turn thee into a white prince perchance." the king's son started up off the seat and looked all around. "what is this i hear?" he cried. "methought the sweet music of a fairy's silver voice rang from yonder bower! strange!" "worthy prince," said polynesia, keeping very still so bumpo couldn't see her, "thou say- est winged words of truth. for 'tis i, tripsi- tinka, the queen of the fairies, that speak to thee. i am hiding in a rose-bud." "oh tell me, fairy-queen," cried bumpo, clasping his hands in joy, "who is it can turn me white?" "in thy father's prison," said the parrot, "there lies a famous wizard, john dolittle by name. many things he knows of medicine and magic, and mighty deeds has he performed. yet thy kingly father leaves him languishing long and the twelfth chapter medicine and magic ytery, very quietly, making sure that no one should see her, polynesia then slipped out at the back of the tree and flew across to the prison. she found gub-gub poking his nose through the bars of the window, trying to sniff the cooking-smells that came from the palace- kitchen. she told the pig to bring the doctor to the window because she wanted to speak to him. so gub-gub went and woke the doctor who was taking a nap. "listen," whispered the parrot, when john dolittle's face appeared: "prince bumpo is coming here to-night to see you. and you've got to find some way to turn him white. but be sure to make him promise you first that he qq ioo the story of doctor dolittle will open the prison-door and find a ship for you to cross the sea in." "this is all very well," said the doctor. "but it isn't so easy to turn a black man white. you speak as though he were a dress to be re- dyed. it's not so simple. 'shall the leopard change his spots, or the ethiopian his skin,' you know?" "i don't know anything about that," said polynesia impatiently. "but you must turn this coon white. think of a way—think hard. you've got plenty of medicines left in the bag. he'll do anything for you if you change his color. it is your only chance to get out of prison." "well, i suppose it might be possible," said the doctor. "let me see—," and he went over to his medicine-bag, murmuring something about "liberated chlorine on animal-pigment— perhaps zinc-ointment, as a temporary measure, spread thick—" well, that night prince bumpo came secretly to the doctor in prison and said to him, "white man, i am an unhappy prince. medicine and magic ioi years ago i went in search of the sleeping beauty, whom i had read of in a book. and having traveled through the world many days, i at last found her and kissed the lady very gently to awaken her—as the book said i should. 'tis true indeed that she awoke. but when she saw my face she cried out, 'oh, he's black!' and she ran away and wouldn't marry me—but went to sleep again somewhere else. so i came back, full of sadness, to my father's kingdom. now i hear that you are a wonderful magician and have many powerful potions. so i come to you for help. if you will turn me white, so that i may go back to the sleeping beauty, i will give you half my kingdom and anything be- sides you ask." "prince bumpo," said the doctor, looking thoughtfully at the bottles in his medicine-bag, "supposing i made your hair a nice blonde color—would not that do instead to make you happy?" "no," said bumpo. "nothing else will sat- isfy me. i must be a white prince." "you know it is very hard to change the color io the story of doctor dolittle of a prince," said the doctor—"one of the hard- est things a magician can do. you only want your face white, do you not?" "yes, that is all," said bumpo. "because i shall wear shining armor and gauntlets of steel, like the other white princes, and ride on a horse." "must your face be white all over?" asked the doctor. "yes, all over," said bumpo—"and i would like my eyes blue too, but i suppose that would be very hard to do." "yes, it would," said the doctor quickly. "well, i will do what i can for you. you will have to be very patient though—you know with some medicines you can never be very sure. i might have to try two or three times. you have a strong skin—yes? well that's all right. now come over here by the light—oh, but be- fore i do anything, you must first go down to the beach and get a ship ready, with food in it, to take me across the sea. do not speak a word of this to any one. and when i have done as you ask, you must let me and all my animals medicine and magic i out of prison. promise—by the crown of jol- liginki!" so the prince promised and went away to get a ship ready at the seashore. when he came back and said that it was done, the doctor asked dab-dab to bring a basin. then he mixed a lot of medicines in the basin and told bumpo to dip his face in it. the prince leaned down and put his face in —right up to the ears. he held it there a long time—so long that the doctor seemed to get dreadfully anxious and fidgety, standing first on one leg and then on the other, looking at all the bottles he had used for the mixture, and reading the labels on them again and again. a strong smell filled the prison, like the smell of brown paper burn- ing. at last the prince lifted his face up out of the basin, breathing very hard. and all the ani- mals cried out in surprise. for the prince's face had turned as white as snow, and his eyes, which had been mud-colored, were a manly gray! i the story of doctor dolittle when john dolittle lent him a little looking- glass to see himself in, he sang for joy and be- gan dancing around the prison. but the doc- tor asked him not to make so much noise about it; and when he had closed his medicine-bag in a hurry he told him to open the prison- door. bumpo begged that he might keep the look- ing-glass, as it was the only one in the kingdom of jolliginki, and he wanted to look at himself all day long. but the doctor said he needed it to shave with. then the prince, taking a bunch of copper keys from his pocket, undid the great double locks. and the doctor with all his animals ran as fast as they could down to the seashore; while bumpo leaned against the wall of the empty dungeon, smiling after them happily, his big face shining like polished ivory in the light of the moon. when they came to the beach they saw poly- nesia and chee-chee waiting for them on the rocks near the ship. "i feel sorry about bumpo," said the doctor. medicine and magic i “i am afraid that medicine i used will never last. most likely he will be as black as ever when he wakes up in the morning—that's one reason why i didn't like to leave the mirror with him. but then again, he might stay white—i had never used that mixture before. to tell the truth, i was surprised, myself, that it worked so well. but i had to do something, didn't i? —i couldn't possibly scrub the king's kitchen for the rest of my life. it was such a dirty kitchen!—i could see it from the prison- window.—well, well!—poor bumpo!" "oh, of course he will know we were just joking with him," said the parrot. "they had no business to lock us up," said dab-dab, waggling her tail angrily. "we never did them any harm. serve him right, if he does turn black again! i hope it's a dark black." "but he didn't have anything to do with it," said the doctor. "it was the king, his father, who had us locked up—it wasn't bumpo's fault. . . . i wonder if i ought to go back and apolo- gize— oh, well—i'll send him some candy io the story of doctor dolittle when i get to puddleby. and who knows?— he may stay white after all." "the sleeping beauty would never have him, even if he did," said dab-dab. "he looked bet- ter the way he was, i thought. but he'd never be anything but ugly, no matter what color he was made." "still, he had a good heart," said the doctor— "romantic, of course—but a good heart. after all, 'handsome is as handsome does.'" "i don't believe the poor booby found the sleeping beauty at all," said jip, the dog. "most likely he kissed some farmer's fat wife who was taking a snooze under an apple-tree. can't blame her for getting scared i wonder who he'll go and kiss this time. silly busi- ness!” - then the pushmi-pullyu, the white mouse, gub-gub, dab-dab, jip and the owl, too-too, went on to the ship with the doctor. but chee- chee, polynesia and the crocodile stayed behind, because africa was their proper home, the land where they were born. and when the doctor stood upon the boat, he medicine and magic looked over the side across the water. and then he remembered that they had no one with them to guide them back to puddleby. the wide, wide sea looked terribly big and lonesome in the moonlight; and he began to wonder if they would lose their way when they passed out of sight of land. but even while he was wondering, they heard a strange whispering noise, high in the air, coming through the night. and the animals all stopped saying good-by and listened. the noise grew louder and bigger. it seemed to be coming nearer to them—a sound like the autumn wind blowing through the leaves of a poplar-tree, or a great, great rain beating down upon a roof. and jip, with his nose pointing and his tail quite straight, said, "birds!—millions of them—flying fast— that's it!" and then they all looked up. and there, streaming across the face of the moon, like a huge swarm of tiny ants, they could see thou- sands and thousands of little birds. soon the io the story of doctor dolittle whole sky seemed full of them, and still more kept coming—more and more. there were so many that for a little they covered the whole moon so it could not shine, and the sea grew dark and black—like when a storm-cloud passes over the sun. and presently all these birds came down close, skimming over the water and the land; and the night-sky was left clear above, and the moon shone as before. still never a call nor a cry nor a song they made—no sound but this great rustling of feathers which grew greater now than ever. when they began to settle on the sands, along the ropes of the ship—anywhere and everywhere except the trees—the doctor could see that they had blue wings and white breasts and very short, feathered legs. as soon as they had all found a place to sit, suddenly, there was no noise left anywhere—all was quiet; all was still. and in the silent moonlight john dolittle spoke: "i had no idea that we had been in africa so long. it will be nearly summer when we iio the story of doctor dolittle and after they had called good-by to him again and again and again, they still stood there upon the rocks, crying bitterly and waving till the ship was out of sight. the thirteenth chapter red sails and blue wings ailing homeward, the doc- tor's ship had to pass the coast of barbary. this coast is the seashore of the great desert. it is a wild, lonely place—all sand and stones. and it was here that the barbary pirates lived. these pirates, a bad lot of men, used to wait for sailors to be shipwrecked on their shores. and often, if they saw a boat passing, they would come out in their fast sailing-ships and chase it. when they caught a boat like this at sea, they would steal everything on it; and after they had taken the people off they would sink the ship and sail back to barbary singing songs and feel- ing proud of the mischief they had done. then they used to make the people they had caught write home to their friends for money. and if iii ii the story of doctor dolittle the friends sent no money, the pirates often threw the people into the sea. now one sunshiny day the doctor and dab- dab were walking up and down on the ship for exercise; a nice fresh wind was blowing the boat along, and everybody was happy. pres- ently dab-dab saw the sail of another ship a long way behind them on the edge of the sea. it was a red sail. "i don't like the look of that sail," said dab- dab. "i have a feeling it isn't a friendly ship. i am afraid there is more trouble coming to us." jip, who was lying near taking a nap in the sun, began to growl and talk in his sleep. "i smell roast beef cooking," he mumbled— "underdone roast beef—with brown gravy over it." "good gracious!" cried the doctor. "what's the matter with the dog? is he smelling in his sleep—as well as talking?" "i suppose he is," said dab-dab. "all dogs can smell in their sleep." "but what is he smelling?" asked the doctor. red sails and blue wings ii “there is no roast beef cooking on our ship." "no," said dab-dab. "the roast beef must be on that other ship over there." "but that's ten miles away," said the doctor. "he couldn't smell that far surely!" "oh, yes, he could," said dab-dab. "you ask him." then jip, still fast asleep, began to growl again and his lip curled up angrily, showing his clean, white teeth. "i smell bad men," he growled—"the worst men i ever smelt. i smell trouble. i smell a fight—six bad scoundrels fighting against one brave man. i want to help him. woof—oo— woof!" then he barked, loud, and woke himself up with a surprised look on his face. "see!" cried dab-dab. "that boat is nearer now. you can count its three big sails—all red. whoever it is, they are coming after us. . . . i wonder who they are." "they are bad sailors," said jip; "and their ship is very swift. they are surely the pirates of barbary." "well, we must put up more sails on our boat,” ii the story of doctor dolittle said the doctor, "so we can go faster and get away from them. run downstairs, jip, and fetch me all the sails you see." the dog hurried downstairs and dragged up every sail he could find. “‘they are surely the pirates of barbary’” but even when all these were put up on the masts to catch the wind, the boat did not go nearly as fast as the pirates'—which kept com- ing on behind, closer and closer. "this is a poor ship the prince gave us," said gub-gub, the pig—"the slowest he could find, i red sails and blue wings ii should think. might as well try to win a race in a soup-tureen as hope to get away from them in this old barge. look how near they are now! —you can see the mustaches on the faces of the men—six of them. what are we going to do?" then the doctor asked dab-dab to fly up and tell the swallows that pirates were coming after them in a swift ship, and what should he do about it. when the swallows heard this, they all came down on to the doctor's ship; and they told him to unravel some pieces of long rope and make them into a lot of thin strings as quickly as he could. then the ends of these strings were tied on to the front of the ship; and the swallows took hold of the strings with their feet and flew off, pulling the boat along. and although swallows are not very strong when only one or two are by themselves, it is different when there are a great lot of them to- gether. and there, tied to the doctor's ship, were a thousand strings; and two thousand swal- lows were pulling on each string—all terribly swift fliers, ii the story of doctor dolittle to drink on his ship. and he told all the ani- mals to get out too and romp on the grass to stretch their legs. now as they were getting off, the doctor no- ticed that a whole lot of rats were coming up from downstairs and leaving the ship as well. jip started to run after them, because chasing rats had always been his favorite game. but the doctor told him to stop. and one big black rat, who seemed to want to say something to the doctor, now crept for- ward timidly along the rail, watching the dog out of the corner of his eye. and after he had coughed nervously two or three times, and cleaned his whiskers and wiped his mouth, he said, "ahem—er—you know of course that all ships have rats in them, doctor, do you not?" and the doctor said, "yes." "and you have heard that rats always leave a sinking ship?" "yes," said the doctor—"so i've been told." "people," said the rat, "always speak of it with a sneer—as though it were something dis- i o the story of doctor dolittle “yes," said the rat. "i've come to tell you that we are leaving this one. but we wanted to warn you before we go. this is a bad ship you have here. it isn't safe. the sides aren't strong enough. its boards are rotten. before to-morrow night it will sink to the bottom of the sea." "but how do you know?" asked the doctor. "we always know," answered the rat. "the tips of our tails get that tingly feeling—like when your foot's asleep. this morning, at six o'clock, while i was getting breakfast, my tail suddenly began to tingle. at first i thought it was my rheumatism coming back. so i went and asked my aunt how she felt—you remember her?—the long, piebald rat, rather skinny, who came to see you in puddleby last spring with jaundice? well—and she said her tail was tingling like everything! then we knew, for sure, that this boat was going to sink in less than two days; and we all made up our minds to leave it as soon as we got near enough to any land. it's a bad ship, doctor. don't sail in it any more, or you'll be surely drowned. . . . the rats' warming i i good-by! we are now going to look for a good place to live on this island." "good-by!" said the doctor. "and thank you very much for coming to tell me. very considerate of you—very! give my regards to your aunt. i remember her perfectly. . . . leave that rat alone, jip! come here! lie down!" so then the doctor and all his animals went off, carrying pails and saucepans, to look for water on the island, while the swallows took their rest. "i wonder what is the name of this island," said the doctor, as he was climbing up the mountainside. "it seems a pleasant place. what a lot of birds there are!" "why, these are the canary islands," said dab-dab. "don't you hear the canaries sing- ing?" the doctor stopped and listened. "why, to be sure—of course!" he said. "how stupid of me! i wonder if they can tell us where to find water." and presently the canaries, who had heard all the rats' warming i “that's a good idea," said the doctor— "splendid!" and he called his animals together at once, said good-by to the canaries and ran down to the beach. when they reached the shore they saw the pirate-ship, with the three red sails, standing in the water; and—just as the swallows had said —there was nobody on it; all the pirates were downstairs in the doctor's ship, looking for things to steal. so john dolittle told his animals to walk very softly and they all crept on to the pirate-ship. the fifteenth chapter the barbary dragon * verything would have gone all right if the pig had not caught a cold in his head while eating the damp sugar-cane on the aisland. this is what happened: after they had pulled up the anchor without a sound, and were moving the ship very, very carefully out of the bay, gub- gub suddenly sneezed so loud that the pirates on the other ship came rushing upstairs to see what the noise was. as soon as they saw that the doctor was es- caping, they sailed the other boat right across the entrance to the bay so that the doctor could not get out into the open sea. then the leader of these bad men (who called himself "ben ali, the dragon") shook his fist at the doctor and shouted across the water, i i the story of doctor dolittle “ha! ha! you are caught, my fine friend! you were going to run off in my ship, eh? but you are not a good enough sailor to beat ben ali, the barbary dragon. i want that duck you've got—and the pig too. we'll have pork- chops and roast duck for supper to-night. and before i let you go home, you must make your friends send me a trunk-full of gold." poor gub-gub began to weep; and dab-dab made ready to fly to save her life. but the owl, too-too, whispered to the doctor, "keep him talking, doctor. be pleasant to him. our old ship is bound to sink soon—the rats said it would be at the bottom of the sea be- fore to-morrow-night—and the rats are never wrong. be pleasant, till the ship sinks under him. keep him talking." "what, until to-morrow night!" said the doc- tor. "well, i'll do my best. . . . let me see— what shall i talk about?" "oh, let them come on," said jip. "we can fight the dirty rascals. there are only six of them. let them come on. i'd love to tell that collie next door, when we get home, that i had the barbary dragon i bitten a real pirate. let 'em come. we can fight them." "but they have pistols and swords," said the /~ “‘look here, ben ali–’” doctor. "no, that would never do. i must talk to him. . . . look here, ben ali—" but before the doctor could say any more, the pirates began to sail the ship nearer, laugh- ing with glee, and saying one to another, "who shall be the first to catch the pig?” the barbary dragon i but of course the men did not understand him. soon the front end of the ship began to go down and down, faster and faster—till the boat looked almost as though it were standing on its head; and the pirates had to cling to the rails and the masts and the ropes and anything to keep from sliding off. then the sea rushed roaring in through all the windows and the doors. and at last the ship plunged right down to the bottom of the sea, making a dreadful gurgling sound; and the six bad men were left bobbing about in the deep water of the bay. some of them started to swim for the shores of the island; while others came and tried to get on to the boat where the doctor was. but jip kept snapping at their noses, so they were afraid to climb up the side of the ship. then suddenly they all cried out in great fear, "the sharks! the sharks are coming! let us get on to the ship before they eat us! help, help!—the sharks! the sharks!" and now the doctor could see, all over the bay, the backs of big fishes swimming swiftly through the water. i the story of doctor dolittle and one great shark came near to the ship, and poking his nose out of the water he said to the doctor, "are you john dolittle, the famous animal- doctor?" "yes," said doctor dolittle. "that is my name." "well," said the shark, "we know these pir- ates to be a bad lot—especially ben ali. if they are annoying you, we will gladly eat them up for you—and then you won't be troubled any more." "thank you," said the doctor. "this is really most attentive. but i don't think it will be necessary to eat them. don't let any of them reach the shore until i tell you—just keep them swimming about, will you? and please make ben ali swim over here that i may talk to him." so the shark went off and chased ben ali over to the doctor. "listen, ben ali," said john dolittle, lean- ing over the side. "you have been a very bad man; and i understand that you have killed the barbary dragon i many people. these good sharks here have just offered to eat you up for me—and 'twould in- deed be a good thing if the seas were rid of you. but if you will promise to do as i tell you, i will let you go in safety." "what must i do?" asked the pirate, looking down sideways at the big shark who was smell- ing his leg under the water. "you must kill no more people," said the doctor; "you must stop stealing; you must never sink another ship; you must give up being a pirate altogether." "but what shall i do then?" asked ben ali, "how shall i live?" "you and all your men must go on to this island and be bird-seed-farmers," the doctor an- swered. "you must grow bird-seed for the canaries." the barbary dragon turned pale with anger. "grow bird-seed!" he groaned in disgust. "can't i be a sailor?" "no," said the doctor, "you cannot. you have been a sailor long enough—and sent many stout ships and good men to the bottom of the i the story of doctor dolittle sea. for the rest of your life you must be a peaceful farmer. the shark is waiting. do not waste any more of his time. make up your mind." "thunder and lightning!" ben ali muttered —"bird-seed!" then he looked down into the water again and saw the great fish smelling his other leg. "very well," he said sadly. "we'll be farm- ers." "and remember," said the doctor, "that if you do not keep your promise—if you start killing and stealing again, i shall hear of it, because the canaries will come and tell me. and be very sure that i will find a way to pun- ish you. for though i may not be able to sail a ship as well as you, so long as the birds and the beasts and the fishes are my friends, i do not have to be afraid of a pirate chief—even though he call himself 'the dragon of barbary.' now go and be a good farmer and live in peace." then the doctor turned to the big shark, and waving his hand he said, "all right. let them swim safely to the land." the sixteenth chapter too-too, the listener aving thanked the sharks again for their kindness, the doctor and his pets set off once more on their journey home in the swift ship with - the three red sails. as they moved out into the open sea, the ani- mals all went downstairs to see what their new boat was like inside; while the doctor leant on the rail at the back of the ship with a pipe in his mouth, watching the canary islands fade away in the blue dusk of the evening. while he was standing there, wondering how the monkeys were getting on—and what his garden would look like when he got back to puddleby, dab-dab came tumbling up the stairs, all smiles and full of news. "doctor!" she cried. "this ship of the pi- i too-too, the listener i drawers and lockers—in the big chests in the ship's dining-room; they looked everywhere. while they were doing this they discovered a lot of new and wonderful things that the pi- rates must have stolen from other ships: kash- mir shawls as thin as a cobweb, embroidered with flowers of gold; jars of fine tobacco from jamaica; carved ivory boxes full of russian tea; an old violin with a string broken and a picture on the back; a set of big chess-men, carved out of coral and amber; a walking-stick which had a sword inside it when you pulled the handle; six wine-glasses with tourquoise and silver round the rims; and a lovely great sugar- bowl, made of mother o' pearl. but nowhere in the whole boat could they find a key to fit that lock. so they all came back to the door, and jip peered through the key-hole. but something had been stood against the wall on the inside and he could see nothing. while they were standing around, wondering what they should do, the owl, too-too, sud- denly said, too-too, the listener i *-* “i hear the noise of some one putting his hand in his pocket," said the owl. "but that makes hardly any sound at all," said the doctor. "you couldn't hear that out here." "pardon me, but i can," said too-too. "i tell you there is some one on the other side of that door putting his hand in his pocket. al- most everything makes some noise—if your ears are only sharp enough to catch it. bats can hear a mole walking in his tunnel under the earth —and they think they're good hearers. but we owls can tell you, using only one ear, the color of a kitten from the way it winks in the dark." "well, well!" said the doctor. "you sur- prise me. that's very interesting. . . . listen again and tell me what he's doing now." "i'm not sure yet," said too-too, "if it's a man at all. maybe it's a woman. lift me up and let me listen at the key-hole and i'll soon tell you." so the doctor lifted the owl up and held him close to the lock of the door. after a moment too-too said, "now he's rubbing his face with his left the story of doctor dolittle hand. it is a small hand and a small face. it might be a woman—no. now he pushes his hair back off his forehead—it's a man all right.” - “women sometimes do that," said the doc- tor. "true," said the owl. "but when they do, their long hair makes quite a different sound. . . . sh! make that fidgety pig keep still. now all hold your breath a moment so i can listen well. this is very difficult, what i'm do- ing now—and the pesky door is so thick! sh! everybody quite still—shut your eyes and don't breathe." too-too leaned down and listened again very hard and long. at last he looked up into the doctor's face and said, "the man in there is unhappy. he weeps. he has taken care not to blubber or sniffle, lest we should find out that he is crying. but i heard—quite distinctly—the sound of a tear fall- ing on his sleeve." "how do you know it wasn't a drop of water too-too, the listener i falling off the ceiling on him?" asked gub-gub. "pshaw!—such ignorance!" sniffed too-too. "a drop of water falling off the ceiling would have made ten times as much noise!" "well," said the doctor, "if the poor fellow's unhappy, we've got to get in and see what's the matter with him. find me an axe, and i'll chop the door down." i the story of doctor dolittle “yes. very rum!" said gub-gub. "the smell makes me giddy." the little boy seemed rather frightened to find a man standing there before him and all those animals staring in through the hole in the broken door. but as soon as he saw john do- little's face by the light of the match, he stopped crying and got up. "you aren't one of the pirates, are you?" he asked. and when the doctor threw back his head and laughed long and loud, the little boy smiled too and came and took his hand. "you laugh like a friend," he said—"not like a pirate. could you tell me where my uncle is?" "i am afraid i can't," said the doctor. "when did you see him last?" "it was the day before yesterday," said the boy. "i and my uncle were out fishing in our little boat, when the pirates came and caught us. they sunk our fishing-boat and brought us both on to this ship. they told my uncle that they wanted him to be a pirate like them—for the ocean gossips i i didn't know who it could be. i was very glad to find it was you. do you think you will be able to find my uncle for me?” - “well, we are going to try very hard," said the doctor. "now what was your uncle like to look at?" "he had red hair," the boy answered—"very red hair, and the picture of an anchor tattooed on his arm. he was a strong man, a kind uncle and the best sailor in the south atlantic. his fishing-boat was called the saucy sally—a cutter-rigged sloop." "what's 'cutterigsloop'?" whispered gub- gub, turning to jip. "sh!—that's the kind of a ship the man had," said jip. "keep still, can't you?" "oh," said the pig, "is that all? i thought it was something to drink." so the doctor left the boy to play with the animals in the dining-room, and went upstairs to look for passing porpoises. and soon a whole school came dancing and jumping through the water, on their way to brazil. i the story of doctor dolittle when they saw the doctor leaning on the rail of his ship, they came over to see how he was getting on. and the doctor asked them if they had seen anything of a man with red hair and an anchor tattooed on his arm. "do you mean the master of the saucy sally?" asked the porpoises. "yes," said the doctor. "that's the man. has he been drowned?" "his fishing-sloop was sunk," said the por- poises—"for we saw it lying on the bottom of the sea. but there was nobody inside it, be- cause we went and looked." "his little nephew is on the ship with me here," said the doctor. "and he is terribly afraid that the pirates threw his uncle into the sea. would you be so good as to find out for me, for sure, whether he has been drowned or not?" "oh, he isn't drowned," said the porpoises. "if he were, we would be sure to have heard of it from the deep-sea decapods. we hear all the salt-water news. the shell-fish call us ‘the the ocean gossips i ocean gossips.” no—tell the little boy we are sorry we do not know where his uncle is; but we are quite certain he hasn't been drowned in the sea." so the doctor ran downstairs with the news and told the nephew, who clapped his hands with happiness. and the pushmi-pullyu took the lit- tle boy on his back and gave him a ride round the dining-room table; while all the other ani- mals followed behind, beating the dish-covers with spoons, pretending it was a parade. the eighteenth chapter smells your uncle must now be found,” said the doctor—"that is the next thing—now that we know he wasn't thrown into the sea." then dab-dab came up to him again and whispered, "ask the eagles to look for the man. no liv- ing creature can see better than an eagle. when they are miles high in the air they can count the ants crawling on the ground. ask the eagles." so the doctor sent one of the swallows off to get some eagles. and in about an hour the little bird came back with six different kinds of eagles: a black eagle, a bald eagle, a fish eagle, a golden eagle, an eagle-vulture, and a white-tailed sea eagle. twice as high as the boy they were, i i the story of doctor dolittle uncle must be found—there's no two ways about that. the lad isn't old enough to be knocking around the world by himself. boys aren't like ducklings—they have to be taken care of till they're quite old. . . . i wish chee-chee were here. he would soon find the man. good old chee-chee! i wonder how he's getting on!" "if we only had polynesia with us," said the white mouse. "she would soon think of some way. do you remember how she got us all out of prison—the second time? my, but she was a clever one!" "i don't think so much of those eagle-fellows," said jip. "they're just conceited. they may have very good eyesight and all that; but when you ask them to find a man for you, they can't do it—and they have the cheek to come back and say that nobody else could do it. they're just conceited—like that collie in puddleby. and i don't think a whole lot of those gossipy old porpoises either. all they could tell us was that the man isn't in the sea. we don't want to know where he isn't—we want to know where he is,” smells i “oh, don't talk so much," said gub-gub. "it's easy to talk; but it isn't so easy to find a man when you have got the whole world to hunt him in. maybe the fisherman's hair has turned white, worrying about the boy; and that was why the eagles didn't find him. you don't “‘you stupid piece of warm bacon!’ know everything. you're just talking. you are not doing anything to help. you couldn't find the boy's uncle any more than the eagles could—you couldn't do as well." "couldn't i?" said the dog. "that's all you know, you stupid piece of warm bacon! i smells i found. 'twill be as easy as stealing milk from a kitten. tell the boy i'll find his uncle for him in less than a week. let us go upstairs and see which way the wind is blowing." "but it is dark now," said the doctor. "you can't find him in the dark!" "i don't need any light to look for a man who smells of black rappee snuff," said jip as he climbed the stairs. "if the man had a hard smell, like string, now—or hot water, it would be different. but snuff!—tut, tut!" "does hot water have a smell?" asked the doctor. "certainly it has," said jip. "hot water smells quite different from cold water. it is warm water—or ice—that has the really diffi- cult smell. why, i once followed a man for ten miles on a dark night by the smell of the hot water he had used to shave with—for the poor fellow had no soap. . . . now then, let us see which way the wind is blowing. wind is very important in long-distant smelling. it mustn't be too fierce a wind—and of course it must blow the right way. a nice, steady, damp smells i sounded almost as though he were singing, sadly, in a dream. "bricks," he whispered, very low—"old yel- low bricks, crumbling with age in a garden- wall; the sweet breath of young cows standing in a mountain-stream; the lead roof of a dove- cote—or perhaps a granary—with the mid-day sun on it; black kid gloves lying in a bureau- drawer of walnut-wood; a dusty road with a horses' drinking-trough beneath the sycamores; little mushrooms bursting through the rotting leaves; and—and—and—" "any parsnips?" asked gub-gub. "no," said jip. "you always think of things to eat. no parsnips whatever. and no snuff— plenty of pipes and cigarettes, and a few cigars. but no snuff. we must wait till the wind changes to the south." "yes, it's a poor wind, that," said gub-gub. "i think you're a fake, jip. who ever heard of finding a man in the middle of the ocean just by smell! i told you you couldn't do it." "look here," said jip, getting really angry. "you're going to get a bite on the nose in a min- the story of doctor dolittle ute! you needn't think that just because the doctor won't let us give you what you deserve, that you can be as cheeky as you like!" "stop quarreling!” said the doctor—"stop it! life's too short. tell me, jip, where do you think those smells are coming from?" "from devon and wales—most of them," said jip—"the wind is coming that way." "well, well!" said the doctor. "you know that's really quite remarkable—quite. i must make a note of that for my new book. i won- der if you could train me to smell as well as that. . . . but no—perhaps i'm better off the way i am. 'enough is as good as a feast,' they say. let's go down to supper. i'm quite hun- gry." "so am i,’” said gub-gub. i the story of doctor dolittle the west, i'll find his uncle even though he be in china—so long as he is still taking black rappee snuff." three days they had to wait before the west wind came. this was on a friday morning, early—just as it was getting light. a fine rainy “‘doctor!' he cried. ‘i’ve got it!’” mist lay on the sea like a thin fog. and the wind was soft and warm and wet. as soon as jip awoke he ran upstairs and poked his nose in the air. then he got most frightfully excited and rushed down again to wake the doctor up. "doctor!" he cried. "i've got it! doctor! the rock i i doctor! wake up! listen, i've got it( the wind's from the west and it smells of noth- ing but snuff. come upstairs and start the ship —quick!" so the doctor tumbled out of bed and went to the rudder to steer the ship. "now i'll go up to the front," said jip; "and you watch my nose—whichever way i point it, you turn the ship the same way. the man can- not be far off—with the smell as strong as this. and the wind's all lovely and wet. now watch me!" so all that morning jip stood in the front part of the ship, sniffing the wind and pointing the way for the doctor to steer; while all the animals and the little boy stood round with their eyes wide open, watching the dog in wonder. about lunch-time jip asked dab-dab to tell the doctor that he was getting worried and wanted to speak to him. so dab-dab went and fetched the doctor from the other end of the ship and jip said to him, "the boy's uncle is starving. we must make the ship go as fast as we can.” the rock i watch the sea in front, to spy out any land or islands where the starving man might be. but hour after hour went by and still the ship went rushing on, over the same flat, flat sea; and no land anywhere came in sight. and now the animals gave up chattering and sat around silent, anxious and miserable. the little boy again grew sad. and on jip's face there was a worried look. at last, late in the afternoon, just as the sun was going down, the owl, too-too, who was perched on the tip of the mast, suddenly startled them all by crying out at the top of his voice, "jip ! jip ! i see a great, great rock in front of us—look—way out there where the sky and the water meet. see the sun shine on it—like gold! is the smell coming from there?" and jip called back, "yes. that's it. that is where the man is. —at last, at last!" and when they got nearer they could see that the rock was very large—as large as a big field. no trees grew on it, no grass—nothing. the the rock i tell you! sail the ship close to the rock and let me jump out on it." so the doctor brought the ship as close as he could and let down the anchor. then he and jip got out of the ship on to the rock. jip at once put his nose down close to the ground and began to run all over the place. up and down he went, back and forth—zig-zag- ging, twisting, doubling and turning. and everywhere he went, the doctor ran behind him, close at his heels—till he was terribly out of breath. at last jip let out a great bark and sat down. and when the doctor came running up to him, he found the dog staring into a big, deep hole in the middle of the rock. "the boy's uncle is down there," said jip quietly. "no wonder those silly eagles couldn't see him!—it takes a dog to find a man." so the doctor got down into the hole, which seemed to be a kind of cave, or tunnel, running a long way under the ground. then he struck a match and started to make his way along the dark passage with jip following behind. the fisherman's town i though he tried hard not to look conceited. when dab-dab came to him and said, "jip, i had no idea you were so clever!" he just tossed his head and answered, "oh, that's nothing special. but it takes a dog to find a man, you know. birds are no good for a game like that." then the doctor asked the red-haired fisher- man where his home was. and when he had told him, the doctor asked the swallows to guide the ship there first. and when they had come to the land which the man had spoken of, they saw a little fishing- town at the foot of a rocky mountain; and the man pointed out the house where he lived. and while they were letting down the anchor, the little boy's mother (who was also the man's sister) came running down to the shore to meet them, laughing and crying at the same time. she had been sitting on a hill for twenty days, watching the sea and waiting for them to re- turn. and she kissed the doctor many times, so that the fisherman's town i i ship anchored there, and said to one another in whispers, "look! that was a pirate-ship—ben ali's —the most terrible pirate that ever sailed the seven seas! that old gentleman with the high hat, who's staying up at mrs. trevelyan's, he took the ship away from the barbary dragon— and made him into a farmer. who'd have thought it of him—him so gentle-like and all! . . . look at the great red sails! ain't she the wicked-looking ship—and fast?—my!" all those two days and a half that the doctor stayed at the little fishing-town the people kept asking him out to teas and luncheons and din- ners and parties; all the ladies sent him boxes of flowers and candies; and the village-band played tunes under his window every night. at last the doctor said, "good people, i must go home now. you have really been most kind. i shall always re- member it. but i must go home—for i have things to do." then, just as the doctor was about to leave, the mayor of the town came down the street i the story of doctor dolinic and a lot of other people in grand clothes with him. and the mayor stopped before the house where the doctor was living; and everybody in the village gathered round to see what was going to happen. after six page-boys had blown on shining trumpets to make the people stop talking, the doctor came out on to the steps and the mayor spoke. "doctor john dolittle," said he: "it is a great pleasure for me to present to the man who rid the seas of the dragon of barbary this little token from the grateful people of our worthy town." and the mayor took from his pocket a little tissue-paper packet, and opening it, he handed to the doctor a perfectly beautiful watch with real diamonds in the back. then the mayor pulled out of his pocket a still larger parcel and said, "where is the dog?" then everybody started to hunt for jip. and at last dab-dab found him on the other side of the village in a stable-yard, where all the the fisherman's town i dogs of the country-side were standing round him speechless with admiration and respect. when jip was brought to the doctor's side, the mayor opened the larger parcel; and inside was a dog-collar made of solid gold ! and a great murmur of wonder went up from the vil- lage-folk as the mayor bent down and fastened it round the dog's neck with his own hands. for written on the collar in big letters were these words: "jip—the cleverest dog in the world." then the whole crowd moved down to the beach to see them off. and after the red-haired fisherman and his sister and the little boy had thanked the doctor and his dog over and over and over again, the great, swift ship with the red sails was turned once more towards pud- dleby and they sailed out to sea, while the vil- lage-band played music on the shore. home again i underneath. the doctor sat in a chair in front taking the sixpences and smiling on the people as they went in; and dab-dab was kept busy all the time scolding him because he would let the children in for nothing when she wasn't looking. arld menagerie-keepers and circus-men came and asked the doctor to sell them the strange creature, saying they would pay a tremendous lot of money for him. but the doctor always shook his head and said, "no. the pushmi-pullyu shall never be shut up in a cage. he shall be free always to come and go, like you and me." many curious sights and happenings they saw in this wandering life; but they all seemed quite ordinary after the great things they had seen and done in foreign lands. it was very inter- esting at first, being sort of part of a circus; but after a few weeks they all got dreadfully tired of it and the doctor and all of them were longing to go home. but so many people came flocking to the lit- tle wagon and paid the sixpence to go inside and __----- – º -- - - - --~&# _&_ -- - * “the doctor sat in a chair in front” home again i see the pushmi-pullyu that very soon the doctor was able to give up being a showman. and one fine day, when the hollyhocks were in full bloom, he came back to puddleby a rich man, to live in the little house with the big garden. and the old lame horse in the stable was glad to see him; and so were the swallows who had already built their nests under the eaves of his roof and had young ones. and dab-dab was glad, too, to get back to the house she knew so well—although there was a terrible lot of dust- ing to be done, with cobwebs everywhere. and after jip had gone and shown his golden collar to the conceited collie next-door, he came back and began running round the garden like a crazy thing, looking for the bones he had buried long ago, and chasing the rats out of the tool-shed; while gub-gub dug up the horse- radish which had grown three feet high in the corner by the garden-wall. and the doctor went and saw the sailor who had lent him the boat, and he bought two new ships for him and a rubber-doll for his baby; i o the story of doctor dolittle —over there, in the land of the white men! do you think he ever will come back?" and polynesia would squeak out from the vines, "i think he will—i guess he will—i hope he will i’” and then the crocodile would grunt up at them from the black mud of the river, "i'm sure he will—go to sleep!” m. wm - - - - – – — the borrower must return this item on or before the last date stamped below. if another user places a recall for this item, the borrower will be notified of the need for an earlier return. non-receipt of overdue notices does not exempt the borrower from overdue fines. harvard college widener library cambridge, ma - - w please handle with care. thank you for helping to preserve library collections at harvard. p . igill coll: ngle christo cclesiae harvas an :aon ravin no: ins the gift of edward winslow, of boston, may, . || | | the new monthly m a gazine, פאג universal register. comprehending griginal correspondenca, il new discoveries and inventions. memoirs of eminent persons. iaccounts of new patents, miscellaneous an ecdotes. new acts of parliament, curious fragments, &c. original poetry. original letters. digest of political events, with of university proceedings. ficial documents. intelligence in literature, the remarkable incidents, promotions, arts and sciences, &c. civil and ecclesiastical, birtus, new publications, with critical re marriages, and deaths, with bio- marks and extracts. graphical particulars. review of the fine arts. agricultural report. dramatic register. commercial report, including lists transactions of public societies, fo of bankrupts and dividends, state reion and domestic. of the markets, public funds, abstracts of parliamentary and exchanges, &c. public reports. . part i. january to june. monthly magazines have opened a way for every kind of inquiry and information. the in- kelligence and discussion contained in them are rery extensive and various; and they have been the peans of diffusing a general habit of reading through the patton, which in a certain degree hath enlarged the public understanding. here, too, are preserved x multitude of useful hints, observations, and facts. which otherwise might have bever appeared.-dr. kippis. every art is improved by the emulation of competitors.-- dr. johnson. london: printed for henry colburn, conduit-street ; to whom communications for the editor (post paid) may be addressed. sold also by bell and bradfute, edinburgh; and john cumming, dublin. (price . boards ; or s. half-bound.] p. . , may . - gifing cadwairil imetoit's bollen, printed by j. gilet; crown-court. fleet-street. preface to the eleventh volume. to blend freedom of discussion, and variety of information with purity of principle, the new monthly magazine was instituted at a time when periodical publications of an opposite description were employed, from month to month, in pro- pagating sedition and infidelity. that an undertaking tending to counteract the workers of mischief should provoke their malice was naturally to be expected; and the proprietors feel a satisfaction in acknow- ledging, that next to the approbation of honourable minds, they account it a proud distinction to have experienced the most rancorous abuse from a quarter which cannot perhaps be more correctly described than in the language of one of our best poets :- he hated all good works and virtuous deeds, and him no less, that any like did use ; and who with gracious bread the hungry feeds his alms for want of faith, he doth accuse; so every good to bad he doth abuse: and eke the verse of famous poet's wit he does backbite, and spightful poison spues from leprous mouth, on all that ever writ : such one vile envy was, that first in row did sit. spenser. but having taken their station on the side of social order in opposition to anarchists, and having established a medium of literary commerce, unsophisticated by empiricism and unconta- minated by blasphemy, the conductors of this magazine regard the fretful enmity with which they continue to be assailed as a motive to perseverance. were they not assured by positive testimonies of the most respectable character, that their publication has been instrumental of good in evil times ; and were they not confident from what they have already witnessed, that still more essential benefit may yet be rendered to the cause of truth and literature, by such a vehicle of knowledge and amusement; the overflowing wrath poured forth against them by buonaparte's adulators would be alone sufficient to. strengthen the resolution which they have formed of main- taining their post without flinching, thou h ever keeping in view the maxim of the illustrious roman orator, refellere sine pertinacia, et refelli sine iracundiu. pretace. in making this declaration of their principles, however, the proprietors are anxious not to be misunderstood as intending to narrow their publication within the circle of a party, whether political or theological. they have a higher sense of duty than those, who, affecting an extraordinary zeal for liberality of sentiment, are incessantly filling their pages with the vilest insinuations against the integrity of public men, merely on account of a difference of opinion. though, therefore, the new monthly magazine is founded on the basis of loyalty and religion, it is open to the utmost latitude of discussion consistent with those rules of decorum which should govern all literary intercourse. personal politics and polemics, indeed, are inadmissible, on account of their direct and unavoidable tendency to generate contention for which a a publication designed to promote miscellaneous knowledge cannot furnish an adequate arena, even were such topics less objectionable than they are for a magazine devoted to general literature. the period in which we live is one pregnant with extra- ordinary events and discoveries. never was the restless activity of the human intellect more successfully exercised than at this moment; in consequence of which, even a monthly register can scarcely afford room for recording the novelties that occur in the field of science. : : desirous then as we are to keep pace with the spirit of inquiry, and solicitous of information on all practical subjects, it is incumbent on us to state that those articles of correspondence will always be most acceptable which avoid obscure brevity on the one hand, and tedious prolixity on the other. the esteemed friends to whom our thanks are due for past favours, will readily excuse a hint, the object of which is to prevent unnecessary labour and apparent neglect. in conclusion, we have the pleasure to add, that, with a view to combine strength and increased utility, a junction has been recently formed with a publication originally established on the same public principles with our own, and carried on for a series of years with high reputation, so that henceforward, the new monthly magazine and the literary panorama will be one; by which arrangement we shall not only possess additional sources of information, but, by a triling extension, be enabled to present to our readers various important political and coma mercial papers, which will render our pages still more worthy of that patronage with which they have been hitherto hopoured. the new monthly magazine. no. .) february , . vol. xi. original communications. observations on lord byron's jo. lic has resulted from circumstances alto- venile poems, with specimens. gether distinct from those which have there never was a poet who made procured for mr. scott the teniporary gach rapid and successful advances in his homage he has enjoyed. in fact the one literary career as lord byron. in the is the coinplete antithesis of the other; short period of ten years, he has ac- lord byron being all strength, conden- quired more popularity than any author sation, and grandeur, whilst mr. scott upon record, in a similar space of time. possesses little energy, and few, if any, * that he may be indebted to the ca-' the ca of those recondite excellencies so pecu- pricious dominion of fashion for some liar to the writings of his noble cotem- share of the extraordinary attention porary. he is, however, remarkable with which his productions have been for a facility of composition- a certain honored is a point upon which it is terseness of expression, adapted to the scarcely worth while to contend: but, meanest comprehensions, and an easy, if even admitting this to be the case, we not an elegant manner, of relating his see no reason to think meanly of his fable, which renders him acceptable to a talente, because he happens to have con- great proportion of his readers, who ciliated the applause of the frivolous, as like him better, inasmuch as he is sooner well as the more sensible orders of society. understood, than many others, with on the contrary, we conceive it to afford whom, as a pozr, he cannot be put in the strongest presumption, if not the presumption if not the competition. his descriptions, also, are most positive proof. of the wonderful of a superior order, when they are not versatility of his genius; since, with the ruined by excessive amplification. poetry. power of securing to himself the admi- to be really good, should leave some. ' ration of all classes of readers, he must thing to the imagination; for, like a deeds possess qualifications of no ordi- well dressed woman, it is always more art description: and though it is a admirable when its beauties are only potorious fact, that writers of very partially revealed. but mr. scott, if he trifling merit do, occasionally, “ through lights upon an ingenious thought, will the idle buzz of the beau monde, the venal not let it go,till it has lost the greater part puff, and the soothing flattery of favor of its effect by being dilated through or friendship,” rise to a reputation as half a dozen quarto pages. he seems sudden as undeserved, yet, we must not fearful of ever meeting with another, therefore infer, that every writer who and determined not to quit that which iday chance to attract the immediate floats in his pericranium, so long as a notice of those would be thought wise line more can be spun froin it. in the in common with those who are so-is picturesque part of his art, he is minute alike ephemeral and insignificant. we even to trifling, and may be said scarcely are not to suppose, that, because “the to leave a blade of grass unnoticed : vild slogans of border feuds," with which whilst the living objects of his drama mr. scott has administered to the ro- are, not unfrequently, sketched in a mancing appetito of the public for so coarse and imperfect manner; and seem many years, have fallen into disrepute; to interest their beholders more by their the manly, dignified, and nervous poetry bodily exertions than any feelings or of lord byron will also fall into ob passions with which they may be sup- livion; or that the sterling currency of posed to be inspired. the truth is, that the one will cease to be admitted,' be- mr. scott knows nothing of the anatomy cause the counterfeits of the other have of the soul; and, therefore, whatever undergone their ordeal, and been de- d been de. may be his powers for engaging the tected. it will perhaps be argued, that curiosity of his readers, he seldom makes the popularity of these two poets has any very deep impression on their hearts. arisen from similar causes, and that, conse. yet, with all these deficiencies, he has quently, they are both decreed to fall by been honored with a more than common the flat which lifted them to light. this share of the public approbation. his we depy. the estimation in which style is, as we have before hinted, suf- lord böron's poetry is held by the pub- ficiently clear and obvious to suit the new monthly mag.-no. . vol. xi. observations on lord byron's juvenile poems, with specimens. (feb. i, most common capacity; and his poems and children of the sun;" and whilst have generally enough of incident to their aberrations are those of an ex- render them entertaining; to this-, panded and lofty intellcct, their better combined with the inordinate puffing of qualities gain such a hold upon our the edinburgh reviewers--can we alone attention, that we almost forget to re- ascribe the unmerited success which he gard the darker shades of their charac- has met with. we will now turn to ters with that abhorrence, with which, lord byron; and endeavour to shew perhaps, they ought, sometimes, to be from what his popularity has arisen, and contemplated. but this is the fault, not why it is likely to be durable. the cha- of the poet but of his genius. he racter of his poetry has been so fre- sought to fix upon some theme that quently laid before the public, that a would afford ample scope for the display repetition of it here could not but be of his powers, and he has succeeded to considered as superfluous; we shall, there- a miracle; for it may be afirmed, with fore, only offer such general observations truth, that there are no heroes, in the as we consider necessary to illustrate our whole compass of poetry, so exclusively meaning, in the comparison we have attractive as his. to tread with thought proper to institute. safety such slippery ground affords lord byron is the reverse of mr. the strongest evidence of the surprising scott in all his excellencies and defects. extent of his powers; and that he who in the first place, he is, without doubt, appeared to write only for posterity the most original poet of the day; and should acquire the iminediate and tu- the most condensed and forcible writer multuous approbation of the world, is of any age. he does not, like the a fact as honorable to himself as confir- border minstrel, wire-draw his beauties, matory of his excellence; more parti- because there is no necessity for it; he cularly when we recollect the despicable has abundance of them at his disposal, attacks which certain critical drudges of and can, consequently, well afford to be the press - from mere enry of his talents profuso. his conceptions present them- -have, at various times, made upon his selves before us, warm from the mint fame. notwithstanding the revilings of of his imagination, and if one or two scotch reviewers--the atrocious calum- chance sometimes to be stamped awry, nies of english newspapers-and the we should take into consideration the low whispers of the as paltry few," number of the impression, and the ex- he still continues to enjoy undiminished pedition with which they have been reputation as an author. produced; and not quarrel with him for it is singular enough, that the critics, not stopping to re-mould such as happen by whom mr. scott has been so deified, to be misshaped. that the bard of la were the very individuals who strove to rold is occasionally less perspicuous than blast with their pestilential breath lord he might be, we are free to allow : pos- byron's first fruits of promise; and it sessed of the most exquisite perceptive is perhaps partly from this circumstance, faculties himself, he judges of other peo- that we have been induced to make ple's discernment by his own; and seems mention of mr. scott at all. to consider a gem not the less valuable in the year , lord byron pub- for its want of polish: but he should also lished a volume of juvenile pocms, of remember, that it is only a lapidary who the merits of which the subjoined ex- can estimate the value of the unwrought tracts will bear sufficient testimony. diamond. there are, however, many that they contain errors will readily be excuses to be offered for the sort of supposed. the productions of a youth, negligence to which we allude. lord from the age of fourteen to eighteen, byron's attention appears to be princi- could rot be expected to exhibit an equal pally engaged in producing great effects; portion of talent with those of his more and provided he accomplish the end he mature years. that they presented the . has in view, he seems to care little or most positive indications of what might nothing about the minor embellishinents be expected from him is a point we have of art. his dramatis personæ are few, only once seen disputed; and then, by a and those of the very first consequence; tribunal of whose critical acumen we and they excite our sympathies, not by had never a very exalted opinion :-we the singularity of their situations, but mean the edinburgh review. the by the intensity of their feelings and feelings and genius of the author were passions. they have none of the namby trifles these greybeards never thought pamby negative good qualities of mr. it worth their while to attend to. it scott's “ gentle knights." they are, on was enough for them that he was a lord, the other hand, “souls made of fire, and the very slight impulse they had to .) observations on lord byron's juvenile poems, with specimens. be just ceded to their still stronger in- fortune, we believe, to be among the clination to be witty. a young noble- first who proclaimed the rising of this man had had the impertinence to appear new luminary, (lord b.) on the poetical in print; a crime for which he was to be horizon." that the writer of this pa- chastised rather in proportion to his ragraph committed to paper a wilful and rank than his demerits. the result, it deliberate falsehood, the following ex- is well known, was that truly animated tracts from the same person's re- satire, “ the english bards and scotch view of the hours of idleness, ** will reviewers;" after the publication of completely establish; and, we trust, which, notwithstanding the keenness of procure for the journal, in which his northern opponents, the tables were it was inserted, as much contempt as it turned, and the laugh was completely deserves. in allusion to the noble poet's against them. having waited a reason. having pleaded extreme youth as his able time for the chivalrous cartels which apology, we have this observation: “ so were naturally to be expected from the far from hearing with any degree of pseudo bards and critics whom he had surprise, that these very poor perses is bedevilled with his ungodly ribaldry," were written by a youth from his leaving lord byron left the country; and during school to his leaving college, inclusive, a tour through greece and part of spain, we really believe this to be the most composed his two first cantos of childe common of all occurrences; that it hap- harold. though the hero of this poem pens in the life of pine men in ten who is, as his lordship himself acknowledges, are educated in england; and that the “ rather a repulsive personage,” yet, tenth man writes better cerse than lord such a character was needful to express byron." and, a little further om, we certain opinions and observations, which, are informed that it is only in considera- from the mouth of a “ childe," of a less tion of his rank, that the edinburgh impassioned temperament, would neither reviewers are induced to give his lord- have been reasonable nor natural. lord ship's poems a place in their review. byron wished to make the world ac- “beside our desire to counsel him quainted with the sensations with which that he do porthwith abandon a man, satiated and disgusted with the poetry, and turn his talents palling pleasures of fashionable life, be- and opportunities to better ac- holds nature in all her varied scenes; count." the worst passage in the and to achieve such an intention with volume, as will be seen by such parts of any degree of success, it was necessary it as we have adduced, is then given. that he should choose a vehicle by which we shall quote it with the remark by he might exhibit such feelings : it was which it is accompanied, that our readers also requisite that he should infuse a may judge for themselves. degree of loftiness into such a character, “ shades of heroes, farewell! your descend- or how should we have believed it ca- ant, departing pable of the emotions, and sensibilities, from the seat of his ancestors, bids you with which, throughout the whole tissue adieu ! of the composition, it appears to be in- abroad, or at home, your remembrance im- spired. however, since lord byron had parting taken up his poetical cudgeis, expressing new courage, he'll think upon glory and disapprobation of his productions with you. out substantial grounds became no joke; though a tear dim his eye, at this sad sepa- and those who had previously turned ration, over their past pages of criticism, in 'tis nature, not fear, that excites his re- search of terms superlatively abusive gret: and ridiculous, were the first to retract, far distant he goes with the same emula- and besmear him with praise which he the fame of his fathers he ne'er can declared to be infinitely more disgusting forget. than their censure. they might be said tbat fame, and that memory, still will he to have observed somewhat in the style cherish, of sir andrew aguecheek, “ an we he vows that he ne'er will disgrace your had known he so cunning of fence" we renown; « had seen him damned ere we had like you will he live, or like you will he fought him." perish; the following paragraph, from no. when decay'd, may he mingle his dust of the edinburgh review, will pretty clearly evince how far the ve- racity of that jumble of democracy is * the title to the first edition of lord to be relied on. “we had the good byron's juvenile poems. tion; wo. observations on lord byron's juvenile poems, with specimens. (feb. , .." now we positively do assert, that if thou wert mine, had all been hush'd; there is nothing better than these stanzas this cheek, now pale from early riot, in the whole compass of the noble mi- with passion's hectic ne'er had flush'd, nor's volume." after this, we believe, but bloom'd in calm domestic quiet. the tone of criticism which pervades yes, once the rural scene was sweet, the edinburgh review will be obvious for nature seem'd to smile before thee; enough. we shall not trouble our. and once my breast abhorr'd deceit, selves to refute the malignant falsehoods for then it beat but to adore thee. of its supporters, as they now find it but, now, i seek for other joys- convenient to deny, in the most positive to think,would drive my soul to madness- terms, ever having reviled lord byron: in thoughtless throngs, and empty noise, and believe that they “ were among the i conquer half my bosom's sadness. first to proclaim his rising on the horizon." yet, even in these, a thought will steal, we need not offer any apologies for in spite of every vain ende our; having been so liberal in our quotations tione and fiends might pily what i feel, from the “ jurenile puems" of the to know that thou art lost for ever. wondrous “ childe;" especially, since the tear. those of our readers who have not yet o lachrymarum fons, tenero sacros seen them, may never be likely to gratify ducentium ortus ex animo ; quater their curiosity, in consequence of the felix! in imo qui scatentem extreme scarcity of the book, and the pectore te, pia nympha, seasit. gray. determination of its author never to suffer it to be reprinted. we have, to when friendship or love the best of our ability, endeavoured to our sympathies move; when truth, in a glance, should appear select such of the verses as we considered the lips may beguile most entitled to public attention. as to with a dimple or smile, the one to which we have given the but the test of affection's a tear. first place in these extracts, we will too oft is a smile · hazard the assertion that it is equal to any of the later productions of lord but the hypocrite's wile, to mask detestation, or fear; byron's all potent, and prolific pen. give me the soft sigh, to whilst the soul-telling eye on! had my fate been join'd with thine, is dimm'd, for a time, with a tear. as once this pledge appear'd a token; mild charity's glow, these follies had bot, then, been mine, to us mortals below, for, then, my peace had not been broken. shews the soul from barbarity clear; to thee, these early faults i owe, compassion will melt, where this virtue is felt, to thee the wise and old reproving :- and its dow is diffus d in a tear. they know my sins, but do not know 'twas thine to break the bonds of loving. the man, doom'd to sail with the blast of the gale, for, once, my soul like thine was pure, through billows atlantic to steer; and all its rising fires could smother; as he bends o'er the wave, but, now, thy vows no more endure, which may soon be his grave, bestow'd by thee upon another. the green sparkles bright with a tear. perhaps, his peace i could destroy, the soldier braves death and spoil the blisses that await him ; for a fanciful wreath, ..yet, let my rival smile in joy, in glory's romantic career; for thy dear sake, i cannot hate him. but he raises the foe, ah! since thy angel form is gone, when in battle laid low, my heart no more can rest with any; and bathes ev'ry wound with a tear. but what it sought in thee alone, if, with high-bounding pride, attempts, alas! to find in many. he return to his bride, renouncing the gore-crimson'd spear; then, fare thee well, deceitful maid, all his toils are repaid, "twere vain and fruitless to regret thee; when, embracing the maid, nor hope, nor memory yield their aid, from her eye-lid he kisses the tear. but pride may teach me to forget thee. sweet scene of my youth, yet all this giddy waste of years, seat of friendship and truth, this tiresome round of palling plea. where love chas'd each fast-feeting year; sures; loth to leave thee, i mourn'd, these varied loves---- these matron's fears- for a last look i turn'd, these thoughtless strains to passion's but ihy spire wus scarce seen through a measures; tcar! .) observations on lord byron's juvenile poems, with specimens. my lot, though my vows i can pour, i arose with the dawn, with my dog as my to my mary no more, guide, my mary, to love once so dear; from mountain to mountain i bounded in the shade of her bow'r, along; i remember the hour, i breasted the billows of dee's rushing tide, she rewarded those vows with a tear. and heard, at a distance, the highlander's song : by another possest, at eve,on my heath-covered couch of repose, may she live ever blest, no dreams, save of mary, were spread to her name still my heart must revere; my view, with a sigh i resign, and warm to the skies my devotions arosc, what i once thought was mine, for the first of my prayʻrs was a blessing and forgive her deceit with a tear. on you! ye friends of my heart, i left my bleak home, and my visions are ere from you i depart, gone, this hope to my breast is most near; the mountains are vanished, my youth is if again we shall meet, no more; in this rural retreat, as the last of my race, i must wither alone, may we meet, as we part, with a tear. and delight but in days i have witnessed when my soul wings her flight before : ah! splendour has raised, but embittered to the regions of night, and my corse shall recline on its bier ; as ye pass by the tomb, more dear were the scenes which my in- where my ashes consume, fancy knew ; oh ! moisten their dust with a tear. tho' hopes may have failed—yet they are not forgot- may no marble bestow tho' cold is my heart-still it lingers the splendour of woe, with you. which the children of vanity rear; when i see some dark hill point its crest to no fiction of fame the sky, shall emblazon my name, i think of the rocks that o'ershadow cob- all i ask-all i wish-is a tear! leen ;* when i see the soft blue of a soul-telling eye song i think of those eyes that endeared the when i roved, a young highlander, o'er when, haply, some light-waving locks i rude scene; the dark heath, behold, and climb'd thy steep summit, oh morven that faintly resemble my mary's in hue, of snow ;* to gaze on the torrent, that thunder'd be- i think on the long fowing ringlets of gold- each tress that was sacred to beauty and neath, or the mist of the tempest that gather’d you. below; yet the day may arrive when the mountains, untutord by science-a stranger to fear- once more, and rude as the rocks where my infancy shall rise to my sight, in their mantles of grew, snow; no feeling, save one, to my bosom was dear, but while these soar above me, unchanged need i say, my sweet mary, 'twas centred as before, in you ? will mary be there to receive me? ah, no! adieu! then, ye hills, where my childhood yet it could not be love, for i knew not the was bred, name; thou sweet flowing dee to thy waters what passion can dwell in the heart of a adieu ! child ? no home in the forest shall shelter my head; but still i perceive an emotion the same ah! mary, what home could be mine, as i felt, when a boy, on the crag-cover'd but with you. wild : one image, alone, on my bosom imprest epitaph on a friend. i lov'd by bleak regions, nor panted for new- oh, friend! for ever lov’d, for ever dear! and few were my wants, for my wishes were what fruitless tears have bath'd thine ho- blest, nourd bier ! and pure were my thoughts, for my soul what sighs re-echo'd to thy parting breath was with you. while thou wast struggling in the pangs of death! • morven is a lofty mountain in aber- cobleen is a mountain near the verge deenshire: “ gormal of snow” is an ex- of the highlands, not far from the ruins of pression froquently to be found in ossian. doe castle. o observations on lord byron's juvenile poems, with specimens. (feb. i, could tears retard the tyrant in his course; to m. could sighs avert his dart's relentless force; oh ! did those eyes, instead of fire, could youth and virtue claim a short delay, with bright, but mild affection shine; or beauty charm the spectre from his prey; tho' they might kindle less desire, thou still hadst lived, to bless my aching love, more than mortal, would be thine. sight, for thou art formed so heavenly fair- thy comrade's honour, and thy friend's de- howe'er those orbs may wildly beam- light. if, yet, thy gentle spirit hover nigh we must admire, but still despair- the spot, where now thy mould'ring ashes that fatal glance forbids esteem. lie, when nature stamped thy beauteous birth, here wilt thou read, recorded on my heart, so much perfection in thee shone, a grief too deep to trust the sculptor's art. she feared, that, too divine for earth, no marble marks thy couch of lowly sleep, the skies might claim thee for their own ; but living statues, there are seen to weep; therefore, to guard her dearest work- affliction's semblance bends not o'er thy lest angels might dispute the prize;- tomb, she bade a secret lightning lurk affliction's self deplores thy youthful doom. within those once celestial eyes. what though thy sire lament his failing line, a father's sorrows cannot equal mine! these might the boldest sylph appal, though none, like thee, his dying hour when gleaming with meridian blaze; shall cheer, thy beauty must enrapture all, yet, other offspring soothe his anguish here: but who can dare thine ardent gaze? but, who with me shall hold thy former "tis said that berenice's hair, place? in stars, adorns the vault of heaven; thine image, what new friendship can efface? but they would ne'er permit thee there, ah! none ! a father's tears will cease to flow, thou wouldst so far outshine the seven. time will assuage an infant brother's woe; for did those eyes as planets roll, to all, save one, is consolation known, thy sister lights would scarce appear ; while solitary friondship sighs alone. e'en suns which systems now control, . would twinkle dimly through their sphere. . to mary on receiving her to ..... picture. oh! yes i will own we were dear to each this faint resemblance of thy charms, other, though strong as mortal art could give, the friendships of childhood, tho' fleet- my constant heart of fear disarms, ing, are true; revives my hopes, and bids me live. the love which you felt, was the love of a here, i can trace the locks of gold, brother, which round thy snowy forehead wave; nor less the affection i cherish'd for you. the cheeks, which sprung from beauty's but friendship can vary her gentle dominion. mould, the attachment of years in a moment the lips, which made me beauty's slave. expires ; here, i can trace---ah, no! that eye, like love, too, she moves on a swift-waving whose azure floats in liquid fire, pinion, must all the painter's art defy, but glows not, like love, with unquench- and bid him from the task retire. able fires. here, i behold its beauteous hue, full oft have we wander'd thro’ ida together, but where's the beam so sweetly straying; elly'straving: and blest were the scenes of our youth i a which gave a lustre to its blue, allow; like luna o'er the ocean playing? in the spring of our life, how serene is the weather, sweet copy! far more dear to me- but winter's rude tempests are gathering lifeless, unfeeling as thou art- than all the living forms could be, save her, who plac'd thee next my heart. no more with affection shall memory blend- she plac'dit, sad, with needless fear, the wonted delights of our childhood lest time might shake my wavering soul, retrace ; unconscious that her image there, when pride steels the bosom, the heart is held every sense in fast controul. unbending, thro' hours, thro' years, thro' time, 'twill and what would be justice appears a dis- cheer; grace. my hope, in gloomy moments, raise; however dear s***, for i still must esteem in life's last conflict, 'twill appear, you- and meet my fond expiring gaze. the few whom i love i can never upbraid dow. ing, .) observations on lord byron's juvenile poems, with specimens. star; the chance which has lost, may in fotore away, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of redeem you, roses ! repentance will cancel the vow you have in you let the minions of luxury rove; made. restore me the rocks where the snow flake no, i will not complain and tho' chill'd is reposes, affection, tho'still, they are sacred to freedom and with me no corroding resentment shall recentment shall love : live; yet, caledonia, beloved are thy mountains, my bosom is calmed by the si.nple reflection, eflection round their white summits tho' elements that both may be wrong, and that both war, should forgive. tho' cataracts foam, 'stead of smooth flow- ing fountains, you knew that my soul, that my heart, my sigh for the valley of dark loch na garr. existence, if danger demanded, were wholly your .. ah! there my young footsteps in infancy wandered, own: you knew me, unaltered by years or by my cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid; distance, devoted to love and to friendship alone. on chieftains, long perished, my memory pondered, you knew_but away with the vain retro as daily i strode thro' the pine-covered spection, glade: the bond of affection no longer endures; i sought not my home till the day's dying too late you may droop o'er the fond recol glory lection, gave place to the rays of the bright polar and sigh for the friend who was formerly yours. for fancy was cheered by traditional story, for the present we part-i will hope not disclosed by the natives of dark loch na for ever, garr. for time and regret will restore yon at last; shades of the dead ! have i not heard your to forget our dissension we both should voices endeavour, rise on the night rolling breath of the i ask po atonement but days like the past. gale? surely, the soul of the hero rejoices, damÆtas. and rides on the wind o'er his own high- in law an infant, and in years a boy- land vale : in mind a slave to every vicious joy ; round loch na garr, while the stormy mist from every sens virtue gathers, winter presides in his cold icy car; wean'd, in lies an adept-in deceit a fiend; clouds, there, encircle the forms of my fathers, versed in hypocrisy, while yet a child, fickle as wind, of inclinations wild; they dwell in the tempests of dark loch woman his dupe his heedless friend a tool, na garr. old in the world, tho' scarcely broke from ii starred, tho' brave, did no vision's fora school; boding, damätas ran through all the maze of sin, tell you that fate had forsaken your and found the goal when others just begin : cause? e'en still conflicting passions shake his soul, ah! were you destined to die at culloden, and bid him drain the dregs of pleasure's victory crowned not your fall with ap- bowl; plause, but palled with vice he breaks his former sull, were you happy, in death's earthy chain, slumber, and what was once his bliss appears his yon rest with your clan, in caves of brae- bane. mar, the pibrock resounds, to the piper's loud lachin y. gair * number, lachin y. gair, or as it is pronounced ad your deeds, on the echoes of dark loch na garr. in the erse, loch na garr, towers proudly erainent in the northern highlands, near # i allude here to my maternal ances- invercauld. its appearance is of a dusky tors, “ the gordons,” many of whom fought hue, but the summit is the seat of eternal for the unfortunate prince charles, better snows; near lachin y. gair, i spent some known as the pretender. this branch was of the early part of my life, the recollection nearly allied in blood, as well as attachment of which gave birth to the following stanzas : to the stuarts. george, the second earl of huntly, married the princess annabella we give the poem less for its intrinsic stuart, danghter of james the ist of scot- merit, than as it affords some information land; by her he left four sons; the third, sir of the early habits of its author.-ed. william gordon, i have the honor to claims as one of my progenitors. observations on lord byron's juvenile poems, with specimens. (feb. , years have rolled on, loch na garr, since at length in spells no longer bound, i left you, i break the fetters of my youth, years must elapse, ere i tread you again; no more i tread thy mystic round, nature of verdure and flowers has bereft you, but leave thy realms for those of truth. yet stilll are you dearer than albion's s and yet, 'tis hard to quit the dreams plain : england! thy beauties are tame and do- which haunt the upsuspicious soul, where every nymph a goddess seems, mestic to one who has roved on the mountains whose eyes thro' rays immortal roll; while fancy holds her boundless reign, afar; and all assume a varied hue, oh! for the crags that are wild and majestic, when virgins seem no longer vain, the steep frowning glories of dark loch na garr! and even woman's smiles are true. and must we own thee but a name, granta. and from thy hall of clouds descend? happy the youth, in euclid's axioms tried, nor find a sylph in every dame, tho' little versed in any art beside; a pylades in every friend? who, scarcely skilled an english line to pen, but leave, at once, thy realms of air, scans attic metres, with a critic's ken. to mingling bands of fairy elves; what, tho' he know not how his fathers bled, confess that woman's false as fair- when civil discord piled the fields with dead; and friends have feeling for themselves ! when edward bade his conquering bands with shame, i own, i've felt thy sway, advance; repentant now thy reign is o'er, or henry trampled on the crest of france; no more thy precepts i obey, though marv’lling at the name of magna no more on fancied pinions soar: charta, fond fool! to love a sparkling eye, yet well he recollects the laws of sparta; and think that eye to truth was dear, can tell what edicts sage lycurgus made, to trust a passing wanton's sigh, while blackstone's on the shelf neglected and melt beneath a wanton's tear. laid; romance ! disgusted with deceit, of grecian dramas counts the deathless far from thy motley coart i fiy, fame, where affectation holds her seat, of avon's bard rememb'ring scarce the and sickly sensibility; name. whose silly tears can never flow, such is the youth, whose scientific pate, for any pangs excepting thine; class, honors, medals, fellowships await, who turns aside from real woe, or een perchance, the declamation prize, if to such glorious height he lifts his eyes. to steep in dew thy gaudy shrine. but, lo! no common orator can hope now join with sable sympathy, the envied silver cup within his scope; with cypress crowned_arrayed in weeds, not that our heads much eloquence require, who heaves with thee her simple sigh. the athenian's glowing style, or tully's fire. whose breast for every bosom bleeds : a manner clear or warm is useless, since, and call thy sylvan female choir we do not try by speaking to convince; to mourn a swain for ever gone; be other orators of pleasing proud, who once could glow with equal fire we speak to please ourselves, not move the but bends not now before thy throne. crowd: ye genial nymphs! whose ready tears, our gravity prefers the muttering tone on all occasions, swiftly flow; a proper mixture of the squeak and groan- whose boroms heave with fancied fears, no borrowed grace of action must he seen, with fancied flames and phrenzy glow; the slightest motion would offend the dean: say, will you mourn my absent name, whilst every staring graduate would prate, a postate from your gentle train? against what he could never imitate. an infant bard, at least, may claim the man who hopes to obtain the promised from you a sympathetic strain. cup, adieu ! fond race, a long adieu! must in one posture stand, and ne'er look up; the hour of fate is hovering nigh, nor stop, but rattle over every word, no matter what, so he can not be heard : thus let him hurry on, nor think to rest, • it is hardly necessary to add, that py- who speaks the fastest's sure to be the best : lades was the companion of orestes, and a who uiters most within the shortest space, partner in one of the friendships, which, may safely hope to win the wordy race. with those of achilles, patroclus, nisus and euryalus, damon and pythias, have been to romance. handed down to posterity, as remarkable in- parent of golden dreams, romance! stances of attachments, which, in all proba auspicious queen of childish joys, bility, never existed, beyond the imagination who lead'st along, in airy dance, of the poet, the page of the historian, or thy votive train of girls and boys; modern novelist. aun . .) culloden anecdotes. x. e'en now the gulph appears in view cond would have been extended, if the where unlamented you must lie; magnanimity that redeemed his faults oblivion's blackening lake is seen, had been more timely represented. the convuls'd by gales you cannot weather, lad, not sixteen years old, had ranged where you, and eke your gentle queen alas! must perish altogether. strathspay, badenoch, and part of athol, in search of john roy; and never, even by inadvertence, endangered the gen- culloden anecdotes. tlemen who were compelled to intrust mr. editor. their lives to his filelity. these were, the writer delayed seading a conti- a laird of the name of drummond, nuation of the culloden anecdotes, un- alias m.gregor, and james m gregor, certain whether her partiality for the son to the now celebrated rob roy. narrators had not overrated their in- they were both wounded. mr. drum- terest. she has, however, just had the mond could proceed hy short journies to pleasure of seeing the first part in the new some place of refuge; but james monthly magazine. the sequel is more m'gregor had his foot lacerated in a copious, and in some instances more manner which disabled him from walk- romantic; but the authenticity cannot ing, and if he attempted to ride, his be questioned, as the two gentlemen, ignorance of the bye ways required a and the lady from whom they were very trusty attendant. both the suf- received, were persons of unquestionable ferers were desirous that john roy veracity. should testify to mrs. gordon that they miss m. daughter to mr. gordon, was were what they represented themselves a very young girl when she so narrowly true sons of alpin. mr. gordon's pro- escaped accidental death from the hand genitors were m gregors, and his warın of john roy stewart. the presence heart retained a strong attachment to of mind, self command and fortitude, his proscribed clan. mrs. gordon was she displayed in the severest trials of distressed. every corner of her house, suspense and sorrow, as the mother of and the out-houses, where a wounded three gallant officers, who fell in the man could be concealed, were full-but service of their country, became first humanity and clanslip enforced the re- apparent in refraining from an excla quest conveyed by john roy. she laid mation or word that might betray the before him her perplexities, repeating a fugitive. she observed to her cousin, sentiment of her husband, which never that some of the maids wanted to frighten should be forgotten. them; but they should be locked up, un “ justice has ample atonement in the til she sent her mother to reprimand prisoners which have been taken," said. them. having taken away the candle she, “ and if many more were to be they had recently extinguished, and sentenced, compassion wouid probably asked her cousin to light it in the par- excite disaffection. i repeat to you, mr. lour. she informed her mother that grey, these words of my good and wise mr. grer was in his own room; but she partner, to convince you, that even for did not give the slightest hint of her the sake of the side we have taken in late jeopardy. mrs. gordon, who had these sad disturbances, i would go every been but a very short time in berl, length to preserve those gerilemen." instantly arose, convinced that no trivial john roy asked if any of her guests cause brought jolin roy to his first were able to travel a few miles from their asylum. sue knew he had a spirit retreat at alvey ? abore coming to bemoan himself, or to mrs. gordon replied, not one was fit shun hard-hip, which his own vigilance to go a mile, except bis friend mr. and exertions would by any means effec- milton, and she could not, would tually combat. she learnt from him, not, desire bim, or any other, to that in the braes of strathdearn, he leave her house. john ruy assured her was intercepted by a youth, who was a he should manage to take him away, soldier in his own regiment, and knew without impeaching her hospitality. hin personally. kepedy was the younger they went together to his room. he brother of the man who never gave his was fast asleep, but clothed and ready right hand to another, after receiving a dressed, with his pistols charged, and farewell grasp from the royal adven- sword drawn, prepared to escape or to turer. he was also cousin to the faith- defend himself if assaulted. many weeks fal attendant of prince charles, mac had passed since he saw a human coun. jan, the unfortunate cow stealer, to tenance but mrs. gordon's, and she whom the clemency of george the se- staid only a moment, when she brought new monthly mag.-no. . vol. xi. [feb. i, culloden anecdotes. him food, or changes of linen. he had cation enchained me. i abjure your endured much pain in his head, the con- church, and its errors." sequence of a contusion received at the the priest made abject concessions ; battle of culloden. he was sometimes but lady m. was inexorable. mr. m. feverish and delirious, until a great was not acquainted with the family ; effusion of blood from his nostrils re- but he applauded the lady, and from lieved him, and his strength and spirits that period his spirits and health were much reduced by the discharge. amended. an acute sense of his unhappy condition mrs. gordon and john roy were preyed upon his mind. in his ravings, mrs. aware they could not without some gordon discerned that he yet now poig- risk approach his bed. she waited at pantly lamented the expulsion of the race the door, while john roy, after putting he considered to have a legitimate right off his shoes, gently drew near, and got to the sceptre of great britain. mr. possession of his weapons. both were gordon had interdicted his wife from painfully affected by this incident. it communicating to him any particulars brought conviction, that they themselves respecting her protegés; that if queg. might be disarmed and seized, when un- tioned, he could, with truth, assert his conscious of danger. entire ignorance. she, however, took kenedy waited for the answer he leave to consult him in general or figu- must bring the unfortunate m gregors. rative terms, and he suggested a remedy mrs. gordon left john roy and mr. for misplaced loyalty. mr. hamilton h. when she had gently roused the was a stedfast protestant. mrs. gor- sleeper. mr. ii. was overjoyed to see don, after hearing from her husband the his friend, and glad to accompany him following story, introduced it casually, to glenmore. john roy dispatched as if she wished to know whether mr. kenedy to welcome the m gregors. h. knew the parties. it was the first mr. drummond availed himself of the time she sat down in his chainber, since invitation to alvey: but a romantic re- the duties of a sick nurse prolonged her source, which we shall hereafter detail, stay with him, and the natural delight procured for james m'gregor an easy afforded by society to a sensitive and conveyance to the eastern district. the cultivated mind engaged the deepest genius of the great unknown might attention to her discourse. we shall weave from our slight materials an his- find the efficacy of truths, pleasantly im- torical story, not less illustrative of the parted, can overcome very inveterate character of the gael than the tales prejudices. of my landlord are descriptive of the Å baronet in the south of scotland southern scots. married a roman catholic lady in . but to return to the wanderers. through the lady's influence, her father when mrs. gordon left them, john confessor hoped to engage sir b. m. roy informed the poet of bangour, that in the projected rebellion; but she de- in the woods of glenmore he met an old clined taking any part which might in- acquaintance, who told him he had been volve his life and property. the priest three days without food in a cavern, be- often reiterated his importunities; lady neath the root of a fir tree he cut down in m. adhered to her prudent determina- a more peaceful season, and had marked, tion, and the ghostly father, losing all hoping to entrap foxes, or perhaps ot- self command, expected to intimidate ters, by laying snares in their den:- her, by denouncing excommunication, but the time came, when he must betake with all the dire concoinitants of eccle- himself to it for shelter from the king's siastical censure. the lady interrupted troops. john roy asked to see the him with the dignity of offended self place, and carved his initials on the reverence: stump, that he might know it again ; and “ your throats, sir, have confirmed as the person, from whom he obtained my purpose. i see, i feel, that while the secret, was off to france, he and his the protestant house of hanover friend need not fear treachery. besides, reigns over us, i may treat with con- he had secured the protection of two tempt your upmanly virulence, and ladies, who satisfied him that their servant order you to leave my presence, no finlay m.donald would sooner die than more to return. if a stewart held the prove ungrateful. mr. grant was at sovereign authority, i must tremble at fort augustus with the army; and his the least sign of priestly rancour. hence- brother tullochgorum was one of the forth i renounce the fetters of reason, hostages, lodged in edinburgh castle, and of personal liberty, in which edu- since some false aspersions had led the .) culloden anecdotes. duke of cumberland to doubt the loy. did not refuse to them the tribute of alty of his clan. thus the military weeping sympathy. here they passed a would not suspect that mrs. grant, her few nights and days, unmolested; but a sister, and a house full of young children, party of militia sent after lord lewis could be accessary to concealing any of gordon, had orders to search every prince charles's followers. the ladics house, great and small. a woman came in and he had agreed, that the watch word breathless haste to tell them her cottage for their arrival should be to send an old had been ransacked, and if there was any woman, with an enquiry, if mag molach one under mrs. christian g.'s protection, had been lately seen at tullochgorum ? escape would be impracticable, for the mag molach, or the woman with a soldiers were marching with quick steps hairy hand, was the tutelar genius of that way. the good spinster had her that branch of the grants, and so many maids preparing to brew; the large stories of her extraordinary perform- copper was full for next morning; she ances were current, that to ask about ordered the women to kindle a great fire her would seem a very natural curiosity. under it, and to get water heated in whenever this parole should reach mrs. every way they could devise. she then grant, she and her sister were plighted went to bed, leaving instructions with her to come with finlay mdonald to raise damsels to say she was sick, and must not the trunk of the tree; to assist the be disturbed. if the soldiers persisted, gentlemen to descend, and to furnish the women must warn them they should them with necessaries. when winter be saluted with libations of boiling water; set in, they could sometimes venture for they were not soldiers, but robbers. from the dungeon to take a cup of tea "the militia-men had not uniforms, in- with the ladies, and to hear what was tending to conceal their purpose ; and going forward in the world. social this pretext carried some appearance of intercourse had been the elixir of life reason. the soldiers came; the amazons to mr. hamilton since early youth. he were resolute, and the militia men de- joyfully accepted this proposal, and camped. john roy and mr. hamilton before sun-rise, he and john roy were soon set out by different routes. they concealed in the fastnesses of craig did not again go so far asunder as for- ellachy; where, cheerfully refreshed merly, and generally spent the night to- with provisions mrs. gordon sent with gether in some rocky recess, where a thein, they conversed in low whispers, human foot had seldom trod. they till darkness favoured their attempt to were often in want of food, for the wild reach glenmore. in case of being berries were grown scarce. their traced, they took a circuitous route; cloaths and shoes were worn, and mr. going first to the east, instead of crossing hamilton could ill bear the cold. their the spey, to the west of alvey. we communications were not always calcu- cannot minutely detail their adventures; lated to abate a sense of their calamity. but we know they were soon forced to mr. h. told mr. s. the anecdote of lady separate, whilst they experienced all the m. and her confessor, and he mentioned, miseries of outlawry. john roy, as a that the persons to whom the prince soldier, and as a deserter, had been entrusted his plate and jewels, to be inured to hardship; but mr. hamilton, sold for the relief of such as were ruined reared in elegance, ease, and security in his cause, were strongly suspected of -in a strange country-ignorant of the abusing the trust. each endeavoured language-not knowing whom to trust, to speak of his own sufferance with and not daring to seek his only friend, gay raillery; but they owned to the lest the anxious guest should lead to the ladies at glenmore, that they sometimes detection of both-almost sunk beneath could not help blaming the infatuation the weight of his accumulated distresses which leagued them with men of despe- worn out, and careless of life, he asked rate fortune, who had nothing to lose, lodgings at the house of a gentleman. he and hoped at their expense to gain by was a hostage at edinburgh; but his sis- spoil, and by a change of rulers. john ter, a compassionate spinster, conjectured roy had been distinguished by the duke the stranger was a fugitive. she received of cumberland for his valour at the bat- him, and he almost fainted with extacy, tle of fontenoy, and now to behold his when he found himself in the eager royal highness would be equivalent to embrace of john rov. in his hiding the doom of a deserter and a traitor. place he knew mr. h's voice, and the every day increased the perils and pains feeble accents alarmed him for the of their condition. they forded and delicate constitution of his friend. swam rivers, climbed precipices, or they both shed tears, and the old lady dived into clefts of the mountains, where culloden anecdotes. [feb. , only wild animals had hitherto gought with bed-cloaths and linen. john roy refuge; and in various disguises had se- and his friend removed the trunk of the parately passed through bands of the tree, assisted to deposit the stores, and inilitary; aod for what had they incurthankfully descended. the ladies help- red those complicated afllictions? fored finlay m.donald to replace the no benefit to their country, if the enter- stump, and they rose with the dawn to prize had succeeded ; and certain woe to etface the initials, or rather to cut them inultitudes had been the result of its away ; and at a considerable distance failure. they had not fought, bled, and they imitated the letters upon another lost their all to ensure personal, political, remain of a stem; in case the foriner or religious liberty. a roman catholic, ipscription had been observed. these imbued with extravagant ideas of inde ladies walked to the cave every night to feasible right, and all the claims to abso- give their aid to mr. m.donald in libe- lute supremacy that give rise to the ex- rating the inmates; and it may be sup- ercise of arbitrary power, could bring posed they came provided with fresh no aggrandizement to britain, nor any supplies of every comfort they could af- individual freedom to the inhabitants. ford. they watched in different direc- the roots of wild liquorice, and tender tions to annouce the least indication of shoots of fir, were often the best repast daoger. mag molach , called aloud, was of our fugitives, when they durst not the warning word. no gratification had venture to cut the green or ripened corn ever been so delicious to the prisoners as with their dirks, and to fill their ragged the short ramble that allowed them to pockets. jolin roy fashioned a bow use their limbs, and again to behold and arrow. at school he was the best the canopy of heaven. immersed all day archer, and a little practice recalled his in darkness, the glimmering myriads dextcrity. he imitated the call of the adorning the firinament in a frosty night doe to her fawn, and of the heath-fowl acted upon their sight with more potener to its young, and seldom did all the than erst had shone the luminary of creatures he designed to inveigle escape day. mr. h begged to have a wide his well-aimed darts. they dared not black dish filled with water to collect strike up a fire, but sometimes in a sheal and reflect the rays of light that pene- ing they got their game broiled. the trated through the roots of the fir, which report of a gun would have been a signal formed the covering of their den, and for the soldiers to pursue them. the this expedient cheered their subter- ladies at glenmore looked with anxiety ranean abode. they had not ventured for the tenants engaged to occupy the to mr.grant's house when a new alarni den. weeks elapsed without any ac- confined them by day and night. mrs. count of, or from them. at length a grant did not think it proper to invite woman came to say, an old beggar man them in absence of her husband, and un- sent her to ask if mag molach had been invited, they would not presume to lint recently seen about tullochgorum.- a wish to wait upon her. a rumour mrs. grant understood that john roy reached mrs. grant, that the command- personated this beggar, and said the poor ing officer at ruthven in badenoch, had crazy being should be gratified with an heard from the east country the certainty answer, and the messenger ought to that lord lewis gordon was concealeit make haste to tell him that mag molaci in a cave at torrigen in strathspey. was every night in the woods of glen- many an uneasy impatient look did mrs. . more, waiting tullochgorum's return g. and her sister cast towards the sky, from edinburgh. she had looked for wishing the sun was gone down; and him since a specified time. this was as soon as darkness favoured a visit to exactly the date of john roy's very pa- the cavern, they repaired thither to tell thetic address to mrs.grant; committing the gentleman, that a serrant belonging his life to the mercy of a low-country lady to a near relative of lord lewis gora and her sister, and relving on their hu- don had overheard some mention of his manity, thongh he was not ignorant that lordship's asylum. her lusband and herself favoured the es. john roy exclaimed, “ no high- tablished reyime. ile and mr. h. repaired lander would have betrayed lord lewis, to the woods, and lurked near the den, nor the poorest fellow who carried arms which he soon discovered hy the initials under the prince." his pepknife inscribed. they saw mrs. stores were left for the victims of re- grant, her sister, and finlay m donald bellion; and at dead of night the ladies, by the faint meonlight. they were accompanied by m.donald, went to laden with food; with milk and beer; raise the trunk of the tree a little for * .) culloden anecdotes. the admission of air. mr. grant came a fter mr. ii. was laid in bed, john home. he approved of all his wife and roy informed mr. grant and the ladies, sister-in-law had done, and went out that the lines recited by him were part daily to get information. a fortnight of a doggrel poem he composed in his satisfied the soldiery that all their search dungeon. mr. grant asked if j. roy's for lord lewis gordon must be unavail- muse never visited the cavern. he could ing. mr. grant invited mr. h. and not deny that she once deigned to inspire john roy to tea, and with finlay him; but to repeat her intuitions would m.donald released them from confine- perhaps offend. the ladies joined mr. ment. the writer never shall forget g. in promising a free pardon for the the impression made by mr. grant's de- party spirit of his effusions, and urged scription of their haggard looks and mr. s. to rehearse them. he complied. threadbare tattered garments, covered “ my enemies search for my den, with, and perforated by maggots. their like wolves, raging mad to destroy; loathsome state was not immediately lately controul, o lord! those cruel men, perceived. their eyes could not sup- and save thy poor john roy. port the light. the blaze of a wood oh grant this boon, if i may dare fire was lowered by water; and the ask on my bended knee, candle extinguished. mr. h.'s health make me as inany as they are, was impaired, and john roy affected or they as few as me. high glee, to amuse his pensive contede- no favour shewn on either side, rate. he composed in gaelic, an ex- fate standing passive by, tempore vration to the cherishing heat, the arm of flesh the cause decide, so long a stranger to their frames, and between their chief and i.” mr. grant translated it to mr. hamilton. shivering with cold and agitation, mr. "m " but, ladies," subjoined our hero, i h. threw himself into a chair. the was tired of prison, and forgot that my candles were re-lumed, and finlay own folly consigned me to a den, when i m.donald appeared with new suits of rattled off those rhymes. cloaths and linens for the guests. mr. as we are not composing a fiction, h. observed his horrible retinue. but recording real incidents, as the pro- * great god!” he cried, “ my friend mincnt feature of troublous times, there and i, in our premature inhumation, must be many chasins in the diary were also the prey of worms !". of men, driven from place to place, a short lysterical spasm succeeded; flying from the death of malefactors, but two glasses of wine, and mr. stew- with harassed minds, and weary limbs; art's forced merriment, removed the their chafed soles often unshod, and symptoms. mrs. grant and her sister enduring the extremities of oppressive came to make tea. a chair was placed heat, intense cold, hunger and thirst; for mr. hamilton, and as he did not rise their short intervals of quiet were need- to take it, mr. grant led him to the ful for sleep. this register of their table. mrs. grant wished to engage adventures would have been more im- him in conversation ; but in place of a perfect, if an unexpected meeting with direct answer, he muttered-- mr. gordon, of alvey, at glenmore, had not drawn from them particulars johanes rufus stewart, they did not till then think of reciting. with brawny limb and true heart; fifty ycars after that date, mr. gordon bold as the mountain lion, was heard to say, he never tasted the and of liberty the scion. sweets of recognition so exquisitely, as dens, caves, caverns, dungeons, worms, ver- in this encounter with mr. hamilton miculie" and john roy stewart. a storm of mr. stewart looked earnestly at the snow covered the ground, and the moon speaker. his eyes were fixed. his had not risen, when on a wintry night, senses were locked in sleep. he was mr. gordon came to mr. grant's house. carried to bed, and when he awoke next he and the ladies, with their guests, morning, recollected nothing, except the were seated by a bright burning heap of hideous reptiles. moss fir. john roy had seen mr. gor- this fact is not without a parallel. don in his youth, and recollected him. it will be found in the life of doctor mr. h. never be held him, though both blacklock, relating the perturbed state in emergency were weeks under his of his feelings at dumfries, after being protective roof. insulted by the rabble, when inducted “ worthiest! most liberal of men !" to the parish of kirkcudbright. cried john roy, clasping mr. gordon in culloden anecdotes. (feb. i, don. *** his arms. his name, pronounced by be ; and their influence may procure you mrs. grant, produced equal rapture in leave to return openly among us. for the heart of mr. hamilton, and he em- their sakes think of her, who would not- braced mr. gordon before he could dis- for worlds harm a hair of the locks engage himself from mr. stewart. she yesterday combed for the last time, they asked for the m gregors. mr. until our nation shall be more settled. gordon informed them, that mr. drum- farewell. may saints and angels watch mond was now on his way to the conti- over you ! nent; but james m'gregor, through the james m gregor opened the pláid he agency of some secret friend, got to the had all night round his person, and in east country. he procured money to the tenderest tones said, bribe an inverness merchant to convey “ let me carry with me the dear re- him from strathdearn in a cart, covered membrance, that for once i had my only with light packages, addressed to noble- love in my arms." men and gentlemen of unquestionable n o, james, no. your memory of attachment to government. mr. s. this bold journey shall be pure, as the smiled. motives that brought me so far from why do you smile?" said mr. gor- liome. if i could have ventured here without the guards my friends provided, if my friend hamilton will promise to i would willingly have travelled all the smile, and smile again, i shall tell you a way only to give you this, that you might pretty little tale. it cannot now be buy the good offices of those that are dangerous to any one, and it will serve not generous enough to render unbribed to pass our time.-" the night i passed services. if i am to see you no more at strathdearn, with the m gregors, on earth, my days are devoted to god, we lay under the shelter of a rock, sur- and the blessed virgin. be true to my rounded at the base with birch trees. father and brothers, as i shall be true to the day just began to appear, wlien a you.' little old man, and a fine looking youth, the lady stooped to give a parting in the south country garb, drew near salute. james fixed his arms round her us. the old man carried a tub of neck, and did not unloose them, till the smoking water, and dressings for james diminutive old man interposed." m-gregor's wound. the stripling ba- after this little narrative, the com- thed it, applied the unguent, and ban- pany amused themselves with conjec- dages, dropping many a tear during the tures as to who the lady could be; but to operation, which was performed in deep every one mentioned, some objection silence. the old man then withdrew to was started, which proved their supposi- some distance. they no doubt supposed tion was erroneous. mr. stewart then mr. drumomond and myself to be asleep; asked mr. gordon to go with him to see but long accustomed to listen for sounds if there were any signs of thaw. in less of danger, the least movement awakes me, than half an hour they returned, and and i think a mouse could not tread the when reseated, mr. gordon held up two velvet moss, without informing my ear. rings, requesting every one to examine james m gregor and the lad spoke in a them, and note their appearance. very low voice. he urged a longer stay. “ colonel stewart,” said he, “wishes • i have been with you more than twelve to place more confidence in me than hours,' said the vouth: they did not should be given to mortal man. he has seem tedious; but i have far to go, and been insisting that i should dispose of my horse, and escort, which you know those rings, and to send the value to a have dispersed to elude observation, are widow at —" to meet me by degrees, before high noon. mention no names, sir, i beseech even with his lordship's written protec- you," interrupted mr. s. “ it is too tion, i am unsafe in this distracted much to have planted thorns in an in- country, with only poor old marjory as nocent heart;-and at least, for some a travelling companion. oh! these sad, time, to bave indisposed a good, artless sad times, when young women must un- girl to be the happy spouse of a man in dertake the part of bearded men, to save her own station. i should save her a father, brother, and dear relations. from all blame, and indeed she deserves when i think of them, i forget all the none. mr. hamilton knows the circum- risks i may run. remember their lives stances, and without alluding to any and property are in your hands. they that can divulge the persons concerned, are safe, if you are guarded in speech i shall confess my faults. if i know and writing. untrue you never will myself, i intended no harm; but let no .) the knights templars enemies to christianity: man after me permit himself to flatter of the christian religion. they repre- an inexperienced creature with unmean- sent the mete, that is, the wisdom or ing attention. the little gallantries, sophia of the gnostics, and particularly which a well bred lady knows to be af- of the ophites, as hermaphrodite, with fected politeness, a simple child of nature the attributes of the broken off cross, or translates into the language of love. i egyptian key of the nile and of life, forgot this distinction until too late; (the t,) of the serpent of the baptism of and if i only suffered for my idle adula- fire, &c.; and contain, besides all the tion, i should less lament my folly. symbols of the moon, sun, stars, ap- b.g. zon, chain, tassels, book, seven- branch candlestick, &c. which are the knights templars, enemies to known as masonic hieroglyphics. christianity. the author recognises as such bapho- among the numerous literary jour- mete, so called instead of mete, from the nals of which germany mavjustly boast, fire baptism of reason baonuntes, the there is perhaps none which deserves to three idols published in the journal be placed in a higher rank than that pub- called “ curiosities," (vol. ii. no. ,) lished at vienna, under the title of which he at first took to be alchemisti- fundgrubendes orients, or mines cal, and the inscriptions upon which, at of the east. five volumes, small folio, first, led him astray, because the greek have been successively published in nume word mete, written with arabic letters, bers, of wbich four make a volume, has no meaning as an oriental word. those four volumes contain a vast mass that this word, which is met with in all of information respecting the east. the the arabic inscriptions, must be read object of my present communication is, mele; he discovered afterwards, from however, the first number of the sixth the latin inscriptions on other idols, volume, which is but just published, and of the castle of pottenstein in bo- and is wholly filled by a latin disserta- hemia, formerly belonging to the temp- tion, of the length of thirty sheets, un lars, on which is found the inscription der the very promising title of—“ mys- (not understood by bienenberg) “ sig- terium baphometis revelatum, nata mctis caritas crtirpat hosies," last- seu fratres militiÆ templi, qua ly from coins and bracteates, in which gnostici et quidem ophiani apos- we find partly the figure of mete, and taciÆ, idoluduliÆ et impuritatis partly her name, cither in a cypher, to convicti per ipsa eorum monu- be illegible to the profane, or written at menta." this title sufficiently explains length, like the inscription on a coin in the subject and the tendency of the scelander, which clearly consists of three whole essay, which is to prove the guilt words; mele es is, which mader inter- of the templars, not from the acts of preted melensis. their trials, which historical criticism t he same inscriptions as on these idols would not hitherto admit as proofs are to be met with upon three stone ves- against them, but from their own mo- sels in the imperial cabinet of antiqui- numents. such monuments, which have ties, upon which, besides the above and been till now partly unknown, and other goostic symbols, the ophitic or- partly known indeed, but not recognised gies are also represented in bils-relief. for what they really signify, are the idols these cups are the chalices of the ban- common in all europe, since their trial, tism of fire, being represented filled under the pame of baphometsheads, and with flaming fire, as well at the feet of lately become celebrated in germany by mete (who holds by the arms the neo- means of werner's templars, the adora. phyte placed over it) as on the bass tion of which was laid to their charge in relief of one of these cups, where the act their trial. of the baptism with fire is performed. a learned author, the celebrated on the bas-relief of the ophitic orgies orientalist, mr. joseph von hammer, we also find mete himself twice, as her- first discovered them in a dozen idols in maphrodite, with the chain of ons, the imperial cabinet of antiquities, and holding in her hand the key of life; which were before considered to be ti. this t, called by the ophites the ilood hetian. on most of them are enigmati- of life, and also the kcy of knowledge, cal, hitherto undecyphered arabic in- (lignum vita, clavis gnoseos) is the true scriptions, (upon some also greek and character baphometicus, which the latin ones), which contain the name idols bear on the forehead, and which is of these idols, mete, the doctrine mentioned in the depositions of the of the gnostic eight, and of the denial templars. notices illustrative of cambrian history and antiquities. (feb. i, hitherto these idols and vessels were of coins and bracteates, the legends of considered as ophitic, and no proof which, hitherto not satisfactorily ex- could be deduced from them against the plained, the author reads and explains templars, were not the same ophitic as gnostical, without laving any stress hieroglyphics, symbols, and representa- on them as proofs of guilt against the tions, which are united with the abore- templars; whom he, besides, does not mentioned arabic inscriptions on the declare guilty in shape, but proves that vessels and idols found also upon the the properly initiator trod the christian churches and tombs of the templars. religion under foot, and partook in the the most remarkable in this respect most shameful licentiousness of the are, the sculptures, described-nos. ophites, so that they were nothing and for this year, of the ilistorical, less than unjustly condemned. through geographical, political, and military this discovery drawn from monuments, a archives on the church of the templars new light is thrown on the tales of the at schongrabern, on which, besides middle ages of the sacred grale (goblet) mete, is found also her declared enemy which is by no incans, as hitherto be- and adversary, the dainonic or typho- lieved, the chalice of the lord's supper; nic ialdabaoth; together with his emblem but the cup of the gnostic union on the the lion, and the principal gnostic vessels of the baptism with fire, three of hieroglyphic of the serpent devouring a which are in the imperial cabinet of child ; (epiphanius hæres. xxvii. ). antiquities. the eight metal dishes, all this emblem is found, also, on the tem- bearing the same enigmatical inscription, plar's church at ebenfurt, and upon are similar sacred grale ; one of these others; and the author shows that the is depicted on the curiosities, and one legend of the coinbat of st. george with in busching's weekly journal; the in- the dragon, which the bollandists scription on them, wliich has hitherto themselves place in the list of fables, is not been rightly understood, or read, is nothing but a gnostical hieroglyphic of explained by the author, by giving the the combat of the gnostic with the true reading. by this discovery also a world, which has been incorporated number of hitherto quite obscure pas- with the arms of england and of milan, sages of tilurel, as, for instance, that as st. george and the serpent holding where his sword is changed into a siaff a child in its mouth. similar ophitic (namely, the t shaped staff or crutch, symbols are found on the bohemian which the templars hold in their hands templar's churches, as eger and prague; in the churches of schongrabero and and in the latter, (now belonging to the wutendorff,) and for the first time ren- chevalier von schonfeld), especially the dered intelligible ; and lastly, the very gnostic (afterwards masonic) symbols ancient gnostical origin of free masonry painted on glass, and in fresco; farther, is historically traced as far as possible up in the templar's churches at steinfeld, to the time of the crusade, and still far- near wienerisch-neustadt, and at wut- ther back. the five copper plates con- tendorf near statz; also, (according to tain all the representations of the ba- count teleki's travels through hun- phomete symbols, hieroglyphics, cups, gary, p. ,) in the templar's church coins, &c. necessary as proofs and of st. martin, in the peninsula of illustrations of this highly interesting murau. the author regrets that he and important treatise, which is calcu- could not wait for the drawings pro- lated to inake a great sensation in the mised him of this church by his escel- learned world. jency count festetits, as well as others by mr. steinbüchel from dalmatia; be- notices illustrative of cambrian cause otherwise, the publication of this history and antiquities. volume, which has been already so much no. iii. retarded by similar causes, would have trutii. been delayed a whole year; but at the trutii was held so sacred by the conclusion of his work he expresses his ancient british bards and druids, that firm conviction that, the way being once they would never, contrary to modern shewn, a number of such idols and sculn custom, admit into their poetical compo- tures, not bitherto recognised as belong- sitions any thing whatever of a fictitious ing to the templars, or gnostics, when nature; their fundamental maxim was considered in this new light, will only to search for truth, and to adhere to it confirm all that is here said. such a with the most rigid severity. hence, in new light is thrown hy the numismatical all the genuine copies that are extant of observations in this esszy, on a pumber our ancient welsh bards, from meugant, .] notices illustrative of cambrian history and antiquities. - about the close of the fourth century, females, who went from north wales to the present time, we do not meet on pilgrimages to st. david's, to pass the with a single poem founded on fiction; dangerous strands, and sail over the and, strange as it may appear, the most rough bays of the dyvi in slight co- authentic histories of the welsh are in racles, without any one to guide or as- verse, and all their fabulous writings in sist them, so firmly were they persuaded prose. some have asserted,in their vindi- that their adored saint would protect cation of that grand romance geoffry them in all dangers. of monmouth, that the trojan origin of menbvia, britain is mentioned by taliesin: but the ancient city of st. david's, in this is a glaring falsehood; for no one pembrokeshire. the pilgrimages to can show, in the poems of that noble this place were esteemed so meritorious, bard, one single word allusive to such an that they occasioned a proverbial rhyme event; nor do any of the cotemporaries in welsh, which has been thus translated of geoffry make the least mention of it. into latin :- the cymry. roma semel quantum, bis dat menevia the welsh have always called them- tantum. selves the cymry: the strictly literal king arthur. meaning of which is aborigines. this renowned prince was no more than they are the cimbri, or cimmeri, of the son of meiryg, the petty king of gla- the ancients; and have been distin- morgan; elected to the supreme coinmand guished by this appellation in all ages, of the british army, to repel the inroads of and in all countries, from asia minor to the saxons. it is extremely likely that britain, as if they were the aborigines the ancient britons were never united of the world. they call their language under one hereditary sovereign of their cymraeg, i. e. original. the welsh in own nation. the island was always di- this, their national address, derived vided into a great many petty prin- from the most remote antiquity, may cipalities, which, when occasion required, find pretensions of some plausibility, to elected temporary commanders-in-chief, a far nobler origin than that of being to lead their armies in cases of invasion; the descendants of a horde of adven- such were cassivellanus, cunobe- turers, who came from troy to britain, linus, caractacus, arthur, &c. through many countries, on a predatory the isle op honey. espedition. y fel ynys - the isle of honey, stone-henge. was one of the ancient names of britain. the welsh bards always met in the the other two were, clas merddin, or open air, while the sun was above the the highlands in the sea; and pre- horizon, where they formed a circle of dain,t the name by which it is at pre- stones, according to the custom of their sent, and has been for at least two thou- predecessors. it appears very probable sand years, known to the old britons. that stone-henge owes its origin to a the strictly literal meaning of pay- bardic meeting. dian, is beautiful, and nothing can bay op abermo. be more obvious than this etymology; a very large tract of fenny country on yet, strange to relate, mr. williams was this coast is called cantrer gwaelog, i.e. the first who ever noticed it. the ter- the lowland canton. about the year mination, ain, is exactly the same as the , it was inundated by the sea, owing english ful, in beautiful. there are to the carelessness of those who kept but few countries in the world, which, the flood-gates; as we are informed by like britain, retain their ancient names taliesin, in one of his poems. it was in their aboriginal languages, still living said there were many large towns, a within them, and but little, if any thing, great number of villages, and palaces of corrupted or altered. noblemen in this canton; and among loyalty. them, the residence of gwyddno ga when the second civil war broke out, rauhir, a petty prince of the country. there were, within the last years, to * a sort of boat of wicker work coated be seen, in the sands of this bay, large with canvas dipped in tar, about the size of stones with inscriptions on them in a large clothes-basket, which the fishermen roman characters; but in an unknown carry on their shoulders. there is a coracle language. race anpually at chester, on the dee. cyric + mr. macpherson sagaciously observed, is the patron saint of the welch ma- that this name was never known to the riners. it was usual for those, even welch new monthly mag.no. . vol. xi. d notices illustrative of cambrian history und antiquities. (feb. i, in the year - , the welsh were the westward, in less than two months, ar- first who took up arms in favour of rived on the coast of a fine fertile charles ii. sir edward stradling, of country, destitute of inhabitants. leav- st. donat's castle, sir nicholas kemyss, ing there about of his own men, lie of keven mably, and colonel powell, returned to cambria, where he soon raised, armed, and equipped, each of fitted out another fleet for the same them, men, within their own county destination, and took with him a vast of glamorgan; which, under their com- number of the people of wales, both mand, joined major-general langliorne, male and female, who were enticed by and col. poyer ; whose men were chiefly his representations. he set sail from raised in the counties of brecon, caer- south wales, with ten ships. this se- marthen, and pembroke. their col- cond voyage took place in , ac- lected force amounted to about . cording to sir thomas herbert, wlio cromwell, hearing of this, sent col. wrote in , and having free access to horton before him, with horse, the noble collections of welsh literature, and foot, to wales, and followed in the library of ragland castle, bad bimself, with all the troops he could better opportunities of tracing the his- muster. the two arinies met at st. tory of this remarkable event, than any fagan's, a village on the banks of the other person living. the total destruc- river ely, in the vale of glamorgan, on tion, by fire, of that library, has not yet monday, may , . col. fiorton, been added to the catalogue of crom- engaged by langhorne and stradling, well's glories. long, very long shall the was compelled to give way; but being curse of the welsh attend the detestable soon joined by men, with a heavy name of that ambitious and reckless train of artillery, he charged the van of monster! the welsh forces, and after a bloody the triades. conflict of two hours duration, the royal in the bardic triades, we have a re- army was completely routed, about markable maxiin of our philosophic an- slain, and as many taken prisoners. sir cestors, which has been thus rendered :--- nicholas kemyss retired to chepstow three things restored will prolong a castle, which he vigorously defended for man's life :- nearly three weeks: col. pride, how. the country where in childhood le ever, arriving with the artillery, a breach was brought up; was made, and the castle carried by the food that in childhood nourished assault. sir nicholas was put to death him; there in a barbarous manner. this the train of thought that in child- battle made not less than widows in hood amused him. the small parish of st. fagan's, and lost the bards. more than men to the county of the original intention of the bardic glamorgan. about years ago, institution, was the promotion of ciri- several old people lived in the village, lization. the primitive of the word who solemnly asserted that the river beirdd, is priest. prydydd is the was reddened with human blood ! most common welsh word for powt; madoc. the literal sense of which is as much has been lately said in the papers, near as the idiom of the language will of the discovery of a colony of welsh in- admit, embellisher, regulator, polisher. dians in america. the following referen- meugant the bard tial particulars may not prore uninterest- lived, as has been observed, about the ing: many of the welsh historians assert, close of the fourth century. he was that america was discovered about the the preceptor of the celebrated mer- year , by madoc, son of owain gwy- lin; and this assertion is grounded on nedd, prince of wales. it is certain they the anthority of prys, an able welsh possessed ms. accounts of the discovery, antiquary, who, about the time of eli- written long before the birth of co- zabeth, was archdeacon of merioneth. lumbus. dr. powell, quoting guttyn there are still extant several poems of owaian, who wrote in welsh, about the meugant. time of edward iv. says, that madoc, taliesin, in the hope of discovering the lands that called the prince of bards, lived in the lay beyond the atlantic, of which there fifth century. he professed himself a were then traditionary and ms. accounts druid ; and, in many of his poems, gives in existence, resolved on a voyage of an ample display of the absurd doctrine of discovery, to aroid the bloodshed which the metempsychosis. he enriched the then desolated the land; and sailing poetry of cambria, by introducing into .) on sir sam. romilly's objections to public schools. it the roman versification; the hex- dens, &c. in a very ancient poem, as- ameter, pentameter, sapphic, and other cribed to aneurin, who lived about the metres. year , we have the following pag- edward williams. sage:-- this amiable character, who was gnawd ym morganwg ddiwg ddynion descended from a line of respectable an- a gwragedd mewn mawredd a muriau gwy- cestors, initiated into the bardic mys. nion. teries, and who adopted the ancient title « in clamorgan the people are courteous of “ bardd wrth fraint a defod beirdd and gentle, ynys prydain,"* had a considerable pro- married women are honoured; and the perty left to him by a relative in the walls are white." west indies: but with the spirited david ap gwilym, temp. , in independance of virtue, he waived all speaking of glamorgan, has an allusion claim to it, on the ground that his prin- which has been thus translated: ciples would not allow him to enjoy the bard loves the beautiful riches, amissed by the slavery of his country, its wincs and its white houses." fellow creatures. he was the author of and in another place, where he in- translations from the british, entitled, vokes the sun, he says, “ thou sun of the « poems, lyric and pastoral," in vols. bright morning, beam joyfulness around, mo.; and frequently adopted the sig- and salute the white houses of glamor- nature of tolo morganwg. gan." the druids. devo ab ieuan da, a bard who wrote it is asserted that this institution about , has allusions in his verses, originated in britain. it is now ex- to “ glamorgan of the white walls ;" tinct. the last regularly initiated, was and diodorus siculus says, that the tolo morganwg, the subject of the britons white-washed their houses with preceding article. chalk. aneurin the bard the bards unarmed. was called mydeyrn beirdd, the it was not lawful for the bard to carry « monarch of the bards." he was arms; or for any one to bear a naked brother to the celebrated historian gil- weapon in their presence. they were das. his gododin is one of the finest deemed the heralds of peace. poems in the welsh language. it is caer. remarkable for the pathos of various of its passages, and is of consi- observations on sir sam. romilly's derable length. the subject is the battle objections to public schools. of cattraeth, fought by the britons, under mynyddawc 'eiddin, against the mr. editor, saxons. gildas was, like his brother the will of sir samuel romilly has ancurin, a bard, and fragments of his been printed and circulated with re- works are still extant. indeed, we learn markable ostentation, though it contains from an old ms. that their brothers and nothing particularly worthy of publi- sisters, to the number of -sons and cation, unless it be for the information daughters of caw o brydyn, were all that the writer has left behind him bards ! in addition to this — be not some manuscripts on criminal law, and alarmed, ye modern minstrels!--they memoirs of the latter years of his life, were also saints! caw o brydyn was about which papers he seems to have a petty prince of the ottodini, and felt some concern, by submitting them having been driven out of his ter- to the correcting hand of his friends. ritories by the saxons, he retreated into on this subject, however, i should not wales with his family, where he entered have deemed it necessary to bestow a on a monastic life. gildas and aneurin single observation, nor even to have were members of the monastery of st. taken the slightest notice of the verbose cadog, in llancarvaa (carbani vallis). testament of this extraordinary man, white-washing. had it not beeu for the following clause it has, from very remote antiquity, respecting his children :-" it is my been the custom in glamorganshire, to earnest and anxious wish, that none of white-wash the houses, not only the my sons should be educated at aty pub- insides, but the outsides also; and even lic school, by which i mean such schools the barns, stables, walls of yards, gar- as eton, westminster, winchester, and -. --- harrow." • bard according to the rights and insti- the right of a parent to leave direc- tutes of the bards of the island of britain. tions for the bringing up of the family on (feb. i, on sir sam. romilly's objections to public schools. which he leaves behind him, is not to be private schools, on the contrary, have questioned; and the prejudices of sir no such advantages, being conducted samuel romilly, in favour of private solely by the arbitrary will of their tuition, might have passed without any respective principals, who adopt systems other sentiment than pity, if he had con- of teaching according to their fancies; fined himself to that limitation. but while many of them, aspiring to the having thought proper to fasten a stigma honour of inventors, make their pupils upon four great schools, in language the victims of experiment, to substan- bitterly sarcastic and uncharitable, it tiate the merits of new theories and seems a duty to vindicate those institu- boasted improvements. tions, and all of a kindred nature, from b ut even where nothing of this kind the cruel reproach conveyed in this in- exists, and where the preceptor dis- junction. this is the more requisite, charges his duty conscientiously and with because the denunciation is posthumous, ability, the progress in a private school and comes abroad into the world clad in cannot by any means be proportionate to that pompous solemnity of diction, which that made in a great seminary, where is calculated to make a deep impression the course is uniform, and the propelling upon those who are apt to be affected power such, that every boy moves, and by the dying declarations of eminent is moved by his class-fellows. in these persons. many parents, on the subject schools there is no standing still, for the of education, are more inclined to follow whole, like a large machine, is in con- the authority of names, than to inquire stant exercise ; and by a perpetual re- for themselves; and, therefore, consider- currence to the same rules and prin- ing the popularity of this celebrated ciples, each intellect becomes habituated lawyer, it is to be feared that his example to labour, and stored with that elemen- will have numerous imitators. tary knowledge, which is readily applied the comparative advantages of pub- in every successive stage of learning. lic and private education have been so this co-operation of young minds, in a often and ably discussed, as to leave little track which they are all sensible leads room for novelty, cither in argument or to the highest academical honours, not illustration; and it might be sufficient only elicits genius, but keeps it steady to remark in this place, that the weight to one purpose, and incessantly em- of evidence, as far as experience goes, ployed in a prescribed direction. 'here- is decidedly on the former side ; for the by, emulation, the noble spring of exer. advocates of the opposite system would tion, is equitably excited, and kept up. be hardly pushed to produce an adequate without jealousy. competition is free; list of illustrious characters, brought up the advantages are open to all, and he in their way, to match the host of lumi- who gains by perseverance, continues to varies who were prepared for active life retain the goodwill of those whom he in the great public schools of this king- may have distanced in the race. a pub- dom. lic school, in short, is a theatre of noble though it is admitted that numbers strife, where every one is aware that do not tell for much in speculative con- advancement cannot be made without cerns, they are of vast importance in effort; where the diffident is sure of estimating the effects of practical insti- receiving honourable assistance, to cheer tutions. it is by their fruits that we him in his toil, and where he that shines must judge of seminaries of instruction, above his companions, knows how to and not by their professions. when, make a proper use of the distinction therefore, we find upon close examination which he has acquired. that for a long series of years, and with. it cannot be denied that private semi out any interruption, the public schools naries have also the benefit of the emula- of england have furnished a constant tive spirit,butit will not prevail there with supply of cultivated talent to meet the equal activity, por be productive of the demands of the state, in every depart- same extensive effects. in public schools, ment essential to the national business no envy can arise from the apprehension and the general weal, it is but fair to of undue influence and unreasonable conclude, that the method of tuition partiality ; but the case is different where there pursued, is the one best adapted to every look of the master is watched by the benefit of society. these institutions his pupils, who, when they see him dis- are bound by statutes from which the tinguishing one above the rest, are dis- masters cannot depart, and they are re- posed to think ill of the preceptor and gulated by a code of discipline, to which his favourite. every scholar inust in his turn submit. the claims of private schools com- .) on sir sam. romilly's objections to public schools. monly rest upon facility in learning, and can possibly be given: - let not the a minute attention to morals. venerable foundations of our ancestors · of the first it is enough to say, that be exposed to the merciless inquisition knowledge is not to be had without of modern fanatics, who would substitute labour, and that perfection is the a new light of their own, for that which work of time. young minds must be has so long irradiated the land ; nor, let exercised repeatedly in the diligent prac- us see our schools and colleges purged tice of rules, the exact reason and va- by a herd of reformers following the rious uses of which, they do not under heels of another pym, with his cloke-bag stand; and which it would be an idle crammed full of lying informations and attempt to endeavour to explain. visionary projects. short roads to learning are tempta it is the misfortune of the people of tions to idleness, and bye paths to igno this country, that, from a natural spirit rance. the first thing to be attended to, of credulity, they are easily led to be- in bringing up children, is to make them come dupes to every kind of empiricism, sensible that nothing worth knowing and to swallow any tale that is coined by can be obtained without diligent appli- malice, to the disparagement of pub- cation, and that all difficulties in studylic authority and ancient institutions. are surmountable by iteration. in a hence, new schemes are continually public school, every boy is conscious of rising with plans for the removal of this truth, because he sees it exemplified evils, and the improvement of the social all around him; and, therefore, he feels state. these ephemeral pretenders to not in the least disheartened by the extraordinary virtue and science would rugged lessons which he has to learn, hardly deserve the least notice, were but which he is sensible must be mas- it not that, in certain seasons, they mul- tered before he can hope to stand as tiply so fast, and become so troublesome, high as those above him, and who were as to endanger the public tranquillity. once precisely in his own situation. of late years, these pseudo philanthro- the moral advantages of private tui- pists and affected patriots, have in- tion, have been dwelt upon by several creased to a degree, beyond what might writers, with so much pathos, as to cre- have been expected in an age that has ate strong prejudices, in many parents, witnessed, more than any other, the against public schools altogether ; but destructive effects of innovation. but particularly those of royal foundation the experience of calamity is not always and a collegiate character. it certainly a preservative against rashness, and they would be unjust to censure those who who are fond of change, are not to be have been induced by misrepresentation deterred by the miseries of revolutions, to place their sons under a private instruc- every thing of ancient establishment tor, or in a seminary confined to a sclect is now become an object of suspicion, number of pupils. but, whatever respect and compelled, like the females of former may be due to the feelings and motives of times, to endure the ordeal as the test ot those who prefer private to public edu- innocence. not satisfied with the innu- cation, justice, also, must be fairly ad- merable evidences of utility which our ministered to the great schools, which public schools have exhibited for centu are, thus, as it were, put to the ban, and ries, the inquisitors of this enlightened declared unworthy of parental confi- era presume to have discovered that the dence. if, indeed, these establishments world has been besotted by error, and are such improper places for youth, as, that these seats of initiation, instead of the interdict implies ;- if the mode of promoting true knowledge and virtue, instruction in them be defective ;-and have continued from generation to ge- the moral regimen corrupted, it is high neration, to time that they should be visited with the hurl dazzling spells into the spungy air. most rigid severity ; since a continuance of power to cheat the eye with blear illusion. of abuses in the nurseries of learning, and give it false presentments. must, in the end, prove fatally injurious were credit due to the reformers of to the commonwealth. these planet-stricken days, every public but, before the edict is suffered to go school is an appendage to the court of forth in visitatorial vengeance, let the comus; where the understanding be- accusation be specifically stated, and the comes furnished at the expense of moral allegations clearly supported. let not principles, and a progress in the classics the public be inflamed to clamour and is counterbalanced by a proficiency in outrage, by sweeping charges and decla- the theory and practice of vice. matory invective, to which no answer but when the facts are called for, in ffeb. , on sir sam. romilly's "objections to public schools. t support of this black aspersion, the in- to commit the hopes of his family to the quirer will be put off with an evasive at- same hazard. such an act of infatua- tempt to rivet the conclusion as a ne- tion is so totally at variance with every cessary consequence of the system. and idea of prudence and self-esteem, that yet, in spite of such logic, these reprobat- one may safely doubt whether even any ed institutions, which, according to the man of the most depraved habits would representation made of them, can send be guilty of it. to say that vice is un- out nothing but a stream of depravity, known in public schools, would be as ab- continue still distinguished by the worth surd as to maintain that there are no of character and exalted talents perpe- blockheadis in them. in an aggregate tually issuing from them into every of juvenile intellects there must of ne- sphere of public life. cessity be a mixture of good and bad, this is a paradox not very easy of so- mild and mischievous boys, as well as lution, even by those (edipuises who can, those to whom nothing is difficult, and with the dialectician of old, prove that others upon whom all labour will be • light is darkness ;' and that good is spent in vain. but is there no depra- evil. it would, however, completelyvity, and are there no dunces in private nonplus even such sophists, to shew by seminaries? this will hardly be asserted what means youths, vitiated in their by the sturdiest champions of this mode nonage, become suddenly metamor- of tuition; and therefore the next ques- phosed and purified in their manners, tion will be, whether vice is not more after emerging from the sinks of iniquity likely to gain deep root in a state of in which they were bred. a transmucomparative seclusion, than where it is tation of this kind is little short of mira- scarcely possible to escape detection and culous, and totally reverses what the to avoid punishment? in a public school, wisdom of all ages bas taught us, that every boy stands continually open to the facilis descensus averni observation of his fellows, consequently sed revocare gradum, superasque evadere the irregularities to which he is inclined ad auras, must soon become exposed, and, if re- hic labor, hoc opus est. peated, will inevitably bring him to dis- but there is still a more perplexing grace. but let it be considered that parodox behind; and that is the unac- the aberrations to which youth is liable countable attachment of virtuous and se seldom approximate to any thing like honourable men to the public schools in enormity, for which they spent their early days. all's not offence that indiscretion finds, surely it is passing strange that minds or rashness deems so. acutely alive to all that is noble and of that excellent scholar and pious di- good report, should continue through vinc, dr. barrow, was remarkable at life to cherish a respect for institutions, school for pigilistic exercises, insomuch where in their prime they witnessed that his good father used to say, he scenes of turpitude, of which in manhood • hoped, if it pleased god to take any of they must be ashamed. but to com- his children it would be his son isaac;' plete this climax of wonders, we find and yet this very isaac proved the com- persons of the purest character, the fort of his old age and the glory of his most exalted sentiment, and religious family. consistency, sending their own sons to what were the precise objections the great national schools where they which sir samuel romilly had against were themselves educated. this last all public schools, and to the four which circumstance, the truth of which cannot he has pamed, in particular, it would be be questioned, is a riddle in human con- useless to conjecture. but as a lawyer, duct that will defy every effort at expla- whose practice lay in a court of equity, nation, upon the ground that the semi- he ought to have stated his reasons for naries in question are deserving of im. the interdict, or expressed it in terms peachment. supposing these schools to less offensive to private feelings. he be really such hotbeds of profligacy as could not speak on the subject from ex- their enemies would make them out, and perience, because his own education was as the clause in sir samuel romilly's of a different description; and therefore will more than insinuates them to be, it it behoved him, whatever might have is marvellous that any man of common been his wishes in regard to his children, sense and common decency, who has to have avoided throwing an odium himself escaped the pollution of them, upon characters equal to his own in should, in despite of experience, venture talent and honour. .] the lost pocket book ; or, new pilgrim's progress. out of the numbers of great men who packet of papers tied carefully up toge- hare proceeded from the seminaries ther, with an old vellum covered pocket which he has so unjustly stigmatized, book, full of meinoranda and loose scraps, many of the brightest luminaries of his all of which he carried to the parish own profession might be mentioned. i clerk, who is also the village smith, and shall bere notice only four, because they the oracle of this part of the country for all filled high judicial stations within his many wiles around. honest mulciber own time, and of whom it may be said could make little of the contents, and that they will be remeinbered and ad. after searching for bank-notes in vain, duced as legal authority when the name the entire collection of manuscripts was of romilly shall be forgotten. at eton, brought to me, in the hopes that i might charles pratt, afterwards earl be able to discover something as a clue cainden, received that education, and to the owner, or prove of substantial imbibed those high principles which benefit to the finder. anxious to do enabled him to shine at the bar, in the justice in this case, i devoted much time senate, and on the bench, with unsullied to the examination of the book and reputation, and the greatest benefit to papers, but without meeting any thing his country. his contemporary, wil- to identify the loser; though every leaf liam morray, earl of mansfield, whose afforded evidence enough that the mis- abilities and integrity, both as a lawyer fortune must have been sensibly felt. and a statesman will not now be ques. after waiting some time, and making tioned, was bred at westminster, inany inquiries without effect, i gave the where also his two successors in the title fellow a tritle to console him under his received their scholastic learning. on disappointment; and now at the recom- turning to winchester our attention mendation of a friend, who is somewhat is at once arrested by the name of of an antiquary, i send you a portion of blackstone, the elegant expositor of the contents of the pocket-book, which, the laws of england; and, in visiting if you think fit to insert in your maga- habrow, we stop for a moment to ad- zine, may be the means of ascertaining mire a foundation, that, among other the person to whom the whole packet bright characters, sent forth william ought to be returned. i had almost joxes; whose universality of knowledge forgotten to mention, however, that in was only surpassed by the firinness of his the course of our inquiries, we learnt, religious principles and the sanctity of that about the time when these papers his manners. were found, a portly personable man such are the samples produced by had been at several places on this road, these soils of moral and intellectual cul- making many observations, and asking tiration, which hare been represented as questions of the country people concern- destructive of the seeds of morality, and ing the state of the poor, and the cha- farourable only to useless weeds and racter of the rich; from all which it is poisonous plants. to repel this base most likely that this traveller, whoever and ungenerous accusation, it were easy he may be, is the rightful owner of the to swell out a voluminous catalogue of packet, which may be had on describing illustrious characters, dead and living, the particulars and remunerating the whose virtues and talents reflect honour finder. upon the academical institutions where the first page of the book presents they were nurtured and fitted for the the following curious title: “ notes of church, the bar, and the state; but since my intended pilgrimage, for ."-- these ancient foundations are assailed after this, on several leaves are written with declamation instead of argument, down, in the form of an itinerarium, the and comments supply the place of facts, names of places along the north road, it is not likely that even such a body of with heads of queries for information evidence would convince those men of about a varicty of things and persons. their error, who being resolved to believe then comes something like an intro- ill of what they dislike, are more deserve duction, written in a very crabbed hand, ing of contempt than hatred. and in an odd sort of style, but mani- jan. , . j. watkins. festly without any view to publication. as part of this proemium may be amus- the lost pocket book; or, new ing to your readers, i have been at some pilgbidi's progress. pains in decyphering and making a mr. editor, transcript ofit. some time last autumn, a poor la “ the pilgrim's, progress. - bourer in my neighbourhood found a walking, some time ago, through chis- the lost pocket book; or, new pilgrim's progress. [feb.), well street, my eye was attracted by an in these attempts my fortune has been old copy of this book, the most whimsi. pretty oddly chequered, and it must be cal and popular, perhaps, of any in the acknowledged that the world has given english language; not even excepting me more credit for the boldness of my the far famed romance of robinson designs, than the means employed in the crusoe. not haring read honest john execution of them. but this must be bunyan's rhapsody since my boyish days, ascribed to certain narrow prejudices when it both pleased and terrified me, inseparably connected with the anti- i ventured to lay out a shilling in the quated and superstitious notions that purchase of the tattered volume, which bave so long shackled great genius, and no doubt must have seen as many pos- prevented enterprising ininds from act- sessors as the work itself has impres- ing with the same freedom as they think. sions. it is plain that every man is his own ** as it has been an invariable maxim world, and consequently should be his with me to turn every incident to some own legislator. the laborious com- lucrative advantage, the idea revolved mentaries upon those artificial rules and itself frequently in my mind what use distinctions, called the laws of nature could be made of the old tinker's singu- and nations, have always appeared to my lar production in the way of trade. this mind ever since its emancipation from a is the age of fanaticism (said i to myself) slavish submission to old formularies, and any thing new under the name of as arbitrary and unjust restraints upon bunyan must assuredly have a good sale; the kingdom of selp or me. even though it should be as coarse in the honest tinker of bedford seems to its external garb as the “ effectual shove have had a glimmering of this light, but to a heavy christian." but, unfortu- unfortunately he lost it again, or rather nately, these my speculative cogitations suffered it to lead him into the bog of were dispersed by the reflection, that fanaticism, for the want of sufficient re-. vouchers would be necessary for the au- solution to follow reason without any thenticity of the book, and that at all other guide. the hero of his allegorical events the saints would desire to see the tale is represented as breaking through original manuscript. it then occurred every tie that could prevent him from to me that my quondam agent, of shak- pursuing the object of his fancy; and spearian notoriety, might be able not thus far the example is deserving of only to manufacture an autograph of imitation; for every society is made up. bunyan, but even to write a new pil- of individuals, eacli of whom is a state grim's progress, as the completion of to himself. but then john's hero af- the author's design. but this again terwards falls into a miserable course of was hazardous; for though the dog has strange adventures and sufferings, by genius enough, he is as slippery as an his scruples of conscience and the un- eel, and as unsafe as a cullender. many compliableness of his temper. all these werc the schemes which this extraor- difficulties are described as necessarily dinary book suggested to my imagina arising in the progress upon which the: tion, but all of them fleeted away as fast pilgrim is bent, and which, it must be as they arose, like unto a dream when confessed, is one of the most visionary one awaketh from a troubled sleep. at that can enter into the human imagina- length, when the fatigue of thinking pro- tion. instead of directing all his pursuits, duced peevishness, a sudden notion to personal enjoyment, or the advantage sprang up in my fertile brain, and, like of the kingdom of me, this bewildered. archimedes of old, the exclamation wanderer is figured as going out of self, escaped me, “i have found it."-" the and making sacrifices for the sake of a title itself, said i, " is abundantly more reward soinewhere else. here then is, than sufficient to repay me for the shil an admirable hint for.“ a new pilgrim's ling which it has cost ine'; and thus the progress" not an allegorical personifi, tinker shall have the honour, of perfecting' cation of some poor hypochondriac trema, what the cobbler began; for as i have, bling under imaginary terrors, but ex- dived into the recondite mysteries of hibiting the real observations and re-, nature, with the help of jacob behmen, flections of an active and free-thinking fwill clothe my discoveries in a popular spirit, who, in spite of nursery tales and style after the manner of john bunyan. priestly craft, is determined, by all the from my youth upwards the spirit of arts that policy can devise, to make the daring ambition has stimulated me to rest of the world tributary to his little projects for the aggrandizement of my kingdom of individuality. in taking this.. napie, and the acquisition of an estate. retrogradation, indeed, a man must poss islo.) the lost pocket book ; or, new pilgrim's progress, ses strong nerves or great cunning, be t his, i fear, is a pretty common case cause he will either be obliged to trample with reformers, or at least it agrees with fearlessly upon many old maxims that my experience. having long since adopt- hare obtained aniversal reputation as cd the pythagorean doctrine, in regard incontrovertible truths; or lie must con- to diet, it was may anxious wish to intro- tinue to erade the practice of them by duce the same regimen into my house- devices, which, though they cannot blind hold, but here i was doomed to encoun- his own judgment, may be successful in ter the most inflexible opposition. per- imposing upon others. suasion, intreaties, and menaces, have all in representing a pilgrim as travelling proved ineffectual, and not a soul can i to the kingdom of me, nothing more is prevail upon by any means to forego the meant than shewing that the nan so de savoury delights of ham and real, or scribed is delivered from external obli- ducks and green peas. all my reason- gations, and that he considers one object ing is whistling to the winds; and if i alone as deserving of consideration. with evforce it by mandate, my olfactory bin the world around is a common from nerves are sure to be tortured by the whenee it is his business to gather every smell of a lainb's fry or liver and bacon. thing for luis own benefit, provided it the other day a butcher's boy appeared can be done without endangering his in- at the door with a fine sirloin in bis diridual safety. thus the intellect be- tray, whiclı, as being contrary to the comes sharpened, and genius is elicited code i had established, was sent back in a variety of ways. again in no very civil terms to his mas- whether mankind arc exactly pre- ter. this disappointment diffused a pared for a publication that tends so di- gloom throughout the house, and i had rectly to the eradication of all supersti- the mortification to hear my son singing tion is somewhat doubtful, especially all the rest of the day, “oh the roast when there are so many societies multi- beef of old england !" and when de- plying in every direction for the circu- sired to be silent, the youngster had the lation of works of an opposite charac- impudence to raise the ribald chant a ter. on this account, perhaps, the most note higher, on purpose to plague me; prudent course would be to attack old for which, in a momentary fit, i broke a systems in detail, and that under dif- china jug of no small value upon his ferent disguises. by beginning with pate, inade a large incision in his skull, philosophy one may proceed successfully and had to pay a swinging bill to the on to morals, politics, and crery thing surgeon, who, as i have every reason to else by which the human mind has been believe, kept the wound open on purpose bitherto governed, or rather enslaved. to increase the expense and my vexation. thus in taking a circuitous course on complaining of this uulucky busi- through different branches of knowledge, ness to my rib, like job's tender wife, and demolishing the authority of names, she told me, “ that it was all of my own the way will be prepared for a pilgrimage seeking ; that with liberty in my mouth from revelation to reason, and froin i was a tyrant in heart; and that if i christianity to common sense. had been a christian, instead of a pre. i had written thus far with a view to tended philosopher, it would have beon the formation of some plan, on which better for the family :" with many more to carry these crude ideas into execu- consoling reflections of a similar nature. tion; when something occurred to dis- provoked at these sarcastos, and not well turb the chain of thought, and to give knowing how to reply, i muttered in a me much vexation. grumbling, under tone, “ hang me if i old bunyan, i cannot but think, was do not go on a pilgrimage ;" which effu. plagued with a shrew, and children of the sion, instead of creating alarm or soften- mawe humour, and this i infer from the ing matters, was received with a taunt- picture of domestic unhappiness, which ing look, that said as much as a look compelled his pilgrim to seek that tran- could say, “ you may gu to the devil." quillity abroad which he could not find .. ....... at home. t'he poor inan, it seems, endea. here, mr. editor, the book exhibits voured to bring over his wife and family an hiatus by cutting out sererill leaves, to the same notions which he had himself after which follows an itinerary; front imbibed; bnt all his efforts prored inef. whence i shall trouble you with occa- fertual: and so, finding remonstrances sional extracts, if the prescat be deemed of no use, be packed up his baggage and worthy of insertion in your nest. number. trudged away on foot from his natire joux trotter village. ponder's end, dec. , ! . new monthly mag.- no. . vou. xi. remarkable confession of a condemned malefactor. [feb. , remarkable confession of a con. iniquity; as one guilty of incest, an in demned malefactor, as detailed cendiary, and a murderer who had * 'in a letter from a clergyman actually committed these three horrible in* #:* to his friend at * * *. crimes, for either of which justice had tri (from the german.) consigned him to a merited death, beore you arc indced right, my dearest he reached his year; even he, whoin friend, in your assertion, that the nost the many openly abhorred-whom per- pleasing, yet, alas ! too often, the most haps some, though but few, more hu- afflicting duties of a christian ininister, mane and enlightened minds may have are those of preparing the unhappy secreily pitied; even he possessed a noble wreich, whoin the avenging arm of heart, tender feelings, and sentiments of justice has doomed to expiate his crimes which you or i night boast-an asser- by death, for his passage into another tion this, which may offend you, but world. should all our exercions prove which my melancholy relation will fully fruitless -- should the malefactor (urn a jusíify. deaf ear to our urgent remonstrances. about eight days have now elapsed, and rush upon his fate with cold and since i received from the magistratcs of hardened insensibility, what shuddering the neighbouring town, in consequence sensations of horror does the scene of the sudden indisposition of the cler- awaken in our hosoms. even when he gyman there, the commission to prepare listens to our exhortations with penitent for death a condemned malefactor, whose grief, and appears to feel contrite devo- crimes i knew by report, and which had tion, what anxious compassion -- yet been represented as of the most heinous what tormenting uncerieints must 'we character. i will not deny that i feel, whether these emotions are caused entered upon this duty most unwillingly. by sincere conviction of his guilt, and --" only iwo-and-twenty years of age, repentance for his crimes. or by the ard already such a hardened threefold dread of death alone. but, on the super! what contrition can be hoped other band, low sweet is that delighaful for from a mind so early, yet so deeply consciousness of having been the means sunk in vice how depravcd must his of saving a fellow creaiure from ever soul have been from childhood--and lasting perdition-what a divine forc- what true repentance can be wrought in taste do we then enjoy of that momeri, such a man within the short space of when, at our own 'anxious entrance eight days?" such were my thoughts 'trembling into eternity, we pow blessed as i entered the prison. 'soul, springing to our einbrace. shall con- lui bis first appearance softened iny duct us to the throne of him who is sterger mood, and inclined my heart in and was and is to be. his favour. through the disguise of you will perhaps, ask, for what rel'on neglecied, black and matted locks - i now enforce these reflections? ol! my through a compl through a complexion readered sallow best friend, never before did they present by grief and confinement through themselves in such gloomy colours tu iny diri and squalid wretchedness, i could imagination as at this moment-at chis discern the lineaments of a mild, yet awful moment--when i have but just manly countenance. resignation and quitted tle scaffold, sprinkled witi' the sorrow spoke fro'n his tearful eyes, and blood of a youth, whose unhappy fate has the expression of his look was open, niin wakened my tenderest and most heart. confiding, and friendly. with one glance . felt sympathy :-one, wbo deserved to my previor's aversio: was vanquished, have lived among the number of those and my address was more earnest than few, yet noble souls, whose virtues, usual, even on such occasions. · though unknown to the world, elevate “i doubt not, (said ) but that you them beyond its feelings and passions: guess the purport of my visit, and as with whose singular destiny i am ac- condently do i trust that it will not be "quainted, even to his most secret faults, unplcasing, after so tedious a confine- - and whom i have seen submit to bis ment, and so long an association with doom with a heroism which deprived me jailors and tbeir prisoners, once more to of all the firmness i had, with so much feel yourself in the presence of one, difficulty, summoned for his support. whose heart compassionates and feels di should he have failed in that terrible for you, and whose only wish it is to be hour. the bumble instrument of sweetening to . yes, my friend, even that unfortunate you the last dregs of life, and softening being whom you will find described in the terrors of approaching death: and the public prints as a monster of trebled to whom in confidence you may unre- .] remarkable confession of a condemned malefactor.. servedly relieve yourself of the weight the noisy pleasures of the world ; and my of guilt that must weigh heavy on your parents cherished me, on account of this conscience." exclusive attachment for my home, with .] would pledge you my right hand, redoubled affection. in my seventeenth, as a sign of my grateful welcome, (an- year i lose my mother. my father swered he) were i not prevented by continued single for a considerable time these chains. the society of my perse- jonger, in content and happiress : be cutors and of my jailors has, indeed, too was actually approaching his sixtieth long been endured by me. willingly do birthday, when he had the weakness to i leave a world in which i never more fall in love (if, indeed, the passion could can experience bappiness, and to which be so termed with the youthful daugh- i owe that debt of life, i am now about ter of one of var neighbours, whose to offer, as the just punishment of my only riches consisted in her extraordi- misdeeds, and to serve as a warning rary beau'y and unsullied reputation. to others. you tbink me, no doubt, he formally demanded her band of her (added he, with a mournful smile, which parents: and the latter, who looked pierced my very beari, as it waned upon luim as a thriving, wealthy trades- · beneath the overmastering expression of man, compelled their child, partly by mental agony,) you, think me, worthy threats, and partly by persuasion, to sir, no doubt, one of the vilest of cri- pledge her faith to bim, rather with her minals? lips than with her heart. the weddiog i shrugged up my shoulders. “i day was already fixed, when my father would fain think otherwise of you; but fell dangerously ill: he, however, soon can i ?" partially recovered, and although bis . no, no, i confess it myself. my physician, and some still remaining weak. soul is burthened with many crimes, and ness counselled delay, he paid but little yet the omniscient is my witness, that attention to either, summoned up all the first cause of them was a passion, bis strength, and celebrated bis marriage in its origin not only blameless, but even as well and as gaily as his situation per- exalted. the world may believe me miited. but on that very day, whilst what it will; i can endure its detesta- seated amid his friends, enjoying the tion with patience, for the unbiassed delights of the festive board, he sud- voice of my own conscience accuses me denly became so faint and ill, that ho only of being one of the most upforiu- vas obliged to be carried from table to nate of men. but, that my comforter his bed, from which he never again in these last trying hours, that he who arose. he lingered in this state a whole has, at his first entrance into my dun- year. and it is certain, incontestibly geon, so compassionately anrounced hin- certain, that this ill-starred marriage self as my frierd, may learn to know me never was consummated. beiter ;-this do i more anxiously desire "bleanwhile the maiden whom he than to be justified in the opinion of all had espoused, assuined the name of his the world besides: and the kindness, the wife, and in reward for the resignation commiseration towards me, visible on and cheerfulness with which she sup- · your countenance, assures me of your ported the toils, and fulfilled the duties willing attention to my sad recital. of an affectionate and careful nurse, he you may easily imagine, iny dear bequeathed to her by will his whole pro- friend, how much my astonishment perty; and left me, his only son-against and interest were auguented by such whom he had never had cause to utter an address; and that even a feeling a single complaint--with the exception of curiosity influenced my entreaties of my scanty legal portion, pennyless! to bim to confide his story to me: which how much reason soever i might now he immediately commenced in pearly the appear to have, to hate, or at least, to following words: - shun a person who had deprived me, • my father was a respectable trades- almost in an unlawful manner, of a con- man in this town, and i, his only son, siderable fortune -- the contrary feel. was educated with all possible care, ing prevailed over my resentment. she under his immediate inspection, to suc- was, as i have already observed, young, ceed lim in his business. from my beautiful, of an irreproachable charac- earliest years, my disposition was silent ter; mild and obliging towards every and reserved, and the perusal of instruc- body, and from the first moment of our tive and entertaining books, the dearest, acquaintance, peculiarly engaging in her and almost sole employment of my behaviour to me. little then aware of leisure hours. i avoided, from choice, the reason, i yet sought her company remarkable confession of « condemned mulefuctor. (feb. , : at every leisure lour-delighted in her a mere name would not be the insti. conversation-often asked her opinion perablc barrier to the accomplishment of on the concerns of the house, and soon our mutual wishes. observed, with secret pleasure, that she • her urgent entreaties, and the con- was on her part anxious to obtain mine, fidence with which she adverted to the even on trifles, and followed my advice latter alluring argument, finally over- with the most scrupulous attention, powered my weak opposition. but by thus passed on some months, and i that holy name, before whose judgment : thought not on the danger of our grow. seat i am about so soon' to appear, ing attachment: but when she daily swear to you, reverend sir, that nothing became dearer to me, when no place passed between us, with which my without her any longer had charms for conscience at that awful hour can re- . me, and sleeping or waking, her idea proach me. a tender embrace, and was constantly present to my thoughts; reciprocal assurances of attachment and then, too late, i observed the flame that constancy, were all that i wished for . glowed within my breast. terrified at and attempted to obtain, or she per-, the precipice on which i stood, and mitted, resolved as much as possible to avoid at length my father expired; and one who never could be mine, i should come weeks afterwards, she renewed immediately have quitted my father's her entrcaties and persuasions for me house, bad i not been withheld by the to procure legal advice for our guidance."? dread of the comments my fellow citizens i dared not undeceive myself; but in . would make upon my conduct-by whom proportion as my ardent love for her aug. it might have been deemed the effect of mented, my once confident hope of ever » anger against my parent for so unkindly possessing her hid declined. at length, disinheriting me-by the present situa- trembling for her sake, and desperately tion of affairs in our business, to the desirous of putting an end to the dis-, !? prosperity of which my presence was tracting uncertainty in which i existed, absolutely indispensable - and lastly, by i hastened to the nearest adyocate, and ; the evidently approaching dissolution of unreservedly confided to liim every cir- ', my still beloved father, cumstance of our situation. he inspired • however, i maintained, during some me with hopes; instantly dispatched a ; time, my resolution of shunning her petition in my name to the high eccle- society; but no sooner was she aware siastical court, for a dispensation; but, of this, than, on the first opportunity, either from ignorance or carelessness, following me to a sequestored part of for i would not willingly impute worse the house, she implored me, with tears inotives to my countryman, he touched in her eyes, to tell her the reason of so lightly on the important point of the such an alteration in my conduct, for unconsummated, yet legally concluded, which she had never intentionally given marriage, that a double motive and a'. mc any cause. i stammered out some- dark artful design, were with too great thing in the form of an excuse; but all seeming justice afterwards imputed to that i could say, was by her gently, us on that account. yet clearly refuted: and at last, as niy imagine to yourself our transports agitation encrcased, and some words es- of joy, when, at the end of three wecks, caped me, which but too well explained we received the most ample permission my real "feelings, she could no longer to marry; and from a state of torment- restrain the impulse of her affection, ing anxiety, were at once elevated to the but throwing herself into my arms, calm confidence of bliss in our approach- avowed her 'attachincnt to me. this ing union. can you doubt the purity . erent put an end to all constraint on my of our attachment, when i affirm to part, and no longer enduavouring to dis. you, by the omnipresent deity, that » guise my love, i still forced myself to try notwithstanding this permission, not. to impress on her mind the impossibility withistanding she was my very shadow, of her ever being 'minė, and the absolute and watched cvery look of mine to obey necessity of an eternal separation from it; though i'loved her with indescribable her; and after an heart-rending effort, ardour, and thought of nothing, sought burst from her in an agony of despair, for nothing, but how i might best pro- but she cling to my arm, asserted that mote her happiness, and certainly might she was but the legal, nominal, wife of with a word, have induced a woman - my father; set before me the certainty who loved me far better than herself, to of the speedy rentoval of that obstacle, dare every thing for my sake, i repeat. and insinuated the delightful hope, that that more than four weeks went by. - ག ་ .) : remarkable confession of a condemned malefactor, vithout any thing more having passed living proof of our love, would pro- between us, than we might, without cure a permission for our marriage, hesitation, or the fear of blame, have sooner than all the advocates in ger- confessed to the severest inquisitor of many. our conduct. of what use would it now be to me, . • we now no longer kept our love or worthy sir, to boast of a forbearance, our intentions a secret from the world; which can no longer gain ine any ad- but made open preparations for our ap. vantage, or avert my fate; but my own proaching wedding, and by the singu- heart tells me, that eren this alluring larity of the event, excited the curiosity sophistry would have failed to work it's and attention of our neighbours, al- effect, had it not made a decper im ready enrious of our felicity. the ma- pression on her mind than on minc. gistracy interfered; commanded us to her persuasions, arguments, and en- postponc our marriage, and made a re. treaties, once more conquered my reso. port of the whole affair to the eccle- lution; and, fondly cherishing the -- siastical court. god alone knows the pleasing anticipation of future happiness, · reasons which induced them to resolve which her ardent imagination sugar upon a new proceeding, which annulled gested, in a fatal moinent, we followed their former decision : but sure i am, his rash counsel. that the distraction of the unfortunate whilst inwardly convinced of the traveller, who feels himself reeling innocence and rectitude of our intenso down the edge of an unfathomable tions, we indulged ourselves in a dream precipice, can not be compared to mine, too blissful to be durable, she felt that :) when i was summoned to appear before she was soon likely to become, a mother. « them, and heard the overwhelming sen with a tender embrace, her eyes raised , tence which prohibited our union. and in gratitude towards heaven, she com- then her tears, her grief, ber misery- municated this intelligence to me; at. to deseribe our feelings, would be far tempted not to conccal her situation : beyond my powers; i cannot, will not from her friends; on the contrary, pro. do it-it would only give unnecessary claimed every where, that i was the pain to your friendly heart, and shake father-that she never would acknow. that resolution, which will, ere long, ledge any one for her husband but me, be so necessary for my own support.' and that already, in the sight of god, here the unhappy man paused for she considered me as such, trusting that some ininutes ;-tears no longer to be the event would facilitate the dearest restrained, burst from his eyes ; and wish of her heart-our so long protract- mine, i acknowledge, flowed freely : he ed union. in short, by the intentional perceived them, gratefully pressed my publicity we gave to the affair, it quickly offered hand, and continued his sad came to the knowledge of the magis. tale. tracy, who once more resolved to inter- the deeree of the church ordered fere, and summoned us to appear before us to remove to separate habitations, but them. neither of us hesitated to con- neither forbade my seeing nor conversing fcss the whole; and the natural, though with my stop-mother, as she was now by us unforeseen consequence of our denominated, as often as i pleased. avowal, was a fresh investigation, in- all hope had not yet vanished, of once mediate separation, and imprisonment, more changing our destiny by a new which however, was, for her mitigated representation; and as my persuasions to confinement to her own house. even and arguments alone withheld the yet i believe, and my friend, the advo- wretched girl from adopting the most cate before mentioned, confirmed me in desperate measures; and my own min my opinion, that the whole might at : sery found its only relief in her society, last have been happily brought to a con- now become indispensable to my happi- clusion, had not an unexpected event ness, i was by her side from morning confounded all who were favourable to till night, yet still guiltless as ever. our cause, and plunged us in disgrace and alas! a neighbour, who was often misery. with us, and who manifested real com “to be brief : she, to whom confine, passion for our sufferings, had the im- ment and separation from me, were in i prudence one day to say before us, that supportable, attempted to escape-was. were he in my place, he would not scruple detected, brought back, and, notwith- to pursue another course: that the standing her condition, treated with to object of the court was merely to extort inhuman severity. at this news, my ti money from us, and that, in his opinion, a former patient endurance was changed (feb. , remarkable confession of a condemned malefactor. " into despair and madness. flight and fore, and my death unavoidable; but her deliverance, were, from that moeven this reflection strengthened my inent, the sole and anxious objects of my desperate resolution, once more, to dare thoughts; and, in the state of mind in all hazards-to succeed or perish. my which i then was, i considered but how jailor belonged to that class of rough to accomplish the first, without having hardened wreiches, in whosc, breasts imagined the means by which i could every feeling of humanity seems totally effect the second. excinct. one day i surprised him asleep. i contrived to make my escape unob- despair gave me strength; i found served, that very night; and i was means to yet rid of iny chaios, stole the already beyond the walls of my prison, key out of his pocket, and was already cre i reflected how i could succeed in half out of the door, when he awoke, rescuing her, and carrying her off with and sprang furiously after me. i was me. whither we should flee, or how the younger, and, in the scuffle which we should live, seemed at that moment, ensued, proved likewise the stronger. trifles, which necessiiy would easily and i grappled with him, and seizing him by quickly teach us. how to get to her the ihroat, fastened nin with so firma was my only difficuliy. were i once grasp to the wall, as to render it impos- taken, noching could be more certain, sible for him to cry out for assistance. i than that i should be closer confined then demanded of him to swear not to than before, and deprived of every future betray my escape, but instead of reply- chance of escape. what was to be ing, the wretch, vnperceived by me, done for our preservation must be drew a knife from his poeket, with which quickly done, as i could not assure my- he attempted to stab me in the back. i, self that my absence would remain un- however, wrested it from him; and as discovered another hour. whilst a clearly perceived, that if he lived all thousand plans, no sooner formed, than chance of saving my own life was lost, i rejected, rushed across my mind, the buried it twice in his throat, left hjin idea presented itself, of setting fire to dying on the ground, and fed. again i the house, or raiher woodea borel, in reached ber i adored in safety ; for she which she was confined; and, amidst the was, i well knew, on accouut of her dan- alarm and confusion this would occasion, gerous state, allowed to be at liberty on to force my way to her, bear her through bail-and once more we resolved to fly the flames, support her in our flight, together. but the retributive arm of whilst my sirength sufficed, and to trust the avenger of blood was close behind to circumstances for the rest. this pro- me- we were pursued, retaken, and ject was no sooner conceived than exe- now, within a few days, an ignominious cuted: a neighbouring lamp afforded and inevitable death awaits me. oh me fire, and the dry wooden work of the how welcome to me is its approach!-is house soon burst into a flame. i was, it possible, think you, i can regret to unrecognized, among the first to give leave a world, which has brarded my the alarm, rushed safely through the name with infamy, and heaped upon my flames, and bore ber, half dead with soul an accumulated mass of the deepest terror and surprise, beyond the city and most irremediable misery. gates. but, alas, low seldom does our here the unfortunate man concluded strength second our will! the exertions bis history, and heroically bas he kept i had already made-the weight of my his promise of patiently, yet firmly, sub- beloved burthen--the length of the way, mitting to his fate. oh! i could tell and my own bodily weakness from long you much of his courage in the last aw- confinement, overcame me about a mile ful hour-of his heart-rending interview from the gates of the town, and i sank with his miserable wife-of his repent. senseless upon the ground; exhausted ance, piety, and holy confidence of par- by fatigue and loss of blood from a wound don, but you must forgive me if i break i had received in my neck during the off this long leiter abrupily. this poor fire. my unhappy partner attempted yoaih has become so dear to me, that i to support me; but in vain ; her weak- can not think of him without tears; and ness required assistance for herself. - if yours have not already fallen over his besides, we were already missed, our melancholy history, the blame must lie pursuers arrived, secured us, and once upon the unskilfulness of my descrip. more dragged us back to our prisons. tion, which may have weakened the in- "i was now, as i had foreseen, and terest and compassion his unhappy fate dreaded, more closely confined than be. would otherwise have excited." .); some account of the life and travels of u. j. seetzen. some account of the life and olympus in mysia, and determined the travels of mr. c. j. sestzen, ' geographical position of many points. the english, french, and gerinan at smyrna he met with several euro, papers have made frequent mention of peans, among whom were, the traveller mr. sectzen, the traveller, whose pre- bartholdy, the prussian clergyman usku, mature death has excited the regret of who had travelled through syria palat- all the friends of science ; and as his tine and persia, and the russian prince name is well known to our readers, we oczakow, who hnd peneirated into the doubt not but they will peruse with in- interior of asia minor, and of egypt. terest, some connected details of the un- though abandoned by his companion happily short career which he passed jacobson, who could not bear the climate through in a manner equally useful and of asia, seetzen proceeded on bis jour- honourable. ney. he quitied smyrna on the d of mr. seetzen was born in the princi- october, , and with a caravan tra- pality of east friesland, in wesiphalia, versed the defiles of mount taurus, and and studied at göttingen under the ce- arrived on the d of november at lebrated blumenbach. he had scarcely aleppo. he stopped there more than a left the university when he published year, and employed that time in the several essays on subjects of natural study of the arabic, in collecting orien- history, statistics, and political eco- tal mss. for the library of the duke of nomy, which did bim great credit. about saxe gotha, and in composing several this time he conceived the project of meinoirs, which have been inserted in visiting the east, and the interior of various german publications. africa, and prepared himself accordingly on the th of april, , mr. seet- for that great enterprise. in he zen went to damascus, where he was published his project, and inserted in a very well received by a french physician german journal, a memoir on the man of the name of chaboceau. being suf- ner of rendering such a journey useful ficiently master of arabic to jispense to science. the dukes, ernce and ain with an interpreter, he was able to pene- gustus of saxe gotha facilitated the exe- trate into various parts of syria and cution of his project; in the first place, palcsiine, which no european had yet by supplying him with some instruinents traversed ; and to visit, with advantage, of which he had need to make astrono. those countries formerly so rich and so mical observacions; and, in the second, celebrated when the ciries of philadel- by allowing binn, for the whole time of phia, gadara, gerassa, capitolias, pella, lis absence, a considerable pension, part &c. flourished. having pui on the of which was destined to pac his ex- arab dress, and assured the name of pences, and the oiher part to purchase misa, seetzen set out from damascus objects that mighi be interesting for the on the st of may, , aceompanied, arts and sciences. sometimes by greeks, sometimes by it was in the monih of august, , druses, sometimes by mahometans, that mr. seeizen set out on lis journev, and often alone, because nobody was accompanied by one of his countrymen willing to expose himself with him to be of the name of jacobson. he proceed- molested by the bedouins. on the fifth ed by the way of vienna, pesth, ga- day of his journey he was suddenly sur- latza, and bucharest; passed mount roaded by a troop of arab horsemen, hæmas, and arriied on the th of de- and would infallibly have been plundered cember at constantinople. the ambas- had not the portable medicine chest, sadors of the european powers received which he had among his effects, caused him kindly, and showed themselves in- him to pass for a physician. he saw clined to favour the continuation of his the provinces of trachonitis and aura- journey. the russian counsellor of niiis, so famous in the time of the ro- state, mr. frodiag, who had long resid- mans, and went as far as the eastern ed at mocha in southern arabia, and extremity of the hawran, iphabited by the learned orientalist, mr. joseph von the druses. the number of inscriptions hammer, furnished him with very nu- and of ruins which he met with exceeds merous and useful notices, respecting all conception. on a small extent of the countries be intended to visit, which ground he found fourteen témples of contributed materially to the success of roman construction, an amphitheatre in his researches. after a stay of six months pretty good preservation, an aqueduct, at constantinople, mr. seetzen quitted twenty leagues in length, ancient mau- that city and proceeded by land to soleums of the form of those at palmyra, smyrna; he visited on the way mount three gates of a city of great beauty, some account of the life and travels of u. j. seelzen. (feb. le and many of the ruins which seem to date church, advised him to throw aside every from the times of the greek emperors. thing that might tempt the cupidity of the houses in this country are all built the arabs, if he wished to continue his of basaltic stones; and those black journey to the east of the jordan and masses in the midst of a country desti- the dead sea. he therefore wrapped tute of trees and shrubs have a singular himself in a ragged blue linen shirt, and appearance. the inscriptions which in an old robe-de-chambre; and having mr. seetzen copied are all in greek, and covered his head with a wretched cotton they will certainly throw much light on handkerchief, in this costume traversed the ancient prosperity of those countries those inhospitable countries, barefoot, as well as the causes of their decline and sleeping, for the most part, in the in the month of june, , seetzen open air. to add to the misfortune, returned to damascus. after a short it was precisely the season of the great stay in that city he again set out, to visit fast, so that mr. seetzen, wishing to successively the heights of lebanus, the pass for a greek christian, was obliged to famous forest of cedars, the magnificent live entirely upon bread and oil. among ruins of balbec, the temple of venus the curiosities which he remarked in aphacita, situated near the source of this excursion, we will mention the the river ibrahim; which temple was caverns hollowed by the hand of man, so destroyed by constantine, with many common to the province of el botthyn, other monuments ot antiquity hitherto and a little tribe, who have no other unknown. he saw, among others, an dwellings than these subterranean caves, inscription carved in the rock, near the but the most interesting discorery mouth of the river kelb (the lycus of which he made, was that of the mag- the ancients) which proves that it was nificent ruins of dschevrasch, the an- marcus aurelius who had the hanging cient gerasa, near the village of szuf, road made which runs along the sea-side twenty leagues to the south of damas- at this place. it is to be regretted that cus. these ruins, according to his de- mr. seetzen was not provided with a scription, are not inferior to those barometer, that he might have deter. palmyra and balbeck. not to men- mined the height of mount libanus, tion innumerable fragments of columus, respecting which we have not at present temples, and palaces, mr. seetzen saw any sure data; it must be considerable, there two superb amphitheatres of mar- since under a latitude of about thirty ble, three temples, a beautiful gate of degrees the snow upon its summit re- a city, a piece of wall, of an enclo- mains unmolested the whole year sure a league in length, and a great through. in traversing libanus and street, having on each side a row of antilibanus, mr. seetzen saw two curi- columns of the corinthian order; one ous convents, that of kussheja, inhabited end of which joins a semicircular place, by maronite monks, where there is a surrounded by sixty columns of the syriac printing office, and that of mâr- ionian order. "unhappily, mr. seetzen juhanna-schuvoier, of the greek reli- could not remain long enough among gion, which possesses an arabic printing- these precious ruins to examine them office. in detail: it is to be hoped that another after he returned to damascus, mr. will finish what he has so successfully seetzen made preparations to visit the begun. amman, the ancient philadel east bank of the jordan and of the dead phia, whose origin is, probably, more sea, as well as the provinces, which, in remote than the time of the romans, the time of the romans, bore the names was also found by our traveller to con- of moabitis, ammonitis, galaditis, amo- tain a great number of fine ruins, which ritis, &c. his friends in vain dissuaded would deserve to be investigated with him from this journey as extremely dan- care. gerous ; he persisted in his project, and a in a place called es szalt, the beaut- merchant of damascus, who had traded tiful vegetation of which is the more for thirty years with the arab tribes, striking, as the environs are sterile de- offered to serve him as a guide. on the serts, scetzen became acquainted with th of january, , he left damas- an arab poet, who recited to him a cus, dressed as an arab sheik, and pro- poem of his composition, in which, ceeded on his journey. after having during the french invasion of syria, he visited hasbeia, cesarea, and the lake of had invited the christians of that coun- tabarieh, or tiberias, he arrived at the try, to join the standard of bonaparte. village of el hossn, the inhabitants of m. seetzen afterwards traversed the which, who are christians of the greek frightful rocks and precipices which are .). some account of the life and travels of u. j. seetzen. on the east and south banks of the dead west, afforded mr. seetzen great facili- sea; and after eight days, passed in fa. ties in getting acquainted with the dif- tigues and dangers of every description, ferent dialects of the arabic language, he arrived, on the th of april, at the in procuring information respecting the couvent of terra santa, at jerusalem, regions of asia and africa which ho where he was welcomed with the great proposed to visit, and in collecting many est hospitality. on the th of mayoriental m.ss. as well as a vast number left jerusaleio, went to jaffa, and thence, of valuable articles, relative to the sci. by sea, to acre ; where be remained till ences of antiquities, mineralogy, bo. the end of the year, employed in drawing tany, and zoology. up his journal, arranging his collections. in the month of may, , seetzen and making preparations for a new visited the province el feium, the py- journey to the south of arabia. it ap- ramids of gizeh, the grottoes of the pears that, in the interval, be maile a mummies, near sacara, and the great second excursion through the eastern lake situated near birket-el-koerra: on parts of syria and palestine. at least, his return to cairo, he publicly em- he wrote a letter to one of his friends, braced islamisin, the only means of being dated acre, nov. , , in which he able to visit, without danger, the holy said: “ within three days from this cities of mecca and medina; as well as time i think to recommence my travels: all the provinces occupied by the wecha- i shall go first to nazareth, thabor, bites. nablos, jerusalem; i shall again go after an abode of about two years at round the dead sea; i shall go to beth- cairo, during which mr. seetzen made lehem and hebron, and thence i shall such progress in the study of the arabic, proceed, by a new route, across the that in the sequel he was frequently desert, towards mount sinai; whence taken for a native of arabia, he res i shall pass on to suez and cairo.” turned to suez; and, in this journey, the details of this journey are com- made himself acquainted with the cer- pletely unknown to us; according to all tainty of the existence of the ancient appearance, the letters in wbich he gave canal, which joined the nile with the an account of them are lost. we first red sea. the bed of this canal is from find our traveller again at jerusalern, at one hundred and fifty to one hundred the moment of his departure for he- and eighty feet in breadth: it begins at bron, on the th of march, . in the north part of the gulf of suez, goes this last town be sought for a guide, to in a northerly direction towards the conduct him across the desert: a be- lake of el memlahh, situated nine douin agreed to do it, but not without leagues from suez, and traverses a long many difficulties; and mr. seetzen set and narrow valley: it probably joined out on the th of march. several days the nile near to birket-hudseh." were spent in passing the mountain of on the eve of his departure for arabia ti (called in the bible seir) and after a deserta and arabia felix, mr. spetzen march of twelve days, during which he wrote to one of his friends in europe had not met with a single habitation, or a the following letter :-“the dangers of human being, be arrived at the convent the journey i am going to under- of st. catherine on mount sinai. he take are represented to me, as very staid there ten days, ascended to the formidable ; i am told that the wecha. suminit of mounts horeb and sinai, and bites, masters of akaba, and moileh, the mountain of st. catherine. he massacre every person whom they con- determined, by astronomical observa- sider as an infidel; and people pro- tions, the situation of the convent, and phecy me nothing but misfortunes. i collected a great deal of curious informa- cannot dissemble to myself, that the tion respecting those countries, which dangers to which i am going to expose are so interesting in the history of the myself are very great: but when i think human race. - towards the end of april, on the fine discoveries whicll await me seetzen quitted mount sinai, and re-- at aileh, assium, taraum, median, &c. paired, first to suez, and then to cairo, i do not hesitate to brave them." where he again found all the enjoyments in fact, he set out on the th of of civilized life, in the house of mr. ro. may for akaba and wady-musa; but setti, the consul general of austria. . he could not penetrate to those two the city of cairo being a place of places, because the bedouins hindered passage and of rendezvous for numerous him from continuing his route “is caravans, both of merchants and pile not be," said one of them to seet." grims, coming from the east and the zen's guide, “the christian why for" new monthly mag.- no. . vol. xi. some account of the life and travels of u. j. seetzen. [feb. , a long time past has been hovering over take the plan of the city, and the map our country in all directions? you are of the environs, as well as to draw six- wrong to introduce him among us: he will teen different views of the holy mosque. bring us nothing hut misfortunes. he he also determined, by astronomical is the same man who came from syria observations, the situation of mecca ; two years ago, who was always writing, and was assisted in this operation by a and whose enchantments are the cause native of the country, who was at once that no rain now falls in our country, an astrologer, a grocer, a mathemati- and that we are perishing with drought; cian, a maker of almanacks, and a ca- advise bim to withdraw from these parts, suist. if he will not be the victim of his teme. in the month of march, , mr.seet- rity." zen returned to djidda, and set out for mr. seetzen was thus obliged to re- yemen, accoinpanied by a well informed turn to suez; he again left it a short arab. they went by water to hodede, tine afterwards, and went by sea to thence continued their journey by land, tenbua and djidda, two ports in the and visited successively bet-el-fakih, red sea. there he assumed the dress sebid, the coffee plantations of hadije, of a pilgrim, and repaired to mecca, to kusma, doran, sana, taes, aden, and pass the month of ramadan, or the mocha; in this last city, mr. seetzen great fast. “i have goue seren times had the pleasure again to meet with round the kaaba," he wrote to one of europeans:--captain rudland, dr.bar- his friends; “i have devoutly kissed the thow (a physician), and mr. benzoni, a black stone; i have seven times per- merchant. the letter which he wrote formed the sacred course from szoffa from mocha to mr. von lindenau, dated to merruch; then i had my head shaved; nov. , , is the last that was re- and i have obtained permission to lay ceived froin him. the following is the aside my pilgrim's habit, and to resume conclusion of it:-“ if the collection of my usual dress." curiosities which i have prorured at in the month of november, seetzen cairo, arrives safe in europe, i hope returned to djidda, where he purchased that the long stay i have made in that several curious m.ss. early in ja- city will be approved of, and i also nuary he made a second pilgrimage flatter myself, that my journey to to mecca, of which he speaks in his let. arabia will not appear useless. i have ters in the following manner:~"'this still to examine in this country, the city presents now a very different scene provinces of hadramut and omar, as from what it did at the fasts of rama- well as the south coast from aden to dan. all the streets are crowded with the persian gulf; and i intend to set people. more than a thousand make at out upon this expedition in a few days. once the tour round the kaaba, and kiss i shall go first to sana, to buy some with fervour the black stone. the more important manuscripts, which are crowd is such, that one is every moment destined to enrich the library of the in danger of being suffocated: and, duke of saxe gotha. i shall see the when once borne away by the torrent, city of mareb, and the famous dyke near it is absolutely necessary to follow it. that town: then i shall visit some ports we see here united, arabs of the pro- on the arabian sea, situated more to the vinces of hedscha, yemen, hadaamut, east. i shall endeavour to obtain some and oman; wechabites from nadsched; information respecting the language moors and negroes from the interior of of the bedouins of mehra; i shall africa; persians, afghans, indians, in- then penetrate into the province of habitants of java, tartars, and turks. oman, and shall return by sea to one must have been a spectator of this mocha. my desire of becoming ac- pilgrimage, to form an idea of the reli- quainted with the interior of africa, is gious enthusiasm of the musselmen." still as ardent as when i first announced mr. seetzen having been admitted by my project of visiting it: if i live, i an inhabitant of mecca to the greatest think to undertake this journev as soon intimacy in his family, was initiated into as i have returned from my tour in all the mysteries of islamism. he staid arabia, and i hope that the mask of more than two months at mecca, em- islamism will prove as useful to me ployed in drawing views of the environs. there, as it has hitherto been." it was not easy to conceal this operation after this letter, written from mo- from the eyes of musselmen. however, cha, which was received in europe in he succeeded in doing so. though in- , several years elapsed, without any cessantly observed, he found means to information respecting the fate of mr. .) some account of the life and travels of u.j. seetzer. seetzen. in , mr. buckingham, an bined courage with perseverance; and english traveller, communicated the fol- who to all these advantages joined the lowing particulars to mr. von ham- quality of haggi, that is to say, a pil- mer:-during his journey from djidda grim who has visited the holy cities, to mocha, mr. seetzen had obtained which makes him who bears that title, several manuscripts, and many objects an object of veneration to all mussel- of natural history, which he intended to men. send to europe. he had scarcely ar- short as the career of mr. seetzen rived at mocha, when the dola or go- has been, yet what he has accomplished, vernor of that city seized on his col- places him on the list of the most cele- lections, which he thought contained brated travellers. his numerous astro- treasures. having found nothing in pomical observations serve to determine them to tempt his cupidity, he sent more exactly the geographical position of them to the iman of sana, on the several cities of syria, palestine, and pretext that the owner made use of them arabia ; the map of the dead sea and for magical operations. mr. seetzen, its environs, which he has drawn, gives after having in vain solicited the dola us a clear idea of a country, concerning to have his collections returned, resolved which we know so little. the discovery to apply in person to the iman of sana, of the ruins of dscherrasch and of and set out in the month of october, philadelphia, opens a new career to . a few days after his departure, archæologists; and the inscriptions information was brought to mocha, by he has brought from them, will pro- the arabs who accompanied him, that he bably throw new light on the history of had died suddenly at taes; and that those eminent cities. the accounts according to all appearance, he had been wbich he gives of damascus, acre, poisoned by order of the iman. mr. cairo, suez, djidda, sana, and mocha, seetzen, before he left mocha, had en- and above all, of the holy cities mecca trusted his most important papers to and medina, which are accessible only mr. benzoni, who was to forward them to musselmen, are more circumstan- to his patron, the duke of saxe gotha: tial than any that we yet possessed : but by a fatality which it was impos- the information respecting the map- sible to foresee, benzoni, being seized ners, customs, and laws of the arab with a mortal disease before he could tribes, as well as the topography of the execute his commission, delivered his inhabitants, and the government of the papers to a chief of bainans, in the central provinces of africa, which he service of the english east india com- collected, either by his own observations, pany: the dola was informed of it, and or in his conversations with travellers took them from him, so that we must from those countries, greatly enrich consider the journal of mr. seetzen's geography; lastly, the oriental manu- journey in arabia, and the collections scripts, as well as the antiquities and which he made there, as lost to us. natural productions which he has sent other travellers have pretended, that to the duke of saxe gotha, furnish mr. seetzen was still alive, in the hands highly valuable materials to those who of the iman of sava; but their accounts desire to study the languages and natu- merit little confidence, since eye wit- ral history of the east. nesses have attested his death; and it is. some of mr. seetzen's letters to besides, not probable, that the iman of messrs. von zach, hammer, and lin- sana would have ventured to keep so depan, have been published in several long in prison a musselman, who was german journals. from them we have known to have made the pilgrimage to extracted many of the details contained mecca. in this short sketch of his life. mr. the name of seetzen must therefore seetzen's journal from the moment of be added to the list of martyrs to the his first setting out in , till his de- love of knowledge. his death is a parture from cairo in the month of great, and probably, irreparable loss. april, , put in order by himself, is what might we have expected from a in the hands of his family, who, it is journey into the interior of africa, in- said, intend to pablish it. dertaken by a man thoroughly acquainted our readers will most certainly join with all the dialects of the arabic lan- in the wish, that this intention may be guage, who was inured to fatigue, whom speedily carried into execution; but we an abode of nine years in the east, had are sorry to say, that we have not yet rendered familiar with the manners and seen in the german journals, any ad- customs of the musselmen-who com- rertisement of the publication of that t on the language in which an historian should write. [feb. , part of the fruits of mr. seetzen's la- dr. ****. that may be, my lord, bours, which has been preserved. to that may be; but notwithstanding this, the above sketch, which, though imper- you will excuse me, if i maintain, that fect, is, howerer, authentic, and the your countrymen are still, generally only connected account yet published in speaking, far from possessing a true this country, of the labours of this per- relish for the works of the ancients; severing and intelligent traveller, we and will, probably, remain so as long as have only to add, that the last letters vour historians continue to compose in from vienna state, that circumstances english only. have transpired, which have given rise lord c. in english only? i fear i to a hope, that a large collection of do not perfectly comprehend vou. in valuable articles, sent by mr. seetzen, what other language should an historian will be recovered, which have hitherto, write? do any of your's compose in whether by accident or design, been greek or latin? detained, on their way to the place of dr. ****. alas! herein consist my their intended destination. fears for the future. formerly, my lord, formerly they did so; but for mr. editor, the last thirty years, this excellent to those of your readers who are custom bas gradually been neglected by sufficiently versed in german literature, thein. and now, most uncontrover- to be aware of the revolution which has tibly, we have much degenerated since taken place among the men of letters in the times of melancthon, leipsius, and that country, since the middle of the camerarius--that golden age is past, last century, the inclosed conversation, never to return. which is stated as having actually oc- lord c. (smiling). but are there not curred, inay not be uninteresting; as still many among you who persevere in presenting an example of the prejudices using the ancient languages? which kept the gerinans so long desti. dr. ****. oh yes! heaven be prais- tute of works in their own language, ed ! we have yet some excellent latin by which alone a national literature writers left. can be formed, and debarred them l ord c. and pray can any of these from assuning that rank among the excellent latin writers make their own nations of europe, to which the later shoes? exertions of gothe, wieland, lessing, dr. **** (contemptuously). what &c. have so worthily exalted them. s. makes you ask such a strange question? on the language in which an lord c. or can any of them stitch historian should write. the leather for their own boots? (from the german.) dr. ****. for heaven's sake! my during a short residence at l***g, lord, what can you he aiming at? lord clarke was introduced to a gen- lord c. and yet they write good tleman, who then enjoyed the highest latin? reputation among the literary circles of dr. ****. undoubtedly: but what germany. in the course of the conver- connexion can there be betwcen writings sation, which turned upon ancient lite- latin and making shoes ? i am quite rature, his lordship evinced such an in the dark. intimate acquaintance with the writings lord c. oh! nothing can be clearer, of the sages of greece and rome, that dr. the rich and noble are the only per- dr. * * ** catching his hand, enthusi- sons among us who are enabled to devote astically exclaimed, “how delighted i their youth to study. their exertions feel at having met with one of your rank are directed to the discovery of the in life, and who is, inoreover, an eng- hidden causes of the operations of na- lishman, yet, who unites an ardent lore ture, of the springs of human actions and for the learning of the ancients, with so events, to the removal of injurious pre- clear a judgment and perception of their judices, the annihilation of errors, and beauties!" the enforcing of moral and religious lord c. many thanks for your kind truths. by their labours, the groat partiality, dr. ****, but your admi- actions of our ancestors are preserved ration, though it flatters, somewhat for the instruction and incitement of our surprises me. these are but our school youth, and the events now passing in studies. every englishman, if not ab. the great theatre of the world, are solutely destitute of industry and abi. transinitted for the benefit of posteritv. lities, gains this knowledge in the course in short, their lives are devoted to the of his education in our colleges. study of sciences requiring reflection, $ .) biographical notice of sir peter leycester. investigation, and judgment, and en- to confer reciprocal benefits. but tailing small degree of expence. if our literati were to persist in com- their end is to instruct their fellow- posing in a language, of which the body creatures, and, more especially, that nu- of the nation are ignorant, would they merous proportion of them, whose time deserve that the latter should labour for is chiefly occupied in trade and manual them? thus, dr., do the british think; labour; by giving to the world the re- thus do they act; and i have too high sult of their enquiries, and by making an opinion of the good sense of the them wiser to inake them better. now germans, not to anticipate their appro- if this result be not conveyed in a lan- bation and imitation. besides, we con- guage comprehensible by that class, their sider the improvement of the lower aim and end are totally defeated. if classes to be at once the best safeguard they use the learned languages at all, to our revered constitution—the most they contine them to such works as can acceptable acknowledginent we can make be useful to the learned only. for these to our creator, of our gratitude for the jaudable intentions, for these real ser- advantages he has been pleased to con- vices, and not for mere lucre alone, do fer upon us-the surest barrier against our free born peasantry toil for our anarchy, and as affording a far nobler benefit and convenience; and willingly and purer mental gratification, than the afford us that leisure of which we stand often misplaced applause of a dazzled in need, long as we continue world. biographical notice op sir peter leycester, the celebrated antiquary, with a view of tabley house, his seat. an m ine sir peter leycester was a man of sir peter was born on the d march, persevering activity, as an antiquary, , and married elizabeth, the third and his name is fondly interworen with and youngest daughter of gilbert, lord the history of his native county. his gerard, of gerard's bromley, in staf- family was ancient, and truly respect- fordshire, by eleanor, daughter and sole able, he being descended from sir nicho- heiress of thos. dutton, of dutton, esq. las lercester, knt. seneschal to lacy at whose seat the marriage was solemn- earl of lincoln, and constable of ches- ized on the th nov. - . on the th ter, in the reign of edward i. who be- aug. , he was created a baronet, cainc possessed of the village of nether and in , published his “ historical tabley, by marriage with margaret, antiquities, in two books, the first treat- widow of robert de denbigh, and ing in general of great britain and ire- daughter of geoffry dutton, ancestor to land ; and the second containing parti- the warburtons of ailey, lately extinct cular remarks concerning cheshire, in the male linc. faithfully collected out of authentic [feb. , biographical sketch of sir peter leycester. histories, old deeds, records, and eri- and then i caused him to print this latin dences; “whereunto is annexed, a tran- dedication of my owne, whiche he did, script of domesday book, so far as it and sent me some of them downe; pro- concerneth cheshire; taken out of the misinge me withall to insert this, and not original record.” this book was printed the other, into all the reste of my bookes in folio, and as a motto on the title page then not sold of-but i see he juiles my is- expectation.-p. l." “ frustra fit per plura, quod potest fieri sir peter is not the only author who per pauciora." has made this discovery, when too late the work is curiously arranged ; the in- to apply a remedy! troductory chapter, containing a genea. the fact, of the substitution of the logical descent of the different nations of dedication, is not, i believe, known-at the world from the sons of noah, and least not to the literary world. it is a the general history “ of brettaine"-of curious circumstance, and worthy of the romans, and saxons, and normans being recorded. -of wales -of scotland-of ireland. this work of sir peter's gave rise to cheshire-of the earls of mercia- a long controversy with sir thomas the earls of chester-the great officers maynwaring. the mainwarings claim of the palatinate-the antiquities of descent from the ancient earls of ches- the hundred of bucklow, &c. &c. ter, by the marriage of one of the family the copy which i possess, was, i be- with amicia, daughter of hugh ceivi- lieve, that of the author: it was printed lioc, about the year . in his ac- for robert clavell, and has an en- count of the earls of chester, sir peter glish dedication--" to his most serene gives an unequivocal opinion as to this and most excellent majesty charles ii. said amicia : “ if hugh ceivilioc (he by the grace of god of great britain, observes) had no other wife but bertred, france, and ireland, king, defender of then amice must certainly be a bastard, the faith, &c. this volume of historical for she was not a daughter by bertred, antiquities is, with all humility, dedi- as is granted on all sides. but hugh cated by his majesties most loyal and ceivilioc never had any other wife but most obeclient subject, peter leycester." bertred : ergo, amice was a bastard." it would appear, however, as is fre. this stigma on the family blood could quently the case in these days, that the not be borne by sir thomas ; he there- author and his publisher disagreed; for fore published “a defence of amicia, i find written on the back of the title daughter of hugh ceivilioc, earl of page the following address and observa- chester, wherein it is proved she is not tion _ a bastard." to this sir peter replied, ► augustissimo ac potentissimo principi, in “ an answer to sir thomas mayn- carolo secundo, dei gratiâ magne bre- waring's book, entituled,' a defence of tanniæ ffranciæ, et hibernice régi, ffidei amicia, &c. london, , vo." three defensori, &c. of these pieces of genealogical artillery " author ipse, non nisi pace vestrå re- were fired on each side, but without ei- gali prius impetrata, se soumo. librum ther party retreating from his first posi- ad pedes majestatis vestræ omni cum humi- tion. ballads were circulated through. litate provolvit; quippe-qui sub vestris out the county, ridiculing this war of dum prodeat alis, tutior vagetur per terras : pamphlets; and, at last, the matter was opus sanè tantæ maiestati impar ; utpote brought fairly into a court of law. a cujus summi imperii amplitudo sublimio- trial took place at chester, in , rem mandet calamum. hæc omnia (de quibus versatur) tua sunt: proin tute tibi- when the right of the dispute was ad- ipsi fias patronus; quia tibi præter teipsum judged to be in favour of sir thomas par nullus est. cui omni qua potest, reveren- wainwaring. sir peter did not long tia devotissimus vester ligeus hoc laboris sui survive the decision; he died on the specimen. d.d.d.-petrus leicester. th oct. , and was buried at great " this is the author's dedication to budworth, where a handsome monu- the kinge: but mr. clavell (who had ment, with a long latin inscription is the printinge of this booke committed to erected to his memory. him) caused the dedication (as you see sir john fleming leicester, bart. is in the page immediately before *) to be the present representative of this truly put in english, thinkinge thereby the respectable family. bookc would sell the better: but that the old family scat, a view of which dedication in english is none of myne; accompanies this memoir, stands upon an island, in a most romantic situation; * the english dedication. nearly adjoining to which is tabley . on the causes of variations of climate in this country. this country. chapel. this was the favourite resi- state of the winds and of the direction dence of sir peter leycester. and progress of the clouds, as they are dec. , . devanus. wafted in various, and often opposite, directions, by conflicting currents of air. whatever opinion may be formed observations on the causes which of the feasibility of our speculations, the occasion the variations of cli- researches upon which they are founded mate in tiis country. will not, we trust, be deemed one of the in announcing to our readers our in- least curious or instructive portions of the tention to furnish them monthly with a miscellaneous department of our work. meteorological diary, kept at a village air, like all other fluid bodies, has a two miles southward of the metropolis, necessary tendency to expansion, and to and in communicating to them, in the effect a perfect equilibrium. hence, miscellaneous department of our present it has been remarked, that when a wind number, the details of such a register has prevailed for a long time, and with to the th of the last month, we great force, from any point of the com- avail ourselves of the occasion to offer piss, and has gradually subsided into a some cursory remarks on a branch of calıo, that a wind in a contrary direction, the science of meteorology, which, al- and for nearly an equal duration, has though not wholly uninvestigated, has, succeeded it. this fact, we think, may nerertheless, attracted less attention, be explained easily and accurately, upon and has given rise to fewer philosophithe datum already stated. the stream cal disquisitions than its rcal importance, ofair, so long and so powerfully impelled, considered referentially either to the in the direction to which it was origi- health, comfort, convenience, or interest nally wafted, would necessarily produce of all classes of the community, and of an atmospherical incumbency and accu- erery individual of each separate class at mulation in that quarter; but when the all periods of his existence, would appear impelling force is withdrawn, the mo- to have deserved. mentum of the atmospherical pressure it is not our present intention to take in the quarter to wbich the torrent an historical review of the various of air has been so directed, will neces- theories which the difference of tempe- sarily create another eddy or stream,with rature in a great diversity of climates, an opposite bias; and the wind, so pro- or the alterations in the state of the at duced, will continue until the elemental mosphere with respect to heat or cold, balance is restored. we are aware, dryness or inoisture, in the same climate, that exceptions to this doctrine may be and at correspondent seasons of the year, adduced ; that it appears to be wholly have produced ;* nor shall we now ex- inapplicable in the atlantic and pacific napplicable in tend our researches to the important im- n- oceans, at a distance from the continents provements which have taken place in the of asia, africa, and america, where the various scientific instruments that have wind invariably blows from the colla- been invented with the view of success- teral points of the east (or rather, in fully prosecuting such enquiries. todo this instance, the potency of the prin- justice to these great subjects, not one ciple above mentioned, is counteracted brief essay, but a series of elaborate te by the presence of a more preponde- dissertations would be required. our rating agent); and likewise, that the design is limited, on this occasion, to a nearness of a great continent, the height consideration of the proofs of that hy- and configuration of the land, and the pothesis, which professes to establish, ish, vicinity of lofty mountains, covered with upon the basis of patient and long con- perpetual snow, are all of them causes tinued examination, the possibility of which produce modifications of this ele- prognosticating, not indeed with infal- mental law. nevertheless, its influence lible accuracy,but with such a reasonable generalle nr generally prevails, and our meteorolo- degree of probability, as the nature of gical journals abundantly attest the the case will admit, the approaching fact. thus, after a warm and wet changes of the weather in great britain winter, during which, in our climate. at the different seasons of the year; the wind has almost invariably blown. by an attentive observation of the from the south and south westerly points. - the springs which have succeeded them, + vide works of professor leslie: mis- have been regularly bleak, cold, and sion of astronomy to quito. travels of dry; and the direction of the winds humboldt, and philosophical transac- from the east and north east; although tiops. another hypothesis has been suggested, on the causes of variations of climate in this country. [feb. , for the prevalence of the late mentioned months. a north west wind, in this winds in the spring, yet we appeal to climate, rarely continues for more than our meteorological records, whether the two days; but it is indisputably the pur- cause we have mentioned, has not been est, the most healthy, and exhilarating of at least equal cogency. the state of wind we possess. the winds during the last unusually in the summer, the principal agent in warın and dry summer, and their din producing warmth, is an easterly wind. rection afterwards, may be alleged as an the influence of this wind in that sea- additional evidence of the validity of son is entirely opposite to its effect in this reasoning. the winter or spring, and is readily ex- opposite currents of air in different plained by two considerations: first, its regions of the atmosphere have been re- extreme dryness, and the very small peatedly remarked, but the influence portion of vapour exhaled into the air, of this phenomenon upon the tempera. in the progress of the wind over the ture of the climate does not seem to have immense continents of europe and asia. been duly weighed. in the winter we and, secondly, the great accumulation are often surprized when we experience, of reflected heat which it acquires, not after a long and severe frost, a sudden only by passing over a vast, arid, or thaw, accompanied with a moist fog, al parched surface, but which it also de- though the wind appears to blow with rives from innumerable metallic, clayey, undiminished strength from the east or or silicious bodies, all of which imbibc, re- north east. this change is entirely pro- tain, and reflect a great portion of the duced by the agency of a south or south solar warmth, and consequently, trans- westerly wind in the superior regions fuse into the easterly wind, a steady of the atmosphere, wafting hither the and permanent heat. the greatest ele- warmth and moisture of the equatorial re- vation of the thermometer is always ex- gions; which, although not sufficiently perienced, when a current of air from powerful, in the first instance, to change the south, in the higher regions, is ge- the direction of the lower wind, diffuses, nerated during the prevalence of an nevertheless, a considerable portion of its easterly wind below; the weather is influence into that wind, until it wholly then extremely sultry, dark, ragged, elec- supplants it. when this last mentioned trical clouds are produced, of the most alteration occurs, it is commonly followed beautiful and fantastic forms, which by by a tempestuous gale from the south degrees extend over the whole southern and south west. the application of the horizon ; the mercury in the barometer doctrine of the effects which a superior rapidly descends; and the result is a and contrary current of air has upon thunder-storm. whilst this state of the lower one, will account for a south things continues, a careful observer of westerly wind sometimes producing an the circumstances now adverted to, will intense frost, and an easterly wind being direct his eye not to the east, but to the accompanied by close and warm weather. south, if he wishes to form a correct frosts which commence with dense and judgment of the probability of rain. moist fogs, or in a perfect calm, are rarely barometrical observations in all sea- if ever permanent. no dependence can sons of the year, although of essential be placed upon the duration of any frost, utility, do not, unless taken in combina- which is not preceded or accompanied tion with the state of the winds, both in by a steady east or north east wind, fol- the higher and lower regions of the air lowed by snow. upon a careful examina- as indicated by the course and density tion of meteorological records, it will of the clouds, afford any certain results. be found, that a severe winter does not a variety of causes, exclusive of a tep- occur in this climate above once in seven dency to rain, will effect the range of or eight years; and that, in other win- this instrument. before, or in high ters, the proportion of north, north winds, whether accompanied by rain or easterly, and easterly winds, to south or not, the mercury descends. a violent south westerly winds, does not exceed storm of wind, at a great distance, will to or . in ordinary seasons, a produce a sudden depression, and in strong northerly wind occupies the su- very hot weather the mercury will re- perior region of the air, in the months main nearly at changeable, although the of november and december, while the weather may be dry and generally serene lower wind generally prevails from the for many days, and then the quicksilver west and south west. to this collision will rise. it may commonly be observed of currents may be ascribed the frequent that the variations in the barometer are alternations of frost and thaw in ihese rather evidential of a certain tendency. .] hamlet and the grave digger- it ulter scoll. in the atmosphere to dryness on mois- the present probable meaning of the text ture, than to be regarded as infallible of our great tragic poet. precursors of rain or dry weather. this subject is curious, at least to my own mind, but my time does not hamlet and the grave digger. suffice to investigate it; and therefure i mr. editor, have proposed it to others, whose leisure i take leave to propose to your nu- and sources of information may be more merous and enlightened correspondents, ample than those of your obedient, bum- a few queries, with a view of illustrating ble servant, alex. jamieson. differently, or confirming in its present popular acceptation, the quaint remark of the grave-digger to hamlet, that a anecdotes op eminent persone. tanner will last some nine years (in his no. ii. grave). walter scott. . can it be established, as a chemic t he life of a poet seldorn abounds cal fact, that oak-bark will preserve a with much to interest illic attention; dead body for a great length of time in his days are spent in seclusion and study, the carth? and it he does sometimes renture into . can the wood be defined that con the world, it is into that part of it not vers, in apparent splinters, the ancient fertile of adventure. the field's mommies ? - is it oak, teak, cedar, or liis stulr ; nature is his book." the what? is it the same of which the mum- dangers he encounters are those of inial coffin is made? or can any analo. fancy, as are inany of the pleasures he gical reason be assigned, why, from is supposed to enjov. he draws boldly these splinters, we may infer that the on the bank of fiction, but sparingly on ancient egyptians buried their common that of reality; and those who look for dead in oak-bark-lined coffins ? singular events in his life will look in . what evidence is there to prove vain. his occupation is a solitary one: that the two bodies, in the highest state he derives his importance from his ge- of preservation, lately discovered in the nius, and il vou enquire into his domes- vaults of st. saviour's church, in the tic habits, they will be found similar to borough of southwark, were interred those of other men, except as being more in oak-bark-lined coffins? or, which is scdentary they appear less ainiable. the same thing, in coffins, the vacant an exception may, however, be made space of which was filled up with oak- in favour of the subject of the following bark? anecdotes. the country which had the . did tanners, in the days of shak- honour of receiving into being walter speare, use oak-bark in tanning, or, scott, is the land of the muses, where how else did they prepare their leather? every valley is an arcadia, and every and if so, are we to ascribe the length- mountain a parnassus : inspiration ened preservation of a tanner's carcase breathes around. the soul of a spen- in its grave, to a previous chemical pre- cer, a drummond, of llawthornden, paration to resist decay, from bis trade? and a burns hovers over the scene; and in this case, what would the ratio of none can trend the soil without recol- preservation in the grave be to the time lecting a name dear to every lover of a man had been a tanner? or are we nature, thomson. llere also fought rather to suppose that some ancient rite “the li'allace;" and here the rival of of the druids sanctioned the interment homer; here ossian sang in straias of bodies in oak-bark pits ? or that, sublime the praises of fingal and th sine causá, and by mere chance, a tanner sorrows of colma. no man possessing might be packed up in a coffin, the vathe smallest spark of poetic fire in hit cant space of which was filled up with bosom, but would here soon find it chopped oak-bark, as being nearer at kindle into a flame, which fanned by hand than saw-dust; or a peculiarity of the breath of amor patriæ (for which the trade, something like the interment the caveronian is so deservedly cele. of an indian warrior, with the tools of brated), niust produce the very soul of his occupation in the chase, and “ the song. field of the red coral die ?" walter scott appears to be smit . what analogies are there to be ten in a great degree with the love of traced, what consequences to be drawn, country, and tainted rather strongly in the answers to these questions, that with the pride of ancestry; and yei, may give a new illustration, or establish contrary to general opinion-contrary, new monthly mag --xo. . vol. xi. (feb. , anecdote of walter scott. to all the accounts which national vanity in boyhood, walter scott was never has given of this eminent and irregun attached to childish amusements. at larly sweet and soothing bard, he was seven years of age he went to school, not ushered into a bright and pleasing under the tuition of a person named existence from the down bed of prospe- more, presenter* to the kirk at muse rity. in carly youth, selburgh. mr. scott carried with him to school " adversity, companion of his way, long o'er her victim hung with iron sway." such knowledge as we may suppose & youth of seven years of age capable of it has been propagated by his ad- ? ad acquiring from a father very attentive mirers, and the colouring of his poems to his little favourite in every respect. sanctioned the opinion, or rather gave in fact, he could read well, and had such rise to the opinion, that he is a near rela- a propensity for drawing, that all his tion to the noble family of scott, duke books were scribbled over with rude of buccleugh, (a family whose munificent figures of men, houses and trees, when- benevolence does honour to scotland ever he could get a pen or a pencil. at and the human race); this is not cor- this early age we may mark this fact as reet. he is most certainly a deccend- the dawning of a poetical genius ; poetry ant of that noble race ; and probably and painting are closely allied as has a little of the wizard, michael scott's music and love. this taste for draw.. blood in his veins. at all events, the the iny did not advance with his advancing nur did not lianne « witching tales" he has told lead us to vwsthouch we have seen a sketch of think so. he is a very distant relation is of the port of loch lomond, taken indeed of that noble house. but the from the west side, in , very well “boast of heraldry, the pomp of power," executed; it is done on a blank leaf of cannot add any thing glorious to the lector vanill's noring and is now in name of walter scott. ennobled by possession of captain fullerton. like his superior talent and genius, he has no wilton, swift, and other great geniuses, occasion for assistance from the records he was, as the latter said of himself, of stirling castle to spread abroad bist bis at school “ very justly celebrated for naine, and hand it down to posterity. his stupidity," perhaps much of his the buccleur family does no honour stupidity was owing to the want of to the name of walter scott: he does tolentin loes talent in his master or rather his want of honour to them, and of him they have method in the art of teaching. be that reason to be proud - prout as a great as it may, young scott certainly did not and good man-proud of hiin as one of shineitii shine in his early career as a scholar. he the sweetest bards that ever tuned his learnt to read, write, and attained a to. harp on moray hills, and assisted in lerable knowledge of the mathematics. giving immortality to the mountain tain in latin he did not advance far until in latin he did no scenery of iis native land, and the in- his tenth vear, when doctor paterson, vincible courage of her gallant children. a clergyman of the church of scotland, the father of walter scott was a well succeeded to the school at musselburgh, informed man and a gentleman, his mo- and the progress of young scott became ther a woman of the most amiable dis- rapid. dr. blair on a visit at mussel- position, with more common sense than burgh, shortly after mr. paterson took in general falls to female share, and was charge of the school, accompanied by the intimate friend of allan ramsay, some friends, examined several of the blacklock, and burns. it was her who pupils; he paid particular attention to moulded the mind of her son, and gave and gare young scott. mr. paterson thought it him that excessive tone of sensibility was the youth's stupidity occupied the which breathe througli all his works. she doctor's time, and said, “ miv predeces- wii reumarkably attached to rural life sor tells me that boy has the thickest and the poets; and to her runbling in ing in skull in the school." -may be so," re- plied dr. blair, “but through that thick book in one hand and her son in the skull i can discern many bright rays of other, we are indebted for the land- future genius." scapes in "the lady of the lake," and ! iese bºuntiful de criptions of the * presenter is a situation in which the highland scenery, which whilst we are same duties are to be fulfilled as those of a perusiny, we acouilly imagine befre clerk of the church of england, but they o'?r (vpy; and it is not until we hire are all men of excellent education, and often ünished the sentence or period, that we more learned than the minister who sits awaken from our dream of rapture. above thein. .) dr. gough, garrick, curran. dr. gough and david garrick.* rize him in thus setting before his friend when the well known mr. rigby in the strongest light, liis unseen error. in used to leave town, to spend some time so doing, he performed one of the strict. at his seat at mistley hall, in essex, he est offices of friendship. plutarch relates generally had large parties, as well of antisthenes to have said, 'opus esse rel persons invited from london, as froin amicis ingenuis vel acribus inimicis. ili the neighbourinr country, and the ril- quippe convitiando illi inonendo, a pro laves of mistlev and manning. dur- catis avertunt,' curran clased him- ing ten years residence in the same self amongst the former, and gave tie neighbourhood, which commenced just above proof of it to lord avonmore, after mr. rigby's death, i became ac- who valued it as it deserved. on the quainted with many of those who had contrary, tu such a degree did lord been in the habit of visiting at mistlev hall. clare carry his antipathy to curran, that who used to relate numerous anecdotes he often took with him to the bench a of the scenes which they had there favourite dog, and occupied that time witnessed. the following always struck in caressing the animal, which should me as affording an instance of repartee, have been bestowed in attention to this peculiarly happy, and may, perhaps, be eloquent pleader. on one of the days new to the reader. among the visitors in which he received this insult, and at the hall, dr. gougli and garrick perceived the head of the judge gently were invited to pass some time there shaken, as expressing his opinion of the together. the former, it seems, was a slender ground on which he had to sup- great admirer of good living, and be- port the case in which he was concerned, came, on that account, an object of gar- he took the opportunity of gratifving a rick's ridicule. one day, he ordered a slight revenge, by introducing the fol- servant to take notice of whatever dr. towing philippic in his aildress to the gough might eat or drink, and to put an jury : --" gentlemen of the jury, said equal quantity of the same dish or be- he, you may think me discouraged by verage, into a large punch-bowl, which the awful motion of the head, by which was to be ready on the sideboard for the learned judge seeing to show an the purpose. this was accordingly unfavourable opinion of the merits of done; and when the company was about my client's case; but when you shall to rise from table after dinner, garrick have attended before his lord slip a desired the punch-bowl to be brought. he then expatiated upon the enormity of always evident to me, that when his the doctor's appetite, and set the com lordship dues shake his head, there is pany in a roar of laughter at his expence. nothing in it. the doctor very calmly listened till another anecdote of curran is their mirth being exhausted, he addressed highly declaratory of his abundant the company as follows:--“ gentlemen, humour, and the great simplicity from the very great familiarity with for which, as for his deer learning, which mr. garrick has been pleased to his friend, lord aronmore, was re- treat me, you have, doubtless, been led markable. our orator's opponent, in a to believe that he and i are old and cause which he was pleading before intimate friends; i can, however, assure lord aronmore, having thrown out you, that till i inet him here, i never some allusions as to the poverty of cur- w him but once before, and then i paid ran's client, at the end of his reply, he five shillings for it!" addressed the court thus:-“ my learn- london, dec. . h. e. l. ed friend has laid some weight on the poverty of my client, and has attempted curran. to urge it as a fact detracting from his credit. this reminds me, and i am in the anecdote of curran, as related in our number for october last, of the sure reminds every one to whom i now address myself, of the passage in hesiod, practical method he adopted, of con- the celebrated greek' historian, in his vincing a judge that he was in the habit of anticipating the deductions of those phantasmagoria.- nil habet paupertas pleading before him, lord clare is in- durius inse quam quod ridiculus ho- troduced instead of lord avonmore ; mines facit." with the latter he was living in constant lord avonmore, who bad been all habits of intimacy, which would autho- attention, here interrupted him, saying, “ mr. currran, you are under a very great mistake in this quotation; the • this was dr. gough, author of several lines you have repeated are batin, and works on british antiquities. hesiod was a greek poet, and uo his. original and seleet poetry. feb. , torian: beider, i thought i knew all assert, they will find them greek.” his works, but never heard of his phan- lord avonmore perceived, at last, the tasınagoria. prav recollect yourself." fight his witty friend had permitted his “ indeed, my lord," he replied, “ the genius to take, and heartily enjoyed the quotation i made, was greek, and from joke, although he concealed it from the the work i oamed." “ what, mr. curs court.-the liberties taken at the irish ran," said the surprised judge, "o you bar render this fact perfectly credible. persist? you inust have strongely for. at another time, lord avonmore gotten yourself; you certainly repeated was sitting next his friend at a club, to latin." “ my lord,” retorted the which they both belonged, when the witty counsel, “there is no one, if former was lost in one of those absent a point of law he urged, to whose de- fits, for which he was too much noted. cision i would more readily bow, than on the health of the absentees being to your lordstip's; but is to a mere mat- strank, curran shook his lordship by ter of fact, like the present, you must ex- the sleeve, whispering that the company cuse me, if i venture to differ: how bad just drank his health, and that he ever, to settle the point in question, was thought unmannerly in not acknow- if your lordship will permit me, i ledging it. after an eloquent speech of will send up the lines, as a collateral acknowledgment thus elicited, curran iseue, to the jury; and i will renture to informed his friend of the mistake. original and select poetry. the partino. mirzala. by the author of the perses to “oclaria." (prom an unf. nislied dramatic poem.) yes, in her eye there lived unto the last, forget thee!--no, never ! - why cherish a a strange, unreal light--a fearful glancem thought wild, vei inost beautiful ;--and o'er her 'gainst the friend of thy soul with injustice cheek so fraught? llues of such passing loveliness would stray, why embitter our fast fleeting moments of as seemed pot of this earth; but rather cauglit, by suspicion so wild and unfounded as this? like the electric heams that dart across forget thee! no, never !among the the roseate clouds of suminer's softest eve-- light-hearted from the high heaven above. l'pon herlip love may sink to decay, when the fond ones ilung bland persuasion, eloquently mule ; are parted; and, in her very silentness there dwelt but affection like ours is too deep and sub- music's best hair-expression! she had jime borne, to be chilled in its ardor by absence or with an untiring spirit, many a grief, tine : then, emily, tunish all doubt from thy and sickness that had wasted her in torm., ilad tainted not her soul, for that was pure breast ! as the last itar that pity draws from by the kiss that so late on thy lips i im- love! a. a. w'. - prest- by the grief that has blighted the bloom of so yet, my years-- by the hope that still calls forth a smile ! fritten sereral years ago, and intended as introductory to a volume of jurenile thro' my tears- poems. by the hour of our parting, thus sweetly delayed for these wild flowers here twined into a by truth, firmly tried-and by trust unbe- wreath, trayed it in their lowliness they 'scape the doom i will pot forget thee!-till life's latest ray to brighter hues decreed--the blasting in the darl: night of death shall have melied breath away; of critic fury--they, perchance, may mid ambition--fame-fortune--and power, bloom and gladness, a little hour; and from the fatal gloom pain--and peril, and hate, and contention of deep oblivion, some short respite claim. and sadness-- then, ye stern censors, spare, oh! spare tho' changes the darkest and brightest awhile berde, should nonght be found to praise-your thy friendship shall soothe ne-thy coun- rigid blame; sela shall guide, nor rob a youthful minstrel of the smile. and thy memory at once be my solace and which, else, may be his meed; who, pride! beguile .] original and select poetry. his wand'rings thro' life's sharp and thorny lines, way, on the funeral of the ret. thomas hath sought the converse of the tuneful barnes, d.d.. which was attended by a choir ; thunder storm at the moment of the ce- oft " lapt his soul” in poesy's sweet lay, remony. and courted—not in vain--her sorrow. the great in arms who wade through blood soothing lyre! a. a. w, to fame, making demand of praise prescriptive, claim the evening bells of cintra. the muse's wreath; and when they sink in • (from the portuguese of luis de camoens.) death, by j. mitford, esg. the flattering marble apes the flattering breath. hark to the evening bells' sweet chime!-- be mine the nobler- the more christian hark to the sound that dies o'er the hill! task- the watchword of life, by father time, justice demands what virtue would not is given--and all around is still. ask, if all is still,--why beats my heart? to breathe the lines which thoughts of ifall is still,---why heaves this sigh? barnes create, ah, no! when the fondest lovers part, whose blameless life could death and words flow from the lips, and tears from grave defeat: the eye. o'er both triumphant, he hath ris'n to heaven, i saw her form, and her white robe flowing, to the breath of the forest wind gently : so to claim the seat to such as him is given. when round his opened grave the mourners wave; heart pulse, heart pulse, why art thou stood, lightning spread wide-the clouds pour'd glowing dowii a food. at a glimpse of next world from the brink nk on those falling drops were tears from se- of the grave! raphs' eyes-- she is gune-she is filed, like a meteor in tears such as flow from sympathetic joys; heaven, those sheets of liquid fire, the fork-like that leaves not a trace of its course in the sky! was heaven illumin'd-and the awful crash vaidly i gaze, to despair nearly driven, was not the thunder by which worlds are while the light clouds of evening boat riven, silently by. but angels chaunting-“welcome, barnbb, ilark! 'tis the sound of the evening bells! to liearen.'" inspiring religion !--my sorrows are to fanny. milnight advances :-how solemn her spells, no, i never have envied thy smile, they whisper, “ we'll meet, where we'll tho'so lovely--ihou mutable fair; part, love, no more" nor deemed there was aught to beguile, in a bliss each nev-coin r might share. they whisper, eugenia, that thou wilt be mine, tho' the rose is a beautiful how'r, in spite of the court, and the courtier's ere'tiscilla from its sirainz: thurn, apeils : yetits blossoms scarce live thro' an hour, long shall the bard bless mary's shrinet lion various busoms 'tis worn. lung bless the sound of the evening bells. unprized are those favours by me, each fool has so frequently rained; • the evening bells is a favourite air iu port - for sure of light worth must that be. gal, particularly at coinbra. the author has ad. which is no sooner sought than attained. hered, as nearly as translation would permit, to arion. the measure of carnoens, rude as it may be consi- dered. it is a style of verse which may not ap. imitated from martial. pear musical to a mere english reader, bul which yes, methinks that i could, without weep- is by no means unpleasant to those who are ac. quainted with the portuguese language. ilamlet, ing, resign as translated by the jesuit francesco peroussa, now both thy beautiful eyes, tho' so fondly archbishop of elba, reads, in this sonorous tongne, they languish; uncommonly well, though if delivered upon the and thy lips-- tho' they often have mur- stage, loses a great part of its effect; as the portu. mured to mine guese have no performer who can be called a re- the soft tones of delight, i could lose spectable tragedian. without anguish. + mary's shrine, at estiforza, is a place much sesorted to, and a " dip in mary's well," (a for thirty years one of the ministers of the spring issuing from a rock iu its vicinity.) is cousi presbyterian congregation of cross street, man. jered equal in vituo to papal absolution. chester. llc died june , , ag d . flesh, [feb. , original and select poetry. epigrad from the french to be brief ;--thou hast held so ungente a sway o'er the heart that was given by love to by t. pilgrim, esq. thy keeping, you say, whene'er abroad you roam, that, at length, from thy chains it hath you meet with none but fools and asses. - stolen away, would you avoid them?-keep at home, and methinks i might learn to lose all bui-hark yel-break your looking without weeping glasses! w. a sketch taken from dover castle zonry- during a storm. her crew of fiery spirits--- where are they? (from the literary gazette.) 'tis midoight: eyeless darkness like a blind far scattered groupes, dejected, hurried, and haggard witch, with power to loose and tread bind the beach in silence, where the shipwrecked the spirits of the elements at will, dead draws her foul cloak across the stars, until lie stiff and strained: among them (bumbling those demons she invok'd to vex the waves thought!) have dived and hid them in their ocean they seek their friends--yet shrink from caves : what they sought, and they are fled -- tho' still the mighty as on some corse the eye recoiling fello heart thoʻlivid, swoln--but recognized too well! of nalure throbs ;-and now that hag doth apart-disturbed in spirit --- breathless- start pale- her swarth cheek turning pale in bitter her unbound tresses floating on the gale spite a maiden hastened on :--across her way for, ihro' her brow she feels the cold moon- as tho' he slept--a lifeless sailor lay: light she paused, and gazed a moment-shud- shoot like a pain, as on a western hill dered, sank the setting planet of the night stood still beside that victim on the wave-washed just parted from a cloud. no more the hank blast bent shivering lips to press his haggard wailed, like a naked spirit rushing past, cheek, as tho' it sought a resting place in vain. but started backward with a loathing shriek! the storm is lulled; and yet it is a pain to tell what wreck and ruin strewed the the cold and bloodless aspect of thy lover! shore; their tale is brief. the youth was one of each wave its freight of death or damage those bore! who spurn the thought of safety and re- here, stained and torn a royal flag was cast, pose, there, lay a broken helm, a shattered mast; whilst peril walks the deep:-where'er dis- and oh! the saddest relic of the storm, played- yon wave conveys a seaman's lifeless form: the hag which sues for succour has their aid- 'tis morn :-the waving mists with shadowy the foemans or the friends ;--do pausing sweep then draw their cold curtains slowly from the to question who implore them- they are deep: men! 'tis mora :-but gladness comes not with a noble race-and, tho’unfam'd,unknow- her ray: a race that england should be proud to the bright and breathing scene of yesterday own! is gone, as if that gwiſt consuming wing he, with a few ag generously brave, had brushed the deep which smote assy had heard the death-wail rising from the ria's king, wave, and left his host like sere leaves withering! and in an ill-starred moment sought to save. the sea swells full but smooth; to passion's the life-boat reached the foundering ship- thrill, her crew, tho' spent her tempest,. heaves the young with greedy haste secured the rope it threw;, heart still: and, in the wild avidity for life, a bleakness slumbers o'er it - here and rushed reeling in: alas, that fatal striſe there, but sealed their doom ! the flashing billows some desolate hull, forsaken in despair, roar drives idly, like a friendless outcast thing above their heads--one pang-they strove which still survives the world's abandoning: no more! where are her sails--her serried tiera' dia- play- .) original and select poetry. he did not love uploved ;-for she who prest like a fiery gleam in the opening morn; tbat clay cold hand so madly to her breast, the shout is “ glory or the grave," beliered his vows; and, but for fortune's unclasp my hand-- tears--away! scom, the saracen shouts his last to-day. young love had smiled on this their bridal one kiss sweet lovego pray for spain--- morn: light every taper-pray for him, bat oh, his years are few who hath not felt whose soul may on that fatal plain, that, while we grasp, the rainbow bliss will but linger for thy parting hymn. melt; no-be that idle thought forgiven, that hopes, like clouds which gleam across we'll meet in bliss, in earth-or heaven! the moon, pulci. soon pass away, and lose their light as soon! the weltering mass she folds, but yester- stanzas night wrillen as an inscription for a tablet in heaved warm with life-his rayless eye was the chur the church yard of runcorn, in cheshire, bright: and, she whose cheek the rose of rapture ou stranger' let no ill-timed tear be shed for those who slumber here; spread, raves now a maniac-widowed, yet onwed: but, rather envy them the sleep and reekless wanderings take the place of from which they ne'er can wake-to weep! - why mourn--since freed from human ill, she fapcies joys that glow not nor can glow; the throbbing bosom, cold and still ? breathes in a visionary world, and weaves why mourn-since death presents us peace, a web of bliss_scarce falser than deceives and in the grave our surrows cease? the reasoning heart ;-oft sings and weeps, the shattered bark, from adverse winds, and now, here her last anchor drops, and finds entwines a sea-weed garland for her brow, sale,--where life's storms no more molest and says it is a marriage wreath. mean- a haven of untroubled rest! while, her calm vague look will dawn into a smile then, stranger ! let no ill-timed tear as something met her eye none else should be shed for those who slumber here; see, but rather envy them the sleep she folds her hands, and hends imploringly from which they ne'er can wake-- weep! to soe its stay ;-with wilder gesture turns, yet oh! if thou hast learned to scan and clasps her head, and cries, “ it burns, with feeling eve, the fate of man: it borns !" go weep for those still doomed to sorrow- then shakes as if her heart were ice. who mourn the past---nor hope the morrow; not long the soul the frame, could brook such ch for those, whose tears must ceaseless flow whose round of pain each morn renew; bitter wrong; who--if they dream--but dream of woe, beside her lover's, that distracted head rests cold and calm--the grave their bridal and wake! to find their visions true! bed! on a fine portrail, by masquerier, of a translation of the celebrated spanish lady standing before a glass (since dead.) romance, (from the new times.) " los moros vienen." she looks within the mirror, and her forin is from its dazzling crystal given again, there 's a sound of arrows on the air, in living beauty, yet a hue less warm a sound of the thundering atabal; reddens the lip ;-the blue pellucid vein i see thro' the trees the banners glare, wanders across a brow, where silent pain this eve they shall hang on the christian's sheds paleness on its polished ivory. wall; and the haughty hands that those banners le that those where the ruby of that cheek has felt the stain of tears that flowed unseen by human eye, bore, this eve shall be stiff in their own dark as from her pillow rose her midnight pray- er-lo die. . gore. theo leave me, sweet lady! thy starry eyes and so she died, --in early beauty died- a violet by its first soft shower decayed ; are made for love, and love alone; those glowing lips are for passion's sighs, & a flush of radiance on life's changing tide, a that form for the silk and the gold of a just seen and loved, and sunk in evening's shade; throne. before the dawning sky is red, a young sweet star-just risen--but to fade. yon plain shall be heaped with the dying and this fair image smiling in sad bloom and dead. on her, so soon in quiet to be laid, looks like her angel in its meekness, come hark!-hark!- 'tis the christian's battle to tell her of the tomb, her calm, her hal- horn; lowed tomb. behold the red-cross standard ware, pulci. ( ) (feb. , memoir of william wordsworth, esq. (with a portrait.) the penury of literary biography is a nal attachinent subsisted between them, complaint of long standing, and the just- of which a striking instance occurred ness of it is evident in the scanty me while they were both very young : when morials that have been left of the learn- one being furiously assailed by a much ing and genius of former days. anxious more powerful lad than himself, the to redeen our own times from the other, with affectionate gallantry, plant- charge of negligence, our constant ef- ing himself by the side of his brother, forts are employed in collecting from fought with such spirit, that the aggres- primary sources accurate information sor was obliged to desist. concerning the characters wliose por- of william, it is said, by those who traits give interest to our numbers. it were his contemporaries at school, that is is seldom, indeed, that the materials in his classical attainments he was con- obtained are copious or various, be- siderably above par, when compared cause pre-eminent merit is generally of with boys of his own age; while in eug- a retiring nature, and the delicacy of fish coinposition, both prose and verse, friendship is not easily prevailed upon to be frequently obtained the distinguished be communicative. commendation of mr. taylor, the head- such is the apology which we have to master, who was a man of great critical offer, whenever our narratives are con- judgment. the chief delight of the tracted within narrow limits, and when youth, even at a very early age, consist- the memoir is briet, because the dignity cd in reading and reciting passages of of truth prevents us from drawing upon the best of our pocts. before the invention to supply the puucity of facts. morning hour of repairing to school, be we trust, however, that in the present has bceu often seen and heard in the se- instance the biography will be found questered lane, cither alone, or with a substantially correct, and prove equally farourite companion, repeating aloud satisfactory to those who esteem the beautiful passages from thomson's sea- subject of it for his prirate worth, and sons, and sometimes comparing, as they those who, knowing him only by bis chanced to occur, the actual phenomena writings, admire him for the use which of nature with the descriptions given he has made of his talents. of them by the poet. at the age william wordsworth was born of thirteer, his genius was indicated in at cockermouth, of a highly respectable verses on the vacation, which procured family, april , . at the age of him the praise of the master; but it eight years he was sent to hawkshead should seemn that this incipient effort school, in that part of lancashire which did not quite satisfy himself, since we is separated from the county to which it are told that at the next returning sea- belongs by westmoreland and the sea. son of welconie relaxation from scholas- the grammar school of lawkshead was tic discipline, he composed another founded and endowed in the reign of poem on the same subject, which was queen elizabeth, by the venerable ed- also applauded by those to whom it was win sandys, archbishop of york, and it shewn. this stirring of the spirit of has ever been accounted one of the best poc within, was kept up and invigo- seminaries in the north of england. ra by the romantic scenery which two of its living ornaments are the sub- tem ted his youtliful steps to ramble ject of this sketch, and his brother dr. among the mountains, and along the christopher wordsworth, the present margin of the lake of esthwaite, near chaplain to the house of commous, rec- the school of hawkshead. tor of lambeth, and dean of bocking; llaviug laid in a good stock of gram- whose extremely acute and erudite let- mar learving, william wordsworth re- ters on the greek definitive article in moved, in october, , to the uni. confirmation of the late granville versity of cambridge, where he was sharpe's rule, procured him the patron- matriculated a student of st. john's, as age of the archbishop of canterbury, his brother, sometime afterwards, was of and the valuable preferments which he trinity college. here our author con- now so deservedly enjoys. tinued long enough to complete his de. the two boys were educated at the grees in arts, but without aspiring to, or same school, and though they had but attaining, the academical honours of little similarity of taste, a strong frater: wrangler or prizeman. during one of - - - - sie tiethars prince henry here yilliam wordsworth, esq. published, f: :' , , bv henry colburn, conduit straut. 是 ​。 」。 .] memoir of william wordsworth, esq. the long vacations, he made a pedestrian waves on the beach. sometimes he excursion through part of france, swit would meet them, as it were by accident, zerland, the savoy, and italy, accompa- in their walks, and by entering into fa- nied by a college friend. of this tour miliar chat with them, draw the conver- he wrote an account, under the title of sation on by degrees to politics, merely * descriptive sketches in verse," which to catch some clue to a discovery. all was printed in ; in which year also these arts, however, produced nothing, he published, “an evening walk, an and the man, very much to his honour, epistle in verse, addressed to a young gave so faithful a report of all his ob- lady from the lakes in the north of servations, that no farther inquiry was england." made, nor were the two friends apprised whether mr. wordsworth was in. of the snare that had been laid to entrap tended for any of the learned profes- thein, till a long time afterwards, when sions, we have not the means of know- all suspicion was completely removed. ing, but if such was the case, he disap- it was during this retirement on the pointed the expectation of his friends, by coast of somersetshire, that the “ ly- leaving the university altogether soon rical ballads" were planned and in part after his return, and amusing himself in written, “ as an experiment," says mr. wandering over different parts of the coleridge, whether subjects, which country. at length he took a cottage from their nature rejected the usual or- in the hamlet of alfoxden, not far from naments and extra colloquial style of bridgewater, in somersetshire, where poems, in general, might not be so ma- he either contracted or renewed an in- naged in tlie language of ordinary life as timate friendship with mr. coleridge. to produce the pleasurable interest, la this remote part of the kingdom, they which it is the peculiar business of lived almost in a state of seclusion, em- poetry to impart.* ploying their hours either in climbing these ballads, with some other the quantock bills, traversing the poems, appeared first in one small vo- vinding shores of the bay, or in sitting lume in , in which year the author at home, planning literary works. some- and his sister made a tour through part times, indeed, they visited the only little of germany, where they fell in with inn of the village, but here their conver- mr. coleridge, who, through the libe- sation was above the frequenters of the rality of the late mr. wedgworth, had place, and their character altogether been enabled to prosecute his studies in a such as to excite surprise and curiosity. foreign university. how long the tra- at this time the violence of the revolu- vellers continued abroad, we are not in- tionary tempest in france occasioned formed, but in , we find mr.words- much observation and dispute, not only worth settled at grassmere, in west- in the metropolis and large towns, but moreland, where, or at rydall, in that in every obscure nook and corner of the neighbourhood, he has continued to . british isles. such a subject could not, dwell ever since. in , he married miss therefore, fail to be agitated in the pub- mary hutchinson, of penrith, a young lic house where our two friends occa- lady of the most respectable connexions sionally spent their evenings. words- and exemplary character, who has worth had no turn for politics, and was brought him 'five children, of whom generally silent, but his friend, being at three, two sons and a daughter, are still that period a zealous reformist, took living. with such inducements to ac- such an active part in the questions tive exertion, and the aid of potent which arose, as to beget a suspicion, in friends, who hold his merits in high es- one person, that these two strangers timation, the poet might no doubt have were spies or incendiaries. this saga- distinguished himself in public life to cious politician was no other than the the lucrative advantage of his family. lawyer of the village, and having once but alike indifferent to the temptations formed this idea in his fertile brain, it of ambition and riches, he seems to have soon acquired the figure and substance imbibed the spirit of hooker, who be- of reality. every action of the sojourn sought his patron to remove him from ers was accordingly watched by a per- the bustle and intrigues of the world, to son employed for the purpose ; who,true a situation where he might see god's to his trust, traced their footsteps, and blessings spring from his mother earth, without being seen by them, placed him- and eat his bread in peace and privacy."... self in a situation where he could hear t he picturesque beauties of winder. their discourse when they sat upon a craggy cliff observing the dashing of the * biographia literaria, vol, ii. p. . . new monthly mag.–no. . vol. xi. [feb. , · fine arts. mere, and the scenery of the neighbour- flects credit upon the patriotic feelings hood, proved more attractive charins of the author. than the pleasures of artificial society; in mr. wordsworth published and here, in the bosom of a happy circle, the first portion of his long-promised our author enjoys the utmost tranquil- performance of “the recluse;" in a lity, on a moderate income, arising from large and splendid quarto. to this part a patrimonial estate, and the situation he gave the title of “the excursion ;": of distributor of the stamps for the coun- but of the rest of the work, nothing has ties of cumberland and westmoreland, yet seen the light, unless the story of which office he owes to the personal « the white doe of rylstone; or, the friendship of the earl of lonsdale. fate of the nortons," which appeared in mr. wordsworth gave to the in the same form in the following year, public a miscellaneous collection of be considered as an episode of the great poems, in two small volumes, of which a poem. new and considerably improved edition this last piece closes the list of our made its appearance in the year .- author's publications, on which we shall among the many additions which the observe, that if the character of a man author thought proper to make to this is to be inferred from his literary pro- last impression, were a preface and sup- geny, that of mr. wordsworth is at once plementary essay, both directed to the stamped with the genuine marks of na- same object-that of applying his prin- tive excellence; for no liberal reader of ciple of simplicity in composition to every his poems can rise from the perusal of species of poetry. them without sentiments of respect for the next original production of mr. that spirit of virtue which breathes in wordsworth was of a different cast, and every line. but we are assured that the one that from his turn and habits could poet is one who writes from the heart, hardly have been expected. this was a and who lives as he writes. they who bulky political pamphlet, printed in the know him most intimately, speak of him year , with a title remarkable for as constantly discharging all the relative its elliptical abruptness and prolixity.- duties of the husband, father, and friend, “ concerning the rolations of great with scrupulous fidelity and the most britain, spain, and portugal, to each affectionate tenderness. he is univer- other, and to the common enemy, at this sally esteemed in his neighbourhood for crisis ; and specifically as affected by the the benevolence of his disposition, the convention of cintra; the whole courteousness of his manners, his readi- brought to the test of those principles ness to relieve the distressed, and to pro- by which alone the independence and mote every design calculated for the ge- freedom of nations can be preserved neral benefit. to this summary of pre- or recovered." eminent talent and substantial worth, in this performance ministers were we may add, that he is a firm friend to censured, not for intermeddling in the the constitution, which is the same as affairs of the peninsula, but for neglect- saying that he is a loyal subject of the ing to pour into the heart of spain all king, and a sincere member of the their military resources. the essay is church of england. written in an energetic strain, and re- fine arts. meaning, in this important de pages of the new monthly magazine, so partment, with persevering efforts, to far from lessening our efforts, furnishes concentrate the attention of our readers only so many increasing motives for re- on our native artists, we shall, in the fol- doubled exertion. lowing general observations, endeavor in the first place, we consider it our to mark the intended spirit of our future duty to be unbiassed in our strictures on communications, by a reference to those all the subjects which affect the general causes which most immediately contri- interests of the british school. upon bute to the advancement of the fine these points we entertain long cherished arts, and the principles by which im- convictions. there is no right so essen- partial criticism ought to be guided. tial to the growth of a pure public taste, the approbation with which the public as the right of free and candid opi- have been pleased to honour the ar- nion, in discussing the merits of ancient rangements, and impartial variety of the and modern works of art. the more .) fine arts. men read upon the subject the more obtained from greece : but poussin they will understand it, and rise above the observed, that although when compared prejudices of anti-contemporarianism. with the moderns he was an angel, yet that impartial criticism, which en- compared with the ancients he was an dearors to do equal justice to merit ass. we are justly offended at so harsh without any regard to names or persons, an expression applied to the divine times or schools, is the true nurse of painter, who, although excelled in par- genias. no doubt, from the infirmity ticulars by some other painters, united of human nature, there will ever be some more of the qualities of a great master unconscious leaning, cven in the most than any other modern artist. the classical minds. but if any be pardon- inestimable benefit of the antique statues able, it is a leaning in favor of the is proved by the fact, that the italian artists of our own time and nation ; be- schools, which were formed more essen- cause this inclination is not only allied tially upon those models, such as flo- to virtue, being founded in our social rence and rome, excelled those, which, affections, public spirit, and love of like venice, were seduced, by colouring, country, but it is also calculated to ad- to neglect the study of form. the bis- vance the fine arts, by giving encou- torical painters of germany, flanders, ragement to living genius. it was, by and holland, are grosser instances of thinking well of their own time and peo- this neglect. raffaelle rendered ple, that greece, old rome, and mo- whatever he derived from the ancients dern italy, led the fine arts forward, subservient to nature, and the spirit of step by step, from feeble infancy to the the age in which he lived; and in his glory of their prime; and produced wise adaptation, as well as in his genius, their great artists and great works.' surpassed all other painters since the the countries in which this fostering revival of the arts. poussin, on the spirit is most felt, will make the greatest contrary, with all his great powerg, de- advance; and if greece produced the parted too much from living nature, and purest specimens of grandeur and beauty, the spirit of the age in which he lived, one great cause of her superiority may into that of the ancients, and is, thereby, be found in the circumstance, that after less simple and agreeable in his composi- her first rude lessons from egypt she tions, than if he had, like rappaelle, never diminished the force of this nan merged his imitation of the antique in tional attachment to her own artists, by the spirit of his own time. it is a nice looking out of her own dominion, and consideration, to weigh how far, after instituting anti-grecian comparisons in having assisted to elevate and ennoble favour of earlier times, and foreign italian art to a certain degree, the prac- painters and sculptors. old rome, after tice of unlimited or injudicious imitation the capture and plunder of syracuse, in of the pure and exquisite remains of the middle stages of her advancement, roman and grecian sculpture, did or derived incalculable advantages from the did not contribute with other causes of pure grecian models, but she never customs, manners, and costume, to pre- equalled the grecians in the last stage of vent italy, as in the instance of poussin, refinement, owing to her preference of from rivalling greece in the highest re- the military qualifications, the low esti- finements of form, character, and ex- mation in which she held her artists, pression. this would require much and the habit of constantly looking out room for discussion; but it is certain, from herself to a foreign and superior that wherever this invitation is not grace- school, whose forms were more obvious fully adapted to the spirit of modern than the pure principles by which they times, art must fail in originality, exbibit were produced. the discovery of so little beyond a dry repetition of cold pu- many antique statues enabled the italian rities and hacknied modes, and miss her inasters of the fourteenth and fifteenth great end, a power of exercising a mo- centuries to pass from the dry and mean ral influence over the understanding, taste of the gothic forms, to the simpli- through her hold upon the heart. one city and grandeur of the great style: great point, to which our present rea- but beside the difference of subjects, soning tends, is derivable from the cir. customs and apparel, they were like old cumstance, that italy having no roman rome, still as an inferior, seeking, in or grecian paintings to adorn her some degree, to excel by imitation. churches and palaces, their artists, in rappaelle reaped immense improve their advances from stage to stage, were ment from the ancient remains in italy, not subjected to an invidio!is comparison and the drawings and models which he with painters of other countrics and [feb. , fine arts. former times. the painters themselves whole body of our native artists and their looked beyond their own age and coun- patrons, the royal academy and try to the ancient marbles for principles; the british institution, more but the pontiffs, the italian princes and closely; and to establish the glory of nobles, and people, cherished and honour. england in the fine arts as triunph- ed their nutive artists ; they took a na- antly as our victorious fleets and armies tional pride in their works, aud it is to have established her fame in arms. . this national enthusiasm for their native we mean, in our nextcommunication, artists that the world is indebted for the particularly to ro'ice the fine series of grandest efforts of their genius. national medals executing by mr. mu- the preceding important truths can- die, in cominemoration of the british not be too often pressed upon the atten- victories during the late war. this ex- tion of england. a mind loaded with cellent artist, both as a man of ge- the mere events of history, without nius and spirit, has peculiar claims on tracing the changes in national charac- public taste and patriotism. the me- ter, may be likened to the area of a lancholy case of clennel, the painter, great city filled by an earthquake with comes before the public with an irresisti. a chaos of splendid ruins. the philoso- ble force, and shall, also, receive our best pher or statesman, who would furnish support and recommendation. lessons of wisdom for the guidance of in the meantime we insert the follow- social institutions, must look beyond the ing statement of the inelancholy circum- mere whirl of occurrences, and analyze stances which have given rise to the the principles by which empires have plan of a subscription to a print by emerged from barbarism to the highest bromley, froin this excellent painter's glory of refinement; and the neglect of picture of the battle of waterloo :- which, caused them to sink back into “ mr. clennell, the painter, is a na- their original rudeness and obscurity. tive of morpeth, in the county of northum- tv hatever other causes of custom, reli- berland, and was originally pupil to mr. gion, and imitation, may have contri- bewick, of newcastle. specimens of his buted to render the italian artists infe- talents, as an engaver on wood, will be rior to those of ancient rome and found in some of the most elegant publica- greece, we consider it an axiom that tions of the day. the beautiful illustrations the superiority of the italian schools, in of rogers's pleasures of memory, from the the best ages, over those of other coun- designs of stothard ; and the diploma of tries, since the revival of the arts arose the highland society, from a drawing by the venerable president of the royal aca- from the national pride with which the demy, (the largest wood engraving of the several states regarded their native art- age) are bo:h the productions of his hand. ists. the deep sentiment of religion, but his genius did not stop here. he had the splendour and power of the govern- not been long in london before he was ments, the munificent patronage and known to the public as a painter, and one esteem of the nobles, the praise of the too of no ordinary characier. possessing poets, the brilliant admiration of the an active and ardent mind, he saw and esti- nien of wit and talents, the applauding mated the advantages held out by the british energies of literature and the press, institution-he became one of its most assi- combined, with the popular feeling, to duous students, and soon distinguished him- self in its annual exhibitions. his rapid excite and keep alive an enthusiastic re- progress was marked by the admirers and verence and affection for their painters lovers of art; and the patrons of the insti- and sculptors. their artists were tution, ever ready to foster and encourage cherished as a treasure from heaven. excellence, early and munificently rewarded public writers were at liberty to canvas his exertions. their errors as men ; but an author, who - in the midst of this career of success, at would persevere openly in attacking the moment of completing a picture for the their professional reputation, and de- earl of bridgwater, representing the fete crying the genius of his own tinne, would given by the city of london to the assem- be considered an enemy to the glory of bled sovereigns-a picture which had cost his country; be treated with scorn by him unheard-of labour, and which he had the public, and receive any other pame executed in a way to command the admira- tion of all who saw it, even in its unfinished but that of a friend, or a lover of the and imperfect state-he was afficted with fine arts. the most dreadful of all maladies - the loss our sincere and constant efforts shall, of reason! he has been now for nearly two therefore, be directed to create a national years separated from his family and from pride in british genius, and a national society. this is but half the melancholy love for british art; to unite the tale :--his wife, fondly attached to him, .] new inventions and patents. attending him day and night, fluctuating dren, the eldest only eight years of age, that perpetually between the hope which the this publication is undertaken; and though glimmerings of returning reason still held the committee who conduct it cannot but out, and the almost despair which followed hope that the melancholy circumstances, in on his again sinking into confirmed luna- which these little creatures are left, will not cr-at the moment too when she seemed to fail to excite the commiseration of the pub- her friends to have overcome the severity of lic, yet their main reliance is on the excel- the trial, and was preparing to enter on some lence of the publication as a work of art. business, by which she might support her the picture selected is a spirited and splen- children, deprived of their father's aid-be- did composition, illustrative of a great na- came herself subject to the same malady, tional event: which, while it added much to which, being accompanied with fever, soon the military glory of the country, is still terminated in death. the death of a young more endeared to all our memories by its mother of a young family is always a most having given peace to a conflicting world. afflicting event. in the present instance, the “ the reward conferred on this picture visitation is singularly aggravater by the dis- by the british institution must be consi- tressing situation of the father, whose disor- dered as especially sanctioning the selection der becomes every day more decided, and of the committee; and the well known talents shose recovery is now placed almost beyond of the engraver are the best guarantee that hope." can be offered to the public for the excel- " it is to provide for three young chil- lence of the whole.” w. c. new inventions and patents. mr. matthew thomas, an american, which will, at one operation, cut and gather has invented a method, by contrivance of standing corn, and prepare the ground for a leverage, to propel almost all portable bo- crop of wheat or other grain, has lately been dies with extraordivary ease and facility.- invented by a negro slave in faquier county, every portable body to which this contri virginia. vance may be correctly applied, will, it is mr. maer, of kelso, has, by a simple said, be propelled with as much ease by one process, constructed an apparatus which borse as by two horses without its applica- produces gas sufficient to supply len differ- tion. he intends to apply it to mr. wood's ent burners, the flame of each far surpas- plough, which he has brought from ame- sing that of the largest candle, and which rica, for the purpose of introducing here, as completely illuminate his shop, workshop, it is said to be the best plough extant, both and dwelling-house, with the most pure pel- for cheapness and mathematical adjust- lucid brightness, the cost of which is only ment. about three pence per night. wax-cloth bags toan instrument lately invented in rus- have been invented, which, when inflated sia, the inventor has given the name of with gas, are removed at pleasure from place olimphikon (perhaps it should be the olym- to place, and when ignited, they answer all pikon). it is played like a harpsichord, the purposes of candles. by this process it which it also rescinbles in form; but the lid would seem that any person, with bags as is arched in a semicircle, and perforated with above prepared, may be furnished with gas many round holes. below is a pedal, and from the coal-pits, and apply the gas so pro- by this means a handle is put in motion, cured to whatever number of tubes for lights which probably turns a wheel covered with he has occasion for. leather or horse-hair. by the pressure of new patents. the keys, the strings are brought in con- thomas parker, of sevenoaks, kent, tact with the wheel; and accordingly, as the bricklayer, for his method of regulating and keys are touched with more or less force, a improving the draught of chimnies. dated music is produced which resembles that of oct. , . all bow instruments combined. a change of william finch, of birmingham, gentle- the stops causes it to resemble the flageolet man, for improvements in bridles. dated and the organ. the inventor refuses to oct. . shew the inside of his instrument samuel hobday, of birmingham, snuf- francis schuster, a watchmaker at fer-maker, for an improved principle in vienna, has lately invented a keyed instru- making of snuffers without any spring or le- ment of six octaves, which he calls the adia- ver. oct. . phonon. this new instrument, as the name sir william congreve, of cecil-street, indicates, possesses the advantage of keep- westminster, bart. for new methods of con- ing constantly in tune. it bears no aflinity structing steam-engines. oct. to the piano-forte, for its tone is something charles watt, of ratcliff highway, between the harmonica and the organ. it is surgeon, for gilding and preparing quills very simple in its construction, and resists and pens, by manual labour and chemical every variety of temperature operations, so as to render them more dur- a communication in the washington able and valuable. oct. . city gazette announces, that a machine, nicholas desforges, of bucklersbury, [feb. , letters from the hon. horace walpole. london, merchant, for certain improve- ter, for certain improvements in machinery ments in propelling boats and other vessels. for sifting cinders, and discharging them oct. . into a convenient receptacle ; which ma- john bogaerts, of air-street, piccadil. chinery is also applicable to other useful ly, gentleman, for a method or methods of purposes. nov. . raising and lowering water on canal locks. elisha hayden collier, late of bos- nov. . ton, america, but now of charter-house- edmund woolley, of bilston, stafford square, london, gent., for an improvement shire, for an improvement in the machinery in fire-arms of various descriptions, which for making wood-screw forgings. nov. . improvement is also applicable to capnon. james ingledew, of little college. nov. . street, westminster, licensed victualler, for james fraser, of long-acre, copper- the means of effecting a saving in the con- smith and engineer, for a new and original sumption of the ordinary articles of fuel, by junction of tunnels in a steam-boiler; also the application of certain well known mate new flues in the same, or the furnace con- rials. nov. . nected with its erection); the steam-boilet to moses poole, of lincoln's inn, gentle be for the purposes of lessening the con- man, for the application of known mastics sumption of fuel, the appearance of smoke, or cements to various purposes, such as mo and the trouble of attendance. nov. , delling statues, making slabs, raising or im richard wright, of token-house-yard, pressing figures, or other ornamental ap- for certain improvements in the construction pearances; also the covering of houses, and of steam-engines, and the subsequent use of in any other manner in which mastic or ce- steam. nov. . ment may or can be applied. nov. . henry matthews, of grelton-place, john grafton, late of london, now of east, bethnal green, for certain improve edinburgh, engineer, for a process or me- ments applicable to wheel-carriages or ve- thod of making carburetted hydrogen gas hicles of different descriptions, calculated to for the purpose of illumination. nov . render them more safe and commodious. james hadden, jun. of aberdeen, wool- nov. . len manufacturer, for an improvement in george clymer, late of philadelphia, preparing, roving, and spinning of wool.- but now of corphill, merchant, for certain nov. , improvements in ships' pumps, nov. . george james clark, of bath, work- john chancellor, of sacville-street, ing cutler, for an apparatus for the more dublin, watch-maker, for an improvement easily applying the drag to a carriage wheel. for turning the leaves of music books in a nov. . simple and effective manner, with or with- william styles, of islington, carpen- out pedal work. nov. . critical remarks on new publications. letters from the hon. horace walpole py a pre-eminent rank on the great the- to the rev. william cole, and others; atre of the world, are necessarily, to from the year to the year . some extent at least, actors; and it to. pp. . would be in vain to look to their public fit were demanded of a skilful limner, writings, expressions, and achievements, under what circumstances he would wish for a distinct and satisfactory illustration to sketch the portrait of a distinguished of their real sentiments and feelings personage, he would undoubtedly reply, in all circumstances, and upon every sub- when that personage was not only un- ject connected with their transactions as prepared for, but even unconscious of his private characters. such reflections na- design; he would then be enabled, not turally arise in our minds upon the peru- merely to represent the features of the sal of the present volume. the celebrity individual with pictorial accuracy, but, of the author, his elegant genias, and the what is of still greater consequence to clear and steady light which his commu- pourtray the characteristic lines impres- nications have thrown upon important sed upon his countenanoe, by the opera and dubious political events, in the reigns tions of the master passions and feelings, of george i. and ii. must, we conceive, which might happen to be peculiar to render the publication of so large and him, valuable a portion of his correspondence, these remarks, by a clear analogy of an epoch of no common interest in the reasoning, are strictly applicable to the literary and scientific world. the vir- private and confidential correspondence tuoso and the philosopher will here find of celebrated men. in a certain sense recorded, in the simple but striking lan- it may be affirmed, that all those whose guage of undisguised feeling, the work- situations and talents call them to occu- ings of a powerful and ingenuous mind, .) letters from the hon. horace walpole. stored with a rich variety of information ancient castle, (a very natural dream for a upon the greater part, if not all, of those head filled like mine with gothic story,) and subjects, with which they are most inti- that on the uppermost bannister of a great mately acquainted. the general reader eral reader stair-case, i saw a gigantic hand in armour. in the evening i sat down and began to write, of taste, will appreciate the graces of a without knowing in the least what i intended style, easy without negligence, occasion- to say or relate. the work grew on my ally forcible but never turgid, and hands, and i grew fond of it-add, that i sprightly without being frivolous. he was very glad to think of any thing rather will also admire the natural and exqui than politics. in short, i was so engrossed site strokes of satire which abound in with my tale, which i completed in less than mr. walpole's letters, and will perceive two months, that one evening, i wrote from that this illustrious man aims the pierc- the time i had drunk my tea, about six ing darts of ridicule with such consum- o'clock, till half an hour after one in the mate skill, that they never fail to pene- morning, when my hand and fingers were trate the vulnerable parts of his adver- so weary, that i could not hold the pen to finish the sentence, but left matilda and isa- sary, bella talking in the middle of a paragraph. the subjects of these epistles consist, you will laugh at my earnestness; but if i chiefy, of mr. walpole's researches in have amused you by retracing, with any fide- virtû, the opinions he had formed, and lity, the manners of ancient days, i am con- confidently avows, upon several of the tent, and give you leave to think me as idle most eminent literati of the times in as you please."" which he wrote, the origin and progress mr. walpole avows himself to be the of some of his most admired works, and author of a letter, supposed to have been miscellaneous remarks on men and man- written by frederick the great to jean ners. the political, we mnight add here- jacques rousseau. in the subjoined ditary, principles of our author, were passage of the thirty-sixth letter, he spe- those of a confirmed whit. he never cifies this furtive attack upon that sub- mentions his father sir robert walpole, lime but erratic genius, the "self tortur- but in terms of enthusiastic respect and ing sophist” of ermonville, affection. few of our readers, perhaps, “ rousseau is gone to england with mr. will be disposed to coincide with him in hume. you will very probably see a letter the lavish encomiums he bestows upon to rosseau, in the name of the king of prus- that minister; who, although not the sia, writ to laugh at his affectations. it has parent, was certainly a most successful made excessive noise here, and i believe nurse of corruption. the religious opi- quite ruined the author with many philoso- nions of horace walpole are not easily phers. when i say that i was the author, to be deduced from this portion of his it is telling you how cheap i hold their an- correspondence. it must, however, beger. if it does not reach you, you shall i see it at strawberry, where i flatter myself inferred from the general tenor of his i shall see you this summer, and quite well." writings, though the deduction is a pain- his sentiments of the elegant and ful one, that his sentiments were those of ingenious spendthrift shenstone, are a latitudinarian, strongly expressed in the subsequent our readers will recognise in the fol- paragraph, from the forty-ninth letter. lowing extract from the twenty-third « i have been eagerly reading mr. shen- letter in this collection, a striking resem- stone's letters, which, tho' containing nothing blance in the temperament of feeling, but trifles, amused me extremely, as they which produced the singular romance of mention so many persons i know, particu- « the castle of otranto," and that in larly myself. i found there what i did not which the “ new heloise," originated. know, and what, i believe, mr. gray him- "i had time to write but a short note with self never knew, that his ode on my cat was « the castle of otranto," as your messen- written to ridicule lord littleton's monody. ger called on me at four o'clock, and as i was it is just as true as that the latter will sur- going to dine abroad. your partiality to me vive, and the former be forgotten. there and « strawberry” have, i hope, inclined is another anecdote equally vulgar, and void you to excuse the wildness of the story. of truth: that my father, gitting in you will even have found some traits to put george's coffee-house,(i suppose mr. shen- you in mind of this place. when you read stone thought, that, after he quitted his place, of the picture quitting its pannel, did dot you he went to coffee-houses to learn news,) was recollect the portrait of lord falkland, all asked to contribute to a figure of himself, white in my gallery? shall i even confess to that was to be beheaded by the mob. i do you, what was the origin of this romance? remember something like it, but it happened i waked one morning in the beginning of to myself. i met a mob just after my father last june, from a dream, of which, all i could was out, in hanover-square, and drove up to fecorer was, that i had thought myself in an it to know what was the matter. they were [feb. , the campaign of . carrying about a figure of my sister. this thing easily but things of humour. humour probably gave rise to the other story. that was his natural and original turn-and on my uncle i never heard; but it is a good though from his childhood, he was grave story, and not at all improbable. i felt great and reserved, his genius led him to see pity on reading these letters for the narrow things ludicrously and satirically; and circumstances of the author and the passion though his health and dissatisfaction gave for fame that he was tormented with ; and him low spirits, his melancholy turn was yet he had much more fame than his talents much more affected than his pleasantry in intitled him to. poor man! he wanted to writing. you knew him enough to know i have all the world talk of him for the pretty am in the right; but the world in general place he had made; and which he seems always wants to be told how to think, as well to have made only that it might be talked as what to think. the print, i agree with of." you, though like, is a very disagreeable we cannot deny ourselves the plea likeness, and the worst likeness of him. it sure of quoting the following lines, writ. gives the primness he had when under con- ten by mr. walpole for an inscription straint; and there is a blackness in the on a cross in the ground of lord ossory, countenance which was like him only the at ampthill. last time i ever saw him, when i was much struck with it; and though i did not appre- in days of old here ampthill's towers were hend him in danger, it left an impression on seen, the mournful refuge of an injured queen. me that was uneasy, and almost prophetic of what i heard but too soon after leaving here flowed her pure, but unavailing tears ; him. wilson drew the picture under much here blinded zeal sustained her sinking such an impression, andi could not bear it in • years. yet freedom hence her radiant banners my room; mr. mason altered it a little, but wav'd, still it is not well, nor gives any idea of the and love avenged a realm by priests en- determined virtues of his heart. it just serves to help the reader to an image of the slaved. from cath’rine's wrongs a nations bliss was person, whose genius and integrity they most admire, if they are so happy as to have spread, and luther's light, from henry's lawless a taste for either." bed. we will not multiply quotations from for the benefit of those literary gen- this interesting volume, as we are per- tlemen who are desirous of adding the suaded that such of our readers as are distinctive appellation of a.s.s. to their already in the possession of the former other scientific titles, we will give one of works of mr. walpole, will think these the various philippics of mr. walpole collections imperfect without the addi- against the genius and proceedings of the tion to them of the present correspond antiquarian society at that period. it is ence. proper, however, to add, that the attic the campaign of , or a narratire of salt of his strictures on this head, seems the military operations which took place to have been blended with the nitrous in france and belgium, during the hun- acid of some personal animosity. dred days. written at st. helena, “i can be of little use to mr. granger, in by general gourgaud. pp. . recommending him to the antiquarian soci we have heard that the french had ety. i dropped my attendance there four or their odes, in commemoration of the five years ago, from being sick of their ig- battle of waterloo, as well as our- norance and stupidity, and have not been selves; and if we were to put any faith three times amongst them since. they have chosen to expose their dulness to the world, in the attestations of general gourgaud, and crowned it with dean mille's nonsense. we ought not to be much surprised; i have written them a little answer to the since, by his account, had it not been for last, which you shall see, and then wash my the unlucky intervention of “destiny," hands of them." and the cruel desertion of “fortune," the following extract from the eighty- his master would certainly have been ninth letter, presents us with mr. wal victorious, and the british defeated in pole's opinion of the genius, character, that engagement. as for the duke of and writings of gray. wellington, we learn from the volume “ you are too candid in submitting at before us, that in no part of his military once to my defence of mr. mason. it is carcer, has he exhibited so absurd a spe- true i am more charmed with bis book than than cimen of his generalship, as in the total i almost ever was with one. i find more overthrow of napoleon, in what the people like the grave letters than those of french, and our modern reformists, are humour, and some think the latter a little pleased to term the action of mont sr. affected, which is as wrong a judgment as jean. he “ought not to have engaged they could make; for gray never wrote any his troops at quatre bras, but should .) the campaign of . have eyacuated belgium, in order to wait they would have gained the day if mar- for the arrival of the armies of russia shal ney had acted otherwise than he and austria on the meuse." again, did, and if dispatches of great conse- " it was the intention of the emperor to quence, had not miscarried in their tran- have slept at brussels, on the night of sit to marshal grouchy, &c. in fact, the th," since the sum and substance of this farrago of “ it was not probable that the duke of falsehoods and extravagancies, amount, wellington, having the forest of soignès (as an able periodical critic* has already and brussels in his rear, would give battle. observed,) to neither more nor less than that would not have been likely, even this;—“all that buonaparte did was though the contest had been wholly belgi- right, and should have succeeded, but it um, but it was absurd to suppose he would do so when the french army formed the failed ; and all that the allies did was whole of the disposable forces of napoleon; wrong, and should have failed, but it while the hostile armies formed only one succeeded!" third of the forces leagued against france.” the editor of the “old hunthly ma- and yet we are informed in another gazine," announces general gourgaud's part of this impartial relation, that the work, as the “most important book of allied arinies exceeded their adversaries the month," and adds, “ it was written on that erentful day, by nearly , in st. helena, under the superintendance men. now admitting this, for the sake of the emperor, and being therefore an of argument, to have been the case, authentic record (!!!), it puts to (although we all very well know that flight the thousand fables and falsehoods it was directly the reverse,) how does which a weak and base party have pro- such an affirmation harmonize with the mulgated, relative to the circumstances paragraph previously quoted? or how attending this modern battle of pharsa- could our immortal commander be guilty lia.”! since when, we would enquire, of “ absurdity", in entirely frustrating has the tyrant napoleon, whose justly the plan his adversary had so agreeably merited exile has afforded the oid devised for birouacking that night at monthly magazine, and its allies in prin. brussels, by attempting to take a nap ciple, su famous a topic for declamation, himself in the same neighbourhood. such never exhausted, but always ready as a wilful and deliberate misrepresentation reserve for an attack upon the govern- is, surely, sufficient to invalidate the ment of their country, been considered greater part, if not all the averments, as entitled to any deference on the score of made throughout these pages, the grand veracity ? what possible claim to authen- aim of which appears to be, an attempt ticity can any documents have, which to relieve buonaparte from the odium come from his hands, or from his dicta- so universally and deservedly attached tion? we really think it must appear to to him, for his base and unmanly deser. all unprejudiced persons, who have ob- tion of his fellow soldiers in the grand served with attention, the events which finale to the campaign of , and his have occurred since buonaparte first mean and cowardly abdication of the came into note, --who have marked his throne on his return to paris; by depre- moral as well as liis political turpitude ciating, as far as the contracted powers his breaches of faith, and the whole to of the author would permit, the valor nor of his conduct, both public and pri- of the british troops, and the skill and vate, that no work could have a worse conduct of the greatest captain of this, possible claim to the confidence of the tre might almost say of any age. the world, than that of its having proceeded following pleasant notice, prefixed to the from the ex-emperor of france, or any twelfth chapter of the book, will perhaps one connected with him. better explain the intentions of the wri that the professed object of the vo- ter than any other passage we could lume in question, namely, that of detracb. adduce. ing from the merits due to our country- “ the emperor having abdicated, the an- men, for their late noble and gallant at- glo-belgic and prussian armies impru chievements, would give it an eminent dently advance upon paris. this ma- title to the approbation of the cditor of noeuvre, which ought to have led to their the old monthly magazine, may readily ruin, proved completely successful.''!!! be supposed; but that he should have besides a variety of equally amusing chosen to denominate that party weak, observations, a string of ifs runs through which has effected what has been so glo- the “ narrative," about the certainty of riously accomplished by the present sticcess if such and such a plan had been adopted, and the clear probability that * literary gazette. new monthly mag.--no. . vol. xi. . the campaign of . (feb. i, ministry, is ludicrous enough. his ac- execution of their duty, by one of his quaintance with the mathematics should friends. have taught him that he was reasoning perhaps the extraction of this gas- upon a false hypothesis, and that his conading frenchman may not be gene- conclusion was a “ non sequitur." it rally known; we will detail it. he calls forcibly reminds us of the scepticism of himself baron gourgaud; but we be- rebecca penlake, in the celebrated glee lieve he would be troubled to produce of “st. michael's chair," who could not the patent of his nobility. his father, persuade herself that she was not her whose name was dugazon, was a cele- husband's master, though brated comedian, and his mother was nurse to the present duke de berri. richard penlake oft a crab-stick would he is a natural son; and received his take, to convince her that he was the stronger." education at the military school of paris. having served in several of na- as for the epithet “ base," we retort poleon's campaigns, he was for the last it upon the faction which has endea- six years of the emperor's reign, taken voured to excite public sympathy for a ra into his special confidence, who employed ir man, who, if his enemies had been of him chiefly in his cabinet, and about his disposition, would, long ere now, his person. after the restoration of have expiated the various murders le the bourbons, in , he reinained in has committed in france, egypt, spain, paris ; and the duke de berri, owing to and russia, on the scaffold! this would a kindly remembrance of his nurse, ex- have been justice-bare justice : as it is, tendeď his protection to him, and he he has experienced justice tempered retained his rank in the army. yet with mercy, yet he is not content. his when buonaparte returned from elba, partizans, the self styled friends of li- he was one of the first to shout “ vive berty and humanity, complain of the l'empereur!”-such was his gratitude cruelty with which he is treated; and the for the the for the favours he had experienced. editor of the old monthly magazine has before we conclude these observa- the impudence to recommend his resto- tin tions, we may remark, that the firct of ration to eba, that he may again have an buonaparte's poisoning his troops in opportunity of disturbing that peace, ace; egypt, which sir robert wilson so which is, at length, so happily established ably exposed, and which, to please his in europe. constituents of southwark, he has so geveral gourgaud too, is a fit ob- shamefully endeavoured to invalidate, ject for the sympathy of those indi- has received additional confirmation in viduals who could feel no commi- a work published at paris, entitled, seration for the unfortunate victims to o “ victories and victoria conquests of the the ruthless ambition of his master! f | master! french.” buonaparte's conversation it was a great pity he was ever suffered within with dergenettes, chief of the medical to land in england: but he came over staff. is related by general beauvais. with a canting plausible tale, which the doctor declined the office of mur- imposed upon lord bathurst, and pro- derer, and it was undertaken by one cured for him the protection of that royer, a wretch attached to the medical nobleman. however, when he had staff, who remained in the country when accomplished the purpose for which he it was evacuated by the french army, visited this country, he threw off his and was executed by the turks as a mask, and avowed himself the friend of spy. the number of persons thus sent napoleon ; though he had but a short to their final account is not stated: but time before declared, he had strong the opium was administered to the sick reason to be dissatisfied with him, and of thirty hospitals ! some few recorered: that it was on this account he left st. but by far the greater part perished. helena. he, moreover, acknowledged we sliould be rlad to hear what sir that he expected to be sent out of r. wilson has now to say upon this england, but that it was of no conse- subject. it is generally understood, quence, for his mission was completed." . that the whigs intend to bring before the account published in the morning parliament the subject of the ex-em- chronicle, of his arrest, is an infamous peror's ill treatment. will this “ able fabrication, from beginning to end. partizan" defend him from the enor- he was neither treated with cruelty normities with which he has himself acclused violence; the violence was all on his his hiun, or will he content himself with a bin own part, for the police officers were silcnt vote in aid of the cause of treache- si assaulted, most outrag cously, in the ry and resolution?-it remains to be prored. . antar ; a bedoueen romance. antar, a bedoueen romance, translated the purity of its “ native freshness," it from the arabic, by terrick hamilton, must be in every respect uninteresting, esq. oriental secretary to the british not to say revolting. "that we may not embassy at constantinople. vo. pp. . monopolize sentiments, into a share of we have in vain edeavoured to trace which our readers will expect to be ad. the drift and intention of mr. hamilton, mitted, we shall furnish them with one in bestowing his time and talents upon or two extracts, impartially selected, a work of this nature; and we cannot which will give them some insight into but feel considerable difficulty in pro- the style of the romance, at least, in nouncing a fair judgment upon its me- its present form, and inspire them with rits. professing, as he does, to give a an horrific admiration of the tremen- literal translation of the original ro- dous exploits of the almost omnipotent mance, and to adhere strictly to arabic antar. . this hero, we should premise, idioms, and oriental phraseology, with- is not altogeter a fictitious personage : out permitting himself to be led into an he was the descendant of an arab indulgence of ornament, which, we are prince by a black slave, whose extraor- told, “ would have been equally remote dinary courage and exalted genius, had from the nice refinement of the lan- raised him, from a state of bondage, to a guages of europe, and from the co- pre-eminence over all the chiefs of pions simplicity of that of the desert," arabia. whether the writer of this he does not leave us the opportunity of romance has done justice either to his offering, perhaps, the only opinion military prowess, or to his natural abi- which the production would appear to lities, must be left to those who are un- call for ; namely, with respect to the fortunately destined to peruse the vo- fidelity of the translation. upon this lume before us, to determine. point, as we are not in possession of " the woman's name was zebeeda, and the original, we are altogether in the the two children were her's; the eldest was dark. with all his apparent modesty, called jereer, and the youngest shiboob. however, it is evident that mr. hamil. he remained with the women in the field. ton endeavours to institute a higher and the children tended the flocks. shedad claim to literary honour than that of visited her morning and evening; and thus a mere translator; and we cannot be- matters continued til she became pregnant; lieve that he would be perfectly satisfied, and when her time came, she brought forth even, if we were enabled to bestow upon a boy, black and swarthy, like an elephant, his volume the most unqualified appro- flat-nosed, blear-eyed, harsh featured, shag- gy haired, the corners of his lips hanging bation, as a literal translation alone. down, and the inner angles of his eyes the allusion to the " arabian nights," bloated; strong boned, long footed; he was and the ludicrous, we had almost said, like a fragment of a cloud; his ears im- farcical comparison, that is drawn mensely long, and with eyes whence flashed between “ the irresistible antar," and sparks of fire. his shape, limbs, form the heroes of homer, explain away all and make, resembled shedad : and shedad his studied diffidence, and sufficiently was overjoyed at seeing him, and called evince his real views; which, under a him antar; and for many days he conti- garb of conciliatory modesty, he has, nued to gaze on him with delight. but not imprudently, sought to withhold, when zebeeda wished to wean him, he grumbled and growled exceedingly, and the awaiting the success of his first publica- corners of his eyes became fiery red, so tion. for his own sake, more than for that he appeared like a mass of crimson that of the public at large, we would blood; and this was his condition till he caution him against putting forth a was weaned. and he grew up, and his second volume of the enormous absur- name became known; but those who ac- dities, with which the first is so ridi. companied shedad in the expedition, all culously replete. if it be peculiar to the wanted to claim him as theirs. this cir- language of the desert to exclude all taste, cumstance reached the king zoheir, who all refinement, and all truth of colouring, ordered them to his presence; and it hap- ordered them to admitting only of unnatural crudities, pene pened on that day, that he had many guests with him at dinner; and whilst they were and extravagant impossibilities, it surely sitting down, shedad and his companions were far better to confine it to the de- came and kissed the ground in the presence sert altogether, than to clothe it in eng- of the king. he asked them what had lish attire, and then expose it to the happened, and what was the cause of the more enlightened part of mankind, to quarrel ? they then informed him; and whom, as they are unable to appreciate related all that had passed between shedad "the copiousness of its simplicity," or and the woman in their excursion ; how he (feb. i, antur ; a bedoueen romance. me had taken her to himself, and had given all the tribe were his enemies; he used to them the plunder; how she bore him a son, employ himself in tending the flocks, and as whose shape and appearance resembled a he conducted them, he wandered about the negro, and how they all pow claimed the deserts and plains, and loved solitude and child as their slave. retirement." when zoheir heard this adventure, he if these torturing and thrashing qua- was greatly surprised, and he said to she- lities were so predominant, it was cer- dad, i wish you would produce the young slave that is the object of contention, that i tainly a fortunate circumstance for his may see him. upon that shedad de companions, that he did love solitude and parted, and brought antar before him: and retirement. but is this premature dis- the king beheld him, and lo! he was like a position to tyranny represented as a lion when he roars. as soon as he saw promise of future greatness? is this him, he gave a loud scream, and threw a impatience of all controul, this early piece of meat at him ; but a dog that was resistance of all opposition to self-will, there got before him, and snatched up the an indication of goodness ? oh dear, meat like a hawk, and ran away: but antar no! this is arabian simplicity! followed him till he came up with him, he the last extract we shall present to was greatly enraged, and seized hold of him the notice of our readers contains an with all his strength; he wrenched open his jaws, and tore them in twain, even to the account of the heroic exploits of antar, shoulders, and snatched the meat out of his arrived at a state of manhood. mouth. when the king saw this, he was “ no sooner did the tribe of maam behold astonished, and the arab chiefs that were antar's blow, than every one was seized present were amazed, and exclaimed, with fear and dismay. the whole five what ingenuity, what power, strength and thousand men made an attack like the attack ability !!" of a single man; but antar received them as the parched ground receives the first of unlike the king of denmark, it the rain, exhibiting to them his power and would seem here as if every devil had his courage. his eye-balls were fiery red, set his seal, to give the world assurance and foam issued from the corners of his of a monster. we doubt whether our lips; wherever he smote, he cleft the head; fair countrywomen will feel much inter- every warrior he assailed, he annihilated ; ested in the chivalrous adventures of this and as the warriors still pressed on him, he young knight, the ardour of whose love tore a rider from the back of his horse, he is represented as one of the most pro- heaved him up on high, and whirling him minent features of his character. the in the air, struck down a second with him, taste of arabian females, may, how- and the two instantly expired!“ by thine ever, differ in some degrce from the pro- eyes, o jbla," he cried, “ to day will i destroy all this race.” thus he proceeded, bably mistaken nicety of european re- until he terrified the warriors, and hurled finement; and we cannot doubt that the them into woe and disgrace, hewing off historian meant to paint him in the co. their arms and their joints. at length the lours of arabian beauty and simplicity. five thousand retreated from the combat, his form and figure exactly resembling for fear and terror had completely shaken those of his father, so rejoiced shedad, them, and more than nine hundred horse- that he continued to gaze upon him men he had slain, and gained an entire vic- many days with delight!!! tory over them.” as he advances into boyhood, he dis after this, who can wonder at the plays all the promising features of his childish exploits of baron munchausen? * future excellence: the intrepidity of the spartans was now antar was becoming a big boy, actual cowardice to this--and as for the and grew up, and used to accompany his battles of copenhagen and waterloo, mother to the pastures, and he watched the we ought to feel ashamed of them. cattle; and this he continued to do, till he “ desine pervicax," says mr. hamilton, increased in stature. he used to walk and and we have done, only concluding by it run about to harden himself, till at length hearty recommendation, that this mass of his muscles were strengthened, his frame absurdity be recommitted to the “story altogether more robust, and his bones more tellers of the coffee houses in egypt, firm and solid, and his speech correct. syria, and arabia," and that this may he then began to tyrannize over boys of be the last, as it is the first attempt to the same age, and beat his brothers; and, when he returned from the pasture, he transpose into an european language, amused himself with the servants and “ a real arabian story, depicting the women,and he would eat nothing but what he original manners of the arabs of the liked; and whoever offended him, he would deserts, uncorrupted by the artificial and thrash with a stick, till he tortured him, and refined customs of the neighbouring cities!" .) the minstrel of the glen, and other poeins. p. . the wildbi. the minstrel of the glen, and other poems. veiled in the " tender gloom of twi- by henry stebbing. vo. pp. . light," it is involved in pitchy and impe- never, surely, was there so confirm- netrable darkness. several inaccuracies ed and distressing a “rabies" for rhym- occur in the course of the volume, with ing, as prevails at the present time in some few absurdities, which we should this country. scarcely a week olapses conceive to have resulted from affecta- without the infliction on the public of tion; for instance, one or more volumes of verses; and so my joys are faded, ard my lay powerful is the contagion, that high and an artless tale can only say. p. . low, young and old, rich and poor, are for a moment in stony peace he stands. all, more or less, infected with the ma- nia. some content themselves with leare they the rocky barrier rude, stringing together their crude concep gain they the glen's sweet solitude. tions, in the form of odes, elegies, son- p. . nets, &c.; whilst others, less merciful as ever nurstled sorrow's child. p. . to their readers, and knew to be that vagrant young, “ send their goods to market-all alive! who often in these halls hath sung. lines forty thousand, cantos twenty-five." we would by no means have it under- in the loveliest wild'rings of the wild. stood that we think there is too much his breast more high, poetry published, though we feel pretty seems bursting with the biggened hell, well assured, that a great deal of the to big within that breast to dwell. p. . sing-song which has recently emanated far from the scenes where many a silent from the press, under that denomina- tion, might have been spared, without tho' mixed with sorrows oft hare cheered any material loss to the admirers of the my heart. p. . ladies of helicon. if authors must that there is only the breadth of a publish, let them wait till their talents, hair between the furthest stretch of (when they possess any) arrive at some- sublimity, and downright absurdity, the thing like a state of maturity, and not following passage from the “ bride of throw away the chance they might have abydos," with mr. stebbing's ridiculous had of gaining some reputation, by print- imitation of it, will sufficiently demon- ing a parcel of trash, written before they strate. lord byron, with daring sim- emerged from their teens. the plea of plicity, says- youth might, in a court of justice, pro- i n. tice, proc “ now gleamed on high a glaring torch. cure for the offender some remission of another-and another--and another! punishment, but this excuse will hardly oh, tly no more--yet, now my more than be admitted at the bar of criticism; brother." since, the very judgment that suggested and mr. s.- the palliation, ought, it will be consi- hark-hearest thou not that shriek of dered, to have obviated the necessity of pain ? making it all. these observations are again--and again--and again not intended to apply, in their fullest it comes, &c. p. . force, to mr. stebbing ; for though he we have pointed out some of the de- appears to have been in too great a fects of this volume, we now come to the hurry to get into print, and, conse- more grateful task of particularizing its quently, to have neglected the two most beauties. the following lines are in indispepsable requisites in the compo- scott's best manner;- sition of poetry-polish and perspicuity; slumbering is dian's silver beam yet, amid the many errors with which o'er the low glen and mountain stream! his volume abounds, there occur, occa softly the evening breezes stray, sionally, passages of more than common sighing to sleep the sinking day : beauty, which serve only to contrast the skies' fair blue looks soit and bright with the worthlessness, by which they as sweetest maiden's eye of light; are but too frequently surrounded.-- and all is fair and witching still, the story of the principal poem in the as moonlight melting o'er the rill. most sweet it is in such an hour, collection is perfectly unintelligible ; and upon the hill, or 'neath the bower, notwithstanding the predilection the au- to dream on joys and pleasures fiorn, thor expresses, in his defence of its ob- to bless the memory of the gone ; ecurity in the preface, for “ pictures and still in peace to sing again, thrown into the shade," we cannot re some long-neglected youthful strain. ceive such an apology for the produc for, as the wild notes softly die, tion in question; as, so far from being tho' wet with many a tear the eye, remarks on musical instruction-barrow's voyages. (feb. , . each joy and pleasure once that blest, fortiori, the two, united, will require again delights the rising breast; more ; and as the object of the cultiva- each being our bosoms held most dear, tion of the science of music at all, in an smileth in angel beauty near; amateur, is that of amusement only, it and the fair shades of better days becomes a consideration whether that rise sweetly to our wakening lays. p. . time which may be spared from his other . there is also much to commend in avocations, towards a tolerable profi- the poem entitled the “ pleasures of ciency in the practical art, could be so contemplation,” though such lines as advantageously devoted, with reference this, evince a great want of care- to that object, to the joint cultivation of “ the rosy-crimson'd aush the deep and the theoretical science. as this ques- purpled tint." p. . the address to sympathy has much tion resolves itself into one that embraces, merit, we shall conclude with it:- and must have reference to particular o sympathy! sweet bosom friend! and individual circumstances, it is, per- with thee grief melts in bliss; haps, impossible to form a correct gene- the joys of heaven's existence blend ral opinion upon the subject; but as the in all the sighs of this. cultivation of music, where it can be pro- friendship may lull the gay of mind perly pursued, cannot fail of being at- in folly's careless dream, tended with the most happy conse- but firmer far her hand will bind, quences, both to the amateur himself, bathed in affliction's stream and to society in general, we feel no he- fortune may flush in joyance wild, sitation in bestowing our meed of appro- her heart may wilder beat; bation upon all attempts to facilitate its but the lone cot where ne'er she smiled access, and to systematize its plan of edu- can offer joys more sweet. unknown to her the speechless bliss ation. the valuable essay, which has oc- casioned the present observations, seems thy power alone imparts, when bright affection's glowing kiss well calculated to effect these objects. dries every tear that starts. its strictures upon the very complex mode for good to every state below, of teaching thorough bass, are just, hath given the power above- and highly deserving the attention of to fortune, pleasure's deeper glow, professional masters; in whom, however, to sorrow, sympathy and love. there appears to be implanted a kind of remarks on the present state of musical general tenaciousness of their own ideas instruction, with the prospectus of an and opinions, an impatience of innova. improved plan, &c. vo. pp. . tion upon the rules of the old school, and our late copious criticisms upon mr. an unwillingness to depart from already. g. jones's history of the rise and pro- established principles, however wide a. gress of music, theoretical and practic field may be opened for improvement. cal, preclude the necessity of entering, a chronological history of voyages into inuch at length, into the prefatory re- the arctic regions. by john barrow, marks contained in the first part of this f.r.s. pp. . ingenious little pamphlet. upon the the qualifications required in a com- general question of the advantages de- piler are, a patient and laborious ex- rived from a knowledge of the theory of amination into the authenticity of the music, as well as of the practice of it, works he abstracts; a candid selection there can scarcely be two opinions, at of the ablest productions; a strict fide- least, so far as it is applicable to the pro- lity in his statements; a judgment un- fessional student. in paris, in vienna, perverted by an over-weening fondness and in naples, a sense of the actual ne- for speculation, and a style distinguished cessity of such knowledge cannot be by perspicuity and simplicity; from more clearly evinced, than by the atten- which all the higher and inapplicable or- tion which is there paid, equally to the sci- nainents of composition are excluded.- ence and to the art; whilst, in this coun- metaphor, point, brilliancy of expres- try, it is a subject of regret, that, in pine sion and antithesis, would be avoided by cases out of ten, the one is almost wholly such a writer, as incompatible with the subscrvient to the other. whether the plan of his work, and as encumbering necessity of theoretical knowledge, how rather than adorning it. ever, is equally called for in tlic amateur, if we are correct in this delineation of is a point upon which many doubts may the qualities which an able compiler be expected to arise. for, if the prac- should possess, we have, in the foregoing tical part alone be so difficult, as to en- statement, already expressed our opi- gross a very considerable portion of time, nion of the merits of the present vo- necessarily devoted to its attainment, a lume. mr. barrow's style is clear and .) observations on ackermann's patent moveable axle. unaffected, and his digest of the differ- in the world so ridiculously prejudiced in ent voyages, the relations of which he favour of old and established systems, as abstracts, is judicious; neither enlarged to regard every thing which presents it- into an uninteresting and inconvenient self in the form of an innovation with a prolixity, nor dwindled to a meagre and degree of dislike, amounting almost to uninstructive chronology. he has, in horror. with them no new invention, effect, condensed, into the compass of a however obvious its utility, can possibly small octavo, a mass of most valuable in- succeed, because they invariably with- formation, with reference to a problem, hold their approbation till the general the attempts at the solution of which, opinion sanctions them in bestowing it. have, at intervals, enkindled the spirit they reverse a well-known proverb al- of enterprize in, and directed the re- together; and appear as though they searches of every rank of men, in almost would rather hazard the condemnation all the maritime countries of europe, of real merit, than incur, in one single for upwards of years. mr. b. also instance, the odium which they conceive possesses the rare merit of never per- would attach to them for the heinous mitting his adherence to the doctrine of crime of being too liberal in their com- the practicability of accomplishing the mendations. nor is this the only dis- passage across the supposed polar basin, advantage to which genius is exposed. or through davis' straits into the pa- those individuals, whose interests are cific ocean, so far to pervert his judy- likely to be affected by the adoption of ment, as to lead liim either to conceal, any particular improvement, will, with extenuate, or misrepresent any circum- very few exceptions, seek erery oppor- stances which appear to be unfavourable tunity of preventing its success; and if to that object. the work before us they cannot accomplish their object by has been evidently written with a fair and candid argument, they will, too view to prepare the public mind for the frequently,resort to mean artifice and un- anticipated fortunate results of the two generois misrepresentation. we have expeditions which recently sailed from seldom met with a case more completely this country. unhappily, the hopes in point with the present remarks, than which were so generally entertained, that detailed in the sensible pamphlet be- have been frustrated, by the return of fore us. it appears that an important those expeditions, without effecting, in improvement in the construction of four- either case, the m:in objects for which wheeled carriages, to which no one rea- they were undertaken. until we are in sonable objection either has, or can be possession of the official details, we shall advanced ; and which promises to com- abstain from any farther comments on bine increased safety and economy, with these interesting and important voyages, convenience-has not received that en- or on the soundness of the theory which couragement froin the public to which it has given rise to them. as britons, is so incontestibly entitled ; because a set however, we cannot withhold the ex- of individuals, with whose gains it may pression of our honest pride, that in the in some measure interfere, have thought foremost rank of those illustrious pari. proper to depreciate its merits by vague gators, who, in an age when nautical and incoherent protestations against its science was very imperfectly understood, utility. braved the hazard of the most perilous as we have already given a very copi- seas, in the most inclement climes and ous description of this patent (see n. most desolate regions of the globe, in m.m. vol. ix. p. , we need now only their slender and ill-provided skiffs, we refer our readers to that paper, and no- should recognize,as stationed on the high- tice, that the testimonies in favour of the est pinnacle of renown, so many of our moveable axles, have very materially in- own gallant countrymen. long may the creased since that period; as several bistoriads of britain, arbitress and queen coachmakers, of paramount respecta- of nations, have to enrol in the splendid bility, have come forward to bear wit- annals of her glories, similar and equally ness to their utility. we have no per- bloodless achievements. sonal acquaintance whatever with the obserrations on ackermann's patent patentee, and cannot, therefore, have moveable acles for four-wheeled car- been influenced by any sinister motives tiages, containing an engraved eleration in thus particularizing the merits of an of a carriage, with plans and sections, invention, which we feel convinced re- &c. vo. pp. . quires only to be known to be put into there are many well-meaning persons immediate and universal requisition. ( ) [feb. i, d. monthly register. arts. phraseology of the original is ambiguous, elliptical, or figurative. the book is dedicaled with great a compendium of the theory and prac- propriety to that sterling philanthropist dr. an- tice of drawing and painting. by r. dag- drew bell, to the value of whose admirable systems ley. to. s. gd. of education the worthy editor bears strong lesti- astronomy. mony drawn from long experience. a short narrative of the creation and the advent of christ considered in six formation of the heavens and earth, as re- sermons. by the rev. wm. mandell, b.d. corded by moses in the book of genesis. by vo. s. philo. vo. s. a sermon, delivered on the th nov, biography. , on the death of her late majesty. by a journal of the life, travels, and chris- the rev. w. taylor, jun. d. d. vo. is. . cian experience of thos. chalkley, written plain and practical sermons. by the rev. by himself. mo. zs. d. j. boudier. a. m. vo. s, annual biography and obituary for . a dissertation on the scheme of human vo. s. redemption as developed in the law and in botany. the gospel. by the rev. j. l. hamilton, medical botany, or the history of the vo. . plants in the materia medica of london, some thoughts concerning a proper edinburgh, and dublin pharmacopeias. method of studying divinity. by w. wot- svo. ton, d. d. vo. s. chronology. . the proper deity and distinct personali time's telescope for ; or, a com- ty, agency, and worship of the holy spirit plete guide to the almanack, &c. &c. mo. vindicated. by robert harkness carne, pp. . a. b. mo. os. the plan of this work at its outset met with our drama. warm approbation, and it afforded us pleasure to the appeal, a tramady in three acte give our meed of praise to the compiter for the vo. s. taste, judgment, and industry displayed by him in brutus, or the fall of tarquin, a trage- the execution of it. of one thing we were appre. bensive, and that was, the fear of exhaustion on shakspeare's genius justified. by the one hand, or of disagreeable repetitiou on the other. it did seem impossible, in our mind, that jackson. vo. . the recurrence of the same subjects could produce education. a variety of illustration from year to year. but allection's gift to a beloved godchild. by the perusal of tbe present volume, and a refereuce m. h. pp. . s. d. to the consecutive set, has convinced us of our mis. this little volume, which is principally composed tako: for which we are glad, because the collection, of letters, written in a very pleasing style for the instead of being thrown aside as old almanacks, purposes of youthful instruction, we have mucha more valuabie by age; pleasure in recommending public notice. je and a stimulus is thus afforded to keep up the spi abounds in sentiments that can only have been die rit of the undertaking with a vigour equal to that tated by an amable and cultivated mind; and which has marked its progress in the public favour. amidst the unprecedented variety of works veroted while this annual companion and guide retains the to a similar end, it is entitled to honourable dis- vespectable character which now belongs to it, no tinction, as well for the principles it endeavours to window, school room, or private study, can inculcate, as for the elegant and unaffected lan- inculcate. as for t well dispense with its presence. guage in which they are conveyed. divinity. new grammar of the french tongoe, the pentateuch; or, the five books of with numerous instructive exercises. by c. moses illustrated; being an explication of gros. the phraseology incorporated with the text, there appears much more system in this would for the use of schools and private families. than in any of the numerous french grammars ako by the rev. samuel clapham, m. a. mo. ready published; and as the author has availed bimself, with considerable judgment, of the labours pp. . the worthy editor of this useful volume has been of his predecessors, levizac, wanostrocht, perrio, jong known to us for his indefatigable zeal in the &c. it has sornething more valuable than even re best of all causes; and the works which he has gularity of arrangement to recommend it. the published, bear ample testimony to the soundness exercises are copious and well selected, and the of his judgment, and the excellence of his heart.- rules prefixed to them concise, and sufficiently in- ligible to suit the meanest capacities. the present attempt, to render the most apcient the youth's spelling, pronouncing, and and most sacred writings level to the understand- ings of the young and unlettered, has strong clairns explanatory theological dictionary of the so recommendation, on account of the importance new testament, in which all the words of of the design, and the simplicity of the execution. the four leading parts of speech are arranged books of interpretation have usually been hitherto under their respective heads, &e. more inexplicable than the sacred code which they so many dictionaries, and works of a similar de. affect to explicate ; and the text is often lost in scription, are already before the publie, as to pre- che labyrinth of the commentary. not so this il. clude the pecessity of fresh compilations altoge. instration of the pentateucl. here the llebrew ther; and though the present volume has much leeislator and bis expositor go hand in hand, and worlny of commendation in its selection, and we latter never interposes his torch but where the will, doubtless prove in some measure aserul for . new publications with critical remarks. law. children of a certain age, we are by no means in from which it appears as clear as the noon-day sun clined to encourage further competition where that the consequential president, in rendering his there is so little room left for improvement as in services to enlighten the students of cambridge on works upon this subject. we may also observe, the subject of botany, was in fact only worming that those persons to whom the youth's diction. himself into the chai, which, from the great age oi ary would be likely to be most serviceable, will professor martyn, he knew inust be soon vacant. sarcely be able to afford the price deinanded for it. now, as sir james perer was a member of the whilst others inay have facilities wbich will render university, and what is worse, avows himself to be che possession of it unnecessary. both a dissenter from, and an enemy to, the dor. the juvenile geography and poetical trines of the church of england, we see not hon gazetteer, with views of the principal towns. he could have the assurance to seek an ostensible by j. bissett. mo. s. d. situation in a university hedged round by statutes a critical grammar of the french lan and a confession of faith to which he denies his assent. whatever may be his professional talents, guage, with tabular elucidations. by w. and they are ont ineant to be contested, the objec- lodgson. mo. s. tions against his appoiounent to a lectureship in ci. history. ther of our two academical foundations, are insu- flora britannicæ; or, studies in ancient serable; and therefore the victory of professor british history. by john hughes. vols. monk was easy and certain. ilis pamphlet is an vo. s. admirable specimen of argumentative cloquence, and forms a perfect contrast to the imbecility and practice of the exchequer, and summary virulence displayed by the president. of law of extents. by j. manning, esq. critical examination of the bishop of vols. royal vo. ). s. landal's posthumous volume, entitled;' " anecdotes of his life." medicine, surgery, &c. vo. pp. . the substance of this spirited pamphlet was essays on the morbid anatomy of the printed in different numbers of the courier; but human eye. by james wardrop, f. r. s. the whole has undergoue revision and a new ar. &c. vol. . royal vo. . tangement at the recommendation of some persons elements of medical logic. by sir gil- who thought the criticisi worthy of preservation. bert blane, bart. vo. s. we are of the same opinion, and sincerely liope practical illustrations of the progress of that every one who reads the bishop's posthuinous medical improvement for the last years. libel, will afterwards carefully go over the present by charles maclean, m. d. vo. s. effectual antidote, which indeed ought to be bound • a practical treatise on tropical dysen- will it. the ingenious author, however, would have enhanced the value of his excellent tract tery. by r. w. bamfield. vo. s. cd. if he had gone into the bishop's tergiversating cha. a letter to the sheriff deputies in scot- racter, and exposed the causes of his lamentations, land, recommending the establishment of the falsehoods of his narrative, and his scandalous how's national asylum for the reception of conduct as a bishop towards his diocese, from criminal and pau per lunatics. by a. dun- which be drew all that he could, without doing cảri, m. d. vo. s. any thing for its benefit, or even residing there is miscellaneous. single week in the year, except at certain seasons annals of health and long life, with oh when he could not avoid it. servations on regimen and diet ; including letters on the importance, duty, and ad- records of longevity, with biographical vantages of early rising. foolscap vo. s. anecdotes of one hundred and forty persons miscellaneous works in prose and verse. who attained extreme old age. pp. . s. by. g. hardinge, esq. vols. vo. ). s. the fist part of these “ aminals" is occupied with the young travellers, or a visit to the rules for the pie ervation of health, and the pio. grandmother. by f. thurde. mo. lougation of life, which, if duly attended to, would s. d. rn doubt be productive of all the good effects the a defence of dr.jonathan swift, in answer antisor seems to anticipate ; and the second c u. lain, a biograplrical record of the various per. writings in the d number of the edin : soos who, by a regular course of living, huve at burgh review. vo. is. . tnined to a patriarcbal age. the intent of the book is gond, and the form into which the inatter music. is collected by no means uainteresting. a concise treatise on italian singing, a vindication of the university of cam. elucidated with rules, observations, and bridge, from the reflections of sir james examples, succeeded by a new method of edward smith, president of the linncan so- instruction, comprising scales, exercises, ciety. by the rev. james llenry monk, intervals, and solfeggios, peculiarly arranged b. d. regius professor of greek, &c. vo. and harmonised; dedicated to t. broadwood, pp. . esq. by g. g. ferrari. it was not to be expected that such an attack mr. ferrari observes, that, the english system unna learned body, as that made by sir james of teaching music is, to begin by instructing pupils surich apoo the whole university of cambridge, for to play on some instrument, when they are only the act of a few members, would pass unnoticed five or six years old, pronouncing the time with and unreturced. the president of the linuean numerals. in italy they are first taught solfeggios society will rue the day, we apprehend, when be at the age of nine or ten years, beating time with buckled on his armour to go into the field of con. the land." the voice possesses two qualities, dis- troversy, though in his own cause, for verily his linguished by the appellations, voce di petto and neighbour hath come and put bim to shame. the voce di testa ;- . e. the voice from the cliest, and greek professor tells a plain yuvarnished tale, the voice from the head or throat. it is difficult to new monthly mag.--no. . vol. xi. new publications with critical remarks. [feb. i, unite the chest with the head voice, and maintain campbell, or the scottish probationer., equality and mellowness. the student is return. vols. mo. s. mended vocalize and solfa the scales in major saint patrick, a national tale of the fifth and minor keys; and should his voice have a pro- century: vols. mo. s. pensity to be guttural or nasal, he must endeavour to sing with his throst forcibly open, and try to the betrothed cousins, a tale for the unite the chicst and head voice by art, strengtheo. use of young persons. by mrs. e. hamil- ing the extremity of that which happens to be the ton. mo. s. weakest. many words which hitherto had been poetry jeft in much obscurity, are here fully explained a nineteenth century, and familiar hisa' tlius portamento (which joel collyer says means tory of the lives, loves, and misfortunes of “as round and as tight as a portmanteau") is defined abeillard and heloisa, &c. by robert ra- to be the carriage of the voice with dignified ex. belais the younger!! pression." in carrying the voice from one note to the autt:or of these verses would faid assume to another, the secood must receive a slight intona. himself the character of a wit; and in order to per. tion previously to its being articulated; when as. suade his readers that he is so in reality, he calls cending, the second dole must receive the most himself robert rabelais the younger. we must, slieugtlı; but in descending, moie stress must be however, undeceive them on this point, as he does laid on the first, laking care, however, not to pro. not happen to possess one single spark either of duce barsh shricks instead of mellifluous tones.- the wit, genius, or vivacity of the writer whose among the ornaments of singing, the appoggiatura name lie has so impudently pilfered for his title. is more frequently used in italian vocal music than page. as for his poem, we venture to pronounce in any other. in secitatives and italian melodies, it the vilest and most contemptible bunch of dog. when two or three notes on the same space or line grel that has appeared for many years, having no terminate a period, the orst note should be changed one redeeming point to save it froin unqualified into an appoggiatura, a tone or semitone bigher condemnation. it is at once trite, dull, and ob. tloan the written note. after inculcating the vast scene: and so far from becoming the hot-pressed inportance of keeping strict time, by beating the pages of a guinea volume, would disgrace the peuny aliquot parts of the measure niiti, be touches on painphlet of an itinerant hawker. the term tempo rubato, in which accelerations the banquet, a poem, vo. s. and retardations greatly heighten the expression o: cmphalical words. in order to learn to sing at politics and political economy. siglit, the singer should practise without au instru- remarks on the liberty of the press in ment, or the accoinpanying piano forte should play great britain, together with observations potes independently of the voice part; and scales on the late trials of watson, hone, &c. should be drawn out in various keys, in order to translated from the german of gentz. vo. familiarize the ear to the different temperameuls. s. those who expect readily to sing at sight, should the soul of mr. pitt, developing that by first acquire a coinmaud of voice, a perlect intoja. giving the funded proprietors the permis- tion, and a facility of measuring time. the exam. sive faculty of claiming debentures, trans- ples wbich accompany these instructions are nu- ferrable to the bearer, millions of taxes merous and effective. we have nothing of the kind since the treatise by aprile, for that of tresobio may be taken off, and the per cent. consols, was spoiled for want of somebody to coriect the be constantly above . vo. $. d. japguage, or to translate it. but as mr. ferrari sermons. has had the good fortune to meet with a friend in a sermon on the death of her late ma-, mr. shield, the master of the king's baud, we jesty queen charlotte, preached before the peed not say that the translation is elegant and is elegant and university of cambridge, on dec. , , faithful. by ilerbert marsh, d. d. lord bishop of novels. landaff, and lady margaret's professor of charenton, or the follies of the age. by divinity. to. m. de lourdoueix. translated from the a sermon, preached at the parish church french. pp. . of st. martin in the fields, nov. , ; the trauslaior of this rolume lvas, in our opi- being the sunday after the death of her ma- he nion), been guilty of one of the worst "follies of the jesty the late queen charlotte. by joseph age," in devoting his atteution to so silly a pro. duction as "charenton." we hare, unfortunately, holden pott, m. a. archdeacon of london, abundance of nonsensical romances in cur own and vicar of st. martin in the fields. vo. country, without importing foreign monstrosities. the moral and religious character of the scene of the absurd details contained in these her late majesty, a national blessing; a pages is, we are informed, laid in a celebrated esta. sermon, preached in the chapel of the mag- blishment near paris for insane persons. whether dalen hospital, on sunday, nov, , . this is or is not the case, we shall not undertahe to by the rev. george richards, m.a. f.a.s. enguire ; but we may observe by the way, that if vicar of bamoton. and rector of lalling- the author did absolutely visit the place above al. stone lovell, oxon. vo. luded to, for the purpose of collectiug materials for a sermon, preached in the temple hus book, the conductors of the institution did not church, on wednesday, dec. , ; be- do well in setting him at large before they had ac. complished liis cure; for he appears to have been ing the day of her late majesty's funeral. oo as alarming a srate of lunacy as any of the rest by the rev. john lonsdale, m. a. assistant of their inmates. preacher at the temple, and late fellow of corals, a novel. vols. mo. s, d. king's college cambridge. vo. charms of dandyism, or living in style. on the death of her majesty the late by olivia moreland. vols. mo. edited queen, a sermon, preached in the parish by capi. ishe. church of st. giles, cripplegate without .] varieties-literary, scientific, fc. on sunday, nov. , . by robt. jones, such a genius as flechier ; but unfortunately the d. d. svo. character of her majesty is treated by alınost (vey a sermon, preached in the parish church one of the preachers in n strain the very opposite to that of warmth and feeling. the bishor, indeed, of wasing, on sunday, nov. , and in that has drawn a neat and accurate portraiture of the of newbury, on sunday, dec. , , on quren; but even this learned and eloquent prelate the occasion of the death of her late majes- has diffused little animation into his discourse, the ty the queen. by the rev. samuel slocock, peroration of which is as cold, bald, and vapid as rector of wasins, and afternoon preacher the tail of a statute. of the parish church of newbury, &c. yo. topography. such is the list of funeral discourses that have the history and antiquities of the town fased in public on the late national loss, for so of newark by w. dickinson, esq. . we may justly terin the demise of our late excel. . . leat queen, vor withslauding the advanced age to the ilistory of the ancient town and bo- which she had arrived. tu evil times like these, rough of uxbridge, with plates and appen- we can ill spare the great and good, however old dix. by george bedford, m. a. and t.h. tey may be; for the longer they bave lived, the riches. vo. s. more forcible is their example as the lights of the a brief account of the guildhall of the vorid. the sermons of which we have given the city of london. by j. b. nichols, f.s.a. tities are, with the exception of that of the bishop of vo, s, landal, very slender performances, and extremely asipid as funeral oratious. llcre was a subject for varieties -literrary, scientific, &c. universities. nute accuracy, not only the external form oxford.—the following subjects are and character, but also the who'e of the in- proposed for the chancellor's prizes, for terior anatomy of the male and female cray- the present year, viz. fish. for latin verses,-syracuse. the whole number of degrecs in michael- for an english essay,--the characteris- mas term was, three d. d. ; one d. m. in- tie differences of greek and latin poetry corp; two b. d.; one b. c. l.; one b. m.; for a latin essay, - quanam fuerint, twenty-four m. a.; sixty-seven b. a; ma- pracipue, in causa, quod roma de car- triculations . thagine triumpharit? cambridge.—the subject of the hulse- the first of the above subjects is intended an prize for the present year is, “ the fit- for those gentlemen of the university, who ness of the time when christ came into the have not exceeded four years from the world." time of their matriculation, and the other the subject of the english poem for the two for such as have exceeded four, but not chancellor's gold medal for the present year, completed seven years. is, “ pompeii.” sir roger newdigate's prize. for thc best composition in english verse, not the following subjects are proposed by containing either more or fewer than fifty the cambrian society, for their prizes for lines, by any under-graduate who has not the year , viz.- the harp new strung exceeded four years from the time of his ma- for the englyn; the death of the queen for triculation.-the iphigenia of timanthes the awdl; and, the death of sir thomas ms. j. s, and mr. p. b. duncan, fellows picton for a poem, in any one, or all, of the of new college, have lately presented to the four-and-twenty metres. the following sub- anatomical theatre, in this university, some jects are proposed for the society's. english very beautiful wax models, formed with so prize essays: . on the language and learn- much accuracy as even to supersede the ne- ing of britain, under the roman govern- cessity of having recourse to the human ment, with a particular reference to the testi- body for anatomical instruction and experi- mony of martial, (dicitur et nostros cantare ment. they were purchased in florence by britannia versus,) and of juvenal, and to the these gentlemen. no. . is a full-grown influence of agricola's schools. . on the human female, in which are represented the distinct characters and comparative advan- following points; namely, the whole of the tages of the bardic institutions of carmar- absorbent system; the viscera of the thoras, then and glamorgan; and on the notices of the abdomen, and of the pelvis, together which remain of each. also a silver harp, with the arteries and veins belonging to with a gratuity, will be given to the best them; the brain and its membranes ; and proficient on the harp, and other gratuities numerous muscles of the head and of other io the several competitors to defray their parts of the body. no. . two models re- expences. the recitation of the successful presenting sections of the human head, toge- compositions, and the performances on the ther with six smaller models ; the whole harp, will take place in the first week of completely illustrating the anatomy of the next july, and will, we have no doubt, afford eye, with its nerves and blood vessels. nos. an entertainment of high interest to all lovers and . two models representing with mi- of cambrian literature and music. (feb. , varieties– liierary, scientific, &c. the church union society's prizes, for the on the surface of the earth, a lump of which last year, are adjudged as follows: the pre- they brought with them to england, which mium, by henefaction, of fifty pounds, to has since been analysed by some scientific eusebius exodiensis, for the best essay on gentlernen at the royal institution, and the evidence from scripture, that the soul, found to be composed of per cent. nickel, immediately after death, is not in a state of and the rest iron. from the circumstance insensibility, but of happiness or misery, of nickel never having been found in iron, the society has also adjudged ten pounds but in one instance, viz. a lump brought by each, to two other essays on the same sub- professor pallas from russia, which the ject, viz, to the rev. johnson grant, late of royal academies of london and paris pro- st. john's college, oxford, and the rev. ed. nounced to be meteoric, and fallen from the ward griffin, b. a. perpetual curate of clouds, there remains no doubt of that great bowden, near market harborough, brought from baffin's bay being of a similar leicestershire. kind. this extraordinary fact, perhaps the shakspeare.---the following very singu- most important result of the expedition, may lar reasons have been assigned by mr. c. not only teach us ultimately how to explain butler, as grounds for a belief that shake- the phenomena of the northern lights, speare was a roman catholic : from which it is possible meteoric iron may be produced to an extent hitherto unima- “ may the writer premise a suspicion, which, from internal evidence, he has long gined, but also to acccount for the remark- entertained, that shakespeare was a roman able variations of the compass in these lati- catholic. not one of his works contains the tudes, if not to unravel the entire mystery of slightest reflections on popery, or any of its magnetism and the needle.—literary ga- zette. practices, or any eulogy of the reformation. his panegyric on queen elizabeth is cau- the dog of galloway.—the following tiously expressed, whilst queen catharine is remarkable instance of animal sagacity, oc- curred a short time ago: while one of the placed in a state of veneration; and nothing dalbeattie carriers was on his way to dum- can exceed the skill with which griffiths fries, he had occasion to stop at some houses draws the panegyric of wolsey. the eccle- siastic is never presented by shakespeare in hy the road side, in the way of his business, a degrading point of view. the jolly monk, leaving his cart and horse upon the public road, under the protection of a passenger the irregular nun, never appears in his drama. is it not natural to suppose, that and a trusty dog. upon his return, he mis- sed a led horse, belonging to a gentleman the topics on which at that time, those who criminated popery loved so much to dwell, in the neighbourhood, which he had tied to must have often solicited his notice, and in- the end of the cart, and likewise one of the female passengers. on inquiry he was in- vited him to employ his muse upon them, as subjects likely to engage the favourable formed, that during his absence the female, who had been anxious to try the mettle of attention, both of the sovereign and the sub- the pony, had mounted it, and that the ani- ject? does not his abstinence from these mal had set off at full speed. the carrier justify a suspicion, that a popish feeling withheld him from them? milton made the expressed much anxiety for the safety of the gunpowder conspiracy the theme of a regu- young woman, at the same time he cast an lar poem. shakespeare is altogether silent expressive look at his dog. oscar observed on it.” butler's memoirs of the english his master's eye, and aware of its meaning, catholics, vol. ij. p. . instantly set off in pursuit of the pony, which he came up with soon after he had passed we will only oppose a single observation the first tol-bar on the dalheattie road, when to mr. butler's “ suspicion." shakespeare he made a sudden spring, seized the bridle, was buried at his own desire in a protes- and held the animal fast. several people tant church, with this rather ominous in- having observed the circumstance, and the scription, which we recommend to mr. but- perilous situation of the girl, came to relieve jer's perusa! : her; oscar, however, notwithstanding their good friend, for jesus' sake forbear repeated endeavours, would not quit his to dig the dust inclosed here, hold, and the pony was actually led into the blest be the man that spares these stones, stable with the dog. till snch time as the and curst be he that moves my bones. carrier should arrive. upon the carrier en- aleteoric iron, from baffin's bay.the tering the stable, oscar wagged his tail in officers in the expedition under captain token of satisfaction, and immediately re- ross, lately returned from baffin's bay, ex. linquished the bridle to his master. pressed their great astonishment to have medicinal properties of gold.-m. percy found the native esquimaux in possession of has lately presented a report to the royal instruments made of iron, which led them to academy of sciences of paris, on the medi- imagine, either that they must at some pe- cinal virtues of various preparations of gold. riod have had traflic with other nations, dr. chrestien, of montpellier, some time which seemed almost impossible, or, that since submitted to the academy several pa- iron must be produced there. a diligent pers of observations on the success which search, however, satisfied them on the point; has attended the exhibition of preparations for an immense mass of iron was discovered of gold in different diseases. on this sub- .) varieties—literary, scientific, . ject the reporters observe, gold and its pre- annual agricultural parations are by no means so inefficacious produce - - - l. , , and inoperative, as many modern writers manufactures - - , , ånd physicians of eminence assert. on the permanent public contrary, those substances possess indubita- revenue - - - , , ble medicinal properties, and are in a high great britain. degree exciting a careful study of the qua- extent of territory - , , acres, lities of this species of medicines, and a population. more accurate investigation of their peculiar in agriculture -- , , persons, phenomena, will doubtless enrich the medi- in manufactures - - , , ral art with powerful remedies, the utility indigeni* - - - - , , and innocence of which have been so long various - - - - - , , debied. dr. chrestien assures us that he cored a most obstinate sipbvlis with very , , fine filings of pure gold, rubbed upon the wogue in doses of one, two, and two and annual agricultural a half grains. this account is doubted by produce . - l. . . several medical men ; but the reporters manufactures - - , , hare observed, conformably with the state. permanent public re- ment of dr. chrestien, that the rubbing of venue - - - - , , four grains of pulverized gold upon the tongue and gums, produces in some instan- ectraordinary fundus. -a phenomenon ces a strong salivation, in others, violent which tends much to elucidate the origin diarrhæa and frequent perspiration. and nature of vegetable funguses, parti- fossil tree.-- a fossil tree is in existence in existence cularly of that species termed mushroom, near the village of penicuik, about ten miles lately occurred to the observation of sir from edinburgh, of which curious pheno- joseph banks. having a cask of wine ra- menon the following description is given in ther too sweet for immediate use, ne di- a letter by sir j. s. mackenzie, bart. rected that it should be placed in a cellar, « on the south bank of the river north that the saccharine matter it contained esk, a short distance above the paper-mill at penicuik, where the strata usually ac- age. at the end of three years, he directed might be more perfectly decomposed by compapying the coal formation of this his butler to ascertain the state of the wine, country, are exposed, a large portion of the when, on attempting to open the cellar door, trunk, and several roots, of a fossil tree, are ha he could not effect it, in consequence of visible. it rises several feet above the bed some powerful obstacle. the door was of the river, as far as the strata reach, and consequently cut down, when the cellar was the roots spread themselves in the rock. it found to be completely filled with a firm appears as if the tree had actually vegetated fungus vegetable production, so firm, that on the spot where we now see it it is, , it was necessary to use an axe for its re- where thickest, about four feet in diameter. moval! this appeared to have grown the strata, in which the remains of the tree from, or have been nourished by, the de- stand, are slate clay, and the tree itself is composed particles of the wine, the cask sandstone. there is sandstone below and h being empty, and carried up to the ceiling, immediately above the slate clay, and the where it was supported by the surface of the roots do not appear to have penetrated the fungus. lower sandstone, to which they reach. small suicide.-a very general notion is enter- portions of coal were observed where the tained, that more suicides are committed in bark existed, the form of which is so dis- england, than in other countries; and day tinct on the fossil, that we may conjecture after day, the newspapers are filled with the tree to have been a scotch pine. this communications, in which this is always conjecture may appear more probable, from assumed as an undoubted fact. a late pub- the roots spreading more horizontally than lication by mr. kampız, of berlin, founded those of other species. there are several on official returns, proves, that, in the rents across the tronk, which may have towns of prussia, the suicides are more been caused by frost." _constable's mag. numerous than they are in england. for great britain and france. the fol- instance- loving table is extracted from a work lately published in paris, by count de la borde: prance. * the count, upon this part of his state- extent of territory - , , acres. ment, has the following note :-“ it is a population. singular fact, that notwithstanding the su- in agriculture - - , , persons. perior resources of the english nation, the in manufactures - , , number of indigent is double that of france, indigent - - - - , which country is twice as large as england. various - - - - , , whence does this arise ? from the ex- travagance of the people, and the introduc- total , , tion of so much machinery." varieties-literary, scientific, fc. [feb. , population. suicides nounce, that m. pons, of marseilles, has in . discovered a comet in the constellation pe- berlin - . . . - , : gasus, and another in the constellation hy- postdam (not including) dra. according to the observations of m. the military .. . , - blaupain, this new star was on the th of frankfort on the oder , - november, at h. m. of mean time, breslau - - - - - , .. reckoned from mid-day, at marseilles, by liegnitz - - - - , - , . of right ascension, and . . reichenbach - ... , - south declination. on the st of decem- magdeburg - - - - , - ber, at h. m. of mean time, the right merseburg - - - - , - ascension was . . and the declination dusseldorf - - - - , - . . this comet is easily visible through we do not believe that in any one town of a night telescope. it is of a pale nebulosity, the british diminions, the capital not ex- round, and from five to six minutes in dia- cepted, the suicides amount to one-tenth of meter. the nucleus is very confused. as the rate of reichenbach, which is no less the motion of declination carries the comet than to .-cornwall gaz. towards the north, it is natural to suppose, cabbage versus wine.a french jour- that in a few days, it will have acquired more nal observes, that the cabbage is a sove- intensity, and perhaps become yisible to the reign remedy for curing intoxication from naked eye. wine, and that it has even the power of pre- new dye.-a chymist of copenbagen venting it; for we are informed that by eating has discovered a means of producing a lively a certain quantity of cabbage before dinner, yellow colour for dyeing cloth. he gathers we may drink as much wine as we please, the tops of the potatoes when ready to without experiencing any inconvenience. flower, presses the juice, mixes it with more this property of the cabbage is mentioned or less water, and sutfers the cloth to re- by aristotle and theoprastus, who are of main in it during twenty-four hours. he opinion that it proceeds from the antipathy then dips it in spring water. the cloth which the vine shews for the cabbage. if may be either of wool, silk, cotton, or flax, a cabbage be planted near a vine, the latter by plunging the cloth thus tinged with retires to as great a distance as possible, or yellow, into a vessel of blue, a brilliant and perhaps dies. hence it is concluded, that lasting green is obtained. the vine, owing to this aversion, allows it- caille consumed in london.--the con- self to be overcome by the cabbage. be sumption of sheep and lambs in london in this as it may, the phenomenon is indispu- twelve months, has been lately estimated at table, and the recipe, which was declared the number of one million, sixty-two thou- to be effectual by the ancient egyptians, is sand, seven hundred. the number of now universally adopted in germany.- horned cattle slaughtered, at one hun- lit. gazelle. dred and sixty-four thousand ; and by the moirée metallique.-the marquis ri- inspector's return, it appears, that the num- dolfi has suggested a modification of this ber of horse hides produced at leadenhall ornamental material, which consists in market, amounted to twelve thousand nine sketching flowers, figures, or other designs, hundred. upon the tin plates, with pale or coloured singular discovery. - the nuremburg varnishes, before they are dipped in the correspondent, of the th ult. gives the acid bath. the figures are, of course, left following as authentic ;-" a hat-maker of with the original appearance of the lin, and cassel, named maulich, has discovered a may be brought out in great perfection; or method of manufacturing felt, so as to make they may be made by laying on leaf gold or it impenetrable to the stroke of the sabre in silver, the latter metals with the varnish de- the hands of the strongest cuirassier, and fending the surface of the tin covered with even to a musket bal). the fact has been them. from the acid. proved by numerous experiments. he distillation of coal. it is one of the offered to discover the secret to our govern- important results of chemical science, ment for a suitable recompence; but no at that the various products from the distilla- tention was paid to it. a report of this tion of coal, amount to nearly six times the invention, however, reached st. peters- price of the original article. a chaldron of burgh, and mr. maulich was invited to newcastle coals, which costs in london . present himself to the emperor of russia, will produce at aix-la-chapelle. the russian generals chaldrons of coke, at s. - - being satisfied of the truth of his assertions, gallons of tar. at d. - - - he has been invited to establish in russia a gallons of ammonial liquor,at d. manufactory of this felt, upon the most libe- , cubic feet of gas, at . ral terms." per cubic feet - - - - army of europe.-in a statistical survey of europe, lately published at vienna, it is . estimated, that the armed force of europe, on the peace establishment, consists of new comets. the paris journals an- , , men; and on a war establish- .] varieties-literary, scientific, fe. ment, of , , . the marine is calcu: the much-admired writer, mrs. caroline lated at vessels of the line, frigates, pichler, has just been published at vienna. and , vessels of lesser rank. the collective works of this lady, which are the last census made in bavaria, states all distinguished for their pure moral ten- the number of families in that kingdom, to dency, now amount to volumes. the be , , which supposes a population of twenty-second volume of kotzebue's plays four millions of inhabitants. is just published. it contains, besides two dry rot.-captain duff, in a paper other pieces, the pocket book, the well- lately read before in: royal society of lon- known of pelisson, which has been perform-, don, after stating the well known effects of ed with applause for these two years past on peat moss in preserving wood for ages un- all the theatres of germany. the poets, in altered, suggests that a series of experiments three volumes, by horn, is also esteemed. should be made, to ascertain the effects of oriental poems, transplanted into german impregnating timber, both sound, and al. ground, are now extremely successful. ready partially decayed by the dry rot, with goethe has very skilfully paraphrased, and the water from peat mosses, with a view to published under the title of the divan, the determine whether it possesses any power poems of hafiz (which the great orientalist, in preventing or suspending the insidious joseph von hammer published in german operation of that destructive agent. some years ago). İlammer himself, of prance. whose instructive « mines of the east," the growth of vegetables.- m. du petit first number of the sixth volume has just thouars some time since exhibited to the appeared, has published under the title of the roval academy of france an onion which hleeblatt (trefoil leaf), a collection of lymns weighed lbs. oz, and was inches in in the ma iner of the ancient followers of circumference. dr. desaruliers. in calcu zoroaster, parsee ilymns, arabian ele- lating the ratio of the growth of a turnip gies and turkish eclogues, with copper- and its seed found that the root was plates and explanatory remarks. thousand times as heavy as the seed: con- the elegant poem, the enchanted rose, sequently that during its growth it had gain- growth it had gain. which was first published in the “ urania ed in every minute seven times the weight times the weight for ," one of the best of the numerous of the seed. applying the same calculation pocket books annually published in ger- to the weight of the onion, m. du petit many, has now appeared in a pretty volume thouars found that in every minute it had with six copper-plates. we are indebted gained only thrice the weight of its seed. for this poem to the enterprising and public at the extraordinary sitting of the french spirited bookseller, brockans, in leipzig. academy, on the ed inst. Čount de segur who offered a prize for the best epic ro- read a moral fragment, entitled gratitude; i fragment, entitled gratitude: mance. the prize was gained by ernest m. lemercier, a poetic composition against schulze, a young man of great promise, the lore of solitule. count daru closed who lived but just long enough to witness the sitting hy reading an extract from his the publication of the first edition. he died history of the republic of venice, entitled, in the house of his father at cilli, in the des sciences, de la literature et des arts, kingdom of hanover, in the th year of his chez les feniliens. age, just as he was going to set out on a several accounts of useful inventions journey to italy, for the recovery of his have appeared in the french publications health, shortened by his exertions in the relative to the arts and sciences; among war, for the deliverance of germany, de- others the following :---a method of sepa- plored by the german muse, still mourning rating the hair from the rabbit down, and over the urn of korner. the enchanted rose consists of three cantos of about thus rendering the latter equal to the finest harer for the manufacture of hats, the stanzas each, and sings the fortunes of clo- down being more susceptible of the dve tilde, a princess transformed by enchant- when unmixed with the hair, which has hi- ment into a rose, who, after several partly therto given a coarse appearance, to even , laughable adventures, is at length disen- a the best hats in which rabbit down has been chanted by the bard alpin. this charm mixed with the beaver; and a plan of silver- ing poem, dressed in the loveliest colours, ing looking-glasses, which effectually secures breathes a mystic inspiration, like pers the silver from damp or mildew. this fumes waſted on the wings of the plan has been fairly tried, and a looking- southern gale. an earlier poem, hy the glass placed in water for eight days, sus- same author, called “ cecilia," in twenty tained no kind of damage. cantos, has been published by brockhaus, in volumes, with a preface by his pre- germany. german literature ---one of the most ceptor, professor bonterweck, in gottingen. cecilia, the daughter of a professor at got voluminous novel writers of the present day tingen, was the beloved bride of the poet, is gustav schilling, in dresden. he has whose untimely death, in the th vear of just published four new novels. his col- lective works (all tales or novels) amount her age, filled the poet with despair. mourn- j ing over her corpse, he formed the resolu- to fiity volumes a very excellent novel, tion to write this poem, in which he painted called female dignity, in four volumes, by [feb. , varieties, literary, scientific, c. his melancholy, and the struggle between rea- camuccini, and disposed in admirable order. son and misfortune. brockhaus has also just here, therefore, according to the ancieni re-published, under the title of “ simbil. proverb—the half is almost better than the der der christer," the “ religious em- whole. palmaroli, the greatest master in blems," published ten years ago by acker- the art of restoring pictures, has performed mann, in london, with beautiful wood en wonders on many paintings-fresco and oil. gravings, alter designs of thurston's, by it is to be wished he would communicate his nesbit, branston, clennel, and hale. the mode of proceeding to younger artists. al explanations in the english are short and in most all the good galleries of pictures in prose, but in this edition each print is ac- europe resemble wrinkled old maids. an companied by an excellent religious poem or artist from dresden, at present in italy, is hymn by arthur von nordstern, under which said to take much pains in learning some- assumed name germany recognises and ho- thing of this art. it is likely enough that it nors one of its most popular poets, adolf von may be wanted there! there is a talk of nostitz, minister to his inajesty the king of inviting palmaroli to naples, that he may saxony, who finds in the train of the muses restore the royal gallery, which has suffer- recreation from affairs of state. as the ed extremely. thorwalden's mercury is ab- german publisher has procured from the solutely a miracle of sculpture. the god is proprietor of the admirable original wood represented at the moment when he is pre- engravings, the impressions necessary for daring to cut off the head of the sleeping ar- this edition, we have in this elegant volume gus, and is drawing his sword. the altitude, á pleasing union of english art with ger- the figure, the expression, are all admirable. man poetry. the same arthur von nord- the Ægina statues bclonging to the crown stern has presented us with another pleasing prince of bavaria, which are restored with collection of poems, under the title “ gems prolourd knowledge of the spiritof this style explained by arthur von nordtsern, , of art, made a wonderiul impression. se sixteen allegorical representations (neady venteen of them are completed and set up. engraved in aqua-tinta) taken from gems thorwalden has received a cominion such as are seen in the museum florentinum, from the neapolitan court to morelan eques- and other collections, receive here in gay, trian statue of the present king, ferdinand i. tender, or satirical songs, a practical appli- which is to be cast in bronze, and placed be- cation to the life and wants of the times. fore the palace at naples. overbeck is in- the poet shews a refined knowledge of the cessantly employed on the cartoons, re- antique. of the poems of the favorite of the specting scenes from tasso's jerusalem de- famous schiller, there are publishing, at the livered, which are to adorn the villa mag- same time, a small edition, by colta, in simi; they are conceived in the spirit of raf. siuttgard, in a pretty pocket size, stereo- faelle. may he succeed in the colouring. typed by the indefatigable tauchnitz, in cornelius has laid aside, for a time, the car- leipzig, who is likewise publishing neat toons from dante, to proceed with the hi- stereotype editions of all the greek classics. thological subjects, for which he has re- italy. ceived orders from munich. orpheus be- a great difference of opinion still prevails fore pluto and proserpine is finished.-- at rome among the artists, respecting the cornelius is a fertile ingenious composer, best and readiest road to perfection. the perhaps, at present, the first in his line; but system of old modern painting is defender the colouring, and chiaro oscuro admit of and practised, by the germans in particular, some doubts. yet, perhaps, he may put as the only doctrine that leads to salvation. those who doubt to shame. the painter even the hanoverian counsellor of lega- schadow has finished some admirable por- tion, reulner, has written an essay expressly traits. the riepenhausens are very dili- against the “ friends of the arts," at wei- gent, and have happily escaped almiost all mar, and against what goethe, in the mannerism. the royal museum at na- “vlews on the rhine,”, has said with so ples receives daily an increase of its trea- much reason against this abuse. in this es. sures. the most valuable part, the bronze, say it is directly afirmed, that it is much are extremely well arranged. the engraved more advantageous to take the old german, stones are likewise arranged, and the coins and old florentine schools for models, than also. the precious collection of vases of to study the antique, le, indeed, who, as the marchese vincenzio of nola, has been the school of david has done for some time, purchased, and added to the museum. the paints statues in pictures, may go greatly excavations at pompeii go on slowly, and astray. furnish but little that is interesting. the the gallery of paintings helonging to car- principal quarters of the city and the public dinal fesch, is cne of the sights most worth buildings have been uncovered; there are visiting in rome. the borghese gallery now none but private buildings to find, and has lost, it is true, of its finest paintings, these produce only a repetition of what we during the storms of the revolution, but had before. art freezes here in the execu- what remains, and is now to be seen, is more tion, in the midst of the greatest heat. the beautiful than before. the valuable paint. last exhibition was wretched. the villa ri- ings which it has retained, are restored by uli is carrying on to pausilippo. it is der .] literury report. cided that in the course of the next summer, austrian dominions. with the king, whole court, and the diplo. thirty-one periodical journals are pub- matie body, will go for a time to palermo. lished in the dominions of the emperor of lord byron stul continues at venice; austria ; thirteen of which are printe at and is, we are inforned, diligendly employed vienna, nine in italy, two at prague, three in the composition oí a poem, on which at salsburs, one at gratz, tto a pest, and he purposes to bestow a more than common one at presburg. of these, twenty are in sture of his attention. a work has been re- the german language, eight in italian, cently, received in england from his lord two in hungarion, two in sclavonian, and ship, written in the style of beppo, chtitied, one in modern greek. & don juan,” which is speedily to be com. as to the subjecty to which they are ap- tutted to the press. it appears to be a propriated, these journal, may be classed as production, to which, like his venetian follows:--two are devoted to theology, tivo obory, he has resorted as a relaxation from to legal disquisitions, three to medicine and deeper studies. surgery, two to metaphysics and natural greece. history, one to military science, two to the fine greek antiquities in the crimea. discussion of politics and statistics, and extract from a letter written by the engi one to political economy; four treat on the- peer, von stier, from the fortress of fana atrical subjects, the belles lettres, and the eoria, in the government of tauris, for- fashions of the day; one is particularly merly the crimea, dated the th of august, adapted for the perusal of the lower classes, :-" among the curiosities of this one for young people, and eleven contain a place are the remains of antiquities of the great body of information on all subjects time of the greeks, who planted colonies connected with thearts and sciences,together here. in the beginning of this month, in with dissertations on a variety of points, of digging up a hill, a stone vault was disco- a more general description than those vered, which contained a corpse six feet and which occupy the attention of their cotem- a half long, in a very good state of preser- poraries. vation. the head was ornamented with a africa. golden garland of laurels, and on the fore- algiers, nov. .-the plague has en- tead a golden medal, which represents a tirely ceased its ravages in our unfortunate man's head with the inscription, philip. country: but it carries off at constantinople on both sides of the corpse stood golden and from forty to fifty persons daily; and it earthen vessels, as was the custom among prevails at bono, which gives us reason to the greeks; also several golden chains entertain fear that it may yet again burst out and ear-tings; and on one of the fingers, was at algiers. it appears certain, that the a gold ring with a valuable store, on which number of perso s who have fallen victims vere represented a male and female figure, to it here, is not less than , : and in all of exquisite workmanship. from all the country parts, , . this it may be concluded, that this was the burying place of one of philip's generals. literary report. we beg to remind our correspondents that all notices for this department must be seat on or before the th of each month.) meeting op booksellers. vexation of the party attacked during the a pumerous meeting of the publishers, last term, injunctions were obtained booksellers, stationers, and all others inte. against diferent booksellers in london and rested in the sale of the holy scriptures, the suburbs; and are entered for the was held, on friday the d ult., at the present term. the clerk of the solicitors, globe tavern, fleet-street, london, to take messrs. foss and co., is generally the in- into consideration the recent attack made on former. at first the injunctions were only ibe trade, as relates to the sale of bibles and levelled against bibles printed at edinburgh, prayer-books. as the nature of this attack but lately they have been extended against may not be known to the generality of our bibles, testaments, and common prayers, readers, we shall endeavour to explain it, hy printed in england, with commentaries and giving, in a few words, a short abstract of a notes. this proceeding has spread terror report made by a committee appointed to and dismay among the rarious booksellers investigate its extent. it appeared from both in town and country: especially as they that report, that fortwo or three years past, have been likewise informed, that they can- bills in chancery have been filed, and si- not, under the existing law, sell any bible in lenty operating, under the instruction of a the english torgue, or in any other tongue patentee, against persons seiling edinburgh whatsoever, of any translation, with note or bibles or common prayers. these bills without note, which is not printed at the have been compounded privately, to the do press of the king's printer, or at the pres small gain of the attorney employed, and of the two universities. the sufferery, by nbu montilly mag.-- no. . vol. si. [feb. i, literary report. these precautions, have been chiefly among eleven years. mr. walker, in the strand, the petty retail dealers, who, it was sup- mr. effingham wilson, mr. offer, mr. posed, would willingly enter into any terms biggs, of parliament-street, &c. were all in of compromise offered by the attorney con- the same situation, as were also several per- ducting these processes, rather than incur sons for selling a bible with notes, by the all the risk and expense of a chancery suit. rev. wm. gurney, of st. clement danes. the wholesale dealers have in general es it was maintained that such testimony as caped free from attack, though latterly some that of lord clare was entitled to high con- of them (mr. wood, in the strand; mr. sideration, as it proceeded from a nobleman wilson, at the exchange; and messrs. arch, who was much attached to the prerogative of cornhill) have been visited by the same of the crown. great stress was also placed annoyance as their less wealthy brethren. upon a document which had been extorted as this system was rapidly spreading in by the patentees or their attorney, from a every direction, the trade took it up, and as- poor individual, by which he bound himself sembled on the above day to discuss the under a penalty of , . never to sell a propriety of resisting it with all the energy copy of the bible, testament, or commoa which such an invasion of what they deemed prayer, which did not come from the king's their long-established rights, demanded.- printing-office, or that of the two universi- the impropriety, if not the illegality of these ties, and by which he also bound himself vexatious measures on the part of the pas never to take any steps to dissolve the in- tentees, was strongly insisted upon; and the junction obtained against him. judginent of lord clare, in the case of the speakers were, mr. maxwell, mr. grierson, the king's printer at dublin, v. baldwin, mr. mawman, mr. wilks, mr. jackson (ridgeway's reports, ), was bagster, mr. taylor, and mr. hone; be- stated to be decisive of the matter. in the tween whom and the chairman, mr. leigh, course of that case, which originated upon some very warm altercation ensued. in the an application for an injunction to prevent course of the debate, mr. mawman, who is the defendant from printing an edition of the the agent to the university of cambridge bible in numbers, with prints and notes, for the sale of their bibles, stated that he lord clare asked if the validity of such a had written on the morning of that day to patent as the king's printer enjoyed had ever the syndics there, declaring his opinion been established at law; and said that he be, that the measures pursued were such as did not know that the crown had a right to ought to be immediately terminated, on ac- grant a monopoly of that kind. he fur- count of their vexatious nature, and ex- ther added, " i can conceive the king, as pressed great confidence that they would be head of the church, may say that there shall instantly discontinued. the declaration be but one man who shall print bibles and did not, however, serve to produce much books of common prayer, for the use of effect upon the minds of his audience, who, churches, and for particular purposes; but in consequence, after some discussion, enter- i cannot conceive that the king has any pre- ed into a resolution of appointing a commit- rogative to grant a monopoly as to bibles for tee of twelve london booksellers, with powers the instruction of mankind in revealed reli- to add to their numbers, and with full power gion. if ever there was a time which called to adopt all such measures as should be re- aloud for the dissemination of religious quisite to terminate the depending prosecu- knowledge, it is this; and therefore i should tions, and to prevent any future occurrence. with great reluctance decide in favour of this was followed by another resolution, such a monopoly as this, which must neces- empowering them to receive subscriptions sarily confine the circulation of the book. to enable them to proceed with vigour and as to very particular purposes, i have no energy in the great cause in which they were doubt that the patentee has an exclusive so necessarily engaged. we understand right to print bibles and prayer-books; but that large sums were immediately deposited unless i am bound very strictly, i will not in the hands of the committee, several determine upon motion, that no man but the persons advancing from . to . each, king's printer has a right to print such and one gentleman in particular, the large works as these." sum of guineas. from hints that were the report concluded by stating several dropped in the course of the discussion, we most distressing instances in which the in- are led to conjecture, that the great body of junctions of the court had been rigidly en- booksellers will immediately combine, and forced. a mr. george, in brick-lane, for present a petition to the two houses of par- selling a second-hand bible, was served with liament, to obtain some modification of the an injunction, and had above . of ex- present patent. a professional gentlemas, perses to pay; as had also a mr. edgar, who spoke in behalf of mr. blanchard, of and others in the same street. mr. bow. the city-road, stated, that he had very great ling, newgate-street, for selling one bible, doubts as to its legality, and expressed his had l. to pay for the injunction being intention of examining into that point, when- served on him; as had also messrs. john ever his client should be regularly brought and arthur arch, of cornbill, for a diamond before the court. bible, which thry had oflered for sale for .) literary report. mr. rogers, author of the pleasures c. mills, author of a history of moham- of memory, &c. has in the press a poem en- medanism. titled human life. the young arthur, or the child of mys- a series of letters are preparing for pub- tery, a metrical romance. by c. dibden, lication, written by the hon. lady spen- esq. cer to her niece, the late celebrated duchess tom crib's memorial to congress, with of devonshire shortly after her marriage. a preface, notes, and appendis. by one sir arthur clarke has nearly ready of the fancy. – the appendix contains, for publication, an essay on warm, cold, among other flash articles, some chaunts and vapour bathing, with practical obser- by bob gregson, the present poet lau- vations on sea bathing, diseases of the skin, reat of the fancy. bilious liver complaints and dropsy. a voyage up the persian gulph, and a mr. boileau will shortly publish the journey over land from india to england, in art of french conversation, exemplified on ; containing an account of arabia fe- a new plan with an introduction, &c. lix, arabia deserta, persia, mesopotamia, the recollections of japan, by captain babylon, bagdad, koordestan, armenia, golownin, are expected to appear in the asia minor, &c. &c., illustrated by plates. course of a few days; they will be accompa- by william hende, esq. of the madras nied by a chronological account of the rise, military establisment. decline, and renewal of british commer observations on the nature and treat- cial intercourse with that country. ment of the epidemic fever, at present mr. colburn is preparing for publica- prevailing in the metropolis, as well as in tion, the hermit in london or sketches of most parts of the united kingdom. by dr. english manners, some specimens of which clutterbuck. to which are added re- have appeared in the literary gazette, and marks on some of the opinions of dr. bate- have been received with extraordinary fa- man in his late treatise on that subject. vour: the whole collection will form three introductory greek exercises to those of volumes neilson, dunbar, and others; arranged the second or concluding part of dr. under models to assist the learner. by n. watkins' memoirs of her late majesty, howard, author of greek and latin vo- may be expected early in the present month. cabularies, &c. &c. mr. w. b. taylor is preparing to pub- illustrations of affection, and other po- lish by subscription, an historical account ems, by mr. g. h. toulmin of the university of dublin, illustrated with decision, a tale, by the author of cor- coloured plates, &c. the work is to be in rection, in vols. the same style as those of oxford and cam- the desert, a poem, by the author of bridge, to which it will form an accompa- the banquet. niment. illustrations of the architecture and sculp- captain james burney, of the royal ture of the cathedral of lincoln, consisting navy, has in the press, an historical re- of plates by the first artists from draw- view of the maritime discoveries of the rus- ings by c. wild. sians, and of the attempts which have been s pecimens of irish eloquence, now first made to discover a north east passage by arranged and collected, with biographical sea, from the atlantic ocean to china. notices and a preface, by c. phillips, esg. the subscription to mr. valpy's edition essays, biographical, literary, moral, of the delphin and variorum classics and critical, by the rev. john evans. will close on the publication of part i. which the stage, a poem, addressed to mr. far- will appear in the course of the present ren, containing strictures on various actors, week. by j. brown, esq. the rev. george crabbe has nearly "a literal translation of the penal code ready for publication a new work, entitled of napoleon, by j. wilkinson, esq. tales of the hall. an erroneous report has a churchman's second epistle, with gone forth respecting the purchase money; notes and mustrations, by the author of the fact is, mr. crabbe has disposed of the religio clerici, vo. entire copyright of all his works, including humboldt's personal narrative of tra- this new poem, for the sum of , . vels to the equinoctial regions, vol. . an inquiry respecting some of the dis- in the press and may shortly be expected: eases of the serous membranes of the ab · the history of the crusades undertaken domen and thorax, by dr. john bacon. for the recovery of the holy land : a view a biographical dictionary of the wor- of the latin states in syria and palestine; thies of ireland, in vols. by mr. ryan the constitution and laws of the kingdom childe harold in the shades, an internal of jerusalem ; the military orders which romaunt. sprung from the wars between the chris- capt. j. c. laskey has in a consider- tians and musselmans; and the consequences able state of forwardness, a set of plates il- of the crusades upon the morals, litera- lustrating the napoleon mint medals, exe- ture, politics, and manners of europe. by cuted by an eminent artist. feb. , commercial report, if the advartages of commerce were to be estimated by the extent of operations, the transactions of might be considered of important interest to the country. the custom-house returns for the year, as well in london as all the out-ports of the kingdorn, exhibit an increased and extended intercourse with every part of the globe. the importa- tion of almost every article of merchandise has exceeded (and in several articles consider- ably so) that of the preceding year. the fluctuation of value, however, in a variety of ar- ticles, has been so considerable as to render the aggregate resiits extremely doubtful of any advantage to the commercial part of the community. cotions, coffee, tobacco, and tallow, in particular, have exprrienced that fluctuation and decline, which must produce ruinous consequences to some of the holders, as well from the high price they still main- tain, when their growing value is considered, as the excess of supply beyond the consump- tion. the importation of cotton has exceeded that of any former period, being no less than , hales; which, added to the stock at the close of of , , makes the total supply of , , bales, whilst the consumption has been about , , and , exported, leaving a balance of stock of about , bales, , of which are east india. by this statement it will appear, that the excess of importation has been prin- cipally in east india descriptions, and which are reduced in value since the close of the year nearly one half, the common bengals commanding only from d. to d. per pound, which, in the present year, commanded from s. to d., and surats from ed. io d., which previously commanded d. to d.; by which it will be perceived the decline falls principally upon the lower descriptions of quality; the decline upon the fine, as well as all other kinds of american, brazil, and west india, being only from d. to d. per pound, or to per cent. on the value; whilst upon the low quality of east india, the depreciation is full per cent. : ard when it is considered how great a proportion the low qualities of east india form to the whole, the loss in the aggregate to the importers cannot be estimated at less than a million of money.-oi cofee the consumption keeps pace with the supply; and the stock in this country having become greatly reduced, has rendered it a favourite article of speculation; its value for fair middling quality at the close of was about ., from which it generally rose, up to the months of july and august, to about s., receded again to s., and now remaining at about s. to s. the evil of speculation was perhas never more manifest than has been evinced in this article within the last year; when in london the holders bare been asking s, the same quality would net prodrce, in the great markets of consumption uronite continent, more than . tisos., and in france not more than s. to ., w tot in the west india islande, at the places of growth, the prices liad been run up equal to s, or s. it must therefore be obvious to every rational observer, how extremely proindicial wanton speculation is to the true interests of commerce. tobacco, which, ever since the renewal of intercourse with america, has mairtained a price nearly double its usual value in pe- riods of uninterrupted intercourse, is at length, from the accumulated stock of nearly , hogsheads, yielding to something like its natural price; but the article at present is in such limitad demand, as to render any idea of its specific ralue impossible: cargoes that a few months ago were sold at s. per pound all round, rould not now find buyers at d., if at d.---tallous have likewise experienced a correspondent decline, having two or three months since realised s. per cwt., and are non dificult of sale at beloir s.; and when it is considered that s. per cwt. hag generaliy been estimate a fair price for this article in times of free intercourse, it must obviously subject the parties concerned in it to great risk. this extreme maximum of value and fluctuation has also preruiled in several of the minor articles of commerce, very much io the pre udice of the cosmner and fair dealer; indeed the evil consequences of extravagant speculation are so manifest, as to render some eficient measures necessary to expose its absurdity, and suppress its pernicious influence. the condition of society, in every part of the globe, is biler suited than at any former period for promoting a muual lecrocity of interests, hy iocity of ini tesis,hvale kiliniate interchange of productions that constitute the materials of commerce; and, in luct, the productions abound in a greater proportion, both of nature and art, than at any furmer period; and yet there never was a period when suspicion and distrut so much prevailed. our cotton manufactures, instead of being countratiedly the rivalry or the continent, as was uniformly insisted upon when the unrestricted intercourse is frst established, have increased nearly one- finth, with every prospect of a still further increas; yet, the condition of the manufactur- ir, labourer was never mere miserable, not reiving more than one-third for his labour, to which he is entitled, and which is necesary cui his subsistence, being sent to the parish funds for a further pittance. subversive as this principle is of the general interesis of the parties pursuing it, and degrading as it is to the national characier, both the public and legislature, whose duty it is to point out the tolly and check ibe absurdity of the measure, scem determined to let it run its course, and work its own cure. disappointed, as we con- ſess we are, at coirmerce, in conformity with the opinion we have invariably advanced, not having before this attained its wonted energy and respectability of character, we still in- dulce in the conviction, that the country possesses all the requisite means for extending and conducting commercial intercourse in a way that, by restoring an honourable confidence, it shall operate to the interest and advantage of society in every part of the globe. .) [ bankrupts, prom december , to january , , inclusive. tvhere the address of the solicitor is not mentioned, he must be understood to reside at the same place as the bunkrupt. the solicitors' names are between parentheses, g. c. a. the tower, ship owner (pulley, crown court, atkinson j. dalston, cumberland, cotton broad sir, manufacturer (pearson, carlisle ; & j. birkett, cloak lane. --atherton t. liverpool, tanner (ad. gilson r. bawtry, victualler (knowles, new ling on and gregory, bedford row. ion; & hill.-gardiner d. chiswel street, halter b. (clabon, mark lane. garduer n. & h. glouces. bryant w. grecnwich, coach master (clarke, ter, bakers (cecil becke, devonshire street, qucen richards, & biedcalf, chancery lane.-broadbelt, square. w. preston. laprasbire, corn merchant (avison & h. wheeler. liverpool, & castle street, holborn; & hog: i. e. bread str. warehouseman (wright blachurst. piston.--pedells w. knighton, rad. & freeman, basinghall str.-llort a. dean street, norshire, woo'stapler (weilings & co. ludlow; finsbury squ. merchant (surel, bucklenbury. & jenkins, james, & abbott. new lan--plo. hewitt p bold, lancashire, farmer (rawlinson perhy w. boltou, lancashire, cotton manufacturer & huddleston, warrington; & chester, staple inu. meddowcroft. gray's lon; & boardman & merry, - hogg j. e. bread str. warehousemao (knight bolton-elackboro, j. witham, essex, corn factor & freeman, basinghall str.-haywood i. grert (carter, staple inn.- bradshaw t. mancicster, portland str. paper hanger (archer, southamton check manufacturer (snaw, ely place; & smith, str. bloomsbury sguure. - hardie a. union court, manchester.-brunner j birmingham, palten ma. broad str. merchant (nind & cotterell, throge nufacturer (boustield, bourerie street; & hicks. morton st. -lludsou w. upper thames st. carchea. -- brown j. leeds, straw liat manufacturer (ash- warcman (jacomb & bentley, basinghall st. - lez, royal exchange.-bli j. church str. spital hughes s. liverpool, liquor vesciaat (dacic s fields, boinbasin m ufacturer (james, bucklers. jonn, palsgrave place, temple bar. bury.--booth j. oxford str. grocer (hindmali, basiogiall st. ingram l. cheapside,shatter (birheit, cloak la. j. crimes t. chester, coach proprietor (dicas; & johnson r. piymouth, grocer (helly. - jenkins l'uxley, temple.curgenren t. truro, cornwall, j. w :cchurch, glamorgan, timber merchant (jene linen draker (brorallack.collens r. maidstone, kins, james, & abbott, new lum; myrick, hop merchant (lin 'say, si. tromas's street, bo. merthyr-tidsil.-- jackson g. mie town, isie of roug..--chabers !! jaket kasen, lincoluahire, sheppy, baker (milne & pariy, temple.-- jacob currier (este, grey's lun square; & rhodes. j gravellane, bloundsditci, tobacconist (norton. cater s l ime, wirtling str. warehouse meu commercial cirsinbers, minories.- jennyos, j. c. (charman, s'pplietas, & wood, little st. thomas caterine str. struid, dealer (cornerford, cop. apost'. -- canan r. !!!rmersmith, surgeon thall court, thro norton str. (gat!y & haddon angel cout, throgniorton str. k. -cassells r st. suithan's lane, merchant (poole, kendrick j. ballingdon mills, chaddesley cor. adam's court, o! i bigad str. -churchul j. stan. bett, worcestershire, miller (lodington & hall. hope st chmie ritirket, common brewer (brown, temple; & j emery, kiddermuster.- keats t. london connerstal sule rooirs, mincing lane.- m. poultry, latter (blandford, bruton str. bond collins f newl stbornr, sussex, mealman (hume, street.-kernor j. castle street, leicester fields. holborn court, gray's lun-carver j & w. peet, drusgist. basinghall st. merchants (lacomb & belley, basinghall str.-cowley t. boltoale-moors, lith lesien s. kennington, surrey, exchange broker caster, warehouser an (milue & party, temple. mlue & party, temple. (poole, adam's court, old broad street.-long- d staff c. kingston-upon hull, nierchant (rosser, dion w. threadneedle str. wine merchant (do. sun & rosser, bar leit's buildings, holborn: & derson. juu. eroad st. chambe!.-- dauidis w. sandwith, ilull.-longman f. g. norwich, malt. jun. bishop stortford, llert, malt frtor (makin. ster (marston & day; & abbott, rolls yard. suo. elm court. temple ; & grp - dairy j. foul. chancery lane.-lumley w. jermynst st. james's, sham. norloh, ironinonger (tilson & preston, wine merchant (osbaldeston, london street. fer. coleinan st.; & wade, s.etheld.-david j. thread church street.-lusi e. sherborne, dorset, linen needle str. merchant (knight & frerman, basing. draper (king & lukin, gray's ina senare : & hall str.-durlan j. lower shadwell str. carcase watts, yeovil, somersct.-lucy r. tapsies, here. butcher (ii. & j. bull, hoiles str. cavendish squ. les str. cavendish squ. fordshire, buil fordshire, builder (pewtress, gray's inn; and -davis n. gloucester terrace, new road, white- evaus, hereford. -- lutey t. wapping. pariser chapel, merchant (blandford, bruton sireet, new (gregson & fonnereau, angel comit, throginor, bond str. ton street. l. m. everett w. cambridge, corn merchant (hagger moxon r. w. g. & j. kingston upon tull, mer. ston & whiteley; & croft, chaucery lane. chants (frost, hull; & rosser & son, bartlett's f. buildings morgan w. bristol, victualler (king, flinders j. nottingham, hosier (farren, tliread. serjeunt's inn; & frankes.-merchant, j. shepton. needle st. --- friday r. jun. isleworth, middlesex, mallet, somerset, ina keeper (burfoot, inaer barge master (noy & llardstone, minciog lane. temple. - flint w. old bailey, printer (amory & coles, n. louibury,-fitzgerald t. st. catherine st. ncar ncale j. & s. warner, milk street. bankrupts-dividends. (feb. i, grocer (hall, coleman street, bank.-synionds oulet j. charlotte st. jeweller (foole, adam's w. lowestoft. suffolk, merchant (bromley, hol. court, old broad street.- oxenham j. t. oxford born court, gray's ino.-symmons t. straud, biass str. mangle maker (kearsey & spurr, bishopsgate founder (mount, tokenhouse yard, lothbury.-- street within, sumner t. preston, lancashire, coru merchant p. (dewburst, preston, & blacklock, sergeant's inn, peyton w. lincoln's ion fields, wine & brandy fleet streei.-smith w. moflat street, city roed. merchant (hartley, new bridge str. blackfriars. coin dealer (t. dobson, jun. chancery lane.- -peet w. basinghall str. merchant (jacob & stiff w. rotherwick, southampton, shopkeeper bentley, basioghall street.-perry ), sen. stock. (bridger, angel court, throgmor ton street; and port, cheshire, muslin manufacturer (walters, pricketi, odiham, hants.-swan r. gainsborough, stockport: & wright & co. temple.--perkins j. merchant (cicke & evans, alder manbury.-still tiverton, devon, tinber merchant (birkett, cloak j. south island place, brixton, surrey, merchant lanc.-phillips t. bread st. hill, merchant (clarke, (leachman, basinghall street. bishopsgale str. without.-paterson m. halifax, t. yorkshire, dyer (morton & williamson, gray's tipfett r. totness, baker (pooie & greenfield, inn square; & j. e. norris - power j. & r. war. gray's inn square; & carey, bristol.-twyford j. wick, finsbury square, merchants (warne, 'change portwood, chester, colton spioner (walters, alley.- pidding j j. high iiolborn, stock broker stoch port; & wright & colt, temple.-tully f. (guy, croydon, & howard, strand - parsons s. bristol, baker (poole & greenfield, gray's inn hanover st. loug acre, coach plater. (rodins & square; & carey.--thomas w. cheapside, tailor hill, serjeant's top. (amory & coles, lothbury.--thompson w. h. r. liverpool, merchant (orred & brooke; & lowe rogers j. old broad str. merchant (cotlle, & bower, soutba:npton buildings, chancery lane. t. aldermanbury.-ridley t. seaton sluice, nor. u thumberland, brewer (meggi ons & pocle, ilalton unwin r. chapel-le-fritli, timber merchant garden; & forster, newcastle upon tyne.--ro. (wake, sheffield ; & blagrave & walter, symond's binson j. holy well, flintshire, butcher (lowe & inn, london, bower, southampton buildings, chancery laue.- v. richmond t bell yard, carey st. plumber (fisher, venus j. lower shadwell, vintner (robinson & inger temple lane.-ritchie t. air sl. piccadilly, burrows, austin friars.-vertue s. mark la. corn inerchant (evans & bartram, st. mildred's court, merchant (sudlow & co. monurnent yard. poultry.--richards d, muun's row, bow common, w. middlesex, manufacturing cheinist (venner, wheeler d. lyde street, bloomsbury, coloring thorahaugh st. bedford square.-lyssell j. palace maker (grimaldi & stables, copthall coart.- wharf. timber merchant (loxley & son, cheap. wilson j. h. jun. lpper belgiave place, pimlico, side. - richards h. beaconsfield, buckingham, picture dealer (newcomb, ville st. piccadilly, carpenter (tucker, bartlett's buildings, holborn. olborn. wattson j. gravesend, kept, coach master (yat. s. man, arundel str. strand.--williain h. duke str. salt m. stoke-upon-trent, four dealer (flint, bloomsbury, wine mercbao: (youoger, well close . uutoxeter; & tooke, gray's lun.--scoles c. beu. square. sington, oxfordshire, baker (hedges, wallingfoid; & price, williams, & white, lincoln's inn stan. young t. paddington street, st. mary le-bope. bury j. gloucester terrace, whitechapel road, grocer (shuter, millbank sur. westminster. dividends. a. abel m. bungay, banker, jan. -ashby w. godmanchester, huntingdon, miller, feb. , apd feb. b. bewley j. newgate market, salesman, jan. . brown g. lime-street, wine merchant, jan. . -bell j. & t. kingston upon hull, merchants, jan. .- blankenhagen t. c. bishopsgate street within, merchant, jan. .-bell w. brampton, cumberland, brandy-merchant. jan. .- bayfield . mar! lane, wine broker, jan. .-bell j. pock. lington, j. p. and t. bell, scullcoates, yorkshire, merchants, jan . - burton h. burton upon trent, staffordshire, butcher, jan. .-bayley j. pirsea, essex, feb. .- brown t. straod, tailor and gaiter maker, feb. .-beauchamp r. coven. try street, haymarket, lace dealer, feb. .--ball j. m. great spring street, shadwell, auctioneer, feb. .-basset w. church street, spital fields, silk manufacturer, feb. . bailey j. reading, linen draper, jan. .- baker c. t. marlborough, wilts., woolen draper, jap. .- buchanan wm. oxenden street, haymarket, merchant, feb. .- bragg w. a. rotherhithe wall, shipwright, feb. . -bottrell t. ratcliff highway, victualler, feb. . -bessel c. prospect place, lambeth, insurance broker, feb. .- birch w. great queen street, coach maker, feb. – batt e., j. backshell, and a. w. bart, wieney, backers, feh. .-bennet j. manchester, woollen cord manufacturer, feb. .- bass p. asbborue, dealer, feb. . c. clay c. aston, coach maker, jan. .-coombes, j. and j. shadwell dock, coopers, jan. .-cute ting j. playford, suffolk, millei, jan. .-clarke w. warley, york, seedsınan, jan. .-clarke t. west barnard, somerset, cheese dealer, jan. . cook w. chapel street, new road, grocer, jan, . crosseley j. king .--capewell t. vitoxeter, stafford, grocer, feb. .-cotsford, w. f. upper clapton, glazier, jan. . carnaby j. morpeth, common brewer, febi, . -cunliffe r. astley, lancaster, shopkeeper, feb. .--cutbush h. and w. maidstone. carpenter feb. .-coltman w. long acre, baker, feb. . --cady t. ipswich, baker, feb. .-carae h. austin friars, insurance broker, feb. . d. dalton s. coventry, grocer, jan, .-doxon j. manchester, merchant, jan. .-danson t. liver. pool, merchant, jan. .-davidson j. east india chambers, leadenhall street, merchant, jan. .- dean t.sunderland, acar the sea, sail maker, feb. . .) dividends. g. s. -de roure, j. p. and j. hambrook, angel court, neale j. and s. warner, milk street, wholesale throgmortoo street, merchants, feb. ,-docg a. linea drapers, feb. . north shore, without the walls, newcastle upon p. tyne, sbip builder, feb. .-deeble w. h. brise phillips l. and s. high holborn, glass merchants, tol, ironmonger, march . jan. -plaw . r. riches court, lime street, jan, .-- fhillips j. exeter, innkeeper, feb. . fosset t. miocing lane, merchant, jan. . palmer s. bourton on the water, gloucester, mer. fletcher b. deptford, linen draper, jan. , cer, feb. .--- polac b. sheffield, jeweller, feb. .com flowct t. castle street, holboro, jeweller, feb. . palmer j. piccadilly, tailor, feb. . -farringdon p. wood street, silk manufacturer, r. feb. .-forge w. ho'derness, thrashing machine rowlatt j. charterhouse square, merchant, jan. maker, march . .- rhodes w. east smithfield, baker, jan. .- ritchie w. finsbury square, merchant, feb. .- goodman b. romsey lofra, southampton, mil. robb w. s. blackfriars road, merchant, jan. .- les jaa. .--grigg t. plymouth, tea dealer, jan, rawlinson r. kingston upon hull, merchant. glasson r. graysbeck, cumberland, butter. jan. - robertson s. liverpool, merchant, jan. factor. jan. .-gilding f. aldersgate street, cab. .- rowlatt j. charterhouse square, inerchant, bet maker. jan. .-grant j. hattou garden, mer. jan. .- ravenshaw t. liverpool, grocer, feb. . chant. jag, .-gilding f. aldersgate street, cabi. - rawlinson r. kingston upon hull, merchant, det maker, jao. , goodair j. queen street, feb. .-ronalds h. f. and j. singleton, foster caeapside, merchant, jan. .--goodyer s. market jane, cheapside, warehousemen, feb. .-red. street, llei ts., grocer, feb. .-griffith j. caer. maybe t. preston, linen draper, feb. . batyod, currier, feb. .-george t. leeds, mer. chant, feb. .-gomme j. buckland common, smith j. milton, kent, rope maker, jan. , bucks, timber merchant, feb. .-green e. dart starter j. wakefield, york, linen draper, jan. .- ford, liaen draper, feb. . srbith w.beerferris, devonshire, lime burner, jan. h. - street j. f. and w. bucklersbury, stationeri, hall e. newton, manchester, cotton manufac. jan. .--smith s. coventry, watch maker, jan. . terer, jan. .-hanlyn r. and j. chaater, bide. smith w. oxford street, ironmonger, jan. .- ford. deron., bankers, jan. .-halse t. h. and standish l. h. bishopsgate street without, straw t. d. meriton, maiden lape, wood street, cheap. hat manufacturer. jan. ,-smith, t. p. bristol, side, bation manufacturers, jan. .-hornsby t. whalebone brush manufacturer, feh. .-shaw s. cornhill, stock broker, jan. --houlbrooke t. brunswick square, underwriter, feb. .-souggs high holborn, linen draper, feb. . — hill t. j. henrietta street, covent garden, mercer, jan. leeds, merchant. feb. .- ooper p. and t. ,- sherwood w. liverpool, soap manufacturer, bedford, bartholomew place, bartholomew close, jan. .stabler f. j. marshall and t. marshall, timber merchants, jan. .-headlain j. skinner york, linen merchants, jan. .-shepperd j. sul- street, wareliouseman, feb. .-hornsby t. juar. too, yorkshire, ship builder, feb. .--smith j. hall, grocer, feb. . manchester, manufacturer, feb. --smith w. ox. j. ford street, ironmonger, jan. .-sanders s. fleet jump j. and t. hargroves, fore street, hat ma. street, perfuner, feb. .-sanders j. chichester, dufacturers, jan. .-jackson j. junr. greenlaw grocer, ceb, . walls, durbam, miller, feb. .-jacob b. bar. t. tholomew close, merchant, march . twemlow w. manchester, draps, jao. .- k. turner j. hemel hampstead, herts,ora dealer, kershaw t. w. southwark, linen draper, jan. . jan. . -tucker j. long acre, linen draper, jan. -kendal j. exeter, statuary, feb. . .- thomas j. broad street buildings, merchant, l. jan. . lomas g. dowgate ilill, merchant, jan. .- v. lipders w. tetsworth, oxford, innkeeper, jan. . vos h. and j. c. essers, new court, crutched -lee r. great winchester street, underwriter, friars, merchants, jan. . jan. .-ladbroke j. draycote, warwickshire, w. fariner. jan. .-lancaster j. michael's grove, warren g. t. and h. little grovesnor street, brompton, merchant, jan. .-lyonel sand w. grosvenor square, builders, jan. - watts g. and e. perkins, chatham, grocers, jan. . and w. bush, bristol, ivory black manufacturers, m. jan. - warrington n. high street, borough, miller r. tottenham, watchmaker, jan. . jan. .-werpinch g. and j. plymouth, wier- xorand s. dean street, finsbury square, mer chants, jan. .- whitehouse j. stratford on avon, chant, jan. .-mancers j. and j. carr, sheffield, warwick, mercer, jan. .-warren g. t. and h. edge tool manufacturers, jan. .-mac. knight, little grovesnor street, grovespor square, builders, j. parliament street, linen drapes, jan. .-macs jan. .-- wicks w. frampton upon severn, glou- t. paul's, covent garden, merchant, cestershire, sliopkeeper, jan. . -wood j. moss feb.'.-markham r. junr. suadelnud, near the side, manchester, merchant, feb. .-wheeler s. sea, mercer, feb. .--marquis d. c. queen street, a. birmingham, merchant, jan. .-willats t. berchant, feb. .-martindale j. new bond street, great quren street, ironmonger, jan. .-walker vide merchant, feb. . j. shoreditch, furniture broker, feb. . wale t. n. lutterworth, leicestershire, draper, jan. .-wil. northcote a. lloyd's coffee house, underwriter, lets 't. great queen street, lincoln's inn fields, jan. .--northcote i. j. lime street, wine mer ironmonger, jan. ,--woodcock w. preston, lan- chant, jan. .-nunn h. and j. barber, york cashire, timber merchant, feb. . street, covent garden, haberdashers, feb. .- o how i - ru ha - t daily prices of stocks, from decevber , , to january , , both inclusive. bank per ciuperct prot perct perci, long į trieb imp. imp. ! india so. sea o.s.s. (n.s s. per ci ex, bills. consols days. | stock. redu. cons. cons. cons. | navy. anns. per c: per ct anns. omnium stock. stuck. stock. stock. ind. bon. d per day for ac. dec. holiday. tioliday. - par o dis - pm. pm. - ; pm. u pm. - pm. pm.' pm. - - pm. pm. pm. $ Š jan, - - pm, pm: | pm. pm. $ - boss pm. pm. qoliday. - pm pm. pm. - pm. pm. pm. pm. pm. pm. pni. pm. pm pm. pm, , pm. pm. pm. $ pm pm. pm. pm. pm. pm. $ is pm. pm. pm. iš pm. pm pm. x pm. pn. pm. pm. ] pm. pm. $ pm. - pm. pm. : Ž % ?! pm pm. pm. % $ pm, pm, e n dt om to - - mitnis penet irolst . d- - - natten - - comaso apt« . . o it te coluoto te iii - - - p all exchequer bills dated prior to the month of feb., , have been advertised to be paid off, and the interest thereon has ceased. n. b. the above talle contains the highest and lowest prices, taken from the course of the exchange, &c. originally published by john castaign, in the year , and now publishell, every tuesday and friday, under the authorily of the committee of the stock exchange, by james wetenhall, scock-broker, angel court, throgmorton-street, london, on application to whom the original documents for near a century past may be read, prices of canal shares, &c. in the month of january, , at the office of mr. clarke, , throg morton street. canals. div. per ann. per share. div. per ann.' per share. . s. water-works. ls. ashby-de-la-zouch. . east london . . l. . coventry . . . . l. grand junction . .. . dadley . . . . kent . . . . . . . edesmere & chester . . south london . . grand junction . . . . west middlesex . . grand union . . bridges. hoddersfield , . , - . los. southwark, old . kennet & avon ... . . ditto new . . . , s. on union . . . . o gol. waterloo . . osord . . . . do. annuities, . pd. , s. rochiale . . . . . . . do. do., . pd. thames & nedway. - . los. vauxhall . . . . warwick & birmingham i ogs. , . ditto bonds ... . warwick & vapton - . . miscellaneous. worcester & birmingham - . globe assurance . . . . ex. div. vilts & berks . . . . , os. hope . . . . . - . . rock .. . . docks. auction mart ... . . east india . . . . . o l. westminster gas light . o . london . . . . . . . do. new, . . . pd. . s. commercial ... o . *, it is with great satisfaction that we again congratulate our readers and the public upon the improving commerce of the country. the rates of tonnage upon the several leading canals throughout the kingdom for the last year exhibit a larger amount than at any former period. meteorological table. s.b. the observations are made twice every day, at eight o'clock in the morning and at ten in the evening. . ther! win general remarks i 'ther wind. general remarks. i i . . w.sw. clear m. w. cloudy ue. w.$.w. fossy w s.w. cloudy, showers er m. e clouds foggy m. w. cloudy ue. s e. cloudy cloudy e. s.w. rainy . s.s.e. thin transp. clouds m. w. brisk gale e. ? | e. serene e. w.s.w. cloudy m | e. slight fog, m. w.s.w. serene e & s.s.e. sitne e. s.w. rainy, afterw. fine m e. foggy m.s s.w. serene e s.e. farnt breeze e. s.w. gentle showers m. e. foggy m. ese. cloudy e. | e.s.e. gentle breeze e. v.s.w. stormy . si fresh breeze e 'sis.w. showers meteorological report. serene £. s. stormy during the first six days in this month, the m. sw. showers air was nearly calm, with frequent and very dense e + s.w. stormy fogs, which when they cleared up disclosed, in sw. cloudy most instances, a cloudless sky; the wind fluctuata sw. clondy jug between the s. and e. a very slight frost pre. m w ..w. partially cloudy vailed in the mornings, but the thermomncter never e w.sw. showers descended lower than . from the th to the | . w s.w. serene th inclusive, the wind bas g nerally blown from . s.w. cloudy the collateral points of the south ward of the west, ss.w. serene accompanied by heary occasional showers. the f.. w.nw. showery days, however, have been for the most part serene. .. cloudy the principal characteristic of the weather this e. isw. showers month bas been its remarkable raildness; and what m ws.. partially cloudy is perhaps entirely unexampled, no snow has hi- e wnw stormy therto fallen from the coinmencement of the win. . w serene ier. every thing presages that the succeeding t e - w.s.w. rainy nonth will be unusually warm, and, as may be . .w. sunng gale tetonably anticipated, the ensuing spring cold, " e w.s.w, serene blak, and unfruitful. sight showers e / w nv. i serene new munthly llac. -n . . vol. xi. m jan. | e. al sw. col ( ) [feb. , | digest of political events. great britain. begent has directed to be laid before you the new sessions of the imperial pare such papers as are necessary to sbew the liament was opened on thursday the st origin and result of the war in the east in- january, by commission, on account of the dies. his royal highness commands us récent death of her majesty, when the fol- to inform you, that the operations under- lowing speech was delivered to both hoases taken by the governor-general in council of parliament by the lord chancellor : against the pindarees, were dictated by the “my lords and gentlemen-we are strictest principles of self-defence; and that commanded by his royal highness the in the extended hostilities which followed prince regent to express to you the deep upon those operations, the mahratta princes regret which he feels in the continuance of were, in every instance, the aggressors. his majesty's lamented indisposition. in under the provident and skilful superintend- anpouncing to you the severe calamity with ance of the marquis of hastings, the cam- which it has pleased divine providence to paign was marked in every point by bril- visit the prince regent, the royal family, liant achievements and successes; and his and the nation, by the death of her majesty majesty's forces and those of the east india the queen of the united kingdom, his royal company (native as well as european) ri- highness has commanded us to direct your valled each other in sustaining the reputa- attention to the consideration of such mea- tion of the british arms. the prince re- sures as this melancholy event has rendered gent has the greatest pleasure in being able necessary and expedient with respect to the to inform you that the trade, commerce, and care of his majesty's sacred person. we manufactures of the country are in a most are directed to inform you that the negocia. flourishing condition. the favourable tions which have taken place at aix-la-cha- change which has so rapidly taken place in pelle, have led to the evacuation of the the internal circumstances of the united french territory by the allied armies. the kingdom, affords the strongest proof of the prince regent has given orders that the solidity of its resources. to cultivate and conyention concluded for this purpose, as improve the advantages of our present situ- well as the other documents connected with ation will be the object of your delibera- this arrangement, shall be laid before you; tions; and his royal highness has com- and he is persuaded that you will view with manded us to assure you of his disposition peculiar satisfaction the intimate union to concur and co-operate in whatever may which so happily subsists amongst tho pow. be best calculated to secure to his majesty's ers who were parties to these transactions, subjects the full benefit of that state of and the unvaried disposition which has been peace which, by the blessing of providence, manifested in all their proceedings for the has been so happily re-established through preservation of the peace and tranquillity of out europe." europe. the prince regent has com- the customary address pas moved in the manded us further to acquaint you, that a house of commons by mr. browplow, and treaty has been concluded between his royal seconded by mr. peel, who thought that highness and the government of the united every honorable member in the house states of america, for the renewal, for a might give it his support, whatever were further term of years, of the commercial his political views, without any impeach- convention now subsisting between the two ment of his character for consistency, or pations, and for the amicable adjustment of without pledging himself as to the sup- several points of mutual importance to the port of future measures. this, however interests of both countries; and as soon as reasonable it might appear, was not the the ratifications shall have been exchanged, case, for mr. macdonald rose to remark. bis royal highness will give directions that that he could not, through mere courtesy, a copy of this treaty shall be laid before you. permit it w escape without some opposi- « gentlemen of the house of commons tion. he rejoiced that roductions in the the prince regent has directed that the es- army were in progress, but stigmatised the timates for the current year shall be laid be- colouring as it respected the state of the fore you. his royal highness feels assured country. it was well to hear, he said, that that you will learn with satisfaction the ex- the people had been enabled to pay nearly tent of reduction which the present situation four millions more than they had done last of europe, and the circumstances of the year, but it would be much better to learn british empire, have enabled his royal that in future they would have less to pay. highness to effect in the naval and military he regretted the omission in the speech of: establishments of the country. his royal all allusion to a reduction of our taxation. highness has also the gratification of an- after taking a rapid, but somewhat mis- nouncing to you a considerable and progres- taken, view of the intentions of ministers to sive improvement of the revenue in its most redeem the pledge made during the last important branches. session, for further reductions in taxation, * my lords and gentlemen - the prince and of the measures necessary to be adopt- .] political digest. ed for the final abolition of the traffic in hu- a proposal has been made by govern- man species, he concluded by observingsment for the abolition of this barbarous and that it was well known that the principal re- feudal law, and for enabling foreigners to suit of the congress had been decided with-' possess their property in common with na- out our interference; but, as these remarks tives, and, if naturalized by law, to exercise were made without being embodied in the the elective franchise. shape of an amendment, the address was the finances of this kingdom are evi- agreed to. dently improving, the funds have risen, and on the d some very important conver continue steady at about f. bank stock, sation took place in the house of commons the per cents. . c. ; from which it as it respects the general prosperity of the may be fairly inferred, that the new minis- ountry. at this very early period of the terial arrangements are popular. report sitcing the agricnltural petition, which has has attributed the rise in the funds to the ex- for a considerable time agitated and alarmed pectation that baron louis, the new minis. the commercial, manufacturing, and labour- ter, will immediately cause the sale of mg classes of society, was presented by sir the royal forests, and apply the pro- gerard noel, on behalf of certain farmers ceeds in the purchase of rentes, to the and landholders of the county of rotland. amount, it is calculated, of from to after some few observations from the ba- millions. ronet, mr. calcraft called the attention of spain. the house more particularly to the point complaint continues to be made of the which produced an official communication bad state of the police of this country, and from the president of the board of trade, of the depredations of large troops of banditti. stating the sentiments entertained upon it the cabinet of madrid have contided to by the prince regent's nrinisters, who la- the junta or corporate body of cadiz, the mented extremely that such a question had task of providing transports for the comple been agitated, and assured the house that tion of the long-talked of expedition. the should the subject be brought forward in merchants of london, in consequence, have parliament in the shape of a substantive pro- dispatched an agent to cadiz vith power to position, it should be met with their most contract for any number of ships that may decided opposition. from this specimen of be required. the sudden death of the the feelings of ministers, and of the sober- queen, in the d year of her age, has thinking part of the house of commons, we caused considerable consternation at ma- may fairly conclude that the object of those drid. her majesty, whose accouchement who would add to the burdens of the poor, was hourly expected, was seized with con- by increasing the price of the staff of life, vulsions on the evening of the th, and lived has wholly failed. only twentv-two minutes after the first at- the bank restriction bill also underwent tack. after her majesty's decease, the a partial discussion, on which subject the cæsarian operation was performed, but the assurance of the chancellor of the exche- child (a female) only survived a few minutes. quer was truly gratifying ; he said, he saw the deceased queen, maria isabella fran- no reason to suppose that he should find it ces, was born at lisbon on the th may, necessary in the present year to have re- , was the daughter of the prince of course to a loan or funding. from what brazil, now john vi. king of portugal, by passed in the house of commons, as well charlotte joachima bourbon, infanta of as what fell from the earl of liverpool on spain. her majesty was married in person tuesday, in the house of lords, it appears to the king on the th september, , evident that ministers intend to propose a having been before married by proxy. his further extension to the st of march, , majesty was born in . of the restriction on cash payments by the america. bank of england. a very important public document has prance. been submitted to the president of the the chambers continue their sittings, united states, from mr. graham and mr. and are nearly as active as our own parlia. rodney, two gentlemen employed by the ment. they are at present occupied in a american government to report upon the measure, the importance of which is not present state of south america, which ex- confined to their own country. according hibits the views of america towards these to the ancient laws of france, and the re- provinces. it is almost matter of certainty, newal of part of them in the code napo- that they will be divorced from spain, and leon, the goods of foreigners, dying in thereby released from a thraldom which france, became the property of the crown; cramped their growth, and whilst it pro- so that, if a foreign traveller should have a hibited enjoyment to others, kept them in a considerable sum with him, or should have constant state of pupillage. purchased any leasehold interest in a house a bill has been brought into the house of or land, such sum of money and such lease- representatives, the observations on which hold become, upon his death, forfeited to afford a melancholy picture of the suffer- the crown. this law, and the prerogative ings of the emigrants from europe, in their under it, are called the droit d'aubalne. passage to the united states. they are incidents, in and near london. [feb. i, not exceeded by the privations of the blacks th of december, sent a dispatch to ad- in the middle passage, nor attended with miral biron, stating, that he was at tee- less mortality. of , , who sailed from tegos, to the windward of margaretta, with antwerp, &c. &c. in the year – , four vessels under his command : his flag died on the passage. in one instance, a was then flying on board a forty-four yun captain sailed from a dutch port with , frigate, which had been struck by ligining - passengers, in a single ship; he shortly a few days previous, by which she was atlerwards put into the texel ; in the interval much injured. it is intended to give up had died, and more died before the the point of superiority to lord coch- vessel reached philadelphia. rane, and an attack will then immediately be south america. made on some part of the main. general active operations are about to take place bolivar has resigned his civil office, and among the patriots, in consequence of the declares that he will accept of none but a arrival of admiral cochrane, who, on the military one. incidents, promotions, birtis, marriages, deatus, &c. in london and middlesex; with biographical accounts of distinguished characters. , . bulletin of the king's health. the remaining jewels she gives equally ilinisor castle, jan. , . amongst the four daughters just mentioned, “ his majesty's disorder remains unal- to be divided according to a valuation to tered. his majesty continues cheerful, and be made of them. in good general health.” the house and ground at frogmore, and (signed as usual.) the shawe establishment, her majesty gives . the late queen's will. to the princess augusta sophia ; but if the will of her late majesty was last she should find living in it, and keeping it week proved in doctors' commons, by lord up too expensive, it is directed to revert to arden and gen. taylor, the executors. the the crown, upon a valuation being made personal property is sworn to as being under and given for it to the princess augusta sophia, with due consideration to the inda- the will is in substance as follows : provements; whether it shall please the her majesty directs her debts, and the prince regent to reserve the possession of legacies and annuities given by her will, to it as an appendage to windsor castle, or to be paid out of the persovalty, or out of the authorize any other disposal of it. sale of persoanlty, if there is not sufficient l er majesty gives the fixtures, articles in her majesty's treasury to provide for of common household furniture, and live those payments. and dead stock in the house at frogmore,or lier majesty states her property to con- on the estates, to her daughter augusia so- sist of a real estate in new windsor, called phia. the lower lodge, and of personals of va- she gives the real estate in new wind- rious description: those of the greatest value sor, purchased of the late duke of st. di- being her jewels, which are classed as fol- bans,and commonly called the lower lodge, lows:--- with its appendages, to her youngest daugh- . those which the king purchased for ter sophia. , . and presented to her (supposed on her books, plate, housc-linen, china, pic- her marriage). tures, drawings, prints, all articles of orna- . those presented to her by the nabob mental furniture, and all other valuables of arcot. and personals, she directs to be divided in . those purchased by herself, or being equal shares, according to a valuation to be presents made on birth-days, or other occa- made, amongst her four younger daughters. sions. her majesty states, that she brought in the event of the king surviving, and various property from mecklenburs, as being restored from his malady, her majesty specitied in a list, no. i, to be annexed bequeaths to him, the jewels which he pur- her will; and she desires, ihat that property chased and gave her; but it he should not shall revert to the flouse of mecklenburg survive, or not be restored to a sound state strelitz, and be sent back to the senior of mind, she then gives those jewels to the branch of that house. hlouse of hanover as an heir-loom. her majesty then expresses her intention her majesty then alludes to the queen of giving several legacies, as specilied in a of wurtemberg being so handsomely pro- list no. , to be amiexed to her will, to be vided for, and gives the jewels presented by paid out of her personal property, within the nahob of jrcot, to her four remaining six months after her death; but no such daughters, recting those jewels to be sold, lists as these were annexed to her will, or and the produce divided amongst the four made out by her majesty daughters, subject to the charge of debts, dc. her majesty appoints lord arden and .) incidents, in and neur london, general taylor, trustees for the property more than four quarters ; so that the extra hequeathed to her daughters, elizabeth expence is more than repaid four-foid. the and mary; stating that property to be left expense of digging an acre of ordinary to them for their sole benefit, and indepen- land, at nursery price, he states to be .; dent of any husbands they have, or may and this, he adds, is an operation worth two have, and she also appoints lord arden ploughings; and besides, by planting the and general taylor her erecutors. wheat, there is a great saving in seed. lu the will is dated nov. , (the day the usal mode of broad-cast, it requires two hetore her majesty's death). it is in the bushels to the acre; but in planting, one haod-writing of general tavlor; and two peck is sufficient. mr. t. also states, that of the attesting witnesses, are sir francis by spade husbandry he has made an acre of miliman and sir licnry halford. land produce the almost incredible quantity society for the encouragement of indus- of bushels! and he gives it as his opi- try, and reduction of poors' rates.---the nion, that the more general use of the spade provisional committee recently formed in would have the most beneficial effect, not london, for the above purposes, continue only upon the agricultural labourers thein- their well-meant and patriotic endeavours; selves, bnt on their employers also; for al- and are collecting a mass of practical in- though the lariner might not be able to find formation from all parts of the country on labourers to cultivate large quantities of the condition of the labourers in agriculture. land in this way, he might at least cultivate the expedients principally recomended sufficient to employ his quota of the la- in the communications made to the com- bourers of his parish, and so at once exo- mittee are, it is stated, of two kinds; the nerate the poor rates, and be himself amply one proposing the allotment of small por- repaid. rious of land, at a moderate rent, to married with respect to the probable general and labourers; and the other recommending a ultimate success of the exertions of this so. more general adoption of spade cultivation. ciety, we shall not at present oifer any opi- on the former subject, the provisionalcom- nion. every humane mind, bowever, must mittee have been tavoured with a letter from wish that it may prove unqualified. mean- the bishop of chester, in which his lord while, we give circulation to the following ship strenuously recommends a mode once queries, proposed by the committee, with a adi,pted by himself, among the married la view to elicit such information as they con- hourers at wallingham, near cambridge, at ceive likely to favour their praiseworthy the time he was rector of that parish. ilis undertaking :- lordship divided a certain quantity of glebe inquiries.-l. if such of the poor as lands into allotments of half and single have small families, and are out of work, or acres, and each labourer, with a family, was whose low wages are insufficient to main- allowed to rent one of these allotments, attain then, were supplied with a small por- the rate of three guineas per acre a year.- tion of land nearly rent free, with the means upon this land, with the assistance of a little of erecting a cottage, if necessary, on the common grazint, they were, in most in- same, would it prove a stimulus to industry, stances, soon able to keep a cow and a pig; be accepted and cultivated, and eventually to raise more than suflicient vegetables for render parochial rehef unnecessary? their families; to add materially to their . for persons with large families, say comfort in many minor respects; and they six children and upwards, in similar circum- were shortly enabled to contribute to the pa- stances, would it be considered likely, if a rish funds, instead of being consumers of cow and a sufficient quantity of land, say one them. « at the same time," adds his lord- and a half or two acres, at a low rent, were ship, “ the men were kept from the ale- supplied, that such would be enabled to live house, their leisure time being more happi- without parochial assistance? ly occupied in cultivating their little spot of . what effects might such assistance be ground: the rent was always punctually expected to produce in a given number of paid, and the land as well, if not better, cul- years (say ten or fifteen) on the moral condi- tivated, than any in the parish._upon the tion and happiness of the poor, especially of subject of spade cultiration, the commit- the rising race, and the welfare of the com- tee have received very conclusive calcula. munity at large? tions of the advantages to he derived from . if approved (and the money necessary it. among others, mr. taller, of gates- to accomplish it could be raised), your opi- head, near newcastle (a gentleman to whom nion is requested as to the best mode of car- they were referred for information, by the rying the same into effect. venerable president of the board of agri- . your opinion is requested on the pro- culture), has communicated a variety of im- priety of large and populous places employ- portant facts on this head. he gives an in- ing land for the occupation of their poor stance of lands cultivated by the spade, and under suitable superintendance (which has the wheat planted in dibbles, producing in some instances been practised) with a the enormous return of seventeen quarters view to enable them to subsist without paro- of wheat to the acre! the average produce chial aid ? in the ordinary mode of cultivation, is not . any other information on the subject [feb. , ecclesiastical preferments of furnishing employment to our industrious ton and felbrigg, norfolk,--rev. h. d. poor, not prejudicial to existing occupations, leeves, m. a. student of c.c. oxford, to the will be esteemed. domestic chaplaincy of the earl of whit- a general bill of all the christenings and worth rev. charles lethbridge, to the hurials from december , , to decem- perpetual curacy of st. stephens, by laun- ber , :- christened in the pa- ceston.-rev. e. i. poweys, to the rectory rishes within the walls, , ; buried, , . of bucknall and bagnal, staffordshire.--rev. christened in the parishes without the h. poynder, to the rectory of horne, sur- walls, , ; buried, , . christened in rey.- rev. r. b. plumptree, to the rectory the out-parishes in middlesex and sur- of north coates, lincolnshire-rev. george rey, , ; buried, , .-christened pearson, m. a. to the perpetual curacy of in the parishes in the city and liberties st. olaves, chester.rey. jobn risley, to of westminster, , ; buried, , . the rectory of thornton, with that of ash- christened males - - , ton, norts. -rev. e. spettigle, to the rec- ditto females - , tory of michaelstow, cornwall.--rev. e. buried males - - , valpy, to the rectory of twaite, norfolk. ditto females - , rev. james ward, to the rectory of bialiog- whereof have died, ham, st. peter, norfolk.-rev. h. b. under two years of age -- , wroch, m. a. to the vicarage of tottenhoe, · between two and five - - - , bedfordsbire. five and ten - - - - - - births.at cay hill, the lady of e. - ten and twenty - - - - - harman, esg. of a son and heir.-in bull's- twenty and thirty- , head court, the wife of mr. saunders, of thirty and forty - - , twins ; she is in the fifty-ninth year of her forty and fifty - - , age, and had no children for thirty-five years filty and sixty - .. , before.-in tavistock-square, the lady of sixty and seventy - - , · duncan campbell, esq. of a daughter. seventy and eighty - - , in cecil-street, the lady of h. r plaw, esq. - eighty and pinety- of a daughter.-in tower-street, the lady of ninety and a hundred - g. farrar, esq, of a daughter. in new a hundred - - - - - bridge-street, mrs. martin ware, of a son. a hundred and one - - - -the lady of captain weyland powell, of · a hundred and two - - - the guards, of a daughter.-in welbeck- a hundred and eight -.. street, the lady of sir james lake, bart, of decreased in burials this year, a daughter.--in bernard-street, the lady of the late lord ellenborough died worth r. h. ripley esq.- norfolk-street, parke upwards of , ). by his will he has lane, the hon. mrs. repton, of a son. in left , ). for life to his widow; , , charlotte-street, portland-place, the lady of a year to his eldest son, the present lord, and w. vansittart, esg. of a son.- in tavistock- , ). to each of his other children. he square, the wife of j. braham, esq. of a sou. has directed the house in st. james's. --the lady of j. levien, esq. of a son - square and the villa at rochampton to be in manchester-street, manchester-square, sold—the former cost , . the lady of j. baillie, esq. of twin sons. the following regiments are under or- in high-street, mary-le-bone, the lady of ders to embark at cork for foreign ser h. down, esq. of a son.-in gower-st. bed- vice :--the th, for gibraltar; th and ford-square, the lady of william oldpall rus- d, for jamaica ; d, for the mauritius ; sel, esq. of a son. in bernard-st. russel- th, for st. helena; th, for ceylon. square, the lady of r. h. coote, esq. of a the d west india regiment, at jamaica son.-in berners-street, the lady of j. leck- and the bahama islands, and the th west jie, esq. of a son. in southampton-row, india regiment, at gibraltar, are both to be russel-square, the lady of j. chabot, esq. taken by the transports to sierra leone to of a daughter in woburn-place, the lady be disbanded. the d regiment is to re- of j. h. merivale, esq, of a daughter.-in turn from the mauritius. the th regi- lower brook-street, the lady of dr. ment is an additional corps, to be stationed warren, of a daughter.-in henrietta-street, at st. helena (the th being there), owing lady wilson, of a son and heir-in st. to the reduction recently made in the num- james's-square, the duchess of st. albans, ber of men in each regiment. of a son.-mrs. t, h. longden, of wood- ecclesiastical preferments. rev.h. be- lodge, of a son.-in lower brook-street, the van, to the living of congresbury, somer- lady of d.warren, esq. of a daughter. the set.--rev. j. brewster, to the vicarage of lady of lieu. col. forssteen, of a daughter. grantham, durham.-rev. john davison, in nottingham-place, the lady of hugh to the rectory of washington, durham. rose, esq. of a son. rev. george feaver, a. m. to the vicarage married. at sunbury, james ross, l. of lydling st. nicholas, dorset.--rev. j.t. l. d. to miss smith.-af st. george's, han- horton, to the vicarage of ormskirk, lan- over-square, j. delafield, esq. to charlotte, cashire.-- rev.j.hollist, to the perpetual cu- fourth daughter of h, c. combe, esg. of racy of st. james's church, manchester. cobham-park.--at st. george's church, the rev. p. hudson, to the rectories of ainier- nost noble marquis of blandford, to lady .) births, marriages, &c. in london and middlesex. jabe stewart, daughter of the earl of gallo- trate of hatton garden, aged .- james way.-m. f. farr, esq. to mary anne, moffat, esq. of hoxton-square, london. youngest daughter of sir e. lacon. at at chelsea, capt. wolfe, relict of lord hampstesd, j. spencer, esq. of bellanger, kilwarden. in green park-place, ladyara- to julia, daughter of the late dr. lawreoce. minta moncl.-in warren-street, fitzroy- -at st. mary-le-bone, e. b. deeple, esq. square, col. james robertson, .-miss to miss l. elmsley, of stratford-lodge, clark, daughter of james clark, esq. of wilts.-t. prior, esq. of the th hussars, northampton.-lo wimpole-street, george to miss skinner, of moore-hall, berks.-r. augustus frederick, youngest son of the paterson, esg. of woburn-place, to caro- late h. vernon, esq. of hilton-park, staf- line frances, youngest daughter of the late ford.---in red lion-square, g. sandeman, r. cateley, esq.-at st. george's, hanover- esq. m. d. . square, the rev. g. godbold, m. a. to miss sir philip prancis. elen cooke, niece of the bishop of durham. at his house in st. james's-square, on the -at st. pancras, m. holmes, esq. to miss d of december, sir philip francis, e. holmes. at harrow, l mc. kinnon, k.b. he was born at dublin, october , . to miss duncan. , old style, being the son of dr. philip died.-in friday-street, j. elliott, esq. francis, translator of horace; grandson of aged seventy-five, common council-man of john francis, dean of lisinore, and great bread-street ward for twenty-seven years.- grandson of another john francis, dean of in salisbury-court, fleet-street, daniel loleighlin; a series of similar honours de- vell, esq. proprietor and editor of the states- scending in the line scarcely to be paralleled. man newspaper.-in upper berkely-street, his mother's name was roe, and she was a mrs. scott, formerly of scott's-hall, kent, descendant of the famous ambassador of that aged ninety-three.--in king's-parade, chele name, the late sir philip was educated sea, w. bolland, esq. the right hon. partly in ireland, and partly at st. paul's earl powlett, viscount and baron of hinton, school, in which last seminary, however, he st. george's. he was twice married ; by did not long continue, for at the age of six- his first wife, sophia, daughter of admiral teen, we find him placed in the secretary of pocock, k.b. he had children, of whom state's office. two years afterwards, he died in the flower of youth and manhood. was appointed secretary to general bligh, in his lordship had been in a declining state his expedition against cherburgh. in for some months; but his health had of late he acted in the same capacity to the earl of so much improved, that his medical attend- kinnou), ambassador to the court of lis. ants entertained the most sanguine expecta- bon: and in , he received a consider- tions of his recovery. he was, however, able appointment in the war office, which seized with a fit of apoplexy, which termi- situation he resigned in , on account of nated his existence in the course of a very some difference with lord barrington. the her hours.--in lincoln's-inn-fields, aaron same year, he travelled through germany, graham, esq. in clarges-street, i. manby, france, and italy; and soon after his re- esq. of downsell-hal.- at clayhill, enfield, turn, was named in the new act of parlia- j. carr, esq. in southampton-st. blooms ment as one of the council appointed for the bury, a. toulmin, esq.İn gower-street, government of bengal. he remained in aged , the rev. dr. william morrice, india some years, which period exhibited the senior of his majesty's chaplains.-at little else than a history of the disputes be- pentonville, w. jones, esq. aged . tween him and mr. hastings. these contests in charlotte-street, bloomsbury, miss ann ran so high as to produce a duel, in which wyndham, daughter of col. wyndham. mr. francis was severely wounded. he left lo york-place, mrs. o'neil power, wife of bengal in dec. , and arrived in england dr. o'neil power.-at gloucester-place, in oct. . on the dissolution of parlia. jemima, third daughter of the late charlesment in , he was elected for yarmouth, pasley, esq.adrian hope, esq. second in the isle of wight. he had now an op- son of the late j. hope, esq. of harley-st. portunity of venting his resentment against in charlotte-street, fitzroy-square, mrs. his old antagonist, and he did not fail to take bewers, widow of captain j. h. bewers, r. advantage of it. the prosecution of mr. n.-al homerton, francesmary, the eldest hastings followed; and to the disgrace of daughter of h. dickinson, esq.-at chelsea, the managers, they strove hard to get his helen, wife of r. price, esq. at blaek- most inveterate enemy associated with them- heath, mary, wife of s. kent, esq. aged selves in the conduct of the impeachment.- gi.-in upper berkley-street, mrs. scott, this, however, was too barefaced to pass, relict of edward scott, esq. aged ; and the motion was repeatedly negatived. she was wet purse to the prince re. in , the king invested mr. francis with gent.---al stepney, captain wm. snow, the order of the bath, since which he has royal navy, aged .-in beaumont-street, appeared but little before the public, except r. heathcote, esg. of the audit office, aged in a “ letter to earl grey on the state of in poland-street, charles newby, esq. affairs;" and in the form of a claimant to aged , thomas leach, esq. magis the letters of junius. whether the book (feh. , , births, marriages, &c. in london and middleser. in which his pretensions are pompously set rotes than one?" “ yes, my lord, i have forth was written with his cognizance we four.” “ ave, indeed ! why then, before dare not say ; but it does not a pear that you take the book, be kind enough to pin. he has ever disavowed the assumption which up my curls." with this demand, the it advocates in his name. for our paris, pro, rietor of four votes, amounting in the we have not the smallest faith in an assertion whole to ten thousand pounds, immediately which is at variance with every rule of pro- couplied. let it be observed, however, bability. it is said that he has left an his. in justice to this eccentric nobleman, that torical manuscript relating to the principal courtois was actually the regular attendant characters of the present reign; and when upon his lordship, as his friseur at this very that appears, if ever it doth appear, we shall time. in the year , mr. courtois was be bett r enabled to judge of the literary me. brought before the public in a very ree rits of a man whose talents were certainly markable manner, on the following occa- not very conspicuous beyond the precincts sion :--a female adventurer, named maria of his party. before his death, he was re- theresa phipoe, who lived in hans town, duced in extreme debility by an excruciating brompton, formed an acquaintance with the disease in the prostaie glands, with which miser, whom she inveigled to her house he had been for several years afflicted, and upon an invitation, and when there, with the from which his age precluded ali chance of assistance of mary browne her servant, she recovery. he has lett a son, philip, and fastened the visitor in a chair, and extorted two daughters, mrs. johnson and mrs. from him a cheque on his banker for , .- cholmondeley. a short time ago he mar- after threatening, and even attempting to ried miss watkins, the daughter of a cler- cut his throat. even after he had signed gyman. the disparity of years was great, the note, she again made an attempt to but the attachment had been of long dura- murder bim: and it was with the greatest tion. in person sir philip was thin, well difficulty that he cffected his escape, three formed, and above the ordinary stature; his or four of his fingers being cut in the features regular, and his eyes keen, quick, struggle. the next morning, mr. courtois and intellilent: his appearance altogether gave information at the police office and the prepossesying, gentlemanly, and dignitied. bank, in consequence of which, the virago • john courtois. was taken into custody, and committed on a at his house in st. martin's-street, lei- capital charge. though convicted at the cester-fields, join courtois, an hair- old bailey, on the evidence of her servant, dresser, and a native of france. he came a point of law was raised in her favour by to england in the capacity of a gentleman's the ingenuity of her counsel, and she eluded valet, about filty years ago; and after living justice for that time; but a few years after- with several persons of respectability, set up wards snffered death for murder. since shop in the very house where he died. here then, old courtois has had a family of five he carried on the business of a peruke children, tivo sons, and three daughters; to maker and hair dresser, on a respectable the last of whom he has bequeathed the bulk footing, many years: but he added to his of his fortune, anicunting at the least to profession another, which proved more lo- . . he had in his lifetime made a crative: having a very extensive acquaint handsome settlement on the mother, who is ance with the servants in genteel families, not, therefore, named in his will, which is his shop became the resort of persons of remarkably technical and curious. he that description; particularly those who has left small annuities only to his sons, were out of place. these he instructed in alleging their extravagance as the reason. the art of hair-dressing, gave them tem- the rest is rested in trustees for the girls, porary employment, ariri nerer failed in who are very young; but in failure of le- procuring them situations, for all which he gitimate issue on their part, the property is expected a handsome acknowledgment; to pass to the children of his sons; and in and if they refused to comply with his case of their dying without any, the whole te ms, he was sure to make them feel the is to go to st. george's hospital. effects of his resentment. by these means, it should be observed of courtois, that and the most penurious habits, he soon he was scrupolously honest in his dealings, made money, which he very carefully placed and faithful to his engagements. the tar- out upon public security, where interest re- gatherers had never to call upon him twice. duplicating upon itself with continued addi- for if he was not at home, and they left tions to the principle, multiplied to a large their bill, he made it a point the same or capital in the course of a few years, the next day, to wait upon them with the the late lord gage one day met cour- amount of their demand. his appearance tois at the east-india house, where a sharp was quite of the last age; his chapeau contest for the direction was pending, and being such as was worn forty or fifty years being rather surprisel, he accosted him ago, and his coat invariably of a fawn or thus:-“ ali, courtois, what brings you morone colour, though sufficiently thread. here?" "to give my totes, my lord,” bare to denote the carefulness of the was the answer. “ what, are you a pro- wearer. prielor?" “ most certainly.” “. and more .] provincial occurrences in the counties of england, arranged alphabetically. . bedfordshire. rector of that place-w. j. spence, esq. to julie, the earl of bradford was lately in im- only daughter of the late j lawrence, d.d. minent perd of his life by a bull, belonging died.) at aston clinton, the dowager lily to the duke of bedford. his lordship williams, relict of sir d. williams, of sarree-- at was viewing the animal in its stall, when it buckland, sir j. trogmorton, bart.-at cheshain, p. hepburn, esq. -at etoo. mr. r. alkios, . attacked him with its horns, and trampled p. who for years had been employed as a compo- upon him. his lordship happily escaped sitor at the eton press-at marlow, s. cleobury, from the animal's ferocity, by getting under eso. . the manger. married.) at kempston, j. chandles, esq. jun. cambridgeshire. to caroline, daughter of sir w. loog. married.] at koecsworth hall, a. m. night- died. at woburn, mr. lucas, ; he had been ingale, esq. to mariaune, only daughter of the late ingale to brickhill church, to hear a sermon on the death capt. h. beaver-mr. filby. to miss hayward. - the queen, and, immediately on his return fordhatn-mr. king, to miss edwards, of dul. hoine, appareatly in good health and spirits, felt lingham. down in a fit of apoplexy, and expired without a died.) at trinity college, cambridge, r. n. groan. cook, esq. of dartford, kent--at cainbridge, mrs. berkshire. e. houghton-richard lang's, esq. we are rejoiced at any thing like the ap- pearance of a return of the good old times. cornwall. we allude to the re-establishment of a births.) at truro, the isdy of c. cariyon, esq. pitched market for corn, at abingdon. this of a daughter-at truro, the lady of col. head, mode of traffic in the staff of lite, was for- of daughter-a: truro, mrs. batchelor, of a merly generally adopted in this part of the daughter--at truro, the lady of j. w. chilcott, esq. of a son- at launceston, mış. darke, of a country, and we are at a loss to account for daughter. its being superseded by the sale by sample. murried.) e paul, esq. of penzance, to jade, in our opinion, no possible good can result daughter of the late wm steward, esq. mylor- daught from the latter to the public; and if a sale j. k. lethbridge, csq. of launceston, to miss ba. in bulk should again become general, it will ron, af tregner-a cooke, esq. of upcot house, lo have, in a great measure, the effect of ex- miss anne heysett--at st. martin's, the rev. j., duding those called middle men. we were pascol, to miss anne bennel-at redruth, mr. inghly gratified on monday, the market t. vincent, , to miss hodge, -at truro, day at abingdon, at beholding upwards of capt. parnall, to miss cleave--ar moyness, j. c. cookworthy, esq. m. d. to miss jane urquhart. qui ceams of corn drawn into the town, by some of the finest horses in the kingdom, died.) at st. evcn parsonage, the rev. t. j. hamley, -at falmouth, mr. a. gray-at tre. and their arrival was hailed with joy by a golis, near truro, rear admiral luke, - at numerous body of the inhabitants. we calstork, thoinas wallis, esq-at launcestou, mrs. have mary jones-at flelston, mis. johns, relict of '. whole found a ready sale, and the circum n- johns, esq.--at penryn, mrs. heame, wife of b. stance bespoke the future prosperity of this heame, esq. -at south petherwin, mrs. e. spirited undertaking. prioes per qr. were turner, –at penzunce, miss usticke, --at as follow:- wheat s. to s. barley s. launceston, miss kingdon, . . oats s. to s. beans s. to cheshire. s. peas s. to . bread, at abing- the earl of grosvenor is about to don, is. d.. per gall. erect a number of alms-houses at cheg- reading gazette. ter, for the reception of aged and reduced births.) at maiden erlegh, near reading, the freemen of that city, and to endow them lady of j. weeble, esq. of a son. with an annual sum for their comfortable varricd.) mr. jarman, of bath, ta ellen, second support. daughter of david fenton, esq. of reading. capt. a. b. valpy, r. n. third son of the rev. dr. births.] the lady of john sleaton, esn. of plag valpy, to appu, daughter of r. harris, esq. bank heaton, in the county of denbigh-the lady of es; both of reading-at windsor, j. k picard, the rev. r. newcome, of a son~the lady of esq. of hull, to miss homfrey, of boworth ilouse randle wilhrabam, esq. of a son-at the viaj. -t. trior, esq. to miss e. skinner-at reading, age, leanasa, she wife of the rev. h. parry, of . j. armstrong, to miss atkinson. son-at thelwall, the lady of p. t. clarke, esq, or died.] a windsor, louisa, daughter of the a daughter. luie dr. thackwray-at his seat, buckland, sir j. married at wilmslow, h. holditch, esq. to coorkenay throg morton, miss edwards, of the grove house, wilinslow,' buckinghamshire. died. t. white, esq. little sutton, --miss parker, danghter of george parker, esq. of new- births.) al hambledon house, the lady of ton, near chesler-at chester, joseph bowes, eso cbas, scott murray.esq. of a son and beir. -at congleton, helen, the wife of n. palerson hurricd. al chingford, the rev. w. l. baker, . a. lo harriet, daughter of the rev. r. lewis. esq. –a nantwich, mrs. snelson. new monthly mag.–no. . vol. xi. n cumberland-derbyshire-devonshire-dorsetshirem esser.(feb. , ** ,: ... cumberland. . . mary, eldest daughter of fairfax moresby, e ,- the mildness of the season has been nos at rockbeere, the rev. c. u. martin, to miss ticed in almost every quarter of this king- porter, sloane-at plymouth, j. fotleringkan, dom, and its effects with regard to the ve esq. to miss banks. died.] at exeter, mrs. kilpin, wile of the rre. getable creation"; but a more extraordinary s kilpin-at exmouth, s. tickell, esq. the instance was perhaps never recorded in na rey. w. moore, rector of chagford-at plymouth, tural history than that of a young brood of the rei, ii. meads. -the rer. w. carter, ii. red grouse (moorgawe) being hatched, car of west anstey-at dawlish, mrs. anne and now just able to fly, on eskdale moor, hughes--at exmouth, isabelia, wife of t. flothes, near whitehaven. . esq.-at barnstaple, j. mortimer, esq. r.n.-a. married.] at workington, captain john tol. west anstey, the rev. w. carter. , to miss eleanor whicoside. --at carlisle, j. dorsetshire. •kawes, esq. to miss s. mitchell. at a quarterly meeting of the vice-presi. died ambrose turner, esq. of keswick, lor. dent, trustees, and managers of the dor. merly of mauchester, .-at carlisle, , mrs. chester bank for savings, on saturday the collius, relict of the late r. collins, esq.--at th, w. m. pitt, esq. m. p. v.p. in the whitehaven. j. harriman, esq.-at egremont, mr. chair, the treasurer's accounts were pro- d. atkinson, , forty-five years of which he was parish clerk.-al curlisle, miss anne ferguson, duced, examined, and proved highly satis- fourth danghter of the late j. ferguson, esq, .-- factory, the amount of deposits are , ). ralph hodgson, esq .-g. hodgson, esq. .- births.] at osmington, the lady of the rer. at whitehaven, mrs. hodgson, .–at newcastle, archdeacon fisher, of a daughter-ot preston mr. maxwell, surgeon, . house, the lady of j. mills, esq. of a son. derbyshire. married.] at abbotsbury castle, sir r. shef. * married. at matlock; j. wygram, esq. m, a. field, bart, miss newbolt, daugliter of sir ii. to anne, daughter of r. arkwright, of willersly, newbolt, chief justice at madras-at poole, r. sq.-at aubley, the rev. j. mainwaring, of slade, esq. to miss e. s. slade. blombro' hall, to miss anne edwards.--at died.) at sherborne, j. crottwell, psa, pro- wirksworth, j. d. cumrnins, esq. to miss a. p. prietor of the dorchester and sherborne journal ward. at derby. mr j. townsend, to miss e. at melbury house, in childbed of her fourth child, poyser. - at bonsell, mr. oldfield, to miss c. the right hon. countess of ilcliester-at poole, hobson. mrs. bristow, wife of j. bristow, esq.-the earl · died.) e. hancock, esq. -at tupton hall, poulett, -al dorchester, mrs. gould reade w. attwood lord, esq. -at burton, dr. j.ro. at fuidige house, mrs. caun, ; also j. caus,ber gers stokes--a: derby, mrs. leadbeater, - at son; at the same place, mrs. a. hughes-a! buxton, j. s. rogers, esy. m.d. –at buxton, shaftesbury, mrs. collis, . . dr. stokes-at starely, the rev. f. dixon, ll.d.. essex. "devonshire... land draining. there are many thou- • plymouth, jan, .-we regret to say, sands of acres of land in esses which are that the last month has proved particularly now draining, without straw, by digging the disastrous to the shipping of this port. no ditches in the usual manner, after plough. less than four bave been lost during that pe- ing them) and placing at the bottom of the riod, and we are sorry to state that two of ditch a board, about one inch and a half in them were regular traders, having valuable thickness on the lower edge, and two inches cargoes on board, the property of the trades- and a half at the upper edge, in breadth men of this and the neighbouring towns. eight or nine inches, and in length about the following are the dames of the unfortu- four feet, with two joints; this board htig nate vessels : _emily, thomas, from bris- the ditch, the earth lo be rammed upon it, tol, and the flora, palmer, from liverpool, and the board drawn out by a hook or short both bound to this port, with general car- chain affixed to it. this method has beta goes; the providence, power, from hence practised with the utmost success at old to st. michael's, in ballast; and the effort, sampford, by mr. harrison, and is now ex- baker, from the ionian islands to grimsby, tensively so at thaxted, particularly upon with fruit. to this melancholy list we have an estate belonging to william hills, exas to add the loss of the ship eliza, of this by mr. john harvey, his tenant.-suffolk port, lych, master, in the Ġulph of st. law chronicle.) rence, in november, and the neptune, also births) a new year's gift - lately the wife of this port, wilson, on the island of new. of john bridgeman, cooper, of broomfield, was foundland, at the same time, delivered of three children, two hogs and pati, mildness of the season.-mrs, kings- who with the mother, are likely to do well. she north, sen, of appledore, gathered on out three yoars since, who survived but a short time--at layton, the lady of k. b. christmas day a second crop of apples, inpes, esq. of a son-at new grove, the lady o! wbich were full grown; and what renders it e. goodhurst, esq.of sou. more uncommon, the tree was in full bloom married.) at wanstead, j. browning, esq. to when relieved of its former burthen.. & jonei. at chingford, the rev. w. baker, birthe "at exeter, the lady of the hon. . a.m. in miss harriet lewis, daughter of the ress langdale, of a daughter-at woodlands, ncar tor of that place; at the same place, mr. ambrose ernter, the lady of r. pennington, sq. of a to miss s. stoneham. daughter. dicd.) the lady of capt. johnson-at hous married.] · at littleham, c. gifford, esq. to han hall, harlow, mrs. bishop, se at lilley .) gloucester-- hants--hereford--herts-- huntingdon--kent, fc. park, great waltham, eliza, second daughter of huntingdonshire. j. clarke, esq.-at woodhouse, rebecca, relict of married.) ar conington, wm. jackson, esg, to sir g. wright-at chelmsford. mrs. s. oakley- miss bruinlead, both of duddington. ' at colchester, mr. r. yates, sen. . died.). wm. margelis, esq. of st. ives. gloucestershire. kent, births at liston cours, the lady of fiennes no vessels are able to enter dover harbour trounan, esq. of a daughter-at charlton kings, on account of the bar which has accumu- near cheltenham, the lady of cap. f. w. burlated so much that it is dangerous to attempt goyce, r.n. of a sod-al colesbourne, the lady of it with the present heavy swell. a new y. elwes, esq. of a daughter. harbour has been formed for the last four married.) at gloucester, j. preston, esqof months, immediately at the back of payne's loughborough, to elizabe: , daughter of the late hotel. the dart, captain bushel, lately w, cecil, esg.-a cheltenham, s. hughes, esq. to mrs. cox-at alveston, lieut c. w. hockley, to came into this new harbour, and landed all miss weaves--j, wigram, esq. of cambridge, to the passengers on the beach ; there is three anne, dzughter of r. arkwright, esq.-ai chel. feet water at low tide.--canterbury paper. tenhata, f lewis, esq. r n. miss harriet ney. the agricultural petition is stated to have ler-a: cromhall, m. walker, «sq. to h. d. eldest been signed at dover and sandwich mark- daughter of lieut. col. lugley-at lligbnam court, r. harvey, esq. to miss j. collins, of intl court, somerset. an investigation again has taken place at died: ai wotton underedge. mrs. adey, re. calais, relating to the sudden loss of mr. lict of c. adey, fsq.-- al burghill lodge, w. lin. w. keys, of dover, as strong presumption gen, e: .--al cheltenban, mrs. morris, wife of g. morris, esq. lieul. general of infantry at glouces. remains that he lost his life by some under- ter, mrs. greenway, - at dunsbourn, mrs. hand practices of which there is at present chapman, relict of the rev. j. chapınan-c. e. no directing clue: suspicion fell on one of killow, esq. of codford. the gendarmes, who had been heard to threaten him. the holes in the harbour hampshire births.) al asir park, the lady of the rev. have been dragged, and a particular well, e. st. jobp, of a daughter-al presbaw house, where some suspicion had lighted on, and the neighbouring canals, have undergone a near wiochester, lady mary long, of a son. married. at cotherington, s. b. inglis, esq. search, but to no purpose; so that this dark to s. charlotte, widow of major general pringle. busine died. at portsea, in the th year of his age, births.) at bromley, the lady of e. goodlart, thomas bolwell, a native of that town. he was esq.of a son. the lady of j. berens, jun. esg. of a married to one wife po vears, who died in her $ .-at newington, near sittingbuurse, the lady st year-at lindstock the rev. . arnold. of h. day; esy. of a daughter. rector of that purish-mrs. alcott, wife of j. al. married.] at llorton kirby, j. de bie, e, of coci, esą, storekeeper of portsmouthat andover, the minories, en mary, second daughter of w. e.. pugh, esq. --at fareham, mantha, wife of muggeridge, esq. at town mulling.–j. parker, w. keesh. € .-al alrestord, licut. col. c. esg. of widermere, to miss a. parsons.at can. duke-acllereford, mrs. j. parsons, . terbury, t. cooinbc, esg. to ann maria, elder daughter of m. h. wagner, esq.- at malling, j. herefordshire. - kentish, esq. to miss e. parsons, and t. park, esq. at the late herefordshire agricultural to miss anne montague parsons -- at rochester, dinner, the meeting was decidedly against the rev. s. hall, to the widow of capt. laws. the intended agricultural petition to parlia j. laisne, esq. to augusia, eldest daughter of p. meat, for imposing high protecting duties beger, esq. of brompton. . manning, esq. to on “ corn, meat, flour, rye, oats, pease, miss e. turner, beans, barley, wool, flax, hemp, hides, tal- died ] s. midgley, esq. late of cookridge, near low, seeds, butter, cheese, poultry, vegeta- leeds,–at ramsgate, dr. strachey, archdeacon of suffolk.--at pembury, h. woodgate, esq. of bles, apples, and pears," as injurious to the spring grove -at st. leonard's, west malling, consumers, and ultimately ruinous to the f. h. douce, esq.at boxley house, j. coker, farmers and growers. .-at horsmonden, mrs. c. narrtott, widow of büths.) al hereford, the lady of the rey. h. jate j. marriott, ll.d.-at bromley, wm. walms- gipps, of a daughter--at hochlauds, the lady of ley, esq. .-at eltham, mrs. henckell, relict of w. r. wills, e q. of a daughter. t. h. esq. , at deal, mr. hinckworth.-at dicd.} a! whitchurch, the rev, s. phillips rotherfield, hannah maynard, .--at st. done mr. lingen, co, son of the late w. lingen, esq. of stan's, the lion, thos. roper, .- at chatham, borghill lodge--j. llarris, csq. of brilley--at miss m. wolse.- at farnham house, margaret, ilereford, mrs. k. barry-- j. gosle, jun, esq --- eldest daughter of r. fox, esq. of fox hall.-as at kidderminster, mrs. cooper, -a. ivington, rochester, the rev. w. p. menzies. --my e. mr. n. whittle. .. . jom bush, . . • hertfordshire. lancashire. births.) al shepal bury, the lady of s. unwin' - a new sunday school, erected for the heathcote. psn. of * son and heir. married at cheshunt, s. haghes, esq. to purpose, at an expense of a . capable of mrs. cox, of mayo. accommodating , children, has been * dird.) at rowley lodge, near barnet, the opened at manchester. rev. w. martin trinders, ll. p. and m. d. - "birth,] at liverpool, the lady of v. stuckey, 'at lert ord, j. bush, eso at sarrat, r. day, esq. of a son. jun, € -a: whilihutan, fers. phillips, i . i married:! at manchester, mr. wm. a. gibbs, leicester-lincoln-norfolk- northampton-- nots, fc. feb. , of loudon, to miss e. w. osbaldiston-at eccles, son; same place, j. ilolt, esq. late of the th dr. €. hanniond, juo. esq. of newmarket, to ellen goon guards, to mrs. llallpenn-at west il.d. wilson-mr. wm. robinson), solicitor, of lancas don, mr. woodcock, of oxford, to miss loveit- ter, to alice, daughter of the late mr. benj. huo. the rev. j. field, to loaisa, daughter of the rer. ter, of kendal-m. walton, esq. of liverpool, to j. bousquet franccs, eldest daughter of edw. e. deacon, m.d. dicd.) at peterborough. t. vann, esq.- t -at warrington, robų. ellison, esq. of upton, lo creaton, mrs. brookesbank--at northampton, t. elizabeth, only daughter of johu jackson, esq. of dowbiggen, esq. brick hall. northumberland. dicd.] at gilead house, liverpool, , mrs. a fish, not before remembered by the solomon, wife of dr. s.-at stutford, in her d fishermen in this part of the world, was year, margaret, relict of late mr. n. mashiter, of lately caught at newbegin, on this coast. in bolton-by-the sands – mr. c. brownlow, , of the outline, it is something like the salmon, horwich-aged , sarah hariman, of stanley house, near st. helen's, in liverpool-vargaretta, the length is ft. in.; girl ft. in. ; wife of r, r. lingwood, esq. of dodgchill, heaton weight st. lb.; the scales, which are norris-in her th year, margaret, wife of james about the size of an -penny piece, are bateman, esq. of islington house-mary harrison, beautifully glossed or reflected with green ; she had lived in service in mr. mader's fa- and bronze, and sprinkled or powdered with mily, at bacup, upwards of years.-al liver. brilliant cold and silver. a tolerable figure pool, lady crewe. of it is to be found in gesner, a.d. . leicestershire. he calls it gobius marinus maximus fla- birth.) at carleton curlieu hall, the lady of vescens et saxatilis ; and it was actualk the rev. ii. palmer. caught among the rocks, in the lobster rets married.] at kegworth, the rev. j. davron of the newbegin fishermen. it was alive, port, of sutton bonnington, notts, to elenora, but appeared very sick, and had a foreign youngest daughter of the late t. w. roberts, esq. hook in thea of thornby grange, northamptonshirer. t. births. at newcastle, the lady of aubone backweld, of lockington, to miss mary hull, of surtees een of soullie surtees, esq. of a so --the laily of the rer. c. kemington. barnes, of a sou--at newby wiske, the lady of the died į lo her th year, mrs. chapman, widow rev. d. wastile of a daughter-at colge!d, mrs. of mr. gco. c. of upton-in his st ye ir, john lyson, of a daugiucr. llowcate, esq. of cotes duval-at peatling ilall, arricd at fonteland, the rev. w. brigs , the lady of j. clarke, esq. from the bursting of a a.b. to miss ralue--at walton, wm. robson, nood vessel-at hinckley, mr. sam. craven, . esq. to miss calvert, of sandysike, cumberland lincolnshire. at mitford, james renshaw, esq. to miss witiord married. at spalding. mr. f. groom, late of at newcastle. the rer. rob. green, a.m. to muscott mill, northamptonshire, to miss willis, of miss robinson. bostou-at thorpe, mt. francis whiley, morci. diddl at weetwood, jolin orde, . --at to miss webster, both of wainfieet, all saints- waterloo, near blyth, mr. biicgs, -te at horncastle, lieut. sheppard, r. n. lo miss bank blouse. miss tate-at newcastle, mrs. anu baldock --at glcothxin, dear gainsboro' te puthwaite, of llurtley lodge, -at newenstle, rer. w. wilhinson, to miss robinson-al gains. mrs. airy, mother of major general airy,gt. boro' t. pinder, esq. to miss e. walters. died.) the rev. t. h. holgate, formerly of nottinghamshire. m ohester, and latterly of grantham--at boura, a pair of shoes, the upper leathers of , mary frances, wife of mr. w. d. ilaggard which were made of rat-skin, were exhibit- mr. silvester obbins, boston, - mr. clayton, ed a few days ago at east retford : the farmer, wirtnn holme, near boston-mr. j'atrick leather is exceedingly smooth, and as soft as druramond: he was the oldest common councilman the finest kid, and vet appears slout and for lincoln, . firm. it took six skins to make the pair of monmouthshire. shoes. married. at nant-y gluo, w. willindis, esq. birch. at nottingham, the lady of lieut. col. to miss ilarriet thomas j. preston, esg, to miss c. crookshanks, of the d regiment, of a son. ceal, of dullyn, married the rev. w. titin, of malmspa and died. mrs. towell, relict of w. p. esq.- lady llanton, to miss rolieston, daughter of the laie c. f. t. brigges. rolicston, cyg, of warnall-at newark ujen. norfolk. trent, t. blaid, c. m. d miss tomlinson: birth.] at cromer, the lady of b. wilson, esq. died.] at deepios, mis. m. pocklington of a daughter. daughter of the late j. ilenshaw. psq.of cawthorpe married. at foulden, j. carter, esq. to the hall-mr. john wood, --vis thomson, h.al daughter of w. . d. tyssen,esq.-at lyon, lieut. newark, iu one fainily nained haywoou, two bro. garland, r. n. to miss raven. thiers and one sister, their ares , . and , in died at yarmouth, apne, the lady of j. d. one week---john rose, well known in notting learn pulmer, € .; same place, mr. j. hunt, ; mrs. as a singer and player on the violin. m. jackson, ; capt. g. holland, -mr. ii. oxfordshire. roberts, alderman of thetford-at st. edmund's, mary, the wife of mr. edwad starling. births.] at wykhain park, the lady of d. stuart, esq. of a daughter-at stourfield house, the lady northamptonshire. of g. harding, esq. of a daughter. births. at normanton hall, the lady of sir married. charles ross, esn. to miss s. thoni- w. w. dixie, of a daughter. --at moor hall, the judy of t. b. huckett, esg, of a son and heir. ton-at cooklani, t. prior, esq. to miss eliza skinner. married. at llarrington, mr. barton to mrs. died.] alex. croke, esq. of oriel college, ()x- fos-ai northampton, mr. w. burn, to miss wit. .] rutland-salop-somersel-stafford-suffolk surrey. ford, ?!--at jesus college, oxford, j. p. joans, thrash from fifteen to twenty coombs of esq.-at souning, mrs. rachael berris, . wheat per day.- county herald. rutlandshire. married.) at lavenlian, mr. ribbads to miss births.) at carlton curliew if all, the lady of fast at lothertoa, w. woods, esq. to lorise, the rev. h, palmer, of a daughter-al belvoir youngest daughter of r. knights, esq-at lowes- castle, her grace the duchess of rutland, of a sop, toft, c. crowe, esq. o miss e. phillips, af bristol married.) mr. tippin, of gunby, near coltster. - ensign smith, of the st, lo miss emily kuigiit worth, mrs. pears, of baisnack --at south --jr. woolgate to miss a. green, died at long milford, j. richardson, esq. witham, mr. j. smith, to miss s. llotching. died) mrs. amelia lank, of south lufieubam-- -at brome, the rev. f. colman negus, % t. b. grautham, esq. of stamford, --mrs. aun years reetor of that place, --- at ipswich, nirs. faolks, of langham, . innter, relict of . llunter, esq. -at llauglia ley, c. godfrey, esq.- al bury st. edurumds. mis. shropshire. matliews, - al bure's parsonage, mrs. gond. narried.] at shrewsbury, mr. j. prosser, to wife of the rev j. good-atlladleigis, dirs, coi- miss maria bromley--at edgmond rectory, u. j. beit, -a! woodbridge, j. coppitiwai'e, -. close, esq. th dragoon guards, to sarah, third - at amersham, miss scott, s t leicester, daughter of ii. bevan, esq.-at albrighton, a. lieut. j. g. iloitin, r. m. .at woodward. w. manson, esq. to miss beylis. madd, esq. suicrou-at bungay, mrs. ileytge, • died. at terrick-hall, emma, second daughter relirt of the lev. g. lleyboe, of liardingliam of j. barnes watson, esq.-at shrewsbury, mrs. llall. lyou, widow of the late j. lyon, esq. -at ted - surrey. " mere-ball, h. b. owen, esq. -at shrewsbury, f. lloyd, esq.--at sherrington hall, viscount kilo at no place in the whole kingdom are the morey-al llope bowdler, w. c. llart, esq ---at good effects of bettering the morals and con- stensbury. ms. more on coton-at the same dition of the poor, more visible than at king. place, mrs. saxton-the infant daughter of the ston-upon-thames, in this county ; which, rev. reginald heber--at edgebolton, mrs. vaugh from its being a town of considerable trade, ar, after years illness, -at llales oven, mr. abounds with a very large proportion j. crutchly. of the labouring classes. a society for somersetsiire. sonerse this purpose has been lately formed there, births.) at langsort, the lady of v.stuckey, esq. consisting of the most respectable inhabi- for at sou—at bath, the lady of sir a. wilson, of it tants of the place, and licaded by charles son and beir--at the same place, the lady of nicholas pallmer, esq. a gentleman of large charles eyston, fsq. of a daughter-at longiord, the lady of w. g. douglas. of a son--dt koducy property, and of the most humane and bene- stoke, the lady of g. b, northcote, esg. volent disposition, who sacrifices a great married.) at both, ii. b. hunt, ps. to lv. portion of his time, as well as fortune, in die, daughter of dr. merry... at wells, peter forming establishments for promoting the laxna, esq. of wells, to mrs. bridges, chilcomp. welfare of his poerer neighbours, and excit- inn-at bath, george barclay, esq. to matilda, ing them to honest and industrious pursuits : only daughter of a. aufrere, esq. of loverton hall, indeed, so unwearied and indefatigable have xorfolk-at bath, sir john palmer ackland, bart. hoon his been his exertions, that he is universally to maria, third daughter of robert knipe, (sq. of looked up to aod hailed as the the father of new lodge, herts. diod.) at bath, r. mitford, fsq. late of the the loun; and he is most ably seconded in his laborious undertakings by the rer. ilm. audit office--at clewstuke, the rev. j. b. but- fer-at bridgewater, mary, widow of charles an gandy, the worthy and truly pious vicar of drr:on, esq.--a: bith, elizabeth, widow of d. this ancient place. amongst other institu- burridge. csq.--at dath, mis gordon, relic: of sir tions set alloat by mr. pallmer, and going w. gordon, bart. on in a complete state of prosperity, are a staffordshire. sarings bank, a national school on a died.] frederick, youngest son of the late very extended scale, a public dispensary, henry vernon, esq. of hilton park --marv, oldest and a system of public rewards for the daughter of w. u.c. floyer, esq. of hints-at most deserving characters in the parish. it wolverhampton, miss tunnington; at the same is much to be wished that every town flice, sarah, only daughter of j. liizely, esquat throughout the country was equally fortu- cagoock, the rev. j. butler barber, --at chea- dile, j. blags, esq. nate in enjoying the benevolent and pater- supfolk. nal assistance of such a character, who las lowestoft, jan. .-for this last day or not only the means, but likewise the will, of conferring so many blessings on his fel- two past, mr. repnie, engineer, and several low-creatures. other gentlemen from norwich, have been births. at streatham, the lacly of j. mover, inspecting our coast, with a view to the cut- esq. of a daughter-the lady of j. thornton, sg. ting a harbour. they appear highly satis- of a daughter-at clapham, the lady of wm. bol fied with the situation, &c. land, esq. of a daughter. a thrashing machine, upon a simple and married.) major robertson, to miss chapman, useful construction, was exhibited at last of croydon-at cheam, the rev. g. millest, v.a. bury fair; the whole complete can be drawn to miss agnew-at mortlake, lewis dales, esg. by a single horse to any distance, and not miss aytog-at newington butts, w. turner, keavier than a common iunibre): it is made esq. i miss speuce-at nichinond, t. mudige, w work by four levers, similar to a num esq. to miss anna robson. died.elizabeth, wife of mr. fardell fryer, of sweep, and those worked by men, who can lubeth--a: epson, the wite of john richardsou, susser--warwick-westmoreland-wilts-york---wales. [feb. . scotland. ese.of buy st. james--at clapham, cabriel cop- land, esq.-at richmond, mrs bean, relict of the lsie s. bean, esq. sussex. forried.] at wellingly, james merricks, esq. to mis. hull-at brighton, j. lockwood, esq. to eden, daughter of j. thackrah, esq. dicd] lewis barton buckle, esq. of rogate lodge-at brighton, frances, daugater of the rev. dr. ilaggit, -at chichester, j. e. boyce, es. warwickshire. births.) at moor hail, the lady of f. benyon hackert, esq. of a son. marrúd.j at bintaingham, mr. t. mountford to miss s. wale. died] at birmingham, mr. b. palmer, - at alveston, lieut s. nason, th regimeut- al stretton, mr. g. w. salmon. –at leaming. ton, anda, daughter of w. w. dovelou, esq. of st. helena. westmoreland. married.) at appleby, n. dent, esg. to miss shaw, eldest deughter of the rev. ii. shaw, ll.b. --at the same place, mr. stevenson, surgeon, miss briggs, dicd.) in his th year, mr. t. leighton, one of the society of friends-at shap, the rev. ii. hulnie, vicar of that place. wiltshire. birth.] at longleat, lady e. campbell of a daughter. varricd.) at lacock, edw. jennings, esq. of bath, to mary jane, eldest daughter of lieut.. col. h. tufnell-at bradford, mr. t. spackinan, to aune, youngest daughter of r. tolly, esq.-- at salisbury, j. woolfryes, esq. to miss c. nor mansell --al teffont esras, peter layng, esq. to miss e. kemp-at daunton, mr. r. pracher to miss j. humby. died.] at chippenham, mrs. gaby, wife of r. gaby, esq.-al salisbury, the rev. j. hughes, . at wotton, mrs. aday, -near salisbury, miss mary anne bennett, --at walsford, g. t. beu- son, esq. yorkshire. births. at harrowgate, the lady of wm. shep herd, esq. of a son-at woodianus, near harrow. gate, the lady of capt. kenyon, of a son and heir at llull. the lady of j. barkworth, esq. of son. at hull, tive lady of j. c. farker, esq. of a & daughter. murried.) j.s. bower, m. d. of doncaster, to elizabeth, eldest daughter of thos. crires, esq. of askham, dear york--mr. w. suley, of hull, to miss staley, of buriey, oxfordshire-allull, mr. r. bean, to mary, second daughter of capt. fos ter, of that place. died.] at doucaster, thomasina, wife of james fenton. esq. of loversallat llull, mrs. mary goe, . -r. dunbill, esq. of pontefrace- * mrs. aune kidd, of uull. -wm. walker, esq. of huddersfield. -mr. hargrove, the well know historian of knaresboio, harrogate, and the sur rounding country. wales. births. at conway, the lady of c. alderson of feniale twins-at llanasa, the lady of the rev. ii. parry, of a son-al ruthin, the lady of the rev. r. newcome, of a son. married at llawarden, the rev. r. w. ey. roa; vicar of llangollen, to charlotte, third daugh w of the late t. griffih, of rhua), e q. blair was, on the d último, entirely destroy- ed by fire, owing, as it is supposed, to a spark from the kitchen chimpey baving fallen into the interstices of the roof, whick the long period of dry weather preceding the catastrophe had rendered more than commonly liable to ignition. we are hap; py, however, in being epabled to state thai no serious consequences, beyond the loss of some valuable furniture, ensued. the two sons of major g. youths of and , dis- played, we are informed, a degree of intre. pidity deserving the highest commendation ; and even the ladies of the family, with that presence of mind which the occasion de manded, resorted with the utmost celerity and fearlessness, to various expedients to effect the extinction of the tlames. a large tarpaulin was by them soaked in a neigh- bouring ditch, which the young gentlemen, with the assistance of an old man who was accidentally passing, endeavoured to draw over the roof, but without success. many articles of consequence were nevertheless preserved through the exertions of these daring boys. no personal injury was sus- taiped. perth, dec. .--this morning, between five and six o'clock, a very alarming fire broke out in the east wing of methven castle, and for some time threatened destruction to this extensive building. on the first alarm a great crowd of people assembled, and the family servants, aided by their exertions, succeeded in extinguishing the fire before the arrival of the engine from ruthven printfield, which was sent on the first no- tice. we learn with regret that the dining and drawing-rooms, together with part of the library, have been destroyed; the books, however, were all removed before the fire had communicated to the ceiling of tire room. it has not been ascertained from what cause the fire originated. birt births.] at woodslic, the lady of g. scott el- jiot, esq. of a son and heir-at linoy:love, near iladdington, lady blantyre of a s --at moor laddington park, mrs. r. c. oswald of a daughter-inejiu. burch, the lady of capt. menzies, of a son-the lady of s. boswell, esq. of a daughtes-at minto, lady minto of a son. married.) at glasgow, j. blackwood, es to jane, daugliter of m. mc. farlane, esq.--mr. g. elliott, to miss jean, daughter of wm. bel), esg. -at kelso, alexr. mardowall, esq. to margarri. daughter of e. gillespie, esq.--al montrose, j. leighton, esq. to miss alisoit. died. died.) at kilmarnock, mrs. bruce, who ber . long indisposition willa cheerful and christian pa- lience. she was tapped times, and scols pints of water drawn off, a quantity almost increat ible in the short spare of £ months, amounting ta weight to lbs.--at ormiston, ann, daughter of captain johnson, barrack master of the dumfries. shire militia - at edinburgh, the hon. henrietta napier, second daughter of the late lord naplex, ro-mrs. dove, wife of j. dove esq, -mary the wife of dr. brunton, authoress of self controut, discipline, and other popular novels mrs. dus. . is .] scotlırd-irclund. - can, sister of the late admiral loid duncan, party of the d regiment had proceeded nr. sinclair, father of the celebrated singer--lady from ballina to inter their lamented com- hay. widow of sir a. llay--mrs. jane darir, rades with military honours. the unfortu- duugbter of j. davie', esq.-miss graliam, of ore nate deluge has also destroyed several head billa dr. w. biowa, f.r.c.s.- al glasgow, the rev.). turnbull, miss elizu buchanan, luuzla: of cattle, as well as great quantities of hay, tor of the late , buchanan, esq.-al poliis at straw, oats, &c. park, mrs. speirs, relict of alexander speurs, esa. lately on mr. basil marriott's farm at -a: castlewigg. j. flathorn, esq. - at ormis. freshford, was turned up by the plough, a toun, miss a. p. johnstonie, jaugliter of j. joha. gold coin of edward iii. called a rose-noble, stone, esq.-a. mosselburgh, helen, daughter of and then value s. ed. it is in tolerably h. jardine, r .-- at leren lodge, p. ibadaway, good preservation, and presents on the one asq.-at perth, d. treggs, sclimoimaster of tipper. side, tbe king standing in a ship crowned, muin for ou years fiteshire, j dogg, seur.... holding a sword upright in his right hand. the hon. g. duff, of milton, third son of the earl and a hield on his left. with the arms of of fife. france seme-de-lis, three lions passant, and ireland three fleur-de-lis upon the side of the ship, fire in dublin castle. on the th ult. edvar. dei gra. rer, angl. z. frane. + at two o'clock, the inhabitants of the castle vaste drs. h. on the reverse appear, in a large were alarmed by a cry of “ fire !" when it rose, a cross fleuri, with a fleur-de-lis at was discovered that in the drawing-rooms of each point, and a lian passant under a the south-east wing of the grand front, now crown in each quarter, the letter e in a rose nearly finished, it had commenced its ra- de in the centre. domine, in furore tuo ar- vages, and threatened the destruction of the guas me." patire new building. the fire was occasion- ed by the airing of the rooms before the births.] at dublin, lady burgh of a daughter hearth stones and grates were set. there --the lady of the rev. r. macdonnell, f. t.cd. of a sou- in rutland-squrre, the indy of b. riley. was a large quantity of coals and turf, for that purpose, in the centre of each room, to esq. of a daughter--at killarney, the lady of j. o' connor, esq. of a daugbter-at gurteen, the lady which had the fire communicated, it would of c. power, e q. of a daughter--at cork, the lady have been scarcely possible to have saved of p. flanpaghan, esq. r. n. of a son-the lady the whole. it was extinguished before it had of captain farrel, of a daughter. attained much strength, and no damage of married.) at dublin, t. butler, esq. to miss any consequence was done. , lucy richards w. smith esq. to lucinda, second castlebar, dec. .-we have not at any daughter of sir w. stamer-u. jervis, esq. to miss time had to relate an occurrence in this marian campbell-j. frapkleo, esq. of college county, productive of such extensive misery, green, to mrs. mills, relict of the late rev. r. mills.--a. mansfield, esq. to catherine, elde-t or so distressing and awful in all its particu- daughter of j. delaney, esq.-at caerigrabam, g. lars, as one which took place in the night of chapnian, esq. to miss isabella dennis--the rev. monday the th ult, about miles from r. ward to miss marsh, crossmolina, in the mountains of erris, died.) at strokestown llouse, county of rce. where souls were hurried into eternity. common, aged , the right honourable maurice the house of a comfortable and hospitable baron hartland. his lordship was married in tarmer, named o'hara, in that remote quar to the hon. catherine moore, daughter of stephen der which was seated on the side of a valley, lord mount-cashel, and is survived by her lady- and was overhung, at about two miles dis ship, by whoin he has left issue, the hon. majur. tance, by four, lakes, which communicated general thomas mahon, now lord hartland, lieut, colonel of the oth dragoons; the hon. mitjor-gen. with each other, was completely swept away stephen mahon, lieut. colonel of the th dragoon by an immense body of water, which burst guards; and the hon. and rev. murice malon. torth from those lakes, leaving a frightful one of the prehendaries of st. patrick's cathedral, gap in their former boundary, and in its in at dunganuon park, lord viscount northland, petuous course levelling and carrying away -at dublin, capt. h. harrison, —sir h. every thing that interposed. o'hara, his may, bart., of mayfield, waterford -the ilonble wife, and children (except one that happen montague mathew, m. p. for tipperary-at bal. ed to have been absent), some travellers who lingderry, county of galway, w. donaldson, esg. were passing to and from erris, and three -at mallingur, ii. shea, esq. -al lubeck. county of wicklow, mrs. e. wilson, relict of the soldiers of the d highlanders, composed late w. wilson, esg, -at limerick. mrs. o'grady. the unhappy party that perished by this widow of the late d. c. o'grally--at aran lodge, dreadful eruption. when the last accounts roscommon, d. ('collaglian, esq -at porio. - were received from this scene of suffering, bello, elizabeth, wife of the rev. d. s. dirby-at the bodies of nine of the inhabitants, and one nenugh, mrs. abbott, +, relict of j. abbott, esq. of the soldiers, had been discovered, and a she had had childien. ...tue last month has afforded nothing remarkable in the dramatic line. considering the stage as an organ that possesses an important influence on the taste of the capital, and the morals and munners of inc nation, we shall for the future more particularly consider this subject in its geveral spirit, thao in es mere "tein porary details; which, in a monthly publication,'"inust frequently prove tedious to many of our readers. want of room obliges us to a defer a very copious memoir of dr. wolcot, (hetter known as peter pindar,) which will be given in our next. to readers and correspondents. prize essay. as a proof that no expense is spared in our endeavours to perpetuate the respectability and importance of our pages, by presenting to the public communications of the very first order, we beg to announce our intention of giving this year a premium of • one hundred guineas, which will be paid by mr. colburn, for the best essay, “ on english literature during the and th cevturies." we propose that the work shall be written on a plan somewhat similar to that of the tableau de la litterature française pendant le dix-huitième siècle ;" and that the candidates should deliver their essays on or before the. st of november next. the prize to be adjudged by a council, the constitution of which, with other particulars, will be nade known in our next number. in the mean time, we pledge ourselves it shall be so formed as to insure the strictest and most satisfactory impartiality. among a variety of interesting papers, which will be inserted as soon as the press of temporary matter will permit, we may enumerate the following :-on the genius and con- duce o roosscau, withi remarks on the appreciation of his merits, in no. of the edin. huroh kericor-an original critique on grainger's sugar-cape, by dr. samuel johnson (wilde we,or an editor's pilgrimage; a seric-comic romaunt, in two cantos-thoughts on planetary motion--memoirs of the late gale faux, stenographer and patriot, by his friend, agathomsonides mumps, esy.- plan for an organized supply of the metropolis with provisions, by water carriage---imitations of the most celebrated poets of the day, hy the author of the verses " octavia ;" no. . byron; no. . moore; no. , scott- thoughts on the liberty of the press--notices of the hungarian gypsies, nos. , , and -sabina, from the german of bottiger-on song writing, nos. and ; with obser- vations on moore's irish melodies— nugæ literariæ, nos. , , and —some account of the goblet which the university of wittenburg presented to martin luther on his mar- riage (with an engraving)-('ulloden anecdotes, continued-a cockney pastoral, cum notis variorum-on the conduct of ilistorians-on inscriptive writing, with curious specimens; no. . epitaphial inscriptions; no. . mural inscriptions-on the life and writings of the late mrs. llenry tighe-a description of eaton house, the seat of lord grostenor, with an engraving-on the art of ascertaining the dispositions of men by their hand-writing (with fac-similes of the autographs of several of the most distin- guished literary characters of the day-on the alliteration of lord byron and dry- den--cambrian notices, nos. . and —i listrionic criticism, no. --observations on plymonth breakwater, by m. dupin-description of trioidad and the mouths of the orinocko- notices of the lives and writings of the early english poets; no. . drum- mond of llawthornden ; no. . drayton ; no. . lovelace; no. . carew. on correspondent, w. j of mylor, is requested to accept our best thanks for his valuable communi. cation. as the principal object we have in view is the promotion of free inquiry, and the dissemination of useful iptırmation on all subjects connected cither with the sciences or the arts, we never intend shutting our paves against able and candid investigations of particular and long established systems. bow. ever wise and emineut may have been their original projectors; since, from the fallibility of human know. ledge, an ample teid of argument is always open to the daring aud iugenious disputant. the “ new iheory of tides,' we shall expect with cousiderable impatience. there is, doubtless, much truth in the renarks of h. o., although he appears, in some respects, to have caken ratlier an exaggerated view of bis subject. we cannot insert his present letter, but sball be happy to nens from him again on a question of less limited interest. we tank j. r.-x. a. x and a correspondent at gloucester, for their friendly suggestions, which, thongh we may be prevented froin attending to implicitly, shall not be entirely lost siglit of. diglicanus will perceive that we have, in part, availed ourselves of his information : his request shull certainly be complied with. we will endeavour to find a corner in our next for the ingenious litile essay of w. k. " niglie, a descriptive poem,” is under consideration), m.'s verses are not sufficiently correct for our pages. the legend of j. p. t. y. is in a similar predi. cament. we cannot oblige our pnetical correspondents at the expense of our own credit. our sprightly fiend at woburn has done well; but as we feel assured he can do better, we shall await the results. m. doncaster's note shall be attended to. mr. price's communication may perhaps appear in an early sumber. advertisement puffs, however ingeniously worded, cap be inserted in no part of the new monthly magazine, excepting it be the wrapper, and then they must be paid for accordingly. this observation will particularly andy to several letters now before us. j. g.net, praie!, crown coun, flut succi, london. the new monthly magazine. no. .) march i, . (vol. xi. original communications. account of the breakwater at glory of americus and columbus ; plymouth. by m. charles du- who, during the war with spain in the pin reign of queen elizabeth, sailed from the roads and the port of plymouth plymouth to defeat the grand armada, are, perhaps, the spots where nature as themistocles quitted athens to cap- has done the most for a naval establish- . ture the fleet of the great king;-and ment, and they are, besides, situated at who, when war was at an end, became the point most important to the se- . the father of those whom his genius curity of great britain. industry, had led on to victory, by converting, power, and opulence have combined under an ingenious arrangement, the their efforts to add to the local advan- scanty but regular savings of brave war- tages all the improvements of which riors into means of cheering the old they were susceptible. on the confines age of the veteran disabled by the scythe of devonshire and cornwall, along a of war, and of shielding front want very uneven part of the coast, and the widow and orphan of the sai. within the extent of only three miles, lor who had perished for his country. are situated three rich and populous --but in addition to these titles, which towns : nainely - plymouth, stone- must ever render the pame of drake house, and plymouth dock. two venerable to the english people, and rivers, the plym and the tamer, which dear to all friends of humanity, it pos- enlarge at some distance above their sesses a still more direct claim to the outlets, form two vast hasons, the cat- gratitude of the inhabitants of the water and the hamoaze; they mingle banks of the plum and the tamar. their waters in front of the three towns between the dartmoor hills and abore mentioned, in another bason, plymouth, that is to say, along an ex- larger than either the catwater or the tent of upwards of twenty miles, there hamoaze: this is plymouth roads, is an aqueduct, which was constructed usually called the sound.. under the direction of drake, and the t'he commercial establishments and expenses of which he himself defrayed ; the town of plymouth are situated on he afterwards presented this admirable the right bank of the plym, close to the monument of public utility to the catwater. the naval and ordnance corporation of plymouth. drake establishments, together with the town island separates the entrance of of plymouth dock, lie, on the contrary, the hamoaze into two divisions; on on the left bank of the tamer, beside the north side its guns cross the fire of the hamoaze. the two towns are in- those of the citadel, as has already been sensibly united by the enlargement of, a observed. on the west, they cross the third, called stone-house, which extends fire of the batteries of mount edge- along an intermediate valley : these cumbe. three towns contain altogether up- mount edgecumbe stands on an ex- wards of sixty thousand inhabitants. tensive basc : it rises and projects like plymouth and stone-house are not a promontory, forming the western surrounded by fortifications; they are boundary of plymouth roads. its sides defended on the sea-coast by a citadel arc majestically shaded by some beautiful erected on a promontory. the guns old plantations, and its summit com- of this citadel cross those of an island, mands one of the finest prospects eng- which nature seems to have placed at land presents. on the east, the spectă. the entrance of the hamoaze, to ren- tor beholds, as if beneath his feet, the der still more secure the anchorage road and the vessels lying at anchor. of vessels in that immense inward the long narrow line, formed by the port:- this is called drake island. it town of stone-house, is distinctly is pleasing to observe that national marked; in front rise the citadel and gratitude bas given to this island the insulated barracks of the royal ma- name of the illustrious drake, who, in rines; and in the rear the magnificent time of peace departed to discover naval and ordnance hospitals. further unknown regions, and to share the to the left, the hamoaze sends off mu- new monthly mag.--no. . • vol. xi. m. dupin's account of the breakwater at plymouth. [march , merous and deep ramifications from both having made the reader in some de- its banks, as the trunk of a vigorous gree acquainted with the admirable to- tree shoots forth its branches in all pography of the environs of plymouth directions. along an extent of upwards roads, we may proceed to describe the of four miles, its principal course is filled great work which was wanting to render by vessels, frigates, and smaller ships of the sound one of the securest harbours war; some entirely dismantled, others for the shelter and rendez-vous of a rigged, fully equipped, and ready to join fleet. any sudden expedition at a moment's plymouth roads, which are both wide warning. finally, to crown this inag- and deep, are surrounded on the east, nificent picture, the plains, hills, and north, and west, by hills and high moun- high mountains of devonshire and corn- tains; and are thus sheltered against the wall, form, on the east, north, and west, wind from south-east to north, and from an immense amphitheatre of fields, mea- north to south-west. of the four dows, heaths, forests, and rocks. the quarters of the compass, plymouth two extremities of this amphitheatre ex. roads are only exposed to the wind on tend gradually to the ocean, the im- one. but as the latter faces an open mense surface of which presents no rest- sea, which is not broken by any island, ing point to the eye, except eddystone the waves rush into the sound with as light-house. much fury as they would dash against an this remarkable monument is erected upprotected coast. the extent to which on the narrow base of a detached rock, they are engulphed, far from diminishing which is twelve miles out at sea, and their force, augments both their magni- which rises to an immense height. tude and their power, from the same nevertheless, when the sea is agitated, cause which renders tides stronger in the light-house frequently disappears, straits and narrow bays, than in open and is entirely enveloped amidst the thick seas, where there is no object to impede "vapour of the waves which break against their motion. its base, and ascend along the inclined sur- to render perfectly secure the an- face of the structure. about a century chorage of vessels in plymouth roads, ago, an old light-house stood on the the english have followed the example same spot, but it was swept away during which we set hefore them in constructing the night by a tempest. at day-break the jetée of cherbourg.* but they nothing was visible but the rock on - which the beacon stood. the cele- he lived days : after his death a piece of brated smeaton was then employed to lead, weighing oz. drs. grs. was found build a new light-house. he was sup- lodged at the bottom of his stomach! this plied with stone, iron, and work-men: was then thought so incredible, that fused he surpassed himself, and erected a mo- lead was afterwards poured down the throats nument which promises to resist the of domestic fowls, to ascertain how long they might survive it. see the philosophi- fury of the sea for centuries to come.* cal transactions, vol. xlix. for the year . the third light-house on the eddystone, • the first light-house on the eddystone which is the one now standing, was begun rock was erected by mr. henry winstanley, by the celebrated smeaton in april, . and finished in . he was so confident and finished in august, . this great of the stability of his structure, as to wish work exhibits a remarkable union of taste to be in it when it stood the test of a vio and science : and the history of its progress lent storm. he, ultimately, was indulged written by smeaton himself, furnishes re- by the gratification of his wishes, but not markable proofs of that fecundity of expe- with a propitious result. on november dients with which a man of genius over- th, , the light-house was blown down comes obstacles insurmountable by all other during a violent storm, winstanley himself men.-ep. being amongst those who perished in the the british coasts exhibit some fine catastrophe. examples of natural breakwaters. one of the second light-house, which was con the most interesting of these is the beautiful structed of wood, was built in by john little island of inch keith, which tends so rudyerd, and was burnt down on december pleasingly to enrich the noble picturesque d, . the sad accident is rendered effect of the approach to edinburgh by sea. memorable by a remarkable circumstance. this island, by its happy position,' enables henry hall, one of the light house keepers, vessels to ride quietly at anchor in leith an old man of years of age, looking up- roads, during winds which would otherwise ward from within, to observe the progress considerably endanger their safety. and, of the fire, received into his mouth a quan- to mention only one more example of this tity of melted lead from the lantern above. kind, the small island of balta, in the north .] m. dupin's account of the breakwater at plymouth. were not, like us, obliged to employ stone was capable of opposing the fury of vast sums in experiments. they saved the sea, and resisting its inost powerful the money which we had expended, to efforts. at thedistance of two miles from ascertain how far a simple dyke of sunk the bottom of the bay, a right line was drawn from east to west;* this line of shetland, by standing athwart the en-' the en was prolonged by two other right lines, trance of balta sound in the island of unst, inchning inwardly, and forming with the renders that sound (often resorted to by our principal base, an angle of one hundred greenland and archangel vessels) one of and thirty-nine degrees. such is the the most safe as well as commodious har plan according to which the outline of bours in the british dominions. the structure has been formed. the among artificial breakwaters, m. dupin total length of this line is four would, we think, have classed ramsgate thousand two hundred feet. on the pier and harbour, had he visited that extra- completion of the work, there will be ordinary work. the harbour is completely two entrances to the roads, one on the stolen from the sea; not, as at plymouth, east, not quite half a mile in width; but upon a deeply indented line, but upon a straight line of coast. the pier is a com- deep enough for the passage of ships of plete breakwater, and of a refined construc- war, until within a short distance from tion ; and much earlier in its erection than the shore; the other on the west, above the work at cherburgh, to which m. dupin a mile in width, and also presenting, refers. with regard to the breakwater at along an extent of two thousand seven cherburgh we are not able to speak accu- hundred feet, sufficient depth for the rately as to its present state : but, we fear, passage of ships of war. by sound- that notwithstanding the large sums of ing the roads, according to the money expended upon it during more than line along which the structure has years, it still remains incomplete. we been raised, it was ascertained, that the learn from m. de cessart, in his description average depth is thirty-six feet, at low des travaux hydrauliques, that the expense incurred between march, , and jang- water. in the equinoxes, the difference ary, , exceeded , . sterling; and between the highest tide and the lowest, that was an estimate in which the extra pay is eighteen feet; the breakwater is to to the troops and seamen employed was not be raised three feet above this latter included. the whole sum expended upon limit, which will make its average the cherburgh work, there is every reason height fifty - seven feet. its .width to believe, is nearly quadruple the amount is three hundred feet at the founda- just specified. during the time m. de ces- tion, and only thirty at the top: sart superintended the work, he employed these two surfaces are united by rectili- more than artificers to sink the cones neal inclined planes. the transverse he made use of; and for the whole opera- tion of the breakwater, there were simulta- section of the structure is consequently neously employed from . to , artis a trapezium; the length of its parallel ficers and labourers, together with about sides being thirty feet, and three hun- , soldiers. by way of contrast, we may dred feet. the internal inclined side or add the statement of the whole establish- plane is one hundred and eighty feet in 'ment for carrying on the plymouth break- horizontal length;t the external in- water, viz: clined side or plape, ninety feet in ho- a superintendant, with clerks, &c. rizontal length: consequently, the in- warrant officers and masters of the go- clination of the internal, is three times vernment vessels . . . greater than that of the external plane. seamen and boys to navigate those ves- in constructing the immense work, of sels . . which i have described the dimensions, seamen in the superintendants' vessels, it was necessary to choose between the boats' crews, &c. . . . white portland-stone, furnished by a masons, blacksmiths, carpenters, &c. neighbouring coast, the granite which seamen in the contractors' vessels forms the basis of the primitive moun- quarrymen and labourers employed by tains of cornwall and devonshire, and the contractors the stone which constitutes the secon- in all . dary mountains, and which is covered by this is about a sixth of the number em- * it inclines a few degrees towards the ployed at cherburgh; a circumstance with north-west. which m. dupin appears to have been much fo that is to say, that the most inclined line, mesuring this slope, and projected ho- struck, although he makes no specific com- parison in his interesting description.-ep. rizontally, is feet long. m. dupin's account of the breakwater at plymouth. [march , a light stratum of vegetable earth; the tificial hill, which rises beside those which latter was preferred. arc gradually disappearing. by means the hills of stone, lining the right of iron chains, flying bridges are thrown bank of the mouth of the plym, (the from the summit of the new hill to the catwater) have been cut, and, by the aid summit of the primitive hill; and the of gunpowder, masses are detached workmen, with wheel-barrows and hand- weighing ten or twelve tons. these barrows, remove the vegetable earth masses are thrown into the sea, without along these bridges. any particular order, but within the there appeared to be nothing pe. linéa fixed for the boundaries of the culiar in the process by which the work. the points for depositing the quarries are worked; only that it is stone, so as to diminish the width, and much more easy, when the stone is thereby form the internal and external found in vertical strata, than when it slopes, are determined by means of sound lies horizontally. it sometimes hap- ing. when the work at any part rises high pens, that in the same hill, there are enough to be visible at low water, the strata nearly horizontal, contiguous to largest blocks of stone are employed. others nearly vertical; a geological fact, they are laid together in such a way, as which, though not without example, is to produce the greatest possible resist- nevertheless very remarkable. the ance to any derangement which might largest blocks of stone, which are reserve be occasioned by the waves of the sea. ed for the external and upper parts of they are not, however, so combined, as the work, are extracted from the latter to form a smooth surface externally; strata. at the foot of each section of the on the contrary, they present great hill, a file of cranes is established, on an irregularities, and thus form a break extremely simple principle. the feet of water, in the true sense of the word. these cranes rest on a sole fixed intu the the external plane or slope, from the earth; and the heads turn in an iron level of low water to the summit, as collar provided with rings, to which well as the horizontal part of the sum- chains are fastened; these chains, four mit, have a smooth and uniform sur- or five in number, extend some from face: but the stones, though smoothed the top downwards, and have their on the external surface, are not squared point of attachment in the ground-and on the other sides. they are laid one others from the bottom upwards, and into another; and in form, bulk, and have their point of attachment on mode of connexion, perfectly represent the summit of the hill. in propor- those ancient structures, celebrated for tion as the excavation advances, solidity, and known by the name of the points of attachment of the chains cyclopean structures. are altered, and the range of cranes having enabled the reader to form is extended, so that the pieces of some idea of the breakwater, we may stone detached by the gunpowder, and now describe the means employed in thrown down by the workmen, are al- extracting the stone from the quarries, ways caught by some one of the cranes. placing it on board vessels, and disem. they are each moved by means of a barking it at the necessary point. these double handle, the axis of which has a methods are, generally speaking, as pinion attached to it; this pinion sets in simple as ingenious, and are well wor- motion a toothed wheel, which acts upon thy the attention of the mechanician. the pinion attached to the cylinder, the hills, from which the stone is round which the chain, by which the extracted, extend to the bank of the weight is raised, rolls and unrolls. plyin; and a quay is constructed on the two men are sufficient to work each bank of the river, to afford conveniences crane: one links together the two ends for the loading of several vessels at the of the chain round the piece of stone to same time. the hills are every where co- be raised, and the other turns the vered with strata of vegetable earth, more handle. as soon as the stone is disen- or less thi k. this earth is gradually re- gaged from those who surround it, the moved before the stone can be got out. workman, who fixed it in the chain, the hills are cut from the top down- pushes it with his hands, and makes the wards, by sections nearly vertical. crane turn on itself, until the stone the vevetable earth which has been comes on a level with a flat carriage, removed, together with the small pieces with four small cast iron wheels, of of stone procured in course of the ex- nearly equal diameter. cavation, are piled up, and form an ar- the block of stone being deposited on .) m. dupin's account of the breakwater at plymouth. this carriage, the two workmen at the stern of the vessel that is to be loaded. crane proceed to raise another piece of according as the tide is either high or stone, and to place it on another carriage. low, the slope of the beams changes, these little carriages are provided at though the ends still rest on the port- both ends with two strong iron hooks, hole. for fastening to the traces of a horse, the vessels employed to convey the either bufore or behind, according as it blocks of stone have only one deck, along may be found necessary to make the which run two iron rail-ways extending carriage advance or retrograde ; for it from stem to stern, one on the starboard, is not made to turo upon its wheels. and the other on the larboard side. the wheels are placed in the grooves two similar rail-ways take the same of an iron rail-way, prepared for that direction into the bottom of the hold. purpose. these iron rail-ways meet at a horizontal capstan in the middle of the different points of embarkation, and the vessel, moved by iron wheel-work, branch out to each of the cranes above makes the carriage advance from the described. circular iron-plate, before mentioned, to when a carriage arrives to be loaded the deck of the vessel, where the car- at the cranes, a driver is in readiness riages are ranged, so that the front of with his horse, and he fastens the traces the one comes in contact with the back to the hooks in front of the carriage. of the other. he drives off, proceeding a little before it will naturally be supposed that in his horse, in order to turn the little order to keep the vessels steady during pieces of iron, which form edges for the loading, it is necessary, in depositing the grooves of the rail-way, at places the carriages in the hold, to begin by in- where two roads, crossing each other, troducing them alternately on the star- renders it necessary that the edges of board and larboard sides. thus the the rail-way should be capable of tak- vessel is prevented from heeling either on ing two different directions. the one side or the other, which would ren. rail-ways lead to the point of em- der the operations difficult and even dan- barkation, parallel with the quay, and gerous. in this inanner sixteen or twenty the carriage which runs in this direc- carriages are put on board each vessel ; tion must turn at right angles, in order six or seven on each side of the hold, and that it may be embarked on board the two or three on each side of the deck. vessel which is waiting at the quay to re- with one horse for drawing the car- ceive it. for this purpose,a circular plate riages to the circular iron plates on of cast-iron is laid down, with edges which which they are turned to the point of appear to be a prolongation of the rail- embarkation, the driver of the horse, way. this plate, the centre of which and six or eight men for working the is in the middle of the road, turvs un capstan and pullies, a vessel bearing rollers fixed circularly beneath it. it is sixty tons is loaded in the space of fifty moreover enchased in a cast iron hoop, minutes. and fixed into the ground, to prevent the great works which i have here it from inclining either to one side or the attempted to describe, the enormous other. the driver having brought his car masses of stone which the workmen riage to the iron plate, which prolongs strike with huge hammers, or precipi- the iron rail-way, unfastens the horse, tate from the summit of the hills; the and turns with his hands the iron-plate, suspended roads for conveying away the with the carriage upon it, until the rail- earth; the lines of cranes and their gi- way on the plate is brought in a line multaneous inachinery; the movement with the turn of the road leading to the of the carriages; the arrival, loading, vessel, perpendicular to the quay. and departure of the vessels, present a strong beam is fixed into the front altogether, to an admirer of the great of the quays. two beams perpendicular works of art, one of the most imposing to this, on a line with the grooves of the spectacles that can be imagined. at latter part of the rail-way, are fised, certain hours the ringing of a bell an- with strong hinges, in front of the im- nounces the explosion of the quarries. moveable beam. the iron grooves of the works instantly cease, the workmen the rail-way are carried along these two retire; all becomes silence and solitude ; beams, which may be either raised or and this silence is rendered still more lowered by turning upon the fixed beam. imposing by the report of the gunpow. the free extreunities of the two beains der, the breaking of the rocks, the crash rest on the edge of a port-hole, at the occasioned by their fall, and the prolonged m. dupin's account of the breakwater at plymouth. [march , echoes. near the quarries there are scre- the port-lid is lowered by means of ral workshops for repairing the tools, these chains it becomes horizontal. a carriages, vessels, &c. a little square tackle is fastened to the hind-part of building serves as an office for the en- the carriage which is to be unloaded ; gineer and a few agents," who are suffi- it passes over the carriage, runs through cient for the direction and completion of a block fixed on the stern, and then an undertaking, the annual expences of winds round the horizontal capstan. which amount to one hundred thousand the capstan is now put in motion, the pounds. the works are entrusted to carriage ascends from the hold, is drawn two contractors: one superintends the along the deck to the port-hole, which it transport of the stone, and the other the passes. then the tackle acting vertically explosion of the quarries and the con- on the carriage, while the motion of the struction of the breakwater. the capstan is continued, raises the hind vessels employed in conveying the part of the carriage, and the stone stone are previously guaged, and which is now unconfined, falls by its each vessel has its burden marked on own weight into the sea. this scales fixed up at the stem and stern. operation being ended, the unloaded in proportion as the vessel is loaded, carriage is brought back and placed on the scale descends in the water, and the clear part of the deck, and ano- thus the burden is ascertained. this ther is unloaded in the same manner.- serves for the rule by which all the works for a burden of sixty tons, for exam- are paid. a certain sum is paid for the ple, this operation occupies only forty extraction of every ton of stone, and so minutes, and fifty vessels are employed much for placing it on board the vessels in conveying the stones. and conveying it to the breakwater. a crane is used in arranging the t'he work was commenced four years enormous blocks of stone, which are ago (in ), and the sum of one hun. laid together systematically from the le- dred thousand pounds has been annually vel of low water to the summit of the expended on it." five hundred thousand break-water. this crane, which is form- pounds inore are wanted, and it is ex- ed of two long masts firmly lashed to- pected that the structure will be finished gether at the top, and resting on the deck in five years. thus the plymouth break- and the side of a vessel at the stern, is water will cost nine hundred thousand very strong and large. it is worked by the pounds, regularly expended in the course horizontal capstan on board the vessel ; of nine years. whilst a smaller capstan acts upon a ca- the quantity of stone which had been ble, by which the vessel is made either to employed on the th of sept. , approach the breakwater or to recede amounted to nine hundred and forty four from it. i conceive it to be impossible thousand five hundred and one tons. to employ a more simple and advantage- supposing that at the conclusion of the ous system of mechanism for raising and year the whole should have amounted to placing the stones in slightly inclined a million tons, the work will at that time gradations, which consequently renders have cost four hundred thousand pounds, it necessary that the crane on board the which, at an average, is at the rate of ship should project considerably, so that eight shillings for the shipment, trans- the vessel may not strike against the port, and deposit of each ton. break-water. when the vessels arrive at the break- some other little fixed cranes, which water, their cables are fastened to buoys present nothing remarkable, are ranged parallel with the works, one range with in succession at different points of the in and the other without; they then break-water, for moving and depositing take the position which is assigned to the last pieces of stone. them. the port-lids are lowered and such is the rapid sketch of the great the port-holes at the stern for loading works of plymouth breakwater. the become the port-holes for unloading. admiration excited by the contemplation these port-lids turn on strong hinges of such an enterprize is increased on fixed at the lower end, whilst the upper consideration of the rapidity with which end is fastened by strong chains ex- it has been completed, and reflects hu- tending to a post above the prow. when nour at once on the enlightened govern- ment which promoted these immense expenses for the attainment of an object the engineer, his assistants, and all so eminently advantageous to the public, the clerks, amount only to len individuals. and on the industrious individuals who, .) dr. johnson on grainger's poem “ the sugar cane." by the most prompt, ingenious, and yet but nature has filled these boundless simple means, have overcome the great regions with innumerable forms to which est difficulties. european eyes are wholly strangers. my friend, mr. john rennie, who “in passing down the river of ama- drew the plan of the plymouth break zons," says condamine, “i saw new water, and who, together with mr. plants, new animals, and new men.” whitby, immediately superintends the the qualifications of an american works, invented the different methods traveller are, knowledge of nature and which have here been explained. mr. copiousness of language, acuteness of ob- whitby, the companion of capt. cook, servation and facility of description. it is already known for his talent as a is, therefore, with that pleasure which mechanician, by an interesting memorial every rational mind finds in the hope of of the methods adopted for raising the enlarging the empire of science, that we frigate aji buscude.. to his politeness i see these enlightened regions visited by am indebted for the explanation, given a man who examines them as a philoso- on the spot, of all the operations which pher, and describes them as a poet. he himself superintends with indefatiga the subject which he has chosen to illus- ble activity. trate, demands, by its commercial value, the attention of a mercantile, and by its observations on grainger's poem physical curiosity, that of a philosophical "the sugar cane ;” by dr. john- nation. and it is reasonable to expect, son. that all to whom bugar contributes mr. editor, usefulness or pleasure, will be willing it is well known that dr. johnson to know from what it is produced, and was in the habit of writing critical ar- how it is prepared. ticles on the performances of his friends, every author is best recommended by for the purpose of recommending them himself; we shall therefore subjoin some to public notice. the following is one examples of the descriptions and pre- of those productions which the doctor cepts, both physical and moral, with wrote, with that good-natured purpose, which this poem abounds. they are not in behalf of dr. james grainger's poem selected as superior in excellence to of “the sugar cane;" on its first ap- many other passages in the poem, but pearance in . as this effusion has as more easily separated from the rest, escaped the collectors of dr. johnson's and more intelligible when the connexion fugitive pieces, the insertion of it will, is broken. perhaps, be acceptable to his admirers in the first book, directions are given and the general body of your readers. for the choice of soils : and here the this critique appeared in three succes. poet having celebrated the dark deep sire numbers of the london chronicle: mould, when intermixed with clay or a paper to which the doctor occasionally gravel, thus proceeds:- contributed. s. taylor. this soil the cane dec. , . with partial fondness loves : and oft surveys. its progeny with wonder. such rich veins the sugar cane: a poem. in four are scattered plenteous o’er the sugar isles : • books, with notes, &c. but chief that land, to which the bearded to travel usefully in any country, re fig, quires a course of study and disposition prince of the forest, gave barbadoes name: of mind suited to the objects which that chief nevis, justly for its hot-baths fam'd; country particularly presents to curio. and breezy montserrat, whose wond'rous sity. holland will be most properly springs change, like medusa's head, whate'er they surveyed by the merchant, and politic touch cian, and italy by the antiquary and vir- to stony hardness. tuoso. america is well known to be the habitation of uncivilized nations, tho' such the soils the antillean cane supremely loves : yet other soils abound, remarkable only for their rudeness and which art may tutor to obtain its smile. simplicity. the plains and mountains say, shall the experienc'd muse that art re- of the western hemisphere afford no monuments of ancient magnificence, nor how sand will fertilize stiff barren clay, any exhibitions of modern elegance; the how clay unites the light, the porous mould, lives of their vagrant inhabitants, insecure sport of each breeze? and how the torpid and unfriended, can only shew how nymph labour may supply the want of skill, and of the rank pool so noisome to the smell how necessity may enforee expedients. may be solicited, by wily ways, cite? [march , dr. johnson on grainger's poem “ the sugar cane." to draw her humid train, and prattling ron equally pew to the readers of this be- down the reviving slopes ? or shall she say misphere will be the carnation-hedge what glebes ungrateful to each other, but and humming-bird, of which we shall their genial treasures ope to fire alone? give the author's account both in verse having enumerated the soils proper and prose :- for the sugar cane, the poet proceeds to boast of the shrubby tribe, carnation fair,* mention the seasons of planting; and nor thou repine, tho' late the muse record here takes occasion to describe a west thy bloomy honours. tipt with bur indian shower, with its various prog- nish'd gold, nostics and effects. these he exhibits and with imperial purple crested high, first as they appear upon the plain, and more gorgeous than the train of juno's bird, then turns the reader's eye to the hills; thy bloomy honours oft the curious where he opens a scene which will muse equally strike europeans by its grandeur hath seen transported : seen the hum- ming-bird,+ · and its novelty :- whose burnish'd neck bright glows with but chief, let fixed attention cast his eye verdant gold; on the capt mountain, whose high rocky least of the winged vagrants of the sky, verge yet dauntless as the strong-pounc'd bird of the wild fig canopies (vast woodland king, beneath thy branching shade a banner'd with fluttering vehemence attacks thy cups, host to rob them of their nectar's luscious store. may lie in ambush) and whose shaggy sides, the second book describes the vari- trees shade, of endless green, enormous ous dangers to which plantations are size, wond'rous in shape, to botany unknown, exposed; first, from vermin and insects; old as the deluge –there, in secret haunts, an and then from causes more dreadful and the watery spirits ope their liquid court; heir liquid court; destructive, hurricanes, calms, and earth- there, with the wood-nymphs, link'd in fes- quakes. tal band, say, can the muse, the pencil in her hand, (soft airs and phæbus wing them to their arms) this is indeed, a most beautiful flower- hold amorous dalliance. ah, may none ing shrub. it is a native of the west io- profane, dies, and called, from a french governor, with fire, or steel, their mystic privacy: named de poinci, poinciana. if permitted for there their fluent offspring first see day, it will grow twenty feet high; but, in order coy infants sporting: silver-footed dew to make it a good fence, it should be kept to bathe by night thy sprouts in genial low. it is always in blossom. though balm; not purgative it is of the senna kind, its the green stol'd naiad of the tinkling rill, leaves and flowers are stomachic, carmina- whose brow the fern tree* shades; the tive, and emmenagogue. some authors power of rain name it cauda paconis, on account of its to glad the thirsty soil, on which, arrangid inimitable beauty ; the flowers have a phy- the gemmy summits of the cane await. sical smell. how it came to be called in one of his precepts for planting, a doodle-doo i know not; the barbadeans moral sentiment arises so naturally from more properly term it flower-fence. this plant grows also in guinea. a physical observation, that we cannot p + the humming-bird is called piceflore but wish it may be generally read : by the spaniards, on account of its hovering in plants, in beasts, in man's imperial race over flowers, and sucking their juices, with- an alien mixture meliorates the breed; out lacerating, or even so much as discom- hence canes, that sicken'd dwarfish on the posing their petals. its indian name, says plain, ulloa, is guinde, though it is also known will shoot with giant vigour on the hill. by the appellations of rabilargo and lizon- thus all depends on all; so god ordains. gero. by the caribbeans it was called then let not man for little selfish ends, collotree. it is common in all the warm (britain, remember this important truth!) parts of america. there are various spe- presume the principle to counteract cies of them, all exceeding small, beautiful, of universal love; for god is love, and bold. the crested one, though not so and wide creation shares alike his care. frequent, is yet more beautiful than the others. it is chiefly to be found in the * this only grows in mountainous situa- woody parts of the mountains. edwards tions. its stem shoots up to a considerable has described a very beautiful humming height, but it does not divide into branches, bird, with a long tail, which is a native of till near the summit, where it shoots out surinam, but which i never saw in these horizontally, like an umbrella, into leaves, islands. they are easily caught in rainy which resemble those of the common fern. weather. .) dr. johnson on grainger's poem “ the sugar cane," year, the all-wasting hurricane observant ride? water with fire, increase the infernal din: can she, rindazzled, view the lightning's canes, shrubs, trees, huts, are whirld aloft in air. • glare, that fires the welkin? can she, unappallid, the wind is spent; and “ all the isle be when all the flood-gates of the sky are oped, low; the shoreless deluge stem? the muse hath as silent is as death." soon issues forth the west, with sudden seen the pillard flame, whose top hạth reach'd burst; the stars ; and blasts more rapid, more resistless seen rocky, molten fragments, flung in air drives : from etna's vext abyss; seen burning a rushes the headlong sky: the city rocks; streams the good man throws him trembling on the pour down its channeld sides : cause such ground, dismay, and in his inmost soul the murderer dies. such desolation, hurricane ! as thou; sullen the west withdraws his eager storms. when the almighty gives thy rage to blow, then the south, sallying from his iron and all the battles of thy winds engage. caves, soon as the virgin's charms ingross the sun; with mightier force, renews the aerial war; but chief, when libra weighs the unsteady sleep, frighted, flies; and, see! yon lofty palm, planter, with mighty props thy dome sup- fair `nature's triumph, pride of indian port; groves, each flaw repair; and well with massy bars cleft by the sulphurous bolt! see yonder thy doors and windows guard. dome -then, or calms obtain; where grandeur with propriety combin'd, and theodorus with devotion dwelt, breathless, the royal palm-tree's airiest van; wbile,o'er the panting isle, the dæmon heat involv'd in smould'ring flames.-from ev'ry high hùrls his haming brand; vast, distant rock dashes the turbid torrent; waves thro' each the main drives furious in, and heaps the · street a river foams, which sweeps, with untam'd shore with strange productions : or, the blue might, men, oxen, cane-lands, to the billowy main. serene pauses the wind.---anon the savage fast assumes a louring aspect, as the clouds bids his wing'd tempests more relentless fly, wild-careering, thro' the vault of heaven; rare; then transient birds, of various kinds fre- now brighter, vaster coruscations flash: quent deepens the deluge; nearer thunders roll; each stagnant pool; some hover o'er thy earih trembles ; ocean reels: and in her roof; then eurus* reigns no more; but each fangs, grim desolation tears the shrieking plain. bold wind, nor does the hurricane's all-wasting breath by turns, usurps the empire of the air with quick inconstancy; alone bring ruin on its sounding wing: even calms are dreadful, and the fiery thy herds, as sapient of the coming storm, south (for beasts partake some portion of the sky) in troops associate, and in cold sweats bath'd. olt reigns a tyrant in these fervid isles : for, from its burning surface, when it wild bellowing, eye the pole. breathes, -see, the mists that late involy'd the hill, europe and asia's vegetable sons, disperse; the mid-day sun looks red; touch'd by its tainting vapour, shrivellid, strange burs die. surround the stars, which vaster fill the eye. the hardiest children of the rocks repine; and all the upland tropic-plants hang down fearful, the genius of the forest sighs; their drooping heads : show arid, coila, the mountains moan; deep groans the ca- adust. vern'd cliff. the main itself seems parted into streams, a night of vapour, closing fast around, clear as a mirror; and, with deadly scents, snatches the golden noon.—each wind ap- annoys the rower; who, heart fainting, peased : eyes the north flies forth, and hurls the frighted the sails hang idly, noiseless, from the mast. air : thrice hapless he, whom thus the hand of not all the brazen engineries of man, fate at once exploded, the wild burst surpass. compels to risk the insufferable train! yet thunder, yok'd with lightning and with a fiend, the worst the angry skies ordain rain, to punish sinful man! • at other times the east wind constantly when such the ravage of the turning calm, blows in these climates. on the stout, sunny children of the hill, new monthly mag.--no. . vol. xi. a horrid stench which vaster fill the eve id stench the pools, the main e dr. johnson on grainger's poem “ the sugar cane.” (marcia , night, day? what must thy cane-lands feel? thy late this part we shall give the description of green sprouts a cane field on fire. nor branch, nor joint; but sapless, arid, ah me! what numerous deafening bells re- pine; sound? those, who have manhood reachd, of yel- what cries of horror startle the dull sleep? low hue, what gleaming brightness makes, at mid- (symptom of health and strength) soon ruddy shew, by its portentous glare, too well i see, . while the rich juice that circled in their palæmon's fate: the virtuous and the wise! veins, where were ye, watches, when the flame acescent, watery, poor, unwholsome tastes. burst forth then earthquakes, nature's agonizing pangs, a little care had then the hydra quelld: oft shake the astonish'd isles. the solia. but, now, what clouds of white smoke load terre the sky! or sends forth thick, blue, suffocating ilow strong, how rapid the combustion steams : ... pours! or shoots to temporary flame. a din aid not, ye winds, with your destroying wild, thro’ the mountains quivering rocky breath, caves, the spreading vengeance.—they contemn like the dread crest of tumbling planets, my pray’r. roars. rous'd by the deafʼning bells, the cries, the when tremble thus the pillars of the globe, blaze; like the tall cocoa by the fierce north from ev'ry quarter, in tumultuous bands, blown; the negroes rush ; and 'mid the crackling can the poor, brittle, tenements of man flames, withstand the dread convulsion ? their plunge dæmon-like! all, all, urge ev'ry. dear homes, nerve : (which, shaking, tottering, crashing, burst- this way, tear up those canes; dash the fire ing, fall,) out, the boldest ily: and, on the open plain, which sweeps, with serpent-error, o'er the appallid, in agony the moment wait, ground. when, witli disrupture vast, the waving there, how these down; their topmost earth, branches burn: shall 'whelm them in her sea-disgorging and here bid all the watery engines play: womb. for here the wind the burning deluge drives. nor less affrighted are the bestial kind: in vain.-more wide the blazing torrent the bold steed quivers in each panting vein, rolls; and staggers, writh'd in deluges of sweat, more loud it roars, more bright it fires the the lowing herds forsake their grassy food, pole! and send forth frighted, woeful, hollow and toward thy mansion, see, it bends its sounds; way. the dog, thy trusty centinel of night, haste, far, o far, your infant throng re. deserts his post assign'd, and piteous move: howls.- quick from your stables drag your steeds wide ocean feels : and mules : the mountain-waves, passing their custom'd with well-wet blankets guard your cypress- bounds, roofs, make direful, loud incursions on the land, and where the dried canes in large stacks all-overwhelming: sudden they retreat are pil'd. with their whole troubled waters: but, efforts but serve to irritate the flames: anon, nought but thy ruin can their wrath appease. sudden return, with louder, mightier force; ah, my palæmon! what availed thy care. (the black rocks whiten, the vext shores re- e vext shores re- oft to prevent the earliest dawn of day, suund ;) and walk thy ranges, at the noon of night? and yet, more rapid, distant they retire. what though no ills assail'd thy branching vast coruscations lighten all the sky, sprouts, with volum'd fames; while thunder's aw. and seasons pour'd obedient to thy will : ful voice all, all must perish; nor shalt thou perserre from forth his shrine, by night and horror wherewith to feed thy little orphan throng, girt, oh, may the cane-isles know few nights like astounds the guilty, and appals the good : this! for oft the best, smote by the bolt of hea the fourth book (the subject of ven, which is the proper choice and treatment wrapt in ethereal flame forget to live. of negroes) opens with the following in the third book, a west indian fine personification : harvest is described ; and the manner of genius of afric! whether thou bestrid'st. boiling the juice of the cane. from the castled elephant; or at the source .) dr. johnson on grainger's poem, “ the sugar cane.” of thine owo niger, sadly thou reclin'st, then laws, oppression's scourge, fair vir- thy temples shaded by the tremulous palm, tue's prop, or quick papaw, whose top is necklac'd offspring of wisdom, should impartial reign, round to knit the whole in well accorded strife : with numerous rows of party-colour'd fruit: servants, not slaves : of choice, and not or hear'st thou rather from the rocky banks compelled, of rio grande, er black sanaga? the blacks should cultivate the cane-land where, dauntless thou, the headlong torrent isles. bear'st in search of gold, to braid thy woolly locks, we have afterwards an enumeration or with bright ringlets ornament thine ears, of the several ails to which the negroes thine arms, and ancles; o attend my songs are peculiarly liable, with their cures. a muse that pities thy distressful state; the wild opinions and customs of this who sees, with grief, thy sons in letters sable race are also described ; particu- bound; larly the grand negro dance on festival who wishes freedom to the race of men; occasions. thy nod assenting craves ; dreari genius, the poet concludes the whole with come! an address to the mother country; and after this the poet gives a curious with a premonition of the dangerous account of the genius and disposition of consequences likely to arise from that the different negro nations; and pro- . independency to which the northern co- ceeds to recommend mild treatment to lonies are gradually advancing. their masters ; in which the generosity of the author's temper, and the inge- all hail, old father thames! tho' not from far nuous liberality of his sentiments, will be admired and approved by every hu. thy thy springing water roll; nor countless streams, mane reader. of name conspicuous, swell thy watery store; planter, let humanity prevail- tho' thou no plata, to thee the sea devolve perhaps thy negro, in his native land vast humid offerings; thou art king of possess a large fertile plains, and slaves, and streams : herds : delighted commerce broods upon thy wave; perhaps, whene'er he deign'd to walk and every quarter of this sea-girt globe abroad, to thee due tribute pays; but chief the the richest silks, from where the indus world rolls, by great columbus found, where now the his litobs invested in their gorgeous plaits : perhaps he wails his wife, his children, left beholds, transported, slow, vast fleecy clouds, to struggle with adversity. perhaps alps, pild on alps, romantically high, fortune, in hattle for his country fought, which charm the sight with many a pleas- gave him a captive to his deadliest foe: ing form; perhaps, incautious, in his native fields, the moon, in virgin glory, gilds the pole, (on pleasurable scenes his mind intent,) and tips yon tamarinds, tips yon cane- al as he wanderd; from the neighbouring crown'd vale grove, with fuent silver; while únnumber'd stars fell ambush draggʻd him to the hated gild the vast concave with their lively beams. main. the main, a moving, burnishid mirror were they even sold for crimes; ye po shines ; lish'd, say! no noise is heard, save when the distant ye, to whom learning opes her amplest surge, page; with drowsy murm'rings, breaks upon the ye, whom the knowledge of a living god shore; should lead to virtue; are ye free from a h me, what thunders roll! the sky 's on crimes? fire! ah pity, then, these uninstructed swains; now sudden darkness muffles up the pole! and still let mercy soften the decrees heavens! what wild scenes before the af- of rigid justice, with her lenient hand. frighted sense oh, did the tender muse possess the power · imperfect swim! - see! in that tiaming which monarchs have, and monarchs oft scroll, abuse, which time unfolds, the future germs bud 'twould be the food ambition of her soul, forth, to quelltyrannic sway; knock off the of mighly empires; independent realms! - chains and must britannia, neptune's favourite of heart-debasing slavery; give to man, queen, of every colour and of every clime, . protectress of true science, freedom, arts, freedom, which stampa him image of his must she, ah! must she, lo her offspring * god. crouch? muse [march , thoughts on planetary motion. ah, must my thames, old ocean's favour- men always contented to take things ite son, upon trust, without examining the prin- resign his trident to barbaric streams, ciples upon which received systems are his banks neglected, and his waves un- founded, popular errors must for ever sought, remain without correction, and new no bards to sing them, and no fleets to die discoveries would very seldom be made. grace? it was by stepping out of the common again, the fleecy clouds amuse the eye, and sparkling stars the vast horizon gild - path, that columbus ventured on a new she shall not crouch! if wisdom guide the undertaking, and succeeded in disco- helm : vering a new world. every friend to wisdom that hade loud fame, with justest improvement in science will gladly en- praise, courage a spirit of inquiry: and the record her triumphs! bade the lacqueying hope of finding many persons of this winds description has induced me to offer sen- transport, to every quarter of the globe, timents so very different from those of her winged navies; bade the scepter'd sons my superiors in the literary world. of earth acknowledge her pre-eminence ! james ferguson, f. r.s. has pub- she shall not crouch, if these cane-ocean'd • isles, lished a treatise of astronomy, ex- isles, which on britain for their all depend. plained upon sir isaac newton's prin- and must for ever; still indulgent share ciples, wherein he makes the following her fostering smile; and other isles to gain, remark:- from vanquished foes.-and see another “ by the above-mentioned law, $ race! et seq. bodies will move in all kinds a golden æra dazzles my fond sight! of ellipses, whether long or short, if the that other race, that long'd-for æra, hail! spaces they move in be void of resist- the british george now reigns, the patriot ance. only those which move in the king; longer ellipses have so much the less britain shall ever triumph o'er the main ! projectile force impressed upon them in thoughts on planetary motion. the higher parts of their orbits ; and their velocities, in coming down to.. as the theory of gravity has long wards the sun, are so prodigiously in- been received and sanctioned by a mul- creased by his attraction, that their cen- titude of learned men, some people may trifugal forces in the lower parts of their be surprised to see any thing advanced orbits are so great, as to overcome the against it. but let it be remembered, sun's attraction there, and cause them that truth can never suffer by fair in- to ascend again towards the higher quiry :-the candid professor of philo- parts of their orbits; during which time, sopliy will readily submit his opinions to the sun's attraction acting so contrary the test of investigation, and willingly to the motions of those bodies, causes relinquish whatever cannot be supported them to move slower and slower, until by reason and sound argument. the their projectile forces are diminished venerable name of newton may justly almost to nothing; and then they are clain great respect, and challenge very brought back again by the sun's attrac- honourable notice: but, while we pay tion, as before." elerenth edition. p. ). to departed worth the just tribute of in opposition to this system, i main- merited praise, we ought to consider that tain, that when the planet moves in an infallibility belongs not to dying men, elliptical orbit, the centrifugal force and whose contracted span of mortal exist- the sun's attraction cannot possibly ex- ence precludes a long course of scientific ist. my arguments are as follow:- researches; and whose feebleness of . there can be no progression from constitution prevents those vigorous ef- inferiority to superiority, without ar- forts of the mental fixeulties, which are riving at a point of equality. absolutely necessary to the acquisition of . the planet's centrifugal force perfect knowledge. being once inferior to the sun's attrac- the newtonian system is very popu- tion can never become superior thereto, lar-and if it can be proved sufficient to without the planet's arriving at a point account for the phenomena of nature, in the orbit, where the centrifugal force it is worthy of the greatest honour: but and the sun's attraction are perfectly if impartial discussion should clearly equal. point out its defects, let it not be perti- . the centrifugal force and the sun's naciously held as an invariable creed, attraction can never become perfectly to be received without consideration, equal, without causing the planet to and repeated without thought. were move in a perfect circle. .] thoughts on planetary motion. . the planets can never move in the double sine is the superior quantity : ellipses, while the centrifugal force and but when we rise to or degrees, the suu's attraction do exist; also, the the tangent is found to be the superior centrifugal force and the sun's attrac- quantity, and the double sine* is the tion cannot exist, while the planets inferior quantity. now, as the tangent, more in ellipses. from a state of inferiority, is become the truth of the first position will superior to the double sine, it is plain, plainly appear when it is considered that that there must be some point between where equality cannot be accomplish- degrees and degrees, where the ed superiority can never be attained. tangent and double sine are perfectly it is evident, that tangents and se- equal. and by examination, we shall cants are increasing quantities as the find this point precisely at degrees. angle intreases; and that, in ascending below , the tangents and double from -che lower part towards the ver- sines are increasing and approaching tical point, they are constantly approach towards equality; at , the tangent ing nearer and nearer to equality: and becomes perfectly equal to the double yet, if they be continued to any deter sine; and above , it rises to superio- minate length whatever, and extended rity, and goes on increasing its supe- as far as thought and imagination can riority, as long as the projection or reach, they will never becoine perfectly calculation is continued. equal. the tangent will always be here, then, is a progress from infe- something less than the secant; al. riority to superiority, where degrees though we should conceive them to reach must be reckoned the point of equality, from the earth to the utmost bounds of which forms the boundary between both the solar system, or suppose them to states, and through which the progres- be commensurate with the whole extent sion is made. all this illustrates and of creation. as far as the mind can confirins the above mentioned position: form any idea of the subject, there will and every progression in nature that we be an eternal approximation to equality; examine will serve to prove, that it is and yet, the rery point of equality will impossible to pass from inferiority to never be attained. superiority, without arriving first at the geometrical projection and arithmeti- point of equality, where neither of the cal calculation plainly prove, that, in quantities exceeds the other. ascending the arch, the difference . the plancts' centrifugal force between the tangents and secants is being once inferior to the sun's attrac- gradually diminishing; and therefore tion can never become superior thereto, they are perpetually approaching to without the planet's arriving at a point wards equality, as the angle increases in the orbit, where the centrifugal force towards degrees. but, though the and the sun's attraction are perfectly approximation to may be carried on equal. ever so long, and the approach to it. it is said that, in the higher part of rendered very near, yet, as two parallel the orbit, the centrifugal force is too lines can never meet together, so the sc- weak to balance the sun's attraction; cant of can never be drawn or cal- but that when the planet is come down culated ; and consequently its tangent to the lower part of the orbit, the cen. can never be estimated or determined. trifugal force is become too strong for and as the tangent, which is the infe- the sun's attraction. rior quantity, though always increasing, here, then, the planet's centrifugal can never equal the increasing secant, force and the sun's attraction are sup- so it can never exceed it in length. posed to increase during the planet's but if there be two increasing quan- descent from the aphelion to the peri- tities, and it is found that the quantity helium; but with this difference, the which was inferior at one point or centrifugal force, which was the inferior period is become superior at another quantity in the higher part of the orbit, point or period, it is manifest, that there has increased so much faster than the is a point passed, where both quantities sun's attraction, that, in the lower part were exactly equal. it is known, that of the orbit, it is become the superior tangents and double sines are increasing quantity. so that according to this quantities; for, in ascending the arch doctrine, the centrifugal force has made from to , from to degrees, &c. the tangents and double sines are in- by the term “ double sine" is meant creasing : it is also evident, that the the sine doubled, or the chord of twice the tangent here is the inferior quantity, and arch. [march , thoughts on planetary motion. a progress from inferiority to superi- trifugal force and the sun's attraction ority. this plainly implies, that it are considered to be equal : yet it is must have arrived at the point of equa- manifest, that the planet has been lity, where the two forces were per- approaching nearer the sun; and as fectly balanced, without the least ex- every moving body has a tendency to cess on either side ; for, without ar- continue the same direction, unless it riving at that point of equality, it never be prevented by some powerful cause, could attain a state of superiority: as it will not the planet, in consequence of has been already proved. therefore its former direction, continue for some the planet's centrifugal force being once time to approach the sun, although the inferior to the sun's attraction can centrifugal force and the sun's attraction nerer become superior thereto, without are become perfectly equal? the planet's arriving at a point in the to this i answer; the centrifugal orbit, where the centrifugal force and force is considered to be produced by the sun's attraction will be so perfectly the increased projectile force in combi- balanced, as to admit of no prepon- nation with the planet's direction: there- derance, and so exactly equal, as to ad- fore the influence of the planet's direc- mit of no inequality, tion is fully allowed for, in counting . the planet's centrifugal force and the centrifugal force; and being once the sun's attraction can never become duly allowed for, can never be reckoned perfectly equal, without causing the a second time. the centrifugal force planet to inore in a perfect circle. is declared to be caused by the planet's when the planet arrives at that point velocity in a certain direction: there- in the orbit, where the centrifugal force fore, both the direction and velocity are and the sun's attraction are perfectly completely accounted for, in reckoning equal, how can the planet approach the centrifugal force produced by them. nearer to the sun ? will the sun's at. hence, the increase or decrease of traction draw it nearer? distance from the sun, can never be certainly it will not: for that attrac- caused by the planet's former direction; tion is completely balanced by the cen- seeing that all influence arising from that trifugal force, which acts with equal source has been reckoned in counting power and in an opposite direction. the centrifugal force, and consequently therefore, upon this principle, it is im- can never be counted again as a separate possible for the planet to come any principle. nearer to the sun. the consequence is, that the continu- again. when the centrifugal force ance of planetary elliptical motion is im- and the sun's attraction are perfectly possible, according to the newtonian equal, how can the planet go farther system; for the planet's centrifugal force from the sun ? and the sun's attraction can never be- will the planet's centrifugal force come perfectly equal, without causing carry it to a greater distance from the the planet to move constantly in a per- fect circle. certainly it cannot: for that centri . the planets can never more in fugal force is directly opposed by the elliptical orbits, while the centrifugal sun's attraction, which, in this case, force and the sun's attraction do exist; must be perfectly equal to the centri. also, the centrifugal force, and the sun's fugal force. therefore, upon this prin- attraction cannot exist, while the planets ciple, it would be impossible for the move in elliptical orbits. planet to go any farther from the sun. it is plainly proved, that all motion hence, it follows, that as the planet can- regulated by centrifugal and centri. not come nearer the sun, because of the petal forces must be perfectly circular ; centrifugal force, and as it cannot go that, when a body moves in an elliptical farther from the sun, because of the orbit, its motion cannot be regulated by sun's attraction, if the planet move at centrifugal and centripetal forces. but all, it must move in a perfect circle the earth, moon, and stars more in el- round the sun, without increasing or liptical orbits; therefore the motion of diminishing its distance from the sun. the earth, moon, and planets, can never but it may be objected that the planet is be regulated by centrifugal and centri- supposed to be descending from the petal forces. the whole may be briefly aphelion towards the perihelium, in a comprised in the following statement: direction which leads it nearer to the the centrifugal force and the sun's sun: and when, in that descent, it arrives attraction cannot exist, without becom- at a certain point in the orbit, the cen- ing equal in some part of the orbit; and sun? .] notices of the hungarian gypsies. they cannot become equal in some part cance, yet not the less remarkable, can- of the orbit, without producing a circu- not fail of proving interesting to the lar motion, and precluding an elliptical general reader. the author is far from motion, pretending to furnish a complete de- the plain inference is, the existence scription of them; for so many of the of centrifugal force and the sun's attrac less prominent features in the character tion absolutely precludes elliptical mo. of this singular race of beings, may tion; and the existence of elliptical mo. escape the most attentive observer, that tion absolutely precludes the existence it would be presumption to offer a of centrifugal force, and of the sun's sketch like the present, as exhausting attraction. the subject. what he does give, how- thus it appears, that the newtonian ever, is the result of his own observa- system is quite insuflicient to account tions; and, both in the outline and co- for planetary motion: and therefore that louring, shall bear the stamp of truth. motion must be ascribed to a principle it need hardly be mentioned, that which our celebrated countryman never where his account disagrees, more or thought of. less, with others already published, the . if the above arguments are conclu- situation of the writer, and, doubtless, sire, it must necessarily follow, that the here and there, a more accurate know- theory of the tides, so generally received, ledge of the subject, is the cause. is perfectly erroneous. the ebbing and though this is by no means the place flowing of the sea can never be caused for historical researches, i cannot avoid by the attraction of the sun and moon, saying a few words respecting the origin if it be proved that no such attraction of the gypsies. it was formerly the does exist. in this case, the movement fashion seriously to infer the descent of the waters must be referred to a and origin of a people, from its name. principle of a very different nature. the gypsies being called in german zi- . it is now requested, that some ad- geuner, hasse* thinks he has found vocate for the theory of gravity will them in the syginnoi of herodotus. undertake to answer what is here ad- even if we did take into the account ranced against it; and it is hoped that that herodotus (herod. v. p. . sq. the issue of the debate will tend to ed. steph.) as he frankly confesses, confirm and illustrate the present popu- speaks of the country north of the ister, lar system ; or else to introduce another, which he, upon hearsay, assigns to the subject to fewer incumbrances, and ca. syginnoi, at a time quite unknown; pable of clearer proofs. and makes these syginnoi dwell from perhaps it will be asked, if the pre- pontus to the adriatic sea, and that lie sent system should prove defective, what again finds syginnoi a province; that, substitute can be found for it? therefore, no conclusion can be drawn mr answer to this inquiry is, i have from his uncertain notices. it must something to offer in its stead; but to appear strange, that a people who in- render it fit for public inspection, it is habited so vast an extent of country, necessary that it should be elucidated could wholly vanish from history; and and confirmed by several experiments, not till after a lapse of two thousand - which are too expensive for me at pre- years, (in the first quarter of the th sent to undertake: therefore, until some century) shew themselves again, and favourable turn take place in my circum- that too, in several parts of the world stances, i shall confine inyself to the at the same time. the main objection investigation here proposed. when the to hasse, is, however, that a people so above-mentioned positions have received long settled in europe, would not as sufficient discussion, i intend to bring evidently betray, in figure, manners, forward against the theory of gravity, and complexion, its oriental origin. other arguments, founded upon the there can scarcely be a doubt, that, is moon's revolution round the earth, bistorical criticism, the similarity of &c. &c. w. jenkin. names is a very weak support for such - mylor. assertions. a frenchman might, with , equal reason, derive the gypsies from notices of the hungarian gypsies. bohemia, they being called bohemians no. i. in french. grellman's hypothesis is some account of the mode of life, more tenable, who, in his historical maoners, and character of a people, partly unknown, and partly disregarded, # the gypsies in herodotus &c. koningga on account of their political insignifi- burg, . - -- notices of the hungariun gypsies. [march , essay on the gypsies, nd edit. gottin- summer they reside in tents of a coarse gen, ) upon much more solid hung stuff, mostly of a dark brown co- grounds, endeavours to prore, from the jour, either from nature, or the smoke. analogy of the language, that they are in such a tent, which consists of a cloth of hindoo origin. the general proof spread over two cross beams, and is, seems satisfactory; but to make the pa consequently, of but a moderate size, a rias, or sudders, who are, however, not whole family frequently lives. the the same, the ancestors of our gypsies, father, with his wife, and often his is surely going farther than we have married children and grandchildren; or authority to do. adelung too, (mithri- if the family be much too large, they dates, part i. p. ) could hardly resist erect two or three such tents. for the the temptation of fixing precisely the most part, a family chuses its abode original seat of the gypsies in india, at alone, near to a town or village, on a the mouth of the indus, (sind.) where heath, where wood and water are at there is still a plundering tribe, called hand. but i have frequently seen zinganese, or tschinganese, and this hordes of thirty or forty tents together, merely because there is some likeness as in a little camp. the population of with the german name zigeuner. one of these camps is astonishing; for but all this needs no refutation, when the marriages of the gypsies are blessed i say, that the gypsies, in their own with children, more, perhaps, than is language, call themselves pharaon; and necessary. the reader will smile, when he hears it affords a true picture of the pa- that they pretend to be descended from triarchal life, to walk on a fine the remains of pharaoh's host, drowned star-light summer's evening through in the red sea. this is almost calling such a camp. in every tent there is a in question the accuracy of moses, who fire, round which the father, mother, says, that pharaoh and his host perished children, and grand-children, pass to a man. the gyspsics, nevertheless, away the time in lively conversation ; pride themselves on this biblical deriva- joy and mirth prevail in these abodes of tion, just as if they must absolutely be apparent misery; and the inhabitant of in the bible. it is not our intention to the tent, happy in his existence, smokes carry this inquiry any further. the his pipe, which nobody, surely, grudges reader will excuse this little digression, him. when the flame expires, old as not wholly foreign to the purpose of and young lie down together, with these observations, and as it at least little or nothing under them, but the informs him of the name which the bare earth; and morpheus fails not to gypsies give themselves. bestow his most precious gifts on these when i promise a description of the his light-hearted votaries. but when the gypsies, i speak only of such as in- summer nights become more cool, they habit hungary, and are particularly nu- assemble, like radii, about the centralfire, merous in transylvania. those are ex which is replenished through the night, cluded, who wander about europe un to keep their feet at least warm, as the der such repulsive shapes, that it is not rest of the body is poorly enough co- probable any body would desire a picture vered. the spoiled child of civilization of them. others in hungary and tran- is ready to pity those bardier sons of sylvania are a more civilized race, and nature. to us, it is true, such a way keep up no intercourse with them, of life secms uncomfortable; but the though they speak at the bottom the same nomade feels himself a king in it; he language; a clear proof that they con- is free, not bound down to the soil; in sider themselves as something better whatever part of the fair creation of than their brethren. god he finds himself happy, he can say, that these sketches may not appear “here i will abide,” and when he is confused, i must make a distinction in tired of uniforinity, he can journey on. the gypsies of hungary and tran- the following anecdoto is well authen- sylvania themselves. they are partly ticated :--when the einperor joseph nomades, partly living in fixed habita- ii. attempted to extend his plans of re- itions. i will first describe each class form in hungary and transylvania, even separately, and then enumerate the to the gypsies, whom he ordered to be features common to both, by which, at called from that time, “ new peasants," t be end, the character of the people will and commanded that erery nomade sippear. should permanently settle in a regularly op the nomades. built hut, near a town or village, several the wandering gypsies have different of them being thus compelled, built huts dwellings for summer and winter. in with walls and roofs, and in the inclosed .] notices of the hungariun gypsies. space, set up their beloved smoky tents, owner's bucephalus awaits with impa- and thus evaded the purpose of the law. tient longing the coming spring and his after the lamented death of the emperor pasture. joseph, things returned, in this respect, scarcely has the first stray swallow from to their old course; and though many the warmer climates shewn itself in the had become attached to a more fixed more northern regions, when our no- abode, there were still enough who, inade re-appears on the surface of the faithful to the way of living of their an earth: he joyfully pulls down his winter cestors, returned to liberty, and inhabit habitation, pitches his tent cheerfully in ed their tents as they had done before. the young grass, warms himself in the in this manner they live during the har. beams of ihe vernal sun, and had he no vest round about the villages, where they other joy in his whole life, i believe that carn the most indispensable necessaries. this single one would outweigh a thon- but this enjoyment is allowed them only sand of the every day pleasures of the in summer. winter is a hostile demon generality of mankind. now he again to them; however they know how to roves about with his dwelling, like the provide against this also. snail, sets it up where it pleases himself without having previously learnt it and the respective village magistrates, from the marmots, they dig themselves and does not begin, till the first hoar a hole in the ground. for the most frost whitens the ground, to dread the part they hollow out, in the side of a approach of winter. sunny hill, a place which, on two ac one need not be an edipus to guegs counts, is rather narrow ; first that they the reason of this dread. his clothing, may not overwork themselves in digging, far from being a protection against frost and, secondly, the better to retain the and cold, is but barely sufficient to cover natural or artificial heat in them. far his nakedness. were nakedness the be it from me to shock the delicate true characteristic of the state of inno- nerves of the reader by introducing him cence, most of the young gypsies from into such a dwelling; for i myself have the age of to that of years, must be nerer ventured to examine one minutely. in that blessed condition. as nature the atmosphere alone enabled me to made them, they frolic in summer about paint in my fancy the whole establish- the tent, and in winter, scantily bedecked inent. i shall therefore confine myself with all kinds of rags, they cower round to the exterior. the hinder wall of the the blazing fire. when they are older, dwelling is the hill itself cut down per- they go about dressed indeed; but the pendicularly. in front a stake is planted, inventory of their wardrobe may be upon which, and on the hinder wali, a made with little trouble : a shirt, but cross beam rests, which supports and not a new one, and a pair of breeches forms the roof; all round is duly filled are the usual dress of the man; the wo- up with wood, sods, and earth; so that man, instead of breeches, has a petticoat bo rain can penetrate. only one half and apron. it is superfluous to dwell of the front remains open, in the form on the frail nature of the whole dress, of an eight-angled triangle, for an en- when we know that it is for the most trance, and a hole in the roof to let out part given them, or purchased for a mere the smoke. a window it not to be trifle. most of them are quite destitute thought of; the necessary light comes of any covering for the head, or the feet. in at the entrance, which is closed dur- the older and more opulent among them ing the night and in stormy weather, indulge themselves a little in this respect, with a cloth, or the now superfluous and make, besides, some addition to the covering of the tent: the fire retains its rest of their dress. all of them follow place in the centre, the master of the a strange taste, when they can, in the cave with his family lies round it choice of their clothing. gay colours, enough to afford in miniature a pretty especially red, and bright blue, are their faithful picture of the infernal regions. favourites. with a threadbare pair of the passenger whose nerves are de- scarlet breeches, trimmed perhaps with licate shudders at such an abode as at galloon or lace, half without shoes, and the entrance of dante's hell; but he in half a shirt, the gypsey feels himself may go past it; for the smoke issuing quite proud, and the fine breeches make from the top, and the entrance, serves him overlook all the rest. the women as a sign that human moles inhabit these also prefer gay colours, and, when they places: besides there generally stands can, deck themselves in a most laughable near the dwelling a shed of wood, brush- manner, with all kinds of stuffs. the wood, straw, and sods, in which the hungarian and german costume ro new monthly mag.–no. . vol. xi. [ march , sabina. united in their persons, but they greatly wretched psecas or latris, a circum- prefer the first as the most showy. stance which might almost be regarded • if after what i have said i should add as a miracle. an article on the riches of the nomades, it should be observed, that a cruel truly many readers might accuse me of and sanguinary humour was in general aiming at contrast. the name makes manifested by roman ladies of distinc- all the difference; instead of riches i say tion at the toilette. accustomed, from effects of the gypsies, and, however, to their early years, to the murderous produce something unexpected, speak first fights of gladiators, or of animals at the of the silver which the nomades possess. amphitheatres, and to the bloody flagel- most of the old families have one, and lations of their slaves at home, they re- often several silver goblets of different venged, in the morning, on their atten- sizes. this expence, lavished on a very dants, every disappointment, and every superfluous utensil, seems to every body vexation experienced during the pre- as foolish as it does to myself. but it is ceding day or the past night. woe to their custom. to secure this treasure these unfortunate creatures if the love- from the greedy eyes and fingers of other letter had not been delivered in due amateurs, they are used to bury it, and time, if an assignation in the temple of commonly under the fire-place. upon isis had been neglected; or if the mirror, particular festivals, christenings, and alone a stranger to flattery, exhibited to weddings, the father, the mother, and the donna, at the first glance in the the married children drink out of the morning, a red nose, a pimple on the goblet; the unmarried are prohibited chin, or other traces of nocturnal orgies the use of it. this is the only direct use and debaucheries !--her attendant dam- which the nomade makes of his trea. scls might then be as attentive as they sure ; but another, indirect, use is more would, they might possess the dexterity important. if he wants to borrow mo- of the graces and the hours, still they ney he pawns his goblet, which is in fact were sure to pay, with blood and tears, the only valuable he possesses. this for the ill humour of their mistress. it i think may be one of the chief reasons was, therefore, prescribed by the regu- which induces the poor nomade to lations relative to the custom of these abridge himself in clothing and food, much-to-be-pitied servants, that while that he may be able to procure one gob- they were engaged in the dressing-room, let at least, which, if he pawns it, he will and at the toilette of the domina, they certainly return, that it may descend to should appear perfectly naked down to his children and their posterity. the bosom, that they might be ready to receive any chastisement she thought fit sabina: to inflict, even with scourges of plaited wire, with pieces of bone or balls of metal or, scenes at the toilette of a roman fastened to the ends of them. whatever lady of fashion. scene iv. * let it only be recollected, that in every cruelties towards slares-carmion pares numerous family, there were particular the domina's nails-anciety to have slaves, whose sole occupation consisted in handsome hands and nails-latris lets scourging their fellow-slaves. they were fall the case of the mirror. denominated lorarii. instead of these, while this was passing, donna sa- many roman ladies (unless juvenal has bina had not been idle, or, to speak more been guilty of exaggeration) employed, for correctly, she had found means to keep these punishments, the public flagellators, whom the romans comprehended in the ge- half a dozen of slaves in full employment neral term, carnifices, and whose business it about her person. we left her under was to inflict the cruel scourgings which the hands of her skilful hair-dresser. preceded capital punishment, by way of napé had fortunately tied the bow in torture, and paid them a regular annual front to the entire satisfaction of his salary for their trouble. mistress, and completed the structure of + that the most voluptuous effeminacy a head-dress, which the rigid tertullian is capable of entering into horrid league so justly denominates enormous protu- with the most refined cruelty, has, in mo- berances of hair pinned up and plaited dern times, been demonstrated by the many furies of the guillotine and monsters of ter- together. and during all these prepa- rations, there had as yet been no pins rorism in the french revolution, such as lebas, carrier, &c. as also by that infernal thrust into the arms and boeom of the novel.'justin novel, justine, by the reading of which, as busy calamis, nor had the scourge been retif de la brettonne asserts, danton used applied to the back or shoulders of the to excite his diabolical thirst of blood. .] sabina. the domina had in her hand, in the first slave again touch your insensate head. emotion of passion, was converted into let the scorching salamander crawl over an instrument of punishment. the it, let the razor despoil it, and let vour - long and sharp-pointed needles, describ- head henceforward appear as smooth as ed in the second scene, were convenient the surface of your mirror." implements of torture for the miserable it was, nevertheless, a favour which cal- slaves. nothing was more common than led for their gratitude when the slaves for the domina to pierce the hair-dresser received this chastisement from the hand with these in the arms and bosom, if she of the domina. far more cruel was had the misfortune, at that moment, to the punishment, when, in her anger, she excite her displeasure. hence the mas- directed it to be inflicted on the wretch- ter in the “ art of love" advises ladies ed culprit by a female brought up to this dot to behave with petulence and cruelty employment, and kept for that particular to slaves, while at the toilette, if their purpose. in this case, they were im- lover happens to be present:- inediately seized, without mercy, and bound, by their twisted hair, to a door- but no spectators e'er allow to pry, post or a pillar, and lashed on their bare till all is finish'd, which allures the eye. backs, with thongs cut from ox-hides, or yet, i must own, it oft affords delight, to have the fair one comb her hair in sight; knotted cords, till the mistress pro- to view the flowing honours of her head, nounced the word “ enough!" or "go!" fall on her neck, and o'er her shoulders a scene of this kind is delineated by spread. the roman satirist, jurenal, with such but let her look, that she with care avoid energy and expression, as not to leave all fretful humours while she's so employ'd; the slightest doubt of its truth. he let her not still undo, with peevish haste, says, of one of these ladies, “ with ty- all that her woman does, who does her best, rannic fury she storms and rages in the i hate a vixen, that her maid assails, palace, as did formerly the despots of and scratches, with her bodkin or her nails, sicily. if she has privately received a while the poor girl in blood and tears must letter from her lover: if she has made mourn, an assignation to meet him in the gar- and her heart curses what her hands adorn. den of cæsar, or in the shady grove of and in one of his love-elegies, in favouring isis, the trembling psecas en- which he praises the beautiful hair of ters, with dishevelled hair, and naked his corinna, the poet expressly men- to the waist, to arrange the head-dress tions, as a proof of her sensibility and of her mistress. ha!' why is that tenderness, that the slave who dressed lock too high?' and the scourge instantly her hair, had never been thus barbar- punishes the atrocious crime. and ously treated.-" thy hair was soft and what fault has psecas committed ? is pliable," says he, “ bending into a thou- she to blame because the mirror shews sand forms. never did it give thee pain an ugly pimple on the nose of her rigid while dressing : nor did the pin or thc mistress? yet psccas must bleed for it. teeth of the comb ever pull it out. your a second trembling slave takes her maid never suffered while she was dress- place, and curls and plaits the domina's ing it, for this operation was often per- ringlets. next to her stands an old formed in my presence ; yet never did woman, who was once expert at dress- the arm of your cypassis betray anying hair, but is now removed to the dis- marks of wounds from the hair-pins." taff. she first gives her opinion, and sometimes the mirror itself, which after her the other slaves, who form an first betrayed the neglect of the trem- extensive circle, are heard according to bling hair-dresser, was thrown at the their age and dignity of office. a trial head of the culprit. marshal describes for life and death could not be held with a scene of this kind in the epigram ad- more solemnity than this consultation dressed to lalage, under which name upon the head-dress of the lady, which he addresses one of these female furies is mounted up, story after story, into a at the toilette: “ of all her ringlets of formidable tower.” her head-dress, one only slipped from what a revolting scene! but we shall under the pin. lalage throws the mir- not think it improbable, if we recollect ror, which betrays her tliis mischance, at what modern travellers, and eye-wit- her unfortunate attendant. she tears her nesses, have related concerning the la- hair, till at length the unfortunate ple- dies of the north, who inflict the most cusa falls beneath redoubled blows at her painful punishments on the female at- feet. cease, lalage, to adorn your tendants for the slightest offences : or mischievous hair ; let not the hand of a how the unfeeling creoles maltreat their [march , sabind. negro slaves in the west indies, almost and to remove the excrescences at the without any provocation. from all sides (reduvie) with the greatest care. that we already know of our donna in this particular the females of anti- sabina, she was capable of renewing quity possessed the most delicate sense such a scene at her toilette as often as of beauty and propriety. a fine finger the least cloud of ill humour threw a and a handsome nail might well be gloom over her brow; and it was, per- reckoned among the thirty beauties, haps, owing only to the dexterity and which, according to the celebrated latin attention of cypasis, and to the welcome poem of the italian, giovanne nerizano, visit of the flower-woman, glykerion, that were observed in helen, the most beau- the donna was this day rather milder and tiful of mortals. the females of ancient better tempered than usual. and yet i greece and rome never forgot to place am under some concern for poor latris, a long, soft, and tapering finger among whosc office it is to hold the mirror the indispensable requisites of beauty ; though the hair dressers have with and as minerva afforded them the model drawn to give place to another class of at- of the finest hand, so that of the finest tendants on the toilette, yet she is not re finger was furnished by diana, the lieved from her tiresome employment.* youngest of all the fair goddesses. to the procession of the knights through this belonged also a regular polished tho via sacra does not allow sabina nail, exhibiting the colour of a delicate sufficient time to bathe ; she is there- carnation. the master of the “ art of fore obliged to have an operation per- love" does not fail to give his docile formed at her toilette which usually pupils some instructions on this head :- took place at the bath, namely, that of " whose fingers are too fat, and nails too cutting and polishing the nails of her coarse, fingers and toes. carmion was the “ should always shun much gesture in dis- name of the slave who performed this course." office at the bath with such peculiar the last verse gives a delicate hint at skill as to afford perfect satisfaction to the reason why so great a value was set her mistress. with extreme care she on handsome fingers and nails. gesti. takes sabina's hand, cuts and polishes culation was then employed as an ac- the nails, one after another, with a small coinpaniment to discourse, a custom co pair of silver tongs and a knife, which which is still preserved in italy and were formerly used instead of our scissars; greece. it was reduced within the she then commences the same operation rules of art, and was considered a prin- on the toes. cipal portion of the art of dancing, or it is necessary to observe, that in an- cheironomia. the ancients could make cient times no person, who made any themselves understood without words, pretensions to elegance and opulence, by the mere motion of the fingers, and would condescend to cut his own nails; perfectly designate what we are accus- those who could not keep slaves for this tomed to express by numbers. purpose went to a barber's:shop to have a finger so communicative and so elo- their nails cut. horace, ia one of his quent was naturally expected to possess most humorous letters, mentions a sin- beauty, and hence the attention to their gular cxception to this rule, in the per propriety and neatness, up to the very son of a public crier, “ who cut his nails tip of the nail; especially as the females himself in the shop of a barber." of those days were not acquainted with ladies of distinction, however, kept the use of cloves, so admirably adapted slaves who had received regular instruc- r instruc- to conceal a number of defects. the tion in the art, to perforin this office custom of wearing gloves, which, from with the utmost dexterity; a principal an extravagant love of dress, disguises part of their business was to prevent the among us the most beautiful hands and appearance of backbiters (paronychia), arms, even at table and in the dancing. room, had not yet penetrated into the * many an imperious lady, even at the present day, takes particular delight in this art, to which weare utter strangers, keeping her servants, for half an hour toge- and which cicero mentions by the general ther, in the most uppleasant positions. let appellation, argutias digitorum, is still prac- the reader but recollect the lady-author, who tised by the females in the harems of the used to write at night, made one of her east, and likewise by the deaf and dumb. chambermaids hold the ink-stand; and the ladies of antiquity were perfect mis- obliged the poor creature to remain in that tresses of this language of the fingers, as * posture, even when she herself was over appears from various passages of erratic powered by sleep writers. .] sabina. southern regions of europe from the concern, the symptoms of a swelling wen cold regions of the north, where the on her neck, and therefore immediately batives are obliged to muffle themselves resolved to make trial of this sympathe- up in furs and the skins of animals. tic remedy. she called latris, who was 'hence arose the extreme care bestow. now standing unemployed, and ordered ed by the ancients on the preservation her carefully to collect the parings which of handsome fingers and nails; and to had dropped upon the floor, and to put this cause was probably owing the in- them into a little box that lay on the rention of rings, which were originally table. intended in the east for keeping the poor latris, who was not just then fingers small and delicatet. hence the expecting any commission, and whose frequent use of various kinds of juices, mind was occupied with the recollection herbs, and mineral powders, for re- of the happy days of her youth which moving the unseemly ruggedness and she had passed at ephesus, was so start- escrescences of the nails. a whole col. led at the rough tone in which she was lection of recipes of this kind may be abruptly called by sabina, that she let found in the natural history of pliny fall not the mirror but the case, on the alone. when all this is taken into con- outstretched foot of her mistress. for. sideration, it will not appear surprising tunately carmion had not yet applied that a roman lady of distinction should the knife to the first nail ; nevertheless commit the care of her nails as a parti- a treinendous tempest collected over the cular duty to one of her slaves, and that head of the unfortunate slave ; this office should be regarded as one of as when with crackling flames a cauldron the principal departments at the toilette. fries, carnion had just done cutting the the bubbling waters from the bottom rise; finger-nails of sabina, and had rubbed above the brim they force their fiery way: them with a sponge dipped in vinegar, black vapours climb aloft and cloud the day. and was just going to commence the so donna sabina springs with a loud same operation on those of the toes, scream from her seat, and, without stop- when sabina recollected that she had a ping to call the female executors of her few days before been informed by a jew will, revenges herself with doctor, that it is possible to get rid of those in- struments which the wild inhabitants of any corporeal disorder, and to transfer it the forest employ to vent their rage on to another, by mixing up the parings of each other-nails, fists, and teeth*.- the nails with wax, and sticking it against luckily the former, the most natural the door-post of the strangers. she had for some time perceived, with great the works of seneca contain many * the very name of gloves in the southern horrible examples of the cruel treatment languages of europe, guante, guanto, gant, ante aant, which slaves received from their masters, in are derived from the northern word hand, orthern" word hand the first emotions of their passion. one of from which the language of the middle ages the most remarkable passages on this sub- made vanli, uantos. ject is in galen's treatise on the discovery * in the east, where rings were origins and cure of our passions, in which he ally invented, a small, delicate hand is still speaks of masters who in their rage at- an essential requisite to beauty. we are tacked their slaves with teeth, fists, and feet, told by hodges, in his travels in the east beat out their eyes, or scooped them out indies, that the hands of the hindoos are de- with styles, which they used in writing. it licately formed. like those of an elegant was thus that the emperor adrian treated woman ; on which account the hilts of in- one of his favourite slaves, who demanded dian sabres are too small for the hands of of his master the eye of which he had de- most europeans. prived him. in the same work galen re- i it should not be forgotten that the toes, lates that he had a xantippe of a mother, even of the most elegant ladies, were com- who used sometimes to bite her slaves, and pletely exposed to view, as their sandals was always quarrelling with his father. another example of one of these domestic were merely fastened upon the foot with ribbons, one of which passed between the furies, is given by chrysostom, in his homi- great toe and that next to it. lies : “ the passengers," says he, “ hear pliny mentions this sympathetic cure the raving of the mistress, and the howling with parings of the nails, only for tertian of the slave: she binds the girl, after strip- and quartan levers : but it is only reasonable ping her naked, to the feet of her sofa, to sopose, that superstition may have em, and then applies the scourge. the slaves, ploved them to expel other disorders, as when they accompany their mistress to the wonderful things have been related concern bath, expose to public view their backs ing their use in magic, &c. thus it was streaming with blood from these flagella- not permitted to cut the nails on a holiday tions," description of trinidad and the mouths of the orinoco. (march , weapons, had just been cut: but several voyage, than a first sight of trinidad; blows with the clenched fists on the face which rises close to the mouths of the of the wretched latris *, were followed orinoco, forming a kind of natural bank, by a stream of blood from her nose and as if it was intended by a superior mouth, which instantly mingled with agency to check the impetuosity of that the red juice of the pastils which sabina inighty river's currents, when precipi- had spit in her face. the sight of blood tated into the western ocean. only serves to render the tiger still “the form of this island is that of more savage; and the bosoin of the slave an oblong square, which spanish geo- had certainly suffered, had not a most graphers have frequently compared to ludicrous scene, which unexpectedly a bullock's hide: it is about sixty miles presented itself, dissipated the passion in length, and forty-five broad; covering of sabina. a surface of forty-two thousand square miles. trinidad' is separated from the continent by the gulf of paria, extend- description of trinidad, and the ing ninety miles west, and from to mouths of the orinoco. in breadth, the channel of the orinoco, mr. editor, called cano de padernales, together with as the struggle for south american several other openings, all running in a independence, which has continued to af- northern direction, and forming nu- alict one of the most prolific quarters of the merous little islands, throw a part of globe so many years, seems to be happily its waters into the gulf, while two drawing towards the period when that larger ones, usually denominated the immense continent will be thrown open mouths of the orinoco, convey them to to the commercial spirit and unshackled the great western ocean farther south, industry of the old world, particularly and close to the southern extremity of our own portion of it; nothing calculated trinidad: to illustrate the geography or resources “ the above group of small islands of such a highly interesting region, can have been evidently formed by the ac- be unacceptable to the british public. i cumulation of sand and other materials therefore venture to send you some at the river's mouth; and though inun- account of trinidad and the mouths dated during the rainy season, they are of the orinoco, taken from a late covered with palm and cocoa-nut trees, french traveller, m. lavaysse, whose which furnish the inhabitants not only work, published not long since at paris, with food, beverage, and a bark that is throws considerable light on the natural converted into cloth, but also a constant riches and commercial advantages of supply of wood for making their canoes, venezuela, destined, it is hoped, to furniture, &c. the existence of this be shortly brought into useful activity. most singular tribe, called the gua- whenever this desirable event takes raoüns, seems to be, in fact, attached place, it requires no great sagacity to to the family of palms, as the fate of foretell, that trinidad must become certain birds and butterflies is to some one of the greatest colonial entrepôts particular tree or flower. in our possession. “even the habitations of these people « there is probably no part of the are constructed on the very tops of new world,” observes m. lavaysse," that their favourite trees, which are pro- presents a more picturesque or refresh- fusely scattered over the islands. this ing spectacle to the traveller, exhausted novel mode of building is performed as by the wretched monotony of a sea follows: having selected a group where the plants grow closest to each other, * even in the very mode in which they the branches of several are twisted to- struck the slaves in the face, a refinement gether so as to form the floor, which is in cruelty was displayed ; they struck them covered by their broad leaves, these are with the knuckles of the clenched fist, which also employed on the roofs, sheltering was considered as highly ignominious, and them alike from the inclemencies of the suited only to slaves. hence seneca says, season and burning rays of a vertical “ you will find slaves would rather be sun. when the labours of the day are scourged tlan endure the disgrace of be- closed, and the guaraoün family cheer- ing truck thus with the knuckley. the fully ascends into its aëriał dwelling, slares, hom their master thought fit to punish in this manner, were sometimes while the eanoes are fastened to one of obliged to blow out their cheeks, and thus the trees: it would be difficult to conceive present them, that the unkind fist might a more curious or interesting object. strike without running the risk of hurting these indians, of whom there may be itself! altogether about ten thousand, are ro. .) description of trinidad and the mouths of the orinoco. bust, well made, and much less indolent mountains of bergantin, and the mesas, than the other savages of south ame (small elevated plains,) of amana, gua- rica, passionately fond of dancing, gay, nassa, and tororo. the guarassiche sociable, and extremely hospitable. they is from forty to sixty fathoms deep at its are not distinguished by the same degree confluence with the arco, five leagues of taciturnity as their neighbours; even from the sea; while the last named their language, when compared to that stream has a depth of sixteen fathoms of the latter, is infinitely more soft and at port st. john, twenty-five leagues harmonious, as well as richer in ter- from the coast. minations. the guaraoüns are excel- “antiquaries and orientalists were no lent fishers, and keep dogs not unlike doubt surprised to have found cumana, those of the european shepherd: no- and other words of greek derivation, in thing can exceed their attachment to common use amongst the natives of this these animals, whom they are always wild region, long previous to the arrival caressing, and whose gratitude is shown of europeans; and the word paria, no less by fidelity than usefulness, in as- which signifies a despised and persecuted sisting their masters to catch fish amongst cast in the new world, as well as at the shallows, watching their little pro- hindostan. perty, &c. the export trade of these “ there are few spots in south ame- islanders consists of fish, nets, ham- rica more fertile or salubrious than the mocks, and baskets. they are at peace beautiful vallies west of cape paria; the with all the world, not excepting the coast, which abounds in fish, is but thinly oppressive spanish government, which inhabited by some indian tribes, and a has long since abandoned the project of few french revolutionary emigrants, subjugating them. i have had many together with some families whose po- opportunities of observing this little litical opinions have obliged them to quit community, and while amongst the tobago, grenada, and trinidad. the happy guaraoüns, often thought my- formation of their new establishment self transported back to the days of as- need not, however, be matter of regret, trea. their society exhibits one conti- as they are all in a most flourishing nued scene of peace, abundance, gaiety, condition at present. and concord: how frequently have i “ships coming from europe and the regretted that former recollections, and windward islands, should make trinidad the social habits of early life, would not near port cuevas, some leagues east of admit of my passing the remainder of the boccas, so as to prevent their get. my days amongst them ! but they are ting too far leeward, and thus miss their the only savages who ever inspired me passage through that of the asses or with that desire. ships; for it seldom happens they can “ the eastern mouth of the orinoco enter by the other, called the passage of was called that of the serpent by co the eggs. when, either through want lumbus, and is about three leagues wide. of precaution, or a scant wind and strong not far from the centre between tri- current, ships cannot enter the weather nidad and the continent, there is a small passage, they are forced to go in through islet, only frequented by marine birds, the large channel, by which great diffi- the amazing flocks of which absolutely culty is afterwards experienced in beat- darken the surrounding horizon, both ing up to port spain. at sun-rise, and when it sets. the “ t'he scenery at the entrance of this northern outlets from the gulf of paria, gulf is both varied and magnificent. let called las boccas del drago, or dra. the reader figure to himself a river in gon's mouths, are formed by four islands, front, to which the largest of those in placed nearly at equal distances between europe are mere rivulets! its mighty trinidad and cape paria on the conti- waters rushing tumultuously into the nent. such is the name given to a long sea, and disputing the empire of the neck of land projecting eastward towards gulf with that boisterous element; far the above island, and which forms the to the west are seen the blue mountains northern barrier of the gulf. it is also of cumana, rising in splendid majesty the point where the province of guay- from the bosom of a transparent horizon: ana commences: this is separated from approaching the western shore of trini- cumana, or new andalusia, by the dad numerous vallies and plains, covered guarassiche, which is not a branch of by an eternal verdure, are presented to the orinoco, as it was once thought. the eye : drawing nearer to the beach, this fine river is formed by various you are charmed with the endless diver- streams that have their sources in the sity of the scene; meandering streams : culloden anecdotes. [march , watering the highly cultivated planta- belong to the person whose pame i shall tions. a singular and often grotesque write upon the paper in which they will assemblage of blacks, copper colour, and be inclosed, till the weather gives me an whites, animates the landscape; while opportunity of getting value for them in innumerable canoes, plied by caribs, in- cash. now, colonel, my speech is made, dians, and guaraoüns, are scattered and i am all attention to your's." about the gulf, the slaves are seen at colonel stewart resumed his own their various agricultural labours, which story. are frequently enlivened by the song “i strained my ankle near a lonely, they were taught on the banks of the shealing (hut), and lay prostrate, while niger or joliba. extending your view mr. h. went to ask shelter for an ill- towards the woods, groups of monkeys starred stranger: but i inay call my. are observed leaping from tree to tree, self lưcky indeed to have my friend with or suspended by their tails from the me. he was very nearly taken by three branches, looking upwards; numerous soldiers,' while asleep, the preceding flocks of birds enrich the prospect, no week: we then saw the necessity for less hy their numbers, than the way. keeping watch alternately, as each in nificence and beauty of their plumage; turn yielded to the indispensable re. while the shore constantly re-echoing freshment of nature; and to this acci- the notes of some, and the shrieks of dent i owed having help at hand, vben others. on the right, and farther north, no longer able to help myself. day- is a fine range of lofty mountains, whose light was just appearing. the good summits are covered with the finest trees woman to whom ilamilton applied was of the tropical climate ; and, raising its opening her wattled door; and by his proud head above the rest, the palm looks comprehending, at once, that a attracts the electric fluid, forcing the poor refugee was in distress, though she clouds to deposit their waters at its did not understand one word of english, base, whence they are precipitated in she followed me to the spot where her torrents, or form cascades and rivulets supplicant left me. she seemed rejoiced to fertilize the adjacent plains.* when i spoke in her native tongue; and thus it appears, that the gulf of as my case was desperate, i was obliged to paria is formed by the western shores confide to her our names, and our peril. of trinidad and the opposite one of cu. in all our wanderings, we have preferred mana; nor is there any part of it in applying to the gentler sex. they never which ships may not ride in perfect rejected us; and if they could contribute safety throughout the year: the depth in providing for our safety, after sepa- is generally from three to ten fathoms, rating from them, we found they had a and the anchoring ground almost un- quick and clear perception of the means, equalled." and sympathy to stimulate their exer- if to the above account be added that tions, and to render them effectual. of baron de humboldt, the celebrated even ladies, who were keen partizans prussian traveller, who has surveyed a of the house of hanover, spared peither considerable part of the orinoco, proving trouble nor expense in our behalf." that ships of a large size may ascend “ they proved their enlightened lov. more than four hundred miles from its alty," said mr. gordon. “our humane mouths, through one of the richest sovereign and his ministers must make countries in the world, some idea may examples, if the unfortunate adherents be formed of what this quarter is likely of the other cause fall into their hands; to become under liberal institutions and but they are aware how unpopular is an increased population. e. b. severity; and the general sense of the jan. th, . nation favours the escape of unfortunate gentlemen and their followers so warmly, culloden anecdotes. that i trust in god all who are now in (continued.) the british dominions may arrive un- “ before you make auricular con- molested in foreign countries.". fession, colonel stewart," said mr. gor- " amen! mr. gordon," said the la- don, smiling, “ let me settle my point. point dies; “ though we shall regret the ab- life is precarious, even to an iron frame sence of some very agreeable friends." such as mine; and, if i die, those rings “a sombre hue overspread every countenance; and mr. grant, who was * the curious fact of this tree's acting always a promoter of cheerfulness, said: as a powerful electric conductor is illustrated “it is neither kind nor well-bred to leave by m. de humboldt, colonel stewart disabled and sprawling .) culloden anecdotes. on the heather, while we talk of politics. once a week to the low grounds for come, john roy, be manfully consistent meal, salt, and other requisites. she with your former deeds of heroism, and came home earlier than usual, the day extricate yourself from the ants and ad- before we left the shealing. hamilton ders that might have devoured you since had fallen asleep, and i happened to we commenced our digression. i hope mention to our nymph, that now i was the widow was young and handsome, and able to walk, and we must no longer full of tender pity.' tax her mother's hospitality. she burst " the widow might have been hand- into a flood of tears. i took her hands some thirty years ago; and if a mind to reason with her ;-and, i am ashamed infinitely superior to her station, could to say, forgot reason so far myself, as to preserve and adorn the features of youth, draw her upon my knee. her mother she would be still beautiful as venus, opened the door, and in a voice of agony, and blooming as hebe. she told me the said: cattle were pasturing near her cottage; are the prince's men to destroy all but, if i would wait a little, she should that are dear to me? i never told you, send the herds out of view, and get me that one of my sons was killed by your removed, without giving room for any sus- people in the south country, and the picion. the shealing belonged to a gen- other fell at the battle of culloden. i tleman; her daughter and herself had never told you, as it might seem a re- the care of the dairy; they could lodge proach, and perhaps make you uneasy, us where they kept the milk, and no with doubts of my zeal to keep you froin one but themselves had a right to enter the king's men. oh! you little know, that house. when the cattle and their and i never will explain, all i have suf- keepers were out, we could come to the fered since i lost my sons. this girl fire in the shealing; and she was sure was my only comfort. i always sent the old gentleman, her master, would her to the strath, till you came ; but not be angry, though he should come to she was so young-so merry-so much know all she undertook for us. how- a stranger to guile, she might meet some ever, she would keep our secret from cunning one, that would draw from her him as long as possible; and no other a hint which should bring you into dan- mortal should ever share it. the widow ger. i never yet sent man, woman, or had a daughter not sixteen. one child away--but you know what you would not call her pretty, but her sport- should do to set me at ease-if ease can ive vivacity, her winning, sweet simpli- come after the dart you have fixed in city might make her an object of atten- my breast. my girl is not fit to be your tion among many girls. here she created wife ; but she is too good to be less the sole interest; and, accustomed to than wife to your chief. treat all the fair with gallantry, i sung to “the poor girl ran out whenever her her gaelic songs; whilst, in the absence mother appeared. i allowed the good of her mother, she hastened, by rubbing, woman to vent her feelings without in- the cure of my ankle. she had laughing, terruption; and the rapid vehemence sparkling blue eyes, which she complained of her language awoke hamilton. he were often weak and watery. i told her says i looked very foolish, and i believe that if she would plait her long curling it. when the widow ceased speaking, vellow jocks, and confine them with a she turned to go away. i begged her highland garter, her eyes would reco- to hear me ; assured her i had never by ver, by the daily use of cold ablution. word or action injured her daughter, i plaited her hair till she learnt to be and would spill the last drop of my blood her own dresser; and i had a pair of to chastise any man that insulted her.” fine many-coloured garters, woven and is it no injury to make a poor young presented to me by a good woman in thing so fond of you, that she sits upon badenoch, for braiding her tresses. i your knee, and hides her face in your asked her to accept them, and wished bosom?' they had been ribbons for her sake. her “i replied that i hoped her tears mother never shewed any displeasure, were only in compassion for the dangers and hamilton was not less assiduous to which hamilton and i must be expos- than , in testifying gratitude for the ed after our departure. i repeated all i services of both our entertainers. he had said to her, and asked if many a could not indeed talk to either, but he modest amiable girl had not sat upon a possessed the power of bestowing gifts, man's knee at weddings, at christenings, which i had not. the old woman went and on many other occasions ?" new monthly mag,--no. . vol. xi. [march , culloden anecdotes. • there is a great difference between head mr. and mrs. grant felt the same that and such secret freedoms,' said the delicacy, which, in respect to mr. hamil- widow. ton, had formerly perplexed mrs. gor- "i could only say i was grieved be- don. mr. gordon urged that there was yond expression for the fault of inadvert- no time for punctilios of hospitality,when ence, and begged she would throw all life was the stake. he would stay till the blame on me – not upon her daugh- evening; he would then go with m.donald ter. i explained to hamilton, briefly, to liberate the inmates of the den, and the contre-temps which made it necessary lay before them the intimations on for us to be gone. he agreed, and i in- which he grounded bis opinion. mr. formed the widow that we were just about grant accompanied him, and a journey to bid her farewell. she would not assent southward was resolved. the ladies to our moving off while the lads were were alarmed and distressed when in- awake, and at her earnest request we formed of the purposed migration. mr. waited their going to bed. the widow gordon said he would be the pioneer on loaded us with bread and cheese, and their march. finlay m.donald should guided us several miles- pointing out go with him, to be in readiness for re- the unfrequented paths-or where we turning with notice, if he perceived any could venture to ask for lodging. she danger for the travellers, who were to would not accept the trifles we had to follow at the distance of a few miles. offer; and i am sure all the friends that mr. hamilton expressed the most lirely hear me will allow, i am bound to make gratitude for mr. gordon's proposal, her the only remuneration in my power, and for all the care and kindness he ex- by disposing of the rings. i shewed perienced from mrs. gordon. the fa- them to mr. grant for that purpose last mily at glenmore had laid him under ob- week, but as he seldom goes to town, he ligations of a magnitude he could feel - declined the trust. mr. gordon goes but had no power to utter; and he was often, and i feel relieved of a load in deeply sensible that all who concerned making this small atonement to the wor- themselves with his fate, had incurred thy widow. these rings were gifts from anxiety, fatigues, and risks, he berer two ladies, presented to me with great hoped to be able, in any adequate man- delicacy, as tokens of regard. i knew ner, to repay. john roy thanked mr. h. more than empty compliment was in- for enunciating the impressions, which, tended. the ladies had not ready cash though they penetrated to his heart's to supply my future wants, and they core and would indelibly remain there, gave the jewels that i might convert he could not have clothed in phrase so them into inoney." forcible and appropriate. mr. gordon this is a simple story, but it does hon attended the fugitives four days journey, nour to human nature, and ought not to on foot, through unfrequented paths be lost in oblivion. the writer does not covered with snow, and they always pretend to repeat it, nor any of the pre- lodged in the same house at night, where vious dialogues verbatim--but the spirit mr. gordon and m donald watched in of each incident, and of every sentiment, turns, as mr. h. and john roy slept. has been faithfully preserved. to the so long as john roy lived he wrote to eloquent pathos and energy of the wimr grant glenmore in a figurative style, dow's expostulation, po translated lan- which only his confidants understood. guage could give equivalent force. when he experienced the characteristic thank- first repeated in gaelic, it drew tears lessness of the stewart race, and his from the writer, and the gentleman who high spirit, which nerer would bend un- recited the words he himself heard from der personal hardship or danger, preyed john roy, affirmed, that every eye upon his health, when he found his suf- glistened, and that john roy's voice ferings excited little sympathy in those was stified by emotion as he spoke. for whom they were endured. similar in a few days mr. gordon returned sacrifices were made by hundreds of to gleninore, early in the forenoon, to britons, and they all bitterly repented coinmunicate some intelligence from a their temerity. it was not merely the correspondent at edinburgh, which he defeat of their army they had to be. considered as a caveat to the unfortunate moan-the negligence of the court of gentlemen, that before a milder season st. germaines, and of versailles, “shar- favoured a renewal of the military per than the serpent's tooth, stung movements in search of fugitives, they their hearts. for ever expatriated, they ought to proceed to the nearest sea-ports, dwelt with anguish upon recollections and enibark for the continent. on this of the disinterested exertions, the incor- .) the advantages and disadvaniages of machineryuery. . ruptible fidelity of all classes in their own of the principle of motion, which the country, to which they owed their escape steam of boiling water supplies to the to foreign shores. su reluctant were mechanical industry of england, we have many outlaws to leave their native wilds been particularly struck with viewing so entire was their confidence in the its operations in a manufactory for people, that they preferred dwelling in making cards, for the purpose of carding caves within the beloved soil- they pre- or dressing cotton. it was at man- ferred a continual hazard of life in those chester, nearly two hundred miles from boundaries; and not a few returned from london, that we were witness to this france and holland to expire, and to be wonderful process. as the carding ma- buried with their ancestors. chine is an article of great importance one chieftain spent nine years among in the manufactory of cotton yarns- bis vassals after the retreat from cullo and as this city is the great emporium den. scores, of all ranks in his domain, for works of that peculiar nature, it can- knew his haunts, and all were incessant. not but be regarded as a great national ly alert to collect and to communicate undertaking, and as deserving of public information of approaching danger.- notice. the most sagacious and intrepid, consti- these cards are metallic brushes, co- tuted a self-elected band, which in divi. vering the whole surface of the large sions watched by rotation at night, cylinders in rapid motion, between which whenever the search for outlaws became the raw cotton is disentangled, smoothed, more rigorous than common. and gradually combed, by the effect of if these recollections of the olden their rotatory movement, and this, com- time are acceptable, i shall send here- bined with the action of the brushes, after some account of the calamities en- (cards) finally gives to the cotton the dured by other adherents of the pre- form of a light and semi-transparent tender. it cannot be denied that, among cylinder, reads to enter into the twisting these, there were instances of individual machines, used to convert it into yarn attachment seldom equalled in ancient of the degree of fineness required. the or modern history. captain m-ken- perfection of the varn essentially de, zie, a youth not two and twenty, after pends on that of the preliminary opera- months of sufference, lurking in stratha- tion of the card. rick was beset by an ensign's command these cards are of different degrees of soldiers. six faithful followers were of fineness: the pattern which we have within call, and with admirable presence before us, and which we saw made, con- of mind, m.kenzie summoned them in tains wires or points in a square a loud voice to defend their prince. he inch, each four lines in length, including was remarkably like charles in his coun- the thickness of the leather throuen tenance and figure, and hoped by this which the wires are fixed; always two heroic self-devotion to favour the safe by two, because the wire of which they embarkation of the royal wanderer, are made, having been bent double in when it should be believed he had al- the form of the letter u, each length of ready paid the forfeit of his rash expe- the wire affords two points, which are dition. it is even asserted that in despe- placed together in two holes prepared rately combating against superior force, in the leather to receive them. these mkenzie studied to expose his face points are afterwards bent a little in the to their weapons, to prevent minute in middle of their length, to give them a spection of his corpse, from ascertaining slight inclination in the direction in his true identity. when covered with which they are to act as brushes. wounds, he received a mortal thrast, he contrivances more or less ingenious, exclaimed, “ villains, you have shed have long existed, to prepare and bend blood royal!" the wires, and to bore the holes in the if ever an offence against truth in the leather to receive them; but a slow and dying hour could be venial, “ the record- delicate action of the hand was always ing angel surely dropped a tear" on this necessary to convert them into cards. transgression, “and blotted it out for we consulted dr. henry, of manches- ever." b. g. ter, respecting what was most curious in the manufactures of this city. he on the advantages and disadvan- mentioned, without hesitation, the ma- tages resulting from the use chine for making cards, belonging to mr. of machinery in manufactories. dvers; and mr. dalton, the celebrated by professor pictet. . natural philosopher, who resides in the among the innumerable applications same city, having had the kindness to [march , the advantages and disadvantages of machinery. introduce us to the proprietor of this composed, by a series of operations, some fine establishment. we were received successive, some simultaneous, as fol- there with all the cordiality, which lows:- seems to us, at present, to characterise . a pair of pincers, which holds the the great manufacturers in england; iron wire towards the extremity, brings far from showing the least uneasiness at it laterally in sufficient quantity, so that our questions, mr. dyers anticipated all when cut by a pair of scissars, the end the explanations that we could desire, may be of the length proper for the with the utmost kindness. double point, which it is to make, after two vast work rooms, one over the it has been bent into the shape of the other, contain each thirty machines to letter u. make cards, all moved by one steam-en. . the machine seizes this end, and gine of ten-horse power; this power, bends it in an instant like a square ; that besides the sixty machines which it sets is, angular, and not rounded ; · which in motion-besides the action of the renders the two joints perfectly equal drawing plates, which extend the iron and parallel, and ready to enter together wire-besides the preparation of the into the leather, with their whole bands of leather, which require the length. greatest precautions to give them a per- . while this is doing, an awl, with fect equality of thickness, this machine two very fine points, divided from each has still some power to spare: the pro- other by an interval equal to that of the prietor lets out this surplus to his neigh- two points, is pushed against the leather, bours, by means of horizontal beams, and makes, through and through, two which proceed from his manufactory, and holes, of the proper size, and at the act in theirs, for the benefit of various right distance to receive the two points branches of industry. when they are pushed into them by the on entering the work-room of mr. machine. dyers, you are a little stunned with the . these two points are placed in the noise of thirty machines in motion at leather, so that the bottom of the u one time; each of which manufactures remains on one side, and the two points a card. no human being interferes: project on the other side, as far as is two young girls walk up and down with necessary for the thickness of the card. their arms across, and when any of the . the two points receive toge- reels which supply each machine with ther a slight curve towards the middle iron wire, is nearly empty, they sub- of their length, in order that their se- stitute another that is full; this is all cond half may have the degree of in- their labour; it requires neither ap- clination which has been found necessary prenticeship nor skill, nor a sedentary for the better action of the card. posito, injurious to the health. a series of effects so various, and each ni chine, seen at a distance, re executed with a precision which may sembles in sone degree a stocking frame, be said to be absolute, would be alone a both in the genera: form and the rattling fine mechanical result, if the same time of the parts in actioni; but those parts was allowed to the machine, that a are here more numerous, add the motion skilful band would take to produce far more rapid and continued than in them; but what renders the result truly the stocking frame. the following is admirable is, its astonishing prompti- the series of the operations which tiig tude, added to the extreme precision of machine performs:- the effects. we have seen, with a watch on the one part, the band of leather, in our hand, the machine make and put of a lesser or greater breadth, which is in their places, of these double to receive the points of the card, is points, i. e. single points in a minute; stretched either vertically or horizon- and as some of those machines have the tally, with its plane facing the machine, mechanisın double, and make two cards and this band is put in motion, either at once, working as quickly as the single from the bottom to the top, or from right ones, these latter make and place to left, with the precise degree of quick- points per minute, that is more than ten ness, or rather slowness, necessary for in one second of time! and the work is it to receive regularly, the points which perfect: the specimens which i possess the machine prepares, and puts in their are admired by all competent judges. places, the second room contains thirty si- on the other part, a reel, at the milar machines, and the convert side of the apparatus, furnishes the every day, a length of english miles wire, of which those points are to be of iron wire into cards. it seemed to .] the advantages and disadvantages of machinery. us, that there would be sufficient to comes more complicated the more we supply all england ; but mr. dyers told reflect upon it; and in order to see our us, that he could scarcely supply the con- way a little clearly, we must draw up, as sumption of the city of manchester it were, an inventory of the good and alone. the erection of each of those evil, to discover on which side is the ba- machines costs only . sterling. lance. we will endeavour to draw up a we have omitted to say, that the summary statement of the account, be, machine pierces the leather at pleasure, ginning with the advantages procured by in various manners, either in rows per those motions, which substitute physi. pendicular to its length, or in oblique cal or mechanical power for the hand directions, in the form of a quincunx. of man. we afterwards visited the work-room . these machines supply the con- where the wire is drawn. mr. dyers sumers on better terms, and in general pointed out to us that the cogs in teeth, better made, with certain necessary ar- (engrenages) which make the pincers ticles; they multiply those of enjoyment, act, are constructed on the principles of and sometimes of luxury or super, mr. white, that is to say, the direction fluity. of the faces of the teeth is not . they enrich the inventors, or parallel to the axis of rotation, but those who put in practice these inven- oblique to that axis; this arrangement tions, in the countries where privileges causes the catching of each tooth to or patents are in fashion. it is said, for take place successively, from one ex- example, that sir r. arkwright, son of tremity of the face to the other; this the inventor of the spinning machines, produces much more smoothness and is at present one of the richest indivi- equality in the movement of the catch- duals in england. his income is stated ings, both circular and conical. (but this is doubtless an exaggeration) on perceiving the fineness of the wire at , . sterling per annum, employed, and, consequently, the small- . the national wealth being prin- ness of the holes in the drawing plates, cipally composed of that of individuals, we expressed our astonishment, that ought to increase in the same propor there could be awls sufficiently fine, and tion. the exportation of the goods, at the same time sufficiently strong, to which are manufactured in quantities pierce these holes in the thick and hard far too great for home consumption, be- substance (steel) of these plates. mr. comes an abundant source of commercial dyers had the kindness to shew us riches. this is the creditor side of our the process, by making one of his work account: let us proceed to the debtor men execute it in our presence. a side. scruple checks the inclination we should . every machine, which abridges have in describing it; namely, lest we and perfects a manual work, takes it out might be guilty of an indiscretion, as we of the hands of those who manufactured are in doubt whether the process is it, and paralyzes them until the uncers known elsewhere. tain, and always more or less distant mr. dyers does not pretend to be the epoch, when they shall find a new em- inventor of the machine to make cards ployment, which will probably be taken with; it came from america ; he has from them by a new machine, as soon only improved it: and he draws from it as an inventor shall find his advantage prodigious advantages.* in it. here, then, is a source of uneasis when the admiration which arises ness, inquietude, and poverty, opened from the sight of masterpeices of mecha- in the nation, simultaneously with the nical ingenuity, such as those which we source of wealth to the inventor and have just described, (and england con- those who shall trade with his produce tains many others) when this impres. tions. sion, we say, has a little subsided, and . the articles previously manufac- we reflect on the consequences of the tured, of the kind of those wbich the introduction of these machines into machine makes more perfect, becoming human society, we are more alarmed of less value, experience in the maga than rejoiced at it. the question be- zines of the wholesale and retail dealer, a considerable depreciation, which causes him a dead logs. . since this article was written, we have seen cards made at winterthur, in switzer- . the advantage of obtaining, at a laod, in the manufactory of mr. ziegler, lower price, certain articles of necessity which are but little inferior to the cards of or enjoyment, which are produced by which we are speaking; but they are not mechanical action, is more than balanced entirely manufactured by a machine, for the poorer classes, by the general the advantages and disadvantages of machinery. [march , fall of the price of labour, the constant support artificially this struggle of an effect of the employment of machines. industry, which has taken a false direc- the workman who gains little or no- tion, and which they persist in, substi- thing, is unable to purchase even that tuting for such or such a natural species of which is cheap. industry, which would be favoured by the . the work of machinery being an soil, the climate, the localities, and pre- advantageous substitute for manual skill, ceding habits, which had formed that furnishes to the proprietor the tempta- commercial tract, which cannot be aban- tion, and the unhappy power, to employ doned without more or less inconve- children as supplementary machines : nience. they are taken froin their education at let as now examine our account. the age most proper for education, and on the one side, a nation grows rich, or to the great detriment of their consti- seems to grow rich: on the other side, tution, both physically and morally con- a mass of evils of various kinds over- sidered, they are converted, for their flows society. on which side is the short lives, into pieces of mechanism, and balance ?-certainly on the side which into social machines of a very wretched is unfavourable to the general happiness, description. .. which is the natural averred object of . the rapid, and sometimes enor- every association. mous production of the machine, and but let us examine a little closer the the low price at which it works, induce apparent gain-the pretended prospe- a considerable exportation of these pro- rity of the nation using machines. ductions to the neighbouring nations. the wealth produced by manufactures the latter persuade themselves, that the accumulates; but in the hands of an in- money which they voluntarily employ considerable number of individuals, com- in acquiring these foreign productions, paratively to the whole mass: the man en- is a tribute levied on their own industry; riched by the machine employs his gains their self-love is interested in attempting in multiplying the sources of his fortune; imitations; they foolishly suffer them and the value of the manual labour of the selves to be inoculated with the disease poor workman declines in the same pro- of machinery, and the governments, far portion; hence the rupture of the from endeavouring to cure it, generally equilibrium, between the two extreme promote it, by attempting to relieve the classes of society, increases more and patient, by the prohibitive system. more; the first sees its treasures in- . this system is established with its crease—the latter, its numbers and its fatal train of consequences :--the arbi- misery. these two professions, so diver- trary conversion of the most ordinary gent,' have a term which must inspire and the most legitimate transactions of terror. commerce, into misdemeanours and and if in the nation thus enriched, crimes. the demoralization of the in- a radical defect in the legislation im- habitants on two contiguous frontiers, poses on one part of the population the by smuggling, the necessary and ineri. necessity of maintaining the other; then, table consequence of the temptations to the causes of increasing poverty in that are held out to it. an under the latter, which we have just pointed hand war between nation and nation, out, is added the fatal and anti-laborious in the midst of peace, and war main- influence of all these measures; whichi, tained by a real and numerous army, preparing succour for indigence, what- the impelling motive of which can never ever be its source, concur with idleness be honour; and is almost always cupic and the want of education, and of re- dity. constraint, and hindrances with sources ready prepared, really to pro- out end, in commercial, literary, and pagate this indigence, when it is intend- scientific communications, in travels ored only to relieve it; then, in short, in voyages calculated to extend knowproportion as the nation thinks it grows ledge and the benefits of civilization; rich, the tax imposed on those riches diminution of the welfare and the enjoy- increases in, perhaps, a still greater ments of the mass of consumers, who proportion; and the rich and the poor pay a higher price for an article, gene both suffer ; the former without saying rally not so well manufactured :* lastly, so, or saying so only in whispers; the great inconvenience to governments, to latter demanding succour with an im- portunity which resembles menaces. * this seems contradictory to the state- that we may not be accused ei. ment in no. , of the creditor side of the ther of exaggeration, or of bringing account,-ed. forward an imaginary theory, we shall .] on the conduct of historians. support it by a fact, which is acknow. character, mr. card and mr. adolphus ledged and deplored in england. it is have been rarely surpassed. all this the rapid augmentation of the poor- we may admit; but still there is one rates, in proportion as the pretended point in which they have evinced a most national wealth has increased. the extraordinary weakness, namely, in the following is a statement of it at six dif- servility with which they have followed ferent periods: the first interval is all the earlier bistorians, when describe nearly a century; the others, are of ing the operations of war, or drawing , , and years, in the period when the character of those wretched maniacs the employment of machinery was the commonly styled conquerors. why most actire. have they not endeavoured, by plain account the poor-rates of england, solid reasoning, to divest men of their from the year attachment to the one, or attempted, by - , well-applied ridicule, to cure them of - , - , interval of years. their admiration of the other? it may - , , interval of years. be said, that neither reasoning or ridi- – , , interval of years. cule could produce such a change ; but - , , interval of years. still, both, when moderately used, and - , , interval of years often repeated, might have a salutary number of persons relieved perma- effect. the spirit and the temper of the nently on the average of three years, age seem to require, or rather to encou- , , . rage, the experiment. the world is out of the in the occasionally gradual gradually recovering from the effect of workhouse. workhouse. relieved. those extraordinary revolutions which , . . have recently disturbed it; the people total number of paupers relieved at large have found leisure for reflection; , . they are beginning at length to estimate things by their actual value, and to fol- on the conduct op historians. low or retain only those that are really amongst the writers of the pre- useful. let some writer of talent now sent day, there is one distinguishing come forward, and shew them from ex- trait that adds considerably to their perience, and by argument, that heroes merit, which is originality: many of are things which may be dispensed with; them possess it in an eminent degree, and it is probable, that after some time and even those who appear to want it most they may, like other neglected play-toys, have learned to supply its place with an be remembered merely to be despised. agreeable sort of affectation that has at the truth is, that both the ancient least the air of singularity to recom- and modern historians attach too much mend it. in almost every walk of lite- importance to those “ pagod things of rature, the spirit of the one or the other sabre sway ;" they stand at a distance is now operating. our pocts-our phi- and gaze on them with a vulgar wonder; losophers-our dramatists--and even and then, as their fears or their preju- our novelists, seem, in a greater or dices may infiuence them, they exbibit less degree, to feel its intiuence. — them to the whole world as objects ei- amongst the historians it has not, as yet, ther of terror or of admiration : they made its appearance ; at least in a con- place them at a point of elevation to spicuous manner. in saying this, i am which they are by no means entitled. far from endeavouring to underrate the the sovereign, when he takes the field merit of those who are at present em through mere necessity, for the purpose ploying their time and their talents on of defending the rights of his people, is this important and very interesting spe- a character indeed truly respectable ; cies of composition; amongst them there though still more respectable in peace; are many whose names will be remocm- but the wanton invader, the busy, bust- bered and esteemed as long as the lan- ling man of ambition, the mere noisy-in- guage in which they liave written exists: flated trumpetting conqueror, who plun. to name the peculiar excellence of each, ders for the sake of waste, and kills for might, to some, appear unnecessary. the pleasure of spilling blood; he is, in mr. belsham is remarkable for strength fact, a character really contemptible. and clearness. mr. southey, in the few the only thing that can give him a mo- historical speeches which he has written, mentary consequence is the power that has exhibited a singular union of learn- he may unluckily possess, of doing mis- ing and eloquence; and for correctness chief. let the character be examined of style and spirit in the delincation of more closely-he is one probably born singular anecdote of a dog. [march , to a throne; he is surrounded by flat- tion. this is an error which shoull be terers, who at an early age fill his head guarded against; the names or the ac- with the idea of his own extraordinary tions of such men should never be dwelt capacity; at the proper period he is on with any appearance of peculiar in- carefully taught all the regular modes of terest. the influence of religion, the murder; he has money gathered for progress of the arts and sciences, and the him, drawn either by force or by fraud changes, or fluctuations of public opi. from his miserable dependants--a crowd nion, these are the objects that ought of well-disciplined hirelings are collect- to engage the attention of the historian; ed around him, some of them probably for it is on these, after all, more than on attached to him, and more of them wil- the march of armies, or the issue of bat- ling and ready to cut his throat, if an tles, that the fate of empires must de- advantage was to be acquired by it. he pend. the people of the present age looks around for an enemy, and where are already beginning to perceive the shall he find one?-his neighbours are littleness of ambition; they are begin- all of a pacific disposition-it matters ning to measure those pigmy bugbears not, he must make enemies of them, by the true standard, and in such a cha- has he a right to plunder them ?-he racter, there is actually nothing to excite asks not is it fair or just to massacre our wonder or our admiration : it implies their defenceless subjects without any the possession of no extraordinary ta- provocation? the laws of god and of lent, mere brutal courage, an acquaint- nature may forbid it, but he cares not; ance with military movements, and a his own dear little name will become no reasonable portion of impudence, of can- torious, and for this one dirty selfish ning, and hypocrisy-these will at any object he is content to make millions time constitute a conqueror, if other cir- miserable. he begins the work of de- cumstances of an external description struction at the first he is probably happen to favour him. successful; a reverse then follows, or bolton-street, dublin. t.f. death comes and carries him away in the midst of his projects, and a hasty peace singular anecdote of a dog. leaves every thing in nearly its original the extraordinary exertions made state. what object has he accomplished? by a dog belonging to a poor old man, none whatever ; but he has made a noise now maintained by the duke of pen- in the world, he has attempted a great thievre, as related in the literary ga- deal-- he has slaughtered many; and zette for last year, have been greatly though all his labours led to nothing of surpassed by a greyhound which lost his importance, he feels and he knows that own master at the battle of culloden. he shall be spoken of hereafter. it is mr. . a young gentleman from the from posterity that he expects his re- south of scotland, served as a volunteer ward; it is amongst the men of another in the company of a highland chief, or age that his name shall be celebrated; rather a demi-chieftain, and had been and whether that name shall be exhi- very kind to the animal previous to the bited in a good or bad light he cares not, fatal day. after the fall of mr. m.d. that it is conspicuous. this is not a the dog attached himself to mr. .: sketch of any particular personage, it is but he was so remarkable for size and the character of almost every warrior, beauty, that the fugitive apprehended every hero, from nin rod to napoleon, he would be the means of discovering from macedonia's madman to the his retreat. two highland lads, who swede ;" and it is this guilty expecta- bad been soldiers in the same company, tion of posthumous honour which the and undertook to guide the southron enlightened historian should endeavour, through bye paths, assured him, that the if possible, to blast. when he speaks of greyhound would be a safeguard, able such men, he should reflect for a mo- to cope with several men, unless they ment that the lives and the happiness of were assisted by fire-arms. the high- millions may depend, in some measure, landers conducted mr. o. through the on a single turn of his pen-example is hills of glenmoriston, kintail, knoid- powerful-mankind are generally prone art, &c. and past fort william to appin, to imitation; let the writer therefore where they applied to a friend of their remember, that one line of applause cause to ferry them to the opposite given to such a being as we have de- shore. this man would not venture to scribed, may, for aught he knows, be the give such ostensible aid ; but made them spell which shall call into life some new welcome to his boat, when darkness destroyer of a more remorseless disposi- would conceal their embarkation. he .] memoirs of the late peter gale fuur. g. advised them to land mr. o., as he was one that approached. the officer gently most obnoxious to government, and awoke mr. o., assuring him his inten- nearly exhausted by travelling; and to tions were not hostile. he required return with the boat, leaving mr. o. only his word of honour never to men- under some shelter, to recruit a little, tion having seen him, and he would send since he was dreadfully wounded. they a trusty person at night to take him to could rejoin him by going round to a his brother's house. he kept his word, narrow arm of the sea, where the public mr. o. was concealed in this family until ferryman would show them favour, if his broken arm was cured; and he got needful. mr. o. was rowed to the op- safe to holland with his faithful canine posite side, and left in a waste sheep cot, attendant. with his dog, while the young men went to take the boat to the owner. when memoirs of the late peter galb the day dawned, mr. o. in great anxiety paux, stenographer and patriot. hastened to look out for his friends, as written by his priend agathomp- the night had been tempestuous. he soon descried the boat keel uppermost. sonides mumps. his distress no poignancy of words can the only certainty that life affords, describe: a stranger to the country is the certainty of its own termination. and the language, wrung by mental and anger may glance into the breast of a personal anguish, he thought of deliver wise man, but rests only in the bosom ing himself up at a gentleman's house, of fools; and he who cares not what he had been warned to shun, as his bro- becomes of his country, cannot be a thers were in the duke of cumberland's true patriot. having thus premised a army. he bent his steps in that direc- few remarks, which i conceived liighly tion ; but observing a party of soldiers necessary, i shall now proceed to record on an eminence, and two officers talking the principal events in the life of a man, to them, he turned aside into a wood. whose unmerited fate has thrilled the it was the beginning of winter: the universal nerves of europe with horror, trees were leadess, but so thick of and thrown a shade of the finest melan- branches, and dwarf brushwood, as to choly over the most respectable drinking afford some concealment. mr. . sat shops in town. down, and, for the first time, observed peter gale faux having descended his dog carrying his wallet, containing from the younger branch of an illus- provisions and dressing for his wounds. trious oak-tree, where he had taken re- the animal laid down the wallet, and fuge one evening from the castigation of disappeared. in a little time he re- his mendicant mother, found himself, turned, laid his head on mr. o's knee, after her departure, standing alone in and, with mute eloquence, induced bim the wide world, and a beautiful mea- to rise and follow. the dog led him to dow, ricketty and intelligent, not twelve a cave, where he soon fell asleep. on years old till the next grass, and with awaking, he found a great addition to no protection under heaven, save inno- his store. the dog had broken up the cence and a broken pair of pantaloons, pantry of the gentleman's house, during who his father was, he had no notion the night, and brought the spoil to his whatever; neither, i believe, had his master. a guard of soldiers prevented mother. but that he had ancestors is a repetition of depredations, and it has highly probable, and that, at least, he been supposed the greyhound noticed had more than adam, is quite certain. them, for he did not again approach any man, whose sire has been trans- the spot, and was not suspected. in ported, will soon become ashamed of his those unhappy times, it was a point genealogy; but only trace his pedigree of humanity to feed strayed dogs, as so back for a thousand years, and though many lost their masters in the field the founder of it had been hanged, you of battle. whatever the greyhound re- flatter him beyond expression. such, ceived, he brought to mr. o., and lived however, is the origin of almost all our upon game, caught by himself. he aristocracy. generally speaking, they licked mr. o.'s wounds, and thus con- are descended from the greatest scoun- tributed to relieve the pain : and while drels upon earth; but because these he slept, the dog was generally vigilant. scoundrels had flourished eight or nine happily, he was absent when an officer centuries ago, time changes the adjective found mr. (). in profound repose. he into the substantive, and a family who had removed the arms of the outlaw; were once notorious, at length come to but the dog would have strangled any be a family of notoriety. from the new monthly mag.--no. . vol. xi. s memoirs of the late peter gale fuux. [march , tree of knowledge sprang the gallows- only a good memory; whereas falsehood tree, and up to the latter has often been depends upon the inventive faculties, and duly traced, the tree of heraldry. with is therefore a much finer cffort of con. which of these three kinds of timber versational power. thus, the evening my friend peter had the best reason to be he killed the cat with the bible, he acquainted, is sufficiently evinced by the swore himself purple, that he had never indignation and consternation of every touched a bible in his life; though he nation in europe. was actually parodying a chapter in it he had not advanced through the at the time : and he justified himself to meadow many paces, when a gentleman the cook, who sitw the whole transac- overtook him, in consequence of having tion, by citing, as precedent, the couduct walked a good deal faster. “how dare of our gravest judges, who will counsel you trespass upon my meadow ?"' cried a culprit to plead “ not guilty,” even he.-","l'is mine !" exclaimed the boy.- though the moment before he had con- « oh, nature, nature !" apostrophised fessed his guilt. “now," said he, “ if the gentleman,“ how irresistible are judges, whose business it is to develope thy dictates, since even this untutored truth, encourage falsehood openly from brat, inspired by thee, can assert his the bench -- alas, iny country! what prerogatives! yes-all are born free- englishman is safe? if i used a bible men-all possess the same immunities- to knock out the life of a cat, would all are brothers, co-peers, and equals !" they not use a bible to swear away the saying which, he took little peter home, life of a man? and had him taught to clean boots. but it is a remark that deserves some this pathetic incident occurred about attention, that this mortal state is greatly the beginning of the french revolu- subject to mutability. kingdoms and tion; and, during several years after individuals flourish and decay, and mis- wards, he remained in the family, as fortune is fond of company, for she sel- boy of all work. his education, how dom comes alone. these moral obser- ever, was not neglected. he could read vations were unhappily too, well veri- any word of two syllables, and he could fied in the person of my hero. en- pronounce every sesquipedal sentence trusted one night with the key of the that expressed the distresses of his coun- wine-cellar, for the purpose of replenish- try. though the edinburgh review ing the stock in the parlour, he took oc- was not yet in being, still he had the casion to set apart five or six bottles for advantage of thomas paine. the his own private amusement. he then morning chronicle, also, contributed its retired to the stable, and having hidden stores; and, by listening at the door. all but one under some straw, he de- whenever his inaster held forth upon prived that one of its contents at a single politics, he had advanced so far in popu- draught. his master, after the depar. lar oratory, that he could make people ture of his guests, happening to visit the think they understood him, when he stable, beheld peter stretched under the could not from adam understand him- manger, and enjoying one of those self--a prodigious blessing, as mr. phil. peaceful slumbers which are wont to jips knows. distil their balmy dews upon innocence nothing could possibly be more de- and virtue. his hand, even in sleep, in- corous than the conduct of this amiable stinctively grasped the bottle, and when youth, during his residence with his be- awakened, his only reply to a hundred nefactor. sooner than incur the dis questions was 'water.' an immediate pleasure of any of the good family, or discovery ensued. in vain did this in- give them the pain of chastising him, he teresting youth rise upon his knees willingly told the most astonishing false- inebriety instantly restored bim to his hoods, aud enforced them with oaths of recumbent posture. in vain did he the most appalling nature. “ truth," strive to account for bad appearances, he used to say, “was a virtue, only so by a preternatural exertion of the most far as it tended to preserve peace and prompt falsehoods. articulation itself good-will; but whencrer a lie produced was denied hiin. in short, a soon as his the same effect, it surely possessed the power of locomotion returned, he was same merit. indeed, where either would brutally thrust from beneath the roof equally answer the purpose, or even of his benefactor. where a lie would answer no purpose at i know that there are persons in the all, he usually preferred the lie; for, world, who will condemn his conduct; as he used to remark, truth is a mere men who would jockey their best friend statement of facts, and therefore requires with it spavined hunter, or cheat the .) memoirs of the late peler gale faux. revenue, by hiding their tandem or til- law against stealing; he only punished bury before the visit of the tax-gather- those who were caught in the fact, for er ; but who would deem it a heinous their want of ingenuity. stealing, there- crime to purloin a bottle of claret. fore, was not a crime in sparta, what- were such men to hear my valued friend ever it may be here. even here, there peter exculpate himself from the above was a time when no law prohibited par- act, methinks they would acknowledge, ricide. lf, therefore, the law alone that morality has no definite standard, makes an act criminal, children might by which human conduct can be mea- have murdered their parents in the good sured, and, at least, that few things are old times, without the least compunction morally wrong, till they are found out of conscience. suppose a bid king, “ laws," said he, in conversing with reigning over good subjects, makes ho- me on this transaction,“ are so far from nesty a capital crime, and payment for a always tending to beneficial purposes, loaf of bread, petty larceny ;-are his that often what the law of one country subjects justified in obeying him ? cer- commands the law of another country tainly not. and if our laws tend to forbids. the law of greenland or promote suicide, am i justified in obey- osygen (i forget which) orders all de- ing them ? certainly not. now, then, formed children to be strangled. the to the point. a man who could save law of other countries punishes infantis another's life, yet looks quietly on, and cide with the gallows. among the ro- sees him murdered, is considered as an mans suicide was considered a virtuous accessary to the fact. therefore, a and heroic act-here it is deemed a man who could save his own life, yet cowardly mode of going on another makes no exertion to do so, is acccssary establishment ; and, indeed, in my poor to his own death. a man just as effec- opinion, he who commits suicide ought tually deprives himself of existence, if to be hanged. honour, it is said, should he neglects to do what will preserve it, be held dearer than life; and yet he as if he does what will destroy it. had who deprives a girl of her honour pays i not swallowed a bottle of port, i a far less forfeit than if he had cut her am persuaded i should have died of throat. rob a man of his sheep, and the colic. i was possessed of an excru- you are strung up; but rob him of his ciating pain under my waistcoat; and, wife, and you repair the damage by in fine, to put the most candid construc- damages. either, therefore, a sheep is tion possible upon the affair, i must more valuable than a woman, or law is either have permitted my own death, capricious and unjust. again, the law which is a crime of the first water, or i often contradicts itself; for it both for must have stolen the wine, which is a bids us to commit murder, and it holds crime of no water at all." out a bonus to those who do. a soldier t hus delightfully did peter gale faux receives a shilling a day to assassinate hold forth upon his supposed delinquency, by wholesale. wherein does his occu- and it was by such bursts of eloquence pation differ from that of the common that he contrived to gain an incontro- murderer? the motives of both are vertible ascendancy over me. sooth to. the same- to earn their bread. if a say, he found me a man more skilled in war be ever so unjust, a soldier is still books, than in bosoms; and to him in duty bound to stick his bayonet into alone i stand indebted for all my prac- the ribs of some persons, unknown at tical acquirements. never, i do aver, the very first moment of their introduc- was a more assiduous instructor than tion. but as he sticks it in by act of he proved: his friendship for me re- parliament, he is a hero, and gets a mained unshaken to the close of his medal; whereas, if he blows a man's mortal career ; and, indeed, he stuck to brains out, and can produce no written me to that degree, that i was well nigh license for it, having murdered without being hanged on the same gallows with the requisite formalities, he is a villain, himself. and gets a halter.* lycurgus made no it is a melancholy reflection that human life is subject to so many vicissi- # this forcibly reminds us of an irish tudes, and that so many worthy persons soldier, lately hanged at cambray for the are forced to take long journies on foot. morder of a frenchman, who, when about but so it fared with my poor friend. to be turned off, addressed the bystanders he was obliged to walk the whole way to the following effect :- bad luck to the - duke of wellington, he's no irishman's took it into my head to be the death of one friend any how; i've killed many a score of on my own account, by the powers he's frenchmen by his orders, and when i just tucked me up for it!" memoirs of the late peter gale faux. [march , to london, inasmuch as he had not more fused point-blank to do any such thing. than three shillings in his pocket. i the mastication now went on with pass over his adventures till his arrival great spirit; victory seemed decisive ; in the metropolis, which interesting a pound and a half at least were derour- event occurred about ten o'clock on a ed, and a quart of porter dispatched, all dark night in december. his feelings, in the compass of ten minutes--when, as he has since informed me were inde- on a sudden, peter stopped short. his scribable. he thought of the quantity mouth was closed; his knife and fork of human wretchedness which was crain- lay crossed upon his plate. “well?" med into one spot; he pondered over the said his patron. “well!" replied peter, heart-harrowing idea of the hundreds “i can eat no more.- waiter, the gen- who are compelled to live by the admi- tleman with the angry face pays for me," nistering to the gratification of some and he walked carelessly out of the wealthy and idle individual, and he room. also thought he should like a good sup- i have recorded this anecdote because per amazingly: he therefore went into it has often, by prejudiced persons, been a sort of tavern, near the seven dials, represented as a complete swindling and sat down. his attention was in- transaction; whereas he has himself stantly arrested by hearing one of the assured me, that he meant it merely as company remark that he had, the day a playful hoax- the best proof of which before, seen a labouring man eat five is, says he, in his usual arch manner, pounds of beef steaks and drink three that i did not save a penny by it, for i quarts of porter within the space of an had not a penny to save. in truth, he - hour. the narrator of this feat did not was wondrous droll. . appear to obtain implicit credence from after this little sally of practical wit, his auditors, as sundry shrugs, winks, he wandered along the streets, uncertain and sneers, evinced : and at last he be- how to procure a night's lodging; for came quite angry. it is nothing re as i have already hinted, he had not a markable, said my good friend, peter penny in his pocket. it was at this cri. gale faux, for i have myself eaten five tical juncture that he first met with me. pounds of mutton, and drank two quarts i was returning home to iny wife and and a half of table beer in less than an our two little children, when i saw him hour. all turned their eyes towards walking abreast of me and looking at me the lank figure who had made this de- very hard. at length he accosted me claration, while the former narrator thus: “you seem," sir, said he, “a eagerly exclaimed, “ there!” and began good-natured sort of person. can you to triumph in his turn. “pray, my lad," inform me where i inay get a bed for asked one of the company, “ will you un- the night, as i am quite a stranger in dertake to perform this exploit now?" london." thereupon i stopped, and "i should have no objection in life," asked him a few questions; to all of answered peter, “only that i could not which he responded so satisfactorily and afford to pay for so large a quantity, and withal so meekly, that i forthwith ufrer- indeed i never was in better trim, for l ed him a small vacant room in my lodg- am as hungry as a hawk.” “never ings, for the trifie of half a crown per mind the expence," said the teller of the week. first eating-iciracle, “i will pay for you this accommodation he gladly ac- myself." - but in case i should fail?" cepted, and home we went together. said peter. “no matter," answered i must here inform my readers, that the other, “i will pay all." "then i am an author hy profession, and that, order five pounds and a half,” cried pe- by contriving to fill up four reams of ter, “ for i am as sure of finishing it, as foolscap per annum, i am enabled to if it was already lodged in my stomach.” support a decent appearance in one of hereupon the bell was rung, the meat the genteelest courts in london. my and porter ordered, and peter's patron wife is accounted uncommonly beautiful; instantly involved in bcts to the amount and indeed, before peter was well seated, of several guineas. at length in came i perceived his eyes fasten on her face the beef steaks, smoking hot. peter sat with all the ardor (as he has since told down, tucked up his sleeves, settled him- me) of an unsophisticated delight at self steadily in his chair, and thrust into contemplating the moral effects which his mouth at the first onset such a pro- may be deduced from a lovely superfi- digious wedge, that his patron instan- cies, typical of that internal and immut- faneously offered to double bets; while able perfection, which results from the the sceptics, with elongated faces, re- eternal fitness of things. to be sure, .) a cockney pastoral, cum notis variorum. i could never comprehend precisely what ( ) purfleet-a place dlear to metro. he meant by this explanation ; but he politan writers, on account of its chalk told me the thing was quite clear; and pits, which render that article cheap. he had such a way with him, that he ( ) a place where birch trees are used regularly to leave me dumb-foun- stripped of their leaves ! but the poet dered. while we were both consulting is an admirer of verdant branches before what line of life he ought to adopt, he they are severed from their parent stem. happened to take up a book of steno- ( ) this may either be a glass of graphy; and when i explained the nature wine, or beer, or a spy glass. of it, and observed that by means of it he ( ) if this is not intended for leigh might get a situation in the newspapers, roads, some miles down the river below and hear all the speeches in parliament, purfleet, what leigh can it be? he determined to make himself master ( ) this has been read “ goose sip- thereof forthwith. ping"-- but who ever saw a goose sip. (to be continued.) ping tea? besides, the goose comes in a few lines below. a cockney pastoral, cum notis ( ) it is a high hill in the first line; bat variorum. poets can make things little, and of some high' hampstead! how thy swelling? hill things nothing at all. becomes a pretty purlingi rill! ( ; “ parturiunt montes !" vide line where the retiring) cockney sees . hampstead has been prolific. his portrait, 'neath the leafy trees; ( ) "tis pity the poet cannot fill his the verdant leaves of spring's young power, tea-kettle at helicon or aganippe. but brown amidst the autumnal shower.) ( ) “ fons, mons, pons," &c., vide thy op'ning prospects can't be narrow, farnaby. that spread from purtleet up to harrow; or with a glasg'we peep at leigh,'* ( ) in ireland fields are called “ town whilst sipping op gossipping tea. parks." thy little hillis is sure a mountain ! ( ) modern reformers ought to allow each turbid ,ondis a chrystal fountain'!! their geese to continue so. "twas the each field a park-!--each goosezi a swan! cackling of geese that saved the capitoi. to slip-shod mouse at early dawn : ( ) between a slip-shod muse, and and though we have no trout or salmon, musing slip-shod, there is perhaps no es- here, sential difference. t'here's a kettle of fish for an examiner !< ( ) those who run may read. those notes. who look for fish may find a kettle full. ( ) a sublime pastoral ought to begin those who preach up reform may find characteristically -- high is part of the themselves caught in the storm of revo- sublime. lution, and fall victims to their own ( ) this expression does not positively trade! mean that the hill grows larger; but, being a cockney hill, it is allowed to cut a swell. original letter op m. g. lewis, esq. ( ) sublimity is always obscure. some in defence of “ the monk." people may suppose that, like ovid's me mr. editor, tamorphoses, the hill actually becomes a ilaving lately seen some very se- rill, when the fact is that the rill becomes vere remarks in a daily paper,* on the a hill, or ornaments it. first celebrated production of the late ( ) an hibernian critic observes, that mr. m. g. lewis, i could not help think- purl in rilis may be seen on a sunday ing, that, as but too generally happens, evening near 'the spaniards and jack the writer was determined to see the straw's castle. evil, without appreciating the moral ten- ( ) does this mean a cockney who dency proposed by the author, in that tires you, and again tires you ? singular publication. without any wish ( ) the allusion to narcissus is classi- to make the columps of your truly cal, and in point. valuable miscellany a vehicle for literary ( ) if the trees are evergreen, this controversy, or attempting to defend any epithet will keep good for the winter. thing that may be calculated to weaken ( ) the allusions to foliage are pretty. our sense of moral duty, i feel confident ( ) shower-of what? an angry critic that your impartiality will induce you asks.-their own shower certainly to give the following copy of an au- ( ) the poet says nothing of its length; but, perhaps, it is just as broad * the strictures alluded to appeared in as it is long. - the courier. letter of m. g. lewis, esq. in defence of “ the monk.” [march , thentic letter, from mr. l. to his fa- words carelessly chosen ; not on the senti- ther, a place in the new monthly : by ments, characters, or general tendency of which the public, who have, in a con- the work. that the latter is undeserving censure, siderable degree, formed their judgment addison will vouch for me: the moral and from external influence, will now have outline of my story are taken from an alle- an opportunity of hearing the author's gory inserted by him in “ the guardian," own explanations; and these bear so and which he commends highly, for ability much the evidence of sincerity, that i of invention and propriety of object. un- have no doubt of their greatly mitigating luckily, in working it up, i thought, that the rigours of criticism, if they do not en- the stronger my colours, the more effect tirely remove the charge of evil intention. would my picture produce; and it never should mr. l. who has contributed to struck me, that the exhibition of vice in her the amusement of his country in so temporary triumph, might possibly do as many highly agreeable works, produce much harm, as her final exposure and po- to do much the latter effect on the mind of your nishment would do good. good, indeed, was more than i expected of readers, a great point will have been my book; having always believed that our achieved; and, under the most unfa- conduct depends on our own hearts and vourable construction of his sentiments, characters, not upon the books we read, or none can deny his having realized the the sentiments we hear. but though i did maxim of an acute judge of human na. not expect much benefit to arise from the ture, who declares, that “error does perusal of a trilling romance, written by a not become a crime until it is persisted youth of twenty ; i was in my own miud quite in :" but, if we cannot repeat with the certain, that no harm could be produced by roman moralist, de mortuis nihil nisi a work, whose subject was furnished by one bonum, let us at least do justice to the of our best moralists, and in the composition author, by suffering him to speak for of which i did not introduce a single inci. himself:--- dent, or a single character, without mean- ing to inculcate some maxim universally my dear father, feb. , . allowed. it was, then, with infinite surprize, that i heard the outcry raised against the though certain, that the clamours book, and found, that a few ill-judged and raised against the monk' capnot have unguarded passages totally obscured its ge. given you the smallest doubt of the recti- peral tendency. tude of my intentions, or the purity of my to support the charge of irreligion a sin- principles; yet, i am conscious, that it must gle one only has, or can be produced. i have grieved you to find any doubts on the am heartily sorry that this passage was ever subject existing in the minds of other people. published: but i must say that i have been to express my sorrow for having given you very unfairly treated respecting it. those pain, is my motive for now addressing you, who have made it the subject of public and also to assure you, that you shall not censure, have, uniformly, omitted such parts feel that pain a second time on my ac- as would have palliated those offensive count. having made you feel it at all, expressions. those expressions, certainly, would be a sufficient reason, had l no are much too strong, and i now see that others, to make me regret having pub- their style is irreverent; but it was not in- lished the first editions of the monk;' buttended to he such, nor was the passage i have others, weaker indeed, than the one meant to counsel any more, than that the mentioned, but still sufficiently strong. i bible should not be read before a certain perceive that i have put too much confidence age, when its perusers would be capable of in the accuracy of my own judgment; that, benefitting by its precepts and admiring its convinced of my object's being unexcep- beauties. it also suggested the propriety tjonable, i did not sufficiently examine of not putting certain passages before the whether the means by which i attained that eyes of very young persons. this advice object were generally so; and that, upon was induced to give from experience ; for i many accounts, i have to accuse myself of know, that school-boys do not (neither, if high imprudence. let me, however, oh- my informers may be credited, do school- serve, that twenty is not the age at which girls) always read particular chapters of the prudence is most to be expected; inexpe- bible for the purpose of edification. in rience prevented my distinguishing what stating this, i thought, by representing it in would give oflence; but, as soon as i found the hands of the most virtuous of my cha- that offence was given, i made the only re- racters, and given her by her mother, a parative in my power ; i carefully revised woman pious and sensible, i had guarded the work, and expunged every syllable, on against the idea of attacking the bible: which could be grounded the slightest con- my precaution was ineffectual : i have struction of immorality. this indeed was git given offence; i am sorry for having given rio difficult task; for the objections rested it. i have omitted the passage, and can entirely on expressions too strong, and now do no more than say, that neither in $ .] observations on the “ annals of the fine arts." this, or any other part of “the monk," otherwise. its slow sale and discou. had i the slightest idea that what i was then ragements are proofs of good sense and writing could injure the principles, moral good taste in the public. we know of or religious, of any human being. since no class in society, which can have an this work i have published others : taught interest in encouraging a publication by experience, i have avoided the insertion that, with an anti-british spirit, has ofauy word that could possibly admit of mis- stigmatized the leading artists of eng- representation : as their propriety has not land, and of course the whole body, as been questioned, i trust that i have succeed- ed in the attempt, and i do not despair of a mass of “ imbecility;" (no. viii. some time or other convincing my cen- p. ,) which has attempted to blacken surers, that they have totally mistaken both the character of “ the institution," (the me and my principles. those principles i british) and the royal academy; (vol. ij. deed not justify to you, my dear father: p. , ,) and to excite jealousies and deed only again request your pardon for the dissensions between those two dignified uneasiness which this business has given bodies in a variety of instances. who you, and beg you to believe me your most can wish success to those pages, which, affectionate son, m. g. lew ." with a daring impietv. have scoffed at a such, mr. editor, is the defence and reverence for the sacred writings (vol. ii. apology of mr. lewis; and when the p. ;) and, with a blasphemous sneer, tenor of all his subsequent writings is introduced the works of liachiavelli, as impartially considered, it is scarcely pos- a fine stroke of humour, lettered on the sible to doubt the amiable sincerity back with the title of the “ bible," which dictated the foregoing communi- throwing out a profligate inucndo, that cation. both his friends and enemies, revealed religion is only an outside cover, if he can have any, must be gratified to or political cloak for knavery and hypo- hear, that by a well-timed application of crisy (no. viii. p. .)-such a publica- those materials furnished by the personal tion, if eren conducted with talent, bistory of mr. l.'s life, it is fully in the could make but little way in this coun- power of his relatives to produce the try; where it must be condemned by conviction (almost prophetically antici- the mapliness, the moral and religious pated towards the close of his letter,) on sense of a thinking people. its pages the minds of mr. li's less indulgent display, with an unappeasable anti- judges, i am, &c. . b. british malignity against british genius, an inexhaustible meanness and servility: and with the lowest state of duplicity and observations on the “ annals of cunning, a never-failing stock of effron- the pine arts." tery, falsehood, and pufting. it must be the first pumber of this quarterly owned that such a work, from its on- publication appeared sometime in the set, had no common claims upon public autumn of , and comprehended, we contempt and oblivion. from its title believe, the three or four preceding and the professions of a zeal for the in, months. as to dates, our volumes are terests of british art, with which it not very clear. ifits talentless dullness commenced, we should have expected to were accompanied by even the appeare find it a faithful and impartial record of ance of a good intention, the smallest the proceedings of the british school; sense of truth, or any sense of shame, and if not an able, at least an honest and for detected falsehood, we should have earnest advocate in behalf of british passed its narrow views and utter igno. genius. the preface, which is the in. rance of even the common rudiments of iroduction in other works, is in the first the english language in silence, and volume, the second article being preced- have left it to struggle on in merited ob- ed or prefaced by three introductory scurity, without a line of notice in our pages, in which, with an affected protes pages. the fellow-labourers, who sign tation of humility, the anti-british party “ed." and use the plural style of “ le,” state their pretensions :-" the first inform us, that “ the academicians pre- number of annals of the fine arts' tend never to have heard of “ the an- is now presented, as an humble candidate nals" when it is spoken of to them," &c. for public patronage, soliciting that sup- (p. , no. xi.-a. f.a.) from this port which the goodness of its inten. we may suspect that the academicians tions, rather than the ostentation of its mention it as a work of scanty circula- merits, would deserve." they have, tion, and rarely to be met with. we therefore, rested their claims upon “tbe should indeed be surprised if it were goodness of their intentions, and by observations on the “ annals of the fine arts.” [march , the test which they have themselves pro- corery, that the artist is not only making posed, we shall now try them! progress, with his pictures, but painting first, however, we shall show, by them at the same time! " the design their gross ignorance of the common and execution of this medal, which can- rules of english grammar, that these il nut but be excellent, or it would not literate impostors, who, under the pre- have been adopted by the president text of acting as directors of public taste, for this important record of gratitude have employed the press for the purpose to his patrons, is by mr. mills," &c.; (vol. of puffing and calumny, ought to go to i. p. .) “here is sharpness and soft. school to acquire soine acquaintance ness, and all the characteristics" &c.; with their vernacular tongue.-" the (vol. i. p. .) “and the effect of the expression of the countenances of the mirrors and cut-glass chandeliers in mr. actors are tame and uninteresting, and wild's drawings, ure proofs" &c.; (vol. not in unison with the action." (vol. i. i. p. .) “ for which we suspect mr. .) “ your snecrs and ridicule of men daniell's knowledge of oriental manners who set out with a professed determina- and customs have not been consulted tion to disregard the means of the art, in vain," &c. (vol. i. p. .); “ the high all those grand, severe gentlemen, who priest, attended by his levites, and sol. thought they were as great as michael . diers, form a fine group," (vol. i. p. angelo, when they coloured like mud, .); for the high priest, his levites or left an outline like iron,' is on the and soldiers form, ' &c. “wanting some. soundest principles;" &c.; (vol. i. p. what of that colour and contrast of light .) “ and that in it is to be found the and shade, which is so much sought warm tints of titian! the colder chas- after," &c. (vol. i. p. .); “ his other tity of guido !! the mild radiance of best picture of the disgrace of wolsey," correggio !!! and the harmonious com- (vol. i. p. .) here these philological binations of rubens !!!!" (vol. i. p. .) conjurors have made tro best pictures “ but the intrinsic merits of this picture, of cardinal wolsey! and, to render the truth, accuracy and beauty with their work more miraculous, have made which mr. cooper has represented this them out of the only one, which the well-proportioned hacknei, and the ex- artist bad painted of the subject! "a quisite manner in which mr. scott bas well-merited compliment and transcrip- treated the engraving, renders it a tion (here the act of copying is used for striking exception ;" &c. (vol. i. p. . the transcript or copy,) of the above " "let the members' (of the academy) epitaph is recorded" &c. (vol. i. p. .); coolly consider,'continues the authors," "and show how far the manual dex- (vol. i. p. .) “even the swallow terity, colouring, and proper finishing, twittering from the straw-built shed,' or is gaining ground in (for among or with) (with cunningham) •darting through our rising race of artists." (vol. i. p. .) the one-arched bridge,' were not consi- “ the many excellencies of this charming dered too trifling for the embellish- picture, places it among," &c. (vol. i. p. ment of his works." (vol. i. p. .) .) “the chiaro scuro, drawing, ar- “ two of them he presumed to be une rangement of colour, and perfection of qualled, and would oppose them to any this picture, as a whole, renders it" &c. thing he knew in art, which is the river (vol. i. p. .) “a lady and child is god and the theseus," (vol, i. p. .) receiving" &c. (vol. i. p. .) "an “ to the right are the neat-herd, with anxious mother with a dying child are his wife and daughter," &c. (vol. i. on the left hand side of the picture," p. .) “the grief of the attendants, (vol. i. p. .) “the resurrection of the humane feelings of the cardinal christ, represented with greater bustle archbishop in his hard task of duty to and more figures than is usual in this the sovereign council ; and indeed the subject." (vol. i. p. .) “'the hands whole picture, accords, in a degree of and face appear as vital !!! as if painted pathos," &c. (vol. i. p. .) “on the with real flesh.” (rol. i. p. .) ano- table is a small greek plato, luther, and ther sublime discovery. . according to another book," &c. (vol. i. p. .) this, real flesh must be an admirable re- “mr. sauerweid is also making progress hicle for painting with; otherwise the in his two pictures which he is painting boasted vitality of the hands and face is of the same glorious subject, for mr. “only leather and prunella." ** the clay, which is also to be engraved," &c. accessories, particularly the shawl and (vol. i. p. .) in the above this eru- flowers, are uncommonly well managed, dite writer has made the wonderful dis and produces a work of uncommon merit," observations on the “annals of the fine arts." (vol. i. p. .) “her character and namely, that there existed, some cishi expression is delightfully tender and or nine ycars ago, a doubtful question, maternal," (vol. i. p. .) “the in this country, whether painters pos. verisimilitude of nature, both in co- sessed the capability to write their lour, chiaro-scuro and character, have thoughts !!! a foreigner miget sup. been seldom better depicted," &c. (vol. pose from this passage, that no english i. p. .) “ the drawing, compo. painter had ever attempted to write be- sition and colouring, is in the first style fore mr. haydon; but, unluckily for of bistorical excellence." (vol. i. p. these charlatan critics, we cannot forget .) “it will contain a continuation that the richardsons, barry, rer. of aa historical account of the arts, from nolds, opie, shee, fuseli, north- the th century to the year ; with cote, tresham, hoppner, days, and the rise and progress of painting, sculp- other english painters, had written and ture, and architecture, through various published numerous volumes, before parts of the world, to its establish- eight or nine years ago, and some of ment in great britain," &c. (vol. i. them long enough before that period. p. .) “ that the first atientions of yet according to these profound classical the english government to the fine authorities in literature, and the fine arts, was during their administra- arts, we are to believe that the writings tion." (vol. i. p. .) “we feel plea- of the english artists just mentioned, sure in announcing that the library of and of all others, had not only not done the late mr. alexander, of the british any service, but had proved their own museum, sold at prices worthy of their incapacity, and produced a puzzling and excellence." (vol, i. p. .) doubtful question in england, as tu the we trust we have adduced sufficient capability of painters to write their instances, for the present, to prove the thoughts!!! in this state of ignorant effrontery and ignorance of these anti- uncertainty and darkness, the nobility, british empirics; who, without talents gentry, and people of england were or acquirements, a sense of truth or a plunged, until about eight or nine years respect for the sacred writings, have so ago, that is about , or ; and then, long prostituted the press to the base as this lying oracle runs, mr. haydon, purpose of calumniating living genius, at so young an age, by his uritings, set- exciting dissensions between the british tled for ever the question which those institution and royal academy, and de- illiterate dunces, the richardsons, grading the artists of their country in barry, reynolds, opie, shee, north- the opinion of foreign nations. with cote, fuseli, tresham, hoppner, and an ignorance of the ordinary rules of days, had raised !!! all this is certainly english grammar, which would disgrace very amazing ; but, unluckily, it is a the pupils of a village lingo, and an in- downright and notorious falsehood : capacity for writing in the commonest for until this impudent quackery ap. forms, without false concords and the peared in the liher falsitatis, no one meanest jargon, they have carried on ever heard of it before, and the facts the trade of defamation, under the pre- are directly the reverse of this puffing text of directing the public taste in invention. without going farther, the literature, the fine arts, and the drama! writings of sir joshua reynolds have these are the sovereign judges of fine been translated into several layguages, writing, the arbitrary critics, who de- and printed and circulated in numerous cide on the fame of the living and dead! editions upon the continent. in the we shall now give an instance of their life-time of that great man, “ some years critical acumen :-“ mr. haydon has, after the publication of the first seven by his writings at so young an age, set- of the discourses, the author had the tled for ever the question, as to the capa- honour to receive from the late em- bility of painters to write their thoughts; press of russia, a gold box, with a basso which every one must recollect was so relievo of her imperial majesty in the prevalent eight or nine years ago; and lid, set round with diamonds; accompa-, he has therefore raised the charac- nied by a note within, written in her ter, of artists in the scale of intel- own hand, containing these words lect." (no. viii. p. , a. f. a.) here “ pour le chevalier reynolds, en te we are let into a miraculous secret; a moignage du contentment que j'airessen- matter, which no one ever read or heard tie à ta lecture de ses errellens discours of before it appeared in the veritable sur la peinturé." (works of reynolds, pages of these quacks: and yet, which vol. i. p. .) beside the above facts, they assert, every one must recollect: there have been three editions of shee's new monthly mag.no. . vol. xi. t [march , observations on the « annals of the fine arts.” rhymes on art, published in america. that one line written by an artist, doe's but all the writings of our english inore good to public taste than huge painters, before eight or nine years volumes written by technical amateurs," ago, prove nothing to those disappointed yet after all this heavy souse of cold candidates for admiss on into the royal water upon the stupid amateurs of academy. according to their candid england, who, of course, must be ut- judgment, all our former artists wrote terly ignorant of the arts, we find the in ignorance and incapacity; and the same formidable judges, in the preceding same grave' authorities, who have thus extracts, decidedly of opinion that all sought to dishonour and defame the the english painters, and all other illustrious first president in his tomb, painters, wrote in darkness, and pro- have, also, sought to blast the moral duced a doubt of the capability of paint- and professional character of the presenters to write their thoughts, before the venerable president, west, by indirectly appearance of the elgin marbles. from representing him, in effect, and by inu- thence, in the following question, we are endo, as a man who, with duplicity led to the brilliant sun, whose beams and envious malevolence, had been in we are to understand, enlightened all the base practice of covertly employ our benighted faculties. "was he ing writers and the press, to knock (haydon) not the first to affirm the every body living on the heart; that is, to ercellence of the elgin marbles ?" (no. blacken and vilify every living artist. ix. p. .) so that, according to (p. , , no. viii.) they exbibit his these anti-british and empirical false- painting-room in the same indirect man- hoods, the people of england were ner, as a slaughter-house of professional plunged in such a night of barbarism, reputation, (lb.) and gravely assure the at the commencement of the nineteenth world, in proof of their good intentions, century, that it is to be feared the di- that west is not a great artist (no. vij. rine works of the immortal phidias, p. , a. f. a.); that he is refined in addressed to the eye and the mind of nothing (ib.); and that “our leading mankind, would have remained unap- artists" are, in the vulgar slang phrase preciated and misunderstood, if mr. of “one and all," a mass of “ imbeci- haydon had not, by his writings, given lity." (ib. .) really, this is giving the nation artists, amateurs, shopkeepers, the artists of england “a lift in the and all, a gratuitous lift in the scale of scale of intellect," with a vengeance; intellect, and opened our eyes to their and such a lift as those simpletons, the beauties! in point of fact, this is ano- richardsons, barry, reynolds, opie, ther audacious falsehood; for the vener- shee, fuseli, hoppner, northcote, days able west affirmed the excellence of and tresham, nerer dreamed of giving the elgin marbles in the presence of the them! bishop of durham, within a fortnight again we find them repeat the same or three weeks after the cases were anti-british attempt to rob england of opened in park lane ; and he began to the honour of her artists, under a dif- draw from them immediately, at that ferent form of words_“sir joshua rey- time, (in ) being almost nearly two nolds knew very little of the antique, years before haydon saw them; which his mind was not qualified to understand he did not until after he had begun his it: in short, it is quite astonishing, even dentatus, in . in winkleman, to see how all men we do not mean, in imitation of those wrote in the dark about the genius anti-british impostors, to convert the of the ancients, before the appearance elgin marbles into a means of disgracing of the elgin marbles." (no. xi. p. , the british character, by falsely assign- a. f. a.) as the despicable quacks, ing to any one artist or amateur, an from whom we have quoted, would exclusive claim to the discovery or first convert a reverence for the bible into a affirmation of their excellence in this scoff and personal obloquy; so there country. spon, wheler and noin- are others, who would make use of our tel, between the years and , admiration of the elgin marbles, as a and the concurring testimony of artists means of defaming the dead and the and amateurs, who have visited greeoe living, and dishonouring the genius of since their time, had made known their their country. thus, (in page , no. beauties to europe long before a thought viii.) they obliquely interdict the nobi- existed of our ever being their possessor. lity, gentry, and all literary men, from a reference to the report of the so- giving a written opinion on the fine arts, lect committee of the house of com- by declaring"we are quite convinced, mons, (p. ) will shew, that it is to .) on the custom of saluting people when they sneeze. mr. harrison, the architect, of chester, tion, the interests of truth, and the england is indebted for those invaluable character of the whole body of the remains. the earl of elgin candidly british artists, call upon every independ- stated, that in , that gentleman ent thinker to explode the gross impos- first suggested to him the idea of ob- ture, which, with an uublushing effron- taining those marbles for this country. tery, would make all england appear it was a sense of their exquisite beauty, tasteless, and barbarously ignorant in which impelled bis lordship to devote the arts, to give an anti-british, disho- so much time and expense to their ac- nest, and mountebank celebrity to one. quisition. the arrival of the vessel, such is the entire and palpable drift of which contained the first part of them, this vulgar and despicable publication. in an english port, occasioned an enthu. its impious attempts to convert a reve- siastic sensation among the artists and reace for revealed religion into a source lovers of the fine arts. and after the of personal contempt and derision; to opening of the cases, at lord elgin's defame and degrade the royal academy, house in park lane, in , before the british school of science, in re- mr. haydon was taken to view them, in venge for an unsuccessful canvass to ob. , among the number of painters, tain admission into that body; to ca. sculptors, and amateurs, who crowded lumniate the (british) institution, as to see thein, there was only one person, crushers and calumniators of native ge- a distinguished amateur, who expressed nius! and write down the whole of our a doubt of their excellence. lord el. artists under the scornful description of gin's statement attests this notoriousfact, “the amiable profession," in order to which is in direct contradiction of the gratify the passions of one professional impudent falsehood that mr. haydon, individual, have now received a nerited who did not see the elgin marbles until chastisement: and shall be looked to , was the first to affirin their excel- hereafter. w.c. lence. the honour of the british na- the cabinet. on the custom op saluting people to promote a spirit of inquiry, and to when they sneeze. exercise the investigating powers of the religione patrum multos servata per annos. mind in its search for truth, is useful. virg. Æn. ii. . one of the most singular of these tri- it is by no means an uninteresting fling forms, which are in daily use among pursuit, to examine into the causes which us, and which we mechanically employ, have given birth to various customs almost without knowing its meaning, is existing, at the present day, among ci- the practice of saluting people when vilized nations, which excite the atten- they sneeze. this custom is generally . tion of the curious, but are become so believed to have originated during the familiar, from constant habit, to the regency of brunehaut, in france, and generality of men, that they seldom the pontificate of gregory the great. trouble themselves to inquire into the it is pretended, that at this time (a. d. sources from whence they sprung. it , there was a malignity in the air, is thought quite sufficient, by many, to contagious in its nature, that who- know that these practices exist-the ever was unfortunate enough to sneeze, cause of their existence is a matter of expired on the spot: and that, on this perfect indifference. but the mind of account, gregory ordered all good the philosopher is not satisfied with this. christians to offer up prayers, accom- he seldom dismisses any thing from his panied with vows, for the purpose of observation without informing himself averting these evil effects. but this of its nature,' and tracing it, if possible, seems evidently to be a fable, formed to its origin. now there are many cus- against all rules of probability. toms and habits among us, which are in we find the following account in themselves trilling and unimportant; grose's olio: but which, when investigated, frequently the rabbis say, that, after the give rise to many curious and interesting creation, god made a general law, by discoveries. we do not, however, con- which it was ordained that every living tend, that we should derive any rery man should sneeze but once, and that, important knowledge from such studies; at the very moment he sneezed, he but, generally speaking, whatever tends should resign his soul to the lord, with [march , red snow. out any previous indisposition. jacob, ad quem motum eumolpus conversus, by no means pleased with this abrupt saldere gitona jubet." method of quitting the world, and being a nd apuleius says : “ pone tergum desirous of settling his affairs previous ejus maritus acceperat sonum sternuta- to his departure, humbled himself before tionis, quod cum putaret ab eâ profectum, the lord, and urgently requested the solito sermone sulutem ei fuerut impre- favor of being exempted from the gene- cutus, et iterato rursum et frequenter, ral rule. he obtained his wish-he sæpius." speezed, and did not die. all the aristotle and hippocrates speak of princes of the earth being informed of sneezing as a sign of health :- the fact, unanimously ordained, that in “sternutamentum esse cerebri motum future every person who sneezed should expellentis supervacaneum humorem ad- offer up prayers for the preservation of jumento aeris per nares attracti.” and his life." the former adds, that on this account- so much for rabbinical fables: - “ evye ws onpielov vytebas t ugeuse xai ilg® tet! but the most curious and rational τοπε προσκυνεσιν, ως ιερον και φημην αγαθην dissertation on this subject, occurs in topvt ." stiada, praelectiones, lib. iii. præl. ; jan. . w.k. where, in his “ pistor suburranus," he red snow. treats the matter at large. he ridicules the discovery of red snow, though the idea of this custom baving originated. extremely curious, is not altogether new, in the time of gregory, and traces it up as will be perceived from the following to a much earlier period, quoting apun passage, which is extracted, literally, from leius. petronious arbiter, pliny, and the ist vol. of les merveilles et beautés even aristotle. after giving instances de la nature en france, by m. dep- from the two first authors, he goes on: ping. the only difference which appears -" videtis, auditores, salutem ster- to exist between the snow discovered nuentibus imploratam quinque ferme by capt. ross in the arctic regions, sæculis ante gregorium. . plige. tibe and the snow found in europe, alluded rius imperator, tristissimus hominum, ut to in the following extract, is, that the ait plinius, et qui religiosis hisce officiis snow of the frozen regions is of a very minime capiebatur, nonne dum vehebatur deep colour, at least if we may rely on curru per urbem, sternuenti honorem the statements of the public papers, habebat ipse, sibique ab aliis exigebat? whilst the other is only slightly tinged perge adhuc supra tiberii ætatem. with light red. it is of little consequence aristoteles (videie, obsecro, rhetores, whether this difference arises from the quantum vos ego a gregorii tempestate colouring matter being more abundant rerioream, atque in ultimâ pene anti- in the former than in the latter, or quitate reponam,) dum naturæ causas whether the two colours are produced in problematum quæstionibus investigat, by different substances. if the snow merito ait homines venerari sternuta- bronght by capt. ross derives its hue, mentum, et bene sternuentibus augurari; as is supposed, from the excrement of pâque super re populariter inquisit myriads of birds, all doubt is removed; multa, sapienterque definit." but there is every reason to beliere, he gives us also an epigram, taken that, on the mountains of europe, the from one of the minor greek poets red colour of the snow proceeds from (florillus) to prove the antiquity of this another cause. the extract from m. custoin: depping's work is as follows:-- “red snow is sometimes found on Ου δυναται τη χειρι Προκλος την ριν' απομυσσειν, very high mountains during great thaws. tns povos y chop exet the xo pee peixgotigny. saussure has observed it on the alps, oude heysi, zsu cwt , ey paga, e pae ax and m. raymond on the pyrenees, at tn; geros, toru yuz tm axong attexel. the height of from to , yards. poor proclus tries in vain to blow his nose, it is only during the spring season, that so far beyond his utmost reach it grows; the furrows traced by the melted ice on nor can he sneeze, “god bless me!' does the snow are tinged with a light shade of he cry, pink. this shade becomes darker in the distant sounds his listening ears parts where there is a junction of several defy. furrows, and it even deepens to the tone the words of petronius are: “ dum of carmine, where numerous springs had hæc ego jam credenti persuadeo, giton, dislodged the powder by which the co- conlectione spiritus plenus, ter continuo ita sternutavit, ut grabatum concuteret: “memoirs of the institute of france, physical and mathematical section." .] quaintness of expression-scotticisms clerical wit. lour is produced. saussure was at a scotchman to command a west india- loss how to account for this phenome- man, and heard with indignation that non; he, however, supposed it to pro- capt. c. insisted to have her fitted out ceed froin the seminal powder of certain with guns. they mutually expostulated plants peculiar to high mountains; but on the subject. the respectable, con- m. raymond attributes it with more scientious owner would not permit so probability to the mica, which abounds flagrant a deviation from his pacific te- among the alps and pyrenees, and nets. the brave seaman would not go which, being probably reduced to pow. a voyage in time of war without means der during the melting of the snow and to repel an enemy. at length the cale- ice, colours the water by which it is donian said :- wasbed away.” a. “ there is but one way to end this quaintness op expression. debate. suit (pronounced shoot) your- it is difficult to define precisely what self, and i shall suit myself in half an ve mean by the common term, “ quaint- hour." ness of expression." it probably implies the quaker shocked by such a mea- great simplicity of thought and lan- sure hastened to the counting-house of guage, with a certain dryness which mr d. who had recommended capt. c. is humourous from the perfect gravity “ friend!" said he, “the person thou and good faith in which the thought is hast spoken of so highly is a savagc, a given, and the absence of all intention madman. because i would not consent to to excite ludicrous ideas. it is, in some equip the neptune with guns, he bade respects, synonymous with the french me shoot myself, and he will shoot him- naireté. the following sentence, for self in half an hour.” instance, alluding to poetical physicians when mr. d. could command the is quaint. risible propensity, he explained the pro- • such physicians as i have marked to be nunciation in frequent use north of the good practitioners, do all piddle somewhat tweed; and he assured mr. - that in the art of versitying, and raise up their capt. c. had the interest of his em- contemplation very high-and their verses ployers in view by making a point of are not of any rare excellencie.” being enabled to defend their property. english translation of huarte's thus the difference was amicably set- examen de ingenio. tled. in the poem of psyche, or love's clerical wit. mystery, by dr. j. beaumont, we have the facetious watty morison, as lic an example of quaintness of poetical ex- was commonly called, was intreating the pression, in the description which commanding officer of a regiment at aphrodisius gives of the court paid to fort george to pardon a poor fellow him, and the pretty messages sent him sent to the halberds. the officer grant- by the ladies. ed his petition, on condition that mr “ how many a pretty embassy have i morison should accord with the first fa- received from them, which put me to my vour he asked. the favour was to per- form the ceremony of baptism for a "how not to understand--but, by-and-by, young puppy. a merry party of gentle- some comment would come smiling after it, men were invited to the christening. but i had other thoughts to fill my head; mr. morison desired major - to books called me up-and books put me to hold up the dog. bed.” “aslam a minister of the kirk of the following ludicrous title to a col. scotland,” said mr. morison, “ i must lection of old poems, by george gas- proceed accordingly." coigne, has the appearance of being too major - said he asked no more. intentionally absurd to be called quaint: «well then, major, i begin by the " a hundred sundrie flowers bound up in usual question : you acknowledge your- one small posie, gathered partly by transla- self the father of this puppy ?" tion, in the fine and outlandish gardens of the major understood the joke, and euripides, ovid, petrarch, ariosto, and threw away the animal. thus mr. others, and partly by invention, out of our morison turned the laugh against the own fruitful gardens of england-yielding no ensnarer, who intended to deride a sa- sundrie sweet savours of tragical, comicali, and moral discourses, both pleasant and cred ordinance. profitable to the well-smelling noses of learn- on another occasion, a young officer ed readers." scoffed at the parade of study ta which scotticisms. clergymen assigned their right to remur a quaker of scarborough appointed a philosophical historian--intrepidity of a british sailor. [march , neration for labour, and he offered to artist, painted by order of pope inno- take a bet he would preach half an liour cent vii the four cardinal virtues, with upon any verse, or section of a verse, in their opposite vices. the pope not the old or new testament. mr. mori- rewarding him as he expected, he said, son took the bet, and pointed out, and “ holy father, shall i paint one more the ass opened his mouth and he spoke. vice, called ingratitude " “yes," an- the officer declined employing his elo- swered the pope, “ if you add another quence on that text. mr. morison won virtue, which is entitled patience. the wager, and silenced the scorner. anecdote of goldsmith. a philosophical historian. goldsmith was always plain in his it has been justly observed that se appearance; but when a boy, and inn- veral modern historians who have pre- mediately after suffering heavily from tended to write in a philosophical spirit, the small pox, he was particularly ugly. have been very indifferent as to the truth when he was about seven years old, a or falsehood of the facts on which their fiddler who reckoned himself a wit, hap- philosophy rested. the celebrated pened to be playing to some company abbé ragnal was a writer of this class, in mrs. goldsmith's house. during a as appears from the following anecdote: pause between two sets of country - towards the end of the year , dances, little oliver suprised the party the abbé raynal calling one evening on by jumping up suddenly and dancing dr. franklin at his lodgings in paris, round the room. struck with the found, in company with the doctor, grotesque appearance of the ill-favoured their common friend silas deane. “ ah! child, the fiddler exclaimed “ Æsop," monsieur l'abbé,"said deane,“ we were and the company burst into laughter; just talking of you and your works. do when oliver turned to them with a you know that you have been very ill smile, and repeated the following cou- served by some of those people who plet:- have undertaken to give you information - heralds, proclaim aloud, all saying, on american affairs?" the abbé re. “see Æsop dancing, and his monkey play- sisted this attack with some warmth; ing." and deane supported it by citing a va- intrepidity of a british sailor. riety of passages from raynal's works, the high born, liberally educated, and which he alleged to be incorrect. at elegantly polished classes afford a very last they came to the anecdote of polly doubtful criterion of a national charac- baker, on which the abbé had displayed ter, as refinement introduces a similarity a great deal of pathos and sentiment. of habits, and, it may be added, that oc- “ now, here," says deane, " is a tale in casions for displaying the discriininating which there is not one word of truth." shades seldom óccur. it is in the hum- raypal fired at this, and asserted he had bler walks of life we must seek for the taken it from an authentic memoir re- genuine disposition of a people. sailors, ceived from america. franklin who more especially, are least tinctured by had amused himself hitherto with listen- l'esprit de societié, and volumes might be ing to the dispute of his friends, at filled with authenticated records of the length interposed. “my dear abbé," hunanity, the disinterested greatness of said he, “shall i tell you the truth?- mind, inartificially exhibited by british when i was a young man, and rather tars. as your miscellany is so exten- more thoughtless than is becoming at sively circulated on the continent, per- our present time of life, i was employed mit me to observe, that anecdotes of our in writing for a newspaper; and, as it scamen would be highly gratifying to sometimes happened that i wanted ge- britons residing in foreign parts; and i nuine materials to fill up my page, i believe the following is little known, occasionally drew on the stores of my though it deserves universal attention, as imagination for a tale which might pass an evidence of undaunted intrepidity and current as a reality; now this very exalted gratitude for mild treatment, anecdote of polly baker was one of my when a prisoner, and manly religious inventions." “and upon my word," confidence.--the hero, daniel bryan, cried raynal, quitting at once the tone was a few years ago a pensioner in the of dispute for that of flattery, “i would royal hospital at greenwich ; when far much rather insert your fictions in my advanced in years, and captain of the works than the truths of many other foretop, he was turned over from the people."-such is the way in which blanche frigate to sir sidney smith's modern philosophers write history! ship, le tigre. during the siege of andrea martineti, a celebrated acre, he made frequent applications to .] original and select poetry. be employed on shore, but his age and my an advantage, by reducing the num- deafness were considered as insuperable ber of champions for old england, and disqualifications. at the first storming the junior tars slung and lowered him of the breach, one of the french gene- down, with his implements for action. rals was slain, among the multitudes of his first difficulty was to drive away the his countrymen, who were immolated to dogs. the french levelled their the mad ambition of napoleon. the pieces- they were ready to fire at the turks struck off the head of this officer, veteran, who, as he professed, went to and, after inhumanly mangling his body, bury the french general, because his threw it out to be devoured by dogs, countrymen had treated him well, when, bryan heard his messmates describe this years ago, their prisoner: but an of- horrid spectacle, and when any boat's ficer discerning bryan's friendly inten- crew returned from the shore, he often tions, threw himself across the file. the enquired if they had buried the french din of arms was instantaneously sus- general ? the answer he commonly re- pended ; and in the dead solemn'inter- ceived was _“go, and do it yourself."- val, our british seaman performed the daniel bryan reiterated his requests for rites of sepulture for a general of his leave to go and see the town; and, dress- foes. he made the signal, and was ed in his best clothes, went with the sur. hoisted into the town. geon in the jolly-boat. he procured a few days passed, and sir sidney pick-axe, a shovel and a rope, and insist. smith being informed of dan bryan's ed upon being let down from a port-hole achievement, ordered him into the close to the breach. some young mess- cabin. mates begged hard to share his danger, “well, dan, i hear you have buried for a slight circumstance enkindles the the french general? nobler and milder virtues that blend “yes, your honor." with invincible valour in the bosom of a “ had you any assistance ?" british sailor. bryan would not permit “yes, your honor." his young friends to risk their lives. he “i understood you had nobody with said, they were too far from old eng- land to get new supplies of hardy fel “ but i had, your honor." lows, and they must take care of them- “ah, who had you?" selves, as the honor of the british flag “god almighty, sir.” sat upon every single arm in their cou “ the very best assistant. give old rageous band. he would go alone-he dan a glass of grog." was old and deaf, and his loss would not dan drank to sir sidney's health, and be of any consequence. he was elo left the cabin much gratified. g. quent in the style best adapted for dis * see denon's account of the campaign suading his hearers from giving the ene- in egypt. you." original and select poetry. a widower's address to the spirit op when she, whose fond, maternal eye his dead child, written on the en- watched thy first, brightening hours of velopb to a lock of her hair. bliss, pledge of a love, as pure and deep fled to a world beyond the sky, and left us to the woes of this ; as ever thrilled in mortal breast! i would not, could i break thy sleep, i deemed not fate could have in store recall thee from the couch of rest, a future grief to touch me more. where thou art now in peace reclining, but soon, by dire experience taught, a stranger to the world's repining! i found that fantasy untrue; once more,—with added misery fraught, no ;-bright as was thy brief career the dark, death-dealing arrow flew; in this wild waste of storm and gloom, oh, god! my soul,--erewhile in sadness, and much as i have wished thee here that stroke had almost stung to madness! my soul's dark sorrows to illume, in loneliness i'd rather languish, the passions of that hour are past, than have thee partner in my anguish! and brokenly my heart lives on; besides, would even heaven allow tho' this will soothe me to the last whale'er betideto dwell upon : thy advent to this earth again; that boon to thee were cruel now; 'twere better far that thou shouldst be since human ills-a numerous train where now thou art, than here with me! would cross thee in thy path of life, yet looking on thy sun-bright tress, and stir thy young,sweet thoughts to strife! unlocks the source of dried up tears; . . or original and select poetry. [march , and thoughts intense and maddening, press and the heart that has roamed thro'a desert on my hot brain :- tho' hopes or fears, world to since thou, and thy sveet mother perished, hath never met aught in that world like have ne'er by me been telt or cherished ! me thee! blossom of love! yes, --on my mind my spirit may soar to the regions of light, strange and unusual feelings rush, and rest in the isles of some happy sea; · the flood-gates of my heart unbind but where in the brightest of worlds shall and bid its waters wildly gush, she meet as, gazing on these threads, i see another spirit as pure as thee. z. the all that now remains of thee! sweet baby mine, farewell — farewell ! a farewell to my lyre. vre i go to join the noisy throng; farewell, sweet companion in sorrow and but, in my soul's deep haunted cell, pleasure, thoughts that to thine and thee belong, from thy numbers, awhile, fate has shall ever bloom-as fresh and fair doomed me to part; as if they'd just been planted there. and i feel as the mourner deprived of his treasure, and oh! if tears of woe can nourish the all that to life could attach his fond the flowers of memory in the breast; heart then those in mine will surely flourish; for the world has entwined a dark wreath for and each succeeding hour invest my brow; their stems with charms unknown before, , till we three meet to part no more! i must join the vain crowd in its frenzied career ;- feb. , . and the thoughts that have softened-ard sadden me now lines addressed to a real cẢaracter. must,too soon,be exchanged for sensations less dear. gentle, manly, mild and brave, tho' no sunshine of fame light the gloom with graceful form and verbal cheek; bold as chief in danger's hour, of thy slumbers, soft as woman in sufferings meek ! tho' thy master regret thy wild music alone, the ireful clouds of stormy life when-his penance complete-he returns have o'er thee oft iheir shroudings drawn; to thy numbers, but thou wert a bright and peaceful star, hope whispers he'll find thee ennobled in sparkling thro' all,--and sailing on! tone. thou art a beautiful vision, seen and should our weak lays but create in the half thro’ the mist and half by the breast moon; where sincerity glows, a kind wish or a but the mist is gathering fast and foul, thought, and the lovelier light is fading soon. then thy tenderest chords have not vainly thou art a flower, on whose soft cup been prest, the shower of grief beats hard and nor the guerdon denied, i so earnestly chill; sought. but, thro' the dimness of its dews, boulogne, . arion. the tints of heaven are gleaming still. there is a smile in thy soft blue eye hymn to the omnipotent. whose light seems borrowed from a tear; lord of universal nature, and in its orh both joy and grief god of every living creature, seem ever mingled, or ever near. . light of morning--shade of even, king of ocean, earth and heaven, and joy so meek is akin to grief, whilst i prostrate bow before thee, and grief so chastened half is bliss ;- * teach my spirit to adore thee! and the cloudless light of a sun-like eye never boasted a blended charm like this. . soul of love--and source of pleasure, mine of every richer treasure, there's music in thy very sighs king of tempest,-storm, and shower, to chide the grief' it hall beguiles; ruler of each secret power, and the twilight shade of thy pensive brow whilst for favor i implore thee, is sweeter to me than a noon of smiles. teach my spirit to adore thee! thy fine toned heart,-like the harp of the spring of river,--lake, and fountain, piler of the rock and mountain, answers in sweetness each breeze that breath of animal creation, sings; life of varied vegetation, and the blast of grief-or the breath of joy, whilst i prostrate bow before thee, draws nothing but music from its strings. teach my spirit to adore thee! ... the bird that skimmed the shoreless deep first and last,-eternal being, saw but one ark where her rest might be; all pervading, and all sceing, : winds, .) original and select poetry. guile centre of divine perfection, like that frail plant whose shrinking leaves whence the planets learn subjection, betray whilst for favor i implore thee, the careless pressure of an idle hand- teach my spirit to adore thee! my heart, unschooled in guile, could ne'er oxford, june , . t. gillet. command its hectics of the moment:--let thy ray, sonnet to a beautiful little girl, then, thou sweet source of sorrow and de- aged five years, light, sweet opening bud of innocence, – thy beam on thy votary's soul with more a:- smile, tempered light! and the wild sparkle of thine eye, denote jan. . a. a. w. a bosom free from all corrosive thought ! oh! may'st thou ever thus dear babe be- sonnet. the ring returned. (fion the italia.] with frolic mirtli-thy future hours, and a oh, lady mine!* preserve unbroken, the tender ties of amity, life and i shall never need a token, be still to thee with magic wonders rife. to bid my soul remember thee! may heavenly virtue with her smiling what tho we have so seldom met, train, within thine infant breast her sway main- what tho' we ne'er may meet again,- thro' hours of woe, with fond regre!, tain; by cautious actions early guard thy ways, my bosom shall thy form retain.-- where tempting vice darts her too fasci. then lady mine, lake back the ring! nating rays. i want no pledge to make me blest;- some griefs--for they are human nature's no talisman--no spell to bring lot- feelings that cannot be represt; on this eventfal stage must be thy doom; since, whatsoe'er my future lot, but may they transient prove--and soon believe me thou'll be ne'er forgot! forgot- a. a. w. and years of joy succeed to momentary the pains of memory. gloom. when joy its fairest flowers haih shed boulogne, nov. . a. a. w. and e'en hope's blossoms too are dead; tho' memory thro' the cloud of woe sonnet to sensibility. a momentary gleam may throw; i always loved thee, sensibility! 'tis one of those sad rays of light, and, tho' thou oft hast served to work me which nocks awhile the mourner's sight. voe, then leaves his soul 'mid tenſold night: do love thee still.-nurtured beneath thine arion eye, for me the “ meanest, simplest flowers comparison. that blow," as the rose of the valley when dripping can raise up “ thoughts that lie too deep with dew, for tears." is the sweetest in odours, and fairest in hue; not all the joys the multitude can know so the glance of dear woman the brighter should e'er seduce my bosom to forego appears, thy sacred feelings !-- yet, from earliest when it beams, from her eloquent eye, thro' years- her tears! arion. midnight how gloomy and dim is the scowl of the 'tis night, and in darkness :—the visions of v heaven, whose azure the clouds with their dark- youth flit solemn and slow in the eye of the ness invest; mind; not a star o'er the shadowy concave is given, the hopes that excited have perished ;-and to omen, a something like hope in the breast. truth laments o'er the wreck they are leaving hark! how the lone night-wind uplosses behind.- the forest; 'tis midnight; and wide o'er the regions a downcast regret thro’ the mind slowly of riot steals : are spread, deep in silence, the wings of but ah ! 'tis the tempests of fortune, that sorest repose; and man soothed from revel and lulled into the desolate heart in its loneliness feels. quiet, forgets in his slumber the weight of his * "oh, lady mine?" sir p. sydney. -- woes. new monthly mac. -- no. . vol. xi. [march , original and select poetry. are cold: lip. where, where are the spirits in whom was the happy grateful spirit that improves, my trust; and brightens every gift by fortune whose bosoms with mutual affection did given; burn? that, wander where it will, with those it alas! they are gone to their homes in the loves, dust; makes every place a home, and home a the grass rustles drearily over their urd: heaven ;- whilst i, in a populous solitude languish, all these were his.-oh! thou who read'st 'mid foes who beset me, and friends who this stone, when for thyself,—thy children, the yes,--the pilgrim of earth oft bas felt in his sky anguish thou humbly prayest, ask this boon alone, that the heart may be widowed before it be that ye like him may live-like him may old ! die! affection can soothe but its votaries an october, . hour, the picture. doomed soon in the flames that it raised oh, what a sweet and animated grace to depart; but oh! disappointment has poison and plays round ihe mouth, and beams from those blue eyes power to rume and fret the most patient of ont of upon the cheek --the rose's faintest fiusb, so exquisitely tinged, appears to rise heart! how oft 'neath the dark-pointed arrows of with th and armouse of with the embodied thought, that from her mahce ilath merit been destined to bear and to seems hovering: on the forehead's snowy seems novering on the bore bleed; white, and they wno of pleasure have emptied the the dark and clustering ringlets richly chalice, ware, can' tell that the dregs are full bitter in careless elegance. -jost such a vision- sketched in the day-dream of the enthusi- indeed! ast's eye let the storms of adversity lower,--'tis in vain, might sport upon the sun-light, wing its tho' friends should forsake me and foes way should condemo; from fiower to flower, and breathe their these may kindle the breasts of the weak to soft perfume- complain and live upon their sweets. where is it they only can teach resignation to mine : now! for far o'er the regions of doubt and of this form of love-this being of earth's dreaming, mould the spirit beholds a less perishing span; is faded from the world--for ever gone!- and bright thro’ the tempest the rainbow is is it not sad to think, that ere that hour, streaming, sorrow, perchance, had chased away those the sign of forgiveness from maker to smiles, man! dulled the blue eye with tears—and from the cheek the following lines, from the pen of tho- washed the young rose, and made the mas moore, esq. are to be engrared on heavy heart the monument about to be erected to turn from this scene of agony-and pray, the memory of his late friend, joseph if peace dwell in the grave, to slumber alkinson, esq. of dublin. there. if ever lot was prosperously cast, - to* # if ever life was like the lengthened flow of some sweet music,-sweeiness to the (from the literary gazette.) thy kiss is sweet,-but cannot call last, .: 'twas his, who mourn'd by many, sleeps departed feelings from the dead; " below. thy smiles are ardent,-but they fall upon a heart so withered, the sunny temper,-bright where all is that all the quickening beams of love strife, must shied iilusive warmth in vain; the simple heart that mocks at worldly and tears as unavailing prove * wiles, to rear one shoot of hope again. light wit that plays along the calm of life, e, yes,--doubt me not--i loved thee well, and stirs its languid surface into smiles ;- . but never thought too well 'till now; pure charity that comes not in a shower, a gloom that thou cans't not dispel, sudden, and loud, oppressing what it a coldness thou cans't not subdue, feeds; comes o'er my bosoma's genial flow, but like the dew with gradual, silent power, fanning it with its hated wings . feit in the bloom it leaves along the oh! purest feelings, frozen, grow meads; hard as the ice of clearest springs. e.w. .)" capt. golownin's account of jupan. stanzas. can absence calm this feverish thrill? ah, no! for thou wilt haunt me still! while thou at even-tide art roaming, along the elm o'ershadowed walk, thy artless grace,-thy open truth, while past the eddying stream is foaming, thy form that breathes of love and youth ; and falling down,-a cataract; thy voice, by nature framed to suit where i to thee was wont to talk; the tones of love's enchanted lute; think thou upon the days gone by, thy dimpling cheek and deep blue eye, and heave a sigh! where tepder thought and feeling lie;- . when sails the moon above the mountains, thine eye-lid like the evening cloud and cloudless skies are purely blue, that comes the star of love to shroud ; and sparkle in the light of fountains, each witchery of soul and sense, and darker frowns the lonely yew; enshrined in angel innocence, then, be thou melancholy too; combined to frame the fatal spell when pausing on the hours i proved that blest-and broke my heart--parewell. with thee beloved! when wakes the dawn upon thy dwelling, and lingering shadows disappear; the last tear. as soft the woodland songs are swelling she had done weeping,---but her eyelash yet a choral anthem on thine ear; lay silken heavy on her lilied cheek, muse for that hour to thought is dear; and on its fringe a tear, like a lone star and then its flight remembrance wings shining above the rich and hyacinth skirts to by-past things. of the western clouds that veil the aprileve;- to me thro' every season dearest! the veil rose up and with it rose the star, glittering above the gleam of tender blue in every scene,-by day, by night, that widened as the shower clears off from thou present to my mind appearest heaven. a quenchless star, for ever bright,- her beauty woke ;-a sudden beam of son! my solitary, sole delight alone in wood-by shore or sea, flashed from her eye, and lit the vestal's cheek i think of thee! into one crimson,--and exhaled the tear! a parewell. maid of my heart-a long farewell ! from the arabic. the bark is launched, the billows swell, oh! ask me not-oh! task me not and the vernal gales are blowing free, her monument to see, to bear me far from love and thee! for doubly blest is there the rest, i hate ambition's haughty name, which never comes to me. and the heartless pride of wealth and fame; oh! say not —you may not so yet now i haste thro' ocean's roar all powerful love inhume; to woo them on a distant shore. for in your breast, while life's a guest, can pain or peril bring relief the heart's her real tomb. to him who bears a darker grief? critical remarks on new publications. recollections of japan ; comprising a par researches and inventions of another ; ticular account of the religion, lan- whilst by the general liberty of com: guage, government, laws and manners merce. the acauisitions of ana, merce, the acquisitions of one nation, in of the people : with observations on the the various branches of science, have geography, climate, population and been communicated to its neighbour; productions of the country, by captain and thus a general fund of knowledge golownin, r. n. vo. pp. . has been accumulated, which is conti- amidst a variety of striking pecu- cu nually increasing, and must still necessa- liarities by which the inhabitants of the rily augment, from the innumerable eastern are distinguished from those of contributions it receives. it is, indeed, the western hemisphere, the most re- a stream fed by countless and inexhausti. markable is the fixity, among the former, ble rills.-in asia, on the contrary, the of their national laws, customs and man- sun of science had shed its morning ners. in europe the progression of beams upon the southern nations many knowledge has, for nearly four centuries, ages before it had dawned upon the been comparatively. slow, but uninter- gross .obscurity of the west, but this rupted. to the improvements and dis- glorious luminary became, soon after its coveries of one age, have been added the rising, stationary in the oriental hemi. [march , recollections of japan. sphere,and has never yet approached the titled niphon, mans smaller ones, and meridian. mankind in those remote re- the southern part of the peninsula of gions were civilized at a very early pe- sagaleen. it stretches from the st to riod, and made, as it were simultane- nearly the th degree of north latitude, ously and per saltul, important and ra- comprehending almost every variety of pid strides in the acquisition of the use- climate and production. the striking ful arts, and in many of the liberal sci peculiarity of the former is its extreme ences--but at that point they halted, severity in the winter, even in a very and have remained, for upwards of a low latitude. capt. golownin's account thousand years, nearly in the same posi- of this phenomenon, and of its causes, tion. doubtless, this suspension of the we shall give in his own words:- inarch of the human faculties, towards on a comparison of the geographical situa- perfectibility, is chiefly to be attributed tion of the japanese possessions, with that of to the despotism of the different govern the countries of the western heurisphere, ments of the cast, the slender informa under the same degrees of latitude, it might tion possessed by their subjects in the be imagined that the climate, the changed arts of navigation, the inveteracy of the seasons, and the atmosphere were alike their prejudices, and, above all, the in- in both; but such a conclusion would be very erroneous.* the difference of the two toleravt and jealous spirit, which marks, parts of the world, in this respect, is so strik- for example, the transactions of the na- ing, that it deserves more particular notice. tives of china and japan, with strang. i will take as an example matsmai, where i ers. until their shackles and their pre- lived two years. this town lies in the forty possessions are removed, the oriental second degree of latitude, that is, on a parallel nations will never attain to the full ma with leghorn in italy, bilboa in spain, and turity of the intellectual stature of eu toulon in i'rance. in these places, tħe in- ropeans. habitants hardly know what frost is; and we have been led into these desaltory never see any snow, except on the tops of remarks from the consideration of the high mountains: in matsmai, on the con- very interesting volume before us: their trary, the ponds and lakes freeze; the snow lies in the vallies and on the plains, from truth will be sufficiently demonstrated november till april, and falls, besides, in as in the sequel. in a preceding number of our magazine, a few strictures were offered on capt. golownin's “ narra- * charlevoix states, that the japanese are tive of his captivity in japan," which much prejudiced in favour of their own eli- valuable and important work contains a mate, and acknowledges that it must be very healthy, since the people are lonlived, the great variety of curious details respect- ing the japanese nation. the scattered women'prolific, and diseases very uncom- mon. we know not what depender.ce o rays of light which were there effused place upon kempfer's wonderful story of a upon the institutions, political economy village upon the side of a mountaio, all the and character of that singular people, inhabitants of which were children), grand are here brought into one focus. and great grand children of a single maa the “ recollections" comprise an then living; and all of them handsome, well epitome of the geographical situation, made, polished, civil, and possessing the climate, and extent of japan-origin of manners of people brought up at couri. the japanese nation, religious customs, it seems, however, that little reliance can progress of civilization and language, be placed upon the extraordinary boasts re- laws and government of the empire, pro- specting the japanese climate ; since the je- ductions of the country, trade and com- suits conſess that the weather is very change- merce, population and military force; able; that the winter cold is intense; and the fall of spow prodigious: that the sum- and, lastly, an account of the people who mer heats are intolerable; that it rains pay tribute to the japanese and their often, and at seasons; the heaviest rains colonies. our limits will not allow us to being in june and july, which portion of quote largely from our author, in his il- the year the japanese distinguish by the lustrations of these heads; but we shall name of the water months; and that thus- endeavour to make our readers acquaint- der and lightning are then extremely free ed with the substance of his statements, quent. as a counterbalance to these ipcon- adhering to the order observed in the veniences, the jesuit writers whimsically volume itself, and citing such passages as throw into the opposite scale, the length of arc particularly explanatory of the sub- the winter, which they describe as giving the weather time to purify itself, whilst the ject treated on rains resoften it, and the various natural geographical situation, climate, e, productions cause salutary exhalations; es- and extent op japan.. - pocially from the sulphur and the aromatic japan consists of one large island, en- plants with which these islands abound, ed. . recollections of japan. great abundance as with us in st. peters- mote antiquity, the whole earth was covered burgh. severe frosts are indeed. uncom with water, in which state it remained, dur- mon; yet the cold is often fiſtcen degrees of ing a countless series of years, without the reaumur. in summer, the parts of eu- almighty creator, whom the japanese call rope under the same latitude as matsmai, tenko sama (ruler of heaven) having cast enjoy, almost constantly, serene and warm his eye upon it. at length kami, bis eldest weather; in matsmai, on the other hand, the son, obtained permission to put the earth in rain pours down in torrents, at least twice order and to people it. he therefore took a week, the horizon is involved in dark an extremely long staff to sound the depth, clouds; violent winds blow, and the fog is which he found to be the least, exactly in the scarcely ever dispersed. in the former, place where japan now rises out of the sea. oranges, lemons, figs, and other produc- he threw earth from the bottom up in a tions of the warm climates, thrive in heap, and created the island of niphon, fur- the open air ; in the latter, apples, pears, nished it with all the natural productions peaches and grapes, hardly attain their pro- which still flourish there, divided himself per maturity. into two beings, one male, and one female;. i have noi, it is true, been in niphon, the and peopled the new country : when the principal island of the japanese possessions; other children of god saw their brother's but i have heard from the japanese, that in work, they did the same in other parts of yeddo, the capital city of the empire, in the the globe, and though they succeeded in thirty-sixth degree of latitude, snow often creating countries, ordering and peopling falls, in the winter nights, to the depth of an them, they, however, had not the skill which inch or more. it is true it melts immedi- their elder brother possessed ; and hence in ately the next day; but if we consider that their creation of countries and men they did yeddo is under the same latitude as malaga, not attain to the same perfection. for this in spain, we shall be convinced that the cli- reason the japanese are superior to all the mate of the eastern hemisphere is much ru- other inhabitants of the earth, and the pro- der than that of the western. the japa- ductions of japan better than all others. nese assured me, that on the southern part teske, who related to us this tradition from of sagaleen, in ihe forty-seventh degree of their ancient history, laughed, and said, that latitude, the ground is often thawed during even to this day, most of his countrymen the summer, only to a depth of a foot and believed the silly fable, and many affirmed a half. if we compare with this the climate that a part of the staff which their first an- of a place in europe, whose latitude corre- cestor had employed to measure the depths sponds, for example, lyons in france, how of the ocean, still existed as an evergreen different are the results. that the ac- tree, on one of the highest mountains in the counts given by the japanese are true, i island of niphon. p. . cannot doubt; for we ourselves met with religion and religious customs. great fields of ice, so late as the month of four different systems of religion off the kurile island of raschaua in la prevail in japan: first the adoration of titude forty-seven degrees forty-five minutes. immortal spirits, or children of the at this season no ice is to be seen with us in the gulph of finland, in sixty degrees north highest being, and the worship of saints. latitude; though the water there, from being temples are constructed to the honor so confined, has not power to break the ice, of these divinities and saints : secondly, which vanishes more in consequence of the the religion of the bramins derived effects of the rays of the sun. off japan, from india.--the subjoined extract on the contrary, the waves of the ocean must presents a most remarkable proof of break it up much sooner, if the sun acted the early introduction of orthodox with the same power. p. . christianity into japan, and of the cor- japan abounds with lofty mountains, ruption of its doctrines. has several volcanoes, one of prodigious the facts connected with this (the bra- elevation, and is particularly exposed to min) religion, manifest in a most extraordi- earthquakes. . nary degree the rapid diffusion of the know- origin of the japanese natiox. ledge, tho' corrupted, of the christian relia it appears likely that the japanese gion to the eastward of judea. about the derive their origin from the mantchous. year a. d. , the chinese cmperor mimti, who inhabit the eastern coasts of tar- heard of a sect in india called the sect of xaca, and he was so much pleased with tary to the northward of the great wall, and were, most probably, the * another statement says, " that'at the progenitors of the kurile nation: the beginning of the world, the first of seven superior ingenuity and probity of the celestial spirits arranged the chaos, or japanese sufficiently redeems' them confused mass of land and sea, whey from a from the disgrace of a chinese extrac- the end of a rod, with which he performed, it, there fel a muddy froth, which con " among other things they related thạt densed, and formed the islands of japan." they had a tradition, that, at a seriod of re- , -ed. * - :!*:': " more! tion, [march , recollections of japan. o tornis, as to send special messengers and education are, for the most part, thither, with orders to acquire a perfect lufidels and atheists. no persecution krowledge of their forms and opinions. exists in japan, but every one follows about the year a. d. , these messengers the religion he prefers without molesta- returning by way of japan, found the te- tion. christianity alone is prohibited nets of xaca already introdoced there-a by the seve by the severest laws. the japanese brief sketch of which will suffice to prove have numerous monasteries for the de- the fact in qurstion. some of these were, votees of each sex, which do not differ that there are future recompenses esta- blished for virtue, and punishments for vice: very, materially from the ecclesiastica! that good men after death are received into establishments of a similar nature in a place of happiness, where all desires are catholic countries; their members pro- fuiflled; but the wicked are shut up in a fessing celibacy, but living in inconti- place of torment; that xaca is the saviour nence ; renouncing the world, but cons of mankind; that he was born of a female triving to enjoy all its comforts and luxu. in order that he might recal man to the way ries, and also in being useless drones of salvation, from whence he had previously and morbid excrescences upon the poli- seen that they had strayed; that he came tical body. the spiritual emperor kin. to expiate the sins of the world, in order er rey is the head of the ancient japanese ravi that after death, they might acquire a happy religion. resurrection; and that the godhead consists he not only confers the highest ecclesi- of three persons in unity-a coincidence in chronology and doctrine which strikes at astical dignities, but also bestows, on the superior officers of the state, the dignity or the very root of those assertions of infidelity, spiritual title of kami, which the greatest that would look for the origin of the christ- men in the empire think it the highest honor ian gospel, in the corrupted traditions of the to obtain. i have already had occasion to east, supported by the unfounded asser- mention this dignity. the kin-rey is in- tions of anterior antiquity.-it is a remark- visible to all classes of the people, except his able fact, that the followers of this religion worship an image with three heads and own household, and the ottices of the tem- forty hands, as a symbol of a trinity of per- poral emperor, who are often sent to him. sons in the godhead, and of the universality once a year, only, upon a great festival, he walks in a gallery, which is open below, so of the divine operations. they believe, also, that whatever crimes may have been that every body can approach and see his feet. he always wears silk cloaths, which committed, the sinner may expect salvation if he dies invoking the deity, whom they from the very first preparation of the silk, they are manufactured by the hands of pure vir- represent as having undergone a most severe gins. his meals are brought to him each penance, in order to wash away the sins of time in new vessels, which are then broken. mankind. they also believe that this god is invisible, and of a nature quite distinct this, say the japanese, is done, because no- from body is worthy to eat out of the same vessel the elements of matter; that he ex- after him : if any one ventured it, or did it isted before the creation; that he had no by mistake, he would immediately die. he beginning, and will have no end ; that all is never permitted to touch the earth, lest things were created by him; that his essence he should be defiled; wherefore his locomo. is spread through the heavens, upon the tion is performed on the shoulders of his earth and beyond it, that he is present every courtiers. even his hair, beard, and nails, where; that he governs and preserves all are only cut when he is asleep. he is oblig- things; that he is iminoveable, immaterial, and ought to be reverenced, as the inex- ed to sit during the greatest part of the day upon his throne, with the crown upon his haustible source of all good. p. . head, and immoveable as a statue, which thirdly the religion of confucius, , state of quiescence is considered not only as state'. and fourthly, the adoration of the hea- emblematic, but as productive of the tran- venly bodies. quillity of the empire. if, however, he they consider the sun as the highest di- should move himself in the slightest degree, vinity, then follow the moon and stars. or turn towards any particular province, 'almost every constellation forms a separate they imagine that war, famine, and deso- divinity; these divinities contend with each lation must instantly ensue. when this other, and make peace; form alliances by period of purgatory is over, he is permitted marriage, seek to outwit and to injure each to rise, and the crown is lelt quietly to per- other; in short, according to the belief of form his sedentary functions. his head- the japanese, they have all human weak- dress and ornaments, as well as his habits, inesses, and live like men, only with the dif- bear a great resemblance to the state cos- ference that they are immortal, and assume tume of his holiness the pope ; but as a ny shape they please. this religion gave counterbalance to his temporary state of qui- origin to a sect who adore fire, and consider escence, he is permitted to marry a dozen it as a divinity derived from the sun. p. . wives ! he changes his dress every day; the common people are remarkably but very little to the emolument of his valet, superstitious, and those of superior rauk or to the shopkeepers in the japanese mon- .) recollections of japan. mouth street, since it is believed that any the bagnios are under the protection of the person putting on bis cast off cloaths, laws, and have their regulations, rules, and would instantly be afflicted with a general privileges. the owners of such houses bodily inflammation. even his crockery- are not considered infamous, and enjoy ware of all sorts is broken after being once the same rights as merchants, who deal used; whilst the cups and saucers of his in a permitted commodity with the consent twelve helpmates join in the general crash. of the government: but the japanese avoid note, page . being acquainted with them. "the lovers xational character, civilization of such places generally visit them from and language. sun-set to sun-rise. the music plays and this is a very copious and important the drum is beat. there were some such head; and to do justice to its details, houses near oor abode, and i cannot re- we should embody into this article al member that a single night passed without most all the author's statements. the our hearing the drum: berce, i conclude, following may be considered as a sum- that these places are never without visitors. mary of the national character of the the japanese told us, that at yeddo, the capital of the temporal emperor, there are japanese :--they are active, industrious, u , numbers of the largest buildings of this inquisitive, temperate, generous, honest kind. which are nothing inferior, in mag- and compassionate; capable of extraor- nificence, to the palaces of princes. in one dinary enterprise, eminently polite and of these temples, dedicated to venus, there courteous; they possess a high, and are six hundred priestesses, and yet the eren romantic sense of honour; and are porters are often obliged to refuse ad- universally learned, in proportion to mittance to young worshippers of the god- their opportunities of acquiring informa dess, because there is no vacancy. we tion ;-but they are, at the same time, were assured that the proprietors of these deceitful, vindictive, and unchaste. the magnificent magazines, spare nothing to great and amiable qualities of the japa- furnish them with the most beautiful mer- chandize, and this is very easily to be be- nese are exemplified by captain go- lieved. on one of our walks in matsmai, towpin in almost every page of his book. the interpreters, to gratify our curiosity, their extreme politeness towards each led us past such a house: half a dozen other has been described and accounted for, vour for, young creatures ran to the door to see us. by the earliest writers, who state, that all i observed, that some of them were in the the riches of this powerful empire are in bloom of youth, and so handsome, that they the hands of the princes and nobility, who would have done no discredit to a house of make a great show of their wealth; their the same description in an european ca- magnificence going to a greater extent than pital : but perhaps they appeared so to me any thing known in europe, or recorded only because only, because my eyes had been so long in the history of the most powerful monar- deprived of the sight of our fair country- chies of ancient times. all this is seen by by women. p. . the great mass of the people, without the the knowledge of the japanese is slightest envy; and if it happens that any extensive; every individual learns to nobleman, or man of high rank, by an un- happy accident, or hy incurring the prince's read and write. in agriculture, the displeasure, should fall into indigence, still chase, the fisheries, the manufacture of he is not less haughty, nor less respected silk and woollen goods, and of por- chan in his most brilliant fortunes! and celain, varnished goods, and polishing into whatever misery or poverty a gentleman of metals, they are not at all inferior may be reduced, he never forins an alliance to the europeans. they are skilful beneath his own rank. cabinct-makers, and are thoroughly ac- the point of honour is also extremely quainted with the manufacture of all lively in all ranks, and the lowest of the articles appertaining to domestic econo- people would feel themselves hurt by any me many my. they are but imperfectly versed ti freedom of expression, even from a noble- man of the first rank; and believe them- in astronomy, and have only a slight selves justified in manifesting their resent- of knowledge of the mathematics, and the ment. thus every one is upon his cuard. more abstruse sciences. in painting, and all ranks respect each other. p. . architecture, sculpture, engraving, mu- the greatest stain in their national sic and poetry, they are described as character is the dissoluteness of their very far inferior to the europeans. manners. · they are novices in the art of war; and *** among the vices of the japanese, the are entirely ignorant of the best method most prevalent appears to be incontinence. of constructing their vessels. the though the law does not allow them to take characters employed by the japanese in more than one wife, they have the right writing, rescinble those of the chinese; to keep concubines; and all opulent people that is, they are symbols. they write make use of this right, even to exced. in a perpendicular line; and their lan- [march , recollections of japan. guage is extremely difficult to learn, nor on account of the earthquakes; but will they instruct a stranger in it. commonly of wood, and very slight, to government of the empire, laws suit the warmth of the climate. the and customs. insides of their dwellings are fitted up in the form of government is remarkably a singular style. complicated. the supreme spiritual au- many of their apartments are embel- thority has been already mentioned, and lished with a painting of a divinity, or the shadows of secular power are rested richly ornamented papers, on which are in the spiritual emperor; who is, never some favourite moral sentences of philoso- theless, obliged to consult a council of phers or poets; in some instances, they have five individuals, selected from the most i grotesque caricatures of old chinese, or eminent personages in the state. there birds, trees, or landscapes, painted upon screens; in most houses they have fower is also an assembly which we should de- pois, filled with the most odoriferous flow- nominate a senate. japan is divided ers, according to the season; and, in de- into nearly two hundred principalities, fault of them, with artificial representations each governed by its own hereditary of flowers, impregpated with odours; these, prince, with absolute sway, except in together with perfuming pois oſ brass or those points which relate to the general copper, in the shape of lions, cranes, and administration of the einpire; but the other rare animals, hangings of silk net, japanese laws, which emanate from the vessels of porcelain, and ranged in the emperor, are universally obeyed. there neatest order, all produce the most pleasing are also a numerous order of nobility, effect. their love of ornament is, indeed, car- who alone are eligible for places of profit ried to an extreme, in pamerous instances : and distinction; the remaining classes at their feasts, it is often superfluous, and are ecclesiastics, men of learning, in- their ceremonies are nerer at an end. their cluding physicians, soldiers, merchants, attendants are most numerous; yet a word mechanics, labourers, and slaves. is never heard spoken, nor does there ever the nobility enjoy very important pri- arise the slightest confusion; but the plates vileges in japan. all the places in the are ornamented with ribands; and if a second council or senate, all the important partridge, or any other bird is served up, offices of the state, and the posts of gover- it is sure to have its body varnished, and nors in the imperial provinces, are filled its neck and feet gilded. their feasts are up entirely from their body alone. if a war always accompanied with music; but excess breaks out, the commanding generals are is unknown." note to p. . chosen from among the reigning princes their streets are extremely parrow. of the nobility. every noble family has a their municipal regulations admirable ; particular distinction, and the right to keep keep and might be advantageously adopted in à train of honour, which is made use of by e the eldest of the family. the nobility is also hereditary, and descends to the eldest charlevoix asserts, that the number of cities in japan, in his time, amounted to son, or according to the will of the father, to the most worthy. " thirteen thousand, almost all of which were if the father judges his legitimate unworthy of this dignity, he populous. he describes them as being to-- e tally devoid of walls, with the streets gene- may adopt a son from another family; hence, a good-for-nothing nobleman is a rally running in right lines, cutting each rare phenomenon, which only the too great other at right angles, with gates which are love of a father for an unworthy son can shut every night, generally much orna- render possible. p. . mented, and with guards regularly mounted. the japanese are remarkably severe. the towns and villages, as stated by kemp- their capital punishments are ripping · fer, are too numerous for belief:- , , generally built along great roads, and well open the bowels and decapitation. the inhabited, principaily by shopkeepers and use of torture is also authorized, but is artizans; these consist, indeed, of double rarely inflicted. in fact, the rigour of rows of houses, but are so extensive and their statutes operates in the same man- close to each other, as scarcely to have ner as our penal code: they are, in marked limits. most cases, evaded. property, how. every street has a superintendent off- erer, of every kind, is secured to its cer or ottona, who, like our constable of possessor by the laws of janan the night,preserves good order after sun-set; husband has the power of putting the and is bound to obey the orders of superior magistrates. the ottonas keep a register adultress and her paramour to death, if of all the residents in their peculiar streets, surprised in the fact; so has a father sed in the fact; so has a father of all births, deaths, and marriages, of all of with respect to the seducer of his who leave their homes for the purpose of daughter; they have also unlimited travelling, or who change their residence power over untoward children. the into any other street. the profession or japanese houses are not built of stone trade, condition in life, and religion of each individual, are also carefully recorded. .)., . human life ; a poem. when disputes arise, the ottona calls the escapes from death, and the various pe- parties before him, for the purpose of rils he has undergone--how at one time, settling matters; but he has no power to lying wounded in the midst of contend- enforce his recommendations, although he ing masses, his countrymen passed him, can punish slight crimes by imprisonnent. heedless of his single existence, whilst each ottona is elected by the inhabitants, by a majority of voices; a certain number of engaged in the struggle of a nation : and names being chosen and presented to the go- at another, how he avoided the observa- vernors or mayors, for election or approval. tion and brutality of the foe, by hiding “ to each otiona there are three petty himself among the yet warm bodies of constables; besides which, like the old 'saxo the slain, till at last, when night spread on hundreds and tythings, all the inha- its shadows over the scene, he was saved bitant householders of each street are di- by the tempted avarice of one, unused to vided into parties of five, which will some- feelings of compassion,-and we then times include fifteen families, each under listen with attention and sympathy. so the inspection of a chiet, who is not only it is with didactic, compared with narra- , responsible for their conduct in regard to tive, or individual poetry; and hence the enquiry, but actually shares with them the quantity of the latter so much exceeds chastisement of their crimes or faults. in each street there is a police clerk, who that of the former, which is generally writes out, and publishes the orders of the read in “ elegant extracts," or works of ottona, and preserves the records. the a similar nature, professing to save us office of treasurer is held by each inhabitant the trouble of wading through whole in turn for a year; and there is is a mes- pages in search of a single liue. amongst senger who posts up orders, collects taxes, the poems of this class, of a more modern brings information, &c. &c.” p. . date, we may instance the “ pleasures of (to be continued.) hope," which is now seldom spoken of, human life, a poem by samuel 'ro- though most people are induced to pe- gens. quarto. pp. . ruse it, in consequence of the minor didactic poctry, when it treats of hu- compositions of the same author. we man passions, as it is commonly devoted are far from pretending to deny that it to the description of general feelings, contains many beautiful and energetic unmarked by those traits and peculiari- ties which distinguish the individual, passages, but what are they in compari- son with the occasional pieces of camp- does not create that deep and powerful bell. we can sympathize with “ lo- interest which is excited when those feel. chiel," who dares, even against the ings are exemplified and brought home warnings of fate, to be loyal to him, he to the affections of the reader, by the deems his liege, though fallen sovereign. portraiture of the enjoyments or suffer. we can feel with the « exile of erin," ings of real or imaginary personages.-- in his passionate exclamation -- it can, therefore, no more be expected « the wild deer and wolf to a covert can to interest the common reader, than phi- flee, lanthropy or cosmopolitism can be but i have no refuge from famine and dan- thought to actuate the mass of mankind : ger; for, unless we are enabled to picture to a home and a country remain not for ourselres vividly and distinctly those ob- me." jects which are intended to excite our we can pity him, whilst we almost sympathies, it is not the bare recital of watch him, as he gazes in despair on the the most alarming and horrible catastro- waves which forin the girelle of his own ples that will affect in the slightest de- "native isle of the ocean," knowing that gree eren those of the most delicate sen- they are never to bear his bark towards its sibility. a battle, however fatal may much loved shore; but we cannot be have been its consequences, and nume- expected to be powerfully affected by rous and noble the heroes who poured general and imperfect pliilosophical dis- forth their souls in its strife, fills not the tinctions and comparisons between the distant reader of a gazette or history expectation and presence of objects. we with horror or interest proportionate to cannot be thought to feel much for the the occurrence; and though whole anticipations of a mother whilst rocking masses of the slain may be described tí cradle of her infant hopc; nor for with terrible fidelitv, yet the lady who the visions of home which arise in the shrieks at the cry of a child, or falls into mind of a sailur on his return from a hysterics at the sight of a spider, will distens land as long as the mother is not unfrequently peruse the whole with- not particularized, by peculiar features out the slightest emotion. but, let an aud characteristics, from the many cot. individual rccount his own hair-hreadth tagers we deily see in the country, or new monthly mag.--n . . vou. xi. human life ; a poem. [march , the sailor is undistinguished by any in- more especially as his efforts seem at- dividual trait to separate him from thosc tended with less success at each publica- masses which are constantly streaming tion. there are many poets at twenty- from the public houses in the neighbour- one, who are no longer so at sixty; not hood of wapping. yet these are the that we think poetry inconsistent with most vivid delineations in the poem to that age, having the example of dry. which we allude. deu's writing palamon and arcite at goldsmith, whom we look upon as : but old age, in many, becomes the most successful of all didactic poets, more cautious; it gives more time to avoided these defects by taking, as the polish, and seems to consider that ima- subjects of his two poems, the scenes gination and thought may be supplied and characters of nations—the descrip- by harmony of versification, and elegance tion of a village, once happy and flourish- of diction. such were probably elegant ing, deserted by the aged with their poets' whilst the fervour of youth was thousand associations of memory, and upon them, though, on account of the by the young with the broken dreams of weakness of their passions, they were ne- imagination, picturing the bliss they ver either forcible or striking ; but when trusted to have enjoyed amidst the scenes old age, with its cool reflections, takes of their infancy. we can fancy to ourn the place of passion, they sink entirely selves the poet seated upon the summit into versifiers. of an alp, and calling to his remembrance the author before us is, we should the features of those nations below him, think, better adapted to be the satirist among which his flute had procured for of private society, than the writer of him an hospitable reception, and we are commendatory verses on the human deeply interested by the paintings which racc. his conversation-always full of he professes to have studied from nature something innocently malicious, and of the miseries arising from a popula- caustic, could scarcely mark him out as tion forced into emigration. the poet designated by the god to paint thomson's “seasons" are but little human life, as if nothing but virtue read though much talked of, and those formed the passing phantoms of the parts of milton, in his noble and mag. world's phantasmagoria. nificent poem, which treat of abstruse when we took up the poem which speculations, and paint adam and eve has given rise to the present observa- in that simplicity of which we have no tions, “ human life" naturally offered prototype, are, we should conceive, com- to our imagination the chequered scenes paratively neglected; whilst an estimate of joy and grief- the scenes in which the is most generally formed of his merit as ray of hope, rather than of happiness, a poet, by those passages in which he occasionally breaks through the canopy- describes the remorseless malice and in- ing clouds, and illuminates some spots of solent daring of satan against the cre- a vast landscape. we trusted to have ator and his works. seen our author's talents exerted in re. we cannot, therefore, understand why presenting those numberless follies, so many didactic poems have, of late which, like the invisible vapours rais- years, been offered to the public. the ed by the noon-day sun; at last by “ pleasures of hope" had much of no- their multitude, form a mass limiting the velty in them, and were, besides, over- extent of that power which created spread with a halo of pure and refined them. but no; there are no vices de. sensibility, which gave them additional picted-no follies lashed, so as to mark claims to the attention of the lovers of their existence : all is virtue, serenity, poetry. the “ pleasures of memory," and happiness. there is, indeed, no were also read and approved ; but then reverse to the picture, except the fol. came those of melancholy, virtue, soli- lowivg : tude, contemplation, and so many other but man is born to suffer. on the door pleasures, that they at last palled upon sickness has set her mark; and d the public taste, and though they are more still poured forth in lavish profusion, laughter within we hear, or wood notes they are seldom read, and still less fre- wild as of a mother singing to a child. quently remembered. all now in anguish from that room retire. the name of rogers must, however, where a young cheek glows with consuming always insure respect and attention; fire, though we wonder at his fondness for and innocence breathes contagion-all but the style of writing in which he now ap- one, pears before its for the second time: but she who gave it birth from her alone .) human life; a poem: night, the medicine cup is taken. through the to represent them with the manners of european knights errant, and as we and through the day, that with its dreary ought not to confound the peculiarities light and domestic occurrences of asia, with comes unregarded, she sits silent by, those of europe, so we are not per- watching the changes, with her anxious mitted to make anachronisins in english eye: while they withoul, listening, below, above, manners, still more absurd and glaring. (who but in sorrow know how much they thank god, the peasant's cottage has love) not, for many years, been disturbed from every little noise catch hope and fear, even by the sound of a hostile trumpet, exchanging still, still as they turn to hear, much less by the enemies' fire-brand or whispers, and sighs, and smiles of tender- cannon. dess there is another defect we have to that would in vain the starting tear repress. notice, of a more general cast, as it p. . affects the whole poem; we mean the besides a general want of truth in mingling with the description of an ideal his colouring, which renders the poem though continuous personification, the fiat and uninteresting, as it has no re- identification of several of his friends, lief, mr. rogers has fallen into another without marking the difference between great defect; he has taken bis illustra- the two; so that mr. fox and others tions entirely from england, apparently are introduced, individually, as forming attempting to paint the garden lawn, the same ideal character. besides this, and tea circle of a family mansion, with there are several blemishes of no less a few lines upon a parliamentary life, weight, though they affect only passages. all of the present day. one is, there- it has been very much the fashion of fore, not a little startled, in the midst late years, for authors to make their of his tranquil scenes, to meet with the verses unintelligible, by distant hints following verses, as a delineation of an and allusions, so that to read a pamphlet english occurrence: poem, we must either be in possession but hark the din of arms! no time for of the erudition of a walking library, sorrow. or else we must pay some dozen shillings to horse! to horse! a day of blood -mor for illustrations; and have the • row! lines of poetry swelled into two vo- ode parting pang, and then—and then i fly, lumes of pages, by notes, which, fly to the field to triumph-or to die. from their pedantic weight, few people he goes, and night comes, as it never came, read, and fewer still, understand, it is with shrieks of horror!-and a vault of the worst trait in the character of our flame! and lo! when morning mocks the desolate, facts which are in the reach of all, and modern poetry, that a mention of those red runs the river by; and at the gate which we denominate nature, cannot be breathless, a horse without a rider stands ! but hush! ... a shout from the victorious made without innumerable references bands! to dull scraps in old chronicles, and rare and oh the smiles and tears, a sire restored! books. chaucer, dryden, pope, and one wears his helm, one buckles on his even milton, with all his erudition-in sword; fine, none of our standard poets have one hangs the wall with laurel leaves, and done this. we find, in their works, allusions to what the classical scholar spring to prepare the soldier's festival; and well informed reader must under- while she best-loved, till then forsaken stand; but we do not discover in them never, the ridiculous affectation to which we clings round his neck as she would cling refer. we fear messieurs scott and for ever! p. . southey will have to atone in the pur- the boundaries of a poet's imagina- gatory of fame, for this bad result from tion have never as yet been marked by the universality of their information; the god of limits ; but he who chooses and even mr. rogers will not come off to circumscribe the range of his pencil with flying colours, since he appears to in illustrating the subject upon which he have been slightly affected with the same treats, ought not to exceed his self-as- strange and unaceountable mania. the signed limitations. he who describes following passage, which might certainly the rich and luxuriant abassides in their have been explained in the text, without nightly rambles through asiatic towns, the aid of the note attached, will not be is not allowed, though he disguise them, very easily understood in all .) : human life ; a poém. close, no eye observes the growth or the decay, nursing the young to health. in happier to-day we look as we did yesterday; hours, yet while the loveliest smiles, her locks when idle fancy wove luxuriant flowers, grow grey! once in thy mirth thou bad'st me write on and in her glass could she but see her face thee; she'll see so soon amid another race; and now i write what thou shalt never see. how would she shrink!-- returning from p. . afar, the following description of two lo- after some years of travel—some of war, vers, after their eclaircissement, and within his gates ulysses stood unknown, their subsequent marriage, is in mr. ro- before a wife, a father, and a son. ger's best style: and such is human liſe, the general then came those full confidings of the past, theme, all sunshine now, where all was overcast. ah; what at best, what but a longer dream? then do they wander till the day is gone ; though with such wild romantic wander- lost in each other, and when night steals ings fraught, on, such forms in fancy's richest colouring covering them round, how sweet her ac- wrought, cents are! that like the visions of a love-sick brain, oh, when she turns and speaks, her voice is who would not sleep and dream them o'er far, again? far abore singing!but soon nothing stirs our pathway leads but to a precipice; to break the silence-joy like his, like hers, and all must follow-fearful as it is, deals not in words; and now the shadow's from the first step 'tis known : but-no delay! now in the glimmering dying light she on, 'tis decreed. we tremble and obey grows, a thousand ills besets us as we go, less and less earthly! as departs the day, “ still could i shun the fatal gulph"-ah! all that was mortal seems to melt away, no, till like a gift resumed as soon as given, 'tis all in vain-the inexorable law! she fades at last into a spirit from heaven! nearer and nearer to the brink we draw. then are they blest indeed; and swift the verdure springs up, and fruits and flowers hours invite ; till her young sisters wreath her hair in and groves and fountains--all things that flowers, delight. kindling her beauty-while unseen, the « oh, i would stop and linger if i might.” least we fly; no resting for the foot we find; twitches her robe, then runs behind the all dark before, all desolate behind ! rest, at length the brink appears—but one step known by her laugh, that will not be sup- more! pressed. we faint-on, on!-we faulter-and 'tis then before all they stand-the holy vow, o'er! p. . and ring of gold-no fond illusions now how great the mystery! let others sing bind her as his. across the threshold led, the circling year, the promise of the spring, and every tear kissed off as soon as shed, the summer's glory and the rich repose his house she enters, there to be a light, of autumn, and the winter's silvery spows. shining within when all without is night; man through the changing scene let me a guardian angel o'er his life presiding, doubling his pleasures, and his cares di- pursue, viding! himself how wond'rous in his changes too ! now oft her eyes read his; her gentle mind not man the sullen savage in his den, to all his wishes, all his thoughts inclined; but man called forth in fellowship with still subject-ever on the watch to borrow men, schooled and trained up to wisdom from his mirth of his mirth, and sorrow of his sorrow. the soul of music slumbers in the shell, birth; till waked to rapture by the master's spell; god's noblest work-his image upon and feeling hearts_ton earth! alla feeling hearts-touch them but rightly pour his address (we imagine) to a sister, athom a thousand melodies unheard before. is simple, and the last lines touching- p. . such grief was ours—it seems but yester- he ends the poem also well :- day- and now behold him up the hill ascending, when in thy prime; wishing so much to memory and hope, like evening stars, at- stay, tending; 'twas there, maria, there, without a sigh, sustained, excited, till his course is run, at midnight in a sister's arms die! by deeds of virtue done or to be done. oh, thou wert lovely-lovely was thy frame, when on his couch he sinks at length to and pure thy spirit as from heaven it came. rest, and, when recalled to join the blest above, those by his counsel saved, his power re- thou diedst a victim to exceeding love, dressed, an eulogium on sir samuel romilly. [march , those by the world shunned ever as unblest, trace out their journey through their little at whom the rich man's dog growls from day, the gate, and fondly dream an idle hour away. but whom he sought out, sitting desolate, there are, at the close of the volume, come and stand round-ihe widow with her two other poems, one in blank verse, child, written at pæstum, unworthy of the as when she first forgot her tears and subject, and another in rhymes, entitled smiled! the “ boy of egremend," who, in spite they, who watch by him, see not; but he of the explanation, dies, we cannot un- sees, derstand how, and thus forms the sub- sees and exults—were ever dreams like ject of a pathetic tale no doubt, in four these? they, who watch by him, hear not; but he pages. we have no room for extracts hears, from them, nor would their merit war. and earth recedes, and heaven itself ap rant any, if we had. pears! an eulogium on sir samuel romilly, pro- 'tis past! that hand we grasped, alas, in n ounced at the royal atheneum of paris. vain! by m. berjamin constant. ediled nor shall we look upon his face again! by sir t. c. morgan. vo. pp. . but to his closing eyes, for all were there, in our number for december last, nothing was wanting ; and, through many we gave a memoir of the distinguished a year, and illustrious subject of this eulogium. we shall remember with a fond delight it is well known to our readers that the the words so precious which we heard to- political opinions espoused by sir samuel night; his parting though awhile our sorrow flows, romilly differ, tolo cælo, from those like setting suns or music at the close ! which we have uniformly and conscienti- then was the drama ended. not till then, ously maintained. it is foreign to our so full of chance and change the lives of present purpose to examine the question men, of the expediency or necessity of those could we pronounce him happy. then measures, exclusively political, of which secure he was one of the ablest and most prin- from pain, from grief, and all that we en- cipled defenders. whilst yet mourning dure, over his bier, and joining the solemn re- he slept in peace-say, rather soared to heaven, quiem, in which every true briton, of upborne from earth by him to whom 'tis whatsoever party he may be, inost cor- given dially unites, we feel that to blend with in his right hand to hold the golden key our regrets animadversions upon his that opes the portals of eternity. conduct as a public character, viewed in when by a good man's grave i muse alone, the light in which we must necessarily methinks an angel sits upon the stone; regard it, would be to unhallow the sa- like those of old, on that thrice-hallowed crifice, by mixing up the bitterness of night, political controversy, with the esteem who sate and watched in raiment heavenly and admiration we have always felt in- bright; and, with a voice inspiring joy, not fear, clined to allow him as a private indivi- dual. says, pointing upwards that he is not here, that he is risen! excluding, therefore, this part of the but the day is spent; subject altogether, it is open to us to and stars are kindſing in the firmament, consider the production of m. constant, to us how silent—though like ours, per merely in the light of a funeral oration. chance, the talent and versatility of this writer busy and full of life and circumstance; are well known; and the point, energy, where some the paths of wealth and power and force which distinguish almost every pursue, page of the eulogium do not detract of pleasure some, of happiness a few; from his pretensions. when it is remem- and as the sun goes round-asun not ours, bered that m. constant was an adherent while from her lap another nature showers gifts of her own, some from the crowd re- of buonaparte ; that he is a frenchman; tire, that his work was composed with all the think on themselves, within, without in- acrimony of feeling, we might say ani. quire; mosity, with which such a man would at distance dwell on all that passes there, be likely to regard that country which all that their world reveals of good and fair; had gloriously vanquished and imposed and, as they wander, picturing things, like chains upon his own; and, that he might mo, be expected to vent some part of his dis- not as they are, but as they ought to be, pleasure in splepetic remarks upon the . new publications with critical remarks. conduct of the english government, it never in england do the judges inter- will not surprise our readers, that rupt the accused, unless it be to guard him against the greater part of his opinions against a dangerous line of defence, and to and deductions we should entirely and protect him from himself. after having unhesitatingly protest ; or that. under lent a complacent ear to the accuser, they such circumstances, we should be half he never refuse to listen to the reply. they make no merit of embarrassing by captious inclined to consider the present pane- questions, of insulting by outrageous apos. tyric rather as an escape-valve to relieve trophes, or injuring by ironical commen- the over-wrought steam-engine of na- taries, the prisoner. whose very situation is tural prejudice, than as a heartfelt tri- a source of uncertainty and of unreadiness bute to the talents and worth of the in- of intellect. they inflict not an anticipat- dividual whose virtues it professes to ing punishment on him who is as yet the celebrate. be that as it may, candour object only of suspicions which may prove compels us to acknowledge that, in a unfounded, by forcing him to listen in literary point of view, it possesses consi silence to the invectives dictated by vanity, derable merit. a single quotation will by a wretched eagerness for success, or by serve to show the style in which it is a puerile ambition of oratory, at a moment the sole legislative object is the attainment composed; and as the author has chosen of justice. thus the judges in england to bear honourable testimony to the have never to complain that the law is not purity of judicial administration in this sufficiently respected.-p. . country, we can make one without doing any violence to our own feelings. monthly register. agriculture. storations and illustrations of passages the grazier's manual. by t. cooke. in shakspeare's plays, which have afforded mo. s. scope for critical animadversion, and hi- arts. therto held at defiance the penetration of all a treatise on practical perspective, ex. shakspeare's commentators. by z. jack- emplified by an ilustrative model and plans; son. vo. s. being a course of lessons that exhibit the the house of atreus and the house of practice and theory of the science of per- laius. tragedies founded on the greek spective, by concise rules for drawing ac- drama, with a preface on the peculiarities curately. adapted to schools and the use of its structure and moral principles; and of artists not having a knowledge of mathe- other poems. by john smith. vo. s. d matics. by. w. williams. vo. . . education. bound. the art of french conversation, with an specimens in eccentric circular turning, introduction. by d. boileau. pp. . with practical instructions for producing it has been a complaint of long standing, that corresponding pieces in that art. by j. h. amid the namerous works of this description which ibbetson. vo. s. have, at various time, been given to the public, bibliography. the subjects of the colloquies are, for the most the third part of a catalogue of an ex- part, so absurd and ridiculous, that it is next to tensive collection of scarce and curious impossible to arrive at any thing like a knowledge, books, on sale by lackington and co. vo. through their mediun, of those phrases and idioms with which it would be most desirable to become is. d, acquainted. the custom, hitherto, has been to de maclachlan's collection of books in va. vote the pages of such works to conversations be- rious languages, on sale at south tween the master and servant, the butcher and bridge street, edinburgh. vo. s. baker, the taylor and hair.dresser, &c.; and to omit biography. altogetber such dialogues as would he likely to memoirs of the life and character of take place in elegant society. m. boilean has en. mrs. sarah savage, eldest daughter of the tirely avoided this gross error, and has introduced rev. philip henry, a. m. with a preface, a selection of sentences so various, but at the same by the rev. w. jay. mo. s. time so generally useful, as to render his book better memoirs of field marshall his royal adapted to the purposes for which it was designed highness prince edward, duke of kent. than any we at present kuow of. mo. . d. principles of punctuation, or the art of memoirs of james hardy vaux; written pointing familiarized. by cecil hartly. by himself. vols. mo. s. m . a. chronology. a book of this description, calculated to give a chronological table of the nobility of young people an insight into the principles of punctuation has long been wanted; and we are the united kingdom, shewing at one view glad to see the defect remedied by a gentleman so their exact order of precedency, with an well qualified for the task as mi. ilartley. the alphabetical index. mo. . examples appended to the text in the form of notos. drama. are various and well chosen, and the work is such s gopi as we can safely recomiend to those who vish to new publications, with critical remarks. march , make themselves acquainted with this essential, fevers, dysentery, hepatitis, and plague. bat loo commonly neglected, branch of science. treated according to the principles of the the recluse, or the hermit of winder doctrine of excitation, by himself and other mere, a narrative founded upon facts; being practitioners, chiefly in the east and west an important lesson for youth. by w.f. indies. by charles maclean, m.d. vo. s. sullivan. mo. s. d. .. transactions of the association of fel. the young travellers, or a visit to the lows and licentiates of the king's and grandmother, containing, with a variety of queen's college of physicians in ireland. incidental topics, a sketch of the elements vol. ii. v. s. of zoology, mineralogy, and other branches medical transactions, published by the of natural history. by frances thurtle. medical and chirurgical society of london. mo. s. d. vol. ix. part ii. vo. s. the delphin classics, with variorum elements of medical logic, illustrated by notes. intituled the regent's edition. practical proofs and examples; including no. i. a statement of the evidence respecting the enchiridion romæ,or manual of detached contagious nature of the yellow fever. by remarks on the buildings, pictures, statues, sir gilbert blane, bart. vo. s. inscriptions, &c. of ancient and modern a system of pathological and operative rome. by s. weston, f. r. s. foolsc. vo. surgery. by robert allan. vol. i. vo. . d. s. d. preparatory geography by john brad- miscellaneous. ley. mo. s. d. reformation in the catholic church of "a polyglott grammar, in which the ge- germany, and the downfall of papal au- nius of the principal ancient and modern thority, &c. pp. . languages is explained upon a new princi- it lias been elsewhere observed that there are ple. by the rev. f. nolan. the modern certain vices inseparably connected with the court greek will be supplied by m. calbo. the of rome which are quite distinct from ebe personal of rome which are qui italian grammar, mo. s. d. the french character of the reigning pontiff. a system gra. grammar. mo. s. d. dually evolved, during many ages, from the cor history. ruptions of christianity, founded in imposture, memoirs of the court of louis xiv.; nursed by superstition, and gathering strength from the calamities, of which it was, in a great comprising biography and anecdotes of the measure, the cause; such a system, we say, can mosi celebrated characters of that period, only be effectually maintained by a recurrence. styled the augustan era of france. vols. upon all suitable occasions, to the same artifices, svo. . s. aud violence by which it had before prospered. a memorials; or, the memorable things contrar y course of action would be hostile to the that fell out within this island of brittain true and invariable spirit of papacy. we there. from to . by the rev. robert fore find, that of the great nu fore find, that of the great number of pontiffs who law. edited from the ms. by c. r. have filled st. peter's chair, a very small minority sharpe, esq. to. ll. s. have at any time evinced a sincere and cordial law. disposition to reform the manifolt abuses of the romish church. the remainder have been either a supplement to the digested abridg. active agents in fulfilling the atrocities of their ro ment and comparative view of the statute cation, or have permitted these evils to remain un. law of england and ireland. by j. gab- sedressed, which they had the discernment to bett, esq. roy. vo. s. perceive, aud oftet, privately, the candour to ac. statuies of the united kingdoms, geo. knowledge, because they were professional and iii. vo. s. useful sins. these ghostly fathers well knew, that cases in bankruptcy, containing those of if you either destroyed or embalmed a corrupted . by t. w. buck, esq. roy. vo. s. carcase, the reptiles that moved upon its surface reports of cases argued and determined would speedily expire, for want of their proper in the vice chancellor's court, geo. iii. nutrition. by henry maddoek, esq. vol. iii. part i. tracts relating to a new view of society. roy. vo. s. published by robert owen. the penal code of france. vo. . few propositions on the subject of political eco. nomy attracted at the time so much of the public medicine, surgery, &c. attention as the project of mr. owen. to the be. nevolence, zeal, and patriotism which instigated bathing, with practical observations on sea that gentleman, in defiance of obloquy, aud igna- bathing, diseases of the skin, bilious, liver merable difficulties, in bring forward his measure. complaints, and dropsy. by sir arthur the highest commendation is due ; but plausible es clarke, m.d. mo. s. d. this scheme appears to be, on a superficial view of it, its execution would, wo conceive, be attended a treatise on midwifery, developing new with innumerable citiculties. by generalizing the principles which tend materially to lessen state of society. and compelling each individual. the sufferings of the patient, and shorten who united himself to the intended new villages, the duration of labour. by john power. to brii g the produce of his labours to one comenon vo. s. d. fund, there would no longer remain that powerful practical illustrations of the progress of incentive to industry, which is afforded to the te medical improvement for the last years ; tisan or agriculturist, by the assurance that himself or histories of cases of acute diseases, as and femily would alove reap the reward of his ea- an .) ici new publications, with critical remarks. ertions. it would also paralyze emulation; and it lustrated throughout by experiments, which is a consideration of great moment, how far the in. may be performed without regular appara- ternal arrangements contemplated by mr. owen, tus. by james mitchell, m. a. mo. &s, for his villages, could be carried into complete ef. fect, without infringing. to a certain degree, upon novels, the civil rights of the people. besides mr. o, ex- campbell; or, the scottish probationer. cludes, almost wholly, from his plan, the influence vols. of the most powerful impulse of the human heart, this is completely a tale of real life, written in we mean religion. surely the experience of the a plain and unaffected style, and apparently devot. french revolution ought to have taught every in. ed to the inculcation of this great moral sentiment, novator upon long.existiog, although defective in that indolence and dependence destroy all the stitutions, that a system ot ethics, however rational energies of the mind, and, that that life will close it may appear, can never be expected to restrain in the most pleasing serenity, which has been most the tumultuous passions of men within the limits actively employed in promoting the welfare of so- of their duty, unless the higher and nobler motives ciety. if its author cannot be pronounced to have which arise out of a sense of pure christianity be rivalled the most successful novel writers of the superadded day, he has at least soared very far above the lord orford's reminiscences, pp. . common place dullness of many of his fellow la. bourers in the field of fiction. it should be ob. this agreeable little volume, though it has not the charın of novelty to recommend it, possesses served, that the verses, occasionally interwoven with the story, are pleasing and elegant, and such much to interest tlie general reader; and we are as could only have resulted from a feeling and glad to see this separate inpression, of what we amiable mind. have been accustomed to think one of the most en- tertaining portions of the huge quarto volumes the countess of carrick, a love tale; and from which it was selected. the style of the “ re clandestine marriage of the thirteenth cen, miniscences" is gas and sprightly, and such as we tury. by carolan. mo. s. might expect from its poble author. on the whole coquetry. vols. mo. . ls. it is a sportive bagatelle, which if it dissipates the emily; or, the wife's first error; and ennui of an hour, will accomplish all, to the at. at beauty and ugliness; or, the father's tainment of which it is in any respect adapted. prayer, and the mother's prophecy, two d. transactions of the literary society of tales. by eliz. bennett. vols. mo. ll. bombay. . . . d. the intriguing beauty, and the beauty the sul voice of peace, or tender coun- without intrigue. vols. . sel to freemen and slaves, professors and normanburn; or, the history of a york- profane, in answer to some deep rooted shire family. vols. mo. ll. . objections and prejudices. by ephraim london; or, a month at stevens's. wood. vo. s. d. vols. mo. ll. ls. original letters from the rev. john new- poetry. ton, a. m, to the rev. w. barlass. mo. the angler, a poem. in ten cantos. s. bd. commentaries on the laws of england, by piscator tbis elegant little volume contains a didactic principally in the order, and comprising the description of the various modes of angling prac. whole substance of the commentaries of iised in england, and points out the proper tackle, sir william blackstone. vo. . ls. baits, seasons, and places for taking such particular facts and observations towards forming species of the finny race. the whole is intermingled a new theory of the earth. by w. knighi, with rural scenery and moral reflection, so as to roo- ll.d. vo. s. der the mechanical detail, necessarily introduced, lascelles' letters on angling. roy. vo. far from uninteresting. the nates and appendix s. . comprise a complete guide for the novice in the pis. catory art, and many new rules and observations for notes on a visit made to some of the pri- sons in scotland and the north of england, the experienced practitioner, which appear well adapted and arranged, so as not to break the connec- in company with elizabeth fry. by john tion of the text, whilst they convey every necessary gurney. mo. . d. information. we should notice, that the embellish. a narrative of the operations of the ments are numerous, and of a very superior order. royalist armies in the interior of france emigration, a poem, in imitation of the during the usurpation of bonaparte, . third satire of juvenal. by m. delandine de st. esprit. translated the object of this production is to persuade the by j. teissera, esq. vo. s. public that there are moral reasons why a "worthy the telegraphist's vade mecum. by man." should desert the land of his birth, and emi. joseph conolly. to. . s. grate to america. our virtuous author is the edipus romanus, or an attempt to much shocked and disgusted with the vices and prove from the principles of reasoning follies of bis native country, that he is about adopted by the right hon. sir wm. drum- make a trial of transatlantic purity and indepen. that the dence. we wish him a safe voyage; and as for a twelve caesars are the twelve signs of the criticism on the thing he is pleased to entitle a zodiac. addressed to the higher literary satire, the following epigram will speak volumes for us: classes of society. by the rev. george townsend musie, a. m. " this book-we cannot bear poetic sinning- has but one fault-and that is the beginning, natural philosophy, but, in some sort the error to amend, the elements of natural philosophy, il- it has one excellence--and that's the end! new monthly mag.--no. . vol. xi. (march , varieties-literary, scientific, fc. , the times; or, a view of society, a conversations on infant baptism, by poem. with copious notes, &c. vo. s. the rev. charles jerram, a.m. mo. . geology, and other poems. by f. p. principles and practice of the pretend- wilton. vo. s. d. ed reformers in church and state. by montfort, a poem in three cantos. by a. h. kennedy, d.d. vo. s. d. w. h. harrison. foolscap vo. s life of jesus christ,including his apocry- kalila and dimna; or, the fables of phal history, from the spurious gospels, bidpai. translated by the rev. w. knatch- unpublished manuscripts, &c. &c. vo. s. bull, a m. vo. s. remarks on scepticism, especially as it is angela; or, the moss-grown cell, a connected with the subject of organization poem. in cantos. by john henry and life. by the rev. t. rennell. vo. church. mo. s. s, d. a lament for england's queen. by topography. pleydell wilton. a visit to edinburgh containing a de- politics and political economy. scription of the principal curiosities and a treatise on the importance of extend public buildings in the scottish metropolis. ing the british fisheries. containing a mo. s. d. description of the iceland fisheries, and of occurrences duning six months resi- the newfoundland fishery and colony, to dence in the province of calabria ulteriore, gether with remarks and propositions for in the kingdom of naples, in the years the better supply of the metropolis and in- , ; containing a description of terior with cured and fresh fish; elucidate the country, remarks on the manners and ing the necessity of encouraging and sup- customs of the inhabitants. by lieut. p. j. porting commerce and the general industry elmhirst, r. n. vo. s. of the country. by s. phelps. vo. s. an appendix to dickinson's history of thoughts on the funding and paper southwell. to. . d. system, and particularly the bank restric the history and antiquities of the town tion, as connected with the national dis of newark, in the county of nottingham. tresses, with remarks on the observations by w. dickinson. to. ). s. of mr. preston and sir john sinclair. by oxford university calendar. corrected to n. j. denison, esq. vo. s. d. . mo. s. d. a defence of the poor laws, with a plan for the suppression of mendicity, and for voyages and travels. the establishment of parochiai benefit so the tour of africa, containing a concise cieties. by samuel roberts. account of all the countries in that quarter theology. of the globe, hitherto visited by europeans. familiar dissertations on theological selected from the best authors, and arrang- and moral subjects. by the rev. w. bar- ed by catherine hutton. with a map. row. vo. s. vo. s. the power of faith exemplified in the recollections of japan, comprising a par- life and writings of the late mrs. j. gra- ticular account of the religion, language, ham of new york. mo. . government, laws, &c. &c. with observa- historical memoirs respecting the en- tions on the geography, climate, population, glisli, irish, and scottish catholics, from the and productions of the country. by capt. reformation to the present time. by golownin, r. n. to which is prefixed charles butler, esq. vols. vo. . . chronological details of the rise, decline, and discourses illustrative of the designs of renewal of british intercourse with that christianity, and of some parts of its internal country. svo. . evidence. by daniel dewer, ll.d vo. s. varieties-literary, scientific, &c, cambridge, feb. . the subjects for representatives in parliament for this uni. sir william browne's gold medals for the versity, for the present year, are, for the present year are-for the greek ode, re- senior bachelors,- quænam fuerit gina epicedium ; for the latin ode, thebe oraculorum vera indoles ac natura? Ægyptiace ; and for the epigrams, discri- middle bachelors,— inter ceterum men obscurum. feb. . the late dr. smith's annual philosophorum sectas, cuinam potissimum prizes of . each to the two best proficients tribuenda sit laus rere sapientia : in mathematics and natural philosophy, the subject of the seatonian prize poem amongst the commencing bachelors of arts, for the present year is-moses receiving are this year adjudged to mr. joshua king, the tables of the law. of queen's college, and mr. george miles the hulsean prize for the last year has cooper, of st. john's college, the first and been adjudged to wm. peach, esq. of st. second wranglers. john's college, for his essay on. the pro- the subjects for the prizes given by the bable infuence of revelation upon the .) varieties~ literary, scientific, fc. writings of the heathen philosophers and dians, of such mathematical exactness as the morals of the heathen world. wholly to exceed the artist's skill in lineal new fire-places. dr. arnott, directing varieties ; and of printing with diamond bis attention to the advantage of an equal type, an imitation of which type would pre- temperature in rooms occupied by persons sent insurmountable difficulties, the expence suffering under pulmonary complaints, has being prodigious, the skil first-rate, and invented a new apparatus for attaining that the length of time necessary for finishing object. it consists simply of a glazed metal a font of type for the purpose being several frame or window, fitted to the chimney-piece, months. it recommended a combination of and placed before the fire, so as perfectly to engraving and printing, thus rendering ne- cut off the communication between the room cessary an union between the engravers and and the fire-place. the fire is fed with air printers, as the most probable means of se- by a tube from without, and ventilation is curing detection. in the erent of imitation. effected by openings near the ceiling, either in order to obviate the objection of expense, into the chimney or staircase. the inventor so likely to be felt by the bank, it was asserts that the benefits of this plan are, a proposed, in consequence of the opinion nearly uniform temperature throughout the given of the first artists on the subject, room, the total prevention of currents or that steel plates should be used instead of drafts of air, the saving of fuel, the general copper. copper-plates, it was stated, were raising of temperature in the hoose, and not capable of striking off more than the exclusion of smoke or dust. for such impressions each, and the expense of the blessings he thinks we might bear the eye- plates amount to a considerable sum, the sore of looking at our fires through a win- estimate of the number struck off every day dow, and opening a pane occasionally to at the bank being , . steel, by being admit the poker: not having seen the appa- softened, would take the engraving, atter ratus, we can only notice its pretensions which it should be case-hardened, and by without being able to say whether it will or this process each plate would be capable of will not maintain them. impressing an infinite number. to prove lizard embedded in coal.-in august the practicability of this plan of substituting last, as the colliers of mr. penton, near steel for copper, the practice of the banks wakefield, were sinking a new pit or shaft, in the united states was quoted, and seve- they discovered a lizard embedded in the ral american bank-notes were exhibited to coal. it was about five inches long, its the committee, and respectable evidence back of a dark brown colour, and appeared heard by them. rough and scaly ; its sides were of a lighter suicide committed by a brute animal. colour, and spotted with yellow; the belly a letter to the editor of a norning paper yellow streaked, with bands the same colour contains the following statement :- a few as the back. it continued brisk and lively days ago, when taking a ride before dinner, for about ten minutes, then drooped and round the lawn, in front of the house at died. about four inches above the coal in friars carse, in company with another gen- which the animal was found, numbers of teman, we perceived a sheep on the oppo- muscle-shells, in a fossil state, lie scattered site side of the river nith belonging to the about in a loose, gray earth. flock of a respectable farmer on the estate tar lamp.-the american papers de of dalswinton, separate from the rest of its scribe a lamp in which tar is burnt instead companions, and, in seeming perfect health, of oil. it consists of a fountain reservoir to boldly advance towards the banks of the supply and preserve a constant level, and a river. it then dashed into the water, and lamp which receives the fountain-pipe at having proceeded nearly to its depth, with- one end, and at the other a burner for the out swimming, it immediately put its head tar: this is merely a small cup placed on under water, leaving its back only visible the axis of the lamp, and supplied with tar while in the act of drowning. while writh- from the fountain. a draught tube is fixed ing in the agonies of death (which were in the lanthorn, or external part of the visible to each of us from the convulsive lamp, and air is admitted by a hole at the motions in its back, which remained during bottom. the current of air, in passing the whole period above water) we expected through the lamp, envelopes the burner, every moment to see it raise its head, but and urges the flame, and the draught tube no! bent on self-destruction, it kept its conveys off the smoke.- journal of science. head firmly under water, until the couvul- society of arts.---bank notes.--at a pu- sive throbs becarie less apparent, and until merous meeting of the members of the so- life was totally extinguished.” ciety in the adelphi, the report of the sugar in potatoes.-m. peschier, of ge- committee of polite arts, relative to the dif- neva, has ascertained by some experiments ferent plans which had been presented to the (an account of which is inserted in the bi- society, for improved methods of making bliotheque universelle), the presence of su- bank-notes, was presented and read. it gar in the potatoe, accompanied also by a contained certain plans, consisting of supe- 'portion of gum. some rasped potatoes rior specimens by eminent artists of engrav. were left for some hours in water, and then ings of a very peculiar description by in- pressed and dried. all soluble matter had varielies-- literary, scientific, fc. [march , not, howerer, been removed from them; temptible pretences. his lordship's resi- for ounces of this starch thus obtained, dence at venice is marked by numberless being digested in eight pints of cold water, acts of charity. some short time ago, a for hours, gave a solution, which, by printer, at malinari, had the misfortune to evaporation, yielded a brown, adhesive, and suffer a great loss by fire: immcdiately on sweet substance. this, treated with alco- the facts being communicated to his lord- hol, was separated into two parts ; about ship he sent the man guineas. such grains of sugar were dissolved, and the disinterested benevolence stands not in need residue, when acted upon by water, gave of praise.---(morning paper.) grains of a gum, and a very small quan- icelandic literature has received, and tity of insoluble matter. is still receiving, accessions from the exer- it is not supposed probable that this tions of m. lilligren. this gentleman, who should be all the sugar potatoes contained; is professor at lund, is engaged in trans- a part had, no doubt, been removed by the lating a number of icelandic manuscripts, first washing of the fecula, and from the which are preserved in the royal library at apparent affinity between the starch and the stockholm. a volume of these translations sugar, a part was probably retained by it has already made its appearance. m. peschier, impressed by the result of his new scientific institution.-an institu- experiments, is induced to believe that the tition, entitled ihe “ cornwall literary and yalue of the potatoe, as an object of culture, philosophical society," has been established will be increased by a knowledge of the in cornwall, for the advancement and culti- above fact; and also to think that it is deci- vation of national and experimental philoso- sive, but opposing evidence to the opinion, phy, general history, biography and the fine that alcohol could be formed by the fermen- arts. the establishment of a museum is tation of substances not containing sugar. also one of the objects of this society, in galranism.-on the th of november which there are, already great promises of last, various galvanic experiments were success. made on the body of the murderer clyds- france. dale, after it had hung an hour, by dr. ure, paris.-the first volume of the history at glasgow, with a voltaic battery of of the spanish war against napoleon bo pairs of -inch plates. on moving the rod naparte, has lately been translated from from the hip to the heel, the knee being spanish into french. it is pretty generally previously bent, the leg was thrown out known, that the spanish government ap- with such violence, as nearly to overturn pointed a committee of officers of every one of the assistants, who in vain attempted arme to edite, under the superintendence of to prevent its extension! in the nd expe- the minister of war, the history of the war riment, the rod was applied to the phrenic of independence. the work will comprise nerve in the neck, when laborious breath- about volumes, which are to appear in ing instantly commenced: the chest heured succession. the first volume contains and fell ; the belly was protruded and col. merely the introduction: it gives an excel- lapsed, with the relaxing and retiring lent explanation of the causes which brought diaphragm : and it is thought, that but about the war, and the situation of the from the complete evacuation of the blood, country at the period of bonaparte's inva- pulsation might have occurred !! in the sion. the authors acknowledge that the rd experiment, the supra-orbital nerve was administration of spain was then very touched, when every muscle in the mur badly conducted, and in a state of complete derer's face was thrown into fearful ac- decay, which rendered the contest between lion.” the scene was hideous; several of the inhabitants and the usurper very un- the spectators left the room, and one gente- equal. to this first volume are added, the man actually fainted, from terror, or sick official documents referred to in the course ness !! in the fourth experiment, the trans- of the work, together with a list of the mitting of the electric power from the spinal spanish, portuguese, english, and french marrow to the ulnar nerve at the elbow, works which the authors have compared the fingers were instantly put in motion, with their materials. the work cannot and the agitation of the arm was so great, fail to prove exceedingly interesting, from that the corpse seemed to point to the dif- its great extent, and the vast care that has ferent spectators, some of whom thought it been bestowed on it. if it be pot entirely had come to life! dr. ure appears to be of impartial, the editors deserve high praise opinion, that had not incisions been made for the tone of moderation which pervades in the blocd-vessels of the neck, and the the whole. it is to be accompanied by a spinal narrow been lacerated, the crimiital collection of maps and military plans. might hare been restored to life!! a. m. fescourt has just published an in- lord byron. there are so many amis teresting history of the double conspiracy able traits in the character of this noble of the republicans and royalists against bard, that we are astonished how malevo- bonaparte, in ; and of the banishment lence has so long found food for her appe- of the persons who were sent to the tite-for her continual attacks on him, from sechelle isles, several of whom died shortly so many quarters, and under so many con- afterwards in the utmost wretchedness. the —་ལ་བ — - sa er vo imoun by w. broms engnued by h. mayer the rey, c.r. naturin. published march . . by henry colburn condut surat. .] memoir of the rev. c, r. maturin. adventures of some of these unfortunate which is now preparing by sir william persons are most extraordinary. the work gell: something excellent may be expected, is embellished with an excellent map of the as he is a man of great ability, and has re- sechelle isles. sided there several years. naples. the last excavations at pompeii have the traveller belzoni, so well known for greatly enriched our collections, and now his discoveries of antiquities, in egypt, is too, all the marbles and bronzes, belonging pot dead, as has been reported in english to the former farnese collection which still and other journals. lord belmore, who lay about in the rooms, are properly ar- has been for some time here, having lately ranged. returned from a scientific tour to egypt, west indies. palestine, syria, troy, &c. has lately re volcano.--in a recent number of the do- ceived letters from him daled thebeg, th minica chronicle, we observe an interesting october, ; he remains in egypt, and notice respecting “ a perfect volcano in mi- continues with unabated zeal his search niature," formed, it appears, in the parish of after a ciquities. st. john, in that island. twelve months tord belmore himself has advanced into ago it was only a few inches in circumfe- nubia ahore: leagues beyond the cata- rence and still lewer in height. in july last racts. this lordship remained six weeks at its dimensions had increased a hundred- thebes, where le employed one hundred fold, and, should it continue to make a pro- arabs daily in diguing for antiquities, and portionable increase, it is apprehended, that has mide several very nteresting discoveries. at no remote period it may assume an ap- this journeymi prove, alo, of great ad- palling sight. the boiling lava, or liquid vant getu ographers, as he determined earth, perpetually discharges from the by usircooin'cal observations, the latitudes mouth. a long staff was thrown into the sand lingitudes of most of the laces through body of it--the matter which adhered to the which he passed. it may, therefore, be ex- staff had the appearance of a thick bluish pected, that when he returns to england he marl, of a sulphureous smell and sweetish will publish much interesting intormation. taste. the rumbling of the boiling liquor we also look for a description of greece, within can be distincuy heard." memoir of the rev. c. r. maturin. (itith a portrait.) charles robert maturin,the sub- most men who marry early, he became ject of this memoir, is the descendant the father of several children, three of of a french protestant emigrant family whom survive, at an age when children (whose history is almost as romantic as are rather considered as toys to sport any recorded in the piges of fiction, and with, than objects to be provided for in the son of a gentleman who held, for life. for several years after his mar- many years, a lucrative and respectable riage he continued to reside in his fa- situation under government. he enter- ther's house, till that father's dismission ed trinity college, dublin, at the age from the situation which he had held of fifteen, and his academical progress years, with a spotless and esteemed cha- was marked not only by the attainment racter, plunged the whole family into a of premiums and a scholarship, but of state of horrible distress, equalled only, prizes for composition and extempore perhaps, by that which occurred in the speaking in the theological class, and of family of the unfortunate sutherland- the inedals bestowed by the (now abo. though not terminated by the same lished) historical society, on those who dreadful catastrophe. distinguished themselves by rhetorical mr. maturin, sen, during the course and poetical productions. though his of a long and respectable life, had brought collegiate life was thus not without its up and maintained a numerous family ; honors, we understand from the friend he had married his daughters, and esta- who communicated the materials for this blished his sons. the day of his dismis. memoir, that its subject was considered, sion he was pennyless : it is singular, both by his tutors and his companioas, that though the commissioners of in- as more remarkable for indolence and quiry, who sat repeatedly on the busi- melancholy than for talent. at a very ness, pronouneed this unfortunate gen- early period of life, after a court- tleman who!ly innocent of the charge ship that literally commenced in boy- (of fraud) brought against him, he has hood, he married henrietta kingsbury, been suffered to linger for nine years sister to the present archdeacon of kil- since, without redress, without relief, lala, and grand-daughter of that dr. and without notice. his son was now kingsbury to whom tradition says swift obliged to apply himself to means for the uttered his last rational words. like subsistence of his family, which the sti- memoir of the rev. c. r. maturin. [march , pend of a dublin curate, his only prefer- the london theatres, suffered the ma- ment, could not afford. he proposed duscript to moulder by him for a year to take pupils, as inmates in his house; and a half, and then submitted it to the and, encouraged by the recollection of perusal of mr. scott: by mr. scott it his own success at college, applied him was transferred to lord byron, then a self to his task with industry and hope, member of the committee of drury-lane for some time he was successful, and we theatre, and, through his influence, have been informed that “bertrain" brought out at that theatre in may , was written while the author had six wito an effect and popularity unparallel- young men residents in his house, and ed since the production of “ pizarro." four who attended him for instruction the popularity of dramatic works is, daily, to all of whom his attention was however, proverbially transient; the unremitting. at this period he was un moral feeling of the public was wounded fortunately induced to become security by an alledged fault in the narrative, and for a relation whose affairs were consi- “bertram," after carrying all before it derably involved: the consequence was -- for the first season, and being succusse what the consequence usually is the fully represented in england, ireland, relation defeated his creditors by taking scotland, and even america, is now, we the benefit of the act of insolvency, and believe, finally discarded from the list of left the burthen of his debts on those stock-plavs. « bertram" was followed who had attempted to lighten their pres- by “ manuel ;" relative to the failure of sure on him. which we have been favoured with some mr. maturin was compelled to give curious circumstances. when mr. m. up his establishment, and is since, we visited london, on the success of “ ber- understand, dependent solely on his lite- tram," he was urged to employ his pen for mr. kean in the subsequent season. rary talents for subsistence. he was informed that that gentleman we willingly hasten over these details was was extremely anxious to appear in a of misery, and pass to what is more pro- character of hoary and decrepid distress; perly our province--the history of mr. and that the calamitous situation of his maturin's literary life. his first pro- majesty having rendered the represen- duction was “ montorio," and this was tation of “ lear" improper, a private followed by the “wild irish bov," and character, in a state of grief and insa- the “ milesian.” of these works, mr. nity, might be substituted for it, and maturin, in his preface to “ women," would insure all the success which the has spoken with a feeling of severity, in talents of that great actor, exerted in a which we are disposed most cordially to character of his own selection, might be sympathize. they are in fact below all expected to command. mr. m. accord- censure, and we really enjoy mr. matu- ingly strained every nerve to realize the rin's candour in compromising an au- conceptions of the performer, and the thor's feelings with regard to his own result was a total failure. this may, works, and speaking of them as they de- perhaps, be a useful lesson to the ambi- serve. tious caprice of actors, and the fatal ob- one circumstance alone could have sequiousness of authors; causes to induced us to think them worthy of be- which may be ascribed the obvious and ing mentioned here, and this is, that progressive deterioration of the english walter scott was pleased to find or im- stage. agine some merit in “ montorio" -- that we have now, overlooking the sins of this was signified to mr. m.-that he his early youth, to speak of mr. mi's availed himself of it to solicit an episto- three last works, “ bertram,”—“ ma- lary communication with mr. scott; and nuel," and his tale of “ women, "- that to the zealous friendship, the judi- works which, with all their defects, have cious monitions, and the indefatigable no parallel or resemblance in modern patronage of this most excellent man, composition. they all apppear purely our author has been heard gratefully to the works of the author's mivid. they ascribe all the distinction and success he are, as johnson savs_“ painted out has subsequently enjoyed. excited by with resolute deliberation;" his cha. the success of mr. sheil's first tragedy racters have no prototype in na- of “ adelaide," in dublin, he wrote ture or life-they never existed, and “ bertram," and offered it to the mana- never could have existed-yet they are ger of crow-street theatre, by whom it not unnatural. they are the creatures was rejected in the year . mr. m. of a powerful and poetical imagination, rót possessing any means of access to that can make us believe in its own cres- .) fine arts. tion, and with a touch, like magic, investm r. maturin, now among our standard illusions with all the reality of truth. authors, is, it appears, determined to be he is alike “ disdainful of help or hin- among our most prolific and indefatigable drance." he has neither image, senti- ones. he has a volume of sermons in the ment, or style, or way of thinking, in press. he is preparing a series of tales, common with his eotemporaries. he is which will come before the public the fol. original (no small praise in this day of lowing season, and he has offered trage- imitation), and his melancholy is nei dies to the manager of covent garden, ther that “ of the poet, or courtier, or and the committee of drury lane scholar"-it is his own--the predominant theatre: from the former, which will and awful tincture of his mind. his own shortly be forth-coming, high expecta- feelings have communicated themselves tions are entertained. to his writings; it is not the fastidious of the private babits or character of melancholy of-surfeited luxury, not the an individual hitherto so obscure, and maudlin tear of the bacchanal in the in- living in another country, little can be terval of intoxication, but that melan- learnt or related ; but we have heard choly which arises from a sadly experi- that the emotion with which he speaks mental acquaintance with real suffer- of mr. scott, proves him to have a warm ings and their practical results. sense of gratitude; and the passiveness of “ bertram" so much has been said with which he has borne the attacks of in praise and in dispraise, that it would his foes, a very cold one of injustice and be idle for us to add any thing—it was calumny. in private life he is said to the most successful tragedy of its day- display a mixture of placidity and insou- and is still a powerful monument of poe. ciance often united in the literary cha- tical ability. of “ manuel" we are in- racter, and to be a kind relative, an in- clined to speak more favourably than dulgent parent, and the most uxorious the public has yet spoken, or will be wil- man breathing. ling, perhaps, to credit, after its failure. we bave been informed, too, that the but the reader who turns to the de- most singular contrast exists between scription of the “ battle of osma," in the general character of his writings and the first act-to the thrilling exclama the temper and taste of the author; tion of " let none but fathers search," in and that the sorcerer, whose wand and the second--to the beautiful and poeti- word of power could evoke the awful cal pleadings of manuel and de Želos, but distorted phantoms of " montorio," in the third-to the feeble deliriumn and the vivid delineator of the dreaded and officious debility of manuel in the fourth dreadless “ bertram ;" the faithful and and to the exquisite dialogue between agonizing tracer of the conflicts of blas- the guardian daughter and the lunatic phemy, suicide, and despair in "women," father, in the fifth, will acknowledge is, in real life, the gayest of the gay, they have scarce a parallel in english passionately fond of society, and of all dramatic poetry. « women," is a work that can exhilarate or embellish it-of which, with all its dullness, its mono- music, of dancing, of the company of the tony of suffering, and its horrible ana- youthful, and the society of females. tomy of the moral frame, stands alone in person mr. maturin is tall, and among modern writings—there is no- formed with much elegance ; but his thing like it-its profound and philoso- countenance, unless when illuminated phic melancholy, its terrible researches by conversation, expresses only the pro- into the deepest abysses of the human foundest melancholy. heart, and of human feeling-its daring . he must be now years old, having drawing the veil of the “ holy of holies," been born in the year , though the while the hand that draws it trembles at advantages of a figure unusually slight the touch, make it a work unequalled in and juvenile, give him the appearance of the list of english novels. we know being many years younger. nothing - simile aut secundum. fine arts. british gallery. lect amateurs, on the preceding satur- the public exhibition of the works day. the collection, although not so of the british artists commenced on numerous in superior specimens, as in monday, the ist of february, after they some former years, bears testimony in had been submitted to the private in favour of the british school. the artists spection of the nobility, gentry, and se, and the country owe an incalculable [march , fine arts. debt of gratitude to the british institu- although not free from the manner tion. but unless the public second which marks the works of this veteran their munificent efforts, and government artist. . “ a grove scene," by stark, grants a permanent support to the arts, is a tasteful study from naturc. . we confess that we look forward with “a sailing match at wroxham," by anxiety for the interest of the noble ob- the same artist ; in happy selection, va- ject which this patriotic association was riety of object, picturesque composition, established to advocate. light, shadow, colouring and execution, among the landscape painters, who ranks in the first class of landscapes in bave made an advance this year, miss the gallery. . “ interior of a cow- gouldsmith, t. fielding, g. samuel, house," by the same, is a clever, well- m. ash, and h, w. burgess, have ob conducted picture. . “ a quarry tained deserved credit, and produced ground-autumnal evening;" and , many pleasing cabinet specimens. no. “ the approach of a thunder storm," . ** caernarvon castle," by c. v. a landscape, with gypsies, are two pic- fielding, is a bold view, with good tures of much merit, by t. barker ; forms and large masses; but the sky is and , “ a mason's boy beating a opaque, and the effect not sufficiently sand boy," by the same artist, is cle. aërial. mr. p. nasmyth has five local verly designed ; the expression is just, views selected with taste, and executed and the effect broad and spirited; . with spirit and delicacy. no. . “ the “ the cottage door," is also by this town of saltash on the river tamer artist. this is a representation of geo. early evening," is an expanded scene, kelsin, the original woodman, by whose painted with much truth of nature, picture mr. barker, obtained so much and clear serenity of effect; but some- deserved celebrity many years ago. this what naked on the foreground. no. . honest rustic is now in his hundredth “ osmington shore, near weymouth," year, and is seated at the door of his by j. constable, is a clear, well-coloured humble dwelling. his aged wife is sit- picture; , by the same, is cleverly ting behind him. a girl carrying fag- painted, and the fore and middle-grounds gots on her head, and a boy riding on happily selected; but the sky is heavy an ass, are seen at a small distance. the in parts, and, generally, somewhat defi. landscape is rich, and the whole painted cient in clearness. . “ a view near with sobriety and a strong character of windsor," by w. ingalton, is painted nature. b. barker has six excellent with breadth and mellowness. . landscapes. they are painted in a * near bletsworth, surrey," by wilson, broad, spirited style, with much force of has considerable merit. . “ ulls- effect, but somewhat too dark and cold · water." . “a scene at white in the colouring. is “a coast scene," knights;" and , “ patterdale, morn- by j. f. ellis, with a group of figures ing," by t. c. hoffand, are three pleas- seated on a wharf, shipping at the en- ing views. . “ goodridge castle," by trance of a dock, and buildings on the the same, is a bold, romantic prospect, opposite shore. there is a glowing painted with much force and in a good effect of sun-light in this picture, a good taste. . “ sheffield, yorkshire, by taste in the selection and disposition of moonlight,” is another of his works, the objects, a breadth and boldness in with an effect of silvery lustre sufficient the masses of the sky, and a vigour in to fill a poet's mind with delicate inspi- the penciling, which place this artist ration. we lingered for some time without a superior in marine composi- over this picturesquc view of a town to tion, among the exhibitors of this year. which the pure and fervid muse of . “ a cottage scene," by vincent, montgomery has so long directed the is in a good taste, painted with great attention of the empire. there is a spirit and a fine breadth of light, but classical chastity in all this artist's land- some of the shadows on the cottage are scapes; and his grand composition of rather too strong for their relative effect, jerusalem" last year shews his vigour of and the dark cow is a spot. . “a imagination ; but the local colouring in view on the river warsum," is a pleas- his views would still admit of more liveli. ing and picturesque representation of ness, and the touch of his foliage of nature : and , “ a view on the river more detailed character. there are yare, afternoon,” with boats and seven landscapes by ph. reinagle, r.a. figures, are both by the same artist. in three of them with cattle and figures, all composition, diversity of subject, truth painted with great richness of colour, and vigor of local colouring, admirable spirited penciling, and vigour of effect; diffusion of day-light and richness of . fine arts. effect, the latter stands in the highest tematically lose sight of dature, and class in the rooms. no. . “a scene sink every other quality in an unmean- on the coast of norfolk," by collins, ing rapidity of hand, and confirmed was exhibited, last year, at the royal sameness of manner, may well excite academy; but to the lover of nature it our surprize and concern. with one will always have the charm of novelty, fourth of this gentleman's patural and the pure taste in the selection of the acquired powers, we are confident he scene is set off by the exquisite chastity could still obtain a high ground in the of the execution. the sparkling details public estimation, by regaining the path of light, form and colour, which consti- of truth and nature, from which he has tute the sentiment of locality, and the unaccountably straved. no. gl. the admirable combination of the objects, “ mother," and , “ ariel," are by catry the imagination of the spectator w. brockedon; the former is a fino to the sea-shore, and awaken all the thought, but not sufficiently studied. soothing illusions of the prospect in the child is beautifully conceived, and the mind. the fisher boys are painted the landscape grand ; but the expression in this artist's best style. in this deli- is not just in the head of the mother : cious picture we have the clear open it requires to be re-touched. this is brightness of day. in his admired" sea evidently a hasty and indigested per- coast,” in sir john leicester's splendid formance. the ariel is a pleasing pic- collection, the cool freshness and ruddy ture, and much more finished. the glow of sun-rise are painted with unri. wild and fanciful grace of the figure dnes valled truth and beauty; and in no. l, credit to the artist's tasteful conception. his brilliarit picture of “ the departure no. . “ moses receiving the tables of of the diligence for rouen,” the effect the law," is by the same artist, and he of torch and lamp-light are as richly has made a wonderful advance from bis painted. this latter picture was last historical picture last year, in this per- may at somerset house, and duly ap- formance. the directors have hung it preciated by the public. at the end of the room, in front of the in subjects of familiar life, there are great staircase, and it fills this distin- bot many candidates for applause. mul- guished place with honour to their rendy, the british jun steen, who, to a taste and patronage. the attitude vein of delicate humour, unites the is striking and grand; the figure power of a draughtsman, and the firm majestic, and considerably above the execution of a veteran painter, with size of nature. the prophet is bending a glowing colouring, and breadth of the left knee to the earth, and support- chiaro-scuro, is not an exhibitor this year. ing his body on the right limh, rere. sharp, whose pictures in genteel life rentially receiving the tables from the possess so rich a fund of merit, has also most high. the dark clouds and flame declined the field. we shall, in our next, surround mount sinai, on whose height notice the chief exhibitors in this class; he holds communion with heaven. the but shall pass now to another depart. deep sense of an adoring spirit is finely ment of art. no. . the “ infant ve. expressed by the action of receiving nus," and , the “ infant neptune," the tables with his arms elevated, his by h. singleton, are too red and brown head bowed, and eyes raised, in silent in the shadows. . “adam and eve awe. it exhibits the weakaisi of hu- lampenting over the body of abel,” has man nature, eren when covered with the same defect. this artist has four the divine favour, retiring witin itself, other pictures, fr.m subjects in ordinary humbled and oppressed by the pr sence life, of which, , a swiss peasant of omnipotence. the grandeur at the bor," is designed with graceful sim- conception and power of the execution, plicity; but indifferently coloured. his place this among the first class of bisa works have all a sufficient degree of torical single figures in the highest de- merit, to show that they are the pro- partment of the british school. the ductioas of an artist of genius; but drapery is simple and large in its folds. there is a certain common-place facility. the colouring is grave; the drying, a sleight-of-hand trick in them, which and particularly the fore-shortened knee, lessens or rather destroys their interest. masterly; the chiaro-scuro vigorous, that a painter of much taste, and prac. and the whole character marked by an rical power, who has, in so many of his intensity and elevation, which peculiarly earlier works, evinced a sense of har- breathe the spirit of sacred ilistory. mony and truth in colour, and of ele- . « the return of louis the eigh- gance and beauty in form, should srs- teenth," by e. dird. when we were new monthly alag. -- no. . vol. xi. [march , fine arts. informed that this excellent artist had have so often borne testimony to his undertaken this subject, we were, from merits, and are so convinced of his a due consideration of its difficulties, liberal interpretation, that we discharge but little disposed to congratulate him; this unpleasant duty with a perfect re- and we are much concerned to confess liance on his candour. while we use that our anticipations are rather con- the language of kind respect to a mind firmed than disproved by a view of his so full of amenity as his, we are satisfied picture in the british gallery. there that we shall not offend; and we are are so many formalities of dress and eti- confident that the public sense of his quette, so much cold pomp, empty show, many fine performances will not be les. and bustle in a modern subject of this sened by the exhibition of this single class, that we conceive it to be very unfit failure. for the display of a tasteful and elegant hilton has retouched his glorious pic- simplicity or true natural feeling. the ture of “ una attended by the satyrs," heavy and infirm figure of the king, an from spenser, since it was exhibited last old man, in the ordinary dress of the may at somerset house. he has deep day, seated on a chair, as a spectacle for ened and harmonized its masses of sha- the curiosity of the gazing multitude, dow, and toned the splendor of its co- possesses little dignity or majesty, as louring. the head of the principal the chief object of the composition. it character has been repainted, and una is is a fatality, in the representation of an now the “sweet and gentle una" of the event which consisted in a movement poet. in vigour of imagination, in of the principal personage, that he is richness of invention, and in a trium- painted sitting. this single error neu- phant power of execution, this picture tralizes much of the action and impres- takes the lead as a poetical composition. sion of the scene. a young and war. the british artist here may fairly chal- like figure of a king on horseback after lenge the competition of all his contem- haring landed, or a venerable monarch poraries on the continent; and this stepping out with a majestic air, amidst noble performance was immediately fol. an enthusiastic procession of his people, lowed up by his chef d'autre, the “ ju- surrounded by the flower of his nobles, piter and europa," painted on a commis- and the loveliest ladies of his court sjon for the rallying ground of british would have afforded a field for the ge- genius, sir john leicester's splendid nius of the artist. but the prospect gallery. yet, while england is filled here is very different. the diligent ac. with the fame of this artist, and while cumulation of materials, and patient his modest amenity ae a man, renders the finishing of details reflect credit on mr. persevering enthu jasm of his genius bird's industry; but, as a whole, the more estimable, this admired and admi- picture is mainly deficient in composi- rable picture his usa, remains uusuld! tion, colouring, and character. the . “ st. peter paying the tribute countenance of the king is like; there with a piece of silver found in a fish," by are also some other portraits, wbich we g. hayter. the figures are seen some- recognized, and many figures, and a what below the breast, and are composed number of heads in the crowd well in a great style. the old heads are painted; but the mob of faces and same- grand and venerable ; but that of the ness of expression, the opaque and lea- soldier has too much of ordinary nature den hues of the flesh, the cold heavy co- for history. the hands are boldly louring of the whole, so unsuited to an drawn; the grouping is masterly and occasion of public exultation, the absothe story well told. the colouring is lute deficiency of female grace and beau- mellow but there is rather too much of ty, and the want of effective masses, a monotonous reddish hue in the flesh contribute altogether rather to repel and draperies, and the chiuro.scuro would than invite the spectator. it is almost be more effective if it had the advantage unuecessary to add that the interest of of some high light. the artist's powers this picture is very confined and feeble. and fine taste are so obvious that we a captain, who has achieved many vic- conceive be may look less at the works tories, may bear a single check with of the old masters, and trust more to perfect gaiety of spirit; so this artist's his own fine vein of invention. this high and deserved celebrity, in his own picture is, altogether, an important fea- department of art, and the number of ture in the british gallery, and a work excellent pictures which he has painted, of historical genius, which reflects ho- may enable him to read these observa- mour on the painter and the british tions with an uomoved temper. we school. . “an italian peasant boy," h is .] fine arts. hd h. by the same artist, is a clever picture; through the veins of the spectator. we but there is a want of gradation in the regret that our restricted limits compel flesh tints, which are too red; and the us to quit this extraordinary picture, but head is somewbat too large for the limbs. to notice all its beauties would require . “ the fall of babylon," by j. a volume. martin, unites all the great essentials patronage op british genius. of an epic poem; and is one of the most an extraordinary interest is excited astonishing productions of modern art. in the first amateur circles, by the pre- it exhibits a splendor of imagination, an parations for exhibiting sir john lei- historical comprehension, and a power cester's splendid collection of paintings, of combination, rarely united in one by british artists only, early in march. person. the shipping and landing the the sensation occasioned by the dis- troops, the march of the armies, the de- play of this truly national gallery, last struction by fire and sword, and the season, was spread by the press, to horrors of attack and defence, the dread- every part of the empire. when we ful glories of victory, the dismay and beheld the blaze of beauty and fashion, confusion of defeat crowd upon the spec- the dignified mass of rank and talent, tator's fancy with the spirit-stirring im- which crowded to the view, we could pulse of an homeric muse. the public not help fancying ourselves in the temple edifices and the king's palace, the hang- of british glory; and that the flower of ing gardens and the tower of babel, are the whole people were concentered to represented with a pomp of architecture assist at the restoration of british ge- and a grandeur of perspective, which nius to her lawful throne, after nearly fill the mind with the most inagnificent two centuries of deposition. every and stupendous ideas of that celebrated native artist felt his breast swell with a city. the figures are small, but design- prouder hope, and his eyes sparkle with ed with a greatness of style, which pro- generous exultation: each walked more duces the effect of magnitude upon the erect, and looked as if he deemed him- mind. the attitudes and groups are self some inches taller: and, if wishes so various, the incidents so striking, could have been followed by the power and the contrasted features of fear and of execution, we have no doubt but flight and heroic valour, painted with that a golden statue would have been such a lively force, that we imagine the raised by professional gratitude to sir shock of battle, the subversion of an inn- john leicester. perial capital and the fall of a mighty this liberal patron was the first eng- empire before us. a correct and mi- lish gentleman of rank and fortune, who nute attention to the parts, has not, for had the manliness to think for himself an instant, turned the artist's eye from on the subject of painting, and to es- a steady comprehension of the whole. pouse the cause of modern art in eng- the glittering brilliancy of the touch, land, in the worst hour of its discou- so necessary in the architectural details, ragement. he set a noble example in and in the sparkling points of armour and the highest circles, long before that high- military weapons, is sustained with due minded budy, the british institution, gradations on all these objects. the wus thought of; and with a spirit, which artist has no where sought to take re- acquires fresh activity in its progress, he fuge in dingy shadows, or to veil his cir- still continues to lead the proud array cumstances in false obscurity. the of rank and intellect in favour of light is broadly diffused throughout the british genius. within the last year, whole extent, so as to bring the princi- with a munificent liberality, he has pal actions succinctly under the eye, in expended a large sum in making addi- due subordination. we may fairly dis- tions, by west, fuseli, hilton, turner pense with some technical tricks of sur- and collins, to his collection. we shall face and common-place harmony, where notice these fine specimens hereafter. there is so rich a fund of novel and ge- the picture painted by hilton, was the nuine materials. this artist's pencil first commission ever obtained by that speaks a language as original as his con- admirable artist. the subject of this ceptions are dauntless and diversified. chef-d'auvre of his pencil, is jupiter and the wing of his imagination never flags. europa, and we may fairly pronounce the fiery impulse of his genius, the true it the most glowing piece of poetry ever epic spirit, is every where in motion, produced by an english pencil. sir invigorating the action, enkindling pas- john's independent taste, in this in- sion, exciting interest, and sending the stance, has had an important effect upon blood in swifter and warmer currents the fame and fortune of the painter. [march , dramatic register - covent-garden. the appearance of this picture was im- the gallery has been superbly fitted up. mediately followed by a commission for the pictures are newly arranged so as an historical picture, from that zealous to bring forward the historical and advocate and patron of british art, sir fancy subjects into the most conspicuous richard colt hoare; and by mr. hilton's situation, and to give the most striking election to the rank of a royal acade- effect to the whole. last season the inician. the europa occupies a distin- impulse occasioned by the display was guishe place in this splendid collection, felt in london, dublin, and edinburgh; and will for ever share in the fame of and we bare no doubt but that through the leicester gallery and its princely the medium of the press and tile report of tou uder. noble fureigners, the sensation of this a magnificent landscape by wilson, year's exbibition will be felt in paris, and some fine works by opie and norill- rome, and vienna. w. c. cote wie among the alditional pictures, the drama. covent garden. falsehood, stigmatizes her as the king's mis- on wednesday the th, a vew tra. tress, and finally requests to see his portrait, gedy was performed at this house, to a which she usually wore as the pkdge of lis affection. she takes out the king's por- very crowded and fishionable audience. trait, and, without looking at it, gives it to the scene is laid in naples, and the fol- him. this confirms all he had heard from lowing is an outline of the plot:- ludovico. ile casts away the portrait of the king, in the midst of his court, grants evadne, her former gilt, and after violent an audience to the noble colonna (young), reproaches, quits her in anger for ever- wo loudly inveighs against courtiers, as ludovico next urges him to inarry olivia- eave and faithless minions. lie also de- he consents, and enters her house lo sclicit nounces ludovico, the king's minister and her hand. in the mean time colonna sur- favourite, as a traitor who kept a band of prises evadne in tears, before olivia's door, armed men in dav, for his own crimi- and surmising that her distress was occa- nal designs against the throne. the king sioned by vincentio's neglect, questions her, listens with dignified temper. ludovico but she endeavours to pacify him by assura (acready enters; replies with vehement ances that it was only a lover's quarrel, ori- protestations of zealous loyalty; and retorts ginating in her own waywardness, evadne the charze of treason in terms of scorniul is informed by ludovico, that vincentio is fury on colonna. to further his ambitious at that moment with olivia, setting the day designs, and revenge himself on his noble of their marriage. ludovico goes out, and denouncer, he subsequently avails himsell' of vincentio, on quitting olivia's bome, morts the king's passion for evadne (misso'neil) eradne-treats her with scornful cruelty, the sister of colonna, to inspire him with a and avows his intended marriage with olivia. qiminal hope of obtaining her. vincentio, colonna enters, and seeing his sister's ex- (mr. c. kemble) the favoured lover of treme disorder, insists upon knowing the evadne.returns from an embassy at florence, cause. she endeavours to assume an air and ludovico shews him a letter, in her of gaiety to prevent a duel, but bursts into a hand-writing, filled with warm expressions passion of tears. colonna questions vin- of tenderness, and written for him, but with centio, who points to evadne, as the king's a forged direction to the king. by this, mistress-colonna strikes him, and goes mind many artiul asseverations, le persuades out, ordering him to follow, and decide their him into a belief that she has been se difference by the sword. vincentio, in a duced by the king, who means to hide her paroxysm of tury, rushes from eradne, shame by marrying her to ber deceived lo- dashes her to the ground, and hastens after ver. ludovico also persuades olivia (mrs. his challenger. faucit) his kinsuomalı, who is in love with ludovico promises the king possession of vincertio, to forward his base plot against evadne; nay more, that the brave and evadne. the latter, in the midst of her high-minded colonna, her brother, shall joy for the arrival of her lover, while gaz- himself bring her to him, at midnight. he ing tenderly on his miniature, is surprised afterwards meets evadne, hurrying to pre- by olivia, who requests to view the portrait, vent the duel, and detaios her, by telling and obtains it. just then evadne secs vin- her that he had already reconciled her bro- centio approaching, and olivia taking ad- ther and vincentio. he reminds her of his for- vanizse of her agitation, exchanges his por mor love, and assails her with the most fran. tra't for thai ofile king, which she gives to tic exclamations, on her observing that she evadne, who hastily places it in her bosom, thought his passion was forgotten. he goes without examination. olivia goes out, and out, and colonna enters, with his sword vincentio meets evadne's kind welcome bloody, and avows to evadpe that he has with repulsive coldness, upbraids her with avenged her wrongs by the death of in- .) dramatic register - covent-gurden. centio. the guards enter, and seize co- colonna with a fiery boldness, although lonna, who, by a recent law, is to suffer im- in l.is first interview with the king he ra- mediate death for the murder of vincentio. ther exceeded the tone and bearing of a while preparations are making for his exe- subiect. olivia and the kiny are not cution, ludovico visits him in prison, dis- very prominent characters, but mrs. misses the guard, and tells him that he has faucit and mr. abbot made the most of obtained his pardon from the king, on the dreadful condition that he is to give a splej- thein. miss o'neil displayed her usual did party that night in his palace, and, after excellence; particularly in her efforts to the departure of the other guests, the king prevent the duel. her endeavours to in to remain and retire to a chamber, there assume a gaiety when her heart was to receive evadne írom the hand of her bro- bursting, had an electrifying effect upon ther. he adds, that, shocked by this hor- the audience, and added a new wreath rid proposal, he had accepted the pardon, to to the fame of this charming actress.- give colonna an opportunity of stabbing the the first and second acts were well re- king in bed. colonna, alter some repug. ceived: the third and fourth were nance, accedes to the plot. the king is in- heary,and occasioned apprehensions. the vited to the banquet, and, after he has re- statue scene itself was dubious, until the tired to a bed chamber, in colonna's palace, energies of macready, on turning roond colouna eviers an adjoining apartment,arm- ed by ludovico with a dagger. while he and discovering the king, threw the is attemwing to open the door of the king's house into a burst of acclamation, and room, his attention is called off by a voice. produced a favourable decision. the it is that of evadne, who enters, as if ac- curtain fell amidst thunders of apinlause, quainted with his purpose-informs him which were renewed without a dissent- that vincentio was not dead, and persuades ing voice, when the play was given out! him to let her meet the king. he complies, for performance the next evening. but struck by the strangeness of the request, there are many just and noble senti- suspects her inclinations, and conceals him. ments, and fine flights of imagination in self to over-hear their conversation. the this tragedy ; but its diction is very un- king enters, and evadne addresses herself to him, in a strain of exhortation, on the cha- equal, and the transitions from classical equals. racter of her ancestors, whose statues stand vigor to common place feebleness or ob- in the chamber. at length she comes to one, scurity, not uncommon. the characters and' asks if he knows it. she reminds him unfold the story, without being so de- it is that of her father, who had been his cidedly marked as to leare strong in- tutor, and who had fallen in battle, by step- pressions. their inconsistencies are, ia ping between him and a stroke aimed at his many instances, so obvious, as to merit life. she then einbraces the statue, and in- notice. the king, in the first scene. vokes the spirit of her father for protection. listens with dignified calmness to colon- the king is struck with remorse, and aban- n- na's bold and rather boisterous tone of en dons his design. she calls forth colonna, who is received into favour by the king. on remonstrance, and observes, that the ludovico's approach, evadne retires, and liberty of speech with which he permits the king conceals himself behind the statues that nobleman to address him, is a ludovico, on his entrance, is told by co- proof that he, himself, is no tyrant. lanna that he has killed the king. his am- this just observation, and the fact, ex. bitious exultation breaks forth, he reproach- bibit the king in a favourable light. he es colonna as his dupe, and calls in the is not stigmatized by any acts of cruelty guards to seize him, as the murderer of his or oppression; nor is his nature marked sovereign. they enter-and, in the mo- by habitual vices. his lawless passion ment of his turning round to complete his för evadne is the only stain upon his triumph, he is struck aghast by the ap- character. yet he is unnecessarily made pearance of the king, but recovers himself, to consent to the horrid project that she and endeavours to regain his ascendancy by fruitless protestations of zealous loyalty. as shall be brought to his chamber and sur- his last resource, he dra'vs his sword, in des rendered to him by colonna, upon whom pair, is slain by colonna, in an attempt he had no prior quarrel to revenge; and to kill the king, and the piece terminates in whose debasement, by this loathsome without the re-appearance of vincentio. act of turpituile, he could find no possi- the whole strength of the company ble gratification. his readiness to make was employed to support this play; and the nuble-minded brother an instrument the performers did ample justice to their of his sister's shame, is contrary to the parts. macready exlıibited all the ſea- tenor of the king's character; and tures of a daring, lıypocritical villain, plunging him, without any heightening with great vigour and discrimination, in of the interests or futherance of the ludovico, charles kemble was equally plot, into an abominable guilt, which spirited in vincentio. young played could only be consistent with the con- dramatic register-covent-garden. (march , firmed depravity of a brutal and aban- ing out the portrait from her bosom, to doned nature. yet, after having thus give it to vincentio, at once see that it yielded, uphesitatingly, to the commis- was the portrait of the king, and state to sion of so detestable a crime, this same vincentio the trick of the exchange that monster, when alone with the object of had been so recently put upon her by his upgovernable passion, apparently olivia ? ludovico, from the first, plans surrendered to his will at the hour of the death of the king by the hand of co- midnight, listens calmly to her exhorta- lonna, and yet he exposes colonna to tions, and is reasoned out of his unruly the chance of death, in the duel with wishes, by that beauty, for whose pos- vincentio. the repentance of olivia, session he was ready to bestow half his tuo, is strange and abrupt. after this realm on ludovico ! we have the high- unprincipled woman had, by a base act est opinion of female eloquence, but of perfidy, obtained the object of her still we may doubt, whether the lips and wishes, the certainty of marriage with eyes of a lovely woman are the very fit. vincentiv, she relents, and betrays her- test means to preach a libertine, at such self in pity for her rival! thé loyal an hour and opportunity, out of his de colomna, from the outset, avowed his sires. at least we would, by no means, conviction that ludovico was a false dis- advise our fair friends to seek such occa- sembling traitor. he denounces him as sions of making converts. and yet this such to the king, and yet he listens to royal lover, so mild and respectful, and all his treasonable machinations, and is open to conviction, is the monster, who, persuaded by him, without any other in the preceding act, granted a pardon evidence, to become the midnight mur- to the brother, on the horrid condition derer of his sovereign! ludovico re- of his consenting, himself, to deliver up reals all his intentions before-hand- his sister to infamy !- ludovico, too, every thing turns out as he planned it, was formerly a suitor of evadne ; and excepting the last chance ; and he is yet vincentio, her favored lover, not only only prevented from winning that, by the readily listensto all his vile suggestions for miraculous conversion of a royal liber- exciting his jealousy and causing him to tine, at midnight ka miracle indeed ! break off his connection with her, but, the blushing beauty, whom he met, by as credulously, at once, adopts his advice assignation, for the accomplishment of to marry olivia. how long is it since his wishes, reasons him from his wicked men began to take the advice of their purpose. he becomes, at once, calm, and rivals in their love affairs? why evadne dispassionately resigns her to a union did not direct the letter to vincentio, with her lover: and the high-spirited and dispatch it to him--and how ludo. colonna as suddenly grows cool, and vico came to possess it, are not very loses all sense of the dishonourable at clear. we must consider olivia's ex. tempt upon his sister! change of the portraits as a preconcerted we have felt it our duty to offer these treachery: but how could olivia foresee observations from a sincere wish to see that evadne, on their next meeting, the drama restored to its true tone and would have vincentio's portrait out dignity, as an organ, which possesses a gazing on it? how could she foresee powerful influence upon public manners that, after she had made the exchange, and morals. we have a hope, also, that evadne would not immediately look at mr. sheil, the author of this fortunate the king's portrait and detect her trea- pieco, for whom we feel a just respect, chery? would any one, in their senses, 'will in his next dramatic effort, allow however bent on the separation of the himself more time for due consideration. lovers, have incurred so imminent a ha. it is his duty to rely less upon the ac- zard of a discovery, which must have tors, and more upon his own talents- been fatal to all the projects of olivia to make his characters, at least, in some and ludovico ? how was she to foresee degree, consistent with themselves-tó that vincentio, after having been made found his circumstances in the probabi- to believe his mistress false, by the lities of real life; and to give the pas- strong evidence of an impassioned lettersions their true direction, as the only to the king, in her own hand-writing, means of acquiring a permanent reputa- would ever again enter into conversation tion, and deeply touching the bosoms or with her, or be so weak as to hang a exciting the interests of an audience. ) doubt upon the indecisive circumstance a new farce called “ place hunters," of her wearing or not wearing his por. was brought out at this house the same trait? and finally, what chance was week. it was a poor flimsy thing, merely there that evadne would not, upon tak- written to display liston, and after hav- .) drury lane theatre-literary report-copy-right act. ing been twice played to dissatisfied au sustain the piece, we never saw a play diences, was compressed into a piece of worse supported. this was so obvious, one act, called “ how to get a place." that cries of “shame! shame!" were drury-lane. several times directed to an eminent monday, feb. , a new tragedy call- actor, from the pit and boxes. after a ed “ switzerland," was performed at this succession of outcries, the performance theatre. it was publicly known to be closed, amidst a general uproar of con- from the pen of miss jane porter; demnation; and, on a persevering call and the deserved reputation which she for the manager, mr. stephen kemble has acquired by her novels, excited a appeared, and declared that, in obedience considerable expectation, and early filled to the decision of the house, the piece the house. the scene was laid in the would be withdrawn. times when the swiss contended for li- feb. , a new farce, called high no- berty against austria. but, as the pub- tions; or, a trip to ermouth, was lic have no interest in the particulars of brought out at this theatre. this plea- a condemned play, we shall not trespass sant trife is written by parry, the mu- on our readers by an attempt to unravel sical composer, and afforded some scope the plot. indeed, from the continued for the coinic powers of munden, kinight, confusion which prevailed in all parts russel, and mrs. alsop. mr. t. cook, of the house, it was utterly impossible miss cubit, and mrs. bland, with some to obtain any correct particulars of the tolerable songs, contributed to its fa- story. we cannot, however, forbear vourable reception, although without any remarking, that although the strength claim upon particular notice. of the company was brought forward to w.c. literary report. (we beg to remind oor correspondeals that all notices for this department must be sent on or before the th of each month.] copy-right act. and of every volume thereof, upon the paper an honourable member of the house of upon which the largest number or impres- commons having given notice, that, on the sion of such book shall be printed for sale, th of march, he intends again to bring together with all maps and prints belonging the subject of copy-right under considera- thereto, &c. &c., free of all expense, &c. &c." tion, we cannot help expressing a hope, that -- but as the case will shortly undergo a a tax so injurious to the interests of literature, new and ample investigation, we shall refrain and so unfair in principle, will then be entire- from offering any further observations at ly abolished. we are at a loss to discover one present, confidently hoping, that so flagrant tenable argument by which the continuance an act of injustice only requires to be tho- of the imposition can be supported. it is roughly explained to the ilouse, to insure its a partial impost for a general purpose; it discontinuance. is the reverse of what it purports to be, and acts in every point to discourage literature, a new monthly publication is announced rather than to encourage it. it is detri- at liverpool, entitled the imperial maga- mental to the public revenue, and the worst zine, or compendium of religious, moral, mode that can be devised for the advantage and philosophical knowledge. the first even of the public bodies in whose behalf it number is expected to be ready by the st is meairt to operate. march. in the rudest and most uncivilized times, collections for a topographical, histori- some protection has been afforded to litera- cal, and descriptive account of boston and ture, and the discriminating power then was the hundred of skirbeck, in the county of left to the author, or publisher, whether he lincoln, by mr. pishey thompson; will would avail bimself of the protection of the be published in royal vo. and royal to. act or not; and if he did take the protection in the course of the ensuing summer. so offered, he was very properly called to mr. westgarti forster is preparing pay for it. nor was it till , that, under for publication, by subscription, a second, an act entitled an act for the encourage- improved, and greatly enlarged edition of ment of lilerature, he was compelled to his treatise on a section of the strata, com- have his property secured to him by law, mencing near newcastle-upon-tyre, and which he was before in safe possession of, concluding in the west side of the moun- and for which he was bound, according to tain cross fell; with remarks on mineral the first enactment, to present, when de- veins in general ; also tables of the strata manded, (and this is rigorously enforced, in yorkshire and derbyshire. to which even to the most trumpery novels, “eleven are added, a treatise on the discovery, the printed copies of the whole of every book, opening, and the working of lead mines ; useful arts. (march , with the dressing and smelting of lead ores; the addition of his speech on the trial o? illustrated with several additional plates. the sheareses, and other speeches dever mr. t. yeat e , late of all soul's col- before collected: with a memoir and por- lege, oxford, and author of the “collation trait. of an indian copy of the hebrew penta the second and concluding volume of leuch," “ the indian church history," &c. baynes's ovid's epistles, mo. &c., is now printing a syriac and english london, or a month at stevens's, a sa- grammar, designed for ihe use of british tirical novel, by a late resident. stadents. the work was originally com zeal and experience, a tale, vo. posed at the request and under the inspection discourses on some of the most important of the late rev. dr. buchanan. doctrines and duties of christianity, by mr. william carey will publish, at the peter smith, a. m. ; vo. close of next month, an exposition of the a new edition of a song to david, hy the anti-british system of publication, tending late c. smart, m. a., translator of ilorace. to sacrifice the honour and interests of the luther's commentary on the psalms, british institution, the royal academy, and with historical elucidations and illustrative the whole body of the british artists, to the engravings, vo. passions, prejudices, and audacious false- elements of radiant and fixed matter, hoods of certain disappointed candidates for with plates, vo. prizes at the british gallery, and for admis. a view of the intellectual powers of mao, sion to the rank of associate academicians with observations on their cultivation, by mr. martin. in the press, and shortly may be er- the jacobite poetical relics of scotland, pected : during the struggles in and , by levlin abbey, a novel, by miss lerant. mr. hogy, the ettrick shepherd. dudley, a novel in vols. by miss the life of demosthenes, with an ac- o'keefe. count of the age of philip of macedon and political essays, in vol. vo. by wil alexander the great, by s. flemming, esq., liam hazlitt. in one volume, to. sixty curious and authentic narratives rosalind and helen, a tale, with other and anecdotes, respecting extraordinary poems, by p b. shelly, esq. characters ; illustrative of the tendency of a translation of the abbé guille's credulity and fanaticism; exemplifying the treatise on the amusements and instruction consequences of circumstantial evidence, of the blind, with engravings. and recording remarkable and singular in the family useful companion, contain- stances of voluntary human suffering, with ing a variety of domestic receipts, by mr. various interesting occurrences; by john w. pybus, of hull. cecil. a chronological abridgment of the ilis- speeches by the right hon. joun phil- tory of modern europe, compiled from the pot curran, late master of the rolls in best historians by mrs. piqu'et. ireland. an edition greatly enlarged by useful arts. patent safe coach. feet. it is impossible for it to lose its balance ; mr. henry matthews, of gretton as it is broader than the common coach, and place, east, bethnal green, has invented a allows more room for passepers. the stage coach upon a new principle. this perch, body, and boot, are something coach, of which we subjoin a drawing, is con- shorter, so that all the weight is much structed with considerable ingenuity, and nearer, and morn at the coinmand of the seems to have reached the ne plus ullra of horses. the present coaches, loaded oui- safety. it owes its origin to the pumerous side, and not within, are as easily turned overturns and accidents that so much afflict over as a column fifteen feet in height. the public ; and is eminently calculated to and only four feet six inches in diameter, allay all future apprehensions. its struc- the centre of gravity being the same in ture is light and elegant, and quite dissi- both. the wheel-horses, by this plan, are milar to the usual forms; their narrowness is relieved from that unequal variation, so justly complained of, and they are often general, occasioned by the weight being made to appear, from the union of persons placed so high as to vibrate from side to and packages, like the baggage carts of an side, the horses being compelled to an equal army. this, styled the “ safe coach," pace with a jerking unequal pull, from admits neither passengers nor parcels on alternately bearing heavier on one side than the roof; there are commodious seats, about the other. the wheels, pearly the size of six feet six iuches from the ground; and the mails, are fastened on with a lock and the luggage is under lock, secured from key, putting to rest all apprehension of their all possible loss, impervious to wet, and « dying off.” and to prevent uncomfort- placed at about three feet si inches, instead able intermixture of different classes of per of eight feet pine inches, lowering the sons, now so prevalent on the ontside of centre of gravity between two and three stage coaches, the front seats are devoted to .) patent safe co p saed coach gdone patent spous. la de or new monthly mag.–no. . vol. xi. meteorological report. [march , those who choose to pay a halfpenny per moding, or even touching each other; and mile more. the patentee does not intend the lover of nature will obtain better views to sell his coaches; but to let them out on than from a post-chaise, it being higher, hire for the same price now paid or sug- and with more windows. tained by the coachmaster. the additional a singular machine denominated the halfpenny per mile for the front seats out. pedestrian hobby-horse, invented by ba. side, will be his (the patentee's); but he ron von drais, a gentleman at the court of will farm them to the coachmaster. his the grand duke of baden, and which has coach affords convenience for stowing five been introduced into this country hy a cubic feet of more luggage than can be tradesman in long acre. the principle stowed in all parts of the present coaches, of this invention is taken from the art of and will yield; calculating each foot to con- skating, and consists in the simple idea of tain only . (say to brighton, at ld. per a seat upon two wheels, propelled by the ib.) an additional sum of feet acting upon the ground. the riding it is empowered by the act to carry seat, or saddle, is fixed on a perch upon two more outside passengers than two double shod wheels, running after each the usual, they being licensed to other, so that they can go upon the foot- carry , only on the condition of ways. to preserve the balance, a small carrying no luggage outside : board, covered and stuffed, is placed before, these two, at s. will be on which the arms are laid, and in front of - which is a little guiding pole, which is held in the band to direct the route. the swift- hence it appears by this statement, the ness with which a person well practised can “ safe coach" will produce to the coachmas travel, is almost beyond belief; eight, nine, ter for every miles journey, an increased and even ten miles may, it is asserted, be profit of ). s.; to the public it will afford passed over within the hour, on good level perfect safety, at no more than the present ground. the machine, it is conjectured, charges, and to the horses less labour. it will answer well for messengers, and even exceeds every other carriage for ease and for long journeys; they do not weigh more pleasantness; the inside passengers, only than fifty pounds, and may be made willa four, sit as in arm-chairs, without incom- travelling pockets. m. e. m. m. foggy e. m. n. e. rainy meteorological table. n.b. the observations are made twice every day, at eight o'clock in the morning and at ten in the evening. . ther. wind general remarks ther. wind. general remarks. jan. sm. s rainy m. w. serene e. s.w. serene feb. ue. w.nw. serene m. s.s.w. cloudy m. w.n.w. serene e. e.n.w. cloudy e. : n.w. serena foggy w s.w. rain e: foggy e. s.w. rain m. s.e. lighibreeze,cloudy m. s.w. rair e. lightbreeze,cloudy e. s.w. rain m. foggy s.w.v. cloudy, rain e. e. s.s. w. cloudy, rain m. cloudy, showers m. n.w. stormy e. | n.w. cloudy, showers s.s.w. stormy cloudy m. s.s.w. rainy e n. cloudy w. s.w. rainy m. s.w. severe m. v.s. w. seb. cloudy, raia e. s.s.w. e. s.s.w. cloudy, rain m. n. snow m s.w. stormy e. s.w. suow e. n.w. stormy m. s.e. cloudy m. n. clnudy e. s.w. cloudy e. | w.s.w: cloudy m. w. (loudy e. w. cloudy meteorological report. m. e. rainy e. s.s.w. rainy m. w.s.w. screre the prediction which was hazarded at the close e. w.s.w. serene of the meteorological journal in our last number, m. s.w. serene that the present month, would be extremely wet, e. w. serene and unusually warm, has been very nearly verified. m. w.n.w. serene the thermometer having only the last three days e. n.w. serene descended below the freezing point on the second . w. cloudy of the month. we experienced a sliglit fall of w.s.w cloudy snow, the first this winter, which remained on the m. w.s.w. cloudy, rain ground during a few hours. the prevailing winds e.s w..w. cloudy, raia have been the w, and s.w.; when the wind has m. w. cloudy veered from these points it has been only for a e. | w.s.w. cloudy short time. m. cloudy e. w.n.w. cloudy e. babattend w. .) | agricultural and commercial report. the uncommonly mild weather of the season (which cannot be called winter), succeed- ing the great drought of last summer, has produced an effect upon agriculture never before recollected in this climate. all kinds of vegetation are more forward in their growth than in any preceding year. in the first week of february, the coppice woods having a southern aspect, were decorated with the flowery hue of the blowing primrose ; and the young wheats, sown after beans in the midland counties, have a very grotesque appear- ance, the flag being large enough to be mown with the scythe, and being interspersed with bean plants from to inches high, with all their perfection of foliage, similar to what they have in the month of june. these extraordinary bean plants have every appearance of bloom, and, should the weather continue mild, there may be a probability of their per- fecting their seed. the young wheats, either upon lay or after faliots, are more laden with flag than ever was known at this season. the land, even upon tenacious soils, was never known to rise more mellow and friable after the plough, which do doubt arises from the effect produced in the mechanical ar-, rangement of the soil, by its contraction in the great drought of last summer. the pastures are, in many grazing districts, full of grass, although the cattle have not, in many places, been taken from out them. the turnips have run to top, and are not so much in demand as was expected. the soiling crops of every description, are in a more forward and luxuriant state than ever known at the beginning of march. the evil consequences of speculation reverted to in our last number, have manifested themselves to a great extent, since its publication, in the failure of several conimercial houses of long established reputation, and by an almost universal distrust pervading the entire circle of commercial intercourse. the disorganization that now exists in the com- mercial world, is equal to that produced by the universal proscription of bonaparte, pre- ceded by the confiscation of several millions value of property, at the close of the year . indeed, the same results are produced by extremely different causes--a defalcation of value in , the merchants of england sent ten millions value of property to dif- ferent ports of europe, which was seized by the agents of bonaparte, and three-fourths of it at least was totally lost. in and , the merchants of england, if merchants they are entitled to be called, contracted for quantities of various articles, such as cotton, (particularly east india,) coffee, tallow, and tobacco, at prices double their legitimate value; and for grain, double the quantity required for consumption, to an amount, col- lectively, of twenty millions. the accumulated quantities, the necessary consequence of extreme prices, as necessarily tends to a depression in price in the market of consumption, and a final defalcation of property. it is true there is not that absolute extinction of property that resulted from the measures of bonaparte in ; but the evil consequences to the com- mercial community at large are the same, and the conduct of those who have occasioned them, at the present time, infinitely more absurd and reprehensible, than in the former: because, in there was some chance of compensation for the risk; but in the transactions of the pre- sent time, a loss was an inevitable consequence. to point out more clearly the fallacy and and false views that pervade the commercial proceedings of the present day, we subjoin a statement of the importation of foreign grain in , and the comparative supply of every kind of grain into london for the last seven years; by which it will be seen, that the total supply of is nearly double the average of the last seven years, wbilst the continued supply is equal to the consumption; consequently, a year's supply remains a dead stock on hand, incurring expense, and deteriorating in value to the proprietors, in addition to withholding a capital of five to six millions from application. the inferences deducible from this perversion of proceeding, on the part of those who cause a supply of any article of commerce, so considerably exceeding its consumptive demand, are various, and, as applied to grain, involve themselves into the general policy of the country; and the interest which the question invariably excites, as to the capability or incapability of great britain to produce a sufficient supply of grain for its consumption, we deem a sufficient excuse, in the present instance, for our digressing in some measure from the mere formula of a commercial report. it is evident that we have soils capable of production, not cultivated; that we have physical powers capable of application, and willing for action ; and that the capital pow absorbed, and likely to remain so, in grain, the production of a foreign soil, is more than five times sufficient to have put such a portion of the present dormant faculties of the country into action, as would have tended essentially to redeem it from a great portion of that misery which now pervades the condition of the manu- facturing labourer. we submit these observations to the sober reflections of our readers, in the hope that it will cause that sound and comprehensive inquiry, which shall produce an equilibrium of pursuit in the various occupations of the country, foreign as well as domestic, as shall promote the essential interests of alle .] bankrupts. r. ander and co., new inn.- kealey r. lower row.-potts r. holborn hill, haberdasher, (hodg. piace, rochdale, lancaster, woollen manufacturer son, dyer's court, aldermanbury. - pitcher j. (chippud le, crane court. hopper c. little upper thames street, carpenter (godman and co. trinity inue. lace dealer (umney, clement's lun. earl street, blackfriars.-peuny g. and r. thomp- labelu g. b and c liverpool, merchants son, miucing lane, brokers (knight and co., ba- bians ock and co, inuer temple.-hardman j. singhall street. -peers j. liverpool, merchant manchester, warehouseman (kay, essex street, (arisun, and co., castle street holborn.-phillips nanchester. g. e. plymouth, sadler (anstice and co., inner j. temple.-prest w. and j. woolner, laurence 'jones e. gt sutton street, clerkenwell, coal. poutney lane, coin-factors (druce and co. billi. meichanl (castle, cursitor street.-jay j, old ter laue. jewry wine merchant (taylor and co., new ba. singhall street. - joves j. liverpool and h. hughes, russel j. texkesbury, gloucestershire, linea demarara, merchants (dacie and co., palsgrave draper, (cardale and co., gray's .-reddall t. place. temple bar.-jacksou e. upper thames liverpool, merchant, (addington and co.. beda street, sugar factor (s.nith and co., leman street, ford row. reddall w. liverpool, merchant (ad. goodmu's falds. johnson j. lucas street, com- dington aud co., bedford row.-phillips r. exeter. berdai road, merchant (willey weliciose square. chenist (brutton, broad street -rothwell j mort -jone, w shoreditch. earthenwarciaan (sutcliffe, feld, ulliwell, lancaster, whitster (meadow ear treet, blackfriars, croft, gray's inn, robertson e. manche:ter, cota k. tou spinner (ellis, chancery lane. - randall j.. ' kent j. sono market, brewer, (chilton, chan. paucrass stieer, tottenham court road, auctioneer. cery labe. (colingridge, secretaries office, colman street l. ratfield j. edward street, cavendish square, l'ond t. and j. winter, blue bell yard, st. dealer, (draper and co., exchange buildiugs- ja jes's streit, wire mercbants (dennetts and co., reed t and j. middlemas, newcastle upon king's arnis yard, colemao streti.-lloyd t. type, merchants (knight and co, basinghall st. tibberton, ilereford, farmer (pewtriss, gray's inp. -revett j. juar. tolleshent, darcy, essex, butche - l il gi. prescott street, merchant (lewis, er (milne and co., temple. crutched eriars. lewis w. beak street, goidea s. squire, woollen diaper (davis and son, lothbury. salter c. junr. portsca, grocer, (sweat and co., lloyd w. shrewsbury, tailor, (griffiths, south basighall street-sayer e. bath, tailor (adlington, ampton buildings, chancery lane,-longdon j. and co., bedford row-sinyth e. st martin's peak forest. derbyshire, meal seller (lowes and court. st. martin's lane, shoemaker (mayhew and co., temple-lomas j. white horse ion, fetter co., chancery lave-stansfeld j. manchester, mer... lane, lavere keeper, (mayhew and co., chancery chant (wiglesworth and co., gray's lon.--star lane. bach r milton next gravesend, shoemaker (sedg. wick, college hill, macleod t. h. pinner's hall, winchester street, t. wine merchant (hose, halton garden.-morgan taylor w. junr. liverpool, merchant (hurd and j. m.. g. m.. aud r. belle sauvage yard, lud. co.. king's bench walk, teniple-thompson e. globe stairs, rother rithe, ship builder (swain and salisbury square.- mottram c. pinner's hall, win. co., old jewry-towsey j. junr. blandford, dor. chester street, merchant, (stratton aud co., shore. set, stone mason (dean, guildford street-towsey ditch morgan w. and w. matthews, newport, j. juni, and sarah lloyd, blandford, dorset, dea- moninouth, brewers (platt, new boswell court, lers (wilson and co., lincoln's ion fields-thomp- lincolo's lon,-marchant m poplar, cow keeper, son j. hambleton, lancaster, tanner (norris, john (howell, symond's inn.- matthews e. college street, bedford row-taylor r. witney, oxford. hill, inerchant (dawes and co., angel court, shire, mealman (gregory, muiden lane, wood st. throgmorton street.-mather j. manchester, join- u. er (claye and co., manchester. medlain j. hude upton g. queen street, colour merchant (lee dersfield, grocer, (fisher and co., llolborn,-mar- and co., southwark. tin w. leadenhall market, cheesemonger (russel, w. lant street, southwark. wadley j. coventry street, haymarket, cheese n. monger (popkin, dean street, soho-walker r: noble m. lancaster, chemist (alexander and newcastle upon tyne, grocer (atkinson and co., co., new ion.naylor m and g. darlington, chancery lane-white w. chalford, gloucester, durham, leather dressers (dixon gray's ind sq. lipen draper (chilton, chancery lane-wardle g., neate w. sweeting's alley, cornhill, silversmith and f. wardle, allhallows wharf, upper tbarnes (rowland and co., lincoln's inn. street, oil crushers (alliston and co., freeman's . court, cornhill-wilbeam j. h. dock head, recti- olver j. and n. g. ingraham, junr. broad-st., fying distiller (martin and sou, vintner's hall merchant (cranch, union court, broad street. wilks r. chaocery lane, printer (arundell, chan- o'hara, m. watford, herts., inokeeper (williams, cery larie-whates r. wapping street, anchor blackman street, southwark, smith (orme, stepney church yard-wilkinson h. p. liverpool, merchant (taylor and co., temple perkins c. perkin's rents, westminster victu watkinson w. strand, shoemaker (jones, new inn aller (jones, new ino.--price d watford, heris., -wright f. budge row, merchant, (stratton and linea draper (davies and son, lothbury.--pick s and son. lothbury._pick, co.. shoreditch-woods w. haughton street, clara co., shoredit man j. deptford, malster (parother and co., lon market, coal merchant (thomas and co., barnard's don street-powell g. little trinity lane, queeg. ing-woodhouse j. and m. miucing lane, west kitbe, baker (holmes, gt. james street, bedford lædia brokers (weston and co., fenchurch suseet." ane. . m. [ . [march , dividends. m ansell j. carshalton, surrey, paper.maker, i carshalton. surrey, paper.maker. hughes w. manchester, grocer. feb _honya feb. -allsop r. louth, lincola, draper, march will w, bath, brandy merchant, feb. -hangum _alcock e. atherstone, warwickshire, hat.ma. e. threadneedle street, ship and insurance broker. nufacturer. march -atkins w. sen w. atkins, feb. --hagadorn j. p. h. old broad street, mer. jun. and s atkins, chipping norton, oxfordshire, chant, feb. -hainbridge j. stow-on-the-wold. bankers. march -adair a. winchester street, gloucester, currier, feb. -hill t. bradwell merchant, march hope, derbyshire, baker, feb. -hornsby t. b cornhill, stockbroker, feb. -heynes s. chel. bart e. j. backshell. & a. w. batt, witney, tenham, wine merchant, march -ohi j. ro- oxfordshire, bankers, feb. -bodill j. notting. thierbithe, merchant, may -hayes c. & j. old ham, and s. r. bodill, hat-manufacturers, feb. jewry, london, march -lodson c. &h cross ballmer j. city chambers, bishopsgate street, street, hatton garden, march -heron h. f. merchaat. feb. -baruh d. houndsditch, a po luddersfield, march - hladinghabı m. king ste thecary. feb. - bach w. saffron walden, essex, west smithfield, march -lambidge j. stow- - car venter. feb. -bartells t. aldersgate street, the wold, gloucester, carrier, marib -holmes wine merchant. feb. -barrow j. kendal, west. s. j. harris, & j. d. english, long-acre, coach. moreland, lipen draper, march -buckland w. makers, maich g-hoiden j. westbromwich, star bayswater, victualler, feb. -boyes j. jun. ford, black buckle maher, march wansford, march -bigner g. p. & j. barker, broad street, march -baddeley r. coveatry, jones g. aston, warwickshire, gun inaker, feb. grocer. march -_ barker j. & t. iielinsley, --jordan j. houndsditch, march -jounson r. blackmoor. yorkshire, grocer, march -bernard laue end, staffordshire, manufacturer, march . j. & c. manchester, drapers, march k с koe j. h. millwall, poplar, roman cement me coles c. & f. galpin, fleet street, stationers, nufacturer, feb. - kirkbride j. southwaite, feb. —chauner g. sutton, middlesex, merchant, cumberland, catile dealer, march feb. — cockburn s. high st. mary.le-bone, mer. chant. feb. --crampton w. beckinghamn, not le cheminant n. & j. van der kerckhove tinghamshire, horse dealer, march -cox c. london, merchants, feb. - lancaster j. bromp- portsmouth, painter, feb. --constant l h. h. ton, merchant, feb. - lacour d. brewer street, g. wellclose-square, sugar refiner, feb. - golden square, goldsmith, feb. -lloyd w. sen. clifford m. & j. kingston upon hull, merchants, & w. lloyd, jun. lower thame's street, slopsellers feb. -chick r. molineux street, bryanstone. march .- lawrence h. liverpool, merchant, square, linen draper, feb. .-collings t. harvey's. march buildings, strand, march -cheminant n. le & . v. kirklove. fenchurch street, march -collier machin j. & j. burton, late of great guildford w. brixham. march -cooke g. & j. hilner, ni street, in the liberty of the clink, surrey, en. cbolas lane, march -cox j. liverpool, linen. gineer, feb. -m.brain r. late of hen court, draper, march -chorley j. liverpool, merchant, fenchurch street, broker, feb. -m.kenzie, w. march st. paul's, corent garden, merchant, may - milne g. broad strect, merchant, feb. –m.nair dudley r. dudley, worcester, thread manufac. a, quern street, golden square, bookbinder, feb, turer. feb. _dixon j. islekirk hall, cumber. -- mitchel j. titchfield, southamptop, linen. lad, miller. march -dodds j. aldersgate str. draper, feb. — middlehurst j. liverpool, corn soldsmith. feb. -davies j. wells, somerset, dealer, feb. -mackoull j.worthing, sussex, sta. cabinet maker. feb. -downer h. bruton street, tiover, feb. -may w. p. sharp. & j. wilson. bond strect, milliner. feb. -deal j. t. shaftes- liverpool, upholsterers, feb. -morand s. broad bury, dorsetshire, brewer, feb -dyson t. be- street, merchant, feb. -mavor j. & j. leaden. verley, march -davies b. cardiff, glamorgan- hall street, march --middlewood j. w. white shire. march -devereux f. & m. lambert, chapel, perfumer, march -moses t. bath, dra brabant court, philpot lane, march -day w, per, march providence-buildings, new kent-road, plumber, march -day j. & j. spratswell, tavistock str. nash r. kingston-upon-thames, seed crusher, covent garden, drapers, march -dennett h. feb. gray's lan-lane, cow keeper, march o e osbourne c. billiter-square, london, merchant, evans g. sep. & g. evans, jun. high street, march --o'neill e. liverpool, cooper, feb. - southwark, hop merchants, march -edenser w. ormerod g. lanchead, lancaster, innholder, mar. bush.jane, broker, march -oakley g. & j. evans, old bond street, cabinet f maker, march fletcher b. late of deptford, kent, linen draper, p feh. i-franks g. red cross street, hatter, feb pearson t. pennybridge, lancashire, fax-spin. porster w. st. martin's lane, silversmith, feb. ncr, feb. -pennell w. queenhithe, merchant. -french n. b. & a. b. & j. barton, old south march -phillips t. j. & j. old city chambers, sea house, merchants, feb. merchants, feb. - phillips c. a. & j. milford, pembrokeshire, bankers, feb. -phillips j. up greaves a. queen street, cheapside, merchant, per eaton street, pimlico, march --polack b, feb. -gregory z. aston, near birmingham, sheffield, march builder, feb. –giblett, p. new bond street, & r w. gibleti, micklefield.hall, hertfordshire, butch. roberts j. wood street, spitalfields, silk-mang- , feb. . lurer, feb. - rowlatt j. charter-bouse-square, d n g .) digest of political events. nerehant, feb. _randall r. coleman street, son * t. thompson, jun. nether compton, dorset, blackwell-ball factors, feb. -rogers s. chep- flax spinners, feb. -taylor g. bishopwear. stov. monmouth. stationer, march -roxburgh mooth, durbam, coal-fitter, feb. -thornbury n. . liverpool. march - roach w. bristol, march & c, taylor, bourne, gloucesterstrire, march renton m. coventry street, st. martin's in the. -tugwell g. tenterden, kent, march -throck. fields, march -read e. & t. baker, great rus morton j. f. guildford st. pimlico, middlesex, sel street. bloomsbury, linen drapers, march - marcb rennett j. manchester, woollen cord manufac. u turer, march —roberts j. wood st. spital-fields, union . disley, cheshire, mareh feb. . v smith w. oxford street, ironmonger, jan. — vevers j. churwell, yorkshire, cloth merchant, sanders . fleet street, wholesale perfumer, feb. feb. -sisley t. isle of thanet, kent, merchant, feb. w -sparkes j & a, coles, portland street, st. wight j. birmingham, inkstand manufacturer, mary je-bone. coach makers, feb. -smart j. feb. -watson m. a. fareham, southampton. kingsgate street, holborn, ironmonger, feb. mercer, feb. —walmsley j. salford, lanca. shape j. c. fleet street, boot and shoe maker, shire, cotton twist dealer, march _whitfield j. teh _swain r. & w. llerbert, wood street, & j. morpeth, northumberland, innkeepers. march cheapside. silk manufacturers, march -swain. -wickman c. & b. beckwith, newcastle-upon- son j. manor row, east smithfield, march - tyne, merchants, march -waghorp. t. chat. stonehan . beckford row, walworth, cheese bam, butcher, feb. - watts w. lower mordon. monger. march -spitta molting & co. lawrence surrey, farmer, feb. -west r. e. st. margaret's poontpey lane, merchants, march -sundices bill, southwark, hop merchant, march g-wadde ro sanare mercbant, march -sinita son s. w. dover street, march -westherley j. . tansley, derbyshire, march & n. alnwick, march -waters f. t. old south t sea house, march --wilson s. liverpool, mar. taopenden j. late of faversham, keut, ironmas. williams j. lower coleman st. bunbill-row. paner fer. . tappenden. late of north court, stour stainer, march -winnerton t. coventry, ribbon. mouth, ironmaster; and f. tappenden, late of the manufacturer, march -west t. gracechurch s. aberpant iron-works, aberdare, glamorganshire, perfumer, march -ward j. sculcoates. mer. ironmaster, feb. -thompson t. sen. e. thomp- chant, may . digest of political events. great britain. tim of a coalition of tyrants. in accom- the factious and the discontented are plishing this purpose the writer has been again actively engaged in endeavouring to compelled to vilify and degrade his own force one of their party upon the people of country and government, and to abuse that westminster, as their representative; but of the bourbons in france. we have too high an opinion of the good among the political topics that present sense of the great body of electors, to themselves for observation at home during suppose, for a moment, they can be brought the past month, the improvement in our to lend themselves to so humiliating a mea- finance is one of the highest importance sure. the proceedings at the westminster and exhibits a most satisfactory view of tha election afford a singular spectacle of the country. sudden vicissitudes of the popular mind; on the rd mr. tierney brought forward and we hope will be a salntary example to his long promised motion on the bank re- all future leaders, how they presume too striction bill, which underwent the most much upon the constancy of popular fa- ample investigation. vour. perhaps no one has been a more the balloting for the committee of se. general favourite wit the people of west- crecy to inquire into the state of the bank minster, for several years past, than sir took place on the th; and we appeal to the francis burdett: but the present will suf- list, as delivered in by the scrutineers, as a ficiently show that when he associates him- proof of the sincerity and candour with self with men and principles as little to his which ministers wish to proceed to the en- interest as to his honour, that the good opi- quiry. nion entertained of him by his supporters a message from his royal highness the fails. this is not the day for open and avowed prince regent was taken into consideration jacobinism.-the memory of it is too recent on the th, by which it was clearly esta. to excite any feeling but abhorrence. and blished that his royal highness possessed still less is this the day when the worthy by law the right of appropriating the , . inhabitants of london and westminster lapsed, by the death of the queen, to the will be persuaded to reject all religious be- general purposes of the civil list. the sur- lief, as an imposition upon the understand. rendering it, therefore, to the disposal of ing and liberty of will. the political cha. parliament was only another proof on the racter of the man whom sir francis has part of his royal highness's advisers of thought proper to patronize, cannot be mis- their disposition to adopt on every occasion taken, because he has himself made it pob- real and practicable economy. lic in a work of two octavo volumes. the the report of the committee appointed object of this book is to hold forth buona- to consider the proposed reduction in the parte as the hero of his age, and as the vic. windsor establishment has been brought digest of political events. [march , into the house ; it is brief, and much to the the public funds, called rales reales, which purpose, and is calculated to give general inspires the most pleasing hope. prepara- satisfaction. tions are continued for the expedition with respect to the pensions to be paid against buenos ayres with great avidity. to the servants of her late majesty, his from all parts bodies of troops are march- royal highness was prevented from award- ing towards cadiz, to join the army which ing them out of the , ). in consequence is to embark there. the king has received of the limitation of the pension list as now the most affectionate manifestations of love fixed by law at , . and condolence from all his subjects on ac- on the th the committee of finance was count of the melancholy and unexpected appointed, in proposing of which lord death of the queen. castlereagh took an extensive view of the east indies. increasing state of the revenue, which, from the provinces of coimbetore, trin- the documents he read in the course of a chinopoly, tanjore, and guptoor, have long and luminous speech, he clearly prov. been visited with a severe s.w, monsoon, ed to be the case. which has been very destructive. the . only one motion of any importance was rivers of cauvery and coleroon have brought forward on the th which was by overflowed their banks in several places, mr. serjeant onslow, for repealing the and much damage has been done by the usury laws. it is a question of vast magni inundation. tude, and to be determined, not so much america. upon any abstract principles of fitness, as in the discussions in congress are chiefly reference to the actual condition and prac on the conduct of general jackson in the tice of society. seminole war, and on the affairs of the on the th lord castlereagh laid upon united states bank. a motion was made the table of the house of commons, the respecting the latter, which went to the for- supplementary arrangements entered into feiture of its charter, but was lost by a mat with france for the stipulations of the jority of eighteen. the debates on the for- claims of the allied powers. this change mer subject seem likely to be protracted. from what was settled at aix-la-chapelle, the motion before the house went decidedly took place on the th dec. at paris, being to the condemnation of the conduct of gen. an agreement entered into by the ministers, jackson, and the opinion was that he wauld without any formal instructions from their be brought to trial. the funds continue megpective sovereigns. it has since received to decline. bank stock has again fallen the necessary sanction, as set forth in a pro- or per cent. the papers contain the tocol dated paris, the nd of this month. official publication of a treaty of commerce a series of highly interesting and no less between sweden and the united states." important documents connected with the the differences between spain and the efforts of this country to procure the univer- united states are at length adjusted. in sal abolition of the slave trade were laid the first article it is mentioned that the upon the table of the house of commons united states deeply regret the violation of on the th. they are too voluminous to the spanish territory by the american forces admit of any thing like a satisfactory under general jackson, and that it was analysis. without the authority of the government. france the second refers to the cession of the flo. • the sittings of the chamber of deputies ridas to the united states. the third and are not frequent, but the committees and fourth articles give a brief outline of the bureaux have a great deal of business be limits as to territory. the fifth and sixth fore them. the discussions at these private regulate the navigation of the two countries, meetings are much more animated than the last article states that the cession of the those which take place in public, because floridas shall be considered in full payment zeal is there unrestrained and not subject to for all claims of america upon spain. . the observation of strangers. considerable. south america. financial regulations have been entered an american, of monte video, of emi- into, and the funds continue steadily to ad- nence, it is stated, has transmitted to the vance. the pecuniary indemnity by france united states the unexpected intelligence to the allied powers being agreed on, some that the government of buenos ayres, in thing may be drawn from it which may conjunction with chili, have resolved on help to fix the extent of loss or gain which sending an offer to a european foreigner, the holders of that stock may expect. of the crown of south america. the envoy his majesty has experienced a severe was to proceed to france. an expedition, attack of the gout, and is confined to his consisting of . men, h: consisting of , men, has been dispatch- room. ed to santa fé; and a large expedition , spain. against lima is preparing at valparaiso. tranquillity is completely restored at a spanish vessel of guns, la reyna ma- madrid, and confidence gains ground. the ria isabel, has been captured by the insur- treasury have begun to pay the interest upon gent ships san martin and santaro. .) [ ) incidents, promotions, births, marriages, deaths, &e. in london and middlesex; itith biographical accounts of distinguished charucters. bulletin of the king's health. the rectory of theberton, suffolk.--rev. j. windsor castle, feb. , . white, to the rectories of hargrave and “ his majesty has enjoyed an uninter chevington, suffolk. - rev. c. words- rupted tate of good bodily health, and has worth, to be chapiain to the house of com- been very tranquil during the last month, mons.-rev. p. roberts, to the rectory of but his disorder remains unchanged." halton, near ilolywell. (signed as usual.) births.) in upper seymour street, the we have aguhority to state, that the re- lady of the hon. w. frazer, of a daugh- cent reports respecting our venerable sove- ter. the lady of s. sanders, esq. of old reign, the accident that had happened to palace yard, of a daughter.--at hammer- bips in walking through his apartments, and smith, the lady of j. stevenson, esq. of a the change of diet judged necessary in con- daughter.-in tavistock square, the lady of sequence of that event, are wholly unfound. gurney barclay, esy. of a son and heir.- ed. his majesty enjoys as good health as the lady of j. g. crickett, esq. of doctor's he has possessed for a long period, and is commons, of a danglater.--at lady ver- as tranquil in mind as to the reported non's, park place, the hon mrs llarbard, accident, it could not possibly have happened, of a daughter.-at park place, the lady of because his majesty never walks alone, but w'. tucker esq. of a son.-in upper char- has a careful conductor, who accom; anies loite street, fitzroy square, the lady of a. him on all occasions. it is supposed, that trever, esg. of a son.-at kensington, the the reports in question had their origin in lady of peter ciement casalet, esg. of a the artifices of party, in order to excite an daughter. in bedford row, the lady of ni- alarm among the members of the new par- cholas mill, esq. of a daughter. in new liament, and to induce them to apprehend ormond street, ihe lady of a lynch. esg. of that melancholy event was likely to happen, a son.-in broad street buildings, the lady which would give occasion to a new election. of j. harvey esq. of a son.-the lady of but we again aflirm, from authority, that capt. lysaght r. n.ofa son.--in portland there is not the least foundation for the re- place, the lady of j. quicke, esq. of a son. port in question. - in rivers street, the lady of capt. paget, ecclesiastical preferment . - rev c. r. n. of a danghter.-at lyde flouse, boothby, b. a. to the vicarage of sutter. sion hill, the lady of the rev. j. iales of a ton, lincoloshire.- rev. j. cubitt, to the son. in camden place, the lady of e. neil- rectory of hinderclay, suffolk.- rev. j. son, sq. of a daughter.-in queen's square, cumming, to the rectory runcton, nor- the larls of a. weston, esq. of a son.-in folk.--rev. c. h. collyns, to the head brunsrick square, the lady of j. kinloch, mastership of the exeter free grammar : . of a son.-in grosvenor place, the lady school. rev. j. t. casberd, l. l. d to a ! the rev. g. porcher of a daughter.--la prebendal stall in the cathedral church of devonshire place, the lady of major ger.. llandafl.- rev. j. commeline, a. m. to sir w. anson, k.c. b. of a son. the vicarage of norton st. phillips.-rev. married.] capt. marryatt, r. n., to ca- t. calvert, b. d. st. john's college, cam- therine, youngest daughter of sir stephea bridge, to be lady margaret's preacher.- sharpe, of russel place, fitzroy square.- rev. r. newton adams, the mathemati. capt. j. r. rotton, to fanny, youngest cal mastersbip of christ's hospital.-rev. daughter of j. bannister, esq. of gower st. j. c. driffield, a. b. to the vicarage of -at st. george's hanover square, lieut. tolleshunt d'arcy, essex.-rev. j. grif- col. eustace, c. b. of the guards, to caro. fith, b. d. to the vicarage of lakenheath, line margaret, daughter of j. king, esq. suffolk.--rey. j. h. hames, to the rectory comptroller of the army accounts.--right of chagford, devon.- rev. j. jones to the hon. viscount anson, to lonisa catherine, rectory of edern, caernarvonshire.-rev. youngest daughter of the late nathanici j. maddy, d. d. to the rectory of hertest, phillips, esc. of slebeck hall, pembroke. cum boxted, suffolk.--rev. r. miller, to robt. ritchie es . of greenwich, to char- the vicarage of dedham, essex.-rev. w. lotte, daughter of major benvell.ai ken- palmer, to the prebendal stall of welton sington, frederic hogarth, esq. to julia painshall, in the cathedral church of lin eliza, widow of lieut. warde. --g. e. h. coln.-rev. h. rolls, m. a. to hold by dis- m. soloman, esq. mansel street, to priscilla, pensation, the rectory of burnwell, all third daughter of the late s. lucas, esq.- saints, northamptonshire.--rev. c. shrubb, g. e. morton, esq. to anne, second daugh- to the vicarage of boldre, with the chapels ter of e. heseltine, esq.--e. p. fordham, of lymington and brokenhurst, hants.- esq. of north audley street, to miss king. rev. c. b. sweet, to the rectory of arling- at st. pancras, sir j. maclean, to miss mon, devon.-rev. n. struth, to the rectory price, of highgate.--at st. stephen's cole- of st. peter, bristol. rev. t. strong, to man street, w. voase, esq. to miss hare- new montily mag-no. . vol. xi. b [march , deaths in london and middleser. wood. - at st. anne's, westminster, j. however, addressed « to the loyal, the be- hunter, esq. to miss haslam. nevolent, and the humane,” has been circu- died.] in park street, amelia harriet, jated in their behalf, amongst such of the youngest daughter of p. auriel, esq. .-- pobility, members of parliament, and others, in gloucester place, portman square, mar as are presumed to have known something tha maria, widow of the late g. f. cherry, of the deceased, or of his numerous writings; esq.-in bridge street, westminster, geo. and, as a subscription has been opened, we augustus frederick, third son of sir robert hope and trust, that such a fund will be barclay.-in george street, new road, wat- created as may enable mrs. blagdon to com- kin morgan, esq.--in doctors' commons, plete the education of her children.*_we s. pierce parson, esq. ll.d. .-in york are promised, for our ensuing number, a place, portman square, mrs. kyd, the wife biographical memoir of the deceased, from of general k.-mrs. hanwell, ine lady of the pen of one of his literary friends. capt. h.-at twickenham lodge, frances earl of errol. moore, relict of the late a. m. esq. .- sir h. tempest, bart.-in wimpole street, at rosiere, near lyndhurst, hampshire, jane, eldest daughter of the late r. arbuth- on tuesday the th ult. after a few days? not, esq.-in bartlett's buildings, j. sawillness, the right hon. willian, earl of kins, esq. .--at her house, in charlotte errol, lord high constable and knight mar- street, fitzroy square, elizabeth, relict of shal of scotland, one of the sixteen repre- the late r. longden, esq.--at her residence sentative peers of scotland, and his majesty's in hill street, berkley square, the countess lord high commissioner to the general as- dowager of seftor, .- in the new rood, sembly of the church of scotland. his j. heys, esq. barrister of lincoln's inn.- lordship was the chief of the ancient name in bolton street, r. burrowes, esq.--at and family of hay, and also the lineal repre- chite's hill, jarnes clark, esq-in cleve sentative of the earls of linlithgow, calen- land row, major-gen. wilson.-in ilatton dar, and kilmarnock. he was the second garden, james clark, m. d. f. a.s. .-- son of james, earl of errol, by miss carr, the rev. w. morrice, rector of allhallows, daughter of sir william carr, of etal, bart. bread street, __at kensington, e. breton, was born in , and succeeded his brother esq,-miss lewis, daughter of sir w. l. george in . he married, ist, jane, at his father's house, n. p. eldest son of n, daughter of matthew bell, esq. by whom he gostlipg, esg. ,-miss auriol, daughter of had lady dulsibella jane; d, alicia, p. a. esq. of park street, park lane - in daughter of samuel elliot, esq. by whom he tavistock place, w. crouch, esq. has william, now earl of errol, an officer sudden death of the earl in the army, about years of age, two other sons and three daughters; and d, paulet. harriet,sister to lord somerville, now living, his lord-liip, we regret to state, died at by whom he has a son and daughter. hinton st. george, in somersetshire, on james, lord hay, his eldest son by the thursday,thei th ult. the noble lord,on the second marriage, was an officer in the foot preceding evening, had directed the horses guards, and aide-de-camp to general mail. to be put to the post chariot early in the next land: he was killed almost the first shot that day. at o'clock in the morning, the was fired, on the th of june, , the countess was alarmed by the sudden indis- day preceding the great and important battle position of the earl; he was seized with an of waterloo. lord errol, during the course apoplectic fit, and never spoke afterwards of the last war, served for several years as liis lordship lingered until eleven at night, lieutenant-colonel of the aberdeenshire mi- when he expired, in the year of his age. litia. he is universally lamented by his captain and mrs. paulet and lady barnard family and an extensive circle of friends and were present at the trying scene. an ex- relatives. press was sent off for lady mary paulet, -- who was then in attendance at windsor. * contributions are received by mr. col- unfortunately, lord hinton is absent, mak- burn, public library, conduit street, ha- ing the grand tour. nover square; n. byrne, esq. morning . post office; j. taylor, esq. sun office, francis william blagdon, esq: ro , strand; at the courier oflice, , at his house, in smith square, westinin- strand; s. cock, esq. , frederick place, ster, on the th of december, , fran- old jewry; mr. m.milian, , bow street, cis wuliam blagdon, esq.- with re- covent garden ; mr. purvis, l, finch lane, gret we learn, that this indefatigable labourer cornhill; the banking houses of messrs. in the field of literature and politics, a ge- birch and chambers, , new bond street; nuine friend of loyalty, an ardent and zea- messrs. hoare, barnard, and co. , lom- lous supporter of the british constitution, bard street; messrs. crickett, bacon, and has i tt'a widow, with a young family, en- co. ipswich, suffolk; and mr. harral, tirely destitute. an affecting “ appeal,” park cottage, ipswich. .) ( ) provincial occurrences in the counties of england, arranged alphabetically. bedfordshire. the lady of capt. bone, of a daughter--al hase, the magistrates at the late bedford sessions near callington, mrs. john peter, of a son-al came to the following resolutions :-" that the wadebridge, the lady of r. m. welton, esq. of a system of roundsmen, or paying labourers a cer daughter-at liskeard, mrs. chapman, of a daugh. tam porrion of their labour out of the poor-rates, ter--at redrutis, m:s. j. pinrose, of a daughter. which had too long prevailed in this county, is married.) t. j. phillips, esq. of newport destructive of the inoral energies of the labourer, hlouse, to carolipe, second daughter of p. p. n equally injurious to the interest of the farmer, treby, esg. aaron scobell, esq. of penzance. to who has a right to expect a fair and adequate por mary, sister of r. vyvvan, of trewan-at probus, tion of labour from the hands employed on his mr. z. roberts, to miss julia roberts-lieut. tilly, farm; that, in order to discourage this pernicious to miss s. bannick, of penryn-at penryn, capt. practice, we recommend to the several inagistrates gosshard, to miss e. robart-al lelan:. mr.j. in this county, within their respective divisions, stephens, to m sa. stepizens-at branwell, lieu, not to allow in future any suins which shall, alter a. rose, r. n. to miss lydia borlase. the ist day of february, be so paid out of the diec. at penzance, edwin, youngest of poor rates in the overseer's accounts." p price, eq. of neuth abbey--at landrake, oni. died. at dunstable, mrs. e. willoughby-at po'dohertyac tinio. mr. w. wille _ar bedford, the rev. t. cave_the rev. d. lewis, nelston, mr. r. kempthorne, brother of admiral vicar of kimboltou, and rector of wrestling worth, k. -at liskeard, mrs. s. lower, . -at bedford, mr. woodrofie, sen. cheshire berkshire. tlie repairs of our venerable cathedral will com. we have pleasure in noticing the general good mencet.ie beginning of this roonth (march); and it likely to be derired by the public from the uri. is expected that the nave will be completed in versal success the sarings banks have met withi. time for the projected festival of music in septem- the trusters of the llungertord siuvings bank met bas next.-we have authority to state, that no at the town hall to settle the first year's account, jithculty will be thrown in the way of a music and notwithstanding that newbury and maribo. meeting by any of the members of th: capitular rough are so near, in both of which are savings body. the bishop, we know, is very friendly to banks, the deposits at hungerford exceeded the measure, because it is likely to forward , , the first year; a sum almost incredible, what he has always in view--the benefit of the city and the greater part of it by persons of that rank in at large, and the charities in particular. in order, life which the savings bawks were intended to ac. however, to ensure complete success to the festival, commodate. it must be patronised without any the least re- dicd. at abingdon, mrs. budworth, -dt spect to party, and on such an occasion we are doonington, catherine, the lady of g. monkland, convinced that the good sense of the city will easily esq.-at reading. mr. richard stone--at read. dispense with it.--chester chronicle. ing, mr. spencer-at mortimer, mr. a. gould- the earl grosvenor is employing a number of rev. d. davies---at thutchain, m s. barhuld, . labourey's, in forming a new road to his magnif. cambridge. cent mansion, near this city. it branches from the birlhs.] the lady of j. ward, esq. of abingdon eccleston road, near the house of mr. bozley, park, of a son. and will forin a circle round eccleston hillaf. married.) the rev. j ilo'ınes, fellow of fording a truly picturesque drive queen's college, to miss gorham, of si. neots-at married.) at bowdon, mr. t. ii alliwell, to cambridge, mr. j. furbank, to miss wentworth miss clarke-mr. james green, of marton, to at west wickliam, the rev. c. lawson, to miss mrs. farrow-at chester, mr. brown, to miss clover-- the res. w. bolland, to sarah, daughter hall. of the late s. pritchard, esq. of belmont llouse, died. at runcorn, k. janiers, esq.-at win- shrewsbury. ning on lodge, p. wettephall, eso.-g. parker, died.) the rev.j. shepard, vicar of waltering. esq. of newton hall, - mrs. cheney, -at ham, and deputy-chancellor and surrogate to the cliester, mr. w. davies, -at frodsham, mr. diocese of ely-mrs. hignel, of cambridge. - francis ashley, solicitor, --at chester, vr. mr.:j. norris, of st. john's, cambridge, -f. b. bagley--at chester, emma, second daughter of longe, e q. of trinity college--e. parry, esq. j. b. watson, esq. fellow commoner of st. john's college-at cam. cumberland. bridge, frederick, third son of sir g. g. williams, births.] at clifton, the lady of lieut.-colonel bart. mausel, c. b. of a daughter- at carlisle, the lady cornwall. of j. dixon, esq of a daughter. the prince regent, as duke of cornwall and married.) at carlisle, j. rawes, esq. to miss lord of the forest of darunoor, has offered a pre s. michell-at carlisle, mr. t. whitfield, to mium of . to the cultivator of the greatest num. mrs. tweddle-at the same place, mr. w. mills, bei of acres in flax within the year . we liave to miss j. m'laucglilin-at whitehaven, mr. t. already noticed that sir thomas tyrwhitt, of torr dixon, to miss grainger-at carlisle, t. williams, royal, received at the late meeting of the bath esq. to miss mary powell. and west of england agricultural society the died at buttermerc; mrs. dover, daughter of bedfordean silver medal for the growth of this the late w. willes, esq. -ar carlisle, mng. jane national product.-cornwall gazette. grainger-at penrith, mr. hudson-at becker- births. near fowey, mrs. clims, lady of mount, mrs. anne cooke. —at peorith, mrs. e. capt. j. c. of twin daughters--at marazion, mrs. preston, -at kendal, geo. wilson, --at edmonds, of a daughter-the lady of j. t. cory. throelsley, mr. penman, - at carlisle, j. besk, ton, esq. of pentillie castle, of a son-at fowey, esq. --at whitehaven, w. gordow, derby --devon--durham -- dorset-essex-gloucester. (march , derbyshire. died.) at weymouth, mrs. butcher-at mil. died.-on the th ult. sir henig crewe, bart. borde st. andrews, mrs hatchard, -at corsley, of calke abbey, while driving a pair of young full mr. w. diedge, . blood houses, from arkley house, mary le-bone, essex. in carriage constructed like a break, near the births. at chelmsford, the lady of the rev. gates of his residence, braham house, on the st. j. g. ward, of a sob-al jericho house, black. album's road, the horses became in a sligbt degree more, the lady of r. preston, ese, of a daughter ; i estive, and the wheel coming in contact with the the lady of w. w. suard, csq. of a daughter-at posts at the gateway of a cottage, near the house, dedham, the lady of w. webb, csg. of a daughter. the carriage received a concussion, which threw married.] at wanstead, j. browning, esq. of sir henry with great force from his seat. he fell sutton benger, wilts, to miss jones, of wanstead on his head, which occasioned instantaneous death. house-at colchester, mt. s. wickew, of jot. lady crewe, and some of his children, were at that man's hall, to miss anne waites-geo. rogers, moment arrived from town to dinoer. one of his of manningtree, to miss roebuck. song was with him on the box whien the misfortune occurred. the feelings of his distracted lady and died) a short time since, in the th year of fumus on this unhappy occasion may be better con- his age, mr. hurtali, farmer and malister, of up. ceived than described. he is succeeded in his per yeldham hall. he ordered in his will that title and estates by his eldest son, now sir george his body should be buried in one of his woodsbe crewe, bart. mrs. leadbeater, of derby. -at covered with one of the hair cloths be used to dry starely ilall, dear chesterfield, the rev. f.dixon, his malt on, and that six bedgers and ditchers ll.d. . should carry his corpse, six others be pall-bearers, devonshire. and six more to follow as mourners, all with their a violcnt gale of wind, approaching to the na bills and bedgiog gloves; and likewise ordered a ture of a tornado, was experienced at plymouth hogshead of beer to be drank, and tread and cheese on monday and tuesday night last, accompanied to be distributed, and each of the bearers, mouro- by hail, which proved vers destructive to the glass ers, and tirose who carried the corpse, to receive a of several mansions and green houses in the neigh pound note, which reqnesi was literally complied bourhood some of the hailstones measured two wi:h-at billericay. mis. s. wingfield. -at and a half inches in circumference. on the former colchester, mr. s. moore, --mr. g. walker. night various chimnies were blown down, and roofs --mr. j. brown, --at great leigly, the rev. partly uncovered, in stonehouse; but the greates: e. parkinson-mrs. anne laugton, -at latton datrage was to the long-room in the same place, mill, mr. d. reddington --at moulsham. r. mar. where, by the fall of a stack of chimuics through tin.esq.--as springfield, mr. j. kright-at bump- the roof into the officers' mess room, which they stead holions, mr. w. sandle, -al bockine. had not long quitted, the dining table was crushed mrs. carter, relict af martin carter, esq.-j. ba. to pieces. in one remarkable case, the slates of a con, of ardleigl, brick-maker, , leaving seven roof were completely reversed the storm was children, three sons and four daughters. orand. rendered more awful by thunder and lightning. children, and great grand children, making ! births.) at exeter, the lads of the hon. c. - al chelmsford, mr. a. saps orth-at chelms. langdale, of a daughter. ford, the rev. e. parkinson-at ingatestone g. married. at plympton, t. j. phillips, esq. to godwin, . miss caroline treby --at dartmouth, g. bannill, gloucestershire. esu to miss walters-w. j. hawke, esq. of bide. the slopkeepers and the town of cheltenham ford. to miss bent, of jacobstow-edward kelly, in general were put into no small consternation esg. of killey, to saran, eidest daughter of the late lately from the sudden cxtinction of the gas w. braddon, esq. of skisdon lodge. d. synes, lights, through the neglect of one of the men of esg. of teignineuth, to miss a. pidsley-lieut. the works. the consequence was that they were southey, r.n. to miss parsons, ot plymouth dock. enveloped in darkness for half an hour! enerloped in dan diod.) b. meanby, esq. of topham, -rev. births. al eastington house, the lady of j. w. toms, a.b. of southmolton--rev. . mends, p. hicks, esq. of a daughter-the lady of the of exeter-at findge house, mis. ci.d--at rev. r. cooper, of matson, of a daughter-at cormbe, a. elliott, esg.-al teignmouth, john, clifton, the lady of lieut. col. mansel, of a daugh. youngest son of t daniel, esq. at teignmouth, ter-al cheltenham, mrs. r. thornton, of her charlotte, second daughter of j. tayleur, esq. of th child. bubtingsdale, shropsbire-at holway cottage, mrs. e. a. gibbons, the lady of lieut. gibbons of married.) at minchinghampton, j sinart, esq. th regt. . to miss c. davies-r. j. d. cummins, esq. to durham. anna, relict of s. p ward, esq.- lieut. col. births t durham, the wife of mr. wether. tryon, to mary anne, eldest daughter of mrs. hall. sheridan-at cheltenham, the rev. j. davies, to died. at sunderland, miss carr-at durham. e. j. eldest daughter of col. cox-at bristol. ). m. dent. . at the same place. mrs. tilley. jarvis, to miss holloway-at clifton. m.j mires. -at crock, near durham, mr. t. linton, to miss fanny godtiey, of the old park. dorsetshire. died.) c. evans, esp. of high grore, one or births.] at weymouth, the lady of the rer. the members of the corporation of gloucester- dr. cracknell, of a daughter. al overbury, near tewkesbury, j. nind, esy. - married.) at mapperton, the rev. ii. fox, to w. ilolder, esg. of taynton, - ai cheltenham, margaret, eldest daughter of the late col. ed. mrs. dunscombe, widow of the rev. s. luns. wards- at beaminster, j. bishop, esq. of stone. combe, --at tewkesbury, charlotte, youngest combe, to elizabeth, eldest daughter of mr. da daughter of the rev. t. honiatt, -in park-st. piel-at wbitreld cottage, near dorchester, mr. bristol, mrs. earle--at cheltenham, mary anne, j. beasant, ordnance storekeeper, -at charbo. wite of t. newte, esq.-the rev, r. wynneate, rough park, r e. dax. m.p. and justice of the --at stonehouse court, louisa, wife of r. s. peace for the county of dorset. daries, esq.-ai clifton, w. ling esq. . .) hamps. hereford.—ilerts.-- kent - lincolns.-luncas. &c. eo hampshire. canterbury, -at westwell, j. miller, -at the portsmouth paper says: -- an experi cauterbury, w. jones, -at margate, j. pope- mput has been tried in this dock yard, to ascertain at chatham, mrs. w. mauclark-j. brown, guo if a grass, the cominon produce of new zealand, ner of dover castle, -at bidiendro, j. wither, and which may be cut down three times a year, is a year. is den, --at llarbledowa, mrs. fox, -at sea- applicable to makiog large and small ropes. a fa. field, mrs. e lett ; out of children and vorable report we understand is made of it. the grand-children, the deceased was preseut at the article is strong and pliable and very silky in its births of -at sandwich, mrs. dawson of a fe. nature. it can be brought into this country at ver-- at dover, mr. ward-at maidstope, mr. less than l. per ton; one seventh of the cost of swain. -at chart sutton, mr. w. shirley. bemp. lancashire. married.) at newton vallence, j. field, esq. a journeyrnan stone mason of liverpool has of stockwell coinmou, surrey, to anne, jaughter brought writs of right for the recovery of an estate of the rev. j. shoreland, rector of mariya wor. in ireland, wlicin has long been in abeyance, of thy-at portsea, the right hon. lord greenock . . a year; and also, an accuinulated personal d.o.g. to miss martha, daughter of t marther, property of more than half a million. his pro- esq-al (!d basing, daniel may, esq. to miss spects of success have been pronounced to be very barton favourable by several lawyers of the first eminence. diedi al goswort, mrs. boville, wife of s. b., we are sorry to announce the loss of the lord esq.-a: rarton, near winchester, mr. j. good. hill packet, between liverpool and the isle of man-al portsmouth, lievt. quelch, r. n.-at man, with persons on board, all of wbom pe. kinballon, the rev. d. lewis-w. price esq. rished. births. at woolton iiall, the lady of . asb. herepordshire. ton, esq. of a son-al wateshead mill, the lady or married. at leominster, h. c. lewes, esq. w. waring, esq. of a son. to eliza, second daughter of j. morris, esq.- at married. wm. mac kie, esg. of livet pool, to hereford, mr. treherne, of breepton, to miss susan, youngest daughter of t. c. everest, esq.- dopie-at linton, mr. t. garrold, to miss wood- at st. helens, near prescot, j. llook, esq. of log- hall. don, to eliza frances, daughter of a clarke, l. l. died.) at llereford, mrs. t. lee, -eliza- d. and f. a. s.-at eccleston, e. g clifton, esq. beth, daughter of t. lliggios, esq. of eastiner, to eliza, third daughter of the late t. e, esq.-at -at dudshill, n. byde, esq. at eaton chidwail, t. bent, esq. m. d. to miss rawson, house, frances, eidest danghter of the late j. of rose ilill-the rev. h. m. ilutchinon, to miss owon, est, of pedinore park, worcestershire, munday, eldest daughter of mis. sarmou, the vo. - al ledbury, miss selwym, daughter of the rec. cal performer. for of pixley, . died.] ai culcheth ilall, mary, the wife of hertfordshire. lieut. col. keymer, --at failsworth, near mao. births. at bennington park, the lady of c. chester, the rev.j. hordern, m. a.--al crimbie. m. campbeil, esq. ot a daughter. near rochdale, j. fentoni, esq. --at burnlev, died. at little munden, the rev. e. iiey. aone, the lady of reginald hargreaves, esq. - m. ~at wymondley house, the rev. h. at strangeways, j. starkie, esq.-at everton, a. farry, . nes, the lady of j. carson, esq.-at elland, ed. huntingdonshire. ward, the youngest son of j. rushforth, esq.--at married mr maun, miss gray of buck- strangeways, t. millington, esq.at leighton hall, near lancaster, mrs. richmond, --at worth-at st. neots, the rev. j. holmes, to miss gorliam manchester, s. bow.lcn, . died.] mi. w. underwood, . leicestershire. kent. births) at melton mowbray, mrs. tinsley, of a daughter-mrs. e adcock, of a daughter. on wednesday the menai frigate, of guns, married.) s. cradock, esq. to eliza, daugister w launched irom chatham dock yard. unfortu. of w. fermadge, esq. nately, whilst every one was enjoying high gratifi. died.] at twyford, mrs. ii. king, .at bar. cation at the sigiit ol so handsome a launch, one of well, mrs. g lilly, -mrs. marriott, widow of the hawsers broke, and sir john gore, and several the rev. dr. m.-ly. toone, cs.of belton-mrs. other persons received considerable injury. hayne, wife of r. h., esq. of great glenw.--fe- births.) at hythe, the lady of lieut, col. nelope, daughter of the late w. king, esq., of sile- goldfinch, c. b. of a son. al margate, the lady by at melton mowbray, mrs. sill, . of t. w. cobb. esq. of a daughter--at deal, the lincolnshire. marricd.) t. bedford, esq. of ramsgate, to births.] the lady of evans hartopp, esq. or miss curling, of chilion-at canterbury, h. col. little dalby, of a son-at little pontom house. lard, eg. to miss louisa clifford--at rochester, grantham, the lady of sir charles kent, bart. of a g, pembic, esg. of lumsford house, east malling. son and heir miss mary millen, of aylesford-at canter married.] at logoldsby, b. bush , to miss buiy, mr. t. casey, to miss s. fairbrass f. man. anne gadsby -mr. reynerd , to miss bell, ning, eso. of combe park, to miss e. turner, of -w. laming , to miss smith, -at gains. stoke rochford, lincoln-at folkestone, j. march borough, capt. chesham, to mary foster-at mar- to miss ii. stone--at eastwell, j. butt to may ket rasen, j. martin, to mary, second daughter of simpson-at dover, h. williams to miss youden r. clarke, esq.at burton, near lincola, j. w. w. law, to miss m. a. uight. dudding, of saxby, to mary, eldest daughter of died.] at dover, the rev. j. busby, chaplain the rev. w. jackson-c. craven, esq. to miss of the garrison, -at boxley house, j. coker, danvers, of lincoln. esq.-at bromley, w. walmsley, nealy twenty died.] mary, the wife of the rev. w. shaw. years clerk of the papers of the house of lords. curate of walham-at stanton, the rev. r. wv -at dover r. waugh, esq.at lydd, d. deone, piatt, - mr. alderinan foster, of lincoln, ga esg. --at new romney, m. cornwell, fate of as louth, mra. grant, widow of j. g. € . . of lif cupt. e. kittoe, of a daughteramsgate, births.] then_at little pontom house, norfolk — northampton-northumberland--oxford, fc. [march , • died.] at north leys, near ollerton, j. vessey, norfolk, caution to swearers. about a fortnight since, esq.- soutliwall, mr. w. adans, years co- two young men, in company at a public house at vernor of the hone of correction in that place. lynn, engaged, for a pot of beer, to try which could .-.at newark, mrs. hunt-at south well. j. la. swear the most diabolical oaths; when one of croft, esq. .-at newark, mr. r. norton, sen. tilem, álcr using the most abominable expressions, at newark, mrs. hankin, ). treame exhausted, and could not ulter a syllable, oxpordshire. and has remained speechless ever sioce, a living a correspondent in the oxford herald, noticing example to those wlio tike god's name in vain. the present roads from bristol to london, and births at hillington, the lady of j. w. folkes, those that are in contemplation, strougly recom- esg. of an. niends, in preference to all of them, as being married at soulden, j. carter, esq. of northshorter, a road taking oxford in its route. wold, to miss mary anne tyssen, of pennenren married.) at witney. j. clinch, to misss maria heath --at norwich, j. h. y llop, esq. to miss winkworth-at oxford, w lughes, psg. a. b. of mendwil-mr k. dawson, to mary anne, only trinity college. to m. l only daughter of w. vi. daughter of j. campion, esq-al norwich, mr. cary, of magdalen college, j. robson, to miss anne staff. died,] at the vicarage, charlegrore, frances, diell.at norwich, the rev. mark wilkes, the lady of the rev. m. payne--attedding, mis. years ministrs of a congregation of dissenters in radford, --at banbury, r. chapman, € . that place-at thetford, mrs. f. torris---at nor. rutlandshire. wich. mrs, m. kettle, -abbot upcher, eeg. of married at liddington, mr. adcock, of cal. sherringham, --miss e.j. warner, daughter of decott, to miss peach-at oakliain, mr. jackson, the rev. j. l. w, of w isingham, --sir t. ber. to miss taylor- mr. jackson, of belroir castle, to ners plaistow, kint. of wallington hall-at nor. miss floughton, of grantham, wich, wm. adains, esq. . died. about the middle of last month, at den. northamptonshire. ton, near belvoir castle, oue william omcnd, or we hear that earl fitzwilliam has inade the nu rather osborne, a blind old soldier, boro at or nificent donation of one thousand pounds towards near st. neots, who seems to have been really the the repairs, or, it may almost be said, the re build. last survivor (though many last survivors have been ing of peterborough parish church. the total ex talked of) among those who climbed the heighis penditure is estipated at about .; and wiren of abraham, under general wolfe. o this he the work is completed, which it is expected to be was fond of talking while his senses remained; before michaelinas next, the churoh will be us but these he lost some years ago. his age was handsome a structure as any out of the metropolis. supposed to be ; and, to the honour of this just married.] at peterborough, t. a. cooke, esq. and generous nation, it should be added, that for to miss squire, daughter of the late w. t. squire, inany years he has received a pension amounting to esq.- al purton latimer, mr. turner, miss fla. col. a year. vell-a cold highanı, mr. r. kingston, to mrs. shropshire. e. hards--at abthorp, mr. w. sheen, to miss an ingenious mechanic, mr moir, who exhi. gieares. bited several machines for premiums at the shrup. births.) at thornby rectory, the lady of the shire and other agricultural societies, and ulio rev, n. cotton, of a son, left this town on a tour through america, has died. at paddington, mrs. j. longstaffe, transmitted a detailed description of the celebrated at pytchly, miss hensham, daughter of h. llen. frigate, fulton the first. we understand that mr. sham, es-at walgrave, mr. j. barrett, . mcir has discovered an error in the machinery of northumberland. tbis vessel, which will be fatal to its operation ; births. at newcastle, the lady of the rev. but, like a good englishman, he declines naking it geo. burdon, of a daughter. public at present. marriedat newcastle, mr. p. llorn, to miss murricdl at shrewsbury. cfmadanell falconer--at the same place. mr. e. moukhouse, of the th reg. to miss wilkinson-j. austen, to miss j. bolam-at newcastle, thos. shadforth, esq. to elizabeth, od daughter of mr hazeldinie, of eq. to mrs. margaret smith, his housekeeper shrewsbury--al shrewsbury, the rev. w. bolland, at mitford, james renshaw, esq. to miss mitford. vicar of swineshead and frampton, to miss s. died.) at warkworth, mrs. jane clark, pritchard--at clunbury, g. lowe, to miss james newcastle, margaret purvis, died] at butingsdale, j. taleur, esq. --at alias blind willy, years vine months. shrewsbury, t. pemberto, esq. -at shrews. nottinghamshire. hury, g. c. forrester, esq. of elmley lodge-the we are informed, that the railway from pinx rev. r. sınith, m.a. curate of wulstaston, toa to mansfield is in a state of great forwardness, somersetshire. and that much advantage is likely to be derived seven prisoners, committed for capital crimes, fior it by the inhabitants of marsfield. it is also escaped a few nights ago from the new goal at said to be in contemplation to inclose the forest, taunton, which they effected by breaking through and to cut & canal from mansfield through oller three thick stone walls. they had previously been ton. to retford. should such a project be carried permitted to work in the prison as carpenters, and iuto execution, it will be productive of important secreted part of the tools with which they were benefits, as it will afford every facility for the con. supplied. veyance of groceries, corn, bone manure, and other the lady of dr. h. fox. of bristol, of articles, from gainsborough, by water, while stone, a son-at bath, the lady of capt. paget, of a pinxton line, coal, &c. will find a ready transit daughter. from mansfield by the same means, to the infinite married.) r. jiarvey, esg. of langley park, advantage of the surrounding neighbourhood. bucks, to miss jenina collins, of hatch court-- births.] at aspley llall, the lady of . wil. r. h. baker, esq. r. n. to c.a. daughter of h. louguby, esq. m.p. of a son. norris, esq. of taunton. murried.] at blyth, mr. j. bcrley, to mrs. j. died.] at bath, mrs. capel, relict of d. capel, thomson. c , -at barh, mr. durham, , .) stafford--suffolk--surrey--susser--worcester--warwick, fc. stappordshire. warwickshire. births.) at hopton heath, the lady of j. several young men of birmingham, who were conran, esq. of a daughter. educated at the blue-coat school of that town, married.] at stoke-upon-trent, mr. wm. go hare formed themselves into a society, and agreed ther, to miss anne ashley. the bridegroom, aged to deposit per ceutage of their carnings, to form , had been in his majesty's naval service years, a fund, to make an annual gift to the institution and has lost both his legs. when conducted to which fostered them in the early years, the church, he was seated in the forecastle of a died] at warwick, mrs. langharne, wife of the donkey, accompanied by his faithful dulcinia. rev. hugh h.at birgmingbam, fraaces (har. on arriving at the desired haven, he disembarked, jotte, wife of the rev. j. a. james-al cosely, and being safely stowed in the hold of the church, mrs draper, wife of the rev. b. h. draper-mrs. he received his bluling bride on his knces, being moody, relict of the rev. j. moody at chering. unable to stand or walk. ton, w. dickens, esq.at rugby, mrs. marriott. diod. at peno, near wolverhampton, the rev. widow of the late rev. r. m.; sameplace, the rev, g. green -sarah, only child of j. scisely, esq. u. archer--al birmingham, mrs. sarah bickley. sufpolk westmoreland. married.) a: woodbridge, the rev. charles died.) at sbap, the rev. m. holme, vicar of sharpe, to aone, daughter of the late w. goodwin, that place. esq.-j. black, of woodbridge, to the daughter of wiltshire. the late mr.j. collins, --at ipswich, r. purcell, to births.) at rushall, the lady of the rev. t, miss brown, of southwold, ilale, of a son.- at longleat, lady e. campbell, died.) at mettingham, near bungay, francis of a daughter, cutts --at needham, w. beales, upwards of married ] james scott, esq. of roth field park, years parish clerk of that place.--at meliord, the to miss snell, daughter of the late w. snell, esq.- rev. j. leroo, years rector of that parish.-at m. t. b. maurice, surgeon, of swindon, to miss haugliley, mrs. m. turner, .-atlladleigh, mrs. bullock. mary vesey, --at ipswich, sarah, the lady of dicd. at his seat, teffont, t. mivne, esq. e. cornwall, esq. .-c. t. eldest son of the rev. c.t. kellow, rector surrey. of codford; also, n. s. daughter of c. t. kellow, birth.] the lady of t. hudson, esq. of a esq.-at melksham, meliora olivia, relict of h. daughter. guy, esq.--at salisbury, mrs. n. douglas, sister of died. g. chatfield, esy. of croydon, .-at the bishop of that diocese-at marlborough, mrs. thorpe lee, sir i. tempest, .-ai wandsworth, simmons, -at wilton, j. cade. -at salis. j. hilberi, esat. . bury, mrs. goodman; same place, the rev. j. sussex. hughes, jun, . lately an elegant private chapel, attached to yorkshire. staustead house, was consecrated by the lord port of llull.--the following is a statement of bishops of gloucester and st david's, assisted by the amount of customs dutv rade & about forty clergymen in the neighbourhood. pre- port, for the years ending the th january, sious to the selemn act, the rev. lewis way, the ct, the rev. lewis way, the aud , viz : proprietor, teodered to the bishops an endowment, gross receipt . . - . , in perpetuity, of . a year, secured on a free. ditto .. .. , hoid farm in the neighbourhood, which was handed being . . more than the preceding year, and over to the chaucellor of the diocese to be regis. , . more than in , which was previously tered. the ceremony was witnessed by upwards the most productive since the port was established. of of the most respectable gentry in the coun. the number of vessels arrived and cleared was as tics of sussex and hants. after the consecration under: was performed, company to the number of , sat no. tonnage, down to a most sumptuous entertaininent given on ships inward, with cargoes, , , the occasion, ditto, ditio, , , married.) at shipley, col. kenah, c. b. to being an increase of vessels, tonnage , miss burrel. over the preceding year. the trade out wards, in dicd. at winchelsea, r. denne, esq. -- at the same period, was as under:-- ticehurst, mrs. h. bishoy, wife of the rev. h. b. ships outward, with cargoes, , , -at wisbro, mary, relict of w. walker, esq. . ditto, dito, . , , worcestershire. the sums deposited in the tontcfract savings' birth.] a! worcester, the la'ly of the rev. s. bauk, since its commencement in oct. , to the wildman, of a son. st ult, anunt to , s. id.the depositors murrica.] theodore butler, esq. to lucy, are almost entirely labourers, artisans, and domestic daighter of the late kate richards, esq ---a. y. serrants. bird, esq. to miss iloopes.-át trowbridge, m. married.) at whithy, the rev. j. andrew, to butler, tu miss delves. miss chapman at leedis, s. greenwood, esg, of dieci eleanorreliitof r. iludson, esq.of wick, stone's house, to miss eddison, of lioibeck lodge near pershore, . mrs. brown, relict of r. b. - at knaresborough, t. fardell, esq. of cornwick. esq. of little hampton-wm. toone, esq. of bel to miss a. meyrick, daughter of w.m.s. at ton-francis. eldest son of the late j. owen, c. hull, after a redious courtship--es tecnly tico of redmore park-at the vicarage, broadway, the minutes ! capt. scarby, to miss locker. . . rev. d. duries, curate of that parish years, diell.] at parlington, mrs. gascoigne - at - at worcester, the rev. j. robinson ; same place, york, the rev. j. d. thomas, d. d.--al farban, thos. yarald, esg.; m . hawkins, of barbourne dear kuaresborough, r. llarvey, esq.-at don. lodge-at cradley, near stourbridge, j, cardule, caster, e. simpson, esq.-at pontefract, r. dun. es. -at malvern, mrs. s. the lady of m. sie hill, esq.- at shethel, j. rawson, esq.--al bever. pheuson, e- .-at rainbow hill, near worcester, ley, the rev. b. robinson, tector of scarborough mrs. harwick-al wildun, dear stourport, mrs. ; same place, mrs. adamthwaite; mr. flardy. m. lee, -ackernpsey, mrs. shoreland, . -at youh, mr. sanderson. [march . wales - scotland ireland. wales. into a furze busli, where its nest was, and where ertraordinary occurrence. a butcher the shells of sereral eggs were strewed around, newton, montgomeryshire, was in the act of kill which had at some former period been conveyed ing a pig, when, having thrust the knife into its thither in the same inanner. --ayr journal. throat, he threw thic weapon upon the ground. the births ) mrs. j. s. robertson, pitt street, edin. enraged animal, though in the conflict of death, burgh, of a son-at stockbridge, mrs. currie, of took bold of the haft of the knife in its mouth, and daughter. by a jerk of its head, inflicted a wound in the leg ead, inflicted a wound in the leg married.] at edinburgh, dr. c. stewart, to of the butcher to the surprise of several bye miss mofarlane-a! edinburgh, g. g. munroe. standers! esq. to miss mary kingdom. viscount bulkeley has presented a church clock died.) at strabane, john dorman, or diermoll, and peal of six bells to the town of beaumaris, in he was born boigh, in the parish of cloulee, anglesey. county of donegal, the th of august, , anit births at plas bowman, caernarvan, the consequently was upwards of years of age, liis lady of w. p. lloyd, eso. of a daughter-at byrn- father was a labourer, and lived to the age of . bella, the lady of sir john salisbury, of a son. his mother's name was margaret sharkey; she married.] at hawarden, the rev. t. pennant lived to be dearly years old. to miss griffith. ireland. died.] at llanrost, denbighshire, the lady of oo the th ult, a gentleman in irelied received w. edwards, esq. -al caernarvon, z. jones, letter from a friend of bis, residing at a distance esq.-t. r. charles, of bala, merionethshire-at from him of miles, by a half carrer pigeo!). cuernarson, the rev. mr. owen. it is supposed the bird was not more than four hours scotland. on the wing. suyucity of a hedgehog. -as mr. lane, game. births.] at newport, the lady of k. penne. keeper to the earl of galloway, was passing by father, ot a daughter-al galway, the laws of sur. the wood of calscadden, near gailiestown, he fell geop price, of u son. in with a hedgehog, crossing the road at a small married.] al lamberton park, capt w. te distance before hin, carrying on its back six phea. rose, to eliza, eldest dangliser of the honourable sant's eggs, which, upon examination, he found it justice moore at dublin, sir j. corill, to miss had pilfered from a pleasant's nest hard by. the a.m. busclieat radtblowing, captain licinkin, ingenuity of the creature was very coupicuous, as to miss mouk-at waterford, t. buides, esq. to several of the retaining egg were loled, which miss ilutchinson. must have been done by it, when in the act of vicd) at envis, foster parsons, esq. -at rolling itself over the nest, in order to make as caber uouse, the right hon. r. buller, erlos mary adhere to its prickles as possible. after glengal-at seaford, county wexford, mrs. e. watching the motions of the urchin for a short lett, ; charles lett, esq. ber last child, was time longer, mr. laic saw it dcliberately crawl born in ber ıb year. to readers and correspondents. « a southron,” has been received, but he appears, unfortunately, to have fallen into precisely the same error he so vehemently deprecates in our correspoudent “ x." if, how- eyer, he thinks proper to re-consider his subject and adduce some sort of arguments in sup. port of his assertions, we shall be happy to find them a place in our pages, though we can- not give currency to his opinions, in their present form. mr. a brooke has our best thanks for his beautiful sonnet; it did not arrive until after our poetical department for the present number was made up, but will certainly appear in our next. a walk round florence,"_" observations on campbell's specimens of the british poets, no. ,"_and" extracts from letters, written by a resident at geneva, containing anecdotes of lord byron, and other distinguished characters," in our next. we thank veritas for his communication; his sentiments, though materially at vari- ance with our own, bear the stamp of liberality, and, on that account, possess a strong claim upon our attention. although we may not insert bis present letter, we shall be happy to hear from him again. m. ought to be aware that in a court of criticism, as in a court of justice, when sentence is once passed it cannot be repealed. his present verses are better than those he formerly transmitted, but not good enough for the pages of the new monthly magazine, mr. tredgold, " on the dry rot," and mr. doncaster's " plan for an organised supply of the metropolis with provisions, by water carriage," are unavoidably deferred till next month. we shall have much pleasure in paying early attention to the reqnest of our friend in bedfordshire, whose letter of the d was duly received. we have lately been put to much unnecessary expepse by trifing and unimportant leliers from various parts of the country: we must beg to be understood, that henceforth, we shall decline tu nozice all communications which do not reach us frec of postage, unless transmitted by know and valued corre- spondents. we are always glad to receive potices of interest for our “literary report," but we mut be allowed to discriminate between what are suitable for that department and what belong to the advertisement wiapper. t. gulet, princez, crown court, fleet street, london. the new monthly magazine. no. .] april , . [vol. xi. original communications. extract of a letter from geneva, works. but to proceed : upon the same with anecdotes of lord byron, side of the lake, gibbon, bonnivard, &c. bradshaw and others, mark, as it were, the stages for our progress; whilst upon [we received several private letters in the other side there is one house built the course of last autumn from a friend travelling on the continent, and among by diodati, the friend of milton, which others the following, which we give to the has contained within its walls, for several public on account of its containing anec- months, that poet whom we have so often dotes of an individual, concerning whom the read together, and who - if human most trifling circumstances, if they tend to passions remain the same, and human mark even the minor features of his mind, feelings, like chords, on being swept by cannot fail of being considered important nature's impulses shall vibrate as be- and valuable by those who know how to ap fore-will be placed by posterity in the preciate his erratic but transcendent genius. first rank of our english poets. the tale which accompanied the letter we you have also much pleasure in presenting to our must have heard, or the third canto readers.-ed.] of childe harold will have informed you, that lord byron resided many months in “i breathe freely in the neighbourhood this neighbourhood. i went with some of this lake; the ground upon which i friends a few days ago, after having seen tread has been subdued from the earli. ferney, to view this mansion. i trod est ages; the principal objects which the floors with the same feelings of awe immediately strike my eye, bring to my and respect as we did, together, those of recollection, scenes, in which man acted shakspeare's dwelling at stratford. i the hero and was the chief object of inte. sat down in a chair of the saloon, and sa- rest. not to look back to earlier times tisfied myself that i was resting on what of battles and sieges, here is the bust of he had made his constant seat. i found rousseau-here is the house with an in- a servant there who had lived with him ; scription denoting that the genevan she, however, gave me but little infor- philosopher first drew breath under its mation. she pointed out his bed-cham- roof. a little out of the town is fer- ber upon the same level as the saloon and ney the residence of voltaire; where dining-room, and informed me that he that wonderful, though certainly in many retired to rest at three, got up at two, respects contemptible, character, receive and employed himself a long time over ed, like the hermits of old, the visits of pil. his toilette; that he never went to sleep grims, not only from his own nation, but without a pair of pistols and a dagger by from the farthest boundaries of europe. his side, and that he never eat animal here too is bonnet's abode, and, a few food. he apparently spent some part steps beyond, the house of that astonish- of every day upon the lake in an english ing woman madame de stael, perhaps boat. there is a balcony from the sa- the first of her sex, who has really proved loon which looks upon the lake and the its often claimed equality with the nobler mountain jura; and, i imagine, that man. we have had before, women who it must have been hence, he contem- have written interesting novels and po- plated the storm so magnificently de- ems, in which their tact at observing scribed in the third canto; for you have drawing-room characters has availed from here a most extensive view of all them; but never since the days of he- the points he has therein depicted. i can loise have those faculties which are pe- fancy him like the scathed" pine, whilst culiar to man, been developed as the pos- all around was sunk to repose, still sible inheritance of woman. though waking to observe, what gave but a weak even here, as in the case of heloise, our image of the storms which had desolated sex have not been backward in alleging his own breast. the existence of an abeilard in the per the sky is changed !--and such a change; son of m. schlegel as the inspirer of her oh, night! now monthly mag.–no. . vol. xi. c : (april . extract of a letter from geneva, &c. mirtb, and storm and darkness, ye are wond'rous house of lady d-- h , he pro- strong, mised to attend, but upon approaching yet lovely in your strength, as is the light the windows of her ladyship's villa, and of a dark eye in woman! far along perceiving the room to be full of com- from peak to peak, the rattling crags pany, he put down his friend, desiring among, leaps the live thunder! not from one him to plead his excuse, and immediately lone cloud, returned home. this will serve as a but every mountain now hath found a contradiction to the report which you tongue, tell me is current in england, of his hav- and jura answers thro' her misty shroud, ing been avoided by his countrymen on back to the joyous alps who call to her the continent. the case happens to be - aloud ! directly the reverse, as he has been gene- and this is in the night:-most glorious rally sought after by them, though on most night! occasions, apparently without success. it thou wer't not sent for slumber! let me be is said, indeed, that upon paying his first a sharer in thy far and fierce delight, visit at coppet, following the servant who a portion of the tempest and of me! had announced his name, he was sur- how the lit lake shines a phosphoric sea, prised to meet a lady carried out faint- and the big rain comes dancing to the ing; but before he had been seated many earth! minutes, the same lady, who had been and now again 'tis black,—and now the glee so affected at the sound of his name, of the lond hill shakes with its mountain returned aud conversed with him a con- siderable time-such is female curiosity as if they did rejoice o'er a young earth and affectation! he visited coppet fre- quake's birth. quently, and of course associated there now where the swift rhine cleaves his with several of his countrymen, who way between evinced no reluctance to meet him whom heights which appear, as lovers who have his enemies alone would represent as an parted outcast. in haste, whose mining depths so inter though i have been so unsuccessful vene, in this town, i have been more fortunate that they can meet no more, tho' broken in my enquiries elsewhere. there is a hearted; society three or four miles from geneva, tho' in their souls which thus each other the centre of which is the countess of thwarted, love was the very root of the fond rage breuss, a russian lady, well acquainted which blighted their life's bloom, and then with the agrémens de la société, and departed who has collected them round herself at itself expired, but leaving them an age her mansion. it was chiefly here, i find, of years all winter-war within themselves that the gentleman who travelled with to wage. lord byron, as physician, sought for so- ciety. he used almost every day to cross i went down to the little port, if i the 'lake by himself, in one of their flat- may use the expression, wherein his ves- bottomed boats, and return after passing sel used to lay, and conversed with the the evening with his friends about eleven cottager, who had the care of it. you or twelve at night, often whilst the storms may smile, but i have my pleasure in were raging in the circling summits of thus helping my personification of the the mountains around. as he became individual i admire, by attaining to the intimate, from long acquaintance, with knowledge of those circumstances which several of the families in this neighbour- were daily around him. i have made hood, i have gathered from their ac- numerous enquiries in the town con- counts some excellent traits of his lord. cerning him, but can learn nothing. he ship's character, which i will relate to only went into society there once, when you at some future opportunity. i must, m. pictet took him to the house of a however, free him from one imputation lady to spend the evening. they say attached to him-of having in his house he is a very singular man, and seem two sisters as the partakers of his revels. to think him very uncivil. amongst this is, like many other charges which other things they relate, that having in- have been brought against his lordship, vited m. pictet and bonstetten to dinner, entirely destitute of truth. his only com- he went on the lake to chillon, leaving a panion was the physician i have already gentleman who travelled with him to mentioned. the report originated from receive them, and make his apologies. the following circumstance: mr. percy another evening, being invited to the bysshe shelly, a gentleman well known .) the vampyre; a tale by lord byron. ciale for extravagance of doctrine, and for his the vampyre;". daring in their profession, even to sign a tile by lord byron. himself with the title of also in the al- [the superstition upon wlich this tale is bum at chamouny, having taken a founded is very general in the east. among house below, in which he resided with the arabians it appears to be common: it miss m. w. godwin and miss cler- did not, however, extend itself to the greeks until after the establishment of christianity; mont, (the daughters of the celebrated and it has only assumed its present form mr. godwin) they were frequently vi- since the division of the latin and greek sitors at diodati, and were often seen churches; at whichi time, the idea b coming upon the lake with his lordship, which prevalent, that a latin body could not cor- gave rise to the report, the truth of rupt iſ buried in their territory, it gradually which is here positively denied. increased, and formed the subject of many among other things which the lady, wonderiul stories, still extant, of the dead from whom i procured these anecdotes, rising from their graves, and feeding upon related to me, she mentioned the outline the blood of the young and beautiful. in of a ghost story by lord böron. it the west it spread, with some sliglit varia- tion, all over llunarv, poland, austria, and appears that one evening lord b., mr. p. b. shelly, the two ladies and lorraine, where the beliet existed, that vam- pyres nightly imbibed a certain portion of the gentleman before allıded to, after the blood of their victims, who became ema- after having perused a german work, ciated, lost their strength, and speedily died ciated. jost the which was entitled phantasmagoriana, of consumptions; whilst these human blood- began relating ghost stories; when his suckers fattened--and their veins became lordship having recited the beginning distended to such a state of repletion as to of christabel, then unpublished, the cause the blood to flow from all the passages whole took so strong a hold of mr. shel of their bodies, and even from the very pores ly's inind, that he suddenly started up of their skins. and ran out of the room. the physi- in the london journal of march, , is cian and lord byron followed, and dis- a curious, and of course credible account of a particular case of vainpyri m, which is covered him leaning against a muntle- stated to have occurred at madreyga, in piece, with cold drops of perspiration hungary. it appears, that upon an exami- trickling down his face. after having nation of the commander in chiet and ma- given him something to refresh hun, gistrates of the place, they positively and upon enquiring into the cause of his unanimously afirmed that, about five years alarm, they found that his wild imagin- before, a certain lleyduke, nained arnold ation having pictured to him the bosom paul, had been heard to say, that, at cas- of one of the ladies with eyes (which was sovia, on the frontiers of the turkish servia, reported of a lady in the neighbourhood he had been tormented by a vampyre, but where he lived, he was obliged to leave the had found a way to rid himself of the evil, room in order to destroy the impression. by eating some of the earth out of the vam- it was afterwards proposed, in the course pyre's grave, and rubbing himself with his blood. this precaution, however, did not of conversation, that erach of the company prevent him from becoming a vampyre* present should write iz tale depending himself; for, about twenty or thirty diys upon some supernatural agency, which after his death and burial, many persons was undertaken by lor! b., the physi- complained or having been torunted by cian, and miss m. w. godwin. my him, and a deposition was made, that four friend, the lady above referred to, had persons had been deprived of lite by his at- in her possession the outline of each of tacks. to prevent further mischief, the in- these stories, i obtained them as a great habitants having consulted their ladagni“, favour, and herewith forward them to took up the body, and found it (as is sup- you, as i was assured you would feel as posed to be usual in cases of vampyrisni) tresh, and entirely free from corruption, and much curiosity as myself, to peruse the enitting at the mouth, nose, and ears, pure ebuuches of so great a genius, and those and florid blood. proof having been thus immediately under his influence.."* obtained, they resorted to the accustomed remedy. a stake was driven entirely through * we have in our possession the tale of the heart and body of arnold paul, at which he is reported to have cried out as dreadfully dr. , as well as the outline of that as if he had been alive. this done, they of miss godwin. the latter has already cut off his head, burned his body, and appeared under the title of " frankenstein, or the modern prometheus ;" the fornier, threw the ashes into his grave. the same however, upon consulting with its author, * the universal belief is, that a person ve may, probably, hereafter give to our sucked by a vampyre becomes a vampyre readers.-ed. himsell, and sucks in his turn. opo chief builin. [april , the vampyre; a tale, by lord byron. measures were adopted with the corses of and traditionary narratives illustrative of its those persons who had previously died from effects, has put forth some learned disserta- vampyrism, lest they should, in their turn, tions, tending to prove it to be a classical, as become agents upon others who survived well as barbarian error. them. we coud add many curious and interest- we have related this monstrous rodo ing notices on this singularly horriole super- montade, because it seems better adapted to stition, and we may, perhaps, resume our ob- illustrate the subject of the present observa- servations upon it at some future opportu- tions than any other instance we could ad- nity; for ihe present, we feel that we have very duce. in many parts of greece it is consi- far exceeded the limits of a pote, necessarily dered as a sort of punishment after death, devoted to the explanation of the strange pro- for some heinous crime committed whilst in duction to which we now invite the attention existence, that the deceased is doomed to of our readers; and we shall therefore con- vampyrise, but be compelled to confine his clude by merely remarking, that thouzh the infernal visitations solely to those beings he term vampyre is the one in most general loved most while upon earth--those to whom acceptation, there are several others synoni- he was bound by ties of kindred and affec- mous with it, which are made use of in va- tion. this supposition is, we imagine, al- rious parts of the world, namely, vroucolo- luded to in the following fearfully sublime cha, vardoulacha, goul, broucoloka, &c. and prophetic curse from the “ giaour.” -ed.] but first on earth, as vampyre sent, it happened that in the midst of the thy corse shall from its tomb be rent; dissipations attendant upon a london then ghastly haunt thy native place, and suck the blood of all thy race; there from thy daughter, sister, wife, parties of the leaders of the ion a no- at midnight drain the stream of life; bleman, more remarkable for his singu- yet loathe the banquet, which perforce larities, than his rank. he gazed upon must feed thy livid living corse. the mirth around him, as if he could not thy victims, ere they yet expire, participate therein. apparently, the shall know the demon for their sire; light laughter of the fair only attracted as cursing thee, thou cursing them, his attention, that he might by a look thy flowers are withered on the stem. quell it, and throw fear into those breasts but one that for thy crime must fall, where thoughtlessness reigned. those the youngest, best beloved of all, who felt this sensation of awe, could shall bless thee with a father's name--- not explain whence it arosc: some at- that word shall wrap thy heart in fiame! yet thou must end thy task and mark tributed it to the dead grey eye, which, her cheek's last tinge-her eye's last spark, fixing upon the object's face, did not seem and the last glassy glance must view to peneirate, and at one glance to pierce which freezes o 'er its lifeless blue; through to the inward workings of the then with unhallowed hand shall tear heart; but fell upon the cheek with a lead- the tresses of her yellow hair, en ray that weighed upon the skin it could of which, in life a lock when shorn not pass. his peculiarities caused him to affection's fondest pledge was worn be invited to every house; all wished to but now is borne away by thee see liim, and those who had been accus- memorial of thine agony! tomed to violent excitement, and now yet with thine own best blood shall drip felt the weight of ennui, were pleased thy gnashing tooth, and haggard lip; then stalking to thy sullen grave, at having something in their presence go-and with gouls and alrits rave, capable of engaging their attention. till these in horror sbrink away in spite of the deadly hue of his face, from spectre more accursed than they. which never gained a warmer tint, either mr. southey has also introduced in from the blush of modesty, or from the his wild but beautiful poem of “ tha- strong emotion of passion, though its laba,” the vampyre corse of the arabian the ambian form and outline were beautiful, many maid oneiza, who is represented as hav of ihe female hunters after notoriety ing returned from the grave for the purpose attempted to win his attentions, and of tormenting him she best loved whilst in gain, at least, some marks of what they existence. but this cannot be supposed to night term affection ; lady mercer, who have resulted from the sinfulness of her had been the mockery of every monster life, she being pourtrayed throughout the shewn in drawing rooms since her mar- whole of the tale as a complete type of pu- riage, threw herself in his way, and rity and innocence. the veracious tour- did all but put on the dress of a moun- didol but in nefort gives a long account in his travels of tebank, to attract his notice ;-though in several astonishing cases of vampyrism, to which he pretends to have been an eye-wit- vain :-- when she stood before him, ness ; and calmet, in his great work upon though his eyes were apparently nxea this subject, besides a variety of anecdoles, upon her's, still it seemed as if they were .] the vampyre; a tale by lord byron. unperceived-even her unappalled im- scriptions contained in those volumes, pudence was baffled, and she left the from which he had formed his study. field. but though the common adultress finding, however, some compensation could not influence even the guidance of in his gratified vanity: he was about to his eyes, it was not that the female sex relinquish his dreams, when the extraor- was indifferent to him: yet such was dinary being we have above described, the apparent caution with which he crossed him in his career. spoke to the virtuous wife and innocent h e watched him; and the very im- daughter, that few knew he ever ad- possibility of forming an idea of the dressed himself to females. he had, character of a man entirely absorbed in however, the reputation of a winning himself, who gave few other signs of his tongue; and whether it was that it even observation of external objects, than overcame the dread of his singular cha- the tacit assent to their existence, in- racter, or that they were moved by his plied by the aroidance of their contact; apparent hatred of vice, he was as often allowing his imagination to picture every among those females who form the boast thing that flattered its propensity to of their sex from their domestic virtues, extravagant ideas, he soon formed this ob- as among those who sully it by their vices. ject into the hero of a romance, and de- about the same time, there came to termined to observe the offspring of his london a young gentleman of the name fancy, rather than the person before of aubrey: he was an orphan left with him. he became acquainted with him, an only sister in the possession of great paid him attentions, and had so far wealth, hy parents who died while he was advanced upon his notice, that his yet in childhood. lett also to himself by presence was always recognized. he guardians, who thought it their duty gradually learnt that lord ruthven's merely to take care of his fortune, while affairs were embarrassed, and soon they relinquished the more important found, from the notes of preparation in charge of his mind to the care of mer- street, that he was about to cenary subalterns, he cultivated more travel. desirous of gaining some infor- his imagination than his judgment. he mation respecting this singular charac- had, hence, that high romantic feeling of ter, who, till now, had only whetted his honour and candour, which daily ruins curiosity, he hinted to his guardians, that so many milliners' apprentices. he be- it was time for him to perform the tour, lieved all to sympathise with virtue, and which for many generations has been thought that vice was thrown in by thought necessary to enable the young providence merely for the picturesque to take some rapid steps in the career effect of the scene, as we see in ro- of vice, towards putting themselves mances; he thought that the mi- upon an equality with the aged, and not sery of a cottage merely consisted in allowing them to appear as if fallen the vesting of clothes, which were as from the skies, whenever scandalous in- warm, but which were better adapted to trigues are mentioned as the subjects of the painter's eye by their irregular folds pleasantry or of praise, according to the and various coloured patches. he degree of skill shewn in carrying them thought, in fine, that the dreams of poets on. they consented: and aubrey im- were the realities of life. he was hand- mediately mentioning his intentions to some, frank, and rich: for these reasons, lord ruthven, was surprised to re- upon his entering into the gay circles, ceive from him a proposal to join many mothers surrounded him, striving him. flattered, by such a mark of es- which should describe with least truth teem from him, who, apparently, had their languishing or romping favourites: nothing in common with other men, he the daughters at the same time, by gladly accepted it, and in a few days their brightening countenances when he they had passed the circling waters. approached, and by their sparkling eyes, hitherto, aubrey had had no opportu. when he opened his lips, soon led him nity of studying lord ruthven's charac- into false notions of his talents and his ter,and now he found, that, though many merit. attached as he was to the ro- more of his actions were exposed to his mance of his solitary hours, he was view, the results offered different con- startled at finding that except in the clusions from the apparent motives to tallow and wax candles, that flickered his conduct. his companion was pro- not from the presence of a ghost, but fuse in his liberality;--the idle, the va- from want of snuffing, there was no gabond, and the beggar, received from foundation in real life for any of that his hand more than enough to relieve congeries of pleasing pictures and de. their immediate wants. but aubrey the vumpyre; a tule, by lord byron. (april , could not avoid remarking, that it was him to resign that charity and pleasure not upon the virtuous, reduced to indi- which proved the ruin of all, and did not gence by the misfortunes attendant eren tend to his own profit;- but he diayed it upon virtue, that he bestowed lis alms; --for each day he hoped his friela would these were sent from the door with give him some opportunity of speaking hardly suppressed snecrs; but when frankly and openly to him ; however, this the profligate came to ask something, nerer occurred lord ruthven in his not to relieve his wants, but to allow carriage, and amidst the various wild him to wallow in his lust, or to sink and rich scenes of nature, was always him still deeper in his iniquity, he was the same : his eve spoke less than his sent away with rich charity. this was, lip; and though. aubrey was near the however, attributed by him to the object of his curiosity, he obtained no greator importunity of the vicious, which greater gratincation from it than the generally prevails over the retiring constant excitement of vainly wishing bashfulness of the virtuous indigent. to break that mystery, which to his ex- there was one circunstance about the alted imagination began to assume the charity of his lordship, which was still appearance of something supernatural. more impressed upon his inid : allthey soon arrived at rome, and au- those upon whom it was bestowed, in- brey for a time lost sight of his compa- evitably found that there was a curse nion; he left himn in daily attendance upon it, for they all were either led to upon the morning circle of an italian the scaffold, or sunk to the lowest and countess, wluilst lie went in search of the the most abject misery. at brussels memorials of another almost deserted and other towns through which they city. whilst he was thus engaged, let- passed, aubrey was surprized at the ters arrived from england, which he apparent eagerness with which his com- opened with eager impatience ; the first panion sought for the centres of all was fronı his sister,breathing nothing but fashionable vice; there he entered into affection; the others were from his guar- all the spirit of the faro table: he betted, dians, the latter astonished him; if it had and always gambled with success, except before entered into his inagination that where the known sharper was his anta- there was an evil power resident in his gonist, and then he lost even more than he companion, these seemed to give him al- gained; but it was always with the same most sufficient reason for the belief. ilis unchanging face, with which he gene- guardians insisted upon his immediately rally watched the society around : it leaving his friend, and urged, that his cha- was not, however, so when he en-racter was dreadfully vicious, for that the countered the rash youthful novice, or possession of irresistible powers of se- the luckless father of a numerous family; duction, rendered his licentious habits then his very wish seemed fortune's more dangerous to society. it had been law - this apparent abstractedness of discovered, that his contempt for the mind was laid aside, and his eyes sparkled adultress had not originated in hatred with more fire than that of the cat of her character; but that he had re- whilst dallying with the half dead mouse. quired, to enhance his gratiſication, that in every towi, he left the formerly af- his victim, the partner of his guilt, fluent youth, torn from the circle he should be hurled from the pinnacle of adorned, cursing, in the solitude of a dun- unsullied virtue, down to the lowest geon, the fate that bad drawn him abyss of infamy and degradation: in within the reach' of this fiend; whilst fine, that all those females whoin he had many a father sat frantic, amidst the sought, apparently on account of their speaking looks of mute hungry children, virtue, bad, since his departure, thrown without a single farthing of his late im- even the mask aside, and had not scru- mense wcalth, wherewith to buy eren pled to expose the whole deformity of sufficient to satisfy their present craving their vices to the public gaze. yet he took no money from the gambling aubrey determined upon leaving one, table; butimmediately lost, to the ruiner whose character had not yet shown a of many, the last gilder he had just single bright point on which to rest snatched from the convulsive grasp of the eye. he resolved to invent some the innocent: this might but be the re- plausible pretext for abandoning him sult of a certain degree of know. altogether, purposing, in the mean while, ledge, which was not, however, ca- to watch him more closely, and to let no pable of combating the cunning of the slight circumstance pass' by unnoticed, more experienced. aubrey often wished he entered into the same circle, and soon to represent this to his friend, and beg perceived, that his lordship was endea- .) the vumpyre ; a tule, by lord byron. vouring to work upon the inexperience of the light step of lapthe often accompa- the daughter of the lady at whose house nied aubrey in his search after antigui- he chiefly frequented. in italy, it is ties, and often would the unconscious girl, seldom that an unmarried female is met engaged in the pursuit of a kashmere with in society; he was therefore obliged butterfly, show the whole beauty of her to carry on his plans in secret; but au- form, floating as it were upon the wind, brey's eye followed him in all his wind- to the eager gaze of him, who forgot ings, and soon discovered that an assigna- the letters he had just decyphered upon tion had been appointed, which would an almost effaced tablet, in the contem- most likely end in the ruin of an innocent, plation of her sylph-like figure. often though thoughtless girl. losing no time, would her tresses falling, as she fitted he entered the apartment of lord ruth- around, show in the sun's ray such de- ven, and abruptly asked him his inten- licately brilliant and swiftly fading hues, tions with respect to the lady, informing as might well excuse the forgetfulness of him at the same time that he was aware the antiquary, who let escape from his of his being about to meet her that very mind the very object he had before night. lord ruthven answered, that thought of vital importance to the proper his intentions were such as he supposed interpretation of a passage in pausa- all would have upon such an occasion; nias. but why attempt to describe and upon being pressed whether he in- charms which all feel, but none can ap- tended to marry her, merely laughed. preciate ?- it was innocence, vouth, and aubrey retired; and, immediately writing beauty, unaffected by crowded drawing a note, to say, that from that moment he rooms, and stilling balls. whilst he must decline accompanying bis lordship drew those remains of which he wished in the remainder of their proposed tour, to preserve a memorial for his future he ordered his servant to seek other hours, she would stand by, and watch apartments, and calling upon the mother the magic effects of his pencil, in tracing of the lady, informed her of all he knew, the scenes of her native place; she would not only with regard to her daughter, then describe to him the circling dance but also concerning the character of his upon the open plain, would paint to him lordship. the assignation was pre- in all the glowing colours of youthful vented. lord ruthven next day mere- memory, the marriage pomp she remem- ly sent his servant to notify his com- bered viewing in her infancy; and then, plete assent to a separation; but did not turning to subjects that had evidently hint any suspicion of his plans baring made a greater impression upon her been foiled by aubrey's interposition. mind, would tell him all the superna- having left rome, aubrev directed tural tales of her nurse. her ear- his steps towards greece, and, crossing nestness and apparent belief of what the peninsula, soon found himself at she narrated, excited the interest even athens. he then fixed his residence in of aubrey; and often, as she told him the house of a greek; and soon occupied the tale of the living vampyre, who had himself in tracing the faded records of passed years amidst his friends, and ancient glory upon monuments that dearest ties, forced every year, by feed- apparently, ashamed of chronicling the ing upon the life of a lovely female to deeds of freemen only before slaves, prolong his existence for the ensuing had hidden themselves beneath the shel- montlis, his blood would run cold, tezing suil or many coloured lichen. whilst he attempted to laugh her out of under the same roof as himself, existed such idle and horrible fantasies; but ian- a being so beautiful and delicate,that she the cited to him the names of old men, might have formed the model for a who had at last detected one living painter wishing to pourtray on canvass among themselves, after several of their the promised hope of the faithful in near relatives and children had been mahomet's paradise, save that her eyes found marked with the stamp of the spoke too much mind for any one to fiend's appetite; and when she found think she could belong to those who him so incredulous, she begged of him to had no souls. as she danced upon the believe her, for it had been remarked, that plain, or tripped along the mountain's those who had dared to question their side, one would have thought the gazelle existence, always had some proof given, a poor type of her beauties, for who which obliged them, with grief and would have exchanged her eye, appen heartbreaking, to confess it was true. rently the cye of animated nature, for she detailed to him the traditional an. that sleepy luxurious look of the animal pearance of these monsters, and his suited but to the taste of an epicure. horror was increased, by hearing a the vampyre; a tale, by lord byron. (april , pretty accurate description of lord prised to observe the melancholy face of ruthven; le, however, still persisted his host, and was concerned to find that in persuading her, that there could be his words, mocking the belief of those no truth in her fears, though at the horrible fiends, had inspired them with same time he wondered at the many coin- such terror. when he was about to de- cidences which had all tended to excite a part, lanthe came to the side of his horse belief in the supernatural power of lord and earnestly begged of him to return, ruthven. ere night allowed the power of these be- aubrey began to attach himself more ings to be put in action-he promised. and more to ianthe, her innocence, so he was, however, so occupied in his re- contrasted with all the affected virtues search that he did not perceive that day. of the women among whom he had light would soon end, and that in the ho- sought for his vision of romance, won rizon there was one of those specks which his heart; and while he ridiculed the in the warmer climates so rapidly gather idea of a young man of english habits, into a tremenduous mass and pour all marrying an uneducated greek girl, their rage upon the devoted country.- still he found himself more and more he at last, however, mounted his horse, attached to the alniost fairy form be- determined to make up by speed for his fore him. he would tear himself at delay : but it was too late. "twilight in times from her, and, forming a plan for these southern climates is almost un- some antiquarian research, he would known; immediately the suu sets, night depart, determined not to return until begins; and ere he had advanced far, the his object was attained; but he always power of the storm was abore-its echo- found it impossible to fix his attention ing thunders had scarcely an interval of upon the ruins around him, whilst in his resto--its thick heavy rain forced its way mind he retained an image that seemed through the canopying foliage, whilst the alone the rightful possessor of his blue forked lightning seemed to fall thoughts. ianthe was unconscious of and radiate at his very feet. suddenly his love, and was ever the same frank his horse took fright, and he was carried infantile being he had first known. she with dreadful rapidity through tho en- always seemed to part from him with re- tangled forest. the animal at last, luctance; but it was because she had no through fatigue, stopped, and he found, longer any one with whom she could visit by the glare of lightning, that he was in her favourite haunts, whilst her guardian the neighbourhood of a hovel that hard- was occupied in sketching or uncovering ly lifted itself up from the masses of dead some fragment which had yet escaped leaves and brushwood which surrounded the destructive hand of time. she had it. dismounting, he approached, hoping appealed to her parents on the subject of to find some one to guide him to the vampyres, and they both, with several town, or at least trusting to obtain' shel- present, afirmed their existence, pale ter from the pelting of the storm. as with horror at the very name. soon he approached, the thunders, for a mo- after, aubrey determined to proceed ment silent, allowed him to hear the upon one of his excursions, which was dreadful shrieks of a woman mingling to detain him for a few hours; when with the stifled exultant mockery of a they heard the name of the place, they laugh, continued in one almost unbroken all at once begged of him not to return sound; he was startled : but, roused by at night, as he must necessarily pass the thunder which again rolled over his throngh a wood, where do greek head, he with a sudden effort forced would ever remain after the day had open the door of the hut. he found closed, upon any consideration. they himself in utter darkness; the sound, described it as the resort of the vampyres however, guided him. he was apparent- in their nocturnal orgies, and denounced ly unperceived; for though he called, the most heavy evils as impending upon still the sounds continued, anu no no- him who dared to cross their patli.' au- tice was taken of him. he fouud liim- brey made light of their representations, seif in contact with some one, whom he and tried to laugh them out of the idea; inletely seized, waen a voice cried but when he saw them shudder at bis “again battled," to which a loud laugh daring thus to mock a superior, internal succeeded, and he felt himself grappled power, the very name of which appa- by one whose strength seemed superhu- rently made their blood freeze, he was man: determined to sell his life as dear. silent. ly as he could, he struggled; but it was next morning aubrey set off upon in vain : he was lifted iron his feet aud his excursion unattended; he was surhurled with enormous force against the .] the vampyre ; a tale, by lord byron. ground:-his enemy threw himself upon upon lord ruthven and upon ianthe- him, and kneeling upon his breast, had by some unaccountable combination he placed his hands upon his throat, when seemed to beg of his former companion the glare of many torches penetrating to spare the being he loved. at other through the hole that gave light in the times he would imprecate maledictions day, disturbed him-he instantly rose upon his head, and curse him as her and, leaving his prey, rushed through destroyer. lord ruthven chanced at the door, and in a moment the crashing this time to arrive at athens, and, from of the branches, as he broke through the whatever motive, upon hearing of the wood, was no longer heard.— the storm state of aubrey, immediately placed was now still; and aubrey, incapable of himself in the same house and became moring, was soon heard by those with- his constant attendant. when the latter out. they entered; the light of their recovered from bis delirium he was hor. torches fell upon the mud walls, and the rified and startled at the sight of him thatch loaded on every individual straw whose image he had now combined with with heavy flakes of soot. at the desire that of a vampyre; but lord ruthven of aubrey they searched for her who by his kind words, implying almost re- had attracted him by her cries; he was pentance for the fault that had caused again left in darkness; but what was their separation, and still more by the his horror, when the light of the torches attention, anxiety, and care which he once more burst upon him, to perceive showed, soon reconciled him to his pre- the airy form of his fair conductress sence. his lordship seemed quite brought in a lifeless corse. he shut changed; he no longer appeared that his eyes, hoping that it was but a vision apathetic being who had so astonished arising from his disturbed imagination; aubrey; but as soon as his conva- but he again saw the same form, when lescence began to be rapid, he again gra- he unclosed them, stretched by his side. dually retired into the same state, of there was no colour upon her cheek, not mind, and aubrey perceived no difference even upon her lip; yet there was a stills from the fornier man, except, that at ness about her face that seemed almost times he was surprised to meet his as attaching as the life that once dwelt gaze fixed intently upon him with a there :-upon her neck and breast was smile of malicious exultation playing blood, and upon her throat were the upon his lips; he knew not why, but this marks of teeth having opened the vein:- smile haunted him. during the last to this the men pointed, crying, simulta- stage of the invalid's recovery, lord neously struck with horror, “a vam- ruthven was apparently engaged in pyre, a vampyre!” a litter was quickly watching the tideless waves raised by formed, and aubrey was laid by the side the cooling breeze, or in marking the of her who had lately been to him the progress of those orbs, circling, like our object of so many bright and fairy visions, world, the moveless sun;-indeed he ap. now fallen with the flower of life that peared to wish to avoid the eyes of all." had died within her. he knew nota ubrey's mind, by this shock, was what his thoughts were his mind was much weakened, and that elasticity of benumbed and seemed to shun reflection spirit which had once so distinguished and take refuge in vacancy-he held al- him now seemed to have fled for ever.--- most unconsciously in his hand a naked he was now as much a lover of solitude dagger of a particular construction, and silence as lord ruthven; but which had been found in the hut. - much as he wished for solitude, his mind they were soon met by different parties could not find it in the neighbourhood who had been engaged in the search of of athens; if he sought it amidst the her whom a mother had soon missed.- ruins he had formerly frequented, their lamentable cries, as they ap. lanthe's form stood by his side---if proached the city, forewarned the pa. he sought it in the woods, her light step rents of some dreadful catastrophe. would appear wandering amidst the une to describe their grief would be im- derwood, in quest of the modest violet; possible ; but when they ascertained the then suddenly turning round would cause of their child's death they looked at show, to his wild imagination, her pale aubrey and pointed to the corpse.- face and wounded throat with a meek they were inconsolable ; both died bro. smile upon her lips. he determined to ken-hearted. fly seenes, every feature of which aubrey being put to bed was seized created such bitter associations in his with a most violent fever, and was often mind. he proposed to lord ruthven, delirious ; in these intervals he would call to whom he held himself bound by the new monthly mag.–no. . vol. xi. d [april , the vampyre; a tale, by lord byron. tender care he had taken of him during in two days mortification ensued, and his illness, that they should visit death seemed advancing with hasty those parts of greece neither had yet steps.---his conduct and appearance had seen. they travelled in every direction, not changed; he seemed as unconscious and sought every spot to which a recol- of pain as he had been of the objects lection could be attached; but though about him ; but towards the close of the they thus hastened from place to place last evening his mind became apparently yet they seemed not to heed what they uneasy, and his eye often fixed upon gazed upon.---they heard much of rob- aubrey, who was induced to offer his bers, but they gradually began to slight assistance with more than usual ear- these reports, which they imagined were nestness---" assist me! you may save only the invention of individuals, whose me---you may do more than that---i interest it was to excite the generosity mean not my life, i heed the death of of those whom they defended from pre- my existence as little as that of the pas- tended dangers. in consequence of sing day; but you may save my honour, thus neglecting the advico of the inha. your friend's honour."---- how, tell me bitants, on one occasion they travelled how; i would do any thing," replied with only a few guards, more to serve aubrey, “ i need but little---my life ebbs as guides than as a defence.---upon enapacc---i cannot explain the whole--- tering, however, a narrow defile, at the but if you would conceal all you know bottom of which was the bed of a tor- of me, my honour were free from rent, with large masses of rock brought stain in the world's mouth---and if down from the neighbouring precipices, my death were unknown for some they had reason to repent their negli- time in england---i--i---but life."--- gence---for,scarcely were the whole of the “it shall not be known,"--"swear!" party engaged in the narrow pass, when cried the dying man, raising him- they were startled by the whistling of self with exultant violence, swear bullets close to their heads, and by the by all your soul reveres, by all your na- echoed report of several guns. in an in- ture fears, swear that for a year and a stant their guards had left them, and day you will not impart your knowledge placing themselves behind rocks had be- of my crimes or death to any living being gan to fire in the direction whence the in any way, whaterer may happen, or report came. lord ruthven and au- whatever you may see."---his eyes seem- brev, imitating their example, retired ed bursting from their sockets: “i for a moment behind a sheltering turn swear!" said aubrey; he sunk laughing of the defile; but ashamed of being thus upon bis pillow and breathed no more. detained by a foe, who with insulting aubrey retired to rest, but did not shouts bade them advance, and being ex- sleep, the many circumstances attend. posed to unresisting slaughter, if any ing his acquaintance with this man rose of the robbers should climb above upon his mind, and he knew not why: and take them in the rear, they deter- when he remembered his oath a cold mined at once to rush forward in search shivering came over him, as if from the of the enemy.---hardly had they lost presentiment of something horrible the shelter of the rock, when lord awaiting him. rising early in the morn- ruthven received a shot in the shoulder ing he was about to enter the hovel in that brought him to the ground.---au- which he had left the corpse, when a brey hastened to his assistance, and no robber met him, and informed him that it longer heeding the contest or his own was no longer there, having been convey- peril, was soon surprised by seeing the ed by liimself and comrades, upon his re. robbers' faces around him; his guards tiring, to the pinnacle of a neighbouring having, npon lord ruthven's being mount, according to a promise they had wounded, imincdiately thrown up their given liis lordship, that it should be ex- arms anı surrendered. posed to the first cold ray of the moon by promises of great reward, au- that rose after his death. aubres astu- brey soon induced them to convey his nished, and taking several of the men, wounded friend to a neighbouring cabin, determined to go and bury it upon the and having agreed upon a ransom he spot where it lay. but, when he had was no inore disturbed by their pre- mounted to the summit be found no sence, they being content to merely trace of either the corpse or the guard the entrance till their comurade clothes, though the robbers swore they should return with the promised sum pointed out the identical rock on which for which he had an order.---lord they had laid the body. for a time his ruthven's strength rapidly decreased, mind was bewildered in conjectures, but .] the vampyre; a tule, by lord byron. he at last returned, convinced that they grace which gains the gaze and applause had buried the corpse for the sake of of the drawing-room assemblies. there the clothes. was none of that light brilliancy which weary of a country in which he had only exists in the heated atmosphere met with such terrible misfortunes, and of a crowded apartment. her blue eye in which all apparently conspired to was never lit up by the levity of the heighten that superstitious melancholy mind beneath. there was a melan- that had seized upon his mind, he re- choly charm about it which did not seem solved to leave it, and soon arrived at to arise from misfortune, but from some smyrna. while waiting for a vessel to feeling within, that appeared to indicate a convey him to otranto, or to naples, soul conscious of a brighter realm. her he occupied himself in arranging those step was not that light footing, which effects he had with him belonging to strays where'er a butterfly or a colour lord ruthven. amongst other things may attract-it was sedate and pensive. there was a case containing several wea- when alone, her face was never bright- pons of offence, more or less adapted to ened by the smile of joy ; but when her ensure the death of the victim. there brother breathed to her his affection, and were several daggers and ataghans. would in her presence forget those griefs whilst turning then over, and examin- she knew destroyed his rest, who would ing their curious forms, what was his have exchanged her smile for that of the surprise at finding a sheath apparently voluptuary? it seemed as if those cyes, ornamented in the same style as the dag- that face were then playing in the light ger discovered in the fatal hut; he shud- of their own native sphere. she was dered ; hastening to gain further proof, yet only eighteen, and had not been pre- he found the weapon, and his horror sented to the world ; it having been may be imagined when he discovered thought by her guardians more fit that that it fitted, though peculiarly shaped, her presentation should be delayed un.. the sheath he held in his hand. his til her brother's return from the conti- eyes seemed to need no further cer- nent, when he might be her protector. tainty--they seemed gazing to be bound it was now, therefore, resolved that the to the dagger; yet still he wished to dis next drawing room, which was fast ap- believe; but the particular form, the same proaching, should be the epoch of her varying tints upon the haft and sheath entry into the “ busy scene." aubrey were alike in splendour on both, and left would rather have remained in the man- no room for doubt; there were also sion of his fathers, and fed upon the me- drops of blood on each. lancholy which overpowed him. he could he left smyrna, and on his way home, not feel interest about the frivolities of at rome, his first inquiries were concern- fashionable strangers, when his mind ing the lady he had attempted to snatch had been so torn by the events he had from lord ruthven's seductive arts. witnessed; but he determined to sacri- her parents were in distress, their fice his own comfort to the protection of fortune ruined, and she had not been his sister. they soon arrived in town, heard of since the departure of his low and prepared for the next day, which ship. aubrey's mind became almost had been announced as a drawing. broken under so many repeated horrors; room. he was afraid that this lady had fallen a the crowd was excessive--a drawing victim to the destroyer of ianthe. he room had not been held for a long time, became morose and silent, and his only and all who were anxious to bask in the occupation consisted in urging the speed smile of royalty, hastened thither. au- of the postiliuns, as if he were going to brey was there with his sister. while he save the life of some one he held dear. was standing in a corner by himself, heed- he arrived at calais ; a breeze, which less of all around him, engaged in the re- seemed obedient to his will, soon wafted membrance that the first time he had seen him to the english shores; and he has- lord ruthven was in that very place- tened to the mansion of his fathers, and he felt himself suddenly seized by the there, for a moinent, appeared to lose, in arm, and a voice he recognized too well, the embraces and caresses of his sister, sounded in his ear-.“ remember your all memory of the past. if she before, oath." he had hardly courage to turn, by her infantine caresses, had gained his fearful of seeing a spectre that would affection, now that the woman began to blast him, when he perceived, at a little appear, she was still more attaching as a distance, the same figure which had at- companion. tracted his notice on this spot upon his miss aubrey had not that winning first entry into society. he gazed till [april , the vampyre; a tale, by lord byron. his limbs almost refusing to bear their close bis suspicions, who would believe weight, he was obliged to take the arm him? he thought of employing his of a friend, and forcing a passage through own hand to free the world from such a the crowd, he threw himself into his wretch; but death, he remembered, had carriage, and was driven home. he been already inocked. for days he re- paced the room with hurried steps, and mained in this state, shut up in his fixed his hands upon his head, as if he room, he saw no one, and eat only were afraid his thoughts were bursting when his sister came, who, with eyes from his brain. lord ruthven again streaming with tears, besought him, for before him-circumstances started up in her sake, to support nature. at last, dreadful array-the dayger-his oath. no longer capable of bearing still- he roused himself, he could not ness and solitude, he left his house, believe it possible-the dead rise again!- roamed from street to street, anxious he thought his imagination had conjured to fly that image which haunted him. up the image his mind was resting upon. his dress became neglected, and he it was impossible that it could be real wandered, as often exposed to the noon- he determined, therefore, to go again day sun as to the midnight damps. into society; for though he attempted he was no longer to be recognized ; to ask concerning lord ruthven, the at first he returned with the evening name hung upon his lips, and he could to the house; but at last he laid him not succeed in gaining information. he down to rest wherever fatigue over- went a few nights after with his sister took him. his sister, anxious for his to the assembly of a near relation. leav- safety, employed people to follow him ; ing her under the protection of a but they were soon distanced by him matron, he retired into a recess, and who fled from a pursuer swifter than there gave himself up to his own devour any--from thought. his conduct, how- ing thoughts. perceiving, at last, that ever, suddenly changed. struck with many were leaving, he roused himself, the idea that he left by his absence the and entering another room, found his whole of his friends, with a fiend amongst sister surrounded by several, apparently them, of whose presence they were un- in earnest conversation ; he attempted conscious, he determined to enter again to pass and get near her, when one, into society, and watch him closely, an- whom he requested to move, turned xious to forewarn, in spite of his oath, round, and revealed to him those fea. all whom lord ruthven approached tures he most abhorred. he sprung with intimacy. but when he entered forward, seized his sister's arm, and, into a room, his haggard and suspicious with hurried step, forced her towards looks were so striking, his inward shud- the street: at the door he found himself derings so visible, that his sister was impcded by the crowds of servants who at last obliged to beg of him to ab- were waiting for their lords; and while stain from seeking, for her sake, a so- he was engaged in passing them, he ciety which affected him so strongly. again heard that voice whisper close to when, however, remonstrance proved him-“remember your oath!"-he did urvailing, the guardians thought pro- not dare to turn, but, hurrying his sister, pe to interpose, and, fearing that his soon reached home. mind was becoming alienated, they aubrey became almost distracted. if thought it high time to resume again before his mind had been absorbed by that trust which had been before im. one subject, how much more completely posed upon them by aubrey's parents. was it engrossed, now that the certainty desirous of saving him from the in- of the monster's living again pressed juries and sufferings he had daily en- upon his thoughts. his sister's attentions countered in his wanderings, and of pre- were now unbecded, and it was in vain venting him from exposing to the ge- that she intreated him to explain to her neral eve those marks of what they con- what had caused his abrupt conduct. sidered folly, they engaged a physician he only uttered a few words, and those to reside in the house, and take constant terrified her. the more he thought, care of him. he hardly appeared to no- the more he was bewildered. his oath tice it, so completely was his mind ab. startled him ;-was he then to allow this sorbed by one terrible subject. his monster to roam, bearing ruin upon his incoherence became at last so great, that breath, amidst all he held dear, and not he was confined to his chamber. there avert its progress ? his very sister might he would often lie for days, incapable have been touched by him. but even of being roused. he had become ema- if he were to break his oath, and dis- ciated, his eyes had attained a glassy .) the vampyre; a tale, by lord byron. lustre;- the only sign of affection and wed this monster, for he_ but he recollection remaining displayed itself could not advance-it seemed as if that upon the entry of his sister: then he voice again bade him remember his oath would sometimes start, and, seizing her he turned suddenly round, thinking hands, with looks that severely afilicted lord ruthven was near him, but saw ker, he would desire her not to touch lim. do one. in the meantime the guardians " oh, do not touch him-if your love and physician, who had heard the whole, for me is aught, do not go near him!" and thought this was but a return of his when, however, she inquired to whom disorder, entered, and forcing him from he referred, his only answer was- miss aubrey, desired her to leave him. “ true! true!" and again he sank into a he fell upon his knees to them, he im- state, whence not even she could rouse plored, he begged of them to delay but him. this lasted many months : gra- for one day. they, attributing this to dually, however, as the year was passing the insanity they imagined had taken his incoherences became less frequent, possession of his mind, endeavoured to and his mind threw off a portion of its pacify bim, and retired. gloom, whilst his guardians observed, lord ruthven bad called the morning that several times in the day he would after the drawing room, and had been count upon his fingers a definite number, refused with every one else. when he and then smile. heard of aubrey's ill health, he readily the time had nearly elapsed, when, understood himself to be the cause of upon the last day of the year, one of it: but when he learned that he was his guardians entering his room, began deemed insane, his exultation and plea- to converse with his physician upon the sure could hardly be concealed from those melancholy circumstance of aubrey's among whom he had gained this in- being in so awful a situation when his formation. he hastened to the house of sister was going next day to be married. his former companion, and, by constant instantly aubrey's attention was at attendance, and the pretence of great tracted; he asked anxiously to whom. affection for the brother and interest in glad of this mark of returning intellect, his fate, he gradually won the ear of of which they feared he had been de- miss aubrey. who could resist his prived, they mentioned the name of the power? his tongue had dangers and earl of marsden. thinking this was toils to recount-could speak of himself a young earl whom he had met with in as of an individual having no sympathy society, aubrey seemed pleased, and as- with any being on the crowded earthi, tonished them still more by his express- save with her to whom he addressed ing his intention to be present at the himself ;-could tell how, since he knew nuptials, and desiring to sce his sister. her, his existence had begun to seem they answered not, but in a few mi- worthy of preservation, if it were merely nutes his sister was with him. he was that he might listen to her soothing apparently again capable of being affected accents;--in fine, he knew so well how by the influence of her lovely smile; for to use the serpent's art, or such was the he pressed her to his breast, and kissed will of fate, that he gained her affec. her cheek, wet with tears, flowing at tions. the title of the elder branch the thought of her brother's being once falling at length to him, he obtained more alive to the feelings of affection. an important embassy, which served as he began to speak with all his wonted an excuse for hastening the marriage, warmth, and to congratulate her upon (in spite of her brother's deranged her marriage with a person so dis- state, which was to take place the very tinguished for rank and every accom- day before his departure for the con- plishment; when he suddenly perceived tinent. a locket upon her breast; opening it, aubrey, when he was left by the phy- what was his surprise at beholding the sician and his guardian, attempted to features of the monster who had so long bribe the servants, but in vain. he asked influenced his life. he seized the por- for pen and paper; it was given him; he trait in a paroxysm of rage, and tram- wrote a letter to his sister, conjuring her, pled it under foot. upon her asking him as she valued her own happiness, her wly he thus destroyed the resemblance own honour, and the honour of those of her future husband, he looked as if now in the grave, who once held her in he did not understand her-then seizing their arms as their hope and the hope her hands, and gazing on her with a of their house, to delay but for a few frantic expression of countenance, he hours, that marriage, on which lie de- bade her swear that she would never nounced the most hcavy curses. the a pedestrian tour round florence. (april , servants promised they would deliver it; be followed up by others of a similar but giving it to the physician, he thought description. my correspondent's first it better not to harass any more the excursion was made towards the close mind of miss aubrey by, what he con- of last autumn, from florence, and is sidered, the ravings of a maniac. night thus described : passed on without rest to the busy in- “-- i received a letter from v- mates of the house ; and aubrey heard, about three weeks ago, informing me with a horror that may more easily be that he was very ill at rome, and adding conceived than described, the notes of that the season had been so bad there, busy preparation. morning came, and as to have affected, more or less, all the the sound of carriages broke upon his english residents in that city. he there ear. aubrey grew almost frantic. the fore determined to visit florence vià curiosity of the servants at last overcame sienna, at which latter place he thought their vigilance, they gradually stole away, of staying a week, and proposed that i leaving him in the custody of an help- should miect him there, when we might less old woman. . he seized the oppor- pursue our studies together during the tunity, with one bound was out of the above period. i immediately accepted room, and in a moment found himself his invitation; and having prepared a in the apartment where all were nearly small portinantcau, with a little wearing assembled. lord ruthven was the first apparel, instruments, &c. i set off next to perceive him: he immediately ap- day in a vettura, a vehicle not unlike proached, and, taking his arm by force, your hackney coach of london. we hurried him from the room, speechless started at four in the morning, and with rage. when on the staircase, lord reached sienna about six in the after- ruthven whispered in his ear_“ re- noon; having dined at poggibonsi, which member your oath, and know, if not my is about twenty-six miles from florence. bride to day, your sister is dishonoured. this road is extremely interesting, and women are frail!" so saying, he pushed a continued series of hilly country, in- him towards his attendants, who, roused terspersed with villas, hamlets, and cot- by the old woman, had come in search tages,affording many beautiful prospects. of him. aubrey could no longer sup. however, as you approach sienna, the port himself; his rage, not finding vent, scenery becomes rather flat, and the had broken a blood-vessel, and he was soil more sterile. the neighbourhood conveyed to bed. this was not men- of this city is also subject to frequent tioned to his sister, who was not pre- shocks of earthquakes; and although sent when he entered, as the physician these counteract, in some measure, the was afraid of agitating her. the mar- charms of the climate, they have rarely riage was soleinnized, and the bride and been known to do much injury. for. bridegroom left london. tunately, on my arrival at sienna, the aubrey's weakness increased ; the innkeeper informed me, that i was just effusion of blood produced symptoms of in time to witness a brilliant fête, which the near approach of death. he desired was to be given that very evening to the his sister's guardians might be called, grand duke and his court. of course, and when the midnight hour had struck, i did not fail to visit the piazza grande, he related composedly what the reader or great square, the scene of the in- has perused-he died immediately after tended celebration. i found there an the guardians hastened to protect immense crowd of people assembled, not miss aubrey; but when they arrived, less than thirty thousand. the piazza it was too late. lord ruthven had dis- of sienna is peculiarly favourable to the appeared, and aubrey's sister had glut- display of such a spectacle, as there is ted the thirst of a vampyre! a wide foot-way all round it, which rises by regular steps to the height of eight a pedestrian tour round flo feet above the arena in the centre, give rence. ing to the whole very much the appear- mr. editor, ance of an amphitheatre: so that the if the following extract of a letter from one of our young countrymen, * there must be some mistake here, for who very laudably occupies himself, dur- sienna itself hardly consists of , inha. ing bis intervals of relaxation from se- bitants, and the whole of the district does verer studies, in viewing the scenery and not contain the other , ; so that we manners of italy, be thought worthy of must imagine every individual from the sep- a place in the columns of your enter- tuagenarian to the child in swaddling clothes, taining miscellany, it will most probably to have been present.-ed. . a pedestrian tour round florence. this spectators, of whatever age or stature, some years ago in the neighbourhood, inay see what is going on, without the and is from the chisel of a grecian art- least inconvenience. amongst the ar. ist. nothing can exceed the perfect chitectural curiosities of this spot, is harmony of the grouping and disposition the palace of justice, with its tower, of the figures in this fine specimen of one of the finest in italy. it was built art; so that i need scarcely add, how in , from the designs of the cele- gratified i was on so unexpectedly seeing brated agnolo, and preceded that of it under the roof of a christian temple! florence, so generally admired by tra- in another part of the town there is vellers. opposite the palace there is a a second public library, containing a well fountain; the houses which surround chosen collection of books, among which the piazza are also noble edifices; among i found several that treated on architec- these, the sansedoni, chigi, and saracini ture. annexed is a very insignificant palaces are most conspicuous. no museum, in which some casts from the sooner had his highness the grand duke antique, and a few medals, are shown. and suite, made their appearance at the the theatre, which adjoins the palace balcony of the palace of justice, than of justice, was designed by bibbierra, the fire-works began; but after the ex- and, from its form no less than its de- hibitions of this sort, which i had wit- coration and general arrangement, prov- nessed at london on the peace of , ed extremely interesting and worthy of and in paris last year at the feast of st. notice. the pieces represented were, louis, the tortuous forms of circles, the second act of a celebrated opera by squares, triangles, and polygons, twisted paër, and also another second act of into all the various combinations which rivale di se stesso, by weigl. the geometry could suggest, little tended to music of the latter pleased me much impress on my mind that splendour and more than that of the former; though, brilliancy of effect, which drew forth to say the truth, it was extremely diffi- such excessive admiration and applause cult to judge of the comparative merits from the surrounding multitude. the of either, as a very villainous company pigmy fête of a little italian city, and of performers rendered the harmony that a provincial one, may well be thought most inharmonious ; the prima donna is, contemptible when compared with those however, an exception to this sweeping of the two greatest eapitals in the condemnation, for she possesses a very world. the happy country people who good voice, aided by considerable talents attended on this joyful occasion, were, and taste. however, lost in wonder; they could there are, as in most italian cities, a not sufficiently praise the bel vedere, number of churches at sienna; though, and seemed at a loss which to admire excepting the cathedral, and that of the most, the glittering cortége of their augustines, by vanvitelli, none are prince, or the hissing feur d'artifice. very remarkable for their architectural the cathedral of sienna, which was beauty. the principal masters, whose built in the beginning of the fourteenth productions decorate the convents and century, pleased me exceedingly; the churches of sienna, are pietro perugino, agreeable arrangement of the plan; a romanelli, and carlo maratti. the certain richness of well-chosen orna. houses, once inhabited by st. catherine, ment, the superb aisles, together with and the famous socinus, both of whom a religious gloom which pervades the are claimed as natives of the sicnnese whole, are extremely favourable to the territory. during some severe shocks impressions of awful veneration and re- of an earthquake, which was felt at this spect, which such an edifice should in- place in , some of the public edi. spire. every part of this fine building fices suffered from their effects. seve. is incrusted with black and white marble, ral of the public walks, in and about while the interior is also richly decorated sienna, are extremely pleasant, and the with paintings and sculpture. the pave- character for affability and politeness, ment is beautifully worked in mosaic, which its inhabitants have long enjoyed, representing historical and other sub- is by no means exaggerated, when the jects. even the pulpit vies in richness capital of a flourishing republic, and the of marble and brilliancy of decoration formidable rival of florence in the thir- with the rest of the pile, and is greatly teenth century. this city is said to have admired by all visitors. in the adjoin-contained nearly a hundred thousand in- ing library, ornamented with the fres- habitants; these have now dwindled into cos of pinturicchio, there is a very beau- less than a fifth of that number-such tiful group of thc graces; it was found are the vicissitudes to which the once a pedestrian tour round florence. [april , celebrated republics of this delightful bedded room, but provided the mattrass and persecuted country have been ex- be a good one, and the traveller takes posed.* care to lie with his pistols, this is a having continued three days at sien- mere trifle. after having walked twen. na, and seen its principal curiosities, ty-nine italian miles, it is needless to say without there being any sign of v-'s i slept uncommonly well, till five next appearance, it was time to think of re- morning, when i was on my way to turning to florence ; but from some in- arezzo, where i arrived at ten in the formation collected in the course of my forenoon. this little walk i performed enquiries at the first named place, i de- with much difficulty, though only twelve termined to go back by a circuitous miles: but my limbs were so painful route, which would enable me to visit from the preceding day's exertion, that arezzo, and some celebrated monaste- i might be said rather to have crept than ries, particularly those of alvernia, ca- walked. i observed a remarkable coin- maldoli and vallambrosa. the excur- cidence in all the towns during the above sion tbus planned included a distance of journey ; that of their being built on about one hundred and twenty miles; the most elevated situations, and gene- but from the greatest part of that which rally at the point of a peaked bill. i i now intended to traverse, leading know not whether such situations were across the country and over some moun- chosen for their greater salubrity or ele- tainous tracts, it occurred to me that i vation,* which was so favourable to de- could not do better than save all the in- fence in those unhappy periods of the convenience of going in one of their florentine history, when wars and civil crazy vetturas, or riding on horseback, tumults were so prevalent. whatever by turning pedestrian, after the example may have been the cause of this peculiar of so many english travellers in this locality, it gives great interest to the sur- country. i therefore packed up the rounding scenery, which is replete with portmanteau, and sent it back to flo- the most beautiful points of view. i ex- rence, having previously put a shirt, perienced the greatest kindness through- some drawing utensils, and a case of pis- out the first part of my pedestrian ex- tols in my pocket. thus equipped, on cursion, particularly from the peasan- wednesday the th, at five in the morn- try, who offered me fruit, bread, wine, ing, i left sienna by the porta pisani, or a glass of water, according to the and arrived at monte sansovino about means afforded by their humble posses- seven in the evening. this town is not sions. the whole country is extremely more than twenty-four miles from sien- fertile and well cultivated, though moun- na, but i had unfortunately missed my tainous; at one time i found myself on way at castel nuovo, where i break the top of a lofty eminence, commanding fasted, and proceeded five miles before an extensive view, with numerous rich the blunder was discovered; so neces- valleys beneath me; at another i passed sary is it to be cautious in continuing through some of these, which were sur- your enquiries when travelling through rounded by hills whose sides were en- the more unfrequented parts of this ro- riched with the choicest productions of mantic region. the sun was perfectly nature, such as the vine, corn, and olive, scorching during the whole of the day, sometimes a rippling stream accompa- which, added to the badness of the road, nied my steps, and the rustic bridges, and lofty series of hills i had to go over, which were here and there thrown over rendered my journey more than com- it, rendered the scene truly picturesque monly fatiguing. at monte sansovino, and interesting. i entered an osteria, or public inn, where monte sansorino is situated in the a fowl(or rather the bones of one) was val di chiana: to go to arezzo you placed before me; this, together with pass through this valley and cross a sallad, bread, wine, and a bed, cost me ridge of mountains. it is built on the the enormous sum of eighteen-pence! i summit of a small, though lofty eminence was certainly obliged to sleep in a four- at the foot of still loftier ones, which - bound the vale. this place contains * pisa, arezzo, and sienna, were once as about ten thousand inhabitants, and populous as florence is at the present mo- ment. when free by commerce and inde- * these elevated situations were chosen pendence they were individually more power- ful than florence is backed by these cities, by the feudal barons before the establish- dow reduced by slavery to so deserted a ment of the republics, and when conquered state that grass literally grows in the streets. by them, they were fortified as defences upon ed. the frontiers of their petty dominions. -ed. .) a pedestrian tour round florence. seems to be extremely poor; indeed one truly great man, and terminates with the is pestered with beggars at every step. period of his death. amongst the pro- in it was sacked by the french, of jects of the french for improving the whose rapacity many stories are told. internal communication of this country, i visited all the churches and other ob- the new road between arezzo and sini- jects of curiosity, so that i had a very gaglia on the adriatic, which was partly good opportunity of examining the prin executed in their time, but is now dis- cipal works of giorgio vasari, who was a continued for want of funds, it is pre- native of this town; and not only cele. tended, deserves particular notice ; for if brated as a painter, but by the history ever completed, it will add amazingly to he wrote of his predecessors in the same the trading importance of tuscany, by profession. converting it into a species of entrepôt arezzo is a populous and well-built and passage for the rest of italy.* town, most agreeably situated; but having devoted a couple of days to though extremely ancient, its best title seeing whatever was worthy of remark to celebrity is derived from its having at arezzo, i left it after dinner on fri- been the birth place of petrarch ;* to day, on my way to attravaggante, which whom both italy and europe are, in a is twelve miles on the road to alvernia. great measure, indebted for the revival i had, however, scarcely got a mile from of literature. there is a superb edifice the town, when a tremendous storm ap- in the public square, called i logge, con. peared gathering in the distance; butas structed from the designs of vasari, and mine was not a retrograding excursion i including the custom-house, theatre, determined to brave it, and, as frequently &c.: the portico before this is remark- happens in this country, the clouds took bly fine, and nearly four hundred feet in an oblique direction, so that i got clear length. many of the churches and con- of the threatened drenching with merely vents are tolerably well stocked with a few sprinkling drops. for about five pictures ; but the cathedral is chiefly miles the road continued quite flat; at remarkable, as a splendid gothic pile of the foot of the mountains, however, the thirteenth century, designed by mar where i came in contact with the arno, garolini: it contains several fine pictures it ascended, and i proceeded along the of the florentine school, and amongst banks of this river, which on its rocky others, a chef d'æuvre from the pencil of bed went one way as i travelled the other, the justly celebrated benvenuti, a liv- until seven o'clock, when i arrived at a ing artist. this spirited composition is tolerably good osteria. here my sup- on a large scale, representing judith per was rather of an humble descrip- with the head of holofernes: the en- tion; it consisted of bread, cheese, and graving, executed by a roman artist, is wine, which, together with my bed, cost well known in europe. in the abbey of a shilling. i resumed my journey at five mount cassino there is a famous fresco, next morning. the first place i came to the feast of abasuerus, by vasari; also was a miserable hamlet called carberano. the interior of a cupola in perspective, by here i had to ascend a very steep hill, del pozzo, one of the most perfect illu- the first of the appenines; the road was sions of the kind in italy. besides the dreadfully bad, loose stones, large pieces remains of a roman amphitheatre, the of wood strewed about it, added to the church, called that of la pieva, is a very steepness of the ascent, rendered this singular edifice, said to have been a part of my walk excessively fatiguing. on pagan temple ; and in which an attempt setting out, the mist which hung over the has been made to introduce all the styles mountains, as yet not dissipated by the of architecture, without either method sun's rays, chilled me very much; but or execution. the house in which the the antidote was before me, and by exquisite poet of vaucluse saw the light quickening my pace, i soon felt restored is distinguished by a latin inscription, wherein the date of his birth is followed arezzo is situated to the east of flo- by a well-merited encomium on that rence, on the banks of the arno, between that river and the source of the tiber. the lake of thrasimene, with its " sheet of . it can but just boast of the birth of pe- living silver" to the south, and the river me- trarch; for the father of the poet was a * taurus to the north, both at a trifling dis- florentine banished a short time before tance from each other, and perpetually pre- with dante from his native city, who did senting to the imagination of the beholders not remain long enough even for petrarch's the images of that dreadful fray, beneath words to be echoed by the walls, as he soon which “ an earthquake reeled unheededly went to avignon.-ed. away."-ed. new monthly mag.-no. . vol. xi. e (april , a pedestrian tour round florence. to a most comfortable temperature, and to enjoy an almost interminable dis- -reached alvernia about eleven o'clock in tance. after having supped with the the forenoon. other strangers, five or six of the fathers the above sanctuary was founded by paid us a visit, chatting familiarly with st. francis, and served as the third re- us for about an hour, when they took treat of that celebrated patriarch ; it is their leave. i could not help being now in possession of the reformed fran- highly delighted with the polite atten- ciscans, and crowns the top of one of the tion i experienced on the occasion, it loftiest appenines, whose base presents would have, in fact, done honor to the nothing but a barren and uncultivated most accomplished individuals; every waste; while the summit is covered with mark of kindness, which hospitality could verdure and ornamented by tall fir trees. devise, was shown, unaccompanied by the habit worn by the monks of this the superfluous forms of the world, and convent is a coarse brown tunic, with a unspoiled by its ostentation. in the cowl; this garment is tied round the church there is a very fine organ, and middle by a large white chord, their some exquisite bas reliefs, by lucca bcards are suffered to grow, and they go della robbia, with a blue ground. uncovered, except when exposed to the set off at my usual hour next morn- inclemency of the weather. sandals are ing, having been previously informed, the only covering for their feet, so that that as the hospitable reception i had the tout ensemble of these holy fathers met with was gratis, i oughi not to think is by no means destitute of the romantic. of offering any money. passing through they are extremely abstemious, and re- bibiena, where i breakfasted, i reached markable for the severity of their religi- camaldoli about half-past twelve. as ous duties. i was received with the i ascended these towering heights, from greatest attention, and in the course of which the sublimity and grandeur of the half an hour sat down with two or three creator's works are so perceptible and other strangers to a simple repast. in striking, i found my mind more pure, the evening i took a walk round the my senses more calm, while all my feel- height that crowns the rock upon which ings assumed a tone of tranquillity never this sanctuary is built, and from its experienced in the bustle of cities, or in- loftiest point, enjoved a prospect of the tercourse with society. is it that the air, most magnificent description. immedi- from being more rarefied, tends to purify ately below me was an immense depth, the intellectual system, and calm the with the trees projecting from the sidez passions ? or is it that former habits of of an almost perpendicular rock; beneath, life, living amidst interested individuals were scattered a few hovels, and in vari- and a grasping generation, contrasted ous parts the tivkling of the cattle-bells with the finer sensibilities and warmer directed my eyes to numerous herds ties of kindred felt amongst the uncon- grazing in the valley. there were many taminated beings of a higher region, channels formed by the winter torrents, make the mind assume this delightful which added still greater interest to the accordance with the general harmony of scene. the soil is generally sandy, but nature ? whatever the cause may spring here and there stupendous masses of from, my wonder is now much less ex- rock project in wild disorder, and more cited on reflecting, that in these wild terrific than the sword of damocles, retreats, far from the haunts of men, seem to threaten instant destruction to the truly religious, rendered enthusias- those who pies beneath. hills without tic by the pomp and imposing ceremonies number were included in the view ; some of his faith, should be satisfied with his more fertile than the rest had their sides fate, and quietly remain at once to adore and summits topped with the pine, ash and contemplate the benevolent omni- or beech, others in a state of wild uncul- potence of a presiding deity. here the tivated nature, only presented confused pious and humble are removed from the heaps of rocks and sand, with an occa. petty jealousies of little minds, equally sional tuit of grass, or solitary tree. upacquainted with the “ law's delay," more immediately under the sun, or “ proud man's contumely," and not which was just setting, an interesting subjected to the specious forms, which haze gave a beautiful softness to the the time-serving and interested have first tints of this variously coloured scene,con- created, and finally made the standard of cealing in gradual depth the farthest virtue! how different is such an abode as horizon. on the other side, however, that of alvernia, or the monks of camal. the sight was not bounded by this fascin- doli,from the superb edifice near this capi- ating mediumn, and i was permitted freely tal, la certosa di puria, where each of the ( . a pedestrian tour round florence. fathers has a separate suite of apart observe still greater abstinence than ments, and the few nominal studies im- his brothers of alvernia. it should, how- posed on them allow abundant relaxa- ever, be observed, that the french, to tion from the melancholy monotony of whom italy is indebted for the sun- religious ceremonial ; and their church pression of so many monastic establish- adorned with all the magnificence of art, ments, committed great ravages here on enriched with marble and ornamented their invasion of tuscany in ; since by the choicest productions of the pencil which period it has lost much of its and the chisel, resplendent in riches, celebrity. the revenues of this sanctified arinces a pride of religion and pomp of spot, are derived from tracts of land in wealth, far different form the ideas in the neighbourhood, mostly covered with culcated by our more simple profession timber, particularly pines, some of which of faith. but in the first named abodes, are not less than five feet in diameter at comparatively insignificant temples, cells the roots.--the fraternity had formerly clean and commodious, but confined, a a very fine library of classical works, simple diet, studies suited to their cal- together with many rare inanuscripts ; ling, bespeak a much greater affinity to both collections were however sold by the real spirit and simplicity of religion. the french. the principal edifice, which i cannot, however, but regret the forms this range, is situated half way up reliance placed in the legends of their a very high mountain, which constitutes tutelary saints; if they really believe only one of an extensive groupe not them true, it betrays uncommon credu- quite so lofty : from the top of these, lity, and if not, proves a degree of im- both the mediterranean and adriatic posture, which cannot be too severely seas are plainly discerned on a clear condemned, for they not only impose on morning. vulgar minds, but go to raise a tax by a padre foresterajo or stranger's means of falsehood and misrepresenta- gaide, with a servant under him, is chosen tion. annually to attend the visitors; his duty the number of monks at alvernia consists in seeing that their apartments amounts to nearly a hundred ; those of are kept in order, and fulfilling all other camaldoli do not exceed sixty: the necessary attentions enjoined by hos- former wear their beads, and the latter pitality. i had a handsome suite of not, though the order of their religious three rooms allotted to me; they were exercises is the same. at seven o'clock extremely well furnished, and decorated in the morning all the brotherhood join with some good prints from drawings in singing the matins, half an hour after, by hackert. all the monks dine to- these are followed by a grand mass; gether at noon in the refectory, and both the above ceremonies are again during the repast, one of the fathers repeated at nine, and half past; in two reads some passages out of the bible and hours more, another chorus is sung, another book, somewhat like our nel- this is followed by mass at three; then son's peasts, from which a prayer comes a third full choir at six in the adapted for the day and the life of its par- evening; the twenty-four hours devotion ticular saint; for in catholic countries terminating with the early matins, at i need not tell you that there is one for half past one in the morning; the latter every day in the year, is also read ; is of course the most fatiguing part of after the brotherhood have dined, there their duties, as they are called upon to is a second table prepared for the officers attend it throughout the winter, when and attendants ; it was at this. i had the mountain is covered with snow. if the honour of a seat. the same cere- this lays so thick in the court which mony, by no means the least agree- separates the church from the cells, a able in a convent, is repeated about porter gives four knocks at the doors of eight in the evening. having had the those whose turn it is to clear it away; good fortune to please the holy fathers, they never change their garments, nor they were kind enough to invite me, even take them off when they retire to together with one or two other stran- rest; the colour worn by the camal- gers, to take coffee, and chat with them dolensi friars is white: close to the town in their cells after both the above- of camaldoli, there is a range of chapels mentioned ineals. remaining two days one above the other called il sacro eremo, here, which were very pleasantly passed the holy bermitage; to these are added a in receiving the numerous civilities of church and an extensive pile of building: my hosts, sketching and viewing the sur. each cell, for so they may be styled, is rounding scenery, i left the delightful inhabited by a monk, who is obliged to solitude of camaldoli, having offered a a pedestrian tour round florence. (april , small tribute on departing ; it was abso- “thick as autumnal leaves that strew the lutely refused, though with a feeling of rocks delicacy that shewed the good part in in valiambrosa, where th’ etrurian shades, which they took my intention. as i high over arch'd embow'r.”— was leaving the sanctuary the padre this renowned spot has much more rettore, who was once an architect, the appearance of a nobleman's villa blessed me, and wished me every suic. than that of a religious solitude. as the cess. monks have not been re-established on it was five o'clock in the evening of quite so liberal a footing as their breth- tuesday that i quitted camaldoli on iny ren of alvernia and camaldoli, the con- way to prato vecchio, twelve miles off. vent is comparatively in a state of decay; when on the top of a hill close to the nor did i sec above ten or twelve of the first named place, instead of turning to fraternity. the revenue of this com- the right i went to the left, which unfor- munity is principally derived from the tunate mistake brought on the night, sale of wood and ice; the latter is collect- before i had proceeded half my way. ed in wells, and sold to the grand duke, continuing over another mouutain, co who retails it in his turn to the coffee- vered with wood, evening was closing house-keepers and restaurateurs of flo- in fast, and the sun had already disap- rence. without attempting to diminish peared behind the distant hills. to be the attractions of vallambrosa, as it thus alone, without a guide, and a total possesses many for the lovers of ro stranger to the country, made me begin mantic scenery and picturesque beauty, to feel rather uneasy ; not that i feared i confess it did not interest me so much banditti, as i knew they would prefer as the two former sanctuaries, where, prowling about a more frequented path, to the charms of nature and novelty, and if attacked, my pistols would defend were added those of very agreeable so- me, but the apprehension of wolves, ciety; for although i am satisfied, with and fear of being obliged to pass the zimmerman, that nothing tends more night in some tree, was by no means a powerfully to enlarge the mind and comfortable reflection. after a good promote virtue than occasional solitude, deal of despondency, i however revived, something more than “purling streams my spirits returned, and night having at and shady bowers" are necessary for length thrown her sable mantle round the solace of a young traveller, who, like me i was reconciling myself to the gloo- myself, has passed the greatest part of my scene, and even looking out for a his life enveloped in the fogs, and inhal- shady tree to climb ; for i could now ing the smoke of london. with difficulty follow the slightly beaten haring, therefore, examined the al- track before ine, when i was most agree- most bare walls of the convent, walked ably surprized by the sight of a small round the avenues which surround it, hut on the left. here i procured a boy and ascended the hill from whence there to conduct me to prato, through a thick is another splendid view, took a hasty wood, as yet two miles distant, and as i sketch, à la syntar, and proceeded on did not much like the inquisitive manner towards this place, twenty-one miles of his father's enquiries, i made a point distant, where i arrived at my lodgings of following the lad, with a pistol cocked about six o'clock in the evening. this in each hand, and thus reached the town last journey, whether it arose from habit in safety or acquired strength, i know not, was prato vecchio, though greatly cele- performed with the greatest ease, and brated in the historical annals of the from having got so well over my late dukedom, is now an inconsiderable excursion, i have determined to proceed town, but the surrounding plain on towards rome in the same way: so which it stands, is a perfect paradise, that you will probably hear from me both as to cultivation and natural pro- again, on my arrival in the “ eternal ductions. a small stream, calied the city." t. l. d. chiano, passes near the prato, giving its name to a fertile and beautiful valley, some account op the goblet which already mentioned, and which is con the university op wittenberg sidered the granary of tuscany. presented to martin luther on leaving the above place early the his marriagb. next morning i soon arrived by a cross- (with an engraring.) road at vallambrosa, the favourite re mr. editor, treat of our immortal milton, thus finely in the january pumber of the new alluded to in his paradise lost: monthly magazine, i read, with much .] some account of martin luther's goblet. pleasure, the account of the marriage library the cup now is, purchased it for of luther, extracted from an authentic rix-dollars of the children of dr. german work, and preceded by the sensi- george brockmann, professor of divinity b'a remarks of your obliging correspon in the university of greifswald, and dent. in a note, mention is made of a gift pastor of st. mary's church, who died presented by the university of witten- in . the children received it from berg, without specifying what it was. as their father, into whose possession it was every thing connected with so remark- also come by inheritance. he had mar- able an event in the life of the great ried a miss mayer, daughter of the pro- father of the reformation is interesting, fessor of medicine, dr. j. a. mayer, who and such a testimony of approbation died in at greifswald, and she, from a respectable public body, is of it. after the death of two brothers, received self important, i take the liberty of the cup which they had inherited from sending you the following account. their father, and at her death left it to it is remarkable, that though contem- her husband. this professor mayer porary writers speak of the present of had in like manner inherited this im- wine and beer given to luther by the portant relic of luther's from his father, senate of wittenberg, both on his wed- the celebrated superintendant-general of ding day, and on the public festival a pomerania and rugen, and supreme fortnight afterwards, no trace is to be counsellor of ecclesiastical affairs to the found in any contemporary work of the king of sweden. dr. john frederick handsome silver cup presented to him mayer, who, in , was invited by on the occasion by the university. king charles xii. from hamburg, the first published potice of it appears where he had been rector of the church to be in the novis literariis alaris of st. james from , to fill the place baltici et septentrionis collectis lube- of general-superintendant at greifswald; cæ, mdcciv. lubecæ et hamburgi, and who died in at stettin, whither where, page , a communication from he had retired on account of the war. greifswald says: “in bibliotheca may. according to a verbal tradition in eriana quæ singulos in admirationem mayer's family, he received this cup rapit, magna cum cura asservantur acta as a present at hamburg, where he colloquii thorunensis, &c., &c. ac do- enjoyed the highest esteem, and was num illud nuptiale quod acad. witteb. greatly beloved. this is, however, luthero, cum nuptias wittebergæ cele- much doubted at hamburg, as nobody braret, olim obtulit." knows any thing of such a present being juncker, and, after him, walch, in made him there, and no mention is made part xxiv. of luther's works, published of it in the register of st. james's by him, p. , allude to the passage church, in which the minutest circum- above quoted, but are unable to give stance relative to mayer's transactions any account of the present itself. in with the senate, the citizens, and the , j. h. von bathasar, in the second consistory are detailed. it is therefore volume of the critical notices, published probable, either that he brought it with by j. e. daehnert al greifswald, con- him to hamburg, from wittenberg, firms the above account, and says that where he was professor of divinity, or d. mayer had two cups ascribed to lu- that he received it after he had left ham- ther, both of which he had seen; one a burg. this last supposition is merely small drinking cup, for daily use, and founded on a letter written by mayer the other, the nuptial present here to the consistory (or rather vestry) of spoken of. bathasar gives a description st. james's church, when the citizens of of it, which was repeated by walch, page hamburg urged him to return; in which of the d part of luther's works, he says that he lived very happily at which was published later than the th greifswald, that the king greatly ho- part. later writers seem to have over- noured him, and had but a few days looked bathasar's account, and walch's before made him a present of a golden repetition of it; for, in , one of the work of art. whether this was the gilt best writers of germany says it is not cup here in question cannot be decided, known of what the present consisted and it is, after all, uncertain how mayer which was made to luther by the uni- obtained this cup. versity of wittenberg; and in the life it is very singular, that those who of luther by ukert, published in , have written upon luther and the re- doubts are expressed on the nature of formation, both in ancient and modern the present. times, make no mention of this cup; the university of greifswald, in whose and that even mayer, who wrote so [april , some account of martin luther's goblet. un erindes oiartin terunts in lut w. . g. e. t. marriage gift of the university of wittenberg to dr. alarthin luther. .) supply of the metropolis with provision by water-carriage. much upon luther, gives no account of cient writers, and of which several are it in any of his writings. mentioned in d. philippi pinicelli, the cup is made with great ingenuitymundus symbolicus idiomate italico con- in the style of the age to which it be- scriptus, justo volumine vero auctus, et lorgs. including the lid, it is about in latinum conscriptus a r. d. au- three quarters of an ell ( inches, eng- gustino erath. colonia agrippince. lish) high, of solid silver, richly gilt mdclxxxvii. part i. p. - . within and without, except some smaller it were to be wished, that some per- ornaments, which, it seems, are pur- son would examine the archives of the posely left, without gilding, to give university of wittenberg, and if he them relief. it weighs oths, nearly found any thing relative to the history ounces english, as marked by the of this cup, make it public. artist, under the foot, in the manner re- presented in the plate. the foot of the outlines of a plan por eppecting cup is a quarter of an ell round, and on an organized supply of the me- the border is inscribed the following in tropolis with provisions by scription :-- water-carriage. die lÖbliche vniversitet der- collaterally with the establishment of chvrf. statt wittenberg vere- an improved system of hydro-agricul- hret dises bravth geschenke h. d. ture, and partly farming, proposed to martino luthern vnd seiner ivn- gpravw kethe von bore, anno . sions and profitable occupation more die martis post. festvm: iohannis plentiful, it would certainly be a most babtistÆ. desirable addition to our stock of im- the body of the cup holds about two provement, if appropriate means could pints, is narrower below than above, be devised of conveying them afterwards and so ingeniously contrived, that it is more cheaply to market than heretofore. hardly possible to drink it out. the t he already vast, and still rapidly in- ornamental foliage is in filagree work, creasing state of the population of the and not entirely gilt; but the birds metropolis, now estimated to contain and branches round the upper part a million and a quarter of inhabitants, are engraved. above these the lid as taking its immediate vicinity into ac- begins, round the edge of which count, affords satisfactory evidence, ac- there are gilt ornaments in filagree cording to the course of nature, of the work. inside of the lid is screwed great demand for provisions for their the silver medal, which was coined in subsistence, which must be constantly , on occasion of the centenary of existing on the one hand ; and, on the the confession of augsber. this medal other, the calculating commercial cha- has doubtless been fixed to the lid to racters of london will be at no loss replace another which was originally duly to conceive, that if each member of there, and had been lost; for medals this community be suffered to expend are frequently found fastened to the five shillings per week in provisions, the lids of ancient cups. upon the lid is a annual returns upon them will be up- small ornament supporting a vine branch, wards of sixteen millions sterling ; and which last bears a little knob in the consequently, if on the articles which shape of an oblong apple, with an open- vary in their respective relations from ing at the top, in which are seen some to , and even in some instances small grains or seeds. it seems intended per cent. per cent. were saved to them to represent a flower or a fruit, but this upon the average on this sum in their cannot be positively affirmed, still less housekeeping disbursements, by more what flower or fruit is meant. it is, judicious arrangements than those now however, likely, that some fruit or flower in existence being adopted, it would was intended, to which a particular sym- constitute a pecuniary advantage to bolical meaning was attached, and that them of a million sterling per annum in the artist worked after his own fancy, this important department of family and not from an original of the flower economy : besides the further advantage or fruit which he was ordered to make. they would reap from it, commercially, now this ornament seems most to re- in being thus placed more on a footing semble a pomegranate ; and it is not with their country rivals as to the terms wholly improbable, that the university, on which business could be done accord- in ordering the artist to introduce it, ing to their respective rates of living. had in view one of the symbolical mean- the actual scale of prices which exist in ings given to the pomegranate by an- town, and in various parts of the coun- .) supply of the metropolis with provisions by water-curriugc. and an important acquisition to the plated to be so largely used for pastry interests of the metropolis itself. this purposes, as being at once an agreeable may soon be explained. malden is the and convenient mean of their transport, nearest sea-port which we have -- it is ation to town froin the interior of the an intermediate sea-port between the country, will be had, and as such, they metropolis and the north seas, from will come all the cheaper on that ac- whence both coal and fish are brought count. as to the eligibility of subse- to the london market; which will proba- quently continuing this navigation to bly afford the means to vessels to make thetford, the recommendations in faveur three voyages thither to two, with the of this measure are substantial: the line disadvantages, as well of the greater dis- of communication between them will not tance, as of getting up the river to en only be as straight as an arrow, but it counter; and consequently the navigation will comprehend bury st. edmund's, expences upon articles imported there likewise as another station, which again may be computed as being one-third less is situated so near the termination of on that account; nor does the duty on the stowmarket and ipswich navigation, eoals, which is payable on their importa- that by this hiatus being filled up the tion into the port of london attach whole of that course of country might there. fish again, is a perishable article, enjoy the benefit of aquatic communica- and therefore to be able to land it a day tion and conveyance. it would also pass or two sooner must ever be an object of through the unpavigable part of the consideration; for here there is not only river stour, so that but a moderate ex- the extra distance, but the ever uncer- pense would be necessary to open its tain state of the wind, concerned in the communication with harwich, the most question. besides which, all ialets from convenient port we have for intercourse the sea, whether natural or artificial, with the more northern continental- of course supposes a tide concomitant ists. it fortunately so happens, by with it; and the existence of a tide gives a remarkable coincidence, that the pro- the means of employing it, secundem prietary near diss have just announced artem, in working corn and other mills their intention of making their river less expensively than by the steam power navigable in this part; so that upon the which is so much in use about town. whole it may be said that the instances should this plan ever be put in execu- are very rare, if indeed they ever occur. tion there will then be four distinct com red, where the natural and artificial ad- munications with the sea ; a circum- vantages of so large a track of country stance of no mean account, as convert- would be combined at so small a compaa ing grain into flour is concerned, as well rative expense, compared with the ad. as upon other considerations, as affects vantages derived from them. it is a the interests of the soil, the means of still more remote consideration as to employing sea-water for irrigation pur- the propriety of continuing this na- poses from one end of the canal, and vigation from thetford to norwich, bringing back manure from the other and thence to cromar, where already end as back-carriage, instead of its being a respectable fishery is established, made the prime object as lately purposed. from which the neighbouring parts of and again, of furnishing a cheap supply the country down as low as cambridge of bran, pollard, malt coombs, and pos. are supplied: but this is a most conve- sibly oil-cake, also, to the intermediate nient rendezvous for receiving supplies parts of the country supposed to be oc- of fish from the great dogger bank, cupied as milk and poultry farms. the would render the whole complete as far advantageous means then of grinding the as regards this district, where nature has corn imported by inland and marine already done so much, and art so little. navigation into flour-of disposing of its as a general answer to the often urged refuse-the cheaper supply of fuel, to- objection, that butcher's meat is a pe- gether with the lower rents and wages of rishable article which can only be convey- labor incident to country residences, ed to considerable distances at particular all concur to point out the elegibility of periods of the year, it is to be observed, the situation as a bakery also ; particu- that a patriotic character, long expe- larly as by continuing this canal in a rienced in curing herrings, has commu- straight line to thetford in the manner nicated the information to the society proposed, by that station being consti- for the encouragement of arts, ma- tuted the principal butchery of this dis- nufactures, and commerce, that a pickle trict, the means of obtaining both the composed of twenty-eight parts salt, of meat and the fruits, which are contem- seventy-two parts water, will preserve new monthly mag --no. . vol. xi, f supply af the metropolis with provisions by water-carriage. (aprill, all kinds of animal substances for a con- and might be disposed to think they siderable length of time. but the pro- could do better there. for the grazier posed system does not confine itself to to have thus not only two strings to his sending meat to town in its raw state bow; but what, most likely, he will entirely; but on the contrary, contem- value still more highly, the means of plates the metropolis being furnished selling his own cattle, instead of being with it from professional manufactories, obliged, by present circumstances, to in a cured, potted, and cellared state, consign them to the professional drover, also, as well as being enveloped in and the smithfield salesman, to be sold pastry in the walled pies so fitted for at hap hazard, according to the fluctu- popular use; so that families who may ating state of the market of the day: wish occasionally to save themselves thc this must necessarily be so much more trouble of cooking, may always have agreeable to his feelings, as a man of the means of doing it. before quitting business, there is little doubt but that, the northern part of the map, it is to backward as people usually are in chang- be observed, that uxbridge stands in as ing old habits even for better ones, the favourable a relation for receiving inland conveniency of this establishment will supplies, and preparing them for the be so manifest to them, they will hail it use of the west end of the town, as with pleasure, and countenance and malden does for the eastern district of support it accordingly. the territorial it: being already a sort of depôt for corn proprietary to the south west of the me- and flour, and having the means, by its tropolis will naturally be desirous of aquatic connection with the northern having their share of the advantages of collieries, of purchasing its coal at the supplying london with provisions by best hand : and as such, it will be eligible aquatic communication: for this their as the home provision factory of this situation affords a double advantage ; it district. the aquatic roads of both is locally well adapted to the purpose as these stations ought, in order to fur- to vicinity, and it can boast of a finer cli- ther improve their acquired artificial ad- mate than the more northerly aspects ; vantages, and accommodate the town at which will turn to good account, both as the same time, to be constituted into a to the fertility of the soil, and as forming inilky way, with a constellation of ewes, agreeable residences in that part of the asses, and goats, marking the course of country. from an attentive considera- the galaxy. roots and green food might tion of circumstances, it appears to us, be brought from the remoter parts of that dorking will form the most proper the country for their maintenance, if situation for the home depôt of these the valuable land of these districts could parts; for it is not only central for be turned to like account as garden this part of the country, but from situations and poultry farms: but at all thence too it is a remarkable straight events, these supplies would tend to line of communication throughout the swell the returns of the poultry farms, whole intervening country, by whit- and enrich their lands at the same time: church, warminster and frome, to while milk boats substituted in the place bridgewater bay; where a most con- of milk maids, and carrying loads of this venient and profitable connection with heavy article in combination infinitely ireland might, in due process of time, beyond any human corporeal powers, be opened, as taking a full view of the might deposit their rich supplies of this subject: but in the mean time it would useful, agreeable, and nutritious beve. pass through an improveable part of the rage, periodically, at stated hours, at a country, at present very thinly popu- general lactarium to be provided for the lated, and therefore affording the greater purpose; from whence the milk women advantages to the redundant part of inight continue their present functions our fast increasing population to settle in distributing it amongst their cus- there. to shew the immediate pro- tomers. stoner stratford seems to be spect which exists in present circum- the most eligible spot to fix upon for the stances, of this redundancy of population, out station, and butchery depôt: inas. we need only to advert to the astonish- inuch as it is in the heart of a merelying fact of our population having been agricultural district: and again, is con- actually found to have increased during veniently situated for receiving supplies the last ten years, which the last census of welch cattle, which might then pur. comprehended from eleven and a half sue their way to smithfield whenever to fifteen millions : if such were the their owners were dissatisfied with the immediate fruits of the introduction market pricos of this intermediate one, and practice of the vaccination system .] supply of the metropolis with provisions by water-carriage. d amongst us, even in a period when the be radical advantages, surpassed by no nation was engaged in an extensive war- situations, and equalled by few, if any; fare, it is fair to infer from the ascending cheapness, compactness, combination and series of increase, which must be its division of labour, compose the elements natural consequence, that if the annual of successful competition in commercial increase of our population be not al- concerns, and particularly in the manu- ready half a million, it will very soon facturing department of them. no reach that number, and will again spee- where can provision be consumed upon dily surpass it. not to branch out too such cheap terms as where they were extensively upon this copious subject, if grown: nor is land to be had any where we were briefly to suppose as an hypo- upon more advantageous teris, ac- tbetical case, that this natural increase cording to its intrinsic value, than in a only of inhabitants, were to settle here thinly inhabited district : but granting and colonize these parts, without being that when the supply of london aided by “ all the unsettled humours of with provisions by water carriage is the land," who feeling themselves un- perfected, that the difference between easy in their present situations from a town and country prices will be little variety of causes, would wish to better more than the additional expences of themselves in life if they knew how, their carriage to town and of their sub- by establishing themselves elsewhere sequent sale by the various dealers in with more favorable prospects of pro- them; still the inhabitant of london moting their welfare, it would require can never disengage himself of the mill- no great sketch of arithmetic to shew, stones of high rent and parochial taxes that in the short space of three years which hang about his neck, so as to oply, this new colonization alone, with place himself in a situation of tolerable out taking the old inhabitants of these comparison with the countryman, where parts into account, would exceed the in the first instance building ground is present existing population of the me often twenty times more reasonable in tropolis, vast as this is now deemed: the terms of its purchase ; and in the last, and as such, a double number of where all his assessments to the poor- mouths are to be provided with their rates fall almost entirely upon household daily fare, houses built, and furniture property, for want of that quantity of made accordingly, for the new settlers, landed property to bear the bruntof them besides. the very prospect then of which it is the characteristic of country promoting their professional welfare, or situations to possess. in the same making the most of a confined income, way will all the advantages of compact- which might induce a numerous popu- uess, and combination and division of lation to settle on these lines of com- labour, be had in an eminent degree, munication with a great and rich me. in all the varied articles which are tropolis, will in effect answer the same made of leather, felt, and feather, where purpose as if it were actually a reality; the animals which produced the mate- for as the sons of industry live by one rials were killed upon the spot; and another, so as a numerous community where also all the different departments be but collected together, it matters little are equally ready at hand to go through as to what cause it was owing that they with their business, without any inter- congregated there. but as increased mediate land carriage: as well as when numbers in society must settle some all the branches of the provision trade where, upon a natural principle, we may in millers, malsters, brewers, distillers, conclude, that where the flowerets are cooks, picklers, confectioners, and poul- most plentifully to be found, thither try dealers, are likewise upon the spot: are the bees most likely to assemble. all of which are additional considerations when the principle of this doctrine is to the agricultural part of the concern, established, the degree whether this in which so large a scope of employment event will take , , or years, to will be furnished by the land itself, when accomplish, is but of secondary conse- it is cultivated solely by human labour, quence; though still important as build- advantageously exerted through the ings and fruit-tree plantations in anti- newly invented mechanical means, in cipation of it are concerned. but it the manner proposed. the balance will be easy to shew that the prospect of of trade must ever be in their fa- individual professional welfare, both in vour as to the pecuniary part of the agricultural and commercial pursuits, subject, without the londoners having being here promoted, is of the most ra- it in their power to help theinselves in tional and substantial kind; for here will this particular. a new system of inland ilm madame de stael on the life and writings of camoens. (april , navigation will also be speedily submitted passions are frequently allied to great to public attention. natural talents, and the life of camoens was alternately a prey to his sentiments on the lipe and writings of luis and his genius. he was banished to san- de camoens. by madajie la tarem, owing to some disputes in which baronne de stael holstein. he was engaged through his attachment - [we have been favoured by an esteemed to donna catarina. t'here, in his exile, friend at paris, with the following hitherto he composed several detached poems unpublished essay of the celebrated madame expressive of the state of his feelings, de stael, and we feel considerable pleasure and it is easy to trace the history of his in being enabled to announce, for the future life in the various impressions which life numbers of our magazine, several pro- ductions of no less interest from the same appear in his works.* " distinguished pen.-ed.) reduced to despair, he enlisted as a luis de camoens, the most cele- soldier, and served in the fleet wbich the brated of the portuguese pocts, was portuguese sent to attack morocco. born at lisbon in .* his father he wrote verses even amidst the fury of was descended from a noble family, and battles, and, by turns the perils of war his mother was connected with the animated his poetic genius, and exalted illustrious house of sà. he pursued his military ardour. he lost his right his studies at coimbra. the directors eye by a musket ball before ceuta. on of education in that city thought no. his return to lisbon he hoped at least thing worthy of estimation in literature that his wounds would obtain for him except the imitation of the ancient some reward, though his talent might writers. the genius of camoens was remain unnoticed; but notwithstanding inspired by tie history of his native his two-fold claims to the favour of the country, and the manners of his age: government of his country, incon- his lyric poems, in particular, like the ceivable obstacles awaited him. the works of dante, petrarch, ariosto, and envious frequently possess the art of tasso, belong to that description of lite- destroying one merit by another, instead rature which was revived by christianity, of exalting both, and making them re- and to the spirit of chivalry rather than flect mutual lustre on each other. ca- a purely classic taste. for this reason, moens, justly indignant at the neglect the partizans of the latter, who were he experienced, embarked for india, in extremely numerous in the time of , and like scipio, bade adieu to his camoens, bestowed but little approba- tion on his early productions. having stances so directly similar ; both having finished his studies, he returned to liso encountered the arbitresses of their fate at bon, where he conceired a violent at the same period of the year, in places of reli- tachment for donna catarina de attaide, gious worship, and it is no less remarkable, one of the ladies of the palace.t ardent that the principal feature in the subsequent event of their lives should also have been the place of his nativity has been as alike; we allude to the death of the objects certained by his frequent application of the of their affection. they both endeavoured epithet paternal to the tacus; but the to heal their lacerated bosoms with the precise time of his birth is involved in con- balm of fancy, and each ha, jelt imperish- siderable obscurity. by an entry in the able records of the sincerity of his love, register of the portuguese india house, it and the depth and party of his regret.- ed. would appear to have taken place in , it is stated that having returned to as he is there stated to have been twenty- lisbon before the period of his banish- five years old in . the same document ment was completed, he basked, for a time, mentions him as one of his son's sureties, once more in the sunny smiles of his fair and consequently living in .--ed. mistress; but his happiness was doomed to i op camoens was introduced to the know. be of short duration, he was detected, ledge of his mistress catarina de attaide iu driven back to santarem, and the term of the church of christ's wounds" at lis. his exile prolonged. furia y sousa v del bon, on holy thursday, ; and the far p. $ xiv.--ep. famed petrarch first beheld laurette de † in addition to his misfortunes he found sade, whom he has immortalized under the upon his return, that his mistress was no name of laura, in the church of the monas. more, she died at the age of twenty, and thus tery of st. claire, at avignon, on good escaped the miseries to which she must friday, . it is a coincidence worthy have been exposed, had she lived to share of notice, that these two celebrated poets the lot of her neglected and hapless lover. should have received the impetus of their her name, however, will always be pre- genius--and love has ever been considered served by the wild flowers with which he has as the inspirer of poetry ander circum- so gracefully and tenderly entwined it.-ed. .] madume de stael on the life and writings of camoens. country, protesting that not even his stop gama just as he is about to double ashes should find a grave in it.* the cape of good hope. the remain- on his arrival at goa, in india, one der of the poem is supported by the art of the most celebrated portuguese settle- with which camoens has mingled the ments, his imagination was struck by the narrative of portuguese history with achievements of his countrymen in that the splendour of poetry, and the devo- ancient quarter of the world, tand though tion of christianity with the fables of he had so much reason to complain of paganism. he has been blamed for this them, yet he celebrated their glory in combination; but, in the lusiad, it does an epic poem. but that vivacity of not appear to produce any discordant imagination which creates great poets, impression. christianity is the reality is incompatible with the moderation of life, and paganism the ornament of necessary in a dependant situation. festivals; and there is a sort of delicacy camoens was disgusted at the abuses in not employing that which is sacred, practised in the administration of the even from the sports of the imagination. affairs of india, and he wrote a satire on besides, camoens. had ingenious mo- the subject which gave such offence to tives for introducing mythology into his the viceroy of goa, that he exiled him poem. he took a pleasure in calling to .to macao. here he lived for several inind the roman origin of the portu- years, having no society, save a skv, even guese ; and mars and venus were con- more magnificent than that of portugal, sidered not only as the tutelary divini and the luxuriant scenery of those ties of the romans, but were also re- eastern regions which are justly deno- garded as their ancestors. fabulous minated the cradle of the world. history attributes to bacchus the first at macao be wrote the lusiad, and conquest of india ; and it was therefore perhaps, considering the peculiar situa- natural to represent him as being jealous tion of the author, the poem might be of the enterprize of the portuguese. i expected to present more boldness of am, however, of opinion, that this in- conception. the subject is the expedi- troduction of mythology, together with tion of vasco de gama to india, an en- some other imitations of classical works, terprise which had never before been destroy the originality of the pictures attempted: the parts most generally which we might expect to find in a poem known are, the episode of ines de castro in which india and africa are described and the appearance of adamastor, the by one who had travelled through both. genius of storms, who endeavours to a portuguese may be less struck with the natural beauties of the south than we : * how different is this exclamation to the should be; but there is something so following pathetic apostrophe of a self-exiled wonderful in the disorders, as well as the bard of the present day: beauties of the ancient parts of the - i was born where are proud to be, world, that we eagerly seek for a detail of not without cause; and should i leave be their peculiarities ; and perhaps camo- hind ens has conformed too closely in his de- the inviolate island of the sage and free scriptions to the received theory of the and seek me out a home by a remoter sea, fine arts. the versification of the lu- perchance i loved it well; and should i lay siad is so charming and dignified in the my ashes in a soil which is not mine, original language, that not only the my spirit shall resume it-if we may portuguese of cultivated education, but unbodied choose a sanctuary.-- iv canto. c. harold. w even the common people know several + madame de stael has omitted to men- of the cantos by heart, and repeat them tion that cameons engaged in, and materially with enthusiasm. the unity of interest contributed to the success of an expedition in the poem consists, above all, in the against the pimenta isles, carried on by the patriotic sentiment which pervades the king of cochin and his allies, the portu- whole. the national glory of the por- guese; a modest recital of which is to be tuguese is there revived under every met with in one of his elegies. shortly form which the imagination is capable of after, manuel de vasconcelos was appointed depicting. it is therefore natural that to conduct an armament to the red sea; he camoens should be admired by his own was accompanied by our poet, who with countrymen more than by foreigners. : that intrepid thirst for information, which th the charming episodes of tasso's jeru- forms one of the characteristics of true genius, explored the wild regions of africa. salem delivered, must ensure to that by which mount felix is surrounded, and poem universal admiration; and even thus fitted himself for entering into those were it true, as some german critics delightful descriptions which so constaptly have affirmed, that the lusiad presents occur in his lusiad.-ed. madame de stael on the life and writings of camoens. (april , stronger and more faithful historical camoens, on his return to goa was colouring, yet the fictions of the italian persecuted by a new viceroy, and con- poet will always render his reputation fined for debt. however, sume friends most briliant and popular. offered to become his sureties, and he camoens was at length recalled from was permitted to embark. he returned exile. whilst returning to goa, he was to lisbon in , sixteen years from shipwrecked at the mouth of the river the period at which he had quitted mecon in cochin china; but he swam europe. king sebastian, who had yet ashore, holding in one hand, above water, scarcely attained the age of manhood, the manuscript of the lusiad, the only felt interested in the fate of camoens, treasure he saved from the devouring and accepted the dedication of his epic waves, and which he valued higher than poem. the king was about to com- his own life.* this consciousness of mence an expedition against the moors, one's own talent is a commendable trait, and he discerned more acutely than an- when it is confirmed by posterity; for other would probably have done, the in proportion as unfounded vanity is genius of a poet, who, like himself, could contemptible, that sentiment is exalted brave every danger for the sake of which assures a man of what he really glory." but one might almost say that is, potwithstanding the efforts made to the fatality which attended camoens, discourage him. on reaching the shore, brought about the overthrow of his camoens commented, in one of his lyric country that he might perish beneath its poems, on the celebrated psalm of the vast ruins. king sebastian was killed daughters of sion in exile, (super flu- at the battle of alcaçar before morocco, mina babilonis.t) when he set foot on in the year .+ by his death the the soil of india, where the portuguese – had settled, he fancied himself already * camoens according to faria printed his returned to his native country; for the lusiad in . in the opening of the first book he inscribed the volume, with idea of country eonsists of fellow-citi. an elegantly turned compliment, to king zens, language, and all that revives the sebastian, then in his eighteenth year. mr. recollections of our childhood. the in- mickle, however, upon apparently good habitants of the south are attached to grounds, seems to doubt the generosity of external objects, those of the north to the king, and to consider the story of the customs; but all mankind, and particu- pension granted to the poet, as related by larly poets, when exiled from the land the french translator, not only untrue but which gave them birth, like the women improbable; at all events correa and others, of sion, suspend their lyres on the weep- cotemporary with camoens, have omitted to notice it. besides, when king sebastian un- ing willows which border the foreign dertook the moorish expedition, he select- shore. ed a person of paltry and despicable abilities friendless and unknown, it was his named diego bernardes, and took him into good fortune to meet with a most humane africa for the purpose of witnessing and africa for the on reception from the natives, whom he has celebrating his exploits. this does not immortalized in that heautifully prophetic tally with the discernment ascribed to him song in the tenth lusiad.-having named by madame de stael ; had canoens, indeed, mecon, he goes on: been as highly favored as is represented, este recebera placido, e brando, and in fact the protege of the monarch, it no seu regaço o canto que molhado, &c. is much more likely that he would have literally thus: “on his gentle, hospitable chosen him, who describes himself as alter- bosom (sic brando poetice) shall he receive ereira nately wielding the pen and the sword.- ed. the song, wet from woeful unhappy ship- of his successor cardinal henry was one wreck, escaped from destroying tempests, to whose eyes « the cowl of monkhood from ravenous dangers, the effect of the seemed a more graceful ornament than the unjust sentence upon him whose lyre shall noblest laurels of the muse.” (strangford's be more renowned than enriched.”—ed. camoens.) against this contemptible being, mr. mickle has expressed himself in of lord byron has given a fine paraphrase of this psalm in his hebrew melodies be- terms of strong butthonest indignation; and in the edition of camoens published at ginning lisbon in , there is an attempt to vin- we sat down and wept by the waters dicate his character from the charges of babel, and thought of the day, &c. brought against it by the ingenious trans- this, however, was not the case with lator of the lusiad. but it only serves to ovid; though after his banishment his muse attach fresh odium to a name already was devoted to little better than the expres- sufficiently despised. the favourite poet sion of pitiful lamentations; nor need we of this wretched bigot, and the only one he to look far among ourselves for another ex., thought proper to patronize, was francesco ception to the rule.-ed. de si, a writer, as sousa informs us of (april , memoirs of the late peter gale faux.. tions indeed. she must already have circumstance that occurred in our neigh- distressed about two millions of his ma- bourhood. jesty's subjects in the extreme, and the miracle. drawn as much water from their eyes as in a certain old chamber (if authors say two stout girls could extract from a right) pump in the course of four hours. the with a certain old window that gave in the poets talk of a swain's augmenting a light, brook with tears--that is all stuff'; but an honest old cobler, and bridget his wife, really the aggregate of lachrymal effu- had quarreld through forty long years of their life ; sion which she must have caused, would but she, for a wonder, was wanting in prattle, swell a tolerable rill to uverfiow. i have so johnny had always the best of the battle. no notion why any lady should thus a lad who lived just in the neighbouring make a trade of agitating to hysterics a court, number of respectable people whom she one night, coming home primed with negus never saw in her life. this is my opi of port,* nion of her performance; and, more- stuffed up their old window with paper and over, she falls far short of mrs. siddons.' hay, - why, have you seen mrs. siddons ?' to trick them at norn, by excluding the asked .– ay, fifty times,' said he.- day. • was it in london?' i cried, somewhat next morn, then, without having dreamt of the joke, astonished.-no,' replied he very cool. at the usual hour the old couple awoke; ly; it was in an old magazine.' i but finding all darkness, they nestled once have recorded this conversation to show more, the reader what profoundly philosophi. yet couldn't, were they hang'd for it, sleep cal speculations this surprising young as before. man could deduce even from the most they tried every posture-lay crooked and unpromising subjects. flat, by this time he had acquired a high now turning to this side-then tossing to tone of friendship for my fair spouse, that; who, nevertheless, took a flat dislike to till the wife, with impatience, beginning to him, and in our private conferences, cried. johnny, my life. i'm as hot as the snivel, hinted that he made much too free with devil! her. i, however, knew a great deal "as the devil ?' cried johnny,'that same is better than she, that he did not, inas-. a lie, much as i had it from the first authority but the devil was never so red-hot as i.' the poor young fellow himself. it is thus saying, he gropd for his clothes in certain he loved to rally and frolic with the dark, her a little bit now and then. if she then grop'd for the door, and at last hit the complained of a head-ache, he used re- mark ; gularly to say something quite pat about but judge his amazement, when dazzled and blinking, a heart ache; if she mentioned a man's old john got a view of the sun as 'twas having got a broken head, it was followed sinking: up on his side by a broken heart, and so "wife! wife! here's a miracle! see, i the fun went on, and i used to laugh protest like any thing. one day, indeed, he had the sun is a-rising full smack in the west!" offended her rather seriously, by cutting this poem i consider as a master- off a lock of her hair, which she demand- piece of attic elegance. the astonish- ed back with considerable vehemence ; ment of old john, his truly natural, and whereupon he walked coolly to the ink. perhaps, habitual exclamation of wife ! stand, and instantaneously indicted the wife!'- his protesting so earnestly the following exquisite epigram: force and beauty of the word a-rising- . on one sole condition could i be e'er led, than which nothing could more appo- with this beautiful ringlet to part; sitely express the supposed line of pro- i would gladly relinquish the lock of your gress then prosecuting by that well- head, known luminary-the sun ; and, lastly, could i gain but the key to your heart.' the intense phrase of full smack, at once whereupon she was mollified, or as he more prettily expressed it, maryfied. * peter used to say, that post-wine negus as i have given the reader one speci was mentioned by milton in his paradise men of his taste in poetics, i shall super- lost, viz. add another, which he composed upon a • from th' empire of negus to his utmost port.' .] memoirs of the late peter gale faux. $ stunning and conclusive-all are in buried, and deeply lamented by a pame- the very first style of trưe poetry. rous and respectable acquaintance for it was about a fortnight after his ar- the fourth part of a century. sir, rival in the metropolis that an event took england departed this life on the th place, which gave to his future life its of june, . on that day was the bent and its colouring, and which ulti- battle of waterloo fought; and, what is mately urged him forward to this glo- remarkable enough, on that day i be- rious struggle for liberty. came a bankrupt. all her resources he had heard somewhere of a place were expended upon this single enter- called “the forum,' where a number of tainment; the last penny she could rap extreme patriots were in the nightly and rend together was laid out upon this habit of assembling and debating. one one munificent massacre ; and she has evening he importuned me so earnestly now retired from the murdering busi- to accompany him thither, that i could ness, corered with glory and ditch- not find refusal at all practicable. ac water, crowned with bank-notes, en- cordly thither we repaired, and seated robed in debentures, and with no re- ourselves on a bench, amidst a numerous source upon earth but angular parlia. and brilliant assemblage of patriotic ments and universal sufferings. a na- pastrycooks, high minded bakers, and tional bankruptcy must therefore soon sentimental tobacconists. a pulpit stood take place, and then her utter destruc- in au elevated position at the head of tion must ensue. i see you are all the room, wherein sat a presiding chair moved; i see your sides shaking with man. soon after our entrance this per- the retortion of your tender sensibi. sonage stood up, and read the question lity. far be from me the gauzy gos- for that night's discussion : ' in what sainer gewgaws of oily declamation, or year of our lord is it probable that the the heterogeneous combination of poly- ruin of old england will arrive at its syllabical ratiocination. i have done. utmost point of completion?' i was grey-headed, thin old gentleman, thunderstruck hy this interrogatory. stood up, after this speech, and thus never having meddled in politics, i could began : not but feel both astonished and shocked mr. chairman, at even the bare supposition of an event, it appears to me, that the learned which, however, the assembly present gentleman in the dirty shirt, rose be- appeared to look upon as quite a settled cause he had nothing to do, and sat thing, and set about discussing with the down because he had nothing to say. greatest comfort and satisfaction. the he seems to have talked of combination, first orator who rose was a highly-talent- and of ratiocination, and of his own ed chandler, a fiorid subject, with a good nation, with equal knowledge and with deal of superfluous person on his limbs, equal applicability. what he means by and with a bald sconce, which shone angular parliaments, i know not, though under the lustre like a celestial globe. the angle does not appear to be a very he thus addressed the meeting : --and acute one ; but as to the universal suffer. as my friend peter mnade his first expe- ings which he would fain bestow, since i riment in stenography on this occasion, cannot believe that he would blunder by i am enabled to hand down the whole design, i must conclude that he spoke speech to ages yet unborn. right by mistake. he begins his speech mr. chairman with declaring, that the ruin of england · the question which you have just is already accomplished, and he ends it done us the honour to read from the by proposing a remedy to save her from chair is one that would have been admin that ruin. she was first buried by the rably well calculated for discussion about undertaker with all proper formality, twenty years ago; because, at that time who afterwards coming in the capacity we should not have committed the fla- of a resurrection man, to dig her up, grant anachronism, which we are now finds her alive and merry, sir, when- doing, by debating when a thing is to ever i hear these patriots talk of eng- happen, which has already happened; land's approaching ruin, i console my- by giving to the past tense the powers self with the reflection, that her patriots of the future; by calling upon anticipa- have talked just in the same strain for tion when we ought to resort to retro. the last five hundred centuries. i have spection ; by making that speculative read pamphlets, which prove to a de which is already a fact; and, in finc, by, monstration, that she must be de- as it were, enquiring after the health stroyed about the time our great grand- of a person who has been dead and fathers were within two kings' reigns of new monthly mag. -no. . vou, xi. g : memoirs of the late peter gale faut. [april , being born. but, sir, my firmi opinion custom-house ; there you will find a list is, that she has not yet seen her acme of her exports and imports ; and let of prosperity, and that she probably will these figures of arithmetic silence your not for another hundred years. she is figures of speech. one might dispute not, even now, near so wealthy as an- for ever in metaphor, simile and peri- cient rome was under the caesars, phrasis; but there is no such thing as and i sincerely trust she never will; arguiug against one, two, three, and for if england ever falls, she will fall by four. but her expencer, probably you excessive wealth, not by poverty. we will answer, have increased during that should dread our descendants being time in a greater proportion to her clothed in gold, not being blauketed in acquisitions than when she was poor. woollen; we should fear for their ener. i reply, that i would rather succeed to a vation by superfluity, not for their de- property of five thousand a year, and pression by want. true, she has pay four thousand a year for my bar- contracted an enormous debt; still this gain, than remain with an income of is a domestic one; her people owe money five hundred pounds, and pay nothing at to each other, and though they cannot all. as for radical reform, i must just pay it, yet she is not herself one penny tell you an anecdote, and have done :- the poorer. you complain of an useless the people of a little village in italy, war-you say that she might have were persuaded by their priest, that he avoided it, and that had she done had so much influence with heaven, as so, she would now be out of debt and even to call down rain from it whenever out of danger altogether. to argue he chose. a dry season came, and the from what is, to what might have farmers waited upon him to beg the fa- been, may do very well for pathetic theo. vour of a few showers. the parson rists, and answers admirably for those was posed. but parsons are not often patriots, who, having failed to predict at a loss:- friends, said he, i shall cer- with precision about the future, have tainly indulge von with a cloudful when- nothing for it now, but to decide, by a ever you please, so now retire together, sort of retrospective vaticination, upon an'l fix the day among you. they re- the past. for my own part, i would tired; but none of them could agree. say that had she remained an incrt one inan thonglii sunday would answer spcctatress of the contest, she would best for his crops; another fancied probabiy bave shared the fate of prussia, tuesday; a third delighted in wednes- who, after sitting quietly by to husband day, and a fourth had a wondrous her resources, at length stalked forth to penchant for saturday. the conse- battle with awful energy, and was con- quence was, that they found it was just quered in an hour. but, sir, omitting as impossible to decide upon the day they this useless point of discussion, england wished for rain, as the parson would have got into war--leedlessly if you like found it to procure the rain. the mo- it, but got out of war gloriously, ral of my story is, that no two of our whether you like it or not. while all patriots can agree upon the sort of re- the other powers were alternately over- from they would desire, and that even if run by hostile myriads, she alone pre- they did, it would be of a nature just served her sacred altars from pollution as impracticable as drawing down rain che alone saw ber harvests untram- from heaven. - pled by the armed hoof of overwhelining (to be continued.) i squadrons. and think you, then, she could have enjoyed all these blessings on the fluctuations op pashion- gratis? are you astonished that she able phraseology. could not save herself and the whole the lovers of science have long been world besides, without some privations, unanimous in wishing that the nomen- some little inconveniences-- nay, without clature of each branch of physical know- some gigantic calamities ? but, after all, ledget-which at present is subject to why talk of her losses at all, when we every change of system and caprice of consider her gains since the first com- theory--should be accurately defined and mencement of the war, her cominierce, determined. whilst the chemist and in despite of all bankruptcies and milan the geologist are bewildered in the maze decrees, has increased progressively and of confused terms and contradictory de- prodigiously, nay, almost to one-tifth of finitions, the linguist is no less perplexed what it had ever been before. to prove by the fluctuations to which language is this fact, and in answer to all theory, i perpetually liable. he who would make would only refer you to the ledger of the every such shift of literature, and each .) fluctuations of fashionable phraseology. returning tide of prevalent idioms-who and night into day. to become a mem- would ascertain when such and such ex- ber of this fraternity it is only neces- pressions first appeared in the hemi- sary to renounce three things, namely, sphere of polite education -- how long your knowledge, your senses, and your they flourished, and at what period they character; which trifling sacritices are were pronounced obsolete, would not not, to persons of stvle, worth one sha- find it the work of a day; for there will dow of regret; though, like the secret always be some tenacious and obstinate of free inasonry, none but the initiated grammarian, perversely loth to part can conceive the sublimity of those gra- with one phrase in his vocabulary, and tifications, which that style affords, in resolute to procure a short respite for lieu of these minor considerations. by some devoted term. but he who is am- some ignorant pretenders, it is true, bitious of keeping a regular account of that this acceptation of the word style every new track and channel into which has been detined-an irresistible hurri- the stream of fashionable conversation cane of dissipation, sweeping away thou- may chance to meander, will find it still sands of men and women, with their fa- more difficult, although he may be urged milies and fortunes, into a whirlpool of to proceed in the undertaking in the mischief and ruin ;-and have referred fond hope that he may rank in the beau the curious in such investigations to the monde, as johnson does among lexico- in-olvent act, now happily on the eve graphers, and rees among the lovers of of being abolished--the ol buley-the art and science. this indefinite phrase- fleet prison--the king's bench -holy- ology is as absolutely unintelligible to rood tlouse, and the isle of man ;-to the classical as to the vulgar. it varies the annals of newgate, to st. luke's with almost every season, and the definic hospital, and to various cases of suicides, tion and acceptation of many words in for proofs of its effects. the vocabulary of fashion for are bore. it would be troublesome to as different in as the dialects of ascertain the precise period that gave spenser and southey among the poets. birth to this comprehensive epithet; it in their own element these phrases are has, however, outlived the little existence mere birds of passage ; it may be enter of most of its brethren, and may still be taining to arrest a few of them in their taken in nearly the same acceptation flight, and, without attempting to sub- that was common to it twenty years mit them to any regular classification, to ago. a bore, like an estate in law, may compare them with their predecessors, be either real or personal; the first re- and examine what meaning they convey fers to good advice, long sermons, and at this period. some of the most prorational conversation ;-the latter to the minent peculiarities of this eccentric jar. whole race of parents and kinsfolk--to gon-- which, at the present æra, nearly all who suppose they have a natural approximates with what is elsewhere,de- right of authority, or a natural claim to nominated slang-are as following. civility;--and, above all, to wives and the modern dandy has usurped the creditors! place of the bear, the buck of former noboily-one who lives like a christian years. its external character--a pair and behaves like a gentleman. of stays-high heeled boots-short waist a i home--what was formerly called --starched cravat-narrow brimmed hat a rout, assembly, &c., where none of the -sans sense, sans brains, sans wit, sans comforts of home are enjoved; but where every thing that a man should possess. a multitude of well-dressed people, who its specific character-vast self import- do not care a rush for each other, are ance-selfishness the ruling principle - stuffed into one or more rooms, without affecting to despise all men and all things the possibility of seeing, hearing, or not within the pale of the dandy com- conversing at ease,-at the house of a munity, exactly as they are unaffectedly friend, who would not care half a rush despised by all wise and respectable per if they were all at the bottom of the sons. sea. that which has been successively term- man of honour. any person whose ed the tor, the go, &c. is now denominat nerves are sufficiently firm to stand fire. ed style. it is the unerring compass by affair of honour. cannot be defined which allconcerns in the system of fashion --consequence, generally deliberate inur- are to be steered, and that improvement der. of ignorant nature which prescribes new cards. something to do for those courses to the seasons and elements, who have nothing to say; it were well which would turn summer into winter, if the definition ended here. truth and on the currents and whirlpools in the straits of messina. (april , experience must add ;-a means of break- copies there are no originals-that be- ing the sabbath-ruining fortune--ex- cause fools and knaves are to be found terminating principle, and entrapping in the great mass of civilized society the unwary to their ruin. we may search, with diogenes, for an to swell. to drink champagne when honest man-in vain! you have not money to pay for small beer- to run after foxes one day, and on the various currents and away from bailiffs the next. to talk apparent whirlpools in the of your stud at newmarket, when your straits op messina. watch is in the hands of the pawn- the waters in the straits of messina broker! are, as is well known, impelled by a chaperon. this term is derived from strong current, varying in its direction the french, and signifies a hoodaa shel. according to the period of the tide, ter for the tender plants of celibacy sometimes setting from north to south, from the storms of dissipation, the in- and sometimes from south to north. sidious blasts of saneamish sentiment, many writers, both ancient and modern, and the mal aria of aattery. in former have noticed this phenomenon, but no times it was a sort of female scare-crow one has as yet described the circum- which guarded the blossomis of beauty; stances attendant upon it, or traced the the idea supposed to be borrowed from causes by which they are connected to- the storv of the dragon which chaperoned gether. the poets invented scylla and the golden apples in the hesperian gar- charybdis, and historians, copying from den; but by a late edict in the empire them, have affirmed in their works the of fashion - which has confined this existence of the rocks of scylla, and the office to those who have entered the whirlpool of charybdis. spillanzani, to holy state of wedlock-it has lost this the best of our recollection, was the first exclusive character; since the young who, by his observations, proved the idea and blooming bride - the gay and buxom so long entertained of this whirlpool, to widow are, now, frequently seen to cha- be erroneous, but he was unable to dis- peron the single gentlewoman of fifty- cover what produced the violent agita- four--the unprotected miss of sixty- tion of the waters visible in many parts three! akin to this contradiction and of the straits, or by wbat force vessels misapplication of terms, is another abuse were frequently hurried along by the of language, which cannot be too se- impetuosity of such agitation, and dash- verely reprobated; it is that of ascribing ed against the neighbouring rock. it the faults of particular members of a may not, therefore, be a useless labour profession to the profession itself, by to distinguish and link together the means of instituting a set of cant principal phenomena of these currents; phrases, to denote insufficiency or de to explain the cause of the formation of merit in the several learned bodies; and the whirlpools, and the different results having succeeded in affixing such ideas of their action under different circum. to the words, they are indiscriminately stances. applied to the professions themselves. the channel of messina is narrowest law and medicine have long been sub- at the pharos, where its breadth may ject to this contemptible and mischievous be about a league. if we look in an practice, nor has the sacred function of oblique direction through this opening, the minister of the gospel escaped-and the view is bounded by the rocks of the appellation of parson is associated scvlla, which apparently shut up the with quack and pettifogger, for the mouth of the strait in that direction. purpose of throwing ridicule and con. but if from the pharos we approach tempt upon their respective callinge. messina, as we proceed, the sides of the there is another class of men exposed channel diverge, and after passing mes. to this paltry malice, and all who em- sina, the strait widens perceptibly, till it ploy their time and talents in endeavours opens to the main sea. the messinese to improve the understanding correct have given to the current the greek the will--and expose the prevailing vices name of rema, and when it sets from the and follies of the age, are stigmatised north, they call it rema discendente ; as scribblers. that many have engaged when from the south, rema montante. in such undertakings who are unequal but whether the rema flow north or to the task-that others have perverted south, several currents may always be splendid talents to mischievous pur- observed at no great distance from the poses, is too true: but as well might it shore, running in an opposite direction be urged, that because there are vile to the main stream; that is to say, .) on the currents and whirlpools in the straits of messina. when the rema sets to the northward causes such repulsion of the water, so these currents run in a southerly direc- many reflui or contrary currents will be tion, and vice versâ. this singular fact, produced. and these are seldom ob- which must strike every one who atten- served far distant froin the shores of the tively surveys the straits, deserves to be channel, because it is by the action of considered, since, in our opinion, it is the the water on the sides that they are principal cause on which all the other formed. phenomena of this current depend, and nor can the winds apparently have from which they proceed. any influence on the formation of the to explain the reason of these con- reflui; for whether the air be calm or trary currents, which are called reflui, not, whether the wind be favourable or we must take for granted that the two adverse to the stream, these currents are sides of the channel are, as they appcar constantly visible. indeed we cannot to be, irregular, and intersected by nu- with probability assign a certain and in- merous creeks and bays. variable result to an uncertain and vari- if it be true, as some assert, that both able cause. the action of the wind can shores were formerly united, it may be produce no other effect than to modify easily imagined that this irregularity the velocity of these currents. if the may have been caused by the violence of wind blow in the direction of the stream, the shock which split and separated the latter will be impelled with greater- them. but without taking this into our impetuosity against the shores, and consideration, it will be obvious that therefore the reflux will certainly pos- the cliffs on either side have been partly sees a greater impulse than would have dissolved, or washed away by the vio- been the case if it had not been aided by lence of the waters which have been for the wind; and if the wind blow in a coni centuries, and are still sapping their trary direction to the rema, the latter foundations ; nor is it possible that gra- will paturally strike the shores with less nite, the common basis of the mountains impetus: but the reflui which are formed of calabria and messina, can have re- will not only be impelled by their re- sisted, uninjured, the incessant action of maining power, but also by the favour- the waters, which in the course of ages able action of the wind. the formation will destroy, or at least produce a vast of the reflui therefore being independent alteration in almost every natural pro- of the wind, can only result from the duction. we know also that the rocks irregular and cavernous shape of the of scylla are hollowed into numerous shores. caverns, among which the water rushing this explanation, which to some may in, circulating and bursting out again, appear solely theoretical, is, however, produces that noise which, according to confirmed by observation. the remni homer, resembles the barking of many montante, in the course of the year, is sometimes more, and sometimes less admitting the shores to be thus irre- rapid than the rema discendente. the gular and cavernous, we may easily con- points from which the rema enters the ceive that the waters impelled by the channel, as the messinese pilots affirm, current, striking them obliquely, a re- vary according to the season of the action will be produced, and the mo- year; but notwithstanding these varia- mentum of the impulse be divided into tions the direction of the reflui is al- two distinct powers, one of which ways the same. as a proof of this, the being a direct recoil, will be annihi- above-mentioned pilots, when they see a lated; the other, flying off in a ship, through the unskilfulness of the direction equal to the angle of that in captain, caught into one of these reflui, which it was impelled; therefore the cap instantly point out the exact spot current of water, after striking the whither the vessel will be irremediably shore, will be repelled in a given angle, carried. this uniform direction of the and be urged on in its new direction by reflui, amid all the variations of the cura the moiety of power which remains. now rent, clearly refers their cause to the if the current, after this first repulsion, only constant and unchanging objects strikes the side of a second or third pro- the form of the shure. besides, it is jection, then from the second or third well known that the rapidity of the angular obliquity a current may result reflui decreases in proportion as the directly contrary to the main stream. strait widens, although the rema con- as many, therefore, as are the points tinues in all its former activity ; because in which the isregularity of either side these currents must necessarily lose their dogs. onthe establishment of a public market for literature. [april , force in proportion as that force is ex- forces. but if one of these forces should tended over a larger space, and as their decrease, it follows that the other being distance from the points whence they more active and remaining victorious, were repelled increases. will drive the ship against the shore, as the direction of the reflui is in- where it will, most probably, be dashed variably the same, so it is always in the to pieces. this is also the reason why same parts of the strait that the waters the most dangerous whirlpools in the appear to form whirlpools ; both thus straits are situated but à few yards shewing by their constant position, the distant from either shore. chain which connects them, and their by the irregularity therefore of the mutual relation to each other; for sides of this channel are produced the wherever the reflui meet the current of reflui, and by these again the apparent the stream, a violent agitation must whirlpools, and all the dangers of the necessarily be produced, and where navigation of the straits near the pharos. many reflui meet the current in an ob- the skill of the messinese pilots consists lique direction, a circular motion will in nothing further than their knowledge take place similar in appearance to that of these currents, and of the best man- of a whirlpool. ner of avoiding them or extricating a observation will strengthen this sup- vessel from them. fortunately, the position. the whirlpools are found close direction of them is always the same, to the shore, because the currents do not, and the art of the pilots being founded as before stated, extend to any distance upon a certain and invariable basis, sel- from land. they are formed in the dom if ever fails. narrowest part of the channel, because in these remarks were drawn up during a this part the retlui are stronger and recent residence of some days at messina. more numerous. in fact, they are for our intention was to have traced a map of the most part near the pharos and the the irregularities of the coast, in order to lanterna, and are scarcely perceptible have proved more clearly the truth of our more to the southward, where the hypothesis; but want of time prevented channel widens and the reflui lose their us from carrying this design into effect. force. we shall, however, feel gratified to see after this we can no longer be sur- our ideas corrected or better expressed prized at the effects produced by these by some one, who, with more leisure, may whirlpools in the straits of messina. hereafter be induced to examine the when a ship is inadvertently drawn phenomena of these straits. into one of them, it must of necessity either be wbirled round, or remain motionless, till one of the two contrary thoughts on the establisament powers by which it is fixed, becomes of a public market for litera greater than the other. when the op- ture. posing powers of the reflui and of the thanks to the immortal discoveries main stream are equal and operate in of jan lawrence coster, jan faustus exactly contrary directions upon the or peter scoeffer, or to all of them vessel, there can be no doubt but that combined, the world is now in pos- the two powers being in equilibrium, the session of a more valuable medium for vessel must remain motionless, and as it the universal dissemination of know- were fastened in the middle of the whirl- ledge, than the costly manuscripts of pool. in such case, if the sea is rough former ages, which, notwithstanding and the wind which agitates it, boister- their illumination, did not tend to ous, the vessel is in danger of being enlighten mankind; although some beaten to pieces by the violence of the grave and timid persons have been led to waves, and consequently of foundering. lament the discovery from the torrents but if the powers of the contrary cur- of nonsense, impiety, and absurdity, rents are not directly opposed in one and with which the world has been deluged the same line, then their forces, although since the introduction of the art of print- they were equal, would act upon the ing, yet as knowledge like calorio vessel with a rotatory motion; and, has a natural tendency to diffuse itself according to the law of mechanics, the universally, and as it is as salutary to the momentum of this result would be equal moral, as heat is to the natural world, in such case to the sum of the momenta every means may safely be employed to of the component powers, and the motion facilitate its progress, since, provided of rotation will continue as long as the the search after truth be not impeded, equilibrium and energy of the opposing sophistry and falsehood, error and arti- . on the establishment of a public market for literature. fice will be finally detected and exposed. desirable to combine as many advan- but materially as the navigation of the tages as possible, of a more obvious and ocean of literature has been improved by generally useful nature, a centrical situ- this discovery, so many difficulties attend ation affording facility of communication the first launching of the bark, the out with the principal manufactories, is of fit is generally so expensive, inany are still greater importance; let, therefore, prohibited to trade without a licence, some topographer of note fix upon that while a certain incorporated body (i. e. spot in england, most equidistant the booksellers) have such complete comº from london, edinburgh, and dublin, mand of the market, that many adven- and measures will be taken by a parlia- turers are for these reasons deterred mentary grant, no doubt (for our na- from employing their capital in such tional representatives will assuredly re- speculations. the warfare between au- joice in an opportunity of applying some thors and publishers is coeval with the of our surperfluous cash to the attain- introduction of letters; it has afforded ment of an object of such great public matter of serious comment and playful utility) to purchase the premises where- satire, and has been the subject of many ever they may be, most appropriate for an ingenious essay to our best periodical the establishment of this emporium of writers; and scarcely a novel issues literature. the local situation and the from the press, that does not exhibit period when the fair is to be held being some interesting disciple of the muse, determined, the environs would soon the victim of the unheard of cruelty and rise into opulence, for not only must unmerited persecution of a tyrannical provision be made for the accommoda- bookseller. occasion has thence been tion of the frequenters of the market, taken by knaves (and fools, who are their but a brisk retail trade might be carried echoes, have propagated the slander) to on in the manufacturing of materials for cast a general stigma upon the profes- future sale. on one side you might sion, whereas, if these “ calamities of see an advertisement, declaring, that authors" were traced to their source. thoughts on all subjects are provided instead of being chargeable to publishers, according to order, on the most liberal they would be found like most other terms.--another sign would inform you, calamities) to proceed from their own that - abstracts are furnished at so folly, conceit, or petulance. it is pre- much per line--here that mottos and sumed, however, that the present sys- quotations adapted to all subjects can tem of nogociation between authors and be procured on the shortest notice booksellers, is capable of great improve- -- there that divines may be provided ment; and as this is the age for projects with heads of discourses -- tourists with of reform, it has been proposed to ob descriptions and topographical notices-- viate all difficulties, to reform all abuses, poets with imagination and rhyme- to remove all impediments, and to secure novelists with characters and incidents, an equitable competition, by the esta- with care, secresy, and dispatch. blishment of a literary fair, where works it would be amusing to anticipate in of every description would be exposed idea the anxiety, the expectation, the to public sale, and their respective value hopes, the fears, that would pervade all determined- not by the caprice of a book- classes of persons who were ever so re- seller- but by the state of the market. motely interested in the proceedings- one of the first points to be consi- the crowds of buyers and sellers of all dered in the ałoption of such a measure sorts and conditions who would assem- is the local situation of the market. ble at the general rendezvous :--com- runymede has been proposed as a pilers, driving their ponderous folios to proper site for its establishment, for as market in broad-wheeled waggons, while it would tend materially to secure the the dealer in abstracts and abridgements liberty of the press, and facilitate the would canter to the fair on a light the- circulation of liberal opinion, it would rough-bred mare, with his duodecimos have the further advantage of increasing packed in his portmantua. many a the attachment to, and invigorating the nule's burthen of controversy would defence of, those civil rights, which were plod its weary way, which the essayist upon the same spot confirmed to our would skip past with his works in his ancestors, and thus become a sort of waistcoat pocket-while a well-laden di- annual commemoration of the triumph ligence was discharging its cargo of no- of civil, as well as of literary freedom. velists and romance writers, dramatists, but greatly as these reasons operate in and opera-mongers, the diletanti poet in favour of runymede, as it would be his smart tilbury would dash into the inconsistency of the edinburgh reviewers. (april , fair, overturning the stall of a moralist, and modern politics, from cumberland the booth of a speculative philosopher, a and westmoreland." wheel-barrow full of abstracts from aris- totle's poetics, translations of horace's on the inconsistency op the edin- art of poetry, and a few treatises on burgh reviewers in their cri- common sense. it is proposed that the ticisms on popb. conductors of the edinburgh and quar mr. editor, terly reviews should be appointed clerks there is no feature in modern criti- of the market. we may conjecture one cism more remarkable than its sudden of their reports to be somewhat in the change of opinion respecting our great style following:-“ orthodox theology poet, pope. having passed the ordeal is nearly at par-scepticism on the de- of his probationary century, he had just cline-sermons, for retail trade, plenty, bidden fair to enjoy as immortal a fame above a decent market price. philoso- as horace (who himself decided a hun- phical dissertations, and metaphysical dred years to be the poetical term of disquisitions are on the advance; there probation,) when behold, up starts a was a considerable demand for political number of the edinburgh review ; of a speculations and discussions, which work, which, not long before, was his fetched high prices. general histories champion and protector: and, in utter stood long, and many remained unsold. defiance of all consistency, declares him a brisk demand for novels and ro- a mere versifier, and scarcely a poet at mances. poetry quite a drug, and, ex- all. were one quite unacquainted with cepting some superior samples, did not the secret machinery which actuates meet a ready sale. translations (french that publication, one might guess for novels excepted) were in no demand. ever without discovering the causes of the market was overstocked with tra- so flagrant and barefaced an apostacy. vels. antiquarian researches bore a but when it is recollected that its praises decent market price. natural and ex- of pope were published some time bc. perimental philosophy considerably fore certain modern poets had appeared, above par. there were many samples and that these modern poets now con- of forensic and pulpit eloquence from tribute to the review, it will easily be ireland, abounding in trope, figure, and conceived, that poets would elevate the metaphor, but as they were considera- style which they had themselves adopted, bly adulterated with hyperbole and bom- at the expence of a style which they bast, there was not a great demand for wished to explode. it may likewise be them, and those that were sold were easily conceived, that the editor of the chiefly for home consumption. some review would sacrifice some of its con- brilliant and valuable specimens in po- sistency for the advantage he must de- etry, moral tales, and the drama, from rive from their contributions. the con- that country, were not exceeded by any sequence has been, that he actually took in the market. from edinburgh there no longer time than three years to was a large supply of philosophy and change his published sentiments respect- metaphysics; romances of the highest ing pope ; and, indeed, so completely order, which brought enormous prices, are his two sets of tenets at variance, and left all competition far behind. some that the best refutation now extant of rare productions of the national school his latter attacks are to be found in his of poetry, and some of the choicest spe- former vindications. cimens of legitimate eloquence. a con- now, sir, as i consider those former siderable display of classical literature, vindications extremely good, as i am memoirs of science, and political dis- myself incapable of doing so much jus- quisitions from oxford. from cam- tice to pope as he has done, and as i am bridge the supply was chiefly of anti- anxious to expose the injustice which he quities, biblical criticism, mathematical has also done, i think i cannot better works, and controversial divinity. the attain my object, than by pitting himself london dealers, as usual, abounded in against himself, and comparing his for- every department of literature, though mer defence of the bard with his own their commodities by no means kept subsequent attack; which, by the way, is pace in value with their numbers and about twice as severe as that from which diversity; almost all the translations in he had indignantly exculpated him. the market were supplied from thence; i shall, therefore, make sumc ex- and there was a plentiful assortment of tracts: lyrics and loyalty: ancient ballads .) inconsistency of the edinburgh review. attack. defence. there are no pictures of nature or of is it true? does he speak so little to simple emotion in his writings. the imagination and the heart ? does ed. rev. aug. . he borrow his delineations from man. ners only and not from nature? jan, . pope is a satirist, and a moralist, and pope has reached a high tone of a wit, and a critic, and a fine writer, real poetry, according to the strictest much more than he is a poet. notion of the term. jun. . aug. . he has not a great deal of fancy. is the sprightliness of a versatile fancy, aug. . the play of varied imagery, a distinguishe ing characteristic of the poet ? where is this more striking than in the rape of the lock, and indeed in many parts of the dunciad ? jan. . he (goldsmith) had the harmony of is the fervour of passion, the power of pope, without his quaintness, and his se- exciting and expressing emotion, the lectness of diction without his coldness soul of poetry? we have already point- and eternal vivacity. ed to it in the eloisa. nothing of the sep. . kind has ever been produced equul to it, for pathos, painting, and melody. jan. . the defence concludes with this un- a complete process of transmutation, qualified interrogatory: “ what then without the loss, change, or displacement is it that we want and for what reason of a single syllable. yet, either this docs mr. bowles, like the vain herd of must have happened to pope's works, or modern versifiers, carp at the poctical else the edinburgh review must exhi- merits of pope? bit a phenomenon not much less remark- what is it that they want? in the year able, when it proves, that what is good , it seems, they wanted nothing more is bad, and what is bad is good. the of him than they had already found in truth is, if we judge of pope by his mo- him, namely, nature,” “passion," ral and satirical works only, we cannot - fancy," and “real poetry;" but in the allow him many of the higher poetical year , they wanted of him-what? qualities. those, therefore, who esti- why precisely those very qualities which mate his powers in general by these they had found in him only three years pieces alone, may just as well characte- before! is poetry, then, like wine, and rize the sublime milton as a punning, can its spirit evaporate? horace, i re- humorous, and witty writer, because member, compares it to wine, when he composed a laughable epitaph upon he cautions us to keep it nine years in hodge the carrier, or homer, as a most cask before we publish it; but when it is facetious poet, but not at all an elevated once published,'i had no notion that it one, because he was the author of a pro- could become bad, from having been once duction called the battle of the frogs. good, and that its essence could undergo i am, &c. b. planetary motion. force, after the moment of equality at mr. editor, the perihelium, does not, as he argues, the crowded state of your valuable proceed from acquired increase, but takes columns (as i understand from your place in diminution, in consequence of printer) not permitting the insertion, the centripetal force decreasing more ra- this month, of my defence and illustra- pidly than the centrifugal, thus enabling tion of the newtonian system of gra- the rotatory motion and centrifugal force, vity, i must beg a corner for one obser- or projectile as is the common expression, vation on w. ji's objections, the appa- to carry the earth beyond a circle whose tent plausibility of which, as it seems to radius would be equal to the perihelium have bewildered him, may also puzzle distance. such of your readers as are not decidedly this shews that his main objection is astronomical. incorrect in position. so much then en the fact is, that w, j. fights a wind- passant ; and i trust that my popular mill of his own building-the superiority illustration in the ensuing month, will re- of the centrifugal over the centripetal fute all the sophistry which has lately new monthly mag.-no. . vol. xi. h an unpublished poetical epistle of robert burns. (april , been so much in vogue upon the sub- --- i would also recommend a perusal of ject. l. that author to the projectile puzzler. p. s. if w. j. in addition to $ that every body possesses gravity, i from ferguson, had consulted the pre- hope i shall prove to w.j.; but for any ccding sections , , , , he might body to retain their gravity, whilst read- have inferred the fact of the diminish- ing sir richard, is impossible! ing forces, though not expressly stated. hichland so- bour, the cabinet. an unpublished poetical epistle yet while they're only poin'd and herriet of robert burns. they'll keep their stubborn highlan' spirit; but smash them! crash them a' to spails! to the right honorable the earl of and rot the dyvors i' the jails ! b****, president of the right honor. the the young dogs, swinge them to the la- able and honorable the highland so- ciety, which met on the d of may let work an' hunger mak’them sober! last, at the shakspeare, covent garden, the hizzies, if they're oughtlens fawsont to concert ways and means to frustrate let them in drury lane be lesson d ! the designs of five hundred high- an' if the wives an' dirty brats landers, who, as the society were come thiggan at your doors an' yette, informed, by mr. m' , of a****'s, flaffan wi' duds, an' grey wi’ beese, were so audacious as to attempt an frightan away your deucks an' geese; get out a horsewhip or a jowler, escape from their lawful lords und the langest thang, the fiercest growler, masters, whose properly they are, by an' gar the latter'd gypsies pack emigrating from the lands of mr. wia' their bastards on their back! macdonald, of glengary, to the wilds go on, my lord! i lang to meet you, of canada, in search of that funtastic an' in my house at hame to greet you! · thing---liberty! wi' common lairds ye shanna mingle, long life, my lord, an' health be yours, the benmost newk beside the ingle, vaskaith'd by hunger'd highlan' boors! at my right hand assigned your seat, lord grant nee duddie, desperate beggar, "tween herod’ship an polycrate, wi' durk, claymore, or rusty trigger, or, if ye on your station tarrow, may twin auld scotland o' a life between almagro an' pizarro; she likes-as butchers like a knife! a seat l'ın sure ye're weel deservin't, faith, you and a****'s were right an' till ye come--your huinble servant, to keep the highlan' hounds in sight! june , beelzebu'r. i doubt da: they wad bid nae better anno mundi, . than let them ance but owre the water, origin of the terms whig and · then up among the lakes and seas they'll mak what rules and laws they please. tory. some daring hancock, or a franklin, . “ this year (says hume, hist. eng. may set their highlan' bluid a ranklin'; land, ), is remarkable for being the some washington again may head them, epoch of the well-known epithets of or some montgomery fearless lead thein; whig and tory, by which, and some- till god knows what may be effecud, times without any material difference, when by such heads and hearts directed : this island has been so long divided. poor dung bill sons of dirt and mire, may to patrician rights aspire ! the court party reproached their anta- nae sage north, now, nor sager sackville, gonists with their ailinity to the fanati- to watch and premier o'er the pack vile! cal conventicles in scotland, who were and where will ye get howes and clintons known by the name of the whigs: the to bring them to a right repentance ? country party found a resemblance be- to cowe the rebel generation, tween the courtiers and popish banditti an' save the honor of the nation! in ireland, to whom the appellation of they, and be d-d-what right hae they tory was affixed. and after this man. to meal, or sleep, or light o' day; ner, these foolish terms of reproach came far less to riches, power, or freedom but what your lordships please to gie them! into public and general use ; and even but hear my lord! g**** hear! at present scem not nearer their end your hand's oure light on them i fear; than when they were first invented." your factors, grieves, trustees, and bailies, . bailer, in his dictionary, gives the i canna say but they do gailies; following as the origin : “ whig (sax.) they lay aside a' tender mērcies, wlicy butier-milk, or very small beer, aad tiri the hallions to the birsies: also a name first applied to those in .] culloden anecdotco-author of no. of the spectator. scotland who kept their meetings in the a cullodex anecdote. fields, their cominon food being sour mr. editor, milk;" a nickname given to those who the very interesting ( culloden were against the court interest in the anecdotes" in your late number have times of king charles and james ii., recalled to my recollection the follow- and to such as were for it in succeeding ing occurrence, which i bave frequently reigns." heard related in my own family, and of with regard to tory, he tells us that the authenticity of which your readers it was “ a word first used by the pro- may be assured. after the final over- testants in ireland to signify those irish throw of the hopes of the pretender, common robbers and murderers who when he was wandering about the coun- stood outlawed for robbery and murder; try to evade his pursuers, he was, among now a nickname to such as call them his many other hair-breadth escapes, selves high churchmen, or to the parti- once probably saved in the following zans of the chevalier de st. george.” manner : my grandmother, then a girl . jobnson has, “ whig (sax.) . of eighteen, was remarkably like the whey. . the name of a faction; and as pretender in face, and a report having for tory, he supposes it to be derived been spread that the prince was wander- from an irish word, signifying a savage. ing about disguised in a female dresa, “ one who adheres to the ancient con- miss --was actually arrested by a stitution of the state, and the apostoli- party of the royal soldiers. being of cal hierarchy of the church of england a family who were staunch jacobites, she -opposed to a whig." had the resolution and presence of mind torbhee is the irish appellation for a not to betray her sex, and sufiered her- person who seizes by force, and without self to be conducted by the soldiers, who the intervention of law, what, whether treated her with all the respect due to really so or not, he alleges to be his pro- her supposed rank, towards the english perty. frontiers. she was passed in this man- . daniel defoe, in no. of vol. vii. ner from one station to another, till she of his « review of the british nation, reached a post, to the commanding officer ," thus defines tory: of which she was personally known, he " the word tory is irish, and was having, i think, been quartered either first made use of in ireland, in the time in her father's house, or at least in the of elizabeth's wars there. it signified a neighbourhood. here the mistake was kind of robbers, who, being listed in of course discovered, and she was sent neither army, preyed in general upon back to her friends with many apolo- their country without distinction of eng- gies ; but in the mean time the preten- jish or irish." der (the report of whose capture had he then tells us a long story, in which been generally circulated) had effected he ascribes the invention of the term to his escape. one titus oates. the word whig he account op the author op no. informs us is scots, and was in use among op the spectator. the cameronians, who frequently took n umber of the spectator for up arms in support of their religion. it september , , which was suppos- is said that the duke of monmouth, ed to have been written by an unknown after his return from the battle of both hand, was the production of a mr. cas- well bridge (so admirably described in tleton, a college friend of addison's. the tales of my landlord), found this gentleman was also the author of himself ill-treated by king charles, a small collection of poeing never pub- for having used the insurgent coven- lished, althougin a few copies were print- anters so mercifully. lord lauderdale ed for his friends, and his name is affixed is reported to have told charles, with an to a commendatory anagram and acros oath, that the duke had been so civil to tic, addressed to the author of a curious the whigs, because he was a whiy him- pamphlet, entitled “ a key to tlie lock; self in his heart. this made it a court or a treatise, proving, beyond all con- word, and in a little time all the friends tradiction, the dangerous tendency of a and followers of the duke began to be late poem entitled the rape of the called whigs. lock, to government and religion, by esdras barnevelt, apothecary.” svo. * in many parts of scotland the term london, ; where mr. castleton whig is still commonly applied to a sort of styles himself" a well-wisher to the coa- sour liquid which is obtained from milk or lition of parties,” cream. l. [april , original poetry. curious origin op no. of the tunately, for poor james, it happened spectator. to be the first that presented itself, and in the year james hirst lived before his return, mr. wortley had pe- servant with the honourable edward rused the enamoured footman's love wortley. it happened one day that in story. james intreated to have it re- redelivering a parcel to his master, he turned : “ no," said mr. wortley, “ no by mistake, gave him one which he had james, you shall be a great man; this written to his sweetheart, and kept letter shall appear in the spectator." back mr wortley's. he soon discovered it was accordingly communicated to mr. his error, and immediately hurried to steele, and published in james's own his master in order to retrieve it; but words, “ dear betty," &c. nufortunately, or rather we may say for original poetry. extracts from some unpublished suspicion plucks back hunger from-'tis scenes of “manuel,” a tragedy, horrible by the rev. c. r. maturin. but most of all to dread slow-stealing night, act iii. that like a murderer in its bosom bears de zelos and mendozabel. visions that stab me sleeping. mend. how, my lord- toralra. my noble friend, banish such de . nay, pardon me, i know not what wayward fancies; i utter; you do with too much sorrow load your but this i know, which much concerns your spirit, wisdom: if you—thus wrongfully accused --do feel mark me, my worthy lord, this ancient your nice and sensitive frame wiih anguish railer thrill not to your courts confines his clamorous what feeis alonzo's murderer outrage; de z. (much agitated) ask me not in your wide sireets it bruits, raves through it would too deeply rend the soul to speak your walls, teaching the credulous, change-loving mul- how should i tell thee what a murderer titude, feel; ? the wealth-swoln burgher and start artizan, men. nay drop the nngracious theme, with the crowded but hushed streets to thou seest it moves him. throng, de z. it doth indeed. to nod with hollow look-gripe with stern act iv. clutch- de zelos and ximena. dart dangerous meanings from the speaking xi. i dreamt i stood within a proud eye, alcove, thien part like men whose parting seems to where white-stoled virgins robed ine as a say, bride, we'll meet anon to purpose : look to this. but told no bridegroom's name and when your streets are full of it. i asked mend. i'st possible? their smile had a strange kind of ghastly de . possible! aye, and to the meanest sweetness. hamlet de z. well dreamer-who was this im- th' infection spreads; th' untaught and mortal wooer? weaponless rustic yi. list to me yet— sat, as is the treads with a firmer step, as his stern song wont dooms to despair that murderer's soul. of spanish maids, within the midnight men. my lord! bower, de . oh, sir! i prize the clamours of to wait the bridal song that calls thern the crowd thence. light as the winds that waft them; but 'tis it came the bridal song-on the hushed horrible air to feel the curses which the writhen lip Řose rich and troubled, like the groans of in stifiing gives more vehement utterance ; melody; to feel the curse in the averted eye, then sunk the strain, and thrice my name withdrawn, but not extinguished; was uttered : inhale an air, poisoned with execration come my pale bride and endless be our tread on an earth, whose echoes to my union ; steps it was alonzo's voice that called on me answer in groans ;-dread at my doubtful de z. he hath no voice--may th' un- meals bodied spirit the cup that have presents, and the piled thus haunt and howl around our shaking dainties mansion .] original poetry. ;ear i will have walls of adamant. like a clouded star through autuma's xi. on hear me yet, for on the waking nights- gleams sadly as if light were here a stran- strikes with more certainty no living sound. ger- starting i woke, and sat the live-long night, shrink not from earthly tread , thou land of and on my lute traced the remembered darkness, chords let not the worm forsake his feast, nor ti (and bid my weeeping maidens learn it too), owl hark, list to it.- music within. cease from his dirge for me, nor the gorged de . (great agitation)-hush, hush reptile those sounds of woe couch in corruption's festering house to they feed her madness--they will drive shun me; me mad. and ye whose fearful being hath no name, wouldst with his funeral dirge insult his vampire or goul, or things of fouler nature kiasman (recovering) that with the rotting sleep's unnatural re- this must be craft-damned, damned dissem- vels bling all. loathed dalliance hold ;--upon the shadowy (approaching her fiercely and seizing her confines o hand) of your dark empiry unscathed i stand hear me, and tremble-ha!-unbid thou i am of earth no longer tremblest. (he addresses the supposed inmates this dry and burning touch-this wasted of the place) · band, oh ye with unfleshed arıns, and sightless within whose veins health revelled yester- day-(dropping it and gazing on her) where eyes have been, and bleached and this is not art, hairless skulls xi. canst thou place this shrunk swathed in the recent shroud, or sternly hand- clattering through whose thin membrane thou in hollow nakedness of nerveless bone. mayst see the pulse crusted with charnel mould of livid green, that soon shall cease to beat--within ano. on the black ribs of death horribly verdant ther's (grasping his hand affection- --ye visible watchers round the hopeless ately). nay keep it in thy grasp while yet thou where groans and gnashing and th' impe- mayst. ditent yell de . (affected at first, then flinging do make the iron music of despair ;- her away) who 'gainst the doubtful spirit's shivering wed him, and die-now, girl, thou knowst flight do centinel the passes of redemption ; act v. -ye forms of horror wheresoe'er ye be victoria surveying her apartment in the victoria. castle of almunecar. oh cease this horrid impious adjuration- the carved roof, on which my fretful taper flings streaks of light mid gulphing cavities, lines, like the ribbed hulk of some gigantic wreck, written on a blank leaf of the “ pleasures through which the sullen wave that sunk it of hope." darkens ; or power the fond and feeling heart to yon crested arch beneath its sculptured key bless stone with tenderest joy and sweetest pensive- doth darklier frown ;-its notched and fret dess, ted lines in love's warm soul to wake a deeper glow, seem in the light's pale gilding like some or kindlier steal á flushing smile from visage, woe, whose fierce distorted lineaments do glare here campbell lives;-his record of re- in ghastly mockery at me-(she sees the nown tapestry) no fleeting pomp,-a pageant, or a crown! oh ye folds with time's swift tide, they sparkle, and of wavering curtained darkness, whose dim they pass; range ionic marble and corinthian brass doth heave in ominous swelling, is there yet melt into dust;_towers, kingdoms, empires beyond your shade, some darkly-lurking fall, shape as circling ages into ages call; -of giant-form dimensionless, the eye, but all unfelt the withering chill of time, dizzy with terror, measures not, but catches in the fresh flower of a perennial prime. in fear's dark mirror multiplied. here campbell lives;-here hath his hand manuel in the rault. designed the furred and murky lamp. the fervid transcript of his generous mind.“ fed with foul exhalatione and blue damps- bed, my. will. . (april , original poetry: spires spell like that mysterious crystal which in- wild and jamenting voices speak the spirit's awful agonies; serener pureness from the wrath of fires; whose stormy rush may burst and break the tender charm of his familiar page, and in soft melting murmurs rise : which soothed with softest dreams our but time, whose wing hath soothed this earliest age, heart, but breathes,-resigned to art's severe con all broken once as thine can be, troul, and torn in every tender part,- diviner transport, and a purer soul. shall lay his healing hand on thee. when his boid strings, with noblest frenzy fraught, at midnight to thy page i flee, unchecked by terror, reach the heaven of oh! dear devoied son of song; thought, my sleepless spirit aches for thee, seems not his minstrel-spirit to have won to thee my warmest tears belong. the fiery car and mantle of the sun; thy friends from sorrow turned away, - wide o'er the burning galaxy to sweep, love would not wake one strain to cheer span earth's proud planet and divide the deep, but there are hearts more true than they, its springs unlock, and wake with potent t o whom thy griefs the more endear thee.- the angel pity slumbering in her cell? soft as her sighi, the swelling tones subside, be i know the world hath loved us not- mournful and slow, yet warbling as they that fateher burning brand hath glide, hurled; sooth the still air, the arrested soul enchain. but song can soothe our darkest lot. till bliss is moulded in the mint of pain! and we may yet defy the world. o thou, whose path fair fancy strews with souls, which apart are like to such, flowers, when joined, a purer pulse can know ;- one lovely tissue of romantic hours,- as two discordant harps, when touched whose classic home indulgent heaven has at once, in softest masic flow. graced march , . b. b. w. with each blest handmaid in the court of taste; at parting. oit o'er the enchanting scenes thy art has autumn noons were throwing planned, lights, serene and glowing, supremely lovely, or divinely grand, on mountain, lake, and tree; shall beauty linger-each rude care asleep and a soft melancholy- alone with thee to glow or wildly weep; making the day more holy- tul thou, enthron'd within her breast, shalt brooded o’er earth and sea ;- be when first i flew to greet thee the guardian priest of her futurity, impassioned zobëide, responsive to her voice, bright dreams to and oh! so kind and sweetly weave came thy young voice to me, at opening sun-rise and at falling eve. it woke to new vibration feb. , . j. h. wifren. this sad heart's long stagnation, which trembled all to thee! to arthur brooke, esq. sickness her best bloom shrouded, - if storms, the myrtle-flowers decay, her soft cheek sadness clouded, and lightning scathe the parent tree; and dear that cloud to me; fresh blooms almost as fair as they yet, would a sudden hectic in spring's returning hours we see: light her wild eye, electric, the stream that glanced as clear as light, when wizard poesy, now darkened by a turbid stain, in gold her numbers weaving- in after monients, to the sight, exalting, soothing, grieving thrilled the fair breast whose heaving reflects heaven's glorious hues again : gleamed like white waves al sea; with awful sound and stormy flash, "till i could deem its splendour, at morn, old ocean's waters roar; so passing bright and tender, yet evening hears them softly dash was only lit for me.- in music on the sunny shore : autumn winds were rending and hearts by sorrow nursed, and care, the berries, redly bending, by torture seared, or rent by woe, from one lone sumach-tree; may see, in happier moments, there when the warm tears, quick starting sweet hope's returning blossoms blow. to my dim lids at parting, love's holy light may all be faded, she gave her hand to me. and stained and troubled be its tide ; 'twas like that earlier token yet from her urn-by roses shaded, a purer stream shall be supplied. *“ poems by arthur brooke,” p. . .] original poetry. own. with which my heart was broken ; as the last tints of wan effulgence shed few were the accents spoken, a sad complexion o'er the solemn scene; enough-that i could see since little thy conception of the dead she shrunk away in sorrow, may tell, like whom, thine unseen sire from thoughts, that on the morrow hath been ; our hands apart would be! go-lean thee o'er unruffled waters deep ;- there trace the features o'er their mirror the year's last rose hung wreathing, thrown; around, faint odor breathing, from its decaying tree ; and, haply, those that rest in endless sleep unhoping bereaved it, may greet thy view-developed in thine unsmiling she received it, stole one swift glance at me;- then in her book disposed it the silken lock. with lingering hand and closed it, written by a young lady on the departure where sacredly reposed it, of an infant niece. pledge of past joy to be : no more, sweet babe! thou meet'st mine as though her eye had uttered eyes; to soothe the heart that fluttered, i've wished to thee a long farewell ! “ yes, i'll remember thee!" and tears, unbidden, now arise ; vida. and sighs, uncalled, my bosom swell: woburn, sep. , . all i now hold of one so fair, is but a silken lock of hair. to an inpant child. no more mine eyes can gaze on thee! i saw thee, lov'd one! hence depart: unknown--unseen — yet cherished in my now thou art far away from me, breast, but thy dear form lives in my heart! child of my love, my happiness and woe! and 'tis a painful, pleasing care i leave thee, lingering, with a soul oppressed, to to look upon this silken hair. to climes afar-to other worlds to go: yet, ere i lose the mountains of my land, i know repining is in vain ;- the last blue glimpse of thy maternal it soothes me not,-it brings not thee! but yet my breast will still complain, shore, as my too faithful memory hopes of my heart-recorded by my hand brings back the head of beauty rare, shall be my child's when life and grief where grew this silken lock of hair. are o'er. i do not thy decrees arraign, whilst on thine infant innocence i gaze, almighty father of the world! 'tis but the fancy of a father's mind,- the ills that make the heart complain and cast a glance of prophecy on days may blessings prove, when quite un- with bliss,-perchance, with wretched- furled : dess combined ;- the babe i love is in thy care- "twere wise to wish thee,-pure and faull- i'll not weep o'er her silken hair. less,-dead; march , . ere passion, and incentive gifts of time, around thy heart delusive feelings shed, and stain thy spotless innocence with on hearing the irish melody “ domn- crime. hall," as arranged by mr. moore. yes, i have loved to hear the minstrel strain yes-wise it were;-but from this ruined it were;-but from this ruined falling, in liquid notes, from beauty's heart, where every year hath triumphed in voice; although each echo woke a thrilling pain, decay, from thee, sweet solace of my soul, to part too keen to let my listening soul rejoice! were e'en to chase the blood of life away. for it recalled the memory of hours, for it recalled t i'd have thee live some few bright summers fraught with delight, but to my heart noir lost; yet, "till toil and sufferarce have blanched and such the magic of its charmful powers, i deemed it sweetest--when ii pained me my brow; then, thy pure tears, at least, my tomb may most! wet, on the birth of a child. tho' oe'r my grave no other sorrows flow. the morn that ushered thee to life,my child and when-as, haply, thou, in autumn's saw thee in tears--whilst all around thee eve, smiled! mayst steal from vulgar joys a pensive when summoned hence to thy eternal sleep, hour, oh! may'st thou smile whilst all around thee o'er the cold ashes of thy sire to grieve, weep! and gild with filial drops his comh-spring flower, a. [ ] (april , memoir of s. t. coleridge, esq. (with a portrait.) the subject of this biographical ter of the grammar school, and though a sketch was born in the year , at severe disciplinarian, he took a pleasure the market town of ottery st. mary, in in fostering promising genius. revert- devonshire, of which parish his father, ing to this period of his life, and the cha- the rev. john coleridge, was for many racter of his excellent preceptor, mr. years vicar, after having been an emi. coleridge says — “ he early moulded nent schoolmaster at south moulton, my taste to the preference of demos- on the northern side of the same coun- thenes to cicero,of homer and theocri. ty, where that elegant scholar and tus to virgil, and again of virgil to acute critic, mr. samuel badcock, was ovid. he habituated me to compare one of his pupils. mr. coleridge con- lucretius, terence, and above all the tributed much valuable aid to his learned chaster poems of catullus, not only with countryman, dr. kennicott, in the great the roman poets of the so called, silver work of collating the manuscripts of the and brazen ages, but with even those of hebrew bible; and he gave solid proofs, the augustan era; and on grounds of of his biblical reading and judgment, in plain sense and universal logic to see “ dissertations on the seventeenth and and assert the superiority of the former, eighteenth chapters of the book of in the truth and nativeness, both of their judges," as well as in some fugitive es- thoughts and diction. at the same time says on scriptural subjects in different that we were studying the greek tragic periodical publications. one of his poets, he made us read shakspeare and pieces, now before us, “ an inquiry into milton as lessons; and they were the the opinion of the ancient jews con- lessons too which required most time and cerning the divine word, or the noros," trouble to bring up, so as to escape his would have been a suitable appendix to censure. i learned from him that poetry, that part of his son's “ biographia lite- even that of the loftiest, and seemingly raria," where he has ventured to discuss that of the wildest odes, had a logic of the same sublimely mysterious theme.- its own, as severe as that of science, besides these performances, the elder and more difficult, because more subtle, mr. coleridge published a fast sermon, more complex, and dependant on more, during the american war, and an in- and more fugitive causes. in our eng- comparable critical latin grammar. he lish compositions (at least for the last died suddenly, in , at the age of three years of our school education) hệ sixty-two, much regretted by his pa- showed no mercy to phrase, metaphor, rishioners and all who had the pleasure or image, unsupported by a sound sense, of knowing his worth and talents. he or where the same sense might bave was twice married-by his first wife he been conveyed with equal force and dig- had three daughters, one of whom is nity in plainer words. lute, harp, and now living; and by the second he had lyre, muse, muses, and inspirations-pe- ten children, among whom there was gasus, parnassus, and hippocrene, were only one daughter. the survivors of all an abomination to him. in fancy, i this numerous family are-). colonel can almost hear him now exclaiming- coleridge. . the rev. edward cole- “ harp? harp ? lyre? pen and ink, ridge, of ottery. . the rev. george boy, you mean? muse, boy, muse? your coleridge, of the same place; and lastly, nurse's daughter, you mean! pierian our author, who indulges the ingenious spring ? oh, aye! the cloister-pump, but fanciful conjecture that spinoza's i suppose !" admirable biographer, colerus, may “there was one custom of our mas- have been his progenitor ; a notion, ter`s which i cannot pass over in silence, however, too far fetched to need a seri- because i think it imitable, and worthy ous refutation. of imitation. he would often permit it may well be supposed that, with our theme exercises, under some pretext such a family, and a small living, mr. of want of time, to accumulate, till each coleridge could not leave much behind lad had four or five to be looked over. him; and accordingly some friends pro- then, placing the whole number abreast cured admission for the youngest son on his desk, he would ask the writer,why into christ's hospital, where he soon this or that sentence might not have distinguished himself as a boy of acute found as appropriate a place under this parts and eccentric habits. the rer, or that thesis; and if no satisfying an- james bowyer was then the head mas- swer could be returned, and two faults i noin bu crleslie enrned by h. diye s. t. coleridge, esq. priblished april . by henry churn, imchit street. .] memoir of s. t. coleridge, esq. lute, of the same kind were found in one exer- and had scarce any connections in lon- cise, the irrevocable verdict followed, don) highly was i delighted, if any pas- the exercise was torn up, and another, senger, especially if he were dressed in on the same subject, to be produced, in black, would enter into conversation addition to the tasks of the day. the with me. for i soon found the means reader will, i trust, excuse this tribute of of directing it to my favourite subjects, recollection to a man, whose severities, “of providence, fore-knowledge, will, and even now, not seldom furnish the dreams fate, by which the blind fancy would fain in- fix'd fate, free-will, fore-knowledge abso- terpret to the mind the painful sensa- tions of distempered sleep; but neither and found no end in wandering mazes jost." lessen nor diin the deep sense of my mo- from this preposterous pursuit le ral and intellectual obligations. he sent it was called, at least for a considerable us to the wiversity excellent latin and time, by an accidental acquaintance with greek scholars, and tolerable hebra- a a very amiable family, and chiefly by ists. yet our classical knowledge was the poetry of mr. bowles. at the age the least of the good gifts, which we de- of nineteen our author removed to jesus college, cambridyc, but of his academical rived from his zealous and conscientious tutorage. he is now gone to bis final re- history we know but little, nor does it ward, full of years, and full of honours, appear, indeed, that he either graduated even of those honours which were dearest or stood a candidate for the literary ho- to his heart, as gratefully bestowed by pours of the university. while there, that school, and still binding him to the in- however, he assisted one of his friends terests of that school in which he had in the composition of an essay on english been himself educated, and to which, poetry, intended for a society at exeter, during his whole life, he was a dedi- edi: but which piece is not inserted in their cated being." published volume. another friend, to whom mr. cole- in , he rentured to publish a ridge acknowledges his obligations, while il small volume of juvenile poems, which si on this coble foundation. iš the present productions were very favourably spoken excellent bishop of calcutta, who was of by the periodical critics, as the buds of then in the first form, or, in the language hope, and promises of better works to of the school, a grecian. from him, come: though the same reviewers con- among other favours, he received a pre- curred in objecting to them, obscurity, sent of mr. bowles's sonnets, with in a general turgidness of diction, and a which our student was so enthusiasti- profusion of new coined double epithets. cally delighted, that in less than eiglia instead of feeling indignant at this re- teen months he made more than forty proof, the author judiciously availed him- transcriptions of them, for the purpose self of the censures that were bestowed, of giving them to persons who had in for the correction of these parasitical any way won his regard. the posses- plants of youthful poetry. the same sion of these poems wrought a great, a year he printed « the fall of robe- and indeed radical, change in the mind spierre, an historic drama," in which the of our author, who hitherto, and conventional specches were happily ver- even before his fifteenth year, had be- sified, and the sentiments expressed in wildered himself in metaphysical specula- language classically correct and uncom tion and theological controversy. monly vigorous. the french revolu- “ nothing else," says mr. coleridge, tion had at this time turned the heads of "pleased me. history, and particular many persons, who from their years, and facts lost all interest in my mind. po. extent of observation, ought to have etry (though for a school boy of that age, considered such a combustion as a pesti- i was above par in english versification, lential contagion, that called for a striet and had already produced two or three quarantine, rather than to be hailed as compositions, which, i may venture to a blessing, deserving of general propaga- say, without reference to my age, were tion. where heads, grown grey in somewhat above mediocrity, and which knowledge and experience of the world, had gained me more credit than the çrred grossly in judgment, it was not sound good sense of my old master was much to be wondered that young and ardent minds should become enthusias, at all pleased with,) poetry itself, yea, novels and romances, became insipid to tically extravagant. this was the ease me. in my friendless wanderings, on lidays altogether, but for those on which our leave days, " (for i was an orphan, the boys are permitted to go beyond the the christ hospital phrase, not for ho- precincts of the school. new montuly maon-no. . vol. xi. memoir of s. t. coieridge, esq. [april , with mr. coleridge, who became such a utopia, which was to bear the high- zealot in the cause of universal liberty as sounding name of pantisocracy, they to abandon the friendly cloisters of his proposed to found on the banks of the college to embark in the quixotic enter- susquehanna, where all property was prize of reforming the world. he had to be held in common, and every man in at this time, formed a close intimacy his turn to be a legislator. but while with mr. southey, and robert lovell, preparations were making to carry this on a visit to oxford, and their senti- fine project into execution, the whole ments being perfectly in unison, the tri- scheme blew up by a spark of another umvirate began to project schemes for description, and in the midst of their ameliorating the condition of human so dreams of immortality, these rivals of ciety. solon, lycurgus, and numa, became they began their operations at bris enamoured of three sisters of the name tol in a course of lectures delivered by of fricker. thus the business of love our young adventurer with considerable thrust out the mighty concern of what applause, froin certain classes in that our old friend jerry bentham calls the renowned trading city. here, also, mr. science of codification, and in a short coleridge published two political pam- time our author and his two associates, phlets, one entituled, “ consciones ad instead of seeking happiness in the populum, or addresses to the people ;" wilds of america, were content to sit and the other, “ a protest against cer- down in the bosom of domestic enjoy- tain bills then pending for suppressing ment, according to the laws and usages seditious meetings." of their fathers. in plain terms, all in an inauspicious hour also he was three married, and the scheme of foreign persuaded to commence a weekly paper, colonization being given up, they began called “the watcliman;" and as the ob- to think abont settling in their own ject of it was to ditluse the new political country. mr. coleridye went to reside doctrines, he set out like wildgoose in mr. at neiher stowey, a small town near graves's admirable novel, to make pro. bridgewater, where be contracted an selytes, and, above all, to procure sub- acquaintance with mr. wordsworth, the scribers. he commenced his campaign particulars of which have been already at birmingham ; but though the persons related in the account of that estimable to whom he made his approaches were character. strenuous advocates “ for liberty and at this period the circumstances of truth, and all them sort of things," few our author were far from being com- could be found to contribute their money fortable, and his principal subsistence in aid of the proposed paper. notwith. depended upon literary labours, the re- standing the poor encouragement which mineration for which, at such a dis- he met with in his northern tour, at tance from the metropolis, could not be manchester, derby, nottingham, shef- adequate to the necessities of a growing field, and all those places which were family. in this perplexity he was re- most likely for his purpose, our author tiered by the generous and muniticent ventured to bring out the watchunan, patronage of mr. josiah and mr. tho- which languished on to the tenth num- mas wedgwood, who enabled him to ber, and then its warning voice was finish his education in germany, where heard no more. he began to study the language at rat- this woeful disappointinent in bis zeburg; after acquiring which he went political expectations was in some mea- through hanover to göttingen. here sure relieved by the favourable recep- he diligently attended the lectures of tion given to a volume of poems, the blumenbach on physiology and natural quick sale of which induced him to a re. history; and those of eichhorn on the publication, with the addition of some new testament: but his chief applica- communications from his friends, charles tion was to philosophy and polite litera- lanıb and charles lloyd. ture. this important event in the life still the ardour for liberty, and the of mr. coleridge occurred in , and establishment of a perfect order of during his residence abroad he had the things, continued to prevail, and mr. satisfaction of mecting mr. wordsworth, coleridge, with his friends southey and then on a tour in germany with his sis- lovell, were bent upon trying their ter. at hamburg the two poetical skill as political philosophers, not in cor- friends were highly gratified by a visit recting the evils of an old state, but in to klopstock, who complained heavily the settlcment of a new one. this of the bald traaslation of his great work .] memoir of s. . coleridge, esq. into our language, and said to mr. cole- blended with a darker power, deeper, ridge, “i wish you would render into mightier, and more universal than the english some select passages of the conscious intellect of man; than intel- messiah, and revenge me of your coun- ligence; all these thoughts and recol- trvman." soon after the return of our lections passed in procession before our author from germany he undertook the minds. my companion, who possessed literary and political department of the more than his share of the hatred which morning post, on entering into which his countrymen bore to the french, had engagement it was stipulated that the just observed to me, “a frenchman, paper should be conducted on certain sir, is the only animal in the human fixed and announced principles, from shape, that by no possibility can lift itself which the editor should neither be up to religion or poetry." when, lo! obliged nor requested to deviate in fa. two french officers of listinction and vour of any party or circumstance. this rank entered the church! “ mark you,” connexion continued during the ad- whispered the prussian, “ the first thing dington administration, after which, the which those scoundrels will notice, (for paper being transferred to other pro- they will begin by instantly noticing the prietors, mr. coleridge relinquished the statue in parts, without one moment's inanagenient. while he was in this pause of admiration impressed by the concern he published translations of whole) will be the horns and the beard. two of schiller's dramas, on the story and the associations which they will of wallenstein. immediately cominit with them, will be mr. coleridge now became secretary those of a lle-gout and a cuckold."- to sir alexander ball, whom he accom- never did man guess more luckily. had panied to malta, of which island that he inherited a portion of the great legis- distinguished officer was appointed go. jator's prophetic powers, whose statue vernor; but this situation our author did we had been contemplating, he could not long retain, nor did it prove any other scarcely hare uttered words more coin- wise advantageous to him than by extend- cident with the result ; for even as he ing his knowledge of the world, and giv- had said, so it came to pass.“ ing him an opportunity of treading the during the wanderings of mr. cole- classic ground of italy. here an anecdote ridge his wife and family resided under occurs which we shall give in the author's the roof of mr. southev, at keswick. own words: “ when i was at rome, and thither our poet bent his course on among many other visits, to the tomb of his return to england. julius ii. i went thither once with a we next find him lecturing on poetry at prussian artist, a man of genius and the royal institution, and an occasional great vivacity of feeling. as we were writer in the courier, his political prin- gazing on michael angelo's moses, our ciples having now undergone a complete conversation turned on the horns and transmutation. in he produced a beard of that stupendous statue ; of the series of miscellaneous essays, entituled necessity of each to support the other; “ the friend ;" which, though they had of the super-human effect of the former, but a very limited circulation, he has and the necessity of the existence of subsequently revised, enlarged, and re- both to give a harmony and integrity printed. the year following appeared both to the image and the feeling ex- “ remorse ;” a tragedy; and, latterly, cited by it. conceive them removed he has favoured the world with the and the statue would become unnatural, “ memoir of his literary life;" in two without being supernatural. we called volumes; “ sibylline leaves ;" and to mind the horns of the rising sun, and “ christabel," a poem, of which it is i repeated the noble passage from tay- enough to say that it has received the lor's holy dying.-that horns were unqualified praise of lord byron. the emblem of power and sovereignty mr. coleridge is at present employed among the eastern nations; and are still in reading a course of lectures on poetry retained as such in abyssinia ; the ache- and philosophy ; and we have reason also lous of the ancient greeks; and the pro- to believe that he is one of the writers bable ideas and feelings that originally engaged on the encyclopædia metropo- suggested the mixture of the human and litana, a scientific dictionary on quite a the brute form in the figure, by which new plan, the prospectus of which is they realtzed the idea of their mysteri- known to be his performance. ous pad, as representing intelligence w ( ) [april , critical remarks on new publications. recollections of japan; comprising a held by two other grooms, who went a little particular account of the religion, at a distance from the others, so that these language, government, laws, and man- four men occupied almost the whole road. ners of the people, with observations on the tail of the horse was covered with a the geography, climate, population, light blue silk bag. the governor, dressed and productions of the country. by in his usual clothes, in which we had ofter captain golownin, r. n. vo. pp. . seen him, sat without his hat upon a magni. (concluded from our last.) ficent saddle, and held his feet in wooden the dresses of the japanese are of a japanned stirrups, which resembled little very peculiar description ; they consist boxes. the grooms who held the horse at generally of a number of loose garments the bit, continually cried: chai! chai ! with very large sleeves, put over each that is, softly : however, they pushed on the other, and fastened round the wait horse, and made it leap and go quick, the governor therefore stooped and held fast with a girdle. the women are describ. the saddle with both hands. at a short dis- ed as attending eren more than the men tance before him went some soldiers in a to magnificence in their apparel; one row with two serjeants, and though nobody custom respecting which must be, in no was in the way, they continually cried :- common degree, inconvenient. besides - make room! make room !" behind the a profusion of shorter dresses, they wear governor followed the armour-bearers, who a robe with a train of several feet in carried all the insignia of his dignity in length: and their vests or corsets some cases. this was to signily that the gover- times amount to nearly a hundred! for nor was incognito. p. . tunately, however, they are of so slight the japanese have crected inile-stones, a construction, that, according to charle- or distance.posts, on most of their high vois, half of them may be crainmed into roads, which are planted with arenues a pocket. of trees, and fountains, at intervals : tue fumale head-dress resembles the old their inns are commodious, but every fashioned head-dresses of our ladies; with traveller is obliged to leave the room lie this exception only, that the japanese women has occupied perfectly clean and meat, do not powder thein ; but put in the hair so that no person erer thinks of depart- many flowers and ribands, and besides some ing from an inn until he has seen his gold or silver bodkins, which resemble our apartment put into proper order, well tuning keys. of children who are not yet swept, and washed if necessary. the five years old, the hair is cut every year cleanliness of the japanese, with regard differently: in some of them a circle is left ** to their habitations, is said even to sur- round the head, which is braided with ri- band : in others the hair is shaven from the · pass the dutch. they have a great crown of the head, and left only on the tem- taste for theatrical amusements, and ap- pies and in the neck, and braided with ri pear particularly fond of music and bands or artificial flowers. p. . dancing : there is an instrument in use the japanese do not wear any stock anong thein which resembles a re- ings, except in travelling: they call cumbent harp, a kind of violin ; and, them kafan; their shoes are made of besides this, various descriptions of futes, straw, or slips of wood, but they last a and a drum. very short time, being always of a very the japanese spoke of many other kinds slight texture. people of fortune in of instruments which were in use among japan travel with equipages somewhat them: but they were not to be found in resembling our very old coaches, drawn matsmai, and i could not comprehend of either by horses or oxen: persons of in- what description iney were. notwithstand- ferior rank generally on horseback, or in ing the cheerful character of the japanese, litters. our author, however, describes their songs have something melancholy and plaintive; their motions in singing always a procession which he witnessed, of the corresponded with the words, the attitudes governor of matsma, on horseback, to of the singer are therefore, frequently, very à temple of thanksgiving he was accus- ridiculous; they make horrid grimaces, tomed to visit every spring. distort their eyes, turn up the whites, then the high priest, the priests and officers ofted put on a cheerful face, or laugh with who were obliged to be present, were gone one side of the face and cry with the other. before. he rode alone without ceremony: during our stay in chukolade there was a a smal] train attended him on foot. to the servant with us, who was said to be a great horses' bit there were fastened, instead of dancer; he had even danced on the stage, the bridle, two light blue girdles, which two as they told us, and received níuch praise grooms held tast on each side of the horse's from the public. this virtuoso was curi- mouth : the two ends of these girdles were ous to see a russian dance, he was there- .] recollections of japan. fore obliged to exhibit before us, which he they shewed on the road from mimai to - willingly did, particularly as he thereby gave yeddo, a place which they call a desert our guards extraordinary pleasure. two (steppe) because a neighbouring river, or three of them, boys of sixteen years of after heavy rains, overflows this spot, and age, learned dancing of him, and imitated renders it unfit for cultivation. this desert his grimaces with success. i often laughed is so immense, that the litter bearers, who when i looked at them with my friend, m. carry travellers, when they set out in the moor, and remarked that this was probably morning meet with no village till noon, and the first time that lessons in dancing were when they have rested, have to travel again given in a prison. p. . through the desert till sun-set. according among their amusements inay be to their way of travelling, in litters, they reckoned their pleasure-boats, or yachts, must pass through two barren places, eacti which are very expensive and magni- of which may be above wersts; and this ficent, a game at draughts of their own the japanese term a desert. they also invention, with four hundred pieces, ces shewed us a plan of the capital; and told and cards, to which they appear to be us, that a man could not walk in one day from one end of it to the other. when we singularly addicted. questioned the japanese respecting its popu- production of the country, trade, lation, they affirmed that it contained up and commerce. wards of ten millions of inhabitants, and japan is, perhaps, the ri hest country were very angry when we doubled it. they in the world. it produces in abundance; brought us the next day a paper from one precious stones, gold, silver, copper, tin, of the officers who had been employed in lead, mercury, tea, tobacco, silk, cotton, the police in yeddo. it was stated in this salt, iron, coals, timber, rice, barley, and paper, that the city of yeddo has, in its pop almost every description of fruits and principal streets, two hundred and eighty- and thousand houses, and in each of them there veretables. it has few wild animals, live from thirty to forty people. suppose but all the domestic ones. the japanese there were only thirty, the number of inha- carry on a vigorous home trade, chiefly bitants must amount to eight millions four by means of water transport: their hundred thousand; add to this the inhabit- foreign commerce is confined to the ants of the small houses and huts, those who peninsula of corea, china, the islands live in the open air, the imperial guard, the in the kurile archipelago, and the guard of the princes in the capital, their dutch. the commercial communica- suites, &c., the number of the inhabitants tion with holland and china is limited a must exceed ten millions. as a confirma- tion of their assertions, the japanese men- to the port of nangasaky. formerly tioned, besides, that yeddo alone contained the foreign trade of the japanese was , blind people. to this we could say much more extensive; and europeans nothing, and neither allow the japanese to were then freely. admitted into their be right, nor contradict their assertions. ports and the interior of the country; these data may, however, be very true; for but these advantages were forfeited according to the plan of the city, and consi- through the dangerous intrigues and dering the narrowness of the streets, it may disgraceful conduct of the jesuits, which fully contain ten millions of people: as the provoked zeru sama, then emperor, to greatest diameter is more than eight ja- persecute christianity and expel all ei- panese ri, or to wersts. p. . ropeans. the revenues of the empire the military profession is hereditary : are chiefly collected in produce. six- the imperial soldiers possess many exclu- tenths of the fruits of the land are paid sive and important privileges. their by the tenant to the proprietor ; the military dress for action is a suit of japanese have silver, gold, and copper complete armour, as far as the knees, coins, and have invented a paper cur- but they do not carry shields. the rency! arms of the infantry consist of a sabre of population and military porce. unequalled temper, a dagger, a musket, the population of japan, with refer- and, occasionally, a pike. in the mili- ence to its extent, is prodigious. the tary art they are, probably, three centu- metropolis yeddo, alone, is said to con- ries behind the europeans. tain ten millions of inhabitants. nations which pay tribute to the to give us an idea of the population of japanese and colonies. the country, the literati and the interpreter, the sway of the japanese over their drawn upon a very large long sheet of paper colonies and tributary states is repre- on this map were marked not only all the sented as being exercised with a spirit towns, but also the villages, so that the paper of equal wisdom and moderation. the was hardly to be seen for the names written conquered people are allowed the benefit .] ximenes, the wreath, and other poems. vious: they never dared to imagine have had sympathy even with his lovely themselves in the situations they were page, there are always some featurex describing; they could, therefore oply which stamp the individual author's cha- copy those generalities which were go- racter, as positively as that of the hero verned by etiquette, and by the bienséance or renegade he delineates. of a doubly artificial society. our poets, having waded through the verses of mr. by imitating them, learned speedily to hobhouse, which, in spite of his intimacy surpass then; thus pope must certainly with such a character, are flat and arti- be allowed to have excelled boileau, with ficial, and possess few, if any, rodeeming whom he seems to have trod the same points to save them from unqualified bye paths to fame ; for no one can com- condemnation, we were anxious to ob- pare the lutrin with the rape of the serve how far a writer, really possessed lock, without immediately perceiving of imagination, would be affected by an the superiority of our poet in that very intercourse with our modern poetical point upon which the frenchman so colossus. nor have we, upon the whole, particularly prided himself, picquante been disappointed in the idea we had faillerie. 'in his satires, also, pope is formed upon the subject; for though the evidently superior to his antagonist; poems before us contain many and great none of the productions of boileau will defects, they have also numerous beau- stand the test of a comparison with the ties, and an individuality of spirit which dunciad. breathes throughout, no less obvious, there is, however, a style of compo. though of a very different complexion, sition far superior to this: it is the than that of lord byron. we would poetry of our early writers, but more not by any means he understood to in- particularly, perhaps, that of the present stitute a comparison between such a mas- age. we refer to such as depicts the in- ter of the “ various lyre," as the noble dividual author, whether the poet at- lord and the immature efforts of, evi- tempts to scale olympus, and snatch the dently, a youthful bard. but we may epic wreath from the band of apollo, or point out resemblances between the two, is content to tread the more retired which appear much more worthy of nor windings of parnassus, and pluck the tice, than the pretensions of those, who bays, as a reward for a sonnet or an expect, by imitating passages only, to elegy. who does not dwell with more rank themselves in the same class as the pieasure on those poems of milton, in imitated. throughout the minor pieces which his unbedding mind pourtrayed in the present volume we observe, a me- itself? where, with such forceful ener- lancholv, and almost misanthropical state gy, he has described the daring of the of mind arising, as we should conceive, dæmon, in his attempts to free himself from a too unlimited indulgence of the from what he considered thiraldom, be- imagination. if lord byron has exhi- cause he felt in his own breast the same bited the result of the “fulness of sa- indignant impatience of superior power? tiety," of pleasures, which by a too fre. what is it that affects us in the character quent repetition, pall upon the senses ; of sampson, but the consciousness that and if he has exposed, in glowing co- the poet depicted the miseries of blind- lours, that restlessness which ensues at ness and disappointed greatness, because the expiration of the charm by which we he himself was blind, and had had all his had been delighted-which is fed by visions of ambition destroyed by the re- the hopes of some hitherto unattained storation. even the poems of gray, enjoyment, the author before us appears which consist merely of centos compos- to have pourtrayed those bitter feelings ed of the thoughts of others, have al- of disappointment with which we con- ways been popular, because they for the template the flat realities of life, after most part breathe a tone of melancholy having exalted our minds with the bril- which leads us into a mournfully pleasing liantly false, and fast-fading coloring of contemplation of the distresses incident the imagination. the melancholy ob- to mortality. but perhaps the strongest servable in all these poems does not seem instance we could adduce is lord byron. to have resulted from satiety, but from he has, apparently, poured forth the the consciousness of the unsubstantiality whole enanguished bitterness of his soul of those forms of bliss which spring up in his poems: and whether he depicts in beautiful succession beneath the wand the giaour content in a life of danger, of the enchantress, fancy. even in his toil, and degradation, to have had one amatory verses the author seems hardly bright moment of happiness in the arms to be aware, that “the beings of the of leila ; or lara, who appears not to mind are not of clay;" for whilst he de. ximenes, the wreath, and other poems. (april , scribes his hopes, he appears half to in the presence of the bride; he how- doubt, whether if their object were ac- ever, only wounds him, but immediately tually granted to him it would turn out kills himself. ximenes, on being disco- to be any other than the “baseless fa- vered as the instigator of the whole, is bric of a dream,"—the mere personifica- confined in prison, where he puts an end tion of his wishes. to his existence, by poison. the plot of the poem which forms the our limits will only allow us to adduce principal feature in the volume before a few passages as specimens of the per- us, is original, and not founded upon any formance. the following will enable tale or tradition; for the jephtha and the reader to form a fair estimate of the abraham of the sacred writings-aga- author's merits:- memnon, medea, and brutus, so often handled by ancient and modern authors, dimenes ( alone, after meeting with gus- appear in various situations as the sacri- tarus) ficers of their children: yet no writer, gustavus ?-- ; ’ris he, francesco's self ;- with whom we are acquainted, has ever he cannot with his hated name put off attempted to represent an enemy as in- e in his fiend-like form-at sight of which my ducing a father to kill his child, knowing wrongs him to be such. so fiercely rush upon my wildered mind, that vengeance chasing every peaner count orlando, disguised as a pilgrim, thought under the name of ximenes, on arriving fires my impatient soul. but hark! again at cyprus, in search of an enemy, who that brazen tone comes rolling on the had deprired him of the woman he loved breeze; and had been the murderer of his father, he is devout--devout !-religious fool, discovers in the person of the bigot gus- to think that tears can wash such guilt tavus the object of his enquiry, bis for away. mer friend, but now detested foe, fran- i will behold him fondly bend, and kiss cesco. perceiving that he is oppressed his rosary, and see how weak the man with the weight of his crimes, and in a who once with hoid unfeeling hardihood of life's best treasure robbed his foolish state of mind bordering upon despair, he friend. obtains an introduction to his privacy, as p. . a pilgrim priest, who had visited the beside the rose all other flowerets hang their humble heads, so other beauties holy land. in this sacred character he strives to impress upon the mind of gus. where'er eliza came. but oh! how far drooped tavus, by various hints and allusions, that was every grace that toated round her he is, to a certain degree, acquainted with the nature of those crimes, which bloomed on her cheek or sparkled in her the bigot imagines are entirely unknown, eye,- and by this means gains an ascendancy how far were these below the gentle charm, over bis mind, which he could not others that checked my angry words ere passion wise have obtained. gustavus is, in spoke, the event, wrought into such a state of and melted me to tears, whene'er she soothed fear and weakness, that ximenes makes the orphan's sigh, or suffering peasant's him believe, during a violent storm, that groan. p. . the voice of god ealls upon him to pre- my heart then opened to the sun of love, as the soft harebell, when aurora's tints vent his son, then about to marry an in- glow in the east, expands its silken leaves fiel, from ruining his hopes of heaven, to the life-giving orb. by immolating him before the commis- sion of the crime. the next morning, gus. last night i lay reclined on yonder on the terrified father's requesting the chill advice of ximenes. the latter reveals and sought oblivion galing on the sun : what he himself pretended to have wit. its blood-red disk was setting in the west, nessed ; taking care, at the same time, to and all the clouds—the heavens--the sea were clothed invent such a relation as would still fur- " in vest of crimson light. the air was still, ther confirm gustavus in his belief that 'no breath was stirring-no green ware was he had received the divine authority to ved the divine authority to breaking; perpetrate the deed upon which he ap- the distant cliffs of ancient greece were peared bent. the latter, at length, de lost termines to sacrifice his son, and alter in the red coloured air, and the few rocks, various struggles with his parental atfec- that nearer reared their heads, récined tion, and vain endeavours to force him to wrapt in sleep. p. . forego his intentions towards euphemia, along the western coast, myself and child the infidel lady, he attempts to stab him were sailing o'er the softly sweller. waves, .] ximenes, the wreath and other poems. a gale o’ertook our vessel in its way; my brain grows wildered and my heart the sails yet flying caught the tempest's but grieves ; force; thou canst not speak the love consuming and soon the lofty mast, riven by the shock, fire fell, and was buried in the boiling surge; that burns my heart—mine eyes of tears then quick the heaving billows swept the bereaves. deck, e’en, e'en that smile, which like the evening as if, when each tumultuous wave retired. dew it gained new strength. weary at length that falls upon the parched field, would and spent smooth we both were hurled into the yawning deep; my furrowed brow, as round her lips it flew, euphemia, carried by the rapid tide, now fails in power my writhing pains to was struggling seen from shore.-thy no- sooth; ble son, for dark despair has seized upon my breast, l'nmindful of the proudly beating storm, and laughs at its own ruin, scoffing me, heedless of all save her, rushed to her it snatches in its bony clutch, from resi rescue: my sinking heart, and points the while to with one firm hand he bore my sinking thee: child, then go, let the winds whisper mid thy the other buffetted the curling waves, strings, which angry, at their loss, their braving load thy note no longer soothing pleasure dashed with impetuous fury on the strand, brings. p. . p. . on man. how sweet it is to breathe this air--the man's restless mind will often seek, storm forgetting that his power is weak, which threatened but some moments since to soar above, and snatch from heaven to huri the thunders that to clouds are given ; all that now smiles around to utter ruin, boasting himself the lord of all, has cooled the breeze, and all the choiristers hed have, obedient to his call, ol' night, seem now with song to celebrate the hidden stores of earth below great natures's triumph ofer some fallen and planets that above him glow:- foe. would strive to tear the veil that's placed the smiling verdure round, now seems to before the sphere by godhead graced, wear forgetful that his mortal eye attire most gay; for every leaf displays was never formed to look so high; radiant in silvery light of yon pale orb would with despotic slavery strive a thousand gems. p. . to chain the power that bade him live. * * * p. among the minor poems of dr. poli- dori; in the “ lines written at grim- sonnet. i'm tired of this mortality ;-for years sel," and the dream, he appears forcibly i scorned this nature; for methought i saw to have depicted the peculiarities of his nought but the marks of virtue caused by own mind. • in vain i seek these solitary rocks, . of what the stronger might make into law. which seem to leave no track upon their methought that souls, like the cameleon's side skin, for man to tread upon :- these daring blocks could every hue invest;-the hero, knave, of the world's masonry, o'er which storms or any mask that could a purpose win, glide or help the various plot of passion's slave, powerless. unmoved, stern in their might and now that i have found some who per- yet stand, form and leave no room for man's destructive the noblest acts; not for the use alone, hand. but that their hearts were cast in virtue's yet i am vainly hid within their breast; mould : they cannot breathe on me their quiet rest, i scorn mortality, which cannot form man's passions will intrude-man’s wants a word, worthy of virtue's heavenly assail throne, e'en nie, whose tongue is dumb, save when at such a sight my feelings to unfold. • the gale strikes on my ear with harsh but plaintive' sonnet. note; what though a waste of dark green waves exciting words which mingle with its float, shall flow between my love and me; and make the echoing rocks respond my 'tis nought; the foam which ocean paves grief, shall serve to bear my thought to thee. as if i'd take from sympathy relief. p. . what though the alps with snowy vest sonnet. shall stand between my form and thine; to my lyre. the eagle, often cloud-capt nest, i dare no more to strike thee, lovely lyre! shall fly and bear my thought to thine, new monthly mag.–no. . vol. xi. k tears p. . [april , memoirs of count de las casas. and though e'en time should interpose, cal expression, and the following ple- between my heart and its desire; onasm is decidedly objectionable : "tis nought; the breast for thee that glows, must i then, once again, call up afresh, bac. shald never feel another's fire, nor can e'en thought ere find repose such blemishes, however, might easily save when with thee i most admire. have been corrected, had the author been p. . in less haste to make his debut before we will conclude our extracts with the public. it is a complaint very com- le mon against young writers (and poets the author's farewell sonnet to his book. in particular) that their impatience to farewell !-farewell !--the hopes i've built be made acquainted with their doom, on thee and have their compositions submitted will fail too, like the rest: i heed it not; to the public eye is so great, that they far bitterer pangs than thou canst bring to me will not allow themselves time to cor- i've borne withal. tho' such may be thy lot, rect such inaccuracies of style as escape i will no more revile thee than the sire them in the heat of inspiration. could his son, tho'graceless he may prove, and they but be persuaded to lay aside their leave productions for some time, if possible his grey hairy hopeless :-no; whate'er my forget them, and then peruse them for lyre the purpose of final preparation, they • hath sung is thine, thou chronicler of would have an opportunity of remodel- grief! ling, in dispassionate moments, such of and i shall be most glad to read thy page the currency of their imagination as hap- when memory legs, and life is lost in age; pened to be injured in the mintage, tho' thou mayst tell of hope for ever gone but which their attention to the main a heart that withered finds itself alone midst crowds--a stranger midst its friends, object prevented them at the time from • to which its sympathy do being lends. observing. p: . memoirs of emmanuel augustus diu- besides several errors of the press we donne, count de las casas, commu- should notice as a considerable" blemish nicated by himself. vo. pp. . in the present volume, the too frequent whenever fate shall put the final recurrence of the saine cxpressions - for seal upon the fortunes of napoleon in instance : this world, the materials for a complete thou art my only hope! from thee i part, public and private history of the man will not be wanting. every month hoping, &c. my heart was light was full of hopes of glee; produces some new information on his past adventures, or his present condi- for i have hoped, &c. tion ; and for our parts, we are neither but see my fellow-captires come this way, if thou wilt come, &c. sorry to observe the interest taken in the subject, nor willing to repress the many verses are, also, rendered unin ardour of curiosity. these perform- telligible by the inversion of grammatical ances may all be useful in the way of in- position, and the omission of the neces- struction, and as furnisbing hints for sary articles; as in the following pas- future biographers. the author of this sages :- voluinc, though an insufferable egotist, when wreath has some claims to attention, on account of many colour'd flowers fading placed of his near connexion with the exile of by lover's hand. st. helena ; and the reader who is above like the white-haired glisten being influenced by prejudices, will de- on old man's head rive no small amusement from the pe- the lips of hungry babe. rusal of the memoirs, even while he de- the sound that tells my grief may even float boat spises the vanity of the author. the on the wave sonened as it falls froin lyre, &c. following is a sketch of napoleon's mode of living, and of its correctness we some prosaic lines occur, such as have no reason to form a doubt; though ere my lips speak renews my heart's an- the coucluding observations carry so much malignity in them as to be wholly the iman says a pilgrimage to mecca made, unworthy of animadversion. i introduced the emperor sleeps very little : he this villain to her house for he promised. goes early to bed, and as he knows that i am also a had sleerer, he frequently sends ; “rapt in sleep' is incorrect; it should for me to bear him for company till he falls be “wrapt," &c.“ blab" is not a poeti- asleep: he wakes pretty regularly about .) the delphin classics. three o'clock, when a light is brought him, make up a complete set from the same and he works till six or seven : he then lays source. a mere reprint, therefore, of himself down again to endeavour to sleep a the old edition, “ with all its imperfec- second time ; about nine o'clock breakfast tions on its head," and that it has many is served to him, on a small round table, a its puinerous pages of errata too plainly sort of queridon beside his couch; here he acknowledure would have been highly frequently sends for one of us : he then reads, works, or slumbers during the or- acceptable to the public; but when we pressive heat of the day; he afterwards dic- see the innumerable advantages with tates to us. for a long time he used, which it now comes forth, both with re- about four o'clock in the afternoon, to také spect to the splendour of its appearance, us all out with him in the caleche, but at the convenience of its arrangement, last he got tired of this, as he before did of the improvement of its text, and the riding; he now continues to walk till the great additional information which is humidity of the air compels him to return contained in the notes, as drawn froia to the house. if he remains out after four the critical labours of the learned o'clock in the open air, he is certain of during the last century we cannot but during the last century, we cannot but being seized in the evening with rheumatic pains in the head, a pretty severe cough, to exult exult in it as a work of which any age and violent tooth-ache. on his return, he '; and any country might be proud, and dictates till about eight o'clock; he then re- whic re which will retiect lasting credit on the pairs to the diping-room, and plays a game enterprize and liberality of its editor. of chess before dinner. during the dessert, the long list of subscribers to this edi- when the servants have withdrawn, he tion, nearly amounting to eight hun- usually reads to us some passages from our dred persons, among whom are to be best poets, or from some other books of im- found nearly all the most distinguished portance. these are the most minute de- names in the kingdom, is a sufficient tails of the manner in which the emperor proof, at once, how greatly it was con- at present lives : he would esteem himself sidered a desideratum, and how ready happy in his distance from the rest of the world, were it permitted him, amidst our a support has been afforded to the un. pious and careful attentions, forgotten by dertaking, which is in itself one of so men, to live for a few hours only free from much magnitude, that it probably would suffering: but since the arrival of the new not, at this period of time, have been governor, neither a day, nor an hour, nora conceived or fostered in any other coun- moment passes in which he does not receive try except our own. the large paper fresh wounds; a ating may be said to be in copy fully justifies the expectation which constant operation to tear open the wounds, had been formed of its magnificence, the pain of which a short slumber might and will stand forth as a gratifying have somewhat deadened. specimen, both at home and abroad, of the delphin classics, with variorum the perfection which the typographic notes. intitled the regent's edition. art has attained in this country. we no. ). have no doubt that the edition will be it would open a wide field were we to in as much request on the continent as expatiate on all the services which the among ourselves, notwithstanding which, new and corrected edition of the delphin the editor, in order to make a decided and variorum classics, may be consider- difference in favour of those who are the ed as rendering to the cause of learning, foremost to prove their readiness to in the present day. the finest library support liim in his laudable design, would be deemed incomplete without very properly has raised the price of the classic authors, whose works have the work to new subscribers, which, as long been considered as best preserved only a small number over the subscrip- in the original delphin und variorum tion will be printed, is likewise the edition - hence it has always been surest way to make the work itself valna- sought with an avidity which has ren- ble for its rarity as well as for its own dered it scarcely possible at present for intrinsic and exceeding merit. even the most industrious collector to monthly register. agriculture. arts. the gardener's remembrancer. by a treatise on spinning machinery, illus- james macphail. mo. s. d. trated by plates. by a. gray. vo. a survey of the agriculture of eastern s. d. and western flanders; made under the au- the gas blow-pipe, or art of fusion by thority of the farming society of ireland. burning the gaseous constituents of water, by the rev. t. radclife. vo. s. d. by d. clarke, ll.d. vo. s. d. (april , new publications, with critical remarks. bibliograpiy. purpose of initiating young people into a know- catalogue of books, principally foreign, ledge of history. the author has certainly the now selling by j. h. bohte and co. york talent of condensing a great deal of valuable street. information into a very small space, and he has a catalogue of books, on medicine, sur- never given a stronger instance of this power than in the volumne before us. the style is clear and gery, anatomy, &c., &c., imported from the simple, and well calculated to suit the capacities continent, by boosey and sons, broad of youthful readers, without being so foolishly per. streei; also a catalogue of foreign en- spicuous as to disgust those of a more advanced gravinys, wood-cuts, &c., &c. age; au error by no means uncommon in the ele. a catalogue of books in various branches mentary works of the present day. mi. jamieson of literature, including a large collection of deserves so much from the public for his many tracts, single sermons, &c., sold by f. c. meritorious efforts to improve the rising genera- and j. rivingtons, waterloo place. tion, that we feel assured his name will attract suf. general catalogue of old books on sale ticient consideration to that which has given rise at baynes's, , paternoster row. vo. . to the present observations, to obviale the neces. sity of any further recommendation from us. a catalogue of rare and curious books, on sale by longman and co. vol. ii. part a new and easy introduction to the ger- i. s. d. man reading. by w. heinemann. mo. biography. s. d. memoir of the rev. henry martyn, b. d. first lessons in latin, consisting of selec- vo. . tions in latin construing, designed as an memoirs of the late rev, w. kingsbury, introduction to eutropius and phædrus. a.m. by john bullar. vo. s. by the rev. john evans mo. s. the history of seyd saïd, sultan of mus- a sketch of modern history, from the cat, with an account of the countries and destruction of the western empire, , to people of the shores of the persian gulph. the year . by a. picquot. mo. s. d. particularly the wahabecs. by shaik man- french pronunciation exemplified, and all sur. vo. s. the most elegant figures of the french lan- botany. guage collected and explained both in eng- an appendix to the synopsis plantarum lish and french. by m.c. m. de bellcour. succulentarum cum descriptionibus syno- mo, s, nymis. auctore a. h. haworth. vo. s. the italian pronunciation exemplified in commerce. english. by c. bruno. roy. mo. s. the london commercial dictionary and the first four rules of arithmetic, for sea port gazetteer. by william anderson. the use of junior pupils. by t. w.c. ed- vo. s. wards, a. m. vo. is. d. tables of customs, &c. by w. ander- history. derson. vo. s. historical and unrevealed memoirs of the hood's improved publican's ledger political and private lile of napoleon bona- foolscap folio, half bound. , parte, from to . mo. pp. . the immaculate and infallible ready we know not what degree of credit is to be at. reckoner. by w. coshead. no. s. tached to this volume, but the french original the commercial nlagazine. no. . vo. from which it is extracted, was immediately seized upon by the police; and so complete was drama this suppression, that we have heard even the raffaelle cunaro, a tragedy. by thos. french embassarior had not beon able to procure a jas. serle. vo. s. d. copy, and borrowed the one employed in this evadne, or the statue; a tragedy, in five translation for his own perusal. there are many acts; as performed at the theatre roval. interesting pictures of the tyrant contained in it, covent garden. - by richard shiel, esq. have been entirely hidilen from the publiceye. he and generally of those years and moments which vo, s. the italians, or the fatal accusation; a is represcuted as having forined very early vague visions of power; and the voluine would be inte. tragedy: with a preface, containing the restieg if it contained nothing but a memorial correspondence of the author with the com- which this blood-sucher addressed to louis xvi. mittee of drury lane thcatre, p. moore, telling him how to act while yet he had the power esq. m. p. and mr. kean. by the author of ordering. of “ the philosophy of nature,” and law. “ amusements in retirement." vo. . a collection of several points of sessions' education. law, alphabetically arranged; contained in burns and williams on the office of a conversations on history; exhibiting a justice. blackstone's commentaries, east progressive view of the state of mankind, and hawkins on crown law, addington's from the earliest ages of which we have any penal statutes, and const and nolan on the authentic records, to the beginning of the poor laws. by the rev. s. clapham, a.m. year ; for the use of schools and pri- vate instruction. by alexander jamieson. this valuable compilation is so adoirably calcu- mo. s. lated to attord ready information on every subject *the plan of this work appears to us an evident counected with the law, and is withal so carefully improvenient upon those in general use, for the and systematically arranged, as to enable the reader s. .) new publications, with critical remarks. to take a comprehensive view, from the authority universal conclusions from, or of establishing an of the several authors quoted, of every subject invariable treatment for, the cure of distempers which has ever come under their cognizance. to from the success which may have attended a few private individuals, wishing to make themselves partial experiments, affords an useful lesson-one, acquainted with any particular point of law, it we trust, which will not have been vainly delivered will save an immensity of trouble and reference; -of the hazard aud folly of confiding in the uni- as they will find, under one brief head, the cream versal efficacy of any advertised nostrum ; since of the authors inertioned in the title page, and it is evident, from what is now so ably advanced thus save themselves the labour consequent upon by sir gilbert blane, that the same medicine which the investigation of the authorities, at large. may be successfully employed in the cure of one clarke's new law list for . new law list for mo. en patient, with reference to his previous habits and constitution, cannot, in many cases, be administered s. to another, labouring under the same malady, tut reports of cases, principally on practice of different habits and constitution, without its and pleadings, and relating to the office of being either dangerous or inefficient. this fact magistrates, determined in the court of sliould deter all reasonable persons from the use king's bench in hilary term. by j. chitty. of empirical drugo, of whose qualities and coinpo. vol. i. part . royal vo. s d. sition they are ignorant. we conjecture that it will be some time before the proprietors of the medicine, surgery, &c. vegetable balsam, balm of quito, nervous cordial, elements of medical logic. by sir gil balm of gilead, tincture of rusahiri, &e., &c.. bert blane, bart. will present sir gilbert blane with the freedom of their fraternity in a gold box, in return for his the author of this volume las compressed, laudable suggestions. within a very small compass, au analyucal review of the main principles on which true medical sci- observations on the treatment, patholo- ence is founded, and has afforded very iinportant gy, and prevention of typhus fever. vo. rules for the exeinplification of those principles in s. d. the beneficial practice of the physician. disclaim. a memoir on the termination and con- ing an attachinent to any particular theory, sir gil- nections of the crural arch. by robert- bert biane collects, under nine distinct heads, the liston. to. s. most material facts in primary elements, which form a series of engravings, representing the the ground work of physiological and pathological bones of the human skeleton. by e. science. he then proceeds to enumerate, briefly, mitchell. part i. to. s. some of the speculations which have been formed by eminent physicians and naturalists, with a view observations on the nature and treatment to explain the phenomena which distinguish the of the epidemic fever. by henry clutter- agency of the organic laws, in energies which go buck, m. d. vo. s. rern the system of the animal economy, and the an essay on the diseases of the excret- important practical errors which have resulted from ing parts of the lachrymal organs. by such speculations. the sequel of the volume is w. mackenzie. vo. s. d. devoted to a statenient of the difficulties which mineralogy. obstruct the acquisition, by the medical practitioner, of a correct knowledge of the theory of diseases; the mineralogical noinenclature, alpha- betica and particularly of that inomentous branch of phy- sical research, the accurate discrimination of the by t. allen. vo. . boundary line which separates the operations of miscellaneous. nature, in repelling, by its plastic energies, the in- specimens of irish eloquence, now first roads of a distemper, and the succours which may arranged and collected, with biographical be co-ordinately afforded by art. as a striking notices and a preface. by charles phillips. proof of the bazard which attends the indiscrimi. nate application of the same general characteristic vo. s. term to different species of disorders, which may warden refuted ; being a defence of the appear to correspond with each other in some par british navy against the misrepresentations ticular symptoms, although widely different in their of his work entitled a statistical, &c. view origin, and acquiring very opposite modes of treat- of the united states. . . d. ment, sir gilbert blane alludes to tbe three pre- a short memoir of an antiane medal dominant fevers in the west indies, and explains, bearing on ove side the representation of st considerable length, and, we think, satisfactorily, christ, and on the other a curious hebrew the grounds of his opinion, that the yellow fever, inscription. by the rev. t. r. england. one of the three diseases above alluded to, is fortui. tously derived from the confined and infectious vo. s. air in the holds of crowded vessels in warın cli. music. mates, and that it is communicated by contact with the thorough bass primmer: contain- the sick, in their clothes and utensils; but that it ing explanations and examples of the rudi- is not a distemper originating from animal patre. ments of harmony, with fifty exercises. by faction, or indigenous to any insalubrious state of j. f. burrows. the air, excepting that, in this last particular, it re- natural philosophy. quires a high temperature to sustain the infection. elements of natural philosophy, illustrat- our limits will not allow us to pale any citations ed by experiments, which may be performed from this valuable work; but we should be acting without regular apparatus. by james unjustly to the benevolent intentiods of the inge- mitchell, m. a. mo . nious author, if we did not slate, that the view which he has taken of the extreme difficulty of ac. novels. quiring a competent knowledge of the theory of oakwood hall. by catherine hutton. medical science, and of the danger of deducing vols. mo s d. (april , l'arieties, literary, scientific, &c. a traveller's tale of the last century, pared with the caited states of america. svols. mo s. d. by c. f. greece. vo. s. london; or, a month at stevens's: a sa a second letter to the right hon. ro- tirical novel. by a late resident. vols. ls. bert peel, m. p. on the increase of pan- hesitation ; or to marry and not to mar- perism. by one of his constituents. vo. ry. vols mo. . s, d. the peasant of auburn; or, the old theology man's tale. vo. s. d. sermons, preached at the tron church, albany; a novel. vols. mo s. d. glasgow. by dr. chalmers. vo. s. the express, vols. mo s. the family prayer book, with notes. les parvenus, ou les aventures de ju. by the rev. dr. mant. to. lien delmours. ecrite par lui-même. par discourses on some of the most im- madame la comtesse de genlis. tom. portant doctrines and duties of christianity. mo. . by p. smith. vo. s. d. poetry. illustrations of the holy scriptures, in poetical remains of the late john leyden, three parts. by the rev. geo. paxton. d. n. by the rev. j. morton. vo. s. vols. vo. . s. the works of the right iion. lord lectures on physiology, zoology, and byron. vol. . foolscap s. the natural history of man, delivered at autumnal excursions; or, sketches in the royal college. by w. lawrence, f.r.s. tiviordale ; with other poems. by thos. vo. s. pringle. foolscap . s. sermons. by edward maltby, d.d. vo. glaucus and scilla. by thomas lodge. s. with notes, by s. w. singer, esq. vo. s. a due observance of the lord's day, a tom crib's memorial to congress, with sermon, delivered before the pimlico, a preface, notes, and appendix. by one chelsea, and brompton association. by of the fancy. foolscap vo. . d. the rev. r. h. shepherd, minister of gems of british poesy, many of which ranelagh chapel. svo, ls. have not been before collected. mo. s. d. course of lectures on subjects con- lipes written at ampthill park. fools- nected with the corruption, revival, and cap vo. s. d. future influence of genuine christianity. politics and political economy. by j. w. fox. vo. s. a commentary on the treaties entered topography. into between the allied sovereigns for the views in sussex, consisting of scenery in purpose of preventing their subjects from the rape of hastings. by j. m. turner, &c. engaging in any illicit traffic in slaves. by &c. royal folio. ). dr. s. thorpe. vo. . voyages and travels. letters from the count las casas, con- the personal narrative of m. de hum- sisting of a letter to prince lucien buona- boldt's travels to the equinoctial regions, parte, with an account of the circumstances during the years – . translated attending his arrest and removal from st. by helen maria williams. vols. vo. . helena. with an appendix of official cor- an account of the arctic regions, includ- respondence with sir hudson lowe, &c. ing the natural history of spitzbergen and vo. s. the adjacent islands. by w. scoresby. areopagitica, a speech to the parliament vols. vo. of england, for the liberty of unlicensed a tour through sicily in the year . printing. by john milton ; with remarks by geo. russell. ilustrated by a map and and notes, by t. holt white. vo. s. plates. vo. . noble's instructions to emigrants, an at- travels in various countries of europe, tempt to give a correct account of the asia, and america. by e. d. clarke, l.l.d. united states of america, and offer some section first, . , s. d. information which may be useful to those a statistical political and ilistorical ac- who have a wish to emigrate to the republic, count of the united states of america. by and particularly to those of the poorer class. d. b. warden. vols. vo, . s. vo. s. d. letters from the north of italy. by w. observations on penal jurisprudence and s. rose. vols. vo. s. the reformation of criminals. by w. ros- the mission from cape coast castle to coe. svo. s. the kingdom of ashantee, in africa. by t. facts and observations relative to cana. bowditch, esq. to. . s. da. proving that the british colonies pos- a journey from moscow to constan- sces superior advantages to emigrants com- tinople in the year and . by w. macmichael, m.d. to. . ils. . varieties-literary, scientific, &c. universities, part of volumpia's speech, beginning with cambridge. - porson prize.- the --" thou know'st, great son, passage fixed upon for the present year is, the end of war's uncertain." shakspeare, coriolanus, act v. scene . and ending with . varieties, literary, scientific, fc. « let us shame him with our knees.” rich in rare specimens, merits, by the wise which is to be translated into lambic aca. care of the director, mr. charles von talectic trimeters, according to the laws laid schreiber, both on account of the scientific down by the professor in his preface to the arrangement, and the tasteful manner in hecuba of euripides. which the whole is displayed, the palm of the rev. john palmer has resigned his excellence above all in europe. the dibi- office of professor of arabic. there are se- gence of this naturalist, who is highly esteem- veral candidates for the professorship,which ed in foreign countries also, has converted is in the appointment of the vice-chan- the chaos which only ten years ago gave cellor and the other masters of colleges. the imperial cabinet of natural history the feb. .-we are gratified in having to appearance of a mass of confusion, by judi- announce, that the valuable oriental mss. cious careful arrangement, into a systema- bequeathed to this university by the cele- tic panorama, which justly excites the admi- brated african traveller burckhardt, con- ration of the learned and unlearned natives sisting of upwards of volumes, have and foreigners. a good and detailed ac- safely arrived, and are now deposited in the count of it, is contained in charles bertuch's public library.-- cambridge chronicle. remarks on a tour from thuringia to vi- professor giesecke's greenland muse- enna, in . , published at vienna, in um.--the late english expeditions to the , and in the guide to vienna and its porthern polar regions have attracted the curiosities, published in ,by artania and attention of all europe, and though they company. have failed in attaining the objects proposed, professor giesecke's collection consists, they have afforded important information lst, of a treasure of valuable minerals, most respecting geology and natural history; for of them extremely rare, the great worth of ibe ancient accounts, often hastily written, which will doubtless be set in a proper light do not furnish any complete picture of the by the learned vienna mineralogist, mr. natural history, the manners, and the way von du muhlfeld. dly. of dried green- of life of the inhabitants of greenland. yet, land plants. dly. of skulls of remarkable in a scientific point of view, scarcely more animals, for instance, of the whale (balena is to be expected from these expeditions mysticetus) of immense size of the narval than from a single man, who out of love to (monodox monoceros,) a great rarity, hav- the science of natural history resided seven ing two teeth-of the sea-horse (trechecas years and eight months (like another ro rosmarus)-several stuffed seals (phoca) of binson) in greenland, braved all the hard different ages, .g. the common seal (phoca ships of that inclement climate, and in un- vetulina,) the phoca fætida—the sea lion, favourable circumstances, collected a trea. (phoca cristata,) with a new, hitherto un- sure of natural productions, which will al- known, kind-a spotted seal, which gie- ways be a monument of an uncommon spi- secke therefore calls the (phoca pantherina) rit of enquiry, and indefatigable diligence. - the white and blue fox (isatis arctica, la- this man is mr. charles lewis giesecke, gopus groenlandica)--a great number of formerly an actor in the great theatre of sea fowl, in admirable preservation ; shell- schikaneder, in the suburbs of vienna, and fish, &c. thly. dresses of the greepland- author of the favourite burlesque of ham- ers, arms and instruments, neatly, and even let, and other pieces, now commander of the elegantly worked; models of their vessels, royal danish order of dannebrog, profes- and the tackling belonging to them; the sor of natural history at dublin, and direc- whole apparatus for catching whales, in tor of the cabinet of natural history in miniature, &c. i pass over the paintings of that city. he had, at an earlier period, scenes in greenland, which perfectly repré- amused himself with mineralogy-left the sent that frightful country, and a number of theatre to apply himself exclusively to that other curiosities which the public will soon science-went to copenhagen, was made behold scientifically arranged to their entire danish counsellor of mines, and undertook satisfaction. we have to expect from pro- the direction of an expedition to greenland: fessor giesecke a circumstantial description having remained there four years, he sent of greenland, and of his travels, with maps the first fruits of his diligence to denmark. and views of various places, which will be but it being war time the ship was captured published in london, in english and ger- on tre voyage by an english cruizer, and man. the cargo sold in edinburgh and london. a lizard, four feet long, of the species he had now to begin his whole fatiguing described in count de la cepede's history operation of collecting over again. he is at of oviparous quadrupeds, by the name of present, for a short time, at vienna, with a tupinambus in america, and gallabe in treasure of natural productions of all kinds, africa, was found on the beach by hordle and will deliver all he has collected to the cliff, near müford, hants, the morning imperial museum of natural history, for after the ship british tar, from sierra leo which the whole has been purchased by the one, was wrecked. it appears this animal emperor francis, among whose royal vir- is the largest of the kind ever brought to tues the patronage of the sciences shines europe the one in the royal cabinet of with distinguished splendor. this cabinet, paris nueasuring ft. in, and one in the ca- [ april , varieties-literary, scientific, fc. binet at lisbon, ft. in. these are the correct, and very pleasing, affording great only two to be found in any public exhibi- opportunity of hedging. it is supposed the tion in europe. the body of this lizard ball will stop undecided once in about or was the same length as the tail, covered with events, which shows to a certainty the hard scales of an oval and circular form; correctness of the principle, as affirmed by the colour of the body is of a greenish cast; judges of the gaine: the spots from the back to the sides are re- dr. weatherhead will commence in april 'gular, and in four distinct rowe, about four his spring course of lectures, which em- inches apart; these spots had all the appear- brace the consideration of the congenital ance and beauty of a large pearl set with mal-formations and morbid and accidental small ones, and the black spots are equal in distortions of the bones, whether originating beauty to the white. the legs are furnish- in utero, or as the consequence of rickets, ed with strong hooked claws, as beautifully mollities ossium, spina bifida, scrophulous spotted, and resemble a handsome piece of affections of the knee and hip-joints, club- lace. the head is like a frog's, the teeth feet, &c.; together with some account of long and sharp. it could not have been monstrosities and remarks on comparative long dead when found, as it was scarcely osteology. cold. the governors of the royal dispensary a german journal states that the cele- for diseases of the ear, have presented mr. brated dr. chladni, the inventor of the cla. curtis, the surgeon of that institution, with vicylinder, and the instrnment called the a superb piece of plate, as a token of the euphonion, is at present at vienna, where high estimation they entertain of his profes- he intends giving lectures on the nature of sional abilities, and for his great attention acoustics, or the theory of sound. he also to the patients placed under his care at that proposes to explain his system respecting useful charity. meteoric stones, which he regards as mere ocalic acid, epsom salts, &c.--a cor- heterogeneous masses, and absolutely fo- respondent, adverting to the suggestion reign to our globe and its atmosphere. which lately appeared, for the colouring of new game.---the following are some epsom salts, to prevent a repetition of the particulars respecting a new game, now fatal mistakes which occurred, through ad- playing at berlin and other places; it is ministering the oxalic acid instead of that something like our horse-racing, or more drug, considers the plan to be inefficient;- properly calculated, as the english people first, because many persons considering the lay their money on the turf, on the hedging coloured salts to be adulterated, would not principle : for, supposing a field of horses take them; secondly, because, although ep- to start at epsom or elsewhere, and the odds som salts might be coloured, glauber salts, against one horse is five to one ; against an- which are somewhat similar in appearance other two to one; and even betting on an- to the oxalic acid, but with larger crystals, other, any gentleman taking all the bets would remain colourless, and thus mistakes cannot lose; but if any of the other horses might continue to arise. he proposes, win, the person so betting wins all the mo- therefore, that the salts shall be allowed to ney, which is very often the case, and is retain their usual and natural appearance, what is called betting round to advantage and that an alteration shall be made in the and account: for many great fortunes have poisonous acid. this, he adds. may be been made by this principle on the turf. easuy and effectually accomplished, by every the ball, with the assistance of a mace, druzgist's keeping, instead of the crystals, a used in this new game, called une, deux, saturated solution of the oxalic acid, which cingpie, is costly, and made of solid ivory, would answer every desired purpose, and by a celebrated artist of berlin, a very great be liable to no objection. mathematical turner, is only a little above literary curiosities.-r. watson, esq. one per cent. in favour of the bankers ;-has who purchased the stuart mss. al rome, ways of deciding top and bottom, like a is arrived in london from paris, and has die, to the greatest nicety, with ways for brought with him a valuable collection of black, ways for red, and ways for blue; literary curiosities : among which is the to which, if a black, the banker pays equal celebrated ms. hebrew bible, that longor- to the stake; if a red, he pays twice the namented the library at constantinople. it stake; and if a blue, le pays five times the is beautifully written on vellum, and is sup- stake; so, if a punter puis on black, on posed to be a work of the th century, atter red, and i on blue, he neither wins or loses. the fall of the greek empire it was carried at berlin the banker hangs up a purse, to vienna, where it was preserved for ages which contains prussian d'ors, equal to in the private cabinet of the house of aus- about guineas, and any one putting tria, until the capture of that capital hy the one d'or in a bowl, if it come four blue run- french troops, when it was transported to ding, wins the purse. this is a favourite paris by a general officer,who did not know stake. if a punter places twice on the blue, its value, and sold it to the present proprietor. one pound, be wins . for his one. this the most learned men in europe consider new game is playing in i'rance, and ontvies it to be unique in its kind, and without a all other games. the decision is simple, "price. .] varieties -literary, scientific, fc. the intelligent collector has figures of readiness. eighteen or twenty of these the actors who performed before francis, poor negroes, who are excellent swimmers, king of france, and henry, king of eng- and who possess the power of holding in land, in “ the field of gold cloth.” it is their breath for a considerable time, are supposed to be by parmegiano, and was under the control of an overseer. they preserved in the garde meuble, at paris, swim about under water until they find a until the revolution, when it was plundered. bank of oysters, where the sea is not more it is now in the original cover, on which than ten, twelve, or fifteen fathoms deep. are the royal arms of france. the poems the negroes then ascend to the boat and of ossian are forthcoming, and are supo cast anchor. they tie round their waists posed to have been carried to france about a rope, one end of which is fastened to the the year , consequently long before mr. boat, and jump into the sea, taking a small m.pherson collected them orally. a cele- weight to enable them to descend the more brated bookseller is anxious to procure expeditiously. on reaching the bottom, them and the geographical notes of mr. the diver seizes an oyster, which he places campbell. many autograph signatures of under his left arm, another in his left hand, the kings of france, the original painting of a third under his right arm, a fourth in his st john in the wilderness, by raphael right hand, another in his mouth. he and the brevet commission of general of then ascends to take breath, and to de- division of marshal ney, taken out of his posit the oysters in a little bag in the boat. pocket the morning he was shot, signed by as soon as he has recovered himself, he buonaparte, and stating his gradual rise in dives a second time, and so on until he is the french service from a corporal, with an tired, or has fished a sufficient number of account of his gallantry, and the different oysters. battles in which he was engaged, until the each of these negro divers must supply ilth year of the french republic, when he his master with a certain number of pearls attained the above rank, are among the daily. when the negro has fished as many valuable collections of the above gentleman. oysters as he thinks sufficient, he sppens fascinating power of serpents.- major them in the presence of the overseer, and alexander garden, of south carolina, has, delivers to him the pearls, whether small or in a paper read to the new york historical large, perfect or imperfect, until he has com- society, attributed the supposed power of pleted the number due to his master; the fascination possessed by serpents to a vapour remainder are the property of the negro, which they can spread around them, and to who usually sells them to his master. objects at a little distance, at pleasure. he besides the labour and fatigue which the first reduces the exaggerated idea which has negroes experience in detaching the oysters been entertained of this power, and then from the bottom of the sea, where they are adduces instances where the effect of a sick- frequently fixed hetween rocks and stones, ening and stupilying vapour have been they encounter great danger from the seen to issue from the animal. a negro is taborones, or tintoressos, a monstrous fish mentioned, who, from a very peculiar acute- by which they are sometimes devoured, ness in smell, could discover the rattle-snake and likewise from the mantas, huge rays, at a distance of feet, when in the exer- which seize the divers so forcibly, that they cise of this power; and on following this stifle them, or, by falling upon them with indication always found some animal suf- all their weight, crush them at the bottom fering from its influence. of the sea. the pearl fishery of panama.-the for this reason, the diver is usually armed isthmus which forms the boundary between with a pointed knife. if, when the water north and south america might, in the pos- is clear, the negro overseer, who remains session of an enterprising nation, be ren- in the boat, should perceive any of these dered a fertile source of prosperity. it fish, he warns the diver, and sorretimes would only be necessary to cut a canal to goes to his assistance. connect the two seas, and to build a city notwithstanding these precautions, the at each of its mouths, which might be- divers sometimes lose their lives, and fre- come the central points of extensive trade. quently return with the loss of an arm or at the extremity of the bay of panama leg. is an archipelago, consisting of islands; french gold coin.- previous to the year between the islands of el rey and tobago the mark of gold, consisting of eight the sea is perfectly calm, and near the coast ounces french weight, and equal to lies a considerable bank of pearly oysters. grains troy, was coined into thirty louis these oysters produce pearls of a large d'ors, being each grains, and passing size, though, in point of regularity and for livres, the standard of fineness being beauty, they are inferior to those of india. the same as here. the louis d'or was all the inhabitants of panama and its vi- then worth in england at the mint price of cinity who are in easy circumstances, keep gold s. d. in the mark of gold, negroes, who dive to procure pearls for their of the same weight and fineness, was order- masters. they are dispatched to the is- ed to be coined into louis d'ors, being lands, where tents and boats are kept in to a french pound of gold, in place of new monthly mag.–no. . vol. xi. fine arts. [april , , which was the former number, and each of all casts ; assemble in gange of ten, therefore only weighing - th grains. twenty or more; assume the garb of honest these continue to pass for livres in men; travel on the most frequented roads france, but in england they are only worth, and there contrive to join company with at the mint price, s. d. some unsuspecting traveller, whom they liv. s. persuade to start very early in the morning, before an english guinea was while yet dark; and only one or two miles worth in france - - - - - - from his halting place, they murder him by it then weighed nearly grains strangulation with a handkerchief, throw troy, it still weighs the game, but his body into a well, and run off with his pro- is now worth in france -· - perty. 'murder is one of their chief motives and they never rob without first slaugh- making a difference of - - - - tering their victim. “ dead men,” say they, or nearly seven per cent “ tell no tales." this is as trite a proverb so that a guinea is worth more in france with them as amongst our european cut than formerly, while it remains the same throats, and it has been assigned by them as here. on the contrary, the french louis the reason for always murdering. the diffi- d'or is worth less here, while in france its culties of conviction are, that the deceased value has been raised. cannot be recognised, (having perhaps tra- east indies. velled a hundred miles), consequently there the“ thugs” or robbers infesting hin- is no knowledge of what property he was dustan. extract from a private letter possessed or in whose company he was last “ the life led in this part of the world is so seen; add to this, that the murderers reside monotonous, that years would hardly fur- fifty miles or more from the spot where the nish subjects enough for a single letter. crime has been committed. they roam, the same round of duties returns. crimes however,infinitely further, being often absent occur; ingenuity is exerted to discover the four, five, or six months from their homes. offenders, they are caught, convicted or some idea of their strength may be formed acquitted. we have lately been successful by observing, that ten bodies have been ta- in bringing to condemnation a gang of vil- ken out of one well; and of their cunning, lains, forming part of a particular class of by mentioning that they, in some cases, send offenders, none of whom had ever been one of their gang up a tree, by shaking brought to the gallows. they are called which, the crows and other birds at roost “thugs” from the hindu word “ thugna" begin to call and fly about; from which the to deceive, and an abstract of their charac- traveller is led to suppose it is near day- ter may be given in a few lines. they are break, and is thence induced to start " fine arts. historical observations on anti. and enabled them to excel in the sciences, british and anti-contempora- manufactures, commerce, navigation, rian prejudices. and all the useful arts, were unjustly the title adopted by the british in- doomed to a humiliating inferiority in sitution, to indicate its patriotic purpose, painting and sculpture. in vain the beau- awakens the proudest feelings of the ty and sublimity in the works of spen- british breast. the success of its ob- ser and shakespeare, of milton and our ject is so intimately connected with the otlier poets, refuted this fallacious no- progress of morals, and has so direct a tion; and the history of the fine arts tendency to advance the british charac- confirmed the refutation. there are still ter, and diffuse the national glory, that too many persons of rank and education every member of the community has an who entertain this injurious and ground- immediate or ultimate interest in its pro- less notion. we shall therefore, as sin- motion and success. their first meeting, cere advocates of truth, offer some brief fourteen years ago, had for its avowed remarks on this important subject. intention to encounter the anti-british in greece, the people of athens and prejudice, which maintained that the na- sparta, living on the same soil, under tives of this island were disqualified by a the same sky, and subject to the same vi. cold phlegmatic constitution and a want cissitudes of season, although neighbours of imagination, from attaining to excel sufficiently near to form parts of the lence in the fine arts. this incapacity same nation, and bear the same common was attributed to the influence of the name, were wholly opposite to cach climate, and was supposed to be inherent other in manners, customs and taste. and incurable. thus a people, whose but this difference, so complete and es- inte hectual energies and persevering en- sential, was produced by the varying terprise rendered them victorious inwar, spirit of their civil polity and social in- . fine arts. stitutions. to provide for the defence durate grandeur of character, attended of the republic, and secure its freedom, by a sort of ferocious subordination and lycurgus considered every individual licentiousness in morals,--at athens com- born within its territory as the property merce, manufactures, and the sciences of the state ; and gave to all affairs a flourished; and to excel in poetry, paint- military tendency. to guard against the ing, sculpture, architecture, music or effeminating effect of sedentary habits, eloquence, was considered the highest he forbade the citizens to cultivate the glory. it is a prond consideration for sciences, and consigned to slaves only humanity, and an honour to the fine the exercise of the mechanic arts. to arts, that these illustrious people, not- convert the whole mass into an inviucible withstanding their unrivalled attain- soldiery, he sought by coarse fare and ments in the refinements of peace, and athletic exercises to harden the bodies, the superior freedom of their civil and and render the mind inflexible and cruel. political institutions, were more pure in where industry was a crime, to prevent their morals, and not less enthusiasti. the idleness of this stern and rude popu. cally attached to public liberty, or less lation from producing civil commotion, brave or martial, than their fierce and un- men were not left free agents in their polished rivals, the lacedemonians. the most indifferent affairs. where all goods valour of leonidas and his spartan he- were in common, where they studied roes, who fell so gloriously defending neither domestic economy, nor business, their country at the pass of thermopyla, and learnt nothing but what was abso. was not more renowned than that of the lutely necessary for the wants of civil athenians at the battles of marathon, life, refinements were unknown. the salamis and platæa. but the trophies of law, which had ordained that the doors their wars, the monuments of their mi- of houses should only be made by a saw, litary power, have passed away. a brave and the cielings by an axe, without the people will ever participate in the tri- aid of any other tool, was designed to umphs of their armies, and revere the shut out' luxury and expense. from commanders who led them to victory; dwellings so rudely fashioned, vessels of but the arts of peace, alone, consecrated gold and silver, rich tapestry, pictures, to the social virtues, have power to con- statues and ornamental carving of every fer a solid and permanent glory. in the kind, were, in effect, excluded. we are course of a long succession of ages, only not to wonder, that among these greeks, the names of a few of the grecian paint- the bodily and martial qualifications and ers, and none of their pictures, survive ; fierce energies of the soul were alone but the precious remains of their sculp- prized; and that the fine arts were un- ture have immortalised greece, and the practised, and artists unknown or con- genius of that illustrious people may be temned. but no historian has charged still said, in the divine works of their the barbarism of those celebrated people sculptors, and in none more than in those upon their air or clinate. the spirit of of phidias, now in the capital of this free legislation, which prevented the cultiva country, to dictate the law in the fine tion of the fine arts in lacedemonia, arts, and to exhibit the union of truth under the same climate and sky, invited and grace, of nature and grandeur, to an their advance in the neighbouring state admiring world. the argument against of attica. there was nothing physical the english climate is therefore refuted in this cause in either republic. the op by the examples of sparta and athens. posite minds of the two legislators, of but modern greece exhibits another me- lycurgus at sparta, and of solon at lancholy proof, that the exquisite paint- athens, alone caused the difference. the ings of parrhasius and zeuxis, and the athenian laws, framed upon the wise breathing marbles of the parthenon, principle that private happiness is the were not produced by climate, but by best basis for public security, left the ci- wise laws, moral culture, and liberty. tizens in possession of as much freedom that uphappy country, deprived of her as was compatible with the tranquillity independence, and fallen from her intel- of the state. the whole system of po lectual greatness, retains the same ad- licy was fashioned to draw forth the in- vantages of climate, but her glory is no dustry, talents and genius of individuals. more. she possesses inhabitants, but idleness was guarded against as the pa- not a people; for that common interest, rent of crime, and the source of public which is the parent and nurse of the fine insubordination. hence, while among arts, and the only bond and power of the neighbouring greeks, in sparta, li- society, is unknown in the land. under berty appeared under a savage and ob the iron sceptre of despotism, the enthu- (april , fine arts. siasm of the soul is extinguished, and destroyed almost all their works of art, the imagination, continually oppressed by excepting a few beautiful mosaics, which terror, tears to stretch her wings. ge- still display their taste. the cities hare nius and courage are beheld with suspi- been so often wasted by fire and sword, cion, and carefully crushed as crimes that few remains of the ages, which im- against the state. the loveliness of mediately succeeded, exist to guide in- beauty is a temptation to violence; and quiry. some imitations of the designs the very nature of man appears reversed. of the greek christians were executed in how changed from their forefathers, are the reign of edgur, but the increasing the descendants of the warriors, before devastations, committed by the danish whom the armies of xerxes fled in route invaders, wasted the country, and put a and disorder; and of the sages and phi- stop to improvement. the invasion by losophers, to whose precepts the youth william the conqueror, was followed by of distant nations listened in the groves the imporеrishment and ruin of the eng. of academus! - though possessed of the lish nobility; but the sculptures from sa- stature and aspect of grecians, they cred history in lincoln cathedral, exe- dwell amidst the ruins of their ancient cuted in this reign, and the monumental cities, an oppressed and servile race, figures adopted from the norman style, without arts, or letters, or fame! happy show that, in the midst of confiscation, if they are also without sensibility; for massacre, and feudal barharism, a taste what misery can be more poignant, than for the arts still sprung up in the king- to be haunted by the shade of departed dom. his reign was followed by a cen- greatness: to witness their beloved coun- tury of commotion. contested claims try's oppression, and to be a sharer in and sanguinary struggles for the crown, her sufferings, without a hope of living foreign wars and the expenditure of for her redemption, or of dying in the wealth and loss of the nobility, in the glorious attempt to break her chains! crusade of richard cæur de lion, were no people have advanced so rapidly in succeeded by the civil broils between the fine arts as the people of england king john and the barons. this period within the last fifty years. it is com- left little room to cultivate the embel- puted that more than a thousand years lishinents of peace; but still the arts did elapsed from the time of dædalus and not fall into disuse. a precept of henry his school, before sculpture attained to the third in , ordering the sheriff of its perfection in greece under phidias hampshire to have a chamber repainted and his contemporaries. the remains of with historical subjects, proves that his- etruscan invention have furnished a well- torical painting had been introduced be- grounded belief that the fine arts were fore this date; and various public docu- introduced very early into the maritime ments show that painting was practised cities of italy, before the building of during this reign. a record quoted by rome. painting was practised in tus- walpole (vol. i. p. .) proves the extra- cany, by cleophantes, in the time of the ordinary fact, that painting in oil cotours first tarquin, years before the chris- was known in england in , long be- tian era; yet plutarch states that the fore the alledged discovery of that pro- romans had not arrived at a true taste cess, by john ab eyck, in flauders, who for the arts until marcellus enriched died in . painting on glass was also rome with the fine paintings and statues practised at this time, so that the taste obtained at the capture of syracuse, of the people for the arts of design can- years after the time of cleophantes. not be doubted, although the unsettled these facts shew the slow progress of state of the country prevented their ad- the arts in the boasted climate of italy: vancement. in , many years before,. and if war and its consequent circum- exterior decorations were used to orna- stances have, for so many ages, extin- ment the churches of france and italy : guished painting and sculpture in grecce, bishop josceline caused the south-west and also in italy, after the subversion of front of wells cathedral to be enriched the roman empire, in like manner, war with subjects from the bible, in alto-re- and other circumstances, wholly inde- lievo, and with statues of its patrons and pendent of climate, for a succession of benefactors, larger than life. the ad- centuries after the romans had with mired remains of the stone crosses, erect- drawn from britain, prevented the suc- ed to the memory of queen eleanor by cessful cultivation of the arts, which they edward the first, do honour to this had introduced into practice in the island. reign, and the statues of that queen ex- the ravages of the scots and picts, and hibit features of italian grace and ele- the wars between the saxons and britons, gance. but while at rome, florence. .) fine arts. venice, and other italian states, the fine incessantly employed to perpctuate their arts rose into notice, and the artists banishment. pictures and statues were made continual improvements, our hen- destroyed with a holy zeal all over the rics and edwards, for more than a cen- kingdom; and were, thenceforward, tury, wasted the flower of their subjects looked upon with suspicion and abhor- pursuing their conquests in france. rence, as illegal emblems and damnable the wars, which produced the memo- instruments of conspiracy, hateful in the rable victories of cressy, poictiers, and sight of god and man. this detestation agincourt, and spread the fame of eng- mingled in acts of private devotion, and lish valour through the world, impo- was strengthened by public worship. it verished their country. before england was cherished by penal inscriptions on could recover from this exhaustion, she the statute books; was, as it were, in- was involved in the calamity of a con- corporated in the civil and political in- tesied sovereignty, and the sanguinary stitutions; animated the military spirit, struggles between the powerful houses and was, for a long time, supposed to of york and lancaster, ruined the no- form an essential point in the religion of bility, and devastated the land for thirty the state. we are not to be surprised if, years. here, again, the ravages of war thus descending from father to son, a and fanaticism have wholly destroyed settled coldness and hatred of the fine their paintings, and left but few speci- arts,at length, formed a prominent trait mens of sculpture for several reigns; in the english character. the child in- but there are enough to continue a chain bibed it in his hours of instruction; it of proofs in favour of native genius. strengthed with his growth, and was re- the last judgment over the south door garded in age as a paramount duty of of lincoln cathedral ; the monument of loyalty and public spirit, and a means of beauchamp, earl of warwick, in henry eternal salvation. thus, if we may use the sixth's reign, and the multitude of the figurative expression, the fine arts statues in henry the seventh's chapel in were torn up by the roots in this coun- westminster, marked the existence and try, and the soil was, as it were, render- great improvement of sculpture down to ed sterile, to prevent their ever again the reigi of henry the eighth. this springing up in the island. this is the monarch displayed a taste for the fine real cause of the public coldness and arts; invited raffaelle and titian to his apathy which have been so falsely misin- court ; and, although he was not so for- terpreted into a want of public taste in tunate as to obtain the presence of either, the natives, proceeding from a defect in he gave his royal commission for the their constitutions, or from the climate. picture of st. george, the patron saint of england possessed liberty, wealth, and england, to the latter. - it is not impro- imperial dominion: she possessed glory bable but that his munificence drew in the sciences, and a pure system of many other artists to visit this country, morals; but, even still more than at whose works have been destroyed. of sparta, her laws and social institutions thesc, history notices luca, or bartholo- were hostile to the fine arts. reli- mew penni, a scholar of raffaelle ; je- gion, which, in greece, ancient rome, rome de trevisi, and anthony toto, and modern italy, had been the parent italian painters; and torrigiano, a and patron of the public style of paint- sculptor of the school of michael an- ing and sculpture in england became its gelo : of john carrus and luca corne- public destroyer, and opposer. after litz, painters, from flanders; and hans this spirit of hostility had continued for holbein, from switzerland. sereral generations, to acquire a national the arts were, now, likely to grow inveteracy, the more formidable as it up and fourish, when the change of re- was founded in the purest motives, and ligion rendered them objects of general built up and fortified with all the noblest proscription and abhorrence. painting qualities of the british character, when and sculpture were denounced dis- the patronage of charles the first, and loyal and rebellious subjects, in active of a few lords about the court, had co-operation with the enemies of the drawn rubens, vandyck, and a number throne; and as paganish emissaries of artists into england, a favourable from satan to counteract the will of prospect opened. but the civil war, heaven. pursued and persecuted as clouded all again. the fury of the double traitors, thev aed, in affright, fanatics and republicans dispersed or de- from these shores. the wit, the learn- stroyed the royal and noble collections ; ing, the manliness and valour, the do- and the people, who, with silent dislike, mestic virtues and the public force, were had beheld the recent introduction of (april , fine arts. pictures and statues, as a corruption in scarcity of british fancy and historical religion, rejoiced when the fine arts pictures, forgetting that the true causes were again driven into exile. until the of that scarcity were the political and middle of the last century there was little religious revolutions of the country, the change. but from the restoration of unpopularity of the practice, and the charles the second, the example of his almost total discouragement, against present majesty, and the progress of which british genius had to contend. knowledge, abated the force of prejudice to{dissipate this anti-british spirit, in the highest circles. a more liberal his present majesty founded the royal system of education, the freedom of the academy; and the paternal wisdom of press, an intercourse with the continent, that measure has been proved by the and various other causes, have since fact, that since that royal incorporation, contributed to introduce an enlightened the fine arts, notwithstanding the mode of thinking. but the work of centu- mass of prejudices, which they have to ries could not be removed in a day. the encounter, have, as already noticed, long odium and persecution of the fine advanced inore in this country in fifty arts, had deterred englishmen from years than in any other in a century those studies, and the very few native and a half. but though british genius artists, who had, for many years, ven- rose to excellence, in every department tured to attempt so unpopular a prac- of the arts, in which a due encourage- tice, were not sufficiently employed to ment was afforded, and that the portrait arrive at excellence. hence, during the and landscape painters soon carried the six preceding reigns, a succession of palm of glory from their contemporaries foreign artists enjoyed the patronage of on the continent, still the prejudices the court, and nobility and gentry, to of two centuries were not to be suddenly the almost total exclusion of english removed. the old religious dread and men, whose discouraged and inferior at- abhorrence of works of art had subsid- tempts only served to confirm the pre- ed into a cold repugnance, and from judice at home and abroad, that there that, in many circles, into a contempt was something in the air or climate of for every production of the british pen- this island which disqualified englishmen cil. thus a too general indifference, or from attaining to excellence in the fine distaste, presented a fatal prospect to arts. the evil lay in the unthinking native genius. the heartless and un- and unpatriotic practice of comparing just practice of comparing the infant english art, in its infancy, with foreign efforts of the british painters in history, art in its prime. englishmen of rank, poetry, fancy and familiar life, with the having been accustomed, when abroad, finest works of the italian, dutch, and in france, italy, holland, and other flemish masters, continued, and threat- countries, to see the walls of churches, ened to render the further advance of public halls, palaces, and private houses, the arts doubtful and tedious. although covered and enriched with the works of each of the old schools had grown up and their native artists, on their return to flourished under the applauding patron- england, looked round on the naked age of national enthusiasm, england, walls of their public buildings and su- the most powerful kingdom in europe, perb apartments. the contrast was too was the only one in which, with a few striking not to produce an unfavourable exceptions, the lovers of the fine arts impression. abroad, each school, within undervalued the native artists, and were its own territory, possesses a proud ashamed to decorate their mansions with supremacy in public opinion: and the their works, british traveller, in each foreign state, the royal academy, a a school heard the exulting commendations of op science, had produced able artists : noble and princely patrons, who each but artists without patrons, in poverty justly considered himself and his country and distress, contending for a precarious a sharer in the celebrity of the works subsistence, only contributed to increase which he praised. too many of our the unfavourable opinion of their pro- travelled amateurs, instead of making fession. to remove this evil, to pro- allowances for the imperious force of tect and encourage the painters in the those circumstances, which, for so many highest department of art, in the several centuries, had prevented the growth of stages from immaturity to excellence ; the arts in this kingdom, drew an anti- to excite and reward merit, and to intro- british conclusion. they adopted the duce the genius of the british school to prejudices of foreigners, and inferred a the patronage of the country; that deficiency of british genius from the noble association, the british institution .) new inventions and patents. was founded. the royal academy and ment of their object, that all but their this patriotic body have a mutual in- common enemies must wish to promote terest; and their cordial co-operation their union. w.c. is so absolutely necessary for the attain- new inventions and patents. mr. lester has brought his new dis- american water burner.-an apparatus covery in eptics to perfection, and from its called the american water burner, has simplicity and utility, it promises to be of been invented by mr. morcy, of new hamp- great importance.-two codes of light pro- shire. it is a rough blow-pipe; but is ap- duced from the luminary being placed near plicable in many cases in place of a fur. to their respective apexes, and in opposite dace. tar is intimately mixed with steam, directions, base to base, form a parallelo and made to issue from a small jet, in the gram of indefinite dimensions, that would manner of an eolipile, and the stream of šll the largest room with an equal light matter being ignited, produces a flame of of the same tensity in every part of its space, great size and intensity. it appears that and as the fountain of light would be in the water is partly decomposed towards the opposite directions, the bodies equally middle of the jet, and that the heat is thus divided, would have but two sides as opposed increased, hy increasing the quantity of ac- to the lines of vision ; no shadows can be pro tive agents. but whatever the exact effect, duced by the application. rooms of all the water is found to be useful in prevents descriptions may be lighted by the flame ing the formation of smoke, and increasing being placed on the outside of the wall, and the combustion. its reflections thrown through an aperture, a new life boat has been invented by means the smoke arising from the lieut. a. f. gardener, r.n. and from the combustion will pass off into the atmo trials made with it, it is expected to present sphere without entering into the room. by advantages over those in present use. it this means the light will have the most supports the weight of men when filled beautiful effect by illuminating a space void with water, and when completely overset, of smoke, which is far from being the case though with mast and sail standing, rights with rooms lighted in the common way. again without aid. it has been clearly ascertained that one of a new invention has been lately promul- mr. lester's mirrors, inches diameter, gated, called the patent drag, by which placed before ope of the lamps commonly coachman, guard, or inside passenger, may used to light stages, and fixed to the foot. apply the shoe to the wheel, without remo- board of the driver, will render the smallest val from their respective situations. print legible at the distance of yards baron d'evelkrang, president of the before the leaders heads. royal college of commerce at stockholm, the pedestrian accelerator.-notice of and author of many ingenious mechanical this singular invention having appeared in inventions, has lately invented a machine our number for march , page , we for spinning fax, which has been submitted have in the present, given a wood cut repre- to the inspection of a commission appointed senting the machine, for the benefit of our by the king of sweden. by means of this readers who reside at a distance from the machine, ten persons may, during ten hours, metropolis. spin thirty-six pounds of flax. it is said that buonaparte offered a million to any person who would produce a machine with these properties, and the first attempt of the kind was made by a belgian. a new instrument called the edophone, has been invented and made by charles henry vander bergh. it has the appear- ance of a lady's work-table; the shape is a parallelogram, and it occupies about feet, by . it is played on by keys, like a harp- sichord or piano-forte. along the back lies a solid block of metal of a peculiar composi- tion, known only to the inventor, and the experiments have shewn that it is easy exact proportions in which the several me- to travel fifty or more miles a day on these tals are combined, he avers to be indispen- « german horses ;" and as a riding-school sable to the production of the best possible is about to be opened for them, we expect tone. the side of the block that lies next to see them brought into extensive use. the player, presents a sweep, into which are for exercise in parks, &c. they seem to be inserted cylindrical bars of the same metal, admirably adapted; and from a trial of their varying in length from inches to fan powers, we can say that their management inch and something more than a of an is very readily acquired. inch in diameter. upon each of these bars (april , covent garden. in a moveable ring of the same metal, closely shape and proportion, its tone is scarcely fitted, which is fixed by a screw through the louder than a common square piano-forte. top, and by changing the position of this the edophone is competent to the perfor. ring (a very simple operation, and similar in mance of an allegro. of its use as an ac- eflect to the apportioning of water in musical companying instrument to the voice, every glasses) the instrument is tuned. to the one may judge from the description of its end of the bar not inserted in the block, a several tones. they clearly give a con- spring is affixed at a right angle by a screw, stant variation as the composition rises or and each of these springs is connected with falls; and now the singer would seem to be the corresponding key by a simple mecha- accompanied by a flute, and now by a cla- nical contrivance, so as to be pulled forward rionet or bassoon obligato. the general when the keys are pressed down by the effect, however, is that of a small concert player. part of the surface of the spring is of all these wind instruments. covered with some kind of felt or plush. new patents. parallel to these springs lies a roll of conical john ruthyen, of edinburgh, printer, shape and of a peculiar composition, but for an improved drag for coaches, carriages, differing from the block and the bars, the or other vehicles, which operates by raising former being of a colour between brass and a wheel or wheels off the ground, from the copper, and the roll resembling pewter. inside or outside of the coach, carriage, this roll revolving upon its axis, is put into &c., without stopping the horses. dated motion by the foot, like the wood in a turn- dec. . ing lathe. the pressure of the finger alexander adie, of edinburgh, opti- upon the key brings the spring into contact cian; for an improvement on the air baro- with the roll while it is in a state of revolu- meter; which improved instrument is to be tion, and thus the bar inserted in the block called a sympiesometer. dec. . is made to vibrate, and the tone produced. william johnson, of salford, manches- the sound ceases when the spring is relax- ter, brewer; for certain improvements in ed from contact with the roll, which hap- the construction of furnaces or fire-places, pens when the pressure on the key is remove for the purposes of heating, hoiling, or eva- ed. a swell is produced by a difference in porating water and other liquids; which im- the touch, and a perfect crescendo and provements are applicable to steam-engines diminuendo can be otained at pleasure. and other purposes, whereby a greater far- the compass of the instrument is five oc- ing in the consumption of fuel is efiected, taves and a half, and it is singular that the with a more complete destruction or con- several parts produce sounds essentially dif- sumption of smoke by combustion, than has ferent the upper tones are precisely those hitherto been produced. dec. . of an octave tiute--the next notes in succes. charles tanner, of plymouth, devon- sion those of an oboe, helow these of the shire, tanner, for certain improvements in clarionet, and still lower of the bassoon. preserving or curing raw hides and skins by the resemblance is exceedingly close, so the application of certain materials hitherio much so, indeed, that the best application of unused for that purpose. jan. , . the invention will probably be found to be john gregory; of penny fields, all in substituting the edophone for wind in- saints poplar, middlesex, shipwright; for a struments at concerts where good players combination of machinery, consisting of a are not to be had. the lowest tones are fire-escape ladder, and the various appara- rough, and rather injure than improve the tus necessary for the safety of persons and general effect whenever they are employed. property in such cases ; part of which ma- increasing the size of the block and bars ex- chinery is applicable to other useful pur- tends the quantity of tone in a degree far poses. jan. . beyond a geometrical ratio. in the present the drama. covent garden. this accomplished singer in a mamer the marriage of figaro.-the ma- worthy both of the inimitable composer nagers of this theatre, alwars anxious and of herself. mrs. dickons, if we are to make a due return for public favour, right!v informed, has passed nearly three have produced this excellent opera, with years in italy, previously to her appear- the music of mozart, nor indeed hare ing on the boards last season; and was they confined themselves to the music received by the foreign theatres with a only belonging to the piece, but have welcome little inferior to the reception made a judicious selection from the se. of her talents at home. miss stevens veral published works of this great mas- performed the part of susan, and most ter. the part of the countess of al admirably seconded the science of mrs. maria was performed by mrs. dickons, dickons. in their duets, nothing could and the songs, and the varied harmony be more effective than the blending of and science of the music, was given by their voices and tones into each other. .] literary repori, both, in this manner, concurred to give an interval, and some adventure, during effect to the efforts of the other. we which malvesi sends a bravo to assas- know no other opera on the english sinate his brother, the king of naples, stage which contains so much finished having been inforined of the filsehood composition in its music. of the accusation made against giulio, drury lane. sends for him and the dwarf-restores the former to favour, re-establishes him a new tragic comedy, in three acts, in all his honours, and causes the latter called the daurt of naples, has been to witness hiin at the altar married to produced at this theatre, evidently writ- armanda. the dwarf maddens at the ten for the purpose of exhibiting mr. sight and dies. kean, and to the discouragement of all of the piece, as a literary production, the other talents of the company. it is we cannot speak too decidedly ; it is a the production of mr. soane, a writer mixture of dulness and folly, notwith- of some very clever pieces, although in standing which, gleams of genius every the present by prostituting his genius to now and then burst out even through the whim of the representative of its the disgusting frame-work. hero, he has completely failed of success. the plot, if plot it may be called, is sim- oratorios. ply as follows:- malvesi, the dwarf, is a drury lane.--the lent oratorios little crooked wretch, and as distorted at this theatre begun on wednesday, in mind as in body. like richard he the of march, with an extensive selec- detests all the better proportioned part tion froin mozart and haydn, a miscel- of the creation, but his most implacable laneous act, and the battle sinfonia, hatred is towards his brother. his by beethoven. it was conducted with brother giulio, a general returned in great spirit, and did infinite credit to triumph froin the wars to enjoy the the taste and judgment of sir george sweets of peace, and is therefore very sinart. madame bellochi and mrs. solicitous to be very fraternal with salmon distinguished themselves by malvesi, who requites his good inten- exerting their utmost ability to please, tions and overtures of friendship by and gave delightful exhibitions in their entertaining a fixed resolution to mur respective styles. the sinfonia closed der hin the first opportunity for his at the night with singular eclat. tentions to armanda, with whom mal- covent garden.-the oratorios vesi also is in love. giulio, finding it commenced here on friday the th. more easy to gain the affection of aman- we are sorry not to be able to speak da than the friendship of the dwarf, re- favourably of the selection. with a solves upon a marriage with her. count good instrumental orchestra, and re- orsino and the general bring a casket spectable singers, with which the public of jewels, intended as a present to his are well acquainted, the performance bride, into the room where malvesi is, was altogether ineffective. who, instigated by jealousy, substitutes we are obliged, for want of room, to a treasonable for a love letter in it. defer, till next month, our remarks on the upon this evidence the marriage is set tragedy of the italians, and mr. kean's aside, and his brother banished. after conduct towards its author.) literary report. we beg to remind our correspondents that all notices for this department must be sent on or before the th of each inonth.] the following works are in the press and state of knowledge amongst them, and with speetlily will be published. their endeavours for their regeneration. messrs. harding and nicol are preparing a translation of the comtesse de genlis' a catalogue of the valuable french, german, celebrated novel entitled les parvenus, ou and english library of her late majesty, les aventures de julien delmours. removed from windsor to buckingham the life of william lord russell, with house, and which will be sold by mr. evans some account of the times in which he lived. in the month of may. by lord john russell. a new periodical work is announced, a treatise on the education of youth, written in ancient or modern greek only, founded on the discrimination of individual and by natives of greece; the principal character by the form of the head. by dr. object of which is to make the friends of the spurzheim. greek nation acquainted with the present a syriac and english grammar, designed new monthly mag.-no. . vol. xi. m literary report. [april , for the use of english students. by mr. t. suggested by passages in dr. adam clarke's yeates. commentary on the new testament. by a translation of marshal bassompier's gill timms. account of his embassy to london, with the victories of the duke of wellington, notes and commentaries, describing the illustrated in a series of engravings from court of england in . drawings by richard westall, r. a. the collections for a topographical historical outlines engraved by c. heath, and coloured and descriptive account of boston, and the in imitation of the original drawings. hundred of kirbeck in the county of lin- the englefield vases; the first part of coln. by bishey thompson, esq. this work containing six plates engraved by meditations and reflections on the beau- h. moses, from the vases in the possession ties harmonies and sublimities of nature of sir h. englefield, bart. is just ready for by the author of " amusements in retire- publication. ment. mr. dodwell's long promised travels will - a series of finished engravings, with certainly appear in may, accompanied with descriptions of the ecclesiastical and castel- the first portion of his views in greece. lated 'antiquities of normandy. by mr. j. sir w. gell's itinerary of greece, is s. cotman, of yarmouth. also nearly completed. a collection of letters relative princi- pastorals ruggiero, and other poems. pally to public events during the latter half by e d. baynes, esq. of the seventeenth century, from the original views in the tyrol. engraved by w. b. papers in the archives of the rawdon cooke, from drawings by p. dewint; the family in ireland. original sketches taken by major cockburn, a voyage up the persian gulph, and a of the royal artillery, in the year . journey over land from india to england in the yorkshire gazette, a loyal and con- , containing an account of arabia stitutional newspaper, the political depart- felix, arabia deserta, persia, mesopotamia, ment of which will be conducted on &c. &c. by william heude, esq. the principles of the late mr. pitt.— in a journey to persia in the suite of the the maintenance of these and other cor- imperial russian embassy in the year . responding principles, connected with thie by m. de kotzebue. welfare of our valuable and national establish- the life of the late right hon. john ments, it will proceed with firmness and philpot curran, master of the rolls in spirit, but at the same time, avoid misre- ireland. by his son, w. h. curran, esq. presentation, acrimony, and personality, vols. vo. which will entitle it to the support of loyal a journey in cardiola and italy in the and well disposed persons of every deno. years – . by w. a, cadell, esq. mination. vo. the tenth and concluding volume of a geographical and statistical descrip- donovan's british birds. tion of scotland. by james playfair, d.d. a new volume of rivington's apnual f. r. s. vols. vo. register for the year ; which will scon excursions through ireland, to be com- be followed by another volume of the former prised in eighe volumes, containing series. engravings. a satirical work entitled, “ junius with a collection of dr. zouch's works, with his vizor up! or the real author of the a memoir. by the rev. francis wrangham. letters under that signature now firsi un- sixty curious and authentic narratives veiled and revealed to the world, in and anecdotes, respecting extraordinary letters to my cousin in the country : from characters, illustrative of the tendency of odpus oronoko, tobacconist and suf- credulity and fanaticism. by j. cecil. seller. zeal and experience, a tale. narrative of a voyage to the spanish vain emmeline, an unfinished tale, with some in the ship two friends, the capture of other pieces. by the late mrs. brunton, amelia island by m'gregor's forces, and author of “self control,” &c. their dislodgment of the american troops, a descriptive catalogue of the splendid with arecdotes illustrative of the manners collection of pictures, by british artists in and babits of the seminole indians : wich sir john fleming leicester's gallery in an appendix; containing a detail of the hill street, and at tabley. by mr. w. carey, trial and execution of arbuthnot and am- letters of the right hon. j. philpot cur- brister. vo. ran to h. weston, esq. vo. popular observations on the discases to memoirs of the life and writings of luis which literary and sedentary persons are de camoens. by j. adams, esq. vols. vo. subject, with hints for their prevention and notes statistical, moral, and political on cure. by w. andré pearkes, member of the the colony of new south wales, and its de- royal college of surgeons, pendant settlements, on van diemens land. historical and descriptive sketcbes of the iron mask, a poem. by the author horncastle, and several neighbouring of “the recluse of the pyrenees,” &c. parishes, in the county of lincoln, embels remarks on the foreknowledge of god, lished with engravings. by george weir, .] meteorological report. foreign literature lately imported. ouvrage destiné à servir de suite et de ginguené. histoire litteraire d'italie. complement aux annales du musée de tom. , , and , (et dernier.) vo. li. . france. tom. i. liv. . vo. with plates, correspondance inédite officielle et con- s. fidentielle de napoleon bonaparte avec les almanach du commerce de paris, des cours étrangères, les princes, les ministres, départemens de la france et les principales et les generaux français et étrangers en villes du monde pour . large vo. . italie, en allemagne, et en egypte. tom. almanach royal pour . vo. . . vo. . lemaire, con.es moraux pour la jeunesse. correspondance de napoleon avec carnot vols. mo. fig. s. pendant les cent jours. vo. . d. biographie des hommes vivants. tom. , segur, galerie moral et politique. tom. et . vo. . . . vo. s. comte chaptal, de l'industrie française. landen, choix de tableaux et statues des vols. vo. . plus célèbres musées et cabinets étrangers. meteorological table. n.b. the observations are made twice every day, at eight o'clock in the morning and at ten in the evening. . feb. e e. ther. wind, general remarks. m. ts.w. cloudy mar e. e. serene m. e.s.e. serene e. s.w. rain m. s.w. cloudy e. w. cloudy n w.n.w. serene n.w. cloudy m. n. serene e. s.w. rain m. s.w. heavy showers e. w.nw. cloudy m. n.w. stormy e. n.w. showery m . n. serene n.w. cloudy m. w. cloudy e. s.s.w. cloudy m. w.s.w: cloudy * e. s.e. rais or m. sw. serene "i e. s.sw. rain e. ther. wind general remarks m. , s.s.w, heavy rain e. | n.w. serene m. w. slight sleet, spowy e. n. serene m. w.n.w. little spow e. n.w. serene m. sw. snow and rain e. e. rain m. s.w. cloudy e. e. rainy m. s.e. cloudy e. rainy, boisterous m. | e.n.e. rain, snow e. e. rain, cloudy m. e.n.e. heavy rain . e. cloudy m. e.n.e. cloudy e. e.n.e. serene m. n.e. cloudy e. | n.n.e. showery m. n.n.e. cloudy e. | n.n.e. cloudy n. n.e. cloudy e. ne. cinudy m. n.e. cloudy e. n.e. cloudy m. e.n.e. serene e. n.e. cloudy m. e. (loudy e. cloudy m w. cloudy e. w.s.w. cloudy m. w.nw, cloudy e. n.w. cloudy m nw. cloudy e. nw. cloudy m. nw. cloudy e. n.w. cloudy aaaahaha mar. il e. meteorological report. the weather during the latter part of the last month, assumed some of the stern features of winter, accompanied with show and rain, but unat. tended by any severe frost. from the ed instant the weather has been generally dry, and very tem- perate, although the prevailing winds have been the n.n.e. and n.w.--a circumstance almost with ont an example in this month, when those winds have predominated. indeed, so extraordinasy in this respect is the pieseut season, that it would almost induct a belief that some great climatrical revolution had taken place in the worthern and eastern part of europe, the immense storebous. from whence we derive our scanty glsanings of winter. ( ) [april , commercial report. an unusual degree of apathy continues to pervade the whole commercial community and almost every article of merchandize, whether of raw produce, manufactures, or colo- nial, to experience a depression both in demand and value; the depression in value, how- ever, is only a depression from a speculating maximum, not such as to discourage pro- duction; and as consumption is promoted by moderate prices, we may look forward to a revival of demand, and a resumption of general activity. we have invariably contended, that tiie field for commercial enterprize is progressively widening, and presenting continu- ally increasing advantages, which position seems directly at variance with the results of several months past; but, however much we may regret the abject condition to which commerce is at present reduced, we are satisfied of its being occasioned by avoidable causes, and consequently we anticipate, that the experience of the past will operate to the advantage of the future. to render somewhat more intelligible and explicit our views on this subject, we need only refer to the several speculations, within the last twelve months, in oil, hops, tallow, and east india cotton, as the more prominent features of that. perversion of principle and common ser.se in commercial proceeding, which, instead of promoting the legitimate ends of its object and capability--that of difiusing comforts and prosperity throughout the pale of its influence, can only lead to the ruin of many, and the prejudice of all who may be so unfortunate as to be concerned in any article that becomes. subject to the baneful cupidity of speculation. the supply of wheat, since the commencement of the present year, has fallen off very, considerably, whilst barley and beans have continued to arrive in excess; and we think it a duty we owe to all ranks of our friends, who read for information rather than amuse- ment, to point out to them in particular the table shewing the supply of grain for the pre- sent year, with the average return of prices, and to refer to the table of the comparative supply of the last seven years in our last number of sugar, coffee, and rum, the consumption keeps pace with the supply, and cotton continues to arrive in a corresponding ratio of last season, which exceeded the consumption by one-third; it is, therefore, not improbable but that a further depression in price will take place in this article, already for certain kinds one-half less than at the same period last year, particu- larly east india, which were, for bengal from d. to is. id. now to ; surats is. d. to is. d, now d. to d. mother kinds about one-fourth less, viz. georgias were ls. d. to ls. d now is. d. to is. d ; brazils were ls. d. to . d. now is. d. ls. d. the lower numbers, or qualities of cotton yarn, are lower in the proportion of about s. d. the present price from . d. to s.- d. the price at this period last year, whilst the finer numbers command higher prices, a circumstance that will account for the nu- merous new buildings now erecting in lancashire for spinning; on the other hand, vari- ous kinds of cotton manufactured articles have, within the last three months, been forced to sale at a loss of one-third or more upon the actual cost. it is this sort of disorganiza- tion in the value of merchandize that produces the evil in commercial intercourse, and not the total absence of demand, to which persons in general are in the habit of ascribing it. sugars are in value about s. per cwl. lower than at this period last year, when the price was from . to s. now s. to ., according to quality. coffees are s. to s. per swt, higher than at this period last year; yet s. to s. per cut. lower than in the month of august. the present prices for jamaica . up to .; st. domingo, brazil, &c. s. to . rum, notwithstanding a diminished stock, and its admission into russia, is d. to d per gallon lower than last season. the tallow speculators still continue to maintain the price . to €. per cwt. above its legitimate value, although s. per cwt. lower than in september last at the commencement of last month a sudden panic pervaded the market of public funds, which produced a depression of from to for percent. consols. the panic, or finesse, or whatever else it may be terined, appears to have subsided, and consols have remained steady for a fortnight past at and a traction approximating to . the foreign exchangos have also indicated within the last two or three weeks an improvement of or per cent... an official return, by order of the iiouse of commons, of the value of all grain and flour imporicd into great britain for the last seven years, having appeared just as this report was going to press, we stopped the same for inscrtion, to render more complete the comparative view we have endeavoured to disclose on this very important and intet resting subject:- l. . d. value in % . . . . , , . . . . , , . . . . , , , , , , , : , . . . . . . . , , . . - , , .) : commercial report-bankrupts. statement of the total weekly supply of grain, seed, and flour, for lon- don, from the th february to th march, , compared with the average weekly supply of last year, and of the present year up to the th february ; sher- ing the proportion of foreign into london, and the total importation of foreign into all great britain, with the average return of prices regulating such importation. wheat barly. malt. onts. rye beans qrs, qrs. qrs. qrs. qrs qrs. peas, qrs, lins. flour. i qrs sacks. veekly average of the year i . ! weekly average of np to feb. week ending the th feb. . | th march. th march. - - th march. total of to london to march % | . proportion of foreign - · ) . . ) total imp. of foreign into g:. brit. average return of price, mar. , s. s. d s. . tus. . d. average, admitting from brit. ame. . s. s. . , s. juuportation freel all other parts s. . . s. s. • graio is allowed to be iimported from all parts for home consumption free of doty, when the average return of prices from the twelve maritime districts of england and wales for six weeks pre- cediog the th february, th may, th august, and the th november, shall exceed as above; but, he average within the first six weeks froin either of the above dates should decline below the standard, the importation is to cease from all ports in europe, within the rivers bidassag and eyder, but to continue t'or three months from all other parts. bankrupts. from february , to march , , inclusive. where the address of the solicilor is not mentioned, he must be understood to reside at the same place as the bankrupt. the solicitors' names are between parentheses, adams s. and j. jos, wattleworth, walsall, stafford, factors (price and co., old square, lig. cola's jan. b. boniface c., junr. chichester, mealman (hume, ilolborn court, gray's inn-bates j. stockport, chester, dealer and chapman (meadoweroft, gray's too-bailey c. r. h. swallowfield, wilts, dealer and chapman (fisher and co., holborn-barfoot j. arundell street, strand, fancy and ornamental sta- tioner (paterson and co., old broad street-bass j. castle inn, woodford, essex, victualler (ilobler, walbrook-bell c.f. castle street, bethnal green, victualler (parnell, church street, spital fields- beer w. plymouth dock, ironmonger (dark and co., princes street, bedford row--blakcj. pisou's green, fulham, brewer (buckle, size lanc-bam forth j. wath-upon-dearne, yorkshire, butcher, (alexander and co., new lon-burton w. cornhill, auctioneer (collin's and co., spítal square-booth j gloucester, earthenwareinan (walstons, hatton garden--burradon w. worcester, kop merchant, (cardale and co., holborn court, gray's inn-bur charl r., ashton within mackerfield, lancashire, dealer and chapman (makinson, middle tepple bennet j., a. tabberer, and co. scndainore, man. chester, lancaster, woollcn.card manufacturers (adlington and co., bedford row--brodie nl. li. verpool, lancaster, linen draper (ilord and co., king's bench walk, temple--barter b. h. bislr op's walthan, llants, grocers (amory agd co. lothbery. cox j. and j. morgan, gutter lane, london, glovers, (oldham, earl street, blackfriars.-cushon t. mivories, hat manufacturer (mangham, great- st. helen's, london-chaucher j. bristol, hair pro- parer (king, serjeant's inn, fleet street--cousins j cliarlton stieet, sorner's town, cheesemonger, (rose, east strert, red lion square-cricketi d. hougham, kent, timber merchant (stooker and co. new boswell court, lincoln's inn--claut j. wal. sall, stafford, flour seller (avison and co. castle etreet, holborn-cross j. h. bristol, corn factor (edmunds, exchequer office, linco lile w, and t. hodgson, bolton-le-moors, laneas. ter, dealers in cotton yarn (milnc and co. temple cheppett c. walcot, somersetshiie, cabinet maker (williams, red lion square-cole r. friday st.. warehouseman (steel, bucklersbury-campbell d. b. harper, and a. baillie, old jewry, merchants (kaye and co., new bank buildings---cottam g, manchester, plaisterer (adlington and co., bedford row-cameron j. manchester, merchant (makinson, temple-chaster g. gomersal, j. chaster, knot. tingly, and t. chaster, dewsbury, yorkshire, coal dealers (evans, hatton garden-cocksedge, t. a. woolpit, suffolk, merchant (tom's, contball court, throgmorton strert-cook, w. p. plymonth, mer- chiant (alliston and co., frceman's couit, corplaidi. d daries m. j. maidstone, kent, dealer and chan. man (norton, commercial chambers, migories- doble a. liverpool, master mariner (rowlinson, liverpool-dyson b. doncaster, core dealer lo- ver, llolborn court, london (april , bankrupts. m evans w. s. chapel street, lamb's condoit st., mitchell t. cowiek, yorkshire, linen draper bricklayer (blakelock, serjeant's ina, fleet street (egerton and co., gray's lun square-miall m. emanuel a. plymouth dock, devon, navy agent portsea, mercbant (alexander and co., new ton- (walker, new ino-ellis r. dean street, sonth mercer j. wark, provision broker (richardson, clement's lun (charsley, mark jane-masters j. dartford, kent, f. grocer) powmall and co. copthall court-morton j. freach w. heaton, norris, lancashire, coiton ainsworth, lancashire, cotton manufacturer (ad- manufacturer (lowe aod co., southampton build. lington and co., bedford row-mycock h. men. ings, chancery lane-fairclough r. farringdon, chester, provision dealer 'appleby aad co., orray's lancaster, tanner (blakelock, serjeant's lon, fleet jon square--murray j. bishopsgale street, cond- sueel-fourdrinier j. and j. c., rickmansworth, wainer (redit, king's road, bedford row. uerts, paper makers (richardson, clement's lane. n lombard street-fenner b. fenchurch street cham norris . bolton le moors, lancaster, confer- bers, four factor (parother and co., london street, tioper (ellis, chancery lane nelson t. and e. fenchurch street-fisher g. and t. liverpool, smith, bolton, lancashire, bed quilt manafacturers merchants (clarke and co, chancery lane-fen. (meddowcroft, gray's in-newton h. devonshire ner r. paternoster row, bookseller (sweet and co., stree!, queen's square, tailor (goodall, southamp. basinghall street. ton huildings, chancery lane-needs j. brick lane, spital fields, coal merchant, (lang, fenchurch st. gregson w. kingston upon hull, merchant (ellis, chancery lane-greathead t. and w. outh: powel, p. kuightsbridge, middlesex, broker (peg. waite, lamb street, middlesex (tbermpson and co., ber, charlotte street, blackfriars road--parker j. leman street, goodman's fields-gray g. ham. axbridge, sumersetshire, money scriveper (young mersmith, middlesex, carpenter and builder (pop. and co., st. mildred's court, poultry-peake s. kio. dean street, soho-guy, t. liverpool, broker junr, and j. rothwell, halliwell, lancashire, cali- (norris, john street, bedford row-grime j. bol. co printers (meadowcroft, gray's loo-paul j. cir. ton, lancashire, upholsterer (appleby and co., cus, midories, merchant (sweet and co., basinghall gray's inn square-garland j. austin friars, in street - pinkerton t. nuneaton, warwickshire, surance broker (bourdillon and co., bread street merchant (rogers and co., manchester buildings, cheapside. westninster-piggott w. ratcliffe highway, grocer ii (llearn hooper's syuare, leman street, goodman's harris c. and j. edmonds, birmingham, japan fields-power j. f. london street, merchant (os. ners (alexander and co., new inn--hope t. baldeston, london street-price t. liverpool, baker blakeley, manchester, bleacher (hurd and co., (adlington and co. bediord row-peel j. fazeles, templellation j. warrington, lancaster, butcher stafford, c. harding, fazeley, and win. wellcok, (ilurd and co., temple--horner j. brockbottom, fazeley, manufacturers and cotton spinners (east lancaster, w. horner, liverpool, and j. horner, ham, lawrance lane, cheapside-pearce w. out jamaica, linen manufacturers (blakelock, serjeant's jane, london, blackwell llall factors (stevens, sion inu, fleet street-leaford t. jobo street, stepuey, college gardens. middlesex, dealer and chapman (bousfield, bouve. rie street, fleet street-harvey w. clifton glou. ratcliffe t. of ewood bridge, lancashire, ras- cester, lodging house kerper (addington and co., cliffe j. manchester, ratcliff j. of ewood bridge, bedford row-llendry m, kingston upon hull, and r. radcliffe, manchester, calico printers (kay merchant (rosser and co., bartlett's buildings-ller. essex street, manchester. bert t. chequer yard, dowgate hill, corton mere s * chant (lewis, crutched friars--ileath r. chelten street, j e. budge row, london, stationer ham, carrier (bridger, angel court, throgmorton (oldham, earl street, blackfriars-sholter f. steyn. street-llowe j. fiosbury place, livery stable keep ing, sussex, auctinneer (palmer and co., bedford er (longdill and co., gray's inn square-jayhurst row-smith t. r. oxtord, jinen draper (sted w. rimmington gisburne, york, colton manufac. bucklersbury-stewart r. liverpool, lancaster, sturer (hurd and co., temple-houghton j. e. fet master mariner (uurd and co., kings bench walk, ter lanc, builder (deykes, thavies -hofman j. inner temple_stanley b. woolwich, kent, millar, mile end road, middlesex, brewer (thoinas, fen (chirm, charles street, city road-simpson r. hall, 'court, fenchurch street. bank buildings, merchant (blunt and co., broad street baildings - sayer w. bristol, cora facter janmirson j. globe street, wapping, ship owner (clarke and co., chancery lane-steir j. butcher (hatchison, crown court, threadneedle street tow, bast smithfield, rectifier (lago and co., law. joncs o. e. bedford, bookseller (swain and co., rence poutury hill - starkey w. bethnal greco frederick's place, old jewry. road, bricklayer, may and on., bethnal green road к stephens j. lale of dublin, but now of london, kidd j. castle coombe, wilts, butcher (dax and merchant (adlington and co., bedford row..- co., doughty street - kent a. deptford, baker sykes, j. juur., j. sykes, and w. redfearn, al. . (williams, cursitor street - knowles j. stroud, moodbury, york, faucy mapufacturars (battye, gloucester, inuholder (his, cook's court, lincoia's · chancery lane. t thick j. islington, middlesex, broker (beckett, • loft g. woodbridge, suffolk, corn and coal mer. hoole strert-taylor t. leadeyball street, master chan (hipe, essex court, temple-leslie a. size mariner (taylor and co.. great jamos street, bed: • jane, bucklersbury, provision merchant (oregson ford w--tuckert j. and c. h. bristol, grocers, and co., angel court. throgmortou street--lawes (thompson, gray's inn-trshain t. newlya west, * t. amesbury, wiltshire, corn dealer, sandy's avd cornwall, baker, (rivington, fenchurch street. co., crane court, fleet street-lamb j. r. uds. · worth lodge, lancastus (hay. manchester-lex w... vigers w. r. austin friars, merchant (knighet birminghum, virtualler (long aud co., ilolbora inand co., besiaghall suceet. court gray's lan r * .) dividends. son, bouverie street, fleet street - whilmarsh worsley j. liverpool, lancaster, wine and por. h. wingham, kent, malster (starr, canterbury ter merchant (leigh and co., new bridge street williamson t. leigh, lancashire, provision dealer woods e. rayner, kelvedon, essex, grocer (lewis (shaw, ely place, holborn-wrignt w. kirkdale, clement's inn - westwood c. bristol, merchant lancaster, victualler (dacie and co., palsgrav king, serjeant's ina, fleet street.-white j. and place, temple bar--watson h. stepney green, w. french, devonshire street, kennington, dyers middlesex, merchant (wright, fenchurch street (younger, wellclose square and john street, mi. williams d. green street, bath, saddle and harness pories white s. turobam green, victualler (llen. maker (dax and co., donglity street. • dividends. singstoke, stage coach proprietor, april - ford allen g. greenwich, stationer, march -adams w. bedlington, somerse, inalster, april w, and j. edwaris, cumberland street, fitzroy square, chair makers, march - alle b. guildford gill s. horbury, yorkshire, iallow chandler, street, st. pancras, livery stable keeper, april march -goodman b. romsey lufra, southamp- adams d. fleet street, optician, april ton, milier, march -godfrey t. sadler's llall В court, merchant, march -gill j. mill pheasant, barrow j. and j. haigh, kirklieaton, yorkshire, deron, rope maker, april -goldspink r. brook, merchants, march -baker e shetford, bedford. nortolk, butcher, april shire, paper maker, march - beazley s. and m. h . neise, parliaineat street, westminster, army heathfield m old broad street, r. heathfield, of accoutrement inakers, march -- blower j. h. sheffield, and t. heathfield of tiverton, cotton- mint square, tower hill, gun maker, march - spinners, march -hurry s. angel court, throg. bush j. bisbopstortford, hertford, money scrivener, mortou street, brokes, march -llole w. isling- harch .-briggs w. armley, york, clothier, ton, middlesex, apothecary, march —hellye j. march -bond j iluddersfield, york, merchant, lloyd coffee house, insurance broker, march march --barrett t. upper george strcet, timber llainbridge j. stow on the wold, gloucestershire, merchant, march — bendy e. charles street, hox- carrier, march .-llanton j. manchester, and t. ton, factor. march bush w. saffron waldon, smith, middleton, lancasbire, cotton spinners, essex, carpruter, march -bishop r. whitchurch, april --haise t. ii. and t. d. meriton, maiden hants, linen draper, april -brown h. charles jane, wood street, cheapside, button manufactur. street, westminster, april -brown w. liverpool, ers, april -haddington m. king street, west lancaster, merchant, may smithfield, harness maker, march -harrison j. c ilesket, cumberland, dealer in wood, april corpe j. sun street, bishopsgate within, saddler joutson j. and t. smith, manchester, cotton spin. and collar inaker, march - cochran t. york, nels, april . giover, march , april -crampton w. beck. ingham, nottingham, horse dealer, march -cop jones m. london road, st. george's fields, up- pin w. and e. north shields, nerthumberland, colder, april ship owners, march -curte g. and t. bright. k helnistone, sussex, linen drapers, march -coul. kohler j. st. swithin's lane, merchant, march ter j. chatham, carpenter, april -cumbers f. koe j. h. mill wail, poplar, middlesex, roman bcar's bead court, king stiert, westminster, coach. cement manufacturer. march -kendal j. exeter. master, march -cridland c. dublin, and b. statuary, march cridland, leicester, merchants, april -clarkson t. kingsbury, warwickshire, dealer in coals, april logging f. aylesbury, buckinghamshir .-clements j. plymouth dock, vintner, april . gist, march - lande, j. tokenhouse yard, mes. d chant, march - latham j. romsey, southamp. dickinson j. guildhall passage, warehouseman, ion, common brewer, march -lord s. sutton, march -dyke j. gloucester, salesman, march surrey, innkeeper, march -lancaster t. j. cat. -dutton t. king sireet, cleapside, warehouse eaton street, merchant, april -lewis r. trefu. man, march - dawson w wetherby, yorkshire, aubey, montgomery, tanner, april "inakpeper, march -dressard p. welbeck street, m cavendish square, milliner, march -doubleday mayer j. senr. and junr. leadenhall screet, n- w. nottingham. lace manufacturer, april -de surance brokers, march - mowett j. st martin's rome j. p. and j. hanbrook, augel court, thiog. lane. builder, marc morton stroet. mercbants, may -dary w. nor slicet within, merchant, march -merac t. and ich, gun maker, april -devereux f. and m. m. la porte meras, queen-street, cheapside, ware- lainbart, brabant court, philpot lane, merchants, bogseinen, march -morrison n. c. tot centralp. april ( dodman m. kornham, norfolk, shopkeep court road, oil and colouinian, march ---moore er, april -drabbie w. holbeck, yorkshire, mr. s. bashain, herefordshire, farnier, april -moore chine maker, april -davie d. g. and s. a. snow. j. st. john's square, brandy merchant, march - den, plymouth dock. devon, drapers, april - mackneall j. presion, linen diaper, april davies j. cardiff, glamorgan, builder, may - mathieson w. and g. r. lapruik, bishopsgate ** doswell j. winchester, southampton, butcher, street, without, tailors, april - mathias j.mod r. april . bowen, invertordwest. bankers, april -mer. f rick t. frith street, soho, merchant, april - **fowler d. and a: anstie, gracechurch street, mayne e. g. high-streer, shadwell, grocer, april merchants, march .french a. b. oij south moses t. bath, linen-draper, march -mills sea house, merchant, march - jorder w. ba. h. new bond street, middlesex, linep diapeia april , digest of political events. april -matthews w. liverpool, lancaster, inerchant, april --muffat n. manchester, lan. eashire, merchant, april --moore j. mall, chester, lancashuc, flour dealer and baker, april n j. tunbridge, kent, baker, march - naish f. tiverton, somersetshire, clothier, april . warwick, grocer, april --saunders e. ferersnata, kent, grocer, april . t thurkle g. m. new street square, petter-lane, wine merchant and sword.cutler, march --tyler b. woodford, essex, inn-keeper, march -tho- mas r. northumberland-court, strand, delt, march -thornbury n. and e. taylor, stoud, gloucestershire, clothiers, march -tarit w. m. old broad-street, merchant apul -tarlstry j. liverpool, merchant, april -turinn j. kupo ley, derbyshire, april - towse w. wosingba!, berkz. merchant, april . pallet c. and j. p. massey, love.lanc, alderman. bury, factors, march and may -pennell w. jun. queeolithe, merchant, march - pierce w. hawbrook pottery, salop, poiter, april --piper w. hammersinith, middlesex, barge-builder, april r rowlatt j. charter.house square, merchant, march, and -riches j. and h. toren ac, lon. don-road, surrey, lineu drapris. march .-robert son j. and j. stem, lawrence pourtney hill, merchants, march --rogers (. south anston, yorkshire, maltster, mar. - rigs w. liverpool, merchant, april - kead e. and t. baker, great russell street, bloomsbury, march . s saunders w. bristol, mercer, march smith t. austin friars, london, merchant, march standen j. h. dorer, kent, linen-draper, marc -sykes j. and j. marshall, north collingham, nottingham. maitsters, april --sinith w. and p. s. papillon, merion bridge, surrey, dyers and e-lico printers, march --sykes g. and j. cur. riers-ball-court, huddersfield, york, clothers, march --smith d. j. and j. llampshire, kirk orkshire, scriblips and fulling millers, march - singer s. high-street, kensington, baberdasher, march , april --setree a. john street, bedford row, money scrivener, march - stevenson t. snow's fields, bermondsey, wool. stapler, april ---stubbs j. long acre, coach plater, april -setree u. john street, holboro, mouey scrivener, april -swana j. bermigliam, ventress j. and r. linmerson, newcastle-upos tyne, cheeseinongers, april . w warren j. and l. smith, austin friars, mer. chants, march -whilfield j old stree luke's, coral merchant, march walcat t. portsca, wants, linen draper, march -white j. portland street, portiand place, merchant, march --williams l. cursitor street, chacery icne. colourman, march ---walker s. jun. manches. ter, grocer, april .-wingtield j. long : , west smithfield, sadler, march and arrio-willer j. willoughby, waterliss, leicester, fariner, april walker j. alhick, worcester, timber merchant, april -wright ii. new strect. brunswick square, merchant, april -walker t. and a p. parry. bristol, furnishing ironmongers, april -walkie e, and j. red cross street, entst sinithfield, yeast merchant, april -weale w. birmingham, war. wick, brazier and linnan, april --willougiby b. plymouth, devon, w. thomas of the same place. and r. thomas, cheapside, london, hat inanulac- turers, april -walton w. evesham, worcester. harge owner, april --watts w. thorley, bislie. stortfo.d, hertford, farmer, april . yales j. e. shoreditclı, pewterer, april so. digest of political events. great britain. wish that the report of the secret com- the election for westminster ter- mittee should be prepared as soon as thinated on the d instant, and tranquil- possible, as if an early resumption of lity succeeded to the noise and tumult cash payments were contemplated, an which it gave rise to-its conclusion was early report must be necessary. the not very consolatory to the party whose same day lord castlereagh brought for. political principles were identified with ward his motion on prison discipline. the triuniph. mr. lamb's majority was and a committee was appointed to in- secured by the aid of those who sup- vestigate the various papers laid before ported him as a minor evil. without the house as connected therewith. it that aid, we firmly believe that his own appears to us to be an important object áriends could not have returned him to find some remedy to an evil of which hurse of commons.--an interesting all men complain, namely, the promiscu- debate took place on the d. on the ous mixture of offenders, of different de- question of the resumption of cash pay- grees of crime, of different feelings and ments by the bank of england. the conditions of profligacy. a boy, for ex- chancellor of the exchequer, in answer ample, or a young servant girl, is com- to a question froin mr. calcraft, gave a mitted for a first offence-a petty lar. very luminous explanation of the causes ceny, or on mere suspicion. a judicious of the great fall that had taken place in punishment would probably lead to cer- the funds, which had been attributed to tain reform of the offender. but, ac- the bank having parrowed their dis- cording to the present practice, such counts. so far from the bank issues criminal is immediately cast into the so- having been reduced, they stood higher ciety of old thieves and finished felons, than they had done. he expressed a where their rising remorse and peni .] digest of political events. tence is suppressed by the example or chequer for the public service, exche- ridicule of their companions; and those quer bills should be deposited as a se- who enter pilferers come forth accom- curity. plished thieves and determined prosti. on the th, the attorney-general tutes. another object worthy of atten- made a motion for a committee to en- tion is, the substituting some better sys- quire into the state of the law relative to tem of employment for offenders than the discharge of insolvent debtors. the useless mode of beating hemp, and a there are many persons that urge certain portion of labour to be performed this law to be bad in principle, and that in a given time, as it is well known that it ought not to exist. the present toil is remitted or dispensed what is the principle of the law ?- with altogether, at the caprice of the that men who have contracted debts, goaler. every one, at all observant of which they are unable to pay, shall not the habits of criminals, perfectly well remain at the mercy of their creditors, knows that nothing is so much dreaded provided no fraud is established against by them as hard work, and that they them, and that they surrender, not only hare almost all become thieves from their the property they inay have at the time dislike of it. sir james mackintosh re of their discharge, but make all future deemed his pledge, by bringing forward property they may acquire available to his promised motion on the criminal the liquidation of such debts. laws. there can be but one opinion this is, in a few words, what we take upon the eloquence, the moderation, and to be the principles of the insolvent law, the precedence of his speech on that oc- aud it is matter of astonishment, that in casion. it contained nothing violent or any civilized country, there should be inflammatory, and without the least of- found persons capable of condemning it fort at brilliancy it pleased both sides of in the abstract. the house. it appears to us that one w hen we look at its principle and its more reason might have been added to practical application, we readily admit his luminous argument- that of making that there is a large field for deliberation the punishments assigned by law so ap- opened; and therefore we greatly ap- propriate, that in almost all cases they prove of the appointment of a committee will be practically inflicted, and the so- to gire the subject proper investigation, tereign will thus be, to a great degree, heartily recommending to their notice relieved from one of his most painful du- the continuance of the existing law, ad- ties.-on the th, the chancellor of the ministered by a jury. exchequer made a motion relative to the sir francis burdett presented a peti- balances in the hands of the bank. as tion, signed by four of the electors of this subject is not generally understood, westminster, complaining of the return we will enter a little into it:-accord- of mr. lamb, on the grounds of that ing to the practice of the exchequer, gentleman having by himself, and his the revenue received, which is applicable agents, been guilty of bribery. to the consolidated funds, accumulates the navy estimates bave been pre- till the end of the quarter, till which sented to the house--they aniount to time it has not been made applicable £ , , s. d. estimates were to the public service, the bank having presented of the charge that may be ne- had the advantage of the interest upon cessary for the building and repairing of it. or, in plainer terms, the interest on ships of war and other works, together the sum has hitherto been lost to the with the sums that will be wanted for public, and been received by the bank, the transport service, and by the vic- which has, till now, drawn the balance tualling board, for the cost of provisions out of the hands of the tellers of the for the use of the army on board trans- exchequer, placing as a deposit in their ports, and in garrisons abroad. coffers exchequer bills to an equal for the total charge for the amount. the proposition now is, that ships is £ , , the advantage of the sum so accumulated for the improvements in the shall be transferred from the bank to yards , the public, to the amount of six millions, for army provisions , which is nearly as large a sum as is for the transport department , usually accumulated in the interval be- tween the end of one quarter and the , , end of the succeeding one. the chan- navy estimates , , cellor therefore proposes, that at the time these sums are taken froin the ex- , , new monthly mag.–no. . vou. xi. n memoir of dr. john wolcot, m. d. [april , of the sum destined for the navy, the the power of the crown. what would estimate of the half-pay, superandua- sis francis and his friend hobhouse say tions and pensions, &c. amounts to no to such a propositive in the british less than £ , , s. d. house of commons ?) but the king, a the civil superannuations and pen- man of too much virtile to promise one sions amount to £ , , s. d. thing and do another, steadily refuses france. the 'accession of power and influence the french court are reduced to thus intended to be given bim, and rest- fomething like the expedient resorted to ing upon the charter, adheres to its spi- by queen anne, who created in one rit and letter. so strony is the opposite day thirty peers, in order to obtain a party, that he is only enabled to defeat majority in the house of lords against their purposes by so extraordinary an a strong opposition. the chambers and exertion of his prerogative as the crea- people are divided into two strong par- tion of fifty new peers, so as to ensure a ties; the ultra-royalists, at the head of majority in the upper chamber. the whom is the count d'artois, and the minister of finance has submitted to the charter-party, at the head of whom are chamber of deputies the budget for the the king and ministry. the former present year. it contained only the es- party have become so strong, as almost timated amount of expenditure, the to compel the government to a direct ways and means were to forin the sub- violation of the charter, as it respects ject of another communication. the the law of elections, having introduced a total amount is $ , , francs, being law, by which tlie intermediate body of an aggregate of expense somewhat great- departmental colleges is to be interposed er than was required for the preceding beiween the electors and the members, year. the increase has taken place (or in a more generally intelligible lan- chiefly in the consolidated and funded gunge) that is to say, by which the free- debt, (occasioned by the departure of the holders are not to elect the members of army of occupation) in the foreign de- the chambers, but to elect twelve or partment and that of the marine. the fourteen in every department, who are licentiousness of the press has attained to forin an electoral board for the ac- so dangerous a height, that the govern- tual election. the kiny, it is proposed, ment has been obliged to abandon the is to choose the president, and to bribe, temporary system it has hitherto fol- if he pleases, the other members ; so lowed, and to order the prosecution of that if this measure had been quietly two works, replete with sedition and adopted, all elections would have been in outrage. memoir of dr. join wolcot, m. d. this eccentric character, who is better quaker, but like the late dr. birch, quitted known to the public by his poetical appel- the society of friends, and became a school- lation of peter pindar, closed his che- master. under this instructor, john made ouered career, at his apartments in mont. a good proficiency in latin, till he was gomery's nursery ground, somers' town, sixteen years of age, when his uncle, a on the th of january, in his st year, bachelor, who was settled in good busi- being somewhat oid r than our venerable ness, at fowey, in cornwall, as a sur- sovereign, who was for a long period the geon and apothecary, took him as an subject of his malignant satire. apprentice, with the view of making him he was born at dodbrook, in the south of his heir and successor. wolcot served his devon, near the start point, in april, . term of seven years diligently, and at the ex- the name is variously spelt in registers piration of that time, went to london for im- ard deeds, semetines through caprice, and provement; and after attending the hospitals, ometines from ignorance; as wolcot, returned into the west, where he became woolcot. wolcott, pollacott, and walcot. an assistart to his uncle, with whom he our poet is mentioned for instance in lived on the best footing, till sir william the baptismal record under the name trelawney was appointed to the govern- of walcot, though he uniformly speltment of jamaica, when john desired his it wolcot. his father was a respectable uncle, who was apothecary to the l'a- farmer, and lived in a little freehold of his mily, to recommend him for a situation own, which descended to his son, who under his excellency. this was a thunder- sold it in . he received his school clap to the old gentleman, who fell into a oducation under mr. morris, a respectable great passion, abused his nephew for his leacher at kingsbridge, who had been a ingratitude, and threatened to cut himn ofr . memoir of dr, john wolcot, m. d. with a shilling. john, however, who knew life. unfortunately, however, his manners his relation's temper thoroughly well, per- were not improved by a residence in the severed in his application, and aller auch west indies, and as he possessed some pro- altercation, the uncle reluctantly agreed to pertv, both real and personal, which had been wait upon sir william, who also was very litt him by his parents and uncle, he cared mucb surprised, but having a regard for little about patients, and paid not the small- his professional friend, and no unfavourable est attention to the families in his neigh- idea of the abilities of the young man, he borirhood. with one or other of these, he readily gave his consent, and nominated was continually on terms of hostility, him his physician, to quality himsell for and his greatest delight was to annoy them which post, wolcot obtained a diploma by anteriynious squids and caricatures; for from scotland, where the universities were, the doctor was equally clerer and severe now, endeavouring to get rich by with the pen and the pencil. among the decrees. in the vovage, the ship touched objects of his satire. was the late henry at tenerife, and while here, the doctor rosewarne, e.q. member of parliament for formed several interesting acquaintances, truro, who was lampoond by him in every and wrote some of his most pleasing possible way. on one occasion, that gen- poems. on his arrival at the place of des- tleman suffered a very mortilving insult tination, he found many sources of enjoy- from his troublesome neighbour. mr. ment, for as it was a time of peace, the rosewarne, after his election, invited a larse island healthy, and the planters, living in a party to his house, to a supper and ball; style of bospitable luxury, such a man as but of course the doctor was not one of our author could not fail to make himself the guests. to avenge himself for this agreeable. he was also a favourite with neglect, wolcot sent a letter of invitation, as the governor, who appointed him physician from mr. rosewarne, to an old woman, who general to the island; a situation, however, was a distant relation and pensioner of that that was more honourable than lucrative. gentleman's wife. this matron, who was at this time, the rector of st. anne's parish such a notorious drunkard and virago as to died, and as there were few clergymen in be the dread of all truro and the nei, hbour- jamaica, aod no superintendent, the doctor hood, proud of the honour so unexpectedly 'was prevailed upon to perform the ecclesi conferred, dressed herself out in the best astical duties in the vacant church, ull the manner she could, and sallied forth at the arrival of a new incumbent. such was the appointed hour, to her cousin's house, into lax state of religious order in our colonial which she found easy access, and proceeded settlements, that even the governor acceded up stairs to the drawing room, where her to this e knew very presence created unusual display and con well that the principles of his medical at- fusion. tendant were of the most libertine descrip- the company stared with pale astonish- tion, and would have totally disqualified him ment at the gaunt figure, for she was of a for the due discharge of the sacerdotal office, most gigantic stature, and poor mrs. rose- eren though he had received the sanction warne fainted away. the attempts neces. of the ordinary. as an instance of this, sary, though gentle enough, to recove the the writer has heard the doctor jocularly, unwelcome visitor, made matters worse, for but blasphemously, laugh at his having having already primed herself, as she came offered up prayers to the loly trinity in along, with right nantz, she lerelled the the morning, and amused himself with footman to the floor with one blow, and shooting the holy ghost in the afternoon- smashed to pieces all the apparatus of the tea meaning the wood-pigeons, which abound table that stood nearest to her; then throw- in the interior of jamaica. this shecking ing down the letter which had been sent to circumstance is here selected, as elucidatory her, she stalked out of the room into another, of the man's character, and of the de- where she committed similar depredations, plorable state of morals in our west indian and chancing to encounter a musician in her islands at that period. way, she spatched the fiddle from him, and sir william trelawney, fearful that a new broke it about his head. the whole house rector might be sent out, now advised the was in an uproar; the servants, instead of doctor to hasten back to england, and running to stop the ravages of this cornish obtain legal institution from the bishop of meg merrilies, avoided her as the approach- london; and accordingly he came home ed them, and thus she was suffered to reign with the first fleet; but in the mean tinne, for near an hour within the mansion, while his patron died, and presentation to the the people on the outside were enjoying the living was refused. the doctor now re- storm. jokes of this sort could seither in- linquished a profession, to which he neither crease the friends ror the practice of the had inclination nor pretensions of any sort; doctor, for instead of denying the fact of his and his uncle being dead, he resolved to having written the letter, he made a boast of set up as a physician at truro, where he is; but though the scene occasioned much had a numerous acquaintance; and might fun to him and his boon companions, it was have established himself in good credit and viewed in a very different light by the gena practice, by a proper regard to the duties of tleman at whose expense it was played, and [ april , memoir of dr. john ivolcot, m. d. all the respectable people of the place were of the rev. mr. polwhele, was not a much offended with a trick, that had deprived little fostered by doctor wolcot, who was them of a pleasing entertainment. matters in the habit of visiting truro grammar now grew disagreeable to the doctor, and he school, and examining the boys, in the was subjected to mortifications in his turn. course of which he discovered the poetic patients fell off, acquaintances grew cool; he turn of young polwhele, to whom he fre- was left out in the invitations to public meet quently gave topics for latin and english ings, and few were the social parties that composition. one of these themes on sleep, would venture to admit a man whose con occasioned a rivalry between the doctor and versation was ribaldry, and whose pen over- his young friend ; and this mode of compo- flowed with gall. at length a circumstance sition, in writing verses on the same sub- occurred that induced the doctor to abandon ject, contributed not only to the improve. truro, and this was a litigation between ment of the youth immediately concerned. him and the parish, respecting the right of but others of the same standing in that re. the latter to saddle him with an apprentice. spectable seminary. the doctor refused to take one, and appeal. in the spring of . dr. wolcot and ed to the magistrates at the county sessions, his friend opie came to london, where the by whose decision he was fixed, and had to painter was welcomed as a phænomenon, pay the costs, on which, in a great hurry, he to such a degree that the street in which he sold off his furniture, and swearing that if took up his residence was crowded with the overseers would put an apprentice into carriages from morning to night. his house, they should maintain him there, soon afterwards, the poet, who had made he left truro and went to reside at helston, himself known by his or epistle to the re- about seventeen miles from that town, near viewers,” formed the plan of an unusual the lands end. after remaining there critique on the pictures in the exhibition, some time he returned to exeter, where which design he carried into execution, the he had lodgings for a year or two in st pe- ensuing season, in the publication of ter's church-yard. it is proper to observe “lyric odes to the royal academicians, here, that the doctor, during his residence by peter pindar, a distant relation of the at truro, cultivated the sister arts of poetry poet of thebes.” if, however, our merry and painting, with assiduity and effect.-- bard had adapted the name of peter aretin, some very charming effusions of his muse, it would have been more in character; for written at this place, make it to be regretted his muse instead of possessing grecian ele- that a genius so well fitted for the true sub- gance and dignity, was a mere virago, copi- lime, should hare dipped its plumes in the ous in the language of abuse, and perfectly filthiest puddle of obscenity and scandal. indifferent to the feelings of those upon the “ ode on cambria," a mountain in whom it was bestowed. in the midst of his cornwall, written by him in the year , scurrility, however, he displayed consider- may vie with the happiest productions of able knowledge of the art, and administered collins, or even gray, in pathos, personifi - much wholesome advice to young painters cation, and description. nor could it be said that his censures were it was during his residence at troso, that altogether undeserved, though the caustic dr. wolcot had an opportunity of bringing severity of them in most instances was cer- forward to the world an eminent natural ge- tainly inexcusable. nius, who, but for his friendship and assis the following year ( ) he produced tance,would never haveemerged from his ori another batch, in which, alter laying the ginal obscurity, or at most might have been a lash without mercy on some artists of great sirn-painter in his native county. this per name, he managed to bestow a portion of son was john opie, a name of which corn praise on- wall has just reason to be proud. opie was “the cornish boy, in tin-mines bred.. . a parish apprentice to one wheeler, a house. whose native genius, like his diamonds, carpenter, in the village of st. agnes. the shone doctor, in his rides through the village, was in secret, till chance gave him to the sun." so much struck with some rude sketches in but this attachment to opie did not last long, chalk, and a few on paper, that were shewn and before the next exhibition a difference him as this lad's performance, that he invi arose between the poet and the painter, which ted him to his house, furnished him with terminated their friendship for ever. materials, and gave him such lessons and the cause of the breach has been ascrib- assistance, as enabled him in a short time to ed, and we believe truly, to pecuniary claims set up for an itinerant portrait painter. opie made by peter, which were resisted with in- followed the profession of an itinerant dignation, as totally unfounded in justice. painter, in cornwall and devonshire, for let this be as it may, the bard now became tro or three years, with increasing reputa an implacable enemy of the person upon tion. while his patron dwelt at exeter, he whom he had lavished so much praise, and came thither also, and by painting the he pow took as much pains to ruin his re- portraits of dr. glass and mr. patch, the putation as he had before done to raise him piiysician and surgeon of the hospital, above bis contemporaries. he even went so he acquired grcat celebrity. we may far as to patronise an obscure artist, whose also add here, that the aspiring genius merits he blazoned in all companies, with .) memoir of dr. john wolcot, m. d. the view of supplanting opie ; but after la- shall not enumerate the remaining publica- bouring some time to force this person into tions of wolcot, because they must be suf- notice, he was obliged to abandon him again ficiently known to our readers; and it would to obscurity, while his mortification was in be almost impossible to specify any of them creased by seeing the man whom he had en- without, at the same time, noticing the pro- deavoured to injure gaining ground in his stitution of wit to sedition, blasphemy, and profession. calumny. neither rank, sex, nor virtue, in , peter made up for his silence the could protect characters of eminence from preceding year, by bringing out no less than the shafts of his ridicule; and in some of his twenty-three odes, one of which was devoted, convivial moments, when sacrificing largely in po very courtly phrase, to his majesty. to bacchus, he has openly acknowledged and with the next exhibition the satirist took his gloried in the declaration, that he made scur- farewell of the painters, with a broad hint, rility a trade. “'tis my vocation, jack,” that he was now preparing for a much no- said he to a remonstrating friend, ~ and i bler quarry. am resolved to live and die in the exercise of accordingly this daring lampooner soon it." when asked how he came to assail per- after appeared in a direct attack upon his sons of the fairest reputation, of whom he sovereign, and the mock-heroic which he could know but little, and nothing to their produced, worked up by his invention, pre- disadvantage - his answer constantly was, sented so glaring an evidence of the wanton “why they have a name, and that's enough liberty of the poets in this country, that even for me. a satire upon scoundrels, and people they who enjoyed the joke, wondered at the about whom nobody cares a farthing, would temerity of the writer, and the supineness of never sell.” government. such was the principle which governed it has often been made a question, what the conduct of this man, who, to pamper motive actuated the satirist in holding up his own vices, scattered firebrands into the the monarch, and almost every branch of habitations of others, and laughing at his the royal family, to public ridicule? and success, exclaimed that it was all done in some persons, affecting peculiar sagacity, sport. the prodigious sale of his works have attributed the malice of the poet to stimulated him to proceed in this nefarious some ill-treatment which he and his friend course, and it deserves observalion, that opie bad experienced from the king. no- though the satirist was a debauchee of the thing, however, could be more erroneous grossest description, he was avaricious to than this surmise; and the writer of the excess. he seemed to have no other idea present article can take upon himself to say, of happiness than that of getting money, that neither the poet por the painter had the and indulging his sensual appetite. slightest cause of resentment. the satirist, while the redoubtable peter was thus on being interrogated respecting his conduct dealing mischief all around, like an indian in this instance, has uniformly declared that running a muck, he unfortunately encoun- his sole inducement was to get money, and tered a native genius, possessed of equal that finding how eager the people were to powers and better principles, who assailed swallow any ridiculous thing reported of him in his turn, and made him feel the whip their superiors, he availed himself of the most sorely. the satirist, instead of re- general credulity to perform the part of flecting upon the wounds which he had so thersites for his own advantage. thus ta- waptonly inflicted, without the least provo- lents of the richest description, and obviously cation or regard to truth, on others, took capable of immortalizing the possessor, by this castigation in high dudgeon, and sally- benefiting the public, were perverted to the ing forth with a cudgel in his hand, he at- most sordid purposes. on some occasions, tacked mr. giffard, the author of the ba- indeed, his satirical powers were well ap- viad and mæviad, in a bookseller's shop, plied, and in all they never failed to create a where, however, he was soon disarmed, and laugh, even in those persons who despised tumbled into the street. alter this he aveng- the buffoon, and shuddered at his profane- ed himself, in a manner, with a weapon to dess. the town eclogue on johnson's bio which he was more accustomed. but the graphers is one of the happiest pieces of virulence of his abuse, and the infamous burlesque in our language, and extremely charges alledged by him against his anta- characteristic of all the parties. dr. wolcot gonist, only convinced the public how bit- was well acquainted with the great moralist, terly he writhed under the correction which by often meeting him at the table of his he had received, and with what strict justice countryman, sir joshua reynolds ; but it had been ministered. johnson rather repelled than encouraged at length the irregularity of his living his advances to a nearer intimacy, from the brought on an asthmatic complaint, which dislike which he had to ribald discourse, gave such strong symptoms of a speedy dis- the húmourist happening to be in company solution, that his booksellers laid their heads with the doctor ope day, observed to him, together to devise a plan for securing to that his portrait by reynolds was deficient in themselves the copy-right of his works. ac- dignity: which remark was received with a cordingly, with great cupping, the doctor growl. “ no, sir;-the pencil of reynolds was brought over to accept an annuity of never wanted diguity nor the graces." we two bundred and fifty pounds, for which he [april , memoir of dr. john wolcot, m. d. readily made a proper assignment of his li- among the rest, " ad address to be spoken terary labours. this being executed, he at the opening of drury lane theatre, by a went into the west, and there sold the little landlord in the character of peter pun- freehold which he inherited from his fore- cheon." this was his last composition, sub- fathers, at dodbrook: but, contrary to all sequently to which he employed himself in calculation and human expectancy, though the arrangement of a complete edition of his for some months he could not lie down in poetical works, for which he dictated a kind a bed at night, the salubrious air of devon of biographical preface. but that which and cornwall wrought such a surprising happeneth to all men, could not be parried change in his constitution, that he got rid of by the liveliness of genius; and it is to be his cough, and held out above tiventy years regretted that the warnings which were given jonger. on returning to london, his reno- so significantly had not the effect for which vated appearance startled the booksellers, they were sent. though the poet had now who would have rather seen his ghost in pa- reached the age of fourscore, he still in- ternoster-row, and they now consulted how dulged the hope of protracted existence in a to be free of their engagement. recourse world where he was almost forgotten, and was had to the law for this object, and a the pleasures of which he could no longer chancery suit was actually commenced, when enjoy. all beyond was as great a blank as the failure of the principal house occasioned the sphere around him; and death to him a compromise, and the bond was cancelled. was literally wliat hobbes called it in his at this period the doctor had lodgings in own case, “ a leap in the dark." the satirist chapel-street, mars-le-bone, from whence did indeed make his will, and he gave direc- he removed, for the benefit of the air, to tions for his interment, which he desired pratt-place, camden town, where he con- should be as ncar as conld be ascertained to tipued to amuse himself with writing on such the grave of butler, in covent garden topies of the day as afforded scope for his church-yard: but he still clung to life with mirth. he also superintended a new edition such remarkable tenacity, that the very day of piikipaton's dictionary of painters; com- before his dissolution, which happened on piied a sclection of the beauties of english the th of january last, he talked confi- poetry; and pricted anonymously a tragedy dently of spending the ensuing summer in caild - the fall of portugal." besides devonshire his remains were deposited in thes literary productions, the doctor, pre- the cemetery which he had selected, but it suming on his popularity under the appel will be in vain to assign any just reason for lative of peter pindar, sent into the market such a choice. between wolcot and the au- a set of landscapes, engraved in aqua tinta, thor of hudibras not the slightest resem- from his own drawings. he likewise de blance can be found. the latter applied his scended so low as to write pufling paragraphs inimitable talents to the unmasking of kpa- for the lottery offices, and we have no doubt very, and the support of loyalty; but the that in time many of these will be sought for former made game of virtne, and did all that with avidity by bibliomaniacs and the col- lay in his power to alienate the minds of the jectors of curiosities. at last, he who had people from their sovereign. though but- lived by exposing others to ridicule, became ler exposed canting hypocritas to ridicule, an object of public ridicule himself: and be evinced a deep respect for the sacred when he had passed the threshold of the age truths of revealed religion ; but the modern or man, he was brought into the court of satirist intermired with his abuse of persons king's bench on an action for criminal con- the most shocking parodies and burlesque versation. the affair was passing strange, perversions of scripture. the wit of butler and whimsically extravagant; but though accomplished a great national purpose, in the plaintiff was nonsuited, to the satisfac- providing an effectual antidote to a moral tion of the court, enough came out in the epidemic, which had produced inconceivable evidence to convince every body that our old mischief; but the lampoons of pindar tend adonis had not forgotien the sports of his to poison society, and to destroy the great youth. bonds by which manliind are united toge- soon after this the doctor shifted his quar- ther. in reading hudibras, we laugh, it is ters to ogsulstoo-street, somers town, where true; but then our mirth is excited by causes he buried his old and faithful servant nell, that are obvious to our minds, and we feel upon whom he wrote an cpitaph too inde- obliged to the poet for laying open those per- cent to be here inserted. the doctor now picious follies, upon which grave arguinent made another remove to the house of mr. would be lost. the works of the modern montgomery, a purseryman, near the new domus create risibility also, but it is an en- road, where he received a few select friends, tertainment which no wise or good man is but saw none; for a confirmed cataract had proud to recollect, or willing to repeat, be- totally extinguished vision in both eyes. in cause he is conscious that he has been drann this state, however, he dictated some little in by a trick to indulge a moment's merri- eifusions' of his fancy to an amanucasis, and, ment at the expense of truth and virtue. .) ( ) incidents, promotions, birtiis, marriages, deatis, &c. in london and middlesex; with bingraphical accounts of distinguished charucters. bulletin of the king's healti. . . . . , mindsor castle, march , . . . . . , ilis majt ty has been generally cheerful . , during the ast month ; but his disorder has , suffered diminution. his majesty's , health cortinyes gocd. , (simed as usual.) , from official returns, printed by order of . , the house of commons, it appears that the . . . . , quantity of wheat inported from foreign . . . . , countries into ireland, in the year ending . , , . , the th of january, , was , bar . . . . , rels; ditto in the year ending the th of the bank of england note has been for jannary, , . harrels. of har many years past, and it is now by law the ley, in the former period, barra}e; ditto legal money of this country. it will be in the latter barrels. of oats, in found, by calculation, or by reference to the the former period, barrels; ditro, in above scale, that every rise in the price of the latter period, barrels, of beans, gold is a debasement, a depreciation, or a in the former period, barrels ; ditto, in lessening of the intrinsic value of our pre- the latter, . of hour, in the former sent money unit, or pound note, and a frau- period, , cwt.; ditto, in the latter, dulently and secretly changing of the mea- , cwt. sure of value; consequently that it alters an official return of the strength of the the nature of all transactions for a time british army on the th of january, , throughout the country laid before the house of commons, states preferments.] the rev mr. pitman to the general total at , non-commis- the magdalen.---the rev. francis coleman sioned officers and privates, and , ofli. m. a. to the rectory of humber, hereford. cers; of which amount there are serving - the rev. john elliot, a. b. to the per- in great britain , , exclusive of , petual curacy of randwick, gloucester- foot guards; ireland , ; east indies shire.--the rev. john preston reynolds, , ; troop-horses . . b. a. to the rectory of little munden, gold and paper.-of all the subjects flerts.--the rev. t. t. walmsley, to the connected with political economy, there is rectory of st vedast, foster-lane, and har- not perhaps any one of more importance, well, middlesex.--the rev. w. jackson, or on which the well-being and prosperity m. a. to be domestic chaplain to the earl of civilized states so much der ends, as on of verulam.-the hon. and rev. george that of money and finance. the selish- pellew to the vicarage of laling, essex. ness, cruelty, and ignorance of various --the rev t. thorpe, m. a. to the rec- governments, and the want of a thorough tory of widlord, nottinghamshire.- the knowledge of the theory and practice of rev. william smith, a. m. to the rectories money, have occasioned more misery in the of brome and oakley, sufolk. - the rev, world, and produced the destruction and levi walton, to be head master of the free overthrow of more states than any other school of scarping, norfolk. --the rev. h. cause whatsoever. as the subject of our lloyd, to the vicarage of llanfawr, near money has been again brought before the bala.--the rev. j. t. holloway to the vi- public, and as every one is interested in its carage of stanton upon hine heath, salop. discussion, the following scale is given for the rer. samuel heyrick, to the rectory the purpose of conveying a more clear of brampton by dingley, and carlton, idea of the nature of our present system of norts.-the rev. e. valpy, to the vica. money as established by the bank directors rnge of south walsham, st. mary, norfolk. and ministers ; it shows the manner in which ---the rev. edniund gray, bart. to the every alteration in the price of gold changes rectory of kirkby, misperton, yorkshire.- the intrinsic value of the money unit, the the rev. henry denny berners, l.l.b. pound sterling, or bank of england pound to the archdeaconry of suffolk.-the rev. pote; our present fluctuating measure of george rennell, to the rectory of grey- value. stead.-the rer. isham pacis, to the when gold is at rectory of warkı-the revi viliam l. . d. grains elliot, to the rectory of thorneyburn.--- % an ounce of gold the rev. william evans, to the perpetual . . . , curacy of fluinshaugh.the rev. john . . . . , stedman, to be master of the grammar , .. , school, guildford.-the rev.henry bower, . . . . , m. a. to the vicarage of st. mary mag- births, marriuges, deaths, fc. in london and middlesex. [april , dalen, taunton, and staple-pitzpain, both ter of gen. john hale, of the plantation, in somersetshire.--the rev. mascie dom- yorkshire.---capt. abra alexander wood, ville taylor, m. a. to the rectory of more- to elizabeth maria, daughter of capt, ton corbet, shropshire.--the rev. w. beecher, r. n.-n. p. levi, esq. of lom- barber, a. m. to the vicarage of duthield, bard-street, to sarah, only daughter of the derbyshire.-the rev george maximilian late abraham goldsmith, jun.---c. t. ma- slatter, to the vicarage of west anstey, hon, esq. of laleham, to mary margaret.--- devon. at st. andrew's church, holborn, william births.] in henrietta-street, cavendish- cartwright, esq, of hunter-strest, brunss, square, the lady of sir bellingham grant- wick-square, to maria, youngest daughter ham, bart. of a daughter.---in park-street, of the late daniel robinson, of gray's-inn- the lady of charles h. marshall, esq. of a place.---william levi irish, esq. to frede- daughter.--- in grosvenor-square, the lady rica, youngest daughter of the late fraucis of john marberley, esa. m.p. of a son. spilsbury, of soho-square.--at st. mary in portland-place, the lady of lieut gen. le-bone new church, joseph wickham reynolds, of a son..--in harley-street, the mayer, esq. th light dragoons, to miss lady of george henry ward, esq. of a ann e. gowrley, of upper norton-street, daughter.---in hamilton-place, her grace portland-place.---at st. mary's, islington, the duchess of bedford, of a son.---the the rev. a. clarkson, of bindley, yorkshire, wife of the hon. h. grey bennett, m.p. to miss elizabeth c. wilcocke, of isling- of a son.--at her father's house, st. james's ton.---benjamin cohen, esq. of great cum- park, lady gardiner, of a son.---in wim- berland-street, to justina montefiare, of pole-street, the lady of sir lawrence palk, vauxhall. bart. of a son.---in thayer street, man died.) in great marlborough-street, .chester-square, the countess of lusi, of a caroline louisa mary ann thornton, son and heir.---at the palace, lambeth, the youngest daughter of w. thornton, esq. hon. mrs. hugh percy, of a daughter.--- in mecklenburgh-square, amy, the wite in portman-square, the countess of mag- of george garland, esq. of poole, dorsei- vers, of a daughter.--- in keppel-street. shire.--at his lodgings, in belvidere-place, russel-square, the lady of col. aspinwall, constantine jennings, esq.-in berners- of a son.---the lady of francis james street, sir thomas berners plestow, knt. of adam, esq. of a son.-- in gower-street, the wallington-ball, norfolk, .-the rev. lady of the rev. g. griffin, stone-street, of houlton hartwell, vicar of loders and a son and heir.---the viscountess duncan bradpoley, dorset.--the rev. c. g. cot- non, of a daughter.--- in john-street, bed. terell, rector of hadley, .--mrs. phillips, ford-row, mrs. thomas styan, of a son.--- widow of the late capt. phillips, of wands- in cavendish-square, the lady of admiral worth, surrey, -- at islingion, thomas j. e. douglass, of a daughter.---the lady hodgson, esq. .-sir henry harper of b. travers, esq. new broad-street, of a crewe. --samuel arbouin, esg. of cumber- son.---io portland-place, the lady of henry land-street, new-road, .-in upper guild- bonham, esq. of a daughter.---in picca- ford-street, william devon, esq. .- dilly, sarah, wife of the rev. edward vin- in bruton-street, berkley-square, mrs. ann cent, of a son. burland, relict of the late j. burland, esq. • married.) at mary-le-bone new church, of stock-house, dorset.-in bouverie-street, thomas, eldest son of wm. evans, esq. of mr. george bousfield, .-in sherbourn- wimborne, to margaret, only daughter of lane, mr. william beaumont, . - in wm, harris, esq. of norton-street.---at st. hamilton-place, the infant son of her grace, george's hanover-square, wm. franks, the dachess of bedford.-in lower sey- esq. of woodside, herts. to caroline, mour-street, sophia, wife of lieut. col. daughter of the late christopher fower, esq. shedden, of the elms, near lymington.- of weald-hall, essex.--- at st. margaret's, in cavendish-square, the rev. william westminster, thomas broadwood, esq. to browne, .-sir robert macreth, kot. of amie augusta, eldest daughier of alexander ewhurst, southampton, .- n portland- mundell, esq. of parliament-street.---at st. place, hammersmith, d. cooper, esq.-in luke's, chelsea, the rev charles norman, somerset-street, portman-square, thomas of maningtree, to h. h. seringa, daughter cowper hinks, esq. .-in hereford- of the late lieut. col. norris.---barrington street, lady ellenborough, .-at totten- tristram, esq. to helen, widow of henry ham, j. budgen, esg. .--at hanwell, the fawcett, esq. late m. p. for carlisle.--- at rev. herbert randolph, b. d.--thomas st. george's, hanover-square, j. astley holland, esq. of fleet-street.---in guildford- warre, esq. to susan cornwall, of gros- street, mrs. gillespie, wife of lieut. col. venor-place.---william clowes, esq. of the gillespie.---samuel john wormald, r. n. middle temple, to ann, eldest daughter of at his house, alpha-road, regent's park, john leigh, esq. of bedford-square.---at john whitehead, esq. .--in portand- kensington, the rev. benj. puckle, of place, lieut. gen. charles morgan, , clapham, surrey, to elizabeth, tenth daugh. .) ( ) provincial occurrences. in the counties of england, arranged alphabetically. . berkshire. the establishment is expected to be of great the roman coins discovered near walling- advantage to the county; as the colours ford, were within a quarter of a mile of the no er of a mile of the now used in cornwall are procured, at roman road called ickuild way; also a considerable expense, from london and about the same distance from a large dyke, bristol. the great variety of materials or foose, called lere grims ditch, which which the county affords, for making is supposed to form one of the ancient colours, has induced the proprietors to divisions of the country; the road and dyke ha es establish this manufactory. cross each other here; and in one of the birth.) at helston, mrs. wm. andrews, angles thus formed, there is an inclosure of of a son. seven or eight acres, surrounded by banks, married.] at st. austell, capt. james much inferior indeed to the other dyke, phillips, jun. to miss mary medland, of but still more considerable than would be that place. requisite for any common purposes consider- died.) at st. columb, miss kitty ben- ing its local situation. this may have been net, .- at penzance, john harrington, a camp station, or lodgment of some of the esq. son of the late dr. harrington, of bath. ancient inhabitants of the country. the principal entrance to it is in the centre, cheshire. immediately on the roman road. it is schools on bucklry mountain. we at present overrun with bushes and some time ago inserted the namcs of the furze, and does not bear the least traces of principal subscribers to a new church, in its ever being cultivated. the diligent an- this district; and we have now the pleasure tiquarian might amuse himself in this in- to add, that a curate's dwelling-house, with teresting neighbourhood. the west end of every accommodo every accommodation for the immediate the large dyke ends at, or near, the thames, occupation of a clergyman and his family, and forms the north boundary of the has been erected on buckley mountain. bishop of durham's delightful premises. two excellent rooms, each calculated for married.) at newbury, mr. john green, the reception of children, are finished, to miss maria willis. and on the st of january of the present died.) at abingdon, mrs. w. budworth. year, that for girls was opened. the sum relict of the late rev. philip budsworth, expended upon these premises far exceeds .-at shellingford, elizabeth, wife of . a statement is therefore submitted wm. mills. --mrs. davenport, of east fast with confidence to the public, as the re- challow.-j. benson, esq. of rye farm, maining sum in hand will hardly pay for the foundation of the church, which will abingdon. buckinghamshire. form such a principal feature in the moral improvement and civilization of this exten- during this winter, as some labourers give, and hitherto inaccessible distric sive, and hitherto inaccessible district. the were digging gravel near the town of ayles following additional subscriptions have been bury, on the road leading to buckingham, received :-hon. lady glynne, hawarden they discovered about human skeletons, castle, second donation, .; miss meta and twenty skulls only; they appear to be calfe, hill-street, .; miss n. metcalfe, calle hill street , all males, and full grown. no historical or hill-street, .; miss - metcalfe, hill- even traditional account exists as to when street, .; rev. h. hodgkinson, second they were deposited there. lord nugent donation, . ; mrs. mary ashley, epsom, has collected the bones together, and in , .; l. h. petit, esq. . ., robert tends erecting a tablet over them. powell, esq. norton-street, ll. ; rev. dr. prosser, ). . ; rev. archdeacon cam- a beautiful pair of antlers, attached to the bridge, ). .---chester chronicle. upper part of the skull, with the teeth per- birth.] at penley hall, the lady of t. fect in their sockets, was taken up a few tarleton, esq. jun. of a son. days ago, in a bed of shingles, twenty-two married.] al mobberley, the rev. p. van- feet below the surface of the earth, in net, of knutsford, to dorothea goodbur, cutting the new canal to join the eau brink, of the same place.-charles roberts, esq. of in this county. camberwell, to frances rosalie, of cheadle. married.j' william faskin, esq. to jane, -mr. serjeant copley, chief justice of youngest daughter of thomas jones, esq. chester, to mrs. thomas, widow of the of sawston. late lieut. col. thomas.-mr. wright, of died.) mr. john boyce, jun. of outwell, holt-hall. to miss goo holt-hall, to miss goodmere, of tranmere. -at trinity college, cambridge, tho died.] at melton hill, james shaw mas blundell, b. a. williamson, esq. . - esther, sister of cornwall. george palfreyman, esq. of crag-hall, near a manufactory for fine and coarse colours, macclesfield, .-charles chivere, gent. both dry and ground in oil, is nearly oom- frodsham-street, ghester, .--at nant- pleted at penryn, on an extensive scale. wich, anthony clarkson, a. m. . new monthly mag-no. , vou, xi. cambridgeshire. [april- , cumberland - derby-devon-durham-dorset, fc. cumberland, of milton lodge, near londonderry, ireland, died.] at queen's elms, brampton, to elizabeth, second daughter of a. ham- mr. sydenham tate edwards, f.l.s.-j. mond, esq. of hutton bonville.-- at dur- oliphant, esq, of stonefield, .-the rev. ham, lieut. p. bowlby, to miss hazlewood. mr. ilare, of hayton, .-in george-street, died.] john james, esq. .-at stain- whitehaven, capt. hodgson. - at esk drop, mr a. bazin, .--at camperdown, meals, near ravenglass, t. falcon, esq. near chester-le-street, margaret whitelock, married.] at greystoke, the rev. mr. ; and at lumley, in the same parish, ormady, to miss wilkinson, of penrith - elcanor turner, .-at darlington, mr. at bartón, near penrith, j. wallace, esq. meggeson, . to miss fletcher, of low leys, near cocker- dorsetshire. mouth.--at ambleside mr. m. mayson to married.] al shapwick, mr. j. evans, miss green, daughter of the celebrated ar- to miss joyce of that place. tist of that place.--at grasmere, mr. m. died.] at his seat, charborough park, strickland, to miss jane nelson; their unit. r. e. d. grosvenor, esq.--at charminster, ed ages did not amount to . j. wright, esg. at weymouth, f. w. derbysitre. shuyler, esq. of woolland house.-mrs. died.] at fair blolme, near ilope, e. bullen, wile of s. bullen, esq. of char- sarah, relict of mr. d. rose, .-at mouth. green house, darley dale, d. dakeyne, essex. gent. .-at wirksworth, a. goodwin, esq. the subscribers to the projected col- . chester and essex infirmary, have resolved devonshire. to erect that edifice on the road towards the devon and exeter savings bank lexden, the exterior to be of brick, and the presents the most happy progress. the whole to be erected in a plain and substan- amount invested in government debentures tial manner, under the direction of an emi- is , . nent architect. births.] the lady of the rev. thomas births.) at copped hall, mrs h. con- atkinson, of beaufort-place, exeter, of a yers, of a daughter. · daughter. married.] capt. c. sotheby, r.n. of married.] at henninton, capt. garrett, sewardstone, to the hon. miss j. hamilton, r. n. to catherine, daughter of the late third daughter of the late lord belhaven s. price, of new house. glamorganshire... and stenton.-the rev w. goodday, a.m. james gould, esq. of plymouth, to miss vicar of terling, to miss mary algar, of barnwell, of exmouth.-at rockbear, near that place. exeter, lieut.-col. evans, to anne, eldest died.] lieut. s. b. coppin, of the west daughter of the late w. sloane, esu. of to militia.at bloomfield, mr. j. blakcy. . bago.-at st. mary major's church, exe- -w. canning, esq. of quendon.-at brent- ter, the rev. j. l. knight, to jessy, eldest wood, mrs. e. holbrook, .-at broom- daughter of mr. j. watson, of exeter.- field, the infant son of capt, wright.-at at plymouth, c. lowder, esg. of bath, to borley, the rev. w. herringham, . susan, eldest daughter of r. fuge, esq. of gloucestershire. plymouth, at abotsham, near bideford, new charches. the eyes of the public - w. s. willet, esq. of porthill, to christiana are gradually opening to the necessity of adalaide, eldest daughter of h. nantes, esq. providing places of public worship in the of kenwith lodge.--at lympstone, lieut. increased and increasing population. a sub- g. e. powell, r.n. of great connell, ire- scription for rebuilding the parish church land, to charlotte kingdon, of exeter. of pitcombe, on an enlarged seale, is nearly died.) at marley house, w. palk, esq. completed. this village will form an in- .---atculmstock, the rev. h.c. manley, teresting object to the traveller, when the l.l.b. of bradford.--conolly, youngest son new road from gloucester to stroud has of t. norman, esq. of exmouth.--at more- opened it to his view. it is singularly cir- sonhampstead, the rev. j. isaacs, .-s. cumstanced; the parish itself being very walkey, esq. of east budleigh, .--t. small, but several other parishes contribut- cleather, esq. of plymouth, .-- at bouden, ing nearly one-half to the actual population sophia, wife of col. adams.--at barley of the village. the body of this projected house, near exeter, mrs. e. graves, .- church will be free, and sufficiently large to s. willey of st. sidwell's, exeter, .- receive all who can be reasonably expected at exeter, miss ann dacie. to attend it. durham. births.] the lady of c. mathia, esq. of the hon. and right rev. the bishop of paradise house, near painswick, of a son.- durham has entered on the th year of the lady of r. jenkins esq. of charlton his episcopate, on which occasion a con- hill, of a son.-at porkington, the lady gratulatory address has been presented to of w. . gore, esq. of a son. at the royal his lordship by the clergy of the diocese. fort bristol, the lady of t. tyndall, esq. births.] 'at wickham rectory, the hon. of a daughter.-at ebley, the lady of e. mrs. c. e. grey of a daughter. davies, esq. of a daughter. alarried.) at durham, r. bateson, esq. married.] at charlton, t. phillipps .) hants --hereford-herts-huntingdon--kent-lancashire. esq. to harriot, third daughter of major- farm, the hon. mrs. colvile, of a son.-at gen. molyneux.-at gloucester, j. w. tunbridge wells, the marchioness of ely, of walters, esq. of barnwood house, to sarah, a daughter.-the lady of e. taylor, esg. eldest daughter of the rev. h. c. adams, of of bitrons, of a daughter. painswickat prees, j. overton, esq. of married.] at leybourn, p. h. parsong, cheshire, to miss overton, daughter of mr. esq., of west malling, to miss e. sharpe, overton, of corra, near whitchurch. of leybourn parsonage.- robert richie. died. at his house in clifton, bristol, esq., of greenwich, to charlotte, second sir joseph ratcliffe, bart. .- at stout's daughter of major benwell.--at edenbridge, hill, mary, wife of the rev. w. l. baker. a. marshall, esq., to mary, second daughter hants. of the late j. alexander, esq.--at dover, a. births. at shaldon, the lady of col. matson, esq. to maryfrances, eldest daugh- johnson, of a still-born child.--at south- ter of the late james tector, esq.--at st. ampton, the lady of capt. peter rainer r.n. dunstan's, canterbury, mr. john mason, c.b. of a daughter. to miss lucy cook.–at plaxtol, j. l. reyn- married.] t. nicholls, esq of burton olds, esq. of london, to hannah, daughter dorset, to mary davis, of winterborne of j. simpson, esq. of fair lawn.-w. sal- abbas. tren willet, esq. to christina adelaide, of died.] at winchester, capt. barr, kenwith lodge. — t. h. pleyer, esq. of d. regt. in consequence of severe wounds greenwich, to miss r. rayley, of the same received at waterloo. place. herefordshire. died.] the rev. g. gregory, curate of a legacy of . was bequeathed to the burham, --r. e. d. grosvenor, esa. m. hereford infirmary, by the late lowbridge p. for new romney.-- at brompton, a. up- bright, esq. of bristol cher, esq. of sherringham, norfolk.-- at married.] capt. h. g. jackson, royal lord thanet's seat, the countess of thanet. artillery, to catherine, eldest daughter of — at canterbury, elizabeth, wife of capt. the late walter cecil, esq. of morton jef- g. hilton, r. n., .-at broadstairs, w. fris. potter, esq. .-at folkestone, mr. wm. died.] mrs mary badham, of lugwar. ledger, .---the rev. r. t.c. pattenson, dine, near hereford, .--at ledbury, j. rector of milsted.-at north frith, dear jarvis, esq. - at sutton's marsh, mr. r. tunbridge, c. idle, esq. .–at tenterden, phillips, . j. curtois, esq. . hertpordshire. lancashire. sacrilege.-on friday night, or early on the disputes between the chal proprietors saturday morning, the parish church of and their workmen at st. helen's, near li- watford, herts, was broken open by means verpool, are at an end. of iron crows, in expectation, no doubt, of one hundred new cotton spinning manu- finding the valuable communion plate. the factories are erecting at manchester and its villains were disappointed, as the plate is not vicinity. kept in the church. in revenge for the dis- birih.) at blakeley, mrs. hulton, wife appointment, they did all the mischief they of j. hulton, esq. of a son and heir. could, by calling and destroying the bibles, married.). at liverpool, s. solomon, prayer-books, &c. the velvet coverings to esq. m. d., to miss machinney.-r. chaw- the pulpits, desks, pews, &c. particularly the ner esq., of melburn, derbyshire, to e. fela pew belonging to the earl of essex. ton edgley, of manchester.-t. stamp, esq. died. at st alban's, j. reid, esq-mr. r. n., to miss e. m. maude, of kendal.-- r. n., to miss e. m. mande of ke w. bowden, -at st. john's lodge, sir at lancaster, a. thornborrow, esq., to ca- cornelius cuyler, bart. tharine, second daughter of a. crompton, huntingdonshire. esq. of lune villa.--m. fletcher, esq., af died.] at kimbolton, elizabeth, wife of crompton fold, to anne manee, of liver- r. tidswell esq. . pool.- at manchester, t. patterson, resq. o kent, rotterdam, to martha satterfield, of man- at a meeting held on the th inst, of the chester. --at st. anne's, liverpool, capt j. minister, parishioners, and some of the out . head, to catherine browne.---at man- dwellers of the borough of hoa:h, kent, to chester, mr. c. currie, to miss cook.--a. consider of the best means of relieving the liverpool, mr. alderson, to miss robinson. condition of the labouring poor of the said died. at ashton hall, the duke of ha- borough, and thereby lessening the poor's milton, -at pendleton, w. leaf, esq.-- rates, it was unanimously resolved to accom- miss s. kenworthy, daughter of the late reve modate them with small allotments of land, j. kenworthy, of stayley bridge.--r. j. proportioned to their respective wants and sivewright, esq. of liverpool.-j. baldwin, industry, at a low rent, and exempt from esq. .--at springtield, near prescot, , tilhes and parochial assessments, and that coiham, esq., of hardshaw hall, .-t. the said resolution should be carried into tattersal esy., of everton, liverpool.-j. immediate effect. baldwin, esy, an alderman of lancaster, births.] the lady of robert sackett at manchester, mr. j. adams, accountant. tomlin, esq , thanet, of a son. at langley .-at liverpool, mrs. shuttleworth.-a. lincoln - leicester-norfolk-northampton-notts, g c. [april , bolton-le-moors, j. bolling ésq.at man. northamptonshire. chester, mr. j. greenshaw, professor of it is asserted in the northampton jour. musick. --mr. w. osbaldeston. - mr. s. pal, that the gentlemen agriculturists and garnett, ,-at woresley, mr. j. varey, farmers of that county, are hostile to the .-at nantwich, the rev. a clarkson, agriculture petition. m. a., chaplain to the duke of leeds. married.) at all saint's church, north- at manchester, mr. faulkner, dentist. at ampton, captain wm. richards, r. n. to clithero, mrs. annë smith, .--at pun. sarah constable, of that place : and john hole, near bury, mr. j. openshaw, .at ellis, esy. of pwllhell, carnarvonshire, to green hill, s. jones, esq. . at denton, ann constable, sister to the above.-j. mr. t. creswell, . at daig hulme hall, cooke, esq. of peterborough, to miss h norris, esq. . squire. lincolnshire. died.) isabella, the wife of wm. lucas, · births.) at barrowby, near grantham, esq. of hollowell. -at thrapston, john the lady of m. ashwell, esq. of a daughter. benson, esq. of rye farm, abingdon, .- married.) at owston, capt. w, alli- mr. frances geary, of hartwell park, . son, of west stockwith, to miss s. helsey, -at keslingbury, mrs. facer, .-at of gunthorpe.-at averham, the rev. h. northampton, mrs. balaam. houson, jun. to frances anne, eldest daugh- northumberland. ter of the rev. r. chaplin.-at great lim- married.) at st. nicholas's, newcastle, ber, c. morris, esq. of croxton, to isabella henry richardson, esg. of stepney, middle- colquhoun, of barton-upon-humber. sex, to margaret, youngest daughter of died.) capt. lloyd, r.n. of fancourt, wm. cotes. near louth.-at north helsey, near caisé : died.) at newcastle, margaret purvis, tor, the rev. r. bingham.-at gainsburgh, .-ai longhorsley, mrs. mary white, mr m. thompson, .- at newcastle, margaret, widow of leicestershire. mr. wm. carr, .-at alnwick, major the leicester journal gays, on sunday hardy, . last, wall, callis, and widowson, three per- nottinghamshire. sons of loughborough, returned from ame- birth.] at fountain dale, the lady of rica to their native place. about six months general need, of a son. ago they, with several others, were induced married.] at lenton, the rev. james to visit that “land of liberty and plenty,” in bagge, m. a. to catherine anne evans, of the hopes of bettering their condition, but lepton grove.- at lincoln, mr. dutty, to were miserably disappointed. they were miss sykes.-at lincoln, mr. martin, to in the neighbourhood of baltimore, where miss pepper. they were employed in working upon the died.j' at overton, broughton, mrs. roads ; and bad as was their situation, many elizabeth severn, widow of the rev. wm. others of their countrymen were much worse severn, late of hull, .-mrs, crisp, of off. there was nothing but paper cur- lister gate, nottingham, .- wm. tur- tency in circulation, and that as low as d.; ner, esq. of kneenton, .-at burgate they represent the country as swarming with house, john leacroft, esq. of southwell, . thieves, and were repeatedly in danger of at nottingham, wm. bilbie, gent. losing what little they had. these may be oxfordshire. considered as home proofs, and we hope will married.) capt. j. thompson, to ann have the desired effect. ellen, daughter of j. newman, esq. of fin- married.] at leicester, the rev. g. mere house. peak, to matilda king, of that place.--at d ied.) at holmwood, near henley, wm. goudly, mr. s. draper, to miss m. gill; kerr, esq. eldest son of lord mark kerr, also mr. r. butler, to miss a. pearson. .--at clifton, sir thos. radcliffe, bart. of · died.) at rothley, the rev. a. macau- milnsbridge house, west riding of york- lay. w. percival, gent. of cold newton. shire, .-at his lodgings, in baliol col- w. harris, gent. of great wigston, . lege, oxford, the right rev. john parsons, norfolk. d.d. .--at witney, mrs. jane etwall, re- births.) elizabeth, the wife of r.wells, lict of the late rev. wm. etwall, . of gressenhall, of four living children, three rutlandshire. boys and one girl. died.] the rev. henry finch, vicar of married.] the rev. c. d. williams, to burley, near oakham. margarette anne, daughter of the late rev. shiropshire. dr. lukin, dean of wells.--at cley, chas. birth.] at acton burnell, the lady of sir buck, esq. r. n. to miss lucy ellis, of the edward j. smyth, bart. of a son. same place.-at lynn, mr. james lear- married.] at whittington, mr. robert mouth, to miss eliz. harvey. bowen, , to mrs. ruth morris, . died.] mr. thos. goodings, of lammas, died. at laton hall, sir robert leigh- .-at yarmouth, capt. randall barrett, ton, hart.-mary, wife of lawton parry, .--at yarmouth, john dunlop, esq.-at esq.of glan-ya-afon, near oswestry--rev. norwich, mary, relict of the late dr. john robert smynth, minister of wolstaston and murray, . smethcott. edward lloyd, of the runis, .) somerset.- stafford.--suffolk--surrey--sussex-worcester. llanvairwaterdine. - mr. wilson, of the the rev. benjamin philpot ---at borley, the wood, dear drayton, ,-john milner, rev. wm. herringham, .---at gisling- esq. of eardington, near bridgenorth.-atham, frances sparrow reeve, relict of Ř frankton, john burlton, esq. reeve, esq. .-at ipswich, emerson somersetshire. cromwell, esq., having survived mrs, c. births.] at bath, the lady of j. a. neil- only twelve days, .---joseph hardcastles son, esq. of a daughter ; and the lady of t. esq. of hatcham house, new cross. at hayes, esq. of a son.-- in queen-square, cockfield, mrs. langham, .---at fram- bath, the lady of arthur weston, eso. of a lingham, mary ann, wife of john shafto, son.-the lady of john thompson, esg. of esq. .--at foley-house, charles watt, lansdown-place, bath, of a daughter. esq. . married.] j. b. estlin, esq. of bristol, to sorrey. margaret. second danghter of robert bag. surrey sessions. in consequence of the shot, esq. of langport.-andrew armstrong, increasing number of cases for decision at esq. to susan, only daughter of mr. henry these sessions, which are now held quarterly, hooper, of montague parade, bristol. the magistrates have come to a determina- j. w. morgan, esq. of glasbury, radnor- tion of holding them at the same periods shire, to miss joannah williams, of bath. those for the county of middlesex; namely, died.] the rev. joha yeatman, m. a. eight instead of four times a year. this rector of stock gaylard, .-at bradford, measure has been forced upon them by the the rev. mr. manley.-at sheplon mallet, crowded state of the gaol in horsemonger mrs. mary hole, .–at fairwater house, lane, there being now nearly prisoners near taunton, sarah, widow of rich. clarks on charge of felonies, &c. the assizes for son, esq.-mrs. lowell, wife of the rev. the county will be holden at kingston, on samuel lowell, of kingsdown, bristol. monday, the th inst. at wrington, thos. councill, esq. --at b irths.] at beaumont cottage, chert- frome, mrs. mary cannings, --- at bath, sey, the lady of john h. colt, esq. of a the rev. houlton hartwell, .--at win- daughter. canton, mrs. hawkins, wife of the rev. g. married.) at croydon, w. faskin, egg. f. hawkins.---at north parade, j. lam- to jane, youngest daughter of t. jones, eso. bert, esq. .---a bath, edw. everard, esq. of sawston, cambridgeshire.--- at capel, of lyme regis, norfolk.--samuel w.stone, mr. j.c. ridgway, to miss e. ballinghall, esq. of taunton, .---at bath, james daughter of the rev. p. beath, of capel.--- thompson, esq.of aberdeen.---at bath, the at st. saviour's, southwark, d. a. b. rev. john manning hazaland, ll.b. haynes, esq..to miss m. p. kingum, of stapfordshire. essex. mr. richard hardy, of draycot-in-the- died.] at croydon, mrs. c. chamber- clay, has an apple-iree in his orchard, layne, relict of the late rev. t. chamber- which bore a plentiful crop of apples last layne..-nicholas vincent, esg. of st. ca- season, and in the autumn blossomed afresh, therine's hill, near guildford.---at clap- and has now on it full formed fruit from the ham, t. margary, esq. . late blossom. mr. hardy having preserved sussex. some of the first crop, treats his friends marlhorough house, formerly the resi- with both. dence of the late duke of marlborough, at birth.) at blithfield house, the right brighton, and now the property of the hon. lady harriet paget, of a daughter. prince regent, is shortly to be pulled down, married.) mr. j. a. attwood, youngest and on its scite a wing to correspond with son of james attwood, esg, of congreve the royal pavillion is to be erected." house, to mary, youngest daughter of ro an exhibition of apparatus for preserving bert edden, esq. of lower wick, near wor lives from shipwreck, took place on wednes- cester. day, at brighton, and was found completely died.) mr. john dickenson, of stafford, effective.-by it a shot with grapples, can be coroner of this county. thrown, almost to a certainty, across any ob- supfolk. ject in the sea within yards of the shore. married.] at st. mary-at-hill, george married.] at slougham, the rev. j. rogers, esg. of manningtree, essex, to miss hurlock, m. d., to maria, youngest daugh- mary roebuck, of the former place.---the ter of the rev. r. ellison, of slougham. rev. c. lawson, of needham-market, to the rev. w. edelman, a. b. of queen's mary ann clover, of creeting.---thos. b. college, cambridge, to miss abigail kemp, western, esq. of tattington-place, to mar- of brighton. garet letitia bushley, of great cumberland- died.) at cuckfield, h. bowles, esq. place.---at st. helen's, ipswich, captain r. the lady of c. strode, esg. of frant cottage. johnson, jun. to miss mary ann rudd, of at chichester, vice admiral sir g. mur sheerness. --- at thaxted, samuel smith ray, . ramsey, esq. lieut. r. n. to mrs. anda worcesterhire. pyne alexandre.---capt. adam alex. wood, births.] the lady of dr. malden, of to e. e. maria beecher. worcester of a son. the lady of t. b. died.] at sibton park, mary, wife of cooper, esq. of a daughter. at the deanery, warwickshire-wilt-york-wales. (april , girls. the lady of the rev. dean of worcester, of a yorkshire. son. the following is an extract of a letter from married.) the rev. t. s. biddulph, to a gentleman of great accuracy and impar- charlotte, youngest daughter of the late tiality of observation, who is engaged on an rev. j. stillingfleet, prebendary of worces extensive commercial tour through york ter. shire, and some other northern counties : died.) at hanley, ann goodwin, and a "the complaints on the state of trade do short time previous, her husband; they had not appear to me to have any just foundation, lived together as man and wife about i find the manufacturers every where at years, and died at the patriarchal ages, of work. i do not hear of many goods on the former, and the latter. hand. the prices of wool advance, and this warwickshire. raw article is in great demand, which could notwithstanding the late revival of trade, not well be the case if there were no market birmingham has to support, at this moment, for it when wrought into cloth. the truth no fewer than twenty-four thousand four seems to be that our dealers have for many hundred and forty eight paupers ! years been accustomed to a trade so highly the bishop of lichfield and coventry, prosperous, and to so rapid a demand for as dean of durham, has transmitted to the their goods, that they cannot easily reconcile mayor of that city, . to be distributed themselves to any thing like moderate busi- amongst the poor, with large families, who ness. a friend on whom i called a few days do not receive parochial relief. , ago, in the iron trade told me that he had birth. at norton, near warwick, the lately received orders for the machinery of wife of r. roberts, of three children, all new mills: this does not look like a falling off in trade, and yet complaints are occa- died.] john richards, esq. of olton, . sionally to be heard; though, as i before westmoreland. observed, without any very obvious reason." died.] at orton, mrs. elizabeth bow there has been a general cessation of la- man, . bour lately upon the sheffield end of the wiltshire. intended turnpike road leading from thence a few years back the farmers of dauncey, to glossop, and ultimately to manchester, in wilts, let to the poor labourers of their in consequence of prices being demanded for parish who had large families, three acres of land considerably exceeding the original es- land, at iwo pounds per acre; and soon after- timate. it is now in contemplation to apply wards the late lord peterborough gratuit- for parliamentary aid to enabie the commis ously built a barn for them, where they sioners to divert the road from the entrance could thrash their corn; the consequence originally contemplated, and introduce it was, that those men had their names imme- through broad-lane. diately struck off the parish book; have a monument is erected near pontefract, brought up their families to industry and ho- to commernorate that important erent ever nesty, and all of them now cheerfully pay to memorable in british annals, the victory of the aged and infirm of the said parish their waterloo ; which forms a pleasing object to regular rates. the farmers declare that the the surrounding country. parish have saved hundreds by this plan. births.] the lady of e. h. hebdend, the gentlemen and farmers of great con esq. of scarborough, of a son.---at elmfield, merford, in the same county, are now pursui- near doncaster, the lady of the rev. henry ing a similar pian, by letting the same num- torre, of sledmere, of a son. ber of acres to the poor with jarge families, married.] at st. mary's church, be- and paying their taxes. each farmer allows verly, t. hutton, esq. capt. in the th dra- according to the extent of his farm. goon guards, to miss sarah gilby.---at births.] the lady of the rev. t. fox, overton, near york, r. d. ker, esq. of of fovant, of twins-at farleigh, the lady of greenock, to augusta, youngest daughter, the rev. t. heathcote of a daughter. at of the rev. c. buchannan, d.d.---r. w. wilton, the lady of john seagrim, jun., esq. green, esq. of dublin, to elizabeth, third married.) at devizes, john, second son dauchter of t. wilson, esg, of york. of w. dyne, esq. of lincoln's inn fields, to died.] mr. peake, of hull, .--at frances, youngest daughter of mr. fleicher, scarborough, the rev. j. kyte, .---at of devizes.---at nursling the rev. c. d. brompton. sarah, relictof the rev. g. wal- willaum, to margaret ann, daughter of the ker, f.r.s.---it toleshy-hall, in cleveland, rev. dr. lukin, jate of dean wells. t. rudd, caq. . --the rev mr. clough, died.] the rev. e. spencer, of wink- of morley. field rectory, near bradford.at leighton wales. house, jacintha, youngest daughter of t. it is related as a fact, that several thousand h. phillips, esq. of th at place.-at bishop- acres of waste land, which have been en- strow, mary, widow of the late col. g. mar- closed at a great expense within the last tin.-- the rev. h.c. manley, vicar of brad- four years in the coun'y of montgomery, ford.--at moira-place, salisbury, william have been allowed to hicome open again; smith, esq. . the fences torn down, and posts and rails .] scotland. destroyed, most probably burnt. similar struck the father and one of his sons, both circumstances have also taken place else- of whom instantly expired; another child where; the above can have happened from received so severe a shock that he lost an · no other possible cause than a grand error eye, and the rest of the family suffered very . at the outset, of attempting the culture of materially, though not dangerously happily land too poor for arable purposes, in course there is no account of any other destructive not returning even the expense of culture. effects of the storm. the father's name formerly, indeed, the labourers had a pre- was hugh thomas, for many years surveyor judice against the culture of wastes; but of the county bridges, that has long since nearly ceased, excepting birth.) at holywell, the lady of gen. when their interest in the new inclosures is birch reynardson, of a son. neglected, which mr. young and the best married.) at llavrhaiadr, the rey, j. , informed writers allow is too generally the jones, to miss norris, niece of richard case. wilding, esq. of llawrhaiadr hall, near potter's clay.--near the hulk in hills, denbigh. in flintshire, and within four miles of the died.] jane, the wife of matthew bayley, sea, some miners discovered, about two esq.-mrs. mary thomas, of swansea, . • years ago, a vast bed, of a substance said to -- richard jenkins, esq. of gwainkeel, near - be adapted for the manufacturing of earthen bridgend.- john jones, esq. of summer - ware without the addition of any other ma- hill, near wrexham.--the rev. lloyd - terial. it lies immediately under a stiff red jones, of ruabon, denbighshire, ,--at clay, and coals abound in the neighbour- abergaveny, j. morgan, esq.at wrex- hood. the miners and mr. bishop, of ham, mr. shepherd, . stafford, have taken a lease of the ground scotland. from the proprietor, lord grosvenor. a death of the esquimaur..on the th. specimen of the substance has been brought inst. died, at edinburgh, john sackehouse, • to london, but has not yet been analyzed. aged , a native of the west coast of green- near the same place also has been found a land. the esquimaux has occupied a con- hollow siliceous rock, abounding in orga- siderable share of the public attention, and nic impressions, which has been supposed his loss will be generally felt. he had alrea- likely to become a substitute for burrstone, dy rendered important services to tho coun- but it appears to be too brittle for this pur- try in the late expedition of discovery, and pose. great expectations were naturally formed of a poor man, a stranger, was last week the utility which he would prove on the ex- most furiously attacked by a boar, on the pedition about to sail for baffin's bay. the lanstephen road, near green castle, car- admiralty, with great liberality and judg- marthenshire, and dreadfully wounded. it ment, had directed the greatest pains to be i is said that having struck the boar, the taken in his further education, and he had • enraged animal turned upon him and fol- been several months in edinburgh with this · lowed him into the field, in which he had view, when he was seized with a violent in- sought refuse, threw him down, lacerated fiammation in the chest, which carried him his arm and leg in a shocking manner; and off in a few days. he was extremely docile, would, no doubt, have killed him on the and though rather slow in the attainment of spot, had not a gentleman's servant, who knowledge, he was industrious, zealous, was fortunately passing at the time, rescued and cheerful, and always grateful for the him from his perilous situation. this poor kindness and attention shewn to him. his man was taken into green castle house, amiable disposition and simple manners had where he was treated with great humanity; interested those who had opportunities of surgical assistance was procured for him, knowing him personally in a way that will and we are happy to state, he is now doing not soon be forgotten, to the public his well. we cannot but regret, that a penalty loss, te fear, is irreparable to his friends does not attach to the owners of hoars who it is doubly severe. just before his death, * suffer them to retain the formidable weapons the poor esquimaux said he knew he was of offence with which they are armed, and going to die; that his father and mother with which such frequent injury is inflicted, had died in the same way; and that his sis- as well on human beings, as on brute ani- ter, who was the last of all his relations, had mals. just appeared to him, and called him away! auf ul effects of a thunder storm.-the births.) at aberden, mrs. barclay, of • villiage of trawsfynydd, in the county of a daughter.--- at monteith, the lady of sir merioneth, was lately visited by a tre- w. maxwell, bart. of a son.---at edinburgh, mendous heavy thunder storm. the peals the lady of c. h basely, esq. of a son.... were terribly loud and frequent, and the the lady of sir r. dick, bart. of preston- · lightning extremely vivid. shortly after field, of a son---at leigh fort, the lady of the commencement of the storm, the electric lieut.-col walker, of a daughter.---at crai. fluid, entering the chimney of a cottage in livg ilouse, the lady of james paton, esq. of the village, where the whole of the family, a son.---at birkenbog,the lady of r.marquis, consisting of five, sat by the fire-side, esq. of a son. ireland. (april . married. at edinburgh, w. second timated at . several engines arrived son of the hon. m. fortescue, to isabel b. but too late to save the chapel. christie, of duric, fifeshire.-at car- births.) at monasterevan, the lady of donald, m. mc culloch, esq. of bulgray, to the rev. c. moore, of a daughter.-at miss elizabeth newham.--at drumsheugh dublin, the countess of longford, of a son. house, g. forbes, esq. to mary, eldest -at hollymount house, mayo, the lady of daughter of sir john hay, bart.--at annan, thomas spencer lindsey, esq. of a daugh- james ferguson, esq. io margaret lowther, ter. -at rochelle, near cork, the lady of of that place.- atkilgruston, capt. lindsay, william charles calow, esq. of a son. of balcarras, to miss ann grant, of the for- married.] the rev. wm. cleaver, eldest mer place.--at leith, capt. robert muckle, son of the archbishop of dublin, to mary, to elizabeth campbell, of leith. at the second daughter of sir digby mackworth, mance of carnock, the rev. peter cosens, bart.-at rathdowney, queen's county, to catherine, only daughter of the rev. a. capt. rankin, to sarah elizabeth, only thomson, of that place.-at glendonon, j. daughter of the rev. marcus monk, chap m. mackenbie, esq. to m. clarke. lain to his royal highness the prince re- died.] at edinburgh, mrs. m. rov- gent, e-richard smyth condon, esc. of land, widow of f. rowland, esq. late a cap- kilscannel-house, county of limerick, to tain in the th regt. of foot, .-w. mary, second daughter of major l. sana lindley, esq. of doncaster, .the rev. ders, of kilcarron, queen's county.-max- robert robertson, of ednam.---at westwell percy, esq. of crawduff, dear down- linton, alexander daziel, esq.--at dundee, patrick, to susannah, youngest daughter of col. j. crow ---at riccarton, james hay, mr. john m. bride, of mopeyland. john .---lady elizabeth boyle, daughter of barber, jun. esq. of plantation, lisburn, to the earl of glasgow---at arkleton, pear eliza sarah, only daughter of joseph nich- longholme, john jardine, esq. olson, esg. of seafield kilkeel. ireland, died.) sir roger palmer, bart. of bally- shannon at crumblin, mr. abraham covered at the nunnery, in ranelagh, which muirhead, .-atardmore, john geddes, entirely consumed the chapel of that in- esq.-at dublin, richard deace, esq. sur- stitution, also all the priest's vestments, com- geon and professor of anatomy. in tralee, munion plate, &c. . the damages are es. john busteed, esq.-in clonmel, e. kellet, esq. lieut. d. g. to readers and correspondents. the letter of veritas has been received ; but to notice the calumnies to which he adverte against the character of the late m. g. lewis, esq, would be, in some degree, to admit that they had emanated from a source sufficiently respectable to entite them to a serious reflection. we would, therefore, suggest that they he suffered to die in the unwholesome page which gave them existence, as carrying with them abundant evidence of their atrocity, to render them self-subverted, and as having proceeded from too despicable a quarter to merit contradiction or animadversion. the observations contained in the letter from godshill have been anticipated by seweral of the daily prints. we are already in possession of an able refutation of w. jenkin's objections to the newtonian system, which will appear next month. the « narcissus," who has written two copies of verses on the perusal of his own “ soft and enticing lays," will meet with no “ echo" in the pages of the new monthly magazine. our cambrian friend, t. r. has our thanks : occasional notices, similar to those he has forwarded, will be acceptable. a. r.-philo-graphicus-la-b. w.--s.---p---in our next. we have received several poetical pieces of real excellence, which shall be attended to as speeduy as our limits will permit. the verses of j.p. k. have much merit; they may probably be inserted in a future number: if not be has our best wishes. it is quite impossible for us to comply with such requests as those preferred in the letter from dunbar. we find our time sufficiently occupied, without transcribing from published works for the benefit of our correspondents. the manuscript of “ niglat” has been unfortunately mislaid, it is, however, recovered, and will certainly appear next month. we thank our friend at leeds, but we do not wish to break a spear with contemptible an antagonist. we are under the necerisity of postponing until our next publication, w.c.'s observa- tions on sir john leicester's splendid gallery of paintings, and on the superb collection of turner's drawings, on vies, by tickets, at the house of walter fawkes, esq. of farnley. among other articles imavoidably postponed for want of room, are, a memoir of the late mr. blagdon- --observations on campbell's specimens of british poets, and remarks on mş. mudie's grand series of national medals. j. gillet, princer, crown court, fleet street, london, the new monthly magazine, no. .) may i, . vol. xi. original communications. on tiie lipe and character op tion had imbued her with a taste for cleopatra. by madame la ba- magnificence, which subdued the imagina- ronne de stael holstein. tion; and, from her constant relations cleopatra, queen of egypt, was with greece, she had acquired the more the daughter of ptolemy xii.(auletes). potent charms of the language and se- by her father's will she became, at the ductions of that nation. cæsar was so age of seventeen, heiress to the throne, enchanted with her, that, on the follow- conjointly with her brother ptolemy ing day, he insisted that her brother xiii. to whom, according to the egyp- should divide the throne, and become tian custom, she was to be married. reconciled to her. the young prince being older than her brother, she was astonished to learn that cleopatra thought herself entitled to wield the had visited the palace of cæsar, and sceptre alone ; but the young king, in-, well knowing the means by which she stigated by his courtiers, attempted to had seduced her judge, he immediately exclude cleopatra from the throne ; and hastened to the city, declaring that he the princess was under the necessity of was betrayed. he thus excited an in- retiring to syria, where she levied an surrection, which cæsar was only ena- . army to march against, her brother. bled to quell, by proving to the people about this period, pompey was assas- that he had merely executed the will of sinated by order of ptolemy; and cæsar, ptolemy. but the eunuch pothipus, though he had little cause to regret be- whose plans were frustrated by this re- ing delivered froin so powerful an adver- conciliation, in concert with achilles, an sary, conceived the deepest hatred and egyptian general, secretly advanced contempt towards the egyptian prince. with a number of troops to surprise, cæsar possessed virtues and passions, cæsar, who was attended only by a which frequently carried him away even small force. though besieged in his from the views of his own interest; and palace, the dictator defended himself un- be succeeded in his enterprises rather til, by receiving a reinforcement from through genius than calculation. pto- syria, he defeated the egyptians. this jemy auletes had appointed the roman occasioned the death of ptolemy, who, people tutor to his children. cæsar, in from the mortification of this defeat, . is quality of dictator, assumed the drowned himself in the nile. then power of exercising every authority, and cæsar was enabled to crown cleopatra declared himself the arbiter of the dif- without opposition; he placed her on ferences existing between ptolemy and the throne, and having given her in cleopatra. the princess anxiously marriage to her younger brother, who wished to dispatch to alexandria some was then only eleven years of ago, he individual competent to take up her de. departed, though reluctantly, to subdue fence; bout cæsar advised her to proceed the remains of pompey's party. shortly thither herself without delay. fearing afterwards cleopatra was delivered of a lest slie might be recognised on entering son, whom she named cæsarion. on the city, slic requested apollodorus, the her return to rome (- years a. c.) friend in whom she reposed most confi- cæsar received her, together with her dence, to wrap hier up in a carpet, and youthful husband, in his own palace ; thus convey her upohserved into cæsar's le classed them among the friends of the chamber. by this bold stratagem she roman people, and placed golden statues won the heart of the conqueror. of cleopatra beside those of venus, in according to plutarch, appian of the temple which he erected to the god- alexandria, and dion cassius, cleopatra dess of love. these honors gave offence was not strikingly beautiful; but her to the romans. the queen of egypt talent and graee diffused so many charms shortly after returned to her own states, over her person, that it was impossible where, in order to become absolute miss not to admire her. she spoke several tress of the kingdom, she administered languares, possessed extensive general poison to ptolemv, who had, by that knowledge, and, above all, excelled in time, attained his fourteenth year. the art of pleasing. her oriental educa. when the death of cæsar gave rise new monthly mag.-no. , vol. xi. madame de stuel on the life and character of cleopatra. (may , to a new civil war in the roman em- the most refined pleasures, as well as pirc, cleopatra was accused of having the most igpoble amusements: she ac- aided brutus and cassius; and mark companied him in his hunting parties, antony, when on the point of departing played at dice, and rode through the for the parthian war, ordered her to streets with him to hear the language of proceed to cilicia to explain her conduct. the populace of alexandria, who were it would appear that cleopatra, on this celebrated for their talent for raillery oocasion, devoted her attention more to at length antony was obliged to quit the means of pleasing, than to her jus. egypt; his disputes with octavius called tification. she embarked on board a him back to italy, where the reconcilia- gilded vessel, fitted up with purple sails. tion of the two rivals restored momen- the queen hersclf, magnificently dressed, tary peace to the world, and antony reclined on a sopha near the stern, sur- married octavia, without ceasing to love rounded by a group of children, repre- cleopatra. the events which succeeded senting the loves: her women, all re- prevented him for several years from markable for their beauty, were attired visiting egypt; but after his unfortu- as nercids, and stationed on different pate expedition against the parthians, parts of the deck. a concert of tłutes about years a. c., in which he was and lyres made the air resound with en- on the point of experiencing the fate of chanting harmony; whilst the most fra- cresus, cleopatra proceeded in quest grant incense was burned in vases of of him to phænicia, where he had as- silver. thus, as venus rose from the sembled the wreck of his army, and the bosom of the ocean, cleopatra sailed up two lovers once more departed for thecydnus, to visit the conqueror of asia. egypt. forgetting all his vows to oc- the banks of the river were lined by tavia, all his duty towards his wife, an- an immense concourse of spectators, tony again fell a victim to intemperance, whom the music, the perfumes, and the and the caprice of cleopatra. wishing beauty of the queen, filled with admira- to entertain her with the spectacle of a tion. cleopatra landed at tarsus amidst triumph, and having by some stratagem, universal enthusiasm. antony, who was taken prisoner artabazus, king of ar- then sitting in judgment at the tribunal, menia, he presented him in chains be- surrounded by his lictors, ordered cleo- fore cleopatra. on this occasion he patra to be conducted before him; but gare a bauquet to the roman people this the queen begged permission to de- in the gymnasium, where he cansed cline, urging, in excuse, the fatigue she several thrones of gold to be erected, had encountered on her journey; at the two of which were elerated above the same time requesting that antony would rest for cleopatra and himself. he pro- himself partake of a banquet on board claimed cæsarion sovereign of egypt of her vessel. she entertained him and cyprus, conjointly with his mother; with the utmost magnificence; and, and, disposing of the kingdoms which when antony in his turn invited her, he might afterwards conquer, he named he made useless efforts to excel her in the states which were to be shared point of splendour. he was speedily among the children he had had by the seduced by her charms, and his passion queen. as cleopatra took a pride in for her was more violent than cæsar's, protecting learning, he conveyed to alex- for it occasioned his ruin. what must andria the rich library which eumenes ever be a subject of reproach to cleo- had collected at pergamus, consisting of patra is, that she emasculated the cha- nearly two hundred thousand volumes. racter of antony. though she evinced by these arrangements autony created greatness of mind under some circum- to himself many enemies at rome; au- stances of her life, yet she did not place gustus, in particular, irritated at the her own glory in the reputation of the powerful assistance which cleopatra object of lier choice; she invariably pre- afforded to the interests of his rival, de- ferred herself to her lover, which, in a clared war against her in an assembly woman, is always a bad calculation, as of the people. thus the name of a well as an unworthy sentiment. an- woman resounded throughout the vast tony renounced, for the meanwhile, the empire of the romans. every thing projected expedition against the par- seomed to announce a civil war, and thians, and followed her to egypt, where antony accordingly assembled an army they spent the winter in a continued and quitted egypt.' series of entertainments. conforming cleopatra followed him to greece. to the taste of mark antony, the daugh- athens granted the highest honors to ter of the ptolemies shared with him her; and antony prided himself in ap- : .] madame de stael on the life and character of cleopatra. pearing before the princess as a citizen which would occasion death with least of athens, to present to her the bo- pain. there were, among the ancients, inage of its inhabitants. horace calls many instances of this union of serious- • cleopatra a fatal prodigy. her ascend- ness and frivolity, which made them vo- ancy over antony was absolute, and she luptuously enjoy existence whilst they even rendered it subservient to the gra- prepared for death. as they had no tification of her hateful passions, by put. hopes beyond the grave, they exhausted ting to death at ephesus her sister the cup of life without endeavouring to arsinöe, of whom she was jealous. yet prepare, by meditation, for the immor- antony would never marry her, either tality of the soul. with cleopatra, co- because he could not resolve to sacrifice quetry was a grand art, consisting of all his wife octavia, who was a mediating the resources of policy, royal magnifi- angel between him and octavius, or be- cence, and poetic cultivation of mind. cause he did not wish to incur the ani. all the resolution she possessed was madversions of the romans, who could summoned in the dangers she encoun- not endure that one of their citizens tered through her desire to please ; she should marry a foreigner. some of an- exposed herself to love, as a man would tony's letters are preserved, in which he to the perils of war, and, like an intrepid speaks lightly of his connection with general, she prepared to die if fortune cleopatra, hoping to conceal, by feign- should not favour her hazardous des- ed indifference, the power she really tiny. some historians assert that cleo- possessed orer him. at length the patra was in secret negotiation with oc- day arrived when that fatal power tavius, and that she betrayed antony. became manifest, namely: at the battle - it is impossible to imagine that a woman of actium, between mark antony and who could entirely dispose of a character octavius cæsar, when, to use the lan- so devoted as that of antony, could wish guage of propertius, “ the forces of the to see him replaced by the subtle octa- universe contended against each other." vius; though it is probable she sought · cleopatra, accustoined to the luxuri. to bring about a reconciliation with the ous manners of the east, was unable to conqueror. it would bave been more brave the perils of war; and though she noble to have wished for none; but she still possessed sufficient energy to put a had children, and was anxious to pre- period to her existence, yet terror over- serve the throne for them; besides, the came her in the scene of conflict. she character of cleopatra was personal, and ordered her vessel to be put ashore, and she rendered subservient to her ambi- the sixty egyptian gallies of the fleet tion all the gifts with which nature had immediately sailed after her. on seeing endowed her. it is well kpown from this, antony could not refrain from what motives she first became attached following her; he went on board her to julius cæsar. she next gained to vessel, but he was no sooner there, than, her interest sextus pompey, who was overwhelmed with shame and regret, for a short time master of the sea. she he placed himself near the helm, covered exerted every effort to please mark au- his face with his hands, and was three tony, and, from his weakness she obtain - days without addressing a single word ed all. had she found the same dispo- to her for whom he had sacrificed all. sitions in octavius, it is probable she however, on his arrival at alexandria, would not have resolved to die by her he again participated in all the amuse own hand. she conceived the gigantic ments which cleopatra prepared for enterprize of conveying her ships by him. they and their friends were land across the isthmus of suez to the termed the inimitable band of life ; but arabian gulf, whence she might embark that title was soon changed for a greek for india; some of her vessels reached term, signifying those who are resolved the destined point, but they were imme- to die altogether, nediately burnt by the arabians. cleopatra well knew the situation of meanwhile octavius advanced to antony, and the increasing success of egypt by the way of syria. cleopatra octavius banished all illusion with re- built near the temple of isis, at alexan- spect to the future. whilst, therefore, dria, a monument, in which she con- she was passing her life amidst festivities, cealed her treasure, and which she in. and lavishing on mark antony all the tended should become her tomb. the enjoyments of luxury and the fine arts, egyptian sovereigns wished to contend she was making experiments of the effect against death, by preparing, in this of various poisons on animals, and even world, an almost eternal asylum for their on her slaves, in order to ascertain ashes. when antony was defeated in madame de stael on the life and character of cleopatra. (may , his last battle with octavius, cleopatra what cæsar had acquired by enterprize. immured herself in the edifice which con- octavius spent some time in conversa- tained all her riches, and circulated a tion with cleopatra ; but neither her report of her death, in order that an- entreaties nor her grace could avert the tony's love for her might no longer at cruel designs he had formed against her. tach him to life. on hearing this fatal he, however, sought to disguise them ; news antony stabbed himself; but as and she, on her part, carefully conccaled he did not immediately expire, he had her resolution of dying: it is therefore time to learn that cleopatra still lived, impossible that they could be pleasing to and he ordered his attendants to convey each other, since they were mutually him to the asylum she had chosen. but practising deceit. cleopatra was an egotist even in the cleopatra, being informed tha: octa- tomb, and she would not suffer the doors vius intended to carry her away with to be opened lest the satellites of octa- him in a few days, requested permission vius might force an entrance; and with to take a last farewell of the remains of the assistance of her women she con- antony. she threw herself on his tonsb, trived to introduce the dying antony at and pressing to her bosom the stone the window. she bestowed on him the which covered his ashes, she uttered tbe tenderest care ; and of these two illus. following words, which are preserved by trious, but unhappy lovers, one at least plutarch :-“ alas! my dearest antony, had the happiness of dying in the arms i once performed your funeral honours of the other. octavius was, above all with free hands, but now i am a pri- things, desirous of taking cleopatra pri- soner; satellites watch oyer me and pre- soner, that she might follow his trium- vent me from dying, in order that this phal car on his arrival at rome. by captive form may be exhibited in the some stratagem bis soldiers at length triumphal procession which octavius has succeeded in entering the monument to prepared to celebrate your defeat; which she had retired. she attempted henceforth hope for no funeral honour's, to kill herself, but was prevented by the these are the last that cleopatra can be- roman soldiers, who watched over her stow. whilst we both lived, nothing on with barbarous vigilance. she entreated earth had power to separate us; but that octavius cæsar would permit her to after death we are in danger of making render funeral honours to mark antony: a sad exchange of sepulchres. you, he granted her request. to render who were a roman citizen, have found them magnificent, she exhausted all her a grave in alexandria; whilst i, un- remaining treasures, and sacrificed the happy queen, must find one in your dearest of all, her beauty, for she cover- country. but if the gods of your nation ed her face and bosom with wounds have not forsaken you as mine have whilst lamenting over the tomb of an- done, let me find an asylum in your tony. in this situation she was visited tomb, that i may thus escape the dis- by octavius; she was stretched on a grace which is prepared for me. oh ! couch, the bloom bad forsaken her receive me, dearest antony! for of all cheeks, and her lips were pallid and the misfortunes i have endured, tbe trembling. on beholding the sovereign greatest is separation from you." her of the world she recollected the great prayer was heard. she obtained per- cæsar, who had been enslaved by her mission to have some flowers conveyed charms, whilst her presence revived the to her, among wbich an asp was con- same recollection in the mind of his suc- cealed, and the sting of the reptile at cessor. once freed her from life and the outrage there are some women in whom the which the pride of octavius had pre- desire of pleasing outlives every other pared for her. her women, ira and passion. it is probable that cleopatra charmion, stabbed themselves and died wished to captivate octavius, notwith- with her. among the ancients, an standing her regret for the loss of an- illustrious individual seldom expired tony. she was a woman neither entirely alone; the attachment of servauts to- sincere nor entirely artful; a mixture of wards their masters thréw a lustre over tenderness and vanity gave her a two- slavery, by giving it the character of fold character, like all who are power- devotedness. cleopatra died at the age fully agitated by the passions of life. be of thirty-nine, having reigned twenty- this as it may, the charms of cleopatra two years, and fourteen with antony. made no impression on octavius; there octavius caused an image of cleopatra, was nothing of an involuntary nature in with an asp on her arm, to be carried in his mind, and be maintained by prudence his triumph; but he allowed her to be .) ... newlonian theory. ! : interred with antony, and perhaps this plainest manner consistent with the sub-". act of delicate piety appeased the manes ject, premising that, from the tenor of of his unfortunate enemies. w.ji's communication, i shall consider' him as admitting every phenomenon of newtonian theory. planetary motion described in the new- mr. editor, tonian theory, he merely denying that it has been so much the fashion of these phenomena are caused by the cen. late to attack the newtonian system, tripetal and centrifugal forces, or rather that, like the logierian controversy in his own words - the plain infer. amongst the flats and sharps, i suppose ence is, the existence of centrifugal force we shall soon have newtonian buttons, and the sun's attraction absolutely pre- and philippian buttons, to distinguish cludes elliptical motion; and the exist- the disciples of the knight of the last ence of elliptical motion absolutely pre- and the knight of the present century, cludes the existence of centrifugal force, the sir isaac, and the sir richard, or sir and of the sun's attraction." philip, by whicherer name the latter to investigate this dilemma i presume ought to be designated. the latter part is that which i have to this doughty civic chevalier seems in- encounter; and the elliptical motion, deed to have found what is vulgarly with all its mathematical consequences, termed “ a mare's nest,” in some work being established by astronomical facts upon spherics or projectiles, which has and the constant daily fulfilment of as- puzzled himself so that he must endeavour tronomical calculations, and indeed evi- to puzzle all mankind likewise; but as there dently admitted by w.j. (for he calls are some a little wiser, they cannot help for a defence of gravity) i now stand laughing to see him astride upon a curve, forward in defence of attraction and like iris on a rainbow, and spluttering gravity, and of the application of centri- about his ordinates, semi-ordinates, fugal and centripetal forces to explain forces, &c. like the projected shell whose the phenomena of the planetary orbits; course he is describing, and like which but, for the sake of simplicity, confining also he will burst and dissipate in smoke, my reasoning to that of the earth, with if there is fire enough in either end of its alterations of absolute distance, its ac- him, his head or his heels, to kindle the celerations and retardations of inotion fuse. with differences of mean and apparent he indeed shuts his eyes to every fact time, &c. i shall not quarrel with w. connected with the doctrine of gravita- j. about the word gravity ; but i must tion but one, and attacks the complicated maintain the fact, that in all material system of the solar theory by an insulat- bodies which come under the immediate ed experiment of a body projected from operation of our senses, there is a same- the earth's surface, and returning again thing which makes them approach cach to that surface--a proceeding so palpably other under particular circunstances, absurd, that he is really unanswerable when different names are given to it. upon any principle of philosophical rea- newton calls it gravity. since his day, soning, or even of coinmon sense. hin we see it under peculiar modifications i shall therefore leave to those who can called electric attraction, chemical atti- be bewildered or benighted with his va nity, &c. garies, for as he is unanswerable so are for instance, two pieces of cork, of they likewise inconvinceable; not so uncqual sizes, if put into a vessel of still vour new correspondent w. jenkins, water, will either approach each other (no. , p. ; march ), the towards the centre, or recede from each plausibility of whose objections to the other towards the sides, as they may be newtonian explanation of the facts originally placed nearer to or further connected with the elliptical orbits of from each other. here is motion, with- the planets round the sun, may stagger, out any apparent artificiul cause; we at first sight, even those conversant with may therefore designäte' that power, ; astronomical reasoning, and has evi- which is only known by its effects, inhe- dently had that effect upon himself, so rent ; in one case, moving the cork hall. , that i feel myself called upon, merely as towards each other, as if repelled by the an individual, and not as a professed sides, in the other, moring them from astronomer, to investigate luis objec- each other as if attracted by the sides, tions and endeavour to refute them. and thus presenting the phenomena of this, however, will require some close attraction and repulsion, considered by reasoning; but i shall attempt it in the newton as the effects of uruvitution,.. · nerotonian theory. may , which combines in itself the power of yoke nine of them to a cart to draw it attracting and of being attracted. from hyde park corner to brentford, the same principle appears to have yoking the other three so as to draw in operated in the experiments tried upon an opposite direction, then it can only the plummet near den nevis, in scot- advance with a power of six. if i move land. when suspended in the centre of another horse behind, it will advance au inmense plain, it liung perpendicular with a power of five. if i put six be- to the horizontal line determined by a bind, the cart will most certainly stand spirit level. when brought near to the still; but if the experiment should be mountain, it deviated from that line, tried upon a hilly road, and the equaliza- diverging from the perpendicular to- tion of the horses, the tiro artificial wards the momtain. powers, should take place just after turc. these are not insulated faets, at war ing the brow of an eminence, then the with all other natural phenomena like cart will descend, notwithstanding the sir richard's misapplication of the pro- equality of artificial forces. it will de- jectile curve, bui are really in unison scend, not by the application or accurs. with all hydrostati, hivdraulic, electric, tion of a new power, but by its relative magnetic, galvanic, and chemical expe- position to the earth's surface allowing riments, which have hitherto been tried; an inherent existing power to change its and they may, therefore, be applied by a line of action, which pointed directly to fair analogy to the material objects in the earth's centre on the lerel road: the heavens, that are visible to our eyes, the centre of gravity of the cart being though not absolutely cognizable by our then in the centre of motion, but now other xenses (with the exception of the thrown out of that point on the slope of sun's heat) provided they will stand the the hill. just, in fact, as a coach with test of mathematical investigation. out horses will stand still at the ele- thus far the way is cleared. a power plant and castle, but will descend to- is shewn to exist in the matter of this wards brighton, if placed upon the earth, in addition to other powers which southern face of reigate hill! we know experimentally to be inherent but the truth of the first axiom, in or existent in that matter, such as its such a case, does not prove its applica- capability of receiving motion in various bility to the earth's motion ; for that is directions, the retardation or accelera- not in a right line bat circular or ellip- tion, and the stoppage of that motion, tical ; not with two powers drawing al- the tendency to fix from the centre of ways in direct opposition, both of which motion when its direction is circular, are urlificial, but with one inherent, the together with all the varieties of curves, centripetal, the other artificial, the cen- or lives between a right line and the trifugal, as i shall presently demon- segment of a circle. stratc; not subject to two opposite the inferences drawn from these facts motions only, but acted on by three- newton considers as laws. he applies the centripetal, which is inherent-the them as universal laws to the illustration projectile, which is perhaps inherent, of prored astronomical phenomena. let perhaps the result of absolute shape and us now see how far they are impugned density;*_and the centrifugal, resulting by w. j.'s “ arguments;"- but first let from the projectile, and artificial there. us examine those arguments, to see if fore most indubitably. they are correctly put; for, if they do but the whole of w. j.'s objections, pot embrace the whole facts, if the facts in his four arioms, are founded upon the omitted are in opposition to their tenor, consideration of two motions only, the then the inferences and dilemmas drawn centripetal and centrifugal, the projectile from the must fall to the ground, and being left out of the account; when in nothing will remain for me to do but to fact the centrifugal cannot exist until explain matbematically the newtonian the projectile puts it in action, or creates principle and its mode of action. it, increasing or diminishing according the first position, that “ there can be no progression from inferiority, without • let w. j. put a lemon or an orange in arriving at a point of equality," is per- a vase of water, placing it under the receiver fectly true, if applied to a body moving of an air-pump, the fruit remaining at rest. in a richt line on the earth's surface, and let him exhaust and admit the air alter- impelled in opposite directions by two nately, and he will see the fruit ascend and artificial forces. thus, if i have twelve descend, and acquire a motion on its axis horses of equal power and speed, and absolutely rotatory in regard to itself, newtoniun theory. (may , the segment of circle a m, and at last fly the mean equinoctial distance, would be to the sun, which it does not do. the radius. it follows, then, that if both the cen- but the earth moves in a curve witbin tripetal and centrifugal forces existed, that circle; and it is evident, therefore, and were equal at starting, that equality that the centripetal still predomipates, did not continue ; and it also follows, until it arrives at p, when it is in peri- that if they existed and were unequol, helion, or the winter solstice, being that precise inoquality could not con. then nearest to the sun, as s pis shorter tinuc. than si. but here, by the newtonian again, if neither centripetal nor cen- theory, the centripetal and centrifugal trifugal forces existed at starting, then, forces are equal. here also is the point though the centrifugal would evidently of il'. j.'s objeclion, who says, that now be generated by the projectile, agreeable being equal (and denying any possible to the newtonian theory, and as w.j. increase or superiority of centrifugal may feel, by swinging a musket ball over centripetal) they must move in a round his head at the end of a sling, circle. but in what circle ? why in the there is no known operation of nature arch of a circle p q, within the ellipsis, or property of matter that would gene- of which s p is the diameter, and conse- rate a centripetal force, which we must quently if q is continued until it reaches consequently either allow to be inherent, the equinoctial diameter e, it would or deny its existence ; but that a centri. fall considerably within the point e, or petal force, or something equivalent to the vernal eqninox, and so come nearer it, does exist, is evident from the earth to the sun, turning the ellipsis into a being retained within the circle a m in circle, which would make the aphelion all parts of its orbit (supposing amn to and perihelion distances ecuali but the be completed) though sometimes ap- earth does move in an ellipsis, and not proaching to, and sometimes receding in a circle, as w. j. acknowledges (i be- from, that imaginary circle. lieve) and as astronomical facts and cal- here then starts the newtonian culations prore; for the rapid increase theory, which i shall exemplify by the of the earth's motion, and the increase preconceived figure in as few words as of centrifugal force from i to p are esta- possible. blished, and can be accounted for upon the carth at a, and at rest, pos- the elliptical theory; and as facts prove sesses a centripetal force increasing or that the earth does not proceed in the diminishing as it approaches or recedes dotted circle of equality p q, but in a from the sun. it receivas a projectile curve beyond it, p e, constantly reced- motion, and proceeds along the portion ing from the dotted arch p q, until it of the ellipsis a i, acquiring a centri- reaches e the vernal equinox, so does fugal force in its progress, which centri- the newtonian theory say, that at p the fugal force increases from nothing to a centrifugal force, having a ratio of in- certain sum at i. in the mean time the crease from a to p beyond the ratio of centripctal force increases, for $ i is centripetal, there equals it. it is evi- shorter than sa, and of course the dent, also, that the centrifugal must now earth, now in its autumnal equinox, is begin to surpass the centripetal, because nearer to the sun than when it was at the line of actual motion diverges be- a, the apholion, or summer solstice. it yond the dotted circle: but not because is evident, also, that the centrifugal force they both go on increasing, as w. j.'s has increased in a greater ratio than the objections argue, but because they both centripetal has done, because the rapi- begin to diminish in an inverse ratio to dity of the revolving motion has been their increase from a to p. gradually increasing from a to i in a thus the earth moving from p to e greater proportion than the absolute di- increases its distance (and loses a portion minution of distance of the earth and of its centripetal force, or, in other sun, which gradual increase of rapidity words, the sun's attraction diminishes) is proved by the established facts of the its increased distance proceeding from equation of time. the orbicular motion and centrifugal but still the centripetal and centri- force ; which latter force being equal to fugal forces are not equal at i; for if - they were, and continued so, the earth * i say nothing at present of the vector would move, as w. j. himself objects, in radius, or radius of motion always changing a circle ; but in what circle ?- why in in length, in various parts of the orbit, but the dotted circle already directed, from always going over equal spaces in equal i towards p; a circle of which s i, or times, by the law of kepler. .] tour of the archdukes john and lewis, in the years - . the centripetal at p, and not diminish- in the orbit the earth is, or was first put ing so rapidly as the centripetal, aided into motion, the vector radius there by the increased but decreasing momen- must be equal to the longer apsis or tum, now acquires a relative superio- aphelion distance that in proceeding rity, though in a state of actual decrease. to the perihelion it acquires an accele- · that the centripetal forte diminishes rating velocity and accelerating momen- more rapidly froin p to e, than it in- tum, which act with the centripetal créased from a to i, is mathematically force until the inoment of equality, when dernonstrable by the measurement of the the projectile force, still acting in a tan- vector radius. that the centrifugal does gent to the line of motion, causes the not decrease so rapidly in ratio froin p accelerated momentum to act with the to e as it increased from a to i, but centrifugal force, the vector radius aug- only in the inverse ratio from i to p, is menting and forming an obtusé angle also demonstrable from the figure and with the direction of motion, decompos- from equation of time. . ing the force of gravity, and continually • hence the centrifugal force at esnr- diminishing in velocity and momentum passes the centripetal, just as much as until it reaches the aphelion, when they the centripetal surpassed it at i ; but are at a minimum, and its course begins both in a less quantity of actual power anew. i must also add, that w. j.'s ob- than they possessed at p, where they jection respecting the sum total of cen- were equal. trifugal force at the perihelion is incor- hence the earth ascending from the rectly put. though the centrifugal vernal equinox to the summer solstice, force increases from aphelion to equality or aphelion at a, instead of proceeding at perihelion, in the ratio of a shorten- in a dotted circle, of which s eis the ing radius, still there is a surplus force radius, is carried by centrifugal force and acting on the earth, and now at its max- momentum beyond it. but the centri- imum, being the increased momentum petal force still diminishes, as does also from accelerated velocity, added to the the centrifugal; with this remarkable original projectile impetus, sufficient difference, howerer, that as the ratio of fully to the theory, without supposing acquired centrifugal increase wasgreatest the generation of any nero ceternal im- from a to p, so that it overtook the cen- pulse. yours, l. tripetal, its decrease is now the greatest, "and at a it again becomes a minimum. journal op a tour in england in it has indeed been objected, that if from ms. notes of thb even a small portion of centrifugal force archdukes john and lewis op remains at a, after the first revolution, austria. that would increase from year to year, ( continued from p. , vol. x.) and hence the distance from the sun from holyrood house we were would annually increase from the accu- taken to the register office, where the mulation of centrifugal powers, nay, publie and family archives of scotland that the centrifugal would overtake the are preserved. this establishment pre- centripetal sooner in the orbit .every vents many lawsuits, by the careful pre- year; with other extraordinary pieno. servation of all family writings. the mena, which would indubitably be the most ancient of tie documents here is case, if the earth and sun were the only of the year , and of the reign of bodies in the system. but when we re- king david. an aged woman, who un- colleet that there are several others, all derstands how to render old faded manu- moving in unequal ellipses, or orbits of scripts legible, is employed for that pur- different eccentricities, so that the sun's pose in this office. actual place, as forming one elliptical w e viewed st. george's church, centre of each orbit, is actually a mean which is built in the greek style, and of the whole, that difficulty vanishes; ascended into the lantern of the dome, the apprehended irregularities of one from which there is an extensive pro- planet being corrected by the gradual spect over the city and the surrounding and constant correction of the whole country, as far as the sea. system, on the th of december we visited the * i must again repeat that the new buildings where the scotch parliament tonian theory does not suppose the met before the union ; it is used at pre- earth, or comet, to approach the sun sent for the sittings of the courts of after equality of centripetal and centri. "justice. the courts happened to be fugal forces. on the contrary, it proves' sitting that day, and a place was given incontestably, that from whatever point us near the judges; though i did not 'new monthly mag.–no. . vol. xi. tour of the archdukes john and lewis, in the years - . (may , understand what was said, i perceived &c. the object of this society, whose that the mode of proceeding was like labours are expinently successful, is the that in england, which has been imitat- improvement of agriculture, and the ed in france. in another hall we found breeding of cattle, the cultivation of the court of exchequer assembled. it waste lands, the encouragement of use- decides on causes between the crown ful inventions, by the distribution of and private individuals. the case then premiums and other rewards. another before it was that of a brewer, who af- society, to promote instruction in chris. firmed, that by means of a new inven- tianity, was founded in . it re- tion he could make use of the spirituous ceives . per annum from the king, parts, which, during the cooling of the and many schools are supported by it. beer, evaporate in the air and are lost. we made a little excursion to the town his idea was to collect these parts in a of leith, distant about two english pipe, where they should be condensed miles from edinburgh. the way to it like common brandy. the royal officers, is along an uncommonly fine, broad, on their side, made objections to this, paved road, which has an almost unin- affirming that some fraud upon the re- terrupted row of houses on both sides of venue might be intended. it, so that you hardly think that you are we were shown the library of the in another town when you arrive at counsellors, which is in a handsome leith. there is the old harbour, and room, and had not been long established. they are busy in forming a new one. another library, belonging to the law. the first is at the mouth of the little yers, * consists of , volumes. it river leith ; but it is too confined, and contains the best ancient and modern is dry at low water ; the new one will works, a variety of manuscripts, and a consist of a row of docks, sereral of complete collection of documents rela which are completed. tive to the history of the country; the we saw large three-masted vessels, oldest of these last is of the year ; which go to greenland on the whale the earlier ones are said to have been fishery. they are distinguished by the lost in the passage to england by sea. strength with which they are built, and we saw among them a letter written by the covering of iron on the bows, to by mary queen of scots, while she was resist the masses of ice. they sail every in france, to her mother; the hand- year, in march, to greenland or new- writing and the style were good for that foundland. the fishery is not always time. successful, and these enterprises are the bettering-house, or house of often attended with loss. correction, is on a hill, called calton leith is defended by some batteries, hill, and is one of the best ordered esta- but they are not very formidable. dur- blishments of the kind that we have seen. ing the american war paul jones sailed on the same hill there is a monument in into the river with three armed vessels, honour of nelson. and spread terror as far as edinburgh. on the th of december we began our leith possesses several manufactories ; daily rounds with visiting the high the principal branch of its industry is school, in which young people of linen. the town is in the period of its all ranks receive preparatory instruction. increase, and had already attained a high the school has five classes. the boys degree of prosperity, when several of its go through thc lower classes in four merchants made great speculations in years, under four teachers or profes- colonial goods to the continent; the sors. in the fifth they receive the pre- turn of political affairs disappointed their paratory instruction immediately previ- hopes, so that several of these houses ous to being sent to college. the became bankrupt; and while we were branches of learning taught there are there, one of them, the only one who reading, writing, latin and greek, geo- had commercial relations with the east graphy, history, and mathematics. the indies, declared itself insolvent in the methods of instruction seem to be sum of , . sterling. good. we returned to edinburgh by the one of the most useful institutions of same road, and visited, on the way, a the city of edinburgh is the highland great manufactory for spinning cotton society of scotland, which has a presi- and hemp, which is put in motion by a dent, four vice-presidents, and members steam-engine. the botanic-garden, of all ranks of society, nobles, merchants, which we saw after our return, is nei- ther large, nor, as it appeared to us, well the advocates' library.-ed. kept. there are in edinburgh several .] tour of the archdukes john and lewis, in the years - . ale breweries, many manufactories of ceives the supplies from five springs. sal volatile, sal ammoniae, &c. the city when these springs flow abundantly, it is supposed to have received its name furnishes seven hogsheads per minute, or from a castle which a saxon prince, , hogsheads daily. the water is named edwin, had built here in the year conducted by many pipes into a second , and which was called edwinburgh. reservoir upon the castle hill. this is this city will at a future period cer- the highest part of the city, but it is tainly become one of the most beautiful twenty four feet below the level of the cities in great britain. its situation is first reservoir. the second is ) feet uncommonly favourable, on an eminence long, feet broad, and feet deep. near the sea, and combines advantages the churches in the city are hand- of every kind. the new town, which some, and built in a good style. st, was built after a regular plan, is every andrew's church has a chime of bells thing that can be wished in respect to which plays on sundays; but as this kind the architecture both of the public and of music is not at all liked in scotland, private buildings. the contrast between the rent of the houses near the church the old and the new town is striking: has declined since the latter had its the houses of the former are black, chime of bells. the new catholic church crowded together, and the streets be- is very pretty. the highlanders have tween them, in part, no more than from a church here, in which divine service is six to ten feet broad. the two towns performed in their own language. are joined by a handsome bridge, which of the predominant religion (the pres- was begun in , and finished in . byterian) there are sixteen churches; the building of the new town did not besides which there are two catholic, one begin till the year ; before which episcopal, seventeen dissenters', and one time there was not a trace of it. ten quaker's church (a meeting-house). the handsome streets, parallel to each other, clergy consist of twenty-eight clergymen now traverse the city on its whole of the established church, who are paid length from east to west. queen- by their parishioners. besides the street is a hundred feet broad, and has parish churches, there are also what are only one row of houses, the inhabitants called chapels of ease, the preachers in of which enjoy the most beautiful pro- which, like those of the dissenters, are spect towards the north, over the county chiefly paid out of the profits arising of fife, and the whole course of the firth from letting the pews. of forth. this advantage renders the the presbyterian (calvinistical) church street a very agroeable promenade in predominant in scotland is under four summer. st. george's-street is a hun ecclesiastical authorities. the kirk ses- dred and ten feet broad, and terminates sion (la session d'eylise), the presbyte- at each end in a fine square. princess- ries ( presbytériens), the synod, and the street, along the fosse, serves as a win- general assembly. in all ecclesiastical ter promenade. its broad foot pave- matters an appeal lies from the session ment is frequently crowded with walkers. to the presbyteries, from them to the the fine street leading to leith is a third synod, and from the synod to the ge- very agreeable promenade. neral assembly. this latter stands in the architecture of the houses in the the same relation to the inferior autho- new town agrees with that usual in rities, as the house of lords to the infe- london: the kitchens are below ground, rior tribunals of the kingdom. the ap- and receive their light from a grated probation of the sovereign is not indis- window looking towards the street; but pensably necessary in scotland to the they are more spacious and comfortable. validity of the ordinances which the ge- the streets of the new town have neral asscmbly issues from time to time. raised pavements on both sides for the it meets once a year. a royal commis- foot passengers, and are paved with ba- sioper generally arranges with the pre- saltic stones, which are found in abund. sident, who is called the moderator, the ance near arthur's seat. time of its being summoned, and it is on the north of queen-street a new always dissolved by the former in the town is building, which might be called king's name. the king bears in this a third edinburgh. three principal, assembly the title of head of the church. and some inferior streets are already the inns at edinburgh are good and finished, and the houses are inhabited as cleanly. the king's hotel in princess- fast as they can be finished. edinburgh street, where we lodged, is particularly is supplied with water from a reservoir to be recommended for its fine situation. four miles from the city, and which re- besides the hotels and public-houses, tour of the archdukes john and lewis, in the years - . may , there are here houses which bear the edinburgh, and which in manufactur- mod 't nanie of oyster-cellars; you find ing towns always implies an increasing there at all times oysters, porter, punch, demand for the productions of their in- and supper, when they are ordered. dustry, cannot proceed from that cause among the pastimes or amusements here, where there are yo manufactories, of the city, the public promenades de. the reason assigned to us was, that all serve to be first mentioned, as they are natives of scotland who have acquired an amusement more or less in vogue all property, whether in the army or in over england. we have already men- trade, or in america, buy land and build tioned some of them : there is another houses here, to pass the rest of their on the south side of the city; it is a mile days in repose. if this city cannot boast and a half long, and is called meadows, of its trade and manufactures, it possesses or hope's pool, because a person of the the most celebrated men of scotland, name of hope, about the beginning of who are equally distinguished by their the eighteenth century, had a marshy number, their knowledge, and their eru. spot called south loch drained and con- dition. seven mail coaches go every verted into a fine promenade ; its oval day from edinburgh to all parts of centre is planted round with avenues of great britain, and stage-coaches. troes. the theatre, which we did not charles i. established the post between see, is, we are told, inconsiderable. london and edinburgh in . t'he near leith there is a place which is annual revenue of the post-office is esti- used for horse-racing; notwithstanding mated at , . sterling. the very unfavourable sandy soil, it is edinburgh has two banks. at the much resorted to in the summer time. time of their foundation, scotland did corri's room, as it is called, is a place for not possess a million of coin in circula- concerts, and sometimes used for feats tion, and its trade was very inconsider- of tumbling and horsemanship, and even able. the bank gave every person a as a theatre. the new sect of mr. hal- certain credit who could bring two land- dane has also a chapel here. the as- owners as sureties; or, as we say, open- sembly rooms are resorted to once a ed him an account on its books. all mer- week by the beau monde, for cards and chants and others who had money tran- dancing. sactions found it advantageous to have the concert-hall, built in , is at an account with the banks of edinburgh. present a freemason's lodge. the merchant pays the manufacturer in the royal company of archers con- bank-notes, with which the latter pays sists of about a thousand members, the landholder for his produce, and which many of whom belong to the first fami- return to the merchant to be employed lies of scotland. part of them meet in balancing his accounts, or in reparing every week at edinburgh to practise the sums advanced him by the bank. archery. every year there is a grand thus this establishment serves to sup. assembly, on which occasion five princi- port the whole commercial intercourse pal prizes are distributed. the first, or of scotland. the manufactures of total prize, remains the perpetual pro: glasgow were doubled in fifteen years perty of him who gains it; three others after its foundation : and in the fifty consist of silver arrows, which were for years that have since elapsed, the trade merly presented to the society by dif- of scotland has increased tepfold. ferent cities ; the fifth is a silver punch one of these banks is called the scotch bowl. the winner keeps these only till bank; it was founded by act of parlia. the next annual meeting, when he gives ment in , with a capital of , . then back, and hangs on a medal, with sterling. it was necessary to have . on inscription, at pleasure. another in the bank to have a seat at the board. society is that of the golfers. their the governor was obliged to hare amusement consists in striking a ball in , in it, the vice-governor .. the open air. the place designed for and each bank director . in the this game is inclosed, and at certain dis year an act of parliament allowed fances holes are made. he who strikes the capital to be doubled, and since that the ball into all these holes with the time the officers of the bank inust pos- smallest number of strokes wins the sess double the above-mentioned sums, game. to prevent abuses, it was ordered that the population of edinburgh amount- no notes should be issued of lower value ed in the year to , souls; in than one pound. the second bank is the vcar it had increased to , . called the royal bank : it was founded the naraber of new houses built in in . though there is an exchange . notices illustrative of cambrian history and antiquities. for the use of the merchants, they, how- through the highlands by means of high ever, for the most part, transact their roads and bridges. the nobility offered business according to ancient custom, to take a part in the execution of the walking backwards and forwards in the work; but as an inequitable distribution street. of the burdens was apprehended, an intellectual improvement has made act of parliament was obtained, accord- great progress in scotland, and is united ing to which every body is taxed in with a high degree of hospitality. the proportion to the advantages which he scotch are obliging and benevolent; derives. they possess an open character and a the caledonian canal intersects the more lively disposition than their neigh- country from east to west, in the same bours. knowledge of languages and the direction as the forth and clyde canal. fine arts are to be met with in all ranks. it commences near inverness eastward, they are well acquainted with the af- follows the valley to loch ness, with fairs of europe, and the state of sciences which it is connected, passes by fort on the continent. we met with several augustus, touches loch eroch and loch persons who understood and spoke the lochy, intersects a little valley dear german language. their customs and fort william, and runs thence into the manners correspond exactly with those sea. where the division of the waters of england ; but this, as we have been takes place there is a great number of informed, has been the case only since sluices. the expense of this canal is the latter half of the last century. in estimated at , , sterling; but the the year it was still customary to advantages will hardly he in proportion dine at two o'clock, and in the to this immense sum. the work was fashion was not yet introduced for the undertaken, as we have before observed, ladies to retire from table towards the to lessen the frequent emigrations of the end of the repast. social intercourse highlanders; it was attended with great must be extremely agrecable, as the difficulties, for it was necessary in many women have very cultivated under places to blow up granite rocks: the standings. canal, however, approaches its comple- the scotch have tall, slender, and tion; the benefit expected from it is, handsome persons. our stay in this that it will save the troublesome naviga- country was too short to permit us to tion round the north coast of scotland. make particular observations on its in- it will bear frigates of guns, and habitants; however, the first impression ships of tons burden. by the in- was in every respect agreeable. the troduction of steam boats, it is hoped scotch people are poorer than the eng- to avoid the dangers of the navigation lish, but on the other hand more lively in deep narrow lakes, surrounded with and cheerful; their character must have rocks, where a gust of wind may overset the advantages which distinguish the in the vessels, or total calm binder their habitants of mountainous countries. progress. we have been informed that agricul. as, however, the different kinds of ture has made much greater progress labour offered to the poorer classes than in england, although in a much could not entirely put a stop tò einigra- less favourable soil and climate. sir tion, the government has resolved to john sinclair has given a circumstantial establish a colony in canada. we were account of it. they have particularly told that the peculiar costumes of the employed themselves in cultivating waste highlanders gradually disappear, and lands.' horticulture has also attained that the ancient national dress begins to here a high degree of perfection. become more rare. the highlanders are very poor, and (to be continued.) mot seldom obliged to emigrate; whe- ther it be from an excess of population, notices illustrative of cambrian or on account of an abuse originating history and antiquities. with the great land-owners, who pur- no. iv. chase lands from the country people to convert them into pasture. endeavours the druids, &c. are now making to remedy this evil, it would, perhaps, be an easy matter partly by digging the caledonian canal, to prove, that the great body of men which is a private undertaking, partly known in different parts of the world by by the construction of several roads, the designation of brahmins, celtes, and which was ordered by the government in druids, were members of one great ori- , to open a better communication ginal society, nearly in unison with re- notices illustrative of cambrian history and antiquitics. [may , spect to their leading principles :* these with a species of warfare that was new were—the unity of the deity-his per- even to them, whose avocation it seemed fections and attributes--the transmigra- to be to find foes, or to make them :- tion and immortality of souls the origin “ muliebre, &c. fanaticum agmen,” a of the world and its tendency to disso- troop of viragoes and maniacs, run- lution. these tenets, probably co-eval ning about like furies, brandishing fire- with the earliest population, had been brands, and pouring out on the viola- preserved by these orders, unimpaired, tors of their groves, the most dreadful through the revolutions of ages, and execrations. their various emigrations. according carnedd llewelyn-carnarvon, to herodotus, the doctrine of the me. upon the summit of this mountain, tempsychosis may be traced to a more its altitude differing from snowdon only remote antiquity; and the tenets, more feet, it is supposed llewelyn ap tor. particularly druidical, as their veneration werth encamped, at that desperate junc- for the oak and mistletoc (pren awyr) to ture when king john, with an over- a very early origin. it is therefore whelming army, was in the plains below, highly probable, that druidism was and bangor blazing; and from whence brought into britain by its primitive he sent his princess (joan) to her father, planters ; nor is there the least reason to make a peace. rhys goch, o eryri, to suppose that their system was at all addressing this hill, about , says: altered by the introduction of any thing “ yna gorwedd rhitta gawi.” derived from those fertile and fanciful there rests the giant rhitta. sources--the mythologies of greece and rhitta, in the bardic mythology, was rome. the word druid is derived from the terror of the petty tyrants of his derw (oak), though pliny traces it to a time, and is said to have ordered a robe grecian word of the same signification ; to be made of the beards of several of it is, however, certain, that they held those whom he had slain in battle! this tree in particular veneration, per- formed their ceremonies in the recesses snow don. of its groves, and generally dwelt be- snowdonia was so denominated, like the neath its sacred branches. the custom armenian niphates, and the tartarian which still prevails in many parts of tmaus, from its snowy summits. it england, and particularly at chester, consists of such a variety of mineral of cutting the mistletoe, and suspending substances, as to render it almost im- it to the ceiling in houses, is a relic of possible to give them a distinctive cha- druidism. when the end of the year racter, as they begin so high as the cal- approached, the druids marched with careous, and descend so low as the great solemnity to gather it, in order to softest argile. the prevailing strata, present it to jupiter, inviting all the however, of which the highest points are world to assist at the ceremony in these composed, are petro silex, grey granite, words: “ the new year is at hand: slate, shaltery, schistus, intermixed with gather the mistletoe.” the sacrifices rich veins of metallic substances, and being ready, the priest ascended the quartz spar. the intelligent mineralo- oak, and, with a golden hook, cut off gist will be highly delighted by a ramble the mistletoe, which was received in a over this delightful neighbourhood. white garment spread for the purpose. begging priars. this part of the ceremony being ended, lewis glyn cothi, a bard of , de- the victims (two white bulls which had scribes, in a very humorous manner, never been yoked) were brought forth, the practice of the mendicant friars in and offered up to the deity, with prayers his time, who, profiting by the credulity that he would prosper those to whom and superstition of their neighbours, ex. he had given so precious a boon. of changed with them the images of certain the mistletoe thus gathered, they made saints, held in particular veneration, for h potion, which they administered as an cheese, bacon, &c. among them, seiriol antidote to all poisons, and used as a and curig (patron of capel carig, in remedy to prevent sterility. in mona snowdonia) were always negotiable; (anglesea) the druids, gradually retreat the effigy of seiriol being reckoned infal- ing from every part of britain, were in om very part of britain were in lible for the removal of certain disorders, hopes of finding a sanctuary from the and that of curig being equally so for persecuting romans, who, strabo says, the, expulsion of evil spirits from farm hated them : it was here that suetonius houses, &c.-un o honynt a ddygai, &c. and his hardy veterans were appalled beneath his cloak the begging friar bore the guardian charm, grey curig, to the * rowland's m. antiq. door; notices illustrative of cumbrian history and antiquities. (may , at intervals, for the purpose of procuring “ who has been our parish clerk food. about the middle of august they full one and thirty years i say, re-migrate, previous to which a great must here, alas! İye in the dark, number of the young are taken, pickled, bemoaned for ever and for aye !" and inclosed in small casks for sale-- fit poetry for such a professional per- forming, together with the large oysters, sonage. an article of traffic peculiar to this neigh transfer of human beings. bourhood. in the township of porthaethwy was howell y pwyall. exemplified the power of a feudal pro- jolo goch alludes to his taking the prietor to sell his vassals or villains, as french king prisoner, at poictiers, in well as his cattle, as appears from the the following figurative lines:- following translated document:-" ed. « pan rodded nyfed fychan an ednyfed, dafydd ap y ffuvyn yn mhen brenhin frainge.” gryffydd, and howellap dafydd ap the black prince knighted him on ryrid, free tenants of our lord the king, in the township of rbandirgadog, the field of battle, gave him the rent i have given and confirmed unto william in of the dee mills at chester for life, and a ap gryffyd ap gwilym, esq. free tenant the constableship of the castle of cric- of porthmael, seven of our natives, viz. cieth, added his battle-axe to his coat of howell matto, and llewellyn, ap da- arms, and ordered that a mess of meat at fydd dew ; dafydd and howell, ap matto, should be served before it daily, for ever, .. ef: 'ap dafydd dew; llewellyn, ap evan to preserve in memory the uncommon goch, and jevan ap evan ddu, with their prowess of its master. the king ap- successors procreated, and to be pro- pointed eight yeonien, at eight pence a created, and all their goods, &c. dated day each, to guard the mess, and see it at rhandir gadog, jupe , th hen. regularly served before the axe! after vi." the death of howell, the mess was given bardic contention. to the poor, for his soul's sake, till the in the time of dafydd ap gwilym, the reign of elizabeth, when the establish- british ovid, a great revolution happen- ment, in the indiscriminate levelling of ed in british music; the twisted horse- the time, was abolished. hair strings with which the harp and beaumaris. cruth bad, till then, beep furnished, were the castle was built in , by discarded for the foreign and more so- · edw. i.(it was the parent of the town) in a place called bonover marsh, and he norous catgut, though not without a contention which divided the world of gave it the name of beaumaris-com- pounded of the french words beau and harmony into two factions. dafydd, to marais. it may be, after all, from the check innovation, joined the ancient amateurs, and wrote couydd y delyn · latin bimaris, for horace calls corinth ledr, ode to the catgut barp, &c.; but, bimaris corinthus, from the meeting of o notwithstanding his influence, and that tides near that place. among the ex- * * of his muse, he was borne down by an traordinary favors granted to the inha. invincible majority; the piano of britain bitants by king edw. i, were, that they was, of course, lost in the forle of the shall have a free prison in the castle," levant, and the lovers of italian novelty that no jews shall dwell there -- that if carried their point. . any of the burgesses die, testate or in- testate, their goods shall not be confis- oruelties of the english. cated to the king, but their heirs shall among the numerous acts of rapacity have the same. in the vestry of the and oppression committed by the eng. church is interred the rev. 'gronwy lish, under edw. i. are the following, davies, the last line of whose epitaph is emphatically called “ greefs," suffered perhaps worth preserving- by the men of strath alyn (the mold “ here lies learning, friendship, love, district) at the hands of roger clifford, here lies the innocence of the dove; and roger schrochill, bis deputy- within this grave, and in this dust, “ the said roger took the lands of his ever-courteous body must the men of the country as forfeit, and until the resurrection lie, for one foot of a stag found in a dog's then, he shall live, and death shall die.” mouth three men were spoiled of all at the entrance of the church-yard is they had. a plain stone to the memory of mere *' item.-ithel ap gwysty was con- dith davies, the parish clerk, with these demned in a great sum for the fact of lines : his father, done forty years before. .) observations on theutrical representations of the ancients. • « item. we were given to maister really attempted to dance. orchesis, maurice de cruny, and were sold to therefore, properly comprehended ac- roger clifford, which was never tion: bence aristides quinctilianus, who known in our parents' time,” wrote a book upon music, calls the cele- conquest of cambria, brated actor, roscius, an orchestes, a vaughan of hengwrt says; “i con- dancer; and they used to say to dance a fess we have reason to bless god for his drama, that is, to perform it. the rea- mercy to us in our happy establishment son of this denomination probably is, under one monarch, we may well say, that the mien and movements of the we were conquered to our gain, and un- actor were as much regulated by mea- done to our advantage." sure, and certain rules, as the steps and caer. l. turns of a dancer. this fully clears up that passage of aristotle, where he says that the chorus danced in the most me- some observations on the theatri- lancholy parts of the tragedy. now the cal representations of the an chorus consisted of a number of excel- cients. lent actors, sometimes of venerable old as so much is now said and written men, sometimes of women or children, about the theatre, it seems to me not &c. who answered the questions of the irrelevant to make some remarks on the acting personages, and made the suitable theatrical representations of the ancients, attitudes, expressing in every look or whom we consider, in every respect, as motion the most lively interest; their joy, models for our imitation. their sorrow, their fears, or their hopes : first of all, i find it necessary to de- so that, this must, in fact, have been a fine two words which are generally ta- very moving spectacle. hence we find, ken in a wrong sense- sony and dance. that a chorus of Æschylus, which con- song (cantus), and to sing (canere), were sisted of fifty furies, spread such a ge- used in speaking of declamation, as neral horror among the spectators, that strabo mentions. homer, horace, and the chorus was reduced, by an ordinance, others, called the actor a singer (cantor); to fifteen. the highest species of salta- yet he did not sing but declaim. thus tiones, were the pantomimes ; this mute in cicero (orator. iii.), it is said of læ- music, as cassiodorus calls it, where lia, that she pronounced, with great every thing was represented merely by ease and fluency, very frequent and the posture, gesture, and action, accord- strongly marked accents ; so that, adds ing to certain measure. the oldest per. the relator, when i heard lælia speak, former of this kind was telesis, the i thought i heard the pieces of plautus dancer of Æschylus, who danced the se- or naevius sung. these examples are ven chiefs before thebes, and knew how numerous, and the same is the case with to mark properly the character and the dancing. for dancing, (saltatio, opxnois, deeds of each of these heroes. the ro- with the greeks), is, according to plato, mans in particular carried this art to a (de legibus, vii) the art, which consists very high degree of perfection. the in the imitation of all the attitudes and two most celebrated pantomimic actors motions of which men are capable. in among them were pylades and bathyl- fact, the word saltatio did not come lus, the first of whom was particularly from saltus (a leap), but from salius, an happy in tragedy, and the latter in co- arcadian, who first tauglit this art to medy. they represented at first only the romans. dion cassius relates, that single scenes, then acts, and at last whole the emperor heliogabulus danced not pieces. these pantomimic representa- only when he saw dramatic pieces per- tions were called dances, and the per- formed, while sitting in the imperial formers themselves dancers, (saltatores,) seat in the theatre, but also in walking, and they were a kind of ballets, which while giving audience, or when speaking name is indeed derived from them; for to his soldiers, nay even when sacrificing. they were also called, especially in si- now this would be entirely absurd, if cily, ballismoi. the titles of some of saltatio did not include gesticulation, or them are preserved, from which we may what we properly do not call dancing: pretty well infer their contents-for in- hence, this was also termed cheironomie stance, the dances of the cyclops, the (the law of the hands). thus juvenal dance of hector, ajax, &c. one of the says, the carver of the viands at the most celebrated pupils of pylades was tables of the great, carved the meat hylas, the latter once danced an ode, dancing; he would certainly not have which ended with “ the great aga- performed this office very well, if he had memnon.” (tov meyar agapspavora, macrob. new monthly mag.--no. . vol. xi. r observations on theatrical representations of the ancients. (may , ii. .) to express this, hylas stretch same marks were employed for this pur- ed himself out, and stood on tip-toc ; but pose as were used in indicating the ac- this did not please his master, who called cents. before the piece itself began, out to him that he did it wrong, on some instruinents, especially flutes, play- which the people desired that he would ed a prelude, which were in admirable dance this ode himself; he did so, and harmony with the subject. cicero there- when he came to the above passage, he fore says (acad. quæst. iv.) that per- stood still, in the attitude of a person in sons who understood inusic would im- profound thought, because he conceived mediately perceive from the first notes that nothing was more suitable to a of the prelude performed by the instru- great commander than to think. the ments, whether antiope, or andro- same hylas once danced edipus, but mache was to be acted. the instru- with his eyes open ; whereupon his mas- ment then continued to accompany the ter called out_“thou seest!" the actor. quinctilian even says, that one romans were so charmed with these of the most celebrated orators of his pantomimes, that they often wept at time had an instrumental performer be- them, and the applause given them was hind him, who, from time to time, gare extravagant, that it was ordained un- him the proper measure. thus cicero der the reign of tiberius, that no sena- sometimes declaimed, and roscius made tor should visit the theatre of the pan- the gesticulation. among the romans, tomime performers, and no roman the declamation was often divided be- knight should walk in the street with tween two actors, one had to recite, them.-(tacit. annal. i. .) but ca- the other to make the gesticulation. ligula abolished this ordinance, by his thus, as livy and valerius maximus example; for he was so extravagantly relates, a celebrated actor, named ali- fond of the pantomimic actor lepidus dronicus, performing himself in one of mnester, that he embraced him during his pieces, and having become hoarse by the performance, and beat, with his own repeating sereral passages which were imperial hand, whoever made the least highly applauded, placed a slave before moise. but the task of the pantomimist the musician, who recited the verses was very difficult, and lucian requires of while he himself made the gesticulation. one who will distinguish himself in it, lucian says, formerly the actor who re- great knowledge of poetry, music, rhe- cited also made the gesticulation ; but toric, philosophy and psychology-le- because the action bindered him from mands, which the actors of the present breathing freely, and consequently in- dav, will doubtless think very absurd. jured the pronunciation, an assistant was slith respect to the proper theatrical given to the actor, who recited for him. representations, we must remark at the but both had to observe a certain mea- outset, that with tbe ancients, poetry and sure. above the verses the attitudes irusic were most intimately connected. were marked in potes, which the actor in general the word music was taken (histrio) had to follow in exact time. in a more comprehensive acceptation, seneca says, in his letters, one could and aristides quinctilianus, in lis work not without astonishment see upon the upon it, declares it to be the art which stage how the gesticulation of an able proves the principles on wlich it pro- actor kept pace with the language, and cccus, and teaches every thing relative so to speak, combined with it, notwith- to the use which may be made of the standing the volubility of the tongue. voice, and at the same time shews how we read in ciceru's paradoxes, that a to perform with grace all the motions of comedian, when he made a motion out which the body is capable. augustine of time, was hissed, as much as an actor calls it expressly the art of graceful mo- who comunitted a fault in the pronuncia- tion. music, poctiv, as well as every tion of a verse. thing that tends to form the person, with respect to the dress of the ac- were among the ancients essential parts tors it was as diversified as the characters of a good education : hence quinctilian of the persons represented. every thing says (instit. i. ,) that without under possible was done to dress in a becoming standing music a person cannot be a good manner, the actor who appeared in the philologint, ipuch less a good orator. figure of a divinity or a hero ; they can pocian, adds he, of whatever find therefore gave him the cothurnus, pro- they are, be composed without music? perly a cretan shoe, which consisted of for one unacquainted with music was four cork soles laid upon each other, and considered as a barbarian. wish respect was at least four fingers thick: but ofton, to dramatic pieces the declamation was in proportion to the whole, of much written in notes, and composed. the more considerable thickness. the shape- .] observations on theatrical representations of the ancients. of the soles was originally four-cornered, shewed the face suited to the part. though they were probably, at a later another advantage attending them was, period, rounded off according to the that female characters, which required shape of the foot. on the other hand, too strong lungs for a woman to be able they sought to make the figure of the to fill sucb a vast theatre, could be very actor more heroic hy placing on his head, well performed by men; so that it once as we read, pollux, (onom. iv. , happened, (aul. gell. vii. ,) that the seq.) over the forchead of the mask a actor polus, in the character of the raised piece running to a point like a electra of sophocles (in the scene when greek a (pros was the technical term for she comes upon the stage with an urn it; in latin, superficies,) which was co- containing the ashes of orestes,) ap- vered with hair, and so formed into a peared with an urn which really con- magnificent peruke. besides those high tained the dear remains of his child, shoes and head-dress, all the other parts lately deceased; and as he addressed the of the body were stuffed out in due pro- ashes, was so moved, that the whole portion. lucian mentions false arm- audience was penetrated with the most pieces, cushions for the stomach, &c. profound affiiction. with respect also over the whole was thrown the long to the ideal excellence of tragedy, the talar, with the train, (syrma) which co- masks had a great advantage, by remov- vered the cothurnus, so that the hero, ing the representation froin the real and dressed out, must doubtless have ordinary scenes of life to the higher rę an imposing appearance in the eyes of gions of art. whereas, we see only the spectators. four ells (eight feet) mr. s. and mrs. . which necessarily was the usual stature of heroes on the destroys the illusion. they there really stage; hence, as atheneus says, a tra- saw a hercules, an (edipus, &c. in gic actor, who in a procession of antio- comedy, especially, the masks must have chus carried the horn of amalthea, produced the highest effect ; for the measured four ells. the chief expres- masks were either true copies, or cari- sion of an actor lies in the face ; it may catures of the originals represented, therefore be supposed that the ingenious whose stature, dress, &c., were most greeks paid particular attention to this faithfully imitated. something was in- in their theatrical representations. for deed lost-namely, the expression of the this purpose they used masks, which passions in the countenance, and the were of the most various sizes and forms, sudden turning red or pale, which pro- according to the characters of the per- duces a great effect; but then this is sons. thus the mask of medea ex- also hindered in part by the rouge used pressed ferocity, that of niobe grief, by our players: this expression of the that of hercules pride and strength, &c. passions necessarily escaped most of the fathers, for instance, who were to be spectators on account of the vast extent sometimes cheerful, sometimes melan- of the theatre ; and, lastly, the actors choly, had a mask, of which one eye- knew how to remedy this defect, by ex- brow was frowning, the other smooth, pressing all the gradations of passion and they very dexterously contrived to with their eyes. cicero and quinctilian shew always the proper side. in our cannot sufficiently praise their art in - theatres we often see pieces in which this particular. juvenal, in his th sa- the intrigue arises, from the confound. tire, speaking of vero, says, the inasks, ing of two persons, who in general are the thyrsus, and the robe of antigone, so unlike each other, that the spec. ought to be placed at the feet of the tator cannot conceive how a mistake emperor's statues as so many trophies can ever arise. in such pieces the of his great deeds. the emperor, masks on the ancient stage were ad- therefore, it is cvident, had played the mirable. for the spectator was him- part of antigone in a tragedy. sueto- self deceived, he could not well dis- nius relates of him, that when he acted tinguish two masks closely resembling the part of a goddess or heroine, he al- each other, and therefore believed the ways wore a mask resembling the lady more readily that the performers were with whom he was at the time in love. deceived. thus, too, wrinkled old ma. aulus gellius (v. .) commends the de- trons of fifty (who, like the roman s - rivation which cajus bassus gave to the bina, got their hair, teeth, &c. at the latin word persona (mask, deriving it toilet), were not seen, as on the modern from the verb persopare (to sound). stage, to act the parts of young spirited for, adds he, as in fact the face and the girls, or consumptire old men the parts whole head were inclosed in the mask, wf first lovers. but the masks always and the voice could therefore issue only memoirs of the late peter: gule faur. (may , out of a single, very narrow opening, dor, and have lessened it by its elevation, it follows that the voice, thus compress- like an eagle on an oak. born for the ed, must produce louder and more dis- mere diplomatic routine of office, they tinct tones. we indeed see in the masks cannot expand their minds with the on stones, coins, &c. always a very large spread of national intelligence. they opening of the mouth. it is not impro- run through all the formal vocabulary bable that the mouth of the masks was of senatorial phraseology, cridge at a surrounded with inetal, forming a kind levee, diplomatize with princes, and beg of mouth-piece, to increase the sound. you will accept the assurances of their in later times they used thin pieces of high consideration, while the world is a marble, which in sound resembled receding beneath their feet, and the metal (plin. hist. nat. xxxvii. ), and portentous meteors of the times are was therefore called metal sound melting the elements around them. (za nogavos). they also used (vitruv. v. such, sir, are the ministers and what .) certain brazen vessels (echaca) on the are the opposition ? not one whit better. stage, which served instead of an echo. the former are in place, and the latter they wore large hollow brazen plates, are out of place that is the only differ- which were placed on the sides of the ence between them. as for the con- stage. they had different tones, and inon distinction of whig and tory, i were at equal distances. pliny com- deny it. the wbig becomes a tory whea plains that these vessels and arches con- he becomes a minister; and the tory fused the voice of the players. cas- grows a whig, when he is turned out of siodorus, on the contrary, says, that office. for my own part, i am not an the voice of the players became so full oppositionist at all. far be it from me and strong by their aid, that it could to interpose any obstacle whatever to hardly be believed that the tone was the projects of the government. in my produced by human lungs. opinion, they are acting for the benefit c.f. b. of the nation at large; and were i. in parliament to-morrow, should they ask memoirs of the late peter gale for twenty millions extra, i would, with- paux,stenographer and patriot. out hesitation, vote them forty.” (here written by his priend agathomp- there arose strong murmurs of disap- sonides mumps. probation.) “ gentlemen may hiss," (continued from page .) continued my friend, “but i ain much it is iinpossible for the english, or any mistaken if they will not applaud what other modern language of which i ain i have said, as soon as they shall have master, to express my profound astonish- heard my reasons. i repeat, then, that ment, confusion, and dismay, at seeing ministers are serving their country most my voung friend, peter gale faux, get essentially; because the only way now upon his legs after the last orator had left of serving it is by a revolution; sat down, and, with the most imperturb- and a revolution they are most effect. able ease, address the assembly as fol- ually bringing about by their extrava. lows:-- gance, their oppression, their illegal acts, « mr. chairman, and their total imbecility," (here my “ accustomed from my boyish days friend was cheered with ear-piercing to keep the very best society, in conse. shouts of applause.) “now then, gen- quence of my having the unhappiness to tlemen, will any of you tell me that be descended from a noble and ancient you really wish ministers to do their family, i have listened with considerable duty ? no; every true lover of his disgust to the vulgar cffusions of the country would wish to see them injure gentleman in the dirty shirt. to refute that country; every man who would de. his arguments would be quite impossible, sire to see it ultimately saved, must because he who contradicts the evidence desire to see it previously ruined. this of the senses, contradicts that pbysical is the secret hope of all those honest pa- foundation upon which all moral super- triots who keep aloof from both parties, structure is built. rags, in his eyes, and who only hold back till both shall arc robes, and starvation is fatness. i destroy the national resources between shall therefore pass him in despair, and them. take my poor advice-wait till proceed to abuse the administration of old england becomes involved in a debt the country. sir, they have ruined that double the amount of what she owes at country externally, internally, and in- present. on a moderate calculation, fernally. they have cursed it with de- about ten millions of her people will structive victories and with rotten splen- then be beggared by a national bank- .] memoirs of the late peter gale faur. ruptcy. then these ten will easily put former; “ where will you find a plagia- down the remaining five, seize the reins rism iu his works?” . of government themselves, wipe off the “ in the first place," replied the debt by act of parliament, make a bonº other, “goldsmith copies himself per- fire of bank notes, institute the agrarian petually. for instance, in his citizen law, enact universal suffrage, with the of the world, he says: "these poor exclusion only of the five millions who shivering females, perhaps now lying at were wealthy and prosperous under the the doors of their betrayers.' and in old regime-and then, hurra for radical his deserted village these lines occur : reform acd the sovereignty of the peo- "where the poor, houseless, shivering fe- ple!" male lies. my friend concluded his oration near her betrayer's door she lays her head.' amidst thunders of applause. he was "in les citizen of the world, too, we immediately surrounded by numbers of find this expression : « a land of grants patrtots, who began to press their ac- and a den of slaves;' which, you must quaintance on him; and had he acceeded remember, is also a line in his traveller. to all the invitations he received, he received, be this couplet occurs in his traveller si might easily have eaten from twenty to also : iso- twenty-five dinners on the following day. • and over fields where scattered hamlets on our way home, i, being at that in rose, time quite unacquainted with the degree in barren solitary pomp repose.' of latitude which this oppressed country try “ and almost a similar one in his de- " permits to the tongues of her patriots, serted village : simply enough asked him, if he had not • along the lawn where scattered hamlets spoken treason? rose, “i don't know," replied he : « it is unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp re- all a matter of taste. one jury, whose notions happen to be circumscribed, “at least," observed the other dis- might call it treason, while another of a putant, you can discover no plagiarism more liberal and elegant tact might call in burns." it patriotism ;-a man may either get “what say you to this verse ?" re- hanged or crowned by such sentiments; plied he. success is the only criterion. but this i "the mother may forget the child can tell you, that ministers shall be that smiles sae sweetly on her knee, turned out, or i shall be turned off.” but i'll remember thee, glencairn, when we reached my house, i found and a' that thou hast done for me. , some literary friends there before me, “ has he not evidently taken it from u who had come to sup, but whose ap- this passage in isaiah: “can a woman pointment to do so, i had, with my usual forget her sucking child ? yea, they may absence of mind, entirely forgotten. forget, yet will i not forget thee.' eren however, we soon dispatched supper, el: milton bimself sometimes borrowed from and entered upon “the feast of reason and the flow of soul." as i purpose the classics ; though i do not recollect that this line, interspersing these memoirs with such " amusing or instructive episodes as i divided empire with heaven's king i think agreeable to the reader, i shall hold, here record some of the conversation. « has ever been remarked as borrowed lord byron was the first topic, and, like froin virgil's epigram, all other men of supereminent ability, he was alternately deified or damnified. divisum imperium cum jove cæsar ha- “ he writes too fast," observed one. bet.' · “ what signifies the time he takes to "as for pope, he picked up pretty write," replied another, “if his works phrases and elegant thoughts, without will last as long as time itself ?" compunction, wherever he could meet “ he plagiarises," remarked the first. with them; witness, in his art of criti. “ so have all the first writers in every cisın, this line: age and pation," said a third. “ but "for there's a happiness as well as care, where he is original, he may be said to be more original than any other author “which he took from davenant, who in our language ; and i will venture to says that poetry should have add, that he copies less than any other "towards its excellence, as well a happiness anthor whom you can name.” as care.' “i will name goldsmith," replied the “ the construction and idea of those so [may , ghent in . much admired lines in his elegy on "then 'twould be greater, were it none at au unfortunate young lady, appear to all:'-- be borrowed from ovid. i will re- « upon which the piece was instantly poat both passages : damned. acres, in the rivals, says: • by foreign hands thy dying eyes were -' i tell you, the farther he is off, the closed, cooler i shall take my aim.'-- then,' by foreign hands thy decent limbs com- replies sir lucius, . i suppose you would posed, aim at him best of all, if he was out of by foreign hands thy humble grave adorn'd, sight." by strangers honored, and by strangers " that hibernian failing -- blunder, moura d.' forms a very happy species of humour et jacet euxinis votis romanus in oris, for our novels and plays,” remarked a romanorum vatem barbara terra teget: gentleman; “and perhaps the irish cha- terra teget ratem teneros qui lusit amores, racter is better adapted for theatrical barbara cum geliais aluit ister aquis.”” effect than any other.” “ he might well copy oid's thoughts (to be continued.) more than any other writer,” remarked one of the company, “for he seems to ghent in . hare studied his style more. ovid mr. editor, vould have shone during the last cen- as english travellers have, of late tury. he had all the point and false years, said but little concerning the ne- conceit which form the principal objec- therlands, perhaps the following brief tions to the writings of that era. for remarks on ghent, collected during a instance, he says- short residence in that city, may be deemed worthy of a place in your use- siliis, non curribus utere nostris ; ful publication. “ which is a sort of pun; at least the it is not my intention to enter into verb utere governs two substantives, so any description of the manners and incongruous in their union, that the customs of the people, at least so far as sentence has a ludicrous rather than a regards the higher classes of society, for serious effect. accordingly pope has these are things which cannot be learnt applied it more happily in his rape of in a day. i shall therefore confine my- the lock:- self to such matters as came fully within dost sometimes counsel take, and some- the sphere of my own observation. times tea. at first sight a stranger might almost conclude that there are, no poor in - dryden's falsities of composition were ghent. i had, however, anticipated the not in this strain. he offended by the very contrary. from the accounts i thought more than by the expression. bad read of the distress of had read of the distress of the labouring when he says- classes in manufacturing towns on the • but ere a pripce is to perfection brought, continent, i expected, on alighting he costs omnipotence a second thought,' from the coach, to find myself assailed by a throng of hungry beggars; but to o we are not alone shocked at the pro- my astonishment i did not see one. i fanity of the sentiment, but we see there soon learnt the means by which this is a gross blunder in making that which happy transformation had been wrought, is all-powerful, not powerful enough and how the generous charity of private to accomplish the whole of its object at individuals, seconded by the wise mea. once." - liere is a line in one of dryden's sures of the police, had succeeded in tragedics," said the former speaker, banishing a scourge which is the dis- e from which i think sheridan borrowed grace of modern society. i was delight- ed to find, that in a populons commer- an excellent hit in his rivals. the line cial city the problem respecting the ex- is acconipanied with an anecdote, which tinction of mendicity had at length been may be worth relating. at the first solved; the report of the magistracy on representation of the tragedy, the duke the subject is a perfect model for com- of buckingham, an old enemy of drv- positions of that class; it presents, put den's, was present: and as soon as the into practice, all the measures which performer repeated this line, were formerly to be found only in the my grief is great-because it is so small;' projects of philanthropists. "the duke, from the stage box, cried the day after my arrival i visited the church of st. bavor, which, in point out- .) ghent in . of decoration, is one of the most superb the drawing-room to the garret every edifices i ever heheld. i admired the window is adorned either with vases or spaciousness of the nave, the inagni- baskets of flowers. the poorest house. ficence of the choir and grand altar, holder has his garden, his exotic plants, the beauty of the pictures, the pomp of his scarce flowers, and his precious the ceremonies, and the devout atten- shrubs. as to the botanical garden tion of the numerous congregation. one it is the finest in europe. might almost suppose that the whole i know of no promenade comparable population of ghent assembled at st. to the coupure. you must imagine an baron on sundays and holidays, and extensive canal, with several elegant that there was no other parish church in bridges thrown across it, bordered on the city; yet there are many others, all either side by long avenues of trees, nearly as beautiful, as splendidly deco- where throngs of promenaders, young rated, and as well filled. gentlemen on horseback, and ladies in it appears to me that the drama is not open carriages, seem, on fine days, to the ruling passion of the inhabitants of hold a general rendezvous. add to ghent: i only once saw the theatre this, a cojobination of the most smiling full. the boxes are more thinly at- and picturesque landscape scenery, with tended than any other part of the house. all the elegance and brilliancy of an yet there are some excellent performers opulent city, and you may be enabled to at the ghent theatre. i was singularly form some idea of this delightful pro- astonished at this indifference in a peo- menadle. the people of ghent are cele- ple who zealously cultivate the fine arts, brated for their taste for the fine arts; and are passionately fond of music in yet all that has been said on that sub- particular. ject is even below the truth. in ghent the coffee-houses, on the contrary, there are architects, printers, sculptors, are rarely deserted. they are the con- engravers, and musicians of the very first tinual resort of men of every rank. the order; and they are liberally encou- visitants of these places have an air of raged, for there are likewise amateurs independence, frankness, and cordiality, and literary men capable of appreciating and every thing presents an appearance and enhancing the merit of their pro- of perfect comfort. the company are ductions. provided with refreshments, card-tables, numerous collections of paintings newspapers, commercial and literary and engravings, cabinets of medals, journals, the petites affiches, new pam- rooms for the exhibition of works of phlcts, &c. it is usual to sup in the col- art, distributions of prizes, (which are fee-houses. i know not what becomes always public ceremonies,) and learned of the ladies all this time. societies, tend to support the liberal dis- it will be understood that i here al. positions of the people. patriotism also lude only to the better order of cofree has a share in premoting them, and emu- houses, those of an inferior description lation and improvement go hand in hand. are extremely numerous; though they during the year there are two flower would not be styled coffee-louses in exhibitions, one open in summer and other countries. it not unfrequently the other in winter, to which the numer- happens that a stranger, deceived by the ous members of the botanical societv sign, is surprised, and very little edified contribute. this insiitution is peculiar by finding himself in a place very dif- to ghent, and has served as a model for ferent from what lie expected. several other towns in the netherlands: the canter, in the centre of the city, erery individual makes it a point of is the rendezvous of fashionable pro- honour to send the two most remarkable menaders. it presents a most brilliant plants or flowers in his garden, and spectacle on sundays, after mass. i have prizes are awarded to those who exhibit scarcely ever seen a more numerous as- the rarest or most beautiful specimens, semblage of beautiful and elegantly no one disdains to become a candidate. dressed women. one of the avevues flowers are even sent from the king's of this promenade is, on sundays, con- gardens, and such is the impartiality of verted into a flower-market, where the decisions of the society of botany, flowers are exhibited even during the that a poor farmer often obtains the winter season. flora is the favourite prize for which the most exalted indi- goddess of the inhabitants of ghent. viduals have competed. it would ap- every female, from the highest to the pear that this society is chiefly instru. ło west rank, pays homage to her ; frumu mental in maintaining that taste for may , practicability of effecting a north north east, botany so remarkable in ghent, where on the practicability op eppect- more flowers are preserved during the ing a north north east, or winter season than the sun-shine of · north west passage into the spring produces in more genial climates. pacific ocean, with ob erva- i need scarcely mention the agricul. tions on the voyage op captain tural society; very little remains to be ross and lieut. parry. done by such an institution in the most · the discovery of the mariner's com- cultivated country in the world. yet pass is one of the most important events its members are by no means inactive, in the history of inankind. it remored and their memorials are admirably the veil of obscurity which had preri. written. . ously shrouded the remote nations of the · with regard to education, it is impos- east and the west from the knowledge sible to conceive any thing more liberal, of europeans. by means of this inesti- or more in unison with the notions of mable invention, aided by the researches the present day, than the universities of into natural philosophy, which a spirit the netherlands. they present a com- of acute observation, founded upon the bination of all that was good in former unerring basis of actual experiment had times, and all that is now still better. prompted, the true configuration of the the university of ghent, where almost earth was discovered, and the fact of the all the professors are distinguished for rotundity of its form determined, by the important works on science and litera- successive voyages of americus, magel- ture, already enjoys the highest reputa- lan, vesputius, and drake. the voy- tion. consequently, even in the second ages of vasco de gama round the cape year after its establishment, the number of good hope to the east indies, and of students was very considerable. no the brilliant career of conquest pursued expence or labour has been spared by by the portuguese in those remote re- the founders of this magnificent institu- gions, excited a spirit of enterprise and tion. cabinets of patural history, cul- adventure which distinguished all the lections of instruments of philosophy, maritime nations of europe. difficul- surgery, agriculture, and the mechanical ties the most formidable were then sur- arts, a laboratory for chemical experi. mounted. the imminent perils which ments, an observatory, a library, a bota- attended the navigation of unknown pical garden (the one before mentioned) seas, the imperfect construction of the nothing is wanting to render the estab- vessels employed in exploring them, and lishment complete. every branch of the melancholy results of some unfortu- human knowledge is pursued by the nate voyages, only tended to cokindle students; the lectures are given and the seal, renew the fortitude, and exalt, listened to with enthusiasm. i attend to the highest degree of enthusiasm, ed one of the courses. they are all de- that ardent desire of glory which glow- livered in latin, and i expected to un. ed in the besoins of these illustrious derstand but very little. on the con- mariners. trary, however, i did not find this college amidst the great and splendid variety latin barbarous as i had been led of pursuits to which the minds of men to suppose ; nor does it appear that the at the close of the sixteenth, and at the students dislike it, for they all speak it beginning of the seventeenth century, with fuency. certainly an englishman were directed, a favourite speculation might have wished to hear them in eng- was the project of proceeding to the lish, and it might probably have been east indies by a north-east or north- more agreeable to a frenchman had west passage. amid a crowd of navi. they been delivered in his native lan- gators who entered zealously into this guage; for it is undoubtedly easiest both schemc, the ablest, most fortunate, and to teach and to learn through the me. persevering, were among our own coun. dium of one's nother tongue. but what trymen. the coast of greenland, from language can be preferred to the latin the ° to the º parallel of north lati- in a college, where the students are na- tude were successively explored, the de- tives of england, germany, holland, solate region of spitzbergen discovered, france, &c. and to which no young man * a voyage of discovery, made under the can be admitted as a student unless he orders of the admiralty, in his majesty's understands latin. it was necessary to ships isabella and alexander, for the pur- adopt some universal language, and cer- pose of exploring baffin's bay, and enquir- tainly none can be more convenient than ing into the probability of a north west pas- that which has been chosen. sage. by john ross, k. s. captain r. n. murray, . pp. . .) or north west passage into the pucific ocean. the straits which divide the island of had discovered (for the fact is now ques. nora zembla from the frozen continent tioned) the icy sea on different nieri. of tartary ascertained, and the naviga dians of longitude; between the parallels tion of the icy ocean, in that direction, of ° and ° north. in the year , coinpleted into about the of east commodore phipps undertook his cele- longitudz. where the clue fell from brated voyage to explore a passage to the hands of these intrepid argonauts the north pole, from the vicinity of of the north, it was taken up and pur- spitzbergen, but was arrested by a stu- sued by the harde russians. in boats pendous and iinpassable barrier of ice, and other light vessels suited to those extending for upwards of degrees of dangerous seas, they continued their longitude. captains cook and clerk castward course until the hydrography were equally unfortunate in their at- of the northern coast of asia was gratempts to penetrate into the icy sea, dually developed; and where the pro- through behring's straits ; but although gress of the mariner was arrested by they failed in effecting the desired pas. innumerable obstacles, sledges were at sage, their researches enlarged our hand to transport hiinself, and the slen- knowledge of the north western coast der materials of his bark, into a less ob. of america ; and those parts of that ex- structed channel. at length the con- tended and interesting line which were tiguity of the continents of asia and not traced by cook and clerk, were suc- america was discovered by the celebrat- cessfully and completely explored by ed behring, whose name is justly be- vancouver, la perouse, and other na- stowed upon the narrow straits which vigators ; thus demonstrating that no divide the eastern and western world. passage exists, in that direction, across thus it was finally determined, that no the continent of north america into continuous passage, practicable for mer. the icy sea. chant vessels, exists along the northern having proceeded so far in the re- shores of europe and asia, and there. view of the historical part of our sub- fore that scheme was relinquished. ject, it remains to deduce thosc import- whilst the discoveries were making to- ant conclusions which appear inevitably wards the north-east, the genius of the to result from the various and abortive age, iinpelled, with equal perseverance schemes for sailing by a north east, or a and courage on the part of the under- north west passage into the pacific takers, a series of voyages to explorc ocean ; availing ourselves, in the pro- the north-west passage, davis found gress of the enquiry, of the new and in- the entrance of the great bay formed by teresting light" offered on this great west greenland on the one side, and question, by the parrative just published, the eastern coast of america on the of the voyage of captain ross and lieut. other. forbisher discovered one of the parry; as well as of the ascertained numerous inlets which conduct into the fact of the failure of the other polar mediterranean sea of hudson's bay. expedition, which was designed to have baffin explored the northern and eastern proceeded from spitzbergen across the parts of the head of the gulph discover. north pole into behring's straits. it ed by davis, prosecuting his researches will disembarrass the discussion, if our with a vigor, and recording the results inferences are stated separately, with with an accuracy, which justly entitle respect to the practicability of effecting him to hold a pre-eminent rank among a north east and north west passage. the most celebrated navigators. he met it has been'argued that a very extra- with an inlet in the western part of the ordinary disruption of ice has takent place gulph, in latitude ", which he de- on the coast of east greenland ; that se- nominated lancaster sound; but which veral whalers have penetrated to very he had not the leisure nor the means of high degrees of northern latitude, name- navigating. hudson, jones, and mid- ly, to ° and ', and by some unauthen- dleton, traced the western, southern and ticated accounts, to °, °, and even northern limits of hudson's bay ; but ; that there is reason to conclude the could find neither strait nor opening sea to the northward of spitzberger to which led from that great inland sea be at some period of the summer free into the icy ocean. in after times, from ice; and lastly, that, as it is highly hearne and mackenzie, the former from probable there are are no extensive tracts the most north westerly establishment of land near the north pole, the climate of the hudson's bay company; the lat- will becoine less rigorous in proportion ter from those of the north west com- as ve advance to the northward of spitze pany, discovered, or imagined that they bergen. new monthly mag.--no. . vol. xi. s practicability of effecting a north north east, (may , upon this statement we remark:-- mr. barrington by the statements of . that the position and extent of third parties, without his having had ac- the ice accumulated upon the arctic coast cess to the journals or log-books of the fluctuates in ditferent seasons-that the vessels themselves. but admitting even degree to which it may accumulate in that such relations were, to a certain de- any one season depends chiedy upon the gree, authentic, they would only prore force and direction of the winds in the the possibility, under very peculiar cir- early part of the summer : thus in the cumstances, of approaching the north parallel of spitzbergen, an alternate suc- pole twice or thrice, perhaps, in the cession of westerly and south-easterly course of a century. they could not, winds, blowing from the coasts of green- however, afford a rational encourage- land, and the continent of asia, must in- ment to uther individuals to attempt a evitably tend to inerease the quantity of measure, against the success of which ice upon the shores of spitzbergen ; in- there is such a fearful array of chances, asmuch as they would waft hither the and this too, upon the allegations of fresh water ice formed upon the coasts, mr. barrington himself. and set at liberty upon the departure of of . there is no direct proof that the winter, particularly from the shore any vessel ever did ascend higher than of siberia. "that, potwithstanding the the latitude of degrees north. that continual presence of the sun from may ay of the very small number of examples in to august, in the latitude of spitzbergen, ' which such a run has been performert, and some occasional gleams of warmth, there is not, perhaps, one which could the mean temperature of the air in the he adduced, wherein the sea was wholls summer is ascertained to be below that free from ice. that the records of all which we commonly enjoy in the month voyages in high northern latitudes prore. of february; they being often overcast that there is nothing more uncertain with showers of hail and snow, added to the frequent occurrence of thick fogs, than the sudden appearance of an open sea, after vessels have been beset and which are always accompanied with frost; so that it is impossible that the embayed with ice; and that a change of wind, or even the duration of the same quantity of ice, generated in one winter, wind, in some circumstances would again could be dissolved in the ensuing sum- mer by any continual atmospherical in- speedily so encompass them. the only testimony upon which, on such a suppoa fuence ever observed in that climate.- the occasional disruption, therefore, of the increased temperature of the sea at any extraordinary quantity of ice from its surface, and at various depths, is ez- the coasts of spitzbergen and east tirely wanting ; and with respect to the greenland, must arise from some acci. reported warmth of the air in proceed- dental cause, which, from the variety ing northwards, that variation from the of the event cannot prospectively be general coldness of the climate is some- relied on. it may be considered as times proved to occur in an extraordi- not invalidating that great elemental law which connects the presence of con- nary degree in spitzbergen, wbilst the navigation is interrupted by ice ; besides, tinual cold, and the consequent obstruc- the insularity of spitzbergen alone would tions to navigation, with the vicinity of render it probable that the cold although eternal ice and gloomy skies. but merely e sufficient in its certain effects to impedie is the result of the unusual prevalence of the progress of vessels, would not egna! particular winds and currents, leaving the extreme rigour of the climate expe- the primary causes of the production and permanency of ice in hig'i latitudes, rienced in nova zembla and the north east cape, or the coast of siberia, or in full and perpetual activity. . that the authorities upon which :. eren in labrador. mr. barrington cites, in his pamphlet, . it is by no means proved that there the successful efforts of the masters of are such extensive tracts of land dear whalers to attain to very high latitudes, the north pole. it has never yet, and are neither so direct nor so satisfactory, probaily never will be ascertained, how as to allow us to vield to them thai im- far the immense peninsula of greenland plicit faith to which they were considered lies towards the north. it is sufficient to be entitled by their ingenious and in- here to ohserve, that upon its eastern defatigable author. some of the most coast it is known to extend to the lati. remarkable of these instances appear to tude of °, and the head of balfip's bar, rest upon oral and traditionary testi: which is the extrenity of the western mon, or to have been communicated to coast, ret explored, is %. lard : . of north it ist passage into the pacific ocean. has also been discovered to the north utility, it might have remained unex. cast of spitzbergen, in latitude ; but plored. whether it is a continuation of green- the second branch of our subject re- land, or a new land, is not determined. jates to the probability of effecting a a new coast has been likewise descried north west passage; and here it will not to the northward of cape suvajoi, in be necessary to recur to the arguments the tartarian ocean, the extent of which already adduced in discussing the ques. is unknown. it is well ascertained that tion of a north eastern passage, drawn the trigorific influence of the winds de- from the serenity of the clinate, ia pends much more upon the elevation which alone such a passage could be and state of the land over which they sought with the least hope of success ; proceed, than upon their direction froin as those considerations are equally ap- the north, or the collateral points of the plicable in both cases. neither shall east and west, so that to the northward we abstract the substance of the narra. of spitzbergen, the south east and south tives of the different voyages undertaken westerly winds wafted from greenland with this forlorn hope. we shall take and tartary, would probably be as cold, our stand upon the record of the voyage perhaps colder, than a direct north of captain ross and lieutenant parry, wind. the supposition, that the climate and we trust we shall succeed in shew. would be ameliorated in very high lati. ing, that this important question, on tudes, beyond spitzbergen, appears to which the attention of all europe has us to involve a grcat absurdity. been fixed for ages, has been at length . another obstacle as formidable as (for every beneficial purpose) resolved any which have yet been enumerated, in the negative ; so far, at least, as re- arises from the difficulties, if not the gards the shores of baflin's bay, on absolate impossibility of steering a vessel which alope an opening, useful for com- when arrived at the north pole, from mercial purposes, could be expected. of the circumstance, that, at extreme the instructions given to captain points, every course must be necessarily ross by the admiralty appear to hare due south; that there could be no sea been framed with professional skill and mark to direct the navigator in a situa. ability. he was directed to explore tion of such unexampled perplexity; with the greatest caution every part of that the benign ipduence of the polar baffin's bay, particularly its westera star could be no longer felt; and, lastly, shores; to complete the hydrography of that it is impossible even to conjecture this great gulf, and carefully to examine to what extent the variation of the erery inlet; especially on the western needle (if indeed it did not wholly cease side. should he succeed in discovering to act) might be carried. a passage, he was then to sail with all . it has been ascertained by repeated possible expedition through the strait experiments of sea water, at various into the icy sea, and, keeping a conre- depths, made during the voyage of cap- nient distance from the american coast, tain ross and lieutenant parry, that, he was to procced to behring's straits, at a great profundity, or fa- and pass the ensuing winter either at thome, the thermometer was almost in- the sandwich islands or new albion. variably below the freezing point in the if he considered such a measure to be midst of summer--if that season, in the safe, he was instructed as soon as arctic regions, be not miscalled. thus, the thaws would allow to retrace his therefore, it appears, in contradiction to course along the american northern the popular theory with respect to the shore, carefully observing the different congelation of water exceeding instead bearings of the coast; and, if he found of falling short of that of the super- it absolutely necessary, to winter upon stratum process of freezing, would be, the coast. the vessels, especially at the surface, in calon weather, rapid secured against the collision of ice, and uninterrupted. were, in all other respects, equipped upon these grounds, then, we con in the most complete inanner for the tend, that a voyage into the north pa- arduous service in which they were cific ocean, either across the north pole, to be employed. the sailors were se- or by attempting a north eastern paga lected with the utipost care from those enge, is either wholly impracticable, or who had had the greatest experience in if it shou!rj be even accidentally accom- the whale fisheries. in short, from the plished, would be found to have been unexceptionable testimony of captain attended with so many difficulties and ross himself, no expedition of discovery dangers, that for all purposes of practical that over quitted the british shores was [may ,- practicability of effecting a north north east, better supplied with necessaries of all diate danger; but the fall of snow being descriptions. very heavy, its extent could not be seen. it would be foreign to our purpose neither the masters, the mates, nor those and unentertaining to our readers, were men who had been all their lives in the we to analyse the narrative of captain greenland service, had ever cyperienced such imminent peril; and they declared that - ross during the early part of the voyage. a common whaler must have been crushed t'he grand enterprise could not be said to atoms. our safety mus: indeed be attri- fairly to have conimenced until lie had buted to the perfect and admirable manner ascended the latitude of º. '. we in which the vessels had been strengthened cannot here resist the temptation of when fitting for service. presenting to our readers, in the words but our troubles were not yet at an end : of captain r. himself, an impressive, for as the gale increased, the ice began to view of the perils which attend naviga- move with greater velocity, while the con- tion in this icy gulph: tinued thick fall of snow kept from our as it appeared likely that our people sight the further danger that awaited us. till it became more imminent; a large field would be at work throughout the night, an extra allowance of provisions was served of ice was soon discovered at a small dis- out; their labours were incessant till half- tance, bearing fast down upon us from the past one, when, being almost worn out with west, and it thus became necessary to say exertion, i allowed them rest till five. at docks for refuge, in which service all hands hall-past six the ice began to move, and the were immediately employed; it was, how- wind increasing to a gale, the only chance ever, found too thick for our nine feet saws, left for us was to endeavour to force the and no progress could be made. this cir- ship through it to the north, where it par- cumstance proved fortunate, for it was soon tially opened; but the channel was so much th after perceived that the field to which te obstructed by heavy pieces, that our utmost were moored for this purpose, was drifting efforts were ineffectual: the floes closed in rapidly on a reef of icebergs, which lay upon us, and, at noon ve felt their pressure aground: the topsails were therefore close most severely. a floe on one side of the reefed, in order that we might run between isabella appeared to be fixed, while ano. two bergs, or into any creek that might be ther, with a circular motion, was passing found among them; when suddenly the rapidly along. the pressure continuing to field acquired a circular motion, so that increase, it became a trial of strength be- every exertion was now necessary for the tween the ship and the ice; every support purpose of warping along the edge, that threatened give way; the beams in the being the sole chance we had of escaping hold began to bend; and the iron tanks the danger of being crushed on an icenere. settled together. at this critical moment, in a few minutes we observed that part when it seemed impossible for the ship to of the field into which we had attempted in sustain the accumulating pressure much cut our dock came in contact with the longer, she rose several feet; while the ice, berg, with such rapidity and violence, as to which was more than six feet thick, broke rise more than fifty feet up its precipitous acainst her sides. curling back in itself. side, where it suddenly broke, the elevated the great stress now feil upon her bow, part falling back on the rest with a ter- and, after having been again lifted up, she rible crash, aud overwhelming with its ruins tras carried with great violence towards the the very spot we had previously chosen for alexander, which ship had hitherto been our safety. soon afterwards the ice ap- in a great measure, defended by the isabella. peared sufficiently open for us to pass the every effort to avoid their getting foul of reef of bergs, and we once more found our- each other failed; the ice anchors and cables selves in a place of security broke one after another, and the sterns of the ships had made very little progress, the two chips came so violently into con- when we were surprised by the appearance tact, as to crush to pieces a boat that could of several men upon the ice, who were not be removed in time. the collision was hallooing, as we imagined, to the ships; tremendous, the anchor and chain plates the first impression was, that they were being broken, and nothing less expected shipwrecked sailors, probably belonging than the loss of the masts; but at this event- to some vessel that had followed us, and had ful instant, by the interposition of provi- been crushed in the late gale; we therefore dence, the force of the ice seemed exhaust- tacked, hoisted our colors, and stood in for ed; the two fields suddenly receded, and we shore. on approaching the ice, we dis- passed the alexander with comparatively covered them to be natives, drawn on rudely iittle damage. the last things that hooked fashioned sledges by dogs, which they con- each other were the two bower anchors, tinued to drive backwards and forwards which being torn from the bows, remained with wonderful rapidity. when we arrived suspended in a line between the two ships, within hail, sackheuse (the eskimaux who until that of the alexander gave way. accompanied the expedition) called out to a clear channel soon after opened, and them in his own language; some words we ran into a pool, thus escaping the imme, were heard in return, to which a reply was .) or north west passage into the pacific ocean. again made, but neither party appeared to that the north west passage had appa. be in the least degree intelligible to each rently been discovered by this sound, other. for some time they continued to and that captain r. himself determined regard us in silence, but, on the ship's tack- upon abandoning the investigation at ing, they set up a simultaneous shout, ac- the moinent when the officers of both companied with many strange gesticula- tions, and went off in their sledges with vessels and their crews entertained the amazing velocity towards the land. after most sanguine hopes of success. they had attained the distance of a -mile or (august .) we shortened sail for the more, they halted for about two hours: as alexander, after we had made out the land, soon as this was observed, the ship was and sounded in two hundred and ten fa- tacked, and a boat sent to place an ob- thoms. between cape charlotle and the servation-stool, of four feet in height, on land, which bore south, a wide opening ap- the ice, on which various presents, consist. peared; but the wind shifting to the west, ing of knives and articles of clothing, were could not stand in to this opening to exo left. either, however, they did not see it, plore it, and therefore stood to the south- or it did not attract their attention, and a ward; but at ten p. m. the wind changed to second boat was therefore sent, with direc- the south, and i tacked and stood in the rions to leave one of the eskimaux dogs bay. the gwell continued from the s.s.e.. with some strings of blue beads round his and at midnight the weather was very thick neck, near the same place. and foggy. in the latitude of captain aug. . the weather being still thick ross discovered a secluded tribe of es- and cloudy, we continued to steer so as to kimaux, differing only idiomatically in gain the middle of the opening, making ahout a south by vest course; but the wind language from their brethren in the was light and variable, and not much pro- southern parts of davis's straits, but gress made. about four we had a shower completely ignorant of the existence of of of rain, and soon afterwards the fog cleared any other tribe or nation. shortly after away a little, and we saw two icebergs at a his encounter with these harmless na considerable distance ; we then altered our tives captain ross parted company with course in the manner most likely to answer the last whaler, and here properly began for getting to the westward, and carried all his expedition. he proceeded verging sail. about ten we saw the land, which along the coast of greenland until he forms the northern side of the opening, ex- arrived at the head of baffin's bav, tending from west to north, in a chain of which is situated in ° ' : passing high mountains covered with snow.' soon two or three inlets, the approaches to afterwards the south side of this opening was discovered, extending from s. w. to which were closed by an impassable bar- s. e. forming also a chain of very high rier of ice, but around which a belt of mountains. in the space betweer, between lofty mountains covered with snow, west and south west, there appeared a vel- extended. it is evident, from the chart low sky, but no land was seen, nor was which accompanies the narrative, as well there any ice on the water, except a few as from the narrative itself, that captain icebergs; the opening, therefore, took the ap- ross was not enabled to approach very pearance of a channel, the entrance of which near to the coast which forms the was judged to be forty-five miles : the land northern boundary of the bay ; but the on the north side lying in an e. n. e. and chain of mountains above-mentioned was w. s. w. direction, and the south side continued apparently without any fissure pearly east and west. unto the western, or american side of merican side of having had good observations for time, the bay. captain ross here gives it as and a meridian altitude of the sun, the lati- tude and longitude were accurately deter- his opinion, that if any passage what- mined; and at the same time, the bearings ever exists in the north eastern extre- of the land were taken and registered. mity of the bay, it is so perpetually divine service was performed, and in the closed up with firm ice, as to be com- afternoon the wind having obliged us to pletely inaccessible to navigators. no- stand to the south side, we had an excellent thing like an opening or strait was dis- view of the most magnificent chain of moun covered in returning southward, down tains which i had ever heheld. these the western side of baffin's bay, until mountains, and the cape which terminates captain ross arrived at the entrance of them, and forms the eastern extremity of lancaster sound, in latitude ". the land on that side the channel, were this part of the yovare is peculiarly in. named after sir byam martin, in compli- ment to my most esteemed friend the comp- teresting, and we should do an injustice troller of h. m. navy; and the varioas to the subject if we witheld captain capes and bays which were formed in this ross's account of his proceedings in his track of land were named after his amiable own words, particularly as the public family and nearest relatives, as a mark of mind has been prejudiced by a rumour my respect and regard for them. these (may , practicability of effecting a north north eust, mountains, which take their rise at the sea soon after midnight the vie! legap to at cape bram martin in the east, and from shift, and the ship came gradually up, en- a low plain pear catherine's bay in the abling us to stand directly on the bay: i trest, terminate in sharp lofty peaks; and therefore made all sail, and left the ilexao- the rocks which form them being, on one der considerably astern. al a little before side or the other, and often on every side, four, a. m. the land was seen at the bottom too perpendicular for the soow to rest upon, of the iniet by the oficers of the waich;tot are distinctly seen above it, displaying the before i got upon deck, a space n atçu: most remarkable as well as wonderful ap. seven degre-s of the compass was obscured. pearances. in one place, nearly between by the fog. the land which i theo saw cape fanshaire and elizabeth's bay, two was a high ridge of mountains, exiging rocks, resembling human figures of a gis directly across the bottom of the iniet. tas gantie size, were seen in a sitios posture, chain appeared extremely high in the coutre, oli the very highest peak; aid as it was and those towards the north had, at times, considerably atore the clouds, their ap- the appearance of islands, being insulated pearance was both extraordinary and inte- by the log at their bases. althougb a pas- resting sage in this direction appeared hopeless, i the snow appeared deen in the vallies was determined completely to explore it, as of the interior, but the ravines next the the wind was tavourable, and therefore con- sea were only partly filled with it; and the unred all sail. at eight the wind tell a little, precipices tear the icot of the mountains and the alexander being far astern i sound- were perfectly bare. the low and level ed and found fathoms, with a soitinuddy tract of land which has already been describ- lotion. there was, however, no current, ed to form catherine's bay,was also periectly and the temperature of the mud was . clear of snow, and was, to all appearance, soon after this the breeze freshened, and we the most habitable situation on the coast. carried all sail, leaving the alexander, and the rest of the day was spert in beating to steering directly up the bay. the weather the westward, all sail was carried, and every was now variable, being cloudy and clear at advantage taken of the changes in the direc- intervals. mr. beverley, who was the most tions and strength of the wind. as the sanguine, vrent up to the crow's pest; and. evening closed the wind died away, the at twelve, reported to me, that before it tribather became mild and warm, the water became thick, he had seen the land across much smoother, ard the atnosphere clear the bay, except for a very short space the and serene. the mountains on each side and to the south east was very distinct, and of the strait, being clear of clouds, had i had an excellent transit; and bearing off beautiful tints of various colors. for the cape byam martin, and cape fanshawe, first time we discovered, that the fand es with the ship's head on the point of the tended from the south, two-thirds across change, for the purpose of determining the this apparent strait, but the fog which con variation, should no azimuths be obtained, tinually occupied that quartet obscured its notice of which will be taken hereafter. real figure; in this position we had good although all hopes ver given up, even by observations for time, and the dip sector and the most sanguine, that a passage existed, kater's altitude instrument were used; and and the weather continued thick, i deler- the temperature of the water at four o'clock mined to stand bisher up, and put into any was exactly in the centre of the month harbour i might discover, for the purpose of the strait. the close of this evening of making magnetical observations. here i was remarkable for the appearance of ca- felt the vant of a consort which i could em- peila, the first star we had seen for twelve ploy to explore a coast, or discover a has- vceks. hour; but the alexander sailed so badly, and during this day much interest was ex. was so leerardly, that she could not safely eiled on board by the appcarance of this be employed on such a service. dunirg strait; the goeral opinion, however, was, this day we shortened sail several times, to that it was only an inlet. captain sabine, prevent our losing sight of her altogether, *ho produced balin's account, was of opi. as we stood up the bay tro capes' on the rieni, that we were off lancaster sound, south side were discovered, one of which i and that there was no hopes of a passage named alter the earl of liverpool; and the min til we should arrive at cumberland strait; land was named cape hay, which formed to use his own words, there was no indica: the boundary on one side of catherine's con of a passage.'-"no appearance of a bay before-mentioned. on the north side errepi." "drift-vood, -- and “no a remarkable conical rock, the only island sirel from the north west.” on the con- on this part of the coast was discovered, and trary, the land was partially seen exterding named sir george hope's monument, after across, the yellow sky was perceptible; and my lamented friend, one of the lords of the as we advanced. the temperature of the admiralty, who had recommended me for vat's began to decrease. the mast head the command of this expedition, and whose and crow's nest was crowded with those who signature of my orders, on his duath-bed. fere meet anxious, but nothing was finally was the last act of his valuable lile. about decided at the setting of the sun. one the alexander being nearly out of sighi .) or north west passage into the pacific ocean. . to the eastward, we hove to for half an hoor, in sight, and we steered directly for it; but to let her come up a little ; and at half-pasé in approaching it we look up the whole forea one, she being within six or seven miles of doon, which was at intervals foggy. to- us, we again made all sail. at half-past two wards noon preparations were made for (when i went of the deck to dinner) there landing in a small bay to the northward of were some hopes of its clearing, and i left cape byam martin, into which the ship orders to be called on the appearance of could just letch, and the signal to prepare land or ice a-head. at three the officer of two hoats for exploring was made to the watch, who was relieved to his dinner the alexander, which had got pretty near by mr. lewis, reported, on his coming into us. when within two leagues of this bay the cabin, that there was some appearance it fell calm, and at one the brats were disa of its clearing at the bottom of the bay. i patched under the orders of mr skene and immediately therefore went on deck, and mr. ross, to take possession of the country. soon after it completely cleared for about ten captain lubine, who thought the weather minutes, and i distincuy saw the land, round too foggy for the dipping neerlie, went on the bottom of the bay, forming a connected shore with the surgeon and bis assistant, to chain of mountains with those which ex- collect specimens of natural history, and i tended along the north and south sides. this directed lieul. parry, as soon as he came on land appeared to be at a distance of eight board, to follow, and take command of the lagues; and mr. lewis the master, and whole party, and to obtain if possible, some james haig, leading man, being sent for, observations for ascertaining the variation they took its bearings, which were inserted of the compass. in the log; the water on the surface was at temperature of ". at this moment i also my orders “to stand well to the north, saw a continuity of ice, at the distance of had already been fully obeyed, and no cur seven miles, cxtending from one side of the rent had, and if a current of some force did bay to the other, between the nearest cave exist, as from the “ best authorities, we to the north, which i named after sir geo. had reason to believe was the fact, it could warrender; and that to the south, which be no where but to the southward of this la- was named after viscount castlereagh. t'he titude. as id my instructions i am also di mountains which occupied the centre, in a rected “ to leave the ice alsout the th or north and south direction were named cro- h of september, or at latest the ist of ker's mountains, after the secretary to the october," i had only one month left for my admiralty. the south west corner, which operations, in which month the nights are formed a spacious bay, completely occupied long, and, according to a fair calculation, by ice. wag pamed barrow's bay, and is not more than two days clear weather out of bounded on the south by cape castlereagh, seven could be expected. it may, there- and on the north by cape rosamond, which fore, with propriety be stated, thai i had is a headland that projects eastward from the only eight rays remaining to explor fittin's. high land in the centre. the north corner, bay, a distance of above four hundari niles. which was the last i had made out, was a or this space nearly two hundred mes had deep inlet; and as it answered exactly to the been examined, a range including the sup- latitude given by baihn of lancaster sound, posed space of the discontinuity of the con- i have no doubt that it was the same, aod tinent; and that to which my attention had consider it a most remarkable instance of been particularly called, and where the im- the accuracy of that able navigator. ata aginary current, which was to be my guide; quarter past three, the weather became was to be expected. it is, perhaps, unne. thick and uriseldod; and being now per- cessary to ödj, that under these circum. fecely satisfied that there was no lassage instances i was anxious to proceed to the spot this direction, por any harbour into wlich where it must be evident i had the best i could enier for the purpose of making chance of success. yet my anxiety on the gagnetical observations, i tacked to join other hand to leave no part of the coast up- the alexander, which was at the distance of explored, even after all hopes of a passage eight iniles ; ard having joined her a little were given up, determined me to persevere after four, we stood to the south eastward, as i did, potwithstanding there was no cur. but the swell was so great, and the wind so rent, a material decrease in the temperature badling, that the shiu's head could not be of the sea, and no driitwood or other indi- kept against the sea; this swell was proba- cation of a passage, until i actually saw the biy increased from our proximity to the barrier of high mountains and the continuity margin of ihe ice, and it would have heen of ice, which put the question at rest. that imprudent to have stood dearer under such i did so persevere became afterwards a circumstances. about six it ! dearly source of great satisfaction, as i was fortunate calm for a short time, and we sounded with enough to succeed also in exploring every the deep sea clamme, which brought up a part of the coast to the southward, to which quantity of mud, in which were five worms niy attention was to be directed, and where of a species that had not been seen before. i was led lo expect that the current was to be found. sept . at four, ... cape capella r'as pursuing bis voyage to the south- practicability of effecting a north north east passage. (may , ward, capt. ross carefully explored the the remainder of the voyage was not ac- western coast from lancaster sound, companied by any remarkable event, and without discovering the slightest vestige the vessels arrived safely in this country. of a strait or opening, until he arrived from this brief but impartial abstract opposite to cumberland straits, in lati. of capt. ross's narrative, which is writ- tude ', which he regrets he was unable, ten in a plain, cuncisc and professional from the lateness of the season, to ex- manner, without any pretensions to the plore. here, and here alone, docs graces and ornaments of composition, it capt. r. appear to entertain any hope is demonstrable that no passage can be of a north-west passage being discovered found to the icy sea through any open- we cite his own words: jpg in the shores of davis straits or oct. . we stood off and on till day- baffin's bap, excepting, perhaps, through light, wlien we made all sail for the land. cumberland straits. it is stated, elsea at seven we made an island, which appeared where, that every part of hudson's where that to be at the distance of eight leagues from bay (into which cumberland straits the land, which was seen to the westward of it. about noon it became very clear, the form the principal avenues,) was care- land we past last night was, distinctly seen, fully explored by middleton, moore, and its bearings taken; at the same time smith, pickersgill, and young, without the island bore due west, and its latitude an- discovering any opening. our readers, stered to the earl of warwick's foreland. however, will perceive, that of the two between the land was seen to the westward bays into which cumberland straits di- of this, and that seen to the north, there was rectly lead, and which form the northern no land, and we had no doubt but that this boundary of hudson's bay, only one of was cumberland strait. as we approached them, namely, repulse bay,is completely them nimely rennleal the entrance of this we found a strong lide defined in the maps. the shores of the which, during the day, set round the com- other are yet imperfectly delineated ; pass, or in every direction. several small islands were also seen to the north and south and it is, therefore, barely possible that of the great entrance, which appeared to be a passage may exist through this last- between and miles wide. the land mentioned bay, and that in peculiarly was also seen s. \ w. in the morning the favorable seisous it may be traversed by tide was observed to carry the ship to the ships specially equipped for the purpose ; westward, and after noon to the south-east, but the severity of the climate (the rudest at the rate of two miles an hour. as the st of any yet known,) the shortness of the of october was the latest period, which by summer, the early approach of the win- iny instructions i was allowed to continue ter, the incuinbrance of enormous masses on this service, i was not authorised to pro- of ice, and the intricacy of the naviga- ceed up this strait to explore it, which per- haps at the advanced season of the year tion, would render such an enterprise might be too hazardous an attempt; the one the one of peculiar danger and difficulty ; nights being now long, and the litile day. nor is it probable that any merchant light we had, generally obscured by fogs or vessel would be found above once in an snow, and the rigging of the ship covered age to pursue so hazardous, and, without with ice. i thought it, however, advisable unremitting circumspection and extra- to bnish our operations for this season, by ordinary skill, so certainly fatal a route. making resolution island, the exact silla- at the present juncture we hear no tion of which had been laid down by mr. tidings of the departure of any second wales. i therefore determined on steering expedition of discovery to the north or for the southernmost land in sight: we there- north-west. and as governinent have fore crossed the entrance of cumberland strait, and, making an allowance for indraft. thought proper to propose in the ga- steered about s.s.e. it will appear that in zette a scale of remuneration to the tracing the land from cape walsingham, crews of such vessels as may perform, to doubt could be entertained of its conti- either who!ly or in part, the voyages in- nuing until the place where we found cum- tended to have been accomplished by the berland strait, which is much further south isabella and alexander, and the doro- than it was laid down from the latest autho- thea and trent, it may thence be infer. tities the admiralty were in possession of; red that all attempts at future expedi- but it is very near the place where davis tions in those quarters have been cn- placed it in his chart, which has been found tirely relinquished to that hardy class of since our return. from the circumstance sailors the greenland fishermen, who of a current at the entrance of the strait, there is, no doubt, a much better chance of possibly, are alone, from their peculiar a passage there than in any other place; habits and local knowledge, enabled to and it was a subject of much regret to us, undertake and prosecute so doubtful and that we had not been able to reach its en bazardous a scheme with the least chance trance sooner. of success. .) observations on a late exhibition of drawings in chalks. observations on a late exhibition credit to the youag men, whose future op drawings in chalks. interests are thus so wantonly and un- we have always been of opinion, that warrantably hazarded, by bringing their every artist who endeavours to outvie names before the public to support a his contemporaries, by the efforts of his system of empiricisin, cabal, and error. pencil, while he does justice to their of the remaining two drawings we are merits, is advancing the interests of his also as modestly informed, in the cata- art and contributing to its dignity. such logue, that “these drawings of the has been the commendable conduct of fates and of ceres and proserpine, are the president west through life, and very beautiful; they were executed in pub. such the conduct that elevated hilton lic at the british museum, and belong to to the distinguished eminence which he w. hamilton, esq. of the foreign office." holds in his profession. on the con- we notice these facts to show, that as trary, an artist who seeks to raise a false the usual end of all exhibitions is, in reputation, by writing and publishing the first instance, the effect of publicity, puffs on bimself, and disseminating false these drawings had obtained that end assertions to prejudice and lower his most fully before this shameless farce brother artists in the public opinion, was attempted. indeed we are gravely degrades his profession and injures its told by advertisement, that they were best interests in proportion to the de- universally admired before their present gree of credit which his impositions ob- exhibition. we have now to add, that tain. it is a public duty, therefore, to one shilling was fixed as the price of check such attempts, and to expose the admission, and sixpence for a catalogue false pretensions of men who seek to of those eight drawings. but of the erect themselves upon the ruined reputa. receipts we cannot presume to say much, tion of their competitors. in a system as there were only two visitors (the of quackery, things, that are good in writer of this and his friend) in the ex: themselves, may be productive of evil, hibition room during our stay! and much perverted talents may bc shewn the royal academicians, the noble- in the accomplishment of crooked and men and gentlemen of the british insti- sclfish projects. tution, and the society of painters in we are led to these remarks by the water colours, have been aecustomed extraordinary appearance of an artist's to submit the original works of the bri. name in capitals, upon the gable ends of tish artists, with a silent and respectful houses and the doors of public buildings, deference to public opinion, merely by contending for mural celebrity with the marking the number of each picture, posting bills of the sieur polito, dr. its subject, and the name of the painter, eady, &c. &c. the painter, who was the in the printed catalogue. sir joshua manager and proprietor of this exhibi- reynolds, gainsborough, opie, and the tion, opened it, for his own benefit and early and present academicians, and as- the public good, at an auction room in sociated artists; the marquis of stafford, st. james's street. after a fortnight, lord grosvenor, and all the other noble he removed it to a room in pall mall. directors of the institution, no doubt the number of drawings, in the cata- adopted this mode, from a consideration logue, were eight, of which six were that it would be an insult to the con- tasteful and spirited copies from the car- munity to anticipate their judgment; toons of raffaelle by three very pro- and, as it were, arrogantly to forbid mising students, who were styled pu- their deciding on the merits or demerits pils of the professional manager of this of the works of art submitted to their show. the word “pupils” was calcu- inspection. even the managers of lated to impose a belief upon the public, the theatres, who possess, by right of that these deserving young men-be- custom, from time immemorial, the pri- cause they are now receiving his instruc- vilege of puffing, do not announce their tions- have been all solely taught by the new pieces by a decision on their merits. receiver of the exhibition money. their they often puff a bad play or an indif. drawings were executed in the british ferent actor after the first night, but gallery; and we are told in the cata- they do not begin to inflate the lungs logue, by their present proprietor--speak- of the organ until after the public have ing indirectly for himself, in praising the had an opportunity of forming an opi- works of his alleged pupils--that they nion. the fallen state of the drama there “made a great and decided im- has been, in a great degree, produced pression on all classes,--" these copies by this odious abuse of the press. men certainly have much merit, and do great go to the theatres, deceived by having new monthly mag.-no. . vol. xi. t observations on a late exhibition of drawings in chalks. (may , read pompous praises bestowed upon vas, what he sees before him. we may bad plays and bad actors; and they either confidently assert that every great artist, applaud under false impressions, or they who possessed invention, began to exer- are afraid to condemn what has been cise it early. raffaelle began to paint paragraphed upon them as first-rate ex- historical pictures for churches before he cellence. these facts are notorious; was eighteen. we have no copies by and we condemn this innovation in the that divine master, although we have manager's catalogue of these eight draw- abundance of copies by the third and ings, as being equally an insult to the fourth rate italian painters. the mem- public and an injury to the arts. the bers of the royal academy, and the no. practice of thinking and judging for our blemen and gentlemen of the british in- selves is the surest mode of acquiring a stitution, aware that works of original just taste and a power of correctly es- invention and execution,alone,are worthy timating the beauties of painting and of public notice, entitled to public ap- seulpture. the great benetit of annually probation, and calculated to advance the exhibiting the works of the british art. highest interests of painting and sculp- ists is two-fold, that of obtainiug for the ture, have justly excluded copies from artists the advantage of a free and un- their prices and public exhibitions. biassed expression of public opinion, sir joshua reynolds justly observes, and of advancing the public taste, by “i consider general copying as a delu- affording the visitors an opportunity of sive kind of industry; the student satis- judying for themselves. but the re- fies himself with the appearance of doing ceiver of the profits has thought proper something; he falls into the dangerous to depart from this sound rule of prac- habit of imitating without selecting, and tice; and, as a master who cxtols the of labouring without any determinate works of his scholars is said to become object; as it requires no etfort of the his own umpeter, so be undertook to mind, he sleeps over his work; and perform that office for himself by de- those powers of invention and composi- ciding on the merits of those cight draw- tion which ought particularly to be ings, in a printed catalogue of cighteen called out and put in action, lie torpid, pages, without waiting for the judg- and lose their energy for want of exer- ment of that portion of the public, to cise."-" how incapable those are of whom he professed to submit the per- producing any thing of their own, who formances of his alleged pupils. have spent much of their time in making we have now to notice another per- finished copies, is well known to all who nicious quackery in this business. sirare conversant with our art."--( , v. i.) joshua reynolds, and all other sound the late president, elsewhere, says, authorities, are of opinion, that the “ the mere mechanical labour of copying, habit of copying is injurious to inven- may be employed, to evade and shuffle off tion. the art of making copies is a real labour, the real labour of thinking." power of the eye and hand, independent ( , v. ii.) “ the great use in copying, of mind or genius ; a purblind practice, if it be at all useful, should seem to be in which may be attained by inen of ordi- learning to colour ; yet eden colouring nary faculties. amidst the heap of ab. will never be perfectly attained by ser- surdity, impertinence, and false privci- vilely copying the model before you." ples, which is to be found in the cata. (v.i. .) we feel it our duty, therefore, logue, the writer himself, contemptu- to expose this attempt, to give a false ously, but justly, mentions--all copiers consequence to copies, and copyists, to who can do nothing but copy, (p. ). mis-direct students, injure the british a person, without the acquisition of a school, and impose upon the public a single original idea, may copy for half a false estimate of the means for the end. century, and, like one, who is transcribing the propriety of copying to a certain the characters of an unknown language, extent, to obtain a practical facility in may produce a fac simile without com- drawing with the chalks, is a first prin- trary, as soon as a student can handle ed by the british institution, in bring- his 'chalk with tolerable facility, he ing the cartoons for this purpose under ought to begin drawing from the antique the constant contemplation of the stu- and nature; from which every line of his dents is incalculable. the private view chalk or pencil is an acquisition of sci- of these drawings, to mark the improve- ence. he is obliged at each touch to ment of the students is, also, a spur to invent, if we may use the term, à lan- emulation. but all these preparatory guage to express on his paper or can- means of advancement require to be duly .). observations on a late exhibition of drawings in chulks. : appreciated and limited to their proper deprived of the benefit in this instance ? province. a custom of publicly exhibit- the arbitrary caprice, which is so pal- ing copies, which can only be of value as pable in this partial and inconsistent they lead to develop the powers of the conduct, must, if permitted to obtain a mind in original invention, must be one wider influence, prove highly injurious of those fatal errors, which, by substi- to the best interests of the british school. tuting the means for the end, and ena. it is in vain to expect a good where prin- bling men of no genius to obtain public ciple is made to give way to the will and reputation, at a cheap rate, must be temporary passions of an individual. pregnant with the worst consequences this artist's great outcry against the to the fine arts. academy began because the committee the eight drawings in this exhibition did not hang one of his pictures in the catalogue, are by william bewick and great room at somerset house, in ; thoinas and charles landseer, who, and yet, with all the wonderful good to without any explanation or reserve, are be produced by this exhibition of draw- therein termed by the manager, his ings, we did not see the drawings of pupils, how truly in the full sense of the christmas, one of his most advanced word, the following statement of facts supposed pupils, hung up with the rest. will show. charles landseer was ad. a difference is stated, and a complaint of mitted as a probationer in the royal something like harshness and an unjus- academy, jan. , , and received as tifiable stretch of authority, is abroad. a student aug. , in the same year. w. did a personal feeling, on either side, bewick was admitted jan. , , and exclude or cause the absence of chris!- became a student on the th of march mas's drawings? there is no proof that following. the landseers are a family they were excluded through resentment of talents. thomas, a young artist of or narrow policy, or withheld by the great hopes, was not a pupil of the student through considerations of pru- academy ; but a third brother, edwin, dence. but we may ask, was a fair and the celebrated animal painter, was ad equal opportunity given to mr. christ- mitted a probationer jan. , , and mas, by requesting him in january or received as a student aug. , in the february last to send in his drawings, or same year. when this catalogue and exhibition were a narrow, monopolizing spirit is, also, planned ? this question does not relate visible in this novel species of show. to the request made to him many months, only the eight drawings by three of the and nearly a year before, to part with, manager's present pupils are noticed in or sell his drawings. the charge of - the catalogue, and their names only are this manager, in , against the royal inserted in it, although there were several academicians, did not amount to an ex- excellent original drawings of the ex- clusion of his painting from the exhibi tremities of the human figure and ana- tion at somerset house, but to their tomical studies, by messrs. webb, chat- having hung it up in the anti-chamber, field, and (we believe) hervey, exhibited instead of the great room. he, who in the room. so that, although the made this so heavy a crime against him- manager deemed these original drawings self, ought to stand clear of every thing worthy of being exhibited, and that his like an exclusive spirit in his exhibition. exhibition derived a benefit from their sometimes the railer against oppression being on public view, he excluded the is, himself, where he has power, the drawings and the names of these stu- greatest despol, and can brook no grow- dents from their due right and place in ing rival near the throne. we cannot the catalogue. there can exist no just but remark, that it is with the most ad- ground whatever, why the names and vanced of the supposed pupils, the ma- drawings of these three students are nager has differed and separated. christ- thus excluded from all record and notice mus is the only one of them who has in the printed catalogue, while the eight painted an historical picture; and drawings of the other three occupy the while the receiver of the profils was af- whole of a sixpenny tract of cighteen fecting to bring forward bewick and the pages. if the detailed description was landseers' drawings (all copies but luo) productive of a benefit to the public, or at his exhibition in st. james's street, to the three students, whose eight draw- he had the modesty and consistency to ings were so amply noticed, why was address an unprecedented letter to the their due share of benefit withheld from directors of the british institution, in- the three students, whose drawings are terfering his opinions between them and wholly omitted, and why were the public mr. christmas's original histori- vege literariæ. [may , cal picture of jeremiah properring to artificial gloss, a seductive and merett- baruch, then exhibiting in the british gous ornament, of which its primary galers! who can bear this ustestraor- paritr bad no need. gray, in a letter dinary proceeding witbout ediertain ng i his friend west, very pertinently re- a conviction that the vigilant eve of pub- marks, that “the language of the age is lic impartiaüts, a constant investigation dever the language of poetry, and wide and watchiulless, are necessary to zard can be a pore cun incing proos against misrepresentation, enchach- truth of this afirmation than the late ment, and the growth of a pernicious cuage of shakespear, which is certam systein. w.c. his greatest excellence, most of his epi- thets being in themselves pictures. ncge literarle. no. . susceptibility the socrce of our joys as well as our sorrows. pope. persons of retined understanding, in the course of his translation of though ther hare many griets to contend homer, pope has, in a great rariets of witb-griefs which appear more severe instances, and sometimes not unhappils, in proportion to the elevation of their availed himself of the opportunity of in- for in- souls-ret are thes susceptible of many terwearing with his version, applicable jove entirels distinct from, and superior passages from our best poets : perbaps to those which fall to the lot of common in rendering the following line, milton mortals. to such the surs of lite may was his model- be said less to offend their tastes than he wob. thiu ao prija ota ttuslari. the su ceis delight it. tiad, b. . l. . when sorrow rounds the feeling heart, or bids the brazen throat of war to roll. it seems as tho' its keedest dart pope. inflicted there the pain ; but what he may have here gained in but let us not enquire the cause strength he has lost in accuracy : homer nor him who gave all nature laws bays nothing about brazen. milton has presumptuously arraign- a line which appears to have tempted for, by the self same rule, the soul, him to use this epithet most open to its dark controul, no tame, trite medium kpows; the brazen throat of war had ceased to but when the sun of pleasure beams, roar. p.l. b. xi. . . like a vast shield takes all its gleams, in his translation of the following till it as brightly glows! passage, also, pope appears to have re- on the uxgenerous style of crite borted to the same noble source for an cism which prevails at the pre- improvement on his original :- sent day. Ως εφαθ' οι δαρα παντες ακης εγενοντο σιωπη, it is a prevailing clasfoτη with certil Καληθμα δ'ισχυτο κατα μεγαρα σκιρέντα. critics of the day, in order to conciliate odys. b. . i. . popularity, to expose genius to the ma- ile ceased; but left so pleasing on their ear lignant grin of envious fully, and by low his voice, that list’ning still they seemed to and vulgar parody, to endeavour to throw hear. contempt upon productions which they a pause of silence hush'd the shady rooms. might strive in vain to emulate. it was the angel ended : and in adam's ear pope. once the custom to judge of poetry and so charming left his voice, that he awhile, the drama by rules drawn from nature ; they are now not judged, but conden thought him still speaking, still stood fixed to hear. milton, p. l. b. . . . ed in epigrams manufactured by art, and impromptus over which weeks have been it is singular enough that pope who expended; and the poet and actor are has expressed his adroiration of the com- treated like a couple of whetstones, on pound epithets which so frequently oc- which the periodical critic sharpens the cur in homer, should so entirely have edge of his wit. the ungenerous style disregarded them in his own composi- of criticism here alluded to is now be- tions. he very aptly and elegantly ob- coming so much the rage, that country serves, in the preface to his iliad, that gentlemen, and persons of confined un- “ as a metaphor is a short simile, so one derstandings, are at a loss to know when of these epithets is a short description." the strictures are intended to be taken they are indeed, what aristotle has so seriously, and when they are meant as beautifully and emphatically donominat- jokes. that a very slender portion of ed them lioing words. in the new mo- talent will enable a man to establish a deling the language of verse by pope firm of his own, and review upon this and his adherenti, thcy have given it an priuciple, is sufficiently evident, and to .) nuge literaria. stay ;. this circumstance may probably be the passage now quoted is too strong to ascribed the prevalence of a custom, have been the mere effect of chance : which has of late gained so much ground comparison. in the literary world. the lapse of time and rivers are the same: both speed their journey with a restless a man must serve his time to every trade, stream: save censure, critics all are ready made. the silent pace with which they steal away, take hackneyed jokes from miller got by no wealth can bribe, no prayer persuade to rote, with just enough of learning to mis-quote; alike irrevocable both when past, a mind, well skill'd to find or forge a fault, and a wide ocean swallows both at laste a turn for punning-call it attic salt; fear not to lie, 'twill seem a lucky hit, cowper. life glides away, lorenzo, like a brook, shrink not from blasphemy, 'twill pass for for ever changing, unperceived the change; wit; in the same brook none ever bathed him care not for feeling, pass your proper jest, twice: and stand a critic, hated, yet caress'd. to the same life none ever twice awoke. the edinburgh reviewers were the we call the brook the same, the same we harbingers of this kind of warfare, and think their ridicule of the first efforts of lord our life, but much more rapid in its flow; byron's muse gave rise to the animated to the animated nor mark the much irrevocably lapsed satire from which the foregoing verses and mingled. young. epitaphs. were extracted. many of the noblest passages in the nothing is more barbarous than those poetry of the day are often undermined mixtures of verse and prose, of latin by the critic's contriving to raise vulgar and english, of narration and common- and ridiculous notions in the mind of the place morality, which appear in our reader ; and though his words in reca- churches and church-yards. a gothic pitulating the subject may express the arch, supported by corinthian pillars, or same idea, it is with this simple differ- a statue with painted cheeks, and a hat ence, that what in one excites feelings of and wiy, could not be more absurd. i sympathy and respect, will, on the other never heard of a greek inscription at hand, produce no sentiment but con- rome, or a latin one at athens. la- tempt. to simplify what is here meant, tin is, perhaps, more durable than eng- melancholy may be wittily denominated lish, and may therefore be used in those the “sulks ;" resentment, metamorphos- inscriptions which we place on the foun- ed into “pet;" a steed, a “nag ;' a dation stones of bridges, &c. for these feast, a "jupketing ;' and sorrow and it is presumed will not be read till a affliction, « whining and blubbering."- thousand years hence, when all our mo- such critics have, somewhere, been com- dern languages will probably be unin- pared to a brow-beating pleader in a telligble. but i can not but think that court of law, who, after he has indulged english epitaphial inscriptions, exposed himself in agreeable irony on the profes- to wind and weather, will be understood sion, manner of life, look, dress, and quite as long as they can be read. as even name of the witness he is examin- to into the species of composition best adapt- ing-and when he las raised a contemp- ed for the purpose, boileau says, that tuous opinion of him in the minds of the ep epitaphs “ doivent etre simples, courtes court and jury-proceeds to draw an- et familières.” one of the most simple swers from him capable of a ludicrous and pleasing specimens i have ever met turn, and carves and garbles these so as with is the following, copied from a to effect his purpose. tomb-stone in the church-yard of run- corn, in cheshire:- plagiarism of cowper. this stone was erected by Æneas morrison, the it is very remarkable, that cowper, husband of janet morrison, to designnte the spot . where her remains are deposited ; that her infant should have neglected to mention young children, when they shall have attained a more -since the task, and several of his seri- mature age, may approach it with reverential awe, and pledge their vows to heaven to respect her ous pieces, afford a strong presumption memory by imitating her virtoes. of his having read attentively and ad there is a beautiful thought, coarsely mired the “ night thoughts." many and ungrammatically expressed upon a coincidences are to be met in the stone in edgbaston church-yard, over writings of these two poets, some of the remains of an idiot girl; which has which have the appearance of being acci- been thus versified :- dental, whilst others bear the stamp of if the innocent are favorites of heaven, decided imitation. the resemblance in and god but little asks where little's given, nugæ literariæ. (may , my great creator hath for me in store so marlow, in his translation of ovid's eternal joys! what wise man can have art of love- more? for jove himself sits in the azure skies, on a tablet in the garden of new- and laughs below at lovers' perjuries. stead abbey, the ancestral residence of in an old play, the title of which the byron family, are the well-known “ lines to the memory of a newfound- have forgotten, i remember to have met land dog,” preceded by this singular in- with a beautiful antithesis to these pas- scription : sages:- near this spot when lovers swear true faith, the listening are deposited the remains of one, angels who possessed beauty without vanity, stand on the golden battlements of heaven, - strengch without insolence, and waſt their vows to the eternal throne. courage without ferocity, and all the virtues of man without his vices hamlet. this praise, which would he unmeaning fattery, the character of hamlet, though per- finscribed over human ashes, fectly natural, is so very uncommon, is but a just tribute to the memory of that few, even of our critics, can enter boatswain, a dcg, who was born in newfoundland, may, , into it. sorrow, indignation, revenge, and died in newstead, nov, , . and the consciousness of his own irreso- johnson's prayers lution tear his heart--the peculiarity of undoubtedly possess much merit; but his circumstances often obliges him to the best passages are taken from the counterfeit insanity, and the storms of “ book of common prayer," which is passion within him, often drive him to an inexhaustible fund. there is, how. the verge of real madness: this produces ever, in publishing one's own devotion a situation so interesting, and a conduct and alms, something so very like “ pray so complicated, as none but shakspeare ing upon the house-top," that i can could have the courage to describe, and scarcely believe johnson would have few will ever be able to exhibit superior consented to it, till the want of health to young, whose correct conception of had somewhat impaired his faculties. this character may be looked upon as a many of the memoranda cannot be read master-piece in the present world of without pain and pity; others are of a acting. different character. to set down in a singular literary mistake. devotional diary-"n.b. i dined to-day in the history of france, by the be- upon a herring and potatoes,” is a most nedictines, there is a passage, in which extraordinary incongruity. they say that “they are ignorant where illustration of an arabian pro- gesner found that william the con- verb. queror wrote a treatise concerning the the arabians have a proverb-“horo day of the lost judgment." it is evident cheap the camel would lie if that cursed that this must have been a blunder aris- thing did not hans on its neck," which is ing from the title of the doomsday said to have originated in the following book; and must have originated from circunstance:- an arab, who had a a careless inspection of bale, whose vicious camel, swore, in a passion, that catalogue of the works of william (if he would sell it for a dirhem, or his wife they may be so termed) commences should ever be barren. he soon repent with the words “ diem judicii, lib. i." ed of his vow, yet to keep to the letter which are, however, connected with of it, he thought of this curious method the preceding sentence, so as sufficiently of breaking it in spirit. he hung a cat to explain their meaning to any reader round the camel's neck, and then had it who takes the trouble of perusing the cried, “ the camel for a dirhem, the cat whole. for , but both must be bought toge- gray, ther," the passengers exclaimed - the extensive erudition of gray, the how cheap the camel would be if that various and distant sources from which cursed thing were not hung round its he derived his allusions, and the felicity neck. and this speech is since become a or dexterity with which he melted them proverb, which is applied to things seem- down into a mingled and scarcely dis- ingly cheap, but which can only be ac- tinguishable mass with his own concep- quired through great sacrifices. tions, entitle his poetry, perhaps above marlow and shakespear. that of every other modern, to a rario shakespear's juliet says- rum edition. . at lovers' perjuries a very extraordinary coincidence oc- they say jove laughs." curs between a passage in the beautiful .] nuge literarice. “ elegy" of gray, and a sentence in next him went fear, all armed fro:n top bishop hall's contemplations : to toe, yet thought himself not safe enough full many a gem, of purest ray serene, the dark unfathomed caves of oceart but feared each shadow moving to and froe, thereby; bear; and his owne arms when glittering he did full many a flower is born to blush unseen, spy, and waste its sweetness on the desert air. or clashing heard, he fast away did fly. gray. spenser. there is many a rich stone laid up in the beloved! till life can charm no more, bowells of the earth, many a faire pearle in and pity's self be dead. collins. the bosom of the sea, that never was seene, and her eternal fame be read nor ever shall be. when all but very virtue ’s dead. bishop hall's contemplations, b. vi. f. . when lorelace. the following, referred to the same the redhreast oft at evening hours lines of gray, bear more decisive marks shall kindly lend his little aid, of imitation:- with hoary moss and gathered flowers how gay they smile! such blessings nature to deck the ground where thou art laid. collins. pours, o'erstocked mankind enjoy but half her covering with moss the dead's unclosed eye, stores, the little redbreast teacheth charity. in distant wilds, by human eyes unseen, drayton. she rears her flowers and spreads her vel- anticipation. vet green; the anticipation of happiness to come pure gurgling rills the lonely desert trace often affords more pleasure than the and waste their sweetness on the savage absolute possession of it, and is at all race. young, sat. v. times the most certain enjoyment; as thomson's castle of indolence. we hope in ideu what we are not always doomed to experience in reality. the the mock solemnity and antiquated spring is therefore a pleasanter season air of the “ castle of indolence" render than uie summer: the first whets the it one of the happiest applications of the appetite by promises, the latter dulls it spenserian stanza. its principal attrac- tion, excepting the poetical splendour of thought with which it abounds, is that religion. it is surely impossible to understand humourous affectation of gravity and on of gravity and the doctrines of our religion and not quaintness, w bieh the author has so well wish, at least, that they may be true; succeeded in imitating from his great for they exbibit the most exbilarating original ; in whose style the grotesque views of god and his providence; they and the sedate, the lofty and the mean, recommend the purest and most perfect the humourous and the sad, are so har- morality; and they breathe nothing moniously blended, that whether it is throughout but benevolence, equity, and the nature of the verse itself, or a con- peace; one may venture to affirm, that sequence of the prejudices connected with it, but certain it is, that nothing who did not find it so. no man ever wished the gospel true, but the wild and remote, the allegorical hope and the romantic, appear in it with be- predominates in youth, who are always coming effect. the “ castle of indo- less willing to indulge in unpleasing lence" has never been so popular as his thoughts, than to contemplate their pro- “ seasons," doubtless on account of its bable share of unhappiness in the pe- allegory; but, as a poetical composition, riod before them. the world to them it is as much superior to the other appears enameled, like a distant pro- poems of thomson, as “the school spect, whose beauties are so heightened mistress" of shenstone is to the rest of by the reflection of a setting sun, that his meagre and uninteresting perform- its inequalities are only to be discovered ances, upon a much nearer inspection. coincidences between collins and novel punishment. other writers. the emperor claudius was so fond first fear his hand its skill to try of backgammon, that seneca says his amid the chords bewildered laid, punishment in hell will be to play con- and back recoiled, he knew not why, tinually with a bottomless dice box- e'en at the noise himself had made. collins. ludere perluso fretillo et fugientes tes- seras semper quærere. inance. : mr. tredgold on the decay of timber. [may , dr. johnson the object of inquiry within parrower in allusion to a passage in johnson's limits, and consequently render it more dictionary, which states that h seldom, easy for others to pursue the subject :- perhaps never, begins any but the first and, if a preventive be sought, it is much syllable,wilkes observed that the doctor less difficult to ascertain what will an- must be a man of quick apprehension and swer the purpose. of a most comprehensive genius. the decomposition or decay of timber appears to originate from different on the decay of timber, the de causes, the operation of each being at- structive effects op floating tended by phenomena peculiar to the timber in the docks, and on the species of decay. like all other kinds of dry rot. natural decomposition, it is a change mr. editor, produced by chemical affinity, which the rapid decay of timber, particu- differs from the operations of the labo- larly in structures that have been erected ratory only in the time that is necessary within the last century, lias excited much to complete the change. a description attention. various remedies have been of the changes produced in timber by ex- proposed to stop the progress of a grow- posing it in different ways to the action ing evil---an evil, which scarcely a house of water, alternate dryness and moisture, holder in this metropolis can say he is &c. &c. that is, a history of the progress perfectly secure against; and yet little of decomposition is much wanted, and has been effected either in preventing or could it be accurately detailed, it would removing it. certainly contribute materially to clear it appears the best and most rational the subject of the mystery that now is method of proceeding, to inquire what apparently so difficult to remove. is the cause, and the nature of this pecu- it is certain that no compound of so liar species of decay, commonly called the complicated a nature as timber will re- dry rot, and in what respects it differs main perfectly the same in any state, from all other kinds of decay to which whether wet or dry; for we find that timber is subject. when timber is kept perfectly dry it be- it has, by some persons, been supposed comes brittle, and however long it may to be a new disease, (if a disease it may endure in a state of rest, it becomes un.. be called) and that it was wholly un- fit for other purposes. known to our ancestors; but surely they a lso when timber has been long ex- inust be much mistaken in this supposi- posed to the action of water, a certain tion ; because timber, under the same portion of its soluble principles appears circumstances, will always undergo the to be removed—as when it is dried, to same changes. if it did not, there use a workman's expression, its nature would be no advantage gained by che- is gone," and however durable it might inical research. but the supposition is be remaining immersed in water, when too erroneous to require a serious refus dried it is unfit for any purpose where tation; all that can be said is, that tim- strength or elasticity is required. her was not so frequently placed under but when timber is exposed alter- the peculiar circumstances necessary to dately to dryness and moisture, its decay produce the dry rot, and therefore, be- is very much accelerated, and the prin- ing much seldomer wet with, it had been ciples which are not remored by solution confounded with the natural decay of and evaporation, are gradually converted timber. into vegetable mould. that part of a it is, no doubt, a subject that is diffi- frost which is near the surface of the cult to investigate ; indeed every species ground may be cited as an example of of decomposition is the same, whether it this species of decay, and it is generally be vegetable or animal. but where che- called the wet rot. it is easy to con- mists have failed in giving a complete de- ceive that when the wood is in a moist velopement of the process of nature state the water will dissolve its soluble from the compound nature of the bodies parts, and that the gaseous portions of concerned in it, they still have been so it will be removed by evaporation during far successful that they have discovered its change to a dry state." the most striking peculiarities of their and it is more than probable that the processes, and the particular ingredients alternate action of heat and moisture and circumstances that are absolutely favours the solution, and renders those necessary to produce the phenomena.- parts soluble which resist the continued such discoveries are a considerable acm action of water alone. it also may be cession to science, because they bring remarked, that timber which has been .) mr. tredgold on the decay of timber. long immersed in water, and in some this species of decomposition is called places it must have lain in that situation the dry-rot. for many centuries, the temperature of when all other circumstances are fa- the water has seldom exceeded de- vourable, the dry-rot appears to go on grees of fahrenheit, and at so low a most rapidly in situations where there is temperature, there are few of the consti- a considerable degree of warmth; hence tuent parts of timber soluble. it is often found in kitchens. the range of among the various and ingenious im- temperature within which it takes place provements of modern times, it is much has not been determined; but from a to be regretted that immediate conveni- knowledge of the situations where it oc- ence is much more studied than perma- curs, i have stated it to be between and nent benefit. were a person, to whom degrees. a certain degree of moisture the convenience of bonding logs of timber is absolutely necessary to produce it; in the docks was not known, to be shown and when the moisture is confined so those immense repositories of foreign that the heat does not evaporate, the timber, what other notion could he form change may take place at a much higher of them, than that they were intended to temperature. impregnate timber with the seeds of de- there is a close resemblance between cay? he might even conclude, that it the state necessary to produce the dry. was a scheme of the timber-merchants to rot and that which produces fermenta- generate the destructive fungus which tion or putrefaction; moisture is essential appears in the dry-rot for the benefit of to each of these kinds of decomposition ; trade ; so well does the half immersion of they require nearly the same range of the logs appear adapted for that purpose.* temperature, and as a ferment produces if such a practice be suffered to be con- fermentation, so may both putrefaction tinued, it will be in vain to seek for re- and the dry-rot be propagated. i might inedies for the decay of timber. it might advance a step further, and compare it in some degree be remedied by complete to vegetation, which, as far as chemistry immersion to a considerable depth in the is concerned, is only a product of decom- water; and it would be well if merchants posing materials, and requires the pre- would adopt this method of themselves; sence of moisture, and the same range if not, the attention of government of temperature. should be called to the subject, as it is as the presence of moisture is essen- certainly not one of minor importance. tial to the production of the dry-rot, the wood that is exposed, in a tempera- most simple and obvious remedy is the ture between and degrees of fah- removal of this cause. vessels employed renheit, to a continued dew-like mois- in carrying cargoes that absorb mois- ture, soon begins to decompose ; and its ture, are seldom if ever affected with constituents, instead of being evaporat. the dry-rot. on the other hand, brick- 'ed or removed by solution, enter into work readily absorbs an immense quanti- new combinations. a new substance is ty of water, which is communicated to formed between the remaining fibres, the wood-work nearit. in the superior which is of a spongy consistency, and has parts of houses, this may in a great mea- the appearance of the coat of a musli- sure be prevented by stuccoing the walls room. naturalists class it among the with a cement that does not permit wa- cryptogamia class of plants; those formed ter to pass through it. the roman ce- by the decomposition of different woods, ment is of this kind. but in the lower appear to have different characters and parts of houses, the bricks draw the undoubtedly differ in chemical compo- moisture from the ground, and must sition. during the formation of this supply an almost perpetual vapour,drawn new substance, the woody fibres contract out by the warmth of the rooms into the longitudinally, and present many deep space between the wood-work and the cracks across the fibres, similar to a walls. this vapour is prevented from piece of wood scorched by the fire.- evaporating through the wood by seve- ral coats of paint, which of course facili- * when timber has laid a considerable tate the decay of the wood by retaining time in the docks, the fungi appear a little the me the moisture in its pores. it would be above the water line; it would be desirable much more judicious to paint the part to ascertain the species, as it is not impro- bable that it is identical with that observed of the wood next the wall, and to leave in the dry-rot of the same kind of timber. the side next the room without paint the naturalist might easily procure spe- than to follow the present practice. cimens from the docks to ascertain this when it is impossible to prevent the fact. presence of moisture, every precaution new monthly mag. no. . vol. xi. u [may , on the character and poetry of lord byron. should be adopted to prevent it remain- we consider the splendid discoveries that ing in contact with the wood. a free cir- have marked the path of chemical inqui- culation of dry air should be encouraged, ries, it is scarcely possible to say what and free evaporation from the wood per- cannot be accomplished by industry and initted. in addition to these precautions, talent. t. tredgold. charcoal, sinith's ashes, and other sub- stances which retard, if not check, the on the character and poetry of growth of fungi, should be used. per- lord byron. haps sulphur would be found of use in mr. editor, stopping the progress of a rot which had i have been much gratified with many commenced. of the literary articles in some of the re- nothing has a greater tendency to cent numbers of your publication, for produce dry-rot than the present rapid the first time put into my hands. they method of building ; and yet it is utterly breathe a purer style, and a more poeti- impossible to persuade a person that has cal taste, than are apparent, according to determined to erect a house of the ill my belief, in its sister journals of the consequences that arise from it; indeed day; the matter is more instinct with so impatient are most people to enjoy a spirit, and with the glow wbich gepias new house, that scarcely any risk would spreads over all it touches. but i know induce them to defer it for even a single not if i have been more pleased with any season. yet one season would do much papers than those which have advocated towards evaporating the moisture from the character and poetry of lord byron. the new walls. the walls, however, him i have ever regarded as a persecut- ought to be perfectly dry before either ed individual-visited with a singular the inside bc finished, or the outside share of popular opprobrium-an op- stuccoed. probrium wielded by inen, whom his ta- houses rapidly built, inust almost al- lents, rather than his failings, have made ways be consiructed of unseasoned tim- his enemies,-and who, in sounding the ber, and the natural moisture is prevent trumpet of imputed crime, have grati- ed from escaping by enclosing it with fied less their own respect for virtue plaster and paint. the house thus put than the latent envy of their hearts.- together, i had almost said for the ex- despite the calumnious rumours so in- press purpose of generating the dry-rot, dustriously kept afloat by them, a calm is soon after inhabited; and then, as if observer may trace even in those pages it were to complete tlie preparations for which teem with the dark and terrible of destruction, it is heated to that tempe- crime, a lofty spirit, stirring with gene- rature which is most favourable to the rous emotions, and with sensibility in growth of the fungi. unseasoned tim every nerre; a spirit which, in his search ber must be much more subject to the for the beautiful, often draws, rather dry-rot than that which is seasoned, from the type of ideal harmony in his when placed in like situations; but no own fancy, than from forms simply exis- care in seasoning will prevent it when tent;-proving that the spring of his the timber is exposed to warmth and thought is a pure passion after the vi- moisture. some kinds of timber are sions of loveliness; and, that his mind, in more subject to dry-rot than others; its productive creations, rather colours and, as has been justly observed by a things with hues at its choice, than is writer in the quarterly review, in trees coloured by them. that lord byron of the same kind, the most sappy and ra- has not depicted the purely good -- the pidly promulgated trees are most subject gertrudes of poetry-but laras and pa- to it.' trees from the close forests of rasinas, is therefore to be attributed germany and america, being much more more to his own caprice than his ene- subject to dry.rut than trees grown in mies are willing to allow. he might open and exposed situations. have done it- he might do it with ini- i have now briefly considered the causes mitable case ; but lie, probably, thought and most obvious means of preventing the it required greater skill and insight into dry-rot. the subject is of importance, the human mind, to unveil the grandeur and well worthy of the attention of che- of a misanthrope, and give attraction to inists. it is only those who have paid a pirate. there are many persons who particular attention to vegetable che- impute the aberrations of his fancy, if mistry that can expect to investigate the such they be, to the defects of his heart, phenomena with success; and the ana- and with singular resolve and inconsist- lysis of vegetable bodies is confessedly a ency, shut the avenues of their under- difficult part of the science; but when standings to the thousand tender and . on the character and poetry of lord byron. beautiful touches which pervade his writ of dryden, nor of goldsmith, but a con- ings. i think, however, that a kindlier stellation of the strength and grace of feeling begins to shew itself in the all, with superadded harmony, and a public mind towards this noble bard; more pervading impetuosity. neither his absence from his country-the cer- is his spenserian stanza, the stanza of tainty that he has suffered much-the spenser, of thomson, or of beattie ; but spirit which has refused to bend to fluctuating in a wider compass and va- suffering --and the firmness which has riety of cadence, more loftily wielded, supported him under unprovked severi- with an olympic majesty, and magnifi- ty; sorrow-song-feeling-pride-ge- cence, more abrupt but more sonorous, nius-have tempered with pity the acri- mellowed into a finer and a fuller flow of mony of the past. he who can read, beautiful sounds and concords more with a cool heart and an unwet eye, many deeply enamouring the ear, and touched passages in the fourth canto of childe to sweeter and to grander issues. his harold,-his lingering love of country alexandrine is not “ the wounded amidst the sunny waters of the adriatic snake," of pope, but the mellifluous mo- and the festivities of venice—the mourn- tion of an undulating river-the rapid ful and melancholy remembrances of rush of the “arrowy rhine," or the roman glory in the ruined coliseum- dark swell of the stormy ocean. it is in and the terrible yet pathetic apostrophe them that the ripple breaks, or the to the midnight nemesis, wherein the booming billow bursts—that the ex- fire and feelings of past emotions--the panded image concentres into energy, hopes of youth-the disappointments of and the purposed wisdom speaks mora- manhood --regret, anguish, and injury lity to man. successful, therefore, as are livingly concentered—who can pass, he is in this, i cannot so well admire levite-like, unmoved, these wrestlings those instances in the fourth canto of of grief with majesty, his heart i envy childe harold, where the sentence does not, but pity as a thing unloving and not close with the stanza, but is conti- unlovely. nued through three or four. in describing above all other writers lord byron indeed the tortuous boilings and angry speaks to the heart: it is this which he agitations of the veline cataract, the line robes with the garment of his own emo. may be permitted to labor and hang siis. tion ; there his hope revels--his anguish pended for an instant, like the stone of slings-his passion beats: it is his spirit sisyphus, particularly as the recoil be. and pot lara's which dares us to forget. comes thereby more jarring; but it is a his individuality haunts our sympathy, daring originality, which in other cases, and blends with our being. his words and in another than a master's hands, have alternately the tears and the sun would be liable to censure. if, however, shine, the thunder and the lightning of nothing new is attempted, nothing new heaven: his thoughts are sensation, and will be gained. it is the privilege, if his pictures materialitk. his flowers, not the passion, of genius, to be eccen- and streams, and mountains, have a sor- tric, and in consideration of the innu- row-a beauty--a tenderness of their merable shades which his eccentricity own; they are instinct with life, or kindles into beauty, we may charged, like ossian's, with a music most “ here and there forgive a brave neglect." unhappy. after reading childe harold, for my own part, i cannot take up a or the corsair, one can do nothing; it work of genius without merging the absorbs and unnerves us. a lady once critic in the reader. it is the spider observed to me, “ moore's lalla rookh which turns to venom the honey that it i can take up and lay down; i can take tastes. let us rightly value the sun of up a work of theology and read with song, whilst he is yet with us to illumine equal attention; but i must have a our spirit with his own warm tints--to night's sleep after reading lara or the shed around creation his paradise of corsair," perfectly original and isolate light. a time will come when his glory in everything, though he sometimes must depart into shadow. then the condescends to use the thoughts of things who have been busy in heaping others, and though he writes in the mea- wrongs upon his head, who have sought sure in which others have written, pass- to whiten by his side, without sharing in ing into bis hands like certain chemical lis sorrow, will affect to weep over his combinations, they form a new com- ashes, and pause when it is too late, in pound entirely unique. his verse is the career of contumely. the men who neither the verse of pope, of denham, neglected to allcyiate the misfortunes of letter from dr. polidori. [may , the living burns, are raising to the of medals, to commemorate the expulsion dead stalues of stone. but we will build of the french from russia. our statue whilst it is yet day: nu eexetc. but, in england, we are accustomed for myself, i cannot refrain from avow- to carry on many works of a public na- ing, that i consider it a glory in my life, ture by the enterprising efforts of indi- that i live in the age of lord byron, viduals: and thus the medallic record of and instead of darting the sting, like our pational glories is the undertaking some prying insects of the day, “to of a person in private life, who relies on probe a bosoon too severely tried," i the spirit of his fellow subjects, unsup- would soothe it with a tear, and drop ported by the government in this very over the victim of grief the mantle of arduous and expensive project. the timanthes. able manner in which many of the me- woburn. feb. . j. h. wiffen. dals have been executed, and the patrio tic object of the design will, i trust, en- sure its ultimate success. but, if the mr. editor, lists of subscribers, which hare reached as the person referred to in the let- me, be correct, that support is not as ex- ter from geneva, prefixed to the tale of tensive as i think mr. mudie had reason the vampyre, in your last number, i to hope for. i am inclined to attribute beg leave to state, that your correspond- this to his plan not being generally ent has been mistaken in attributing that known; and i hope, by these remarks, tale, in its present form, to lord byron. to give it a greater publicity. surely the fact is, that though the ground- work is certainly lord byron's, no work of art can be more deserving of its developement is mine, produced at general support than that which is de- signed to record the splendid victories of the request of a lady, who denied the our fleets and armies, during the memo- possibility of any thing being drawn rable period of the last twenty-five years. from the materials which lord byron i confess that i am much surprised, on had said he intended to have employed observing that scarcely any encourage- in the formation of his ghost story. ment has been given to this national se- i am, &c. john w. polidori. ries by the individuals or the families of those whose actions are thus immorta- national series of medals. lized. the moral influence of painting is mr. editor, great indeed, and cannot be too highly the series of medals, engraving un- appreciated, but pictures are perishable, der the superintendance and at the ex- and even statues are liable to accident pense of mr. mudie, is designed to re- and decay. on the contrary, the con- cord forty of the most memorable events venient size and materials of medals, of the late war, by sea and land, begin- combine to render them the most dara- ning with the hostilities against the ble records of human glory. the last french republic, and ending with the medal, w bich i have seen of mr. mudie's, battle of algiers. in france, from very is that on lord howe's rictory of the remoto periods, the government has al- st of june ; and i think the spirit and ways been at the expense of striking beauty of the execution challenges com- medals on public events. buonaparte petition with any medal of the famed was sensible of their moral and political napoleon series, though the name of influence on society, and paid a particu- the artist, wm. wynn, has not before lar attention to the encouragement and appeared in the series. i flatter myself improvement of this art. he spared no that your tasteful readers will not deem expense to bring it to the highest state this judgment too favorable, and will of perfection. the emperor alexan- agree with me in opinion, that mr. mu- der, impressed with a similar conviction, die, and his patriotic object, and the has, lately, granted a considerable sum spirit of his efforts, is amply entitled to to a russian nobleman, who is employ- public commendation and encourage- ing the best artists to engrave a series ment. an amateur. .) ( ) · original poetry. stanzas. yet i joy that the dark whispered lie to emily. now, can kindle no flash in thine eye! years of anguish and gloom have gone by and the poison of envy and malice, since i last drank the breath of thy sigb; may still further embitter life's chalice; and,---compelled by hard fortune to sever but the cup, with a smile, shall be quaffd, we parted, in sadness-for ever! since thou liy'st not to share in the draught! what a host of remembrances rush april, . a. a. w. on my brain,--and my tears how they gush, when, in solitude's hour, i dwell stanzas. on thy wild, but prophetic “ farewell.” there is a feeling in the heart, yes, “ for erer,” thou saidst,tho' i deem'd a feeling which it well might spare, that will not ruin and depart, fortune kinder perchance than she seemd; * a; but ever dwells and rankles there, and, chiding thy fears with a kiss, bad thee dim not those moments of bliss. nor music, mirth, nor rosy wine, nor love, nor woman's smiles divine, even then, death's dark web was around nor sanctity of prayer;- thee ! - nor aught that holy men may say, the spells of the spoiler had bound thee; can scare the ravening fiend away. and the angel from heaven that brings a sickness of the soul, the balm fate's last fiat, was waving his wings. of hope can neither soothe nor slake ; we parted. what pen may pourtray a serpent that no spell can charm, the despair that o'ershadow'd that day?-- with eye, eternally awake; yet e'en deeper our grief had been then, a glance of fire-a tongue of flame . had we known we should meet not again. which time can neither tire nor tame, we parted ;-long years have now past nor music's voice disarm ;- since the hour that i gazed on thee last; a living sense of lasting woe but, fresh in my memory, yet, that poisons every bliss below. bloom the flowers of most mournful regret. it was not always thus !-he danced the earlier hours of life away; 'tis said, that for sorrow's worst sting and snatched at joy where'er it chanced time a swift-healing balsam can bring; to blossom on his lonely way :- that earth's ills all must own his dominion, and recede when they're touched by his then hope was young, and bright and fair, he knew nor woe, nor wasting care, pinion :- but innocently gay, could the power of oblivion controul deem'd-reckless of the debt it owed all the gloom that oppresses my soul ;- 'twould always flow, as thus it flowed. could e'en time with his wing interpose, as childhood opened into youth, and freeze feeling's bright fount as it th those feelings fled - he drank the flows ;--- springs i would scorn the hard chain that must of knowledge, and the source of truth, chill, (what the sage writes the poet sings;) in my bosom, affectin's fond thrill; and read in nature's changing forms, for the boon were ungrateful to me the shifting shades of sun and storms, if it banish'd one sweet dream of thee! unutterable things; but this thought shall afford me relief and sought unweariedly to cull all that was wild and wonderful! in my moments of passion and grief, that--whate'er be the depth of my woes-- but even then—at times would roll- they can never disturb thy repose. unbidden and profoundly deep- no ;-the clouds that burst over me now, an awful silence o'er his soul, that hush'd all other sense to sleep; cannot ruffle thy beautiful brow; and then he saw—too near-the springs in its sorrows my soul may repine ; and wild reality of things, they can wake no wild echo in thine. and only waked to weep no ;-the venom-dipt arrows of doom that man should be cut off from bliss, cannot pierce to thy heart thro' the tomb; and exiled to a world like this! and, tho'bitter, 'tis balm to my breast he loved—i will not say how true, to know thou’rt for ever at rest! the faithless tongue, perchance, might let the storms of adversity lower, lie :- so that thou hast escaped from their he did not love as others do; power ;- nor cringe, nor flatter, whine, nor sigh: they may pour forth their wrath on my look on his lowest heart, and trace head; what time can deepen, not deface, they can break not the sleep of the dead. so strongly wrought the die, let the tongues of detraction and blame that did her lovely image bear, do their worst to shed blight on my name ;- and warm and glowing stamp it there. (may , original poetry. he loved. ---and does he not: ah ! now, but shouldst thou change! i dare not take another worships at that shrine ; one thought on what thou hadst been and he prefers a heartless vow, then ;- fond fool! where thou didst offer thine. the pile which ages could not shake, now, where thou knelt, another kneels, no human hands could rear again. and from that holy altar steals but o'er the mournful ruins, yet the sacred bread and wine, i'd bid the weeping ivy twine; which thou hadst laboured to obtain for tho' estranged, i could not set to shrine thee from eternal pain. oblivion's seal on aught of thine ! then from himself he strove to hide twined in the immortal cells of thought the past, by mingling with mankind, her wizard ivy--grief must be. and left the maid he deified he only who had seen thee not, idols elsewhere to find; — could wear no aching heart for thee! but from that sanctuary hurld woburn, feb. , . vida. he roves-an outcast on the world- nor evermore may bind- rock of the past, his future stay- the death of leila. the bonds that have been wrenchid away. (fragınent from the spanish.) he stands, as stands a ruined tower, yes oft i attended with pensive delight which time in triumph desolates; the couch where, in sickness, my leila re- the ivy wreath that scorns his power, clin'd; a melancholy gloom creates ; and oft by the aid of the lady of night, what tho' it shine in light while set in her beautiful eye,- still unfadingly the summer suns,-its fibres fret bright, the stone it decorates; marked each image that dwelt in her mind : so, smiles upon his pallid brow, there affection and sorrow, together were but wring the ruin'd heart below. blended azo. the tears of regret, with the glances of love ; to janthe. regret—that so soon she must leave unbe- the greeks, when o'er a buried friend friended, they reared the monumental stone, the lord of her bosom in sadness to rove. raised high one pillar which might lend one eve, as she rested her head on my memorial of his virtues gone: breast,- and round the sculptur'd column, high can i cease to remember that moment? no, they twined the sweetest summer flowers, never ! to glad the conscious passer-by, on my lips with wild fervor a kiss she im- and breathe of beauty in all hours. prest, there flourishd they in shade and light; then sunk to repose on my bosom for ever! or if, oppress'd by tempests rude, for scarce had i tasted the sorrowful bliss the thunder storm their leaves might blight, when her heart ceased its throbbing, and the morrow saw those blooms renew'd : dim grew her eye: so in thy absence, dearest maid ! and i found that my lips had entomb'd her such monument of thee i build; last sigh;- and thus my soul, in sun and shade, that her spirit had fled with the kiss! is with enchanting memories fillid : arion. and on thine image, fair and kind, the sweetest flowers of thought i cast, sonnet. which breathe across the waste of mind to ***** with manuscript poems. the smile of social summers past, in joy and grief-suspense-and pain, not that its flowers are marked with fancy's when prouder things like recreants flee, hues, in lonely fondness they remain- lady! for thee did i this wreath entwine; not vainly-since they speak of thee! but as a votive offering at the shrine of mutual friendship :-do not then refuse 'tis true the tempest might descend the tribute of an humble poet's song, and tear those flowers of life away; breathing each wish the tenderest breast but tho'their blighted leaves it rend, can form; the trophy could not all decay :- tho'to his lyre no lofty tones belong the memory of thy form and worth- yet is his heart with truth and feeling that mightier column--could not die; warm. unlike those pillars of the earth and should his muse, in future hours, obtain which shake when earthquakes pass a brighter garland from the aonian tree, them by. with joy, to bind thy heauteous brows again, through all the thunders of the soul, he'llcull the ta rest of its blooms for thee; wrath-hate - wrong-jealousy and and so he gain but thy approving smile, pride,- will be content tho' the world frown the "twould stand unheeding as they roll, while. and proudly bid them be defied! arion. .] original poetry. but that i know thy purer mind, . fraught with each virtue-grace refin'd- that is on earth to mortals given to fit them for the sphere of heaven ! . arion. sonnet to an artist. by a. brooke, esq. painter! whose curious hand could fix the hues of the soul's lineaments, and thus chain down, on thy charmed tablet, the unconscious frown which pain and passion o'er the front dif- fuse, unlovely ;--tho' the meditative muse perhaps, not wholly, may such look disown, but pitying spare from her own verdant crown, one sheltering leaf, fresh with castalian dews - painter ! perhaps thine art had here once found far other exercise ;-in earlier years, perhaps had traced a cheek all dimpled round with rosy smiles, an eye undimm’d by tears or studious vigils,-and the joyous glow which thoughtlessness tlings over youth's bright brow. jan. . sonnet to the memory of walter kerr, esq. late of the glengary fencibles. peace to thy gallant heart!-we less had griev'd, hadst thou but fall'n before the battle brand; but thus, beneath consumption's moul- dering hand, thou whom the bolts of death so oft re- priev'd ;- thus to descend into the silent tomb, in the young morn and april of thy years, was surely hard--and may excuse the tears with which we now deplore thy hapless doom. peace to thy gallant heart !-whilst valor's deed shall stand recorded on the rolls of fame thou shalt be well remembered, and thy name,-. so long as britons' generous bosoms bleed for worth untimely snatch'd ;- serve as a to bid our wandering thoughts on sun- bright glory dwell. . a. a. w. spell to ***** “ je ne change qu'en mourant." can i forget the hours of bliss that fled with love and thee?- can i forget the parting kiss thy fondness dealt to me?- can i forget the tender ties that bind our souls together- thy last sad looks--thy farewell sighs, and prove my“ faith a feather?" no, no, the dove its plume may change--- the summer rose, its bloom ;- but mine's a heart that cannot range, nor cool---save in the tomb! no, no, by all the pangs i've proved, by joy, remembered ever! i feel, tho' e'en no more beloved, i could forget thee never. . arion. sonnet composed on board l'etoile sloop, whilst beating about during the greater part of a dark and teinpestuous night, in view of dungeness light house, without being able to enter rye harbour. yes, desolation on her viewless wing, e’en now, perchance, is speeding with the blast, in deathful haste ;-with angry visiting the surges sweep around us, and the mast bereſt of sail-waves, like a fragile reed, submissive to the storm :-but for yon light i had begun to deem this dreary night for us would have no morn. in greatest need when thro’ life's sea man's erring bark is driven- thus doth the beacon hope, with friendly gleam, speak peace unto his soul; and tho' its beam bring not immediate aid, it can create courage, io hear the buffetings of fate with patience, till he reach the wished for port of heaven. a. a. w. sonnet to *****. no, not because thy form is fair, art thou unto my soul so dear; for heauty oft hath met mine eye, and i have coldly passed it by, when unenlightened by the glow which feeling can alone bestow :- for, oh! that face is nought to me where beams no sensibility! then not because thy form is fair, art thou unto my soul so dear ;- ( ) biographical sketch of lady caroline lamb. (with a portrait.) lady caroline lamb, (whose por- doubted: and besides this, there was trait we have the pleasure of giving in a rare conjunction of striking talents on our present number), is the third child every side of this noble family, of which, and only daughter of the rt. hon. fred. though one instance only, we may be al- ponsonby, earl of besborough, by hen- lowed to mention the late duchess of rietta frances spencer,and second daugh- devonshire, whose elegant taste and ter of john, the first earl of that name. poetic fancy could hardly fail to stiinu- - she was born november , , late the mental faculties of her piece, and from her erliest infancy had the even if they had not been, as they fairly unspeakable advantage of receiving the were, exactly similar to her own in fer- instruction, and improving by the ex- tility of genius and liveliness of imagina- ample of her venerable grandmother, tion. the highly accomplished countess dow. certain it is that the cducation of the ager spencer, who died at the age of se- young lady was conducted on a very su- venty eight, in .-- biography would perior plan, and that her noble friends be well employed in delineating the cha- were rewarded for their attentions by racter of that excellent woman, than the progress which she made in every whom it would be difficult to name one useful and ornamental branch of know- in modern times, of her station, equally ledge, worthy of such a distinction, and whose entering into life with a fine form, a memoir would be so well calculated to highly cultivated understanding, and edify the rising age. her mind was bright prospects, she could not be long richly stored with various reading, and witbout admirers. accordingly, before what she acquired was applied to the she had attained the age of twenty, she best purposes ! she had an extensive became a wife, being married on the d range of acquaintance, who regarded her of june, , to the hon. william conversation and correspondence as an lamb, eldest son of the viscount mel- inestimable treasure. in sprightliness bourne, a gentleman of splendid talents, of style, her letters would rival those of perfect integrity, and an active member sevigné or montague; while, in solidity of the house of commons, where he has of thought and ethical purity, they might sat two parliainents for the city of peter- rank with the epistles of carter. on borough, of which see his great uncle, the paternal side, she was of the ancient dr. robert lamb, was formerly bishop. family of poyntz, and her mother was three children have been the issue of daughter of the great earl of peterbo- this marriage, but one only is living, who rough. was born aug. , , and at his baptism the lady besborough, who inherits received the name of george augustus all the excellencies of her venerable pa- frederick, in honour of his royal high- rents, took the greatest care that her ness the prince regent, who stood spon- own children should reflect honour upon sor on the occasion. that stock from whence they sprung; of this distinguished lady it is suffi- and she has had the satisfaction to see cient to say that, by the constancy of her pains well rewarded. her maternal filial affection, conjugal attachment, heart was so much wrung when her son, and maternal tenderness, she has uni- the gallant colonel ponsonby, was griev- formly contributed to the happiness ously wounded at the battle of waterloo, of thosc with whom she is con- that she immediately flew to brussels, nected. high-minded, without pride- for the purpose of ministering to him vivacious, without levity, and generous, under his sufferings. this was a touch- without extravagance, it is not surpris- ing scene; but in the midst of all its ing that she should gain admiration and weight of woe there was a mixture of secure friendship. in the liveliness of felicity in it which was consummated by her discourse there is a charm which the recovery of the darling object. merits attention, and an attraction in her to be brought up under such rela behaviour which commands esteem. tives was an advantage, the value of of her ladyship's literary perform- which surpasses all estimation. that ances, it is not in our power to enter it was duly appreciated, and grate into detail ; but those who are in the fully returned, by an adequate im- secret of her compositions, speak em- provement in all the sterling accom- phatically of their elegance and acknow- plishments of the mind, cannot be ledge her. to possess intellectual powers i - - - - - - imam auert nun vest from an original vinitwe. lady caroline lamb, lunioni shei !!,, , buy one in in die street. .) campbell's specimens of the british poets. of the most brilliant description. - fair autharess, in regard to her lyri- some poetical pieces, ascribed to cal powers, and the mellifluous beauty her ladyship, which we have seen, of her versification, the british sap- would inclinc us to designate the pho. h ts critical remarks on new publications. specimens of the british poets, with bio- possesses all the requisites we could graphical and critical notices, and an desire in a poetical censor, and that his essay on english poetry. vols. vo. “ specimens of the british poets,” con- it has been said, and we are inclined tain some of the most delightful philo- logy to be met with in the english lan- to think with some degree of justice, guage. we are sorry that the very that a good poet cannot fail of being being limited space, to which we are obliged to in a good critic. gifted by nature with a confine ourselves in this department of more acute perception of beauty and de- our de- our magazine, will prevent our devoting formity than that with which critics, that share of attention to his volumes, generally speaking, are supposed to be to which we feel assured they are so imbued, the poet is better qualified to justly entitled : we must, therefore, con- decide upon the merits of his brethren, tent ourselves with briefly analysing their and enters upon his task with a keener relish and satisfaction than the literary. the first volume, which is prefatory drudge, who (a inere goth in matters of to the rest, is divided into three sections, taste, forms his estimate of genius by and comprises a chronological history of mathematical position, quarrels with english poetry, from the epoch of the what he has not feeling enough to under- norman conquest, that is, from the stand, and pronounces unqualified con- first dawn of metrical inspiration, until demnation on the opinions of his author, the perfect day of strength, harmony, frequently for no other reason than plerince and matanlior heamed elegance, and metaphor beamed upon because they happen to differ from his an enlightened age in the numbers of own. poetical criticism, above all other, pope. p. the first section contains a dis- requires two sorts of independence, that sertation upon the gradual evolution of of the head and of the heart. it is not the english language from the rude bar- barity of its saxon elements, until it with those common rules for the discus- - was compacted into the idiom employed of his subject, which have been sug- in the reign of richard ii. in ex- gested by the ablest writers of antiquity; emplifying the slow progress of the ame- he must have a mind pervious to the lioration of the language by its influence foree of the “ thoughts that breathe and upon the meagre, quaint, and hyper. words that burn" of the poet upon bolical winstrelsy of the dark and super- whose productions he undertakes to stitious ages of which mr. campbell comment- he must be alive to all those treats, he subjoins specimens of the recondite excellencies which might escape productions of the early poets; many of the notice of an ordinary observer, and which are now unintellegible without a he must possess, withal, a certain glossary, and when understood, do not sublime sense of perfection which com- repay, unless to a professed antiquarian, mon readers are strangers to; and the time and labour which must be con- which, while it enables him to detect sumed in exploring them. in the first worthlessness and deformity, affords him century, which succeeded the norman also equally the means of duly appre- conquest,' the sole remnants of the ciating the beauty of loveliness. in this saxon poetry existed in ballads, very latter capacity, such a critie is indeed few of the fragments of which have great, and like the diamond, which ac- escaned the ravages of tima the nor- quires a superior brilliancy from its mans imported with them their own contact with the gems it is employed to metrical romances, and as the norman polish ; so those scintillations of genius french was the language of the court, are elicited from him by his subject, and of all persons of distinction, the which might not otherwise have been ancient ballads became speedily obsolete produced. among the higher orders of the com- it is not too much to affirm, after an munity, and were only traditionally re- attentive perusal of the voluminous and membered and recited by the common important work, which has given rise to people. but the norman victors were the present remarks, that mr. campbell themselves too ignorant and ferocious, new monthly mag.–no. . vol. xi. x (may , campbell's specimens of the british poets. and the civil commotions which pre- however, the father of english poetry, vailed in the th century were too fre- is exempted from this censure ; he was quent and sanguinary, io allow them the morning star in the poetical horizon, leisure or inclination to attempt any not indeed of transcendent brightness, other species of poetical composition but to be hailed as the precursor of a than chivalrous romances. it was in pure and unclouded day. the retirement, indolence, and security the second section of the work be. of monasteries that the embers of the gins with a detail of the causes which vestal fire of genius were preserved from retarded the progress of poetry from total extinction; accordingly we find the reign of richard . to that of eliza- that all the poetasters of this age were beth: those principally enumerated are- monks, and their productions are partly the distractions of the times occasioned chronicles in verse of the remarkable by the exterminating feuds between the events of their own times, or satires upon houses of york and lancaster, the vio- the prevailing rices and foibles, particu- lence of religious persecutions, and the larly the corruptions of the roman want of a pure, refined, and classical church, a remarkable topic for animad- taste. a striking confirmation of the version to be selected by priests. before rarity of poetical genius in that dark we proceed in our analytical survey, let and dreary period which intervened be- us offer the oblation of our gratitude to tween the times of chaucer and spenser, the monastic clergy, for the only per- is, that amidst groupes of authors whose manent benefits they have ever conferred names are specified by mr. campbell, upon mankind, namely the preservation and who by that means are recalled for in their cells of the precious remains of a few moments from the fathomless antiquity; the histories they have written gulf of oblivion, there is only one from of the times in which they lived, and to whose compositions a short extract can which they immediately succeeded, and be hazarded. the works on various subjects, the com- if chaucer be the morning star, position of which diversified the mono- spenser is the rising sun of poetry. of tony of spiritual inertion. the only his excellencies mr. campbell gives a specimen of the poetry of this inauspici. clear and elegant illustration; he also ous age, and which is worth transcribing candidly acknowledges his imperfections. is the following :- as the age in which spenser flourished for her love i cark and care, is that, in the latter part of which the for her love i droop and dare; english drama assumed a consistent for her love my bliss is bare, form, mr. c. introduces in this section and all i wax wan. a retrospective and compendious history for her love in sleep i slake, of the origin and progress of dramatic for her love all night i wake, poetry to the days of shakspeare. amidst for her love mourning i make, a herd of obsolete drivellers in this de- more than any man. partment of poetry, some passages of a from this period the english muse play by george peele are selected, which appears to have soared to a greater ele- not only contain several of the nobler yation, although the atomsphere in which beauties which embellish this species of she moved was yet too opaque to enable composition -- warmth, tenderness of her to emerge into perfect day. metrical feeling, glow of imagery and keeping, romances, works purely of imagination, but shew also how much had been succeeded to rhyming chronicles, and it effected in the herculean task of expand- may be observed, that a metrical romance ing, strengthening, and harmonizing bears some resemblance to an epic the english language. mr. campbell poem. then takes a survey of the mighty pre- the first work of invention of any tensions of shakspeare, but his view of importance is an allegorical poem, en- his inerits is a complete eulogy, deifying titled, “ the vision of william, con- even his defects. we pass by a natural cerning piers plowman." the account transition to the works of ben jonson, given of this singular effusion by mr. casting only a cursory glance at drayton campbell, shews how faint and indistinct and daniel, to each of whom mr. camp- were, at that time, the rays of inspira- bell deals out his due meed of praise. tion, and how widely and miserably they he quotes a beautiful song from the deverged from the true focus of poetical masque of “ the vision of night," by splendour and powerful fancy under the ben jonson. direction of a sound judgment. chaucer, . campbell's specimens of the british poets. - break phant'sie from thy cave of cloud, tigued with repetitions of his manner; but, and spread thy purple wings; if we place ourselves in the situation of those now all thy figures are allowed, to whom his brilliancy, succinctness and and various shapes of things; animation were wholly new, we cannot won- create of airy forms a stream- der at their being captivated to the fondest it must have blood, and nought of phlegm, admiration in order to do justice to pope and tho' it be a waking dream, we should forget his imitators, if that were yet let it like an odor rise possible; but it is easier to remember than to all the senses here, to forget by an effort--to acquire associa- and fall like sleep upon their eyes, tions than to shake them off. every one or music in their ear." may recollect how often the most beautiful the two first sections are, as we have air has palled upon his ear, and grown in- observed, devoted to the infancy and sipid from being played or sung by vulgar youth of english poetry, engendered in musicians. it is the same thing with re- aces of rapine, war, and ignorance, rock gard to pope's versification. that his pe- ed in the cradle of adversity, fettered culiar rythm and manner are the very best in the incipient vigor and grace of his in the whole range of our poetry need not to be asserted. he has a gracefully pecu- movements by the swaddling clothes lin- liar manner, though it is not calculated to be posed by the rude hand of pedantry and a an universal one; and where, indeed, shall corrupted taste, until at length it assuin- we find the style of poetry that could be ed, in the seventeenth century, as de- pronounced an exclusive model for every scribed in the beginning of the composer. his pauses have little variety, third section, the strength, majesty, and his phrases are too much weighed in judgment, and independence of man the balance of antithesis, and to the rapid hood. after a brief dissertation on precision of his thoughts, and we shall for- the metaphysical poets, whose works, give him for being too anthetic and senten- tious, with the exception perhaps of cowley's, have all of them entered into their pope's works have been twice given to the “ eternal rest" on the shelves of virtu- world by editors who cannot be taxed with osos and black letter hunters, mr. c. the slightest editorial partiality towards his fame. the last of these is the rev. mr. proceeds to an enumeration of the dra- bowles, in speaking of whom, i beg leave, matic works of beaumont and fletcher, most distinctly, to disclaim the slightest in- massinger and shirley. on each of tention of undervaluing his acknowledged these authors he bestows, as they pass merit as a poet, however freely and fully i review before him, an appropriate 'share may dissent from his critical estimate of the of praise and censure. t'he pretensions genius of pope. mr. bowles, in forming of denham and waller, are dismissed in this estimate, lays great stress upon the ar- a few lines. upon milton there is a gument, that pope's images are drawn from long and judicious critique. otway is art, more than from nature. that pope treated with all the clemency which his was neither so insensible to the beauties of nature, nor so indistinct in describing them, superior talents, and the witchery with as to forfeit the character of a genuine poet which he moves our tendereșt feelings, is what i mean to urge, without exaggerat- deserves. dryden follows, and upon ing his picturesqueness. but, before speak- his writings mr. campbell expatiates at ing of that quality in his writings, i would considerable length; but in passing beg to observe, in the first place, that the judgment upon this great and extraor- faculty by which a poet luminously describes dinary man, whose genius was more unic objects of art, is essentially the same fa- versal and buoyant than even that of culty, which enables him to be a faithful de- pope, he appears to have censured his scriber of nature. in the second place, that defects too severely. finally ; pope natare and art are to a greater degree rela- himself, the soul of harmony and the tive terms in poetical description than is life of description, succeeds, and upon generally recollected ; and thirdly, that arti- ficial objects and manners are of so much his writings is pronounced sentence of importance in fiction, as io make the ex- unalloyed approbation. we extract part quisite description of them no less charac- of the observations on pope, in order- teristic of genius than the description of to afford our readers some idea of the simple physical appearances. the poet is style in which the whole essay is written. “ creation's hei:." "he deepens our social pope gave our heroic couplei its strictest interest in existence; it is surely by the melody and tersest expression. liveliness of the interest which he excites in “ d'un mot mis en sa place il enseigne le existence, and not by the class of subjects pouvoir." which he chooses, that we must fairly ap- if his cotemporaries forgot other poets in preciate the genius in the life of life which admiring, let him not be robbed of his just is in him.' it is no irreverence to the exter- fame, on pretence that a part of it was su nal charms of nature to say, that they are perfluous. the public ear was long fa- not more important to a poet's study than durovernum, with other poems. [may , the manners and affection of his species. first time, can have no claim upon the nature is the poet's goddess; but by nature hearts of his readers, and if his verses no one rightly understands her mere inani- are too feeble to compel respect, bc they mate face—however charming it may be- upon subjects ever so doleful, they will or the simple landscape painting of trees, meet with nothing but contempt and clouds, precipices, and flowers. why then ridicule. not so, however, with the try pope, or any other poel, exclusively by his powers of describing inanimate pheno- real poet; he has the means of kindling mena? nature, in the wide and proper in the bosomy of individuals entirely un- sense of the word, means life in all its cir known to him, the same glowing emo- cumstances-oature, moral as well as exter- tions which agitate his own soul; he nal. as the subject of inspired fiction, na- can teach beings with whom he has ture includes artificial forms and manners. never held personal communion, to - richardson is no less a painter of nature lose the sense of their own separate ex- than homer. homer himself is a minute istence in sympathy for his sorrows;- describer of works of art; and milton is and this privilege the author of the pages full of imagery, derived from it. satan's before us possesses in an eminent de- spear is compared to the pine, that makes gree. there is, in almost all his verses, the “ mast of some great ammiral," and his shield is like the moon, artificially seen an intensity of feeling and a loneliness through the glass of the tuscan artist. the of grief which is painfully engaging, « spirit-stirring drum; the ear-piercing fife, he is like the arabian bird, that builds the royal banner, and all quality, pride, her nest of odors, and is consumed by pomp, and circumstance of glorious war," her own fires. are all artificial images. the principal poem in the volume, which has given rise to the present pope, while he is a great moral writer, remarks, consists of a description of a though not elaborately picturesque, is by night walk in and about canterbury, no means deficient as a painter of interest- the native city of the author; and gives ing external objects. no one will say that a much stronger interest to the spot, he peruses eloisa's epistle, without a so- lemn impression of the pomp of catholic su- than we should have supposed it possible perstition. to produce for those who have no par- many passages of the agreeable dis- ticular associations connected with it. cussion in the st volume of these “spe- the common-place beauties of the poem, cimens," are genuine poetry, in its hap- however, which fortunately occupy more picst mood of inspiration, faintly dis- than half, have the greatest attractions guised in the loose attire of prose. on for us: we allude to those passages in the subsequent portions of mr. camp- which the “childe" of the scene ad- bell's work, we hope to offer some obser. dresses the reader in person ; where he vations at a future opportunity. depicts his own thoughts, fears, and feelings; his sensibility to pain, and his durovernum ; with other poems, by uncertainty of the future. a heart which arthur brooke. pp. . has sought for truth and the fixedness of in our number for october last we hope with the intensity described in the took occasion to offer a few remarks on following stanzas, is deserving of all the a collection of wild but beautiful poetry consolations of pity and the solicitudes from the pen of mr. brooke, and it is of friendship :- with no inconsiderable pleasure that we xxix. direct the attention of the public to the thou dark and awful grave, whose mya- present volume, abounding as it does tery with so much to interest all lovers of hath fed my musings, in the cloistered true poctry. it is the peculiar privilege · gloom of genius to command sympathy – to where thousands sleep, have i not called impose upon others its own mood of to thee? mind--its fears, its hopes, its joys, and have i not craved for tidings from the its sorrows; and in proportion to the tomb, powers of the bard, so will the interest of life-ör death-whate'er may be our doom? he aims at creating for his own fate, be strengthened or diminished. we care for have i not prayed it? would i not for sake the man only inasmuch as he is a poet and all vainer wisdom, and no more relume can present us with a vivid and forcible my midnight taper, so i might partake delineation of his feelings. the stranger, of an immortal hope which this world could whose productions are taken up for the not shake? .) durovernum, with other poems. xxx. it is not wilful blindness, scorn, nor pride, it hath not been accorded: the high light but that the tounts of love in me are parched from heaven, which guides the wan- and dried. derer on his way, shines not for me: 'all hopeless in the i have more loved to watch thee at thy night fall of my bewildered spirit, still i stray, behind the western mountains, and to and combat with my sufferings as i may. view the sable follower spread her gradual pall, we have not seen a more affecting ap- o'er the dim scene, till all things took the peal to the best sympathies of our nature hue than is contained in this fearful avowal. of my own spirit; and thus in me grew in the pages of revelation alone, can a hatred of thy broad obtrusive ray, such a spirit look for repose. if he which brought no blessings 'unto me, enters the temple as “a noble berean," hut drew the immortal and unshaken hope which my hush'd thoughts from their sanctuary is solicited, cannot fail to be accorded : away, the oracles from this shrine are no cun- into the hateful toils and duties of the day. ningly devised fables- night! let me be thy votary! and thou, - no voice nor hideous hum when i appear to thee in converse lone, runs through this arched roof in words de at thy deep noon, still hearken to my ceiving :" vow: but the voice of his maker speaks audibly since every dearer moment i have known, under the shadow of thy wing hath flown; to man, and that voice is so mild, so thine was the welcome hour which set merciful, and so benignant, tempered me free with so much pity, and wooing with so from the world's vulgar drudgeries, thou much love, that it seems impossible to hast shewn resist its tones, and not feel the balsam things which the light shut from me, and which they impart. we doubt not that to thee our author will soon see things through all that i am, night! i owe-whate'er a lovelier medium-that his hopes will that be. clothe themselves in a principle of purer thou, when my days, like the neglected vitality-fitted for the growth of an im- sands of a brief hour-glass, ebbed in hopeless mortal world. haste, the present poem opens wish a mag- benignant gavest into my youthful hands nificent address to the sun, which is not a chalice from the fount i burned to taste; excelled by any thing we recollect to but which i deemed fate had for ever have met with, excepting indeed, it be placed lord byron's sublime stanzas to the far from my barren path : then, by thy ocean, which conclude the fourth canto aid, of childe harold. if i might haply yet redeem the waste father of life and light! who from the of my past years, i shrunk into thy shade, me and by the lonely lamp, my last, best, pas- birth of time or nature, with that glorious eye time made. hast quickening, gazed upon the subject all hail, dear muses! if i did not gain earth, in my sweet wanderings o'er your classic as through the boundless desarts of the sky ground, thou mov'st in solitary majesty; all that i sought, the search was not in soul of creation! whose parental care vain. doth, like a visible god, to all supply if in the lore i loved there was not found the springs of their existence. thou aught that might heal the deep and fatal shalt share wound with thy creator's self, the wide world's of a crushed heart; yet, if it dulled the ceaseless prayer ! sense all that thou see'st, o sun, is thine ; to of selfish suffering; if awhile it drowned thee in streams of castaly, thoughts too in- earth and its habitants one voice shall tense raise for my weak brain, it was my study's re- of grateful adoration, and by me compense. once too was hymned thy glory, power, and praise. after dwelling upon the historical re- and if it seems that now i coldly gaze collections to which the scene of his upon those beams which gladden all be. wanderings has given rise, mr. brooke side, thus beautifully describes night :-- if in thy worship my dull heart delays, durovernum, with other poems. (may , his, all xix. which some might, hide, if in my soul · my spirit hath been moved : and who be aught could dwell of cruelty or crime, it then and there was with heart unrufiled upon thoughts like taught. these? but let me gaze around on what might then in my breast was sown the deadly seed, well the tumults of the stormiest soul appease. which after-suffering ripened, then i learned nature alone is waking ;--the soft breeze the slave's sole privilege to bear and bleed flits musically by; how bright the moon-beams mingle with the dark in silent hate, to hide the pang when spurned green trees, by brutal ignorance, for honors earned or glitter on the grass; the brows of night in studious strife :-not sorrowing i re- call are bound with myriad gems of tenderest, the sense of early wrong, though firet it purest light. turned oh! who that wanders at an hour like the current of fresh feelings into gall, this, it fitted me to meet what i have met through and looks upon the earth, the stars, and all. sky, we cannot resist the temptation of but feels with a calm joy, one treasure quoting the following exquisite verses to the river stour:- unbought by toils, and kept without a sigh? but now upon thy flower-fringed banks though man may to his fellow man deny stand, his tinselled trash, great nature free to fair stour! and gaze upon thy winding stream, spreads forth her thousand stores unspar- whose dimpled surface, by the soft breeze ingly; fanned, her charms are pure, her beauties never shakes to dissolving silver the clear beam pall; of countless stars, whose bright refiec- she can unchanged remain, whate'er to man tions seem befal. as in a liquid mirror here to lave, with livelier lustre. oh! how sweet a the following allusions to the king's dream school, canterbury, where the author s teals o'er the heart, while on this placid received his education, are forcible, and wave as they regard public scminaries in ge. heaven opens its wide breast, and claims os peral, the sentiments are entirely con- from the grave, sonant with our own:- as if we stood upon the utmost verge of that great gulph which keeps us from xliv. the blest, farewell, ye scenes! o'er which my youth while far-eff shapes of brightness o'er the surge once duly wandered, till the hour as beckoned; and pointed to the bow'rs of rest, signed where, as a dove returning to her nest, called them scarce willing the honored the soul might soon forget its earth-bora seat woes, where first instruction on my opening blissfully leaning on as dear a breast, mind as that which boyhood once, once only poured her delights; but where my knows, spirit pined, when first affection's flowers all tremblingly that dared not love too well the attractive unclose. alas! the love of our maturer years which envious folly hated, nor could find is custom – instinct-friendship—whai pleasure in acting on that petty stage you will; its part in the vile deeds which shame man's where then is the wild maze of hopes riper age. and fears, there each young despot whom the fates in which our senses wandered? where had blest the thrill, with brains of lead, and limbs of stur- whose flash electric shook the breast, dier mould until than his compeers, lifted his lordly crest, it sickened with delight? oh! 'tis not so, false as the serpent, as the tiger bold whate'er we deem, when once the in acts of ill; where from its virgin fold heavy chill in the heart's-rosebud every innocent of stern experience -- love and joy's thought worst foe, was rudely torn; and should a truth be lath fall’n upon the fount from which those told feelings flow. ful feet page .) travels in vurious countries of europe, asia, and africa. pride trace roll on, fair river with a lovely pride, as in its chosen temple, genius dwelt, unmov'd by all save nature's high de- unhappy victim of a worthless flame! cree; by thee this truth was, ah! too deeply felt, how unremittingly thy waters glide whate'er the joys that envied gift may bring, with silent lapse unto the boundless sea, it lends affliction's barb a tenfold stiny. like earthly years into eternity! sonnet to the moon. let mightier streams in loftier lays be i looked at midnight on the silent sky, | sung; and watched the moon, as with majestic enough, dear native stour ! enough for thee, up the empyreal arch she seemed to ride, if on thy banks one home-bred harp hath unmatched, alone, in maiden dignity; rung, and though i viewed her with a lover's eye, and to thy name the muse one votive gar twas not as if she were an earthly bride ; land hung. but my affections raised and purified, the heart must be cold wood and worshipped her with a spiritual extacy. sterile in all the delicate sensibilities of sweet moon! i have not gazed upon a face since my first days of passion, with a our nature, which could refuse its tri- thought bute of admiration to poetry beautiful so pure as then within my bosom as this. in the concluding stanza of du- wrought, rovernum we notice a coincidence with gazing on thine; where 'twas my joy to milton which appears to bave been en- tirely accidental. mr. brooke says, the lineaments of one who seemed to the rosy-finger'd hours, with circling flight, have caught ht, from thee her placid smiles and tranquil throng, eager to unbar the gates of day. gaze. so milton in bis paradise lost but we must close our quotations :- the morn, there are alternate passages of such waked by the circling hours with rosy hand gloon and brightness, such smiles and unbarred the gates of light. tears, in this interesting little volume, of the minor pieces attached to duro- that we are at a loss to know whether vernum we have only room for the fol- the author was born under saturn or lowing venus; they must have been in con- ballad stanzas. junction ; but we sincerely desire that when pain and hatred hemmed me round the more cheerful and happy of the two in life's young years, powers will rule in the ascendant. one faithful hand at least i found travels in various countries of europe, to dry my tears; asia, and africa, by edward da- one soothing voice, whose dulcet sound hushed my wild fears; niel clarke, ll.d. part iii.- one heart to mine for ever bound scandinavia.--section the first. to. in life's young years. pp. . we hare derived much satisfaction but now i am alone indeed from the perusal of this work, and can- hope disappears; i smile, but there is none to heed; not justly apply to it the well-known i sigh-nope hears! apothegm, that a “great book is a great i wither like the worthless weed, evil.” the reputation of a diligent en- but shed no tears, quirer, acute observer, and on most oc- for i feel i shall no solace need casions an impartial narrator, which dr. in a few short years. clarke has so deservedly ohtained, will sonnet. not be diminished by the publication of written under a print of sappho. the present volume; which comprehends a relation of his travels through den- sappho ! thou still art with us, and shalt be, mark, the whole of sweden, the southern whilst painter can conceive, or bard can parts of lapland, and the northern pro- fcel; thy spirit lives; for love hath set his vinces of norway. dr. c. describes mi- nutely every production, either of na- seal on thy immortal song; the savage sea ture or art, which could be supposed to closed over thee in vain; thy verse shall free engage the attention of an enlightened thy memory from oblivion, and appeal traveller. the most interesting portion e'en to the sternest heart, til drops shall of the work, and fortunately, the largest, steal is that which is devoted to an account of from eyes that had no tears-except for his tour in sweden, lapland and nor- thee! way. his comments on the state of daughter of passion! in whore glowing agriculture, the progression of useful frame, and liberal arts, and the peculiarities of .) [ ] the monthly register. agriculture. chemistry. an improved method of cultivating the a manual of chemistry, containing the strawberry, raspberry, and gooseberry. principal facts of the science, arranged in by t. haynes, of oundle. vo. s. second the order in which they are discussed and edition. illustrated in the lectures of the royal in- arts. stitution, with a prelatory history of the a new edition, with considerable addi- science. by h. t. brande. vo. tions, of capt. j. c. laskey's description of commerce. the elgin and phigalian marbles, arranged a general commercial dictionary, com- conformably to the numbers as they are prehending manufactures, trade, naviga- now placed in the british museum ; illus- tion, and agriculture, as connected with trated with a view of the two pediments of commerce, with abstracts of the laws re- the pantheon. taken by mons. nointel, lating to the regulation and protection of by order of the french king. trade and merchandize. by thos. niorti. a complete history of lithography, from mer and wm. dickenson, esqrs. part i. its origin down to the present time, by the vo. s. inventor, alois senelelder. to. ll. s. drama. a descriptive catalogue of a collection the patriot father; a play in five acts. of paintings hy british artists, in the pos- freely translated from the german of au- session of sir john flemming leicester, gustus von kotzebue. by f. shoberl. bart. by wm. carey, esq. with occasional pp. . remarks, &c. by sir richard colt hoare, there is a grrat deal of interest in the plot of bart. royal vo. . d. this play, in which the draiatic unities are well • desaltory exposition of an anti-british preserved ; and we conceive that it might have been adapted, with a very fair chance of suc. system of incendiary publications, &c. in- cess, to the purposes of representation at one of tended to sacrifice the honour and interests our metropolitan theatres. the ingenious trans. of the british institution, of the royal aca- tator, a gentleman well known in the literary world as the editor of that highly respectable artists and their patrons to the passions, paper the “ cornwall gazetie," appears to have quackeries, and falsehoods of certain dis- used much discretiou in his version of his original, appointed candidates for prizes at the bri- laving very judiciously omited several of the io- tish gallery, and admission into the royal congruities of ko'zebue, and substituted in their academy. respectfully addressed to the place passages which add considerably to its im. british institution and artists and ama provement. the style, though not often energetic. is always corrert and elegant. on the whole, the teurs of the united kingdom. by wm. " patriot father," is certainly entitled to a nické carey. vo. . d. among our most respectable modern dramas. bibliography. mystery, or the monk of st. nicholas; a albin's general catalogue of books, toge- tragedy in five acts. s. d. ther with some m.ss. paintings, prints, tragic dramas, chiefly intended for re- portraits, and music. s. presentation in private families. to which · ogle, duncan and coʻs. select catalogue is added, aristomedes, a tragedy from the of divinity for . ls. italian of monti. by frances burney. eid arch's catalogue of a miscellaneous cole s, d. lection of books, new and second hand. s. education. biography. exercises for creek verse, consisting of memoirs of john), duke of marlborough, extremely literal translations from the an- with his original correspondence, collected tholoria, apollonius rhodius, theocritus, from the family records at blenheim and the feauments of the comic poets, aristo- other sources. by wm. coxe, m.a. vol. , phanes and eurinedes, with short noteg. to. . s. by the rev. e. squire. post vo. . a biographical dictionary of the worthies essays, biographical, literary, moral of ireland, comprising copious and impor- and critical. by the rev. john evans, tant sketches of the lives and characters of mo. s. d. eminent natives of ireland of every rank the young logician's companion.com and station, at any time celebrated in their prising questions and exercises on the own or other countries, for their genius, grammar of logic. mo. ls. . talent, or public virtues, in the various de- a view of the intellectual powers of man, partments of arms, politics, literature, sci- with observations on their cultivation adanta ence, and art, carefully collected from the ed to the present state of the country. by most authentic sources extant, and enriched t. martin. mo. . by valuable communications from private the wrongs of children, or a practical correspondents, hitherto inaccessible or un- vindication of children from the injustice sought by the compilers of biography. done them in early nurture and education. vols. vo. vol. , vo. . by the rev. a. bell, d.d. d. botany. scenes in asia, for the amusement and a treatise on the culture of the melon, instruction of little tarry-at-home ravel by j. smith. mo. s. lers. by the rev. j. taylor, mo, s. new monthly maq, -no. . vol. xi. y [may , new publications, with critical remarks. or levying fles and suffering rhetorical exercises. by t. ewing to the work; the opinions therein expressed are mo. s. d. entirely consonant with our own. the monody the english learner. by t. ewing. which follows the “ remarks" affords a strong mo. . . presumption that its author is in possession of po. etical capabilities of a very superior description. history historic, military and naval anecdotes in fine, we may observe, that it is some time since we have met with a volume devoted to a similar of the late war, and also of the battle of purpose, with more positive claims to the patronage waterloo. to. . s. of the public, than the one in question. law. report of cases argued and determined a list of officers of the army and royal in the court of exchequer. by john marines, on full and half pay, with an index. wrightwick. vol. i. part iv. roy. . . vo. s. d. the doctrine and practice of attachment lectures on the english comic writers. in the mayor's court of london, with va- delivered at the surrey institution, by w. rious corrections and additions, particu- hazlitt. vo. s. d. larly on two chapters respecting the me- · dennis's extracts of east india journals thod of authenticating powers of attorney for the use of captains, &c. &c. vo. s. and other documents under the mayoralty characteristic costume of france, with seal, and of removing plaints by replevin appropriate descriptions. roy. to. ). s. d. and certiorari. vo. s. d. munchausen at the pole. mo. s. coke on littleton. by j. h. thomas. east india register and directory for vols. roy. vo. . . , mo. . d. notes and observations on criminal trials. a treatise on marine surveying; in two by a juryman. vo. is. parts. by m. mackenzie; with a supple- a treatise on leases and terms for ment by j. horsburgh. vo. s. years. by c. h. chambers. roy. vo. a refutation of prominent errors in the . wernerian system of geology. by joseph a digest of the bankrupt laws. by ba- sutcliffe. vo. is. d. sil monlague. vols. roy. vo. . s. d. a supplement to the ninth portion of the the attorney's clerk's assistant, contain- warburtonian lectures. by philip all- ing plain and easy directions for levying wood. vo. s. gioachino greco on the game of chess ; ries and suffering recoveries. arranged under an entirely new system. vo. s. translated from the french: to which are medicine, surgery, &c. added numerous remarks, critical and ex- planatory. by william lewis. vo. s. synopsis zoo-nosologia, or conspicuous "the annual register for . svo. view of medical science, exhibited in tables . and aphorisms on anatomy, physiology, the imperial magazine. no. . vo. is. nos logy, and therapeutics ; in four parts, with an entirely new classical nomenclature. music. by thom. parkinson. m.d. mo. . d. a catalogue of foreign music, for . the ho aterian oration for the year sold by boogey and co. vo. s. . delivera before the royal college of a catalogue raisonné of whatever is most er. surpods in london. by john abernethy, cellent in foreign music, vocal and instrumental, f.r. s. vo . , d. has long been a desideratum in the musical world: douglas's medical topography of upper and which we have no hesitation ia sayiug is sup: canada. vo. s. ad. plied in the preseot as far as the several purposes on the mechanism and motions of the of the student, master, and performer more imae human foot and leg. by john cross, diately require. considerable taste and judgment has been exercised in the selection of music roy m. d. vo. . offered to public notice, and much benefit may be miscellaneous expected to result from the introduction of foreiga treasures of thought, from malamo de editions of the established masters of the art, both stael holstein ; to which are prefixed, cur as it respects their extreme correctness and their sory remarks upon her writings, and a beauty of execution. monody on her death. by the author of novels, romances, &c. affection's gift, &c. zeal and experience, a tale. vols. we have often woudered that a separate collec mo. s. d. tion of the moral sentiments which so froquently old tapestry, a tale of real life. rols. occur in the wiitings of madame de staël should mo. . never before have been considered desirable. the esquimaux, or fidelity, a tale. by eminently adapted as they are for the purposes of inculcating the best principles in the minds of emily clarke. vols. mo. s. d. young people, a more acceptable service could not redmond the rebel, or they met at wa. whave beeu rendered to the rising generation than terloo. vols. mo. s. d. that which has been performed by the author of eudoxia ; from the spanish of don pedro the interestiug little volume before us. the se. montenjou. by c. h. smith. vols. leccion appears to us, in every respect, judicious, mo. . . and well arranged; and the language, though sim- ple, is correct and elegant. we have also been vo. . d. wuch pleased with the ingenious critique prefiscd .) new publications, with critical remarks. new tales. by mrs. wilkinson. vols. a letter to the hon. thomas brand, mo. s. m. p. on the practicability and propriety of no fiction, a narrative founded on re- a resumption of specie payments. by cent and interesting facts. , vols. vo. erick bollman, m. d. vo. $ . d. s. d. reports of the present state of the unit- ed provinces of south america, drawn up poetry illustrations of affection, with other po- by messrs. rodney and graham, commis- sioners sent to buenos ayres by the govern- ems. by g. h. toulmin. ment of north america. vo. . d. the plan and execution of this poem is respect. an examination of the cotton factory able, though it contains passages of very unequal question. vo. is. d. merit. the sentinents which pervade it are of facts relating to st. helena. vo. s. the most amiable description; and though mr. a brief treatise on prisons, intended for toulmin is not entitled to a high rank in this age the use of sheriffs, magistrates, grand of poetry, he cannot but be considered as far abore mediocrity. his minor pieces are dull and jurors, &c. by r. elsam. mo. s. uninteresting; a short defence of the whigs from the “ we start-for soul is wanting there." imputations attempted to be cast upon them during the late election for westminster. the priory of berkinhead, a tale of the vo. is. d. fourteenth century. by thomas whitby. a series of letters on the circulating pp. . medium of the british isles, addressed ro this is rather a feeble performance, constructed the editor of the royal cornwall gazette. upon the model of goldsmith, but wanting his vo. is. d. melody of versification and fidelity of description. the question concerning the deprecia- it has some tolerable passages, but is, we are con- tion of our currency stated and examined. cerned to state, altogether a beavy and tedious by w. huskisson, esq. m. p. vo. s. production. we are sorry that this should be our opinion, because we feel confident, from the senti- theology. thepts which are expressed in these pages, that lyra davidis, or a new translation and their author's intentions were good, and that he exposition of the psalms. by the rev. is a person of amiable and generous feelings. john fry. vo. . should be make another attempt, though we would scripture compared with itself, in proof not ou any account be understood as advising the of the catholic doctrine of the holy tri- measure, we trust that it will be attended with nity. by j. vaillant. vo. . d. more success. lectures on christianity. by fox. vo. s. doctor syntax in london, or the plea sermons on the parables and miracles of sures and miseries of the metropolis. jesus christ. by the rev. e. w. grine', part i. roy. vo. s. d. field. vo. s. woman; a poem. by eaton stannard plain and practical sermons. by the barrett, esq.; author of “ the heroine, rev. j. boudier. vo. s. or adventures of a fair romance reader.” a churchman's second epistle, with notes d edition, f. cap vo. plates, s. d. and ilustrations. by the author of religio peter bell, a tale in verse. by william clerici. vo. s. d. wordsworth, esq. fc. vo. strictures on wix's reflections on the the past, and other poems. by miss expediency of an union of the churches of holford. vo. s. england and rome. by the rev. h. c. , yall's poems and songs. fc. vo. s. d. o'dopnoghue. vo. s. clio's protest, or the picture varnished; or the picture varnished; the family expositor. part i. and ii. with other poems. by the late rt. hon. mo. s. r. b. sheridan. vo. s. d. topography. the stage, a poem, addressed to mr. antiquities of sicily. by john goldicatt. farren; containing strictures on various fol. part i. ii. s. performers. by j. brown. mo. s. d. a general history of the county of york. a translation of the orlando furisoso of by t. d. whittaker, ll.d. part i. fol. ariosto, with a life and notes, by w. s. . . rose. voyages and travels. greenland, and other poems. by james narrative of a voyage to the spanish montgomery. fc. vo. main in the ship two friends; the occupan the royal minstrel, an heroic poem, in tion of amelia island by m'gregor, &c. ; twelve books by j. f. pennie. sketches of the province of east florida, politics and political economy. and anecdotes illustrative of the habits and manners of the seminole indians, with an the speech of the rt. hon. george can- appendix, containing a detail of the semi- ning, president of the board of control, in nole war, and the execution of arbuthnot the house of commons on tuesday, march and arbrister. vo. . , , in proposing votes of thanks to letters from the continent during the the marquis of hastings and the british months of october, november, and decem- army in india. vo. is. d. ber, , including a visit to aix la cha- varieties, literary, scientific, sc. [may ), pelle and the left bank of the rhine. by by mr. a. salame, a native of alexandria the rev. j. w. ormsby. vo. s. in egypt, interpreter in his britannic ma- modern voyages and travels. vol. , jesty's service for oriental languages, who no. . vo . accompanied his lordship for the subse- a voyage up the persian gulph, and a quent negociations with the dey. publish- journey over land from india to england ed by permiss ou). svo. s. in . by lieut. w. hende. to. s. a year's residence in the united states a voyage of discovery made under the of america; treating of the face of the orders of the admiralty in his majesty's country, the climate, the soil, the products, ships isabella and alexander, for the pur- the mode of cultivating the land, the price pose of exploring baffin's bay, and of en- of land, of labour, of food, of raiment, quiring into the probability of a north west of the expenses of housekeeping, and of passage. by captain john ross. to. the usual manner of living, of the man- . . d. nery, customs, and character of the people, a narrative of the expedition to algiers and of the government, laws, and religion. in the year , under the command of by wm. cobbett. vo. . the right hon. admiral viscount exmouth. varieties_literary, scientific, &c. it appears by the university calendar very common all over the country, and his for the present year, that the total number own sheep often had it. of members of this university, whose names an establishment, called the imperial are on the boards, is , being more gas light company, is proposed, for more than the preceding year, and an increase of effectually lighting the metropolis with gas. one thousand fire hundred and seventy-six it is proposed that a capital of , . since , when the number was .— shall be raised in shares of . each, to be in order to admit more members of the uni- paid by instalments, as the progress of the versity at st. mary's church, the pulpit has works may require. been removed, and is placed nearer the or- a new society is formed, consisting of the gan; alterations have also been made in chief musical talents of the country, for the some of the college chapels for the accommo- purpose of printing and editing their own dation of a greater number of students.-- works, and of other eininent composers, cambridge chronicle. who may not belong to the society. they as a spur to the exertions of the ships intend, also, printing the works of every ce- about to sail on a voyage of arctic discovery, lebrated composer deceased, which will be the privy council have announced a reward got up in the very best manner. the argyll of , for reaching hearn's or copper rooms are taken for the purpose of a music mine river; , . for reaching the whale warehouse, where the concern will be car- island of mac kenzie; , . for reach- ried on. ing ° west longitude; and , . for accounts from the banks of the missis. reaching the pacific ocean by a n.w: pas- sippi state, that the mammoth has actually sage. they also offer , . for reaching been discovered in existence, in the western the latitude of °; , . for the latitude deserts of north america. according to of ; , . for ; , . for ; the descriptions given of it, this colossus of and , . for " and upwards. the animal kingdom is not carnivorous; it it appears by a letter from wm. bruce, lives on vegetables, but more particularly on esq., resident at bushire, to wm. erskine, a certain species of tree, of which it eats the esq. of bombay, that the cow-pox has been leaves, the bark, and sometimes even the long known in persia by the eliaats, or trunk. it nerer lies down, and sleeps, lean- validering tribes. mr. bruce made very ing for support, against a tree. it has particular inquiries among several different rather the shape of a wild boar than of an tribes who visit bushire in the winter to sell elephant, and is fifteen feet high. his body. the produce of their flocks, such as carpets, is covered by a hairy skin, and he has no rugs, butter, cheese, &c. and every eliaat, of horn.-tillock's journal.. at least six or seven different tribes, uni- the governors of the royal dispensary formly told him, that the people who are for diseases of the ear, have presented nr. employed to milk the cattle caught a disease, curtis, the surgeon of that institution, with which, after once having had, they were a superb piece of plate, as a token of the perfectly safe from the small pox: that this estimation they entertain of his professional disease vas prevalent among the cows, and abilities, and for his great attention to the shewed itsell particularly on the teats; but patients placed under his care at that useful that it was inore prevalent among, and more charity. frequently caught from the sheep. a very the interrogative system of education, respectab. farmer, who lives about fourteen or the system of teaching by questions, or miles from bushire, by name malilla, con- text books without answers, which has been firmed every thing that the eliaats had told so successfully introduced in england, bas him, and further said, that the disease was recently been adopted in france. a society .) varieties-literary, scientific, fc. of , members, of the most enlightened in the natural history of our globe, being men in paris, have undertaken to compose established throughout its various climates, and publish no less than seventy-two ele- originally from british example, he will be mentary books, on the plan of the several happy to treat with them upon the liberal works so well known in the schools of the terms the lucrative and extensive nature of british empire. the concerns will so well admit of. a line a new vegetable acid, entitled (sorbic addressed to him at peel's coffee house, acid), has been discovered, to which the fleet street, london, will meet with due at- above name has been given, in consequence teption. the sums required will be about of its being found in the greatest abundance , , for one patent, and , . the other. in the mountain ash, and, we presume, mr. lee, the arabic professor, at cam- other varieties of sorbi. it differs very ma- bridge, compared with the admirable terially from the malic acid, but experi crichton. the accounts of prodigies are ments have not yet sufficiently determined always received with doubt by prudent its peculiar properties. men; but the case we are about to submit we are happy to observe, that the patri- having the testimony of so respectable a otic president of the board of agriculture, witness as mr. archdeacon corbett, we do had patronized the plan of our correspon- not hesitate upon his authority to lay it dent mr. doncaster, relative to finding em- before our readers, although the facts are ployment for the present supertluous labour unknown to ourselves. in the husbandry market, by the cultivation and in order that no misrepresentation of commons by spade husbandry. we are or colouring shall take place, we will give it now authorized by that gentleman to state, in the archdeacon's words : “ mr. lee is a that however he may feel tiattered by the native of the parish wherein i was born, approbation of so distinguished an agricul- and wherein i continued to reside. the tural character, yet sir john's ideas of the only education he received, was that of a extent of the improvements premeditated, village school, where nothing more than fall far, very far short of the reality of his reading, writing, or arithmetic was taught. extensive views; which, far from being li- he quitted this school at twelve years of age mited to bringing a few chain commons, to learn the trade of a capenter and builder, peculiarly favoured by their situations for urder his ingenious and respectable relative, the obtainment of manure, into the desired mr. alderman lee, of shrewsbury; and it state of high cultivation, indeed, go to no- was not till years after this that he conceived thing less than effecting, in due course of the idea of acquiring foreign languages; tiine, the improved fertilization of the gene- and then it was with such singleness of heart ral face of the country, equally including that he pursued his object, that he neither old pasture grounds, as well as arable lands sought nor accepted opportunities of com- and commons; and, at the same time, to municating it; and it was not till after an provide an inexhaustible stock of profitable interval of six years, and then by chance, labour to themselves and the community at that i found out that he had in that space large for the agricultural poor to resort to, taught himself to read and to write in latin, whenever they find themselves at leisure in greek, and in hebrew. he had taught from the current operations incident to the himself the chaldee, the syriac, and the various seasons of the year, for at least a samaritan languages-and all this unaided century to come. common prudence for- by any instructor, uncheered by any literary bids his publishing the details of his plans companion, uninfluenced by the hope either until patents have been obtained, whereby of profit or of praise. and here let me he may be in the way of being remunerated pause at this very singular feature in the for the years of study and thousands of portrait i am endeavouring to delineate; for pounds expence, his various labours have where shall we meet with a devotion to let. cost him, in bringing things to their present ters so solitary and so pure? i know, indeed, perfection.--but in his late endeavours to that instances are not unfrequent, where the attain a pecuniary coadjutorship in them, mind has arisen superior to its original des- through ihe medium of repeated advertise- tination, or where eminence has been at. ments inserted in the most popular london tained under circumstances adverse and un- newspapers, he has uniformly been unsuc- favourable. but we more generally find, cessful; for, whenever he came to lay his that a foundation has been laid, and that pearls before the cockney swine, who were those who have distinguished themselves as respondents to them, they did nothing but scholars have gone through the regular grunt over them, without knowing what in routine of classical education, or been as- the world to make of them.--he therefore sisted by masters of superior abilities. such requests us to state, that if any of our rural was the case with mr. james crichton, of friends, whose habits in life lead them to clunie, in scotland, better known by the know the difference between a turnip and a name of “ the admirable crichton," in the carrot, or a spade and a plough, are dis- list of whose tutors we find the name even posed to come forward to aid the great of buchanan. and having introduced the cause in hand, which, in all probability, is mention of this extraordinary person, this destined sooner or later to form a new era “ phonix of literature," as he is designated varieties- literary, scientific, &c. (may , by one of his biographers, i would willingly dr. scott on the other, that we may attri- run some parallel between him and mr. bute mr. lee's subsequent engagement with lee. mr. crichton, then, was the son of a the church missionary society, his admis- gentleman of ancient family and hereditary sion at queen's college, cambridge, and his fortune, and therefore we may presume that, ordination as a minister of the established in addition to the living assistance i have church. mentioned, he was amply supplied with the but in defence of what i have ventured usual helps and incitements to learning, and to assert, i must endeavour to draw this that at an age when the mind is most ductile parallel somewhat closer. one of the ad- and open to such pursuits; whilst on the mirable crichton's historians asks, whether other hand, we find mr. lee oppressed with it does not surpass comprehension, that in the cares and labours of life, without any his st year he should he master of ten living assistant whatsover; without the different languages, and perfectly well versed stimulus either of hope or fear; seeking in philosophy, the mathematics, theology, concealment rather than the smile of appro- the belles lettres, and other sciences. if mr. . bation, and very scantily supplied with the crichton began his grammar at six years of necessary materials; for mr. lee's earnings age, a supposition by no means improbable, at this time were harely sufficient to the considering the aptness of the scholar, his poorest maintenance, yet he spared from station in life, and the practice of the times, this pittance to purchase such grammars we shall then find that the high degree as could be met with upon the book-stalls of of knowledge we have stated was acquired this town; and when he had read through in about years; and it is now about a volume procured in a similar manner, he years since mr. lee first opened a latin was forced to pay it away again, as part of grammar, and he has in that time taught the price of the next book he wished to pur. himself different languages. it is further chase. here then is a string of difficulties said that mr. crichton offered to dispute in surmounted by mr. lee, which mr. crich- the following languages :- ton had not to combat. again, it is said hebrew french that mr. crichton's learning, however stu . syriac italian pendous, was not acquired by the sacrifice of arabic english any of those pleasures in which youth usually greek dutch indulges, or by the omission of any of those latin flemish accomplishments in which it becomes a gen- spanish sclavopian. tleman to excel. now, so far as this marks those mr. lee has taught himself are out the interruptions given to mr. crichton's severer studies, we shall find those of mr. the following: lee at least equally broken in upon, and latin french that from causes much more imperative. greek german mr. lee had not to balance between read- hebrew italian ing and relaxation; he had to pass from chaldee ethiopic bodily fatigue to mental exertion for he syriac coptic omitted, during the six years i have men- samaritan malay tioned, none of the hours usually appro- arabic sanscrit priated to manual labour; he retired persic bengalee. regularly to rest at o'clock at night: hindostanee ! he suffered during this time from a complaint and if we add the english, included in mr. in his eyes; and of the inadequate leisure crichton's list of , it makes , or an ex- thus left him, parteven of that was dedicated cess of one-third. to what may be deemed accomplishment: in mathematics we are told mr. crichton so that it does not appear that mr. crichton was perfectly“ at home," and that he offered either read or remembered with greater ra- to dispute upon mathematical subjects. of pidity than mr. lee has done. and when mr. lee, i have something much more defi. mr. lee exchanged his trade for the supernile to relate: when he entered at cambridge, intendence of a charity-school, his hours he was unacquainted with the mathematics; were not much more at his own disposal. but in one fortnight he qualified himself to it was at this time that the well known and attend a class which had gone through much respected oriental scholar, dr. jona several books in euclid, and he soon after than scott, some time persian secretary to discovered an error, not indeed in euclid, mr. hastings, in india, furnished mr. lee but in a teatise on spherical trigonometry, with an arabic grammar; and he had then, usually bound up with simpson's euclid, for the first time in his life, the pleasure of the th proposition of which mr. lee conversing upon the study in which he was disproved. now as simpson's edition of engaged : and it is to this auspicious circum- euclid may be looked upon as a text book slance, improved as it was by the wonderful at either university, as it is the one usually proficiency of mr. lee, on the one hand, (for put in the hands of students, and to which in a few months he was capable of reading, the lectures of the tutors apply, it is most writing, and composing in both arabic and wonderful if a mistake sliould have been persic,) and to the unremitting kindness of pointed out in such a work, and for the first varieties-literary, scientific, fc. [may , applied to the minister of marine to be em- is known to have come from syria to mentz, ployed. years after the birth of christ. prizes offered in france.-the society sweden. 'for the encouragement of national industry the council of mines at stockholm, has in france, hare offered the following lately published a report, of which the fol- prizes :-improved manufacture of sewing lowing is the substance :- needles, francs-dressing of flax and the mine of great hopperberg, dear hemp without soaking, --new method fahlun, in dalecarlia, is the oldest copper of silvering the back of mirrors, , — mine. its privileges are dated from the dying wool scarlet by madder, without co- thirteenth century, and were granted by chineal, for artificial diamonds and precious kings waldemar and magnus ladislas. stones, francs--preservation of alimen. there are few mines of such extraordinary tary substances, according to m. appert's depth; but the excavations have been so process, francs- best mode of salting badly managed, that several vaults have provisions, francs-construction of a fallen in, and intercepted the passage to this country windmill, francs-for planting immense cavern. the northern pine, francs--for plant. there are two great hollows in the form ing the scotch pine, francs. these of tunnels, one at the great mine, and the have been offered before, and are not yet other at the mine of louisa ulrica. that merited. of the great mine is fathoms high. there the following are other prizes :- for the are four principal wells, bearing the names completion and performance of the miria, of king frederick, adolphus frederick, (a machine for raising water,) francs louisa ulrica, and count wrede. for the construction of a new water-wheel, the geometrician of the mine of fahlun francs-a mill for cleaning indian cannot make use of the compass in drawing corn, francs-for the establishment of plans of his works, owing to the great quan- wells for obtaining water by filtration, two tity of iron, which abounds in all the swe- prizes, , and francs--preparation dish mines. neither can ropes be employ- for materials adapted to the arts of engrav- ed in the caverns, for the abundance of vj- ing, francs-a substance that may be triolic and coppery water would speedily rot cast in a mould like plaister of paris, and of them: iron chains are, therefore, adopted, greater durability, francs-manufac- but even these are destroyed in a short ture of russia leather, two prizes, and time. the use of buckets is strictly forbid- francs-to the maker of the hydraulic den, and the workmen descend by steps press that shall have been substituted for made in the galleries. the common presses of oil and wine, the mechanism employed for clearing francs. the mine and extracting the ore is admira- skin of the rhinoceros.-it appears from ble, as well for the magnitude of the works, some experiments made lately in india, that as the skilful economy of power. the the skin of the rhinoceros will resist a mus- moveable force is given by two wheels, the ket shot, though fired from a piece at a largest of which measures about ells in short distance only. these experiments diameter; it is set in motion by the water of were made on the body of an individual, a lake behind the mountain, and with which which had been of great size, and very old. there is a communication by means of an it was killed near givalpara, on the borders aqueduct. this wheel turns a cylinder, to of the asam country. the number of them which is attached a dented wheel of smaller in those parts is immense. the bouram. size, and which turns in an opposite direc- poutes is sometimes so covered by them that tion : two hooks are made to fasten into the though nearly a league across, the smallest this wheel : one or oth these vessel cannot find room to pass. hooks is lowered according to the direction ancient toun in egypt.-an ancient in which it is found necessary to turn the city has been discovered in the mountains, wheel. the great wheel serves, at the same about nine hours journey from the red sea, time, for moving the balances communicat- between ° and ° of latitude. there are ing with the pumps placed diagonally in the till above houses remaining and among caverns for raising the water which might the ruins are found various temples. there incommode the workmen. by an ingenious are eleven statues, and the fragments of contrivance, the same water which has turn- others. the french traveller who disco ed the great wheel, lower down, serves the vered this place, has also ascertained the an- same purpose a second time. cient stations that were appointed on the the number of workmen employed in route through the desert, going from the one mine sometimes amounts to . to red sea to the valley of the nile. prevent any deficiency of coal, the proprie- ancient bridge.--a stone has been taken tors of the neighbouring estates are obliged up lately in the rhine, from one of the piles to supply them with a certain quantity at a of an ancient bridge on the side of cassel. fixed price. it was four feet long, and two wide, having the mine of fahlun is a hard kind of pyo for an inscription, leg. xxii. it is judge rites, which is very difficult to work. the ed probable, therefore, that the bridge has labourers advance only a few fathoms yearly, been built by the d roman legion, which notwithstanding the aid of gunpowder. the ro Žsio.) fine arts. richest veins lie in the deepest parts of the the dispute, which was at length terminated mine, and branch out towards the west and by the contending parties dividing among north. themselves the coasts and bays where the silver may be extracted from the copper whale fishery was carried on. of fahlun, though by a very difficult pro- harassed by these numerous enemies, cess. of this silver a medal was cast in the the whale, whose instinct is to fly at the ap- year , to commemorate the risit made proach of danger, sought refuge among the by king adolps us frederick, the queen, ice of the northern regions ; but nothing his consort, and gustarus iii. then prince could save it from its pursuers, and conse- rora!, to the mine of fahlun. quently the species has sensibly diminished, the rough copper, when taken from the and the fishery becomes more and more dif- fumaces of fahlun, is conveyed to avestadt, ficult. a town about four miles distant, on the banks vessels of a reculiar construction are em- of the dal-olven, lo be refined. the pro- ployed in the whale fishery. the whale is · cess of refining copper was not introduced surrounded by boats, and the fishers har- in sweden till the year . poon the enormous animal at the risk of the retining furnace is a simple wall, being overwhelmed by it. the fat and the through which a hole is made to admit the horny laminæ of the jaws are the only parts muzzle of the bellows, which are moved by of the whale which are fit for use; its flesh water. before the wall is a ditch in which is not eatable, but the fat furnishes excellent arc deposited the masses of copper covered lamp oil, and is besides employed in various with coal. the metal is melted by the manufactures. strength of the fire, and the scoria is re- the biscayeneers were formerly accus- moved by degrees; that which remains attomed to melt the fat on board the vessel, as the bottom is called regulus, and is expected soon as the animal was cut up, as by this to contain gold. means they obtained the oil perfectly fresh. the copper which, during the process the fear of accidents by fire has, however, of refining, is volatilized with the smoke, induced the whale fishers to relinquish this collects in red powder on the edges of a method. the fat is now melted after it is frame which surrounds the chimney. brought ashore, and in consequenceof being whale fishery.-the people inhabiting kept the oil acquires a disagreeable smell. the coast of the bay of biscay were the first whales were formerly caught measuring who attempted the whale fishery; and for a feet in length, and they produced from considerable period they alone supplied eu- to tons of oil. the largest whales rope with the oil of that great cetaceous that have been taken of late years do not fish. the dutch, however, soon became measure above feet. their rivals, and the company which was es in former times the whale seems never to tablished by the latter, about the year , have been taken on the english coasts ex- excited the jealousy of england, who wished cept when it was accidentally flung ashore. to become mistress of this branch of com it was then deemed a royal fish, as appears merce.* the biscayeneers took a share in from the statute of edward ii. anno. mo. and the king and queen divided the spoil; * it appears from a set of queries pro- the king asserting his right to the head, and posed hy an honest merchant in the year her majesty claiming the tail.* , that we were at that period totally ig- norant of the whale fishery, being obliged to and one cooper skilful to set up the slaved send to biskaie formen skilled in the catch- cask. hackluyt's voyages. ing of the whale, and ordering of the oil, blackstone's com. i. c. . fine arts. after having displayed the works of modern pictures, under their auspices, of the british artists, and invited the this year, amounted to a large sum; and country to patronise native genius in the advancing fame of the british school erery department of art, in february keeps pace with the progress of a sound and march, the directors of the british taste and the judicious plans of the di- institution opened the british gallery rectors. on monday, april th, with a fine se- the exhibition of the society of lection of pictures, by the old masters. painters in oil and water colours open- the wisdom of this proceeding is too ob- ed at the great room, in spring gar- vious to require comment, and indeed dens, on monday the th april, with the inotives of this persevering activity paintings in oil and water colours; are beyond all praise. the public begin among which there are many of great to second the efforts of this patriotic excellence, and, as usual, in large collec- • body with a warmth that is calculated to tions, some of an inferior order. the produce the happiest effects. the sales limits to which we are prescribed, and new montily mag.--no. . vol. xi. z fine arts. (may , the lateness of the date, compel us to phanopf, is cleverly designed and paint- pass, at present, briefly over the whole, ed with spirit, but with less force and de- with a notice of a few of the most con- licacy than we sometimes see from this gpicuous in merit, hy a mention of little excellent artist's pencil. no. , by more than their paines. the principal the same, has great merit, though, like landscape in oil, the burial of saul, by the preceding, painted with less finish- j. varley, is a grand composition, and ing than usual with him.- , , , one of the very best performances of by w. turner, of oxford, are painted this able artist's pencil. two of the with much force of colouring and rigour mnen in front are, howerer, somewhat of effect. short. barret's ulysses in search no. , l'ia diala, canton of the gri- of eumenes, is an expanded classical sons, by this artist, is a landscape composition, with many features of of much romantic grandeur, painted with beauty, and a commanding breadth in the a force and harmony of colour and scenery, which would admit of being power of effect, equal to the best style of worked up to a high order of effect; but the most celebrated landscape painters. the sky requires to be somewhat lower falstaff acting the king, by h. in tone, and some of the landscape forms richter, is one of the most admi- are cramped, and might be treated with rable dramatic representations we have more freedoin. christall, always rich seen.- we conceive however that the in gems, has several small ideal land. fat knight is surpassed by the sub scapes and figures in a pure taste, and ordinates; but, in spirited design, high order of design. copley field. force of colouring, depth of effect, and ing's, tinted views have great excel- variety of character and expression, this lence, and a fine sense of local beauty. performance possesses so large a fuod of prout's shipping are cleverly designed excellence, tbat we regret being obliged and coloured. robson has many pic- to limit our remarks to this brief notice. turesque landscapes; but in some few mr. john smith (known by the appella- instances is still too gay in his colour- tion of claude lorraine smith) has three ing, and rather inclined to mannerisin delicious prospects, in which he has deli- in his touch. j. stephanoff's interior neated the day-light with exquisite sim- of sir j. leicester's gallery, and that of plicity and truth. we hope in our next, the court of judicature in ceylon, are ad- jf allowed by our restricted space, to con- mirable drawings. f. p. stephanotf's tinue our observations on the works of k'oyal apurtments, and c. wild's inti- art in this very interesting exhibition. rivis, sustain their distinguished reputa. the gallery of sir john fleming tion. buckler has some good architec- leicester has been regularly opened tural views. t. christmass has a study for the display of his splendid collection of a dog, cleverly painted. starck's of paintings, by british artists, every landscapes in oil are pleasing, but some- monday since the th of march. the what less free and forcible than those sensation produced among the nobility which he recently exhibited at the bri- and gentry, artists, amateurs, and men of tish gallery. linnel's have a power letters, has been even still greater than ful effect and a deep feeling of nature; last season. the additional pictures by but would admit of more liarmony and fuseli, turner, collins, and hilton, have lightuess of penciling. no. , by c. been duly appreciated. the view on the varley, is cold, raw, and tov slight for arno, by wilson, is considered by all an exhibition picture. no. , his the best judges one of the finest speci- ruins of troy is well designed, but mens of local colouring in the world. crude and deficient in union. allport's this picture will have a salutary effect, tivoli, evening, is an agreeable view, in checking a tendency to the brown and but wants freedom in the penciling, and dingy manner, which prevails even in the mellowness of tone. miss gouldsmith works of some of our first-rate landscape has several pleasing bits of landscape. painters. the people of this country her views of claremont are painted want nothing more immediately for the with much strength and taste, and in advancement of taste than self-estimation a low mellow tone. we are happy to in the fine arts, and the public eclat of learn, that she is about to publish prints this fine collection, under the spirited from these very interesting pictures, and conduct of the munilicent proprietor, has we hope that she will meet with that en done inore to excite a generous national couragement of which the merits of her pride than any other individual effort in paintings are deserving. our memory. the splendour of the hill- no. , the discovery, by f. p. sr.- street gallery, and the impartial protec- observations on mr. bucke's tragedy of the italians. [may , ters on the soul. shakespear's main be performed immediately before the power is generally in the present time. bride of abydos ; and when the latter we may dispense with the unities of was represented, mr. bucke was assured place, but we can never dispense with that the italians should be brought out that essential dramatic principle which the next in succession. the gross is necessary to bring the greatest power breach of this engagement, and the be- of impression to bear upon the senses lief that the obstacle to the performance and passions of an audience. it is im- originated with a principal actor, excited probable that albanio should have been a popular ferment on the publication of twenty years an outlaw in arms against the drama, with the author's account of his country, and that he should not have the treatment which he had experienced. confided the murder of his wife, his un. the feeling of indignation in the first just sentence, and escape from prison circles induced the managers of drury- to his faithful companionsin danger long lane theatre to bring out the italians, before. it is as improbable that his on thursday the d of april, after the companions, having been so long in sight author had withdrawn it wholly, in con- of naples, which had been the scene of sequence of the shameful conduct upon his misfortunes, should have remained the stage on the performace of miss in ignorance of his story. if mr. bucke porter's tragedy of switzerlund. mr. had brought his events closer together, bucke was, by this proceeding of the \he would have thereby invigorated the managers, subjected to much hazard, and interests of his fable, and given them a the success of his piece was rendered ex- warmth and racy freshness; he would, tremely doubtful. instead of being sup- also, have marked the motives and cha- ported by the whole force of the com- racters of his agents with more force, pany on which he had relied, he was and brought his appeals more directly deprived of its main strength in mr. home to the heart. there are many kean, as it was fixed to bring out the touches of gentle feeling and beauty in italians during that actor's absence in the character of scipio which do great scotland. as the public and the ma- credit to the author; and the love of nagers are convinced that the success of country is expressed by fontano with tragedy on this stage depends on the a spirit worthy of an ancient roman. great abilities of mr kean, and that the the scenery, as a back-ground, is grand, theatre could not support itself without but the piece does not abound with situa- him, it is undeniable that they did not tions which are productive of very strik- give mr. bucke's tragedy any thing like ing effect. having thus, with a due con. à fair trial in bringing it out deprived of viction of its merits, given our impartial that aid, which is their acknowledged sense of its general defects, we invist also effective support. on the contrary, it add our opinion, that the faults of this may be with truth asserted, that no new drama have arisen more from inattention travedy could stand any tolerable chance and incxperience than a want of power, of success with the drury-lave company, and that many of them can be easily cor. as it is constituted, in mr. kean's ab- rected. we still recur to our original sence. the fact is, therefore, palpable conviction that, considered as a whole, that, by delaving to perform their pro- it possesses, to say the least of it, as mise to mr. bucke, while that admirable strony claims upon the favour of an au- performer was in town, and by perform- dience, as some of those which have suc- ing it in his absence, they deliberately cecded in the london theatres within exposed the italians to an almost cer- these few years ; and we have very little, tain failure. but this was not all the or rather no doubt (although it would danger to which the tragedy was exposed. probably never have become a stock. mr. kean had, before his departure for picce) but that it would have been suc. glasgow, most unwisely and reprehen- cessful, if the first promises made to the sively passed sentence of condemnation author, on its acceptance, had been faith- on the tragedy in a never-to-be-for- fully fulfilled. gotten letter, which he published in the it has been ascertainer, beyond a daily papers. the whole of this actor's doubt, by the author's preface, that the friends were, therefore, enlisted against italians had been accepted, with appro- the author, and bent on condenining the bation, by the managers of drurv-lane play, to vindicate their favourite's pre- | theatre in november , and that judgment. we need not remind our mr. bucke had a promise that it would readers that the attachment of a certain be acted without delay. a notice was party of mr. kean's immediate as- even inserted in the bills that it would sociates, and their violent war upon .] observations on mr. bucke's tragedy of the italians. every person, whether a new actor card thrown upon the stage, to mr. or author, who is supposed to inter- stephen kemble, at whose feet it lay fere with his popularity, have obtained for some ininutes, while the howling of for them the epithet of wolves. as the wolves, and the cries of “ no mr. bucke had to encounter the deter- kean!" -“ kean in albanio!” - and mined noise and uproar of these parti- “ a third night for the italians !"-pre- sans; and as the company in mr. kean's vented the possibility of any address absence was absolutely ineffective in being heard. vip. keuble at length tragedy, the fate of the italians was took up the card, read it, and withdrew. decided before the curtain drew up. it shortly after, to the general astonish- is not necessary, therefore, to occupyment, board was advanced from be- our space with the painful particulars of lind the scenes, bearing an inscription, a performance which marks in disgraceful announcing that the tidians wus with cra in the fallen state of drury lane druun. there was a propriety in omit- theatre. even if they had used their ting the usual words, it ihe request of utmost exertions, the majority of the the audience, for it is an undoubted fact, performers were inadequate to their that the italians was withdrawn in op- task, but it was evident that some did position to the expressed wish of the au- their best to murder the characters dience. which they had undertaken. the in- we shall not detail the long confu- dignant calls from all parts of the house, sion unil uproar which ensued. mr. “to play up," bore testimony to this bucke, hy luis temperate and gentlemanly shameful endeavour of particular actors appeal to the press, has rendered il ser- mr. rae, with the feelings and spirit of rice to the literature of his country, for a gentleman, made an able and success- which se ove loin our thanks. his ful exertion in the part of albanio, and cause has merged in the general interest, he deserved and received much applause and we conceire that the friends of mr. as an actor, and estecin as a man, by his lean and the managers of drury lane performance: mrs. west, also, success- theatre owe him the reparation of per- fully exerted herself.-the piece was forining the piece with kean in albanio, acted amridst an uproar of approbation the very first play-night after that emi- and opposition, and given out for il se- nent actor's return from glasgow. this cond trialou euster ilonday! a night not is in more than a debt of common justice very fit for such a decision, as the festi- to mr. bucke, and still more is it due to vities of the season usually fill the house the character of mr. kean, the interests with noisy holiday company. an un of the drama, the existence of that justifiable hostility to mr. bucke was theatre, and the wounded feelings of manifested behind the scenes, by refusing the public. him an author's customary privilege of we admire vr. kean as a tragedian sending in a few friends on his own free of the rery highest class, in characters orders. he was eren informed, that of rough, impetuous passion; and we he might have a place for himself in the would do him the service of a wholesome orchesiru-where he must have been ex- admonition as a man. it is clear now, posed to all the painful contingencies of that, in drury lane theatre, a system the night! its repetition, therefore, bas prevajied in direct hostility to the was like the first performance - a strug- true interests of the drama, and of the gle between fair applause and party proprietors of the house. a writer, hostility. on the falling of the curtain instead of being encouraged to lay his there was evidently a large inajority for plot upon the broad round pioor of vir. kean's being called on to perform the world, and to draw his characters the part of albanio after his return from nature at large, is compelled to from glasgow. narrow his views to the green room, a gentleman complied with the ge- and draw from nature's journeyman. neral request, and rastily wrote on he must paint from and for one per- a large card_" when the italians was former only! whose consequence is to accepted by the sub-committee of drury be supported by lopping, paring, and lane theatre, mr. kean was pledged neutralizing all the other characters. to perform a principal part in it; and they are to be shorn of the moral and the manager is now called on to engage essential properties of identity, to form his word, that mr. kean will perform bv their insignificance and degradation, a part in it on the first night after his a foil to a theatrical despot. the actors return to london." after much effort and actresses, too, are to be chosen for and trouble, he succeeded in having this the excess of their bodily and profes, new acts. [may , sional incapacity, not for their powers! for the calm and firm spirit, with which we protest against this monstrous he has resisted this tyranny, and brought usurpation and debasement of the thea- the evil practice and its abettors, in all tre; and, as members of society and their full grown insolence and deformity, lovers of the drama, we again express to the bar of the public. w.c. our debt of warm gratitude to mr. bucke new acts, passed in the first session of the sixth parliament of the united kingdom of great britain and ireland-- geo. . ( .) cap. i. an act to provide for the care of cap. vi. an act to enable his majesty his majesty's royal person during the con- to direct the distribution of any reward tinuance of his majesty's illness.- repeals awarded by the commissioners of the cus- gco. iii c. , geo. ). c. , geo. toms or excise, to the officers of the army, iii. .--care of his majesty's person and navy, and marines, in such manner as his household, &c. to be vested in the duke of majesty shall be pleased to appoint. march york.--appointients in the lord cham- . berlain, &c. reserved.-- power of the officers cap. vii. an act to regulate the cutlery of the household limited.-council to assist trade in england, where articles are formed the duke of york.-oath to be taken by the by the hammer, the manufacturers to have members of the duke of york's council.- the privilege of making them with the figure council may examine physicians and others of a hammer.-persons having manufac- upon oaih.council to meet and to declare tured articles in their possession empowered the state of his majesty's health to the privy to mark the same with the figure of a ham- council.--when it shall appear that his mer.-unlawful for persons casting cutlery majesty's health is restored, the same shall wares, requiring edges for cutting, to mark be notitied to the privy council, and entered with the figure of a hammer.-penalty on in their books.--after such entry, his ma- persons casting, marking, &c. any articles jesty may, by sign manual, require the with the words “ london,” or “ london privy council to asscmble.--powers of this made," except so made.- persons having act to cease on his majesty's declaring, by in their possession articles marked contrary proclamation, his resumption of the royal hereto, before the passing of this act, to be authority. in case of the death of the duke excused from penalties.- persons having of york, the care of his majesty's person in their possession articles marked contrary shall be vested in the duke's council, until to the directions of this act, who shall, before provision be made by parliament.— the any information be laid, prove the purchase regent to issue a proc'amation for the meet without knowing that the articles were im- ing of parliament, in case the parliament properly marked, to be excused from the be not sitting.-regulations for calling the penalties. march . meeting of a new parliament if the event car. viii. an act to continue, until th shall happen before the day appointed hy day of march, , an act of the last ses- writs of summons, or in cases where it shall sions of parliament for preventing aliens happen upon or after the day appointed by from becoming naturalized, or being made writ of summons. feb. . or becoming denizens, except in certain cap. ii. an act for reviving and further cases. march . continuing, until the first day of may, , cap. ix. an act for punishing mutiny an act made in the fifty-first year of his pre- and desertion, and for the better payment of sent majesty, intituled, an act to extend an the army and their quarters. march . act made in the eighteenth year of his late cap. x. an act for the regulating of majesty, king george the second, to explain his majesty's royal marine forces while on and amend the laws touching the elections shore. march . of the knights of the shire to serve in parlia- cap. xi. an act to indemnify such per- ment for england, respecting the expenses sons in the united kingdoms as have omit- of hustings and poll clerks, so far as re- ted to qualify themselves for offices and gards the city of westminster. feb. . employments, and for extending the times car. iii. an act for continuing to his limited for certain of those purposes re- majesty certain duties on malt, sugar, to. spectively, until the th day of march, bacco, and snuff, in great britain, and on , and to permit such persons in great pensions, offices, and personal estates in britain, as have omitted to file affidavits of england, for the service of the year . the execution of indentures of clerks to feb. . attornies and solicitors, to make and file cap. iv. an act for raising a sum of the same on or before the st day of hilary twenty millions, by exchequer bills, for term, , and to allow persons to make the service of the year . march . and file such affidavits, although the persons cap. v. an act to ascertain the tonnage whom they served shall have neglected to of vessels propelled by stean. march . take out their annual certificates. mar. .) ( useful arts. new patents. side opposite that upon which the power is specification of the patent granted to applied, and an opening in the plate corre- thomas heppenstall, of doncaster, ma sponds with that of the collar. in this plate chine-maker, for an improvement upon the collars with apertures of different diameters engine or machine for cutting or reducing may be placed, the opening in the plate or into what is called chaft, different articles standard being made at least equal to the used as dry fodder for horses and cattle.- opening of any of the collars. the collar dated march, . is about five inches in thickness, and the the invention consists in the application opening is made a little tapering, the dia- of a worm to turn wheels or rollers, which meter being something larger on the side in their revolution are required to meet each opposite that upon which the power is other. this is performed by an axle on applied than upon the other, and that end which the cutting knives are fixed; upon of the cylinder which is first inserted in one end of which is a fly-wheel, and handle the collar is also made slightly to taper at to turn it. on the same axle is a worm, the extremity. the mandrel, which is of which in its vibration turns the two wheels, course longer than the cylinder, and with fixed upon the ends of two rollers, which the cylinder upon it is put into the collar on supply or feed the cutting-knives with the the side opposite to that upon which the straw or other articles to be cut or reduced power is applied, and by the tapering of into what is called chaff. a box is placed, the end of the cylinder, and of the open- in which the straw or other article is placed ing of the collar as above described, to feed the rollers. the extremity of the cylinder will just pass specification of the patent granted to through the collar, a chain is connected at richard ormrod, of manchester. iron- one extremity with the moving power, and fonnder, for an improvement in the manuat the other with the mandrel by means of a facturing of copper, or other metal cylin- hook and socket, the end of the mandrel ders or rollers for calico printing:-dated placed in the socket, and a steel cottar or july, . pin passes through both, and thus con- the cylinders are made in the usual way, nected the hook fits into a link of the chain. they are generally formed of copper or brass, the power being set in action, the mandrel or copper and brass united, and are either with the cylinder upon it is drawn through cast or made from plates soldered together. the collar. the cylinder in this opera- this invention is equally applicable, whe- tion is prevented from being forced off ther the cylinders are formed in the one me the mandrel by a slit or cavity made in thod or the other. first place the cylinder the end of the mandrel, into which a for about a quarter of an hour in a mixture projection inside the cylinder at its ex- of oil of vitriol and water, and afterwards tremity is made to fit. the operation. scour it well until every part is free from is repeated through successive collars, scale and dirt. this method of cleaning whose diameters gradually diminish until the metal cylinders is not new, nor is it the cylinder is brought to a proper state of claimed as an invention. after the cylinder smoothness and solidity. the number of is well cleaned, place it on a mandrel of iron operations must of course vary with the or steel (a mandrel of iron inlaid with steel nature of the metal, the diameter of the is preferable,) adapted as closely as possible cylinder and other circumstances, and no to the hollow of the cylinder ; then pass the certain rule can be laid down upon the mandrel with the cylinder fixed upon it subject; but it must be left to the workmen through a collar of iron or steel, (the former to determine when the cylinder is brought is preferred, on account of its cheapness,) to a proper and perfect state. in this there the diameter of the collar is something will be no difficulty. the power which is smaller than that of the surface of the cylin used for the above purpose is about a der, the consequence of which is, that hy hundred horse power, estimated at the place the pressure resulting from this operation, where it acts upon the mandrel. the cy- the pores of the metal of which the cylinder linders are usually about twenty-six inches, is formed are closed, and the metal being and thirty-six inches in length, before they made to press equally upon the mandrel, are drawn through the collars, and the becomes throughout of one texture, and of operation is generally repeated until they great and uniform hardness and solidity. are extended to the length of about thirty- the method of drawing the mandrel and cy- two and forty-two inches. the diameter of jinder through the collar may be variously the first collar is about one eighty-fourth contrived. it has been found convenient to part of an inch less than that of the out- fix a strong iron plate or standard in a verti- ward surface of the cylinder; and of the cal position, and to secure it firmly to a frame second collar about one eighty-fourth of an or table, constructed with great strength and inch less than that of the first collar, and so solidity. the collar is fixed on a groove or in succession; but these proportions and bed formed in this plate or standard, on the the extent of the power may of course be literury report. [may , varied, and the machinery may be con- cylinder has passed through the different structed and the power applied in different collars, and is brought to a proper state of modes; the above being described merely smoothness and solidity, place it in the usual as an example, and as a convenient method way on a tinishing mandrel to be turned and of giving eticci lo the invention. alter the polished. literary report. we beg to remind our correspondents that all notices for this department must be sent on or before the h of each month a refutation will shortly be published of the following works are nearly ready the claims of the late sir philip francis, for publication. k. b. to be considered the author of the the mystery of the abbey, or the wi- letters of junius. by charles m. chal- dow's fireside. xers, esq. a.m. sermons preached in st. john's chapel, the entomologist's pocket companion, edinburgh. by daniel sandeford, d.d. containing an introduction to the know- a critical examination of that part of ledge of british insects, with the modern mr. bentham's church of englandism method of arranging the classes crustacea, which relates to the church catechism. by myriapoda, spiders, mites, and insects, ac- the rev. u. j. rose, a.b. cording to their afinities and structure, the vestrisad, a mock heroic poem. by after the system of dr. leach, and an ex- the author of the banquet, a poem; and planation of the terms used in entomology. the desert, a poem. embellished with by george lamouelle, will shortly ap- four highly finished engravings. pear. thirty views in islington and pontonville, a splendid credo of sebastian bach, a engraved under the direction of mr. char m.s. never before printed, is preparing for les pye,trom original drawings by augustus press, under the superintendence of mr. pugin ; accompanied with historical and samuel wesley. descriptive sketches of each subject. by dr. bushy has announced for publication, w. brayley, anthor of the history and a general history of music, from the earliest antiquities of westminster abbey. times to the present, in vols. vo. reports on the weather and diseases of mr. richard taylor, is preparing for london, from to , inclusive,com- publication, three maps upon a new plan, prising practical remarks on their causes of the siles of all the religious houses, and treatment, and preceded by an histo- colleges, hospitals, &c. within the diocese rical view of the state of health and disease of norwich, previous to the dissolution of in the metropolis in former times, on which monasteries. they will be accompanied by the extraordinary improveinent in point of a copious reference, and will contain arms salubrity which it has undergone, the of religious houses, and much additional in- changes in the character of the seasons in formation. this respect, and the causes of these are mrs. hoffland, intends publishing by traced to the present time. by dr. batb- subscription, a work of which only filty man. copies will be printed, entitled “ a descrip- life of thomas paine. by clio rick- tive account of white knights," a seat man. embellished with a portrait. of his grace the duke of mariborough, to sunday school and other anecdotes, cate- be illustrated by twenty-two engravings, chetical exercises, &c. by george rus- from pictures and drawings by t. c. iofl- sell. land. atlas to. earl osric, a romance; from the pen of the translation of paradise lost into mrs. isaacs, authoress of tales of to day. welch, in the same metre as the originals, an interesting tale for youth. by mr. by w. owen pughe, will be published in sullivan, entitled the recluse, or the the course of the ensuing month. the un llermit of windermere. paralleled copiousness of the ancient british researches into the nature and caus, language, enables the translator not only to of epilepsr.as connected with the physiology keep verbally to the meaning of the author, of animal life and muscular motion, with but generally to preserve even bis varied cases, illustrative of a new and successful pauses and other ornaments, at the same method of treatmeut, by mr. j. g. mans- time avoiding all literal elisions whalever. ford. mr. playfair, who, during his residence in one vol. . kenilworth illustrated, in france, wrote an answer to lady mor- or the history of the castle, priory, and gan's work, has prepared his ms. for press. church of kenilworth; containing sir it will appear in one or two vo. volumes. william dugdale's account of those edi- mr. wentworth has nearly ready for fices; with additions, and a description of publication. an elaborate work on the their present state from minute investigation. colopy of new south wales london before the great fire. with a .) bankrupts. series of engravings, with historical and and emphasis ; also copious extracts in topographical descriptions. prose and verse, calculated to assist the augustus and adelina, or the monk of st. teacher and improve the pupil in reading bernardine ; a romance. by c.d. haynes. and recitation. mo. cesario rosalba, or the oath of ven- an essay on the holy eucharist, or a geance; a romance. by ann, of swansea. refutation of the iloadlyan system of it. by vols. the rev. henry card. iskander, or the hero of epirus, by a. mr. baynes, willl publish early in may, spencer. a catalogue of old books. part i. including a romance on the subject of robin the valuable library of a minister de- hood. ceased, amongst which are many of rare principles of elocution; containing nu- occurrence, with a collection of original merous rules, observations, and exer- mss. sermons. cises on pronunciation, pauses, inflections, agricultural report. a more favoured spring, whether with respect to the crops, or the operations of hus- bandry, has never been witnessed. the wheats are in a remarkable state of forwardness; and could their progress be in proportion, harvest might be finished in the south during the month of july. the quantity of march dust which has flown has had the full of its proverbial good effect. all the spring crops which are above ground wear a luxuriant and promising appearance, with those occasional exceptions to be expected; and the latter seed season is likely to be favourable. all parts of the country are unusually early. the lambing, owing to the mildness of the weather, has in general been very successful. the fruit-trees also exhibit a blossom which encourages us to hope for the most abundant crops, should it not be checked by the cold winds, or by frost. bankrupts. prom march , to april , , inclusive. where the address of the solicitor is not mentioned, he must be understood to reside at the same place as the bankrupt. the solicitors' names are between parentheses, anderson h. w cushion court, broad st. jane.--burcher t. of mitchel deane, gloucester, merchant (collingridge, secondaries office, cole. timber dealer (king, serjeant's inn - beotley s. man street.-abram r. liverpool, merchant (ches. horton, yorksbire, worsted manufacturer (net. ter. staple ipn.--aslat a. lambeth, victualler lefold, norfolk street, strand.. booth t. new. (poplin, dean street. ark upon trent and a. booth, nollinghain, tal. b. low chandlers (knowles new inn. brumwell r. newcastle upon tyne, baker c. (brooksbank, gray's inn square.-- baker s. brigh chamberlain w. bristol, corn factor (king, ton, linen draper (lamberts and co., gray's inn serjeant's inn, fleet street.-caustat n, upper square,- buckland t. langley, buckinghamshire, east smithfield, chemist (isaacs, bury street, st. brickmaker (beckeley, lincoln's .-barton w. mary acre.-cotterill e. m. and c. g. vive st. st. saviour's church yard, upholsterer, (rogers liquor pond street, bacon merchants (ilind and and co., manchester buildings, westminster.- co., throgmorton street.-carr c. pridge street, brooke n. duke street, lincoln's ion field's (a. westminster, jeweller (upsdell, lambeth road. mory and co., lothbury. barnett a. berner's st., clancy w. cornbill, provision merchant (crosley, oxford street, glass dealer, (cuppage, old broad great james street, bedford row.cooper j. street.-booth j. chapel en-le krith, derbyshire scholes, york, slate merchant (bigg, southamp. common brewer (milne and co., temple.-bush, ton buildings, chancery lane.-cruse t. chat- .h. wick and abson, gloucester, dealers, (king, ham, brewer, james, bucklersbury. -- cope r. serieant's inn, fleet street.-burmester j. w. and worcester, victualler (price and co., lincoln's inn c. l. vidal, new london street, merchants (bar. -collinson e. crooked lane, vil merchant, (aliin- rows and co., basinghiall street. barnes j. port. son and co., freeman's court.-campbell j. white sca, builder, (alexander and co., new tan bigg lion court, cornhill, merchant (rivington fen. j. and c. hatheld, hertfordshire, common brewers church street buildings. (nicholson and co., ilertford.-buchanan d., s. d. m. smith, and f. ashley, liverpool, merchants dalgairns p. and e. win low, st. mary at hill, (adlington and co., bedford row.-bartlett j. ship and insurance brokers (clarke and co., sad- frome. selwood, somerset, clothier (edmunds ler's liall, cheapside-de lincoln's ian.-beasley c. stroud, gloucester. bishopsgate street without, seed crusher (druce mercer, (price and co., lincoln's inn --bentley s. and co., billiter square.-dunnage h. colchester, · horton, york, worsted manufacturer (nettleford, miller, (williams, cursilor street, chancery lare. norfolk street, strand --buckley h. junction, dickinson w. scalby, yorkshire, coal merchant york, innkeeper (milne and co., temple.-ben. (fisher and co., holborn.-dixon j. ivybridge, dall g. h. bristol, coryfactor (bourdillon and devonshire inerchant (darke and co., princes st., co., bread street, cheapside.-branimer c. wood bedford row, london.-davies g. teoby, pem. house, yorkshire, man mercer (battye, chancery broke, inerchant (alexander and co., new lun. new monthly mag.-no. . vol. xi. a [may , bankrupts. k. kilby j. york, common brewer (egre, gray's inu square. dolphin e. cheddle, stafford, pluniber (barber, fetier lane.-douthat s. late of liverpool, mer. chant (blackstock and co., king's bench walk, teinple.-dixou j. wellington, shropshire, mer. cer (baxter and co. gray's ing place. e. elmer e. mistley, essex, merchant (cocker, nassau stieet, soho. lewis w. and j. a. ilenderson, little tower street, wine merchants (kearsey aud co., bishops- gate within. m. moule h. st. michael, bath, baker (adlington and co., bedford row.-miller r. old fish street, bookseller (lane and co., lawrence fountney hill. mac donald r. frant, sussex shopkeeper (ror. land and co., lincoln's tom fields-mountjoy. llanwell nursery, ealing, middlesex, serdsmas (rooke and co., armourei's hall, colemaa street moore f. r denmark street, strand, paper stainers (alexander and co, new inn, london.-mildes r. of mirheid. yorkshire, coal merchant (leke. dowgate hill.-martin j. st. phillip and jacob. gloucester, druggist (poole and co., gray's ida square.- messent p. quaker street, spital fields, silk weaver (james, bucklersbury. n. neyler . sykehouse, fishlake, yorkshire, tan. der (king, castle street, holborn. . owen, j. and h. d. great st. helen's, bishops. gate street (grusby, gitat james street, bedíord row. p. fleming t. limehouse, middlesex, sugar refiner, (paterson and co., old broad street. fisher w. union place, lainbeth, master mariner (hayward, took's court, cursitor street, - fletcher r. b. blackburn, lancaster, manufacturer (bemuell add co., st switbin's lane,- forbes a. b. bristol, dra. per (price and co., lincoln's inn old buildings.- farmer w. walsall, stafford, innholder (turner and .. bloomsbury square. fletcher b. buraiey, lancashire, plumber and glazier (stocker and co., new boswell court.- french j. junr. bristol, clo. thier (williams, red lion square, g. growning r. broad street buildings, merchant (blunt and co., broad street buildings - goddard m. strangiands, cheshire, tanner (rosser aud co., bartlett's buildings. --gaunt, j. and t. armley, lсeds. woollen manufacturers (few and co., hen. rietta street, covent garden.--gompertz a. loin bard street, merchant (elliott, fenchurch street - gilpin w. villiers street, strand, army clothier c'easdale. merchant taylor's hall. gillimore w. norbury. derbyshire, tabuer (barber, folter lane gowland m. j. whitby, yorkshire, porter merchant (edmund's. lincoln's inu.-griffiths m. j. and r, bristol, masons (edmund's, lincolo's inn--glover e. and e juor. warrington, lancaster, brewers (chester. staple inu-gunton j. pimlico, picture dealer (l'urner, percy street, rathbone place. h. : howard j. liverpool, four dealer (smith, hol. boru.court. gray's inn.--hunt j. cheltepbam, gloucestershire, brandy merchant (bridger, angel court, throgmorton street.-harman, s. c. wis. beach. cambridge, linen draper (sweet and co., basipgball street.- llorander t. halifax, york. sbire. grocer (ballye, chancery jade, hellicar t. and j hellicar, bristol, merchants, (lamberts and co., gras's ino.-harding s. t., c. oakes, and t. willington, tamworth, warwicksaire and stafford. shire, bankers (hicks and co., bartlett's buildings hancock w. bury st. edmond's, suffolk, cabinet maker (amory and co., lothbury. hawkins s. milton. portsea, southampton, dealer (langton, hare court. temple --howard r. junr. woolwich, brewer (wiltshire and co., winchester house, broad street. hurrell s. mimories, cord-dealer (clutton and co., higli street, southwark-hoy. land j. knottingly, york, grocer (blakelock, ser. jeant's ion. henley w. bradford, wiltshire, ing. keeper (dax and co., doughty street.-vull c. lale of moneyers street, ribbon manulacturer (knight and co., basinghall street. parkinson t. seur. mill place, seawby. lincola- shire, t. parkiusou, juur. kingston upon hull, and j. lilly, sculcoales, yorkshire, laft .erchants (rosser and co, bartlett's buildings, holborn pearson j. portsmouth, mercer (alexander and co., new ion, london.-- pickbourn j. north street. city road, drog grinder (ilutchinson, crown court. threadneedle street.-pearse j. plymouth dock, sadler (austice and co., inner temple --panton s. milton next settingbourne, kept, miller (brace and co., essex court, temple --peake s. pendle tou, lancaster, wine merchant (meadowcroft gray's jon syuare.--pritchard j. bristol, grocer (poole and co. gray's iun square.- pearson j. leicester, commission agent (beverley, garden court, temple.-perkins, j. b. carpenter's hall, london wall, ironmonger (clarke and co.. chan. cery lane. r. rugg j. bristol, victualler (edmunds, excheque: office of pleas, lincoln's lon.relph w. lewkner. oxfordshire, farmer, (rose and co., gray's ins- pegrom m. and j. pegrom, artillery street. mid. dlesex, dealers and chapten (walker, lincoln's len fields.rothwell ). now or late of arnold. net tingham, hosier (sykes, new lon. s. stanley r. horridge end, hope, derbyshire. meal dealer (willis and co., warotord court stalker d, and a. d. welch, leadenhall street, slopsellers (kearsley and co., bishopsgate street within.-sybley j. abchurch lane, dry salter (bir kett, cloak lane.--slubbs w. lock, staffordshire. inpholder (long and co, iloiborn court, gray's lon, -simpson, uuddersfield, woolstapler (beckpit, noble street foster lape.--summers w. newcastle upon type, flour dealer (bell and co bow church yard.-saxby j. r. hawkburst, kent, hop mer chant (gregson and co., angel court, throgmertoa street.-swainston j. keudal, westmoreland. m- rocco leather dresser (hurd and co., loner tea ple--smith b. biriningham, sieel toy maker (clarke and co., chancery lewe.--splatt w. das. lish, devon, house builder (hore juar. hatton garden. --samuels e. i. great prescot street, isaac j fareham, llampshire, currier (dyne and co., lincolu's luo fields. johnson j. sheffield, draper (duncan, gray's lon-jones r. cbeapside, woollen-draper (farren, threadneedle street.-jackson m bolton, lanca. sbire. cotton manufacturer (meadowcroft, gray's ion square. jon sonne loves c. e. kentish town), tanner (carier. lord mayor's court office, royal ex. change.--jarman w.j. knightsbridge, paper bang. er and pawler (hudson, wink worth place, cicy toad. political digest. [may , . lcr, may -mayhew j. st. osyth, essex, miller and factors, april -shoel j. houndsditch, and avril -mitchell a. of the grange road ber- j. ileald, cateaton street, merehants, may - inondsey, taoner, mry -moorhouse g. doncas. souter r. kingston upon hull, and t. m. payne, ler, grocer, may th. cullum street, london, merchants, may -smy. n. thimac, j. b. birmingham, cutler, may sissell nsh j. haverfordwest, linen draper, may . t. jermyn street, taylor, may --souten e. fox and koot yard, snow hill, may -slayer s. p. oime r, chester, draper, april .- orinerod g. maidstone, dealer and chapman, may . lapehead, lancashire, innholder, april t p. tucker j. long acre, linen draper, april - polly j. new bond street, furniture printer, tuckett p. d. and w. groceis, april -tennison may _parsons t. duke street, st. james's, j. kingston upon dull, victualler, april --tav. westmiustei, brecches maker, april - preston j. tor s. of oxendou street, merchant, may . manor hill, shropshire, miller, april - proctor u. g. and w. birmingham, opticians, april -phil. underhill j., j. thonipson, & j. m. guest, bir- lips e. bristol, grocer, april -leyton j. christ minghamn, merchants, april . church, southampton, draper, Ápril -palk c. w. east teignmouti, devon, linen draper, april - wileman t. & s. west, hoa hley, sassex, tan. peat a. doncaster, dealer, may .- powell t. neis, april -wilkinson j. w. horuc, & j. wil leoninster, but her, april -palsgrave t. beu. kinsou, friday street, warehouseman, april - nett street, blackfriars road, insurance broker, wilkie c. & j. redcross street, east smithfield, may -pratt j. of brook's place, kenniugton, yeast merchants, april -waddingtog s. brig. surgeon, may .-phillips p. kiug street, iner. house. yorkshire, corpiactor, april _wilkinson chant, may . r. & s. jeffries square, london, merchants, april r. --worrall w. liverpool, merchants, april % roure j. p. de and j. ilambrook, angel court, willson j. rathbone place, oxford strect, book- throgmorton street, may -rolland f. st. james' seller, april -- warmington j. and j. e. grace- street. piccadilly, perfumer, april .-ray r. church street, drapers, april -welsh j. and t. jate of norwich, grocer, april --robson j. little carter, new compton street, high holborn, em- britain. aldersgate street, stable keeper, may bossers, may --white m. lowdam, nottingham. reed w, fleet street, law bookseller, may bleacher, may --webb r. winslow, hereford, reid j. newcastle upon tyne, sadler, may farmer, may -walker c. w. brighton, stationer, robson g. george yard, merchant, may -ran. april --wilmot r. s. bristol, brewer, may dall w. now or late of leeds, merchant, may - warwick t. . & j. aldred, rotherham, yorkshire. reid j. newcastle upon tyne, saduler, may chemists, may . s. sykes j. and g. curriers hall court, clothiers digest of political events. great britain. confirmation of our assertion we subjoin we feel much pleasure in laying be- an abstract of the net produce of the fore our readers the quarterly account revenue of great britain in the years of the revenue, because, from its pro- ended th april, , and th april, gressively improving state, the highest , together with the income and confidence is inspired. the improve- charge of the consolidated fund. ment which has taken place even upon the total consolidated fund for the the produce of the corresponding quar- year, viz. th april, is , , . ter of last year, was of itself greater by the fund for the year before was , . than the april quarter of the only , , . year preceding. the british revenue, though on this last quarter, as com- in the april quarter of the year , pared with the corresponding one last appears by the lith report of the fi- year, there is a decrease of less than nance committee, to have produced , . , , ., that of the quarter ending iu the anpual dates to pay off bills, april, , , , /., while the the excess is from , . in the quar- quarter which expired has pro- ter ending april, , to , . in duced no less a sum than , , . the present quarter. . we have, therefore, all the evidence in the present quarter there are no which an augmentation of the rerenue arrears of property tax; and the re- can give of the improving state of the ceipt of the arrears for the whole year resources of the country; and we trust is not more than , ., whereas last that the secret comunittees of the two year it was above one million and a half. houses of parliament will produce a in the customs for the quarter there plan, which will place the currency of is an increase of , .--in the ex- the country upon a footing not less fa- cise an increase of , .-in the vourable to the operations of trade, than post office an increase of , .--in calculated to secure it against any appre- the stamps, assessed taxes, and land hensions of a fluctuation of value. in taxes, a total decrease of , ., .] , political digest. which, deducted from the increase, leaves financial to our commercial situation, an increase in the quarter of , . we shall find the same cause for satisfac- the increase in the year is , , . tion and congratulation. in the export the charge on the consolidated fund of our produce and manufactures, the for the corresponding quarter last year, excess of the year ending th january, was , , . the charge on the pre- , is above five millions beyond the sent quarter is increased to , , ., year ending th january, , and leaving a deficiency of , . had nearly six millions beyond the year end. the charge remained the same this quar. ing th january, ! ter as it was the corresponding one, the t he imports are above six millions excess of income beyond the charge higher than the year before, and above would have been above seven hundred ten millions higher than during the year and ninety thousand pounds. ending th january, , as will be if we transfer our attention from our seen by the following accounts: an account of the total, real, or declared value of the produce and manufactures of the united kingdom, exported from great britain during each of the three years ending th jan. :- . - . . l. , , , , , , total official value of foreign and commercial merchandise exported from great britain to all parts of the world, . . l. , , , , , , an account of the total value of all articles imported into great britain during each of the three years ending the th january, , as calculated at the official rates of va- luation. . . . foreign and colonial merchandise l. , , , , , , produce of ireland and the isle of man , , , , , , . total value of imports l. , , , , , , if the mercantile world have been had the right to refuse permission to pausing for the last two months, during a soldier to attend, then the legisla - the important deliberations of the bank ture would be subservient to the mi- committee-if, with the prudence and litary authority. the attendance of caution of british merchants, they have a soldier, when summoned, might be been checking, for that period, their secured, by making his officer respon- spirit of enterprise and adventure-wesible as well as himself. perhaps this trust, after this statement, they will would be preferable to releasing the again go forth to their accustomed voca- foriner from the authority of his com- tion of collecting from every quarter of mander. the globe the treasures of each climate on the d, mr. agar ellis gave notice and country, in return for the manufac- of a motion for an address to the prince tures and skill and industry of this great regent, praying him to remove the nation-as unrivalled in the arts of peace hon. wyndham quin from the office of as in the brilliant achievements and glo- custos rotulorum of the county of li- ries of war. merick. the fate of this motion may the house of commons was on the be easily anticipated. the house having ist occupied with a question of consi- by a previous vote declared the hon. derable importance, it was-whether member had been guilty of no act which the summons of that house to a soldier called for serious censare. supersedes the authority of his officer lord a. hamilton brought forward over him? the declared opinion of the his motion respecting the burgh of aber- house was in the affirmative. this in- deen. the noble lord denied, in the volves so delicate a principle of constitu- outset, that his object was to introduce tional power, that we will not venture parliamentary reform into scotland, an opinion upon it. it may perhaps be under the pretext of amending the ex- said, that the authority thus asserted by jsting system of royal burglis of scotland. the house would, if pushed to the ex- lord castlereagh, however, entertained treme, embrace the command of the a different, and, in our opinion, a more army ; but, on the other hand, it correct judgment with respect to the may also be urged, that if an officer tendency, at least, of the motion, what- ecclesiastical preferments. [may , ever may have been its motives. it month, on private affairs and on general was, he said, “nothing else than to in- confidence, by the adoption of the chann- troduce into scotland a parliamentary ber of peers, of the proposition of m. reform which the other side of the house de barthelemy, and by its rejection in could not obtain for england. the that of the deputies. frenchmen un- disguise was somewhat too thin to cover derstand ambiguous measures, and all the real purpose." upon a division, classes of society foresaw, at the first the motion was rejected. view, the aim of this attempt, which was on the d an ineffectual attempt was as unlimited in its effects as it was vague made, by mr. lambton's presenting a in its expression. petition from general gourgaud, to among the petitions lately presented establish a case of cruelty against the to the chamber of deputies, was one persons who conveyed him out of eng from a soldier, claiming the continuance land, under the authority of a warrant of a pension which he had received for from the home secretary. gourgaud, having saved the life of buonaparte like his late master, knows how to when first consul: it was referred to make the most of a little. the committee of expenditure. we the plain facts of the case appeared to cannot help thinking it a strange request be, that a warrant was issued for his to be preferred to the ministers of louis apprehension and removal, and he seem- xviii ; but it is yet more strange, that ed to have taken a great antipathy to it called forth no expression of astonish- warrants, and, not liking to go, became ment from any member of the chamber. refractory, which compelled the exercise america. of coercion on the part of the officers. the congress closed its sessions on all the grievances complained of by the the rd of last month, beyond which general and his friends, were met by a their constitutional term of service did flat denial from mr. clive and lord cas- not permit them to extend. the report tlereagh, and we believe the petition to of the senate upon the conduct of ge- be, neither more nor less, than an impu- neral jackson and the seminole war, we dent tissue of deliberate falsehoods. are free to acknowledge, is drawn up the second report of the committee with great perspicuity and even clegance of secrecy was read in the house on the of style. it condemns the conduct of th, relating to the bank restriction; general jackson with respect both to his and'the house placing a just confidence engaging in the war at all, and his savage in the judgment of that committee, was condemnation of arbuthnot and ambris induced to pass, without a division and ter. without going through the usual forma- in the treaty lately entered into with lities of proceeding, an act restricting spain, the americans have terminated the cash payments of the bank until a the only existing controversy with an future day. with respect to the period of the european powers. it rounds off at which it may be expedient to recom- their southern possessions, and for ever mend the commencement of cash pay- precludes foreign emissaries from stir- ments, nothing has transpired which can ring up indians to war and negroes to at all justify a conjecture on the subject. rebellion, whilst it gives to the southern on the th, the house adjourned for the country important outlets to the sea. holidays. it adjusts the vast western boundary, france. and acknowledges the sovereignty of the if the existence of a genuine public united states, under the hitherto con- opinion in france could any longer be tested louisiana treaty, over all the doubted, it would suffice to compare the territory contended for. effects produced, in the interval of one incidents, promotions, births, marriages, deatus, &c. in london and middlesex; with biographical accounts of distinguished characters. bulletin of the king's health. ecclesiastical preferments.]—the rer. windsor castle, april , . daniel guilford wait, to the rectory of his majesty has been generally cheerful blagdon, somerset. - the rev. edmund during the last month ; but his disorder has gardiner, to the rectory of tenterne-parra, suffered no diminution. his majesty's in the diocese of llandafl.—the rev. nath. health continues good. (signed as usual.) struth, to the rectory of st. peter's, bristol. .) births and marriages in london and middlesex. --the rev. john clarke, to be chaplain to daughter. in the commercial-road, lam- the sheriff of somerset.—the rev. w. beth, mrs. t. lett, of a son.-at llighgate, jones, a. m. of swindon, wilts, to be chap- of a daughter, the lady of captain lang- lain to the earl paulett.— the rev. john slow, late of the beogal army, her fourth fisher, a. m. to the prebend of farthing- child; the eldest a native of africa, the se- ton and writhlington.--the rev. matthew cond of asia, the third of america ; and all marsh, m. a. to the office of chancellor of horn within the last four years and a half. salisbury diocese. the rev. joseph cum. in hanover-square, the lady of sir simon ming, ,un. m. a. to the free and endowed clarke, bart, of a son.-in albemarle-street, grammar school of chudleigh,deron.--the the lady of robert keate, esq. of a still-born rev.w. s. bradley, to the living of chard, daughter.--the lady of mark milbank, esq. and to the prebendal stall of timberscombe. m. p. of a son and heir.-the lady of capi. - the rev. andrew bell, d.d. to the place forrest, of montague-place, russel-square, and dignity of a prebendary of the collegiate of a son.in lower grosvenor-streel, the church of st. peter, westminster.-the wife of addison john cresswell, esq. of a rev. john stedman, b. a. to be head mas- son and heir. ter of the free grammar school, guilford, married.) at st. mary's, islington, tho. surrey.-the rev. robert clifton, a. m. clarke, esg. of lincoln's-inn-fields, to 'so- to be domestic chaplain to elizabeth, dow- phia, fifth daughter of the late robert stan- ager lady monsos.-the rev. r. clifton, ion, esq. of islington-green.--at st. luke's to the rectory of st. nicholas, worcester, church, wm. henry west, esq. of the is- and matson, gloucestershire.—the rev. j. land of jamaica, to barbara, second daugh- b. syer, to the rectory of little wratting, ter of john holham, esq. borough.--at st. suffolk — the hon, and rev. geo. pellew, mary's, islington, gustavus, son of g. a. to the vicarage of nasing, essex.-the smith, esq. of highbury grove, to jane, rev. j. p. reynolds, to the rectory of little third daughter of jose h travers, esq.- munden, herts.- the rev. t. t. walms. at the new church, mary-le-bone, ynyr ley, b. d. to the rectory of st. vedsat, fos- burgess, esq. to anna eliza, eldest daughter ter-lape, and hanwell, , middlesex.—the of joseph mee. esq. of upper berkeley-str. rev. h. s. plamptre, to the rectory of portman-square.--^t mary-le-bone church eastwood, notts.- the rev. james croft, david latimer st. claire, esq. capt. r. n. to the rectory of saltwood, and chapel of to elizabeth isabella, youngest daughter of hythe, kent.-the rev. charles lacy, to the late john farhill, esq.--at st. mary's, the living of tring and wigginton, ilerts. islington, mr. wm. browning, of goswell- the rev. henry mears, to the vicarage of street-road, to miss louisa, danghter of mr. harley wintney, lants.-the rev. thos. john mansin, of percival-street, goswell- spencer, to the rectory of winkfield, wilts. street.- at st. george's, hanover-square, e. grove, esq. to be receiver-general for sir jacob astley, bart. to georgiana caro- staffordshire, --the rev. john w. bellamy, line, youngest daughter of sir henry dash- to be head master of merchant taylors' wood, bart. of kirtlington park, oxford- school.the rev. phillip fisher, d. d. to shire.- al st. clement's, mr. john allen, the office of precentor of salisbury cathe brother to the rev. wm. allen, of peel, dral.the rev. r. knight jun. to the rec- lancashire, to miss ann hutchinson, of tory of newton nottaye, glamorganshire. london.-at temple church, mr. thomas the rey, t. thorpe, m. a. to the rectory chorley, of wellington, to sarah, third of widford, nottinghamshire.-the rev. daughter of mr. wm. chorley, of wivels- joseph tweed, jun, to the rectory of hintle- combe, somerset.-at st. paul's, jona- sham, suffolk.-the rev. j. jones, of oak than henry christie, esq. of lincoln's inn, ham, to the living of burley on the hill. to mary' second daughter ef daniel conner, the rev. thomas walker, jun. b. a. to the esq. of the county of cork, ireland.at st. prebend of featherstone.-the rev. rich. george's, llanover-square, mr. george odell, to be one of lord apson's domestic francis, of woodbridge, to mary, second chaplains.--the rev. e. valpy, to the vi- daughter of john baggett, esq. great titch- carage of south walsham, st. mary, nor- field-street, cavendish-square.--james va- folk.- the rev. e. gray, to the rectory of lance, esq. of sittingbourne, kent, to catha- kirk misperton. rine margaret, eldest daughter of the rev. births.] the lady of lieut-general sir j. d. plestow, of watlington hall.--at st. richard jones, k. Č. b. of a daughter.- george's, hanover-square, mr. joseph at laleham, the lady of francis hartwell, young, to maria, second daughter of mr. esq. of a daughter. the lady of captain thos. eddison. of romford.--at st. james's hillyar, ofa son.-the lady of john guise, church, the rev. j. v. trevor, to frances esg. of upper baker-street, of a son.-the alethea, eldest daughter of the rev. arch- lady of s. cartwright, esq. of bedford-place, deacon wollaston.--at st. botolph's, al- of a daughter.-in harleyford-place, the dersgate-street, mr. charles motram, of lady of james cowan, esq. of a daughter. conduit-street, to eliza, youngest daughter in arundel-street, the lady of w. yatman, of samuel moore, esq. of suffolk house, esq. of a son.--at warfield house, the lady st. pancras.-andrew spottiswoode, esq. of of the hon. lieut-general brodrick, of a bedford-square, to miss longman, daugh- [may , some account of francis william blagdon. ter of thos. longman, esq. of mount grove, month; during which, his attachment to hampstead.--at st. pancras, wm. robin literary pursuits was strikingly apparent. son, esq. of hamsterley lodge, durham, to fond of books, of a warm temperament johanna, youngest daughter of the late ad- and lively imagination, it is not surprising miral sir h. christian, k. b. that he should be disgusted with the dull drudgery of an attorney's office. acting francis william blagdon. from his own impulse, he quitted this genius and industry, quickness of per- situation, for one, as most persons would ception and constancy of application, are have considered, much less eligible. in seldom combined. the life of mr. blardon, , when only eleven years of age, he however, presents an interesting example answered an advertisement, which appeared the more interesting from its rareness--of in the oracle, for a reading-boy in the genius and industry forcing their way from office of mr. m.millan. that gentleman, with an humble station, and gradually raising whom he immediately engaged, soon say, their possessor to a more elevated rank in encouraged, and rewarded his abilities. in society. lelt, at an early age, to carve out mr. m.millan's office, where he remained a subsistence for himself, it was fortunate till the year , he made himself master that he possessed a lively, active spirit. he of the printing business,' which, it is pro was constitutionally enterprising and san- bable, he would afterwards have followed, guine; enterprise generally insures suc- had not a regulation of the trade precluded cess; success as generally inspires new from its advantages all but those who had confidence; and thus a most salntary action established their right by the serving of a and re-action are produced. when events regular apprenticeship. his practical ac- of an adverse nature overpower these bene- quaintance, however, with what may almost ficent intluences, they may be regarded as be termed an intellectual art, proved er- constituting the exception to a general tremely useful to him in almost every sub- rule. sequent period of his life. nor was this the the subject of this slight biographical only knowledge which he acquired whilst sketch was a native of the metropolis : under the care of mr. m. millan : in ad francis william blagdon, born on the nd dition to perfecting himself in the latin, of january, , was the eldest son of he, from the peculiar circumstances under thomas blagdon, a respectable tradesman which he was placed, became a proficient in in st. paul's church-yard, and of mary, the french language. at the time here his wife, whose maiden name was harrison. particularly referred to, mr. m‘nillan was of parental care and instruction it was his the printer of the sun ; a journal which, melancholy lot to be soon deprived : his from its commencement to the present day, mother died in the month of july, ; has been characterised by loyalty of prio- and his father, surviving her a little more ciple, and determined opposition to the than two years, died in october, , leav- domestic enemies of britain. the office of ing besides the eldest, two younger sons, this paper was frequented by numbers of william and edward harrison, at the re- the french literali, who liad here found an spective ages of four and two years. the asylum from the sanguinary proscriptions former died in the west indies, in the year of their own distracted country. by many . to the latter, now connected by of these expatriated sufferers, the youthful marriage with mr. m.millan, of bow-street, subject of this memoir was noticed; with covent garden, his eldest brother sus- several of them he contracted habits of in- tained, through life, the kind and tender timacy; and, as it may be easily con- office of a parent. he was, indeed, his ceived, it was frequently in his power to father-brother-friend; and warınly and return their attentions by services of no gratefully was his affection repaid. contemptible nature. in this mutually ad the only education which francis blag- vantageous intercourse, his critical ac- don received, previously to the death of quaintance with the french tongue daily his father, was at a day-school in watling. increased ; and, so completely did he triumph street at that period he was a lively, over its difficulties, that ultimately, he was clever boy, for his age, and, allowing for enabled to translate with accuracy and the unfavourable circumstances of his fidelity the most difficult scientific works. situation, he was an excellent english he is even known to have drawn up, in scholar; and, in acquiring the rudiments french, various documents, of both a of the latin tongue, he had laid the foun- public and private nature. dation of future study. in the year , twelve months before mr blagdon's pecuniary affairs at the he left mr. m.millan, he became ac- time of his death not being in a prosperous quainted with mr. j. kelly, now of wim- state, his eldest son, francis, was imme- bledon, in surrey; and, in return for diately taken from school; and, on the teaching him french, kelly instructed blag. * recommendation of mr. davis, one of the don in the principles of music. he soon god-fathers of his brother edward, he was displayed considerable talent in his per- placed with a solicitor, in chiswell-street. formance on the piano-forte; some years with that gentleman he remained a twelve- afterwards, he occasionally amused himself .) some account of francis william blagdon. with the violin; and, amidst more serious i n , from causes which it is unneces. avocations, bis musical attainments were sary here to explain, mr. gifford, whom the solace of many a weary hour. mr. we have already mentioned, came into pos- blagdon, though not, stricuy speaking, a session of the porcupine newspaper, which connoisseur, was an enthusiastic lover of all had been then recently established. by the the fine arts; and some little productions of loyal, the patriotic, and the good, cobbett, his pencil, which have been preserved, are the original editor of the porcupine, was, sufficient to show, that, had painting been at that time, regarded as one of the’ablest his profession, he would have ranked high firmest, and most incorruptible supporters amongst the artists of his day. of the church and state, the king and it was while he was with mr. m.millan, constitution. the bible and mitre were that mr. blagdon produced his first literary over his door; his motto was, fear god, tract the political portfolio.” what and honour the king !-he was visited and that publication was, we know not; but patronised by many of the best and wisest that it indicated genius, and a capability of men of the nation. it is not therefore sur- excellence, there is no hazard in asserting, prising, that cobbete's name, at the head of from the fact, that it attracted the notice of the paper, should have been esteemed of one of the ablest writers and soundest poli- some importance. for the sake of his ticians of the age. when we thus mention name, and cordially respecting the moral, the late mr. john gifford, who was at that religions, and political principles, of which time editor of the the true briton, they cobbett was then the professor, it was the who have had the happiness of knowing wish of mr. gifford thai he should retain a that gentleman will feel that we do not esti- share in the concern ; that share was one- mate his merit too highly eighth. it is certain, however, that in the mr. blagdon relinquished his situation at eyes of some, who imagined they could the sun office, in the year , continu- discover a lurking renegade behind a vio- ing, however, on terms of friendship and lent and imposing exterior, his name proved intimacy with mr. m‘millan, till . rather injurious than beneficial. on jeaving mr. m'millan, mr. blagdon although cobbett was still the ostensible devoted his services to the late dr. willich,* proprietor of the porcupine, mr. gifford in the capacity of amanuensis; and it den took upon himself its entire management serves to be known, that, whilst thus em- and control; confiding its general conduct to ployed, he projected, and assisted in the exe- mr. blagdon, as editor. this appointment, cution of that useful work, the domestic which, in its result, evinced mr. gifford's encyclopaedia, which is now nearly, if not judgment in the estimation of character, quite, out of print. from its scarceness, excited surprise in the eyes of mapy, that a mr. blagdon was desirous, in , of com- task so arduous should be entrusted to so piling a new edition; but he was unable to very young a person. for this task, how- meet with any bookseller disposed to em- ever, mr. blagdon was eminently qualitied, bark in such an undertaking. whilst with by his perfect acquaintance with what may dr. willich, who, it will be recollected, was be termed the mechanism of a newspaper; a native of germany, mr. blagdon availed by the extraordinary facility and rapidity himself of the opportunity to acquire the with which he translated the foreign jour- elements of the german language. nals; and by his perfect knowledge of, and in , he quitted dr. wulich, and en- agreement with, ihe political tenets of his gaged in a similar capacity with the late mr. principal. nicholson, long known as the truly respect. it was during the time that he held the able editor of the philosophical magazine, editorship of the porcupine, that mr. and as the author and editor of many other blagdon became acquainted with cobbett, valuable scientific works. under the au- and with the late henry redhead yorke. spices of this gentleman, of whom he ever ex- it was then, too, that his intercourse com- pressed himself in terms of the highest re- menced with the humble individual, who, spect, mr. blagdon obtained an insight of ex- by sketching this faint memorial, is dis- perimental chemistry, and materially in- charging one of the sad yet grateful duties creased his stock of general knowledge. he of friendship.* remained with him until the beginning of - the year . of that individual, it is necessary only to say, that he was introduced to mr. gif- ford by the late dr. bissett; that, for many • author of leciures on diet and re- years, his pen occasionally contributed to gimen,&c. the anti-jacobin rerievo: that he was se- + it will interest many of our readers to lected by mr. gifford to assist in what might know, that miss nicholson, in conjunction be xmed, more strictly, the literary and leamed more: with a daughter of a valued friend of here crucal departments of the porcupine; father's, has, some time, conducted a re- and tiar, vill the period of his death, he had spectable seminary for young ladies, at claydon, in the vicinity of ipswich, suffolk. the viour of enjoying the friendship and confidence of that great and excellent man ; nevr mcnthly mag.–no. . vo... xi. b may some account of francis william blagdon. perhaps the autumn of the year frankness and manliness of character which was the happiest period of mr. blagdon's distinguished him though life, immediately life. his health was good, his spirits were avowed himself. the consequence of this buoyant, his prospects were fair, he was was, that the original prosecution was drop- surrounded by friends; and, to crown the red, and a new one was commenced against climax, he was then united to the woman mr. blagdon. he was accordingly tried whom he had long loved, with whom he for the alleged libel in the court ot king's fondly hoped to pass many a long year of bench, on the st of june, , conrieted, happiness! in some respects, those fairy and, in the ensuing term, sentenced to six visions were realised; but, alas! his cup month's confinement in the prison of the was embittered by many a nauseous court. dranght. upon this subject it is painful to dwell. towards the close of this year, a change during the period of his confinement, mr. of ministry, the precursor of the peace of blagdon wiote an account of his trial, and amiens, took place; mr. gifford's politics several political tracts; and prepared his were firm and unbending; and, finding that history of india, a splendid work of illus- his exertions in the porcupine could be no tration, for the press. longer essentially serviceable to the cause from the year , till the beginning which he had invariably supported, he of , when his preparations for the made a transfer of the property. by the phoenix newspa, er were commenced, me. new proprietors of the paper, mr. blagdon's blagdon was extensively engaged in transla- editorial assistance was retained; but the tions and other works for the booksellers. concern was not of a profitable nature, and, amongst these publications may be men- in a short time, its career was closed. tioned, translations of the voyages and tra- soon afterwards, in the year , he vels of denon, in egypt; of goldberty, in was engaged by cobbett, to assist him in his africa; and of pallas, in russia; in eight political register, which was commenced volumes : - modern and contemporary about that period. the register was not voyages and trarels, in ten volumes; the then, as it has been since, a libel upon every modern geographer, in five volumes; the thing respectable and good. this con- life of lord nelson, and that of george nexion, however, as might have been ex- morland, the painter, &c., amounting, in pected, from the overbearing disposition of the whole, to nearly fifty volumes aod cobbett, was but of short duration, tracts. in the course of the same year, he was at the commencement of the year , engaged as editor of the observer, a as already stated, mr. blagdon began his well known sunday paper, which he con- preparations for the phænit, and, on the ducted till , with ample credit to him- th of february, number i. of that journal self, and advantage to its then very worthy appeared. for the first eight or nine and respectable proprietor. months, its success was perbaris unparal- a singular, extraordinary, and distressing teled in the annals of newspaper publica. event, in the life of mr. blagdon, now oc- tion; but the tide of political events ran curred. in the year , at the time when counter to his ex rtions; his laudable en- the naval administration of earl st. vincent deavours to stem that tide proved unaval- had excited a universal outcry amongst the ing; and the fall of the phoenix was more political adversaries of that nobleman, mr. rapid even than its rise. this revulsion of blagdon, under the signature of “ aris- public taste was generally attributed to mr. tides,” addressed a letter to his lordship. blagdon's truly liberal, generous, and in- after the letter had been printed, but not dependent defence of his royal highness published, its author was induced to submit the duke of york, against the malignant it to the inspection of his friend, the pro- prietor of the obserrer. that gentleman, * the last number of mr. blagdon's in consequence of some favours which the political register, published on the d of por; poble earl had conferred upon one of his january, , contained a list of his pube jani relatives, at that time in the naval service of his country, particularly urged mr. blagdon lications up to that period. “if," says he, « in either a translation, a compilation, or to suppress the pamphlet, and to allow him an original piece-if, in any one part of to present it to his lordship. to this pro- this pro- all the numerous books there mentioned, a position mr. blagdon assented. strange as single jacobin or democratic article is intro- it may seem, no sooner had his friend paid duced, or any piece, which can tend to bring the noble earl the compliment-or, more correctly speaking, rendered him boli religion into contempt, or to degrade the the ser- vice alluded to, than his attention was re- government or constitution of my country; warded by a prosecution for libel, com- but, on the contrary, it be not discovered, that i have forced in notes and observations, menced against him at the suit of his lord- on every occasion, to excite a respect for ship! the author of the letter, with that loyalty, morality, and religion, then will i submit to be considered undeserving of li- a man whom he loved and respected, ad. terary honours and political estimation !!!" uired and honoured. .) some account of francis william blagdon. attacks of one of the most worthless, most only the time and labour which he had de- contemptible of men. the whole of this voted to the tract, but the tract itself. memorable affair displayed a striking illus- in , at the time before alluded to, tration of the truth, that the british people one of his old and steady literary friends feel as correctly as they judge erroneously. had the satisfaction, on quitting the metro. by sacrifices almost too serious to be polis, of resigning the editorship of two contemplated, the phanix was kept atloat weekly papers in his favour. the salary, two years, and then it sunk--for ever! though not high, was acceptable; but, hy previously, however, to that distressing the caprice of a new proprietor, he was de- event, mr. biagdon, still true to the cause prived of this advantage, at the very mo- which he had espoused, had brought out ment when, by his successful exertions in (in october, ) his political register, promoting the interests of the concern, he in opposition to that of cobbett. this, by was entitled, in moral justice, to an increase various additional privations and sacrifices, of stipend. was continued till the month of january, before this event, however, he had com- , when it experienced the same fate as menced, in , an engagement with mr. the phoenir. byrne, as a reporter of the debates of the in attempting to establish these two house of commons, for the morning pos. papers, mr. blagdon expended the sum of during his connexion with that generos nearly , . ; besides which he was ulti- and liberal-minded man, he experienced, mately “ stripped of his all-even his books even to his latest moments, innumerable and his household furniture.”# “ his ever kindnesses and attentions, which he was active, ever-buoyant spirit rose superior ever most anxious to acknowledge. to misfortune; but, notwithstanding his for many years mr. blagdon had la- incessant and indefatigable exertions for the boured under a severe chronic asthma, at- support of his family, and for the liquida- tended, as was generally thought, by a tion of pecuniary claims against him,the doors phthisical affection of the lungs. the ar- of a prison were closed upon his worn and duous nature of the employment, to which harassed frame. from this severe and com- he had had recourse, as a parliamentary plicated ruin he never completely emerged. reporter; shut up, perhaps for many hours, his personal liberty was indeed obtained ; in the heated gallery of the house of com- but his high sense of honour and integrity mons, and then suddenly exposed to damps never again permitted him to feel himself and chilling airs, at all seasons of the night free; and the remainder of his life pre- --acceleraled the progress of these com- sented only the melancholy display of a plaints, which finally brought him to the liberal mind struggling anxiously, but un- dreaded hour that is “ appointed for all availingly, against the iproads of poverty living." after a short confinement to his and the attacks of disease.”+ chamber, preceded by a long and wearisome from the termination of the political stage of debility, he expired without a strug- register, till the spring of the year , gle or a groan, in the arms of his affection- mr. blagdon was without any regular pro- ate brother, and of his worthy friend, mr. fessional engagement. in this long and kelly, on thursday, the th of december, distressing interval, however, he was not . his remains were committed to the idle. in the early part of , he was silent earth, in st. margaret's church-yard, presented with a copy of the french work opposite the north door of westminster of montgallard, then just published, “on abbey, on saturday, the ed of january, the monied situation of great britain, in ; on which day, had he lived, he .” this he immediately translated; would have completed his d year. but, unfortunately, instead of producing a the maiden name of the lady whom mr. remuneration for his labour, it served only blagdon married, and by whom he has left to increase his embarrassment. four children-two girls and two boys, · with the assistance of a merchant of within the ages of nine and fourteen--was considerable eminence, of high talent, and edwards. she is a native of oswestry in of extensive information, in the city, he next shropshire. wrote an elaborate and complete refutation in the appeal, &c." which was pri- of montgallard's book, which he sent to a vately circulated after mr. blagdon's death, nobleman, high in office, for his perusal. in the hope of obtaining some pecuniary in this affair, also, he was unfortunate. aid for his bereaved widow and orphans,* numerous were the applications which he it is remarked, that, “ in the last number made to that nobleman, to have the work of his political register, he declared, that, returned, but without effect: he lost not had he the means, his literary labours against the united enemies of his country, * vide “an appeal to the loyal, the should terminale only with the failure of his faculties. this patriotic sentiment was benevolent and the humane, in behalf of the family of the late mr. francis william blag- crowned with fruition, perhaps beyond his don," referred to at page of the present volume of the new monthly magazine. * vide page of the present volume ibid, before referred to. some account of augustus von kotzebue. [ may , hopes. his ruling passion was sirong, very little if at all known,) was performed even in death. the rery lasi essay that with great applause in the german theatre he published, only three or four days be at st. petersburgh, in . an article, fore he resigned his submissive spirit to the dated st. petersburg, in no. of the great author of our being, was levelled hamburgh newspaper for , says," this against the mischievous declamations of one play is not a masterpiece, but in several of the would-be demagogues of the day."'- parts it is admirable, and promises us that in the same paper, it is observed, that, the author, who is now but years of age, “ nerer indulging in personalities against will be one day a great acquisition to the his political opponents ; never forgetting, theatre and the dramatic art." but bawy eren in the very torrent, tempest, and died two years after. as he had recom- whirlwind of passion, the self-respect of a mended kotzebue to the protection of the gentleman and a scholar, mr. blagdon had empress, he was made titular counsellor; not an enemy in the world. all who knew and in the year , member of the high him loved him. with his pen, or with his court of appeal at revel. in he was furge, when it allowed him, he was ever made president of the magistracy of the prompt to relieve the distresses of others." province of esthonia, and as such raised it was indeed the enviable fortune of the to the rank of nobility. it was at revel deceased--and it was equally honourable to that bis talents were displayed in a series of him and to his friends--that his attachments works, which made him the favourite of the were durable as they were warm. public his " sufferings of the ortenberg joy follow thee: if joy can reach the dead. family" ( ,) and “ the collection of his and, or my mind miggires, it surely will: smalier essays" ( ,) first shewed in a for, when the miseries of life are fled, brilliant manner his agreeable and diversi- how sweet the deep forgetfulness of ill !" fied style; hut it was especially his tiro t. h. plays, “ misanthropy and repentance," and augustus von kotzebue. * the indians in england," a hich gained augustus von kotzebue was born the poet the highest reputation in ali ger- march , , at weimar, where his father many. his ill health obliged him, in , was secretary of legation, in the service of to make a journey to pyrmont, where his the duke, and where his mother still lives. ill-famed « doctor bahrdt with the iron he was remarkable when quite a child for forehead,” wbich he published under the his vivacity and sensibility, and was not yet name of knigge, lost him a great part of the esteem which the public had conceived for six years of age when he made his first at- tempts at poetry. his love of the dramatic him. after thie death of his wife he went art was early excited by the then very good to paris, and then for a time to mentz. he company of players at weimar, in which then obtained his discharge, and retired, is were the families of seiler, brandes, boeckh, , to the country, where he built the lite and eckhof. at this period kotzebue at- tle country seat of friedenthal. eight leagues tended the gymnasium, where musæus, de from narva, in esthonia. the “ youngest afterwards his uncle, obtained great influ- children of my ilumour," and above trenty ence over him by his instructions and ex- plays, belong to this period. lie was thes invited to vienna, as poet to the court ample. he was not quite sixteen years old when he went to the university at jena, theatre. rere he published a great part of where his love for the drama found new en- his “ new plays," which fill abore twenty couragement in a private theatre. from volumes. as various unpleasant circum- attachment to his sister, who married in stances disgusted him with his place at vienna, he requested his discharge, afier an duisburg, he went for a time to the univer- sity there ; whence he returned, in , to interval of two years, and obtained it, with jena, studied jurisprudence, without how- an annual pension of florins. he non ever ceasing to live for the theatre, and to went to live again at weimar, but resolved to return to russia, where his sons were edu- compose various pieces. he soon after passed his examination, and became an cated in the academy of cadets, at st. pe- adrocate. he now enjoyed the entire tersburg. baron von krudener, the rus- friendship of the worthy musæus, and at- i sian ambassador at berlin, gave him the tempted, as he had already done, with wie. necessary passport; but he was arrested on land, goethe, hermes, and brandes, to the russian frontiers (april ,) and, imitate musæus, an example of which is trithout knowing for what reason; sent to his - ], a history in fragments.” at siberia. leipsig he printed a volume of tales, and a happy chance delivered him. a young went thence in to st. petersburg, whi- russian, of the name of krasnopolski, had ther he was invited by count goerz, prus. translated into the russian language kotze- sian ambassador at that court. he became bue's little drama, “ the body coachman secretary to the governor-general bawr; of peter the third,” which is all indirect and the latter being charged with the direc- eulogium of paul i. the translation was tion of the german theatre, kotzebue was was shewn in ms. to the emperor paul, who again in his element. his first dramatic was so delighted with the piece, that he in- work, demetrius ivanowitsch (which is mediately gave orders to fetch back tho .] some account of augustus von kotzebue. author from his banishment, and distin- peror alexander, on the state of literature guished him on his return with peculiar and public opinion in germany. he favour. among other things he made him settled, for this purpose, at weimar, where a present of the fine domain of the crown, he published at the same time a literary of worrokull, in livonia; gave him the di- journal, in which he constituted himself rection of the german theatre, and the title judge of all writings in every branch of li- of auric counsellor. m. von kotzebue has terature which he thought worthy of no- siven a romantic account of his banishmedi, tice, and at the same time delivered his well known all over europe under the title opinions on politics and on the spirit of the of " the most remarkable year of my times in a manner which his opponents ac- life.” after the death of paul i. kotzebue cuse of being in the extremne partial and ils - requested his discharge, and obtained it, liberal. his cossack-like tactics, say they, with a higher title. he went to weimar, with which he made war on all liberal ideas, where he lived a short time, and then to especially the wishes of the people for re- jena. various misunderstandings which presentative constitutions, freedom of the he had with goethe, vexed him so much, press, &c. in the name of sound reason, of that he went in to berlin, where he which he fancied himself the representa- joined with merkel to publish the journal tive, gained him great applause with a cer- called der freymuthige. kotzebue and tain class of readers. but it drew upon him merkel wrote against goethe and his adhe the indignation of no inconsiderable part of rents, augustus, william schlegel and fre- the nation, particularly the ardent minds of derick schlegel; and as m. spazier, at that the german youth; and in this tendency of time editor of the journal for the fashion his latest literary labours, we must doubtless able world," espoused the cause of the lat- look for the chief cause of his violeat and ter, there arose a very violent paper war. tragical death. a more serious consequence of the misun. in the summer of , m. von kotzebue derstandings between kotzebue and goethe left weimar, with his family, to recover his was the removal of the literary journal of health in the baths of pyrmont, passed on this jena to halle, and the establishment of a journey through francfort on the maine, new literary journal at jena. in he and chose afterwards manheim for his went, for the purpose of writing the history place of residence. there he continued his of prussia, to konigsberg, where he was literary and diplomatic labours, violenty allowed to make use of the archives. his attacked, in his literary journal, the gyni- work on the history of prussia, published at nastic exercises, the abuse of the free- riga , in four volumes, is certainly not dom of the press, the assemblies of the ar historical masterpiece, hut deserves at- states, &c. and incensed in a high degrec teation, particularly for the origival docu- the german students, by concluding his ments printed in it. the year , so observations on tue well known tumultuous unfortunate for the prussian monarchy, ob- scenes at gottingen last year, with the fol- liged him to go to russia, where he never lorring words : “ truly ercry father who ceased to combat the french and their em- casts an anxious look on his sons, would peror with all the arms which a writer pos- heartily thank that government which would sessed of so much wit could command set the example of banishing from its uni- (particularly in his journal “ the bee''). versities the licence of the students; lor in the public in germany were the more eager this academical liberty, as it is called, more after bis published works, as the french good heads and hearts are, ruined than hardly permitted a free or bold expression formed," &c. to be uttered in germany. as under these kotzebue possessed a very distinguished circumstances his political writings had ex- physiognomy. his person was of the mid- cited a very high degree of attention, he ap- dle side, and extremely well proportioned. peared, on the great change in the political his eye was sharp and penetrating, his affairs of europe in , to be peculiarly countenance expressive; his whole manner qualified to maintain among the people their shewed understanding, but also the consci- hatred of the french. raised to the rank ousness of possessing. in him has perished of counsellor of state, he attended the rus- a man remarkable for a versatility of talent siap head-quarters, and published at berlin which few have possessed in an equal de- a journal, called “ the russian and german gree. whatever may have been the mo journal for the people.” in the year , tives of his assassin, however the ardent he went to konigsberg as russian consul- mind of the youth may have been worked general in the prussian dominions, where, upon by fanaticism, the deed he has com- besides several political pamphlets, comedies mitted cannot be contemplated without the and little dramas, he wrote a history of the highest detestation. german empire, which is said to be very. george henry harlow. partial. in he was placed as coun. this distinguished artist was born in st. sellor of state in the department of fo- james-street, london, on the th june, reign affairs in st. petersburg, and in . his father, who had been many years received the commission to go to germany, in china, and ten a resident in cantou, in in order to send reports directly to the em- the exercise of commercial pursuits, died in [may , some account of mr. george henry harlow. the month of february preceding; so that into all the toils of detail. young harlow's our artist had the early inisfortune to be a progress justified the anticipations of his posthumous child. thus upon his mother, friends. from de cort, he went for twelve a wife at the age of , and a widow at the months to study under mr. drummond. age of , devolved the charge of six intants, during this period, so ardent was he in the of whom five were females, and the last a search of knowledge- anxious for im- boy. it may easily be conceived how pre- provement, that he absolutely resisted every cious such a boy must have been to a parent effort to seduce him into the amusements so left to buffet with the world's business and generally so acceptable at his time of life. cares. and it does appear, that the deepest while with drummond, the scholar, who anxiety for bis future welfare, was ever one had soon outstripped his master, became of the most governing passions of her life. impressed with an enthusiastic admiration with laudable foresight, and to induce of mr. (now sir thomas) lawrence. the habits of discipline and diligence in one productions of that gentleman were the without the control of a father, george was, theme of his boundless panegyrics, and he when very young, sent to the school of dr. longed to be like him, with all that intensity parrow, in soho square. from thence he of desire which belongs to aspiring genius. was removed to the academy of mr. roy, in consequence of which an application was in burlington-street, and in these two places made to mr. lawrence, who consented to received, we believe, all the scholastic edu- receive him as a pupil, by which phrase is cation of which he was ever master. what meant, that he would, for the payment of literary improvement he afterwards made a hundred guineas, annually, allow him free being eptirely his own. while at mr. roy's access to his house at nine o'clock in the that irresistible predilection for the art in morning and to copy his pictures till four in which he became so distinguished, and the afternoon, but give po instructions of any which had evinced itself almost from the kind. accordingly harlow prosecuted this cradle, acquired an ascendancy so entirely course for about months, and worked engrossing his mind, as to lead him to des. with incommon diligence, in adding the pise or neglect other occupations. his mo. grace and flowing outline of his new master ther, unhappy at the idea of her son devote to the minute finish and broad manner of his ing himself to a profession so exceedingly two antecedent preceptors. so ardently did precarious as that of an artist, sought the he thirst for fame that he has often been advice of a mr. rush, a friend of the family. heard to say, “i do not want riches, i in- to this gentleman it was explained, that tend to paint for fame and glory." the george, when only five years old, was never whole life of this young man was of the without the pencil in his hand; that when same character, and we dwell upon it as a the rest of the family went to the theatre, or lesson to all who aspire to distinction in the to other amusements, his sole delight was arts, or indeed in any other pursuit. mr. to be left at home with implements for draw. harlow never studied at the royal academy : ing, and permission to use them; and that he used to say, that he could do more at drawing, and nothing but drawing occupied home, where his attention was undivided, his thoughts, and fired his soul; his pleasant than even with all the advantages offered lou by day, and his dream by night. mr. there, in the midst of so many others to rush listened to the exposition, and gave at distract it. about this time the house of once the advice of a prudent man, and the mr. hamilton of dean-street, was to let, and aid of a true friend. being every way fitted up for the accom- he was not misled by that scrawling pro- modation of a painter, he secured it, and pensity which is an imitative faculty, iphe- with his mother and family, removed into it, rent in almost all children; but neither where she continued to reside until a short would he oppose a bent of genius apparently time before her death, which happened in as natural as it was powerful, and as real as the year . it was strong. as it is our purpose rather to trace his counsel was, not to dissuade the boy the artist, than the man, we will now from his favourite pursuit, but to afford him briefly mention such matters as illustrate a fair trial, in order to ascertain if his love this subject. during his whole life, it was of the art was worth cultivating; or in other mr. harlow's custom to sketch at the mo- words, if instead of being a freak of imma- ment every thought that occurred to him, ture judgment, it had its roots so deep as to and seemed deserving of being so embodied. defy every effort at removal. of this expe- he thus accumulated port folios of trea- riment he took the expense upon himself, sures, the materials for almost every emer- and george was to his infinite satisfaction,) gency. a practice of collecting and, as assigned as a student for one year, to the in- it were, realizing ideas in this way, cannot struction of m. de cort, a painter of land be too much recommended, either to artists, scapes, portraits, and occasionally, of ani or authors. his first historical picture mals. his pencil was minute, and his pic- piece was bolingbroke's entry into london, ta res generally laboured and hard, but his which was never exhibited. the first which peculiar habits were far from being ill cal. was exhibited at the royal academy, (ex- culated for a beginner, who must be initiated cept the portrait of his mother) was the .] some account of mr. george henry hurlow. quarrel between elizabeth and her favorite dangerous aspect, and at length ulcerated so essex, in which majesty so far forgot itself as to preclude the possibility of administer- as to strike a subjeci. we do not remem- ing nourishment of any kind, and even to ber any other subject in the higher walks of prevent utterance. in this dreadful state art between this, which was painted ten or he lay for several days, and expired on the twelve years ago, and the hubert and prince th of january, , in the d year of arthur which was at the british gallery his age. ahont four years since. indeed, we appre- the remains of this distinguished artist hend, from mr. harlow's not retaining the were buried in a vault of st. james' church, house in dean-street, more than about seven attended by his nearest relatives, and some years of this time, and other circumstances, of the eminent artists of the present day. ihat he was under some shade of pecuniary as a painter, we would rank mr. h. in the difficulties and eclipse. the picture, hu- very first place. to surprising variety of bert, which we have just mentioned, was talent, he added the finest feeling for what painted for a mr. leader, at the price of was really captivating in the art. his taste only guineas; and mr. l. afterwards was pure, and his genius great. sometimes exchanced it with the artist, for a subject of faulty in his drawing; his outline was free. nearer domestic interest, the portraits of two flowing, and graceful; and his style of of his daughters. the splendid picture of colouring rich and splendid. in composi- the kemble family, in the characters of tion the same innate feeling for what was katherine. king henry, wolsey, &c. was delightful guided him, and in expression he originally begun on a small scale, but the fell short of no competitor. his faults artist became so enamoured of his theme when compared with his excellencies, were as he proceeded, that he enlarged his plan, of the most trilling kind, and in a short and produced the present admirable work, time would all have been eradicated. which he consigned to mr. welsh, the com- prancisco manuel. poser, for guineas. the last great the celebrated portuguese poet francisco trork exhibited by mr. harlow, was christ manuel, died at paris on the th ult. at healing the woman who had an issue of the advanced age of . from his earliest wood"i possesyed great merit, though youth he had successfully cultivated almost not on the whole so fine as some of his for- every branch of literature. having pro- mer efforts. mr. h. obtained a well earned foundly studied the best portuguese classi- and high reputation by his unrivalled por- cal authors, his works were imbued with a traits upon a small scale. those of mr. portion of their beauties, and his literary west and mr. northcote will be long remem- productions helped to revive among his bered as chef-d'oeuvres. his talents seemed countrymen a taste for the noblest studies, to be unbounded, and with the exception of ilis odes which are full of enthusiasm, are landscape, we are not acquainted with any remarkable for bold traits and sublime flights branch of the art in which he did not excel. of genius. in his translation of la fontaine's on the d of june, , mr. ilar- fables he overcame difficulties which were low set out on a tour of improvement, to before thought insurmountable owing to his italy; and re-landed at dorer the th of perfect knowledge of the french and por- january . this, but for its termina- tuguese languages. unfortunately, it is not tion, was to him a fortunate and glorious with respect to talent only, that he may be journey. in italy he made many friends, compared to other celebrated poets : fame and received many honors from the various smiled more kindly on him than fortune. academies. during this short interval of the marquis de marialva, the portuguese absence he made an entire copy of the ambassador to the french court, whose transfiguration, and executed a composi- kind patronage manuel had long enjoyed, tion of fifteen figures of his own conception, befriended him in his last illness, and afford- which was at the request of the celebrated ed him all the assistance that might be ex- canova publickly exhibited at his own pected from his benevolent disposition, and house, and afterwards at the academy of his love of literature and the fine arts. st. luke's. these two pictures are shortly died.] in baker street, portman square, expected in england, and we congratulate the rt. hon. lady elizabeth drummond, the lovers of the fine arts on the treat widow of the late h. d., esq.--at his house, awaiting them by their exhibition. soon maida hill, j. d. windeler, esq. .- after mr. llarlow's arrival in town he was in beaumont street, st. mary-le-bonne, j. seized with that malady which terminated story, esq., formerly lieut-colonel in the his existence, which was the cynanche paro- st regt. of foot-at his house in con- tidæo, or what is commonly called the duit street, sir w. farquhar, bart., - mumps. at first it did not threaten any in weymouth street, anne dowager mar- consequence more serious than a few days chioness townshend, relict of the most no. corfinement at home, but perhaps from an ble george,' first marquis townshend, of anxiety to get rid of so unpleasant an exter- rainham hall, norfolk-in euston square, nal appearance, at an important period for john horsley, esq. -in chancery lane, active exertion, the disease was checked frances, wife of mr. g. reynell-in russel- and thrown inward. it speedily assumed a place, fitzroy sq., matilda, fourth daughter .j cumberland- cheshire-devon. " mr. sherale --at st. mary's, col. geo. upon a question which is of consii'er :ble vigoreux, lieut. governor of the scilly consequence to the lower classes of work- islands at musagun, mr. r. wilcot, people in manufactories. it arose from a at crowan, miss cardell, of st. colomb, warrant having been obtained by mr. aged -at redruth, mr. trevenna, joseph rowbotham, silk-manufacturer, of at falmouth, miss michell-at forey, sulton, against one of his work-people for jane, daughter of mr. whitford-at the absenting herself from her work, and leav- same place, aged years, esteemed and ing his service after having signed articles, much lamented, miss pockey-at padston, such as are generally signed in different mr. j. ilodge, --at copper house, miss manufactories. the magistrates wishing vivian, -at bodmin, mr. lewis ros- that all possible attention should be paid to cula, –at penzance, mrs. eddy, the question, desired that counsel's opinion at wakebridge, mrs. susan brewer, might be taken as to the validity of such at padstow, mr. w. courtenay, –at hirings; and they unanimously agreed with launceston, john bignell, esq surgeon-al that opinion, that such birings are valid, and topsham, leonardus aust, esq. that any persons having so hired themselves and afterwards absenting themselves from cumberland. their work are liable, upon complaint being the shepherd of mr. r. robinson, of made by their masters, to be sent to the helsington laiths, near kendal, went to house of correction.--macclesfield courier. view and count his master's flock. find chester bridge. no plan is yet defi- ing one of the number to be wanting, and nitively agreed to, with respect to the im- looking attentively for it, be at last heard provernent of the present inconvenient and a sheep bleat, when to his great surprise, very dangerous structure. we see no ne- he observed the poor animal at the top of cessity for so much time being lost, when an ash-tree covered with ivy, seven yards all agree in the necessity of the undertaking. from the ground, from which elevated sta- birhs.) at harley hall, the lady of the tion it seemed to beg for immediate assist. rev. r. egerton warburton, of a son. at ance. the shepherd being afraid to under- malpus, the lady of the rev. p. egerton, of take the task himself, went home for the a daughter--ai old bank, the lady of geo. aid of his fellow servant, who, not giving glanville, esq. of a daughter. credit to his account, at first refused to ac- married.] at malpus, mr. john dode, company him--but being at length pre- of larkton, to miss peers, of barnhill- vailed upon to go, the sheep was brought in mr. john wheelton, to mary, youngest safety down from his perilous situation. daughter of the late rev. james winfeld, carlisle patriot. of this county-mr. woodeny, of grogre- - henry hall, esq. of carlisle, on easter nor house, to miss h. pacey--at chester, day, presented a very handsome service of mr. samuel jones, to miss briscoe-mr. j. communion plate to his native parish of venables, to miss hassel. died.) at congleton, mrs. harriet wat- birth) al keswick, the lady of robertson--at chester, mrs. henchman--r. bar- southey, esq. poet laureate, of a son. ton, esq. –at nantwich, a. clarkson, married.) at carlisle, mr. james leigh- a. m. chaplain to the duke of leeds--at ton, to miss jane purvis-at burgh, w. chester, mr. charles tomlinson. george lawson, o miss lonsdale--at derbyshire. kendal mr. j. wallas, to miss foxcroft married.] at sutton on the hill, mr. at carlisle, mr. w. longhead, to miss george eaton, of castle dorrington, to miss m. burns-at whitehaven, mr. r. wilson, trussel. to miss faulkener-at kneadbright, dr. devonshire. shard, to mrs. kendan-at carlisle, henry several extensive improvements are said tweddle, to miss j. richardson-at lam- to be in contemplation at plymouth. one plugh, capt. j. jenkinson, to miss f. jack- of the most manifest utility to plymouth, son --at carlisle, the rev. w. ponsonby, stonehouse, and dock, is the making the vicar of urswick, near ulverston, to miss former an assize town. a new street is ashburper, planned from nut-street to the royal died.] at carlisle, mr. thomas car- hotel, with a square, in the centre of which rick, -at the same place, mrs. paley, a monument to the memory of the late relict of the rev. dr. paley, —at work- princess charlotte is designed to be erected. ington, catherine, daughter of john wal- the plymouth telegraph sayg_" the ker, esq. -at greystoke, mrs. rud- mania for emigration, we regret to state, house, house-keeper of greystoke castle, still continues, and every vessel that quits -Ác penrith, mrs. hogarth, —at the shores of england for the united states kirkland, wm. yates, esq-a whitehaven, is overburthened with british passengers. wm. williamson, esq. _at bridekirk, there are several ships now in this port, mr. george warton, -at carlisle, mrs. thus freighted, which await only a favour- h. nelson, . able wind. on board one of them is a cheshire. farmer, called williams, of the parish of a decision was given lately at alderley, botes fleming, with his wife and ten chil- by the magistrates acting for this divisi, dren. it is really lamentable to view the new monthly mag.no, . vol. xi. c gilcrux. .) hants-herts-kent-lancashire. john's, newfoundland - wm. bowren, esq. hants, to grace eliza gourly, of shirehampton at the winchester assizės, damages of at clifton, george seddon, esq. of london, . were obtained against the proprietors to lydia, only daughter of i. cooke, esq. of the express coach between gosport and of bristol-at alkmond's, shrewsbury, london, by the upsetting of which the mr. benjamin bromley, of hencott, to mrs. plaintiff, mr. devereux, had two compound ann james, of the former place-at st. fractures of the leg. chad's, shrewsbury, mr. t. howell, to b irth.) at fawley, the lady of the rev. miss ramsbotham, both of that town; and luke gasker, of a daughter, the rev. marsha! claxton, to miss deason died.). at winchester, mr. george -mr. venables, to mary, eldest daughter cape, clerk at the hank, shaftesbury, ; of mr. hassall, banker, of whitechurch mrs. thomas, wife of mr. thomas, some the rev. charles winnington, to arabella years since vicar of the cathedral -at elizabeth, eldest daughter of r. thornton winchester, lady drummond. heysham, esq. of stayen hoe park, herts- huntingdonshire. mr. a. harris. second son of g. harris, died.) at yoxley, mr. john b. hunt, esq. of oatlands, to mary, only daughter of ---at huntingdon, mr. john watson, fa- john best, esq. of kidderminster--at glou- ther of mr. watson, surgeon, twicken- cester, r. hurd lucas, esq. to miss small, ham, .. of clifton hall, bucks-t. dennis, esq. of kent. barnstaple, to miss s. taleo, youngest daugh- a very considerable seizure was made ter of the late wni. tafeo, esq. of chalford lately by the surveyors of customs at do- - at cheltenham, capt. thos. alexander ver, upon the persons of two passengers cooper, to charlotte, second daughter of who were just going to depart the kingdom d. maitland, esq. in a french vessel. it consisted of belts or died.] robert, the infant son of r. girdles, made in the shape of stays, in which jenkins, esq. of charlton-hill-at shrews- were contained $ guineas! bury, mr. s. scoltock, --mr. bryan, b irths.] the viscountess fo kestone, of ceaser colclough armett, esq. major in a daughter. his majesty's th regiment of foot-james married.) at rochester, lieut. col. w. gilbert, esq. late of lancille hall, here- pasley, to miss m. m. roberts–at lydd, fordshire-sarah ruth, third daughter of w. king, esq. of brookland, to maria t. biston, esq. of neach hill, near shiff- terry, of lydd---at dover, mr. r. baker, nal---at painswick, sophia, wife of mr. to miss e. richards---at canterbury, mr. wollen, surgeon--- at north nibley, henry, r. dyason, to miss m. mutton---at staple- youngest son of the late mr. r. barton--- in hurst, mr. church, surgeon, to miss spring st. mary's-square, gloucester, mrs. ches. ---at chatham, mr. lutton, to miss horne, ton, --- at gloucester, mrs. hannah of the same place---at sittingbourne, jas. evans, ---at clifton, elizabeth francis, vallance, esq. to miss c, a, plestowa at wife of wm. ogle wallis ogle, esq. of folkestone, mr. e. laws, to miss w. for- causey park, northumberland - at sion dred---at faversham, mr. w. hart, hill, george wales, esq. miss oliver---at sitingbourne, m. j. hampshire. watson, to miss broadbridge---at folke- married.) at hamble, the hon. fred. stone, mr. j. crugling magir, to miss f. lumley, second brother to the earl of wraught. scarborough, to jane, second daughter of died.] at ramsgate, jo died.) at ramsgate, john fleming, the late admiral bradley. esq. ---at rochester, mr. t. boucher, died.] atupton grey, charlotte, youngest ---at stroud, mrs. monson, aged --- daughter of the late stephen cosser, eaq. at maidstone, mrs. powell.--at lenham, of mill-street, westminster, -at port- mrs. munn, --at arcliffe fort, dover, chester frances mary, eldest daughter of miss m. a. france, --at folkestone, wm. singling, esq. of southampton-at mr. j. spicer, ---at canterbury, mr. lymington, mr. j. george, of romsey, . , solput--- at canterbury, mrs. white --at herefordshire. folkstone, mr. g. taylor, .- at canter- married.) at kington, john morgan, bury, miss goldfinch--ai canterbury, g. esg, of glasbury, radnorshire, to wini- denne, eso.--- tenterden, mr. w. bi- fred, third daughter of j. meredith, esq. of shop--at eltham, mrs. mary fisher, -- the former place-on saturday last, at st. at rye, j. woollet, esq.--at maidstone, paul's, walden, hertfordshire, the rev. mrs. dowlnt--at margate, miss russell--- charles fox winnington, arabella eliza., at canterbury, mr. k. skinner, . eldest daeghter of rob, thornton heysham, lancashire. esq. of stagenhoe park, hertfordshire. birth.) at malpas, the lady of the died.) mr. edward jones, of hereford- rev. p. egerton, of a daughter. at the same place, mary sophia, youngest married.] at st. anne's church, liver- daughter of mr. luke edwards, -at pool, william purser, eldest son of thos. st. leonard's, mrs. jones-mrs. cheese, frène, esq. to ann triphosa, only daughter relict of mr. edmund cheese, of lyons- of the late w. doll, esq.---at manchester, ball, . miss lawson, eldest daughter of mr. ro- -- leicester - lincoln--monmouth- norfolk--northampton, &c. (may), bert lawson, of chirnside---mr. j. phoenix, cook to miss owles-at thetford, r. h. to miss williams.-at manchester, mr. dee, esq. to miss ottley-at swaffham, mr. webb, of winslow, to miss anne hodgson. j. goodrich to miss gray. -mt. j. stanley balls, to miss caroline died.) mr. john adis, of st. george's, andrews.-j. gunnery, esq. of liverpool, norwich, .-miss ann cole, youngest to miss webster, of grove cottage. at daughter of pennel cole, esą, surgeon.at liverpool, w. j. buchanan, to miss mar- , heacham, mrs. m. cobb, sister of f. cobb, garet smith. esq. banker, of margate.-mary amie an- died.] at prescot, mr. edward roberts. drews, -edw, copping, esg. . at -at wigan, the rer. thomas tate.-at ellsingham, mr. lacey, .-at swaffham, ashton hall, near lancaster, mr. george mr. s. colls, . wormack, .- at stockport, mr. p. wild. northamptonshire. -at liverpool, elias joseph, esq. . births.) at guilsborough grange, the at manchester, mrs. walker. lady of john ward, esq. of a daughter. leicestershire. married.) mr. h. f. elm, of london, to births. at misterton house, the lady of miss sarah chapman, third daughter of richard gough, esq. of a daughter. mr. wm. chapman, of orton lodge at • married l at leicester, the rev. thos. belgrave, sir chas. payne, bart. to fanny davies, of atherstone, to mrs. nutt. of richardson at daventry, the rev. t. bar- granby-str. leicester-at loughborough, naby, jud. m. a. of misterton, leicester- mr. fosbrooke, jun. surgeon, to miss shire, to sarah, youngest daughter of the patchett-at belgrave, sir chas. payne to late andrew meires, esq. of the former place. miss fanny richardson-at the same place, died.] at boltham, jas. thos. bell, esc. mr. c. baldock to miss newly. —at northampton, wm. gates, gent. . died.] at welford mr. w. smith, son -at blisworth, mr. cave, .- at astrop, of the laie john smith, _al leicester, j. mrs. goodwin, wife of mr. goodwin, sur- chamberlain, esq. -at great wigston, geon, .-at weekley, mr. s. potter, . mrs. earp, . - at daventry, mr. carpenter, ,-at pe- lincolnshire. terborough, the lady of wm. squire, esq. a dreadful accident occurred at sauce- at moulion, mr. w. chown, school-mas- ter, .-at holdenby, mr. john wright; thorpe, near spilsby, in this county, which led to the death of a respectable woman, and .–at cold ashby, mr. sharpe, . the consequent commitment of the son of an · northumberland. opulent farmer to lincoln castle. two · married.] at hexham, mr. geo. carr persons, named grummitt and ailsby, quar- to mrs. farrow, both of that place.-t relled violently at the public-house in rothhury, lieut.-colonel judgson, of car- saucethorpe, and the former having seized terside house, to miss mary anderson. the fire poker to return a blow which he dicd.] at leazes, near hexham, mrs.* . had received from the latter, in the act of sparke, relict of isaac sparke, esq. of sun- furiously brandishing it over his head, derland, .-at the lee, rothbury forest, struck mrs. robinson, the landlady, jusi mr. john cruthers, .-at kingswood, above one eye, and the poker penetrating mrs. ann liddell, . her skull, caused her death before surgical nottinghamshire. assistance could be obtained. on saturday se'onight, the first stone of lately, a farmer of north willingham, · the new church intended to be erected at. in this county, was attacked by a fierce bull, rugeley, was laid. viscountess anson, at who got him down, broke his right thigh in the earnest request of the committee, per- two places, and his collar bone, and tore formed the ceremony. a numerous at- out his bowels. the poor man survived tendance of the neighbouring gentry look but a lew hours. married.] at stanton, mr. cartwright, place, and the scene was witnessed by a large concourse of spectators. of marchomiey, to miss harris, of stanton. births.] at ossington, the lady of j. --atspalding mr. b. barnby to miss l. b. denison, esq. of a son.--at cowper farm), atkin -- at lincolo, mr. t. cordukes to near blyth, the lady of a. watts, esq. of a miss e. burden. daughter. died.) at botham, j. t. bell, esq. married.] at plumtree, the rev. j. burn- years town clerk of the corporation of lin- side to miss thompson.-at newark, the coln. rev. j. heckling to mrs. potts.--- at not- monmouth. tingham, mr. harrison to miss jeffreys. dica.] at wonaston, near monmouth, died.) at nottingham, mr. j. lee, . mrs. lidia jones-mrs. butler, of caer- --mrs. "radford.- at nottingham, mr. leon, . johnson.--mrs. mary broadhursi. – at norfolk. balderton, mrs. lock, .--at nottingham, · married.) mr. w. haws, of diss, to eli- miss kirk, .-at highfield, near nota zabeth, eldest daughter of mr. geo. shaw, tingham, m. a. lowe.--at hexley ilall, of tirershall, st. mary-at aungay, mr. mrs. anna greaves. .) .xford-rutland-sulop-somerset--stafford-suffolk. oxfordshire. wife of the rev. f. h. rector of buckhora a more extraordinary instance of the fe- weston, dorset - at wivelscombe, mrs. cundity of a cow, than the following, we be- hancockat bath, george watts, esq. lieve is not on record:- she produced in the rev. anthony pyne, rector of pitney july, , five calves ; in may, , three and kingsweston--at bruton, mr. saun- ditto; in march, , three ditto; in may, ders, surgeon---at frome, mr. john ford , two ditto ; and in april, , three dulcibella, relict of the rev. chorley ditto; making together in the space of manley, vicar of bradford-at bruton, the four years. - the skins of the first five are rev. r. goldesbrough, d.d. rector of san. preserved; the three last are living, and derton, bucks.-mrs. m. l. cogan, taun- considered by judges to be very fine ones. ton, —mr. danial may, -on sion tais prolific animal was bred by mr. mi- hill, henry pilot, esq. late major in the st chael williams, of old shifford farm, near regt. -on st. james's parade, richard, bromtan, in this county, and is now in son of mr. phillips, of the customs of bris- nis possession. oxford paper. tol, —at bristol, mrs. rose, relict of the married.] sir jacob astley, bart. of late j. c. r. esq.-martha, relict of the late melton constable, norfolk, to georgiana capt. t. williams, -mrs. m. mills, . caroline, youngest daughter of sir h. dash- at mells, anne, wife of jos. fussell, esq. mood, bart. of kirtlington park. -jordin, sixth son of mr. arthur palmer, died.] at his lodgings, balliol college, of park row, bristol. the right rev. john parsons, d.d. lord stappordshire. bishop of peterborough, . — edward potters' clay, &c.-clay and other ma- good, esq. of alting ton, .-at wood- terials for the potter's use have been found stock, james, third son of mr. churchill, . on the halkin mountains, particularly a at oxford, f. townsend, esq. porcelain clay, which the analysis of able rutlandshire. chemists and the trials of some of the most died.] at oakham, the rev. h. field. eminent potters prove to be most valuable. shropshire. there is an abundant supply of it; and in a shropshire pig was lately slaughtered a very short time the staffordshire potters at kirkby lonsdale, fed by mr. lodge, will reap considerable advantages from its chandler, which measured in length from introduction : for, from its locality, it will the snout to the root of the tail, seven feet; be afforded to them at a cheaper rate than its girth was seven feet eight inches; its the materials for which it is to be substituted, weight, including the reidings, st. lbs. though possessing superior qualities. - ( lbs. to the stone), and was sold for . there is also a quarry of silicious rock birth.] at acton burnell, the lady of abounding in organic impressions, from sir e. j. smyth, of a son. which several pair of mill-stones have been married.] at whittington, mr. robert formed and worked for some few months, bowen, of preeshenley, , tó mrs. ruth and are found to answer all the purposes of morris, -mr. i. vepables, shrewsbury, french burrs. to miss hassal. births.) at greencroft, the wife of capt. died.] at frankton, j. w. burlton, esq. alex. innes, of a daughter-at newcastle, somersetshire. the wife of capt. bradshaw, of a daughter.. ilchester gaol.--as a proof of the ad- married.) 'the hon. f. lumley, second mirable management and useful employ- brother to the earl of scarborough, to ment of the prisoners in this gaol, the assize jane, second daughter of the late admiral courts at taunton afforded the pleasing ex- bradley. hibition of two cloth covers for the counsel died.) at yoxall lodge, francis, son and attornies' tables in each court, entirely of the rev. thomas gisborne.-at glass- manufactured by the prisoners in this gaol house bridge, capt. ogle.-j. dickenson, from the staple in the pack, through the esq. coroner for the county of staffordshire. different processes of picking, sorting, comb- -at statlord, mr. hubbard, . ins, carding, spinning, weaving, and dying, suppolk. to the greatest perfection. the cloths are married.] james purr, esg. of old dark blue; and the centre of each bears the newton, to sophia alice, daughter of the following inscription, worked in yellow silk: rev. john casborne, late vicar of old neir. “ manufactured by the prisoners in ilches- ton.-at hadleigh, mr. john ellisden, to ter gaol, ." miss ann williams, daughter of mr. s. w. married.] at wetham, james de visme, -at lewis, mr. thomas shewell, of ip- esq. to charlotte chatfield, of deptford - swich, to maria, only daughter of w. mar- at bath, w. bowrin, esg. to miss g. e. tin, esq. of the former place. gourly, of sbirehampton-at bridgewater, died.) the rev. charles steggall, rec." m. r. hodge to miss grabham. tor of wyverstone and westhorpe. -- at died.] at bath, eliza, eldest daughter needham, mrs. gurley, relict of peter of the rev. f. gardiner, a. m. rector of g. esq. of the island of st. vincent.-at- combhay-the rev. thomas how, rector halesworth, the rev. thomas barker, curate of huptspill, -at bath, s. lott, esq. of of gislingham and rishangles.- af brad- honiton- at wincanton, mrs. hawkins, field, mrs. f. bruce, . [may . surrey--sussex-warwick- wilts. surrey. wiltshire. birth.] at wootton rectory, the hon. that most useful undertaking, the north mrs. boscawen of a son. wilts canal, being completed, the commit- married.) at little bookham, j. havi- tee of management proceeded on friday the land, esq. m. d. to louisa, youngest daugh- second instant, in their barge, to open the ter of the late rev. g. pollen, of bookham same for navigation. during their pro- -at christ church, surry, j. h. brown- gress, from its commencement at the wilts ing esq. of paglesham hall, to miss sarah and berk canal, near swindon, to its ter- gould. mination in the thames and severn canal, died.] at west horsley, the rev. wes at latton, near cricklade, they inspected the ton fullerton.-at gilling, near richmond, various works, and were highly satisfied at mr. mason--at botley's, miss mawbey the very able and substantial manner in at newington, mrs. rachael hooper. which they had been constructed under the sussex. direction of mr. whitworth, the compauy's the earl of abergavenny has generously engineer. the fineness of the weather, ad- granted to the overseers of chailey, sussex, ded to the importance of the occasion, about acres of waste land for cultivation, brought forth an immense concourse of and to give employment to such of the poor spectators, who, by their repeated aceláma- of that parish as are destitute of other tions, seemed fully to appreciate the auspi- work. cious event. when we reflect on the great singular fact. the lovers of natural utility of competition in the supply of that history may find amusement in the follow. article of prime necessity, fuel, we cannot ing article :-mr. gray, of tower-street, too much applaud the spirited exertions of chichester, has at this time in his possess the projectors of this work, who have at sion a bawk and a pigeon, both of which, length, succeeded against a strong and in- for some monihs past, have been together terested opposition, in establishing a regular in a small garden. from docimiliary treat- and ethicient communication, by which the ment, their natural antipathies are quite ob- abundant progress of the glocestershire literated, and the pigeon is completely mas. mines may be conveyed to some of their ter of his companion, which he never fails most natural markets, the vales of wilts and to evince, if at any time the latter encroach berks, and the populous districts on the on his demesne. banks of the thames, in exchange for the married. at seddlescomb, mr. t. tay- grain and commercial articles brought from lor, of cranbrook to miss ades-at chin the metropolis along that river.- we trust chester, j. newman, esq. to eliza frances the final success in cutting this little canal middleton. is an earnest of that which will attend ano- died.) at bognor, robert long, only ther important scheme, which, though it has son of mr. r. long, of the black boy, in for sometime been dormant, is hy no means the soke, .-at brighton, wm. throck- abandoned, and by which, if carried into morton, esq. brother to sir john throck-. effect, the two great cities of london and morton, bart.--at hastings, col. herries, bristol would no longer be dependent for of the light horse volunteers, london, . the interchange of their commerce on the -at patcham, mrs. m. hamshaw, . uncertain navigation of a river or the tedious at dartford, r. wilkes, esq. and expensive conveyance on a turnpike warwickshire. road. the inhabitants of coventry have peti births.] at winslade, the lady of the tioned against the bill for altering the law rev.-j. orde, of a son.-at east knoyle, of settlement, on the ground that the alter- the lady of sir w. g. parker, bart, of a ation proposed will have the effect of bur- daughter.—the lady of the rev. e. vin- dening manufacturing places with a dispro- cent, of a son. portionate number of poor. the city of married.) c. strealer, esq. of headley, hereford is about to petition on the same to mrs. e. lane, widow.-at salisbury, r. subject. ricardo, esq, to miss c. lobb, of south- births.) at warwick, the lady of peter ampton. f. laurd, m. d. of a daughter.—mrs. c. died.) at his seat, earle stoke park, g. wynne, of a son.---at broomsgrove, the joshua smith, esq. late member for devizes, wife of j. richardson, labourer, of four fine . -at salisbury, mary, widow of george female children, yalden fort, esq.-at west harnham, john married.) at leamington, mr. potterton, second son of mr. wm. drew, of the three of boughton, to mrs. smith, of the former crowns, .–at charlton, the rev. thos. place.- at birmingham, george braithwait howell.-- at salisbury, mr. h. jeffrey, lloyd, banker, to mary, eldest daughter of chemist, .--mr. w. beake, of castle the late john petty dearman.--at edgbas- combe.-at lacock, the rev. h. brindley, ton, mr. timmins, to miss fanny hunting- rector of calloes.—the rev. c. tahourdin, don.-mr. g. perry of birmingham, to rector of stoke charity.-the lady of dr. miss jane moreton, of wolverhampton. makie, of salisbury.the rev. a. stum- , died.] at birmingham, mr. m. harold. phausen.- at salisbury, ann, wife of the -at birmingham, mr.j. watson, surgeon, rev. j. a. good.--mr. j. maslin or chi- .-at birmingham, mr. j. heelly, . senbury, .] worcester-york-wales. worcestehire. b. dalton, to mrs. shepherd - at bingly, the amongst the petitions lately presented to rev. a. clarkson, to miss e.c. wilcock- the house of commons, is one rather of a at rippon, mr. j. berry, to' christiana novel kind, viz. from the labourers in hus- theakstone. bandry, of the county of worcester, praying died.) at leeds, wm. hey, esq.f.r.s. " that some means might be adopted to en- -at towler mill, mr. cuthberi colling, able them to live by their labour, and thus --at stokesley, lieut. thos. dowell, r.n. prevent their deriving their bread from the -at hull, mr. t. moss, -at ferriby, almıs of the parish.” i mr.j. watson, -at swapland, near hull, births.] at upton warren, the wife of henry sykes, esq. --- at great grimsby, joseph richardson, of four ine girls. : mr. t. burton---a! hull, mr.j. marshall married.] at worcester, archihald ca- at flamborough, mr. riley, –at hull, meron, esq. to mary, youngest daughter of the infant son of j. w. henley, esq.-at the late w. h. roberts, d.d.-adonijah walton, w. h. the youngest son of mr. . harris, to miss mary best, only daughter of jackson-at hull, miss h. bailey-at j. best, esq. of kidderminster-jas. bourne, would newton, w. coulson, esq.at selby, esq. of tansley, fla), to mary anne, third mrs. proctor, -at hull, mr. oliver, daughter of the late rev. – cartwright, -at hull, mrs. skipworth. vicar of dudley---thomas turner roberts, wales. esg, of horsham, to jane, youngest daugh- the gentlemen, clergy, and inhabitants of ter of the late dr cameron---at blockley, ruthin hare petittoned parliament against the rev. elisha smith---at popple, r. lu- the erection of a bridge at conway, stating cas, esq. to miss small---at worcester, mr. that the cost will be , .; and that one- g. shefield, to miss anne price. tenth of that sum would complete a better died | at worcester, the rev, samuel communication by another route. oldnolls, a.m.-at blyth hall, mrs. dug births.] the lady of thos. jones, esq. of dale, ~mr. william coates, late organist plas grona, near wrexham, of a son- at of stourport-at bewdly, elizabeth, daugh- madrim vicarage, carmarthenshire, the lady ter of the late t. sheward, esq.--at mac- of the rev. j jenkins, of a son. clesfield, mrs. lomas-at kenwick, near married.) at builth, mr. j. palmer, to worcester, mrs. storer, . margaret ann, only daughter of mr. j. yorkshire. jones, of builth-lewis jones, esq. of ynis- as mr. otley, steward to j, wharton, esq. y-borde, near llandovery, to miss sarah of skelton castle, was walking over part of jones, of llan-y-crwys, carmarthenshire the estate yesterday se'nnight, he was greatly mr. david lewis, master of the ship george, surprised by sceing a covey of young par to anu, eldest daughter of the late capt. t. tridges, which might, from appearances, ellis. of aberlovey-t. lloyd, esq). of coed. have been hatched three or four days. . more, to charlotte, youngest daughter of the from all parts abroad we hear of markets late capt. langcroft. r. n.--mr. t. h. being overstocked with english goods. me- jones, fifth son of the late h. jones, esq. of lancholy news from leeds of the state of the llynon, anglesea, to elizabeth, third daugh- woollen trade : the first tuesday of the ter of the late t. nichlas, esq. of trenorth, month is usually the great day of business cornwall-at wrexham, j. willan, esq. to there, and on which so many as , miss seraphina jones---at llanvigon, near pieces have been sold---last tuesday only brecon, mr. d. lewis, of penhow, mon- seventy were disposed of! numbers of mouthshire, to sarah, only daughter of the workmen are idle, and the little masters rev. mr. thomas, of pantillefrith, brecon- equally distressed. shire-at lanthawdr, the rev. g. jones, to emigration. one of the largest factories miss s. norris--h. owen, esq. of machin- in yorkshire, situated at leeds, erected by lleth, to miss davies, of cemnnes, montgo- messrs. clayton and gorside, at the expense meryshire---at wrexham, j. willeen, esq. of , for the manufacture of fax, can- to miss s. jones. vas linen. &c. has been closed, and several died.) at glanwilly, jeremiah price, esq. hundreds of hands in consequence turned ---mr. john littlewood, of alyn wire-works, ont of employment. it is said to be the in- near wrexham, ---lewis lloyd williams, tention of the late proprietor. mr. gorside of havodwyd, carnarvonshire, ---mrs. a. to remove to the united states, where, in the rogers, relict of l. rogers, esq. jate of vicinity of new york, he intends carrying gelly, cardiganshire---at kidwelly, car- on similar manufactures, on an extensive marthenshire, j. thomas, esq----at aber- scale. dovey, merionethshire, mrs. morris---at births.) at heaslewood, mrs pease, the cam-yr-alyn, denbighshire, john jones lady of j. r. pease, esq. of a son and heir golborne, esq. .- at haverfordwestcapt, at york, mrs. milner, of a daughter. edward crun, r. n.,--at swansea, david married.) at ting, near leeds, the rev. davies, esq.---at cardiff, margaret, widow p. robinson, a.m.of dudley, to miss har- of r. hill, esq.---at holywell, mrs. wiatle, riet maynard-at holl. mr. william atkin- widow of the rev. t. wintle, rector of son, to miss mary denton-at beverly, mr. brightwell--- at wrexham, mrs. harrisona. the new monthly magazine. no. .] - june , . [vol. xi. - original communications. wao was junius? pretensions, and, if we are to believe the there is a disposition in most men writers, with such indubitable documents to be extremely inquisitive about things of eridence as must put the point at is- over which art has cunningly contrived sue for ever at rest. and yet after all to throw a veil of obscurity. were the that has been hitherto adduced, it is plain objects of this curiosity completely and the question remains undecided, and that satisfactorily developed, they would cease the public mind is still unsatisfied as to to attract notice, and, in all probability, the real author of the far famed letters, the interest which they at first occasion, which for a considerable period disturbed would sink into utter contempt. what the government and insulted the throne. is mysterious generates wonder, and that among the numerous persons whose hence a consequence is attached to questo names have been mentioned to identify ions in themselves trifling and not worth junius, there are some whose talents the labour of enquiry. if the riddle re- qualified them for the composition of the mains long unsolved, the lapse of years letters, and who had ample means of serves but to increase its importance, and gaining all the information necessary to the ill fortune of former conjecturers only the carrying on such an extensive system acts as a stimulant to spur other adven- of hostility against public men, cannot be turers into the field. thus, at length, doubted. but this will apply equally to the commonwealth of learning is disturb- many persons, and even if one alone pos- ed by clamorous disputants, each claim- sessed the powers and opportunities re- ing the merit of having, through his per- quisite for the purpose, the conclusion severance and sagacity alone, found out would not be decisive that he must there: a secret that had hitherto eluded all re- fore have been junius, unless it can be search. to men of this spirit, it matters shewn that no other man at that time had little, whether the subject which engages similar advantages. neither is it suffi- their thoughts be good or bad; they en- cient to produce in addition to these ter upon the pursuit only to have the points a comparison of hand writing and glory of succeeding where others have of style, since in regard to the former failed, and if their own vanity be gra- there cannot possibly be, any certainty, tified, which is generally the case, the and as to the latter, there is no such dis- objections raised against their opinions tinctive peculiarity in junius as to war- sbrink into nothing. all this, however, rant the peremptory ascription of his let. would be harmless enough, were it not ters to any one writer of that period more that these busy triflers generally become than another. these tests, therefore, partizans, and betray in their anxious- are merely. fallacious when taken by ness for discovery the zeal of apologists. themselves, though, no douht, they may of the truth of this assertion, a stronger have their subordinate weight of authority instance cannot be adduced, than what when other criteria of a inore determinate has occurred ever since the question was character are tried and found to argwer. first started - " who was junius?" the tirst thing that strikes the di ras. this enquiry has subsisted, with more sionate reader of junjus, is th virulent or less eagerness and impatience, for the malignity which runs through the whole space of half a century ; nor is it likely to of his correspondence. his attacks are become suspended for half a century to conducted without the slightest regard to come, unless some more lucky knight moral feeling, and when convicted of a than any that has yet pricked forth in falsehood, he shelters himself under a so- the chace, shall hunt down the boar of phism and renews the assault with taunt the forest, to use the language of lord and irony. from hence it is pain, ti at north, and carry off his head as a proof he was not a norice in popular writi g, of his victory. but one who had profited by the expre instead of losing its interest, the subject rience which he possessed, as a vitnes of seems to freshen with time, and almost the “ great walpolean wars," to use liis * .. every week brings forth a disquisition, in own remarkable phraseology. this f ct which either old claims are revived with will so far ascertain hi: age, as to set additional arguinents, or some new can- aside many of those who have been set • didate is brought forward with strong up of late for the real junius; since to new monthly maq.-no. . vol. xi. d .) the modern standard nf genius, discovery would be fatal to his object. the modern standard of genius. but junius, as hath already been hinted, mr, editor, was leagued with no party, and, though. amongst all the illuminations of soured by disappointment, his own pro the present enlightened period of the spects of preferment were terminated, human race, after the attempts to settle otherwise he would not hare taken the the true standard of taste-the criteria desperate resolution of insulting his of the moral sense--and the certain ex- king. yet he must have had an object tent of philosophical truth---it has cost when he began this career, and that ob- me no small effort, by observation and ject certainly continued to animate him reflection, to fix the standard of literary through the whole course of it, for his genius: for this purpose, and in order conduct was unifarm, and his enmity re- to move as gravely as possible, in so ac- mained unabated to the last. still no tive a vortex of rotatory vicissitude, i one could divine what the ultimate design had recourse to a few writers whose de of this energetic writer was, nor indeed finitions of the term might lead me to was it possible at that time to form any select a fixed principle, on which, like other idea of him than that he was one archimedes, i might place one point of of those turbulent spirits who risc up in my compass, and turn with the other unquiet times to distract the measures of the whole of this moving sphere my own government by inflaming the public mind way; but here i have to confess my dis- against them. appointment; for the definitions of phia junius is better known by his en- losophers and lexicographers, when i mities than his attachments; in the come to compare them with modern former he is open, bold, and unap- realities, were so widely apart from the peaseable; in the latter he is cold, equivo- facts, that i was compelled to conduct cal, and fluctuating. his supreme de them back to their chambers of dusty light appears to hare lain in creating lucubration, as unfit for modern service confusion, weakening the bonds of so- as any of the wiscst precepts of divinity ciety, and making the people dissatisfied, and inorality. beattie, full of genius not merely with this or that administra- and learning himself, and willing to give tion, but with the entire regimen under the question all the power of candour which they lived. the object of junius, and moral truth that it could carry, en- therefore, was a revolution, and upon no quires “what is genius? what but other principle can his conduct be ac- sound judgment, sensibility of heart, and counted for; consequently all the distinº a talent for accurate and extensive ob. guished writers, who have been imper- servation.” (p. truth.) dr john- tinently mentioned as the authors of son more reconditely defines it to be these letters, must be exonerated from “the protecting and ruling power of the charge ; and as to the inferior fry, men, places, or things, mental power or with whom folly and pedantry have as- faculties, nature, disposition." i strong- sociated the name of junius, it would be ly suspect that the latter inay be found a waste of time to bestow one word the most acute definition, though it does upon their respective merits or demerits. not arrive at the exact delineation of it is plain from the criteria here laid man at this day, in this the most refined down, and others which may hereafter metropolis of the world! be adduced, that junius was a man of ex- in order to seek for a more modern perience, hackneyed in the ways of the account of the matter i looked into the world, and passed the meridian of life: last number of your new monthly that he was skilled in political contro- magazine, where, as i had good cause versy ; habituated to the periodical press; to expect, i found in several ingenious living at his ease without any profes- papers, materials for helping me to a sional occupation; possessing great self- tolerable judgment of the question ; al- command ; unconnected with party ; yet though i found it necessary afterwards disappointed in some particular object to go abroad into the world, and to exa- which produced a deadly enmity to indi- mine “whether these things are so ?" viduals; a staunch republican ; one who and upon the best combinations which was neither a member of the established could be formed upon these materials, church, nor a friend to revealed religion; i submit to your superior judgment the and to conclude all, a person who sought, following hints, to serve for a standard for some particular end, to effect a rero- of modern genius: lution in this country. by these tests to avoid the pleddling and dull round alone can the question be satisfactorily of all moral reflection-all system that solved, who was junics?' discovers connection between cause and . (june , . lord byron's travels in greece. effect, reason and conclusion, to seek the celebrated motto “ veluti in specu- for and cultivate eccentricity of thought, lum." the scene has not, would to god abrupt expression, elevation of feeling, it had, represented one similitude to real the softened sigh of sympathy, and the life-one principle on which the world start of animated passion. to learn may act with safety-one emotion such that genius cannot exist or emanate as he would cherish at home-one enjoy- under the dominion or restraint of any ment of present existence-or one hope moral principle, and especially of any of future !-yet, alas! it is by such ef. command of religion, the influence of forts of genius that the world are poison- such are of so powerful and convincing ed-it is for these that they leave the a control, that they must be carefully nobler studies of their capacity-and of shunned if they should ever obtrude. these their conversation is absorbed, and to awaken the reader's imagination, their reflections possessed. hence it is, not by the work out axiom of shewing a that for such productions thousands sound moral in every tale, but by the far of pounds are offered for copy-right- more attractive stimulus of emotion, applications are made with solicitation which shall so alarm the mind, and agi- to obtain the first reading-eagerness tate every pulsation of the heart, that for the gratification and vanity of detail- it may not have time to consider whe- ing the contents, and reciting to sur- ther it is annended by what has been rounding senators, divines, and all the read or represented to describe facts crowded votaries of the concert and the by terms not usually found in the con. drawing room, the passages of most pro- binations of literature, but by the use of minent interest and pathos. alas! sir, words never intended to be joined in the it is for these transient emotions, that same course of phrascology-to seek for the wisest moralists, the most pathetic nature, not in her calmer and once poets, the soundest divines of the chris- deemed most engaging representations, tian church, and the ablest writers on the beauties and exhaustless providences subjects the most important to our vital of her vegetable, mineral, and fossil interests, as a nation, and as individuals, kingdoms, her planetary system, her are suffered to languish as if they were changes of uninterrupted seasons, and devoid of truth and welfare, present and the revolutions of unsparing bounty, eternal. a. h. thus “ tracing nature up to nature's god." these are not sufficient for the radiance and effervescence of modern lord byron's travels in greece. genius, and are now deserted for the to the name of lord byron so much periods, points, and tropes, that spring importance is attached, and his splendid from the bursting pang of imaginary abilities have rendered him so dear to his despair-from the chains and darkness country, that the most trifling anecdote of the sanguinary scaffold- from the of his private life is sure to create public satanic eruption of infidelity, and the admiration. i had the good fortune to vain glorious gallantry of seduction !- follow his footsteps through many of these are the modern sources of genius; the grecian islands, to athens, and here may bc found the awful note of ad misitra, the ancient sparta, and from miration-the sudden abruption-the thence to port mahon, in the island of short half-breathing pause--the vivid minorca ; in every place i found his inspiration of the cold thrill-the accom- lordship's name well known, and uni- paniments of glassy eyes and short versally respected, and so many anec- phrases of secret and solemn denuncia- dotes of his benevolence and eccentri- tion-the midnight clang of chains - cities recorded, that i feel assured i the glimmering torches of the cavern should be doing injustice to my country. and dexterously slow withdrawing bolts men by withholding what i know of a - the expiring lamp, and the unseen wandering poet, who is an honour to the point of the silent assassin's dagger!- nation, and the first bard of the from these, when the half destroyed age, and in whose sufferings every one reader is suffered to escape. he is not to sympathises. it appears to us, that be allowed to seek for object, end, or lord byron had come from abydos to circunstance, or moral of his dreamı; tenedos, but is left by stars and dashes to wander where he remained until the arrira “in bewildered mazes lost !" of his pleasure vessel from this is- here, sir, is the standard of modern land. he made frequent excursions genius-here when the curtain falls, the to the continent, and here, i have spectator and the reader in vain look for no doubt, he wrote the bride of .} . lord byron's travels in greece. abydos. at the time i visited the island, give historical disquisitions, and i have every thing was in a deplorable state; dune. the russians had ravaged the place, the all around this ruined temple, tall vineyards were destroyed, and all was trees ware majestically in the breeze, desolation. the house in which lord and upon the left a gentle cascade byron resided was razed to the ground; descends in murmurs to the valley below, it stood facing the hellespont, and had and a small lake studded with little ver- a full view of the entrance to the sea of dant islands, the daily resort of fisher- marmoru, the castles and shores of the men, receives its waters. the prospect dardanelles : but i could not discover is pleasing, though not grand, calculated any trace of the wandering poet; all to inspire the mind with tranquillity was lost in the devastation occasioned by and peace :- war. the felucca of lord byron had within the ruin heedless of the dead, ' arrived, and on a sudden he embarked the shelter-seeking peasant builds him and sailed for shed, the island op scio. and wondering man could want the larger at scio, the landing of his lordship pile, was hailed with joy by the natives, as exulting owns his cottage with a smile. ." he had been there before, and was well known; the felucca was brought to beneath the stately ruins of the tem- anchor under the high hill of delgath, ple sh ple of apollo, on the hill of supriano, and lord byron proceeded up the island in the island of scio, is reared a small cot." on the high mountain of sopriano, which tage, by materials torn from the stately overlooks every other on the island, and ruins which surround it; in this cottage from the summits of which, the eye there are only four apartments, and commands a most enchanting prospect these very small ; in two of them lord of nearly small islands, the distant con- byron took up his abode, with his fair tinent and a placid ocean. here stands the companion. 'tis a singular fact that ruins of a temple, believed to have been his lordship never visited the capital dedicated to apollo; there are twelve once during a three months' residence massy pillars, about forty feet in height, upon the island; nor can i eren guess at supporting a roof, through which the his reasons for not doing so, as the light is visible in many parts. i am no me town is an interesting object to every architect, nor have i a genius which which one versed in the lore of greece. he tends that way; but i certainly have rambled round the island to every clas- some general knowledge of the different sical scene, and very frequently slept at orders, or i should bave travelled with the peasant's cottages, where he was a brainless head and a blinded eye, over sure to be well received. there is a scenes calculated to awaken every gene- something about the manner and ap- rous feeling of the heart, and which only pearance of lord byron, that bespeaks insanity could look apon with in- sympathy; the melancholy tinge that difference. i therefore give it as my he bears upon his check- the faded opinion, that the temple of which i lustre of his eye, and his affable address am now speaking is not of greciani always find him friends; which his architecture. " liberality is sure to fix in his favour. his in the reign of ptolemy philadelphus, lordship was very partial to water ex- scio was conquered and ravaged by a cursions; and here he bought a boat, fleet from egypt, under the command i with one sail, and in which he often of johannes sextus; his account of the went fishing, taking an old man witha island was so favourable, that he was him to conduct the sail and steer the sent back with perhaps four hundred boat ; his favoured fair berinthia, al. men, women, and children to colonise it, ways accompanied him, and was very and cultivate the manufacture of silk and expert at fishing. in various rambles cotton, for which it is now so celebrated. round the island, they diffused their these egyptians, i have no doubt, reared bounty to many ; to one, a farmer, who the temple of apollo, but to a very had lost a horse and cart in crossing the different divinity ; i should think to stream of carrerio, they gave ten ze. osiris, from the embellishments still re- chines or five guineas, and to a woman maining upon the pilasters, and the that had afforded berinthia assistance in resemblance the cornices bear to those an hour of danger, lord byron gave upon the temple of apis, in upper three moidores, that is four pounds and egypt. however, my purpose is not to be to one shilling. (june , lord byron's travels in greece. an aged greek woman, residing at a soon took a lowering aspect, and some place called epheseus, and where she danger accompanied the voyage of iny occupied a small vineyard and two fields, lord. berinthia sickened; but the ten- had been distrained for rent. the der care of his lordship restored her to turkish collector (albana) had no mercy; health. the gale abated: the vessel he seized her goods and put them up for anchored in sanchez bay; and in a few sale. lord byron bought them, and hours they landed upon the isle of mitf- restored them to the widow, to the utter lene. this island was a favourite of astonishment of the turks, who cannot lord byron from his early tratelling comprehend an act of generosity, uncon- days. nected with self interest. how far peace and happiness extended the school erected for grecian scho- to lord byron, upon the favourite is. lars at scio, lord byron refused to land, i leave the world to judge. tbe visit; but a deputation of the master wearied mind seldom finds repose any and scholars he received politely. to where, and even upon a female breast, the scholars he gave twenty praas (or a indulges in sad melancholy, in place of shilling each), to the master fifty pounds rapturous love. joy and grief travel for the use of the school, and a robe hand in hand- they are concomitants; for himself of velvet and satin.-- in and, i fear, we must consider them as in- the grecian isles, and every part be- separable companions in our journer neath the turkish power, the present of through life. a robe is the highest compliment which one morning lord byron arranged can be paid to any individual. matters to go fishing, and in a large boat the departure of lord byron from he sailed for the purpose, accompanied scio was marked by an act of benevo- by his fair friend, who was very fond of lence. his lordship presented the boat the sport. after fishing for three hours which he had purchased to the fisher- off the point gobriano, a severe rale man who had accompanied him in his of wind came on, direct upon the land; : nautical excursions, and also gave him the nets were abandoned, and the ten pounds. berinthia also gave his sails hoisted, it was found impossible niece, a girl of fourteen years of age, a to weather the cape; no alternative re. handsome present, as she had attended mained, but to bear up and run into the her since her arrival upon the island. long bleak bay of alicarno, where there lord byron had, during his residence is no anchorage for shipping, and no upon the island, explored every creek and safety for boats, except in the north eorner it contained. the cave, entitled east corner. the sea rose in heaps ; homer's school, he visited. scio, mity- and in endeavouring to luff into the lene, and valparos, all claim the honour cove, a most dreadful surge broke orer; of giving birth to homer, and affect to the boat did not overturn, but reeled shew caves, which they call his school. upon her broadside, and, melancholy to now, although homer was a poet and relate, it boy was swept from the pror, a wandering minstrel, history gives us and berinthia from the stern of the no authority for supposing he ever kept boat. the sails were lowered, the boat a school : nerertheless, in scio, lord almost instantly righted, and his lord- byron gave to the keeper of the cave a ship, plunging into the waves, seized his greek testament and some money; but fair friend by the hair, as she was sink- this does not establish any opinion of ing, and swam with her to the boat, his lordship as to the actual residence where she rery soon recovered. bra of homer in scio. the departure of fortunate change of wind the boat got lord byron from scio was marked by into the cove, and they landed in safett, much regret on the part of the gre to the great joy of the inhabitants, who cians, to whom he had been a sincere had witnessed their danger from the friend; and even the turks seemed to cliffs, and never expected to see them, lament his departure. his felucca ar again alive. after this, his lordship rived at point soinbro, and captain never adventured on the stormy deep hutchison attended him with his friend in an open boat, from the island of mitr. on board. the turks, by an extraor- lene-not, i am sure, from any personal dinary exertion of gallantry, fired a fear, but as berinthia would not accon- salute of four guns from the castle, which pany him, he preferred the pleasure of lord byron returned by eight, as he her company on shore. it is impossible left the harbour of scio, and made a to conceive a sweeter scene for ramb- visit to the island of mitylene. ling, than through the vine-covered hills the day was calm, but the atmosphere of this delightful island. .] lord byron's travels in greece. the imagination may picture scenes the character of lord byron, in the upon the tablet of fancy, and embody island of cos, was, as usual, very bene- them so that they cannot be shaken off volent; and if i detailed the many cir. the mind; but in mitylene there is no cumstances i know of him, it would ac- reason to resort to the power of fancy, cupy me many pages to expatiate upon. for all is life and magic around; the the name of lord byron requires no wood-covered hill, the descending valley, praise, and wherever the footsteps of perfumed by every flower that blows, his lor.iship have passed, he has left an and the stream rolling in tranquillity impression never to be effaced. lord around the temples erected in distant byron slept always on board of his ages, and lashing the shores immortalized yacht, no convenient place being to by homer- these create a very great at- be had upon the island. to those who traction, and rivet the soul to a classical have visited greece the commanding scene. prospect from villa de torneo must be from every information i could ac- very desirable; but at corso point, to quire lord byron appears to bave been which lord byron removed his pleasure extremely attached to the island of mity vessel, his lordship was attacked by a lene, but the death of an infant found- painful disorder, and obliged to be land. ed his determination to depart from it. ed, and the air did not very much contri- he has been said to have shed tears upon bute to his health. by the attention of the occasion. i am inclined to think he his fair friend, he gradually recovered ; did, for i know his heart is good, and very and after dispensing his usual bounties, tender. the proofs of his humanity are much more than the natives merited, his great. his lordship visited no island lordship departed, and arrived in safety upon which he did not leave some marks at of his goodness. to the greek church athens. at mitylene he gave forty pounds british; the attention, i was told, of his lord- to the hospital he gave sixty pounds; and ship at athens, was chiefly directed to in private charity, i am told, distributed literary subjects; and in this cele. more than three hundred zechines. i brated spot lord byron took up his am po advocate for the name, or charac- abode, and there spent much of his ter of lord byron ; his fame or his dis tine in writing, and never walked honour can be of no importance to me, out until the sun was down, nor re- any further than in a national point of turned home until near midnight. - view. i consider him a distinguished here, no doubt, he traced many of the ornament in the annals of literature; scenes in “ childe harold," destined to and as he has been much depreciated, render his name immortal. from the and very unjustly, i wish to add my account i heard, his lordship seems at humble 'mite of praise to that character this place to have been impressed with which no briton cin view in its proper deep melancholy. “ polycarp," at whose light without esteeming. house he resided, related many circum- the sun shone sweetly over the egean stances of him, but which i do not pain, and all nature smiled around feel warranted in repeating. “ as cun- when lord byron left mitylene. the ning as a greek,” is a very old and true soft eastern breeze soon wafted him to saying, and from our eager anxiety i cos. feared he meant to impose upon us, but upon this small island there was no i have since had reason to alter my opi- shelter, the cottages were not fit to hold nion. as a coffee-house-keeper he bears their inhabitants, and not sufficiently an exemplary character, and it is general- capacious to give admittance to a stran- ly no small recommendation to his good ger ; but there was a friendly propen- name, that the unfortunate t'weddell sity in the natives worthy of attending chose liim for his guide through athens. to, and his lordship availed himself of he shewed us a book, upon the leaves of it. there are not many trees in the is- which were inscribed numerous names, land of cos, but many extended and succeeded with recommendations of him beautiful vineyards, and the highest tree and his house to future travellers. this upon it is that which bears figs. on the book i did not see until a second visit to top of the hill called junonia are the athens. amongst the names i observed ruids of a small temple, three pillars lord elgin, mr. salt, mr. tweddell, alone are standing, and all the remainder lord byron, count monyelio, mon- is a wreck. over the sweet scenery of sieur tallien, &c. &c. the island his lordsbip and berinthia the accounts were interesting at the ran with pleasure. end of each name, particularly that of (june , prophecy of the appearance of martin luther. tweddell, who says, “ he is an ho. a variety of authors who have mention. nest man, and an intelligent guide-l ed this circumstance; amongst these he shall never live to do him a service, but i refers his reader to schuhmach,* whose recommend him to my countrymen who testimony on most occasions is entitled may arrive at this much-neglected spot." to the fullest confidence : in the pre- lord byron's name has simply pre sent instance however, they have all been fixed to it-“ polycarp is an honest mistaken; for at the very moment when man," which i conceive the strongest re. luther first came to study at eisenach, commendation borne on his book. - (that is to say, in the year ,) hilton the name of “ tallien," so notorious, was languishing in a prison, from which appears odd to be affixed in such a place, the hand of death alone released him. but i can account for its appearance in a from his earliest youth hilton dis- manner not very generally understood. tinguished himself by active prosecution buonaparte, from jealousy of his ta- of his studies and diligent meditation on lents, or his natural turbulent disposi- the holy scriptures, as well as the works tion, sent him to france from egypt in of the fathers of the church, and a disgrace. the vessel “ la narcisse," in some report, the writings of the wal- which he embarked, was chased and denses. by means of his deep read- driven on shore upon the island of gozo ing and sedulous application, the advan- near candia (the ancient crete) by the tages of which could scarcely be lost on briton sloop of war. from thence tal- his discerning and reflecting mind, his lien found his way to athens, and over- eyes were opened to the errors of the land to france romish doctrines. he opposed, and it may be worth mentioning, in order then denounced them; nor could any to gratify natural curiosity, that this personal considerations deter him from man, who once figured at the head of the vehemently arraigning the abuses of the french government, is now reduced to monastic life. it was in the nature of such an abject state, that he holds the things that so powerful an assailant situation of french consul at the spanish should become an object of bitter hatred port of corunna. to his brotherhood, who attacked him lord byron took many sketches of the with the greatest fury, and not only threw ruins at athens and its environs, and i him into prison in the year , but understand expressed his opinion that threatened to bury him alive unless he the “ elgin marbles" were of a modern recanted. having fallen sick during his date. in this i coincide with his confinement, he besought the father lordship, and believe that, like the guardian to visit him ; but all that the “ tuscan vases” of sir william hamil- holy father administered to him was ton, many of them were engraved, or in- contumely, upbraiding, and insective. scribed by foreigners, to take in milord roused to indignation by this inhuman anglais.' the english frigate “ fre- treatment, hilton uttered the prophetic derickstein," commanded by captain warning contained in these memorable bedford, a name not unknown in the words: -"anno. mdxvii. exsurget walks of science, arrived, and anchored heros, quivos monachos adorietur acri near athens. lord byron, by one of ter; contra quem ne hiscere quidem those eccentricities which accompany audibetis." he did not live to witness genius, declined an interview with cap- the subsequent, plenary accomplishment tain bedford, and embarking his whole of this remarkable prophecy; for he died suite in his felucca, sailed to the island of in the year . salamis. j. m. christina, the widow of john ernest, duke of eisenach, erected a cenotaph to remarkable prophecy of the ap- his memory, in st. george's church, at pearance and career of martin eisenach ; it stands at no great distance luther. from the spot where his last remains were john hilton, the franiscan monk, deposited, and is of common sand-stone, who acquired as high a reputation for slightly ornamented with gilding, eight piety and virtue, as he gained celebrity feet high, four feet nine inches broad. by his extraordinary prophecies, was a and consists of two pieces of stone. the native of the principality of fulda, and outer projection of this monument bears is said by some writers to have been one the following inscription": "johcari of luther's preceptors at the schoolof the franciscans at eisenach. walcha* cites # vide his “ ivth collection illustrative of the his. of saxony, and particularly of • luther's schriften, (writings,) part eisenach,” p_ . xxiv. p. . + toppü hist. eisenach, p. , .) prophecy of the appearance of martin luther. hiltenio, monacho franciscano, propter ters v.w. allude to valentine weinrich, .confessionem evangelicæ et refutationem rector of eisenach, and the author of the pontificiæ religionis a fratribus, anno elegiac verses which distinguish the centre mccccvi,in carcerem conjecto in eoque of the monument, and of which the fol vita defuncto. non cullus sed memoriæ lowing is a transcript :- caussa f.f.v.w. antiq. stud." the let- cenotaphivm. hiltenii patris monachi, simul atque prophetae, non procul hoc recubant ossa sepulta loco, qui cum voce dei fratrum taxarat abusus, pectora contendens vivere justa fide; carceris enectus tandem squalore famsque, moesta prophetarum premia more tulit. sed prius appellans ad christi voce tribunal, cum peragenda deo judice caussa for et, * tempora principii cecinit tvnc plana lvtucri, signaque supremum dans praeitura diem, bvy itala regna statim victori et tevtona turca, À cet i svccvbit vra, plls, vaticinatvs, alt. prima quod evenit praedictio vera fateris, *** altera ne fiat vera, precare deum. underneath these verses, we read, bare-footed monk, by name johannes “renovatun av. clola clxix. sum- hilten, who was cast into a dungeon by tibus j. m." 'and quite at the top, above his brethren, because he had attacked them, “ duv taticinia johannis hiltenii. some of the notorious abuses of the unúm. anno domini mdxvii. en- monastic life. we have ourselves seen surget heros, qui cos monachos ado- some of his writings, from which it rietur acriter, contra quem ne hiscere appears abundantly manifest, that he quidem audebilis. alterum. anno mdc. preached christianly, and in conforinity mundus verberabitur gladio mahometico with the holy scriptures. and those, vehementer." it is desirable that some who knew him, report to this day, that speedy repairs should be bestowed on he was a devout and peaceful tem- this monument, for it has great need of pered old man, and upright as well as them." respectable in all his walks and ways. • this same hilten used frequently to this person prophesied many things re. say, “sub leone erorietur eremita, qui lating to these days, and foretold what reformabit sedem romanam ; which lu- has already happened: together with ther interprets by observing, that he some events, which are hereafter to come began to write against indulgences under to pass ; but we shall not relate these leo the tenth, and that in italy the things in this place, lest any may imagine *augustine monks were known by the that we have brought thein forward either name of “ eremitæ."* tenzel' has through malignity, or with intent to recorded two other prophecies made by please any soul alive. old age accom- hilten, and current in rome; besides panied the ruin to his health, brought which, he is said to have prognosticated about by his imprisonment; at last he that the monastery of the cordeliers in fell sick, prayed the guardian to come to weimar, (at present a granary,) should him, complained to him of his weak state; be converted into a store-house, and that and when the guardian, stirred up by of the franciscans at eisenach into a pharisaical matice and bitterness of heart, garden.f he is also said, to have fore- assailed him with hard words, because such told the end of the world. i preaching as his was unsavoury, profitless • leaving these prophecies to their flavour, he gave over bewailing his bodily peaceful slumber, we have further to infirmity, drew a deep sigh, and said observe, that luther himself, has ad- with a sorrowful mien, that he was ready verted to them, and confirmed the ac- to submit to and endure such injustice count we have just given of their pro for christ's sake; although he had neither pounder:-" thirty years ago," he says, written nor taught any thing which could “there lived in the city of eisenach, a be hurtful to the monkish order ; but had simply attacked crying abuses.' and toppii, hist. eisenach. p . ne finished by observing, 'a man shall + ibid. lib. c. p. . it has so hap- come, when mdxvi comes round, who pened that both these prophecies have been will overthrow you monks; and he will literally fulfilled. be the undoing of you, and ye shall not ibid. p . be able to withstand him. this iden. new monthly mag. -no. . vol. xi. e [june , considerations on the poor laws. tical prophecy," continues luther, “ of than among actual overseers. in order the overthrow of the monkish order, and to form just opinions on this subject it the mention of the same year of its oc- requires an intimate acquaintance with currence, was afterwards found in several common life, which profound philoso- writings of his, and particularly in his phers seldom have opportunities of ac- commentaries on daniel. as to the quiring. although, undoubtedly, (speak- interpretation which should be given to ing from my own experience more in. this man's saying, we leave every one to structive than any other science) it must judge for himself." s. be allowed to be also of a painful and repulsive nature, on account of the mi- considerations on the poor law's. sery and destitution which continually mr. editor. present themselves. from the know- the present prevailing sentiments of ledge which a long course of actual ob- most of our political economists, and servation has enabled me to acquire of the even of our legislators,+ with regard to character and circumstances of the lower the nature and tendency of our poor orders. i am led to conclude that our laws, must, i think, be acknowledged by poor laws, with all their imperfections, every unprejudiced person, to be ex- are on the whole well calculated to sup- tremely inconsistent and absurd. while ply their wants; and are the noblest they confess that charity is the most in- monument of humanity that ever was dispensable duty of man, they at the reared among men. when i reflect on same time assert that it immediately be- the great sums raised by them; on the comes noxious when subjected to just unceasing labours and anxious cares ex- and equitable regulations. bishop bur- ercised by the most respectable persons net was, i imagine, the first who ad- throughout the country, in their just dis- vanced this opinion, in which he has been tribution ; and on the immense variety followed by smith and malthus. en- of humane services by which they con- couraged by these respectable names, tinually soften the misery of the desti- and by several fallacious facts and argu- tute, the diseased, and the aged; eng- ments, such a revolutionary spirit has of land appears more elevated in my ima- late sprung up amongst us, that there is gination than by all the great actions of some reason to fear that our whole sys- tem of parochial charity will very soon a nelson and a wellington. many ig- norant and savage nations have rendered be rashly overturned. it is proper, how- ever, to observe, that this innovating themselves conspicuous by military ho- g nours ; but how few have been ambi- disposition is more frequently found tious to shine by acts of pity ; or, in- annong speculative overseers of the poor deed, have thought of mingling with * apologia confessionis rendered into their political institutions the least tinc- german by jones, anno xxx, in the d ture of moral feeling. the interests and part of the alternburgh edition, p. . grandeur of the state have been almost compare also what luther says in his book, the sole study of the most civilized na- de conciliis, in opp. altenb. t. , p. . tions, either of ancient or modern times. the treatment which hilten received from it is the peculiar glory of england, that the bare-footed monks of eisenach, is re- the helpless poor have at last become lated in the apologia. prominent in the national picture, and heumaun maintains in his treatise, “ im- an object of important consideration in mortalis isenaci gloria,” that the real com- mencement of the reformation should be its councils. dated from the time of john hilten. vide the usual arguments against the poor köhler i. c. p. . he may at least be laws are very forcibly and ably stated in called the fore-runner of luther. the the th number of the edinburgh re- works, which treat on his prophecies, are view, and in the contemporary number cited in fabricii “ centifol luther,' p. of the quarterly ;* but i think with a . degree of intemperate zeal and confi- hilten's commentary on daniel and the dence unsuitable to a subject so compli- revelation of st. john, may be cited as fine specimens of his erudition. * the writers of these celebrated publi- a late committee of the house of cations here cordially agree in the business commons seemed to be of opinion, that it of censure when unconnected with politics ; would, on the whole, be advantageous alto- but were the subject only a little changed, gether to abolish the poor laws: while that and the propriety of encouraging and sup- of the house of lords, more cautious, porting the system of imperial and royal thought that it would be dangerous, at once, pauperty, usual in our continental wars, dis- to tear from the foundation an evil so deep- cussed, their sentiments, it is likely, would rooted. be found to differ. .) considerations on the poor laws. cated, and susceptible of such various and and that an extensive, deliberate, and opposite bearings. the edinburgh re just administration of charity, is, in all viewers, in particular, are transported respects, preferable to the transient, into a kind of frenzy at the view of the unequal, and accidental ebullition of indi- supposed baneful effects of systematic vidual goodness, can hardly be denied by alms-giving. words are wanting to de- any who suffer themselves to be guided scribe all its vast and various horrors. by the dictates of common sense rather it is a contagion-a deadly mischief--a than the far-fetched theories of philo- sore evil-a tremendous system, which sophy. has brought us to the very brink of de- although the reviewers exhaust the struction. it is awful-alarming-appal- whole powers of language in describing ling-dreadful, &c. i am unwilling to the supposed evils that flow froin our swell your pages unnecessarily, but the poor laws, yet they make not the least at- following passage is so extraordinary tempt to bring them to the test of proof. that it cannot fail to amuse your readers: it is asserted, that by the great and ge- the mind of the writer must, surely, one neral encouragement given to pauperism would think, have been somewhat dis- the manners and virtues of the people composed by the funies of enthusiasm. are debased. it is obvious, on the con- “ it is the result of a natural process, trary, that they are more calculated to that what a man earns is his own; and support their virtues ; for, by their in- when legislation offers to tamper with terference, the relief of the unfortunate, this great arrangement of nature, as is becoming a matter of right, they are the case in the english soor laws, vio- protected from the abject submission of lated nature could not inflict a more being obliged to beg from their equals a signal and instructive chastisement, than morsel of bread. this last hypothesis that the whole territory where this sys- is justified by facts: the common people tem exists be made to droop and wither of england are noted throughout eu- under it, as if struck by a judgment from rope, not only for their bravery in the heaven ; till, at last, the earth, out of field, but for the spirit and dignity of which the rich draw all their wealth, and their general behaviour. it is thought, the poor all their subsistence, refuses to that by perpetually taking from the rich nourish the children who have abandon- and giving to the poor they tend to ed her, and both parties are involved in equalise property. far from observing the wreck of one common overwhelming any symptoms of such consequences, it visitation."-p. . these sublime rar- may justly be remarked, that in no age ings remind me of the insane philosophy or country have there occurred so many of godwin and condorcet; and appear instances of enormous fortunes acquired more “ alarming” and “appalling" than by individuals as of late years in eng- even the french republican theory of land. our poor laws possess still greater the rights of man. legislation, as every powers of mischief-that of reducing all one knows, tampers with a man's earn- ranks to absolute poverty. it is truly ings, and very properly too, for much surprising that both the quarterly and less important purposes than those of edinburgh reviewers unite in the ridi- alleviating human miserv. compulsory culous assertion, that“ they have brought charity is farther stigmatised as “ an at- us to the very brink of ruin.” the in- tempt to wrest from ibe hands of nature crease of charity, whether public or pri- the management of a casc, for which, byvate, always present to my mind cheer- certain principles implanted in the con- ing reflections; and i consider it as the stitution of man, she has already pro- surest test of progressive wealth, civili- argument, and suffer human conduct to during these last thirty years, when the be regulated by instinctive feelings of poor rates were at the highest, england right and wrong, we would soon get rid has accumulated more than double the of all laws. nature has provided a cer- wealth she had ever formerly done during tain principle called conscience, yet we the same period. querulous and nar- need laws against theft. to leave any row-minded politicians will tell us of the part of human conduct “ wholly to the national debt; but they ought to reflect mechanism of nature" to “ free un- that the money of which it consists was shackled nature,” is wild and inconsi- had chiefly of british subjeots, therefore derate advice. there is no subject either will remain in the country, and actually in morals or physics, under our control, constitutes a great part of its riches. it but is susceptible, in some degree, of is, indeed, a positive proof of our amaz- being improved, corrected, or regulated: ing prosperity: a century ago so large a (june , considerations on the poor laws. sum as five hundred millions could hardly a principle of action, is spurned at with have been borrowed from the superflu- contempt; to the meanest person it pre- ous wealth of all europe in the space of sents no charms; and, assuredly, it never twenty years; which, as is well known, entered into the future plans of any man lately occurred in england alone. much as his destined fortune and inheritance. unnecessary zeal and profusion of dis- it is only when too late, when industri- course is expended by the edinburgh ous habits cannot be acquired, that this reviewers, it attempting to prove that humiliating idea forces itself on the mind assessed charity has a tendency “ to en- already butfeted and tamed by adversity. feeble, if not wholly to suppress, the to every one capable of reflection the operation of the humane principle.” a prospect of receiving public alms, instead notion altogether crude and theoretical, of being an encouragement must rather and also coinpletely at variance with operate as a check to extravagance. fact. in england, where assessed cha- the english mode of parish relief rity is carried to the greatest extent, the appears indeed to me, to possess peculiar humane principle flourishes with greater advantages ; for, while on the one hand vigour than among any people; and, in- it does not subject the unfortunate sup decd, has increased with the increase of plicant to such a degree of debasement the poor rates. as that of creeping and trembling before but the chief argument which our re- the capricious inclinations of a friend or viewers, and indeed all who have treated neighbour; on the other hand, its notori- the subject, urge against parochial cha- ousness is calculated to make a deeper rity, is, that it relaxes the natural incite impression on the mind when viewed in ments to industry and foresight. trust- prospect. the dismal well-known sounds ing to this resource, the common people of overseers, workhouses, and formal are supposed to dissipate their income in public applications present more terrifie luxuries; reflecting, that as the parish images than the mere general idea of is bound to support them, they may eat, poverty; and, instead of relaxing, is, i drink, and be merry, and banish from hare no doubt, a spur to industrious er- their minds the gloomy ideas of disease, ertions. this opinion, novel as it may want, and old age. although this argu- seem, receives considerable countenance ment sounds well, yet when fairly exa- from facts. in england small sums are mined it will be found completely con oftener accumulated by the working tradictory to the most obvious predo classes, saving banks, and benefit societies minant principles in human nature, and more eagerly sought after, as a pro- also to an actual observation of luman tection against pauperism, than even in actions. very little reasoning, of any scotland, the inhabitants of which are kind, about distant affairs takes place so much noted for their provident care.* among the vulgar, but none surely were that pauperty is never a matter of ever found tilled with such a degree of previous deliberate choice, as insinuated speculative anxiety as to hesitate about by the reviewers, but almost of neces- gratifying their appetites before first sity, will be more apparent from a review settling whether theinselves or the pa- of the real history of the paupers, ac- r'ish were to supply their future wants. cording to the best of my observation, when they indulge in excesses the un- the half consists of forlorn females, whose pleasant idea of future want is nerer provision was always very small and ffered, in any shape, to intrude itself; precarious, and of unfortunate married their minds are wholly occupied by the persons and their destitute offspring, desire of present enjoyments. as man- whose weekly income was under twenty kind are not accustoined, nor, indeed, shillings; all of whom instead of being are capable of drawing their common able to lay in store for the day of adrer- maxims of life from distant speculations, sity, could never well procure the bare so also it ought in justice to be remarked, necessaries of life. a fourth were both that, of all subjects, those about becom- ing an object of charity are least the * the chief cause of the remarkable in wish of their hearts. such an idea is frequency of pauperism among the scotch is most ancongenial to human nature ; and their extremely plain manner of living; we need not hesitate in asserting, that which account, a very little exertion on the part of the feeble or the aged, or a trifling no man ever squandered his money in assistance from their friends, will suffice for the consolatory expectation of one day their support. but shameful instances d becoming a pauper. in the days of neglected destitution are often seen among health, of youth, and of manhood, such them; several of which i myself have wito a thought, instead of being cherished as nessed, .) considerations on the poor laws. able and willing to provide for their effects of our extensive and seasonable future wants, but by unavoidable mis attentions to the aged, diseased, and des- fortunes were reduced to a state of desti. titute poor, and ought for ever to silence tution. the remaining fourth are equally our clamors about the magnitude of the excusable ; they consist of weak, incon- poor rates. siderate persons, whose misfortunes have from to died in . · originated from natural incapacity. thus - to - in . it is clear that the proposed abolition of - to - l in , the poor laws could not possibly dimi- to - in . nish the number of the destitute ; but i cannot well conceive the reason whr certainly would increase the number of our increased charitable expenditure the miserable. should excite more surprise and alarm it has often been asserted that the than our proportionate increased private common people of england have in and public expenditure, and the equal several respects suffered much from de- advance in the price of provisions and terioration under the malign influence of every article of consumption. the fol- the poor laws. the condition of the lowing calculations, extracted from a lower classes, struggling hard for an in- pamphlet lately published by mr. j. bar- different living, is at all times a painful ton, does not much accord with those spectacle ; but i have reason to think loud and despairing lamentations of the that at the present time, they are on the great and alarming increase of the poor whole more comfortable than at any rates, which of late years has constantly former period. the following statement assailed our ears. the last year exhibits of the progressive decrease of deaths in even a decrease of our burthens on ac- great britain demonstrates the salutary count of the poor : annual expenses of the poor, computed with reference to the price of corn. average price expended charge per head on the of wheat on the poor. whole population. from to . . . d. . . l. , , . . pints of wheat. to . . : . , , . . to .. : . . , , . . to .. : , , .. if, then, the magnitude and increase which, with such means, can protect froin of the poor rates does not originate, ac- utter destruction so vast a multitude. cording to the common opinion, in poli- but a more effectual way than all our tical disease, but is the natural effect of reasonings to obviate objections against the present state of things, we may safely the poor laws, would be, to render the despise those gloomy forebodings of their rates more just and equal; i mean, that continued rise until at last they terminate erery man should be rated according to in our ruin, and more reasonably con- his ability. all the petty inconvenience, clude, that as the same causes occasioned attending this plan ought to be disre- the universal rise, the whole will now garded ; and surely deserve not the least remain stationary -perhaps, in some de- consideration, when compared not only gree, retrograde. at any rate, we need with the partiality, but the real injustice not be very much afraid, that the annual of our present practice. instead of en- expense of five millions to the poor, will croaching on your valuable space by ex- prove, as we are threatened, a gulf to plu.ning, in different points of view, the swallow the whole of our property, when nature of this injustice, i shall only men- we recollect, that lately, even in time of tion one short instance, as it is extremely war, we could spare four times that sum common. a gentleman, worth seven as extra taxes, without hearing any more thousand a-year, is known, in no other than the usual discontent at taxes which we place or way, to pay more to the heard before and since. indeed, when i re- poor than what his house is rated at; flect, that of our population there are per- while his next neighbour, a clergy. haps nine millions actually poor, toiling man's widow, who keeps a lodging house, for the day that passes over their heads, the whole of whose property hardly and continually tottering on the brink of amounts to . pays exactly the same : want, instead of affecting to wonder at and, were i to tell what i suspect to be our lavish expenditure, i am rather dis- true, might add, that in order to make posed to admire that penurious prudence, the payment good, is obliged at times, - -- - - - - - (june , considerations on the poor laws. with her children, to forego some of the tages. the pains taken by government necessaries of life. the income tax, to in the establishment of saving banks is which the plan i recommend would be also highly laudable. that relief which similar, * was loudly condemned as inqui. the poor themselves provide is on every sitorial and vexatious ;-better so, than account best; not only as it is the most unjust and oppressive. but whatever just, but also because it invigorates in- was pretended, its real vexation was the dustry, and nourishes those feelings of taking of our money. no man can have independence which tend farther to re- any grounds for concealing the state of move them from the ideas and disposi- his property, except the ridiculous desire tions of paupers. benefit societies, of imposing on his neighbours by false which, in some respects, are preferable appearances of grandeur, or that of de- to saving banks, also stand in need of ceiving his creditors. farther attention from government. eng. the perpetual disputes in determining lishinen appear to entertain a great predi- the settlement of paupers, the great ex- lection for them; yet it is lamentable to pense and infinite vexation to all parties reflect, that notwithstanding the general which they occasion, have long been the desire of the lower orders, by such means subject of complaint, and various reme. to escape the disgrace and misery of pa- dies have been proposed. the complete, rish relief, that they should be so much the safe, and the easy cure would be, in all frustrated in their laudable wishes. from cases to assist poor, where misfortune be- injudicious management, and perhaps, fals them, without any inquiry about their also, unfair practices in some of their original. it is true, that a parish may founders and conductors-- from imposi. sometimes suffer by the sudden appear. tions in profligate members pretending ance of a pauper ; but has it not an equal sickness - but chiefly from their schemes chance of benefiting by the contrary? being too flattering, promising more than it might, however, be feared, that the they can perform, not one in ten of poor would all crowd into an opulent these societies, at least in the metropolis, parish from the neighbouring poorer last so long as to be of service to the ones. to this i reply, that if they did, members in old age, when most needed. it would only be promoting the general effectually to remedy their defects, i ends of justice. but of such intrusive would recommend: . that one fair and visits i do not think that the rich parish equitable scheme be proposed by govern- need be in much terror. the poor man ment, which alone could be protected by struggling with adversity, is very little law. . that in every parish a society prone to busy himself with foreign be established, called the parochial be- schemes. he, too, is attached to his nefit society, managed by the parish, humble habitation, and is both unwilling and its benefits guaranteed by it. . and unable to emigrate. little tempta- that none be entered on the lists of sick, tion, indeed, could he have to put himself before they have been inspected by the to so much inconvenience ; for, though medical gentleman belonging to the pa. one parish may be more opulent than rish. and . that the benefits vary another, they all distribute their favours considerably from s. to s. per week, with the same parsimonious hand. that the poorest persons, women, as well it is reasonably to be hoped, that our as men, may have it in their power to various exertions to diffuse education, become members. the consequences of and promote moral and religious instruc- such regulations could not fail to be be- tion,will ultimately communicate such'ele- neficial to the poor, with very little trou. vation to the character and understanding ble, and without any hazard or expense of the poor, as to render them both more either to government or the parishes. prudent in the management of their pe- notwithstanding the extreme fervor cuniary concerns, and also more disdain- of their opposition to the poor laws, ful of all kinds of eleemosynary advan- neither the edinburgh nor the quarterly reviewers notice the celebrated argi. i have seen this method of raising the ment of mr. malthus against them, in poor money practised with the utmost suc- regard to their supposed pernicious in- cess. three or four respectable sworn as- sessors were selected, in different quarters fluence on population; which, in the of the town, by which means the state of opinion of that eminent philosopher and every individual's income was in some de. others, is sufficient of itself to justify gree familiarly known; and the rate, which their total abolition. in my next i shall according to this just distribution, never trouble you with the offer of a few ob- being very oppressive, was fixed with very servations on this subject. w. n. little explanation or complaint. bedford row, may , . .] curious particulars of sir robert marwell, of orchardston. curious particulars op sir robert the severe discipline of the jesuit's col- maxwell op orchardston. lege, his expenses being defrayed by oe- mr. editor, casional supplies sent him by his uncle, the following authentic particulars which were to him represented as the of the life of a scotch gentleman of title, bounties of the college, a story which he of the last century, so strongly reminds could not discredit, as he had been placed me of some of the adventures of the hero there at an age too young to know dis- of a late deservedly popular novel, that i tinctly either who he was, or whence he cannot resist communicating them to the came; he was intelligent and docile, and public through the channel of your ex- was deemed of sufhcient capacity to be- cellent publication :---the presumed au- come hereafter one of their own learned thor of guy mannering is an antiquarian, body, with which view he was educated. and a north briton, and has, therefore, when at the age of sixteen, he found the probably heard the tale which i am about discipline and austerities of a monastic to relate to you from some of those old life so ill suited to his inclination, that on chroniclers who have furnished him with a trivial dispute with the superior of his such rich and valuable materials in other college he ran away and enlisted himself instances, and as these sort of adventures in a french marching regiment. in this are in scotland generally preserved by situation he sustained all the hardsłups tradition only, it is highly probable, that of hunger, long marches, and incessant he himself might have but an imperfect alarms, and as it was in the hottest part recollection of the source whence he de- of the war between france and england, rived the original idea :--- about the year , it may easily be sir robert maxwell, of orchardston, imagined that his situation was by no in the county of galloway, was the de. means enviable. he fought as a foot- scendant of an ancient roman catholic soldier at the battle of dettingen; he family of the south of scotland. he was was also at the battle of fontenoy; and the only child of a religious and bigoted landed as an ensign in the french troops recluse, who sent him, while yet very at murray frith during the rebellion of young, to a college of jesuits, in flan. forty-five. he joined the rebels a little ders, for education, the paternal estate before the battle of falkirk, marched being, in the mean time, wholly managed with them to derby, and retreated with by the boy's uncle, the brother of the de- them into scotland. he was wounded votee, to whom he resigned the guardian- at the battle of culloden, and fled with ship of the property, in order that he a few friends to the woods of lochaber, might employ the remainder of his days where he remained the greatest part of exclusively in acts of devotion. in the the summer of , living upon the family of orchardston, as, indeed, in roots of trees, goats' milk, and the oat- most great families of that day, the meal and water of such peasants as he younger branches were but ill provided durst confide in. knowing, however, for, and looked to the inheritor of the that it would be impossible to continue family estate alone for the means of sup- this course of life in the winter, he began porting their rank in society ; the liberal to devise means of effecting his return to professions, and the employments of france, perfectly unconscious that in the trade, were still considered somewhat country where he was suffering the mi- dishonourable; and the unfortunate series of an outcast criminal he was en- junior, nursed with inflated ideas of his titled to the possession of an ample estate consequence and rank, was doomed in and a title." his scheme was to gain after life to exercise the servility, and ex- the coast of galloway,where he hoped to perience the mortification of a humble get on board some smuggling vessel to dependant. in this case the culpable the isle of man, and from thence to negligence of the father had transferred france. the hardships which he suf- the entire management of a large estate fered in the prosecution of this plan to his younger brother, who was so de would require a volume in their descrip- lighted in the possession that he resolved tion. he crept through bye ways by to retain it to the exclusion of his ne- night, and was forced to lie concealed phew, the rightful heir at law. he con- among rocks and woods during the day : sequently circulated a report that the he was reduced almost to a state of nu- boy was dead, and on the death of the dity, and his food was obtained from the old baronet, which took place about this charity of the poorest peasants, in whom period, he laid claim to the title and es- only he could confide. of this scanty state. in the mean time our young subsistence he was soinetimes for days hero was suffering (but very reluctantly) deprived ; and to comp! te his misfor- [june , on the poetry of walter scott. tunes, he was, after having walked bare hearing, and sir robert was at length footed over rocks, briais, and unfre. put into the peaceable possession of an quented places, at length discovered, estate worth upwards of two thousand seized, and taken before a magistrate pounds a year. he now began to dise near dumfries. as his name was max. play those qualities and abilities which well, which he did not attempt to con- had been but faintly perceptible in his ceal, he would have suffered as a rebel, former station : he discovered a gener. had not his commission as a french of ous mind, an intellect at once vigorous ficer been found in the lining of bis tat- and refined, and manners the most ele- tered coat, which entitled him to the gant and polished ; his society was court- treatment of a prisoner of war. this ed by all the neighbouring gentry, and privilege, however, only extended to the in the course of time he married a miss preservation of his life; he was confined maclellan, a relation of the family of in a paved stone dungeon so long, that he lord kirkcudbright: with this ladó he had amused himself by giving names to lived in the most perfect happiness for each stone which coniposed the pare many years. he joined in the prevz- inent, and which in alter life he took lent practice of farming his own estate, great pleasure in repeating and pointing and built a very elegant house on an out to his friends. an old woman, who eminence overlooking the frith. an had been his nurse in childhood, was at iinprudent speculation in the bank of this time living in dumfries, where he ayr, however, compelled him ouce more was a prisoner, and having accidentally to abandon the seat of his ancestors. he seen him, and becoming acquainted with had reserved a small pittance, on which his name, his age, &c. felt an assurance he and his lady lived the latter part of that he was the rightful sir robert their days. this calamity he bore as maxwell. the indissoluble attachinent became a man familiar with misfortune, of the lower orders in scotland to their and he continued the same worths open- chiefs is well known; and impelled by this hearteil character that he had erer been. feeling, this old and faithful domestic the reduction of his fortune served only attended him with the most maternal to redouble the kindness and cordiality affection, administering liberally to his of his friends. he died suddenly in sep- distresses. after an interview of some tember , whilst on the road to visit weeks she made him acquainted with her one of them -- the earl of selkirk. he suspicion, and begged leave to examine left behind him no issue, but his name is a mark which she remembered on his still remembered with ardent attacht- body. this proof also concurring, she ment. became outrageous with jov, and ran in the confident hope that this state- about the streets, proclaiming the dis- ment will not prove entirely uninterest- covery she had made ! this rumour reach- ing to your readers, i reinain, &c. ing the ears of the magistrates, enquiry may , . s.x. was made, the proofs were examined, and it soon became the general opinion on the poetry op walter scott. that he was the son of the old baronet mr. editor, of orchardston. the cstate lay but a i shall make no apology for troubling few miles from dumfries, and the un- you with some observations which the jawful possessor being a man of consi- communication of x, in your pumber of derable power and of a most vindictive january, has suggested, and which i am disposition, most people, whaterer might inclined to believe, have presented them- be their private opinion, were cautious selves to the minds of most of those w bo in espousing the cause of this disinherit. dislike the too common usage of the ed and distressed orphan. one gentle times in literary as in other matters of man, however, was found, who, to his raising one man's merits on the defects eternal honour, took him by the hand. of his competitor. a mr. goudy procured his release from lord byron has, i dare say, a mind prison, took him to his own house, cqually lofty to dictate the nervous and cloathed him agreeably to his rank, and impassioned stanza, and to shrink from enabled him to commence an action the unworthy honor with which the against his uncle. the latter was not strictures of x would emblazon him at inactive in the defence of his crime, and the expence of walter scott. his lord- took every pains to prove his nephew to ship's merit is, i believe, as incontestable be an impostor. chagrin and a consci- as the moed of public fame which has ousness of guilt howerer put an end to been awarded to bis productions is no- bis existence before the cause came to a torious. i will not stay to discuss the .) on the poetry of walter scott. point of how much more pleasure he to have strained his lordslip's powers, would have given us in painting tre de- with cataloguing their murky qualities lightful points of human character, than in and atrocious sublimity. presenting us with the acme of human de. but i will not compare, as x has pravity and consummately noble villains, done, these reigning stars of our poetical or argue on the malicious suspicion that sphere; for i cannot belicre, until i hear the darker passions must be predomi- it officially notified from the north, that nately felt by the poet, in whose works. mr. scott's bas either set, or been found their terribly faithful portraits are counterfeit in its radiance. our simple drawn in horrid variety in every page, and honest belief in the south is, that but will proceed to ask, since when has both mr. scott and lord byron are two “the wild slogans of border feuds sunki," very extraordinary poets, and we donbt as x informs us, into disrepute ? or who not both entitled to as much immortality imagines that lord byron will fall into as they can desire; but we cannot help oblivion? who has proclaimed the idea observing, that the library of every one, or substantiated the proof, of mr. scott who has twenty books, beside the bible having abused us with counterfeit cuin and common-prayer book, contains the of the mint of apollo ? and who, but works of walter scott; but the volumes as wishing immortality to the works of of the noble lord are by no means so lord byron, would not imagine, that in universal, and are carefully kept out of wishing him equal posthumous fame with the way of young persons, hypochon- the bard of ettrick, he said enough to driacs, or pregnant women, who are ob- fill the measure of a poet's ambition ? served to shudder at what they do under- but x tells us, that “ lord byron is all stand of him, and to guess darkly horrible strength, condensation, and grandeur, things on those parts which the energy whilst mr. scott possesses little energy, of the noble bard has wrapped in dark- and few, if any, of those recondite ex- ness, or shadowed with the ghastly un- cellencies so peculiar to the writings of certainty of fuseli's demons; but we no- his noble cotemporary."--excellent !- tice, on the contrary, that(owing, we be- not to mention the new idea of a recon- lieve, to the facility of description, and dite poet, should humbly conceive, that minute painting censured by x) all de- transplanting these energetic touches of scriptions of readers peruse scott with the noble poet to the pages of walter pleasure, and strange to say of a poet of scott, would be to transfer the dark marklittle energy, and unskilled in the ana- ings of the sublime and horrible spagno- tomy of the soul, look on nature and on letto to the canvas glowing with the grace, life with higher relish of the beauties of nature, and sunshine of correggio. the the one, and with heightened interest on denial of energy to mr scott, of the the scenes of the other, after such peru- quality of the energy of lord byron is sal than before ; nay, are so perverse as just; and fortunate for the enjoyment to quote his descriptions on every proper of those who delight in the poet of na. occasion with almost as much pleasure as ture, and the exquisite delusion by i suppose they do in scotland." which the “ last minstrel" makes us the part of x's observations which parties to the actions he describes, and refer to the issue formerly tried between rapt admirers of the scenes he delineates. the noble poet and the edinburgh re- let the censure of x be admitted that viewers i have nothing to remark on. he paints minutely, but it is such paint. the opinion of the public on that point ing as mocks reality, and we hang on the is long since fixed-x has given us some detail without satiety, which confirms the beautiful flowers from the juvenile poems truth of the proportion, and graces the at the end of his communication, but se- larger portions of his picture with orna- lections from scott being difficult, and ments happily remembered to heighten his works on every shelf, and what is the illusion. -- but mr. scott “kuow's more, daily read in scotland, england, nothing of the anatomy of the soul!"– ireland, and the town of berwick-upon- exquisite ! perhaps his “readiness of tweed, you will excuse my following composition and terseness of expression" the example. i will only remark, by the might excuse this nobler faculty of diving way, that the poems quoted have less of into the incomprehensible workings of the morbid anatomy of the soul than most the soul; and i should imagine, that any of the “childe's" later procluctions. poet, or meaner mortal, wonld be most ready to sacrifice a leaf of laurel to be i am, &c. a southrox. excused looking into such souls as sceni new monthly mag.-no. . vol. xi. f tour of the archdukes john and lewis, in the years - . (june , journal op a tour in england, in select specimens of uncommon beauty. - , prom ms. notes op the mr. allan appears to be deeply versed archdukes john and lewis op in this branch of science. austria. it was rather difficult for us to go ( continued from p. , vol. xi.) through the streets, as we were always scotland has four universities. followed by a crowd of curious persons : in the schools established for all classes, they did not remember ever to have seen they do not blindly follow one single worla a prince of the royal family, or foreign a pri method. but every where choose the prince, and the obliging curiosity of best. the number of charitable institu- which we were the object, was expressed tions and hospitals is considerable; there with a degree of impetuosity. are many offices for insurance against the very great number of whisky fire, &c. the first and most consider- shops must be considered as a real able cotton manufactories, and the scourge to the country, which has an greatest founderies, were established in equally fatal influence on the morals and scotland ; and here too the first steam- the health of the lower classes of the boats were seen. watt. the builder of people. much has been written on this steam-boats, is a scotchman. the brin subject. the only means to check the tish writers, who have the most distin- evil, would be a very high duty on the guished themselves in science and litera- retail sale, which would render it diffi. ture, hume, rubertson, watson, * &c. cult for the poor to purchase: this means has not been adopted, because were scotchmen. we have already, when speaking of the university of edin- the sale of spirits brings in large sums burgh, mentioned several of its present to the state, and the inorals of the peo. professors: besides these, we had occa- ple are rather risked than the interest sion to become acquainted with many of the revenue. other well informed men. in gene- there are very handsome country scats in the neighbourhood of edinburgh. ral, this country deserves to be appre- ciated by impartial observers, in order a chalybeate spring, called st. bernard's to appear in its true light:its neighbours well, is much frequented in the sum- mer: it is in a liitle valley where the have not always done it justice. we owe it to the good letters of re- river leith has its source. commendation which we carried to glas- we left edinburgh on the th of oc. gow, and to the obliging politeness of made of tober, by the london road. mussel. sereral persons in edinburgh, that we burgh is the first place you arrive at. were able to see much in a short time. it lies on the sea-coast, and, on account the lord prorost, the lord advocate, • of the salubrity of the air, is called the messrs. duntlas, hope, &c. shewed us montpellier of scotland. there are sea- baths bere. the place is much fre- every possible attention : we are also obliged to them for the possession of quen quented in the fine season, and com- the chief literary productions of the par pany of all ranks find convenient c- country. to our great regrot, the ce- commodation. not far from mussel- lebrated poet, walter scott, as well as • burgh the coal-mines begin, which are mr. dugald stewart, were absent at the extremely abundant in the eastern part of the lothians. scotland possesses in- time of our visit. we passed the three exhaustible riches in coals. it is calcu- evenings in a most agreeable manner, in a select company of the most distin- lated, that in the country between glas- guished inhabitants of the city; and, for gow and edinburgh alone, there are met edinburgh would be one of the , acres of coals, of which not most agreeable places to reside in with above are annually consumed. the which i am acquainted. i must not pame of musselburgh is derived from a forget to add, that we visited the collec. great bank of mussels, which is in the tion of mr. allan, which appeared to us neighbouring sea, and is very advan- remarkable both for the choice of the tageous to the poor, who gather mussels specimens and for their adınirable ar- in it. rangement. it contains a complete se- a great many families of fishermen ries of british mineral productions, in live in this market-town: when their vessels enter the harbour too late to • we do not know who is meant here. take the fish to edinburgh in time for -ed. dinner, they are conveyed thither with + we are also here at a loss to know much speed by women, who relieve each which of their imperial highnesses is the other, who have not above one hundred writer,-ed. yards to go, and carry their hisa in .) tour of the archdukes john and lewis, in the years $ - . baskets: in this manner the fish reach ticular cases that they are prolonged. edinburgh, which is five english miles no lease can be made for a longer time and a half distant, in three quarters of than thirty-two years. an hour. three of these women make fruit trees very seldom thrive in the the journey from dunbar to edinburgh north of scotland, on account of the (which is six-and-twenty english miles) frosts in spring and the cold east winds. in five hours, with a burthen of the sheep, which are chiefly kept on pound of herrings; sometimes they carry the southern inountains of haddington- as much as pounds. shire, and in very extensive pastures, musselburgh is what is called a bo- are covered all over, after being sheared, rough of regality, a place which acknow- with a mixture of tar and butter, or ledges as its head, not the king, but oil, by which they are protected from a particular person. formerly these the tick, and kept warm in winter; the market towns possessed an extensive growth of the wool also, is said to be jurisdiction, and royal prerogatives, promoted by this process. which made their possessors in some in the lower grounds, the snow does measure independent of the sovereign. not lie long, and even on the mountains its magistracy consists of eighteen mem- it seldom lies longer than three weeks : bers, and the market town possesses all at this time fodder is given to the sheep. the privileges of the royal burghs, ex- the soil of the plain country of hadding- cept that it chooses no members of par tonshire is clayey. the general alterna- liament, and sends no deputy to the as- tion of crops is the following:- . fal- sembly of the burghs. low ; . wheat; . beans or peas; . haddington, where you first change barley: . grass ; . oats. at the horses, is sixteen miles from edinburgh. foot of the mountains, on the contrary, from this place the road passes through . turnips; . oats or barley; . clo- a well cultivated country, in which there ver; . oats. turnips are said to thrive are considerable farms, most of which better here than in england. have a windmill for the purpose of in scotland there are three different threshing and grinding the corn, classes of labourers: the hind, the cot- the east part of scotland, in the tager, and the ploughman: the last is counties of edinburgh, haddington, and unmarried. the first place belongs to berwick, is one of the best cultivated the hind. besides his usual busiuess districts in the kingdom. in the neigh- with the horses, he has to attend to the bourhood of the capital no precise alter- sowing in spring, and to the corn-mills nation of crops is observed, probably on in autumn; he and the cottager are mar- account of the ample supply of manure, ried servants. a dwelling is allotted to which may always be obtained from a the hind, for which he furnishes a great city. the most usual change is, reaper in autumn; he has also a little however, the following:- . fallow garden, for which he furnishes from two without manure, or potatoes with ma- to four heaps of manure, according to the nure, when the soil is light and porous; size of it. his wages consist of nine . wheat; . beans, in a manured soil; bolls of oats, three bolls of barley, as . barley; . clover and rye-grass; . many of peas, and food for a cow, the oats; . fallow, or potatoes with ma- dung of which belongs to his master, nure. there are farms where pasture who provides the necessary fuel. his alternates with tillage, but this is only whole wages may be worth about twenty at a greater distance from the capital. pounds sterling per annum. the corn is reaped with a sickle. the t he sole business of the cottager is highlanders come from the most north- ploughing; he receives a dwelling and ern parts of scotland, to get employed garden, which he pays for in the same as reapers. the machine for reaping, manner as the hind; in order to encou- invented by smith, which was judged to rage him to a careful preparation of be the best of three proposed, has been manure, it is customary, in some places, known too short a time to be generally to give him the first crop of a field for employed. which he has supplied the manure. the here, as in all the rest of scotland, entire amount of his wages may be the farms are let at a rack-rent, that is about the same as those of the hind. to say, to the highest bidder; it is only the ploughman, or unmarried labour- when the offers made are equal, that er, has his meals mostly in the house of the old farmer and his family have the his master, and sleeps in the stable. preference. leases are made in general his wages consist of eight pounds ster- for nineteen years, and it is only in par- ling, and two pair of shoes; half a peck - .] tour of the archdukes john and lewis, in the years - . * the first excursion which we made at the refuse of the coal-mines of new- newcastle was to visit the coal-mines. castle. as these coals are changed by as you go to sheilds, you see on the right combustion into glassy scoriæ, and pro- and left a number of open shafts which duce no ashes, neither manure nor pot- * lead to the subterraneous galleries. they ash can be obtained from them. . are distinguishable by the smoke rising we visited one of the shafts of the from the steam-engines, and which issues mine of which our guide was inspector ; from their chimneys. here is found it belongs to a company of six persons. one of the most considerable strata of at a small distance from this inine is a coal in europe : for in the country be- great heap of sand; it is sand from the tween the blyth and the tyne, and be- thames, which the newcastle colliers tween the tyne and the wear, the last are obliged to take on their return as layer is of pure coal. in several sections ballast, when the river is cleansed. a there are seen as many as six different the mine into which we descended superpositions; the upper stratum of has three entrances near to each other. s the mine is of sandstone, of aluminous one is for the entrance of the miners, schistus, and often of common argillace. the other for drawing up the coal, and ei ous iron ore. the kind of coal found the third for pumping out the water. here is pitch-coal; there is but little the coal is raised from the mine by c cannel coal. means of a steam-engine, on the ancient these mines belong partly to indivi- principle of watt.* * * ; duals, partly to companies. as it was saturday, we saw the miners the miners employed in these works come out; eight or yine of them suspend dwell in long houses, built purposely for themselves to a chain fastened to the them, near the shafts, which makes each end of the rope, and ascend in this man- of these mines resemble a little village. ner. the children get into the baskets one of the inspectors who conducted in which the coal is drawn up, and three us, shewed us on the left side of the road or four are seen in the same basket. a work which was inundated, or drown- the occupation of these children partly ed, as they call it, some time ago. se- consists in driving the horses, which venty-four persons lost their lives. an bring the coal to the shaft of the mine, extent of eight hundred english acres which is done upon iron rail-roads. thus was covered by the water. in spite of the horses remain under ground for every exertion, it has not been possible years together. in the mine which we to reduce it more than eleven feet. visited there were sixty employed in we passed by a mine, near which a this subterranean labour. the shaft is great heap of coal was burning : our eight hundred feet deep. the mive ex- conductor explained to us, that it was tends a mile under ground. two little the refuse of the coal which is heaped up iron sledges, each drawn by one horse, and burnt, without deriving any advan- bring the coal to the shaft; while two tage from it. it is so abundant, that af- full baskets ascend, two empty ones de- ter supplying all the steam-engines em- scend again, and are carried back upon ployed in the mines, and after the poor the sledges to an esplanade, where they of the country have taken as much as are loaded. from almost each of these they please, there still remains a large esplanades (which are very numerous) quantity, of which no use is made. as an iron rail road leads to an open space, the duties are the same upon the -small where all the roads join with two, which coal (or dust) as on the large, and the are also iron rail-roads. these roads, jatter being more in request, it is not of which there is a great number about worth whilc (as we were told) to offer newcastle, are of two kinds: the flat the small for sale, so that it is burned roads, which have only a plate of iron, when the quantity becomes so large as and the ed: e-railed roads, which form a to be in the way. an attempt was made certain projection. experience has to send this small coal to london, for the shewn these last to be the best. the rise of the poor, but the heavy duty caus- wheels of the carts are of cast iron, and ed it to be given up, and thousands of they have a projection which obliges the quintals of the best coal are annually cart to remain in the track: each of burnt, which might however be turned these carts, when loaded, weighs to better account. this, for example, cwt. in the middle of the cart is a is the kind of coal the best adapted for wooden lever, by means of which, the the production of gas-light, and many man who is behind is able, by merely towns in england might be lighted with pressing it, to check the cart when going p [june , notices of the hungariun gipsies–no. ii. down hill. formerly there were also to make room for another, for this wooden rail-roads, but they disappear by purpose the two roads converge to- degrees. wards the stage; so that the carts may the rail-roads have surmounted all avoid each other, the cart is made to pass the difficulties of carriage, which is per- from one track to the other by means of formed in this manner with the greatest a wooden lever, cased with iron. the facility and rapidity, and at the least ex- most important condition for the sale is, pense. we must add to this the steam that the coals arrive very dry at london. waggons; they go on the edge-rail they are not readily bought wet; they roads, or on a particular kind of road. are therefore loaded as quickly as pos- they are of three different kinds: i saw sible in the transports, and there pro- them at newcastle, and subsequently at tected from the rain. in places where leeds, where the inventor, mr. blackin- the river is not so near the mine as in shop, has introduced them. they have that which we visited, large covered all the three kinds at newcastle, but magazines have been erected. we saw only one ; it has three wheels, (to be continued.) and goes on the flat-roads.* * * * this machine has narrow wheels; it draws ngtices of the hungarian gipsies. after it even carts carrying together from no. ii. to tons of coals. when the road nobody can examine whether ascends, or the machine meets with an every one possesses such a treasure ; obstacle, it stops, and then it is neces- but you may see that almost every one sary to increase the power of the steam, has a horse of his own. one would fancy by adding to the fire. if the machine that the race of the renowned rozinante did not exist, each of the carts would be of the noble knight of la mancha bad drawn by one borse, and would cost been multiplied, ad infinitum, to furnish pounds sterling per annum. they every nomade with his hack. if any go from seven to nine miles in an hour, person has an old unserviceable horse to when the road is even. the expense sell, however bad it may be, he is sure of of making the rail-roads is . per finding a purchaser among the no- mile. mades. here the life of the beast is a steam-cngine by watt acts at the prolonged, for it is generally unemploy- shaft by which the coal is drawn out, and ed, and food grows under its feet. when puts in motion, at the same time, the the nomade wants to remove to ano- pumps which draw the water from the ther place, he packs his tent and his third shaft. the necessary steam is pro- other effects together, lays them upon duced by five cylindrical boilers. this his horse, hangs across a pair of saddle- steam-engine is very large; its cylinder bags with a couple of little children, is inches in diameter, and its power which are seldom wanting, and leads it is equal to that of a hundred and forty by the bridle, the wife and the bigger horses. * * * * the machine is very children following. this, however, is simple ; it raises gallons of water not the only case in which he wants his every minute. the shaft is feet in horse ; at fairs, which nobody more assi- depth down to the lower reservoir, duously frequents, every one seeks to which it exbausts. at some distance dispose of his horse, either to exchange froin the shaft there is a grate, under it for a better, or if for a worse, to get which fire is made to dry the baskets. some money into the bargain. the un- we next went to the place where the fortunate animal is to be pitied when coals are loaded in the vessels ; it is the merciless nomade rides it. cunning pretty near to the shaft; two iron rail and cruel, he knows how to make his roads lead to it. at the beginning of poor beast start and rear. in some re- the road, one or two carts are drawn by mote corner he beats it severely till the one horse ; afterwards, where it begins animal trembles and palpitates. if a to descend, the horses are taken off, purchaser mounts it for a trial, and but and the cart proceeds of itself to the threatens to strike, the creature springs loading-place, which is a kind of stage and runs as long as it has breath. if it over the river, and covered in. two is lame of one fore foot, the seller reme- large troughs, strongly lined with tin, dies this by laming it of the other; then descend obliquely. the vessels come the poor beast spares both fore-feet as under this stage; when the cart arrives, much as possible, and rears. many a a hook is unfastened, the bottom opens, man has been so deceived, thinking to and the coals descend by the trouglis buy a spirited though ill fed horse, but into the vessel. the cart is drawn back discovered the cheat the next day, and .) notices of the hungarian gipsies.--no. . instead of mounting it was obliged to hammer. the father communicates the wait till it could be cured. the nomade art to his children-an imperfect art, it thinks such a trick quite fair. it is the is true, but more than we should be en- purchaser's business to open his eyes, titled to expect from their tools. a pair and make sure of what he buys; besides of bellows, rather larger than the com- the gipsy never sells dear. mon hand bellows, a pair of tongs, a none but a nomade who is in particu- hammer, a file; these are all the tools larly good circumstances keeps two which the greater part of these natural horses, for which he gets a waggon of smiths want to do their work, for which the cheapest kind. such a one has ef- a regular smith requires an extensive fects sufficient to load his waggon in his apparatus. they burn charcoal for their wanderings, but very few are so well off. own use, and often for sale also. in next to the horse, the nomade values, the middle of the tent, or of the winter above all living creatures, the animal cave, they make, instead of the usual proscribed by the mosaic law. when fire, a fire of charcoal; a little parapet of he assists the farmer in his labours dur- clay is raised round it, in which the bel- ing the harvest, he generally bargains, lows are fixed. a hard stone often sup. besides some provisions, for a young pig, plies the place of an anvil. the wife, as the reward of his labour. he feeds or a child, sets the bellows in motion ; it with the refuse of his table, with food the charcoal glows; the father, often which he begs, or obtains otherwise; and with the upper part of his body bare, a considerable part of the charge falls wields with nervous arm the tongs and upon the ground about his tent. his hammer, and forges the work. these grunting companion lives like one of the scanty implements, to which even the family, thrives and grows fat, and is sold few who are better off make no great in the winter. the rest of the nomade's addition, shew that the nomade smith property consists of his household effects. employs himself only in manufacturing the catalogue is not long. a pot, a smaller articles; jews' harps, chains, dish, a kettle, a frying-pan, and other in- nails, fire-steels, fire-shovels, and such dispensable articles, mostly in the sin- iron articles, he makes new. they un- gular number. whoever should think derstand how to mend pots and kettles, of beds, bedsteans, chairs, and such lux- and now and then contrive, cunningly uries, must have forgotten the patriarchal enough, to procure themselves work. simplicity which our nomade, a cynic f the nomade smith happens to see in from his birth, inviolably observes. some a house a damaged kettle, which they tools will be mentioned below. have no mind to give him to mend, he the reader involuntarily asks: “how examines and peels the damaged part, then do these children of nature support till he makes a great hole in it; and if life?" the golden age has long since he is scolded, offers to repair the unser- disappeared from dacia. even the no. viceable utensil. it would be too much mades are no more uncultivated enough to require durability or particular excel- to be content with the gifts of the hama- lence in his work; it is enough that he dryads, or of mother earth alone. they does his business tolerably, and is satis- are as able and willing to eat as others; fied with moderate payment. if he has but to obtain their support from the finished a piece of his own work, he earth by the sweat of their brow, is, in carries it to the nearest market, and their opinion, far too troublesome. even hawks it from house to house. it is their roving way of life shews that they very seldom that he shews any thing like do not till the ground, for which indeed economy in disposing of his bargains. i the very elements of their constitutional have seen many a one, when he had temperament do not at all qualify them. sold his goods, buy first only a small for repose and case are their idols. quantity of iron, to be able to go on hunger alone, the great tyrant of animal working : with the rest he went to the nature can rouse them from their delight- public house, which he did not leave till ful indolence. give the easily satisfied he had not a farthing remaining; then, nomade enough to eat and drink, and but not before, he went, with light heart you may have the pleasure of seeing him and empty pocket, to his own hoine. pass day after day in the “dolce fur many, who do no smith's work, manu- niente." these simple means of exist- facture articles of wood. they make ence he can procure in many different troughs, spoons, distaffs, and the like, ways. the chief is the almost universal which they barter in the villages, if ther propensity to the labours of the forge. can, for provisions. others assist the as the genuine descendants of tubal farmer, in the summer, in his agricultural cain, even boys know how to use the labours; though they greatly prefer work notices of the hungarian gipsies--no. h. (june , which can be done in the shade, to such may tickle their nose. the other sex as exposes them to bear the heat of the also share this luxury with the men ; sin. . this antipathy to the heat of the and the wife, at her cooking, smokes in sun they have in common with all oriental company with the man at his forge, nations; it shews itself even in animals which, to us, does not appear very grace. of asiatic origin, which are brought to ful. they do not only smoke tobacco, the colder countries of the west ; which but chew it as sailors do. i never saw is probably to be ascribed to the greater an instance of their taking snuff. as difference between the summer and win- old, long-used pipes, have imbibed a ter temperature, rather than to the ab- great deal of the juice, they are fond solutely higher degree of summer heat of such pipes to chew : these are the in our western climates. a great part pliable pipes used in germany, turker, of the nomades leave their support, par- &c. in general, a traveller can make ticularly in winter, to the care of heaven the nomades no more valuable present and the charity of their fellow creatures, than a handful of tobacco, or an old whose pity they have various methods of pipe. i attribute to this constant use exeiting. to beg is, in their opinion, no of tobacco, and to the unfrequency of disgrace. if this does not produce suf- warm food, the sound ivory teeth of the ficient, we must not much wonder if the nomades. hungry or the naked takes, what is either the gipsies who have permanent abodes. not offered, or is refused him. it is by no by far the greater part of the hunga- means a principle with him to take the rian and transylvanian gypsies, hare property of others; but urgent necessity, long since accustomed themselves to a or a momentary impulse, or, lastly, the settled mode of life, and fixed their abode too great attachment to the dolce far in the suburbs of the towns, or in vil- nicnte, as observed above, sometimes lages. of their dwellings, therefore, the tempts him to this violation of the rights same may be said in general as of others, of property. only that most of them have a much from the preceding description it is more confined and mean appearance, evident, that our nomade gipsy cannot than ordinary peasants' houses. some- be very squeamish either in eating and times, however, gipsies are found in drinking, or in the wants of the animal good decent houses, very neat both within half of himself. whatever is eatable, and without. in the suburbs and villages, though it be an apocryphon in the canon they have their particular quarters, of the parisian gastronomia, pleases his where they were at first compelled to palate. his repast is temperate as the reside exclusively; but now crowd toge- table of the noble cincinnatus. he ther voluntarily, not to separate from loves meat, but knows also how to do each other. in such a quarter, they live without, even when the regulations of quite close together, because they gene- the greek church, to which most of them rally make their houses or huts, very nominally conform, do not exactly hap- small, and want no extensive dependen. pen to prescribe a fast day. at the cies, like the peasant, for cattle, and the same fire, where the husband forges his produce of the soil. a sitting-room, a iron, the wife can prepare her dinner. chamber, a workshop; these are gene- when it is ready, they all place them- rally sufficient for the gipsy, his family, selres around it, each provided with a and his effects. good appetite. spoons are generally the in dress, as with the rest of mankind, only implements, what will not go into there is a great diversity. he who is the spoon, is divided, as instinct teaches, able, wears handsome and rich clothes ; with the fingers. of their drinking he who is not, dresses himself as he can. vessels i shall speak hereafter : but here a passion for dress is not uncommon i must mention another favorite enjoy- among them. like their nomade bre- ment of the nomades. to smoke to thren, they have a remarkable fondness bacco is, with most of thein, become by for gandy colours. red or blue, nay, habit a matter of necessity; and, in a sometimes even bi-coloured breeches, country where that article is so very lavishly trimmed with gold or silver, cheap, this indulgence cannot be called yellow hungarian boots, with spurs, are, extravagance-particularly as they are in the opinion of some, the the ne-plus- content with any thing that only looks ultra of elegance. they are particularly or smells like tobacco. that as little as fond of the hungarian national dress, possible of the precious herb may go un- which certainly is very becoming on enjoyed, they have tobacco pipes no a well made person. many a gipsy longer than a finger, that the rising smoke struts about like a hungarian nobleman, (june , some account of thomas brown, the elder . pay such a one to play them something know gipsies who often have in their new. when the gipsy has once heard trade some hundred, nay, even some the piece, he has it by heart; he first thousand horscs, and swine; and, what tries it himself, and when he can perform is scarcely credible, without being able it, communicates to his comrades, and to write a figure or a letter, accurately the band makes the music complete make and remember the calculation of without difficulty. the triumph of the purchase and sale of every individual gipsy music is the hungarian national animal. this is a splendid proof of the dance, mostly of their own composition, energy of the uncorrupted memory, not quite in the energetic ardent spirit of reduced to mere mechanisin by the se- the generous nation, executed with its crets of mnemonics ! peculiarly manly expressive accent, so the goldwashers, as they are called, that the mere pupil of art willingly gives are a peculiar but small class of the sel- up the contest, and resigns the palm to tled gipsies. their number is mostly the pupil of nature. fixed, and entered on the register of the there is no gypsy settlement, how- royal inspectors. in the summer they ever small, in which there are not one or live in barracks, near the rivers which more, who, besides other employments, bring down gold-sand; the most cele- sometimes practise music. at the wed- brated of which in transylvania is the dings of the country people they reap a aranyos (goldriver). the maros, and harvest without much exertion. laden other rivers in hungary, also furnish with the substantial gains of his art, gold in larger or smaller quantities. which never fail to be considerable from the washers receive, for a certain weight the country people, whom pleasure dis- of gold grains which they deliver, a suit- poses to be liberal, the gipsy, as soon able recompence, which however is not as the days of the feast are over, returns considerable in proportion to the time to his hut and enjoys the fruits of the and trouble they employ. this occupa- entertainment with his expecting family. tion, besides, lasts only during the sum- an orpheus of this description, return- mer, as long as the water is not too cold; ing home, once met with a singular ad. for they stand in the water while they venture. he was going home, quite are at work, filch up the sand from the alone, with his violin, in a severe winter bottom with a board made for the pur- from a wedding; as he was passing pose, wash away the worthless part by through a wood, a hungry wolf, of which pouring water on it, and seek out in the there are many in that country, rushed rest, with admirable quickness of sight, towards him ; our gipsy, in his fright, the little grains of gold. often, in spite seeing no other resource, leaped into a of all their looking, not a grain is to be ditch and the wolf after him. to ap- found, and their time and trouble have pease the animal, he threw him the been expended in vain. as soon as win- provision, the remains of the feast. the ter approaches, this employment ceases, wolf devours them greedily-the provi- the goldwashers return to their dwel- sion bag is empty: every moment be- lings, and generally seek a livelihood by comes more critical, and threatens the working in wood. the yanity of these. trembling musician with a horrid death. poor people is singular enough; they that he may at least not descend to his transfer the value of the precious metal fathers unsung, he takes, for the last to themselves, and fancy that they are time, his violin, the faithful companion some degrees superior to the other of his life, and begins, with great car- gipsies. nestness, his favourite air. but scarcely (to be continued.) had le commenced when the blood- thirsty wolf, seized with dread of the sone account or thomas brown, anger of apollo, runs away, and our virtuoso, like a second orpheus, escaped the elder. from the jaws of cerberus; with an t: margos e to tcidio%. empty wallet indeed, and lamenting that we are told that a man is known by he had not taken his fiddle at the first, his associates, and certainly there can he proceeds on his way home. be no doubt that he who delights in the the settled gipsies very frequently conversation of the vicious, forfeits there- carry on a trade with cattle. though by, the confidence of the good. this the nomades, as we have seen, do it on observation may be extended to literary a small scale, this is by no means to taste, and when we find a person fond be compared with the extensive transac- of ribald authors, there can be no in- tions of many of the settled gypsics. i justice in setting him down as one of a .] some account of thomas brown, the elder. depraved intellect. i was led to these was but short, and he revisited london, remarks by casually perusing some sati. where for a support he became an author rical publications of recent date, bearing by profession. it may easily be con- the signature of « thomas brown, the ceived that a man of this turn of mind, younger:" a name which no writer who was not very scrupulous in regard to had any regard for his moral character, the employment of his pen. he had a could have assumed, since, in so doing, he very lively imagination, and delighted necessarily incurs the charge of being an much in scenes of low humour. the admirer and imitator of thomas brown times in which he lived were favorable the elder. to libels and pieces of scurrility; of whether the present claimant of this which tom did not fail to take advan- honourable name be a “true chip of the tage, and thus he contrived not only to old block" or not, they can best tell who provide for his necessities, but to gratify are acquainted with his private habits. his love of sensual pleasure, by publishing but as he takes a great pleasure in abus- various performances that excited risibi. ing personages of the first distinction, lity at the expence of decency. the dia- with a virulence of language as coarse as logues, letters, and poems of tom that used by tom brown, of facetious brown, were read by high and low, on memory, who is said to have had the per account of the wit that gave them a zest, nicious quality of rather losing his friend though the author was considered as a than his joke, it is but fair to take a view sort of merry andrew, whose vulgarity of the history of the one, in order to form was endured on account of his drollery. some estimate of the moral properties of they who laughed in the perusal of his the other. works, laid them down afterwards with thomas brown, the elder, was the son disgust, and shrunk from an acquaintance of an honest yeoman at shiffnal, inshrop- with the author, whom they justly des- shire, who impoverished himself to be- pised, on account of the depravity of his stow a liberal education upon a profligate morals. the booksellers, however, knew son, sending him first to the free school his value, and he was contented with of newport, in his native county, and their patronage. his companions were next to christ church, oxford; where libertines like himself, who acknowledged the youth was soon distinguished by his no law but their appetite, and placed all uncommon attainments in literature. happiness in sensual indulgence. the he had great quickness of apprehension, principal female acquaintance of tom and to a solid stock of classical know- brown was the noted astrea behn, of ledge, added, by his study and applica- meritricious celebrity, who prostituted tion, an intimacy with the french, italian, both her person and her talents indiscri- and spanish languages. these qualifica- minately. as these two worthies were tions might have rendered him an orna- inseparable in their lives, so in death they ment to society, had he made a proper were united; their remains being depo- use of them; instead of which, he des sited close to each other in the cloisters pised authority, broke through all the of westminster abbey; the very church rules of academic discipline, and led such which brown had profaned, by affixing a dissipated life, that, after many attempts a blasphemous paper upon the doors of had been made to reclaim him in vain, it, one sunday morning. there is, how. the heads of his college were under the ever, reason to hope that even this man, necessity of proceeding to the sentence of who so universally perverted very supe- expulsion. even this disgrace had not rior talents, natural and acquired, did at the effect of correcting his manners, and last find mercy. for though he treated instead of returning, like the prodigal, all religion with scorn in his life, his to his afflicted father, he plunged at once heart failed him on the bed of death, and into the follies and corruptions of the he expressed deep concern for the errors metropolis. for some time he lived which he had committed. dr. johnson merrily; but when his finances were says, “ brown was not a man deficient in exhausted, those who had laughed at his literature, nor destitute of fancy ; but he jests, and made him the companion of seems to have thought it the pinnacle of their revelries, abandoned him in his excellence to be a merry fellow ;' and, necessities, and left him to starve. in therefore, laid out his powers on small this exigency, tom became an usher in a jests or gross buffoonery, so that his per- school at kingston, a situation for which formances have little intrinsic value, and he was ill-fitted by his manners, whatever were read only while they were recom. might have been his capacity for teach- mended by the novelty and the event ing. accordingly, his stay at kingston that occasioned them. what sense or voyage to the shetland islands. . (june , knowledge his works contain is dis- ence as to the mode of employing his graced by the garb in which it is exhi- talents in the attainment of it. bited." much more might be said, but for the thus far, perhaps, the elder and the present, i shall only remark, that what- younger brown may tally pretty well in ever amusement individuals may have respect of general resemblance, both as derived from the performances of both men and writers; but still there will un- these lively writers, the world would have avoidably be some points of dissimilitude, sustained no loss if thomas brown the for where is the parallel that can be said elder, or thomas brown the younger had to run upon all fours? i cannot find for never been born. instance, in all my researches, that old shaw toxkix. tom brown ever held a sinecure place, meoagizzey, april , . and then abused the government under which he enjoyed it: nor does it appear voyage to the shetland islands. that in all the wantonness of his wit, he by m. biot. endeavoured to ruin his country, by bring- amidst the important political dis ing the sovereign into public contempt. cussions by which europe is agitated, it the faults of the senior humourist were is gratifying to observe, that science con- numerous and heavy enough, it is true, tinues her progress, slowly it is true, but indecorous as his writings are, there but with a degree of perseverance which is little in them to inflame the passions of nothing can impede or overcome. it is youth; he does not delight in libidinous now nearly two centuries since the at. descriptions and allusions by which the tention of learned societies was directed innocent mind becomes contaminated towards ascertaining the magnitude and without suspecting any danger; nor does form of the earth, and the power of he, in his licentious pictures, manifest a gravity at its surface. the first measure direct hostile intention against the prin- of a degree of the terrestrial meridian ciples of morality. that he was a gross was made in france, in . when it voluptuary is evident, but he does not, in was deemed necessary to measure at once any of his works, attempt to represent two arcs of the meridian, one near the sensual pleasure as the sum of human equator and the other near the pole, enjoyment. in all these flights, there. bouguer and condamine were sent to fore, thomas brown the younger, must america, and maupertuis and lemon- be allowed to have far outstripped his nier proceeded to the north. their ob archetype, and if he has not succeeded in servations proved the flatness of the destroying the temple of chastity among earth towards the poles, but its measure men, it has not been for the want of remained undetermined. genius or inclination. fifty years later, astronomical instru- of brown the elder it may be said, by ments having been brought to a higher way of excuse, that the man wrote for degree of perfection, the royal society bread; and that, probably, he could not of london and the academy of paris, have gained a maintenance any other way, determined to employ every means of ob- under his circumstances. this is an taining an exact solution of the problem, apology which, bad as it is, capnot be the latter, with the view of adding an made by the younger branch of the object of higher importance to their la- family, whose condition lays upon him bours, proposed that the magnitude of an obligation to improve, and not to in- the earth should become the basis of a jure society. when filthy ideas go system of common measures. amidst abroad, in coarse and vulgar language, the convulsions which agitated france, they carry their antidote with them, and and the terrible war which bathed eu- can do little harm; but when they are rope in blood, two french astronomers, bodied in a graceful form, and set forth m.m. delambre and méchain, measured with all the charms and graces of poetry, the arc of the meridian which crosses they insinuate into the mind, seize upon france from perpignan to dunkirk, the imagination, and completely poison this arc was afterwards prolonged to the well-springs of life. the balearic isles by mm. biot and ar- the elder brown appears to have been rago. contented with a moderate income, and colonel mudge had measured several to have cared little about any provision degrees of the terrestrial meridian, from for the future; in which he certainly has the south of england to the north of not been followed by the person ambi- scotland, and it was desirable that this tious of his name, whose cupidity of gain operation should be combined with the seems only to be equalled by his indiffer- one made in france, in order to give a .) voyage to the shetland islands. tiden great arc, extending from the balearic mit us to quote m. biot's description of isles to the extremities of iceland. such the hospitable manners, the social virtues, was the object of a voyage to the shet. and the brotherly union of the shetland land islands, undertaken by m. biot, the islanders. but we cannot forbear tran- successful result of which was made scribing the following passage, in which known by a memorial which he recently he pourtrays the perils they encounter read to the academy of sciences at paris. in fishing, which is their chief occupa- it is not our intention to follow m. biot tion:- through his scientific operations; but the “they enter upon it with inconceiv- following extracts from his work, in able boldness. six men, who are good which the wild beauties of the shet- rowers, agree to occupy one boat, which land islands are described with equal is a slight canoe, entirely open: they eloquence and truth, cannot fail to in- take with them a supply of water and terest our readers :- oatmeal.cake and a compass, and in this “on the th of july,” he says, “we frail skiff they sail out of sight of all landed, not far from the austral point of land, to the distance of fifteen or twenty these islands, where the tides of the at- leagues. they usually spend a day and lantic mingling with those of the nor- night in fishing. in fine weather, they wegian sea, occasion a continually tem- sometimes gain about nine or ten shil- pestuous agitation. the desolate aspectlings by one of these voyages; if the of the soil corresponds with the difficulty sky be cloudy and the sea rough, they of approaching it. on ascending the contend against its fury in their open sides of the rocks, which are broken boat, until they recover their lines, the by the waves, the eye tests on nothing loss of which would prove the ruin of but a humid desert, covered with stone them and their families. they then sail and moss, and rugged hills, rent by the back in the direction of the shore, amidst inclemency of heaven. there is not a stupendous waves which rise like ridges tree nor a bush to soften this wild land- of hills around them. the most expe- scape, only here and there a few scat- rienced of the fishermen seats himself at tered huts, from the mossy roofs of which the helm, and calculating on the direction the smoke ascends and mingles with the of each wave, endeavours to avoid its external fog." shock, which would be sufficient to sink after having described the benevolent, the boat. he at the same time directs susceptible, and virtuous beings who in the maneuvering of the sail, which is habit these regions of rain, wind, and lowered when the boat rises on a wave, storm, the eloquent author adds: in order to moderate its descent, and " what attaches them to their home hoisted when the boat descends, so that is, the peace, the profound, unalterable the wind may carry it along on the sur- peace which they enjoy there. for the face of the succeeding wave. sometimes, last twenty-five years, during which eu- enveloped in darkness, the unfortunate rope has been destroying herself, the fishers see nothing but the mountain sound of a drum has not been heard at of water which they seek to avoid, and unst, and scarcely at lerwick. for of the approach of which they are only twenty-five years the door of the house warned by the roaring of the waves. which inhabited had remained open “meanwhile, their wives and children night and day. the numerous rocks are stationed on the coast, imploring which surround the islands, and render heaven for their safety; sometimes them accessible only in favorable wea- catching a glimpse of the boat which ther, serve as a fleet to defend them bears all their hopes, or fancying they against attacks in time of war; and what see it overwhelmed by the waves-pre- would privateers, or cruizers of any de- paring to assist their husbands and fa- scription, seek in these barren regions ? thers whenever they come near enough here the news of europe is listened to to the shore, or calling in frantic shrieks with the interest with which one would on those who can hear them no more. read the history of the past century; it but this is not always their fate. by dint revives no recollections of personal mis- of address, labour, and courage, they fortune, and awakens no animosity....... often return triumphantly from the ter- if there were trees and sun in shetland, rible conflict; the well known sound of no country could be more charining ; the horn is heard : at length the boat but if there were trees and sun, it would reaches the shore; tears are succeeded be visited by the people of other nations, by embraces, and the joy of meeting is and then peace would be banished." increased by the recital of the dangers we regret that our limits will not per- which the fishermen have escaped." (june , remarks on the resumplion of cash payments. on the expediency and practica- guished for habits of punctuality and the bility of the resumption of cash principle of honor. individual confi- payments by the bank op eng- land. no other country, in proportion to its po. mr. editor, pulation, has to large a surplus of valua- as the state of the circulating me- ble commodities, or such extensive means dium of the kingdom is, at the present of transport, and, therefore, it has in its time, a topic so deeply interesting, you power to procure the precious metals will, i trust, not think the following abroad in any quantities. to bring for- suggestions unreasonable or altogether ward a sufficient quantity of gold and unimportant. silver coin, and keep it freely circulating the discussions which have taken throughout the kingdom, are not chan- place in the house of commons on' the ges which can be effected by slight and report of the bullion committee, are, to temporising measures. they will not every reflecting mind, very momentous. be effected, unless great sacrifices are the house, evidently, have been much made, and means powerful and combined divided in opinion as to fixing the pre- shall be employed and persevered in. cise period at which the bank should re. such means have not, i believe, erer yet sume its payments in specie, but unani. been communicated to the public. of mous in their determination to lose no this most important but intricate subject, time in the arrangement and adoption of both writers and politicians have, in ge- measures, calculated to achieve, with all neral, taken but à narrow view. had practicable expedition, that important not the bank of england issued from object. it is much to be feared, that time to time in payments to bankers and the minds of the minister, and of a majo- in fractional parts of dividends, large rity in parliament, are not yet awake to quantities of gold coin, the reputation the magnitude of the evil which will and value of their notes would have been arise from any longer delaying the adop- still more affected than they have been. tion of such measures. but whatever as soon as the order restricting the may be the result of the deliberations of payments of coin at the bank had been parliament, and however unfavourable issued, in consequence of a long course opinions may be as to the state of the of improvidence on the part of govern- national currency and credit, i am far ment, and irresolute conduct on the part from supposing that that state of things of the bank directors, measures should will make the lover of his country at all have been taken to remedy the evil and despair of its ultimate safety and welfare. to avert those serious consequences to at the same time, i ain free to confess, which it naturally led. instead of which, it appears to me, that if the bank do not, year after year has been suffered to in a very moderate time, renew its pay- elapse without exertion, and without a ments in cash, the national credit will be return to the councils of prudence; the lowered, and an extreme depreciation of concurring measures of the bank, the le- the value of the public funds may be fully gislature, and the minister, might have expected to be the consequence. most restored cash to our circulation and con- formidable difficulties, no doubt, stand fidence to the public mind. the issues opposed to a renewal of a mixed circula- of gold, which i have before spoken of, tion of cash and paper. amounting to a sum perhaps not less the question is not, whether they are than between ten and eleven millions, great, but whether they can and ought have been permitted to trickle guinea by to be met. although there are many guinea into the channels of circulation, difficulties, there are, also, important fa- so as to produce, notwithstanding the cilities in favour of this renewal. much magnitude of the sum, only a temporary, money is evidently hoarded in the king- and indeed, scarcely a perceptible effect. dom, which judicious measures would how different would have been the re- again put into motion, and there is much sult, had these issues of specie been si- superfluous gold and silver plate, a very multaneous and the channels previously considerable portion of which, could, by cleared of the superabundant paper, so degrees, be brought into the mint, by the as to make money, of any material, influence of patriotic examples amongst scarce, and almost entitled to a premium. our leading men. the country bankers would then have greatly diminished as our export trade been compelled to withdraw many of at this time is, still it is superior to that their notes from circulation, and much of any other country on the globe. our of the gold which had vanished from the merchants and our bankers are distin- sight, would have re-appeared, and by .] portrait of aspasia ; by madame de stael. the return of specie, a powerful impres- never was intended that the bank of sion on the sentiments of the publie england should become a paper mint, would have been made, and the metallic and that the company should be made sterility in the state of our currency rich at the expence of the nation. might have been corrected, without any . the raising of a loan and the im- very great exertions or very painful sa- position of new taxes to enable govern- crifices. ment to repay the old debt due to the but the period has gone by, and this bank. has become the age of paper; a bank . the parliamentary grant of a note is no longer what it was; they are small bounty to private persons who now substitutes for coin, instead of be- shall, within certain periods, import gold ing pledges for payment. a species of and silver, bullion, or foreign coin. paper is to be kept afloat and increasing, . the imposition, during a certain which does not perforin its promises, and period, of high duties amounting almost neither pays interest nor is convertible to prohibition upon certain articles, ex- into cash. cept from our own colonies. although, in the outset, the restric . the adoption of parliamentary tions on the part of the bank were con- measures to prevent any foreign vessels sidered only as the necessary result of from being employed in our commerce, war, yet a peace has long been concluded as far as such measures shall be at all with all the belligerent powers, without compatible with the extension of our any attempt on the part of the legislature export trade and our supply of foreign to enforce, or of the bank to renew, her articles of an indispensable nature, as payments in cash. i am not one of very heavy sums are usually paid for those who sit down and say, that be- freight of such vessels and mostly in the cause the wisdom of parliament has not precious metals. suggested any sort of remedy for this . the alteration of the mint prices crying evil that it is past remedy-no! of the gold and silver coin of the realm, there are fundamental errors in the so as to establish nearly the exact pro- established system which must be ob- portion, which is not maintained by the viated before any good can be expected. present price; and the imposition of a the magnitude of the sum which, in the duty on coinage which will have a ten- present reign, has been coined in gold, dency, like the price for fashion in gold when compared with the very small a- and silver plate, to prevent the coin mount which has, on the average, been from being exported or melted. kept in circulation, is truly wonderful. . the limitation of the issue of having pointed out the defects in our £ , , and . notes. present system, i shall suggest one or i would not, mr. editor, wish it to be iwo practicable remedies. supposed, that i am sanguine in the suc- . a very material, but gradual, di- cess of the measures that i have sug- minution of the discounts afforded to gested, or that it would be practicable to merchants, which may be extended again adopt all or even any of them. but still, when cash shall have become abundant. i believe, that by making them public, it . a very great but gradual reduc- may be the means of eliciting a spirit of tion in the number of notes issued by enquiry upon so important a subject the bank. amongst your learned contributors, some . the issue by government of a con- of whom may, perbaps, be led either to siderable amount of exchequer bills payº enlarge upon the hints already advanced, ing per cent interest, required at a or to overthrow the system altogether, future time to be repaid, and made in- and substitute one that may be more capable of being purchased by the bank. likely to benefit society. i am, &c. this is intended to relieve the present georgb smith. wants of merchants and manufacturers who have been accustomed to receive portrait of aspasia. discount from the bank. by madame de stael. . the appointment of a committee in delineating the characters of the to enquire into the profits received by women of antiquity, and particularly of the bank and the bank proprietors in greece, a kind of painful embarrassment consequence of the restriction of cash is experienced; we are charmed by their payments; and if it appears too much and talent, and shocked at their moral con- the sacrifice must fall somewhere, whe- duct. at that period of civilization, ther or not as the evil originated there, celebrated women rarely merited both it ought not to be borne by them, as it admiration and esteem, and, among the .] sir h. davy on the herculaneum mss. ever, inspired him with her energy of to the herculaneum mss. having ap: mind, and he acquired considerable peared in our former numbers* we feel power in athens. several comic poets much pleasure in laying before our read- of the age have accused aspasia of hold- ers a letter on the subject, from that ing a school of inmorality, of which, it eminent chemist, sir humphry davy, is said, she herself gave at once the extracted from the quarterly journal of example and the precept. perhaps the arts and sciences. these imputations were excited by having witnessed dr. sickler's at- jealousy of her singular talents. at tempts to unrol some of the hercula- paris, we have witnessed several ex- neum mss., it occurred to me that a amples of this kind, in women who chemical examination of the nature of collected round them the most dis- the mss., and of the changes that they tinguished literary characters, and with had undergone, might offer some data as out whom men of talent could not have to the best methods to be attempted for enjoyed the pleasure of communicating separating the leaves from each other, and with each other. but the ascendancy rendering the characters legible. of aspasia was of a different kind ; she my experiments soon convinced me was admired as an orator, whilst in that the nature of these mss. had been france, speaking is merely a light and generally misunderstood; that they had easy amusement. aspasia possessed an not, as is usually supposed, been carbo- influence over the nation at large, and nized by the operation of fire, and that she could, as it were, communicate with they were in a state analogous to peat, the whole of it; for the number of the or bovey coal, the leaves being generally citizens who composed the political state cemented into one mass by a peculiar of athens was extremely limited. the substance which had formed during the fine arts flourished in greece under fermentation and chemical change of the every form; not merely eloquence, but vegetable matter composing them, in a even the science of government was in long course of ages. the nature of this spired by a kind of artist-like spirit, substance being known, the destruction created by the manners and religion of of it became a subject of obvious chemi. the athenians. this universal power cal investigation; and i was fortunate of the imagination afforded great sway enough to find means of accomplishing ito aspasia, for she was intimately ac- this without injuring the characters or ľ quainted with its secrets. to enjoy destroying the texture of the mss. life was in some measure a religious after the chemical operation, the leaves duty of the athenians, to renounce the of most of the fragments perfectly sepa- world and its vanities is the virtue of rated from each other, and the greek ! the moderns: it is therefore impossible characters were in a high degree distinct; i to judge, on the same principles, two but two fragments were found in pecu- | such different epochs in the history of liar states; the leares of one easily sepa- human sentiments. a german poet has rated, but the characters were found given the name of saint aspasia to a wholly defaced on the exterior folds, and celebrated woman. it would, indeed, partially defaced on the interior. in the be charming to combine all the magic of other, the characters were legible on such the poetic worship of the greeks, with leaves as separated, but an earthy matter, that rigid morality which fortifies the or a species of tufa, prevented the sepa- soul, and from which alone it can derive ration in some of the parts; and both gravity and profoundness. cyrus gave these circumstances were clearly the re- the name of aspasia to his mistress, sults of agencies to which the mss. had milto, to express his admiration of her been exposed, during or after the vol- graces and charms. aspasia signified canic eruption by which they had been the most fascinating of women, as did covered. alexander the greatest of heroes. to it appeared probable from these facts, call a woman aspasia, was to compare that different mss. might be in other her to some fabulous divinity ; for in states, and that one process might not greece, celebrated mortals were soon apply to all of them; but even a partial confounded with the inhabitants of success was a step gained ; and my re- olympus, who so nearly approached the sults made me anxious to examine in earth. detail the numerous specimens preserved in the museum at naples. (having ob- sir h. davy on unrolling the her- culaneum mss. november, ; january, march, several important papers relative may, , new monthly mag,-no. . vol. xi. h (june , sir h. davy on the herculaneum mss. tained facilities for this purpose, the re- two confused heaps; in these heaps the sult is thus stated.] exterior mss. and the exterior parts of in this report i shall first consider the the mss. must have been acted on by circumstances under which the mss. water; and as the ancient ink was com- have been buried, and the agencies to posed of finely-divided charcoal sus- which they have been exposed; from pended in a solution of glue or gum, which it will be easy to account for the wherever the water percolated continu- state in which they are found. this ously, the characters were more or less state i shall next describe, and consider erased. the means which have hitherto been em- moisture, by its action upon vegetable ployed for unrolling them, and the assist matter, produces decomposition, which ance which chemical processes seem to may be seen in peat bogs in all its differ- afford to the undertaking ; and i shall, ent stages; when air and water act con- lastly, offer some suggestions as to the jointly on leaves or small vegetable fibres, nature of the works which may be ex- they soon become brown, then black, and pected to be found amongst these imper- by long continued operation of air, even fect and mutilated remains of ancient at common temperatures, the charcoal literature. itself is destroyed, and nothing remains an examination of the excavations but the earths which entered into the that still remain open at herculaneum constitution of the vegetable substance. immediately confirmed the opinion which when vegetable matter is not exposed i entertained, that the mss. had not to moisture or air, its decay is much been acted on by fire. these excava. slower ; but in the course of ages its ele- tions are in a loose tufa, composed of ments gradually re-act on each other, the volcanic ashes, sand, and fragments of volatile principles separate, and the car- lava, imperfectly cemented by ferruginous bonaceous matter remains. and calcareous matter. the theatre, and of the mss. the greater number, the buildings in the neighbourhood, are those which probably were least exposed encased in this tufa, and, from the man- to moisture or air, (for till the tufa con- ner in which it is deposited in the galleries solidated air must have penetrated of the houses, there can be little doubt through it) are brown, and still contain that it was the result of torrents laden some of their volatile substance, or ex- with sand and volcanic matter, and de- tractive matter, which occasions the co. scending at the same time with showers herence of the leaves; others are almost of ashes and stone still more copious than entirely converted into charcoal, and those that covered pompeii. the exca- in these, when their form is adapted to vation in the house in which the mss. the purpose, the layers may be readily were found, as i was informed by monsig. scparated from each other by mechanical rosini, has been filled uy; but a build- means. of a few, particularly the super- ing, which is said by the guides to be this ficial parts, and which probably were house, and which, as is evident from the most exposed to air and water, little re- engraved plan, must have been close to it, mains except the carthy basis, the char- and part of the same chain of buildings, coal of the characters, and some of that offered me the most decided proofs that of the vegetable matter, being destroyed, the parts nearest the surface, and, à for. and they are in a condition approaching tivri, those more remote, had never been to that of the mss. found at pompeii, exposed to any considerable degree of where the air, constantly penetrating heat. i found a small fragment of the through the loose ashes, there being no ceiling of one of the rooms, containing barrier against it as in the consolidated lines of gold leaf and vermilion in an tufa of herculaneum, has entirely de- unaltered state; which could not have stroyed all the carbonaceous parts of the happened if they had been acted upon papyrus, and left nothing but earthy by any temperature sufficient to convert matter. four or five specimens that i vegetable matter into charcoal. examined were heavy and dense, like the the state of the mss. exactly coin- fragment to which i referred in the in- cides with this view ; they were probably troduction to this report, a considerable on shelves of wood, which were broken quantity of foreign earthy matter being down when the roofs of the houses yield found between the leaves and amongst ed to the weight of the superincumbent the pores of the carbonaceous substance mass; hence many of them were crushed of the mss., evidently deposited during and folded in a moist state, and the leaves the operation of the cause which consoli- of some pressed together in a perpendi- dated the tufa. cular direction, and all of them mixed in the number of mss., and of frag- .] sir h. davy on the herculaneum miss. ments originally brought to the museum, peared to the persons who examined as i was informed by m. ant. scotti, them more perfect than before. amounted to , ; of these have i did not think it proper to communi. been unrolled, and found in a legible cate the details of my method to the state; more have been operated operators in the museum; for though it upon, and, more or less, unrolled, and possesses great simplicity, yet it must be found not to be legible ; have been performed with care, and is a gradual presented to foreign potentates. process, and might be injurious in un- amongst the , that remain, and skilful hands, and ought to be executed which i have examined with attention, by an accurate manipulator, and one ac- by far the greatest number consists of quainted with the science of chemistry. small fragments, or of mutilated or my only motive for deferring the public crushed mss., in which the folds are so cation of it has been the hope of render- irregular as to offer little hopes of sepa- ing it subservient in a secure way, and rating them so as to form connected upon an extensive scale, to an under- leaves; from to are in a state taking which, without some such me- which present a great probability of suc- thod, seemed a bequest to posterity or to cess, and of these the greater number future ages. are of the kind in which some volatile i brought with me to rome some vegetable matter remains, and to which fragments of greek mss., and one of a the chemical process, referred to in the latin ms.; and experiments that i have beginning of this report, may be applied made upon them induces me to hope with the greatest hopes of useful results. that a modification of the process just one method only has been adopted in referred to will considerably assist the the museum at naples for unrolling the separation of the leaves, even when they mss., that invented in the middle of the are not adherent; and that another last century; it is extremely simple, and modification of it will apply to those consists in attaching small pieces of gold- specimens containing earthy matter, beater's skin to the exterior of the mss., where the letters are not destroyed. by means of a solution of isinglass, suf- every thing i have seen or done con- fering the solution to dry, and then rais- firms my opinion, that the resources of ing, by means of thread moved by chemistry are applicable, in a variety of wooden screws, the gold-beater's skin, instances, to this labour; but it must be and the layer adhering to it from the always recollected, that after the separa- body of the ms.; this method of un- tion of the leaves, there must be great rolling has the advantage of being ex- care, great nicety of mechanical opera- tremely safe, but it is, likewise, very tion, and great expenditure of time, in slow, three or four days being required preserving them, in attaching them to a to develop a single column of a m$. it proper basis, in reading and copying applies, likewise, only to such mss. as them; for, in their most perfect state, have no adhesive matter between the they become mere broken layers of car- icaves; and it has almost entirely failed bonaceous matter, upon which the char- in its application to the class of mss. coal of the characters is distinguished which are found to have roman charac. only by its difference in lustre or in ters, and where the texture of the leaf is shade of colour. much thicker. it requires, likewise, a hitherto there have been no systema- certain regularity of surface in the mss. tic attempts to examine in detail all the the persons charged with the busi- mss. which contain characters, so as to ness of unrolling the mss. in the mu- know what is really worth the labour of seum, informed me that many chemical unrolling and preserving ; but this clearly experiments had been performed upon is the plan which it would be most pro- the mss. at different times, which as- fitable and useful to pursue. the name sisted the separation of the leaves, but of the author has generally been found always destroyed the characters. to in the last leaf unrolled; but two or prove that this was not the case with my three of the first columns would enable method, i made two experiments before a scholar to judge of the nature of the them, one on a brown fragment of a work, and by unrolling a single fold, it greek ms., and the other on a similar might be ascertained whether it was fragment of a latin ms., in which the prose or verse, or historical, or physical, leaves were closely adherent; in both or ethical. by employing, according to instances the separation of the layers this view, an enlightened greek scholar was complete, and the characters ap- to direct the undertaking, one person to (june , the eloquence of silence. superintend the chemical part of the radox by a few examples. do you seek operation, and from fifteen to twenty an assurance of your mistress' affection ? persons for the purpose of performing the fair one, whose timidity shrinks the mechanical labour of unrolling and from an arowal of her tender senti- copying, there is every reason to believe ments, confirms her lover's fondest hopes that in less than twelve months, and at by a complacent and assenting silence. an expense not exceeding , . or should you hear an assertion, which , . every thing worth preserving in you may deem false, made by some one, the collection would be known, and the of whose veracity politeness may with- extent of the expectations that ought to hold you from openly declaring your be formed, fully ascertained. doubt? you denote a difference of opi- it cannot be doubted, that the nion by remaining silent. are you re- papyri, which have been more or less ceiving a reprimand from a superior ? unrolled, were selected as the best fitted you mark your respect by an attentive for attempts, and were, probably, the and submissive silence. are you com- most perfect; so that, amongst the , pelled to listen to the frivolous conversa- or , which remain in a fit state for tion of a coxcomb? you signify your trials, even allowing a superiority of me- despicable opinion of him by treating thod, it is not reasonable to expect that a his loquacity with contemptuous silence. much larger proportion will be legible. are you, in the course of any negotia- of the mss. containing characters, tion, about to enter on a discussion with the exception of a few fragments, painful to your own feelings, and to in which some lines of latin poetry those who are concerned in it? the sub- have been found, the great body con- ject is almost invariably prefaced by an sists of works of greek philosophers or awkward silence. are you witness to sophists; nine are of epicurus, thirty- some miraculous display of supernatural two bear the name of philodemus, three power, the dread and astonishment with of demetrius, and one of each of these which you are impressed imposes an in- authors, colotes, polystratus, carniades, voluntary silence. silence has also its and chrysippus; and the subjects of utility and advantages. and, istly, these work, and the works of which what an incalculable portion of domestic the pames of the authors are unknown, strife and dissension inight have been are either natural or moral philosophy, prevented; how often might the quarrel, inedicine, criticism, and general observa- which, by mutual aggravation, has per- tions on the arts, life, and manners, haps terminated in bloodshed, have been it is possible that some of the celebrat- checked in its commencement by a well- ed long-lost works of antiquity may still timed and judicious silence; those per- be buried in this collection, but the pro- sons only who have experienced are bability is, that it consists entirely of the aware of the beneficial effects of that works of the greek sophists and of ro- forbearance, which, to the exasperating man poets, who were their admirers. threat, the malicious sneer, or the un- when it is recollected, however, that justly imputed culpability, shall answer lucretius was an epicurean, a hope must never a word. dly. there are not arise with regard to the latin works; wanting instances where the reputation, but, unfortunately, the wretched and the fortune, the happiness, nay the life mutilated appearance which they ex- of a fellow-creature, might be preserved hibit (they are in a much worse condition by a charitable silence, either by the sup- than the greek works) renders this hope pression of some condemning circum- extremely feeble: for no powers of che- stance, or by refusing to unite in the de- mistry can supply lost characters, or re- famotary allegation, dly. to any one store what is mechanically destroyed. who is anxious to pass for a person of the essay concludes with a specula deep reflection and superior understand- tion on the works likely to be unfolded, ing, i would recommend to say but little; and a just tribute to the prince regent, silence being considered by many people under whose munificent patronage what as a certain indication of wisdom; and i has been done has been done. must myself confess, that i should prefer the man who thinks much without speak- the eloquence of silence. ing, to him who speaks much without how eloquent is silence! acguies- thinking. not that i would be sup- cence, contradiction, deference, disdain, posed to be an advocate for habitual taci- embarrassment, and awe, may all be ex. turnity. no one can better appreciate pressed by saving nothing. it may be the delight derived from intellectual in- necessary to illustrate this apparent pa. tercourse. notwithstanding which, i see .] evils of exquisite sensibility. daily cause to admire the truth and jus- the greatest endeavours and trial of skill tice of that apophthegm, which says, " of to cure : before attempting which, how- much speaking cometh repentance, but ever, it may be most prudent and ra- in silence is safety." tional to inquire into its primary cause, a. r. which will lead to the consideration of the impressions received by the mind the evils attending exquisite sen. from external objects; and thence the sibility, and the suggestion of sympathy of that subtle fluid, which may a remedy. be called the thermometer of feeling. a stupid dulness and exquisite that the mind assumes (if we may so sensitiveness of feeling are extremes speak) the hue of the images presented equally distressing: like the torpor which to it, is beyond doubt; a succession of is induced in those climates much below gay or gloomy images will consequently the animal temperature: or the burning produce corresponding impressions ; fever shot from the malignant rays of å hence, (so nobly refined the mechanism,) vertical sun, they are diseases the treat- the subtle nervous fluid flows with a ment of which is somewhat analogous to sluggish or rapid movement, giving like that of the physical ones mentioned. vibrations to the nerves, which is the all men must be conscious of the in- thinking substance-the source of feel- fluence of one or the other of these dis- ing, and of its external indications. eases in some degree; and fortunate it is, the action then of the medium of sen- when, from the strength and prompt sations has been attempted to be explain- operation of our noblest faculty, the in- ed, from which it will appear, that if the fluence is of short duration; since, then, nervous fluid be kept in due motion, it serves the best end, by giving man a which is most likely to be effected by brief but powerful lesson of his frailty, a representation of images moderately amidst the triumphs of his reason, and pleasing, the spirits will be equable and all the gaiety of excited sensations. the more perm more permanent. thus, solitude, which state of the one is negative-a secondary is excess of retirement, is unfavorable death, from the bare idea of which we to the regular flow of the spirits: this at once recoil with horror; yet it is not is allowed by universal consent. the the source of much uneasiness to those total absence of agreeable images will who are witnesses of its influence in be followed by the same consequences others, on account of the freedom from as the presence of unpleasant ones. the pain in such a state. not so on the mind will contract a sort of hebetude, or other; here all is passion or suffering, form most horrid associations-or, per- made up, perchance, of the liveliest plea- chance, will dream of delight which can sures, but oftener of the acutest pains, exist no where but in the elysiums of which never fail to communicate a por- fancy; and thus be continually the vic- tion of their influence to those who he- tim of disappointment. this is very hold them. patients under this malady likely to be the case with persons of stu- are continually experiencing disappoint- dious habits, who form a partiality for ment - imagination is powerful- and sentiments imbibed from books, or form- the bliss they pictured is a phantom, ed from reflection in their closets; but which, which, alas! when they mix with men they find turn to little or no account-a like the circle bounding earth and skies, coin too valuable to answer the various allures from far, and, as they follow, flies. and minute demands of every day. a it is frequently the case, too, that mixture, then, of society and retirement such persons enter company with the seems man's natural state, and the best greatest desire to contribute and receive regulator of the spirits. books and re- their share of entertainment, when, fined speculations alone may for a time alas! something indescribable shakes charm and improve the mind, but it in- their resolution, blasts their hopes; and, voluntarily recurs to society to unlock after a few hours of purgatory, they its treasures, to partake of its sympa- leave, with the tormenting assurance thies; and, if it find none to welcome it, of having been miserable themselves, to soothe its fatigues by the smiles of and of having made others so. now, love and the freedom of converse, it will since this disease is so formidable, and either sink into gloom, or vent itself in since many of the wisest and best of irritability, mankind are exposed to it, it demands j. c. pratten. [ ] (june , line, original poetry. spring, a poem. the shepherd's pipe is heard along the plain, from the german, of e. c. von kleist.) and slumbering echo wakens at the strain. translated by h. e. lloyd, esq. ye feeling souls enwrapt in wintry gloon, ye bow'ring shades! within whose cool whom no kind rays of cheering joy illon, domain, no more let painful doubts awake your sigts, unbroken silence holds her sacred reign, nor fruitless sorrow swell your weeping eres receive my steps; and teach my voice to leave dark revenge, pale envy, lowerie: sing (spring. pride, the charms of nature's face renew'd by themselves to torture and with grief abide and you, ye flow'ry vales, and meadows gay, the frowns of care, and sorrow's formal where sparkling rills in endless wand rings (shise stray; disgrace the face where youth and viste the western gale that wantons where ye come, taste the bliss that breathes in ern bloom, (perfume. shall soothe my senses, with your sweet blooms in each grove, and sports in ever? where yonder misty hills to heav'n aspire, and ye, spring's charning image, bloomt the rural muse shall tune her golden lyre: fair, the new-born beauties of the smiling plain, fatal to beauty, shun the poisonous air, shall give fresh vigour to her rapturous that taints the gilded roof and crosdal strain; (song, street, (grei; from east to west shall sound the cheerful and come where echo longs your voice ti and answering echo shall the note prolong. where zephyr loves among your locks a play, enthron'd ʼmidcrimson clouds, and crown'd whether you dance amid the valleys gay, with flow'rs, or near some cooling stream inclin'd to rest, attended by the ever-smiling hours, with fragrant nosegays deck your spotless daughter of heav'n, young spring her breast. form reveals, here, on this hanging rock, whose gloomi and nature all her genial influence feels. brow, (bcos; from the high mountain rolls the wintry with its broad shade obscures the stream snow; here will i, stretch'd beneath this waria; above their banks the swelling rivers flow; pine, the clouds o'erchargd, descend in pouring on the soft moss in careless ease recline. rain, oh, what a smile of joy the prospect cheers! and the brown deluge covers all the plain. what pure delight in all the scene appears! with deep dismay the peasant views the the grazing herds, the hills, the tufted gror scene; and scatter'd hamlets; seats of peace and but soon the western gale,with breath serene, love. the gloom dispels; the waters quit the mead, when every part such various beauty shers, within their mossy banks the streams re- on which shall first my wandering eyes cede. repose? -- yet when returning night involves the plain, here, when the rising gifts that ceres vields, still-lingering winter oft resumes his reign; in youthful beauty'deck the lessening fields, reluctantly retreating, angry flings and intermix'd with flow'rs of various hue, keen frost and vapour from his hoary wings. in long perspective fade before the view from norway's pole he calls the loosend or where the sweet wild rose, and soow storms; (deforms: with thundering rage that nature's face the mossy slope of yonder bank adorn? the storms obey. prone fall the groaping first let them on the airy distance rest, trees, (seas. where mighty baltic spreads his spacios and to high mountains swell the troubled breast, but soon their force is spent; prolific gales which as it trembles in the golden light. warm the soft air, and animate the vales. dazzles with sparkling stars the aching woven with flow’rs and shrubs, and freshest sight, green, (scene, while like huge giants, tumbling o'er and thrown with wild boldness o'er the lovely o'er, (shore. a brilliant carpet, of unnumber'd dyes, the waves beat high against the sounding with sweet variety enchants the eyes. thick are the trees with leaves : in every now muse behold, on yonder wide-stretch'd grove, (to love. plain, the feather'd minstrels tune their throats the generous horses, loosen'd from the rein, bright phoebus' ray salutes the sparkling stretch their proud necks, and joyful stamp streams, (teems; - the ground, (resoppd. with sweet perfumes the glowing æther while their loud neighings thro' the woods .] spring, a poem. led by the sober bull, the speckled cows, gaze on those eyes, that beam with tender wade thro' the rushy stream that ripling fire, flows and happy in her circling arms expire! by the farm house; to which a narrow way, skirted by trembling asps and willows grey, ye to whom generous nations, free and meand'ring leads ; behind, a mountain high, brave, planted with fruitful vines, attracts the eye: with willing voice the rod of empire gave, part veil'd in rising mist eludes the sight, oh, cease to turn, ungrateful and unjust, the other part is cloath'd in purest light, against themselves the weapons they entrust which as it gradual spreads its cheering hear me, ye princes! as your god ye fear! rays, (plays. give to the ploughman back his patient to the charmed eye the prospect wide dis- steer: borne o'er the smiling plain on soaring restore the sickle to the injur'd swain, wings, and seek for riches on the briny main. the early lark in rapturous warblings sings; in distant commerce court the fav'ring gales, her joyful notes the lab'ring peasant cheer, let either india view your peaceful sails. who turns, well pleasd, to heav'n his those chosen few to well-earn'd honours listening ear; raise, (blaze then bending, ploughs in dark-brown waves whose midnight lamp with its resistless the ground, (around. ilumes the earth. search out the calm while crows and magpies hov'ring fly retreat with measur'd step the sower treads the far from th' intrusive bustle of the great, plain, where, by the beams of native genius fir’d, and liberal show'rs around the golden grain. some sage obscure, in silence lives retir'd. place him conspicuous in fair justice' court, oh, might the humble swain, who tills the the people's guardian, and the throne's soil, support, (hear, reap for himself the produce of his toil! the proud shall tremble as his voice they might he whose labour trains the fruitful and weeping innocence his name revere. vine, (wine! enjoy, in well-earn'd peace, the generous ah! whither does my grief my footsteps and might the trees his hands laborious tend, lead? (cede! with fruit for him their loaded branches far from my soul ye gloomy thoughts re- bend! come muse, and let us view upon the plain, but all-devouring war, with poisonous the cheerful household of the industrious breath, (death ; swain. whose look is ruin, and whose voice is no columns here in parian pomp arise, dark rage, and sickly famine in his train, no sculptur'd warriors strike the wond'ring blasts the fair prospects of the hapless eyes : swain. by art’s resistless magic hither led, like driving hail, by raging tempests borne, no stream reluctant leaves its distant bed. sweeps from the groaping earth the rising a lofty tree, that o'er his fathers' head, corn; (entwine, for ages back its sacred boughs has spread, roots up the tap'ring poles, round which shades the neat house, which covering vines the pliant tendrils of the amorous vine; adorn, (thorn. levels the woods, involves the towns in fire, fenc'd by a well-cut hedge of flow'ring nor e'en the humble cots escape its ire. in the court-yard extends a fish-pond clear, and all to please....... but whence those on whose bright surface other skies appear, loud alarms ? (arms; a boundless space; in whose expansive lo! every mountain gleams with glistening blank from iron mouths thick fiery clouds arise, the eye is lost. upon the sloping bank, and pealing thunders rend the vaulted skies; the hen, with ruffled plumes, and mournful torn mangled limbs are beap'd on ev'ry side, tone, (own; and giant slaughter swells the sanguine calls the young brood she falsely thinks her tide; aoxious the little heedless things to save, the eye of heav'n involvid in gloomy night, from all the terrors of the fatal wave. turns from the impious scene its angry by instinct led, her voice they disobey, sight. and in the ripling pool delighted play. behold yon bleeding youth! behold him rest the long-neck'd geese, fierce bullying hiss his head on some lov'd comrade's faithful around, (hound. breast: and from their young ones drive the curious to stay life's ebbing tide he strives in vain, and for awhile his feeting soul detain," a pretty, little, busy, bustling maid, in hopes once more to view the lovely fair with her neat basket on her arm display'd, for whom alone he feels the pangs of care; to give her feather'd care their daily food from her lov'd lips to catch the cheering runs thro' the yard, by all the train pursu'd. breath, death; she stops : and waving now her empty hand, whose power can soothe the bitter pains of delights to tantalize the greedy band; spring, a poem. (june , flow'r. now as at once the show'ring grain she like brilliant stars, arrang'din splendid row, sheds, (heads. the proud auriculas their lustre shew. they peck, and scramble o'er each others' the jealous bird now shews his swelling in his dark hole the snow-white rabbit lies, breast, and watchful rolls around his fiery eyes. his many-coloured neck and lofty crest; the cooing pigeon leaves his woody nest, then all at once his dazzling tail displays, adjusts with crimson foot his changing on whose broad circle, thousand rainbows breast, blaze. where all the rainbow's various colours the wanton butterflies, with fickle wing, bloom, (plume: flutter round ev'ry flow'r that decks the and smooths with stroking bill each ruflled then seeks his mate upon the topmost roof, then on their painted pinions eager haste, while she, in jealous anger keeps aloof. the luscious cherry's crimson blood to taste, but soon he hears the soft relenting fair, which skilful industry had bid to grow, who fondly calls him; then the happy pair, on the rude stem of an unfruitful sloe, together spread their airy wings on high, which wond'ring at a race till now unknown, and o'er the blooming garden hov’ring ily. adopts with joy, and nurses as her own. let me, ye tender doves! with eager sight the image of content and easy grace, thro' the fair scene pursue your wand'ring see the blest mistress of the lovely place, flight. (air! sitting at work in yonder viny bow'r, how sweet the garden! and how fresh the forms on the snow-white lawn the mimic the gold-hair'd zephyr loves to wander there. with fond endearment there a cherub boy, sportive he flies to heav'n with clouds of the grace's darling, and his mother's joy, flow'rs, (show'rs. sweet interrupts her work with infant then throws them back to earth in glitt'ring c harms, (arms, by seamen here from distant climes convey'd, and round her hangs with little clasping no wild exotics spread their barren shade; the while his sister, some regard to claim, no foreign weeds obscure the darken'd pane, climbs on her knee, and smiling lisps her but useful beauty satisfies the swain. name. this shady walk, of fruitful nuts compos d, thrice happy race! whom no dark cares above my head in arching verdure clos'd, shews thro' its long alcove the azure sky oppress, no envy or ambitious thoughts distress thro' which the clouds in shapes fantastic obscure and silent fly your peaceful hours. (o'erspread, like murmuring streams that glide through the fields, the sea, the vales with shrubs beds of how'rs, and far beyond, the tow'ring mountain's let others, of such vain distinctions proud, head. a sight of wonder for the pointing crowd, o'er the wide scene once more i cast my eye, in the all-dazzling car of triumph ride, to call it back where nearer beauties lie. drawn by huge elephants in indian pride; who thus, o tulip! thy gay-painted breast let others see their living statues rise, in all the colours of the sun has drest? adord by kneeling slaves with timid eyes : well could i call thee, in thy gaudy pride, he only boasts of heav'n's peculiar care, the queen of flow'rs; but blooming by thy who lives from human strife, and folly far: side (adora, who by the who by the stream in gentle slumber lies, her thousand leaves that beams of love cheerful awakes, and singing, greets the her throne surrounded by protecting thorn, skies. and smell eternal, form a juster claim, for him aurora spreads her rosy veil, which gives the heaven-born rose the lofty for him the meads their soft perfumes ex. name, hale; who having slept throughout the wintry for him at eve, in sadly pleasing strains, storm, (smiling form. the softly pensive nightingale complains. now through the op’ning buds displays her no pangs of conscious guilt his bosom rend, between the leaves the silver white-thorn whether thro'waving corn his steps he bend, shews or in the valley view his flocks at play, its dewy blossoms, pure as mountain snows. or in the vineyard pass the hours away, here, the blue hyacinth's nectareous cell, withabour sweeten'd is his homely food, to my charm'd senses gives its cooling light as the æther, his untainted blood, smell. his peaceful sleep is softly chas'd away, in lowly beds the purple violets bloom, by early zephyrs at the dawn of day. and lib'ral show'r around their rich perfume. unlike vain boasters, insolent and loud, oh, in these scenes by peace and virtue drest, the truly great thus shun the admiring might i at length in calm retirement rest! - crowd; exempt from vain desires, and pure my content in peace to cherish virtue's flame, mind, for virtue's sake, and not in hopes of fame. and all my sorrows scatter'd to the wind ! see, how the peacock stalks yon beds beside, my grief-worn soul might heavenly doris where ray'd in sparkling dust, and velvet cheer, . (tear! pride, and from my cheek soft wipe the trickling .) spring, a poem. (vail, h might friendship there her balmy influence let me enjoy the good that heav'n has sent, shed, (dead, nor vex my soul, on future ills intent. and from the tombs where sleep the awful let me retire to some sweet-scented grove, the voice of wisdom from her throne sub- where happy peasants whisper tales of lime, (of time, love, (trees, burst through the cloud and rend the veil where nightingales complain among the then to proud india's lord, i'd glad resign or falling waters echo in the breeze, the sands of indus, or golconda's mine. woven by nature's hand, ye solemn shades, ye lonely bow'rs which no rude step invades, oh heaven! thou source of joy, and bliss, ye mazy paths, where contemplation reigns, and love, (prove? and heavenly rapture swells the glowing say, shall i ne'er thy cheering influence veins, as choaking weeds obscure the flow'ret's where tranquil joy, and musing peace pre- bloom, inspiring scenes ! your lov'd retreats i hail! say, shall eternal woes my life consume ? in you what tender feelings fill the soul ! no : thou hast bless'd thy work; hope's what sweetly pensive thoughts the mind gentle strain (pain. controul ! consoles my heart and soothes the sense of soft glides the breeze the playful boughs the gloom disperses; beams of light prevail, between, (green. and dark futurity withdraws her veil. that charm the eye with their cool, waving visions of bliss! before my wond'ring eyes, and where the grove less thick its branches far other scenes, and unknown plains arise ! weaves, from rosy bow'rs in never-fading charms, the sun with liquid gold adorns the leaves. my long-lost doris comes to bless my here on the gliding zephyr's dewy wings, arms. each blossom'd sweet its nectar'd fragrance with such a step majestic virtue treads, brings. such radiant smiles divine contentment in the deep hollow of the silent glade, sheds. where thicker shrubs the gentle slope o'er- as to the lyre she tunes her tender lay, shade, thro' the thick clouds bright phæbus darts seated on beds of flowers the shepherd his ray, (sound, m swain (the strain the storms are hush'd, olympus hears the tunes his sweet pipe; then stops to hear and zephyr wafts the mellowing tones sound thro' the grove, then tremble o’er around. the glade, (fade. behold my gleim to hæmus' top aspire, till faint, and fainter still the dying echoes and wake to notes of joy the teian lyre. his goats along the walls of rugged stone, lo! heav’n’s eternal portals open wide; by yellow moss, and bitter thorns o'er. and borne on golden clouds in dazzling pride grown, love and the graces, and the cyprian queen, advent’rous climb, nor sense of danger feel, descend to animate the smiling scene: as on the edge they pick their scanty meal. and, as in notes divine they cheerful sing, the spotted deer, and stags with antlers thro' heav'n's high vaults the rapturous crown'd, (bound; echoes ring! rush thro’ the yielding shrubs with rapid o pair beloved, whence all my comforts and as they scud o'er streams, and groves, flow, and plains, (mains. by heaven bestow'd to sooth a life of woe, of their light footsteps not a trace re- come! with your presence cheer your long- now spring's resistless voice that love in- ing friend, spires, jo your fair train let joy and peace attend. wakes in the generous horse its ardent aires. the flow'rs to greet you sweeter incense the secret influence swells his beating veins; fling, (spring! with madd’ning speed he flies across the and brighter beauties crown the radiant plains, his loose dishevell'd mane and streaming tail, was it a dream? or vision of the sky, in wild disorder float upon the gale. whose magic power deceiv'd my waking the trembling earth resounds beneath his eye? feet, (heat; yes, they are fled; the heav'nly prospects his swelling nostrils foam with generous fade; (invade. from the high bank into the rapid hood and gloomy cares my heaving breast furious he leaps to cool his raging blood; yes; 'tis too much, i cry, to ask from fate, flies up the rock that overlooks the vale, ju the dark wand'rings of this mortal state. loud neighs with out-stretch'd neck and in expectation only, man enjoys; snuffs the gale. he nurses hopes which sober truth destroys; the heavy bulls with fires unusual burn, and soon he learns this transient life to against the earth their furious horns they know, turn. a soene of fancied bliss, and real woe. hid by the dust they raise, they madly roar, away ye fruitless cares! why strive to pry, and fiery clouds from their huge postrils into the secrets of futurity ? pour new monthly máq. - no. . vol. x . spring, a poem. (june , some mournful low, concealed in gloomy but should her careless mate of fought caves, (ing waves, aware, some climb the rock, some seek the cool- fall in the bird-catcher's deceitful snare, from the deep cavern in the nountain's side, who in the linden shade himself conceals, the impetuous torrent pours its roaring nor pity for his bopless captive feels, tide ah! then no more in cheerful tones ske into the vale below; with mighty force sings, . tears up the banks and trees that check its but trembling flies around on anxious wings, course; thro' vale, and field, and grove, low mur. rends the bared roots, which on its surface muring cries, tost and sighs of anguish from her bosom rise. now rise, and now in hills of foam are lost. then with fatigue and hopeless grief bell the shady grottoes tremble all around, · dead, ing trend echo the woods, the hollow caves resound. into the hedge she falls, and drops her siis the hare affrighted, flies with rapid pace, the bloody image of her murder'd male, the warbling birds disturbed forsake the then hov'ring round her wails his hapless place fate. that drowns their song; and seek some in weaker tones her plaintive accents die, quiet grove, (love, and her poor heart half bursts at every where to deserve their beauteous partner's sigh : the rival males the beachen shades among, the neighbouring mountain and the shrubo in sweet contention pour their eager song. vale, now while i listen to the amorous lay with pity moved repeat the mournful tale. cease thro' the grove thou western breeze what sound was that, that from this mod- to play, dering oal, (broke: flow soft thou bickering stream along the stript of its branching honours, murmure, plain, was it some bird that makes its dwelling let no rude sound disturb the tender strain! here? in chorus full, ye feather'd warblers join o r did illusive fancy cheat my ear? my soul to ravish with your notes divine! no, 'twas not faney; see where flattering hark! they begin! to the symphonious dow, sound, (sound. a varied ring-dove from that hollow boogh, the shadowing oak, and lofty beech re- skims o'er the plain, and looks with searcb- soft floats the strain along the silent glade, ing eye, and well-pleased echo lends her willing aid. where on the ground the wither'd branches the piping bullfinch, and the linnet grey, selects, and takes with careful bill the best, pour from the alder top their varied lay. and back returns to build his woods nest. the painted goldfinches delight to sport, who thus the tenants of the wood hes hopping from shrub to shrub; and oft taught, (thoughs, resort to build their nests with such prophetic where in the hedge the downy thistle hid in the deep resesses of the grove blooms : (plumes. what secret influence fills their souls wich light flows their song and varied as their love? concealed in shades obscure, in mournful strains, from thee, dread ruler of this world be the siskin of his cruel mate complains. (hor! perched on the lofty elm, with powerful father in heaven supreme, all blessings throat, (note. with equal glory is thy hand display d, the deep-toned blackbird tunes his cheerful in the small bird that hops amid the shade, far off retired in some sequesterd dell, as where in heav'n thy awful pow'r bekare, where chill despair, and pining sorrow the wond'ring angels tremble and adore ! dwell, as much to praise thee grovelling works where veil'd in thicker shade night shudder- conspire, ing fled, as dazzling seraphs borne on wings of fire when fair aurora raised her dewy head, a vast and boundless sea! whence all thiep the little nightingale, whose pride disdains came; the unworthy contest, pours her rapturous thou! only thou! for ever art the same! strains. the stars o'er heav'n's eternal champaign oft where beside the ozier'd pool's dark strewn, bed, (ing head, beams of the glory blazing mund thy throne! the mournful willow hangs its droop- thou bid'st the storms be still : the stores when in the wind the waving branches play obey : to call her mate she tunes her tender lay. thou smit'st the hills; and lo! they belt in thousand various tones, now soft and low, the restless sea, that with impetuous roat mildly she bids the gentle numbers flow. bursts thro’ the rock and sweeps the sandy now, as his skill some wise musician tries, shore, in rapid wild transition bids them rise, thy glory speaks : the angry stores de til loud and deep, tho' full of sweetness still (poke the silent vale, and listening grove they fill; with flaming lightnings winged from polet low, .] spring, a poem. while guilty mortals tremble as they gaze, then to their wicker dwelling eager haste, in deep-mouth'd thunders sound their in the warm corner of the garden placed. author's praise ! so virtuous sages leave their native home, trembling with awe, the echoing groves de- in search of truth, thro’ distant climes to clare roam ; thy mighty pow'r : along the fields of air, then back return with wisdom's precious the blazing slars, that move in endless spoil, round, (sound! and give to us the produce of their toil. in heavenly tones thy wondrous name re- in the bright stream that flows along the father of heav'n and earth! what mortal mead, man, (scan? a lovely island rears its verdant head; thy works shall number, or thy wisdom the trees and shrubs, with intermingled on wings of wind let finite spirits soar, charms, (arms. pursue the lightning's flash, the thunder's in sweet confusion twine their meeting roar; bright shines the hip, in glowing stars explore the secrets of the flaming deep, array'd, or o'er ten thousand thousand ages leap; beneath the elder's or the quince's shade : - as little shall they know the mighty plan, the scented juniper, its head displays, as the first moment that their search began. close by the spreading palm, or victor cease then, my muse! thy trembling voice bays. to raise, (praise ! around the branches of the briar rose, let more appropriate silence meditate his its clasping arms the luscious woodbine a stream of rich perfume, which zephyr throws; brings, and as in close embrace their blooms they from yonder blooming mead on airy wings, wreathe, calls me to turn my eager footsteps there, in kisses sweet the mingling odours breathe. and in deep draughts inhale the scented the snowy thorn o'erhangs the crystal tide, air. and views with secret joy her blooming spalding and hirzel! ye to wisdom dear, pride. whose presence winter's gloomy frown can cheer; ye lovely scenes! that purest joys impart, from whose lov'd lips soft streams of joy that calm the soul, and soothe the fainting distil, heart, that with unknown delight my bosom fill : oh, may the heat that yet uncool'd by rain, come to my side, and make the lonely dell, since winter fled, has parch'd your thirsty a place where angels might delight to dwell. plain, come! let us flora's smiling offspring which now, for want of genial moisture view, sighs, observe their loves and richly varied hue : be quickly temper'd by the fav’ring skies ! let lis, with flow'ry garlands crown'd, de ere in its unabating rage it spoil, ride, your smiling charms, and mock the peasant's tho'ray'd in tyrian dye, the sons of pride. sing virtue's charms, and let your numbers thou, gracious heav'n! withhold thy gifts flow, no more, (pour! soft as the gales thro’ rosy bow'rs that blow. and on the earth thy fresh’ning influence here the mild graces sport upon the green, it comes! it comes ! the clouds are swelled and calm contentment loves the artless with rain, (plain. scene. and soon the genial flood shall bless the here by the sparkling stream, bright rap its welcome harbinger, the western breeze, ture roves : soft murm’ring plays, among the whispering here the gay blossoms deck the shady groves. trees ;. a thousand various habitants adorn along the vale with rustling pinion flies, the beauteous scene. on long bare legs and bends the waving corn. dark mists high borne, arise, the eager stork deep wades into the flood, and hide the bright haird sun; a solemn to seek among the weeds his fishy food. veil before the idle boy, with piercing cries, extends its thickning shade o'er hill and to draw him from her nest, the lapwing dale. flies.. the silver circles on the water's plane, now to deceive him, see her lameness feign in waves distinct announce the viewless and fit with drooping wing along the plain, rain, till having led him from her young ones far, and quicker as the copious drops descend, she soars aloft, and joyful cleaves the air. like net-work, now, the crossing eddies the speckled bees soft murmur thro’the air, blend. explore the flowers and shrubs, with nicest scarce can the thickness of the alder wood care; afford me cover from the impetuous flood. and as they suck the nectar hang below, the birds that hill'd the place with songs of like drops of dew, that in the moon-light love, glow: . . . are now conceal'd within the silent grove. toil. (june , memoirs of sir john leicester, bart. in thronging circles press'd, the woolly behold how lovely shine the gems of rain, sheep, like sparkling diamonds on the glittering beneath the linden shade for shelter creep. air, plains, and hills are all deserted quite, how hanging on the flow'ring shrubs they save where the twittering swallows wing blaze, (rays. their flight, and dart beneath the leaves their silver and rapid skim the surface of the lake, the plants refresh'd, their flow'rs to heav'a with eager bill their insect prey to take. disclose, the mist which late o'er all the scenes re- as grateful for the good its hand bestows. posed, hail! ye lov'd scenes once more! still let as if fair nature's eye in night were closed, mankind, is now dispers'd: amid the sparkling skies, in your retreats content and pleasure find. the falling waters greet the dazzled eyes when driv'n by malice and oppressive in shining drops, before the solar ray pride, (guide. that gradual melt, then vanish quite away. from courts and towns, to you my steps i bright shines the plain adorn’d with sweeter still may the fow'ry mead, and shady grove, flow'rs, (how'rs. the friends of innocence and virtue prove. as heav'n had raised once more fair eden's may the soft gales amid your bow'rs that again at eve the veiling clouds are spread, blow, and o'er the fields their liberal tribute shed. oft bid my heart with tender joy o'erflow! all nature now in softest charms is drest, oh ! may the great creator, whose command the sinking sun, that hastens to the west, sheds countless blessings on the smiling where the green hills their fruitful heads land, (warm, display, who bids the rain descend, the sun-beam adorns their summits with his golden ray. still let me celebrate your soothing charm! the mighty raiobow, heav'n's eternal sign, inspired with holy awe, his praise prolong, with stride majestic lifts its forms divine; while rolling spheres re-echo to the song! its giant limbs o'er earth and ocean rise, and when at length my years approach their and its proud head high tow'rs above the end, (scend, skies. when to the grave my hast'ning steps de- oh, thou! whose powerful muse's heavenly then may i see in you, my sorrows cease, strains, (dom reigos, and close, at length, my stormy life in resound on aar's sweet banks, where free- peace! whose songs have made the alps that prop [it was our intention to have prefaced this the skies, beautiful poem with a memoir of the author, immortal trophies to thy honour rise; but we must defer it till our next, for want of oh, with thy tints divine, the scene adorn, room, it being thought most desirable to in all the splendor of the rising morn! give the poem entire in the present number.] memoirs of sir john leicester, bart. (with a portrait.) we have not, in this instance, to ex- kingdom; and, a distinguished branch, cite the attention of our readers, by the the burnes of cabinteely, is possessed of march of armies and the pompous de- large estates, in the vicinity of dublin. scription of battles and sieges, but with after a due course of school education scenes of a milder character. the gen- he was received as a student in trinity tleman, who is the subject of these me- college, cambridge, where he took his moirs, has been long an object of public degree of master of arts. he early ma- distinction on account of his zealous en- nifested a talent for drawing, and received deavours to promote the arts, which the instructions of several teachers. of mark the highest refinement of a civilised these, a person named marras, was suc- people, and constitute the noblest einbel. ceeded by thomas vivares, a son of lishments of peace. sir john was born francis vivares, the celebrated landscape , at the hereditary seat of tabley house, engraver, and afterwards by paul sund. · within two miles of knutsford, in che. by. under their instructions he ac- shire, and he is the son of the late sir quired some practical facility, but formed peter leicester, bart. of tabley, and a free and tasteful manner of drawing great grandson of the celebrated antiqua. landscapes, with a pen and ink and it rian of the same name. his second broad wash of indian ink or bistre, by christian name is derived from the ancient studving from nature. family of the flemings, at rydell, in when of age, he passed some time in westmoreland, to whom he is related by travelling on the continent, and visited the the maternal line. he is paternally de- most remarkable parts of france, flan- scended from the old irish family of the ders, germany, switzerland, italy, and burnes, who were baronets in the sister spain. like other young men of rank fnaravet by hory maurer udler sir i shur reunolets sir john fleming leicester, bart : : hite pasion bopu. pag.. prabhshet 'une . , by hennu iburn cordon street .) memoirs of sir john leicester, bart: and fortune, he mingled in the gaieties of and other most beautiful public buildings, the first circles, and took his full share of the collections of the cardinals and nobi- the reigning amusements; but he found lity; and drew from the ruins and fine leisure to obtain a competent acquaintance prospects in the neighbourhood of the with the manners and customs of the dif- city, together. the pleasure and advan- ferent countries; and to examine the na- tages of such an intercourse, on classic tural and artificial curiosities, public ground, may be fairly appreciated; and buildings, and most celebrated produc- the two baronets travelled together for tions of painting and sculpture. he some time. made drawings of the most romantic with a fine taste improved by a due views, in a slight, bold, and painter-like examination of the best works of art on manner, retaining the character of the the continent, and with all the tempta- scenery with much spirit and success. tions and opportunities of purchasing his facility and sense of the picturesque ancient coins, medals, gems, pictures, and beautiful, tempted him to a frequent statues, and every species of real or pre- use of the pencil; and his folios were tended antiques, sir john returned to gradually filled with views of those places england, without a collection. but he where he had passed some of the most brought with him that high polish, which delightful hours on his travels. at na- distinguishes an englislı gentleman, who ples, florence, rome, and venice, by his travels without prejudice, moves in the attention to the opera he acquired a deli- highest society, and sees much to admire cate taste for all the refinements of ita- in the manners and customs of other lian music. but his natural good ear and countries, without abating his affection sensibility enabled him to discriminate be- and reverence for his own. his love of tween that impassioned expression, which travelling induced him to revisit the con- is the finer sense of all the imitative arts, tinent more than once afterwards; and, and the mere artifices of composition, the in these tours, he spent some years before rapid dexterity of finger, or compass of his entrance into public life at home. voice, which are the technical means or sir john was courted in the world of instruments. the mastery of difficulties fashion, on account of his various ac- in execution without that enthusiastic complishments, his happy flow of spirits, feeling, which gives the composer and his disposition to be pleased, and his performer a command over the sympa- talents in pleasing. he excelled in field thies of an audience, is as a lifeless body, sports, and, after his trial of skill with separated from the spirit. colonel richardson of the guards, and the ear is but the portal to the heart, with the duke of richmond, in the pre- where art, divorc'd from nature, knocks sence of the prince of wales, he was ac- in vain. knowledged to be the first shot of the day. the utmost power of bravura alone, his taste for the fine arts, the splendor only commands our admiration ; it ex- of his equipages, the beauty of his stud, pires in the ear, like an envoy, who dies and his high style of life, were leading in the porch of a palace, without deliver- topics of conversation, and of notice in ing his message to the inhabitant within the public journals. his rank and ele. sir john's taste in music is divested of gant demeanor introduced him to the pedantry, pure and refined ; founded on brilliant circle of the prince, and his the nature of the science and directed by lively conversation, the fund of anecdotes his heart. gleaned on his travels, and his unclouded but while the baronet cultivated his temper, rendered him a favorite. he taste and strengthened his passion for the was a member of the harmonic society fine arts, by a comparison of the works with his royal highness, hunted with and styles of the great painters and him, and was his frequent visitor as schools, he was not so hurried away and kempshot. blinded by an enthusiasm for celebrated he entered parliament as the friend names and ancient excellence as to con- of the prince, but independent of all ceive a prejudice against the artists of party aid, and was, upon principle, a con- his own time and country. at rome stant supporter of his royal highness he had the good fortune to meet among during the three successive sessions that other english gentlemen with sir rich- he sat in the house. without affecting ard colt hoare, bart., and their mutual the bustle or eclat of a leader, his parlia- love of the arts led to an acquaintance, mentary conduct was marked by firmness which strengthened into a friendship for and consistency; but his suavity softened life. they visited the eminent painters the asperity of political opposition, and and sculptors, the vatican, st. peter's, gained him the esteem of contending par- .] memoirs of sir john leicester, bart. . several noblemen and gentlemen collected englishman would yet have been touched the chef-d'euvres of the old schools with with the effort, and the patriotic design a classical taste and sound judgment, yet would have been entitled to the grate- very many purchasers of refuse, of faded ful remembrance of england.” copies froin indifferent originals, and of “ but what are our sensations, when undoubted originals, which had no other we perceive that encouragement alone clain but the rust and rotteness of cen- was wanting to fix the just pretensions turies, affected the name of connoisseurs; of an english school ? when we find to direct the public taste, and to pro- that the collected labours of our own nounce sentence of condemnation on the artists, like the admired works of former works of every english painter. there times and distant countries, can add is no prejudice of folly or fashion, that splendour to the splendid and wealth to has not a sort of fraternity to keep it in the wealthy? the distinctive talents of countenance, and to oppose the advance each artist have been consulted in the of a better spirit. the auriculenti, choice of their works, and the collection who rejected the evidence of their eyes, forms one of the most gratifying specta- and decided upon the merits of works of cles which even london can boast." art not by the beauties or defects, which (the artist, may th, .) they saw, but by the collateral evidence but the public spirit of the first of their ears, and by the tales of wonder, patrox, who had “ dared to set the which were reported of them, were oferample of an english gallery," was not this deterinined class. they were not con- immediately influential. even the ad- tented to despise the works of their coun- mission of one or two english pictures trymen themselves, but they endeavoured into an established collection was still a to keep up and propagate their own anti- matter of singularity. mrs. opie, in the british spirit, and to wage an envious war life of her husband, published in , on all, who ventured to doubt the correct- mentions the placing the head of mi- ness of their taste or the justice of their randa, painted by that artist, in sir john practice. instead of feeling a pride in leicester's gallery, thus:-“i should the fame of a british artist, they dreaded regret that it was the property of any the advance of the british school, as a one but myself, did i not know that mr. depreciation of their own old collections, opie rejoiced in its destination, and were in reputation and market value. there i not assured of its being placed in are not many, who have the courage to that rarest of situations, a gallery be the first to take the field against consisting chieply of modern art, dounge such a formidable combination. never- honour to the genius, who painted, and theless, sir john boldly stepped forth, the amateurs who admired it." mrs. and his manliness upheld him against opie herself did not then dare to think the cold surprise and supercilious condem- that sir john leicester's gallery con- nation of the prejudiced aud tasteless. sisted not chiefly but whollij of british his fine feeling and correct judgment pictures ; and it was, therefore, a some- directed the choice of pictures and artists, thing still inore extraordinary and rare, and he persevered for years with un- if we may use an extra-superlative, than shaken firmness. the sound sense of what was then deemed “ the rarest of englishmen at length began to approve situations." his public spirit; and even some, among sir john leicester, without affecting those who considered his attempt hope to contemn the taste of any other gen- less, learned to admire the constancy of ticman, pursued his own manly resolu- his pursuit. in the publication called tion, and gradually formed that fine col- the artist,"' we find the following ap. lection in his splendid mansion of tabley plausive notice, under the head of “ gál. house, in cheshire, and in his gallery lery of english paintings belonging to at hill street, which has attracted the sir john leicester, bart."-"sir jous attention of the public, and spread the leicester is the first patrox, who, fame of the british school to paris, in a country abounding in artists and rome, and vienna. teeming with excellence, has dared to the whole length portrait of sir john, set the example of an english gal- in tabley house, was begun by sir lery, formed on a costly and extensive joshua kleynolds shortly before his death. plan bitherto considered due to the it was obtained from his executors, and works of foreign schools only. had such mr. edmund burke's receipt for the pay- a collection fallen short of the hopes of ment is in the baronet's possession. the founder, or had it fechly vied with the northcote was employed by him, to painters of past ages, the heart of an paint in the horse, and finish some parts memoirs of sir john leicester, bart. (june , of the back-ground, as they appear in the liverpool. a pleasing stippled print mezzotinto print. that veteran artist has just been published by meyer, from was one of the first to whom he gave a the proposal, by harlowe; and the same commission. owen, thompson, ward, engraver has now, nearly finished, a mez- turner, and calcott were the next in zotinto, from the beautiful whole length succession. sir thomas lawrence paint of lady leicester, in the character of ed bis splendid whole length figure of hope, by sir thoinas lawrence, hope, now in the hill street gallery, the discouragements under which en- froin lauly leicester. collins has painted graving struggled for many years during bis most important landscape, as a com- the late war, had produced a decline in panion for the superb view on the arno, the spirit of that branch of the arts. by wilson; and hilton painted his noble the export of prints to the continent composition of the europa, for sir had almost wholly ceased, and the line john: the latter was the first commis- engravers were principally emploved in sion for an historical picture, which he executing plates for the booksellers, from obtained in the whole course of his prac- the drawings of fuseli, stothard, how. tice. this artist has, also, this day sent ard, sinirke, uwins, burney, and other home to the hill street gallery, nearly tasteful designers. in this class the bri- finished, a story of the mermaid, from tish artists rivalled their competitors on burnes's poems. as a laudable contrast the continent, and produced an abund- to idleness and quackery, it may be ne. ance of brilliant small prints; but only cessary to notice, that this is the nine- a few occasional historical subjects on a teenth historical picture, which mr. hil- large scale were engraved, and they were ton has painted and exhibited, with the chicfly undertaken by subscription, and highest tokeus of public approbation and executed from pictures painted for the professional honour, since he entered purpose of temporary trading specula- the royal academy, as a student, on the tion. there were some exceptions by th of january, . sharpe, the heaths, bromley, the elder the collection consists, at present, of schiavonetti, and a few other eminent many more than those which are exhi- artists; but the line engravers stood in bited; but there are seventy hung up great need of support. to sustain this in thie grand apartments of the town and valuable branch of the arts, sir john, in country residence. these may be sepa- the spring of , took the lead in the rately enumerated as the works of de establishment of a calcographic society. ceased and living british artists. of the he introduced some eminent engravers former, there are five by sir joshua to the duke of gloucester, who, with his reynolds ; four by opie ; three by rom- usual frankness and spirit in whatever noy; two each by wilson, hoppner, and relates to the public advantage, felt an gainsborough ; one each by coates, bar. immediate interest in the proposition ; ret, sir f. bourgeois, ibbetson, and gare it his warm support, and, in co- harlowe. the tine picture of the ara- operation with sir jolin, after sereral lanche was painted by loutherbourgh, meetings, succeeded in arranging the when a naturalized resident in england plan of that association. on the th and a member of the royal academy in of may, , the resolutions, which con- london. the numbers by living british stituted its rules of practice and system, artists, are nine by northcote, six by were adopted at the clarendon hotel. turner, four by ward, three each by the duke of gloucester, the marquis owen, thompson, and garrard; two of stafford, the marquis of douglas and each by west, fuseli, calcott, hilton, clydesdale, earl of dartmouth, sir john and collins; and one each by sir tho. fleming leicester, bart., sir mark mas lawrence, shee, sir william becchy, sykes, bart., sir abraham hume, bart. howard, devis, atkinson, b. barker, b. m. p., sir t. barnard, wm. smith, esa. hoppner, and williamson, the younger, m. p., s. whitbread, esq. m. p., j. p. of liverpool. prints in mezzotinto bave anderdon, esq., and thomas hope, esq., been published from a considerable num- were appointed the committee of ma- ber of the paintings. some more have nagers for conducting the affairs of the been executed with much taste and spirit society. sir john fleming leicester in line engraving and dotting, for that was appointed the treasurer, and several very elegant work britton's beauties of thousand pounds were raised. the plau the british school. hoppner's sleeping was printed in a small duodecimo tract of female has been recently engraved in the pages, and widely distributed. a great line manner, with much merit, by smyth, good was likely to have resulted from it, an engraser of considerable promize in in advancing the interests of line engrar. . .) memoirs of sir john leicester, bart. ve * ing, although it was not exclusively con- portrait is among the beauties at hamp- fined to that branch -- when, unfortu- ton court, answers so closely to lady dately, a misunderstanding arose, a party leicester, that we insert it here from spirit ensued, and the whole fell to the sir peter leicester's antiquities, written ground, in spite of his royal highness's in :-“this eleanor is a person of strenuous efforts, and those of sir john such comely presence, handsomeness, leicester, to reconcile the difference. sweet disposition, honour, and general the society was dissolved, and their repute in the world, that we have not money returned to the subscribers. seen her equal." a fine portrait of on the th of november, , sir this lady eleanor byron, nearly a john entered the married state ; and we whole length duplicate of that at hamp. find this record of the circumstance en- ton court, and attributed to sir peter tered in a sunday journal* of the next lely, is among the family pictures at day: “ married, yesterday, in the patabley house. lace of hampton court, by special li by this marriage sir john has had cense, that dibtinguished patron op two sons, george, the elder, named after british art, sir john leicester, the prince regent, his god-father, and bart., to georgiana maria, young- william, named after bis god-father his est daughter of lieut.-colonel costin, royal highness the duke of clarence. and god-daughter to his royal high in the spring of , the zealous spirit ness the prince op wales; a young of sir john projected a new mode of ad- lady, whose loveliness of person and sin- vancing the interests of modern art. gular accomplishments at the age of six- the marquis of stafford and the earl teen, are the themes of universal pane of grosvenor, with a laudable intention, gyric." this lady, whose outward had opened their galleries of pictures by graces are even surpassed by the graces the old masters, to public inspection, on of her mind, has been so admirably re free tickets of admission, some years be presented in the character of hope, by fore. by this liberal accommodation, the pencil of sir thomas lawrence, that they not only contributed to diffuse a the visitors of the gallery are well ac- passion for the fine arts, but they im- quainted with her lovely figure, and the proved the public taste, and rendered lively expression of unaffected sweetness their visitors familiar with the select in her features. the artist happily de- productions of the best masters. these picted her ladyship in that character, noblemen thus prepared the way for whose form is the radiant emblem of all modern art; because persons of true that is more nearly allied to heaven in taste and correct judgment will prefer mortality, and whose smile is the mute a work of excellence, painted by one of eloquence of brilliant youth and inno- their contemporaries, in the living light cent vivacity. he had not to call in the of whose fame they inay be said to walk flattering aid of his imagination. the and hourly participate, to compositions pure reality, the fairest excellence of na- of no higher merit, executed by the ture stood before him. the beauty of deud, of whose well-earned celebrity they lady leicester is not, alone, a tincture of are the proud inheritors and zealous complexion, the lustre of a sparkling guardians, but with whose persons, pas- eye, or the freshness of a vermeil lip. it sions, and interests, they can have nei- is not merely an angelic exterior, inha- ther ocular nor tangible sympathy bited by an uncourteous and earthly neither social nor kindred communion. spirit. the beauty of her countenance we mean here, and in the subsequent is the unclouded light of the soul, the remarks, only, that works of art ure to gentle virtues shining from within, and be valued according to their merits, not diffusing a charm over all her looks and according to their age; with an impar- actions. the epithet in italic, in the tial reverence for the best performances following lines, from an unpublished of the ancients and moderns. we justly poem to health, on her late illness, is appreciate the victories of cressy and perfectly applicable : poictiers, but they affect us only through far, far from her, pale sickness chase! the general and remote medium of his- , power henign! thy sway resume ! tory. on the contrary, we live, as it and on her soul-illumined face, werc, in close and warm contact with again let smiling beauty bloom. the triumph of waterloo ; our hopes the description of lady eleanor brand fears were committed on the for- ron, one of sir john's ancestors, whose tune of that battle; we bold converse with its heroes, and feel a personal in: * see examiner, november , . terest in their good fortune and glory. nbw monthly mag.-no. , k memoirs of sir john leicester, bart. (june , the moment men have broken through his gallery of english pictures, it was the prejudices of anti contemporarianism, laughed at, by some, as a folly, unde- they will feel and reason in this manner, serving of public attention, and cen- froin the nature of things, and not from sured," by others, as an imprudence, erroneous and anti-british notions, with which inust produce unfavorable com- respect to the fine arts and artists. parisons. but the baronct, who, when the british institution, by exhibiting england was wholly over-run by the works of a few deceased british these foreign errors, had been the first, artists, had done great good. but still like another alfred, to rear the stand- no amateur afforded a similar display to ard of undivided patronage in behalf english pictures, in his own mansion; of native genius, was also, the first to and this circumstance of their being ex- unfurl the banner for her on this oc- cluded from equal domiciliary honours, casion, and to give her a dignified share with the works of the old masters, con- in the honors of his household. he tributed to strengthen the prejudice adopted the plan of a free admission, by against modern art. too many, un- tickets to his gallery on one day in each thinkingly, drew an inference that their week, in april and may, ; and the exclusion, which arose from pusillani. th of april, in that year, the day on mous and false views, was a proof of which he opened his gallery, in hill- their want of merit. it was clear, that street, to the public, formed a memo- so long as they continued to be excluded, rable epoch in the history of the british they must remain subject to this asper- school. the effect, in london, was in- sion. but the difficulty was to find a describable. it increased on each after gentleman of rank and fortune, possessed day of the exhibition, and the general of a collection of english pictures, and enthusiasm, which seized upon all the with publie spirit and courage enough to upper classes, rapidly spread the name set an example in their favor. it would of sir john fleming leicester, and the have been easy to have borrowed english fame of the british school, through paintings from different noblemen and the empire, and was felt upon the conti- gentlemen, and to have made an exhibi- nent, as a revolution in the taste of the tion of them on free tickets of admission, most powerful nation in the world. in some private gentleman's house. but but still the works of the old masters this plan, beside its resemblance to the possessed another decided advantage, in fable of the daw ih borrowed feathers, the aid of the press, wbich possesses the was liable to defeat the salutary object most powerful moral influence on so- of an exhibition of english pictures; ciety. almost every public writer, who because it would enable any hasty, pretended to the name of a connoisseur, well-meaning individual of rank and for- made it a practice, even when writing on tune, to gratify his vanity cheaply, and other subjects, if he adverted to the fine acquire the name and short-lived popu- arts, to dwell on the excellence of the larity of a patron, without expending a old schools, and heap a thousand-times- guinea in the purchase of english pic- repeated praises on their celebrated pic- tures to encourage native genius. but tures. the lives of the old masters were even this empty shew of countenance, written with superlative applauses; their was not attempted or so much as names were extolled as the synonimes thought of. a gentleman of rank, of transcendant genius, and engravings who, like sir john fleming leicester, were multiplied after their paintings. all has employed his fortune, with a pub- these efforts, when directed by a gene- lic-spirited munificence, in the purchase rous spirit of truth and justice, were of a collection of english pictures, does benefits to society, and deserving of ap- a good by exhibiting them in his own plause. we, ourselves, share in the ge- house. he is entitled to the name of a nuine enthusiasm for the illustrious dead; patron, and his erample excites others to but our enthusiasm, being founded in a purchase and exhibit the works of their just sense of their genius, only renders countrymen ; but any borrowed exhibition us more zealous advocates for the genius of english pictures, in a private house, of our living countrymen. on the con- must be injurious to the fine arts, tinent, literature had a large share in ex. by enabling a barren mockery, however citing a love of painting, and diffusing a commendable for its good intentions, to correct taste. on the contrary, in eng- usury the place of a real and liberal land, literature, during nearly a century patronage. such was the force of false and a half, had waged a fanatic war thinki; y, that when sir john leicester against the fine arts, as heathenish and first mentioned his idea of exhibiting damnable inventions ; and even after the .) memoirs of sir john leicester, bart. press had ceased to persecute them as an to make a common cause with the ina idolatry, the conductors of the periodical sulted genius of their country. publications had long continued to keep sir john leicester was fully sensible up a prejudice against english pictures, of the good effect produced on the con- as inferior or valueless works of art. tinent, by the practice of publishing cri- they had only within a few years, since tical and descriptive catalogues of private the foundation of the royal academy, galleries and cabinets of paintings. ca- begun to admit something of an occa- talogues of this class had long existed sional notice of english works of art into abroad; and not only had contributed to their pages. but, as if painting and confer celebrity on works of art, but by sculpture were frozen up, and torpid in raising their estimation, had greatly rais- our climate, for ten or eleven months in ed their value. they had, also, assisted the year, and only in a state of anima- to elucidate the principles of composi- tion for the remaining few weeks ; the tion, and to diffuse a sound taste and love notices in the periodical publications, of the fine arts, wherever they had been were chiefly confined to the short season published. in england, a very few de- of the annual exhibition at somerset scriptive catalogues of private collections house, and were, too frequently, vague of old pictures had been published, in or written with anti-british and anti- the course of the last century. besides contemporarian prejudices. editors, these, boydell, aware of the immense who deemed it a merit to load their co- moral influence of the press, published lumns with minute, tedious, and hacknied a descriptive catalogue of the shakespear verbal criticisms on poems and plays, gallery, and owed a main portion of the written in english, and addressed to sale of the engravings to that important english readers, deemed it quite enough aid. macklin, and some other pub- to crowd a whole exhibition, of many lishers, followed his example with suc- hundred paintings by living british ar- cess. some judicions descriptions of tists, into a cold flippant paragraph of this kind were published in britton's twenty or thirty lines, and this brief no. beauties of the british school, a work, tice was too frequently mingled with which, in the selection of pictures, and contemptuous praise and unmerited cen- execution of the engravings, reflects sure. the inconsistency and injustice credit on the spirit of the proprietor. of this was more glaring, because paint- but still, notwithstanding these salutary ing, as a mute art, not understood by efforts of commercial speculation, no many, and laboring under heavy discou- private collection of pictures by english ragements, was more liable to be misin- artists, had been deemed worthy of that terpreted, and stood more in need of honor. sir john, who had been the detailed criticism, illustration and gene- first to form a gallery of english pictures, rous aid, than any species of written and the first to open that gallery to the english composition, which speaks a lan- inspection of the educated mind of eng. guage understood by every english rea- land, was, also, the first english gentle, der. the exclusion of critical remarks man of rank and fortune, who called in on the works of british artists, was ex- literature to do justice to the british cusable, .where writers and editors were school, in the distinct form of a critical not conversant in the subject; but the and descriptive catalogue of an english most coarse and illiberal attacks on the gallery, the private collection of an indi- productions of native genius, were gene. vidual. his liberality was as conspicuous rally written by persons, who sought to in this, as on other occasions. he took hide their ignorance, by affecting a the preliminary steps for carrying the fastidious severity of taste, and passing plan into execution in march, ; and sentence of condemnation, in an insult- intended to have accompanied the de- ing tone of arrogant self-opinion. the scriptions with outlines, tastefully etched same censors, who never mentioned the by moses, but that excellent artist was works of the old masters, but with super- so fully employed, he could not under- latives of ignorant praise, rarely men- take the series in time. after several tioned the performances of their living plates had been etched by another en- countrymen but with the superlatives of graver, it was found that the proposed ignorant censure. it is only within a number could not be completed, without few years, and in certain instances, that a delay of the publication for many a better spirit has arisen in the capital, months; and the design of accompany- and that some writers in the public jour. ing it with etchings was wholly laid nals, in noticing the annual exhibitions, aside. the author of the critical de- have possessed taste and spirit enough, scription of stothard's painting of the memoirs of sir john leicester, bart. [june , canterbury pilgrims, and that of west's pictures on the ensuing monday; and death on the pale horse, had the honor we are happy to say, that no public dis- to be selected for this delicate and impor- play of pictures, by the old masters in tant task. he had the additional honor this country, in our memory, ever occa- of being aided by the best abilities of sioned so deep or general a sensation as sir richard colt hoare, bart. the classic that of the gallery this season. the en- cal and tasteful friend of sir john; and thusiasm, if possible, exceeded that of the work, a royal octavo, of pages, the preceding year. instead of the was published in march last. a few english, scotch and irish crossing the copies were presented to some illustrious sea to visit the collection in the louvre, personages, and public bodies, and ac- and return with anti-british feelings, the knowledged in most honorable terms. direction of admiring taste and curiosity we subjoin the following official reply was proudly reversed. visitors from from the royal academy, as it so justly scotland, ireland, and the continent, expresses their grateful sense of sir journied to inspect the gallery of english john's patronage of native genius. pictures in hill-street, and retired with royal academy, a higher sense of england's glory in sir, th april, . their breasts. this was, indeed, the the president and council desire to ex- employing of his fortune as a public be- press their acknowledgement of the favour nefactor, to a national purpose. it was you have done them, in presenting them an overthrow of prejudice-a great pub- with a copy of the catalogue of your col- lic good effected-ii revolution worthy lection of modern pictures, a document of sir john's generous spirit and perse- which they have great pleasure in deposit- ing in the library of the royal academy. vering exertions. we have seen natives the prejudices, which have so long ob- of italy, germany and france, and re- structed the progress of paintior in this mote aslatics in their proper costume. country appear to be giving way before the mingled in the same assembly with some liberality and discernment of its present pro- of the most distinguished characters in tectors, but the president and council the united empire, on those memorable feel that lo no one is the art so much in- mondays of exhibition. an instance of debted as to you, sir, who have been exalted feeling in a british artist, occur- the first to open an extensive gallery of red on one of those occasions, which it modern native works to public inspection, would be unpardonable to pass in silence. and they trust that so truly patriotic an ex. mr. henry bone, the royal academician, ample will excite emulation in others, and lead to the establishment of the british and painter in enamel to the king and his school. royal highness, the prince regent, be- the president and council beg to assure ing among the visitors, was struck with you of their high and grateful respect. a sense of the high-minded principle on i have the honour to be, which the pictures were collected, with sir, the salutary change in public opinion, your very obedient humble servant, and the exhilarating prospects of the henry howard, r. a. sec. british school. warmed, as it were, by to sir john fleming leicester, bart. an atmosphere of enthusiasm, he ap- during the whole of the summer, proached sir john leicester, and begged while the catalogue was in progress, sir to have the honour of presenting him a john spared no expense to re-open the specimen of his performance," in token of gallery, with a proud display of british his early, zealous, and continued patron- genius, early this season. we speak of age of british art." sir john was af- facts within our knowledge, when we fected by a proof of feeling so honourable state that this zealous patron, with a to the giver and receiver, and subse- princely muuificence, has expended nearly quently accepted the gift with reciprocal two thousand guineas in making addi. warmth. this superb enamel is nine tions to his collection, and other encou- inches high and seven wide, and worth raging efforts, within the last sixteen or two hundred guineas. the subject is seventeen months. the gallery was “a peasant girl," in a landscape, co- opened on the th of march, and con- pied from the admirable picture by tinued open every monday, exceptiny gainsborough, in the possession of lord one, until the th of may, when it de dunstanville. this act, which is closed for this year. the interruption commemorated by a suitable inscription, was occasioned by the sudden illness of in gilt letters, on the frame of the ena. lady leicester, but the delight of her mel, places the character of mr. bone, ladyship's recovery brightened every as a man, in a high point of estimation, countenance, at the exhibition of the and was the more honourable as it was .] memoirs of sir john leicester, bart. perfectly disinterested. sir john never gallery to beat down an anti-british preju- collected enamels, and, of course, had dice, last season, reached our shores, in never been the patron of mr. bone ; common with those of the continent; but it but that artist, with a true public spirit, was felt with more force in ireland, because felt that the fine arts in this country are of the kindred associations which endear patronised in the patronage conferred on you to that people ; and because, also, there each of their sons, and that every bri- the love of the fine arts is connected with the love of country, and mingled with a tish artist is favoured and encouraged, thousand mournful recollections. genius, by the favour and encouragement be- depressed by neglect and discouragement, stowed on each of his professional bro. is doomed, amidst the prodigal endowments thers. how noble is that benevolent of nature, in the birth-place of burke, of principle which, in the breast of mr. sheridan, and curran ; of moore, of shee, henry bone, causes that gentleman to of grattan, and wellington ; to linger in feel himself elevated in the elevation of obscurity, without hope, without patronage, others! what a contrast to that envious or fame. our barrys, our barrets and spirit of individuality, which sickens at treshams, are under the hard necessity the praises of others, and seeks to raise of abandoning the land of their fathers, to seek, in exile, a field for the display of their itself by the degradation of all who are genius, and to contend among strangers its competitors for patronage and glory! for those honours which are its most pre- we conclude this article with the in- cious reward. sertion of a letter to sir john from ro the splendour of your liberality and pa- bert lucius west, esq. the director of triotism afforded a striking contrast. it ap- the dublin academy for the study of peared to our amateurs, like the cheering the human figure and historical design. light of morning, dawning on a distant har- it was written in reply to a polite note bour, to mariners in the darkness of a storm; from the baronet, with a present of the and the same desire, which urged so many descriptive catalogue of his collection, and strangers to visit london, impelled me to affords some faint specimen of the ef. cross the sea, to behold in your mansion, the private sanctuary in which the genius of bri- fervescence excited, among the visitors tish painting first found protection, and was of the gallery, from the sister island, by consecrated as a participator and minister of sir john's public spirit, the national glory. your gallery afforded london, , villiers'-street, strand, another refutation of the false notion, that may , . owing to some defect in the climate, english- sir, men were incapable oi excellence in the i received, with a grateful sense of ac- fine arts. i can, now, form a fair estimate knowledgment, your descriptive catalogue of your powerful influence on public cpi- of the pictures of british artists, in the nio'. by the deep impression on my own splendid collection, at your residence in mind, wbile i stood in that centre of beauty, london and cheshire, written by mr. wil- fashion, and intellectual attraction, which liam carey. your distinguished taste and art and nature had contributed to embellish. rank as the early vindicator of native genius the interest produced by the chosen spéci- and patron of the british school of painting mens of the british pencil, and by the ele- would render this elegant gift a source of vated principle, on which they were dis- pride, if presented by you to the most es- played, was heightened by the affability of teemed of your friends; but there are ad- your attentions; by the grace and loveliness ditional circumstances, which enhance this of one part of the spectators, and the public spontaneous mark of your kindness to an character of others. a number of eminent irish artist, on a transient visit to this coun- persons, who were, before, only known to try. the records of ireland, and the page me by name, and their celebrity in the arts of english history, trace your irish lineage and sciences, in the senate, the cabinet and and the rank of your ancestors in eng- the field, met in the same crowd, and joined land; thus your house exhibits an emblem in congratulation. the spectacle was ren- of that union of the two nations, which dered more extraordinary by the presence combines in one commanding array, the in- of visitors of distinction, from the remote spired imagination, quick scorn of danger parts of persia and india, assembled, in and fiery energy of the one, with the lofty their proper costume, lo contemplate the sedateness, persevering enterprise, and in triumph of british genius; and to bear vincible courage of the other. my warm back to the distant world, the remembrance hearted countrymen, proud of the irish and the boast, of having seen and conversed blood which tlows in your veins, have given with its munificent patron. believe me, you a place in their affections, as a bro sir, i too shall bear with me to ireland, the ther; and they claim, by right of copsan same boast and proud remembrance. the guinity, a share in the national honour, honor of an introduction to you; the frank- derived from your public spirit. the en ness of my reception; your valued gift, thusiasm excited by the opening of your that volume, which contains the description .] journal of a route across india, through egypt, to england. back, in india, but they do not make any (certainly quicker than any other cavalry ia figure in history till the year , when the world,) enabled them generally to evade they assisted the mahrattas, at the bat. pursuit. having no tents or baggage, they tle of paniput, which was nearly de- could, at a moderate calculation, inarch one structive to that empire. with the re- hundred miles in two days, three bundred in a week, and five in a fortnight: but when vival of the mahrattas, particularly in pushed for time, or by circumstances, they the aggrandisement of dowlut rao moved inconceivably faster. from the hor- scindiah, and holkar, the pindarries rid scenes of human misery which they con- also, rose into force ; and no wonder, tinually conteni plated, and in which they since they receive into their community were actors, they became cruel and sanguin- all disbanded soldiers, who are too dissiary in the highest degree; and, hardened to pated to return to habits of peace, after all commiseration, they never scrupled as having been habituated to war and plun- to the means by which they procured money. der. the collective territory of the when they sacked a village, they put the pindarries, at the period when the eng- inhabitants to various tortures, to force them lish government deemed it necessary to to discover their little hoards; and giving loose to their sensual appetites, ravished the take the field against them, was situated women, often punishing with death those to the north of the river nerbuddah, who offered any resistance. they had even extending from the west of the posses- so far extinguished the feelings of men, as sions of the ruler of sorger, along its on some occasions, with a demoniac fury, to banks, to the north of what little country cut off the women's breasts; and it was not remained to the newab of bopaul. it's an unusual practice to cut off the hands of length was a hundred miles, and its children, as the shortest way of procuring breadth, including the punj mehals, in the bracelets from their arms." some places, forty miles. “ each man furnished himself and horse - these lawless wretches consisted of with provisions during the expedition, trust- almost every sect of hindoos and mahome- ing much, of course, to what might be tans in india, and from their vicious feelings found; and what they did not consume in a and habits, they received with open arms village, they generally destroyed, and not every disbanded soldier, disaffected subject, uncommonly burned the houses : indeed, many of their excesses appear to have been needy adventurer, or criminal flying from without any other motive than a malignant justice, who directly became pindarries. spirit of destruction. but to give at once the history of the world cannot produce a an idea of the dread which their approach more diabolical association; they fattened on inspired, it will only be necessary to state a the miseries of others, and laid whole king- single example. at the time of their inve- doms under contribution. as soon as the sion of guntoor, the inhabitants of a village river nerbuddah became fordable, generally called ainavole, rather than encounter their in november (which river alone presented well-known cruelties and persecutions, una- a berrier to them from june to october,) nimously resolved, with a firmness and reso- and the khereef, or autumn harvest, was lution not unusual amongst the hindoos, to off the ground, they sallied forth to rob both sacrifice themselves and their families; and friends and foes, and their rayages extended when their resistance was proved to be una- many hundred miles from their homes, vailing, they performed the joar, by setting where they left their wives and families fire to their habitations, and perishing them- guarded by their infantry. but previous to selves, with their wives and children, in the , it had only been the country of our flames, in one common funeral pile. this allies which suffered from their depreda- noble and exalted instance of honourable tions. in that year they plundered part of sentiment loudly called on us to annihilate, the province of mirzepoor, and threatened with an avenging sword, the detested cause the town of the same name, one of the great- of so high-minded a sacrifice." est commercial marts in our dominions, which, situated on the ganges, receives from as to the native courts, nothing could be the south the merchandize of the european expected from them for the eradication market, and of bengal, and from the north of this growing evil, even though their the produce of cashmeer, the punjab, and own subjects were the sufferers by its hindoostan; and supplies these to our own existence; and it is a matter of ques. provinces, the provinces of the newab vi tion, whether most of them indeed did zier, and of the mahrattas through bozul not rather wish to encourage the pin- cund. in , they fell upon the province darries than desire their extermination, of guntoor, and the state of wretchedness in which the sufferers were left, from the looking upon them as a disposable force, destruction of their property, and the inhu- ever ready to enter into their service. on man crueity of the invaders, is said to have all accounts it became policy, to say no- exhibited a picture of the most consummate thing of humanity, on the part of the misery that ever was witnessed." british government, to coerce or cut off "the velocity with which they moved these savage free-booters for the security journal of a route across india, through egypt, to england. (jane , of our native subjects. this was done, necessarily taken of the religions, manners, and as the mahratta confederacy formed and customs of so many nations, and from the nucleus on which these pindarries his having observed the number of different rested and gathered continually a new modes of addressing and worshipping the accession of force, the termination of supreme being, he naturally turned to his own faith with an unprejudiced mind, found that union effected in the same campaign same campaign it perverted from the religion of the vedes may be considered as the greatest ad- to a gross idolatry, and was not afraid, vance ever made towards the complete though aware of the consequences, to pub- renovation of india. we have hereby lish to the world, in bengalee and english, taught the inhabitants to look up to us his feelings and opinions on the subject. for protection, and if their gratitude is of course he was fully prepared to meet improved, on our part, by a moderate the host of interested enemies, who, from exercise of power and a respect for their sordid motives, wished to keep the lower institutions, the advantages will be reci. classes in the state of the darkest ignorance. procal and the connexion permanent. i have understood that his family have but, unfortunately, there is an itch quitted him ; that he has been declared to have lost caste, and is, for the present, as for proselytism so prevalent at this day, ay: all religious reforiners must be for a time, as to excite well-grounded alarin that a mark to be scoffed at. to a man of his what has been gained by wisdom and sentiments and rank, this loss of caste must valour may be lost by enthusiasm and be peculiarly painful : but at calcutta he indiscretion. much has been said in associates with the english. he is, how. england, at least, on the extensive field ever, cut off from all familiar and domestic presented for the labours of missionaries intercourse, indeed from all communica- in the east, but if we are to credit the tion of any kind with his relations and for. mer friends. his name is ram mohun reports of persons, who have had the best opportunity of witnessing the fact, et roy. he is particularly handsome, not of nothing has been done to warrant the a very dark complexion, of a fine person, expectation of an abundant harvest. and most courtly manners. he professes there has never been, to my know- but refrains from it in order not to expose to have no objection to eat and live as we do, ledge," says the present writer, “an in- himself to the imputation of having changed stance of any hindoo of condition or caste bis religion for the good things of this being converted to our faith. the only world. he will sit at table with us while conversion of any kind, if it can be called so, the meat is on it, which no other bramin that has come within my observation, was will do. lle continues his native dress, but that of a high-caste bramin of one of the keensa carria keeps a carriage, being a man of some pro- first families in the country, who is not only perty. he is very desirous to visit eng- perfeatly master of the sanscrit, but has land, and enter one of our universities, gained a thorough acquaintance with the where i shall be most anxious to see him, english language and literature, and has and to learn his ideas of our country, its openly declared that the braminical religion manners, customs, &c." is in its purity a pure deism, and not the gross polytheism into which it has degene- we are well aware of the observation rated. i became well acquainted with him, which an ardent zealot would make upon and admire his talents and acquirements. this curious instance, but pregnant as his eloquence in our language is very great, the subject is of reflection, we must sup- and i am told that he is still more admirable press remarks and content ourselves in arabic and persian. it is remarkable with extracts. that he has studied and thoroughly under- thouerh the entire route of the author stands the politics of europe, but more par was rendered extremely critical and dan- ticularly those of england : and the last time i was in his company he argued forci- gerous, being through a hostile country, bly against a standing army in a free coun- he indulged a laudable spirit of inquisi- try, and quoted all the arguments brought tiveness, and suifered no object to escape forward by the members of the opposition. his notice that was worthy of enquiry. i think he is, in many respects, a most ex- the caves of ellora, particularly the traordinary person. in the first place he is great excavation, called in sanskrit, by à religious reformer, who has, amongst a way of distinction, keylas or paradise, people more bigoted than those of europe engaged much of his attention, and he in the middle ages, dared to think for him. has acccompanied his very acurate and self. his learning is most extensive, as he lively description with a ground alon is not only generally conversant with the m in the examination of these caves the the ovom best books in english, arabic, persian, sanskrit, bengalee, and hindoostanee, but : author has discovered a remarkable dif- has even studied rhetoric in arabic and ference in one of them having an arched english, and quotes locke and bacon on all roof, and other peculiarities, from occasions. from the view he has thus whence he conjectures it to have been .) journal of a route across india, through egypt, to england. constructed by persons professing the canal ; and so it appeared to the present religion of bhud, while the others were governor-general, who decided on the un- excavated by the worshippers of brahma.. dertaking; and the work is now in actual the disquisition which follows on the operation, under the superintendance and relative antiquity of the two modes of - direction of lieutenant rodney biane, of the faith is ingenious, and evinces an acute bengal engineers, whom lord llastings selected for this duty, on account of the turn for investigation, though of course character he had acquired in the scientific bothing is concluded, except that the pursuits of his profession. there is a fair brahminical religion is of northern ori- prospect that the expense of this work will gin, and of comparatively late introduc- be compensated many-fold, not only by the tion into india. general improvement, but by the tolls laken the following account of the restora for water which passes by sluices in the tion of a great public work will be read banks of the canal into innumerable chan- with interest. nels to water the country on both sides, which will bring back the population, and “ in shah jehan's time, the persian go- vernor of khandahar, named ali murdhan " restore fertility to considerably above a mil- lion of acres." kahn, finding his fidelity was suspected by shah abbas, king of persia, took advantage how much has been done towards efa of his war with the turks in ; and to fecting a change in the prejudices of the save himself from the malice of his enemies natives appears from the following fact: delivered the fortress and province over to " that there is not at this day a man of the king of delhi, who received him with the bighest caste who will not be grateful every mark of esteem and gratitude, and for european medical assistance, if the me- among other distinctions, conferred on bim dicine be taken from his own vessel and the government of cashmir. he was a given him from the hand of one of his own man of great abilities, and though little can caste; a compliance which would formerly be said in extenuation of his treachery, dur. have been considered as the highest profana- ing the remainder of his life he remained tion." firmly attached to his adopted sovereign, but the principal achievement gained and was by him employed in the highest over the prepossessions of the hindoos is oflices. it may, therefore, be presumed in the article of apparel. that nothing but necessity would have driven “ the sepoys did not for some time give him to so disgraceful a step. he amassed up their native costume, but now the loose a fortune so immense, that it was supposed indian dress has given way to the more he was possessed of the philosopher's sione: compact european; and in bengal the se- but it is more probable that his wealth was poys, with their faces turned from you, can- accumulated by the formation of a canal, not, at this day, be distinguished from the not for navigation, but for irrigating a ste- king's troops." rile tract of ground between paniput and between poonah and bombay the dubi. author visited and inspected minutely u this noble capal was about miles the cave of carli, which is considered as from north to south; the water which flow- the remains of pure bhudism, and pre- ed through it being taken from the jumpa, a: vious to his entering bombay he went to ninety miles above delhi, and rejoining that river nine miles below the city. the na- the island of elephanta, though his no- tives call it nehur behisht, or the river of tice of its curiosities is but slight and paradise ; sometimes the sea of fertility. offers nothing new. the revenue of the country through which from the account of bombay we shall it flowed was fourteen lacs, but having been extract, as being by far the most interest- neglected and choaked up for years, by ing article, the history of the dockyard. the political convulsions so prevalent in this « in , on a vessel being built at region, after the death of ausongzebe, it surat for the company, the agent who was does not now amount to more than one lac. sent there was so much pleased with the beyond its effects in agriculture, it was of foreman, a parsee, of the name of lowjee extraordinary consequence to the health of nassarwanjee, that he tried to persuade the inhabitants of delhi. the water of the him to come to bombay, the government jumna, and of the wells, which they are being desirous to establish a yard on that now obliged to drink, is so much impreg- island. the attachment and fidelity of this nated with patron, otherwise called soda, as parsee to his master would not yield to the to prove at times very injurious. the point advantageous offer made until his permis- of the river from which the canal is taken sion was procured a short time after this is a great distance from that portion of the period lovice, with a few artificers, ar- country in thich the natron is so abundant, rived at bombay, and eclected for the docks and there was a cut made from it, to supply part of the ground on which they now stand. the city with wholesome water. there being a thoroughfare, however, they were could pot therefore be an act of more true not very advantageously situated. the beneficence than the restoration of this scarcity of timber obliged government, the new monthly mag.--no. . vol. xi. l journal of a route across india, through egypt, to england. (june , following year, to send lowjee to the north, tons, five above tons, sis above to negociate for a supply from the natives tons, five above tons, and thirty-five in the forests, and on his return he brought others of a smaller tonnage. his family, and settled them at bombay. " the sons and grandsons of jumpsetjee “ indeed the history of this dock-yard is are now in the dock-yard. thus five gene- that of the rise of a respectable, honest, and rations have followed each other; and i am hard working family, as through several happy to say his son promises as well as any generations the chief builder has been a of his ancestors, descendant from the first settler lowjee; “ the imaum of muscat, one of our allies and so incorruptibly and disinterestedly have on the coast of arabia, has a vessel of they all acted in the discharge of their duty, guns building for him at the present time, that none of them ever attained to affluence of a particular construction, as he always the frequent use of the dock-yard, particu. takes his women to sea with him. he is larly by the king's ships, which had formerly almost continually in the personal command to be hove down at hog island, rendered of his fleet, as his neighbourhood is infested it necessary to increase the size of the yard, with the whehabbee pirates, and his ambi- which was carried into execution after . tion leads him to attempt the reduction of in the year , lowjee introduced into several islands in the persian gulf. the yard his two grandsons, framjee man, “ the dock-yards have lately had a seckjee, and jumpsetjee bomajee, but de- steam-engine added to them, which has termining they should learn their profession greatly facilitated the work in the docks, as practically, he made them work as carpen the water is pumped out by it in a few hours, ters at twelve rupees a month. in three or more vessels can he taken in dur- lovjee nassarwanjee died, leaving nothing ing the springs, while formerly one, or at but a house and a sum of money under most two, was the number inspected or re- . he, however, bequeathed the re- paired in each month. it would be advan- membrance of his integrity to his grand- tageous if the power of the engine could be sobs, mapseckjee, who succeeded him as increased so as to draw large masses of tim- master builder, and bomajee as his assiste ber from the shore into the yard. beside ant, and they carried on the business with these docks, there is a building slip near as much success and credit as the founder them; and at massagong, and at colabah, of the yard. in the docks had ac- in the neighbourhood of bombay, are quired great reputation, and during the others. subsequent war in india, and the severe ac- “ the expense of building the corntal- tions between sir edward hughes and ad- lis, of guns, and tons, including miral sufirein, our vessels were docked lower masts and bowsprit, was , ). and here, and these two worthy successors of that of the wellesley, guns, and lowjee built two ships of tons. tons, , . on board the former of “ bomajee died in , and manseckjee these vessels i came out to india, and she is in ; ihe former in debt, and the latter a ship of very fine qualities. the teak tim- leaving but a small provision for his family. ber, of which they are constructed, lasts they were succeeded by their sons, framjee much longer than any other wood. the manseckjee and jumpsetjee bomajee. the worm will not eat it; and it is supposed to success which attended the exertions of the be from the same cause that the iron bars last in building the cornwallis, a frigate for do not corrode in it; an oil remaining in the east india company, in , determin- the timber the smell and taste of which the ed the admiralty to order men of war for former do not like, while it prevents the the king's navy to be constructed at this rust of iron. spot. they intended to have sent out a “ i was much delighted with the appear- european builder, but the merits of jump- ance of the venerable jumpsetjee bomajee, setjee being made known to their lordships, and had a long conversation with him. i they ordered him to continue as master- made the veteran builder promise to give builder, without the intervention of euro- me his picture. he is to call on me to- pean direction or aid. the excellent con- morrow and to bring with him a piece of struction of two frigates and a line-of-battle plate the board of admiralty presented to ship spread the fame of this worthy parsee him on the arrival in england of the min- over england. in the dock-yard was den , built in this dock-yard. captain enlarged and shut up, the thoroughfare be- meriton shewed me a model of that vessel, ing discontinued. two more docks have which was built piecemeal, and at the same since been added, and for the service of the time as the vessel itself, and every timber royal navy alone, the following ships have was added as the shipwright placed them been constructed at this port: four 's, on the vessel in the building dock." two 's, two 's, two 's, and two 's. in a subsequent page, the author and at present i saw the malabar , and a says. gun frigate building; the latter is to be ir jumpsetjee called upon me this morn- named the sarang pataun (seringapatam). ing, having brought with him his urn, a besides these, since the dock-yard was esta-' present from the admiralty. it is a hand- blished, they have built nine ships above some piece of plate, but not very massy, .] history of north eastern voyages of discovery. with an inscription; and the handle on the neral stillness of the sea north of the strait, top, is the exact model of the minden, with found in two successive seasons, although out her masts, and has her name in very in the sea of kolyma, both in shalauroit's minote characters on the stern. upon the and billings's voyage brisk currents were whole, it did not seem to me, worthy either observed, which difference is some argu- of the dignity of the donors, or the merit of ment against the probability that the two the donee. he presented me with an en- seas communicate. to these is to be added graving of himself, a strong resemblance, native information, which whether traditio. which i will carry to england with me, as nal or from present report, generally merits he is a character i highly respect." attention; the chief danger is of its not be- (to be concluded in our next.) ing rightly comprehended.”_" behring's strait being regarded as the most probable a chronological history of north east- opening on the western side of america, by ern voyages of discovery: and of the many as the only probable one, for an en- enrly eastern navigations of the trance into the pacific by a northern navi- russians. by captain james bur- gation from europe ; and in the eastern key. f. r. $. vo. pp. . side of america, there being many inlets and armis of the sea unexplored, of which a very this volume derives peculiar interest sinall proportion can be expected to lead to from the late, and present attempts to behring's strait; it follows, that the best explore the arctic ocean with a view to chance for discovering a passage, or for dis- reach the pole, or to find a northern covering that there is no passage, is by passage into the pacific. the author is commencing on the other side of america. well known as a navigator by his having on this side of america, the question can accompanied captain cook in his two only be set at rest by the discovery of a pas- last voyages; and more so as a scientific sage; for twenty expeditions with the most geographer by his former publications, favourable seasons, would he insufficient for ascertaining that there is no passage." respecting the south sea discoveries. in this work he has given a brief chrono- memoirs of her most ercellent mujesty, logical detail of the voyages in the north- sophie charlotte, queen of great ern regions from the one of ochter in britain; from original documents. the time of king alfred about the year by john watkins, l.l.d. vo. , to the expedition of captain billings into the icy sea made in , by order the history of great britain, during of the russian government. some new the last half century, is full of momen- and interesting particulars are given of 'tous events, and revolutions; yet amidst all the mighty changes which have con- captain cook's last voyage, and the cir- vulsed the moral world, in that long pe- cumstances attending his melancholy ca- riod, the virtues of the english court tastrophe are minutely related for the hare proved an effectual preservative purpose of vindicating the memory of that illustrious character from the charge of against internal commotion. while rashness. but the principal object of other thrones have tottered, or fallen, captain burney, is evidently to discoun- that of this country has stood firm, be- tenance the idea that there is any north cause sedition itself could never impeach east passage at all, it being his opinion the integrity of those who filled it. the that the asiatic and american coasts are longevity of our venerable monarch, and continuous. his arguments for that con- his consort, seems to have been providen- tially ordered for the public weal, as the clusion are thus summarily - expressed, habitual reverence in which they were and with them we shall close our notice of this very curious performance. held, on account of the uniform excel. " to collect into one view the reasons for lence of their private conduct, repressed, believing that there is land to the north of even in the most factious times, the de- behring's strait, and of captain cook's signs of republican and jacobinical inno- track, i make the following brief recapitula- vators. yet there have not been want. tion; ist, the extended direction of the coasting, malignant spirits to asperse the of the main body of the ice, and its state; moral worth of these high personages; compact when first sten, and perceptibly and the late queen in particular, was loosened and separating two days afterwards, wickedly calumniated in her life time, as which indicates its having been detached being of an avaricious disposition, and from a coast of land; d, the fight of birds who took advantage of the influence, from the north; d, the equal soundings which she was supposed to have, over her along a large portion of the track, sailed from the coast of america towards the coast husband, for the purpose of increasing an of asia, at a depth corresponding with a dis- enormous hoard. it was often unblush- tance of between and leagues from the ingly said, and most credulously believed, land; th, the smallness of current and ge- that both the king and queen were pos- h dr. watkins's memoirs of queen charlotte. [june , *sessed of millions of pounds sterling. but though she could not endure the bla- which they continued to multiply, while zoning of her good deeds, she was always the public burthens were swelled and happy when her almoners exercised their loaded to an insupportable extent. such discretion, by giving more than their verbal were the lies malice invented, and the commission apparently authorised them to hestow. the wife of a labouring man at discontented propagated as unquestion- old windsor, with a large family, and in able truths; nor could these villainous great distress, was brought to bed of twins, impressions be effaced, till the death of which being communicated to her majesty, her majesty removed the veil, and she gave the informant twenty pounds, to be proved to a demonstration, that charity laid out for their benefit: in doing this, the had swallowed up all her income, that person found that the sum would be idade- so far from profiting by the national dis quate to purchase clothing for all the chil- tress, she had never saved sixpence; and dren, and to redeem the poor man's apparel that in consequence of her ‘unbounded and tools from the pawnbroker's. relying beneficence, she died in debt. we are however on the queen's goodness, she ven- glad, therefore, to find, that the history tured to add another twenty pounds to the royal donation, and, on making her report, of this exemplary qucer, has been amply which she did, with some apologies, her detailed, in a plain and chronological majesty stopped her, by expressing the form. the meinoirs of such a character warmest approbation of her conduct, and inust do good, in a variety of respects, graciously saying, that she took it as a par- and as she was a brilliant light in the ticular obligacion. highest station, while living, so in this the readiness of the queen to receive record of her many virtues, she will applications, and her promptitude to grant * pcak with energy from the tomb. hav- substantial relief, in cases of real distress, ing given in a former volume, a biogra- will appear from another instance. one phical sketch of the queen, we shall not day, a female wholly unknown to her ma- here enter into any particulars of her jesty, and without being introdaced, pre- history and character, farther than by sented a petition, at windsor; the memorial stated, that she was the widow ot an officer, extracting two or three anecdotes. and left with twelve children, wholly unpro- “but the accusation most strongly urged vided for. the queen directed the strictest and extensively accredited, against her ma- inquiries to be made into the character of the jesty, was that of excessive penuriousness. applicant, and the result being satisfactory, this allegation was so often made, that at she took the whole of the children from the length, numbers who wished otherwise, mother, and sent them to school. some were almost afraid that it must be true. the time after, however, the lady married a per- queen was not ignorant of this aspersion, son in opulent circumstances, on which her and yet she took no steps to clear herself majesty very properly sent back the chil- from it; for the soundest of all reasons, drep, that her bounty might be transferred since, as she observed, if she began to make to objects who stood in real need of it. il parade of benevolence, or performed something out of the common course, it would be said, that this was done to remove junius. a stigma, or to acquire popularity. she . junius unmasked. suell known and therefore very judiciously went on in her most eminent literary character. vo. . usual course, dealing out charity liberally, pp, . but silently, and keeping close to her sa. . junius with his vizur up! or the real viour's precept,“ not to let the left hand author of the letters published under know what the right hand did." to this that signature now for the first time rule, as far as could be practised, she ad- hered all her life, and nothing hardly ever unveiled and revealed to the world in gave her more uneasiness, than to have any two letters to my cousin in the coun- act of her munificence made known to the try. from oedipus oronoko, to- world. bacconist and snuff seller, vo. pp. . her constant injunction to those who had there are some questions of no real the disposal of her bounty, was, to keep the import to mankind, but which gather in- quarter from whence it came carefully con- terest by time, through the insatiable spi. cealed, and a violation of this direction, was rit of idle speculatists who delight in busy- the sure way incur her displeasure. a ing themselves about trifles, when those lady, who had been the bearer of a consi- trilles wear an enigmatic appearance. derable largess to a distressed family, was such is the problem respecting the real alterwards asked, whether she had mention- ed the matter to any person, and on being author of junius's letters, a problem told, that only acother lady, high in her that seems calculated to exercise the con- majesty's confidence, was made acquainted jectures of literary dreamers for years to with it," then," said she, “there is one too come. among the solemn visionaries many." whose wits have lately run a wool- .) junius unmasked, fc. gathering upon the never ending pursuit, past," said he, “ i have had no intercourse we hardly know one who has made a with him. the last visit he paid me was a more ridiculous business of it than the most extraordinary one. it was a dinner author of the first of these pamphlets : party; and, surrounded by my friends, i sat the whole drift of which is tv shew that, at the head of the table. porson was amongst perhaps, junius was no less a personage the number; and was, as usual, very chatty, than-gibbon the historian. the pur- pleasant, and good-humoured, until a certain period of the evening,when he committed the chasers of the tract however, may console most abominable outrage that hospitality themselves for their disappointment in ever felt. he had shewn no soreness or the purchase of it, by baviny a neat por- displeasure whatever at the topics in conver. trait of gibbon, which is inserted at the sation; when, impelled by some motive i top of the title page like a sign to a village could never explain, he on a sudden rose ale-house.-but what comes next? a from his seat, and holding his glass in his truly laughable farce, after an exceed- hand, addressed me in these words,_“i will ing dull coinedy. “ junius with his vizor give you, sir, in a bumper toast, the health un" is one of the happiest pieces of of the most detestable character in the whole dry humour that we ever had the plea- world-john horne tooke !” at this time sure of perusing, and the composition he was fushed with wine, though his senses were by no means overset by it. my friends, of it would have credited the genius and myself expostulated with him on the of rabelais, or swift. in truth we do indecency of his behaviour with all possible not recollect to have met with any thing good temper and complacency. but in vain. like it, except the battle of books, and in he pursued a strain of the most vulgar some respects this jou d'esprit is far more abuse and invective against my principles · witty than that celebrated performance, and conduct in political life. i teazed him the ill nature of which detracts much a little by my rapier in reply, but kept from its general excellence. after a myself quite cool in temper, and steadily on very discursive ramble, through brake and my guard. he still went on adding gross- through briar, but every where keeping no ness to grossness, and scurrility to scur- rility. i then went round to the chair in up the reader's spirits, master oronoko which he was sitting, and desired him to feel lets out the mighty secret that junius, junius, the muscles of my right arm. he felt them. ves the redoubtable junius who made i then drew up my leg, and desired him to ministers tremble and shook the throne, feel and discover if he could, whether that was, (who would have thought it?) no had any muscular energy. he did so. “now, less a personage, than the identical sir," said i,” you find that i can both strike dicky gossip, or our old friend of and kick; and if you dont hold your tongue, facetious memory, suert the comedian! i will first knock you down, and afterwards by way of specimen we shall extract a kick you out of my house." this menace singular anecdote of two very extraordi- silenced him; but he still kept his seat, drank nary characters, one of whom is nearly der a great deal more wine, became very drunk, and was finally packed up late at night in a connected with the history of junius. post chaise, and driven home to his lodging, « mr. took told us that the favua sauma- in town. from that time to this i have fatoy of the literary world, the late professor never seen him.” porson had used to be a frequent visitor at wimbledon. “but for some few years last monthly register. agriculture. a catalogue of a valuable collection of a sketch of the agriculture of a district books, on sale by j. rackham, of bury st. in the south of france. translated from edmunds. vo. s. the french of the baron picot de la pey- biography. · rouse; with notes. vo. . the life of the right hon. john philpot : a report of the agriculture of eastern curran. by his son, william henry car- and wesiern flanders, drawn up at the de ran. vols. vo. ii. s. sire of the farming society of ireland. by a short account of miss mary tithering. the rev. thomas radcliff. vo. s. ton, of liverpool, with extracts from her arts. journal, and a preface. by henry moore. a treatise on the kaleidoscope. by da- . mo. s. d. víd brewster, ll.d. mo. s. botany. bibliography. the florist's directory. or treatise on harding's new catalogue of books on the culture of flowers, bulbous roots, &c., agriculture and rural economy. vo. s. including a treatise on soils and manures. a catalogue of books in all languages, . by james maddocks; with notes and co. .. by j. deck, of bary st. edmonds. joured plates by curtis. roy. vo. . s. d. (june , new publications, with critical remarks. history of the plants referred to by botanists to the the annual register, or a view of the genus fucus. by dawson turner, esq. history, politics, and literature of the year (now complete) vols. to. . ; large pa . vo. s. per, . a history of england, from the first lo- chemistry. vasion by the romans to the accession of the theory and practice of bleaching henry viii. by the rev. - lingard. with oxymuriatic acid, as now practised vols. to. . s. by some of the most eminent bleachers, horticulture. paper makers, &c. by a chemist. vo. memoirs of the caledonian horticultural ss. society. vols. vo. . commerce law. the cyclopædia of commerce. by . reports of cases argued and determined clarke, esq. and john williams, esq. to. in the court of king's bench, in hilary part . to ii. term, geo. iii. . by r. v. barne- drama wall and e. h. alderson. vol. , part , roy. tragic dramas, chiefly intended for re- vo. s. presentation in private fainilies. to which reports of cases argued and determined is added, aristodemus, a tragedy, from the in the court of exchequer chamber, in italian of vincenzi monti. cro. vo. s. d. trinity term, geo. . . by geo. the heart of mid-lothian, a melo-dra- price. vol. , part , d. matic romance. by t. dibden. vo. s. d. reports of cases argued and determined the heart of mid-lothian, a musical in the high court of chancery, commencing drama. by mr. terry. vo . in the sittings before hilary term, . the carib chief, a travedy in five acts. vol. i, part , roy. vo. . by horace twiss. vo. . an essay in a course of lectures on ab- education. stracts of titles, &c. by r. preston, esq. roy. vo. s. food for the young, adapted to the men tal capacities of children of tender years. surrenders of copyhold property consi- dered. by f. saunders. mo. ss. d. by a mother. mo. the trial of a. b. french, j. french, this is really one of the prettiest and most in. burke, and m. welch. taken in short structive little books that we have seen of late hand by w. b. gurney, esq. vo. s. years. the descriptive sketches of natural history, a law glossary of the latin, greek, nor- and the anecdotes of the manners and customs of man, french, and other languages inter- remote nations are given in that lively manner spersed in the commentaries of sir w. wliich cannot fail to excite a spirit of inquiry while they affordi present amusement. the language is blackstone. by thomas taylor. svo. s. familiar and perspicuous, free from the affectation medicine, surgery, &c. of learning ; and what renders the whole book an inquiry, illustrating the nature of tu- peculiarly agrecable, is the easy manner in wbich berculated accretions of serous membranes, the conversations are carried on without the form and the origin of tubercles and tumours of dialogue. in different textures of the body. by j. introductory greek exercises to those of baron, m.d. vo. s. dunbar, neilson, and others, arranged under cases, with observations, on the wry models, to assist the learner. by nath. neck. by john kirby, a. b. vo. s. howard. mo. . letters from a father to his son on re- observations on the condition of the middle and lower classes in the north of ligious sentiment and belief. by the rev. ireland, as it tends to promote the diffusion h. g. white. fc. vo. s. d. the preceptor's key. by a. jamieson. of contagious fever. by f. rogan, m.d. vo. s. mo. s. d. miscellaneous. a national spelling book, or a sure guide a defence of the church and universi- to english spelling and pronunciation. by ties of england against such injurious ad- b. tabart. vo. is. d. vocates as professor monk and the quar- hints for the improvement of early edu- terly review for january, . by sir cation and nursery discipline, james edward smith, m.d. f.r.s. &c. letters of advice from a lady of distinc- inc. president of the linnæan society. tion (lady spenser) to her niece the du. vo. pp. . chess of devonshire shortly after her mar from such defenders as the president may the riage. mo. s. church of england and her two great nurseries of geography. learuing be ever upon their guard! we have already the edinburgh gazetteer, or geographi- noticed the inatter of controversy between the pro. fessor and his antagonist, and nothing in sir james's cal dictionary, comprising a complete body angry painpblet shakes the opiniou we at first enter- of geography, physical, political, statistical tained respecting the impropriety of his liolding a and commercial vo. in parts, s. each. chair in an academical institution, founded upon a new general atlas, constructed from theological principles, to which, by his own acknov. the latest authorities, by a. arrowsmith. icdgment, he is un adversary. yet he suill persists roy. to. i. . in maintaining the toosistency of such a measure, .) new publications, with critical remarks. the llouse or bringing forward thitheral credit for and, strange to say, he has travelled as far back as with authorities and mustrations, deduc- the reign of henry the eighth for a precedent, tion and conclusion. vo. pp. . when erasmus was appointed to the greek, profes- we cannot but give the gallant general credit for sorshin. but whatever might bave been the pri• bis molises in bringing forward this proposition in vate opinious of erasmus, either then or after the ilouse of commons, and we perfectly agree wards, he was too prudent a man to make a public with him that the charge of idolatry brought against declaration of them; and that he did not manifest the church of romc isrash and unwarranted. any thing like dissent while in england is plain had his mation been made thirty years ago, we enough from his intimacy with archbishop warham are of opinion that it might easily have been car. and sir thomas more, peither of whom would have ried, and that no objection could have been made patrovised him had he been suspected of lutheran to it. but tires are so wonderfully altered, that ism. we are under the necessity of retaining what we the president of the lionæan society avows jo not altogether approve, lest the removal should himself a nonconformist, aud that too upon the prove a breach for the introduction of measures broadest principle of latitudinarianism, as a uni. destructive to the constitution. were the declara. tarian ; how, therefore, could be aspire to a chair tions in question, for instance, taken away, the in a university, which, in the last century, not only adinission of roman catholics to seats in both deprived whiston of his mathematical professor. houses would very naturally follow-than which, sbip for holding the tenets of arius, but even ex. rogard being had to the security of the protestant pelled him from its body as a member? this is a ascendancy in ireland, we scarcely know any tbing case in point, and we can see no difference at all, more dangerous. the declaration against transoba except that, of the two, whiston's was the hardest, stantiation is strictly a cest to which no protestant because arianism is less obnoxious than sociniapism; whatever can conscientiously obiect; and it exclu, and at the very time that he was expelled the uni. sion be at all expedient, then tests are indispensi. tersity, clarke, whose opinions were the same, re. ble. the exclusion of papists was considered, tained both his rank there and his preferment in by nur protestant ancestors, as necessary to the the church. now whiston was no dissenter, ex. safety of the church and state, and, so thinking, cept in a doctrinal sentiment, and he had already they were compelled to adopt the surest test they more than once subscribed the articles; yet, as an could find to preveot the objects of their appre arian, he was not deemed a proper person to read heusion frorn intruding into power. the declara. lectures in a university founded on orthodox prin. tions against trausubstantiation and the idolatry ciples. sir james thinks all this is of minor im. of the church of rome were chosen for this pur. portance, and that theological truth is of less con- pose; because it was certain that no member of sideration than the interests of a favourite study. that communion would subscribe either of them, it is natural enough for him to have such a pre- it were to be wished that our forefathers had con- dilection, but the heads of the university have fined themselves to one only, but, as it is, we see other duties to fulfil, the obligation of which ad. no motive for a repeal, opless the legislature shall mits of no dispensation. we are sorry to say, that tbink proper to take away tests of every descrip- the spirit in which the president continues to write, tion. the general, in his speech, has committed a is such as to furnish an additional apology, if one palpable mistake, in saying that " james the se. were wanting, for the treatment of which he com. cond did not change from the protestant to the ho. plains ; for certainly be who deals in the most mau catholic religion until the year ." when the abusive epithets aud sarcastic speers, in speaking fact is notorious, that both he and his brother were of his opponents, thereby furnishes them with a reconciled, as it is called, to the church of rome plea of justification in having prevented him from during their exile abroad, though charles acted exercising his oratorical powers in the university. with more caution in concesling his conversion till as a relief from this unpleasant dispute we ex. tract with pleasure the tollowing application of his death. botanical science to the elucidation of the scripture a concise history of tithes, with an in- history : quiry how far a forced maintenance for the “our saviour says to his disciples, matth. chap. ministers of religion, is warranted by the vi. ver. -- consider the lilies of the field how examples and precepts of jesus christ and they grow.' tliis is commonly supposed to apply his apostles. vo. is. either to the white lily or the tulip, neither of a vindication of the enquiry into cha, which is wild in palestine. it is natural to pre- sume the divine teacher, according to his usual ritable abuses, with an exposure of the custom, called the aitention of his hearers to some misrepresentations of the quarterly review. object at hand; and as the fields of the levant are vo. s. overrun with the amaryllis lulea, whose golden philosophy of domestic economy, as liliaceous flowers, in autumn, afford one of the most brilliant and gorgeous objects in nature, the tilating, washing, drying, and cooking.. expression of solomon in all his glory, not being by c. sylvester. to. il. ils. d. arrayed like one of these,' is peculiarly appropriate. a general index to the new series of the i consider the feeling with which this was ex- monthly review, vol. to . vols. svo. pressed as the highest honour ever done to the . . d. study of plants; and if my botanical conjecture be right, we learn a chronological fact respecting the donovan's natural history of birds. season of the year when the sermon on the mount vol. . royal vo. ii. s. was delivered," memoir and notice explanatory of a speech of lieutenant-general thornton chart of madagascar and the north eastern in the house of commons, on thursday the archipelago of mauritius. by l. geoffry th of may, , on his motion to repeal to. . the declarations against the belief of tran- letters from dr. letters from dr. james gregory of edin- substantiation, and asserting the worship burgh, with replies by the rev. alexander of the church of rome to be idolatrous. crombie, ll.d. vo. . d. a (june , new publications, with critical remarks. the entomologist's useful compendium. the sisters of st. gothard, a tale, by by geo. samouelle. crown vo. . ls. elizabeth cullen brown. vols. mo. memoirs of the embassy of the marshal . d. de bassompierre to the court of england in augustus and adelina ; or, the monk of , with notes. vo. s. d. st. barnadine: a romance. by miss c. a practical treatise on the making and d. haynes. vols. mo. il. upholding of public roads. by j. patter- the black robber; a romance. vols. son. mo. s. d. mo. s. d. an exposition of some of the transac- the esquimaux. by emily clark. v. tions which have taken place at st. helena mo. s. since sir hudson lowe became governor old tapestry; a tale of real life. v. of that island. by barry o'meara, esq. mo. s. vo. s. the veteran, or matrimonial felicities. the picture of the palais royal; de- vols. . . scribing its spectacles, gaming-houses, emmeline, with other pieces. by the coffee-houses, restaurateurs, tabagies, late mrs. brunton. cr. vo. s. . reading-rooms, milliners'- shops, game. poetry. sters, sharpers, mouchards, artistes, epi- cures, courtezans, fillies, and other remark- the wrongs of man, a satire; with able objects, in that high change of the notes. by howard fish. vo. pp. . fashionable dissipation and vice of paris. of the author of this picce it may be said that he with characteristic sketches and anecdotes is an odd fish, or a fish out of his element; and of its frequenters and inhabitants. mo. if his performance had been intituled " the wrongs of poetry," do reader would hare called it a mis , d. boards. sixty curious and authentic narratives nomer, or questioned its pretensions as a speciera of frautic ponsensc. the satirist is io a most and anecdotes respecting extraordinary furious rage against the present state of society. characters; illustrative of the tendency of which, according to the view he has taken of it. credulity and fanaticism; exemplifying the is reduced to a mass of corruption and slavery. imperfections of circumstantial evidence; the morbid condition of the man's idiod brings to and recording singular instances of volun our recollection a certain lunatic, who consoles tary human suffering; and interesting oc- himself with telling every body with whom he currences. by john cecil, esq. foolscap conversed, that the whole world was mad-except himself! vo. s. boards. the aubid, an eastern tale. by james natural philosophy. atkinson, esq. vo. s. the elements of natural philosophy: il- the dessert, a poem ; to which is added, lustrated throughout by experiments, which the tea. by the author of the banquet. may be performed without regular appa- vo. s. d. ratus. by james mitchell, m.a. mo. more broad grins, or mirth versus me- pp. . lancholy. foolscap, s, d. this volume is deserving of strong recommenda. the counterfeit saints, or female fana. cion for goodness of design, and ingenuity of execu- ticism, in two cantos; with other poems. tion. every elementary book that has hitherto fallen in our way, even when we were ourselves engaged in the labour of instruction, is so incum- bered with references to plates and machinery tales and historic scenes in verse. by the former ill-constructed, and the latter either ill. t. hemans. foolscap, s. d. explained or totally unattainable, that it is no wonder grung students have the most confused verses from glenaryon; to which is pre- potions of even ordinary phenomena. fixed the original introduction, temo. to the present compendium, the principles of $. od. natural philosophy ane illustrated by familiar ex the vestriad, a poem. by tans busk, the ve periments, which any person has it in his power esq. author of the banquet, the dessert, easily to perform, or may see every day in com. dion use, without beiog at the trouble of attending the new tory gaide. vo. s. a cumlerous course of lectures, from which more london ; a satire, in imitation of jurena!. d useinent ganed than knowledge acquired. mo. is. the language is flowing and perspicuous, freed from unnecessary technology; and perfectly adapted the ocean cavern: a tale of the tonga jo a didactic work. the object of which is to render jsles. in three cantos. octavo, s. . abstruse subjects siinple to the plainest uuderstand. the age of intellect; or, clerical show. jog. to young persons, of both sexes the book must folk and wonderful lay-folk. a series of be a most valuable present; and all teachers who poetical epistles between bob blazon, ia undertake the pleasing office of inaking their pupils town, and jack jingle, in the country. acquainted with the laws which govern the uni. dedicated to the fair circassian. with an verse, will find their task greatly relieved, and introduction and notes, critical, ethical, their object facilitated by the use of this excellent satiricai, physiological, physical, cranio- guide. logical, and astrological. by francis novels, romances, &c. moore, physician, author of the celebrated elvington ; a novel, by mrs. bathony. work, entitled “ vox stellarum ; or a loyal vols. mo. il. is. almanack," foolcap vo. s. bds. .) new publications, with critical remarks, emigration : a poem, in imitation of the “ navigation spiritualized," to which the present third satire of juvenal. vo. is. d. volume would form an appropriate companion. the arab : a tale. vo. s. d. the following table of contents will convey a ge- the exhibition : a poem. by a painter nejal idea of the variety of subjects brought under consideration; and we can safely say, that they are svo. s. all treated in a manner calculated to make a pro. politics and political economy. per impression upon the minds of sea-faring per- principles and practices of pretended soos:-" the new launched ship-the little boat -the fleet sailing out of port-the press-gang- relormers, in church and state. by a. kennedy, d.d. vo. s. d. the convoy at sea--the good commodore-the river strcam-navigating the ship-takiog advan. facts and observations respecting cana- tage of wind and tide-the fair weather and da, and the united states of america: fresh water sailors—the prodigal son-the smug. affording a comparative view of the induce - gler -the shipwrecked mariner-the storm-the ments to emigration, in those countries. middle watch-the anchor-'the voyage well by charles f. grice. vo. s. ended-the unexpected happy meeting - man's radical reform, restoration of usurped spiritual insensibility-the christian soldier-ro. rights. by george ensor. s. flections on the battle of trafalgar-the baiba." a remonstrance, addressed to the author fisons of war." of two letters to the right honourable the due observance of the lord's day, robert peel, on the condition of the poor. a sermon preached at the monthly lecture vo. s. d. of the pimlico, chelsea, and brompton as- hardcastle's letters, on the bank re- sociation ; delivered at buckingham chapel, striction. vo. s. pimlico, on tuesday evening, march , . observations on the poor laws. by . by r. h. shepherd, minister of james macphail. vo. s. ranelagh chapel, sloane square, chelsea. reply to lord erskine. by an elector vo. pp. . of westminster. vo. is. d. this is a good practical discourse upon an im. a letter to the people of england, on portant duty, the obligation of which cannot be the subject of constitutional reform. by too strongly and frequently inculcated in this age, gracchus. vo. is. d. when the pride of liberty carries all ranks of per- thoughts on the funding and paper sons to scepticism and licentiousness. the lec- system, and especially the bank restriction ture merits general circulation on many accounts, and resumption of cash payments, as con- and, among the rest, for the following considera- nected with the national distress : with re- tion : « whatever profits may accrue from the marks on the observations of mr. preston, dispersion of it, will be devoted to aid the sub- and sir john sinclair. addressed to the scriptions recently raised for cloathing a few of landed interest. by n. j. denison, esq. the children educated in the ranelagh schools.” vo. . . an historical and critical enquiry into the oppressed labourers, the means of the interpretation of the hebrew scriptures, their relief, as well as the reduction of with remarks on mr. bellamy's new trans- their number, and of the poor rates. lation. by john william whittaker, m.a. vo. is. d. vo. s. statistical annals, embracing views of christian missions, an enlightened species the population, commerce, navigation, of charity. by the reverend j. c. wilks. fisheries, public funds, post office estab vo. s. d. lishment, revenues, mint, military and scripture costume. by r. satchwell. naval establishments, &c.: and of ame- imperial to. . . rica. by adam seybert, m. d. to. the foreknowledge of god suggested by . s. d. passages in dr. adam clarke's commen- the speech of viscount normanby, on tary on the new testament. by gill tim- the catholic petition. vo. is. mins. s. d. an essay on money. by c. r. prinsep. theological lectures. by the late rev. vo. . b. wheeler, d.d. vol. . vo. s. speech of the right hon. robert peel, the national schools a national blessing, on the roman catholic petition. vo. . d. by d. wilson. vo. is. d. a comparative statement of the effects lectares on the book of jonah, designed which a continuance and removal of the chiefly for the use of seamen: to which restriction upon cash payments are calcu- are added, two discourses to seamen, with lated to produce. by r. torrens. vo. . some prayers and hymns, to be used at sea, on the practicability of the resumption by george young. vo. . of cash payments. by sir w. congreve. new translation of the holy bible, con- vo. s. taining the old and new testaments. theology. part . to. s. nautical essays; or a spiritual view of various views of death, for illustrating the ocean and maritime affairs. by the the wisdora and benevolence of the divine author of the retrospect, &c. &c. mo. administration. by the reverend thomas pp. . watson. bvd. s. the pious and ingenious flavel published a very propaganda, being an abstract of the pleasing and profitable little treatise, intituled designs and proceedings of the incor. new monthly mag.–no. , vol. xi. m .) fine arts. credit in the same department. tur- that distinguished patron will, now, with ner's view of richmond hill is a noble his accustomed liberality, give him a indication of his talent for local nature, commission, and that haydon will exe- and, with a little sweetening, would be cute it in the ensuing season, so as to ren- most certainly one of his finest prospects; der it an honour to himself, and the his entrance into the meuse has fine splendid gallery in hill-street. he would, parts and is grandly conceived, but indi- there have a noble opportunity of vieing gested and deficient in effect, as a whole. with his ablest contemporaries. it is we reserve some remarks on these and only in his painting-room, and with his the following landscapes. calcott's view pencil in his hand, that he can obtain the of rotterdam is a picture of great bril- reputation of a painter; and we shall, as liancy; and, notwithstanding a slight a public duty, be happy to do impartial tendency to monotony, is full of attrac- justice to his powers on canvas, and to tion and one of his capital performances. those of every other artist, as far as our hoffland has six landscapes of superior limits admit of our endeavour. merit; his view near ullswater, is painted there are some good miniatures; a nam. with taste and spirit, and has much ro- ber of excellent architectural designs, nad mantic beauty. constable's view on the many capital pieces of sculpture: in k stoure, is painted with great breadth and latter roum, chantrey, bailly, kendrick truth of nature : the tone and feeling in and flaxman, in particular, have some this picture are excellent. chalon's view admirable specimens. but, on these, we of hastings is a fine conception; and, al- must defer our observations, to commence though somewhat harsh in parts, pos- our detailed remarks. sesses great science and force of colour- no. . “ the battle of marston ing. p. nasmyth has a landscape paint- moor, near york, fought in the year ed with great vigour and delicacy, and , representing the leaders in both vincent, a landscape with sheep, of much armies taken from authentic family por- merit. john glover has five landscapes, traits, and the best recorded accounts of finished in his usual taste, and of his best that disastrous conflict,” by mr. abraham selection. in richness of fancy, power cooper, associate of the royal academy. of execution, and vigor of effect, sir g. upon a rising ground in the centre, beaumont's composition possesses great two adversaries are engaged in a strug- merit. it is the very hest ideal landscape gle for the republican standard. the in the whole exhibition. this gentle bearer grasps it in the middle and holds man's skill and devotion, as an amateur, it, with his hand raised above his head; do honor to his taste and to the arts, for and below, it is seized by his assailant, whose advancement he is so laudably so. while they each encounter sword in hand. licitous. mrs. c. long has a very lively close to this a leader bears the royal “ view of the boulevards of paris :" the standard, and is discharging his pistol at taste, feeling, and practical spirit of this an enemy. round these two principal picture, make us, almost, regret that for- incidents, the battle rages with vehement tune has lifted this lady above the con- fury, and the various actions and atti- stant study of the art, as a profession, tudes of attack and defence, of men and which her talents are so well calculated to horses closely engaged, striking, wound- adorn. iny, killing, and tumbling to the earth,are again we must observe, in reference painted with surprising truth and energy. to the early part of the preceding obser- amidst a number of these incidents, the vations, that we no more mean to imply cutting down of the trooper in blue, and an equality of powers by enumerating the man falling headlong backwards from the names of artists together, who prac- his rearing horse, are admirably design, tice in the same department, than the ed. a general is seen, on a white horse, artists, themselves, infer an equality of in a hollow way, near the left fore-ground, merit, in all the paintings, which hang on leading on his troops and pointing to the the same wall in the exhibition room. roval standard. cromwell appears, haydon has nothing in this exhibition, mounted on a black horse, on the same nor had he any thing in the exhibition of side, near the artillery, directing the bata the painters in oil and water-colours, in tle. another general to the right of the spring gardens, this year. a munifi royal standard, with his arm extended, 'cent patron of the british school pro- points to some important circumstance, posed to give this artist a commission for and beyond him the route and confusion an historical picture, in april or may of battle prevail, and clouds of smoke are last year, when he gave hilton a commis- driven along the horizon. we regret sion for two poetical subjects. we hope that our restricted limits compelus to no- .) fine arts. en gance and beauty of the naked parts. mark the days of queen anne. he is there is a sublimity in mr. allston's patting the curly head of a chubby little conception of the subject, which places boy, who stands before him, with his it among the foremost of the first class prayer-book under one arm and his hat of sacred compositions in our time. under the other, not daring to raise his there are some touches of the finest sen- head, although his eye looks timidly up, sibility in the disposition of jacob; and stealing a bashful glance at sir roger. the bcauty of form and attitudes of the his coat is a mourning of russet gray, two angels on the lowest step, and of the with black buttons, the fashion of . one who is descending near the angel, at his younger sister, a rosy little rogue. jacob's head, may well be termed raf- stands close behind him, looking up at faellic, although perfectly original. the the good knight, with her finger on her gentle action and gliding motion of dis- lip, as if reminding him that she, too, embodied beings under a human seem- has a claim on his attention. behind ing, with their unaffected simplicity and them, the widow, their mother, with her undefinable grace, give a spiritual cha- hat held down before her, is curtseying racter to the messengers of god, with with grave propriety to sir roger; and which the ascents are peopled: and her youngest little girl, holding the skirt notwithstanding the infinity compre- of her gown, looks on, with attention, hended in the scene, the whole is, at at the reception of her brother. these once, imprest upon the eye and mind figures are lively transcripts of nature, with an imposing serenity and celestial and of a respectable order in life. be- grandeur. hind the widow, at some little distance, mr. allston, who is a native of ame- under the shade of a huge yew-tree, a rica, was elected an associate of the rustic is advancing with his wife and royal academy last year. he possesses daughter. on the other side of sir roger, the classical mind of a poet, with the addison is in a rich purple coat, cocked skill of a painter and the manners of a hat and edging of black feathers, flowing gentleman, and is universally beloved by wig and red stockings, with a sword by his brother artists, a proof that the his side, in the fashion of the time. he eminent abilities of an artist, when ac- holds the worthy knight under the right companied by amenity and candour, are arm, and is looking complacently at his a recommendation to professional esteem kind notice of the widow's little family. in this country. this gentleman was a grey-headed respectable looking far- not in england to canvass for himself; but mer, with his hat in his hand, in obeis- his merits canvassed for him! what an ance to the knight, and holding his honour to the electors and elected! daughter, a modest, handsome young . “ sir roger de coverley going woman, under the arm, stands near to to church, accompanied by the spec- addison. a clodpole, in a white frock, tator, and surrounded by his tenants." is close beside him, holding his hat awk- (see spectator, no. ); by c. r. wardly down before him, with one hand leslie, a young artist, who is an ame- spread on his head, gaping at the great rican, and has been, we believe, a pupil of folks, in clownish apprehension, joy and mr. west. this picture is a production wonder. a decayed old woman,' in a of much genius in the class of real life; steeple hat and long dark cloak, resting and it evinces an insight into human na- on her stick, and two other females more ture, which is more extraordinary in an behind, extend this group of the tenants, artist of only two or three and twenty. somewhat in an irregular diagonal line he possesses so much of addison's deli- towards the beadle, who stands at the cate humour and fine sense, that, if the church door, in his official dress. beyond spectator had been a painter, this per- the old farmer and his daughter a wo- formance would have done honour to man is endeavouring to show her good his pencil. sir roger's face is seen in manners, by preventing a little urchin, profile, and his figure, nearly in a back her son, froin chasing a butterfly with view, close to the centre of the fore- his hat. in the right corner, beside a ground. he is in the path-way ad- low tomb, over which a girl and boy are vancing to the church-door, which is peeping, a fat, frowsy, vulgar woman is open almost immediately before him. busy, settling a clumsy bouquet in her his sword, cocked hat, and edging of bosom. her face is as red as fire, and white feathers ; tbe flowing black wig; sweltered with her walk in the heat of the fashion and gold lace of his scarlet the day. the ludicrous points of her coat; the clocks in his chocolate-colour- squat figure are humorously set off by ed stockings, and his red-heeled shoes, the full display of her beavy holiday (june , . fine arts, finery in all its antiquated purity. a and retouched in . the stolen huge low crowned straw hat, loaded with kiss has also been painted a number of a trimming of flaming orange ribands, a years, and recently retouched. these capacious stomacher braided with similar pictures have been so long exhibited in ornaments, an old brocade gown, richly the president's gallery, and their merits flowered, a broad-flounced apron, deep are so well known, that a critical de. ruffles, black gloves, dark red stockings, scription of them here is wholly unne- jarge flat-heeled shoes, and small metal cessary. but we confess that we cannot buckles, and a head starched up with an help viewing the practice of retouching air of consequential vanity, furnish out pictures, which have been painted for this admirable comic character. her thirty or forty years, without much diffi, son, a great broad-faced and red-cheeked dence and apprehension. the difficulty oaf of sixteen, in a carter's frock, with of producing a union between the old his hat off, stands behind her staring, in and new colours is not to be overcome stupid silence, at sir roger and addison. by taste or genius; and their disagree- two women behind uim terminate the ment is highly injurious to the effect of a group, and sir roger's mansion and do- picture. but we respectfully submit main are seen in the back ground, on these opinions to the better judgment of this side of the picture. the president, as to one, who is perfectly the artist has treated this subject competent to decide upon the fitness or with great felicity. the figures are unfitness of their application. agreeably disposed, and there is a fine: . “ ganymede," by wm. hilton, vein of dramatic invention in the cha- r. a. this artist, although in a deli- racters. sir roger and addison are cate state of health, has painted, besides easy, well-bred gentlemen of queen his other studies, within the last sixteen anne's court. the modest respectabi- or eighteen months, his “ europa," and lity of the widow and her children, in “ mermaid," for sir john fleming lei. their class, are as admirably depicted. cester, bart., and this picture for the pre- t'he old farmer and his daugliter are, in sent exhibition. we mention these their degree, painted with an unaffected proofs of his genius and enthusiastic ap- simplicity. the fat, red-faced piece of plication to his honour, and to excite a rustic pride, in all her clumsy finery, and generous emulation in others. an artist, the two staring clowns, form the comic whose powers are chiefly lodged in his spirit of the piece, and have not been ex- eye and hand, may gladly indulge in long celled, in their kind, even by hogarth vacations from his pencil, and even feel himself. so chaste is the humour of the practice irksome ; but to a painter, picture, that the great pleasantry of whose chief powers lie in his mind, these drolls is their absolute truth of na- painting is a passionate delight, and he is ture. the incident of the boy and but- as unhappy, when out of his paintings terfly is appropriate ; and the beadle room, and debarred from the use of his and remaining figures are subordin- pencil, as a lover when absent from his ates, which judiciously fill up the piece, mistress. we must not be misunder- and set off the more prominent ac- stood here to commend the mere facility tors. the execution is sound, the co- of producing pictures as, in itself, a louring clear and mellow, the penciling merit, unless accompanied by well-di- free but firm ; the drawing good ; the gested thought and execution; the essen- expression well defined, and the heads tial point being to have every part well marked with spirit and decision. we studied in the design, and nothing neg- confess we have had some doubts, whe- lected in the finished picture. ther the sky and back-ground are suff- this subject abounds with difficulties ciently low in tone; bnt where there is so suficient to deter an ordinary mind, and much excellence, we lay little stress on we confess, it is one which we would not our opinion in this particular. advise another artist to undertake. as the president, west, exhibits three an impossible and exploded fable, it is pictures this year. no. ill. “ the re- deprived of our sympathy; and as it surrection of our saviour," cleverly de- consists of a single undraped youth, signed, and painted with much spirit. whose character comprises the perfection no. . “the stolen kiss," from gua- of ideal beauty, it demands the highest vini's pastor fido. no. . “ cæsar powers of an able draughtsman, and the reading the history of alexander's ex- purest symmetry, grace, and elegance, of ploits," painted in and retouched the human figure. it admits of fewer in : and .“ alexander's confi- variations in the design, than almost any dence in bis physician, philip, painted in other historical or fabulous subject; and . fine arts. these few are lessened by the circum- chieftain, in a bold, soldierly attitude, as stance, that michael angelo, the great firm as a rock. without a particle of master of form, and titian, the sove- pedantry, or ostentation, there is a mas- reign of colour, have already pre-occu- culine purity in the drawing of the pied the story. but no man can accom- whole figure, which may well be referred plish great things without attempting to as a standard of excellence. the them. mr. hilton draws ably, and under body is seen, in front, the head some- all these appalling disadvantages, he has what directed to the right. the flesh is produced a picture of much power, and of a clear, sound, unellow tone, the cha- varied the disposition, entirely from those racter manly, and the expression pleas- of his illustrious predecessors. , ing. the plaid, folded across the person the eagle is represented, as if still in and falling down on the left side, has a the position in which he seized gany- good effect. the head is not only finely mede, grasping him on one side by the painted, but the dirk handle, the pistols, belt of his quiver, and on the other, by the filibeg, the plaid, red-barred stock- the quiver itself; and bearing him up- ings, and sword, are identified, with great wards, with prodigious force, without truth and spirit. the low horizon, gives hurt or pressure, in his huge talons. the an effect of superior height to the figure; back of the royal bird is wholly turned but the warm light sky, on the left side, from the eve, and he is seen altogether, is not in union with the green and dark in front. his head rises to the left cor- colours of the plaid, and blueish shadows ner, above, and his bold eye is elevated of the mountains. cool colours in the to the throne of light. his body occu- front, and warm hues in the distances, pies the centre, extending downwards are generally deficient in werial effect; towards the right corner, and his im- and we are obliged, with due deference, mense wings are diagonally spread across to protest against this particularity in the skies. the figure of ganymede, many of the landscape back-grounds of clasping the eagle round the neck, for this eminent artist, no. , (by the safety, with one hand, and with the other same painter,) is a portrait of the duke raised, in expression of fear and reluc- of leinster, somewhat lower than the tance, relieves from the broad black plu- breast, in a dark purplish coat, with a mage, with great force of chiaro-scuro shaded crimson curtain behind. the and colouring, and the deep blueish head is turned to the right, in nearly a tone of the mountain tops, cominunicates three-quarter view, and firmly drawn; additional spirit to the dark and bright the features are marked with great truth masses above. there is a constraint in and spirit, the flesh tints warm and pure, the position of the right hand and arm, and the likeness is excellent. the prin- and an indefinition in the foreshorten- cipal mass of light is broad, and formed ing, with which the eve is dissatisfied, by the face, breast-linen, and a part of and which lessen the idea of beauty in the light buff waistcoat; the second the form; but the body is clererly drawn, light, by a bit of pillar and sky, of a and the outline of the limbs very elegant. warm grey tint, broken by some touches the flesh is of a clear, ruddy hue, har- of blue. the general effect is bright monised by the crimson scarf, and the and vigorous. no. , (by the same) execution evinces an uncommon mastery is the portrait of a lady, a three-quarter of pencil. mr. hilton has had formida- length, sitting on a sofa, dressed in white ble difficulties to contend against, and if satin, with a pale yellow shawl, thrown he has not in the subject of this picture, over her shoulders, and falling negli- as in his admired chef d'auvre, the eu- gently down, on each side, in front. ropa, subdued all, he has still an oppor- she holds her port-crayon in her right tunity of retouching, and has done hand, and her drawing-book down before enough to prove his ardent devotion to her, with her left. her face is a delicate bis art, and maintain his distinguished oval, seen in a three-quarter view, and reputation in the highest department of looking up. the features sparkle with painting. mild intelligence, and a charming ex- mr. shee, makes a commanding dis- pression of serenity. the lustre of her play of portraits this year; he has seven fair complexion, is set off by her dark heads and half figures, and one whole brown hair, which is tastefully disposed. length, in the exhibition. no. , by this the reflections on the neck are deli- artist, is a whole length of mr. j. macnab, ciously painted; and the neck, bosom, in the highland dress. this gentleman and hands, are drawn with much attrac- stands, with the native ease of a scottish tive beauty. the accessories are judi- fine arts. (june , ciously chosen, and the ground is in per- also, been so long the deserved object of fect union with the head. there is a applause and study, that, although his combination of fashionable elegance and fine principles and sense of character, natural grace in this portrait, with a chas- can never be too much studied, his mere tity in the execution and a luminous manner of penciling, and harmony of brilliancy in the general effect, which we surface for the eye, have become common- do not often see equalled, and are rarely place in many a well-painted imitation. surpassed. • , (by the same.) is a por. the manly and unsophisticated truth of trait of lady coventry, somewhat lower shee's style, has this additional merit, than the breast, dressed in a fawn-co- that it is wholly his own. the pure loured boddice, and white sleeves. the character of his pictures, shews that he head is in a three quarter view, directed has trusted more to his own independent to the right, in an easy graceful turn; view of nature, than to the works of the dark hair turned up with tasteful others. simplicity. the neck, busom, and arms, mr. pawkes's exhibition as in the preceding portrait, are beauti- of drawings. by turner, and other fully drawn and coloured; the flesh tints british artists, has continued open every of a clear, mellow tone, and finely re- tuesdav sin tuesday since our last, and has been lieved by the shadowy blue of the sky, sky; visited by an immense crowd of rapk visited van and landscape ; and the character and and fashion. of artists and amateurs. expression are very lovely. no. , a: this gentleman's liberality is proved by (by the same,) is a three-quarter length the fact that he purchased the whole of portrait of that distinguished ornament his collection himself. and his fine taste of the republic of letters, mr. roscoe. is visible in the admirable specimens, it is a striking resemblance of that pub- lic-spirited, and accomplished man, who which it includes. the artists of eng- land owe him their lasting gratitude, for has been, through life, admired for his is his manly effort to maintain the charac- splendid endowments, and beloved for ter of the british school. his private worth. to have twice paint- the marquis of stafford has, also, ed mr. roscoe, that true friend to the fine arts, and zealous promoter of every opened his doors, at cleveland house, ery one day in each week, for the display of plan for the good of his country, is a a his his superb collection of pictures, chiefly piece of good fortune which every artist by the old masters. that nobleman's can appreciate. no. , (by the same) efforts to diffuse a love for the fine arts for is the portrait of a lady, finely drawn have been constant and efficacious, and and painted. no. , portrait of lord his zeal for the encouragement of british william fitzgerald; and , portrait of artists proved by his liberal purchases of e. allfrey, esq. are by the same artist, ist, their paintings, at the british gallery, for and equally creditable to his pencil. many years past. there are, in painting, technical modes of producing a rich and harmonious sur- exhibition of the stained glass, for that ingenious artist, mr. backler's face for the rye, as in poetry of producing prince leopold's retreat at claremont, an harmonious versification for the ear, has been for some time open, and an ob- which have been invented by men of high gh ject of much public interest and visita. genius; but which, from their having ung tion. as a tribute of respect to the been hacknied by a crowd of imitators, memory of our late beloved and lamented and reduced to a sort of communicable princess, it has been inspected by many trick, practised as if from a receipt book, ky persons of the first distinction, and have become common-place in painting and poetry. thus, the golden surface of honored with their approbation. we " hope, shortly, to be able to call the atten- titian's style, and the melodious versifi- . tion of our readers to his intended great cation of pope, at length became com- work, the stained-glass window for st. mon-place, in the servile works of their james's church, the subject of which is numerous imitators. an imitation, even to be the transfiguration, from raffaele, when possessed of merit, is an object of coldness or distaste. most men feel like on a grade scale. w. c. churchill on this point. (to be continued.) * i hate ev'n garrick when at second-hand." the tone and tints of reynolds have, varieties—literary, scientific, &c. bones, or plaster of paris, loses its form at power of the screw.-the admiralty once, and the more bran there may be in it, yacht, lately under repair in woolwich the sooner it will be fat on the board. dock-yard, was on the th inst. raised from nd. having dipped the fore-finger and her bearings sufficiently higb to have the thumb partially in sweet-oil, take up a small bottom of her keel coppered, by the appli- quantity of flour; if it be'pure, you may cation of a single pair of screws, under the freely rub the fingers together for any direction of mr. w. hookey, assistant length of time; it will not become sticky, builder. the vessel is one of tons, and the substance will turn nearly black; having on board tons of ballast, with all but if whiting be mixed with the flour, a the stageing, &c. attached. the whole few times rubbing turns it into putty, but its operation was performed by eight men, in colour is thereby very little changed. five minutes; and mr. hookey is decidedly rd. drop the juice of a lemon, or good of opinion, that he could, by the application vinegar, upon four; if the four be pure, of ten such pair of screws, which are those it remains at rest; if adulterated, an imme- used in his bending machine, raise any diate commotion takes place. this is the frigate in the service, an operation which in readiest method for detecting the presence many cases would be of great public ad- of stone-dust and plaster of paris. vantage. lastly, genuine flour will longer keep the dr. vert, professor of chemistry at gratz, impression even of the grains of the skin, has discovered in the mine of nickel, at than that which is adulterated, the latter scaldmig, in styria, a metal differing from very soon throwing up the fine marks. let all those hitherto known. its principal a person of a moist skin rub flour briskly characters are, that it is not reducible, between the palms of both hands; if there except when combined with arsenic; its be whiting among it, he will find resist- oxides are white, as are also the salts re- ance; but with pure flour none. sulting from it. he proposes to give it the cast-iron rendered malleable.--the name of vestium. society for the encouragement of arts, &c. iron boat.-there is now building at (in france) has for these fourteen years glasgow, on a plan of mr. creighton's, a past proposed premiums for a process by vessel of malleable iron, intended as a which cast-iron could be rendered malleable, passage boat for the great canel company. and proper to be made into common uten- this boat though composed of iron, will sils, such as boilers, stew-pans, &c. usually be, it is computed, from four to five tons made of copper, the use of which is dan- lighter than the same dimensions in wood, gerous, and often attended with accidents. as well as much superior in strength. this interesting problem of domestic eco- a life boat, principally cork, constructed nomy has been solved by messrs. baradelle by mr. plenty, of newbury (inventor of the and dedor, and the society in consequence cast-iron plough), was sent to deptford last decreed to them, on september last, the week, by order of the admiralty, for the premium offered for it. use of the northern expedition. the marquis de st. croix, who is a some experiments on the preparation of member of the society, has since turned linen and thread from the flos of nettles, his attention to the application of this disco- have been made lately in ireland. the very; and he has just had experiments thread in colour, strength, and fineness, is made in the manufactory of loulans, upon equal, iſ not superior, to that obtained from pieces of this iron, which icare po doubt of flax, and the linen has the appearance of their malleability, and of the advantages common grey linen. which result from it. pots, vessels of dif- the art of making paper from the algo ferent kinds, nails, keys, spoons, and forks, marina, upon which so much stress has were first rough cast, then submitted to the been lately laid, is not a new invention. but process of malleabilisation. the mallea- it is possible that in the improved state of bilised pieces not only resisted shocks which manufactures, and especially of chemistry, would have fractured the brittle cast iron, some alteration may have been made on the but were not even broken by falls from the process before used. it is also well known, height of ten feet and more on the pave- that there are several other plants, at pre- ment. they could not be broken without sent of no use, from which very good paper letting them fall upon stones from the height might be made, but the expense has not yet of or feet. these pieces were turned been ascertained. and filed with more facility than pewter. pyroligneous acid.-a discovery of great the broken parts, the grain of which is importance engages at this moment the at- fine and nearly the same as that of steel, tention of the physicians, the chemists, and were bronzed and perfectly well soldered; the government. a person named mange the keys answered in the hardest locks as has discovered that the pyroligneous acid, well as the usual iron keys; the vails did elitined by the distillation of wood, has the not rivet well, but entered easily and without property of preventing the decomposition breaking the hardest wood. the vesscls and putrefaction of animal substances. it designed for tinning received it very well; is sufficient to plunge meat for a few mo- lastly, the maleabilised cast iron exceeds in ments into this acid, even slightly empyreu- strength by more than one ball the cast iron matic, to preserve this meat as long as you hitherto in use. may desire. cutlets, kidneys, liver, rabbits, .) varieties literary, scientific, &c. which were prepared as far back as the guished connoisseur of these antiquities, and mouth of july last, are now as fresh as if of the east, claudius james rich, esq. of they had been just procured from the mar- the east india company,resident at bagdad, ket. i have seen carcases washed three or by his private secretary, mr. charles weeks ago with pyroligneous acid, in which bellier, a learned orientalist, by birth a there is yet no sign of decomposition. pu- swede, who was recommended in , by trefaction not only stops, but it even retro- mr. von hammer, at vienna, in his letters grades. jales exhaling infection, cease to to whom, mr. b. expresses himself as fol- do so, as soon as you pour into them the lows :-" we have no doubt, but that sir purifying acid. you may judge how many robert has made his drawings with the most important applications may be made of this conscientious accuracy, since, many draw- process. navigation, medicine, unwhole ings which he has made here in babylon, some manufactories, will derive incalculable such as the tomb of sobeida, abarkufe, advantages from it. this explains why several babylonian cylinders, &c. are un- meat merely dried in a stove, does not keep, commonly faithful and correct." he will, while that which is smoked becomes unal- probably, return to st. petersburg this sum- terable. we have here an explanation of mer, ( ,) and immediately proceed to the theory of hams, of the beef of ham- the publication of his picturesque tour burgh, of smoked tongues, sausages, red through persia. we may expect a rich herrings, of wood smoked to preserve it treat; and the judicious collector of ancient from worms, &c. &c. &c. persian and median monuments, mr. sir robert ker porter's trarels in hoeck, librarian, of gottingen, (see his persia.-in our journal for february, , prize essay, published , de monumen- we had the pleasure to lay before our readers tis veteris persiæ et medæi,) will here find a detailed and connected account of the valuable materials for his great work. travels of the unfortunate mr. seetzen, ac- in the course of november, last year,mr. companied, it is true, with great regret, that rich, accompanied by sir robert kerr por- not only so large a portion of his valuable ter, and mr. bellien, made an excursion to labours has been irretrievably lost, but that hilla, and the remains of ancient babylon, even those parts of his journals which have from which they returned to bagdad, on the been preserved, have been so long withheld th of november. all the beaps of ruins from the impatient curiosity of the public. and bricks were examined with the greatest we have now the satisfaction of giving care. besides the very detailed drawings, them a foretaste of an entertainment pre- sir robert drew in the presence of mr. paring for them, by a british traveller and rich, a plan of the whole extensive plain, artist, of which they are not likely to be dis- upon a much larger scale than it had been appointed. the gentleman to whom we previously taken by mr. rich. the ruins allude, is sir robert kerr porter, who is of ali haima, and namrud were also mark- already honorably known, both in england ed upon it, by which the learned will be and on the continent, by his skill as an enabled to judge, whether these two ruins artist, and his talents as a writer. he pos- were within the city walls of the ancient sesses uncommon facility in the rapid and babylon, or not; and to see whether major faithful delineation of ihe objects before rennett, or mr. rich, is in the right. sir him. it is therefore very fortunate, that robert has, doubtless, leſt bagdad, without finding himself in circumstances, which stopping there, and proceeded by way of enabled him to provide himself with every kurdistan to tabris, whence he returns to thing requisite for the enterprise, he re- st. petersburg. solved on making a journey from st. peters- count wenceslas rzewuski, who was re- burgh to persia. according to the latest ported to have died suddenly, returned last accounts from bagdad, dated november, autumn, from constantinople to syria, , he had completed his picturesque tour where he has a stud of arabian horses : for through persia, and arrived at bagdad, on he is, as is well known, one of the first his return, in october, . he brought owners, and judges of arabian horses; in his port folio, a treasure of very beautiful which is abundantly proved by his mas- and detailed drawings of persian antiquities, terly essay, in one of the earlier num- some of which have never been drawn be- bers of the mines of the east. he has fore, or bnt very imperfectly, and too hasty lately sent to vienna his portrait, in the a manner. the drawings of baki bostan, state dress of an emir of the bedouins, and bisutud, partly represent objects en with the inscription, emir ebeldari, tats tirely new to us. he has also made admir- chel facher, i e. emir of the bedouins able drawings of the antiquities of perse. crown of glory: an allusion to the name of polis, nakshi-rustam, and murgheb, mostly winceslas. this portrait is to be engraved on a far larger scale than has been done by for the “ mines of the east," which owe sir william ousely, or apv preceding tra- their progress to his continued patronage: veller; the incomparable niebuhr pot ex- for, however groat and various are the cepted. now, though these drawings differ merits of the learned editor, mr. joseph in many particulars from the designs of von hammer, this patronage is necessary, former travellers, yet no doubt is entertained on account of the great expense attending of their fidelity and accuracy, by the distin- the publication of that esteemed journal. (june , literury report. a young man from bohemia, named year, we read a letter from this worthy and francis william sieber, full of the most inquisitive traveller to his sister, dated from ardent enthusiasm for the science of natural jerusalem, th july, . his firman, history, has gone on a pilgrimage to the from the porte, procured him security every levant, in a manner very different indeed where as he travelled from cairo to pales- from the rich englishmen who hare been tine, by way of damietta and jafla. the travelling in those countries. counsellor governor of jaffa gave him a letter in ara- andre, of brunn, in moravia, the worthy bic to all the bedouin sheiks, and chiefs of editor of the hesperus, collected for hin banditti, through whose territory he had to by subscription, in bohemia, and the here- pass. at the franciscan content, in jeru- ditary states, the sum of florins, of salem, he was entertained in the most which the museum at prague contributed friendly manner. as a friend to botany, dolars, the editor and the publisher of and in company of a gardener, he enter- the hesperus, each dollars, vienna cur- tained great hopes of making a valuable rency. a letter from him, dated from collection for the flora of paie: tine. lle crele, respecting his voyage in the archi- intends, at a future period, to go to the cape pelago, was published in no. of the of good hope, and thence to the east hesperus for . in no. , for this indies. l uis literary report. a very interesting volume of walks in busk, esq. a geudeman well known in the ireland, by the late john bernard trotter, higher circles. he has announced a new secreiury to mr. fox, is preparing for pub- poem, entitled the l'estriad, or the opera, lication. which, according to report, promises to dr. trotter, late physician to the grand afford much entertainment. fleet, has in the press, a practicable plan for the collection of essays, on men and manning the royal navy, and preserving manners, entitled “ the hermit in lon- our maritine ascendancy without impress- don," some specimens of which have at- ment, addressed to admiral lord exmouth. tracted so much attention in the literary this plan alipmpts nothing but what is prac- gazette, will certainly appear in the course ticable, and includes marines and landsmen. of the present month. mr. godwin, is preparivs an answer to some interesting memoirs of lord by- mr. malthus's work, on popolation. ron are reported to be forthcoming, under the lay of azincourt, with other poems, the title of harold the exile. will appear in the course of next month. the rev. t. f. dibden, has circulated a m. gieseke, professor of mineralogy to prospectus of a bibliographical, antiqua- the dublin society, will shortly publish, in rian, and picturesque tour in normandy, german and english, an account of bis france, and germany. this tour comprises eight years' residence in greenland, orna- a distance of between two and three thousand mented with charts and vieirs. the first miles, upon the continent; and the traveller visit he paid to this inhospitable country, having great facilities of access to oljects of continued for four years; during which interest and curiosity, in a great measure time, he was sedulously employed, in col- unknown to the english, he has collected a lecting objects of natural history, &c. un- mass of information connected with local fortunatcly, the vessel which was conveying antiquities, the manners and customs of the these articles to denmark, heing taken by people, &c. &c. but the principal object of an english privatecr, the caryo was sold at his research has been directed to the rarer leith, for . an unconquerable love of treasures in ms, and in print in the public science, however, stimulated mr. gieseke to libraries, of rouen, caen, vize, coutance, renew his labours in greenland, and after paris, nancy, strasbourg, stutgart, aus- another four years' residence in this wild bourg, munich, landshut, ratisbon, nu- country, he succeeded in forming another remberg, and vienna. the materials there- collection of natural curiosities, which will fore, of his composition, it may fairly be soon form a jart of the mus:um, at allirmed, are copious and interesting, and vienna. no pains have been spared to obtain the lady morgan is about to receive the most correct information from the most au- same honor as her celcbrated cotemporary, thentic sources. the treasures of the pub- walter scott. her interesting national lic libraries will necessarily form the mate- tale, florence macarthy, has been drama- rials for the bibliographical department. tised by mr. dibden, and is forthcoming at the antiquarian department, may be con- the surrey theatre. sidered as almost entirely novel. the ac- lady clarke, the sister of lady morgan, count of cathedrals, palaces, and public edi- is about to publish her comedy, entitled, fices, occasionally enriched with views, will the irish woman, lately performed with great gratify the tastelul reader. the specimens success on the dublin stage. of art which distinguish each country, will, the author of those amusing poems, the, in a great measure, tend to mark their pro, banquet, dessert, &c. proves to be hans gress in it. .) literary report- agricultural report. mr. pye, who compiled a dictionary of dium of a friend at liverpool, a collection ancient geography, has in the press, a de- of poems, in vol. vo. scription of modern birmingham, emphati- dr. w. e. leach has nearly ready for cally termed the toy shop of europe ; publication, a synopsis of british mollusca ; whereunto are annered, observations made being an introduction to the method of ar- during an excursion round the town, in ranging the shells of great britain, accord- the summer of . the above will be ing to the structure of the animals, with de- ready for publication before midsummer. scriptions and illustrative engravings. dr. harrington, the author of fire and in the course of the month will be pub- planetary life, from which all the new and lished, in a handsome octavo volume, illus- improved nautical tables have been taken, trated with plates, letters from palestine, has in the press, and shortly will be pub- descriptive of a tour through galilee and jished, an extension of his important judea, with some account of the red sea, theory and system of chemistry, elucidat- and of the present state of jerusalem. ing all the phenomena without one single the author of conversations on che- anomaly. mistry, &c. has a new work in the press, er- speedily will be published, a review of a titled, conversations on natural philosophy. work, entitled remarks on scepticism, by memoirs of the court of james the first. the rev. j. rennell, a. m. vicar of ken- by miss lucy aikin. sington, and christian advocate in the uni- memoirs of the protector, oliver crom- versity of cambridge, &c. by d. wylke well, and of his gons, richard and henry, edwinsford, esq. of caermarthenshire. with some original letters and other family the translation of madame de genlis' papers. by mr. oliver cromwell, one of national tale les parvenus (the upstarts) the family. appears this week under the title of the new travels in various countries of the east, era. to the charms of fiction this pro- being a continuation of his memoirs on eu- duction unites all the solid advantages of ropean and asiatic turkey. by mr. robt. historical record, and it is not therefore sur- walpole. prising that the rarity of such a coinbination memoirs of john tobin, author of “ the in a french novel should have procured for honey moon," &c &c. with two unpub- it extraordinary success in france, jished plays, and other selections from his a new edition of sir arthur clarke's mss. by miss benger. essay on bathing has just appeared. this an account of the life of james crichton, work deserves every attention; it will be of cluny, commonly called the admirable found to contain more useful instruc- crichton ; with a portrait, notes, and ap- tion, and more valuable practical remarks, pendix of original papers. by patrick than any that has appeared on the subject. frazer tytler, f. r. s. c. dr. pinckard has in the press cases of dialogues, letters, and observations, hydrophobia. illustrative of the purity and consistency athird volume of sermons, by mr. clapp, of the established church, and proving will speedily be published. that its interpretations of scripture are fully . mrs. kentish, resident at st. salvadore, adequate to produce that 'religious and in brazil, has in the press, through the me moral conduct necessary to form the cha- racter of a good christian. agricultural report. the weather has continued equally favourable, as in our last report, for the operations of husbandry; and the spring sowing may now be said to be generally completed, upon ág fine a tilth as has ever been witnessed. the early sown spring crops, including seeds, are very forward, and have a very healthy appearance. the turnips lasted beyond expecta- tion; and so great a proportion of stock remained abroad throughout the winter, that little or no detriment has been experienced from the short quantity of fodder. the pastures will be open for stock earlier than has been known; and there is a promise for a vast crop of grass; hay is, in consequence, considerably reduced in price, although there are no stocks on hand, and, in a lew parts of the country, the article is scarce. the meadows have been free from floods, sheep have been ficely trusted upon them, and have remained healthy. the lambing season has proved most fortunate, and a more than usual number of doubles have been obtained. potatoe planting will soon be finished, and the scale will be large. the blosssom for fruit most flourishing and universal. the hops full of fine, strong, and forward shoots; in short, the indications of fruitfulness and plenty are univer- sal. wool, at length, considerably reduced in price; and the demand ceased in conse- quence of the present stagnation in manufacturing concerns. cattle still bear a high price, and sheep are very dear. milch cows dearer. saddle and coach horses of figure command almost any price ; but middling and ordinary kinds are lower. the wheats ad- vance rapidly, and there will be ears early in may. five hundred thousand quarters of corn are said to be warehoused in the metropolis. ( ) (june , bankrupts. from april , to may , , inclusive. there the address of the solicitor is not mentioned, he must be understood to reside at the same place as the bankrupt. the solicitors' names are between parentheses. a (ored and co.--dorning d. worsley, inpkeeper atherton j. warington, cabinet maker (mason (adlington and co bedford row-dawson and llousema, new bridge street, blackfriars- longden, silver street, wood street, colour mapu- kland t. sen. greenwich, butcher (suter-ains. facturers (fisher, staples ino-duffl j. brooms. worth j. bolton, lancasbire, whitster (adlington grove, grocer (fladgate and neild, essex street-- & gregory, bedford-row--appleyard j. kingston dickinson j. manchester, dealer (llud and joho. upon hull, bricklayer (hicks, gray's ing-austio son, temple-daley j. woolwich, innkeeper (fiel. j. aldersgate street, corn dealer (barber, chanceryder and bartley, duke street, grosvenor square. lane abrahams l. & a. camomile street, oil merchant (lewis crutched friars-ainsley r. ellerby t. poole, lipen draper (sweet, stokes, & clunie. berwick upon tweed corn merchant carr. basinghall-street--edwards w. manchester, (swaine, steveos and co. old jewry. manufacturer (adlington and gregory, bedford b row-- earl t. kingston on thames, com and coal baylis and 'thompson, piccadilly, ironmongers dealer (clare and co. pancras jane-ewbank j. (bromley, holborn court, gray's inn--brooker w. little bush lane, botule merchant (harrison, buck- eaton street. blackfriars, timber merchant (qual. lersbury-elliott h. jun. tunbridge wells, cheese- lett & co. dockhead- beardworth and bealey (b.) monger (osbadeston, london street-evans s. blackburn, collon manufacturers (milne & parry, bristol, victualler 'pooie and co. gray's ina square temple bradshaw j carlisle strect, soho, tailor -eddison t. romford, lined draper (evans, llat- (lowe & bower, chancery laue-bound r. sop- ton garden. hey, southampton, miller (bremridges and barnes, f dyer's buildings-bates j. leybourn, kent (brace folder j. savage gardens, tower hill, mercbant and selby, strand blackburn & rousseau, city (wilde, college hill-- fisher t. liverpool, mariner road, dealers (smith & son, dorset street--bourne (duc e and joba, palsgrave place, temple bar- s. leek, ironmonger (cruso & coupland- brook fox r. jun. norwich, silk dealer (taylor and ros. g, lockwood, yorkshire, woollen manufacturer coe, temple-foot b. gracechurch street, tavern (battye, chancery lane-ball j, poole, shoemaker keeper (reardon and davis grucechurch street alexander & ilolnie, new inn-beekett & ro. firth m. cooperbridge, yorkshire, lime burner herts, silver street, wood street, factors (butler, (battye, chancery lane-flacton f. berwick cornbill-beris t. oxford street, coach maker street, soho, jeweller (mayhew and co, chancery (carleton high street, mary le bone-blachford r. lape-finch r. cowper's row, crutched friars, rower hill, stationer (abbott, markulane-basham spirit merchant (daws and chatfield, angel court, c. norwich, coach maker (tilbury & langdale, throgmortou street. falcon-square, loudon-bromley, jun, j. stafford, shoeniaker (price & co. lincoln's inn-ball t. grav j. drury lane, commission agent (willett, keyford, woolstapler (bridges & co. red lion lothbury-gortons and roberts, tottington, lan. boiton le-moors, druggist cashire, cotton spinder (clarke, richards and met- (cross & company.-brown and harris, botolph calfe, chancery lane-grimsby j. b. kingston. lave, ironmongers (oakley & co. martin's lane, upon-hall-goode t. leoninster, draper (pearson, cannon street-blake t. cowes, brewer (bogue, pump-court. temple--gottreux j. mincing jane, clement's inn birt w. bristol, broker (poole and broker (blunt and bowman, broad street buildings co. gray's inn-barch and smith, birtley cum -goode j. liverpool, merchaut (arison and banford, lancashire, calico printers (willis and wheeler, liverpool-golding j. colchester, tanncs co. wartford court-bell j. r. old broad street, (nelson, barvard's inn- george and webb, bristol, insurance broker (kirkinan, cloak lane. sugar retiners (price george w. otherwise hunt. с frome, clothier (williams, red lion square. cooke w. birmingham, merchant (long and austen. ilolborn court, gray's inn-chapman j. harnis r. wood street, spital fields, stationer margate, baker (bell & broderick, bow church (isaacs, buty street- holbrook g. flert market, cooper g. waltou on thames, brewer (rogers and poulterer (kiss, clifford's inn-hunter and orr, son, manchester buildings, westminster-cohen bucklesbury, inerchant (parish, box church- g. a st. swithin's lane, merchant (bennell and harris ii. bradford, wilts. baker (lakin, gray's dixon, st. swithin's lane-cumwings j. osborn street, whitechapel, brewer (argill, whitechapel (smith and richards, basinghall street-lolroyde cox j. st. johu's street, shopkeeper (dobson, j. halifax, factor (bemel and dixon, st. swithia's chancery lane-coleinan w. gosport, baker (alex lane-hodgson r. fleet street, oilman (guy, ander and holme, new inn-corney j. and r. howard street-hunter j. barge yard buckler's. east india chambers, merchants, (kearsley and bury (parton, bow church yard--hale, s. bishops. spor, bishopsgate street. gate street, tavern keeper (allison and co. corn. d hill-hall w. highgate, victualler (howell, sy- daniel h, warren street, fitzroy square, coach. mond's innlenderson and morley, ludgale hill, naker (abraham, great marlborough street-dun drapers (hartley, new bridge street-holder e. derdale. . and h. t. lenden, merchants (hord whyle, herefordshire, auctioneer (bach, furnivals and jobinson, temple-deakin and dyer, birming. inn-highton and brewer, broadway, blackfriars, bam, dealers (clarke, richards & medcalf, chan warehouseinen (swain and co. old jewry-horoby cery lane-dyer w. aldersgate street, goidsinith g. liverpool, brewer (blackstock and co. temple (upsdell, fenchurch street-davis d. new bond hartley c. whitehaven, joiner (lowden and co. street, jeweller (mayhew, price & co. chancery clement's ion--halmshaw and swallow, heck- labe-dizon w. jud. liverpool, wine merchant mondvike, yorkshire, carpet manufacturer (evans, .) bankrupts. ilatton gardeo-hirst a. beverly, yorkshire, worsted manufacturer (lamberts, taylor and co. penfold j. watling street, warehouseman (bir- gray's inn square-horton w.s. rochdale, woollen ket, cloak lane-palmer j. wellenborough, wine manufacturer (clarke aud co. chancery lane. merchant (forster and warner, lime-street-piers k. warrington, grocer (mason & houseinan, new illip worth j. leeds, merchant (wilson, greville bridge street-pierre r. exeter, stone mason strcel, vatten guiden-lkins, j. roehead, in mir (darke, church and darke, bedford row - parker field, yorkshire, merchant (batłye, cuancery lane. w. bridgewater, maltster (alexander and holme, new inu--parsons a. montague oews, south jordan, smith, stratford, and litchfield, leaden. herne, dealer (fielder and bartley, duke street hall street, coach proprietors (wilkinson, cornhill puxley j. aldermanbury, carpenter (gray, tysou -jones s. . lambeth, potter (evitt and rixon, place--pyer g. newport, monmouthshire, store- haydon square-jopson aud wigualt, liverpool, keeper (cary, broad street, bristol - prattington. turpentine distillers (adlington and co. bediord w and a. l. bewdley, grocers (benbow and al- row-jackson, r. w. melksham, grocer (empson, bat, lincoln's inn-peake t. great coggeshall, bath. essex, corn factor (clarke, great st. thomas apostle-powell j. & e. holborn, oil and colour. kitchingman, j. cateaton streetmerchant men (mort, essex street-pettitt g. birmingham, (gylby, berners street, oxford road-kalu and glover (baxter and bowker, gray's inn-poyner cath, union street, little moorfields, merchanis, r. stafford, butclier (price and co. lincolo's inn- (stratton and allport, shoreditch. parkin w. nafferton, yorkshire, miller (ilall and l campbell, beserley-poyner c. doncaster, york- laing c garford street, limebouse, ship chand. shire, draper (watkin and pooly, lincoln's inn- ler (dennets, greeves and co. coleman street paine e. jun. lawrcuce powntney hill, merchant lloyd j. carnarvon, shopkeeper (adlington and (vandercom and comyn, bush laue. gregory, bedford row-lavell j. lambeth, grocer r (wriglii fenchurch street-lough r. blackfriars robinsons and handcock, manchester, cotton fond, brassfouuder (bleasedalc and co. hatton merchants (ellis, chancery lane--radtord e. court, threadneedle street- levet w. shadwell, strand tailor (lewis, clements inn- richardson s. grocer (amory and coles, lothbury-lawrence nicholas lane, merehant (smitii, bedford row r. minety, wilts. giocer (blake and sou, cooke's rossiter e. warmioster, clothier (edmunds, ss. court, chancery laue-- lindsey and flower, bath, mond's inn-ridley r. basing lane, carpenter silk mercers (jodgson, old jewry-lowe g. man (llodgson, city road-recs w. lougher bul. chester, merchant (clarke and co. warnford court glamorgan, copper smelter (price, new square, - langston, spor. r. manchester, cotton merchant lincoln's inn-rainsay w. north shields, ship (ellis, chancery lanelevor j. ashby de la zouch, owner (mitchell and francis, corohill-rhoades draper (longland and co. gray's inn-lowe and t. jug. hoxton, glass mounter (bennett, token- cohen, manchester, fustian manufacturers (huid house yard-read and hellyer, st. mary hill, and johnson, temple--landsell j. northampton merchants (montrion, old king's artes yard, cole- square, clerkeowell, victualler (robinson & hine, mag street-richardson t. king's street, spital. charterhouse square--lewis j. mincing lane, mer. fields, weaver (fell and co. henrietta street, co- chaut noy and hardstone, mincing laue-lee w. vent garden-rickards j. e. c. & j. jun. cannon boston, yorkshire, cloth manufacturer (battye, street, merchants (wright, fenchurch streel chancery-lane-langton r. london, merchant rossiter j. shepton mallet, clothier (alexander & (chester, staple's ion. holme, new ino--roberts e, cobourgh road, kent m road, dealer (birkitt, cloak lane. • moon j. acres barn, manchester, cotton spinner s (milge and parry, temple-mornon r. m shirton self r. i, whitecross street, grocer (wildett mallet, grocer (king and lukin gray's inn-mes. tokenhouse yard-smith, t. york, butter factor siter r. bristol, wool dealer (elrounds, symonds (eyre, gray's iun square-stratham, p. and j. ard. 'ion-marks j. bach place, new road, chinaman wick, dyers (ellis, chancery lane-steemason t. (lewis, clement's inn-mcaden w. bath, coach kingston ou hull, ship builder (roser and co. maker (benne! und dixon, st. sunthin's lane burtlet's buildings-slingsby j. manchester, calico meuning w. bristol, dealer frankes. bristol printer (kay-shepherd m. fareham, hop dealer mallinson d. & t. lipton, yorkshire, dothiers (alexander and holme, new ing-smith w. new- (brown, huddersfield-martin m.d. burlington castle-upon tyne, grocer (amory and coles, loth. arcade, jeweller (cardale and young, teinple bury--shoobridge c. kensington, draper (wilde. montague, d. west street, smithfield, soap maker college hill-sowdon r. canterbury, draper (wale (allison and co. freemans court-moss b. good- ker and co. old jewry--scudamiore c. manchester, man's fields, watchmaker (mayhew and co. chan woollen manufacturer (law, manchester; adling. cery jane-mumford e. liverpool, silversmith ton and co. bedford row-smithson r, whalley, (dacie aud john. temple bar- midgley r. hardea, bullon factor (makinson, temple-swanzy j. aus. orkshire, (ashniore and hamilton, henrietta tin fruar, merchant (dennetts and co. kiog's arms street, covent garden-macdonald and waring, yard, coleman street-smith b. bristol, coal mer. - liverpool, merchants (adlington and co. bedford chant (bourdillon and hewett, bread street, city tow. -schofield t. kingston upon thames, malster (parolher and turner, london-street-shaw, j. nightingale and byrne, george street, portman stonehouse, devon. pawo broker (bozon & tink, square, iailor (fielder and bartley, duke stieet plymouth. norris t. whitehart yard, drury lane, victualler t (miloe and party, temple. turk t. rose street, newgate market, butcher (lewis, clement's ino-taylor t. bristol, tobacco. ori j. barge yard, merchant (patton, bow eburch dist (lambert, taylor and co-tupman j. great yard-oughton j. deretend mills, warwick (hall, russell street, watchmaker (jones and bland, great james street, bedford row-outram j. and great mary.le bone street-thomson s. red cross welsh w. liverpool, brewers (taylor and deapi. street, calenderer (palmer and frances-tuson j. son, temple, cannon street road, builder (lewis, crutched n (june , dividends. friars-thompson j. joiner street, sonthwark, victualler (pratt, ilarpur street-tayler t. guild. ford, liquor merchant (childe, upper thames street-tittinsor w. & j. foster taue, button sellers (jones, new inn-tolley s. hidlington, oxon, corn dealer (robinson and linde, charter. house square, great queen street, shoemaker (jones, nering watts, w. p. gosport, victualler (ilashman, dr pluce-wotherspoon m.liverpool, merchant our and co. liverpool-wilson e. nowcastle-up tyne, merchant (atkinson and co. chancery in -watt j. preston, inanufacturer (eilis, chaber trpe-walker j. west smilebeld, lailor (carpeese old jewry-wood b. marlborough, busier in tor, jolin street, bedford row-williams . . princes street, mary-le-bone, painter (rigley, g. den square-williams l. briginton, carpenter . user and frauce, bedford row-woodward j. bas bury, oxon. upholder (platt, lincola's ine- dington, g. blackburn, factor (roulerwi, tatay morton street. vauder cleft. h. h. lambeth, oil merchant (bour. dillon and hewitt, beat street. w wart j. preston. manufacturer (ellis, chancery jane wilson t. jon sileet, clerkenwell. car penier (jones, eruoswick square--williams e. birmingham, victualler (edmonds, lincoln's inn- wood r. hart street, bluomsbury, paper hanger (hudson, city road--williams w. g. throgmorton street, auctioneer (artision and . freeman's cout--wharton w. & j. leominster, carriers (berke, devonsbile sujeet, queen square-- wild r. craven street, strand, trilor (passmore, warn- ford court-wyatt, t. st. jobu's strept, coach master (wilians, blackmaa strect--warne w. yaodall e. hoddesdon, herts, coach proprietar (gray, tyson place, kingsland-yates g. totta ham court road, plumber (turner, perry strett. z zimmer j, welbeck street, merchant (oauey ! birch, martin's lane, cappon strect. e dividends. grocor, juve -cullen m. liverpool, merchant, ashworth j. manchester, grocer, may -asi- june --colbeck & ellis, castlefield; wilkes, se mead t. bristol, haberdasher, may and - burley; holdworth, bradford, and j. holdersche ashby r. poultry.eugraver. may -anderson a. morley, yorkshire, flax ssiouers, june . pipot lane, merchant, may - abbott p. d: powis place, insurance broker, may -appleyard dowley t. & j. willow street, backside, an j. cross street, haitou garden, merchant, may dealer, may --dubois i. brixton, insurance bero --ahbolt p. lime streer, merchaut, july -dikin. ker, may ---dowdall j. dartmouth street, ca son j. w. morden. surrey, farmer. june -- all peper, may deau j. poplar, baker, port e. birminghain, plater, june . dealezy n. southampton, inu keeper, da day r. crooked lane, oilman, june -d. barnard w. lloyd's coffee house, underwriter, cardiff, builder, may -dancey j. bristol, to may - bartlett r. vincent square, wheelwrights, per, may -duffeld j. tottenbam street, con barge master, nay -boyle r. themes street, dealer, may -delamine ii. liverpool, ski mi rebant, may --bonser, newcomb and pesson, chants, june --day h. tovil, sced crusher, jay cannon sireet, silk manufacturers, june -biyan --dibuen j. camberwell, victualler, june w. white lion court, merchaut, may --bell c. dowley t. and j. bankside, coal the case, f and r. f. oxford sucet, diaper, june - black. muy " . born j. witham. esses, coinfartor, may -boyce j. romford, farmer, joly - brooke & bowstead, elgar w. maidstone, grocer, may -e- b, nantwich, brewers, may -pishop t. birining. grimsby, worcester, coul dealer, may -evita harr, bayonet maker, may black e. brockton, w. cambridge, cora dealer, june . miller, may --batt, backsbell & batt, witnes, f bankers, june - betts t. llonduras street, dis friday r. jun. isleworth, barge master, may !! tiller, june -bishop a, maidstone, distiller, -fostel t. & e. s. yalding, talsters, las il- july -- pond w. dover, brever, juue -bayn torder w. basingstoke, coach proprietors, blasio ton t. & w.kidderminster, grocers, jube - bar fawcett, g. george yard, paper hanger, dass nard h. lloyd's coffee house, underwriter, june fowler j. birchio lane, broker, may -furnish beckett o. winchester, wine merchant, june liverpool, draper, may --fletcher j. live -blundell m. b. & s. holborn bridge, drapers, ship chandler, may -favence g. com june - beckett w. b. wakefield, draper, june court, bill broker, june -pawler w. & j. are -broajbelt w. preston, com merchant, june mills, sutfordshire, millers, june . -burn w. & r. exeler, lutors, june y. с sirods. paddington street, bookbinder, mar cullum p. p. lambeth, brewer, may - coburn gibbs j. buxtead, sussex, fariner, may t. newland, oxtord, wool stapler, may -crow. nett a liverpool, merchant, may -oy jey t. kingstop-upon-hull, grocer, mov -clancy norwich, broker, may --grellier and the w. broad street, provision merchant, may guildford street, borough, lime burners, ) coles a portland street, coach maker, may - --gompertz a. great winchester strert, men cooke h. coleman street, merchant, may may --gray j. & b. loudon, merchants, kas charleton j. newcastle upon tyne, may --cranch -grithiths j. bristol, victualler, june w.g. guildford street, surrey, draper, may stant g. welçlose square, sugar refiger, june coweu g, great prescott strert, merchants, may -campbell, p. liverpool, draper, may hadwen w. lancaster, sailcloth manufactus children g. woodgate w. t. & scoone, w. tun may -humble s. liverpool, hop fact bridge, kent, bankers, may -cutbush h. & w. -ilaines j. longton, lancashire, cartier, maidstone, carpenters, may cartwright g. bir -houghton h. wartou, lancashire, deale, mingbam, bellows maker, may - card s sen, -hardisty and lodge, thorphill, mer and lodes thornhill merchants: merewitlis, larmer, june -coate's w. skipton, may -ilazard s. r. liverpool, merchant, **** .) digest of political events. -uambly w. falmouth, merchant, mas og shipwright, june -pallett & massey, lore lane, harper j. fleet street, bookseller, may -ilas. factor, june -parsons s. hanover street, long well b. wellington herefordshire, grocer, june - cer, june - acre, coach plater, june — proctor and besser, haddan w. clements lane, tea dealer, juae - sleysing lane, cloth factors, june . holland and ball, worcester, hop merchants, june r -llaghes s. liverpool, liquor merchant, june roper t. islington, rope maker, may - reed -humble m. liverpool, merchant, june . j. newcastle upon tyne, sadler, may -roberto j. wood street, spitalfields, silk weaver, june jones s. st. paul's church yard, silk manufac. ritchie & moffatt, liverpool, merchants, june - turer. may -johnson j. e.hyde street, blooms. rees w. bristol, ship owner, may - richards bury, mariner, may -jones r. basinghall street, s. liverpool, merchant, may -reed j. fleet factor, may -jobuson r. plymouth, grocer, street, bookseller, may -roure j. p. de angel may -johnson w. & h. liverpool, coach ma. court, merchant, june -rogers b. aston upou. kers, may -jarvis h. tolienham court road, mersey, corn dealer, june . cabinet maker, june -jenkins t. judd street, s mariner. june -jordan w. barnwood, glouces. sheath a. boston, banker, may simpson h. tershire, corn dealear, june . t. manchester, hosicr, may --soutton e. snow к hill, dealer, may -seager s. p. maidstone, dea- kay w. liverpool, paper dealer, may - kar. ler, may -smart j. kingsgate street, may - peles r. dover, fruit dealer, june -kirkman j. shackeltou . leeds, shopkeeper, may –s'barbe city road, brewer, may -knibbs j. h. lime j. austia friars. ship owner, may -simpson g, street, insurance brokes, june . upper grosvenor street, inariner, june -savidge l j. east stoke, coal sel er. june --sissel t. jewin long & feltoe, tower street, wine inerchants, street, tailor, may --salmon r. aldham, essex, may --la forte merac m. queen-street, cheap carpenter, june sanderson j. leeds, draper, side, warehouseman, may - lane t north aud. june --sykes j. & j. merchants, june -sweet ley street, upoider, june -logan, lenox, stubs, m. taunton, ian keeper, june - somerby w. and welsh, liverpool, merchants, june ~ lukey fish street buli, merchant, jane . t. fowey, grocer, june -leaa, j. h. fenchurch t street, insurance broker, june -laing g, deme thomason, underhill, and gent, birmingham, rara, merchant, june . merchant, may -tappenden j. farersham, scrie m vener, may -tomlinson w. toxeth park, lan. mills c. e. stamford, uploldier. may -morley cashire, merchant, may - todd & wright, titch- g. lewes, sussex, carpeoter, may - mead j. borne street, haberdashers, may -taylor j. gos birmingham, wheelwright, june --muir a. leeds, port, pawnbroker, may -taylor w. liverpool, jioon draper, june - middlewood j. w. white merchant, may -taylor s. oxendon street, chapel, perfumer, may --marsden s. manchester, thistlewood g. muscovy court, diy salter, june -miles j. high holborn, draper, tower bill, flour factor, june -twemlow w. june -mumford w. sherne, and j. eastdown, winnington, drug vender, june -todd g. new. higbam, kent, timber merchants, june --mills castle upon tyne, spirit merchant, june -tay. w. a. kempsey, miller, june . jor j. sen. old street rond, pasteboard manufuc. n turer, june . nowell & birci, jewry street, aldgate, whole. sale stationers, june . wolf and wise, manchester, cotton dealers, p may -wilmot s. r. bristol, brewer, may - packer w. high street, whitechapel, oilman, warwick and aldred, rotherban, chiemists, may may -paliner w. clifton, may .-peyton j. -wright c. charles street, solo, upholsterer, christchurch, hants, draper, may -polley j. may -workman j. ousby, cumberland, sheep gray's inn lane, glazier, may -pearson p. li. dealer, may -watson s. newcastle upon tyne, verpool, merchant, jun. --pratt j. brook's place, merchant, june --woolcombe w. & w. jun. ro. surgeon, may --poulgrain h. and r. howey, therhithe, ship builders, jane . w digest of political events. great britain. the country is awakening to a sense of amongst the many proceedings of its danger on that head. persons of all the house of commons within the pre- sects deprecate concessions. there is sent month, nothing perhaps is more indeed this wide difference between other curious than the number of the arrests dissenters from the established church of their own members, ordered by the and catholics. the trinitarian and authority of the house. we do not unitarian may associate withont waging make this observation as disputing either war on the religions opinions of each the right of the house or the propriety other : not so the catholic; he regards of its exercise: we merely notice the all dissenters from his church as heretics, singular appearance which it gives to and it is av imperious duty imposed upon our proceedings amongst foreigners, who him to rescue them froin destruction- do not understand them, and who judge and therefore he cannot be passive. of acts by their forms, and not by their house of commons. substance. on the d, mr. grattan moved the the catholic question has again been house for a committee to consider the fra revived, and we rejoice to perceive that state of the laws relating to the roman band 'new monthly mag.-no. vol. xi. digest of political events. (june , catholics of this kingdom, and also the have it condemned with execrations, as oaths and declarations required to be oppressive and tyrannical. taken by them, in order to the enjoy- mr. tierney brought forward his long ment of civil offices and the exercise of promised motion on the state of the civil functions. after an animated dis. nation on the th, in a speech of con- cussion, in which much argument was siderable length, and displaying much adduced on both sides, the motion was eloquence, but, at the same time, much negatived by a majority of only two- rancour towards bis majesty's ministers. being for it, and against it. it notwithstanding the able support he is well known that upwards of mem- received from those gentlemen on his bers were in readiness to vote against side of the house, the confidence of the the question, but they were taken by members at large in the present admi- surprise. nistration was most triumphantly mani- the report of the bank committee fested by a majority of above two to one was presented to the house on the th against it, and that in the fullest house by mr. peel. we regret that our pre- ever known in the annals of parliaments. sent limits will not allow us to give a the speech of lord castlereagh deli- copy of the original document. it comvered upon this occasion, was amongst mences with a fact, which, though neces- the finest ever delivered before the sary to put forth, must have long been house : in the midst of great eloquence known to every man in the kingdom, and happy illustration, many plain truths that the bank is not only solvent, but on the state of our affairs and the con- that its affairs are in a flourishing con- stitution of parties were elicited. dition. it appears from the statement in the lords the great question of the of the committee, that if it were called bank came under discussion on the st. upon to pay all its outstanding demands it was preceded by the communication at this time, it would still have a ba- of an important document, which was a lance, after paying of above eleven mil. paper delivered to government by the lions, exclusively of the debt due to it directors of the bank, containing their from government, to the amount of views of the plan recommended by the about fourteen millions, repayable at the committees of the two houses of par- expiration of the charter. liament. this paper is dated the th the motion which was agreed to, of inst. and expresses, in strong language, inquiring into the state of the royal the opinions of the directors, that the burghs in scotland, is likely to lead to proposed plan cannot be carried into some very important changes. execution without the risk of producing the report for regulating the settle- great mischief to the country. they ment of the poor was thrown out on the profess their willingness, however, to th by a motion of mr. c. phillips, co-operate with any measure deliberately which was carried, that the report of it sanctioned by the legislature, and are should be read a second time that day only anxious to escape from the respon- six months. great alarms were felt at sibility of those evils which they antici- the principle of this bill, especially in pate as the inevitable result of the one the manufacturing districts of the king contemplated, and in which, had they dom, where a casual population must remained silent, they were apprehensive always be attracted, from the employ- they might be considered as acquiescing. ment that can be obtained, but which they chiefly complain, that, by the de- would have been converted into a bur- claration of a definite period, within den upon the resident inhabitants by the which they are to pay in cash, and by operation of the proposed law. ' the specification of intermediate but fixed on the th the attorney general periods, at which they are to pay in bul- moved for leave to bring in a bill by lion, they will be precluded from exer- which the neutrality of this country, cising any discretionary power in regu- pending the struggle between spain and lating the amount of circulating medium, her colonies, shall be maintained according to the exigencies of the com- the bill for abolishing the game laws munity; and they apprehend great em- was rejected on the th by a great ma- barrassments and dangers to all the pub- jority. this affords us another occa- lic interests of the nation, by being thus sion for congratulation to those who deprived of that discretionary power. view with alarm the spirit of change that the resolutions, founded upon the is abroad. it is but to name any exist- report of the secret committee on bank ing law or institution to the numerous affairs, were moved on the th by mr. theorists and reformers of the day, to peel, in an able and eloquent speech .) digest of political events. the house, after having given them all to england, in execution of the conven- that serious attention which such im- tion of the rd september, a demand of portant measures required, and after a some explanation as to the nature of the protracted debate, which lasted nearly treaty was made by m. beugnot: the two nights, ordered bills, founded on reply was, that it was a compromise those resolutions to be drawn, without made for public property captured by the a dissentient voice. english army about bourdeaux and the we are happy to observe that the lan- south, on the invasion of . guage used throughout the whole of spain and portugal. this important discussion has been that the terms of a truce and suspension of of the most becoming temperance, mo- hostilities for two years, between the por- deration, and conciliation. the senti tuguese and tunisians, was signed by ment of both sides of the house dis- their respective commissioners. played a laudable desire to allay the the portuguese government, in order alarm with which the commercial inte to clear the coast of brazil from the nu- rests have been seized on the occasion, merous insurgent privateers, had, in adı while those gentlemen immediately con- dition to the armed ships sent from other nected with the bank have afforded the ports, dispatched froin pernambuco a gratifying assurance, that there is no sloop of war to cruize in search of them. ground for the apprehension entertained very shortly after this vessel had put to that the bank would, in consequence of sea, instead of her taking privateers, she the adoption of the resolutions, contract was herself captured by them, after an its issues for public accommodation. action which lasted nearly two hours, as on the th the chancellor of the the portuguese are so ill suited to con- exchequer moved that the sum of duct any naval enterprise. the corsairs , . of the unclaimed dividends be which took the sloop of war, sailed un- applied to the public services, which was der the flag of general artigas, and were carried. filled chiefly with american sailors. sir c. monk made a motion for the the madrid official gazettes have pub- production of certain papers regarding lished dispatches, recently received by the military occupation of parga in the government, from morillo and the . military commandant of calabozo. prance. they communicate details of the pas- the final decision of the chamber of sage of the aranca by the royal troops. peers upon the law of the liberty of the in the action that took place, it is stated, press, was carried by a majority of . that the insurgent forces in that quarter the amount of securities to be demand- were completely routed; having two ed from the conductors or proprietors of hundred men killed and many wounded. periodical writings, was the great topic their retreat put the royalists in pos. of debate, and it was ultimately agreed, session of a considerable number of hor- that securities should be required for ses, arms, and cattle; the latter now oc- every daily journal. cupy the fertile plains of merecuria, and the trial of marinet and cantillon, are well provided with every necessary charged with an attempt to assassinate to terminate the campaign. they were the duke of wellington, has excited a about to follow up their success by pur- considerable interest among all classes. suing the retrcating rebel forces. and their acquittal is much to be regretted, america. though not to be wondered at, that this the russians appear to have relin- judicial examination should have given quished to the united states, all her birth to sentiments, which shew, by their right to the countries on the pacific re-action, that the public feeling in pa- ocean south of the th degree of north ris is not an amicable one towards the latitude ; great britain having relin- illustrious individual whose life was me- quished all her's to the same countries, naced. after the ten years stipulated in the late the discussions on the subject of the treaty with respect to a certain portion budget has been maintained with great of them. the united states will now energy on either side. on the grant of possess a territory embracing fifteen de. sum of , , francs, payment made grees of latitude in the pacific ocean. redu, 아야 ​ la - s - to *** te keus y_prices or stocks, from apiil , to may , , woth inclusive. hunk parca per te stock. perci long tai taip days. cons. navy. | anna. per cuper cuomn imp. i tudia so. sa, . . . n, . . per ct. i ex. bis. consus am. anns. apr. # stock. suck. stock. stock, ind. bon. d per day for ac - k pm. pm. ] pm. may pm. pm. pm. pm. pm. pm. pm. pm. pm. pm. pm. pm. y % pm, pm. pm. pm. pm. pm. Ž pin. s pm. pm. pm. ; il pm. pm. pm. pm. pm. pm. pm. % pm. pm. holiday. $ . - phì. pm. # , Š pm. pm. $ - - pm. pr. . - - - pm. pm. - — - pm. pm. i dis. , } - - -- pm. dis. par / # spm. jodis. dis. % all exchequer bills dated prior to the month of march, , have been advertised to be paid off, and the interest thereon has ceased. : flat - itw onnitten no time - + alche tkw pm. i de los recue tereta - am - no a+ o wa mat ak -tio - on -writiw un es comm k n. b. the above table contains the highest and lowest prices, taken from the course of the exchange, &c, originally published by john castaign, in the year , and aci published, cvery tuesday and friday, under the authorily of the commillee of the stock exchange, by james wetenhall, scock-broker, angel court, throgmorton-street, london, on application to whom the original documents for bear a century past may be reade (june , births, marriages, &c. in london and middleser. street, the lady of sir john chandos reade, bridge-street, to mary, daughter of the bart. of a daughter.-in cleveland-row, late william coghlan, eso. of this city, lady louisa lambton, lady of j. g. lamb- at hackney, thomas, only son of john ton, esq. m. p. a daughter -in charles- wadham, esq. of frenchay, near bristol, to street, berkley-square, the lady of thomas elizabeth, younger daughter of the late bates rous, esq. of a daughter.--at his william cook, esq. of grove-street hack- house in howland-street, fitzroy-square, ney.-at the new-church mary-le-bone, the lady of william nodes, esq. of a son. jasper atkinson, jan. esq. of the royal lady charles bentinck of a son.-in con- mint, to miss louisa gill, only daughter of duit-street, the right hon. lady james the late captain and lady harriett gill. stuart, of a daughter.-mrs. richards, at stoke newington, john scott, esq. of great coram-street, brunswick-square, of islington, to miss ley, of the former a son.-countess flahaut was safely deli- place.- at st. george the martyr's, queen- vered of a daughter. the lady charlotte square, i. w. bell, esq. of bernard-atreet, macgregor murray was safely delivered of russell-square, to appa maria, youngest a son.-at mrs. robart's, , lower gros- daughter of w. b. luttly, esq. of wands- venor-street, the lady of john madocks, esq. worth.-at newington church, the rev. of a daughter and still-born son.-at h. g. phillips, rector of great welpetham, oxford house, grosvenor-place, london, and vicar of mildenhall, in this county, to lady milton, of a daughter, being her lady- frances, fourth daughter of capt. thomas, ship’s seventh child.–lady of j. brown of dover-place, kent-road-nash crosier wilks, of a still-born child.-mrs. arthur hilliard, of gray's-inn, solicitor, third sur- miller rose, city-road, of a son.-in york- viving son of the late edward hilliard, esq. street, the lady of lieut. dance, d life- to lettice elizabeth, eldest daughter of guards, of a son. wm. hallett, esy. of denford house, berks. marriages.] john kirkland, eldest son -alexander grant, esq. of clapham, and of john kirkland, esq. of glasgow, to au- adam-street, adelphi, to helen, youngest gusta elizabeth, eldest daughter of the late daughter of the late rev. w. thorold, of major-general john agmondesham vesey. weelsby house, lincolnshire.-jn. maule, ---the rev. thomas fuller, fellow of st. esq. of huntingdon, to miss elizabeth „john's college, cambridge, to sophia watson, the only daughter of william mary, fourth daughter of the late wm. watson, esq. of wisbech, in the county of paterson, esg. of devonshire-place, and st. cambridge.--mr. robert goldstone, of david's, in the island of jamaica.-clot- westgate-buildings, to miss bowden, of worthy macartney, esq. of dublin, to jane, old bond-street.-at st. george's hanover- daughter of the late james mayne, esq. of square, london, by the rev. the vice- honduras.-d. d. dalison, esq. of hamp- chancellor of this university, the right tons, in the county of kent, to anne maria hon. the earl temple, m.p. eldest son of shaw, daughter of sir john shaw, bart. of the most noble the marquis of bucking- kenward, in the same county.-r. h. ham, to the right hon. the lady mary sparks, esq. of tottenham, to fanny, campbell, second daughter of the earl of daughter of the rev. thomas roberts, breadalbane.-at st. james's-church, lon- vicar of the same place.—the rev. james don, the hon. richard neville, (son of stratten, of maida-vale, paddington, to lord braybrook,) to lady jane cornwallis, rebecca, eldest daughter of thos. wilson, (daughter of the marquis of cornwallis. esq. of highbury-place.--joseph sills, esq. at st. george the martyr's, queen-square, to catherine, widow of the late william i. w. bell, esq. of bernard-street, russells paulton, esq. and youngest daughter of square, to anna maria, youngest daughter james payn, esq. of maidenhead.at of w. b. lutly, esq. of wandsworth. at mary le bone new church, henry st. stepney, thomas brigham toovey, sur. john georges, esq. of the th lancers, to geon, to harriet walton frazer, eldest mary ann, eldest daughter of the late daughter of the late richard frazer, esq. at david mitchell, esq.--at the new church, lambeth.--at hadley, middlesex, the rev. st. mary-le-bone, by the right rev. the edmund harden, to maria, daughter of the lord bishop of norwich, the rev. john late j. c. blanckenhagen, esq.-at white- peter chambers, rector of heddenham, in chapel-church, j. h, l. youngest son of this county, to anna maria, eldest daughter j. k. jardine, esq. of wixoe, suffolk, to of j. r. maxwell, esq. of harley-street, sarah elizabeth, daughter of the late rev, london.–at st. martin's church, london, john lane, vicar of sawbridgeworth, mr. william stafford of piccadilly, to mrs. herts.-at st. george's-church, hanover mary briant, of vine-street, piccadilly.. square, james buckton, esq. solicitor, of the earl of buckinghamshire, to miss doctor's commons, london, to eliza phil. glover, of keppel-street, russell-square.- lippa, third daughter of the late mr. george lieut.-col. wemyss, to miss ball, only link, of hereford.- at st. james's-church, daughter and heiress of the late h. p. ball, john, second son of the late joseph mas- esq.-at st. ann's, soho, edward walker, fen, esq. of cannock, staffordshire, to anda esq. of blackheath, to eliza, eldest daughter maria, daughter of the late rev. george of the rev. thomas fawcett, rector of bellasis, d, d. rector of yattenden, and ayuho, in this county. --william barrett of vicar of basildon and ashampstead.-at .) deaths, &c. st. ann's-church, edward walker, esq. of dumfries, and wife of anthony t. thomp- blackheath, to eliza, eldest daughter of the esq, surgeon--- at his residence, white-lion- rev. thomas fawcett, rector of aynho, street, pentonville, joseph nicholls, esq. northamptonshire.--woodbine parish, jun. lieutenant of the royal denbigh. ---in esq. son of the chairman of the board of gray's inn square, k. s. henson, young- excise in scotland, to amelia, only daugh- est son of the late rev. f. henson, rector of ter of leonard becher morse, esq. of nor- south kilvington, ---at his house in glou- wood - mr. joseph joynson, of vauxhall, cester-place, richard clay, esq. ---at his surrey, to miss mary wright, of wirks house in baker-street portman-square, g. worth, derbyshire. at hanwell-church, brown, esq. , jate a member of the go- william rhodes james, esq. to caroline, vernment of bombay--- in st. james's-place, second daughter of the late 'richard pope, the right hon. mary, countess dowager esq.-at st. george's, hanover-square, poulett, ---in gower-street, r. j. the son lieut. wm. b. bowyer, r. n. to frances, of walker skirrow, esq. aged months--- daughter of the late captain beek, of the r. p. davies, eldest son of r. davies, esq. east india service. of southwark, . died] at enfield highway, mr. j. wil richard baker, of westleigh, in the parish son, . a horticulturist of considerable of burliscombe, somersetshire, a small far- eminence- rowland, the only son of mr. mer (but better known by the name of " con- brasbridge, of fleet-street, -the infant juror baker'?), died last week, full of years · son of c. teesdale, esq.—maria, the wife of and iniquities, being years old, and hav- t. u, budd, esq. of bedford-row.-at his ing, during the far greater part of his life, lord ship's house, in clarges-street, char- practised the gainful tactics of the “ black lotte, countess of onslow, – in st. james's art.”---in poticing the death of a character place, r. lyster, esq. one of the represen- who, for nearly half a century, has been tatives for shrewsbury-at harefield, near daily and hourly employed in alternately uxbridge, marianne elizabeth, wife of the counting the wages of his villainies, and in rev. g. faussett-mr. j. irwin, of oxford- laughing at the follies of a cheated multi- street -in poland-street, the rev. w. tude, it would be no upit opportunity for strickland, head of the ancient family of taxing the risibilities of our readers, by strickland, of sizer, westmoreland, . he pourtraying the deceased krave with all the made over, at an early age, to his younger mirthful embellishments of which his life brother (grandfather of the present repre- and occupations are so abundantly suscepti- sentative of the family, c. s. standish.esq.) ble. in common justice, we might for once the whole of his patrimonial inheritance, re- laugh at him, who has, in so many thousand serving only a small annuity, and retired to instances amused and profited himself by the english jesuit's college, at st. omer's, making a jest of others; but his life is too where he embraced the ecclesiastical state as much clogged with the heaviness of a guilty a member of that society- at his house, in account, to allow one redeeming ray to qua- devonshirs-place, j. tunno, esq. -in lify the lurid aspect of his mortal reckoning. park-street, mr. f. fiorello, for many years it may surprize the distant reader, whose known as a great musical composer-in ears have never been afflicted with the dole- charlotte-row, walworth, mrs. cooper, re- ful superstitions of the western counties, to lict of the late b. cooper, of botolph-lane, be informed, that such was the fame of the orange-merchant, --in half-moon-street, deceased wizard, that the educated as well as piccadilly, major scott waring, who was the uninstructed of all classes, were in the long distinguished in the llouse of com- habits of resorting to him from all parts of mons for his unremitting exertions in the this and the neighbouring countries for the cause of his friend, the late mr. warren exercise of his cabalistic skill, and on a sun- hastings-at his house, museum-street day, which was the day for hi: high orgies, bloomsbury, w. baker, , well known in vehicles of superior as well as of lowly des- the neighbourhood of grosvenor-square, criptions were found to bring him an eager where he had been letter-carrier from the throng of votaries. his reputation was uni. . general post office nearly years-at versal, and his gains proportionate. the kensington, mrs. nares, relict of dr. n. wonders of his heart would fill the alexan- organist and composer to his majesty, drian library. bad crops, lost cattle, lost -in welbeck-street, mary, the wife of s. treasure and lost hearts, brought their res- chamberlayne, esq---]n grosvenor square, pective sufferers in ceaseless crouds to his w. champion, esq.---at islington, mr. r. door. they were all overlooked, he said ; j. demett, esq.---in palsgrave-place, miss and they overloooked his knavery in their mary griffin -- in bedford-place, eliza, confidence of skill. he foretold to the south- third daughter of the late t. c. bigge, esg. cottonians that the shiloh would not come, -- at whitehall, the wife of frederick and who but a conjuror would have known whalley, esq. .--at richmond, emily this? the tenant of sterile land was after a jane, eldest daughter of the rev. william careful inspection of his presiding star, ad- wilkinson, of woodbury--- io weymouth- vised to provide a certain quantity of manure, street, edward lestleigh, esq. ---mrs. which being spread over his ground in the christian h. maxwell, youngest daughter of form of rams' horns at o'clock precisely the late francis maxwell, town-clerk of on the full moon night, would ir fallibly se- deaths, fc. [june , cure a good crop. this astonishing pre- was universal. he was skilled in all kinds of diction has been repeatedly verified! sırayed turning; and constructed several very curi- stock, and mislaid property has been strange- ous lathes, as well as clocks and musical ly recovered, by only being well looked alter, instruments of every description, no less ad. provided the wise man had once taken the mired for the sweetness of their tone, than the inatter in hand; and many a relenting phil- elegance of their execution. he excelled, too, lis, who had paried with her strephon in a in the construction of optical instruments; huff, has been heard to exclaim on finding and made some reflecting telescopes, the him return at the very hour calculated by specula of which were not inferior to those the conjuror,--that “ sure baker and the finished by the most eminent london artists. devil were in partnership.”-if to juggling he suggested some important improvements artifices and petty fooleries of this description, in the machinery for spining fax; and we the man bad limited his imposture, he might believe he was the first that made the wooden- have left the world with the simple reputa- jointed snuff boxes,called laurencekirk boxes, tion of a knave ; but his avarice led him to some of wluch, fabricated by this self-taught delude the victim of disease into a fatal reli- artist, were purchased, and sent, as presente, ance on his affected skill, and very numerous to the royal family. to his other endow- are the isstances of this description, charm- ments, he added an accurate knowledge of ed powders, and mystic lotions were con- drawing and engraving, and in both these fided in, to the exclusion of rational advice arts produced specimens of the highest ex- and proper remedies, and the death of the cellence. for upwards of fifty years be old and young has been the consequent quitted his bed only three times, and on these penalty of such deplorable imbecility. a occasions his house was cither inundated child, last week, died at wellington, a mar with water, or threatened with danger from tyr to its mother's folly of this pature. she fire. his curiosity, which was upbounded, consulted the heartless villain,and was assured prompted tim to hatch different kinds of that the intant was “ overlooked.” some birisi eggs by the natural warmth of his powders were given to her, accompanied body, and he afterwards reared the motley wilb the slang verbosity of his craft, which broods with all the tenderness of a parent ; the little sufferer was compelled to swallow, so that on visiting him it was no unusual notwithstanding the mother declared that thing to see various singing birds, to which “ it made her heart bleed to see the agonies he may be said to have given birth, perched of her child while taking the dose." the on his head, and warbling the artifical notes consequence was as we have stated; and he had taught them. naturally possessed of a thus the guilt of a cold blooded murderer, is good constitution, and an active, cheerful superadded to the atrocities which have turn of mind, his house was the general marked the career of this miscreant through coffee-room of the village, where the affairs life. his habits were those of an unsocial of the church and state were discussed with drunkard; but his necromancy,notwithstand the utmost freedom. in consequence of ing the expense of his selfish indulgence. long confinement, his countenance had ra- has enabled him to leave some property. ther a sickly cast, but it was remarkably taunton courier. expressive, and would have afforded a fine died.) james sandy, the celebrated alyth subject for the pencil of wilkie, particularly mechanic. the originality of genius and when he was surrounded by his country eccentricity of character, which distinguish- friends. this singular man had acquired, ed this remarkable person were, perhaps, by his ingenuity and industry, an honour- dever surpassed. deprived at an early pe- able independence, and died possessed of riod of his life of the use of his legs, he con considerable property. in short, his history trived, by dint of ingenuity, not only to pass holds out this very instructive lesson, that his time agreeably, but to render himself an no difficulties are too great to be overcome useful member of society. he soon display- by industry and perseverance; and a genius, ed a taste for mechanical pursuits, and con- though it should sometimes miss the distinc- trived, as a work-shop for his operations, a tion it deserves, will seldom fail, unless by sort of circular bed, the sides of which being its own fault, to secure competency and res. raised about inches above the clothes, pectability. ile was married only about were employed as a platlorm for turuing three weeks before his death, which took lathes, table-vices, and cases of tools of all place on the d. inst. at alyth. kinds. his genius for practical mechanics . ( ) provincial occurrences in the counties of england, arranged alphabetically. bedfordshire. the first stone of the first provincial turner, wife of the rev. g. torner, vicar of spels. bury-at cbawley, mr. francis braagwm, -at penitentiary, was laid at bedford, on the su:ton courtney, mr. wi. alluut, —sarah, wife st. inst. by the marquis of tavistock. of . vansittart, esq. of bishain abbey, daughter our readers know that the enthusiastic pro- of the late sir j. stonehouse, bart.-capt. hale, of moter of these institutions is the honorable great marlow. h. g. bennett. buckinghamshire. some beautiful casts of antique busts have we have the pleasure of inserting the just arrived for the duke of bedford, to be following instance of liberality, conferred on placed in a temple in woburn park; some a clergyman by his parishioners, which we of these casts were purchased so high as consider as reflecting much credit on both . each. parties. the inhabitants of beaconsfield berekes | at bedford, the lady of p. h. boyce, have presented their late curate, the rev , ese of a son-the lady of the rev. edward gal- mr. bradford, with a very handsome piece pin, ora of plate, bearing the following inscription: married.) henry andrews, esq. late of the th or king's owo regiment, to mary eama, ji presented, , to the rev. william mussage bradford, a. m. by the principal daughter and only surviving child of the reverend francis kinchaut, of islonherefordshire-mr. inhabitants of the parish of beaconsfield, as samuel wijenee, to mis, abrahan, bola of tur. a token of the high sense they entertain of veyatt cossinaton. mr. t bracebridge, of bel. his exemplary conduct during fourteen grave, to mary ann, eldest daughter of mr. h. m. years, as carate of that parish, and of their gonde, of the torner place. personal regard and esteem for him as a died at greenfield, near ampthill, aged , friend.” w burridge-at firudislı, mr. r. wooding- married.) at st. george's church, llanover frances-eliz, only daughter of w. s. addington, square, vugh richard, eldest son of h.u. iloare, esg, of goldington lodge, -mrs. e. t. taylor, ot, esq. to miss ann tyrwhytt drake, second daughter widow of the late nathaniel taylor, esq. surgeon, of the late thomas drake tyrwhit diake, esq. of ampthill, beds.-the rev. orielar snith, of asp. sp she shardelves-edw. abbott, of moulsoe, to miss m. ley house, rector of salford cum llolcut- , mrs. cross, of the same place-h. h. holtzemeyer, esq. ano potts, relict of the late j. polis, gent, of to sarah, second daughter of mr. b. aris, of brad. toddingtoa. well--at buruham, mr. a. drew, of bermondsey, berkshire. surrey, to jane, second daughter of wm. langton, for the silver cup, which is to be rung esq. of chippenham house. for at hurst, on monday the th inst. dicd ) sarah, wife of mr. j. cowley, surgeon, there will be no less than six sets allowed to winslow--at great marlow, j. hales, esq. capt. ring; no person residing at hurst to be an of the west kept militia, -zachariah crabb, umpire. -at newport pagnell, catharina, the wife of c. there is now growing at uplowman, a m. hardy, esq-at high wycombe, mr. t. barnett, promising crop of barley, in full ear.-in jun. , of kington, ilerefordshire. cambridgeshire. a field near caversham, there is wheat in the first stone of king's college new qar. births.) at maiden early, the lady of walter bridge was laid on tuesday the lth inst. com:nins, esq. of a daughter. without any particular ceremony. murried.) h. p. gale, of lydcard, st. lau. births.) the lady of the rev. j. c. lewis, of rence, somerset, to sophia, sisih daughter of the soobia s hidagvier of the st. mary's of a daughter. jate rev. j. evre. of reading_n. c. ililliard, ot married.] at cambridge, c. w. warren, esa. gray's tun, to lettice-elizabeth, eldest daughter of to miss keeling-mr. w.c. carver, to miss scruby, th miss keening- . w. wm. hallet, esq. deuford house-at sonning, m. i of malton-j. fisher, to miss ward, of this city- wm. simonds, of charval farm, to sarah, eldest j. maule, esg. of huntingdon, to miss e. watson, daughter of mr. simonds, of dansden green, of wisbech-at burwell, mr. j. rayner hovell, oxon-at newbury, mr. e. newman, of froxfield to rebecca, sixth daughter of salisbury dunn, ese, wilts, to miss durnford, only daughter of the late -rev. w. j. carver, m. a. of trinity college, to -rev. w.. f. durnford, esq. of inkpep-h.j. smith, esq. of jane, eldest daughter of j. beevor, esq. of st an. hungerford, to jane, only daughter of s. muunt. drew's, norwichi--rev. t. fuller, of st. john's joy. esg. of corsham--at paogbourn. mr. w. college, to sophia mary, fourth danghter of the late green, lo anne, second daughter of mr. mathews, w. paterson, esq. of devonshire-place-j bradney of lower bowden-at st. james's, the rev. wm. esq. of trinity college, to caroline, fourth daughier boots, vica' of chaddeiworth, ana domestic chap- of the res. j. preston, of fleshy wall, in yorkshira jain to the duke of kent, m . garrett. of waitan rev. w. thore, to elizabeth, youngest daugiter tage-at st. mary's, mr.j. george, of friar.street, of t. siryth. e.. of east derehan, norfolk lo miss m. frankum, of castle street. diedmr. r. kerry of newmarket--mr. peter died.) at eton, m. w park yos. –at new thompson, of wisheach--mrs. e. stanton, of le. bury, ande, relict of the late j dyer, esq-at veringtou-j. brittain, esq. of sleaford, + j.w. reading, . mis wainhcuse, relict of the rey. ii. burton, esg, of billingborough, win. wainhouse, rector of badgeworth margaretta cueshire. eleonora, daugliter of the late il ciiffe, esq. and a handsome piece of plate has been pre. wife of t. hatch, esq. of new windsor-mrs. senied in the rev. wm. harrison late car new monthly mag-no. , vol. xi. p .] 'durham-essere-gloucester – hants – hereford- herts. durham. the heautiful darham bull, bred by the rev. hamlett harrison, of hontesbury, and fed by mr. oakeley, of allfield, was lately billed by mr. wilde, of hodnet, salop, and the fore quarters weighed nearly score each. the following are the particulars : hide b., fal b., head b, tongue b., heart b., carcass b. . birth.] the wite of g. h. wilkinson, of llar. perly wall, durham, of a daughter. mrrid ] sir robert eimunds, to eliza, eldest daughter of the flon. c. . warde, of durham. didl at durham, mr. honry orton, -near lsh, mrs. aon yates, -at bewcastle, the wite of the rev, mr. graham-au penrith, jaue, wife of hr. george slee. essex, the gas - light company's works in chelmsford, are proceeding with great spirit and rapidity. a convenient spot for the principal works has been purchased of the chelmer navigation company, which will prove advantageous for the receipt of coals. a building, containing retorts for burning the coal inw gas, is erected, and the founda- zion for the gasometer, which is to contain , cubic feet of gas, calculated to be suiticiently large for the purpose of sup- plying lamps, if required, is preparing. a considerable number of the cast-iron pipes have also been received, and labourers are employed in placing them along the streets, births.] at dedham, tire laily of w. r. good. yich, esqof a daughter al stock lodge, the lady ot i'. east : , esq. of a sort and beir arricd ) the res. h. w. wilkinson, to miss walker, daughter of e. w. esg. of gestiusthorpe -j. ii. browning, paglesham full, to sard, eid. est daughter of the late t. youle, esq.-- james denoy, esq. to chariotie, daugi ter of mr. george biowo, of sible lledaugham-mr. t. chaliis, to mary aun, only daughter or mr s. mathewmn. aí colchester-atlachner, mi. t. a. lack, of west (lam. to elizabeth, youngest daughter of wr. westlake, of hackney terrace--at west lain. h. (heape, esg, to margarel, second daughter of john carstairs, esq. of stratford green ---al goat wni. tham, j. t ty:ell, osa to miss pilkington, daugh- ter and cocheiress of the late sir thomas pilking. ton, bart. of chevet, yorkshire-sir join wioties. tev, bart, to the hon. mrs john bennett, daogiiter of the late j conyers. esq. of copt fall. died. at thundersley, mr. r. goodman, - james hodgson, esq. of wanstead, +--at the vi. caruge house. braintree, licut. b. f. scale, d bait. r. a. – ir. daniel fall, of marringtree mis. mary sewell, of fc moirs, m. d. lati rof the exst lissex militia-rev. henry rigby, vicar of bockley, aud of wendy a: biocking, eliza, eldest daughter oi mr. j. kirby -mr r. j. hladgley, of ahridge, --at maldon, daniel lingari, irace-bearer to the orporation of tial price--mı. a. siinmons. of colchester-at nauudeu, miss frances cole, . gloucestershire. a subscription has been set on foot for establishing annual races at cheltenham : the first to held in august next. the sub- scription already amounts to upwards of .; and in aid of the funds it is proposed to give an amateur play, and a ball at the rooms during the season. the ground for the race course has been marked out on cleave hill, which is esteemed the finest turf in england. a meeting of the goverrors of the tewkes- bury dispensary was lately held at the town hall there, when a most elegant and valu- able silver cup, made by messrs. rundell and bridge, of london, was presented to dr. malden, of worcester, with the following inscription beautifully engraved thereon : to jonas malden, m. d. physician to the tewkesbury dispensary, this cup is presented by the subscribers, as an acknowledninput for the real de las shown to proinote the laterest of that institution, by continuing his attendance, though resident in the city of worcestei. mdcccxix. birth ] the lady of j. s. biscoe, esg, of hemp stead court, of a daughter, married.) at edgworth, robert smirke, jun. esg, to laura, fifth daughter of the rev. anthony fresnoy, rector of that parish-- cheltenham), j. jenh yns, csq of the juner temple, lo anna, eldest daugliter of geo. chalmer, esq lately of west. combe llouse-chn milington, esp. of coln rogers, to elizabeth, youngest daughter of mr. john cook, ut n nchinhampton. diid. io prestbury, near chelienham, mr. rogers, relict of the rev. richard r--wr. hay den, of norfolk house, cheltenham, - edmund prubya, . or newland, .- mr james white, of chipping sodbury--varia antoinette meertens, daughter of a m. merrtens, esq. of green park. buildus-at tewkesbury, mr. t. morgan ---mrs. pratley, eldest daughter of bute richards, esg. late of stourbridge-m . drake, tewkesbury, . though irsutinuing est of the hampshire. married.) al newport, i. of wight. john lee benham, e, to miss kirkpatrick, daughter of j: . k. esq-atllumble, the llon. fred. lumley, le jane, second daughter of the late alm. bradley died) in southampton, miss a. shelley, vuly surviving daughter of the late right hon. sir j. shelley, bart.- frances, wide of lieut. geu. slovio, of chilworth lodge. herefordshire. married.] heory andrews, esq. late of the tla or king's own regt. to mary emma, danghter of the rev. f. kuchant. of easton at ledbury, mr. j. jones, to mrs. denton-john cleve, esq. of hereford, to mary. second daughter of p. jones, esq. of clive. died] at mordiford rectory, miss bird, eldest daughter of the late wm. b. esq.--mr. t, james, of wille: sley. --t. evans, esq. - frances, wife of mr. griffiths, of hereford, hi-in hereford, the rev. rich. underwood, -mrs. turner, wife of mr. wm. t. of eardisley. hertfordshire. birth) at laurel cottage, south minums, the lady of richard ellis, late of the th llassars, of a son. married.] jas howard, esq. of westfields, to anna marin, eldest daughter of r. h. sparks, esg, of tottenham. died.] ac prae mill, near st. albin's, mary, wife of r. simnious, esq --at goff's oak, near cheshunt, w. h. andessoa, esq.-a: standom, ro coff, . huntingdonshire-- kent-lancashire-lincolnshire, &c. (june , huntingdonshire. lancashire. married.] at huntingdon, the rev. mr. births.) at liverpool, the lady of lieut. col. black, to charlotte, second daughter of mrs. d'auguilar, of a son. "baxter, of the same place-mr. john wood, to married. at liverpool, wm. purser, to anna miss susan kendall, both of that place-mr. tryphosa, only daughter of the late w. dobb, esq. robert tulley, to miss mary whiteliead. woolton - mr. george claie, to mary youngest daugliter of bassett-at biuotisham, mr. w. t. jackson of the late b. norbury, esq.--at broughton (ditford, newgate street, london, to mary, eldest daughter john chapman, to sarah, danghter of the late of mr. thomas leigh, of earith. thomas bissey, esq. deceased-join culliver, . died.) at buckworth, jane, wife of euseby of quebec, to margaret, daughter of mr. john cleaver, esq. and daughter of john chapman, carter-mr. samuel nathan, to miss yates, a esg. of whitby, yorkshire-a: kettering, , mrs. daughter of the late rev, b. yates, mary satchiell, wife of mr. george satchell- , died.) ac manchester, edward, youngest sou mr. edward dobson. of mr s j. smith, of gayhorn, -mrs. dalton, kent. wife of john dalton, esq. of thurnham-a! bishop the new cut for the tunnel under auckland, charlotte, wife of mr.t. parking on, . -mr. howard, sigeon, of nutsford. -al livet. ground from the medway at rochester, lo pool, elizabeth, only surviving daughter of the late higham, is now prosecuting at the foriner thrmas wedgwood, esq. of etruria, staffordshire. place, and upwards of persons, besides -thomas parker, of alkincoates, and of newton a number of horses, are employed thereon. hall, yorkshire, esq. one of the deputy lieutenants report states, that when completed, it is for lancashire. conjectured, that it will be possible for a leicestershire. steam boat to be employed from maidstone we are glad to hear that there is about to london. births. at otterden, the lady of the res, f. to be erected in the vicinity of the fish- tattersall, of a still born daughter-at hythe, ponds, parish of stapleton, a new church, the lady of major gen. sir b. d'urban, of a under the establishment. great part of daughter-the lady of lieut. col. staveley. c. b., the money requisite for this vodertaking royal staff corps, of a daughter--at canterbury, has been raised by the benevolent inhabi- the lady of the rev. thomas bennett, of a son tants of stapleton. much good must result the lady of w. . hammond, esq. of may from this measure, as the neighbourhood deacon, of a daughter. is chiefly inhabited by colliers, who have no married.) at north cray, captain william place of religious worship to resort to. rednan ord, of the royal engineers, to eliza births) the lady of wm blundell, csq. of dare, second daughter of the late dr latham, of crosby hall, of a son. bexley-at st. tanl's church, canterbury, mr. married ) the rev. t. burnaby, jun. m. a. francis harris, to miss charlotte sutton-at of mistertou, domestic chaplain to the marquis of woodchurch, mr. henry crompton, to miss e. anglesea, to sarab, youngest daughter of the late fugglege at staplehurst, mr. john spong, to miss andrew meires. esa of daventry m. allen--at harbledown, mr. thos. crouch, of died. at waltham, t. frisby, esq.at beau sturry, to miss aon weilard, of harbledown at manor park, joko herrick, esq. -wm collias, kenardington, mr. weaver, to miss rainley, of esy of frowlesworth, and of fisberwick. stafford appledore-at maidstone, mr. samuel milbourn, shire, to miss mary holloway-mr. johu marten, to miss sarah taplin, both of canterbury-george lincolnshire. longmore, esq. royal staff corps, elizabeth, the present lambing season is generally eldest daughter of the rev. w. w. wilcocks-at allowed to be wonderfully productive. or a appledore, mr. janies hammond, to miss hannah the many published instances of increase, warner, of ryem-at folkstone, mr. wm. poskett, perhaps not the least remarkable, is that of to mary nash-al chatham, edw. t. d. hulkes, a small flock of mr. benj. dickinson, of esg. of rochester, to jaue, second daughter of great ponton near grantham lincoln. mr. forman, esq. chatham-at isle of thanet. shire; this gentleman had only seventeen mr. edw. harinan, to miss sarah ann fleming - at harrietsham, mr. george orford, miss m. ewes, and they have yeaned the surprising hope-at hythe, lieut. longmore, of the royal number of lambs. ---mr. james warbera staff corps, to elizabeth, eldest daughter of the ton, of grimshy, has an ewe that has pro- rev. william wright wilcocks. duced him within the last two years thirteen died.] at the vicarage north fleet, , char. lambs, all living at this time, and likely to lotte, wife of the rev. t. g. durham, carste of live; and an ewe in the flock of mr. parker, that place--at margale, mrs. sarah jobnson of waltham, last week yeaned lambs, all at bethersden, mr t. spicer, -at hoath, mr. living. henry rayner--at ospriase, , captain thos births. at gran ham, the lady of the rex. c. gravener, in the hon. east iodia company's b smith, of a son-al edlington grove, the lady service-at margato, mrs. pointon, -mr. nat. of rs. short, esq, of a daughter. thew ridley, of st. john's hospital northgate, married. at hull, t. dungworth, esq. of canterbury- mr. john terry of st. nicholas llos. g!ent worth llall, to mrs. dudding, latt of saxiy, pital, harbledown, –at folksione, miss char near this city-mr. george wales, of nassingt. , jotte wilkes-at leeds, dear maidstone, mr. to miss charlotte yomg, th daughter of mr. m. thomas finch, -littlebourne, mr. christopher young, of deeping gate at boitesford, deputy deval-at sydenhami, richard shute, e . - assistant commissary general daniel, to mary, at kenerdington, mrs. pearce, - at diersham, eldest daughter of mr. barratt, of roxby.grange. mrs. mitchell, -a: eltham, mrs. mary eligh. died.] at spalding, the intant child of c. bop. sted, -at thanington, mr. robert prime, der, esq.-nevile king, esn. of ashby house, bear at dover, mrs. carter, wifo of mr. g. carter sleaford-al lincoln, j. nelthorpe, esq.-at bas- mr. e. back, of messhem, . ton, j. w. h. burton, esq. of billingboro'. .xford - shropshire - somerset-srafford. (june , oxfordshire. solved to establish an asylum for unprotected . at a general meeting of the persons in- females, not less than year of age, nor terested in the rebuilding of st. martin's above , in order to qualify them for situa- church, held yesterday in the council tions of inferior domestic service. chamber, a select committee was appointed married at clifton, the rev. liscombe to inspect the several plans and estimates clarke, fellow of winchester colioge. to mary, then delivered in, and to recommend to the eldest daughter of the rev. t. stonehouse, vigor. at chilconipton, mr. peter webber, to miss sarah next general meeting the plan to be adopt- gullifer.--ac bristol, mr. w. sims, of welton, to ed. mapy plans were submitted to the miss co miss coombs, eldest daughter of mrs. coombs, of meeting, which were highly creditable to "tinsbury.--mr. robert gough, of whitley court, to the ingenuity of the several architects, who elizabeth, youngest daugliter of john knight, esq. appeared to have spared no pains in the exe- of kenn court.--mr, w. wbite, to ester, youngest cution of their designs. we understand the daughter of the late mr. bloxsome, of stroud. - members of the select committee intend willian burge, esq. of pawlett, to ann, only daugli meeting on friday next. ter of thomas hooper, es joseph rich, exp. to married.] sanford graham, esq. m. p. ouly son martha. daughter of w. cox, esq.of steart. varsh, of sir james graham, balt. to caroline, third joseph winter esq. of marlock, to catherine, fourth daughter ef the late john langston, eoq. of sras. daughter of the late mr. h. s. brico, surgeon of den-house, oxfordshire. --at 'thame, mr. g. gur. sherboue, --mr. james mun buckland, of abbot's don, susagua, eldest daughter of the late mr. j. leigh, to sarah, second daughier of joseph smith, hurst. esq.-- jono race godfrey, esq. of the hon e.i.c's dicd.) bt wheatcley. mr. james west. srvice, to jane octavia, second daughter of mr. r. wonduouse, or duke street. shropshire. diet at bath, mis, sever, wife of the rev. as a proof of the admirable management samuel seyer, m. a. of bristol--john daniell, and userul employment of the prisoners in esq. bauker, of lentford lourse, yeovil.-al over ichester gaol, the assize courts at taunton stoney. the rev. w. holland, m. a , rector of on the th ult. afforded the pleasing exhi. monkton farleigh, wilts, and vicar of over sto wey bition of two cloth covers for the counsel and on the south-parade, , isaac todd, esq.-nr. attornies' table in each court, entirely mann- benjamin perry,– , mr. nathan atherton, of factured by the prisoners in this gaol from ransbury, wills.-- . elizabeth wife of mr. w. the staple in the pack, through the different cuff, of bathwick.-- , lady burton, widow of the processes in the picking, sorting, corabing, late sir robert burton, kat- , at henstridge bowden. mark wilks, esq.- . at woodcome, carding, spinning, weaving, and dyeing, to maria, eldest daughter of the late henry f. arbouin, the greatest perfection. the cloths are dark .- , at clifton, miss einm , ith daughter of blue; and the centre of each bears the fol- sir fiizwillim barrington, bari of swainstone, if lowing inscription, worked in yellow silk :- the isle of wight.--mis. lloyd, at the rectory, « manufactored by the prisoners in ilches- compton dusdum.at shepton baller, the rev, ter gao), . chris brown. - frances, the wife of lieut. gene. murried. at leintwardinc, mr. urwick, of rai stovin, of chilworth lodge, hants and daughter bechjay, to elizabelb, eldest daughter of mr. wal of the late arth ter, of stomerball, herefordshire --thonins w. allen, relict of philip allen, esq. of bath hampton. perks, esq. of sutton will, to sully, youngest stappordshire. dalighter of the rep. g. hazlewood, of bridg. a singular accident occured a short time port.-a! strewsbury, lleury andrews, esq. lato ago : two men emploved, in the neighbours of the th er king's own regiment, mary tary hood of the pottery, to divide a field with emma, only surviving child of the rev. francis posts and rails; while they were at work, a kinchant, of easton), herefordshire. - the rev w. jones hughes, a. m. vicar of cardington, silop, horse, which was in the pasture came wan- to selina, eldest daughter of g, corser, ca of tonly galloping towards them, and went with whitchurch.--al abergwilly, john norgun howell, buch force against the rail at which they esq. of morfa, io mary, only daughter of ilenry were employed, as to break it in the centre; lewis, esg. of galtygog.-at yarpool, mr. james each of the broken parts struck its man with edwards, of kingsland, to aon, only daughter of so much violence as to break one of the legs mr. henry connop.- at st. chad's, mr. john of each, and it was some time before their evans, to miss howley, daughter of thomas haw. unfortunate situation was discovered. ley, esq.--mr. r. s. thomas, of llambury, to miss marrual al the collegiate church. wolver. a. pritcheti, of mattley court. bampton, mr. e. greseley. of birmingham, to char died.) al shrewsbury, mr. boudler.--mr. lolle, fourth daughter of the late air. samuel proud, evans.-m. g. boden, of brockton, .- jaue, of bilston.---thomas w. perks, esq. of sutton hill, eldest daugliter of mr. hartley, of cleobury mort. shropshire, io sally, youngest daughter of thie rer. imer. .- richard edwards, esq. of farmcot, . g. iiazlewood of hidgnorin-mr. john coates, of -mr. james brownhill, of nantwich. solicitor, . manchester, to catherine, daughter of mr thos. at an advanced age, mrs. elizabeth myiton rd. jacksou.--at lichheld, w. scoit, esqof penn, te lyster. esq. of rewton castle, one of the repre. miss darwood, of lichficki-al dudley, lient sentatives in parliament for shrewsbury.mirtha, j. w. eyre, of the royal engineers, to aan, only the wife of james compson, esg. of clobury mor dauglices or mr. w. jenkins.--mr. w. mytton, of timer.at sheriffhales, elizabeth, wife of the rev. stour port, to mary aon, only daughter of mr. s. r. dean..at english franckton, mrs. burlton, swani), relict of the late jobn burlton, esg. died.] m. james colcloughi, solicitor, of band: somersetshire, bach.-mr. thomas morton, of wolverhampton. at a public meeting of ladies and gentle- mary, relict of mr.d. warren, seu. viear chord of "!), held at the guildhall, bath, it was re- liebtield cathedral .) suffolk--surrey-susser-warwick-westmoreland, fc. suppolk. warwickshire births.] the lady of w. b. tuffnell, esq. of married.) at alueston, joseph jackson, esq. athan hall. great waislam. ef a daughter of manchester, to mary ann, eldest daughter of married.] the rev. w . thorpe, of stetch the late edward townsend higgins, esq. of bridge work, to lizabeth, youngest diughter of thomas town llouse-al birmingham, m:. willian milton smyth, esq. of east dereham--mr. robert martin of stourport, to mary ann, only daughter of mr. cirs, of little whelnetinin, to miss garnham, of samuel sw: . konyam at walberswick, the rev, p. hudson, died) mrs. wintertop, relict of mr. winterton, reitir of melich und felbrig, in norfolk, to miss of wolvey hall-st rughy, louisa, youngest wales, daughter of isaac wales, esg.-mr. wm. daughter of the late rev. dr. gillbee, rector of cole!an, of nordhan market, to miss wright, of baby-at henley in arden, major hiltoa, lace of walion-mr.j. goodrici), of stanuingfield, io sliss the th light draguons, -jolin bohun smyth, hugh holland, of south lorhain e.sq. mayor of warwick- , mrs. seiwin, widow of leay charles selwyn. esq. licatenant-goret. late of ipswich elizabeth broke hir», relict of oor of the island of montserrat-mrs. hannab john kirby, es . at ipswich, -mr. charles bor. beale, of ilyde court, ncar mirchivhampton. jey, of barham, -at rickinghall, mrs. mary westmoreland. fisher, formerly of tpswichi, - mary, wite of married. at kendal, cytain waters, to miss john dalton, esp, of thornham-mrs. ann scarleti, breuthwaite, both of kirkland-mr. thomas paine widow of mr. james scarlett, late of ipswich- ter, jun. of liverpool, to miss ratcliff, daughter of elizabeth, relict of mr. johnson naylor, of ickling. mr. richard ratclif. is-em, -mr. jacob hauschildt, date of the ed ilussais, k g.l.-elizabeth, wite of mr. j. nid. wiltshire. the first ploughing match for , for dleton, of rickinghall-at downham market, r. pwell, -mary, idest daughter of mrs. keeble. the premiums offered by the bath and west widow, or stowmarket, .. of england society, took place on tuesday, surrey. in a grass layer, on a stony stiff soil, belong- there is at this time, in the garden of a ing to sir j. hawkins, bart. at kelston. mrs. roberts, of rotherbithe, a pear-tree, seven ploughs started, only tvo of which on parts of which the fruit is set and pro- performed the work in the given time, viz. perly formed, and on other parts a second hours. blossom is fast making its appearance, as births.] at gatcombe, the lady of sir lucius fine and full as at first. curtis bart, of a son --at burgate house, the lady of j. green wilkinson, esqof a jaughter-the births) at easteily end ilouse, the lady of g. laity of the rev. francis b. astley, of a son, at the w. lawrence, esq. of st. james's, jamaica, of a rectory house manningford abbots. daughter-at dulwich, the lady of h glazbrook, married george white, esq. of devizes, i esg. of a s -at the manor hlouse, wandsworth, misi clifford, of cherrill-nr. j. b. sherrig, to 'the lady of alderman blagnay, of a son. esther, daughter of the late j. boulter, esq. of marringes.] at fuliam, ilenry andrews, esq. queen charlton--mr. job bryan, of westerleigh, late of the th reg. to mary emma, only surviving to miss elizabeth hall, of purklechurch-mi. child of the rev. francis kinchant, of easton, henry bush, of wick, to miss suibbs, of stouts his herefordshire-alexander grant, esq. of clapbam, bitton-jolin nathaniel willians, esq. of castle to helen, youngest daughter of the late rev. v. hill, cardiganshire, lo sarah, daugiter of james 'thorold, of weelsbv.house, lincolnshire-mr. a. loxdale, esq. of kingsland, salop; at salisbury.-- drew, of bermondsry surrey, to jane, second at corsham, leury john sinith, esqof maribo- daughter, of wm. langton, eso. of chippenhain. rough, to jane, only daughter of samuel mountjoy house-james manson, eiq. of lambeth-terrace, esq. of the former place. henrietta, tbird daughter of the late r. f. sutt, did. at salisbury, thomas dickenson, esq. esq. of the same place-charles david gordon, of pickwick lodge, nrar corshain-lieut. n'dera esg, of dulwich-hili, to marian), eldest daughter moti, of the th regiment of foot, -henry peo- of robert fhitusps, esq. of longworth, hereford. ruddocke windhar, esq. ---at bashley lodge, sh re. thomas jones esq. . died ] ai guildford, , mrs. e. booker, relict of the late c. booker, es, upper east sheen. , worcestershire. mrs hawkes, relict of thie late jeri iniah iawkes, birth.) at worcester, the lady of edward esq. of cecil-sti@tl-alrs. basher, late ot croydon, miostya, esq. of a daughter. suriey. married. mr. joseph morris, o. oilton, to miss elizabeth whitesides, of siottesdot--m:. sussex owen, of the tything, to winifred, youngest daugh births) at earsham parsoange, mrs. george ter of mr. iloopes at whittington, captain hol pay, of a son brow, of the royal north gloucester militia, to murrica.) charles ridge, esq. of chichester, elizbeth aona, only daughter of the late mr. to anna letici, second daugliter of thomas cit. george parker, of the old house-lieutenant ). wright, esq. of lower grosvenor street--robert w. evie, of the royal engineers, to anne, ony taylor, esq. of brighton, to maria, eldest daughter duohter of mr. williarn jenkins. at onibersley, of the late b. brummell, esq, of the treasurya dai. w.. corpil, of stourport, to lctilia, fourth mr. robert thurston, to miss stoliday, both of dargliter of tire late mr. john taylor. cley next the sea-mr. aldis, of rackheath, la died mis. llartwright, formerly of clerken. miss brown, danglier of mr. brown, ci dlowfield leap-al worcester, charles, tbird son of the late -mr. baker, of beecles, to miss panner, of hoxng-mr. robert gedge, to mrs. rhoda sein- thomas whieldon, esq. of fenton-mrs. ann huil, of the tylling --mr walter chandler-- , harriet, mence. fifth daughter of the rev. james lus:ings, rector died.) mr t. ii. hale, of coxbottom farm, of marley-at holt fleec, mr. william evans, near petworlh-a lewes, . shelley, widow of - , mrs. allies, wile of mr. thomas allies, of heory shelley, esq.--at lastius", wr. pizzy, foregate-street-a! i'oaick, , margaret, wife of esq.a. emer, mrs. liughes, wita : e. hughes, robert duon. . (june , yorkshire---wales---scotland ireland. yorkshire. married.) at ross, francis fisher, jun. esq. a beautiful specimen of the art of cut. of bristol, to elizabeth, youngest daughter of dr. lery was manufactured by joseph rogers lewis, of the former place.-at swansea, henry and sons, sheffield. it is an elegant knife morgan, esq. r. n. to miss r. jenkins, of neath. at mrole brace. john nathaniel williams, esq. of in miniature, containior so instruments, castle hill, to sarah eliz.heth, second daughter of moving on il springs, and joints, of the joseph loxdale, esq. of kingland, shropshire. most exquisite workmanship; it employed dicd.) at the rectory tlouse, at aber, the the workmen days of close application to rev. richard griffith, d.d.-in swansea, . complete it; does not exceed -eighths of frances charlotte, danghter of capt. gascogte, an inch in length, and weighs only one quar- r. n.--the rev. iſector bowen, rector of llan. ter of ari ounce. the following is a list of madock, glamorganshire, the articles contained in the above knile: scotland. stick-knife blade, i pruning-knife blade, s hower of salt-water in dumfries-shire. penknife blades, nail-knite blade, silver some weeks ago, a severe shower of salt fruit-knife blade, i silver tooth-pick, bowwater fell in the parish of st. mungo, in saw, i doubled-tooth saw, leather-punch, dumfries-shire. the day after, when the i button-hook, pair of scissars, i gup water was evaporated, the leaves of ever- picker, pair of iweezers, fleams of dif greens, and branches of hedges, glistened ierent sizes, nail-tile, chissel, i cork with crystals of salt. screw, render, timber scrihe, gimblet, births.) at edinburgh, mrs. campbell, of dal. bodkin, brad-awl, horse-hook, gun- serf, of a son-the lady of capt. clark, adjutant of screw, and i auger. the forfar milltia, of a daughter. births.] the lady of dr. bodley, of charlotte. married.) at kirklee, mr. robert stewart, streri, fall, or a daughter-at ratclitie-house, glasgow, to janet, eldest dugi.ter of mr. john thorne, the lady of ralph creyke, fun, esq. of a walker, of kirhlee.-geo. scott, esq. of daldowie, daughter. to miss lilly baybe, of concraig.--at rutherglen morried ) at holderness, john laing, m.d. bridge, david law, lo isabella, eldest daughter of mr. archibald norman, surgeon, to christiana eliz gibb, both of forfar. shire-geo. wrangham, esq. of bridlington, to died.) in glasgow barrachs, mary lowry, wifo * letitia, only daughter of r. porter, esq.--thos. of capt lowry, th regiuneat, .-at carron walker, esq. of the scotch greys, to constantia vale, mrs margaret hendry --at the hause of frances anne, eldest daughter of john c. beres. loclcarron, , the rev. lachlan mackenzic, mi. ford, esq.- likley, w. s. petrey, esq. to miss nister of lochacarron. mary beli, daughter of r bell, esq. of sutton. ireland. died.) at brough, , miss mary lonsdale-at births.) at mounlrath, the lady of the rer. d lumbton. the wife of john charlton: and geo. wm. rogers, of a daughter --at wexford, while attending the funeral of mrs. charlton. mr. mrs. ormsby, wife of major ormsby, late of the thomas chuoltou-mrs. mary hodgson, relict of th dragoon guards, of a daugliter. the rer. richard fledgson-mr. thomas clay, . married | at dublin, the lon. and rev. e. near northallerton, mrs. hatton, wingfield, to louisa joan, third daughter of the wales. late uon, geo. jocelyn.-alexander crook shank, from the unusual mildness of the season, of londonderry, esq. to miss mahella smith, of mountjoy-square.-- purefoy fue, "sq. of rossmore aberystwith can already boast of seteral lodge, county kilkenuy, to margaret, second visitors, many houses being occupied, and daughter of james izod, esqof kells. others engaged. the new public rooms are didjin dublin, mirs. de joncourt.-in dar. in a state of forwardness, and every exertion son street, mis. catherine standard, eldest daugh. will be made to complete them this season. ter of the late eaton standard, esq.-in glouces. births.) at radnor, the lady of edw. evaus, per street, mrs. margaret simpson, relict of the late esg. of son.--the lady of colonel geo, rice, of a r. a sinuson, e:q.-in sonth great george-str. daughter. mrs. miller, . errata.-in our present number, page , line ,"for “ painted besides bis other studies," read“ exhibiled besides his unerhibited studies," &c.-the paragraph contain- ing the notice of mr. collins's adınirable“ sea shore," and of some other artists' pictures, was omitted by mistake, under the head of fine arts under the head of fine arts, in p. , of our magazine for april, the transposition of a sentence produced the following error: “ until the middle of the last century there was little change. but from the resto- ration of charles the second, the example of his present majesty, and the progress of knowledge, the force of pre,udice in the highest circies." the above ought to have been thus : “ from the restoration of charles the second, until the middle of the last century, there was little change ; but the example of his present majesty, and the progress of know- ledge, abated the force of prejudice in the highest circles.” readers and correspondents. we are sorry to be compeiled, for want of room, to defer our dramatic article till next month. our limits oblige us also to postpone the insertion of many other valuable contri- butions ; our friends, however, may be assured that they will meet with the earliest possible attention. we shall endeavour to make room, in future, for our stocks table, as usual ; it was never our intention to omit this useful feature of our miscellany --souturon is requested to say how a letter will reach him. j. gillet, piiples, crown court, fleet street, london) the new monthly magazine. no. .] july , . (vol. xi. original communications. on the trade op the united states as this trade with china, and the ame- op north america with china. ricans possess sach great advantages mr. editor, above the english, that well-informed of all the phenomena which occur in persons do not hesitate to prognosticate, the listory of commerce, from its earliest that the latter will not be able, in the period to the present time, the most ex- long run, to maintain the competition traordinary, perhaps, is the intercourse with the former, but will be, in the end, between europe and the east, chiefly obliged entirely to abandon to them the through the medium of the english east trade of the chinese seas. if this opi- india company. this intercourse, as nion be just, it must be confessed that a far as we are concerned, may be divided great danger threatens the british com- into two grand branches, the first with merce ; a very productive source of gain our own empire in hindoostan, the se. would he lost -a great many seamen in cond with the great chinese empire, and great britain would be thrown out of the latter chiefly for the sake of obtaining employment--and even the commerce a single article, the use of which has be- with the european continent could not come so habitual to all ranks of society, but decrease, since europe would have that it has long ceased to be a luxury, and no occasion to draw from great britain may be now fairly classed among the chief its supplies of chinese produce, which it necessaries of life. the immense impor- would receive directly, and upon more tance of both these branches of ourasiatic advantageous terms from the ainericans. commerce is universally acknowledged; on the other hand, the vast advantages and therefore, you may, probably, which the american republic may derive, not bc indisposed to admit into your va- and most certainly will derive, from an luable miscellany some observations on active intercourse with the chinese em- the danger with which one of them - the pire, are almost incalculable. considered trade with china, appears to be threat merely as an excellent school for the ened. i am induced to communicate marine, it is of the highest importance to them to you, because they are chiefly a state whose external security wholly collected from conversation with intelli- depends on a numerous and formidable gent americans, and though they may navy. the goods which find a ready be thought in some respects exaggerated, sale must partly be fetched from very shew us at least the sentiments and views remote countries, and the dangers and of our rivals in a point of such great privations with which the seaman has to importance. we all know the enter contend, in seas hitherto but little fre- prising spirit of the merchants of the quented, and on unknown coasts, call united states, the boldness and intre forth all his energies, enrich him with pidity of their seamen, the astonishing useful experience, and increase his dex- and 'rapid increase of their maritime terity. thus, a large number of sailors power, and the peculiar local advantages may be kept in constant employ, and the of that great continent. the american prospect will not only excite in the government beholds with pleasure the natives, particularly the inhabitants of increasing commerce of its subjects with the sea-coasts of america, a continually chiua, which promises to become more increasing propensity to a sea-faring life, and more important to the republic, and but also attract crowds of able seamen has undoubtedly been much encouraged from foreign countries, especially from and promoted by numerous articles in the british islands, who will settle with american newspapers, and other period their families in america, and promote ical publications, minutely pointing out the population, the increase of which is its great advantages. so favorite an object with the american it would not be easy to find another government. in the country itself a instance of an intercourse with so remote new source of gain will be opened at the a country, which su amply rewards the same time, to thousands of industrious activity of the merchant and the seaman, persons; the spirit of speculation will nav montuly mag. -no. . vol. xi. q on the trade of the united states with china. [july , receive a new impulse, and numerous chinese tartary, is fine furs. both the merchants, even from england itself, chinese and mantchews are eager to will settle in america, in order to share possess them, and the more distinguished in so promising a prospect of gain, and and wealthy the mandarins, the richer to acquire riches in a short time. the and finer must be the furs which they nations of europe are too much accus- require for their orientai dress. this tomed to the use of many chinese pro- article of trade can therefore never fail ductions easily to renounce them, and of a certain sale in that vast and popu- the possession of the trade with china lous empire; for the use of it is incon- will therefore give the americans an ceivably extensive, and the wearing of opportunity for a most advantageous furs, not merely a luxury, but a habit, commercial intercourse with europe, and which has rendered them indispensably to double their gains. necessary. but the americans by their not only have the americans a much almost exclusive trade with the north- shorter way to china than the english west coast, and their great continent and the other nations of europe, but extending from california to the north they are able to obtain the produce and pole, possesses an inexhaustible source merchandise of that empire on much from which to supply the chinese market more farourable terms. the europeans with this favorite article, and the com- are obliged to purchase all they want petition which they have to fear from of the chinese for the most part with other nations, particularly the english ready money, or silver bars, and china and the russians, cannot do them any is therefore considered by europe, as injury worth mentioning. the ameri- the country to which the precious me. cans, therefore, seem to be destined by tals chiefly aow, so that the gold and nature to be the chief factors in this trade silver of mexico and peru go again with china, which is inconceivably pro- from europe to asia, where they are fitable, and must in time monopolize it swallowed up by a gulph from which they entirely; as the period is certainly not do not easily return. the americans on remote, when the population of the the contrary, are not obliged to carry on united states, taking its direction from the chinese trade with the precious east to west, will extend to the shores of metals: they carry to the chinese mar- the great south sea, and their ships be ket either various articles of their own then able to navigate directly from thence produce, which are highly esteemed to the pacific ocean. there, or others which they have ob- on the north-west coasts of america, tained in exchange for them; and are above california, which are but thinly thus able to employ for other purposes, inhabited by wild tribes, there are sea the money which they must otherwise otters, wack, dark brown, and white take to asia. if the trade which europe bears, wolves, foxes, beavers, deer, ra- carries on with china may be called in coons, white american lynxes, or great the highest degree passive, that of the wild cats, ermines, seals, rabbits, martins, united states is very far from being so. and other wild animals, whose fur is china is an immen:e market, which more or less beautiful and precious, in now offers itself to the activity of the such abundance, that the natives can pro- american merchant, the more this trade care them with little trouble, and in their increases, the more persons it will en- uncivilised state, willingly exchange them ploy; and the gain which it gives is so for the most insignificant trifles. the very great, that even on account of this american ships bring to these savages, single branch of american commerce, pieces of iron, nails, knives, chisels, the speculative merchant is perhaps no shovels, buttons of copper, and of co- where in a situation so farorable for be- loured glass, little looking glasses, to- coming soon and easily rich, as in the bacco, brandy, powder, arms, coarse united states. by this commerce, which cotton, and woollen gouds, old clothes, is capable of being greatly extended, and all kinds of toys which look shewy, and has numerous concomitant advani- but are of no value. most of these tages. america will enrich itself more things are purchased by the ameri- and more, at the expense of great bri- can merchants at very low prices, and tain; and the turn thus given to a main the vessels which sail with cargoes of branch of the commerce of the world, wind from the american ports, may sannot but be very advantageous to the be sure of obtaining in exchange the rest of europe. richest cargoes of furs and skius. with an article that is especially in request, these they proceed directly from the in the chinese provinces from canton to north-west coast of america to china, pekin, and to the extreme frontiers of and exchange their goods for chinese .] on the trade of the united states with china. : i produce with which they return, always happens, the return cargo gives a profit with great gain, to the united states. of from three hundred to five hundred it is evident how greatly america per cent. including the articles for bar- must gain by this simple mode of inter- ter, provisions, pay of the sailors, and course, which does not even require a other expenses. large capital, not to mention other ad- this trade, which so amply rewards vantages attending it. first the mers the activity and enterprise of the mer- chant gains in the purchase of trifles of chants and mariners, continues to engage little worth, which are agreeable and the attention of more and more persons useful to the savages, and the manufac. in almost all the american sea-ports. tory of which employs many hands and many merchants at boston and salem in promotes internal industry. for goods, new england, at bristol, in rhode the purchase of which requires but a island, at new york, baltimore. phila- small capital, there is an opportunity of delphia, charlestown, &c. have thus procuring articles which are of great attained great wealth, in a few years, and value in a remote and extensive empire, the more intimate and various the rela- and then exchanging them for other tions with china become, the greater articles which may be disposed of with advantages does it promise in future. great profit both in america and europe. the friendly footing on which the ame- the trade may be carried on too, in ricans are with the natives of nootka or small vessels, of or tons burden, king george's sound, and of many other the equipment of which is not expensive, parts of the north-west coast, of the new (america being so rich in materials for world, so fully secures to them this rich ship building, and which require but a fur trade, the basis of the intercourse few sailors to man them; so that an with china, that they may be said to american merchant may carry on so pro- have it entirely in their own hands, and fitable a trade with a very moderate capi. to have no rival to fear. tal. even those who have no capital, in this trade to the north-west coast may carry it on upon credit, since the the british merchant is greatly impeded expence of the articles to be provided for by the east india company, which pos- bartering is so very small, that means are sesses the exclusive privilege of trading easily found to obtain them. if one with china. with the active spirit of will share the profit with the ship owner the americans, the exportation from the and the captain, it is not necessary to united states to the north-west coast, advance any money, and profit may be will continue to increase, and they must made without the smallest risk. a few bear away the prize, as their principal cannon and muskets, are sufficient on rivals cannot carry on the trade with the board a ship that sails to the north-west same advantages as they can. hence the coast of america, as a defence, in case of american trade with china will become need, against the natives; and small ves. more active and extensive, while that of sels are even better than larger ones, be- great britain will continually decline. the cause they can sail up the creeks. if price of sea otter skins is now so high at several vessels sail at once on such an macao and canton, that £ sterling enterprise, which in case of need can are often paid for a single skin: many an assist each other there is not the least american sailor brings home a profit of darger. several thousand dollars for his own the north-west coast is now so well share; we may judge then, what must known to the enterprising and expe- be the gain of the american merchant. rienced sailors of the united states, that the valuable and beautiful furs, which they do not consider a voyage to it as the north-west coast of america supplies more important and dangerous than in such great abundance, are not the only one to europe, or even to the west articles which the americans furnish the indies. the smallest american vessels, chinese with. they are in want of many brigs, and even schooners under a hun other things with which they are fur- dred tons burden, sail thither without nished from the united states, and thus any apprehension. they have no need the ties formed by commerce between of spending a long time after their arri- china and america, must become more val, to procure the necessary cargo of firm and durable. above all, a remark- more or less valuable skins and furs; in able production deserves to be mentioned china they have not long to wait to ex- here, which grows in america itself, and change their cargoes for the productions is almost peculiar to the united states ; of the country, and it may be calculated, a production which is almost wholly un- that unless some extraordinary accident known in europe, but has been in use in on the trade of the united states with china. (july , china from time immemorial, and is held in this remarkable plant an article pecu- there in extraordinary esteem. this is liarly its own, which is, above all others, the root panax quinquefolia, or ginseng. proper for the trade with china the chinese writers call this plant a pre- many of your readers may, perhaps, cious gift of nature, sweater than honey be curious to be better acquainted with and the honey-comb, more valuable than a plant so esteemed by the great chinese fine gold, and jewels, and pearls, a glo- mandarins, and in the harems. the rious gift of heaven, bestowed by the stalk of this plant, which attains the gods upon mortals for their happiness, height of about a foot from the ground, and their enjoyment on earth. placed is of a dark red. it is adorned with on a par with the philosopher's stone, it elliptical leaves, three of which always is called the food of immortality, and it grow together, and each of which is passes among the priests and physicians again divided into five little leaves. on for a universal remedy, wholesome for account of the symbolical meaning at- all weaknesses of the frail body, applica- tached to the numbers three and five, ble to all diseases; nay, it is even said to which these leaves present to the eye, prolong life, invigorating the nerves, the plant obtained, in ancient times, in strengthening the understanding, cheer- china, the character of particular sacred- ing the soul, soothing the mind, taming ness. the growth of this singular plant the wild passions, and bestowing inex- is extremely slow, but then it attains an haustible delights upon our mortal exist- age unusual in plants of this kind : when cnce, it has stood fifteen years or more, the the reigning dynasty of the mant- root is not yet an inch in diameter. every chews, in china, were proud that nature year the stalk makes at the upper part of produced this wonderful root, with such the root, as each new shoot marks, magical powers, in their original country; which show by their number the age of for it was found in chinese mogul tar- the plant. the root itself is of an ellip tary; but sparingly scattered in certain tical form, and commonly consists only places and single districts. here it was of one piece. the plant bears but a considered as one of the regalia of the few seeds; two or three grains are all crown, only the emperor had the right that can be gathered from one stem; to have it gathered, and guards were these are of a bright red colour, in shape posted at the places where it grew, that and size like those that may be collected no one might presume to take openly, or from the honeysuckle. they ripen in by stealth, what was for the emperor america, in the latter half of the month alone. how fortunate was it for the of september, and their taste is more americans that they accidentally disco- aromatic than that of the root itself, but vered, not very long ago, that this root, less bitter. so highly esteemed in china, and paid jn china the greatest care is taken in for there with its weight in gold, which gathering this valuable root. it is not it had been always supposed was only to done till it has attained the highest per- be found in tartary, as the chinese had fection and maturity: this is during the always boasted, was indigenous in the autumn and winter. in america they • united states, and might be there col- long committed, from ignorance and in- lected in far greater abundance than in attention, the great fault of collecting the china, hitherto the only country where root from the spring to the first frost. it was known to grow. . as it is always soft and watery at this it grows in the united states, in the season, it naturally shrunk together in dry- whole of the immense tract from the ing, became very hard, and lost not only canadian lakes to georgia ; is found in weight but in goodness. this mis- even in the northern states of new york take is still committed in some parts of and pensylvania, and flourishes in vir- the united states, where the inhabitants ginia and the two carolinas. nature make the collecting of the root only an has spread it here, particularly in the occasional object; and when they are tract between the alleghany mountains hunting or travelling, dig up the plant at and the sea, and it thrives especially all seasons when they happen to meet where the mountains take a south wes- with it. but by this they deprive the terly direction. it loves a fertile soil ground of a valuable production, which and cool shady spots on the declivity of would be far more valuable if it were the mountains. tended and cultivated with due care. while europe produces nothing which though the ginseng roots thus collected it can offer to the chinese in exchange by ignorant persons do not fetch in for their productions, america possesses china the high prices which are given [july , on hearing the bells ring out the old year. hangs to rejoice at the smiles of the indigent- our joys and sorrows u ho had equal shar'd, to share their plenty with the stranger, had with us journey'd thro’ life's deepesi and to make an alliance with the poor gloom, against the inclemency of the season- our hopes had cherished and our perils dar'd. when they produce such blessed effects but here the semblance fails - in realms as these, they are indeed divine! but above although the inconsiderate mirth of the shall kindred spirits meet from sorrow free, voluptuary may be startled, and his bet- together knit in bonds of hallow'd love ter feelings of humanity awakened by with endless songs shall hymn the deity. shifting the scene fron the table of ex- e'en frail mortality, that fils yon urn, cess to the dark and cold abysses of a again the vital spark shall re-illume, prison, yet the heart most susceptible of but time's allotted portions ne'er return, pity and benevolence, wants no such pro- nc day shall break the silence of their tomb. digies of horror to provoke a tear, or to to for ever gone! with all its hopes and fears, excite to acts of charity and compassion: which scarce existed e're they ceased to be, and as a sense of gratitude is one of hea- • moments in hours absorb'd, hours, days, is years, ren's best gifts, and the expression of it and all and all entomb'd in dread eternity! one of our most acceptable services, we there are, on whom the year's first sub inust be careful, lest in dwelling on the arose, general and individual distress around us, in all the pride that health and beauty gave, we overlook the innumerable instances of who amid pain and anguish mark its close; mercy and beneficence of which we and or happier tate! have found an earlier grave! multitudes of our fellow mortals have there are, who o'er their infant's bier have been the objects within the same period wept, of time. it cannot be denied that the or a loved partner to the grave consign'd, comfort and happiness of mankind is at who many an anxious midnight watch have least in proportion to the want and mi- kept e'er was each cherish'd hope of life re- sery, and that in the same space of time, sign'd. as many have been rescued from distress, perchance, e'en now, some pensive mourner as depressed by sorrow; and there are, doubtless, many of our brethren at this in speechless anguish o'er the couch of death, moment, who, having shut out the dismal to soothe, with pious care, life's ling'ring prospect of a winter's night, are enjoying pangs their blaze of comfort and conviviality, or catch a dying parent's latest breath. surrounded by those most dear to them, the scene is closed--the pulse of life's no who, a few months ago, were themselves more! the objects of the charity and commise- and the pure soul from sin and sorrow free, in hope reposes; till the destin'd hour ration of others. many a selfish being, who, having butare there none, who, when the year began, when death is swallow'd up in victory. hitherto lived to himself alone, a stran- in pain and penury neglected lay? ger to the influence of compassion--deaf by hope deserted and forgot by man, to the cries of importunate misery-now, with job had dared to curse their natal day! weary of satiety and convinced of the un- who now relieved from want, and woe, and satisfactory and criminal nature of un- participated enjoyinents, is proving, that with grateful bosoms hail the dawning year, to cheer the sad heart, to minister to the and health-illum'd, those eyes beam bright necessitous, to lighten the chains of the again, oppressed, and to lead the wanderer that long were dimm'd with sorrows bitter tear? aright, are the only means by which the n none-- who 'mid dissipation's mad career superfluities of life can afiord to their ; er the paths of vice and error long have trod, possessors the title of comforts. while by faith inspir'd and awed by holy fear, thousands who have been the objects of implore the pardon of a pitying god? spiritual mercies, may now be offering up yes-mid the multitudes that sorrowing the tribute of a grateful heart. some view such sentiments as these, appear to have the year's decline, myriads their voices raise dictated the following lines on hearing to that great sonrce whence they their the bells i ing out the old year. blessings drew, hark! to the sounds that from yon gothic and pour their grateful hearts in hymns of praise. tower bid their last farewell to the closing year, oh! may these thoughts awake my slumb- ring powers, those solemn peals that mark its dying hour per remind my soul how much is to be done, * awake the pensive tribute of a tear.” teach me to value the fast fleeting houss, 'tis as a friend were passing to the tomb, [july , notices of danish literature. noble piece, which has been so masterly acquired the genius of the danish idiom, translated by voss, and which, set to and contributed to its cultivation by music by schulz, was performed in the their writings as poets. athough nearly royal chapel of the palace of christians- all the poets of denmark have employed burg, on the birth-day of the king, . their pen in the composition of songs, in the cantata, thaarup deserves to be and light convivial pieces, many of them poticed as the successful rival of ewald; with great success, and hare much cul- while his three lyrical dramas descriptive tivated this species of writing, yet none of rural manners, viz. höstgildet (har- can vie with tode, neither with respect vest-liome), peter's bryllup (peter's to the number nor excellence of their wedding), and humkomsteu (the re- productions. in he published a turn home), contributed still more to complete edition of his songs, with the secure him a place among the favourites title viser og selskabs sange (ballads of the public. a collection of his poems and convivial songs), forming the second has been long promised, and anxiously volume of his poetical writings. the expected. former part consists principally of fables amongst those authors who had com- and tales, many of which are on classical menced at an anterior period, many still subjects, and are adapted as well for continued their poetical career. in nor- youth of both sexes, as for more mature way, claus frimann (whose brother, readers. the author knew how to wield p. h. f., had now hung up his lyre, the poetic scourge with a master-hand. never, alas! to resume it,) published in brunn, who had distinguished himself his first collection of poems, which, by a different species of humour, yet besides an alteration of some earlier bandled the lash of satire very effectively pieces, contained several quite new, be- in two pieces, entitled skrifteinaalet (the longing to serious narrative, and to the confession) and omvendelsen (the con- epistle in verse. storm, who was like version ;) he also displayed considerable wise a native of norway, produced his humour in his comic tales; yet con- samlede digte (collected poems) in tinued too often to offend decency when ; and supported his reputation as a he could no longer excuse himself on the satiric,* as a didactic, and as a descriptive plea of youthful indiscretion. he pub- poet; while the heroid, the hymn, and lished several collections under various sacred poctry, are also indebted to him titles, viz: rimerier (rhymes) ; for many contributions. on his death, blandinger (medley) .); and smaat- , in his th year, rahbek promised ing (trifles) ; but during this pe- to edite a new collection of his works, riod composed nothing for the stage. in but it has not yet appeared. danish li. this respect the pen of the ingenious terature would have readily resigned, in falsen was more prolific ; among his exchange for them, the edition of the coinedies, which are chiefly imitations, works of the late poet riber; since, in- the piece of hvad vil folk sige? (what dependently of his masterly translation will folks say ?) borrowed from florian's of voss's louisa, bis merit is confined to tale of selmour, had great success. but a correct versification. his comic opera of dragedukken (the the lovers of comic poetry were pre. supposititious child) surpassed not only sented with a far more valuable gift by all his own comedies, but every other monrad, baggesen, and pram, in their danish opera. excepting the above, collection of wessel's works, (who died he wrote only a few trifles, such as war- at the age of ,) published in songs, &c. he died in , holding an vols. ; from which soldin, the book. official situation in the government. seller, afterwards printed some extracts. fasting, almost the only danish au- a longer life, although not always un- thor in this class, published a continua- der the most favourable circumstances, tion of his excellent epigrams in the was granted to the witty and ainiable provinzialsamlinger, , vol. i. wbich joh. clem. tode, who was born at zolls- volume, however, was also the last, as picker, in , and died in , a pro- he died in the same year. fessor of medicine and physician to the we now proceed to notice those au- court. he was one of those men, who, thors who made their debut on the not only born but educated in another danish parnassus at the period of which country, have nevertheless completely we are treating, and shall commence with p. a. heiberg, a writer now re- • a character in which he also appeared siding at paris ; whose comedies heck- with equal success in many contributions to inborn and vous og vans, although by the minerva, both in prose and verse. " no means chefs-d'auvre, yet rank monch .) notices of danish literature. higher than his other dramas published ferent climate: the beauties of this - , in vols. under the title of piece werc greatly enhanced by the ex- sknespil. these form his only preten- quisite music of the composer, kunzen. sions to the title of poet; his other pro- sander has also the merit of bringing ductions possess too much personality germany acquainted with the belles leta and too little poetry." heiberg, who tres of his country by his translations had parodied an opera of baggesen's of various productions of ewold, pram, in , in the following year himself rahbek, &c. &c. experienced a similar treatment from less successful in his attempts to add professor olufsen, who in the play of to the lyric department of the drama, jochum oz maxen paid a like compli. haste yet discovered indisputable ta- ment to his selim og mirza. olutsen lents, especially for elegiac and pastoral also contributed to the theatre by the co- composition; and he was, moreover, for medy of guldaasen(the gold box) which several years, the favourite of many cire betrayed an intimate acquaintance with cles in the metropolis, un account of his the very refuse of society-in other re- charming vers de societé. at the very spects abounded with comic situations, commencement of his literary career he and excited expectations which ten years published a collection of his poems, afterwards were frustrated by another which obtained for him a reward from piece of a more sentimental cast, entitled the institution for the promotion of the rosenkiæderne (chains of roses). in belles lettres; but since he quitted co- addition to these he has also occasionally penhagen for an office in the collection produced some elegant trifles. of the revenue at fühnen, he wrote previous to the close of the th cen- but seldom, and his former productions tury the danish theatre was still farther are now remembered but by few. i enriched by the labours of two writers, doctor rasmus frahkman,* à con- whose pieces, notwithstanding subse- temporary writer, participated also with quent neglect, still remain uneclipsed. haste in the neglect experienced from samsoe had already attained his th the public, after having long been a fa- year, when in he deposited upon vourite author with the higher circles of the altar of melpomene an offering which, society at copenhagen: his forte con- hy the peculiar delicacy of feeling it dis- sisted in elegy and convivial song : his bs played, addressed itself more particu- productions had frequently appeared in bar larly to the female sex, and which re- miscellaneous collections, as well as in bet tained the favour it had acquired with many periodical publications, but were the public, in spite of the severity of not printed separately till , when baden, baggesen, and other critics. the they appeared in one volume. a more author died a few days before its first permanent reputation was acquired by representation. it was soon afterwards jens gerlitz, a native of norway (who edited by rahbek along with three early in life returned to his coun- tales, whose subjects, like that of the try in the profession of a clergyman). tragedy taken from danish history, were he took his seat among the poets of treated in a manner equally worthy the denmark in , with an entire volume reputation of the poet. this tragedy of poetical pieces; but although he has forms the first volume of samsoe's post. since occasionally embellished many humous works--the tales are contained journals by his contributions, he has ne- in the other. ver added to his former admirable publi- sander's tragedy, niels ebbensen of cation. he excels in various species-in norrerics eller dannemark's befrielse, satire; in epistle; in convivial pieces; (n.e. of n. or the liberation of den- in the heroic ode, and in travestie. as mark) was of a more masculine charac- the poetry of getlitz was characterized ter; it was first inserted in the scandic by a careless and lively view of things, navian museum, afterwards ( ) was that of his compatriot, jonas reins, separately printed. independently of who rivalled him in the descriptive class, its conspicuous poetical merit, niels eb- was generally stamped by gloomy and bensen possesses no little value from its serious reflection. he displayed his patriotic sentiments. in bis eropolis, powers more especially in elegy and a lyric drama, which appeared in , heroide, but has also successfully culti- sander has placed the scene in a very dif- vated other species-hymn, epistle, bal- * among these are the adventures of a rixdollar-note (rigsdaler sedlens hændel- * he died at slagelse in zealand, , ser), vols. . in the th year of his age. new monthly mag.–no. . vow. xi. r i the nuk no les laat ic br [july , notices of danish literature. “ elegant extracts," being a selection ciety was composed of only the following of pieces both in prose and verse, ar- members, viz: jacobi, malling, professor ranged under different heads, and con- rahbek, thaarup, captain abraamson, taing brief notices of the writers from and professors sander and baden, the lat- whose works the compilation was made. ter of whom was secretary and treasurer. while publications of this nature tended to bring their readers more intimately here terminates the catalogue of those acquainted with their native poetry; danish poets who have flourished during while they, in some instances, gare ex- the last years; the partiality of pa- istence to really beautiful productions, triotism, for which due allowance must and, in others, preserved them froin ob- be made, may perhaps have somewhat livion, the habits of the nation, and the over-rated their merits ; yet, upon ex- events of the times caused the cultiva. amination, some might doubtless be found tion and the extension of certain depart worth translating. many years have ments of poetry. it was thus, more not elapsed since german literature especially towards the close of the th might be said to be quite unknown in century, that the custom of introducing this country; and few conceived that it singing at private parties and convivial contained sufficient to repay the labour meetings has occasioned such a multitude of acquiring it. even now, judging from of songs of a gay, yet innocent character, the translations which have been made that in this respect denmark can rival from it, we could not estimate it very any other country whatever. those highly: in too many instances the most who have most distinguished themselves contemptible of its productions have in this species of writing are rahbek, been re-manufactured for the english tode, baggesen, zetlitz, thaarup, market, while, in several others, with per. abraamson, heiburg, m. c. brunn, haps the single exception of oberon, haste, and frankenan. there has been substituted, for the un- the cultivation of another branch of translatible graces and idiomatic beauties jyric poetry- the hymn, was greatly pro- of the originals, little more than an out- moted by an institution, which had for line filled up with crude colouring. the its object the publication of a new literature of every nation possesses num- psalm book, towards which the best poets berless works of science, which nerer were invited to contribute, with which are translated ; on their account a know- request most of them complied. in ledge of modern languages will always order to effect their intention more com- be serviceable to the scientific student, pletely, previously to the appearance of while, to those who desire to become the work itself, the conductors of it pub- acquainted with the poetry and belles lished a specimen, and having listened to lettres of foreign nations, they are in- the opinions of those best qualified to dispensable. a coloured engraving may judge of such an undertaking, they edited be rendered a fac-simile, if not of a the evangelisk-christelig psalmebog, a painting, at least of a tinted drawing; work which has produced such benelicial but translation never can become fac- effects in the moral education of the simile; it may present us with an ac- people. the hostilities on the part of curate outline, with exquisite chiaro england excited many men of talents to oscuro, with a beautiful execution, and the composition of patriotic and martial with graces of its own, yet the identical songs: many, who had hitherto touched colouring of the original it never can the lyre with more or less ability, now convey: or, in other words, we may be seized the war-trumpet ; those who most highly gratified even by a translation, distinguished themselves on this occasion nay, in some instances, be more delighted were abraamson, falsen, nycrup, olsen, than by the original; but that we should pram, sander, thaarup, &c. be affected precisely in the same manner the society instituted for the promo- is utterly impossible. while, therefore, tion of literature and the fine arts, i would recommend versions of some of under the patronage of the king, had the choicest specimens of danish litera- indeed ceased to publish such writings ture, it is rather from a desire to excite as had obtained prizes. but after an an acquaintance with the originals, than interval of torpidity, it appeared to rouse from a wish that the former should su- itself, and again proposed prizes both for persede the latter. original compositions and translations in the recent poetry of that country the class of belles lettres. at the end may at least be regarded as a mine yet of christian the seventh's reign, this so- unexplored by the literati of great bri- tain. incognito. * it is entitled dansk læsebog og mem- 'samling yarmouth, may , . (july , english manners in the seventeenth century. with whatever differs from his ordinary other country, but cannot, without de- customs, we must not be astonished if tection, in england. “an englishman the english and french, when they come said, one day, to a friend of mine, that in contact, should be severe critics upon he could not put up with our long bow each other, which only affords amuse- men ; an i, replied the other, have an ment to inen of liberal minds, who look equal dislike for your dandies !" luckily, at things as they really are, and who however, these fops, adds he, are easily are convinced, that whatever depends distinguishable, and of course avoidable, solely upon fashion must be in its own in england, where the people of all nature a matter of indifference. “we ranks, in general, dress themselves in a must do at rome as rome does," re- simple and uniform manner. of the membering that peculiar national cus- ladies, toms are like hoop petticoats, and opera indeed, this gallant frenchman speaks lats, which are very becoming on some in a handsomer and inore decisive man. occasions, though they would be ridicu- ner, observing that much honour is due lous on many others. to theiu in england, and they are per- he then sums up by observing, that mitted to enjoy a great and praise-wor. although the english nation, like all thy liberty ; though still they receive others, must doubtless have some parti- not advantages nor honour equal to cular defects, yet all things considered, what they deserve for their beauty, good and taking a general view, he was fully figure and address, neatness, and the ad- persuaded by his own experience, an mirable assemblage of all their charms. experience of several years, that the he states however, and evidentir on more englishmen are known by foreign good authority, that before the refor- nations the more will they be esteemed. mation the english of both sexes dressed “ what fine fellows have i known in in a style both extravagant and indecent; england ! what moderation ! what ge- eren in the time of elizabeth, the ladies nerosity! what rectitude of heart! what still retaining doublets, cork appendages, piety! what charity! yes, there are in &c. indeed in those days they used to england numerous individuals of a cha- wear dresses, spanish, turkish, or racter and disposition which may really moresque ; but when he wrote all the he called accomplished and perfect world was french, still does he add, with men who are wisdom and goodness per- a degree of good sense, which we trust sonified, if we may so speak of any but our fair readers will not pass over un- the almighty god of all! peace and heeded : " the english ladies do not prosperity then for ever to england !" adopt our french costume, but under after such an eulogium, who would sup- certain restrictions; they say that we pose that there were inrent, but that they refine upon our in- dandies ventions." that observation indeed he at that day in england ? yet our writer does not apply to the patches with which confesses it, for he observes, that al- the hunan face divine was then disti- though we must acknowledge that there gured; a custom which he merely marks are more gascons in gascony than in as not unknown to the ladies of france, any other part of the world, yet still are though worn only by the young and there some to be found in other places. pretty ; whereas in england, young, old, the same may be said of those ridiculous handsome and ugls, are patched to an pelit inaitres,who then were not very rare extreme. “i have often counted fifteen in france, and abounded in paris. eng- patches, nay more, upon the black and land also, says he, has an extensive col- wrinkled face of an old harridan of lection of these animals, and london in seventy. thus the english certainly particular is well supplied with them. refine upon our fashions !** the english call these curious nonde. in addition to this he mentions a hor scripts tope and beaur. the theatres, rid custom, which certainly could never the chocolate-houses, and the parks, have existed any where but in the age swarm with them. they are the cut- of barbarism, that those who bad warts ters out of all new fashions; with pe- or blotches upon their faces, cultivated rukes and coats loaded with powder, as the long hairs which grew upon them, millers are with flour; lips bedaubed with extraordinary solicitude, informing with snuff; airs of negligence and dis- him, when he asked the reason, that they habille; in short, a set of fellows who af- considered them as syiptoms of good fcet superior rank, and who want no luck! thing but the title of marquis, which with all his deference for the fair sex, they would doubtless assume in any he acknowledges that scolds are some- .) bode's opinions on meteorology. times to be met withi, whom he states to ing their exertion to the grand outlines, be subject to punishment “ in a way only endeavoured, above all things, to pleasant enough.” this very agreeable determine the mean motions of the planc- mode of domestic discipline for the pre- tary bodies, and it was not till they had, servation of conjugal harmony, is de in a certain degree, accomplished this, scribed as consisting of an arm-chair that they sought to determine the anorna- fixed at the end of two parallel spars lies, or greater and smaller deviations; about twelve or fifteen feet in length, thousands of years passed away before that the two spars support the chair they changed the circle, in which all which is between, and hung upon an bodies were presumed to move into an axle-tree, wbich allows the chair always ellipse, and this again some centuries to retain its horizontal position at any later into an ellipse variously disturbed degree of elevation or depression. the by attraction. but has meteorology next process in this interesting opera. been yet able to determine even the mean tion is to fix two posts by the side of a motions, the mean course of the weather horse-pond, where the apparatus is hung in general, and in the gross, to say no. in exact equipoise. the speaker is ihen thing at present of the partial interrup- culled to the chair, not indeed to be an tions in different places, and from very noved by the long arguments which different reasons? vor shall we ever be sometimes puzzle other speakers, but to able to attain ever; this commenceinend of enjoy a little of the ups and downs of a scientific process, the view of a mean life, until the fair one's superabundant probable course, unless (for which we, caloric is exhausted. however, see at present no measures thank heaven such pleasant opera. taken,) observations are inade daily tions are now become upecessary-just and hourly, for tifty years together, with as the extirpation of roguery has caused unahating zeal, and with similar instru- the abrogation of the pillory! ments, on all parts of the inhabited doubtless we may say as much of ano- globe, at the same time, between the ther species of exhibition, which he de- north and the south poles, and in all the scribes by saying that he has sometimes five zones of both henuispheres, and these met in the streets of london a female combined observations, compared and carrying a male effigy crowned with a examined with the most rigorous earc, in superb pair of horns, preceded by a order to obtain some general and posi- drum, and followed by a dozen black tive results as a foundation for further guards, making a most hideous harmonic rescarches. but to come to the point in pell mell with tongs, pokers, gridirons, question: mr. bode, in his astronomie kettles, pots, and pans; and when he cal calendar for the year , has given has enquired the cause of these unhar- us some remarks on the great solar inonic chromatics, he was informed that eclipse of nov. , , which, as far as it was some fair one of the neighbour- they relate to meteorology, appear to be hood who had well beaten her husband worthy of attention, and generally in- for suspecting that he had been qualified teresting even to those who are not for an unconditional entry into heaven, astronomers. great solar eclipses inci- whilst the fair one's character was thus dentally furnish an opportunity to have re-established ! a general view of the weather at the same time in many, often distant places, bode's opinions on meteorology. by a comparison of the accounts of such jir, editor, a phenomenon, by astronomical obser- the opinion of a distinguished astro- vers and spectators, which come to the nomer (which i take the liberty of send- knowledge of the public. with this ing rou) respecting meteorology, de- view mr. bode has arranged, under one serves the more attention from those meteorological point of view, the various who employ themselves in the investiga accounts which he has either received in tion of the weather, as meteorology, hi. writing, or found in public journals, re- therto a science only in name, since it is specting that eclipse. destitute of every thing that constitutes on the th of november, , there the essence of a science, cannot be raised was at the time of the eclipse either, ist, from its state of childhood and tutelage, an entirely gloomy sky, so that it could except by endeavouring to follow the not be seen at all; or, nd, mixed rea- same difficult and tedious, but only secure ther, where the eclipse could be partially path, by which astronomy has risen to seen; or, d, fine weather, so that it an elevation that justly commands our could be clearly observed in its whole adgiration. astronomers at first direct duration. among the places of the first • bode's opinions on meteorology. (july , class were, leipsig, st. petersburg, nu- at once in different places) also every remberg, wilna, mannheim, danzig, possible degree of heat and cold, a thou- hanover, dorpat, mietau, hamburg, sand fold, but irregularly mixed toge- cracow, cassel, riga, dunaburg, mar- ther. now the surface of the whole burg, gottingen, gotha, augsburg, globe (including both land and water) schwedt, soldin, stettin (on the harz,) amounts to above , , square &c. among the places of the second miles (mr. bode of course means ger- class were, kloster hradisch (in bohe- man miles;) avd as experience erery mia,) königsberg, copenhagen, krems- where shews, in each single country, munster, culm, warsaw, bütow (in po- even in a tract of a few square miles, a merania,) &c.; and of the third cluss different and often quite opposite wea. were, berlin, vienna, paris, ofen, dres- ther and temperature of the air prevails. den, milan, prague, tangerinude, but if this be the case, who would ven- glatz, thorn, stolpe (in pomerania,) ture with this infinite diversity, in the zetmin (in mecklenburg,) the isle of course of the weather in single parts, to rugen, &c. (to these places of the guess, or determine beforehand, the par- third class mentioned in the almanack, tial changes in such or such a place or may be added marseilles, toulouse, country, since these particular changes viviers, mirepoix, genoa, madrid, bil- are mostly effected by chemical pru- boa, cadiz, abo, stockholm, &c.) cesses (not sufficiently known to us) in now if in the collective sum of the our atmosphere and on the surface of weather, such as it takes place at every the earth, chiefly in our own neighbour- time upon the whole surface of the hood (that is to say chiefly by local globe, there were any thing like regu- causes)." every careful enquirer into larity and connection, we might reason- . nature, and particularly the attentive ably conjecture, that over a certain ex- and unprejudiced observer of the wea- tent of country fine weather, and over ther, will certainly not hesitate to sub- another cloudy or bad weather should scribe to this opinion, as they must have on the whole prevail. but here upon a been long since convinced by experience considerable tract, between cadiz and how fruitless all attempts have hither. st. petersburg, we have fine and cloudy to been to reduce to certain rules, weather distributed and mixed together the general nature of the weather, the without any appearance of regularity - character of it, prevailing sometimes for fine at dresden, cloudy at leipsig ; fine a longer, sometimes for a shorter time, at thorn, cloudy at danzig, &c. let in more or less extensive of country, any one mark upon a map, by three dif- and its unstable, mutable, indefi- ferent columns, for instance, all the nite character, and its often sudden abovementioned places, where the eclipse, changes, or even to lay down with any on account of the weather, was observed degree of certainty something periodi- either not at all, or imperfectly, or in its cal, returning after the lapse of a giren whole duration ; certainly it must make time. that many meteorologists, and a most motley appearance, because those of these chiefly those who are not astro- places present in this view a mass of con- nomers, seck for a main cause of the fusion. “i would like," savs bode, to weather in the stars, is, in truth, merely jav such a map before the meteorologists, a make-shift of human weakness and in order to convince them how various ignorance, which, from the most ancient and irregular the weather was at one times, when it could not find close at and the same time on this part of the hand any means of explaining a natural surface of the globe, that they may not phenomenon, thought it was to be found expect too niuch order in it. if the in the heavens. what influence thie eclipse occurred at a season of the year planets, and especially the sun and moon, in which not much fine weather was to may have on our weather, it is not our be expected among us, yet the weather present business to enquire. an essay was favourable in many places, but those on this subject, by bode, very well worth places sometimes close together, some reading, is to be found in the second times very remote from each other, so volume of the magazine, of the berlin that in many intermediate places the society of enquirers into nature. ber. sky was obscured with clouds. i think i lin, . may renture to affirm, that there are i have just learned that mr. bode bas upon the earth, at the same time, all very lately published something further possible kinds of weather, and (as all the on the subject. should the present different seasons are likewise to be found communication be deemed by you likely (july , memoir of ewald christian von kleist. ters shew how disgusted he was with it. tyre soon died away. he received the he was fond of amusement, and pos- unexpected news, that miss von golz, sessed the happy art of converting tri- had been obliged by her relations, to fling pleasures into greater, by his mode consent to a very advantageous marriage. of enjoying them. like most persons this deeply affected him; at the same of his disposition, he was careless in pe- time his friend gleim was separated from cuniary concerns, which involved him in him, so that he felt himself quite forlorn difficulties before he was aware. youth, in the dull town of potsdam. he in- however, made all care sit easy; he dulged himself in his grief, till it reliered hoped to be rapidly promoted, and was itself by tender complaints; his heart was unconcerned if his few creditors were revived and refined by the soothing tones; but patient. his acquaintance was but the cheerful, careless temper of his chiefly confined to his comrades, to youth was fled, and never entirely re- whom however his superior education was turned. here it is, that the life of the in general, is unwelcome, as their want poet properly begins ; with his two ele- of it was disagreeable to him. it was no gies « to wilhelmina," (miss von gole) wonder that a thousand disagreements and “ longing for repose." in , and disputes arose between them. thus, and , he made the campaign of bo- in , kleist fought a duel with ano- hemia, where his bravery and prudence, ther officer, in which he was severely on all occasions, gained him the appro- wounded in the arm. this proved to bation and confidence of his superiors. be a fortunate circumstance, both for after the peace of dresden, he returned kleist and for the public, by being the with his regiment, in , to potsdam. occasion of his first acquaintance with the fatigue of the campaign, and still the celebrated gleim, with whom he con- more, an illness which seized him at tracted a most intimate friendship, which hirschberg, and in which he nearly lost was among the greatest blessings of his his life, by the unskilfulness of a surgeon, life, and to which we are, probably, in- had much weakened his constitution. debted for the poems which have gained and at the same time, increased his me- bim such distinguished reputation. in lancholy. his only consolation was the house of colonel von schulze, where found in bis correspondence with gleim, gleim was intimate, the young wounded and in poetry. he had already suffered officer was spoken of with such particu- some smaller poems to appear, without lar regard, that gleim was induced to his name, in various periodical journals. call on him, and found him very weak in he now began his great poem, “ the bed, with " cæsar de bello gallico," ly. spring," fragments of which he sent, ing open on a table near it. the patient from time to time, to gleim, fur his opi- complained that he was forbidden to nion. the work, however, proceeded read, and accepted with jov gleim's offer slowly, chiefly on account of his ill health. to read to him. once he happened to in , kleist was made captain on the read to him a comic poem of his own, staff, and became acquainted, in berlin, which made the patient laugh so heartily with ramler, and then printed, for the that his wound broke out afresh, and a first time, at his own expence, “ the violent hæmorrhage ensued. the surgeon spring ;" but only a few copies for bis who was sent for declared that the loss friends, and without his name. as soon of blood would greatly tend to promote as it was known, the fame of the author his recovery, and, in fact, the wound spread rapidly, and repeated editions healed rapidly after this accident. “to hardly sufficed to gratify the impatience poetry, and you," said he, with a smile of the public. seldom, if ever, did a of gratitude, to gleim, “i owe iny re- german poem, and that too by an author covery." henceforward, the most ten before unknown, obtain such rapid and der friendship unfolded itself in the brilliant success. in , kleist ob- hearts of both, and became the source of tained a company. in , he went to the charming effusions by which kleist switzerland, to recruit, and on this occa- afterwards acquired so great a reputa- sion, became acquainted, at zurich, with tion. gleim's example gradually awak, bodmer, breitinger, wieland, and ened in him a new inclination for poetry, others; and took particular pleasure which he had loved even in his youth. in the company of hirzel, with whom inclination gives courage. after some he had contracted an intimate friendship fruitless attempts, he sent to gleim his in , at berlin. in , the king first essay, which he called anacrcontic, gave him a majority in the regiment of on the th december, . general von hausen, which was put in . but the cheerful tones of his young garrison, at leipsig. here he becamo . memoir of ewald christian von kleist. . acquainted with lessing and weisse ; so that he instantly fell from his horse. and during the tranquillity which he en- anxious for the victory-animated by joyed there, he composed several new the confusion of the battle, and the un- poems. after the battle of rossbach, paralleled bravery of his men, he twice the king, in a letter of his own hand. attempted, with the assistance of those writing, gave him the superintendence around him, to remount his horse, but in of the great military hospital, which was vain, he fell exhausted to the ground, established at leipsig. his humane cha- exclaimed, “ my laris, do not forsake racter was unanimously applauded by the your king!" and fainted. he was car- sick and wounded of both parties, and ried to the rear. a surgeon was pro- liis disinterested conduct, by all the inha- cured, and kleist recovered from his bitants of the city. in , he served fainting fit, when the surgeon began to with the army of prince henry, where wash the wounds with brandy; but while he could not fail of opportunities to dis- he was employed in binding a handker- tinguish himself, which he did on many chief round the patient's leg, he was shot occasions. yet amidst all the fatigues through the head with a musket ball, and and dangers of war, he never abandoned fell liteless by the side of the wounded the muses, sometimes correcting the hero. soon after, some cossacks came, poems he had already written, sometimes and stripped him of his clothes, even his composing new ones. hat and shirt. had he not spoken polish in the beginning of the following cam- to them, they would have killed him ; but paign, , he went, with prince henry's taking him for a pole, they spared bis army to franconia, and remained with life, and threw himn into a ditch. quite it till he was detached with the corps of exhausted by the fatigue and loss of general fink, to join the king's army, blood, he sunk, towards evening, into a against the russians. on the th of profound sleep. during the night, some august was the bloody battle of cü- russian hussars found him, and filled nersdorff, where he was to die gloriously, with compassion for his sufferings, drew as he had often wished, for his king and him upon a dry place, made himn a bed of country. the day before, and in the straw, near to a watch fire, covered him morning of the battle, as the army was with a cloak and hat, and gave him advancing against the enemy, he was ob- some bread and water. towards morn- served to be uncommonly cheerful. un- ing, when they left him, one of them der the command of general fink, he offered him a piece of money, worth attacked the right flank of the russian about an english shilling; but kleist re- army. kleist with his battalion, had fusing it, the generous hussar threw it already assisted in taking three batteries, into the cloak with which he had covered when, besides twelve severe contusions, him, and rode off with his companions. he was much wounded in the two first cloak, hat, and money, were soon the fingers of his right hand, so that he was prey of other cossacks, who, however, obliged to wield his sword with the left. left kleist on bis bed of straw. thus not seeing any longer the commander of he lay, uncovered, and in great pain, till the battalion, he gallopped forwards as ten in the morning, when a russian his men were putting to flight an austri- officer of the name of stackelberg, riding an battalion, with the bayonet, and think- by, he called to him, and let him know ing only of victory, led them, amidst a his rank. this officer had him conveyed dreadful cannonade, against the fourth in a waggon to francfort on the oder, battery. he collected the standards of where his wounds were, for the first his regiment around him, that his men time, properly dressed. the next day, might follow him courageously-took an at the urgent desire of professor nico- ensign by the arm, who had already three jai, he was removed to that gentleman's pair of colours to carry, and so advanced house, where every possible attention towards the battery. a musket ball was paid to him, and the physicians passed through his left arm, which was had some hopes of his recovery. he immediately disabled ; he therefore again read frequently, and conversed with took his sword in his right hand, holding much cheerfulness with the francfort it with two fingers and the thumb. professors, and the russian officers who every fresh wound secmed to redouble visited him. on the ilth day the sbat- his ardour, and he fancied himself already tered hones separated, and tore an ar- triumphant, in possession of the fourth tery, which bled profusely before the battery. he was only about thirty surgeon could staunch it. he now grew paces from the object of his efforts, evidently weaker, and the severe pain when a grape shot shattered his right leg, even caused convulsion. but he still . of blight, and the transmigrution of insects. known amongst us; for we are a nation avail themselves of the means thus held by no means slow in discovering what re- out, for the purpose of encouraging them mains undone, towards improving the to rise by industry and frugality, until condition and happiness of our labour they become useful and important to the ing classes, or in applying the experience state.-it is likewise hoped, that those of other countries to the amelioration of who have small sums of money unem- our own: and yet none of our philan- ployed, which they may bave occasion for thropists seem to have been aware of the after a short period, or have no early existence of a bank for savings, in the opportunity of applying to advantage, heart of the most considerable commer- will perceive the benefit they may derive cial city on the continent, for nearly forty from it. years. it is humburgh, which appears « money will be received into this fund to me to deserve the credit of having laid throughout every month, and the interest the first stone of one of the most useful, will be computed from the first day of if not the most splendid, of the noble the succeeding month. edifices which, in our days, adorn the ex- “$ . every one who deposits any tensive field of christian benevolence. money in the saviny fund, must pre- i am indebted to the amiable and elo serve a receipt, made out and signed by quent, to the earliest, and perhaps the the directors appointed for the tiine by most enlightened public advocate of these the provident institution; which re. banks, the reverend henry duncan, of ceipt is a full security for the sum depo- ruthwell, for the subsequent details, sited, bearing an increase of one shilling which were communicated to him, some banco, per annum, for each rix-dollar years after the publication of his own banco ; payable upon drawing out the masterly essay. they will serve to shew money and delivering back the security that philanthropists, like poets, may think receipt. the amount of the sum to be de- and act, in different ages and climes, as posited is optional; yet nothing less than twin brothers in sentiment and deed, fifteen marks banco can be received, and without being plagiarists! those also, every larger sum so lodged must be divi- who are acquainted with the administra- sible by five. tions of these institutions, will be grati- " $ ill. no further gain will be de. fied by observing the coincidence it pre- rived from this fund by the provident sents with a branch of that of the ham. institution, than one half per cent. for burgh “provident institution.". charges of management, to be levied on - this establishment was founded in deposits as fixed by rule th." the year , and was principally on the regret that my information does not plan of annuities. the tables, however, extend further ; but i should hope, that having been constructed on false prin- some one of your numerous readers will ciples, were found not to answer, and the be able to acquaint us how far this useful scheme was consequently dropped for a institution succeeded, and particularly time. it was revived afterwards on an that branch of it, to which the foregoing improved footing, and continued to suc- belongs. it would, also, be interesting ceed, until the chainpion of liberal ideas to know, whether any steps have been laid his benevolent hand on its funds! taken to revive it, since the expulsion of “ one of the subordinate branches of davoust and his party of anli legiti- the establishment was a bank for savings, mates. i remain, sir, of which the following were the rules :- your faithful servant, « tit. xii. of the saving fund; or may , . th class of this provident institution. "g . the “savings' fund," in this op blight, and the transmigra- provident institution, which is wholly tion op insects. distinct from the other branches of the rerum natura nusquam magis quam in mi- establishment, and consequently does not nimis, tota sit. plin. nat. hist. xi. . , confer on the depositors a right to vote the prolific vegetation of the open- in a general meeting, is intended to be of ing spring, leads us, almost instinctively, general use, and, especially, to be of ad- to adinit the truth of the above observa- vantage to frugal and industrious persons tion of pliny. in every step of our re. of every description, such as sertants, searches into the works of an all-boun- day labourers, mechanics, sailors, s.r., by tevus providence, we find it amply verio affording them an opportunity to accus fied: but when we discover an almost mulate little by little, a small fund, and innumerable tribe of insects, varying in to place out their savings securely at their different powers and objects, we interest: it is, therefore, hoped, they will are also led to conclude, that this exten- '- s. (july , of blight, and the transmigration of insects. sive provision has not been made for the those blights attended with large worms, use of man alone,- creatures of every or caterpillars, seem hatched by the eas- other race, must also subsist and partake terly winds; and these others, which only of part, at least, of the great feast which produce the small insects, that occasion nature bounteously spreads before all the curling of the leaves of trees, may hence, i have been led to enquire into proceed from swarms of them, either the birth of insects, and while my garden ready hatched, or in the egg, brought furnished me with a copious index, my with the wind. every insect has its proper attention was fixed upon those which are plant, or tribe of plant, which it natu- found on the under side of the leaves of rally requires for its nourishment, and cabbages and currant trees. these are will feed on no other; and in which, or cominonly called bligit, and it is sun near to which, it therefore lays its eggs : posed, that they are brought by, or in this accounts for some being infected the easterly winds, which usually visit while others cscape; this also, accounts our western shores at this period of the for a reason, why all kinds of plants year. now, froin the evidence which i should not be blighted at the same time. have gathered, and from some analogous they travel to us from the north east reasoning, i ain iuclined to question this part of great tartary, &c. where the principle, and to consider it as a vulgar cold is intense enough to give them life, error; and i shall be well satisfied to and froin whence there is not sea enough find, that the following observations may by the warmth and saltness of whose attract the notice of some one of your vapours, they might be suffocated: those inore informed readers, who may be in- brought from the north east parts of duced to offer his explanation of my america, are probably destroyed by pas- doubts. sing the vast atlantic ocean, which may ray, and malpighi, and derham, agree be the reason why the south-east wind in their designation of those insects to be is not so infectious." of the phulona or ichneumon fly kind. dr. hales, ascribes blights to the ob- under whatever leaf they are found, the struction of perspiration in blossoms and upper surface is incrusted with tumours, leaves, occasioned by a continued dry or, as rav calls them, strumous swellings, easterly wind, without showers or dew : of a reddish-brown colour. when the in consequence of which, the perspirable embryo, or egg, is deposited (der. ii. matter becomes glutinous, and adheres note) on a leaf, the leaf is observed to to the surfaces of leaves, hereby affording bend, as if purposely to inwrap it, and a nutriment for insects, which prey on defend it from cold and other injuries; the leaves and tender branches of the and malpighi accounts for these, by the fruit trees, where the blight happens, eggs being laid in as far as the pith, while though they are not the first cause of it; the plant is young and tender, which and he recommends, as a remedy, the causes their shoots to tumify, and become washing and sprinkling them with fair knotty and gouty. it is by this outward water, and if their shoots seem to be sign that we discover the blight. much infected, washing them with a this disorder in plants seldom hap- woollen cloth, so that thoir perspiration pens but upon the blowing of sharp cas- may not be obstructed. another blight terly winds, which are most frequent in arises on sharp frosty mornings, &c. the month of march ; mr. bradley says, i have gathered my information thus that “this does not explain why one far from the cyclopædia ; but it does not plant should be blighted more than ano- afford a conclusive answer to my ques- ther-standing all in the same row, and tion. i have for this purpose, therefore, being of different kinds ;" he observes, carefully watched my currant trees from that caterpillars, and other insects gene- the time that they have not a bud, till the rally attend those winds, and that they time of the fruit being set, and ready for infest some one kind of tree more than gathering. i have observed their gra- another, and even some particular branch dual progress till their youngest leaves more than others : and thence, he infers, expand, free of the least perceptible in- either that their eggs, or the insects sect or egg; and also, after a blighting theniselves, are brought to us by the easterly wind, which one should suppose easterly winds; or, that the tomperature would sweep the stem and upper part of the air, when the eastern winds blow, of the leaves and branches; and i bare is necessary to hatch those creatures sup- discovered, agreeably to the above natu- posing the eggs to have becn already laid ralists, the upper surface to be incrusted, on the infected parts. now, each of these and crumpled up, and of a reddish co- causes seems to have its separate effect: lour, and the under part of the leaf, which on the condition of the highland peasantry. (july , copyma or: maternal tenderness of the de- at present at least, to consider the decay parted parent! the same divine sagacity of our pation as it appears in the cir. which assigns to each its proper place cumstances and misfortunes of a small throughout all the neembers of creation, indeed, but a very important portion of also provides a concealed retirement for our countrymen - the natives of the it during the winter season, and obviates highlands of scotland, that brave and tjie dauyer of a weary transmigration, interesting people, who have so lately for which the parent's strength is too deserved and obtained the praise of the feeble to subsist, and whose allotted pe whole kingdom. riod of life is too short to effect this its no people, of whom any record has ultimate purpose. a. h. been handed down to us, have undergone, so great and so sudden a change as the on the condition of the highland highlanders. surrounded by their * peasantry before and since the mountains and forests they lived, from rebellion op . the remotest ages, detached from the states and nations, as well as in. world, a fearless and impetuous race, dividuals, bave their periods of growth the barriers which nature had built and maturity, of decay and of dissolution. around them, as they prevented acccea. the constitution and forins of govern to their southern neighbours, so they. ment which are reared by human wis- prevented them from keeping pace with dom, and which have received all the their improvements. the appearance of fundamental strength and stability that their country was dark and desolate, and a brave and reflecting people could im- exposing no attractions but to its own part, reach, after all, but a certain point inhabitants. it is obvious that neither of eminence, on which they either dissolve the idea nor the uses of agriculture at once by some dreadful convulsion, or would readily occur to a people, the gradually crumble away like our own, general aspect of whose country pre." by frequent underminings and impair- sented such an obstacle to the powers ment. like a tall pillar which has been of cultivation, and who had abundant the work of centuries, the constitution sources of subsistence in their moun- of a country bears upon it the character tains, woods, and lakes. the nature of of every age that has rolled over it. we the country, therefore, and the habits of recognise in its rough and clumsy base its people, so far from furnishing apy the rock-like hardihood of a virtuous an- thing attractive or desirable, served only cestry; but as the structure rises these to repel their more civilized peighbours features of durability disappear, and one from their territories. they were shun- story shades away into another, till we ned as a race with which no dealings descry on the flimsy pinnacle, the fine- could be made, and on whose faith no ries, and the gaudy stucco-work of a dependence could be placed; who had degeverate and a decaying people. no law but the word of a proud chief, the bearing of this simile may not ap- and no sense of moral obligation but pear in the present case sufficiently ob- that capricious feeling of honour which vious to many: but it must be observed frequently obtains even among a com, by all those who acknowledge the opera. munity of robbers. the highlanders, tive and moral causes on the character on the other hand, proud of their inde, of a nation, who allow that the nature pendence, and professing obedience to of any government, and the change of no ruler but whom every individual public affairs, can impair or improve the tribe selected from its own number, looks happiness and the interests of any people. ed so late even as the last century with a very limited knowledge of the his- contempt on the lowlanders as a dege. tory of our country will show that our nerate people, who preferred the ease own importance and character, as a na. and effeminacies of a peaceful life to the tion, is fast on the decline. in support fatigues of the chace and the hardships of this assertion, it is needless to detail of a predatory warfare. the late checks and overthrows, and in but with all that fierceness of charac- sults received from a rival people, nor ter which unrestrained liberty, chieftain the chain of causes by which these dis- rivalry, feudal wars, and mutual plunder graceful humiliations were brought had disseminated from the earliest times about. it is needless to compare the among the highlanders, there were vir- present with the illustrious past, when a tues which they possessed in a superior briton could walk respected and feared, degree to their neighbours. fidelity to firm and unembarrassed, through every their chieftains, for instance, and attach- corner of the civilized world; suffice it ment to each and all of their quarrels, condition of the highland peasantry. [july , thrown fairly open to the natives of ca- try. but a few weeks' residence in the ledonia. comparatively cultivated they country does not remove impressions of now certainly are, but that they are one long standing, nor the illusions with degree happier than in their most bar- which the constantly surrounding gang barous state, must be denied by all who of rent-gatherers and land-officers hide know their past history and their pre- the niseries of the people. and hence, sent condition, if any individual urged by absolute want · habits, manners, and principles, ate musters courage to approach the princely completely changed; but, excluding their edifice of his master, to prefer in person propensity to feud and plunder, very far his complaints, he is invariably referred from being improved. if civilization be to the factor, who seldom fails to send said to bring blessings among a people, him back broken-hearted and hopeless the case of the highlanders furnishes a to his half famished family, to his pick- melancholy exception. connections and axe and his plough. . dealings with the world have generated a these observations, however, are by love for money, and this passion has in- no means intended to justify the beha- troduced vices that were never heard of viour of the highland proprietors. if amongst them in their rudest state of they are not aware of the condition of nature. the chief has lost his affection their peasantry, whose business is it to for his clan; the proprietor for his pea- know it? no: extortion is a vice of too sant. the poor wretch now regards black a colour, and of too baneful a con. his lord as a stranger whom he is never sequence to be justificd on the grounds permitted to see nor to address, who of either ignorance or credulity. at any feels no interest in his concerns, and rate they cannot but know that residing cares not for his fate; and his chief, as a on their estates two or three months out person who, from being the protector of the twelve, cannot much, in the way and the host, has become the oppressor of spreading money, avail a dispirited and tyrant of his dependants. and a starving population. the truth is, it is candid, however, to state, that that in many places this short period is the more opulent land-owners, moving entirely taken up in collecting rents, and amid the gay licentious scenes of fashion- in prosecutions for the payment of ar- able life, seldom have any tidings of their rears; and when all is amassed that law people but through the medium of face and threats of displacement can procure, tors and men of business, persons who, the parties enriched leave the parties im- in those distant regions, are not unfre- poverished, to squander their earnings quently devoid of every humane feeling, and to forget their woes amid the luxu. and who find it their interest to conceal ries of the metropolis. the real statement of cases and facts it is quite obvious that nothing but from their employers. for this purpose poverty and hunger can prevail in a they studiously over-rate the value and country where there is such an unceasing virtues of the soil, and represent the and inerciless demand for money; and toiling peasantry as an idle indolent that a people, who are thus left without race, that would never without the spur help and without hope, must unavoidably of necessity turn an inch of ground, but be driven to many schemes and strata- what was barely sufficient to support gems to save themselves and their fami. life. proprietors, ever willing to listen lies from beggary and imprisonment. to representations that favour their own emigration will naturally occur to interest, give ready credence to such ac- them as the likeliest method of relief. counts, and regard the unprincipled tale- this, however, is always the last re- bearers as men of sagacity and good source; for though to them their coun. faith, as deserving and conscientious serº try be in every sense a land of bondage, vants. under these circumstances it is still they feel that it is the land of their evident that the petitions and complaints birth and the country of their fathers. of the poor people are seldom heard by its streams, its rocks, its mountains, its the landlord; or, if they be, they are al- lonely heaths, its green glens and its soli- most, in all instances, attributed to a tary lakes, are dear to the bosom of every wrong cause, and dismissed accordingly highlander. it is the land for which without redress and without enquiry. his fathers fought, and for which a bro- it is true that during the short sum- ther or a son has fallen; and when he is mer months the wealthy reside, for the compelled to leave it for a foreign coun- most part, among their people, and have try, the agony of his heart is far more an opportunity (had they the inclination) severe than if the thread were breaking of examining the condition of their tenan- which binds him to the world. .) condition of the highland peasantry. the alternative, therefore, which is his principles relaxed or overturned, he most generally embraced, is the distilling repairs to the nearest town; establishes and smuggling of whisky. this liquor, a liquor-shop among the lowest orders; when it is prepared in small stills, is in- imbibes in that capacity all the low cun- variably of a better quality, and conse- ning and trickery of his calling, and dri- quently is more highly valued than that vels away the remainder of his life in which is made by the large licensed dis- vice, misery, and insignificance. tilleries. and if the smuggler succeeds i t were an insult to the understand- in conveying a quantity to the low lands, ings of the great highland proprietors or to any market, he never fails to dis- to suppose that they are ignorant of this pose of it to great advantage. here, sad falling off in the character of their therefore, is an expeditious way of people, when every day affords additional meeting the demands of the land-owner; and more aggravating proofs of it; and that is, of mustering up the remainder it were equally affronting to think that of the rent which his meagre farm, with they know not that such must be the all his exertions, cannot yield. the case, wherever such evils are combined temptation is powerful, and his wants as a stubborn unproductive soil, a rapa- are urgent. he is certain that in a few cious landlord, and an impoverished nights, supposing he escapes detection, people. he can realize a sum of no contemptible to palliate all this tyranny, it is often magnitude, when he considers his cir- given out that the country is overstock- cumstances and necessities. the allure. ed, insinuating thereby that a riddance * ment is obviously too strong for the of the superfluous number is at all events chance of detection or the considera- and by all means desirable. it is for- tion of fatigue to resist it. now the gotten that the present population of the whole process is attended with the highest highlands is less numerous than it was risk. excisemen are stationed in every one hundred years ago, when provisions village to prevent the operation of illicit were more scarce, and agriculture much stills; and the more they inform upon less attended to. the expulsion of the the greater is their emolument. while, natives, whatever nominal cause be as- therefore, the excisemen is stimulated by signed, is attributable only to the avarice the love of gain, the smuggler forgets of proprietors. these gentlemen have his little chance of sliccess in the hope of conceived, or have been made to con- being able to pay his arrears at next ceive, that, by throwing scveral small rent day, and prevent the sale of his farms into one, by converting tracts of scanty stock and furniture, and the dis arable ground into pasture, and by raz- memberment of a helpless family. here ing to the ground the dwellings of poor then are opened scenes of animosity and cottagers to make room for « the rich violence, which, originating in despair new tenant," their rents can be paid on the one hand, and rapacity on the with more punctuality. the experi- other, seldom fail to conclude in blood- ment has been tried in various places, shed. the evils that must arise from sometimes with success, and sometimes such proceedings, and from the practices with all the failure and disappointment it that lead to them, are easily seen. tip: deserved. granting, however, that this pling, drunkenness, swearing and irre- system succeeded even to the wishes of ligion, are scarcely avoidable. that its supporters, shall it be maintained craftiness and those systems of deceit that a paltry addition of income to the which must be practised to elude search proprietor is a compensation for the mi- and observation in the business of smug- series of thousands who are yearly dis- gling grow into habits which cannot but inherited, robbed of their patrimuny, accompany them into their transactions and then cast upon the world? can the with one another. frequent seizures emolument of a few counterbalance a too, and heavy penalties, bring on insol- loss to the interests and vitality of the vency and ruin; but let it be kept in country so heavy as this perpetual drain- mind, that all this unhingement of morals ing of the most virtuous of its inhabit- is not owing to any original want of ants ? at first sight the depopulation in principle in the people, far from it, but the north may appear of little or no im- to a practice which never could have port to the kingdom, as the aggregate found its way amongst them, but for the number of its people continues appa- exactions of land-owners. thus the rently unabated. but, situated as bri- once industrious farmer, whom necessity tain is at present, looked on with no re- had driven to smuggle, is hurried on the spectful eye by the continental nations, road to ruin. with his credit gone, and and regarded with a look of defiance by .) ” bishop of norwich and the moravian episcopacy... preservation of the dress and language of the inconsistency is so barefaced and the gael, and aaming reports of pro- void of principle, that it merits publicity ceedings are published to the world; and reprobation. but little mention is made of the ways in if the welfare of a state rests in any which their spirit is broken and impaired. degree on the happiness and character of its people, surely the condition of the tered them disappeared; but i could per- highlanders calls loudly for the interfer- ceive at intervals, amid the smoke, the end ence and consideration of government: of a long pole, with which he aided the de for it is to decide whether the advantage vouring element, and plied it so effectually of a few is preferable to the comfort of against the walls, that in a few minutes the the many ; and whether the pliysical habitation was a formless ruin. strength of the land is to be sacrificed to : « now,' said he, as he reappeared and wide-wasting greediness, which, open. strode over a heap of demolished curf, look- mouthed as the grave, is erér receiving ing grimly through the dust that lay black and ever devouring, but never says it is and thick on his face now where's your house, an' where's your hame, m‘ruarie. enough. government may delay, and add. three times have i gien you warpin', and another proof of baneful apathy and im- three times have ye refused. now ye may potence : rapacity may go on in those gang hither, an' ye may gang yout, but remote quarters with impunity; a hardy never mair shall ye byke or build in glen- race of men may suffer, and complain, choineachau. on this, the fiend moved and emigrate, without notice : but let it hastily away, without waiting for remon- never be forgotten how much the safety strance or complaint. the aged m.raurie of any country depends on the force and bore his hard fate with the most serene and bravery of its inhabitants; and that philosophic submission. not a muscle of his face was altered. on requesting him to thougli a few years of peace may pass explain the meaning of the unparalleled over us, we know not how soon the pe- scene, he, looking intently on the flakering riod may come, when we shall vainly re- ruins of his dwelling replied as well as broken gret the absence of the banished thou- *** english and a broken heart would permit, sands, who are now the inhabitants of an-" , • one-and-sixty years did i dwell under the other nation. b. g. roof of that fallen cot, low and lowin* as it now lies. never again shall it cover the bishop of norwich and the mora- ** grey head of m ruarie. hard were my vian episcopacy. times, and hard was my labour; but harder mr. editor, were they who drove me and mine out of its doors. i gave them all they wanted, and the good and venerable bishop of norwich, in his zeal for unqualified con, double what my bit land was worth: and though i saw my poor neighbours hunted cessions to the roman catholics, most out like foxes from their holes, i never be unfortunately stumbles upon illustrations lieved that this fate would have been mine. in the way of argument, to support them but now it is all over. come death, or come cause which he has at heart, that directly banishment, it is all one to m‘raurie.' militate against it. thus, on a former • the poor old man then turning to me, occasion, the learned prelate "quoted is mentioned that he had been several times locke as an advocate of unlimited tole- ni. warned to quit the estate of ---, but, from ration, when, on tlie contrary, that great a natural fondness for his country, had writer most unaccountably excludes ros". bitherto refused to comply; and on the man catholics from the privilege of tole- morning of that day he had been preparing to remove, but owing to his wife's infirmity, ration in protestant communities, merely in his movements were not performed so expe- on account of their submission to a for ditiously as was demanded by the merciless reign jurisdiction. in locke's judg-widt delegate who had just departed, and his cot- ment, no religious body is entitled to the tage was set on tire, the more speedily to un protection of government, if the allegen house him. his wife, owing to the fright, giance of its members is divided, which : and the hurry of removal from the flames, he contends is the case in regard to those . was seriou. jy hurt, and conveyed to a house who acknowledge the papal supremacy i in the vicinity by her son and daughter; in matters of conscience.* . and the party waited her recovery to set out in the late discussion of the catholic for america." this woman died a short time after, in in claims, the bishop, with the same precipi. consequence of the violence and brutality of tancy, endeavoured to bolster up the all her dislodgement. the case had almost be cause, of which he is the strenuous de- * come the subject of serious investigation, fender, by allcging the parliamentary in-, . but the affair was hushed up. “? dulgence granted to the moravians, not- .' flaming. * letter i. page . edit. , london. .) who was junius?-no. ii. i t li i it tion without argument, and violent cen- having gone so far, by his haughtiness sures without dignity or moderation; but and presumption, as to have rendered neither correctness in the composition, the breach irreparable. whoever jus nor judgment in the design. as for his nius was, he certainly had a thorough in- ineasures, let it be remembered, that he sight into his lordship's character; and it was called upon to conciliate and unite; is obvious, that he had not contemplated and that, when he entered into office, the it at a distance, or through the medium most refractory of the colonies were still of public reports. while he inveighs, in disposed to proceed by the constitutional general terms of reproach, against the methods of petition and remonstrance. other ministers, he comes to specific, and since that period, they have been driven even minute points of accusation in de- into excesses little short of rebellion. nouncing the secretary for the planta- petitions have been hindered from reach- tions. ing the throne; and the continuance of but what is to be said of the writer's one of the principal assemblies rested enmity to the marquis of granby, upon * upon an arbitrary condition, (that they whom scurrility is poured out without the should retract one of their resolutions, least regard to common decorum? this and erase the entry of it,) which, con- hasinduced some to conclude, that junius sidering the temper they were in, it was must have been, if not a military man, impossible they should comply with; yet one intimately acquainted with the and which would have availed nothing department of the army, and the system as to the general question, if it had been on which it was then conducted by the complied with. so violent, and i believe commander-in-chief. that idea, how- i may call it, so unconstitutional an ex- ever, vanishes, when the correspondence ertion of the prerogative, to say nothing with sir william draper is read, in of the weak, injudicious terms in which which junius confesses his ignorance on it was conveyed, gives us as humble an what he had before alleged, by avoiding opinion of his lordship's capacity, as it farther discussion of the charges against does of his temper and moderation. the marquis, and diverging to other mat- while we are at peace with other na ters, particularly the manilla ransom, tions, our military force may, perhaps, which affords him a fine scope for shift- be spared to support the earl of hills- ing from the defensive position, and be- borough's measures in america. when- coming an assailant; in which capacity ever that force shall be necessarily with- he has always the advantage. drawn or diminished, the dismission of but the imprudence of sir william such a minister will neither console us draper, in coming forward with his for his imprudence, nor remove the set- name as the champion of his friend and tled resentment of a people, who, com- patron, enables us to examine more ac- plaining of an act of the legislature, are curately the character of his masked an. outraged by an unwarrantable stretch of tagonist. junius, undoubtedly was not prerogative, and supporting their claims prepared for such an opponent; but hav- by argument, are insulted with declama- ing the advantage of his coat of darkness, tion," he contrived, with the dexterity of an t'he length of this quotation must be old stager, to shame the knight, though excused, on account of its immediate he could neither foil his arguments, nor bearing upon the question--"who was rebut his facts. one thing observable, ia junius ?" there is, in this passage, not the attempt of junius to justify his abuse only a remarkable feeling for the ame- of lord granby, is the indirect, but se- . rican interests, but a minute acquaint- vere condemnation passed on the ger- ance with the colonial assemblies, and man war, and our interference in it. the the spirit of the people in general. this reason of this, when coupled with the is, therefore, evidently the language of reflection upon the commander-in-chief an experienced man-one conversant in for “ suffering sir jeffery amherst to practical politics, and possessing much be sacrificed," will have its due weight local knowledge of the concerns of the in ascertaining “who was junius ?"* plantations. he speaks of lord hills. there is yet another incidental pas. borough in terms of disappointment, as sage in this controversy, which serves to of one who had defeated the hopes of let in a portion of light upon the ques- the colonists, when it was expected that tion, and that is the sneer upon the clas- he would have conciliated and united the sical attainments of sir william draper, most refractory of them. lord hills- and the confession of his antagonist, that borough is accused of interposing be- he was himself “ a plain, unlettered man." tween them and the throne, and with this last acknowledgement, parentheti- (july , anecdotes of john cleland. cally introduced, may be considered by in , and about the rery time when some as a sportive play upon the knight's the month'y review was on the stocks, pedantry; but there is more reason to take in an early number of which journal ap- it as a blunt, honest statement of the peared a pompous eulogium upon the truth, in which the writer made it his novel, as a moral tale, adinirably calcu- boast, that the learning he possessed lated to give young persons a knowledge was of his own acquisition. all the let. of the world, and comparing it, at the ters of junius display a mind naturally same time, to fielding's excellent story strong, fertile, and enriched by labo- of tom jones, then in the fower of its rious application, evincing, in short, many popularity. the impudence of this puff years spent in active life and observation exceeded every thing recorded of the arts of the world: but there are no traces of of edmund curll; but it could not se- classical culture throughout those elabo- cure the book from proscription, com. rate compositions. junius was evidently plaint was made of the nuisance to dr. more conversant in english than roman sherlock, bishop of london, who laid writers, and his style is consequently the information before the privy council, more flowing, easy, and expressive. he and as special warrants were then of au- now and then, indeed, throws out a thority, one was issued to seize all the latin and french phrase, but they are copies in the bookseller's warehouse, and such only as a long course of extensive another to call the author before the reading might have rendered familiar to board. when the messenger came to any man of quick parts and retentive me- the shop, griffiths took an objection to mory. but after all the meaning of ju- the warrant because it was not backed nius, in calling himself “ plain and up- by the signature of the lord mayor, to learned," was obviously no more than procure which, the messenger instantly this,--that he had never been favoured proceeded to the mansion-house, leaving with the advantages of an academic edu- his deputy behind. but as soon as the cation. he takes a pride in his natural messenger was gone on this errand, grif. simplicity, and the knowledge to which fiths turned the man out of his shop, he had attained by the strength of ge. which he had an undoubted right to do, nius and the force of industry. this, then elosed the doors, and before the then, is a confession of great importance principal returned with the warrant, in removing the swarm of pretended every copy of the book was conveyed out claims to these letters, and in coming to through the back way into the houses of a direct solution of the question some neighbours, in paternoster-row, by who was junius? which means the publisher escaped pu- nishment. cleland, on his appearance anecdotes op john cleland. before the privy council, was questioned mr. editor, how he came to write so infamous a the article of john clbland, in book, when, instead of denying it, he the last edition of the general biogra- confessed the truth at once, alleging po- phical dictionary, being very imperfect, verty as his excuse. on this, lord gran- i am induced to request a corner of your ville, the president, asked him whether, magazine for one or two particulars of if this necessity was removed, he would that licentious writer. cease to prostitute his talents in so scan- it is not true that he was applied to by dalous a manner for the future? cle- some bookseller for the scandalous work land readily aud gratefully expressed his which has conferred perpetuity on his willingness to comply with the condition, name; since if that bad been the case, and accordingly, instead of ordering the no doubt he would have made a better attorney-general to prosecute him, the bargain with them for the copyright. minister settled upon him a pension of the fact is, that cleland, being in great one hundred pounds a year, which he distress, offered the work, as far as it enjoyed till his death, at the beginning was then written, to mr. afterwards dr. of , when he was full four score griffiths, then an enterprising publisher, yenrs old. on the north side of st. paul's cburch- the biographer, however, is rather in- yard, near the corner leading to cheap- correct in saring that he dedicated the side. though griffiths was a dissenter, rest of his life to political, dramatic, and he made no scruple about purchasing the philosophical studies, thereby insinuating manuscript, for which he gave the author that he in some measure atoned for the twenty pounds, but conditionally, that he crime which he had committed. i have was to add another volume, if the conti- reason to know, that though cleland nuation should be called for. this was took care to avoid detection, he exer .) remarkuble events in english history. : cised bis pen oftener than once upon me- of incidents, the effeets of which have tetricious works; and it is a fact, that extended to distant generations. the noted “ essay on woman," fathered thus, to name a few only, the death by john wilkes, was the entire produc- of prince arthur, the eldest son of tion of this writer. the original manu- henry the seventh, occasioned the abo- script in cleland's hand-writing, and il- lition of the papal authority in these lustrated, to make use of a common realms ;- that of edward the sixth, by phrase, with appropriate drawings, wor- giving the same power a temporary re- thy of ornamenting mr. knight's erudite vival, rendered it so odious, that eliza- dissertation on the phallic worship, is beth was enabled, through a long life, now in the possession of a well-known and a vigorous administration, to esta- publisher, whu obtained the same with blish the reformed church of england on the manuscripts of wilkes, from the late a steady basis :-in the succeeding reign, john almon. the demise of henry, prince of wales, the anonymous author of his life in gave the crown to his brother, the unfor- the dictionary, says, that." cleland lived tunate charles, and thus prepared the within the income of his pension, with way for two revolutions :--and last of some addition from his newspaper la all, when the hopes of the nation rested bours, in a retired situation in petty upon the young duke of gloucester, the france." the latter part of this para last child of princess anne of den- graph is accurate, but the former is not mark, his premature removal left the so; for, such is the retribution of provi. succession open to the house of bruns- dence, this man a few years before his wick ;-in wbich line of hereditary right, death, being deserted by every acquaint- may the throne continue to flourish, ance upon earth, actually spent some under the divine protection, till all earth- hours every day sitting on a bench in the ly dominion shall attain its consumma- bird-cage walk, with his hat before him, tion!" to receire the charitable contributions of this method of considering historical passengers, some of whom had been his events is so very instructive, that it were to contemporaries at westminster school. be wished some one would pursue it far- such is the reward of vice, and the sta- ther, throughout the whole of our an. bility of that friendship which vice pro nals, from whence much more might be cures. but though griffiths, the pub- learnt than can now be gathered in read- lisber, is supposed to have realized some ing those writers who have contented. thousands by the book which cleland themselves with narrating facts chrono- wrote, it does not appear that he took logically, and applying their own reason- any notice of the author in his distress; ing to them. a history of england com- nor did wilkes, who certainly made con- piled in this manner would tend to mo- siderable use of his pen, relieve him in his ral improvement, and produce, even in necessities. cleland might truly have the minds of persons little disposed to se- been called the english petronius, for rious reflection, the profoundest admira- his manner indicated the gentleman: and tion of the ways of providence. when reduced to mendicity, there was to the instances adduced in the above something in his language and figure quotation, might have been added, the no which commanded respect while it ex- less remarkable one of the death of ar- cited coinmiseration. thor of bretagne, nephew of king john, june, , . x. y. . and the rightful heir to the throne of england. the murder of that young remarkable events in english prince embroiled his unnatural uncle, . history. first, in a war with the king of france, mr. editor, then in a dispute with the pope, and in reading the very interesting and lastly, in a contest with the english copious memoir of her late majesty, just barons. published, by dr. watkins, i was much the surrender of the crown to his struck with the following observation on holiness, and the usurpation of the latter the death of the lamented princess char- over the church of england, in the ap- lotte of wales:- pointment of langton to the archbishop- “the reader of history who traces ric of canterbury, contributed to increase the causes and consequences of great those troubles; and as the conflicting events, will find, in perusing the annals parties alternately fell out with each of this country, that there never yet oc- other, like hungry wolves over their com. curred an instance bearing a resemblance mon prey, the miserable monarch, sorely : to the present, but what was productive against his will, ratified magna charta, new monthly mag.-no. . vol. xi. u sabina. (july , cular favour by undertaking this commis- above delicacies with the lap-dog. nor sion. i should be inconsolable were was she deceived. zenothemis shared any accident to befal myrrhina. yes, the inconveniencies of bis charge, and dear zenothemis, i read compliance in the pleasure of the messes prepared for your eyes, and, in fact the animal de- her, and now came to give an account of serves as much for her attention to you. the rich produce of the preceding night. you know she made not the least noise the muscles of the sternest medusa- the day before yesterday, when i was at head must have relaxed at this spectacle, the bath, and you read me the affecting and have commanded silence to its hun- essay on the perishable nature of our dred hissing snakes. sabina herself, was earthly bodies, and proved, with such obliged, against her will, to assume a eloquence, that this body is only animated gentler air, and to suffer her female at. clay, and no better than a leathern case."* tendants to indulge their risibility un- how could zenothemis, when intreat- punished. “ the finest of these figs, ed by such a lady, in so moving a manner, dear zenothemis, shall be yours, if you, with all but tears, and at the same time whose poetic talents are so well known to reminded of one of the most interesting us, can recite a pretty little greck poem situations of his villegiatura, do other on this most happy occurrence." thus wise than promise every thing she want- exclaimed sabina to the philosopher, ed. myrrhina, carefully wrapped up, whilst slie took the largest fig from the was placed in the old gentleman's lap, basket. zenothemis, who, like almost and the group of the philosopher with all his industrious countrymen, could ex- the prodigious beard, the little maltese ercise a dozen other arts and sciences be. dog on his lap, and the big-headed dwarf sides his proper profession, the stoic phi- by his side, was so unique in its kind, losophy, immediately produced the fol- that as the carriage proceeded along the lowing epigram, which has been intro- via appia towards rome, there was no duced, by what accident we know not, vetturino, no passenger, either on horse. into the grecian garland, anong the epi- back or on foot, but stopped and burst grams of a certain addæus:- into a loud fit of laughter. on their ar- “when the little myrrhina was ready rival in rome, the lady sent her trusty to drop with her heavy burden, diana clio to zenothemis, urgently requesting immediately sent her relief. the god- him to keep the poor animal, which had dess does not merely appear to thriving now grown acquainted with him, under women: she likewise assists mothers of his care; adding, that the favourite must the canine race, which is under her espe. neither want for well-fed goose's livers, cial protection as the goddess of the nor for sesamus cakes. sabina knew, that chase." though he talked so loudly in praise of “what did carmion whisper to you, virtue, yet, notwithstanding all his ani. clio, at which you laugh so immoderate- inadversions on epicurism, and the plea- ly?" said sabina. clio, who was heartily sures of the palate, he was by no means vexed at the bearded pbilosopher, be- an obstinate contemner of good living cause he had, with his awkwardness, a she had observed how much he had pri- few days before, broken a beautiful rase vately given in a napkin to the servant, which sabina had received as a present at the last great entertainment,t and from one of her admirers at the bath of was aware that he would not be able to baiæ, and had directed it to be preserred resist the temptation of dividing the with all the care requisite for so brittle a memento of love. clio replied aloud, * a favourite expression of the stoics, as and without rescrve--" carmion was may be seen from the works of marcus au- only asking me, how long our stoie relius, (iv, ; viii. , with gatacker's an- preacher of virtue had belonged to the ca- potations). nine sect, and had become a cynic (a dog. + in lucian's feast, (one of the most bit- philosopher)?". ter satires against the philosophers of that the oflicious cypassis being directed age,) a character is introduced of the same by a sign of her mistress to relieve the name and belonging to the same sect as ze- nothemis, and one of the guests snatches from * figs formed a constant article of food thim a napkin, which he had filled with all among the ancients; and the athenians eat the most dainty pieces he could collect from them in the streets. hence arose the cus. the table. it was customary for every guest tom among the philosophers of promising a to take with him to the house where he was fig when they proposed questions to each invited, a napkin anda slave: to the latter he other. thus the cynic crates offered a fig gave the fragments which he wished to carry to stilpo. the fig was the pledge of the away with him. question. .) sabina. philosopher from the barden of his charge cia talked a great deal at baiæ, about a and her litter, the saucy girl took this op- new production of one xenophon, of portunity, under the pretext that poor ephesus. if i recollect right, the title myrrhina had entangled herself in the was, “amours of anthias and habro- old gentleman's bushy beard, to pull it kom.' you would exceedingly oblige handsomely, and at the same time to give me, if you could bring it with you." the philosopher repeated slaps in the thus spoke sabina. but it did not escape face, first with one hand and then with her penetrating eye that zenothemis was the other, and to play a hundred tricks filled with indignation against the look- under the appearance of shewing respect. ing-glass of the licentious aristippus, and the most singular circumstance was, had muttered to himself something about that a parrot, which had been perclied “puppy" and good for nothing fellow." the whole time in profound silence in his for this disobedience, it was necessary cage, adorned with gold, ivory, and silm that the much mortified stoic should re- ver, just at this moment, as though it had ceive iminediate punishment. he was been preconcerted, exclaimed, “ bravo, therefore charged with the commision to bravo!" screaming and making a most enquire for milesian tales, and to pander hideous noise. for the vitiated palate of his mistress, in- this scene, not a little mortifying to stead of clio, who else was accustomed to our domestic philosopher, sabina sudden- select the most licentious works for the ly terminated by a single thunder threat perusal of the donna, and who had only ening contraction of her well-blacked the day before brought her a new edition, eye-brows. the litile myrrhina was with curious figures, of the noted ma- placed in a small basket, where she was täotechnia of elephantis. poor zeno- wont to repose on pillows filled with soft themis, what would the glorious ances- feathers : and as she shewed signs of tors, zeno and cleanthes, have said to thirst, a cup of the asses milk was given their degenerate descendant, who, spite her, which remained after supplving the of his philosopher's beard, was obliged to purposes of the domina's toilette, and humble himself to the offices of a cham- stood in a silver ewer on a small side- ber-maid, or rather, of a lady's gallant! tabie. how low would thy skin have sold at the “ has tryphon, the bookseller,* pubauction of philosophers.* lished the poem of aristippus, addressed supplement to the fifth scene. to. lais on her looking glass?" as her stoic friend was unable to give allegorical declarations of lore. a satisfactory answer to this question, love reigns in every climate ;--- he is because he had not stirred a step the always the same: but the manner in preceding day, that myrrhina might not which the lover declares his sentiments, be left unaitended, sabina requested and does homage to the charms of his mis- him now to make the necessary inquic tress, differ in every nation, and in every ries concerning the new publication, age, according to the received ideas of which she expected with the utmost ime delicacy and refinement. the daino of patience. a lithuanian- the song which a spa- “ and inquire, also," said she, as he niard accoinpanies on his guitar - the was just going to draw the curtain of serenade which a sicilian shepherd sings the doorf behind him, “ whether any from the third idyl of theocritus, be- new ailesian tale has appeared ? i tuc- asia what georgia and circassia are to the a celebrated bookseller during the turks of the present day. these aspasias reign of domitian, of whom martial makes related stories to the soltans; and there were frequent mention. scheherazades even in the ages of anti- of door-curtains. the interior apart. quity. from these stories were derived the ments of the romans were not provided milesian tales, the oldest romances known with doors; but were usually separated from among the grecks. each other by curtains formed of coloured a witty satire of lucian, in which he tapestry, as may be seen in pollux. thus supposes that jupiter, through the medium seneca, when observing tha: all is tranquil of mercury, announced an auction of the dif- in his house, and that nobody disturbs him, ferent sects of philosophers. wieland, in says-non crepuit subinde ostium, (the his translation of it, observes, that this rail- house-door, non allerabatur velum. lery against the heads of the various sects i milesian tales. miletus, the seat of could not be pleasing, because it was unjuste riches and luxury, supplied the harems of but it was against butfoons, such as zeno- the persian satraps with the most beautiful themis, that lucian directed the shafts of odalisk women. the city was to ancient his ridicule. sabina. (july , fore the grotto of his amaryllis, breathe passeri has given a design, represents a the same sentiment, though the words lover attired as a slave, presenting three and the melody be different. the pro- apples to a young female at a window, gress of a young peasant of appenzell whilst a third figure holds a torch. on over precipices- the nocturnal visits of the other side of the same vase, the the sclavonian of upper lusatia, who the young woman is standing opposite to with difficulty reaches the uppermost her lover; the hand in which he holds step of the ladder which he has placed be- the three apples is stretched forth to- fore his mistress's window, that he may wards her, in the attitude of a suppli- enjoy the happiness of declaring his sen- cant, and with a flower in his bosom, he timents-the hieroglyphic language of appears to be relating his sufferings. it flowers, employed in the levant, where is easy to guess that a declaration of lore the hyacinth or the narcissus is a declara- forms the subject of these two designs. tion of love to the imprisoned fair one, apples, but particularly quinces and po- where an orange-flower signifies hope, megranates, were sacred to venus, and and a marigold despair- that language were frequently employed as messengers by which a moorish gardener writes a of the paphian goddess. sometimes love-letter to the mistress of his heart these vases bore inscriptions explanatory while he arranges the flower-pots of his of the motive of the present. the abbé parterre ;-all these are merely modifica- mozochi has given a design of one on tions in the expression of the same sen- which are inscribed the words-colli- timent. such scenes would be well wor- cles is handsome. a winged genius, wear- thy the pencil of some skilful painter, ing a long robe embroidered with flowers, and might form a little gallery of pictures pours a libation over a flame burning on which would not, certainly, be destitute a sinall altar, and the words are inscribed of interest. in the ancient greek character below the in the hope of contributing to such a design. the object of this present is collection, we here present to the reader precisely marked by the libation, which a custom of the greeks, which seems to indicates a birth-day. the abbé vi- have escaped the notice of our most studi- venzio di nola has in his collection a ous antiquaries; a custom which bears the beautiful vase with this inscription-to impression of the character of that peo- the fair clymena; and after a lapse of ple, who were endowed with the most de- many centuries, the lovers of art, by ad- licate organization and sensibility, and miring this vase, still do homage to the who so well understood how to repre- beauty of clymena. a modern lore- sent every sensation under some fascinat- letter, even though written with sympa- ing form. their earthen vases were thetic ink on paper perfumed with roses, adorned with designs and paintings, and and moistened with the tears of joy, will were placed in the apartinents most fre. scarcely outlive a month, far less a cen- quented by strangers. at samos, co- tury. to these painted declarations we rinth, and scio-and particularly in the may, howerer, compare the gallantry of rich and flourishing cities of lower italy, one of the pupils of raphael, whose called græcia magna- there were pro. work is preserved in the curious collec- bably manufactories which rivaled each tion of the brunswick museum, and other in giving to these vases the most who, as the story goes, received the ten- light and elegant forms, and adorning derest reward from the potter's daugh- them with the richest paintings. if a ter, whom he had immortalized by paint- lover wished to make a declaration to his ing her portrait. our porcelain manu- mistress, he procured a vase, adorned factories are filled with cups and basins, with some emblem or allegory, which the ornamented with cyphers surrounded by greeks, accustomed to enigmas of this wreaths. the progress from thence to a kind, could readily divine, and availed love-letter, in the antique taste, is not himself of the first favourable opportu- --- nity of presenting it to the object of his passeri, picture etruscorum in ras- passion. this custom explains the de- culis. signs on many vases, which have been in sicily, the pomegranate is still buried in the bosom of the earth, and ca called, îl pomo di zitto (the bridegroom's after sharing, during a long series of apple). many fragments of antiquity are totally inexplicable, if we do not take the ages, the tranquil abodes of the dead, apple as the emblem of love. in the bas- now constitute the chief ornaments reliefs which represent the nuptials of jason of those collections formed at nor- and the vengeance of medea, creusa holds mous expense in france, italy, eng- an apple in her hand, to shew that she is a land, and germany. a vase of which bride. tour of the archdukes john and lewis, in the years - . (july , years. kingdom. of the interior countries. foreign colonies. the chaldrons. consumption total phorical acceptation, as one might say pope pius ii. relates in his commen- to share a person, meaning, to deceive taries, that in his visit to scotland, he him. the little knives used for cutting bad observed stones distributed at the the nails were called osvxısauca maxaipia. church doors, by way of alms to the we may be allowed to quote here the poor; that these stones were impreg- following lines of plautus in his portrait nated with combustible matter, and that of the miser euclio:- they were burnt instead of wood, which quin ipsi pridem tonsor unrues demeserat. was very rare in that country. collegit, omnia abstulit præsegmina. we subjoin a table of the coal trade of newcastle, during a period of ten gruter seems to have forgotten that years. this document, which comes persons even of the lowest class had from an authentic source, may give some their nails cut by a barber. víartial, idea of the extent of the mines of this addressing an effeminate man who ap- country :- plied pitch-plasters to his face, and con- sequently was not under the necessity of shaviny, asks :-“ but who cuts your nails ?" (quid fucient ungues). tibul- lus, in his portrait of marathus, savs, ungues artifices docta munu sectos. all these considerations are necessary in , , . ++ , order to understand martial's epigram , , , . on a barber's instruments (ferumenta . , , , , tonsoria.) there is likewise a very hu- , . . , , mourous little poem by phanias, on the | | . , , barber eugathes, which contains a comic . . . . enumeration of all the apparatus neces , . , sary for the toilette. he mentions a , | , , piece of felt, the remnant of an old hat, , | . . which served for a razor-strap. toup the question, whether the various seems to have misunderstood this ex- strata of coal, and their envelopes (cover- pression for a barber's cap, shaving car, ingy) of clay or chalk. are to be reckoned and it would appear that eren jacobs, among the primitive substances created in his excellent commentary, has not at the same time with the earth, or perfectly understood this passage. among secondary productions, produced either by inundations and alluvion, or by journal op a tour in england, in volcanic convulsions, is still a subject of - , prom ms. notes of the doubt and inquiry among naturalists. archdukes john and leitis op it is, however, certain that the remains austria, of animals and vegetables are often ( continued from p. , vol. xi.) found in the envelopes of the coal, and some details respecting the coals which that the coal itself sometimes retains the are of such vast importance to england form of the organic bodies from which for fuel, may not be misplaced here. in it is derived. the coal in the parish of the vear , king henry iii. granted borey, near exeter, is found in large to the inhabitants of newcastle the li- masses, representing the trunks and berty to dig for coals in their territory. branches of trees heaped together. si- a document, bearing date in , says, milar phenomena have been remarked that the trade in coals had so increased in iceland, at brull, pear luxemburg, at the revenues of the town, that they cologne, at bonn, and at the foot of the amounted at that time to above mountains which are on the road from pounds sterling. lyons to strasburg. the use of coals had become so com. all the strata which cover the chal, mon in london, so early as the year contain a great diversity of vegetable : , that the parliament made a com- substances, or at least bear the impres- plaint to the king, stating that the air sion of thern, particularly of the bamboo was infected by the exhalations produced of the indies, of the euphorbia of the by them : in consequence of these com- iudies, of ferns, retches, &c. plaints, two proclamations were issued. the strata of slate in the mine of hol- prohibiting the use of coals. but neces. ling hill, near felling, furnishes fine sity and experience soon triumphed over specimens of pine cones, ears of barley, ignorance and prejudice, and the use of and turnip roots; the latter are changed this valuable combustible was resumed into ferruginous stunes: in the strata of 的 ​量​, .] ( ) memoir of madame de genlis. (with a portrait.) stephanie felicite duirest db nary affection, her physicians prescribed saint aubin was born in the year , the use of the bristol waters, and having near autun, in the department of saone consigned her eldest daughter to the care et loire, though without fortune, she of her mother-in-law, she departed for was distinguished on her entrance into england accompanied by her second life, for her personal attractions joined to daughter, natalie, who was then in her a singular talent for music, and she soon thirteenth year. during her residence gained introductions to several families of at bristol, madame de genlis adopted rank, though rather in quality of an ar- her interesting protegée pamela, of tist than as a young lady of condition. her whom frequent mention is made in her situation afforded her the means of ob- writings, and who was afterwards mar- serving society, before fortune enabled ried to lord edward fitzgerald. her to fill that rank in fashionable life to on her return from her first visit to which her acquirements so justly entitled england, the duke d'orleans, then duke her; thus, a perfect knowledge of the de chartres, eagerly einbraced the op- forms and etiquettes of the upper classes portunity of placing his children under is discernible even in her earliest pro. the superintendance of the accomplished ductions. her accomplishments and per- and beautiful countess de genlis. dur- sonal graces soon attracted the notice of ing her retirement in the convent of several exalted individuals; but, as it bellechasse, she had written several frequently happens, chance was the dis- nioral and entertaining dramatic pieces, poser of her hand. the count de gen- which her children performed success- lis, afterwards marquess de sillery, fully in the presence of the duchess de though he had never seen her, being chartres. she published the three first struck with the style of a letter which volumes of her plays in , under the accidently fell in his way, conceived so title of theatre for the use of young per- high a sentiment of admiration for the sons, or theatre of education, and the writer, that he immediately made her an three last volumes appeared in january offer of marriage, and mademoiselle de . among the most esteemed of saint aubin became the countess de these little dramas we may mention, la genlis before she had completed her fif- bonne mere, la ro ière de salency, le teenth year. magistrat, la murchande de modes, and whilst her superior talent commanded in colombe. the latter contains images the admiration of the distinguished cir- worthy the graceful touch of a guido, cles in which she moved, her ardent love or an albano: the celebrated buffon, of study induced her to shun the court after having perused it, addressed the and the frivolous society connectedwith it, following letter to the authoress, which and to devote herself wholly to the cul- has been quoted as highly complimentary, tivation of science and the arts. she but which is, nerertheless, somewhat hy- was too well aware of the advantages perbolical:- of a cultivated understanding, to neglect. “i am no longer a lover of nature, i the education of her children. at an leave her for you, madam, who have done age when most young women of fashion more, and are worthy of higher admiration. think only of shining in the world, ma- nature only forms bodies, but you create dame de genlis retired to the convent of tof souls. were mine of your hap y creation, bellechasse, and devoted herself entirely i should possess the powers of pleasing, which i now want, and you would be pleased to the education of her two daughters. with with my infidelity. pardon, madam, this in the year , the eldest, who was moment of transport and love. i will now then scarcely fourteen years of age, wils speak reasonably. united to the count de valence, but your charming theatre has afforded shortly after her marriage the young me as much pleasure as though i were of lady was attacked with a dangerous fit the age to which it is dedicated. old and of illness. madame de genlis was thus young, high and low, all must study those plunged into the deepest distress, and delightful pictures in which the virtues ac- anxiety of mind joined to the fatigue quired by education, triumph over vice and occasioned by affectionate attendance on ň folly. every line bears the stamp or your in her child, produced a change in her health heavenly mind. it appears in every scene - under a different emblem, and cloihed in the effects of which she experienced long the purest morality. your pen is guided by after her daughter's convalescence. as a perfect knowledge of human nature, by she suffered considerably from a pulmo- all the charms of wit and the graces of style; .) memoir of madame de genlis. ·moiselle d'orleans in her exile, through their return to france must have ex- the fear of being placed on the list of posed them to certain death. dumou- emigrants, and the duke conjured ma- riez offered them an asylum in his camp. dame de genlis to accompany the young they followed the army, and procured a princess to flanders, and to remain with lodging at st. amand, in the city, whilst her three or four weeks at tournay, un- the head-quarters were established at til he could engage a proper person to the baths, about a mile distant; the de- supply her place. fection of dumouriez was however de- on reaching tournay, madame de clared the day after their arrival at st. genlis determined seriously to prepare amand. dreading the consequences of for her departure for england. "three this event, and fearing lest they should weeks after her arrival at tournay, pa- be included in the general list of fugi- mela, her adopted daughter, was mar- tives, madame de genlis determined to ried to lord edward fitzgerald ; but as depart, without loss of time, for mons, the person promised by the duke bad representing herself as an englishwo- not arrived, madame de genlis was man, intending to proceed impediately unable to set out with the new married to switzerland, by way of germany; pair as she had at first proposed. and notwithstanding the urgent intrea- about a month after their departure, ties of m. de chartres, she resolved to her husband, who at the commencement depart without mademoiselle d'orleans : of the revolution had taken the title of however, at the very moment when she marquess of sillery, communicated to was stepping into the coach, m. de char- her from paris, the dreadful catastrophe tres presented himself, with his sister, which terminated the life of the unfor- bathed in tears. mad. de genlis could no tunate louis xvi. she immediately longer resist her intreaties, she pressed dispatched a faithful messenger, con- her to her bosom, and they departed in juring him to quit france : but he such haste that they forgot to take with declared in answer, that he would never them mademoiselle d'orlean's baggage, abandon his native country, adding, that the whole of which was lost. the events to which he was then a wit- after encountering many dangers, ness augmented his indifference for an they arrived, by cross roads, at the aus- existence which the crimes of his fellow. trian posts, where they passed for two citizens rendered odious. m. de sillery english ladies, and by that means ob- remained in paris though he had every tained passports, and an escort to con- opportunity of escaping; but so far from duct them to mons. madame de genlis thinking of concealment when he learnt was now assailed by a new misfortune. that he was proscribed by the sanguinary the day after her arrival at mons, she robespierre and his adherents, he volun- discovered that mademoiselle d'orleans tarily surrendered himself and shortly and her peice had both caught the mea- afterwards perished on the scatfold. his sles; and being unable immediately to last instructions to his unfortunate wife procure a nurse she was obliged to attend were, that she should retire either to on them herself, day and night. how- ireland or switzerland; but a serious ever, in the midst of this disaster, she indisposition by which mademoiselle enjoyed the consolation of having sared d'orleans was seized, prevented madame the life of mademoiselle d'orleans, who de genlis from observing the prudent would infallibly have suffered for her counsel of her ill fated husband. brother's desertion had she fallen into mademoiselle d'orleans bad no attend the hands of the french. the duke de ant except madame de genlis and her chartres after having fought against the niece. her convalescence was extreme- enemies of his country, under dumou- jy slow, and at the expiration of four riez, accompanied that general in his weeks she experienced a relapse. in this fight from st. amand. situation madame de genlis could not the delay occasioned by the fatal in- think of leaving her. meanwhile flan- disposition of the young ladies, afforded ders was united to france: general the austrians time to discover that they dumouriez arrived at tournay, and were natives of france, but they never. though he had no knowledge either of theless experienced the most generous madame de genlis or mademoiselle treatment. general mack procured from d'orleans, yet he felt interested for their the prince of coburg passports which unfortunate situation. to bave remain- enabled them to proceed in safety ed at tournay, where the austrians through germany. madame de genlis were momentarily expected, would have left mons on the th of april, , been in the last degree imprudent; and though her young companions were still (july , niemoir of madame de genlis. in a state of extreme debility, and they sincerely attached, her residence at arrived safely at schaffhausen, in swit. bremgarten became irksome to her, zerland, on the th of the same month. notwithstanding the kind attention of there they were joined by the duke de the nuns, who proved themselves in every chartres, and they proceeded together respect worthy of her gratitude and to zug, where they hired a house on the friendship. she quitted the convent on banks of the lake, at a short distance from the th of may, , accompanied by the town. her niece, whom she placed under the ilere, under assumed names, they protection of a respectable family in enjoyed tranquillity, but for a short holland, and thence she proceeded alone time ; for m. de chartres was soon recog- to altona. there she remained un- nized by the french emigrants, passing known upwards of nine months, and through the town. the magistrates, having met her son-in-law, m. de va- fearing lest they should incur the dis- lence, at hamburgh, she went to reside pleasure of the french government, with him at silk, a village in the duchy politely urged the necessity of their seek- of ilolstein, about fifteen miles from ing an asylum elsewhere. this unex- hanburgh. there madame de genlis pected occurrence convinced m. de at length enjoyed repose, and she re- chartres that his presence must un- sumed her literary occupations, which avoidably prove fatal to his sister's safety, had been so long suspended. in this and he took leave of her to travel retreat she wrote several novels, namely, through switzerland on foot. m. de rash vous, the rival mothers, the moutesquieu generously procured ma. little emigrants, and the knights of the dame de genlis and her two protegées a swan. she also published a narrative of safe retreat in the convent of st. clair, her conduct during the revolution, in at bremgarten, where they all three answer to the calumnies by which she had passed for irish ladies returning from been assailed. france, compelled by the troubled state in the year , the french govern- of that country and the dangers of war, ment called madame de genlis from her to return to their homes as soon as an retreat, and granted her permission to opportunity should occur. return to her country. she thankfully madame de geplis passed a year at embraced the opportunity of being re- bremgarten in profound seclusion, devot- stored to her daughter, her grand-chil- ing her whole attention to her pupil, and dren, and such of her friends who still concealing from her the knowledge of her survived. she has ever since resided at father's tragic death, which took place paris. haring been deprived of her during their residence at the convent of fortune by the events of the rerolution, st. clair. their days passed away in she has principally supported herself by sadness, but not without occupation, the honourable exertion of those talents until their repose was once more inter- which she successfully cultivated in hap- rupted by the intrigues of their enemies, pier days, when they formed merely the who at length forced them to quit swit- amusement of her leisure hours. since zerland. her return to france, she has published madame de genlis having determined several historical novels, remarkable for to depart, began to think on the means elegance of style, and faithful deline- of procuring some other place of refugeations of manners, but among all her for mademoiselle d'orleans. she prevail- productions, that with which she has ed on her to write to the duke of mode- thought proper to terminate her literary na, her uncle, to request that he would career, has, perhaps, excited the greatest receive her in his territory; but he re- interest. we allude to les pardenus, plied, that political considerations pré- ou l'llistoire de julien delmour; a trans- vented him from acceding to her soli- lation of which has just appeared under citation. madame de genlis shortly the title of the new Æra.* in this after ascertained that the princess de work she has given an interesting picture conti, her pupil's aunt, was in switzer- of the state of society and manners in land, and residing at friburglı. to her france for the last thirty years, and she she advised mademoiselle d'orleans to adduces amidst all the horrors of the re- appeal for protection, which the princess volution examples of sublime piety and most readily granted, and at the ex- devoted attachment, which will, doubt- piration of a month, sent the countess less, throw a gleam of lustre on that un- de pons st. maurice to escort the young happy period. lady to friburgh. * there is still another work of madame after this separation from her pupil, de genlis' forthcoming, but it was written whom madame de genlis was most prior to les parvenus. : (july , original poetry. nor vainly at thy hands shall passion seek, o roam not there, the soul-felt language of delight or pain, thou mourner fair, but hanging o'er thy page with changeful nor pour the fruitless tear; cheek, thy 'plaint of woe, and flashing eye-find thine unearthly is all too low, strain, the dead, they cannot hear. like a clear mirror-give the life of life the northern star again. is set afar; perhaps 'tis well thy varied song should end set in the raging sea ; with him—the glorious image of the day:* and the billows spread thy verse personified. 'tis thine to blend, the sandy bed opposing graces'with harmonious sway, that holds thy love from thee. like that embodied emblem of thy lay. as conscious power, and beautiful disdain, are there attemper'd with the purest ray birth-day stanzas. of loveliness-e'er lent on earth to reigo; addressed and inscribed to a young lady, so to forgiveness melts thy strong indig- who became of age on the anniversary nant strain. birth-day of her royal highness the farewell a while! for we shall one day late princess charlotte, january the th, meet, . perchance in brighter spheres, if not in still dear to that love, which e'en time can- this. not change, oh, who can see hope's early visions fleet, ; and 'shrin'd in the mem'ry which ne'er nor turn to other worlds for views of bliss! shall decay; where malice cannot sting, nor envy hiss! and biss! and fix'd, like those planets whose orbs nor merit rise, a mark for folly's dart, never range, (her dart, though blunt, is seldom known is the fond recollection that hallows to- to miss); day. nor love be deemed the weakness of the for this morning beam'd bright on our heart; princess's birth, nor souls, in ienderest bonds entwined, tore. and when dazzling with splendour its doom'd to part. day-star arose; oh! who that rejoic'd in its dawn o'er the the northern star. earth, could dream of the darkness that shroud- written at tynemouth, northumberland, ed its close. on the loss of a ship so named in the baltic trade. yet as dear, and as welcome it still shall remaid, the northern star, still gladness shall hail it with minstrelsy's saild o'er the bar, lay; bound to the baltic sea ; and friendship, and love still unite in the in the morning grey strain she stretch'd away,-- that hails the returning of beauty's birth- 'twas a weary day to me. day. and many an hour, whilst to thee, rosabelle! may each hope in sleet and shower, of thy heart, by the light hlouse rock i stray; each wish of thy lov'd natal morning be and watch till dark, given; for the winged bark till, like her whom we mourn, when calld of him that's far away. hence to depart, the castle's bound thy life's sun set on earth, to rise parer i wander round, ia heaven! among the grassy graves; james. but all i hear is the north wind drear, pitt. and all i see the waves. a song, written for an anniversary pesti- ral of the pitt club, may , . * the resemblance of lord byron's hail to the morn, that claims our lay poetry to the apollo belvedere appeared too to deck the patriot's fame! fancilul to the writer of these lines, until when glory sheds her purest ray justified by the beautiful comparison of his round pitt's illustrious name: genius to grecian sculpture in general, that name to every heart is dear, which has appeared in prose so energetic it lives on every tongue; and poetical, that lo quote it would throw and still shall each succeeding year, the preceding address too far into shade. his virtue's praise prolong. + see childe harold's sublime soliloquy while pitt's lov'd memory yet we own, in the coliseum, ending with--forgiveness. the bulwark of his monarch's thirone ! . colonel fitzclarence's overlund journey from india to england. like albion's cliffs he met the storm, her thunders filled his hand; when treason, mask'd in angel form, spread terror through the land. then england's peace his firmness savid, 'midst states to ruin hurlid; and britain, by his counsels, bravd that wrath which shook the world! then pitt's dear memory still be known, the ægis of our monarch's throne ! janes. tud critical remarks on new publications. colonel fitzclarence's overlind forty, principally italians. sanguine hopes jouniey from india o englund. were entertained of underselling our west india markets in the miediterranean, and ( concluded from p. .) furnishing the coasts of the black sea, on the th of february, colone! greece, dalmatia, and italy, with sugar and fitzclarence sailed from bantry in a vessel spirits of a superior kind, at a very reason- belonging to the east india company, able price. should this system be carried and on the th of the following month on to any large extent, which i think highly he landed at copeir on the coast of the probable if the present pacha lives, i have red sea,from whence he set out the same no doubt it will make a serious change in day for kheune on the nile, in order to the vent of our west india produce." proceed down that river to cairo. at a high character follows of this chief, khenne, he was entertained by a gentle- and the colonel says, man named anderson, who, though of "i have no doubt, should the son of the british parentage, was completely igno- present pacha be as great a man as his rant of the english language, having father, that egypt will be separated from been born at constantinople. in com- turkey for ever." pany with this person, our author paid a at the house of mr. salt, the colonel visit to dendera, of which he gives a found mr. belzoni, whose important description, but without taking any discoveries have justly excited universal notice of the celebrated zodiac, admiration. a long disquisition is here introduced “ he possesses to an astonishing degree, on the similarity between the ancient the secret of conciliating the arabs, and religion of egypt, and the present one of literally makes them do what he chooses. the hindoos; but though the subject is his commanding figure, amazing strength treated ingeniously, nothing of course and y and height, aid him much in his enter- can he decided upon the question, prizes. in moving the head of the young whether the asiatics borrowed from the memnon, which has been sent to the british eryptians, or, as is more probable, the museum, and the bulk of which made the latter were indebted for their mythos to french despair of carrying it away, he had the indians. nothing to assist him but what he found from khennè the colonel proceeded upon the spot. lle projects some most down the nile, hoping to overtake the extraordinary researches, and every success english consul, mr. salt, who had passed is to be expected from his genius; but he intends preriously to return once more to along in his return from thebes a little thebes, and bring down the alabaster sar- before; but in this he was disappointed; cophagus. he at the same time means to and after a tedionis passage of ten davs, complete a work he has undertaken, which reached that gentleman's house at cairo. will be the first of the kind ever carried out at rhodomon, he stopped to inspect an of egypt. it is the entire model of a suite extensive sugar manufactory, carried on of rooms lately discovered in the tombs of by mr. brine, an englishman, who is in the kings of thebes, all the walls of which partnership with the pacha. being covered with beautiful carving, fac " the improvements under contemplation similes will be taken of them in moulds of were very considerable, and the whole mani. wax, and the whole so exactly executed, and factory had an appearance of success. mr. put into their respective places, that no dif- brine told me he got his coppers princi; allyference or deficiency will be found in the from trieste, but had several english. he representation. this work has been com- also gave me a glass of his rum, intended menced ahout two or three months, ant le for the european market; for the pacha is hopes in another year to accomplish all the more a money-making man than a meho- models, which will give, when corrpleted, a metan, and has no objection to compound most correct and distinct idea of the gran- intoxicating liquors for infidels, if we pay deur and nagniticence of the egyptian se- well for them. 'it was very excellent; equal pulchres. his attachment to the british to any rum i ever tasted. i mei many nation has been, he says, the principal spur europeans in every part of the manufactory, of the manufactory, to his endeavours. i am convinced, if mr. and learnt that there were no fewer than salt and himsell are properly supported by nav monthly maq.- no. . vol. xi. y .) col. fitzclarence's overland journey from india to england. making in all seven pieces. the foor of “upon enquiring about tambuctoo, the the chamber has been forced up in several hadjee laughed at our pronunciation, the places, doubtless in search of treasure. name of the city being timbuctoo; it is under one of these stones he found a piece situated about two hours' journey from the of metal, evidendy the head of an iron mallet great river. le says, the king of tim- or hatchet. this, which he was so good as bucwo is a negro, and resides at kabra, to give me, i also intend for the british which is the port of timbuctoo, being upon museum. very high up in the centre of the niger. the houses, he slates, ar: low the wall, there are two small square holes, and mean; the inhabitants have no shops, about two feet in diameter, one to the north but there are slulls for selling the necessarien and the other to the south. they are of othe under leather tents. the habitations considerable depth, like those in the great are built of ciay and loose stones, though chamber of the first pyramid, and i cannot some of then ust be two stories bigh from conjecture what can possibly have been their their having stairs. he says, there are use. mosques at timbuctoo; which agrees with si on the wall of the western side of the the evidence of hadjee benaier, who chamber is an arabic inscription, which asserty that there are mahometans there,' declares this pyramid was opened by the and some of no religion at all;' while masters, mahomed el aghar and olmau, hadje taiub's account is that all religions and inspected in the presence oi the sultan, are tolerated; the majority of the inha- ali mahomed, the st yugluck: beizoni bitants are', according to his description, stated there were several inscriptions on the negrues. the cow at limbuctoo has a walls, but i was not satisfied as to the cha- bump upon its should .r, and appears rather racter in which they were writlen. the larger than the indian cow; those the crystals on the walls had formed most nalives ride on." beautiful shapes, and so hard that it was with great difficulty i broke some off to with respect to the niger, he states keep as relics of my interesting excursion. that it runs towards the east, or, as he on the left hand side of the passage, on term. it, towarus mecal. he has iuva- returning a few feet from the great chamber, riably called it the nil, but another per- two arabic inscriptions give the names of ou bord, of the nine wf hidjee be- two men who had visited this pyramid; the nater, calls it din, but confiring the in: last thing worthy of note which i remarked teresting fact which was so long contesto in the interior of this stupendo is laorici el, of the river running to the east. the issuing from which we revisited the light of niver is reported to be a quarter of a mile day." broad at kabra, but in the sumner it is on the th of april, the colonel much more considerable. hadjee galub quitted cairo for alexan irii, wiere he has un lerstood that the river runs into a embarked on board the tagus frigite, in large fresh water sea in the interior of which ship he found his brotier, serving the country, whicli he calls beiner solo as an officer under captain dundas. din; that from this sea the nile of this vessel came thither fir the purpose egypt takes its rise, so that he calls it of conveying home one two sons of the the same river; and that half way to emperor of morico, wiro ha! been on a cairo there are great falls and cataracts pilgrimage to mecca : of which juurney which prevent boats from passing. this they gave an account that serves to account of the source of the nile, may, diversify the present narrative. but however, be reasonably doubted. the the most important information derived hoats in the river are of a middling size, from this source, and here detailed, is fat-bottomed, having no sails, and con. had been often visited on coinmercial ed of the bark of trees, and some of speculations by hadjee talub ben them are as large as a frigate's launch, jelow, the governor of the princes. or about twenty-eight feet long. our this man appears not only to have been informant, hadjee t'alub, adds, that cro- extremely intelligent, hut very commu- codiles abound in the river, are very vo- nicative ; and there can be no doubt of racious, and are taken by being harpoon- the verity of his statement, since he could ed with an instrument with five prongs. have had no inducement to practice de. there are vast quantities of fish in the ception. niger, which, froin their colour and size, are supposed to be salmon. hadjee • unfortunately for antiquarian conjec- benata states, that timbuctoo is three tures, these fragments are found to have times the size of alexandria; and hadiee belonged to an animal of the bos genus, talub conceives the population to be probably the remains of an apis.-ed. about , , and represents their cha. col. fitzclarence's overland journey from india to england. (jus , racter as being good and friendly, though they dress with the turban, and place it is helas heard of people being shot for many folds round their head and face, s thef, and of offenders being beat on the as to project a great way, serving back with the skin of an animal dried and guard, and leaving only the eye upcovered, they are armed with a long sword, ster cut into thonys. he says there are cocoa on both sides, though some of then carria nuts and dates in abundance, and water- javelin. for defence they have a shut melons in great plenty, but all grow made of leather, about fire feet long and too wild, there being no garden whatever. 'broad, which covers their whole prots. the woods in the neighbourhood of their dress consists of a blue shirt ! timbuctoo are described as being full of white trowsers. he represents the ropa game, and lions and beasts of prey are as being very fat, and having a protu. often scen in the neighbourhood of the ance behind like the hottentot women, town. hares and rabbits are in vast whom we have heard so much. the shots quantities, and the only dog they have lahs receive a certain tribute from the se teh groes of timbuctoo, and nerer cross the is a greyhoud, which is trained to catch groe river. during the summer they refun ( ) those animals: cats they have nove. the day's journey to the east, but in winter code city is well supplied with every kind of close to the city. their pomen perlust a provision, and it is customary for the na- the agricultural labours in the field. tives to eat elephant's flesh, which ani “we made inquiries respectioz the cars- mal is stated to exist in immense herds vans froni fez to timbuctoo, and from in the vicinity. their flesh appeared timbuctoo in various other directions. be palatable to hadjee talub, tasting like says he travelled by the regular cararan heef, but being quite white. they are three montis and ten days from fer to ferocious animals, and will attack singlc timbuetoo, but the year alter be went the persons, which obliges men who ride same journey with a guide and two guards in twenty nine days, on a herrie, perlors. alone to carry a liorn to frighten them ing four days' journey in one. away. there are two methods of hunt- there is de want of water during the winter time; bet ing the elephants, one hy driving them hordes of arabs attack travellers at that s into the river, where men by swimming son. the herrie is mentioned as being the vet on their backs, and cut and destroy fleetest animal that can be conceived ; is them; the other by driving them into like a dromedary, but is as superior in speed pits, and there butchering them: a few to the generality, as a race horse is to a cart are tained. horse. " as to their commerce it is carried on there runs a tradition that there was at between fez and timbucico generally by one time a regular caravan from timbucho caravans, which leare the former p'ace in direct to cairo, but the disturbed state of the march and october, as does that of mecca mors country has of late rendered it so unsate as at the same season. the articles which sell to prevent it allogether. indeed, as ( shullahs accompanied the caravan from fes best at timbucioo are salt, tobacco, euro- pean scarlet cloth, and english painted cot- to mecca, having come from timbuctoo for tons, besides pistols and guns. this traffic that purpose, captain dundas thinks, ir which ladjee talub agrees with him, that returns elephants' teeth (of which two are so large as to be a load for a camel,) slaves, and there is now no direct communication be gold. the gold is generally in small bags, tween that city and cairo. with resort in each of which is an ounce, valued at fil- to intercourse toward the east and south- teen dollars: it is extremely pure and fine: east, our traveller speaks of houssa beisg a considerable city, but at such they have also pieces of gold weighing about a distance from timbuctoo that the latter city is only five ounces. this precious article is very half way between it and fez. it is described common, and comes from the south-west, where it is found in great quantities. the to be a place of great traffic, where the negroes wear bracclets and other ornaments cloth used by the inhabitants of timbocze of this metal, and hadjee has presented is manulactured. neither he nor haciet captain dundas with some gold articles, benata know any thing of wassana, at consisting of part of a necklace, a pair of though they are acquainted with a large ear-rings, and some braids for the hair, si- place, twenty days' journey south-east frog milar to the filagree work of the archipe- timbuctoo, calied massana beyond the lago of the eastern seas; which he states place, to the south-east, are a people sbe that the workmen manufactured as they do eat their prisoners. in java and sumatra, in the house of their " during our various conversations, hadjee talub mentioned, that eleven year! employer, by whom they are hired like jour- neymen. ago, in , when at timbuctoo, he heard “ he speaks of a tribe call d shullahs, of two white inen, who came from the sea, who are a savage race, living in leather having been near that city. this was the tents, and of a varlike and brave spirit. year before he arrived at timbuctoo, ad par les .) letters of advice from a lady of distinction. * lo stupeysa pi he understood that the white men sold beads, opinion for themselves from the table of as they had no money to purchase grain. contents, which is as follows:- he adds, that they went down the nile to “ concerning the disposition or inclina- the eastward, and that general report stated tion of a wife-on the inclination or dispo- tion of a wife that they had died of the climate. this ap- sition of a husband-respecting those who peared to captain dundas and myself to al- visit through ceremony-concerning the jude to, and certainly all circumstances tend visits cf intimate acquaintances--on the to prove that these persons were mr. park continuation of affection-on irresolution and lieutenant martyn, who could have ar- or weakness of disposition or tenper-on rived there about that period. however, disputes which arise u pon trivial occasions- the pacific conduct and friendly intercourse on what may be termed absolute quarrels montioned by hajee talub disagrees with -on fickleness of disposition- confi- the journal of amadi fatonma, who speaks dence and secrets-oi natural imperfections of hostility taking place off timbuctoo, , or defects--on the proper government of which city is not in the niger; and in what the thoughts--of agreement of thoughts regards the fate of these gentlemen, they in the concerns of life--the necessity and differ as to the mode of their death. propriety of circumspection in a wile's be- " it was natural that we should attempt haviour and deportment-on similitude or to ascertain it it was practicable for a frank agreement of tempers--on agreement or to pass from fez to timbuctoo, and if he conformity of sentiments-of being in pub- thought the emperor of morocco would lic and in private in the presence of a hus- assist the views of any englishman in reach- band-on the government of conversation ing that city, which he answered with the - of the proper management of a fa- greatest confidence in the affirmative. as mily." to any danger with the caravan, he expresses though this correspondence passed a conviction that there is not the slightest; between persons in the highest station of but singly, he thinks, that great risks would life, the advice is equally adapted for the be hazarded. i further asked him, whether, conduct of the humblest members of so- if duly rewarded, he would accompany me ciety; and the style is of that level, fami- to timbuctoo, to which he assented with the jiar description, which is best suited to utmost readiness; and added, that we could reach that city in forty-seven days from fez give effect to friendly monition. having on horseback, and that he would forfeit his said thus much in a general way, we shall life if he did not bring me back safe." confirin the remark by some detached passages, taken from the letters as they our author, after a tedious voyage up occur, without any attempt to classify the mediterranean, got on board the them under any arrangement. packet at gibraltar, and arrived on the th of june at falmouth. " when a woman becomes pleased with flattery, she is not displeased with the flat- the copious extracts we have made terer. she may therefore shew him marks, from this interesting volume render any though innocent, of her favour; but rest as. observation upon the composition of it sured, that the husband who hears a man superfluous, and therefore we shall compliment his wife, and perceives that he conclude with saying, that it is elegantly is rather a favourite with her, will become printed, and that the plates do equal uneasy. if an explanation should take credit to the author and the artist who place, there will be disquietude; for suspi- engraved his designs. cion, however slight, on so nice a point, will affect you materially. if, however, he should remain silent, he will continue to observe leiters of advice from a lady of dis. with circumspection, and the jealous eye al- tinction, addressed to the late duchess ways sees more than there really is."-" be of* **********, shortly after her mar- not in haste to appear the married woman, nor think that a look of care or intense riuge. mo. pp. . thought becomes you, or is the mark by instead of introducing this inestimable which it may be known. care approximates little volume with any formal language very nearly to sorrow: at least in the indir of commendation, of which it stands in cations by which it shews itself upon the no need, we shall only observe, that the countenance. i would not have you enter letters were written in the vear , by tain a thought of sorrow because you are one of the most excellent and accom- married, nor would i have you look as if plished ornaments of the british court. you repented of it. it would be doin, in- justice to your husband, and it is a measure to her relation, whose attractions and calling for compassion to yourself: but if talents long gave her an ascendency in in you have the true spirit of a woman, you will the fashionable hemisphere. of the na- know that there is no insult so great as the ture and value of the banquet here dis- pity which other people pretend to have played, our readers will best form an for us." han de regering *** listy new publications, with critical remarks. [july , the concluding pages are devoted to entering upon at present, though it is the affecting story of vatel, froin a letter fully worthy of succeeding to the banquet of madame de sévigné, which is given before us); and still more recently a in a translation among the notes in a mock epic poem, called the vestriad, or style worthy of the elegant original. the the opera, in five cantos; which, from rest of the notes contain many humour- what we have heard and seen of it, seems ous and classical allusions and intertain- likely to prove one of the most engaging ing anecdotes. and popular works of this class in the the author has since added a “ des- language, sert" (which our limits prevent us from lu vi u v monthly register. agriculture. possess surprising merit, and prove that the study communications to the board of agric of the antique which prevailed in italy during the culture, on subjects relative to husbandry th century was common to this couutry also. of the execution of the plates we cannot speak ton and internal improvement of the country. highly, but as in a number executed by different vol. i. part . vo. s. artists, some must be better than others, we are architecture. coinpelled to say that the views of messrs. byrne, hlustrations of the architectural antiqui- lee, and the two le keux, appear to deserre par. ties and sculpture of lincoln cathedral. by ticular notice; nor would we wish to be invidious, c. wild. plates. atlas to. but truth demands it of us to say, that the choir in the general advancement of british arts the by mr. john le keux ranks pre eminent not only topographical department of all others is univer in this collection, but of any of the plates that se sally admitted to have attained the nearest ap. have seen executed by this celebrated artist. proximation to perfection, a superiority which may arts. prolably result from the general encouragement it liber veritas, or a collection of prints derives from that species of patriotism which after the original designs of claude de lor- males every man more or less a lover and collector rain, in the collection of his grace the duke of our national antiquities. in this class the work of devonshire, earl spencer, richard payne before us bas considerable claims to our commen. knight, benj. west, charles lambert, ed- dation, both as it conveys a comprehensive, and we doubt oot, a just idea of one of the most magnifi. cent edifices of which our county can boast. it farrington, esqrs. executed by richard exhibits, on a scale hitherto un precedented, the earlom. vol. , folio, . s. d. various excellencies of our most eminent archi. views in greece. by e. dodwell, esq. tectural engravels. in this illustration the srieg. part , imperial folio, . s. d. tific and the picturesque are judiciously combined, bibliography. the leading features of each part of the fabric bibliotheca britannica by rob. watt, heing given geometrically and in detail, and their m. d. part . no. . to. u. ls. general effert by perspective representations pos. a catalogue of old books, being vol. sessing that precision in drawing, and oberness of chiaro-scuro for which mr. vild's pencil is so justly of the second part of longman and co.'s admired. in the historical and descriptive ac. catalogue for - . vo. s. d. count, the author has with great propriety confined barrington's catalogue of scarce books in himself most scrupulously to his subject, and by all languages. is. d. this means has given us a very large portion of real biography. information in a short compass. it would be im. the life of sir thomas bernard, bart. possible to give our reallers any idea of the work by the rey, james baker, his nephew and by extracts, but we cannot forbcar to glance at a executor. vo. s. d. portion of the earlier history of that celebrated a biographical dictionary of the worthies building. the cathedral church or lincoln was of ireland. by richard ryan. vo. vol. . originally crected by remigius, one of the first b shops appointed to an english see by william s. the conqueror, and that part of the present west this specimen of a work truly national is de- front is undoubtedly of thal age. in +, ibe serving of a place in the library of every irishman larger portion of the church having been injured who is a lover of his country. many of the lives by fire, it underwent a thorough repair by alexan. in this volume are now for the first time printed. der (the patron of henry of huntingdon) whose and even more that are not of that description style of architecture is also excmplified in the west contain much new information, and the whole ar- entrance. pears to have been compiled with the most inde. the presen: choir and chapter house, with some fatigable industry and care. much entertaining other parts specified, were built by ougi de gre. anecdote is displayed throughout the volume, but noble, better known by the title of saint flugi, be still we cannot help thinking that the witticisms tween the years and , the nave, transept, so liberally scattered in each succeeding page are and tower, in the first, and the presbytery in the incompatible with the sober gravity of a biogra. last part of the thirteenth century, so that it exhi. pher. the preface has considerable claims to zt bits the progressive advancement of the pointed tention, as it contains much curious matcer relating style from its first adoption to its arrival at a stale to ireland; it is written with great energy, and of comparative excellence. this cathedral is nar. bear the stamp of a superior and classical mind. ticularly rich in sculptural embellishment, and the the life of the right reverend father bas reliefs and statues givea in this work seem to in god thomas wilson, d.d. lord bishop .) new publications, with critical remarks * si thn clarke's essavo von rathing scriotion of the various plaps of explanation with practical observations on diseases of adopted by mr. relfe. we must however, observe, the skin, bilious, liver complaints and that his mode of exhibiting the major and minor dropsy, s, d. scales-of marking the situations of the senii- tones, (diagrams and .) and thereby enabling · among the many subjects discussed in this the student to make an immediate comparison important essay, are the variety of baths in use between each major key and its relative minor, is scale of their temperature.-cold bath, its pri- certainly the best of the kind that we have had the mary and general effects on the body-danger of good fortune to meet with; and dia.li, in which the going cool into the water-advantages to be ex. enharmonic scaleis shown by three notes, placed pected from cold bathing-diseases said to have aid to have in different stave in different taves of the same bar-presenting been cured by cold bathing. ses bathing im- identity in sound.but difference in rotation, forms proper in all eruptive complaints--other cases in a useful practical lesson to the piano-forte perforiner, which the crid bath or sea bathing is injurious - but the most novel and important feature in the shower bath-cool bath.-tepid bath,-its musical seroll, is mr. relfe's new plan of thorough effects on the body-the best adapted for the bass figuring. it is matter of surprise, that no purpose of cleanliness-advantagrs of tepid bath fixed system for designating the clords of thorough ing during pregnancy-custom of the peasant bass has hitherto been establislied. its utility women in ireland-tepid bathing in infancy-dur must be obvious to every musical composer; and, ing puberty-in the middle age-in old age- besides, what adrantage cau be gained from means of prolouging hinnan existenccrussian buithening and perplexing the memory of the mode of bathing practised in dublin.- warm tarner with the various modes of figuring which bath, its immediate effects on the body--iis. have heretofore been einployed. nr. relfe's plan cases in which the warm bath is useful-best time seems adcquate to every purpose for which it is for warm bathing-catching cold, after warın bath. intended, and we see no reason why it should not ins, a groundiess fcar-warrn bathing use!ul in the be goberally followed. a desire to avoid the influenza fortifies the syste.n against cold.- tedious and inelegant diffuseness so common in medicated or sulphur bath,-its effects on the the writings of musical professors, bas, perhaps, skin-the saltwater bath injurious to the shiu. led the author into the opposite crror of exueme diseases of the skin cause of cutaneous eruptions brcvity. the publication is, however, adınirably on the face the medicated bath or artificial waters calculated to facilitate the acquisition of the rudi. of baregc- the bath used by bonaparte--by julius ments of barmony; and, we accordingly recom- cæsar-by tenry th of france.hot bath,-ils mend it as a useful assistant to beginners, whilst effects on the body--douches or dry pumping. at the same time it affords improving exercises vapour bath, its immediate effects on the body to the student more advanced in musical theory. -useful in fovers-used by the africans in fever - the child's introduction to thorough pulmometer--description of a turkish bath and bass, in conversation. to. s. shampooing--vapour of boiling tar-general in- natural history. structions for cold, warm, and vapour bathing. naturales curiosæ. curiosities in natural popular obserrations on the diseases of history ; taken from authentic reports of literary and sedentary persons. to which eminent travellers. by joseph taylor. fc. s. are added, hints for their prevention and novels, romances, &c. removal. by w. a. pearkes. vo. s. d. the new Æra; or, adventures of julien transactions of the society instituted at delmour, related by himself: a french na- london for the encouragement of arts, tional tale. by madame de genlis. vols. manufactures, and commerce, with the s. premiums offered in , vol. . s. d. this interesting fiction exhibits a view of society prolegomena to every future metaphysic and manners in france for the last thirty years. which can appear as a science ; from the like the ingenious author of " gil blas," the writer german of kant. by john richardson, vo. has described personages of all ranks, and criticised s. every thing which in manners appeared to her ra. principles of science. by cecil hartley, prehensible or ridiculous. mo. is. the hermit in london; or, sketches of a description of the process of manu- english manners; forming a companion to facturing coal gas. by f. accum, vo, s, the “ hermite de la chaussée d'aptin." theory and practise of gas lighting. by vols. s. j. s. peckerton. vo. . views of society and manners in the north 'tis pleasant through the loop-holes of retreat to peep at such a world; to see the stir of ireland. by john gamble, esq. vo. . oi the great babel, and not feel the crowd. music. cowper. a muschedula, or music scroll ; exhibit- the carriage. by maria benson. mo. ing an epitome of the whole science of . . music. by j. relfe, musician in ordinary the pleasures of want; or in love and to his majesty. not in love; a novel. vols. s. d. considerable praise is due to the author of this robin hood, a tale of the olden time. : little publication, for the clearness and brevity . s. with which he has explained the first elements of dudley, a novel. by miss o'keefe. the theory of music. the instructions are conveyd vols, mo. il. ls. in a series of twenty diagrams, which being all ex- hibited in a single sheet, are placed immediately errors and their consequences ; or, m€. under the eye of the learner. our limits do not, moirs of an english family, vols. mo, of course, enable us to enter into a detailed de s. (july , new publications, with critical remarks. the authoress, a tale. by the author childe albert; or the misanthrope, and of “ rachel." fools. vo. . other poems. vo. . gogmagog hall; or, the philosophical philibert, a poetical romance. by thos. lord and the governess. vols. s. e. grattan. vo. s. d. the veteran; or, matrimonial felicity. the lay of agincourt, with other poems, & vols. s. the waggoner, and other poems. by the smugglers, a tale, descriptive of the w. wordsworth. bro. s. d. sea coast. vols. mo. s. d. eastern sketches, in verse. by henry the united irishmen; or, the fatal ef- gally knight. vo. s. d. fects of credulity. vols, mo. s. mazeppa, a poem. by lord byron, tales of my landlord. third series ; vo. s. d. containing, the bride of lammermuir, and tales of the hall. by the rey. g. crabbe. a legend of the wars of montrose. vols. vols. vo. . s. mo. s. richardetto, canto and , from the itz. the exhibition, a poem. by a painter. lian. vo. s d. vo. pp. . the gentleman, a satire, written in the the author of this feeble performance appears years , , , and , with other be too good-natured for a satyrist, like peter pin- poems and notes. vo. s. . dar; and he is equally deficient in the requisite a poetical epistle from alma mater to qualifications for being a panegyrist. if his pallet lord byron. vo. is. is not more productive than . pen, we are afraid edmund and anna, a simple ballad, with the observation may be applied to him in a sense not very fattering_" ut pictura poesis." that we olher poems. by e. green. fc. s. are not uncharitable in the remark, we shall shew, dunrie, a poem. by harriet erving. fc. by letting the bard speak for himself and his friends. . " chantrey's a worthy name! those children slept the angler, a poem, in four cantos. by a lovely sleep in marble. bone's enamels john henry church. fc. vo. s. are precious things. and what should intercept politics and political economt. my mentioning thice, kenton, as the lay swells; a defence of the poor laws; wito a plan rich, classic, vigorous, thy works have ciept for the suppression of mendicity. by s. around, and hold my mind in gentle trammels. roberts. vo. . d. idridge's portraits are rich and powerful, like some in oil, or gardens when they're flower- observations on the poor lavs. by jas. full." macphail. vo. s. alas! this is neither poetry nor painting ! observations on the philosophy of crimi. nal jurisprudence. by j. e. bichero. sie. more broad grins; or, mirth versus me s, lancholy. mo. pp. . wheatley's report on the report of the there is a servile race of rhymestors continually bank committees. vo. s. d. aping those who have succeeded in ministering further considerations on the state of the public taste. the author of these trifles is one the currency. by the earl of lauderdale. of this numerous family, and thouglı not altogether destitute of humour, or a knack of versitying, he a practicable plan for manning the royal falls so far short of colman, as to render the imita. tions extremely wretched in the comparison. this navy. by thomas trotter, m.d. svo. is the natural consequence of such attempts, and is just the same as the conduct of a teeble, but vain a sketch of the causes of decay in the artist, in presuming to place a picture of his paint legislative government and representation ing liy the sirie of one of reynolds or vandyke, to of the country. vo. s, d. slew how well he has caught the manner of these comments on some recent political dis- masters. cussions, with an exposure of the fallacy of the vestriad; or the opera, a mock the sinking fund. by a. ii. chambers, epic poem, in five cantos. by hans esq. vo. . d. busk, esq. author of the “ banquet," the observations on emigration to poland, * desseri," &c. vo. with several finely and the agriculture of that country, in pre- executed plates, s. ference to america. . d. the fall of the leaf, and other poems. insecurity of the british funds, an essay by charles bucke. vo. . d. on public credit. by david flame. with cries out of the depths, poems on sa- an abridgement of jeremy bentham's ra- cred subjects. by mary parsons. roy. mo. dical reform. by dr. colquhoun, is. od. s. d. theology, the new tory guide. foolscap vo. s. od. a brief, harmonized, and paraphrastic lyrical dramas, with domestic hours. exposition of the gospel. by the rer, by cornelius neale, fc vo. s. george wilkin, a. m. vo. s. lays of affection. by margaret brown. thoughts on baptism, as an ordinance of fc. vo. s. proselytism; including observations on the dramatic scenes, with other poems. by controversy respecting terms of conimu- barry cornwall. fc. vo. s. nion. by agnostos. vo. s. · buonaparte, an epistle in metre from st. sermons on the seasons. by archibald *helena: to which are added, sauve qui alison. fc. vo. s. peut, waterloo, &c. mo, s. d. philosophical dialogues on the re-union .) vurieties, scientific notices, &c. s. of the different communions of the late isles. by w. tarton, m. d. roy. ms. baron starch. vo. . whitaker's critical enquiry into the in- a topographical dictionary of scodend. terpretation of hebrew scripture. vo. s. by david webster. vo. s. strictures on a recent publication, entitled statistical annals of america by a. the church her own enemy. by the rev. seybert, m. d. . . . d. r. lloyd. vo. . an itinerary of greece, with maps. by select scriptural proofs of the trinity. sir william gell. vo. s. by the very rev. richard graves, d.d. voyages and travels. vo. s. narrative of a journey to persia, in the two dissertations, the first on the evi- suite of the imperial russian embassy, in dence on which men helieve in the christian the year . by moritz de kotzebue. revelation; the second on the design of vo. . the law of moses. by william innes, travels in various countries of the east, mo. s. more particularly persia. containing oho topography. servations on the state of those countries in osonia antiqua restaurata, no. x. to. , , and . by sir william ouseley. os. d. with atlas. to. ). s. d. topographical antiquities of the history a classical and topographical tour of printing in england, scotland, and ire- through greece, during the years , land. by the late j. ames. by the rev. , and . by edward dodwell, esq. t. f. dibdin. vol. iv. . !, s. éd. . vols., with plates, by charles a chronological dictionary of the british heath and others. . s. varieties interary, scientific, &c. geology.--the following circumstance the equinoxes, of the moon, of the planetary is vell worthy the attention of those who iniluences, of the accidents of the weather, study the philosophy of the globe :--althe sc. jccording to my opinion, they contain back of the castle of namur there is a hill, nothing more than the d, the number of at the foot of which was formerly a spring seconds in a circle; the lst, d, and th, of water. during the construction of the the decimal seconds in two days, one day. new fortifications of the town and citadel of and hall a day : for namur, the spring was, however, blocked d, x x " = , , . up, and it subsequently disappeared. the st, h x x = , , . farmers in the vicinity observed some vio- d, h x x = , . lent commotion under ground, on all parts th, h x x = , . of the hill; and nothing could equal their some old bramin and mystic has proba. surprise on ascertaining that the action of bly made of these seconds, years; and this is the waters of the spring had undermined the probably the origin of these chimerical four hill, and that it was moving in a mass, with ages of the world. as far as i know, none out either sinking or cracking. in a short of those who have hitherto attempted an ex- time all that part of the road leading to di planation has hit upon this idea. pant was completely covered by the hill, a little volcano bas recently made its ap- and it has been found necessary to throw a to throw a pearance on pearance on a mountain near morbio, a bridge across the meuse to the bank leading village in the swiss canton of tessin. the to ivoir. the country people in the neigh- explosion was preceded by an earthquake. bourhood have given it the name of the the dames ascended to a considerable walking-hill; and it has been observed, height above the summit of the mountain, that the weight of the water, which daily and masses of stone were hurled to a great augments, moves it in the direction of the distance. on the following day a large bank of the meuse. this is a circumstance opening was observed in the mountain, from worthy the curiosity of the learned. which the flames still issued with a strong astronomical conjecture. the celebrat- smell of sulphur. great damage was sus- ed astronomer bode, of berlin, says-“ en- tained by some houses in the neighbour- quirers into ancient astronomy and chrono- hood, but no lives were lost. the date of logy often speak of the four periods into this event corresponds with that of the late which the ancient indians divided the dura- disasters in sicily. tion of the world. the first is said to have the electricily of the human body. contained , , years; the second dr. hartmann, of francfort on the oder, , , ; the third ' , ; and the has published in a german medical jour- fourth, in which we live, will , years. nal, a statement, according to which he is great paids have been taken to attribute to able to produce at pleasure an efflux of these numbers (which the indians call yug,) electrical matter from his body towards other mysterious astronomical significations; and, persons. you hear the crackling, see the in modern times, attempts have been made sparks, and feel the electric shock. he has to connect them with the periods of the may now acquired this faculty to so high a degree, netic poles of the earth, of the precession of that it depends solely on his own pleasure to vurieties, scientific notices, fe. [july , make an electric spark issue from his fin the city has not existed above a century. i gers, or to draw it from any other part of was informed that the emperor alexander his body. thus in this electrical man, the annually expends a million of roubles in em- will has an influence on the developement of bellishing his palaces, and the nobility, vie the electricity, which had not hitherto been with each other in the splendour of their re- observed, except in the electrical eel. sidences. from an accurate observation of * antiquities.--it is well known that the the power and resources of russia, i am french department of jura contains a vast persuaded that that empire has acquired a number of antique monuments, either celtic preponderance which will enable it in future or roman. during some recent diggings to brave every coalition. the russian go- on a piece of uncultivated ground, near the vernment can raise a million of troops, and high road between strasburgh and lyons, nothing is spared for the discipline and the remains of some edifices were discovered, maintenance of this force. the imperial equally remarkable for their extent and sin guard, which is quartered in st. peters. gularity. they consist of brick closets, burgh, may be considered the finest military twelve or fifteen in number, furnished with corps in europe. it consists of , men, leaden columns or pipes, air holes, and a and, as they are well paid, and enjoy certain vaulted stove made of stone. the latter privileges, it is considered an honour to be contained ashes and charcoal, in such a long to the corps. a fine figure is a great state of preservation, that it was easy to recommendation to those who wish to enter ascertain from what species of wood it had the imperial guard. a singalar custom of been produced. the monument resembles this corps is, that the officers wear corsets, hypocausta of the romans, and there is which contract their waists, and give them reason to suppose it has been an edifice of somewhat the appearance of insects. that kind. “ the emperor passes whole hours at the mr. henderson has discovered, in new school of horsemanship, and frequently re- siberia, the claws of a bird measuring each views the army in person. from what i a yard in length; and the yaknts assured could learn, the russian navy consists of him, they had frequently, in their hunting ships of war; and, though its sphere of ac- excursions, met with skeletons, and even tion is extremely limited, and it has to con- feathers, of this bird, the quills of which tend with various obstacles, yet new ships are were large enough to admit a man's arm. constantly building, and there is every rea- this is a fact in support of the tradition, son to believe that russia is determined to that the earth was formerly inhabited by establish an immense navy. cronstadt, at giants, for men, not exceeding ourselves in the head of the gulph of finland, is a great stature, would have been helpless against maritime depot. the dock-yards, arsenals, birds of prey of this magnitude. captain barracks, &c. are kept in the best order. in cook mentions having seen a monstrous the building of ships, the russiads seem bird's nest in new holland, on a low sandy principally to attend to strength and beauty; island, in endeavour river, with trees upon but, whether owing to the bad quality of the it, and an incredible number of sea fowl; he materials, or the effect of the climate, they found an eagle's nest with young ones which seldom last more than or years, and he killed, and the nest of some other bird, of frequently stand in need of repair. the a most enormous size; it was built with number of foreigners employed in the rus- large sticks upon the ground, and was no less sian navy is a serious drawback. they con- than six and twenty feet in circumference, sist of english, scotch, irish, americans, and two feet eight inches high. germans, &c. it is probable the russians a circumstance of a singular nature, and will seek a more extended theatre of opera- likely to attract the notice of mineralogists, tion, that they may not be obliged, as at especially in ireland, is at present the sub- present, to leave their ships for one half the ject of conversation among the literati of year in the dock yards. if ever they should dublin. an exceedingly ane specimen of become masters of turkey and the greek diamond crystallized, has been found in the islands, they will experience no difficulty in sand of a small stream in the north of ire- manning their ships; for the greeks are es- land. it is of the species called by lapida- cellent seamen, and they are already very ries the yellow diamond, of extreme beauty, numerous in russia." and remarkable size. paris, may, .-the english journal russia.- a german journal contains the published here with the title of galegnani's following extract of a letter from an officer messenger, stated some days ago, that the in the service of the united states, concern- remains of the celebrated actress, mrs. ing st. petersburgh, and russia in gene- jordan, who was buried at st. cloud, had ral : not yet any secure asylum, because nobody « though i was prepared to find st. pe- had paid for the ground, for which the tersburgh a magnificent city, yet, the reality municipality asked the triding sum of sixty exceeded my utmost expectations. i was francs. the journal added, that this sum astonished at the long streets, lined with pa- would soon be raised if every englishman laces, and intersected by canals, with quays, whom mrs. jordan had delighted by her built of granite, and innumerable bridges. performance on the stage would contribute there is nothing old in st. petersburgh, for a penny. immediately a great many .) varieties, scientific notices, fc. english came forward to pay the price of active correspondence with that of london. the ground, and in three days after, the these two establishments are now two foci publication of the article, the remains of the from which light is diffused over the whole celebrated actress were in safety. globe. thanks to their zeal, we shall among the new productions of french soon be acquainted with the moral con- literature, a work by mr. charles pongens, dition of all nations, by the means of in- is particularly worthy of notice. it is called struction which they employ. the society specimens du tresor des origines de la of paris at presents directs its attention to langue française, vol. to. printed at the elementary books. with this view it is the royal press. few authors have en- endeavouring to collect the elementary tered into such extensive researches into works in use in different nations, in order to etymology as mr. pongens, who is mem- choose the best, and to have similar ones ber of the academy of belles lettres. for composed. these forty years he has been engaged on the academic society of rouen, has pro- an etymological dictionary of the french posed as the subject of a prize essay, “the language. every word of the language is exposé of the civil and military admi- the subject of a learned dissertation, in nistration of normandy, under rolla, or which the author enumerates all the opin the other chiefs or dukes of the normans nions that have been given upon the word, who came from denmark. compares and discusses them. he follows amongst the individuals composing the the origin of all the known languages of mission from rome to st. helena, now in the east and west, making use of the this country, there are two possessed of characters peculiar to each language. considerable literary and scientific attain- hence this volume would not be printed ments. the abbé bonavita, a corsican any where except at the imprimerie by birth, independant of being a profound royale, which possesses the type of all classical scholar, and historian, is an ex- languages. the volume which mr. pongens cellent botanist, and well versed in natural has just published, is only an extract from history. m. antomarchi, also a corsican, his great work, which will form six volumes but domiciliated in france, and professor of in folio, independantly of a dictionnaire anatomy to the great hospital of florence, grammatical raisonné, in vols. folio. is editor of the three posthumous works of which the author has also finished in the celebrated mascagdi, one of the greatest manuscript. the utility and great merit of and most indefatigable anatomists of his age, the specimen give reason to hope that he and whose first pupil this gentleman was at may soon publish these two important the period of mascagni's death, which took works. place in . two of these have been mr. ravul rochette, conservator of the already published ; one in , entitled cabinet of antiquities, has published in " anatomy for the use of painters and vol. to. two letters addressed to lord sculptors;" the other this year, callert aberdeen, in which he defends, against mr. “ the prodriome," of the great anatomical knight, the authenticity of the greek in- work of r. mascagni, containing pumerous scriptions of fourmont. it is well known microscopic and other illustrations of the that several men of letters, and particularly human body and its various organs. m. mr. knight, have accused fourmont of antomarchi had commenced editing the having forged, or of having passed off grand work, which terminated his late as true, false inscriptions which he had master's valuable life, when the precarious brought back from his travels in greece. and declining state of napoleon bonaparte': mr. ravul rochette, on the contrary, main- health induced him to join the present hains that there is nothing in these inscrip- mission. he, however, takes out all the tions which should raise a suspicion of their plates of this stupendous acquisition to authenticity; and that fourmont was not medical science, in order to prepare them for even learned enough to compose greek final publication, during his residence in st. inscriptions. helena. several of the larger plates are the society for the amelioration of ele- six feet in length, presenting at one view mentary instruction, bas lately held a public the different parts of the human body, sitting to give an account of the result of its drawn with incomparable accuracy, and labours. during the four years that have the natural size. the minor illustratione elapsed since its foundation, it has spread represent details as novel as they are im- the new method of mutual instruction all portant to science, in which the immortal over france, and after the example of this author has illustrated the formation of the kingdom, the neighbouring countries begin teeth, hair, nails, &c. in a manner that also to adopt it. a thousand new schools has excited universal admiration amongst have been formed in france. in the great medical men, while they promise discoveries towns, associations have been formed to of the most important nature in pathology support and direct them; the method has and physiology. several highly distinguish- been introduced into all the french army, ed members of the profession have seen and extended to the colonies belonging to these plates, since mr. antomarchi's arri- france. the society of paris keeps up an val in london, more particularly mr. ash- [july , fine arts. year, increased in diligent study. we with a glowing splendour, of which we are aware that even this commendable can convey no adequate idea. the sun. aim at excellence may sometimes be car- rise, which is so deservedly admired as ried too far in certain details, so as occa- one of the most perfect pictures in sir sionally to affect the purity of lint and bril john leicester's gallery, is fresh, cool, liunt decision of the touch in some import and ruddy. but this artist has proved ant particulars. but although in one or that he can represent the same time and two heads we fancy we can discover some- give it a different aspect: here the morn- thing of an over anxiety of hand, we ad- ing is warm and calm; the radiance is inire the cause too highly to do more golden, and the clouds almost motion. than state our supposition, which, after less : its enchanting simplicity and chas. all, may have an existence in our own de. tity are its spell. it is not enough to fective judginent and not in the picture. say that it is an effect of nature; it is .“ morning-fishermen on the one of her most delicious cffects. the look-o'it," by willian collins, a. r. a. hour is one, when all her purest sensibi- a robust fisherman, in a red cloth cap, a lities are newly arisen, and with a livelier dull, reddisha jacket, short grey trowsers, feeling for intellectual enjoyment. the and large sea-boots, is standing on a high scene, too, is congenial. a sea-shore, bank of earth, on the sea-shore, with the or a majestic river, is a spectacle of in- glass to his eye, looking out to sea at spiration to a poetical fancy. the sub- some light vessels which glitter on the line image of man's immortal spirit line of light on the distant horizon.- hastening to the bosom of his creator, he stands on the fore-ground, near the or of time pressing forward to merge left side of the picture, and his face and in eternity, presents itself to the imagina- figure are seen nearly in profile. he is tion, on beholding a mighty body of wa- about forty, and his athletic figure, his ters rolling onwards to lose itself, as it rough dress, and manly countenance are were, in immcasurable space. how a perfect study of character. his black many painters are incapable of leading dog is sitting behind, looking wistfully the spectator's mind beyond the exact up at his master's niotions. beside the number of square feet or inches of pan- first, a young lad, in a striped red and nel or canvas, on which their scheme of yellow cap, light jacket, dark trowsers, harmony and dexterity of pencil are dis- and boots, is lolling on the ground, and played ! how few, like collins, can realize seen in a back view. the implements of the hour and the scene with all their rela- fishing, baskets, nets, a lantern, oars, and tire illusions, bring back our most sooth- a tarpaulin, are scattered on the bank, ing recollections, and awaken a warmer in front of these figures. it is ebb-tide, sensation in the lieart! but in every part and several distant boats and fishermen, of this five picture, the execution is sub- and the remains of an old wharf, are seen ordinate to the sentiment of locality; in the shallows, which lie low and stretch the hand directed by the mind. across from the fore-ground to the sea. mr. collins has also, the small whole- all here is still and coul, as if the morn- length portraits of lords charles and ing had not yet wholly dissipated the last thomas pelham clinton, twin sons of nisty obscurity of night. a faint tinge his grace the duke of newcastle, in this of purplish shadow mellows the trans- exhibition. this artist has a charming parent olive and dark greyish hues, which taste in whatever he paints, and this is a spread nearly across the whole extent of pleasing picture; but the subject does the middle ground, and unite all its ob- not afford sufficient scope for his fancy or jects in ouc undivided breadth. these feelings. retiring hues are combined with the . “ the post office," by e. v. grassy and earthy tints of the fore- rippengill. this is the first time that ground, which are also of a subordinate we have met with the name of this ar- tone. there is nothing so neutralized tist; we have been told, it is the first in this commanding mass, as to become picture which he has exhibited, and it cold, or lose its vital importance, al- certainly introduces him to the public, in though its sobriety produces a brilliant a point of view so very favorable, that contrast, without any gaudy colouring we gladly congratulate him on his suc- in the brighter masses of the picture. cess. it is full of matter, and we must the sun rises near the centre, just above be brief. in the right corner, an old the waves; and the yellow light illumines postman is seated beside his white horse, the skies, the dark blue sea, the distant with an air of jaded indifference to all licadlands, the vessels in the offing, and around him. a genteel and interesting the figures and objects on the fore-ground, girl stands near him, looking with an air . the drama. vis never permitted to flag, and their sym- let. - mr. arnold, of the english opera, pathy is gradually wrought up to a high 'is about to make proposals for the ma- pitch, in behalf of the chief characters. nagement, and should he obtain the lease, montalbert, although he had been tempts from his known abilities and activity much ed by the force of love to obtain the hand may be augured. mr. kean has offered of claudina perfidiously, is, in the end, to undertake it at /. per annum. a sharer in our pity, with trefusis, clau- covent garden. dina, and her brave father, omreah. al- on wednesday, the th of june, mrs. though all the carib energies are called siddons performed lady randolph, for forth, the gentler passions of the audience the benefit of her brother, mr. charles are chiefly touched. the death-blow of kemble. the house was filled in a few claudina' is concealed, and the mind minutes after the opening of the doors, meets with no black and horrid villainy and we were happy once more to see this to revolt from in the representation. great actress display her powers. she the author's good sense, correct taste, was received with an enthusiastic greet- and generous strength of feeling, are ing. her delivery of the narrative rela- discoverable through the whole piece. tive to the birth and supposed death of the language is characterised by an un- douglas was very fine, and her question- affected vigor, happily free from the po- ing of old norval and her parting with lish of false refinement, and from neg- douglas, were equal to any performance ligent common-place or coarseness. the in her prime. when douglas enquired author nas wisely employed as a means “ but did my sire surpass the rest of men of accomplishing an end, and, if we may s « as thou excellest all of womankind ?” judge from the effect upon our own feel inys and those of the audience, his suc- the audience burst into a thunder of an- cess has been complete. the scenes i plause, which continued for many mi- were the worst daubings we remember to nutes. her acting was excellent through- have noticed upon a london stage ; but out. in the part of omreah, that admirable new english opera. actor, kean, roused the whole of his as- this house, which possesses in its na. tonishing powers, and never produced a tional name and object, as well as in the deeper impression upon bis audience. spirit of the manager and the present mrs. west was well received in claudi- strength of the company, a powerful na; bengough in montalbert, and holclaim upon the favor of a british public. land in maloch, were respectable. miss was opened on monday, june the st. boyce, in kathelrade, was better than i we must do mr. arnold, the proprietor. we have ever seen her ; mr. henry kem- the justice to say, that he has spared no ble is entitled to praise for his exertions expence of tasteful decoration and em- only; he wanted power for the character bellishment to fit it up in a style of at- of trefusis. the tragedy possesses a tractive elegance. the whole is norel strong interest in the closet, and even and fanciful, and the general effect strik- now, the heart-rending voice of kcan, ingly brilliant. the orchestra has been still rings in our ears and thrills our reinforced by several performers from blood. drury lane; and among the actors sre on tuesday, the th of june this , are happy to see a valuable accession in theatre closed for this season. the per- | dowton, who is himself a host; and formance was the play of henry iv. in harley, whose various merits have ren- which mr. s. komble performed sir john dered him a favorite. mr.w.s.chatterly, falstaff. at the conclusion, he pro- who, in antiquated foppish lovers is equal nounced a farowel address, to a crowded to king, and who possesses a happy ver- house ; announced the intention of new satility of talents; wrench, a livels decorations, and an increase of the body shewy performer of fashionable rakes': of performers during the recess; and wilkinson, a ludicrous, rustic simpletur: denied the existence of any plot, or un- and huckel, who possesses considerable due exercise of power behind the cur- broad humour in low life; are not new to tain, as had been asserted, and generally these boards. among the vocal performers believed.- the present debt of the thea- are, mr.t. p. cooke, mr. pearman, mr. tre, with the additions of this season, is broadhurst, and a mr. oʻcallaghan, a , . . the receipts, up to the th young irishman, of good figure. among of my last, are , .; the expendi- the ladies are, miss kelly', miss love ture, , . . the deficit . s. miss i. sterenson, and mrs. grove. the mr. stephen kemble has resigned his house has been well and fashionably at- engagement, and the house is now to be tended ; the pieces have been hither proceedings of public societies. (july , got up with judgment and ability, and as nity of manifesting its genuine indepen. lovers of the english opera, we con- dent state, in the patronage of this truly gratulate the town upon this opportu- national and delightful entertainment. w. c. proceedings of public societies. society of arts, manufactures, &c. of planting timber by honorary premiums; on tuesday, the th of june, we attend- and many of the candidates for these dis- ed the annual distribution of the rewards tinctions would be found on the lists to-day. adjudged by this excellent society. the mr. aikin having concluded this address, great room, freemasons' hall, was crowded dr. powell proceeded to the distribution of to excess, and a more gratifying display of the rewards: dr. thackeray, of chester; talent, rank, and beauty, is not to be wit- ralph creyke, esq. of dotterill park ; and nessed on any public occasion, than adurned c. fyche palmer, esq. of luckley, had se- this grand national spectacle. owing to the verally the gold, silver, and silver ceres me- indisposition of the duke of sussex, the pre- dals for planting , , and acres of sident, dr. powell, one of the vice presi- forest trees. three other prizes were dents, was called to the chair, and acquitted granted in the department in agriculture himself excellently in that arduous situation. and rural economy ; viz. the silver isis he opened the business of the day by stat- medal and guineas to mr. j. beckway, ing the cause of his royal highness's ab- of lewisham, kent, for a inachine for sence, and of his appearing as his substi- weighing and binding hay; by this ingeni- tute; at the same time paying a handsome ous contrivance the hay is cut into trusses, compliment to the uuwearied zeal and dili- bound, and accurately weighed at the same gence of the secretary, mr. aikin, who, time; it has been tried on a large scale, and when he heard of the duke's inability to proved to be so eininently useful a machine attend, bad exerted himself to the utmost to for hay husbandry, that we have litte doubt supply the vacant place with some noble- it will come into very general application : man, whose dignity and talents would have to mr. t. lape, of stockwell, for a fruit- added weight to the solemnity they had to gatherer, guineas; this consists of a long celebrate. failing in this respect, the task pole, at the top of which a pair of forceps, had devolved on him, and though a humble something like tongs, composed of rings and individual, whose efforts must want the in- covered with soít leather, open and shut fluence possessed by their royal president, by means of a spring at the bottom, and his great extent of knowledge and acquaint- thus pull the fruit without injury :-to mr. ance with every subject before them, and e. roberts, of mold, flintshire, five gui- above all, the charm which his condescen- neas, for a churn, in which two actions work sion never failed to impart to the rewards at the same time. bestowed, he trusted that, surrounded as he chemistry.- in this class, john young, was by genius and elevated station, his ser- esq. surgeon, edinburgh, received the gold vices would be accepted by this brilliant as- isis medal for the cultivation of the poppy, sembly, whose indulgence he solicited. and thence collecting and preparing opium the secretary now read an address, in in britain; and mr. w. cook, of prescot- which he took a view of the rise and progress street, london, the silver medal, for pre- of the society, and of the beneficial effects serving anatomical preparations in brine. produced by its labours on the various de- the chairman observed, upon the former, partments of arts, science, agriculture, that it would be of great consequence, as and commerce, to which its attention and perfectly supplying the place of an article encouragement were devoted. he adverted of costly importation; and upon the latter, to the branching off of the royal academy that it would save a large consumption of in , and to the detached provincial spirits of wine ; had preserved subjects for agricultural associations which had more more than three years ; and would be of recently sprung up, and relieved the parent extraordinary utility for the preservation of stock from a portion of that charge which objects of natural history in distant climates, related to the fine arts and to rural eco- where the ingredient hitherto employed nomy. still, however, the society retain- could not be obtained. the rewards in the ed to itself the privilege of fostering early ta- class of polite arts amounted to no fewer lent, and of promoting the important object than fifty-seven. useful arts. patents. sibility of running amain if employed in william horner, of howick, northum- raising or lowering weights. jan. . berland, for a machine or apparatus for the invention consists in a new combi- the purpose of acquiring a very high nation of certain known mechanical princi- mechanical power in a small compass, ples and powers, and in their application or and with little friction, without the pos. adaptation to various purposes according . .) · new patents.. the modes hereinafter detailed, and not in retain the fulminating substance in the tube. the separate parts of which the machine is and preserve the same from damp. the compounded. two wheels firmly fixed on metal or other substance of which the primer the same axis, so as to be incapable of move is composed must be thin, because the de ing separately, are made to revolve round, tonating powder or substance is to be ex- within, or upon another wheel which is not ploded by a blow struck on the outside of at liberty to move with them, and which i the primer as hereinafter described. the call the primary wheel. one of these first primer being supported against a solid sup- mentioned wheels (which may be called port, the tube is crushed or squeezed up by double wheels) is connected with the primary the blow, so as to explode the detonating wheel, by teeth, cogs, chains, straps, ropes, powder or substance within it. my im- or the friction of rough surfaces, and they provement in the construction of certain of both are made to revolve round their own the parts of fire-arms, consists in the form axis, by performing a revolution round the and arrangement of certain parts of the axis of the primary wheel; the primary lock, which parts are adapted to receive one wheel is not attached to the axis which , of the aforesaid primers, and hold it in a passes through it, but is occasionally fixed proper position to be struck by a projecting to the frame of the machine. another part of the cock of the lock, and in which wheel is firmly fixed upon this axis, which i position it will, on exploding or detonating, therefore call the axis wheel; and upon this fire the gunpowder with which the piece is axis is also fixed the barrel or any other charged. mechanism, which is to produce the effect these improvements in the lock are as intended by the machine. the axis wheel follows: in place of the pan of the lock is a is put ip motion by the other double wheel, piece of solid metal, projecting from the by means of a winch applied to the metal lock plate, and made with a flat surface, frame, in which the double wheels move. against which the primer is supported all the wheels abovementioned may be whilst it receives the blow of the cock. ir either circular, or of such other forms as to place of the hammer of the lock, i apply be capable of acting upon each other in the what i call a primer holder, because it party ordinary manner of toothed wheels or band- covers the primer, and holds it by the gentle riggers; and if a wheel is employed broad pressure of a spring against the aforesaid enough to work both in the axis and primary flat surface, in such position that one end of wheel, one such wheel will in some cases the primer applies to the touch-hole of the answer the purpose of both the double piece, and the length of the prime pearly wheels, that is, when both the double wheels in the line or direction of the touch-hole. on are equal as to the number of teeth to each the under side of the primer holder is a other, and the primary and axis wheels groove, which enables it the better to hold have a considerable number of teeth, the the primer in its said position, and which power gained by this machine is to unity, permits the primer to be introduced be- as the entire revolution of the axis wheel is tween the said primer holder and the said flat to that portion of it which it moves during a surface. the primer holder has an opening complete turn of the winch; the radii of cut through it, to expose the middle part of the barrel and of the winch being consider- the primer which lies beneath it, and when ed in this case equal. the cock of the lock is let tly, the projecting joseph manton, of daris-street, berke- end thereof passes through this opening, and strikes suddenly upon the outside of the ley-square, gun-maker, for certain primers for fire arms, and also certain primer with sufficient force to explode the fulminating powder or substance contained improvements in the construction of cer- tain of the parts of fire arms. aug. , in the primer. the flash of fire from . the end of the the primers for fire-arms are small hol- primer communicates fire, by the touch- low tubes, made of very thin metal or other hole, to the gunpowder contained in the barrel of the gun. suitable substances. the dimension of the tubes must be according to the size of the patents lately granted. piece to which they are to be applied as edward heard, of brighton, sussex, primers; but for a musket or fowling-piece chemist, for certain processes, means, or they should be from half an inch to three methods, of hardening and improving tal- quarters of an inch in length, and from one quai low and other animal fats and oils, so as to tenth to one-eighth of an inch in diameter, manufacture therewith candles of a superior and open at both ends. to prepare the quality to those at present made from tal. primers for use, the interior of the tube is low. dated feb. . filled (or partly filled) with a detonating or tuomas brocksopp, of fore-street, fulminating substance or powder, which cripplegate, london, grocer and tea-dealer, will explode and produce fire when struck for the application of certain machinery to with a sudden blow, which substance is well the purpose of breaking or crushing of known, being already in use for discharging sugar. feb. fire-arms by percussion. the open ends of james jeffray, of glasgow, scotland, the primers are stopped with bees-war to professor of anatomy in the university of [july , paients lately granted— new inventions. glasgow, for certain combinations of and price of eight pounds per ton, or about one improvements in machinery, to be moved seventh the price of hemp. by wind, steam, animal strength, water or captain manby of the royal navy, has other power, by means of which boats, invented and completed a light fire cart barges, ships, or other floating vessels may which was lately exhibited at the royal bar- be propelled or moved in water, and which racks at yarmouth. it is provided with invention is ſurther applicable to other use- every necessary apparatus for extinguishing ful purposes. march fires, to be applied by one man only on the william millward, of eaton, bucks, first alarm. shoemaker, for an improvement on skaites, sea clamm.-among the contributions and in fixing the same on the feet. march. to general knowledge, made by the historian samuel haycraft, of birmingham, of the expedition to baflin's bay (capt. warwickshire, spoon-manufacturer, for cer- ross,) not the least in value is his account tain improvements in manufacturing spoons, of the instrument invented by himself, for forks, and other articles of iron, silver, or taking the soundings at any fathomable other suitable metal, by the application of depth. the following is a discription of the certain machinery, hitherto unused for that structure and operation of this machine, the purpose, and improvements in such ma- sea clamm, as it has been called by its chinery. march. inventor :- it is “ a hollow parallelogram of william tyror, of liverpool, lanca. cast iron, ( cwt.) inches long, six by six, shire, coachmaker, for certain improve- and four by five inches wide. a spindle ments in the construction of pumps, and in passes through it, to a joint of which the the machinery for working ihe same forceps are attached and kept extended by a march. joint bolt: when the bolt touches the ground william neale, of birmingham, war- the forceps act, and are closed by a cast wickshire, whitesmith, for combination of iron weight slipping down the spindle, and machinery calculated to increase power, to keeping fast the contents till brought up for be worked by manual lahour, or other suit- examination." able means march. by this instrument the deepest soundings Æneas morrison, of glasgow, writer, ever reached in baffin's bay, were taken at for a combination of certain processes and fathoms; and it was ascertained that manufactures, wherehy animal and vegeta- the bottom of the sea, like the land, fas ble food mor be preserved for a great length very mountainous. the mud was extremely of time, which will be of great benefit and soft: lat. . . advantage to our subjects both at home and " the instrument came up completely abroad. march. full, containing about six pounds of mud, john outhett, of vauxhall walk, mixed with a few stones and some sand. surrey, civil engineer, for improvements in although this mud was a substance to ap- the construction, arraogement, and combi- pearance much coarser than that which ire nation of the series of apparatus used for had before obtained, it was also of a much the production of gas from pit coal and looser nature, and had in it no insects or other substances, and for purifying, store organic remains : but a small star-fish was ing, and delivering, for the purposes of illu- found attached to the line below the point mination, and for the application of certain marking fathoms. the instrument parts of the said improved apparatus to other took minutes to decend the whole dis- useful purposes. march. tance. when at fathoms, it descended thomas morton, of leith, ship-builder, at the rate of one fathom per second, and for a method of dragging ships out of water when dear fathoms down, it took one on dry land. march second and a half per fathom.” william robinson, of saffron-wal- it took an hour " for all hands" to get it den, essex, surveyor and builder, for cer- up again from this prodigious depth, and tain new or improved apparatus to be al- the result of the experiments, by the sell tached to all sorts of doors and door jambs, registering thermometer which it took down, and hanging stiles, for the purpose of pre- proved that the water was colder in propor- venting, when shut, the admission of exter- tion as it became deeper. the temperature nal air into rooms, apartments, or other at fathoms was , and a half; at , places. march. ; at , ; and , . the actire frigate, capt. sir james aler- new inventions. ander gordon, k.c.b. was moved out of experiments have been made at ports. portsmouth-harbour, against wind and tide, mouth, on the application of a grass a com- by means of lieut. jas. burton's invention mon product of new zealand, to the manu- for impelling ships in a calm, with two pad- facture of large and small ropes, of which a dle weels, which are fixed on a spindle, or favourable report has been given. the grass axle-tree, projecting from the ship's side, is strong, pliable, and very silky in its nature, immediately under the main deck, and jusi and may be cut thrice a year. it may be before the gangway. the active started brought into this country at the estimated from the upper part of the harbour about [july , literary report. where the right of voting for members to ist day of july, , an act of the fifty- serve in parliament depends on rating- fourth year of his present majesty, for grants justices empowered, in certain cases, to de- ing certain duties on merchandize imported jiver the possession of parish property or into ireland from any place within the limits estates to overseers-overseers empowered, of the charter granted to the united com- în certain cases, to give relief by way of loan pany of merchants of england trading to only-pensions for service, in army or navy, the east indies. st march. may be assigned, in certain cases, for the cap. xvi. an act to carry into effect the indemnity of parishes-the pension as- treaty with the netherlands, relating to the signed to be paid to church wardens-jus- slave irade. st mar.treaty signed may tices empowered to order payment of sea- , --article . siave trude abolished mens' wages, for the indemnity of parishes . merchant vessels with slaves may be de- gives power to remove chargcable poor tained- . mode- reciprocal right of visit born in scotland, ireland, &c. although they and detention; mode of making such visits, have not committed any act of vagrancy, which are not to be made in the mediterra- scotch or irish vagrants may be removed nean, or certain parts of the european seas without being whipped or imprisoned—this – . indemnity for losses by unjust deten- act to extend to england only.-march, . tion-- . ships not having slaves pot to be cap. xiii. an act to continue two acts detaired- . instructions to be given by the of the fifty-sixth and fifty-eighth years of respective governments- . mixed courts his present majesty, for reducing the duties appointed for adjudication of detained ves- payable on horses used for the purposes sels-- . punishrient of naral oflicers for therein mentioned, to the th day of april, misconduct- . instructions and regulations , and to reduce the duties chargeable declared part of the treaty-instruction l. under certain acts of the forty-eighth and mode of detaining ships . search to be fifty second years of his present majesty, in made in a friendly manner- . cargo, &c. respect of certain horses, mares, geldings, shall be left on board detained ships--- regu- and mules. mar. .--fixes duty on lations, article . mode of proceeding be. horses used by butchers, &c.--duty on fore the mixed courts- . how such mixed horses pot exceeding hands high-mares courts shall be composed- . form of the kept for breeding exempted. process~ . declaration of captor- . in- cap. xiv. an act to continue, until the demnity on liberation of vessels, &c.— . st day of july, , an act of the forty- proceedings on condemnation– . cempen- sixth year of his present majesty, for per- sation for detention of vessels not condem- mitting the exportation of wool from the ned - . judges, &c. shall not receive re- british plantations in america. st may, wards from parties- . supplying vacancies cap. xv. an act to continue, until ihe of judges, literary report. dr. harrington has in the press an ex- appointments in the abbey. translations lension of his theory and practice of che- from records in the tower, &c. &c. mistry, elucidating all the phenomena, with the rev. h. d. morgan is printing out one single anomaly. eight sermons preached before the univer- john crawfurd, esq. late british resident sity of oxford in at the bampton lec. at the court of the sultan of java, is pre- ture. paring a history of the indian archipelago, a history of the county of northume with illustrative engravings. berland, in six quarto volumes, may shortly the rev. dr. nares is preparing for be expected from the pen of the rev. joha publication a volume of sermons, preached hodgson, of jarrow.. before the university of oxford, on the mirs. taylor, of ongar, has in the press, three creeds, the trinity, and the divinity the family mansion, a tale. of christ. mr. grieseke will shortly publish in ger- a treatise on the modes of restoring man and english, and account of his eight vision by the formation of an artificial years' residence in greenland, illustrated pupil, by sir w. adams, will shortly be by charts and views. published. an account of some of the principal the rev. joseph hunter is about to hospitals of france, italy, switzerland, and publish, in a crown folio volume, the his. netherlands, with remarks on the diseases tory and topography of the parish of shef- of those countries, will shortly be published field, with notices of ecclesfield, hansworth, by dr. h. w. carter. treeton, and whiston. travels in the north of germany, de- mr. james ilbery is collecting materials scribing the present state of the country, with a view to publish a history of wal- particularly in the kingdom of hanover, by tham abbey, essex, from the earliest pe- thomas hodgskin, is in considerable for- riod to the present time, with biographical wardness, and may shortly be expected. notices of the various eminent characters sketches of a tour in the highlands of wither born there, or that hare held high scotland, through perthshire, argyleshirt, .) literary report. and inverness-shire, in the summer of , merce, manners, and customs of its in- will shortly appear. habitants. the sudden death of dr. römer, of zui- mr. j. n. brewer, is preparing an histo- rich, though much and deservedly lamented, rical and descriptive account of the most so far from interrupting the new edition of interesting objects of topography through- linnæus' system of plants, commenced by out the whole of ireland, to accompany him and dr. schultes, has proved the means “ the beauties of england and wales." of calling forth the exertions of a society of portuguese literature. in an ara like eminent botanists, scattered all over the the present, so fertile in translation, and continent of europe. the advantages marked by so general a spirit of enquiry and likely thence to accrue to the new edition, ( criticism, it is surprising how little we have volumes of which have appeared at stutt- heard of portuguese literature. with the gart, printed for j. g. cotta) would be exception of camoens, of whom we have a greatly increased, if the editors could pre- tolerable knowledge through the trans- vail on some british botanists to contribute lations of mickle and lord strangford, not in the manner most agreeable to themselves a single writer of that nation has, we believe, towards the succeeding volumes, either by been clothed in an english dress, or is drawing up distinct papers on some genus, known to english readers even by name. or by furnishing detached observations on it should appear that this want of curiosity species. they would also be happy to re- is by no means confined to our side of the ceive corrections of the four volumes al water. we suspect that our ancient allies · ready published. the name of each con- at least have their revenge, and that if we tributor to be specified in the title-page, have not been very assiduous in watching and to be annexed to each individual re- their progress of literature and art, they mark, however brief. it is beyond the have been totally unmindful of ours. we means of the editors to recompence the fa- rejoice that an apathy on subjects so attrac- vours which they solicit in a manner suitable tive subsisting in countries, between which to their anticipated value; yet they offer the relations in every other respect are so some small compliment per sheet, and en- intimate and advantageous to both, is now gage to defray every incidental expence. ahout to be dispelled. we are informed, those british botanists who, actuated by that a portuguese nobleman has been long zeal for the promotion of science, may be occupied in preparing a translation of pope's pleased to attend to this address, are re- essay on man into his native verse, in the quested to direct their letters and communi- ardent hope that the admiration which the cations either to dr. schultes, professor of favourite production of that distinguished botany in the bavarian university of land- poet must necessarily excite, may draw the shuth, or to mr j.g. cotta, at stuttgart. attention of his countrymen to the treasures from some interesting accounts respecting of thought and imagination contained in the the advancement of literature in iceland, wide field of our literature. as a stimulus we learn that a translation has been made to further enquiry, he has given in the notes of milton's paradise lost, and the first annexed to his translation, passages from fourteen books of klopstock's messiah, into most of the english poets, from chaucer up the language of that country; by john to nearly the present time; which passages, thorlakson, a native. this poet is a however familiar to the cultivated portion minister at baegisa, and lives in a little but, of our community, will open a new source situated between three high mountains, and of gratification to the student of portugal in the neighbourhood of torrents and foam- and brazil. he has also supplied abundant ing cataracts. the room in which he materials for satisfying the curiosity of studies and sleeps is scarcely large enough those amongst us to whom the well of to contain a bed, a table, and a chair, and lusitanian poesy is still an untasted spring, the entrance is not four feet in height as the same notes contain extracts from his whole income does not exceed six many writers of that nation, whose fame in guineas a year, although he serves two the estimation of their compatriots yields parishes. only to that of the author of “os lusiadas." the literature of iceland has lately these extracts are interspersed with quota- become an object of research in sweden tions from the works of the enlightened of and norway, nd the royal library at other nations, besides a considerable por- stockholm possessing a great number of tion of original matter, consisting of com- icelandic mss. the professor liliengren is ments on the text and information relating now occupied in translating and preparing to the subject. the baron de sao lourenço, them for publication. the first volume of the nobleman alluded to, has, by express the series has appeared, and a second is in permission, dedicated his work in its com- considerable forwardness. pleted state to his royal master, the king of a geographical manual of the russian portugal and brazil ; and we have recently empire, in two volumes, by c. m. de learnt that a literary society of this country broemsen ; who, during twenty-five years are now on the point of publishing the active peregrination of that vast country, same, with embellishments by english has been enabled to visit the greater part of artists, and in a style corresponding to the it. the work includes particular observa- value of the production and the rank of its sions on the soil, and on the industry, com- author. we wish it the success due to the ( ) (july , bankrupts. from may , to june , , inclusive. m.b. in bankruptcies in and near london, the altornies are to be understood to reside in london; and in country bankruptcies at the residence of the bankrupt, ercept otherwise expressed. the solicitors' names are between parentkeses. b. a. garnett, nantwich, shoe maler (hilditch, london arlis j. nergate-street, printer (russen and goode t. hinckley, hosier (dickens & co. london. -adams j. gloucester, jeweller (manning, london --- amsdell w. plastow, baker (as. hadley t. birminghan, merchant (jenofogs aod pinall, london. belton, london--llall w. windmill street, haye market, upholsterer, (courteen and robinson blanch w. & j. bath, tinmen (mant-broomhead heath h. islington road, picture dealer (robinson j. sheffeld, merchant (parker & browo-bul. and hipe-lleginbottom j, ashton-under-liae, gro. mes j. sen. & jun. south shields, slip builder cer, (baltye, londou-llolmes and white, chester. (chater, newcastle upon tyne-bions j. sen. & field, and t. tindal, durham, hat inanufacturers, jun. looe, cornwall, bankers (burfoot, london (lowes and cowborn temple-hayton j. b. king. -bradley l. sandwich, brewer (lodington & co. ston upon hull, merchant (rossen and co. loa temple-bowker t. d. warmsworth house, mer. don--hawkins c. gosport, grocer (alexander and chant (plumptre, temple-browning j. manches. holme, new inn-hont h. great yarımouth, co. temple-bond t. wiuc merchant (swain and co. loudon--hederle armitage, stafford, malster (stocker & co. london j, leicester square, tailor (nayler-llighman j. bond j. lichfield, maltster (stocker & co, lon. duke strect, adelphi, victualler, (t. p. lewis dots brown t. newport, grocer (hicks, london havier j, bristol, watchinaker (heelis, london bonsor j. spitalfields, coal merchant (warrand luusley w, wetherby, grocer (smith, temple -brockliss j. oxford, corn dealer (pownall, lon. harrison j. spring gardeos, tailor (ciarki don-bolmer t. & b. south shields, rope maker (bell & co. london-brown & flunter. wood str. izod w. redditch, draper (berrick and co. cheapside, warehousemen (krarsey & co.-- buck london. ley j. ashton under line, clothier (battye, lon. don-bealey r. cockey moor, cottou manufac. johnson s. skinner street, finsbury, cabinet turer (clarke & co. loudon-baldwin w. ii. li maker (gillibrand, london-jorden j. s. birming. verpool, merchant (clarke & co. london-birch j. ham, dealer (richards and co. london-jones j. aston. maltster (egerton & co, london-bugden upper brook street, tailor (fielder and co. lon- j. dartford, paper makers (flexney, london don-johnson r. freeman's court, merchant (tere. brade w. preston, liquor merchant (blake!ock, pler and co-jackson t. and w. liverpool, mere london-bryant il. norwich, leather cutter (iar chants (blacks, wet, and bunce, london-jackson lor & co. loodon-bradley f. king sticet, port. j. duke street, manchester square, haberdasher man square, upholder (vincent-beattie g. sal. (towers-joy e. christchurch, fishmonger, (alien, ford, dyer (taylor, manchester, london. critchley j. liverpool, merchant (dacie st john, kersliaw g. romford, essex, shopkeeper (bad. london-coldwell t. s. norwich, coach.master dely, london-kilsert r. bath, linen draper (jeu). (alexander & holme, new iun-clayton j. stock. kius and co. london-kerr w. sherborn lanc, port, cotton spinner (milnc & parry, london wine merchant (stokes and co--kegg e. liverpool chapman w. liverpool, hosier (long & austen, mariner (dacie and co. temple-kay t. bath, loudon-casc g. devonshire, hop merchant (ro dealer (bourdillon and co. loudon-knight a. wilson street, moon fields, calenderer (gibson. ilull, leather seller (dax, london-cooper r. l rawrliffe, inalister (wright & co. temple---cran. lund and walsh, blackburn, cotton mannfacto. don c. fenchurch street, merchant (hutchinson rers (milne and parry, london--lang h. g. and -chambers s. bordsley, warwick, sword cutler w. ackerington, callico printers (avison and (bourdillon & hewett, london--chilcott t. bris. wheeler, london-lankester b. blackman street, tol, broker (edinunds, london--copland s. holt, borough (young and co.-lamb j. james street, niller (withers. bedford row, tailor (lewis-laughton j. lirer. d. pool, parthenware dealer (makinson, temple deakin & oughton, birmingham, wire drawers leigh p. wheelock, currier (wilson and co. tem. (bourdil'on & co. london-duke r. gateshead, ple-longworth d. little lever, bleacher (adling. merchant (bell & co, london--dyke r. bays. ton and co. london-lord e. burnley, cotton water, jeweller (hutchinson--- dauncey t. catea. spinner, (ellis, london-leveridge s. clapham, ton street, warehouseman (lake. merchant (eiche and evans, london. f. fletchay s. doncaster, baberdasher (rosscr & marshall w. south street, spitalfields, cheese c.. london-ficars w. jun. liverpool, merchant monger (hutchinson-marshall ii. iioline, miller, (baltye, london--frears e. ravenglass, silver. (rosser and co. london-- moss w. tadley, car. smith (gregson & co. london-fanshaw ii. r. penter (eyre, london-montes s. w. birmingham, addle street, trimming maker (thomas-fell w. tobacconist (swin and co. london-millichamp f. watling street (courteen & co. aston, malster (baxter and bowker london g. murch j. banwell, tanner, (pearson, temple gaugain p. j. church street, sohn, jeweller musgrave j. ilorsforth. cloth manufacturer, (wil- (hutchinson-gibbs j. bridgewater, maltster (ad- son, london--morgan, w. bristol, vool-broker lington & co. london-gregson e. & j. liver. (hicks aod co. london-millward j. redditch, pool, perfumers (courteen & co. london-god. needle maker (long and co, london--martin b. dard . conhill, chart seller (patterson & co.- middlesex street, victualler (cross--naithews j. .) bankrupts-dividends. o pepn, shoemaker (bennett and co. london-mar. (wigglesworth and co. london --smith t. worces. shall g. bristol, corn factor (bourdillon and ter, butcher (fladgato and co. londo hewitt, london-mole w. worcester, and r. sultcr street, glass blower (tomson, ratcliffe-su- locket. hereford, carriers (edinuods, london-- therland r. and r. birmingham, gun makers (va. mackenzie c. caroline street, bedford row, mer, dal, webb, and co.-sutherland s. south shields, shant (love and bower. grocer (bell and co london--siminonds t. maid. n stone, wine merchant (james, london-sankey n. nowell j. redbridge, ifants, timber merchant w. canterbury, brewer (collett and co. london (hutchinson, london-nathan s. chandos street, sewell s. aldersgate street, plumber (long-san- butcher (l. norton. dell w. and j. newport, brewers (luxmore lou. don--seller g. lime regis, miller (andros and ord r. deptford, butcher (price and co. anderson london-smith j. bristol, tinman (clark p richards, and co, london, peony m. shepton mallet, corn factor (king and lukin, london--peake m. handsworth, merchant tadman g. new kent road, straw hat manufac. ilicks and co. london-pearly m, lime street, turer (courteen and co-townend r. and j. r. square, merchant, (poole-perkins t. chorlton, fenchurch street, merchants (hackett. cotton spinner, (hurd and co. london--pollit r. blanchester, calico priater (llurd and co. london vandermoolen v. l. cannon road, dealer (eyles. --pilglase j. bristol, provision merchant (adling. w ton and gregory, london-parker j. norwich, willan j. jun. keuswick, worcestershire, farmer bombazine manufacturer (taylor and co-pritch. (candall and young, london-winstanley and ard ). d. tinton, draper (swain and co. london crole, liverpool, auction patteson g. vere street, cora dealer (lucket.pea. bunce, temple-wilmott j. manchester, grocer cock e. finchley, victualler (brewer, london (perking and frampton, london--wrightley b. parker w. toigninouth, inn-keeper (williams, lon. manchester, merchant (adlington and gregory, don-park r. jun. portsea, coal merchant (cope, london-webb h. bristol, pump maker (hicks and london. co. london-wood and belwood, sculcoats, tim- ber merchants (sandwith, hull-walker j. harp riddall j. liverpool, merchant (clarke and co. alley, ironmonger (draper and bird-wright b. london-riding j. blackburo, cotton manufactu. birminghain, victualler (platt, london-wick was ret (armstrong, london-rosser j. wallingford, h. and j. coltlıorpe mills, paper makers (hudson, earpenter (williams and co. london-rufiy j. d. london-walker w. norwich, bricklayer (adling- paternoster row, oilmau (hurst. ton and co. london-white j. c. fenchurch street s merchant (hackett-west j. richmond, linen dra- simpson r. crown court, threadneedle street, per (pickering and smith, london-wilson w. r. merchant (oakley and birch shyon j. malden, crown court, broad street (birkett-wilson w. essex, wine merchant (day-stunt t. ludgate hill, gateshead, ship owner (spence, london. carpet manufacturer (whitton-smith j. stamford street, blackfriars, horse dealer (bissett-simms yate j. worcester, leather seller (platt, london w. swinton, coal dealer (price and co. london - young a. bishop's wearmouth, ship owner stead m. ludlow, stone mason, (jenkins, james, (swaine and co. london, and abbott, london--stafford j. scrooby, miller r. a dividends. mont p. old broad street, june -coates w. arney, g. bury-street, juno -andree, d. skipton, june -cutbush ii. & w. maidstone, lothbury, june -anderson, j. r. hrogmorton june --collen w. june -cohen b. george street, june -amos & sutherland, st. helen's street, minories, july -chivers w. cominercial place, july -atkinson j. aldgate, july . soad, jaly --clcment h. carter lane, july - curtis & griffin, ludgate bill, july -crowtlier bernard j. & c, manchester, june - begley w. banner street, july -coulter j. chatham, .w.& li. tivertoo, june -barlow t. sen. east july -clarke f. coventry street, july , retford, june -brittons & hunton, barowby, crippen c. limehouse, july . junc --bauin j. drury lane, june - blun. d dell w. liverpool, june .blurton j. old bond dickens e. eynsford, kent, june -durand street, june -bell j. f. sculcoates, july - j. n. pentonville, june -dixey e. oxford barton r. rickmansworth, june -buckett w. street, july -duck worth w. manchester, june neithorp, july - biddle j. birmingham, july -david j. threadneedle street, july -down. bogle sen. bogle jun. & scott, love lane, juna ing r. stockport, july --dover j. burnham, --belt e. rotheriithe, june -browa & for. july --dantziger a. change alley, july -de. rester, savage gardens, july _badderley j. wint h. stone, july --dawson w. wetherby, nottingham, june --barton a. bristol, july july . --burges g. manchester, july - burn w. & r. exeter, june -brown j. jun. rodborough, fothergill j. newcastle upon tyne, june jane -brook j. huddersfield, july -bradley frost j. st. alban's, june --flower & maine q. houndsditch, july - bass j. castle lun, waring, chancery lane, june -furnival s. li- wood street, july -bacon & wilkin, laver. verpool, june -ford h. portsmouth, july - ham, july ---barrett w. broad street, july fleming t. liverpool, july . baylis c. w, birminghain, july -burraston w. july -barnber j. liverpool, july . gooch w. bury st. edmund's, june -geo w. leeds, hosier, june -garratt r. speedhan cowen g. great prescot street, may -can. land, june ---gieprie, glonnie & fry, new (july , agricultural report. broad street, june - odwin d. juo, newport, june -geraon & goujohn, fenchurch street, july _gregory r. oid jewry, july -gleday j. red lion street, july . howard r. iun. woolwich, aug. -ilandley w. stretton en le-bield, june -harvey r. ox• ford street, june -holland c. lambeth, june -holms t. long nere, june -hart j.south. ampton, june - herbert t. hanway street, july -hockey j. langum, july -hodgson w. playhouse yard, july -iliggins j. chipping nor. ton, july -haggerty p. goodman's stile, white. shaeel. july -hussall s. bechton, july hambidge j. stow, july -hasluck, r. philadel. phia, july -hurren j. cratfield, july - hudson e. gibraltar, july . june --powell t. leominster, jone !--palyait, j. fenchurch street, june -paterson m. ilalifax, june --pocock j. southampton, june . place h. r. lime street, june --prest & woolner, lawrence pountney lane, july .-potts r hol. born hill, july - patterson & nicol, harrow road, july - parke j. & f. p. manchester, july . r reed & iioward, st. swither's lane, june - richards g. sherard street, june —resdall m. & t. liverpool, june -rose j. w. bishopsgate street, june -royston w. e. west leigh, j -rainy r. size lanc, june -randall w. hil. torn, july -ridsdale e. leeds, & w. hamilton, finsbury placo, june - roberts j. wood street, june -roome b. carter lane, july -reed & howard, st. swithen's lane, june -ratras j. finch lane, july . inglis j. billiter square, june . m jones l. st. paul's church yard, juno . july sewell r. piccadilly, june –swan w. liver. -jackson c. upper thames street, july --jor. pool, june -stockhamn w. bristol, july _soul dan w. barnwood, july -jackson w. hadley, ten e. snow hill, june -surr j. aldersgate july . street, june -sundius c. devonshire square, k june -smith r. pontefract, june -scbofield j. knight j: castle cary, july . blackney book, june -stead t.jblackfriars road, l june -smith t. austinfriars, june -sheaths, * leeming r, wray, lancashire, june --latham steel, & wray, liocolo, june -scott b. hora. & parry, devonshire square, june -long & tel. castle, jupe —scott s. thirnbloby. june - toe, great tower street, june -lloyd w. sen. & steward t. birchin lane, dec. simpson g. jun. peckham, june -law w. copthall chan. grosvenor street, june -smith w. stone, juls bers, june -lomas j. fetter lane, june -smiggs j, w, lime street, july _stanstle a. laing g. city road, july –lancaster t. j. ca- birmingham, july -sutton, d. jun. brightlinge teaton street, july -long w. york, july - sea, july . lear f. strand, july -lean j. h. fenchurch street, june –lloyd w. jun. thames street, tootal j. b. minories, june -timothy w. july . leigh, june toy t. pearyn, june & july --taylor j. cheapaide, june -taylor j. east mackintosh e. haymarket, june -macklin j. sinithfield, juno tory e. southamptos, july cheapside, june - machiu & burton, great - taylor s. oxenden street, june -thomas j. guildford street, surrey, june -moreton c, bristol, june -tongue r. arnold, july croydon, june –moat t. cheapside, june - thomas p. milk street, joly --taylor, j. sep merac t. & m. p. l. queen square, june - old street, july -taylor j. & j.t. thames at. m'kenzie w. st. paul's, corent garden, june & july . -mathieson & kaprack, bishopsgate street, june - macdonnel & bushel, broad street, june winship t. mount greenwich, durham, june _morrall and borland, liverpool, june , -wallace w. workington, june -wise j, b. mansell t. pembroke, july -mayhew j. jun. taplow mills, june -worthington r. preston, $t. osyth, essex, july -middleton r. d. bishops. june west . feversham, june -wardle gate street, july –mair t. broad street, july . g. & f. allhallows wharf, july -wilks j. n finsbury square, july _wilkerson j. barley, neat w. sweeting's alley, june —noble m. herts, july -whitehead j. cateaton street, battersea, june -north g. brecknock, julys july --walter r. jun. croydon, july -white norrisou j. rudston, july -norris t. corchill, & french, devonshire street, july wilson j. july . h. pimlico, july - watts & rigby, oldham july -wilkinson g. suttop-under-whitestone oakley t. p. ealing, july -oldacres w. les cliff, july . qrange, july . younger j. minories, june . parker w. whitechapel, june - phelan r. bath, sind y . co agricultural report. the continuance of showery weather at the beginning of the last month has pushed forward the most early and luxuriant vegetation ever known in this island within the recollection of the oldest inhabitant. it is not one species of crop or product, or one particular soil that is so laden with abundance, but that of every kind. it cannot be said this year, that the sands or the clays have it, for they both have an uncommon burden of * every species of crop. the young wheats have blossomed kindly, and considering their very great bulk, ara : but very little down. many fields, if the weather continues bright, will be ready for the sickle by the middle of this month. nearly a month earlier than what is called a forward. barvest. . . so .) digest of political events. that were sell own have shot inte be ripe in few days. ssomed thickend more kindly barley is a very large crop, and many breadths that were sellow ear so early, as to be at this time in red row, and some will be ripe in oats are equally as great a crop, and in as forward a state. beans, peas, and all the leguminous class have biossomed thicker than ever known. no fly to be seen even in the closest situation. the dry warm weather at the latter end of the last month, has enabled secure the most abundant and early hay crop this island ever produced. farmer to the pastures are fuller of grass upon all soils than is customary at midsumi. the apple trees are loaded with fruit throughout the cyder counties, m. numerous than was ever recollected by the oldest person. it is impossible for themore bear their rich burdens without props. last year produced a great crop ; but loto compared to this. it is not apple tres alone, but every species of iruit bearing trete is so richly laden with fruit, with the exception of a very few narrow strips across country which in some exposed situations in a north western direction, were a little affects by frost. upon the whole, this may be recorded as the most promising season ever know in britain. digest of political events. the political situation of england was the object for which they were un. at this crisis demands our most serious derstood to have been called. as this consideration. to form a just estimate was lost sight of amidst the verbiage of of the times, it ought to be every man's the orators, we will briefly state what duty to keep his mind unprejudiced, the real object of those who called the neither warped by the representations of meetings, (more particularly that of party men, or by the idle rumours and glasgow,) was. it was to petition the reports industriously circulated by the prince regent to grant the spare hands interested speculator, or the hot headed of the trade the means of reaching our politician. if at any period a unanimity north american colonies, together with of sentiment is desirable, it is at present, the means of support for one year after when by the wisdom of the legislature, their arrival ; which money advanced we are surmounting the difficulties they preposed to repay by annual rem brought upon us by the late war, and mittances of produce. this was not are looking forward with confidence to unreasonable, and so far has our fullest better times. we would not tor a mo- approbation. ment deny, that while the nation is thus but what was the consequence, and righting itself, some very considerable what the fate of the resolution ?-it was inconveniences may be experienced, which immediately got rid of by an amendment it is not in the power of government in favour of universal suffrage and either to guard against or to relieve when annual parliaments. the original they occur. resolution not being suficiently strong but at the same time we are convinced and inflainmitory. that if those temporary distresses had the most remarkable featu - in the not been made use of as a pretext by occurrences in the house of commons artful and designing men for raising the has been the discussions on the subject labouring classes of society into acts of of breach of privilege, a subject which has riot, we should not have had to record more than once gone far towards setting such disgraceful scenes as hare lately this kingdoin in a ferment. they were been witnessed at glasgow, hunslet occasioned by a speech of mr. canning moor, &c. in laying before the house a times the proceedings of those meetings are nenspaper, containing what he stated to already before the public, and they serve be a gross misrepresentation. the pro. but to confirm us more and more in the ceedings upon this occasion furnish opinion, that no set of men are more patter for deep reflection. cold and callous to the real distresses we would be the last to countenance of the poor than the thorough-paced any dangerous or improper infringement reformers. upon these privileges, or degrade the their object is not to relieve, but to house in the estimation of the country, aggravate distress -- not to soothe, but by holding up its procecdings in a way to infiame – not to seek redress by legal calculated to lower them to the familia- constitutional means, but to induce re- rity of the rabble. but we cannot re. * bellion and revolution. at these meet- frain from saying, that none of these ings the only business not discussed, effects are likely to flow from candid, - new monthly mag.-no. , vol. xi, c - -- .) digest of political events. be taxed are - british spirits, , .; “ the said commissioners, chief clerk, tobacco, , .; coffee and cucoa, and other officers, to take no fee, money, , .; tea, - , .; pepper, gratuity or reward, from any suitor.; nor , l. in looking at the above list, shall any part of the proceedings be liable we cannot help making the remark, that, to stamp or other duty whal ver. with the excepiion of tea and coffee, “any jerson in custody ior debt for four- teen days, may aj ply for their discharge. and the trifiing article pepper, the ex- the petition to contain a schedule of their clusive burthen will be burne by the debts, as well as effects real and personal, labouring classes of the community. in possession, riprsion, or expectancy. these resolutions, with some little « in case any person shall have been in modification in passing before the custody on mesne process ior nine months, house, were carried by a considerable without claiming the benefit of this act, or majoritv. shall have been charged in execution upon 'the house was principally occupied. a judgment, it shall he lawful for any one during the th and th, upon the sub- creditor, to the amount of - pounds, or jert of breach of privileges ; as we have for any two to the amount of —, to apply by pelition to the said court; and such given our opinion on this subject in the prisoner shall be compelled to surrender his early part of our review of political or her property or the benefit of all the erents, we shall not revert to it again. creditors ; and the same fornis and condi- lord castlereagh brought up certain tions shall be observed as in the case of a papers relative to the cession of parga, voluntary application for reliei. in case which had been moved for. this affords any person shall refuse to deliver such sche- us another opportunity of remarking the dule of their effects, &c. the court shall be inconsistency in the conduct of the op- empowered to in prison them in the common position, who are constantly crying out gaol, or house of correction, there to he for retrenchment, and in the present kept to hard labour, until he shall submit case retrenchment is intended by minis- himself to the said court. « all the estate of a prisoner shall be ters, when they resist it. vested in the provisional assignee; an al- in a short discussion on the th, lowance to be made by such assignee for the upon the third reading of the loan bill, support of the prisoner.- notice of the pe- the chancellor of the exchequer c n- titions being filed to be inserted in the lon. firmed the statement made in the house don gazette, and two other nervepapers, and on the h, that ministers would not a day appointed tor the creditors to appear have occasion to raise any loan next before one of the said commissioners, within year, and that any advance that might one calendar month, to prove their respec- be required in future years, might, he tive debts, and to choose an assignee or as- trusted, be provided for otherwise than t'he commissioners to be authorised to by a loan. mr. peel brought in a bill for restrict- compel witnesses to attend to prove or dis- prove debts, and examine them on oath, and ing the advances of the bank to govern- allow or disallow; claims noi satisfactorily ment, unless directly authorised by par- proved, an appeal to be from the decision liament. of one commissioner to the court, which the foreign enlistinent bill was shall finally determine the same. and in read a third time, and committed on the case a creditor shail seglect to prove his st. debt, he shall for ever be debarred from re- the insolvent debtors' bill was covering the saine. read a third time on the d, and “ the provisional assignee shall make after two or three clauses being added over to the assignees chosen by the creditors by way of riders, it was passed, of which all the estate and effects of the prisoner. the following is an abstract:-- the latter to he authorised to sue for and . recover the debts, to mal:e sale of all the " it authorises his majesty to appoint etfccts; and at the end of three months three barristers of six years' standing, at the make a dividende least, to be commissioners for the relief of “on the figal examination of a prisoner, insolrent debtors. it is to be a ccurt of creditors whose debts have been allowed record. the commissioners are to appoint may pot quiestions to him touching the mat- a chief clerk, four assistant clerks, and a ter in his petition, and such other matters - provisional assignee; they shall have power as the court shail judge to be fit and pro- to compel the alter:dance of witresses, the per to erquire into. if the prisoner shall - production of books, papers, and writings, answer satistactorily, the court shall order and of committing for contempt; as well as his discharge at the end of six months from of fining their officers for negligence or the date of his commitment. if the opposi- tion shall be deemed frivolous and vexati- signees. delay. (july , berkshire. anstey house, hants.-at st. george's, e. h. lechmere, esg, to the hon. maria hanover-square, john whyte melville, esq. clara murray, second daughter of the late of mount melville, in fiteshire, to lady d. murray, esq.-mr. w. y. alban, of catharine osborne, only daughter of the lincoln 's-inn, solicitor, to aune, eldest duchess dowager of leeds.--- at st. daughier of john benbow, esq. of meck- mary-le-bonne church, g. matcham tarle lenburgh-square. at the house of the earl ton, esq. of the th regiment of foot, to of seiton, 'charles pascoe grenfell, esq. louisa, youngest daughter of the late geo. to the right hon. georgiana isabela best. eso. of chilston park.- at st. james's molyneux, eldest daughter of the rugbt church.'the rev. john earle welby, son hon. the earl of sefton. of the late sir william earle welby, bart. died. - at upper edmonton, marga- of danton hall, lincolnshire, to felicia ret, relict of the rev. dr. lloyd, of lyde. eliza, only daughter of the late rev. h. a. - at elstree, middlesex, mr. wm. phip holl.–at st. andrew's, holborn, david pen, .-at romney terrace, westmit- carruthers, esy. assistant commissary ster, j. moser, esq. late magistrate of the general to the forces, to sarah, only daugh- police office, worship-street-lo york ter of john proctor, esq. of grandra house street, st. james's-square, lady asgill, wife monmouthshire.-s. milnes, esq. hunter- of gen. sir c. asgil, bart.-the rev. r. street. brunswick-square, to mary sophia, caddick, d.d. lale of whiteball, and of eldest daughter of james millns, esq. caddick lodge, fulham.-at fulham, ma- windsor.- benjamin burton, esq. second rianne, eldest daughter of j. bowden, egg. son of the late sir charles burton, bart. .-in hampton court palace, catherine, of pollerton, carlow, ireland, to ann grace, relict of the late c. chester, esq. .- mrs. only daughter of william roberts, esq. of a. porter, of new north-sireet, red lios- gloucester-place.-chandos leigh, esq. square, .-j. shallis, esq. of clerkenwall, only son of janies henry leigh, esq. m. p. .-lo sackville-street, the lady of lieul. of 'stoneleigh abbey, warwickshire, to r. hardinge, royal horse artifiery.-eliza- miss willes, eldest daughter of the rev. w. beth, eldest daughter of the late j. h. s. willes, of astrop-ilouse. - at lambeth wackerbarth, esq. of parsop-street, .- church, griffith williams, esq. of celn, in bedford-row, mr. w. cristell.-in por- in the county of anglesea, lo ann, youngest tugal-street, j. stratton, esq. of farthingtoe daughter of henry norton willis, esq. of lodge, northamptonshire, and hawling, in kennington palace, and of sunning hill, gloucestershire, .-s. newmen, esy, of berkshire. --at fulham church, mr. h. b. sion college-gardens.--at kentish town, elwell, of staffordshire, to hephzibah c. wyatt, esq. of bedford-row.-g. os eden, third daughter of r. smith, esq.- wald, esq. late in the civil service of the at st. james's church, the rev. j. gibson, hon. east india company.-the rev. t. rector of worlington, in the county of sula g. clare, b.d. rector of st. andrew's, hole folk, to mary elizabeth, second daugliter born, and of walmer, in kent-át bis to j. phillips, esq. ot pall-mall.-the rev. house in queen ann-street, west, lieut g. t. andrewse, only son of the dean of gen. sir j. campbeli, of inverneil, bart. canterbury, to elizabeth catherine, eldest g.c.h. and k. s. f.-jo chester-street, daughter of dr, heberden, of upper brouk- grosvenor-place, hon. arabella st. john, street.at st. george's. hanover-square, wife to gen. the hon. f. st. john, and sis. the rt. hon. lord rossmore, to the right ter to the earl of craven.-lo bedford lion. lady augusta charteris, youngest square, p. dauncey, esq. king's counsel, . daughter of the late lord elcho, and sister -at his residence, charlotte-street, black. to die earl of wemyss and march.--nir. friars-road, w. wallis, esq. - in pori- h. c. field, surgeon, of newgate-street, land-place, william, fourth son of j.vivian, to anne sophia, eldest daughter of the late esq.-at his house in hans-place, sir j. mr. t. gwinnell, merchant, of worcester. morris, bart of clasemont.- eldred john, at hampstead, frederick albert winsor, son of the rev. j. addison, rector of icken- jun. esq. of shooter's hill, to catherine, eld- ham, middlesex.--at hanwell, middleser, est danghter of j. hunter, esq of bruns- julia henrietta, widow of the late hon. and tick-square.at st. clement danes, p. rev. h. j. de salis, d.d. count of the holy cosgreave, m. d. to maria, eldest daughter roman empire. · of the late mr. j. ford, of the strand, provincial occurrences in the counties of england, arranged alphabetically. berkshire. tlemen of the committee celebrated the event the first stone of the reading gas works by dining together at the upper ship inn. was laid by alderman annesley. the gena as the bill for erecting a new bridge at [july , cumberland---derby--- devon---dorset---durhain. that garrison-at truro, mrs. edwards, wife of j. sown since the spring of ) is likely to e.-at west look, , m. j. tcms. exceed that quantity. cumberland. upwards of , . have been subscribed, married] at carlisle, m.j. gredily, to miss and the funds are weekly increasing, far the jane graham-at calcheck, mr. t. robinson, to purpose of making an iron rail road from brs. scott, of beck stones-at whitehaven, mr. whitehaven. mr. dartmuor prisons to plymouth harbour. j samoson. to miss e. hal-al keighley. mr. w. births.) at plymouth, the lady of the key. j. bradley, of halifax, to mrs. allen, widow of the meade, of norton st. philip, of a -mis r. late mr. j. a.-j. thoinlinson, to j suowdon-j. day, of east brent, of a -ofiwin daughters, the henry, to f. oliphant-at st cutbert's, e. rust, to lady of e. coles, esq. cierk of the peace for this bary hutton-r. robinson, to ann jackson county-al stonehouse, near flyinouth, the lady at penrith. j. connell, esq. of carlisle, to elize of sir j. gordon sinclair, of a daughter-the la beth, only daughter of m. harrison, esqof pen of t floud, esq mayor of exeter, of a daughter. rith-aft stanwix church. j. goody, esq. of kendal, married.) at plymouth, mr. g dak, dissent. to vis. bonsfield--al crosscannonhv, mr. tyson, ing minister, to sophia gardner soadby, only attorney, of ulverston, to miss wilds, of may. daughter of w. soadby, esg. of east loop-wr. s. port-al fail, mr. w. bragg, to miss isabella treeby, merchant, to miss mary oake, daughter of taylor-at appleby, mr. j. brogden, to miss isa. e. oake, esq-at st. mary le bone, the rev. r. bella taylor, of arplcbg-cast. r. bell, of mary. p. carrington, lector of bridford, devon, to ca- port. to miss jane foll, daugliter of mr. j. feil, milla anne, only daughter of w adair, esq. of of bank end-at workington, j. whiteside, esq. great cumberland-place-al sidmouth, tha rer. to mrs. catherine iiastou --at penrith, wm. laa. j. h. bradney, of hurcot, to elizabeth, the eldest caster, to miss elizabeth thatcher--at nether. daughter of r. kekewich, esq. of sidmouth-at denton. mr. t. hoinies, of cleugh-head, to miss sl. sidwell's church, the rey. w. cookson, rector aun waugli, of low vouscs-at wortelaven, of hungerford, to mary, se ond daughter of j. col. w nicholson, to miss sarah mitchell-mr. nrave, psg. of exeter-at erraington. mr. wall r. white, to miss mary pratt-at bridekirk, mr. ing, to miss l. brutton-r. tyser, esg, m.d. of dalton, of eag'estield, to miss palmer, of great tiverton, to arabella maria, only daughter of the broughton late p. bayley, esq. of nantwich, cheshire-at died. at carlisle, at the rev s ilartley's, dawlish, by the rev. c. . osmoud, g. gardiner, mr. fleming, of uiswick, lancashire, -mr j. to. aune, fifth daughter of the late j. dj bell, of cummersdale-al natland cottage, neas es.--at salcombe, capt. armytage of th- cold. kendal. . j. morlaod, c . jate of capplethwaite stream guards, to charlotte le gendre slaikie. ball-the rev. t. ilayes, vicar of st oswald's, only daughter of the late l g. starkip, esa of duiliani-at stanfordham, mury, the wiſe of mr. suatroyd. lancashire-l. f. lockyer, esq. of kivitou. wm. birt whistle, esq. , esq. , plymouth, to ange elizabeth, eldest daughter of plymouth, to anne major in the craven volunteer infantry -- at brow, the lake wm. curry, esq. of southampton. mr. o. davidson), -at peorith. mary wright, dicd.) at ridgway, near plymouth, g. salton, ; isabella stewart, at lilly hall, mr. t. esq. -leury, only child of j. wapshare, esg, of mouusev. at gosforth, mrs. j.jackson), widow, downton--at exeter, the rev. l. williams, -algreysouthen, r. bell, --mrs. elizabeth years vicar of whitchurch-capt. j. hawkins, walker, of whitehaven, -at egremoni, j. p. paymaster in the south devon militia-al ash. paumier, , eldest son of col. m. paumer. burton, mr. s. tozer, attorney al law-at broad. derbyshire. clist, near exeter, the rev. m. barton-at exé. ter the rev. r liemonger, vicar of wherwell, clerical industry.--a venerable minister ilants, -- at his seat, at dartington. , arthur of the establishment, in derbyshire, walked champernowpe, esq-the lady of e. eyre, esq. of miles. did duty at three churches, by lansdowne crescent, batlı- at mootrath, l. teading prayers and preaching four times; walrond, esq. eldest son of the late j lyous wal. he also baptized an infant, and churched rond, .-at sidmouth, col. garnett walshan, the mother; published the banns of one of kuill courl, hereford, couple, married another, and interred a dorsetshire. corpse. he is seventy years of age ! births.) at weymonth, the lady of col. married. at saint alkmund's church, derby, llorner. of melis park, of a son-at lackhan g. lowe, esq. to martha, only daughter of the house, the lady of lieut. col. tufnell, of a son, inte mr. e. chamberla!).-at church broughton, -the lady of the rev. w. macdonald, vicar of bi- mr. h. jackson, of turbury, to miss sophia chaw. shop's cagnings, of a son, per, ot lees hall-j. gialam, esq. of chesterfield, married al st. lubn's church. mr. j. bart to miss lucas, second daughter of the late t. jert, of wesmouth, to miss lane llunter-at st. lucas, esq. philip's, by the rev. mr. pay. mr. w. jones, to dica.] at hartshorne, derbyshire, j. taylor, niss harriot flo d. eldest daughter of mr. t. esq. -at brampton, isabella youngest daughter flood, brandy merrhaut--at st. michael's, the et a. radtord, esq. of stoney middleton-gen. rev. r bickell, to eiza, daughter of the late g. garth, colonel of the both regiment of foot i. andersom, esq. of clifford's, in the island of ms. j. biagham, of derby. iamaica. devonshire. • died. at dorchester, at a very adranced ager, • there is now growing on a part of the mrs. bristrd, widow of the rev. n. bristej, for. glebe lands, at l'plowman, in devonshire, a merly vicar of this town, rector of slourton caus- most promising crop of barley, nearly in dle, &e. full ear! the same field, last year, pro- durhad. duced somewhat more than thirty bushels married.) . llawks, csg. of gate bead, to of barley per acre ; and the present spon. frunces jane, eldest daughter of the late wm. laneous crop (for the ground has not been awks, jun. esq.- fraucis bellow, esq. of the na. .) gloucestershire--hampshire-herefordshire-kent. care ket tive infantry, to ann, only daughter of the late prebendary of ely cathedral, and rector of cois s. temple esq. of hylton castle. tenham, in cambridgeshire. births) al halston, the lady of p. vyvyan ro- hampshire. binsou, e q. of nansloe, cornwall, of a daughter-- at toppesfield reitory, mis. lewis way, of a an experiment was made in portsmouth daughter-ai debden hall, mrs. w. campbell, of harbour on wednesday last, of the ma- & still-born child. chinery for propelling ships in a calm, the morried ] james, second son of j thurtell, invention of lieut. burton, r. n. which has esq. of bradwell, near yarmouth, to sarahı, second been fitted on board his majesty's ship, daughter of mr. d. holt, of lexden-at west active, capt. sir j. gordon, k. c. b. when ham, r. keruison, esq. of panxworth, to miss a. it was found to answer the intended purpose m. dawson, of stratford-w. r. robinsou, esg. of extremely well, and it is likely to prove of walthamstow, to jane, fourth daughter of thos. maltbs, esq.-mr. r. torner, of the hythe farm, great utility. the weather was moderate little baidfield. to julia, second daughter of w. at the time of the trial, and the ship was davies, agg. of riadwruter all --at bugntlingsea, moved through the water at the rate of lieut. g. beazley, rn to mise fletcher, only nearly three miles an hour, against the tide, daughter of mr. fletcher, mr. w burbidge, mer. which was running at the rate of about half chant, of london. to elizabeth mary, daughter of hter of a mile an hour. a mile an hour. it is calculated that in it is calculated that in the rev. w. ei ratt, late curate of great ilalling places where there is little or no tide, ships, hury-i. leader, esqof queodun, to elizabeth, may be propelled by this machinery at least second daughter of w. williainson, esq. of bunt- five miles an hour. ingford, herts -at uarwich, capt. cust, of the birth.] the lady of captain shakespear, of st regt. to miss ward, daughter of the late col. ward, of the east india service george, youngest exton, of a son. married. at boldre church, in the new son of i. clarke, esq. of wanstead, to sarah, eldest forest, h. ilayter, esq. of eden vale, wiltshire, daughter of a. bryson, esq. of snaresbrook house. to eliza jane, youngest daughter of the late j. died. at beverley collage, colchesier, , ilaylyn, esq. of highbury terrace, middlesex lieut. col. e. harris, of the honourable east at whitchurch, randle woodfield, esq. of wel. india company's service.- at colchester, , lington cross, lo miss martha mullenor, of steel randolph, oh son of the late t. baines, of hal. -f. morgan, esq. of midlington-place, to louisa stead-mrs. manning, of woolverstone, -mrs. oddy, wife of mr. j. o. of stock-at great grenfell, d daughter of the late w. g. lobb, esq. commissioner r. n.-g. m. tarleton, esq. of th chesterford, mrs. cottingham, wife of mr. r. c. mrs. brown, wife of mr. j. b. of great bar. foot, to louisa, daughter of the late g. best, esq. of chilston.park field, .-at leyton, mrs. hibbert, -mary, died ] at her seat, highfield-park, the right wife of s chamberlayne, esq. of ryes, and only hon. lady pitt, relict of the late general, the daughter of the late w. brockett, of spains hall right hon. sir w. a. pitt, k. b.-the rev. r. t. leader, esq. of broxied-mr. f. tomlinson, of iremonger, vicar of wherwell, near andoves-at maldon, d son of the late j. t. esq. winchester, , lieut. ii. m.dermott, of the th gloucestershire. regt. of foot, second son of lieut. col. m'dermott, of the royal military college, sandhurst-j. d. birth.) at pucklechuich, the lady of the penleaze, esq. of high cliff house, near christ. rev. george crabbe, of a son. church. married. at haresfield, baron charles philip herefordshire. * de thierry, of st. george's, hanover-square, mid. dlesex, to emily rudge - the rev. john ford, of married.) at byford, near hereford, lieut, era of eastington, to caroline rudge; both daughters of j. w. stiles, r. n. to sarah fowler, youngest the rev. archdeacon rudge-at ashchurch, daughter of the rev. l. maxey, rector of that near tewkesbury, mr. t. hobbs, of natton, to place-at puddlestope, j. beresford turner, esu. miss davidson, of kiddington-michael corbett, of miles hope, of middlestone, to miss m. collins, esq. of lower quinton, to elizabeth, youngest of brockinanton uall-r. h. symons, esq. meend o daughter of the late mr. robert arkell, of white park, to j. d. tolson, daughter of r. h. tolson, tington-court-at lingridge, mr. henry adams, esq. woodland lodge, somersetshire-lieut. e. to miss jennings, oply daughter of mr. john jer daxey, r. n. of byford, to eliza hells, second nings, of the former place-mr. thomas jennings, daughter of the late r. haslefoot, esq. boreham, to miss ann medlicott-at all saints, gloucester, essex-at st. peter's, hereford, mr. c. lloyd, of mr. walter, to miss jones -at thornbury, tho. hanley-court, to c. poyntz, third daughter of mr. gwynn, esq. to margaret, eldest daughter of the m. p. matthews, woolstapier, of hereford-at late obed thurston-mr. thomas freer, of weed. foy, j. iiarris, esq. of hereford, to frances, fifth jey, to miss sarah gwinnett, second daughter of daughter of the late rev. j. jones, of foy. mr. p. gwinnett, of bishop's cleve. died.) at ross, , mr. r. cotes, formerly of died.) at gloucester, mrs. selwyn, widow of dormington court, in the county of hereford h. c. s. esg. jieut..covernor of the island of mrs. cox, late of hereford, -a hereford, tho montserrat-at cheltenham, mrs. snell, relict of rev. r. underwood, rector of st. nicholas, vicar p. s. esq. of whitley court-mrs. brunt of cross of st. john the baptist, and custos of the col street, tenbury-mr. robert whittall, of the of vicars choral, -mary, wife af j. f. mason, heath, near tepbury-joseph williams, esq. late alate esq. of aldenham lodge. esq. of a of moat court, malvern, -al holly cottage, kent. cheltenhanı, thomas entwistle, esq. father to the · a head of brocoli was cut in the garden lady of t. coults, esq. banker, london-at nor. of mr. fisher, of the turnpike-gate on the folk-buildings, gloucester, mrs. howell, , widow of the rev. j. ii. years rector of clutton-at at ashford road, near maidstone, the weight uis residence in cheltenbam, thomas holl, esq. of which was lbs. in circumference, it -at cheltenham, the rev. dr. ward, senior measured inches, and it was incha new monthly mag.no. . vol. xi, d .) ireland. district of ireland, of a sod-at newbattle manse, trim, . cornelius, jun. esq. of montrath, queen's mrs. thomson, of a son-at gardiner's row, the county, to ellen, daugliter of a. fitzgerald, esq. hon. mis. browne, of brown hill, carlow, of of castletown-j. r. barry, esq. of dogoughmoje, son-in upper merrion street, mrs. wni. m'caus. to anp, relict to ano, relict of the late j. stack, esq. of cork land, of a daughter- a temple street, the lady of john marshall, esq. captain in the gist regiment, to geo. maunseil, esq. of a daughter-at thuries, the hon. miss butler, daughter to lord duf. the lady of patrick quip, of a son-at buttevant boyne, of richmond burracks--at athlove, r. castle, cork, the lady of sir j. c. auderson, bart. armstrong, esq. of einly house, tyrone, to sarah, of a daughter--at fermoy, the lady of g. walker, youngest daughter of the late w. potts, esm. . esq. of a daughter-at rutland square, the lady hewlett, esq. of raliecn, clare, to constantia, of edward eyre maunsell esq. of a still born child daughter of the late f. drew, esq. of drewsbo- -the lady of joseph cooke, esq. cordangan, tip: sough-r, archbold, esq. eldest son of j. arch. porary, of a son and heir-at bracklin castle, bold, of davidston, kildare, esq. to mary, only westmeath, lady eleanor fetherston, of a son and daughter of j. copeland, of inn's.quay, esq. heir- al paradise, clare, the lady of j. scott, esq deaths) in waterford, mrs. skottowe, wife ef a son--at fortfergus, clare. the lady of nathias edinond scottowe, esg.-mrs. quan, wife of thos. woodmason, esq. of a sod-at kiifeacle, tippe. quan, esq.- at an advanced age, at anstjwn, wa. tary, the lady of dennis scully, esg, of a daugh terford, henry st. george cole, esq t moss ter. vale, longford, thos. barbor, esq.--in cork, mrs. marric.] w. byrne, of grangemore, wicke westropp, wiſe of alderman westropp, of that city low, esq. to miss coolang--at clopmel, mr.j. -at bandon, the rev. patrick geran, o. s. f. white, to saralı, second daugliter of the late mr. at lotapark, dear cork, the lady of jas. roche, j. taylor-m. sankey, esq. of rockwell, tippe. esq.-kingsmil! pennefather, esq. of newpark, rary, to eleanor, third daughter of ii o'hara, of iligh sheriff of tipperary-at spearvale, cavan, o'hara brook, antrim--at doneraile, h. m. wm. spear, es . -catherine jane ponsonby, smith, esq. of balinetrea, to priscilla w. creagh, only daughter of c. b. barker, esq. of kilcooly of castle, widenham-lieut. col. weyniss, of the abbey. tipperary, -in gardiner's place, mrs. th regiment, to miss ball, only daughter of the brownie, relict of nicholas browne, esq.--george h. p. ball esq. of carmarthen-major w. l. burleigh, esg. -walter nevill byrne, (sq. one wood, of the th, or king's own regiment, to of the principal officers of his majesty's excise- frances mary, eldest daughter of c. johnson, esq. at emevale, near srklow, colonel christmas. at -c.p. leslie, csq. of glass lough, monaghan, to mount nugent, cavao, james henry cottingham, christiana, youngest daughter of the late g. fos. esq. barrister at law-henry white, esq. of ems. bevy, esg, of adare farm, limerick ---j. short, of grove, cork, -the i pallas, tipperary, esq. to marianne louisa fitzge. rockvale, cork-corvell, kerry, james hilliard, rald--j. cumming, esq. of naplee, to miss magee, esq. of kilioncrim -at harristown, queen's eldest daughter of w. magie, esq. of the lodge, county, george steel, esq.-in clonmel, mrs. may, ncar belfast-the rev. j. j. fletcher, of glan. relict of the late rev. thomas may. at clara, more, to miss conway, of merrion square, and king's county, john finucane, esq.-henry bun- dunran, wicklow-leur. col. pakenham, eldest bury, esq. ot bunbury lodge, carlow. at bay bod of the hon. adıniral pakenham, to catherine view, ncar tralee, james connor, esq.--at the jane ponsophy, only daughter to c. b. barker, corc of cork, joseph o'brien, esq. lieutenant in esq, of kilcooly abbey--p. g. dumoulin, of ste. the royal navy.-at camas, limerick, miss anu phen's-green, to susanna, daughter of the late w. gubbins, second daughter of the late william breby, esq.-r. j. theodore orpen, esg. of cork. gubbins, esq.lieut.-gen. barton, , thirty-nine of to elizabeth, eldest daughter of the late rev. r. which he served in the od life guards-at santa. stack, of enginah-). reyoolds, esq. lieutenant martha, mr. a. morron, eldest son of mr. j. mor. in the royal pavy, to catherine, eldest daughter of ron, formerly of ormond's-quay, dublin-at levers. j. hoclan, .- at renown, westmeath, major towa, clare, mary, youngest daughter of wm. lo regiment. to euphemia. levers. es..-in limerick, mrs. connell, wife of eldest daughter of col. caulfield, roscommon mi. john connell, esq-at downing, near kilwortlı, litia-r. townsend, jun. cork, esq. to elizabeth, of an enexpected attack of apoplexya j. hendley, only daughter of the late col. mellifont-w. esq.-al castle mary, cork, col. mountford long. coyle, esq. of lougher, to anu, eldest daughter field, member for the city of cork in many succes, of r. reilly, esq. of milestown, meath-at anna. sive parliaments. to readers and correspondents. we have again to apologize to numerous correspondents for the non-insertion of their favours; in consequence, however, of various new arrangements, we shall presently be enabled amply to gratify both their wishes and our own. we feel grateful for the hints of our several friends, of which we shall most certainly avail ourselves as far as possible. our commercial report will hereafter be considerably enlarged, we have occasion to repeat, that theological disquisitions are not admissible. index. hiort, v. c. bishop of ribe, paulet, earl, horrebow, t. o plum, p. bishop of fühnen, e kleist, von, pram, m. korzebue, a. von, rahbek, m. kunzen, the composer, reins, jonas, lamb, lady caroline, samsoe, leicester, s.r john fleming, . sandy, j. leycester, sir peter, scott, walter, lund, c a. seetzen, von, i manuel, f. thaarur, j. maturin, rev. c. r. tode, j. c. ochlenschlager, a. wolcot, dr. john, olufsen, professor, wordsworth, w. books reviewed. affection's best gift, junius unmasked, angler, a poem, junius with bis vizor up, antar, a bedoueen romance, leliers addressed to the late duchess of ds art of french conversation, by d. boileau, vonshire, . loves of abeillard and heloisa, by rabelas barrow's history of arctic voyages, the younger, blane's elements of medical logic, memoirs of the count de las casas, boileau's art of french conversation, minstrel of the glen, a poem, bonaparte, unrevealed memoirs of napoleon, mitchel's elements of natural philosophy, brooke's durovernum and other poems, monk's vindication of the university of cam- burney's chronological history of voyages bridge, to the arctic regions, nautical essays, or a spiritual view of mari- cainpbell's specimens of the british poets, time affairs, oxford's (lord) reminiscences, campbell, or the scottish probationer, owen's new view of society, casas, memoirs of count las, patriot father, a play in five acts, catalogue of new music, by 't. boosey, priory of berkinbead, a tale, by t. whitty, charenton, or follies of the age, clarke's travels in scandinavia, redford and riche's history of uxbridge, chapham on the pentateuch, reformation of the catholic church, conversations on history, by a. jamieson, riches and redford's history of uxbridge, romilly, an eulogium on sir s. constant's eulogium on sir s. romilly, shepherd on the observance of the lord's critical examination of dr. watson's life, day, defence of the church of england by sir e. shoberl's patriot father, a drama, smith, smith's defence of the church of england, delphin classics, with variorum notes, elements of natural philosophy, by j. mit thornton's (lieut. - gen.) speech on the chell, catholic question, emigration, a poem, time's telescope for , ferrari on italian singing, &c. toulmin's illustrations of affection, fitzclarence's route across india to england, treasures of thought from madam de stael, food for the young, by a mother, walpole's letters to cole, golownin's recollections of japan, , watkins's memoirs of her majesty queen gourgaud's camapign of , charlotte, gros' new french grammar, wrongs of man, a satire. hunian life, a poem, by s. rogers, xinienes, the wreath, and other poems, by jamicson's conversations on history, dr. polidori, end of the eleventh volume. list of portraits which accompany the present volume : william wordsworth, esq. the rev. charles robert maturin. . s. t. coleridge, esq. lady caroline lamb. sir john fleming leicester, bart. madame de genlis. i. gillet, printer, crown-court, fleet-street, london. . this book should be returned to the library on or before the last d stamped below. a fine of five cents a day is incurry by retaining it beyond the specified time. please return promptly. due may umav/ #lat jun jan ' a andºarvard ~! theologicallibrary y-z ſ? "the h. p. b. press, , henry street, regent's park, london, n.w. n igh tn)are tales. by h. p. blavatsky. london: theosophical publishing society, , duke street, adelphi, w.c. new york : the path, , madison ave nue. madras: theosophical society, adyar. . price one shilling. tºp n º, contents. a bewitched life . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . the cave of the echoes . . . . . . . . . . . . . the luminous shield . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . i from the polar lands . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . the ensouled violin a bewit life. (as narrated by a quill pen.) introduction. t was a dark, chilly night in sep- | tember, . a heavy gloom had descended over the streets , a small town on the rhine, and was hanging like a black funeral-pall over the dull fac- tory burgh. the greater number of its in- habitants, wearied by their long day's work, had hours before retired to stretch their tired limbs, and lay their aching heads upon their pillows. all was quiet in the large house; all was quiet in the deserted streets. i too was lying in my bed ; alas, not one of rest, but of pain and sickness, to which i had been confined for some days. so still was everything in the house, that, as longfellow has it, its stillness seemed almost audible. i could plainly hear the murmur of the blood, as it rushed through my aching body, producing that monotonous singing so familiar to one who lends a watchful ear to silence. i had listened to it until, in my nervous imagination, it had grown into the sound of a a bewitched life. sounds. it was the low, and at first scarce audible, whisper of a human voice. it approached, and gradually strengthening seemed to speak in my very ear. thus sounds a voice speaking across a blue quiescent lake, in one of those wondrously acoustic gorges of the snow- capped mountains, where the air is so pure that a word pronounced half a mile off seems almost at the elbow. yes; it was the voice of one whom to know is to rever- ence; of one, to me, owing to many mystic associations, most dear and holy; a voice familiar for long years and ever welcome; doubly so in hours of mental or physical suffering, for it always brings with it a ray of hope and ‘consolation. “courage,” it whispered in gentle, mellow tones. “think of the days passed by you in sweet associations; of the great lessons received of nature's truths; of the many errors of men concerning these truths; and try to add to them the experience of a night in this city. let the narrative of a strange life, that will interest you, help to shorten the hours of suffering. . . give your atten- tion. look yonder before you!” “yonder” meant the clear, large windows of an empty house on the other side of the narrow street of the german town. they faced my own in almost a straight line across the street, and my bed faced the windows of my sleeping room. obedient to the suggestion, i directed my gaze toward them, and what i saw made me for the time being forget the agony of the pain that racked my swollen arm and rheumatical body. - over the windows was creeping a mist; a dense, heavy, serpentine, whitish mist, that looked like the huge shadow of a gigantic boa slowly uncoiling its body. gradually it disappeared, to leave a lustrous light, soft and silvery, as though the window-panes behind reflected io nightmare tales. a thousand moonbeams, a tropical star-lit sky—first from outside, then from within the empty rooms. next i saw the mist elongating itself and throwing, as it were, a fairy bridge across the street from the bewitched windows to my own balcony, nay, to my very own bed. as i con- tinued gazing, the wall and windows and the opposite house itself, suddenly vanished. the space occupied by the empty rooms had changed into the interior of another smaller room, in what i knew to be a swiss châlet—into a study, whose old, dark walls were covered from floor to ceiling with book shelves on which were many antiquated folios, as well as works of a more recent date. in the centre stood a large old-fashioned table, littered over with manuscripts and writing materials. before it, quill- en in hand, sat an old man; a grim-looking, skeleton- like personage, with a face so thin, so pale, yellow and emaciated, that the light of the solitary little student’s lamp was reflected in two shining spots on his high cheek-bones, as though they were carved out of ivory. as i tried to get a better view of him by slowly raising myself upon my pillows, the whole vision, châlet and study, desk, books and scribe, seemed to flicker and move. once set in motion, they approached nearer and nearer, until, gliding noiselessly along the fleecy bridge of clouds across the street, they floated through the closed windows into my room and finally seemed to settle beside my bed. “listen to what he thinks and is going to write”—said in soothing tones the same familiar, far off, and yet near voice. “thus you will hear a narrative, the telling of which may help to shorten the long sleepless hours, and even make you forget for a while your pain. . . try!” —it added, using the well-known rosicrucian and kaba- listic formula. i nightmare tales. i. the stranger's story. my birth-place is a small mountain hamlet, a cluster of swiss cottages, hidden deep in a sunny nook, between two tumble-down glaciers and a peak covered with eter- nal snows. thither, thirty-seven years ago, i returned —crippled mentally and physically—to die, if death would only have me. the pure, invigorating air of my birth-place decided otherwise. i am still alive; perhaps for the purpose of giving evidence to facts i have kept profoundly secret from all—a tale of horror i would rather hide than reveal. the reason for this unwillingness on my part is due to my early education, and to subsequent events that gave the lie to my most cherished prejudices. some people might be inclined to regard these events as providential: i, however, be- lieve in no providence, and yet am unable to attribute them to mere chance. i connect them as the cease- ess evolution of effects, engendered by certain direct causes, with one primary and fundamental cause, from which ensued all that followed. a feeble old man am i now, yet physical weakness has in no way impaired my mental faculties. i remember the smallest details of that terrible cause, which engendered such fatal results. it is these which furnish me with an addi- tional proof of the actual existence of one whom i fain would regard—oh, that i could do so!—as a crea- ture born of my fancy, the evanescent production of a feverish, horrid dream oh that terrible, mild and all- forgiving, that saintly and respected being ! it was that paragon of all the virtues who embittered my whole existence. it is he, who, pushing me violently out of the monotonous but secure groove of daily life, was the first to force upon me the certitude of a life a bewitched life. i hereafter, thus adding an additional horror to one al- ready great enough. with a view to a clearer comprehension of the situa- tion, i must interrupt these recollections with a few words about myself. oh how, if i could, would i ob- literate that hated self/ born in switzerland, of french parents, who centred the whole world-wisdom in the literary trinity of voltaire, j. j. rousseau and d'holbach, and educated in a german university, i grew up a thorough materialist, a confirmed atheist. i could never have even pictured to myself any beings—least of all a being—above or even outside visible nature, as distinguished from her. hence i regarded everything that could not be brought under the strictest analysis of the physical senses as a mere chimera. a soul, i argued, even supposing man has one, must be material. according to origen's definition, incorporeus” —the epithet he gave to his god—signifies a substance only more subtle than that of physical bodies, of which, at best, we can form no definite idea. how then can that, of which our senses cannot enable us to obtain any clear knowledge, how can that make itself visible or pro- duce any tangible manifestations accordingly, i received the tales of nascent spiritual- ism with a feeling of utter contempt, and regarded the overtures made by certain priests with derision, often akin to anger. and indeed the latter feeling has never entirely abandoned me. pascal, in the eighth act of his “thoughts,” confesses to a most complete incertitude upon the existence of god. throughout my life, i too professed a complete certitude as to the non-existence of any such extra-cosmic being, and repeated with that great thinker the memorable + / goropatos. a bewitched life. i tzeonene, enarino-yassero, kie-missoo, higadzi-hong- vonsi, and many other famous temples. several years passed away, and during that whole period i was not cured of my scepticism, nor did i ever contemplate having my opinions on this subject altered. i derided the pretensions of the japanese bonzes and ascetics, as i had those of christian priests and euro- pean spiritualists. i could not believe in the acquisition of powers unknown to, and never studied by, men of science; hence i scoffed at all such ideas. the super- stitious and atrabilious buddhist, teaching us to shun the pleasures of life, to put to rout one's passions, to render oneself insensible alike to happiness and suffer- ing, in order to acquire such chimerical powers—seemed supremely ridiculous in my eyes. on a day for ever memorable to me—a fatal day—i made the acquaintance of a venerable and learned bonze, a japanese priest, named tamoora hideyeri. i met him at the foot of the golden kwon-on, and from that mo- ment he became my best and most trusted friend. not- withstanding my great and genuine regard for him, however, whenever a good opportunity was offered i never failed to mock his religious convictions, thereby very often hurting his feelings. but my old friend was as meek and forgiving as any true buddhist's heart might desire. he never resented my impatient sarcasms, even when they were, to say the least, of equivocal propriety, and generally limited his replies to the “wait and see” kind of protest. nor could he be brought to seriously believe in the sincerity of my denial of the existence of any god or gods. the full meaning of the terms “atheism” and “scepticism” was beyond the comprehension of his otherwise extremely intellectual and acute mind. like certain reverential i nightmare tales. christians, he seemed incapable of realizing that any man of sense should prefer the wise conclusions arrived at by philosophy and modern science to a ridiculous belief in an invisible world full of gods and spirits, dzins and demons. “man is a spiritual being,” he insisted, “who returns to earth more than once, and is rewarded or punished in the between times.” the proposition that man is nothing else but a heap of organized dust, was beyond him. like jeremy collier, he refused to admit that he was no better than “a stalking machine, a speaking head without a soul in it,” whose “thoughts are all bound by the laws of motion.” “for,” he argued, “if my actions were, as you say, prescribed beforehand, and i had no more liberty or free will to change the course of my action than the running waters of the river yonder, then the glorious doctrine of karma, of merit and demerit, would be a foolishness indeed.” thus the whole of my hyper-metaphysical friend's ontology rested on the shaky superstructure of metem- psychosis, of a fancied “just” law of retribution, and other such equally absurd dreams. “we cannot,” said he paradoxically one day, “hope to live hereafter in the full enjoyment of our consciousness, unless we have built for it beforehand a firm and solid foundation of spirituality. . . nay, laugh not, friend of no faith,” he meekly pleaded, “but rather think and reflect on this. one who has never taught himself to live in spirit during his conscious and responsible life on earth, can hardly hope to enjoy a sentient existence after death, when, deprived of his body, he is limited to that spirit alone.” “what can you mean by life in spirit?”—i enquired. “life on a spiritual plane; that which the buddhists call tushita devaloka (paradise). man can create such a bewitched life. a blissful existence for himself between two births, by the gradual transference on to that plane of all the faculties which during his sojourn on earth manifest through his organic body and, as you call it, animal brain.” - “how absurd . and how can man do this?” “contemplation and a strong desire to assimilate the blessed gods, will enable him to do so.” “and if man refuses this intellectual occupation, by which you mean, i suppose, the fixing of the eyes on the tip of his nose, what becomes of him after the death of his body?” was my mocking question. “he will be dealt with according to the prevailing state of his consciousness, of which there are many grades. at best—immediate rebirth; at worst—the state of avitchi, a mental hell. yet one need not be an ascetic to assimilate spiritual life which will extend to the hereafter. all that is required is to try and approach spirit.” - “how so? even when disbelieving in it?”—i re- joined. “even sol one may disbelieve and yet harbour in one’s nature room for doubt, however small that room may be, and thus try one day, were it but for one mo- ment, to open the door of the inner temple; and this will prove sufficient for the purpose.” “you are decidedly poetical, and paradoxical to boot, reverend sir. will you kindly explain to me a little nmore of the mystery?” “there is none; still i am willing. suppose for a moment that some unknown temple to which you have never been before, and the existence of which you think you have reasons to deny, is the ‘spiritual plane' of which i am speaking. some one takes you by the hand i nightmare tales. and leads you towards its entrance, curiosity makes you open its door and look within. by this simple act, by entering it for one second, you have established an ever- lasting connection between your consciousness and the temple. you cannot deny its existence any longer, nor obliterate the fact of your having entered it. and ac- cording to the character and the variety of your work, within its holy precincts, so will you live in it after your consciousness is severed from its dwelling of flesh.” “what do you mean? and what has my after-death consciousness—if such a thing exists—to do with the temple?” “it has everything to do with it,” solemnly rejoined the old man. “there can be no self-consciousness after death outside the temple of spirit. that which you will have done within its plane will alone survive. all the rest is false and an illusion. it is doomed to perish in the ocean of māyā.” amused at the idea of living outside one's body, i urged on my old friend to tell me more. mistaking my meaning, the venerable man willingly consented. tamoora hideyeri belonged to the great temple of tzi-onene, a buddhist monastery, famous not only in all japan, but also throughout tibet and china. no other is so venerated in kioto. its monks belong to the sect of dzeno-doo, and are considered as the most learned among the many erudite fraternities. they are, moreover, closely connected and allied with the yama- booshi (the ascetics, or hermits), who follow the doc- trines of lao-tze. no wonder, that at the slightest provocation on my part the priest flew into the highest metaphysics, hoping thereby to cure me of my infidelity. no use repeating here the long rigmarole of the most hopelessly involved and incomprehensible of all a bewitched life. i doctrines. according to his ideas, we have to train ourselves for spirituality in another world—as for gym- nastics. carrying on the analogy between the temple and the “spiritual plane” he tried to illustrate his idea. he had himself worked in the temple of spirit two- thirds of his life, and given several hours daily to “contemplation.” thus he knew (?!) that after he had aid aside his mortal casket, “a mere illusion,” he ex- plained—he would in his spiritual consciousness live over again every feeling of ennobling joy and divine bliss he had ever had, or ought to have had—only a hundred-fold intensified. his work on the spirit-plane had been considerable, he said, and he hoped, there- fore, that the wages of the labourer would prove pro- portionate. “but suppose the labourer, as in the example you have just brought forward in my case, should have no more than opened the temple door out of mere curiosity; had only peeped into the sanctuary never to set his foot therein again. what then? “then,” he answered, “you would have only this short minute to record in your future self-consciousness and no more. our life hereafter records and repeats but the impressions and feelings we have had in our spiritual experiences and nothing else. thus, if instead of reverence at the moment of entering the abode of spirit, you had been harbouring in your heart anger, jealousy or grief, then your future spiritual life would be a sad one, in truth. there would be nothing to record, save the opening of a door, in a fit of bad temper.” “how then could it be repeated?”—i insisted, highly amused. “what do you suppose i would be doing before incarnating again?” “in that case,” he said, speaking slowly and weighing o nightmare tales. every word—“in that case, you could have, i fear, only to open and shut the temple door, over and over again, during a period which, however short, would seem to you an eternity.” this kind of after-death occupation appeared to me, at that time, so grotesque in its sublime absurdity, that i was seized with an almost inextinguishable fit of laughter. my venerable friend looked considerably dismayed at such a result of his metaphysical instruction. he had evidently not expected such hilarity. however, he said nothing, but only sighed and gazed at me with increased benevolence and pity shining in his small black eyes. “pray excuse my laughter,” i apologized. “but really, now, you cannot seriously mean to tell me that the ‘spiritual state” you advocate and so firmly believe in, consists only in aping certain things we do in life?” “nay, nay; not aping, but only intensifying their repetition; filling the gaps that were unjustly left un- filled during life in the fruition of our acts and deeds, and of everything performed on the spiritual plane of the one real state. what i said was an illustration, and no doubt for you, who seem entirely ignorant of the mysteries of soul- vision, not a very intelligible one. it is myself who am to be blamed. . . . what i sought to impress upon you was that, as the spiritual state of our consciousness liberated from its body is but the fruition of every spiritual act performed during life, where an act had been barren, there could be no results expected—save the repetition of that act itself. this is all. i pray you may be spared such fruitless deeds and finally made to see certain truths.” and passing through the usual japanese courtesies of taking leave, the excel- lent man departed. a bewitched life. i alas, alas! had i but known at the time what i have earnt since, how little would i have laughed, and how much more would i have learned! but as the matter stood, the more personal affection and respect i felt for him, the less could i become recon- ciled to his wild ideas about an after-life, and especially as to the acquisition by some men of supernatural powers. i felt particularly disgusted with his reverence for the yamabooshi, the allies of every buddhist sect in the land. their claims to the “miraculous” were simply odious to my notions. to hear every jap i knew at kioto, even to my own partner, the shrewdest of all the business men i had come across in the east—men- tioning these followers of lao-tze with downcast eyes, reverentially folded hands, and affirmations of their pos- sessing “great” and “wonderful” gifts, was more than i was prepared to patiently tolerate in those days. and who were they, after all, these great magicians with their ridiculous pretensions to super-mundane know- ledge; these “holy beggars” who, as i then thought, purposely dwell in the recesses of unfrequented moun- tains and on unapproachable craggy steeps, so as the better to afford no chance to curious intruders of find- ing them out and watching them in their own dens? simply, impudent fortune-tellers, japanese gypsies who sell charms and talismans, and no better. in answer to those who sought to assure me that though the yama- booshi lead a mysterious life, admitting none of the profane to their secrets, they still do accept pupils, how- ever difficult it is for one to become their disciple, and that thus they have living witnesses to the great purity and sanctity of their lives, in answer to such affirmations i opposed the strongest negation and stood firmly by it. i insulted both masters and pupils, classing them under a bewitched life. boats would permit. but suddenly there came a break in my letters from home. for nearly a year i received no intelligence; and day by day, i became more restless, more apprehensive of some great misfortune. vainly i looked for a letter, a simple message; and my efforts to account for so unusual a silence were fruitless. “friend,” said to me one day tamoora hideyeri, my only confidant, “friend, consult a holy yamabooshi and you will feel at rest.” of course the offer was rejected with as much modera- tion as i could command under the provocation. but, as steamer after steamer came in without a word of news, i felt a despair which daily increased in depth and fixity. this finally degenerated into an irrepressible craving, a morbid desire to learn—the worst, as i then thought. i struggled hard with the feeling, but it had the best of me. only a few months before a complete master of myself—i now became an abject slave to fear. a fatal- ist of the school of d'holbach, i, who had always re- garded belief in the system of necessity as being the only promoter of philosophical happiness, and as having the most advantageous influence over human weak- nesses, i felt a craving for something akin to fortune- telling ! i had gone so far as to forget the first principle of my doctrine—the only one calculated to calm our sorrows, to inspire us with a useful submission, namely a rational resignation to the decrees of blind destiny, with which foolish sensibility causes us so often to be overwhelmed—the doctrine that all is necessary. yes; forgetting this, i was drawn into a shameful, superstitious longing, a stupid, disgraceful desire to learn—if not futu- rity, at any rate that which was taking place at the other side of the globe. my conduct seemed utterly modified, my temperament and aspirations wholly changed; and a bewitched life. emaciated, was standing before me. there, where i had expected to find servile obsequiousness, i only discerned an air of calm and dignified composure, the attitude of one who knows his moral superiority, and therefore scorns to notice the mistakes of those who fail to recog- nize it. to the somewhat irreverent and mocking ques- tions, which i put to him one after another, with feverish eagerness, he made no reply; but gazed on me in silence as a physician would look at a delirious patient. from the moment he fixed his eyes on mine, i felt—or shall i say, saw—as though it were a sharp ray of light, a thin silvery thread, shoot out from the intensely black and narrow eyes so deeply sunk in the yellow old face. it seemed to penetrate into my brain and heart like an arrow, and set to work to dig out therefrom every thought and feeling. yes; i both saw and felt it, and very soon the double sensation became intolerable. to break the spell i defied him to tell me what he had found in my thoughts. calmly came the correct answer—extreme anxiety for a female relative, her hus- band and children, who were inhabiting a house the correct description of which he gave as though he knew it as well as myself. i turned a suspicious eye upon my friend, the bonze, to whose indiscretions, i thought, i was indebted for the quick reply. remembering how- ever that tamoora could know nothing of the appear- ance of my sister's house, that the japanese are pro- verbially truthful and, as friends, faithful to death—i felt ashamed of my suspicion. to atone for it before my own conscience i asked the hermit whether he could tell me anything of the present state of that beloved sister of mine. the foreigner—was the reply—would never believe in the words, or trust to the knowledge of any person but himself. were the yamabooshi to tell nightmare tales. him, the impression would wear out hardly a few hours later, and the inquirer find himself as miserable as be- fore. there was but one means; and that was to make the foreigner (myself) see with his own eyes, and thus learn the truth for himself. was the inquirer ready to be placed by a yamabooshi, a stranger to him, in the required state? i had heard in europe of mesmerized somnambules and pretenders to clairvoyance, and having no faith in them, i had, therefore, nothing against the process it- self. even in the midst of my never-ceasing mental agony, i could not help smiling at the ridiculous nature of the operation i was willingly submitting to. never- theless i silently bowed consent. iii. psychic magic. the old yamabooshi lost no time. he looked at the setting sun, and finding, probably, the lord ten-dzio- dai-dzio (the spirit who darts his rays) propitious for the coming ceremony, he speedily drew out a little bundle. it contained a small lacquered box, a piece of vegetable paper, made from the bark of the mulberry tree, and a pen, with which he traced upon the paper a few sentences in the maiden character—a peculiar style of written language used only for religious and mystical purposes. having finished, he exhibited from under his clothes a small round mirror of steel of extraordinary brilliancy, and placing it before my eyes, asked me to look into it. . i had not only heard before of these mirrors, which are frequently used in the temples, but i had often seen them. it is claimed that under the direction and will of o nightmare tales. happened to fall upon its pages, i read the words, “the veil which covers futurity is woven by the hand of mercy.” this was enough. that same pride which had hitherto held me back from what i regarded as a degrading, superstitious experiment, caused me to chal- lenge my fate. i picked up the ominously shining disk and prepared to look into it. while i was examining the mirror, the yamabooshi hastily spoke a few words to the bonze, tamoora, at which i threw a furtive and suspicious glance at both. i was wrong once more. “the holy man desires me to put you a question and give you at the same time a warning,” remarked the bonze. “if you are willing to see for yourself now, you will have—under the penalty of seeing for ever, in the hereafter, all that is taking place, at whatever distance, and that against your will or inclination—to submit to a regular course of purification, after you have learnt what you want through the mirror.” “what is this course, and what have i to promise p” i asked defiantly. “it is for your own good. you must promise him to submit to the process, lest, for the rest of his life, he should have to hold himself responsible, before his own conscience, for having made an irresponsible seer of you. will you do so, friend?” - “there will be time enough to think of it, if i see anything”—i sneeringly replied, adding under my breath—“something i doubt a good deal, so far.” “well, you are warned, friend. the consequences will now remain with yourself,” was the solemn answer. i glanced at the clock, and made a gesture of impa- tience, which was remarked and understood by the yamabooshi. it was just seven minutes after five. nightmare tales. lyzed, my eyes, as i thought, unexpectedly caught a clear- er and far more vivid glimpse than they had ever had in reality, of my sister's new house at nuremberg, which i lmad never visited and knew only from a sketch, and other scenery with which i had never been very familiar. together with this, and while feeling in my brain what seemed like flashes of a departing consciousness—dying persons must feel so, no doubt—the very last, vague thought, so weak as to have been hardly perceptible, was that i must look very, very ridiculous. . . . this feeling —for such it was rather than a thought—was interrupted, suddenly extinguished, so to say, by a clear mental vision (i cannot characterize it otherwise) of myself, of that which i regarded as, and knew to be my body, lying with ashy cheeks on the settee, dead to all intents and pur- poses, but still staring with the cold and glassy eyes of a corpse into the mirror. bending over it, with his two emaciated hands cutting the air in every direction over its white face, stood the tall figure of the yamabooshi, for whom i felt at that instant an inextinguishable, murder- ous hatred. as i was going, in thought, to pounce upon the vile charlatan, my corpse, the two old men, the room itself, and every object in it, trembled and danced in a reddish glowing light, and seemed to float rapidly away from “me.” a few more grotesque, distorted shadows before “my” sight; and, with a last feeling of terror and a supreme effort to realize who then was i now, since i was not that corpse—a great veil of darkness fell over me, like a funeral pall, and every thought in me was dead. iv. a vision of horror. how strange! . . . where was i now? it was evident to me that i had once more returned to my a bewitched life. senses. for there i was, vividly realizing that i was rapidly moving forward, while experiencing a queer, strange sensation as though i were swimming, without impulse or effort on my part, and in total darkness. the idea that first presented itself to me was that of a long subterranean passage of water, of earth, and stifling air, though bodily i had no perception, no sensation, of the presence or contact of any of these. i tried to utter a few words, to repeat my last sentence, “i desire but one thing: to learn the reason or reasons why my sister has so suddenly ceased writing to me”—but the only words i heard out of the twenty-one, were the two, “to /earm,” and these, instead of their coming out of my own larynx, came back to me in my own voice, but entirely outside myself, near, but not in me. in short, they were pronounced by my voice, not by my lips. one more rapid, involuntary motion, one more plunge into the cymmerian darkness of a (to me) unknown element, and i saw myself standing—actually standing —underground, as it seemed. i was compactly and thickly surrounded on all sides, above and below, right and left, with earth, and in the mould, and yet it weighed not, and seemed quite immaterial and trans- parent to my senses. i did not realize for one second the utter absurdity, nay, impossibility of that seeming fact! one second more, one short instant, and i perceived— oh, inexpressible horror, when i think of it now; for then, although i perceived, realized, and recorded facts and events far more clearly than ever i had done before, i did not seem to be touched in any other way by what i saw. yes—i perceived a coffin at my feet. it was a plain, unpretentious shell, made of deal, the last couch of the pauper, in which, notwithstanding its closed lid, i plainly saw a hideous, grinning skull, a man's skele- - nightmare tales. ton, mutilated and broken in many of its parts, as though it had been taken out of some hidden chamber of the defunct inquisition, where it had been subjected to torture. “who can it be?”—i thought. at this moment i heard again proceeding from afar the same voice—my voice . . . “the reason or reasons why.” it said; as though these words were the unbroken continuation of the same sentence of which it had just repeated the two words “to learn.” it sounded near, and yet as from some incalculable distance; giving me then the idea that the long subterranean journey, the subsequent mental reflexions and discoveries, had occupied no time; had been performed during the short, almost instantaneous interval between the first and the middle words of the sentence, begun, at any rate, if not actually pronounced by myself in my room at kioto, and which it was now finishing, in interrupted, broken phrases, like a faithful echo of my own words and voice. - forthwith, the hideous, mangled remains began as- suming a form, and, to me, but too familiar appearance. the broken parts joined together one to the other, the bones became covered once more with flesh, and i recog- nized in these disfigured remains—with some surprise, but not a trace of feeling at the sight—my sister's dead husband, my own brother-in-law, whom i had for her sake loved so truly. “how was it, and how did he come to die such a terrible death?”—i asked myself. to put oneself a query seemed, in the state in which i was, to instantly solve it. hardly had i asked myself the ques- tion, when, as if in a panorama, i saw the retrospective picture of poor karl's death, in all its horrid vividness, and with every thrilling detail, every one of which, how- ever, left me then entirely and brutally indifferent. a bewitched life. here he is, the dear old fellow, full of life and joy at the prospect of more lucrative employment from his principal, examining and trying in a wood-sawing fac- tory a monster steam engine just arrived from america. he bends over, to examine more closely an inner ar- rangement, to tighten a screw. his clothes are caught by the teeth of the revolving wheel in full motion, and suddenly he is dragged down, doubled up, and his limbs half severed, torn off, before the workmen, unacquainted with the mechanism, can stop it. he is taken out, or what remains of him, dead, mangled, a thing of horror, an unrecognizable mass of palpitating flesh and blood! i follow the remains, wheeled as an unrecognizable heap to the hospital, hear the brutally given order that the messengers of death should stop on their way at the house of the widow and orphans. i follow them, and find the unconscious family quietly assembled together. i see my sister, the dear and beloved, and remain in- different at the sight, only feeling highly interested in the coming scene. my heart, my feelings, even my per- sonality, seem to have disappeared, to have been left behind, to belong to somebody else. there “i” stand, and witness her unprepared recep- tion of the ghastly news. i realize clearly, without one moment's hesitation or mistake, the effect of the shock upon her, i perceive clearly, following and recording, to the minutest detail, her sensations and the inner process that takes place in her. i watch and remember, missing not one single point. as the corpse is brought into the house for identifica- tion i hear the long agonizing cry, my own name pro- nounced, and the dull thud of the living body falling upon the remains of the dead one. i follow with curi- osity the sudden thrill and the instantaneous perturba- nightmare tales. i opened my eyes in my own room, and the first thing i fixed upon, by accident, was the clock. the hands of the dial showed seven minutes and a half past five! . . . i had thus passed through these most terrible experiences, which it takes me hours to narrate, in precisely half a minute of time ! but this, too, was an after-thought. for one brief instant i recollected nothing of what i had seen. the interval between the time i had glanced at the clock when taking the mirror from the yamabooshi's hand and this second glance, seemed to me merged in one. i was just opening my lips to hurry on the yamabooshi with his experiment, when the full remembrance of what i had just seen flashed lightning-like into my brain. uttering a cry of horror and despair, i felt as though the whole creation were crushing me under its weight. for one moment i remained speechless, the picture of human ruin amid a world of death and desolation. my heart sank down in anguish: my doom was closed; and a hopeless gloom seemed to settle over the rest of my life for ever! v. return of doubts. then came a reaction as sudden as my grief itself. a doubt arose in my mind, which forthwith grew into a fierce desire of denying the truth of what i had seen. a stubborn resolution of treating the whole thing as an empty, meaningless dream, the effect of my overstrained mind, took possession of me. yes; it was but a lying vision, an idiotic cheating of my own senses, suggesting pictures of death and misery which had been evoked by weeks of incertitude and mental depression. a bewitched life. “how could i see all that i have seen in less than half a minute?”—i exclaimed. “the theory of dreams, the rapidity with which the material changes on which our ideas in vision depend, are excited in the hemispherical ganglia, is sufficient to account for the long series of events i have seemed to experience. in dream alone can the relations of space and time be so completely annihilated. the yamabooshi is for nothing in this disagreeable nightmare. he is only reaping that which has been sown by myself, and, by using some infernal drug, of which his tribe have the secret, he has con- trived to make me lose consciousness for a few seconds and see that vision—as lying as it is horrid. avaunt all such thoughts, i believe them not. in a few days there will be a steamer sailing for europe. . . i shall leave to-morrow!” - this disjointed monologue was pronounced by me aloud, regardless of the presence of my respected friend the bonze, tamoora, and the yamabooshi. the latter was standing before me in the same position as when he placed the mirror in my hands, and kept looking at me calmly, i should perhaps say looking through me, and in dignified silence. the bonze, whose kind countenance was beaming with sympathy, approached me as he would a sick child, and gently laying his hand on mine, and with tears in his eyes, said: “friend, you must not leave this city before you have been completely purified of your contact with the lower daij-dzins (spirits), who had to be used to guide your inexperienced soul to the places it craved to see. the entrance to your inner self must be closed against their dangerous intrusion. lose no time, therefore, my son, and allow the holy master, yonder, to purify you at once.” but nothing can be more deaf than anger once aroused. o nightmare tales. “the sap of reason” could no longer “quench the fire of passion,” and at that moment i was not fit to listen to his friendly voice. his is a face i can never recall to my memory without genuine feeling; his, a name i will ever pronounce with a sigh of emotion; but at that ever memorable hour when my passions were inflamed to white heat, i felt almost a hatred for the kind, good old man, i could not forgive him his interference in the present event. hence, for all answer, therefore, he received from me a stern rebuke, a violent protest on my part against the idea that i could ever regard the vision i had had, in any other light save that of an empty dream, and his yamabooshi as anything better than an impostor. “i will leave to-morrow, had i to forfeit my whole fortune as a penalty”—i exclaimed, pale with rage and despair. “you will repent it the whole of your life, if you do so before the holy man has shut every entrance in you against intruders ever on the watch and ready to enter the open door,” was the answer. “the daij-dzins will have the best of you.” i interrupted him with a brutal laugh, and a still more brutally phrased enquiry about the fees i was expected to give the yamabooshi, for his experiment with me. “he needs no reward,” was the reply. “the order he belongs to is the richest in the world, since its adherents need nothing, for they are above all terrestrial and venal desires. insult him not, the good man who came to help you out of pure sympathy for your suffering, and to relieve you of mental agony.” but i would listen to no words of reason and wisdom. the spirit of rebellion and pride had taken possession of me, and made me disregard every feeling of personal friendship, or even of simple propriety. luckily for me, a bewitched life. . i on turning round to order the medicant monk out of my presence, i found he had gone. - i had not seen him move, and attributed his stealthy departure to fear at having been detected and under- stood. fool! blind, conceited idiot that i was why did i fail to recognize the yamabooshi's power, and that the peace of my whole life was departing with him, from that moment for ever? but i did so fail. even the fell demon of my long fears—uncertainty—was now entirely overpowered by that fiend scepticism—the silliest of all. a dull, morbid unbelief, a stubborn denial of the evidence of my own senses, and a determined will to regard the whole vision as a fancy of my overwrought mind, had taken firm hold of me. “my mind,” i argued, “what is it? shall i believe with the superstitious and the weak that this production of phosphorus and grey matter is indeed the superior part of me; that it can act and see independently of my physical senses? never! as well believe in the plane- tary “intelligences’ of the astrologer, as in the ‘daij- dzins’ of my credulous though well-meaning friend, the priest. as well confess one's belief in jupiter and sol, saturn and mercury, and that these worthies guide their spheres and concern themselves with mortals, as to give one serious thought to the airy nonentities supposed to have guided my “soul’ in its unpleasant dream! i loathe and laugh at the absurd idea. i regard it as a personal insult to the intellect and rational reasoning powers of a man, to speak of invisible creatures, ‘subjective intelli- gences,’ and all that kind of insane superstition.” in short, i begged my friend the bonze to spare me his protests, and thus the unpleasantness of breaking with him for ever. a bewitched life. he had all others. never shall i forget the solemn earnestness of his parting words, the pitying, remorseful look on his face when he found that it was, indeed, all to no purpose, that by his kindly meant interference he had only led me to my destruction. - “lend me your ear, good sir, for the last time,” he began, “learn that unless the holy and venerable man, who, to relieve your distress, opened your “soul vision,” is permitted to complete his work, your future life will, indeed, be little worth living. he has to safeguard you against involuntary repetitions of visions of the same character. unless you consent to it of your own free will, however, you will have to be left in the power of forces which will harass and persecute you to the verge of insanity. know that the development of “long vision' [clairvoyance]—which is accomplished at will only by those for whom the mother of mercy, the great kwan-on, has no secrets—must, in the case of the be- gunner, be pursued with help of the air dzins (ele- mental spirits) whose nature is soulless, and hence wicked. know also that, while the arihat, “the de- stroyer of the enemy,’ who has subjected and made of these creatures his servants, has nothing to fear; he who has no power over them becomes their slave. nay, laugh not in your great pride and ignorance, but listen further. during the time of the vision and while the inner perceptions are directed toward the events they seek, the daij-dzin has the seer—when, like yourself, he is an inexperienced tyro–entirely in its power; and for the time being that seer is no longer himself. he partakes of the nature of his ‘guide.” the daij-dzin, which directs his inner sight, keeps his soul in durance vile, making of him, while the state lasts, a creature like itself. bereft of his divine light, man is but a soulless being; nightmare tales. hence during the time of such connection, he will feel no human emotions, neither pity nor fear, love nor mercy.” “hold !” i involuntarily exclaimed, as the words vividly brought back to my recollection the indifference with which i had witnessed my sister's despair and sudden loss of reason in my “hallucination.” “hold! . . . but no; it is still worse madness in me to heed or find any sense in your ridiculous tale ! but if you knew it to be so dangerous why have advised the ex- periment at all?”—i added mockingly. “it had to last but a few seconds, and no evil could have resulted from it, had you kept your promise to submit to purification,” was the sad and humble reply. “i wished you well, my friend, and my heart was nigh breaking to see you suffering day by day. the experi- ment is harmless when directed by one who knows, and becomes dangerous only when the final precaution is neglected. it is the ‘master of visions,’ he who has opened an entrance into your soul, who has to close it by using the seal of purification against any further and deliberate ingress of .” “the ‘master of visions,’ forsooth !” i cried, brutally interrupting him, “say rather the master of imposture!” the look of sorrow on his kind old face was so intense and painful to behold that i perceived i had gone too far; but it was too late. “farewell, then l’” said the old bonze, rising; and after performing the usual ceremonials of politeness, tamoora left the house in dignified silence. vi. i depart-but not alone. several days later i sailed, but during my stay i saw my venerable friend, the bonze, no more. evidently on a bewitched life. near him the yellow, villainous face of a man answering to his description. i kept silence about such hallucina- tions; but as they became more and more frequent, i felt very much disturbed, though still attributing them to natural causes, such as i had read about in medical books. one night i was abruptly awakened by a long and loud cry of distress. it was a woman's voice, plaintive like that of a child, full of terror and of helpless despair. i awoke with a start to find myself on land, in a strange room. a young girl, almost a child, was desperately struggling against a powerful middle-aged man, who had surprised her in her own room, and during her sleep. behind the closed and locked door, i saw listening an old woman, whose face, notwithstanding the fiendish expression upon it, seemed familiar to me, and i imme- diately recognized it: it was the face of the jewess who had adopted my niece in the dream i had at kioto. she had received gold to pay for her share in the foul crime, and was now keeping her part of the covenant. but who was the victim o horror unutterable! un- speakable horror! when i realized the situation after coming back to my normal state, i found it was my own child-niece. but, as in my first vision, i felt in me nothing of the nature of that despair born of affection that fills one's heart, at the sight of a wrong done to, or a misfortune befalling, those one loves; nothing but a manly indigna- tion in the presence of suffering inflicted upon the weak and the helpless. i rushed, of course, to her rescue, and seized the wanton, brutal beast by the neck. i fastened upon him with powerful grasp, but, the man heeded it not, he seemed not even to feel my hand. the coward, seeing himself resisted by the girl, lifted his powerful - nightmare tales. arm, and the thick fist, coming down like a heavy hammer upon the sunny locks, felled the child to the ground. it was with a loud cry of the indignation of a stranger, not with that of a tigress defending her cub, that i sprang upon the lewd beast and sought to throttle him. i then remarked, for the first time, that, a shadow myself, i was grasping but another shadow ! . . . . my loud shrieks and imprecations had awakened the whole steamer. they were attributed to a nightmare. i did not seek to take anyone into my confidence; but, from that day forward, my life became a long series of mental tortures, i could hardly shut my eyes without becoming witness of some horrible deed, some scene of misery, death or crime, whether past, present or even future—as i ascertained later on. it was as though some mocking fiend had taken upon himself the task of making me go through the vision of everything that was bestial, malignant and hopeless, in this world of misery. no radiant vision of beauty or virtue ever lit with the faintest ray these pictures of awe and wretchedness that i seemed doomed to witness. scenes of wickedness, of murder, of treachery and of lust fell dismally upon my sight, and i was brought face to face with the vilest results of man’s passions, the most terrible outcome of his material earthly cravings. had the bonze foreseen, indeed, the dreary results, when he spoke of daij dzins to whom i left “an ingress” “a door open” in me? nonsense! there must be some physiological, abnormal change in me. once at nurem- berg, when i have ascertained how false was the direc- tion taken by my fears—i dared not hope for no misfor- tune at all—these meaningless visions will disappear as they came. the very fact that my fancy follows but one direction, that of pictures of misery, of human pas- a bewitched life. sions in their worst, material shape, is a proof, to me, of their unreality. “if, as you say, man consists of one substance, matter, the object of the physical senses; and if perception with its modes is only the result of the organization of the brain, then should we be naturally attracted but to the material, the earthly” . . . . i thought i heard the familiar voice of the bonze interrupting my reflections, and repeating an often used argument of his in his dis- cussions with me. “there are two planes of visions before men,” i again heard him say, “the plane of undying love and spiritual aspirations, the efflux from the eternal light; and the plane of restless, ever changing matter, the light in which the misguided daij-dzins bathe.” - vii. eternity in a short dream. in those days i could hardly bring myself to realize, even for a moment, the absurdity of a belief in any kind of spirits, whether good or bad. i now understood, if i did not believe, what was meant by the term, though i still persisted in hoping that it would finally prove some physical derangement or nervous hallucination. to fortify my unbelief the more, i tried to bring back to my memory all the arguments used against faith in such superstitions, that i had ever read or heard. i recalled the biting sarcasms of voltaire, the calm reasoning of hume, and i repeated to myself ad nauseam the words of rousseau, who said that superstition, “the disturber of society,” could never be too strongly attacked. “why should the sight, the phantasmagoria, rather”—i argued o nightmare tales. —“of that which we know in a waking sense to be false, come to affect us at all?” why should— “names, whose sense we see not fray us with things that be not?” one day the old captain was narrating to us the various superstitions to which sailors were addicted; a pompous english missionary remarked that fielding had declared long ago that “superstition renders a man a fool,”—after which he hesitated for an instant, and abruptly stopped. i had not taken any part in the general conversation; but no sooner had the reverend speaker relieved himself of the quotation, then i saw in that halo of vibrating light, which i now noticed almost constantly over every human head on the steamer, the words of fielding's next proposition—“and scepticism makes him mad.” i had heard and read of the claims of those who pre- tend to seership, that they often see the thoughts of people traced in the aura of those present. whatever “aura” may mean with others, i had now a personal ex- perience of the truth of the claim, and felt sufficiently disgusted with the discovery! i—a clairvoyant / a new horror added to my life, an absurd and ridiculous gift developed, which i shall have to conceal from all, feeling ashamed of it as if it were a case of leprosy. at this moment my hatred to the yamabooshi, and even to my venerable old friend, the bonze, knew no bounds. the former had evidently by his manipulations over me while i was lying unconscious, touched some unknown physio- logical spring in my brain, and by loosing it had called forth a faculty generally hidden in the human constitu- tion; and it was the japanese priest who had introduced the wretch into my house! but my anger and my curses were alike useless, and could be of no avail. moreover, we were already in a bewitched life. i european waters, and in a few more days we should be at hamburg. then would my doubts and fears be set at rest, and i should find, to my intense relief, that although clairvoyance, as regards the reading of human thoughts on the spot, may have some truth in it, the discernment of such events at a distance, as i had dreamed of, was an impossibility for human faculties. notwithstanding all my reasoning, however, my heart was sick with fear, and full of the blackest presenti- ments; i felt that my doom was closing. i suffered terribly, my nervous and mental prostration becoming intensified day by day. the night before we entered port i had a dream. i fancied i was dead. my body lay cold and stiff in its last sleep, whilst its dying consciousness, which still regarded itself as “i,” realizing the event, was preparing to meet in a few seconds its own extinction. it had been always my belief that as the brain preserved heat longer than any of the other organs, and was the last to cease its activity, the thought in it survived bodily death by several minutes. therefore, i was not in the least surprised to find in my dream that while the frame had already crossed that awful gulf “no mortal e'er re-passed,” its conscious- ness was still in the gray twilight, the first shadows of the great mystery. thus my thought wrapped, as i believed, in the remnants, of its now fast retiring vitality, was watching with intense and eager curiosity the ap- proaches of its own dissolution, i.e., of its annihilation. “i” was hastening to record my last impressions, lest the dark mantle of eternal oblivion should envelope me, before i had time to feel and enjoy, the great, the supreme triumph of learning that my life-long convictions were true, that death is a complete and absolute cessation of conscious being. everything around me was getting a bewitched life. roaring billows of the ocean of life, whose breakers lash in vain the rock-bound shores of death. happy the lonely bark that drifts into the still waters of its black gulf, after having been so long, so cruelly tossed about by the angry waves of sentient life. moored in it for evermore, needing no longer either sail or rudder, my bark will now find rest. welcome then, o death, at this tempting price; and fare thee well, poor body, which, having neither sought it nor derived pleasure from it, i now readily give up! - while uttering this death-chant to the prostrate form before me, i bent over, and examined it with curiosity. i felt the surrounding darkness oppressing me, weighing on me almost tangibly, and i fancied i found in it the ap- proach of the liberator i was welcoming. and yet . . . how very strange! if real, final death takes place in our consciousness; if after the bodily death, “i” and my conscious perceptions are one—how is it that these per- ceptions do not become weaker, why does my brain- action seem as vigorous as ever now . . . that i am de facto dead? . . . . nor does the usual feeling of anxiety, the “heavy heart” so-called, decrease in inten- sity; nay, it even seems to become worse . . . un- speakably so! . . how long it takes for full oblivion to arrive . . . ah, here's my body again vanished out of sight for a second or two, it reappears before me once more. . . . how white and ghastly it looks! yet . . . its brain cannot be quite dead, since “i,” its consciousness, am still acting, since we two fancy that we still are, that we live and think, discon- nected from our creator and its ideating cells. suddenly i felt a strong desire to see how much longer the progress of dissolution was likely to last, before it placed its last seal on the brain and rendered it inactive. nightmare tales. i examined my brain in its cranial cavity, through the (to me) entirely transparent walls and roof of the skull, and even touched the brain-matter. . . . how, or with whose hands, i am now unable to say; but the impression of the slimy, intensely cold matter produced a very strong impression on me, in that dream. to my great dismay, i found that the blood having entirely congealed and the brain-tissues having themselves undergone a change that would no longer permit any molecular action, it became impossible for me to account for the phenomena now taking place with myself. here was i, —or my consciousness, which is all one—standing ap- parently entirely disconnected from my brain which could no longer function. . . . but i had no time left for reflection. a new and most extraordinary change in my perceptions had taken place and now engrossed my whole attention. . . . what does this signify? the same darkness was around me as before, a black, impenetrable space, extending in every direction. only now, right before me, in whatever direction i was look- ing, moving with me which way soever i moved, there was a gigantic round clock; a disk, whose large white face shone ominously on the ebony-black background. as i looked at its huge dial, and at the pendulum mov- ing to and fro regularly and slowly in space, as if its swinging meant to divide eternity, i saw its needles pointing to seven minutes past five. “the hour at which my torture had commenced at kioto !” i had barely found time to think of the coincidence, when, to my unutterable horror, i felt myself going through the same, the identical, process that i had been made to experience on that memorable and fatal day. i swam underground, dashing swiftly through the earth; i found a bewitched life. myself once more in the pauper's grave and recognized my brother-in-law in the mangled remains; i witnessed his terrible death; entered my sister's house; followed her agony, and saw her go mad. i went over the same scenes without missing a single detail of them. but, alas! i was no longer iron-bound in the calm indiffer- ence that had then been mine, and which in that first vision had left me as unfeeling to my great misfortune as if i had been a heartless thing of rock. my mental tortures were now becoming beyond description and well-nigh unbearable. even the settled despair, the never-ceasing anxiety i was constantly experiencing when awake, had become now, in my dream and in the face of this repetition of vision and events, as an hour of darkened sunlight compared to a deadly cy- clone. oh! how i suffered in this wealth and pomp of infernal horrors, to which the conviction of the survival of man’s consciousness after death—for in that dream i firmly believed that my body was dead—added the most terrifying of all! the relative relief i felt, when, after going over the last scene, i saw once more the great white face of the dial before me was not of long duration. the long, arrow-shaped needle was pointing on the colossal disk at—seven minutes and a-half past five o'clock. but, before i had time to well realize the change, the needle moved slowly backwards, stopped at precisely the seventh minute, and—o cursed fate! . . . i found myself driven into a repetition of the same series over again! once more i swam underground, and saw, and heard, and suffered every torture that hell can pro- vide; i passed through every mental anguish known to man or fiend. i returned to see the fatal dial and its needle—after what appeared to me an eternity—moved, a bewitched life. during a period which, however short, would seem to you an eternity.” . . . the clock had vanished, darkness made room for light, the voice of my old friend was drowned by a mul- titude of voices overhead on deck; and i awoke in my berth, covered with a cold perspiration, and faint with terror. viii. - a tale of woe. we were at hamburg, and no sooner had i seen my partners, who could hardly recognize me, than with their consent and good wishes i started for nüremberg. half-an-hour after my arrival, the last doubt with regard to the correctness of my vision had disappeared. the reality was worse than any expectations could have made it, and i was henceforward doomed to the most desolate life. i ascertained that i had seen the terrible tragedy, with all its heartrending details. my brother- in-law, killed under the wheels of a machine; my sister, insane, and now rapidly sinking toward her end; my niece—the sweet flower of nature’s fairest work—dis- honoured, in a den of infamy; the little children dead of a contagious disease in an orphanage; my last sur- viving nephew at sea, no one knew where. a whole house, a home of love and peace, scattered; and i, left alone, a witness of this world of death, of desolation and dishonour. the news filled me with infinite despair, and i sank helpless before this wholesale, dire disaster, which rose before me all at once. the shock proved too much, and i fainted. the last thing i heard before entirely losing my consciousness was a remark of the burgmeister: “had you, before leaving kioto, tele- nightmare tales. graphed to the city authorities of your whereabouts, and of your intention of coming home to take charge of your young relatives, we might have placed them else- where, and thus have saved them from their fate. no one knew that the children had a well-to-do rela- tive. they were left paupers and had to be dealt with as such. they were comparatively strangers in nürem- berg, and under the unfortunate circumstances you could hardly have expected anything else. . . i can only express my sincere sorrow.” it was this terrible knowledge that i might, at any rate, have saved my young niece from her unmerited fate, but that through my neglect i had not done so, that was killing me. had i but followed the friendly advice of the bonze, tamoora, and telegraphed to the authorities some weeks previous to my return much might have been avoided. it was all this, coupled with the fact that i could no longer doubt clairvoyance and clairaudience—the possibility of which i had so long denied—that brought me so heavily down upon my knees. i could avoid the censure of my fellow-creatures, but i could never escape the stings of my conscience, the reproaches of my own aching heart—no, not as long as i lived i cursed my stubborn scepticism, my denial of facts, my early educa- cation, i cursed myself and the whole world. for several days i contrived not to sink beneath my load, for i had a duty to perform to the dead and to the living. but my sister once rescued from the pauper's asylum, placed under the care of the best physicians, with her daughter to attend to her last moments, and the jewess, whom i had brought to confess her crime, safely lodged in gaol-my fortitude and strength sud- denly abandoned me. hardly a week after my arrival i was myself no better than a raving maniac, helpless in a bewitched life. i the strong grip of a brain fever. for several weeks i ay between life and death, the terrible disease defying the skill of the best physicians. at last my strong con- stitution prevailed, and—to my life-long sorrow—they proclaimed me saved. i heard the news with a bleeding heart. doomed to drag the loathsome burden of life henceforth alone, and in constant remorse; hoping for no help or remedy on earth, and still refusing to believe in the possibility of anything better than a short survival of consciousness beyond the grave, this unexpected return to life added only one more drop of gall to my bitter feelings. they were hardly soothed by the inn mediate return, during the first days of my convalescence, of those unwelcome and unsought for visions, whose correctness and reality i could deny no more. alas the day! they were no longer in my sceptical, blind mind– “the children of an idle brain, begot of nothing but vain fantasy”; but always the faithful photographs of the real woes and sufferings of my fellow creatures, of my best friends. thus i found myself doomed, whenever i was left for a moment alone, to the helpless torture of a chained prometheus. during the still hours of night, as though held by some pitiless iron hand, i found my- self led to my sister's bedside, forced to watch there hour after hour, and see the silent disintegration of her wasted organism; to witness and feel the sufferings that her own tenantless brain could no longer reflect or con- vey to her perceptions. but there was something still more horrible to barb the dart that could never be ex- tricated. i had to look, by day, at the childish innocent face of my young niece, so sublimely simple and guile- less in her pollution; and to witness, by night, how the nightmare tales. full knowledge and recollection of her dishonour, of her young life now for ever blasted, came to her in her dreams, as soon as she was asleep. these dreams took an objective form to me, as they had done on the steamer; i had to live them over again, night after night, and feel the same terrible despair. for now, since i believed in the reality of seership, and had come to the conclusion that in our bodies lies hidden, as in the caterpillar, the chrysalis which may contain in its turn the butterfly—the symbol of the soul—i no longer remained indifferent, as of yore, to what i witnessed in my soul-life. something had suddenly developed in me, had broken loose from its icy cocoon. evidently i no longer saw only in consequence of the identification of my inner nature with a daij-dzin; my visions arose in consequence of a direct personal psychic development, the fiendish creatures only taking care that i should see nothing of an agreeable or elevating nature. thus, now, not an unconscious pang in my dying sister's emaciated body, not a thrill of horror in my niece's restless sleep at the recollection of the crime perpetrated upon her, an innocent child, but found a responsive echo in my bleed- ing heart. the deep fountain of sympathetic love and sorrow had gushed out from the physical heart, and was now loudly echoed by the awakened soul separated from the body. thus had i to drain the cup of misery to the very dregs! woe is me, it was a daily and nightly tor- ture! oh, how i mourned over my proud folly; how i was punished for having neglected to avail myself at kioto of the proffered purification, for now i had come to believe even in the efficacy of the latter. the daij- dzin had indeed obtained control over me; and the fiend had let loose all the dogs of hell upon his victim. . . . at last the awful gulf was reached and crossed. the a bewitched life. poor insane martyr dropped into her dark, and now wel- come grave, leaving behind her, but for a few short months, her young, her first-born, daughter. consump- tion made short work of that tender girlish frame. hardly a year after my arrival, i was left alone in the whole wide world, my only surviving nephew having expressed a desire to follow his sea-faring career. and now, the sequel of my sad, sad story is soon told. a wreck, a prematurely old man, looking at thirty as though sixty winters had passed over my doomed head, and owing to the never-ceasing visions, myself daily on the verge of insanity, i suddenly formed a desperate resolution. i would return to kioto and seek out the yamabooshi. i would prostrate myself at the feet of the holy man, and would not leave him until he had recalled the frankenstein he had raised, the frankenstein with whom at the time, it was i, myself, who would not part, through my insolent pride and unbelief. three months later i was in my japanese home again, and i at once sought out my old, venerable bonze, tamoora hideyeri, i now implored him to take me with- out an hour's delay, to the yamabooshi, the innocent cause of my daily tortures. his answer but placed the last, the supreme seal on my doom and tenfold intensified my despair. the yamabooshi had left the country for lands unknown he had departed one fine morning into the interior, on a pilgrimage, and according to custom, would be absent, unless natural death shortened the period, for no less than seven years! in this mischance, i applied for help and protection to other learned yamabooshis; and though well aware how useless it was in my case to seek efficient cure from any other “adept,” my excellent old friend did everything he could to help me in my misfortune. but it was to no a bewitched life. burden; and such was my indifference to my future, that while giving away all my fortune to my nephew— in case he should return alive from his sea voyage—i should have neglected entirely even a small provision for myself, had not my native partner interfered and insisted upon my making it. i now recognized, with lao-tze, that knowledge was the only firm hold for a man to trust to, as it is the only one that cannot be shaken by any tempest. wealth is a weak anchor in days of sorrow, and self-conceit the most fatal coun- sellor. hence i followed the advice of my friends, and laid aside for myself a modest sum, which would be sufficient to assure me a small income for life, or if i ever left my new friends and instructors. having settled my earthly accounts and disposed of my belongings at kioto, i joined the “masters of the long vision,” who took me to their mysterious abode. there i remained for several years, studying very earnestly and in the most complete solitude, seeing no one but a few of the members of our religious community. : , many are the mysteries of nature that i have fathomed since then, and many a secret folio from the library of tzion-ene have i devoured, obtaining thereby mastery over several kinds of invisible beings of a lower order. but the great secret of power over the terrible daij-, dzin i could not get. it remains in the possession of a very limited number of the highest initiates of lao- tze, the great majority of the yamabooshis themselves being ignorant, how to obtain such mastery over the dangerous elemental. one who would reach such power of control would have to become entirely iden- tified with the yamabooshis, to accept their views and beliefs, and to attain the highest degree of initiation. very naturally, i was found unfit to join the fraternity, the cave of the echoes. a strange but true story.” n one of the distant governments of the russian empire, in a small town on the borders of siberia, a mysterious tragedy occurred more than thirty years ago. about six versts from the little town of p > famous for the wild beauty of its scenery, and for the wealth of its inhabitants—gener- ally proprietors of mines and of iron foun- dries—stood an aristocratic mansion. its household consisted of the master, a rich old bachelor and his brother, who was a widower it was known that the proprietor, mr. izvertzoff, had adopted his brother's children, and, having formed an especial attachment for his eldest nephew, nicolas, he had made him the sole heir of his numerous estates. time rolled on. the uncle was getting old, the nephew was coming of age. days and years had passed in monotonous serenity, when, on the hitherto clear horizon of the quiet family, appeared a cloud. on an * this story is given from the narrative of an eye-witness, a russian gentleman, very pious, and fully trustworthy. moreover, the facts are copied from the police records of p−. the eye- witness in question attributes it, of course, partly to divine inter- ference and partly to the evil one.-h. p. b. and the father of two sons and three daughters. the cave of the echoes. unlucky day one of the nieces took it into her head to study the zither. the instrument being of purely teu- tonic origin, and no teacher of it residing in the neigh- bourhood, the indulgent uncle sent to st. petersburg for both. after diligent search only one professor could be found willing to trust himself in such close proximity to siberia. it was an old german artist, who, sharing his affections equally between his instrument and a pretty blonde daughter, would part with neither. and thus it came to pass that, one fine morning, the old professor arrived at the mansion, with his music box under one arm and his fair münchen leaning on the other. from that day the little cloud began growing rapidly; for every vibration of the melodious instrument found a responsive echo in the old bachelor's heart. music awakens love, they say, and the work begun by the zither was completed by münchen's blue eyes. at the expiration of six months the niece had become an expert zither player, and the uncle was desperately in love. one morning, gathering his adopted family around him, he embraced them all very tenderly, promised to remember them in his will, and wound up by declaring his unalterable resolution to marry the blue-eyed mün- chen. after this he fell upon their necks, and wept in silent rapture. the family, understanding that they were cheated out of the inheritance, also wept; but it was for another cause. having thus wept, they con- soled themselves and tried to rejoice, for the old gentle- man was sincerely beloved by all. not all of them rejoiced, though. nicolas, who had himself been smitten to the heart by the pretty german, and who found him- self defrauded at once of his belle and of his uncle's o nightmare tales. money, neither rejoiced nor consoled himself, but dis- appeared for a whole day. meanwhile, mr. izvertzoff had given orders to prepare his travelling carriage on the following day, and it was whispered that he was going to the chief town of the district, at some distance from his home, with the in- tention of altering his will. though very wealthy, he had no superintendant on his estate, but kept his books himself. the same evening after supper, he was heard in his room, angrily scolding his servant, who had been in his service for over thirty years. this man, ivan, was a native of northern asia, from kamschatka; he had been brought up by the family in the christian religion, and was thought to be very much attached to his master. a few days later, when the first tragic cir- cumstance i am about to relate had brought all the police force to the spot, it was remembered that on that night ivan was drunk; that his master, who had a horror of this vice, had paternally thrashed him, and turned him out of his room, and that ivan had been seen reel- ing out of the door, and had been heard to mutter threats. on the vast domain of mr. izvertzoff there was a curious cavern, which excited the curiosity of all who visited it. it exists to this day, and is well known to every inhabitant of p−. a pine forest, commencing a few feet from the garden gate, climbs in steep terraces up a long range of rocky hills, which it covers with a broad belt of impenetrable vegetation. the grotto lead- ing into the cavern, which is known as the “cave of the echoes,” is situated about half a mile from the site of the mansion, from which it appears as a small excava- tion in the hill-side, almost hidden by luxuriant plants, but not so completely as to prevent any person entering nightmare tales. at the same time to hate him bitterly. he seldom em- braced or caressed the child, but, with livid cheek and staring eye, he would pass long hours watching him, as the child sat quietly in his corner, in his goblin-like, old-fashioned way. the child had never left the estate, and few outside the family knew of his existence. about the middle of july, a tall hungarian traveller, preceded by a great reputation for eccentricity, wealth and mysterious powers, arrived at the town of p from the north, where, it was said, he had resided for many years. he settled in the little town, in company with a shaman or south siberian magician, on whom he was said to make mesmeric experiments. he gave dinners and parties, and invariably exhibited his shaman, of whom he felt very proud, for the amusement of his guests. one day the notables of p− made an unex- pected invasion of the domains of nicolas izvertzoff, and requested the loan of his cave for an evening enter- tainment. nicolas consented with great reluctance, and only after still greater hesitancy was he prevailed upon to join the party. - the first cavern and the platform beside the bottom- less lake glittered with lights. hundreds of flickering candles and torches, stuck in the clefts of the rocks, illuminated the place and drove the shadows from the mossy nooks and corners, where they had crouched un- disturbed for many years. the stalactites on the walls sparkled brightly, and the sleeping echoes were suddenly awakened by a joyous confusion of laughter and conver- sation. the shaman, who was never lost sight of by his friend and patron, sat in a corner, entranced as usual. crouched on a projecting rock, about midway between the entrance and the water, with his lemon- nightmare tales. “good god! what an extraordinary resemblance!” muttered an old resident of the town, a friend of the lost a . - “you lie, child!” fiercely exclaimed the father. “go to bed; this is no place for you.” - “come, come,” interposed the hungarian, with a strange expression on his face, and encircling with his arm the slender childish figure; “the little fellow has seen the double of my shaman, which roams sometimes far away from his body, and has mistaken the phantom for the man himself. let him remain with us for a while.” at these strange words the guests stared at each other in mute surprise, while some piously made the sign of the cross, spitting aside, presumably at the devil and all his works. “by-the-bye,” continued the hungarian with a pecu- liar firmness of accent, and addressing the company rather than any one in particular; “why should we not try, with the help of my shaman, to unravel the mystery hanging over the tragedy? is the suspected party still lying in prison? what? he has not confessed up to now? this is surely very strange. but now we will learn the truth in a few minutes! let all keep silent!” he then approached the tehuktchene, and immediately began his performance without so much as asking the consent of the master of the place. the latter stood rooted to the spot, as if petrified with horror, and unable to articulate a word. the suggestion met with general approbation, save from him ; and the police inspector, col. s-, especially approved of the idea. “ladies and gentlemen,” said the mesmerizer in soft tones, “allow me for this once to proceed otherwise than in my general fashion. i will employ the method of nightmare tales. as the unknown words issued from his lips, the flames of the candles and torches wavered and flickered, until they began dancing in rhythm with the chant. a cold wind came wheezing from the dark corridors be- yond the water, leaving a plaintive echo in its trail. then a sort of nebulous vapour, seeming to ooze from the rocky ground and walls, gathered about the shaman and the boy. around the latter the aura was silvery and transparent, but the cloud which enveloped the former was red and sinister. approaching nearer to the plat- form the magician beat a louder roll upon the drum, and this time the echo caught it up with terrific effect! it reverberated near and far in incessant peals; one wail followed another, louder and louder, until the thunder- ing roar seemed the chorus of a thousand demon voices rising from the fathomless depths of the lake. the water itself, whose surface, illuminated by many lights, had previously been smooth as a sheet of glass, became suddenly agitated, as if a powerful gust of wind had swept over its unruffled face. another chant, and a roll of the drum, and the moun- tain trembled to its foundation with the cannon-like peals which rolled through the dark and distant corri- dors. the shaman's body rose two yards in the air, and nodding and swaying, sat, self-suspended like an appari- tion. but the transformation which now occurred in the boy chilled everyone, as they speechlessly watched the scene. the silvery cloud about the boy now seemed to lift him, too, into the air; but, unlike the shaman, his feet never left the ground. the child began to grow, as though the work of years was miraculously accom- plished in a few seconds. he became tall and large, and his senile features grew older with the ageing of his body. a few more seconds, and the youthful form had o nightmare tales. on the water, and bending its extended finger, slowly ..beckoned him to come. crouched in abject terror, the wretched man shrieked until the cavern rang again and again: “i did not . . . no, i did not murder you!” then came a splash, and now it was the boy who was in the dark water, struggling for his life, in the middle of the lake, with the same motionless stern apparition brooding over him. “papa! papa! save me. . . . . i am drowning!” cried a piteous little voice amid the uproar of the mocking echoes. “my boy!” shrieked nicolas, in the accents of a maniac, springing to his feet. “my boy! save him! oh, save him! . . . yes, i confess. . . . i am the murderer. . . . it is i who killed him l’” another splash, and the phantom disappeared. with a cry of horror the company rushed towards the plat- form; but their feet were suddenly rooted to the ground, as they saw amid the swirling eddies a whitish shapeless mass holding the murderer and the boy in tight embrace, and slowly sinking into the bottomless lake. on the morning after these occurrences, when, after a sleepless night, some of the party visited the residence of the hungarian gentleman, they found it closed and deserted. he and the shaman had disappeared. many are among the old inhabitants of p who remember him; the police inspector, col. s-, dying a few years ago in the full assurance that the noble traveller was . the devil. to add to the general consternation the izvertzoff mansion took fire on that same night and was completely destroyed. the archbishop performed the ceremony of exorcism, but the locality is considered accursed to this day. the government investigated the facts, and—ordered silence. the luminous shield. e were a small and select party of light- learted travellers. we had arrived at con- stantitiople a week before from greece, and had devoted fourteen hours a day ever since to toiling up and down the steep heights of pera, visiting bazaars, climbing to the tops of minarets and fighting our way through armies of hungry dogs, the - traditional masters of the streets of º stamboul. nomadic life is infectious, they say, and no civilization is strong enough to destroy the charm of unrestrained freedom when it has once been tasted. the gipsy cannot be tempted from his tent, and even the common tramp finds a fascination in his com- fortless and precarious existence, that prevents him taking to any fixed abode and occupation. to guard my spaniel ralph from falling a victim to this infection, and joining the canine bedouins that infested the streets, was my chief care during our stay in constantinople. he was a fine fellow, my constant companion and cherished friend. afraid of losing him, i kept a strict watch over his imovements; for the first three days, however, he be- haved like a tolerably well-educated quadruped, and remained faithfully at my heels. at every impudent attack from his mahomedan cousins, whether intended as a hostile demonstration or an overture of friendship, his only reply would be to draw in his tail between his o nightmare tales. legs, and with an air of dignified modesty seek pro- tection under the wing of one or other of our party. as he had thus from the first shown so decided an aversion to bad company, i began to feel assured of his discretion, and by the end of the third day i had con- siderably relaxed my vigilance. this carelessness on my part, however, was soon punished, and i was made to regret my misplaced confidence. in an unguarded moment he listened to the voice of some four-footed syren, and the last i saw of him was the end of his bushy tail, vanishing round the corner of a dirty, wind- ing little back street. greatly annoyed, i passed the remainder of the day in a vain search after my dumb companion. i offered twenty, thirty, forty francs reward for him. about as many vagabond maltese began a regular chase, and towards evening we were invaded in our hotel by the whole troop, every man of them with a more or less mangy cur in his arms, which he tried to persuade me was my lost dog. the more i denied, the more solemnly they insisted, one of them actually going down on his knees, snatching from his bosom an old corroded metal image of the virgin, and swearing a solemn oath that the queen of heaven herself had kindly appeared to him to point out the right animal. the tumult had increased to such an extent that it looked as if ralph's disappearance was going to be the cause of a small riot, and finally our landlord had to send for a couple of kavasses from the nearest police station, and have this regiment of bipeds and quadru- peds expelled by main force. i began to be convinced that i should never see my dog again, and i was the more despondent since the porter of the hotel, a semi- respectable old brigand, who, to judge by appearances, the luminous shield. had not passed more than half-a-dozen years at the galleys, gravely assured me that all my pains were use- less, as my spaniel was undoubtedly dead and devoured too by this time, the turkish dogs being very fond of their more toothsome english brothers. all this discussion had taken place in the street at the door of the hotel, and i was about to give up the search for that night at least, and enter the hotel, when an old greek lady, a phanariote who had been hearing the fracas from the steps of a door close by, approached our disconsolate group and suggested to miss h , one of our party, that we should enquire of the dervishes con- cerning the fate of ralph. “and what can the dervishes know about my dog?” said i, in no mood to joke, ridiculous as the proposition appeared. “the holy men know all, kyrea (madam),” said she, somewhat mysteriously. “last week i was robbed of my new satin pelisse, that my son had just brought me from broussa, and, as you all see, i have recovered it and have it on my back now.” “indeed? then the holy men have also managed to metamorphose your new pelisse into an old one by all appearances,” said one of the gentlemen who accom- panied us, pointing as he spoke to a large rent in the back, which had been clumsily repaired with pins. “and that is just the most wonderful part of the whole story,” quietly answered the phanariote, not in the least disconcerted. “they showed me in the shining circle the quarter of the town, the house, and even the room in which the jew who had stolen my pelisse was just about to rip it up and cut it into pieces. my son and i had barely time to run over to the kalindjikoulosek quarter, and to save my property. we caught the thief the luminous shield. when we arrived we were shown into a vast and gloomy hall that looked like a deserted stable. it was long and narrow, the floor was thickly strewn with sand as in a riding school, and it was lighted only by small windows placed at some height from the ground. the dervishes had finished their morning performances, and were evidently resting from their exhausting labours. they looked completely prostrated, some lying about in corners, others sitting on their heels staring vacantly into space, engaged, as we were informed, in meditation on their invisible deity. they appeared to have lost all power of sight and hearing, for none of them responded to our questions until a great gaunt figure, wearing a tall cap that made him look at least seven feet high, emerged from an obscure corner. nforming us that he was their chief, the giant gave us to understand that the saintly brethren, being in the habit of receiving orders for addi- tional ceremonies from allah himself, must on no ac- count be disturbed. but when our interpreter had explained to him the object of our visit, which con- cerned himself alone, as he was the sole custodian of the “divining rod,” his objections vanished and he extended his hand for alms. upon being gratified, he intimated that only two of our party could be admitted at one time into the confidence of the future, and led the way, followed by miss h and myself. plunging ºfter him into what seemed to be a half sub- terranean passage, we were led to the foot of a tall ladder leading to a chamber under the roof. we scrambled up after our guide, and at the top we found ourselves in a wretched garret of moderate size, with bare walls and destitute of furniture. the floor was carpeted with a thick layer of dust, and cobwebs festooned the walls in neglected confusion. in the corner we saw something nightmare tales. / that i at first mistook for a bundle of old rags; but the heap presently moved and got on its legs, advanced to the middle of the room and stood before us, the most extraordinary looking creature that i ever beheld. its sex was female, but whether she was a woman or child it was impossible to decide. she was a hideous-looking dwarf, with an enormous head, the shoulders of a grena- dier, with a waist in proportion; the whole supported by two short, lean, spider-like legs that seemed unequal to the task of bearing the weight of the monstrous body. she had a grinning countenance like the face of a satyr, and it was ornamented with letters and signs from the koran painted in bright yellow. on her forehead was a blood-red crescent; her head was crowned with a dusty tarbouche, or fez; her legs were arrayed in large turkish trousers, and some dirty white muslin wrapped round her body barely sufficed to conceal its hideous deformities. this creature rather let herself drop than sat down in the middle of the floor, and as her weight descended on the rickety boards it sent up a cloud of dust that set us coughing and sneezing. this was the famous tatmos known as the damascus oracle! without losing time in idle talk, the dervish produced a piece of chalk, and traced around the girl a circle about six feet in diameter. fetching from behind the door twelve small copper lamps which he filled with some dark liquid from a small bottle which he drew from his bosom, he placed them symmetrically around the magic circle. he then broke a chip of wood from a panel of the half ruined door, which bore the marks of many a similar depredation, and, holding the chip be- tween his thumb and finger he began blowing on it at regular intervals, alternating the blowing with mutter- ings of some kind of weird incantation, till suddenly, the luminous shield. darkness. the edge of the circle was not penumbrous, but on the contrary sharply defined like that of a silver shield. all being now ready, the dervish without uttering a word, or removing his gaze from the disk, stretched out a hand, and taking hold of mine, he drew me to his side and pointed to the luminous shield. looking at the place indicated, we saw large patches appear like those on the moon. these gradually formed themselves into figures that began moving about in high relief in their natural colours. they neither appeared like a photo- graph nor an engraving; still less like the reflection of images on a mirror, but as if the disk were a cameo, and they were raised above its surface and then endowed with life and motion. to my astonishment and my friend's consternation, we recognized the bridge leading from galata to stamboul spanning the golden horn from the new to the old city. there were the people hurrying to and fro, steamers and gay caiques gliding on the blue bosphorus, the many coloured buildings, villas and palaces reflected in the water; and the whole picture illuminated by the noon-day sun. it passed like a panorama, but so vivid was the impression that we could not tell whether it or ourselves were in motion. all was bustle and life, but not a sound broke the oppressive stillness. it was noiseless as a dream. it was a phantom picture. street after street and quarter after quarter succeeded one another; there was the bazaar, with its narrow, roofed passages, the small shops on either side, the coffee houses with gravely smoking turks; and as either they glided past us or we past them, one of the smokers upset the narghilé and coffee of another, and a volley of soundless invectives caused us great amusement. so we travelled with the picture until we came to a large - nightmare tales. building that i recognized as the palace of the minister of finance. in a ditch behind the house, and close to a mosque, lying in a pool of mud with his silken coat all bedraggled, lay my poor ralph panting and crouching down as if exhausted, he seemed to be in a dying condi- tion; and near him were gathered some sorry-looking curs who lay blinking in the sun and snapping at the flies! - i had seen all that i desired, although i had not breathed a word about the dog to the dervish, and had come more out of curiosity than with the idea of any success. i was impatient to leave at once and recover ralph, but as my companion besought me to remain a little while longer, i reluctantly consented. the scene faded away and miss h- placed herself in turn by the side of the dervish. “i will think of him,” she whispered in my ear with the eager tone that young ladies generally assume when talking of the worshipped him. there is a long stretch of sand and a blue sea with white waves dancing in the stºn, and a great steamer is ploughing her way along past a desolate shore, leaving a milky track behind her. the deck is full of life, the men are busy forward, the cook with white cap and apron is coming out of the galley, uniformed officers are moving about, passengers fill the quarter-deck, loung- ing, flirting or reading, and a young man we both recog- nize comes forward and leans over the taffrail. it is— him. miss h- gives a little gasp, blushes and smiles, and concentrates her thoughts again. the picture of the steamer vanishes; the magic moon remains for a few moments blank. but new spots appear on its lumi- nous face, we see a library slowly emerging from its the luminous shield. i depths—a library with green carpet and hangings, and book-shelves round the sides of the room. seated in an arm-chair at a table under a hanging lamp, is an old gentleman writing. his gray hair is brushed back from his forehead, his face is smooth-shaven and his coun- tenance has an expression of benignity. the dervish made a hasty motion to enjoin silence; the light on the disk quivers, but resumes its steady brilliancy, and again its surface is imageless for a second. we are back in constantinople now and out of the pearly depths of the shield forms our own apartment in the hotel. there are our papers and books on the bureau, my friend's travelling hat in a corner, her ribbons hanging on the glass, and lying on the bed the very dress she had changed when starting out on our expedition. no detail was lacking to make the identifi- cation complete; and as if to prove that we were not seeing something conjured up in our own imagination, there lay upon the dressing-table two unopened letters, the handwriting on which was clearly recognized by my friend. they were from a very dear relative of hers, from whom she had expected to hear when in athens, but had been disappointed. the scene faded away and we now saw her brother's room with himself lying upon the lounge, and a servant bathing his head, whence, to our horror, blood was trickling. we had left the boy in perfect health but an hour before; and upon seeing this picture my companion uttered a cry of alarm, and seiz- ing me by the hand dragged me to the door. we re- joined our guide and friends in the long hall and hurried back to the hotel. young h– had fallen downstairs and cut his fore- head rather badly; in our room, on the dressing-table from the polar lands. (a christmas story.) ust a year ago, during the christ- mas holidays, a numerous society had gathered in the country house, or rather the old hereditary castle, of a wealthy * landowner in finland. many were the remains in it of our forefathers' hospit- able way of living; and many the me- diaeval customs preserved, founded on traditions and superstitions, semi-finnish * and semi-russian, the latter imported into - it by its female proprietors from the shores of the neva. christmas trees were being prepared and implements for divination were being made ready. for, in that old castle there were grim worm-eaten portraits of famous ancestors and knights and ladies, old deserted turrets, with bastions and gothic windows; mysterious sombre alleys, and dark and endless cellars, easily trans- formed into subterranean passages and caves, ghostly - prison cells, haunted by the restless phantoms of the heroes of local legends. in short, the old manor offered every commodity for romantic horrors. but alas! this once they serve for nought; in the present narrative these dear old horrors play no such part as they otherwise might. its chief hero is a very commonplace, prosaical man —let us call him erkler. yes; dr. erkler, professor of º º º º º from the polar lands. mussel, and we found ourselves cut off for eight long months from the rest of the living world. . . . . i confess i, for one, felt it terribly at first. we became especially discouraged when one stormy night the snow hurricane scattered a mass of materials prepared for our winter buildings, and deprived us of over forty deer from our herd. starvation in prospect is no incentive to good humour; and with the deer we had lost the best plat de résistance against polar frosts, human organisms demand- ing in that climate an increase of heating and solid food. however, we were finally reconciled to our loss, and even got accustomed to the local and in reality more nutritious food—seals, and seal-grease. our men from the remnants of our lumber built a house neatly divided into two compartments, one for our three professors and myself, and the other for themselves; and, a few wooden sheds being constructed for meteorological, astronomical and magnetic purposes, we even added a protecting stable for the few remaining deer. and then began the monotonous series of dawnless nights and days, hardly distinguishable one from the other, except through dark-grey shadows. at times, the “blues” we got into, were fearful! we had contemplated sending two of our three steamers home, in september, but the premature and unforeseen formation of ice walls round them had thwarted our plans; and now, with the entire crews on our hands, we had to economize still more with our meagre provisions, fuel and light. lamps were used only for scientific purposes: the rest of the time we had to content ourselves with god's light—the moon and the aurora borealis. . . . but how describe these glorious, incomparable northern lights! rings, arrows, gigantic conflagrations of accurately divided rays of the most vivid and varied colours. the november the ensouled violin. i. n the year , an old german, a music teacher, came to paris with his pupil and settled unostentatiously in one of the quiet faubourgs of the metropolis. the first rejoiced in the name of samuel klaus; the second answered to the more poetical appellation of franz * stenio. the youngerman was a violin- ist, gifted, as rumour went, with extra- * ordinary, almost miraculous talent. . yet as he was poor and had not hitherto made a name for himself in europe, he remained for several years in the capi- tal of france—the heart and pulse of capricious continental fashion—un- --- known and unappreciated. franz was al styrian by birth, and, at the time of the event to be pre- sently described, he was a young man considerably under thirty. a philosopher and a dreamer by nature, imbued with all the mystic oddities of true genius, he reminded one of some of the heroes in hoffmann's contes fan- tastiques. his earlier existence had been a very unusual, in fact, quite an eccentric one, and its history must be briefly told—for the better understanding of the present story. born of very pious country people, in a quiet burg among the styrian alps; nursed “by the native gnomes who watched over his cradle”; growing up in the weird atmosphere of the ghouls and vampires who play such a prominent part in the household of every styrian and slavonian in southern austria; educated later, as a the ensouled violin. student, in the shadow of the old rhenish castles of germany; franz from his childhood had passed through every emotional stage on the plane of the so-called “supernatural.” he had also studied at one time the “occult arts” with an enthusiastic disciple of paracelsus and kunrath; alchemy had few theoretical secrets for him; and he had dabbled in “ceremonial magic” and “sorcery” with some hungarian tziganes. yet he loved above all else music, and above music—his violin. at the age of twenty-two he suddenly gave up his practical studies in the occult, and from that day, though as devoted as ever in thought to the beautiful grecian gods, he surrendered himself entirely to his art. of his classic studies he had retained only that which related to the muses—euterpe especially, at whose altar he worshipped—and orpheus whose magic lyre he tried to emulate with his violin. except his dreamy belief in the nymphs and the sirens, on account probably of the double relationship of the latter to the muses through calliope and orpheus, he was interested but little in the matters of this sublunary world. all his aspirations mounted, like incense, with the wave of the heavenly harmony that he drew from his instrument, to a higher and a nobler sphere. he dreamed awake, and lived a real though an enchanted life only during those hours when his magic bow carried him along the wave of sound to the pagan olympus, to the feet of euterpe. a strange child he had ever been in his own home, where tales of magic and witchcraft grow out of every inch of the soil; a still stranger boy he had become, until finally he had blossomed into manhood, without one single character- istic of youth. never had a fair face attracted his atten- tion; not for one moment had his thoughts turned from his solitary studies to a life beyond that of a mystic ioo nightmare tales. bohemian. content with his own company, he had thus passed the best years of his youth and manhood with his violin for his chief idol, and with the gods and goddesses of old greece for his audience, in perfect ignorance of practical life. his whole existence had been one long day of dreams, of melody and sunlight, and he had never felt any other aspirations. how useless, but oh, how glorious those dreams! how vivid! and why should he desire any better fate? was he not all that he wanted to be, transformed in a second of thought into one or another hero; from orpheus, who held all nature breathless, to the urchin who piped away under the plane tree to the naiads of calirrhoë's crystal fountain? did not the swift-footed nymphs frolic at liis beck and call to the sound of the magic flute of the arcadian shepherd—who was himself? behold, the goddess of love and beauty herself descending from on high, attracted by the sweet-voiced notes of his violin! yet there came a time when he preferred syrinx to aphrodite—not as the fair nymph pursued by pan, but after her transformation by the merciful gods into the reed out of which the frustrated god of the shepherds had made his magic pipe. for also, with time, ambition grows and is rarely satisfied. when he tried to emulate on his violin the enchanting sounds that resounded in his mind, the whole of parnassus kept silent under the spell, or joined in heavenly chorus; but the audience he finally craved was composed of more than the gods sung by hesiod, verily of the most appreciative me?omanes of european capitals. he felt jealous of the magic pipe, and would fain have had it at his command. “oh ! that i could allure a nymph into my beloved violin!”—he often cried, after awakening from one of his day-dreams. “oh, that i could only span in spirit flight the ensouled violin. ioi the abyss of time! oh, that i could find myself for one short day a partaker of the secret arts of the gods, a god myself, in the sight and hearing of enraptured humanity; and, having learned the mystery of the lyre of orpheus, or secured within my violin a siren, thereby benefit mortals to my own glory!” thus, having for long years dreamed in the company of the gods of his fancy, he now took to dreaming of the transitory glories of fame upon this earth. but at this time he was suddenly called home by his widowed mother from one of the german universities where he had lived for the last year or two. this was an event which brought his plans to an end, at least so far as the immediate future was concerned, for he had hitherto drawn upon her alone for his meagre pittance, and his means were not sufficient for an independent life outside his native place. his return had a very unexpected result. his mother, whose only love he was on earth, died soon after she had welcomed her benjamin back; and the good wives of the burg exercised their swift tongues for many a month after as to the real causes of that death. frau stenio, before franz's return, was a healthy, buxom, middle-aged body, strong and hearty. she was a pious and a god-fearing soul too, who had never failed in saying her prayers, nor had missed an early mass for years during his absence. on the first sunday after her son had settled at home—a day that she had been longing for and had anticipated for months in joyous visions, in which she saw him kneeling by her side in the little church on the hill—she called him from the foot of the stairs. the hour had come when her pious dream was to be realized, and she was waiting for him, carefully wiping the dust from the prayer-book he io nightmare tales. had used in his boyhood. but instead of franz, it was his violin that responded to her call, mixing its sonorous voice with the rather cracked tones of the peal of the merry sunday bells. the fond mother was somewhat shocked at hearing the prayer-inspiring sounds drowned by the weird, fantastic notes of the “dance of the witches”; they seemed to her so unearthly and mock- ing. but she almost fainted upon hearing the definite refusal of her well-beloved son to go to church. he never went to church, he coolly remarked. it was loss of time; besides which, the loud peals of the old church organ jarred on his nerves. nothing should induce him to submit to the torture of listening to that cracked organ. he was firm, and nothing could move him. to her supplications and remonstrances he put an end by offering to play for her a “hymn to the sun” he had just composed. from that memorable sunday morning, frau stenio ost her usual serenity of mind. she hastened to lay her sorrows and seek for consolation at the foot of the confessional; but that which she heard in response from the stern priest filled her gentle and unsophisticated soul with dismay and almost with despair. a feeling of fear, a sense of profound terror, which soon became a chronic state with her, pursued her from that moment; ner nights became disturbed and sleepless, her days passed in prayer and lamentations. in her maternal anxiety for the salvation of her beloved son's soul, and for his post mortem welfare, she made a series of rash vows. finding that neither the latin petition to the mother of god written for her by her spiritual adviser, nor yet the humble supplications in german, addressed by herself to every saint she had reason to believe was residing in paradise, worked the desired effect, she took the ensouled violin. io to pilgrimages to distant shrines. during one of these journeys to a holy chapel situated high up in the moun- tains, she caught cold, amidst the glaciers of the tyrol, and redescended only to take to a sick bed, from which she arose no more. frau stenio's vow had led her, in - one sense, to the desired result. the poor woman was now given an opportunity of seeking out in propriá per- soná the saints she had believed in so well, and of pleading face to face for the recreant son, who refused adherence to them and to the church, scoffed at monk and confessional, and held the organ in such horror. franz sincerely lamented his mother's death. un- aware of being the indirect cause of it, he felt no re- morse; but selling the modest household goods and chattels, light in purse and heart, he resolved to travel on foot for a year or two, before settling down to any definite profession. a hazy desire to see the great cities of europe, and to try his luck in france, lurked at the bottom of this travelling project, but his bohemian habits of life were too strong to be abruptly abandoned. he placed his small capital with a banker for a rainy day, and started on his pedestrian journey vid germany and austria. his violin paid for his board and lodging in the inns and farms on his way, and he passed his days in the green fields and in the solemn silent woods, face to face with nature, dreaming all the time as usual with his eyes open. during the three months of his pleasant travels to and fro, he never descended for one moment from parnassus; but, as an alchemist transmutes lead into gold, so he transformed everything on his way into a song of hesiod or anacreon. every evening, while fiddling for his supper and bed, whether on a green awn or in the hall of a rustic inn, his fancy changed io nightmare tales. the whole scene for him. village swains and maidens became transfigured into arcadian shepherds and nymphs. the sand-covered floor was now a green sward; the uncouth couples spinning round in a measured waltz with the wild grace of tamed bears be- came priests and priestesses of terpsichore; the bulky, cherry-cheeked and blue-eyed daughters of rural ger- many were the hesperides circling around the trees laden with the golden apples. nor did the melodious strains of the arcadian demi-gods piping on their syrinxes, and audible but to his own enchanted ear, vanish with the dawn. for no sooner was the curtain of sleep raised from his eyes than he would sally forth into a new magic realm of day-dreams. on his way to some dark and solemn pine-forest, he played incessantly, to himself and to everything else. he fiddled to the green hill, and forthwith the mountain and the moss- covered rocks moved forward to hear him the better, as they had done at the sound of the orphean lyre. he fiddled to the merry-voiced brook, to the hurrying river, and both slackened their speed and stopped their waves, and, becoming silent, seemed to listen to him in an en- tranced rapture. even the long-legged stork who stood meditatively on one leg on the thatched top of the rustic mill, gravely resolving unto himself the problem of his too-long existence, sent out after him a long and strident cry, screeching, “art thou orpheus himself, o stenio?” it was a period of full bliss, of a daily and almost hourly exaltation. the last words of his dying mother, whispering to him of the horrors of eternal condemnation, had left him unaffected, and the only vision her warning evoked in him was that of pluto. by a ready association of ideas, he saw the lord of the dark nether kingdom greeting him as he had greeted the husband of eurydice io nightmare tales. cecilia, while others said she owed it to a demon who watched over her cradle and sung the baby to sleep. finally, paganini—the unrivalled performer, the mean italian, who like dryden's jubal striking on the “chorded shell” forced the throngs that followed him to worship the divine sounds produced, and made people say that “less than a god could not dwell within the hollow of his violin”—paganini left a legend too. the almost supernatural art of the greatest violin- player that the world has ever known was often specu- lated upon, never understood. the effect produced by him on his audience was literally marvellous, overpower- ing. the great rossini is said to have wept like a sentimental german maiden on hearing him play for the first time. the princess elisa of lucca, a sister of the great napoleon, in whose service paganini was, as director of her private orchestra, for a long time was unable to hear him play without fainting. in women he produced nervous fits and hysterics at his will; stout- hearted men he drove to frenzy. he changed cowards into heroes and made the bravest soldiers feel like so many nervous school-girls. is it to be wondered at, then, that hundreds of weird tales circulated for long years about and around the mysterious genoese, that modern orpheus of europe. one of these was especially ghastly. it was rumoured, and was believed by more people than would probably like to confess it, that the strings of his violin were made of human intestines, according to all the rules and requirements of the black art. exaggerated as this idea may seem to some, it has nothing impossible in it; and it is more than probable that it was this legend that led to the extraordinary events which we are about to narrate. human organs are often used by the eastern black magician, so-called, i io - nightmare tales. t. w. hoffmann, the celebrated author of die e/ixire des. teufels, meister martin, and other charming and mys- tical tales, that councillor crespel, in the violin of cremona, was taken from the legend about paganini. it is, as all who have read it know, the history of a celebrated violin, into which the voice and the soul of a famous diva, a woman whom crespel had loved and killed, had passed, and to which was added the voice of his beloved daughter, antonia. nor was this superstition utterly ungrounded, nor was hoffmann to be blamed for adopting it, after he had heard paganini's playing. the extraordinary facility with which the artist drew out of his instrument, not only the most unearthly sounds, but positively human voices, justified the suspicion. such effects might well have startled an audience and thrown terror into many a nervous heart. add to this the impenetrable mystery connected with a certain period of paganini's youth, and the most wild tales about him must be found in a mea- sure justifiable, and even excusable; especially among a nation whose ancestors knew the borgias and the medicis of black art fame. iii. in those pre-telegraphic days, newspapers were limited, and the wings of fame had a heavier flight than they have now. franz had hardly heard of paganini; and when he did, he swore he would rival, if not eclipse, the genoese magician. yes, he would either become the most famous of all living violinists, or he would break his instrument and put an end to his life at the same time. old klaus rejoiced at such a determination. he rubbed his hands in glee, and jumping about on his lame leg like ii nightmare tales. they pawned their watches, and with the proceeds bought two modest seats. who can describe the enthusiasm, the triumphs, of this famous, and at the same time fatal night! the audience was frantic; men wept and women screamed and fainted; while both klaus and stenio sat looking paler than two ghosts. at the first touch of paganini's magic bow, both franz and samuel felt as if the icy hand of death had touched them. carried away by an irresistible enthusiasm, which turned into a violent, un- earthly mental torture, they dared neither look into each other's faces, nor exchange one word during the whole performance. at midnight, while the chosen delegates of the musical societies and the conservatory of paris unhitched the horses, and dragged the carriage of the grand artist home in triumph, the two germans returned to their modest lodging, and it was a pitiful sight to see them. mourn- ful and desperate, they placed themselves in their usual seats at the fire-corner, and neither for a while opened his mouth. “samuel!” at last exclaimed franz, pale as death itself. “samuel—it remains for us now but to die! do you hear me? . . . we are worthless! we were two madmen to have ever hoped that any one in this world would ever rival . . . him ''' the name of paganini stuck in his throat, as in utter despair he fell into his arm chair. the old professor's wrinkles suddenly became purple. his little greenish eyes gleamed phosphorescently as, bending toward his pupil, he whispered to him in hoarse and broken tones: “neim, mein / thou art wrong, my franz' i have taught thee, and thou hast learned all of the great art the ensouled violin. ii that a simple mortal, and a christian by baptism, can learn from another simple mortal. am i to blame because these accursed italians, in order to reign un- equalled in the domain of art, have recourse to satan and the diabolical effects of black magic?” franz turned his eyes upon his old master. there was a sinister light burning in those glittering orbs; a light telling plainly, that, to secure such a power, he, too, would not scruple to sell himself, body and soul, to the evil one. but he said not a word, and, turning his eyes from his old master's face, gazed dreamily at the dying embers. the same long-forgotten incoherent dreams, which, after seeming such realities to him in his younger days, had been given up entirely, and had gradually faded from his mind, now crowded back into it with the same force and vividness as of old. the grimacing shades of ixion, sisyphus and tantalus resurrected and stood before him, saying: “what matters hell—in which thou believest not. and even if hell there be, it is the hell described by the old greeks, not that of the modern bigots—a locality full of conscious shadows, to whom thou canst be a second orpheus.” franz felt that he was going mad, and, turning instinc- tively, he looked his old master once more right in the face. then his bloodshot eye evaded the gaze of klaus. whether samuel understood the terrible state of mind of his pupil, or whether he wanted to draw him out, to make him speak, and thus to divert his thoughts, must remain as hypothetical to the reader as it is to the writer. whatever may have been in his mind, the german enthusiast went on, speaking with a feigned calmness: - ii nightmare tales. “franz, my dear boy, i tell you that the art of the accursed italian is not natural; that it is due neither to study nor to genius. it never was acquired in the usual, natural way. you need not stare at me in that wild manner, for what i say is in the mouth of millions of people. listen to what i now tell you, and try to understand. you have heard the strange tale whispered about the famous tartini? he died one fine sabbath night, strangled by his familiar demon, who had taught him how to endow his violin with a human voice, by shutting up in it, by means of incantations, the soul of a young virgin. paganini did more. in order to endow his instrument with the faculty of emitting human sounds, such as sobs, despairing cries, supplications, moans of love and fury—in short, the most heart-rend- ing notes of the human voice—paganini became the murderer not only of his wife and his mistress, but also of a friend, who was more tenderly attached to him than any other being on this earth. he then made the four chords of his magic violin out of the intestines of his last victim. this is the secret of his enchanting talent, of that overpowering melody, that combination of sounds, which you will never be able to master unless .” the old man could not finish the sentence. he stag- gered back before the fiendish look of his pupil, and covered his face with his hands. franz was breathing heavily, and his eyes had an expression which reminded klaus of those of a hyena. his pallor was cadaverous. for some time he could not speak, but only gasped for breath. at last he slowly muttered: “are you in earnest?” “i am, as i hope to help you.” the ensouled violin. ii “and . . . and do you really believe that had i only the means of obtaining human intestines for strings, i could rival paganini?” asked franz, after a moment's pause, and casting down his eyes. - the old german unveiled his face, and, with a strange look of determination upon it, softly answered: “human intestines alone are not sufficient for our purpose; they must have belonged to some one who had loved us well, with an unselfish, holy love. tartini endowed his violin with the life of a virgin; but that virgin had died of unrequited love for him. the fiendish artist had prepared beforehand a tube, in which he managed to catch her last breath as she expired, pro- nouncing his beloved name, and he then transferred this breath to his violin. as to paganini, i have just told you his tale. it was with the consent of his victim, though, that he murdered him to get possession of his intestines. “oh, for the power of the human voice!” samuel went on, after a brief pause. “what can equal the eloquence, the magic spell of the human voice? do you think, my poor boy, i would not have taught you this great, this final secret, were it not that it throws one right into the clutches of him . . . who must remain unnamed at night?” he added, with a sudden return to the superstitions of his youth. franz did not answer; but with a calmness awful to behold, he left his place, took down his violin from the wall where it was hanging, and, with one powerful grasp of the chords, he tore them out and flung them into the fire. samuel suppressed a cry of horror. the chords were hissing upon the coals, where, among the blazing logs, they wriggled and curled like so many living snakes. the ensouled violin. ii such a horrible idea as the sacrifice of his old master to his ambition had ever entered his mind? hardly. the only immediate result of his fatal illness was, that as, by reason of his vow, his artistic passion could find no issue, another passion awoke, which might avail to feed his ambition and his insatiable fancy. he plunged headlong into the study of the occult arts, of alchemy and of magic. in the practice of magic the young dreamer sought to stifle the voice of his passionate longing for his, as he thought, for ever lost violin. . weeks and months passed away, and the conversation about paganini was never resumed between the master and the pupil. but a profound melancholy had taken possession of franz, the two hardly exchanged a word, the violin hung mute, chordless, full of dust, in its habitual place. it was as the presence of a soulless corpse between them. the young man had become gloomy and sarcastic, even avoiding the mention of music. once, as his old professor, after long hesitation, took out his own violin from its dust-covered case and prepared to play, franz gave a convulsive shudder, but said nothing. at the first notes of the bow, however, he glared like a madman, and rushing out of the house, remained for hours, wan- dering in the streets. then old samuel in his turn threw his instrument down, and locked himself up in his room till the following morning. one night as franz sat, looking particularly pale and gloomy, old samuel suddenly jumped from his seat, and after hopping about the room in a magpie fashion, approached his pupil, imprinted a fond kiss upon the young man's brow, and squeaked at the top of his shrill voice: “is it not time to put an end to all this?” the ensouled violin. i “franz, my beloved boy. . . . . franz, i cannot, no, i cannot separate myself from . . . . them /* and “they” twanged piteously inside the case. franz stood speechless, horror-bound. he felt his blood actually freezing, and his hair moving and stand- ing erect on his head. “it’s but a dream, an empty dream!” he attempted to formulate in his mind. “i have tried my best, franzchen. . . . i have tried my best to sever myself from these accursed strings, without pulling them to pieces . . .” pleaded the same shrill, familiar voice. “wilt thou help me to do so? . . .” another twang, still more prolonged and dismal, re- sounded within the case, now dragged about the table in every direction, by some interior power, like some living, wriggling thing, the twangs becoming sharper and more jerky with every new pull. it was not for the first time that stenio heard those sounds. he had often remarked them before—indeed, ever since he had used his master's viscera as a foot- stool for his own ambition. but on every occasion a feeling of creeping horror had prevented him from in- vestigating their cause, and he had tried to assure him- self that the sounds were only a hallucination. but now he stood face to face with the terrible fact, whether in dream or in reality he knew not, nor did he care, since the hallucination—if hallucination it were— was far more real and vivid than any reality. he tried to speak, to take a step forward; but, as often happens in nightmares, he could neither utter a word nor move a finger. . . . . he felt hopelessly paralyzed. the pulls and jerks were becoming more desperate with each moment, and at last something inside the i nightmare tales. case snapped violently. the vision of his stradivarius, devoid of its magical strings, flashed before his eyes, throwing him into a cold sweat of mute and unspeak- able terror. he made a superhuman effort to rid himself of the incubus that held him spell-bound. but as the last supplicating whisper of the invisible presence repeated: “do, oh, do . . . . help me to cut myself off franz sprang to the case with one bound, like an enraged tiger defending its prey, and with one frantic effort breaking the spell. “leave the violin alone, you old fiend from hell!” he cried, in hoarse and trembling tones. he violently shut down the self-raising lid, and while firmly pressing his left hand on it, he seized with the right a piece of rosin from the table and drew on the leather-covered top the sign of the six-pointed star— the seal used by king solomon to bottle up the rebel- lious djins inside their prisons. a wail, like the howl of a she-wolf moaning over her dead little ones, came out of the violin-case: “thou art ungrateful . . . very ungrateful, my franzl” sobbed the blubbering “spirit-voice.” “but i forgive . . . for i still love thee well. yet thou canst not shut me in . . . boy. behold!” and instantly a grayish mist spread over and covered case and table, and rising upward formed itself first into an indistinct shape. then it began growing, and as it grew, franz felt himself gradually enfolded in cold and damp coils, slimy as those of a huge snake. he gave a terrible cry and—awoke; but, strangely enough, not on his bed, but near the table, just as he had dreamed, pressing the violin case desperately with both his hands. “it was but a dream, . . after all,” he muttered, i nightmare tales. the bow away. he had recognized the familiar laugh, and would have no more of it. dressing, he locked the bedevilled violin securely in its case, and, taking it with him to the dining-room, determined to await quietly the hour of trial. vi. the terrible hour of the struggle had come, and stenio was at his post—calm, resolute, almost smiling. the theatre was crowded to suffocation, and there was not even standing room to be got for any amount of hard cash or favouritism. the singular challenge had reached every quarter to which the post could carry it, and gold flowed freely into paganini's unfathomable pockets, to an extent almost satisfying even to his insatiate and venal soul. it was arranged that paganini should begin. when he appeared upon the stage, the thick walls of the theatre shook to their foundations with the applause that greeted him. he began and ended his famous composition “the witches” amid a storm of cheers. the shouts of public enthusiasm lasted so long that franz began to think his turn would never come. when, at last, paganini, amid the roaring applause of a frantic public, was allowed to retire behind the scenes, his eye fell upon stenio, who was tuning his violin, and he felt amazed at the serene calmness, the air of assur- ance, of the unknown german artist. when franz approached the footlights, he was re- ceived with icy coldness. but for all that, he did not feel in the least disconcerted. he looked very pale, but his thin white lips wore a scornful smile as response to this dumb unwelcome. he was sure of his triumph. the ensouleid violin. i at the first notes of the prelude of “the witches” a thrill of astonishment passed over the audience. it was paganini's touch, and—it was something more. some— and they were the majority—thought that never, in his best moments of inspiration, had the italian artist him- self, in executing that diabolical composition of his, ex- hibited such an extraordinary diabolical power. under the pressure of the long muscular fingers of franz, the chords shivered like the palpitating intestines of a dis- embowelled victim under the vivisector's knife. they moaned melodiously, like a dying child. the large blue eye of the artist, fixed with a satanic expression upon the sounding-board, seemed to summon forth orpheus him- self from the infernal regions, rather than the musical notes supposed to be generated in the depths of the violin. shapes, thickly and precipitately gathering as at the evo- cation of a mighty magician, and to be whirling around him, like a host of fantastic, infernal figures, dancing the witches’ “goat dance.” in the empty depths of the shadowy background of the stage, behind the artist, a nameless phantasmagoria, produced by the concussion of unearthly vibrations, seemed to form pictures of shameless orgies, of the voluptuous hymens of a real witches' sabbat. . . . . a collective hallucination took hold of the public. panting for breath, ghastly, and trickling with the icy perspiration of an inexpressible horror, they sat spell-bound, and unable to break the spell of the music by the slightest riotion. they ex- perienced all the illicit enervating deſights of the paradise of mahommed, that come into the disordered fancy of an opium-eating mussulman, and felt at the same time the abject terror, the agony of one who struggles against an attack of deſirium tremens. . . . . many ladies i o nightmare tales. shrieked aloud, others fainted, and strong inen gnashed their teeth in a state of utter helplessness. . . . then came the finale. thundering uninterrupted applause delayed its beginning, expanding the momen- tary pause to a duration of almost a quarter of an hour. the bravos were furious, almost hysterical. at last, when after a profound and last bow, stenio, whose smile was as sardonic as it was triumphant, lifted his bow to attack the famous finale, his eye fell upon paganini, who, calmly seated in the manager's box, had been behind none in zealous applause. the small and piercing black eyes of the genoese artist were riveted to the stradi- varius in the hands of franz, but otherwise he seemed quite cool and unconcerned. his rival's face troubled bim for one short instant, but he regained his self- possession and, lifting once more his bow, drew the first ote. then the public enthusiasm reached its acme, and soon knew no bounds. the listeners heard and saw indeed. the witches' voices resounded in the air, and beyond all the other voices, one voice was heard— discordant, and unlike to human sounds; it seem'd of dogs the bark, of wolves the howl; the doleful screechings of the midnight owl; the hiss of snakes, the hungry lion's roar; the sounds of billows beating on the shore; the groan of winds among the leafy wood, and burst of thunder from the rending cloud;— 'twas these, all these in one. the magic bow was drawing forth its last quivering sounds—famous among prodigious musical feats—imita- ting the precipitate flight of the witches before bright dawn; of the unholy women saturated with the fumes of their nocturnal saturnalia, when—a strange thing came the ensouled violin. i to pass on the stage. without the slightest transition, the notes suddenly changed. in their aerial flight of ascension and descent, their melody was unexpectedly altered in character. the sounds became confused, scattered, disconnected . . . . and then—it seemed from the sounding-board of the violin—came out squeak- ing, jarring tones, like those of a street punch, scream- ing at the top of a senile voice: - “art thou satisfied, franz, my boy? . . . . have not i gloriously kept my promise, eh?” the spell was broken. though still unable to realize the whole situation, those who heard the voice and the punchinello-like tones, were freed, as by enchantment, from the terrible charm under which they had been held. loud roars of laughter, mocking exclamations of half-anger and half-irritation were now heard from every corner of the vast theatre. the musicians in the or- chestra, with faces still blanched from weird emotion, were now seen shaking with laughter, and the whole audience rose, like one man, from their seats, unable yet to solve the enigma; they felt, nevertheless, too dis- gusted, too disposed to laugh to remain one moment longer in the building. but suddenly the sea of moving heads in the stalls and the pit became once more motionless, and stood petrified as though struck by lightning. what all saw was terrible enough—the handsome though wild face of the young artist suddenly aged, and his graceful, erect figure bent down, as though under the weight of years; but this was nothing to that which some of the most sensitive clearly perceived. franz stenio's person was now entirely enveloped in a semi-transparent mist, cloud-like, creeping with serpentine motion, and gra- dually tightening round the living form, as though ready the ensouled violin. i his proverbial meanness notwithstanding, settled the hotel-bill and had poor stenio buried at his own expense. he claimed, however, in exchange, the fragments of the stradivarius—as a memento of the strange event. the end. advertisements. i ||otographis, h. p. blavatsky .. - - - - • * ... i io o (cabinet, various) - - . . o o annie besant (panel) o o x × (cabinet, various).. o o w. q. judge (cabinet) o o group of delegates to convention ... o o the president and the three general secre- taries - - • - - - - - - - the headquarters staff .. e - - - . . o the president, vice-president and annie besant .. - - - - - - - - ... o o theosophical publishing society, , duke street, adelphi, w.c. i advertisements. the theosophical glossary. py h. p. blavatsky. cloth gilt, s. d. royal octavo. the theosophical glossary is a work of some pages of the same size as the secret /ooctrine, and contains much valuable information, which h.p.b. alone could give, on esoteric philo- sophy. the information on the esotericism of the buddhist system, and in elucidation of the glossaries of the voice of the silence, is especially valuable; and from every point of view it is a book that no student of theosophy can allow to be absent from his shelves. it can hardly be too much regretted that the glossary is a posthumous work, for h.p.b. was adding largely to it on the few proofs that came in previous to her departure. the editing has naturally been a matter of great difficulty, as it would tax the resources even of the best polyglot scholar to the utmost. the work, however, is completed, and we have one more gift from h.p.b. to us; one all the more precious as being mostly written in the greatest pain and suffering, every line being literally produced by an effort of will in the midst of extreme physical torture. prettily bound in cloth, one shilling. post free, is. d. theosophies, manuals, no. . the seven principles of man. by annie besant. a popular exposition of the constitution of man, according to the esoteric philosophy, popularly known as theosophy. it deals with the physical body 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cualter r. olab. with a preface by annie besant. a handbook for students and enquirers. portraits of mdme. blavatsky and colonel olcott. boards, pp. . price is. d. post free. theosophical siſ tipšs. vols. i, ii, iii, iv, bound. price s. d. each. lucifer. vols. iii, iv, v, vi, vii, viii, ix. price s. d. each. on the heights of himalay. by a. van der naillen. a theosophical novel. price s. d. theosophical publishing society, , duke street, adelphi, w.c. - - - - - - - - - - - - | - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - & , , / & harward college library bought with money received from library fines //o chil the children weio followed the piper by padraic colum world epics the children's homer: the adventures of odysseus and the tale of troy the golden fleece: and the heroes who lived be- fore achilles the children of odin : the dwellers in asgard and the sword of the volsungs the island of the mighty: tales from the ma- binogian - the voyagers: legends and history of atlantic discovery orpheus: myths of the world folk romance the king of ireland's son the boy who knew what the birds said the boy apprenticed to an enchanter the girl who sat by the ashes the children who followed the piper the forge in the forest: stories of fire, water, earth and air the fountain of youth: stories to be told, from all his books stories for younger children the peep-show man the white sparrow poetry and plays old pastures creatures collected poems wild earth and other poems dramatic legends and shorter poems mogu the wanderer, or the desert thomas muskerry, etc. balloon: a comedy in four acts edited the arabian nights: tales of wonder and mag- nificence gulliver's travels, by jonathan swift novels, essays, travel castle conquer cross roads in ireland a half day's ride the road round ireland . s. slo. . , º’ / aug copyright, , by the macmillan company. all rights reserved—no part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for inclusion in magazine or newspaper. set up and electrotyped. published september, . reprinted july, ; april, ; may, ; may, ; december, . revised edition, may, . printed in the united states of america by the ferris printing company contents how the pied piper came . . . . . . . . the way the children went . . . . . . the wood of daylight-gone . . . . . . . old couple's house, . the deep wood and the dark forest . in the deep wood again . . . . . . . . the children and the gods of the old time one goes into the dark forest . . . . . . another goes into the dark forest . . . . john ball golden hood . walentine . the nest of the eagles the sleeping maiden the children leave the wood of daylight-gone the witch's curse . the end of the story . . . . . . . . . page illustrations john ball the miller's son they found the goose with its neck upon jupiter's knees - jumping joan tumbled head over heels . and so, in the dark forest, golden hood slept then she drew him into her pool . with an arm around each eagle, was the maiden golden hood - she was lying on the fleece of gold . . . . facing page the children who followed the piper £º how the pied piper came irst there were the rats: they came into the town in families, and each -sº family went to live in a stable. from §e the stables they went into the cellars, and from the cellars they went into the kitchens; and from the kitchens they went into the par- lors, and from the parlors they went into the bedrooms. then they went into the town hall. then they went into the churches. the cats they chased and the dogs they jeered at. they ate the bacon and the beans, the cheese and the custards. they squeaked under the beds and they climbed the ropes in the belfries; then they went to live in the ovens where the bread was the children being baked. and one day, in his own home, a rat jumped out of the mayor's pie dish. that day, as he sat in the council room with the aldermen beside him, the mayor was told that there was a fellow outside who said he was come to help the town council. “i hope he has something to do with banishing the rats,” said the mayor. “i must say that it is not worth while being mayor while the rats are in this good town. i have had to keep my scarlet robe locked up in an iron chest for fear the rats would eat it.” “and we,” said the aldermen all, “have had to keep our embroidered waistcoats locked up in the same sort of iron chests.” “and we hope the fellow has something to do with banishing the rats,” said all of them. “the fellow is here,” said the sergeant. he was there, sure enough, standing behind the sergeant. “what an odd-looking fellow he is, to be sure,” said the town council. and an odd-looking fellow he certainly was who followed the piper he was dressed in reds and yellows, his right side and his left leg being in yellow, and his right leg and his left side being in red. he had on a round hat that had something like a goose's wing at each side of it. his face was soft and round, but his eyes were dark, and they had, if one looked close enough, a sort of command in them. he carried bagpipes. “did you ever see him before, sergeant?” asked the mayor. “never,” said the sergeant. “he seems to be only a sojourner here.” “and yet i have been a long time in the world,” said the fellow. “what name are you called by?” said the mayor. “one name and another,” said the fellow, “but i doubt if you ever heard any of my names. you may call me the pied piper.” it was a good name to call him; he was a piper by the bagpipes he carried, and he was pied by the different colors he wore in his dress. who followed the piper out he went then. well, the next day, as the clocks of the town were striking noon, the mayor and the aldermen stood at the windows of the council room. the piper came into the market place, right side and left leg yellow, left side and right leg red. he put the pipe to his mouth, and his elbow to the bag, and he played away. rats were biting each other in the gutters. up they sat and cocked an ear to the music. rats were hurrying home with cheese in their mouths or an egg between their paws. they stopped to listen. then rats came pouring down steps of houses; rats came swarming up steps of cellars; rats came scrambling over walls. rats by the thousand showed themselves, and they all went hurrying toward where the pied piper played. with his elbow to the bag and the pipe to his mouth the pied piper moved off. he went down the street, and as he went the rats followed him, tumbling over each other, squealing and squeak- ing. down to the river the piper went, and squealing and squeaking the rats followed after. the children across the stepping-stones in the river the piper went. the rats followed. he reached the other bank, but they did not. those behind crowded on those before, and tumbling and turning, squealing and squeaking, they were all swept down the river; some were drowned here, some were drowned there, but all were drowned some- where. so much for the rats. the people of the town hardly knew their houses for a while after. no rat ran across the floor and no rat squeaked in the passageway. the food came from the larders untouched, and was eaten off the tables without the rats putting nose or paw on it. the cats showed themselves again. and the good people walked their streets again without the rats brushing against them. they met the dogs, and the dogs wagged their tails as if to say, “we have got rid of those fellows, haven’t we, masters?” the mayor and the aldermen sat in their council room; the mayor had on his scarlet robe who followed the piper town council that this man's an alien, and that he cannot maintain a claim against your wor- ships,” said the thin-lipped treasury-remem- brancer at the other side of the table. “here's the fifty gulders in a bag,” said the mayor, “and the sergeant has my orders to show you the way to an eating house where you can have a meal at our expense,” said the mayor. “and we’re very busy at this time o’ the day.” but the piper had gone past the sergeant. he went out and he did not come back for the fifty gulders that lay on the table. and what did he do after that? all in his reds and yellows he stood in the market place on that spring day. he put the pipe to his mouth and he put his elbow to the bag and he began to play. at the first sound of his pipes the children ran out of the houses—children capped and bare- headed, children barefooted and shod. boys and girls they came, rich men's, poor men's, tinker's, tailor’s, soldier's, sailor’s children. “a nice thing, to be sure,” said the aldermen who the children watched from the window in the council room. “a nice thing that our children should be gath- ered around that fellow. send for the beadle, and let him take the children away.” but it wasn’t the beadle who took them away. the piper turned and went down the street and the children went dancing after him. more and more children ran out of the houses and came crowding up the side streets as he went by. ragged and well-dressed they followed the piper, and the elders stood by to watch the pro- cession. over the bridge they went and up toward the mountain that looked over the town. the beadle had been summoned; he went after the children. men and women joined him and they went hallooing to them to stop. but the piper went on and the children went on. surely they would stop and turn back when they came to the great rock that stood in their path on the mountain. but they did not turn back. the beadle and the men and women saw the rock move and saw the piper and the chil- who followed the piper dren pass behind the rock. . but when they went up to the place the rock was where it had been, and the children were not to be seen high up or low down. the rock had moved to let the piper and the children through—that was plain to be seen— but there was no way of making the rock move again. the people tried and tried, and for days and nights they stayed beside the rock. no sound or sign of the children came to them. the pied piper had gone, and the town's children had gone with him. all this is known to all of you, but it is right for me to say that this is only the beginning of my story. the children the way the children went he piper made the rock turn as if it were on a hinge by playing a special \ tune before it. when he was far in- e/ side with the children crowding behind him he played another tune that made the rock close like a door. past the rock they were in a great cave, and cave after cave opened before them. the piper played, and a light came out of the pipes he held. and what did he play to them? well, the children thought that his music was telling them about a story that they knew. it was a story about reynard the fox. oh, more de- lightfully than ever they had heard it before who followed the piper the music told them this part of the story—how the ram and the hare went to malpardus, rey- nard's castle. they were to bring reynard to the court of his majesty the lion. ah, it would be bad for reynard when he came before the lion | he would be made to suffer for all his villainies. but the fox played tricks upon the ram and the hare, and he kept away from the lion's court. oh, wasn’t he clever! as the pied piper played, it seemed to the children that a little red fox ran beside him, playing and dancing and jumping. when he had finished that tune he played it for them all over again. and then he played it again and again. each time he played it, it seemed to the children to be more delightful than when he had played it before. on and on they went, following the music of the pipes and the light that shone out of them. through cave after cave they went. passages went up and passages went down, and passages wound around and about. but through all the passages they the children went, and they were so entranced with the piper's playing that they did not know that they had left the light of the sun. and by that time the mayor and the council knew that they had made a great mistake in treating the pied piper the way they had done. perhaps if they had known who he was they would not have treated him in such a fashion. i do not know. they might not have believed him if he had told them. eor he was the one who, born at dawn, made himself a musical instrument at noon—the first earthly musical instrument that was ever made —and in the evening went out of his mother's house and stole apollo's cattle. he was the one who was called the bringer of dreams, the watcher by night, the thief at the gate. he was the one who had once possessed the shoes of swiftness and the winged hat. he was hermes, who was also called mercury. but the mayor and the town council might not have believed him if he had told them this. who followed the piper these were the children who followed the piper: robin and richard and nancy; jack and jill and wee willie winkie; jack sprat, jack snipe, and jack horner, and jumping joan, the showman's daughter; perrie, merrie, and dixie; margery daw and little jack straw; elizabeth, betsy, betty, and bess; tom tucker, tom-tom, the piper's son, jack nicker, dor- othy, and ursula. mary-mary, quite contrary, left her garden to go; simple simon just turned round and fol- lowed the music although the pieman was there to talk to; johnny-jump-up, the son of the man who ate fire in the market place on thursdays, went with philomena, who was so proud because she was the countess's daughter, and meg, the little ragpicker, and the baker's thirteen chil- dren, boys and girls, and angelus, who rang the church bells, and angelica, his sister. and besides these there went three children who were just as nice as any of the others. golden hood i’ll name first. she was the milk- * ſ: º \ t | t .# ) w\º \º º a o \\|| || º who followed the piper as they had come near the great stone on the mountainside he had seen the old mill horse standing near. the horse came up beside him and stood there in the dark. it was old baldwin who drew sacks to and from the mill. john ball put his hand upon the horse, and he found the hide all cov- ered with flour and grain that he used to carry. he was glad that baldwin had come, and he did not know how it had happened. but bald- win had just followed the children. he was in the first cave when the rock closed behind them. he stayed for a while in the dark, and then he went clumping, clumping, after the children. the music was going farther and farther away from them now. john ball hurried on, with baldwin keeping beside him. then he saw a light like a star before them. it grew wider and wider. there was sunlight and a wind blowing. there were trees. he heard the pipes playing in the open air as he came to the open- the children time, with baldwin, the old mill horse, beside him. a man came toward them. he was a black- bearded man, tremendously tall and tremen- dously broad, with a nose that came very far out on his face. he carried a spear across his shoul- der, and from the spear a dead wolf was hang- ing. as the man came near he said to the piper: “mercury, art thou back?” “yea, mars, i am back,” said the piper, “and now i shall draw the wolves away.” “leave me the wolves,” said the black-bearded man, in a deep voice, “leave me the wolves,” and he passed them, and went on through the trees. and then a bird, a woodpecker with brown wings and a red cap, flew up on a branch and looked down at them. “mercury, art thou back?” said the woodpecker. “i am back, picus,” said the pied piper. they went on, and they saw an old man seated in a doorway—there was no house there, only a doorway. he had white hair and a white beard. as they came near, he said: “mercury, mercury, who followed the piper art thou back?” “yea, janus, i am back,” said the piper. they passed, and when the children looked back they saw old janus in his door- way still looking at them, although they were sure that he had not turned. he had two faces, one that looked before and the other that looked behind him, but the children did not then know that about old janus. then they heard voices that said: “mercury has come back, mercury has come back.” the voices seemed to come from many places in the trees. the piper stopped and called out, “faunus!” then a man showed himself. he was stout, but not very tall; he had a ruddy face, and bright eyes, and brown hair that grew over his forehead and down to his ears like a cap. it was his voice that sounded amongst the trees as if many voices were speaking. the children were in a place that nobody had ever told them anything about. they were in the wood of daylight-gone. to that wood had gone the gods of the old time after they had lost who followed the piper old couple's house gº his was old couple's house, the piper told the children. once, long and long ago, before the gods had lost their high sº places, jupiter and mercury went through the world. they seemed poor and hun- gry men going to different houses for food and shelter. as they went through the world they were made sad and angry because of the hard- heartedness of men; every house of the thou- sand houses they came to turned them away. at last they came to a very little house; it was the poorest of all the houses they had been near; there was a little garden beside it, with cab- bages and a few fruit trees, and there was a the children goose, and that goose was all there was of live stock about the place. there was no watchdog, either, and the goose stood before the house and cackled to let the people within know that strangers were coming. but poor as it was the gods were made wel- come to that house. an old woman stood at the doorway and asked them to enter. they stooped their heads to pass under that doorway. then the old woman lighted a fire with twigs and split wood, and blew and blew at it until the fire blazed up on the hearth. there was a couch there made of woven wil- low rods. when she saw the strangers stand- ing on her floor the old woman—baucis was her name—put a mattress filled with sedge grass, soft and dry, upon it, and asked them to seat themselves. the couch took up the whole side of the house. then the old man, philemon, came in, carry- ing the cabbages that he had cut in the garden when he saw the strangers coming. he cut and who followed the piper cleaned the cabbages and put them in the pot to boil. then he looked at the old woman and she nodded to him, and he took down the small piece of bacon that hung from the rafter and he put it in to boil with the cabbages. and while the pot was boiling the old man and the old woman, philemon and baucis, kept telling the strangers they were welcome. the old woman tucked up her skirt and made the table ready for the meal. one leg of the table was short, and baucis put a piece of a broken jar between this leg and the earthen floor, prop- ping it in this way. then she asked the guests to bring their couch over to the table. the only two earthen dishes that the couple had were upon the table, and on these dishes the old woman had put olives and cherries and cheese and eggs that had been toasted in the ashes. and while the guests were eating these good things the old man brought the cabbage and the bacon to them on wooden platters. then the old man looked at the old woman and the children she nodded to him, and he went to a jar that was in the corner, and he took it up and shook it to see what it held. there was something in it, and he took an earthen pitcher and he poured what was in the jar into the pitcher. there was wine in it, but not very much. philemon looked into the pitcher he had poured the wine into and saw that it was half filled. there would be a bowlful for each of the guests, he thought. and while they were eating the old woman was emptying her cupboard to provide another course for them. she filled a shallow basket with nuts and apples and grapes that had just been gathered off the vine outside. she put into the basket, too, a loaf that only one slice had been cut off, and a piece of clear honey laid upon a green leaf. baucis and philemon stood near the table and talked with their guests. their kindly faces showed how glad they were that they had been able to furnish for them a meal that was well relished. philemon had left bowls upon the who followed the piper table—two beechen bowls that were coated on the inside with yellow wax. he saw the guests fill the bowls from the pitcher and then drink the wine. but oh, how sorry he was made to feel when he saw one of the guests reach over for the pitcher again. he wanted to tell him that there was no more wine in it. but he felt so ashamed that the words would not come out of his throat. the guest poured wine into the bowl. he filled it up again. he passed the pitcher to the other guest, and he, too, filled up his bowl with wine. philemon was greatly pleased that there had been more in the pitcher than he had imagined. and all this time old baucis was watching anx- iously the basket that she had put the fruit and the bread and honey in. for each time the guests reached over to it she feared that they would find nothing there, and that she would be made ashamed that her cupboard had had no better supply. but every time that one of the guests put his hand into the children the basket he brought something out—an apple or a handful of nuts or a slice of bread; often they drew the piece of honey out to put some upon the bread; she thought it had all been used, but when she looked at it she thought there was as much there as when she had brought it out of the cupboard. philemon saw one of the guests reach out for the pitcher again. “sir,” said philemon to him, but he said no more, for his mouth remained open when he saw that the guest was able to fill his own and the other's bowl. then the guest looked round and saw philemon's face, and he smiled at him. he offered the bowl to philemon and he begged him to drink. “how can i drink it when there is so little left for you who are my guests?” said philemon. but still his guest smiled at him. he pointed to the pitcher. philemon looked into it—he saw that it was half filled as when he had emptied the jar into it. philemon, without being able to speak, looked who followed the piper into the pitcher. he saw the wine bubbling within it, as if it were rising up out of a spring. just then the other guest had offered an apple to baucis. she shook her head, thinking as philemon had said. but the guest pointed to the basket, and when baucis looked into it she thought there were as many apples and nuts and grapes and slices of bread and as much honey as when she had taken all these out of the cupboard. bhilemon took the cup of wine, and baucis took the apple that was offered. they tasted what they had taken, and they knew that neither their wine nor their apples had such savor. they looked upon their guests, and they saw the majesty that was in the face of one and the all- knowingness that was in the face of the other; and they knew that they had for guests two of the gods. philemon would have knelt down before them but baucis plucked at him; her thought was that they should prepare another and a better meal __ *_ al- - - - --- they found the goose with its neck upon jupiter's knees. the children woven wattles thatched with reeds, they changed into a house of marble with a golden roof. for long and long that house shone there in its marble and gold. but then creepers began to cover the marble walls and grow over the golden roof. now the creepers were a foot thick, and walls and roof were covered with them. but baucis and philemon and the old goose still lived there, and the garden still had cab- bages, and apples and nuts grew on the trees, and there was a spring of water beside the house, and a white-thorn tree before the door to keep ill luck away. who followed the piper the deep wood and the dark forest n that very place the children stayed. they were counting who had come and who had not come, when john ball emcŞū came up to them, mounted on old bald- win. the children shouted for john ball, and shouted for baldwin, the old mill horse. the piper had gone. they looked around and around the white-thorn bush, but they could not find him. the pied piper had gone without making a sound on his pipes. three by three, then, they went into the house of the old couple. the house could not hold more than three of them at a time. they drank and they ate out of the never-emptied measures the children —milk out of the pitcher, bread and honey, nuts and apples and grapes out of the basket that the old woman set before them. each of the chil- dren wanted to be beside john ball who had ridden old baldwin, but john ball and valen- tine and golden hood stayed always together. then, out under the great ash trees, the chil- dren played. there was that sort of light there that there is before children are called home. and the light did not change. it was no darker than it had been when they came down the moun- tainside; the star that was in the sky then still dangled there, and there was no other star. after they had played the children lay under the trees and slept. it did not become any colder. when they wakened up the same light was in the sky, and the same star hung dangling there. and it was always the same. about where they were was a silence like the silence of a great forest. old philemon, leaning on his staff, told them of the forest that grew down from the side of the mountain and closed who followed the piper round the wood of daylight-gone. it was called the dark forest. no one knew what be- ings were in it. and between the wood of day- light-gone and the dark forest was the deep wood. in the deep wood were dwarfs and wild creatures. when philemon spoke of the dark forest, golden hood said, “if i went into it, should i ever see you two again?” “if you went into it, golden hood,” said wal- entine, “i should follow and bring you back.” “and if golden hood and you, valentine, went into the dark forest, i should go seeking you, day after day,” said john ball, the miller's son. they said no more about the dark for- est. with the other children they played under the great ash trees and beside the bushy white- thorn trees in the wood of daylight-gone. johnny-jump-up and jumping joan, the showman's daughter, and meg, the little rag- picker, and philomena, the countess's child, the children went from the great ash trees and the bushy white-thorn trees. they went amongst the tall pine trees and the dark spruce trees. they went picking berries and eating them. little meg gathered ragweed; she pulled the ragweed into shreds, and she threw the shreds upon the ground. they were in the deep wood. they went on, gathering berries, until they came to an open space. there they saw four great trees, and each tree had a hollow, wide and deep. “oh, let us sit down in the hollows and eat our berries there—i’m sure the hollows are nice and clean,” said philomena. so each went into the hollow in a tree. very surprised were they to find a table and a chair and a bed in each of the hollows. they sat down at the tables and began eating their berries. and there they were, eating their berries, when a dwarf came to the opening of each hol- low. “ha,” said each of them, “who is this that has come into the tree dwarf's hollow house?” who followed the piper and saying this, each one raised up what he held in his hands—a little bronze axe. “they came in without asking permission, and they will have to serve us,” said one of the dwarfs. “we will make them go down into the well and bring up the witch's spindle to us,” said an- other of the dwarfs. “yes, yes,” said all of them together, “we will make them bring up to us the witch's sharp- pointed spindle.” they took the children to the well, and they showed them, deep down in the bottom of it, the witch's sharp-pointed spindle. “go now and bring us the spindle,” said the dwarfs, “and whoever fails to bring it to us we will cut off their hands with our sharp axes. this one must be the first to go down.” as they said this, jumping joan tumbled head over heels, and so amazed were the dwarfs to see her do this that they ran back to their tree hollows. and when they were coming near the the children in the deep wood again † i ary-mary, quite contrary, went all f by herself into the deep wood. she saw a drift of snow under a tree; she % (a saw a patch of red berries upon the snow, and she saw a black, black raven stand- ing on the snow and pecking at the red berries. and never since one day in her garden when the red peonies leaned over the whitewashed steps, and the black cat lay sunning herself upon them, had mary seen a sight that was so well worth beholding. so she stood beside the tree, watching the snow and the berries and the raven. and then who followed the piper she heard some one say, “what are you looking at, little girl?” she saw who spoke to her. there was a hag within the hollow of the tree; she was leaning on a staff, and with her gleaming eyes she was looking out on the \wood. “and what are you looking at, little girl?” said the hag of the tree to mary. “i am looking at the whiteness of the snow and the redness of the berries and the blackness of the raven, please, ma'am,” said mary. “and did you ever see anything that drew your eyes more than this blackness and white- ness and redness? tell me that!” said the hag. “no, ma'am,” said mary, and she tried to draw away, for she was fearful of the strange hag that stayed there all alone in the deep wood. the hag's eyes held her, and she could not go away. “did you ever see any one who had the white- ness of the snow and the redness of the berries and the blackness of the raven? tell me that!” the children said the hag, lifting her head above her staff and fixing her eyes upon mary. “yes, ma'am, i saw such a one,” said mary. “who is she? who is she?” said the hag. “golden hood has the whiteness of the snow and the redness of the berries and the blackness of the raven,” said mary. “golden hood has-has she?” cried the hag, and it seemed to mary that she was about to jump out of the hollow of the tree. she was greatly afraid. “yes, golden hood has,” said mary, trying to get herself away. “oh, my dear little girl,” said the hag, “don’t try to go from me. remember that you are very close to the dark forest and you might stray into it, and then what would become of you? oh, my dear little girl, stay here until you do something for me.” then the raven that was pecking at the ber- ries flew up on her shoulder, and he looked at mary with a very wicked eye. who followed the piper “oh, what would you have me do for you?” said mary, beginning to cry. “nothing, nothing very much, child. there is an old thorn bush behind this tree of mine. tell me, do you see it?” “i see it,” said mary. “there's a long thorn upon it. tell me, do you see it?” “i see it,” said mary. “break off that thorn and bring it to me here,” said the hag, striking the hollow of the tree with her staff. mary went to the thorn bush. mary looked and saw the long thorn growing there. and then, just behind the thorn bush she saw tom-tom, the piper's son. “run, run,” said tom. “oh, where can i run to?” cried mary. “after me,” said tom. “oh, but mustn't i break off the thorn?” said mary. “i’m going to run,” said tom. so tom the children started to run, and mary wanted to cry, seeing him go off like that. then she started to run, and the raven on her shoulder pinched and pecked at her. she heard the hag shouting, “bring me the thorn, the thorn that will put her sleeping.” but mary ran on, and tom-tom, the piper’s son, ran before her. they ran until they came to the edge of the deep wood. just beyond the edge were perrie and merrie, wee willie winkie, and the baker's thirteen children, boys and girls. they were all playing with old baldwin, john ball's horse. mary was shrieking and shrieking because the raven that stayed on her shoulder was pinching and pecking at her. eut as soon as she came to the first white- thorn tree, planted there for good luck, the raven flew away. then the children went on to old couple's house. they saw golden hood with valentine who followed the piper and john ball. golden hood was gathering crocuses, but valentine and john ball were lis- tening to the voices of faunus that came to them from amongst the trees. the children : º . % the children and the gods of old time he voices were telling valentine and john ball that in the wood of day- | light-gone there would be never a £ change; the voices were telling them that those who had come there would be ever the same; the voices were telling them that the chil- dren who followed the piper would be children always. then john ball and valentine said, “will we be children always and ever?” the voices that faunus spoke with said: “un- less you go out of the wood of daylight-gone you will be children always.” a great sadness came over valentine and over tº pº º wº- §§ who followed the piper john ball when they heard this said. would they never, then, come to the fullness of their height and their strength? the sense of a great, great loss came over them. all they had done and all they had ever known, they thought, was as nothing to what was being taken from them. and then the voices ceased to come from the trees, and the two boys stood there feeling lonely and lost. they saw the same star dangling in the sky that had been there when they had first come into the wood. never, never, as men grown tall and strong would they look on that star. and when that thought came into their minds they looked all around them. where could they go? beyond the ash trees and the white-thorn trees there was the deep wood, and beyond the deep wood there was the dark forest. could they go through the dark forest and out into the world, they wondered. they went toward where the deep wood be- gan. their way went past where old janus sat. he was in a doorway to which there was teie children no house. one went before one of his faces and the other went before the other, and each of the boys said to him: “what way is there to go from the wood of daylight-gone and into the world?” “it is long since i opened any way,” janus said, his two faces speaking at once. “i can open no way for you.” janus with his white beards looked so wise to them that the thought that he could not show them a way made them feel more lonely and more lost. they went on. then they met a man taller and broader than any man they had ever known; he was carrying a spear upon his shoul- der from which a dead wolf hung. this was mars. they spoke to him and said: “tell us, you who go into the woods killing wolves, how we may come out of the wood of daylight-gone.” mars went marching past them. “what bat- tles would you fight?” said he as he went. “no battles, mars.” the children “circe, circe,” cried picus the woodpecker, running around the tree. “but you cannot go to circe the enchantress until you have been through the dark forest,” said silvanus. “we have heard philemon and baucis say that no one has gone through the dark for- est,” said valentine and john ball, “and so we cannot go to circe.” “you cannot go to circe,” said silvanus. “but she is the only one who can tell you of the way out of the wood of daylight-gone.” “circe, circe,” cried picus the woodpecker, and he flew away. they peered into the deep wood, but they saw no path there that they might follow. and then, feeling more lost and more lonely than when faunus had spoken to them, they went back toward the old couple's house. they saw golden hood. “oh, golden hood,” said wal- entine, “we will be here always, and you will be here always, and we will be children always. who followed the piper." ifaunus has told it to us. you are a girl and so you do not mind being a child for ever, but we are sorry—sorry for ourselves.” golden hood took a hand of each and went with them to- ward the tree that was before the house of the old couple. jack sprat, jack snipe, and jack horner were sent to old janus where he sat in his door- way, to ask him to come to supper at the old couple's house; jack and jill, jumping joan, and jack nicker went with them. perrie and merrie and dixie were sent to ask faunus. the baker's thirteen children, boys and girls, went to silvanus, and the rest of the children, with golden hood, went amongst the trees to find picus the woodpecker. baucis and philemon wanted valentine and john ball to fetch mars, but the two boys sat there, sad and lonely, not harkening to what was said to them. then the jacks with jill and joan (they were all sent to him because their names began with the children j) brought janus in. he was the first, because, of course, janus had to open everything. then silvanus came, talking to the children who had brought him, and carrying his bag of nuts. faunus came too, and he sat under a tree; and he frightened everybody by making his voices sound like the howling of wolves coming nearer, nearer. then picus the woodpecker came fly- ing from branch to branch, and, the children all having come back, the things to eat were spread out. no one had gone to fetch him, but mars came. he had his spear, with the wolf he had just killed dangling at the end of it. he threw the wolf down when he came near where they were all sitting. they were under great ash trees, before the house and close to the spring well. all were there except picus the woodpecker. he went running around the trees and flying from branch to branch restlessly. and there, in the light that seemed to be of sunlight and moonlight mixed (as sunlight and the children faunus, and janus gave the children presents. silvanus searched in his bag until he found a black nut for each of the children. when they opened them they found in each a little bird that came out and perched upon the little finger nail, and sang to their owner in the most lovely way. janus then put a little hinge on the nuts that were opened, so that the little birds might go back into them and be shut up in the nuts again. faunus gave the children the leaf of an ash tree each; it turned into a little candle flame and went dancing before them wherever they went. mars put down his wine cup and he said, “i should like to give a present too, but i can't think of one—by jupiter, i can't!” and then they heard a voice in the tree. “i, the poor woodpecker, would like to give a pres- ent too, but i haven't one to give. but if you would like to listen to a story, i shall tell you one.” “picus,” said faunus, “you have told that story too often.” the children brought about my misfortune! for as irode out on a day i was seen by the enchantress circe who was then going through the wood gathering herbs for her magic brews. she saw me, and immediately she wanted me to give my love to her. but i rode on giving no heed at all to her greetings. i rode on, thinking of canens, my sweet-voiced bride. then circe took the herbs she had gathered, and she made out of them a shape that was like the shape of a wild boar. she sent it to rush across my path. i followed the magic thing. it rushed into a deep thicket, and i, jumping off my horse, went after it with my spear. and then i came upon circe. she was standing there, with the boar under her feet, all flattened out. “there circe took my hands, begging me to come with her, and to leave all others for her. i thought upon my sweet-voiced canens and i would not go with circe. she gave me a cup, and she wanted me to drink out of it, saying that it would clear my mind of all thought of who followed the piper canens. but i would not forget my bride, and i threw down the cup that circe wanted me to drink from. “i turned away from her, but she followed me in a rage. i went through the thicket and i came to where my steed stayed. i was about to mount and ride away when circe touched me with her wand. then, instead of being on my horse, i found myself on the branch of a tree. my horse raced off, and when i tried to catch it, i found myself going more swiftly than i was used to go. i was flying from tree to tree. i cried out, but my voice was a bird's voice. i saw i had wings; i saw that my scarlet cloak had changed to scarlet feathers, and that my golden brooch had changed to a golden band. i was a bird now, and in my rage i went pecking with my hard beak at the branches and the trunks of trees. from that time i was a wood- pecker. “my beautiful and sweet-voiced canens waited at home for me. evening came, and i did the children not return. then canens went searching for me, and for six days and six nights she sought me in the woods and on the hills and in the val- leys. i did not show myself to her, although i heard her sweet voice calling me through the woods—‘picus, picus, where art thou?” then i heard her sing as a swan sings, and when i flew to her, i found her melting away in tears. who followed the piper she became a stream, the sweet-sounding stream of water that is still called canens.” this was the story he told; the children were sorry for picus the woodpecker, but they liked hearing his story. and when he had told it picus went restlessly amongst the trees. then mars put down the great cup he had been drinking out of and he stood up to leave. he spoke to valentine who was beside him. “i can give one of you something,” said he, “and you look the most likely one to have it. what would you say to a sword? lift up the stone that is beside the well and you will find a good blade there.” he went off without speaking to the others, taking his spear and marching off with the wolf hanging from it. they had another visitor, for right up to where they were all sitting baldwin, the old mill horse, came. the children clapped their hands. “baldwin has come to ask for a share in our presents,” meg, the little ragpicker, said. - the children they were all sorry that there was no pres- ent for baldwin. then faunus said: “let us put all the powers we have into a gift to the horse.” janus opened baldwin's mouth and silvanus put a flower into it. then faunus walked around the horse three times, repeating strange verses as he walked. “what are they going to give baldwin?” the children asked one another. “the gift of human speech,” silvanus said. the children danced around with delight at the thought that baldwin would be able to speak to them. valentine and john ball forgot that they were sorry for themselves. to have a horse that could speak human words—wouldn’t that be the most wonderful of all things! and then they all wondered what baldwin would say. suddenly he galloped off; he came back in a while and he opened his mouth, but the only sound that came out of it was a cough- ing sound. then he galloped off again. he came back, and when he opened his mouth there who followed the piper came out of it this time a neighing that sounded like words, or else words that sounded like a neighing. he came back the third time. he opened his mouth, and the children heard and knew what he said: the ground is soft, the trees are high the children talk, and so do i. and these were the first words that old bald- win said. the children cheered to hear the horse talk so plainly. valentine, the emperor's son, and john ball, the miller's son, were standing together now. john ball and valentine looked at each other, and each thought what a good lad the other was, and each thought, too, that it was good that every day they would be together. they laid a hand on each other's shoulder. and then they saw golden hood walking beside the great ash trees. white as an egg she was; her eyes were dark as the hair that fell out of her golden hood; her the children lips and her cheeks were red, and there were two dimples where she smiled. but the most beautiful thing about her was the spirit of sweet delight that filled up her face. one would think that the words she would say would be like the sound of silver bells. valentine called to her, and she greeted him and john ball with gladness. and valentine thought he should have apples and pears and plums and all sweet and wholesome things to of- fer her, so dear and beautiful did she seem. the gods of the old time had gone, and the children were making ready to sleep under the great ash trees. john ball and valentine looked at each other. they saw that old philemon stood beside them. he held two cups in his hands. “i shall give a cup to each of you,” he said. “and if one of you is parted from the other, the cup i give will help to bring you together.” each took the cup that philemon gave. they were well and smoothly made out of beechen who followed the piper wood, these two cups, each with a border carved on the outside, and each with the inside covered with yellow wax. gratefully they took the cups that philemon gave. they fastened the cups to their belts, and they lay down to sleep, valen- tine and john ball. the children one goes into the dark forest º he children slept. valentine and john *wº ball slept beside each other, and the ) cups that philemon had given them s/k were rim to rim. the same light, like the mixture of moonlight and sunlight upon a high hill in later summer, was there, and the one star dangled in the sky. golden hood awakened. she saw the chil- dren sleeping under the great ash trees and be- side the bushy white-thorn trees. she sat up and she looked where the crocuses grew out to- ward the deep wood. and then golden hood saw a shapely thing going where the crocuses grew. she watched it, who followed the piper thorn tree.” another voice said: “now that she is in the dark forest, you can go behind her, and when she lies down you can cut off a tress of her hair. your shears will do as well as the spindle or the long thorn.” golden hood ran. but she was running in the dark forest where there was no place for her to run to. as she ran a rustling thing fol- lowed after her. it went on when she went on, and it stopped when she stopped. once, when she looked around, she saw something dark be- hind a tree, and she knew she saw the shining blades of shears. on and on she went, and the rustling went behind her when she went, and the rustling stopped when her fluttering heart made her stop. she was overwearied now, and her body ached because of all the buffets she had had from strik- ing against the trees. she went, and once she stumbled and she fell. she could not hear the rustling because her heart beat so loudly. she knew that the one who carried the shears was the children coming to where she lay. she rose up and hur- ried on. she was wearied to the bone now, but where was the place where she could take rest in safety? she came to a space where there were no trees. she stood at the edge of the space and she heard the rustling still coming beside her. and then she saw a light—a lantern it was; she went toward it, hoping that there was a place there where she would be guarded while she lay down to rest herself. the lantern was strung upon a broken tree, and there was a bent man beside it. he looked to golden hood like some one she had seen be- fore. the bent man had a sickle across his shoulder. “oh, tell me, tell me who you are?” golden hood cried out as she came near him. “hush,” said the bent man. “every one knows me, but no one speaks to me. i am the man in the moon.” “oh, you will help me,” said golden hood. “you will help me, for you are friendly to men!” who followed the piper “yes, i will help you,” said the bent man with the lantern. saying that he lifted the sickle off his shoulder. “know,” said he, “that i was once saturn, who carried the sickle across men's fields. i, too, was one of the gods of the old time. now i am the man in the moon.” “oh, and will you let me rest under your lantern?” asked golden hood. “i will let you rest within my sickle. no one can cross it to come to touch you,” said the man in the moon in his far-off voice. he laid his sickle upon the ground in that space where there were no trees. golden hood laid herself down inside the hook of the sickle, and the lantern shone above her. she heard the rustling come nearer, but she knew that nothing could reach across the sickle inside of which she lay. silently, with his lantern beside him, the man in the moon who was once saturn stood above her. and so, in the dark forest, golden hood slept. the children another goes into the dark forest alentine wakened up. his mind ł was on the sword that mars had told º him of. he roused himself. as he tº did he felt at his belt the cup that philemon had given him. he felt the cup, but he gave little thought to it, for his mind was on the sword that had been left beneath the stone. he raised up the stone that was beside the well. there, in a leathern sheath, was the sword. he lifted it; he drew the shining blade out; he held it to the star that dangled in the sky. with that sword in his hand he was a child no more. with that sword in his hand he could go through the children entine went on their webs struck across his face. the trees were stirless and were like stones. the iron weed and the fire weed, the wolf weed and the lion weed grew under the trees. wal- entine went on, holding the sword in his hand. and then, suddenly, he came upon hounds that were hunting in the dark forest. they stopped and then they ran toward him. valentine put his back to a tree and he held the sword in his hands. the hounds were black, with bristling hair, and foam dropped from their jaws. right up to him they came. he struck at the first of them with his sword, and it yelped and drew back. another and another dashed at him, but when he flashed the sword they drew back, whimpering. with tongues hanging out and jaws dripping with foam they dashed again and again at him. always they yelped and whimpered and drew back when the bright sword was flashed at them. and at last they came on ii. ' , who followed the piper then valentine shouted at them and waved his sword. he heard them scatter and go pat- tering away through the dark forest. bhe went on and on and he felt weary and dis- pirited. oh, very far did he go through the dark forest. more and more weary, and more and more dispirited he became. he went on and on, not knowing where he was going, and at last he came to where the nixie was standing in her pool. white was the nixie, white like the silver birch. her hair was in a web that was thick and high upon her head, and it was red like the winter sun between the pine trees. she laughed at him as he came near her pool, and she flung water upon him. “who are you?” said valentine. “i am the nixie of the dark forest,” said she, smiling at him. she laughed, and because she was carefree in the dark forest valentine came near her. he the children well and he drank the water. then he left the cup in the well and it floated there. her face was without thought and without care. she had short words that seemed to have many meanings, and she said them over and over again. her hands held his hands and held his arms, and he did not draw away from her. then she drew him into her pool. she drew him down and down. softly, softly he was borne down through the water. he stood on the bottom, and she opened a door in a rock and brought him into a chamber that was heaped up with green moss. then she gave him a thick, honeyed drink, and she gave him berries and mushrooms and dead dried things that had long, bony limbs. and valentine ate and he rested on the thick green itqoss. in the chamber under the pool all was shadowy and slumberous, and valentine stayed there in a half dream, and always near him were the white hands of the nixie. her laughter and her º w w w n - n n n \ n m *nº. nº w n * n n n * § º * n \ n n º q -------. n n § y. n §§ \ º § § *n n. n º n *º w n w nº who followed the piper wailing and her singing were the only sounds that came to him in that place below the pool. for the whole of a year he stayed in the chamber under the nixie's pool. the children john ball ) nother had come into the dark forest. he rode on a horse over the dark leaves and the dark needles that were on the ground, and no bird made flight from tree to tree before him. “oh, where have we come to, baldwin, my horse?” cried john ball. eor john ball had followed golden hood and valentine. when he wakened up he saw that valentine was not near him. he went where the other children were, and he found that golden hood was not with them. then he and the children went through the deep wood and they called out the names of valentine and of who followed the piper golden hood, but no answer came back to them. and then john ball knew that both had strayed into the dark forest, and that he would have to go search for them. baldwin, the horse that could speak, said: “fill your cup with water from the spring and bring it with you, without spilling from it. it is the well of good luck, and the water you take from it will be of use to you.” the children filled the carved wooden cup for him—the cup that philemon had given him. they put the cup of water into his hands while he sat upon baldwin, his horse. dorothy and ursula brought him bread and fruit from the never-emptied basket. then john ball rode from where the great ash trees grew and the bushy white-thorn trees, and he went into the dark forest. “oh, where have we come to, baldwin, my horse?” cried john ball. tremors went through baldwin's skin as they went on. the horse stopped. “on, baldwin, the children my good horse,” john ball cried, “for we must find valentine and golden hood who have strayed into the dark forest.” so they went on, going farther and farther into the dark forest. john ball ate bread and fruit and drank a little from the water. he called out the names, “valentine, valentine,” and “golden hood, golden hood,” but the names sounded hollow amongst the dark and stone-like trees. as they went on they heard a plunging step coming after them. more and more the tremors went through the skin of baldwin. looking back john ball saw the first creature he had seen since he came into the dark forest. it came after them with a plunge and a thud, a thud and a plunge. something flapped at its wide shoulders as it began to run. the creature had a flat face and one of its feet was shaped as an ass’s hoof and the other was as a man's foot, and it was of shining brass. and this creature of the dark forest came plunging and the children dipped his cup into the water. seeing the carved cup there he thought upon valentine. he left it floating on the water. as it floated there another cup came out of the shadows, floating too. the two cups came together and touched rim to rim. john ball thought he was dream- ing as he looked upon them. the carvings on them were the same. inside each had the same covering of yellow wax. no two cups could be so alike except the cups that philemon had given valentine and himself. one of them was valentine's for certainty. then valentine had been there. john ball's heart was lifted up again. he stepped from the well, leaving the cups there and leaving bald- win drinking at the well. he stepped away, and he called out valentine's name. but valentine did not hear his name being called. he was in the chamber under the nixie's pool, and he was drinking the honey-tasting drink that the nixie had given him. john ball went farther and farther away from weio followed teie piper could not cry nor speak human words, for what came from his thick tongue were the growls and grunts of the half man, half beast. he had eaten wolf meat, and for a year he would be one with the satyrs. john ball ran from where the robbers had been sitting. he ran toward the well beside which he had left baldwin. baldwin, his horse, was there. he tried to shout to baldwin, but a howl only came from his mouth. baldwin saw him. tremors went through the horse. he turned and raced away. and john ball could not call out his name nor make baldwin stay. john ball went to the well and he looked into the water where the cups were, and he saw him- self changed into a satyr, being covered all over with a beast's rough skin. then he knew what terrible ill luck had befallen him in the dark forest. now if he came upon valentine or upon golden hood they would not know him. even baldwin had raced away from him. he lamented, and he heard his own voice as the children the howl of a satyr. and while he lamented the satyrs came and stood around him. john ball dashed away from the place, and he found some- where to hide at the edge of the dark forest. his lair was the great hollow of a tree, and there he lived, eating roots and honey, and keeping himself from the band of satyrs. and so it was with john ball for the whole of a year. who followed the piper \nººr wssszºº? ºf: Ø$=nº ׺ & º . sº #, ſ.j. golden hood s he wakened up, and the man with the lantern was not beside her any more. she stood up and she called out the name of the one whom she would most like to have near her; she called out the name of wal- entine. but the name sounded hollow amongst the dark and stone-like trees. then golden hood ran on and on. oh, how might she get out of this dark forest! she ran on until she saw before her a sight so welcome that she stopped for joy. there was baldwin, john ball's old mill horse! baldwin saw her, and he whinnied to her. who followed the piper moss; they passed the fire around which the robbers had sat when john ball had eaten the wolf meat that changed him; they came to the last of the stone-like trees, and they were at the edge of the dark forest. they hurried away as swiftly as they could. bats squeaked around them, and baldwin was still so filled with the terror of the dark forest that tremors went all through him. they came into a space that had been green and that now was dry. in the middle of that space there was a tree that was all bare and broken. golden hood stayed beside it, and as she did she heard a voice from the tree saying, “tend me, o, tend me, living one.” she stayed under the tree, and again she heard the voice of the tree and it said, “tend me, o, tend me, living one.” “i will tend you, tree,” said golden hood. she sat under the tree for a while, and bald- win, the old mill horse, went searching around. he came back to where golden hood was, and the children he took her and showed her where there was a well of water, and cresses and red berries hang- ing above the well. baldwin found fresh grasses near and he began to eat. golden hood found a gourd, and she filled it with water and brought it back to the tree. she watered the tree. she touched its broken branches with her hands, and she brought more and more water to it. and near the tree golden hood and baldwin stayed. in the mornings they would go to the well, and one would eat the red berries and the other would eat the lush grass. then golden hood would bring water in the gourd, and she would water and tend the tree. the tree became less and less withered; its dead branches fell away, and although it was still leafless it began to have the look of a sound tree. and often golden hood looked at herself in the well. her dark hair became longer and finer; her lips became redder, and her eyes be- came more and more shining. so lovely was the who followed the piper image that she saw that she could not help but smile down to it as it showed itself in the well. the moons in the night changed as the days and nights went by; still golden hood tended the tree. when she had watered it and touched all its branches baldwin would come and talk to her. baldwin would tell her that some day and soon john ball would come out of the dark forest. “and will he have valentine with him?” golden hood would ask. “he will find valentine and he will have valentine with him,” baldwin would say. the days went by, and a bud came here and a bud came there on the tree. the buds swelled into leaves and the whole tree became green and joyous. a first white blossom came. the tree swayed its branches so that the blossom fell and touched golden hood on the lips where she lay below. she sat up, her hands in her lap and her golden hood fallen upon her shoulders. she the children thanked the tree for giving her its first blossom. and as she sat there with baldwin near by she looked over and she saw one come out of the dark forest. she stood up and went to call out, but then fear came upon her as she watched the creature. it was a creature upright like a man, but all covered over with a beast's skin and with lengthy arms. baldwin watched and watched the strange creature. but golden hood cried out in fear, and she trembled, and she held to the branches of the tree. the strange creature stopped, and it held out arms to them. and then it crouched down on the grass, and it seemed to golden hood that it was in great misery. all the time baldwin, the old mill horse, stood watching. and then the strange creature turned and went back into the dark forest. and what did baldwin do? baldwin who dreaded the dark forest went following the strange creature. golden hood saw baldwin go º ſ t. *†: - º -- º: with an arm around each eagle was the maiden golden hood. who followed the piper valentine y her soft hands, by her soft words the nixie held valentine, and by the heavy, honeyed drink that she gave him. and she took his sword and she hid it under the deep green moss of the chamber where he stayed. when the sword had been hidden, there was nothing to waken valentine out of the shadow and the slumber that was in that cham- ber, and there was nothing to remind him of the quest he had started upon—the winning of the way through the dark forest, and after- ward the helping of the children out of the wood of daylight-gone and back into the world. the children his mind was drowsed, and there was nothing to remind him of his quest. he would listen to the nixie while she sat before him weaving rushes with her hands. her words were mock- ing now, and she had laughter for valentine. but now and again the memory of the dark forest would come back to him, and he would see himself going blindly through it, trying to find a way out of it—he would see himself, but it was as if he looked upon another. then, one day, he raised up the green moss, and he found his own bright sword. the thought that he had had in the wood of daylight-gone, when he had held that sword up to the star that dangled in the sky, came back to him—the thought of winning his way through darkness and dangers with that sword in his hand. he turned back the stone that shut the cham- ber of green moss out from the water of the nixie's pool. the water rushed in on him and beat on him until he was senseless almost. he pushed himself through the water and, panting, * who followed the piper he came to the surface of the nixie's pool. still he held his sword in his hand. he flung it be- yond the pool and he sprang out of the water. he looked back and he saw the nixie stand- ing in her pool, white and soft and smiling. her hair was like the winter sunset through the pine trees. “come back to me, come back,” the nixie said. “i have to find a way through the dark for- est,” said valentine. “you cannot go through the dark forest,” the nixie said. “come back to me. the pool is safe and i will be kind to you. oh, i have sweeter things to give you than i have yet given.” “no, nixie. i go,” said valentine. he sprang away from the nixie's pool. as he went he heard her wailing like the bird that dives into and rises out of the water of a lake. oh, how dark and lonely and terrible was the dark forest! more lonely and more dark and more terrible than it had been when valentine the children went through it before! how soft it was to rest on the green moss and how safe from dangers it was below the nixie's pool! he came near to the nixie's pool again with- out his knowing it. he came to the well where he had left the cup that philemon had given him. he went to drink. then as he stood by the edge he remembered the cup that he had left there. and he saw that the cup was floating upon the water. the cup of carved wood that philemon had given him was there. as it floated near another cup came out of the shadows, floating too. the two cups came together, touching rim to rim. valentine thought he was dreaming when he looked upon them. he put his hands down and he took up the cups. the carvings on them were the same, and they had the same covering of yel- low wax inside. no cups could be so alike ex- cept the cups that philemon had given to john ball and himself. valentine's heart lifted again. john ball had the children the strange creature that he had seen first went toward the others, a branch in his hand. it fought with the others, holding them back from valentine. then valentine, the sword in his hand, rushed at them. the creature that he had first seen helped him, and the other wild things fled amongst the trees. the satyrs fled. all but the one who had helped him. and this one threw down the branch he held and went to the well. valentine saw it take up the cup that was on the water. the creature held the cup out as if to show it to valentine. valentine took up the other cup. he held it out to the creature that had been so friendly, and, as he did, he thought upon john ball, who had left the cup in the well. the two stood facing each other, the youth and the strange wild being. both held out the carven cups. the strange creature passed its fingers over the cup it held as if to show val- entine the carvings that were upon it. valen- who followed the piper tine watched, and he saw that tears were flowing from the eyes of the wild being. he thought he would touch the rough hand and be friends with the creature that had helped him. he touched the hand and the other grasped his hand. the strange being looked at valentine, and its eyes were the eyes of john ball. and again it fingered the cup. it showed valentine the inside made smooth with yellow wax, and the outside with the carvings upon it. then it came over valentine's mind that this, for all his strangeness and wildness, was his friend john ball ! he saw that the other was trying to make him- self known to him by the cup philemon had given. and valentine cried out, “are you john ball, my comrade?” the other made sounds that became human words. and as they stood there, clasping each other's hands, they heard the sound of something running toward them. they looked, and they saw a horse. it was baldwin. and the horse came to them. then the children the nest was hooped all around with iron hoops, and it had seven doors of iron. the doors were tightly shut; they could be opened only from the inside, and there was a window over each door. looking out through the seven win- dows one could see the seven sides of the world. in a corner of the nest a fire of spicewood was burning. over it was a cauldron. out of the cauldron a vapor went that, mounting up at first very thinly, made the clouds in the sky. the eagles were very particular about this fire. they gave a stool to golden hood, and they told her to sit beside the fire and keep the spicewood upon it, so that the cauldron might boil and the vapor from the cauldron might keep mounting up. they showed her after that the chest where they kept their food. it had a heavy lid, and golden hood had to use all her strength to raise it. the world's nicest food was in that chest, and the eagles sat on the rim of the nest to watch her eat of it. they told her then that they were going to who followed the piper fetch her a ring to go on her little finger—a ring cut out of a single diamond. then they flew from off the rim of the nest. golden hood had just put the spicewood upon the fire, and now she stood upon the stool and watched out through one of the windows. she saw the eagles sweep- ing away. they flew swiftly out of sight; the maiden was left with nothing near her; all alone in the high, iron-hooped nest was she, within the seven doors that were tightly closed. the children the nest of eagles º he sat on the stool and put spicewood º, upon the fire, and the vapor mounted up % clouds in the sky. for a long time she sat on the stool beside the fire, and then she thought she would look out of a window and see if the eagles were flying back. she took the stool from beside the fire and she stood up on it and looked out through the first window. when she looked through that window she saw all the forests of the world; green birds were in the branches, and monkeys of all sorts were in the trees: for long and long did golden hood look out through that window. who followed the piper she looked out through the second window and she saw all the seas of the world: ships were sail- ing here and there and dolphins were sporting on the waves; she saw the flying fishes flying and she saw the great whales spouting and she saw the branches of red coral in the green sea: for long and long did golden hood look out through the second window. then she looked out through the third window. she saw all the deserts of the world; hard and gleaming were the deserts; she saw little gazelles race swiftly across them; she saw the dragons come out of their dens, and she saw the ostriches standing there with their heads buried in the sand: for long and long did golden hood look out through the third window. she thought she had been at each window only for a moment of time, but she had been at each far longer than she thought. she took her stool and stood upon it and looked out through the fourth window. she saw all the plains and prai- ries and pampas and savannas of the world; she who followed the piper flowers that lifted up their heads like golden clocks. then golden hood stood upon her stool and she looked through the seventh window. she saw a bare tree with a raven on the top of it; she saw a black house with smoke coming out of it; she saw a bent old woman sitting under the tree. seeing the smoke golden hood thought of the fire that she had to tend. she jumped off the stool and came to it. the fire was out and there was nothing but gray ashes on the hearth, and no vapor came out of the cauldron that was over the fire. oh, what was she to do? for seven hours she had been looking out through the seven windows, not knowing how time was passing, and now the fire that she had been set to watch was out, and she had no way of lighting it again! but now she thought of the smoke she had seen coming out of the black house. she would go to it and get some coals of fire and bring them back and light the fire under the cauldron. the children so she opened the seventh door and went out of the eagles' nest. she went down toward the black house that was beside the bare tree. it was farther away than she had thought, and she spent hours and hours in coming to it. the bent old woman was not before the house. golden hood peeped in and saw her. she was looking into a glass, and “come in,” she said, and the voice she said it in sounded to the maiden like the voice she had heard in the dark forest when one said, “your shears will do as well as the spindle or the long thorn.” golden hood had taken two steps in and now she took one step back. the hag stepped up to her and took her by the wrist. “you are cold, cold, girl,” said she. “oh, no, i'm not cold,” said golden hood. “you’ll have to stay for a while,” said the hag. “but i don’t like the creaking of the bare tree outside, nor the flapping of the raven's wings.” “all the same you will have to stay here until i warm you.” the children she was halfway back the hag's son came into his mother's house. “why did you not hurry back?” said the hag to him. “the maiden was here who is as white as snow, and as black as the raven's wing, and as red as red berries. why were you not back? i tried to keep her, but she got away from me and she is halfway back ere this.” when her son heard this he put on his iron shoes and he went following after golden hood. he went very swiftly, and it was not long before she heard him coming behind her. she ran and ran, and she was at the eagles’ nest when she felt his breath behind her. she pushed at the seventh door and went in. and then she closed the seventh door, and she fas- tened it tightly behind her. the hag's son came to the door. he tried to push it open, but the iron door would not open for him. he put his fingers through the crack, and golden hood saw his long nails sticking through. then he knew he could not get in; he who followed the piper went away, and golden hood heard the clatter of his iron shoes as he went back and toward the black house that was beside the bare tree. golden hood made the fire light up again. she put spicewood upon it, and the vapor came out of the cauldron again. she sat on the stool beside the fire and she tended it while she waited for the eagles to come back again. for a long while she sat by the fire, and then she went from the stool and to the seventh door. she wanted to see how tightly it was shut, and she put her hand against the crack. the nail that the hag's son had put through was sticking there, and the long nail went into the palm of her hand. then golden hood fell down on the floor of the eagles' nest. she lay there with her red lips parted and her forehead all white and the black tresses of her hair falling around her. she lay there with the sky above her, and the treasures of the world all about her, and with the seven iron doors closed upon her, while the eagles, fly- the children ing, flying on, had not yet come to the shoulder of the world—the shoulder that they would have to fly over to come to the place where they would get for her finger the ring that was cut out of a single diamond. so the sleeping maiden lay. who followed the piper the sleeping maiden ut there was valentine to go seeking her, and there was john ball to go with valentine, and there was baldwin, too, nºssºs to help them. the two had come to the well beside which golden hood used to sit, and from which she used to bring the water to freshen the tree. baldwin, the old mill horse, brought them to the well, and valentine and john ball sat down be- side it. violets were now growing beside the well, and many blossoms were upon the tree that golden hood had tended. they sat down, and they talked of the maiden and of their hopes of finding her. the children valentine told john ball of how he had gone down into the nixie's pool and of how he had stayed in the chamber of green moss; he told how he had remembered his quest, and of how he had won his way out of the power of the nixie. john ball drank water from the well, and as he did his tongue became less heavy and he was able to speak human words to valentine. he told valentine how, after he had eaten of the meat that the robbers had set before him, he had become like a satyr; and he told how he had stayed in the forest by himself, often coming to the well where he had left his cup beside valen- tine’s cup. he told how he had come to know where golden hood was, and of how he had watched over her, keeping many evil things away from her. he told how he had once come near hoping that she would not be frightened of him, and of how she had been frightened, and of how old baldwin had known him and had followed him, and of how, upon that very day, he had come upon valentine by the well. teie children from the treetop, if he could reach it, he could see where the eagles had their nest. john ball came to drive away the hag's son, but as he did the hag herself came out of the black house. she pelted stones at john ball and at baldwin so that they were not able to coiſle ilear. the tree swayed and swayed under the strokes of the axe, but still valentine went on and up. hanging his sword around his neck he reached the top of the tree. he looked from the top and he saw the eagles’ nest on the peak of the moun- tain; he saw the iron doors and the iron hoops that hooped it round. then valentine slid down the tree and stood on the ground before the hag's soil. the hag's son raised his axe in his long arms, and he rushed at valentine. but the youth had his good bright sword in his hand, and he struck at the hag's son. all the time the hag kept fling- ing stones: first, she threw the pebbles that tiled the roof of her house and then she threw the who followed the piper stones that made the walls of her black house, and it was wonderful to see how quickly the roof went, and then one wall and another wall. all the time her son kept striking at valentine. his long arms brought the edge of the axe near the youth's flesh, making a wound again and again. but at last valentine got a stroke at him with his sword. from that time the hag's son began to get smaller and smaller, and the time came when valentine saw before him only a cross-tempered, black dwarf. when he had shrunk so that he was below him valentine smote and struck off the dwarf's head. then the hag, seeing her son's head cut off, gave a scream and fled away, and the raven went from the broken tree and went flapping after her. valentine left john ball to guard the place while he went to the eagles' nest. the journey was long but he came to the end of it at last. he saw the seven doors of iron, and one after the other he tried to open them. none would open for all his effort. and the nest was too teie children high and too smooth for him to climb to the rim. he called, “golden hood, golden hood,” but no sign came from within the nest; he listened, and there was no stir within. no matter how he did it he would have to climb, he thought, over the rim of the nest. with his sharp sword he began to hack out steps; he climbed up and up the steps he had made. he came to the rim of the nest and he looked over it. there was golden hood, and she was sleeping. she was lying on the fleece of gold, and beside her were the golden apples that the golden bird had carried from off the golden tree, and the golden slipper that the eagle had carried off from rhodope, and the golden egg that the golden goose had laid. golden hood was sleep- ing and her dark lashes spread under her pale eyelids, and her dark tresses curled over her white forehead, and her red lips were opened to the snowdrops of her teeth. teie children two doves in its branches and they were build- ing a nest. john ball was there and baldwin, the old mill horse, and golden hood was overjoyed to see them both. she clasped john ball's hand, and she put her arm around the neck of old baldwin. then they went on their journey. greatly sur- prised they were to find after a few turnings that they were back in the deep wood and near where the children were. they were to meet with the hag again. be- fore they reached the first white-thorn tree she stood before them. “there will be separation for two of the three of you,” she said, “short, or long, or forever as i can make it.” saying that she ran from them, and her raven flapped after her. who followed the piper the children leave the wood of daylight gone ºg nd when they came into the wood of daylight-gone whom did they see there but the one who was in reds and - yellows! there was the pied piper. he was under a white-thorn tree and the chil- dren were all seated around him. he was not playing to them now—he was just talking to them. valentine and golden hood, john ball and baldwin came to the place where the children were seated. they were so bent on listening to what the piper was telling them that they hardly noticed who had come back. the three sat down with the rest of the chil- the children dren. the never-emptied basket was there and the never-emptied pitcher, and valentine, golden hood, and john ball began to eat and drink for they were very hungry. “now,” the pied piper was saying, “i’ll take you out of the wood of daylight-gone and i'll bring you into the country i was telling you about.” - “what country is it, piper?” said one of the children. “it is the country that is ruled over by pres- ter john,” said the piper. “and there is abun- dance of everything in prester john's country except children.” “and what will i be if i go there?” said philomena, the countess's child. “you will be the first lady in waiting, and you will wear a brocade gown, and walk before every one else into the queen's chamber and say, ‘it is time, your majesty, to arise.’” "oh, i would love to do that,” said philo. t’lla. who followed the piper pools clear for the king's purple fishes; jump- ing joan said she would not go at all unless she was let go into the lion's cage with johnny- jump-up, and this was granted her; perrie, merrie, and dixie, margery daw and little jack straw, tom tucker and jack nicker were to stay in the kitchen and keep the pancakes from being burnt; dorothy and ursula were to tend the king's pomegranate trees, and they were to be given a silver penny for every pome- granate they made grow; robin and richard and nancy, too, were to be given what they liked best: they were to have charge of the whole mus- ter of peacocks. every one was satisfied and every one was ready to set out for the country of prester john. valentine and john ball and golden hood were even more ready than the others. “what could i be in the country of prester john?” asked valentine. “you will be made the captain of the king's bodyguard,” said the piper. - who followed the piper “all the others, then, will leave the wood of daylight-gone with me,” said the piper, “and you three must stay behind.” “we will stay behind,” said golden hood. “we will stay behind,” said valentine. “we will stay behind,” said john ball. then valentine, golden hood, and john ball went apart from the others. valentine was sad that he was not leaving the wood of daylight- gone—that wood that one would never grow up in—and john ball sat there very quietly with baldwin's head touching his shoulder. all the children went to sleep under the great ash trees, and valentine, john ball, and golden hood went to sleep with baldwin moving around them. the three children sat up together. “we will leave the wood of daylight-gone,” golden hood heard valentine say. “oh, do not go with them, valentine,” cried golden hood. she was looking at the rest of the children; they were all making ready to fol- low the piper out of the wood. the children said valentine: “we need not go with the piper, and yet we can leave the wood of day- light-gone. silvanus told us. just as i woke up i remembered what he said. “we can go to circe the enchantress and ask of her our way into the world. we can go to circe because we have been through the dark forest.” “oh, how wonderful of you to know that, wal- entine,” said golden hood. “and now i will think of how we may come to circe,” said valentine. “picus knows. picus can bring us to circe,” said john ball. “we will go to her,” said valentine, “we will go now, and, since we have been through the dark forest, she will surely show us the way out of the wood of daylight-gone.” the other children were drinking at the well of good luck and making ready to go. they called to valentine and john ball and golden hood and waved their hands to them. then who followed the piper the three children went off to seek picus the woodpecker. they met picus the woodpecker. picus was coming to see the children off and to tell them his story once more before they left. valentine called to him. “picus, picus,” said valentine, “show us the way to where circe the enchantress abides.” - “do not go to her, do not go to her,” said bicus in a frightened way. “silvanus said we might go to her. if you will show us the way we will tell your story in the world.” “i will fly near where she abides,” said picus, “but you should not go near circe the enchantress.” he shook out his wings that had the scarlet upon them, and he went flying from branch to branch. valentine, john ball, and golden hood followed picus the woodpecker. on and on he flew. he came into the deep wood and they followed him. very far into the deep wood he the children brought them. but at last he stayed upon a branch and would not fly any farther. “near you now,” said he, when they came up to him, “near you now is the abode of circe the enchantress.” they came to a beautiful lawn; a marble house stood in the middle of it, and there were roses and fountains before the house. and there was circe the enchantress weaving at her loom. there were creatures around her—not the strange and fearful beasts that wandering men saw when they came to circe in the old days, but small and harmless creatures—squirrels and coneys and odd-looking hedgehogs. as the three children came near the squir- rels ran up the trees, scolding them; the coneys went running around them, and the hedgehogs put out their snouts and sniffed at them. circe the enchantress, when she saw the three children, ceased weaving at her loom. val- entine came to where she stood, and golden hood who followed the piper as they looked toward the river they saw the children all going in one direction with the piper dressed in his reds and yellows going be- fore them. they were going to the country of prester john where each one would have the lot in life that best pleased her or him. valen- tine, john ball, and golden hood shouted to the children, but they were too far away now to hear. and now the three had to think of how they could come to the emperor's, valentine's father's, city. axº the children the witch*s curse gº hey sent messengers before them to announce their coming. and at last they came to a hill that overlooked the £ emperor's city with its silver steeples and its golden domes. while they were on that hill they heard the bells ringing to the east and the west, to the north and the south to give them welcome, and to bid the people rejoice that the emperor's son was coming to his father's city. valentine was overwearied, and he laid his head upon the lap of golden hood and he went to sleep. golden hood sat with his head on her lap; she looked out to the city, and she heard nothing but the bells that were ringing and ring- who followed the piper ing for their coming. but john ball was listen- ing to what baldwin, the old mill horse, said. “my life is all but over,” said baldwin, the horse that had the gift of speech, “and i am about to lay my bones down forever. but do not be troubled on that account, master dear. it is no grief for me to lay down my tired bones. “and now that i am at the end of life's tether i have come to know things that you, my master, should know. the hag of the deep wood has been busy and she has plotted ways to separate valentine and golden hood or to separate you and valentine. “as you three go into the city in the morn- ing's dawn you will be met by a welcoming cav- alcade. a groom will lead up a high roan horse for valentine to ride on. but if he mounts upon this horse it will bear him away, and thus he and golden hood will be separated. you must kill this roan horse before valentine mounts it. snatch the sword out of his belt and plunge it into the horse. if you do this valen- who followed the piper “alas, alas!” said john ball. “but still valentine and golden hood will not be left safely with each other: one more danger awaits them. after their marriage there will be a wedding ball. in the middle of the dance golden hood will become pale, and she will draw out of the dance. there will be poison upon her lips and if it stays there for a while she will die. but if one comes forward and kisses the poison off her lips she will live, and the last peril will be passed.” “i will kiss the poison off her lips,” said john ball. “but you must not tell any one why you have kissed the lips of the bride. if you do you will turn into stone from the toes of your feet to the crown of your head.” “alas, alas!” said john ball. he looked over to where golden hood was bending above valentine, and he thought that he would take all the risks of turning into stone rather than that they two should be separated. the children then baldwin, having told him of the three perils, went away slowly. john ball saw the old horse stretch himself upon the ground. he did not go to him, for he knew that baldwin wanted to be alone, but he watched and watched him, and the tears flowed down from his eyes. eſe brought valentine and golden hood to where the horse lay. baldwin was dead. the two youths dug a grave and buried him and set a mark above the grave. and golden hood wept over baldwin. they went toward the city. the bells rang out new peals. at the city gate a cavalcade was drawn up to welcome valentine, the emperor's son, who had been given up as lost. as they came up to the gate a groom led out a high roan horse for valentine to mount on. valentine put his foot into the silver stirrup. as he did john ball snatched the sword from valentine's hand and plunged it into the horse's side. the horse gave a scream and fell down. then the grooms turned upon john ball and iiie eee, cie * ctile ce - ** * - =-i = − =t intº azz, a -ſtºr at : : =~ i = + zºº .… ſº tº aſ a ſiſt t. == r l. ºn tº ...-h... ººt was at ft it ==== tar iii at # ºz. … tº iii: * i--- at tth trºtzatz at : …i fºss- – sº-te. iftte, i-iiiºa at ilº eti izzº-i: - = tººls avaſitiº ºf a + -i-aiºn # ºf ->ear =t =t th-a iii+ → h. f.t. iival ii: ht: e=-i =t iii-a +*t*ſ at at # - at i., =-l ==l-ſitti at tº attit jºgſ + + htte, -- t =trºit. = + . t.i.a.. ii-a tº iii r ==== r = u− =t-ii:t iii+ + iii+ =iii:a: =- . i-ii sta. tºrº iznº, i i-iiii'ſ ii: =ft iii: thill.ii fea ==it fºrt f. ... =izº- ii -a, -ſ. ft =iiºn i-ſ fººt at a. ... ittf = t = + t- iii ºf it. iºns at iiiſ as iii: fer -- a-- loſil hit- . itt = a at :iſº --~~~~et =tt iiil- are: fea = e =title -t_ is e →ta-dût =t … i at tilºit tºad c: f.a. it =rit =t =t_te it iiit if alid== -z- the children then baldwin, having told him of the three perils, went away slowly. john ball saw the old horse stretch himself upon the ground. he did not go to him, for he knew that baldwin wanted to be alone, but he watched and watched him, and the tears flowed down from his eyes. he brought valentine and golden hood to where the horse lay. baldwin was dead. the two youths dug a grave and buried him and set a mark above the grave. and golden hood wept over baldwin. they went toward the city. the bells rang out new peals. at the city gate a cavalcade was drawn up to welcome valentine, the emperor's son, who had been given up as lost. as they came up to the gate a groom led out a high roan horse for valentine to mount on. valentine put his foot into the silver stirrup. as he did john ball snatched the sword from valentine's hand and plunged it into the horse's side. the horse gave a scream and fell down. then the grooms turned upon john ball and the children key and he told them he would bring them to the bride's chamber. he opened the white door and he showed them all the lovely things that were there—all presents for the bride. and on the couch there was a wedding dress; it was woven of gold threads and it had silver spangles upon it. and all golden as it was, it was woven so finely that, as the airs blew upon it, it fluttered here and there. golden hood uttered a cry of gladness and went to lift the dress up off the couch. as she did john ball snatched it up. he threw the dress upon the flames of the fire, and it went up the chimney in a blaze. golden hood turned upon him with a cry; valentine took a step near him in anger; the grooms of the chamber begged the emperor to let them handle him for this second misde- meanor. but the wise emperor made no sign. then valentine said: “whatever has been done has been well done, for it has been done by my friend and my rescuer, john ball.” and saying weio followed the piper that, valentine turned on his heel and went out of the chamber. quickly a new dress of silk was woven for the bride; quickly the dress was fitted and fixed, and lovely indeed did golden hood look in it; she had white flowers in her dark hair, and she wore a red indian shawl across her white dress. valentine and she were married in the clear glass chamber of the palace. then a great ball was given in the colored glass chamber, and the wise emperor himself led golden hood in. she would dance the first dance with no one but john ball. he led her into the center of the colored glass chamber; the musicians began to play and he clasped her hand and put his arm around her. golden hood was smiling as the dance began; the whole happiness of the world seemed to stream in through the colored glass of the chamber and leave rays around her head. gladness lit up her face as she began the dance with john ball. but her face became pale as death. she who followed the piper the end of the story º or long and long thereafter valentine º, went traveling through the world seeking counsel from sages and ma- blood. far and far he went and long and long he was away; many a sage and many a magian he talked with, but no one could tell him how his friend might be restored. at long last he turned back to his father's city, his heart heavy with the hopeless thing he had to tell. but still his heart, heavy as it was, the children was straining within him at the thought of see- ing his wife golden hood and the little child that had been born to him and to her. he came to his father's city again, and with great rejoicings he was brought to the palace. his father, the emperor, was in the hall of the embassies. after valentine looked on golden hood and the little child sleeping, he went to where his father was. and then he saw the embassy that had come to his father. from the great prester john it had come. and in the embassy, all dressed in golden coats, were many of the children who had followed the piper out of the wood of daylight- gone. tom-tom, the piper's son, was there; he was now chief over all the king's bandsmen; jack snipe, jack sprat, and jack horner, who fed the king's purple fishes, were there, and robin and richard and nancy who had charge of the whole muster of peacocks. all was well with the rest of the children. they thought that who followed the piper prester john's kingdom was the grandest place in the world to be in. they had been sent to the emperor with pres- ents of flowering orange trees out of prester john's indian garden. also they brought a word of counsel to valentine and his father. for prester john had heard of valentine’s friend being turned into stone; he consulted the magians who were at his court about it—the magians who were the best in the world. the magians bade prester john tell the emperor and tell valentine that the one thing that might turn a man of stone into a man of flesh and blood was the touch of a hand of a child. valentine was overjoyed to get that word. maybe the touch of those who had been with him in the wood of daylight-gone might awaken john ball? but no—the children who had gone with the piper into the country of prester john had grown to be youths and maidens. they touched the stone but it remained stone under their hands. houghton library hh yt l . . harvard college library verit from the subscription fund begun in tales of wonder; written and collected by by matthu sud m. g. lewis, esq. m. p. author of the monk, castle spectre, love of gain, &c. in two volumes. black spirits and white, blue spirits and grey, mingle, mingle, mingle, ye that mingle may! macbeth. vol. i. p london: printed by w. bulmer and co. cleveland-row, for the author ; and sold by j. bell, no. , oxford-street, opposite new bond-street. : .; . . . . . . ****, co!!age lierary . jan. , brugih nich subscription fund i rolina, contents of vol. i. no. i. bothwell's bonny jane ii. osric the lion - iii. sir hengist :- iv. alonzo the brave, and fair imogine - - v. giles jollup the grave, and brown sally green vi. elver's hoh - - - vii. the sword of angantyr · viii. king hacho's death-song ix. the erl-king - x. the erl-king's daughter xi. the water-king xii. the fire-king xiii. the cloud-king xiv. the fisherman xv. the sailor's tale xvi. the princess and the slave xvii. the gay gold ring - xviii. the grim white woman xix. the little grey man - - - xx. glenfinlas, or lord ronald's coronach - - xxi. the eve of saint john xxii. frederick and alice xxiii. the wild huntsmen - xxiv. the old woman of berkeley xxv. bishop bruno contents. no. xxvi. lord william xxvii. the painter of florence xxviii. donica xxix. cornelius agrippa's bloody book xxx. rudiger - - - xxxi. the elfin-king - . - - xxxii. the sorceress, or wolfwold and ulla. page. - - . errata. page , line , for dead, read dread. – , = , for slumber's, read slumber's , omit both commas. - , — , for size, read rise. , omit the comma after saviour. · , omit the comma after tissue. , for hears, read heard. , after perform, put ! instead of ? , for arms, read arrds. . , for brow, read vow. , for black friars sing, read white monks they i sing. , — , for tumbling, read trembling. no. i. bothwell's bonny jane. original. m. g. lewis. bothwell castle is beautifully situated upon the clyde, and fronts the ruins of blantyre priory. the estate of bothwell has long been, and continues to be, in the possession of the douglas family. loud roars the north round bothwell's hall, and fast descends the pattering rain: but streams of tears still faster fall from thy blue eyes, oh! bonny jane! hark! hark !i hear, with mournful yell, · the wraiths * of angry clyde complain; but sorrow bursts with louder swell from thy fair breast, oh! bonny jane! idio * water-spirits. " tap!-tap!"—who knocks ?—the door unfolds ; the mourner lifts her melting eye, and soon with joy and hope beholds a reverend monk approaching nigh: his air is mild, his step is slow, his hands across his breast are laid, and soft he sighs, while bending low, -“ st. bothan* guard thee, gentle maid!"- to meet the friar the damsel ran; she kiss'd his hand, she clasp'd his knee. - now free me, free me, holy man, • who com’st from blantyre prio-rie!' - -"what mean these piteous cries, daughter? “st. bothan be thy speed! - why swim in tears thine eyes, daughter? " from whom would'st thou be freed?” -oh! father, father! know, my sire, • though long i knelt, and wept, and sigh’d, • hath sworn, ere twice ten days expire, • his jane shall be lord malcolm's bride!' * the patron saint of bothwell. “ lord malcolm is rich and great, daughter, - “ and comes of an high degree; “ he's fit to be thy mate, daughter, “so, benedicite!"- - oh! father, father! say not so! • though rich his halls, though fair his bowers, • there stands an hut, where tweed doth flow, • i prize beyond lord malcolm's towers : vers : les • there dwells a youth where tweed doth glide, • on whom nor rank, nor fortune smiles ; • i'd rather be that peasant's bride, than reign o'er all lord malcolm's isles.' - _" but should you flee away, daughter, “ and wed with a village clown, “what would your father say, daughter ? “how would he fume and frown?”— -oh! he might frown and he might fume, · and malcolm's heart might grieve and pine; • so edgar's hut for me had room, • and edgar's lips were press’d to mine!'- b -" if at the castle gate, daughter, “ at night, thy love so true “ should with a courser wait; daughter, ........ “ what, daughter, would’st thou do?”— - with noiseless step the stairs i'd press, • unclose the gate, and mount with glee, • and ever, as on sped, would bless • the abbot of blantyre prio-rie!'-- . -" then, daughter, dry those eyes so bright; " i'll haste where flows tweed's silver stream; “ and when thou see'st, at dead of night, “a lamp in blantyre's chapel gleam, . with noiseless step the staircase press, - for know, thy lover there will be ; " then mount his steed, haste on,—and bless - the abbot of blantyre prio-rie!" then forth the friar he bent his way, while lightly danc'd the damsel's heart ; oh! how she chid the length of day, how sigh’d to see the sun depart! how joy'd she when eve's shadows came, how swiftly gain'd her tower so high! does there in blantyre shine a flame ?-- • ah no !-the moon deceiv'd mine eye! again the shades of evening lour; again she hails the approach of night. - shines there a flame in blantyre tower? · ah no!—'tis but the northern-light! but when arriv'd all-hallow-e'en,* what time the night and morn divide, the signal-lamp by jane was seen to glimmer on the waves of clyde. she cares not for her father's tears, she feels not for her father's sighs; no voice but headstrong love's she hears, and down the staircase swift she hies. * on this night witches, devils, fc. are thought, by the scotch, to be abroad on their baneful errands. see burns's poem, under the title of “ hallow-e'en." - know, yonder bark must bear thee straight, • where blantyre owns my gay controul: “ there love and joy to greet thee wait, “ there pleasure crowns for thee her bowl. “ long have i loved thee, bonny jane, " long breathed to thee my secret vow! " come then, sweet maid -nay, strife is vain ; “ not heaven itself can save thee now!" the damsel shriek’d, and would have fled, when lo! his poniard press’d her throat! - one cry, and 'tis your last!"-he said, and bore her fainting tow'rds the boat. o the moon shone bright; the winds were chain'd; the boatman swiftly plied his oar ; but ere the river's midst was gain’d, the tempest-fiend was heard to roar. oar. rain fell in sheets ; high swell’d the clyde; blue flam’d the lightning's blasting brand! —“oh! lighten the bark !" the boatman cried, “or hope no more to reach the strand. " e'en now we stand on danger's brink! “ e'en now the boat half fill'd i see! “ oh! lighten it soon, or else we sink! "oh! lighten it of.... your gay la-die!"- with shrieks the maid his counsel hears ; but vain are now her prayers and cries, who cared not for her father's tears, who felt not for her father's sighs! fear conquer'd love! in wild despair the abbot view'd the watery grave, then seized his victim's golden hair, and plunged her in the foaming wave ! she screams !—she sinks ! " row, boatman, row! " the bark is light!" the abbot cries; “ row, boatman, row to land!"—when lo! gigantic grew the boatman's size ! nin with burning steel his temples bound throbb’d quick and high with fiery pangs; he rolld his blood-shot eyeballs round, and furious gnash'd his iron fangs : his hands two gore-fed scorpions grasp’d; his eyes fell joy and spite express’d. _" thy cup is full!"-he said, and claspd the abbot to his burning breast. arri with hideous yell down sinks the boat, and straight the warring winds subside ; moon-silver'd clouds through æther float, and gently murmuring flows the clyde. since then full many a winter's powers in chains of ice the earth have bound; and many a spring, with blushing flowers and herbage gay, has robed the ground: ny vers yet legends say, at hallow-e’en, · when silence holds her deepest reign, that still the ferryman-fiend is seen to waft the monk and bonny jane : and still does blantyre's wreck display the signal-lamp at midnight hour; and still to watch its fatal ray, the phantom-fair haunts bothwell tower ; lo wi still tunes her lute to edgar's name, still chides the hours which stay her flight; still sings,—" in blantyre shines the flame ? “ah! no! —’tis but the northern-light!"- no. ii. osric the lion. original. m. g. lewis. since writing this ballad, i have seen a french one, entitled “la veillée de la bonne mère,” which has some resemblance with it. cit moss swift roll the rhine’s billows, and water the plains, where falkenstein castle's majestic remains, their moss-cover'd turrets still rear: oft loves the gaunt wolf midst the ruins to prowl, what time from the battlements pours the lone owl her plaints in the passenger's ear. no longer resound through the vaults of yon hall the song of the minstrel, and mirth of the ball; those pleasures for ever are fled : there now dwells the bat with her light-shunning brood, there ravens and vultures now clamour for food, and all is dark, silent, and dead! mo ce ha! dost thou not see, by the moon's trembling light directing his steps, where advances a knight, his eye big with vengeance and fate ? 'tis osric the lion his nephew who leads, and swift up the crackling old staircase proceeds, gains the hall, and quick closes the gate. ca now round him young carloman casting his eyes, surveys the sad scene with dismay and surprise, and fear steals the rose from his cheeks. his spirits forsake him, his courage is flown; the hand of sir osric he clasps in his own, and while his voice faulters he speaks. -"dear uncle," he murmurs," why linger we here? “ 'tis late, and these chambers are damp and are drear, " keen blows through the ruins the blast! “oh let us away and our journey pursue : “ fair blumenberg's castle will rise on our view, soon as falkenstein forest is pass’d. n our " why roll thus your eyeballs ? why glare they so wild? "oh! chide not my weakness, nor frown, that a child “ should view these apartments with dread; . for know, that full oft have i heard from my nurse, “ there still on this castle has rested a curse, "since innocent blood here was shed. in w • she said, too, bad spirits, and ghosts all in white, “ here use to resort at the dead time of night, “ nor vanish till breaking of day; " and still at their coming is heard the deep tone • of a bell loud and awful--hark! hark! 'twas a groan! “good uncle, oh! let us away!"- s awa _" peace, serpent!” thus osric the lion replies, while rage and malignity gloom in his eyes ; “ thy journey and life here must close : • thy castle's proud turrets no more shalt thou see ; “ no more betwixt blumenberg's lordship and me " shalt thou stand, and my greatness oppose. " my brother lies breathless on palestine's plains, '' and thou once remov’d, to his noble domains “ my right can no rival deny : “ then, stripling, prepare on my dagger to bleed; “ no succour is near, and thy fate is decreed, “ commend thee to jesus, and die!"-- m thus saying, he seizes the boy by the arm, whose grief rends the vaulted hall's roof, while alarm his heart of all fortitude robs; his limbs sink beneath him; distracted with fears, he falls at his uncle's feet, bathes them with tears, and—“ spare me! oh spare me!"-he sobs. oare mis but vainly the miscreant he strives to appease; and vainly he clings in despair round his knees, and sues in soft accents for life; unmov’d by his sorrow, unmov’d by his prayer, fierce osric has twisted his hand in his hair, and aims at his bosom a knife. but ere the steel blushes with blood, strange to tell! self-struck, does the tongue of the hollow-toned bell the presence of midnight declare: and while with amazement his hair bristles high, hears osric a voice, loud and terrible cry, in sounds heart-appaling—“ forbear!"- nazen n sound va resol rou straight curses and shrieks through the chambers resound, shrieks mingled with laughter: the walls shake around; the groaning roof threatens to fall; loud bellows the thunder, blue lightnings still flash; the casements they clatter; chains rattle; doors clash, and flames spread their waves through the hall. mes r wave the clamour increases, the portals expand! o’er the pavement’s black marble now rushes a band of dæmons all dropping with gore, in visage so grim, and so monstrous in height, that carloman screams, as they burst on his sight, and sinks without sense on the floor. she said, and the dæmons their prey flock'd around; they dash'd him, with horrible yell, on the ground, and blood down his limbs trickled fast; his eyes from their sockets with fury they tore; they fed on his entrails, all reeking with gore, and his heart was ulrilda's repast. but now the grey cock told the coming of day! the fiends with their victim straight vanish'd away, and carloman's heart throbb’d again ; with terror recalling the deeds of the night, he rose, and from falkenstein speeding his flight, soon reach'd his paternal domain. ol u since then, all with horror the ruins behold; no shepherd, though stray'd be a lamb from his fold, no mother, though lost be her child, the fugitive dares in these chambers to seek, where fiends nightly revel, and guilty ghosts shriek in accents most fearful and wild ! oh! shun them, ye pilgrims! though late be the hour, though loud howl the tempest, and fast fall the shower; from falkenstein castle begone! there still their sad banquet hell's denizens share; there osric the lion still raves in despair: breathe a prayer for his soul, and pass on! no. iii. sir hengist. german. m.g. lewis. herman, or arminius, is the favourite hero of germany, whose liberty he defended against the oppression of rome : flavus, his brother, sided with the romans, and in consequence his memory is as much detested by his countrymen, as that of arminius is beloved. i forget where i met with the original of this ballad. where rolls the weser's golden sand, did erst sir hengist's castle stand, a warrior brave and good; his lands extended far and wide, where stream'd full many a plenteous tide, · where frown'd full many a wood. it chanced, that homewards from the chace sir hengist urged his courser's pace, the shadowy dales among, while all was still, and late the hour, and far off, in the castle tower, the bell of mic sudden, a piercing shriek resounds throughout the forest's ample bounds ; a wildly dreadful yell; the dogs, by trembling, own their fear, . as if they scent some bad thing near, some soul enlarged from hell! ci "see, father!" cried young egbert ; " see “ beneath the shade of yonder tree “what fearful form is spread! “ how fire around his temples glows ! “ how from his lance and fingers flows • the stream of bloody red!"- ows - stay here!” said hengist, then with speed towards the stranger spurr'd his steed; “what brings thee here, sir knight, " who dar’st in my domains to bear “ a lance, and by thy haughty air " seemst to demand the fight?"- lass _" long has my arm forgot to wield “ the sword, and raise the massy shield," replied the stranger drear : " peace to this brown oak’s hallow'd shade! “ peace to the bones which here are laid, . and which we both revere! “ know'st thou not siegmar, herman's sire, " that arm of steel, that soul of fire ? “ here is his grave.—my name “ is flavus—at that sound the woods “ with curses ring, and weser’s floods “ my infamy proclaim: "for such is vengeful odin's will " and doom, that traitor-curses still “ thick on my head shall be, • till from the blood of brethren slain, “ my gory hands and lance again " i pure and spotless see. ain “ still then, when midnight hours permit “ pale spectres hela's realm to quit, “ i seek this hallow'd place; “with tears bedew these crimson blots, " and strive to wash away the spots . “no pains can now efface!"- c he ceased; when odin's eagle came, by odin arm’d with blasting flame, and seized the phantom knight: loud shrieks the spectre's pangs reveald, and soon a cloud his form conceal'd from awe-struck hengist’s sight. " son!” said the chief, with horror chilld, while down his brows cold dews distillid, “ now take your sword in hand, “ and swear with me, each drop of gore, “ that swells your veins, well pleased to pour " to guard your native land!”- no. iv. alonzo the brave and fair imogine. original. m. g. lewis. this was first published in the third volume of ambrosio, or the monk. a warrior so bold and a virgin so bright conversed, as they sat on the green; they gazed on each other with tender delight: alonzo the brave was the name of the knight, the maid's was the fair imogine. - and, oh!" said the youth, “ since to-morrow i go " to fight in a far-distant land, “ your tears for my absence soon leaving to flow, “some other will court you, and you will bestow “ on a wealthier suitor your hand.”— “oh! hush these suspicions,” fair imogine said, " offensive to love and to me! “ for, if you be living, or if you be dead, “i swear by the virgin, that none in your stead “shall husband of imogine be. “ and if e'er for another my heart should decide, “forgetting alonzo the brave, “ god grant, that, to punish my falsehood and pride, “ your ghost at the marriage may sit by my side, “ may tax me with perjury, claim me as bride, " and bear me away to the grave!”— to palestine hasten’d the hero so bold; his love she lamented him sore: but scarce had a twelvemonth elapsed, when behold, a baron all cover'd with jewels and gold arrived at fair imogine's door. his treasure, his presents, his spacious domain, soon made her untrue to her vows : he dazzled her eyes ; he bewilder'd her brain; he caught her affections so light and so vain, and carried her home as his spouse. . and now had the marriage been bless’d by the priest; the revelry now was begun : the tables they groan’d with the weight of the feast; all present then utter'd a terrified shout; all turn'd with disgust from the scene. the worms they crept in, and the worms they crept out, and sported his eyes and his temples about, while the spectre address’d imogine: or “behold me, thou false one! behold me!” he cried; “ remember alonzo the brave! “god grants, that, to punish thy falsehood and pride, “ my ghost at thy marriage should sit by thy side, “should tax thee with perjury, claim thee as bride, " and bear thee away to the grave!" mar thus saying, his arms round the lady he wound, while loudly she shriek'd in dismay; then sank with his prey through the wide-yawning ground: nor ever again was fair imogine found, or the spectre who bore her away. ' away su not long lived the baron : and none since that time to inhabit the castle presume; for chronicles tell, that, by order sublime, there imogine suffers the pain of her crime, and mourns her deplorable doom. ou at midnight four times in each year does her sprite, when mortals in slumber are bound, array'd in her bridal apparel of white, appear in the hall with the skeleton-knight, and shriek as he whirls her around. while they drink out of skulls newly torn from the grave, dancing round them pale spectres are seen: their liquor is blood, and this horrible staye they howl :-" to the health of alonzo the brave, “ and his consort, the false imogine !" - - no. v. giles jollup the grave, and brown sally green. original. m. g. lewis. this is a parody upon the foregoing ballad. i must acknowledge, however, that the lines printed in italics, and the idea of making an apothecary of the knight, and a brewer of the baron, are taken from a parody which appeared in one of the news-papers, under the title of “ pil-garlic the brave and brown celestine.” som nara a doctor so prim and a sempstress so tight hoh-a-nobb’d in some right marasquin; they suck'd up the cordial with truest delight: giles jollup the grave was just five feet in height, and four feet the brown sally green. dve - " and as,” said giles jollup, “ to-morrow i go “ to physic a feverish land, " at some sixpenny hop, or perhaps the mayor's show, di “ you'll tumble in love with some smart city beau, “ and with him share your shop in the strand." can _" lord! how can you think so?” brown sally green said ; “ you must know mighty little of me; “for if you be living, or if you be dead, " i swear, 'pon my honour, that none in your stead “shall husband of sally green be. vhici " and if e'er for another my heart should decide, “false to you and the faith which i gave, “god grant that, at dinner too amply supplied, “over-eating may give me a pain in my side; “ may your ghost then bring rhubarb to physic the bride, " and send her well-dosed to the grave!"- away went poor giles, to what place is not told: sally wept, till she blew her nose sore ! but scarce had a twelvemonth elapsed, when behold! a brewer, quite stylish, his gig that way rolld, and stopp'd it at sally green's door. (een his wealth, his pot-belly, and whisky of cane, soon made her untrue to her vows; i he steam of strong beer now bewildering her brain, he caught her while tipsy! denials were vain, so he carried her home as his spouse. nov and now the roast beef had been bless’d by the priest, to cram now the guests had begun: tooth and nail like a wolf fell the bride on the feast; nor yet had the clash of her knife and fork ceased, when a bell—('twas a dustman's)—toll d—" one!" then first with amazement brown sally green found that a stranger was stuck by her side : his cravat and his ruffles with snuff were embrown'd; he ate not, he drank not, but, turning him round, sent some pudding away to be fried !!! his wig was turn'd forwards, and short was his height; his apron was dirty to view : the women (oh! wondrous) were hush'd at his sight: the cats, as they eyed him, drew back (well they might), for his body was pea-green and blue ! now, as all wish'd to speak, but none knew what to say, they look'd mighty foolish and queer: at length spoke the bride, while she trembled—“ i pray, “ dear sir, your peruke that aside you would lay, “ and partake of some strong or small beer!”— j the sempstress is silent; the stranger complies, and his wig from his phiz deigns to pull. · adzooks! what a squall sally gave through surprize! like a pig that is stuck how she open'd her eyes, when she recognized jollup's bare skull! each miss then exclaim'd, while she turn'd up her snout, - "sir, your head isn't fit to be seen!"- the pot-boys ran in, and the pot-boys ran out, and couldn't conceive what the noise was about, while the doctor address’d sally green: sran - "behold me, thou jilt-flirt! behold me!” he cried; “ you've broken the faith which you gave! “god grants, that, to punish your falsehood and pride, ** over-eating should give you a pain in your side : “ come, swallow this rhubarb! i'll physic the bride, " and send her well-dosed to the grave!" thus saying, the physic her throat he forced down, in spite of whate'er she could say; then bore to his chariot the damsel so brown ; nor ever again was she seen in that town, or the doctor who whisk'd her away. row le not long liv’d the brewer : and none since that time to make use of the brewhouse presume ; for 'tis firmly believed, that, by order sublime, there sally green suffers the pain of her crime, and bawls to get out of the room. om. . . no. vi. . elver's hoh. danish. m.g. lewis. the original is to be found in the “ kiampe-viiser,” copenhagen, . my version of this ballad (as also of most of the danish ballads in this collection) was made from a german translation to be found in herder's “ volkslieder.” the knight laid his head upon elver's hoh, soft slumbers his senses beguiling; fatigue press’d its seal on his eyelids, when lo ! two maidens drew near to him, smiling; the one she kiss’d soſtly sir algamore's eyes ; the other she whisper'd him sweetly, - " arise ! thou gallant young warrior, arise, “ for the dance it goes gaily and featly! “ arise, thou gallant young warrior, arise, " and dance with us now and for ever! . “my damsels with music thine car shall surprise, " and sweeter a mortal heard never-" then straight of young maidens appear'd a fair throng, who their voices in harmony raising, the winds they were still as the sounds flew along, by silence their melody praising. vers w ere the winds they were still as the sounds flew along, the wolf howl'd no more from the mountains ; the rivers were mute upon hearing the song, and calm’d the loud rush of their fountains : the fish, as they swam in the waters so clear, to the soft sounds delighted attended, and nightingales, charm’d the sweet accents to hear, their notes with the melody blended. moc "now hear me, thou gallant young warrior, now hear! “ if thou wilt partake of our pleasure, “we'll teach thee to draw the pale moon from her sphere, “we'll show thee the sorcerer's treasure ! • we'll teach thee the runic rhyme, teach thee to hold • the wild bear in magical fetters, “ to charm the red dragon, who broods over gold, " and tame him by mystical letters.”— now hither, now thither, then danced the gay band, by witchcraft the hero surprising, who ever sat silent, his sword in his hand, · their sports and their pleasures despising. -“ now hear me, thou gallant young warrior, now hear! “ if still thou disdain'st what we proffer, “ with dagger and knife from thy breast will we tear “ thine heart, which refuses our offer!”- now near oh! glad was the knight when he heard the cock crow! his enemies trembled, and left him: else must he have stayed upon elver's hoh, and the witches of life had bereft him. beware then, ye warriors, returning by night from court, dress’d in gold and in silver ; beware how you slumber on elver's rough height, beware of the witches of elver ! eware ' no. vii. the sword of angantyr. runicm . g. lewis. the original is to be found in hick's thesau. ling. septen. i have taken great liberties with it, and the catastrophe is my own inven- tion. several versions of this poem have already appeared, parti- cularly one by miss seward. on hervor. angantyr, awake! awake! hervor bids thy slumber's fly! magic thunders round thee break, angantyr, reply! reply' reach me, warrior, from thy grave schwafurlama's magic blade; fatal weapon, dreaded glaive, by the dwarfs at midnight made. hervardur, obey my charms, hanri too, and angantyr: hither, clad in bloody arms, haste with helmet, sword, and spear! hasten, heroes, hasten all ; sadly pace the spell-bound sod; dread my anger, hear my call, tremble at the charmer's rod! son are the sons of angrym's race, they whose breasts with glory burn’d, all deprived of manhood's grace, - all to dust and ashes turn'd ? where the blasted yew-tree grows, where the bones of heroes lie, what, will none his grave unclose, none to hervor's voice reply? shades of warriors cold and dead, fear my wrath, nor longer stay! mighty souls to hela fled, come! my powerful spells obey. de either instant to my hand give the sword of mystic power, which the dwarf and spectre-band bathed in blood at midnight hour; or, in odin's hall of cheer, never shall ye more repose, never more drink mead and beer from the skulls of slaughter'd foes ! angantyr. hervor! hervor! cease thy cries, nor oblige, by impious spell, ghosts of slaughter'd chiefs to rise ; sport not with the laws of hell! know, nor friend's, nor parent's hand laid in earth's embrace my bones : natives of a distant land - raised yon monumental stones : i the tyrfing gave to these ; 'twas but justice; 'twas their due. hervor! hervor! rest in peace, angantyr has told thee true. hervor. dar’st thou still my anger brave ? thus deceitful dar’st thou speak? sure as odin dug thy grave, lies by thee the sword i seek. i alone may call thee sire, i alone thine heir can be ; give me then the sword of fire, angantyr, oh! give it me! angantyr. hervor! hervor! cease, and know, it endures no female hand; flames around her feet shall glow, who presumes to touch the brand : o but from thee a son shall spring, (so the valkyries declare) who shall reign a mighty king; he the magic blade shall wear. year. hervor. hela! hela! thrice around this enchanted spot i pace: hela! hela! thrice the ground thus with mystic signs i trace . while i swear by odin's might, balder's locks, and sculda's wing, by the god renown'd in fight, by the rhymes the sisters sing, still the dead unrest shall know, still shall wave my magic rod, still the shivering ghosts shall go round and round this spell-bound sod, till the sword, the death of shields, shall my sire to me resign, till my hand the tyrfing wields, as in his grasp, feard in mine! angantyr. bold enchantress, since no prayers can this impious zeal abate, since thy haughty bosom dares to dispute the will of fate, i no more retard thy doom : arm’d with magic helm and spear seek the tyrfing, seek my tomb, when the midnight hour is near. hervor. stormy clouds around me lour! all is silent, mortals sleep! 'tis the solemn midnight hour! angantyr, thy promise keep. 'tis the time, and here the grave: lo! the grate with pain i lift : father, reach me forth the glaive, reach the dwarf's enchanted gift. angantyr. re know, beneath my head it lies, deep embrown'd with hostile gore. hervor, daughter, cease thy cries, hervor, daughter, ask no more. flames curl round in many a spire, flames from hilda’s mystic hand; ne'er may woman touch the fire, ne’er may woman wield the brand ! hervor, wherefore, father, this delay, wherefore break the word you gave? coldly burn the flames which play in a breathless warrior's grave. give me straight the spell-fraught sword, then my potent charms shall cease : be the dead to sleep restored, rest, sad spirit, rest in peace! angantyr. oh! what dæmon's direful power hapless hervor, fires thy brain ? fain would i retard the hour, destined for my daughter's pain! yet be wise, the sword forego : it endures no female hand; flames around her feet shall glow, who presumes to touch the brand. hervor. wilt thou still the brand conceal? i must haste my friends to join, where hidalyar, clad in steel, leads his troops, and waits for mine : ut father, now the sword bestow; soon 'twill hew my path to fame ; soon ’twill make each trembling foe shrink with fear at hervor's name! angantyr. hark! what horrid voices ring through the mansions of the dead ! 'tis the valkyries who sing, while they spin thy vital thread. _" angantyr!" i hear them say, sitting by their magic loom, -" yield the sword, no more delay, “ let the sorceress meet her doom! “ soon the proud one shall perceive, “ anguish ends what crimes begin : “lo! her web of life we weave, " lo! the final thread we spin!"- i obey the voice of hell, it ensures repose to me: hervor, now unbind the spell, and the tyrfing thine shall be. hervor. since thy dread commands, my sire, force the tyrfing to forego, on thine altars, sisters dire, thrice twelve heroes' blood shall flow. with respect the mandate hear; angantyr, the sword resign : valued gift, to me more dear, than were norway's sceptre mine. angantyr. i obey! the magic glaive thirty warriors' blood hath spilt; lo! i reach it from my grave, death is in the sheath and hilt! now 'tis thine : that daring arm wields at length the flaming sword; heryor, now unbind the charm, be my ghost to sleep restored. hervor. rest in peace, lamented shade! be thy slumbers soft and sweet, while obtain’d the wond’rous blade, home i bend my gladsome feet. but from out the gory steel streams of fire their radiance dart! mercy! mercy! oh! i feel burning pangs invade my heart ! flames amid my ringlets play, blazing torrents dim my sight. fatal weapon, hence away! woe be to thy blasting might! ce a woe be to the night and time, when the magic sword was given :: woe be to the runic rhyme, which reversed the laws of heayen! ro curst be cruel hilda's fire, which around the weapon curld ! curst the tyrfing's vengeful ire, curst myself, and curst the world! what! can nothing cool my brain ? nothing calm my anguish wild? angantyr, oh, speak again! father ! father! aid your child ! angantyr. 'tis in vain your shrieks resound, hapless prey of strange despair! 'tis in vain you beat the ground, while you rend your raven hair! they, who dare the dead to wake, still too late the crime deplore : none shall now my silence break, now i sleep to wake no more ! o moi hervor. curses! curses! oh! what pain! how my melting eye-balls glow! curses! curses ! through each vein how do boiling torrents flow! scorching flames my heart devour ! nought can cool them but the grave! hela! i obey thy power, hela! take thy willing slave! no. viii. king hacho's death song. runic.- m. g. lewis. the original, but in a mutilated state, is inserted in bartholin. caus. contemt. mort. here again, as also for the translations of " the water-king,” and of the “ erl-king's daughter,” i must express my obligations to mr. herder's collection, gaundut gaundul and skogul came from thor, to choose a king from out the war, who to valhalla's joys should speed, and drink with odin beer and mead. of ingwa’s race the king renown'd, biarner's brother, soon they found, as arm’d with helmet, sword and shield, with eager step he sought the field, ' where clashing glaives and dying cries already told the combat's size. with mighty voice he bids appear haleyger brave, and halmygeer,. . then forth to urge the fight he goes, the hope of friends, the fear of foes. the norman host soon round him swarms, and jutland's monarch stands in arms. nel firmly is grasp'd by hacho bold, the millstone-splitters hilt of gold, whose blows give death on every side, and, as 'twere water, brass divide ; a cloud of javelins veils the sky; the crashing shields in splinters fly; and on the casques of warriors brave resounds the stroke of many a glaive. wn now tyr's and bauga's weapons brown break on the norman monarch's crown ; now hotter, fiercer grows the fight, low sinks the pride of many a knight; and, dyed in slaughter's crimson hue, torrents of gore their shields bedew; from meeting weapons lightning gleams; from gaping wounds the life-blood streams : m . : : with falling corses groans the land, and purple waves lash storda's sand. ave woli as w the warring heroes now confound buckler with buckler, wound with wound: as eager as were battle sport, renown they seek, and death they court; till, never more to rise, they fall in myriads; while, to odin's hall, the dæmon of the tempest brings a blood stream on his sable wings. apart the hostile chiefs were placed, broken their swords, their helms unlaced ; yet neither thought his fate would be, the hall of odin soon to see. -"great is the feast of gods to-day,” propp'd on her sword, did gaundul say, “ since to their table they invite “ hacho, and all his chiefs from flight!"- the fated monarch hears too plain, how speaks the chooser of the slain ; too plain beholds his startled eye, on their black coursers mounted high olla then braga spoke." brave monarch, know, “ thou to valhalla’s joys shalt go, “ there to drink mead in skulls of foes, “ and at the feast of gods repose : “ to greet thee at the magic gate, “ e'en now eight hero-brothers wait, “ with joyful eyes thy coming see, “ and wish, thou foe of kings, for thee.”— _" yet be my sword,” the king replied, “ once more in norman slaughter dyed; “ let me, as heroes should, expire, “ and fall in fight, as fell my sire : “ so shall my glory live, and fame “ shall long remember hacho's name."- ! war he ceases, and to combat flies : he fights, he conquers, and he dies; but soon he finds what joys attend, who dare in fight their days to end : soon as he gains valhalla’s gate, eight heroes there to greet him wait; the gods a friend the monarch call, and welcome him to odin's hall. : onar evel who in valhalla thus shall be loved and revered, oh! bless'd is he; his conquest and his fame shall long remember'd be, and live in song. wolf fenris first his chain shall break, and on mankind his fury wreak, ere walks a king in hacho's trace, or fills so well his vacant place. un in since to the gods the king hath fled, heroes and valiant hosts have bled: the bones of friends have strow'd the sand; usurping tyrants sway the land; and many a tear for hacho brave still falls upon his honour'd grave. no. ix the erl-king. german.- m. g. lewis. though founded on a danish tradition, this ballad was originally written in german, and is the production of the celebrated goethe, author of werter, &c. jo who is it that rides through the forest so fast, while night frowns around him, while shrill roars the blast? the father, who holds his young son in his arm, and close in his mantle has wrapp'd him up warm.. - why trembles my darling? why shrinks he with fear?”– -"oh, father! my father! the erl-king is near! “ the erl-king, with his crown and his beard long and white!" - oh! your eyes are deceived by the vapours of night.”— —" come, baby, sweet baby, with me go away! “ fine clothes you shall wear, we will play a fine play; e “ fine flowers are growing, white, scarlet, and blue, “ on the banks of yon river, and all are for you.”— on riy -"oh! father! my father! and dost thou not hear, “ what words the erl-king whispers low in mine ear?"- -“ now hush thee, my darling, thy terrors appease; “ thou hear’st, 'mid the branches, where murmurs the breeze.” —“ oh! baby, sweet baby, with me go away! “ my daughter shall nurse you, so fair and so gay ; “ my daughter, in purple and gold who is dress’d, “shall tend you, and kiss you, and sing you to rest !" "oh! father! my father! and dost thou not see “ the erl-king and his daughter are waiting for me?”— -"oh! shame thee, my darling, 'tis fear makes thee blind : “ thou see'st the dark willows which wave in the wind.”- _" i love thee! i doat on thy face so divine ! " i must and will have thee, and force makes thee mine!"- -"my father! my father! oh! hold me now fast! “ he pulls me! he hurts, and will have me at last!"- the father he trembled, he doubled his speed; o'er hills and through forests he spurr’d his black steed; but when he arrived at his own castle door, life throbb’d in the sweet baby's bosom no more. re no. x. the erl-king's daughter. danish. m.g. lewis. the original is in the kiampe-viiser. o'er mountains, through vallies, sir oluf he wends to bid to his wedding relations and friends ; 'tis night, and arriving where sports the elf band, the erl-king's proud daughter presents him her hand. dr "now welcome, sir oluf! oh! welcome to me! “ come, enter our circle my partner to be.”- " fair lady, nor can i dance with you, nor may; “ to-morrow i marry, to-night must away."- _" now listen, sir oluf! oh! listen to me! “ two spurs of fine silver thy guerdon shall be; " a shirt too of silk will i give as a boon, " which my queen-mother bleach'd in the beams of the moon. “she cursed me! her hand to my bosom she press’d; “ death follow'd the touch, and now freezes my breast! “she cursed me, and said, “ to your lady now. ride ;" “oh! ne'er shall my lips press the lips of my bride.”— -“ now riddle me, oluf, and what shall i say, " when here comes the lady, so fair and so gay?”— , -"oh! say, i am gone for awhile to the wood, “ to prove if my hounds and my coursers are good.”— v couis ers an scarce dead was sir oluf, and scarce shone the day, when in came the lady, so fair and so gay; and in came her father, and in came each guest, whom the hapless sir oluf had bade to the feast. they drank the red wine, and they ate the good cheer; _"oh! where is sir oluf! oh, where is my dear?” — _ sir oluf is gone for awhile to the wood, “ to prove if his hounds and his coursers are good.”— sore trembled the lady, so fair and so gay; she eyed the red curtain; she drew it away; but soon from her bosom for ever life fled, for there lay sir oluf, cold, breathless, and dead. no. xi the water-king. danish- m. g. lewis. . the original is in the kiampe viiser. muimu with gentle murmur flow'd the tide, while by its fragrant flowery side the lovely maid, with carols gay, to mary's church pursued her way. a the water-fiend's malignant eye along the banks beheld her hie; straight to his mother-witch he sped, and thus in suppliant accents said : nov - oh! mother! mother! now advise, “ how i may yonder maid surprise : “oh! mother! mother! now explain, " how i may yonder maid obtain." - the witch she gave him armour white ; she form'd him like a gallant knight: of water clear next made her hand a steed, whose housings were of sand. the water-king then swift he went ; to mary's church his steps he bent: he bound his courser to the door, and paced the churchyard three times four. es his courser to the door bound he, and paced the churchyard four times three; then hasten'd up the aisle, where all the people flock’d, both great and small. n the priest said, as the knight drew near, - and wherefore comes the white chief here ?"- the lovely maid she smiled aside ; - oh! would i were the white chief's bride!”— he stepp'd o'er benches one and two; —“oh! lovely maid, i die for you!"- he stepp'd o'er benches two and three ; “oh! lovely maiden, go with me!"- thus spoke the water-king. the maid her traitor-bridegroom's wish obey'd : and soon she saw the courser lave delighted in his parent wave. w -“stop! stop! my love! the waters blue “ e'en now my shrinking foot bedew.”- -"oh! lay aside your fears, sweet heart ! “we now have reach'd the deepest part.”— o vo e. -“stop! stop! my love! for now i see “ the waters rise above my knee.”— --oh! lay aside your fears, sweet heart! “we now have reach'd the deepest part.”— -“stop! stop! for god's sake, stop! for oh! “ the waters o'er my bosom flow!"- scarce was the word pronounced, when knight and courser vanish'd from her sight. she shrieks, but shrieks in vain ; for high the wild winds rising, dull the cry; the fiend exults; the billows dash, and o'er their hapless victim wash. . three times, while struggling with the stream, the lovely maid was heard to scream; but when the tempest's rage was o’er, the lovely maid was seen no more. warn’d by this tale, ye damsels fair, to whom you give your love beware! believe not every handsome knight, and dance not with the water-spright!* * as i have taken great liberties with this ballad, and have been much questioned as to my share in it, i shall here subjoin a literal translation : the water-man. -oh! mother, give me good counsel ; “ how shall i obtain the lovely maid !"- she form’d for him a horse of clear water, with a bridle and saddle of sand, she arm'd him like a gallant knight, then rode he into mary's churchyard. he bound his horse to the church door, and paced round the church three times and four. . the waterman enter'd the church; the people throng'd about him both great and small, the priest was then standing at the altar. " who can yonder white chieftain be?" the lovely maiden laugh'd aside- -“oh! would the white chieftain were for me!" he stepp'd over one stool, and over two; “oh! maiden, give me thy faith and troth !"- he stepp'd over stools three and four. - oh! lovely maiden go with me!" the lovely maid gave him her hand. -" there hast thou my troth ; i follow thee readily.”— they went out with the wedding guests : they danced gaily, and without thought of danger. . they danced on till they reached the strand : and now they were alone hand in hand. -“ lovely maiden, hold my horse: “ the prettiest little vessel will i bring for you."- and when they came to the white sand, all the ships made to land. and when they came to deep water the lovely maiden sank to the ground. long heard they who stood on the shore, how the lovely maiden shriek'd among the waves. i advise you, damsels, as earnestly as i can, dance not with the water-man. no. xii. the fire-king. “ the blessings of the evil genii, which are curses, “ were upon him.” eastern tale. original, walter scott. (by the translator of goethe's “goetz of berlichingen.”) for more of this gentleman's ballads, both original and translated, see “ glenfinlas,” and the poems following it. bold knights and fair dames, to my harp give an ear, of love, and of war, and of wonder to hear, and you haply may sigh in the midst of your glee at the tale of count albert and fair rosalie. o see you that castle, so strong and so high ? and see you that lady, the tear in her eye? and see you that palmer, from palestine’s land, the shell on his hat, and the staff in his hand ? - now palmer, grey palmer, tell unto me " what news bring you home from the holy countrie; " and how goes the warfare by gallilee's strand, “ and how fare our nobles, the flower of the land ?”— -“ o well goes the warfare by gallilee's wave, “ for gilead, and nablous, and ramah we have, and well fare our nobles by mount libanon, " for the heathen have lost, and the christians have won."- a rich chain of gold mid her ringlets there hung; that chain o'er the palmer's grey locks has she flung; “ —oh! palmer, grey palmer, this chain be thy fee, " for the news thou hast brought from the east countrie. “ and palmer, good palmer, by gallilee's wave, “o saw ye count albert, the gentle and brave? “ when the crescent went back, and the red-cross rush'd on, “() saw ye him foremost on mount libanon ?"- -"o lady, fair lady, the tree green it grows, “ o lady, fair lady, the stream pure it flows, “ your castle stands strong, and your hopes soar on high, " but lady, fair lady, all blossoms to die. o " the green boughs they wither, the thunderbolt falls, " it leaves of your castle but levin-scorch'd walls, “ the pure stream runs muddy, the gay hope is gone, “ count albert is taken on mount libanon.”- o she's ta’en a horse should be fleet at her speed, and she's ta'en a sword should be sharp at her need, and she has ta’en shipping for palestine's land, to ransom count albert from soldanrie's hand. small thought had count albert on fair rosalie, small thought on his faith, or his knighthood had he; a heathenish damsel his light heart had won, the soldan's fair daughter of mount libanon. non. _" oh! christian, brave christian, my love would'st thou be? “ three things must thou do ere i hearken to thee- “ our laws and our worship on thee shalt thou take, " and this thou shalt first do for zulema's sake. " and next in the cavern, where burns evermore “ the mystical flame which the curdmans adore, “ alone and in silence three nights shalt thou wake, “ and this thou shalt next do for zulema's sake. “ and last, thou shalt aid us with council and hand, “ to drive the frank robbers from palestine's land; “for my lord and my love then count albert i'll take, “ when all this is accomplish'd for zulema's sake."- he has thrown by his helmet and cross-handled sword, renouncing his knighthood, denying his lord; he has ta'en the green caftan, and turban put on, for the love of the maiden of fair libanon. and in the dread cavern, deep deep under ground, which fifty steel gates and steel portals surround, he has watch'd until day-break, but sight saw he none, save the flame burning bright on its altar of stone. ama amazed was the princess, the soldan amazed, sore murmur'd the priests as on albert they gazed; they search'd all his garments, and under his weeds, they found, and took from him, his rosary beads. ou again in the cavern, deep deep under ground, he watch'd the lone night, while the winds whistled round; far off was their murmur, it came not more nigh, the flame burn'd unmoved, and nought else did he spy. inmov un loud murmur'd the priests, and amazed was the king, while many dark spells of their witchcraft they sing; they search'd albert's body, and lo! on his breast was the sign of the cross, by his father impress’d. the priests they eraze it with care and with pain, and the recreant return’d to the cavern again; but as he descended a whisper there fell! - -it was his good angel, who bade him farewell:- high bristled his hair, his heart flutter'd and beat, and he turn'd him five steps, half resolved to retreat ; but his heart it was harden'd, his purpose was gone, when he thought of the maiden of fair libanon. scarce pass'd he the archway, the threshold scarce trod, when the winds from the four points of heaven were abroad; they made each steel portal to rattle and ring, and, borne on the blast, came the dread fire-king. full sore rock'd the cavern whene'er he drew nigh, the fire on the altar blazed bickering and high; in volcanic explosions the mountains proclaim the dreadful approach of the monarch of flame. arc e . unmeasured in height, undistinguish'd in form, his breath it was lightning, his voice it was storm, i ween the stout heart of count albert was tame, when he saw in his terrors the monarch of flame. in his hand a broad faulchion blue-glimmer'd through smoke, and mount libanon shook as the monarch he spoke ;- - with this brand shalt thou conquer, thus long, and no more, « till thou bend to the cross, and the virgin adore.”— on the cloud-shrouded arm gives the weapon--and see ! the recreant receives the charm’d gift on his knee. the thunders growl distant, and faint gleam the fires as, born on his whirlwind, the phantom retires. count albert has arm'd him the paynim among, though his heart it was false, yet his arm it was strong; and the red-cross wax'd faint, and the crescent came on, from the day he commanded on mount libanon. omma on from libanon's forests to gallilee's wave, the sands of samaar drank the blood of the brave, till the knights of the temple, and knights of saint john, with salem's king baldwin, against him came on. f short time had count albert in horror to stare on those death-swimming eye-balls and blood-clotted hair, for down came the templars, like cedron in flood, and dyed their long lances in saracen blood. са the saracens, curdmans, and ishmaelites yield to the scallop, the saltier, and crosletted shield, and the eagles were gorged with the infidel dead from bethsaida's fountains to naphthali's head. om ver the battle is over on bethsaida's plain- oh! who is yon paynim lies stretch'd mid the slain ? and who is yon page lying cold at his knee? oh! who but count albert and fair rosalie. the lady was buried in salem's bless'd bound, the count he was left to the vulture and hound; her soul to high mercy our lady did bring, his went on the blast to the dread fire-king. yet many a minstrel in harping can tell how the red-cross it conquer'd, the crescent it fell; and lords and gay ladies have sigh’d, mid their glee, at the tale of count albert and fair rosalie. . · no. xiii. the cloud-king. “ adjectives have but three degrees of comparison, the positive, comparative, and superlative.” english grammar. the positive, omparative, and superlat) original. m.g. lewis. why how now, sir pilgrim ? why shake you with dread? - why brave you the winds of night, cutting and cold ? full warm was your chamber, full soft was your bed, and scarce by the castle-bell twelve has been tolld. - oh! hear you not, warder, with anxious dismay, " how rages the tempest, how patters the rain ? “ while loud howls the whirlwind, and threatens, ere day, “ to strow these old turrets in heaps on the plain!"- cl ius now calm thee, sir pilgrim! thy fears to remove, know, yearly, this morning is destin'd to bring such storms, which declare that resentment and love still gnaw the proud heart of the cruel cloud-king. one morning, as borne on the wings of the blast, the fiend over denmark directed his flight, a glance upon rosenhall's turrets he cast, and gazed on its lady with wanton delight: yet proud was her eye, and her cheek flush'd with rage, her lips with disdain and reproaches were fraught; and lo! at her feet knelt a lovely young page, and thus in soft accents compassion besought. ce -"oh drive not, dear beauty, a wretch to despair, “whose fault is so venial, a fault if it be; - for who could have eyes, and not see thou art fair? “or who have an heart, and not give it to thee? “ i own i adore you! i own you have been " long the dream of my night, long the thought of my day; “ but no hope had my heart that its idolized queen "would ever with passion my passion repay. “ when insects delight in the blaze of the sun, “they harbour no wish in his glory to share : “when kneels at the cross of her saviour, the nun, “he scorns not the praises she breathes in her prayer. : .. when the pilgrim repairs to st. hermegild's shrine, “ and claims of her relics a kiss as his fee, “ his passion is humble, is pure, is divine, “ and such is the passion i cherish for thee!"- es _" rash youth! how presumest thou with insolent love," thus answered the lady, “ her ears to profane, • whom the monarchs of norway and jutland, to move “ their passion to pity attempted in vain ? “ fly, fly from my sight, to some far distant land! " that wretch must not breathe, where romilda resides, “ whose lips, while she slept, stole a kiss from that hand, "no mortal is worthy to press as a bride's. “ nor e’er will i wed till some prince of the air, “ his heart at the throne of my beauty shall lay, " and the two first commands which i give him, shall swear, “ (though hard should the task be enjoin'd) to obey.”— ar nou she said.-straight the castle of rosenhall rocks with an earthquake, and thunders announce the cloud-king. a crown of red lightnings confined his fair locks, and high o’er each arm waved an huge sable wing. than lightning then swifter thrice round did he turn, thrice bitterly cursed he the parent of good, and next in a chafing-dish hasten’d to burn three locks of his hair, and three drops of his blood: and quickly romilda, with anxious affright, hears the tramp of a steed, and beheld at the gate a youth in white arms—'twas the false water-spright, and behind him his mother, the sorceress, sate. su the youth he was comely, and fair to behold, the hag was the foulest eye ever survey’d; each placed on the table a goblet of gold, while thus to romilda the water-king said.- _" hail, queen of the clouds! lo! we bring thee for drink “ the blood of a damsel, both lovely and rich, • whom i tempted, and left 'midst the billows to sink, “ where she died by the hands of my mother, the witch. “ but see'st thou yon chariot, which speeds from afar? “ the erl-king with his daughter it brings, while a throng “ of wood-fiends and succubi sports round the car, “ and goads on the night-mares that whirl it along."—. the maid, while her eyes tears of agony pour'd, beheld the erl-king and his daughter draw near: a charger of silver each placed on the board, while the fiend of the forests thus greeted her ear. _" with the heart of a warrior, cloud queen, for thy food, “ the head of a child on thy table we place : “ she spell-struck the knight as he stray'd through the wood; “ i strangled the child in his father's embrace.”— ice. the roof now divided.—by fogs half conceald, suck'd from marshes, infecting the air as he came, and blasting the verdure of forest and field, on a dragon descended the giant of flame. fire seem'd from his eyes and his nostrils to pour; his breath was a volume of sulphurous smoke; he brandish'd a sabre still dropping with gore, and his voice shook the palace when silence he broke. " - feast, queen of the clouds! the repast do not scorn; " feast, queen of the clouds! i perceive thou hast food! “ to-morrow i feast in my turn, for at morn “ shall i feed on thy flesh, shall i drink of thy blood! . - well say’st thou, romilda ; thy will, then, impart, “ but hope not to vanquish the king of the storm, “ or baffle his skill by invention or art ; " thou can’st not command what i cannot perform ?” — then clasping her hands, to the virgin she pray'd, while in curses the wicked ones vented their rage. -“ now show me the truest of lovers!”—she said, and lo! by her side stood the lovely young page. his mind was all wonder, her heart all alarms; she sank on his breast as he sank at her knee. -". the truest of lovers i fold in my arms, . than the truest, now show me a truer!"-said she. then loud yell’d the dæmons! the cloud-fashion'd halls dissolved, thunder bellow'd, and heavy rains beat; again stood the fair midst her own castle walls, and still knelt the lovely young page at her feet. and soon for her own, and for rosenhall's lord, did romilda the truest of lovers declare, nor e'er on his bosom one sigh could afford, that for him she had quitted the monarch of air. full long yonder chapel has shelter'd their urns, long ceased has the tear on their ashes to fall; yet still, when october the twentieth returns, roars the fiend round these turrets, and shakes rosenhall. oh! pilgrim, thy fears let these annals remove, for day to the skies will tranquillity bring ; this storm but declares that resentment and love still gnaw the proud heart of the cruel cloud-king. * * lest my readers should mistake the drift of the foregoing tale, and sup- pose its moral to rest upon the danger in which romilda was involved by her insolence and presumption, i think it necessary to explain, that my object in writing this story, was to shew young ladies that it might possibly, now and then, be of use to understand a little grammar; and it must be clear to every one, that my heroine would infallibly have been devoured by the dæmons, if she had not luckily understood the difference between the comparative and superlative degrees. no. xiv. the fisherman. german.- m. g. lewis. from the german of goethe. the water rush'd, the water swellid, a fisherman sat nigh; calm was his heart, and he beheld his line with watchful eye : while thus he sits with tranquil look, in twain the water flows; then, crown'd with reeds, from out the brook, a lovely, woman rose. to him she sung, to him she said, -"why tempt'st thou from the flood, “ by cruel arts of man betray'd, “ fair youth, my scaly brood ? no. xv. the sailor's tale. original.- m. g. lewis. landlord, another bowl of punch, and comrades fill your glasses ! first in another bumper toast our pretty absent lasses, then hear how sad and strange a sight my chance it was to see, while lately, in the · lovely nan,' returning from goree! so as all alone at dead of night along the deck i wander'd, and now i whistled, now on home and polly parsons ponder'd, sudden a ghastly form appear’d, in dripping trowsers rigg'd, and soon, with strange surprise and fear, jack tackle's ghost i twigg’d. come a -- dear tom," quoth he, “ i hither come a doleful tale to tell ye! “ a monstrous fish has safely stow'd your comrade in his belly; “groggy last night, my luck was such, that overboard i slid, " when a shark snapp'd and chew'd me, just as now you chew that quid. nau " old nick, who seem'd confounded glad to catch my soul a napping, “ straight tax'd me with that buxom dame, the tailor's wife at wapping; “ in vain begg’d, and swore, and jaw'd; nick no excuse would hear; “ quoth he, — you lubber, make your will, and dam’me, downwards steer.'- and sw o excuse do - tom, to the 'foresaid tailor's wife i leave my worldly riches, “ but keep yourself, my faithful friend, my bran-new linen breeches; " then, when you wear them, sometimes give one thought to jack that's dead, “ nor leave those galligaskins off while there remains one thread.” — at hearing jack's sad tale, my heart, you well may think, was bleeding; the spirit well perceived my grief, and seem'd to be proceeding, but here, it so fell out, he sneezed:says i—"god bless you, jack!"- and poor jack tackle’s grimly ghost was vanish'd in a crack ! nec comr durr now comrades, timely warning take, and landlord fill the bowl; jack tackle, for the tailor's wife, has damn'd his precious soul; old nick's a devilish dab, it seems, at snapping up a sailor's, so if you kiss your neighbour's wife, be sure she's not a tailor's. . “ beneath our sacred mithra's scorching fire " i sink enfeebled, and with thirst expire. “ yon stream is near: oh! list a sufferer's cry,.. “ and reach one draught of water, lest i die!"- ean cre -“what means this bold intrusion ?" cried the fair, with peevish tone, and discontented air; “what daring voice, with wearying plaint, infests “ the sacred grove where persia’s princess rests ? “ beggar begone, and let these clamours cease! “ this buys at once your absence, and my peace.”— thus said the princess, and indignant frown'd, then cast her precious bracelet on the ground, and turn’d again to sleep. with joyless eye the fainting stranger saw the jewel lie : when lo! kind selima (the georgian's name), softly with water from the fountain came; and while, with gentle grace, she gave the bowl, thus sweetly sad her feeling accents stole. w -" humble and poor, i nothing can bestow, “ except these tears of pity for your woe : • 'tis all i have; but yet that all receive “ from one who fain your sorrows would relieve, “ for you, fair princess, in whose eyes of blue, “ the strife of envy, shame, and grief, i view, “ observe, and profit by this scene! you gave, “ but oh! how far less nobly than your slave! “ your bitter speech, proud glance, and peevish tone, “ too plain declared, your gift was meant alone “ your own repose and silence to secure, “ and hush the beggar, not relieve the poor! “oh! royal lady, let this lesson prove, “smiles, more than presents, win a suppliant's love ; “ and when your mandates rule some distant land, “ where all expect their blessings from your hand, “ remember, with ill-will and frowns bestow'd, "favours offend, and gifts become a load!"- she ceased, and touching with her silver wand her destined daughter, straight two wings expand their purple plumes, and wave o'er either arm; next to her person spreads the powerful charm ; and soon the enraptured wondering maid combined a faultless person with a faultless mind, then, while with joy divine their hearts beat high, swift as the lightning of a jealous eye the peries spread their wings, and soar'd away to the bless'd regions of eternal day. : ince stung with regret, the princess saw too plain, lost by her fault what tears could ne'er regain ! long on the tablets of her humbled breast the peri's parting words remain'd impress’d. e’en when her hand golconda's sceptre sway'd, and subject realms her mild behests obey'd, the just reproof her conscious ear still heard ; still she remember'd, with ill grace conferr’d, crowns, to a feeling mind, less joy impart, than trifles, offer’d with a willing heart. no. xvii. the gay gold ring. original.-m. g. lewis. here _" there is a thing, there is a thing, “ which i fain would have from thee! “ i fain would have thy gay gold ring; “o! warrior, give it me?"- he lifts his head; lo! near his bed stands a maid as fair as day; cold is the night, yet her garment is light, for her shift is he array - come you from east, “ or come you from west, • or dost from the saracens flee? “ cold is the night, " and your garment is light, “ come, sweetheart, and warm you by me!"- were as -"my garment is light, “ and cold is the night, " and i would that my limbs were as cold : “ groan must i ever, “ sleep can i never, “ knight, till you give me your gay ring of gold ! “ for that is a thing, a thing, a thing, " which i fain would have from thee! “ fain would have thy gay gold ring; “ ! warrior, give it me?”— _" that ring lord brooke “ from his daughter took; • he gave it to me, and he swore, " that fair la-dye “ my bride should be, “ when this crusade were o’er. “ ne’er did mine eyes that lady view, “bright emmeline by name : “ but if fame say true, “ search britain through, “ you'll find no fairer dame. “ but though she be fair, “ she cannot compare, “ i wot, sweet lass, with thee; “ then pass by my side “ three nights as my bride, “ and thy guerdon the ring shall be!"- in silence the maid the knight obey'd; low on his pillow her head she laid : but soon as by hers his hand was press’d, changed to ice was the heart in his breast; and his limbs were fetter'd in frozen chains, and turn'd to snow was the blood in his veins, the cock now crows ! the damsel goes forth from the tent; and the blood which she froze, again through the veins of lord elmerick flows, and again his heart with passion glows, donned the knight his armour bright; .. full wroth was he, i trow! —“ beshrew me!” he said, “ if thus, fair maid, “ from my tent to-morrow you go!"- gone was light! come was night! the sand-glass told, 'twas three; and again stood there the stranger fair, and murmur again did she. - there is a thing, there is a thing, “ which i fain would have from thee! “ i fain would have thy gay gold ring; “o! warrior, give it me!"— n w l" one night by my side “ hast thou pass'd as my bride; “ two yet remain behind : “ three must be pass’d, “ ere thy finger fast “ the gay gold ring shall bind.”- again the maid the knight obey'd; again on his pillow her head she laid; and again, when by hers his hand was press'd, changed to ice was the heart in his breast: and his limbs were fetter'd in frozen chains, and turn'd to snow was the blood in his veins ! three days were gone, two nights were spent; still came the maid, when the glass told three;" how she came, or whither she went, none could say, and none could see; but the warrior heard, when night the third was gone, thus claim'd his plighted word. -"once!—twice!--thrice by your side • have i lain as your bride; “ sir knight! sir knight, beware you! “ your ring i crave! “ your ring i'll have, “ or limb from limb i'll tear you!"- ur rin she drew from his hand the ring so gay; no limb could he move, and no word could he say, —“ see, arthur, i bring • to my grave, thy ring," murmur'd the maiden, and hied her away. then sprang so light from his couch the knight; with shame his cheek was red: and, filled with rage, his little foot page he call'd from beneath the bed. _" come hither, come hither, s my lad so lither; “ while under my bed you lay, “what did you see, '" and what maiden was she, “ who left me at breaking of day ?"-' - oh! master, i • no maid could spy, “ as i've a soul to save; " but when the cock crew, • the lamp burn'd blue, “ and the tent smell’d like a grave ! " and i heard a voice in anguish moan, “ and a bell seem'd four to tell ; “ and the voice was like a dying groan, “ and the bell like a passing bell!"- “ he set the point against his side, “ the hilt against the floor ; “ i wot, he made a wound so wide, “ he never a word spake more. wou “ and now, too late, my child began “ remorseful tears to shed; “ her heart grew faint, her cheek grew wan, “* and she sicken'd, and took to her bed. - the leech then said, “ and shook his head, “she neer could health recover ; " yet long in pain “ did the wretch remain, “ sorrowing for her lover. " and sure 'twas a piteous sight to see, “ how she prayed to die, but it might not be; “ and when the morning bell told three, "still in hollow voice cried she, -" there is a thing, there is a thing, " which i fain would have from thee! “ i fain would have thy gay gold ring; “oh! warrior, give it me!"- “ may the grim white woman, who haunts this wood, “ the grim white woman, who feasts on blood, “ as soon as they number twelve months and a day, “ tear the hearts of your babes from their bosoms away.”— then frantic with love and remorse home she sped, lock'd the door of her chamber, and sank on her bed; nor yet with complaints and with tears had she done, when the clock in st. christopher's church struck— one!"- her blood, why she knew not, ran cold at the sound; she lifted her head; she gazed fearfully round! when, lo! near the hearth, by a cauldron's blue light, she saw the tall form of a female in white. her eye, fix'd and glassy, no passions express'd; no blood fill'd her veins, and no heart warm’d her breast! she seem'd like a corse newly torn from the tomb, and her breath spread the chillness of death through the room. her arms, and her feet, and her bosom were bare ; a shroud wrapp'd her limbs, and a snake bound her hair. this spectre, the grim white woman was she, and the grim white woman was fearful to see! and ever, the cauldron as over she bent, she mutter'd strange words of mysterious intent: a toad, still alive, in the liquor she threw, and loud shriek’d the toad, as in pieces it flew! to heighten the charm, in the flames next she flung a viper, a rat, and a mad tiger's tongue; the heart of a wretch, on the rack newly dead, and an eye, she had torn from a parricide's head. the flames now divided; the charm was complete; her spells the white spectre forbore to repeat; to janet their produce she hasten'd to bring, and placed on her finger a little jet ring! _"from the grim white woman,” she murmur’d,“ receive “ a gift, which your treasure, now lost, will retrieve. “ remember, 'twas she who relieved your despair, “ and when you next see her, remember your prayer!"- ni this said, the fiend vanish'd! no longer around pour'd the cauldron its beams; all was darkness profound; till the gay beams of morning illumined the skies, and gay as the morning did ronald arise. liis mor days, weeks, and monthsfly.—“ding-a-ding! ding-a-ding!"- again, hark! how gaily the castle-bells ring? -“ why again do the castle bells carol so gay?”— a daughter is born to lord ronald to-day. mmo but see'st thou yon herald so swiſt hither bend? lord ronald is summond his king to defend : and see'st thou the tears of sweet ellinor flow? lord ronald has left her to combat the foe. where slumber her babies, her steps are address'd; she presses in anguish her son to her breast; nor ceases she annabell's cradle to rock, till — one!"—is proclaim'd by the loud castle-clock. her blood, why she knows not, runs cold at the sound ! she raises her head; she looks fearfully round; and lo! near the hearth, by a cauldron’s blue light, she sees the tall form of a female in white ! the female with horror sweet ellen beholds: still closer her son to her bosom she folds ; and cold tears of terror bedew her pale cheeks, while, nearer approaching, the spectre thus speaks.- nearer oacn _"say, why on my castle a black banner flies, “* and why trickle tears from my fair lady's eyes ?"- -" in your absence the grim white woman was here, “ and dead is your son, whom you valued so dear.”— rs no onow deep sorrow'd lord ronald; but soon for his grief, he found in the arms of sweet ellen relief: her kisses could peace to his bosom restore, and the more he beheld her, he loved her the more ; till it chanced, that one night, when the tempest was loud, and strong gusts of wind rock'd the turrets so proud, as ronald lay sleeping he heard a voice cry, —“ dear father, arise, or your daughter must die!"- va he woke, gazed around, look'd below, look'd above ; -"why trembles my ronald? what ails thee, my love?"- _ i dreamt, through the skies that i saw a hawk dart, “ pounce a little white pigeon, and tear out its heart.”— —“oh hush thee, my husband; thy vision was vain.” lord ronald resign'd him to slumber again : but soon the same voice, which had rouzed him before, cried " father, arise, or your daughter's no more!"- was vain mo . .. he woke, gazed around, look'd below, look'd above; -what fears now, my ronald? what ails thee, my love?"- _" i dreamt that a tigress, with jaws open’d wide, “ had fasten'd her fangs in a little lamb's side!"- in pss "oh! hush thee, my husband; no tigress is here.”— again ronald slept, and again in his ear soft murmur'd the voice,—“. oh! be warn’d by your son; “ dear father, arise, for it soon will strike—“ one!"- don w no " your wife, for a spell your affections to hold, “ to the grim white woman her children hath sold; “ e'en now is the fiend at your babe's chamber door ; “ then father, arise, or your daughter's no more !"- no from his couch starts lord ronald, in doubt and dismay, he seeks for his wife—but his wife is away! he gazes around, looks below, looks above ; lo! there sits on his pillow a little white dove! a mild lambent flame in its eyes seem'd to glow; more pure was its plumage than still-falling snow, except where a scar could be seen on its side, and three small drops of blood the white feathers had dyed. wild laughing, the fiend caught the hand from the floor, releasing the babe, kiss'd the wound, drank the gore; a little jet ring from the finger then drew, thrice shriek'd a loud shriek, and was borne from their view! lord ronald, while horror still bristled his hair, to ellen now turn'd;- but no ellen was there ! and lo! in her place, his surprise to complete, lay janet, all cover'd with blood, at his feet! - yes, traitor, 'tis janet!”—she cried ;—" at my sight “ no more will your heart swell with love and delight; “ that little jet ring was the cause of your flame, “ and that little jet ring from the forest-fiend came. ." it endow'd me with beauty, your heart to regain; " it fix'd your affections, so wavering and vain; “ but the spell is dissolved, and your eyes speak my fate, “ my falsehood is clear, and as clear is your hate. -sel ir own “ but what caused my falsehood ?—your falsehood alone; “what voice said—be guilty ?'-seducer, your own! “ you vow'd truth for ever, the oath i believed, “ and had you not deceived me, i had not deceived. “remember my joy, when affection you swore ! “remember my pangs, when your passion was o'er! “a curse, in my rage, on your children was thrown, “ and alas ! wretched mother, that curse struck my own!”- idy and here her strength fail'd her : the sad one to save in vain the leech labour'd; three days did she rave; death came on the fourth, and restored her to peace, nor long did lord ronald survive her decease. despair fills his heart! he no longer can bear his castle, for ellen no longer is there : from scotland he hastens, all comfort disdains, and soon his bones whiten on palestine's plains. if you bid me, fair damsels, my moral rehearse, it is, that young ladies ought never to curse ; for no one will think her well-bred, or polite, who devotes little babes to grim women in white. though with suitors beset, yet her leopold knew, as her beauty was matchless, her heart it was true, so fearless he went to the wars; while the maid, her fears for brave leopold often betray'd : full oft, in the gloom of the churchyard reclined, would she pour forth her sorrows and vows to the wind. _" ah me!”—would she sigh, in a tone that would melt the heart that one spark of true love ever felt; -"ah me!”—would she sigh—“ past and gone is the day, “when my father was plighted to give me away! “ my fancy, what sad gloomy presage appalls ? “ ah! sure on the danube my leopold falls !"- ire ube one evening so gloomy, when only the owl (a tempest impending) would venture to prowl; mary-ann, whose delight was in sadness and gloom, by' a newly-made grave sat her down on a tomb; but ere she to number her sorrows began, lo! out of the grave jump'd a little grey man! his hue it was deadly, his eyes they were ghast; long and pale were his fingers, that held her arm fast;- she shriek'd a loud shriek, so affrighted was she ; and grimly he scowl’d, as he jump'd on her knee. with a voice that dismay'd her—" the danube!" —he cried; “ there leopold bleeds ! mary-ann is my bride !"- a is a cross of pure gold, her fond mother's bequest, by a still dearer riband she hung at her breast; round a bodkin of silver she bound her long hair, in plaits and in tresses so comely and fair, 'twould have gladden'd your heart, ere her journey began, to have gazed on the tidy and trim mary-ann. but, oh! her sad bosom such sorrows oppress’d, such fears and forebodings, as robb’d her of rest ; forlorn as she felt, so forlorn must she go, and brave the rough tempest, the hail, and the snow ! yet still she set forth, all so pale and so wan- let a tear drop of pity for poor mary-ann ! snow as dark, dark was the night, and the way it was rude ; while the little grey man on her thoughts would obtrude ; she wept as she thought on her long gloomy way; she turn'd, and she yet saw the lights all so gay : she kiss'd now her cross, as she heard the last bell; and a long, long adieu bade to aix-la-chapelle. through the brown wood of limbourg with caution she paced ; ere the noon of the morrow she traversed the waste ; she mounted the hills of st. bertrand so high; and the day it declined, as the heath she drew nigh; and she rested a wide-waving alder beneath, and paused on the horrors of sombermond's heath: . he dreamt, from his wheel an assassin had stepp'd, and silent and slowly had close to him crept; that the wretch, mangled piece-meal, and ghastly with gore, from his wounds both the balms and the bandages tore; and to search for his dagger as now he began, _ strike! strike!” cried the voice of the little grey man. “strike! strike!” cried the fiend, " or your wounds bleed anew!" he struck-it w. : alis lifc-blcoche crew- with a siruck his all the, na his woes puer they o'er ; hei heli hipai luve, tu behold her no more! - • tier eyes the poor maiden on leopold cast, gave him one look of love, 'twas her fandest, her last! a no the little grey man now he set up a yell, which was heard in the halls of fair aix-la-chapelle, he raised up his head, and he raised up his chin; and he grinn'd, as he shouted a horrible grin ; and he laugh’d a loud laugh, and his cap up he cast, exulting, as breathed the fond lovers their last, as in each other's arms dead the fond lovers fell, o'er the black lonely heath toll'd a low, distant bell; from the gibbets and crosses shrieks issued, and groans, and wild to the blast flew the sculls and the bones ; whilst the little grey man, midst a shower of blood, in a whirlwind was hurl'd into sombermond's wood, no. xx. glenfinlas, or lord ronald's coronach.* “ for them the viewless forms of air obey, “ their bidding heed, and at their beck repair: “ they know what spirit brews the stormful day, “ and heartless oft, like moody madness, stare “ to see the phantom train their secret work prepare." original. walter scott. glenfinlas is a tract of forest ground lying in the highlands of perthshire, not far from callender, in menteith. to the west of the forest of glen- finlas lies loch katrine, and its romantic uvenue, called the troshachs, benledi, benmore, and benvoirlich, are mountains in the same district, and at no great distance from glenfinlas. the river teith passes cal- lender and the castle of doune, and joins the forth near stirling. the pass of lenny is immediately above callender, and is the principal access to the highlands, from that town. glenartney is a forest near ben- voirlich. the whole forms a sublime tract of alpine scenery. o hone a rie! o hone a rie! the pride of albin's line is o’er, and fallen glenartney's stateliest tree,- we ne'er shall see lord ronald more! * coronach is the lamentation for a deceased warrior, sung by the aged of the clan. ohone a rie signifies " alas for the prince or chief." o, sprung from great macgilliannore, the chief that never fear'd a foe, how matchless was thy broad claymore, how deadly thine unerring bow. well can the saxon* widows tell how, on the teith's resounding shore, the boldest lowland warriors fell, as down from lenny's pass you bore. nny but in his halls, on festal day, how blazed lord ronald's beltane + tree; while youths and maids the light strathspey so nimbly danced with highland glee. cheer'd by the strength of ronald's shell, e'en age forgot his tresses hoar ;- but now the loud lament we swell, o ne'er to see lord ronald more! * the term sassenach, or saxon, is applied by the highlanders to their low-country neighbours. beltane-tree; the fires lighted by the highlanders on the first of may, in compliance with a custom derived from the pagan times, are so called. it is a festival celebrated with various superstitious rites, both in the north of scot- land and in wales. from distant isles a chieftain came, the joys of ronald's halls to find, and chase with him the dark brown game that bounds o'er albin's hills of wind, 'twas moy; whom in columba's isle the seer's prophetic spirit * found, as with a minstrel's fire the while he waked his harp's harmonious sound, w full many a spell to him was known, which wandering spirits shrink to hear, and many a lay of potent tone was never meant for mortal ear. for there, 'tis said, in mystic mood high converse with the dead they hold, and oft espy the fated shroud that shall the future corpse infold, * seer's spirit. i can only describe the second sight, by adopting dr. john- son's definition, who calls it “ an impression either by the mind upon the eye, or by the eye upon the mind, by whịch things distant and future are perceived and seen as if they were present.” to which i would only add, that the spec- tral appearances thus presented usually presage misfortune; that the faculty is painful to those who suppose they possess it; and that they usually acquire it while themselves under the pressure of melancholy. the moon, half hid in silvery flakes, afar her dubious radiance shed, quivering on katrine’s distant lakes, and resting on benledi's head. now in their hut, in social guise, their sylvan fare the chiefs enjoy, and pleasure laughs in ronald's eyes, as many a pledge he quaffs to moy. many - what lack we here to crown our bliss, " while thus the pulse of joy beats high, " what but fair woman's yielding kiss, " her panting breath, and melting eye? • to chase the deer of yonder shades, " this morning left their father's pile “ the fairest of our mountain maids, “ the daughters of the proud glengyle. “ long have i sought sweet mary's heart, " and dropp'd the tear, and heaved the sigh ; “ but vain the lover's wily art, beneath a sister's watchful eye. “ but thou may’st teach that guardian fair “ while far with mary i am flown, “ of other hearts to cease her care, “and find it hard to guard her own. “ touch but thy harp, thou soon shalt see “ the lovely flora of glengyle, “ unmindful of her charge, and me, “ hang on thy notes 'twixt tear and smile. “ or if she choose a melting tale, “ all underneath the greenwood bough, “ will good st. oran's * rule prevail, “ stern huntsman of the rigid brow ?" "since enrick's fight, since morna's death, “ no more on me shall rapture rise, • responsive to the panting breath, “ or yielding kiss, or melting eyes. ". e'en then when o'er the heath of woe, “ where sunk my hopes of love and fame, “i bade my harp's wild wailings flow, “on me the seer's sad spirit came. * st. oran was a friend and follower of st. columbus, and was buried in icolmkill. “ the last dread curse of angry heaven, “ with ghastly sights, and sounds of woe, “ to dash each glimpse of joy was given, “ the gift, the future ill to know. “ the bark thou saw'st yon summer morn “so gaily part from lulan's bay, “ my eye beheld her dash'd and torn “ far on the rocky colensay. the fergus tooấthy sister's son, “ thou saw'st with pride the gallant's power, “ as, marching 'gainst the laird of downe, “ he left the skirts of huge benmore. “ thou only saw'st his banners wave, " as down benvoirlich's side they wound, .“ heard'st but the pibroch * answering brave “ to many a target clanking round. “ i heard the groans, i mark’d the tears, .“ i saw the wound his bosom bore, “ when on the serried saxon spears “ he pour’d his clan's resistless roar. * a piece of martial music adapted to the highland bagpipes. “ and thou who bidst me think of bliss, " and bidst my heart awake to glee, “ and court, like thee, the wanton kiss, " that heart, o ronald, bleeds for thee! “ i see the death damps chill thy brow, “ i hear the warning spirit cry; “the corpse-lights dance--they're gone, and now....! " no more is given to gifted eye!”— w . . " alone enjoy thy dreary dreams, “ sad prophet of the evil hour; “say, should we scorn joy's transient beams, “ because to-morrow's storm may lour? u morrow m may “ or sooth, or false thy words of woe, . “ clangillian's chieftain ne'er shall fear; “ his blood shall bound at rapture's glow, “ though doom’d to stain the saxon spear. pn ic “ e'en now, to meet me in yon dell, “ my mary's buskins brush the dew;"- he spoke, nor bade the chief farewell, but callid his dogs, and gay withdrew. . within an hour return'd each hound, in rush'd the rouzers of the deer; they howld in melancholy sound, then closely couch'd beside the seer. no ronald yet—though midnight came, and sad were moy's prophetic dreams, as bending o'er the dying flame he fed the watch-fire's quivering gleams. iveri ns. loa sudden the hounds erect their ears, and sudden cease their moaning howl; close press’d to moy, they mark their fears by shivering limbs, and stifled growl. s untouch'd the harp began to ring, as softly, slowly, oped the door, and shook responsive every string, as light a footstep press'd the floor. and by the watch-fire’s glimmering light, close by the minstrel's side was seen an huntress maid, in beauty bright, all dropping wet her robes of green. ol all dropping wet her garments seem, chillid was her cheek, her bosom bare, as bending o'er the dying gleam, she wrung the moisture from her hair. wrun with maiden blush she softly said, -"o gentle huntsman, hast thou seen, “ in deep glenfinlas' moon-light glade, “ a lovely maid in vest of green : • with her a chief in highland pride, “ his shoulders bear the hunter's bow; " the mountain dirk adorns his side, “ far on the wind his tartans flow?”— _" and who art thou; and who are they ?” all ghastly gazing, moy replied ; " and why, beneath the moon's pale ray, “ dare ye thus roam glenfinlas' side ?”— ii _" where wild loch katrine pours her tide " blue, dark, and deep, round many an isle, “our father's towers o'erhang her side, “ the castle of the bold glengyle. k " to chase the dun glenfinlas deer, • our woodland course this morn we bore, “ and haply met, while wandering here, “ the son of great macgilliannore. son nore. “ o aid me then to seek the pair, “whom loitering in the woods i lost; “ alone i dare not venture there, “ where walks, they say, the shrieking ghost.”— -"yes, many a shrieking ghost walks there; ." then first, my own sad vow to keep, “ here will i pour my midnight prayer, “ which still must rise when mortals sleep.”— -"o first, for pity's gentle sake, “guide a lone wanderer on her way, - for i must cross the haunted brake, “and reach my father's towers ere day.”— wers -“ first three times tell each ave-bead, “ and thrice a pater noster say, . then kiss with me t • so shall we safely wind our way.”- _" () shame to knighthood strange and foul! “ go doff the bonnet from thy brow, " and shroud thee in the monkish cowl, “ which best befits thy sullen brow. ow. “ not so, by high dunlathmon's fire, “ thy heart was froze to faith and joy, " when gaily rung thy raptured lyre, “ to wanton morna's melting eye.”— . wild stared the minstrel's eyes of flame, and high his sable locks arose, and quick his colour went and came, as fear and rage alternate rose. --" and thou! when by the blazing oak “i lay, to her and love resign'd, “say, rode ye on the eddying smoke, • or sail'd ye on the midnight wind ? ne a rac “ not thine a race of mortal blood, “ nor old glengyle's pretended line; • thy dame, the lady of the flood, “ thy sire, the monarch of the mine.”— no. xxi. the eve of saint john. original.-walter scott. smaylho’me, or smallholm tower, the scene of the following ballad, is situated on the northern boundary of roxburghshire, among a cluster of wild rocks, called sandiknow-crags, the property of hugh scott, esq. of harden. the tower is a high square building, surrounded by an outer wall, now ruinous. the circuit of the outer court being defended, on three sides, by a precipice and morass, is only accessible from the west, by a steep and rocky path. the apartments, as usual, in a border keep, or fortress, are placed one above another, and communicate by a narrow stair ; on the roof are two bartizans, or platforms, for defence or pleasure. the inner door of the tower is wood, the outer an iron grate ; the distance between them being nine feet, the thickness, namely, of the wall. from the elevated situation of smaylho’me tower, it is seen many miles in every direction. among the crags by which it is surrounded, one more eminent is called the watchfold, and is said to have been the station of a beacon in the times of war with england. without the tower-court is a ruined chapel. tose the baron of smaylho’me rose with day, he spurr’d his courser on, without stop or stay, down the rocky way irser that leads to brotherstone. , the bittern clamour'd from the moss, “ the wind blew loud and shrill, “ yet the craggy pathway she did cross “ to the eiry* beacon hill. ross “ i watch'd her steps, and silent came “ where she sate her on a stone; “ no watchman stood by the dreary flame, " it burned all alone. “ the second night i kept her in sight, “ till to the fire she came; " and by mary's might, an armed knight “stood by the lonely flame. “ and many a word that warlike lord “ did speak to my lady there, “ but the rain fell fast, and loud blew the blast, " and i heard not what they were. “ the third night there the sky was fair, " and the mountain blast was still, “ as again i watch'd the secret pair, “ on the lonesome beacon hill; . * eiry is a scotch expression, signifying the feeling inspired by the dread of apparitions. - though the blood-hound be mute, and the rush beneath my foot, " and the warder his bugle should not blow,.. “ yet there sleepeth a priest in the chamber to the east, “ and my footstep he would know.”— _" o fear not the priest who sleepeth to the east, “for to dryburgh * the way he has ta’en ; “ and there to say mass, till three days do pass, “ for the soul of a knight that is slayne.”— “ he turn’d him around, and grimly he frown’d, " then he laugh'd right scornfully- _" he who says the mass rite, for the soul of that knight, . may as well say mass for me. ma: me. ave “ at the lone midnight hour, when bad spirits have power, " in thy chamber will i be.”— “with that he was gone, and my lady left alone, “ and no more did i see.”— then changed i trow, was that bold baron's brow, from dark to blood-red high. * dryburgh abbey is beautifully situated on the banks of the tweed. after its dissolution it became the property of the haliburtons of newmains, and is now the seat of the right honourable the earl of buchan. " where fair tweed flows round holy melrose, “ and eildon slopes to the plain, " full three nights ago, by some secret foe, “ that gallant knight was slain. ras slain. “ the varying light deceiv'd thy sight, " and the wild winds drown'd the name, “ for the dryburgh bells ring, and the black friars sing, “ for sir richard of coldinghame.”— he pass’d the court-gate, and he oped the tower grate, and he mounted the narrow stair, to the bartizan-seat, where, with maids that on her wait, he found his lady fair. that lady sat in mournful mood, look'd over hill and vale, over tweed's fair flood, and mertoun's wood, and all down tiviotdale. -"now hail! now hail! thou lady bright!"- -- now hail! thou baron true! “what news what news, from ancram fight? “ what news from the bold buccleuch ?”— ews c w ris _" the ancram moor is red with gore, " for many a southern fell; " and buccleuch has charged us evermore, “ to watch our beacons well.”— the lady blush'd red, but nothing she said, nor added the baron a word; then she stepp'd down the stair to her chamber fair, and so did her moody lord. in sleep the lady mourn'd, and the baron toss'd and turn’d, and oft to himself he said, - the worms around him creep, and his bloody grave is deep, " it cannot give up the dead.” - it was near the ringing of matin bell, the night was well nigh done, when a heavy sleep on that baron fell, on the eve of good st. john. the lady look'd through the chamber fair, by the light of a dying flame, and she was aware of a knight stood there, sir richard of coldinghame. l _" alas! away! away!"—she cried, " for the holy virgin's sake.”- - lady, i know who sleeps by thy side ; " but, lady, he will not awake. “ by eildon-tree, for long nights three, " in bloody grave have i lain; “ the mass and the death-prayer are said for me, " but, lady, they're said in vain. vain. “ by the baron's brand, near tweed's fair strand, “ most foully slain i fell, “ and my restless sprite on the beacon height - for a space is doom'd to dwell. " at our trysting-place, * for a certain space, “i must wander to and fro; “ but i had not had power to come to thy bower “ had’st thou not conjured me so." — love master'd fear-her brow she cross'd; -" how, richard, hast thou sped ? “ and art thou saved, or art thou lost?”- the vision shook his head! * trysting-place, scottish for place of rendezvous. -"w ho spilleth life, shall forfeit life; “ so bid thy lord believe : “ and lawless love is guilt above; “ this awful sign receive.”- he laid his left hand on an oaken stand, his right hand on her arm: . the lady shrunk, and fainting sunk, for the touch was fiery warm. the sable score of fingers four remain on that board impress’d, and for evermore that lady wore a covering on her wrist. nun. ver there is a nun in melrose bower ne’er looks upon the sun; there is a monk in dryburgh tower, he speaketh word to none. that nun who ne'er beholds the day, · that monk who speaks to none, that nun was smaylho'me's lady gay, that monk the bold baron. no. xxii. frederick and alice. german. walter scott. this ballad is translated (but with such alterations and additions, that it may almost be called original) from the fragment of a romance, sung in goethe's opera of “claudina von villa bella.” frederick leaves the land of france, homewards hastes his steps to measure; careless casts the parting glance on the scene of former pleasure ; joying in his prancing steed, keen to prove his untried blade, hope's gay dreams the soldier lead over mountain, moor, and glade. helpless, ruin'd, left forlorn, lovely alice wept alone; mourn'd o'er love's fond contract torn, hope, and peace, and honour flown. wn. mark her breast's convulsive throbs ! see, the tear of anguish flows ! mingling soon with bursting sobs, loud the laugh of frenzy rose. v wild she cursed, and wild she pray'd; seven long days and nights are o'er; death in pity brought his aid, as the village bell struck four, far from her, and far from france, faithless frederick onward rides, marking blythe the morning's glance mantling o'er the mountain's sides. heard ye not the boding sound, as the tongue of yonder tower, slowly, to the hills around, told the fourth, the fated hour? starts the steed, and snuffs the air, yet no cause of dread appears;, bristles high the rider's hair, struck with strange mysterious fears. long drear vaults before him lie! glimmering lights are seen to glide! —“ blessed mary hear my cry! deign a sinner's steps to guide!"- sinner often lost their quivering beam, still the lights move slow before, till they rest their ghastly gleam, right against an iron door. thundering voices from within, mix'd with peals of laughter, rose ; as they fell, a solemn strain lent its wild and wondrous close! midst the din, he seem'd to hear voice of friends, by death removed ;- -well he knew that solemn air, 'twas the lay that alice loved.- now hark! for now a solemn knell four times on the still night broke ; four times, at its deaden'd swell, echoes from the ruins spoke. as the lengthen’d clangours die, slowly opes the iron door! straight a banquet met his eye, but a funeral's form it wore ! coffins for the seats extend; all with black the board was spread, girt by parent, brother, friend, long since number'd with the dead! alice, in her grave clothes bound, ghastly smiling, points a sext; all arose with thundering sound; all the expected stranger greet. high their meagre arms they wave, • wild their notes of welcome swell; - welcome, traitor, to the grave! “ perjured, bid the light farewell.”— no. xxiii. the wild huntsmen. german. walter scott. the tradition of the “wild huntsmen” (die wilde jäger) is a popular superstition, very generally believed by the peasants of germany. whoever wishes for more information respecting these imaginary sportsmen, will find his curiosity fully satisfied, by perusing the first volume of the german romance of “ the necromancer;" (der geister-banner.) the original of this ballad is by bürger, author of the well-known “ leonora.” the wildgrave* winds his bugle horn; to horse, to horse, halloo, halloo! his fiery courser snuffs the morn, and thronging serfs their lord pursue. the eager pack, from couples freed, dash through the bush, the brier, the brake; while answering hound, and horn, and steed, the mountain echoes startling wake. swe * the wildgrave is a german title, corresponding to the earl warden of a royal forest. the beams of god's own hallow'd day had painted yonder spire with gold, and, calling sinful man to pray, loud, long, and deep the bell had tolld. but still the wildgrave onward rides ; halloo, halloo, and hark again! when, spurring from opposing sides, two stranger horsemen join the train. who was each stranger, left and right, well may i guess, but dare not tell: the right-hand steed was silver white, the left, the swarthy hue of hell. s the right-hand horseman, young and fair, his smile was like the morn of may; the left, from eye of tawny glare, shot midnight lightning's lurid ray. he wav'd his huntsman's cap on high, cry’d, “ welcome, welcome, noble lord ! “ what sport can earth, or sea, or sky, “ to match the princely chase, afford?”— - cease thy loud bugle's clanging knell,” — cry'd the fair youth, with silver voice; _" and for devotion's choral swell, “ exchange the rude unhallow'd noise. nuo olse “ to-day th' ill-omen'd chase forbear; “ yon bell yet summons to the fane : “ to-day the warning spirit hear, • to-morrow thou may’st mourn in vain.”- - away, and sweep the glades along!"- the sable hunter hoarse replies; —“ to muttering monks leave matin song, " and bells, and books, and mysteries." - the wildgrave spurr’d his ardent steed, and, launching forward with a bound, —“ who for thy drowsy priestlike rede “ would leave the jovial horn and hound? “ hence, if our manly sport offend: “ with pious fools go chaunt and pray; “ well hast thou spoke, my dark-brow'd friend, - “ halloo ! halloo! and hark away!"- coni .. the wildgrave spurr'd his courser light, o'er moss and moor, o'er holt and hill, and on the left, and on the right, each stranger horseman follow'd still. up springs, from yonder tangled thorn, a stag more white than mountain snow; and louder rung the wildgrave's horn, -"hark forward, forward, holla, ho!"- a heedless wretch has cross'd the way, he gasps the thundering hoofs below; but, live who can, or die who may, still forward, forward! on they go. see where yon simple fences meet, a field with autumn's blessings crown'd; see, prostrate at the wildgrave's feet, a husbandman with toil embrown'd. -"o mercy! mercy! noble lord; "spare the poor's pittance," was his cry, “ earn’d by the sweat these brows have pour’d “ in scorching hour of fierce july.”— earnest the right-hand stranger pleads, the left still cheering to the prey : the impetuous earl no warning heeds, but furious holds the onward way. onw _" away, thou hound, so basely born, “ or dread the scourge's echoing blow!"- then loudly rung his bugle-horn, —“ hark forward, forward, holla ho!"- un so said, so done-a single bound clears the poor labourer's humble pale: wild follows man, and horse, and hound, like dark december's stormy gale. and man, and horse, and hound, and horn, destructive sweep the field along, while joying o'er the wasted corn fell famine marks the madd’ning throng. rn again up roused, the timorous prey scours moss and moor, and holt and hill; hard run, he feels his strength decay, and trusts for life his simple skill. too dangerous solitude appear'd; he seeks the shelter of the crowd; amid the flock's domestic herd his harmless head he hopes to shroud. o'er moss and moor, and holt and hill, his track the steady blood-hounds trace ; o'er moss and moor, unwearied still, the furious earl pursues the chase. full lowly did the herdsman fall; -“o spare, thou noble baron, spare “ these herds, a widow's little all; “ these flocks, an orphan’s fleecy care."- earnest the right-hand stranger pleads, the left still cheering to the prey ; the earl nor prayer nor pity heeds, but furious keeps the onward way. - unmanner'd dog ! to stop my sport “ vain were thy cant and beggar whine, “ though human spirits of thy sort “ were tenants of these carrion kine!"- again he winds his bugle horn, -" hark forward, forward, holla, ho!"- and through the herd, in ruthless scorn, he cheers his furious hounds to go. . in heaps the throttled victims fall; down sinks their mangled herdsman near; the murd'rous cries the stag appal, again he starts, new-nerv'd by fear. with blood besmear'd, and white with foam, while big the tears of anguish pour, he seeks, amid the forest’s gloom, the humble hermit's hallow'd bour. but man and horse, and horn and hound, fast rattling on his traces go; the sacred chapel rung around with hark away, and holla, ho ! all mild, amid the route profane, the holy hermit pour'd his prayer: -"forbear with blood god's house to stain; “ revere his altar, and forbear! “ the meanest brute has rights to plead, " which, wrong'd by cruelty, or pride, “ draw vengeance on the ruthless head ;- “ be warn’d at length, and turn aside." w ve war still the fair horseman anxious pleads, the black, wild whooping, points the prey; alas! the earl no warning heeds, but frantic keeps the forward way. wa -"holy or not, or right or wrong, “ thy altar and its rights i spurn; “ not sainted martyrs’ sacred song, “ not god himself, shall make me turn."- he spurs his horse, he winds his horn, _" hark forward, forward, holla, ho!"- but off, on whirlwind's pinions borne, the stag, the hut, the hermit, go. and horse and man, and horn and hound, and clamour of the chase was gone : for hoofs and howls, and bugle sound, a deadly silence reign'd alone. ica wild gazed the affrighted earl around ;- he strove in vain to wake his horn, in vain to call; for not a sound could from his anxious lips be borne. he listens for his trusty hounds; no distant baying reach'd his ears ; his courser, rooted to the ground, : the quickening spur unmindful bears. still dark and darker frown the shades, dark as the darkness of the grave; and not a sound the still invades, save what a distant torrent gave. ve y е! high o'er the sinner's humbled head at length the solemn silence broke; and from a cloud of swarthy red, the awful voice of thunder spoke. -“ oppressor of creation fair : " a postate spirit's harden'd tool! “scorner of god! scourge of the poor! “ the measure of thy cup is full. m the wildgrave flies o’er bush and thorn, with many a shriek of helpless woe; behind him hound, and horse, and horn, and hark away, and holla, ho! with wild despair's reverted eye, close, close behind, he marks the throng; with bloody fangs, and eager cry, . in frantic fear he scours along. still, still shall last the dreadful chase, till time itself shall have an end; by day, they scour earth's cavern'd space, at midnight's witching hour, ascend. this is the horn, and hound, and horse, that oft the lated peasant hears : appall’d, he signs the frequent cross, when the wild din invades his ears. the wakeful priest oft drops a tear for human pride, for human woe, when, at his midnight mass, he hears the infernal cry of holla, ho! rs m rkeles series factumque est ut præceperat illis. sed, proh dolor! nil preces, nil lacrymæ, nil demum valuere catena. primis enim duabus noctibus, cum chori psallentium corpori assistabant, advenientes dæmones ostium ecclesiæ confregerunt ingenti obice clausum, extremasque cathenas negotio levi dirumpunt: media autem, quæ fortior erat, illibata manebat. tertiâ autem nocte, circa gallicinium, strepitu hostium adventantium, omne monasterium visum est a fundamento moveri. unus ergo dæmonum, et vultu cæteris terribilior, et staturá eminentior, januas eccle- sice impetu violento concussas in fragmenta dejecit. divexerunt clerici cum laicis, metu steterunt oninium capilli, et psalmorum concentus defecit. dæmon ergo gestu ut videbatur arroganti ad sepulchrum accedens, et nomen mulieris modicum ingeminans, surgere imperavit. quá respondente, quod nequiret pro vinculis, jam malo tuo, inquit, solveris ; et protinus cathenam quæ cæterorum ferociam dæmonium deluserat, velut stuppeum vinculum rumpebat. operculum etiam sepulchri pede depellens, mulierem palam omnibus ab ecclesiâ extraxit, ubi præ foribus niger equus superbe hinniens videbatur, uncis ferreis et clavis undique confixus, super quem misera mulier projecta, ab oculis assistentium evanuit, audiebantur tamen clamores, per quatuor fere miliaria, horribiles, auxilium postulantes. ista itaque quæ retuli incredibilia non erunt, si legatur beati gregorii dialogus, in quo refert, hominem in ecclesia sepultum, a dæmonibus foras ejectum. et apud francos, carolus martellus insignis vir fortudinis, qui saracenos galliam in- gressos, hispaniam redire compulit, exactis vitæ suæ diebus, in ecclesiâ beati dionysii legitur fuisse sepultus. sed quia patrimonia, cum decimis omnium fere ecclesiarum galliæ, pro stipendio commilitonum suorum mutilaverat, miserabiliter 'a malignis spiritibus de sepulchro corporaliter avulsus, usque in hodiernum diem nusquam comparuit. matthew of westminster. this story is also related by olaus magnus ; and in the nuremberg chronicle. peadaa io quis modura. colori fili to e dolor morbu , et mis loquitur ni seront a. en animo & corte es per mi n in cori et plus the raven croak'd as she sate at her meal, and the old woman knew what he said, and she grew pale at the raven’s tale, es circut and sicken'd, and want to her bed. es presta rsarior te humo : —“ all kind of sin i have rioted in, ." and the judgment now must be ; " but i secured my childrens' souls, “oh! pray, my children, for me! “ i have suck'd the breath of sleeping babes, “ the fiends have been my slaves : “ i have nointed myself with infants' fat, " and feasted on rifled graves. " and the fiend will fetch me now in fire, “my witchcrafts to atone; " and i, who have rifled the dead man's grave, “ shall never have rest in my own. “bless, i intreat, my winding sheet, “my children, i beg of you! .'" and with holy water sprinkle my shroud, “ and sprinkle my coffin too. “ and let me be chain’d in my coffin of stone, " and fasten it strong, i implore, “ with iron bars; and let it be chain'd " with three chains to the church floor. Οι “ and bless the chains, and sprinkle them; “ and let fifty priests stand round, “ who night and day the mass may say “ where i lie on the ground. massn “ and let fifty choristers be there, “ the funeral dirge to sing, who day and night, by the tapers' light, " their aid to me may bring. “let the church bells all, both great and small, "be tolld by night and day, " to drive from thence the fiends who come “ to bear my corpse away. . . “ and ever have the church door barr'd .“ after the even song; “ and i beseech you, children dear, “let the bars and bolts be strong. " and let this be three days and nights, • my wretched corpse to save ; “ preserve me so long from the fiendish throng, * and then i may rest in my grave.”- the old woman of berkeley laid her down, and her eyes grew deadly dim, short came her breath, and the struggle of death did loosen every limb., ve they bless'd the old woman's winding sheet with rites and prayers as due ; with holy water they sprinkled her shroud, and they sprinkled her coffin too. in and they chain'd her in a coffin of stone, and with iron barr'd it down; and in the church, with three strong chains, they chain'd it to the ground. and they bless'd the chains, and sprinkled them, and fifty priests stood round, by night and day the mass to say where she lay on the ground. and fifty choristers were there to sing the funeral song, and a hallow'd taper blazed in the hand of all the sacred throng. . the cock he crew, away then flew the fiends from the herald of day; and undisturb’d the choristers sing, and the fifty priests they pray. the third night came, and the tapers' flame a hideous stench did make; and they burnt as though they had been dipp’d in the burning brimstone lake. and the loud commotion, like the rushing of ocean, grew momently more and more, · and strokes, as of a battering ram, did shake the strong church door. the bellmen they, for very fear, could toll the bell no longer; and still, as louder grew the strokes, their fear it grew the stronger. the monk and nun forgot their beads, they fell on the ground dismay'd; there was not a single saint in heaven whom they did not call to aid. was en and the choristers' song, that late was so strong, grew a quaver of consternation, for the church did rock, as an earthquake shock uplifted its foundation. and a sound was heard like the trumpet’s blast, that shall one day wake the dead; the strong church door could bear no more, and the bolts and the bars they fled. as and the tapers' light was extinguish'd quite, and the choristers faintly sung, and the priests, dismay’d, panted and pray'd, till fear froze every tongue. and in he came, with eyes of flame, the fiend to fetch the dead, and all the church with his presence glow'd like a fiery furnace red. i he laid his hand on the iron chains, and like filax they moulder'd asunder; and the coffin lid, that was barr'd so firm, he burst with his voice of thunder. ; no. xxv. bishop bruno. robert southey. bishop bruno awoke in the dead and he heard his heart beat loud with affright, he dreamt he had rung the palace bell, and the sound it gave was his passing knell. s so ya bishop bruno smiled at his fears so vain, he turn’d to sleep, and he dreamt again ; he rung at the palace gate once more, and death was the porter that open'd the door. he started up at the fearful dream, and he heard at his window the screech-owl scream; bishop bruno slept no more that night, o glad was he when he saw the day-light. now forth he goes in proud array, for he with the emperor dines to-day; there was not a baron in germany, that went with a nobler train than he. before and behind his soldiers ride, the people throng’d to see the pride ; they bow'd the head, and the knee they bent, but nobody bless'd him as he went. he went so stately and so proud, when he heard a voice that cried aloud — --" ho! ho! bishop bruno! you travel with glee, “ but know, bishop bruno, you travel to me.” behind, and before, and on either side, he look’d, but nobody he espied; and the bishop he grew cold with fear, for he heard the words distinct and clear. and when he rung at the palace bell, he almost expected to hear his knell ; and when the porter turn'd the key, he almost expected death to see. but soon the bishop recover'd his glee, for the emperor welcom'd him royally; and now the tables were spread, and there were choicest wines, and dainty fare. vere and now the bishop had bless'd the meat, when a voice was heard, as he sat in his seat; -" with the emperor now you are dining in glee, “ but know, bishop bruno, you sup with me." the bishop then grew pale with affright, and instantly lost his appetite; and all the wine and dainty cheer could not comfort his heart so sick with fear. clc but by little and little recover'd he, for the wine went flowing merrily, and he forgot his former dread, and his cheeks again grew rosy red. when he sat down to the royal fare, bishop bruno was the saddest man there ; but when the maskers enter'd the hall, he was the merriest man of all. : then from amid the maskers' crowd there went a voice hollow and loud; _“you have pass'd the day, bishop bruno, with glee, “ but you must pass the night with me!"- his cheek grows pale, and his eye-balls glare, and stiff round his tonsure rises his hair : with that there came one from the maskers' band, and he took the bishop by the hand. marrow the bony hand suspended his breath, his marrow grew cold at the touch of death ; on saints in vain he attempted to call- bishop bruno fell dead in the palace hall. no. xxvi. lord william. robert southey. no eye beheld when william plunged young edmund in the stream; no human ear but william's heard young edmund's drowning scream. submissive all the vassals own'd the murderer for their lord, and he, the rightful heir, possess'd the house of erlingford. the ancient house of erlingford stood midst a fair domain, and severn's ample waters near roll'd through the fertile plain. na and often the way-faring man would love to linger there, forgetful of his onward road, to gaze on scenes so fair. everc but never could lord william dare to gaze on severn's stream; in every wind that swept its waves he heard young edmund scream. cream. in vain at midnight's silent hour sleep closed the murderer's eyes ; in every dream the murderer saw young edmund's form arise. er sa w in vain, by restless conscience driven, lord william left his home, far from the scenes that saw his guilt, in pilgrimage to roam. to other climes the pilgrim fled, but could not fly despair ; he sought his home again, but peace was still a stranger there. . reluctant now, as night came on, his lonely couch he press’d; and, wearied out, he sunk to sleep, to sleep, but not to rest. beside that couch his brother's form, lord edmund, seem'd to stand, such and so pale as when in death he grasp'd his brother's hand : such and so pale his face as when, with faint and faltering tongue, to william's care, a dying charge, he left his orphan son. _" i bade thee, with a father's love, “ my orphan edmund guard; “ well, william, hast thou kept thy charge! “ now take thy due reward."- he started up, each limb convulsed with agonizing fear; he only heard the storm of night- 'twas music to his ear. when lo! the voice of loud alarm his inmost soul appals, _" what ho! lord william, rise in haste! “ the water saps thy walls!"- he rose in haste: beneath the walls he saw the flood appear; it hemm'd him round, 'twas midnight now, no human aid was near. man near. he heard the shout of joy, for now a boat approach'd the wall, and, eager to the welcome aid, they crowd for safety all. -"my boat is small,” the boatman cried, “ this dangerous haste forbear! “ wait other aid; this little bark “ but one from hence can bear.”_ lord william leap'd into the boat, —“ haste-haste to yonder shore ! “ and ample wealth shall well reward, “ ply swift and strong the oar.”- the boatman plied the oar, the boat went light along the stream; sudden lord william heard a cry like edmund's drowning scream. wica the boatman paus’d, —" methought i heard “a child's distressful cry!"- lo 'twas but the howling wind of night,” lord william made reply. “ haste, haste--ply swift and strong the oar ! " haste-haste across the stream!"- again lord william heard a cry like edmund's drowning scream. —“ i heard a child's distressful scream,”— the boatman cried again. _" nay, hasten on—the night is dark- “and we should search in vain.”_ o -"oh god! lord william, dost thou know “ how dreadful 'tis to die? " and can’st thou without pity hear “ a child's expiring cry? “ how horrible it is to sink “ beneath the chilly stream, “to stretch the powerless arms in vain, .“ in vain for help to scream ?"- arms in me the shriek again was heard. it came more deep, more piercing loud; (that instant o'er the flood the moon shone through a broken cloud. ) c and near them they beheld a child, upon a crag he stood, a little crág, and all around was spread the rising flood. the boatman plied the oar, the boat approach'd his resting place, the moon-beam shone upon the child and show'd how pale his face. soov --" now reach thine hand!” the boatman cried, - lord william reach and save!"- the child stretch'd forth his little hands, to grasp the hand he gave. then william shriek'd; the hand he touch'd was cold, and damp, and dead! he felt young edmund in his arms, a heavier weight than lead. the boat sunk down, the murderer sunk beneath the avenging stream ; he rose, he scream'd!—no human ear heard william's drowning scream. now the painter was bold, and religious beside, and on faith he had certain reliance ; so earnestly he all his countenance eyed, and thank'd him for sitting, with catholic pride, and sturdily bade him defiance. betimes in the morning the painter arose, he is ready as soon as 'tis light ; every look, every line, every feature he knows, 'tis fresh in his eye, to his labour he goes, and he has the old wicked one quite. ma ce can happy man, he is sure the resemblance can't fail, the tip of the nose is red hot, there's his grirr and his fangs, his skin cover'd with scale, and that the identical curl of his tail, not a mark, not a claw is forgot. he looks, and retouches again with delight; 'tis a portrait complete to his mind! he touches again, and again feeds his sight, he looks round for applause, and he sees, with affright, the original standing behind. —“ fool! idiot!" old beelzebub grinn'd as he spoke, and stamp'd on the scaffold in ire ; the painter grew pale, for he knew it no joke, 'twas a terrible height, and the scaffolding broke; the devil could wish it no higher. -" help! help me! o mary!” he cried in alarm, as the scaffold sunk under his feet. from the canvas the virgin extended her arm, she caught the good painter, she saved him from harm, there were thousands who saw in the street. canvas toit the old dragon fled when the wonder he 'spied, and cursed his own fruitless endeavour; while the painter call’d after, his rage to deride, shook his pallet and brushes in triumph, and cried, -"now i'll paint thee more ugly than ever!"- more part ii. the painter so pious all praise had acquired, for defying the malice of hell: the monks the unerring resemblance admired, not a lady lived near but her portrait desired from one who succeeded so well. tic one there was to be painted, the number among, of features most fair to behold, the country around of fair marguerite rung; marguerite she was lovely, and lively, and young, her husband was ugly and old. oh! painter, avoid her! oh! painter, take care ! for satan is watchful for you! take heed, lest you fall in the wicked one's snare, the net is made ready-oh! painter, beware of satan and marguerite too! are. she seats herself now, now she lifts up her head, on the artist she fixes her eyes ; the colours are ready, the canvas is spread, he lays on the white, and he lays on the red, and the features of beauty arise. he is come to her eyes, eyes so bright and so blue, there's a look that he cannot express, his colours are dull to their quick-sparkling hue, more and more on the lady he fixes his view, on the canvas he looks less and less. in vain he retouches, her eye sparkles more, and that look that fair marguerite gave: many devils the artist had painted of yore, but he never attempted an angel before, st. anthony help him, and save! eve he yielded, alas! for the truth must be told, to the woman, the tempter, and fate ; it was settled, the lady so fair to behold, should elope from her husband, so ugly and old, with the painter so pious of late. now satan exults in his vengeance complete, to the husband he makes the scheme known; night comes, and the lovers impatiently meet, together they fly, they are seized in the street, and in prison the painter is thrown. with repentance, his only companion, he lies, and a dismal companion is she. on a sudden he saw the old serpent arise ; -" you villainous dauber,” old beelzebub cries, “ you are paid for your insults to me. ious “ but my too tender heart it is easy to move, “ if to what i propose you agree. “ that picture—be fair! the resemblance improve, “ make a handsomer picture--your chains i'll remove, " and you shall this instant be free."- no. xxviii. donica. robert southey. in finland there is a castle which is called the new rock, moated about with a river of unsounded depth, the water black, and the fish therein very distasteful to the palate. in this are spectres often seen, which foreshew either the death of the governor, or some prime officer belonging to the place; and most commonly it appeareth in the shape of an harper, sweetly · singing, and dallying and playing under the water. it is reported of one donica, that after she was dead, the devil walked in her body for the space of two years, so that none suspected but she was still alive; for she did both speak and eat, though very sparingly; only she had a deep paleness on her countenance, which was the only sign of death. at length a magician coming by where she was then in the com- pany of many other virgins, as soon as he beheld her he said, “ fair maids why keep you company with this dead virgin whom you suppose to be alive ?” when taking away the magic charm which was tied under her arm, the body fell down lifeless and without motion. the following ballad is founded on these stories. they are to be found in the notes to the hierarchies of the blessed angels; a poem by thomas heywood, printed in folio by adam islip, . high on a rock, whose castled shade darken’d the lake below, in ancient strength majestic stood the towers of arlinkow. and brightly o’er the water stream’d. the liquid radiance wide ; donica's little dog ran on, and gambol'd at her side. youth, health, and love, bloom'd on her cheek; her full dark eyes express in many a glance to eberhard, her soul's meek tenderness. mo so nor sound was heard, nor passing gale sigh'd through the long lank sedge ; the air was hush'd; no little wave dimpled the water's edge. sudden the unfathom'd lake sent forth strange music from beneath, and slowly o'er the waters sail'd the solemn sounds of death. as the deep sounds of death arose, donica's cheek grew pale; and in the arms of eberhard the senseless maiden fell. loudly the youth in terror shriek’d, and loud he callid for aid; and with a wild and eager look gazed on the death-pale maid. no but soon again did better thoughts in eberhard arise, and he with trembling hope beheld the maiden raise her eyes. and on his arm reclined, she moved, with feeble pace and slow, and soon with strength recover'd, reach'd the towers of arlinkow. . yet never to donica's cheek return’d the lively hue; her cheeks were deathy white, and wan, her lips a livid blue. ow her eyes so bright and black of yore, were now more black and bright: and beam'd strange lustre in her face, so deadly wan and white. wd no. xxix. cornelius agrippa's bloody book. robert southey. cornelius agrippa went out one day, his study he lock'd ere he went away; and he gave the key of the door to his wife, and charged her to keep it lock'd on her life. " and if any one ask my study to see, “ i charge you trust them not with the key; “whoever may beg, and intreat, and implore, “ for your life let nobody enter that door.” there lived a young man in the house, who in vain access to that study had strove to obtain, and he begg’d and pray'd the books to see, 'till the foolish woman gave him the key. on the study table a book there lay, which agrippa himself had been reading that day; the letters were written with blood within, and the leaves were made of dead men's skin. and these horrible leaves of magic between were the ugliest pictures that ever were seen; the likeness of things so foul to behold, that what they were is not fit to be told. d the young man he began to read he knew not what, but he would proceed; when there was heard a sound at the door, which, as he read on, grew more and more. and more and more the knocking grew, the young man knew not what to do; but trembling in fear he sat within, 'till the door was broke, and the devil came in. rns two hideous horns on his head he had got, like iron heated nine times red-hot; the breath of his nostrils was brimstone blue, and his tail like a fiery serpent grew. - what would'st thou with me?"—the wicked one cried, but not a word the youth replied ; every hair on his head was standing upright, and his limbs, like a palsy, shook with affright. in w -"what would'st thou with me?”_cried the author of ill, but the wretched young man was silent still; not a word had his lips the power to say, and his marrow seem’d to be melting away. marrow se wa - what would'st thou with me?"- the third time, he cries, and a flash of lightning came from his eyes ; and he lifted his griffin-claw in the air, and the young man had not strength for a prayer. his eyes with a furious joy were possess'd, as he tore the young man's heart from his breast; he grinn'd a horrible grin at his prey, and with claps of thunder vanish'd away. henceforth let all young men take heed how in a conjurer's books they read. wi was never a knight in waldhurst's walls could with this stranger vie; was never youth at aught esteem'd when rudiger was by. s nev was never a maid in waldhurst's walls might match with margaret, her cheek was fair, her eyes were dark, her silken locks like jet. and many a rich and noble youth had strove to win the fair; but never a rich and noble youth could rival rudiger. at every tilt and tourney he still bore away the prize, for knightly feats superior still, and knightly courtesies. his gallant feats, his looks, his love, soon won the willing fair, and soon did margaret become the wife of r ic like morning dreams of happiness fast roll’d the months away; for he was kind, and she was kind, and who so blest as they ? yet rudiger would sometimes sit absorb'd in silent thought, and his dark downward eye would seem with anxious meaning fraught; but soon he raised his looks again, and smiled his cares away, and mid the hall of gaiety was none like him so gay. and onward rolld the waning months, the hour appointed came, and margaret her rudiger hail'd with a father's name. but silently did rudiger the little infant see, and darkly on the babe he gazed, and very sad was he. and when to bless the little babe the holy father came, to cleanse the stains of sin away in christ's redeeming name; then did the cheek of rudiger assume a death-pale hue, and on his clammy forehead stood the cold convulsive dew; and, faltering in his speech, he bade the priest the rites delay, till he could, to right health restored, enjoy the festive day. when o'er the many-tinted sky he saw the day decline, he called upon his margaret to walk beside the rhine. . and we will take the little babe, - for soft the breeze that blows, " and the mild murmurs of the stream • will lull him to repose."- and so together forth they went, the evening breeze was mild, and rudiger, upon his arm, pillow'd the little child. and many a one from waldhurst's walls along the banks did roam; but soon the evening wind came cold, and all betook them home. yet rudiger, in silent mood, along the banks would roam, nor aught could margaret prevail to turn his footsteps home.. - oh, turn thee-turn thee, rudiger, “ the rising mists behold; " the evening wind is damp and chill, .. the little babe is cold!"- - now, hush thee-hush thee, margaret, “ the mists will do no harm; . “ and from the wind, the little babe “ lies shelter'd on my arm."- and swiftly down the hurrying stream in silence still they sail, and the long streamer, fluttering fast, flapp'd to the heavy gale. and he was mute in sullen thought, and she was mute with fear, nor sound but of the parting tide broke on the listening ear. the little babe began to cry, then margaret raised her head, and with a quick and hollow voice, -"give me the child,”—she said. _" now, hush thee-hush thee, märgåret! “ nor my poor heart distress ; "i do but pay, perforce, the price “ of former happiness. “ and hush thee too, my little babe! “ thy cries so feeble, cease : “ lie still, lie still :-- a little while, " and thou shalt be at peace !" p so as he spake to land they drew, and swift he stepp'd on shore; and him behind did margaret close follow evermore. it was a place all desolate, nor house nor tree was there, and there a rocky mountain rose, barren, and bleak, and bare. and at its base a cavern yawn'd, no eye its depth may view, for in the moon-beam shining round, that darkness darker grew. cold horror crept through margaret’s blood, her heart it paused with fear, when rudiger approach'd the cave, and cried,—" lo, i am here!"- a deep sepulchral sound the cave return’d—“ lo, i am here!"- and black from out the cavern gloom two giant arms appear. m . da and rudiger approach’d, and held the little infant nigh; then margaret shriek’d, and gather'd then new powers from agony. and round the baby fast and close her trembling arms she folds, and with a strong convulsive grasp. the little infant holds. -"now, help me, jesus!”—loud she cries, and loud on god she calls ; then from the grasp of rudiger the little infant falls : and loud he shriek'd, for now his frame the huge black arms clasp'd round, and dragg‘d the wretched rudiger adown the dark profound. . no. xxxi. the elfin-king: j. leyden. "o swift, and swifter far he speeds “ than earthly steed can run; “ but i hear not the feet of his courser fleet, “ as he glides o'er the moorland dun."- lone was the strath where he crossed their path, and wide did the heath extend, the knight in green on that moor is seen at every seven years' end. and swift is the speed of his coal-black steed, as the leaf before the gale, but never yet have that courser's feet been heard on hill or dale. arm but woe to the wight who meets the green knight, except on his faulchion arm spell-proof he bear, like the brave st. clair, the holy trefoil's charm; for then shall fly his gifted eye, delusions false and dim; and each unbless'd shade shall stand pourtray'd in ghostly form and limb. o swift, and swifter far he speeds than earthly steed can run; _" he skims the blue air," said the brave st. clair, " instead of the heath so dun. “ his locks are bright as the streamer's light, “ his cheeks like the rose's hue ; “ the elfin-king, like the merlin's wing “ are his pinions of glossy blue.”— ze -“ no elfin-king, with azure wing, “ on the dark brown moor i see ; “ but a courser keen, and a knight in green, " and full fair i ween is he. cours “ nor elfin-king, nor azure wing, “ nor ringlets sparkling bright;" — sir geoffry cried, and forward hied to join the stranger knight. he knew not the path of the lonely strath, where the elfin-king went his round; or he never had gone with the green knight on, nor trode the charmed ground. neve ee how swift they flew! no eye could view their track on heath or hill ; yet swift across both moor and moss st. clair did follow still, and soon was seen a circle green, where a shadowy wassel crew amid the ring did dance and sing, in weeds of watchet blue. and the windlestrae, * so limber and gray, did shiver beneath the tread of the coursers' feet, as they rushed to meet the morrice of the dead. * ryegrass. but forward press'd the dauntless guest to the tables of ezlar red, and there was seen the knight in green, to grace the fair board head. and before that knight was a goblet bright of emerald smooth and green, the fretted brim was studded full trim with mountain rubies sheen. sir geoffry the bold of the cup laid hold, with heath-ale mantling o'er; and he saw as he drank that the ale never shrank, but mantled as before.. then sir geoffry grew pale as he quaffed the ale, and cold as the corpse of clay; and with horny beak the ravens did shriek, and flutter'd o'er their prey. eve but soon throughout the revel rout a strange commotion ran, for beyond the round, they heard the sound of the steps of an uncharm'd man. “ and light and fair are the fields of air, - where he wanders to and fro; “ still doom'd to fleet from the regions of heat, “ to the realms of endless snow. " when high over head fall the streamers * red, “ he views the blessed afar ; “ and in stern despair darts through the air • to earth, like a falling star. "with his shadowy crew, in weeds so blue, “ that knight for aye must run; • except thou succeed in a perilous deed, “ unseen by the holy sun. nsee un. " who ventures the deed, and fails to succeed, “ perforce must join the crew:"_ ' _" then brief, declare,” said the brave st. clair, “a deed that a knight may do." re rema “ mid the sleet and the rain thou must here remain, “ by the haunted green sward ring, “ till the dance wax slow, and the song faint and low, “ which the crew unearthly sing. * northern lights. re " then right at the time of the matin chime, “thou must tread the unhallow'd ground, “ and with mystic pace the circles trace , “ that enclose it nine times round. “ and next must thou pass the rank green grass “ to the tables of ezlar red; “ and the goblet clear away must thou bear, “ nor behind thee turn thy head. az “ and ever anon as thou tread’st upon “ the sward of the green charm'd ring, “ be no word express’d in that space unbless'd “ that 'longeth of holy thing. iso “ for the charm'd ground is all unsound, ." and the lake spreads wide below, “ and the water-fiend there, with the fiend of air, “ is leagued for mortals' woe.”— mid the sleet and the rain did st. clair remain till the evening star did rise ; and the rout so gay did dwindle away to the elritch dwarfy size. when the moon beams pale fell through the white hail, with a wan and a watery ray, sad notes of woe seem'd round him to grow, the dirge of the elfins gray. ic and right at the time of the matin chime his mystic pace began, and murmurs deep around him did creep, like the moans of a murder'd man. nun the matin bell was tolling farewell, when he reach'd the central ring, and there he beheld, to ice congeald, that crew, with the elfin-king. for ay, at the knell of the matin bell, when the black monks wend to pray, the spirits unbless'd have a glimpse of rest before the dawn of day. the sigh of the trees, and the rush of the breeze, then pause on the lonely hill; , and the frost of the dead clings round their head, and they slumber cold and still. the knight took up the emerald cup, and the ravens hoarse did scream, and the shuddering elfins half rose up, and murmur'd in their dream : they inwardly mourn'd, and the thin blood return'd to every icy limb; and each frozen eye, so cold and so dry, 'gan roll with lustre dim. then brave st. clair did turn him there, to retrace the mystic track, he heard the sigh of his lady fair, who sobbed behind his back. he started quick, and his heart beat thick, . and he listen'd in wild amaze; but the parting bell on his ear it fell, and he did not turn to gaze. with panting breast, as he forward press’d, he trode on a mangled head; and the skull did scream, and the voice did seem the voice of his mother dead. he shuddering trode:-on the great name of god he thought,-but he nought did say; and the green sward did shrink, as about to sink, and loud laugh’d the elfins gray. and loud did resound, o'er the unbless'd ground, the wings of the blue elf-king; and the ghostly crew to reach him flew, but he cross’d the charmed ring, the morning was gray, and dying away was the sound of the matin bell; and far to the west the fays that ne'er rest, fled where the moon-beams fell. and sir geoffry the bold, on the unhallow'd mold, arose from the green witch-grass ; and he felt his limbs like a dead man's cold, and he wist not where he was. i was. e and that cup so rare, which the brave st. clair did bear from the ghostly crew, was suddenly changed, from the emerald fair, to the ragged whinstone blue; and instead of the ale that mantled there, was the murky midnight dew. is so shook, so stood, the beauteous maid, when from the dreary den a wrinkled hag came forth, array'd in matted rags obscene. around her brows, with hemlock bound, loose hung her ash-grey hair ; as from two dreary caves profound her blue flamed eye-balls glare. her skin, of earthy red, appear'd clung round her shoulder bones, like wither'd bark, by lightning sear’d when loud the tempest groans. cal a robe of squalid green and blue, her ghostly length array'd, a gaping rent, full to the view her furrow'd ribs betray'd. o w _" and tell, my daughter, fearless tell, " what sorrow brought thee here; “so may my power thy cares expel, “and give thee sweetest cheer.”— -“ , mistress of the powerful spell, “king edric's daughter see ; “ northumbria to my father fell, “ and sorrow fell to me. “my virgin heart lord wolfwold won; “my father on him smiled; “ soon as he gain’d northumbria's throne, “ his pride the youth exiled. “ stern denmark’s ravens o'er the seas “ their gloomy black wings spread, " and o'er northumbria’s hills and leas, " their dreadful squadrons sped. "— return, brave wolfwold,'—edric cried, "o generous warrior, hear, • my daughter's hand, thy willing bride, • awaits thy conquering spear.'— " the banish'd youth in scotland's court “ had pass’d the weary year; " and soon he heard the glad report, " and soon he grasp'd his spear. “ he left the scottish dames to weep, “ and wing’d with true love speed; “ nor day, nor night, he stopt to sleep, “ and soon he cross’d the tweed. otv “ with joyful voice, and raptured eyes, "he press'd my willing hand; “ – i go, my fair, my love,'—he cries, "to guard thy father's land. " • by edon's shore in deathful fray • the daring foe we meet, · ere three short days i trust to lay · my trophies at thy feet.'- “ alas, alas! that time is o'er, " and three long days beside, " yet not a word from edon's shore “ has cheer’d his fearful bride. “ , mistress of the powerful spell, " his doubtful fate decide.”— _" and cease, my child, for all is well,” the grizzly witch replied. a fox and vulture's skeletons a yawning rift betray'd, and grappling still each other's bones, the strife of death display'd. -" and now, my child,” the sorceress said, “ lord wolfwold's father's grave. • to me shall render up the dead, "and send him to my caye. “ his skeleton shall hear my spell, “and to the figured walls “ his hand of bone shall point, and tell • what fate his son befalls." o cold down ulla's snow-like face the trembling sweat drops fell, and, borne by sprites of gliding pace, the corse approach'd the cell. and thrice the witch her magic wand waved o’er the skeleton; and slowly, at the dread command, up rose the arm of bone. e w a cloven shield and broken spear the figure wander'd o’er, then rested on a sable bier distain’d with drops of gore. cere in ghastly writhes her mouth, so wide and black, the sorceress throws, -" and be those signs, my child,” she cried, - fulfill'd on wolfwold's foes ! “ a happier spell i now shall try; “ attend, my child, attend, “ and mark what flames from altar high, " and lowly floor, ascend. “ if of the roses softest red - the blaze shines forth to view, • then wolfwold lives--but hell forbid " the glimmering flame of blue!"- the witch then raised her haggard arm, and waved her wand on high; and, while she spoke the mutter'd charm, dark lightning fill’d her eye. nedl transfer kc hnem live wononnsuu a rok ke tas ticululllele @iex-libristo ve ko a harvard union from the classot sils liituti avov va vt soco vi collection of british author tauchnitz edition. vol. . the gifts of the child christ, etc. by george mac donald. in one volume. tauchnitz edition. by the same author, alec forbes op howglen vols. annals of a quiet neighbourhood . . vols. david elginbrod vols. the vicar's daughter vols. malcolm vols. st. george and st. michaei vols. the marquis of lossie vols. sir gibbie vols. mary mabston vols. the gifts of the child christ, and other tales. by george mac donald, author of "david f.lginbrod," "malcolm," etc. copyright edition. leipzig bernhard tauchnitz . the right of translation is reserved. kc haryana universi library contents. · page the gifts of the child christ . . . . · the history of photogen and nycteris . . · . . . . · · . . . . · the butcher's bills. stephen archer . . port in a storm . . if i had a father . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. .. . the gifts of the child christ. chapter i. "my hearers, we grow old," said the preacher. "be it summer or be it spring with us now, autumn will soon settle down into winter, that winter whose snow melts only in the grave. the wind of the world sets for the tomb. some of us rejoice to be swept along on its swift wings, and hear it bellowing in the hollows of earth and sky; but it will grow a terror to the man of trembling limb and withered brain, until at length he will long for the shelter of the tomb to escape its roaring and buffeting. happy the man who shall then be able to believe that old age itself, with its pitiable decays and sad dreams of youth, is the chastening of the lord, a sure sign of his love and his fatherhood." it was the first sunday in advent; but "the chastening of the lord" came into almost every sermon that man preached. "eloquent! but after all, can this kind of thing be true?" said to himself a man of about thirty, who sat decorously listening. for many years he had the gifts of the child christ. thought he believed this kind of thing—but of late he was not so sure. beside him sat his wife, in her new winter bonnet, her pretty face turned up toward the preacher; but her eyes—nothing else—revealed that she was not listening. she was much younger than her husband —hardly twenty, indeed. in the upper corner of the pew sat a pale-faced child about five, sucking her thumb, and staring at the preacher. the sermon over, they walked home in proximity. the husband looked gloomy, and his eyes sought the ground. the wife looked more smiling than cheerful, and her pretty eyes went hither and thither. behind them walked the child—steadily, "with level-fronting eyelids." it was a late-built region of large, commonplace houses, and at one of them they stopped and entered. the door of the dining-room was open, showing the table laid for their sunday dinner. the gentleman passed on to the library behind it, the lady went up to her bedroom, and the child a stage higher to the nursery. it wanted half an hour to dinner. mr. greatorex sat down, drummed with his fingers on the arm of his easy-chair, took up a book of arctic exploration, threw it again on the table, got up, and went to the smok- ing-room. he had built it for his wife's sake, but was often glad of it for his own. again he seated himself, took a cigar, and smoked gloomily. having reached her bedroom, mrs. greatorex took off her bonnet, and stood for ten minutes turning it round and round. earnestly she regarded it—now the gifts of the child christ. gave a twist to the wire-stem of a flower, then spread wider the loop of a bow. she was meditating what it lacked of perfection rather than brooding over its merits: she was keen in bonnets. little sophy—or, as she called herself by a transposition of consonant sounds common with children, phosy—found her nurse alice in the nursery. but she was lost in the pages of a certain london weekly, which had found her in a mood open to its influences, and did not even look up when the child entered. with some effort phosy drew off her gloves, and with more difficulty untied her hat. then she took off her jacket, smoothed her hair, and retreated to a corner. there a large shabby doll lay upon her little chair: she took it up, disposed it gently upon the bed, seated herself in its place, got a little book from where she had left it under the chair, smoothed down her skirts, and began simultaneously to read and suck her thumb. the book was an unhealthy one, a cup filled to the brim with a poverty-stricken and selfish religion: such are always breaking out like an eruption here and there over the body of the church, doing their part, doubtless, in carrying off the evil humours generated by poverty of blood, or the congestion of self-preservation. it is wonderful out of what spoiled fruit some children will suck sweetness. but she did not read far: her thoughts went back to a phrase which had haunted her ever since first she went to church: "whom the lord loveth, he chasteneth." "i wish he would chasten me," she thought for the hundredth time. the small christian had no suspicion that her io the gifts of the child christ. whole life had been a period of chastening—that few children indeed had to live in such a sunless at- mosphere as hers. alice threw down the newspaper, gazed from the window into the back-yard of the next house, saw nothing but an elderly man-servant brushing a gar- ment, and turned upon sophy. “why don't you hang up your jacket, miss?" she said, sharply. the little one rose, opened the wardrobe-door wide, carried a chair to it, fetched her jacket from the bed, clambered up on the chair, and, leaning far forward to reach a peg, tumbled right into the bottom of the wardrobe. “you clumsy!” exclaimed the nurse angrily, and pulling her out by the arm, shook her. alice was not generally rough to her, but there were reasons to-day. phosy crept back to her seat, pale, frightened, and a little hurt. alice hung up the jacket, closed the wardrobe, and, turning, contemplated her own pretty face and neat figure in the glass opposite. the dinner-bell rang. “there, i declare!" she cried, and wheeled round on phosy. “and your hair not brushed yet, miss! will you ever learn to do a thing without being told it? thank goodness, i shan't be plagued with you long! but i pity her as comes after me: i do!” "if the lord would but chasten me!” said the child to herself, as she rose and laid down her book with a sigh. the maid seized her roughly by the arm, and brushed her hair with an angry haste that made the the gifts of the child christ. child's eyes water, and herself feel a little ashamed at the sight of them. “how could anybody love such a troublesome chit?" she said, seeking the comfort of justification from the child herself. another sigh was the poor little damsel's only answer. she looked very white and solemn as she entered the dining-room. mr. greatorex was a merchant in the city. but he was more of a man than a merchant, which all merchants are not. also, he was more scrupulous in his dealings than some merchants in the same line of business, who yet stood as well with the world as he; but, on the other hand, he had the meanness to pride himself upon it as if it had been something he might have done without and yet held up his head. some six years before, he had married to please his parents; and a year before, he had married to please himself. his first wife had intellect, educa- tion, and heart, but little individuality—not enough to reflect the individuality of her husband. the con- sequence was, he found her uninteresting. he was kind and indulgent however, and not even her best friend blamed him much for manifesting nothing be- yond the average devotion of husbands. but in truth his wife had great capabilities, only they had never ripened, and when she died, a fortnight after giving birth to sophy, her husband had not a suspicion of the large amount of undeveloped power that had passed away with her. her child was so like her both in countenance and manner that he was too constantly reminded of her unlamented mother; and he loved neither enough the gifts of the child christ. to discover that, in a sense as true as marvellous, the child was the very flower-bud of her mother's nature, in which her retarded blossom had yet a chance of being slowly carried to perfection. love alone gives insight, and the father took her merely for a miniature edition of the volume which he seemed to have laid aside for ever in the dust of the earth's lumber-room. instead, therefore, of watering the roots of his little human slip from the well of his affections, he had scarcely as yet perceived more in relation to her than that he was legally accountable for her existence, and bound to give her shelter and food. if he had ques- tioned himself on the matter, he would have replied that love was not wanting, only waiting upon her growth, and the development of something to interest him. little right as he had had to expect anything from his first marriage, he had yet cherished some hopes therein—tolerably vague, it is true, yet hardly faint enough, it would seem, for he was disappointed in them. when its bonds fell from him, however, he flattered himself that he had not worn them in vain, but had through them arrived at a knowledge of women as rare as profound. but whatever the reach of this knowledge, it was not sufficient to prevent him from harbouring the presumptuous hope of so choos- ing and so fashioning the heart and mind of a woman that they should be as concave mirrors to his own. i do not mean that he would have admitted the figure, but such was really the end he blindly sought. i wonder how many of those who have been disappointed in such an attempt have been thereby aroused to the perception of what a frightful failure their success the gifts of the child christ. would have been on both sides. it was bad enough that augustus greatorex's theories had cramped his own development; it would have been tenfold worse had they been operative to the stunting of another soul. letty merewether was the daughter of a bishop in partibus. she had been born tolerably innocent, had grown up more than tolerably pretty, and was, when she came to england at the age of sixteen, as nearly a genuine example of locke's sheet of white paper as could well have fallen to the hand of such an experimenter as greatorex would fain become. in his suit he had prospered—-perhaps too easily. he loved the girl, or at least loved the modified re- flection of her in his own mind; while she, thoroughly admiring the dignity, good looks, and accomplishments of the man whose attentions flattered her self-opinion, accorded him deference enough to encourage his vainest hopes. although a' knew little, fluttering over the merest surfaces of existence, she had sense enough to know that he talked sense to her, and foolishness enough to put it down to her own credit, while for the sense itself she cared little or nothing. and greatorex, without even knowing what she was rough-hewn for, would take upon him to shape her ends!—an ambition the divinity never permits to suc- ceed: he who fancies himself the carver finds himself but the chisel, or indeed perhaps only the mallet, in the hand of the true workman. during the days of his courtship, then, letty listened and smiled, or answered with what he took for a spiritual response, when it was merely a brain- echo. looking down into the pond of her being, the gifts of the child christ. whose surface was not yet ruffled by any bubbling of springs from below, he saw the reflection of himself and was satisfied. an able man on his hobby looks a centaur of wisdom and folly; but if he be at all a wise man, the beast will one day or other show him the jade's favour of unseating him. meantime augustus greatorex was fooled, not by poor little letty, who was not capable of fooling him, but by himself. letty had made no pretences; had been interested, and had shown her interest; had under- stood, or seemed to understand, what he said to her, and forgotten it the next moment—had no pocket to put it in, did not know what to do with it, and let it drop into the limbo of vanity. they had not been married many days before the scouts of advancing disappointment were upon them. augustus resisted manfully for a time. but the truth was each of the two had to become a great deal more than either was, before any approach to unity was possible. he tried to interest her in one subject after another- tried her first, i am ashamed to say, with political economy. in that instance, when he came home to dinner he found that she had not got beyond the first page of the book he had left with her. but she had the best of excuses, namely, that of that page she had not understood a sentence. he saw his mistake, and tried her with poetry. but milton, with whom un- fortunately he commenced his approaches, was to her, if not equally unintelligible, equally uninteresting. he tried her next with the elements of science, but with no better success. he returned to poetry, and read some of the faerie queene with her: she was, or seemed to be, interested in all his talk about it, and the gifts of the child christ. inclined to go on with it in his absence, but found the first stanza she tried more than enough without him to give life to it. she could give it none, and therefore it gave her none. i believe she read a chapter of the bible every day, but the only books she read with any real interest were novels of a sort that augustus despised. it never occurred to him that he ought at once to have made friends of this momus of unrighteousness, for by them he might have found entrance to the sealed chamber. he ought to have read with her the books she did like, for by them only could he make her think, and from them alone could he lead her to better. it is but from the very step upon which one stands that one can move to the next. besides these books, there was nothing in her scheme of the universe but fashion, dress, calls, the park, other-peopledom, concerts, plays, church- going—whatever could show itself on the frosted glass of her camera obscura—make an interest of motion and colour in her darkened chamber. without these, her bosom's mistress would have found life unendur- able, for not yet had she ascended her throne, but lay on the floor of her nursery, surrounded with toys that imitated life. it was no wonder, therefore, that augustus was at length compelled to allow himself disappointed. that it was the fault of his self-confidence made the thing no whit better. he was too much of a man not to cherish a certain tenderness for her, but he soon found to his dismay that it had begun to be mingled with a shadow of contempt. against this he struggled, but with fluctuating success. he stopped later and later at business, and when he came home spent more the gifts of the child christ. behaviour as we have just seen her, abandoned the child almost entirely to her own resources. it was often she sat alone in the nursery, wishing the lord would chasten her— because then he would love her. the first course was nearly over ere augustus had brought himself to ask- “what did you think of the sermon to-day, letty?” “not much," answered letty. "i am not fond of finery. i prefer simplicity.” augustus held his peace bitterly. for it was just finery in a sermon, without knowing it, that letty was fond of: what seemed to him a flimsy syllabub of sacred things, beaten up with the whisk of composi- tion, was charming to letty; while, on the contrary, if a man such as they had been listening to was car- ried away by the thoughts that struggled in him for utterance, the result, to her judgment, was finery, and the object display. in excuse it must be remembered that she had been used to her father's style, which no one could have aspersed with lack of sobriety. presently she spoke again. “gus, dear, couldn't you make up your mind for once to go with me to lady ashdaile's to-morrow? i am getting quite ashamed of appearing so often with- out you." “there is another way of avoiding that unplea- santness,” remarked her husband drily. “you cruel creature!” returned letty playfully. “but i must go this once, for i promised mrs. holden.” “you know, letty,” said her husband, after a little pause, “it gets of more and more consequence that you should not fatigue yourself. by keeping such late hours in such stifling rooms you are endangering two the gifts of the child christ, etc. the gifts of the child christ. lives--remember that, letty. if you stay at home to- morrow, i will come home early, and read to you all the evening.” “gussy, that would be charming. you know there is nothing in the world i should enjoy so much. but this time i really mustn't.” she launched into a list of all the great nobodies and small somebodies who were to be there, and whom she positively must see: it might be her only chance. those last words quenched a sarcasm on augustus' lips. he was kinder than usual the rest of the even- ing, and read her to sleep with the pilgrim's progress. phosy sat in a corner, listened, and understood. or where she misunderstood, it was an honest mis- understanding, which never does much hurt. neither father nor mother spoke to her till they bade her good night. neither saw the hungry heart under the mask of the still face. the father never imagined her already fit for the modelling she was better with- out, and the stepmother had to become a mother be- fore she could value her. phosy went to bed to dream of the valley of hu- miliation. chapter i i. the next morning alice gave her mistress warn- ing. it was quite unexpected, and she looked at her aghast. “alice,” she said at length, “you're never going to leave me at such a time!” the gifts of the child christ. “i'm sorry it don't suit you, ma'am, but i must.” “why, alice? what is the matter? has sophy been troublesome?” “no, ma’am; there's no harm in that child." “then what can it be, alice? perhaps you are going to be married sooner than you expected?” alice gave her chin a little toss, pressed her lips together, and was silent. “i have always been kind to you,” resumed her mistress. “i'm sure, ma’am, i never made no complaints!" returned alice, but as she spoke she drew herself up straighter than before. “then what is it?” said her mistress. “the fact is, ma'am," answered the girl, almost fiercely, “i cannot any longer endure a state of do- mestic slavery.” “i don't understand you a bit better," said mrs. greatorex, trying, but in vain, to smile, and therefore looking angrier than she was. “i mean, ma'am-an' i see no reason as i shouldn't say it, for it's the truth-there's a worm at the root of society where one yuman bein''s got to do the dirty work of another. i don't mind sweepin' up my own dust, but i won't sweep up nobody else's. i ain't a goin' to demean myself no longer! there!” “leave the room, alice,” said mrs. greatorex; and when, with a toss and a flounce, the young woman had vanished, she burst into tears of anger and annoyance. the day passed. the evening came. she dressed without alice's usual help, and went to lady ash- daile's with her friend. there a reaction took place, * the gifts of the child christ. and her spirits rose unnaturally. she even danced- to the disgust of one or two quick-eyed matrons who sat by the wall. when she came home she found her husband sit- ting up for her. he said next to nothing, and sat up an hour longer with his book. in the night she was taken ill. her husband called alice, and ran himself to fetch the doctor. for some hours she seemed in danger, but by noon was much better. only the greatest care was necessary. as soon as she could speak, she told augustus of alice's warning, and he sent for her to the library. she stood before him with flushed cheeks and flashing eyes. “i understand, alice, you have given your mistress warning,” he said gently. “yes, sir.” “your mistress is very ill, alice.” “yes, sir." “don't you think it would be ungrateful of you to leave her in her present condition? she's not likely to be strong for some time to come.” the use of the word “ungrateful” was an un- fortunate one. alice begged to know what she had to be grateful for. was her work worth nothing? and her master, as every one must who claims that which can only be freely given, found himself in the wrong. “well, alice,” he said, “we won't dispute that point; and if you are really determined on going, you must do the best you can for your mistress for the rest of the month.” alice's sense of injury was soothed by her master's the gifts of the child christ. forbearance. she had always rather approved of mr. greatorex, and she left the room more softly than she had entered it. letty had a fortnight in bed, during which she reflected a little. the very day on which she left her room, alice sought an interview with her master, and declared she could not stay out her month; she must go home at once. she had been very attentive to her mistress dur- ing the fortnight: there must be something to account for her strange behaviour. “come now, alice,” said her master, “what's at the back of all this? you have been a good, well- behaved, obliging girl till now, and i am certain you would never be like this if there weren't something wrong somewhere." “something wrong, sir! no, indeed, sir! except you call it wrong to have an old uncle as dies and leaves ever so much money—thousands on thousands, the lawyers say.” “and does it come to you then, alice?" “i get my share, sir. he left it to be parted even between his nephews and nieces.” “why, alice, you are quite an heiress, then!” re- turned her master, scarcely however believing the thing so grand as alice would have it. “but don't you think now it would be rather hard that your fortune should be mrs. greatorex's misfortune?” “well, i don't see as how it shouldn't," replied alice. “it's mis’ess's fortun' as 'as been my mis- fortun'-ain't it now, sir? an' why shouldn't it be the other way next?” tie gifts of the child christ. “i don't quite see how your mistress's fortune can be said to be your misfortune, alice.” “anybody would see that, sir, as wasn't blinded by class-prejudices.” “class-prejudices!” exclaimed mr. greatorex, in surprise at the word. "it's a term they use, i believe, sir! but it's plain enough that if mis’ess hadn't 'a' been better off than me, she wouldn't ha' been able to secure my services—as you calls it.” “that is certainly plain enough,” returned mr. greatorex. “but suppose nobody had been able to secure your services, what would have become of you?” “by that time the people'd have rose to assert their rights.” “to what?—to fortunes like yours?” “to bread and cheese at least, sir,” returned alice, pertly. “well, but you've had something better than bread and cheese.” “i don't make no complaints as to the style of livin' in the house, sir, but that's all one, so long as it's on the vile condition of domestic slavery—which it's nothing can justify." “then of course, although you are now a woman of property, you will never dream of having any one to wait on you,” said her master, amused with the volume of human nature thus opened to him. “all i say, sir, is—it's my turn now; and i ain't goin' to be sit upon by no one. i know my dooty to myself.” “i didn't know there was such a duty, alice,” said her master. the gifts of the child christ. something in his tone displeased her. “then you know now, sir,” she said, and bounced out of the room. the next moment, however, ashamed of her rude- ness, she re-entered, saying, “i don't want to be unkind, sir, but i must go home. i've got a brother that's ill, too, and wants to see me. if you don't object to me goin' home for a month, i promise you to come back and see mis’ess through her trouble—as a friend, you know, sir.” “but just listen to me first, alice,” said mr. great- orex. “i've had something to do with wills in my time, and i can assure you it is not likely to be less than a year before you can touch the money. you had much better stay where you are till your uncle's affairs are settled. you don't know what may happen. there's many a slip between cup and lip, you know.” “oh! it's all right, sir. everybody knows the money's left to his nephews and nieces, and me and my brother's as good as any." “i don't doubt it: still, if you'll take my advice, you'll keep a sound roof over your head till another's ready for you.” alice only threw her chin in the air, and said almost threateningly, “am i to go for the month, sir?”. “i'll talk to your mistress about it," answered mr. greatorex, not at all sure that such an arrangement would be for his wife's comfort. but the next day mrs. greatorex had a long talk with alice, and the result was that on the following monday she was to go home for a month, and then return for two months more at least. what mr. great- the gifts of the child christ. orex had said about the legacy, had had its effect, and, besides, her mistress had spoken to her with pleasure in her good fortune. about sophy no one felt any anxiety: she was no trouble to any one, and the housemaid would see to her. chapter iii. on the sunday evening, alice's lover, having heard, not from herself, but by a side wind, that she was going home the next day, made his appearance in wimborne square, somewhat perplexed—both at the move, and at her leaving him in ignorance of the same. he was a cabinet-maker in an honest shop in the neighbourhood, and in education, faculty, and general worth, considerably alice's superior-a fact which had hitherto rather pleased her, but now gave zest to the change which she imagined had subverted their former relation. full of the sense of her new superiority, she met him draped in an indescribable strangeness. john jephson felt, at the very first word, as if her voice came from the other side of the eng- lish channel. he wondered what he had done, or rather what alice could imagine he had done or said, to put her in such tantrums. “alice, my dear," he said-for john was a man to go straight at the enemy, “what's amiss? what's come over you? you ain't altogether like your own self to-night! and here i find you're goin' away, and ne'er a word to me about it! what have i done?” alice's chin alone made reply. she waited the fitting moment, with splendour to astonish, and with the gifts of the child christ. grandeur to subdue her lover. to tell the sad truth, she was no longer sure that it would be well to en- courage him on the old footing; was she not standing on tiptoe, her skirts in her hand, on the brink of the brook that parted serfdom from gentility, on the point of stepping daintily across, and leaving domestic slavery, red hands, caps, and obedience behind her? how then was she to marry a man that had black nails, and smelt of glue? it was incumbent on her at least, for propriety's sake, to render him at once aware that it was in condescension ineffable she took any notice of him. "alice, my girl!” began john again, in expostulatory tone. “miss cox, if you please, john jephson," interposed alice. “what on ’arth's come over you?” exclaimed john, with the first throb of rousing indignation. “but if you ain't your own self no more, why, miss cox be it. 't seems to me 's if i warn't my own self no more- 's if i'd got into some un else, or 't least hedn't got my own ears on m' own head.—never saw or heerd alice like this afore!” he added, turning in gloomy bewilderment to the housemaid for a word of human sympathy. the movement did not altogether please alice, and she felt she must justify her behaviour. “you see, john,” she said, with dignity, keeping her back towards him, and pretending to dust the globe of a lamp, “there's things as no woman can help, and therefore as no man has no right to com- plain of them. it's not as if i'd gone an' done it, or changed myself, no more 'n if it 'ad took place in my the gifts of the child: christ. cradle. what can i help it, if the world goes and changes itself? am i to blame?—tell me that. it's not that i make no complaint, but i tell you it ain't me, it's circumstances as is gone and changed their- selves, and bein' as circumstances is changed, things ain't the same as they was, and miss is the properer term from you to me, john jephson." "dang it if i know what you're a drivin' at, alice! —miss cox!—and i beg yer pardon, miss, i'm sure. —dang me if i do!" "don't swear, john jephson—leastways before a lady. it's not proper." "it seems to me, miss cox, as if the wind was a settin' from bedlam, or may be colney hatch," said john,. who was considered a humourist among his comrades. "i wouldn't take no liberties with a lady, miss cox; but if i might be so bold as to arst the joke of the thing" "joke, indeed!" cried alice. "do you call a dead uncle and ten thousand pounds a joke?" "god bless me!" said john. "you don't mean it, alice?" "i do mean it, and that you'll find, john jephson. i'm goin' to bid you good-bye to-morrer." "whoy, alice!" exclaimed honest john, aghast. "it's truth i tell ye," said alice. "and for how long?" gasped john, fore-feeling illimitable misfortune. "that depends," returned alice, who did not care to lessen the effect of her communication by mention- ing her promised return for a season. "it ain't likely," she added, "as a heiress is a gossip' to act the nuss- maid much longer." the gifts of the child christ. "but alice," said john, "you don't mean to say— it's not in your mind now—it can't be, alice—you're only jokin' with me" "indeed, and i'm not!" interjected alice, with a sniff. "i don't mean that way, you know. what i mean is, you don't mean as how this 'ere money—dang it all!—as how it's to be all over between you and me? —you can't mean that, alice!" ended the poor fellow, with a choking in his throat. it was very hard upon him! he must either look as if he wanted to share her money, or else as if he were ready to give her up. "arst yourself, john jephson," answered alice, "whether it's likely a young lady of fortun' would be keepin' company with a young man as didn't know how to take off his hat to her in the park?" alice did not above half mean what she said: she wished mainly to enhance her own importance. at the same time she did mean it half, and that would have been enough for jephson. he rose, grievously wounded. "good-bye, alice," he said, taking the hand she did not refuse. "ye're throwin' from ye what all yer money won't buy." she gave a scornful little laugh, and john walked out of the kitchen. at the door he turned with one lingering look; but in alice there was no sign of softening. she turned scornfully away, and no doubt enjoyed her triumph to the full. the next morning she went away. the gifts of the child christ. chapter iv. mr. greatorex had ceased to regard the advent of christmas with much interest. naturally gifted with a strong religious tendency, he had, since his first marriage, taken, not to denial, but to the side of objection, spending much energy in contempt for the foolish opinions of others, a self-indulgence which does less than little to further the growth of one's own spirit in truth and righteousness. the only person who stands excused—i do not say justified- in so doing, is the man who, having been taught the same opinions, has found them a legion of adversaries barring his way to the truth. but having got rid of them for himself, it is, i suspect, worse than useless to attack them again, save as the ally of those who are fighting their way through the same ranks to the truth. greatorex had been indulging his intellect at the expense of his heart. a man may have light in the brain and darkness in the heart. it were better to be an owl than a strong-eyed apteryx. he was on the path which naturally ends in blindness and un- belief. i fancy, if he had not been neglectful of his child, she would ere this time have relighted his christmas-candles for him; but now his second dis- appointment in marriage had so dulled his heart that he had begun to regard life as a stupid affair, in which the most enviable fool was the man who could still expect to realize an ideal. he had set out on a false track altogether, but had not yet discovered that there had been an immoral element at work in his mistake. the gifts of the child christ. q for what right had he to desire the fashioning of any woman after his ideas? did not the angel of her eternal ideal for ever behold the face of her father in heaven? the best that can be said for him is, that, notwithstanding his disappointment and her faults, yea, notwithstanding his own faults, which were, with all his cultivation and strength of cha- racter, yet more serious than hers, he was still kind to her; yes, i may say for him, that, notwithstanding even her silliness, which is a sickening fault, and one which no supremacy of beauty can over-shadow, he still loved her a little. hence the care he showed for her in respect of the coming sorrow was genuine; it did not all belong to his desire for a son to whom he might be a father indeed—after his own fancies, however. letty, on her part, was as full of expecta- tion as the girl who has been promised a doll that can shut and open its eyes, and cry when it is pinched; her carelessness of its safe arrival came of ignorance and not indifference. it cannot but seem strange that such a man should have been so careless of the child he had. but from the first she had painfully reminded him - of her mother, with whom in truth he had never quarrelled, but with whom he had not found life the less irk- some on that account. add to this that he had been growing fonder of business,—a fact which indicated, in a man of his endowment and development, an in- clination downwards of the' plane of his life. it was some time since he had given up reading poetry. history had almost followed: he now read little ex- cept politics, travels, and popular expositions of scientific progress. the gitis of the child christ. that year christmas eve fell upon a monday. the day before, letty not feeling very well, her hus- band thought it better not to leave her, and gave up going to church. phosy was utterly forgotten, but she dressed herself, and at the usual hour appeared with her prayer-book in her hand ready for church. when her father told her that he was not going, she looked so blank that he took pity upon her, and accompanied her to the church-door, promising to meet her as she came out. phosy sighed from relief as she entered, for she had a vague idea that by going to church to pray for it she might move the lord'to chasten her. at least he would see her there, and might think of it. she had never had such an attention from her father before, never such dignity conferred upon her as to be allowed to appear in church alone, sitting in the pew by herself like a grown damsel. but i doubt if there was any pride in her stately step, or any vanity in the smile—no, not smile, but illuminated mist, the vapour of smiles, which haunted her sweet little solemn church-window of a face, as she walked up the aisle. the preacher was one of whom she had never heard her father speak slighting word, in whom her unbounded trust had never been shaken. also he was one who believed with his whole soul in the things that make christmas precious. to him the birth of the wonderful baby hinted at hundreds of strange things in the economy of the planet. that a man could so thoroughly persuade himself that he believed the old fable, was matter of marvel to some of his friends who held blind nature the eternal mother, and night the everlasting grandmother of all things. but the gifts of the child christ. the child phosy, in her dreams or out of them, in church or nursery, with her book or her doll, was never out of the region of wonders, and would have believed, or tried to believe, anything that did not in- volve a moral impossibility. what the preacher said i need not even partially repeat; it is enough to mention a certain metamor- phosed deposit from the stream of his eloquence car- ried home in her mind by phosy: from some of his sayings about the birth of jesus into the world, into the family, into the individual human bosom, she had got it into her head that christmas day was not a birthday like that she had herself last year, but that, in some wonderful way, to her requiring no explana- tion, the baby jesus was born every christmas day afresh. what became of him afterwards she did not know, and indeed she had never yet thought to ask how it was that he could come to every house in london as well as no. i, wimborne square. little of a home as another might think it, that house was yet to her the centre of all houses, and the wonder had not yet widened rippling beyond it: into that spot of the pool the eternal gift would fall. her father forgot the time over his book, but so entranced was her heart with the expectation of the promised visit, now so near—the day after to-morrow —that, if she did not altogether forget to look for him as she stepped down the stair from the church door to the street, his absence caused her no uneasi- ness; and when, just as she reached it, he opened the house-door in tardy haste to redeem his promise, she looked up at him with a solemn, smileless repose, born of spiritual tension and speechless anticipation, the gifts of the child christ. upon her face, and walking past him without change in the rhythm of her motion, marched stately up the stairs to the nursery. i believe the centre of her hope was that when the baby came she would beg him on her knees to ask the lord to chasten her. when dessert was over, her mother on the sofa in the drawing-room, and her father in an easy chair, with a bottle of his favourite wine by his side, she crept out of the room and away again to the nursery. there she reached up to her little bookshelf, and, full of the sermon as spongy mists are full of the sunlight, took thence a volume of stories from the german, the re-reading of one of which, narrating the visit of the christ-child, laden with gifts, to a certain household, and what he gave to each and all therein, she had, although sorely tempted, saved up until now, and sat down with it by the fire, the only light she had. when the housemaid, suddenly remembering she must put her to bed, and at the same time discovering it was a whole hour past her usual time, hurried to the nursery, she found her fast asleep in her little arm- chair, her book on her lap, and the fire self-consumed into a dark cave with a sombre glow in its deepest hollows. dreams had doubtless come to deepen the impressions of sermons and mährchen, for as she slowly yielded to the hands of polly putting her to bed, her lips, unconsciously moved of the slumbering but not sleeping spirit, more than once murmured the words lord loveth and chasteneth. right blessedly would i enter the dreams of such a child-revel in them, as a bee in the heavenly gulf of a cactus- flower. the gifts of the child christ. chapter v. on christmas eve the church bells were ringing through the murky air of london, whose streets lay flaring and steaming below. the brightest of their constellations were the butchers' shops, with their shows of prize beef; around them, the eddies of the human tides were most confused and knotted. but the toy-shops were brilliant also. to phosy they would have been the treasure-caves of the christ-child-all mysteries, all with insides to them-boxes, and desks, and windmills, and dove-cots, and hens with chickens, and who could tell what all? in every one of those shops her eyes would have searched for the christ- child, the giver of all their wealth. for to her he was everywhere that night- ubiquitous as the lumi- nous mist that brooded all over london - of which, however, she saw nothing but the glow above the mews. john jephson was out in the middle of all the show, drifting about in it: he saw nothing that had pleasure in it, his heart was so heavy. he never thought once of the christ-child, or even of the christ- man, as the giver of anything. birth is the one stand- ing promise-hope for the race, but for poor john this christmas held no promise. with all his humour, he was one of those people, generally dull and slow- god grant me and mine such dulness and such sloth —who having once loved, cannot cease. during the fortnight he had scarce had a moment's ease from the sting of his alice's treatment. the honest fellow's feelings were no study to himself; he knew nothing but the pleasure and the pain of them; but i believe the gifts of the child christ, etc. the gifts of the child christ. it was not mainly for himself that he was sorry. like othello, “the pity of it” haunted him: he had taken alice for a downright girl, about whom there was and could be no mistake; and the first hot blast of pros- perity had swept her away like a hectic leaf. what were all the shops dressed out in holly and mistletoe, what were all the rushing flaming gas-jets, what the fattest of prize-pigs to john, who could never more imagine a spare-rib on the table between alice and him of a sunday? his imagination ran on seeing her pass in her carriage, and drop him a nod of condes- cension as she swept noisily by him—trudging home weary from his work to his loveless fireside. he didn't want her money! honestly, he would rather have her without than with money, for he now regarded it as an enemy, seeing what evil changes it could work. “there be some devil in it, sure!” he said to himself. true, he had never found any in his week's wages, but he did remember once finding the devil in a month's wages received in the lump. as he was thus thinking with himself, a carriage came suddenly from a side street into the crowd, and while he stared at it, thinking alice might be sitting inside it while he was tramping the pavement alone, she passed him on the other side on foot—was actu- ally pushed against him: he looked round, and saw a young woman, carrying a small bag, disappearing in the crowd. “there's an air of alice about her," said john to himself, seeing her back only. but of course it couldn't be alice; for her he must look in the car- riages now! and what a fool he was: every young woman reminded him of the one he had lost! per- haps if he was to call the next day—polly was a -the gifts of the child christ. good-natured creature — he might hear some news of her. it had been a troubled fortnight with mrs. great - orex. she wished much that she could have talked to her husband more freely, but she had not learned to feel at home with him. yet he had been kinder and more attentive than usual all the time, so much so that letty thought with herself—if she gave him a boy, he would certainly return to his first devotion. she said boy, because any one might see he cared little for phosy. she had never discovered that he was disappointed in herself, but, since her disregard of his wishes had brought evil upon her, she had be- gun to suspect that he had some ground for being dissatisfied with her. she never dreamed of his kind- ness as the effort of a conscientious nature to make the best of what could not now be otherwise helped. her own poverty of spirit and lack of worth achieved, she knew as little of as she did of the riches of michael the archangel. one must have begun to gather wisdom before he can see his own folly. that evening she was seated alone in the drawing- room, her husband having left her to smoke his cigar, when the butler entered and informed her that alice had returned, but was behaving so oddly that they did not know what to do with her. asking wherein her oddness consisted, and learning that it was mostly in silence and tears, ,she was not sorry to gather that some disappointment had befallen her, and felt con- siderable curiosity to know what it was. she there- fore told him to send her upstairs. meantime polly, the housemaid, seeing plainly enough from her return in the middle of her holiday, * toe. gifts of the child christ. and from her utter dejection, that alice's expectations had been frustrated, and cherishing no little resent- ment against her because of her uppishness on the first news of her good fortune, had been ungenerous enough to take her revenge in a way as stinging in effect as bitter in intention; for she loudly protested that no amount of such luck as she pretended to suppose in alice's possession, would have induced her to behave herself so that a handsome honest fellow like john jephson should be driven to despise her, and take up with her betters. when her mistress's message came, alice was only too glad to find refuge from the kitchen in the drawing-room. the moment she entered, she fell on her knees at the foot of the couch on which her mistress lay, covered her face with her hands, and sobbed grievously. nor was the change more remarkable in her bear- ing than in her person. she was pale and worn, and had a hunted look—was in fact a mere shadow of what she had been. for a time her mistress found it impossible to quiet her so as to draw from her her story: tears and sobs combined with repugnance to hold her silent. "oh, ma'am!" she burst out at length, wringing her hands, "how ever can i tell you? you will never speak to me again. little did i think such a disgrace was waiting me!" "it was no fault of yours if you were misinformed," said her mistress, "or that your uncle was not the rich man you fancied." "oh, ma'am, there was no mistake there! he was more than twice as rich as i fancied. if he had only died a beggar, and left things as they was!" the gifts of the child christ. the more overwhelming that it cast her from the gates of the paradise she had seemed on the point of enter- ing: her fall she measured by the height of the social ambition she had cherished, and had seemed on the point of attaining. but it is not an evil that the devil's money, which this legacy had from the first proved to alice, should turn to a hot cinder in the hand. rarely had a more haughty spirit than hers gone before a fall, and rarely has the fall been more sudden or more abject. and the consciousness of the behaviour into which her false riches had seduced her, changed the whip of her chastisement into scorpions. worst of all, she had insulted her lover as beneath her notice, and the next moment had found herself too vile for his. judging by herself, in the in- justice of bitter humiliation she imagined him scoffing with his mates at the base-born menial who would set up for a fine lady. but had she been more worthy of honest john, she would have understood him better. as it was, no really good fortune could have befallen her but such as now seemed to her the depth of evil fortune. without humiliation to prepare the way for humility, she must have become capable of more and more baseness, until she lost all that makes life worth having. when mrs. greatorex had given her what consoletion she found handy, and at length dismissed her, the girl, unable to endure her own company, sought the nursery, where she caught sophy in her arms and em- braced her with fervour. never in her life having been the object of any such display of feeling, phosy was much astonished: when alice had set her down and she had resumed her seat by the fireside, she went the gifts of the child christ. on staring for a while—and then a strange sort of miming ensued. it was phosy's habit—one less rare with children than may by most be imagined—to do what she could to enter into any state of mind whose shows were sufficiently marked for her observation. she sought to lay hold of the feeling that produced the expression: less than the reproduction of a similar condition in her own imaginative sensorium, subject to her leisurely examination, would in no case satisfy the little meta- physician. but what was indeed very odd was the means she took for arriving at the sympathetic know- ledge she desired. as if she had been the most earnest student of dramatic expression through the facial muscles, she would sit watching the countenance of the object of her solicitude, all the time, with full consciousness, fashioning her own as nearly as she could into the lines and forms of the other: in propor- tion as she succeeded, the small psychologist imagined she felt in herself the condition that produced the phenomenon she observed—as if the shape of her face cast inward its shadow upon her mind, and so revealed to it, through the two faces, what was moving and shaping in the mind of the other. in the present instance, having at length, after modelling and remodelling her face like that of a gutta-percha doll for some time, composed it finally into the best correspondence she could effect, she sat brooding for a while, with alice's expression as it were frozen upon it. gradually the forms assumed melted away, and allowed her still, solemn face to look out from behind them. the moment this evanishment was complete, she rose and went to alice, where she sat o the gifts of the child christ. staring into the fire, unconscious of the scrutiny she had been undergoing, and, looking up in her face, took her thumb out of her mouth, and said, "is the lord chastening alice? i wish he would chasten phosy." her face was calm as that of the sphinx; there was no mist in the depth of her gray eyes, not a cloud on the wide heaven of her forehead. was the child crazed? what could the atom mean, with her big eyes looking right into her? alice never had understood her: it were indeed strange if the less should comprehend the greater! she was not yet capable of recognising the word of the lord in the mouth of babes and sucklings. but there was a some- thing in phosy's face besides its calmness and unin- telligibility. what it was alice could never have told —yet it did her good. she lifted the child on her lap. there she soon fell asleep. alice undressed her, laid her in her crib, and went to bed herself. but, weary as she was, she had to rise again be- fore she got to sleep. her mistress was again taken ill. doctor and nurse were sent for in hot haste; hansom cabs came and went throughout the night, like noisy moths to the one lighted house in the street; there were soft steps within, and doors were gently opened and shut. the waters of mara had risen and filled the house. towards morning they were ebbing slowly away. letty did not know that her husband was watching by her bedside. the street was quiet now. so was the house. most of its people had been up throughout the night, but now they had all gone to bed except the strange nurse and mr. greatorex. the gifts of the child christ. haps she ought to wake them all, but she dared not without being sure. on the last landing above the first floor, she saw, by the low gaslight at the end of the corridor, an un- known figure pass the foot of the stair: could she have anything to do with the marvel of the day? the woman looked up, and phosy dropped the question. yet she might be a charwoman, whose assistance the expected advent rendered necessary. when she reached the bottom of the stair she saw her dis- appearing in her step-mother's room. that she did not like. it was the one room into which she could not go. but, as the house was so still, she would search everywhere else, and if she did not find him, would then sit down in the hall and wait for him. the room next the foot of the stair, and opposite her step-mother's, was the spare room, with which she associated ideas of state and grandeur: where better could she begin than at the guest-chamber?—there! —could it be? yes!—through the chink of the scarce-closed door she saw light. either he was already there or there they were expecting him. from that moment she felt as if lifted out of the body. far exalted above all dread, she peeped modestly in, and then entered. beyond the foot of the bed, a candle stood on a little low table, but nobody was to be seen. there was a stool near the table: she would sit on it by the candle, and wait for him. but ere she reached it, she caught sight of something upon the bed that drew her thither. she stood entranced.—could it be? —it might be. perhaps he had left it there while he went into her mamma's room with something for her. the gifts of the child christ. —the loveliest of dolls ever imagined! she drew nearer. the light was low, and the shadows were many: she could not be sure what it was. but when she had gone close up to it, she concluded with cer- tainty that it was in very truth a doll—perhaps in- tended for her—but beyond doubt the most exquisite of dolls. she dragged a chair to the bed, got up, pushed her little arms softly under it, and drawing it gently to her, slid down with it. when she felt her feet firm on the floor, filled with the solemn composure of holy awe she carried the gift of the child jesus to the candle, that she might the better admire its beauty and know its preciousness. but the light had no sooner fallen upon it than a strange undefinable doubt awoke within her. whatever it was, it was the very essence of loveliness—the tiny darling with its alabaster face, and its delicately modelled hands and fingers! a long night-gown covered all the rest.—was it possible?—could it be?—yes, indeed! it must be— it could be nothing else than a real baby! what a goose she had been! of course it was baby jesus himself!—for was not this his very own christmas day on which he was always born?—if she had felt awe of his gift before, what a grandeur of adoring love, what a divine dignity possessed her, holding in her arms the very child himself! one shudder of bliss passed through her, and in an agony of pos- session she clasped the baby to her great heart—then at once became still with the satisfaction of eternity, with the peace of god. she sat down on the stool, near the little table, with her back to the candle, that its rays should not fall on the eyes of the sleeping jesus and wake him: there she sat, lost in the very the gifts of the child christ. majesty of bliss, at once the mother and the slave of the lord jesus. she sat for a time still as marble waiting for marble to awake, heedful as tenderest woman not to rouse him before his time, though her heart was swelling with the eager petition that he would ask his father to be as good as chasten her. and as she sat, she began, after her wont, to model her face to the likeness of his, that she might understand his stillness —the absolute peace that dwelt on his countenance. but as she did so, again a sudden doubt invaded her: jesus lay so very still—never moved, never opened his pale eye-lids! and now set thinking, she noted that he did not breathe. she had seen babies asleep, and their breath came arid went—their little bosoms heaved up and down, and sometimes they would smile, and sometimes they would moan and sigh. but jesus did none of all these things: was it not strange? and then he was cold—oh, so cold! a blue silk coverlid lay on the bed: she half rose and dragged it off, and contrived to wind it around herself and the baby. sad at heart, very sad, but undismayed, she sat and watched him on her lap. the gifts of the child christ. chapter vi. meantime the morning of christmas day grew. the light came and filled the house. the sleepers slept late, but at length they stirred. alice awoke last—from a troubled sleep, in which the events of the night mingled with her own lost condition and destiny. after all polly had been kind, she thought, and got sophy up without disturbing her. she had been but a few minutes down, when a strange and appalling rumour made itself—i cannot say audible, but—somehow known through the house, and every one hurried up in horrible dismay. the nurse had gone into the spare room, and missed the little dead thing she had laid there. the bed was between her and phosy, and she never saw her. the doctor had been sharp with her about something the night before: she now took her revenge in suspicion of him, and after a hasty and fruitless visit of inquiry to the kitchen, hurried to mr. great- orex. the servants crowded to the spare room, and when their master, incredulous indeed, yet shocked at the tidings brought him, hastened to the spot, he found them all in the room, gathered at the foot of the bed. a little sunlight filtered through the red window-curtains, and gave a strange pallid expression to the flame of the candle, which had now burned very low. at first he saw nothing but the group of servants, silent, motionless, with heads leaning for- ward, intently gazing: he had come just in time: the gifts of the child christ. weeping the women went down the stairs. alice's tears were still flowing, when john jephson entered. her own troubles forgotten in the emotion of the scene she had just witnessed, she ran to his arms and wept on his bosom. john stood as one astonied. "o lord! this is a christmas!" he sighed at last. "oh john!" cried alice, and tore herself from his embrace, "i forgot! you'll never speak to me again, john! don't do it, john." and with the words she gave a stifled cry, and fell a weeping again, behind her two shielding hands. "why, alice!—you ain't married, are you?" gasped john, to whom that was the only possible evil. "no, john, and never shall be: a respectable man like you would never think of looking twice at a poor girl like me!" "let's have one more look anyhow," said john, drawing her hands from her face. "tell me what's the matter, and if there's anything can be done to right you, i'll work day and night to do it, alice." "there's nothing can be done, john," replied alice, and would again have floated out on the ocean of her misery, but in spite of wind and tide, that is sobs and tears, she held on by the shore at his entreaty, and told her tale, not even omitting the fact that when she went to the eldest of the cousins, inheriting through the misfortune of her and her brother so much more than their expected share, and "demeaned herself" to beg a little help for her brother, who was dying of consumption, he had all but ordered her out of the house, swearing he had nothing to do with her the gifts of the child christ. hadn't been took from me, i'd never ha' had you, john. ain't it awful to think on?" "well, no. o' coorse! how could ye?" said jephson—with reluctance. "now, john, don't ye talk like that, for i won't stand it. don't you go for to set me up again with excusin' of me. i'm a nasty conceited cat, i am— and all for nothing but mean pride." "mind ye, ye're mine now, alice; an' what's mine's mine, an' i won't have it abused. i knows you twice the woman you was afore, and all the world couldn't gi' me such another christmas-box—no, not if it was all gold watches and roast beef." when mr. greatorex returned to his wife's room, and thought to find her asleep as he had left her, he was dismayed to hear sounds of soft weeping from the bed. some tone or stray word, never intended to reach her ear, had been enough to reveal the truth concerning her baby. "hush! hush!" he said, with more love in his heart than had moved there for many months, and therefore more in his tone than she had heard for as many;—"if you cry you will be ill. hush, my dear!" in a moment, ere he could prevent her, she had flung her arms around his neck as he stooped over her. "husband! husband!" she cried, "is it my fault?" "you behaved perfectly," he returned. "no woman could have been braver." "ah, but i wouldn't stay at home when you wanted me." "never mind that now, my child," he said. at the word she pulled his face down to hers. the gifts of the child christ, etc. the guts of the child christ. "i have you, and i don't care," he added. "do you care to have me?" she said, with a sob that ended in a loud cry. "oh! i don't deserve it. but i will be good after this. i promise you i will." "then you must begin now, my darling. you must lie perfectly still, and not cry a bit, or you will go after the baby, and i shall be left alone." she looked up at him with such a light in her face as he had never dreamed of there before. he had never seen her so lovely. then she withdrew her arms, repressed her tears, smiled, and turned her face away. he put her hands under the clothes, and in a minute or two she was again fast asleep. the gifts of the child christ. chapter vii. that day, when phosy and her father had sat down to their christmas dinner, he rose again, and taking her up as she sat, chair and all, set her down close to him, on the other side of the corner of the table. it was the first of a new covenant between them. the father's eyes having been suddenly opened to her character and preciousness, as well as to his own neglected duty in regard to her, it was as if a well of life had burst forth at his feet. and every day, as he looked in her face and talked to her, it was with more and more respect for what he found in her, with growing tenderness for her predilections, and reverence for the divine idea enclosed in her ignorance, for her childish wisdom, and her calm seeking—until at length he would have been horrified at the thought of training her up in his way: had she not a way of her own to go—following—not the dead jesus, but him who liveth for evermore? in the endeavour to help her, he had to find his own posi- tion towards the truth; and the results were weighty. —nor did the child's influence work forward merely. in his intercourse with her he was so often reminded of his first wife, and that with the gloss or comment of a childish reproduction, that his memories of her at length grew a little tender, and through the child he began to understand the nature and worth of the mother. in her child she had given him what she could not be herself. unable to keep up with him, * the gifts of the child christ. she had handed him her baby, and dropped on the path. nor was little sophy his only comfort . through their common loss and her husband's tenderness, letty began to grow a woman. and her growth was the more rapid that, himself taught through phosy, her husband no longer desired to make her adopt his tastes, and judge with his experiences, but, as became the elder and the tried, entered into her tastes and experiences—became, as it were, a child again with her, that, through the thing she was, he might help the thing she had to be. as soon as she was able to bear it, he told her the story of the dead jesus, and with the tale came to her heart love for phosy. she had lost a son for a season, but she had gained a daughter for ever. such were the gifts the christ-child brought to one household that christmas. and the days of the mourning of that household were ended. the history of photogen and nycteris. a day and night mahrchen. chapter i. watho. there was once a witch who desired to know everything. but the wiser a witch is, the harder she knocks her head against the wall when she comes to it. her name was watho, and she had a wolf in her mind. she cared for nothing in itself—only for knowing it. she was not naturally cruel, but the wolf had made her cruel. she was tall and graceful, with a white skin, red hair, and black eyes, which had a red fire in them. she was straight and strong, but now and then would fall bent together, shudder, and sit for a moment with her head turned over her shoulder, as if the wolf had got out of her mind on to her back. the history of photogen and nycteris. chapter ii. aurora. tms witch got two ladies to visit her. one of them belonged to the court, and her husband had been sent on a far and difficult embassy. the other was a young widow whose husband had lately died, and who had since lost her sight. watho lodged them in different parts of her castle, and they did not know of each other's existence. the castle stood on the side of a hill sloping gently down into a narrow valley, in which was a river, with a pebbly channel and a continual song. the garden went down to the bank of the river, enclosed by high walls, which crossed the river and there stopped. each wall had a double row of battle- ments, and between the rows was a narrow walk. in the topmost story of the castle the lady aurora occupied a spacious apartment of several large rooms looking southward. the windows projected oriel-wise over the garden below, and there was a splendid view from them both up and down and across the river. the opposite side of the valley was steep, but not very high. far away snow-peaks were visible. these rooms aurora seldom left, but their airy spaces, the brilliant landscape and sky, the plentiful sunlight, the musical instruments, books, pictures, curiosities, with the company of watho who made herself charm- ing, precluded all dulness. she had venison and feathered game to eat, milk and pale sunny sparkling wine to drink. the history of photogen and nycteris. she had hair of the yellow gold, waved and rippled; her skin was fair, not white like watho's, and her eyes were of the blue of the heavens when bluest; her features were delicate but strong, her mouth large and finely curved, and haunted with smiles. chapter iii. vesper. behind the castle the hill rose abruptly; the north- eastern tower, indeed, was in contact with the rock, and communicated with the interior of it. for in the rock was a series of chambers, known only to watho and the one servant whom she trusted, called falca. some former owner had constructed these chambers after the tomb of an egyptian king, and probably with the same design, for in the centre of one of them stood what could only be a sarcophagus, but that and others were walled off. the sides and roofs of them were carved in low relief, and curiously painted. here the witch lodged the blind lady, whose name was vesper. her eyes were black, with long black lashes; her skin had a look of darkened silver, but was of purest tint and grain; her hair was black and straight-flowing; her features were exquisitely formed, and if less beautiful yet more lovely from sadness; she always looked as if she wanted to lie down and not rise again. she did not know she was lodged in a tomb, though now and then she wondered she never touched a window. there were many couches, covered with richest silk, and soft as her own cheek, for her to lie upon; and the carpets were so the history of photogen and nycteris. thick, she might have cast herself down anywhere— as befitted a tomb. the place was dry and warm, and cunningly pierced for air, so that it was always fresh, and lacked only sunlight. there the witch fed her upon milk, and wine dark as a carbuncle, and pomegranates, and purple grapes, and birds that dwell in marshy places; and she played to her mournful tunes, and caused wailful violins to attend her, and told her sad tales, thus holding her ever in an atmo- sphere of sweet sorrow. chapter iv. photogen. watho at length had her desire, for witches often get what they want: a splendid boy was born to the fair aurora. just as the sun rose, he opened his eyes. watho carried him immediately to a distant part of the castle, and persuaded the mother that he never cried but once, dying the moment he was born. over- come with grief, aurora left the castle as soon as she was able, and watho never invited her again. and now the witch's care was, that the child should not know darkness. persistently she trained him until at last he never slept during the day, and never woke during the night. she never let him see anything black, and even kept all dull colours out of his way. never, if she could help it, would she let a shadow fall upon him, watching against shadows as if they had been live things that would hurt him. all day he basked in the full splendour of the sun, in the same large rooms his mother had occupied. the history of photogen and nycteris. watho used him to the sun, until he could bear more of it than any dark-blooded african. in the hottest of every day, she stript him and laid him in it, that he might ripen like a peach; and the boy rejoiced in it, and would resist being dressed again. she brought all her knowledge to bear on making his muscles strong and elastic and swiftly responsive—that his soul, she said laughing, might sit in every fibre, be all in every part, and awake the moment of call. his hair was of the red gold, but his eyes grew darker as he grew, until they were as black as vesper's. he was the merriest of creatures, always laughing, always loving, for a moment raging, then laughing afresh. watho called him photogen. chapter v. nycteris. five or six months after the birth of photogen, the dark lady also gave birth to a baby: in the window- less tomb of a blind mother, in the dead of night, under the feeble rays of a lamp in an alabaster globe, a girl came into the darkness with a wail. and just as she was born for the first time, vesper was born for the second, and passed into a world as unknown to her as this was to her child—who would have to be born yet again before she could see her mother. watho called her nycteris, and she grew as like vesper as possible—in all but one particular. she had the same dark skin, dark eyelashes and brows, dark hair, and gentle sad look; but she had just the eyes of aurora, the mother of photogen, and if they the history of photogen and nycteris. of the castle were mainly supplied from them. the chief of watho's huntsmen was a fine fellow, and when photogen began to outgrow the training she could give him, she handed him over to fargu. he with a will set about teaching him all he knew. he got him pony after pony, larger and larger as he grew, every one less manageable than that which had pre- ceded it, and advanced him from pony to horse, and from horse to horse, until he was equal to anything in that kind which the country produced. in similar fashion he trained him to the use of bow and arrow, substituting every three months a stronger bow and longer arrows; and soon he became, even on horse- back, a wonderful archer. he was but fourteen when he killed his first bull, causing jubilation among the huntsmen, and, indeed, through all the castle, for there too he was the favourite. every day, almost as soon as the sun was up, he went out hunting, and would in general be out nearly the whole of the day. but watho had laid upon fargu just one command- ment, namely, that photogen should on no account, whatever the plea, be out until sundown, or so near it as to wake in him the desire of seeing what was go- ing to happen; and this commandment fargu was anxiously careful not to break; for, although he would not have trembled had a whole herd of bulls come down upon him, charging at full speed across the level, and not an arrow left in his quiver, he was more than afraid of his mistress. when she looked at him in a certain way, he felt, he said, as if his heart turned to ashes in his breast, and what ran in his veins was no longer blood, but milk and water. so that, ere long, as photogen grew older, fargu be- the history of photogen and nycteris. gan to tremble, for he found it steadily growing harder to restrain him. so full of life was he, as fargu said to his mistress, much to her content, that he was more like a live thunderbolt than a human being. he did not know what fear was, and that not because he did not know danger; for he had had a severe laceration from the razor-like tusk of a boar—whose spine, how- ever, he had severed with one blow of his hunting- knife, before fargu could reach him with defence. when he would spur his horse into the midst of a herd of bulls, carrying only his bow and his short sword, or shoot an arrow into a. herd, and go after it as if to reclaim it for a runaway shaft, arriving in time to follow it with a spear-thrust before the wounded animal knew which way to charge, fargu thought with terror how it would be when he came to know the temptation of the huddle-spot leopards, and the knife-clawed lynxes, with which the forest was haunted. for the boy had been so steeped in the sun, from childhood so saturated with his influence, that he looked upon every danger from a sovereign height of courage. when, therefore, he was approach- ing his sixteenth year, fargu ventured to beg of watho that she would lay her commands upon the youth himself, and release him from responsibility for him. one might as soon hold a tawny-maned lion as photogen, he said. watho called the youth, and in the presence of fargu laid her command upon him never to be out when the rim of the sun should touch the horizon, accompanying the pro- hibition with hints of consequences, none the less aw- ful that they were obscure. photogen listened re- spectfully, but, knowing neither the taste of fear nor the history of photogen and nycteris. the temptation of the night, her words were but sounds to him. chapter vii. how nycteris grew. the little education she intended nycteris to have, watho gave her by word of mouth. not meaning she should have light enough to read by, to leave other reasons unmentioned, she never put a book in her hands. nycteris, however, saw so much better than watho imagined, that the light she gave her was quite sufficient, and she managed to coax falca into teaching her the letters, after which she taught her- self to read, and falca now and then brought her a child's book. but her chief pleasure was in her in- strument. her very fingers loved it, and would wander about over its keys like feeding sheep. she was not unhappy. she knew nothing of the world except the tomb in which she dwelt, and had some pleasure in everything she did. but she desired, nevertheless, something more or different. she did not know what it was, and the nearest she could come to expressing it to herself was—that she wanted more room. watho and falca would go from her beyond the shine of the lamp, and come again; therefore surely there must be more room somewhere. as often as she was left alone, she would fall to poring over the coloured bas- reliefs on the walls. these were intended to represent various of the powers of nature under allegorical similitudes, and as nothing can be made that does not belong to the general scheme, she could not fail the history of photoges" and kycter s. at least to imagine a flicker of relationship between some of them, and thus a shadow of the reality of things found its way to her. there was one thing, however, which moved and taught her more than all the rest—the lamp, namely, that hung from the ceiling, which she always saw alight, though she never saw the flame, only the slight condensation towards the centre of the alabaster globe. and besides the operation of the light itself after its kind, the indefiniteness of the globe, and the softness of the light, giving her the feeling as if her eyes could go in and into its whiteness, were somehow also associated with the idea of space and room. she would sit for an hour together gazing up at the lamp, and her heart would swell as she gazed. she would wonder what had hurt her, when she found her face wet with tears, and then would wonder how she could have been hurt without knowing it. she never looked thus at the lamp except when she was alone. chapter viii. the lamp. watho having given orders, took it for granted they were obeyed, and that falca was all night long with nycteris, whose day it was. but falca could not get into the habit of sleeping through the day, and would often leave her alone half the night. then it seemed to nycteris that the white lamp was watching over her. as it was never permitted to go out—while she was awake at least—nycteris, except by shutting her eyes, knew less about darkness than she did about the history of photogen and nycteris. light. also, the lamp being fixed high overhead, and in the centre of everything, she did not know much about shadows either. the few there were fell almost entirely on the floor, or kept like mice about the foot of the walls. once, when she was thus alone, there came the noise of a far-off rumbling: she had never before heard a sound of which she did not know the origin, and here therefore was a new sign of something be- yond these chambers. then came a trembling, then a shaking; the lamp dropped from the ceiling to the floor with a great crash, and she felt as if both her eyes were hard shut and both her hands over them. she concluded that it was the darkness that had made the rumbling and the shaking, and rushing into the room, had thrown down the lamp. she sat trembling. the noise and the shaking ceased, but the light did not return. the darkness had eaten it up! her lamp gone, the desire at once awoke to get out of her prison. she scarcely knew what out meant; out of one room into another, where there was not even a dividing door, only an open arch, was all she knew of the world. but suddenly she remembered that she had heard falca speak of the lamp going out: this must be what she had meant? and if the lamp had gone out, where had it gone? surely where falca went, and like her it would come again. but she could not wait. the desire to go out grew irresistible. she must follow her beautiful lamp! she must find it! she must see what it was about! now there was a curtain covering a recess in the wall, where some of her toys and gymnastic things were kept; and from behind that curtain watho and the history of photogen and nycteris. move her hands about over one of the walls behind the curtain, half expecting them to go into it, as she supposed watho and falca did. but the wall repelled her with inexorable hardness, and she turned to the one opposite. in so doing, she set her foot upon an ivory die, and as it met sharply the same spot the broken alabaster had already hurt, she fell forward with her outstretched hands against the wall. some- thing gave way, and she tumbled out of the cavern. chapter ix. out. but alas! out was very much like in, for the same enemy, the darkness, was here also. the next mo- ment, however, came a great gladness—a firefly, which had wandered in from the garden. she saw the tiny spark in the distance. with slow pulsing ebb and throb of light, it came pushing itself through the air, drawing nearer and nearer, with that motion which more resembles swimming than flying, and the light seemed the source of its own motion. "my lamp! my lamp!" cried nycteris. "it is the shiningness of my lamp, which the cruel darkness drove out. my good lamp has been waiting for me here all the time! it knew i would come after it, and waited to take me with it." she followed the firefly, which, like herself, was seeking the way out. if it did not know the way, it was yet light; and, because all light is one, any light may serve to guide to more light. if she was mis- taken in thinking it the spirit of her lamp, it was of the gifts of the child christ, etc. the history of photogen and nycteris. the same spirit as her lamp—and had wings. the gold-green jet-boat, driven by light, went throbbing before her through a long narrow passage. suddenly it rose higher, and the same moment nycteris fell upon an ascending stair. she had never seen a stair before, and found going-up a curious sensation. just as she reached what seemed the top, the firefly ceased to shine, and so disappeared. she was in utter dark- ness once more. but when we are following the light, even its extinction is a guide. if the firefly had gone on shining, nycteris would have seen the stair turn, and would have gone up towatho's bedroom; whereas now, feeling straight before her, she came to a latched door, which after a good deal of trying she managed to open—and stood in a maze of wondering perplex- ity, awe, and delight. what was it? was it outside of her, or something taking place in her head? before her was a very long and very narrow passage, broken up she could not tell how, and spreading out above and on all sides to an infinite height and breadth and distance—as if space itself were growing out of a trough. it was brighter than her rooms had ever been—brighter than if six alabaster lamps had been burning in them. there was a quantity of strange streaking and mottling about it, very different from the shapes on her walls. she was in a dream of plea- sant perplexity, of delightful bewilderment. she could not tell whether she was upon her feet or drifting about like the firefly, driven by the pulses of an in- ward bliss. but she knew little as yet of her inherit- ance. unconsciously she took one step forward from the threshold, and the girl who had been from her very birth a troglodyte, stood in the ravishing glory of the history of photogen and nycteris. a southern night, lit by a perfect moon—not the moon of our northern clime, but a moon like silver glowing in a furnace—a moon one could see to be a globe— not far off, a mere flat disc on the face of the blue, but hanging down halfway, and looking as if one could see all round it by a mere bending of the neck. "it is my lamp!" she said, and stood dumb with parted lips. she looked and felt as if she had been standing there in silent ecstasy from the beginning. "no, it is not my lamp," she said after a while; "it is the mother of all the lamps." and with that she fell on her knees, and spread out her hands to the moon. she could not in the least have told what was in her mind, but the action was in reality just a begging of the moon to be what she was—that precise incredible splendour hung in the far-off roof, that very glory essential to the being of poor girls born and bred in caverns. it was a re- surrection—nay, a birth itself, to nycteris. what the vast blue sky, studded with tiny sparks like the heads of diamond nails, could be; what the moon, looking so absolutely content with light—why, she knew less about them than you and i! but the greatest of astro- nomers might envy the rapture of such a first im- pression at the age of sixteen. immeasurably imper- fect it was, but false the impression could not be, for she saw with the eyes made for seeing, and saw in- deed what many men are too wise to see. as she knelt, something softly flapped her, em- braced her, stroked her, fondled her. she rose to her feet, but saw nothing, did not know what it was. it was likest a woman's breath. for she knew nothing of the air even, had never breathed the still newborn * f)p/ the history of photogen and kfcteris. freshness of the world her breath had come to her only through long passages and spirals in the rock. still less did she know of the air alive with motion— of that thrice blessed thing, the wind of a summer night. it was like a spiritual wine, filling her whole being with an intoxication of purest joy. to breathe was a perfect existence. it seemed to her the light itself she drew into her lungs. possessed by the power of the gorgeous night, she seemed at one and the same moment annihilated and glorified. she was in the open passage or gallery that ran round the top of the garden walls, between the cleft battlements, but she did not once look down to see what lay beneath. her soul was drawn to the vault above her, with its lamp and its endless room, at last she burst into tears, and her heart was relieved, as the night itself is relieved by its lightning and rain. and now she grew thoughtful. she must hoard this splendour! what a little ignorance her gaolers had made of her! life was a mighty bliss, and they had scraped hers to the bare bone! they must not know that she knew. she must hide her knowledge— hide it even from her own eyes, keeping it close in her bosom, content to know that she had it, even when she could not brood on its presence, feasting her eyes with its glory. she turned from the vision, therefore, with a sigh of utter bliss, and with soft quiet steps and groping hands, stole back into the darkness of the rock. what was darkness or the laziness of time's feet to one who had seen what she had that night seen? she was lifted above all weari- ness—above all wrong. the history of photogen and nycteris. when falca entered, she uttered a cry of terror. but nycteris called to her not to be afraid, and told her how there had come a rumbling and a shaking, and the lamp had fallen. then falca went and told her mistress, and within an hour a new globe hung in the place of the old one. nycteris thought it did not look so bright and clear as the former, but she made no lamentation over the change; she was far too rich to heed it. for now, prisoner as she knew herself, her heart was full of glory and gladness; at times she had to hold herself from jumping up, and going dancing and singing about the room. when she slept, instead of dull dreams, she had splendid visions. there were times, it is true, when she became rest- less, and impatient to look upon her riches, but then she would reason with herself, saying, "what does it matter if i sit here for ages with my poor pale lamp, when out there a lamp is burning at which ten thousand little lamps are glowing with wonder?" she never doubted she had looked upon the day and the sun, of which she had read; and always when she read of the day and the sun, she had the night and the moon in her mind; and when she read of the night and the moon, she thought only of the cave and the lamp that hung there. chapter x. the great lamp. it was some time before she had a second opportunity of going out, for falca, since the fall of the lamp, had been a little more careful, and seldom the history of photogen and nycteris. j t still. had it gone out? what would happen next? perhaps the little lamps had not to grow great lamps, but to fall one by one and go out first?—with that, came from below a sweet scent, then another, and another. ah, how delicious! perhaps they were all coming to her only on their way out after the great lamp!—then came the music of the river, which she had been too absorbed in the sky to note the first time. what was it? alas! alas! another sweet living thing on its way out. they were all marching slowly out in long lovely file, one after the other, each taking its leave of her as it passed! it must be so: here were more and more sweet sounds, following and fading! the whole of the out was going out again; it was all going after the great lovely lamp! she would be left the only creature in the solitary day! was there nobody to hang up a new lamp for the old one, and keep the creatures from going?—she crept back to her rock very sad. she tried to comfort her- self by saying that anyhow there would be room out there; but as she said it she shuddered at the thought of empty room. when next she succeeded in getting out, a half- moon hung in the east: a new lamp had come, she thought, and all would be well. it would be endless to describe the phases of feeling through which nycteris passed, more numerous and delicate than those of a thousand changing moons. a fresh bliss bloomed in her soul with every varying aspect of infinite nature. ere long she began to suspect that the new moon was the old moon, gone out and come in again like herself; also that, unlike herself, it wasted and grew again; that it was the history of photogen and nycteris. indeed a live thing, subject like herself to caverns, and keepers, and solitude, escaping and shining when it could. was it a prison like hers it was shut in? and did it grow dark when the lamp left it? where could be the way into it?—with that first she began to look below, as well as above and around her; and then first noted the tops of the trees between her and the floor. there were palms with their red- fingered hands full of fruit; eucalyptus trees crowded with little boxes of powder-puffs; oleanders with their half-caste roses; and orange trees with their clouds of young silver stars, and their aged balls of gold. her eyes could see colours invisible to ours in the moonlight, and all these she could distinguish well, though at first she took them for the shapes and colours of the carpet of the great room. she longed to get down among them, now she saw they were real creatures, but she did not know how. she went along the whole length of the wall to the end that crossed the river, but found no way of going down. above the river she stopped to gaze with awe upon the rushing water. she knew nothing of water but from what she drank and what she bathed in; and, as the moon shone on the dark, swift stream, singing lustily as it flowed, she did not doubt the river was alive, a swift rushing serpent of life, going—out?— whither? and then she wondered if what was brought into her rooms had been killed that she might drink it, and have her bath in it. once when she stepped out upon the wall, it was into the midst of a fierce wind. the trees were all roaring. great clouds were rushing along the skies, and tumbling over the little lamps: the great lamp the history of photogen and nycteris. had not come yet. all was in tumult. the wind seized her garments and hair, and shook them as if it would tear them from her. what could she have done to make the gentle creature so angry? or was this another creature altogether—of the same kind, but hugely bigger, and of a very different temper and behaviour? but the whole place was angry! or was it that the creatures dwelling in it, the wind, and the trees, and the clouds, and the river, had all quar- relled, each with all the rest? would the whole come to confusion and disorder? but, as she gazed wonder- ing and disquieted, the moon, larger than ever she had seen her, came lifting herself above the horizon to look, broad and red as if she, too, were swollen with anger that she had been roused from her rest by their noise, and compelled to hurry up to see what her children were about, thus rioting in her absence, lest they should rack the whole frame of things. and as she rose, the loud wind grew quieter and scolded less fiercely, the trees grew stiller and moaned with a lower complaint, and the clouds hunted and hurled themselves less wildly across the sky. and as if she were pleased that her children obeyed her very pre- sence, the moon grew smaller as she ascended the heavenly stair; her puffed cheeks sank, her complexion grew clearer, and a sweet smile spread over her countenance, as peacefully she rose and rose. but there was treason and rebellion in her court; for, ere she reached the top of her great stairs, the clouds had assembled, forgetting their late wars, and very still they were as they laid their heads together and conspired. then combining, and lying silently in wait until she came near, they threw themselves upon her, the history of photogen and nycteris. and swallowed her up. down from the roof came spots of wet, faster and faster, and they wetted the cheeks of nycteris; and what could they be but the tears of the moon, crying because her children were smothering her? nycteris wept too, and not knowing what to think, stole back in dismay to her room. the next time, she came out in fear and trem- bling. there was the moon still! away in the west —poor, indeed, and old, and looking dreadfully worn, as if all the wild beasts in the sky had been gnawing at her—but there she was, alive still, and able to shine! chapter xi. the sunset. knowing nothing of darkness, or stars, or moon, photogen spent his days in hunting. on a great white horse he swept over the grassy plains, glorying in the sun, fighting the wind, and killing the buffaloes. one morning, when he happened to be on the ground a little earlier than usual, and before his at- tendants, he caught sight of an animal unknown to him, stealing from a hollow into which the sunrays had not yet reached. like a swift shadow it sped over the grass, slinking southward to the forest. he gave chase, noted the body of a buffalo it had half eaten, and pursued it the harder. but with great leaps and bounds the creature shot farther and farther ahead of him, and vanished. turning therefore de- feated, he met fargu, who had been following him as fast as his horse could carry him. the history of photogen and nycteris. "what animal was that, fargu?" he asked. "how he did run!" fargu answered he might be a leopard, but he rather thought from his pace and look that he was a young lion. "what a coward he must be!" said photogen. "don't be too sure of that," rejoined fargu. "he is one of the creatures the sun makes uncomfortable. as soon as the sun is down, he will be brave enough." he had scarcely said it, when he repented; nor did he regret it the less when he found that photogen made no reply. but alas! said was said. "then," said photogen to himself, "that con- temptible beast is one of the terrors of sundown, of which madam watho spoke!" he hunted all day, but not with his usual spirit. he did not ride so hard, and did not kill one buffalo. fargu to his dismay observed also that he took every pretext for moving farther south, nearer to the forest. but all at once, the sun now sinking in the west, he seemed to change his mind, for he turned his horse's head, and rode home so fast that the rest could not keep him in sight. when they arrived, they found his horse in the stable, and concluded that he had gone into the castle. but he had in truth set out again by the back of it. crossing the river a good way up the valley, he re-ascended to the ground they had left, and just before sunset reached the skirts of the forest. the level orb shone straight in between the bare stems, and saying to himself he could not fail to find the beast, he rushed into the wood. but even as he entered, he turned, and looked to the west. the rim the history of photogen and nycteris. of the red was touching the horizon, all jagged with broken hills. "now," said photogen, "we shall see;" but he said it in the face of a darkness he had not proved. the moment the sun began to sink among the spikes and saw-edges, with a kind of sudden flap at his heart a fear inexplicable laid hold of the youth; and as he had never felt anything of the kind before, the very fear itself terrified him. as the sun sank, it rose like the shadow of the world, and grew deeper and darker. he could not even think what it might be, so utterly did it enfeeble him. when the last flaming scimitar-edge of the sun went out like a lamp, his horror seemed to blossom into very madness. like the closing lids of an eye—for there was no twilight, and this night no moon—the terror and the darkness rushed together, and he knew them for one. he was no longer the man he had known, or rather thought himself. the courage he had had was in no sense his own—he had only had courage, not been courageous; it had left him, and he could scarcely stand—certainly not stand straight, for not one of his joints could he make stiff or keep from trembling. he was but a spark of the sun, in himself nothing. the beast was behind him—stealing upon him! he turned. all was dark in the wood, but to his fancy the darkness here and there broke into pairs of green eyes, and he had not the power even to raise his bow-hand from his side. in the strength of de- spair he strove to rouse courage enough—-not to fight —that he did not even desire—but to run. courage to flee home was all he could ever imagine, and it would not come. but what he had not, was ignomini- ously given him. a cry in the wood, half a screech, the history of photogen and nycteris. of horrors coming down the sky to curdle his blood, and turn his brain to a cinder! he gave a sob, and made straight for the river, where it ran between the two walls, at the bottom of the garden. he plunged in, struggled through, clambered up the bank, and fell senseless on the grass. chapter xii. the garden. although .nycteris took care not to stay out long at a time, and used every precaution, she could hardly have escaped discovery so long, had it not been that the strange attacks to which watho was subject had been more frequent of late, and had at last settled into an illness which kept her to her bed. but whether from an access of caution or from suspicion, falca, having now to be much with her mistress both day and night, took it at length into her head to fasten the door as often as she went by her usual place of exit: so that one night, when nycteris pushed, she found, to her surprise and dismay, that the wall pushed her again, and would not let her through; nor with all her searching could she discover wherein lay the cause of the change. then first she felt the pres- sure of her prison-walls, and turning, half in despair, groped her way to the picture where she had once seen falca disappear. there she soon found the spot by pressing upon which the wall yielded. it let her through into a sort of cellar, where was a glimmer of light from a sky whose blue was paled by the moon. from the cellar she got into a long passage, into the history of photogen and nycteris. which the moon was shining, and came to a door. she managed to open it, and, to her great joy, found herself in the other place, not on the top of the wall, however, but in the garden she had longed to enter. noiseless as a fluffy moth she flitted away into the covert of the trees and shrubs, her bare feet welcomed by the softest of carpets, which, by the very touch, her feet knew to be alive, whence it came that it was so sweet and friendly to them. a soft little wind was out among the trees, running now here, now there, like a child that had got its will. she went dancing over the grass, looking behind her at her shadow, as she went. at first she had taken it for a little black creature that made game of her, but when she per- ceived that it was only where she kept the moon away, and that every tree, however great and grand a creature, had also one of these strange attendants, she soon learned not to mind it, and by and by it became the source of as much amusement to her, as to any kitten its tail. it was long before she was quite at home with the trees, however. at one time they seemed to disapprove of her; at another not even to know she was there, and to be altogether taken up with their own business. suddenly, as she went from one to another of them, looking up with awe at the murmuring mystery of their branches and leaves, she spied one a little way off, which was very different from all the rest. it was white, and dark, and spar- kling, and spread like a palm—a small slender palm, without much head; and it grew very fast, and sang as it grew. but it never grew any bigger, for just as fast as she could see it growing, it kept falling to pieces. when she got close to it, she discovered that the history of photogen and nycteris. chapter xiii. something quite new. a beautiful moth brushed across the great blue eyes of nycteris. she sprang to her feet to follow it —not in the spirit of the hunter, but of the lover. her heart-like every heart, if only its fallen sides were cleared away-was an inexhaustible fountain of love: she loved everything she saw. but as she followed the moth, she caught sight of something lying on the bank of the river, and not yet having learned to be afraid of anything, ran straight to see what it was. reaching it, she stood amazed. another girl like herself! but what a strange-looking girl!—so curiously dressed too!-and not able to move! was she dead? filled suddenly with pity, she sat down, lifted photogen's head, laid it on her lap, and began stroking his face. her warm hands brought him to himself. he opened his black eyes, out of which had gone all the fire, and looked up with a strange sound of fear, half moan, half gasp. but when he saw her face, he drew a deep breath, and lay motionless- gazing at her: those blue marvels above him, like a better sky, seemed to side with courage and assuage his terror. at length, in a trembling, awed voice, and a half whisper, he said, “who are you?” “i am nycteris," she answered. “you are a creature of the darkness, and love the night,” he said, his fear beginning to move again. "i may be a creature of the darkness,” she replied. “i hardly know what you mean. but i do not love the gifts of the child christ, etc. the history of photogen and nycteris. the night. i love the day—with all my heart; and i sleep all the night long." "how can that be?" said photogen, rising on his elbow, but dropping his head on her lap again the moment he saw the moon; "—how can it be," he re- peated, "when i see your eyes there—wide awake?" she only smiled and stroked him, for she did not understand him, and thought he did not know what he was saying. "was it a dream then?" resumed photogen, rubbing his eyes. but with that his memory came clear, and he shuddered, and cried, "oh horrible! horrible! to be turned all at once into a coward! a shameful, con- temptible, disgraceful coward! i am ashamed— ashamed—and so frightened! it is all so frightful!" "what is so frightful?" asked nycteris, with a smile like that of a mother to her child waked from a bad dream. "all, all," he answered; "all this darkness and the roaring." "my dear," said nycteris, "there is no roaring. how sensitive you must be! what you hear is only the walking of the water, and the running about of the sweetest of all the creatures. she is invisible, and i call her everywhere, for she goes through all the other creatures and comforts them. now she is amusing herself, and them too, with shaking them and kissing them, and blowing in their faces. listen: do you call that roaring? you should hear her when she is rather angry though! i don't know why, but she is sometimes, and then she does roar a little." "it is so horribly dark!" said photogen, who, listen the history of photogen and nycteris. ing while she spoke, had satisfied himself that there was no roaring. "dark!" she echoed. "you should be in my room when an earthquake has killed my lamp. i do not understand. how can you call this dark? let me see: yes, you have eyes, and big ones, bigger than madam watho's or falca's—not so big as mine, i fancy—only i never saw mine. but then—oh yes!— i know now what is the matter! you can't see with them because they are so black. darkness can't see, of course. never mind: i will be your eyes, and teach you to see. look here—at these lovely white things in the grass, with red sharp points all folded together into one. oh, i love them so! i could sit looking at them all day, the darlings!" photogen looked close at the flowers, and thought he had seen something like them before, but could not make them out. as nycteris had never seen an open daisy, so had he never seen a closed one. thus instinctively nycteris tried to turn him away from his fear; and the beautiful creature's strange lovely talk helped not a little to make him forget it. "you call it dark!" she said again, as if she could not get rid of the absurdity of the idea; "why, i could count every blade of the green hair—i suppose it is what the books call grass—within two yards of me! and just look at the great lamp! it is brighter than usual to-day, and i can't think why you should be frightened, or call it dark!" as she spoke, she went on stroking his cheeks and hair, and trying to comfort him. but oh how miserable he was! and how plainly he looked it! he was on the point of saying that her great lamp was dreadful * the history of photogÉn and nycteris. to him, looking like a witch, walking in the sleep of death; but he was not so ignorant as nycteris, and knew even in the moonlight that she was a woman, though he had never seen one so young or so lovely before; and while she comforted his fear, her presence made him the more ashamed of it. besides, not knowing her nature, he might annoy her, and make her leave him to his misery. he lay still therefore, hardly daring to move: all the little life he had seemed to come from her, and if he were to move, she might move; and if she were to leave him, he must weep like a child. “how did you come here?” asked nycteris, taking his face between her hands. “down the hill,” he answered. “where do you sleep?" she asked. he signed in the direction of the house. she gave a little laugh of delight. “when you have learned not to be frightened, you will always be wanting to come out with me," she said. she thought with herself she would ask her pre- sently, when she had come to herself a little, how she had made her escape, for she must, of course, like herself have got out of a cave, in which watho and falca had been keeping her. “look at the lovely colours," she went on, pointing to a rose-bush, on which photogen could not see a single flower. “they are far more beautiful—are they not?-than any of the colours upon your walls. and then they are alive, and smell so sweet!” he wished she would not make him keep opening his eyes to look at things he could not see; and every the history of photogen and nycteris. - other moment would start and grasp tight hold of her, as some fresh pang of terror shot into him. “come, come, dear!” said nycteris; "you must not go on this way. you must be a brave girl, and---" “a girl!” shouted photogen, and started to his feet in wrath. “if you were a man, i should kill you." “a man?” repeated nycteris: “what is that? how could i be that? we are both girls—are we not?” “no, i am not a girl," he answered; “_although,” he added, changing his tone, and casting himself on the ground at her feet, “i have given you too good reason to call me one.” “oh, i see!” returned nycteris. “no, of course! you can't be a girl: girls are not afraid—without reason. i understand now: it is because you are not a girl that you are so frightened.” photogen twisted and writhed upon the grass. “no, it is not,” he said sulkily; “it is this horrible darkness that creeps into me, goes all through me, into the very marrow of my bones—that is what makes me behave like a girl. if only the sun would rise!” “the sun! what is it?” cried nycteris, now in her turn conceiving a vague fear. then photogen broke into a rhapsody, in which he vainly sought to forget his. “it is the soul, the life, the heart, the glory of the universe,” he said. “the worlds dance like motes in his beams. the heart of man is strong and brave in his light, and when it departs his courage grows from him-goes with the sun, and he becomes such as you see me now." “then that is not the sun?” said nycteris, thought- fully, pointing up to the moon. the history of photogen and nycteris. "that!" cried photogen, with utter scorn; "i know nothing about that, except that it is ugly and horrible. at best it can be only the ghost of a dead sun. yes, that is it! that is what makes it look so frightful." "no," said nycteris, after a long, thoughtful pause; "you must be wrong there. i think the sun is the ghost of a dead moon, and that is how he is so much more splendid as you say.—is there, then, another big room, where the sun lives in the roof?" "i do not know what you mean," replied photogen. "but you mean to be kind, i know, though you should not call a poor fellow in the dark a girl. if you will let me lie here, with my head in your lap, i should like to sleep. will you watch me, and take care of me?" "yes, that i will," answered nycteris, forgetting all her own danger. so photogen fell asleep. chapter xiv. the sun. there nycteris sat, and there the youth lay, all night long, in the heart of the great cone-shadow of the earth, like two pharaohs in one pyramid. photogen slept, and slept; and nycteris sat motionless lest she should wake him, and so betray him to his fear. the moon rode high in the blue eternity; it was a very triumph of glorious night; the river ran babble- murmuring in deep soft syllables; the fountain kept rushing moonward, and blossoming momently to a great silvery flower, whose petals were for ever falling the history of photogen and nycteris. like snow, but with a continuous musical clash, into the bed of its exhaustion beneath; the wind woke, took a run among the trees, went to sleep, and woke again; the daisies slept on their feet at hers, but she did not know they slept; the roses might well seem awake, for their scent filled the air, but in truth they slept also, and the odour was that of their dreams; the oranges hung like gold lamps in the trees, and their silvery flowers were the souls of their yet un- embodied children; the scent of the acacia blooms filled the air like the very odour of the moon herself. at last, unused to the living air, and weary with sitting so still and so long, nycteris grew drowsy. the air began to grow cool, it was getting near the time when she too was accustomed to sleep. she closed her eyes just a moment, and nodded—opened them suddenly wide, for she had promised to watch. in that moment a change had come. the moon had got round, and was fronting her from the west, and she saw that her face was altered, that she had grown pale, as if she too were wan with fear, and from her lofty place espied a coming terror. the light seemed to be dissolving out of her; she was dying—she was going out! and yet everything around looked strangely clear—clearer than ever she had seen anything before: how could the lamp be shedding more light when she herself had less? ah, that was just it! see how faint she looked! it was because the light was forsaking her, and spreading itself over the room, that she grew so thin and pale! she was giving up everything! she was melting away from the roof like a bit of sugar in water. nycteris was fast growing afraid, and sought re- the history of photogen and nycteris. fuge with the face upon her lap. how beautiful the creature was!—what to call it she could not think, for it had been angry when she called it what watho called her. and, wonder upon wonder! now, even in the cold change that was passing upon the great room, the colour as of a red rose was rising in the wan cheek. what beautiful yellow hair it was that spread over her lap! what great huge breaths the creature took! and what were those curious things it car- ried? she had seen them on her walls, she was sure. thus she talked to herself while the lamp grew paler and paler, and everything kept growing yet clearer. what could it mean? the lamp was dying —going out into the other place of which the creature in her lap had spoken, to be a sun! but why were the things growing clearer before it was yet a sun? that was the point. was it her growing into a sun that did it? yes! yes! it was coming death! she knew it, for it was coming upon her also! she felt it coming! what was she about to grow into? some- thing beautiful, like the creature in her lap? it might be! anyhow, it must be death; for all her strength was going out of her, while all around her was grow- ing so light she could not bear it! she must be blind soon! would she be blind or dead first? for the sun was rushing up behind her. photogen woke, lifted his head from her lap, and sprang to his feet. his face was one radiant smile. his heart was full of daring—that of the hunter who will creep into the tiger's den. nycteris gave a cry, covered her face with her hands, and pressed her eyelids close. then blindly she stretched out her arms to photogen, cry- ing, "oh, i am so frightened! what is this? it must the history of photogen and nycteris. be death! i don't wish to die yet. i love this room and the old lamp. i do not want the other place! this is terrible. i want to hide. i want to get into the sweet, soft, dark hands of all the other creatures. ah me! ah me!" "what is the matter with you, girl?" said photogen, with the arrogance of all male creatures until they have been taught by the other kind. he stood look- ing down upon her over his bow, of which he was ex- amining the string. "there is no fear of anything now, child. it is day. the sun is all but up. look! he will be above the brow of yon hill in one moment more! good-bye. thank you for my night's lodging. i'm off. don't be a goose. if ever i can do anything for you—and all that, you know!" "don't leave me; oh, don't leave me!" cried nycteris. "i am dying! i am dying! i cannot move. the light sucks all the strength out of me. and oh, i am so frightened!" but already photogen had splashed through the river, holding high his bow that it might not get wet. he rushed across the level, and strained up the op- posing hill. hearing no answer, nycteris removed her hands. photogen had reached the top, and the same moment the sunrays alighted upon him: the glory of the king of day crowded blazing upon the golden- haired youth. radiant as apollo, he stood in mighty strength, a flashing shape in the midst of flame. he fitted a glowing arrow to a gleaming bow. the arrow parted with a keen musical twang of the bowstring, and photogen darting after it, vanished with a shout. up shot apollo himself, and from his quiver scattered astonishment and exultation. but the brain of poor the history of photogen and nycteris. nycteris was pierced through and through. she fell down in utter darkness. all around her was a flaming furnace. in despair and feebleness and agony, she crept back, feeling her way with doubt and difficulty and enforced persistence to her cell. when at last the friendly darkness of her chamber folded her about with its cooling and consoling arms, she threw herself on her bed and fell fast asleep. and there she slept on, one alive in a tomb, while photogen, above in the sun-glory, pursued the buffaloes on the lofty plain, thinking not once of her where she lay dark and for- saken, whose presence had been his refuge, her eyes and her hands his guardians through the night. he was in his glory and his pride; and the darkness and its disgrace had vanished for a time. chapter xv. the coward hero. but no sooner had the sun reached the noon- stead, than photogen began to remember the past night in the shadow of that which was at hand, and to remember it with shame. he had proved himself —and not to himself only, but to a girl as well—a coward!—one bold in the daylight, while there was nothing to fear, but trembling like any slave when the night arrived. there was, there must be, some- thing unfair in it! a spell had been cast upon him! he had eaten, he had drunk something that did not agree with courage! in any case he had been taken unprepared! how was he to know what the going down of the sun would be like? it was no wonder the history of photogen and nycterts. qi he should have been surprised into terror, seeing it was what it was—in its very nature so terrible! also, one could not see where danger might be com- ing from! you might be torn in pieces, carried off, or swallowed up, without even seeing where to strike a blow! every possible excuse he caught at, eager as a self-lover to lighten his self-contempt. that day he astonished the huntsmen—terrified them with his reckless daring—all to prove to himself he was no coward. but nothing eased his shame. one thing only had hope in it—the resolve to encounter the dark in solemn earnest, now that he knew some- thing of what it was. it was nobler to meet a re- cognized danger than to rush contemptuously into what seemed nothing—nobler still to encounter a nameless horror. he could conquer fear and wipe out disgrace together. for a marksman and swords- man like him, he said, one with his strength and courage, there was but danger. defeat there was not. he knew the darkness now, and when it came he would meet it as fearless and cool as now he felt himself. and again he said, "we shall see!" he stood under the boughs of a great beech as the sun was going down, far away over the jagged hills: before it was half down, he was trembling like one of the leaves behind him in the first sigh of the night-wind. the moment the last of the glowing disc vanished, he bounded away in terror to gain the valley, and his fear grew as he ran. down the side of the hill, an abject creature, he went bounding and rolling and running; fell rather than plunged into the river, and came to himself, as before, lying on the grassy bank in the garden. the history of photo gen and nycteris. wet, and then lying out of doors all night, and night after night,—worst of all, from the consuming of the deathly fear, and the shame of shame, his sleep for- sook him, and on the seventh morning, instead of going to the hunt, he crawled into the castle, and went to bed. the grand health, over which the witch had taken such pains, had yielded, and in an hour or two he was moaning and crying out in delirium. chapter xvi. an evil nurse. who was herself ill, as i have said, and was the worse tempered; and, besides, it is a peculiarity of witches, that what works in others to sympathy, works in them to repulsion. also, watho had a poor, helpless, rudimentary spleen of a conscience left, just enough to make her uncomfortable, and therefore more wicked. so, when she heard that photogen was ill, she was angry. ill, indeed! after all she had done to saturate him with the life of the system, with the solar might itself! he was a wretched failure, the boy! and because he was her failure, she was annoyed with him, began to dislike him, grew to hate him. she looked on him as a painter might upon a picture, or a poet upon a poem, which he had only succeeded in getting into an irrecoverable mess. in the hearts of witches, love and hate lie close together, and often tumble over each other. and whether it was that her failure with photogen foiled also her plans in regard to nycteris, or that her the history of photogen and nycteris. afraid out wte ska, Í him bebave. as cuely as and dear and beasts that came of the light, why the same way-wl he could not bear find her again! ah, u her! but alas! p melted her—burned e it, if she was the nym, illness made her yet more of a devil's wife, certainly watho now got sick of the girl too, and hated to know her about the castle. she was not too ill, however, to go to poor photogen's room and torment him. she told him she hated him like a serpent, and hissed like one as she said it, looking very sharp in the nose and chin, and flat in the forehead. photogen thought she meant to kill him, and hardly ventured to take any- thing brought him. she ordered every ray of light to be shut out of his room; but by means of this he got a little used to the darkness. she would take one of his arrows, and now tickle him with the feather end of it, now prick him with the point till the blood ran down. what she meant finally i can- not tell, but she brought photogen speedily to the determination of making his escape from the castle: what he should do then he would think afterwards. who could tell but he might find his mother some- where beyond the forest! if it were not for the broad patches of darkness that divided day from day, he would fear nothing! but now, as he lay helpless in the dark, ever and anon would come dawning through it the face of the lovely creature who on that first awful night nursed him so sweetly: was he never to see her again? if she was, as he had concluded, the nymph of the river, why had she not re-appeared? she might have taught him not to fear the night, for plainly she had no fear of it herself! but then, when the day came, she did seem frightened:—why was that, seeing there was nothing to be afraid of then? perhaps one so much at home in the darkness, was correspondingly chap wate from that dreadful n got to be herself again. almost death to her; and with the memory of a terri she dared scarcely recall, le should sting her beyond enc nothing to the pain which radeness of the shining creatu tárough his fear caused her; f fering passed over to her, and use he made of his returning scorn her! she wondered and beyond her comprehension. before long, watho was plot the witch was like a sick child the history of photogen and nycteris. afraid of the light! then his selfish joy at the rising of the sun, blinding him to her condition, had made him behave to her, in ill return for her kindness, as cruelly as watho behaved to him! how sweet and dear and lovely she was! if there were wild beasts that came out only at night, and were afraid of the light, why should there not be girls too, made the same way—who could not endure the light, as he could not bear the darkness? if only he could find her again! ah, how differently he would behave to her! but alas! perhaps the sun had killed her- melted her-burned her up!-dried her up—that was it, if she was the nymph of the river! chapter xvii. watho's wolf. from that dreadful morning nycteris had never got to be herself again. the sudden light had been almost death to her; and now she lay in the dark with the memory of a terrific sharpness—a something she dared scarcely recall, lest the very thought of it should sting her beyond endurance. but this was as nothing to the pain which the recollection of the rudeness of the shining creature whom she had nursed through his fear caused her; for, the moment his suf- fering passed over to her, and he was free, the first use he made of his returning strength had been to scorn her! she wondered and wondered; it was all beyond her comprehension. before long, watho was plotting evil against her. the witch was like a sick child weary of his toy: she i) the history of photogen and nycteris. would pull her to pieces, and see how she liked it. she would set her in the sun, and see her die, like a jelly from the salt ocean cast out on a hot rock. it would be a sight to soothe her wolf-pain. one day, therefore, a little before noon, while nycteris was in her deepest sleep, she had a darkened litter brought to the door, and in that she made two of her men carry her to the plain above. there they took her out, laid her on the grass, and left her. watho watched it all from the top of her high tower, through her telescope; and scarcely was nycteris left, when she saw her sit up, and the same moment cast herself down again with her face to the ground. "she'll have a sunstroke," said watho, "and that'll be the end of her." presently, tormented by a fly, a huge-humped buffalo, with great shaggy mane, came galloping along, straight for where she lay. at sight of the thing on the grass, he started, swerved yards aside, stopped dead, and then came slowly up, looking malicious. nycteris lay quite still, and never even saw the animal. "now she'll be trodden to death!" said watho. "that's the way those creatures do." when the buffalo reached her, he sniffed at her all over, and went away; then came back, and sniffed again; then all at once went off as if a demon had him by the tail. next came a gnu, a more dangerous animal still, and did much the same; then a gaunt wild boar. but no creature hurt her, and watho was angry with the whole creation. at length, in the shade of her hair, the blue eyes the history of photogen and nycteris. of nycteris began to come to themselves a little, and the first thing they saw was a comfort. i have told already how she knew the night-daisies, each a sharp- pointed little cone with a red tip; and once she had parted the rays of one of them, with trembling fingers, for she was afraid she was dreadfully rude, and per- haps was hurting it; but she did want, she said to herself, to see what secret it carried so carefully hid- den; and she found its golden heart. but now, right under her eyes, inside the veil of her hair, in the sweet twilight of whose blackness she could see it perfectly, stood a daisy with its red tip opened wide into a carmine ring, displaying its heart of gold on a platter of silver. she did not at first recognize it as one of those cones come awake, but a moment's notice revealed what it was. who then could have been so cruel to the lovely little creature, as to force it open like that, and spread it heart-bare to the terrible death-lamp? whoever it was, it must be the same that had thrown her out there to be burned to death in its fire! but she had her hair, and could hang her head, and make a small sweet night of her own about her! she tried to bend the daisy down and away from the sun, and to make its petals hang about it like her hair, but she could not. alas! it was burned and dead already! she did not know that it could not yield to her gentle force because it was drink- ing life, with all the eagerness of life, from what she called the death-lamp. oh, how the lamp burned her! but she went on thinking—she did not know how; and by and by began to reflect that, as there was no roof to the room except that in which the great fire went rolling about, the little red-tip must have seen the gifts of the child christ, etc. the history of photogen and nycteris. the lamp a thousand times, and must know it quite well! and it had not killed it! nay, thinking about farther, she began to ask the question whether this, in which she now saw it, might not be its more per- fect condition. for not only now did the whole seem perfect, as indeed it did before, but every part showed its own individual perfection as well, which perfection made it capable of combining with the rest into the higher perfection of a whole. the flower was a lamp itself! the golden heart was the light, and the silver border was the alabaster globe, skilfully broken, and spread wide to let out the glory. yes; the radiant shape was plainly its perfection! if, then, it was the lamp which had opened it into that shape, the lamp could not be unfriendly to it, but must be of its own kind, seeing it made it perfect! and again, when she thought of it, there was clearly no little resem- blance between them. what if the flower then was the little great-grandchild of the lamp, and he was loving it all the time? and what if the lamp did not mean to hurt her, only could not help it? the red tips looked as if the flower had some time or other been hurt: what if the lamp was making the best it could of her—opening her out somehow like the flower? she would bear it patiently, and see. but how coarse the colour of the grass was! perhaps, however, her eyes not being made for the bright lamp, she did not see them as they were! then she re- membered how different were the eyes of the creature that was not a girl and was afraid of the darkness! ah, if the darkness would only come again, all arms, friendly and soft everywhere about her! she would wait and wait, and bear, and be patient. the history of photogen and nycteris. ioi about me, and turned soft in colour. something wet came upon it, and it was now so pleasant to my feet, that i rose and ran about. and when i had been running about a long time, all at once i found you lying, just as i had been lying a little while before. so i sat down beside you to take care of you, till your life—and my death—should come again." "how good you are, you beautiful creature!—why, you forgave me before ever i asked you!" cried photogen. .thus they fell a talking, and he told her what he knew of his history, and she told him what she knew of hers, and they agreed they must get away from watho as far as ever they could. "and we must set out at once," said nycteris. "the moment the morning comes," returned photogen. "we must not wait for the morning," said nycteris, "for then i shall not be able to move, and what would you do the next night? besides, watho sees best in the daytime. indeed, you must come now, photogen. —you must." "i cannot; i dare not," said photogen. "i can- not move. if i but lift my head from your lap, the very sickness of terror seizes me." "i shall be with you," said nycteris soothingly. "i will take care of you till your dreadful sun comes, and then you may leave me, and go away as fast as you can. only please put me in a dark place first, if there is one to be found." "i will never leave you again, nycteris," cried photogen. "only wait till the sun comes, and brings me back my strength, and we will go away together, and never, never part any more." the history of photogen and nycteris. "no, no," persisted nycteris; "we must go now. and you must learn to be strong in the dark as well as in the day, else you will always be only half brave, i have begun already—not to fight your sun, but to try to get at peace with him, and understand what he really is, and what he means with me—whether to hurt me or to make the best of me. you must do the same with my darkness." "but you don't know what mad animals there are away there towards the south," said photogen. "they have huge green eyes, and they would eat you up like a bit of celery, you beautiful creature!" "come, come! you must," said nycteris, "or i shall have to pretend to leave you, to make you come. i have seen the green eyes you speak of, and i will take care of you from them." "you! how can you do that? if it were day now, i could take care of you from the worst of them. but as it is, i can't even see them for this abomin- able darkness. i could not see your lovely eyes but for the light that is in them; that lets me see straight into heaven through them. they are windows into the very heaven beyond the sky. i believe they are the very place where the stars are made." "you come then, or i shall shut them," said nycteris, "and you shan't see them any more till you are good. come. if you can't see the wild beasts, i can." "you can! and you ask me to come!" cried photogen. "yes," answered nycteris. "and more than that, i see them long before they can see me, so that i am able to take care of you." the history of photogen and nycteris. ioj "but how?" persisted photogen. "you can't shoot with bow and arrow, or stab with a hunting-knife." "no, but i can keep out of the way of them all. why, just when i found you, i was having a game with two or three of them at once. i see, and scent them too, long before they are near me—long before they can see or scent me." "you don't see or scent any now, do you?" said photogen, uneasily, rising on his elbow." "no—none at present. i will look," replied nycteris, and sprang to her feet. "oh, oh! do not leave me—not for a moment," cried photogen, straining his eyes to keep her face in sight through the darkness. "be quiet, or they will hear you," she returned. "the wind is from the south, and they cannot scent us. i have found out all about that. ever since the dear dark came, i have been amusing myself with them, getting every now and then just into the edge of the wind, and letting one have a sniff of me." "oh, horrible!" cried photogen. "i hope you will not insist on doing so any more. what was the con- sequence?" "always, the very instant, he turned with flashing eyes, and bounded towards me—only he could not see me, you must remember. but my eyes being so much better than his, i could see him perfectly well, and would run away round him until i scented him, and then i knew he could not find me anyhow. if the wind were to turn, and run the other way now, there might be a whole army of them down upon us, leaving no room to keep out of their way. you had better come." she took him by the hand. he yielded and rose, the history of photogen and nycteris. and she led him away. but his steps were feeble, and as the night went on, he seemed more and more ready to sink. "oh dear! i am so tired! and so frightened!" he would say. "lean on me," nycteris would return, putting her arm round him, or patting his cheek. "take a few steps more. every step away from the castle is clear gain. lean harder on me. i am quite strong and well now." so they went on. the piercing night-eyes of nycteris descried not a few pairs of green ones gleam- ing like holes in the darkness, and many a round she made to keep far out of their way; but she never said to photogen she saw them. carefully she kept him off the uneven places, and on the softest and smoothest of the grass, talking to him gently all the way as they went—of the lovely flowers and the stars —how comfortable the flowers looked, down in their green beds, and how happy the stars up in their blue beds! when the morning began to come, he began to grow better, but was dreadfully tired with walking instead of sleeping, especially after being so long ill. nycteris too, what with supporting him, what with growing fear of the light which was beginning to ooze out of the east, was very tired. at length, both equally exhausted, neither was able to help the other. as if by consent they stopped. embracing each the other, they stood in the midst of the wide grassy land, neither of them able to move a step, each sup- ported only by the leaning weakness of the other, each ready to fall if the other should move. but while the one grew weaker still, the other had begun to grow stronger. when the tide of the night began che history of photogen and nycteris. to ebb, the tide of the day began to flow; and now the sun was rushing to the horizon, borne upon its foaming billows. and ever as he came, photogen revived. at last the sun shot up into the air, like a bird from the hand of the father of lights. nycteris gave a cry of pain, and hid her face in her hands. "oh me!" she sighed; "i am so frightened! the terrible light stings so!" but the same instant, through her blindness, she heard photogen give a low exultant laugh, and the next felt herself caught up: she who all night long had tended and protected him like a child, was now in his arms, borne along like a baby, with her head lying on his shoulder. but she was the greater, for, suffering more, she feared nothing. chapter xix. the werewolf. at the very moment when photogen caught up nycteris, the telescope of watho was angrily sweep- ing the table-land. she swung it from her in rage, and running to her room, shut herself up. there she anointed herself from top to toe with a certain oint- ment; shook down her long red hair, and tied it round her waist; then began to dance, whirling round and round faster and faster, growing angrier and angrier, until she was foaming at the mouth with fury. when falca went looking for her, she could not find her anywhere. as the sun rose, the wind slowly changed and went round, until it blew straight from the north. photogen and nycteris were drawing near the edge of the forest, photogen still carrying nycteris, when the history of photogen and nycteris- she moved a little on his shoulder uneasily, and murmured in his ear, "i smell a wild beast—that way, the way the wind is coming." photogen turned, looked back towards the castle, and saw a dark speck on the plain. as he looked, it grew larger: it was coming across the grass with the speed of the wind. it came nearer and nearer. it looked long and low, but that might be because it was running at a great stretch. he set nycteris down under a tree, in the black shadow of its bole, strung his bow, and picked out his heaviest, longest, sharpest arrow. just as he set the notch on the string, he saw that the creature was a tremendous wolf, rushing straight at him. he loosened his knife in its sheath, drew another arrow half-way from the quiver, lest the first should fail, and took his aim—at a good dis- tance, to leave time for a second chance. he shot. the arrow rose, flew straight, descended, struck the beast, and started again into the air, doubled like a letter v. quickly photogen snatched the other, shot, cast his bow from him, and drew his knife. but the arrow was in the brute's chest, up to the feather; it tumbled heels over head with a great thud of its back on the earth, gave a groan, made a struggle or two, and lay stretched out motionless. "i've killed it, nycteris," cried photogen. "it is a great red wolf." "oh, thank you!" answered nycteris feebly from behind the tree. "i was sure you would. i was not a bit afraid." photogen went up to the wolf. it was a monster! but he was vexed that his first arrow had behaved so badly, and was the less willing to lose the one that the history of photogen and nycteris. io had done him such good service: with a long and a strong pull, he drew it from the brute's chest. could he believe his eyes? there lay—no wolf, but watho, with her hair tied round her waist! the foolish witch had made herself invulnerable, as she supposed, but had forgotten that, to torment photogen therewith, she had handled one of his arrows. he ran back to nycteris and told her. she shuddered and wept, and would not look. chapter xx. all is well. there was now no occasion to fly a step farther. neither of them feared any one but watho. they left her there, and went back. a great cloud came over the sun, and rain began to fall heavily, and nycteris was much refreshed, grew able to see a little, and with photogen's help walked gently over the cool wet grass. they had not gone far before they met fargu and the other huntsmen. photogen told them he had killed a great red wolf, and it was madam watho. the huntsmen looked grave, but gladness shone through. "then," said fargu, "i will go and bury my mistress." but when they reached the place, they found she was already buried—in the maws of sundry birds and beasts which had made their breakfast of her. then fargu, overtaking them, would, very wisely, have photogen go to the king, and tell him the whole story. but photogen, yet wiser than fargu, would not set out until he had married nycteris; "for then," he said, "the king himself can't part us; and if ever two people couldn't do the one without the other, those the history of photogen and nycteris. two are nycteris and i. she has got to teach me to be a brave man in the dark, and i have got to look after her until she can bear the heat of the sun, and he helps her to see, instead of blinding her." they were married that very day. and the next day they went together to the king, and told him the whole story. but whom should they find at the court but the father and mother of photogen, both in high favour with the king and queen. aurora nearly died for joy, and told them all how watho had lied, and made her believe her child was dead. no one knew anything of the father or mother of nycteris; but when aurora saw in the lovely girl her own azure eyes shining through night and its clouds, it made her think strange things, and wonder how even the wicked themselves may be a link to join together the good. through watho, the mothers, who had never seen each other, had changed eyes in their children. the king gave them the castle and lands of watho, and there they lived and taught each other for many years that were not long. but hardly had one of them passed, before nycteris had come to love the day best, because it was the clothing and crown of photogen, and she saw that the day was greater than the night, and the sun more lordly than the moon; and photogen had come to love the night best, because it was the mother and home of nycteris. "but who knows," nycteris would say to photogen, "that, when we go out, we shall not go into a day as much greater than your day as your day is greater than my night?" the butcher's bills. chapter i. husband and wife. i am going to tell a story of married life. my title will prepare the reader for something hardly heroic; but i trust it will not be found lacking in the one genuine and worthy interest a tale ought to have —namely, that it presents a door through which we may walk into one region or another of the human heart, and there find ourselves not altogether un- acquainted or from home. there was a law among the jews which forbade the yoking together of certain animals, either because, being unequal in size or strength, one of them must be oppressed, or for the sake of some lesson thus embodied to the eastern mind—possibly for both reasons. half the tragedy would be taken out of social life if this law could be applied to human beings in their various relations. i do not say that this would be well, or that we could afford to lose the result of the tragedy thus occasioned. neither do i believe that there are so many instances of un- equal yoking as the misprising judgments of men by i io the butcher's bills. men and women by women might lead us to imagine. not every one declared by the wisdom of acquaint- ance to have thrown himself or herself away must therefore be set down as unequally yoked. or it may even be that the inequality is there, but the loss on the other side. how some people could ever have come together must always be a puzzle until one knows the history of the affair; but not a few whom most of us would judge quite unsuited to each other do yet get on pretty well from the first, and better and better the longer they are together, and that with mutual advantage, improvement, and development. essential humanity is deeper than the accidents of individuality; the common is more powerful than the peculiar; and the honest heart will always be learning to act more and more in accordance with the laws of its being. it must be of much more consequence to any lady that her husband should be a man on whose word she can depend than that he should be of a gracious presence. but if instead of coming nearer to a true understanding of each other, the two should from the first keep falling asunder, then something tragic may almost be looked for. duncan and lucy dempster were a couple the very mention of whose christian names together would have seemed amusing to the friends who had long ceased to talk of their unfitness. indeed, i doubt if in their innermost privacy they ever addressed each other except as mr. and mrs. dempster. for the first time to see them together, no one could help wonder- ing how the conjunction could have been effected. dempster was of scotch descent, but the hereditary high cheek-bone seemed to have got into his nose, the butcher's bills. which was too heavy a pendant for the low forehead from which it hung. about an inch from the end it took a swift and unexpected curve downwards, and was a curious and abnormal nose, which could not properly be assorted with any known class of noses. a long upper lip, a large, firm, and not quite ugly mouth, with a chin both long and square, completed a face which, with its low forehead, being yet longer than usual, had a particularly equine look. he was rather under the middle height, slender, and well enough made—altogether an ordinary mortal, known on 'change as an able, keen, and laborious man of business. what his special business was i do not know. he went to the city by the eight o'clock omnibus every morning, dived into a court, entered a little square, rushed up two flights of stairs to a couple of rooms, and sat down in the back one be- fore an office table on a hair-seated chair. it was a dingy place—not so dirty as it looked, i daresay. even the windows, being of bad glass, did, i believe, look dirtier than they were. it was a place where, so far as the eye of an outsider could tell, much or no- thing might be doing. its occupant always wore his hat in it, and his hat always looked shabby. some people said he was rich, others that he would be one day. some said he was a responsible man, whatever the epithet may have been intended to mean. i be- lieve he was quite as honest as the recognized laws of his trade demanded—and for how many could i say more? nobody said he was avaricious—but then he moved amongst men whose very notion was first to make money, after that to be religious, or to enjoy themselves, as the case might be. and no one either ii the butcher's bills. ever said of him that he was a good man, or a generous. he was about forty years of age, looking somehow as if he had never been younger. he had had a fair education—better than is generally con- sidered necessary for mercantile purposes—but it would have been hard to discover any signs of it in the spending of his leisure. on sunday mornings he went with his wife to church, and when he came home had a good dinner, of which now and then a friend took his share. if no stranger was present he took his wine by himself, and went to sleep in his easy chair of marone-coloured leather, while his wife sat on the other side of the fire if it was winter, or a little way off by the open window if it was summer, gently yawned now and then, and looked at him with eyes a little troubled. then he went off again by the eight o'clock omnibus on monday morning, and not an idea more or less had he in his head, not a hair's- breadth of difference was there in his conduct or pur- suits, that he had been to church and had spent the day out of business. that may, however, for anything i know, have been as much the clergyman's fault as his. he was the sort of man you might call machine- made, one in whom humanity, if in no wise cari- catured, was yet in no wise ennobled. his wife was ten years younger than he-hardly less than beautiful-only that over her countenance seemed to have gathered a kind of haze of common- ness. at first sight, notwithstanding, one could not help perceiving that she was china and he was delft. she was graceful as she sat, long-necked, slope- shouldered, and quite as tall as her husband, with a marked daintiness about her in the absence of the the butcher's bills. extremes of the fashion, in the quality of the lace she wore on her black silk dress, and in the wide white sleeves of fine cambric that covered her arms from the shoulder to the wrist. she had a morally delicate air, a look of scrupulous nicety and lavender-stored linen. she had long dark lashes; and when they rose, the eyelids revealed eyes of uncommon beauty. she had good features, good teeth, and a good complexion. the main feeling she produced and left was of lady- hood—little more. sunday afternoon came fifty-two times in the year. i mention this because then always, and nearly then only, could one calculate on seeing them together. it came to them in a surbub of london, and the look of it was dull. doubtless mr. dempster's dinner and his repose after it were interesting to him, but i. cannot help thinking his wife found it dreary. she had, how- ever, got used to it. the house was a good old one, of red brick, much larger than they required, but not expensive, and had a general look of the refinement of its mistress. in the summer the windows of the dining-room would generally be open, for they looked into a really lovely garden behind the house, and the scent of the jasmine that crept all around them would come in plentyfully. i wonder what the scent of jasmine did in duncan dempster's world. perhaps it never got farther than the general ante-chamber of the sensorium. it often made his wife sad—she could not tell why. to him i daresay it smelt agreeable, but i can hardly believe it ever woke in him that dreamy sensation it gave her—of something she had not had enough of, she could not say what. when the heat was gone off a little he would walk out on the gifts of the child christ, etc. h the butcher's bills. the lawn, which was well kept and well watered, with many flowering shrubs about it. why he did so, i cannot tell. he looked at nothing in particular, only walked about for a few minutes, no doubt derived some pleasure of a mild nature from something, and walked in again to tea. one might have expected he would have cultivated the acquaintance of his garden a little, if it were only for the pleasure the contrast would give him when he got back to his loved office, for a greater contrast could not well have been found than between his dingy dreary haunt on week-days—a place which nothing but duty could have made other than repugnant to any free soul— and this nest of greenery and light and odour. sweet scents floated in clouds invisible about the place; flower eyes and stars and bells and bunches shone and glowed and lurked all around; his very feet might have learned a lesson of that which is beyond the sense from the turf he trod; but all the time, if he were not exactly seeing in his mind's eye the walls and tables of his office in the city square, his thoughts were not the less brooding over such busi- ness as he there transacted. for mr. dempster's was not a free soul. how could it be when all his energies were given to making money? this he counted his calling—and i believe actually contrived to associate some feeling of duty with the notion of leaving behind him a plump round sum of money, as if money in accumulation and following flood, instead of money in peaceful current, were the good thing for the world! hence the whole realm of real life, the universe of thought and growth, was a high-hedged park to him, within which he never even tried to the butcher's bills. look—not even knowing that he was shut out from it, for the hedge was of his own growing. what shall ever wake such a man to a sense of indwelling poverty, or make him begin to hunger after any lowliest expansion? does a reader retort, "the man was comfortable, and why should he be troubled?" if the end of being, i answer, is only comfort in self, i yield. but what if there should be at the heart of the universe a thought to which the being of such men is distasteful? what if to that thought they look blots in light, ugly things? may there not lie in that direction some possible reason why they should bethink themselves? dempster, however, was not yet a clinker out of which all the life was burned, how- ever much he looked like one. there was in him that which might yet burn—and give light and heat. on the sunday evenings mrs. dempster would have gladly gone to church again, if only—though to herself she never allowed this for one of her reasons —to slip from under the weight of her husband's presence. he seldom spoke to her more than a sen- tence at a time, but he did like to have her near him, and i suppose held, through the bare presence, some kind of dull one-sided communication with her; what did a woman know about business? and what did he know about except business? it is true he had a rudimentary pleasure in music—and would some- times ask her to play to him, when he would listen, and after his fashion enjoy. but although here was a gift that might be developed until his soul could echo the music of the spheres, the embodied souls of handel or mendelssohn were to him but clouds of sound wrapped about kernels—let me say of stock or bonds. * i the butcher's bills. for a year or so after their marriage it had been the custom that, the first thing after breakfast on monday morning, she should bring him her account- book, that they might together go over her week's ex- penses. she must cultivate the business habits in which, he said, he found her more than deficient. how could he endure in a wife what would have been preposterous in a clerk, and would have led to his immediate dismissal? it was in his eyes necessary that the same strict record of receipt and expenditure should be kept in the household as in the office; how else was one to know in what direction things were going? he said. he required of his wife, therefore, that every individual thing that cost money, even to what she spent upon her own person, should be en- tered in her book. she had no money of her own, neither did he allow her any special sum for her private needs; but he made her a tolerably liberal weekly allowance, from which she had to pay every- thing except house-rent and taxes, an arrangement which i cannot believe a good one, as it will inevit- ably lead some conscientious wives to self-denial severer than necessary, and on the other hand will tempt the vulgar nature to make a purse for herself by mean savings off everybody else. it was especially distasteful to mrs. dempster to have to set down every little article of personal requirement that she bought. it would probably have seemed to her but a trifle had they both been young when they married, and had there been that tenderness of love between them which so soon sets everything more than right; but as it was, she could never get over the feeling that the man was strange to her. as it was she would have the butcher's bills. got over this. but there was in her a certain con- stitutional lack of precision, combined with a want of energy and a weakness of will, that rendered her more than careless where her liking was not interested. hence, while she would have been horrified at playing a wrong note or singing out of tune, she not only had no anxiety, for the thing's own sake, to have her ac- counts correct, but shrunk from every effort in that direction. now i can perfectly understand her recoil from the whole affair, with her added dislike to the smallness of the thing required of her; but seeing she did begin with doing it after a fashion, it is not so easy to understand why, doing it, she should not make a consolation of doing it with absolute exactness. not even her dread of her husband's dissatisfaction— which was by no means small—could prevail to make her, instead of still trusting a memory that constantly played her false, put down a thing at once, nor post- pone it to a far less convenient season. hence it came that her accounts, though never much out, never balanced; and the weekly audit, while it grew more and more irksome to the one, grew more and more unsatisfactory to the other. for to mr. dempster's dusty eyes exactitude wore the robe of rectitude, and before long, precisely and merely from the continued unsatisfactory condition of her accounts, he began, in a hidden corner of his righteous soul, to reflect on the moral condition of his wife herself as unsatisfac- tory. now such it certainly was, but he was not the man to judge it correctly, or to perceive the true significance of her failing. in business, while scrupul- ous as to the requirements of custom and recognized right, he nevertheless did things from which her soul the butcher's bills. and as to mrs. dempster, i am sorry for the ap- parent justification which what i have to confess con- cerning her must give to the severe whims of such husbands as hers: from that very monday morning she began to grow a little careless about her expenditure —which she had never been before. by degrees bill after bill was allowed to filch from the provision of the following week, and when that was devoured, then from that of the week after. it was not that she was in the least more expensive upon herself, or that she consciously wasted anything; but, altogether averse to housekeeping, she ceased to exercise the same out- look upon the expenditure of the house, did not keep her horses together, left the management more and more to her cook; while the consciousness that she was not doing her duty made her more and more un- comfortable, and the knowledge that things were going farther and farther wrong, made her hate the idea of accounts worse and worse, until she came at length to regard them with such a loathing as might have fitted some extreme of moral evil. the bills which were supposed by her husband to be regularly settled every week were at last months behind, and the week's money spent in meeting the most pressing of its de- mands, while what it could no longer cover was cast upon the growing heap of evil for the time to come. i must say this for her, however, that there was a small sum of money she expected on the death of a crazy aunt, which, if she could but lay hold of it with- out her husband's knowledge, she meant to devote to the clearing off of everything, when she vowed to her- self to do better in the time to come. the worst thing in it all was that her fear of her the butcher's bills. husband kept increasing, and that she felt more and more uncomfortable in his presence. hence that troubled look in her eye, always more marked when her husband sat dozing in his chair of a sunday after- noon. it was natural, too, that, although they never quar- relled, their intercourse should not grow of a more tender character. seldom was there a salient point in their few scattered sentences of conversation, ex- cept, indeed, it were some piece of news either had to communicate. occasionally the wife read some- thing from the newspaper, but never except at her husband's request. in general he enjoyed his news- paper over a chop at his office. two or three times since their marriage—now eight years—he had made a transient resolve pointing at the improvement of her mind, and to that end had taken from his great glass- armoured bookcase some standard work—invariably, i believe, upon party-politics—from which he had made her read him a chapter. but, unhappily, she had always got to the end of it without gaining the slightest glimmer of a true notion of what the author was driv- ing at. it almost moves me to pity to think of the vague- ness of that rudimentary humanity in mr. dempster which made him dream of doing something to im- prove his wife's mind. what did he ever do to im- prove his own? it is hard to understand how horses find themselves so comfortable in their stables that, be the day ever so fine, the country ever so lovely, the air ever so exhilarating, they are always rejoiced to get back into their dull twilight: it is harder to me to understand how mr. dempster could be so com- the butcher's bills. fortable in his own mind that he never wanted to get out of it, even at the risk of being beside himself; but no doubt the dimness of its twilight had a good deal to do with his content. and then there is that in every human mind which no man's neighbour, nay, no man himself, can understand. my neighbour may in his turn be regarding my mind as a gloomy place to live in, while i find it no undesirable residence— though chiefly because of the number of windows it affords me for looking out of it. still, if dempster's dingy office in the city was not altogether a sufficing type of the mind that used it, i consider it a very fairly good one. but wherein was mrs. dempster so very different from her husband as i rudely fancy some of my readers imagining her? whatever may have been her reasons for marrying him—one would suppose they must have been weighty—to do so she must have been in a very undeveloped condition, and in that condition she still remained. i do not mean that she was less developed than ninty-nine out of the hundred: most women affect me only as valuable crude material out of which precious things are making. how much they might be, must be, shall be! for now they stand like so many lot's-wives—so many rough-hewn marble blocks, rather, of which a divinity is shaping the ends. mrs. dempster had all the making of a lovely woman, but notwithstanding her grace, her beauty, her sweet- ness, her lark-like ballading too, she was a very ordi- nary woman in that region of her which knew what she meant when she said "i." of this fact she had hardly a suspicion, however; for until aspiration brings humility, people are generally pretty well satisfied the butcher's bills. with themselves, having no idea what poor creatures they are. she saw in her mirror a superior woman, regarded herself as one of the finer works of creation. the worst was that from the first she had counted herself superior to her husband, and in marrying him had felt not merely that she was conferring a favour, which every husband would allow, but that she was lowering herself without elevating him. now it is true that she was pleasanter to look at, that her manners were sweeter, and her notions of the becoming far less easily satisfied than his; also that she was a little less deficient in vague reverence for certain forms of the higher than he. but i know of nothing in her to determine her classification as of greater value than he, except indeed that she was on the whole rather more honest. she read novels and he did not; she passed shallow judgment, where he scorned to judge; she read all the middling poetry that came in her way, and copied books full of it; but she could no more have appreciated one of milton's or shakspere's smallest poems than she could have laughed over a page of chinese. she liked to hear this and that popular preacher, and when her husband called his sermons humbug, she heard it with a shocked coun- tenance; but was she better or worse than her hus- band when, admiring them as she did, she permitted them to have no more influence upon her conduct than if they had been the merest humbug ever ut- tered by ambitious demagogue? in truth, i cannot see that in the matter of worth there was much as yet to choose between them. it is hardly necessary, then, to say that there was little appreciable approximation of any kind going on the but cher's bills. between them. if only they would have read dickens together! who knows what might have come of it! but this dull close animal proximity, without the smallest conscious nearness of heart or mind or soul —and so little chance, from very lack of wants, for showing each other kindnesses—surely it is a killing sort of thing! and yet, and yet, there is always a something—call it habit, or any poorest name you please—grows up between two who are much to- gether, at least when they neither quarrel nor thwart each other's designs, which, tending with its roots to- wards the deeper human, blossoms into—a wretched little flower indeed, yet afar off partaking of the nature of love. the something seldom reveals its existence until they are parted. i suspect that with not a few, death is the love-messenger at the stroke of whose dart the stream of love first begins to flow in the selfish bosom. it is now necessary to mention a little break in the monotony of mrs. dempster's life, which, but for what came afterwards, could claim no record. one morning her page announced major strong, and pos- sibly she received the gentleman who entered with a brighter face than she had ever shown her husband. the major had just arrived from india. he had been much at her father's house while she was yet a mere girl, being then engaged to one of her sisters, who died after he went abroad, and before he could re- turn to marry her. he was now a widower, a fine- looking, frank, manly fellow. the expression of his countenance was little altered, and the sight of him revived in the memory of mrs. dempster many recol- lections of a happy girlhood, when the prospect of the butcher's bills. such a life as she now led with tolerable content would have seemed simply unendurable. when her husband came home she told him as much as he cared to hear of the visitor she had had, and he made no ob- jection to her asking him to dine the next sunday. when he arrived mr. dempster saw a man of his own age, bronzed and big, with not much waist left, but a good carriage and pleasant face. he made himself agreeable at dinner, appreciated his host's wine, and told good stories that pleased the business man as showing that he knew "what was what." he accorded him his more particular approval, speaking to his wife, on the ground that he was a man of the world, with none of the army slang about him. mr. demp- ster was not aware that he had himself more business peculiarities than any officer in her majesty's service had military ones. after this major strong frequently called upon mrs. dempster. they were good friends, and did each other no harm whatever, and the husband neither showed nor felt the least jealousy. they sang to- gether, occasionally went out shopping, and three or four times went together to the play. mr. dempster, so long as he had his usual comforts, did not pine in his wife's absence, but did show a little more pleasure when she came home to him than usually when he came home to her. this lasted for a few months. then the major went back to india, and for a time the lady missed him a good deal, which, considering the dulness of her life, was not very surprising or reprehensible. the bctchee.rs bills. chapter ii. as astonishment. now comes the strange part of my story. one evening the housemaid opened the door to mr. dempster on his return from the city; and per- haps the fact that it was the maid, and not the page as usual, roused his observation, which, except in business matters, was not remarkably operative. he glanced at the young woman, when an eye far less keen than his could not have failed to remark a strangely excited expression on her countenance. "where is the boy?" he asked. "just run to the doctor's, sir," she answered. then first he remembered that when he left in the morning his wife had not been feeling altogether well, but he had never thought of her since. "how is your mistress?" he said. "she's rather poorly, sir, but—but—she's as well as could be expected." "what does the fool mean?" said dempster to himself, and very nearly said it aloud, for he was not over polite to any in his service. but he did not say it aloud. he advanced into the hall with deliberation, and made for the stair. "oh, please sir," the maid cried in a tone of perturbation, when, turning from shutting the door, she saw his intention, "you can't go up to mis'ess's room just at this minute, sir. please go in the dining- room, sir." "what do you mean?" he asked, turning angrily upon the girl, for of all things he hated mystery. the butcher's bills. like every one else in the house, and office both, she stood in awe of him, and his look frightened her. "please go in the dining-room," she gasped entreat- ingly. "what!", he said and did turn towards the dining- room, "is your mistress so ill she can't see me?" "oh, no, sir!—at least i don't know exactly. cook's with her, sir. she's over the worst, anyhow." "what on earth do you mean, girl? speak out, will you? what is the matter with your mistress?" as he spoke he stepped into the room, the maid following him. the same moment he spied a whitish bundle of something on the rug in front of the fire. "what do you mean by leaving things like that in the dining-room?" he went on more angrily still. "please, sir," answered the girl, going and lifting the bundle carefully, "it's the baby!" "the baby!" shouted mr. dempster, and looked at her from head to foot. "what baby?" then be- thinking himself that it must belong to some visitor in the'drawing-room with his wife, he moderated his tone. "make haste; take it away!" he said. "i don't want babies here! there's a time and a place for everything!—what are you about?" for, instead of obeying her master and taking it away, the maid was carefully looking in the blanket for the baby. having found it and turned aside the covering from its face, she came nearer, and holding up the little vision, about the size and colour of a roll of red wax taper, said:— "look at it, sir! it's your own, and worth look- ing at." never before had she dared speak to him so! the butcher's bills. i will not venture to assert that mr. dempster turned white, but his countenance changed, and he dropped into the chair behind him, feeling less of a business man than had been his consciousness for the last twenty years. he was hit hard. the absolutely incredible had hit him. babies might be born in a day, but surely not without previous preparation on the part of nature at least, if not on that of the mother; and in this case if the mother had prepared herself, certainly she had not prepared him for the event. it was as if the treasure of nature's germens were tumbling all together. his head swam. he could not speak a word. "yes, sir," the maid went on, relieved of her trepidation in perceiving that her master too was mortal, and that her word had such power over him —proud also of knowing more of his concerns than he did himself, "she was took about an hour and a half ago. we've kep' sendin' an' sendin' after the doctor, but he ain't never been yet; only cook, she knows a deal an' she says she's been very bad, sir. but the young gentleman come at last, bless him! and now she's doin' as well as could be expected, sir—cook says." "god bless me!" said the astonished father, and relapsed into the silence of bewilderment. eight years married with never a glimmer of off- spring—and now, all at once, and without a whisper of warning, the father of a "young gentleman!" how could it be other than perplexing—discomposing, in- deed!—yet it was right pleasant too. only it would have been more pleasant if experience could have justified the affair! nature—no, not nature—or, if the butcher's bills. the side of the carriage, while it was jumbled along by the maddened horses, was, "what do bishops do in such circumstances?" equally perplexing was the question dempster had to ask himself: how husbands who, after being married eight years, suddenly and unexpectedly received the gift of a first-born, were in the habit of comporting themselves! he poured him- self out another glass, and with it came the reflection, both amusing and consoling, that his brother, who was confidently expecting his tidy five figures to crown the earthly bliss of one or more of his large family some day, would be equally but less agreeably surprised. "serve him right!" he said to himself. "what busi- ness have they to be looking out for my death?" and for a moment the heavens appeared a little more just than he was ordinarily in the habit of regarding them. he said to himself he would work harder than ever now. there would now be some good in making money! he had never given his mind to it yet, he said: now the world should see what he could do when he did give his mind to it! hitherto gathering had been his main pleasure, but with the thought of his money would now not seldom be mingled the thought of the little thing in the blanket! he began to find himself strangely happy. i use the wrong phrase—for the fact is, he had never yet found himself at all; he knew nothing of the person except a self-painted and immensely flattered portrait that hung in the innermost chamber of his heart—i mean the innermost chamber he knew anything of: there were many chambers there of which he did not even know the doors. yet a few minutes as he sat there, and he was actually cherishing a little the butcher's bills. pride in the wife who had done so much better for him than he had at length come to expect. if not a good accountant, she was at least a good wife, and a very fair housekeeper: he had no doubt she would prove a good mother. he would gladly have gone to her at once, to let her know how much he was pleased with her behaviour. as for that little bit of red clay —"terra cotta," he called it to himself, as he looked round with a smile at the blanket, which the house- maid had replaced on the rug before the fire—who could imagine him a potentate upon 'change—per- haps in time a director of european affairs! he was not in the way of joking—of all things about money; the very thought of business filled him from top to toe with seriousness; but he did make that small joke, and accompany it with a grim smile. he was startled from his musing by the entrance of the doctor, who had in the meantime arrived and seen the lady, and now came to look at the baby. he congratulated mr. dempster on having at length a son and heir, but warned him that his wife was far from being beyond danger yet. the whole thing was en- tirely out of the common, he said, and she must be taken the greatest possible care of. the words woke a gentle pity in the heart of the man, for by nature all men have some tenderness for women in such cir- cumstances, but they did not trouble him greatly— for such dangers belonged to their calling, their busi- ness in life, and, doubtless, if she had attended to that business earlier she would have found it easier. "did you ever know such a thing before, doctor?" he asked, with the importance of one honoured by a personal visit from the marvellous, * the butcher's bills. "never in my own practice," answered the doctor, whom the cook had instructed in the wonders of the case, "but i have read of such a thing." and mr. dempster swelled like a turkey-cock. it was several days before he was allowed to see the mother. perhaps had she expressed a strong de- sire to see him, it might have been risked sooner, but she had neither expressed nor manifested any. he kissed her, spoke a few stupid words in a kind tone, asking her how she did, but paying no heed to her answer, and turned aside to look at the baby. mrs. dempster recovered but slowly, and not very satisfactorily. she did not seem to care much about the child. she tried to nurse him, but was not very successful. she took him when the nurse brought him, and yielded him again with the same indifference, showing neither pleasure to receive nor unwillingness to part with him. the nurse did not fail to observe it and remark upon it: she had never seen a mother care so little for her child! there was little of the mother in her any way! it was no wonder she was so long about it. it troubled the father a little that she should not care for his child: some slight fermenta- tion had commenced in the seemingly dead mass of human affection that had lain so long neglected in his being, and it seemed strange to him that, while he was living for the child in the city, she should be so indifferent to him at home. for already he had begun to keep his vow, already his greater keenness in business was remarked in the city. but it boded little good for either that the gift of god should stir up in him the worship of mammon. more sons are the butcher's bills. damned by their fathers' money than by anything else whatever outside of themselves. there was the excuse to be made for mrs. dempster that she continued far from strong—and her husband made it: he would have made it more heartily if he had himself ever in his life known what it was to be ill. by degrees she grew stronger, however, until, to persons who had not known her before, she would have seemed in tolerable health. for a week or two after she was again going about the house, she con- tinued to nurse the baby, but after that she became unable to do so, and therewith began to neglect him entirely. she never asked to see him, and when the nurse brought him would turn her head aside, and tell her to take it away. so far from his being a pleasure to her, the very sight of the child brought the hot dew upon her forehead. her husband frowned and wondered, but, unaccustomed to open his mind either to her or to any one else, not unwisely sought to understand the thing before speaking of it, and in the meantime commenced a genuine attempt to make up to the baby for his mother's neglect. almost with- out a notion how even to take him in his arms, he would now send for him the moment he had had his tea, and after a fashion, ludicrous in the eyes of the nurse, would dandle and caress him, and strut about with him before his wife, glancing up at her every now and then, to point the lesson that such was the manner in which a parent ought to behave to a child. in his presence she never made any active show of her dislike, but her look seemed all the time fixed on something far away, as if she had nothing to do with the affair. the butcher's dills. chapter iii. another astonishment. but a second and very different astonishment awaited mr. dempster. again one evening, on his re- turn from the city, he saw a strange look on the face of the girl who opened the door—but this time it was a look of fear. "well?" he said, in a tone at once alarmed and peremptory. she made no answer, but turned whiter than be- fore. "where is your mistress?" he demanded. "nobody knows, sir," she answered. "nobody knows! what would you have me under- stand by such an answer?" "it's the bare truth, sir. nobody knows where she is." "god bless me!" cried the husband. "what does it all mean?" and again he sunk down upon a chair—this time in the hall, and stared at the girl as if waiting further enlightenment. but there was little enough to be had. only one point was clear: his wife was nowhere to be found. he sent for every one in the house, and cross-ques- tioned each to discover the last occasion on which she had been seen. it was some time since she had been missed; how long before that she had been seen there was no certainty to be had. he ran to the doctor, then from one to another of her acquaintance, then to her mother, who lived on the opposite side of the butcher's bills. london. she, like the rest, could tell him nothing. in her anxiety she would have gone back with him, but he was surly, and would not allow her. it was getting towards morning before he reached home, but no relieving news awaited him. what to think was as much a perplexity to him as what to do. he was not in the agony in which a man would have been who thoroughly loved his wife, but he cared enough about her to feel uncomfortable; and the cries of the child, who was suffering from some ailment, made him miserable: in his perplexity and dull sense of help- lessness he wondered whether she might not have given the baby poison before she went. then the thing would make such a talk! and, of all things, duncan dempster hated being talked about. how busy people's brains would be with all his affairs! how many explanations of the mystery would be sug- gested on 'change! some would say, "what business had a man like him with a fine lady for a wife? one so much younger than himself too!" he could re- member making the same remark of another, before he was married. "served him right!" they would say. and with that the first movement of suspicion awoke in him—purely and solely from his own mind's reflec- tion of the imagined minds of others. while in his mind's ear he heard them talking, almost before he knew what they meant the words came to him: "there was that major strong, you know!" "she's gone to him!" he cried aloud, and, spring- ing from the bed on which he had thrown himself, he paced the chamber in a fury. he had no word for it but hers that he was now in india! they had only been waiting till—by heaven, that child was none the butcher's bells. of his! and therewith rushed into his mind the con- viction that everything was thus explained. no man ever yet entertained an unhappy suspicion, but straight- way an army of proofs positive came crowding to the service of the lie. it is astounding with what mani- fest probability everything will fall in to prove that a fact which has no foundation whatever! there is no end to the perfection with which a man may fool himself while taking absolute precautions against be- ing fooled by others. every fact, being a living fact, has endless sides and relations; but of all these, the man whose being hangs upon one thought, will see only those sides and relations which fall in with that thought. dempster even recalled the words of the maid, "it's mis'ess's," as embodying the girl's belief that it was not master's. where a man, whether by nature jealous or not, is in a jealous condition, there is no need of an iago to parade before him the proofs of his wrong. it was because shakespere would neither have desdemona less than perfect, nor othello other than the most trusting and least suspicious of men, that he had to invent an all but incredible vil- lain to effect the needful catastrophe. but why should a man, who has cared so little for his wife, become instantly, upon the bare suspicion, so utter a prey to consuming misery? there was a character in his suffering which could not be at- tributed to any degree of anger, shame, or dread of ridicule. the truth was, there lay in his being a pos- sibility of love to his wife far beyond anything his miserably stunted consciousness had an idea of; and the conviction of her faithlessness now wrought upon him in the office of death, to let him know what he the butcher's bills. had lost. it magnified her beauty in his eyes, her gentleness, her grace; and he thought with a pang how little he had made of her or it. but the next moment wrath at the idea of another man's child being imposed upon him as his, with the consequent loss of his precious money, swept every other feeling before it. for by law the child was his, whoever might be the father of it. during a whole minute he felt on the point of tying a stone about its neck, carrying it out, and throwing it into the river lea. then, with the laugh of a hyena, he set about arranging in his mind the proofs of her guilt. first came eight childless years with himself; next the concealment of her condition, and the absurd pre- tence that she had known nothing of it; then the trouble of mind into which she had fallen; then her strange unnatural aversion to her own child; and now, last of all, conclusive of a guilty conscience, her flight from his house. he would give himself no trouble to find her; why should he search after his own shame! he would neither attempt to conceal nor to explain the fact that she had left him—people might say what they pleased—try him for murder if they liked! as to the child she had so kindly left to console him for her absence, he would not drown him, neither would he bring him up in his house; he would give him an ordinary education, and apprentice him to a trade. for his money, he would leave it to a hospital —a rich one, able to defend his will if disputed. for what was the child? a monster—a creature that had no right to existence! not one of those who knew him best would have believed him capable of being so moved, nor did one the butcher's bills. of them now know it, for he hid his suffering with the success of a man not unaccustomed to make a mask of his face. there are not a few men who, except something of the nature of a catastrophe befall them, will pass through life without having or affording a suspicion of what is in them. everything hitherto had tended to suppress the live elements of duncan dempster; but now, like the fire of a volcano in a land of ice, the vitality in him had begun to show itself. sheer weariness drove him, as the morning began to break, to lie down again; but he neither undressed nor slept, and rose at his usual hour. when he entered the dining-room, where breakfast was laid as usual—only for one instead of two—he found by his plate, among letters addressed to his wife, a packet directed to himself. it had not been through the post, and the address was in his wife's hand. he opened it. a sheet of paper was wrapped around a roll of unpaid butcher's bills, amounting to something like eighty pounds, and a note from the butcher craving immediate settlement. on the sheet of paper was written, also in his wife's hand, these words: "i am quite unworthy of being your wife any longer;" that was all. now here, to a man who had loved her enough to understand her, was a clue to the whole—to dempster it was the strongest possible confirmation of what he had already concluded. to him it appeared as certain as anything he called truth, that for years, while keeping a fair face to her husband—a man who had never refused her anything—he did not recall the fact that almost never had she asked or he offered any- the butcher's bills. thing—she had been deceiving him, spending money she would not account for, pretending to pay every- thing when she had been ruining his credit with the neighbourhood, making him, a far richer man than any but himself knew, appear to be living beyond his means, when he was every month investing far more than he spent. it was injury upon injury! then, as a last mark of her contempt, she had taken pains that these beggarly butcher's bills should reach him from her own hand! he would trouble himself about such a woman not a moment longer! he went from breakfast to his omnibus as usual, walked straight to his office, and spent the day ac- cording to custom. i need hardly say that the first thing he did was to write a cheque for the butcher. he made no further inquiry after her whatever, nor was any made of him there, for scarcely one of the people with whom he did business had been to his house, or had even seen his wife. in the suburb where he lived it was different; but he paid no heed to any inquiry, beyond saying he knew nothing about her. to her relatives he said that if they wanted her they might find her for them- selves. she had gone to please herself, and he was not going to ruin himself by running about the world after her. night after night he came home to his desolate house; took no comfort from his child; made no con- fession that he stood in need of comfort. but he had a dull sensation as if the sun had forsaken the world, and an endless night had begun. the simile, of course, is mine—the sensation only was his; he could the butcher's bills, chapter iv. what it meant. some of my readers, perhaps all of them, will have concluded that mrs. dempster was a little out of her mind. such, indeed, was the fact, and one not greatly to be wondered at, after such a peculiar ex- perience as she had had. some small degree of con- gestion, and the consequent pressure on some portion of the brain, had sent certain faculties to sleep, and, perhaps, roused others into morbid activity. that it is impossible to tell where sanity ends and insanity begins, is a trite remark indeed; but like many things which it is useless to say, it has the more need to be thought of. if i yield to an impulse of which i know i shall be ashamed, is it not the act of a madman? and may not the act lead to a habit, and at length to a despised, perhaps feared and hated, old age, twisting at the ragged ends of a miserable life? however certain it is that mental disorder had to do with mrs. dempster's departure from her home, it is almost as certain she would never have gone had it not been for the unpaid bills haunting her con- sciousness, a combination of demon and ghost. the misery had all the time been growing upon her, and must have had no small share in the subversion of her microcosm. when that was effected, the evil thing that lay at the root of it all rose and pounced upon her. wrong is its own avenger. she had been doing wrong, and knowingly for years, and now the plant of evil was blossoming towards its fruit. if one say the evil was but a trifle, i take her judgment, not his, upon that. she had been lazy towards duty, had the butcher's bills. persistently turned aside from what she knew to be her business, until she dared not even look at it. and now that the crisis was at hand, as omened by that letter from the butcher, with the sense of her wrong-doing was mingled the terror of her husband. what would he think, say, and do? not yet had she, after all these years,. any deep insight into his cha- racter; else perhaps she might have read there that, much as he loved money, the pleasure of seeing signal failure follow the neglect of his instructions would quite compensate him for the loss. what the bills amounted to, she had not an idea. not until she had made up her mind to leave her home could she muster the courage to get them together. then she even counted up the total and set down the sum in her memory—which sum thereafter haunted her like the name of her devil. as to the making up of her mind—she could re- member very little of that process—or indeed of the turning of her resolve into action. she left the house in the plainest dress her wardrobe could afford her, and with just one half-crown in her pocket. her de- sign was to seek a situation, as a refuge from her husband and his wrath. it was a curious thing, that, while it gave her no trouble to leave her baby, whom indeed she had not that day seen, and to whom for some time she had ceased to be necessary, her only notion was to get a place as nurse. at that time, i presume, there were few or no such offices for engaging servants as are now common; at all events, the plan mrs. dempster took, when she had reached a part of london she judged sufficiently distant for her purpose, was to go from shop to shop inquiring the butcher's bills. after a situation. but she met with no prospect of success, and at last, greatly in need of rest and re- freshment, went into a small coffee shop. the woman who kept it was taken by her appearance, her manners, and her evident trouble, and, happening to have heard of a lady who wanted a nurse, gave her the address. she went at once, and applied for the place. the lady was much pleased with her, and agreed to take her, provided she received a satisfactory character of her. for such a demand mrs. dempster was unpre- pared; she had never thought what reference she could give, and, her resources for deception easily exhausted, gave, driven to extremity, the name and address of her mother. so met the extremes of loss and salvation! she returned to the coffee shop, and the lady wrote at once to the address of the young woman's late mistress, as she supposed. the kindness of her new friend was not exhausted; she gave her a share of her own bed that night, mrs. dempster had now but two shillings, which she offered her, promising to pay her the rest out of the first wages she received. but the good woman would take no more than one of them, and that in full payment of what she owed her, and mrs. dempster left the shop in tears, to linger about the neighbourhood until the hour should arrive at which the lady had told her to call again. apparently she must have cherished the hope that her mother, divining her extremity, would give her the character she could honestly claim. but as she drew near the door which she hoped would prove a refuge, her mother was approaching it also, and at the turning of a corner they ran into each other's arms. the elderly lady had a hackney coach the butcher's bills. they were to have more of this indulgence, how- ever, than, for her sake, they would have desired, for before morning she was very ill. she had brain fever, in fact, and they had their hands full, especially as they desired to take every precaution to prevent the neighbourhood from knowing there was any one but themselves in the house. it was a severe attack, but she passed the crisis favourably, and began to recover. one morning, after a quieter night than usual, she called her mother, and told her she had had a strange dream—that she had a baby somewhere, but could not find him, and was wandering about looking for him. "wasn't it a curious dream, mamma?" she said. "i wish it were a true one. i knew exactly what my baby was like, and went into house after house full of children, sure that i could pick him out of thousands. i was just going up to the door of the foundling hospital to look for him there when i woke." as she ceased, a strange trouble passed like a cloud over her forehead and eyes, and her hand, worn almost transparent by the fever, followed it over fore- head and eyes. she seemed trying to recall some- thing forgotten. but her mother thought it better to say nothing. each of the two nights following she had the same dream. "three times, mother," she said. "i am not super- stitious, as you know, but i can't help feeling as if it must mean something. i don't know what to make of it else—except it be that i haven't got over the fever yet. and, indeed, i am afraid my head is not quite right, for i can't be sure sometimes, such a hold has the gifts of the child christ, etc. io the butcher's bills. my dream of me, that i haven't got a baby somewhere about the world. give me your hand, mother, and sing to me." still her mother thought it more prudent to say nothing, and do what she could to divert her thoughts; for she judged it must be better to let her brain come right, as it were, of itself. in the middle of the next night she woke her with a cry. "o, mother, mother! i know it all now. i am not out of my mind any more. how i came here i cannot tell—but i know i have a husband and a baby at hackney—and—oh, such a horrible roll of butcher's bills!" "yes, yes, my dear! i know all about it," answered her mother. "but never mind; you can pay them all yourself now, for i heard only yesterday that your aunt lucy is dead, and has left you the hundred pounds she promised you twenty years ago." "oh, bless her!" cried mrs. dempster, springing out of bed, much to the dismay of her mother, who boded a return of the fever. "i must go home to my baby at once. but tell me all about it, mamma. how did i come here? i seem to remember being in a carriage with you, and that is the last i know." then, upon condition that she got into bed at once, and promised not to move until she gave her leave, her mother consented to tell her all she knew. she listened in silence, with face flushed and eyes glowing, but drank a cooling draught, lay down again, and at daybreak was fast asleep. when she awoke she was herself again. the butcher's bills. chapter v. what came of it. meantime, things were going, as they should, in rather a dull fashion with duncan dempster. his chariot wheels were gone, and he drove heavily. the weather was good; he seldom failed of the box-seat on the omnibus; a ray of light, the first he had ever seen there, visited his table, reflected from a new window on the opposite side of a court into the heart of his dismal back office; and best of all, business was better than usual. yet was dempster not cheerful. he was not, indeed, a man an acquaintance would ever have thought of calling cheerful; but in grays there are gradations; and however differently a man's barometer may be set from those of other people, it has its ups and downs, its fair weather and foul. but not yet had he an idea how much his mental equi- librium had been dependent upon the dim conscious- ness of having that quiet uninterested wife in the comfortable house at hackney. it had been stronger than it seemed, the spidery, invisible line connecting that office and that house, along which had run twice a day the hard dumpling that dwelt in mr. dempster's bosom. vaguely connected with that home after all must have been that endless careful gathering of trea- sure in the city; for now, though he could no more stop making money than he could stop breathing, it had not the same interest as formerly. indeed, he had less interest than before in keeping his lungs themselves going. but he kept on doing everything as usual. not one of the men he met ever said a word to him about his wife. the general impression was that io» the butcher's bills. she had left him for preferable society, and no one wondered at her throwing aside such "a dry old stick," whom even the devoted slaves of business contemned as having nothing in him but business. a further change was, however, in progress within him. the first sign of it was that he began to doubt whether his wife had indeed been false to him—had forsaken him in any other company than that of death. but there was one great difficulty in the way of the conclusion. it was impossible for him to imagine suicide as proceeding from any cause but insanity, and what could have produced the disorder in one who had no cares or anxieties, everything she wanted, and nothing to trouble her, a devoted husband, and a happy home? yet the mere idea made him think more pitifully, and so more tenderly of her than be- fore. it had not yet occurred to him to consider whether he might not have had something to do with her conduct or condition. blame was a thing he had never made acquaintance with—least of all in the form of self-blame. to himself he was simply all right—the poised centre of things capable of righteous judgment on every one else. but it must not be for- gotten how little he knew about his own affairs at all; his was a very different condition from that of one who had closed his eyes and hardened his heart to suspicions concerning himself. his eyes had never yet been opened to anything but the order of things in the money world—its laws, its penalties, its rewards—those he did understand. but apparently he was worth troubling. a slow dissatisfaction was now preying upon him—a sense of want—of not having something he once had, a vague discomfort, growing restless. this the butcher's bills. feeling was no doubt the worse that the birth of the child had brought such a sudden rush of fresh interest into his occupation, which doubt concerning that birth had again so suddenly checked; but even if the child should prove after all his own, a supposition he was now willing to admit as possibly a true one, he could never without his mother feel any enthusiasm about him, even such enthusiasm as might be allowed to a man who knew money from moonshine, and common sense from hysterics. yet once and again, about this time, the nurse coming into the room after a few minutes' absence, found him bending over the sleeping infant, and, as she described him, "looking as if he would have cried if he had only known how." one frosty evening in late autumn the forsaken husband came from london—i doubt if he would now have said "home"—as usual, on the top of the omni- bus. his was a tough nature physically, as well as morally, and if he had found himself inside an omni- bus he would have thought he was going to die. the sun was down. a green hue rose from the horizon half-way to the zenith, but a pale yellow lingered over the vanished sun, like the gold at the bottom of a chrysolite. the stars were twinkling small and sharp in the azure overhead. a cold wind blew in little gusts, now from this side, now from that, as they went steadily along. the horses' hoofs rang loud on the hard road. the night got hold of him: it was at this season, and on nights like these, that he had haunted the house of lucy's father, doing his best to persuade her to make him, as he said, a happy man. it now seemed as if then, and then only, he had been a happy man. certainly, of all his life, it was the time the butcher's bills. when he came nearest to having a peep out of the upper windows of the house of life. he had been a dweller in the lower regions, a hewer of wood to the god of the cellar; and after his marriage, he had gone straight down again to the temple of the earthy god—to a worship whose god and temple and trea- sure caves will one day drop suddenly from under the votary's feet, and leave him dangling in the air with- out even a pocket about him—without even his banker's book to show for his respectability. the night, i say, recalled the lovely season of his courtship, and again, in the mirror of loss, he caught a glimpse of things beyond him. ah, if only that time and its hopes had remained with him! how different things would have been now! if lucy had proved what he thought her!—remained what she seemed—the gentle, complaisant, yielding lady he imagined her, promising him a life of bliss! alas, she would not even keep account of five pounds a week to please him! he never thought whether he, on his part, might not have, in some measure, come short of her expectations in a husband; whether she, the more lovely in inward design and outward fashion, might not have indulged yet more exquisite dreams of bliss which, by devotion to his ideal of life, he had done his part in disappointing. he only thought what a foolishness it all was; that thus it would go on to the end of the book; that youth after youth would have his turn of such a wooing, and such a disappointment. sunsets, indeed! the suns of man's happiness never did anything but set! out of money even—and who could say there was any poetry in that?—there was not half the satisfaction to be got that one expected. the butcher's bills. it was all a mess of expectations and disappointments mashed up together—nothing more. that was the world—on a fair judgment. such were his reflections till the driver pulled up for him to get down at his own gate. as he got down the said driver glanced up curiously at the row of windows on the first floor, and as soon as mr. dempster's back was turned, pointed to them with the butt-end of his whip, and nodded queerly to the gentleman who sat on his other side. "that's more'n i've seen this six weeks," he said. "there's something more'n common up this evenin', sir." there was light in the drawing-room—that was all the wonder; but at those windows mr. dempster himself looked so fixedly that he had nearly stumbled up his own door-steps. he carried a latch-key now, for he did not care to stand at the door till the boy answered the bell; people's eyes, as they passed, seemed to burn holes in the back of his coat. he opened the street door quietly, and went straight up the stair to the drawing-room. perhaps he thought to detect some liberty taken by his ser- vants. he was a little earlier than usual. he opened that door, took two steps into the room, and stood ar- rested, motionless. with his shabby hat on his head, his shabby greatcoat on his back—for he grudged every penny spent on his clothes—his arms hanging down by his sides, and his knees bent, ready to tremble, he looked not a little out of keeping in the soft-lighted, dainty, delicate-hued drawing-room. could he believe his eyes? the light of a large lamp was centred upon a gracious figure in white—his wife, just as he used to see her before he married her! that the butcher's bills. was the way her hair would break loose as she ran down the stair to meet him!—only then there was no baby in her lap for it to fall over like a torrent of unlighted water over a white stone! it was a lovely sight. he had stood but a moment when she looked up and saw him. she started, but gave no cry louder than a little moan. instantly she rose. turning, she laid the baby on the sofa, and flitted to him like a wraith. arrived where he stood yet motionless, she fell upon her knees and clasped his. he was far too bewildered now to ask himself what husbands did in such cir- cumstances, and stood like a block. "husband! husband!" she cried, "forgive me." with one hand she hid her face, although it was bent to the ground, and with the other held up to him a bit of paper. he took it from the thin white fingers; it might explain something—help him out of this be- wilderment, half nightmare, half heavenly vision. he opened it. nothing but a hundred-pound note! the familiar sight of bank paper, however, seemed, to re- store his speech. "what does this mean, lucy? upon my word! permit me to say" he was growing angry. "it is to pay the butcher," she said, with a falter- ing voice. "damn the butcher!" he cried. "i hope you've got something else to say to me! where have you been all this time?" "at my mother's. i've had a brain fever, and been out of my mind. it was all about the butcher's bill." dempster stared. perhaps he could not under- stand how a woman who would not keep accounts the butcher's bills. should be to such a degree troubled at the result of her neglect. "look at me, if you don't believe me," she cried, and as she spoke she rose and lifted her face to his. he gazed at it for a moment—pale, thin, and worn; and out of it shone the beautiful eyes, larger than before, but shimmering uncertain like the stars of a humid night, although they looked straight into his. something queer was suddenly the matter with his throat—something he had never felt before—a constriction such as, had he been superstitious, he might have taken for the prologue to a rope. then the thought came—what a brute he must be that his wife should have been afraid to tell him her trouble! thereupon he tried to speak, but his throat was irre- sponsive to his will. eve's apple kept sliding up and down in it, and would not let the words out. he had never been so served by members of his own body in his life before! it was positive rebellion, and would get him into trouble with his wife. there it was! didn't he say so? "can't you forgive me, mr. dempster?" she said, and the voice was so sweet and so sad! "it is my own money. aunt lucy is dead, and left it me. i think it will be enough to pay all my debts; and i promise you—i do promise you that i will set down every halfpenny after this. do try me once again—for baby's sake." this last was a sudden thought. she turned and ran to the sofa. dempster stood where he was, fight- ing the strange uncomfortable feeling in his throat. it would not yield a jot . was he going to die suddenly of choking? was it a judgment upon him? diph- theria, perhaps! it was much about in the city! the butcher's bills. she was back, and holding up to him their sleep- ing child. the poor fellow was not half the brute he looked —only he could not tell what to do with that con- founded lump in his throat! he dared not try to speak, for it only choked him the more. he put his arms round them both, and pressed them to his bosom. then the lump in his throat melted and ran out at his eyes, and all doubt vanished like a mist before the sun. but he never knew that he had wept . his wife did, and that was enough. the next morning, for the first time in his life, he lost the eight o'clock omnibus. the following monday morning she brought her week's account to him. he turned from it testily, but she insisted on his going over it. there was not the mistake of a halfpenny. he went to town with a smile in his heart, and that night brought her home a cheque for ten pounds instead of five. one day, in the middle of the same week, he came upon her sitting over the little blue-and-red-ruled book with a troubled countenance. she took no notice of his entrance. "do leave those accounts," he said, "and attend to me." she shook her head impatiently, and made him no other answer. one moment more, however, and she started up, threw her arms about his neck, and cried triumphantly, "it's buttons!-—fourpence-halfpenny i paid for buttons!" stephen archer. stephen archer was a stationer, bookseller, and newsmonger in one of the suburbs of london. the newspapers hung in a sort of rack at his door, as if for the convenience of the public to help themselves in passing. on his counter lay penny. weeklies and books coming out in parts, amongst which the family herald was in force, and the london journal not to be found. i had occasion once to try the extent of his stock, for i required a good many copies of one of shakspere's plays—at a penny, if i could find such. he shook his head, and told me he could not en- courage the sale of such productions. this pleased me; for, although it was of little consequence what he thought concerning shakespere, it was of the utmost import that he should prefer principle to pence. so i loitered in the shop, looking for something to buy; but there was nothing in the way of literature: his whole stock, as far as i could see, consisted of little religious volumes of gay binding and inferior print; he had no- thing even from the halifax press. he was a good- looking fellow, about thirty, with dark eyes, overhang- ing brows that indicated thought, mouth of character, and no smile. i was interested in him. stephen archer. i asked if he would mind getting the plays i wanted. he said he would rather not. i bade him good morning. more than a year after, i saw him again. i had passed his shop many times, but this morning, i forget why, i went in. i could hardly recall the former ap- pearance of the man, so was it swallowed up in a new expression. his face was alive, and his behaviour courteous. a similar change had passed upon his stock. there was punch and fun amongst the papers, and tenpenny shaksperes on the counter, printed on straw-paper, with ugly wood-cuts. the former class of publications had not vanished, but was mingled with cheap editions of some worthy of being called books. "i see you have changed your mind since i saw you last," i said. "you have the advantage of me, sir," he returned. "i did not know you were a customer." "not much of that," i replied; "only in intention. i wanted you to get me some penny shaksperes, and you would not take the order." "oh! i think i remember," he answered, with just a trace of confusion; adding, with a smile, "i'm mar- ried now;" and i fancied i could read a sort of triumph over his former self. i laughed, of course—the best expression of sym- pathy at hand—and, after a little talk, left the shop, resolved to look in again soon. before a month was over, i had made the acquaintance of his wife too, and between them learned so much of their history as to be able to give the following particulars concern- ing it. stephen archer was one of the deacons, rather a stephen archer, young one perhaps, of a dissenting congregation. the chapel was one of the oldest in the neighbourhood, quite triumphant in ugliness, but possessed of a history which gave it high rank with those who frequented it. the sacred odour of the names of pastors who had occupied its pulpit, lingered about its walls— names unknown beyond its precincts, but starry in the eyes of those whose world lay within its tabernacle. people generally do not know what a power some of these small conventicles are in the education of the world. if only as an outlet for the energies of men of lowly education and position, who in connexion with most of the churches of the establishment would find no employment, they are of inestimable value. to stephen archer, for instance, when i saw him first, his chapel was the sole door out of the common world into the infinite. when he entered, as certainly did the awe and the hush of the sacred place over- shadow his spirit as if it had been a gorgeous cathe- dral-house borne aloft upon the joined palms of its gothic arches. the master is truer than men think, and the power of his presence, as browning has so well set forth in his "christmas eve," is where two or three are gathered in his name. and inasmuch as stephen was not a man of imagination, he had the greater need of the undefined influences of the place. he had been chief in establishing a small mission amongst the poor in the neighbourhood, with the work- ing of which he occupied the greater part of his spare time. i will not venture to assert that his mind was pure from the ambition of gathering from these to swell the flock at the little chapel; nay, i will not even assert that there never arose a suggestion of the stephen archer. enemy that the pence of these rescued brands might alleviate the burden upon the heads and shoulders of the poorly prosperous caryatids of his church; but i do say that stephen was an honest man in the main, ever ready to grow honester: and who can demand more? one evening, as he was putting up the shutters of his window, his attention was arrested by a shuffling behind him. glancing round, he set down the shutter, and the next instant boxed a boy's ears, who ran away howling and mildly excavating his eyeballs, while a young, pale-faced woman, with the largest black eyes he had ever seen, expostulated with him on the proceeding. "oh, sir!" she said, "he wasn't troubling you." there was a touch of indignation in the tone. "i'm sorry i can't return the compliment," said stephen, rather illogically. "if i'd ha' known you liked to have your shins kicked, i might ha' let the young rascal alone. but you see i didn't know it." "he's my brother," said the young woman, con- clusively. "the more shame to him," returned stephen. "if he'd been your husband, now, there might ha' been more harm than good in interferin', 'cause he'd only give it you the worse after; but brothers! well, i'm sure it's a pity i interfered." "i don't see the difference," she retorted, still with offence. "i beg your pardon, then," said stephen. "i pro- mise you i won't interfere next time." so saying, he turned, took up his shutter, and pro- ceeded to close his shop. the young woman walked on. stephen archer. stephen gave an inward growl or two at the de- pravity of human nature, and set out to make his usual visits; but before he reached the place, he had begun to doubt whether the old adam had not overcome him in the matter of boxing the boy's ears; and the follow- ing interviews appeared in consequence less satisfactory than usual. disappointed with himself, he could not be so hopeful about others. as he was descending a stair so narrow that it was only just possible for two people to pass, he met the same young woman ascending. glad of the op- portunity, he stepped aside with his best manners and said: "i am sorry i offended you this evening. i did not know that the boy was your brother." "oh, sir!" she returned—for to one in her posi- tion, stephen archer was a gentleman: had he not a shop of his own?—"you didn't hurt him much; only i'm so anxious to save him." "to be sure," returned stephen, "that is the one thing needful." "yes, sir," she rejoined. "i try hard, but boys will be boys." "there is but one way, you know," said stephen, following the words with a certain formula which i will not repeat. the girl stared. "i don't know about that," she said. "what i want is to keep him out of prison. sometimes i think i shan't be able long. oh, sir! if you be the gentleman that goes about here, couldn't you help me? i can't get anything for him to do, and i can't be at home to look after him." "what is he about all day, then?" i o stephen archer. "the streets," she answered. "i don't know as he's ever done anything he oughtn't to, but he came home once in a fright, and that breathless with run- ning, that i thought he'd ha' fainted. if i only could get him into a place!" "do you live here?" he asked. "yes, sir; i do." at the moment a half-bestial sound below, accom- panied by uncertain footsteps, announced the arrival of a drunken bricklayer. "there's joe bradley," she said, in some alarm. "come into my room, sir, till he's gone up; there's no harm in him when he's sober, but he ain't been sober for a week now." stephen obeyed; and she, taking a key from her pocket, and unlocking a door on the landing, led him into a room to which his back-parlour was a paradise. she offered him the only chair in the room, and took her place on the edge of the bed, which showed a clean but much-worn patchwork quilt. charley slept on the bed, and she on a shake-down in the corner. the room was not untidy, though the walls and floor were not clean; indeed there were not in it articles enough to make it untidy withal. "where do you go on sundays?" asked stephen. "nowheres. i ain't got nobody," she added, with a smile, "to take me nowheres." "what do you do then?" "i've plenty to do mending of charley's trousers. you see they're only shoddy, and as fast as i patch 'em in one place they're out in another." "but you oughtn't to work sundays." "i have heard tell of people as say you oughtn't stephen archer. to work of a sunday; but where's the differ when you've got a brother to look after? he ain't got no mother." "but you're breaking the fourth commandment; and you know where people go that do that. you believe in hell, i suppose." "i always thought that was a bad word." "to be sure! but it's where you'll go if you break the sabbath." "oh, sir!" she said, bursting into tears, "i don't care what become of me if i could only save that boy." "what do you mean by saving him?" "keep him out of prison, to be sure. i shouldn't mind the workus myself, if i could get him into a place." a place was her heaven, a prison her hell. stephen looked at her more attentively. no one who merely glanced at her could help seeing her eyes first, and no one who regarded them could help think- ing her nice-looking at least, all in a shabby cotton dress and black shawl as she was. it was only the "penury and pine" that kept her from being beautiful. her features were both regular and delicate, with an anxious mystery about the thin tremulous lips, and a beseeching look, like that of an animal, in her fine eyes, hazy with the trouble that haunted her mouth. stephen had the good sense not to press the sabbath question, and by degrees drew her story from her. her father had been a watchmaker, but, giving way to drink, had been, as far back as she could re- member, entirely dependent on her mother, who by charing and jobbing managed to keep the family alive. the gifts of the child christ, etc. stephen archer. sara was then the only child, but, within a few months after her father's death, her mother died in giving birth to the boy. with her last breath she had com- mended him to his sister. sara had brought him up —how she hardly knew. he had been everything to her. the child that her mother had given her was all her thought . those who start with the idea "that people with nought are naughty," whose eyes are offended by rags, whose ears cannot distinguish be- tween vulgarity and wickedness, and who think the first duty is care for self, must be excused from be- lieving that sara coulter passed through all that had been decreed for her without losing her simplicity and purity. but god is in the back slums as certainly as —perhaps to some eyes more evidently than—in bel- gravia. that which was the burden of her life— namely, the care of her brother—was her salvation. after hearing her story, which he had to draw from her, because she had no impulse to talk about herself, stephen went home to turn the matter over in his mind. the next sunday, after he had had his dinner, he went out into the same region, and found himself at sara's door. she was busy over a garment of charley's, who was sitting on the bed with half a loaf in his hand. when he recognized stephen he jumped down, and would have rushed from the room; but changing his mind, possibly because of the condition of his lower limbs, he turned, and springing into the bed, scrambled under the counterpane, and drew it over his head. "i am sorry to see you working on sunday," stephen said, with an emphasis that referred to their previous conversation. stephen archer. "you would not have the boy go naked?" she re- turned, with again a touch of indignation. she had been thinking how easily a man of stephen's social position could get him a place if he would. then recollecting her manners, she added, "i should get him better clothes if he had a place. wouldn't you like to get a place now, charley?" "yes," said charley, from under the counterpane, and began to peep at the visitor. he was not an ill-looking boy—only roguish to a degree. his eyes, as black as his sister's, but only half as big, danced and twinkled with mischief. archer would have taken him off to his ragged class, but even of rags he had not at the moment the com- plement necessary for admittance. he left them, there- fore, with a few commonplaces of religious phrase, falling utterly meaningless. but he was not one to confine his ministrations to words: he was an honest man. before the next sunday it was clear to him that he could do nothing for the soul of sara until he had taken the weight of her brother off it. when he called the next sunday the same vision precisely met his view. she might have been sitting there ever since, with those wonderfully-patched trousers in her hands, and the boy beside her, gnaw- ing at his lump of bread. but many a long seam had passed through her fingers since then, for she worked at a clothes-shop all the week with the sewing-machine, whence arose the possibility of patching charley's clothes, for the overseer granted her a cutting or two now and then. after a little chat, stephen put the question: * stephen archer. "if i find a place for charley, will you go to pro- vidence chapel next sunday?" "i will go anywhere you please, mr. archer," she answered, looking up quickly with a flushed face. she would have accompanied him to any casino in london just as readily: her sole thought was to keep charley out of prison. her father had been in prison once; to keep her mother's child out of prison was the grand object of her life. "well," he resumed, with some hesitation, for he had arrived at the resolution through difficulties, whose fogs yet lingered about him, "if he will be an honest, careful boy, i will take him myself." "charley! charley!" cried sara, utterly neglectful of the source of the benefaction; and rising, she went to the bed and hugged him. "don't, sara!" said charley, petulantly. "i don't want girls to squash me. leave go, i say. you mend my trousers, and /'ll take care of myself." "the little wretch!" thought stephen. sara returned to her seat, and her needle went almost as fast as her sewing-machine. a glow had arisen now, and rested on her pale cheek: stephen found himself staring at a kind of transfiguration, back from the ghostly to the human. his admiration ex- tended itself to her deft and slender fingers and there brooded until his conscience informed him that he was actually admiring the breaking of the sabbath; whereupon he rose. but all the time he was about amongst the rest of his people, his thoughts kept wan- dering back to the desolate room, the thankless boy, and the ministering woman. before leaving, however, stephen archer. "there's no chapel in the afternoon," he said; "but i'll come and fetch you in the evening." thus it came about that sara was seated in stephen's pew, next to stephen himself, and stephen felt a strange pleasure unknown before, like that of the shepherd who having brought the stray back to the fold cares little that its wool is torn by the bushes, and it looks a ragged and disreputable sheep. it was only sara's wool that might seem disreputable, for she was a very good-faced sheep. he found the hymns for her, and they shared the same book. he did not know then that sara could not read a word of them. the gathered people, the stillness, the gaslights, the solemn ascent of the minister into the pulpit, the hearty singing of the congregation, doubtless had their effect upon sara, for she had never been to a chapel and hardly to any place of assembly before. from all amusements, the burden of charley and her own retiring nature had kept her back. but she could make nothing of the sermon. she confessed afterwards that she did not know she had anything to do with it. like "the northern farmer," she took it all for the clergyman's business, which she amongst the rest had to see done. she did not even wonder why stephen should have wanted to bring her there. she sat when other people sat, pretended to kneel when other people pretended to kneel, and stood up when other people stood up—still brooding upon charley's jacket. but archer's feelings were not those he had ex- pected. he had brought her, intending her to be done good to; but before the sermon was over he wished he had not brought her. he resisted the feel- stephen archer. ing for a long time, but at length yielded to it en- tirely; the object of his solicitude all the while con- scious only of the lighted stillness and the new barrier between charley and newgate. the fact with regard to stephen was that a certain hard pan, occasioned by continual ploughings to the same depth and no deeper, in the soil of his mind, began this night to be broken up from within, and that through the presence of a young woman who did not for herself put together two words of the whole discourse. the pastor was preaching upon the saying of st. paul, that he could wish himself accursed from christ for his brethren. great part of his sermon was an attempt to prove that he could not have meant what his words implied. for the preacher's mind was so filled with the supposed paramount duty of saving his own soul, that the enthusiasm of the apostle was simply incredible. listening with that woman by his side, stephen for the first time grew doubtful of the wisdom of his pastor. nor could he endure that such should be the first doctrine sara heard from his lips. thus was he already and grandly repaid for his kind- ness; for the presence of a woman who without any conscious religion was to herself a law of love, brought him so far into sympathy with the mighty soul of st. paul, that from that moment the blessing of doubt was at work in his, undermining prison walls. he walked home with sara almost in silence, for he found it impossible to impress upon her those parts of the sermon with which he had no fault to find, lest she should retort upon that one point. the arrows which sara escaped, however, could from her ignorance have struck her only with their feather end. stephen archer. things proceeded in much the same fashion for a while. charley went home at night to his sister's lodging, generally more than two hours after leaving the shop, but gave her no new ground of complaint. every sunday evening sara went to the chapel, taking charley with her when she could persuade him to go; and, in obedience with the supposed wish of stephen, sat in his pew. he did not go home with her any more for a while, and indeed visited her but seldom, anxious to avoid scandal, more especially as he was a deacon. but now that charley was so far safe, sara's cheek began to generate a little of that celestial rosy red which is the blossom of the woman-plant, although after all it hardly equalled the heart of the blush rose. she grew a little rounder in form too, for she lived rather better now,—buying herself a rasher of bacon twice a week. hence she began to be in more danger, as any one acquainted with her surroundings will easily comprehend. but what seemed at first the ruin of her hopes dissipated this danger. one evening, when she returned from her work, she found stephen in her room. she made him the submissive grateful salutation, half courtesy, half bow, with which she always greeted him, and awaited his will. "i am very sorry to have to tell you, sara, that your brother" she turned white as a shroud, and her great black eyes grew greater and blacker as she stared in agonized expectancy while stephen hesitated in search of a better form of communication. finding none, he blurted out the fact— ' ° stephen archer. "—has robbed me, and run away." "don't send him to prison, mr. archer," shrieked sara, and laid herself on the floor at his feet with a grovelling motion, as if striving with her mother earth for comfort. there was not a film of art in this. she had never been to a theatre. the natural urging of life gave the truest shape to her entreaty. her posture was the result of the same feeling which made the nations of old bring their sacrifices to the altar of a deity who, possibly benevolent in the main, had yet cause to be inimical to them. from the prostrate living sacrifice arose the one prayer, "don't send him to prison; don't send him to prison!" stephen gazed at her in bewildered admiration, half divine and all human. a certain consciousness of power had, i confess, a part in his silence, but the only definite shape this consciousness took was of beneficence. attributing his silence to unwillingness, sara got half-way from the ground—that is, to her knees—and lifted a face of utter entreaty to the sight of stephen. i will not say words fail me to describe the intensity of its prayer, for words fail me to describe the commonest phenomenon of nature: all i can is to say, that it made stephen's heart too large for its confining walls. "mr. archer," she said, in a voice hollow with emotion, "i will do anything you like. i will be your slave. don't send charley to prison." the words were spoken with a certain strange dignity of self-abnegation. it is not alone the country people of cumberland or of scotland, who in their highest moments are capable of poetic utterance. an indescribable thrill of conscious delight shot through the frame of stephen as the woman spoke the stephen archer. himself, had gone into such a fury of determination to return to his master, that the house-surgeon saw that the only chance for the ungovernable creature was to yield. perhaps he had some dim idea of restoring the money ere his master should have dis- covered its loss. as he was very little, they made a couch for him in the cab, and so sent him. it would appear that the suffering and the faint- ness had given his conscience a chance of being heard. the accident was to charley what the sight of the mountain-peak was to the boy wordsworth. he was delirious when he arrived, and instead of show- ing any contrition towards his master, only testified an extravagant joy at finding him again. stephen had him taken into the back room, and laid upon his own bed. one of the policemen fetched the char- woman, and when she arrived, stephen went to find sara. she was sitting almost as he had left her, with a dull, hopeless look. "i am sorry to say charley has had an accident," he said. she started up and clasped her hands. "he is not in prison?" she panted in a husky voice. "no; he is at my house. come and see him. i don't think he is in any danger, but his leg is broken." a gleam of joy crossed sara's countenance. she did not mind the broken leg, for he was safe from her terror. she put on her bonnet, tied the strings with trembling hands, and went with stephen. "you see god wants to keep him out of prison too," he said, as they walked along the street. stephen archer. but to sara this hardly conveyed an idea. she walked by his side in silence. "charley! charley!" she cried, when she saw him white on the bed, rolling his head from side to side. charley ordered her away with words awful to hear, but which from him meant no more than words of ordinary temper in the mouth of the well-nurtured man or woman. she had spoiled and indulged him all his life, and now for the first time she was nothing to him, while the master who had lectured and re- strained him was everything. when the surgeon wanted to change his dressings, he would not let him touch them till his master came. before he was able to leave his bed, he had developed for stephen a terrier-like attachment. but, after the first feverish- ness was over, his sister waited upon him. stephen got a lodging, and abandoned his back room to the brother and sister. but he had to attend to his shop, and therefore saw much of both of them. finding then to his astonishment that sara could not read, he gave all his odd moments to her instruction, and her mind being at rest about charley so long as she had him in bed, her spirit had leisure to think of other things. she learned rapidly. the lesson-book was of course the new testament; and stephen soon dis- covered that sara's questions, moving his pity at first because of the ignorance they displayed, always left him thinking about some point that had never oc- curred to him before; so that at length he regarded sara as a being of superior intelligence waylaid and obstructed by unfriendly powers upon her path towards the threshold of the kingdom, while she looked up to stephen archer. him as to one supreme in knowledge as in goodness. but she never could understand the pastor. this would have been a great trouble to stephen, had not his vanity been flattered by her understanding of him- self. he did not consider that growing love had enlightened his eyes to see into her heart, and enabled him thus to use an ordinary human language for the embodiment of common-sense ideas; whereas the speech of the pastor contained such an admixture of technicalities as to be unintelligible to the neophyte. stephen was now distressed to find that whereas formerly he had received everything without question that his minister spoke, he now in general went home in a doubting, questioning mood, begotten of asking himself what sara would say. he feared at first that the old adam was beginning to get the upper hand of him, and that satan was laying snares for his soul. but when he found at the same time that his con- science was growing more scrupulous concerning his business affairs, his hope sprouted afresh. one day, after charley had been out for the first time, sara, with a little tremor of voice and manner, addressed stephen thus: "i shall take charley home to-morrow, if you please, mr. archer." "you don't mean to say, sara, you've been paying for those lodgings all this time?" half-asked, half-ex- claimed stephen. "yes, mr. archer. we must have somewhere to go to. it ain't easy to get a room at any moment, now them railways is everywheres." "but i hope as how you're comfortable where you are, sara?" port in a storm. "papa," said my sister effie, one evening as we all sat about the drawing-room fire. one after another, as nothing followed, we turned our eyes upon her. there she sat, still silent, embroidering the corner of a cambric handkerchief, apparently unaware that she had spoken. it was a very cold night in the beginning of winter. my father had come home early, and we had dined early that we might have a long evening together, for it was my father's and mother's wedding-day, and we always kept it as the homeliest of holidays. my father was seated in an easy-chair by the chimney corner, with a jug of burgundy near him, and my mother sat by his side, now and then taking a sip out of his glass. effie was now nearly nineteen; the rest of us were younger. what she was thinking about we did not know then, though we could all guess now. sud- denly she looked up, and seeing all eyes fixed upon her, became either aware or suspicious, and blushed rosy red. - "you spoke to me, effie. what was it, my dear?" "o yes, papa. i wanted to ask you whether you port in a storm. wouldn't tell us, to-night, the story about how "well, my love?" "—about how you" "i am listening, my dear." "i mean, about mamma and you." "yes, yes. about how i got your mamma for a mother to you. yes. i paid a dozen of port for her." we all and each exclaimed papal and my mother laughed. "tell us all about it," was the general cry. "well, i will," answered my father. "i must be- gin at the beginning, though." and, filling his glass with burgundy, he began. "as far back as i can remember, i lived with my father in an old manor-house in the country. it did not belong to my father, but to an elder brother of his, who at that time was captain of a seventy-four. he loved the sea more than his life; and, as yet ap- parently, had loved his ship better than any woman. at least he was not married. "my mother had been dead for some years, and my father was now in very delicate health. he had never been strong, and since my mother's death, i be- lieve, though i was too young to notice it, he had pined away. i am not going to tell you anything about him just now, because it does not belong to my story. when i was about five years old, as nearly as i can judge, the doctors advised him to leave eng- land. the house was put into the hands of an agent to let—at least, so i suppose; and he took me with him to madeira, where he died. i was brought home the gifts of the child christ, etc. i port in a storm. by his servant, and by my uncle's directions, sent to a boarding-school; from there to eton, and from there to oxford. "before i had finished my studies, my uncle had been an admiral for some time. the year before i left oxford, he married lady georgiana thornbury, a widow lady, with one daughter. thereupon he bade farewell to the sea, though i dare say he did not like the parting, and retired with his bride to the house where he was born—the same house i told you i was born in, which had been in the family for many generations, and which your cousin now lives in. "it was late in the autumn when they arrived at culverwood. they were no sooner settled than my uncle wrote to me, inviting me to spend christmas- tide with them at the old place. and here you may see that my story has arrived at its beginning. "it was with strange feelings that i entered the house. it looked so old-fashioned, and stately, and grand, to eyes which had been accustomed to all the modern commonplaces! yet the shadowy recollections which hung about it gave an air of homeliness to the place, which, along with the grandeur, occasioned a sense of rare delight. for what can be better than to feel that you are in stately company, and at the same time perfectly at home in it? i am grateful to this day for the lesson i had from the sense of which i have spoken—that of mingled awe and tenderness in the aspect of the old hall as i entered it for the first time after fifteen years, having left it a mere child. "i was cordially received by my old uncle and port in a storm. my new aunt. but the moment kate thornbury entered i lost my heart, and have never found it again to this day, i get on wonderfully well without it, though, for i have got the loan of a better one till i find my own, which, therefore, i hope i never shall." my father glanced at my mother as he said this, and she returned his look in a way which i can now interpret as a quiet satisfied confidence. but the tears came in effie's eyes. she had trouble before long, poor girl! but it is not her story i have to tell.—my father went on: "your mother was prettier then than she is now, but not so beautiful; beautiful enough, though, to make me think there never had been or could again be anything so beautiful. she met me kindly, and i met her awkwardly." "you made me feel that i had no business there," said my mother, speaking for the first time in the course of the story. "see there, girls," said my father. "you are al- ways so confident in first impressions, and instinctive judgment! i was awkward because, as i said, i fell in love with your mother the moment i saw her; and she thought i regarded her as an intruder into the old family precincts. "i will not follow the story of the days. i was very happy, except when i felt too keenly how un- worthy i was of kate thornbury; not that she meant to make me feel it, for she was never other than kind; but she was such that i could not help feeling it. i gathered courage, however, and before three days were over, i began to tell her all my slowly reviving * i o port in a storm. memories of the place, with my childish adventures associated with this and that room or outhouse or spot in the grounds; for the longer i was in the place the more my old associations with it revived, till i was quite astonished to find how much of my history in connection with culverwood had been thoroughly im- printed on my memory. she never showed, at least, that she was weary of my stories; which, however interesting to me, must have been tiresome to any one who did not sympathize with what i felt towards my old nest. from room to room we rambled, talking or silent; and nothing could have given me a better chance, i believe, with a heart like your mother's'. i think it was not long before she began to like me, at least, and liking had every opportunity of growing into something stronger, if only she too did not come to the conclusion that i was unworthy of her. "my uncle received me like the jolly old tar that he was—welcomed me to the old ship—hoped we should make many a voyage together—and that i would take the run of the craft—all but in one thing. "'you see, my boy,' he said, 'i married above my station, and i don't want my wife's friends to say that i laid alongside of her to get hold of her daughter's fortune. no, no, my boy; your old uncle has too much salt water in him to do a dog's trick like that. so you take care of yourself—that's all. she might turn the head of a wiser man than ever came out of our family.' "i did not tell my uncle that his advice was al- ready too late; for that, though it was not an hour since i had first seen her, my head was so far turned port in a storm. already, that the only way to get it right again, was to go on turning it in the same direction; though, no doubt, there was a danger of overhauling the screw. the old gentleman never referred to the matter again, nor took any notice of our increasing intimacy; so that i sometimes doubt even now if he could have been in earnest in the very simple warning he gave me. fortunately, lady georgiana liked me—at least i thought she did, and that gave me courage." "that's all nonsense, my dear," said my mother. "mamma was nearly as fond of you as i was; but you never wanted courage." "i knew better than to show my cowardice, i dare say," returned my father. "but," he continued, "things grew worse and worse, till i was certain i should kill myself, or go straight out of my mind, if your mother would not have me. so it went on for a few days, and christmas was at hand. "the admiral had invited several old friends to come and spend the christmas week with him. now you must remember that, although you look on me as an old-fashioned fogie" "oh, papa!" we all interrupted; but he went on. "yet my old uncle was an older-fashioned fogie, and his friends were much the same as himself. now, i am fond of a glass of port, though i dare not take it, and must content myself with burgundy. uncle bob would have called burgundy pig-wash. he could not do without his port, though he was a moderate enough man, as customs were. fancy, then, his dismay when, on questioning his butler, an old coxen of his own, and after going down to inspect in person, he found that there was scarcely more than i z port in a storm. a dozen of port in the wine-cellar. he turned white with dismay, and, till he had brought the blood back to his countenance by swearing, he was something awful to behold in the dim light of the tallow candle old jacob held in his tattooed fist. i will not repeat the words he used; fortunately, they are out of fashion amongst gentlemen, although ladies, i understand, are beginning to revive the custom, now old, and always ugly. jacob reminded his honour that he would not have more put down till he had got a proper cellar built, for the one there was, he had said, was not fit to put anything but dead men in. thereupon, after abusing jacob for not reminding him of the neces- sities of the coming season, he turned to me, and be- gan, certainly not to swear at his own father, but to expostulate sideways with the absent shade for not having provided a decent cellar before his departure from this world of dinners and wine, hinting that it was somewhat selfish, and very inconsiderate of the welfare of those who were to come after him. hav- ing a little exhausted his indignation, he came up, and wrote the most peremptory order to his wine- merchant, in liverpool, to let him have thirty dozen of port before christmas day, even if he had to send it by post-chaise. i took the letter to the post my- self, for the old man would trust nobody but me, and indeed would have preferred taking it himself; but in winter he was always lame from the effects of a bruise he had received from a falling spar in the battle of aboukir. "that night i remember well. i lay in bed won- dering whether i might venture to say a word, or even to give a hint to your mother that there was a port in a storm. word that pined to be said if it might. all at once i heard a whine of the wind in the old chimney. how well i knew that whine! for my kind aunt had taken the trouble to find out from me what room i had occupied as a boy, and, by the third night i spent there, she had got it ready for me. i jumped out of bed, and found that the snow was falling fast and thick. i jumped into bed again, and began wondering what my uncle would do if the port did not arrive. and then i thought that, if the snow went on falling as it did, and if the wind rose any higher, it might turn out that the roads through the hilly part of yorkshire in which culverwood lay, might very well be blocked up. "the north wind doth blow, and we shall have snow, and what will my uncle do then, poor thing? he'll run for his port, but he will run short, and have too much water to drink, poor thing. "with the influences of the chamber of my child- hood crowding upon me, i kept repeating the travestied rhyme to myself, till i fell asleep. "now, boys and girls, if i were writing a novel, i should like to make you, somehow or other, put to- gether the facts—that i was in the room i have men- tioned; that i had been in the cellar with my uncle for the first time that evening; that i had seen my uncle's distress, and heard his reflections upon his father. i may add that i was not myself, even then, so indifferent to the merits of a good glass of port as to be unable to enter into my uncle's dismay, and that of his guests at last, if they should find that the port in a storm. snowstorm had actually closed up the sweet ap- proaches of the expected port. if i was personally indifferent to the matter, i fear it is to be attributed to your mother, and not to myself." "nonsense!" interposed my mother once more, "i never knew such a man for making little of him- self and much of other people. you never drank a glass too much port in your life." "that's why i'm so fond of it, my dear," returned my father. "i declare you make me quite discon- tented with my pig-wash here. "that night i had a dream. "the next day the visitors began to arrive. before the evening after, they had all come. there were five of them—three tars and two land-crabs, as they called each other when they got jolly, which, by-the- way, they would not have done long without me. "my uncle's anxiety visibly increased. each guest, as he came down to breakfast, received each morning a more constrained greeting.—i beg your pardon, ladies; i forgot to mention that my aunt had lady- visitors, of course. but the fact is, it is only the port- drinking visitors in whom my story is interested, al- ways excepted your mother. "these ladies my admiral uncle greeted with something even approaching to servility. i understood him well enough. he instinctively sought to make a party to protect him when the awful secret of his cellar should be found out. but for two preliminary days or so, his resources would serve; for he had plenty of excellent claret and madeira—stuff i don't know much about—and both jacob and himself con- descended to manoeuvre a little. port in a storm. "the wine did not arrive. but the morning of christmas eve did. i was sitting in my room, trying to write a song for kate—that's your mother, my dears" "i know, papa," said effie, as if she were very knowing to know that. "when my uncle came into the room, looking like sintram with death and the other one after him—that's the nonsense you read to me the other day, isn't it, effie?" "not nonsense, dear papa," remonstrated effie; and i loved her for saying it, for surely that is not nonsense. "i didn't mean it," said my father; and turning to my mother, added: "it must be your fault, my dear, that my children are so serious that they always take a joke for earnest. however, it was no joke with my uncle. if he didn't look like sintram he looked like t'other one. "'the roads are frozen—i mean snowed up,' he said. 'there's just one bottle of port left, and what captain calker will say—i dare say i know, but i'd rather not. damn this weather!—god forgive me! -—that's not right—but it is trying—ain't it, my boy?' "'what will you give me for a dozen of port, uncle?' was all my answer. "'give you? i'll give you culverwood, you rogue.' "'done,' i cried. "'that is,' stamrrered my uncle, 'that is,' and he reddened like the funnel of one of his hated steamers, 'that is, you know, always provided, you know. it wouldn't be fair to lady georgiana, now, would it? port in a storm. i put it to yourself—if she took the trouble, you know. you understand me, my boy?' "'that's of course, uncle,' i said. "'ah! i see you're a gentleman like your father, not to trip a man when he stumbles,' said my uncle. for such was the dear old man's sense of honour, that he was actually uncomfortable about the hasty promise he had made without first specifying the ex- ception. the exception, you know, has culverwood at the present hour, and right welcome he is. "'of course, uncle,' i said—'between gentlemen, you know. still, i want my joke out, too. what will you give me for a dozen of port to tide you over christmas day?' "'give you, my boy? i'll give you' "but here he checked himself, as one that had been burned already. "'bah!' he said, turning his back, and going to- wards the door; 'what's the use of joking about serious affairs like this?' "and so he left the room. and i let him go. for i had heard that the road from liverpool was im- passable, the wind and snow having continued every day since that night of which i told you. meantime, i had never been able to summon the courage to say one word to your mother—i beg her pardon, i mean miss thornbury. "christmas day arrived. my uncle was awful to behold. his friends were evidently anxious about him. they thought he was ill. there was such a hesitation about him, like a shark with a bait, and such a flurry, like a whale in his last agonies. he port in a storm. i had a horrible secret which he dared not tell, and which yet would come out of its grave at the appointe d hour. "down in the kitchen the roast beef and turkey were meeting their deserts. up in the store-room— for lady georgiana was not above housekeeping, any more than her daughter—the ladies of the house were doing their part; and i was oscillating between my uncle and his niece, making myself amazingly useful now to one and now to the other. the turkey and the beef were on the table, nay, they had been well eaten, before i felt that my moment was come. out- side, the wind was howling, and driving the snow with soft pats against the window-panes. eager-eyed i watched general fortescue, who despised sherry or madeira even during dinner, and would no more touch champagne than he would eau sucrie, but drank port after fish or with cheese indiscriminately—with eager eyes i watched how the last bottle dwindled out its fading life in the clear decanter. glass after glass was supplied to general fortescue by the fearless cockswain, who, if he might have had his choice, would rather have boarded a frenchman than waited for what was to follow. my uncle scarcely ate at all, and the only thing that stopped his face from growing longer with the removal of every dish was that nothing but death could have made it longer than it was al- ready. it was my interest to let matters go as far as they might up to a certain point, beyond which it was not my interest to let them go, if i could help it. at the same time i was curious to know how my uncle would announce—confess the terrible fact that in his house, on christmas day, having invited his oldest port in a storm. sence of the company gave me a kind of mesmeric strength; perhaps the excitement of the whole venture kept me up; perhaps kate herself gave me courage, like a goddess of old, in some way i did not under- stand. at all events i said to her: "'kate,'—we had got so far even then—'my uncle hasn't another bottle of port in his cellar. consider what a state general fortescue will be in soon. he'll be tipsy for want of it. will you come and help me to find a bottle or two?' "she rose at once, with a white-rose blush—so delicate i don't believe any one saw it but myself. but the shadow of a stray ringlet could not fall on her cheek without my seeing it. "when we got into the hall, the wind was roaring loud, and the few lights were flickering and waving gustily with alternate light and shade across the old portraits which i had known so well as a child—for i used to think what each would say first, if he or she came down out of the frame and spoke to me. "i stopped, and taking kate's hand, i said— "'i daren't let you come farther, kate, before i tell you another thing: my uncle has promised, if i find him a dozen of port—you must have seen what a state the poor man is in—to let me say something to you—i suppose he meant your mamma, but i prefer saying it to you, if you will let me. will you come and help me to find the port?' "she said nothing, but took up a candle that was on a table in the hall, and stood waiting. i ventured to look at her. her face was now celestial rosy red, and i could not doubt that she had understood me. she looked so beautiful that i stood staring at her port in a storm. < without moving. what the servants could have been about that not one of them crossed the hall, i can't think. "at last kate laughed and said—'well?' i started, and i dare say took my turn at blushing. at least i did not know what to say. i had forgotten all about the guests inside. 'where's the port?' said kate, i caught hold of her hand again and kissed it." "you needn't be quite so minute in your account, my dear," said my mother, smiling. "i will be more careful in future, my love," re- turned my father. "'what do you want me to do?' said kate. "'only to hold the candle for me,' i answered, restored to my seven senses at last; and, taking it from her, i led the way, and she followed, till we had passed through the kitchen and reached the cellar- stairs. these were steep and awkward, and she let me help her down." "now, edward!" said my mother. "yes, yes, my love, i understand," returned my father. "up to this time your mother had asked no questions; but when we stood in a vast, low cellar, which we had made several turns to reach, and i gave her the candle, and took up a great crowbar which lay on the floor, she said at last— "'edward, are you going to bury me alive? or what are you going to do?' "'i'm going to dig you out,' i said, for i was nearly beside myself with joy, as i struck the crowbar like a battering-ram into the wall. you can fancy, john, that i didn't work the worse that kate was holding the candle for me. igz port in a storm. lime. but we could not be half so amusing to them as they were to us. there they sat with the dessert before them but no wine-decanters forthcoming. how long they had sat thus, i have no idea. if you think your mamma has, you may ask her. captain calker and general fortescue looked positively white about the gills. my uncle, clinging to the last hope, despairingly, had sat still and said nothing, and the guests could not understand the awful delay. even lady georgiana had begun to fear a mutiny in the kitchen, or something equally awful. but to see the flash that passed across my uncle's face, when he saw us appear with ported arms! he immediately began to pretend that nothing had been the matter. "'what the deuce has kept you, ned, my boy?' he said. 'fair hebe,' he went on, 'i beg your pardon. jacob, you can go on decanting. it was very careless of you to forget it. meantime, hebe, bring that bottle to general jupiter, there. he's got a corkscrew in the tail of his robe, or i'm mis- taken.' "out came general fortescue's corkscrew. i was trembling once more with anxiety. the cork gave the genuine plop; the bottle was lowered; glug, glug, glug, came from its beneficent throat, and out flowed something tawny as a lion's mane. the general lifted it lazily to his lips, saluting his nose on the way. "'fifteen! by gyeove!' he cried. 'well, admiral, this was worth waiting for! take care how you decant that, jacob—on peril of your life.' "my uncle was triumphant. he winked hard at me not to tell. kate and i retired, she to change port in a storm. her dress, i to get mine well brushed, and my hands washed. by the time i returned to the dining-room, no one had any questions to ask. for kate, the ladies had gone to the drawing-room before she was ready, and i believe she had some difficulty in keep- ing my uncle's counsel. but she did.—need i say that was the happiest christmas i ever spent?" "but how did you find the cellar, papa?" asked effie. "where are your brains, effie? don't you re- member i told you that i had a dream?" "yes. but you don't mean to say the existence of that wine-cellar was revealed to you in a dream?" "but i do, indeed. i had seen the wine-cellar built up just before we left for madeira. it was my father's plan for securing the wine when the house was let. and very well it turned out for the wine, and me too. i had forgotten all about it. every- thing had conspired to bring it to my memory, but had just failed of success. i had fallen asleep under all the influences i told you of—influences from the region of my childhood. they operated still when i was asleep, and, all other distracting influences being removed, at length roused in my sleeping brain the memory of what i had seen. in the morning i re- membered not my dream only, but the event of which my dream was a reproduction. still, i was under considerable doubt about the place, and in this i followed the dream only, as near as i could judge. "the admiral kept his word, and interposed no difficulties between kate and me. not that, to tell the truth, i was ever very anxious about that rock ahead; but it was very possible that his fastidious the gifts of the child christ, etc. port in a storm. honour or pride might have occasioned a consider- able interference with our happiness for a time. as it turned out, he could not leave me culverwood, and i regretted the fact as little as he did himself. his gratitude to me was, however, excessive, assuming occasionally ludicrous outbursts of thankfulness. i do not believe he could have been more grateful if i had saved his ship and its whole crew. for his hospitality was at stake. kind old man!" here ended my father's story, with a light sigh, a gaze into the bright coals, a kiss of my mother's hand which he held in his, and another glass of burgundy. if i had a father. a drama. act l scene.—a sculptor's studio. arthur gervaise work- ing at a clay figure and humming a tune. a knock. ger. come in. (throws a wet cloth over the clay. enter warren by the door communicating with the house) ah, warren! how do you do? war. how are you, gervaise? i'm delighted to see you once more. i have but just heard of your return. ger. i've been home but a fortnight. i was just thinking of you. war. i was certain i should find you at work. ger. you see my work can go on by any light. it is more independent than yours. war. i wish it weren't, then, ger. why? war. because there would be a chance of our getting you out of your den sometimes. ' * i if i had a father. ger. like any other wild beast when the dark falls—eh? war. just so. ger. and where the good? war. why shouldn't you roar a little now and then like other honest lions? ger. i doubt if the roaring lions do much beyond roaring. war. and i doubt whether the lion that won't even whisk his tail, will get food enough shoved through his bars to make it worth his while to keep a cage in london. ger. i certainly shall not make use of myself to recommend my work. war. what is it now? ger. oh, nothing!—only a little fancy of my own. war. there again! the moment i set foot in your study, you throw the sheet over your clay, and when i ask you what you are working at—"oh—a little fancy of my own!" ger. i couldn't tell it was you coming. war. let me see what you've been doing, then. ger. oh, she's a mere lot's-wife as yet! war. (approaching the figure). of course, of course! i understand all that. ger. (laying his hand on his arm). excuse me: i would rather not show it. war. i beg your pardon.—i couldn't believe you really meant it. ger. i'll show you the mould if you like. war. i don't know what you mean by that: you would never throw a wet sheet over a cast! (ger. lifts a painting from the floor and sets it on an easel. war. if i had a father. iq regards it for a few moments in silence) ah! by jove, gervaise! some one sent you down the wrong turn: you ought to have been a painter. what a sky! and what a sea! those blues and greens—rich as a pea- cock's feather-eyes! superb! a tropical night! the dolphin at its last gasp in the west, and all above, an abyss of blue, at the bottom of which the stars lie like gems in the mine-shaft of the darkness! ger. you seem to have taken the wrong turn, warren! you ought to have been a poet. war. such a thing as that puts the slang out of a fellow's head. ger. i'm glad you like it. i do myself, though it falls short of my intent sadly enough. war. but i don't for the life of me see what this has to do with that. you said something about a mould. ger. i will tell you what i meant. every indivi- dual aspect of nature looks to me as if about to give birth to a human form, embodying that of which itself only dreams. in this way landscape-painting is, in my eyes, the mother of sculpture. that apollo is of the summer dawn; that aphrodite of the moonlit sea; this picture represents the mother of my psyche. war. under the sheet there? ger. yes. you shall see her some day; but to show your work too soon, is to uncork your champagne before dinner. war. well, you've spoiled my picture. i shall go home and scrape my canvas to the bone. ger. on second thoughts, i will show you my psyche. (uncovers the clay. war, stands in admiration. enter waterfield by same door) ig if i had a father. wat. ah, warren! here you are before me! mr. gervaise, i hope i see you well. war. mr. waterfield—an old friend of yours, ger- vaise, i believe. ger. i cannot appropriate the honour. wat. i was twice in your studio at rome, but it's six months ago, mr. gervaise. ha! (using his eye- glass) what a charming figure! a psyche! wings suggested by very skilful! contour lovely! al- together antique in pose and expression!—is she a commission? ger. no. wat. then i beg you will consider her one. ger. excuse me; i never work on commission— at least never in this kind. a bust or two i have done. wat. by jove!—i should like to see your model!— this is perfect. are you going to carve her? ger. possibly. wat. uncommissioned? ger. if at all. wat. well, i can't call it running any risk. what lines!—you will let me drop in some day when you've got your model here? ger. impossible. wat. you don't mean? ger. i had no model. wat. no model? hal ha!—you must excuse me! (ger. takes up the wet sheet) i understand. reasons. a little mystery enhances—eh?—is convenient too— balks intrusion—throws the drapery over the mignon- ette. i understand. (ger. covers the clay) oh! pray don't carry out my figure. that is a damper now! if i had a father. ger. i am not fond of acting the showman. you must excuse me: i am busy. wat. ah well!—some other time—when you've got on with her a bit. good morning. ta, ta, warren. ger. good morning. this way, if you please. (shows him out by the door to the street) how did the fellow find his way here? war. i am the culprit, i'm sorry to say. he asked me for your address, and i gave it him. ger. how long have you known him? war. a month or two. ger. don't bring him here again. war. don't say i brought him. i didn't do that. but i'm afraid you've not seen the last of him. ger. oh yes, i have! old martha would let in anybody, but i've got a man now.—william! enter col. gervaise dressed as a servant. you didn't see the gentleman just gone, i'm afraid, william? col. g. no, sir. ger. don't let in any one calling himself water- field. col. g. no, sir. ger. i'm going out with mr. warren. i shall be back shortly. col. g. very well, sir. exit into the house. ger. (to war.). i can't touch clay again till i get that fellow out of my head. war. come along, then. exeunt ger, and war. if i had a father. i body to help mo, aw dunnot think aw'll coom to th' end in haste. aw're a lookin' for summut aw've lost, mon. col. g. did you come all the way from lancashire to look for it? tho. eh, lad! aw thowt thae'rt beawn to know wheer aw coom fro! col. g. anybody could tell that, the first word you spoke. i mean no offence. tho. (looking disappointed). well, noan's ta'en. but thae dunnot say thae's ne'er been to lancashire thisel'? col. g. no, i don't say that: i've been to lan- cashire several times. tho. wheer to? col. g. why, manchester. tho. that's noan ov it. col. g. and lancaster. tho. tut! tut! that's noan of it, nayther. col. g. and liverpool, i was once there for a whole week. tho. nay, nay. noather o' those plazes. fur away off 'em. col. g. but what does it matter where i have or haven't been? tho. mun aw tell tho again? aw've lost summut, aw tell tho. didsto ne'er hear tell ov th' owd woman 'at lost her shillin'? hoo couldn't sit her deawn beawt hoo feawnd it! yon's me. (hides his face in his hands) col. g. ah! now i begin to guess! (aside).—you don't mean you've lost your tho. (starting up and grasping his stick with both hands). aw do mane aw've lost mo yung lass; and aw if i had a father. dunnot say thae's feawnd her, but aw do say thae knows wheer hoo is. aw do. theighur! nea then! col. g. what on earth makes you think that? i don't know what you're after. tho. thae knows well enough. thae knowed what aw'd lost afoor aw tou'd tho. yo' be denyin' your own name. thae knows. aw'll tay tho afore the police, beout thou gie her oop. aw wull. col. g. what story have you to tell the police then? they'll want to know. tho. story saysto? the dule's i' th' mon! didn't aw seigh th' mon 'at stealed her away goo into this heawse not mich over hauve an hour ago?—aw seigh him wi' mo own eighes. col. g. why didn't you speak to him? tho. he poppit in at th' same dur, and there aw've been a-watching ever since. aw've not took my eighes off ov it. he's somewheeres now in this same heawse. col. g. he may have been out in the morning (aside).—but you see there are more doors than one to the place. there is a back door; and there is a door out into the street. tho. eight. eight. th' t'one has to do wi' th' t'other —have it? three dur-holes to one shed! that looks bad! col. g. he's not here, whoever it was. there's not a man but myself in the place. tho. hea am aw to know yo're not playin' a mar- lock wi' mo? he'll be oop i' th' heawse theer. aw mun goo look (going). col. g. (preventing him). and how am i to know you're not a housebreaker? if i had a father. tho. dun yo think an owd mon like mosef would be of mich use for sich wark as that, mon? col. g. the more fit for a spy, though, to see what might be made of it. tho. eh, mon! dun they do sich things as yon? but aw'm seechin' nothin', man nor meawse, that donnot belung me. aw tell yo true. gie mo mo mattie, and aw'll trouble yo no moor.—aw winnot— if yo'll give mo back mo mattie. (comes close up to him and lays his hand on his arm) be yo a feyther, mon? col. g. yes. tho. ov a pratty yung lass? col. g. well, no. i have but a son. tho. then thae winnot help mo? col. g. i shall be very glad to help you, if you will tell me how. tho. tell yor maister 'at mattie's owd feyther's coom a' the gait fro rachda to fot her whoam, and aw'll be much obleeged to him iv he'll let her goo beout lunger delay, for her mother wants her to whoam: hoo's but poorly. tell yor maister that. col. g. but i don't believe my master knows any- thing about her. tho. aw're tellin' tho, aw seigh' th' mon goo into this heawse but a feow minutes agoo? col. g. you've mistaken somebody for him. tho. well, aw'm beawn to tell tho moore. twothre days ago, aw seigh mo chylt coom eawt ov this same dur—aw mane th' heawse-dur, yon. col. g. are you sure of that? tho. sure as death. aw seigh her back. col. g. her back! who could be sure of a back? if i had a father. after a moment turns again) noa. aw winnot say that; for mo mattie's sake aw winnot say that. god forgie you! (going by the house). col. g. this way, please! (opening the street-door). tho. aw see. aw'm not to have a chance ov seem' oather mattie or th' mon. exit. col. g. resumes his boot absently. re-enter thomas, shaking his fist. tho. but aw tell tho, aw'll stick to th' place day and neet, aw wull. aw wull. aw wull. col. g. come back to-morrow. tho. coom back, saysto? aw'll not goo away (grow-ing fierce). wilto gie mo mo mattie? aw'm noan beawn to ston here so mich lunger. wilto gie mo mo mattie? col. g. i cannot give you what i haven't got. tho. aw'll break thi yed, thou villain! (threatening him with his stick). eh, mattie! mattie! to loe sich a mon's maister more'n me! i would dey fur thee, mattie. exit. col. g. it's all a mistake, of course. there are plenty of young men—but my arthur's none of such. i cannot believe it of him. the daughter! if i could find her, she would settle the question. (it begins to grow dark) i must help the old man to find her. he's sure to come back. arthur does not look the least like it. but—(polishes vigorously). i cannotget this boot to look like a gentleman's. i wish i had taken a lesson or two first. i'll get hold of a shoe- black, and make him come for a morning or two. no, he does not look like it. there he comes. (goes on polishing) if i had a father. enter ger. ger. william! col. g. (turning). yes, sir. ger. light the gas. any one called? col. g. yes, sir. ger. who? col. g. i don't know, sir. (lighting the gas.) ger. you should have asked his name. (stands before the clay, contemplating it) col. g. i'm sorry i forgot, sir. it was only an old man from the country—after his daughter, he said. ger. came to offer his daughter, or himself per- haps. (begins to work at the figure) col. g. (watching him stealthily). he looked a re- spectable old party—from lancashire, he said. ger. i dare say. you will have many such callers. take the address. models, you know. col. g. if he calls again, sir? ger. ask him to leave his address, i say. col. g. but he told me you knew her. ger. possibly. i had a good many models before i left. but it's of no consequence; i don't want any at present. col. g. he seemed in a great way, sir—and swore. i couldn't make him out. ger. ah! hm! col. g. he says he saw her come out of the house. ger. has there been any girl here? have you seen any about? col. g. no, sir. if i had a father. cg rendered him such service as may prove me not alto- gether unworthy to be his father. twenty years of neglect will be hard to surmount. mrs. c. but mere menial service cannot discharge the least portion of your obligations. as his father alone can you really serve him. col. g. you persist in misunderstanding me. this is not the service i mean. i scorn the fancy. this is only the means, as i told you plainly before, of finding out how i may serve him—of learning what he really needs—or most desires. if i fail in dis- covering how to recommend myself to him, i shall go back to india, and content myself with leaving him a tolerable fortune. mrs. c. how ever a hair-brained fellow like you, walter, could have made such a soldier!—why don't you tell your boy you love him, and have done with it? col. g. i will, as soon as i have proof to back the assertion. mrs. c. i tell you it is rank pride. col. g. it may be pride, sister; but it is the pride of a repentant thief who puts off his confession until he has the money in his hand to prove the genuineness of his sorrow. mrs. c. it never was of any use to argue with you, walter; you know that, or at least i know it. so i give up.—i trust you have got over your prejudice against his profession. it is not my fault. col. g. in truth, i had forgotten the profession— as you call it—in watching the professor. mrs. c. and has is not once occurred to you to ask how he may take such watching? the gifts of the child christ, etc. if i had a father. you have been my angel, arthur. what would have become of me if you hadn't taken me, i dare not think. ger. i have had my reward, constance: you are happy. con. not quite. there's something i want to tell you. ger. tell on, child. con. oh, thank you!—that is how you used to talk to me. (hesitates.) ger. (with foreboding). well, what is it? con. (pulling the fingers of her gloves). a gentle- man-you know him—has been-calling upon aunt- and me. we have seen a good deal of him. ger. who is he? · con. mr. waterfield. (keeps her eyes on the floor.) ger. well? con. he says-he-he-he wants me to marry him.-aunt likes him. ger. and you? con. i like him too. i don't think i like him enough-i dare say i shall. it is so good of him to take poor me! he is very rich, they say. ger. have you accepted him? con. i am afraid he thinks so.— yeme--s.-i hardly know. ger. haven't you—been rather-in a hurry-con- stance? con. no, indeed! i haven't been in a hurry at all. he has been a long time trying to make me like him. i have been too long a burden to mrs. clifford. ger. so! it is her doing, then! con. you were away, you know. if i had a father. ger. good-bye. (exit con., looking back troubled) come at last! oh fool! fool! fool! in love with her at last!—and too late! for three years i haven't seen her—have not once written to her! since i came back i've seen her just twice,—and now in the very hell of love! the ragged little darling that used to lie coiled up there in that corner! if it were my sister, it would be hard to lose her so! and to such a fellow as that!—not even a gentleman! how could she take him for one! that does perplex me! ah, well! i suppose men have borne such things before, and men will bear them again! i must work! no- thing but work will save me. (approaches the psyche, but turns from it with a look of despair and disgust) what a fool i have been!—constance! constance!— a brute like that to touch one of her fingers! god in heaven! it will drive me mad. (rushes out, leaving the door open) enter col. gervaise. col. g. gone again! and without his breakfast! my poor boy! there's something very wrong with you! it's that girl! it must be! but there's con- science in him yet!—it is all my fault. if i had been a father to him, this would never have happened.—if he were to marry the girl now?—only, who can tell but she led him astray? i have known such a thing. (sits down and buries his face in his hands) enter waterfield. wat. is mr. gervaise in? col. g. (rising). no, sir. wat. tell him i called, will you? exit. l if i had a father. col. g. yes, sir.—forgot again. young man;—- gentleman or cad?—don't know; think the latter. enter thomas. tho. han yo heard speyk ov mo chylt yet, sir? col. g. (starting up). in the name of god, i know nothing of your child; but bring her here, and i will give you a hundred pounds—in golden sovereigns. tho. hea am aw to fot her yere, when i dunnot know wheer hoo be, sir? col. g. that's your business. bring her, and there will be your money. tho. dun yo think, sir, o' the gouden suverings i' th' bank ov england would put a sharper edge on mo oud eighes when they look for mo lass? eh, mon! yo dunnot know the heart ov a feyther—ov the feyther ov a lass-barn, sir. han yo kilt and buried her, and nea be yo sorry for't? f hoo be dead and gwoan, tell mo, sir, and aw'll goo whoam again, for mo oud lass be main lonesome beout mo, and we'll wait till we goo to her, for hoo winnot coom no moor to us. col. g. for anything i know, your daughter is alive and well. bring her here, i say, and i will make you happy. tho. aw shannot want thee or thi suverings either to mak mo happy then, maister. iv aw hed a houd o' mo lass, it's noan o' yere aw'd be a coomin' wi' her. it's reet straight whoam to her mother we'd be gooin', aw'll be beawn. nay, nay, mon!—aw'm noan sich a greight foo as yo tak me for. exit. col. g. follows him. enter ger. sits down beforethe psyche, but without looking at her. ger. oh those fingers! they are striking terrible l if i had a father. ger. (without looking up). nothing—only a headache. con. do come home with me, and let aunt and me nurse you. don't be vexed with me any more. i will do whatever you like. i couldn't go home with- out seeing you again. and now i find you ill! ger. not a bit. i am only dreadfully busy. i must go out of town. i am so busy! i can't stay in it a moment longer. i have so many things to do. con. mayn't i come and see you while you work? i never used to interrupt you. i want so to sit once more in my old place. (draws a stool towards him) ger. no, no—not—not there! constance used to sit there. william! con. you frighten me, arthur! enter col. g. ger. bring a chair, william. constance sits down like a chidden child. exit col. g. con. i must have offended you more than i thought, arthur! what can i say? it is so stupid to be always saying / am sorry. ger. no, no. but some one may call. con. you mean more than that. will you not let me understand? ger. your friend mr. waterfield called a few minutes ago. he will be here again presently, i dare say. con. (indifferently). indeed! ger. i suppose you appointed—expected—to meet him here. con. arthur! do you think i would come to you to meet him? i saw him this morning; i don't want to see him again. i wish you knew him. if i had a father. hq ger. why should you want me to know him? con. because you would do him good. ger. what good does he want done him? con. he has got beautiful things in him—talks well—in bits—arms and feet and faces—never any- thing like—(turning to the psyche) why have you? has she been naughty too? ger. is it only naughty things that must be put out of sight, constance? con. dear arthur! you spoke like your own self then. ger. (rising hurriedly). excuse me. i must go. it is very rude, but—william! enter col. g. col. g. yes, sir. ger. fetch a hansom directly. col. g. yes, sir. exit. con. you do frighten me, arthur! i am sure you are ill. ger. not at all. i have an engagement. con. i must go then—must i? ger. do not think me unkind? con. i will not think anything you would not have me think. re-enter col. g. col. g. the cab is at the door, sir. ger. thank you. then show miss lacordere out. stay. i will open the door for her myself. exeunt ger. and con. col. g. he speaks like one in despair, forcing every word! if he should die! oh, my god! if i had a father. re-enter ger. walks up and down the room. col. g. ain't you going, sir? ger. no. i have sent the lady in the cab. col. g. then hadn't you better lie down, sir? ger. lie down! what do you mean? i'm not in the way of lying down except to sleep. col. g. and let me go for the doctor, sir? ger. the doctor! ha! ha! ha!—you are a soldier, you say? col. g. yes, sir. ger. right. we're all soldiers—or ought to be. i will put you to your catechism. what is a soldier's first duty? col. g. obedience, sir. ger. sits down and leans his head on his hands. col. g. watches him. ger. ah! obedience, is it? then turn those women out. they will hurt you—may kill you; but you must not mind that. they burn, they blister, and they blast, for as white as they look! the hottest is the white fire. but duty, old soldier!—obedience, you know!— hal ha! oh, my head! my head! i believe i am losing my senses, william. i was in a bad part of the town this morning. i went to see a place i knew long ago. it had gone to hell—but the black edges of it were left. there was a smell—and i can't get it out of me. oh, william! william! take hold of me. don't let them come near me. psyche is laughing at me. i told you to throw the red cloth over her. col. g. my poor boy! ger. don't fancy you're my father, though! i wish you were. but i cannot allow that.—why the devil if i had a father. col. g. what shall i do? if he married her, he'd be miserable, and make her miserable too. i'll take her away somewhere. i'll be a father to her; i'll tend her as if she were his widow. but what confusions would follow! alas! alas! one crime is the mother of a thousand miseries! and now he's in for a fever— typhus, perhaps!—i must find this girl!—what a sweet creature that miss lacordere is! if only he might have her! i don't care what she was. ger. don't let them near me, william! they will drive me mad. they think i shall love them. i will not. if she comes one step nearer, i shall strike her. you diana! hecate! hell-cat!—fire-hearted chaos is burning me to ashes! my brain is a cinder! some water, william! col. g. here it is, sir. ger. but just look to psyche there. ah! she's off! there she goes! melting away in the blue, like a dis- solving vapour. bring me my field-glass, william, i may catch a glimpse of her yet. make haste. col. g. pray don't talk so, sir. do be quiet, or you will make yourself very ill. think what will be- come of me if ger. what worse would you be, william? you are a soldier. i must talk. you are all wrong about it: it keeps me quiet (holding his head with both hands). i should go raving mad else (wildly). give me some water. (he drinks eagerly, then looks slowly round the room) now they are gone, and i do believe they won't come again! i see everything—and your face, william. you are very good to me—very patient! i should die if it weren't for you. col. g. i would die for you, sir. if i had a father. ^ get: would you? but perhaps you don't care much for your life. anybody might have my life for the asking. i dare say it's just as good to be dead.—ah! there is a toad—a toad with a tail! no; it's a toad with a slow-worm after him. take them away, wil- liam!—thank you.—i used to think life pleasant, but now—somehow there's nothing in it. she told me the truth about it—constance did. don't let those women come back. what if i should love them, william!— love and hate them both at once! william! william! (a knock at the door) see who that is. mind you don't let them in. col. g. martha is there, sir. ger. she's but an old woman; she can't keep them out. they would walk over her. all the god- desses have such long legs! you go and look. you'll easily know them: if they've got no irises to their eyes, don't let them in, for the love of god, william! real women have irises to their eyes: those have none— those frightful snowy beauties.—and yet snow is very nice! and i'm so hot! there they come again! exit col. g. enter mrs. clifford. ger. aunt! aunt! help me! there they come! mrs. c. what is it, my arthur? they shan't hurt you. i am here. i will take care of you. ger. yes, yes, you will! i am not a bit afraid of them now. do you know them, aunt? i'll tell you a secret: they are juno and diana and venus.—they hate sculptors. but i never wronged them. three white women—only, between their fingers and behind their knees they are purple—and inside their lips, if i had a father. ger. (sitting up). constance! constance! con. here i am! (running to him). ger. oh, my head! i wish i could find some- where to lay it!—sit by me, constance, and let me lay my head on your shoulder—for one minute—only one minute. it aches so! (she sits down by him. his head sinks on her shoulder. mrs. c. looks annoyed, and exit.) con. thank you, thank you, dear arthur! (sobbing). you used to like me! i could not believe you hated me now. you have forgiven me? dear head! he closes his eyes. slow plaintive music. ger. (half waking). i can't read. when i get to the bottom of the page, i wonder what it was all about. i shall never get to garibaldi! and if i don't, i shall never get farther. if i could but keep that one line away! it drives me mad, mad. "he took her by the lily-white hand."—i could strangle myself for thinking of such things, but they will come!—i won't go mad. i should never get to garibaldi, and never be rid of this red-hot ploughshare ploughing up my heart. i will not go mad! i will die like a man. con. arthur! arthur! ger. god in heaven! she is there! and the others are behind her!—psyche! psyche! don't speak to those women! come alone, and i will tear my heart out and give it you.—it is psyche herself now, and the rest are gone! psyche—listen. con. it's only me, arthur! your own little con- stance! if aunt would but let me stay and nurse you! but i don't know what's come to her: she's not like herself at all. ger. who's that behind you? the gifts of the child christ, etc. if i had a father. day on scraps o' wittles to bring out the hunger: a cove can't be hungry upon nuffin at all. jim. he gets what mother calls the squeamishes. jack,well, bill? bill. well, the werry moment their bellies was as long an' as loose as a o'-clo'-bag of a winter's mornin', i'd bring 'em all up to this 'ere winder, five or six at a time—with the darbies on, mind ye jim. and i'm to be there to see, bill—ain't i? bill. if you're good, jim, an' don't forget yer prayers. jack. my eye! it's as good as a penny gaff! go it, bill. bill. then i up an' addresses 'em: "my lords an' gen'lemen, 'cos as how ye're all good boys, an' goes to church, an' don't eat too many wittles, an' don't take off your bracelets when you goes to bed, you shall obswerve me eat." jim. go it, bill! i likes you, bill. bill. no, jim; i must close. the imagination is a 'ungry gift, as the cock said when he bolted the peb- bles. let's sojourn the meetin'. jack. yes; come along. 'tain't a comf'able corner this yere: the wind cuts round uncommon sharp. them pies ain't good—leastways not to look at. bill. they ain't disgestible. but look ye here, jack and jim—hearkee, my kids. (puts an arm round the neck oreach, and whispers first to one and then to the other.)enter mattie and susan. sus. now, mattie, we're close to the house, an' i don't want to be seen with you, for she's mad at me. if i had a father. mat. you must have made her mad, then, sue. sus. she madded me first: what else when she wouldn't believe a word i said? she'd ha' sworn on the gospel book, we sent the parcel up the spout. but she'll believe you, an' give you something, and then we'll have a chop! mat. how can you expect that, sue, when the work's lost? sus. never mind; you go and see. mat. i shan't take it, susan. i couldn't. sus. stuff and nonsense! i'll wait you round the corner: i don't like the smell o' them pastry things. exit. mattie walks past the window. mat. i don't like going. it makes me feel a thief to be suspected. bill. lor! it's our mattie! there's our mattie! -—mattie! mattie! mat. ah, bill! you're there—are you? bill. yes, mattie. it's a tart-show. you walks up and takes yer chice;—leastways, you makes it: some- body else takes it. mat. wouldn't you like to take your choice some- times, bill? bill. in course i would. mat. then why don't you work, and better your- self a bit? bill. bless you, mattiei myself is werry comf'able. he never complains. mat. you're hungry sometimes,—ain't you? bill. most remarkable 'ungry, mattie—this werry moment. odd you should ask now-—ain't it? mat. you would get plenty to eat if you would work. if i had a father. bill. well, yes—if it was guv to me. but i don't go in for knocking of yourself about, to sleep warm. mat. well, look here, bill. it's all susan and i can do to pay for our room, and get a bit of bread and a cup of tea. it ain't enough.—if you were to earn a few pence now bill. oh golly! i never thought o' that . what a hass i wur, to be sure! i'll go a shoe-blackin' to- morror—i will. mat. did you ever black a shoe, bill? bill. i tried a boot oncet—when jim wor a blackin' for a day or two. but i made nothink on it—nothink worth mentionin'. the blackin' or som'at was wrong. the gen'leman said it wur coal-dust, an' he'd slog me, an' adwised me to go an' learn my trade. mat. and what did you say to that? bill. holler'd out "shine yer boots!" as loud as i could holler. mat. you must try my boots next time you come. bill. this wery night, mattie. i'll make 'em shine like plate glass—see then if i don't . but where'll i get a box and brushes? mat. you shall have our brushes and my foot-stool. bill. i see! turn the stool upside down, put the brushes in, and carry it by one leg—as drunken moll does her kid.—here you are, sir! black your boots, sir?—shine your trotters' sir? (bawling). mat. that'll do; that'll do, bill! famous! you needn't do it again (holding her ears). would you like a tart? bill. just wouldn't i, then!—shine your boooooots! mat. (laughing). do hold your tongue, bill. there's a penny for a tart. if i had a father. bill. thank you, mattie. thank you. exit into the shop. jack and jim (touching their supposed caps). please, ma'am! please ma'am! i likes 'em too. i likes 'em more 'n bill. mat. i'm very sorry, but—(feeling in her pocket) i've got a ha'penny, i believe. no—there's a penny! you must share it, you know. (gives it to jack. knocks at mrs. clifford's door) jack and jim. thank you, ma'am. thank you, ma'am. exit mattie into mrs. clifford's. jim. now, jack, what's it to be? jack. i believe i shall spend it in st. martin's lane. jim. a ha'p'orth on it's mine, you know, jack. jack,well, you do put the stunners on me! jim. she said we wos to divide it—she did. jack. 'taint possible. it beats my ivories. (he pretends to bite it. jim flies at him in a rage) re-enter bill, with his mouth full.bill. now what are you two a squabblin' over? oh! jack's got a yennep, and jim's lookin' shirty. jim. she told him to divide it, and he won't. bill. who told him? jim. mattie. bill. you dare, jack? hand over. jack,be hanged if i do. bill. then do and be hanged. (a struggle) there, jim! now you go and buy what you like. jim. am i to give jack the half? bill. yes, if our mattie said it. if i had a father. jim. all right, bill. (goes into the shop) jack,i owe you one for that, bill. bill. owe it me then, jack, i do like fair play— always did (eating). jack. you ain't a sharin' of your yennep, bill. bill. mattie didn't say i was to. she knowed one wouldn't break up into three nohow. 'tain't in natur', jack. jack,you might ha' guv me a bite, anyhow, bill, bill. it ain't desirable, jack—size o' trap dooly considered. here comes your share. re-enter jim. gives a bun to jack. jim. i tell you what, bill—she ain't your mattie. she ain't nobody's mattie; she's a hangel. bill. no, jim, she ain't a hangel; she 'ain't got no wings, leastways outside her clo'es, and she 'ain't got clo'es enough to hide 'em. i wish i wos a hangel! jack. at it again, bill! i do like to hear bill a wishin' of hisself! why, bill? bill. acause they're never 'ungry. jack,how do you know they ain't? bill. you never sees 'em loafin' about nowheres. jim. is mattie your sister, bill? bill. no, jim; i ain't good 'nough to have a sister like she. jack. your sweetheart, bill? ha! ha! ha! bill. dry up, jack. jim. tell me about her, bill. / didn't jaw you. bill. she lives in our court, jim. makes shirts and things. jack. oh! ho! bill hits jack. jack doubles himself up. if i had a father. bill. jim, our mattie ain't like other gals; i never see her out afore this blessed day—upon my word and honour, jim, never! jack (wiping his nose with his sleeve). you don't know a joke from a jemmy, bill. bill. i'll joke you!—a hangel tips you a tart, and you plucks her feathers! get on t'other side of the way, you little dirty devil, or i'll give you another smeller—cheap too. off with you! jack,no, bill; no, please. i'm wery sorry. i ain't so bad's all that comes to. bill. if you wants to go with jim and me, then behave like a gen'leman. jim. i calls our mattie a brick! bill. none o' your jaw, jim! she ain't your mattie. enter thomas. tho. childer, dun yo know th' way to paradise— row, or road, or summat? bill. dunnow, sir. you axes at the sunday-school. tho. wheer's th' sunday-school, chylt? bill. second door round the corner, sir. tho. second dur reawnd th' corner! which corner, my man? bill. round any corner. second door's all-ways sunday-school. (takes a sight. exeunt boys) thomas sits down on a doorstep. tho. eh, but aw be main weary! surely th' lord dunnot be a forsakin' ov mo. there's that abeawt th' lost ship. oop yon, wheer th' angels keep greight flocks ov 'em, they dunnot like to lose one ov 'em, an' they met well be helpin' ov mo to look for mo lost lamb i' this awful plaze! what has th' shepherd o' if i had a father. "old daddy longlegs wouldn't say his prayers— take him by his left leg, and throw him downstairs." go along! go to hell! we'll skin you. melt ye down for taller, we will. only he 'ain't got none, the red herrin'! they throw things at him. he sits down on the door-step, and covers his head with his arms. enter col. g. boys run off. tho. oh, mo mattie! mo mattie! col. g. poor old fellow! are you hurt? tho. eh! yo be a followin' ov mo too! col. g. what are you doing here? tom. what am aw doin' yere! thee knows well enough what aw're a doin' yere. it 're o' thy fau't, mon. col. g. why, you've got a blow! your head is cut! poor old fellow! tho. never yo mind mo yed. col. g. you must go home. tho. goo whoam, says to! aw goo nowheers but to th' grave afoor aw've feawnd mo chylt. col. g. come along with me; i will do all i can to find her. perhaps i can help you after all. tho. aw mak nea deawbt o' that, mon. and thae seems a gradely chap. aw'm a'most spent. an aw'm sick, sick! dunnot let th' boys shove mo abeawt again. col. g. i will not. they shan't come near you. take my arm. poor old fellow! if you would but trust me! hey! cab there! exeunt. enter susan, peeping. sus. i wonder whatever's come to mattie! it's long time she was out again. if i had a father. enter mattie, hurriedly. mat. oh, susan! susan! (falls) sus. mattie! matttie! (kneels beside her, and un- does her bonnet) enter policeman. pol. what ails her? (goes to lift her) sus. leave her alone, will you? let her head down. get some water. pol. drunk—is she? sus. hold your tongue, you brute! if she'd a satin frock on, i'stead o' this here poor cotton gownd, you'd ha' showed her t'other side o' your manners! get away with you. you're too ugly to look at.— mattie! mattie! look up, child. pol. she mustn't lie there. mat. susan! pol. come, my girl. sus. you keep off, i tell you! don't touch her. she's none o' your sort. come, mattie, dear.—why don't you make 'em move on? pol. you'd better keep a civil tongue in your head, young woman. sus. you live lobster! pol. i'll have to lock you up, i see. one violent. t'other incapable. sus. you're another. mattie, my dear, come along home. pol. that's right; be off with you. mattie rises. mat. let's go, sue! let's get farther off. sus. you can't walk, child. if i hadn't been so if i had a father. no wonder he forgot poor me. but it'll burn itself out afore long. sus. don't ye talk like that, mattie; i can't abear it. mat. if i was dressed like her, though, and could get my colour back! but laws! i'm such a washed out piece o' goods beside her! sus. that's as i say, matilda! it's the dress makes the differ. mat. no, susan, it ain't. it's the free look of them—and the head up—and the white hand—and the taper fingers. they're stronger than us, and they're that trained like, that all their body goes in one, like the music at a concert. / couldn't pick up a needle without going down on my knees after it. it's the pain in my side, sue.—yes, it's a fine thing to be born a lady. it's not the clothes, sue. if we was dressed ever so, we couldn't come near them. it's that look,—i don't know what. sus. speak for yerself, mattie; i'm not a goin' to think such small beer of myself, i can tell you! i believe if i'd been took in time mat. it's a big if that though, sue.—and then she looked so good! you'd hardly think it of me,— perhaps it's because i'm dying—but for one minute i could ha' kissed her very shoes. oh, my side! sus. (putting her arm tight round her waist).does that help it mattie, dear?—a little teeny bit? mat. yes, sukey. it holds it together a bit. will he break her heart too, i wonder? sus. no fear o' that! ladies takes care o' their- selves. they're brought up to it. mat. it's only poor girls gentlemen don't mind hurting, i suppose. * if i had a father. slow music. twilight. enter bill with a three-legged stool, brushes, etc. bill. come! it's blackin' all over! when gents can't no longer see their boots, 'tain't much use offer- in' to shine 'em. but if i can get a penny, i will. i must take a tart to mattie, or this here damaged one (laying his hand on his stomach) won't go to sleep this night. enter waterfield. bill. black your boots for a party, sir? wat. (aside) the very rascal i saw her speaking to! but wasn't she a brick not to split! that's what i call devotion now! there are some of them capable of it. i'll set her up for life. i'd give a cool thousand it hadn't happened, though. i saw her father too hanging about gervaise's yesterday. bill. clean your boots, sir? shine 'em till they grin like a cheshire cat eatin' cheese! wat. shine away, you beggar. bill (turning up his trousers). i ain't no beggar, sir. shine for a shiner's fair play. wat. do you live in this neighbourhood? bill. no, sir. wat. where, then? bill (feeling where a pocket should be).i don't ap- pear to 'ave a card about me, sir, but my address is lamb's court, camomile street—leastways i do my sleepin' not far off of it. i've lived there, what livin' i have done, sin' ever i wor anywheres as i knows on. wat. do you happen to know a girl of the name of pearson? if i had a father. bill. no, sir. i can't say as how i rec'lect the name. is she a old girl or a young un? wat. you young liar! i saw you talking to her not two hours ago! bill. did ye now, sir? that's odd, ain't it? bless you! i talks to everybody. i ain't proud, sir. wat. well, do you see this? (holding up a sov- ereign). bill. that's one o' them things what don't require much seein', sir. there! bright as a butterfly! t'other twin, sir! wat. i'll give you this, if you'll do something for me—and another to that when the thing's done. bill. 'tain't stealin', sir? wat. no. bill. cos, you see, mattie wat. who did you say? bill. old madge as lets the beds at tuppence a short night. 'tain't stealin', you say, sir? wat. what do you take me for? i want you to find out for me where the girl pearson lives—that's all. bill (snatching the sovereign and putting it in his mouth). now then, sir!—what's the young woman like? wat. rather tall—thin—dark hair—large dark eyes—and long white hands. her name's matilda— mattie pearson—the girl you were talking to, i tell you, on this very spot an hour or two ago. bill (dropping the sovereign, and stooping to find it). golly! it is our mattie! - wat. shall you know her again? bill. any boy as wasn't a hass would know his own grandmother by them spots. besides, i remember if i had a father. sich a gal addressin' of me this mornin'. if you say her it was, i'll detect her for ye. wat. there's a good boy! what's your name? bill. timothy, sir. wat. what else? bill. never had no other, —leastways as i knows on. wat. well, timothy—there's the other sov.—and it's yours the moment you take me to her. look at it . bill. my eye!—is she a square moll, sir? wat. what do you mean by that? bill. green you are, to be sure!—she ain't one as steals, or wat. not she. she's a sempstress—a needlewoman, or something of the sort. bill. and where shall i find you, sir? wat. let me see:—to-morrow night—on the steps of st . martin's church—ten o'clock. bill. but if i don't find her? it may be a week —or a month—-or wat. come whether you find her or not, and let me know. bill. all serene, sir! there you are, sir! brush your trousers, sir? wat. no; leave 'em.—don't forget now. bill. honour bright, sir! not if i knows it, sir! wat. there's that other skid, you know. bill. all right, sir! anything more, sir? wat. damn your impudence! get along. exit. bill watches him into mrs. clifford's. bill. now by all the 'ungry gums of arabiar, 'ere's a swell arter our mattie!—a right rig'lar swell! i knows 'em—soverings an' red socks. what's come if i had a father. to our mattie? 'ere's daddy longlegs arter her, vith his penny and his blessin'! an' 'ere's this 'ere mighty swell vith soverings—an' his red socks! an' she's 'ungry, poor gal!—this 'ere yellow-boy?-i 'ain't got no faith in swells—no more'n in daddy longlegses—i ain't- s'posin' he wants to marry her?—not if i know it. he ain't half good 'nough for her. too many quids --goin' a flingin' on 'em about like buttons! he's been a crackin' o' cribs—he has. i ain't a goin' to interduce our mattie to no sich blokes as him. no fathers or lovyers for me-says i—but this here pebble o' paradise!—what's to be done wi' the cherub? i can't tell her a lie about it, an' who'll break it up for a cove like me, lookin' jes' as if i'd been an tarred myself and crep' through a rag-bag! they'd jug me. an' what 'ud mattie say then? i wish i ’adn't a' touched it. i'm blowed if i don't toss it over a bridge! - then the gent ’ain't got the weight on his dunop out o' me. o lord! what shall i do with it? i wish i'd skied it in his face! i don't believe it's a good un; i don't! (bites it.) it do taste wery nasty. it's nothin' better 'n a gilt fardin'! jes? what a cove might look for from sich a swell! (goes to a street lamp and examines it.) lor! there's a bobby! (exit. re-enter to the lamp.) i wish the gen'leman 'ad guy me a penny. i can't do nothin' wi’ this 'ere quid. vere am i to put it? i 'ain't got no pocket, an' if i was to stow it in my 'tato-trap, i couldn't wag my red rag- an' mother madge 'ud soon have me by the chops. nor i've got noveres to plant it.- lor! it's all i've got, an' madge lets nobody go to bed without the tuppence. it's all up with bill—for the night! - where's the odds!—there's a first-class hotel by the if i had a father. bill,you're a liar! i never picked a pocket in my life. james. bad language, you see! what more would you have? tho. who'd iver ha' thowt o' sich wickedness in a boy like that! bill. i ain't a wicked boy. tho. nay, doan't thae tell mo that! thae made gam of mo, and hurried and scurried mo, as iv aw'd been a mak ov a deevil—yo did. james. he's one of the worst boys i know. this timothy is one of the very worst boys in all london. bill (aside). timothy, eh? i twigs! it's rain- bow, by peter and paul!—look ye here, old gen'le- man! this 'ere's a bad cove as is takin' adwantage o' your woolliness. / knows him. his master guv me the suvering. he guv it to me to tell him where your mattie was. james,don't you fancy you're goin' to take in an experienced old gen'leman like that with your cock- and-bull stories! come along, i say. hey! police! bill. here you are! (takes the coin fromhis mouth, rubs it dry on his jacket, and offers it) i don't want it. give it to old hunx there.—he shan't never see his mattie! i wur right to chivy him, arter all. james (taking the coin). now look here, timothy. i'm a detective hofficer. but i won't never be hard on no boy as wants to make a honest livin'. so you be hoff! i'll show the old gen'leman where he wants to go to. bill moves two paces, and takes a sight at him. tho. the lord be praised! dosto know eawr mattie then? if i had a father. mrs. c. he doesn't want me. you are every- thing now. besides, i can't come alone. col. g. why not? mrs. c. constance would fancy i did not want to take her. col. g. then why not take her? mrs. c. i have my reasons. col. g. what are they? mrs. c. never mind. col. g. i insist upon knowing them. mrs. c. it would break my heart, walter, to quarrel with you, but i will if you use such an ex- pression. col. g. but why shouldn't you bring miss la- cordere with you? mrs. c. he's but a boy, and it might put some nonsense in his head. col. g. she's a fine girl. you make a friend of her. mrs. c. she's a good girl, and a lady-like girl; but i don't wan't to meddle with the bulwarks of society. i hope to goodness they will last my time. col. g. clara, i begin to doubt whether pride be a christian virtue. mrs. c. i see! you'll be a radical before long. everything is going that way. col. g. i don't care what i am, so i do what's right. i'm sick of all that kind of thing. what i want is bare honesty. i believe i'm a tory as yet, but i should be a radical to-morrow if i thought justice lay on that side.—if a man falls in love with a woman, why shouldn't he marry her? mrs. c. she may be unfit for him. the gifts of the child christ, etc. if i had a father. mat. i don't think we ought to buy chops, dear. we must be content with bread, i think. sus. bread, indeed! mat. well, it's something to eat. sns. do you call it eatin' when you see a dog polishin' a bone? mat. bread's very good with a cup of tea. sus. tea, indeed! fawn-colour, trimmed with sky- blue!—if you'd mentioned lobster-salad and sherry, now! mat. i never tasted lobster-salad. sus. i have, though; and i do call lobster-salad good. you don't care about your wittles: / do, when i'm hungry, i'm not at all comfortable. mat. poor dear sue! there is a crust in the cup- board. sus. i can't eat crusts. i want summat nice. i ain't dyin' of 'unger. it's only i'm peckish. very peckish, though. i could eat—let me see what i could eat:—i could eat a lobster-salad, and two dozen oysters, and a lump of cake, and a wing and a leg of a chicken—if it was a spring chicken, with water- creases round it—and a bath-bun, and a sandwich; and in fact i don't know what i couldn't eat, except just that crust in the cupboard. and i do believe i could drink a whole bottle of champagne. mat. i don't know what one of those things tastes like—scarce one; and i don't believe you do either. sus. don't i?—i never did taste champagne, but i've seen them eating lobster-salad many a time;— girls not half so good-lookin' as you or me, mattie, and fine gentlemen a waitin' upon 'em. oh dear! i am so hungry! think of having your supper with a * if i had a father. l thing, i'll take to gin—that's what i'll do. don't say i didn't act fair, and tell you beforehand. mat. how can i help dying, susan? sus. i say, don't do it, mattie. we'll fall out, if you do. don't do it, matilda—la! there's that lump- ing bill again—always a comin' up the stair when you don't want him! enter bill. mat. well, bill, how have you been getting on? bill. pretty tollol, mattie. but i can't go on so. (holds out his stool) it ain't respectable. mat. what ain't respectable? everything's re- spectable that's honest. bill. why, who ever saw a respectable shiner goin' about with a three-legged stool for a blackin' box? it ain't the thing. the rig'lars chaffs me fit to throw it at their 'eads, they does—only there's too many on 'em, an' i've got to dror it mild. a box i must have, or a feller's ockypation's gone. look ye here! one bob, one tanner, and a joey! there! that's what comes of never condescending to an 'a'penny. sus. bless us! what mighty fine words we've got a waitin' on us! bill. if i 'ave a weakness, miss susan, it's for the right word in the right place—as the coster said to the devil-dodger as blowed him up for purfane swear- in'.—when a gen'leman hoffers me an 'a'penny, i axes him in the purlitest manner i can assume, to oblige me by givin' of it to the first beggar he may 'ave the good fort'n to meet. some on 'em throws down the 'a'penny. most on 'em makes it a penny.—but i say, mattie, you don't want nobody arter you—do you now? if i had a father. mat. i don't know what you mean by that, bill. bill. you don't want a father—do you now? do she, susan? sus. we want no father a hectorin' here, bill. you 'ain't seen one about, have you? bill. i seen a rig'lar swell arter mattie, anyhow. mat. what do you mean, bill? bill. a rig'lar swell—i repeats it—a astin' arter a young woman by the name o' mattie. sus. (pulling him aside). hold your tongue, bill! you'll kill her! you young viper! hold your tongue, or i'll twist your neck. don't you see how white she is? mat. what was he like? do tell me, bill. bill. a long-legged rig'lar swell, with a gold chain, and a cane with a hivory 'andle. sus. he's a bad man, bill, and mattie can't abide him. if you tell him where she is, she'll never speak to you again. mat. oh, susan! what shall i do? don't bring him here, bill. i shall have to run away again; and i can't, for we owe a week's rent. sus. there, bill! bill. don't you be afeard, mattie. he shan't touch you. nor the old one neither. mat. there wasn't an old man with him?—not an old man with a long stick? bill. not with him. daddy was on his own hook? mat. it must have been my father, susan. (sinks back on her chair) sus. 'tain't the least likely.—there, bill! i always said you was no good! you've killed her. bill. mattie! mattie! i didn't tell him where you was. if i had a father bill. i'm off this indentical minute. but you see- sus. there! there!—now you mizzle. i don't want no fathers here-goodness knows; but the poor girl's took a fancy to hers, and she'll die if she don't get him. run now—there's a good boy! (exit bill.) you ’ain't forgotten who's a comin', mattie? mat. no, indeed. sus. well, i hope she'll be civil, or i'll just give her a bit of my mind. mat. not enough to change hers, i'm afraid. that sort of thing never does any good. sus. and am i to go a twiddlin' of my thumbs, and sayin' yes, ma'am, an' no, ma'am? not if i knows it, matilda! mat. you will only make her the more positive in her ill opinion of us. sus. an' what's that to me? mat. well, i don't like to be thought a thief. be- sides, mrs. clifford has been kind to us. sus. she's paid us for work done; so has old nathan. mat. did old nathan ever give you a glass of wine when you took home his slops? sus. oh! that don't cost much; and besides, she takes it out in kingdom-come. mat. you're unfair, susan. sus. well, it's little fairness i get. mat. and to set that right you're unfair yourself! what you call speaking your mind, is as cheap, and as nasty, as the worst shoddy old nathan ever got gobble-stitched into coats and trousers. sus. very well, miss matilda! (rising and snatching her bonnet). the sooner we part the better! you stick if i had a father. by your fine friends! i don't care that for them! (snapping her fingers)—and you may tell 'em so! i can make a livin' without them or you either. good- ness gracious knows it ain't much of a livin' i've made sin' i come across you, miss! exit. mat. (trying to rise). susan! susan! (lays her head on the table.) a tap at the door, and enter mrs. clifford, with james behind. mattie rises. mrs. c. wait on the landing, james. james. yes, ma'am.' exit james, leaving the door a little ajar. mrs. c. well, miss pearson! (mattie offers a chair.) no, thank you. that person is still with you, i see! mat. indeed, ma'am, she's an honest girl. mrs. c. she is a low creature, and capable of any- thing. i advise you to get rid of her. mat. was she rude on the stair, ma’am? mrs. c. rude! vulgar-quite vulgar! insulting! mat. i am very sorry. but, believe me, ma'am, she is an honest girl, and never pawned that work. it was done—every stitch of it; and the loss of the money is hard upon us too. indeed, ma'am, she did lose the parcel. mrs. c. you have only her word for it. if you don't give her up, i give you up. mat. i can't, ma'am. she might go into bad ways if i did. mrs. c. she can't well get into worse. her language! you would do ever so much better with- out her. if i had a father. ing spitefully)—which i'm no better'n i should be, and a great deal worse, if i'm on my oath to your ladyship —that's neither here nor there!—but she's better'n a van-load o' sich ladies as you, pryin' into other people's houses, with yer bibles, an' yer religion, an' yer flunkies! /know ye! i do i mat. don't, susan. sus. why don't ye go an' pay twopence a week to somebody to learn ye good manners? i been better brought up myself. mrs. c. i see i was wrong: i ought at once to have handed the matter over to the police. sus. the perlice, indeed!—you get out of this, ma'am, or i'll make you!—you and your cowardly man-pup there, as is afraid to look me in the face through the crack o' the door! get out, i say, with your—insolence—that's your word! exit mrs. clifford. mat. susan! susan! what is to become of us? sus. she daren't do it—the old scrooge! but just let her try it on! see if i don't show her up afore the magistrate! mattie! i'll work my fingers to the bone for you. i would do worse, only you won't let me. i'll go to the court, and tell the magistrate you're a-dyin' of hunger, which it's as true as gospel. mat. they'd send me to the workhouse, sukey. sus. there must be some good people somewheres, mattie. mat. yes; if we could get at them. but we can live till we die, sukey. sus. i'll go and list for a soldier, i will. women ha' done it afore. it's quite respectable, so long as they don't find you out—and they shouldn't me. if i had a father. jones's kettle's sure to be a bilin'. that's what you would like. exit. constance steps aside, and susan passes with- out seeing her. mat. oh! to be a baby again in my mother's arms! but it'll soon be over now. constance comes forward. con. i hope you're a little better now? mat. you're very kind, miss; and i beg your pardon for speaking to you as i did. con. don't say a word about it. you didn't quite know what you were saying. i'm in trouble myself. i don't know how soon i may be worse off than you. mat. why, miss, i thought you were going to be married! con. no, i am not. mat. why, miss, what's happened. he's never going to play^ow false—is he? con. i don't mean ever to speak to him again! mat. what has he done to offend you, miss? con. nothing. only i know now i don't like him. to tell you the truth, mattie, he's not a gentleman. mat. not a gentleman, miss! how dare you say so? con. do you know anything about him? did you ever see him? mat. yes. con. where? mat. once at your house. con. oh! i remember—that time! i begin to it couldn't be at the sight of him you fainted, mattie? —you knew him? tell me! tell me! make me sure of it. the gifts of the child christ, etc. if i had a father. mat. to give you your revenge! no. it's a mean spite to say he ain't a gentleman. con. perhaps you and i have different ideas of what goes to make a gentleman. mat. very likely. con. oh! don't be vexed, mattie. i didn't mean to hurt you. mat. oh! i dare say! con. if you talk to me like that, i must go. mat. i never asked you to come. con. well, i did want to be friendly with you. i wouldn't hurt you for the world. mat. (bursting into tears). i beg your pardon, miss. i'm behaving like a brute. but you must forgive me; my heart is breaking. con. poor dear! (kissing her). so is mine almost. let us be friends. where's susan gone? mat. to fetch me a cup of tea. she'll be back directly. con. don't let her say bad words: i can't bear them. i think it's because i was so used to them once—in the streets, i mean—not at home—never at home. mat. she don't often, miss. she's a good-hearted creature. it's only when hunger makes her cross. she don't like to be hungry. con. i should think not, poor girl! mat. don't mind what she says, please. if you say nothing, she'll come all right. when she's spoken her mind, she feels better. here she comes! re-enter susan. it begins to grow dark. sus. well, and who have we got here? if i had a father. mat. miss lacordere, sukey. sus. there's no lack o' dare about her, to come here! mat. it's very kind of her to come, susan; sus. i tell you what, miss: that parcel was stole. it was stole, miss!—stole from me—an' that angel there a dyin' in the street! con. i'm quite sure of it, susan. i never thought anything else. sus. not but i allow it was a pity, miss!—i'm very sorry. but, bless you! (lighting a candle)—with all your fine clothes !my! you look like a theayter- queen—you do, miss! if you was to send them up the spout now!—my! what a lot they'd let you have on that silk! con. the shawl is worth a good deal, i believe. it's an indian one—all needlework. sus. and the bee-utiful silk! laws, miss! just shouldn't i like to wear a frock like that! i should be hard up before i pledged that! but the shawl! if i was you, miss, i would send 'most everything up be- fore that!—things inside, you know, miss—where it don't matter so much. con. (laughing). the shawl would be the first thing i should part with. i would rather be nice inside than out. sus. lawk, miss! i shouldn't wonder if that was one of the differs now! well, i never! it ain't seen! it must be one o' the differs! con. what differs? i don't understand you. sus. the differs 'tween girls an' ladies—girls like me an' real ladies like you. con. oh, i see! but how dark it has got! what i » if i had a father. can be keeping william? i must go at once, or what will my aunt say! would you mind going with me a little bit, susan? sus. i'll go with pleasure, miss. con. just a little way, i mean, till we get to the wide streets. you couldn't lend me an old cloak, could you? sus. i 'ain't got one stitch, miss, but what i stand up in—'cep' it be a hodd glove an' 'alf a pocket- 'an'kercher. nobody 'ill know you. con. but i oughtn't to be out dressed like this. sus. you've only got to turn up your skirt over your head, miss. con. (drawing up her skirt). i never thought of that! sus. well, i never! con. what's the matter? sus. only the whiteness o' the linin' as took my breath away, miss. it ain't no use turnin' of it up: you'll look like a lady whatever you do to hide it. but never mind: that ain't no disgrace so long as you don't look down on the rest of us. there, miss! there you are—fit for a play! come along; i'll take care of you. lawks! i'm as good as a man—/ am! con. good-bye then, mattie. mat. good-bye, miss. god bless you. exeunt. if i had a father. act iv. scene.— the studio. enter col. g. walks about restless and eager. col. g. thank heaven! if bill has found mr. war- ren now,-- exit. enter warren. war. what can the fellow be up to? there's something odd about him—something i don't like- but it can't mean mischief when he sends for me. where could gervaise have picked him up?-nobody here? re-enter col. g. and hurries to him with outstretched hand. col. g. my dear sir! i am greatly obliged to you. this is very kind. war. (stepping back). excuse me.—i do not under- stand. col. g. i beg your pardon. i ought to have ex- plained. war. i believe something of the sort is necessary. col. g. you are my master's friend. war. i should be proud of the honour. can i be of any service to him? col. g. i believe i can trust you. i will trust you -i am his father. if i had a father. war. whose father? belzebub's? col. g. arthur's—your friend gervaise's. i am sir walter gervaise. you must help me to help him. warren regards him for a moment. war. (stiffy). sir walter, i owe your son much- you nothing yet. i am his friend. col. g. there is not a moment to lose. listen. an old man came about the place a few weeks ago, looking for his daughter. he has been got out of the way, but i have learned where he is: i want you to bring him. war. i would serve your son blindfold: you must excuse me if i wish to understand first. col. g. arthur is in trouble. he has a secret.- god forgive me!—i feared it was a bad one. war. you don't know him as i do! col. g. i know him now—and can help him. only i can't prove anything yet. i must have the old man. i've found his daughter, and suspect the villain: if i can bring the three together, all will come out, sure enough. the boy i sent for you will take you to the father. he will trust you, and come. (bell rings.) i must go to arthur now. exit. war. what a strange old fellow! an officer-and disguise himself ! enter bill. bill. here you are, sir! war. no vast amount of information in that state- ment, my boy! bill. well, sir--here i are, sir. war. that is a trifle more to the point, though scarcely requiring mention. if i had a father. col. g. god knows i would, sir—to the last drop of my blood. ger. that's saying much, william. a son couldn't say more—no, nor a father either. col. g. oh! yes, he could, sir. ger. and mean it? col. g. yes. ger. if i had a father, william, i would tell him all about it. i was but two years old when he left me. col. g. then you don't remember him, sir? ger. i often dream about him, and then i seem to remember him. col. g. what is he like, sir?—in your dreams, i mean. ger. i never see him distinctly: i try hard some- times, but it's no use. if he would but come home! i feel as if i could bear anything then.—but i'm talk- ing like a girl! col. g. where is your father, sir? ger. in india. col. g. a soldier, sir? ger. yes. colonel gervaise—you must have heard of him. sir walter he is now. col. g. i've heard of him, sir—away in the north parts he's been, mostly. ger. yes. how i wish he would come home! i would do everything to please him. i have it, william! i'll go to india. i did think of going to garibaldi— but i won't—i'll go to india. i must find my father. will you go with me? col. g. willingly, sir. ger. is there any fighting there now? if i had a father. wet. but it's no matter. let her go. earth to earth, and dust to dust!—the law of nature—and art too. exit into the house. col. g. (following him). i mustn't lose sight of him.—here he comes again, thank god! catches up a coat, and begins brushing it. re-enter ger. ger. i don't like to see you doing that. col. g. why shouldn't i serve my own—superior, sir? anything' s better than serving yourself. and that's what every one does who won't serve other people. ger. you are right. and it's so cheap. col. g. and so nasty! ger. right again, william!—right indeed!—you're a gentleman! if there's anything i could help you in —anything gone wrong,—any friends offended—i'm not altogether without influence. col. g. (aside). he will vanquish me with my own weapons! ger. but you will go to garibaldi with me? col. g. i will, sir. ger. and ride by my side? col. g. of course. ger. if you ride by me, you will have to ride far. col. g. i know, sir. but if you would be fit for fighting, you must come and have something to eat and drink. ger. all right. a soldier must obey: i shall begin by obeying you. only mind you keep up with me. exit, leaning on col. g. if i had a father. enter thomas. tho. th' dule a mon be yere! aw're main troubled to get shut ov they reyvers! aw'm olez i' trouble! mine's a gradely yed! it be!—hoy!—nobory yere! 't seems to me, honest men be scarce i' lonnon. aw'm beawn to believe nobory but mo own heighes, and mo own oud lass. exit. re-enter gervaise, followed by col. g. ger. no, william; i won't lie down. i feel much better. let's have a bout with the foils. col. g. very well, sir. (aside.) a little of that will go far, i know. (gets down the foils) ger. and, william, you must set a block up here. i shall have a cut or two at it to-morrow. there's a good cavalry weapon up there — next that cast of davis's arm. col. g. suppose your father were to arrive just after you had started! ger. i shouldn't mind. i don't want to see him yet. i'm such a poor creature! the heart seems to have gone out of me. you see, william enter mrs. clifford. ger. ah! how do you do, aunt? mrsc. what's this nonsense about garibaldi, arthur? ger. who told you? mrs. c. you don't mean it's true? ger. quite true, aunt. mrs. c. really, arthur, you are more of a scatter- brain than i took you for! if i had a father. ger. don't say that, aunt. i only take after my father. mrs. c. don't talk to me of your father! i have no patience with him. a careless hard-hearted fellow —not worthy the name of a father! (she glares at sir walter.) ger. you may go, william. (col. g. retires slowly.) ger. aunt, you have been a mother to me; but were you really my mother, i must not listen to such words of my father. he has good reasons for what he does, though i admit there is something in it we don't understand. (aside) if i could but understand how constance mrs. c. what do you say? what was that about constance? ger. oh, nothing, aunt. i was only thinking how difficult it is to understand people. mrs. c. if you mean constance, i agree with you. she is a most provoking girl. ger. (smiling). i am sorry to hear that, aunt. mrs. c. i'm very glad you were never so silly as take a fancy to the girl. she would have led you a pretty dance! if you saw how she treats that un- fortunate waterfield! but what's bred in the bone won't out of the flesh. ger. there's nothing bred in her i would have out, aunt. mrs. c. perhaps she originated her vulgarity. that is a shade worse. ger. vulgarity, aunt! i cannot remember the meaning of the word when i think of her. mrs. c. if you choose to insult me, arthur exit. if i had a father. ger. it is high time i were gone! if i should be called in now to settle matters between william! william!—william! enter col. g. ger. to-morrow, william. not a word. if you will go with me, i shall be glad. if you will not, i shall go without you. exit. col. g. yes, sir.—i wish warren were here with the old man. i don't know what to do till he comes. enter constance. con. i thought my aunt was here, william. col. g. no, miss. she was here, but she's gone again. con. could i see mr. gervaise for a moment? col. g. certainly, miss. i'll tell him. con. is he still determined on going, william? col. g. yes, miss;—to-morrow, he says. con. to-morrow! col. g. yes, miss. i think he means to start for dover in the morning. con. what am i to do? col. g. what's the matter, miss? con. what can i do? i know he is angry with me. i don't quite know why. i wish i had never i can't help it now. my heart will break. (weeps) col. g. don't let him go to dover to-morrow, miss. con. he would have listened to me once. he won't now. it's all so different! everything has gone wrong somehow. col. g. do try to keep him from going, miss. if i had a father. con. he would but think me forward. i could bear anything better than have him think ill of me. col. g. no fear of that, miss. the danger is all the other way. con. what other way, william? col. g. he thinks you don't care a bit about him. exit. constance drops on the dais, nearly under the veiled psyche. enter ger. and stands a moment regarding her. ger. constance. con. (starting up, and flying to him with her hands clasped). arthur! arthur! don't go. i can't bear you to go. it's all my fault, but do forgive me! oh, do, do-dear arthur! don't go to-morrow. i shall be miserable if you do. ger. but why, my--why, constance? con. i was your constance once. ger. but why should i not go? nobody wants me here. con. oh, arthur! how can you be so cruel? can it be that——? do say something. if you won't say anything, how can i know what you are thinking- what you wish? perhaps you don't like—- i would -i have—i won't—oh, arthur! do say something. ger. i have nothing to say, constance. con. then i have lost you — altogether! i dare say i deserve it. i hardly know. god help me! what can i have done so very wicked? oh! why did you take me out of the streets? i should have been used to them by this time! they are terrible to me now. no, no, arthur! i thank you—thank you—with my very soul! what might i not have been by this o if i had a father. gooin'. nobory can tell what may be coomin to mo mattie. aw mun go look, go look! ha! ha! they couldn't keep mo, owd mon as aw wur! but aw wish aw hed a word wi' th' mon first. enter warren. war. (aside). this must be the old fellow himself! here he is after all! (peeps into the room) tho. theer be nobory theer, sir. th' maister's run eawt, and th' mon after him. war. run out! tho. aw niver says what aw donnot mane. an' aw'm glad yo're theer, sir; for william he towd mo to stay till he coom back; but awve not geet so mich time to spare; and so be's yo're a friend ov th' maister's, yo'll mebbe mind th' shop a smo' bit. aw mun goo (going). war. i say, old man—your name's thomas pear- son—ain't it? tho. yigh. aw yer. but hea cooms to knaw mo name? war. i know all about you. tho. iwery body knaws iwery body yere! aw connot stur a fut fur folks as knaws mo, and knaws mo name, and knaws what aw be after. lonnon is a dreedfu' plaze. aw mun geet mo lass to whoam. yo'll mind th' shop till th' maister cooms back. good neet (going). war. (stopping him). they want you here a bit. you'd better stop. the man will be back directly. you're too suspicious. tho. nea, maister, thae'rt wrung theer. aw've trusted too mich—a theawsand times too mich. if i had a father. and which not to trust. but aw mun wait for maister william, as yo co' him. bill. all right, daddy!—don't you stir from here till i come back—not for nobody—no, not for joseph! tho. aw dunnot knaw no joseph. bill. i'll soon let you see i'm a honest boy! as you can't go to mattie, i'll bring mattie to you: see if i don't! an' if she ain't the right un, i'll take her back, and charge ye nuffin for carriage. can't say fairer than that, daddy! tho. bless tho, mo boy! dosto mane it true? bill. yes—an' that you'll see, afore you're an 'alf an hour older, daddy. when mr. william comes, you say to him, "bill's been.—all right." tho. aw dunnot like secrets, lad. what don yo mane? ivvery body seems to mane something, and nobory to say it. bill. never you mind, daddy! "bill's been.—all right." that's your ticket. i'm off. exit. thomas gets up, and walks about, murmuring to himself. a knock at the door. tho. somebory after mo again! aw'll geet eawt ov th' way. (goes behind the psyche) enter waterfield. wat. nobody here! i am unlucky. "not at home," said the rascal,—and grinned, by jove! i'll be at the bottom of this. there's no harm in gervaise. he's a decent fellow. (knocks at the door of ger.'s room) i won't leave the place till i've set things right—not if i've got to give him a post-obit for five thousand—i won't!—nobody there? (looks in) no. then i'll go in and wait. exit. if i had a father. tho. (peeping from behind the psyche). that's the villain! lord o' mercy! that's the villain! if aw're as strung as aw'm owd, aw'd scrunch his yed—aw would! aw'm sure it's th' mon. he kep eawt ov mo way— but aw seigh him once. o lord, keep mo hands off ov him. aw met kill him. aw'm sartin sure ov him when aw see him. aw^l not goo nigh him till some- bory cooms—cep' he croons away. aw'm noan fieyed ov him, but aw met not be able to keep mo howd ov him. oh, mo mattie! mo mattie! to leave thi owd faither for sich a mak ov a mon as yon! but yere cooms somebory moor. (goes behind the psyche) enter mrs. clifford. mrs. c. no one here? she can never be in his room with him! (opens the door) oh! mr. water- field! you're here—are you? wat. (coming to the door). mrs. clifford! this is indeed an unexpected pleasure! mrs. c. have you got constance with you there? wat. i've no such good fortune. mrs. c. where is she, then? wat. at home, i presume. mrs. c. indeed she is not. i must speak to arthur. wat. he's not here. mrs. c. where's my—his man, then? wat. taken himself off to the public-house, i sup- pose. there's nobody about. odd—ain't it? mrs. c. i'll go and see. exit into the house. wat. what can be the row! there is some row.' exit intojhe room. if i had a father. ma'am, if you please. he's been out for the first time. mrs. c. at night! and in a fog! a pretty nurse you are! poor boy! col. g. mr. waterfield, sir, would you mind stepping into the room again for a moment? (exit wat.) mrs. clifford, ma'am, would you please get a glass of wine for master? exit mrs. c. into the house. ger. william! william! col. g. yes, sir. ger. send him away. don't let him stop there. i have nothing to say to him. col. g. he shan't trouble you, sir. i'll take care of that. (goes behind the psyche to thomas, but keeps watching the door of the room)—did you see the man that went in there just now? tho. (with anxiety). he winnot joomp eawt ov th' window, dosto thenk, lad? re-enter mrs. c. with wine. ger. drinks. col. g. why should he do that? do you know anything about him? tho. aw do. col. g. has he seen you here? tho. no. aw're afeard he'd roon away, and aw keepet snoog. col. g. i needn't ask who it is, then? tho. yo needn't, lad. enter waterfield. tho. mo conscience! he'll pike eawt afoor aw geet howd on him! (rushes out and seizes wat.) if i had a father. enter mattie and bill. tho. thae'rt a domned villain! wheer's mo mattie? waterfield knocks thomas down. bill. o lord! the swell's murdered old daddy! all but ger. rush together. colonel gervaise seizes waterfield. mattie throws herself on her knees beside thomas and lifts his head. mat. father! father! look at me! it's mattie!- your own wicked mattie! look at her once, father dear! (lays down his head in despair, and rises.) who struck the good old man? bill. he did—the swell as give me the gold sov. mat. mr. watkins!-- wat. i haven't the honour of the gentleman's ac- quaintance. i'm not mr. watkins. am i now? (to col. g.) ha! ha!—let go, i say. i'm not the man. it's all a mistake, you see. col. g. in good time. i might make a worse. watkins mayn't be your name, but watkins is your nature. wat. damn your insolence! let me go, i tell you! (struggles threatening.) col. g. gently, gently, young man!—if i give your neckcloth a twist now—-! mat. yes, there is a mistake—and a sad one for me! a wretch that would strike an old man! indeed you are not what i took you for. wat. you hear the young woman! she says it's all a mistake.—my good girl, i'm sorry for the old gentleman; but he oughtn't to behave like a ruffian. oo if i had a father. old times, you know! — take it. you're welcome. (forces the note on her. she steps back. it drops) mat. this is a humiliation! will nobody take him away? sus. (rushing at him). you be off! an' them goggle eyes o' yours, or /'ll goggle 'em! i can't bear the sight on 'em. i should never ha' taken you for a gentleman. you don't look it. you slope, i say! (hustles him) waterfield picks up the note, and exit. mat. (bursting into tears). father! father! don't hate me; don't despise me. thomas tries to get up, but falls back. bill. don't be in no hurry, daddy. there's none but friends here now—'cep' the old lady;—she do look glum. sus. i'll soon settle her hash! mat. susie! susie! don't—there's a dear! sus. what business has she here then! she's not a doin' of nothink. mat. don't you see she's looking after the poor gentleman there? ger. william!—william!—gone again! what a fellow he is! the best servant in the world, but always vanishing! call your james—will you, aunt? we must have the old man put to bed. but the poor girl looks the worse of the two! she can have the spare room, and william can sleep on the sofa in mine. mrs. c. i'll see to it. exit. ger. goes towards thomas. tho. coom whoam—coom whoam, mattie! thi mother, hoo's cryin' her eighes eawt to whoam. if i had a father. mat. i'll run for a doctor first, father. tho. no, no, chylt! aw're only a bit stunned, like. aw'll be o' reet in a smo' bit. aw dunnot want no doctor. aw'm a coomin' reawnd. ger. neither of you shall stir to-night. your rooms will be ready in a few minutes. mat. thank you, sir! i don't know what i should have done with him. — susan, you wouldn't mind going home without me? you know miss la- cordere ger. miss lacordere! what do you know of her? mat. oh, dear! oh, dear! i oughtn't to have men- tioned her. but my poor head! ger. what of miss lacordere? for god's sake, tell me. enter mrs. c. with james. sus. oh, nothing, sir! nothing at all! only miss lacordere has been good to us—which it's more than can be said for everybody! (scowls at mrs. c. james proceeds to lift thomas. she flies at him) put the old gentleman down, you sneakin' reptile! how many doors have you been a hearkenin' at since mornin'— eh, putty-lump? you touch the old man again, and i'll mark you! here, bill! i'll take his head—you take his feet. we'll carry him between us like a feather. mat. o susan! do hold your tongue. sus. it's my only weapon, my dear. if i was a man—see if i'd talk then. james. it's a providence you ain't a man, young woman! sus. right you are! them's my werry motives. i if i had a father. ain't a makin' of no complaint on that score, young plush! i wouldn't be a man for—no, not for — not even for sich a pair o' calves as yourn! sus. and bill carry tho. out. mat. follows. ger. is going after them. mrs. c. don't you go, arthur. they can manage quite well. i will go if you like. ger. they know something about constance. mrs. c. pray give yourself no anxiety about her. ger. what do you mean, aunt? mrs. c. i will be responsible for her. ger. where is she then? (exit. mrs. c.) wil- liam!—if he doesn't come in one minute more, i'll go after her myself. those girls know where she is. i am as strong as a giant.- god! all but married to that infamous fellow!—that he should ever have touched the tip of one of her fingers! what a sun- rise of hope! psyche may yet fold her wings to my prayer! william! william !—where can the fel- low be? no that ithe tip oyche maxiam ! enter col. g. in uniform and star, leading constance. ger. (hurrying to meet them). constance, con- stance! forgive me. oh my god! you will when you know all. col. g. she knows enough for that already, my boy, or she wouldn't be here. take her--and me for her sake. ger. what! who—? constance !--what does it all mean?--it must be — can it be— my father? - william-it is william! — william my father!— if i had a father. father! father! (throwing his arms about him) it was you all the time then! col. g. my boy! my boy! there!—take con- stance, and let me go. i did want to do something for you—but there! i'm too much ashamed to look at you in my own person. ger. (kneeling). father! father! don't talk like that! o father! my father! col. g. (raising him). my boy! my boy! i wanted to do something for you—tried hard—and was foiled. —i doubly deserved it. i doubted as well as neglected you. but god is good. he has shamed me, and saved you. ger. by your hand, father. col. g. no—by his own. it would all have come right without me. i was unworthy of the honour, my boy. but i was allowed to try; and for that i am grateful.—arthur, i come to you empty-handed—a beggar for your love. ger. how dare you say that, father?—empty- handed—bringing me her and yourself—all i ever longed for!—my father and my psyche! father, thank you. the poor word must do its best. i thank you with my very soul.—how shall i bear my happiness! —constance, it was my father all the time! did you know it? serving me like a slave!—humouring all my whims!—watching me night and day!—and then bringing me con. your own little girl, arthur. but why did you not tell me? ger. tell you what, darling? con. that—that—that you oh! you know what, arthur! nedl transfer hn dts t howitt's story book. jun . دي | kc ibarvard college library from mary h. deane with the best inishes ther affectinate imele . roberto hurbilang febey ./ story-book. mary howitt story book weaks howitys story-book. lass masa vs si published by c s. francis & co., new york mary m howitt's s t o r y bo o k: wite illustrations. new york: . s. francis & co., broadway. boston: j. !. francis, washington street. . jou . carvard collection qali, library eron tominum mary h. dlane contents. part ¥. . . . . page . - . . · · · . a chrismas carol the story of little cristal • mabel on midsummer-day the christmas tree . . a dream · · the picture of the virgin . the boy of the southern isle the birds and the guinea-pigs corn-fields - - - - the pigeon-house - - - the spirit's questionings · this world and the next sd the next . . - - - - - - · · . . . . part ¥¥. little children . . . the young turtle dove of carmel . the joy of engele marien's pilgrimage . . . . the painter's little model . . man in a wilderness . . the blind boy and his sister - . . . . : - - contents. part xxx the christmas dinner · · · · · old christmas - - - - - - two friends' counsel · · · · · the children . . . . . . beginning and end of mrs. muggeridge's wedding dinner - - - - - coming spring . . . . . . the tax-gatherer's visit . . . . part * the christmas tree; and other stories. a christmas carol. wake, arise, good christians, let nothing you dismay ; remember christ our saviour was born upon this day! the self-same moon was shining that now is in the sky, when a holy band of angels came down from god on high. a christmas carol. came down on clouds of glory, arrayed in shining light, unto the shepherd-people, who watched their flocks by night. and through the midnight silence the heavenly host began, “ glory to god the highest ; on earth good-will to man! "fear not, we bring good tidings, for, on this happy morn, the promised one, the saviour, in bethlehem town is born! up rose the joyful shepherds from the ground whereon they lay, to hail this blessed day! up rose the simple shepherds, all with a joyful mind; “and let us go, with speed,” said they, “this holy child to find !” not in a kingly palace the son of god they found, but in a lowly manger where oxen fed around. a christmas carol. the glorious king of heaven; the lord of all the earth, in mercy condescended to be of humble birth. there worshipped him the wise men, as prophets had foretold; and laid their gifts before him, frankincense, myrrh, and gold. long looked the simple shepherds, with holy wonder stirred, then praised god for all the things which they had seen and heard. and homeward went rejoicing, upon that christmas morn, declaring unto every one that jesus christ was born. that he was born,—the saviour, the promised one of old; that they had seen the son of god, to every one they told. and like unto the shepherds, we wander far and near, and bid ye wake, good christians, the joyful news to hear. the story of little cristal. ittle cristal's mother was barbara ; she died soon after he was born, and left hiin to the care of nancy. barbara and nancy de were both poor; they a do lived in a dark, gloomy court, which turned out of an alley in the very heart of london ; a broken wooden staircase led up to their room, for they lived together ; they had one bed, a very poor one, and but little to cover them. little cristal lay in his mother's bosom, and helped to keep her warm, and when she was dead he lay in nancy's arms, and com- municated the warmth of his little body to story of little cristal. her. nancy was not a young woman as barbara had been; neither was she hand- some nor good tempered, but i need not describe her; what she was you will find out. she was, as i told you, very poor, and as she had promised barbara to be a mother to her child, she had to work for his support as well as her own. all day long she sate crouched on a stone step in one of the most public streets of london and sold dolls dress- ed in crotchet work, which she was doing all the time; she was the first person who invented little crotchet parasols, and while the thing was new, she had a great run for them; those were golden days to her, but before a month was over she had so many rivals and imitators that her sale sank down again to a doll a day. not far from her stood, in another recess of the street, a man who sold dog-collars; he was a neighbor of hers, and his name was ephraim. little cristal, who was now six years old, was very fond of ephraim; he had another trade besides selling dog-collars, and that was catching birds, which he sold to a man in seven dials. he went out early on sunday . story of little cristal, mornings, while it was yet grey dawn; and walked many miles into the country with his snares and his decoys to some pleasant woodland fields or breezy downs, where he caught the birds. now and then he would take cristal with him, and nothing delight- ed the child more than this; the grey dawn, the golden sunrise, the masses of opal-colored cloud that opened a pathway as it were for the ascending sun, filled him with incon- ceivable joy. ephraim never noticed these things himself, and yet when the little lad called his attention to them, he often replied with the scrap of a hymn or some odd text of scripture which had stuck, as it were, in a corner of his memory from the time when he had been a child like cristal, and had been taught out of the bible or the hymn- book by his mother. but those days were long and long gone by. ephraim read neither in bible nor hymn-book now; and yet he was not a bad man either; in some great pressure of poverty in former days he had pawned both bible and hymn-book; he meant at that time to get them soon back again; but he never could manage it; so he had story of little cristal now been six and thirty years without either one or the other, and as to going to church or chapel, that was a thing he never thought of, because he never had decent clothes to his back. nancy was in these respects very like ephraim, only that when she was a child she had had no good mother to teach her either out of bible or hymn-book. she could not read herself, and therefore she never thought of little cristal's learning; yet neither was nancy wilfully wicked ; she was very ignorant, and that was her misfortune. as far as she knew it she did what was right, and hence it was that she had saved the unhappy barbara from a great, a very great misfortune; had become, as it were, a , mother to her, and a true friend when she had none beside, for poor barbara had thirst- ed and nancy had given her to drink; she had been hungry and nancy had fed her; she had been a stranger and nancy had taken her in; she had been sick and in prison and nancy had visited her; therefore we will not blame her, though she neither story of little cristal. taught cristal to read, nor yet took him to church nor chapel. these sunday rambles with ephraim were the greatest pleasure that little cristal knew. while the old man lay down and slept in the green fields amid the golden sunshine, cristal lay down too, for he was not allowed to run about, lest he should dis- turb the birds, but he never slept. some- times he lay with his face to the grass, feast- ing his eyes and gladdening his little impris- oned soul, that was struggling as it were within him for light and love and freedom, with the beauty of a yellow cowslip, or crimson-tipped daisy; nay, even a blade of grass with its brown fibry roots taking hold of mother earth, as if it loved her bosom, filled him with inexpressible gladness, and yet he knew not why. at other times he lay on his back and gazed up into the blue and sunny infinity above him, finding beauty and sublimity in illimitable space; in the masses of summer cloud, whether they lay piled up like mountains of heaven, or were swept along on the viewless wings of the wind. all this poor little cristal felt, but story of little cristal. he understood nothing about it, excepting such little meanings as he gleaned up out of ephraim's hymns and scraps of scripture. it was in this way that he learned about god the father ; of jesus christ, i am sorry to say, he knew nothing, and that was a great pity, for he had a heart to have loved the saviour—the poor child in the house of the carpenter. but nobody told him of these things, so he went on groping his way as best he could along the dark paths of igno- rance, and never foregoing any little glimpse of truth or knowledge which came in upon his soul by the way. one thing, however, i must tell you; after cristal came to have a little knowledge of god the father, he never could bear to hear wicked people curse and swear, and though he knew nothing about the ten commandments, he felt as if he himself could not take the name of god in vain. of angels, too, he had a dim but very pleasing idea from the same source; he often fancied that he saw angels in the sun-lighted clouds. the beautiful tropical flowers also that he saw, now and then. exhibited in gardeners' windows in london story of little cristal. suggested to him, he did not know how or why, the idea of angels. "move on, you young rascal!” said the police to him many a time when he stood at the shop windows, wondering at and admiring the beautiful things which were there exhibited. exquisitely chased vessels of silver; alabaster figures; fine engravings and paintings appealed, as it were, to some opirit within him, which could only thus make itself heard and felt. it was a very populous court in which cristal lived; besides ephraim, he had another acquaintance, and this was a poor widow who went out washing. the widow lodged with a deformed young woman, who was a seamstress, and both were very poor. the widow had two valuables, a great old bible and a lark in a wicker cage, which was always hung out of her window by three o'clock on summer mornings, when she went out a-washing. the lark sang in his cage glorious hymns to that freedom of which he was deprived; but as nobody understood the language of the bird, none knew how heart-touching and story of little cristal. pathetic they really were. cristal, who had always found it so delightful to go out with ephraim to catch birds, had no idea of there being tyranny and cruelty in the thing. to his fancy, the litle decoy birds, that are trained by the cunning and wicked craft of man to beguile and betray their innocent and unsuspecting brethren of the fields, were the cleverest and most wonderful little crea- tures in the world. ephraim made money by the birds he caught; it was an honest way of livelihood everybody thought, and that was enough. the imprisoned lark that sang its eloquent anthems to the little bit of blue sky above that dirty and melancholy court, was the most beautiful and delightful thing which little cristal found near his own home. if ever he got money enough, he resolved within himself, he would keep a lark. when the widow was at home, she allowed cristal now and then to have a close view of the bird, because he never failed to bring home with him from his sunday rambles a fresh sod for the prisoner. little did the poor lark know the care that the child had taken to story of little cristal. choose, as he thought, the most beautiful sod in the fields, and in which there was always a daisy, an orchis, or a cowslip root in flower. the lovely speckled breast, the graceful form, the bright black eye, were character- istics of the most surpassing beauty to the soul of cristal. “if ever i can get money enough i will keep a lark,” said he to him- self time after time; and whenever he walked through the streets, he never failed to stop at any shop where bird-cages were sold, to look out and see if there were one in sight which would do for his lark—when he got it. one holiday in the autumn-it was not sunday-ephraim and cristal went out together to collect plaintain seed for canaries. they went into the neighborhood of wim- bledon, which was a very favorite resort of ephraim's. as they were walking slowly along the road, all at once there caine sweep- ing along, like a whirlwind, a small troop of life guards in scarlet and gold, on splen- did horses covered with glittering trappings. after these came several open carriages, in which sate, as it seemed to cristal, the most beautiful ladies and the most magnificent story of little cristal. gentlemen in the world. but that which struck him most was a little boy in hat and feathers and green velvet dress, who sate at the side of the principal lady. they passed on like a flash of lightning; another troop of guards came after them, and all were gone, leaving nothing behind but a cloud of dust, which almost smothered the poor way- farers. “it is her majesty the queen," said ephraim, “i have often seen her when i have been hereabouts. she loves fast dri- ving, and that little chap beside her is the prince of wales." it was the first time that cristal had seen the queen and the prince. a strange, mel- ancholy feeling came over his soul, like a cloud obscuring the sunshine. he had often before seen grand carriages and grand people in the streets of london, but he had taken no notice of them; they were nothing to him, and neither troubled him nor gave him pleasure. it was a new feeling that he had now at the sight of the prince; he did not envy him, nor feel angry; he only felt as he had often done at the sight of beautiful story of little cristal. works of art; a yearning, as it were, for something more beautiful and more perfect than his own life afforded to him. tears filled his eyes, and he asked ephraim if he fancied that angels were like the queen and the little prince of wales. ephraim said may be they were; may be they were not; he could not tell. all that day cristal thought of what he had seen. ephraim was more cheerful than ever, because he sold eighteen pennyworth of plantain seed on his way home; he treat- ed himself to a pot of ale at a way-side public-house, and made cristal drink with him. ephraim calculated that they brought half-a-crown's worth home in their bags; he might well be in high spirits. much as cristal loved nancy, he could not have told her how he felt at sight of the prince, because he did not understand his own feelings, and even had he been inclined to open his heart to her, he would not have done it, when he saw in what a bad temper she was when they reached home. i have not told you yet that nancy was often angry; she was very poor, and found story of little cristal. great difficulty in getting money enough to buy bread and potatoes with, and to pay for her miserable room. on this particular day she was in a worse temper than common. she scolded ephraim for taking out the lad, " lounging about,” and she scolded cristal for going with him. she said that he was now old enough to do something for his own living, and that she would make him do it. the next morning, cristal went out with three crotchet-dressed dolls in each hand, which he offered at two pence a piece. his life now grew harder than ever; nancy thinking to make him industrious, and to teach him to mind his business, said, that ụnless he earned sixpence a day, he should have no supper; and you must remember that supper was everything to cristal, because he never had any dinner. nancy did not really mean to be as cruel as she was; she thought she was doing right, and her heart often ached when she sent the boy supperless to bed. winter came on; people did not want dolls with parasols, or even umbrellas, so nobody bought any. an old woman who sold wash. story of little cristal. leathers often took compassion on him, and gave him of her poor victuals; and another who sold little slates in a very windy passage, told him that he should have seven little slates from her for fivepence, which he could easily sell for a penny a piece, and he might pay her when he got his money. she taught him how to hold them between his little fingers, like a sort of fan, and sent him to what she thought a good situation, near a great thoroughfare in the city. poor nancy, who was so sorely pinched by poverty, was well pleased that these good women befriended the lad, and though his supper was scant enough at all times, i must do her the justice to say, that she fared no better herself. cristal stuck the little slates as he had been taught, between his thin, small fingers, but his hand soon grew tired, and he could not hold them firmly. about noon, when the throng of people was the thickest, a gentle- man who had suddenly found himself the heir of a large property, leaped out of a cab, and ran across the pavement, to the lofty door of a great banking house, where his money story of little cristal. was deposited. he was in great haste, and thinking of nothing but his good luck, jostled against cristal, knocked the slates out of his weary hand, and set his heel upon them, crushing them all to pieces. cristal's dismay and distress were inconceivable; the gentle- man, who meant no harm, and whose good fortune made him in good humor with all the world, took a coin out of his pocket, the first that came to hand, and threw it to the boy; it fell to the pavement; cristal saw it fall, and took it for a shilling, but in reality it was a sovereign. before he could pick it. up, the quick hand of a wicked young man, snatched it from the ground, and darted away through the crowd; some of the people saw him do it, and were inclined to take cristal's part; but just then somebody said that it was a trick of the lad's, who had. thrown down his slates to get money from the gentleman, and therefore he deserved no pity. it was in vain that poor little cristal cried and protested his innocence; those who had seen the money snatched away from him, were gone on their way, and those who remained, looked on cristal as an artful boy, story of little cristal. who only wanted to excite their pity, and get money from them. the police told him to move off; and full of misery and indignation, he walked slowly along the pavement. he did not know, however, how great his loss had been; he believed that he had only lost one shilling, when in truth he had lost twenty. the woman who had trusted him with the slates, would not believe him. she said that she saw now that she had been deceived in him, that he had sold the slates, and that this was all a tale made up, that he might keep all the money, and that as she could not afford to lose her property in that way, she would find out where he lived, and see his mother: for have the worth of the slates she would, that was certain ! cristal did not tell her that he had no mother, and that nancy, when she heard of this, would beat him. he turned away from her, weeping bitterly, and dared not go home. it was the first week in january, and bitterly cold. he felt the piercing cold to his very bone, for he had only in addition to the poor clothes which he wore in the summer, an story of little cristal old green and red comforter round his neck, and the cape of nancy's cloak which she had lent to him, and which did not reach to his knees. for the first time in his life he felt utterly miserable; fear, anger, and a sense of wrong and unjust accusation weighed upon his spirit, and almost crushed him to the ground. towards midnight he crept into the court where nancy lived, and in this court there were some houses which had never been finished, and which had stood for years, black and melancholy objects of premature ruin. within this place he found shelter for the night. nancy, although she had insisted on his bringing home his sixpence every eve- ning, was uneasy at his not coming home as usual. she loved him very much, and her intention was not to be cruel to him, but poverty made her hard and severe, and this must be her excuse; besides which, when she compared cristal's life with her own as a child, his, even at the worst, was much hap- pier than hers had been. poverty has so many curses besides those of actual bodily . story of little cristal. suffering, and poor nancy's nature was warped by these. cristal lay down in this miserable, win- dowless dwelling, and strange to say, soon fell fast asleep. in his sleep he dreamed; his dream was the most beautiful in the world; he dreamed of the young prince of wales; of angels; of sunshiny fields full of flowers, far more beautiful than any of those which he had seen in the gardeners' win- dows; the softest of breezes seemed to be fanning his cheek; birds were singing above and around him, and a sense of gladness, sufficiency, and freedom, seemed to make up his whole being. he dreamed that the little prince, who, instead of a hat and streaming feather, wore a beautiful crown on his head, took him by the hand and said, “i will lead thee to my mother." and then she that he supposed to be the queen, was before him, and all at once he knew in some incomprehensible manner, that it was his own mother; that very barbara of whom nancy had so often spoken. while his mind was in a tumult of joy and wonder, a blaze of light seemed to dazzle him, a story of little cristal. noise like thunder roared in his ears, and cristal, waking from the lovely dream, started up from his miserable bed, and saw at once that that side of the court in which the widow lived was on fire: the flames were bursting from the windows of some of the houses, and fire-engines rushed into the court. whilst cristal was yet dreaming, and be- fore the fire had burst out, nancy, who, as i said, was full of anxiety, had gone out into the cold blackness of night to look for him; she was very angry with him at the same time that she was very anxious, and she said to a drunken neighbor whom she met stag- gering home, that when she found him, she would thresh him to death; she did not really mean so, but it' was her way of talk- ing. nancy went out, she knew not whither; the drunken man went home, lighted a candle and set fire to his bed, which was soon communicated to the whole wretched building whilst cristal, in terror and astonishment, looked round him, he saw that the flames had reached the widow's room; he could even see the shadow of the lark's cage within . story of little cristal. the window. the old woman and her lame lodger, thinking only of saving their lives, rushed into the court, dragging down part of their bedding and a few clothes. without a moment's thought for himself, cristal rush- ed up the broken stairs, and amid the smoke which filled the place preparatory to its bursting into flame, and snatched down the cage, below which lay the widow's large bible. he did not know the real worth of the book, but with a sort of instinctive im- pulse, he took it up also, and darted again down the stairs, being wetted to the skin with the water from the engines which was poured upon the burning houses. everybody who saw this courageous act of neighborly devotion, praised him; and while cristal felt pleased with what he had done, the drunken' man who had been the cause of all the mischief, and who was sober- ed by terror, took occasion to tell him how angry nancy was; how she was gone out even then to search for him, and her dread- ful threat on leaving the court. the danger of the fire spreading further was over; the crowd began to disperse, and story of little cristal. the police walked about to keep order. the night was bitterly cold, and little cristal was wet to the skin, yet he dared not go home, because of nancy's threat. he crouched down again therefore under the blackened walls of the unfinished building, and as it seemed to himself, went to sleep. wonderful things now happened to cristal, such as neither philosopher nor poet has described, nor ever can, therefore it is not for me to tell you much ab ut them. this much however i do know, he seemed to wake, and yet how unlike any former awa- king it was; he seemed to be himself, and yet how different to what he had ever before been : cold and hunger, want and suffering were no more. he remembered his admira- tion of the young prince, but now he himself was more glorious than any earthly monarch, and yet there was no crown on his head, nor sceptre in his hand. this was london in which he stood; this was the very court in which he had lived, and yet at the same time it seemed filled with the glory of the infinite. with his hands clasped palm to palm, against his breast, although no one story of little cristal. had ever taught him to pray, he stood in silent wonder and adoration. a policeman was the first who in the grey dusk of that winter's morning found the body of little cristal; his wet clothes were frozen upon him, he had perished by the extreme cold of the night. nancy who had returned to the court just after the fire was extin- guished, heard from the widow how like a hero the boy had behaved, and how he had saved those very things which she valued so much, and yet in her terror had forgotten; the lark and the bible. the drunken neigh- bor also came up and informed her, how he too had seen cristal, and had delivered to him her threatening message. nancy felt relieved; and imagined that cristal had taken shelter with some of the neighbors for the night. the news reached her early the next morning, that the boy was found frozen under the wall. what an anguish then struck through her heart; her hard words pierced her like daggers. “heaven help me !" groaned she. “i never yet said an story of little cristal. unkind word, or did an unkind thing, with- out bitterly repenting it !" many a one beside nancy has experienced this. in that strange, new and glorious state in which cristal now was, the anguish which nancy endured, though known to him, caus- ed him no grief, he knew that which the wisest men have been teaching us for ages, that out of suffering comes purification, and that there is hope for every one, who, in sincerity repents him of the evil that he has done. the body of little cristal lies in a pauper burial-ground, in a rude coffin furnished by the parish work-house. may all of us so live that when like his, our bodies return to the dust, we may awake to that new existence, which, enfolding us with an increase of light and love, brings us yet nearer to the divine presence! mabel on midsummer day. a tale of the fairies. vou rise, my maiden, mabel,” the mother said, “ arise, for the golden sun of midsummer is shining in the skies. mabel on midsummer day. “ arise, my little maiden, for thou must speed away, to wait upon thy grandmother this livelong summer day. “and thou must carry with thee this wheaten cake so fine; this new made pat of butter; this little flask of wine ! “ and tell the dear old body, this day i cannot come, for the good man went out yester-morn, and he is not come home. “and more than this, poor amy upon my knee doth lie; i fear me, with this fever-pain the little child will die ! “and thou can’st help thy grandmother ; the table thou can’st spread ; can'st feed the little dog and bird, and thou can’st make her bed. “and thou can'st fetch the water, from the lady-well hard by ; mabel on midsummer day. and thou can’st gather from the wood the fagots brown and dry. “can’st go down to the lonesome glen, to milk the mother-ewe ; this is the work, my mabel, that thou wilt have to do. “but listen now, my mabel, this is midsummer-day, when all the fairy people from elf-land come away. “ and when thou art in lonesome glen, keep by the running burn, and do not pluck the strawberry flower, nor break the lady-fern.- “but think not of the fairy folk, lest mischief should befall; think only of poor amy, and how thou lov'st us all. “yet keep good heart, my mabel, if thou the fairies see, and give them kindly answer if they should speak to thee. mabel on midsummer day. “and when into the fir-wood thou go'st for fagots brown, do not, like idle children, go wandering up and down. “but, fill thy little apron, my child, with earnest speed; and that thou break no living bough within the wood, take heed. “for they are spiteful brownies who in the wood abide, so be thou careful of this thing, lest evil should betide. “but think not, little mabel, whilst thou art in the wood, of dwarfish, wilful brownies, but of the father good. “ and when thou goest to the spring, to fetch the water thence, do not disturb the little stream, lest this should give offence. “for the queen of all the fairies she loves that water bright; i've seen her drinking there myself on many a summer night. mabel on midsummer day. “but she 's a gracious lady, and her thou need'st not fear; only disturb thou not the stream, nor spill the water clear!" “now all this i will heed, mother, will no word disobey, and wait upon the grandmother this livelong summer day !" away tripped little mabel, with the wheaten cake so fine ; with the new-made pat of butter, and the little flask of wine. and long before the sun was hot, and morning mists had cleared, beside the good old grandmother the willing child appeared. and all her mother's message she told with right good-will, how that the father was away, and the little child was ill. mabel on midsummer day. and then she swept the hearth up clean, and then the table spread; and next she fed the dog and bird ; and then she made the bed. “and go now," said the grandmother, “ ten paces down the dell, and bring in water for the day; thou know'st the lady-well !" the first time that good mabel went, nothing at all saw she, except a bird—a sky-blue bird- that sate upon a tree. the next time that good mabel went, there sate a lady bright beside the well,-a lady small, all clothed in green and white. a curtsey low made mabel, and then she stooped to fill her pitcher at the sparkling spring, but no drop did she spill “ thou art a handy maiden,” the fairy lady said; “thou hast not spilled a drop, nor yet the fair spring troubled ! mabel on midsummer day. “ and for this thing which thou host done, yet may'st not understand, i give to thee a better gift than houses or than land. “thou shalt do well, whate'er thou dost, as thou hast done this day; shalt have the will and power to please, and shalt be loved alway!" thus having said, she passed from sight, and nought could mabel see, but the little bird, the sky-blue bird, upon the leafy tree. -“ and now go,” said the grandmother, “ and fetch in fagots dry; all in the neighboring fire-wood, beneath the trees they lie.” away went kind, good mabel, into the fir-wood near, where all the ground was dry and brown, and the grass grew thin and sere. she did not wander up and down, nor yet a live branch pull, but steadily, of the fallen boughs she picked her apron full. mabel on midsummer day. and when the wild-wood brownies came sliding to her mind, she drove them thence, as she was told, with home-thoughts sweet and kind. but all that while the brownies within the fir-wood still, they watched her how she picked the wood, and strove to do no ill. “ and oh, but she is small and neat," said one, “ 't were shame to spite a creature so demure and meek, a creature harmless quite !" “look only,” said another, “ at her little gown of blue; at the kerchief pinned about her head, and at her little shoe !" “oh, but she is a comely child," said a third, “and we will lay a good-luck-penny in her path, a boon for her this day,— seeing she broke no living wood; no living thing did affray.” mabel on midsummer day. with that the smallest penny, of the finest silver ore, upon the dry and slippery path, lay mabel's feet before. with joy she picked the penny up, the fairy penny good; and with her fagots dry and brown went wondering from the wood. “now she has that," said the brownies, “let flax be ever so dear, will buy her clothes of the very best, for many and many a year !" _" and go, now," said the grandmother, “since falling is the dew, go down unto the lonesome glen, and milk the mother-ewe!” all down into the lonesome glen, through copses thick and wild; thro' moist, rank grass, by trickling streams, went on the willing child. and when she came to lonesome glen, she kept beside the burn, mabel on midsummer day. and neither plucked the strawberry-flower, nor broke the lady-fern. and while she milked the mother-ewe within the lonesome glen, she wished that little amy were strong and well again. and soon as she had thought this thought, she heard a coming sound, as if a thousand fairy-folk were gathering all around. and then she heard a little voice, shrill as the midge's wing, that spake aloud, “ a human child is here—yet mark this thing ! “ the lady-fern is all unbroke, the strawberry-flower unta'en ! what shall be done for her, who still from mischief can refrain ?” “ grant her a wish !” said three; the latest wish that she hath wished," said all, “ whate'er it be !" mabel on midsummer day. -kind mabel heard the words they spake, and from the lonesome glen, unto the good old grandmother went gladly back again, thus happened it to mabel on that midsummer-day, and these three fairy-blessings she took with her away. —'tis good to make all duty sweet, to be alert and kind; 'tis good, like little mabel, to have a willing mind! howitt's story book ta minimo ana the christmas tree, p. . the christmas tree. so und ll of us looked at the picture, and agreed that it was a very pretty one; and from looking at it, we began to talk about christ- mas and christ- mas trees in gene- ral; and the chil- dren would not be satisfied, unless i told them about good mrs. kinderliebe and her two remarkable christmases. “you have all heard about fairy-godmo- thers," said i; “and you know that they are always very small, and very neat and prim, with little feet and hands, and little neat old- fashioned faces, with grey hair, and lace-bor- si the christmas tree. dered caps. well, just such a nice little neat old lady was frau kinderliebe, or mrs. kinderliebe, as we will call her. she lived in the prettiest house in the whole town, and yet she had not all the house to herself, for she had only one floor, and a very learned old professor lived up stairs above her. he was just as unlike her as he could be. he was big and brown, with a large old dry face, hands, and feet; he did not look very clean either, and there was such a smell of tobacco-smoke about him, that it always made the dear old fairy-godmother cough whenever she talked to him. he was a very good man, however, for all that—and so learned ! the fairy-godmother was a widow; she had been a widow i can't tell you how many years, and the death of her husband had been a very great trouble to her. she ma- naged, however, to be very cheerful and happy—she had been so for a many, many years; and the way she contrived to be so was by always doing good and kind actions. she never seemed to think about herself, ex- cept how she could make somebody happy the christmas tree. or be of use to them. in summer, you saw her going out with a basket in her hand full of cakes, or fruit, or flowers, and they always were for some poor or sick person, to whom they would bring a pleasure. in the winter, you would see her going through the snow and the frost all the same, in a little pair of clogs, and a fur cloak, and little velvet bonnet; and sometimes, barbele, her old servant, was trudging beside her with a lanthorn, if it was - at night, and a large bundle of warm cloth- ing, or something of that sort, which she was carrying to some poor, half-starved creature. and it was wonderful how much sewing and knitting her dear little fingers did, and her fingers were hardly any larger than yours ; but then she had such a large heart, it was large enough for an emperor ! the fairy-godmother loved everything that lived; but most of all did she love little chil- dren. she was an old woman you must re- member, but that did not matter; she was as merry as a child herself; she knew all sorts of riddles and nursery songs, and such wonderful stories! and, what was better than all, she never was tired of telling them. be- the christmas tree. sides this, she knew how to make all kinds of gingerbread, and sugar cakes, and candies, and preserves : and she had almonds, and raisins, and apples, and all sorts of nice things standing in her closet; and she used to say to old barbele, “do find some child or other, barbele, to eat some of our good things, for it is a shame we should eat them all our- selves;" and old barbele, who had lived so long with her mistress that she was very like her in many things, used to go and fetch in the poor milk-woman's little children, who lived at the next door, or the little chimney sweeper, and then what a feast they had ! the fairy-godmother often used to say how glad she was that as long as the world stood there always would be plenty of chil- dren; and whenever she saw them at play, she smiled so pleasantly, and when she saw any in trouble she used to go and wipe away their tears and comfort them; and if she saw them quarrelling she went among them and talked to them so lovingly that you would always be sure to see them kissing and em- bracing and all good friends again. i can- not tell you how she loved little children the christmas tree. and how they all loved her; but then you must remember she was just like a fairy-god- mother. "if it were not for the herr professor,” mrs. kinderliebe used to say to barbele, “i should like us to have some poor orphan child to live with us; i think we could make her happy and good. yes, if it were not for the herr professor, one would have one; but he cannot bear a noise, barbele, so we must give it up;" and with that the fairy-godmother sighed, and so did old barbele, who thought of all things she should like to have a pair of little shoes to clean every morning, and to lay a little knife and fork beside the old lady's for dinner. they both thought a great deal about it; but the old professor, who was so learned and who could not bear a noise, always stood like a bug-bear in the way. one night, it was just at the beginning of december, the herr professor was heard shutting his room door overhead and then coining down stairs, very slowly and very quietly, as he always did; and then he knocked at the fairy-godmother's door, and, the christmas tree. when she told him to come in, he walked in, with his hat in his hand, as he always did when he came to call upon her, for he was very polite. he looked very sad, and scarcely smiled when he spoke to her; and anybody could see that he had a great trouble on his mind—and so he had! before long, he pulled a letter out of his pocket, which was sealed with black, and he began to tell her that this letter had brought him the news of the death of a friend of his, a very learned man too, who lived in tübingen, a young man whom the professor had taught him- self; and he and his wife were both dead of a fever, and had left two little daughters. anybody who had known the professor be- fore that night would never have expected to see him crying, because he looked so hard and dry; but he shed many tears that eve- ning in the fairy-godmother's room, and he talked so much about the poor little orphans who had no friends, and who now were very poor, that the fairy-godmother cried too. "i wish some good person would take those poor children,” said he, “and bring them up creditably for their good father's the christmas tree. sake; and with that he took up his hat from the table, and hardly saying good night, he went up stairs again. the fairy-godmother and barbele plotted together. it was a very nice plot that they laid; and the next news the old professor heard was, that mrs. kinderliebe was gone off by the eilwagen a long journey, and would not be back till a day or two before christ- mas. and now i wish you could have seen old barbele at work, for several days before her mistress's return; she was so busy gild- ing walnuts and apples, and making all kinds of cakes and sweatmeats; and such a huge christmas tree was brought into the house as was never seen before; and there were stags and shepherds all in a garden below it, and hundreds of little candles were fastened to its twigs, and all the cakes and the beautiful things that barbele had made were hung among them like fairy fruit. on the morning before christmas-day, old barbele went up stairs with her mistress's compliments to the herr professor, and “she hoped he would come down in the evening and see her christmas tree and what the the christmas tree. christ-child would send her.” the herr professor, who was very polite, sent his compliments back, and he would have that honor. mrs. kinderliebe had come back the night before, and she had such a great quantity of luggage with her! the herr proſessor's old servant told him so, but he forgot all about it the next minute. about six o'clock, he went down stairs, dressed all in his best, with his silver buckles on, and a new wig, and gloves, and black silk stockings, just as if he had been going to visit the grand duke. he gave a little company-knock at the fairy-godmother's door, but, before she could answer, old barbele sprang out of the kitchen and opened it for him; and there was the old lady, all dressed in her best, in her little tiny high-heeled shoes, and grey satin and white lawn apron, and lace handkerchief and cap, looking so beautiful, that the herr professor could not help bending his stiff, straight back, and kissing her dear little hand. the christmas tree stood in the best par- the christmas tree. lor, and the next moment the best parlor door opened, and there was the beautiful christmas tree all blazing, and just under it stood a beautiful little girl, about six years old, with long shining hair falling over her shoulders, and rosy cheeks, and large blue eyes, in a black crape frock, and with a black ribbon round her beautiful golden hair. “the christ-child has been here,” said the fairy-godmother turning to the old pro- fessor, “and has brought a present for you," and with that, she took the beautiful child by her hand and led her to him; “it is the little daughter of your late friend, the young professor of tübingen. she is now my child. she shall live under the same roof with us. we will both of us be kind to her ! again the old professor kissed the dear old lady's hand, but he did not say anything; he only sat down on a chair, and took out his large green pocket-handkerchief, with which he wiped his face many times. the little child's name was seraphine, and before long she was sitting on the old professor's knee and leaning against his the christmas tree. breast, for she liked the smell of tobacco, because her dear father used to smoke, as all learned men in germany do. that was the happiest christmas eve that the dear fairy-godmother, or the herr professor, ever spent. they talked much about little seraphine and her dead parents ; but this was after she was gone to bed, and about her little sister, who was younger than she,, and who was gone to live with a great uncle, a farmer, in bavaria. the great uncle was a coarse, stern man, who talked loud, and thought it a great vexation for people to die and leave orphan children behind them. mrs. kinder- liebe could not help crying when she thought what a comfortless home this poor, dear child very likely would have. seraphine loved the fairy-godmother very much, and she loved the old professor too. she used to go up every day and say a lesson to him; he had great pleasure in teaching her; he used to let her look in his big books that were full of pictures. down stairs she learned music from the fairy godmother, and all sorts of beautiful needle- the christmas tree. work; she had a work-box, and a silver thimble, and she worked a sampler with blue silk; and all the time she sat at work the fairy-godmother told her stories and beautiful verses, and gave her riddles to guess. in the kitchen, she helped barbele to make nice cakes and sugar bread, of which she always took some to the herr professor. poor little seraphine! she ought to have been very happy, but she was not: every- body was happy but herself. the old pro- fessor seemed to get quite young again ; you could even hear him laughing down stairs; the fairy-godmother, whose face had always been so bright, looked now brighter and lovelier than ever, and as to old barbele, she sang all the time she cleaned the little shoes and made the little bed, which now stood in the dressing-room within the fairy-god- mother's chamber. seraphine knew that they all loved her and that she must try to be happy ; but somehow, whenever she peeped through the palings into the milk-woman's garden, and saw the milk-woman's two little daughters the christmas tree. playing together, it made her sad, for she thought of her own little sister angela, and she could not help crying. she would some- times cry as she sat at work, and once or twice she could not help sobbing on the fairy-godmother's knee, and thus wetting with her tears the old lady's lace hand- kerchief. nobody asked her why she cried so; but neither did anybody scold her for it. she fancied that nobody noticed it; but they did though, and the old lady, who was, you must remember, like a fairy-godmother, she knew why she cried, and why she was unhappy, just as well as if she had been told. the old professor and the fairy-godmother used often now to have a deal of talk together, and whenever they saw seraphine looking sad, they only nodded at one another. it now was twelve months since sera- phine's father and mother died, and she had been nearly that time with the fairy-god- mother; but for all that she could not help crying when she thought of angela, and it the christmas tree. seemed to her as if she thought more and more of her every day. the fairy-god- mother and the old professor seemed to be always talking together; and one day, a very short time before christmas, seraphine was told that she would do no more lessons up stairs at present, for that the professor had set out on a journey, and would not be back till the day before christmas. barbele and the professor's old servant had now such a deal of work to do; but as it was always up stairs in the professor's kitchen, seraphine was never invited there; she sat down stairs with the fairy-god- mother, hemming a blue silk handkerchief, which was to be given to the herr professor at christmas. the fairy-godmother told seraphine, that the professor had sent his compliments down stairs, and invited them to go up that eve- ning; for this was the morning before christinas-day, and to see his christmas tree and the presents which the christ-child would bring. seraphine and her fairy-god- mother sent up their presents for the profes. the christmas tree. sor by barbele to his servant, for her to give the christ-child. the evening came! seraphine was dress- ed in a white frock, with blue shoes on, and a broad-blue sash; and her beautiful hair, which the fairy-godmother combed and brushed herself, fell over her shoulders, just like an angel's in a picture. when she was dressed, her fairy-godmother looked into her face with such a deal of love in her eyes, and kissed her. seraphine could not help crying; she clung to the dear old lady and sobbed so; for her heart was very full, and she had been trying not to cry all day, and now she had once begun, she felt as if she never could leave off. she was thinking so much about angela, and wondering what sort of a christmas she would keep with the stern, great uncle in bavaria. the fairy-godmother told her she must not cry, and she gave her rose-water to wash her face in, and told her to be quick, for the herr professor himself had come down stairs to conduct them up, because he was so impatient at them being so long. the christmas tree. up stairs they went;—the fairy-godmother in her grey satin, and little high-heeled shoes, and her lace cap and handkerchief, leaning on the professor's arm, and little seraphine following, and barbele following her with a lamp in her hand, for she too was going up stairs; and the professor's servant was stand- ing at the top with another lamp in her hand, so that they had plenty of light. the door at the top of the stairs opened at once into the professor's best parlor. the door swung open; the christmas tree blazed out, like a tree of beautiful fire; and just below it stood seraphine's little sister angela. the herr professor had been into bavaria and fetched her; she was his present to seraphine; they were not going to be parted again. seraphine and angela sprang into each other's arms: they laughed and cried to- gether. that was the happiest christmas that the professor and the fairy-godmother ever spent. and no wonder ! a dre a m. oar with lapse of ages seemed the silent land toward which i drew; and yet within myself i deemed the dwellers in that land were few. a strong conviction seemed to rest upon my heart that i was then in the sole portion of the earth, which since creation's perfect birth, had held the sons of men ; and i was on a marvelling quest of that small colony of the blest. a dream. how lone, how silent! not a sound in earth or air, from wind or flood ; but o'er the bare and barren ground brooded an endless solitude. it was an awful thing to tread o’er grey and parched and mighty plains, where never living thing was seen, where the live heart had never been: the blood chilled in my veins, yet still i felt in spirit led across that wilderness of dread. but lo! that deadness of the world, which seemed of an eternal power, like a light vapor was unfurled, and i walked over fern and flower ; hills, robed in light celestial blue, bounded that amplitude of plain; and round me there were lofty trees, yet moveless, soundless to the breeze; and not a wild bird's strain, nor cry of beast, could still undo the spell which silence o'er me threw. but man was there. not far aside one i beheld who strongly toiled ; he seemed a youth of solemn pride, of noble from, but dimmed and soiled a dream. with rural labor and with care, and he clove wood for sacrifice. i listened for his sounding stroke, there was no sound; and now the smoke did from the pile arise; and he gazed on it with an air less marked by pleasure than despair. but then a lovelier vision sprung before me; and between the tall and shadowy trees, a low cloud hung, so low, it scarcely hung at all; 'twas like no cloud which sails the sky; around it all was clearly seen ; it mixed not with the ambient air; rolled on itself compact and fair, it rested on the scene, more still and motionless than lie the clouds of summer in the sky. beside it stood a hoary seer, and through my heart a whisper ran, “ god, or his angel shrouded here, holds converse with this holy man.” dark was that cloudy dwelling-place; no glory on it seemed to dwell; yet still on every thing around, a dream. on tree, on shrub, and heathy ground, a streaming radiance fell ; and on that patriarch's awful face glowed with intense, unearthly grace. propped on his staff, in peace he stood, sandaled, and girdled in his vest, and his full beard in silver flowed far down his pure and quiet breast; his eye was on the cloud, as one who listens to momentous things, and seems with reverence to hear, yet with more confidence than fear, what some great herald brings. but as i gazed, a little boat, swift, without rudder, oars, or sail, down through the ambient air afloat, bore onward one who seemed to hail the patriarch,—and he turned his head ; he turned and saw a smiling boy, smiling in beauty and in youth, with eyes in which eternal truth lay with eternal joy. he touched that old man's snowy head, and boat, youth, cloud, and patriarzh fled ! a dream a multitude of dreams have passed since this, and perished as they came ; but in my mind imprinted fast this lives, and still remains the same. the beauty of that gliding car; the mystery of the cloud and sage; those plains in arid drought so stern ; that solemn hush that seemed etern; in memory's living page, still stand in light, more real far than thousands of our day-dreams are ! ΤΗ Ε picture of the virgin. chapter . the little augustus. ma imu cottage in a wood, not oor theodora m a s lived in a lonesome cottage in a wood, not far distant from the banks of the danube. her husband, who was a fish- erman, had died, in the bloom of life, only a short time before. the one comfort which she had in her early widowhood was her only son, a kind, hand- some boy, of about five years old, who was called augustus. that which she consider- ed of the greatest importance, was the teach- ing him to be good and pious; and her unceasing care was to preserve for him the paternal cottage, and the right of fishing. picture of the virgin. it is true that she had been obliged for the present to give up the fishing; and the fishing tackle of her late husband, as it hung useless on the wall, and his fishing- boat, which lay turned upside down near the cottage, were painful sights to her. in the meantime she supported herself and her son by making fishing-nets, in which she was very skilful; and often at midnight, when little augustus had been long asleep, she worked unweariedly for him. nor had the little fellow, on his part, any other thought than how to give his mother plea- sure. the good mother wept on every occa- sion which reminded her of her late hus- band; and augustus, when he saw this, did all that lay in his childish power to comfort her. a few days after the death of her beloved husband, her brother, who was a fisherman in the next village, came and brought her a fish as a present. theodora looked at the beautiful carp, and began to weep: “ah !" said she ; “i did not think that i should ever have had again such a fine fish in my cottage.” “do not cry, mother !" said little augus- picture of the virgin. tus; “when i am a great man, i will catch you fish enough.” the sorrowful mother smiled again, and said, “ yes, augustus, i hope that you will some day be the comfort of my age. be only as good and upright a man as your father, and i shall then be the happiest of mothers." once, upon a fine autumn day, theodora, from early morning, was busied upon a large fishing-net, which she wished to finish that day. in the meantime the boy collect- ed, in the surrounding wood, beech-nuts, from which his mother wanted to press the oil, in order that she might have a cheap light for her netting in the long winter eve- nings. little augustus rejoiced, above all things, whenever he could bring to his mother his oblong, deep hand-basket heaped up with beech-nuts. his mother praised him always when he did so, in order to animate him to industry, and to accustom him to a life of labor. it was now getting towards noon, and the little fellow was hungry and weary; at length the mid-day bell sounded in the next village, and his mother called picture of the virgin. him to dinner. she had set out the little dinner, which consisted of a dishful of milk, into which bread had been broken, under the beautiful beech-tree that stood not far from the cottage, in an open green space of the wood. after the bread and milk had been eaten, and the dish was empty, the mother said to the boy, “now lie down in the shade of the tree and sleep a little : i will go on with my work, and will come again at the right time and wake you. now, sleep well !" cried she, as she looked round her once again, and then went with the empty dish into the cottage. in a little while she returned and looked. the little boy lay sleeping on the green turf: his curly head rested on one arm, whilst the other was thrown round his tidy little bas- ket. he smiled in sleep, and his counte- nance and his rosy cheek were sweetly shaded by the wavering beech-leaves. she hastened back again to her work, and netted on industriously till the net was finished. the hours passed, over her work, like so many minutes. she went now to picture of the virgin. waken little augustus, but she found him no longer under the beech-tree. “the industrious child is again at his work with his little basket,” said she joy. fully. ah! she foreboded not what a grief awaited her. she went back again, and spread out the net upon the green turf. she found here and there a place in it which required mend- ing; and so a considerable time passed. but as the boy still did not come back with his basket, she began to be uneasy about him. she sought for him through the whole wood, which was about three miles long, and a mile and a half broad, but she found him nowhere. she shouted a hundred times, “ augustus !-augustus !” but she received no answer. she was very much frightened: she felt the most extreme anxiety. “if he should,” said she, “have forgotten the warning which i have often so earnestly repeated, and have ventured down to the water !" she trem- bled at the very thought, and ran down to the river : but neither could she perceive any- thing of him there. she then went weeping picture of the virgin. and lamenting to the village. a crowd of people collected round the mourning mother: all had compassion on her, especially her brother: not one of them; however, knew anything of the boy. in the meantime, the whole village assembled, determined, with one mind, to seek the child. some betook themselves to the wood, others to the sur- rounding country, and others again to the river, to look for him. night approached, and nowhere had anybody discovered the least trace of him. “if he be drowned in the danube," said one of the fishermen of the village, “we shall certainly find the body. we know the course of the water well : below there, on the gravel, where the great willow-tree stands, it will certainly cast him up again." the mother shuddered at these words, and went back to her cottage full of distress, and watched and wept there solitarily through the night. as soon as the light of morning showed itself, she hastened down to the river, to find perhaps, there, the body of her beloved child. yes, for many days and many weeks went she, every picture of the virgin. morning and evening, with terrified heart, and wandered lamenting up and down the stream. the fishermen who, in the early dawn, were on the river at their daily work, or were returning from it late in the evening, saw her often wandering thus, and often, too, raising her hands to heaven, and were all of them heartily sorry for her. so passed on a long time. the body never came to view : the mother neither saw nor heard anything more of the child. she was always unspeakably cast down. “in so short a time," said she, “to lose such a good husband and such a beloved child-ah, that is hard! if i did not think that the almighty had permitted it thus to be, i should be in despair !" often most bitterly did she reproach herself: “i ought to have taken better care of the boy,” cried she, weeping and wringing her hands. “oh, you mothers,” said she to the wives of the village, who wished to console her, “take example by me, and be more watchful.” poor theodora ! by degrees her grief made her as pale as a corpse, and wore her away till she was as thin as a shadow. as she picture of the virgin. went to church on sunday, in her black mourning dress, some weeks after the loss of the child, the people said one to another, “poor dora ! she will soon follow, of a cer- tainty, her husband and her child to the grave!" the clergyman of the village, a venerable old man, who took the liveliest interest in the fate of his parishioners, had already visited her, and comforted her, several times at her cottage. but when, on this day, he saw her pale, deeply-troubled face, he was greatly distressed. when the service was ended, he sent for her. when she entered his room, the good old man, whose snow- white hair was covered with a black velvet cap, was sitting at his desk, and was writing something in the parish book. he greeted her kindly, and said : “wait a little while, i shall be ready in a moment." whilst she waited, theodora observed a small picture that hung on the wall, in a round, beautiful, gilt frame. she was very much affected by it, and the tears streamed down her cheeks. - now," said the pastor, as he flirted the picture of the virgin ink from his pen, and raised himself, "does the picture please you ?" "ah, yes," replied theodora, “it is very sweet. i cannot help weeping as i look at it.” “do you know whom it represents ?” asked the pastor. “oh yes, very well,” said she; “it is a picture of the virgin mary, the mother of our lord. i never saw the sorrowful mother, as she weeps for the death of her son, so beautifully painted.” “thus,” said the pastor, “is she the most: beautiful and the most consolatory example: for you: observe, therefore, her image care- fully. see, the sword in her breast is a symbol, according to simeon's prophecying, of the deep pain which should, as it were, pierce through her heart for the bloody death of her divine son. her eyes, full of tears, as well as her clasped hands, which are also raised to heaven, show her devotion and her confidence in god. the golden beams, how- ever, wbich gleam around her head, signify her glorification in heaven, to which she will at length attain, through her patience in picture of the virgin. suffering, and her submission to the divine will. good theodora,” continued he, "you have lost much-your husband and your child: a two-edged sword has pierced your heart: but look up, like mary, to heaven ! submit yourself to god's will !trust in him spray for comfort and for strength from above! you know that mary, con- fiding in god, and strengthened by his mercy, stood erect below the cross. the faith in which she spoke, to the joyful communica- tion of the angel — behold, i am the servant of the lord, do to me according to thy will ! -filled her heart also in the hour of suffer- ing, and permitted it not to sink. it is only the assurance that god does all aright, that that which he permits is the very best which can support you from being overwhelmed by your affliction : forget not, therefore, the great and beautiful object of all our suffer- ings. the sufferings of time bear no com- parison to the glory which shall be revealed to us. through suffering is virtue perfected: the sufferings of time lead to everlasting joy. even christ himself attained to his glory through suffering. on this way, mary fol- picture of the virgin. lowed him: nor is there for us any other way to heaven." theodora listened to him greatly affected, and found great satisfaction in the beautiful picture. she could not sufficiently contem- plate it. “i will follow," said she, “the example of the afflicted mother: i will look up to heaven, pray, believe, and say from my very heart, as she did, 'lord, thy will be done!” “good !” said the pastor ; "that is right; that pleases me.” according to the opinion of that good man, nothing was too costly for the conso- lation of a sorrowing spirit. he took the beautiful picture from the wall, gave it to the poor fisherwoman, and said: “in order that you may not forrget your beautiful resolution, and be able to adhere to it, take this picture home with you: i give it to you. when your heart begins afresh to bleed, and it feels as if a two-edged sword were within "it, then cast your glance upon the picture, renew your resolution, and the wound will, with god's help, heal by degrees, and above, picture of the virgin. in heaven, will a crown of glory also await you." theodora followed the advice of the good pastor; and her grief became much milder : but still whenever she passed the tree under which she had last seen her boy, there always went a pang through her heart. on this the thought came into her mind to make a hollow in the tree, and to place within it the beautiful picture. “the tree," said she, “causes me ever new sorrow; but then i should also here ever find new consolation. ah !" sighed she, “other mothers place, for their dead children, a little memorial in the churchyard; the tree may thus become the memorial of my dear augustus." she mentioned her idea to the good old pastor, and he had nothing against it. “so that it brings you consolation, do it, well and good.” she cut, therefore, with a deal of trouble, a round hollow, about the size of a window- pane, in the bark of the tree, placed the. picture within it, and, when she now passed the tree, she looked upon that beautiful · picture, and said: “i also will be a servant picture of the virgin. of the lord, like mary; to me also it happened according to his will!" and by degrees her heart became less sorrowful. chapter ii. mr. wahl. tn the meantime, whilst the afflicted mo- ther wept her beloved augustus as dead, the little five-years-old boy had made a jour- ney of more than three hundred miles; had arrived in the imperial city of vienna; lived there, gay and full of health, in a magnifi- cent house that resembled a palace; was as beautifully and richly dressed as if he were of noble birth; and, which was more than all this, he was educated in the most careful manner, and was instructed by the very best teachers in all that was good and useful. this extraordinary change had been brought about in a very simple manner. after augustus had awoke, under the beech, and had rubbed his eyes, he set off immedi- ately into the wood, to seek again for beech- picture of the virgin. nuts, and had soon nearly half-filled his little basket. at length he came to where there were no longer any beech-trees, and went on and on till at last he came out of the wood on the side bordering the river. a large boat lay on the shore there. the boat had only lain-to here to wait for some passengers that it had to take up. the other passen- gers, who were in part very rich people, and in part families of the middle class, had all come on land. the elder persons walked up and down the green and meadow-like banks for a little exercise, and the children amused themselves by looking for bright- colored pebbles among the gravel on the shore. presently the children saw the little augustus, and then came up to him and peeped into his little willow-basket, to see what he had in it. the pretty brown beech- nuts, with which they were unacquainted, delighted them. “they are very queer nuts!" said the little antonia, a lovely child, somewhat younger than augustus, and who was dress- ed as prettily as a lady: “such little three- cornered chestnuts i never saw before !" picture of the virgin. .“ nay,” said augustus, who had never heard of chestnuts, “they are not such odd things as you say; they are beech-nuts, and one can eat them.” he divided whole hand- fuls among the children, and they made a great rejoicing. it gave the good little augustus the greatest pleasure to find such a many merry children all together; such a happiness as this was very rare, for it was not often that he saw even a child from the village. he joined himself to the children, and they gave to him of all that they had, pears and plums. augustus was now very curious to see the boat nearer : it was the first large boat that he had seen near. the floating house upon it, a great deal larger than his cottage, appeared to him very wonderful. the chil- dren took him with them into the boat. antonia led him into the papered room, which was appointed for the use of the higher class of passengers. “eh !" cried augustus, in astonishment, “ there is in this house a prettier parlor than we have at home !" antonia and his other new play-fellows picture of the virgin. showed him now their toys. augustus was enraptured by the sight of all these splen- dors, and thought no more about going home. in the meantime the boat, without the boy being the least aware of it, put from the land, and floated majestically down the river. nobody in the boat had paid any particu- lar attention to augustus. the passengers who had been longest in the boat, supposed that he belonged to some of the new-com- ers; and the new-comers imagined that he belonged to those already there. it was only when the evening approached, and the poor child began to cry aloud, and ask for his mother, that people discovered that a strange child was on board. they were not a little astonished, and no small distur- bance arose in the boat. many lamented, and pitied both mother and child; others laughed at the unbidden little travelling companion : the boatmen scolded, and threat- ened to throw the boy in the water. at that moment the master of the boat came up and examined him. “tell me picture of the virgin. now, little fellow," began the grave, fat man, " from what city or village came you ?” “i am from no city, and from no village." said augustus. “that is strange," said the master; "yet you niust have a home somewhere." “my home," replied he, “stands in the wood, not far from the village." “good, now," said the master ; "what is the name of the village." “ha !” said augustus; "what should it be called but the village? my mother never called it anything else. she used to say, now they ring the bell in the village for dinner, or, to-morrow you shall go with me into the village to buy bread." “what, then, is the name of your parents ?" asked the master. “my father," answered the boy, “is dead, and my mother is called the fisher-wife, dora." “then," said the master, “ she is named theodora ; but what is her surname ?? “she has no other name but dora,” said the little one; "she has often said to people, that they need not call her anything else.” picture of the virgin. the master saw very well, that from an inexperienced child, who had no notion even of a surname, but little information would be obtained. he grew very angry, and said: “i wish that the cuckoo bad brought you anywhere rather than into my boat.” the good little one, whose eyes were full of tears, answered, quite simply, and without passion, “the cuckoo has not brought me here: i have never once seen him, but in spring i have often heard him." everybody in the boat laughed, but the master was in great perplexity. here, unfor- tunately, the danube flowed through an uninhabited woody region, and far and wide no open space could be seen. in a while, however, as the sun was about setting, they discerned a distant church tower. “i will leave the child in that village,” said the master, " that the people there may take it back to its mother; and there, since we can- not go much further to-night, will we sleep." but mr. wahl, the father of antonia, would not consent to this. he was a rich merchant, who was taking several chests full of gold and treasure with him, for he, picture of the virgin. like the rest of the boat's company, were fleeing before the enemy, it being during the time of the thirty years' war which laid waste germany. "i wish with all my heart,” said mr. wahl, “that the distressed mother could, without delay, have her dear child back with her. but at this moment it cannot be done! the enemy is advancing, and is approaching the danube; a delay of a few hours might endanger our falling into the hands of the enemy, and losing all that we possess. in heaven's name proceed." mr. wahl, who had great cause for anxiety, insisted also that the boat should travel through the whole night, considering that it was the time of full moon. they said that this was against their custom : but as he promised a great sum of money both to the master and the boatmen, they con- sented at last, and proceeded in the clear bright moonlight onward, through the whole night. at sunrise, they came to a little village that lay close to the shore. the master now endeavored to induce the peasants to picture of the virgin. receive the child, begging them to inquire out the village, and the mother in the district whence he came, and thus to do a deed of mercy both to mother and child. but the peasants said: “who knows to whom the boy belongs? it may very easily happen that we shall never get rid of him, and shall have to bring him up amongst us. in these hard times, poor folks have more than enough to do; we will not take any new burden on ourselves.” soon after this they saw another village on the other side of the river, which lay not far from the shore, and looked very large and re- spectable. the master determined here to take the child only to the village authorities or to the clergyman, and ordered them ac- cordingly to put to land. but all at once mr. wahl exclaimed, “hark! do you not hear the thunder of cannon? the ene- my is near us; we must not waste a mo- ment. forwards ! forwards with the ship !" the master, who feared that in the end the child might be left on his hands, opposed mr. wahl, and soon a violent contention arose between them. at this moment, mrs. picture of the virgin. wahl, who was a kind and benevolent lady, stepped between them, and said, in her own peculiar friendly manner, softly to her hus- band, “we will take the handsome, affec- tionate boy to ourselves: thus we can do a good work, and put an end to all dispute.” this proposal pleased mr. wahl very well, and he immediately said aloud, “ proceed ! i will adopt the child, and will provide for him !! the master was satisfied with this, and everybody in the boat praised the noble- hearted determination of mr. wahl. the boat arrived happily in vienna. mr. wahl bought there a handsome large house, and began again his business as a merchant. he engaged very excellent instructors for his only daughter antonia, and permitted au- gustus to take part in her lessons. the little fellow, however ignorant he might be, show- ed uncommon abilities, and made, in a short time, such progress in his studies as amazed every one. besides this, he was so discreet and obedient, so good-tempered and amiable, and of so pious a heart, that mr. and mrs. wahl loved him as if he had been their own picture of the virgin. child. the sentiment of love of god, the seeds of which his mother had at first im- planted in him, became more and more liv. ing and strong in his heart. mr. wahl observed, with pleasure, that augustus showed great inclination for trade. he gave him every opportunity for acquiring all the knowledge necessary for a merchant, and then took him into his counting-house. augustus was soon here of the greatest ser- vice: and before he had reached his twenti- eth year, he was quite capable of conducting, in the best manner, the most important affairs of his foster-father. mr. wahl extended his business still more and more. he undertook great commissions for the army, and, although he never allowed himself any unlawful gains, he became thus immensely rich. he saw clearly how much of all this he owed, as well to the skill as to the unwearied in- dustry and inviolable honesty of his adopted son, and was determined to reward him. the little antonia was, in the meantime, grown up to be an amiable young lady; she was spotless in heart and mind; a real im- age of innocence and beauty ; besides which picture of the virgin. she was greatly attached to her youthful companion. to augustus, therefore, mr. wahl gave antonia as a wife, and nothing in this world could be happier than they two. when the war was ended the emperor, to whom mr. wahl and his son-in-law had done great service, raised them to the rank of nobles. good mr. and mrs. wahl, how- ever, could only enjoy for a few years this long-desired peace. they were beloved ten- derly both by augustus and antonia, and affectionately cherished to the end of their days. they died, the one soon after the other, in the comfortable hope of seeing again these beloved children, in that blessed abode where reigns eternal peace. augustus, now baron von wahlheim, gave up his commercial concerns, and determined to purchase, either in bavaria, or in swabia, one of those noble estates which had been devastated by the war, and which now were to be had at very low prices. several were offered to him. he inade a journey, there- fore, saw them, and selected the beautiful estate of newchurch, which particularly pleased him. he immediately prepared for picture of the virgin. the rebuilding of its fine but desolated castle, and then returned to vienna to fetch his wife and his two children. when antonia came with her husband to their new possessions, and saw everywhere traces of the misery which the war had oc- casioned, she was very sorrowful. many houses of the village were nothing more than heaps of rubbish ; others threatened to fall to pieces; and whole districts lay uncul- tivated. “ah ! the poor, poer people!” said anto- nia, with tears in her eyes, “we must help them ! augustus rejoiced that his wife thought as he did, and he devoted a large portion of his wealth to the helping his dependants out of their great poverty. he gave timber and money for building; he purchased corn for seed and cattle, and divided them as free gifts among his people. the peasants could not sufficiently praise their new lord, and came to thank him. “god has made me from a poor boy into a rich man," said he, “and has blessed me wonderfully in all things. it would be in. picture of the virgin. gratitude if i did not impart of this blessing to others. i rejoice to be able to contribute anything to your happiness: there is no higher happiness than that of making others happy." chapter iii. the wonderful discovery. whilst augustus von wahlheim had become a rich and fine gentleman, his mother, the good theodora, had experi- enced much hard fate, and had led a life of great poverty; yet, at the same time, from her dependence on god, a life of great con- tentment. · soon after the time in which she lost her child, the war advanced into the country of the danube, where she lived, and the ene- my's troops took at once possession of the woods. theodora lost her solitary cottage, and fled into the village to her brother, who possessed the paternal house: but here also was there no lasting abode for her. the picture of the virgin. village, during a skirmish, was almost re- duced to ashes, and the greater part of the inhabitants dispersed themselves. the house of theodora's brother was burnt to the ground; but he endeavored to maintain himself as a fisherman, and theodora fled to her sister, who lived about thirty miles off. the sister received her very kindly: she had many children, and theodora helped her to bring them up. the two sisters lived together in peace and unity, and lightened to each other the sufferings which the war had brought upon them both. after some years she received a letter from her brother, written from the old home. he wrote to her, that his wife was dead, that his two daughters, during the war, had married away from him, and that he wished that his sister should return to him, and take charge of his house. theodora returned therefore again to her old home. scarcely had she arrived in the village when she betook herself to the wood, and sought for the beech-tree in which she had placed the beautiful picture, and which she had, in her sudden flight, forgotten to take picture of the virgin. with her. but, good heavens! how every- thing was changed here! the path which had led to her cottage was no longer to be found : it was lost in high grass and thick underwood. where hitherto only low bush- es had grown, now tall trees had raised themselves, with widely-spreading branches : on the contrary, many large old trees, which theodora had well known, had disappeared. there had not been for long one single trace of her poor wooden cottage; even the place upon which it had once stood she could no longer find with certainty: all around was a thick impenetrable wood. theodora was at a deal of trouble, but in vain, to find the tree under which she had wept so much, she passed through thorns and underwood, and carefully noticed every beech-tree.-"if i can no longer find that beautiful picture,” thought she, “still the empty hollow in the tree would make known to me where once the picture had been." “do not give yourself such labor in vain, good mother,” said an old man, who was ga- thering fire-wood there. “i think that the tree is no longer standing. as it is with us picture of the virgin. on our return to the village, so is it in the wood ;-men that we left here as children are grown up; those who then were grown up are now old people; and the old people of those days are now lying in their graves. the young growth presses upon the old trees : all things in this world soon pass way: men still quicker than trees. we have here no abiding place; therefore will we strive after that which is above, and which endures for ever.” the old man went on his way, and the- odora gave up all hope of ever again finding the tree. baron von wahlheim lived many miles from here; but both that wood, and the vil- lage in which theodora lived, belonged to the territory which he had purchased. one day he came into this very wood, in order to distribute among the people of the village fire-wood for the winter. the wood had grown quite wild, and would be greatly ben- efitted by the felling of a deal of timber. he wished, however, to see with his own eyes that every needy person obtained his proper share. he sent, therefore, for all household- picture of the virgin. ers, and soon distributed to this one and to that one a tree. theodora came in the place of her brother. according to his arrangement, the tree against which baron von wahlheim stood as she came up, was apportioned to her brother. she stepped up, therefore, and said, “ that the gracious gentleman would please to pardon her brother not coming himself, as he was ill, and could not leave his bed.” baron von wahlheim never thought that that aged, meanly-dressed woman, was his mother; and just as little did she think that the gracious gentleman who stood before her, handsome and blooming as life itself, in a fine blue dress, and with a diamond ring on his finger, was her son. he felt, without knowing her, the most heartfelt compassion for her, and gave her the tree. the forest-master made some demur. “it is," said he, “a pity to give away that large handsome beech-tree. aspens and birches are good enough for poor people. the beech- wood ought to be saved for the family use of the gracious baron himself.”. baron von wahlheim looked gravely at the forest-master, and said, “it is not only the picture of the virgin. bad, and that which we reject, which we should give to the poor, but of the best also; and especially in a time of need. the tree therefore belongs to the sister of the sick man, and, more than this, it shall be felled and cut into fire-wood at my cost, and shall be delivered also at the door of the poor peo- ple. lay hand, then, to it instantly, you wood-cutters, before you cleave my wood.” he hastened onward in order to spare her thanks. theodora looked after him, with tears in her eyes, and said, "god bless the good gentleman !" and then went her way. and thus mother and son, who had seen each other in this wood, for the last time, up- wards of twenty years ago, and who this moment had again met here without recog- nizing each other, might very well again, and perhaps for ever, have become separated from each other, if the holy providence of god had not ordered it better. two wood-cutters immediately laid the axe to the tree: it fell with a great crash to the earth; and the men cried out in amaze- ment, “a miracle !-a real miracle!" the tree trunk had broken in the fall, a piece of picture of the virgin. the bark started off, and the men discovered at once that picture for which theodora had so long sought in vain. the colors of the lovely picture were as perfectly fresh and lively as ever; and the frame, the gold of which had been tried in the fire, shimmered in the light of the sun, as if the picture had been surrounded with bright rays. the wood-cutters were young men, and knew nothing of the history of the picture. "it goes beyond our understanding,” said they, “how that beautiful picture of the virgin should ever get into the tree! there is some- thing unheard of in it; it is an evident mir- acle!” on the disturbance which the men made, baron von wahlheim, who was scarcely two hundred paces distant, came up. he took the picture in his hand and examined it. “of a truth," said he, “it is very beautiful, i might almost say a master-piece. the pale, melancholy countenance, and moving glance cast upwards to heaven, are incomparably beautiful; the red dress, and folds of the dark blue mantle are also excellently painted. still it is very easy to imagine how it caine picture of the virgin. into the tree. some pious person has made a hollow in the tree-trunk, and has placed it there. the bark, by degrees, as is usual with these trees, has again closed over it, and thus the picture has become enclosed in the tree.” suddenly, however, baron von wahlheim grew pale, and his hand which held the pic- ture trembled. “ah !" said he, “this is most extraordinary !" he was obliged to seat him- self on the trunk of the fallen tree, for he had turned to the back of the picture, and had read these words, “in the year of our lord , on the th of october, i saw here, under this tree, my only son augustus, aged five years and three months, for the last time. god be with him wherever he be, and comfort, as he comforted mary un- der the cross, me, the heart-broken mother, theodora sommer.” the thought went through him like light- ning. “i was this lost child! name, year, and day agree exactly! it was my mother who placed this picture here !" as he was thus thinking to himself, his mother came by. she had been waiting in picture of the virgin. in the wood for a neighbor, with whom she was to return to the village, and the tidings of the picture which had just been found, filled her with astonishment. “ah, gracious sir," said she, “ that picture is mine. i pray you give it me. see my name stands to it; the late pastor wrote it there. at my request also did he write the other words. ah,” said she, weeping, as she: examined the fallen tree, “this then is the tree under which my child slept for the last time so sweetly and calmly, before he was taken from me! how often have i gone, since i returned here, past this tree without: recognizing it! oh, my augustus—thus, then, i see the place once more, where my eyes beheld thee for the last time! ah! thee, thee i shall see no more in this life. it is to me as if i stood upon thy grave !" she could say no more for weeping baron von wahlheim was almost beside himself to see his own mother in that poor woman. his heart burned within him, and he was ready to spring up and clasp her in his arms, with the exclamation, “my mo- ther !” but he restrained himself, for it oc- picture of the virgin. vealed himself to us as the power who does all things for the best.” “yes," said the mother, "he has done so, the dear, good god! he has taken thee from me because i, perhaps, from a too tender love, might not have brought thee up well. he has given thee to me again, to be my helper in need—nay, for the whole country around, to be a comforting and sustaining angel. all that he does is wisdom and love. praised be his name !" . all those who stood around joined with her, and praised god aloud. baron von wahlheim now bade the forest- master say to the brother of theodora, that she would return home next morning, and then bring her son with her ; and she engaged her good neighbor to attend, in the meantime, upon her sick brother. after this, baron von wahlheim ordered his coach to come, helped his mother into it, placed himself near her, and drove with her back to his castle. here new joy awaited the good woman. she was half ashamed of appearing in her mean dress before her daughter-in-law, the baron- ess: but antonia was too noble to think of picture of the virgin. this; she met her with open arms, saluted her in the kindest manner, and esteemed her- self happy in knowing the mother of her dear husband. theodora wept for joy; but when, beyond this, her two grandchildren, ferdinand and marie, were brought to her, both loving and lovely, amiable and good as angels, her joy became perfect rapture. “inexpressible,” said she, “was my sorrow, but my joy is now yet still greater. i can do nothing but weep, praise and thank god ! on the following day, baron von wahl- heim went, with his mother in his coach, to visit her sick brother. theodora remained with her brother till he recovered, and then removed to the castle, for so her son and his wife desired. they provided also for her brother in the most kind manner, for they were too wise and too good to be ashamed of any poor relation. more than this, they invited, on a certain day, parents, children, and grandchildren, to a great festival, giving to theodora the place of honor. the good people were quite en- chanted, and sate with tears of joy in their eyes. picture of the virgin. the baron and his wife took this opportu- nity of inquiring exactly into all their cir- cumstances, and afterwards gave such assist- ance to each as would be most useful and advantageous to them. baron von wahlheim hung up the little picture in the family parlor : "it shall,” said he, “be a perpetual incitement to confidence in, and gratitude to, god. the inexpressibly beautiful glance which mary casts up to heaven, shall lead ours there; for what, in all dangers and sufferings of this life, can sustain us—can preserve us from sin, and awaken us to good, more than a pious glance upwards to heaven ?" the boy of the southern isle, an old seaman's story. td m’ll tell ye, if ye hearken now, a thing that chanced to me- it must be fifty years agone- upon the southern sea. of the first-mate was i of the nancy, a tight ship and a sound; we had made a prosperous voyage, and then were homeward bound. we were sailing on the tropic seas, before the trade-wind's power; day after day, without delay, full thirteen knots an hour. boy of the southern isle. the sea was as a glassy lake, by a steady gale impressed; there was nought for any man to do but just what liked him best. and yet the calm was wearisome; the dull days idly sped; and sometimes on a flute i played, or else a book i read. and dallying thus one afternoon, i stood upon the deck ; when far off, to the leeward, i saw a faintish speck, whether 'twas rock, or fish, or cloud, at first i did not know; so i called unto a seaman, that he might look also. and as it neared, i saw for sure that it must be a boat; but my fellow swore it was not so, but a large bamboo afloat. we called a third unto us then, that he the sight might see; then came a fourth, a fifth, a sixth, but no two could agree. boy of the southern isle. “nay, 't is a little boat,” i said, “ and it roweth with an oar!" but none of them could see it so, all differing as before. “it cometh on; i see it plain; it is a boat!" i cried, “ a little boat o'erlaid with pearl, and a little child to guide !" and sure enough, a boat it was, and worked with an oar; but such a boat as 't was, no man had ever seen before. within it sate a little child, the fairest e'er was seen ; his robes were like the amethyst, his mantle of sea-green. no covering wore he on his head, and the hair that on it grew showered down in thick and wavy locks, of the sunniest golden hue. the rudest man on board our ship blest god that sight to see; for me i could do nought but weep, such power had it on me. boy of the southern isle. there sat he in his pretty boat like an angel from the sky regarding us in our great ship, with wonder in his eye. the little oar slid from his hand; his sweet lips were apart; within my soul i felt his joy his wonder in my heart. and as we tokened him to come, his little boat he neared, and smiled at all our friendly words, nor seemed the least afeared. “come hither a-board !" the captain said ; and without fear of ill, he sprang into the lordly ship, with frank and free good will. he was no son of the merman; no syren full of guile ; but a creature like the cherubim, from some unknown-of isle. and strange to tell, his pleasant speech was english, every word; and yet such english, sweet and pure, as his i never heard. boy of the southern isle. there were three, he said, who dwelt with him within a tamarind-grove: his parents and his sister young,– a family of love. his father, he said, had made his boat from out a large sea-shell ; “and what a wondrous tale," said he, “i shall this evening tell !” his robes, he said, his mother had wove from roots of an indian-tree ; and he laugh'd at the clothes the seamen wore, with the merriest mockery. when the little child had stayed with us, may-be an hour or so, he smiled farewell to all on board, and said that he would go. “for i must be back again,” said he, “for me they all will wait ; i must be back again," quoth he, " or ever the day be late !" “he shall not go!" the captain said ; “haul up his boat and oar ! the pretty boy shall sail with us to the famous english shore ! boy of the southern isle. “thou shalt with me, my pretty boy ; i'll find thee a new mother ; i've children three at home, and thou to them shalt be a brother !" “nay, nay, i shall go back !” he said ; “for thee i do not know ;- i must be back again,” he cried, “before the sun be low!" then sprang unto the vessel's side, and made as he would go. the captain was a strong, stern man ; none liked him overwell ; and to a seaman standing near, said he, with voice and look austere, “haul up yon cockle-shell ! and you, my boy, content you, in this goodly ship to dwell !” as one who gladly would believe some awful threat a joke, so heard the child, with half a smile, the words the captain spoke. but when he saw them seize his boat, and put his oar away, the smile was gone, and o'er his face quick passed a pale dismay. boy of the southern isle. and then a passion seized his frame, as if he were possessed ; he stamped his little feet in rage, and smote upon his breast. 'twas a wicked deed as e'er was done i longed to set him free; and the impotence of his great grief was a grievous sight to me. at length, when rage had spent itself, his lofty heart gave way, and, falling on his pretty knees, at the captain's feet he lay. “oh take me back again !” he cried, “let me not tarry here, and i'll give thee sea-apples, and honey rich and clear ; “and fetch thee heavy pearl-stones from deep sea-caves below ; and red tree-gold and coral-tree, if thou wilt let me go! “or if i must abide with thee, in thy great ship to dwell, let me but just go back again, to bid them all farewell !” boy of the southern isle. and at the word “farewell” he wept, as if his heart would break; the very memory of his tears sore sad my heart doth make. the captain's self was almost moved to hear his woful cry; and there was not within the ship one man whose eyes were dry. when the captain saw the seamen’s grief, an angry man was he, and shut his heart against the child, for our great sympathy. down from the deck he took him to his cabin all alone ; we saw him not for many a day, but only heard his moan. tt was a wicked deed, and heaven all wickedness doth hate ; and vengeance on the oppressor it cometh soon or late, boy of the southern isle. as you will see. there something was, even from the very night whereon the captain stole the child, on board that was not right. from out the cabin evermore, where they were all alone, we heard, oh piteous sounds to hear, a low and quiet moan; and now and then cries sad enough to move a heart of stone. the captain had a conscious look, like one who doeth wrong, and yet who striveth all the time against a conscience strong. the seamen did not work at all with a good will or a free ; and the ship, as she were sullen too, went slowly over the sea. · 'twas then the captain from below sent down in haste for me. i found him lying on his bed, oppressed with fever-pain ; and by his death-struck face, i saw that he would not rise again, - boy of the southern isle. that he, so lately hale and strong, would never rise again. “i have done wickedly,” said he, “ and christ doth me condemn ; i have children three on land,” groaned he, “and woe will come to them! “i have been weighed, and wanting found; i've done an evil deed !-- i pray thee, mate, 't is not too late, take back this child with speed ! “i have children three," again groaned he, “and i pray that this be done ! thou wilt have order of the ship when i am dead and gone :- i pray thee do the thing i ask, that mercy may be won !" i vowed to do the thing he asked, upon the testament; and, true enough, that very day to his account he went. i took the little child away, and set him on my knee, in the free fresh air upon the deck, but he spoke no word to me. boy of the southern isle. i feared at first that all his grief had robbed him of his speech, and that i ne'er by word or look, his sunken soul could reach. at length he woke from that dead woe, like one that long hath slept, and cast his arms about my neck, and long and freely wept. i clasped him close unto my breast, yet knew not what to say, to wile from him the misery that on his spirit lay. at length i did bethink me of jesus christ; and spake to that poor lamb of all the woe he suffered for our sake. “for me and thee, dear child,” i said, “he suffered, and be sure he will not lay a pang on thee without he give the cure !" like as the heavy clouds of night pass from the coming day, so cleared the sullen weight of woe from his dear soul away. boy of the southern isle. oh happy hours of converse sweet ;~- the christian's hope he knew, and with an eager heart he gained that knowledge sweet and new. and ever by my side he kept, loving, and meek, and still: but never more to him returned his bold and wayward will : he had been tried and purified from every taint of ill. the eve whereon the captain died, i turned the ship about, and said unto the seamen good, “we'll find the island out.” so back unto the place we came, where we the child had found; and two full days, with anxious watch, we sailed it all around. and on the third, at break of day, a far-off peak was seen; and then the low-lands rose to view, all woody, rich, and green. boy of the southern isle. down on his knees the child he fell, when the mountains came in view, and tears ran streaming from his eyes, for his own isle he knew. and, with a wildly piercing tone, he cried, “oh mother dear, weep not,—i come, my mother !" long, long ere she could hear. and soon we saw a mountain-top whereon a beacon burned; then as the good ship neared the land, an answer was returned. “oh give to me my boat !” he cried, “and give to me mine oar!”. just then we saw another boat pushed from the island-shore. a carved boat of sandal-wood, its sail a silken mat, all richly wrought in rainbow-dyes, and three within her sat. down from the ship into the sea the little boy he sprung ; and the mother gave a scream of joy, with which the island rung. boy of the southern isle. like some sea-creature beautiful he swam the ocean-tide, and ere we wondered at his skill he clomb the shallop's side. next moment in his mother's arms he lay, o sweet embrace ! looking from her dear bosom up into her loving face. the happiest and the sweetest sight that e'er mine eyes will see, was the coming back of this poor child unto his family! -now wot ye of his parentage ? sometime i'll tell you it: of meaner matter many a time has many a book been writ. 't would make a pleasant history of joy scarce touched by woe; of innocence and love ; but now this only must you know. his mother was of english birth, well-born, and young, and fair ; in the wreck of an east-indiaman she had been saved there. boy of the southern isle. his father was the island's chief, goodly as man can be ; adam, methinks in paradise was such a one as he. ”t is not for my weak speech to tell the joy so sweet and good, of these kind, simple islanders, nor all their gratitude. whate'er the island held they gave; delicious fruits and wines, rich-tinted shells from out the sea, and ore from out their mines. but i might not stay ; and that same day again we turned about, and, with the wind that changed then went from the harbor out. —'tis joy to do an upright deed; 'tis joy to do a kind ; and the best reward of virtuous deeds is the peace of one's own mind. but a blessing great went with the ship, and with the freight she bore ; the pearl-shells turned to great account, so did the island's ore;- doy of the southern isle. but i someway lost my reckoning, nor found the island more. and how the child became a man, or what to him befel, as i never trod the island more, is not for me to tell. coooo the birds and the guinea-pigs: or, how the pantry-door key was lost, and then found. ell e r ild and pleasant w was the weather, in the beginning of january; the poet's two children ran about the garden with no- thing on their heads but their beautiful long hair. up in the pigeon-cote there was a deal of discussion going on: jessy and crow, one pair of pigeons, were talking about having eggs, and a young brood; while snowdrop and her little hus- band cravates said it was quite too soon to think of such a thing. these pigeons be- · the birds, etc. longed to the poet's children, who fed them twice every day and loved them very dearly. they were very handsome pigeons: jessy was quite a rainbow of colors, and he strut- ted prodigiously; crow, his wife, was very dark, all purple and green; nobody would have taken her for a hen-pigeon, she was so large and grand. the other pair, snowdrop and cravates, were very different; she was as white as snow, and looked as sleek and round as if she had been cut out of marble; her husband, cravates, was of rich red brown, with a white ring round his neck, which the children called his cravat. on the floor of the dove-cote lived a pair of guinea-pigs, toby and jenny. toby was a quiet old fellow that lived very much to himself, and never troubled his mind about anything; he squeak- ed a little to himself; he always found plen- ty to eat, and that was all he cared for. jenny, his wife, was a little plump, busy, merry guinea-pig, that not only looked after her own large family, but kept up a deal of intercourse with the pigeons: they were on the best terms in the world, and now, when there was all this discussion about whether the birds and the pigeons should begin to lay or not, she sided with jessy and his wife, and told them by all means to make a nest, and have a brood, for that it was an uncommonly fine season, there would be no more cold weather, not a bit! and even if there were, what would it matter ;-fat, well-feathered birds like them never felt the cold; for her part, she never felt it: she had forgotten what cold was. the poet's children, she said, never let them want; for her part, she did not believe in the existence of such a thing! it was only a bugbear to frighten ignorant pigeons and guinea-pigs with. jessy and crow said the same; they said they always felt so warm about their hearts, and their feathers were so thick, that even after they had eaten their fill there was plenty of food, so they would have a brood. cravates and snowdrop were convinced by what they heard, and when crow's young ones began to peep from the egg, snowdrop had been sitting three days. jenny, the guinea-pig, had seven little ones. it was the merriest little region of life that ever was the guinea-pigs. seen. guinea-pigs and pigeons were all as warm and fat as possible. the poet's chil- dren were as happy as these little creatures ; they clapped their hands and screamed with delight when they saw the young pigeons come out of the shell. snowdrop and cra- vates were now full of family business, first one sat on the eggs, and then the other, and in two weeks they also would have two young pigeons. there were many changes of weather in. january: now it was fine and mild, and then it was bitterly cold, and froze and snow- ed, and thawed and froze again; the pond was covered with ice, and little boys slided.. at the commencement of february it grew colder and colder every day; the earth was like a hard board, nothing could come out of it, and the little snowdrops and. hepaticas, and winter aconites, that had ven- tured in the mild weather to put up their heads, now were quite sorry for it, and were so pinched with cold they did not know what to do. they said one to another how cold: the bed was, and they wished so much that snow would fall, and thus give them blan- the birds and kets and coverlets to keep them warm ; but no snow came, and every day it froze harder and harder. the poet's children, like their pigeons, felt very little of the cold, for they were well fed, and full of life and strength, and had warm woollen clothes on; twice every day they went and fed their pigeons and their guinea- pigs. snowdrop's young ones were ready to be hatched, and crow's were growing fa- mously ; but they had as yet only greyish down on their little bodies. one day they said to their mother that something “bit them.” “ it is only the cold," she replied ; “silly little things!” and she told them to lie closer under her feather petticoat, which was lined with down, and so they did; and they felt no more cold, for their mother and her feather petticoat were as warm as a little fire. just then, old jessy, the father, came in; he had been taking his morning airing, and it was amazing what a deal of cold air seemed to come in with him; the very tips of his feathers seemed frozen ; but he said he was as warm as a toast; that he felt nothing of the cold. he said he had been up at the the guinea-pigs. rookery; that they were all in a pretty state there; they had begun to build some days before, while the weather was mild; but that now everything was at a stand-still; and they were all talking of a famine; they looked very discontented and down-hearted, and they said they did not know what would be the end of all this; they could get no- thing out of the ground, and they could get nothing out of the air,—what then was to become of them? jessy said it was very unpleasant to hear all this; and he told them that, for his part, he believed there was plenty of food to be had, if they would only look for it; he had often heard their outcries of famine, but he thought it was all discon- tent, and of people's own bringing about. the rooks were very angry to hear him talk thus, and if he had not flown off he did not know what the consequences might have been; he then went into the poet's garden, and there were all the foolish flowers that had come out too soon, shivering like naked beggars in the street, till it was quite unplea- sant to see them ; he told them, that they should have stopped at home by their warm the birds and fires, and in bed among the blankets, and that if they would run themselves into trou- ble, they must take the consequences. the flowers made no reply, for their poor mouths were so stiff with cold that they could not open them. the next thing he saw were the little birds of the garden ; there were robins, and tom-tits, and red-starts, and hun- dreds of sparrows; they had all puffed out their feathers like so many muffs to keep them warm, and they looked plump enough, but all they talked about was this famine. there was nothing to be had, and they thought they must all die; they looked very dismal and dispirited; they could not even twitter ; they did nothing but hop about on the hard, stony ground, and pick at little bits of dirt, out of which nothing came; or if anything eatable were in it, ten to one but three or four of them fell to quarreling about it. they told dismal tales about many that had died, and said they expected that they too should die of want; they said everything was against them this winter; that last summer so little hedge-fruit came to matu- rity, and thus the great store of nature was the guinea-pigs. empty ; there were no berries on the pyrac- antha that grew up one side of the poet's house this year, and that was a great loss; and they did not know why, but the poet's children seemed to have forgotten them, they found no crumbs now, as they used to do. oh! it was very melancholy, and they knew that they should all die of want. the black- birds and the thrushes that sate upon the boughs about, sighed out the same melan- choly ditty ; they said that this great frost had locked up the pantry-door, and there was no chance but of their dying of hunger. it troubled jessy the pigeon to hear all this. he felt very uncomfortable, and he wished not to believe what he had heard. he told his wife, and snowdrop, and her husband, and old jenny the guinea-pig; and just as he had finished, up came, like two beautiful angels, the poet's children, and scattered tares and peas for the pigeons, and brought bread and milk and green sprouts for the guinea-pigs. there was such plenty in this dovecote ; there could be no want out of doors—there could be no famine ;-it must be discontent, and improvidence, and the birds and bad management which brought the others into their evil plight. whilst the pigeons were thus settling the question, old toby, the father guinea-pig, who had not yet spo- pen, asked abruptly, “why did they lock the pantry-door-we always let ours stand open, and therefore we always have plenty.” they all said that toby had hit the right nail on the head, and jessy siad before long he would go out and ask the same question of all the discontented out of doors. the frost grew harder and harder, and one morning a heavy yellowish cloud filled the sky, and the white feathery snow began to fall; all day and all night it fell. the garden was beautiful; it lay two feet deep upon the ground, and on the upper surface of every leafless branch and bough, and bent the evergreens like heavy plumes. ev- erything was as silent as death ; not a bird twittered. the little snowdrops, and hepat- icas, and winter aconites, said one to an- other when the snow began to fall, “the blessing is come at last ; now we shall go to sleep, and lie warm and snug till the better days come.” they closed their eyes, and the guinea-pigs. fell into the sweetest sleep, and the soft, deli- cate snow, like loving hands, heaped up the warm covering around them. the little birds-robins, and redstarts, and tomtits, and the little good-for-nothing spar- rows-peeped from under the broad leaves of the ivy that thickly covered the whole of the poet's house, and did nothing but sigh all day long. “it will be a deep, deep snow," said they; "it may berhaps lie four or five weeks; the pantry-door key will be lost in the snow, and how shall we ever get the door open again ?" the snow fell thicker and faster, and in the afternoon the poet's gardener cut a path through the snow from the kitchen-door to the dovecote. the old garden blackbird, the bird that had cheered the hearts of the poet and his children all last summer, sate half-starved in a hole in the sycamore tree, and saw the two children, wrapped up in great coats and cloaks till only their eyes and the tips of their noses could be seen, go from the kitchen-door along the path that had been cut in the snow to the dove-house. they carried tares and peas in a basket, and soaked bread in a basin; the birds and they were going to feed their favorites, and never once thought of all the little hungry stomachs and longing eyes that were all around them. "the pantry-door is fast locked, and the key is now lost !” was sighed out all that night from under the roof and from the crannies of the old walls, and from under the ivy leaves, and from the hollows of the sycamore trunk. “the pantry-door key is lost, and we shall die of hunger!" the poor rooks left off building; the snow lay a ſoot deep in every unfinished nest; the last year's rooks asked the old ones if they had ever known the pantry-door key lost before. very few of them ever had ; they had heard their grandfathers talk of such a thing in their time, but they did not think it could have been as bad as this! the key of the pantry-door had never certainly been quite lost before ; but they hoped it might be found. the young rooks were quite dis- heartened, they did not believe that the key ever would be found. they were ready to grow desperate ; it was all that the most ex- the guinea-pigs. perienced could do to persuade them to pa- tience and hope. the poet stood at his window and looked out; the snow had lost its first purity; it had fallen from the tree branches, and had been shaken out from the evergreens, lest it should break them; it lay like a casing of marble over all the earth : it was hard frozen, and glit- tered in the sun like crystal points. it was now a week since it had fallen, and there seemed no chance of the frost going. the poet saw his children rush from the dove- house with their rosy faces and bright eyes : crow's two young pigeons were full feather- ed; how they had grown ! and snowdrop's were like two little balls of down. the children were on their way to tell this to their father. but before they came he had something to tell them. as he stood at his window he had seen the rooks on their way through the cold wintry sky to the distant meadows. what could the poor rooks find there for food? the thought fell on his heart with a sadness. he thought of all the suffering creatures in this bitter season, and he wish- the birds and ed that he could help and save them all. whilst he was thus thinking, he heard the twittering of the little birds in the laurusti- nas round the window, and he saw the old blackbird sitting just above in the arbutus. hunger had made them very tame. he heard their mournful twitter, and he under- stood it—for a poet understands all lan- guages, especially those which come from sorrowful hearts. at that moment his two children came in : “hush,” said he, and they trod as softly as falling snow; “listen to what the little birds are all saying. they say, 'the pantry-door is locked, and the key is lost! there is no one to feed us, and we shall all die of hunger ! this is what the little birds are saying. the tears started to the children's eyes, and their father continued, “ thus say the little birds; and they speak truly; their pantry-door is locked, and the key is lost; many of them will die; they are now like so many little skeletons; they have puffed out their feathers to keep them warm, but they are starved for all that; for the famish- ed have so little warmth within them. we the birds and “yes,” said their father, “it is a serious thing when creatures with appetites find the pantry-door locked, and the key lost. you must think about these things !" “but i think,” said he, again speaking, and this time more cheerfully, that this bird is not dead; i believe it is only benumbed, and i tkink we can revive it.” the children rushed about like wild creatures, for they had such loving hearts. they could find neither a cage nor a basket at the moment, but they brought an old last year's garden-bonnet, trimmed with blue ribbon ; they put some warm flannel in it, laid the bird within it, and then tied the bonnet in a handkerchief; their father said he would take charge of it for them, in his study, and they must go and see if they could not get the pantry open for. the other poor little birds. they could not understand what the birds said as well as their father, because they were only poet's children ; so in the even- ing, when all the birds had had a good dinner, he told them what had been said. they had said that the old blackbird was right; help had come when they at least the guinea-pigs. expected it; somebody had picked the lock or burst the pantry-door open, and behold every shelf was full of bread! they won- dered how it was ;—they were only birds, and so they could not tell; this, however, was certain, there was plenty now where but a minute before there had been famine. it was just as the good blackbird had said. he was a prophet and a poet, and yet he who knew all this, and had cheered them with hope, was dead! that was a sad thing! they must confess that he was a great poet; they had not thought much of him when he was alive; but they must raise a monument to him now he is dead. “but he is not dead," said the children ; "he is all alive in the magpie's cage, and very happy !" “but they do not know it,” said the father ; “they think him dead and mourn for him. they thought very little of him when he was amongst them, but they will honor him now they think him dead." the frost still lasted; and the pantry re- mained as full as ever. jessy went and told them in the dove-house that he knew he was the guinea-pigs. comed each the other; and then the flowers understood all about the dreadful time that had been since they went to sleep. many birds were dead ; that was a certainty : many a dear little bird that had sung to the flowers last summer would never sing to them again! among those that had died, they said, was the grand old poet, the black- bird; he was a wonderful creature; he suf- fered dreadfully in the famine; but he tried to cheer all their hearts, and foretold the better times, and the opening of the pantry- door, just before it took place; but he never saw it himself. that was the one sorrow they had to deplore; and they did deplore it sincerely. the flowers were very sorry, tears hung in the snowdrop's beautiful eyes, for she loved the blackbird. at that moment all the little birds flew away, for they heard footsteps coming down the garden walk. it was the poet's children, with the great magpie's cage, in which was the blackbird. they set it just opposite the snowdrops and the other flowers, for they said, “he shall see how the birds and beautiful the garden is the moment he gets out of the cage.” the blackbird sprang from the open door of the cage, and flew into a hawthorn-tree that grew just by. all the little flowers saw him, and could hardly believe their eyes. the moment he alighted on the tree, he carolled forth such a hymn of thankfulness and joy as filled the whole garden. the little birds could scarcely believe their ears. he was alive and well! his song told everything, and every one interpreted it his own way. the poet heard it as he sat in his study; it told him that the spring-time -a time of plenty and of gladness—was at hand. a gushing tide of love and gratitude warmed his heart; he took up his pen, and wrote words which were immortal. it reached the fat pigeons on the house- top, as they were strutting about with their young broods, now out in the great world for the first time; and old jessy said to his wife, that if it really were true about the famine, he was glad that such a fine singer as the blackbird had got well through it! it reached the poor rooks, that had suffered the guinea-pigs. so dreadfully in the famine, as they sate on their elm-tree tops, and taking the song for a good omen, they began their building again that very moment. as to the little flowers down in the garden-beds, they were so full of joy, that they reared up their heads, and opened their beautiful eyes to the sun, and shot down their little roots under ground, and woke the sleepy worms and little shining insects, and told them it was time to be stir- ring, for the beautiful spring season had just begun. all that day nothing was heard but a shouting on the tree-tops--the burden of the song was the same everywhere—“ the key that was lost so long has been found ; the pantry-door stands wide open ; and there is plenty for all !" the poet's children walked hand in hand in the garden, and were hap- pier than ever. corn-fields. n the young merry time of spring, when clover 'gins to burst; when blue-bells nod within the wood, and sweet may whitens first; when merle and mavis sing their fill, @ye green is the young corn on the hill. but when the merry spring is past, and summer groweth bold, and in the garden and the field a thousand flowers unfold; before a green leaf yet is sere, the young corn shoots into the ear. but then as day and night succeed, and summer weareth on, and in the flowery garden-beds the red-rose groweth wan, corn-fields. Ånd hollyhock and sunflowers tall o’ertop the mossy garden-wall : when on the breath of autumn breeze, from pastures dry and brown, goes floating, like an idle thought, the fair white thistle down; o then what joy to walk at will, upon the golden harvest-hill what joy in dreamy ease to lie amid a field new-shorn, and see all round on sun-lit slopes, the piled up shocks of corn, and send the fancy wandering o'er all pleasant harvest-fields of yore. i feel the day ; i see the field; the quivering of the leaves ; and good old jacob and his house binding the yellow sheaves ; and at this very hour i seem to be with joseph in his dream. i see the fields of bethlehem, and reapers many a one, corn-fields. bending unto their sickles' stroke, and boaz looking on; and ruth, the moabitess fair, among the gleaners stooping there. again, i see a little child, his mother's sole delight; god's living gift of love unto the kind, good shunamite; to mortal pangs i see him yield, and the lad bear him from the field. the sun-bathed quiet of the hills ; the fields of galilee, that eighteen hundred years agone were full of corn, i see, and the dear saviour take his way ’mid ripe ears on the sabbath-day. o golden fields of bending corn, how beautiful they seem !- the reaper-folk, the piled-up sheaves, to me are like a dream; the sunshine and the very air seem of old time, and take me there ! the pigeon-house. an autumn tale, of the sweet uses of adversity. wair summer was e past; the roses, and the jasmines, and the sweet peas, were all over and gone for this year; but the poet's garden was full of flowers for all that. the dahlias were out, and the chrysanthe- mums and china-asters, and great big cock's- combs, like crimson madrapores, made of velvet : the leaves were changing on the trees; but apples were yet hanging golden and red upon the boughs, and looking as beautiful as flowers; and as frosts had not the pigeon-house. son hawthorn in blossom ; the eggs that the birds then sate on were now little living birds, that flew with great flocks of their kind into the stubble fields. the rooks had reared their young ones, and so had the blackbirds, and all for the time present were living in a land of plenty, forgetting that in the early spring the pantry-door key had been lost for a season. everything was changed, but most of all was there a change in the pigeon house, where jessy and crow and snow- drop and cravates had lived "on clover," as the saying is, when all the world around them were starving. they lived then, as they did now, in the higher regions of the dove-house, and the fat little guinea-pigs, toby and jenny, with all their numerous family, lived below them. when first we spoke of these pigeons, jes- sy, and his handsome wife, crow, in her blue and green shot-satin, were the lord and lady of the place, and cravates and his wife their respectable neighbors. jessy and crow built their nest, and laid their eggs, and reared their broods, and all things went prosperous- ly with them. cravates and snowdrop did the pigeon-house. the same, but they were unfortunate. “cra: vates must be in bad circumstances,” said jessy to his wife; "he has such a down-cast look with him. he never goes strutting about on the roof in the sunshine, as i do. you may take my word for it, his banker has broke, or he has over-speculated, or he has got an execution in his house !” and with that the next time they met on the roof, jessy swaggered up to him and shoved him aside. jessy was tremendously proud in those days; and his wife stood by and admired what she thought her husband's spirit; and what was still worse, their eldest brood, now a couple of flaunting pigeons, named pecksey and flapsey, seeing the little respect their parents had for cravates in his trouble, never saw him without tread- ing on his toes, or on his tail, till it had quite a draggled and disconsolate look. poor cravates did not resent this ill-treat- ment; but when he saw them coming, tried quietly to get out of their way. nobody pitied cravates but the poet's children ; and tears were often in their eyes when they saw his troubles and the unkindness of his neigh- the pigeon-house. bors. these children were to the pigeon- house like the good angels of god to human beings. they looked on and pitied the sor- rowing, and mourned over the arrogance of the proud; but morning and night they duly gave to all of their bounty-to the good and to the evil alike. one day, while poor cravates was in his trouble, a new pair of pigeons made their appearance in the house; they were both dressed in black velvet and white satin; she wore a black velvet dress, and white satini petticoat; he, a black velvet coat, and white satin waistcoat and breeches. they looked exactly as if they were going to court, and as if they had new dresses for every day.. they were evidently in good circumstances; they were pigeons of birth and breeding, and they settled themselves down in their new home with a self-possession and propriety that was quite instructive. jessy and crow saw from the first moment that they must be treated with respect. the new comers were dico and dixi. jessy could see at a glance that they had ancestors, perhaps, as far back as the norman conquest; they the pigeon-house. looked as people do who have loads of money in the bank, and who, from time im- memorial, have had a fine old family seat of their own. if they had been men and women, they would have been the most noble the marquis and marchioness dico and dixi, and their children would have been earls and countesses. jessy immedi- ately sought to make their acquaintance, and endeavored to enlist them in the persecution of the poor unfortunate cravates. dico and dixi, however, treated jessy with the utmost coolness; they said they did not wish for his acquaintance, and as to poor cravates, he and his troubles were matters of no conse- quence to them; they knew nothing of him, either for or against ; that there was a deal of trouble in the world, there always had been and always must be,-but they did not see what they had to do with it. they must have thought jessy a snob and an up- start, a purse-proud fellow, and a parvenu, from the way in which they treated him. as to poor cravates, he had too much on his own spirits to trouble himself about any of his neighbors. jessy's wife and his eldest the pigeon-house. brood, pecksey and flapsey, were equally unsuccessful in making acquaintance with the grand new pigeons; they, therefore, set them down for a couple of proud aristocrats, who thought themselves too good to associ- ate with their fellows; they were very much vexed, but they did not dare to begin any persecution; for dico and dixi looked like those whom it was better not to meddle with. about this time cravates died; and jessy and his wife, and pecksey and flapsey, and the other young pigeons, had a deal to say respecting the post-mortem examination, which the poet and his children had made. something like copper was found in his sto- mach. “he had taken poison,” said jessy, “no doubt, therefore, but that his circum- stances were bad, and that he was on the point of bankruptcy, and had committed suicide.” he even told this to dico and dixi; but it did not interest them at all! never in this world was there such pride as this ! jessy thought how he should like to tread on their black velvet and white satin : but there seemed no chance of such a thing ! the pigeon-house. cravates was dead. pecksey and flapsey set up housekeeping together; and the most noble the marquis and marchioness dico and dixi had an heir and an heiress. snowdrop was solitary; but neither jessy nor crow offered her any consolation; nay, even, i am ashamed to confess it—when they saw her come out to sit in the sunshine on the roof, they shoved her off, just as they had done poor cravates; they strutted about, and ad- mired one another as the sun shone on their beautiful plumage, and grew more and more self-satisfied and tyrannical every day. but a great change was at hand. one day, a stout-built, thick-necked, positive, do- mineering sort of pigeon, was introduced as a resident into this little community. he was dressed in black, with a white patch under his beak. he was the famous cham- . pion, blackbeard ; not so called because his beard was black, but because he wore black and had a white beard. jessy, when he saw this second new arri- val, of course introduced himself; but such a fellow as this blackbeard had never been in the pigeon-house before. he did not strut the pigeon-house. about in the conceited way that jessy and crow did, as if they were always thinking about themselves; nor did he carry himself at all with the cool self-possession of the most noble dico and dixi; he was a positive, dogmatical, overbearing, unscrupulous fel- low, with impudence and audacity for any- thing. jessy thought at first he was just the fellow to join with him in putting down the pride of their 'aristocratic neighbors ; but blackbeard cared nothing for the pride and indifference and self-possession of dico and dixi; he did not trouble himself about them. jessy and crow set down blackbeard for a low, vulgar ruffian, and they hoped dico and dixi would join them in putting such an in- sufferable fellow down. but dico and dixi would do nothing of the kind; and though they never had any intimacy with black- beard, it was not long before jessy had the mortification of seeing that they were quite as civil to him, in their cold, proud way, as they had ever been to himself-perhaps a little more so. in a very short time there was a regular feud between jessy and blackbeard. jessy the pigeon-house. had never in his life met with his match be- fore; and, one day, when he was strutting about in the sunshine on the roof, that his wife might admire him, what should black- beard do but strut up to him, and try to tread on his toes. it was more than jessy could bear. his spirit was roused, and he strutted up to him in return, meaning to shove him right off the roof; but he might as well have tried to shove off the roof itself. they fought, and each said he had won the victory. poor jessy! a most uncomfortable feeling rose in his mind that blackbeard was not so easy to be conquered. he wondered that pecksey and flapsey, his own offspring, did not join with him, and give the fellow a regular beating ; and then it came out that blackbeard was paying attentions to flapsey, and there was every reason to suppose that she would become his wife.' here was an affair in the pigeon-house! to jessy it seemed as if the very world were coming to an end ; there was a convul- sion everywhere; nobody seemed quiet and cool but dico and dixi, and they did not condescend to mix themselves up in the the pigeon-house. affair. jessy, who now began to feel the force of adverse circumstances, bethought himself of the guardian and guiding angels of the pigeon-house, and wondered they did not interfere to put things to right. things, however, had to get a great deal worse before they could be mended. the poet's children looked on and mourned, but the time for their interference had not yet come. blackbeard cast off the poor solitary snowdrop, and flapsey and he became hus- band and wife. he had a prodigious notion of his own importance, and was determined to master jessy, but he did not ask dico and dixi, or anybody, to help him, because he fancied he was strong enough for anything. jessy and crow had now another young brood,—it was the fourth or fifth they had had, for they were a most domestic couple- the very best of parents. blackbeard turned all this into ridicule; he said that people were foolish for bothering themselves with large families; so his wife flapsey sate on one egg, which in due time was hatched. poor jessy never now went out to suu him- self on the roof, or to pick tares and barley, the pigeon-house. which morning and night the poet's children scattered out of that basket which never was empty, without blackbeard thrusting himself before him, and shoving him away, or pick- ing up the very grains that he wanted. again and again they fought, and now it was no uncommon thing for blackbeard to tread upon jessy's toes. there were several beams which ran across the pigeon-house. jessy had his nest over one of them, blackbeard over another, and the mansion of the noble dico and dixi was just by a third ; and beside them, there were others, which, like public pleasure- grounds, had hitherto been common to every one. now, however, blackbeard laid claim to all; he even encroached upon the demesne of dico and dixi; as to jessy, he would not suffer him to set his foot anywhere but on his own beam, whilst he himself marched about here and there, up this beam and down that, with all the daring swagger of a bravo. anybody who had seen jessy now might have said that his circumstances were em- barrassed, that he had been over-speculating, and that he would be a bankrupt some of these the pigeon-house. days, so careworn and dejected did he begin to look. he no longer strutled about on the roof in the sunshine; and when he saw blackbeard approaching, he flew away. his spirit was subdued; everything seemed gloomy and discouraging. the summer was past—the long, bright and warm days, the days of his glory and self-gratulation, were over. the leaves of the sycamore were brown and curled, and every wind that blew shook hundreds of them down. the lark, the linnet, and the blackbird, that elo- quent poet of spring, of gladness, and of hope, were silent; he and the rest of his fellows were out on the abundant stubbles, rejoicing in the bounty of autumn. jessy sate alone, and to him the world seemed a dreary his- tory of oppression and discouragement.- blackbeard, who had neither sentiment nor pity, thought only of crushing the bird that he hated ; and he fell upon him on every occasion, and persecuted and tormented him. jessy would now have given anything to be quiet ; perhaps he now remembered poor cravates with pity, and wished that he had shown him kindness and mercy. he and the pigeon-house. crow sate together on their beam, and black- beard swaggered about over his broad terri- tory; he was lord and master of the pigeon- house. he had humbled the pride of jessy, but that did not satisfy him ; and it seemed now as if he would have his life. jessy's and crow's feathers, plucked by blackbeard, flew about the pigeon-house, and even in the autumn sunshine and among the falling. leaves of the sycamore. it was a melancho- ly sight. poor jessy sate on the roof of the garden- house, , and long trails of the gossamer-spi- der's web floated around him. the garden was as still as death, excepting when the wind passed mournfully among the shivering leaves, and scattered them down with every breath; or now and then, when an apple fell on the grass from the old apple-tree with a dull sound, and then lay motionless. there was something mournful in the garden, and jessy thought of his own torn and dingy plumage when he saw the seared and un- sightly leaves of the trees. his pride was gone, like the pride of the year; they were both sad and dishonored together. the pigeon-house. with slow steps the poet walked up and down his garden. an expansive spirit of love filled his heart, which was sedate rather than gay; for he, too, was thinking on many things which were calculated to sadden. all at once, amid the silence of the place and the melancholy of the fading and falling leaves, a little robin redbreast began to sing. its song was low but clear, and tender as the song of an angel. the poet heard it, and as he was a real poet, he understood every tone that it uttered. it sang of the sweet uses of adversity; how winter gives birth to spring, how death opens the portals of eternal life ; how suffering and sorrow, unkindness and ingratitude, and the hardness of men's hearts, bring forth love, and pity, and forgiveness in noble and pure natures; it sang how that there is no suffering, no humiliation, no sor- row, which has not its compensation, and that in a hundred-fold degree, if we will only receive our affliction in meekness and pa- tience, and the submission of love. it spoke of angels that watch over the mourner,— that breathe into his soul consolations which cannot be spoken by words; it spoke of hope, the pigeon-house. and truth, and faith ; and the chorus of his song was still “the uses of adversity are sweet." the sorrowing bird and the poet received willingly the consolatory influence. crow joined jessy on the roof, but there was no more strutting about, no desire to lord it over others. they sat side by side in silence, as if they were waiting for something. and they were, but they knew it not. justice and mercy had in the meantime done their work in the pigeon-house black- beard, the tyrant oppressor, and his weak companion, flapsey, were gone; their fel- lows would see them no more, and their nestling lay beside jessy's and crow's in their nest. now was an opportunity for them to return good for evil. jessy and crow fed the young bird as if it had been their own. the poet's chidren told their father, and he explained to them all that the robin had sung of the sweet uses of adversity. the spirit's questionings. zanu here shall i meet thee, y thou beautiful one? where shall i find thee, for aye who art gone ? what is the shape to thy clear spirit given ? where is thy home in the infinite heaven ? i see thee, but still as thou wert upon earth, in thy bodied delight, in thy wonder and mirth! but now thou art one of the glorified band, who have touched the shore of the far spirit-land ! the spirit's questionings. and thy shape is fair, and thy locks are bright, in the living stream of the quenchless light. and thy spirit's thought it is pure, and free from darkness and doubt and from mystery! and thine ears have drunk the awful tone of the first and last, of the ancient one! and the dwellers old thy steps have met, where the lost is found, and the past is yet. where shall i find thee, for aye who art gone? .. thou beautiful one ? this world and the next. ow goodly is the earth! look round about and see the green and fertile field the mighty branchèd tree; the little flowers out-spread in such variety! behold the lovely things that dance on airy wings; the birds whose summer pleasure is not of stinted measure ; the grassy vales, the hills ; the flower-embordered rills ; the clouds that lie at rest upon the noonday's breast ; behold all these and know how goodly is the earth! how goodly is the earth ! its mountain-tops behold; its rivers broad and strong ; its solemn forests old; its wealth of flocks and herds; its precious stones and gold ; this world and the next. behold the radiant isles with which old ocean smiles ; behold the seasons run obedient to the sun; the gracious showers descend; life springing without end ; by day the glorious light; the starry pomp by night ;- behold all these, and know how goodly is the earth how goodly is the earth! yet if this earth be made so goodly, wherein all that is shall droop and fade; wherein the glorious light hath still its fellow shade;- so goodly, where is strife ever 'twixt death and life; where trouble dims the eye; where sin hath mastery ; how much more bright and fair, will be that region, where the saints of god shall rest rejoicing with the blessed ;- where pain is not, nor death,— the paradise of god! . art 天天 ​the turtle dove: and other stories. little children. porting through the forest wide ; playing by the water-side; wandering o'er the heathy fells; down within the woodland dells; all among the mountains wild, dwelleth many a little child ! little children. in the baron's hall of pride; by the poor man's dull fireside ; 'mid the mighty, ʼmid the mean, little children may be seen, like the flowers that spring up fair, bright and countless everywhere! in the far isles of the main ; in the desert's lone domain ; in the savage mountain-glen, ’mong the tribes of swarthy men; wheresoe'er a foot hath gone ; wheresoe'er the sun hath shone on a league of peopled ground, little children may be found ! blessings on them ! they in me move a kindly sympathy, with their wishes, hopes, and fears ; with their laughter and their tears ; with their wonder so intense, and their small experience! little children, not alone on the wide earth are ye known, 'mid its labors and its cares, 'mid its sufferings and its snares. little children. free from sorrow, free from strife, in the world of love and life, where no sinful thing hath trod in the presence of your god, spotless, blameless, glorified, little children, ye abide! young turtle-dove of carmel. read in the bible; she often read to him about elijah and elisha on mount carmel, and he used to think then, that if ever he were rich, he would go and see all the won- derful places mentioned in the bible. he never was rich, and yet he came here. he was very pale and thin, and had large beau- tiful but sorrowful eyes. he took a violin with him to mount carmel; it was the greatest treasure he had on earth. he played the most wonderful things on his violin that ever were heard, and everybody who heard him said that he was a great musician. in the winters he suffered much from the cold and the fogs of england ; so last summer he saved a little money, and set off with his violin for syria ; and all last winter he lived in the monastery on mount carmel, among the grave old monks. there was one little old monk, a very, very old man, who soon grew very fond of him ; he too had been a musician, but he was now almost childish, and had forgotten how to play; so the monks took from him his old violin, because they said he made such a noise with it. he cried to part with it like a child, poor old man ! young turtle-dove of carmel. the young musician had a little chamber in the monastery, which overlooked the sea; nobody can think what a beautiful view it had! the sun shone in so warm and plea- sant, and a little group of cypresses grew just below the window. the young man often and often stood at the window, and looked out on the sea, and down into the cypress trees, among the thick branches of which he heard the turtle doves cooing. he loved to hear those turtle doves—and so did the little old monk. one day early in janu- ary he saw that the turtle doves had built a nest just in sight; he watched the birds taking it by turns to sit on the eggs, and his heart was full of love to them; they turned up their gentle eyes to him, but they never flew away, for they saw in his mild and sor- rowful countenance, that he would not hurt them. beautiful and melancholy music sounded for half the day down from his window to where the birds sate; it had a strange charm to the doves; they thought it was some grand, new kind of nightingale come down from heaven. the little old monk young turtle-dove of carmel. cypress-tree were the turtle doves' nest was; he would sit for hours and look at them, and many beautiful thoughts passed through his mind as he did so. never had his heart been so full of love as now; the little old monk used to sit on a low seat before him, waiting for the time when he asked for his violin; that was a great happiness to them both. the musician loved him very much, and often when he played, he meant to pour bright and comfortable thoughts into his in- nocent, affectionate soul it was the end of march; the turtle-doves were all preparing for their flight to england; the pair that had built under the musician's window had a home in some old quiet woods in surrey, where it was delightfully mild and pleasant even in winter; but they never were there in winter, although their wood had the name of winterdown. it was a lovely wood; broad leaved arums, and prim- roses, and violets blue and white, covered the ground in spring; in summer there were hundreds and hundreds of glow-worms there, and the old tree-trunks were wreathed with ivy and honeysuckle. it was a very plea- young turtle-dove of carmel. had ever sat so; the young man played; a heavenly joy was in his soul; he knew not whether he was in heaven or on earth; all his pain was gone. it was a blissful mo- ment; the next moment and all was still in the chamber—wonderfully still. the lamp still burned; a soft breeze blew in from the half-opened window, and just stirred the old man’s carmelite frock, and lifted the young man's dark locks, but they neither of them moved. “that glorious bird has done his singing for this morning," said the old doves; “he will now sleep-let us set off; all our friends and neighbors are off already; we have a long journey before us." the parent doves spread their wings; they and their elder one were away; the younger sate as if entranced in the nest; he could think of nothing but the glorious bird that had just been singing; his family wheeled round the cypresses and then returned for him; they bade him come, for it was late; that the sun was rising above the sea, and that all the doves of carmel were ready for flight. the younger dove spread his wings also for this long journey, young turtle-dove of carmel. bearing with him still the remembrance of that thrilling music which affected him so greatly. the turtle doves were forth on their long journey. the young musician and the little old monk had started before them on one much longer. it was the end of march; the poet's garden was beginning to be beautiful; the daffodils were out in great bunches; the polyanthuses stood on their round green cluster of leaves like bright-headed pins on a lady's pin- cushion; the jonquils had burst their dry de- licate spathes, and were ready to open their lovely fragant cups to the sun; the hyacinths were just bursting forth also, whilst upon the old wall shone out like radiant gems the in- tense scarlet flowers of the pyrus-japonica; the air was fragrant with violets, and the li- lacs and westeria were beginning to show their profuse wealth of flowers; the little clustered buds on the tops of the elm-trees looked in the sunshine as if cut out of coral; the roses were full of young shoots, some green and some red; and the peony pierced young turtle-dove of carmel. the mould with its dark crimson leaves folded up, as yet, like so many blunt-headed spears. the old blackbird had a mate, and he was singing to her with all his might; the rooks had forgotten all their winter troubles, and were now busy building and quarreling. it was a true spring morning, and the poet's children walked hand in hand up and down the garden laying out great plans for the fu- ture of this summer. just then, the weary turtle-doves of car- mel had reached england; the flock that had set out first had all come safely; they now, however, were very weary and hungry; the young turtle that loved the music so much was the weakest and most wearied of all the flock. “we have not far to go," said the mother, as it lagged behind and seemed ready to faint; “in an hour we shall be at winterdown;" the little turtle grew fainter and fainter; just then they passed over the poet's garden, where the poet's chil- dren were walking. “there they are," said the mother, “the poet's children with their loving eyes and their golden hair; we shall young turtle-dove of carmel. be at winterdown in less than an hour ; follow me!” the weary camel in the desert when it perceives water afar off, although faint and ready to sink the moment before, bounds for- ward in hope and joy for the promised relief -so it was with the flock of doves; soaring above the outskirts of london, they saw in the distance the old favorite woods of surrey, towards which they winged their way with impatient delight. the weary young turtle sank down among the rose-trees, and heard the voices of the children as they went by. in the evening, they saw what they thought a white pigeon, on a young pear tree; they were so pleased that they even dreamed about it. next day, the young turtle was still there; so hungry and frightened, and feeling so forlorn and friendless. the children again saw it; this made them happier still; it must be come to live with them; they stole up softly to the tree where it sat, and the little trembling bird allowed itself to be caught. they rushed into the house; they had caught, they said, the white pigeon that was so beau young turtle-dove of carmel. tiful and yet so unlike their own old ones. "it shall live with us; it shall love us; it shall have a mate and be so happy," said the children. for the first time since it had left carmel it had now plenty to eat. it put its head be- hind its wings and slept calmly for hours. the poor little turtle-dove, however, was unhapps, though no one knew it; it looked out of the bars of its large cage, and longed for the freedom of mount carmel and the long-talked-of breezy heights of winter- down. it could not understand the nature of the wicker bars which enclosed it. it thought of free flight in the blue heavens, and fluttered from side to side of its cage. the little turtle dove was sick at heart: it wanted it knew not what; but a something which was beyond its reach. it understood not the loving eyes of the children ; it wanted space, freedom, and companionship, but not in a cage! the next day was sunday. the turtle's cage stood in a boudoir ; it looked beautiful in the window among the flowering camel- lias. before it stood an alabaster vase; the young turtle-dove of carmel. picture of a young lovely girl looked down, as if from the wall, in tenderness upon it; books were there behind gilded wire-work ; all was bright and beautiful. this little boudoir opened into the drawing-room, where a youth was playing some grand sacred music; the dove flew from side to side of the cage; somebody heard him, and said the poor bird wants to get out, he sees the day- light through the window; so they put down the venetian blind, and a soft green gloom, as of a wood in sunshine, filled the room. the youth continued to play; and the poet's children came in to listen also; nobody but them thought more of the dove. “the dove does not like it,” said they to each other, for the dove was more to them than the music; "it distresses him; it is no use telling them not to play; but, oh! how unhappy he is! let us take him and hang him in our room ; it is so quiet there." they hung his cage in their pretty room; called him the sweetest names they could think of, and went down to listen to the beautiful music. but they could not forget the dove. in less than an hour they stole up young turtle-dove of carmel. stairs; the room was dusk, and the bird was calm and still; they thought he slept; and they closed the door softly, lest they should wake him. the next time they looked at him he was just in the same place; they mounted on a chair, peeped into the cage, and then they knew the truth. his little life, like that of the young musician and the old monk of carmel, had passed away on the spiritual wings of harmony. life is a strange riddle; and all that i have told you of the little turtle dove is quite true. howiti's story book. turtle dove of carmelo p. the joy of engele. hat engele's baptismalname was, i am sorry i cannot pe tell you there must rents knew, no doubt, and so did her grand- mother, but i never heard of anybody else who did. en- engele she was called, and i'll tell you why. her father was a painter, and his name was paul; he painted the inost beautiful pictures that ever were seen: he painted angels, and the virgin mary, and little jesus, and all kinds of beau- tiful saints, with white lilies in their hands. he was a sort of strong, good angel him- self: he had a grave, but loving counte- the joy of engele. nance; his hair, which was of a deep brown, hung down in rich waves on his shoulders, and he had a handsome short beard and moustache. it was quite a picture to see him in his dark painting gown, and black velvet cap, standing before his easel, and working out some heavenly picture in which his wife and child always made a part. i wish you could have seen engele's mother ! but as you cannot, i will tell you how she looked. she was young, and had more of the peasant in her than the lady; she was not rich, you must understand ; both husband and wife were peasant born ; and though they had come to live in the city be- cause he was a painter, they still both of them were as simple in their lives as when they were little children in the village to- gether. the child was called engele, be- cause almost ever since she was born she had served as the model for her father's angels. when she was a baby, swaddled up in baby clothes, she had served for the new-born jesus on his mother's knee, the virgin al- ways being the sweet mother of engele; as she grew older, she stood, and sate, and slept, the joy of engele. for every kind of angel, and so she gained the name of engel or angel. they called her, however, engelein or little angel, and this they shortened in their own old-fashioned dialect into engele—and that was the reason of her name. engele was now seven; she was quite too old for the new-born jesus, or the infant jesus. she would soon be a model for st. catherine, and such like saints, now she was useful for young john the baptists. nothing pleased engele better than to be her father's model; she stood for hours and hours to him; he al- ways talked so cheerfully when he was painting ; and her mother used mostly to sit at her work in the room, and often at her spinning. often her mother sang; and sometimes, when engele was very much tired, her father would take his violin out of its case, to play to her and her mother while she rested. engele lived in a little german city; i have forgotten its name, but you might find it on the map, because there is a university in it ; if i remember the name i'll tell you. she had no companions except her parents the joy of engele. and her old grandmother, and the student berthold, who lodged at her grandmother's. berthold was a great friend of her father's, and used often to come to his studio, and that made her feel always at home with him. one day engele heard her parents talking about her father's grand picture which he had been many years in painting, and in which she herself had been the model of the new-born jesus, and then, before the picture was finished, of the eldest of the little an- gels, as well as of the intermediate ones. she heard them talking about how this pic- ture was gone somewhere, a long way off, for the king to see; and perhaps it would get a gold medal; and if the king bought it, then her father would be rich, and would be able to take them all to italy for him to study beautiful pictures there. engele lis- tened to all this, and because she saw that her parents were anxious about the picture, she prayed every night when she went to bed, that god would make the great people admire her father's picture; but she prayed in such a low whisper, that nobody knew anything about it.. the joy of engele. another thing she heard her father and mother talking of one day; and of it she thought a great deal. she was lying as a sleeping angel for her father, and he thought she really was asleep, so he and her mother talked freely. they said it was very incon- venient now engele was getting so big, be- cause her father had no very young model to paint from. he wished so much that they had a baby for a model. the mother sighed, and the father sighed, and then they both were silent for some time, and nothing was heard but the clock ticking and the buzzing of the mother's wheel. "it is a pity engele grows so tall," again said the father; “ she made such a beautiful model for a baby; i always sold my pictures," said he, “when i had a baby to paint.” “engele does certainly grow very tall," said the mother; and then all again was still. this conversation, trifling as it was, made engele very sad; she wished so much that she could turn herself into a baby again. at night she prayed that somehow or other the joy of engele. she was a very nice old woman for all that ; and she had such beautiful old-fashioned dresden china in a cupboard with a glass door, and brown squab mandarins that put out their tongues and nodded their heads, and always made engele laugh; and she had a cuckoo clock in her house. and the student berthold, who lodged with her, and was a great friend of the painter, he used to play on the guitar and sing such funny songs ! engele was always glad to go to her grandmother's. besides the student berthold, who lodged at the old woman's, six of the oldest boys at the gymnasium, which was just by, used to come in every day to have their dinners with her; so she had enough to do with cooking for them all, and with her rheumatism, which made her so lame; and that was the reason why she did not very often go across the city to her son's. one day, when engele was there, she heard the old woman say to the student ber- thold: “yes, and when the baby comes my son will do famously; he wants an infant the joy of engele. model very much; engele, you see, gets too big for that !” the student was smoking with a long pipe, on the bole of which was painted a beautiful copy of one of paul's most beauti- ful pictures—mary and jesus--the models of which had been his own wife and engele. engele's eyes were fixed on this as the grandmother spoke. the student said no- thing, for he was in a pleasant dream over the fumes of his tobacco; but engele lost not a word. was there really, then, a baby coming for her father to paint? it was a strange thought; she could not get it out of her head all day; but she said nothing to any one. when she got home she could not help looking at all her father's pictures that had young children in ther. such an indescri- bable love sprang up in her heart for the baby that was coming, and that would be like these, that it seemed to her as if she were already possessed of a great treasure. her father had a very fine picture in hand; but as yet it was only an outline car- the joy of engele. toon. he often said that that picture would establish his name; so said his wife, and so said the student berthold. he only, how- ever, worked at it now and then, on what he called his good days. one day he drew it forth; he seemed so happy, and the sun sbone into the room, and fell upon his long hair, and made its brown tint almost golden. engele could not help looking at her father ; she thought he looked so like something in his own picture. he had two beautiful white lilies in his hand. “i shall get on gloriously with my picture," said he, “ when the baby comes ! and then he stuck the two white lilies into his wife's hair, and kissed her, and said he would make a study of her head for his grand pic- ture. she had only a grey woollen gown on of her own spinning, a black velvet bodice, which was in part the peasant's costume, a curiously worked leathern pocket outside her dress, and a little bunch of keys hung to a silver chain : but for all that she looked fit to be a great painter's wife. engele dreamt that night about her fa- ther’s grand picture, and about a baby which the joy of engele. lay on her mother's knee, and which he was painting; it was such a lovely dream, that she was quite sorry when her father woke her. he woke her very early; he told her to get up and dress herself, and go to spend the day with the old grandmother; he helped her to dress; he plaited her long thick hair, and tied it like a coronet round her head; he put on her little old-fashioned grey woollen frock, with its long waist and full skirts ; pinned a little red shawl over her shoulders, and, opening the door which led into the street, told her to go straight to her grand- mother's, and he would fetch her in the evening. engele had no bonneton, because she never wore one; nobody but the rich did in that part of germany, and her family were not rich, so neither she nor her mother wore bonnets. engele walked all through the city, wondering why she must go so early to her grandmother. it was so early in the morning, that the watchman was only just coming out of the church, in the tower of which he had been keeping watch all night. he nodded kindly to engele as she passed, the joy of engele. and so did the country women, who were seating themselves in the street with their pitchers of sour milk, and their eggs and fruit, which they had brought, early as it was, into the town for sale. engele's grandmother did not seem at all surprised to see her; and when berthold, the student, came into his breakfast, and saw her there, he went up to the old woman, and asked, in a whisper, but loud enough for engele to hear, if the baby were come. the student never went to the university all that day; he played on his guitar, and showed engele beautiful pictures in his books, and on his pipes, for he had a great many. berthold was a rich student: he wore silver spurs, and rode upon a fine black horse. engele often saw him on horseback; and when he met her anywhere when he was riding, he always took off his cap, as if she were a great lady. she thought ber- thold a perfect gentleman; and besides, he was her father's great friend, and admired his pictures so much berthold dined at an inn; and the six the joy of engele. gymnasium boys dined with engele and her grandmother. in the afternoon berthold's fine horse was brought to the door for him to take a ride, and engele's father came in just at that mo- ment; he looked so handsome and so happy; he kissed the old woman, and said, “well, thank heaven! i shall get on gloriously with my picture now. i have now such a baby for a model as never was seen!” tears were in the old grandmother's eyes, and she said, “thank god!” engele was ready to cry for joy also; but she had no time; the student berthold caught her in his arms, and kissed her, and said that she should ride before him on his fine black horse, and that he would set her down at her father's door as he went by. i wish anybody could have seen engele's face, as she rode up the street sitting before the student! instead, however, of going direct to the painter's house, he went down some back streets, and stopped at the post-office. here they gave him some letters—one only of which he opened. the joy of engele. “here is good news for us, engele,” said he; “ brave good news, and thou shalt take it to thy father. the king has bought his picture—they have conferred a gold medal upon him—and all the world will now ac- knowledge that he is a great painter !” marien's pilgrimage. a fireside story. hristianity, like a little child, goes wandering over the world. fearless in its innocence, it is not abashed before princes, nor confound- ☺ ed by the wisdom of synods. before it, the blood-stained warrior sheathes his sword, and plucks the laurel from his brow; -the midnight murderer turns from his purpose, and, like the heart-smitten disciple, goes out and weeps bitterly. it brings liber- ty to the captive, joy to the mourner, freedom to the slave, repentance and forgiveness to marien's pilgrimage. sinner, hope to the faint-hearted, and assu- rance to the dying. it enters the huts of poor men, and sits down with them and their children ; it makes them contented in the midst of privations, and leaves behind an everlasting blessing. it walks through great cities, amidst all their pomp and splendor, their unimaginable pride, and their unutterable misery, a purifying, ennobling, correcting, and redeeming angel. it is alike the beautiful companion of childhood and the comfortable associate of. age. it ennobles the noble; gives wisdomi to the wise ; and new grace to the lovely.. the patriot, the priest, the poet, and the elo-- quent man, all derive their sublimest power from its influence. thanks be to the eternal father, who has made us one with him through the be- nign spirit of christianity. nign spiritus one with sternal fathe part i. willilllll, winia mit irough the wide world went marien, on a holy mission sent, a little child of tender years, throughout the world she went. and ever as she went along, sweet flowers sprang 'neath her feet- all flowers that were most beautiful, of virtues strong and sweet. marien's pilgrimage. and ever, as she went along, the desert beasts grew tame; and man, the savage, dyed with blood, the merciful became. now, if you will attend to me, i will in order tell the history of this little child, and what to her befel. no friend at all had marien, and at the break of day, in a lonesome place within the world, in quiet thought she lay. the stars were lost in coming morn, the moon was pale and dim, and the golden sun was rising over the ocean's rim. with upturned eye lay marien ;- “and i am alone,” said she, “though the blackbird and the nightingale sing in the forest tree: “though the weak woodland creatures come to me when i call, and eat their food from out my hand ; and i am loved by all: marien's pilgrimage. “though sun, and moon, and stars come out, and flowers of fairest grace, and whate'er god made beautiful, are with me in this place : “ yet i am all alone, alone, alone both night and day! so i will forth into the world, and do what good i may: “for many a heart is sorrowful, and i that heart may cheer ;- and many a weary captive pines in dungeons dark and drear ;- and i the iron bonds may loose,- then why abide i here? “and many a spirit dark with crime, yet longeth to repent; and many a grievous wrong is done to the weak and innocent ; and i may do the injured right, may save the penitent ! “up, i will forth into the world !” and, thus as she did say, sweet marien from the ground rose up and went forth on her way. marien's pilgrimage. through the wood went marien, the thick wood and the green ; and not far had she travelled ere a cruel sight was seen.' under the green and leafy boughs where singing birds were set ; at strife about their heritage, two ruffian brothers met. “thou shalt not of our father's land," the elder said, “ have part !” the younger brother spoke no word, but stabbed him to the heart. then deep into the forest dark with desperate speed he ran, and gentle marien stood beside the bleeding, murdered man. with pitying tears that would not cease, she washed his wounded side, and prayed him to have faith in him who for the sinner died. but no sign made the murdered man, there stiff in death he lay ;- and marien through the forest wild went mourning on her way. marien's pilgrimage. ere long, as she went wandering on, she came to where there sat, with folded arms upon her breast, a woman desolate. pale was she as the marble stone, and steadfast was her eye; she sat enchained, as in a trance, by her great misery. “what ails thee, mother ?" marien said, in a gentle voice and sweet; “what aileth thee, my mother ?” and knelt down at her feet. “ what aileth thee, my mother ?”. kind marien still did say: and those two words, my mother, to the lone heart found their way. as one who wakeneth in amaze, she quickly raised her head ;- and “who is't calls me mother ?” said she, “my child is dead !” “he was the last of seven sons- he is dead-i have none other ;- this is the day they bury him ;- who is it calls me mother ?" marien's pilgrimage. “ 'tis i,” said gentle marien, “dear soul be comforted !” but the woman only wrung her hands, and cried, “my son is dead !" “ be comforted,” said marien, and then she sweetly spake of jesus christ, and how he came the sting from death to take. she told of all his life-long love, his soul by suffering tried : and how at last his mother stood to see him crucified. of the disciples' broken hearts she told, of pangs and pain ; of mary at the sepulchre, and christ arisen again. “then sorrow not,” she said, “ as though thou wert of all bereft; for still though thy beloved are not, this blessed faith is left, “ that when thy dream of life is o'er thou shalt embrace thy seven, more beautiful than earthly sons, with our dear lord in heaven!" marien's pilgrimage. down on her knees the woman fell, and “ blessed be god," said she, “who in my sorest need hath sent this comforter to me!" . part ii. now marien in the woman's house abode a little space, and comfort to the mother came ; and a dear daughter's place had marien in the woman's heart, doing the while a daughter's part. but now 't was time that she must go, for marien's duty was not there, now grief was past and woe was done ; . so with the rising of the sun, she rose up forth to fare. “ nay, bide with me,” the woman said, “ or, if as thou dost say, duty forbids that this may be, i a day's journey go with thee, to speed thee on the way.” so forth the loving pair set out, the woman and the child ; and first they crossed the desert heath, and then the mountains wild. marien's pilgrimage. and in the woman's arms she lay that night within the forest hoar, and the next morn with loving heart, they said farewell, as those who part to meet on earth no more. upon her way went marien, from morn till set of day, and the peace of god that passeth word, upon her spirit lay; and oftentimes she sang aloud as she went on her way. the joyfulest song sang marien that e'er left human tongue; the very birds were mute to hear the holy words she sung. but now the darksome night came on, and marien lay her down within a little way-side cave, on mosses green and brown. and in the deepest hush of night rude robbers entered in; and first they ate and drank, then rose to do a deed of sin. marien's pilgrimage. for with them was a feeble man, whom they had robbed, and they here came to foully murder him, and hide him from the day. up from her bed sprang marien, with heavenly power endued; and in her glorious innocence, stood 'mong the robbers rude. “ye shall not take the life of man!" spake marien low and sweet; “for this will god take strict account, before his judgment seat!”. out from the cave the robbers fled, for they believed there stood, a spirit stern and beautiful, not aught of flesh and blood. and two from out the robber-band thenceforward did repent, and lived two humble christian men, on righteous deeds intent. when from the cave the robber-band had fled, the aged man rose from the floor where he was laid, and marvelling much, began : marien's pilgrimage. “ who art thou, child ? and those few words of might which thou hast spoken, what may they be? my foes have fled and lo! my bonds are broken ;- at thy few words my foes have fled, my rigid bonds have broken!" then marien 'gan to tell him how, through her god's power had wrought; and him from peril, nigh to death, thus wondrously had brought, she told how holy daniel's faith the caged beasts disarmed ; how the three righteous children walked through raging fire unharmed. she told how peter, bound with chains, lay in the prison-ward, how god's good angel freed him straight, and the strong prison’s iron gate, oped of its own accord. “god knows our wants,” said marien, "and in our sorest need, puts forth his arm to rescue us, for he is merciful, and thus it is that thou art freed." marien's pilgrimage. “let us go hence !" the old man said, and o'er the forest sod, they, hand in hand, with quiet steps, went forward praising god. ere noontide to a forest grange they came, a sylvan place, where trooped, no longer fearing man, the forest's native race, the white doe and the antlered stag, and every beast of chase. "t was joy to see them drawing near the old man as he came; and this he stroked, and that he called by some familiar name. 'twas joy unto the little child this pleasant place to see; « this is my home," he said, “and here thou shalt abide with me." "i have no child to be mine heir, and i am growing old ;- thou shalt be heir of all my lands, and heir of all my gold. marien's pilgrimage. “thou shalt be comfort to mine age, and here within this wood, 'mongst faithful, gentle things, shalt thou grow up to womanhood!” there dwelt the loving marien; within the forest wild, and she unto the lone old man was dearer than a child. there dwelt the loving marien ; yet not long dwelt she there; the old man died; and then came forth a kinsman for the heir. a lean and rugged man of pelf in wickedness grown old; from some vile city den he came and seized upon the gold ;- he slew the tamed forest-beasts, the forest-grange he sold. and with hard speeches, coarse and rude, away the child he sent: meek marien answered not a word, but through the forest went. part iii. through the wild wood went marien, for many a weary day; her food the forest-fruits, and on the forest-turf she lay. the wildern wood was skirted by moorlands dry and brown; and after them came marien into a little town. at entrance of the little town a cross stood by the way, a rude stone cross, and there she knelt a little prayer to say. then on the stone steps sate her down ; and soon beside her crept, a pale child with a clasped book, and all the while she wept. “why weep you, child," asked marien, “what troubleth you so sore ?" at these words spoken tenderly, the child wept more and more. marien's pilgrimage. “i have not heard," at length he said, “kind words this many a year, my mother is dead-and my father is a hard man and severe. “i sit in corners of the house where none can see me weep; and in the quiet of the day. 'tis here i often creep. “ the kid leaps by his mother's side, the singing birds are glad: but when i play me in the sun, my heart is ever sad. “they say this blessed book can heal all trouble, and therefore all day i keep it in my sight; i lay it 'neath my head at night, but it doth bring no cure to me:- i know not what the cause may be for i of learning have no store !" thereat, like to a broken flower the child drooped down his head ; then marien took the clasped book and of the saviour read. marien's pilgrimage. : she read of him the humble child of poverty and scorn; how holy angels sang for him the night that he was born. how blessed angels came from heaven to hail that christmas night and shepherd people with their flocks beheld the glorious sight. then read she how a growing youth, his parents he obeyed, and served with unrepining will st. joseph at his trade. then how he grew to man's estate and wandered up and down, preaching upon the lone sea-side, and in the busy town. of all his tenderness, his love, page after page she read; how he made whole the sick, the maimed, and how he raised the dead. and how he loved the children small, even of low degree; and how he blessed them o'er and o'er, and set them on bis knee. marien's pilgrimage. when this the little child had heard he spoke in accents low, “would that i had been one with them to have been blessed so!" when spoke “thou shalt be blessed, gentle one !" said marien kind and mild, “ christ, the great comforter, doth bless thee, even now, poor child !" so conversed they of holy things. until the closing day; then marien and the little child rose up to go their way. as to the town they came, they passed an ancient church, and “here let us go in!” the pale child said, “for the organ pealeth over head, and that sweet strain of holy sound like a heavenly vesture wraps me round, and my heavy heart doth cheer.” so marien and the little child into the church they stole; and many voices rich and soft rose upward from the organ loft, marien's pilgrimage. and the majestic instrument pealed to an anthem that was sent to soothe a troubled soul. anon the voices died away, the pealing organ ceased, and through the church's ancient door passed chorister and priest. and marien and the little child went forward hand in hand adown the chancel isle, and then at once they made a stand. over the altar hung a piece with holy influence fraught, a work divine of wondrous skill by some old painter wrought. the gracious saviour breathing love, was there like life expressed, and round his knees the children small were thronging to be blessed. down dropped the child upon his knees, and weeping, tenderly, cried, “ bless me also, poor and weak, or let me go to thee !" - marien's pilgrimage. anon his little head dropped low, and his white lips 'gan to say, “oh kiss me gentle one, for now even i am called away the blessed mother's voice i hear, it calleth me away!" so died the child ;—and marien laid his meek arms on his or teen his hands ;- with the clasped book between his hands ;- thus god had given him rest ! and marien, weeping holy tears, sate down beside the dead, and slept that night within the church, as in a kingly bed. scarce from the church had marien passed, when came the father there, as was his wont, though fierce and bad, to say a morning prayer. not seven paces had he gone, when, heart-struck, he surveyed before his feet, that little child in his dead beauty laid. at once as by a lightning stroke his softened soul was torn marien's pilgrimage. with a deep sense of all the wrong that little child had borne. and then came back the timid voice, the footstep faint and low, the many little arts to please, the look of hopeless woe, and many a shuddering memory of harsh rebuke and blow. no prayer of self-approving words, as was his wont, he said, but humbled, weeping, self-condemned, he stood before the dead. hey part iv. ten long days' travel marien went, o’er woodland and o'er wold, teaching and preaching by the way, like jesus christ of old. sometimes within the baron's hall a lodging she would find, and never went she from the door but blessings staid behind; proud foes forgiven, revenge withheld, and plenteous peace of mind. with shepherd people on the hills ; with toiling peasant men, she sate ; with women dwelling lone, on mountain or in glen. by wayside wells she sate her down, with pilgrims old and bent ; or, hand in hand, with children small, to the village school she went. marien's pilgrimage. she made them spare the singing birds all in their leafy bowers ; she made them love all living things; and praise god for the flowers. but now she came to where there raged wild war throughout the land; she heard the vexèd people's cry; she saw the ravaged corn-fields lie; the hamlets smoking to the sky; and everywhere careering by the spoiler's savage band. all hearts were changed. like rav'ning wolves men preyed upon each other; dead children lay on the bloody mould ; and pitiless had grown, and cold, the heart of many a mother. wild shouts and horrid shrieks around filled all the air; the earth reeked with the blood that had been spilt; and man made mockery and mirth of agony and mortal woe:- yet through all this did marien go. outraged of heart, the child went on, weeping upon her way; marien's pilgrimage. and now she soothed a dying wretch; then for another ran to fetch water; and every day did deeds of mercy, good and mild :- thus journeyed on the pitying child. on went she,—and as she went on, men grew ashamed of blood, so beautiful did mercy seem; and the wild soldier rude slunk back as slinks a noisome beast; and to their homes once more came mothers with their little ones; and old men, weak and hoar, sate in the sun as they had wont, unfearing at their door. on went the child, and as she went, within the baron's hall, were hung up helm and mail and sword, to rust upon the wall. on went she,--and the poets sung no longer war's acclaim, but holy hymns of love and joy, to hail her as she came. marien's pilgrimage. on went she, like an angel good; with bounding steps she went, day after day, until she came to the great conqueror's tent. there sat he, a strong man of blood, steel-mailed and scarfed with blue, poring o'er charts of distant lands, for new lands to subdue. . beside him stood the gentle child; and now he traced with care, measuring from river unto sea, a fertile region fair. “ 'tis a good land,” said marien, “from river unto sea : and there a quiet people dwell, who never heard of thee. “they feed their flocks and herds in peace;: the fruitful vine they till ; the quiet homes their fathers built they and their children fill. “even now their happy children's joy thee and thy will condemn; “wherefore should'st thou possess that land ?' god gave it unto them !" marien's pilgrimage. into her face the proud man looked, amazed at what he heard; then turned unto his charts again, and answered never a word. another land among the hills he measured with his eye; “ 'tis a stern land,” said marien, “a land of liberty! “there fled the christians in old time, and built their churches there; the bells upon the sabbath more call all that land to prayer. “would'st thou god's people tribulate ? a cursed thing it were to make that christian land of love a bloody sepulchre !" the proud man turned him round about and fiercely gazed at her. .“ rivers of blood have flowed for thee !" unblenching marien said, “ and many a christian land hast thou with christian blood made red. “up, sin no more! 'tis coming now, the day thou canst not flee, marien's pilgrimage. when all the thousands thou hast slain god will require of thee! “thou man of blood, repent, repent, repent whilst yet thou may, and store up deeds of love and peace against that awful day!” up from his seat the conqueror rose, and paced the uneasy tent, and ground his teeth and groaned aloud as one that doth repent. forth from the tent sped marien; and many a summer's day throughout a blessed land of peace she journeyed on her way, part v. at length, after long travel past, she came as it grew late, along a beaten road, that led to a vast city gate. a vast and populous city, where rose dome and tower, and spire, and many a gilded pinnacle, far-seen, as the bright sunset fell, like glittering points of fire. a city vast and populous, whose thronging multitude sent forth a sound afar-off heard, strong as the ocean-flood. a strong, deep sound of many sounds, toil, pleasure, pain, delight, and traffic, myriad-wheeled, whose din ceased not by day or night. marien's pilgrimage. · and through the city gate a throng passed ever, never spent; a busy mingling human tide of those who came and went. 'twas a proud city and a rich; a city fair and old; filled with the world's most costly things,- of precious stones and gold; of silks, fine woods; and spiceries ; and all that's bought and sold, thither came homeless marien, came there as it grew late, foot-sore and weary, friendless, poor, unto the city gate. there found her a poor carpenter returning from his trade, and he, with pitying countenance, her weary form surveyed. “come !" said he, “thou unto my house, shalt go: and of my bread, and of my cup, thou shalt partake; shalt bide with me!" and as he spake her weary steps he led. marien's pilgrimage. unto an humble place that stood 'mong dwellings of the poor he brought her; bade her welcome thrice unto his lowly door. the good-wife met her with like cheer “and though our fare is scant, fear not,” she said, “ whilst we have food it is not thou shalt want !" so dwelt she with this humble pair in the great city; cherished so, as parents cherish their first-born; nor would they let her go. thus for a year she dwelt with them; and that while their abode was blessed exceedingly; their store grew daily, weekly, more and more; and peace so multiplied around, the very hearth seemed holy ground, as if once more on earth was found the paradise of god. 'twas she that blessed the bread they ate, 'twas she soothed all their cares ; they knew not they entertained an angel unawares. marien's pilgrimage. with simple hearts that had no guile they of the saviour heard ; and, weeping tears of joyful faith, believed and blessed each word. no more they marvelled how their board with plenteous food was spread ; five barley loaves dispensed by christ, the famished thousands fed. with love that would not be repressed, their kindling bosoms burned, and ’mong their neighbors poor they went to teach what they had learned. to teach how christ unto the poor, the sinner vile, was sent; how mary washed his feet with tears, and wiped them with her golden hairs, and weeping penitent. and how the sinful woman stood unjudged before his face ; how the poor prodigal sped back repentant to his place ; how to the thief upon the cross he said, thou art forgiven, marien's pilgrimage. “ bishops have taught a thousand years, and learned men are they; these are mad doctrines, false, unfit, devised to lead astray." therefore the simple people were to a full synod brought, to answer for their altered lives, and for the faith they taught. much marvelled all those learned men to see them fearless stand, calm, unabashed; with ready wit, and fanguage at command. and to their taunts of low estate, they answered, “ let alone all pride of rank; christ chose the poor, to make his gospel known. “and what are we?-immortal souls, for whom christ's blood was shed; children of one great sire, with ye, co-heirs of immortality; alike you both in birth and death ; alone our lot so differeth, as god shall judge the dead !" part vi. so perished, for their faith in christ, this righteous couple; for their foes beseeching pardon; blessing god that they were reckoned among those worthy to die for christ, whose place is with the holiest face to face. beside the pile stood marien weeping sad human tears, yet strenghening, comforting the while, and soothing all their fears. and as she spoke, her countenance with heavenly lustre beamed, and all around her youthful form celestial beauty streamed. men looked on her with wondering awe, as on an angel's face, and pity, and love, and sweet remorse, in every heart had place. marien's pilgrimage. throughout the city rang the tale of this divinest child ; and for her sake unto her faith many were reconciled. unto the synod came these things; and “here let her be brought, to answer for herself,” they said, “and suffer as she ought.” as christ among the doctors stood, so she among these men, stern, rugged-browed, and deeply versed in parchment and in pen; meekly she stood; when they reviled, reviling not again. yet with sweet words and argument, rather of love than lore, she pleaded for the faith, as ne'er pled youthful tongue before. all were amazed who heard her words; and straightway spoke each one unto his neighbor, “through this child may mighty things be done !" then threatening words anon grew soft, “and thou with us shalt go," marien's pilgrimage. they said, " and with the poor and vile, no longer suffer wo. “thou shalt be clothed in purple robes, in gold and linen fine; shalt eat the daintiest food; shalt drink the spirit-gladdening wine. “and with us in proud palaces a crowned queen shalt be; leave but these men, for they are poor, and can do nought for thee! “behold the stake at which they burn- the iron-rack behold are these the men to make thee rich with silver and with gold ? “come with us, glorious marien, and in our places high, we will exalt thee as a queen, will deck thee royally!" « nay,” said sweet marien, “as a queen it is not i may bide; . i am not won with power nor gold, nor aught of human pride. marien's pilgrimage “who clothes the lilies of the field, will clothe me, even as they ; who hears the ravens when they cry, will feed me day by day!" but still the tempters kept with her; and “come away,” they said, and she unto a sumptuous dome with royal pomp was led. they showed her all that palace proud : they showed her store of gold; they told her of a hundred realms, and wealth a hundred-fold. “and all this shall be thine," they said, “all this be thine, and more, so thou wilt bind thyself to us, and leave the weak and poor ! “thou that art weak and poor thyself, a crowned queen shalt be!". said marien, “in the wilderness the tempter came, and he offered to jesus christ such gifts as now ye offer me !" marien's pilgrimage. those rugged brows grew dark. “come now with us,” they fiercely said, “ and see what never daylight saw, the halls of dool and dread !” then unto chambers hidden, vast, mysterious, far from view, they led her; there was set the rack, the knotted cord, the screw, and many a horrid instrument, whose dark ensanguined hue told of their purpose. “these," said they, "many strange wonders do! « look well; could'st thou endure these things ? strong men have died ere now under their torment; men were they, a little child art thou !" then marien meekly answered, “what god suffereth you to dare, he, to whom darkness is as light, will strengthen me to bear!” “ come onward yet,” they said; and down damp, broken stairs they went ; down, down to hidden vaults of stone, through vapors pestilent. marien's pilgrimage. and then with sullen iron keys they opened doors of stone; and heavy-chainèd captives there they showed her, one by one. old, white-haired men; men middle-aged, that had been strong of limb; but each, now pallid, hollow-eyed, like spectres worn and dim. and many, as the dull door oped, ne'er lifted up the head ;- heart-broken victims of long pain, whose very hope was dead. others with feverish restlessness sprang up, and with quick cry, that thrilled the hearer to the soul demanded liberty. with bleeding heart went marien on; and her conductors spake, “ these are our victims; these await the rack, the cord, the stake. “ and as these are, so shalt thou be, if thou our will gainsay; accept our service, pride, and power ; or, on this very day, marien's pilgrimage. racked, prisoned, poor, and miserable, thou shalt be, even as they !" down on the floor sank marien, and “oh, dear lord,” she cried, “ assist thy poor and trembling one this awful hour to bide; let me be strong to do thy will, like him who bowed, and died ! they took her :-of that prison-house, the secrets who may say ?- racked, fettered, captived, in their power, the gentle marien lay; captive within their torture-halls a long night and a day! part vii. then forth they brought her ; gave her wine, and pleasant food to eat; and “rest thee, marien, in our arms,” sung syren-voices sweet. “rest thee within our arms; refresh thy fainting soul with wine ; eat and be glad ; forget the past, . and make all pleasure thine !" “ tempt me not !" said the feeble child, “take hence your spiced bowl; is 't not enough to rack my limbs, but you must vex my soul ? “ look at my flesh, which ye have torn; look at your bloody rack ;- take hence your gifts, and let me go to my own people back. "to my own people let me go, a bruised and broken reed; i for your purpose am unmeet; let me go hence with speed !" marien's pilgrimage. when one from out the felon-band came softly to her side, and “do not weep, thou little child !" with pitying voice, he cried. “at sight of thee, i know not why, my softened heart doth burn, and the gone tenderness of youth doth to my soul return. “i think upon my early days, like unto days of heaven; and i, that have not wept for years, even as a child, shed ceaseless tears, and pray to be forgiven!” “blessèd be god !” said marien, and rose up from the floor; “i was not hither brought in vain! his mercy i adore, who out of darkness brought forth light !" and thus she wept no more. but ever of the saviour taught; how he came down to win, with love, and suffering manifold, the sinner from his sin. marien's pilgrimage. how, not to kings and mighty men he came, nor to the wise, but to the thief and murderer, and those whom men despise. and how, throughout the host of heaven, goes yet a louder praise o'er one poor sinner who doth turn from his unrighteous ways, than o'er a hundred godly men, who sin not all their days. thus with the felons she abode, and that barred prison rude was as if angels dwelt therein, and not fierce men of blood; for god had her captivity turned into means of good. now all this while sweet marien's friends, who in the town remained, of her took painful thought, resolved her freedom should be gained. and at the last they compassed it, with labor long and great ; and through the night they hurried her unto the city-gate. marien's pilgrimage. there many a mother stood and child, weeping with friendly woe, thus, thus to weep, as 't were from death, and then to bid her go. to bid her go, whom so they loved, nor once more see her face; to bid her go; to speed her forth to some more friendly place. thus, amid blessings, prayers, and tears, about the break of day, she left the city, praising god for her release, and swiftly trod upon her unknown way. part viii. a bow-shot from the city-gate turned marien from the plain, intent by unfrequented ways the mountain-land to gain. with bounding step she onward went, over the moorland fells; o'er fragrant tracks of purple thyme, and crimson heather-bells. joyful in her release she went, still onward yet, and higher; up many a mossy, stony steep, through many a flock of mountain sheep, by the hill-tarns so dark and deep, as if she could not tire. onward and upward still she went among the breezy hills, singing for very joyfulness unto the singing rills. marien's pilgrimage. the days of her captivity, the days of fear and pain, were past, and now through shade and shine, she wandered free again. free, like the breezes of the hill, free like the waters wild ; and in her fulness of delight, unceasingly from height to height went on the blessed child. and ever when she needed food, some wanderer of the hill drew forth the morsel from his scrip, and bade her eat her fill. for he who fed by cherith-brook the prophet in his need, of this his wandering little one unceasingly had heed. and ever when she needed rest, some little cove she found, so green, so sheltered, and so still, upon the bosom of the hill, as angels girt it round. marien's pilgrimage. thus hidden 'mong the quiet hills alone, yet wanting nought, she dwelt secure, until her foes - for her no longer sought. ' then forth she journeyed. soon the hills were of more smooth descent ; and downward now, and onward still, toward the sea she went. toward the great sea for many days; and now she heard its roar ; had sunlit glimpses of it now, and now she trod the shore. a rugged shore of broken cliffs, and barren wave-washed sand, where only the dry sea-wheat grew. * by patches on the strand. a weary way walked marien beside the booming sea, nor boat, nor hut, nor fisherman, throughout the day saw she. a weary, solitary way; and as the day declined over the dark and troubled sea. arose a stormy wind. w marien's pilgrimage. it was an old and crazy boat, wherein the man was set, and soon 't was laden heavily with many a laden net. “ ob sorrow, sorrow !” groaned he forth, as rose the sudden squall, thinking upon the mother dead, and on his children small. “oh sorrow, sorrow !" loud he cried, as the helm flew from his hand, and he knew the boat was sinking but half a league from land. “oh sorrow, sorrow !” as he sank, was still his wailing cry: and marien heard amid the storm, that voice of misery. now all this while the children small kept in their dreary place, troubled and sad, and half afear'd of their dead mother's face. and when, to while the time, they played with shells beside the door, they found they had not hearts for mirth, and so they played no more. marien's pilgrimage. yet keeping up with forced content their hearts as best they might, still wishing afternoon were gone, and it was only night. but when, hour after hour went on, and the night-tempest black raged o'er the stormy sea, and still the father came not back; it would have touched a heart of stone to see their looks of fear- so young and so forlorn ;-their words of counsel small to hear. and now they shouted through the storm; and then with better wit, as they had seen their mother do, a fire of wood they lit, that he might see the light afar, and steer his boat by it. unto this light came marien ; and ere her weary feet had reached the floor, the children ran with eager arms to meet their loving father, as they thought, and give him welcome sweet. marien's pilgrimage. alas! the father even had run his mortal race; but god had sent this comforter to fill his earthly place. part ix. w o's me, what secret tears are shed, what wounded spirits bleed; what loving hearts are sundered, and yet man takes no heed ! he goeth on his daily course, made fat with oil and wine, and pitieth not the weary souls that in his bondage pine ; that turn for him the mazy wheel ; that delve for him the mine! and pitieth not the children small, in noisy factories dim, that all day long, lean, pale, and faint, do heavy tasks for him ! to him they are but as the stones beneath his feet that lie: it entereth not his thoughts that they from him claim sympathy. it entereth not his thoughts that god heareth the sufferer's groan, marien's pilgrimage. that in his righteous eye, their life is precious as his own. this moves him not. but let us now unto the fisher's shed, where sat his weeping little ones three days beside the dead. it was a solitary waste of barren sand, which bore no sign of human dwelling-place for miles along the shore. yet to the scattered dwellers there sped marien, and besought that of the living and the dead they would take christian thought. so in the churchyard by the sea the senseless dead was laid : “and now what will become of us !" the weeping children said. “for who will give us bread to eat ? the neighbors are so poor! and he, our kinsman in the town, would drive us from his door. “for he is rich and pitiless, with heart as cold as stone! marien's pilgrimage. who will be parents to us now that ours are dead and gone ?” “weep not,” said faithful marien, man's heart is not so hard, but it your friendless misery will tenderly regard ! “and i with you will still abide your friendless souls to cheer, be father and mother both to you; for this god sent me here. “and to your kinsman in the town, who hath such store of gold, i will convey you: god can change his spirit stern and cold. “and ye, like angels of sweet love, from earth his soul may win. fear not; and we with morning light the journey will begin.” they took their little worldly store; and at the break of day, leaving the lonesome sea-side shed, set out upon their way. 'mong sandy hills their way they wound; o'er sea-grass dusk and harsh; marien's pilgrimage. by many a land-mark lone and still ; through many a salt-sea marsh. and thus for twice seven days they went a little, loving band, walking along their weary way like angels, hand in hand. and everywhere kind christian folks they found, as marien said, who gave them lodging for the night, and gave them daily bread. and thus they pilgrimed, day by day, alone, yet not cast down, · strengthened by marien's company, unto the sea-port town. a busy town beside the sea, where men were all astir, buying and selling; eager-eyed, two different races, yet allied, - merchant and mariner. a place of ships, whose name was known far off beyond the main ; a busy place of trade, where nought was in repute but gain. marien's pilgrimage. thither they came, those children poor, about the eventide ; and where dwelt he, their kinsman rich, they asked on every side. after long asking, one they found, an old man and a poor, who undertook to lead them straight unto the kinsman's door. but ever as he went along he to himself did say, low broken sentences, as thus, “ their kinsman !—well-a-way!" all through a labyrinth of walls blackened with cloudy smoke, he led them, where was heard the forge and the strong hammer's stroke. and beneath lofty windows dim in many a doleful row, whence came the jangle of quick looms, down to the courts below. still on the children, terrified, with wildered spirits passed ; until of these great mammon halls, they reached the heart at last,- a little chamber hot and dim, with iron bars made fast. marien's pilgrimage. there sate the kinsman, shrunk and lean, and leaden-eyed and old, busied before a lighted lamp in sealing bags of gold. the moment that they entered in, he clutched with pallid fear his heavy bags, as if he thought that sudden thieves were near. “ rich man!” said marien, “ope thy bags and of thy gold be free, make gladsome cheer, for heaven bath sent a blessing unto thee !" “ what !” said the miser, “ is there news of my lost argosy ?” “better than gold, or merchant-ships, is that which thou shalt win," said marien, " thine immortal soul from its black load of sin.” “ look at these children, thine own blood,” and then their name she told ; “ open thine heart to do them good, to love them more than gold ;- and what thou givest will come back to thee, a thousand-fold !” “ah," said the miser, “even these some gainful work may do. marien's pilgrimage. my looms stand still ; of youthful hands i have not half enow; i shall have profit in their toil ; yes, child, thy words are true !" “thou fool!” said marien, “still for gain, to cast thy soul away! the lord be judge 'twixt these and thee upon his reckoning day! “these little ones are fatherless, he sees them day and night; and as thou doest unto them, on thee he will requite !" “ gave i not alms upon a time ?" said he with anger thrilled ; “and when i die, give i not gold, a stately church to build ? “what would'st thou more ? my flesh and blood i seek not to gainsay. but what i give, is it unmeet their labor should repay !" so saying, in an iron chest, he locked his bags of gold, and bade the children follow him, in accents harsh and cold. partx, oh leave us not sweet marien!" the little children spake; “for if thou leave us here, alone, our wretched hearts will break.” she left them not-kind marien! and in a noisome room, day after day, week after week, they labored at the loom. the while they thought with longing souls upon the breezy strand, the flying shuttles, to and fro, passed through each little hand. the while they thought with aching hearts, upon their parents dear, the growing web was watered, with many a bitter tear. and the sweet memory of the past, the white sands stretching wide; their father's boat wherein they played, upon the rocking tide; marien's pilgrimage. the sandy shells; the sea-mew's scream; the ocean's ceaseless boom; came to them like a troubling dream, within the noisy loom. wo-worth those children, hard bestead, a weary life they knew; their hands were thin; their cheeks were pale, that were of rosy hue. the miser kinsman in and out passed ever and anon; nor ever did he speak a word, except to urge them on. wo-worth those children, hard bestead, they worked the livelong day; nor was there one, save marien, a soothing word to say :- so, amid toil and pain of heart, the long months wore away. the long, the weary months passed on, and the hard kinsman told over his profits; every loom increased the hoard of gold; “ 'tis well!” said he, “let more be spun, that more may yet be sold !” marien's pilgrimage. so passed the time; and with the toil of children weak and poor, the sordid kinsman's treasure-hoards increased more and more. but ere a year was come and gone, the spirit of the boy was changed; with natures fierce and rude he found his chiefest joy. the hardness of the kinsman's soul wrought on him like a spell, exciting in his outraged heart, revenge and hatred fell ; the will impatient of control; the spirit to rebel hence was there warfare 'twixt the two, the weak against the strong ;- a hopeless, miserable strife, that could not last for long : how can the young, the poor, contend against the rich man's wrong! the tender trouble of his eye, was gone; his brow was cold; his speech, like that of desperate men, was reckless, fierce, and bold. marien's pilgrimage. no more he kissed his sister's cheek; nor soothed her as she wept; no more he said at marien's knee his prayers before he slept. but they, the solitary pair, like pitying angels, poured tears for the sinner; and with groans his evil life deplored. man knew not of that secret grief, which in their bosoms lay ; and for the sinful brother's sin, yet harder doom had they. but god, who trieth hearts; who knows the springs of human will; who is a juster judge than man, of mortal good and ill ; he saw those poor despised ones, and willed them still to mourn: he saw the wandering prodigal, yet bade him not return. in his good time that weak one's woe, would do its work of grace ; and the poor prodigal, himself, would seek the father's face ; marien's pilgrimage. meantime man's judgment censured them, as abject, mean and base. the erring brother was away, and none could tell his fate: and the young sister at the loom, sate drooping, desolate. she mourned not for her parents dead, nor for the breezy shore : and now the weary, jangling loom distracted her no more. like one that worketh in a dream, so worked she day by day, intent upon the loving grief, which on her spirit lay; and as she worked, and as she grieved, her young life wore away. and they who saw her come and go, oft said, with pitying tongue, “ alas, that labor is the doom, of aught so weak and young !" alone the kinsman pitied not ; he chid her, that no more the frame was strong, the hand was swift, as it had been before. x marien's pilgrimage. -all for the child was dark on earth, when holy angels bright unbarred the golden gates of heaven for her one winter's night. within a chamber poor and low, upon a pallet bed, she lay, and "hold my hand, sweet friend," with feeble voice she said. “oh, hold my hand, sweet marien," the dying child spake low; “and let me hear thy blessed voice, to cheer me as i go! “ 'tis darksome all—oh, drearly dark ! when will this gloom pass by ? is there no comfort for the poor, and for the young who die!" down by her side knelt marien, and kissed her fading cheek, then of the loving saviour, in low tones ’gan to speak. she told of lazarus, how he lay, a beggar mean and poor, and died, in misery and want, beside the rich man's door. marien's pilgrimage. yet how the blessed angels came to bear his soul on high, within the glorious courts of heaven, on abraham's breast to lie. she told how children, when they die, yet higher glory win, and see the father face to face, unsoiled by tainting sin. “ blessèd be god!" the child began, “i doubt not, neither fear, all round about the bed, behold, the angel-bands appear ! “i go !-yet still, dear marien, one last boon let me win! - seek out the poor lost prodigal, and bring him back from sin ! “ i go ! i go!”—and angels bright, the spirit bare away :- on earth 'twas darksome, dreary night, in heaven 'twas endless day! - and now, upon that self-same night, within a carvèd bed, lay the rich kinsman wrapped in lawn, with pillows 'neath his head. marien's pilgrimage. scheming deep schemes of gold, he lay all in that lordly room; blessing himself that he had stores for many years to come. just then an awful form spake low, a form that none might see: * thou fool, this very night thy soul shall be required of thee. and when into that chamber fair, stole in the morning-ray, a lifeless corpse, upon his bed, the miser kinsman lay. -beside his door stood solemn mutes ; and chambers high and dim, where hung was pall, and mourning lights made show of grief for him. full fifty muffled mourners stood, around the 'scutcheoned bed, that held the corse, as if, indeed, a righteous man were dead. within a tomb, which he had built, of costly marble-stone, they buried him, and plates of brass his name and wealth made known. marien's pilgrimage. a coffin of the meanest wood, the little child received; and o'er her humble, nameless grave, no hooded mourner grieved. only kind marien wept such tears, as the dear saviour shed, when in the house at bethany he mourned for lazarus dead. part xi. now from the miser kinsman's house came many a jovial sound; and lavish heirs had spent his gold, ere twelve months had gone round. that while within the busy town dwelt marien; and each day, in some good deed of christian love and mercy, passed away. for many an abject dweller there, grief-bowed and labor spent, groaned forth, amid his little ones, to heaven his sad lament; and unto such, to raise, to cheer, the sent of god, she went. but she who, even as they, was poor, failed not of daily bread; stranger, many took her in, and warmed, and clothed, and fed. marien's pilgrimage. and when a sickness sore befel, and nigh to death she lay, kind hearts there were who came to her, and watched her night and day. and afterwards, when evil men doomed her in bonds to lie, many a true, noble friend arose. willing for her to die. oh, blessed christian hearts, who thus unto this little one did deeds of love ; for as to christ these righteous works were done ! and they who blessed her, for themselves, a tenfold blessing won ! thus dwelt sweet marien in the town for many a passing year, yet of the poor, lost prodigal no tidings could she hear. she found him not; but yet she found others who, even as he, had gone astray, and pined forlorn in hopeless misery. to these repentant, outcast ones, she spake kind words of grace, marien's pilgrimage. and led them back, with yearning hearts, to seek the father's face; to find forgiveness in his heart, and love in his embrace. oh blessed, blessèd marien! -but let us now recall whate'er had happed of change and woe unto the prodigal. he saw his little sister pine ; he saw her silent woe; he saw her strength decline, yet still her weary labor grow. as this he saw, yet more and more he hated that hard man, with whom their cheerless misery, their daily tasks began. and even to true marien, he bare an altered mind ;- alas, that injuries should make else loving hearts unkind ! but so it is ! and when the twain to cheer his spirit strove, his wrath arose, and he repelled their patient deeds of love. marien's pilgrimage then evil men assailed his youth ; and he who was so frail in suffering, 'gainst the tempter's might was feeble to prevail. he was their easy prey; their tool ; and bravely clothed and fed, in desperate scenes, mid desperate men, a lawless life he led. yet often to his soul came back sweet memory of the time, when he, a happy, thoughtless child, had knowledge of no crime. and like a heavier, wearier woe, than labor night and day, the consciousness of evil deeds upon his spirit lay. he thought of slighted marien, and of the sister meek ; of the thin hands that plied the loom,. and of the fading cheek ; yet how he had deserted them, the faithful and the weak ! y marien's pilgrimage. he heard his loving parents' voice reproach him in his sleep; and conscience, that stern bosom-guest, ceaseless upbraidings keep. yet, for the hated kinsman's sake, neither would he regard ; and, because man was hard to him, made his own nature hard. thus doing outrage to his soul, by chance he went one day thro' the brown trodden church-yard, where the little sister lay. a sexton there at work he found; and why he turned the mould so carefully, he asked, since there no name the tenant told. replied he, “in this wide church-yard i know each separate mound; yet unto me that little grave alone seems holy ground.” and then he told of marien, and how she there had wept over the child, that 'neath the mould, in dreamless quiet slept. · marien's pilgrimage. lay self-condemned, believing all on his account were sent. anon a tempest rose, and drove the ship before the gale, for three long days, and bore away her rudder, mast and sail. on the fourth night dark land appeared, and the strained vessel bore right on the rocky reef, and lay a wreck upon the shore. at day-break only he remained to note the vessel's fate; the crusoe of a desert isle, abject and desolate. - the world went on as it was wont; and in the city street, and in the busy market-place, did thronging thousands meet. upon the hearths of poor men's homes good neighbors met at night; and kindness and companionship made woe and labor light. marien's pilgrimage. saw how his human pride was gone, his human will subdued. saw him and loved him. broken heart, look up! the father's voice calleth thee from thy depths of woe, and biddeth thee rejoice ! -now marien from the trading town had voyaged; sent of heaven she knew not whither : and the ship, which with long storm had striven, at length upon a glorious isle amid the seas was driven; where dwelt a gentle race at rest amid their flowery wilds, unknown to all the world, with hearts as simple as a child's. with them abode sweet marien; but now it chanced one day, as in a slender carved boat upon the shore she lay, a strong wind came, and filled the sail, and bare her thence away. marien's pilgrimage. she had no fear, true marien ;- that god was good, she knew, and even then had sent her forth some work of love to do. . the prodigal upon his rock was kneeling, and his prayer for confidence in heaven, arose upon the evening air, just as the little boat approached the island bleak and bare. the boat ran up a creek, as if 'twere steered by angels good; and ere the evening prayer was done beside the youth she stood. the chiefest joy it hath not words its deep excess to say; and as if he had seen a sprite his spirit died away. then with clasped hands and broken speech, and tears that ceaseless flowed ; he pourèd forth from his full heart a fervent praise of god. part xii. “ but let us hence," said marien; and with the earliest morn, within the slender carved boat, they left that isle forlorn. a light breeze from the desert shore over the waters blew, and the little boat sailed on before, till the isle was out of view. as friends long parted, met once more, they sat; and of times gone, and of the blessèd dead conversed, as the slender boat sailed on. and as they sailed, sweet marien over the gospel bent, and read of joy that is in heaven o’er sinners that repent; and of the weary prodigal returning bowed with shame, and the good father hastening forth to meet him as he came • marien's pilgrimage. and how he bade the fairest robe, be brought; the golden ring ; shoes for the feet: and music sweet, as if to hail a king. “for this, my son,” said he, “ was dead, and is alive; is found, who was long lost ; 'tis meet, therefore, that stintless joy abound !". “oh, child of woe,” said marien, “look up, for thou art he; and round about the father's throne many rejoice for thee !” “oh, lord, i bless thee,” said the youth, “that of thy mercy great, thou hast vouchsafed to rescue me from my forlorn estate ! and henceforth, to thy work of love myself i dedicate! “ the meanest of thy creatures, low i bend before thy throne, and offer my poor self to make thy loving-kindness known ! marien's pilgrimage. “oh, father, give me words of power, the stony hearts to move; give me prevailing eloquence, to publish forth thy love! “thy love which wearieth not; which like thy sun, on all doth shine! oh, father, let me worship thee through life, by gladly serving thee ! i love not life; i ask not wealth ; my heart and soul, my youth and health, my life, oh, lord, are thine !" so spake the youth ; but now the boat the glorious island neared, which, like a cloudland realm of bliss, above the sea appeared. skyward rose sunny peaks, pale-hued, as if of opal glow; and crested palms, broad-leaved and tall, in valleys grew below. a lovely land of flowers, as fair as paradise, ere sin and sorrow, that corrupting pair, with death had entered in. marien's pilgrimage. a lovely land !" and even now," cried marien, “ see they come, children of love, my brother, now to bid thee welcome home! " for these, god kept thee in the wild, from sinful men apart; for these, his people, through distress made pure thy trusting heart ! “ thy work is here! go forth, mid these meek children of the sun, oh, servant of the lord, and tell what he for thee hath done !" down to the shore thousands came, a joyous, peaceful host, to welcome marien back, whom they had sorrowed for as lost. “ and welcome to thee, little child!" they sang forth sweet and clear; “ and welcome to the stranger poor, who cometh with thee here !" and then they brought him silken cloth, since he was meanly drest; and juicy, mellow fruits to eat, and perfumed waters for his feet, and mats whereon to rest: mari marien's pilgrimage like to some ancient church of christ, from worldly taint kept free, lay this delicious isle of love amid its summer sea. but now the work he had to do was done; and ere his day approached its noon, his strength, his life, was wearing fast away. they saw his cheek grow thin and pale; his loving eye grow dim; and with surpassing tenderness they sorrowed over him. old men, and youths, and women meek, and children wild and young, followed his steps with watchful care, and weeping round him hung. in flowery thickets of the hills, sad mourners knelt in prayer, that god this servant so revered, this friend beloved would spare. and round about his feet they sat, observant, meek, and still, to gather up his latest words, to do his slightest will. marien's pilgrimage. now all this while good marien had wandered far and wide. through divers realms, for many a year, the hand of heaven her guide. and now unto the glorious isle she came; but on the shore she saw no wondering company, as she had seen before. ’t was sabbath eve, and o'er the isle a solemn stillness lay; a stillness, how unlike the calm of many a sabbath day! a hush, as of suspended breath, ere some great grief began ; for the mournful people silently stood round the dying man. through the still vales went marien, and came at length to where, mid flowering trees, knelt many a one in agony of prayer. onward she went, not many steps, with heart of mournful ruth, when, like a dying angel laid, she saw the holy youth. marien's pilgrimage. “even like the master whom i serve, i pray ye not to grieve; but as ye have believed in me, also in him believe ! “i go, but leave you not forlorn, as sheep without a guide ;- for christ, the unfailing comforter, shall still with you abide! “oh weep not, friends ; a better home awaits me, and i go, but to that home which is prepared for ye who love me so ! farewell, farewell! unto my god, and unto yours, i go!" the sabbath sun went down amid a golden, cloudless sky; and the freed spirit, cleansed from sin, arose to god on high. beneath the trees where he had died, they buried him, and there enwove the flowery boughs to form a quiet house of prayer. marien's pilgrimage. long time with them dwelt marien, until she was sent forth, at the lord's bidding to perform new service on the earth. good speed to thee, thou blessed child, may angels guide thy bark, mid slumbrous calm, mid tempests wild, and o'er the waters dark ! good speed to thee, thou blessèd child the angel of the poor- and win from sorrow and from sin the world from shore to shore. a the painter's little model, here was nothing but sunshine, beautiful flow- er-beds, smooth grass, and singing birds, with- in the high wall of the garden. a young mo- use ther sate with her chil- dren under a birch-tree in this garden. they formed a lovely group. outside the wall the swarming children of the poor neighbors were at play; their shouts and merriment were heard by the mother and her children, and for some time their con- versation was about them. “you little know, my children,” said she, after this subject seemed exhausted, “that when i was young i too was a poor child, a very poor child. i will tell you of my childhood. the painter's little model. “my father was a gardener. i was the second of seven children; we lived in a narrow court that opened by a very narrow entry into the public road. there were many gentlemen's houses round us, and the tall trees of some spacious pleasure-grounds overtopped the houses on the one side of our court; but they gave us no pleasure, be- cause in summer they shut out the light and made the air close, and in wet autumn wea- ther the leaves lay in decaying masses in the corners of the court. the house in which we lived was the smallest in the whole court, and i well remember that my mother never ceased lamenting over the hardship of our having to pay the same rent as all the others. the public road into which our court open- ed, and from which it was as totally unseen as if it had not existed, was wide and open; there was, in fact, a sort of green in the middle of it, round which the road ran, and houses, shaded by old trees, or standing in the midst of gardens, surrounded it. on the the other side of the court lay a beautiful church, the burial-ground of which adjoined it; but there was a high wall between it and the painter's little model. the houses, by which the air was again con- fined, and the church-yard itself was locked, so that the children never played there. “my father was a working gardener who was employed by the day; he was not an old man, and yet he had a slow and heavy gait from rheumatism, which was a great trouble to him; and this probably was the reason that he was so often out of work. he loved flowers, and he used often to talk to us children about the beautiful gardens which belonged to the gentlemen's houses around us, and of the lovely flowers, which he had a particular way of describing, as if they were living things that he loved. often when he talked in this way, my mother, or some of us children, asked why he did not sometimes bring home some flowers from these beautiful gardens, where there was such abundance. but the flowers were not his; he was a very honest man, and there- fore he never took any. “the descriptions which my father gave of these gardens excited me very much. i desired above all things to go into these beau- tiful gardens, and to see these wonderful the painter's little model. flowers. i often lingered about the gates and palings of the great houses to peep in, and the little glimpses i thus got only excited me the more. “our neighbors' children mostly went to school. there were seven of us; five old enough to go to school; but my mother had bad health, and my father had but little work, and therefore it was not always that the penny a-week could be raised to send with each to school, and unless we took the penny on the monday morning the mistress would not receive us. i was very useful at home to nurse the younger children; and when not needed for this purpose, or perhaps when want was very pressing upon us, i was employed to nurse the baby of a neighbor for my food. “as the court was so close we children were always sent out into the road to play. had we been allowed to play on the little green all would have been well, but this green was private property, and was enclosed with handsome green iron palisadoes, which looked very pretty, but which shut us out from its enjoyment. our favorite place of the painter's little model. the face was grave, with apparently strong ly marked features, and a slight palsy kept the head in movement. whenever the chil- dren were particularly noisy, the head ap- peared at the window, and the tremulous palsied movement gave the idea of her shak- ing her head at them and being angry. some of them thought this very amusing, and would make loud noises to bring her to the window. they called her the old witch. “the sight of this old, singular head, seen now and then at the upper windows of this gloomy old house, excited my imagination strongly; i wished very much to know what sort of a room it was in which she lived ; what she did when we did not see her at the window, and who and what she really was. “the windows of the room adjoining that in which the old lady lived, had also a strange look. there were three of them, the mid- dle one of which only was open, and that was much taller than the others, and extend- ed towards the roof; the other windows were darkened. sometimes the old woman was seen to look out from this strange middle window, but that was very rarely indeed. the painter's little model. “the children, the boys especially, seem. ed to delight in ridiculing the old lady; no- body had ever seen her go out, and as the grand people of the neighborhood were very rarely seen to call at the house in their car- riages, they said just what they pleased about her. “beside the old lady there lived a gentle- man in the house, whom everybody said was a great painter. he lived a deal abroad, in italy and germany, and though people said that he was a fine painter, nobody knew exactly what that meant; he was not a merchant, nor a lawyer, nor a doctor, nor a clergyman, though he lived in a large house, nor, though he was called a painter, was he a house-painter, which would have been in- telligible to everybody. he was believed also to be poor, and yet, as he always paid ready money at all the shops, nobody trou- bled themselves about his poverty, but that was considered to explain the reason why the rich neighbors did not visit with him, and this in some degree influenced the poor. " i used to sit and nurse and play with the children by the stone benches, and cast fur- the painter's little model. . tive glances at the house with fear and won- der. one day i chanced to go down with other children into some adjoining fields, through which there was a footpath, and while standing against a stile was addressed by a singular-looking gentleman with long hair, and a handsome but thoughtful counte- nance. he asked me many questions-of my parents, of my education ; he stroked. my hair ; put it back from my forehead, and looked into my face; took my hand, looked at it inside and out, examined my arms, and then asked if i should like to be painted in a. picture. i knew not what to say ; i felt å: little ashamed, and as was always the case: when i addressed people of a station higher- than my own, i replied in a whisper. the: children that were with me laughed, and that only increased my embarrassment. the gentleman, however, inquired where i lived, and said that he would see my mother, and talk to her. “when he was gone, some of the children said that he was the great painter who lived. at the house where the old witch lived; and aa the painter's little model. they jeered and laughed about my having my picture painted. “when i came home my mother said that the gentleman had been, and that i was to go next morning to his house. i was half frightened. the gentleman said, that he would send his servant over for me, and i was to be paid for my time, twice as much as for nursing the neighbor's child, and was to have my victuals into the bargain. my parents were well pleased with the arrangement, and the next morning a middle-aged respectable woman came for me. we were so poor that my mother had washed my clothes while i slept, that i might go to the great house perfectly clean; and, hardly dry though they were, i went in them the next morning. -“i cannot tell you how strange it seemed ito feel the great gate open for me, and to be staken by a side door into that large myste- rious house. we entered a large marble- flagged hall, and went up a large staircase, where stood huge strange-looking figures, as they seemed to me. higher and higher we went, and at length i was led into a the painter's little model. large, darkened room, in which was a window high up to the ceiling, the shutters of which were closed below. everything in the room had a strange look; large pictures, some finished, and others in progress, stood on large easels ; casts of the human form, some beautiful and some which seemed horrible to me, stood around; hands and arms and feet in plaster were hung against the wall, and a huge figure seemed to be sitting in a tall chair covered up with cloth, from beneath which peeped forth a black, bare foot, which i at the first moment believed to be that of a live person, but which i afterwards found to belong to the lay figure in the chair. “ the gentleman whom i had seen the day before received me kindly, he wore a grey painting-coat, and held his pallet and brushes in one hand, and a stick in the other, which at the first greatly frightened me, because i thought perhaps he might beat me with it. my fears were very great, for i was ignorant, and knew nothing about artists and pictures. i spoke as usual in a low whisper, and as i meant to be very the painter's little model. well-behaved i said "please” before every sentence. i sate without my frock in my little brown petticoat and ragged chemise sleeves. my attitude was not a difficult one; i was to represent a child among the shepherds of arcadia, and in the picture sheep and lambs were lying around me in the midst of a beautiful pastoral landscape. i soon became tired, however, and very restless. after a while the door of the studio opened, and in came an old woman; at the sight of her the painter drew forward a large chair, arranged the cushions, and giving the old lady his hand, seated her in it; her head shook a little ; but her countenance was beautiful; mild and gentle, and full of intelligence and affection; she looked first at the picture and then at me atten- tively for some time. i saw at once that this was the fearful old lady whose face i and the others had seen so often at the window. there she sate; in a black stuff- gown, a sort of furred short cloak, and that plain white cap, looking at me with her keen, clear blue eyes. she supported her- self with a silver-headed cane, which she the painter's little model. still held while she sate. her head' moved slightly, and her eye rested upon me. “the child is tired,” said she to the painter, and then calling me up to her, she said, with what appeared at that time, severity, that i was one of those noisy children who disturbed her so much in the front of the house! i was frightened, and if she had required an answer from me, i could not have uttered it. without asking her son's permission, for she was the painter's mother, she bade me go and take a run round the garden, and then come in again, for that i was not used to sitting so long and so still. “without knowing how to find my way into the garden, i went slowly down the great staircase up which i had been brought, past all the huge torsoes and plaster figures, and after i had stood in an uncomfortable state of bewilderment and terror in the great hall for a minute or two, the same middle- aged respectable woman, who had fetched me to the house, came out of a large closet, with a jar in her hand, and locking the door, saw me standing there, and looking the painter's little model. half frightened. in reply to her inquiries, as to what i wanted, i told her in my usual whisper, that the old lady had sent me to have a run in the garden, and that i did not know where the garden was. without returning any answer, she led me to a glass door at the end of the hall, and opening it, i saw at once a grand old garden, which like everything else about the place, im- pressed my mind at first with a feeling of awe. "instead of running in the garden as i had been desired to do, i walked slowly. in after years, i came to know that old garden well, and everything became familiar to me, but i never forgot my earliest impressions, although i remembered them as if they had belonged to somebody else. however, there i was then, strange to everything, and full of wondering terror. there was a square grass plat near the house, and in the middle of this stood a sun dial on a stone pillar of about my own height. i had no idea what it was, and it looked mysterious. below the grass were cypresses and yew- trees, and lower still in the garden an im- the painter's little model. mense cedar-tree, with a bench under its wide-spreading branches. the whole gar- den was quiet and solitary. there was no gardener at work in it at all, the sound that i heard was the monotonous splash of a little fountain which was encircled by a second grass plat, but all this lower part of the garden had a wild and somewhat neglected appearance. at the bottom of all, on a sloping bed, grew strawberries, at that time full of leaves and fruit. i saw the red, juicy, delicious berries lying abundantly among the leaves, and for a long time i resisted the temptation they offered. my mouth watered at every step; i thought after a little while that i might take one, just one, nobody would miss it. i stooped down, but before my hand had touched the plant, i saw a movement among the leaves, and out crawled a something which made my blood run cold. i had read at school about the serpent tempting eve to eat the apple, and involuntarily i thought that this, too, was the serpent, or the evil one in another shape. the serpent, however, tempted eve to sin, but this strange appa- the painter's little model. rition drove at once from my mind all desire to pluck and eat. some way or other, i know not how, but i felt as if this was the strange, unshapely spirit of the place; the solemn yew-trees, the black-branched cedar, the large, gloomy house, the old, mysterious lady, with her palsied head, the artist's room, with his plaster figures of beauty and terror, all at once combined themselves into one idea, and that was connected with the queer, crawling creature that was now slowly receding from me: i ran down the walk, past the fountain and the cedar-tree, and within sight of the house, where i once more took my time, and walked slowly, looking at some large scarlet lilies that had sprung up among a tangle of jasmine, starred over with its white flowers, and which, partly fallen from the wall, either by neglect or accident, produced a beautiful effect, and which, as i afterwards found, the artist himself had been observant of, and had introduced into the foreground of that very arcadian picture in which i myself was figuring. here i stopped, and here the painter's little model. again, moving slowly along the border, was, as i supposed at first, that very same unshapely monster from which i had just fled "' i was, at that time, an ignorant little creature; i had heard of witchcraft and magic, and imps and fiends, and i knew but very little of the true history of any thing; therefore it was perhaps no wonder that i at once imagined that myself or the garden was bewitched, and that the very thing from which i had just filed, had, by some strange power, conveyed itself away to be ready for me when i next stopped. "i was frightened, indeed, and with a sort of franctic terror i ran back to the strawberry bed to see if it were there. but i could see nothing of it; it was gone. where should i see it next? i did not dare to stop and look, but running now with all my might, i hastened back to the house, and passing through the large glass door once more was in the great silent hall, and at the foot of the staircase. i lingered a long time in the hope of seeing the middle-aged woman, but she was invisible, and all was as silent as the painter's little model. the tomb, excepting the loud, and, as it seemed to me, deliberate ticking of a large old clock, the face of which was surrounded with gilded rays, and the great pendulum of which heavily swung to and fro, keeping such audible count of its moments, that i felt as if it would stun me if i listened to it. i therefore made the best of my way back to the artist's room. " the old lady was still sitting in the large chair as i had left her, and with her silver headed cane in her hand as if she had never moved. the artist was at work at his picture, and i at once saw that the old woman had taken my place as his sitter, and that he was painting her also into his large picture. neither they nor i spoke, and for a little while i watched him at work on that old and really grand head. “everything seemed strange and like a dream around me. i felt as if the picture were real, and i and everything else ideal. out of this dream-like feeling i was roused by the old lady who, calling me to her side, asked me abruptly what i had seen in the garden. her manner was kind, although the painter's little model. somewhat sharp, and therefore, although i still spoke in my timid whisper and with my scrupulous regard to what i thought propriety, i answered candidly in my uncul- tivated english, “please,' said i, “there's such a queer thing in the garden-oh, such a queer un ! “what does she say? asked the old lady, who was rather deaf, and to whom my whisper was inaudible. “her son repeated my words with a smile, and coming forward to us asked me what that was like which i had seen. “i described, with all the exaggeration of my ignorant fear, the creature that i had seen; its strange unearthly withered sort of countenance and its four legs like distorted arms; and the strange case or “lid," as i called it, under which it hid itself, and upon which were curious and mysterious looking signs, as if painted in dingy gold. i said that the creature seemed to move slowly, but that when i left it at the strawberry bed, and ran with all my might towards the house, it had got there before me, and was staring at me from under a red lily. the painter's little model. fixed my eyes on her countenance, thinking how very old she also looked, when she startled me by saying, perhaps you think me as old as the tortoise; perhaps you think me a hundred years old ? no, i'm not that, i'm not so old as the tortoise—i am only eighty-nine ! “the painter now came forward with his book and laid before me an engraving of just such a tortoise as i had seen. he began to read to me something about it, and then suddenly interrupting himself, he said ;- but you can't understand this; you know nothing either of natural history nor geography—it's no use reading to you.' he said truly; i understood neither one nor the other; and my mind at that moment was in a strange confusion. “he put the book back in his back-case, and then sitting down before his beautiful picture, took me between his knees.—there is the very tangle of jasmin out of which grows the scarlet lily, and there, under those branches, creeps forth one of the very tortoises you have seen! i gave an invol- untary shudder as i there indeed saw it, the painter's little model. death deprived seven young children of their parents, we found the truest friends in the good artist and his aged mother. “she lived, like the tortoises, to be a hundred years old, and as to the painter, you know him, my children, it is mr. , the well known royal academician, my revered and beloved benefactor." w about the man who lived in a wilderness, and who had a child for a neighbor. and yello t was a june morning ; roses and yellow jasmine covered the old wall in the poet's garden; .. the little brown mason bees flew in and out of their holds beneath the pink and white and yellow flowers; peacock butterflies, with large blue eyes on their crimson velvet wings, fluttered about, and settled on the orange- brown wall-flowers. aloft in the broad- leaved sycamore-tree, the blackbird was sing- ing as if he was out of his senses for joy ; he sang as loud as any nightingale, and his heart was glad because his young brood were hatched, and he knew that they now sate with their little yellow beaks poking man in a wilderness. out of the nest, and thinking what a famous bird their father was. all the robins, and tomtits, and linnets, and redstarts, that sate in the trees of the garden shouted vivas, and bravuras, and encored him delightfully. the poet himself, to whom the garden be- longed, sate under the double-flowering hawthorn, which was all in blossomhe sate on a green chair, and his best friend sate beside him. beneath the lower branch- es of the tree was hung the canary bird's cage; the children had brought it out be- cause the morning was so fine, and the little canary loved fresh air and the smell of flowers. it never troubled him that other birds flew about from one end of the garden to the other, or sate and sung on the waving and leafy branches; he loved his cage, and while the old blackbird poured forth his grand melodies, the little canary sat like a prince in a stage-box and nodded his head and sang an accompaniment. one of the poet's children, the little daughter, sate in her own little garden; the garden was full of flowers, and bees and butterflies flitted about in the sunshine. bb man in a wilderness. the child, however, was not noticing them; she was thinking only of one thing, and that was the great daisy-root which was all in flower; it was the largest daisy-root in the whole garden, and two-and-fifty double pink and white daisies were crowded upon it. they were, however, no longer daisies to the child's eyes, but two and fifty little charity children in green stuff gowns and white tippets and white linen caps, that had had a holiday given them; she saw them all with pink cheeks and bright eyes, running in a group and talk- ing as they went; the hum of the bees around seemed the sound of their voices. the child was happy to think that two- and-fifty charity children were let loose from school to run about in the sunshine; her heart went with them, and she was so full of joy that she started up and ran to tell her father, who was sitting with his best friend under the hawthorn tree. sad and bitter thoughts, however, oppressed the poet's heart; he had been disappointed where he had hoped for good; his soul was under a cloud, and as the child ran up to man in a wilderness. tell him about the little charity children, in whose joy she thought he would sympa- thize, she heard him say to his friend :- “no, i have no hope of human nature now; it is a poor, miserable thing that is not worth working for. my best endeavors have been spent in its service; my youth and my manhood's strength-my very life- and this is my reward! i will no longer strive to do good. i will write for money's sake as others do—and not for the good of mankind ! the poet's words were bitter, and tears came in the eyes of his best friend. never had the child heard such words from her father before; he had been to her hitherto as a great and good angel. "i will write," said he, "for money's sake, as others do, and not for the good of man- kind !! “my father, if you do," said the child, in a voice of mournful indignation, “i will no longer read what you write; i will trample all your writings under my feet !" large tears rolled down her cheeks, and her eyes were fixed on her father's face. man in a wilderness. , taken possession of his cave; they troubled him night and day; they dropped canker blight upon his roses, nipped off his jasmine and honeysuckle flowers, and in the form of caterpillar and blight, ate his beautiful fruits. it made the man angry and bitter; the flowers were no longer beautiful to him, and when he looked at them he thought only of the canker and the cater- pillar; 'i can no longer take pleasure in them,' said he, 'i will leave the cave, and go elsewhere. he did so; and he travelled on and on; but it was a vast wilderness in which he was, and so it was many and many a day before he came to a place of rest, nor did he know that all this time the evil spirits who had plagued him so in his own cave, were still going with him ; but they were; and they made every place he came to seem worse than the last; their very breath cast a blight upon every- thing. he was footsore and weary, and very miserable. a feeling like despair was in his heart, and he said he might as well die as live; he lay down in the wilderness, and scarcely had he done that, when he man in a wilderness. heard behind him the pleasantest sound in the world; a little child singing like a bird because her heart was innocent and full of joy; the next moment she was at his side. the evil spirits that were about him, when they saw her coming, drew back a little, for she brought with her a beautiful company of angels and bright spirits, little cherubs, with round, rosy cheeks, golden hair and laughing eyes, stuck be- tween two doves' wings as white as snow. the child had not the least idea that these beautiful spirits always were about her ; all she knew was, that she was full of joy, and that she loved above all things to do good. when she saw the poor man lying there, she went up to him, and talked so pityingly and yet so cheerfully to him, that he felt as if her words would cure him. she told him that she lived just by, and that he should go with her and rest, and get well in her cave. he went with her, and it was just such a cave as his own, only much smaller. roses and honey- suckles and jasmines grew all round it; and birds were singing, and gold and silver man in a wilderness. in inne all styre al met coming al mit sand's dou es un the fishes were sporting about in the water ; and there were such beds of strawberries, all red and luscious, that filled the air with odour. it was a beautiful place; there seemed to be no canker nor blight on anything; and yet the man saw how spiders had woven webs like the most beautiful lace from one vine branch to another; and butterflies that had once been devouring caterpillars were flitting about; and just as in his own garden, fat yellow frogs were squatted under the cool strawberry leaves; but the child loved the frogs as well as the green lizards, and said that they did her no harm, and that there were plenty of strawberries both for them and for her. “the evil spirits that had troubled the man, and followed him, could not get into the child's garden ; it was impossible, be- cause all those rosy-cheeked cherubs and white angels lived there; and that which' is good, be it ever so small, is a great deal stronger than that which is evil, be it ever so large. so they sate outside and bit their nails for vexation; and as the man stayed a long time with the m ad man in a wilderness. child they got so tired of waiting, that some of them flew away forever. at length the man kissed the child, and went back to his own place. when he got there he found that owing to the evil spirits having been so long away, the flowers and the fruits had in great measure recovered them- selves; there was hardly any canker or blight left, and as the child came now very often to see him, and brought with her all her bright company, the place was freed, at least while she stayed, from the evil ones. that is a true story. there are many men, who, like him, live in a wilderness, and it is happy for them when they have a child for their neighbor.” the poet was silent; the child kissed him, and then, without saying a word about the little charity children, ran off to sit down beside them, and perhaps to tell them the story which her father had just told her. the blind boy and his sister. “ the harebell and the gowan are not alike to me, are different as the herd and flock, the blasted pine-tree of the rock, the waving birch, the broad, green oak, the river, and the sea. “ and oh, the heavenly music, that as i sit alone, comes to mine inward sense as clear as if the angel-voices were singing to harp and dulcimer before the mighty throne ! “ it is not as of outward sound, of breeze, or singing bird ; but wondrous melody refined ; a gift of god unto the blind; an inward harmony of mind, by inward senses heard ! “ and all the old-world stories that neighbors tell o’nights ; of fairies on the fairy mound, of brownies dwelling under ground, of elves careering round and round, of fays and water-sprites ; the blind boy and his sister. all this to me is pleasantness, is all a merry show; . i see the antic people play, brownie and kelpie, elf and fay, in a sweet country far away, yet where i seem to go. “but better far than this, annie, is when thou read'st to me of the dear saviour meek and kind, and how he healed the lame and blind, am i not healed for in my mind - his blessed form i see! “oh, love is not of sight, annie, is not of outward things ; for in my inmost soul i know, .. his pity for all mortal woe; his words of love, spoke long ago, unseal its deepest springs ! “ then do not mourn for me, annie, because that i am blind ;- the beauty of all outward sight; the wondrous shows of day and night; all love, all faith, and all delight, are strong in heart and mind !" part ¥¥¥. fire side tales. the christmas dinner. to r. joseph hil- umu wa dumi yard was a rich dyer in one of our largest manufacturing towns, a plodding, hard- headed man of busi- ness, who never lost sight of the main chance but once, and that was when he o married old green's daughter, with seven thousand pounds to her fortune, instead of ellen stretton, who had nothing. he soon found out his mistake, for his wife was one of those unhappy-tempered women who make everybody miserable about them. ellen stretton married also two years after- wards, not for love, i am sorry to say, and the christmas dinner. was not more happy than he. her husband, whose name was trevisham, was also a dyer, as hard a headed man as hilyard, but without his good qualities. he was always in law with somebody; he had a desperate lawsuit with hilyard about the fence of their drying-grounds, which unfortunately adjoin- ed; it was but a small thing to quarrel about, but, like a rolling snowball, it grew at every turn, and, in the end, brought on bis ruin. he lost his lawsuit and then he died, leaving his affairs in a very bad state. when all were wound up, the creditors, out of compas- sion to the widow, whom everybody respected, gave up sufficient to ensure her and her only child, a daughter, an annuity of seventy pounds for her life. hilyard had been a fierce adversary to the husband, and the widow felt a peculiar grief to see herself, in some measure, ruined by his means; still she was not without comfort, even in her depressed circumstances; she had good health, a cheerful disposition, a heart full of love both to god and man, a beloved daughter, whom she herself was able to edu- cate well, and beyond all—now that poor the christmas dinner. though they dwelt in the same town, he lived in a large square stone house which a law- yer had built and he had bought, in one suburb, and she, since her misfortunes, as they were called, lived in a little cottage-a very little one—in an opposite direction. he questioned, as i said, whether he should marry her, but, someway or other, the idea seemed strange; he thought people would talk amazingly if he did. no, his marrying days were over, he decided people saw him buttoned up in his good broad-cloth going steadily about his business and making his fifteen hundred a year, and never suspected one atom of the romance which had taken possession of his naturally good heart. one day he took a drive to the little suburban village in which the widow lived, and, leaving his chaise at the inn, strolled up the lane in which her cottage stood. he had no idea of making a call, not the slightest in the world, he only wanted to see the place. it was a very small cot- tage; two gentlewomen living on seventy pounds a-year could not afford a large house. “ it cannot be above eight or nine pounds the christmas dinner. a little girl was coming up with a milk-can, and, turning in at the green gate, knocked at the door. he was a wealthy man, as we know, and a girl taking milk to his own house would have excited no interest in his mind; and yet he stopped to see who would open the door to take this pennyworth of milk. it was only the little servant girl. at the bottom of the little garden he stopped again and looked at the front of the cottage; the fire that was burning in parlor and kitchen cast a glow within, for it was getting dusk, and by the parlor-window stood kitty read- ing, for she had gone to the window for light. the outline of the bent head and the youth- ful bust sent a still warmer glow to his heart; it reminded him of that ellen stretton who had once been all the world to him. with hasty steps he then returned to the inn, or- dered out his chaise, drank a glass of negus, and then drove home to his large square house, and his many servants. people talk a deal about “the luxury of doing good.” mr. joseph hilyard determined that he would enjoy this luxury; but he did not say a word to any one-not a syllable! the christmas dinner. he thought a deal about the cottage fireside and seventy pounds a-year. christmas-day was not far off, and he remembered that peo- ple could not have fine christmas dinners with only seventy pounds a-year. two days before christmas-day, therefore, the carrier's cart stopped at mrs. trevisham's cottage, and left, carriage paid, a large hamper. it was carried into the little kitchen, and the little servant-maid summoned her mistress to open it. “dear me! what can it be?" exclaimed mrs. trevisham, as the girl hastily cut the strings and opened the creakling lid of the hamper. “kitty, come here !" and kitty came instantly out of the parlor with her sewing in her hand, which, however, she soon threw down to help in unpacking the ham- per ;—a turkey, a ham, a dozen of mince- pies, so beautifully packed that not one was broken, a game pie, such almonds and raisins, and delicious fruit for desert, and a dozen of wine! who can have sent them? what can it mean ?" exclaimed both mother and daughter. the christmas dinner. it was long since mrs. trevisham had had a regular christmas dinner of her own; now and then she and her daughter were asked out, but not often; now, however, here was a splendid dinner for them, and who must they invite to partake of it? oh, there were plenty of poor folks who should have some of it ; that was soon decided ; and then nothing was thought of for the rest of the evening but who could have sent this present? they could not imagine; it might be this person and it might be that; but they hardly thought it could be! they never guessed the right person—and how indeed should they ? it was now five years since this first christ- mas dinner was sent, and at the same time precisely, for the next four years, did the same carrier's cart bring the same present, or slightly varied, to the widow's house. it was a pleasant mystery; it was a real comfort to know that there was somebody who cared that much for them. but the delicacies of that christmas provision were not eaten alone by the widow and her daughter; some poor neighbor, some sick woman or man, or the christmas dinner. all that, the daughter found time to teach in the ragged school, which never would have been established but for her, and that she herself gave half-a-guinea to its funds. mr. joseph hilyard pulled out his large well-filled green silk purse, and gave the doctor five pounds for this school, which he said must be put down as from a friend; and then taking leave of the good man, he turned back and walked slowly down the lane. again the cottage chimney smoked, and again his heart was as warm as if he had sate by its fire. he was filled with all sorts of grand schemes of beneficence; he would do—he did not know what, for such excellent people as these. while he was thus vaguely thinking he ap- proached the cottage; the door opened, and out came kitty trevisham in her dark merino dress, plaid shawl, and straw bonnet with dark-blue ribbon. she looked at mr. hil- yard as she came out, and then walked briskly on as if she had business in hand. she was a sweet, bright-looking creature, with the kindest eyes that were ever set in a human countenance. when she came within sight of the parlor-window she looked towards the christmasdinner it, smiled sweetly and nodded; mr. hilyard looked also, and there stood the mother, in her plain cap and black dress, and nodded affectionately to her daughter. this little circumstance expressed a great deal; mother and daughter were all the world to each other: there was the most perfectly good un- derstanding between them, and the last look, even for an absence of an hour or two, was full of affectionate intelligence. she walked on briskly and he followed ; she had such a neat pretty figure. she walked uncommonly well, and had a re- markably pretty foot and ankle, as he could see when she held up her dress where the road was wet. “i wish i were a young man for her sake !" thought mr. hilyard to himself; “now i wonder who she will marry ?" and with that, all at once, a grand idea floated into his mind. he would send for his nephew, edward grey, and adopt him as his son, and he should marry this good and pretty daughter of widow trevisham! it was a splendid idea. this nephew was the son of his only sister who had married a poor schoolmaster in the the christmas dinner. country. she had often asked him to do something for this, her eldest son ; he was said to be a fine scholar; a very gentlemanly young man, of excellent principles, and he was now six-and-twenty. he could not think how he had never done anything for him be- fore; he felt all at once as if he had been a hard-hearted wretch; never, till that day, had he given a penny even to a ragged school. well, he would turn over a new leaf, now; he would send for his nephew, get him mar- ried to this poor, but good girl, and then he should no longer be ashamed of himself. little did sweet kitty trevisham know of the schemes which were working in the head of the respectable gentleman who was fol- lowing her. she was going to the ragged school for a couple of hours that evening, and she was thinking of nothing but her poor scholars. in a month's time edward grey was at his uncle's, as handsome a young man as his mother had described him, with an open countenance, and a great deal of decision in his manner. he was one of those men who in reality do not need any one to help them the christmas dinner.' on in life; the elements of success are in themselves; and men of this character are not such as can have a path chalked out for them by another. joseph hilyard found his nephew a very different person to what he expected; he fancied that he would be pliable and extremely grateful, and that he should open his plans to him with respect to kitty trevisham, immediately, but there was an independence about him which it did not seem safe to interfere with, and almost an in- difference about the large income of which, if he pleased, he might be the heir, so that his uncle felt pretty sure that if he all at once revealed his designs, his nephew would turn restive on his hands; and there was at the same time so much manliness and straightforward honesty of character about him, that he could not help feeling respect for him. “besides this," as the foreman said, " he took very kindly to the business," and seemed so thoroughly to understand it, that there was no doubt of his becoming a most valuable assistant, or partner. they were, in fact, two of the most excel- lent men that ever met; and yet, in some the christmas dinner. respects they were so different in character, that while they remained in any degree strangers to each other, they worked ill to- gether. edward grey was unlike any per- son with whom his uncle had come in con- tact; as yet he had been sole king and master of his world ; he had no idea but of remaining so, and now here was a young man whom he had introduced into it, carry- ing everything his own way, and that with the utmost quietness and self-complacency. he never asked his uncle's leave for what he did, and yet he established directly a temperance society among the men, and set about forming a mechanics’ institute for the whole town. mr. hilyard, as we said, was full of all sorts of grand benevolent schemes a short time before, and approved of temperance societies, and schools for the people, yet now he was angry with his nephew for zealously co-operating in them. perhaps he was displeased that men of in- fluence in the place-great philanthropists with whom he had never had anything to do, should seem to court his nephew's acquaint- ance as they did, stranger though he was to the christmas dinner. them all; it was a sort of tacit reproof to himself, and it annoyed him. but let the fault be where it would, the uncle and the nephew did not get on so comfortably to- gether as they ought to have done, when a little circumstance seemed, for the moment, to be the one drop to the full cup of the uncle's displeasure, and made it overflow abundantly. he had, immediately on his coming, made his nephew a present of a handsome gold watch and chain, and this the young man lost one day when he was bathing. it was a most distressing thing to him, and he could only surmise, that some dexterous thief had stolen it from his clothes as they lay on the river's bank. he said nothing to his uncle of his loss, for so grieved was he to have failed, as he felt he had done, in winning his affection, that he was unwilling still further to displease him by this apparent careless- ness. in his heart, edward grey regarded his uncle as a second father; he would have died to have served him ; but he was not one. of those who could make professions, and as his uncle seemed cold and distant, he deter- the christmas dinner. mined quietly to go on fulfilling every duty, trusting to time and circumstances for making all straight between them. the watch had been lost a week when it came to his uncle's knowledge, and that ac- cidentally. a person came to the counting- house where they both were, and asked whether mr. edward grey had not lost something. “my watch !" said thủ young man, joyfully; "a gold watch and chan; i lost them a week ago!" his uncle was astonished and enraged; “ was the watch then of so little value that he could lose it and say nothing about it?" in twenty different ways he could look at this affair and be made angry by it. he never had lost his own watch, and if he had, he should have been at some trouble to have found it, &c., &c. grey thought his uncle unreasonable in being thus angry without hearing him say one word in his own defence. it seemed to him that there was much more said than the occasion warranted, and for that reason he was silent, and by this means his uncle did not know how much he had suffered, nor the christmas dinner. what pains he had, in truth, taken for the re- covery of his loss. the uncle was not only very angry, but very much grieved ; in his anger he declared that it was the last present that he ever would make him, and yet, the next moment, he threw him ten sovereigns, and told him to go and see if he could get back his watch for that money, which he did not believe. grey took the money thus ungraciously given, and went out with the man who said he was sent. by the person who had found the watch. · mr. joseph hilyard would have been no little astonished, could he have seen his: nephew conducted to mrs. trevisham's cot- tage. it was a lovely afternoon, towards the: close of summer; the little garden was as. full of flowers as it could be, and jasmine and. roses peeped in and clustered round the open. parlor-window, and there sate mrs. tre- visham in her mourning, and kitty in a pretty pink dress and black silk apron ; her lovely dark brown hair fastened up in its simple knot, and no single ornament about: her excepting her own dear smiles and affec-. tionate eyes, looking just like a rose, and ee the christmas dinner. every bit as sweet, and she told edward grey, who from the first moment he saw her was quite in a bewilderment of delight, how she and the servant maid set off one morning, at five o'clock, to look for mushrooms in the meadows, because her mother was so fond of them, and how she found, under a sod, which seemed to have been cut out for the purpose, a gold watch and chain ; she said she was so astonished that she did not know what to do, and as she thought that most likely some thief had hidden it there, she brought it away; that there was no name in it except- ing the maker's, and that was a london name; that she and her mother considered what had better be done; they thought of advertising, and then it occurred to them that she might inquire of some of the watch- makers in the town if the watch had ever been in their hands; that she did so, and soon found one who told her that he had sold it only a few weeks before, to mr. hilyard, for his nephew, and that to him it belonged; and in confirmation, he showed her an ad- vertisement in the paper, offering a reward for this very watch. and now here it was, the christmas dinner. and it was impossible for kitty to tell him the pleasure she had in restoring it to him. the watch had become of ten times its former value as he received it from her hand. how he longed to kiss that hand! he was the last man in the world to make fine speeches, but his countenance expressed something of what he felt. and then mrs. trevisham began to say that in former times she had known mr. hilyard; that unfortu- nately there had been a lawsuit between her late husband and him, but that when she was young she had thought very well of him. grey said that his uncle was the best man living; that he had given him the watch, but that was nothing to his having taken him into the business, which was a great thing for him, who was poor, and the eldest of a large family. mrs. trevisham had evident pleasure in hearing anything to his advantage; and how astonished the uncle would have been could he have heard all that his nephew said in his praise ! kitty went on with her sewing, and the mother and he talked a great deal. he sate with the watch in his hand, and the wonder the christmas dinner. is, that he did not commit some extravagance or other, he felt so inconceivably happy. he said that the thief who had stolen the watch and hid it there, never imagined the blessing he was conferring upon him. he did not explain his meaning, but mrs. trevisham knew very well what he meant, and perhaps kitty did, for she blushed as she went on with her work. he had offered, in his adver- tisement, ten pounds for the recovery of his watch, but he never thought of offering it either to the mother or daughter ; he would much more likely have offered his heart and his life; however, he left a handsome present for the man who had fetched him, and who was a poor gardener with a large family, and after he had taken tea with them and walked in the little garden, and helped kitty to tie up the carnations, he took his leave, promis- ing to visit them again before long. if his watch had been suddenly encircled with diamonds, it could not have been more precious. his uncle told him angrily he hoped he would not lose it again. there was no danger of that. this affair of the watch did not tend to a the christmas dinner. better understanding between uncle and nephew, and in spite of all edward grey's assiduity in the business, he could not find the way into his uncle's affections. “there is something cold about him," said hilyard to himself; "a very good young man he is, there's no doubt of that—but i hate your good people : he is not the husband for my kitty-after all, i shall be forced to have her myself,” and with that he laughed ama- zingly. he thought a deal about both kitty and her mother, and one day he was at the trouble of going to the ragged school where he thought that he might have some talk with her. there she was, as cheerful as a lark, and as fresh as a flower among the little ragged urchins, and the very expression of their faces, and the tones of their voices were changed as they approached her. the mas- ter of the school had not words enough to praise her, and kitty had no idea, not the least in the world, that it was for her sake that this good man now visited the school and left behind him a second donation. “how odd it will be,” thought mrs. tre- visham, the day after edward grey had de- the christmas dinner. clared his passion, and been accepted, " for kitty to be mr. hilyard's niece; i wonder what he will say, and whether he has forgot- ten those old times. edward thinks he will be pleased, though he is so rich, but then edward is young and in love, and i know that he once thought a good deal about money." it was edward grey's intention candidly to tell his uncle that he had fallen in love with a pretty, penniless girl, some day when he was in a good humor, and it was his uncle's intention also to tell his nephew all about sweet kitty trevisham some day when they were talking about schools for the peo- ple, and such things, for then he thought he should be able to interest him a out the young teacher at the ragged school. he fancied he could draw a very pretty picture of her in the midst of her forlorn group, and this he thought, considering his nephew's philan- thropic propensities, would very likely make a deep impression upon him. summer and autumn were now over. christmas was approaching. there had been, as one may say, a cessation of hostili- the christmas dinner. ties for some time between uncle and nephew, they were gradually and silently approach- ing each other in the spirit of a mutual good faith, still neither of them had found the pro- pitious moment for which they were waiting; and each was beginning to like the other so well, that they almost feared to make the momentous disclosure, lest it should throw them back into that state of alienation which had been so painful to both. edward was a frequent, though secret, visitor at mrs. trevisham's, and the long history of all their former troubles was familiar to him. he also knew of the five years' christmas present, and of all their fruitless conjectures as to who their unknown friend could be. “you will dine with us, edward, on christmas day?" said the mother ; “i have no doubt but we shall have our usual dinner, but at all events you will come ?" edward promised, and went home determined that this should be the last visit he would pay to this beloved family without his uncle's know- ledge, for he would make an opportunity if he did not find one that very evening. the the christmas dinner. ard. good earnest, “i may as well tell you at first as last-i have often wished to tell you-i want to see you married.” “very strange," said the nephew, joyfully; “ but i was just going to tell you that i am very much disposed to get married.” * “ what, the deuce; you have no girl in your eye, have you ?" asked he, as the idea struck him, that perhaps his nephew might be engaged to some girl at his native place. “yes, i have," replied edward. “what the dickens could make you think of such a thing? how do i know who you have chosen—what right had you to choose for yourself ?! “nobody had so great a right to choose for me as myself,” said edward, astonished. “sir," returned his uncle, raising himself in his chair and looking very angry, “i had chosen a wife for you before had seen you ; don't interrupt me, sir,” said he, seeing his nephew about to speak; "and i should not have sent for you if i had not wanted a hus- band for this good little girl. it was no merit of yours that made me adopt you, but my esteem and admiration for her; and i the christmas dinner. have made up my mind, sir, either you shall marry her, or she shall be my heir !" and with this the uncle crossed his legs and threw himself back in his chair, in a very deter- mined and dogmatical manner. “ very extraordinary," said the nephew, in a tone in which his wounded feeling was very evident, “but if that be the case, i must do the best for myself that i can; at the same time i must say that your ideas are ar- bitrary; i knew nothing of these conditions, and i came to you in good faith. i wished to love you as a father, and to serve you as an obedient son ; and fathers do not com- monly impose wives upon their sons; be- sides,” added he, cheerfully, as a new idea struck him ; “how do you know that the young lady you have done me the honor of selecting for me would like me ?" “she would !" said the uncle; “she's a good girl; one just of your own sort; fond of temperance societies, and ragged schools, and such things. i don't know one like her." "well, sir," said the nephew, with half a smile on his lips, “if these be her recom- the christmas dinner. who had had for some years the pleasure of sending this small present, proposed to eat the christmas dinner with them on this oc- casion, and would also take the liberty of bringing a young friend with him. the hand-writing was unknown to them; it was a very different hand to that which had been familiar to mrs. trevisham in former days. of course they would be very glad to see their kind unknown friend and his compan- ion, yet still there was an undefinable anxiety in the bottom of their hearts as to who it would turn out to be. it was somebody who wished them well, no doubt; they only hoped that it would prove to be one from whom "they would like to receive a favor.” we always feel anxious when a mystery, how- ever small, is about to be solved. at all events they were glad that edward grey would be there; and let the unknown friend turn out to be whoever he might, they agreed that kitty's engagement to edward grey should be made known to him. the unknown friend, who had sent much more than his usual supply on this occasion, proposed to be with them for dinner at five. the christmas dinner. edward grey, however, was there by two, and great were the pains which he and kitty took to make the little parlor look as pretty as possible, with its red-berried holly, ivy, and other evergreens. though mrs. trevisham had only seventy pounds a-year, and the par- lor was very small, yet this was one of the nicest little christmas dinners that ever was set out or cooked. mrs. trevisham had got a neighbor who had been cook in a great family to come in for the day; and as to the table, it looked beautifully; there was a fine damask table-cloth on it with napkins as white as snow, and abundance of plate, which had belonged to the family in its better days, and bright glass and sparkling water, and hock and claret which had come among the good things in the last hamper. bless me! there was dinner enough for a dozen people, and yet the unknown guest could only expect four! mrs. trevisham, however, expected five. it grew dusk and then dark; the blinds were drawn down; it was nearly five, and the hearts of mrs. trevisham and her daughter beat anxiously; so, no doubt, the christmas dinner. would edward grey's, had he seen his uncle driving along the road towards the house in a cab, and in a very bad humor, although he meant to make himself very agreeable to the two ladies. the cab stopped at the little green gate, and the house-door opened. it was a very undignified house; one was obliged to go through the kitchen into the parlor, but there was no avoiding it; so the little maid-ser- vant stood with the door wide open, and mrs. trevisham saw that there was one guest instead of two, and that he was rather a stout gentleman, buttoned up to the chin in a great coat with a shawl round his neck. she had not the least idea who he was. she felt considerably excited, and he, we must confess, was rather so himself, and yet, as i have said twice before, he had fifteen hundred a-year, and he had paid for the din- ner which he now came to eat. mrs. trevisham stood at the parlor-door to receive him; he took off his hat in the kitchen, and stood with his uncovered and bald head before her. she saw at once who it was, her own old friend, the adversarv the christmas dinner. of her husband; the uncle of her daughter's lover. “i feel myself rather in an awkward posi- tion, my dear madam,” he began; but no sooner had he uttered these words, than ed- ward grey darted from the side of kitty at the parlor fire, and seizing his hand exclaim- ed, “god bless you, my dear uncle, is it you ?” “and is this you, edward ? good heavens! how came you here? “i never was so glad in all my life," said edward, helping his uncle off with his coat, for now a great light began to dawn into his mind. “i declare i don't know how to ex- press my pleasure to think of meeting you under this roof, of all places in the world !" “and to think of meeting you here,” re- turned the uncle. “ you must excuse me, my dear madam," said he, turning to mrs. trevisham; and he then sate down in a large chair by the fire, feeling almost over- come. mrs. trevisham was hardly less so. “my good lady," at length he said, “i feel now as if i had done very wrong: i ought the christmas dinner, not to have been so abrupt. i have done the whole thing clumsily.” mrs. trevisham said truly that it gave her extreme pleasure to find that mr. hilyard had been their friend for so many years. it was now kitty's turn to come forward, for she recognized in him the kind visitor of the ragged school. his eyes glistened as he spoke to her, and then edward was at her side; an irresistible power compelled him to speak. “uncle,” said he, and as he spoke he took kitty's hand; “we had made up our minds to be candid to-night, let the guest be who he might; and you, above all, have a right to know our secret. this is my affianced wife, let us have your blessing !" the uncle took the two clasped hands in his, and pressed them warmly: but he said not a word. dinner was placed on the table. he still sate with their two hands in his; he wiped two great tears from his eyes, and then, in the cheerfulest voice possible, said, that now they would go to dinner, for that he was the christmas dinner. desperately hungry, and after dinner they would talk about these things. after dinner, when the desert was on the table, how merry the uncle was at the ex- pense of his nephew; and he told how he had " by chance” met with the doctor, and heard about kitty and the ragged school, and how he thought first of all of making her an offer himself, and then he thought of send- ing for his nephew, and then he warned kitty that he was a very obstinate young man, and that he would not be guided by his good old uncle, who meant so well by him; and then edward had to tell him how it was the losing of his watch, which brought him ac- quainted with kitty, and how happy they had been ever since, with only one drawback, and that was, that his uncle was such a hasty-tempered positive man, who would not allow his nephew, who wished to be so duti- ful to him, the right to choose a wife for himself, and how this said wicked uncle had nearly broken his nephew's heart by quarrel- ling with him about his intended wife. there was a deal of laughter and mer- riment though it was only a party of four; fe the christmas dinner, nor was there a christmas party, high or low, throughout england, where there was more true-love and kind-heartedness to be found. after this day the course of this true-love was so exceedingly smooth and sunshiny, that it certainly would have become monoto- nous, had not mr. joseph hilyard insisted on a wedding by way of variety; so the wed- ding was held in may. the young people lived in a small, but handsome house, not far from the uncle's large square one. mrs. trevisham still kept on the cottage, though she was not much there, for kitty and her husband insisted on her being mostly with them. very often too mr. hilyard was there; and as he had of late grown so wise as not to care for what people might say when a good action was in question, he made up his mind to persuade the widow trevisham to give up her cottage altogether, and remove to his large, square house in the character of his wife. we be- lieve that the wedding-dinner, and the christ- mas dinner will be eaten together on this present th of december. old christmas. and with sprigs of holly and ivy we make the house look gay, just out of an old regard to him,- for it was his ancient way. we broach the strong ale barrel, and bring out wine and meat; and thus have all things ready, our dear old friend to greet. and soon as the time wears round, the good old carle we see, coming a-near ;—for a creditor less punctual is than he! he comes with a cordial voice that does one good to hear ; he shakes one heartily by the liand, as he hath done many a year. and after the little children he asks in a cheerful tone, jack, kate, and little annie,– he remembers them every one! old christmas. what a fine old fellow he is ! with his faculties all as clear, and his heart as warm and light as a man in his fortieth year! what a fine old fellow, in troth! not one of your griping elves, who, with plenty of money to spare, think only about themselves ! not he! for he loveth the children; and holiday begs for all ; and comes with his pockets full of gifts, for the great ones and the small ! with a present for every servant ;- for in giving he doth not tire;- from the red-faced, jovial butler, to the girl by the kitchen-fire. and he tells us witty old stories ; and singeth with might and main ; and we talk of the old man's visit till the day that he comes again! old christmas. oh, he is a kind, old fellow for though that beef be dear, he giveth the parish paupers a good dinner once a year! and all the workhouse children he sets them down in a row, and giveth them rare plum-pudding, and two-pence a-piece also. oh, could you have seen those paupers have heard those children young, you would wish with them that christmas came often and tarried long! he must be a rich old fellow,- what money he gives away! there is not a lord in england could equal him any day! good luck unto old christmas, and long life let us sing, for he doth more good unto the poor than many a crowned king! two friends' counsel. shall ne ver be hap- pier than i now am, and c nobody on earth can s be!” exclaimed he- "lena, with real delight, and full of youthful gladness, when she found herself for the first time quietly at home in her own pretty house by the side of her albert, after all the marriage festivities and visiting were over. these words, uttered by a young, lovely, and beloved wife, who was really worth loving, might well sound de- two friends' counsel. lightfully in the ears of the young married man, and find a charming response in his heart. he could not, indeed, say a word, for joy. he pressed his wife speechlessly to his breast, and a moment of silence, pure and heavenly as the stars in the firmament, suc- ceeded. after this the young, happy couple, began to talk, to joke, and laugh merrily. ah! they had hitherto had so little opportu- nity for so doing! they both of them be- longed to the middle classes of society, and it was not in the free unconstrained life of a country town that their love had sprung up and grown to its now blossoming state, but within the walls of the capital, where there is more of compulsion, etiquette, rules and regulations, customs and usages, which everybody must inevitably follow, than of stone and brickwork. the two young people had known one another almost from their earliest childhood, but had scarcely ever until this very moment, been able, freely and uninterruptedly, to converse with each other, and they now en- joyed the happiness of their freedom more than two birds of the wood, which, after two friends' counsel. having been confined in a cage, from which they had escaped, now can fly about from tree to tree, seeking their own food, twitter- ing and singing, meeting or separating, to find companionship with other birds, or doing whatever they liked best. besides their free- dom, they also equally enjoyed their solitude, and they both agreed that they would not at this moment be king and queen over a whole nation, if they must be subjected to the con- stant attendance of a gazing and listening court. “our kingdom is that of love and devo-- tion to each other,” said albert; "and our attendants are little invisible genii, with bows: and arrows, who flutter around us, and whis- per to each other about a time when they shall become visible;" with that he pressed a. kiss upon his wife's lips, and then again there: occurred a blissful silence, and then again they laughed and talked. how lightly pass- ed those first days of a happiness which seemed as though it never could become dimmed! . all outward circumstances seemed to have contributed to fulfil their happiness. they gg two friends' counsel. belonged to the same class of society, and possessed the same set of ideas; they had been brought up in the same opinions; they were most accordant in age; they were equally amiable, the one as the other ; equally beloved and envied ; they were neither rich nor poor ; but their property, of which the greater part was albert's, when united, like their hearts, made together a whole which was by no means to be despised. their relations on both sides were perfectly satisfied with the match, and, beside this, none of their relations had anything to do in bringing it about; it had been entirely the work of the young couple themselves; but still, for all that, they had as yet had but lit- tle time for intercourse with each other. they had on both sides numerous rela- tions; brothers and sisters, cousins, aunts and uncles, and friends and acquaintances without number; visiting, therefore, and the duties of society, had left them only brief moments in which they had been able to congratulate themselves on being alone. their glances had been in those days their best mode of intercourse, and what they two friends' counsel. knew about each other was mostly from third persons; and what they heard was this: “he is an uncommonly agreeable, well- educated, clever, and excellent young man," was said of albert; and “what a sweet, lovely, good, unpretending, kind, well-be- haved, accomplished, and well brought-up girl is that helena !" said they of her; and that was all they mutually knew, because their own eyes had, for a long time at least, never said anything else than that they loved each other with all the youthful fervor of affection. now, however, they were united; now they began to talk and think as much as they liked ; now they had reached that goal about which they had dreamed so often, and beyond which there was something more and still more. now commenced, for the first time, confidence and unrestrained intercourse, and their opinions and reflections rushed like a foaming river over soul and heart to meet one another, and they felt the most unspeak- able happiness when they found that these harmonized, and did not break into those dis- sonances which so often happen when a two friends' counsel. married couple have been brought up in a dissimilar way, or have belonged to differ- ent circles or classes of society. there was, however, in this case, no danger of that kind; for even if albert's and helena's ideas had varied a little on minor points, they agreed entirely on more important and greater sub- jects in all that give coloring and tone to life. and now, in the first place, they began to talk about how amiable, how agreeable, how excellent, some of their acquaintance, rela- tions, and friends were; but how tiresome, disagreeable, and unbearable were others. they were nearly always of the same opinion in this comparison of their ideas; and it not unfrequently happened that one of them exclaimed, especially when the other had let fall a disparaging remark respecting some third person- “oh, really, do you think so ? that has been always my opinion, but i fancied that your taste was quite different.” “yes!" the other would reply, “one must disguise one's feelings in this world ; one must put on such a mask sometimes, that even those one loves two friends' counsel. liked to have danced a few times with you, as i used to do! it would have been infi- nitely more entertaining than with those that i care nothing about; but it was better not, else they might have said that one of us was jealous, or that we both were, or that we only wanted to show to everybody how much we thought of one another, or some other folly which one cannot guess at.” but it was precisely because the young couple could not have as much of each other's society as they themselves desired, that these moments for intercourse were so much desired by them, and so delightful at the same time. they had both of them, also, been brought up by excellent and pious parents, and had been taught from their childhood to go to church on the sabbath, and there before the most high to examine themselves and to offer up their prayers and praises ; now, therefore, they failed not of this duty, but spite of etiquette they sat by each other's side, and albert, unobserved, held helena's hand in his whilst their be- loved minister poured forth his eloquent ad- dresses, to the edification of all who heard two friends' counsel. was so long since any of her more fortunate schoolfellows had been willing to recognize her. she scarcely knew whether to trust her own eyes, when she saw helena on the arm of her husband. anna returned he- lena's salutation with great embarrassment and surprise, and not without a sigh for her poor bonnet and cloak, and walked on beside the young couple. “dear anna," said helena, “your way home passes my new house; it is not late, and your mother will not expect you so soon; you shall now go with us, and see how comfortably my good albert and i have got things." albert now pressed helena's arm to his breast; but anna thought, “ah she only wants to show me all her grandeur !" she went on with them, however, mechanically, partly out of a little curiosity, partly out of that want of independence which is so often the unfortunate consequence of extreme pov erty, which makes the poor fancy that they are obliged to obey the rich. a hasty and unpleasant thought, not alto- gether unlike anna's, passed through albert's two friends' counsel. mind; and he feared that possibly a little vanity might enter into helena's invitation to the poor girl to accompany her to her new home. at the door of the house, however, he left them, under the pretence of a visit which he had to make, but in reality to give helena an opportunity of showing in some way that wealth and avarice are not synony- mous. “look, anna," said helena, when they had entered the house, “how nicely my kind, dear albert has had everything done for me. look, how comfortable, and convenient all is, and how i have everything here which one can desire to make one's life comfortable and happy." “yes! god knows that !” replied anna, in that mournful tone which we should not err greatly in calling envious, and which the poverty-stricken observer of luxury and wealth almost always, and very excusably, feel something of; “now," continued the poor young woman, “here you can live like pearls and gold, and never once know what want is." “ah, anna!" replied helena, "you are two friends' counsel. unjust both to my albert and myself to think so. it is precisely here, in this warm, con- venient, handsome, and, in every respect comfortable room, that we continually talk and think about, the less fortunate than our- selves, and grieve that we are not able to make them partakers with us, and that partly from one reason and partly from an- other, among which vanity, avarice, or ego- tism are not the least. you see, this is what we acknowledge to one another with sorrow, and it may in some measure correct our fault ; but we soon fall into it again, and yet, as i hope, each time less deeply than be fore." "oh you are just the same good-hearted girl that you used to be at school,” said anna, bursting into tears, and she had a presentiment that her former playfellow had not only delayed her there to show her some- thing of her abundance, but also to bestow a little of it upon herself; and anna was so poor, and had been reduced so low, had striven both with hunger, want of clothing, and many another want, both for herself and her old mother, that all assumption, all pride two friends' counsel. haste, with some white manchet bread, confectionary, gingerbread, and such like, in a large shawl, which she tied together by the corners. “now, my cook shall go with you, and carry this for you, because she is not wanted here, as we dine with papa and mamma, to-day; and now we will just lay the bundle aside, because i hear albert coming.” helena spoke in a whisper, and turned aside, for now albert came in, and although she and anna hurried away the bundle, still he saw it, though he pretended not to do so. anna took her leave, and in consequence of albert's presence was spared all the grate- ful thanks she would otherwise have given, and followed by the cook and the bundle, she took her leave; and her grateful, tear-filled eyes as she departed, and albert's silent em- brace, when she was gone, made helena gay and happy the whole day. sometimes it happened that helena detect- ed little faults and weaknesses in albert also, but not very often, for the sake of preserving happiness and unity, because while a woman can bear to be reminded a hundred times of two friends' counsel. even if he do not suspect such a thing, for then they are most insufferable, be- cause they court observation, whilst those who really suffer, most frequently strain every nerve to endure it patiently and silent- ly. (this last recipe we recommend to everybody, and to the married woman in particular. it is true that if helena, at any time, looked pale, or a little out of sorts, al- bert was inconsolable; and when, at length, she only left her home for a daily drive, he himself assisted her in and out of the car- riage; nor would anything during this time induce him to stay away from home, after the hours which his business demanded. during this time, also, albert and helena enjoyed in a high degree a pleasure which, until now, they had never been able to afford themselves. in the long winter evenings he read unceasingly aloud to his young wife, and they were both delighted,-not, it is true, with everything they read, because they had, both of them, very good judgment and pure taste,—but that they nearly always agreed in their praise or blame, in their likings or dislikings. two friends' counsel. “how beautiful that is!—how excellent ! helena would exclaim sometimes, and al- bert's assenting glance, without interrupting his reading, proved how entirely he was of her opinion. “how stupid that is,-how poor and disgusting !" she would say at an- other time; and albert had merely waited for these words from her lips before he threw the book at the wall-always an irresistible impulse when one reads a bad book, and which explains the reason why bad books are just as much soiled, broken-backed, and dog-eared as good books which are much read. far from throwing det gâr an* at the wall, they read it through and talked it well over, but the great author of that work must pardon us if we acknowledge that they, in the midst of their happiness and love, al- together condemned his book; and they could not conceive how the same master- hand who wrote “ the chapel,” could paint such “a picture from life” as this was. yet, what does it signify? there are very few who condemn the book from the same cause * see the translation of the swedish story, no. , in no. of this journal.-m. h. two friends' counsel. as these two, namely, that they themselves were speaking proofs of its condemnation. but now the great catastrophe approached which is so important in the history of a new married life,—now the day was at hand which should give to albert and helena a son or a daughter. the hour was come. albert was almost out of his mind with anxiety, on account of his wife. he was one of those kind, amia- ble, thoroughly good-natured creatures, who are thinly sown, not one of those strong, resolute characters, firm as a rock, who are still more rarely to be met with, and the strings of whose souls neither suffering nor adversity can break, can only, on the con- trary, cause them to vibrate the louder. in proportion as albert had suffered, was the greatness of his joy when the nurse came and announced to him that he was the father of a healthy, charming, little daughter. he was now almost beside himself with de- light, he sprung up and embracing the old woman herself, exclaimed, although he had hitherto wished for a son, “ just as good-i two friends' counsel. would as soon have a daughter-so that he- lena is but out of danger!” helena was out of danger; for hours her husband sat beside her as she slept, never moving himself, nor making the least noise all the time, never once creaking his boots, striking his chair against the wall, nor drop- ping anything on the floor; neither cough- ing nor blowing his nose, all of which was so admirable in a gentleman, that we can do no other than mention it—than write down this entirely unusual and unheard-of circum- stance—this proof of his unusual and un- heard-of devotion to his little wife. the baby had not been born a very long time before the father bad it in his arms, rejoicing over it, and greatly admiring it, and holding it all the time tant bien que mal we are afraid. “what in heaven's name are you doing?" exclaimed the nurse, hurrying into the room where she heard the little creature crying. “my goodness! but that will never do !" said she in great trouble when she saw albert holding the poor little thing with its feet higher than its head. “for heaven's sake two friends' counsel. let the baby alone; gentlemen don't know how to handle such little dears !" and with these words, and many others, the baby was carried off to its cradle. helena was as much overjoyed with her little daughter as albert, it was always at her side, greatly to her husband's distress, who feared lest it should fatigue her too much. but she seemed scarcely to notice or trouble herself about anything beside. helena was soon up and well again ; and then great was the stir in the house, and the cleaning and the preparation for the christen- ing. albert spent as much time as he possi- bly could with his wife, and laughed at her no little for being so incessantly occupied with the child. he could not help wishing within himself that “this troublesome chris- tening” were over, so that things might again fall into their old course, and when helena need no longer sit for whole days be- side the cradle. poor albert! he troubled himself exceed- ingly about this; and nothing did again fall into its old course. the little one was chris- tened with four or five names, and had as two friends' counsel. many godfathers and godmothers as filled the drawing-room, not to mention those at a distance, who had merely written. there was rhine wine, and confectionary, in abun- dance. the nurse was dismissed with fifty thalers banco, for which she made fifty curtseys; the visitors decreased in number ; quietness be- gan to reign again in the house, and albert began to breathe more freely, but helena still sat for whole days beside the little cradle, and albert, glad at all events, to be rid of the bustle and disturbance in the house, and to be once more quiet with his wife, often sat with her. in the beginning he thought it very amusing; after a few days, however, he said that it made him quite hoarse to talk softly and in a whisper, which helena re- quired him to do through the whole day, lest he should wake little milla. “now milla is as sound asleep as a little sucking pig.” albert would say sometimes, “let caroline sit and watch beside the cradle, and you can come out into the drawing- room, and then we can have a little reading · together, or you can play and sing to me, for two friends' counsel. nights in succession, she had made a bed up for him in his little library, so that he need not be kept awake unnecessarily. this ar- rangement did not please him; but still he was obliged to confess that helena was right, that there was no advantage to be gained, but the very opposite, by his lying awake, when he could not do the least good either to milla or herself, but was made heavy and sleepy through the whole of the following day; so albert removed to the library, but not with- out earnestly beseeching of helena, that for heaven's and his sake, she would spare her- self a little, and endeavor to get some sleep, and have more confidence in caroline, or else get some one else on whom she could depend. helena assented to all this, but she did it not. and now that albert was out of the way, and no longer lay and looked on, she felt as if she were at liberty to act as she pleased; so she was up the greater part of the night, carrying about and pacifying the child, which only cried more and more; and then, when at length it slept, she herself lay and wept, because she thought it was ill, and perhaps might die. two friends' counsel. had so soon learned his peculiar tastes, were not often to his liking. helena was never seen out of the house, and she always begged of her husband to take his walks alone, and never to refuse any invitation on her account. at first she had made this re- quest in vain ; he had no pleasure in going without her ; but when, as she would not go out he obeyed her wishes, she felt hurt, and. shed many tears. it was now winter; the evenings were: long and dark, and often tedious to her ;; sometimes milla slept; she herself could not do so, but walked up and down the dark drawing-room, listening to every sound, whether it might not be albert; but he came not, or if he did come, he often found traces. of tears upon her cheeks. when these had to be explained, they were always attributed to anxiety respecting milla ; but they did not all come from that source, though she said so. when albert was away, and often did not return for many hours, now and then little tormenting suggestions, which had hitherto been as still as the dead in their graves, arose in her mind. she began to wo friends' counsel. fancy that albert was gay, and full of ani- mation, as his temperament was by nature, when with other people, whilst at home with her he was anxious and dejected. she called to mind some little circumstances in his ear- lier life, which since their marriage he had related to her, and of which at the time she took no heed. she remembered also, that he had said, in speaking of a certain lady, who had the power of attracting all young fel- lows' hearts to her, on purpose to jilt them, “i, myself, for a little while, was desperately in love with her! helena, when he told her this, began to weep at the very thought of his having loved anybody but her, at which albert laughed, and assured her, that the love which he had for this lady, and that which he had felt for his own helena, were as different as light and darkness. helena had been consoled by these words, and had laughed at her "needless tears," as she her- self called them. but, now, during those long solitary hours, when she knew that her husband was again in brilliant society, among dozens of ladies, who would like nothing better than to get this amiable young two friends' counsel. man within their trammels, and who assur- edly would spare no pains to do so, now that helena was out of the way, those unfortu- nute words of his, “i, myself, for a little while, was desperately in love with her ! again haunted her fancy, and with them came the saddest, the ugliest, the darkest, the most dangerous of all spectres of the mindjealousy there it stood, suggesting to her that what had once been, might be again. this heart-torturing thought sent floods of tears to her eyes; and as she often thought that it was a sin to shed those tears over little milla, when she lay, sweetly and calmly sleeping in her cradle, she hastened to her chamber, when she heard her husband coming, and pretended to sleep, in order to conceal from his knowledge her red and tear-swollen eyes. when she was asleep, or seemed to be sleeping, albert left the room, or if it were not too late in the evening, went out of the house. helena fancied that she could read in this an increasing coldness towards herself. “formerly," thought she, “he never would have done in this way; formerly, he would have sat silently by my two friends counsel. side, till i had awoke;" and with this her tears streamed anew. when the heart be- gins, regretfully, to say, “formerly it was not thus," then it suffers bitterly. helena, however, did not remark how un- happy her husband was all this time, pre- cisely because he endeavored as much as possible to conceal his suffering from her; and he and her own mother, and other of her friends, puzzled their brains in vain, to find out some means of remedying the evil, which seemed to increase every day; for the more helena wept, the more restless became little milla, and all this added to the trouble. albert wished to call in physicians, that he might consult with them; so did helena's mother; but she herself, who best knew what the cause of the malady was, persuaded them to be satisfied with the old family doc- tor, and he could not find that anything was amiss, either with mother or child. he did, however, what medical gentlemen are obliged to do when they are called in unnecessarily; he felt the pulse, looked at the tongue, imagin- ed that a little cold had been taken, prescribed the wearing of flannel and keeping the feet two friends' counsel. warm, staying in her house for a few days, being careful as to what was eaten, keeping the mind free from excitement, going early to bed, etc.; and, in order to satisfy albert and her mother, he wrote a prescription for some innocent mixture, which should be taken two or three time a-day. this unfor- tunate bottle of mixture next became a sub- ject of strife between the anxious young hus- band and his wife. he fancied that all pos- sible advantages lay in the draught, and she cared no more for it than for the snow-flakes which filled the air. he besought her to take it regularly; she objected, saying that it did her no good, but only made her feel squeamish and poorly ; and, at last, when they had had a long contest on this subject, he called her obstinate and troublesome, and that with a good deal of temper, going out of the house at the same time, and shutting the door after him with more violence than common. “now i see it plain enough; now i know it perfectly !” said helena, to herself, bursting into tears, “ albert loves me no longer ! some other one has possession of the heart two friends' counsel. she had a keen, penetrating glance—a cer- tain degree of cunning and quickness, which by many people is called genius, because people are so ready in the application of this word, where the reality is wanting, and so reluctant to allow it when it is sometimes found. what was her own opinion on this subject, we know not; but her manner of laying down her opinion ; of giving advice or directions; of never allowing herself to be detected in the slightest error, ignorance, or want of judgment; of only smiling, if any lady proved to her, as clear as daylight, that she was wrong, leaving it to them to call it conceding the fact, or just what they pleased, -in all this there was a something which might be called, the having a high opin- ion of herself. but, wonderful enough, no- body did call it so. she awoke no spark of envy or indignation, and she succeeded in making almost everybody talk about her re- ligious zeal; her deep, clear understanding; her solid and varied knowledge (for she had read and worked in the book line through the whole of her long and undisturbed life); about her great ability in writing down her two friends' counsel. thoughts; her skill in painting portraits (as- tonishing likenesses, but horribly ugly); of her steadfastness in keeping her word; her fidelity in friendship; her never betraying confidence; her renunciation of self; her de- votion to others; her undeviating adherence to principle ;-all this was spoken of, and at the same time testimony was borne to her tenderness; her quiet piety; her warm, sym- pathizing heart; her goodness, gentleness, and forbearance towards others, as well as her severity towards herself; and, above all, her beautiful irreproachable life,- for it was im- possible to charge anything against her; in some respects, too, she followed the rule of the scriptures, for she fed the hungry, clothed the naked, and comforted the suffering in every way in her power,—and that was many, for she lived very quietly and econo- mically with an old mother, who never hav- ing been very bright in her mind, had now sunk into second childhood. as this old lady was never seen, her requirings could not be very great; nor were mary ann's either ; and thus at least two-thirds of her income were devoted to works of charity. if any- two friends' counsel. body were in want, they went to her ; if they were in trouble, she sought to comfort them; and if she did not, then nobody could ; did any one want good advice, they asked it from her, and it was not her fault that it was so seldom followed, because of all the people who ask advice, very few follow any but their own. albert during his betrothal when he was first introduced into the circle of helena's re- lations, out of which mary ann seldom went, had been by no means favorably impressed with the new cousin whose dogmatic and solemn manner displeased him, and before he had discovered how highly she was thought of by all her relatives, he had said to helena, “there is something very like an old carmelite in mary ann, with her so- lemn grimaces, in that everlasting brown gown, brown shawl, and brown bonnet !! helena, however, laid her hand on his lips, and besought him by all that was sacred, never to utter such an unfavorable judgment, and attempted to make him understand how ill it would be taken, and how highly mary ann was esteemed by them all. albert . two friends' counsel. laughed and was silent, but afterwards when helena was his own, and they could converse freely on all subjects, they had, with the greatest secresy, come to the agreement that she was a pattern of all virtues, and all dis- cretions, a saint,, a burning and a shining light, but a very tiresome person. when helena was married, she received from friends and relations an unheard-of number of presents and keepsakes. mary ann had also distinguished herself at that time—she gave to albert a portrait of he- lena, very well painted by herself, and“ very like," as all the world said, to which albert always softly added, “yes, when she is fifteen years older,” because, though the features were indisputably like, the portrait was of a much older person. albert set no store by the picture, and only brought it out when some one particularly wished to see it. to helena she gave a very beautiful bible, with a cover worked in beads by her own hands, (for she could do everything,) and upon which helena set the highest value. besides this, she had worked on a footstool in black velvet, with silver, a design of faith, hope, · two friends' counsel. and charity, and in presenting it she had held a long and beautiful discourse on the necessity of bending the knees in prayer, and this black footstool was to serve for this pur- pose. but as alberts and helena's prayers were too earnest and simple, and came too directly from the heart, to need the aid of a cushion or stool, and as the setting their feet upon it was a thing not to be thought of, it was set aside in a corner, and no use made of it whatever, except that albert always called it the catholic, or the monk. that the young couple in their childish merriment often made a joke over the black velvet stool and poor cousin mary ann, as well as many another thing, will easily be understood. and it was now to this same lady that helena directed her steps. the young wife's trouble had placed mary ann in a new light, and she thought that from her she should get counsel, comfort, and all that she lacked. the room which mary ann inhabited, had a singular appearance. it was large, lofty, and dark, which last circumstance was owing to her keeping the lower shutters closed, so that the light was admitted only from two friends' counsel. above, which was desirable on account of the lady's paintings, of which a great array filled one side of the room. a large, brown book- case, the doors of which were wide open, one stood on legs between the windows, instead of the customary looking glass, table or chef- fonier. on one side of the room were ranged eight or ten little stools in a circle, and on these lay portions of children's clothes of coarse material, which would be made up by poor little girls, who at certain hours came nither for instruction in needle-work. the clothes were thus made up for children poorer than themselves. before a large old-fashioned writing-table covered with books and papers, sat the thin, little dried-up lady, almost buried in a large and very substantial chair. her back was turned to the door as helena entered, and as the tall back and sides of the chair prevented her seeing without she had left her seat, she inquired “ who is there ?" and as helena gave no answer, she repeated her question. with- out making any reply, helena stood before the table. - “ah! it is my young friend !” exclaimed two friends' counsel. mary ann at the sight of her. “how are you? what can have brought the young, happy lady to old mary ann ?” these words, “the happy young lady," were said with a certain emphasis, which im. mediately and unpleasantly reminded helena that her cousin had often, during the early part of her marriage said in a bewailing tone, when she saw their happiness, “ah! that will not always last. sorrow and trouble will also have their time! people flee from them as long as they can, but in the end they overtake them." “ah, dear mary ann," said helena, “i am come to you to more she could not say, but burst into violent tears. “yes, yes, my dear child," said mary ann solemnly, “i expected this, but it grieves me that it should have come so soon, that my presentiment, my great knowledge of human nature, should unfortunately have been so true in this. happiness and mirth are yours no longer-is it not so ? and now you are come to a friend in whose bosom you can confide all the troubles of your soul, and from whom you can look for comfort and two friends' counsel. counsel. but," added she, casting up her eyes, “i have only one advice to give, one consolation to offer, and that is the heavenly manna which is to be found in prayer." “ah, mary ann," said helena, weeping, believe not but that i have prayed. i have gone down on my knees many and many a time, and besought the almighty to give me again the calm, beautiful, and pure joy which was mine, but now which seems to fly far- ther from me every day." “no, my beloved cousin,” said mary ann, “that is not what you must pray for ; nor is that the manner. do you not believe that god knows what is good for you? he lays no burden of sorrow upon you which has not a high purpose to serve. no, my dear child; of this be sure, sorrow and trial never come without our having deserved them, or with- out their being intended for our eternal wel- fare; and, therefore, in prayer we must only ask for grace, for strength, for courage and steadfastness to suffer; and, besides this, we must bear in mind, every day and every mo- ment, how the son of god suffered and was tormented; and this will make our little two friends' counsel. afflictions and sorrows seem small, indeed - vanish into nothing, like a drop of water in the sea." there was a degree of truth, certainly, in these words; but, ah ! they did not console helena. she did not find that which, with- out she had properly explained herself, she sought,—which was, advice how to regain the former and lost happiness by the side of her--now more than ever beloved-husband. but helena was such a good, pure, and open spirit, that when she did not meet with all she sought for, she took what she found. she was convinced that there was a deal of truth in much that mary ann had said, and she listened to her as she went on with ani- mation and earnestness, because she spoke really from the conviction of her mind. she took certain views of the duties of life and religion, and she succeeded in instilling them into the mind of helena. she read and ex- plained to her, in her own way, long pas- sages out of books of devotion, which she assured her would edify and console her, if she only properly impressed them upon her two friends' counsel. happy. mary ann came to comfort her, and things grew worse and worse. during this time christmas, january and february had passed. the sun of march began to shine with all its cheerfulness, awakening and giving life; and when he- lena's eyes were free from tears she sate in the light of this march sun working with the greatest industry at a handsome piece of worsted work which was to cover a large and comfortable chair, with which she wish- ed to surprise and gladden her beloved hus- band, whose affections she fancied she had lost forever, on his birth-day, which was at the end of march. the first green leaf of the lily of consolation began to spring forth in her heart, at the very time when she was forming with her needle those flowers for him, whose whole life she would strew with flowers if she only knew how. milla was now half a year old, and often very sweet and quiet. just at this time, too, mary ann was very much occupied with comforting and advising, as she said, some other people, and therefore could not be so much with helena. helena's tears flowed kk two friends' counsel. ts lena's handsome young face, and mary ann assured her, that a more lovely madonna could nowhere be found. this was a heart- felt joy to helena, although she did not con- fess it to her cousin, and the thought flashed through her mind, that albert, perhaps, that once, would think her handsome. milla was at the first rehearsal very restless, but caro- line managed to fix her attention upon her- self by help of a bright-colored toy, which she, concealed by the curtain, stood and showed her, softly saying, all the time- “hush ! hush !" and it was hoped that the same ingenious scheme would succeed at the real representation. : “ah! if there were only somebody else besides mary ann to receive albert !" thought helena, when the time was come, and the clock struck six in the evening, and she sate with little milla kicking her little legs about with all her might, on her knee, behind a great number of lights, and heard albert come, and mary ann fussing and fidgetting about him. immediately afterwards, she heard them come into the room ; heard mary ann place him in a chair which had been set two friends' counsel. for him, and heard him ask in astonishment, “what in all the world is the meaning of this?" just then, however, mary ann drew up the curtain with great skill, and albert experi- enced a holy, unmingled feeling of pure joy at the beautiful sight which he beheld. de- lighted, he sprung forward, and would have clasped the mother and child to his breast, but mary ann attempted to keep him back by the coat-laps, that he might understand how faithfully the original had been followed in the arrangement of the picture ; how ex- cellent was the effect of the light; how beautiful and how—as if in a glory of sanc- tity and heavenly light-appeared the divine mother and child, admonishing to an amend- ed life and repentance for sin. mary ann, in short, wished to address a few appropriate words to albert for his edification, which she had prepared for the occasion; but albert did not trouble himself about this at all; he let her scream and talk as best she would. wil- lingly leaving his coat-lap as her prize, he rushed forward and clasped helena and milla to his joy-overflowing heart. two friends' counsel. more, as she went into the kitchen to see that albert's favorite dish, which she had or- dered for supper, was nicely prepared, she was absent a considerable time, during which, albert had no very agreeable tete-a-tete with mary ann helena thought about this, and therefore hastened back as soon as she possi- bly could, and when she entered the drawing- room, she was not a little distressed to hear the two engaged in a hot and obstinate dis- pute; neither seemed inclined to yield, and the eyes of both flashed with a fire which was not far from that of anger and indigna- tion. albert had felt no good-will towards mary ann for a considerable time; he had often met her on the steps as he came home, and many a time he attributed his wife's tears to the visits of her cousin, and not unfrequently had he fancied that he detected her spirit in his wife's words. during helena's absence, they had, by an unfortunate accident, chanced to begin talking about the well-known ma- dame krudener, who travelled about preach- ing for the reformation and improvement of the human race, and who at length attached two friends' counsel. herself like a shadow to the emperor alex- ander, whom she perfectly knew how to manage. albert spoke of her as of an ad- venturess, a fanatic, a mad-woman, etc.; who did more harm than good. mary ann, on the other side, who had read everything which any one had written, either for or against. madame krudener, and who knew perfectly well, that she had not done anything wrong, at least, not intentionally, although she cer-- tainly had not been able to do all the good. which she intended ; called the celebrated lady one of the lights of heaven; a pro-- phetess, one of the inspired of god, a true: seeress, gifted with great and supernaturali powers, to look into futurity, and down into the hearts and souls of men. not without some little malice, albert in- quired with a smile, whether mary ann be- lieved that such like “elected beings” were: to be met with, or ever had been ; to which mary ann replied with great warmth and; violence, that she did not almost believe, but that she was fully, and firmly convinced of it, and that there were richly endowed na.. tures, who, by prayer, renunciation, and self- ll , two friends' counsel. sacrifice, having made themselves worthy of heavenly grace and inspiration, had been gifted by god with far greater and much more powerful abilities and endowments than are common among the indolent, miserable people of the world, who, deaf and blind to the light and to the heavenly calling, crawl in the dust, laugh, curse, doubt, and exalt themselves, instead of trusting, praying, hoping, and humbling themselves. mary ann spoke a deal and vehemently on this subject, and at the same time directed keen and significant glances at albert. for the first time. albert : was now alone with mary ann, and being no longer kept within bounds by a gazing and listening circle of relatives, without weighing his words, or re- penting his somewhat "sarcastic laugh, he offered her first one and then another affront, about her self-love; her self-consequence, and the great opinion which she had of herself. things were in this position when helena returned to the room. the conversation, it is true, then took another turn, but it was constrained and wearisome. albert yawned now and then, and mary ann sate and two friends' counsel. twirled her fingers and, cast from time to time, long, solemn, madonna-like glances, in part upon helena, and in part at the ceiling. helena rang, and ordered supper to be served. but the supper turned out to be neither ex- cellent nor agreeable; the veal-cutlets were burnt to a cinder, and the groats were burnt likewise, both which misfortunes had hap- pened after helena left the kitchen. as soon as supper was over, mary ann took her leave, but not without whispering to helena, that she feared that albert was lost forever, both to her and to all good. these words distressed helena extremely, as did also albert's remark, as soon as mary ann was gone. “what, in heaven's name, dear, good he- lena," said he, “had you to do with that tire- some mary ann? this evening might have been the most amusing, and the pleasantest i have had for a long time, if you had only spared me her company, or had had some others here besides that woman, who is so intolerable to me!" never before had albert spoken in this way of the excellent mary ann, “the idol two friends' counsel. and oracle of every one,” and helena fancied that she could read in his disapprobation of her cousin, the same feeling towards herself, towards the little device of the evening, and everything else. she burst into tears, and and those flowed more hotly than ever, be- cause they were the wormwood drops of dis- appointed hope. with despair in her heart, and, without saying a word, she went softly out of the room, and sate down, and wept, by the side of her sleeping child; and albert on his part, with sorrow and trouble in his soul, went into his gloomy and solitary little library. for a whole hour, at least, he sate in the dull moonlight, pondering sadly on his fate, and comparing former times with the present, and then he rang and ordered the servant to bring him lights. when the lights came, how great was his astonishment, and at the same time his pleasure, to see the large, handsome, and long-wished-for chair, which helena had presented to him, and with that he immediately observed,—what a deal of labor and pains she had taken, as well with it, as with a basket to throw paper in, which stood there, looking very elegant two friends' counsel. with its wreath of flowers. now he repented a thousand times having vexed helena with his angry invectives against her cousin, who perhaps had helped helena with this great piece of needlework—perhaps, indeed, he had done the poor cousin a grievous wrong. he felt a great self-reproach, and would so gladly have recalled every word which had wounded her, or annoyed helena. he would go, however, to his beloved wife, and retrieve his error, and thank her with all his heart; but caroline said that she was already asleep, and above all things, he would not then disturb her. helena, however, was not asleep—she was weeping; but in the morning, when albert, at nine o'clock, was compelled to go to his office, she really was asleep, and that as soundly and calmly as a pure spotless con- science and a healthy youthful frame alone can sleep. the chamber door stood ajar ; albert moved silently along the soft carpet, and stood by the bed-side, observing how sweetly and comfortably she lay. her dark brown hair hung carelessly but beautifully over her white forehead and upon her round two friends' counsel. had wished so much to have some talk with him; she wished to have asked his forgive- ness for the folly, as she herself now called it, of having no one but mary ann there on his birthday. during the night she had : many good and evil thoughts; had concluded that perhaps it was not right to let her cousin have so great an influence over her, especially when albert did not like her; that there were many circumstances which mary ann did not thoroughly understand, and that she (helena) ought to take care not to be infected by her cousin's extravagance in many things. and now, therefore, she wept because she could not confess all this to albert, and beg of him not to be displeased with her. it an- noyed her all the more, not to have seen him this morning, because this was one of the days when he would not return till evening, and at that time milla was often so fretful, that there was but little time for conversa- tion. the card which albert had left in the glass remained there unobserved of his wife, for her morning toilet was hastily made, and without one single glance in the mirror. her two friends' counsel. hair hung negligently on her tearful cheeks; her dress was carelessly put on, and a large shawl thrown over all, completed her morn- ing costume; and thus attired sate she at twelve o'clock by the side of her child's cradle, and rocked, and rocked, although the child slept soundly, when all at once she heard quick steps approaching the chamber. she pushed her hair back behind her ears, drew together the shawl, and with displeasure on her upper lip she looked to the door where she expected the unwelcome visitor with a “hush ! to warn the intruder from waking the child. but before the door opens, before the stranger enters, for it really is one, we must • hastily sketch the portrait of another of he- lena's cousins. of cousins helena had many, and among these was arabella, the most perfect anti- podes of mary ann. she was ten or twelve years older than helena, and had been mar- ried some years. she was no very great favorite with the large circle of their formal and precise relations; on the contrary, they almost all of them found fault with her. two friends' counsel. "but then your children were always so healthy,” said helena, and rocked little milla. “that they certainly have been,” returned arabella, “but so was i, and cheerſul and merry, and that did a great deal. you, how- ever, look as melancholy as if you had the burden of the whole world on your shoul- ders. what can be the great trouble which casts you down so, dear helena ?" said she kindly, and drawing her chair closer to the low seat on which helena sat by the cra- dle; "the child lies there as rosy and as fresh as a rose-bud, but as cross as a little tiger, because you have spoiled her.” “how can you say so about my little angel milla ?" said helena, half-laughing, and took up the child, who now awoke with all this talk, because she had been accustomed to a death-like stillness. “come hither to me!” said arabella, taking her in her arms to play with and dance her about, although she cried dreadfully; at length, however, she was silent out of pure astonishment at this new mode of entertain- ment. two friends' counsel. pered husband off into his library, where you let him be solitary, like a poor dog in his kennel, that you may lie awake all night and kill yourself over that baby who lies there laughing; secondly, that you never dress your beautiful hair as you used to do, nor dress yourself nicely, either of which would be a pleasure to your husband; and, lastly, that you do not put the least confidence in caroline, who is such a clever person with children, and— who has told me all this. i know her well, for she lived with me three years, and nursed my little augustus, and never would i desire a better, and to tell you the truth, she was with us on sunday, and then i did, what i am never accustomed to do, draw out of her that which i have now told you; and that, i confess, i did with design, for it is really dreadful to see how your charming and kind-hearted husband, troubles and distresses himself, believing that you are ill or unhappy, because you are always cry- ing. and what in the world have you to cry for ?.. perhaps you fancy that your hus- band does not love you as much as formerly ? i, however, can assure you that he does ; be- two friends' counsel. cause those who see him now in society, and who used to see him formerly, can best ob- serve that his altered manner is the conse- quence of his heartfelt trouble about you. he never talks with any other ladies, never looks at them, but sits there and plays at whist with as much indifference as a statue, and he used formerly to be so merry and cheerful. but if at any time he hears your name mentioned, he looks up hastily, just as if conversation about you was the only sub- ject that interested him. i have remarked this, because i wished to try him. but you must remember that he is a man, and a young man, and you must not try his fidelity too severely, but endeavor to restore his cheerfulness before it be too late, and before he begins to seek amusements in which you can have no part.” • “ah! what would you that i should do ?” said helena, bursting into tears, for she felt that arabella's intentions were kind towards her, and she was very much affected by the description of her husband's behavior in company; "what would you have me do? i would gladly do anything to make albert two friends' counsel. head with suspicions about your husband. i know very well, that she comes here morn- ing and evening; and i know very well, too, that all this may lead to a great deal of mis- chief, although i must concede, that our worthy cousin means well, both towards you and others. i shall never forget,” continued arabella, in a tone half jesting, and half sorrowful, “when my little henry died, and i grieved so that i thought i should lose my senses, that mary ann came to comfort me, and she comforted me till i thought i should go and drown myself. she means well, but she does not go the right way to work; and my husband had regularly to take me to task, and show me that one has no right to spend many hours a-day in weeping and lamenting, when one has a husband and children and a family to look after ; so, in- stead of weeping, i dried my eyes, and did all in my power to be cheerful, as i had for- merly been, and i was successful.” helena sate and pondered on what she heard. after this, arabella began to talk about other things, and she told her many little mm two friends' counsel. it, that she did not hear the much-desired return of her husband, who entered the room, and going up to the piano, stood for a mo- ment in delight to listen, before he clasped her to his heart, which was throbbing with the purest joy. it is perhaps scarcely necessary to add, that from this day all their former happiness and comfort returned to albert and helena, and that ever after they were as happy as people can be in this world, where perfect happiness never does spring up and blossom; where the heavens, indeed, are at times bright and strewn with stars whispering of a better life- but are also occasionally black with clouds, dark and misty, mourning because of the bit- terness of this. the children. eautiful the children's $ faces ; all spite of all that mars and sears; to my inmost heart appealing ; calling forth love's tenderest feeling; steeping all my soul with tears. eloquent the children's faces- poverty's lean look, which saith, save us ! save us ! woe surrounds us ; little knowledge sore confounds us : life is but a lingering death! give us light amid our darkness ; let us know the good from ill; hate us not for all our blindness; love us, lead us, show us kindness- you can make us what you will. the children. train us ! try us! days slide onward, they can ne'er be ours again : save us, save! from our undoing ! save from ignorance and ruin ; make us worthy to be men! send us to our weeping mothers, angel-stamped in heart and brow! we may be our fathers' teachers : we may be the mightiest preachers, in the day that dawneth now! such the children's mute appealing all my inmost soul was stirred ; and my heart was bowed with sadness, when a cry, like summer's gladness, said, “the children's prayer is heard!" beginning and end of mrs. muggeridge's wedding-dinner. t was quite a plea- sure to peep into mrs.. muggeridge's house, because it was so clean and so well furnished. it had ko three front windows v and a door; on the door was a brass-plate, as bright as leather and whitening could make it; and on this plate was engraved, “j. muggeridge, gar- dener;" (it was a little bit of vanity, and all the neighbors said so); and there were nice white-fringed roller-blinds in the windows, the tassels of which were tied up in little nn mrs. muggeridge's frilled bags, and snow-white dimity curtains, besides, in the chambers. the house-floor was as bright as mopping every morning could make its red bricks; and every after- noon two yards of smart carpeting were laid down before the fire. the mahogany case of the eight-day clock, and the mahogany chest of drawers, which stood in the kitchen, were rubbed till they shone like looking- glasses. this clock and chest of drawers were the pride of mrs. muggeridge's kitchen; for these, with various articles of tin ware all block-tin together with a bedstead and bedding, were her own contribution to the house-plenishing when she was married- to say nothing of a five and a ten-pound bank of england bill, which she kept in a little red housewife, and which she had saved partly in service and partly by dress- making, in which she was very clever. someway or other this clock and chest of drawers held a place in her heart; and yet, let it not be imagined that she had a small heart for all that-for, besides clock and chest of drawers, let me see how many other things, animate and inanimate, this heart wedding-dinner. of hers held. first and foremost came john muggeridge-her first and her last love, as she always called him-a stout- built, ruddy-complexioned, brave-hearted man, of five and thirty; secondly, her two healthy, merry children, the youngest of which was nearly five-children that always looked clean and wholesome, even when grubbing up to the eyes in the dust of the little back garden ; thirdly, the little front garden, with white cockle-shells set all round its borders, and its fine carnations, double stocks, and mignonette; and fourthly, her house, and all that it held—pots and pans included; and then i will leave it to any jury of intelligent readers whether mrs. muggeridge had a small heart or not. it would have put any cynic into good humor to have seen john muggeridge's arri- val at home on a saturday evening. clean, and bright, and cheerful as things looked in an ordinary way, they were made to look ten times brighter to welcome that time. the flower-pots in the windows were quite daz- zling with red-lead; the clock and chest of drawers had an additional polish ; the win- mrs. muggerid mrs. muggeridge's. these were good, she said—very good, in their way; and she wished with all her heart that muggeridge could only have a taste of all the good things she had eaten. yes, these were all good, very ! but after all, there was nothing that was cooked, either roasted or boiled, that equalled hare! what a shame it was, she said, that hares and such things were quite out of an honest, poor body's reach! there was something so indescribable about hare, with its savoury stuffing, and rich sauce, and currant jelly! it made her mouth water even to think of it, and she was sure it would do her good to see. muggeridge enjoying it. she knew very well, she said, how to cook a hare; for in one place where she had lived, she had been servant of all work, and her mistress, who often had hare, had been at a deal of trouble to teach her how to cook it; and then she went through all the detail of skinning, stuff- ing, skewering, and so on, till it came to its being cut up and eaten! muggeridge, in idea, devoured the hare; he was sure, he said, that it must be good; and it was, as mrs. muggeridge's her, for he loved her and the children a deal better than money. but one thing troubled him, and that was, that his "little bit of money," and his wife's too, had been lost by lending, greatly against his own will and wishes, to a relation of mrs. muggeridge's, and he now had nothing but his wages to rely upon. on the loss of the money his wife had volunteered, considering that they had but two children, who now, as she said, were "nicely out of hand,” to take to her dress-making again, in which she had such good reputation, and thus make an effort to gain some more money in the place of what was lost. nothing in this world could have made muggeridge more grateful to his wife than this voluntary offer. unfortu- nately, however, it never went beyond the offer and the promise: she always said she meant to do it some time, but she had pro crastinated so long that her husband had now no faith in the promise; and this was just the one discordant string between them. on the other side of the question, somebody had told her that, if he only would, he might get a five pound, now and then, by raising prize- mrs. muggeridge's her brain, she could not get it out again: “ there's plenty of winter-savory and lemon thyme in the garden,” thought she; “mug- geridge set that himself when i wanted to make a stuffing for heart ;--and currant jelly, why one might get a sixpenny pot of that at the confectioner's, and what's left will do to give the children after physic, if they should want any. it will be a dear dinner,” thought she, “any how; but just for once! at all events i can go and ask the price of a hare —there is no harm in asking.” the poulterer's and game-shops were full of hares, and pheasants, and turkeys—there was evidently no lack of such things. mrs. muggeridge wanted a hare for as little money as possible. she was in despair when she heard four-and-sixpence and four shillings asked; she could not afford above two shil- lings. the people asked her if she sup- posed that they stole their hares to sell them at that price. mrs. muggeridge turned round and walked home disconsolately, thinking that hares were not meant for poor folk's eating. when she reached her own door, she became, for the first time, aware that a mrs. muggeridge's make a hastener, before the fire; mrs. mug- geridge was indefatigable in basting it. the savoury odour proceeded forth from the house; the neighbors seemed to do nothing all the morning but come a-borrowing, first salt, and then flour, and then a meat-saw, and everybody knew what a dinner the mug- geridges were going to have that day! the hare was done to a turn as the hus- band and the children came in with the foaming tankard of ale which they had called for on their way; the sauce was poured into a milk-jug, and the currant jelly turned out in a saucer; the potatoes were smoking hot and fit for a lord's table. muggeridge could hardly believe his senses when he came in, it smelt excellently, and there seemed such plenty of it! he tied on the children's pina- fores and set them on tall chairs, and sharp- ened a knife for his wife to carve this unex- pected delicacy, and seemed quite delighted with the compliment she had paid their wedding-day. the middle cut of the back, with plenty of stuffing and gravy and currant jelly, was on his plate. wedding-dinner. "now taste it, john,” said his wife, impa- tient to see the effect it would produce; “i'd live on bread and water for a week to see you relish it properly !” muggeridge said it was good, very good! but he was not quite sure, whether the pork and apple-sauce last week was not as nice. mrs. muggeridge was shocked to hear him say so, and to please her he was helped a second time; the children ate the potatoes and gravy and currant jelly, as much as they could get, and left the hare—but then children are no judges ! muggeridge went back on monday morn- ing to his work; and mrs. muggeridge lived contentedly on potatoes and salt in the memory of the sumptuous sunday's dinner. in the midst of these pleasant reminiscences, what was her surprise and consternation to receive a visit from a constable, who present- ed a warrant issued by the then sitting magistrates. she must go along with him and answer for the high crime and misde- meanor of having bought a hare from an un- licensed dealer ! poor mrs. muggeridge ! if her own kitchen mrs. muggeridge's floor had opened and swallowed her up, she could not have looked in greater dismay. before the bench of magistrates was she brought. how had she become possessed of that hare? from whom had she bought it? did she not know that she was amenable to the law for having purchased a hare from an unlicensed dealer ? “oh lord, no! how could she think she was doing any harm ?” asked she. “ but what business had a person like her with a hare at all? the poor had nothing to do with game of any kind.” these words put poor mrs. muggeridge into a passion; and she said she meant no harm by what she had done—not she, in- deed! she meant only to give her husband, who was an honest man, a treat on his wed- ding-day, and that was the reason she had a hare; and a very good reason too! but, added she, her wrath growing as she spoke, rich ladies who were fond of their husbands, to whom, however, hardly anything was a · rarity, might buy just what they liked, and no harm done; but poor folks, who worked mrs. muggeridge's borne respectable characters, and this was the first offence, she would merely be fined. the fine and the costs, together, came to five pounds! she stood quite confounded as this sum was named. five pounds! yes, and she must either pay it or go to jail! she thought of the money which her own relation had robbed them of. she thought of what her husband would say. she groaned aloud, but said not a word, and felt ready to drop. the magistrates did not seem to consider how next to impossible it must be for a poor woman like her to pay the fine; they waited for her answer, however. “i have some good furniture," at length she said, “a capital chest of drawers, and a good eight-day clock; either of them is worth the money, if your worships cannot make it easier for me—for i meant no harm-not the least—and have always borne a good charac- ter cannot your worships make it easier to me?" no! the magistrates said they could do nothing of this kind, and that she must wedding-dinner. think herself very leniently dealt with as it was. a warrant was, therefore issued to seize furniture to the amount of fine and costs; and she went home balancing in her mind which she would rather lose, clock or chest of drawers. she decided upon the latter, for said she to herself, john would miss the clock most, and the house would be so lone- some without it. a clock is, as one may say, a sort of live thing that keeps one company. the men, however, said that the chest of drawers was not enough by itself, nor the clock either, so they must have them both; and spite of all the poor woman said, so they had. they told her for her consolation, however, that they should be sold, and whatever money was over, it should be sent to her. but no money ever came. mrs. muggeridge sate quite heart-broken in her desolated kitchen; the pride of her eyes was gone. she felt as if she should never take pleasure in anything again-she hated the very idea of hare. she was so very miserable that she could not help scold- ing the children. wedding-dinner. out of evil. i'll begin dress-making to-mor- row morning, that i will." “ay, do, my lass,” said john, taking her hand kindly; "do, and we shall, may be, be none the poorer in the end by our losses, and i'll tell you what i will do too-it's what master has wanted me to do a long time-as well as you—i'll grow those flow- ers for the show; i know i shall succeed if i only begin—for when once i begin in good earnest nobody can beat me.” “well, now, i am pleased,” said poor mrs. muggeridge, ready to cry; "and i'll tell you what, john, we won't fret ourselves any more about the loss of the money and these things, but we'll set to, and get more; and after this, what we get we shall keep." they did get more, and they turned it to good account too. fifteen years afterwards, the time at which we are writing, the house, which is now their own, and to which considerable additions have been made, looks as bright as ever; and the fields at the back of the house, which they have now on lease, and mean to buy, is a large, flourishing nursery-ground and gar- mrs. muggeridge's, etc. den; and john muggeridge and his two sons, the eldest a fine young man, turned twenty, and half a dozen men besides, are busy at work in it; while mrs. muggeridge, as buxom and cheerful as when she was young, and her three pretty daughters,—for when she began dress-making she had lots of children-make the house inside more cheerful even than a summer flower-garden. di litu coming spring. in n all the years which have been, the spring hath greened the bough- the gladsome, hopeful spring-time ! - keep heart! it comes even now as part the winter time departeth ; the early flowers expand; the black-bird and the turtle-dove are heard throughout the land. i the sadness of the winter, which gloomed our hearts, is gone; a thousand sighs betoken that spring-time comes anon! 't is spring-time in our bosoms; all strife aside we cast; l'he storms were for the winter days, but they are gone and past. on coming spring. before us lies the spring-time- thank god! the time of mirth- when birds are singing in the trees, and flowers gem all the earth; when a thousand busy hands upturn the bounteous, fruitful mould and the heart of every poet feels more love than it can hold, in all the years which have been, - the spring-time greened the bough- the gentle, gracious spring-time ! rejoice !--it comes even now. me the tax-gatherer's visit. ali . t about the distance of a mile from remete, in a valley lying high among the hills, stands the rusniak village of h- the most superficial glance over the surrounding of country would suffice s to make the observer acquainted with the occupation ♡ and means of subsistence of its in- habitants, and that by such unmistakable evidences as not even the uniform winter garment of nature can conceal. upon the snow-covered ascents of both sides of the valley, and above the leafless branches of the underwood, fresh heaps of refuse or rub- bish from the mines elevate themselves like molehills; and amidst this very rubbish, and the tax-gatherer's visit. thus anxiously uneasy ; for even upon the constable, the head man in the village, this visit seemed to have produced the most disa- greeable effect. scarcely was he aware of the arrival, when he sprang up from his noon-day repast, over which he had been en- gaged, and, snatching up his walking-stick, the badge of his dignity, he hurried off to a cottage at four doors' distance from his own house. arrived here, he entered the room with a bowed head, and found the whole peasant family, consisting of seven persons, sitting at dinner. his salutation to them was in the bitter words of a curse. now, although the constable was reckoned a bold, determined sort of a man, and although it was by no means his custom to bend before his equals, yet he was compelled in this instance, as he was in enter- ing most peasants' houses, to assume a position of humility, because the lofty domineering air of office would have placed his head in the clouds of smoke which filled the upper part of the room, and which could not find ready vent through the hole which was made in the wall between the windows for its exit. the tax-gatherer's visit. tinued, “ oh! what a great fur cloak mr. b has got !" “ it is of wolf !" said the first speaker. “how like a fool you talk! can't you see that it is made of bear-skin!" “look ye, look; oetko is bringing his half to sell," exclaimed one. “ and there the petty constable is bringing all the forfeited goods!” remarked the other. “now, god have pity on all those who at this season have not paid their tax! it is cold enough to freeze them to death !" “look! look! there comes the priest ! most likely he would pay a visit to mr. b. to inquire after the poor, and to make entreaties for the constable.” “now, i wonder whether it is true that he received from the city authorities of st. peters- burgh a golden breviary as a new year's gift ?": asked a peasant who stood to the right of the window from his neighbor. “ certainly, he has had it from there. don't you remember some years ago, how gracious the emperor alexander was to our parish? if he had not travelled through this place, our church would not have been finished yet.” the tax-gather visit. “what is that there? what is it ?" cried the voice of a drunken guest behind them, as he raised himself with a half-filled flask of brandy from the table and tumbled against the win- dow. “who is it that's outside ?” cried he, striking his hard fist at once through the window-pane, and staring out at the empty sledge. the host, who in the meantime had become aware of the damage done to the window, hastened forward and said to the man- * you must pay for that window, gaidass." “don't make such a bawling, you rascal !" returned the drunken man, and then broke forth into curses and abuse. in the meantime the servant of the newly arrived official came into the room, and the angry man was obliged to restrain himself. the calm, however, could not be of long continuance. the drunken fellow felt a delight in letting loose his spite on the ser- vant in his white travelling cloak, and boots, and spurs. “you are a rogue,” exclaimed he, "as well as your master. are you come here to suck our blood, you rascal !" - - "the walrus and the carpenter were walking close at hand, they wept like anything to see such quantities of sand. 'if this were only cleared away,' they said, 'it would be grand.'” alice has caught the flamingo- where could such an ugly thing go? alla we ought to rejoice that it hasn't a voice, perhaps we could teach it to sing, tho! new adventures of "alice"john rae, lewis carroll kf linu .v. trinjatan - bookshop * boys & girls women's educational industrial union boylston street, boston. new adventures of "alice” visinin sl y ata hintai m marami we ren aamuwch jr "as the dancers circled round and round" (page ) . . jr new adventures of “alice” written and pictured by john rae published by p. f. volland company chicago kf harvard university library copyright, p. f. volland company chicago jr, .rob ablyyou, like my self,have often wished that lewis carroll might have found time to write another book about "alice." certainly most of the children who have delightedly followed her through "wonderland" and the "looking glass" country have sighed regret- fully when mother finished reading the last chapter to them. after reading the marvelous tale for perhaps the tenth time when i was a little boy, i started trying to imagine what lewis carroll would have written had he continued the "adventures," and it has been great fun for me to go on with these imaginings from time to time and finally to write them down. the children "with dreaming eyes of wonder" to whom i have related some of these "new adventures" have frankly enjoyed them and their accompanying nonsense verses, and have helped with many stimulating questions and sugges- tions. this leads me to hope that even lewis carroll, himself, might have en- joyed some of these added "doings" of his adventurous "alice." and so i make no excuse or apology for what to some may at first seem my shocking assurance, and if any of my love for the dear old dog-eared volume of "alice's adventures in wonderland" and "through the looking glass" has crept—as i meant it should—between the lines of this humble supplement, that is excuse enough for its being. it is offered as a loving gift from thankful children to the sweet spirit of the immortal lewis carroll who has always seemed to me a dear, indulgent, story-telling uncle to all children. caldwell, n. j. >m 'jceiois carrotf ^pt contents chapter i. . . found in the attic. ..... chapter ii . . to bunberry cross, or along came a snipe . ...... chapter iii . . the peevish printer ..... chapter iv . . fire!! .......... chapter v . . self-steering pens .... chapter vi . . it's a dangerous place . ... chapter vii. the “summersault sally". .. chapter viii . buttermilk channel ..... chapter ix . . tub and tunnel ....... chapter x . . iceberg ........... chapter xi . . the skating party . ..... chapter xii. strange growths and a stupid snail . . . . . . . · · · · chapter xiii . king cole's court ...... chapter xiv . the rehearsal of “the en- chanted cheese"...... chapter xv . in the studio and ..... chapter i found in the attic new adventures of "alice" chapter i found in the attic ut the provoking kitten only began on the other paw, and pretended it hadn't heard the question. which do you think it was?" mother closed the book and sister betsy and brother billy both sighed. "oh dear, i wish there were more of it," said betsy, "isn't there another book about alice, mother?" it was the fifth or sixth time that mother had read "alice's adventures in wonderland" and "through the looking glass" to them out of the fat red book, and every time they had reached the end, betsy had asked this same question. "i'm just as sorry as you are, dears, that there isn't," said mother. "but even if there were we couldn't read any more tonight. it's your bed time!" and sure enough, the old fashion- ed hall clock had begun to buzz and grind and click as it always did before [ found in the attic striking the hour. "as though it were chuckling wickedly to itself," betsy thought. betsy must have been thinking of "alice" and making up for herself more adventures and wishing there were another book all the time she was getting undressed and brushing her nice little white teeth, for when she said her prayers she added, "and please send me another book about alice." she had hardly got comfortably snuggled and settled into the pillow and kissed mother and called "good night" to dick, the canary (who answered with a sleepy little thrill), when she found herself up in the attic looking for things "to dress up in." the bed clothes seemed to have turned into dusty old dresses found in the attic new adventures alice ihin! n and coats which she was pulling over, looking for a little dress her mother had worn when mother herself was only eight years old. she knew it was somewhere in the pile of things in the attic, and would be just what she wanted to dress the part of "alice,” in a little play which she and brother and some of the other children were going to give, perhaps, the next saturday afternoon. somehow or other the dresses and coats as she handled them became smaller and stiffer and smaller still and flat, and pretty soon she realized that they weren't dresses and coats at all, but a pile of neat little books, none of which betsy had ever seen before and which seemed to come in a sort of set. they were called "wish there were more” books or the “sequel series"_"oh, if i only had them all on my shelves.” “now," said betsy to herself, "p'raps i'll find another alice book;” and she took them up one by one with eager hands. there was “more rob- inson crusoe!” “more arabian nights!” “more grimm's fairy tales!” “more wonder clock stories!" and oh, dreams come true! there was the book she had longed for:- “more adventures of alice!” wan adi w atch i train "more adventures of alice!" summi transit ( ) found in the attic she turned the pages with trembling fingers, afraid that she might find that it was a cruel joke: but no! there were exactly the same kind of stiff little pictures of alice that she had loved in the battered old red book, from which mother had just been reading. alice doing this, or alice doing that, and usually surrounded by strangely dressed people or creatures. with a sigh of complete contentment, she settled herself com- fortably and cosily on a moth-eaten old buffalo robe in a corner nearest the half-moon attic window and started to read. in her dream she seemed to change and become dear, quaint little alice herself, and be living and acting in the story, instead of simply reading it. what follows is what she read, and the pictures that follow are those she looked at in that "wish there were more" book. for betsy has often and often told me all about that wonderful dream of hers. chapter ii (really chapter of the book betsy found in the attic, in her dream) to bunberry cross, or along came a snipe c-- chapter ii (really chapter i of the book betsy found in the attic, in her dream) to bunberry cross, or along came a snipe it was a sleepy, spring-time sunday afternoon. alice was lying on the grass near the garden-house reading mother goose rhymes to her kittens who were tumbling about near her in the slanting yellow sunshine. (she often pretended the kittens were small children.) just now she was reading “ding dong bell, pussy's in the well.” “i'm sure you'll like this one and it may prove a warning to you,” she said. her sister was sitting on the garden-house step making a pretty little sketch of a blossoming hawthorne tree which stood in the corner of the hedge at the foot of the garden. over the hedge they could see the church spire across the river. somewhere far off a bell was ringing. its sweetly sleepy sound mingled with the scent of blossoms and the river. somewhere far off lice . . u Ži intellett well ( ) to bunberry cross, or along came a snipe droning of alice's voice very harmoniously. she had just come to the line "what a naughty boy was that"—when she noticed a bird with a straw in its beak alighting on the hedge nearby. alice stopped reading to watch him for she always liked to find out where nests were being built. the bird was a very sprightly little fellow, cocking his head from side to side and looking directly at alice with remarkably intelligent bright eyes. "why," thought alice, "he looks as if he were actually going to speak!" and sure enough, he did! "wonderful view from here," said the bird casually in a rather muffled voice. alice now saw it was a snipe, much larger than she had at first supposed, and that instead of a straw he held in his beak a long clay pipe from which a thin wisp of bluish smoke was curling, and which probably caused the indistinct mumbling voice. the hedge, too, seemed to be changing strangely, it was growing higher and higher, and soon she saw it was a hedge no longer, but a grove of tall oaks, and the muffled voice of the snipe now sounded very far away indeed. "i've something important to ask you. do you—" she thought she heard him say and then she could not catch any more. though he was still to be seen on one of the topmost branches of the tree nearest her. [ "little bird faces appeared at open, curtained windows" (page ) - - - $ to bunberry cross, or along came a snipe? now alice was a very polite little girl, and it seemed to her that the only right thing for her to do was to climb the tree and find out what it was that the snipe wished to know. so she was very pleased to see a narrow spiral stairway, which she had certainly not noticed before, winding up around the trunk. she placed her foot upon the lowest step and grasped the rail, and was greatly surprised to find that the railing seemed to be moving spirally upward; pulling her along, at first slowly and gently but getting faster and faster, so that by the time she was half way up the tree her feet were no longer touching the steps at all. somehow though, the sensation was rather pleasant and she felt no alarm. she even kept calm enough to notice that, as the trunk apparently slid down past her, little bird faces appeared at open, curtained windows here and there, and one old-lady black-bird in a blue sunbonnet called out as alice shot past — "hoity, toity, my dear child, there's really no such hurry, you know." faster and faster she went, so that when the tree-top was reached she could not seem to stop, but went right on up into the air quite a ways and then gently floated down (her skirt spreading out like a parachute and supporting her) and finally alighted on the topmost branch, right beside the snipe. talking to the snipe was a curious little fellow with a big, round, shiny face and very slender little legs and arms. in one hand he carried a covered basket and in the other a big blue handkerchief, decorated with little white stars. in his belt was a great cheese knife. his round face was shining with perspiration and from time to time he mopped it with the blue handkerchief. "he looks as though he had come a long way," thought alice. as she settled herself on the swaying branch and smoothed out her skirt, the snipe was saying thoughtfully, puffing hard on his pipe, "norrich, norrich?—now—let—me—see—i should know, and that's a fact—perhaps she can tell you!" he exclaimed, brightening. the man in the moon (for of course alice knew now that it ( ) to bunberry cross, or along came a snipe made of green cheese and,” pointing to the man in the moon, "he peddles it. give her a sample.” “certingly, miss, to be sure,” beamed the man in the moon, “and no obligation to buy neither, miss.” he opened his basket and taking his knife from his belt cut off a thin slice of the most beautiful and curious cheese that alice had ever seen. it was soft and glowed with a greenish-silver light, and when she bit into it! "it was like eating marshmallows dipped in moonlight,” she said afterwards. alice was just about to take a second bite when she remembered that the moon man's courteous question had not been answered, and she started to direct him as well as she could; but somehow her geography lessons and some directions she had heard the gardener give a wagon driver the day before became hopelessly mixed in her mind and she found herself saying, “norrich is a town of seven thousand inhabitants in the north eastern part of norfolk on the river yare. you take the road to the right as far as earle's bridge and follow the river to the old exton mill-settled in the year thirteen hundred and forty-turn to the left and the principal exports are—” she stopped, realizing how absurdly she was talking and intending to say, “no, that's not at all what i meant." but the jolly little man had already started. he was not aying, but stepping briskly along "on nothing at all,” swinging his basket, and alice could just hear him anxiously repeating part of her ridiculous directions—“to old exton mill, settled in thirteen hundred and forty-" she called after him, but he evidently did not hear for he kept straight ahead and soon disappeared behind a great flock of black-birds. the snipe shook his head sadly and blew tremendous puffs of whirling smoke from his pipe in silence for a while, but finally he sighed—“poor fellow! poor fellow, but i dare say he'll happen on the finger-post and then he can get to babylon anyhow; that is, of course, if he has a candle about him.” [ ] * to bunberry cross, cr along came a snipe - gait, the old lady in her familiar spotted dress and strange bonnet jouncing up and down on his back and in a cloud of dust. alice could just catch the faint jingling of the "bells on her toes." "this must be the road to banbury cross, then," said alice, half aloud. "bunberry cross," corrected the snipe, kindly. "no fault of yours, my child, the printer ran out of u's, that's all. you see it's where they make the hot cross berry-buns. you'd never say, 'hot cross bans' no, certainly not! in the first place it would never rhyme with sons, and in the second pla— but no matter. what do you think of the view?" and pointing to the artist with his pipe, "he drew it all—all the houses and trees and the hills just as he had to draw all of us, birds and animals and people." now alice knew why it was that the landscape looked "strangely familiar;" it, too, was like the pictures in her mother goose! but also quite a little like wonderland and the strange looking glass country that she had once dreamt about. "isn't it hilly?" alice began; "and what's that" [ to bunberry cross, or along came a snipe “of course! it has to be hilly,” interrupted the snipe, impa- tiently. “there's got to be jack and jill's hill and blackbird's hill and the hill the old woman lived under and pippin hill and all the rest of the hills.” now, ever since alice had reached the tree-top, a far-away bell had been ringing, just as one had rung before she left the garden and her sister and the kittens. (and dear, dear! how long ago that did seem.) alice wondered idly what the bell could be. “it's the bellman over at bunberry cross, i'm pretty sure," said the snipe, who always seemed good at guessing just what one was going to say. “probably somebody's stolen something or other and the king has offered a reward for the capture of the thief. there're lots of thieves among 'em, tom, the piper's son, who stole the pig, and dozens more. why, even one of their kings, years ago, stole some barley meal for a bag pudding!” "what a bad example,” exclaimed alice. "let's go and see what the row's about,” suggested the snipe. “i've got to return this pipe anyway. of course that pipe business was just a practical joke. i hope you didn't think i was a thief.” he looked anxiously at alice, then added more brightly, “bombay's the next village beyond and the old man's a great friend of king cole's-in fact, he's prime minister. “let's start-ever fly?” before alice realized what was happening, the snipe had given her a gentle push and she found herself awkwardly foundering about in the air, not exactly frightened but a bit cross that the snipe should have given her no warning. "well, i don't think that was very nice and i did so want to see what the artist was going to draw next,” said she. "it's the only way to ever learn to fly or swim,” said the snipe, amiably but decidedly; "try it more this way,—that's bette and then as if to put her in a better humor he began to sing—as well as possible with the pipe still in his mouth- as d [ ] to bunberry cross, or along came a snipe lliure whis “why how, let me ask you, my dear, do you s'pose i learned to smoke pipes, and to eat with my nose? there's one thing, however, that cannot be done with all of your trying, that's this- have a bun.” the strangest thing had hap- pened! they were “bumping into a flock of buns” as the snipe expressed it. the air was full of hot cross buns which seemed to be floating up from an open window of a house on the outskirts of the village far below them. "that's the baker's shop and there's the butcher's and there's the candlestick maker's,” said the snipe. alice saw that they were now right over a little village. she had been too busy listening to the snipe to realize how fast they had approached it. "drop 'em a penny, drop 'em a penny!” called the snipe, and then in his effort to snatch one of the floating buns with his beak lost the pipe which fell through the air, leaving behind it a trail of blue smoke. “now i'm in a pretty pickle and no mistake,” he mumbled in a scared voice. “i didn't mean to keep the old pipe, it was just a joke” “but here we are!" cried alice between bites—she had caught two of the buns which were still very warm and wonderfully light. “perhaps that's why they float away,” she thought. [ ] to bunberry cross, or along came a snipe et ii "yes, here we are!" and, sure enough, they were hovering directly over the village green where a may pole stood decked out with streamers and flowers ready for the dance. it was just like one alice had seen a few days before on their village green at home. then she saw that the bell, whose ding donging had been growing louder and louder as they had approached the village, was being rung by the bellman or “town crier” who stopped his ringing now and then to bawl out: “has anyone seen master thomas b. green? be he dead or alive, the reward is two 'n five!” “let's stop here,” said alice, clutching at the may pole to stop her fight. (you see she had never practiced alighting gracefully.) she swung 'round and round and 'round and 'round. petals from the blossom wreaths were shaken off and floated down all about her. when she softly struck the ground after her long spiral descent no one seemed to have noticed her, for the bellman was the center of attraction. all the strange townsfolk and animals were crowding about him listening to his bawling, or talking together in excited groups. when she looked about her for the snipe he was nowhere to be seen, but finally she spied him perched on the very top of the may pole. he seemed agitated and was whispering something hoarsely to her, but she could only make out the words—“don't dare to come down” and “they'll put me in jail” and “i'll see you some time again”—then he flapped heavily away and alice sud- denly felt very lonesome and just a little "scared.” so i chapter iii the peevish printer 火 ​ chapter iii the peevish printer "it makes me sick! absolutely sick!” exclaimed a small peevish voice at alice's elbow. “they ought to have let me print 'em some neat hand bills to stick up at every corner instead of having all this hubbub.” turning, alice saw a little spectacled man almost bald, with a very inky apron and the dirtiest hands she had ever seen. she simply couldn't help looking at them a little disapprovingly, as her mother looked at hers sometimes. he did not seem to notice her reproving glance, however, but continued to exclaim, "it makes me sick!" more bitterly than before, now putting his hands over his ears as if to shut out the din made by the town crier's bawling and the noisy bell. of couse when he did this his ears and cheeks became almost as dirty as his hands, and alice found herself saying, "now just look at your face!” “don't be ridiculous," said the little man. “how can i look at my face? that's for you to do! there are no mirrors in this town anyhow, even if i wanted to look at my face, which i don't. you see king cole-but that's a long story, perhaps i have it with me. "i'm a printer, as you may have guessed; that is, i'm a printer most of the time. fair time i sell pies—have to make a living some- how, you know.” "oh, then you're the pieman!” exclaimed alice. “yes—but pastry purveyor would have sounded much better, don't you think so? looked well in print, too." he had been fumbling in his pocket and now fished out a folded sheet of very soiled paper which he carefully spread out on the grass. "this isn't it, i'm afraid,” he murmured, “but it will do pretty well.” it was the strangest page of print alice had ever seen. she ( ) the peevish printer could make nothing of it except the title at the top which was printer’s pi—in very black capital letters. “but even that's spelled wrong,” she said to herself. “it should be pie.” the rest was a jumble of letters and figures and punctuation marks of all kinds and sizes, something like this:-- printer’s pi : xumllq „ffneosnburi fussiop —.. pa n%@w (h;tp # :beic?si. s pvhr- . x ufram tupl# .-)-vdgsyainby pt.;$£ tcb yjo:; bf hys rvtg y# - .a,ohf %crvhin# .yuth '/:p . n?b h g c$ x -invbg some moto "perhaps it's a puzzle?” “it looks very interesting and like some foreign language,” said alice, doubtfully. “but what does it mean?”. "that's what i was hoping you'd be able to tell me,” said the printer, thoughtfully tapping the paper as though to shake the jumble of letters into some more readable arrangement. “children usually know all about pie. you see, i have to print this sort of thing now and then just to keep busy now that they have a town crier,” he added apologetically. “i wish i had a piece of apple pie right this minute,” sighed alice, suddenly reminded that she was very hungry in spite of the two flying buns she had eaten. “you ought to've come at fair time you know,” said the printer; “but perhaps we can manage it, it's only a matter of spelling after all.” ( ) the peevish printer nou he drew from the huge pocket in his apron a very compactly folded up little printing press and some small sheets of paper; found an e—which he inked with the palm of his hand and printed it carefully after the pi of the title, making it pie. “they're kicking up such a noise i almost forgot how to spell,” he muttered to himself. “don't want to see you go hungry, though, and i'll do the best i can for you. but show me first your penny,” he added absent-mindedly. while he talked he had been tearing the paper into the form of scalloped circle like this —and finally handed it to her. alice was somehow not in the least surprised that the paper pie had become brown and warm and fragrant and the letters p i e had turned into the usual row of cuts in the crust. she handed him a penny which he took and examined with great interest turning it over and over and murmuring minimum in a hoarse whisper,—“very pretty,- very pretty-a good likeness, too-very good indeed.” alice had noticed that his voice had been growing hoarser and hoarser as he talked. it was now scarcely audible. when he had thoroughly examined the coin he put it back into her hand, pushing it away without a word when she tried to return it to him. he then started setting type with great rapidity and slipping a small piece of paper into the press he jammed down the lever, raised it again and pulled out this neatly printed little slip: i said, “show me your penny" not, “give me your penny.” ( ] the peevish printer '.ie, "^ "oh!" said alice, "so you did." this seemed to her a strange way of carrying on a conversation but, "after all," she said to herself, "it's really a very nice sort of a game. i wonder if he usually talks this way?" the printer seemed to have read her thoughts, for in the twinkling of an eye he had printed another little slip like this: well, in the first place, as you see, my voice is rather weak; it very rapidly becomes a whisper, so to speak. just think how handy it might be to print, instead of talk, if i should fall into the sea: "help! help!" i'd never squawk. not i, i'd print some circulars (in bold faced type display) "your kind assistance is required; i'm sinking in the bay." or, if i took to me a wife, stone deaf; of course, you see in converse, then, how indispensable my press would be! "that sounds very reasonable, i must say," mused alice. of course it's reasonable said (or rather printed) the peevish printer, petulantly; then some- thing seemed to occur to him. he smiled mysteriously and printed this—("that tiny type looks just like a whisper," thought alice). ( the peevish printer when he had printed fifty or more he gathered them up and jumped to his feet. then thrusting one into alice's hand so excitedly that he caused her to drop the pie, he dashed off into the crowd distributing his red circulars right and left in mad haste. even the bellman stopped his din in amazement. alice looked at the scarlet sheet and read in huge capitals fire!! fire!!! fire!!!! ( ) rus -shaves barber bull oltiltru tit(ch rrrira wiki tut frp fire fire his drina crotone sa foto in man w ith solo un w inte tirspurva v .co “fire!! fire!!! fire!!!!” (page ) chapter iv firell -.v. *'» '' «•"".-. ''".i> jj^ chapter iv fire!! all was confusion and excitement! some of the mother goose people were running in one direction and some in another. most of the crowd were trying to squeeze through the town-gate and seemed to be hopelessly stuck in the narrow opening. while alice stood wondering in which direction the fire really lay, she noticed nearby a little man in green pointing excitedly with a long flute. looking in the direction in which he was pointing she saw, through an opening between the bakery and the barber shop a thin column of smoke which seemed to come from behind a barn in a field about half a mile away. "that must be it," thought alice, "for where there's smoke there must be fi ." just then somebody collided with her so violently that she was almost knocked off her feet! "i beg your pardon, miss, but really you know, miss, you should be more careful 'ow you stands about staring—that was, as you might say, a close shave. i might 'ave cut yer hear off"." # fire!! $ it was the barber. he held a large nicked razor and a mug of lather in one hand and an unfinished wig in the other. he was very much confused and flustered by the collision and began to mutter, "i'll never get it done. i'll never get it done, that i won't. something halways hinterrupts." he seemed so unhappy that alice, wishing to divert his mind, bethought herself of the pie and politely offered him a bite. "thankee miss"—said the barber, brightening, "a pinch or two,— a pinch or two—it's just wot i needs." puzzled by his words, alice looked down at the pie and saw to her surprise that it was a pie no longer but a very large round snuff box, the cover of which still slightly resembled a piecrust, being made of yellow ivory, inlaid with flying blackbirds; the edge was scalloped. "you're werry kind, miss, i'm sure, you're werry kind indeed. though i'm bound to say," he added, "as how ladies doesn't usually carry—" "look!!" cried alice, "who are they?" two quaint figures, a boy and a girl, were coming down the street in long leaps. it seemed to be a sort of race and the strange girl, who had just cleared the may pole in a tremendous jump, was slightly in the lead. "it'll be jumping-joan and jack-be-nimble, of course, miss, they always gets to fires first," muttered the barber complainingly. and then, struck by a bright idea, he shouted at the fast approaching figures, "give us a lift! give us a lift!" and turn- ing to alice, " 'itch on and 'old tight!" the next moment alice found herself clinging to jack-be- nimble's hand and leaping with him over the candlestick maker's shop. "just like big grasshoppers," she said to herself. soon they could see the fire distinctly. "it's the king's haystack, just as i thought!" said jack, ex- citedly, "and we ought to be the first ones there. i hope that big barn near the stack doesn't catch fire, for all the king's horses are in there" [ "it seemed to be a sort of race" (page ) fire!! id. "have you met my friend,”—she began; but when she turned it was quite a different person from her leaping partner of a few moments before whose hand she now held. he was a strange little spindle legged man, rather shabby, with very long hair, large wistful eyes and a friendly smile. "i'm the poet. jack was only a disguise. have to do it, or they'd get me, i surmise,” said he, pointing back at the crowd they had left far behind. alice, the snipe, and the poet were now walking hurriedly across a broad stubbly field toward the burning haystack. as they approached, a cloud of lady bugs passed over them, coming from the direction of the fire. “poor things,” said the snipe, remorse- fully to himself, “they probably lived in that haycock.” “let's watch the blaze awhile from here, until the townsfolk get too near,” suggested the poet smiling at alice and added, “then we must skip, you know, my dear, all three of us have cause to fear!" alice now noticed for the first time that the little man wore a brass chain about his neck with a metal tag, numbered ; she wondered what it could possibly be, but was, of course, far too polite to ask on such short acquaintance. “my poet's license -- as you see, my number is three-thirty- three,” the poet remarked pleasantly, noticing her curiosity. “a thing i'm very proud of too, - be- coming, quite, i think. don't you?” all this time the smoke from the hay was growing blacker and thicker, and the din of the fire-alarm bag-pipes was getting louder and wilder and the scraping of the cat's fiddle more shrill and piercing. now from the big barn nearby came sounds of trampling feet and un- grammatical shouts of “that's him! [ ] fire ii she had just turned to see if the poet and snipe were any- where near her when suddenly everything grew black as night and she realized that they had dived into the thick cloud of smoke from the fire. alice clutched the arrow tighter. "for," she said to herself, "it would be nasty to fall into the fire with this clean pinafore on." somehow the shaft of the arrow had grown softer and feathery and when alice looked down she saw that it was now a fat grey goose she rode! the goose seemed to have lost her way in the dense smoke and was flying hither and thither in an aimless fashion. the smoky darkness was full of sparks. "or are they stars?" she wondered. "and isn't that the light from a little window way off there?" the goose seemed to have seen the lighted window too, for she stopped darting about and flew very rapidly in that direction, murmuring half under her breath, "that's the house i'm sure, i smell the cakes aburning." as they came nearer alice saw that the light came from a tiny little thatched cottage, built high in the air, on four tremendously long poles. "why it's all upstairs," she exclaimed. "to prove that i'm erratic, i built my house all attic," said a voice near at hand; and there was the poet flying along beside her on a goose exactly like hers. [ chapter v self-steering pens vjfxffi' chapter v self-steering pens by the time they had reached the front door of the strange little four-legged house and alight- ed, the smoke had all cleared away. instead of sparks, the sky was full of wonderfully brilliant stars, thickly spread and so carefully arranged in their constellations that one could easily pick out the great bear, the little bear and all the rest; the dragon was so real that alice was almost frightened for the moment. "it's just like the chart in uncle's big astronomy," she cried, clap- ping her hands. the poet turned to alice and said earnestly, "if the dipper were nearer 'twould do very well (perhaps you have noticed a scorched sort of smell!) but we're short here of water, so far from the ground, and cakes always burn if i just turn around." he had been fumbling with a curious big brass key that hung at his belt and had finally managed, by trying it backwards, to push it into the keyhole and turn the lock which sprung to with a loud report. "there, that's locked now, so let's go in. it's time our supper to begin," he murmured, and then dived in through an open window! it seemed, to alice, a strange performance to carefully lock the door and enter by the window, but she was getting used to surprises of all sorts. "i suppose he has a reason," she decided and followed. in so doing she knocked over a huge bottle of ink which had been stand- ing on a little desk near the window. self-steering fens alice was a very neat little girl and anything of this sort dis- tressed her almost beyond words. "oh dear! nowi've done it," she wailed as the ink, which was bright green, ran down over the stool and onto the floor. she started desperately mopping it up with her handkerchief but this seemed useless, as by this time it was at least an inch deep all over the floor! "no matter—an accident— worry no more, but just take a look at my ink-saving floor," remarked the poet casually, turning from the stove where he had been mournfully examining the burned rem- nants of the patty-cakes through a large reading glass. "it happens so often—about once a day—that week ago wednes- day i fixed it this way," he added, and raised a small trap-door in the middle of the floor. alice now saw that the floor was full of shallow grooves which led the ink to a little well under the trap- door. soon the last drop had run into the inkwell. the poet now went over to what looked like a sort of an um- brella-stand which was full of enormous quill pens, and selecting a beautiful bright blue one, he handed it politely to alice, taking a green one with yellow spots for himself. he then took from a drawer, in the little desk, some very long narrow sheets of bright crimson paper, remarking with a chuckle, as he held them up, "it's easily read, as somebody said." sitting crosslegged on the floor, the poet dipped his pen into the inkwell and started to write rapidly. "try it! try it! don't sit quiet," he cried, pushing several sheets of the crimson paper toward alice and excitedly running his [ self-steering pens fingers through his long hair. alice noticed that even when he did this the big quill-pen kept on writing busily, making a wonder- ful flourish at the end of each verse and occasionally adding a "spen- cerian swan" for good measure! alice dipped her pen in the bright green ink and was delight- ed to find that it started immedi- ately to write in a neat rounded script, fairly dragging her small hand along with it. "we may as well finish up volume eight! no supper tonight, says the voice of fate," muttered the poet after he had written a verse or two, adding, after a moment's reflection, "though i'm not sure i shall ever dare to publish these. i must have a care." alice hardly heard a word of what the poet was saying, for she was fascinated by the very unusual sensation of using a "self-steer- ing pen," and tremendously interested to see what it would write. "of course it will be all nonsense," she said to herself, and non- sense it surely was. after a minute or two the blue quill stopped and this was what she read: "who'llbuy my cakes?" the crocus croaked. and echo answered, 'who?' echo was dressed all in his best inbrilliant, buoyant blue. his belt was trimmed with big bright bells, and yet he wrung his hands, and in despair he clawed his hair, all bound with rubber bands, ,' self-steering pens mikron) m va en g jr yet tho he'd bands upon his hair he played upon a comb! the air was fresh and soft and sad, somewhat like “homb, sweet homb,” tho this fresh air was all about, he breathed a last farewell. who'll buy my cakes?' the crocus croaked; for he had soap to sell.” the poet scratched his head judicially for a moment then said slowly, “that's rather good, yes rather good, but really now i think i should leave out that part about the cake, it almost makes one's stomach ache. though, if one makes of it a lather, soap's not bad eating—if you'd rather. let's see if this one's worth its ink—the title's pleasing—'come to think.'” the poet then started to read from echo the sheet he was holding- “come to think” why is it zebra's sometimes spelled with double x and y? i don't know, but i'll ask aunt ann, perhaps she'll tell me why. and why, you ask me, does a dog face always nor’-nor' west? i cannot answer that although i've tried my level best. and why, oh why, do you and i walk on our thumbs and ears? i do not know, you do not know, they do not know, my dears. why is a porpoise always pink? i'll try hard to recall- why—come to think, they're never pink. they're never pink at all! om ( ) self-steering pens “that'll do i guess,” said the poet doubtfully, setting the sheet aside. “it's got a good moral, anyway.” alice couldn't exactly see just where the moral came but she didn't interrupt to ask about it, for the poet had already begun to chuckle over another sheet which he soon started to read as follows:- secrets come close to me, that i to you a secret may impart; a secret more important, too, than how to toss a tart. i'll whisper in your purple ear, like this, a word or two. come nearer, lest they overhear; they seek the wurbaloo! at three o'clock i heard them creep, at four i heard them crawl, at five-fifteen in silence deep i- dong! dong!! dong!!! alice jumped to her feet in alarm, for a sudden deafening sound of bells filled the tiny room. “whoa there! back! dobbin, jack,” shouted the poet over his shoulder in a matter-of-fact way. alice looking in the direction of the furious ringing saw that it came from bells on the collars of two tiny dappled horses who had stepped out onto a little platform under the face of a very curiously carved clock like a toy stable, which hung in the corner of the room. “well,” said alice, much reliev- ed, “that is a strange sort of cuc-keo-clock.” “it's not a cuc-koo-clock, my dear. those are bell horses that you hear.” “one o'clock, two o'clock, off and away,” quoted alice. st. [ ] self-steering pens "yes," shouted the poet, for the bells were still jangling loudly. "at two o'clock the beggars always come, and we have nothing for 'em, not a crumb. and hark! i think i hear another bell, that must be pussy, once more down the well. you jump on dobbin and i'll take old jack and off we'll go before—" at this moment the snipe, whom alice had almost forgotten, poked his head in the little window and whispered hoarsely, "quick! they're coming! don't you hear the dogs barking? run for it!" ] chapter vi it's a dangerous place chapter vi it's a dangerous place almost before the snipe had finished his warning, alice found herself mounted on one of the dappled bell-horses and galloping along at a furious pace on a dark road which wound in and out through a very dismal forest of twisted, bare trees. mind ama mus e o jr pay the bell on her horse's collar made a terrifying amount of noise in the silent woods. “i'm sure the beggars will hear it and know where i am,” said alice half aloud. she finally managed to reach down over the horse's neck and tie her handkerchief about the bell-clapper. she ( ] it's a dangerous place adeelendita "don't you think you'd better get up behind me and ride a ways?” she suggested, for the roly poly little fellow was be- ginning to puff from his exertions in keeping up with the galloping bell-horse; and anyhow, it would be rather a comfort, she thought, under the cir- cumstances to have such a hero as johnny stout near her for a while, at least. he assented very readily, and handing alice the bedraggled white kitten, clambered up panting. the further they rode into the wood the darker it became. the trees were now so tall and the branches so interwoven that no sky was to be seen. from these gnarled black branches hung long grey moss like the threadbare garments of ugly old giants. “in fact, i'm not at all sure that they are really trees and not ogres of some sort,” said alice to herself. once or twice she looked back over her shoulder and it was very disturbing to notice that the trees had apparently closed in behind them and seemed to be standing in the road pointing at her and whispering together. in these rather terrifying surroundings it was a comfort to have the little white kitten to hug, damp though it was. "its purring sounds very homelike,” thought alice. “must be long past tea time, and this riding gives a chap an awful appetite,” sighed johnny stout, after they had gone what seemed miles and miles. it was now almost pitch dark. “we'll soon be at the mill though, and if you'll just pretend you've a wooden leg we may get a dumpling or two." alice was about to ask for an explanation of this puzzling pel e s [ ] it's a dangerous place remark when she caught sight of a lighted window through the trees ahead and heard the clattering and creaking of a mill-wheel. “what a strange place for a mill here in this deep forest!" she exclaimed. “but perhaps it's a saw-mill.” "you're almost right,” said johnny, “but not exactly. it's an axe-mill. a place where they grind axes, you know; they have to tuva was have axes to cut down trees to make axe helves, to say nothing of the jack-straws and tooth-picks they make from the smaller pieces.” as they drew nearer they heard loud harsh voices raised in angry dispute. “they're always at it,” said johnny. “never saw such a family for fighting. you see the old miller has dyspepsia, and no wonder, he lives on crab-apple dumplings!” by this time they had almost reached the mill, the door of which now burst violently open. out hopped a dishevelled young woman with a wooden leg, followed closely by an ugly bald old man who stopped just outside the door to hurl a huge, heavy looking dumpling at her. "what did i tell you?” chuckled johnny, “that old- caw! ca-aw! ! ! ca-a-aw! ! ! ( ] it s a dangerous place suddenly there had arisen the most unearthly clamor that alice had ever heard. the bell-horse stumbled and fell, and as she floated gently to the ground, alice thought she heard johnny's voice—far, far away— shouting, "the raven! the raven! mind the trees don't fall on you!" "that must be the raven that cried 'croak' and they all fell down," said alice to herself. . "and i've only eight lives left," the kitten murmured sadly, open- ing one eye, then going to sleep again immediately on alice's shoulder. alice was too much interested in what was happening about her to realize that this was the first time the kitten had spoken a word. everything seemed to be falling. the mill had collapsed like a cardboard toy; the miller and his daughter were both sprawling on the ground, and the trees of the forest themselves swayed, tottered and fell in a curious, noiseless way. even the road was slowly caving in and becoming a sort of shallow gulley. when alice thought to look for the raven, the great black bird was just disappearing in the distance, and she was almost sure she heard its hoarse, far-off laughter. "i really can't see that this is all such a joke," said alice se- verely to nobody in particular. "you'll have to hurry, or we'll never catch up to it," murmured the kitten in a very sleepy voice, pointing feebly ahead, then falling asleep immediately, as before. alice looked and saw the big steaming dumpling rolling slowly along down the sunken road not far ahead of them. now that most of the trees had fallen, there was more light and she could see quite a distance. the bell-horse had disappeared; so remembering that she was very hungry and feeling, too, that the sooner they got out of the way of the ill-tempered miller the better, alice acted upon the white kitten's advice and started to run as fast as she could after the rolling dumpling. [ ] it's a dangerous place before alice had gone more than a dozen yards, there came the sound of running footsteps behind her, and thinking that it was surely the miller in swift pursuit, she redoubled her speed and actually flew, for the road was now caving in so rapidly and alice was bound- ing along at such a remarkable speed that her feet only occasionally touched the ground. * * * it was with great relief that alice soon heard a familiar voice, just behind her panting, “you need not fear—'tis i, my dear.” looking back she saw the poet, whom she had forgotten all about, with his long hair streaming out behind him. a pink riding coat- several sizes too large—which he was now wearing, flapped about his slender legs as he caught up to her with tremendous leaps. alice was really very glad to see him again. “after all, he is a good natured fellow and pleasant company, even if he does always talk in verse,” she said to herself. “i too, have lost my good bell-horse,—the raven was the cause of course," said the poet conversationally; then noticing the dump- ling—which somehow, no matter how fast they went kept just about the same distance ahead of them he exclaimed: “i say, how lucky! as for me, i'm just as empty as can be. we really must increase it's a dangerous place la v our speed if on yon dumpling we would feed, but there's the sentry- box, my dear, and now, perhaps, the grenadier—" "halt!" a tremendous voice-coming apparently from a sentry- box at the side of the road-boomed out, and the next moment a soldier, at least seven feet tall, in a brilliant scarlet and white uni- form and very heavy hob-nailed shoes, stepped stiffly out. he held a musket in die one hand and large pewter tankard in the other. at the thunderous command, “halt!" she thing alice and the poet stopped short, for the huge grenadier was really a terrifying per- son. the dumpling, however, paid no attention but bounced past the sentry-box without any slackening of its speed. (alice now noticed for the first time that the dump- ling was provided with short arms and legs and was not really roll- ing, but was progressing by turning handsprings in rapid succession.) the grenadier scowled at it in stupid surprise and again bawled out, “halt!!!” this time so loud that the tin sentry-box rocked and clattered. then to alice's astonishment, he laid his musket on the ground and balanced himself clumsily upon his head. taking his musket again and placing it upside-down to his shoulder he now aimed long and carefully at the fast disappearing dumpling. while the grenadier was doing this, the poet said to alice in a rapid whisper, “he shows by his actions he knows how to shoot. his idea's original, clever, and cute. a musket will kick as you probably know,-one's often knocked over, so hard is the blow- and if one should land on one's head it's no joke: one's neck is as likely as not to be broke. he's wise then to stand on his head, i repeat, for when the gun kicks, he'll be knocked to his feet. more- over- here there was a deafening explosion and from the grenadier's musket came a great puff of white smoke which instead of quickly ] it s a dangerous place blowing away, as smoke usually does, kept spreading and spreading and getting thicker and whiter and thicker and whiter, until finally it blotted out the sentry-box * * and the fallen trees * * * and the road ***** rvr [ ] chapter vii the “summersault sally" the “summersault sally" go lui cs where to usa iittati filip ra "summersault sally,” the first thing alice noticed was a number of enor- mous white rats, in sailor suits, busily engaged in coiling up cordage. "perhaps,” she said to herself, “those ropes are the ratlines. but why,” she asked the poet, “should anyone want rats for sailors?” the poet considered a moment and then said, “rats always leave a sinking ship, you see, so i suppose, the captain takes 'em every trip, for while they're 'round he knows—" here a rumbling voice from the forward part of the ship reached their ears and the poet cut short his explanation of the rat sailors to say, “ah, there's good captain tee wee now—just hear him singing in the bow.” looking in the direction whence the sound came, alice saw a tiny man, hardly more than two feet high, dressed in a very exaggerated nautical costume. he was doing a curious sort of a “revolving sailor dance,” and singing in a voice that might have belonged to a giant, the following song: “oh, never, never leave, my lads, your happy, happy home. your parents' hearts ’twill grieve, my lads, if off to sea you roam. then listen to, polite, my lads, this ballad; hark ye well, for sure as black is white, my lads, it is the truth i tell. young percival o. pink, my lads, he ran away to sea, although you'd never think, my lads, [ ] )))۶۱۱۱۱۱ از و eo کسی پر را کردارلار -- jan jr مال الاسررررات کلللت کی الزلزال “the clouds * * * had changed by now to a rather milky looking sea" (pare ) the “summersault sally” a thing like that could be. for percy's home, you know, my lads, was fine as one could wish. so why then should he go, my lads, to face the flying-fish? pink's parrot sang, they say, my lads, 'the battle of the ford' five hundred times a day, my lads, and percy, he was bored. * * * * his mother 'most went mad, my lads, when perc could not be found. she says, says she, ‘’e's went to sea, and surely will be drowned!' his father, peter pink, my lads, says, 'dry your heyes, my dear, for lookee, peg, 'is wooden leg will float 'im, never fear.' she sobbed afresh and said, my lads, 'when hoff to sea 'e chased, that wooden limb-oh, woe is 'im- 'e left it in 'is 'aste!' says pete, 'your tears you waste, my love, 'is 'aste with ’im must be, [ ] the “summersault sally" so if it's in 'is 'aste, my love, 'e's got it, don't you see?' then do the captain's jig, my lads, and keel and double-haul, and lower away the gig, my lads, and catch me if i fall!” the diminutive captain's whirling, bounding dance had been growing more and more energetic as the song proceeded, and with the last words, which were panted rather than sung, he bounced right viva son into alice, who, to keep him from falling, caught him in her arms, where for a while he lay gasping like a fish out of water. when captain tee wee had recovered his breath, alice placed him carefully on the deck, thinking as she did so, “he looks just like a live sailor-doll.” the tiny fellow still seemed a trifle dizzy and uncertain, but after a moment he remarked casually, “last time it was the snipe caught me.” ( ) the "summersault sally" "oh, is the snipe on board?" cried alice. "i was afraid he might have been caught and put in er-a—that is "here she broke off, for it occurred to her that it might be just as well to say nothing about the pipe and the setting afire of the king's hay- stack. "oh yes, he was caught!" thundered the captain, who had now entirely recovered his voice. "he was caught all right enough, missy, but they lets him out on bail, though i'd about as leifgoto the dungeons as have to ride around on that there lubberly beast." "they're looking for his accomplice now," he went on very seriously, but with a mischievous wink at the poet. "some say as how he was seen, at the time the haystack caught fire, with a little girl with lightish hair. about your age, she was, missy, i should judge." here the captain looked hard at alice, then raised his eyebrows and slowly winked at the poet. "they ought to be back soon," he said reflectively, after a moment. alice, who was beginning to feel a little anxious, was about to ask whom he meant by "they," when the ship, which had been rolling and pitching only moderately, gave a more decided lurch than usual and the poor captain tumbled over flat on his back. alice and the poet had barely picked him up and set him on his feet when again he tumbled, now falling forward on his nose. as they helped him to rise he muttered peevishly, "if only i hadn't lost that key, i'd not be falling about so." then, after a vain search through all his pockets, he continued, "that confounded snipe's probably carried it off, for a joke. souse him in bilge-water! like as not he's a using of it now for a sinker!" "please, what key are you talking about, and what can it pos- sibly have to do with your falling down so much?" asked alice with some impatience. "why, the key to my sea-chest, of course, child!" roared the captain. "that's where i keep my sea-legs," he added, in quieter [ the “summersault sally”) stunde w . morales t . explanation. "the feet on 'em, you know, are werry much larger than land-feet, and the knees have springs in 'em. that pulls you up straight whenever you starts to fall.” as if to illustrate this point, captain tee wee bent his knees and began to sway back and forth, and—the "summersault sally” pitching, just then, unexpectedly, down he went once more, this time rolling over and over along the deck toward an open hatch- way. just as he reached it, a man, evidently a cook, appeared coming up through the opening carrying a very large, full soup toureen, and into this with a great splash, fell the poor little captain! evidently the soup was not very hot, for the cook unconcernedly fished the sputtering captain out and set him, dripping, on his feet, merely saying, respect- fully, as he peered anxiously into the toureen: “i'm werry much afraid as 'ow most of it's spilled, sir.” here the cook glanced meaningly at alice and the poet and shook his head in a discouraged sort of way, as if to say, “this sort of thing happens almost every day, you know.” "and it's probably ruined my watch,” choked the captain, mournfully, pulling from a pocket in his blouse a short length of fish line and a very curious object, which looked more like a large brass peg-top than a watch, though alice saw that there was a row of numerals painted around it up near the peg. “you may look at it if you like, missy,” the captain added, handing the strange watch and the fishing line to alice. (she had started to mop him off with her small handkerchief and was having tow [ ] the summersault sally a very discouraging time of it). "it's my self-winding port watch," he went on, proudly. "you see, i wind it myself." "i suppose you have to spin it with the fishline, like a boy's top?" said alice, smiling at the captain's last remark. "that's the beauty of it, missy, that's the beauty of it," cried the captain, enthusiastically. "you see this here watch only goes while you're a spinning of it; and while it's a spin- ning, you nacherly can't tell time by it, missy. coz why? coz you can't see the numbers on it then, nohow." "well," said alice, doubtfully, "i shouldn't call that a very satisfactory kind of time-piece." "a very good one, i should say—to lose a train by, anyway," put in the poet, with a grin. "best kind, i calls it," said the captain very positively; "never a proddin' of you by remindin' you it's gettin' late for something or other. leaves all that to your own good judgment, like." he had been clumsily winding the fishing line about the watch as he spoke and now drew back his arm to spin it. in so doing he jostled the cook, who during the conversation had been standing behind him thoughtfully drinking up what was left of the soup. the toureen dropped from the cook's hands, but instead of breaking into a thousand pieces on the deck—as might have been expected — it bounced like a large rubber ball! ' [ chapter viii buttermilk channel chapter viii buttermilk channel ter mil milkman! milkman! where have you been? in buttermilk channel up to my chin. i spilt my milk; i spoiled my clothes- and got a long icicle hung to my nose. the next thing alice knew, she was foundering about in a sea of buttermilk! the buttermilk, curiously enough, did not seem to wet or chill her, though, as she discovered later it was deliciously cool to drink. when she had recovered her wits sufficiently to look about her, alice saw that the "summersault sally" was already some distance away and plunging along at great speed. she could just make out the familiar figure of the poet leaning far out over the rail, waving his hand; and, carried on the breeze, came the words, “so sorry that you have to leave. good bye! give my regards to steve.” the next moment the ship had disappeared in a bank of fog. after swimming about aimlessly for a time, alice found to her surprise that she could touch bottom with her feet and still keep her head and shoulders above the surface. this of course, was a great relief, but it was very tedious just standing about in this way with nothing in sight but buttermilk and not a soul to converse with. so after a while alice began talking aloud to herself as she usually did when all alone. “well, of all the uninteresting, lone- some situations, this is the very worst. i do wish some one would come. “and i wonder who ‘steve' is?” she continued after a moment or two, remembering the poet's farewell words: “i daresay i shall meet him before long anyway.' ( ) buttermilk channel "werry probably, miss, werry probably, coz long can't be found nowhere,” said a melancholy voice startlingly close behind her. alice turned in such haste that she lost her footing on the slippery bottom and went under. when she came up again, sputtering, the little girl saw this rather curious sight-a large dented milk can balanced on the head of a very sad-faced undersized man who was standing almost up to his neck in the buttermilk. a long icicle hanging from the end of his nose helped to make his expression almost ludicrously woe-begone. “and wot's more,” he was now continuing dolefully, apparently not having taken the slightest notice of alice's mishap. "i'm steve! steve for short-that is, steven short's me 'ole name, miss. long 'e was my pardner and that, as you might say, is the long and short of it. but, as i were a-sayin' afore, 'e 'asn't been seen for days, miss.” "how did he happen to get lost?" asked alice, feeling that it was time for her to make some sort of remark. “it's a sad story, a most distressin' story, that it is—(here the milkman's voice almost broke). you see, miss, my pardner long were an uncommon tall man, a regiler giant he were, and hunfor- tunately 'is heyesight were werry poor. and it's probable that 'is heyes gettin' wuss—and 'im bein' so tall—'e finally got so's 'e couldn't see no further than 'is knees, miss, and ’is feet they took 'im hup the wrong road somewheres. least- ways that's my hop- inion.” “how very unfor- tunate," was all alice could think of to say in consolation, and the wuss wony de [ ] buttermilk channel teal and the reeds were all aquiver; (they're such nervous things you know); i had paused a while to listen to the singing of the stream, when a voice said, “now it isn't my desire to make you scream, or alarm you, ma'am, unduly, but if i were you, i'd run, for you're in great danger, truly, and you haven't got a gun!” this surprising voice of warning came, i noticed from a bird on a tree-top: “just this morning,” it continued, “i have heard a voracious tigerilla growling 'round this very tree. my advice is—seek your villa! why, from here i plainly see seven fryingpanthers stealthy coming hot upon your trail, and you know they're most unhealthy, 'less you catch 'em by the tail. so, you see, you'd better scramble, though there's hardly any hope, for, approaching at an amble, comes an elephantelope!" these were words to make one worry. i stood shivering with dread- and was just about to scurry, when a catfish calmly said, "nothing's coming to pursue you; ma'am, don't you believe a word, for that fellow talking to you is the far-famed lyre bird!” [ ] buttermilk channel although alice's verse did not seem to have had a very noticeably cheering effect on the milkman, he had at any rate ceased sobbing and the tears were no longer running off the end of his nose. “medium good, medium,” he murmured gloomily, after quite a long pause. “but just listen to these here werses,” he added more brightly and drew a soggy, dripping sheet of familiar crimson paper from his breast pocket (the tide was evidently ebbing, for the second button of the milkman's coat was now visible); "the poet he wrote it special for me, for to pay my milk bill; you see, miss, 'e " “oh, do you know the poet too?” interrupted alice. "he's really quite a friend of mine.” it some- how seemed to her that she had known the poet for a very long time. “i knowed 'im last week, miss, but, my gallons!'e 'as that many disguises that you can't always rightly tell 'o's 'im, as you might / say. i knows 'im when 'e's a scare- crow, an' i knows 'im when 'e's a weal-an'am pie, and they do say ’e's wonderful convincin' as a sign- post,” he added earnestly, hand- ing alice the dripping sheet (he had been clumsily attempting to dry it by rubbing it with his coat-sleeve which was if possible even wetter than the paper). “you'd better read it to yourself, miss, hafter all, he said huskily. “you see, it's really too haffectin' to me; not only for its hown sake, as you might say, but for the sake o’ the six bob 'e never paid me.” fearing that the milkman would burst into tears again, alice took the sheet. she could just manage to make out the blurred writing, and this is what she read: [ ] buttermilk channel yearnings for years and years i've peddled milk, from trent to timbucktoo, and also cream, though 'twas my dream far different things to do. far different things to do, to do, far finer things to do! for instance, i should like to drive, around and round the square, a pink and purple omnibus, how people all would stare! norte pole pole lans or, think how pleasant it would be to stand for hours and hours, upon some snow-capped mountain-peak a-selling paper flowers. then one might fish for griddle-cakes each night twixt twelve and two: i sob and sigh, to think that i so many things don't do. i'd take soft soap and sea-shore sand, and mix 'em up with tea, and of them make a cobble cake, ] . undell lle a es tvs. duis بليييد "a huge tub was approaching, spinning round and round” (page ) buttermilk channel to sell at and . my sweetest dream of all is this, (i love a change of scene) at the north pole, to dig a hole, and plant a lima bean; and plant a lima bean, a bean, a lovely lima bean! while she was reading, alice had noticed that the buttermilk they were standing in was gradually thinning and changing to clear water. she was just about to call the milkman's attention to this when she suddenly heard the sharp rub-a-dub-dubbing of a drum behind her. looking in the direction from whence the sound came alice beheld a most amusing spectacle. a stiff breeze had sprung up and a huge tub was approaching, spinning round and round and bobbing up and down on the choppy waves. in the tub were three men, a butcher and a baker-easily recognizable by their dress—and a third occupant, whom alice, because of his very insignificant size, did not notice at first. the baker had tried to rig up a sail by tying his apron to a long french loaf and was making desperate efforts to brace the strange mast with his knees and hold the flapping ends of the apron at the same time. at his wild contortions even the melancholy milkman smiled feebly. the butcher, his face purple with exertion, was paddling as best he could with a large meat-cleaver; the only result of this was, of course, to keep the tub spinning faster and faster and make the work of holding up the mast all the harder for the poor baker. as the strange craft drew nearer, alice saw a tiny fellow-even smaller than captain tee wee-standing in it, furiously busy beating a drum almost as big as himself. he was apparently wholly oblivious to his surroundings. “i've never seen so many dwarfish people as there are in this sm ( ) buttermilk channel queer country,” thought alice. "perhaps it's because the artist wasn't as careful as he should have been in drawing some of them.” so intent were the occupants of the tub upon what they were doing that alice and her companion attracted no notice at all from them until a shrill whistle and a surprisingly loud “milk ooooo-h!!” from the milkman caused them to cease their frantic efforts. “lard-a-pork !"* shouted the butcher after a moment's panting pause, and then steering with his cleaver he brought the spinning craft about so sharply that it bumped heavily into the poor milkman, knocking the milk can off his head. the cover of the can came off and the milk spilled into the tub, knocking over and nearly drowning the little man with the drum. "oh, dear! we beg your pardon,” began alice—for somehow or other she felt responsible for the mishap. “we really didn't mean " she was interrupted in her apologies by a loud, joyful shout of “dinner time!!” from the baker, who was already breaking up the long french loaf he had been using as a mast and throwing the pieces into the milk which was swashing about in the now almost submerged tub. *merely a butcher's way of saying "hard-a-port." [ ] chapter ix tub and tunnel にできた ​ chapter ix tub and tunnel alice soon found herself sitting on the edge of the tub with the others, who were all now eating in ravenous silence. on one side of her sat the milkman, who was having a very hard time to keep his own equilibrium on the unstable seat and at the same time balance the now empty can which he had again placed on his head. on the other side sat the tiny fellow with the drum which he was now using with great success as a bowl for the bread and milk. having this advantage over the others, who were forced to scoop it up with their hands, he finished his meal first. poor alice, on the other hand, although very hungry, had been unable to get any of the food, for every time she reached down to scoop it up she nearly lost her balance, and besides, the tub seemed always to roll in such a way as to keep the bread and milk just out of her reach. so after a while she gave up the attempt altogether and turned to look at the dwarfish being beside her. alice now noticed for the first time that he wore a curious shiny yellow hat (exactly like a small, brass candle-holder), on top of which was a short stub of candle. from an inside pocket of his long, tightly buttoned yellow "duster" he now drew forth a large card with a deep black border: ] tub and tunnel story at the moment, but upon opening her mouth to do so, she was astonished to hear herself reciting, with appropriate gestures, the following verses: the village choir in oh, the fire-bell was ringing in the town of ballyhack, and the village choir was singing, "bring, oh, bring my benny back.” now a simple, soothing story is this tale of shanghaied ben, just, perhaps, a bit too gory where his ears are clipped, but then there's a fairly happy ending, though the tune is mostly glum. (as a rule it's quite heart-rending on the fog-horn and the drum). well—the songing and the singing 'bout the bringing back of ben, and the donging and the dinging mingled sweetly; so that when the policeman-who was taking of his after-dinner snooze- heard it, he, instead of waking, dreamed he read the “oxford news!” [ ] tub and tunnel during the recital of alice's verses the butcher, the baker and the melancholy milkman, who had finally finished eating the last of the bread and milk, had all been yawning audibly—which was of course very rude under the circumstances—and seemed to be having an increasingly difficult time to keep awake and to preserve their balance on the rim of the tub. just as she came to the last word, they all tumbled overboard very neatly and quietly, and floated off, bobbing up and down like corks on the green water, all three snoring in perfect unison. “they do it precisely as though they had practiced it together a great many times,” thought alice. the little candlestick-maker held his sides and rocked back and forth so alarmingly that alice feared he, too, would fall overboard. “it was either that part about the ‘after-dinner' snooze or the last line about reading the 'oxford news' that finished 'em,” he managed to say when he could control his shrill laughter. "it was very unmannerly of them at any rate,” said alice, “but shouldn't we try to get them aboard again?” she felt vaguely that something ought to be done, though as a matter of fact all three of the floating sleepers looked perfectly comfortable and happy where they were. “i make it a rule,” said the candlestick-maker seriously, "never to disturb a man when he's taking his after-dinner nap. he's apt to wake up very cross. besides, it'll help their digestions to sleep a bit. and speaking of digestions,” he rattled on, "reminds me of cheese, and cheese reminds me of cake (here he reached toward the pocket of his yellow coat). now what would you say to a piece?" [ ] tub and tunnel $ "oh," answered alice, in delighted anticipation, "i'd say 'thank you, very much;' there's nothing i like better, especially pound cake!" "well, i'd hardly say all that to a piece of cake i'd never met before," said the candlestick-maker reprovingly. "however, it doesn't really matter, for i wasn't referring to a piece of cake anyhow; only to a piece of poetry. it's my turn, you know," he added with a chuckle, apparently enjoying his little joke immensely. alice sat back with a long sigh of resignation. these repeated disappointments in the matter of food were becoming most aggravating. "i wonder," she said to herself wistfully, "if i shall ever really get anything to eat again?" the candlestick-maker now drew from his pocket a folded sheet of yellow paper which he smoothed out and dusted carefully on both sides with his tiny handkerchief. he then handed it to alice, re- marking with a pleasant smile, "perhaps you'd rather read it your- self, eh? it's really most appropriate to this occasion, my dear." then without waiting for a reply he cleared his throat complacently once or twice and, taking the paper out of alice's hand, before she had had time to more than glance at the first line, he read with great satisfaction: a matter of taste. what kind of food do i prefer? my tastes are simple, quite! i like the pickled chestnut burr, and now and then a bite of sugared oleander bark and, in the early spring, green cactus, gathered after dark on tuesday, is the thing! some claim that kerosene and sand, though ticklish to the tongue, beats even frozen fritters and ] tub and tunnel is fine for old and young. a friend of mine once used to make a stew of lizard legs and linseed oil; while jelly cake he'd salt away in kegs. of course, we can't be all alike oil sale in what we choose to chew,- a fine puree of railroad spike might not appeal to you. but that reminds me, uncle ben, to ask you, what's your choice. what victuals do you call for when your appetite you voice? do you demand wild roses panned- or choc'late-coated eels? unk scratched his head then slowly said, “what i like most is—meals!” as any reference to food was becoming very painful to alice, she made no comment on this doggerel, and, in the interval of silence that followed, the candlestick-maker, with the injured air of one whose best efforts have been unappreciated, carefully folded the sheet, sealed it with a bright yellow wafer which he had taken from ier nic dm [ ] tub and tunnel he seemed to be in a great hurry, as postmen usually are. taking a rather bulky package from his bag he tossed it to alice, remarking pleasantly, "proper fine day, miss;" then, touching his cap, he was off. "nothing for me?" the candlestick- maker called after him. but the post- man kept on, unheeding, and soon dis- appeared from view. "it's high time i was getting an answer," said the little man, complainingly. "but who do you suppose sent me this?" alice exclaimed, sur- prised and delighted at receiving this unexpected piece of mail. "probably it's only a note from the stage manager, reminding you to be on time for the rehearsal," said the candlestick-maker, trying hard to keep the envy out of his voice. "though, of course after all this delay we're frightfully late, already." although she had not the slightest idea what "rehearsal" her little companion was referring to, alice did not ask for particulars just then. she was too much occupied with her fascinating mail package. it was a most interesting looking one, too; wrapped in oiled silk and tied with a piece of seaweed. furthermore, the packet was rather heavy for its size and almost completely covered with two-penny stamps except for the small space where alice m. was written in green ink. "what does the m stand for?" asked the candlestick-maker rather suspiciously. "you see," he went on before giving her time to reply, "it might mean alice maybe! so perhaps it's not for you after all. it might even be intended for me." this was a rather disturbing thought, especially as, curiously enough, alice could not for the life of her, at the moment, remember her full name. "it stands—" she said, hesitating uncertainly as [ tub and tunnel she started to open the package, "i think it stands for my last name." "your last name, eh? how often do you change your name, i'd like to know? and you can't even be sure what the last one was! i suppose alice is the name you had before you changed it for this last one that you can't remember. well, there's something mighty suspicious about it, that's all i can say." poor alice was so confused by this rapid and complicated speech, that she did not even try to argue about the name but said weakly, "i suppose so," and went on unwrapping her package, which proved to contain a small collapsible telescope and a thin pack of little red cards, tied together with a broad white ribbon upon which were printed the letters s. c. t. upon each of the cards was written a single word. alice read them off just as they happened to come in the little pack. look yours been p. see truly spyglass through that the you'll we've and wrecked. "no doubt it means something," said alice, half aloud, after she had tried many different combinations of the words without success. "maybe it's some sort of a cipher message," said the candle- [ ] tub and tunnel $ stick-maker, eagerly. he seemed to have entirely forgotten his suspicions and had been looking through the large end of the pocket telescope with great intentness; now at alice and not out to where the butcher, the baker and the milkman were just disappearing on the horizon. he now handed the glass to alice and taking the cards examined them carefully one by one. "of course, that p. means that it's a message from the poet!" he cried excitedly, after a moment or two. "and he almost always uses a secret code." then, taking from his pocket a little yellow-covered book, he started rapidly thumbing over the pages, all of which seemed to be covered with row after row of zeros. "here it is!" the candlestick-maker finally cried delightedly. "the s. c. t. on the ribbon means shuffle cards twice!" then in his excitement, instead of putting the book back in his pocket, he threw it into the water where it was immediately swallowed by a fat, sleepy looking fish labeled, libra- rian. "you shuffle 'em once, and then i'll shuffle 'em once," he sug- gested eagerly. they did this and the cards then read: look through the spy-glass and you'll see that we've been wrecked. yours truly, p. "how exciting!" cried alice; "and what fun that puzzle was. but i do hope none of them was drowned." and then, shutting one eye, she raised the spy-glass to the other. ******** alice found to her astonishment that she was not looking through a telescope at all, but was standing in a dark, narrow railroad tunnel. the opening at the end of the tunnel seemed miles ahead, and yet as alice looked at the circle of light she began to see what looked at first like a rather blurry magic-lantern picture of a "storm at sea." as the picture grew clearer, she made out, in the foreground, a number of rats swimming through the waves in two very straight [ ] tub and tunnel lines, like soldiers, with one especially large rat, who seemed to be a sort of colonel, in the lead. a little behind these came the poet, the cook and the captain, apparently engaged in an animated con- versation. back of this group were the butcher, the baker and the milkman, all three still sleeping heavily. bringing up the rear of this curious procession was a tremendous turtle floundering doggedly along. alice laughed heartily at the strangely ridiculous picture. "if only they had a fife and drum it would be a regular 'aquatic parade,'" she chuckled. "i'm sure i wish "she was interrupted at this point by the scraping splutter of a match just back of her, and turning saw that it was the candlestick-maker whom, of course, she had not noticed in the darkness of the tunnel. he was lighting the short candle on top of his hat; this done, he drew from his pocket (which seemed to be inexhaustible) a small fife and, handing it to alice, remarked: "not bad, that idea of yours about the fife and drum music, my dear. fancy what a tremendous, beautiful noise it'll make in this tunnel, too!" he went on enthusiastically. "we might try 'soldiers of the queen' first, eh?" now alice had never before even tried to play a fife, so she was more than a little surprised to find upon attempting it very doubt- fully, that she could play with considerable ease and flourish. the candlestick-maker adjusted his drum and they marched along up the track, the tunnel reverberating with the din of their fifing and drumming. alice was so occupied with her delightful new-found accomplish- ment that for a time she forgot the strange procession of swimmers; and when after finishing "soldiers of the queen" she looked for it again, it had changed to merely a blank spot of bright light such as one always sees at the end of a tunnel. they were about to start on another lively tune when the candlestick-maker, pointing excitedly, shouted: "here's luck!" and the dim light thrown by the candle revealed a small hand-car [ chapter x iceberg chapter x iceberg as the speed at which they went tearing along was at first so great that alice could make out nothing but a blur of dazzling light. the hand-car soon slowed down, however, and she saw that they were approaching a neat little station at the end of a long dock, which ran out into the ocean. the waves were running very high, al- though the sun was shining brightly, and the tiny station, which was built entirely of ice-blocks, was dripping with sparkling spray from the breakers. the name of the station—"iceberg”—was lettered on a board which hung from the icicle-fringed eaves. alice felt much relieved when the hand-car came to a gentle stop at the station platform, for she had noticed that the track just beyond simply ran off the end of the dock and down into the water. she alighted hastily and then remembering the candlestick-maker- whom she had entirely forgotten in the excitement of the last few minutes—she turned to help him off. he had vanished, leaving only his curious hat behind! alice now saw that the hat was, in fact, simply an average sized brass candlestick of this sort. . saying to herself, “i'll just keep this as a me- mento,” she picked it up and was just starting for the door of the station when a bell jangled loudly and a voice cried, "all aboard!” and the hand-car, starting with a jerk, ran down the few remaining yards of track into the sea and disappeared. “well, of all the strange railroads,” alice began, but just then she caught sight of a very white face with large coal black eyes, a pointed red nose, and a scrubby stiff goatee: it was staring at her from a small window in the station. for a moment alice was really frightened at this strange ap- will ( ) iceberg parition, but it suddenly occured to her that of course this was only a snowman and that the carroty red nose was a carrot, the black eyes lumps of coal and the goatee a worn-out paint brush. “and he really has a very kindly expression in spite of his unusual fea- tures,” thought the little girl. first-class it somehow did not surprise her much now to hear him ask pleasantly, “any bag- gage, miss?” his paint-brush goatee wagging stiffly as he spoke. "nothing but this,” answered alice, holding up the candlestick and noting as she did so that the candle was again burning. the sight of the candle apparently made the snowman quite nervous, for he n. p said rather shakily, “you might just blow that out, miss, if you don't mind; i can't abide a flame of any sort, not since my brother almost died of a bonfire.” alice blew out the candle and the snowman, who seemed great- ly relieved, continued politely, “just leave your bundle in the baggage room if you like.” he pointed with a very short fat arm to a large clumsily wrapped package, which alice had certainly not seen before, standing just beside her on the platform. she was about to tell the station agent (for that was what the snowman evidently was) that it did not belong to her, when she noticed tied to the bundle a large tag upon which was printed in bold letters- yours. “but,” said alice to herself, but half aloud-really hoping that the interesting package might prove to belong to her- "how do i know that the tag doesn't mean that it belongs to the snow- man?” the snowman heard her question. "why, miss,” he said slow- ly, like a good natured teacher patiently explaining something to a stupid child, "you see if it were mine, it would be marked mine, [ ] iceberg but as it isn't marked mine why then of course it isn't mine: but, if, on the other hand, it were yours, miss, then it would be marked yours, and as it is marked yours, why then of course it is yours and not mine. or, to put it another way," he went on triumphantly, after taking a breath, "if it were not yours—" (here he stopped, for alice was no longer listening, but was already unwrapping the bundle, for, like most of us, she was always easily convinced of what she wanted to believe). first came several layers of newspapers—most of them the "gloster gazette" and the "norrich news"—then straw tied round and round with heavy cord like the winter covering for a rose bush; next came a ragged old quilt decorated with a design of cabbage- like scarlet flowers. as the air was now very chilly in spite of the bright sunshine, alice stopped to drape this quilt about her shoul- ders like a sort of cape. she then removed the remaining wrappings from the bundle, consisting of a fish net and several more news- papers (these being mostly "bunbury bugles"). "well of all pre-pos-terous things!" exclaimed alice as she finally pulled off the last of the papers; for, after all her trouble in undoing the great package, its contents proved to be only a rickety old, bottomless bird cage upon the little padlocked door of which hung a card bearing the words, "gone for the day." the snowman, his head and shoulders craned as far as possible out of the station window, had been watching with great interest the unwrapping of the mysterious bundle, and he now exclaimed with a chuckle which nearly dislodged his paint- brush goatee: "very interesting luggage, miss, and also very instructive." "however," he added more seriously, "you might just hang it on that hook by the door there. (alice was about to throw the iceberg battered cage into the sea.) you never can tell when that sort of thing will come in handy, miss.” "you might be able to use that card on it some day when you go off for a vacation,” suggested alice, smiling in spite of her disap- pointment at the idea of a bottomless bird cage like this one ever “coming in handy.” “i'm afraid i'll never be going on a vacation, miss,” said the snowman sadly. “you see, whoever it was made me, he didn't give me any legs to speak of; though i don't complain, as very few snowmen has 'em, and furthermore, miss, it saves me lots of steps. i'm what you might call,” he went on more brightly, "a stationary station agent, or perhaps—" at this juncture alice heard a sound of joyful squeaking and shrill cheering at the end of the dock and, turning, saw that the hand-car had emerged from the water and was coming back toward the station. it was swarming with the sailor rats, who were wav- ing their dripping caps and generally behaving like a crowd of school boys off for a vacation. the car did not stop at the station but kept on at steadily in- creasing speed, and the shrill cries soon died away in the distance. “those must be the sailors from the "summersault sally,” exclaimed alice, remembering the dissolving magic lantern v she had seen in the tunnel; "and the others must be close behind, i'm sure. rats are always the first to leave a sinking ship, at least so the poet said.” "it's just as well those sailors didn't stop off here,” said the snowman decidedly; "they're always a rough, noisy lot, miss, and like as not they'd have stolen the station sign and —”. “why, here are the others, now!” cried alice. while the snow- man was speaking she had spied four familiar heads on the crest of an oncoming wave. the wave broke, depositing the poet, captain tee wee, the cook and the milkman in a neat row at the extreme end of the dock. ( ) iceberg * the milkman, after looking sadly about in a bewildered way for a moment or two—apparently but half awakened by the slight shock of landing—settled back against a convenient post, closed his melancholy eyes and started snoring at once. the others rose unconcernedly to their feet and shook them- selves like three water spaniels, and alice now heard the cook, who seemed to be continuing an interrupted conversation, remark: "—and what i says is, it's good riddance to 'em! if them two lubbers an' that old shell-back wanted to sail with that tow 'eaded softy, captain shafto, why shouldn't they, isays, an' werry good, too." "right you are, matey!" roared captain tee wee so heartily that several icicles fell jingling from the station eaves. the poet, who had just caught sight of alice, showed no sur- prise whatever; he merely smiled pleasantly as if he had naturally expected her to be there, and remarked casually, jerking his thumb at his companions, "they refer to the butcher, the baker and turtle, who were taken aboard the 'meandering myrtle'." "but i don't remember seeing a turtle aboard the 'summersault sally,' " said alice. "where did he come from?" "the waves they ran so high, you see, our ship turned turtle. pardon me if i now leave you for a while to give my new disguise a trial." thus saying, the poet stepped into the little station, from the door of which, after but a few moments, hopped a very large, black and white penguin. startled by this sudden transformation, alice took a step backward and, tripping over the trailing end of the bed quilt which she had wrapped about her, fell flat. the penguin helped her up clumsily, remarking as he did so, "there's no need to feel such a shock of alarm: i'm only the poet who'll do you no harm." iceberg wers when alice got to her feet again the snowman, captain tee wee, the cook and the sleeping milkman were gone—though she was quite sure she still heard muffled snoring. the station itself had disappeared, too, and she and the ridiculously disguised poet were standing on what seemed at first to be the flat, icy roof of a high tower of some sort. the end of a ladder (“it looks just like the railroad track stood up on end,” thought alice) showed above a low parapet which bordered the roof. the snoring soon changed to a sound like that of surf far below them, and peering over the parapet alice saw, to her astonishment and dismay, that they were on the very highest pinnacle of a tre- mendous iceberg! owing to a heavy fog which surrounded the base of the iceberg, it was impossible to see where the ladder led to. “it probably rests on the bottom of the sea, and i'm sure i should never dare to climb down anyway,” thought alice miserably, adding half aloud: “oh, dear, i wish i had never come.” then it occurred to her that she had had nothing to do with coming: in fact she had not come at all. this was a very confusing thought. she felt, though, that the poet was somehow or other to blame for their predicament; so, turning to him, she said piteously, "whatever shall we do?" patting her shoulder with one of his ridiculous aipper-like wings, the poet an- swered reassuringly: "don't fret yourself, be calm, my dear; i'm really rather glad we're here. an iceberg's safe—if gales don't rise-and how it suits my new disguise! still if you're feeling timid,—well, you just might try your fire-bell.” “my fire-bell? i haven't any fire-bell and you know it,” said alice crossly; for she felt that the poet had chosen a very poor time for teasing her. nu ( ) iceberg "then what's that hanging from a chain about your neck? a bell, it's plain,” retorted the poet rather impatiently. alice looked and saw that there was a tiny bell, about the size of a thimble, hanging from a very fine chain about her neck, though how it got there she couldn't possibly imagine. “if that's a fire-bell it must be a very young one,” she said, smiling, and her satisfaction at having made this amusing conjecture quite restored her usual good humor. curious to see what sort of a tinkle such a diminutive bell would make, alice gently shook the chain. instantly a deafening, crashing clangor filled the air, frightening the poor child nearly out of her senses. she hastily dropped the little bell, and, after one last tremendous, echoing peal, the ringing stopped. the poet, who seemed to be shaking under his disguise with suppressed laughter, now remarked very gravely: "well, what a voice for one so young, i thought at first ‘big ben' had rung!” and, after a moment's pause, he added: “the fireman should soon be here to rescue you,-but look, my dear; a snow storm's starting. really though it looks to me like paper snow!" and sure enough, the air was soon full of little curled-up strips of paper such as come inside of "snapper mottoes.” “oh,” cried alice excitedly, “i do hope they have proverbs on them, it will be such fun!” she picked up several of the paper snowflakes and, straightening one out, found the following rather disappointing line printed in small red letters: the penguin is mightier than the sword-fish. she handed it to the poet, saying doubtfully, "perhaps this one was meant especially for you;” then half to herself, “it sounds familiar, but that isn't quite the usual wording, i'm sure.” the poet took the slip and after reading it aloud several times very thoughtfully and slowly, he said with great complacency: “a very proper proverb that, and how 'twill irritate old spratt,-he takes the sword-fish part, you see—you're aunt crusader,-as for me perhaps you know, my dear, that i'm the hero in the pantomime.” ( ] iceberg so alice recollected that the candlestick-maker had said some- thing about being late to a rehearsal of some sort and she wondered if it were this pantomime that he had referred to. she was too much interested in the snowflake mottoes, however, to ask about it just then. unrolling another of the slips, she read aloud: "honey makes the hair grow.” “of course, that's just nonsense,” she said impatiently; “though, come to think, i have heard a proverb something like it—'money makes the mare go,' i believe it was.” “well,” said her companion judicially, “perhaps that other, too, is true, although the wording's tricky; for honey in the comb, you know, would make the hair grow-sticky!” "perhaps you can tell what this one means, too,” said alice, smiling, at the ingenious explanation of the other: “don't count your chickens before you put all your eggs in one basket.” after a moment's reflection, the poet replied: "in counting chickens, don't you see, there's apt to be some slip—that is, if on arithmetic you've not the firmest grip. and if you slip why, like as not, upon your eggs you fall, and if those eggs are in one lot, it's plain you'll break them all!” alice was growing very much interested in this game of explana- tions. “it's my turn,” she now exclaimed, “and here's one that i can almost understand myself; it says, 'it's never too straight to bend,' and i daresay that means " she was interrupted by the sudden ap- pearance of a head and shoulders above the edge of the parapet and the next moment a stocky fellow, unmistakably a fireman, stepped from the ladder and stood before them, panting. his shirt was the brightest crimson alice had ever seen and he wore a big tin fire-hat, the ( ) iceberg man brim of which extended like a wide shovel at the back. hanging from his belt were a small pick-axe, a brass fire-trumpet and a leather bucket about half full of water. “two of 'em to save," the fireman muttered complainingly when he had recovered his breath, “two of 'em—and me on a holiday!” then taking the buck- et from his belt in a business-like way, he dashed the water over the poet, saying mournfully as he did so, “and not even enough water for one.” “i'm glad of that,” thought alice, “though the poet doesn't seem to much mind being soaked.” the poet, who apparently si tr had hardly noticed the unexpec- ted bath, was saying cheerfully, “don't bother about me; i'll flap down to the ground. help her, old chap." then, holding up the bottomless bird cage, he went on, “my helmet for the pantomime; so glad i thought of it in time.” "he certainly didn't have that cage a moment ago," thought alice confusedly. “i didn't know that old thing was yours," she started to say, but the poet, in his awkward penguin disguise, had hopped to the parapet, and now, after a few preliminary flappings of his unwieldy wings, flew heavily away. he had left the bird cage behind and the fireman, picking it up, hurled it after him with a loud shout of "heads below!" then turning to alice, who half feared that she was about to be thrown after the cage, he said politely enough, but in a rather bored voice, which plainly showed that he did not enjoy working like this while on a holiday, “well, miss, what'll it be for you, ladder or life net?” now alice did not like the idea of either method of descent, ( ) iceberg but she felt at least she was somewhat familiar with ladders while she had never even seen a life net. "and that ladder,” she reasoned, "must lead to somewhere, after all, for the fireman came up that way.” so she finally answered rather doubtfully, “i think i prefer the ladder, if you don't mind." “did you say the ladder or the latter, miss?” inquired the fireman, who had been busy readjusting the things on his belt. “though come to think,” he added, “it doesn't really make much difference, as there ain't any life net, miss.” he jammed his hat down, gave a last twitch to his belt and exclaimed, with more animation than alice had seen him exhibit, "well, miss, ladder it is then!" and the next moment alice found to her surprise that she was enjoying the very agreeable sensation of sliding, at a pleasurable speed, down a smooth, straight bannister. in a strangely silent mist all about her, the paper snow was still falling. * snow w va ( ) chapter xi the skating party the skating party blue rosette from which hung a long end of ribbon bearing the word winner, exclaiming with a good deal of aourish, as he did so: “we compliment you, ma’am, on your most commendable performance and well-earned victory!” the cheering, which had been hushed during the old man's little presentation speech, now broke out afresh and alice, who had stood grinning sheepishly while the old man pinned on the rosette, could not help finally laughing outright at the absurdity of the whole situation; for, to cap the climax, the poet, in his clumsy penguin disguise, had appeared hopping heavily toward them, rolling the rickety, clattering bird cage ahead of him across the ice. as alice stood watching his approach and laughing uncontrol- lably, a voice, which she recognized as captain tee wee's, boomed out, “all entries for the second race this way!" no one seemed to pay the slightest attention, however, either to this announcement or to the approaching penguin, for the fireman, whom alice now noticed for the first time, had started a bonfire on the ice, a short distance away, and the crowd was hastening in that direction. a little bent old woman with an old fashioned “witch- broom” was industriously sweeping up the paper snowflakes that had fallen on the ice (it was a pile of these that the fireman had lighted). when alice approached he stopped his work of - tending fire and said in a rather apologetic way, as c though he felt that he had been caught at a very childish pastime, “it's a real change, as you can se easy understand, miss, this lighting fires — me being on a vacation — for other times i'm mostly busy a-puttin' of 'em out; besides which i've arranged this here fire so's the smoke's all a-blowin' his way, in hopes to wake him up.” here the fireman pointed to a little wooden bench nearby. upon this bench alice was somehow not at all surprised to see the milkman stretched out, still snoring loudly. ( ) the skating party ne w “we've done about everything else, miss,” went on the fireman in a discouraged voice, “but it's amazin' how sound like milkmen does sleep in the daytime.” while the fireman was speaking, alice had observed a large red cow-evidently a new arrival-skating toward them in a lei- surely way. she was a raw-boned, powerful animal, with skates on all four of her feet and even an extra one fastened on near the end of her frowsy tail! (“i can't see what use that one is to her,” thought alice.) apparently unconscious of the fact that she skated in an awkward, sprawling manner, the cow wore an air of haughty superiority. just as alice was about to call the fireman's attention to this ridiculous creature, she felt a nudge, and turning, saw that the captain and the cook had joined them. “souse my tarry pigtail if there ain't old moolygeezer, the milkman's crazy cow!” exclaimed the captain in what he perhaps intended for a whispering voice. “an' prouder-like than ever since the poet wrote them verses about her jumpin' over the moon,” put in the cook, who seemed to be having a difficult time adjusting his skates, which were, as a matter of fact, not really skates, but long soup ladles. moolygeezer, who was now laboriously attempting a "figure- eight,” evidently overheard the captain's uncomplimentary "stage whisper,” for she tossed her head contemptuously. in so doing she lost her precarious balance and fell to the ice with a crash, her cow- bell, which heretofore had only tinkled, now jangling loudly as she nt down directly in front of the bench on which lay her sleeping master. roused by the sound of the cowbell the milkman sat up jerkily, and after looking wildly about in a sleep-dazed way for a moment or two, he spied the cow who was just getting angrily to her feet again amid general laughter and jeering. with a hoarse cry of “i've got you now, you old moon-jumper!” the milkman made a desperate lunge for the cow's tail, but missed it, falling on the ice. ( ) the skating party though evidently greatly hampered by her skates, mooly- geezer started off with a series of great galloping leaps, and the most ridiculous chase that alice had ever taken part in began. by the time the crowd of strangely assorted skaters had gotten their wits together sufficiently to start after her, the ungainly creature tu illy milica amo! ecall - bean . . u- jr was crashing along over the ice at an amazing rate of speed, now running on all fours, and now coasting, as it were, on her hind legs, using her tail when she did this as a sort of rudder. most of the pursuers, in their frenzied efforts to get started quickly, had fallen down like the milkman, whom alice heard muttering wistfully, as he picked himself up and started after the others, “it's werry disappointing, werry.” not wishing to be left alone, and quite interested, besides, to see how the chase would end, alice ran along after the noisy crowd. the old-man-dressed-all-in-leather, notwithstanding his curi- ously attached single skate, led the pursuit by a good distance. (“perhaps it's because, skating on his back in the way he does, he can't very well fall down,” said alice to herself.) next came the clown, who was going along very smoothly and gracefully on his hands, fanning himself industriously all the while with a large palm- leaf fan which he held somehow with one of his feet. behind him ( ) the skating party came the captain, fairly bellowing with delirious enjoyment of the chase; then the cook on his soup-ladle skates, and the poet (he was now wearing his bird-cage helmet instead of rolling it) clumsily hopping and flying by turns. close behind the poet came the fireman, shouting a confusion of orders through his brass trumpet. strung along after this leading group were many others, some of whom alice did not remember having seen on the ice before, but who all looked vaguely familiar; one of these last was a round- faced little man carrying a hammer and saw and a number of other tools. he seemed to be skating with the greatest difficulty and was going very slowly. alice was not surprised at this when she saw that his skates were made entirely of wood. she also saw a large black "j" painted on the back of his coat, and, remembering the line "j was a joiner," decided that this must be he. the poor fellow finally stopped, removed his wooden skates and was examining them in a disappointed way when alice caught up. (she was now very much out of breath and had slowed down to a fast walk.) upon seeing her, the joiner politely raised his little square topped white hat, saying in a very gentlemanly way as he fell into step, "may i be permitted to join this little party? "you see joining is my trade," he added, as if to explain any seeming boldness in making his request. "of course you may; but i'm quite alone," replied alice, rather puzzled by his reference to the "little party," "or, at least, i was alone a second ago," she added doubtfully, looking behind her as though half expecting to see several hitherto unnoticed companions. "why, i should call you rather a little party," explained the joiner. "that is," he went on hastily, as though fearing that alice might not have liked this way of putting it, "you're not so very large, you know." "oh, i see, it was a sort of joke," said alice, smiling. "well," answered her companion thoughtfully, "perhaps it [ ] xxiv im if un mateus pel aman me john rat yu bel tunin wnl im imunowinru impan int wh in nehme vanu w internet nont ant ray tyr walau bemut uvitilia iitto valur mason mwi xam. timkii . . minh av ipbm iwd van aana waxwww ТМИИИИ wwwma ammi "ice gave way beneath her with a curious tinkling crash” (page ) umni ylvi en ap mimi w wwii nym wwws ! ww nir migrena www hill! ИИИИ wn in itimi w unwa wyn wmwwwwma mywwwm v mmmm attitutiile vym www wwwma uttet wwwwwm wwwwwww www aut t the skating party was. but these are no joke at any rate." he held up the wooden skates which he was now carrying in his hand. "they didn'tseem to slide along very easily," said alice, feeling that some sympathetic remark was expected of her. "and i spent days and days selecting the very slipperiest kind of slippery-elm to make them of," said the other with a regretful sigh. "have some, do," he added sadly, handing one of the skates to alice and starting to chew on the other in an absent sort of way. as the joiner ceased speaking, alice's ears caught a sound quite different from that of the noisy pursuit, which was now almost out of earshot. it was the ominous soughing of an approaching wind storm which seemed to be coming up behind them. she looked over her shoulder and was really terrified at the threatening look of an oncoming bank of darkness which seemed about to overtake and envelop them. "oh, dear! whatever shall we do?" cried the poor child piteously, turning to the joiner. he was gone! * * alice had no time to soliloquize on his sudden disappearance, for the fast rising wind soon began to blow her along at constantly increasing speed, and, when she glanced once more behind her, the bank of darkness had taken on much the look of an onrushing crowd of screaming, black giants, and moreover, great cracks were appearing in the ice on all sides. "if only there was something to hold on to," groaned alice who was now fairly flying along. and as if in cruel answer to her wish, there suddenly appeared, sticking up out of one of the cracks just ahead of her a pole bearing a signboard lettered, danger! in a moment she would be upon it! * * as alice stretched out her hands to ward off the pole, the ice which had been getting very wobbly gave way beneath her with a curious, tinkling crash like the breaking of thin glass—and all was darkness. • • * the next thing she knew, the astonished child found herself sitting up unhurt on the damp floor of a large greenhouse. [ j i chapter xii strange growths and a stupid snail jr. v in ul wed khi awa “she carefully picked one of the bowl blossoms" (page ) strange growths and a stupid snail jr handle of his umbrella, which was bright green like those standing beyond the moat. alice, who had by this time come to within a few rods of the palace, was about to call out to the doctor, when without any warning the path she was on started, with sudden violence, to swing from side to side-like a hammock that has been given an unexpected jerk — and almost before she realized what was happening the poor child found herself sliding off into the slimy water, which luckily was only up to her knees at this point. the path stopped swaying almost immediately and alice scrambled back onto it and ran the remaining distance to the castle door, feeling somehow very angry and foolish at the same time. the doctor, who, in spite of his pounding and shouting, had heard the commotion of alice's mishap, had dropped his umbrella and was already opening his little black medicine satchel when she arrived, panting. (she was much surprised to find that she still held the pipe and bowl; the contents of the bowl had changed mysteriously to what looked like cider in which a small crab was swimming about.) “just what happened to me a few minutes ago—just what happened to me, and a poor sort of joke, too, i say,” the doctor remarked without looking up. “now where did l-ah, here annuum it is!” he added, taking from his satchel a small blue bottle labeled, ng pananalitat “for wet feet.” and before alice had time to pro- test he clapped it to her lips and emptied the entire con- cuiune chili tents down her throat. then name which r ht o on the pass ssassi a dua biserinsunin, jr ( ] f strange growths and a stupid snail putting the empty bottle back in his satchel he turned again to the door, only pausing for a moment to say very seriously, "you know, my child, there's nothing so dangerous as wet feet,—nothing so dangerous. why, i once knew a centipede—" but here he resumed his battering at the door panels and the rest of the centipede story was drowned out by the din. the medicine had apparently started to do its work immediately, for already alice felt a very decided sensation of warmth in her feet, and a thick cloud of steam had begun to rise from them. this steaming continued violently for about half a minute, and when it stopped she found that her shoes and stockings were perfectly dry. by this time the doctor had broken his umbrella and was sitting in a discouraged way on the doorstep, absently swal- lowing, two or three at a time, some large red capsules from a box labeled "parr's patience pills— take one every hours." alice was about to remind him that he was taking what seemed to her entirely too many of these, when the door opened inward and the doctor, who had been resting his back against it, fell back sprawling, colliding as he did so with an enormous snail— about four feet tall—which wore, in addition to the usual shell, a rather jaunty little red hat, with doorman lettered upon it. through the open door alice, to her astonish- ment looked, not into a dark hallway or a room, as she had expected to, but into what seemed to be a kind of formal garden, at the far end of which, behind a hedge of huge sunshades, she could now hear the sound of many voices. the castle, in fact, consisted of only one wall and was not much more substantial than a piece of scenery. the strange doorman, with scarcely a glance at [ strange growths and a stupid snail alice or the sprawling doctor, very deliberately picked up three or four of the pills, which had scattered in all directions, and began munching them with a sort of dreamy satisfaction. the doctor, who had risen to his feet, waited with great patience until the snail had entirely satisfied his appetite for the pills and then said very meekly: "you will pardon my knocking, i feel sure— you see, i have an appointment with the king; but really you needn't have hurried so, my man." the surprised alice wondered whether the doctor's suddenly acquired docility of manner was due to the great number of parr's patience pills he had eaten or to the rather threatening appearance of the snail's long horns. without giving any evidence that he had even heard the doc- tor's humble remarks, the snail laboriously took from the lining of his hat a small, fat, leather-covered book entitled, "door rules, vol. vii," and began thumbing over the pages. while he was doing this, alice noticed that on the wall near the door hung a placard which read, "court jesters wanted: apply between and , k. c." at the end of a full minute the snail cleared his throat and, with an air of solemn importance, read: "rule . no one is allowed to pass in unless he leaves his umbrella at the door." he then languidly motioned to the doctor to drop his umbrella and strange growths and a stupid snail enter, and drew back very deliberately to allow him to pass; but when alice started to follow, the snail, to her surprise, refused to let her pass. "orders is orders, miss," he said in a stupid voice, and then recited very slowly the rule he had just read. “but i haven't any umbrella,"exclaimed alice, much annoyed at all this delay. (“though as i don't know where i'm going,” she told herself, “i don't suppose there's really any great hurry about getting there!) “then you'll have to go back and get one, miss,” said the snail stubbornly, repeating for the third time, “no one is allowed to pass in unless he leaves his umbrella at the door.” “and even if she had one to leave,” he added reflectively, speaking aloud, but to himself, “it wouldn't be his umbrella, it would be her umbrella.” this, to the snail's way of thinking, seemed to settle the matter, for he turned without another word and started to close the door. he did this so slowly, however, that alice had time to reflect—"i can slip by him while his back is turned, and, being a snail, he'll never be able to catch me.” suiting the action to the thought, she dodged noiselessly past him and ran. * * ( ) king cole's court when the uproarious excitement was at its height, king cole, who had just had his crown knocked awry by a collision with the giantess pansy, suddenly held up his hand to command order and silence and, when he could get his breath, shouted, in a voice that might easily have been heard a mile away, “refreshments!” at this there was a loud outburst of cheering and hand-clapping and cries of “long live king cole!” in every key. after which most of the tennis players started immediately and noisily to suck the oranges with which they had been playing. king cole now turned and started to walk back to the throne, shouting over his shoulder as he went, “we declare the game a tie!” and adding in an aside to a large grey goose who was standing near him, “our games are always ties—everybody happy then, and no unpleasantness.” “i suppose,” thought alice, “now that the game is over the king will notice me, and perhaps i'll be put out.” it had suddenly occurred to her that she had not been invited to this tennis party, and furthermore that the snail doorman, despite his slowness, might be expected back almost any time now with a report of her breaking of the umbrella rule. she felt rather relieved, therefore, when king cole, catching sight of her standing near the throne, showed no surprise, but smiled beamingly upon her and beckoned for her to approach. "just what we needed, my dear, just what we needed!” he ex- claimed, joyfully rubbing his hands together; and taking the bowl and pipe which alice had almost forgotten she was holding-he settled himself upon the throne with a deep sigh of happiness; then, motioning alice to a place near him on the edge of the little circular dais upon which the throne stood, king cole cried jovially, “every- body be seated!” alice saw with surprise that the soldiers alone disregarded this royal command and remained standing stolidly in line as before, and she felt that here was a good opportunity to begin a conversa- ( ] $ king cole s court tion—a friendly chat with a king would be something she could boast about a little, afterward—so she asked in her very politest manner: "please, your majesty, why don't the soldiers sit down like the rest?" the king had broken off a long piece of the pipe stem and through this he was contentedly sucking up the contents of the bowl. &&&a&aai& wwwwwmm upon hearing alice's question, he removed the pipe stem from his lips to say with a chuckle, "oh, it's all right about them, my dear. you see, that's our standing army and naturally, a standing army can'tsit down." most of the guests must have been familiar with this little joke of king cole's, for many of them had started to laugh extrava- gantly as soon as alice asked her question. this seemed to encourage the king, who waited until the applause had ceased and then con- tinued complacently: "we suppose you've noticed, my dear, that our soldiers are all armed with bellows? (a rather clever idea of our own, that.) perhaps you can guess the reason, eh?" then, without waiting more than a second or two for an answer from poor alice—who was beginning to feel uncomfortably conspicuous and extremely stupid—the king said triumphantly: "it's so that without the expense of ammunition they can always return blow for blow." at this, the soldiers all suddenly raised their pairs of bellows and squeezed them in perfect unison, with a most surprising result! [ king cole's court admirer of mine-deaf he was—and never even-” here the queen took another prodigious bite of bread and honey, and though she kept right on talking, her mouth was so full that for a time one could only catch an almost unintelligible word now and then. alice soon gathered from gestures, however, that the queen had changed the subject, and was now expressing extravagant admiration for the ridiculous, ragged old quilt which alice still wore. “i really don't need the quilt any longer, now that it has grown so much warmer,” thought alice, “and besides, her majesty really does need a large napkin of some sort.” so she removed the gaudy covering, and was quite surprised to hear herself saying, “i beg of you to accept this trifling gift, for what your majesty admires is yours.” she vaguely remembered having read these words somewhere, but they seemed to fit the situation perfectly. the queen seemed quite overcome with astonished gratitude, for her jaws even stopped working and she stared at the quilt as though doubtful whether the offer of so rich a gift were meant seriously. then suddenly-regardless of the bread and honey, with which both her hands and her mouth were now full—she threw her short arms about alice and kissed her heartily on both cheeks! "that's a great honor for you, my dear child, a great honor!” chuckled the king; then with another of his elaborate winks, added: “i suppose you'll be very much stuck up for a while.” then finishing his refreshment with a loud smacking of lips and a tremendous sigh of satisfaction, the rotund monarch hurled the empty bowl over the hedge, and then placing his fore-fingers against his teeth he whistled ear-splittingly. (“just the way our baker's boy does it,” thought alice.) the king's whistle was apparently a signal, or immediately the cat-attendants appeared at the entrance to the court, dragging a small wheeled [ ] tit, ta bad cool jr “just then there was a sort of musical explosion” (page ) king cole court $ platform upon which stood a huge, gayly painted band-box at least six feet in diameter. the attendants stopped in front of the throne and the crowd of guests threw away their oranges and formed an ex- pectant semi-circular group behind the platform. "now," exclaim- ed the king, rubbing his hands in joyful anticipation, "we'll have some music." "his majesty dotes on good music," the queen remarked to alice, "though it usually puts him to sleep—that is, when the band plays loud enough, and this one always does—except—" "but where are the musicians?" alice interrupted, puzzled; "i'm sure i don't see any band." "why, the band's in the band-box, silly," chuckled king cole, who had overheard her query, "where a band should be. now, if you'll listen" just then there was a sort of "musical explosion," as alice expressed it afterward, and the cover of the band-box flew off and went skimming over the hedge. standing in the box, with only their heads and shoulders visible, were the famous "fiddlers three" and the piper and his son tom; and seated on the piper's shoulder was none other than alice's old friend, the candlestick-maker, with his drum. each one of these zealous musicians seemed to be trying desper- ately to drown out the other five, and the candlestick-maker, having the noisiest instrument, was almost succeeding in doing this. alice soon recognized the tune (though they were playing it at about twice its usual speed) as "over the hills and far away." in response to the enthusiastic applause of the audience, the band kept repeating this one air over and over in a very monotonous fashion, the only variation being that at each repetition they went a little faster. "i suppose," thought alice, "the reason is that it's the only tune the piper's son can play, and probably king cole doesn't mind anyhow as long as they make plenty of noise. why, he's [ ] * king cole s court nodding already," she added. "i'm sure i never saw so many sleepy heads as there are in this country." and sure enough, as the queen had predicted, the king, after a minute or two of the noisy "music" was sleeping quite peacefully. upon the crowd of guests, however, it had a very different effect, for they all began a very lively and curious kind of "square dance," the principal figure in which was like a combination of the games of ring-around-a-rosy and snap-the-whip. when the band, apparently exhausted by its efforts, finally stopped playing, the queen—who was always either eating or talking —hastily gulped down the last of the supply of bread and honey and turned to alice. "while the musicians are resting between selections," she said, pleasantly, "we usually play games; and as you, my dear (here she unexpectedly kissed the poor child again heartily), are the guest of honor today, we shall leave the choice of the first game to you; although," she rattled on,"i should strongly suggest 'stage coach.' that's a delightful game, my dear, and a great favorite of mine. such a lot of talking in it, too, you know." "if you'd just as soon," ventured alice, "i'd like to start—" she was about to say that she would like to start with a game of "blindman's buff." "just imagine what fun it would be played by this crowd," she had thought. the talkative queen, however, did not wait for the little girl to finish the sentence, but exclaimed enthusiastically: "you'd like to start right now, of course, my dear. well, so we can and so we shall." then, motioning the crowd to be seated on a number of little blue three-legged stools, which the attendants had just brought in and placed near the throne, she announced: "this young lady has especially requested that we now play 'stage coach,' which happens to be a game of which i, too, am particularly fond." as some of the younger readers of this tale may never have played the amusing old-fashioned game of "stage coach," let me explain it in a few words. h ] king cole s court before the game begins the "parts" are given out: that is, each player is given the name of one of the characters in a story of an adventurous stage coach trip. excepting the leader—the one who recites or reads the "story"—the players are all seated. whenever during the recitation of the adventures any one of the characters is mentioned, the player having that "part" rises from his seat, turns around twice and sits down again, the failure to do this calling for a forfeit. whenever the word "stage coach" is heard, all rise and change seats, the "leader" trying in the general scramble to obtain a seat for himself. if the leader succeeds in this, the player left standing must go on with the story. alice took a seat among the others on one of the little stools and the queen gave out the "parts," her haphazard distribution of these causing a great deal of merriment. to the gigantic pansy, for example, she gave the part of the "little dog" (a traditional "stage coach" character) and to jack spratt that of ponderous "captain swordfish;" while alice herself was old "aunty crusader," and many of the others had parts equally inap- propriate. when all were ready, the queen started to read very rapidly from a dog-cared little book which she had taken from a pocket in her skirt, and the game began. alice happened to be sitting between the tremen- dous pansy and the old man of bombay. this proved to be rather an un- fortunate thing for her, as the old man, growing very much excited as the game progressed, puffed harder king cole s court $ and harder on his pipe, filling the air with such a dense cloud of curling smoke that the little girl could only now and then catch a glimpse of the queen and the other players. the giantess occupied not only her own stool but about two thirds of alice's, most of the time, and this kept the child terribly worried; for in the course of the story the "little dog" was mentioned more often any of the other characters, and pansy was therefore continually having to get up, turn, and sit down again. "and it's almost certain that sooner or later she'll sit down right on top of poor little me," said alice to herself; "and if she ever does—" but just then the story reached the point where captain swordfish said, "where is the big cheese we brought along for our lunch?" "i'm afraid," answered the footman, "that the little dog has eaten it, sir!" the giantess, who was doubtless growing rather angry at having to get up so much oftener than the others, reseated herself this time with a petulant flounce and the little stool gave way beneath her weight! at the same instant, as if to make the occurrence more dramatic, the music began again with a long, rolling rub-a-dub-a-dub-dub from the drum, and the old man of bombay blew such a blinding cloud of smoke from his pipe that for a few moments alice could see nothing. * * * * [ chapter xiv the rehearsal of * the enchanted cheese" chapter xiv the rehearsal of “the enchanted cheese" the smoke had changed to a thick cloud of dust, and when this cleared away somewhat, alice saw that everything else had changed remarkably, too. she was now sitting in the midst of a curiously costumed, jostling crowd on top of a lumbering stage coach. though the people and animals in this party were the same ones she had just been with at king cole's court (except that pansy had disappeared), alice observed that their clothes had changed strangely, all having now a swollen, padded outlook which gave, even to the attenuated jack spratt, a ridiculously puffy appearance. the little girl herself felt as though her dress were stuffed out with pillows. from beneath her, inside the coach, alice could hear the band playing discordantly; fortunately the sound was somewhat muffled. “i suppose the windows are closed, and i'm very thankful for that,” she remarked to doctor foster, who was sitting next her. “and i'm also thankful that i'm not inside, even though it is so crowded up here." “it's these puffed up clothes everybody's wearing that makes it so crowded,” replied the doctor—(he was now about the shape of a balloon, himself.) “you see, my child, the reason for these full clothes is that this is to be a full dress rehearsal; but the stage really ought to be bigger. why, i once knew a man who got hemmed in by a crowd and he's had a stitch in his side ever since!” "oh, then this must be the rehearsal the candlestick-maker spoke of,” began alice, delighted at the prospect of “theatricals.” “and, come to think of it, the poet said something about,” here she was interrupted by the poet himself, who rose in his seat and began to shout: “friends, fellow citizens: silence, please! we're going to rehearse 'the enchanted cheese.'” (the poet was still dressed as a penguin, and his ridiculous bird cage “helmet" was set [ ] king cole's court platform upon which stood a huge, gayly painted band-box at least six feet in diameter. the attendants stopped in front of the throne and the crowd of guests threw away their oranges and formed an ex- pectant semi-circular group behind the platform. "now," exclaim- ed the king, rubbing his hands in joyful anticipation, "we'll have some music." "his majesty dotes on good music," the queen remarked to alice, "though it usually puts him to sleep—that is, when the band plays loud enough, and this one always does—except—" "but where are the musicians?" alice interrupted, puzzled; "i'm sure i don't see any band." "why, the band's in the band-box, silly," chuckled king cole, who had overheard her query, "where a band should be. now, if you'll listen" just then there was a sort of "musical explosion," as alice expressed it afterward, and the cover of the band-box flew off and went skimming over the hedge. standing in the box, with only their heads and shoulders visible, were the famous "fiddlers three" and the piper and his son tom; and seated on the piper's shoulder was none other than alice's old friend, the candlestick-maker, with his drum. each one of these zealous musicians seemed to be trying desper- ately to drown out the other five, and the candlestick-maker, having the noisiest instrument, was almost succeeding in doing this. alice soon recognized the tune (though they were playing it at about twice its usual speed) as "over the hills and far away." in response to the enthusiastic applause of the audience, the band kept repeating this one air over and over in a very monotonous fashion, the only variation being that at each repetition they went a little faster. "i suppose," thought alice, "the reason is that it's the only tune the piper's son can play, and probably king cole doesn't mind anyhow as long as they make plenty ofnoise. why, he's hit $ king cole s court nodding already," she added. "i'm sure i never saw so many sleepy heads as there are in this country." and sure enough, as the queen had predicted, the king, after a minute or two of the noisy "music" was sleeping quite peacefully. upon the crowd of guests, however, it had a very different effect, for they all began a very lively and curious kind of "square dance," the principal figure in which was like a combination of the games of ring-around-a-rosy and snap-the-whip. when the band, apparently exhausted by its efforts, finally stopped playing, the queen—who was always either eating or talking —hastily gulped down the last of the supply of bread and honey and turned to alice. "while the musicians are resting between selections," she said, pleasantly, "we usually play games; and as you, my dear (here she unexpectedly kissed the poor child again heartily), are the guest of honor today, we shall leave the choice of the first game to you; although," she rattled on,"/ should strongly suggest 'stage coach.' that's a delightful game, my dear, and a great favorite of mine. such a lot of talking in it, too, you know." "if you'd just as soon," ventured alice, "i'd like to start—" she was about to say that she would like to start with a game of "blindman's buff." "just imagine what fun it would be played by this crowd," she had thought. the talkative queen, however, did not wait for the little girl to finish the sentence, but exclaimed enthusiastically: "you'd like to start right now, of course, my dear. well, so we can and so we shall." then, motioning the crowd to be seated on a number of little blue three-legged stools, which the attendants had just brought in and placed near the throne, she announced: "this young lady has especially requested that we now play 'stage coach,' which happens to be a game of which i, too, am particularly fond." as some of the younger readers of this tale may never have played the amusing old-fashioned game of "stage coach," let me explain it in a few words. [ king cole s court before the game begins the "parts" are given out: that is, each player is given the name of one of the characters in a story of an adventurous stage coach trip. excepting the leader—the one who recites or reads the "story"—the players are all seated. whenever during the recitation of the adventures any one of the characters is mentioned, the player having that "part" rises from his seat, turns around twice and sits down again, the failure to do this calling for a forfeit. whenever the word "stage coach" is heard, all rise and change seats, the "leader" trying in the general scramble to obtain a seat for himself. if the leader succeeds in this, the player left standing must go on with the story. alice took a seat among the others on one of the little stools and the queen gave out the "parts," her haphazard distribution of these causing a great deal of merriment. to the gigantic pansy, for example, she gave the part of the "little dog" (a traditional "stage coach" character) and to jack spratt that of ponderous "captain sword fish;" while alice herself was old "aunty crusader," and many of the others had parts equally inap- propriate. when all were ready, the queen started to read very rapidly from a dog-carcd little book which she had taken from a pocket in her skirt, and the game began. alice happened to be sitting between the tremen- dous pansy and the old man of bombay. this proved to be rather an un- fortunate thing for her, as the old man, growing very much excited as the game progressed, puffed harder [ chapter xiv the rehearsal of the enchanted cheese" chapter xiv the rehearsal of "the enchanted cheese" the smoke had changed to a thick cloud of dust, and when this cleared away somewhat, alice saw that everything else had changed remarkably, too. she was now sitting in the midst of a curiously costumed, jostling crowd on top of a lumbering stage coach. though the people and animals in this party were the same ones she had just been with at king cole's court (except that pansy had disappeared), alice observed that their clothes had changed strangely, all having now a swollen, padded outlook which gave, even to the attenuated jack spratt, a ridiculously puffy appearance. the little girl herself felt as though her dress were stuffed out with pillows. from beneath her, inside the coach, alice could hear the band playing discordantly; fortunately the sound was somewhat muffled. "i suppose the windows are closed, and i'm very thankful for that," she remarked to doctor foster, who was sitting next her. "and i'm also thankful that i'm not inside, even though it is so crowded up here." "it's these puffed up clothes everybody's wearing that makes it so crowded," replied the doctor—(he was now about the shape of a balloon, himself.) "you see, my child, the reason for these full clothes is that this is to be a full dress rehearsal; but the stage really ought to be bigger. why, i once knew a man who got hemmed in by a crowd and he's had a stitch in his side ever since!" "oh, then this must be the rehearsal the candlestick-maker spoke of," began alice, delighted at the prospect of "theatricals." "and, come to think of it, the poet said something about—" here she was interrupted by the poet himself, who rose in his seat and began to shout: "friends, fellow citizens: silence, please! we're going to rehearse the enchanted cheese.'" (the poet was still dressed as a penguin, and his ridiculous bird cage "helmet" was set im the rehearsal of the enchanted cheese at a rakish angle on his head.) "curtain goes up on the opening scene," he went on, "showing a grocery. enter queen." at this juncture the stage coach, which had evidently just then struck a very rough piece of road, began to bounce and bang along so noisily that alice, who was sitting on the back seat, could catch only a few words now and then of what the poet was saying. then, too, the dust became so thick that at times she could scarcely see anything at all, so that afterwards the memory of the "rehearsal" was always confused and unsatisfactory. she gathered, however, from the parts of the first act that she did hear and see, that the plot of the pantomime had to do principally with the chase of an enchanted stilton cheese, which had escaped from the queen's buttery. and this seemed to necessitate, on the part of the actors, a great deal of tripping over each other's feet and falling down and throwing things about. "in the first place," said alice, in telling her sister about it all afterward, "there was a good deal of quarreling about who should have the parts with the most eating in them, and when the "rehears- [ ] # the rehearsal of "the enchanted cheese" i ing" finally started it was very much like the game of "stage coach" we had just been playing at king cole's court, for as each different character in the pantomime was mentioned by the poet, the one taking that part would jump up and go through all sorts of strange antics; and the top of the stage was so crowded and we were rocking so from side to side, that quite often some one would be pushed off! though i don't suppose the fall could have hurt any of them much, as their clothes were all padded out so." after this sort of thing had been going on for about ten minutes the coach began to slow down, the noise of the band inside diminishing at the same time. soon both the stage coach and the music stopped. when the dust had settled, alice, looking forward, was astonished to see that there were no horses hitched to their strange conveyance. "it almost seems as though it must have been the music that kept us going," said alice aloud to herself, "for when the band stopped the stage stopped." the doctor, who was now rummaging about in his little medicine satchel, overheard this remark and said without looking up: "of course, a stage coach can't go without noise, silly. but this'li soon revive that band, i daresay," he added, "and then we can go on again." as he said this, he pulled out of his satchel a small bottle labeled, "excelo's elixer for exhausted musicians." he then climbed down the little steps on the side of the coach, opened the door and stepped in. most of the actors had. by this time jumped down to the ground and were peering anxiously in at the windows in a helpless sort of way. "if that medicine works as quickly as the stuff he gave me for wet feet, we ought to be going again very shortly," said alice to [ ] chapter xv in the studio and — chapter xv in the studio and — * * and found herself floating through the air like a soap- bubble. she struck lightly on the top of the tall hedge bordering the road, bounced once or twice in a really delightful manner, then drifted along and was finally carried by a gentle breeze, in through the open window of a dear little thatched house that stood just beyond the hedge. alice landed with scarcely a jolt, on a small table in the middle of a room, which was very evidently an artist's studio; for stacked against the walls were canvases of all sizes, and there were two or three easels standing about. she was just going to jump down to the floor and begin a tour of inspection, when from behind the largest easel stepped a thin, pleasant-faced little gentleman in baggy, paint-daubed corduroy clothes and an extremely long-ended necktie. it was the artist whom the snipe had pointed out to her, at the very start of all these adventures, as the maker of the wonderful pictures in mother goose. ("how long ago that does seem, too," thought alice, rather wistfully.) the artist carried a palette and a curious assortment of brushes: there was a hair brush, a toothbrush and a clothes brush, besides two or three of the sort that house painters generally use. in thinking about this afterward, alice decided that it was really a very good idea on the part of the artist. for why not use a clothes brush for painting clothes, a hair brush for hair, and so on? "if it's a portrait you're after," said the artist politely, "i'm afraid you'll have to wait till next week; for as soon as i finish some pictures i'm working on now for the poet's new book of verses, i've got to start right in on the scenery for that plaguey pantomime. and the worst of that is, that the queen has insisted that, in the grocery scene, all the vegetables must be painted so well that they'll be really eatable; and that's going to take a lot of time. but, by [ in the studio and the way, my child," he added, lowering his voice, "when you came in did you happen to see anything of an old wolf hanging around outside the door?" "well, sir," answered alice a little timidly, "i didn't come in through the door, but through the window. you see, i fell off the stage coach and—" "i understand," interrupted the artist, genially; "you just dropped in, as one might say. and i see you came down plump, too," he added with a smiling glance at the child's strangely balloon-like clothes. "you're a bit puffed up still, i daresay, about having been on the stage. though you needn't worry about that," he added consolingly, "you'll soon be quite your normal size again, i'm sure." this seemed indeed to be so, for already her dress had shrunk perceptibly, and alice was begin- ning to look more as usual. it still, however, gave her rather a ridiculously blowsy appearance and made her feel uncomfortably self-conscious, especially in the presence of an artist, so she hastened to change the subject by asking, "won't you please tell me more about that wolf you're expecting. is he a friend of yours?" "i should say he isn't a friend of mine, child," whispered the artist, glancing apprehensively toward the door. "in fact, he's my worst enemy. he's a bill collector, you see, and a most frightful nuisance he is, too, always knocking at the door just when i'm especially anxious not to be disturbed. but speaking of nuisances— here he chuckled; evidently reminded of something which gave him great satisfaction—i must tell you about the crows. they used to be a worse nuisance to my neighbor, the farmer, than that old wolf is to me; but i've fixed them! yesterday i painted a full length portrait of john o'gudgeon, the wildman, and set it up out [ ] in the studio and **±i w"s/jtftv>:wr those thieving birds there in the farmer's field, as a scarecrow, won't bother him again." "but i saw some crows flying right by this window just a few seconds ago," put in alice. "i noticed them particularly, for each one carried a little sack." "that's just what i was coming to, my child," exclaimed the artist delightedly. "you see they were so fearfully frightened by that scarecrow of mine that they're even bringing back the grain they stole last summer." "it must have been a wonderful scarecrow," said alice, laughing. this complimentary remark evidently pleased the artist tremen- dously, for he smiled beamingly and led alice to the large easel— the one he had been working at before the interruption of her arrival. upon the easel was a drawing of a rather timorous young girl dressed in quaint, old fashioned cos- tume and carrying a bucket in her hand. in the background were three or four dogwood trees. "as i told you before," the artist remarked affably, "i'm doing the pic- tures that are to go with the rhymes in the poet's new book —'more mother goose rhymes,' i think he's going to call it. and this one that i've just finished goes with a verse that starts— j n .itt. r»nr .m: m .zt "•m "— -»,'•• "ir __-*r' ? ^ >. *• "»- - v ^ 'ii t km a c-nlri-jm. f , ,r rrjfnc nnt uf i\ 'rll.nt i tv' , f .'. ft a''t" 'sa(r i >.*' in the studio and a guaranteed, smokeless clay pipe, but better than that,—a fine, self-raising hat, and a pattern for cutting up tripe! don't fail, please, to notice upon the third shelf, right next to the yarn-spinning top, a wonderful thing i invented myself, a new silent soup spoon! so stop, step in for a minute or two and look 'round, our wares we feel sure will surprise, for we've everything here that is usefully queer. but you've heard of that "word to the wise"— as alice finished reading, a feeling of homesickness came over her, for she was reminded of the many times she had read mother goose verses to her pets in the garden at home. "if only i had my dear, dear pussikins and patsy here right now," she sighed piteously. curiously enough, just as she said this, a sudden breeze from the open window disturbed a pile of papers lying on a small stand near which alice was sitting, and there drifted down to the floor, directly in front of her, a very pretty sketch of two sleeping kittens. .juati immmk. i ' i chapter xv in the studio and — * * and found herself floating through the air like a soap- bubble. she struck lightly on the top of the tall hedge bordering the road, bounced once or twice in a really delightful manner, then drifted along and was finally carried by a gentle breeze, in through the open window of a dear little thatched house that stood just beyond the hedge. alice landed with scarcely a jolt, on a small table in the middle of a room, which was very evidently an artist's studio; for stacked against the walls were canvases of all sizes, and there were two or three easels standing about. she was just going to jump down to the floor and begin a tour of inspection, when from behind the largest easel stepped a thin, pleasant-faced little gentleman in baggy, paint-daubed corduroy clothes and an extremely long-ended necktie. it was the artist whom the snipe had pointed out to her, at the very start of all these adventures, as the maker of the wonderful pictures in mother goose. ("how long ago that does seem, too," thought alice, rather wistfully.) the artist carried a palette and a curious assortment of brushes: there was a hair brush, a toothbrush and a clothes brush, besides two or three of the sort that house painters generally use. in thinking about this afterward, alice decided that it was really a very good idea on the part of the artist. for why not use a clothes brush for painting clothes, a hair brush for hair, and so on? "if it's a portrait you're after," said the artist politely, "i'm afraid you'll have to wait till next week; for as soon as i finish some pictures i'm working on now for the poet's new book of verses, i've got to start right in on the scenery for that plaguey pantomime. and the worst of that is, that the queen has insisted that, in the grocery scene, all the vegetables must be painted so well that they'll be really eatable; and that's going to take a lot of time. but, by [ in the studio and the way, my child," he added, lowering his voice, "when you came in did you happen to see anything of an old wolf hanging around outside the door?" "well, sir," answered alice a little timidly, "i didn't come in through the doory but through the window. you see, i fell off the stage coach and—" "i understand," interrupted the artist, genially; "you just dropped in, as one might say. and i see you came down plump, too," he added with a smiling glance at the child's strangely balloon-like clothes. "you're a bit puffed up still, i daresay, about having been on the stage. though you needn't worry about that," he added consolingly, "you'll soon be quite your normal size again, i'm sure." this seemed indeed to be so, for already her dress had shrunk perceptibly, and alice was begin- ning to look more as usual. it still, however, gave her rather a ridiculously blowsy appearance and made her feel uncomfortably self-conscious, especially in the presence of an artist, so she hastened to change the subject by asking, "won't you please tell me more about that wolf you're expecting. is he a friend of yours?" "i should say he isn't a friend of mine, child," whispered the artist, glancing apprehensively toward the door. "in fact, he's my worstenemy. he's a bill collector, you see, and a most frightful nuisance he is, too, always knocking at the door just when i'm especially anxious not to be disturbed. but speaking of nuisances— here he chuckled; evidently reminded of something which gave him great satisfaction—i must tell you about the crows. they used to be a worse nuisance to my neighbor, the farmer, than that old wolf is to me; but i've fixed them! yesterday i painted a full length portrait of john o'gudgeon, the wildman, and set it up out [ in the studio and — vo in there in the farmer's field, as a scarecrow. those thieving birds won't bother him again.” “but i saw some crows flying right by this window just a few seconds ago,” put in alice. “i noticed them particularly, for each one carried a little sack.” “that's just what i was coming to, my child,” exclaimed the artist delightedly. “you see they were so fearfully frightened by that scarecrow of mine that they're even bringing back the grain they stole last summer.” "it must have been a wonderful scarecrow,” said alice, laughing. this complimentary remark evidently pleased the artist tremen- dously, for he smiled beamingly and led alice to the large easel- the one he had been working at before the interruption of her arrival. upon the easel was a drawing of a rather timorous young girl dressed in quaint, old fashioned cos- tume and carrying a bucket in her hand. in the background were three or four dogwood trees. “as i told you before,” the artist remarked affably, “i'm doing the pic- tures that are to go with the rhymes in the poet's new book — more mother goose rhymes,' i think he's going to call it. and this one that i've just finished goes with a verse john o'gudgeon that starts- na ( ) in the studio and 'the murmuring brook to betsy said, "why have you turned so pale?" "i thought i heard the dogwood bark," quoth she, "down in the vale."'" "but you haven't drawn any brook in the picture," ventured alice, rather timidly. "why," exclaimed the artist, "so i haven't, to be sure; but come to think, it really isn't necessary, for the girl has a pail, you see, so she can draw the water herself." "perhaps," he added, "you'd like to read some of the new rhymes while i'm making the next picture." as he said this, the artist took from the side pockets of his baggy brown coat several rolled up sheets of the kind of paper alice remembered writing on with the self-steering pen. she settled herself comfortably on a soft green rug, smoothed out the sheets and began to read. the following verse is the one that happened to come first:— novelties. pray visit our shop on the side of the hill, at the sign of the galloping door: come in and examine and buy if you will these novelties', ne'er shown before! we've muzzles for dogfish and splitters for hairs, and switches for "beating the dutch." we've pills that prevent one from falling downstairs, and even a clog-dancing crutch we keep a contrivance for waking one up by setting one's pillow afire; a book of instructions for training a pup to climb to the top of a spire: a safety device for exploding ideas, [ ] ko outdogovinur early to bed and early sports to rise when makes a mon healthy, wealthy, and wise. ch m wita multumit limaria letecte lietott wittelu www teatre ti “we keep a contrivance for waking one up by setting one's pillow afire” (page ) in the studio and "i can pretend theseare pussikins and patsy," said alice, trying hard to be cheerful, "and it will be really quite easy, too, for i never saw such a life-like picture." the artist, who was tacking a fresh sheet of paper to the drawing board on his easel, overheard this and said, complacently: "it is life-like, if i do say so. why, would you believe it, since i drew that picture there hasn't been a mouse in the place, and they used to take my bread and cheese off the shelf, right from under my very nose." "perhaps," suggested alice, smiling at her own idea, "if you'd paint a picture of a large, full grown cat, a real mouser like our thomas, the mice would bring back the bread and cheese just as the crows brought back the corn." "that's a really fine idea, my child," said the artist, thoughtfully, "and i'll try it just as soon as i get these drawings done." alice now set the sketch of the sleeping kittens up against the leg of a nearby stool, and picking up another of the long sheets, she assumed a serious air and said: "now, children, i want you to be very attentive. the title of this is, 'an explanation.'" she then very gravely read the following: the early bird, at two a. m., once met the rolling stone: (i don't exactly envy them their working hours, i own.) [ ] in the studio and — of course they “passed the time o’day”—or rather, time o'night; said stone, “looks quite like rain, i'd say,” and bird replied, “it might.” they talked of this for quite a while, till confidential grown, the bird remarked, “look here—don't smile—i'm envious, friend stone. folks don't expect a thing of you—not even any moss, while, i 'the worm,' howe'er he squirm, must get. it makes me cross. my reputation is at stake. responsibility i always seem to have to take- it's slowly killing me.” "i'll gladly occupations change,” kind-hearted stone replied; "to hunt for worms i will arrange.” “and i'll just roll,” bird cried. * * * * * * * if you should meet a rolling bird, or early stone, no doubt 'twould seem absurd, had you not heard just how it came about. when she had finished reading these verses, alice looked up to see how the artist's work was progressing, and was astonished to find that he was putting the very last touches on a most spirited illustration. the picture showed a crowd of mother goose characters all dancing gaily about in a large circle. “there's the captain,” cried alice, delightedly,"and the milkman and the cow and doctor foster,—and do look at king cole and the fiddlers—why, even the snail's dancing—” here she stopped short in amazement, for the familiar figures in the drawing had begun to really move, slowly at first, but soon faster and faster-and growing larger, too, all the while, as they danced—and finally, led by king ( ] in the studio and — cole and the fiddlers, the merry, boisterous party leaped, one after another, from the paper on the drawing board down to the floor of the studio, where they formed a ring about alice and the artist and continued their capering. the room now began to expand—the ceiling melted away and changed to blue sky, in which little pink clouds were floating and the walls became more and more like a hedge; even the soft green rug that alice was sitting on seemed to be turning into a thick-turfed lawn, and the easels into hawthorne trees. as the dancers circled 'round and 'round, the ungainly antics of some of them threw alice into spasms of uncontrollable laughter. the milkman's cow, moolygeezer, was the most irresistibly comic of them all. she was still wearing her skates, and though lurching and tripping ridiculously at almost every step, seemed still to be trying desperately to preserve her haughty, contemptuous manner. doctor foster's medicine case had come open and was scattering pills, powders and bottles in every direction. the old-man-all-dressed-in-leather was dancing on his back (very much as he had skated). the only one that alice did not remember having seen before at some stage of her adventures, was a gaunt, hungry-looking wolf, evidently the dreaded bill collector who had slipped into the studio under cover of the general tumult. the dancers were soon moving so fast that is was impossible to dis- tinguish any individual figures. “do look at them go! you're missing such a sight, my dears," said alice, turning to the “pretend” kittens. they, too, had come to life, but were still sleeping quietly. (the paper upon which they had been drawn was nowhere to be seen.) “wake up, my dears!” cried alice; and as she said this, she noticed that the sheets of paper in her hand had changed to a book -her own mother goose! * * * * "wake up, my dears, wake up!" continued a voice like an echo of her own. she looked up. ( ) ago to the readers of this book children, i've told this tale to you. won't you now. tell to me dreams you have had? i'd be s so glad to hear them. certainly tis only fair to do your share. therefor sit down and write: send me, don't fail, by early . mail your "pleasant dreams". ral edwell. nog jr indiuini in the studio and — cole and the fiddlers, the merry, boisterous party leaped, one after another, from the paper on the drawing board down to the floor of the studio, where they formed a ring about alice and the artist and continued their capering. the room now began to expand—the ceiling melted away and changed to blue sky, in which little pink clouds were floating and the walls became more and more like a hedge; even the soft green rug that alice was sitting on seemed to be turning into a thick-turfed lawn, and the easels into hawthorne trees. as the dancers circled 'round and 'round, the ungainly antics of some of them threw alice into spasms of uncontrollable laughter. the milkman's cow, moolygeezer, was the most irresistibly comic of them all. she was still wearing her skates, and though lurching and tripping ridiculously at almost every step, seemed still to be trying desperately to preserve her haughty, contemptuous manner. doctor foster's medicine case had come open and was scattering pills, powders and bottles in every direction. the old-man-all-dressed-in-leather was dancing on his back (very much as he had skated). the only one that alice did not remember having seen before at some stage of her adventures, was a gaunt, hungry-looking wolf, evidently the dreaded bill collector who had slipped into the studio under cover of the general tumult. the dancers were soon moving so fast that is was impossible to dis- tinguish any individual figures. "do look at them go! you're missing such a sight, my dears," said alice, turning to the "pretend" kittens. they, too, had come to life, but were still sleeping quietly. (the paper upon which they had been drawn was nowhere to be seen.) "wake up, my dears!" cried alice; and as she said this, she noticed that the sheets of paper in her hand had changed to a book —her own mother goose! * * * * "wake up, my dears, wake up!" continued a voice like an echo of her own. she looked up. [ in the studio and — the dancers had disappeared; the artist was putting away his brushes and—but, no—it was not the artist, it was her own sister, who was saying as she folded up her paintbox, "wake up, dear. why, you've been asleep for almost a whole hour." . -w \ - "who'd ever even fancy that so many unusual things could happen in less than an hour?" said alice slowly, sitting up and rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. and that was the end of the story in the book that betsy found in the attic. jr- i ^ x hid hw h fair bok william andrews ke ruego shelf... accessions... the boston-library society. || organized . incorporated . bqxlston. place. , newbury street, cancelled added feb , .. to be returned in five weeks. a fine of one cent will be incurred for each day this volume is detained beyond that time. sa - 作 ​, 。 格 ​ the new fairy book. cccc my interview with the king. (gerald, skö gentle giant.) i cutive willia: . let's : -výstr. hull: -, 'e'vs & co., the hull press. wi: lon warshall, hamilton, kert, and co., ltd. "?????*^, ???? y the hiw him! a the new fairy book. edited by william andrews, f.r.h.s., author of “ bygone england,” etc. hull: william andrews & co., the hull press. london : simpkin, marshall, hamilton, kent, and co., ltd. . ke osi marvard college eet, , , library hull: printed by william andrews and co., the hull press. introduction. m in the following pages it has been my desire to furnish a fresh collection of fairy stories, written by authors who love children, and know the kind of tales that give them pleasure. something more than providing enjoyment is attempted. it is hoped that some useful life lessons may be learnt from this book. it may not be out of place to here state that the tales, before printing, have been read to some of my young friends, and have been much appreciated, and now they are brought together in book-form introduction. and submitted to a larger audience, i hope they will not fail to win a hearty welcome. in conclusion, i beg to thank my contributors for their kind assistance with pen and pencil. the happy relationship i have had with them will always remain a pleasant memory, and i am hopeful their efforts will not fail to interest my readers, and merit the approbation of the critical press. william andrews. the hull press, october th, . contents. princess beauty - - - - - - - lovelocks and the prince - cinderina and the elves prince florimel and the serpent-woman . the two palaces - - - - - . the poem of life the search for the fairy queen the poem of life . . . the court of queen mab - - the princess pulcherissima - - lord harry's ghost . - . .. what the ice-king saw and did . the castle of desirouselle - the girl, the fairy, and the toad gerald, the gentle giant . - brother benedict's buns . - . - - - princess beauty. ance upon a time, in the days which we all love to read and hear about, when mighty kings and beautiful queens reigned over vast and powerful kingdoms, and wore golden crowns studded with brilliant gems upon their aowing locks, whilst their magnificent robes of velvet and ermine swept the marble floors of their stately palaces ; in those days when beautiful young princesses, with hair of dazzling gold reaching to their knees, won the love of gallant princes who would dare the vengeance of wicked giants, and the fury of fiery dragons, for the sake of their lady loves; when fairy godmothers never wearied in their task of surrounding their loved ones with every happiness and blessing which they could think of, and thought no present too rich princess beauty. as or splendid to bestow on those whom they took under their special care; in those days when people prospered, and content reigned throughout the land ; in those glorious day of old, there lived a noble young princess called beauty. she was not christened by this name, but it was the pet name the loving subjects of her father, king light-heart, bestowed upon her. you see, it was thought necessary to put the baby princess under the protection of some kind and gentle lady, who would always guard her godchild's happiness, and so king light-heart chose as his daughter's godmother, the lady ermentrude wilhelmina, and, in order to please the old lady more, called the princess after her. but, however grand and powerful a princess may afterwards be, she cannot help being a baby to commence with, and i am sure ermentrude wilhelmina is much too grand and long a name for a sweet, tiny baby princess. and this is just what the people of the land thought. the princess's christening was a grand and solemn affair. all the nobility of the land was there. his grace the grand duke brought her grace the grand duchess, my lord the earl brought my lady the countess, and the knights princess beauty. and squires all brought their dames. the most magnificent person present, however, was the godmother, the lady ermentrude wilhelmina. she wore a long robe of purple velvet, and leaned on a high gold stick. behind her walked a handsome page-boy, who carried the christening present, an enormous branch of pink coral; from the end of each little point there hung a tiny silver bell ; i should think there were quite a hundred of these bells, and they jingled so sweetly that the princess crowed with delight, and showed her first little pearly tooth in such a winning, pretty way that even the gruff and high and mighty grand duke talked baby-talk to her. the page-boy was so overcome when his grace said “did ums, was ums!” and shook so in his efforts not to burst out laughing, that the bells jingled all the more merrily, and baby's excitement rose to such a high pitch that the clergyman was obliged to sternly ask for silence, and glared at the grand duke as though he were a naughty school-boy. a petition had been sent to the king and queen, that after the grand christening the commoner people of the land should be allowed to see the princess, and judge for themselves whether they princess beauty. thought the name suitable. besides, they had heard so much about her prettiness that they were eager to see her, for in that country none but beautiful, sweet, and loveable princesses were allowed to reign. the king and queen gave their gracious permission to the request of their faithful subjects, and so, after the christening, princess ermentrude wilhelmina, arrayed in her long flowing robes of purest white, and sitting in her nurse's lap, held her first grand reception. queens and princesses hold receptions now-a-days, but only the grandest in the land may kiss the royal hand. however, in those days no subject was too poor or too humble to pay their respects to their sovereign. you can tell, therefore, what crowds flocked into the city to see their princess. everybody made holiday. swings and aunt sallies were put up, whilst the sweet stalls drove a roaring trade, and there was not a boy in all that city who did not manage to hit a cocoanut with one of the wooden balls that day. the soldiers had their work set, i can tell you, to keep order amongst the light-hearted people. that was only outside the palace gates, however, for it was wonderful to see how gentle and respectful the tas princess beauty. lo ) amuse people were when once in the presence of the baby princess. all the preparations in her honour, and all the kind faces around her, so amused the princess, that she crowed right graciously, and smiled with such royal grace, that everyone was enchanted, and swore she was a true princess, and worthy to succeed the king and queen, her royal father and mother. to show the exceeding love they bore her, they declared that she should be called princess beauty, and should only be known on very state occasions by the stiff and dignified name of princess ermentrude wilhelmina. the affection and adoration which the people showed princess beauty that day, lasted throughout her life. “but why do we love her so much ?” they would say. “it is not only because she is so fair to look upon. queen proudface was beautiful as a goddess and graceful as a fairy, yet we sent her away because she was cold and haughty. no, it is not her beautiful face, but her sweet and winning ways that bind us so closely to her.” princess beauty never seemed at any time to be angry or sulky. when quite a little child, she never thought of herself first, but always of those princess beauty. she loved, and she loved everybody. when the queen would send up to the nursery to say visitors had come, and would nurse bring down princess beauty, she would leave her dolls or her fairy tale, and would let nurse put on a clean pinafore and sash, and brush her golden hair, without showing any temper. then when she entered the drawing-room, the visitors would all exclaim, “what a sweet, sunny child !” and when beauty saw her mother's proud face, she would feel amply rewarded for leaving her toys. the land over which king light-heart ruled was a very fair realm, and the capital, that is the chief town in his kingdom, was still more beautiful. stately palaces of pure white marble glistened in the sun like rarest jewels ; soft, velvety parks, where the deer loved to browse, stretched far and wide ; old leafy trees formed a welcome shelter from the fierce rays of the mid-day sun; the broad streets were always busy and gay; the shops and bazaars were full of all the most beautiful things imaginable, rich silks and velvets of every hue and description, costly jewels, curious ivory boxes, fans and cases, in fact everything that most delights the eye was to be bought. dotted here and there through the city were fountains, which princess beauty. threw up jets of water like diamond sprays flashing in the sun ; beautiful statues gleamed through the trees. at night, myriads of fairy lights hung in the trees, and, as they were of every colour, orange, red, blue, green, yellow, purple, etc., one could almost imagine one lived in fairyland. in fact, so happy and content were the people, that i am almost tempted to believe it was fairyland after all. whether it was or not i can't say, but i know that nowhere else did the sun shine so brightly, the birds sing so merrily, the fruit seem so abundant and delicious, the people so rich and prosperous, the king and queen so good and thoughtful and anxious for the well-being of their subjects, as in that fair land. princess beauty was one day out walking in the park. the nurse had met a friend, and the two were busily talking, either about the queen and the duchess, their respective mistresses, or about their charges, or arranging an appointment for their next evening out, or exchanging their opinions on the splendid uniform and military bearing of the soldiers who were drilling on the grass. whatever they were saying, however, it did not interest princess beauty, who began looking about her, first at the carriages and princess beauty. horses, then at the trees, swaying in the breeze, then she followed the course of a beautiful butterfly, as it chased a fluttering leaf. tired of this, she gazed at the people passing. · her attention was at length caught by a little boy, standing on the kerbstone, offering matches to the passers-by. she noticed that as each fashionably dressed person refused to buy, and would perhaps push the boy aside, a sad, wistful look crept into the boy's eyes, but would speedily give place to an eager, hopeful expression as another person approached. ten times, whilst she looked, was he disappointed, till at length little beauty's heart was ready to break with disappointment too. she stole up to the boy, and putting her tiny hand sympathetically into his, she said softly : “ i'm so sorry!" the boy turned his dark eyes on the little face upturned to his. his lip trembled, so touched was he by her kind tone. “nobody speaks like that to me now, but once i never heard any but soft, gentle voices.” here the poor little fellow could get no further, and he burst into tears. “ tell me all about it,” whispered beauty. “i live with an old woman called dame princess beauty. tantrum ; i don't know who she is, or how i came to live with her, i only know she hates me, and can never make me miserable enough. she never gives me plenty to eat, and what i do have is seldom anything but dry bread. i sleep on straw in a corner of the room at night, and all day dame tantrum sends me out to sell matches, and if i do not bring home plenty of pennies, she beats me, and sends me to bed without any supper. what makes it all the harder is that she does not need my pennies, for she always has dainty things to eat, and sleeps on a beautiful soft bed.” “ your royal highness must not speak to dirty little street boys,” here put in nurse, who had now finished her conversation with the duchess's nurse, and had time to notice what her usually good and quiet little charge was doing. "i wonder what her majesty, your mamma, would say. come, come along.” princess beauty stopped to shake hands with the match-boy. “i will come and see you again soon,” she said, with the winning, sunny smile that made all the people love her so. beauty walked along quietly by her nurse's side. at any other time she would have stopped io princess beauty. to pick an unusually bright flower, or have chased a darting butterfly, and all the time would have kept up a constant stream of prattle ; asking such unheard-of questions, that nurse would be puzzled to answer, and so with a very wise shake of the head, advise the little princess to wait till she grew up, which is never a very satisfactory way of answering questions. to-day, however, nurse was delighted with beauty's silence, and, as they approached the gates of the palace, told her that she had behaved like a princess should. but beauty was not thinking of behaving as a princess ought. no, her brain was far too busy trying to think how best she could help the poor little match-boy. now, to whom do children go when they want advice in their troubles? i think we all know that. they do not go to nurse, for however kind she is, she does not quite understand. they do not go to father, for he is generally too busy. it is to mother they all go. to mother when they cut their fingers, or bruise their knees, or have done something naughty, or are puzzled by something which they want to do, but do not quite know how to set about it. so as soon as beauty entered the palace she princess beauty. ii slipped quietly away from nurse, and ran to queen loveall, as she sat in the drawing-room with some fancy work in her hand. “mother, dear, let's be cosy,” said beauty, nestling in her mother's arms. “when my little girl comes for a cosy talk, i know there is something serious to be told, so tell me all about it, dear, and we will see what can be done.” then princess beauty told queen loveall the whole story of the match-boy. “and that is why you look so sad," said the queen, kissing her daughter tenderly. “ yes, i am so sad because i am happy while other people have no kind father and mother, no beautiful home, no nice clothes to wear, no good food to eat. fancy being always, always hungry! i don't think i have ever been really hungry. then everybody is so good and kind to me, while that little boy is hated by the old woman, who ill-treats him so.” “beauty must not be unhappy because others are miserable,” said the queen. “you must think how best to help them.” “yes,” answered beauty, “ i've been thinking about that, and i want to give that little boy princess beauty. my dinner to-day, so that he may not be so hungry." “but then,” said the queen, “you would be hungry, and i could not allow that.” beauty's face fell, and the tears stood in her eyes. the queen, seeing her distress, kissed the anxious little face, and then said, whilst gently stroking the princess's long golden hair : “i have thought of a good plan, dear. it means a little self-denial, so if you think it too hard, you must say so. i only want to know how far my little girl wants to do good. now this is what i propose. you have bread and milk for breakfast, don't you?” “yes.” “and nurse sprinkles sugar on it, doesn't she ?” “ yes.” “and you have sugar with your pudding at dinner?” “ yes,” again answered beauty. “is the sugar necessary ?" said the queen. “no, it makes the bread and milk and pudding nicer though,” said beauty thoughtfully. “if you did not eat this sugar, which is not quite necessary, you might save a penny a day, i should think." princess beauty. then the queen paused and looked at her little daughter. “do all children have sugar with their bread and milk?" at last asked beauty slowly. "oh no! you have sugar because you are a princess.” beauty's face broke into a sunny smile. “then it is a lovely idea, mother, for i want to give him something of my own, and what i earn will be, won't it? papa would give me pennies whenever i asked, but then that would be his present, not mine, and i want to give poor matchie something of my own.” if beauty had been a bright, sweet, jolly little princess before, i really don't know how to describe her now. the feeling that she had it in her power to make some one happier, made her happier too, and she was like a frolicsome sunbeam in the palace. her merry laugh was a much pleasanter sound than the silver bells of her godmother's fine present; everyone who heard it laughed too, and the stiff and grand grand duke would steal from the council chamber where state matters of great importance were being discussed, and, creeping up to the nursery, would go on his hands and feet and growl like a surly old bear, princess beauty. whom indeed on all other occasions he greatly resembled without being obliged to go on his hands and feet, and chase beauty round the nursery, much to her delight. the duke's growls and the princess's shrieks of laughter would bring the king and all the courtiers from the council chamber, and then the nursery was turned into a regular menagerie. the king would imitate a lion, someone else a tiger, this courtier would bark like a dog, that one-crow like a cock. the queen and her maids of honour, hearing the uproar, would come up too, and the proceedings would wax merrier than ever, for with so many beautiful, charming ladies, the courtiers all felt put on their mettle, and growled and roared, barked and crowed, brayed and neighed, baa'd and maa’d, and in fact proved themselves the jolly good fellows they were. then a game of blind man's buff would be suggested by a maid of honour to amuse the princess, and i am not so sure but more than the princess were amused; at any rate the exercise would make the maids of honour look very pretty and rosy, and smiling and laughing. every day before going out for her walk, princess beauty would receive from the queen the penny which she had earned. when once used princess beauty. to it, the bread and milk was quite, or very nearly, as nice without the sprinkling of sugar. then what a pleasure it was to be able to say "yes!” when the queen would say, “you've earned another penny, beauty ?” and to see the glad pleased smile of her mother, and to know that she thought her unselfish and good. "well, your royal highness, where shall we go to-day ?” nurse would say, when beauty joined her in the hall with her penny, and beauty would always answer, “ to see matchie first.” this was the name the princess had bestowed upon her little friend. so satisfied were they both with it that it never struck beauty to ask his real name, or the match-boy to tell it. and how matchie looked out for his “fairy princess ” as he called her! he had never been so happy as now, for he knew he had some one to sympathise with him in all his troubles. when dame tantrum was more cross than usual, and would send him to bed without any supper, he would comfort his sad little heart by the thought of how sorry princess beauty would be to hear of his troubles, and how her soft little hand would steal into his. when he started in the morning he would dance along the pavement to his sc princess beauty. accustomed corner, whistling joyfully, for soon he knew his princess would also come that way. as he stood holding out his matches to the passers by, so bright and happy did he look, that people would stare in astonishment that such a ragged, thin little piece of humanity could smile so radiantly. ah! they did not know his secret, the grand secret that had changed his sad life, as the bright sun chases away the dull, leaden clouds, and leaves the sky blue and clear. how astonished they would have been had they known that the only person who loved that ragged little match-boy was the princess of the land, that the only one who ever spoke kindly to him was the beloved princess beauty. if matchie's face turned once to gaze down the long avenue, i should think it did one hundred times, during the course of the morning, to see if princess beauty were coming. then at length a dainty little girl with long, golden, curly hair, eyes of deepest blue, and lovely dimpling face, would appear dancing down the broad avenue across the park, singing in her clear, childish voice, or chattering and laughing merrily with her nurse. when she reached the match-boy, “well, matchie,” she would say, “have you sold many princess beauty. matches ? no, i see you have not. here is my penny, and look, mamma has sent you this nice piece of cake for your lunch. i hope the old woman is not in her tantrums to-day.” the princess and matchie. then matchie would tell his experiences of the night before, but somehow his troubles never seemed so bad when the princess was by. princess beauty. . but then, when princess beauty skipped away once more, how all the joy disappeared from his face. the sun no longer seemed to shine so brightly, nor the birds to sing so sweetly. the people no longer noticed his merry face, but thought he was the ordinary sad little match-boy. then he would remember the cake and penny in his hand, and he would kiss them tenderly. it seemed wicked to him to eat the cake which she had held, and he used to keep it as long as ever his hunger would allow him. as for the penny, how he hated to put it into the grasping, greedy hand of the old woman, dame tantrum. he used to be sorely tempted to let it lie snugly in his pocket, but his sense of honour never allowed the temptation to triumph, and he always gave it up. now, it happened that one day the princess's nurse had a holiday, as she wanted very much to visit her mother who lived in the country, and was very old and ill. so ill was she in fact that for many years she had never left her bed, and the only pleasure she ever had was seeing her daughter, and hearing of all the grand things which happened in the palace. the queen, who was good-hearted, and always considered the happiness princess beauty. of servants as well as the maids of honour and great ladies who surrounded her, used to let the nurse have a holiday as often as possible to visit her mother, who had nursed the queen when she was a little girl. on these occasions the queen, who was very simple in her habits, and liked to imitate humbler mothers, would herself take her little daughter for a run in the park, and would race and scamper with beauty, that is, if no one were looking, for of course it would not do for a queen to be seen skipping about like a young girl. they generally chose a very quiet corner of the park, where no one would disturb them, but this time beauty was eager to take her mother to see matchie, and the queen good-naturedly consented. queen loveall was much struck by the handsome, dark face of the poor match-boy, and asked him many questions about himself, which he answered frankly and clearly. “and what is your name, my boy?" said the queen. “her royal highness always calls you matchie, but of course you have a proper one.' “ yes, your majesty, my name is rufred.” “rufred? that is a fine name, and somehow seems to me familiar.” princess beauty. then after a few more kind words, the queen and princess said good-bye. “mamma,” said beauty, as they walked along, "don't you think we might do something more for matchie ? it does seem a pity that he should live with that cross dame tantrum when he is so gentle and sweet himself.” “yes, my dear,” answered queen loveall. “i must see what papa says. i am sure he will be able to do something for him.” so that night when the king and queen were enjoying a pleasant chat together after everyone else had gone to bed, queen loveall told her husband the whole story of the little match-boy. “and do you know,” she ended by saying, “his name, which is very uncommon, sounds quite familiar to me. can i have heard it anywhere else ?" the king thought deeply for a few minutes, then a bright idea seemed to strike him. “why," he exclaimed, joyously embracing the queen, “why, my love, i do believe that between you two, you have discovered the long-lost son of oor king sadman.” hapſing sadman, i must tell you, was king over good-hıntry next to king light-heart's, and was princess beauty. . quite as powerful and mighty a monarch. all his greatness, however, did not please him nor satisfy him. one great sorrow had crushed his whole juliullinattiluriயாயாயாய umu kuum >>> www.cena vwr de king sadman. life, and made him a gloomy, wretched creature. so miserable was he, that for ten years he had never been seen to smile, although his subjects did everything in their power to make him. princess beauty. w organs were always grinding outside his palace windows, and the monkeys who accompanied the organs were put through their funniest tricks, but king sadman smiled not. the jester never wearied in making jokes, at which the courtiers fairly roared with laughter, but king sadman never moved a muscle. clowns, actors, ven- triloquists, conjurors, singers, dancers, were encouraged to show off before the king, but no one ever succeeded in amusing him. so anxious were the courtiers to amuse him, that the city was always making holiday, and laughing and cheering. so gay were the people for their king's sake that strangers were always flocking into the city to share in the merriment, but nothing had any effect on king sadman. the cause of king sadman's sadness was in this way. when he was a young man he married a princess whose loveliness had never been equalled, and never were people happier than these two. a beautiful, dark-eyed prince was born, and every- thing looked bright and prosperous, when one sad day the queen died. king sadman's heart would have been broken had it not been for the baby prince, whose laughter cheered the king as nothing else could have done. princess beauty. now there lived in that city a wicked old witch who was never happy unless doing evil to somebody. so many people had she injured that at length the people asked the king to punish her, and so the king ordered that she should be locked up. she was therefore shut up in a dark cell, with a jailer to keep watch over her. but one night when the jailer had fallen asleep, worn out by listening to her savage screams, the witch managed to escape. that same night the king's son, prince rufred, was stolen from his cradle, and was never heard of again. it was always supposed that the witch had carried him off, and perhaps killed him. and this is why poor king sadman never smiled nor seemed happy; he was always thinking of his dead wife and lost son. one night a grand ball was held in king sadman's palace. lovely ladies and noble knights were dancing in the lofty hall, and king sadman was sitting on his throne, gazing sadly on the gay scene, and thinking of the days when his young queen was the fairest lady at any ball. suddenly the music ceased, and everyone turned to the door to see who was coming. the princess beauty. chamberlain announced in a loud voice, “a herald from king light-heart.” king sadman called the herald to him, and received from his hand a letter, which he opened and read. as he read, his courtiers were astounded to perceive that their king's melancholy seemed to vanish, and over his face there spread an expression of great joy. the courtiers pressed forward to hear the good news, for they knew that it must be something very good to so move king sadman. the king rose joyfully from his throne. “rejoice with me, good people! king light- heart thinks he has found my long-lost son! if this is true, once more life will be full of pleasures for me; if not, ah! i cannot, will not, believe that so cruel a disappointment is in store for me.” the courtiers were as pleased as king sadman, and made haste to prepare for the journey to king light-heart's palace. when they arrived there, the next evening, king sadman begged to be taken at once to his son, and so the two kings set off alone for the witch's house. the old witch was seated crooning over the fire, and gazing now and again into the depths of a cauldron, in which she was stewing some dainty morsel for her supper. little rufred lay asleep a c princess beauty. on the floor, his handsome face looking pale and worn, his dark curly hair untidy and neglected, his clothes in rags. when the witch recognised king sadman, she uttered a scream of terror, and rushed from the room. as no one ever heard of her again, it was supposed that she died of cold, by running out into the night air without her shawl and goloshes, and that the big fierce black cat which always followed her, buried her with the feathers of the dear little birds he had killed. the joy of sadman was great at once more finding his son, and he could not sufficiently thank the king. “but my little daughter, princess beauty, is the one you must thank,” said lightheart, laughing, and then he told king sadman the whole story. sadman was charmed at beauty's kindness, and when they returned to the palace he presented her with magnificent jewels. but the presents did not please the little princess half so much as the thought that prince rufred's happiness was due to her. when rufred was dressed in princely garments he looked so handsome and gallant that beauty was prouder of him than ever, and the two were never so happy as when together. princess beauty. so fond of each other did they become, in fact, that when they were older they married, and never was there a happier couple than king rufred and queen beauty. what made them so very happy was that they never wearied in trying to make others as happy as they were themselves, and i think they succeeded, for all their subjects seemed cheerful and contented, and the rich, copying the king and queen, always helped the poor, so that throughout that vast land there was no misery or wretchedness, but content and plenty reigned everywhere. evelyn ingleby. . lovelocks and the prince. very poor, and could not easily afford another pitcher, she covered her face with her little brown hands, and all her sunny curling hair fell over her eyes. now, just above the well grew a large bunch of foxeyes, and peeping from amongst the sweet pink flowers was a little lady clad in a lily leaf gown, on her head was a buttercup, and in her tiny hand she held a wand of fairy-grass. as she watched lovelocks weeping, she slowly waved her wand to and fro, and from out every fern-frond and dog-daisy, wild-rose and ox-tongue, stepped forth curious little people, all clothed in flower petals and leaves; more and more they came, until the grassy bank above the well and the stone rim were crowded. then said the queen, who wore the buttercup crown, “this good child has happened a misfortune, she is an orphan, and lives with her grandmother, who is very poor. what shall we do for her ?” one little man, who had on an oak-leaf mantle, said, “this is the child who climbed the tall tree to put back the fledglings that had fallen from the nest. that tells us she has a good heart.” a little lady, who leaned upon a hardhead for a lovelocks and the prince. staff, said, “i, too, saw her take a thorn from a lambkin's foot.” so the queen held council. just then another fairy arrived, he was seated in an acorn-carriage drawn by four golden-winged moths, four may - lovelocks and the prince. flies were servants, two driving, and two standing behind. when the queen saw him, she waved her wand, and lo! a splendid royal equipage, with powdered servants, and seated within, a handsome lovelocks and the prince. prince. as he drove past the well, he saw lovelocks, and ordered the horses to stand. then he called to her, and asked her why she wept so sadly, and very humbly lovelocks told him the story of the broken pitcher, and how poor her grandmother was. the prince told her to dry her tears, and gave her two golden coins, saying, “spend one upon thyself, the other give away, as both are charmed.” then smiling kindly upon her, he called to his servants, and drove away. with joy lovelocks returned home, and told her grandmother of her wonderful adventure. and all unknown to her, the fairies followed to see if she would fulfil the prince's commands concerning the coins. as lovelocks and her grandmother were starting out to buy another pitcher, seated by their door they saw a poor old man, very lame and almost blind. he was so weary, he told them he could not walk any further, and begged them to allow him to rest a little while within the cottage. lovelocks led him in, and gave him. a bowl of milk; and when he was refreshed, she took the golden coin the prince had given her, and placed it in his trembling hand. the old ce saw was o w lovelocks and the prince. m was - man lifted up his eyes in astonishment, and called for blessings upon lovelocks. after buying the pitcher, some money was left, and this the grandmother spent in silkworms, and lovelocks helped her to feed and tend them. and as the years passed, good fortune was with them, and the grandmother became known as a clever silk grower. one day an old man asked to see love- locks, and lo! she knew him to be the poor old man to whom she had given the charmed coin. the maiden, who wept by the well in the bygone days was now grown into a beautiful woman. and she took the old man's hand, and led him towards the well-furnished house she and her grandmother now occupied. as she turned to bid him welcome, lo! in place of the old man, there stood before her the handsome prince who had befriended her. and when her grandmother appeared, the prince told her he had come to ask for the hand of lovelocks in marriage with his son goodheart, who was a mighty soldier, and returned victorious from distant wars. “for,” said he, “she who has pity for the lovelocks and the prince. lovilo sad and needy, should rejoice with the rich and noble.” then he called for his carriage with the four horses and powdered servants, and took away lovelocks to her reward. and that was how the sweet hare-bells came to ring such merry wedding peals. patty honeywood. ers cinderina and the elves. minderina was first cousin to cinderella, as you may guess from the name, yet she was no slut, but a pretty blue-eyed girl, with cheeks like roses, and curls like-well, gold, or the yellow-rayed sunflower that shook its great round face in at the open lattice with every wave of july air that aowed through the garden, and tossed the flowers together to rob them of their perfume. no fairy godmother had cinderina, but to whisper the truth-and it must go no further- her godmother was not a very sweet tempered old lady: her chin and nose !—well we must refer you to punch, or a pair of nut-crackers. poor cinderina! it had been oh! so hot all the morning; and she had been up since four o'clock, before the dew was dry on the grass. with her pretty arms in the suds, twirling the dolly-stick, hanging out the clothes, she had got through the washing, and the snow-white linen > d cinderina and the elves. was heaped up in a great basket on the table. it was two o'clock; godmother dorothy had had a nap, had put on her steeple hat and her crimson cloak (enough to set the village on fire that hot july day), had filled her horn with snuff, and with her crutch-handled stick in her hand, had set off to visit miss scandal, to enjoy a good gossip over a dish of hot tea. her last words to cinderina were, “now cindy, i shall be back by seven, and you must wash the floor, take up the cinders, and have all the clothes ironed before i come back.” i don't like selfish people, do you? and a godmother is not to be spoken of behind her back; but“ if i had such a godmother as cinderina, wouldn't i—.” what would you do, eh? the large yellow sunflower turned pale, and would have shed quite a sugary tear for cinderina, if the great greedy humble bees had not been busy all day robbing it of its nectar. cinderina, hot and tired, sat down to rest; and although she was a good, cheerful girl, i think the great tears gathered in her eyes; but she was too brave to let them trickle down her nose, and make a guy of her, and a bright sunbeam dancing cinderina and the elves. through the lattice kissed them clear away before they could fall. swayed by the breeze, a convolvulus bell na t cinderina. peeped in at the open casement, and perched inside of it was the prettiest little fairy that ever i saw, or you either. as she listened to god- cinderina and the elves. such a dream, all about a handsome little prince, who loved her, just as dearly as you love sugar plums at christmas, or ice cream in july. down fluttered the fairy, light as thistle-down or december snow-flake. putting her tiny hands to her rosy lips she gave the most musical little hillo! hillo! that i ever heard. then in silvery tones she sang : “ hither my brown elves one and all. quickly troop at your lady's call! cinderina, gentle and true, sleeps, and her housework you must do.” not very good verse, but they have no laureate in fairyland, at least they had not when i was there; but that was when i wore pinafores-a long, long time ago. such fun followed. in an instant scores of little odd brown fellows, with bright black eyes, and peaked red beards and top knots, came jauntily dancing up, their tools in their hands- tiny italian and flat irons, sweeping brushes, hand-brushes, dust-pans, buckets, scrubbing and black-lead brushes, mops, and floor-cloths. they came thronging to the open door, but there they stood, grimacing and shaking their heads at a great rate--for godmother dorothy had cinderina and the elves. nailed a horse-shoe over the door, and neither good nor bad elves could cross the thres- hold. the little fairy laughed merrily at their dis- comfiture, then mounting miss moth, she went flying through the casement, and pointed the way to the elves. like a swarm of big brown bees they poured through the window, and filled the great old-fashioned kitchen. you never saw a floor scrubbed in such fashion, with two elves scrubbing at each brick as if for dear life, while it took a whole gang of workers to pass the buckets of water through the window, and dash and splash them on the floor, while the mops and floor-cloths sopped it up in a thrice. the eye could scarcely follow the movements of the elves. it was rare fun to see a hundred of them squatted on the hearth, with hand-brushes and dust-pans, clearing away the ashes and cinders, washing it clean, and laying on the yellow stone in the neatest and most artistic style. you would have thought the black-leaders had been in training a thousand years,-.perhaps they had,--they worked so deftly. you may as easily follow a flash of lightning as the swift movement se cinderina and the elves. of their brushes. it took all hands to swing the old iron kettle on to the crane, and then a hundred of them danced off to the well, a bucket in each hand, and filled up the old kettle, laughing and chatting merrily all the time. it was the richest fun to see them do the ironing: they had fifty portable stoves ranged at one end of the kitchen, and fifty elves at each end to blow the bellows, heat the heaters, and pass the irons on. it took a hundred elves to get up one of godmother dorothy's frilled caps; to iron the crown, and italian iron the frills ; and if the old lady had heard the jokes they cracked over their work, she would not have slept a wink all that night. such pulling and folding of sheets, towels, pillow-cases, and what-not, was never seen before: they sprinkled the linen from the tiniest of watering-cans, and were up to every wrinkle of the laundresses' craft. by a quarter past two all the work was done, the beds made, and cinderina's tea set ready for her. when the tools had all been packed up, the little elves formed circle within circle, twenty deep, with the little fairy in the midst, and went whirling and dancing like mad, round and round, again and again, singing :- to lo cinderina and the elves “to elves hard work is only fun, cinderina your work is done ; fairy princess your elves have wrought all your bidding of word or thought ; hard work to elves is only play, our task is done !—away ! away!” head over heels, topsy-turvey; with the most comical antics, the elves went flying through the window ; then like a cloud of brown bees shot through the sunbeams, and disappeared in the distance. then the fairy princess allowed miss moth to hide her sleepy head under the green leaves, and took a nap herself in the convolvulus, but was astir in time to enjoy the puzzled amazement of cinderina when she awoke from her nap, and found all her work so quickly and perfectly done. edward lamplougi. kong prince florimel and the serpent-woman. pin that long ago period which we sometimes speak of as “once upon a time,” there lived in a lonely little island on the sea that washes the shores of greece an old man, who, if all the stories told about him were true, was a magician of no small power. the habitation of the old man was a marble tower on the highest part of the island, and there he lived alone, save for the society of his only daughter-his only child, indeed—and the presence of their servants. he had dwelt upon the island for many years, and his daughter had grown up from infancy into a beautiful woman, when the few poor fisher- men and cultivators of the soil who lived on the lower parts of the island saw one day, with much surprise, the servants come down the steep and winding path that led from the tower to the beach, carrying heavy boxes, which they placed aboard a small vessel that had cast anchor off the florimel and the serpent-woman. as landing-place the night before. their surprise was not lessened, but rather increased to a degree to which they were unable to give expression, when they saw the old magician descend the path alone, and go on board the vessel, which shortly afterwards sailed away to the eastward. the islanders were not sorry that he was gone but they were very much concerned about his daughter, whom they all loved for her kind heart, and who appeared to have been left in the old tower on the summit of the island. what a lonely existence it would be for her, they said to one another. and why had she been left and all the servants departed with their master? it was very odd; but they thought she would come down to their cottages to see them, and then, perhaps, they would hear all about it. in this, however, they were doomed to be disappointed, for day after day passed away, and the young lady failed to make her appearance amongst them. the wondering islanders often looked up the steep path that meandered up the hill to the tower on its summit, and strained their eyes in the hope of seeing her walking in the terraced gardens around it; but they never saw her. it was very odd, they said again. they florimel and the serpent-woman. vii s soon began to think she must be dead; dead, probably, before her father and the servants left the island. that, they thought at last, must be the solution of the mystery. one of the boldest among them proposed that they should go up to the tower and ascertain the truth. but the reputation of its owner as a magician prompted all the others to cross themselves and declare that they would not venture to enter the tower for all the treasures of the greek emperor. so the weeks grew into months, and the months into years, until at length the fate of the lady zeneyda,—that was the name of the magician's daughter,—like that of the unfortunate young lady who found a living tomb in an old oak chest on her wedding day, "was told as a sorrowful tale long past.” one night, a long time after her mysterious dis- appearance, in the midst of a fearful storm, a small vessel was seen from the island battling with the wild waves that were breaking in white foam over her, and threatening her with destruction. one moment she was lost in the darkness, and the next a flash of lightning showed her still struggling to hold on her course. but the fight of her crew with the wind and waves came to an end with a crash, and florimel and the serpent-woman. na as a cry of terror and despair that told the watchers on the beach that she had struck upon a rock, and become a wreck. there was only one survivor of the disaster, a young man, who swam ashore, reaching the beach in a very exhausted condition. the islanders carried him into one of their houses, and marvelled much at his fine clothes and his white hands, which showed that he was not one of the seamen. on the following day, when he had somewhat recovered, he asked many questions concerning the island and its inhabitants, as was natural for one who was likely to have to wait some time for a ship aboard which he might continue his voyage; but he gave no information concerning himself. “ i suppose yonder tower is the residence of the chief man of the island,” he remarked to his host, on the first day he was able to leave the cottage, looking as he spoke towards the deserted tower on the summit. " it was,” returned his host, “but he left it, and left the island, a good time ago, and no one, not even a servant, has lived there iii. since.” " yet it looks as if it might be a desirable florimel and the serpent-woman. abode,” observed the young stranger, with his gaze still fixed on the tower. "it was so," said the islander" but—,” he hesitated a moment, and then added, “but not one of us, poor as we are, would care to live there now.” “how is that ?" the stranger asked, turning to his host, and speaking in a tone that showed how strongly his curiosity had been excited by the latter's last remark. “there is a mystery about it,” was the reply. "the saints be between us and all evil!” the man crossed himself, and continued, “ the owner had a beautiful daughter, and she was as good as she was beautiful. she did not leave the island with her father, and she has never been seen since.” “ that is strange, certainly,” observed the stranger, again looking towards the tower. “you have excited my curiosity so much that i shall not rest until i have been up there, and had a look at the place. the mystery, it seems to me, can only be solved on the spot.” his host shrugged his shoulders, but did not attempt to dissuade the young man from the adventure. on the following day, therefore, the s neve florimel and the serpent-woman. shipwrecked stranger, feeling much stronger, left the cottage, and ascended the steep path leading from the landing-place to the tower. as he had already learned that all the present inhabitants of the island lived in the cottages along the beach, he did not expect to meet any human creature on his way, and he saw nothing that particularly attracted his attention until he reached a broad flight of marble steps below the lowest terrace of the private grounds by which the tower was surrounded. as he ascended these, and approached the tower, he saw many signs of long neglect. moss grew in the crevices of the marble steps, the paths were clothed with grass, the shrubberies were tangled with wild climbing plants, and the gardens were over-run with weeds. no human foot appeared to have trodden the paths since the old magician and his servants had left the island. the tower wore outwardly the like marks of desertion and neglect with the grounds. he observed, with surprise, that the door that appeared to be the principal entrance was open, and by this he ventured to enter, after listening for a few moments without hearing the slightest sound that would indicate the presence in the florimel and the serpent-woman. rem nal building of a human occupant. he found himself in a lofty hall, floored with marble of various colours, and having a door on each of its four sides, and broad stairs leading to the upper rooms. he opened one of the doors, and looked into the apartment, which appeared to have been the dining room. dust alone now covered the table, from which the silver and napery had been removed after the late occupant of the tower had taken his last meal there, before abandoning it to the bats and owls. a long time had evidently passed since any human foot had passed the threshold of the deserted place, for all the rooms which the stranger entered were in the same condition. the furniture remained, but it was covered with dust, and spiders had made their webs in every corner. as the tower offered better accommodation than could be obtained in the cottages near the beach the visitor, who had been accustomed to even better surroundings, resolved to make it his home until some passing vessel afforded the means of leaving the island. he strolled about the neglected grounds until nightfall, therefore, and then laid him down to rest upon a couch in one of . the upper rooms. nea florimel and the serpent-woman. there are many persons who court sleep in vain when they have to pass the night in a strange room, and of this number was the young stranger whom the disaster of shipwreck had thrown upon this lonely island. “he heard strange noises in the hours of darkness. such are not uncommon in old houses, and naturally attract more attention in the silence of night than they would in day- light. trailing ivy alapped against the windows, creaking sounds issued from the old furniture, rats scampered across the floor. he fancied, too, that he heard sounds from the stairs, as if some animal was slowly and heavily ascending them ; but this may have been, in part at least, the effect of imagination. unable to obtain more than very brief intervals of sleep, he quitted the couch as soon as the first beams of the rising sun shone into the room, and looked out from the window upon the gardens and groves around the tower, the fields on the slope of the hill, and the blue sea beyond, the wavelets of which were tipped with red by the dawning light from the east. no sail was in sight, the trees were motionless in the calm, and no sound of life came up from the cottages below. came florimel and the serpent-woman. higher rose the sun, and as the morning tints of sea and sky changed from crimson to gold, the solitary watcher became conscious of a move- ment among the rank herbage below the window at which he stood. as he had not seen even a cat about the place, his curiosity was excited as to what might be the cause of that undulating motion, and he looked intently downward. to his surprise the cause was presently revealed in the unexpected form of an enormous serpent ! slowly it glided over the weed-choked flower- beds of the terraces, and disappeared among the tangled shrubbery beyond. wondering very much to see so large a serpent on the island, he left the window, and descended to the hall, intending to visit his friends below, in order to ascertain if the creature had been seen by any of them, and to make arrangements to receive from them a daily supply of food and wine. as may be supposed, he looked carefully to the right and left as he descended the marble steps leading from one terrace to another, lest he should run into the gaping jaws of the huge reptile he had seen from the window; but he reached the steep path that wound down the hill without seeing or hearing it. florimel and the serpent-woman. can supply me with, brought up to the tower every day while i remain there, and i will pay you for whatever you bring.” the cottagers looked at each other, as if holding a silent consultation, before one of them ventured to give any undertaking of the kind suggested. "well, i suppose, sir, if no harm comes to you there, it will be safe for any of us to venture at least as far as the lower terrace,” one of them at length said. "send what you can this morning, then,” said the new dweller of the tower, who then turned as if to retrace his steps up the path, but in a moment faced about again.” “are there any serpents on the island ?” he asked. “only some small vipers,” one of the men replied. “i thought i saw a rather large one this morning, and i have a great horror of them,” said the stranger. “but if there are, as you say, no very large ones, i must have been mistaken.” he knew that he had not been, however, and the denial of the existence of any large members of the reptile family, after what he had seen that florimel and the serpent-woman. morning, rather troubled him as he walked slowly up the steep path. he looked about him warily as he advanced, his ears listening as intently for the hiss that would warn him of the terrible creature's presence as his eyes watched for its yellow and brown folds. suddenly, as he reached the upper terrace, he paused, and a shudder shook him from head to foot as he saw the serpent coiled upon a flowery bank, as if in quiet enjoyment of the warm sun- beams. for more than a minute he stood motionless, for he feared to arouse the reptile, which appeared to be sleeping, and he could not enter the tower without passing it. then with noiseless tread, he crossed the terrace quickly and sprang up the marble steps. “ how am i to live here?' he asked himself, when he had reached the dining-room, and had thrown himself upon a couch." that creature will be too terrible a neighbour. i dare not leave a door, or window open, and if it has a fancy for basking on the terrace it will keep me a prisoner here." he had scarcely uttered the last words when a sound at one of the windows, such as would be sou f us v florimel and the serpent-woman. produced by a person tapping on it with the fingers, caused him to look in that direction, when, to his surprise and horror, he saw the serpent looking into the room. the tapping had been caused by its head touching the glass, or whatever substitute was used for it in those days. he started to his feet, when the glistening dark eyes of the serpent drew him, without his will, as it were, towards the window. the creature lowered its head as he approached, but not before he had seen, with surprise, tears dropping from its eyes. he had heard of “crocodile's tears,” without a very strong belief in such signs of emotion on the part of a reptile, and these undoubted evidences of something like human feelings in a serpent were startling. “fair sir, the saints have surely sent you to my relief.” "who speaks?” exclaimed the startled young man on hearing these words, which evidently proceeded from some person outside and near the window. “ be not alarmed,” continued the voice, which he now found, to his increased surprise, proceeded from the mouth of the serpent, “i am not what i re seem.” florimel and the serpent-woman. “ in the name of everything wonderful, who and what are you then ?” he inquired. “i am the unfortunate daughter of marsyas, ah hi “he saw the serpent looking in at the window." the great magician, transformed by him into a serpent because i refused to marry the son of the sultan of egypt,” the creature replied. florimel and the serpent-woman. “ then from my heart i pity you,” said he, wondering more and more as he heard this strange explanation. "ah, fair sir, if you pity me—.” the head of the serpent-woman was raised for a moment as she uttered these words, but as she paused her dark eyes fell again, and for a moment she seemed unable to proceed. “ but,” she con- tinued, “you shall hear all my sad story, and then, perhaps,—but i will not-i fear to anticipate the result, for disappointment would be too terrible.” she paused, and our hero, no longer feeling afraid of her, sat down by the window, which he partly opened, the better to hear the promised story. in a few moments she proceeded. “when my father had exhausted all his powers of persuasion, and had found that even threats failed to obtain compliance with his wish that i should marry the egyptian prince, he cursed me in his wrath, and pronounced the spell which changed my natural form into what you see. i fled from him in horror into the gardens, and for a time was unable to realise what had happened. then, as my brain recovered from the awful shock it had received, i began to bewail my terrible fate. florimel and the serpent-woman. presently i felt a hand touch me, and i looked up, expecting to see my father, who, i thought, might have relented, and come to restore me to my natural form. but instead it was a being of another world that i beheld, a tiny creature, human in form, indeed, but with gauzy wings, like those of the dragon-fly. she evidently knew of my transformation, for she regarded me pitifully, rather than with fear or aversion, and proceeded, in soft and gentle accents, to give me hope. there was a charm, she said, that would prove an antidote to the wicked spell laid upon me by my unnatural father. i might be restored to my proper form when a young man should come to the island who, influenced by christian charity alone, would kiss my lips.” her sad and wonderful story ended, the serpent-woman bowed her head, not daring to add another word to this statement. our young hero rose from his seat by the window, and after a shuddering glance at the scaly head, began to pace the room in much perturbation of mind. pity urged him one way, a feeling of repulsion which he found difficult to overcome, restrained him from it. “ alas!” said the unfortunate daughter of florimel and the serpent-woman. marsyas, with a despairing sigh, “i could scarcely hope for relief on such a condition. forget, fair sir, that you have seen me, or heard my story." “stay!” cried he, as she was about to withdraw from the window. “ it shall never be said that florimel resisted the appeal of an unfortunate woman in the name of christian charity.” he leaned forward, approaching his face to the forepart of the serpent's head, but he was unable to quite repress a shudder, and he felt constrained to close his eyes. a little closer he advanced his face, shuddered again as his lips touched those of the serpent, and then fell back upon the couch. “the blessing of all the saints be your reward, fair sir,” said zeneyda, her voice sounding now even more soft and musical than when it came from the mouth of the serpent. for when florimel opened his eyes he saw that she was a serpent no longer, and that it was a young and beautiful woman who now stood before him. “i can now bid you welcome to my father's tower,” she said, with a sweet smile. “in which i have been a trespasser,” he rejoined, as he stepped out upon the terrace, and i florimel and the serpent-woman. took the small white hand she extended to him in his own. “let me know the name of the good young man to whom i am indebted for my release from that horrible spell,” said she. “i am florimel, a son of the king of armenia," he replied. “i was voyaging to constantinople, to the court of the emperor, when the vessel in which i had embarked was caught in a storm off this island, and became a wreck. i am the sole survivor of that disaster, which i no longer regret,-except on account of the poor seamen who lost their lives,-since it has procured the pleasure of making your acquaintance and restor- ing you to your proper form.” “for which service i can never sufficiently show my gratitude,” said zeneyda. “you must be my guest until the means of continuing your voyage offer themselves. give me your arm, prince, and we will go down to the cottages, where the poor people of the island will be rejoiced to see me.” “of that i am sure,” returned florimel. “ they have been profuse in their praises of you and regrets for your disappearance, which they attribute to death.” never florimel and the serpent-woman. "how glad they will be to know that i am alive and well !” said zeneyda. “but look! is not that a ship?" she asked, stopping suddenly on the lower terrace, and looking towards the sea. “it is !” exclaimed florimel. “and it is coming this way.” “ it is seldom that a vessel touches at this island,” observed his companion, who had suddenly become pale with fear. “suppose my father is returning in yonder bark! i tremble at the possibility of such an encounter." “why should it be him ?” said the prince. "but if it should be so, i will protect you.” as they descended the path leading to the cottages near the beach, the vessel drew nearer to the island, and attracted to it the attention of the people, who were seen standing in groups, watching the white sails that were wafting it to their shores. presently the sound of footsteps coming down the path reached their ears, and cries of mingled surprise, joy, and wonder were raised as they recognised the magician's daughter in the companion of the shipwrecked stranger. the story of zeneyda's transformation, and her restoration to her natural form, was told, and was heard by the islanders with many crossings of florimel and the serpent-woman. themselves, as an accompaniment to their expressions of wonder. the approaching vessel had by that time dropped her anchor, and a boat soon afterwards left her side, and was pulled towards the shore. as it came near the island, an old man was seen seated in the bows, whom the watchers recognised as the owner of the tower, marsyas, the magician. . “my father!” exclaimed zeneyda, and she immediately fled in terror towards the tower. florimel remained behind, in the hope of learning the purpose of the magician in returning to the island. the boat presently touched the beach, and the old man landed, and, without stopping to speak to any of the people of the island, threw a wondering glance towards the prince, and hurried up the path. florimel followed in order to protect zeneyda in the event of her requiring protection. the young lady was soon seen ascending the hill before them, and her unexpected appearance caused the old man to halt, regarding her retreating form with mingled surprise and perplexity, and then turning to florimel. "who is that lady?” he asked, “and who, if i may ask, are you, sir?”. florimel and the serpent-woman. “that lady is the daughter of the owner of the island, and i, sir, am the son of the king of armenia,” replied florimel. "stay, zeneyda !-stay, i emplore you !” cried marsyas, clasping his hands, and extending them towards his daughter. “stay, you bad man!” exclaimed a tiny glistening form which at that moment appeared on the path in front of them. “thus i punish you for your wicked transformation of your daughter.” the fairy touched him with her wand, and he was instantly transformed into a toad. . the imploring tone in which her father had called to her, prompted zeneyda to pause in her flight and look back. thus it was that she saw what had taken place. “good fairy,” she exclaimed, running back to the spot, “do not, i pray, lay so heavy a burden upon him. i have forgiven him.” “at the intercession of your much-injured daughter, i will take off the spell on one condition,” said the fairy, addressing the transformed marsyas. “promise to give her in marriage to this young prince, to whom she owes her restoration, and i will release you from that form.” ، مهم امی گرد اط مهر ته / و را ہے ۔ مردم * بے سے ر مر ----- * م های جر -م * - وا * مرده به این را مهار ا ت ہے سے ۔ ۔ ۔ دسر - marsyas transformed into a toad. florimel and the serpent-woman. “i promise,” came from the mouth of the toad. “remorse has driven me back to the island to undo my unnatural work.” " rise, then,” said the fairy, touching the toad with her wand, and in a moment marsyas again stood before them, holding out one hand to his daughter, and the other to florimel. there is little more to be told. zeneyda became the wife of the armenian prince, and they lived happy in each other's love for many years. thomas frost. vvvnna alcon the two palaces. lgie was not the sort of boy you wanted to kiss as soon as you saw him, he was altogether too old- looking and proper for that. he was the kind of boy whom every one called “so very well-behaved.” even the servants could find no fault with him, the boot-boy never found mud on master algie's boots, unless the roads were almost impassable, and he was forced to go through it. his cousin dick, with saucy, dirty face, and yellow curls always in a tangle, was, strange to say, far more of a favourite, why, nobody could tell. he tore his clothes, he walked through mud puddles whenever he could, in fact he could find mud when it had not rained for a week. he hid behind doors, and rushed out to make people jump, and did all sorts of such-like improper things. but then he had such a smile on his roguish face, and he would sit on the kitchen table, kicking his heels (another naughty trick he had), and amusing the boot-boy the two palaces. while he cleaned all the boots, that the long- suffering boy forgot to be sulky. now, outwardly, algie was always good, always noiseless, always obedient, but yet the two old fairies, sitting up by the chimney in the cool of the day, knew that he had faults, and they talked over them as they smoked their pipes. very ugly old fairies they were, but then they had lived so very long that their beauty had faded hundreds of years before. now they lived only to watch the doings of little boys and girls, and wag their huge caps together over them. “dick is seldom good,” observed fairy yellow-as-gold. “ algie is seldom naughty,” said fairy green- as-grass. “but yet he has a conceited heart, and he is selfish.” “yes, he is. he wants taking to the palace of the looking glass,” said fairy green-as-grass. “i shall take him.” “yes, and i will take dick to the great palace of come-day go-day. come along." and waving a couple of wands, after putting away their pipes, the two ugly fairies dropped right down in front of the two boys, who were sitting the two palaces. rows on a garden seat, learning their lessons for to-morrow. they were eight years of age, algie was learn- ing words of four syllables, whilst dick was hopelessly stuck in words of two. dick was sucking his thumb, and watching the crows in the high trees before him. algie was studying, to all appearance, with great earnestness. just then, in a squeaky voice, fairy green-as- grass said, “ arise, algie, and follow me.” and fairy yellow-as-gold said just the same to dick. then the old women waved their wands, and away they flew up into the air, after a time separating, until dick and fairy yellow-as-gold could not see the other two at all, but went on at a great speed through the warm evening air. dick was afraid for a time, but, being a brave boy, soon found courage to ask where they were going. “ you will see, you will see, only have patience,” said the fairy. very soon dick saw they were nearing a wonderful palace. as they approached, he saw there were pools of water, and many half-broken boats lying about. the marble steps were green and mouldy, the wide doors were falling off their the two palaces. golden hinges. passion flowers had once been trained all over the walls, now they trailed in the dust, mingled with weeds and climbing plants. as they entered, dick saw everything was the same, pearl tables and fairy chairs all tumbled in wild confusion on the floors. gold and silver ornaments, covered with the dust of years, were in every direction. “what a splendid palace; but where are the people?” whispered dick, holding his dirty finger to his chin, and looking very solemn. “i couldn't tell you, i'm sure,” said the old fairy. “perhaps asleep. this is the palace of come-day go-day. every one pleases himself. so if you want anything, you must seek someone and wake him up. you are to stay here for a while by yourself.” then with a whirr like a frightened blackbird, this funny old woman whizzed out of sight. for a while dick was happy, he could do as he liked here. he pulled the flowers and grapes, and touched the wonderfully pretty things without a creature to object. but after a time he grew hungry for supper, and wondered where the people were. he hunted through lonely corridors and empty rooms for a long time. at wom man the two palaces. last he found a large wide hall, with many lazy- looking people, asleep mostly. some few were yawning and stretching their arms. dick went up to one, and asked where the servants were. "i'm awfully hungry, and would like supper,” he said. the man turned over and looked curiously at the new comer, and said sleepily:- “we have no servants, every one here does as he likes, we only do what we are really forced to do.” dick felt very queer, and he hurried away into the gardens, leaving the strange people to sleep. he thought of the orderly gardens at home, he half wished he could meet nurse, though she would scold about his dirty face and torn clothes. he wandered away amongst the broken-down summer seats, and remembered how he had often said he wished the gardens at home were left untidy, so that he could do as he liked in them, but now he wished these poor flowers could be all tied up as they once had been, and the trees could be fastened over the arbours, and the long grass that kept tripping him up could be made velvety like the grass in his own garden was. who was that wandering about over at the the two palaces. other side of the grounds of the great palace of come-day go-day. it looked like algie, but he was walking with his head down and a look of shame about him. dick put his hands to his mouth and made that awful noise he had been punished so often for making. a very ugly old kelpie dropped from a tree, and looked so fierce, he did not repeat it, but ran away after the boy he had seen in the twilight. he found it was his cousin after all, and how glad they were to meet you can well imagine. “oh, dick,” gasped algie, after he had got over his surprise a little, “that bad old woman took me away to the palace of the looking glass, do you see it over there? its towers all gleaming with light.” “how lovely,” said dick, gazing at the great palace domes of shining glass, lighted from within and without by a myriad lamps. “don't say lovely, dick," and algie shuddered. “ i have been round and round the awful rooms till i was nearly frightened to death. i thought at first the walls were made of looking-glass, like we have at home, but they arn’t. and there was a boy in the walls who looked like me, and he did not do just as i did at the time, but like i have done the two palaces. many a day since. he seemed to be reading, and he was watching out of his eyecorners if anybody saw him, and how good he could be.” “oh, algie, but you didn't never do that?” said dick grammatically. “yes, and he strutted when he walked, and looked scornfully at other children because they didn't read like him, and couldn't say “the boy stood on the burning deck' right through, and after that an old man hobbled by, and begged for a copper, and my other self in the glass laughed at him and called him a horrid old thing.” “but you don't, algie?”. algie nodded with a red face, and went on :- "its walls are like great eyes looking at you. don't you wish we were back, dick? i'll never tell about you when you do bad things again, just so i may look good against you.” "well,” said dick solemnly, “my palace hasn't been any better than yours, the folks are all dirty and lazy, everything is broken and spoiled, nothing mended. i say, don't you think nurse must be horrid tired of tidying up after us?” “after you, you mean,” said algie sharply. “no, i didn't mean that, i am as bad as you, only not your way.” . the two palaces. just then a very beautiful little creature, with white dress of shining silver, golden hair, with a star in it, sprang out of the ground, and in a sweet little voice like a linnet singing, said:—“ah, i see, you have been brought here by the naughty old fairies, yellow-as-gold and green-as-grass.” “yes, beautiful fairy,” said algie. “we are lost, and want to go home.” "you have been to the palace of the looking glass,” she said, and algie nodded. “ and you to the great palace of come-day go-day,” she said, laughing into dick’s dirty face. “come with me.” the boys took hold of hands and followed the lovely fairy all through the wonderful gardens of the palace of the looking glass, until they reached a great door, with shining letters over it, “ school for children of the fairies." “come in," said the fairy of the star. they entered a large garden filled with coloured fountains, gay birds darted here and there, arbours were covered with flowering trees, and velvety grass stretched far away, under the great yellow moon. fairy lamps hung to every bough, and gleamed softly over the hundreds of shining little fairy children grouped about. the two palaces. “do they never go to bed ?” asked dick, very much awed. “oh! yes, in the day-time, sometimes, they have to learn so much at nights, when you earth children are asleep.” till and the fairy of the star. then she took them through the flowers and among the trees, where hundreds of tiny green fairies were at work. they were putting right the two palaces. what the earth children had made wrong during the day. here a little bird, all bare of feathers, and with wide open mouth, was being fed, and its tiny legs mended, which had been hurt by some cruel earth boy. “what will you do with it?” dick asked. “oh, put it back into its mother's nest again, and i shall have to watch it until it can fly, so that no harm comes to it.” “and look here, what is this tiny fellow doing?” “he's making sleep salve, to put on a lame boy's eyes, who has such pain he can't sleep, and who is so lonely all day, with no one to talk to him, or read him a story.” “dick, do you think it's for that boy, “limping bobby,' down the lane at home, the boy you teased that day?" dick’s cheeks turned scarlet, he glanced up at the fairy of the star, and found her laughing at him. “yes,” she said “it is for the very boy, the boy that algie slyly flung a stone at once when he was out by himself, and he thought no one saw him.” the two palaces. algie's head that had begun to have its usual conceited way with it, hung down suddenly, scores of little green fairies were now running here and there, preparing for their nightly journey to the earth. shells were harnessed to great moths and beetles. acorn husks and fox-glove flowers were loaded with medicines and bandages for the earth creatures so far away. there was stuff for smoothing wrinkles from mothers' fore- heads, brought on with worrying all day. there was medicine for crying babies, bandages for lame dogs, kittens, and rabbits, who had no friends to care for them, or even worse-belonged to unkind earth boys and girls, who kept them to starve and ill-use. when they were all ready the fairy children raised a shout, mounted their driving seats, and drove off like lightning through the air, right down to earth. suddenly there was a whirring sound, and the old fairies green-as-grass and yellow-as-gold came up before the boys, and instantly the fairy of the star disappeared, then they waved their wands, and algie and dick found themselves on the garden seat at home. the rooks were still cawing round their nests in the high trees, it was almost dark, dick's book the two palaces. was on the floor, algie was holding his in his hand. a voice they knew to be nurse's was calling loudly, “ supper is ready, make haste, where are you boys, always to seek, always to seek.” they slowly took hold of hands and went into the house together, and when nurse saw them, she lifted up her hands in astonishment, they looked so quiet. “ are you ill,” she said, lifting dick’s hair out of his eyes, but he did not speak, and she said :- “ bless the boy, no, he's only tired.” and she kissed him. flo. jackson. qovo the search for the fairy queen. ittle arthur lived in a quaint, sweet, old farmhouse. so lovely was it that people came from far and wide to see it as it stood covered with ivy and honeysuckle, and with twisted old apple trees surrounding it. some- how everything and everybody always seemed so busy and yet so happy that it was quite a pleasure to sit and watch what was going on. so thought little arthur any way, as perched on an apple bough he lazily noted the busy life around him. there was first of all old sam, the shepherd, as with his crook in his hand and his dog at his heels he set off to count the sheep in the sunny meadows by the river. a busy bee flew past, and as it darted on the sweets lying in the heart of a lovely red rose, it seemed to say to arthur, “oh, you lazy boy, why are you not making the best of this beautiful weather. you people don't know how to enjoy the search for the fairy queen. the pleasures of life.” a butterfly next swept past, its bright wings shining like coloured satin in the sunbeams. the very trees were bowing to each other merrily, and murmuring, "what a fine day!" as for the birds, their joy was so great that they sang and chirped quite deafeningly and circled in the air in the blithest manner. he a quaint, sweet, old farmhouse. then arthur lifted his eyes a little higher, and saw the tall, graceful spire of the church of stratford-on-avon as it gleamed through the trees, with hundreds of happy birds playing around it. he remembered what his mother had the search for the fairy queen. told him about the great poet, shakespeare, having passed his boyhood amongst the lovely scenery, and he wondered if he too had loved to lie and drink in all the surrounding beauties. arthur felt quite sure that he had, for he remembered bits of lovely poetry which his father had read aloud to his mother in the evenings, and had said it was written by shakespeare, about flowers and fairies and all the lovely things that one could not help thinking about when one lay in the sun on such a glorious day. at last a bright idea struck little arthur. “i will go and wander about in the fields, and find out all the pretty spots that father read about the other night. i wonder if i could find that bank whereon the wild thyme blows, where ox-lips and the nodding violet grows,' where the fairy queen sleeps at night amongst all the sweet smelling flowers? i will try anyway.” so arthur slipped from the bough of the apple- tree on to the soft grass below, and without telling anyone of his intentions set off to discover the abode of the fairy queen. leaving the old orchard and the garden full of bright flowers, he climbed a stile in the hedge, almost hidden from view by creeping honeysuckle the search for the fairy queen. and prickly sweet-briar, and dropped into the meadow below. how soft and velvety the grass was under his feet, how lovely the daisies and buttercups looked as they held up their fair heads, saying, “ pick me, pick me!” the delicate cuckoo-flower bowed gracefully to him as he passed. the cowslips with their ruby spots welcomed him joyfully. on every blade of tender grass there still glistened the diamonds which the fairies had dropped in their midnight dance, but when he tried to pick them up, in order to give them back to the fairies when he found them, lo! they turned into dew- drops which the hot sun soon dry up. for a long, long time arthur trotted through the fields, first picking up one lovely flower and then another till his hands were quite full, and the aowers in his hot grasp began to droop and fade. the sun's rays fell with fierce power on arthur's golden curls, and he began to feel very tired and hot and sleepy. across the broad meadows, however, he saw a clump of trees, and under these he knew it would be cool. “i shall sit down and rest there,” he said consolingly to himself, and this restored his the search for the fairy queen. ms ss drooping spirits as a cool draught of water would have refreshed the thirsty flowers in his hands. and when he reached the trees, what a lovely fairy spot lay before him! through the waving trees, sunbeams strayed and danced on flower and fern, lighting up each bright petal or delicate frond. the ground rose and fell, forming here a little valley, there a baby hillock, and all was covered by grass of the daintiest green, amongst which nestled pale primroses and sweet violets. arthur sank on the grass, which was soft as his own little bed, and closed his eyes with a satisfied sigh. “who are you, bold stranger, who thus disturb our slumbers? some great giant man, i see!” arthur was much flattered by hearing himself described as a great giant man. it sounded so grown-up, and really it was time, for he was tired of being called a little boy. he opened his eyes and turned with a smile on his face in the direction from which the voice came. compared with the little creature before him, he certainly was a great giant man. a dainty little figure was standing on a primrose, a crown on her head, and a sceptre in her hand; she had blue eyes, the ou the search for the fairy queen. the fairy queen then gave command to the other fairies to cease tormenting him, and they all entered a dark cave, made by two large stones. “this is the judgment hall,” whispered a fairy to arthur. "here you are to be tried for your crime.” “what crime?" asked poor arthur. “prisoner at the bar,” said the fairy queen, “are you guilty or not guilty ?” “guilty of what ?" asked arthur. “the prisoner is impertinent,” said the queen angrily, while all the other fairies looked aghast at his boldness. “pull his hair!” this the fairies did with so much energy that the prisoner begged for mercy. “i declare the prisoner guilty of invading our kingdom, and of impertinence towards ourself, the queen of fairyland,” said the queen solemnly. "we therefore sentence him to " " have his hair pulled ninety-nine million and seventy-five times,” screamed all the fairies with much excitement, pulling threatening faces at him. “oh no, no, no !” screamed arthur in such terror that he awoke, and, opening his eyes, saw bending over him a little girl far more beautiful than the fairy queen. the search for the fairy queen. “well,” she exclaimed, laughing merrily and showing two rows of pearly teeth, “you do sleep soundly; i thought i never was going to wake you. i tickled your nose and at last pulled your hair, but nothing would wake you." "oh,” said arthur with a sigh of relief, “i thought i was in fairyland, and all the fairies were tormenting me.” the little girl burst into a merry peal of laughter. “no, only one fairy was tormenting you all the time. my name is fairy, at least father calls me so. but what are you doing here?”. then arthur told her that he had wanted to find the fairy queen his father had read about, who must live near, for shakespeare had known her. “well,” said fairy “you have found her, or at least she has found you. i tell you i'm fairy, though not shakespeare's, for if i were i should be old, and yellow, and toothless like old mother scarecrow, as shakespeare lived so very long ago. i don't live far from here, just on the banks of the avon, but i thought i would have a picnic here to-day, and have brought my lunch." then fairy opened a big basket by her side. if arthur had had some doubts about her being a the search for the fairy queen. ra living person before, and thought that she must be a real fairy, he was quite sure about her now, for none but a healthy sturdy girl of five or six, unless it were a boy, would have thought of bringing such a quantity of provisions. she first pulled out some huge slices of bread and jam (“straw- berry!” she explained triumphantly to her com- panion); then appeared three or four crisp curranty cakes ; apples and oranges and a bottle of milk completed the repast. after having spread them out on the green grass, fairy regarded them thoughtfully, while arthur's face put on a bright and jovial expres- sion. fairy looked at the meal, then at arthur, and sighed dolefully. “ you do look as though you could eat a lot.” she said mournfully. “yes i can,” replied arthur cheerfully. “ and so can i,” said fairy. “ there's plenty there surely,” said arthur. “well, let's eat what there is, and then if we're hungry we must go home.” and the two set to work as fast as their little teeth would go, and soon made the provisions look decidedly small. arthur did not mean to eat much, but fairy, who was really a kind little girl, the search for the fairy queen. though at first she had been rather unwilling to go shares, made him eat his fair half. “so you believe in fairies ?” asked fairy scornfully. “you must be a milksop! why i've known for years and years that there were no such things! fancy going and looking for them too, and then dreaming of them. i expect you dreamt they made you fairy king, and all that rubbish, did you ?” arthur flushed, for like all other boys he hated to be made fun of. he drew himself up and looked away. then a pair of soft arms was thrown around him, and a merry voice said coaxingly :- “ did it tease it, then ? come, be friends, and then we'll go down to the river and gather rushes and make whistles.” arthur was mollified and graciously allowed fairy to kiss and make friends. then they set off to the river, the beautiful avon, which curves amongst the meadows, and by the banks of which stands the beautiful church of stratford. they strolled along the banks, and were often in great danger of falling in, so eager were they to gather the finest and most feathery rushes. fairy kept up a constant flow of chatter, the search for the fairy queen. and proved herself a most delightful companion, though she rather frightened arthur by her reck- lessness as she bent over the river to reach some coveted reed or flower. "why, you are a coward,” she said once, as arthur pulled her back when he thought she was in greater danger than usual. “ i'm not afraid for myself, but i am for you.” "oh that's all very well! it's just like a boy to pretend it's for the girl's sake he is so careful, when he is so frightened himself that he trembles all over. why, look,” she ended excitedly, “ here's some fun, here's a boat.”. and lightly as a fairy she jumped in. arthur followed her quietly, afraid to remonstrate lest he should again be called a coward, and yet thinking how grieved his mother would be at his doing what he knew was wrong. “now i'll be columbus going to discover america, and you can be-oh! i don't know—well let's see! oh, you can be the crew,” she cried in great glee. “you must do just as i tell you, or i shall clap you into irons." the poor crew sat in the stern feeling very frightened and uncomfortable. he began to think of his mother and what she would say. the search for the fairy queen. “ now,” said columbus, “take an oar, and let's get to america as quickly as we can.” arthur obediently took an oar, but splashed fairy all over, and nearly fell into the water himself. “ you are clumsy,” remarked fairy. “i shan't try any more,” retorted arthur, crossly. “now you are mutinying, and i shall clap you into irons,” and she jumped up in a threatening manner, glaring ferociously at the crew. from the bottom of the boat she picked up a piece of string and fastened his hands together, the crew offering no resistance. indeed, the boat was going along so rapidly that he was afraid if he struggled it would capsize, and they would be drowned. “oh, fairy,” he began. “call me columbus, please," she interrupted sternly, drawing the string more tightly round his wrists. “well then, columbus, don't you think it would be nice to think we had got to america, and to land now and go and hunt lions or tigers ?” “now you are showing what a lot you know the search for the fairy queen. about geography. why america is miles away. the truth is you're afraid of being upset.” “well, so i am!” said the poor handcuffed crew, “and we shall be soon, if you jump about like that,” for mischievous fairy was making the boat rock about in a most alarming manner. “ fairy !” “ columbus, please!” “ columbus, have you a mother at home?” “no," answered columbus, “she died years ago.” “well, have you nobody who will be awfully sorry when you are carried home all dead and wet, drowned, you know?”. columbus gazed at the crew with much contempt. “ does it want to go home to its mammy, then ?” she said scornfully. “ yes i do. come, fairy-.”. “now,” said columbus severely, “ you shall be clapped into more irons for speaking to me so disrespectfully. how dare you call me anything but columbus or captain!” and she stamped her foot impatiently. then with another piece of string she securely fastened his feet together. the stream was flowing with such rapidity that the search for the fairy queen. every moment the boat was near upsetting. suddenly it was caught by the current and whirled against the opposite bank. the shock caused it to upset, and with a terrified shriek both children fell into the water. when next fairy opened her eyes, she was lying in her own little bed at home. “ have i been dreaming ?” she exclaimed. a figure advanced from the open window. it was fairy's father's housekeeper. she came towards the bed with a glad kind smile on her face. "i am so glad you are better, dear. now i will get you some broth to drink, and you will be ready to run about again,” and mrs. freshman hurried from the room. then mr. thorne, fairy's father, came in and kissed his little daughter lovingly. “my fairy is feeling better now,' he said. "oh yes, i am quite better! what has been the matter ?” she answered. the father patted the golden head. “here is mrs. freshman with your broth. drink it, and then go to sleep. we will talk when you wake." fairy drank the broth and then lay down again. the search for the fairy queen. mrs. freshman drew down the blind, and she and mr. thorne quietly left the room. no sooner had they left than the church bells began to toll slowly and solemnly for some dead person. fairy listened at first without paying particular attention, then all the circumstances of the day before flashed into her memory. the nice timid little boy, the picnic, the walk by the bank, and last of all the voyage in the boat, and the cold, cold water, as it closed over her. what had become of arthur ? boom! boom! slowly tolled the bell. then the horrible thought came into her mind. had he been carried home “all dead and wet, drowned, you know” as he had said ? oh, no! it was too dreadful to think of, and fairy began to count the flowers on the wall-paper, to think of something else. but it was no good! boom boom! went the church-bell, and fairy could think of nothing but arthur's face as he begged her to land. so excited did poor fairy become, that when mrs. freshman crept into the room to see if she slept, she was chattering deliriously, and tossing feverishly on her little bed. بیمه ها en لها ما * رب . میل ۔ ۔ م . - then arthur told her the whole story. the search for the fairy queen. w jumping into the water, he swam to the spot, and was just in time to catch the golden hair as it rose again. as he did so, he noticed what seemed a bundle of clothes lying at the bottom of the clear water, so throwing the little girl quickly on to the bank, he dived to the bottom and drew to the surface the senseless and, as he thought at first, dead, form of little arthur gordon, with his hands and feet tightly bound together. he called to a labourer who was passing at a few yards’ distance, and they carried the children to their homes. for a long time it was thought that arthur would die, but he gradually grew better, and was able to tell the whole story of their escapade. fairy was ill longest, because she had brought on fever by worrying over the fate of arthur. “but i thought you must be dead when i heard the bell tolling, and remembered that father would not talk to me about you just then. then i remembered what you had said about being taken home to your mother, dead. will she ever for- give me, do you think?”. "oh, yes,” answered arthur, quickly. “why, she is awfully sorry about you, and has sent to inquire after you ever so many times a day. the bell was tolling for old mrs. scarecrow." r the search for the fairy queen. “and will you forgive me, arthur? you told me the fairies in your dream had tormented you, but the real fairy, me, you know, has nearly killed you. if you will forgive me and be friends i will always be a good kind fairy to you, all my life.” arthur kissed the pale face lovingly, and declared that he had nothing to forgive. fairy kept the promise which she then made, and was always arthur's staunch friend and ally ; she learnt to look up to him in all things, and thought there never was any one so wise and brave as he was. for she now knew that those who think of the trouble they may cause their fathers and mothers are far braver and nobler than those who do things for fun which may bring sorrow and distress on those they love. although she always loved to tease, yet she never wilfully hurt his feelings as she had done that day. as for arthur, he thought there was in the whole world no one so charming, so sweet and merry, as his fairy queen, as he always called her, and always declared that his search that mid- summer day for the fairy queen was not in vain, for he had found a daintier lovelier fairy than even shakespeare had ever dreamt of, great poet though he was. evelyn ingleby. the poem of life. sia ) v n that golden and far away period of the world's history commonly known as "once upon a time,” there lived a young man, who was a poet. this poet had made a great number of dec songs, and some of them were so sweet, that all who heard them were melted to tears. yet he was not satisfied, but longed to produce some greater work than any- thing he had yet attempted. “i will write the poem of life,” he said, so he set out to journey all over the world, that he might write the poem of life. he went first to the land where the sun rises, and went into a garden where little children were at play. it was the most beautiful garden he had ever seen in his life. all the flowers were pure white, and white birds perched upon the branches of the trees, and sang sweeter songs than he had ever heard before. all about the garden, up and down its white walks, little the poem of life. children came and went, and they all wore robes of spotless white, and carried tall stems of white lilies in their hands, and the poet said “this shall be the first canto of my poem.” so he put the children and the white garden into the poem of life, and then he went upon his way. he went on towards the land where it is noon. as he passed along the road, he saw many people, and he put them all into the poem. boys and girls at study and at play, they made one canto. another was made up of youths and maidens, who loved and were loved again ; and when this one was finished he came to the land where it is noon. here everything was very different from the lands he had yet seen, there were no white flowers, and all the trees were a dark and sober green. the people in this land seemed to be very busy, many wore faces of anxious thought; many were hurrying to and fro about their work, and here and there he saw one who had fainted and fallen by the roadside through heat and weariness. after that he went through many lands, and added many cantos to his poem, and at last he drew near to the country where the sun sets ; he felt very tired, and some- ioo the poem of life. how he began to be dissatisfied with the work, which before had given him so much pleasure, and he turned over again the pages of his poem of life, and he found many parts which he wished he had never written, and he tried to blot them out, but could not, for verses written in the poem of life must stand for ever. he entered the land where the sun sets, and went into a house to write the last canto. an old man lay upon a bed in the house, he was dying, and his friends stood weeping round the bed. the poet went on writing, and the old man drew his breath more and more feebly, and as the last line was written they carried him out to bury him. and the poem of life was ended. the poet went out and stood by the grave, and he felt very sad to think this must be the end. a bird flew over his head; and an acorn fell from its beak, and dropped upon the grave; and thinking little of what he did, he pressed it with his foot into the earth, and then he turned away and went back to his own home. but as he went he began to feel that somehow this might not be the end ; and when people asked him if his poem of life was finished, he would shake his head sadly and say, “not yet, not yet.” and after a time laco the poem of life. ioi his answer grew to be, “no, it is only just begun,” and he wandered about the world trying to find more verses, but try as he would he could not finish the poem. and he grew old and white- headed, and it was unfinished still. at last one day he came again to the land where the sun sets, and he went and stood by the grave of that old man who had been buried years before, when the last verse of the poem of life had been written. when he looked at the place he was surprised to see a flourishing young tree growing over the grave, and he wondered by whose hands it had been planted, for he was sure it had not been there when he stood there before. he felt a light touch upon his arm, and turning he saw standing beside him a beautiful woman dressed in white. “who are you?” he asked wonderingly. “my name is faith,” she said. “do you not remember pressing an acorn into the soil here, many years ago ?” “yes,” he said, “i remember now, though i had forgotten it.” the woman touched his eyes and bade him look out across the world and tell her what he saw. “i see,” he said, “the country where it is ce me. · the court of queen dab. o little may took up her basket, and with the last words of the fairy tale ringing in her ears, ran as fast as she could down the country lane towards her home. sw little may was an orphan, and she o lived at the farm over the hill with her aunt, who kept house for her big brother until he would be old enough to marry and bring home a wife of his own to look after him. generally may's afternoons were very dull and lonely, for her aunt was very busy, and she had no one to look after her. but this afternoon she had been up to the doctor's, and had played in the meadow with his children, little girl com- panions of her own age. and when the twilight began to creep up over the bright blue sky, she had gone home with them and had had tea in the nursery. and mrs. ridley, the doctor's wife, had told them a fairy tale. such a beautiful tale it was; all about fairy queens and hobgoblins, and ooiis v vere the court of queen mab. merry little fairy sprites who ran up and down all over the earth, and played such merry pranks, that one laughed at them until tears ran down one's cheeks. and then when mrs. ridley had finished, it was time for may to go home. so she ran off as quickly as she could, with the last words ringing in her ears, and her mind completely filled with visions and pictures of fairy life. arriving home, she went straight up to bed. she did not wish to sit up and spoil her picture with everyday things, and the chatter of the servants in the kitchen, so off she went. “oh! dear,” she whispered to herself as she quickly undressed, “if only i could see a fairy, like the little girl in the story, i should be so happy!” and after she had said her prayers, she walked to the window, and stood in her little white night- gown, peeping out into the darkness to see if she could catch a glance of any of them. but no! the moon shone faintly from the dark sky, and little stars peeped timidly out to watch the dark waving shadows that were creeping on to the lawn and over the fields. timid grey rabbits scuttled hurriedly across the grass, and the little birds twittered softly as they the court of queen mab. prepared for bed—but no sign of the fairies. and with a sigh of disappointment, little may left the window, crept into her warm bed, and was soon asleep. she had not slept very long, however, before she woke to find the bright moonlight creeping softly through the blind into the room. little may sat up in bed and rubbed her eyes. the clock on the landing struck twelve. “oh!” said may, gladly, “this is the time the fairies dance. i won't go to sleep now, i will wait and see if they come.” so there she sat upon the bed. her golden curls all in confusion, and her blue eyes winking and blinking at the moonlight as she strove to keep awake. suddenly the sound of soft sweet music filled the room, and the light grew brighter and brighter. “ they are coming, they are coming,," whis- pered may to herself, gladly. “oh! i do hope that they will not go.” but may need not have feared, for just then there was a knock at the window, and in flew a little fairy. such a tiny little thing she was. may was the court of queen mab. almost afraid of moving for fear of frightening her away. but the fairy was quite bold, and she jumped lightly on to the bed and stood smiling at may. “are you the little girl who wished to see the fairies ?" she asked. “if so, come with me.” may smiled to herself at being called little by so tiny a creature, and the fairy seemed to guess her thoughts. “oh, you need not smile,” she said. “we do not care to be big. what is the use? one is only the more in the way, and besides i had to come in through the nick of the window, so i was obliged to be small. by-the-bye, you should always leave the window open if you wish to see the fairies, for some of us do not like squeezing through like that.” as she spoke she gently touched the glass with her tiny wand, and the window flew open immediately. “come along,” she said to may, holding out her tiny hand. “we must be quick or it will be too late.” may took the hand in her own, and with a little flutter, off they flew together into the open air. : the court of queen mab. “do not be afraid,” said the fairy, as may trembled to find herself flying swiftly over the fields. “you will be all right with me,—no one can harm the fairies, you know—and we shall soon be there." so may recovered her courage, and was soon able to see where they were going, and wondered a little, as she made out the familiar marks of the little town near where they lived. but they flew right over the town, and passed quickly on over miles and miles of country. and may's wonder grew into great astonishment as she saw the big towns and rivers rapidly fading behind them. oh! it was splendid to be with the fairies. “where are we going?” she asked, as they paused to rest a moment on a tall dome, which may recognised as belonging to st. paul's cathedral. she had seen the picture in her english history, and knew it in a moment. “we are going to the court of queen mab,” said the fairy. “you know, what with the fogs and rains, the climate here is so bad that we cannot live in england. and i hope i shall be no worse for my journey to-night,--but i am half afraid i have caught cold already.” may thought that if the fairy who was used to the court of queen mab. а) such journeys had taken cold, what would she do? for she had nothing on but her thin nightdress, and they had already come miles and miles. but she said nothing, and they passed on. over the sea, then on the land, away they went, and may could see and recognise the places she had read of in her geography. it was wonderful ! she had never dreamed that it would be like this. but the next time they paused, her heart misgave her. although they had come very quickly, it must have taken days and days to reach where they were resting. “what would they think at home?” “oh! it will be all right,” smiled the fairy reassuringly. “you know our days are quite different to the poor humans, and anyone can stay with us for years,—even for a life time, and go home to find he has never been missed, and all is going on as before." this restored little may's confidence, and shortly after they reached the fairy kingdom. oh! what a beautiful land it was. such a treat to may who had so longed to see it. everything was of course very tiny, but of the most beautiful. all the trees were lit up with the court of queen mab. tiny coloured lamps of wonderful colours. may knew then why they called the little lamps in the drawing room fairy lamps. and besides these coloured lights, there were lanterns, that threw lx aur the court of queen mab. out a brilliant illumination, and made night into day. all round, seated in circles on the soft green turf, were groups of fairies. some were dancing round in a circle, playing at the court of queen mab. iii "i thought everyone believed in fairies,” said may, but queen mab shook her head sadly. “no, dear, they do not. it is a sad reflection upon the age, of course, but none the less it is true. but they are glad to make use of us all the same, though, only they ascribe our power to other influences. not that we mind,” added queen mab. “we fairies only exist to do good, and as long as our work is well done we care not for thanks.” may thought the sentiments were very credit- able to the fairies, and very discreditable to the human race, and the queen, evidently pleased with her faith, went on to explain further. “you see,” she said, “if it were not for us the world would come to a standstill. it is we who look after the fields and the flowers; we who send them to sleep at night and wake them with the touch of our wands in the morning. we scatter our jewels and precious stones thickly upon the grass, but the poor blind people never heed them. and if they do see them they only say that they are dew drops. poor things! they know no better, and really a diamond is very like a dew drop. then again we look after the birds, the insects, and the butterflies. we . ii the court of queen mab. feed them, and we colour their wings with rich clothing that the earth cannot match. we store up the honey in the bee-hives, we ripen the berries on the fruit trees, but the people only talk about the weather, and never heed us. “then, again, look what we do for the children. it is we who watch over the baby when he sleeps. we sing to him softly, and he smiles, and when we leave him he cries, but the poor silly mother only talks about his teeth, and never thinks that it is for us he is fretting. “and all over the world we fly about ; fitting hither and thither to look after the people who cannot do without us. we watch over the poor ragged orphans and make them dream of a mother's love and a father's care. we bring the kind clergyman round to the doorway where they are sleeping, and he looks after them because we tell him to do so. and it is we who tend to the old people when they are fading away. we sit close to them, and whisper in their ears little words about those far off days long since passed away. we comfort them with recollections of their young days and with pictures of scenes of long ago. oh yes! we are very busy in the world. but'the people ascribe our work to other the court of queen mab. may took the wand, and the fairies gathered round her and kissed her hands. “see!” said queen mab. “they greet you as one of themselves. sleep now, little girl, and in the morning rise and do your duty.” she waved her wand thrice, and may sank on to the soft grass, and in a moment was fast asleep. when she awoke it was broad daylight, and she was once more safe in her own warm bed. by her side lay a branch of sweet smelling honey- suckle, which she knew was her wand. when may told her adventures to her aunt, she laughed and said that may had been dreaming. but the little girl shook her head. she knew the fairies had been with her, and she never forgets her promise to queen mab, but uses her wand most lovingly. herbert lloyd. the princess pulcherissima. tcvojoudvate dovodoo odoc - ie princess pouted : she wrinkled up her chin and stuck out her pretty lips, and, now and then, patted the couch petulantly with her foot. her white forehead was dinted by a deep frown, and there was at least a suspicion of tears about the long dark lashes and the big dark eyes. there could be no mistake about it: the princess was terribly put out, inso- much that all the great lords and great ladies standing around the royal couch felt little like smiling, though, as in duty bound, they smiled their best. the fact was, the princess had been greatly disappointed. for the first time in her life, she had been thwarted; for the very first time in all her life, things had not turned out exactly as she desired. it was no great matter that had gone wrong—no state affair, nothing affecting the welfare of her people. that indeed might have been borne with equanimity. it was the princess pulcherissima. but a little thing—a trivial personal affair. but that, of course, made it so hard to bear. and that all her ministers had practically, as far as they dared, foretold exactly what had happened made it doubly aggravating. they had said (not of course, in so many words) that if she did so- and-so, such-and-such a thing would probably happen ; she had persisted in doing so-and-so, and such-and-such a consequence had followed. it was insupportable. so the poor princess pouted and frowned, and tapped with petulant foot, and was very miserable indeed, honestly believing herself the most hardly-used person in the whole wide world. and all the courtiers stood around in ill-concealed trepidation (for the princess was a very absolute. monarch)—daring to speak but in the softest of whispers, and to cast only the swiftest side glances at their ruler. after a while-after the princess had tossed for a time feverishly among the luxurious cushions of the great canopied couch, darting, now and then, angry flashes (from eyes that quivered with tears) at the ministers and courtiers—her royal highness yawned. she yawned somewhat violently, twice. the consternation of the courtiers increased; they looked at each other reproachfully, the princess pulcherissima. for there are many legends in bolaria about the dreadful things that happen to unhappy attendants who permit a monarch to yawn so many times in broad daylight. so the mistress of the blue boudoir, the lord high crimson cushion, the keeper of the couch, the blue sticks in waiting, and all the chamberlains, and lords and ladies, and maids and pages—they all, with one accord, turned dismayed and angry countenances towards each other. one person only did not share their distress, but even she gazed at the princess with something like anxiety. she was the dowager-duchess of the don, an old old lady, and as wise as she was aged. she was the princess's most immediate attendant : the person who was most nearly intimate with her. she knew all those old legends, and knew how much of them to believe ; for she also knew the truth. she had no fear, but still it was with the deepest interest that she watched the princess. as she watched, the corners of the royal mouth were drawn down convulsively, the big eyes closed, and the princess yawned again. the dowager-duchess knew that she had reached a crisis in her life. “pulcherissima !” sounded a voice-a tiny the princess pulcherissima. voice, yet clear and distinct-as though close to the princess's ear, “look, pulcherissima!” the princess was startled and indignant, and wondered who had dared to take so great a liberty. “look, pulcherissima! look!” the voice commanded, and the princess, fairly aroused, turned her eyes toward the right corner of the satin cushion, “look, pulcherissima!” said the audacious voice once more. and the princess did look, and she saw, sitting comfortably upon the cushion, the tiniest, wee-est, weeniest little woman yoụ could imagine, dressed all in gauzy garments. it was, of course, a fairy : in a land like bolaria, where fairies are so common (many having fled thither from more matter-of-fact countries) it did not take the princess long to discover that. nor did it take her long either to be sure—though she had never previously seen her—that this little person was her fairy god- mother, from whom she had received her seventeenth name, carita. the fairy carita had a tiny wand that glinted and irradiated like a pure diamond, and with this she touched the princess lightly upon the forehead. instantly, all the curly-wigged courtiers faded away, and all the paintings and tapestries, the the princess pulcherissima. heavy hangings and delicate decorations, of the great blue boudoir vanished; the princess felt the cool breath of the evening air upon her cheek, and in place of rich odours and subdued chatter came the scent of pine-trees and the evensong of birds and insects. instead of the rustling of silk and satin she only heard the occasional crack of a branch or the soft thump of a fir-cone as it tumbled to the ground. the princess found her- self sitting in a little clearing in a forest, and she could see the redness of the sunset between the straight and slender stems. she was just a little frightened at first, so that, when she heard the voice at her ear once more, it seemed very friendly and reassuring. “look again, pulcherissima- look through the trees," it said. she obeyed, but could see nothing, though a strange sound fell upon her ears. it was like the note of a bird, but it was not a bird ; a sound shrill, but sweet, and sustained it was, and it rose and sank, and formed a tune that the princess knew and liked. it was the first time the princess had ever heard anyone whistling. she stretched her head forward eagerly to discover whence the sound came, and she saw someone advancing along the narrow forest-path. it was a man, whose the princess pulcherissima. oarse form was outlined against the ruddy sky. he carried a cross-bow over his shoulder, and a little dog ran hither and thither around his feet, snuffing about amongst the fallen needles. the man's head was bent and she could not see his face; but, as he emerged into her little patch of daylight, she noticed that he was bravely dressed. some impulse made her glance at her own dress as she noticed this, and lo, in place of the splendid silks she had worn but a moment before in the palace, she was clothed in a gown of homely coarse material. in the midst of her surprise, and a sudden terror that seized her at finding herself alone for the very first time in all her life, the little dog ran sniffing towards her, whilst the man—the young man, as she knew, somehow, that he was—strode, still whistling, across the clearing. looking down at the dog, she found that she had neither shoes nor stockings, and so she hung her head still lower, and her cheeks burnt terribly. the little dog did not bark, but looked at her, with one ear and one foot raised in- quiringly. she dared not lift her eyes even so high as the little beast, which, however, came up to her and licked one of her hands. when she drew it away he jumped upon her lap. she saw i the princess pulcherissima. sticks, whose smoke sometimes escaped through a hole in the roof, and sometimes curled in thick rolls around the wall, and filed swiftly through the doorway. the princess would gladly have followed it, but something seemed to prevent her. she tried to summon to her aid her customary commanding tones and looks. but they wouldn't come. all she could do was to stand and stare in astonishment at the woman, who simply scolded her again. then there came a gruff voice from the table. “sulky?" it said, en- quiringly. turning her eyes in that direction, the princess saw a man, who, roughly dressed as he was, and with thick and matted hair and beard, bore the same fleeting resemblance to her lords as the woman did to her ladies. “sulky, eh?” he growled. “give her her supper, mother, the supper for the sulky ones, and let her be.” and the woman fetched a crust, so hard that, when she tossed it at the princess, it hurt her where it hit, and cried, “she may fetch water for herself.” the princess, having struggled in vain to express her horror and indignation, had sunk upon the filthy floor, and she sat there in the darkest corner, with the crust upon her lap, and all that she could do was to sob softly. the princess pulcherissima. the man and the woman talked to each other for a while, and sometimes glanced at her and called her “sulky," and when it was quite dark the man took up an axe and set out. the woman, soon after, without another word to the princess, lay down and went to sleep, and snored. all the time, the poor princess crouched and quivered in the corner. she was so bewildered and so terrified. how had all this come about? who was she? with whom had she changed places ? and why? she must be dreaming. but the smoke and the smell and the snores seemed too terribly real. she crouched there and cried quietly, and asked herself these questions over and over again. but she could get no satisfactory reply. that it was some of the fairy carita's doing she felt sure. but why had she-her godmother-treated her thus ? she called to her, and kept on asking "why?” and crying, until at last she fell asleep. she had a most beautiful dream. she was a princess again, and sitting upon her throne. before her was a vast throng of her people, who cheered her joyously, and cried “ long live our beautiful princess !” the sun shone gloriously, and her heart danced within her, vas a the princess pulcherissima. and swelled with pleasure and exultation. she turned her eyes with a smile towards her left- hand side, where another throne stood, upon which a man was sitting—a young man, lithe and strong. she was raising her eyes to his face, when she woke up with a convulsive sob. the woman was stirring, and a grey cold light peered dimly in at the doorway. without, the birds were shaking themselves and uttering a sleepy chirp or two, and strange sounds came at moments as from a distance. the woman cried “now, my girl! out and about !” and the princess rose with a kind of stupefied submission, and did what the woman told her. so the morning passed, the princess obeying the woman, and doing this, that, and the other. at noon-day they had a coarse and frugal meal, and in the afternoon—whilst the woman lay down- the tired princess was sent into the forest to gather sticks. she was so very tired and so very frightened that she did not wander far from the clearing. her back ached with the stooping, and her bare feet hurt so. it was dreadfully hot, and at every sound she started and her heart stopped still. greatly as she loathed the hut and its occupants, she felt less lonely—and it was vas the princess pulcherissima. si- so very, very lonely out there in the forest—when she knew that she was near to it. she went along, from spot to spot, gathering the prince of parajana. the dried twigs and little sticks, until at last she felt that she could do so no longer, she must rest awhile. so she sank down, and began again to wonder wearily at this terrible change in her lot, the princess pulcherissima. and to ask why it should be so. but only for a little while, for she was soon in a sound and dreamless sleep. she felt something cold upon her hand, and, as she started up in terror, she heard a sound that she recognised. her heart beat furiously, but the cool and gentle evening breeze, once more fanning her cheeks, seemed to soothe her. the little black dog once again leapt into her lap, and she sat up and listened to the whistling ; the tune was the same, and floated towards her in vibratory cadences. the little dog licked her hand again and looked up into her face before he scampered off. when he had gone, she crept towards the clearing, and from there could catch glimpses of the lithe, strong figure, as glints from the setting sun fell upon his back. when he was out of sight and the sound of the whistling had died away, she sat down again and sighed. by and bye, the woman came out from the hut, and rated her more fiercely than before for her idleness. she pushed her, still scolding, into the cottage. “idle, eh?” said the man, who again sat at the rude table, “then let her eat the bread of idleness,” and, as he threw her another hard crust, they both laughed uproariously. the as roman the princess pulcherissima. evening passed much as did the previous one. the princess cried quietly, and wondered why this cruel change had come upon her, until once more she fell asleep. this time, when she dreamed, she was sitting at her council ; her ministers were seated below her, and each wore his most congratulatory smile. as one began to read an address, her pleased eyes again turned towards her left, and there was the strong lithe figure. she raised them slowly, and, as she did so, the scene vanished, and she again awoke in the dismal hut. the morning of this third day passed like its predecessor, and in the afternoon she was again sent out to search for sticks. this time she kept awake and hovered about the clearing, listening all the while for the whistling. she wondered why she did so, and it struck her that never, when she was a princess, had she cared about anything so much. but then everything was so different now. so she strained her ears to catch the sound. so eager was she to catch that particular sound that she didn't hear the woman when she came upon her. something had put her into a better humour, and the princess, as she saw, had a fairly big bundle of sticks. the princess pulcherissima. across the beautiful expanse of country towards the distant hills behind which he was slowly dropping. just then she was conscious that she was leaning upon an arm, and as she moved her head a little it rested upon a shoulder. she looked down, and as she saw the figure beside her she said to herself merrily, “i will see your face this time!" immediately a voice said, “ don't be too sure !” and a merry laugh followed, and just as she swiftly lifted her eyes the whole scene vanished. for the next. nine afternoons the princess strove to catch a glimpse of the whistler's face ; she was always almost successful, but never quite so. something always occurred to frustrate her desire. sometimes she saw him pass with bent head, and she was too far away to observe his face, and at others when she was nearer she did not see him at all until his back was turned. she found herself trying various little tricks in order to see his face—stationing herself at this or that point in the forest that she expected him to pass, but she never got to quite the right spot, for when she heard him he had always gone beyond her. but the little dog always came to her, and looked at her intelligently, and licked the princess pulcherissima. her hand when she stroked his head. in her dreams-she was a princess again every night- she found an equal difficulty in seeing the face of the man who was always beside her. so she had ceased attempting to do so. she liked the dreams so much that, in order not to end them so soon, she no longer looked higher than the lace ruffles that hung before the man's throat. if it had not been for the dreams she would almost have ceased to wonder at her greatly altered con- dition. she had ceased bitterly bemoaning it. she had practically accepted it. there was so much to do—especially in the afternoons. when she did stop to ask herself about anything it was about this new feeling of curiosity to discover the whistling man's appearance that seemed to be filling her mind all day long. she had never before been so curious about anything, but then, of course, she had always had everything she wanted, just when she wanted it. and this other feeling of expectancy, too: kings and queens had visited her in the old days, and she had never been so thrilled beforehand as she was by the mere hope of seeing a strong and lithe man's face. why, she actually trembled with expectancy! on the tenth morning, she was busily engaged the princess pulcherissima. before the hut with a pail of water when she became conscious of a step. looking up hastily, she saw immediately that it was the whistler himself. she noticed that he was carrying the little dog in his arms. she had looked no further when he spoke. “maiden,” he said, "where is the good woman of this cottage ?” the princess could not answer; she had half-risen, and then had sunk down again upon her knees, her cheeks burned and her ears tingled. as for her eyes, she—who, young as she was, had met the greatest and wisest in the world face to face- dared not, could not raise them from her own red reflection in the pail. “will you not tell me? ” the man asked again. but she could neither speak nor look. “my little dog, whom i love, is hurt,” he said. she managed to utter a little sympathetic “oh!” “i want some fresh clean water for its wound,” he continued, “is there any near ?” “ – ," was all that she could say, and she seized a little vessel lying near, and ran off to the stream to fill it. so many thoughts and sensations rushed across her that she hardly knew whether she thought or felt at all. this inexplicable sense of shame, her inability to gratify her longing and look at the ense the princess pulcherissima. man, disappointment and anger with herself, her bad behaviour and uncouth appearance, pity for her little friend the dog, and a hundred other feelings, came across her. as she was stooping to dip up the water she became conscious that the man had followed her. she determined that she would look boldly at him, but his head was bent over the wounded animal, and she could only see the top of his cap, and when he raised his head her eyes went swiftly down. “thank you,” he said, as she passed the basin towards him, and he knelt down and began to bathe the little injured foot. “will you hold the basin for me?” he asked, and she took it, she could not move away somehow. after he had carefully tended the poor foot, he said, “ can you take him for a minute ?” she put him on her lap, and gave another little sympathetic cry as the poor thing began, friendly, to lick her hand. the man had pulled off a piece of linen, and when she spoke, looked up. he looked at her keenly, and she raised her eyes to his for a second, and then they went on doctoring the dog. they walked back afterwards to the clearing, and when they reached it he thanked the maiden and went away slowly without whistling. the princess pulcherissima. from that night she ceased to dream of herself as a princess, but sometimes she dreamt of the face she had now seen, and that it looked at a poor peasant girl. she had indeed ceased altogether thinking of herself as a princess at all, short as the time was since she had pouted in the blue boudoir. she did her hard work cheerfully, and often sang over it-a certain tune; and she was always sure to see the young man (quite young he was, and very handsome) in the afternoons, and he often whistled—a certain tune. he used to nod at first and tell her how the dog was, and he used to look at her big, dark eyes. then, later, when they encountered each other some way from the clearing (and she had, you know, to go further and further afield-in one direction though-to find the firewood), they would walk back together, and, by-and-bye, they would rest by the way, and sit beside each other, and then he would help her with her load. she certainly was the most curious peasant girl he had seen : with that face and manner of speech, and he was the first young man she had ever known. one day the peasant saw them side by side in the wood—they didn't see him—and he chuckled. “ho, ho!” the princess pulcherissima. he laughed. “ prince and peasant lass !” and he grinned again ; and when she came home he took her by the ears, not roughly, and stared laughing at her, but she couldn't look at him and had to run away. why, she didn't know ; just as she didn't know why she was so bright and happy, nor why she met the young man every day, and would be very sorry-dreadfully sorry—if they didn't meet. the next time she did meet him (which was the following afternoon), he was, clearly, very much agitated. he walked beside her without uttering a word; his brow was knit, and a thoughtful, not to say angry, expression was on his face. “let's sit down," he said at last, and then, for a while, he only picked up the fir-cones, and threw them moodily before him. “i've got to go away, i can't come here any more,” he said at last, abruptly. she gave a quick gasp, but nothing more. "what a beast i am!” he exclaimed, “to treat you so!” and he got up and walked up and down, whilst she sat there colourless and power- less. at last he stopped and looked at her earnestly, then he ran towards her, and cried vehemently. “no! i won't! i will not!” the princess pulcherissima. “pulcherissima!” said the voice, and turning her eyes aside idly, they were met by other eyes, just discernible in the darkness. they were not the dog's eyes, though exactly like them, and wearing the same intelligent expression. no, these belonged to tiny carita, who was standing once more by her ear, in her gauzy garments. “pulcherissima,” she said, “awake and look,” and she touched her again between the eyes with the irradiescent wand. the princess opened her eyes, and lo, she was lying in her bed—the great golden bed, with its crown-surmounted canopy and heavy looped-up curtains. there were strange scents in the darkened chamber, and there were whispering voices and tip-toe foot-falls, and softly rustling dresses. the princess lay still and tried to collect her thoughts. why was she here? how long was it since she had left the forest ? and how had she been brought back to the palace? then she recollected the day—so long, long ago it seemed —when she had been so much put out, and had sulked in the blue boudoir. she remembered how she had then declared “i am the most miserable person in the world; the poorest the princess pulcherissima. peasant girl is happier than ,” and had wished that she were a peasant girl. at this remembrance she stirred a little, and “oh, princess! sweet princess !” came the voice of the dowager duchess, as she seized her hand. “at last you are yourself again! how we have waited for this sign! how we have watched whilst you have lain there!” the princess could not speak, but lay there quietly—thinking, thinking, thinking. she had not been really ill, though she had been seized with a sudden and complete faint that had lasted for an hour. the next day she did the duties that fell to her, and passed through the pleasures devised for her in a quiet, listless way. the duties she attended to with almost painful care, and for the pleasures she expressed a chilly thankfulness. but she was pre-occupied, and (some said) sad. still she would smile, sometimes, as she lay among the cushions on the couch, and the dowager duchess -wise old woman—noted the smile and the sadness, and shook her head and wondered. “we shall have,” she said to the prime minister, “to find a husband for our princess.” “ah, but where?” exclaimed the minister. “true,” said the princess pulcherissima. the duchess, “where, indeed?” so the days passed on now, when the princess dreamed, she was a peasant girl again, and heard the whistler's notes come welling through the wood; and they sat together once more at the foot of a fir-pillar, and the air was aromatic with the forest smells. she could feel his gaze bent upon her, and though her own eyes were downcast, she knew each flash of expression that flew to his handsome face. she was very content. but there were always darker circles now around her big dark eyes, and her cheeks had no colour. “she has been weeping ” her ladies said. she was taken to her garden palace that stood on the very confines of her country, and she liked there to sit where the breeze bore the pine-trees' scent down from the mountains. she would stay there as much alone as possible, and gaze across the valley towards the dark green hills. “ he is found,” said the prime minister, one day, to the dowager-duchess. she turned towards him, and raised her eyebrows inquiringl;. “he is found,” the statesman repeated significantly. “and he is?” the duchess asked. “the prince of parajana," said the premier, with quiet triumph. the princess pulcherissima. “ you have seen him?" she demanded. “it is all arranged,” the prime minister replied. “it must not be done suddenly,” said the duchess thoughtfully, “it must be quietly and gently done.” and the old diplomatist smiled and nodded. this was an alliance much desired in bolaria. a few days later, the dowager-duchess again encountered the minister, and could see that he was perturbed. “well,” she said. he was striding in his purple velvet robe, up and down the long council chamber; he stopped beside her, and with a frown said, “ not well!” “ah,” she said, “the prince ?”, “precisely. the prince. his royal highness absolutely declines to enter the palace. he has, throughout, been adverse, but then he is young and we thought to conquer that. he had not seen our princess. by various cunning means he has been led as far as the border. but there he stays. for three days he and his followers have stuck there.” and the old man frowned again. “ah, well,” said the lady quietly, touching his arm with her fingers. “a drive of a few miles would do our princess good.” and they smiled rather slyly. they strolled out of the palace too, and by seen as the princess pulcherissima. degrees arrived at the princess's favourite place. but the princess wasn't there. the place was deserted and silent, except for the incessant barking of a dog, a short way off. they stood and looked across the smiling valley, to the blue hills of paragana. “ there," said the premier, “is where he is,” and he pointed to the centre of the valley. “but what is happening there? who is that ?” asked the duchess anxiously, pointing in the direction from which the sound of the dog was coming. “that !” exclaimed the minister, “ that's the princess !” she was kneeling upon the ground, close to a little copse, not far below them. a small black dog was dancing around her and barking joyfully. they could see that her eyes were bright, and her breast heaved ; and she caught up the little animal and kissed it, and pressed it to her. the astonished premier, when he was able, made a movement forward, remarkably rapid for so old a man. but then he stopped again, and the old lady stepped up to him. they were now quite near, but hidden from the princess by the copse, and they looked at each other, as they saw her strange, extravagant behaviour. some one, they could hear, was trampling and the princess pulcherissima. crushing through the copse. someone who, now and then, called and whistled. when this sound reached her, the princess dropped the little dog, and her eyes grew brighter than before. she held her hand to her left side, as she in her eager- ness rose, and half-crawled and stumbled towards the copse. the minister was about to make a movement towards her, when a man parted the branches immediately before her, and scrambled out. he evidently didn't see her, and she fell backwards, supporting herself by her right arm. he seized the little dog, and called it by its name, but it struggled and slipped from him, and ran barking back to the princess, whom now he saw. he staggered and uttered a cry, and she, laughing and crying both, waved her left hand in an aimless way towards him. then he looked at her again eagerly, and just as she extended both her arms, he dashed forward, and caught her up in his, as though she were a feather. the bewildered minister led the still more bewildered duchess away. “the prince!” he cried, “ the prince himself!" not such a very long time afterwards, there were two thrones set up in a magnificent voudoljube ooooo (coc weeg lord tharry's ghost. he "elizabeth” was a barge that glided lazily along a pretty winding river, carrying coal from the busy seaport at the mouth of this same river to a sleepy town several miles inland. had the bargeman and his wife been of a poetical or artistic turn of mind, many were the joys they might have experienced as they passed through the lovely english country from one town to the other. the bargeman, however, preferred to lounge in the cabin smoking and drinking, while the wife devoted her time and attention to guiding the barge or scolding the small boy, whose duties on board that barge were of every kind and variety. jack was not a lazy boy, and did not mind having plenty of work to do, but still he often wished for a scramble through the meadows which skirted the silver river. he had heard of wondrous birds' eggs of every imaginable size and hue, of glorious flowers, and graceful ferns and grasses, of rabbits and hares, of ere lord harry's ghost. sweet berries and nuts from the woods, and his whole soul yearned to see and taste for himself the pleasures of a country ramble. several times had he made this same journey on the “elizabeth,” but never yet had he been spared for even a short hour to stretch his legs on the green sward on the banks of the river. “what should we do,” the bargeman had said when jack once timidly suggested that he should love to go a - birdnesting, “while you went a-gallivanting? i expect you would like to see me a-swabbing of this 'ere deck, and the missis a-stoking the fire. not for joe, young man, so there.” the bargeman, having delivered himself of this decisive speech, returned to his pipe and beer, and jack was obliged for the present to forego his little jaunt. one day, however, the bargeman was sleeping the sleep of those who have drunk a little too freely, and “his missis ” was in a more agreeable mood than the lady usually indulged in. little jack, thinking that now was his chance, asked her permission to jump on the bank and have a little walk. the lady assented, and jack made his escape before she had a chance to change her mind. the amiable moods of the bargeman's lord harry's ghost. missis, it may be mentioned, were few and far between, and of very short duration. when jack felt the soft grass beneath his feet as he leaped from the barge to the bank, they were just passing a fine old hall which stood on a slight hill, with meadows sloping to the water's edge. parts had fallen down, parts were built of roughest stone, but some of the building looked well preserved, though broken windows and smokeless chimneys proved that even the best parts were uninhabited. so grand in its age and desolation looked the mansion that jack gazed at it in awe, only half understanding his feelings of admiration for its beauty, and pity for its neglect. jack's home in the seaport they had just left consisted of a bare garret in a tumble-down old house, where his old grandmother sat all day, being too rheumatic and infirm for any work, but living on a small sum weekly paid her by the parish and on the wages of her little grandson. jack had forgotten the cottage where he was born, and where his father and mother had both died of the same fever, and so he never wished for a better home. it certainly never entered his touzled golden head that such a noble building as the one before him might be someone's home. lord harry's ghost. “it must be an old workhouse or an asylum, perhaps," he thought to himself. he ran towards it, and began eagerly peering about. the gardens were wild and neglected, weeds abounding on all sides, even sprouting from the grey old walls. he made a circuit of the whole building, and, peeping into the windows where blinds were not pulled down, noticed great lofty rooms with old oaken furniture, floors, and walls, relieved with tarnished gilt. everything was old, old, old. the dreariness and desolation of the place so worked on the boy's spirits that he trembled with fright and excitement, and turned to run away. a shrill, cracked voice, calling “ boy, boy,” stopped him, however. he turned, and saw at the great, clumsy-looking door of the back premises, an old woman standing. such an old woman, with bent back and a wizened, wrinkled old face! she waved jack towards her with a stout, formidable-looking stick. jack had a wholesome awe of such a weapon, and, though he slowly advanced towards the dame, he still held himself ready to duck his head and dodge the stick, should the old lady show any desire to bring it down on him. the old woman, guessing his fear, said in her lord harry's ghost. high, old voice, at the same time looking in a kindly way at the small boy with the golden head :-“ you need not be afraid of my stick, little boy, for did i wish to hurt you, which i do not, i think i should be no match for those sturdy legs.” jack cautiously approached nearer. “come in, come in, little man, and i will see if i have any cake and milk.” this suggestion quite won over small jack, and he entered the large old-fashioned kitchen without more ado. as the old woman trotted about finding the promised cake and milk, to which she added several rosy-cheeked apples, jack sat uncomfort- ably on the extreme corner of a slippery, highly- polished, wooden chair. however, under the influence of the food and the kindly glance of the old woman, he began to feel more at his ease, and was soon giving her a full account of his young life. the boy shewed his contented mind and happy disposition by dwelling much more on the kindness of his old grandmother, the sweetness of his sunday school teacher, the rough good- humour of his “guvnor and missis” of the barge when not excited by drink, than on the hardness w piala .. icmenet. i te teile ' . assine ton w jolin wirst bceworthy eztebetes te ja sailor ' the old hall. lord harry's ghost. over again sad and sorrowful scenes ; she shook her head from side to side as though at the memory of wicked deeds, whilst her stick softly tapped the flagged floor. jack s eyes shone, for he now expected a story, and he leant forward eagerly, placing his hands on the old woman's knees to recall her from her reverie. “a story,” he exclaimed eagerly, “tell me a story of this old hall. i am sure you can. my grannie sometimes tells me stories of what happened when she was a girl, and you must have better stories than her's.” the old woman smiled gently. “just a short one, then, or else you will be getting into trouble with your 'guvnor' of the · elizabeth.' the river, however, takes a great bend just below here, and while they are going round, you can cut across the meadows, and overtake them in a few minutes, while they have been winding round an hour or more. well, now for the story :- “nearly ninety years ago i was born, and what i am going to tell you happened ten years or more before that. as far back as i can remember my father and mother were the only lord harry's ghost. inhabitants of this great old house. the family to whom it belongs left them here as caretakers to see that no robbers came near it, and that the windows were occasionally opened to let in the air and sun. i have often thought that the family would be glad if some day they heard that the old place had been burnt down to the ground. every six months through the post my father and mother received their wages, and when they died, the same sum was sent to me, and that is all i know of the great family. often i have thought it would be best if i gave up my post, for i am too old now for the work, but certain it is that no one else would live here for fear of poor little lord harry's ghost. yes, it is a ghost story i am going to tell you, jack, the sad story of a boy no older than yourself. "over one hundred years ago, lord philip marston came of age, and there were great rejoicings here. oxen and sheep were roasted whole before this very fire, and distributed amongst the poor of the village. the marstons were a bad race from father to son, but never were the poor forgotten. many a bad deed was forgotten and forgiven because of the bounty and benefits they distributed so generously. lord lord harry's ghost. to the little son and heir, and so was much in their company. this state of happiness did not last long, however. when little lord harry was six years old, lord philip was brought home dead from the hunting field. lord hubert, it appeared, had jumped his horse at a fence, just as poor lord philip was riding full speed at it. the horse being thus stopped suddenly in its headlong course, had fallen, and rolled over with lord philip underneath. lord hubert was blamed very much for his mistake. many said it was no mistake at all, but of course nothing was proved against him. “he had been left in lord philip's will, sole guardian of his little nephew. he then took up his abode at the hall, though everyone could see that lady marston hated the very sight of him. poor thing! the death of her husband would have been more than she could have borne, had it not been for her son. many thought she would die too, but my mother always said she lived to guard her son against his uncle. “before company, or in the presence of lady marston, lord hubert made much of his little nephew, though my mother often caught him looking at the poor child in a way that made her lord harry's ghost. blood run cold, so full of hate and malice was the glance. she therefore resolved to be always on her guard, and, without alarming her dear lady, never to leave the boy alone with his guardian. however, one day lord hubert was too cunning for her. “lady marston loved to wander along the river bank with her little son running beside her, gathering the wild flowers, and prattling in his pretty childish way. one beautiful day in june she started off as usual, holding her child by his hand, and my mother following behind. it was a very hot, sultry day, and lady marston had forgotten her sunshade. after they had wandered a little way, my mother was sent back for the sunshade, lady marston sitting on the bank waiting her return. “whilst my mother was away lord hubert oined them. lady marston, who thought he was several miles away, was angry at being disturbed in her simple pleasures, and, when lord hubert, roused by her displeasure, threatened to take her son away from her altogether if she did not hide her disdain, the poor lady, terrified and unhappy, and remembering that now there was no beloved husband to protect her and her child, lord harry's ghost. n burst into tears. little lord harry was playing near, and gazed in astonishment at his mother in tears. then guessing in his childish way that it was uncle who had made mother cry, he threw himself upon lord hubert, and struck him in his boyish wrath. his uncle, enraged now with both mother and child, and wishing to punish the mother through her child, struck him so fiercely that lord harry lost his balance and fell to the ground. before the mother could spring forward to save him, little lord harry had rolled into the river. “with a shriek lady marston would have thrown herself in after him, but lord hubert held her tight. “« save him! save him!”” she shrieked in such terror that my mother heard her and ran as fast as she could. it was too late, however, when she reached them. the child had been borne away by the current, and in answer to the mother's shrieks and prayers, lord hubert only laughed savagely. “my mother seized her lady from his grasp and drew her away. to her death, several months after, the ill-fated lady marston was quite mad, raving night and day for her child. lord lord harry's ghost. ever ad hubert fled from those cries, but as long as he lived he always heard the mother calling on him to save her child, and ever before his eyes rose the vision of his nephew as he last saw his pale face and golden curls rise above the water before it engulfed him for the last time. “none of his race have ever since dared to visit this place, for they say the ghosts of the lady and child will haunt it for ever, the lady wringing her hands and mourning for her child, the boy with pale face and stern eye ever accusing his wicked uncle for the murder on his body. my mother, because her conscience was free, and because of her great love for her mistress, never was troubled by these sad ghosts, nor am i, her child, but no one who has committed any sin whatsoever is safe from such visions here. for that reason it is so shunned.” jack had listened to the old woman's story in fear and trembling, but as she finished, he jumped up and thanked her warmly, saying he must now be off. “i shall always be glad to see you, lad,”: the old woman said, “and next time i will tell you a more cheerful story.” jack ran off across the fields, and was soon roma lord harry's ghost. again on the barge. he related all he had heard to the bargeman's wife. "good lawks !” exclaimed that lady, " you do make me feel creepy. i love a good story, too. i'll remember to let you off another time hereabouts, and you can go and hear another.” evelyn ingleby. what the fce-king saw and did. way in the frozen north stands the palace of the ice-king. for miles around stretches a vast white plain of snow that no foot has ever trod and no smoke has ever darkened. far, far away from the bustle of the world, amid the stillness of unap- proachable solitude, that mighty dwelling rears its massive front. it is built of solid iceberg, and, as the rays of the red arctic sun fall upon its translucent sides, it glows and flashes from its basement to the highest spire like a palace of flame. right in the centre of the building, under a wide glittering dome of crystal, stands the chamber of the ice-king; and all around are smaller ante-chambers in which abide his daughters, the snow-maidens. beneath the centre of the dome the ice-king sleeps upon a couch of frozen snow, and above him hangs a canopy fringed with icicles. his breath comes from him in a stream of cloud that rises slowly through the clear air the ice-king. upwards to the ceiling, lights there, and congeals, and hangs in frozen stalactites for ever. it is christmas morning. without, the stars are twinkling in the dark sky; and, as we see them throb and beat there in bright clusters in the palpitating firmament, we might be pardoned for the fancy that we beheld drawing near us the first faint glitter of an angelic host coming to gladden once more with their majestic anthem, a strife-worn earth through all its borders, — “glory to god in the highest ; on earth peace and goodwill towards men.” within the palace all is dark, save where one cressett of white marble, hung on silver chains, depends from the roof above the sleeping monarch, and casts its soft light around upon a thousand icy mirrors. it was yet early in the morning when the ice-king woke. he sprang to his feet and stood upright; for the ice-king is no decrepit, toothless dotard as some would have him ; but a young man, and an agile, whose youth is perpetual and unchanging. he pressed the golden curls from his brow, and as he did so he revealed the sparkle of the diamond coronet that was the symbol of his kingship. then he clapped his hands for his the ice-king barren, and bare, and there they stayed. then the ice-king gave a task to each of the snow- maidens, and each set off upon her errand. one hovered over the fields for a while. clouds were sailing all around her; she gathered them all together, and breathed upon them, and they became snow, which she scattered to the winds. it fell on the brown fields, and made them white. it filled up the rough places and the hollows, and made them smooth and level. some fell on the cattle on the pasture-land, and it made them shiver and huddle closer together. some whirled round the labourer going to his work. it popped into his eyes, and settled on his cap, and ran down his beard ; and the man chuckled good- naturedly, for he had a kindly soul, and this was christmas morning. some whisked in the face of the farmer as he opened his door to look out at the weather, and some frolicked past him into the house, and, as he shut the door again, he laughed a great laugh, for with him, too, it was christmas morning. another of the snow-maidens lighted upon the top of a hill. she breathed upon the mists that aoated round its crest, and they, too, turned into snow. at the will of the maiden, the snow fell the ice-king. vo softly down, and covered with its white mantle all the hill and the forests standing beneath it. and the birds twittered on the branches, and looked sad ; but the plants rejoiced, for the snow had come to be a warm covering for them from the frost and cold. a third snow-maiden rested over a great city, and she, too, caused the snow to fall. beneath, she heard the deadened hum of early morning, for the life of the city was but drowsy yet, and was only wakening into the full stir of day. the snow fell silently down upon the streets and houses, amongst all the filth, and the squalor, and the wretchedness, and the sin. it lay without distinction upon all things, upon clean and foul, and covered them over with its robe of spotless purity. is it not thus that god blots out our sins? he hides our soul's festering corruption from his sight by clothing it in a garment that is “whiter than snow.” and at christmastide have the downy flakes no other lesson for us? methinks it seems as if, in the snow's gentle fall, god were saying “hush” to the strife of men. meanwhile the ice-king, having sent his daughters on their several missions, pursued his journey alone. in the grey of early morning he the ice-king. stopped at the door of a large mansion that stood all by itself in the midst of parks and trees. the ice-king neither knocked nor rang the bell : he just went in. he passed the servants bustling in the hall, but they saw him not. upstairs, in a large airy bedroom, two little boys lay sleeping. thither the ice-king made his way. invisible the while, he stood at the foot of the bed and watched the children. as he looked they rubbed their eyes and awoke. neither of them wished his brother a merry christmas, but the elder of the two said to his brother, “i say, phil, come and let's see what santa claus has brought.” “all right, alfie,” said phil, “hooray! this is christmas morning.” at this the two little fellows scuttled out of bed, and made their way to the fire-place, in which a few embers still smouldered. on the hearthrug stood two little pairs of slippers that had been duly placed there the night before, in the firm belief that the good genius of christmastide would visit them before morning. nor was the belief ill-founded, for it rested upon a sure basis, that of experience. as far back as their memory served—though that was not very far at the best—the boys had laid their slippers down before the fender on the ice-king. christmas eve, and there they had found them filled with good things on christmas morning. at first the receptacles had contained only such trifles as cake, and fruit, and hideous sweetmeats in the shape of dogs and pigs and hens. but as the children grew older the gifts became more valuable, and on this particular christmas they were all eagerness to see what had fallen to their lot. nor were their hopes disappointed. gift after gift such as boys love was dragged forth from the recesses of those slippers. “and still they gazed, and still the wonder grew.” it seemed, in fact, to be a thing altogether beyond comprehension how articles so small could hold so much. as the ice-king saw their eyes open wider and wider with amazement, he shook with noiseless laughter. but as he laughed his breath made the room so cold that the boys shivered, and scampered with their treasures back to bed again. silently, as he had come, the ice-king left the house. his next visit was to a villa in a well-to-do suburb of a large town. he passed into a room where in a little cot lay a little girl. there he stood, and, as he looked and saw the rich dark the ice-king. hair lying on the white pillow, the red cheeks, the deep dreamy eyes, and the merry smile that dimpled her chin, the heart of even the ice-king warmed towards the lovely child. suddenly the door opened, and the dark eyes ceased to dream, for their owner was intently watching her nurse, who had entered the room and was coming softly towards her, bearing in her arms a bundle wrapped in a blanket. “see, lizzie,” said the nurse, as she stepped up to the little girl, “see, lizzie, here's a christmas present come for you.” “for me?” said the child, “what is it ? ” “you won't guess,” replied the nurse. “it's a little brother,” and as she spoke she turned back a fold of the blanket, and showed her little charge the baby's face. the child clapped her hands at the sight; but noiselessly, for intense joy is always silent, and the awe of a great gladness had fallen upon the child's spirit. then, looking up suddenly, she asked in a hushed whisper, “who sent him to me? was it god?” “yes," answered the nurse reverently. and after a moment’s pause the child continued, “ may i tiss him?” this, too, was answered in the affirmative, but as the little girl bent eagerly the ice-king. down towards her treasure-trove, the infant awoke, and vaguely stretching out a tiny, dimpled hand, poked it into one of its admirer's eyes. the baby smiled; a merry peal of laughter rang from the little girl's throat ; and the ice-king laughed too, after his own fashion, as he glided from the room. his next visit was to a far different scene. away down amid narrow streets, in the heart of a mighty city, where the crowds are thickest, and the mud is deepest; where human beings huddle together like cattle, and naked sin stalks in the sunlight openly, and is not ashamed, the ice-king sought out a mean garret at the head of a long stair, and entered. the room, if room it might be called, was bare of everything, save a low wooden bedstead, beside which a woman knelt dressed in a worn black gown. on the bed before her lay her only child, a boy of three summers. fever had laid its hand upon them both, and was burning, burning-eating away their lives with its slow consuming flame. "the mother knelt there with her child before her, and, as she looked upon the wasted face, she pressed her hand over her hot, tearless eyes, and prayed. she scarce knew why, or for what. it was only ave the ice-king. she turned towards him, and “oh! sir,” she cried, “ bring back my boy.” “nay,” answered the ice-king, “that may not be, but my master hath sent me to take thee to him.”. with that he took her by the hands and led her upwards, and when he had brought her to her babe, the master gave it into her arms, saying, “take thou this child of mine, and tend it well for me.” the ice-king did no more that christmas-tide. but, as he journeyed homewards to his palace, his heart was glad. and, as he pondered upon all he had seen that morning, and especially upon the latest scene of all, his thoughts were like that of the poet when he sang :- “thou, then, the longing heart that breakest, stealing the treasures one by one, i'll call thee blessed when thou makest the parted—one." sydney wyatt. uw juan hayalam * es min am "árii que the castle of desirouselle. the castle of desirouselle. clear for a grand dwarf dance ; how there were bands of fairy musicians stood with their trumpets, fairy tumblers who could walk about on their hands and peel oranges with their feet at the same time, fairy clowns who could make such funny grimaces that three were quite as many as any one could bear for laughing ; all waiting, as they had done for thousands of years, for any good child who could get into the castle, so that they might amuse him very much. it was said that when the wind was high the giant's groans could be heard, and his shouts for some one to take his gold away; that, on moonlight nights, the merry little faces of the dwarfs could be seen at the windows looking out for someone to clear the floor of the jewels and nuts ; that in the middle of the night a beautiful sound came down from the castle as the musicians played their scales on the trumpets. there were other tales told by the grandmammas, but they all meant the same thing, and that was, that whatever it was that any little boy or little girl wanted was inside the great and mighty castle, if he or she could only get inside. so they all wished to enter. but it was very difficult to go in. there the castle of desirouselle. was sure how some day he would have to learn to do other things. in those days everyone was kind to little children : but the hardest thing of all for hubie was to say “thank you,” and “ if you please,” and he longed to go to the castle desirouselle, where he was sure he would find everything boys had to do become very easy, and that he would never have to say “ thank you” at all. so hubie climbed the tiring steps, and only rested once in a resting-house. then he jumped and hopped across the stones till he reached the other side of the lake, and marched boldly through the gateway of the castle, when, all at once, he was not tired any longer. the castle seemed empty, but he did not take much notice at first of what he saw. there was no giant that he could discover, and no dwarfs that he could find out. he looked for tumblers and acrobats, but did not see any. at length he thought he would go into the court-yard, in the centre of the castle, and make sand-pies. but as he walked down a corridor, feeling very fresh and lively, he was surprised to meet a chair, which ran quickly into one of the rooms near. hubie followed it, when he found it stood near saw. as *the castle of desirouselle. being laid in such a wonderful way, advanced to pick up the broken plate, but before he could get near it the window of the room flew open and all the fragments of the plate fung themselves out. as soon as the little boy had risen from his chair, it ran round to the head of the table and he went and sat on it again, while a serviette slipped out of a ring and tucked itself smartly round his neck. at the same time a prodigious bumping sound came from the vestibule, and presently a huge dish came in carrying a smoking joint of beef, while several tureens and sauce-boats danced round it as it came. the large dish put itself on the table in the front of hubie, who, though not used to carving for himself, was just about to seize the carving knife, when it slipped sharply from his hand. instantly the steel rose up, too, and they began to fight in the front of hubie's nose, which made the little boy sit much more still than he had ever done before. but the steel got tired of fighting, and lay down, upon which the fork darted into the beef, and the knife cut several splendid juicy slices off the joint, and the knife and fork together carefully put them upon one of the plates, which in a very proud the castle of desirouselle. way slid off the pile of plates, and put itself in front of hubie. tureen-lids whisked off, spoons officiously helped the plate to potatoes, cabbage, cauliflower, artichokes, and gravy; the castors strutted about, and the mustard-spoon jumped out laden with mustard, and tapped on the plate edge. hubie put out his hands for his own little knife and fork, but they slipped away, and do what he could, he could not touch them, till at last, i am sorry to say, he put his hands in his pockets, and felt rather sulky ; but the little fork leaped on to his plate, the knife skipped on too, and, before the little boy could think what they were doing, the fork was putting a piece of beef between his teeth. vegetables followed in the same way, and for about a quarter of an hour the knife and fork kept the little boy very busy indeed. then the beef, and all the soiled dinner- ware jumped upon the sideboard to make way for a large apple-tart, that came waltzing in with a magnificent custard for a partner, while a fresh lot of plates chased the castors and sauce-boats off the table. a knife and fork sprang upon the tart, a spoon and fork upon a little plate, and hubie was once more fed while his hands lay idly upon his lap. a gasogene just now remembered san ne the castle of desirouselle. itself, and sailed in hurriedly pursued by two or three glasses. it turned round upon the quickest and filled it with ginger-ale. the glass steadily lifted itself to hubie's mouth, and he drank off the contents. all the things then trooped away again, clattering and banging, and bumping and rolling down the lobby till the sounds were lost in the distance. next a procession came in. it was a dessert- service, but there was nothing on any of the plates, dishes, stands, or epergnes. but with a kind of crinkling laugh, a number of paper bags hurried in, and all at once, like so many balloons, raised themselves in the air till every bag was over an epergne, stand, dish, or plate. all at once the bags opened and down fell apples, oranges, hazel-nuts, filberts, brazil-nuts, straw- berries, rasps, peaches, apricots, plums, pears, tangarines, cherries, and nectarines. one or two cabbage leaves fell out also, but the paper bags popped over them quickly, up went the window, and out they flew ! a pair of nut-crackers now came striding in, and hubie reached out his hand to seize them by the leg ; but, i grieve to say, the crackers kicked his knuckles, and then striding to the the castle of desirouselle. nuts, picked out the finest and cracked them upon which they sped to hubie's mouth. silver knifes meanwhile were flying about paring apples, peeling oranges, and dividing peaches, while strawberries—after rolling about in castor-sugar- stood waiting till the nut-crackers should be tired of cracking nuts. hubie, at length feeling that he could eat no more dessert, got off his chair, which at once slid back to the wall ; all the dessert-service formed a line and went off in procession as it came in, while a crumb-brush and tray hastened off all the silver knives and forks, and briskly swept up the crumbs, etcetera. hubie walked into the corridor again, thinking that life in the castle was really very easy indeed. the thought of the fairy band occurred to him, and just as he was passing by a door it flew open and he went in. a chair ran towards him and he sat down, a cushion adjusting itself behind his head, and a footstool beneath his feet. two fiddles, a violoncello, a basso, a cornet, a trumpet, a flute, and a triangle, lay on a table, with a number of music-books. "ha,” he said aloud, “i will play something." after thinking it over a minute, he decided that - - -- the castle of desirouselle. the triangle would be the easiest, so he put out his hand for it, when the triangle evaded his hand, and a little hammer and the triangle jumped naco hubie in the chair. up, and the hammer beat upon the triangle ; but it was all one note, and hubie began to laugh, for the triangle played its one note in a most the castle of desirouselle. “i should like a scrap-book," hubie now observed aloud; when immediately a large book pushed open the door of a book-case, and lay down on the hearthrug. a cup of paste and a brush then led in a flock of loose pictures, while a pair of scissors ran round and round them, snipping and snapping at them like a shepherd dog at a flock of sheep. hubie took hold of the scissors, but they closed tightly, and he could not open them. but as soon as he laid them down, they sprang at the pictures, and cut them neatly round the edges. the brush jumped out of the paste and pasted the backs of the pictures, and the pictures put themselves into the scrap-book with great taste. hubie, however, after watching them do this through about a dozen pages, became tired of the inaction, and left them to themselves, when they at once put themselves tidily away. if only he had a little dog to play with, he thought, when instantly a little white dog came barking out of the courtyard, and jumped up to be caressed and petted. but the curious thing about this dog was that it came whatever name it was called by, and whenever hubie was about to whistle for it, it whistled for itself, and came the castle of desirouselle. running up full pelt. outside he found marbles, but as soon as he began to play, the marbles insisted upon shooting about by themselves, rolling into holes by themselves, and, as hubie won, they jumped without any assistance into his pockets. then he stood umpire while a bat and ball played a most exciting game of cricket, in which the ball finally stumped the bat out, and threw itself in the air to a tremendous height, while a piece of chalk wrote upon a board, “hubie : not out.” next hubie walked round a field at the side of the castle, while a golf-stick sedately marched round and round and round, poking, and smacking, and striking at the golf-ball which was never lost, for it always found itself. now this game was too much for hubie, and as the golf-stick was stalking off round the links, hubie took advan- tage of a bush, and fled away from the castle as fast as he was able. over the stepping-stones he leaped ; down the hill he ran, and at length he arrived at his home again. his father looked at him and smiled. his mother looked at him and smiled. “wherever have you been to?" they asked. the castle of desirouselle. “to the castle,” he said; “and i wish never to go again.” when he grew older he said: “i did not use to like any trouble or exertion, but now i have found that there is a great pleasure in them; and that there is a sweet pleasure in using arms and legs and feet and fingers, even though it be in tiring work. let those, who can, get their wish in getting inside the castle of desirouselle. i would rather stop outside, and do for myself what i have to do, and as for me, what i have to do i will try to do it well.” in the end the rock on which the castle was built became higher and higher, and for every year a step was added. sometimes its inviting outline can be still seen in the sky, but as time goes on, the castle of desirouselle gets more and more in the clouds. t. tindall wildridge. the girl, the fairy, and the toad. sovo h, you nasty, ugly thing !” the exclamation was not a nice one, and yet it came from the lips of a very nice-looking little girl. she was standing in the garden, at the close of a bright day in summer, and there was not a flower there that was prettier than herself. the object that had called forth the exclamation, and which she was regarding with a look of the strongest aversion, was a large toad, which, now that the heat of the day had passed, had, like herself, come out for a walk, and just hopped in front of her as she slowly threaded the flower- bordered path. she stepped back hurriedly, regarded the creature for a moment with mingled fear and dislike, and then, kicking it from her path, ran towards a little gate that opened into the grounds of an old abbey, of which only the grey and moss- the girl, the fairy, and the toad. grown ruins remained to bear witness to its former grandeur. entering the interior of the venerable pile by an arched doorway in the ivy-mantled wall, the girl was about to sit down upon a stone, that marked the grave of one of the old abbots of former times, when she started as she had done in the garden, and again it was a toad crawling at her feet that prompted the movement and the expression of repulsion that accompanied it. “horrid thing !” she exclaimed, retreating towards the door by which she had entered ; but, before she could reach it, a bat flew against her face, and an owl hooted from the ivy that clung around the great window that had once been filled with stained glass, but was now open to the wind and the weather, as indeed it had been for centuries. “nasty, tiresome thing !” exclaimed the girl, as the bat, recovering itself, auttered away. “i do so dislike those flitter-mice.” "they are not mice,” said a small voice near her. “ eh? who spoke ?” questioned the girl, looking around her, her voice trembling with mingled fear and wonder, as she saw no one near her from whom the voice could have proceeded. re ca the girl, the fairy, and the toad. the moon had just risen, and the silvery light of the planet shone on the clustered columns and lofty arches, but no living thing could the girl see, save the toad that was still crawling among the tufts of grass that grew between the worn slabs with which the place was paved. the girl was about to run towards the door by which she had entered, when her trembling feet were arrested by the appearance of a pair of shining, gauzy wings, which had suddenly been brought into sight by being just touched by the moonbeams. they looked like the wings of a dragon-fly, the girl thought ; but, if they were such, the insect to which they belonged must have been much larger than the largest dragon- fly that ever winged its circling flight over pool or stream. “why do you dislike bats and toads ? ” asked the owner of the small voice, which the wondering girl had heard before. “who are you? and where are you?" she asked, her voice trembling as she again looked around her, and saw no human being, though that human-like voice sounded so near to her. “i am here, close to you, and i am the fairy the girl, the fairy, and the toad. mab,” replied the voice. “you have heard of me, i dare say.” “i don't know,” said the girl, more puzzled than before. “i think i have read about you, or, if i haven't, i have heard someone else read it. but i don't see you, though your voice sounds as if you were very near to me.” she did not feel so much frightened as before, now that the unseen visitant had announced herself, for she had read a good deal about fairies and elves and pixies, and the presence of one of that family was not so alarming as that of a being altogether unknown would have been. so she strained her eyes in the direction from which the voice proceeded, and saw between the shining, gauzy wings a figure smaller than her own, wearing a glistening robe of pale green, and upon the wavy golden hair, that fell upon the white shoulders, a wreath of red and white roses. “i see you now,” she said. “and you see this,” returned the fairy, coming nearer, and pointing with a slender reed to the toad, which was now resting at the base of a broken column. “oh, the nasty, ugly thing !” exclaimed the the girl, the fairy, and the toad. girl, shrinking away from the reptile, and holding back her skirts with both hands. “what is ugliness ? ” queried the fairy. “the mate of this creature, as much as yourself a child of him at whose behest all living things came into being, thinks him beautiful.” “but toads spit poison,” said the girl, wondering at the fairy's words, and still shrinking from the object of her dislike. “what a silly little thing you are,” returned the fairy, with a rippling laugh. “the poor toad is as harmless as yourself, and i am not sure that he is not a more useful member of the animal more world.” “i am not an animal,” said the girl, in a tone that expressed her displeasure at being included in the same category as the toad. “ you live, and you move,” returned the fairy. “you are not fixed to one place, like the moss on that stone, or those blades of grass. therefore you are an animal. and as for beauty,—”. “ the beauty of a toad!” exclaimed the girl, with a scornful shrug of her plump, white shoulders. “ don't interrupt me,” said the fairy. “it is very rude. look at the eyes of this creature,” the girl, the fairy, and the toad. she continued, completing the sentence which the girl's interruption had made a gap in. she took up the toad as she spoke, and held it so near the girl that she involuntarily shrunk away from it. the girl felt herself constrained to look into the creature's eyes. they were certainly large and bright, and shone with a soft light which she had not expected to see. “what bright eyes it has,” she observed, and, feeling that some apology to the creature was due, she added, “i have never before looked at the eyes of a toad.” “that confession excuses you,” said the fairy, carefully replacing the toad among the grass. the girl contrasted in her mind this action of the fairy with her own treatment of the poor toad who had the misfortune to cross her path in the garden, and acknowledged to herself her moral inferiority to mab of the gauzy wings. but she had not time to dwell upon this humiliating reflection, for almost in the moment that it crossed her mind her thoughts were diverted by the most charming music that had ever delighted her ears. whence the sweet sounds came, and how they were produced, she had not the slightest idea. the girl, the fairy, and the toad. us as they were not vocal, and yet were unlike those of any instruments of music she had ever heard. “what sweet music !” she said, in a hushed tone, when she had listened for a few moments to the strange melody as one spell-bound. it was soft and low, and yet every note was borne to her ears distinctly in the stillness of the night, and there mingled with it no sound of earth, for of earth this music could scarcely be, the girl thought as she listened, entranced, to the sweet strains. “where is it ? ” she asked, when she had listened a few minutes longer ; for the music was all around her, and though seeming to be subdued by distance, the pianissimo notes were as distinctly heard as the fortissimo. “shall we seek it ? ” asked mab, answering the girl's question with another. “ but where?” said she, remaining by the abbot's moss-encrusted tomb, unwilling to move lest the charm should be dispelled, and the sweet music cease. “it seems all around us ; i have never heard music like it before.” “it is not to everyone that it is given to hear the music of the fairy world,” rejoined mab. the girl, the fairy, and the toad. that flooded the valley, the streamlet that meandered through it shone like a silver thread. “how beautiful!" said the gazing girl, lower- ing her voice in harmony with the quietude and restfulness that reigned around. the fairy stood by her in silence for a few minutes while she gazed upon the moonlit scene before them, and then she dropped lightly to the ground. “come,” said she, and the girl in the next moment was by her side. the fairy music continued, and was still all around them, floating up from the valley, from the sleeping woods, and from the grey old abbey they had just quitted. all at once it ceased, and the silence that succeeded it seemed all the more profound for the strangely sweet harmony before. “i think i must go in now," said the girl. “ nay, you will not be missed,” returned the fairy. “our people have placed in your bed a little girl so much like yourself that your mother will not perceive any difference, and you shall take her place in time to prevent its discovery. come with me into the woods.” the girl felt herself drawn towards the woods by some power stronger than her own will, and in the girl, the fairy, and the toad. them from their home in the thickest recesses of the wood to play in the moonlight,” explained the fairy. “the baby badgers like play as much as little girls and boys. can you climb a tree?" “i don't know," returned the girl, who was doubtful of her ability in that respect. “not if it is a high one, i think.” the fairy sprang from the ground, caught one of the lower branches of a tree, and drew herself up to it. “now give me your hand,” said she, when she was comfortably perched ; and leaning downward, she grasped the hand of her companion, and drew her up to a place beside her. then, standing up, she assisted the girl to assume a similar position. “look in that cleft of the old tree, and tell me what you see,” said mab. “what pretty little things !” exclaimed her companion, clapping her little hands with delight ; for what she saw in the shimmering moonlight was four tiny bundles of reddish-brown fur, baby squirrels, who were playing with their mother, whose large dark eyes beamed with pleasure as she joined in their gambols. “ you like them,” said the fairy. “i don't the girl, the fairy, and the toad. w nearer. ir own she had read sliminess was a characteristic of all the reptiles which the writers had evolved from their fertile imaginations, “observe its bright eyes,” said the fairy, holding it up for her young companion's observa- tion, as she drew nearer. “take it in your own hand.” the girl timidly extended her hand, but at that moment a rustling in the moss at her feet diverted her attention from the lizard, and looking down she saw a snake wriggling among it, and again retreated. “another of my friends,” said mab, stooping again and taking up the snake with her disengaged hand. the girl looked on in wonder while the reptile twined about the fairy's arm, which it seemed to caress with its forked tongue, as a petted cat will do. “this is wonderful to me,” said she, when she had gazed for some minutes upon what was indeed to her a strange spectacle. “ i had no idea that snakes and such like creatures were so interesting, or could be made so tame. i think,” she said, approaching the fairy, “i will let you put the lizard into iny hand.” cares the girl, the fairy, and the toad. she extended her hand, and the fairy placed in it the lizard, who found its warmth very agreeable in the absence of the warm sunshine. “see, mab!” she exclaimed, her eyes and voice expressing her pleasure at the result of the experiment, a pleasure, as the reader may suppose, that was as new to her as was the experiment. “ it likes to lie in my hand; what a pretty little thing !”. the fairy's eyes reflected the pleasurable feeling which she read in those of her companion, and she placed the snake upon the ground, and clapped her hands. the action seemed a signal for a new surprise for the girl, for at that moment sounds reached her ears like the chiming of church bells when heard at a distance in the silence of a summer evening in the country, when the music is borne as on the soft west wind over intervening woods and fields. gradually the sweet sounds came nearer, as if one set of bells after another took up the melody, until the wood seemed to be filled with fairy bell-ringers. “they must surely be the bells of fairyland that i hear,” she observed, as she listened to the strange music, almost unconscious of the ner eyeІ a the girl, the fairy, and the toad. lizard that nestled in her hand, and of the neighbourhood of the snake, which, on being placed on the ground by mab, had returned to its retreat among the roots of the old tree. “ have we not bells all around us ? ” said the fairy. “see how the bells of the foxglove are moving, and how the smaller bells of the hyacinth take up the melody in turn." “ but you know it is not from them the music proceeds,” rejoined the girl, still wondering. “who knows?” said the fairy, and then she raised the reed she carried, and waved it slowly above her head three times. as the girl looked all round the sides of the hollow, that was lighted by the moonbeams, she became conscious of other sounds mingling with the music. there was a rustling of leaves and twigs, a pattering of small feet upon the earth, a sound as of wings above and among the trees. presently there came out of the darkness into the hollow all the furred and feathered creatures that had their abode in the woods—foxes and badgers, martens and hedge-hogs, squirrels and rabbits ; and the feathered tribes that had their habitations in the trees, jays and doves, finches and tits, all twittering and warbling, as if excited the girl, the fairy, and the toad. by the strange influence that had brought them from their roosts and their nests at that unwonted hour. “what does it mean?” the girl asked, with surprise and wonder in her wide-open eyes. “ it is like the animals going into the ark, in the picture on the lid of my box of toys.” “ listen,” said the fairy, and then there came a full-throated volume of song from the feathered choristers of the woodlands, which somehow translated itself, to the ears of the listening girl, into the following words : “we come from wood and field, from meadow and from grove, our homage due to yield to all-persuading love ; from dingle and from dell the praise of love we sing, obeying the magic spell that makes us gaily sing.” the foxes gave a short, sharp bark of approval, on behalf of the quadrupeds, as the song of the birds ceased, and then a hum of voices rose from the strangely assorted animals gathered in the hollow,—“quite a happy family, on rather a large scale,” the girl said to herself—as a crowd of fairies came out of the surrounding the girl, the fairy, and the toad. woodland, and formed in a semi-circle between the animals and the nearest trees; and these tiny creatures also broke into song, accompanying their voices with elfin castanets, the words being something like the following: “ hail to the fairies' queen! the queen we love, all hail ! trees, bow your heads of green ; birds, beasties, none must fail to welcome mab.” whether the trees did actually bow their heads in homage to her companion, the girl could not positively affirm, when she afterwards told the story of that night's strange experiences and adventures; but she was certain that all the members of the brute creation present raised their heads and lifted up their voices, which did not seem to alarm the birds in the smallest degree. on the contrary, they broke into melody again, and warbled once more the first verse of their song, as if they had taken the barking and squeaking of their four-footed fellow creatures for an encore. “what does it all mean?” said the girl, turning to the fairy queen, “my head begins to reel with the strangeness of it all.” the girl, the fairy, and the toad. е and well it might. “ it is something more than a welcome to me,” replied mab. “ it is a festival in celebration of the reconciliation of a young heart and mind with all the creatures to which the supreme wisdom and love have given life. before this night, the scene which you now behold would have been impossible, for had you and anyone of the creatures before you met in field or wood, they would have ran or flown from you. some of them would have come from their homes only during the hours of darkness, lest they should encounter some member of your race, which their experience has taught them to fear, or some of those other animals, between which and themselves your race have fostered antagonism for your own selfish purposes, or the gratification of evil promptings. the fox and the badger would have fled to earth, the squirrel have taken refuge up a tree, the rabbit have retreated to its burrow, the hedge-hog have presented to you a ball of sharp spines, the birds have flown to the shelter of bushes or the branches of trees beyond your reach, the snake and the lizard have concealed themselves in the crevices of the earth. yet you read in the book from which the girl, the fairy, and the toad. you draw rules for your life, that the being whom you worship saw all the creatures he had made, ‘and, behold, it was very good ;' and one of your poets has taught you that- 'he prayeth best who loveth most all things, both great and small, for the good lord who loveth us, he made and loves them all.”” “i will never be cruel to any living thing again, not even to a toad,” said the girl, as mab paused. “ there are many girls and boys,” resumed the fairy, “ who do not sin in that way from the promptings of a cruel heart urging them to inflict pain upon the weak and helpless, but because their minds have been dulled, and their feelings blunted, by false teachings concerning the creatures who, in consequence, become their victims. you believed that the toad would spit venom at you, that the lizard was poisonous to the touch, that the snake would sting you. therefore, you feared them, and fear always makes those under its influence cruel. know- ledge casts out fear, and love takes its place in the heart.” “and the greatest of these is love,'” the girl the girl, the fairy, and the toad. repeated softly, remembering at that moment the text from which she had heard a sermon on the preceding sunday morning. there was a murmur of assent from the assembled representatives of the animal world, and then they began to separate and return to their haunts in the surrounding woodlands, and the fields beyond. the fairies remained, and as the hollow became clear of the beasts and birds, they came forward and crowded round their queen. " thanks for your welcome,” said she, and then she turned to the mortal who stood by her side. “it is time, my dear little friend,” she said, “that you were tucked up in your little bed. do not forget what you have learned to-night, and you will be a better child, and a happier one, for the lesson." “ leave me, my subjects,” she continued, turning to the elfin host, “and your nightly revel ended, seek repose beneath such canopies as mushrooms yield, or in the swinging hammocks of the convolvulus.” the fairies danced away, some of the more volatile spirits among them performing somer- the girl, the fairy, and the toad. saults over such small obstructions as they encountered, and the girl was guided by mab through the wood to the vicinity of the abbey ruins. “good night,” said mab, and the next moment she was gone, and the girl stood alone in the moonlight. bewildered by the strange events of the night, she never remembered how she reached her chamber, where she, however, found herself when she awoke the next morning. gerald, the gentle giant. ferocious and cunning, and blood-thirsty mon- sters ; they don't all go about “fee-fo-fi-fum-ing,” and smelling the blood of englishmen, and grinding their bones to make them bread. far from it. i have known several giants; and though they had their faults (as who, even amongst the smallest of us, has not ?) they were not bad creatures. they were real giants, too, mind you—not one of them an inch under forty- seven feet high. now, a giant once served me a very good turn, and that was gerald, who lived on a strip of land lying to the west of our country. he was not to be compared to some of the giants i have seen for size, but he stood fully sixty-three feet high in his stockings. he was quite young when i first met him—he had seen some eighty or ninety summers only. i• am going to tell you how i came to meet him, and what was the good turn he did me. i don't know whether you are at all acquainted with the laws of the kingdom of androgovia, but, if you are, you will of course remember that princes of the royal house are sternly forbidden to marry any but princesses of rank equal to their own, that they are not allowed to go to gerald, the gentle giant. court when they have passed the age of one-and- twenty years until they have married, and that no prince may engage in any trade, profession, or occupation until he is entitled to go to court ; indeed, he may not adopt any calling unconnected with the court. you may say that it is not necessary for a prince to follow any trade, profession, occupation, or calling ; it is sufficient for him, you will say, to be royal and to be good. but there you show your ignorance of the laws of androgovia, because, in that country at any rate, the prince has to earn his living like any other man ; he has no other allowances, and no other means of making any pocket money. it is true that princes have certain advantages as tradesmen or professional men, for the loyal androgovians are very ready to purchase the handiwork of their princes, or to take advantage of their professional skill. they enjoy saying to one another (for example) “ you see that chair- or that pipe-or that antimacassar? i bought that at pygmalian's.” or, “i shall engage pro- metheus to defend me in my coming law-suit.” or, “i shall give bernardus an order for a new suit of clothes.” or, “ i think i shall go and see constantine at the theatre royal this evening.” is eveni gerald, the gentle giant. it was in his reign that the new summer palace, on the banks of the androgoon, was finished. this beautiful building was entirely the work of successive generations of princes. its history was rather interesting. the work of constructing and furnishing it would every now and then reach a certain point, when it would come to a standstill, because something had to be done which none of the royal workmen could do, on account of that limitation in the range of their trades. and so the building would have to remain in that state until some prince should have discovered a means of entering and learning the required profession and attaining skill in it. thus it was some time before the water-pipes were laid in, for there could not be any plumber amongst the princes ; however, one of my great- uncles solved the difficulty by becoming an artificer of apparatus appertaining to aqueductal arrangements. but all such difficulties had been surmounted before my time, and, when i was born, the palace stood amongst the orange-trees and palms (planted by an arboriculturist, whilst the grounds were of course laid out by a cultivator) by the blue waters of the androgoon, a thing of beauty and a joy for ever. gerald, the gentle giant. . however, as i have said, the possible pro- fessions were very largely filled up when the time came for me to think about earning my living, but i finally made up my mind to apprentice myself to a carpet maker. before, though, i could become a journeyman and make money, it was necessary that i should take a wife. and here the disadvantage of belonging to so large a family again became manifest, for the supply of available princesses had by that time pretty nearly run out -if i may put it in such a vulgar way. it was true that the neighbouring kings of paflagonia and bistrancia each had unmarried daughters- the latter three of them. but—well, i should be rude, i'm afraid, if i were to say more than that i didn't consider that any of those four ladies would make me a good and suitable wife. so i resolved to seek a private audience of my father, and to ask his permission to go further afield in search of a spouse. it was two days before my twenty-first birthday when, having asked for a half-holiday, i was ushered into the presence of the king. i explained my position to his majesty, pointing out the exceptional disadvantages in which i had been placed by coming at the end of so long a gerald, the gentle giant. his watch-chain, and pointing to a certain mark in the panelling of the wall, he said, “ press your finger six inches above that mark.” i did so, and a tiny door at once opened, disclosing a key-hole. “now, turn this key in that lock.” i did that also, and a larger door flew open, revealing a cupboard containing a mass of papers, a number of pipes, and a very varied collection of other curious articles. “do you see a cash-box ?" asked my father, adding, “don't stir the things up too much.” but i was forced to confess that i could see no such a thing as a cash-box. “well,” said the king, who now stood behind me—“well, you may be a jolly good carpet- maker, but i'll be dethroned if you're anything of a cash-box seeker! i should make carpet-ter one myself! what do you call this now?” and as he spoke he took up and handed me a thickish volume, shaking it as he did so, when, sure enough, i could hear the rattle of coins within. this curious cash-box he got me to set down upon the table, whilst he proceeded to deliver me a lecture upon thrift and economy, and the like subjects (he enjoyed an income of £ , , a-day himself), finishing up thus :- “now, my dear jonathan, you may be gerald, the gentle giant. Р er surprised to hear that every single one of your brothers before you, except hector, has come to me exactly with the same story as yourself, at the age of twenty years, eleven months, and twenty- nine days; each has in turn begged me to advance him a certain sum of money—to be returned out of his first earnings. therefore, although there is no provision for this in our constitution, and for all i know, it may not be quite in accordance with the law-i have never consulted the chancellor on the subject-i have made each of your brothers a present of a certain sum of money out of my privy purse, to help him in the business of obtaining a wife. i gave your eldest brother, henderson, the sum of one pound, ten shillings, and fivepence; that is to say, a penny for every day in the year, which is, with the practice of decent economy, sufficient, i should think, to enable a man to exist—i don't say in luxury, but at anyrate in moderate comfort- for a twelve month. but i have recognised the possibility of each of my sons having a little greater difficulty than his next elder brother in finding a suitable mate, and have proportionately increased the amount of my gift to each successive prince. to jimmy i gave three pounds and tenpence, inai gerald, the gentle giant. had seen me safely return the box to its secret resting-place-—“ and now, my dear fellow, off you go! don't waste time! what do you say to bango? you recollect old pax, the king of bango, being here some years ago; well, i'm told his girls are — but you go and see them ! you couldn't please me better. don't delay ; its a long and difficult journey! oh, never mind that !” (i was attempting to thank him.) “ off you go! by-bye! my best love and best wishes!” and, with that, his majesty nodded smilingly, plainly intimating that i was to withdraw, and refusing to hear a word of the thanks i endeavoured to utter. he nodded again and waved his hand, and so i withdrew; and that was the last i saw of the genial old gentleman for many a long day. i walked out of the chamber and down all the long corridors and out of the palace without speaking to anyone, and in a very mixed frame of mind. i was very much touched by my father's friendliness and kindness, and yet i could not but recognize that he had given me what, under the circumstances, virtually amounted to a command—a command to take one of the daughters of the king of bango to be my wife. gerald, the gentle giant. now, the princesses of bango might be very nice girls—as a matter of fact they are, very nice girls indeed—but a young fellow doesn't like anyone to say to him, “ you must go and marry so-and-so.” he likes to exercise a certain amount of discrimination and selection in these matters- at least, i think so ; and, moreover, in my case, things were complicated by my having decided in my own mind upon the princess whom i would marry—having, indeed, met and talked to her, and found out that i liked her and she liked me. and this princess was a princess of tertia —of tertia, between which country and andro- govia there was an hereditary enmity—a feud of seventeen hundred years' standing, that was constantly breaking out into open war! oh, that fatal second condition ! you may ask : why did i accept it by taking the money ? well, i must admit that it seems foolish, but i must explain. when i went to see my father, it had been with a hope—a not very sanguine one, certainly—that i should be able, by pleading the very limited number of available princesses (i had forgotten all about king pax's daughters, his country was so many thousand miles away) to insinuate that there was nothing left for me to do but to seek a princess eІ was cm *incess gerald, the gentle giant. in one of the hostile countries, and, by such a union, to bring about the blessings of peace, and so on. but, i had forgotten also, for the moment, the character of my father ; i might have known that he would have his own ideas con- cerning me, and would, by keeping the conver- sation to himself, prevent the utterance of any ideas of my own. and, of course, i hadn't considered the inability i should be sure to experience of coping with such a plan of action. but, you will say, why did i take the money ? why did i sign the receipt ? well, it was weak, perhaps ; but i was afraid of displeasing my father by refusing to do so, and i wanted the money very much. i wanted it to help me to visit tertia. i suspect my father was very much the stronger-willed man of the two, but he had such a jolly way of forcing you to do things that you didn't recognize this. even now, as i strode about moodily, and conscious as i was that (as i put it to myself) he had got me in a trap, i couldn't help laughing at the recollection of the funny things he had said in his funny way, and i could not think but with pleasure of his hearty manner and the demonstrations of affection he had made towards me. my heart was very gerald, the gentle giant. . most presentable of them, and the place he was to visit being but just beyond the frontier—at last he consented. he gave out that i was to be sent to a certain place in our country, and that he would take another of the apprentices with him into tertia. but we had not gone far out of the town, before i assumed the clothes and name of my fellow-apprentice (who had been sworn to secrecy) and he mine, and we changed places with one another. i enjoyed the experience immensely-none the less because it was a forbidden pleasure. i also liked very much assisting my master to design the new carpets for the rooms of this castle, which was extremely picturesque itself, and was most picturesquely situated. there were three daughters of this family, who had been left at home by their parents with but few of the servants, and these girls had a friend, a schoolmate—staying with them, whom they in- variably spoke of and addressed as “addie.” i had not been long there before this girl attracted me : she often came, with her friends, to watch us at our work, and i used to take the opportunity to watch her—so frank and careless and joyous in all her acts and words, she was a great delight to gerald, the gentle giant. conve differences from those that grew in hers. and so we fell to seeking other flowers, and into quite a conversation over them. her companions mean- while could be heard chattering in the neighbour- hood. but after a little while it seemed as though they missed her, for i had caught the sound of her name mentioned, and they ceased to talk as though they were listening for her step or her movement among the bushes. they must have discovered immediately that she was speaking with some person, for one called out, “addie, who is that with you?" before she had time to reply they suddenly appeared, and burst into a merry laugh when they detected us. (no doubt they saw something exquisitely amusing in her associating with a carpet-maker's boy). “why!” cried another of the sisters, "we thought you had found a fairy prince !” i might have answered, “not a fairy one!” but again i was capable of restraint; and, in order to cover her confusion —for their sudden appearance and laughter had made her for the moment dumb, and had sent the colour flying across her sweet face,-i again doffed my cap, and explained most deferentially how · i had had the good fortune (they little knew how great good fortune i esteemed it!) to be of service so am gerald, the gentle giant. to mademoiselle. and so i left them. she rejoined them, and i could hear them laughing again, and she was laughing with them. that was the last time i spoke to her alone, although my stay in the castle lasted for nearly a fortnight longer, and she was there all the time. i constantly saw her, however, and sometimes (a little while after that encounter) she would come to where i was working, and would ask me a question or two, but more shyly than before. and when our work was quite done—i am afraid i had purposely been slow over the latter part of mine—and it was the day before we were to leave, she approached me, and, again blushing, she said, in her pretty, imperfect androgovian, “i have never properly thanked you, monsieur, for assisting me to obtain the flower that day in the plantation, but i do so now. and i must thank you, too, for what you have told me about your people and the beautiful flowers of your country. will you, monsieur, accept this little token of my thankfulness?" and she passed to me a trinket from her watch-chain. all i could do was to say that i would indeed accept it gratefully, and that she did me too much honour. whereupon she began again to ask me about our country and gerald, the gentle giant. how long it would take me to reach my home, and so on. and, all the while, the young ladies of the house, her friends, regarded her with an amuse- ment easy to be discerned. finally, she held out her little hand and bade me “good-bye ” and "bon voyage.” as i bent over it i read in her face plainly the assurance of what i had hoped and imagined before--that the attraction i had felt for her was, to some extent at all events, felt by her towards me. and my heart leapt, as i said to myself, “ this woman and no other!" as we were travelling home, side by side, my master and -jogging along on our steady white mules through the sunny country—he broke the silence that had hitherto reigned by a long sharp whistle. i asked him what was the matter ; but he would say nothing, though i could see that he was simply bursting so to do. i was not very curious to know what it might be, and i had much to think of, so i said no more, and we jogged along silently for another quarter of an hour or so. then, all at once, he said, “ here, i ought not to tell you, perhaps; but i can't help it! it would be wiser to hold my tongue, and yet i don't know that it matters much! anyway, i must tell you! i've just gerald, the gentle giant. vas ing one in such evident pain. i had never seen the giant before; but from what i had heard, i recognised him immediately as gerald, and i ran up to him and asked him what was the matter. he thought, he told me, that his ancle must be injured. he had caught it in a ravine as he was descending a mountain in his own country, and had hurt it badly ; and he was now on his way to our city to consult a doctor. (have you ever spoken to a giant ? it is curious until you are accustomed to it; their voices seem so far away, and take such a time coming to you.) i mentioned the name of a skilful surgeon, and was just about to leave the giant when i saw a man running towards us. in my surprise i gave vent to an exclamation, for the man was my brother hector, whom i had not seen for a good many years; and the giant also cried out, calling my brother (rather to my astonishment) by his name. “gerald !” shouted my brother, “what's the matter, old man ?” and when hector had reached us, and had discovered me, the giant told him what he had told to me. “oh, if that's all,” exclaimed my brother, “i can attend to you as well as any other." gerald, the gentle giant, "you can do everything, and you know everything, i think," said the giant, with an attempt to smile. “well, i think i can manage this for you, at any rate,” my brother answered. and then, turn- ing to the people who had still followed us, but more respectfully, and who were now whispering my brother's name to each other, he cried, “here, you! make yourselves useful, and do as i tell you.” they all joined us with the greatest alacrity, and appeared only too pleased to do anything that hector ordered them to do. presently we reached a large meadow that sloped pleasantly down towards the little river named the beenara, and here hector made the giant sit. this he did in a very careful manner, kneeling at first, and then reclining, and giving utterance to stifled cries of pain during the per- formance. well, with the assistance of the people, we got the poor fellow's boot off, my brother examined the swollen ancle (it was a size !) bathed it in the river, and bandaged it with some bed-sheets that the peasants had been glad to sell to us. when it was all done, we left gerald, who said that he was much more com- fortable, and announced that he should stay there na gerald, the gentle giant. during the night, which was now fast drawing in. but he besought us to see him again early in the morning. so i walked off with hector, well pleased to have met him, for—as i have said—i had not seen him for a long time. i had always liked hector; he was so different from all the rest of my brothers, and there was something mysterious about him that charmed me. although he was the eldest son but one, coming next to hender- son, the crown prince, he had no position at court, because he was neither married, nor did he follow any trade or profession. he had travelled much in foreign countries in his youth (he must have been nearly forty, i should think, at the time about which i am writing), and had amassed some money so that he could get along without troubling to earn any more. but i am not quite sure that that was the only reason why he did not do as the rest of us did. i don't think he liked court life and the palace ways; he preferred to be free, and to be able to roam about, and to do as he pleased. i had heard (though i didn't know whether to believe it) that he was a member, if not a leader, of what was called the new party, who wanted to make great changes in our laws gerald, the gentle giant. and constitution. however, he was a very nice fellow, whom everybody liked—our father, the king, not the least of all. when he heard that hector was anywhere in the neighbourhood of the palace, he would be sure to command a shooting or hunting expedition for the following day, and would meet him and enjoy a long talk with him. | as hector and i trudged along together, we saw a man advancing towards us, a man in the royal livery. he soon came up to us, and making a salute to me (he took no notice of hector, not being permitted to do so by court etiquette), he delivered into my hands a sealed parchment, addressed to me as i saw-in the king's own hand. when he had given it to me, he again saluted, and hector spoke to him and they had a few moments' conversation, as one friend and equal with another. i did not open the letter until the messenger had left us, and then, breaking the seals, i read as follows: verb. sap. sat.. old king pax in bango reigns, and has charming daughters three; he who one of them obtains very greatly pleases me. gerald, the gentle giant. no so highly as that; but it isn't difficult to guess the cause of any trouble that may occur to one of us at your time of life. it doesn't require a sherlock holmes to guess that. at the same time, believe me, i am very much on your side, and if you care for my help, why you can have it. there's nothing that i like better than making a young couple happy, especially if at the same time i can work against that idiotic law. however, all i want to do now is to make you happy. i know you would be miserable without her; and as for her-well, i know what she thinks, aye, and how often she thinks, of the fascinating apprentice who told her all about carpets and wild flowers." “but however did you find out — ?”. “my dear boy, let me remind you once more of the giant's words.” and he laughed again. i need hardly say that i was greatly amazed by this knowledge of my secret on the part of my brother, and as i thanked him for his offer of assistance—the value of which these revelations had helped me to estimate-i could not forbear entertaining an uneasy feeling that it might be known to others also. well, we arranged to meet again three days gerald, the gentle giant. an aro wa might make mistakes." i didn't like this very much, but i noticed that hector only laughed, so that i guessed there was not much to be feared. in a time that seemed incredibly short, the giant had a great fire of logs burning upon the floor. then i began to realise the proportions and magnificence of this cave. the logs threw off an aromatic fragrance that was delightful, and a thin column of bluish smoke rose from them straight up towards the roof. but i could not yet see the roof. as the fire grew higher, how- ever—which it did very rapidly-i gazed up and around. the top of the cave seemed miles above us, and it was one mass of glittering stalactites, that sparkled with every conceivable colour as the firelight struck them. they were so far beyond us, though, that the effect was by no means too brilliant or dazzling, it was simply like the twinkling of innumerable constellations. the walls were of the same formation, but were not so sparkling. there was nothing that might be called furniture in this great apartment, but there were a number of boulders and rocks, some of them curious and grotesque in shape, strewn about the floor, and here and there was a litter of dried leaves, and twigs, and straw. gerald, the gentle giant. vn we ve. ummon the giant had withdrawn whilst we were gazing at this strange hall (hector, i found, had seen it before several times); he had gone within another curtain that veiled presumably the entrance to another cave. thither he summoned us presently. this cave was by no means equal to the other in size, but it was still more beautiful by reason of the marvellous delicacy of the tints that radiated from roof and walls. here there was a kind of fireplace, wherein a new-made fire was crackling, and by the hearth was an enormous, but well-made, chair. a table, also gigantic (as was, of course, to be expected), stood in the middle of the apartment, and along the wall, upon the floor, was evidently the giant's bed. but what astonished me most was the quantity of books that lay everywhere. they were piled up in the corners, they were strewn about the floor, there were many on the table- in fact, they were everywhere. and these books were ordinary volumes, such as we use, not giant books in any sense. the giant had put a great pan or kettle upon the fire, when he asked us to go with him back into the larger hall. he walked to the entrance, and lifting the curtain, admitted a waft of cold era gerald, the gentle giant. night air, smelling of forest and mountain. then he quietly called out something, and in stalked a most magnificent leopard, which went up to him and rubbed against his leg. “it's rather chilly,” he muttered, and he blew a peculiar whistle. at once a pack of these beautiful beasts dashed into the room, scrambling and jumping over each other in their eagerness and delight. they leapt and danced around the giant for a few moments, and he fondled them lovingly; but then he exclaimed, “dear, dear! where are your manners? down, boys!" and they were quiet in an instant. each was then called forward by name, thirty-two of them, in turn, and was intro- duced to me: that is to say, they came up to me and smelt my hand, and allowed me to scratch their heads. as to hector, he hailed them all as old friends, and they showed pleasure at seeing him again. their supper was next given to them. the giant held up one finger, and they all ranged themselves in a semi-circle, and sat so, patiently, whilst their master went to a corner, and returned with a huge wooden dish in his arm. each beast was fed from this dish, and retired with his piece of meat to his own particular bed. we had our suppers after that in the inner iii e - gerald, the gentle giant gerald, the gentle giant. chamber-hector and i, that is, for the giant would not eat with us, but waited until we had done ; he did not like, i imagine, to contrast the extent of his appetite with ours. he would, indeed, have retired altogether to the outer hall, but this we would not permit. i had noticed that, whilst he was attending to us, he cast many furtive but longing glances towards a big box that stood upon the floor, a box that he had brought with him at the same time as he brought us; and when we had finished and he had arranged our beds for us upon his table, he said, “will you excuse me if i open that box? i am very curious to examine its contents.” of course we told him to do so, and, with one wrench, he tore off the cover. the box was full of new books, and his eyes glowed as he gazed at them. “you read a good deal, i suppose,” i said. “yes,” he replied, “ i read almost everything -every story-book, that is ;: i don't care for anything else. i think i must have read all the stories with happy endings that have been written. i only read those that end happily, i never touch any others. if, by accident, i were to read one that didn't end so, i should be very gerald, the gentle giant. wa other. he might, of course, in many cases, simply have put out his hand and caught the bird or beast—whatever it was that he chased ; but he said that that would not be giving it a fair chance, and he never did so, he told us, unless he was pinched for food. the creatures knew this, and the consequence was that whilst they flew or fled from the leopards and from us, they exhibited no fear whatsoever of the giant, indeed, they frequently took refuge upon or near him. one day we had chanced, in pursuing some creature, to go near to the mountains that, as i have told you, divided this place from our country. there we saw a man. he had brought a fresh box of books for gerald. but he also took opportunity to say a few words, privately, to my brother, that caused him to look very grave, though he said nothing then to me or to the man. * that night, however, he asked me if i had made up my mind yet as to what i intended to do. i told him that the only thing i could think of was to get into tertia, in some disguise, to see addie, to reveal my real rank to her, and to formally ask her to be my wife. of course, ' i saw very well what difficulties there were in the gerald, the gentle giant. where i might be able to ply my trade as carpet- maker. and could i ask that of adalia ? if i did, i felt sure she would consent; but — i ask you : did you ever hear of a prince in so deplorable a plight? it was not the trouble—the danger even—that i minded. i didn't care twopence for that, and was ready to go through any amount of it to win her. but this irritating necessity of earning money, after i had won her -what prince of all the story-book heroes ever had to face a thing like that? you see the position : if i succeeded in winning her, i should be deprived of the means of obtaining the necessaries of life. if i didn't succeed in winning her—if i were caught, i mean, endeavouring to win her—i might be handed over to the tertian police, who might do i knew not what to me- at the very least, hand me back to my angry father. however, be the penalties what they might, i intended to make the attempt. that was what i told hector; and he was kind enough to say that i was a good fellow who deserved to succeed, . and who would succeed in the end if i faced all difficulties boldly and didn't allow anything to daunt me. he had, however, bad news to tell me, for he said he could gerald, the gentle giant. assist me no further—for two reasons, it would be fatal to my “incognito” if i were found travelling in tertia with him, where he was well-known, and, moreover, the messenger we had met had brought him tidings that demanded his immediate presence elsewhere. what these tidings were he did not tell me, but, as a matter of fact, i believe it was the news that our father, the king, was contemplating abdication, at an early date, in favour of our eldest brother, henderson. of course it was with the very greatest regret that i realised that i was to have no more of hector's pleasant company and prudent advice; but he told me that i should find a loyal friend in gerald. at the same time he warned me not to tell him too much. “he is a good-hearted fellow,” he said, “but rather a blunderhead.” so, one day, a little while after hector had left us (his going was as much a disappointment to gerald as to myself), i asked the giant how he was getting along with his books, and whether he would not soon want some new ones. he seemed a little astonished by these questions, but answered the latter in the affirmative. then i began to talk about a story that had been published in gerald, the gentle giant. that i was, that day, to find myself once more in the presence of my beloved. i had had no means of communicating with her beforehand, although i had intended to have feigned illness and to have devised some present for the princess, as from the giant, and to have placed therein a letter from myself ; but i imagined, on second thoughts, that this would be too risky a proceeding, and, moreover, i could think of no way in which to word the letter so that it might convey to adalia a knowledge of the writer's identity. therefore, i resolved to go boldly to court with my presumed uncle, and to trust to some means arising whereby i might make myself known to the princess. but, alas, a great disappointment awaited me. when we arrived at the palace, we found everything in a state of great commotion. the queen had been seized with a fainting-fit, whilst engaged upon the business of the state, and had had to be supported from her council chamber by the prime minister and the chamberlain, and was now being assiduously waited upon by the princess adalia in her private apartments. so we were received by the chamberlains, who explained this to us very briefly, took our gerald, the gentle giant sam t fish, the national emblem), and that they came out again at the same hour every evening. i next discovered that one of these very men, a fellow of about the same age as myself, was lodging in the same house with me. i speedily made his acquaintance, and found, as i had anticipated, that work was going on in the palace. a certain suite of rooms, long disused, were being prepared for some eminent foreign visitor. who this visitor was, he did not know, but he had heard that it was the new king of borgo, who was to be married to the princess adalia. i need not say that at this intelligence i pricked up my ears. i could get no more in- formation, however ; but i found out that the young man, who was a carpenter, was very tired of his work. he did not belong to the city, moreover, and wanted to return, as soon as he could, to his own town. here, i thought, was the chance for which i had longed. with the help of a little present, i managed to induce my fellow-lodger to throw up his work, and to take me to his overseer, who did not make much trouble about engaging me in his stead. the next morning i went, with the other men, into the palace. that day i was kept very gerald, the gentle giant. dr n nor css closely at work, and saw no one but my fellow- workers, nor could i learn anything more about the person for whom the rooms, which were very beautiful, were being prepared. i did hear, how- ever, that the queen had not yet recovered. a few days later, when the rooms seemed nearly ready, and i had neither seen the princess nor heard of her, and was beginning to despair of getting any good out of my scheme, two ladies of the court inspected the apartments. one of them spoke to our overseer, and said, “the princess will come and see them to-morrow.” how my heart beat when i heard this ! all that night i never slept a wink for thinking of the morrow, and what it was to bring me. the morrow duly came (as it so often does), and with it the princess. i was afraid at first that, after all, i should not see her, for the orders were, of course, to have the workmen out of the way when her highness arrived. however, there was so much more to be done than had seemed necessary, that we were working almost up to the very minute of her appearance, and then had time only to scramble into an ante-room, whence it was quite possible to see all the roya party. i could scarcely breathe for the excite- gerald, the gentle giant. it was plain that there was a mistake some- where. this woman was certainly not my addie —was not an atom like her. and yet i found that she was looked upon by all as the princess adalia. i could see it in the demeanour of the court ladies towards her, as well as receiving assurances to the same effect from those around me. but she was not the princess adalia i had seen, the princess adalia of the old castle, the princess adalia whom i loved. i was at first stupefied, and inclined to believe that i had had a dream, or that i was still in one. i tried to persuade myself that all these people were labouring under a delusion, and that this haughty person was an imposter and a sham. but, by-and-by, a new light dawned upon me: the only person who had actually told me that my addie was the princess adalia was my old master, the carpet-maker. what if the “mistake some- where ” were a mistake there? i forgot whether or no hector had ever mentioned the name of the princess adalia to me or i to him ; and, if he had, what if he had got his information from the carpet-maker also ? but then came the question : if addie were not the princess adalia, who was she ? that gerald, the gentle giant. re- character and behaviour of everyone connected with the court, but for all of that i had no ears. presently, the crowd began to thin and break, and i scrambled forward ; and, somehow, i know not how, i found myself beyond the halberdiers, and at the foot of the platform. again, i know not huw, but before anyone could stay me, i had climbed up and was amongst the lords and ladies who had turned to re-enter the hall in procession. i heard indistinctly the cries of the pike-men and the other people behind me, but i heeded them not a jot, but pressed forward, diving and dodging in and out, until i had come before the head of the procession in the great hall. here, i threw myself on one knee before my brother and his startled princess, and the other equally startled personages of court. but my brother raised me laughingly, and i was, as in a dream, presented to them all, even to the princess addie, who was full of wonder, but in whose eyes i also read, i thought, hope and confidence, and encouragement. i was handed over to the chamberlains, and, having been dressed in a princelier fashion, took my place at the banquet that followed, as the brother benedict's buns. our or five centuries ago, the sun and the sky were very much the same as they are now, but the land and the people of europe were very different. the land in england was different, because it had not so much care as at present, being widely covered with forests, or with swamps. the people were different in a thousand ways. they had no parliamentary trains, or agents, no circular tours, compulsory education, trade councils, accidental insurance, or australian mutton. they had at least two thursday afternoon holidays every week; and dressed according to the climate, with whatever colours they pleased. they had strong ideas of right and wrong, with vague ways of acting upon those ideas. many people thought that it was impossible to be good without entering a monastery, there to live part of the time, saying latin prayers at regular hours, and the other part minding other people's business. however, as that brother benedict's buns. included feeding other people who were hungry, and curing other people who were sick, we will consider we have not time to talk of that. those are some of the differences. another great difference, and the one which concerns us here, between the people of old england and ourselves, is this : they nearly all believed in fairies. i always did suspect my uncle hal of not believing in the charming little beings as much as i did, but if you, i, and uncle hal had lived four or five centuries ago, we should all have believed in them as much as one another, or even more. brother benedict did. he was a young friar, who lived with other friars in a building in monk- gate, hull. it was called the augustine friary. the friars in all the augustine monasteries were called black friars, because the father-christmas- shaped gowns they wore were black. brother robert, on the other hand, was doubt- ful of fairies, whether elves, fays, pixies, gnomes, or brownies. he never, however, said that he was doubtful. he thought that, perhaps, some- day he might have reason to believe in them. so he had waited for fifty-seven years, not trying to make up his mind on this point, as well as on caus brother benedict’s buns. many others; but keeping an observant eye on the world, or what he could see of it. “how cometh it, brother robert, that we make and give away these crossed buns on good friday?” asked the young brother benedict, early one good friday morning, as he carried off, on a board, one batch after another of the loaflets of white “lord's bread." brother robert cast his observant eye upon benedict. “it is said,” he observed, “that the custom first began on account of some absent-minded brother, who, being deputed to make the sacramental wafers, made up a quantity larger than required, and, as the dough had been blessed, it was thought it could not be rightly made into ordinary bread. so it was made into these “bons” (as being good), and sent round, with crossed marks, to all the gentry, and other monasteries near. then it became a custom used by all these religious houses.” “i see,” said brother benedict. “it reminds the folks of the day.” “yes,” replied robert, as he rolled out another slab of paste, bringing his eye approvingly to bear on benedict. “it does." whit: mlllllii hay viralli /m in mit semiti miui will alles w kumaha linnas muu od th hitta யாரமா duto ndall wilde i. brother benedict and brother robert. brother benedict's buns. himself into the wallet with the letter. then he said, “ thanks to you, brother anselm,” just as though anselm had done it, which was also a custom brother' robert had ; and anselm was well satisfied. the young brother set out. “give this letter to the provost, and when he has returned it to you, take it to the prior.” this was all that was said to him. the young brother arrived at beverley. he delivered the missive to the provost, who put his seal to it. “cans’t thou read ?” he asked. “not yet,” he replied, remembering how diffi- cult all learning was to him, for he was simple. “ brother robert is teaching me, but i am slow.” “god bless brother robert,” said the provost “amen,” said benedict, and went out. after eating and drinking, he took the road again. all the face of the land, with its oak forest and its beech forest, its swampy hollows and its thorny wras, had been covered, as he came, with the green haze which the bud beginnings give the land in early spring. but now a sudden fall of snow was covering everything over. he trudged on. the snow fell faster. he lost his way, and found himself in a straggling wood, which he had . brother benedict's buns. fairy,” said brother benedict, in a bolder tone than he would previously have given himself credit for. “do not harm me. i am on an important mission --though i know not one jot of what it concerns —and i bear my rosary, and in my wallet are three hot crossed buns, least hot they were five or six hours ago, when i left monkgate.” “harm thee! good young father,” said the tiny voice. “i would not an' i could.” “ many thanks,” said brother benedict, getting upon his feet, and looking down on the little figure. “but, methinks, you are taller than the fairies gammar catchwynd has told me of; and if i may be so bold—there are tears on your fairyship’s cheeks!” “yes, i have been crying,” said the little one in green. “won't you come back with me; my little sister is there, and we are lost, and we are very tired." “gramercy !” said the young friar in surprise. people often said gramercy, or “grant mercy,” in those days. “grammercy! then you are not a fairy.” “not i,” said the boy in the velvet clothes. “ i am jack, and my sister is avice, and john of auburn is our father!” brother benedict’s buns. then brother benedict took up jack, the son of john de auburn, in his strong arms, and strode hastily in the way he had returned. “there she is,” the boy shouted merrily, pointing to where a little girl, of exactly his own age, was seated under a blackberry bush, which was thick with last year's leaves. “there she is. i sang to her and cried to myself, first one and then the other, over and over again, until i heard you come. but you ran away. still, say nothing as to the crying, for she knew it not.” then brother benedict sat down under the blackberry bush with the two children, and brought out his three crossed buns, cold now, but very good. so they had one each, and a drink also from a flask, which it happened brother benedict had with him, containing a pint of good malmsey wine. there benedict asked what wood it was, and the children told him, and after they had all rested they walked shrewdly to the edge of the wood; and jack pointed out first one thing and then another, till at length the brother recognised one of the names, and knew where he was. he said, “ first, good little master, i will take you to your father's house, for master john brother benedict's buns. and asked, “are there any fairies, brother robert ?” “i never saw any,” responded brother robert, casting his observant eye on brother benedict, and speaking very slowly, “ but i do not know that there are none. “valuable and interesting.”—the times. “a remarkably handsome volume, typographically equal to the best production of any european capital.” – north british daily mail. . the bygone series. the following works are included in this series, and issued at s. d. per volume. demy svo., cloth gilt. informing, interesting, illustrated volumes on local history, biography, folk lore, etc., etc. bygone derbyshire. edited by william andrews, f.r.h.s. contents :-historic derbyshire, by thomas frost-on an early christian tomb at wirksworth, by the rev. j. charles cox, ll.d., f.s.a. -curious lead-mining customs, by william andrews, f.r.h.s. -the place-name derby, by frederick davis, f.s.a.-duffield castle, by jno. ward, f.s.a.-haddon hall—the romance of haddon hall—the ordeal of touch-the monumental brasses at tideswell, by james l. thornely- bolsover castle, by enid a. m. cox— the lamp of st. helens, by t. tindall wildridge-peverel castle, by james l. thornely-samuel slater, the father of the american cotton manufacture, by william e. a. axon-the bakewell witches, by t. tindall wildridge-mary queen of scots in derbyshire—the babington conspiracy—Ēyam and its sad memories, by w. g. fretton, f.s.a.- well-dressing, by the rev. geo. s. tyack, b.a. -old-time football, by theo arthur-after thirty years : an incident of the civil war, by edward lamplough—derbyshire and the ' , by the rev. geo. s. tyack, b.a.- bess of hardwick, by frederick ross, f.r.h.s.--shadows of romance-index. “a valuable addition to any library.”-derbyshire times. “the volume is pleasant reading of a most attractive county.”—daily telegraph. bygone essex. edited by william andrews, f.r.h.s. contents :-/ listoric essex, by thomas frost-epping forest: its history, customs, and laws, by jesse quail-greenstead church, by edward lamplough—the burial of harold at waltham, by william winters, f.r.h.s.st. osyth’s priory, by john t. page--colchester in olden times, by joseph w. spurgeon—the siege of colchester, by joseph w. spurgeon-colchester : its historic buildings and famous men, by joseph w. spurgeon-essex tokens, by thomas forster- queen elizabeth at tilbury: a glance at armada days, by edward lamplough-the lawless court, by the rev. geo. s. tyack, b.a.-the dunmow flitch-a deserted primitive village, by g. fredk. beaumont- william hunter: the young martyr of brentwood, by sohn w, odling -fairlop fair, by john w. odling—thomas tusser, and his “ five hundred points of good husbandry," by w. h. thompson--john ray, naturalist, by w. h. thompson -- wanstead house, by john t. page - hopkins, the witchfinder, by frederick ross, f.r.h.s. - an essex poet, by the rev. geo. s. tyack, b. a.—historic harwich-old bow bridge, by john t. page-index. “ readable as well as instructive, and it has an interest for many more than essex people.”— the globe. “the work will be welcomed by all intelligent explorers of their own county, who cannot fail regard its ancient monuments and historic localities with renewed interest after perusing it.”—the gentlewoman. bygone england. social studies in its historic byways and highways. by william andrews, f.r.h.s. contents :-under watch and ward-under lock and key—the practice of pledging—the minstrel in the olden time-curious land. holding customs—curiosities of slavery in england-buying and selling in the olden time-curious fair customs—old prejudices against coal- the sedan-chair-running footmen—the early days of the umbrella -a talk about tea-concerning coffee—the horn-book-fighting cocks in schools—bull-baiting - the badge of poverty-patents to wear nightcaps-a foolish fashion –wedding notices in the last century- selling wives—the story of the tinder box-the invention of friction matches-body snatching–christmas under the commonwealth-under the misletoe bough-a carefully prepared index. "we welcome ‘bygone england.' it is another of mr. andrews' meri. torious achievements in the path of popularising archæological and old-time information without in any way writing down to an ignoble level.”—the antiquary. "a delightful volume for all who love to dive into the origin of social habits and customs, and to penetrate into the byways of history.”- liverpool daily post. “there is a large mass of information in this capital volume, and it is so pleasantly put that many will be tempted to study it. mr. andrews has done his work with great skill.”—london quarterly review. bygone kent. edited by richard stead, b.a., f.r.h.s. contents :-historic kent, by thomas frost-kentish place-names, by r. stead, b.a., f.r.h.s.–st. augustine and his mission, by the rev. geo. s. tyack, b.a.—the ruined chapels and chantries of kent, by geo. m. arnold, j.p., d.l., f.s.a. - a sketch of the history of the church or basilica of lyminge, by the rev. canon r. c. jenkins, m.a.-canterbury pilgrims and their sojourn in the city, by the rev. w. f. foxell, b.a. - william lambarde, the kentish antiquary, by frederick ross, f.r.h.s.- the revolt of the villeins in the days of king richard the second, by edward lamplough—royal eltham, by joseph w. spurgeon-greenwich fair, by thomas frost—the martyred cardinal, by frederick ross, f.r.h.s.—the kentish dialects, and pegge and lewis, the old county dickinson, b.a. -belvoir castle-robert, earl of leicester : a chapter of mediæval history-local proverbs and folk phrases, by t. broadbent trowsdale-festival customs in leicestershire, by henrietta ellis- witchcraft in leicestershire, by j. potter briscoe, f.r.h.s. --william lilly, the astrologer, by w. h. thompson-gleanings from early leicestershire wills, by the rev. w. g. d. fletcher, m.a., f.s. a. — punishments of the past-laurence ferrers, the murderer-earl, by t. broadbent trowsdale--the last gibbet, by thomas frost—the ancient water-mills at loughborough, by the rev. w. g. d. fletcher, m.a., f.s.a.--ashby-de-la-zouch castle and its associations; ashby-de-la-zouch and the french prisoners, by canon denton, m.a.-miss mary linwood : an artist with the needle, by william andrews, f.r.h.s. -street cries, by f. t. mott, f.r.g.s.- minstrelsy in leicester, by the rev. geo. s. tyack, b.a. -index. “the subjects are dealt with in a popular manner, and the utmost accuracy has been observed in setting forth the more interesting phases of local history, biography, and folk-lore of leicestershire. the book is interspersed with some capital illustrations; the whole is nicely printed, and forms an acceptable gift to any one who takes an interest in the doings of bygone days, or in the history of this especial county.”—hull news. bygone lincolnshire. edited by william andrews, f.r. h.s. contents of volume i. :-historic lincolnshire, by john nicholson -the ancient boat at brigg, by t. tindall wildridge - havelok, the dane, by mabel peacock- the crowle stone, by the rev. geo. s. tyack, b.a.-a roman arch-a curious legend, by the rev. w. henry jones -quaint land tenures and customs of the manor, by t. broadbent trowsdale, f.r.h.s.-swineshead: the story of king john's death, by edward lamplough—barton-on-humber in the olden time, by c. h. crowder-pirates in the humber, by edward peacock, f.s.a. - the pilgrimage of grace, by frederick ross, f.r. h.s.-horncastle or winsby fight, by edward lamplough-somersby manor and cross, by j. g. hall -some old lincolnshire guilds, by the rev. j. malet lambert, m.a., ll.d.-somerton castle and its royal captive, by theo. arthur. - the champion, by william andrews, f.r.h.s.-haxey hood-bull-running, by john h. leggott, f.r. h.s.—henry welby, the grub street hermit, by theo. arthur-the plague in alford, , by the rev. geo. s. tyack, b.a.—kirke white in lincolnshire, by alfred lishman-index. contents of volume ii. — lincoln cathedral, by t. tindall wildridge -lincoln castle, by e. mansell sympson, m.d.-tattershall, its lords, its castle, and its church, by e. mansell sympson, m.d.-bolingbroke castle, by tom robinson, m.d. —ancient stained glass at barton-on- humber, and the great earl beaumont, by t. tindall wildridge-on the population of lincolnshire, by tom robinson, m.d. —superstitious beliefs and customs of lincolnshire, by the rev. wm. proctor swaby, d.d.- the legend of byard's leap, by the rev. j. conway walter — thornton abbey, by frederick ross, f. r. h.s.—the witches of belvoir, by t. broadbent trowsdale—the battle of lincoln, by edward lanplough- lincoln fair, by edward lamplough-alford fight, by the rev. geo. s. tyack, b.a.- robert de brunne, by frederick ross, f. r.h.s.-dr. dodd, the forger, by john t. page--sir isaac newton-- barton-on-humber ferry, by c. h. crowder-an eighteenth century poet, by the rev. alan cheales, ma.-lincolnshire a century ago-spalding gentlemen's society, by dr. perry-the great brass welkyn of boston, by william stevenson—the great hawthorn tree of fishtoft-index. “mr. william andrews collects together a series of papers, by various competent hands, on the history, antiquities, and folk-lore of the great eastern county which has borne so conspicuous a part in the past history of england, and produced so many men who have illustrated it. ... a valuable contribution to local history.”—the times. bygone london. by frederick ross, f.r. h.s. contents :--the walls and gates-episodes in the annals of cheapside-bishopsgate street within and 'without-aldersgate street and st. martin's-le-grand-old broad street-chaucer and the tabard- the priory of the holy trinity, aldgate-convent of the sisters minoresses of the order of st. clare, aldgate--the abbey of st. mary of graces, or east minster - the barons fitzwalter, of baynard's castle—sir nicholas brember, knight, lord mayor of london—an olden time bishop of london : robert de braybrooke- a brave old london bishop --fulco basset-an old london diarist-index. “mr. ross deals with the chief episodes in the history of london architecture, and with existing london antiquities, in a garrulous, genial spirit, which renders his book generally attractive.”—the times. “beyond all doubt a more interesting and withal informing volume than • bygone london' it has not been our good fortune to come across for many a long day.”—the city press. bygone northamptonshire. edited by william andrews, f. r. h.s. contents :- historic northamptonshire, by thomas frost-—the eleanor crosses, by the rev. geo. s. tyack, b.a.-fotheringhay: past and present, by mrs. dempsey-the battle of naseby, by edward lamplough - the cottage countess—the charnel house at rothwell, by edward chamberlain-the gunpowder plot, by john t. page—earls barton church, by t. tindall wildridge-old fairs, by william sharman- witches and witchcraft, by eugene teesdale- the city of peterborough, by frederick ross, f.r.h.s.—the english founders of the washington family of america, by thomas frost--ann bradstreet, the earliest american poetess—liber custumarum, villa northamptoniæ, by christo- pher a. markham, f.s.a.— thomas britton, the musical small coal man, by e. e. cohen-old scarlett, the peterborough sexton-accounts of towcester constables, by john nicholson-miserere shoemaker of wellingborough, by t. tindall wildridge—sir thomas tresham and his buildings, by john t. page—northampton folk-lore, by john nicholson -northamptonshire proverbs- an ancient hospital, by the rev. i. wodhams, m.a.--a carefully prepared index. —numerous illustrations. "the volume is very interesting, and for those who dwell in the county, or whose tastes lead them to explore its history, it will have especial attraction.”—publishers' circular. “a welcome contribution to the literature of the county.”- northampton herald. “a welcome addition to the shelves of anyone interested in the antiquities of northamptonshire, while even those who are not, will be able to pleasantly while away many odd half-hours by perusing its pages.”— kettering leader. bygone nottinghamshire. by william stevenson. contents :-the wapentakes—the origin of the county-the origin of the town-the earliest recorded visitors to the county-the suppression of the knights templars-old sanctuary days-notable instances of sanctuary-a note on the beverley sanctuary—the king's gallows of the county--the reign of terror in notts- public executions -old family feuds- visitations of the plague-visitations in the town, visitations in the county-nottingham goose fair—the great priory fair at lenton—the pilgrimage of grace—the pilgrim fathers; or, the founders of new england–the descendents of the pilgrim fathers- archiepiscopal palaces—the ancient inns and taverns of nottingham- index. “mr. wm. stevenson, of several of whose previous works nottingham and the shire have formed the basis, adds to the list an exceedingly interesting and useful book on the county, under the title of ‘bygone nottinghamshire,' illustrated by a large number of engravings from photographs, old prints, and other sources. the writer's aim has been to incorporate much information beyond the reach of ordinary students on the past history of the county, and thereby to prove the shire is, as he believes, rich beyond comparison in ancient lore. ... a most pleasant addition to local history." —nottingham daily guardian. “we welcome mr. stevenson's book as a useful addition to the literature of the county." —newark advertiser. bygone scotland. by david maxwell, c.e. contents :-the roman conquest of britain-britain as a roman province--the anglo-saxons in britain-the rise of the scottish nation -the danish invasions of britain-the last two saxon kings of england -how scotland became a free nation scotland in the two hundred years after bannockburn-the older scottish literature—the reforma- tion in england and scotland–the rival queens, mary and elizabeth, old edinburgh-offences and their punishment in the sixteenth century -old aberdeen-witchcraft in scotland-holy-wells in scotland scottish marriage customs-scotland under charles the first-scotland under cromwell-scotland under charles the second-scotland under james the second—the revolution of —the massacre of glencoe- the union of scotland and england—the jacobite risings of —the rebellion of —index. " the book forms a splendid addition to the works of the same series all printed at the ‘hull press,' and, like all its predecessors, is printed in the exceptionally beautiful style which marks the productions of mr. andrews' establishment. the volume is handsomely bound, and well illustrated. mr. andrews is a bookmaker par excellence." - printing world. bygone yorkshire. edited by william andrews, f.r. h.s. contents :-lake-dwellings of yorkshire, by t. tindall wildridge- an ancient monolith, by w. h. thompson-relics and remnants, by john nicholson-yorkshire castles : some of their historic associations, by edward lamplough-york castle, by sidney w. clarke-castles and castle builders : bolton castle and the scropes-ramparts, walls, and bars of york, by w. camidge—the ivanhoe country, by the rev. geo. s. tyack, b.a.- knights templars, by j. j. sheahan-st. mary's abbey, york, by george benson-byland abbey : its historical associations, by edward lamplough-robin hood in yorkshire, by charles a. federer, l.c.p. -the pilgrimage of grice, by w. h. thompson- the ilistory, traditions, and curious customs of york minster, by george benson-a story of the gunpowder plot, by the rev. geo. s. tyack, b.a. -the spinning-wheel, by i. w. dickinson, b.a. --ripon and its minster, by george parker-ripon spurs, by t. c. heslington -captain cook, the circumnavigator, by w. h. burnett-farnley hall, by j. a. clapham- index. “an important addition to the literary history of the county."'-- yorkshire herald. “ matters of fact, romance, and legend are interwoven in the most charming manner. the work will, no doubt, command the warm admiration it richly deserves.”—halifax guardian. “it is replete from cover to cover with readable and informing articles.” - wakefield free press. elegantly bound in cloth gilt, demy vo., price s. old church lore. by william andrews, f. r. h.s. contents :-the right of sanctuary- the romance of trial-a fight between the mayor of hull and the archbishop of york-chapels on bridges-charter horns-the old english sunday-the easter sepulchre -st. paul's cross-cheapside cross—the biddenden maids charity-- plagues and pestilences-a king curing an abbot of indigestion. the services and customs of royal oak day-marrying in a white sheet- marrying under the gallows-kissing the bride - flot ale at weddings - marrying children—the passing bell–concerning coffins—the curfew bell— curious symbols of the saints-acrobats on steeples—a carefully. prepared index. -illustrated. “ it is chatty and instructive from cover to cover.”—the antiquary. “ it will afford considerable enjoyment to those readers who are interested in tracing the influence of the church on the habits and social life of the people in past times.” – morning post. " most pleasantly readable." --- yorkshire herald. “mr. andrews sustains the uwabated interest of his readers.” — literary world. “it is full of information, which will make it a very attractive book for all who have any leaning towards antiquarianism.”—london quarterly review. “the book is eminently readable, and may be taken up at any moment with the certainty that something suggestive or entertaining will present itself.”—glasgow citizen. “mr. andrews' book does not contain a dull page. ..deserves to meet with a very warm welcome.”'— yorkshire post. second edition. bound in cloth gilt, demy vo., s. curiosities of the church. studies of curious customs, services, and records, by william andrews, f.r. h.s. contents :-early religious plays : being the story of the english stage in its church cradle days—the caistor gad-whip manorial service -strange serpent siories—church ales-rush-bearing-.fish in lent- concerning doles--church scrambling charities—briefs— bells and beacons for travellers by night-hour glasses in churches-chained books in churches-funeral effigies-torchlight burials—simple memorials of the early dead— the romance of parish registers-dog whippers and sluggard wakers-odd items from old accounts-a carefully compiled index. -- illustrated. “an extremely interesting volume.”—north british daily mail. “full of interest.”—the globe. “we feel sure that many will feel grateful to mr. andrews for having produced such an interesting book.”—the antiquary. “a volume of great research and striking interest.”—the bookbuyer (new york). "a valuable book.”—literary world (boston, u.s.a.) “ contains, in a popular and readable form, much that is curious and instructive.”—manchester guardian. “an admirable book.”—sheffielil independent. “an interesting, handsomely got up volume. . . . mr. andrews is always chatty, and expert in making a paper on a dry subject exceedingly readable." —newcastle courant. “mr. william andrews' new book, ‘curiosities of the church,' adds another to the series by which he has done so much to popularise antiquarian studies. . . the book, it should be added, has some quaint illustrations, and its rich matter is made available for reference by a full and carefully compiled index.”-scotsman. fcap. . bevelled boards, gilt tops. price s. famous frosts and frost fairs in great britain. chronicled from the earliest to the present time. by william andrews, f.r.h.s. this work furnishes a carefully prepared account of all the great frosts occurring in this country from a.d. to . the numerous frost fairs on the thames are fully described, and illustrated with quaint woodcuts, and several old ballads relating to the subject are reproduced. it is tastefully printed and elegantly bound. “the history and the literature of our county are now receiving marked attention, and mr. andrews merits the support of the public for the production of this and other interesting volumes he has issued. we cannot speak too highly of this volume, the printing, the paper, and the binding being faultless.”—driffield observer. elegantly bound in cloth gilt, demy vo., s. yorkshire family romance. by frederick ross, f. r. h,s. contents :--the synod of streoneshalh-the doomed heir of osmotherley--st. eadwine, the royal martyr—the viceroy siward- phases in the life of a political martyr—the murderer's bride—the earldom of wiltes—black-faced clifford–the shepherd lord-the felons of ilkley—the ingilby boar's head—the eland tragedy-the plumpton marriage—the topcliffe insurrection-burning of cottingham castle—the alum workers—the maiden of marblehead-rise of the house of phipps - the traitor governor of hull. “the grasp and thoroughness of the writer is evident in every page, and the book forms a valuable addition to the literature of the north country.” -gentlewoman. “ many will welcome this work.”— yorkshire post. crown vo. bound in cloth extra. price / . biblical and shakespearian characters compared studies of life and literature. by the rev. james bell. between the hebrew bible and shakespeare there exist some interesting and instructive points of resemblance, especially in respect of their ways of life and character. no doubt certain inevitable differences also exist between them, but these do not hide the resemblance; rather they serve to set it, so to speak, in bolder relief. the author in this volume treats of this striking resemblance, under certain phases, between hebrew prophecy and shakespearian drama. the following are the chief “ studies” which find a place in the work :—hebrew prophecy and shakespeare : a comparison-eli and hamlet-saul and macbeth-jonathan and horatio-david and henry v. -epilogue. the foregoing list of subjects will give some notion of the drift and style of the book, which, it is hoped, is a contribution towards a better study of the bible in connection with our literature and moral experience. the following short extracts are selected from a large number of reviews of mr. bell's book :- “one of the most suggestive volumes we have met with for a long time." -birmingham daily gazette. "an interesting book.”-north british daily mail. book. ... the reader's interest is aroused from the first and is sustained to the end. there is pathos in the story and there is humour, and mr. lloyd writes very gracefully and tenderly where grace and tenderness are needed.”—birmingham daily gazette. “the story ... is full of action and movement, and is never dull.”—the scotsman. fancy cover, is. wanted-an heiress : a novel. by evan may. .“ it is an entrancing story, and perfectly wholesome reading. in this work, the author of 'the greatest of these' is at her best; and ' wanted an heiress' may be pronounced a leading tale of the season.”--south yorkshire free press. “ the story is well told.”—northern echo. “ it is a bright book for holiday reading.–carlisle express. hdi hw h s hidi hw byu v hubbyuv he voyages of ( doctor dolittle hugh lofting pola kedu the voyages of doctor dolittle i a the popsipetel picture-history of king jong thinkalot бе не по это е (Битгэм гін тоймАҒгін ht htiw ht *analai ата гзяam bн зята и гэЃАЯдар анг отгөз ант гэјМАЯ illus strated в у the author гі эн энт гаАЗЛЭН азwояЭтот элчдзя ӘДІЯ ) Иг ҡя отрiv ЯАМ € fourth avenue new york ad ....wmd suresi his landing on the island his meeting with the beetle he liberates the lost families he makes fire wilhe leads the people to victory in war hezis rowned king opasipetel h oe thinkalot ( the vo voyages olitt s lof *.* le * males p tro . ..... inson ... ad a. illustrat ve author oy the montakaavacavalavav vidin ein dugo dncidus uid siti dividi: ombit : :. a taavaa id d. tot . published by fredy a. stokes cs lot fourth avenue new york ad. ........nur. ke copyright, , by frederick a. stokes company all rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign languages printed in the united states of america colin and elizabeth contents part one chapter page . prologue i the cobbler's son ii i hear of the great naturalist iii the doctor's home . . . . . iv the wiff-waff . . . .. v polynesia . . . . . . . . vi the wounded squirrel . . . . . vii shellfish talk . . viii are you a good noticer?. ix the garden of dreams . . . x the private zoo xi my schoolmaster, polynesia . xii my great idea . . . xiii a traveler arrives . . . . . . . xiv chee-chee's voyage . . . . . . . xv i become a doctor's assistant . . . . · · · · · · · :::::::::::::::: · · · · · · . . . . . . part two i the crew of "the curlew" ii luke the hermit . . . . . . . . iii jip and the secret . . . . . . . iv bob . . . . . . . . . . . . v mendoza . . . . . . . . . . . vi the judge's dog . . . . . . . . iii vii the end of the mystery . . . . . viii three cheers . . . . . . . . . ix the purple bird-of-paradise . . . . x long arrow, the son of golden arrow , xi blind travel . . . . . . . . · vui contents xii destiny and destination . . . . . part three ohapter page i the third man . . . . . . . . ii good-bye! . . . . . . . . . . iii our troubles begin . . . . . . . iv our troubles continue . v polynesia has a plan . vi the bed-maker of monteverde . . vii the doctor's wager. . . . . . viii the great bullfight . . . . ix we depart in a hurry . . . . . . part four i shellfish languages again . . ii the fidgit's story. . . . iii bad weather . . . . . . iv wrecked! . . . . . . . v land! . . . . . . vi the jabizri . . . . vii hawk's-head mountain . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . part five ñ ñ ñ i a great moment c . .. ii “the men of the moving land" . . . iii fire . . . . . · iv what makes an island float : v w ar! . . . . . . . . . . · vi general polynesia . . vii the peace of the parrot . . . viii the hanging stone . . . ix the election . x the coronation of king jong . . . vi gene peace, de stone tone . . . . . . . • . . contents page part six chapter i new popsipetel . ii thoughts of home . . . . . . iii the red man's science . . . . . iv the sea-serpent . . . . . . . v the shellfish riddle solved at last . vi the last cabinet meeting . . . vii the doctor's decision . . . . . · . . . . . . illustrations the popsipetel picture-history of king jong thinka- lot (in colors). . . . . . . . frontispiece page "i would sit on the river-wall with my feet dangling over the water" . . . . . . . . . “and in her right foot she carried a lighted candle!" . “'being a good noticer is terribly important'" . . a traveler arrives . . . . . . . . . . . "on the bed sat the hermit" . . . . . . . "sat scowling down upon the amazed and gaping jury" “ 'what else can i think?'”. . . . . . . . “ 'boy, where's the skipper?'” ....... "in these lower levels we came upon the shadowy shapes of dead ships" (in colors) . . . . . . . "the doctor started chatting in spanish to the bed maker" . . . . . . . . . “did acrobatics on the beast's horns” . . . . “'he talks english!'” . . . . . . . . . "i was alone in the ocean!” . . . . . . . . “it was a great moment" . . . . . . . . the terrible three . . . . . . . . . . . “working away with their noses against the end of the island” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . illustrations “the whispering rocks” ........ “had to chase his butterflies with a crown upon his head” . . . . . . . . . . . . “ 'tiptoe incognito,' whispered bumpo" . . . . the voyages of doctor dolittle the voyages of doctor dolittle prologue ll that i have written so far about doctor dolittle i heard long after it happened from those who had known - him—indeed a great deal of it took place before i was born. but i now come to set down that part of the great man's life which i myself saw and took part in. many years ago the doctor gave me permission to do this. but we were both of us so busy then voyaging around the world, having adventures and filling note-books full of natural history that i never seemed to get time to sit down and write of our doings. now of course, when i am quite an old man, my memory isn't so good any more. but whenever i am in doubt and have to hesitate and think, i always ask polynesia, the parrot. that wonderful bird (she is now nearly two hundred and fifty years old) sits on the top of my desk, usually humming sailor songs to herself, while i write this book. and, as every one who ever met her knows, polynesia's memory is the most marvel- the voyages of doctor dolittle ous memory in the world. if there is any happen- ing i am not quite sure of, she is always able to put me right, to tell me exactly how it took place, who was there and everything about it. in fact some- times i almost think i ought to say that this book was written by polynesia instead of me. very well then, i will begin. and first of all i must tell you something about myself and how i came to meet the doctor. part i the first chapter the cobbler's son y name was tommy stubbins, son of jacob stubbins, the cobbler of puddle. by-on-the-marsh; and i was nine and a half years old. at that time pud- dleby was only quite a small town. a river ran through the middle of it; and over this river there was a very old stone bridge, called kingsbridge, which led you from the market-place on one side to the churchyard on the other. sailing-ships came up this river from the sea and anchored near the bridge. i used to go down and watch the sailors unloading the ships upon the river-wall. the sailors sang strange songs as they pulled upon the ropes; and i learned these songs by heart. and i would sit on the river-wall with my feet dangling over the water and sing with the men, pretending to myself that i too was a sailor. for i longed always to sail away with those brave ships when they turned their backson puddleby church and went creeping down the river again, across the wide lonely marshes to the sea. i longed to go with them out into the world to seek the voyages of doctor dolittle my fortune in foreign lands—africa, india, china and peru! when they got round the bend in the river and the water was hidden from view, you could still see their huge brown sails towering over the roofs of the town, moving onward slowly—like some gentle giants that walked among the houses without noise. what strange things would they have seen, i wondered, when next they came back to anchor at kingsbridge! and, dreaming of the lands i had never seen, i'd sit on there, watching till they were out of sight. three great friends i had in puddleby in those days. one was joe, the mussel-man, who lived in a tiny hut by the edge of the water under the bridge. this old man was simply marvelous at making things. i never saw a man so clever with his hands. he used to mend my toy ships for me which i sailed upon the river; he built windmills out of packing-cases and barrel-staves; and he could make the most wonderful kites from old umbrellas. joe would sometimes take me in his mussel-boat, and when the tide was running out we would paddle down the river as far as the edge of the sea to get mussels and lobsters to sell. and out there on the cold lonely marshes we would see wild geese flying, and curlews and redshanks and many other kinds of seabirds that live among the samfire and the long grass of the great salt fen. and as we crept up the river in the evening, when the tide had turned, we n .,, te ih "i would sit on the river-wall with my feet dangling over the water" the voyages of doctor dolittle would see the lights on kingsbridge twinkle in the dusk, reminding us of tea-time and warm fires. another friend i had was matthew mugg, the cat's-meat-man. he was a funny old person with a bad squint. he looked rather awful but he was really quite nice to talk to. he knew everybody in puddleby; and he knew all the dogs and all the cats. in those times being a cat's-meat-man was a regular business. and you could see one nearly any day going through the streets with a wooden tray full of pieces of meat stuck on skewers crying, "meat! m-e-a-t!" people paid him to give this meat to their cats and dogs instead of feeding them on dog- biscuits or the scraps from the table. i enjoyed going round with old matthew and see- ing the cats and dogs come running to the garden- gates whenever they heard his call. sometimes he let me give the meat to the animals myself; and i thought this was great fun. he knew a lot about dogs and he would tell me the names of the different kinds as we went through the town. he had sev- eral dogs of his own; one, a whippet, was a very fast runner, and matthew used to win prizes with her at the saturday coursing races; another, a terrier, was a fine ratter. the cat's-meat-man used to make a business of rat-catching for the millers and farmers as well as his other trade of selling cat's-meat. my third great friend was luke the hermit. but of him i will tell you more later on. the cobbler's son i did not go to school; because my father was not rich enough to send me. but i was extremely fond of animals. so i used to spend my time collecting birds' eggs and butterflies, fishing in the river, ram- bling through the countryside after blackberries and mushrooms and helping the mussel-man mend his nets. yes, it was a very pleasant life i lived in those days long ago—though of course i did not think so then. i was nine and a half years old; and, like all boys, i wanted to grow up—not knowing how well off i was with no cares and nothing to worry me. always i longed for the time when i should be allowed to leave my father's house, to take passage in one of those brave ships, to sail down the river through the misty marshes to the sea—out into the world to seek my fortune. the second chapter i hear of the great naturalist ne early morning in the springtime, when i was wandering among the hills at the back of the town, i happened to come upon a hawk with a squirrel in its claws. it was standing on a rock and the squirrel was fighting very hard for its life. the hawk was so frightened when i came upon it suddenly like this, that it dropped the poor creature and flew away. i picked the squirrel up and found that two of its legs were badly hurt. so i carried it in my arms back to the town. when i came to the bridge i went into the mussel- man's hut and asked him if he could do anything for it. joe put on his spectacles and examined it care- fully. then he shook his head. "yon crittur's got a broken leg," he said- "and another badly cut an' all. i can mend you your boats, tom, but i haven't the tools nor the learning to make a broken squirrel seaworthy. this is a job for a surgeon—and for a right smart one an' all. there be only one man i know who could save yon crittur's life. and that's john dolittle." i hear of the great naturalist "who is john dolittle?" i asked. "is he a vet?" "no," said the mussel-man. "he's no vet. doctor dolittle is a nacheralist." "what's a nacheralist?”. "a nacheralist," said joe, putting away his glasses and starting to fill his pipe, "is a man who knows all about animals and butterflies and plants and rocks an' all. john dolittle is a very great nacheralist. i'm surprised you never heard of him—and you daft over animals. he knows a whole lot about shellfish—that i know from my own knowledge. he's a quiet man and don't talk much; but there's folks who do say he's the greatest nacheralist in the world." "where does he live?" i asked. "over on the oxenthorpe road, t'other side the town. don't know just which house it is, but 'most anyone 'cross there could tell you, i reckon. go and see him. he's a great man." so i thanked the mussel-man, took up my squirrel again and started off towards the oxenthorpe road. the first thing i heard as i came into the market- place was some one calling "meat! m-e-a-t!”. "there's matthew mugg," i said to myself. "he'll know where this doctor lives. matthew knows everyone." so i hurried across the market-place and caught him up. the voyages of doctor dolittle “matthew," i said, "do you know doctor do- little?" "do i know john dolittle !" said he. "well, i should think i do! i know him as well as i know my own wife—better, i sometimes think. he's a great man—a very great man." "can you show me where he lives ?" i asked. "i want to take this squirrel to him. it has a broken leg." "certainly," said the cat's-meat-man. "i'll be going right by his house directly. come along and i'll show you." so off we went together. "oh, i've known john dolittle for years and years," said matthew as we made our way out of the market-place. "but i'm pretty sure he ain't home just now. he's away on a voyage. but he's liable to be back any day. i'll show you his house and then you'll know where to find him." all the way down the oxenthorpe road matthew hardly stopped talking about his great friend, doc- tor john dolittle—"m. d." he talked so much that he forgot all about calling out "meat!" until we both suddenly noticed that we had a whole pro- cession of dogs following us patiently. "where did the doctor go to on this voyage ?" i asked as matthew handed round the meat to them. "i couldn't tell you," he answered. "nobody never knows where he goes, nor when he's going, i hear of the great naturalist nor when he's coming back. he lives all alone ex- cept for his pets. he's made some great voyages and some wonderful discoveries. last time he came back he told me he'd found a tribe of red in- dians in the pacific ocean—lived on two islands, they did. the husbands lived on one island and the wives lived on the other. sensible people, some of them savages. they only met once a year, when the husbands came over to visit the wives for a great feast—christmas-time, most likely. yes, he's a wonderful man is the doctor. and as for animals, well, there ain't no one knows as much about 'em as what he does." "how did he get to know so much about ani- mals?" i asked. the cat's-meat-man stopped and leant down to whisper in my ear. "he talks their language," he said in a hoarse, mysterious voice. "the animals' language?" i cried. "why certainly," said matthew. "all animals have some kind of a language. some sorts talk more than others; some only speak in sign-language, like deaf-and-dumb. but the doctor, he under- stands them all—birds as well as animals. we keep it a secret though, him and me, because folks only laugh at you when you speak of it. why, he can even write animal-language. he reads aloud to his pets. he's wrote history-books in monkey- the voyages of doctor dolittle talk, poetry in canary language and comic songs for magpies to sing. it's a fact. he's now busy learning the language of the shellfish. but he says it's hard work—and he has caught some terrible colds, holding his head under water so much. he's a great man." "he certainly must be," i said. "i do wish he were home so i could meet him." "well, there's his house, look," said the cat's- meat-man—"that little one at the bend in the road there—the one high up like it was sitting on the wall above the street." we were now come beyond the edge of the town. and the house that matthew pointed out was quite a small one standing by itself. there seemed to be a big garden around it; and this garden was much higher than the road, so you had to go up a flight of steps in the wall before you reached the front gate at the top. i could see that there were many fine fruit trees in the garden, for their branches hung down over the wall in places. but the wall was so high i could not see anything else. when we reached the house matthew went up the steps to the front gate and i followed him. i thought he was going to go into the garden; but the gate was locked. a dog came running down from the house; and he took several pieces of meat which the cat's-meat-man pushed through the bars of the gate, and some paper bags full of corn and bran. i hear of the great naturalist i noticed that this dog did not stop to eat the meat, as any ordinary dog would have done, but he took all the things back to the house and disappeared. he had a curious wide collar round his neck which looked as though it were made of brass or some- thing. then we came away. "the doctor isn't back yet," said matthew, "or the gate wouldn't be locked." "what were all those things in paper-bags you gave the dog?" i asked. "oh, those were provisions," said matthew- "things for the animals to eat. the doctor's house is simply full of pets. i give the things to the dog, while the doctor's away, and the dog gives them to the other animals." "and what was that curious collar he was wearing round his neck ?" "that's a solid gold dog-collar," said matthew. "it was given to him when he was with the doctor on one of his voyages long ago. he saved a man's life." "how long has the doctor had him ?" i asked. "oh, a long time. jip's getting pretty old now. that's why the doctor doesn't take him on his voy- ages any more. he leaves him behind to take care of the house. every monday and thursday i bring the food to the gate here and give it him through the bars. he never lets any one come in- side the garden while the doctor's away—not even the voyages of doctor dolittle ine, though he knows me well. but you'll always be able to tell if the doctor's back or not because if he is, the gate will surely be open." so i went off home to my father's house and put my squirrel to bed in an old wooden box full of straw. and there i nursed him myself and took care of him as best i could till the time should come when the doctor would return. and every day i went to the little house with the big garden on the edge of the town and tried the gate to see if it were locked. sometimes the dog, jip, would come down to the gate to meet me. but though he always wagged his tail and seemed glad to see me, he never let me come inside the garden. the third chapter the doctor's home ne monday afternoon towards the end of april my father asked me to take some shoes which he had mended to a house on the other side of the town. they were for a colonel bellowes who was very particular. i found the house and rang the bell at the front door. the colonel opened it, stuck out a very red face and said, "go round to the tradesmen's en- trance—go to the back door." then he slammed the door shut. i felt inclined to throw the shoes into the middle of his flower-bed. but i thought my father might be angry, so i didn't. i went round to the back door, and there the colonel's wife met me and took the shoes from me. she looked a timid little woman and had her hands all over flour as though she were making bread. she seemed to be terribly afraid of her husband whom i could still hear stumping round the house somewhere, grunting indignantly because i had come to the front door. then she asked me in a whisper if i would have a wo the voyages of doctor dolittle bun and a glass of milk. and i said, "yes, please." after i had eaten the bun and milk, i thanked the colonel's wife and came away. then i thought that before i went home i would go and see if the doctor had come back yet. i had been to his house once already that morning. but i thought i'd just like to go and take another look. my squirrel wasn't getting any better and i was beginning to be worried about him. so i turned into the oxenthorpe road and started off towards the doctor's house. on the way i noticed that the sky was clouding over and that it looked as though it might rain. i reached the gate and found it still locked. i felt very discouraged. i had been coming here every day for a week now. the dog, jip, came to the gate and wagged his tail as usual, and then sat down and watched me closely to see that i didn't get in. i began to fear that my squirrel would die before the doctor came back. i turned away sadly, went down the steps on to the road and turned towards home again. i wondered if it were supper-time yet. of course i had no watch of my own, but i noticed a gentleman coming towards me down the road; and when he got nearer i saw it was the colonel out for a walk. he was all wrapped up in smart overcoats and mufflers and bright-colored gloves. it was the doctor's home not a very cold day but he had so many clothes on he looked like a pillow inside a roll of blankets. i asked him if he would please tell me the time. he stopped, grunted and glared down at me- his red face growing redder still; and when he spoke it sounded like the cork coming out of a gingerbeer- bottle. "do you imagine for one moment," he splut- tered, "that i am going to get myself all unbuttoned just to tell a little boy like you the time!" and he went stumping down the street, grunting harder than ever. i stood still a moment looking after him and wondering how old i would have to be, to have him go to the trouble of getting his watch out. and then, all of a sudden, the rain came down in torrents. i have never seen it rain so hard. it got dark, almost like night. the wind began to blow; the thunder rolled; the lightning flashed, and in a moment the gutters of the road were flowing like a river. there was no place handy to take shelter, so i put my head down against the driving wind and started to run towards home. i hadn't gone very far when my head bumped into something soft and i sat down suddenly on the pavement. i looked up to see whom i had run into. and there in front of me, sitting on the wet pavement like myself, was a little round man with a the voyages of doctor dolittle very kind face. he wore a shabby high hat and in his hand he had a small black bag. "i'm very sorry," i said. "i had my head down and i didn't see you coming." to my great surprise, instead of getting angry at being knocked down, the little man began to laugh. "you know this reminds me," he said, "of a time once when i was in india. i ran full tilt into a woman in a thunderstorm. but she was carry- ing a pitcher of molasses on her head and i had trea- cle in my hair for weeks afterwards the flies followed me everywhere. i didn't hurt you, did i ?" "no," i said. "i'm all right." "it was just as much my fault as it was yours, you know," said the little man. "i had my head down too—but look here, we mustn't sit talking like this. you must be soaked. i know i am. how far have you got to go?" "my home is on the other side of the town," i said, as we picked ourselves up. "my goodness, but that was a wet pavement !" said he. "and i declare it's coming down worse than ever. come along to my house and get dried. a storm like this can't last." he took hold of my hand and we started running back down the road together. as we ran i began to wonder who this funny little man could be, and where he lived. i was a perfect stranger to him, the doctor's home and yet he was taking me to his own home to get dried. such a change, after the old red-faced col- onel who had refused even to tell me the time! presently we stopped. "here we are," he said. i looked up to see where we were and found my- self back at the foot of the steps leading to the little house with the big garden! my new friend was already running up the steps and opening the gate with some keys he took from his pocket. "surely," i thought, "this cannot be the great doctor dolittle himself !" i suppose after hearing so much about him i had expected some one very tall and strong and marvel- ous. it was hard to believe that this funny little man with the kind smiling face could be really he. yet here he was, sure enough, running up the steps and opening the very gate which i had been watch- ing for so many days! the dog, jip, came rushing out and started jump- ing up on him and barking with happiness. the rain was splashing down heavier than ever. "are you doctor dolittle ?" i shouted as we sped up the short garden-path to the house. "yes, i'm doctor dolittle," said he, opening the front door with the same bunch of keys. "get in! don't bother about wiping your feet. never mind the mud. take it in with you. get in out of the rain!" the voyages of doctor dolittle i popped in, he and jip following. then he slammed the door to behind us. the storm had made it dark enough outside; but inside the house, with the door closed, it was as black as night. then began the most extraordinary noise that i have ever heard. it sounded like all sorts and kinds of animals and birds calling and squeaking and screeching at the same time. i could hear things trundling down the stairs and hurrying along passages. somewhere in the dark a duck was quacking, a cock was crowing, a dove was cooing, an owl was hooting, a lamb was bleating and jip was barking. i felt birds' wings fluttering and fanning near my face. things kept bumping into my legs and nearly upsetting me. the whole front hall seemed to be filling up with animals. the noise, together with the roaring of the rain, was tremendous; and i was beginning to grow a little bit scared when i felt the doctor take hold of my arm and shout into my ear. "don't he alarmed. don't be frightened. these are just some of my pets. i've been away three months and they are glad to see me home again. stand still where you are till i strike a light. my gracious, what a storm!— just listen to that thunder!" so there i stood in the pitch-black dark, while all kinds of animals which i couldn't see chattered and jostled around me. it was a curious and a funny the doctor's home feeling. i had often wondered, when i had looked in from the front gate, what doctor dolittle would be like and what the funny little house would have inside it. but i never imagined it would be any- thing like this. yet somehow after i had felt the doctor's hand upon my arm i was not frightened, only confused. it all seemed like some queer dream; and i was beginning to wonder if i was really awake, when i heard the doctor speaking again: "my blessed matches are all wet. they won't strike. have you got any ?" "no, i'm afraid i haven't," i called back. "never mind," said he. "perhaps dab-dab can raise us a light somewhere." then the doctor made some funny clicking noises with his tongue and i heard some one trundle up the stairs again and start moving about in the rooms above. then we waited quite a while without anything happening. "will the light be long in coming ?" i asked. "some animal is sitting on my foot and my toes are going to sleep." "no, only a minute," said the doctor. "she'll be back in a minute." and just then i saw the first glimmerings of a light around the landing above. at once all the animals kept quiet. sto "and in her right foot she carried a lighted candle!" the doctor's home "i thought you lived alone," i said to the doctor. "so i do," said he. "it is dab-dab who is bringing the light." i looked up the stairs trying to make out who was coming. i could not see around the landing but i heard the most curious footstep on the upper flight. it sounded like some one hopping down from one step to the other, as though he were using only one leg. as the light came lower, it grew brighter and began to throw strange jumping shadows on the walls. "ahat last!" said the doctor. "good old dab-dab!" and then i thought i really must be dreaming for there, craning her neck round the bend of the landing, hopping down the stairs on one leg, came a spotless white duck. and in her right foot she carried a lighted candle! the fourth chapter the wiff-waff when at last i could look around me i found that the hall was indeed simply full of animals. it seemed to me that almost every kind of creature from the countryside must be there: a pigeon, a white rat, an owl, a badger, a jackdaw--there was even a small pig, just in from the rainy garden, care- fully wiping his feet on the mat while the light from the candle glistened on his wet pink back. the doctor took the candlestick from the duck and turned to me. "look here," he said: "you must get those wet clothes off—by the way, what is your name?" "tommy stubbins," i said. "oh, are you the son of jacob stubbins, the shoe- maker?" "yes," i said. "excellent bootmaker, your father," said the doctor. "you see these?" and he held up his right foot to show me the enormous boots he was wear- ing. "your father made me those boots four years ago, and i've been wearing them ever since—per- fectly wonderful boots—well now, look here, the wiff-waff stubbins. you've got to change those wet things— and quick. wait a moment till i get some more candles lit, and then we'll go upstairs and find some dry clothes. you'll have to wear an old suit of mine till we can get yours dry again by the kitchen-fire." so presently when more candles had been lighted round different parts of the house, we went upstairs; and when we had come into a bedroom the doctor opened a big wardrobe and took out two suits of old clothes. these we put on. then we carried our wet ones down to the kitchen and started a fire in the big chimney. the coat of the doctor's which i was wearing was so large for me that i kept treading on my own coat-tails while i was help- ing to fetch the wood up from the cellar. but very soon we had a huge big fire blazing up the chimney and we hung our wet clothes around on chairs. "now let's cook some supper," said the doctor. —"you'll stay and have supper with me, stubbins, of course?" already i was beginning to be very fond of this funny little man who called me "stubbins," instead of "tommy" or "little lad" (i did so hate to be called "little lad"!) this man seemed to begin right away treating me as though i were a grown-up friend of his. and when he asked me to stop and have supper with him i felt terribly proud and happy. but i suddenly remembered that i had the voyages of doctor dolittle not told my mother that i would be out late. so very sadly i answered, "thank you very much. i would like to stay, but i am afraid that my mother will begin to worry and wonder where i am if i don't get back." "oh, but my dear stubbins," said the doctor, throwing another log of wood on the fire, "your clothes aren't dry yet. you'll have to wait for them, won't you? by the time they are ready to put on we will have supper cooked and eaten- did you see where i put my bag?”. "i think it is still in the hall," i said. "i'll go and see." i found the bag near the front door. it was made of black leather and looked very, very old. one of its latches was broken and it was tied up round the middle with a piece of string. "thank you," said the doctor when i brought it to him. "was that bag all the luggage you had for your voyage?" i asked. "yes," said the doctor, as he undid the piece of string. "i don't believe in a lot of baggage. it's such a nuisance. life's too short to fuss with it. and it isn't really necessary, you know—where did i put those sausages ?" the doctor was feeling about inside the bag. first he brought out a loaf of new bread. next came a glass jar with a curious metal top to it. he the wiff-waff held this up to the light very carefully before he set it down upon the table; and i could see that there was some strange little water-creature swim- ming about inside. at last the doctor brought out a pound of sausages. "now," he said, "all we want is a frying-pan." we went into the scullery and there we found some pots and pans hanging against the wall. the doctor took down the frying-pan. it was quite rusty on the inside. "dear me, just look at that!" said he. "that's the worst of being away so long. the animals are very good and keep the house wonderfully clean as far as they can. dab-dab is a perfect marvel as a housekeeper. but some things of course they can't manage. never mind, we'll soon clean it up. you'll find some silver-sand down there, under the sink, stubbins. just hand it up to me, will you ?" in a few moments we had the pan all shiny and bright and the sausages were put over the kitchen-fire and a beautiful frying smell went all through the house. while the doctor was busy at the cooking i went and took another look at the funny little creature swimming about in the glass jar. "what is this animal?" i asked. "oh that," said the doctor, turning round- "that's a wiff-waff. its full name is hippocampus pippitopitus. but the natives just call it a wiff- the voyages of doctor dolittle waff—on account of the way it waves its tail, swim- ming, i imagine. that's what i went on this last voyage for, to get that. you see i'm very busy just now trying to learn the language of the shellfish. they have languages, of that i feel sure. i can talk a little shark language and porpoise dialect myself. but what i particularly want to learn now is shell- fish." "why?" i asked. "well, you see, some of the shellfish are the oldest kind of animals in the world that we know of. we find their shells in the rocks—turned to stone- thousands of years old. so i feel quite sure that if i could only get to talk their language, i should be able to learn a whole lot about what the world was like ages and ages and ages ago. you see?”. "but couldn't some of the other animals tell you as well ?" "i don't think so," said the doctor, prodding the sausages with a fork. "to be sure, the monkeys i knew in africa some time ago were very helpful in telling me about bygone days; but they only went back a thousand years or so. no, i am certain that the oldest history in the world is to be had from the shellfish—and from them only. you see most of the other animals that were alive in those very an- cient times have now become extinct." "have you learned any shellfish language yet?" i asked. the wiff-waff “no. i've only just begun. i wanted this par- ticular kind of a pipe-fish because he is half a shell- fish and half an ordinary fish. i went all the way to the eastern mediterranean after him. but i'm very much afraid he isn't going to be a great deal of help to me. to tell you the truth, i'm rather dis- appointed in his appearance. he doesn't look very intelligent, does he?" "no, he doesn't," i agreed. "ah," said the doctor. "the sausages are done to a turn. come along—hold your plate near and let me give you some." then we sat down at the kitchen-table and started a hearty meal. it was a wonderful kitchen, that. i had many meals there afterwards and i found it a better place to eat in than the grandest dining-room in the world. it was so cozy and home-like and warm. it was so handy for the food too. you took it right off the fire, hot, and put it on the table and ate it. and you could watch your toast toasting at the fender and see it didn't burn while you drank your soup. and if you had forgotten to put the salt on the table, you didn't have to get up and go into another room to fetch it; you just reached round and took the big wooden box off the dresser behind you. then the fireplace—the biggest fireplace you ever saw—was like a room in itself. you could get right inside it even when the logs were burning and sit on the wide the voyages of doctor dolittle seats either side and roast chestnuts after the meal was over—or listen to the kettle singing, or tell stories, or look at picture books by the light of the fire. it was a marvelous kitchen. it was like the doctor, comfortable, sensible, friendly and solid. while we were gobbling away, the door suddenly opened and in marched the duck, dab-dab, and the dog, jip, dragging sheets and pillow-cases behind them over the clean tiled floor. the doctor, seeing how surprised i was, explained: "they're just going to air the bedding for me in front of the fire. dab-dab is a perfect treasure of a housekeeper; she never forgets anything. i had a sister once who used to keep house for me (poor, dear sarah! i wonder how she's getting on—i haven't seen her in many years). but she wasn't nearly as good as dab-dab. have another sau- sage?" the doctor turned and said a few words to the dog and duck in some strange talk and signs. they seemed to understand him perfectly. "can you talk in squirrel language?" i asked. "oh yes. that's quite an easy language," said the doctor. "you could learn that yourself with- out a great deal of trouble. but why do you ask?" "because i have a sick squirrel at home," i said. "i took it away from a hawk. but two of its legs are badly hurt and i wanted very much to have you see it, if you would. shall i bring it to-morrow?"! the wiff-waff "well, if its leg is badly broken i think i had better see it to-night. it may be too late to do much; but i'll come home with you and take a look at it." so presently we felt the clothes by the fire and mine were found to be quite dry. i took them up- stairs to the bedroom and changed, and when i came down the doctor was all ready waiting for me with his little black bag full of medicines and band- ages. "come along," he said. "the rain has stopped now." outside it had grown bright again and the evening sky was all red with the setting sun; and thrushes were singing in the garden as we opened the gate to go down on to the road. the fifth chapter polynesia think your house is the most interesting house i was ever in," i said as we set off in the direction of the town. "may i come and see you again to-morrow?" "certainly," said the doctor. "come any day you like. tomorrow i'll show you the garden and my private zoo." "oh, have you a zoo?" i asked. "yes," said he. "the larger animals are too big for the house, so i keep them in a zoo in the garden. it is not a very big collection but it is interesting in its way." "it must be splendid," i said, "to be able to talk all the languages of the different animals. do you think i could ever learn to do it?" "oh surely," said the doctor—"with practise. you have to be very patient, you know. you really ought to have polynesia to start you. it was she who gave me my first lessons." "who is polynesia ?" i asked. "polynesia was a west african parrot i had. she isn't with me any more now," said the doctor sadly. polynesia “why—is she dead?”. "oh no," said the doctor. "she is still living, i hope. but when we reached africa she seemed so glad to get back to her own country. she wept for joy. and when the time came for me to come back here i had not the heart to take her away from that sunny land—although, it is true, she did offer to come. i left her in africa—ah well! i have missed her terribly. she wept again when we left. but i think i did the right thing. she was one of the best friends i ever had. it was she who first gave me the idea of learning the animal lan- guages and becoming an animal doctor. i often wonder if she remained happy in africa, and whether i shall ever see her funny, old, solemn face again—good old polynesia !—a most extraor- dinary bird—well, well !" just at that moment we heard the noise of some one running behind us; and turning round we saw jip the dog rushing down the road after us, as fast as his legs could bring him. he seemed very ex- cited about something, and as soon as he came up to us, he started barking and whining to the doctor in a peculiar way. then the doctor too seemed to get all worked up and began talking and making queer signs to the dog. at length he turned to me, his face shining with happiness. "polynesia has come back!" he cried. "imagine it. jip says she has just arrived at the house. the voyages of doctor dolittle my! and it's five years since i saw her—excuse me a minute." he turned as if to go back home. but the par- rot, polynesia, was already flying towards us. the doctor clapped his hands like a child getting a new toy; while the swarm of sparrows in the roadway fluttered, gossiping, up on to the fences, highly scandalized to see a gray and scarlet parrot skim- ming down an english lane. on she came, straight on to the doctor's shoulder, where she immediately began talking a steady stream in a language i could not understand. she seemed to have a terrible lot to say. and very soon the doctor had forgotten all about me and my squirrel and jip and everything else; till at length the bird clearly asked him something about me. "oh excuse me, stubbins !" said the doctor. "i was so interested listening to my old friend here. we must get on and see this squirrel of yours- polynesia, this is thomas stubbins." the parrot, on the doctor's shoulder, nodded gravely towards me and then, to my great surprise, said quite plainly in english, "how do you do? i remember the night you were born. it was a terribly cold winter. you were a very ugly baby." "stubbins is anxious to learn animal language," said the doctor. "i was just telling him about you werd polynesia and the lessons you gave me when jip ran up and told us you had arrived." "well," said the parrot, turning to me, "i may have started the doctor learning but i never could have done even that, if he hadn't first taught me to understand what i was saying when i spoke eng- lish. you see, many parrots can talk like a person, but very few of them understand what they are saying. they just say it because—well, because they fancy it is smart or, because they know they will get crackers given them." by this time we had turned and were going to- wards my home with jip running in front and poly- nesia still perched on the doctor's shoulder. the bird chattered incessantly, mostly about africa; but now she spoke in english, out of politeness to me. "how is prince bumpo getting on?" asked the doctor. "oh, i'm glad you asked me," said polynesia. "i almost forgot to tell you. what do you think? —bumpo is in england!" "in england !—you don't say!" cried the doc- tor. "what on earth is he doing here?”. "his father, the king, sent him here to a place called—er—bullford, i think it was—to study lessons." "bullford !-bullford !" muttered the doctor. "i never heard of the place—oh, you mean ox- ford.” the voyages of doctor dolittle "yes, that's the place—oxford," said polynesia "i knew it had cattle in it somewhere. oxford- that's the place he's gone to." "well, well," murmured the doctor. "fancy bumpo studying at oxford—well, well!" "there were great doings in jolliginki when he left. he was scared to death to come. he was the first man from that country to go abroad. he thought he was going to be eaten by white canni- bals or something. you know what those niggers are--that ignorant! well !but his father made him come. he said that all the black kings were sending their sons to oxford now. it was the fashion, and he would have to go. bumpo wanted to bring his six wives with him. but the king wouldn't let him do that either. poor bumpo went off in tears—and everybody in the palace was crying too. you never heard such a hullabaloo." "do you know if he ever went back in search of the sleeping beauty ?" asked the doctor. "oh yes," said polynesia—"the day after you left. and a good thing for him he did: the king got to know about his helping you to escape; and he was dreadfully wild about it." "and the sleeping beauty ?- did he ever find her?" "well, he brought back something which he said was the sleeping beauty. myself, i think it was an albino niggeress. she had red hair and the polynesia biggest feet you ever saw. but bumpo was no end pleased with her and finally married her amid great rejoicings. the feastings lasted seven days. she became his chief wife and is now known out there as the crown-princess bumpah—you accent the last syllable." "and tell me, did he remain white?" "only for about three months," said the parrot. "after that his face slowly returned to its natural color. it was just as well. he was so conspicuous in his bathing-suit the way he was, with his face white and the rest of him black." "and how is chee-chee getting on ?—chee- chee," added the doctor in explanation to me, "was a pet monkey i had years ago. i left him too in africa when i came away." "well," said polynesia frowning,"chee-chee is not entirely happy. i saw a good deal of him the last few years. he got dreadfully homesick for you and the house and the garden. it's funny, but i was just the same way myself. you remember how crazy i was to get back to the dear old land? and africa is a wonderful country—i don't care what anybody says. well, i thought i was going to have a perfectly grand time. but somehow- i don't know—after a few weeks it seemed to get tiresome. i just couldn't seem to settle down. well, to make a long story short, one night i made up my mind that i'd come back here and find you. the voyages of doctor dolittle so i hunted up old chee-chee and told him about it. he said he didn't blame me a bit—felt exactly the same way himself. africa was so deadly quiet after the life we had led with you. he missed the stories you used to tell us out of your animal books —and the chats we used to have sitting round the kitchen-fire on winter nights. the animals out there were very nice to us and all that. but somehow the dear kind creatures seemed a bit stupid. chee-chee said he had noticed it too. but i suppose it wasn't they who had changed; it was we who were different. when i left, poor old chee-chee broke down and cried. he said he felt as though his only friend were leaving him- though, as you know, he has simply millions of rel- atives there. he said it didn't seem fair that i should have wings to fly over here any time i liked, and him with no way to follow me. but mark my words, i wouldn't be a bit surprised if he found a way to come--some day. he's a smart lad, is chee-chee." at this point we arrived at my home. my father's shop was closed and the shutters were up; but my mother was standing at the door looking down the street. "good evening, mrs. stubbins," said the doctor. "it is my fault your son is so late. i made him stay to supper while his clothes were drying. he was soaked to the skin; and so was i. we ran into polynesia one another in the storm and i insisted on his com- ing into my house for shelter." "i was beginning to get worried about him," said my mother. "i am thankful to you, sir, for looking after him so well and bringing him home." "don't mention it—don't mention it," said the doctor. "we have had a very interesting chat." "who might it be that i have the honor of addressing?" asked my mother staring at the gray parrot perched on the doctor's shoulder. "oh, i'm john dolittle. i dare say your hus- band will remember me. he made me some very excellent boots about four years ago. they really are splendid," added the doctor, gazing down at his feet with great satisfaction. "the doctor has come to cure my squirrel, mother," said i. "he knows all about animals." "oh, no," said the doctor, "not all, stubbins, not all about them by any means." "it is very kind of you to come so far to look after his pet," said my mother. "tom is always bringing home strange creatures from the woods and the fields." "is he?" said the doctor. "perhaps he will grow up to be a naturalist some day. who knows?" "won't you come in?" asked my mother. "the place is a little untidy because i haven't finished the voyages of doctor dolittle the spring cleaning yet. but there's a nice fire burning in the parlor." "thank you!" said the doctor. "what a charming home you have !" and after wiping his enormous boots very, very carefully on the mat, the great man passed into the house. the sixth chapter the wounded squirrel sool nside we found my father busy practising on the flute beside the fire. this he always did, every evening, after his work was over. the doctor immediately began talking to him about flutes and piccolos and bassoons; and presently my father said, "perhaps you perform upon the flute yourself, sir. won't you play us a tune?". "well," said the doctor, "it is a long time since i touched the instrument. but i would like to try. may i ?" then the doctor took the flute from my father and played and played and played. it was wonder- ful. my mother and father sat as still as statues, staring up at the ceiling as though they were in church; and even i, who didn't bother much about music except on the mouth-organ—even i felt all sad and cold and creepy and wished i had been a better boy. "oh i think that was just beautiful!" sighed my mother when at length the doctor stopped. "you are a great musician, sir," said my father, are the voyages of doctor dolittle "a very great musician. won't you please play us something else?”. "why certainly," said the doctor—"oh, but look here, i've forgotten all about the squirrel." "i'll show him to you," i said. "he is upstairs in my room." so i led the doctor to my bedroom at the top of the house and showed him the squirrel in the pack- ing-case filled with straw. the animal, who had always seemed very much afraid of me—though i had tried hard to make him feel at home, sat up at once when the doctor came into the room and started to chatter. the doctor chattered back in the same way and the squirrel when he was lifted up to have his leg examined, appeared to be rather pleased than frightened. i held a candle while the doctor tied the leg up in what he called "splints," which he made out of match-sticks with his pen-knife. "i think you will find that his leg will get better now in a very short time," said the doctor closing up his bag. "don't let him run about for at least two weeks yet, but keep him in the open air and cover him up with dry leaves if the nights get cool. he tells me he is rather lonely here, all by himself, and is wondering how his wife and children are getting on. i have assured him you are a man to be trusted; and i will send a squirrel who lives in my garden to find out how his family are and to the wounded squirrel bring him news of them. he must be kept cheer- ful at all costs. squirrels are naturally a very cheerful, active race. it is very hard for them to lie still doing nothing. but you needn't worry about him. he will be all right." then we went back again to the parlor and my mother and father kept him playing the flute till after ten o'clock. although my parents both liked the doctor tremendously from the first moment that they saw him, and were very proud to have him come and play to us (for we were really terribly poor) they did not realize then what a truly great man he was one day to become. of course now, when almost everybody in the whole world has heard about doctor dolittle and his books, if you were to go to that little house in puddleby where my father had his cobbler's shop you would see, set in the wall over the old-fashioned door, a stone with writing on it which says: "john dolittle, the famous naturalist, played the flute in this house in the year ." i often look back upon that night long, long ago. and if i close my eyes and think hard i can see that parlor just as it was then: a funny little man in coat-tails, with a round kind face, playing away on the flute in front of the fire; my mother on one side of him and my father on the other, holding their breath and listening with their eyes shut; the voyages of doctor dolittle myself, with jip, squatting on the carpet at his feet, staring into the coals; and polynesia perched on. the mantlepiece beside his shabby high hat, gravely swinging her head from side to side in time to the music. i see it all, just as though it were before me now. and then i remember how, after we had seen the doctor out at the front door, we all came back into the parlor and talked about him till it was still later; and even after i did go to bed (i had never stayed up so late in my life before) i dreamed about him and a band of strange clever animals that played flutes and fiddles and drums the whole night through. the seventh chapter shellfish talk he next morning, although i had gone to bed so late the night before, i was up frightfully early. the first spar- rows were just beginning to chirp sleep- ily on the slates outside my attic window when i jumped out of bed and scrambled into my clothes. i could hardly wait to get back to the little house with the big garden—to see the doctor and his private zoo. for the first time in my life i forgot all about breakfast; and creeping down the stairs on tip-toe, so as not to wake my mother and father, i opened the front door and popped out into the empty, silent street. when i got to the doctor's gate i suddenly thought that perhaps it was too early to call on any one; and i began to wonder if the doctor would be up yet. i looked into the garden. no one seemed to be about. so i opened the gate quietly and went inside. as i turned to the left to go down a path be- tween some hedges, i heard a voice quite close to me say, "good morning. how early you are!" the voyages of doctor dolittle i turned around, and there, sitting on the top of a privet hedge, was the gray parrot, polynesia, "good morning," i said. "i suppose i am rather early. is the doctor still in bed ?" "oh no," said polynesia. "he has been up an hour and a half. you'll find him in the house somewhere. the front door is open. just push it and go in. he is sure to be in the kitchen cook- ing breakfast—or working in his study. walk right in. i am waiting to see the sun rise. but upon my word i believe it's forgotten to rise. it is an awful climate, this. now if we were in africa the world would be blazing with sunlight at this hour of the morning. just see that mist rolling over those cabbages. it is enough to give you rheumatism to look at it. beastly climate—beastly! really i don't know why anything but frogs ever stay in england—well, don't let me keep you. run along and see the doctor." "thank you," i said. "i'll go and look for him." when i opened the front door i could smell bacon frying, so i made my way to the kitchen. there i discovered a large kettle boiling away over the fire and some bacon and eggs in a dish upon the hearth. it seemed to me that the bacon was getting all dried up with the heat. so i pulled the dish a little further away from the fire and went on through the house looking for the doctor. shellfish talk i found him at last in the study. i did not know then that it was called the study. it was certainly a very interesting room, with telescopes and microscopes and all sorts of other strange things which i did not understand about but wished i did. hanging on the walls were pic- tures of animals and fishes and strange plants and collections of birds' eggs and sea-shells in glass cases. the doctor was standing at the main table in his dressing-gown. at first i thought he was wash- ing his face. he had a square glass box before him full of water. he was holding one ear under the water while he covered the other with his left hand. as i came in he stood up. "good morning, stubbins," said he. "going to be a nice day, don't you think? i've just been listening to the wiff-waff. but he is very disap- pointing—very." "why?" i said. "didn't you find that he has any language at all ?" "oh yes," said the doctor, "he has a language. but it is such a poor language—only a few words, like 'yes' and 'no'—'hot' and 'cold. that's all he can say. it's very disappointing. you see he really belongs to two different families of fishes. i thought he was going to be tremendously helpful —well, well!" "i suppose," said i, "that means he hasn't very the voyages of doctor dolittle much sense—if his language is only two or three words ?" "yes, i suppose it does. possibly it is the kind of life he leads. you see, they are very rare now, these wiff-waffs—very rare and very solitary. they swim around in the deepest parts of the ocean entirely by themselves—always alone. so i pre- sume they really don't need to talk much." "perhaps some kind of a bigger shellfish would talk more," i said. "after all, he is very small, isn't he?" "yes," said the doctor, "that's true. oh i have no doubt that there are shellfish who are good talkers—not the least doubt. but the big shell- fish—the biggest of them, are so hard to catch. they are only to be found in the deep parts of the sea; and as they don't swim very much, but just crawl along the floor of the ocean most of the time, they are very seldom taken in nets. i do wish i could find some way of going down to the bottom of the sea. i could learn a lot if i could only do that. but we are forgetting all about breakfast—have you had breakfast yet, stubbins ?" i told the doctor that i had forgotten all about it and he at once led the way into the kitchen. "yes," he said, as he poured the hot water from the kettle into the tea-pot, "if a man could only manage to get right down to the bottom of the shellfish talk sea, and live there a while, he would discover some wonderful things—things that people have never dreamed of." "but men do go down, don't they?" i asked- "divers and people like that?" "oh yes, to be sure," said the doctor. "divers go down. i've been down myself in a diving-suit, for that matter. but my !--they only go where the sea is shallow. divers can't go down where it is really deep. what i would like to do is to go down to the great depths—where it is miles deep- well, well, i dare say i shall manage it some day. let me give you another cup of tea.” di the eighth chapter are you a good noticer? ust at that moment polynesia came into the room and said something to the doctor in bird language. of course i did not under- stand what it was. but the doctor at once put down his knife and fork and left the room. : “you know it is an awful shame," said the parrot as soon as the doctor had closed the door. "directly he comes back home, all the animals over the whole countryside get to hear of it and every sick cat and mangy rabbit for miles around comes to see him and ask his advice. now there's a big fat hare outside at the back door with a squawking baby. can she see the doctor, please !—thinks it's going to have convulsions. stupid little thing's been eating deadly nightshade again, i suppose. the animals are so inconsiderate at times—espe- cially the mothers. they come round and call the doctor away from his meals and wake him out of his bed at all hours of the night. i don't know how he stands it really i don't. why, the poor man never gets any peace at all! i've told him time and again to have special hours for the animals to come. but he is so frightfully kind and con- the voyages of doctor dolittle good noticer?—do you notice things well? i mean, for instance, supposing you saw two cock- starlings on an apple-tree, and you only took one good look at them—would you be able to tell one from the other if you saw them again the next day?" "i don't know," i said. "i've never tried." "well that," said polynesia, brushing some crumbs off the corner of the table with her left foot—"that is what you call powers of obser- vation—noticing the small things about birds and animals: the way they walk and move their heads and flip their wings; the way they sniff the air and twitch their whiskers and wiggle their tails. you have to notice all those little things if you want to learn animal language. for you see, lots of the animals hardly talk at all with their tongues; they use their breath or their tails or their feet instead. that is because many of them, in the olden days when lions and tigers were more plentiful, were afraid to make a noise for fear the savage creatures heard them. birds, of course, didn't care; for they always had wings to fly away with. but that is the first thing to remember: being a good noticer is terribly important in learning animal language." "it sounds pretty hard," i said. "you'll have to be very patient," said polynesia. "it takes a long time to say even a few words properly. but if you come here often i'll give you se te die panes .. “ 'being a good noticer is terribly important'' the voyages of doctor dolittle a few lessons myself. and once you get started you'll be surprised how fast you get on. it would indeed be a good thing if you could learn. because then you could do some of the work for the doctor —i mean the easier work, like bandaging and giving pills. yes, yes, that's a good idea of mine. 'twould be a great thing if the poor man could get some help—and some rest. it is a scandal the way he works. i see no reason why you shouldn't be able to help him a great deal—that is, if you are really interested in animals." "oh, i'd love that!" i cried. "do you think the doctor would let me?" "certainly," said polynesia—"as soon as you have learned something about doctoring. i'll speak of it to him myself—sh! i hear him coming. quick—bring his bacon back on to the table." the ninth chapter the garden of dreams hen breakfast was over the doctor took me out to show me the garden. well, if the house had been interest. ing, the garden was a hundred times more so. of all the gardens i have ever seen that was the most delightful, the most fascinating. at first you did not realize how big it was. you never seemed to come to the end of it. when at last you were quite sure that you had seen it all, you would peer over a hedge, or turn a corner, or look up some steps, and there was a whole new part you never expected to find. it had everything—everything a garden can have, or ever has had. there were wide, wide lawns with carved stone seats, green with moss. over the lawns hung weeping-willows, and their feathery bough-tips brushed the velvet grass when they swung with the wind. the old flagged paths had high, clipped, yew hedges either side of them, so that they looked like the narrow streets of some old town; and through the hedges, doorways had been made; and over the doorways were shapes like the voyages of doctor dolittle vases and peacocks and half-moons all trimmed out of the living trees. there was a lovely marble fish- pond with golden carp and blue water-lilies in it and big green frogs. a high brick wall alongside the kitchen garden was all covered with pink and yellow peaches ripening in the sun. there was a wonder- ful great oak, hollow in the trunk, big enough for four men to hide inside. many summer-houses there were, too—some of wood and some of stone; and one of them was full of books to read. in a corner, among some rocks and ferns, was an out- door fire-place, where the doctor used to fry liver and bacon when he had a notion to take his meals in the open air. there was a couch as well on which he used to sleep, it seems, on warm summer nights when the nightingales were singing at their best; it had wheels on it so it could be moved about under any tree they sang in. but the thing that fascinated me most of all was a tiny little tree- house, high up in the top branches of a great elm, with a long rope ladder leading to it. the doctor told me he used it for looking at the moon and the stars through a telescope. it was the kind of a garden where you could wander and explore for days and days—always coming upon something new, always glad to find the old spots over again. that first time that i saw the doctor's garden i was so charmed by it that i felt i would like to live in it—always and always- the garden of dreams hasn't arrived yet of course. and there are a few others, foreign birds from the tropics mostly, who drop in on me in the course of the summer months. but come, i must show you the zoo." the tenth chapter the private zoo i did not think there could be anything left in that garden which we had not seen. but the doctor took me by the arm and started off down a little narrow path and after many windings and twistings and turnings we found our- selves before a small door in a high stone wall. the doctor pushed it open. inside was still another garden. i had expected to find cages with animals inside them. but there were none to be seen. instead there were little stone houses here and there all over the garden; and each house had a window and a door. as we walked in, many of these doors opened and animals came running out to us evidently expecting food. "haven't the doors any locks on them?" i asked the doctor. "oh yes," he said, "every door has a lock. but in my zoo the doors open from the inside, not from the out. the locks are only there so the animals can go and shut themselves in any time they want to get away from the annoyance of other animals or from people who might come here. every the private zoo animal in this zoo stays here because he likes it, not because he is made to." "they all look very happy and clean," i said. "would you mind telling me the names of some of them ?" "certainly. well now: that funny-looking thing with plates on his back, nosing under the brick over there, is a south american armadillo. the little chap talking to him is a canadian woodchuck. they both live in those holes you see at the foot of the wall. the two little beasts doing antics in the pond are a pair of russian minks—and that reminds me: i must go and get them some her- rings from the town before noon—it is early-closing to-day. that animal just stepping out of his house is an antelope, one of the smaller south african kinds. now let us move to the other side of those bushes there and i will show you some more." "are those deer over there?" i asked. "deer!" said the doctor. "where do you mean?" "over there," i said, pointing—"nibbling the grass border of the bed. there are two of them." "oh, that," said the doctor with a smile. "that isn't two animals: that's one animal with two heads —the only two-headed animal in the world. it's called the 'pushmi-pullyu.' i brought him from africa. he's very tame—acts as a kind of night- watchman for my zoo. he only sleeps with one bushes there ardeer over there?" lashere do you the voyages of doctor dolittle head at a time, you see—very handy—the other head stays awake all night." "have you any lions or tigers ?" i asked as we moved on. "no," said the doctor. "it wouldn't be possible to keep them here—and i wouldn't keep them even if i could. if i had my way, stubbins, there wouldn't be a single lion or tiger in captivity any. where in the world. they never take to it. they're never happy. they never settle down. they are always thinking of the big countries they have left behind. you can see it in their eyes, dreaming—dreaming always of the great open spaces where they were born; dreaming of the deep, dark jungles where their mothers first taught them how to scent and track the deer. and what are they given in exchange for all this?" asked the doctor, stopping in his walk and growing all red and angry—"what are they given in exchange for the glory of an african sunrise, for the twilight breeze whispering through the palms, for the green shade of the matted, tangled vines, for the cool, big-starred nights of the desert, for the patter of the waterfall after a hard day's hunt? what, i ask you, are they given in exchange for these? why, a bare cage with iron bars; an ugly piece of dead meat thrust in to them once a day; and a crowd of fools to come and stare at them with open mouths !—no, stubbins. lions and tigers, the private zoo the big hunters, should never, never be seen in zoos." the doctor seemed to have grown terribly serious—almost sad. but suddenly his manner changed again and he took me by the arm with his same old cheerful smile. "but we haven't seen the butterfly-houses yet- nor the aquariums. come along. i am very proud of my butterfly-houses." off we went again and came presently into a hedged enclosure. here i saw several big huts made of fine wire netting, like cages. inside the netting all sorts of beautiful flowers were growing in the sun, with butterflies skimming over them. the doctor pointed to the end of one of the huts where little boxes with holes in them stood in a row. "those are the hatching-boxes," said he. "there i put the different kinds of caterpillars. and as soon as they turn into butterflies and moths they come out into these flower-gardens to feed." "do butterflies have a language?" i asked. "oh i fancy they have," said the doctor—"and the beetles too. but so far i haven't succeeded in learning much about insect languages. i have been too busy lately trying to master the shellfish- talk. i mean to take it up though." at that moment polynesia joined us and said, "doctor, there are two guinea-pigs at the back the voyages of doctor dolittle door. they say they have run away from the boy who kept them because they didn't get the right stuff to eat. they want to know if you will take them in." "all right," said the doctor. "show them the way to the zoo. give them the house on the left, near the gate—the one the black fox had. tell them what the rules are and give them a square meal—now, stubbins, we will go on to the aqua- riums. and first of all i must show you my big, glass, sea-water tank where i keep the shellfish." the eleventh chapter my schoolmaster, polynesia well, there were not many days after that, you may be sure, when i did not come to see my new friend. indeed i was at his house practically all day and every day. so that one evening my mother asked me jokingly why i did not take my bed over there and live at the doctor's house altogether. after a while i think i got to be quite useful to the doctor, feeding his pets for him; helping to make new houses and fences for the zoo; assisting with the sick animals that came; doing all manner of odd jobs about the place. so that although i enjoyed it all very much (it was indeed like living in a new world) i really think the doctor would have missed me if i had not come so often. and all this time polynesia came with me wherever i went, teaching me bird language and showing me how to understand the talking signs of the animals. at first i thought i would never be able to learn at all—it seemed so difficult. but the old parrot was wonderfully patient with me- though i could see that occasionally she had hard work to keep her temper. the voyages of doctor dolittle soon i began to pick up the strange chatter of the birds and to understand the funny talking antics of the dogs. i used to practise listening to the mice behind the wainscot after i went to bed, and watching the cats on the roofs and pigeons in the market-square of puddleby. and the days passed very quickly—as they always do when life is pleasant; and the days turned into weeks, and weeks into months; and soon the roses in the doctor's garden were losing their petals and yellow leaves lay upon the wide green lawn. for the summer was nearly gone. one day polynesia and i were talking in the library. this was a fine long room with a grand mantlepiece and the walls were covered from the ceiling to the floor with shelves full of books: books of stories, books on gardening, books about medicine, books of travel; these i loved—and espe- cially the doctor's great atlas with all its maps of the different countries of the world. this afternoon polynesia was showing me the books about animals which john dolittle had writ- ten himself. "my!" i said, "what a lot of books the doctor has—all the way around the room! goodness! i wish i could read! it must be tremendously interesting. can you read, polynesia ?" "only a little," said she. "be careful how you turn those pages—don't tear them. no, i really my schoolmaster, polynesia don't get time enough for reading—much. that letter there is a k and this is a b." "what does this word under the picture mean?" i asked. "let me see," she said, and started spelling it out. "b-a-b-o-o-n—that's monkey. reading isn't nearly as hard as it looks, once you know the letters." "polynesia," i said, "i want to ask you some- thing very important." "what is it, my boy?" said she, smoothing down the feathers of her right wing. polynesia often spoke to me in a very patronizing way. but i did not mind it from her. after all, she was nearly two hundred years old; and i was only ten. "listen," i said, "my mother doesn't think it is right that i come here for so many meals. and i was going to ask you: supposing i did a whole lot more work for the doctor—why couldn't i come and live here altogether? you see, instead of being paid like a regular gardener or workman, i would get my bed and meals in exchange for the work i did. what do you think?" "you mean you want to be a proper assistant to the doctor, is that it?". "yes. i suppose that's what you call it," i answered. "you know you said yourself that you thought i could be very useful to him." "well"—she thought a moment—"i really the voyages of doctor dolittle don't see why not. but is this what you want to be when you grow up, a naturalist?". "yes," i said, "i have made up my mind. i would sooner be a naturalist than anything else in the world." "humph!—let's go and speak to the doctor about it," said polynesia. "he's in the next room —in the study. open the door very gently—he may be working and not want to be disturbed." i opened the door quietly and peeped in. the first thing i saw was an enormous black retriever dog sitting in the middle of the hearth-rug with his ears cocked up, listening to the doctor who was reading aloud to him from a letter. "what is the doctor doing?" i asked polynesia in a whisper. "oh, the dog has had a letter from his mistress and he has brought it to the doctor to read for him. that's all. he belongs to a funny little girl called minnie dooley, who lives on the other side of the town. she has pigtails down her back. she and her brother have gone away to the seaside for the summer; and the old retriever is heart-broken while the children are gone. so they write letters to him—in english of course. and as the old dog doesn't understand them, he brings them here, and the doctor turns them into dog language for him. i think minnie must have written that she is coming my schoolmaster, polynesia back—to judge from the dog's excitement. just look at him carrying on!”. indeed the retriever seemed to be suddenly over- come with joy. as the doctor finished the letter the old dog started barking at the top of his voice, wagging his tail wildly and jumping about the study. he took the letter in his mouth and ran out of the room snorting hard and mumbling to himself. "he's going down to meet the coach," whispered polynesia. "that dog's devotion to those children is more than i can understand. you should see minnie! she's the most conceited little minx that ever walked. she squints too." the twelfth chapter my great idea resently the doctor looked up and saw us at the door. "oh—come in, stubbins," said he, "did you wish to speak to me? come in and take a chair." "doctor," i said, "i want to be a naturalist- like you—when i grow up.". "oh you do, do you?" murmured the doctor. "humph !—well !—dear me !—you don't say! —well, well! have you er—have you spoken to your mother and father about it?" "no, not yet," i said. "i want you to speak to them for me. you would do it better. i want to be your helper—your assistant, if you'll have me. last night my mother was saying that she didn't consider it right for me to come here so often for meals. and i've been thinking about it a good deal since. couldn't we make some arrangement —couldn't i work for my meals and sleep here?" "but my dear stubbins," said the doctor, laugh- ing, "you are quite welcome to come here for three meals a day all the year round. i'm only too glad to have you. besides, you do do a lot of my great idea work, as it is. i've often felt that i ought to pay you for what you do—but what arrangement was it that you thought of?" "well, i thought," said i, "that perhaps you would come and see my mother and father and tell them that if they let me live here with you and work hard, that you will teach me to read and write. you see my mother is awfully anxious to have me learn reading and writing. and besides, i couldn't be a proper naturalist without, could i?" "oh, i don't know so much about that," said the doctor. "it is nice, i admit, to be able to read and write. but naturalists are not all alike, you know. for example: this young fellow charles darwin that people are talking about so much now —he's a cambridge graduate—reads and writes very well. and then cuvier—he used to be a tutor. but listen, the greatest naturalist of them all doesn't even know how to write his own name nor to read the a b c." "who is he?" i asked. "he is a mysterious person," said the doctor- "a very mysterious person. his name is long ar- row, the son of golden arrow. he is a red indian." "have you ever seen him?" i asked. "no," said the doctor, "i've never seen him. no white man has ever met him. i fancy mr. darwin doesn't even know that he exists. he lives the voyages of doctor dolittle almost entirely with the animals and with the dif- ferent tribes of indians—usually somewhere among the mountains of peru. never stays long in one place. goes from tribe to tribe, like a sort of indian tramp." "how do you know so much about him?" i asked—"if you've never even seen him ?”. "the purple bird-of-paradise," said the doctor —"she told me all about him. she says he is a perfectly marvelous naturalist. i got her to take a message to him for me last time she was here. i am expecting her back any day now. i can hardly wait to see what answer she has brought from him. it is already almost the last week of august. i do hope nothing has happened to her on the way." "but why do the animals and birds come to you when they are sick ?" i said, "why don't they go to him, if he is so very wonderful ?”. "it seems that my methods are more up to date," said the doctor. "but from what the pur- ple bird-of-paradise tells me, long arrow's knowledge of natural history must be positively tremendous. his specialty is botany—plants and all that sort of thing. but he knows a lot about birds and animals too. he's very good on bees and beetles—but now tell me, stubbins, are you quite sure that you really want to be a naturalist?" "yes," said i, "my mind is made up." "well you know, it isn't a very good profession my great idea | for making money. not at all, it isn't. most of the good naturalists don't make any money what- ever. all they do is spend money, buying butterfly- nets and cases for birds' eggs and things. it is only now, after i have been a naturalist for many years, that i am beginning to make a little money from the books i write." "i don't care about money," i said. "i want to be a naturalist. won't you please come and have dinner with my mother and father next thurs- day—i told them i was going to ask you—and then you can talk to them about it. you see, there's an- other thing: if i'm living with you, and sort of be- long to your house and business, i shall be able to come with you next time you go on a voyage." "oh, i see," said he, smiling. "so you want to come on a voyage with me, do you ?—ah hah!" "i want to go on all your voyages with you. it would be much easier for you if you had some- one to carry the butterfly-nets and note-books. wouldn't it now?" for a long time the doctor sat thinking, drum- ming on the desk with his fingers, while i waited, terribly impatiently, to see what he was going to say. at last he shrugged his shoulders and stood up. "well, stubbins," said he, "i'll come and talk it over with you and your parents next thursday. and—well, we'll see. we'll see. give your the voyages of doctor dolittle mother and father my compliments and thank them for their invitation, will you ?" then i tore home like the wind to tell my mother that the doctor had promised to come. the thirteenth chapter a traveler arrives he next day i was sitting on the wall of the doctor's garden after tea, talking to dab-dab. i had now learned so much from polynesia that i could talk to most birds and some animals without a great deal of difficulty. i found dab-dab a very nice, old, motherly bird—though not nearly so clever and interesting as polynesia. she had been house- keeper for the doctor many years now. well, as i was saying, the old duck and i were sitting on the flat top of the garden-wall that even- ing, looking down into the oxenthorpe road be- low. we were watching some sheep being driven to market in puddleby; and dab-dab had just been telling me about the doctor's adventures in africa. for she had gone on a voyage with him to that country long ago. suddenly i heard a curious distant noise down the road, towards the town. it sounded like a lot of people cheering. i stood up on the wall to see if i could make out what was coming. presently there appeared round a bend a great crowd of the voyages of doctor dolittle school-children following a very ragged, curious- looking woman. "what in the world can it be?" cried dab-dab. the children were all laughing and shouting. and certainly the woman they were following was most extraordinary. she had very long arms and the most stooping shoulders i have ever seen. she wore a straw hat on the side of her head with poppies on it; and her skirt was so long for her it dragged on the ground like a ball-gown's train. i could not see anything of her face because of the wide hat pulled over her eyes. but as she got nearer to us and the laughing of the children grew louder, i noticed that her hands were very dark in color, and hairy, like a witch's. then all of a sudden dab-dab at my side star- tled me by crying out in a loud voice, "why, it's chee-chee !—chee-chee come back at last! how dare those children tease him! i'll give the little imps something to laugh at!”. and she flew right off the wall down into the road and made straight for the children, squawking away in a most terrifying fashion and pecking at their feet and legs. the children made off down the street back to the town as hard as they could run. the strange-looking figure in the straw hat stood gazing after them a moment and then came wearily up to the gate. it didn't bother to undo the latch but just climbed right over the gate as though it natt e r . turun le miles oxentha a traveler arrives the voyages of doctor dolittle were something in the way. and then i noticed that it took hold of the bars with its feet, so that it really had four hands to climb with. but it was only when i at last got a glimpse of the face under the hat that i could be really sure it was a monkey. chee-chee—for it was he—frowned at me sus- piciously from the top of the gate, as though he thought i was going to laugh at him like the other boys and girls. then he dropped into the garden on the inside and immediately started taking off his clothes. he tore the straw hat in two and threw it down into the road. then he took off his bodice and skirt, jumped on them savagely and began kicking them round the front garden. presently i heard a screech from the house, and out flew polynesia, followed by the doctor and jip. "chee-chee !—chee-chee!" shouted the parrot. "you've come at last! i always told the doctor you'd find a way. how ever did you do it?". they all gathered round him shaking him by his four hands, laughing and asking him a million questions at once. then they all started back for the house. "run up to my bedroom, stubbins," said the doctor, turning to me. "you'll find a bag of pea- nuts in the small left-hand drawer of the bureau. i have always kept them there in case he might come back unexpectedly some day. and wait a minute—see if dab-dab has any bananas in the pan- a traveler arrives try. chee-chee hasn't had a banana, he tells me, in two months." when i came down again to the kitchen i found everybody listening attentively to the monkey who was telling the story of his journey from africa. the fourteenth chapter chee-chee's voyage it seems that after polynesia had left, chee- chee had grown more homesick than ever for the doctor and the little house in puddleby. at last he had made up his mind that by hook or crook he would follow her. and one day, going down to the sea- shore, he saw a lot of people, black and white, getting on to a ship that was coming to england. he tried to get on too. but they turned him back and drove him away. and presently he noticed a whole big family of black people passing on to the ship. and one of the children in this family re- minded chee-chee of a cousin of his with whom he had once been in love. so he said to himself, "that girl looks just as much like a monkey as i look like a girl. if i could only get some clothes to wear i might easily slip on to the ship amongst these families, and people would take me for a nigger-girl. good idea !" so he went off to a town that was quite close, and hopping in through an open window he found a skirt and bodice lying on a chair. they belonged chee-chee's voyage to a fashionable black lady who was taking a bath. chee-chee put them on. next he went back to the seashore, mingled with the crowd there and at last sneaked safely on to the big ship. then he thought he had better hide, for fear people might look at him too closely. and he stayed hidden all the time the ship was sailing to england—only coming out at night, when everybody was asleep, to find food. when he reached england and tried to get off the ship, the sailors saw at last that he was only a mon- key dressed up in girl's clothes; and they wanted to keep him for a pet. but he managed to give them the slip; and once he was on shore, he dived into the crowd and got away. but he was still a long distance from puddleby and had to come right across the whole breadth of england. he had a terrible time of it. whenever he passed through a town all the children ran after him in a crowd, laughing; and often silly people caught hold of him and tried to stop him, so that he had to run up lamp-posts and climb to chimney- pots to escape from them. at night he used to sleep in ditches or barns of anywhere he could hide; and he lived on the berries he picked from the hedges and the cob-nuts that grew in the copses. at length, after many adventures and narrow squeaks, he saw the tower of puddleby church and he knew that at last he was near his old home. when chee-chee had finished his story he ate the voyages of doctor dolittle six bananas without stopping and drank a whole bowlful of milk. "my!" he said, "why wasn't i born with wings, like polynesia, so i could fly here? you've no idea how i grew to hate that hat and skirt. i've never been so uncomfortable in my life. all the way from bristol here, if the wretched hat wasn't falling off my head or catching in the trees, those beastly skirts were tripping me up and getting wound round everything. what on earth do women wear those things for? goodness, i was glad to see old puddleby this morning when i climbed over the hill by bellaby's farm !". "your bed on top of the plate-rack in the scullery is all ready for you," said the doctor. "we never had it disturbed in case you might come back." "yes," said dab-dab, "and you can have the old smoking-jacket of the doctor's which you used to use as a blanket, in case it is cold in the night." "thanks," said chee-chee. "it's good to be back in the old house again. everything's just the same as when i left—except the clean roller-towel on the back of the door there—that's new well, i think i'll go to bed now. i need sleep." then we all went out of the kitchen into the scullery and watched chee-chee climb the plate- rack like a sailor going up a mast. on the top, he curled himself up, pulled the old smoking-jacket chee-chee's voyage over him, and in a minute he was snoring peacefully. "good old chee-chee !" whispered the doctor. "i'm glad he's back." "yes—good old chee-chee!" echoed dab-dab and polynesia. then we all tip-toed out of the scullery and closed the door very gently behind us. the fifteenth chapter i become a doctor's assistant when thursday evening came there was great excitement at our house, my mother had asked me what were the doctor's favorite dishes, and i had told her: spare ribs, sliced beet-root, fried bread, shrimps and treacle-tart. to-night she had them all on the table waiting for him; and she was now fussing round the house to see if everything was tidy and in readiness for his coming. at last we heard a knock upon the door, and of course it was i who got there first to let him in. the doctor had brought his own flute with him this time. and after supper was over (which he enjoyed very much) the table was cleared away and the washing-up left in the kitchen-sink till the next day. then the doctor and my father started playing duets. they got so interested in this that i began to be afraid that they would never come to talking over my business. but at last the doctor said, "your son tells me that he is anxious to become a naturalist." and then began a long talk which lasted far into i become a doctor's assistant the night. at first both my mother and father were rather against the idea—as they had been from the beginning. they said it was only a boy- ish whim, and that i would get tired of it very soon. but after the matter had been talked over from every side, the doctor turned to my father and said, "well now, supposing, mr. stubbins, that your son came to me for two years—that is, until he is twelve years old. during those two years he will have time to see if he is going to grow tired of it or not. also during that time, i will promise to teach him reading and writing and perhaps a little arithmetic as well. what do you say to that?”. "i don't know," said my father, shaking his head. "you are very kind and it is a handsome offer you make, doctor. but i feel that tommy ought to be learning some trade by which he can earn his living later on." then my mother spoke up. although she was nearly in tears at the prospect of my leaving her house while i was still so young, she pointed out to my father that this was a grand chance for me to get learning. "now jacob," she said, "you know that many lads in the town have been to the grammar school till they were fourteen or fifteen years old. tommy can easily spare these two years for his education; and if he learns no more than to read the voyages of doctor dolittle and write, the time will not be lost. though goodness knows," she added, getting out her hand- kerchief to cry, "the house will seem terribly empty when he's gone." "i will take care that he comes to see you, mrs. stubbins," said the doctor—"every day, if you like. after all, he will not be very far away." well, at length my father gave in; and it was agreed that i was to live with the doctor and work for him for two years in exchange for learning to read and write and for my board and lodging. "of course," added the doctor, "while i have money i will keep tommy in clothes as well. but money is a very irregular thing with me; sometimes i have some, and then sometimes i haven't." "you are very good, doctor," said my mother, drying her tears. "it seems to me that tommy is a very fortunate boy." and then, thoughtless, selfish little imp that i was, i leaned over and whispered in the doctor's ear, "please don't forget to say something about the voyages." "oh, by the way," said john dolittle, "of course occasionally my work requires me to travel. you will have no objection, i take it, to your son's com- ing with me?"! my poor mother looked up sharply, more un- happy and anxious than ever at this new turn; i become a doctor's assistant while i stood behind the doctor's chair, my heart thumping with excitement, waiting for my father's answer. "no," he said slowly after a while. "if we agree to the other arrangement i don't see that we've the right to make any objection to that." well, there surely was never a happier boy in the world than i was at that moment. my head was in the clouds. i trod on air. i could scarcely keep from dancing round the parlor. at last the dream of my life was to come true! at last i was to be given a chance to seek my fortune, to have adventures! for i knew perfectly well that it was now almost time for the doctor to start upon another voyage. polynesia had told me that he hardly ever stayed at home for more than six months at a stretch. therefore he would be surely going again within a fortnight. and i—i, tommy stubbins, would go with him! just to think of it !—to cross the sea, to walk on foreign shores, to roam the world! part two the first chapter the crew of "the curlew" rom that time on of course my position in the town was very different. i was no longer a poor cobbler's son. i carried my nose in the air as i went down the high street with jip in his gold collar at my side; and snobbish little boys who had despised me before because i was not rich enough to go to school now pointed me out to their friends and whispered, "you see him? he's a doctor's assistant—and only ten years old !" but their eyes would have opened still wider with wonder if they had but known that i and the dog that was with me could talk to one another. two days after the doctor had been to our house to dinner he told me very sadly that he was afraid that he would have to give up trying to learn the language of the shellfish—at all events for the present. "i'm very discouraged, stubbins, very. i've tried the mussels and the clams, the oysters and the whelks, cockles and scallops; seven different kinds the crew of “the curlew" of crabs and all the lobster family. i think i'll leave it for the present and go at it again later on." "what will you turn to now?" i asked. "well, i rather thought of going on a voyage, stubbins. it's quite a time now since i've been away. and there is a great deal of work waiting for me abroad." "when shall we start?" i asked. "well, first i shall have to wait till the purple bird-of-paradise gets here. i must see if she has any message for me from long arrow. she's late. she should have been here ten days ago. i hope to goodness she's all right." "well, hadn't we better be seeing about getting a boat?" i said. "she is sure to be here in a day or so; and there will be lots of things to do to get ready in the mean time, won't there?”. "yes, indeed," said the doctor. "suppose we go down and see your friend joe, the mussel-man. he will know about boats." "i'd like to come too," said jip. "all right, come along," said the doctor, and off we went. joe said yes, he had a boat—one he had just bought—but it needed three people to sail her. we told him we would like to see it anyway. so the mussel-man took us off a little way down the river and showed us the neatest, prettiest, little vessel that ever was built. she was called the the voyages of doctor dolittle curlew. joe said he would sell her to us cheap. but the trouble was that the boat needed three people, while we were only two. "of course i shall be taking chee-chee," said the doctor. "but although he is very quick and clever, he is not as strong as a man. we really ought to have another person to sail a boat as big as that." "i know of a good sailor, doctor," said joe—"a first-class seaman who would be glad of the job." "no, thank you, joe," said doctor dolittle. "i don't want any seamen. i couldn't afford to hire them. and then they hamper me so, seamen do, when i'm at sea. they're always wanting to do things the proper way; and i like to do them my way—now let me see: who could we take with us?" "there's matthew mugg, the cat's-meat-man," i said. "no, he wouldn't do. matthew's a very nice fellow, but he talks too much—mostly about his rheumatism. you have to be frightfully partic- ular whom you take with you on long voyages." "how about luke the hermit?" i asked. "that's a good idea—splendid—if he'll come. let's go and ask him right away." the second chapter luke the hermit he hermit was an old friend of ours, as i have already told you. he was a very peculiar person. far out on the marshes he lived in a little bit of a shack—all alone except for his brindle bulldog. no one knew where he came from—not even his name. just "luke the hermit" folks called him. he never came into the town; never seemed to want to see or talk to people. his dog, bob, drove them away if they came near his hut. when you asked anyone in puddleby who he was or why he lived out in that lonely place by himself, the only answer you got was, "oh, luke the hermit? well, there's some mystery about him. nobody knows what it is. but there's a mystery. don't go near him. he'll set the dog on you." nevertheless there were two people who often went out to that little shack on the fens: the doctor and myself. and bob, the bulldog, never barked when he heard us coming. for we liked luke; and luke liked us. this afternoon, crossing the marshes we faced a cold wind blowing from the east. as we the voyages of doctor dolittle approached the hut jip put up his ears and said, "that's funny!" "what's funny?" asked the doctor. "that bob hasn't come out to meet us. he should have heard us long ago—or smelt us. what's that queer noise ?". "sounds to me like a gate creaking," said the doctor. "maybe it's luke's door, only we can't see the door from here; it's on the far side of the shack." "i hope bob isn't sick," said jip; and he let out a bark to see if that would call him. but the only answer he got was the wailing of the wind across the wide, salt fen. we hurried forward, all three of us thinking hard. when we reached the front of the shack we found the door open, swinging and creaking dis- mally in the wind. we looked inside. there was no one there. "isn't luke at home then?" said i. "perhaps he's out for a walk." "he is always at home," said the doctor frown- ing in a peculiar sort of way. "and even if he were out for a walk he wouldn't leave his door banging in the wind behind him. there is some- thing queer about this—what are you doing in there, jip?" luke the hermit "nothing much—nothing worth speaking of," said jip examining the floor of the hut extremely carefully. "come here, jip," said the doctor in a stern voice. "you are hiding something from me. you see signs and you know something—or you guess it. what has happened? tell me. where is the hermit?" "i don't know," said jip looking very guilty and uncomfortable. "i don't know where he is." "well, you know something. i can tell it from the look in your eye. what is it?". but jip didn't answer. for ten minutes the doctor kept questioning him. but not a word would the dog say. "well," said the doctor at last, "it is no use. our standing around here in the cold. the her- mit's gone. that's all. we might as well go home to luncheon." as we buttoned up our coats and started back across the marsh, jip ran ahead pretending he was looking for water-rats. "he knows something all right," whispered the doctor. "and i think he knows what has happened too. it's funny, his not wanting to tell me. he has never done that before—not in eleven years. he has always told me everything—strange—very strange!" the voyages of doctor dolittle “do you mean you think he knows all about the hermit, the big mystery about him which folks hint at and all that?". "i shouldn't wonder if he did," the doctor an. swered slowly. "i noticed something in his ex- pression the moment we found that door open and the hut empty. and the way he sniffed the floor too—it told him something, that floor did. he saw signs we couldn't see i wonder why he won't tell me. i'll try him again. here, jip! jip!- where is the dog? i thought he went on in front." "so did i," i said. "he was there a moment ago. i saw him as large as life. jip—jip—jip —jip!" but he was gone. we called and called. we even walked back to the hut. but jip had disap- peared. "oh well," i said, "most likely he has just run home ahead of us. he often does that, you know. we'll find him there when we get back to the house." but the doctor just closed his coat-collar tighter against the wind and strode on muttering, "odd- very odd !" the third chapter jip and the secret hen we reached the house the first question the doctor asked of dab- dab in the hall was, "is jip home yet?”' "no," said dab-dab, "i haven't seen him." "let me know the moment he comes in, will you, please ?" said the doctor, hanging up his hat. "certainly i will," said dab-dab. "don't be long over washing your hands; the lunch is on the table." just as we were sitting down to luncheon in the kitchen we heard a great racket at the front door. i ran and opened it. in bounded jip. "doctor!" he cried, "come into the library quick. i've got something .to tell you—no, dab-dab, the luncheon must wait. please hurry, doctor. there's not a moment to be lost. don't let any of the animals come—just you and tommy." "now," he said, when we were inside the library and the door was closed, "turn the key in the lock and make sure there's no one listening under the windows." the voyages of doctor dolittle "it's all right," said the doctor. "nobody can hear you here. now what is it?" "well, doctor," said jip (he was badly out of breath from running), "i know all about the her- mit—i have known for years. but i couldn't tell you." "why?" asked the doctor. "because i'd promised not to tell any one. it was bob, his dog, that told me. and i swore to him that i would keep the secret." "well, and are you going to tell me now?”. "yes," said jip, "we've got to save him. i followed bob's scent just now when i left you out there on the marshes. and i found him. and i said to him, 'is it all right,' i said, 'for me to tell the doctor now? maybe he can do something.' and bob says to me, 'yes,' says he, 'it's all right because " "oh, for heaven's sake, go on, go on!" cried the doctor. "tell us what the mystery is—not what you said to bob and what bob said to you. what has happened? where is the hermit?”. "he's in puddleby jail," said jip. "he's in prison." "in prison !" "yes." "what for?—what's he done ?" jip went over to the door and smelt at the bot- tom of it to see if any one were listening outside. jip and the secret then he came back to the doctor on tiptoe and whispered, "he killed a man!" "lord preserve us !" cried the doctor, sitting down heavily in a chair and mopping his forehead with a handkerchief. "when did he do it?" "fifteen years ago—in a mexican gold-mine. that's why he has been a hermit ever since. he shaved off his beard and kept away from people out there on the marshes so he wouldn't be recog- nized. but last week, it seems these new-fangled policemen came to town; and they heard there was a strange man who kept to himself all alone in a shack on the fen. and they got suspicious. for a long time people had been hunting all over the world for the man that did that killing in the mexi- can gold-mine fifteen years ago. so these police- men went out to the shack, and they recognized luke by a mole on his arm. and they took him to prison." "well, well!" murmured the doctor. "who would have thought it?—luke, the philosopher !- killed a man!—i can hardly believe it." "it's true enough—unfortunately," said jip. "luke did it. but it wasn't his fault. bob says so. and he was there and saw it all. he was scarcely more than a puppy at the time. bob says luke couldn't help it. he had to do it." "where is bob now?" asked the doctor. nurm the voyages of doctor dolittle "down at the prison. i wanted him to come with me here to see you; but he won't leave the prison while luke is there. he just sits outside the door of the prison-cell and won't move. he doesn't even eat the food they give him. won't you please come down there, doctor, and see if there is anything you can do? the trial is to be this afternoon at two o'clock. what time is it now?" "it's ten minutes past one." "bob says he thinks they are going to kill luke for a punishment if they can prove that he did it—or certainly keep him in prison for the rest of his life. won't you please come? perhaps if you spoke to the judge and told him what a good man luke really is they'd let him off." "of course i'll come," said the doctor getting up and moving to go. "but i'm very much afraid that i shan't be of any real help." he turned at the door and hesitated thoughtfully. "and yet i wonder—". then he opened the door and passed out with jip and me close at his heels. the fourth chapter bob ab-dab was terribly upset when she found we were going away again with- out luncheon; and she made us take some cold pork-pies in our pockets to eat on the way. when we got to puddleby court-house (it was next door to the prison), we found a great crowd gathered around the building. this was the week of the assizes—a business which happened every three months, when many pick-pockets and other bad characters were tried by a very grand judge who came all the way from london. and anybody in puddleby who had noth- ing special to do used to come to the court-house to hear the trials. but to-day it was different. the crowd was not made up of just a few idle people. it was enor- mous. the news had run through the countryside that luke the hermit was to be tried for killing a man and that the great mystery which had hung over him so long was to be cleared up at last. the butcher and the baker had closed their shops and taken a holiday. all the farmers from round- the voyages of doctor dolittle about, and all the townsfolk, were there with their sunday clothes on, trying to get seats in the court- house or gossipping outside in low whispers. the high street was so crowded you could hardly move along it. i had never seen the quiet old town in such a state of excitement before. for puddleby had not had such an assizes since , when ferdinand phipps, the rector's oldest son, had robbed the bank. if i hadn't had the doctor with me i am sure i would never have been able to make my way through the mob packed around the court-house door. but i just followed behind him, hanging on to his coat- tails; and at last we got safely into the jail. "i want to see luke," said the doctor to a very grand person in a blue coat with brass buttons standing at the door. "ask at the superintendent's office," said the man. "third door on the left down the corridor." "who is that person you spoke to, doctor ?'' i asked as we went along the passage. "he is a policeman." "and what are policemen ?" "policemen? they are to keep people in order. they've just been invented—by sir robert peel. that's why they are also called 'peelers' some- times. it is a wonderful age we live in. they're always thinking of something new—this will be the superintendent's office, i suppose." c pyri hted ima er mov db pu lisherc pyr ght dimage re ovedb publish r from there another policeman was sent with us to show us the way. outside the door of luke's cell we found bob, the bulldog, who wagged his tail sadly when he saw us. the man who was guiding us took a large bunch of keys from his pocket and opened the door. i had never been inside a real prison-cell before; and i felt quite a thrill when the policeman went out and locked the door after him, leaving us shut in the dimly-lighted, little, stone room. before he went, he said that as soon as we had done talking with our friend we should knock upon the door and he would come and let us out. at first i could hardly see anything, it was so dim inside. but after a little i made out a low bed against the wall, under a small barred window. on the bed, staring down at the floor between his feet, sat the hermit, his head resting in his hands. "well, luke," said the doctor in a kindly voice, "they don't give you much light in here, do they ?" very slowly the hermit looked up from the floor. "hulloa, john dolittle. what brings you here?" "i've come to see you. i would have been here sooner, only i didn't hear about all this till a few minutes ago. i went to your hut to ask you if you would join me on a voyage; and when i found it empty i had no idea where you could be. i am dreadfully sorry to hear about your bad luck. bob . i've come to see if there is anything i can do." luke shook his head. "no, i don't imagine there is anything can be done. they've caught me at last. that's the end of it, i suppose." he got up stiffly and started walking up and down the little room. "in a way i'm glad it's over," said he. "i never got any peace, always thinking they were after me —afraid to speak to anyone. they were bound to get me in the end—yes, i'm glad it's over." then the doctor talked to luke for more than half an hour, trying to cheer him up; while i sat around wondering what i ought to say and wishing i could do something. at last the doctor said he wanted to see bob; and we knocked upon the door and were let out by the policeman. "bob," said the doctor to the big bulldog in the passage, "come out with me into the porch. i want to ask you something." "how is he, doctor ?" asked bob as we walked down the corridor into the court-house porch. "oh, luke's all right. very miserable of course, but he's all right. now tell me, bob: you saw this business happen, didn't you? you were there when the man was killed, eh?" "i was, doctor," said bob, "and i tell you—" "all right," the doctor interrupted, "that's all i want to know for the present. there isn't the voyages of doctor dolittle time to tell me more now. the trial is just going to begin. there are the judge and the lawyers coming up the steps. now listen, bob: i want you to stay with me when i go into the court-room. and whatever i tell you to do, do it. do you understand? don't make any scenes. don't bite anybody, no matter what they may say about luke. just behave perfectly quietly and answer any question i may ask you—truthfully. do you understand ?" "very well. but do you think you will be able to get him off, doctor ?" asked bob. "he's a good man, doctor. he really is. there never was a better." 'we'll see, we'll see, bob. it's a new thing i'm going to try. i'm not sure the judge will allow it. but—well, we'll see. it's time to go into the court-room now. don't forget what i told you. remember: for heaven's sake don't start biting any one or you'll get us all put out and spoil every- thing." the fifth chapter mendoza nside the court-room everything was very solemn and wonderful. it was a high, big room. raised above the floor, against the wall was the judge's desk; and here the judge was already sitting—an old, handsome man in a marvelous big wig of gray hair and a gown of black. below him was another wide, long desk at which lawyers in white wigs sat. the whole thing re- minded me of a mixture between a church and a school. "those twelve men at the side," whispered the doctor—"those in pews like a choir, they are what is called the jury. it is they who decide whether luke is guilty—whether he did it or not." "and look !" i said, "there's luke himself in a sort of pulpit-thing with policemen each side of him. and there's another pulpit, the same kind, the other side of the room, see—only that one's empty." "that one is called the witness-box," said the doctor. "now i'm going down to speak to one of those men in white wigs; and i want you to wait here and keep these two seats for us. bob will the voyages of doctor dolittle - stay with you. keep an eye on him—better hold on to his collar. i shan't be more than a minute or so." with that the doctor disappeared into the crowd which filled the main part of the room. then i saw the judge take up a funny little wooden hammer and knock on his desk with it. this, it seemed, was to make people keep quiet, for immediately every one stopped buzzing and talking and began to listen very respectfully. then another man in a black gown stood up and began reading from a paper in his hand. he mumbled away exactly as though he were saying his prayers and didn't want any one to under- stand what language they were in. but i managed to catch a few words: "biz—biz—biz—biz—biz—otherwise known as luke the hermit, of—biz—biz—biz—biz—for killing his partner with—biz—biz—biz—otherwise known as bluebeard bill on the night of the—biz —biz—biz—in the biz-biz-biz—of mexico. therefore his majesty's—biz—biz—biz " at this moment i felt some one take hold of my arm from the back, and turning round i found the doctor had returned with one of the men in white wigs. "stubbins, this is mr. percy jenkyns," said the doctor. "he is luke's lawyer. it is his business to get luke off—if he can." mendoza mr. jenkyns seemed to be an extremely young man with a round smooth face like a boy. he shook hands with me and then immediately turned and went on talking with the doctor. "oh, i think it is a perfectly precious idea," he was saying. "of course the dog must be admitted as a witness; he was the only one who saw the thing take place. i'm awfully glad you came. i wouldn't have missed this for anything. my hat! won't it make the old court sit up? they're always frightfully dull, these assizes. but this will stir things. a bulldog witness for the defense! i do hope there are plenty of reporters present- yes, there's one making a sketch of the prisoner. i shall become known after this—and won't conkey be pleased? my hat!" he put his hand over his mouth to smother a laugh and his eyes fairly sparkled with mischief. "who is conkey?" i asked the doctor. "sh! he is speaking of the judge up there, the honorable eustace beauchamp conckley." "now," said mr. jenkyns, bringing out a note- book, "tell me a little more about yourself, doctor. you took your degree as doctor of medicine at durham, i think you said. and the name of your last book was?" i could not hear any more for they talked in whispers; and i fell to looking round the court again. the voyages of doctor dolittle of course i could not understand everything that was going on, though it was all very interesting. people kept getting up in the place the doctor called the witness-box, and the lawyers at the long table asked them questions about "the night of the th." then the people would get down again and somebody else would get up and be questioned. one of the lawyers (who, the doctor told me afterwards, was called the prosecutor) seemed to be doing his best to get the hermit into trouble by asking questions which made it look as though he had always been a very bad man. he was a nasty lawyer, this prosecutor, with a long nose. most of the time i could hardly keep my eyes off poor luke, who sat there between his two policemen, staring at the floor as though he weren't interested. the only time i saw him take any notice at all was when a small dark man with wicked, little, watery eyes got up into the witness-box. i heard bob snarl under my chair as this person came into the court-room and luke's eyes just blazed with anger and contempt. this man said his name was mendoza and that he was the one who had guided the mexican police to the mine after bluebeard bill had been killed. and at every word he said i could hear bob down below me muttering between his teeth, "it's a lie! it's a lie! i'll chew his face. it's a lie!" mendoza and both the doctor and i had hard work keeping the dog under the seat. then i noticed that our mr. jenkyns had disap- peared from the doctor's side. but presently i saw him stand up at the long table to speak to the judge. "your honor," said he, "i wish to introduce a new witness for the defense, doctor john dolittle, the naturalist. will you please step into the wit- ness-stand, doctor ?" there was a buzz of excitement as the doctor made his way across the crowded room; and i noticed the nasty lawyer with the long nose lean down and whisper something to a friend, smiling in an ugly way which made me want to pinch him. then mr. jenkyns asked the doctor a whole lot of questions about himself and made him answer in a loud voice so the whole court could hear. he finished up by saying, "and you are prepared to swear, doctor dolittle, that you understand the language of dogs and can make them understand you. is that so ?" "yes," said the doctor, "that is so." "and what, might i ask," put in the judge in a very quiet, dignified voice, "has all this to do with the killing of erer—bluebeard bill ?" "this, your honor," said mr. jenkyns, talking in a very grand manner as though he were on a stage in a theatre: "there is in this court-room at the voyages of doctor dolittle the present moment a bulldog, who was the only living thing that saw the man killed. with the court's permission i propose to put that dog in the witness-stand and have him questioned before you by the eminent scientist, doctor john dolittle." the sixth chapter the judge's dog t first there was a dead silence in the court. then everybody began whisper- ing or giggling at the same time, till the whole room sounded like a great hive of bees. many people seemed to be shocked; most of them were amused; and a few were angry. presently up sprang the nasty lawyer with the long nose. "i protest, your honor," he cried, waving his arms wildly to the judge. "i object. the dignity of this court is in peril. i protest." "i am the one to take care of the dignity of this court," said the judge. then mr. jenkyns got up again. (if it hadn't been such a serious matter, it was almost like a punch-and-judy show: somebody was always pop- ping down and somebody else popping up). "if there is any doubt on the score of our being able to do as we say, your honor will have no objection, i trust, to the doctor's giving the court a demonstration of his powers--of showing that he actually can understand the speech of animals ?" i thought i saw a twinkle of amusement come into iii the voyages of doctor dolittle the old judge's eyes as he sat considering a moment before he answered. "no," he said at last, "i don't think so." then he turned to the doctor. "are you quite sure you can do this?" he asked. "quite, your honor," said the doctor—"quite sure." "very well then," said the judge. "if you can satisfy us that you really are able to understand canine testimony, the dog shall be admitted as a witness. i do not see, in that case, how i could object to his being heard. but i warn you that if you are trying to make a laughing-stock of this court it will go hard with you." "i protest, i protest!" yelled the long-nosed prosecutor. "this is a scandal, an outrage to the bar!" "sit down!" said the judge in a very stern voice. "what animal does your honor wish me to talk with ?" asked the doctor. "i would like you to talk to my own dog," said the judge. "he is outside in the cloak-room. i will have him brought in; and then we shall see what you can do." then someone went out and fetched the judge's dog, a lovely great russian wolf-hound with slender legs and a shaggy coat. he was a proud and beau- tiful creature. "now, doctor," said the judge, "did you ever the judge's dog see this dog before?- remember you are in the witness-stand and under oath." "no, your honor, i never saw him before." "very well then, will you please ask him to tell you what i had for supper last night? he was with me and watched me while i ate." then the doctor and the dog started talking to one another in signs and sounds; and they kept at it for quite a long time. and the doctor began to giggle and get so interested that he seemed to for- get all about the court and the judge and every- thing else. "what a time he takes!" i heard a fat woman in front of me whispering. "he's only pretending. of course he can't do it! who ever heard of talk- ing to a dog? he must think we're children." "haven't you finished yet?" the judge asked the doctor. "it shouldn't take that long just to ask what i had for supper." "oh no, your honor," said the doctor. "the dog told me that long ago. but then he went on to tell me what you did after supper." "never mind that," said the judge. tell me what answer he gave you to my question." "he says you had a mutton-chop, two baked pota- toes, a pickled walnut and a glass of ale." the honorable eustace beauchamp conckley went white to the lips. the voyages of doctor dolittle "sounds like witchcraft," he muttered. "i never dreamed " "and after your supper," the doctor went on, "he says you went to see a prize-fight and then sat up playing cards for money till twelve o'clock and came home singing, 'we wont get—'" "that will do," the judge interrupted, "i am satisfied you can do as you say. the prisoner's dog shall be admitted as a witness." "i protest, i object !" screamed the prosecutor. "your honor, this is " "sit down!" roared the judge. "i say the dog shall be heard. that ends the matter. put the witness in the stand." and then for the first time in the solemn history, of england a dog was put in the witness-stand of his majesty's court of assizes. and it was i, tommy stubbins (when the doctor made a sign to me across the room) who proudly led bob up the aisle, through the astonished crowd, past the frown- ing, spluttering, long-nosed prosecutor, and made him comfortable on a high chair in the witness-box; from where the old bulldog sat scowling down over the rail upon the amazed and gaping jury. hp "sat scowling down upon the amazed and gaping jury” the seventh chapter the end of the mystery he trial went swiftly forward after that. mr. jenkyns told the doctor to ask bob what he saw on the "night of the th ;" and when bob had told all he knew and the doctor had turned it into english for the judge and the jury, this was what he had to say: "on the night of the th of november, , i was with my master, luke fitzjohn (otherwise known as luke the hermit) and his two partners, manuel mendoza and william boggs (otherwise known as bluebeard bill) on their gold-mine in mexico. for a long time these three men had been hunting for gold; and they had dug a deep hole in the ground. on the morning of the th gold was discovered, lots of it, at the bottom of this hole. and all three, my master and his two partners, were very happy about it because now they would be rich. but manuel mendoza asked blue- beard bill to go for a walk with him. these two men i had always suspected of being bad. so when i noticed that they left my master behind, i followed them secretly to see what they were up to. and in a deep cave in the mountains i heard ii the end of the mystery them arrange together to kill luke the hermit so that they should get all the gold and he have none." at this point the judge asked, "where is the wit- ness mendoza ? constable, see that he does not leave the court." but the wicked little man with the watery eyes had already sneaked out when no one was looking and he was never seen in puddleby again. "then," bob's statement went on, "i went to my master and tried very hard to make him under- stand that his partners were dangerous men. but it was no use. he did not understand dog lan- guage. so i did the next best thing: i never let him out of my sight but stayed with him every moment of the day and night. "now the hole that they had made was so deep that to get down and up it you had to go in a big bucket tied on the end of a rope; and the three men used to haul one another up and let one another down the mine in this way. that was how the gold was brought up too—in the bucket. well, about seven o'clock in the evening my master was standing at the top of the mine, hauling up bluebeard bill who was in the bucket. just as he had got bill halfway up i saw mendoza come out of the hut where we all lived. mendoza thought that bill was away buy- ing groceries. but he wasn't: he was in the bucket. and when mendoza saw luke hauling and straining on the rope he thought he was pulling up a bucket- the voyages of doctor dolittle ful of gold. so he drew a pistol from his pocket and came sneaking up behind luke to shoot him. "i barked and barked to warn my master of the danger he was in; but he was so busy hauling up bill (who was a heavy fat man) that he took no notice of me. i saw that if i didn't do something quick he would surely be shot. so i did a thing i've never done before: suddenly and savagely i bit my master in the leg from behind. luke was so hurt and startled that he did just what i wanted him to do: he let go the rope with both hands at once and turned round. and then, crash! down went bill in his bucket to the bottom of the mine and he was killed. "while my master was busy scolding me men- doza put his pistol in his pocket, came up with a smile on his face and looked down the mine. “ 'why, good gracious' !" said he to luke, 'you've killed bluebeard bill. i must go and tell the police'—hoping, you see, to get the whole mine to himself when luke should be put in prison. then he jumped on his horse and galloped away." "and soon my master grew afraid; for he saw that if mendoza only told enough lies to the police, it would look as though he had killed bill on pur- pose. so while mendoza was gone he and i stole away together secretly and came to england. here he shaved off his beard and became a hermit. the voyages of doctor dolittle his seat and had to be helped out of the court-room by two friends. as he was half carried through the door he was still feebly murmuring, "i protest —i object—i protest!" the eighth chapter three cheers ext the judge made a very long speech to the jury; and when it was over all the twelve jurymen got up and went out into the next room. and at that point the doctor came back, leading bob, to the seat be- side me. "what have the jurymen gone out for?" i asked. "they always do that at the end of a trial—to make up their minds whether the prisoner did it or not." "couldn't you and bob go in with them and help them make up their minds the right way?" i asked. "no, that's not allowed. they have to talk it over in secret. sometimes it takes—my gracious, look, they're coming back already! they didn't spend long over it." everybody kept quite still while the twelve men came tramping back into their places in the pews. then one of them, the leader—a little man—stood up and turned to the judge. every one was holding his breath, especially the doctor and myself, to see what he was going to say. you could have heard a pin drop while the whole court-room, the whole the voyages of doctor dolittle of puddleby in fact, waited with craning necks and straining ears to hear the weighty words. "your honor," said the little man, "the jury returns a verdict of not guilty." "what's that mean?" i asked, turning to the doctor. but i found doctor john dolittle, the famous naturalist, standing on top of a chair, dancing about on one leg like a schoolboy. "it means he's free!" he cried, "luke is free !" "then he'll be able to come on the voyage with us, won't he ?" but i could not hear his answer; for the whole court-room seemed to be jumping up on chairs like the doctor. the crowd had suddenly gone crazy. all the people were laughing and calling and waving to luke to show him how glad they were that he was free. the noise was deafening. then it stopped. all was quiet again; and the people stood up respectfully while the judge left the court. for the trial of luke the hermit, that famous trial which to this day they are still talking of in puddleby, was over. in the hush while the judge was leaving, a sud- den shriek rang out, and there, in the doorway stood a woman, her arms out-stretched to the her- mit. "luke!" she cried, "i've found you at last!". “it's his wife," the fat woman in front of me three cheers whispered. "she ain't seen 'im in fifteen years, poor dear! what a lovely re-union. i'm glad i came. i wouldn't have missed this for anything !" as soon as the judge had gone the noise broke out again; and now the folks gathered round luke and his wife and shook them by the hand and con- gratulated them and laughed over them and cried over them. "come along, stubbins," said the doctor, taking me by the arm, "let's get out of this while we can." "but aren't you going to speak to luke?" i said —"to ask him if he'll come on the voyage?”. "it wouldn't be a bit of use," said the doctor. "his wife's come for him. no man stands any chance of going on a voyage when his wife hasn't seen him in fifteen years. come along. let's get home to tea. we didn't have any lunch, remem- ber. and we've earned something to eat. we'll have one of those mixed meals, lunch and tea com- bined with watercress and ham. nice change. come along." just as we were going to step out at a side door i heard the crowd shouting, "the doctor! the doctor! where's the doctor? the hermit would have hanged if it hadn't been for the doctor. speech! speech — the doctor!" and a man came running up to us and said, the voyages of doctor dolittle “the people are calling for you, sir." "i'm very sorry," said the doctor, "but i'm in a hurry." "the crowd won't be denied, sir," said the man. "they want you to make a speech in the market- place." "beg them to excuse me," said the doctor- "with my compliments. i have an appointment at my house—a very important one which i may not break. tell luke to make a speech. come along, stubbins, this way." "oh lord!" he muttered as we got out into the open air and found another crowd waiting for him at the side door. "let's go up that alleyway—to the left. quick !—run!" we took to our heels, darted through a couple of side streets and just managed to get away from the crowd. it was not till we had gained the oxenthorpe road that we dared to slow down to a walk and take our breath. and even when we reached the doctor's gate and turned to look backwards towards the town, the faint murmur of many voices still reached us on the evening wind. "they're still clamoring for you," i said. "lis- ten!" the murmur suddenly swelled up into a low distant roar; and although it was a mile and half away you could distinctly hear the words, the voyages of doctor dolittle “cheapside," said the doctor sternly, "what did you say to miranda when she arrived?" "i didn't say nothing, doc, straight i didn't. that is, nothing much. i was picking up crumbs off the gravel path when she comes swanking into the garden, turning up her nose in all directions, as though she owned the earth—just because she's got a lot of colored plumage. a london spar- row's as good as her any day. i don't hold by these gawdy bedizened foreigners nohow. why don't they stay in their own country?" "but what did you say to her that got her so offended ?" "all i said was, 'you don't belong in an english garden; you ought to be in a milliner's window. that's all." "you ought to be ashamed of yourself, cheap- side. don't you realize that this bird has come thousands of miles to see me—only to be insulted by your impertinent tongue as soon as she reaches my garden? what do you mean by it?—if she had gone away again before i got back to-night i would never have forgiven you—leave the room." sheepishly, but still trying to look as though he didn't care, cheapside hopped out into the passage and dab-dab closed the door. the doctor went up to the beautiful bird on the ink-stand and gently stroked its back. instantly its head popped out from under its wing. the tenth chapter long arrow, the son of golden arrow ell, miranda," said the doctor. "i'm terribly sorry this has happened. but you mustn't mind cheapside; he doesn't know any better. he's a city bird; and all his life he has had to squabble for a living. you must make allowances. he doesn't know any better." miranda stretched her gorgeous wings wearily. now that i saw her awake and moving i noticed what a superior, well-bred manner she had. there were tears in her eyes and her beak was trembling. "i wouldn't have minded so much," she said in a high silvery voice, "if i hadn't been so dreadfully worn out—that and something else," she added beneath her breath. "did you have a hard time getting here?" asked the doctor. "the worst passage i ever made," said miranda. "the weather—well there. what's the use ? i'm here anyway." "tell me," said the doctor as though he had been impatiently waiting to say something for a the voyages of doctor dolittle long time: "what did long arrow say when you gave him my message ?" the purple bird-of-paradise hung her head. "that's the worst part of it," she said. "i might almost as well have not come at all. i wasn't able to deliver your message. i couldn't find him. long arrow, the son of golden arrow, has disappeared!" "disappeared!" cried the doctor. "why, what's become of him?" "nobody knows," miranda answered. "he had often disappeared before, as i have told you- so that the indians didn't know where he was. but it's a mighty hard thing to hide away from the birds. i had always been able to find some owl or martin who could tell me where he was if i wanted to know. but not this time. that's why i'm nearly a fortnight late in coming to you: i kept hunting and hunting, asking everywhere. i went over the whole length and breadth of south america. but there wasn't a living thing could tell me where he was." there 'was a sad silence in the room after she had finished; the doctor was frowning in a pecul- iar sort of way and polynesia scratched her head. "did you ask the black parrots ?" asked poly- nesia. "they usually know everything." long arrow, the son of golden arrow "certainly i did," said miranda. "and i was so upset at not being able to find out anything, that i forgot all about observing the weather-signs before i started my flight here. i didn't even bother to break my journey at the azores, but cut right across, making for the straits of gibraltar- as though it were june or july. and of course i ran into a perfectly frightful storm in mid-atlantic. i really thought i'd never come through it. luck- ily i found a piece of a wrecked vessel floating in the sea after the storm had partly died down; and i roosted on it and took some sleep. if i hadn't been able to take that rest i wouldn't be here to tell the tale." "poor miranda! what a time you must have had!" said the doctor. "but tell me, were you able to find out whereabouts long arrow was last seen?" "yes. a young albatross told me he had seen him on spidermonkey island?" "spidermonkey island? that's somewhere off the coast of brazil, isn't it?" "yes, that's it. of course i flew there right away and asked every bird on the island—and it is a big island, a hundred miles long. it seems that long arrow was visiting some peculiar indians that live there; and that when last seen he was going up into the mountains looking for rare the voyages of doctor dolittle medicine-plants. i got that from a tame hawk, a pet, which the chief of the indians keeps for hunt. ing partridges with. i nearly got caught and put in a cage for my pains too. that's the worst of having beautiful feathers: it's as much as your life is worth to go near most humans—they say, 'oh how pretty! and shoot an arrow or a bullet into you. you and long arrow were the only two men that i would ever trust myself near—out of all the people in the world." "but was he never known to have returned from the mountains ?" "no. that was the last that was seen or heard of him. i questioned the sea-birds around the shores to find out if he had left the island in a canoe. but they could tell me nothing.". "do you think that some accident has happened to him?" asked the doctor in a fearful voice. "i'm afraid it must have," said miranda shaking her head. "well," said john dolittle slowly, "if i could never meet long arrow face to face it would be the greatest disappointment in my whole life. not only that, but it would be a great loss to the knowl- edge of the human race. for, from what you have told me of him, he knew more natural science than all the rest of us put together; and if he has gone without any one to write it down for him, so the world may be the better for it, it would be a terrible } event innowa, was erry " inoltrung “'what else can i think?'” the voyages of doctor dolittle thing. but you don't really think that he is dead, do you ?" "what else can i think?" asked miranda, burst- ing into tears, "when for six whole months he has not been seen by flesh, fish or fowl." the eleventh chapter blind travel his news about long arrow made us all very sad. and i could see from the silent dreamy way the doctor took his tea that he was dreadfully upset. every once in a while he would stop eating altogether and sit staring at the spots on the kitchen table-cloth as though his thoughts were far away; till dab-dab, who was watching to see that he got a good meal, would cough or rattle the pots in the sink. i did my best to cheer him up by reminding him of all he had done for luke and his wife that after- noon. and when that didn't seem to work, i went on talking about our preparations for the voyage. "but you see, stubbins," said he as we rose from the table and dab-dab and chee-chee began to clear away, "i don't know where to go now. i feel sort of lost since miranda brought me this news. on this voyage i had planned going to see long arrow. i had been looking forward to it for a whole year. i felt he might help me in learn- ing the language of the shellish—and perhaps in finding some way of getting to the bottom of the the voyages of doctor dolittle sea. but now?—he's gone! and all his great knowledge has gone with him." then he seemed to fall a-dreaming again. "just to think of it!" he murmured. "long arrow and i, two students—although i'd never met him, i felt as though i knew him quite well. for, in his way—without any schooling—he has, all his life, been trying to do the very things which i have tried to do in mine—and now he's gone —a whole world lay between us—and only a bird knew us both!" we went back into the study, where jip brought the doctor his slippers and his pipe. and after the pipe was lit and the smoke began to fill the room the old man seemed to cheer up a little. "but you will go on some voyage, doctor, won't you?" i asked—"even if you can't go to find long arrow." he looked up sharply into my face; and i suppose he saw how anxious i was. because he suddenly smiled his old, boyish smile and said, "yes, stubbins. don't worry. we'll go. we mustn't stop working and learning, even if poor long arrow has disappeared—but where to go: that's the question. where shall we go?" there were so many places that i wanted to go that i couldn't make up my mind right away. and while i was still thinking, the doctor sat up in his chair and said, blind travel "i tell you what we'll do, stubbins: it's a game i used to play when i was young—before sarah came to live with me. i used to call it blind travel. whenever i wanted to go on a voyage, and i couldn't make up my mind where to go, i would take the atlas and open it with my eyes shut. next, i'd wave a pencil, still without looking, and stick it down on whatever page had fallen open. then i'd open my eyes and look. it's a very exciting game, is blind travel. because you have to swear, be- fore you begin, that you will go to the place the pencil touches, come what way. shall we play it?" "oh, let's!" i almost yelled. "how thrilling! i hope it's china—or borneo—or bagdad."'. and in a moment i had scrambled up the book- case, dragged the big atlas from the top shelf and laid it on the table before the doctor. i knew every page in that atlas by heart. how many days and nights i had lingered over its old faded maps, following the blue rivers from the mountains to the sea; wondering what the little towns really looked like, and how wide were the sprawling lakes! i had had a lot of fun with that atlas, traveling, in my mind, all over the world. i can see it now: the first page had no map; it just told you that it was printed in edinburgh in , and a whole lot more about the book. the next page was the solar system, showing the sun and planets, the stars and the moon. the third page the voyages of doctor dolittle was the chart of the north and south poles. then came the hemispheres, the oceans, the continents and the countries. as the doctor began sharpening his pencil a thought came to me. "what if the pencil falls upon the north pole," i asked, "will we have to go there?" "no. the rules of the game say you don't have to go any place you've been to before. you are allowed another try. i've been to the north pole," he ended quietly, "so we shan't have to go there." i could hardly speak with astonishment. "you've been to the north pole!" i managed to gasp out at last. "but i thought it was still undis- covered. the map shows all the places explorers have reached to, trying to get there. why isn't your name down if you discovered it?" "i promised to keep it a secret. and you must promise me never to tell any one. yes, i dis- covered the north pole in april, . but shortly after i got there the polar bears came to me in a body and told me there was a great deal of coal there, buried beneath the snow. they knew, they said, that human beings would do anything, and go anywhere, to get coal. so would i please keep it a secret. because once people began com- ing up there to start coal-mines, their beautiful white country would be spoiled—and there was nowhere else in the world cold enough for polar blind travel bears to be comfortable. so of course i had to promise them i would. ah, well, it will be dis- covered again some day, by somebody else. but i want the polar bears to have their play-ground to themselves as long as possible. and i daresay it will be a good while yet—for it certainly is a fiendish place to get to—well now, are we ready? —good! take the pencil and stand here close to the table. when the book falls open, wave the pencil round three times and jab it down. ready? —all right. shut your eyes." it was a tense and fearful moment—but very thrilling. we both had our eyes shut tight. i heard the atlas fall open with a bang. i wondered what page it was: england or asia. if it should be the map of asia, so much would depend on where that pencil would land. i waved three times in a circle. i began to lower my hand. the pencil- point touched the page. "all right," i called out, "it's done." the twelfth chapter destiny and destination e both opened our eyes; then bumped our heads together with a crack in our eagerness to lean over and see where we were to go. the atlas lay open at a map called, chart of the south atlantic ocean. my pencil-point was rest- ing right in the center of a tiny island. the name of it was printed so small that the doctor had to get out his strong spectacles to read it. i was trembling with excitement. "spidermonkey island," he read out slowly. then he whistled softly beneath his breath. "of all the extraordinary things! you've hit upon the very island where long arrow was last seen on earth—i wonder—well, well! how very sin- gular!" "we'll go there, doctor, won't we?" i asked. "of course we will. the rules of the game say we've got to." "i'm so glad it wasn't oxenthorpe or bristol," i said. "it'll be a grand voyage, this. look at all the sea we've got to cross. will it take us long?” the voyages of doctor dolittle looks a lovely island on the map. will there be. black men there?" "no. a peculiar tribe of red indians lives on it, miranda tells me." at this point the poor bird-of-paradise stirred and woke up. in our excitement we had forgotten to speak low. "we are going to spidermonkey island, mi- randa," said the doctor. "you know where it is, do you not?" "i know where it was the last time i saw it," said the bird. "but whether it will be there still, i can't say." "what do you mean?" asked the doctor. "it is always in the same place surely?" "not by any means," said miranda. "why, didn't you know ?—spidermonkey island is a floating island. it moves around all over the place—usually somewhere near southern south america. but of course i could surely find it for you if you want to go there." at this fresh piece of news i could contain my- self no longer. i was bursting to tell some one. i ran dancing and singing from the room to find chee-chee. at the door i tripped over dab-dab, who was just coming in with her wings full of plates, and fell headlong on my nose. destiny and destination "has the boy gone crazy?" cried the duck. "where do you think you're going, ninny?". "to spidermonkey island!" i shouted, picking myself up and doing cart-wheels down the hall- “spidermonkey island! hooray !—and it's a floating island !" "you're going to bedlam, i should say," snorted the housekeeper. "look what you've done to my best china !" but i was far too happy to listen to her scolding; and i ran on, singing, into the kitchen to find chee- chee. -ooo — part three the first chapter the third man that same week we began our prepara- tions for the voyage. joe, the mussel-man, had the curlew moved down the river and tied it up along the river-wall, so it would be more handy for loading. and for three whole days we carried provisions down to our beautiful new boat and stowed them away. i was surprised to find how roomy and big she was inside. there were three little cabins, a saloon (or dining-room) and underneath all this, a big place called the hold where the food and extra sails and other things were kept. i think joe must have told everybody in the town about our coming voyage, because there was always a regular crowd watching us when we brought the things down to put aboard. and of course sooner or later old matthew mugg was bound to turn up. "my goodness, tommy," said he, as he watched me carrying on some sacks of flour, "but that's a the third man pretty boat! where might the doctor be going to this voyage ?" "we're going to spidermonkey island," i said proudly. "and be you the only one the doctor's taking along ?" "well, he has spoken of wanting to take another man," i said; "but so far he hasn't made up his mind." matthew grunted; then squinted up at the grace- ful masts of the curlew. "you know, tommy," said he, "if it wasn't for my rheumatism i've half a mind to come with the doctor myself. there's something about a boat standing ready to sail that always did make me feel venturesome and travelish-like. what's that stuff in the cans you're taking on?" "this is treacle," i said—"twenty pounds of trea- cle." "my goodness," he sighed, turning away sadly. "that makes me feel more like going with you than ever—but my rheumatism is that bad i can't hardly—" i didn't hear any more for matthew had moved off, still mumbling, into the crowd that stood about the wharf. the clock in puddleby church struck noon and i turned back, feeling very busy and im- portant, to the task of loading. but it wasn't very long before some one else came the voyages of doctor dolittle along and interrupted my work. this was a huge, big, burly man with a red beard and tattoo-marks all over his arms. he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, spat twice on to the river-wall and said, "boy, where's the skipper?" "the skipper!—who do you mean?" i asked. "the captain—where's the captain of this craft?" he said, pointing to the curlew. "oh, you mean the doctor," said i. "well, he isn't here at present." at that moment the doctor arrived with his arms full of note-books and butterfly-nets and glass cases and other natural history things. the big man went up to him, respectfully touching his cap. "good morning, captain," said he. "i heard you was in need of hands for a voyage. my name's ben butcher, able seaman." "i am very glad to know you," said the doctor. "but i'm afraid i shan't be able to take on any more crew." "why, but captain," said the able seaman, "you surely ain't going to face deep-sea weather with nothing more than this bit of a lad to help you- and with a cutter that big !" the doctor assured him that he was; but the man didn't go away. he hung around and argued. he told us he had known of many ships being sunk through "undermanning." he got out what he > css --- s ------s “ 'boy, where's the skipper?!” the voyages of doctor dolittle called his stiffikit—a paper which said what a good sailor he was—and implored us, if we valued our lives, to take him. but the doctor was quite firm—polite but deter- mined—and finally the man walked sorrowfully away, telling us he never expected to see us alive again. callers of one sort and another kept us quite busy that morning. the doctor had no sooner gone below to stow away his note-books than another visitor appeared upon the gang-plank. this was a most extraordinary-looking black man. the only other negroes i had seen had been in circuses, where they wore feathers and bone neck- laces and things like that. but this one was dressed in a fashionable frock coat with an enor- mous bright red cravat. on his head was a straw hat with a gay band; and over this he held a large green umbrella. he was very smart in every respect except his feet. he wore no shoes or socks. "pardon me," said he, bowing elegantly, "but is this the ship of the physician dolittle?" "yes," i said, "did you wish to see him?”. "i did—if it will not be discommodious," he an- swered. "who shall i say it is ?" "i am bumpo kahbooboo, crown prince of jolliginki." i ran downstairs at once and told the doctor. the third man “how fortunate !" cried john dolittle. "my old friend bumpo! well, well !—he's studying at oxford, you know. how good of him to come all this way to call on me!" and he tumbled up the ladder to greet his visitor. the strange black man seemed to be overcome with joy when the doctor appeared and shook him warmly by the hand. "news reached me," he said, "that you were about to sail upon a voyage. i hastened to see you before your departure. i am sublimely ec- stasied that i did not miss you." "you very nearly did miss us," said the doctor. "as it happened, we were delayed somewhat in get- ting the necessary number of men to sail our boat. if it hadn't been for that, we would have been gone three days ago." "how many men does your ship's company yet require?”' asked bumpo. "only one," said the doctor—"but it is so hard to find the right one." "methinks i detect something of the finger of destination in this," said bumpo. "how would i do?" "splendidly," said the doctor. "but what about your studies? you can't very well just go off and leave your university career to take care of itself, you know." "i need a holiday," said bumpo. "even had i : the voyages of doctor dolittle are a not gone with you, i intended at the end of this term to take a three-months' absconsion—but be- sides, i shall not be neglecting my edification if i accompany you. before i left jolliginki my august father, the king, told me to be sure and travel plenty. you are a man of great studiosity. to see the world in your company is an opportunity not to be sneezed upon. no, no, indeed." "how did you like the life at oxford?" asked the doctor. "oh, passably, passably," said bumpo. "i liked it all except the algebra and the shoes. the alge- bra hurt my head and the shoes hurt my feet. i threw the shoes over a wall as soon as i got out of the college quadrilateral this morning; and the al. gebra i am happily forgetting very fast—i liked cicero—yes, i think cicero's fineso simulta- neous. by the way, they tell me his son is rowing for our college next year—charming fellow.". the doctor looked down at the black man's huge bare feet thoughtfully a moment. "well," he said slowly, "there is something in what you say, bumpo, about getting education from the world as well as from the college. and if you are really sure that you want to come, we shall be delighted to have you. because, to tell you the truth, i think you are exactly the man we need." the second chapter good-bye! wo days after that we had all in readi- ness for our departure. on this voyage jip begged so hard to be taken that the doctor finally gave in and said he could come. polynesia and chee- chee were the only other animals to go with us. dab-dab was left in charge of the house and the animal family we were to leave behind. of course, as is always the way, at the last mo- ment we kept remembering things we had forgot- ten; and when we finally closed the house up and went down the steps to the road, we were all bur- dened with armfuls of odd packages. halfway to the river, the doctor suddenly re- membered that he had left the stock-pot boiling on the kitchen-fire. however, we saw a blackbird fly- ing by who nested in our garden, and the doctor asked her to go back for us and tell dab-dab about it. down at the river-wall we found a great crowd waiting to see us off. standing right near the gang-plank were my mother and father. i hoped that they would not good-bye! open sea. there aren't so many silly things to bump into." for me indeed it was a great and wonderful feeling, that getting out into the open sea, when at length we passed the little lighthouse at the mouth of the river and found ourselves free of the land. it was all so new and different: just the sky above you and sea below. this ship, which was to be our house and our street, our home and our garden, for so many days to come, seemed so tiny in all this wide water—so tiny and yet so snug, sufficient, safe. i looked around me and took in a deep breath. the doctor was at the wheel steering the boat which was now leaping and plunging gently through the waves. (i had expected to feel seasick at first but was delighted to find that i didn't.) bumpo had been told off to go downstairs and prepare din- ner for us. chee-chee was coiling up ropes in the stern and laying them in neat piles. my work was fastening down the things on the deck so that nothing could roll about if the weather should grow rough when we got further from the land. jip was up in the peak of the boat with ears cocked and nose stuck out—like a statue, so still—his keen old eyes keeping a sharp look-out for floating wrecks, sand-bars, and other dangers. each one of us had some special job to do, part of the proper running of a ship. even old polynesia was taking the sea's temperature with the doctor's bath-ther- the voyages of doctor dolittle mometer tied on the end of a string, to make sure there were no icebergs near us. as i listened to her swearing softly to herself because she couldn't read the pesky figures in the fading light, i realized that the voyage had begun in earnest and that very soon it would be night—my first night at sea! the voyages of doctor dolittle handy like and keep me. but i had to lie so dou- bled up, for hours, behind them flour-bags, that my rheumatism came on something awful. i just had to change my position; and of course just as i stretched out my legs along comes this here african cook of yours and sees my feet sticking out—don't this ship roll something awful! how long has this storm been going on? i reckon this damp sea air wouldn't be very good for my rheumatics." "no, matthew it really isn't. you ought not to have come. you are not in any way suited to this kind of a life. i'm sure you wouldn't enjoy a long voyage a bit. we'll stop in at penzance and put you ashore. bumpo, please go downstairs to my bunk; and listen: in the pocket of my dressing-gown you'll find some maps. bring me the small one- with blue pencil-marks at the top. i know penzance is over here on our left somewhere. but i must find out what light-houses there are before i change the ship's course and sail inshore." "very good, sir," said bumpo, turning round smartly and making for the stairway. "now matthew," said the doctor, "you can take the coach from penzance to bristol. and from there it is not very far to puddleby, as you know. don't forget to take the usual provisions to the house every thursday, and be particularly careful to remember the extra supply of herrings for the baby minks.” our troubles begin i was tremendously interested to see how a ship could be steered into a port at night with nothing but light-houses and a compass to guide you. it seemed to me that the doctor missed all the rocks and sand-bars very cleverly. we got into that funny little cornish harbor about eleven o'clock that night. the doctor took his stowaways on shore in our small row-boat which we kept on the deck of the curlew and found them rooms at the hotel there. when he got back he told us that mrs. luke had gone straight to bed and was feeling much better. it was now after midnight; so we decided to stay in the harbor and wait till morning before setting out again. i was glad to get to bed, although i felt that staying up so tremendously late was great fun. as i climbed into the bunk over the doctor's and pulled the blankets snugly round me, i found i could look out of the port-hole at my elbow, and, without raising my head from the pillow, could see the lights of penzance swinging gently up and down with the motion of the ship at anchor. it was like being rocked to sleep with a little show going on to amuse you. i was just deciding that i liked the life of the sea very much when i fell fast asleep. the fourth chapter our troubles continue he next morning when we were eating a very excellent breakfast of kidneys and bacon, prepared by our good cook bumpo, the doctor said to me, "i was just wondering, stubbins, whether i should stop at the capa blanca islands or run right across for the coast of brazil. miranda said we could expect a spell of excellent weather now—for four and a half weeks at least." "well," i said, spooning out the sugar at the bottom of my cocoa-cup, "i should think it would be best to make straight across while we are sure of good weather. and besides the purple bird-of- paradise is going to keep a lookout for us, isn't she? she'll be wondering what's happened to us if we don't get there in about a month." "true, quite true, stubbins. on the other hand, the capa blancas make a very convenient stopping place on our way across. if we should need sup- plies or repairs it would be very handy to put in there." "how long will it take us from here to the capa blancas ?" i asked. "about six days," said the doctor—"well, we the voyages of doctor dolittle than any of us, and really knew a lot about running ships, seemed to be always awake—except when she took her couple of winks in the sun, standing on one leg beside the wheel. you may be sure that no one ever got a chance to stay abed more than his eight hours while polynesia was around. she used to watch the ship's clock; and if you over- slept a half-minute, she would come down to the cabin and peck you gently on the nose till you got up. i very soon grew to be quite fond of our funny black friend bumpo, with his grand way of speak- ing and his enormous feet which some one was al- ways stepping on or falling over. although he was much older than i was and had been to college, he never tried to lord it over me. he seemed to be forever smiling and kept all of us in good humor. it wasn't long before i began to see the doctor's good sense in bringing him—in spite of the fact that he knew nothing whatever about sail. ing or travel. on the morning of the fifth day out, just as i was taking the wheel over from the doctor, bumpo appeared and said, "the salt beef is nearly all gone, sir." "the salt beef !" cried the doctor. "why, we brought a hundred and twenty pounds with us. we couldn't have eaten that in five days. what can have become of it?" aros s s rencias r wondo dar ostor t eenused bes “in these lower levels we came upon the shadowy shapes of dead ships” Раде збо our troubles continue "i don't know, sir, i'm sure. every time i go down to the stores i find another hunk missing. if it is rats that are eating it, then they are certainly colossal rodents." polynesia who was walking up and down a stay- rope taking her morning exercise, put in, "we must search the hold. if this is allowed to go on we will all be starving before a week is out. come downstairs with me, tommy, and we will look into this matter." so we went downstairs into the store-room and polynesia told us to keep quite still and listen. this we did. and presently we heard from a dark corner of the hold the distinct sound of someone snoring. "ah, i thought so," said polynesia. "it's a man —and a big one. climb in there, both of you, and haul him out. it sounds as though he were behind that barrel—gosh! we seem to have brought half of puddleby with us. anyone would think we were a penny ferry-boat. such cheek! haul him out." so bumpo and i lit a lantern and climbed over the stores. and there, behind the barrel, sure enough, we found an enormous bearded man fast asleep with a well-fed look on his face. we woke him up. "washamarrer?" he said sleepily. it was ben butcher, the able seaman. the voyages of doctor dolittle _ polynesia spluttered like an angry fire-cracker. "this is the last straw," said she. "the one man in the world we least wanted. shiver my timbers, what cheek!" "would it not be advisable," suggested bumpo, "while the varlet is still sleepy, to strike him on the head with some heavy object and push him through a port-hole into the sea ?" "no. we'd get into trouble," said polynesia. "we're not in jolliginki now, you know—worse luck !—besides, there never was a port-hole big enough to push that man through. bring him up- stairs to the doctor." so we led the man to the wheel where he respect- fully touched his cap to the doctor. "another stowaway, sir," said bumpo smartly. i thought the poor doctor would have a fit. "good morning, captain," said the man. "ben butcher, able seaman, at your service. i knew you'd need me, so i took the liberty of stowing away—much against my conscience. but i just couldn't bear to see you poor landsmen set out on this voyage without a single real seaman to help you. you'd never have got home alive if i hadn't come—why look at your mainsail, sir—all loose at the throat. first gust of wind come along, and away goes your canvas overboard—well, it's all right now i'm here. we'll soon get things in shipshape." our troubles continue “no, it isn't all right," said the doctor, "it's all wrong. and i'm not at all glad to see you. i told you in puddleby i didn't want you. you had no right to come." "but captain," said the able seaman, "you can't sail this ship without me. you don't understand navigation. why, look at the compass now: you've let her swing a point and a half off her course. it's madness for you to try to do this trip alone—if you'll pardon my saying so, sir. why—why, you'll lose the ship!”. "look here," said the doctor, a sudden stern look coming into his eyes, "losing a ship is noth- ing to me. i've lost ships before and it doesn't bother me in the least. when i set out to go to a place, i get there. do you understand? i may know nothing whatever about sailing and naviga- tion, but i get there just the same. now you may be the best seaman in the world, but on this ship you're just a plain ordinary nuisance—very plain and very ordinary. and i am now going to call at the nearest port and put you ashore." "yes, and think yourself lucky," polynesia put in, "that you are not locked up for stowing away and eating all our salt beef." "i don't know what the mischief we're going to do now," i heard her whisper to bumpo. "we've no money to buy any more; and that salt beef was the most important part of the stores." the voyages of doctor dolittle “would it not be good political economy," bumpo whispered back, "if we salted the able sea- man and ate him instead? i should judge that he would weigh more than a hundred and twenty pounds." "how often must i tell you that we are not in jolliginki," snapped polynesia. "those things are not done on white men's ships—still," she mur- mured after a moment's thought, "it's an awfully bright idea. i don't suppose anybody saw him come on to the ship—oh, but heavens! we haven't got enough salt. besides, he'd be sure to taste of tobacco." the fifth chapter polynesia has a plan then the doctor told me to take the wheel while he made a little calculation with his map and worked out what new course we should take. "i shall have to run for the capa blancas after all," he told me when the seaman's back was turned. "dreadful nuisance! but i'd sooner swim back to puddleby than have to listen to that fellow's talk all the way to brazil." indeed he was a terrible person, this ben butcher. you'd think that any one after being told he wasn't wanted would have had the decency to keep quiet. but not ben butcher. he kept going round the deck pointing out all the things we had wrong. ac- cording to him there wasn't a thing right on the whole ship. the anchor was hitched up wrong; the hatches weren't fastened down properly; the sails were put on back to front; all our knots were the wrong kind of knots. at last the doctor told him to stop talking and go downstairs. he refused—said he wasn't going the voyages of doctor dolittle to be sunk by landlubbers while he was still able to stay on deck. this made us feel a little uneasy. he was such an enormous man there was no knowing what he might do if he got really obstreperous. bumpo and i were talking about this downstairs in the dining-saloon when polynesia, jip and chee- chee came and joined us. and, as usual, polynesia had a plan. "listen," she said, "i am certain this ben butcher is a smuggler and a bad man. i am a very good judge of seamen, remember, and i don't like the cut of this man's jib. i—" "do you really think," i interrupted, "that it is safe for the doctor to cross the atlantic without any regular seamen on his ship?" you see it had upset me quite a good deal to find that all the things we had been doing were wrong; and i was beginning to wonder what might happen if we ran into a storm—particularly as miranda had only said the weather would be good for a certain time; and we seemed to be having so many delays. but polynesia merely tossed her head scornfully. "oh, bless you, my boy," said she, "you're always safe with john dolittle. remember that. don't take any notice of that stupid old salt. of course it is perfectly true the doctor does do every- thing wrong. but with him it doesn't matter. polynesia has a plan mark my words, if you travel with john dolittle you always get there, as you heard him say. i've been with him lots of times and i know. some- times the ship is upside down when you get there, and sometimes it's right way up. but you get there just the same. and then of course there's another thing about the doctor," she added thoughtfully: "he always has extraordinary good luck. he may have his troubles; but with him things seem to have a habit of turning out all right in the end. i remember once when we were going through the straits of magellan the wind was so strong—" "but what are we going to do about ben butcher?" jip put in. "you had some plan polynesia, hadn't you ?”. "yes. what i'm afraid of is that he may hit the doctor on the head when he's not looking and make himself captain of the curlew. bad sailors do that sometimes. then they run the ship their own way and take it where they want. that's what you call a mutiny." "yes," said jip, "and we ought to do something pretty quick. we can't reach the capa blancas before the day after to-morrow at best. i don't like to leave the doctor alone with him for a min- ute. he smells like a very bad man to me." "well, i've got it all worked out," said poly- nesia. "listen: is there a key in that door?” the voyages of doctor dolittle we looked outside the dining-room and found that there was. "all right," said polynesia. "now bumpo lays the table for lunch and we all go and hide. then at twelve o'clock bumpo rings the dinner-bell down here. as soon as ben hears it he'll come down expecting more salt beef. bumpo must hide be- hind the door outside. the moment that ben is seated at the dining-table bumpo slams the door and locks it. then we've got him. see?" "how stratagenious!" bumpo chuckled. "as cicero said, parrots cum parishioners facilime con- gregation. i'll lay the table at once." "yes and take that worcestershire sauce off the dresser with you when you go out," said polynesia. "don't leave any loose eatables around. that fellow has had enough to last any man for three days. besides, he won't be so inclined to start a fight when we put him ashore at the capa blancas if we thin him down a bit before we let him out." so we all went and hid ourselves in the passage where we could watch what happened. and pres- ently bumpo came to the foot of the stairs and rang the dinner-bell like mad. then he hopped behind the dining-room door and we all kept still and listened. almost immediately, thump, thump, thump, down the stairs tramped ben butcher, the able seaman. he walked into the dining-saloon, sat himself down polynesia has a plan at the head of the table in the doctor's place, tucked a napkin under his fat chin and heaved a sigh of expectation. then, bang! bumpo slammed the door and locked it. "that settles him for a while," said polynesia coming out from her hiding-place. "now let him teach navigation to the side-board. gosh, the cheek of the man! i've forgotten more about the sea than that lumbering lout will ever know. let's go upstairs and tell the doctor. bumpo, you will have to serve the meals in the cabin for the next couple of days." and bursting into a rollicking norwegian sea- song, she climbed up to my shoulder and we went on deck. the sixth chapter the bed-maker of monteverde e remained three days in the capa blanca islands. there were two reasons why we stayed there so long when we were really in such a hurry to get away. one was the shortage in our provisions caused by the able sea- man's enormous appetite. when we came to go over the stores and make a list, we found that he had eaten a whole lot of other things besides the beef. and having no money, we were sorely puz- zled how to buy more. the doctor went through his trunk to see if there was anything he could sell. but the only thing he could find was an old watch with the hands broken and the back dented in; and we decided this would not bring us in enough money to buy much more than a pound of tea. bumpo suggested that he sing comic songs in the streets which he had learned in jolliginki. but the doctor said he did not think that the islanders would care for african music. the other thing that kept us was the bullfight. in these islands, which belonged to spain, they had bullfights every sunday. it was on a friday that the bed-maker of monteverde we arrived there; and after we had got rid of the able seaman we took a walk through the town. it was a very funny little town, quite different from any that i had ever seen. the streets were all twisty and winding and so narrow that a wagon could only just pass along them. the houses over- hung at the top and came so close together that people in the attics could lean out of the windows and shake hands with their neighbors on the opposite side of the street. the doctor told us the town was very, very old. it was called monte- verde. as we had no money of course we did not go to a hotel or anything like that. but on the second evening when we were passing by a bed-maker's shop we noticed several beds, which the man had made, standing on the pavement outside. the doctor started chatting in spanish to the bed-maker who was sitting at his door whistling to a parrot in a cage. the doctor and the bed-maker got very friendly talking about birds and things. and as it grew near to supper-time the man asked us to stop and sup with him. this of course we were very glad to do. and after the meal was over (very nice dishes they were, mostly cooked in olive-oil—i particularly liked the fried bananas) we sat outside on the pave- ment again and went on talking far into the night. the voyages of doctor dolittle at last when we got up to go back to our ship, this very nice shopkeeper wouldn't hear of our going away on any account. he said the streets down by the harbor were very badly lighted and there was no moon. we would surely get lost. he invited us to spend the night with him and go back to our ship in the morning. well, we finally agreed; and as our good friend had no spare bedrooms, the three of us, the doctor, bumpo and i, slept on the beds set out for sale on the pavement before the shop. the night was so hot we needed no coverings. it was great fun to fall asleep out of doors like this, watching the peo- ple walking to and fro and the gay life of the streets. it seemed to me that spanish people never went to bed at all. late as it was, all the little restaurants and cafes around us were wide open, with customers drinking coffee and chatting merrily at the small tables outside. the sound of a guitar strumming softly in the distance mingled with the clatter of chinaware and the babble of voices. somehow it made me think of my mother and father far away in puddleby, with their regular habits, the evening practise on the flute and the rest —doing the same thing every day. i felt sort of sorry for them in a way, because they missed the fun of this traveling life, where we were doing something new all the time--even sleeping dif- fihatkeveol hata “the doctor started chatting in spanish to the bed-maker" the seventh chapter the doctor's wager ext morning we were awakened by a great racket. there was a procession coming down the street, a number of men in very gay clothes followed by a large crowd of admiring ladies and cheering chil- dren. i asked the doctor who they were. "they are the bullfighters," he said. "there is to be a bullfight to-morrow." "what is a bullfight?" i asked. to my great surprise the doctor got red in the face with anger. it reminded me of the time when he had spoken of the lions and tigers in his private zoo. "a bullfight is a stupid, cruel, disgusting busi- ness," said he. "these spanish people are most lovable and hospitable folk. how they can enjoy these wretched bullfights is a thing i could never understand." then the doctor went on to explain to me how a bull was first made very angry by teasing and then allowed to run into a circus where men came out with red cloaks, waved them at him, and ran away. next the bull was allowed to tire himself out by the voyages of doctor dolittle tossing and killing a lot of poor, old, broken-down horses who couldn't defend themselves. then, when the bull was thoroughly out of breath and wearied by this, a man came out with a sword and killed the bull. "every sunday," said the doctor," in almost every big town in spain there are six bulls killed like that and as many horses." "but aren't the men ever killed by the bull ?" i asked. "unfortunately very seldom," said he. "a bull is not nearly as dangerous as he looks, even when he's angry, if you are only quick on your feet and don't lose your head. these bullfighters are very clever and nimble. and the people, especially the spanish ladies, think no end of them. a famous bullfighter (or matador, as they call them) is a more important man in spain than a king—here comes another crowd of them round the corner, look. see the girls throwing kisses to them. ridiculous business !" at that moment our friend the bed-maker came out to see the procession go past. and while he was wishing us good morning and enquiring how we had slept, a friend of his walked up and joined us. the bed-maker introduced this friend to us as don enrique cardenas. don enrique when he heard where we were from, spoke to us in english. he appeared a mor the doctor's wager to be a well-educated, gentlemanly sort of person. "and you go to see the bullfight to-morrow, yes ?" he asked the doctor pleasantly. "certainly not," said john dolittle firmly. "i don't like bullfights—cruel, cowardly shows." don enrique nearly exploded. i never saw a man get so excited. he told the doctor that he didn't know what he was talking about. he said bullfighting was a noble sport and that the mata- dors were the bravest men in the world. "oh, rubbish !" said the doctor. "you never give the poor bull a chance. it is only when he is all tired and dazed that your precious matadors dare to try and kill him." i thought the spaniard was going to strike the doctor he got so angry. while he was still splut- tering to find words, the bed-maker came between them and took the doctor aside. he explained to john dolittle in a whisper that this don enrique cardenas was a very important person; that he it was who supplied the bulls—a special, strong black kind—from his own farm for all the bullfights in the capa blancas. he was a very rich man, the bed- maker said, a most important personage. he mustn't be allowed to take offense on any account. i watched the doctor's face as the bed-maker finished, and i saw a flash of boyish mischief come into his eyes as though an idea had struck him. he turned to the angry spaniard. the voyages of doctor dolittle “don enrique," he said, "you tell me your bullfighters are very brave men and skilful. it seems i have offended you by saying that bullfight- ing is a poor sport. what is the name of the best matador you have for tomorrow's show?" "pepito de malaga," said don enrique, "one of the greatest names, one of the bravest men, in all spain." "very well," said the doctor, "i have a pro- posal to make to you. i have never fought a bull in my life. now supposing i were to go into the ring tomorrow with pepito de malaga and any other matadors you choose; and if i can do more tricks with a bull than they can, would you promise to do something for me?”. don enrique threw back his head and laughed. "man," he said, "you must be mad! you would be killed at once. one has to be trained for years to become a proper bullfighter." "supposing i were willing to take the risk of that—you are not afraid, i take it, to accept my offer?" the spaniard frowned. "afraid !" he cried, "sir, if you can beat pepito de malaga in the bull-ring i'll promise you anything it is possible for me to grant." "very good," said the doctor, "now i under- stand that you are quite a powerful man in these islands. if you wished to stop all bullfighting here the doctor's wager after to-morrow, you could do it, couldn't you?" "yes," said don enrique proudly—"i could." "well that is what i ask of you—if i win my wager," said john dolittle. "if i can do more with angry bulls than can pepito de malaga, you are to promise me that there shall never be another bullfight in the capa blancas so long as you are alive to stop it. is it a bargain ?" the spaniard held out his hand. "it is a bargain," he said—"i promise. but i must warn you that you are merely throwing your life away, for you will certainly be killed. how- ever, that is no more than you deserve for saying that bullfighting is an unworthy sport. i will meet you here to-morrow morning if you should wish to arrange any particulars. good day, sir." as the spaniard turned and walked into the shop with the bed-maker, polynesia, who had been listen- ing as usual, flew up on to my shoulder and whis- pered in my ear, "i have a plan. get hold of bumpo and come some place where the doctor can't hear us. i want to talk to you." . i. i nudged bumpo's elbow and we crossed the street and pretended to look into a jeweler's win. dow; while the doctor sat down upon his bed to lace up his boots, the only part of his clothing he had taken off for the night. "listen," said polynesia, "i've been breaking the voyages of doctor dolittle my head trying to think up some way we can get money to buy those stores with; and at last i've got it." "the money?" said bumpo. "no, stupid. the idea—to make the money with. listen: the doctor is simply bound to win this game to-morrow, sure as you're alive. now all we have to do is to make a side bet with these spaniards—they're great on gambling—and the trick's done." "what's a side bet?" i asked. "oh i know what that is," said bumpo proudly. "we used to have lots of them at oxford when boat-racing was on. i go to don enrique and say, 'i bet you a hundred pounds the doctor wins.' then if he does win, don enrique pays me a hun- dred pounds; and if he doesn't, i have to pay don enrique." "that's the idea," said polynesia. "only don't say a hundred pounds: say two-thousand five-hun- dred pesetas. now come and find old don ricky- ticky and try to look rich." so we crossed the street again and slipped into the bed-maker's shop while the doctor was still busy with his boots. "don enrique," said bumpo, "allow me to in- troduce myself. i am the crown prince of jolli- ginki. would you care to have a small bet with me on to-morrow's bullfight?” the doctor's wager don enrique bowed. "why certainly," he said, "i shall be delighted. but i must warn you that you are bound to lose. how much ?" "oh a mere truffle," said bumpo—"just for the fun of the thing, you know. what do you say to three-thousand pesetas?" "i agree," said the spaniard bowing once more. "i will meet you after the bullfight to-morrow." "so that's all right," said polynesia as we came out to join the doctor. "i feel as though quite a load had been taken off my mind." the eighth chapter the great bullfight he next day was a great day in monte- verde. all the streets were hung with flags; and everywhere gaily dressed crowds were to be seen flocking towards the bull-ring, as the big circus was called where the fights took place. the news of the doctor's challenge had gone round the town and, it seemed, had caused much amusement to the islanders. the very idea of a mere foreigner daring to match himself against the great pepito de malaga !—serve him right if he got killed! the doctor had borrowed a bullfighter's suit from don enrique; and very gay and wonderful he looked in it, though bumpo and i had hard work getting the waistcoat to close in front and even then the buttons kept bursting off it in all directions. when we set out from the harbor to walk to the bull-ring, crowds of small boys ran after us making fun of the doctor's fatness, calling out, "juan hagapoco, el grueso matador!" which is the spanish for, "john dolittle, the fat bullfighter." as soon as we arrived the doctor said he would the great bullfight like to take a look at the bulls before the fight be- gan; and we were at once led to the bull pen where, behind a high railing, six enormous black bulls were tramping around wildly. in a few hurried words and signs the doctor told the bulls what he was going to do and gave them careful instructions for their part of the show. the poor creatures were tremendously glad when they heard that there was a chance of bullfighting being stopped; and they promised to do exactly as they were told. of course the man who took us in there didn't understand what we were doing. he merely thought the fat englishman was crazy when he saw the doctor making signs and talking in ox tongue. from there the doctor went to the matadors' dressing-rooms while bumpo and i with polynesia made our way into the bull-ring and took our seats in the great open-air theatre. it was a very gay sight. thousands of ladies and gentlemen were there, all dressed in their smartest clothes; and everybody seemed very happy and cheerful. right at the beginning don enrique got up and explained to the people that the first item on the program was to be a match between the english doctor and pepito de malaga. he told them what he had promised if the doctor should win. but the people did not seem to think there was much the voyages of doctor dolittle chance of that. a roar of laughter went up at the very mention of such a thing. when pepito came into the ring everybody cheered, the ladies blew kisses and the men clapped and waved their hats. presently a large door on the other side of the ring was rolled back and in galloped one of the bulls; then the door was closed again. at once the matador became very much on the alert. he waved his red cloak and the bull rushed at him. pepito stepped nimbly aside and the people cheered again. this game was repeated several times. but i noticed that whenever pepito got into a tight place and seemed to be in real danger from the bull, an assistant of his, who always hung around some- where near, drew the bull's attention upon himself by waving another red cloak. then the bull would chase the assistant and pepito was left in safety. most often, as soon as he had drawn the bull off, this assistant ran for the high fence and vaulted out of the ring to save himself. they evidently had it all arranged, these matadors; and it didn't seem to me that they were in any very great danger from the poor clumsy bull so long as they didn't slip and fall. after about ten minutes of this kind of thing the small door into the matadors' dressing-room opened and the doctor strolled into the ring. as the great bullfight soon as his fat figure, dressed in sky-blue velvet, appeared, the crowd rocked in their seats with laughter. juan hagapoco, as they had called him, walked out into the centre of the ring and bowed ceremo- niously to the ladies in the boxes. then he bowed to the bull. then he bowed to pepito. while he was bowing to pepito's assistant the bull started to rush at him from behind. "look out! look out!—the bull! you will be killed !" yelled the crowd. but the doctor calmly finished his bow. then turning round he folded his arms, fixed the on-rush- ing bull with his eye and frowned a terrible frown. presently a curious thing happened: the bull's speed got slower and slower. it almost looked as though he were afraid of that frown. soon he stopped altogether. the doctor shook his finger at him. he began to tremble. at last, tucking his tail between his legs, the bull turned round and ran away. the crowd gasped. the doctor ran after him. round and round the ring they went, both of them puffing and blowing like grampuses. excited whis- pers began to break out among the people. this was something new in bullfighting, to have the bull running away from the man, instead of the man away from the bull. at last in the tenth lap, with a final burst of speed, juan hagapoco, the voyages of doctor dolittle the english matador, caught the poor bull by the tail. then leading the now timid creature into the middle of the ring, the doctor made him do all manner of tricks: standing on the hind legs, stand- ing on the front legs, dancing, hopping, rolling over. he finished up by making the bull kneel down; then he got on to his back and did hand- springs and other acrobatics on the beast's horns. pepito and his assistant had their noses sadly out of joint. the crowd had forgotten them entirely. they were standing together by the fence not far from where i sat, muttering to one another and slowly growing green with jealousy. finally the doctor turned towards don enrique's seat and bowing said in a loud voice, "this bull is no good any more. he's terrified and out of breath. take him away, please." "does the caballero wish for a fresh bull ?" asked don enrique. "no," said the doctor, "i want five fresh bulls. and i would like them all in the ring at once, please." at this a cry of horror burst from the people. they had been used to seeing matadors escaping from one bull at a time. but five!—that must mean certain death. pepito sprang forward and called to don en- rique not to allow it, saying it was against all the “did acrobatics on the beast's horns" the voyages of doctor dolittle rules of bullfighting ("ha!" polynesia chuckled into my ear. "it's like the doctor's navigation: he breaks all the rules; but he gets there. if they'll only let him, he'll give them the best show for their money they ever saw.") a great argument began. half the people seemed to be on pepito's side and half on the doctor's side. at last the doctor turned to pepito and made another very grand bow which burst the last button off his waistcoat. "well, of course if the caballero is afraid " he began with a bland smile. "afraid!" screamed pepito. "i am afraid of nothing on earth. i am the greatest matador in spain. with this right hand i have killed nine hundred and fifty-seven bulls." "all right then," said the doctor, "let us see if you can kill five more. let the bulls in !" he shouted. "pepito de malaga is not afraid." a dreadful silence hung over the great theatre as the heavy door into the bull pen was rolled back. then with a roar the five big bulls bounded into the ring. "look fierce," i heard the doctor call to them in cattle language. "don't scatter. keep close. get ready for a rush. take pepito, the one in purple, first. but for heaven's sake don't kill him. just chase him out of the ring—now then, all together, go for him!”. the bulls put down their heads and all in line, the great bullfight like a squadron of cavalry, charged across the ring straight for poor pepito. for one moment the spaniard tried his hardest to look brave. but the sight of the five pairs of horns coming at him at full gallop was too much. he turned white to the lips, ran for the fence, vaulted it and disappeared. "now the other one," the doctor hissed. and in two seconds the gallant assistant was nowhere to be seen. juan hagapoco, the fat matador, was left alone in the ring with five rampaging bulls. the rest of the show was really well worth see- ing. first, all five bulls went raging round the ring, butting at the fence with their horns, pawing up the sand, hunting for something to kill. then each one in turn would pretend to catch sight of the doctor for the first time and giving a bellow of rage, would lower his wicked looking horns and shoot like an arrow across the ring as though he meant to toss him to the sky. it was really frightfully exciting. and even i, who knew it was all arranged beforehand, held my breath in terror for the doctor's life when i saw how near they came to sticking him. but just at the last moment, when the horns' points were two inches from the sky-blue waistcoat, the doctor would spring nimbly to one side and the great brutes would go thundering harmlessly by, missing him by no more than a hair. the voyages of doctor dolittle then all five of them went for him together, com- pletely surrounding him, slashing at him with their horns and bellowing with fury. how he escaped alive i don't know. for several minutes his round figure could hardly be seen at all in that scrimmage of tossing heads, stamping hoofs and waving tails. it was, as polynesia had prophesied, the greatest bullfight ever seen. one woman in the crowd got quite hysterical and screamed up to don enrique, "stop the fight! stop the fight! he is too brave a man to be killed. this is the most wonder- ful matador in the world. let him live! stop the fight!" but presently the doctor was seen to break loose from the mob of animals that surrounded him. then catching each of them by the horns, one after another, he would give their heads a sudden twist and throw them down flat on the sand. the great fellows acted their parts extremely well. i have never seen trained animals in a circus do better. they lay there panting on the ground where the doctor threw them as if they were exhausted and completely beaten. then with a final bow to the ladies john dolittle took a cigar from his pocket, lit it and strolled out of the ring. the ninth chapter we depart in a hurry s soon as the door closed behind the doctor the most tremendous noise i have ever heard broke loose. some of the men appeared to be angry (friends of pepito's, i suppose); but the ladies called and called to have the doctor come back into the ring. when at length he did so, the women seemed to go entirely mad over him. they blew kisses to him. they called him a darling. then they started taking off their flowers, their rings, their necklaces, and their brooches and threw them down at his feet. you never saw anything like it—a per- fect shower of jewelry and roses. but the doctor just smiled up at them, bowed once more and backed out. "now, bumpo," said polynesia, "this is where you go down and gather up all those trinkets and we'll sell 'em. that's what the big matadors do: leave the jewelry on the ground and their assistants collect it for them. we might as well lay in a good supply of money while we've got the chance--you never know when you may need it when you're traveling with the doctor. never mind the roses the voyages of doctor dolittle -you can leave them—but don't leave any rings. and when you've finished go and get your three- thousand pesetas out of don ricky-ticky. tommy and i will meet you outside and we'll pawn the gew- gaws at that jew's shop opposite the bed-maker's. run along—and not a word to the doctor, remem- ber." outside the bull-ring we found the crowd still in a great state of excitement. violent arguments were going on everywhere. bumpo joined us with his pockets bulging in all directions; and we made our way slowly through the dense crowd to that side of the building where the matadors' dressing- room was. the doctor was waiting at the door for us. "good work, doctor !" said polynesia, flying on to his shoulder—"great work !—but listen: i smell danger. i think you had better get back to the ship now as quick and as quietly as you can. put your overcoat on over that giddy suit. i don't like the looks of this crowd. more than half of them are furious because you've won. don ricky- ticky must now stop the bullfighting—and you know how they love it. what i'm afraid of is that some of these matadors who are just mad with jealousy may start some dirty work. i think this would be a good time for us to get away." "i dare say you're right, polynesia," said the doctor—"you usually are. the crowd does seem we depart in a hurry to be a bit restless. i'll slip down to the ship alone so i shan't be so noticeable; and i'll wait for you there. you come by some different way. but don't be long about it. hurry!" as soon as the doctor had departed bumpo sought out don enrique and said, "honorable sir, you owe me three-thousand pesetas." without a word, but looking cross-eyed with an- noyance, don enrique paid his bet. we next set out to buy the provisions; and on the way we hired a cab and took it along with us. not very far away we found a big grocer's shop which seemed to sell everything to eat. we went in and bought up the finest lot of food you ever saw in your life. as a matter of fact, polynesia had been right about the danger we were in. the news of our vic- tory must have spread like lightning through the whole town. for as we came out of the shop and loaded the cab up with our stores, we saw various little knots of angry men hunting round the streets, waving sticks and shouting, "the englishmen! where are those accursed englishmen who stopped the bullfighting ?—hang them to a lamp-post !—throw them in the sea! the englishmen -we want the englishmen!”. after that we didn't waste any time, you may be sure. bumpo grabbed the spanish cab-driver and the voyages of doctor dolittle explained to him in signs that if he didn't drive down to the harbor as fast as he knew how and keep his mouth shut the whole way, he would choke the life out of him. then we jumped into the cab on top of the food, slammed the door, pulled down the blinds and away we went. "we won't get a chance to pawn the jewelry now," said polynesia, as we bumped over the cobbly streets. "but never mind—it may come in handy later on. and anyway we've got two-thousand five-hundred pesetas left out of the bet. don't give the cabby more than two pesetas fifty, bumpo. that's the right fare, i know." well, we reached the harbor all right and we were mighty glad to find that the doctor had sent chee-chee back with the row-boat to wait for us at the landing-wall. unfortunately while we were in the middle of loading the supplies from the cab into the boat, the angry mob arrived upon the wharf and made a rush for us. bumpo snatched up a big beam of wood that lay near and swung it round and round his head, letting out dreadful african battle-yells the while. this kept the crowd off while chee- chee and i hustled the last of the stores into the boat and clambered in ourselves. bumpo threw his beam of wood into the thick of the spaniards and leapt in after us. then we pushed off and rowed like mad for the curlew. we depart in a hurry the mob upon the wall howled with rage, shook their fists and hurled stones and all manner of things after us. poor old bumpo got hit on the head with a bottle. but as he had a very strong head it only raised a small bump while the bottle smashed into a thousand pieces. when we reached the ship's side the doctor had the anchor drawn up and the sails set and every- thing in readiness to get away. looking back we saw boats coming out from the harbor-wall after us, filled with angry, shouting men. so we didn't bother to unload our rowboat but just tied it on to the ship's stern with a rope and jumped aboard. it only took a moment more to swing the curlew round into the wind; and soon we were speeding out of the harbor on our way to brazil. "ha!" sighed polynesia, as we all flopped down on the deck to take a rest and get our breath. "that wasn't a bad adventure—quite reminds me of my old seafaring days when i sailed with the smugglers—golly, that was the life !—never mind your head, bumpo. it will be all right when the doctor puts a little arnica on it. think what we got out of the scrap: a boat-load of ship's stores, pockets full of jewelry and thousands of pesetas. not bad, you know—not bad." -ooo- part four the first chapter shellfish languages again iranda, the purple bird-of-paradise had prophesied rightly when she had foretold a good spell of weather. for three weeks the good ship curlew plowed her way through smiling seas before a steady powerful wind. i suppose most real sailors would have found this part of the voyage dull. but not i. as we got further south and further west the face of the sea seemed different every day. and all the little things of a voyage which an old hand would have hardly bothered to notice were matters of great interest for my eager eyes. we did not pass many ships. when we did see one, the doctor would get out his telescope and we would all take a look at it. sometimes he would signal to it, asking for news, by hauling up little colored flags upon the mast; and the ship would signal back to us in the same way. the meaning of all the signals was printed in a book which the doctor kept in the cabin. he told me it was the language of the sea and that all ships could under- shellfish languages again stand it whether they be english, dutch, or french. our greatest happening during those first weeks was passing an iceberg. when the sun shone on it it burst into a hundred colors, sparkling like a jeweled palace in a fairy-story. through the tele- scope we saw a mother polar bear with a cub sitting on it, watching us. the doctor recognized her as one of the bears who had spoken to him when he was discovering the north pole. so he sailed the ship up close and offered to take her and her baby on to the curlew if she wished it. but she only shook her head, thanking him; she said it would be far too hot for the cub on the deck of our ship, with no ice to keep his feet cool. it had been indeed a very hot day; but the nearness of that great mountain of ice made us all turn up our coat-collars and shiver with the cold. during those quiet peaceful days i improved my reading and writing a great deal with the doctor's help. i got on so well that he let me keep the ship's log. this is a big book kept on every ship, a kind of diary, in which the number of miles run, the direction of your course and everything else that happens is written down. the doctor too, in what spare time he had, was nearly always writing—in his note-books. i used to peep into these sometimes, now that i could read, but i found it hard work to make out the doctor's handwriting. many of these note-books seemed to the voyages of doctor dolittle be about sea things. there were six thick ones filled full with notes and sketches of different sea- weeds; and there were others on sea birds; others on sea worms; others on seashells. they were all some day to be re-written, printed and bound like regular books. one afternoon we saw, floating around us, great quantities of stuff that looked like dead grass. the doctor told me this was gulf-weed. a little further on it became so thick that it covered all the water as far as the eye could reach; it made the curlew look as though she were moving across a meadow instead of sailing the atlantic. crawling about upon this weed, many crabs were to be seen. and the sight of them reminded the doctor of his dream of learning the language of the shellfish. he fished several of these crabs up with a net and put them in his listening-tank to see if he could understand them. among the crabs he also caught a strange-looking, chubby, little fish which he told me was called a silver fidgit. after he had listened to the crabs for a while with no success, he put the fidgit into the tank and began to listen to that. i had to leave him at this moment to go and attend to some duties on the deck. but presently i heard him below shouting for me to come down again. "stubbins," he cried as soon as he saw me—"a most extraordinary thing—quite unbelievable- r- ir ond . toto bythitit " *** pintar leerlin v merde “he talks english!'". sa! vir "+ neutech mark indien oor l mike : the voyages of doctor dolittle i'm not sure whether i'm dreaming—can't believe my own senses. - - -". “why, doctor," i said, "what is it?—what's the matter?" "the fidgit," he whispered, pointing with a trem- bling finger to the listening-tank in which the little round fish was still swimming quietly, "he talks english! and—and—and he whistles tunes- english tunes !" "talks english !" i cried—"whistles !—why, it's impossible." "it's a fact," said the doctor, white in the face with excitement. "it's only a few words, scattered, with no particular sense to them—all mixed up with his own language which i can't make out yet. but they're english words, unless there's something very wrong with my hearing—and the tune he whistles, it's as plain as anything—always the same tune. now you listen and tell me what you make of it. tell me everything you hear. don't miss a word." i went to the glass tank upon the table while the doctor grabbed a note-book and a pencil. undoing my collar i stood upon the empty packing-case he had been using for a stand and put my right ear down under the water. . for some moments i detected nothing at all- except, with my dry ear, the heavy breathing of the doctor as he waited, all stiff and anxious, for me to say something. at last from within the water, shellfish languages again sounding like a child singing miles and miles away, i heard an unbelievably thin, small voice. "ah!" i said "what is it?" asked the doctor in a hoarse, trembly whisper. "what does he say?" "i can't quite make it out," i said. "it's mostly in some strange fish language—oh, but wait a minute !—yes, now i get it—no smoking'. ... 'my, here's a queer one!' 'popcorn and picture postcards here'. ... 'this way out. ... 'don't spit'—what funny things to say, doctor !—oh, but wait -now he's whistling the tune." "what tune is it?" gasped the doctor. "john peel." "ah hah," cried the doctor, "that's what i made it out to be." and he wrote furiously in his note-book. i went on listening. "this is most extraordinary," the doctor kept muttering to himself as his pencil went wiggling over the page—"most extraordinary—but fright- fully thrilling. i wonder where he—" "here's some more," i cried—"some more english. ... 'the big tank needs cleaning'. ... that's all. now he's talking fish-talk again." "the big tank !" the doctor murmured frowning in a puzzled kind of way. "i wonder where on earth he learned" then he bounded up out of his chair. the voyages of doctor dolittle “i have it," he yelled, "this fish has escaped from an aquarium. why, of course! look at the kind of things he has learned : 'picture postcards'- they always sell them in aquariums; 'dont spit'; 'no smoking'; 'this way out—the things the atten- dants say. and then, 'my, here's a queer one! that's the kind of thing that people exclaim when they look into the tanks. it all fits. there's no doubt about it, stubbins: we have here a fish who has escaped from captivity. and it's quite possible—not certain, by any means, but quite possible that i may now, through him, be able to establish communication with the shellfish. this is a great piece of luck." the second chapter the fidgit's story well, now that he was started once more upon his old hobby of the shell- fish languages, there was no stopping the doctor. he worked right through the night. a little after midnight i fell asleep in a chair; about two in the morning bumpo fell asleep at the wheel; and for five hours the curlew was allowed to drift where she liked. but still john dolittle worked on, trying his hardest to understand the fid- git's language, struggling to make the fidgit under- stand him. when i woke up it was broad daylight again. the doctor was still standing at the listening-tank, looking as tired as an owl and dreadfully wet. but on his face there was a proud and happy smile. "stubbins," he said as soon as he saw me stir, "i've done it. i've got the key to the fidgit's lan- guage. it's a frightfully difficult language—quite different from anything i ever heard. the only thing it reminds me of—slightly—is ancient hebrew. : it isn't shellfish; but it's a big step towards it. now, the next thing, i want you to take a pencil and a the voyages of doctor dolittle fresh notebook and write down everything i say. the fidgit has promised to tell me the story of his life. i will translate it into english and you put it down in the book. are you ready?" once more the doctor lowered his ear beneath the level of the water; and as he began to speak, i started to write. and this is the story that the fidgit told us. thirteen months in an aquarium "i was born in the pacific ocean, close to the coast of chile. i was one of a family of two-thousand five-hundred and ten. soon after our mother and father left us, we youngsters got scattered. the family was broken up—by a herd of whales who chased us. i and my sister, clippa (she was my favorite sister) had a very narrow escape for our lives. as a rule, whales are not very hard to get away from if you are good at dodging—if you've only got a quick swerve. but this one that came after clippa and myself was a very mean whale, every time he lost us under a stone or something he'd come back and hunt and hunt till he routed us out into the open again. i never saw such a nasty, persevering brute. "well, we shook him at last—though not before he had worried us for hundreds of miles northward, up the west coast of south america. but luck was the fidgit's story against us that day. while we were resting and trying to get our breath, another family of fidgits came rushing by, shouting, 'come on! swim for your lives! the dog-fish are coming ! "now dog-fish are particularly fond of fidgits. we are, you might say, their favorite food—and for that reason we always keep away from deep, muddy waters. what's more, dog-fish are not easy to escape from; they are terribly fast and clever hunters. so up we had to jump and on again. "after we had gone a few more hundred miles we looked back and saw that the dog-fish were gain- ing on us. so we turned into a harbor. it hap- pened to be one on the west coast of the united states. here we guessed, and hoped, the dog-fish would not be likely to follow us. as it happened, they didn't even see us turn in, but dashed on north- ward and we never saw them again. i hope they froze to death in the arctic seas. "but, as i said, luck was against us that day. while i and my sister were cruising gently round the ships anchored in the harbor looking for orange- peels, a great delicacy with us—swoop! bang! —we were caught in a net. "we struggled for all we were worth; but it was no use. the net was small-meshed and strongly made. kicking and flipping we were hauled up the side of the ship and dumped down on the deck, high and dry in a blazing noon-day sun. the voyages of doctor dolittle "here a couple of old men in whiskers and spectacles leant over us, making strange sounds. some codling had got caught in the net the same time as we were. these the old men threw back into the sea; but us they seemed to think very pre- cious. they put us carefully into a large jar and after they had taken us on shore they went to a big house and changed us from the jar into glass boxes full of water. this house was on the edge of the harbor; and a small stream of sea-water was made to flow through the glass tank so we could breathe properly. of course we had never lived inside glass walls before; and at first we kept on trying to swim through them and got our noses awfully sore bumping the glass at full speed. "then followed weeks and weeks of weary idle- ness. they treated us well, so far as they knew how. the old fellows in spectacles came and looked at us proudly twice a day and saw that we had the proper food to eat, the right amount of light and that the water was not too hot or too cold. but oh, the dullness of that life! it seemed we were a kind of a show. at a certain hour every morning the big doors of the house were thrown open and everybody in the city who had nothing special to do came in and looked at us. there were other tanks filled with different kinds of fishes all round the walls of the big room. and the crowds would go from tank to tank, looking in at us the fidgit's story through the glass—with their mouths open, like half-witted flounders. we got so sick of it that we used to open our mouths back at them; and this they seemed to think highly comical. "one day my sister said to me, think you, brother, that these strange creatures who have captured us can talk ?' “ 'surely,' said i, 'have you not noticed that some talk with the lips only, some with the whole face, and yet others discourse with the hands ? when they come quite close to the glass you can hear them. listen! "at that moment a female, larger than the rest, pressed her nose up against the glass, pointed at me and said to her young behind her, 'oh, look, here's a queer one!' "and then we noticed that they nearly always said this when they looked in. and for a long time we thought that such was the whole extent of the language, this being a people of but few ideas. to help pass away the weary hours we learned it by heart, 'oh, look, here's a queer one!' but we never got to know what it meant. other phrases, however, we did get the meaning of; and we even learned to read a little in man-talk. many big signs there were, set up upon the walls; and when we saw that the keepers stopped the people from spitting and smoking, pointed to these signs angrily and read them out loud, we knew then that these the voyages of doctor dolittle writings signified, no smoking and don't spit. "then in the evenings, after the crowd had gone, the same aged male with one leg of wood, swept up the peanut-shells with a broom every night. and while he was so doing he always whistled the same tune to himself. this melody we rather liked; and we learned that too by heart—thinking it was part of the language. "thus a whole year went by in this dismal place. some days new fishes were brought in to the other tanks; and other days old fishes were taken out. at first we had hoped we would only be kept here for a while, and that after we had been looked at sufficiently we would be returned to freedom and the sea. but as month after month went by, and we were left undisturbed, our hearts grew heavy within our prison-walls of glass and we spoke to one an- other less and less. "one day, when the crowd was thickest in the big room, a woman with a red face fainted from the heat. i watched through the glass and saw that the rest of the people got highly excited—though to me it did not seem to be a matter of very great importance. they threw cold water on her and carried her out into the open air. "this made me think mightily; and presently a great idea burst upon me. “ 'sister,' i said, turning to poor clippa who was sulking at the bottom of our prison trying to the voyages of doctor dolittle through the giant seaweed forests of the indian ocean, seeking the delicious eggs of the pop-pop! to play hide-and-seek among the castles of the coral towns with their pearl and jasper windows span- gling the floor of the spanish main! to picnic in the anemone-meadows, dim blue and lilac-gray, that lie in the lowlands beyond the south sea garden! to throw somersaults on the springy sponge-beds of the mexican gulf! · to poke about among the dead ships and see what wonders and adventures lie inside !—and then, on winter nights when the north- easter whips the water into froth, to swoop down and down to get away from the cold, down to where the water's warm and dark, down and still down, till we spy the twinkle of the fire-eels far below where our friends and cousins sit chatting round the coun- cil grotto—chatting, brother, over the news and gossip of the sea! ... oh- “and then she broke down completely, sniffing. “ 'stop it!' i said. 'you make me homesick. look here: let's pretend we're sick—or better still, let's pretend we're dead; and see what happens. if they throw us on a rubbish-heap and we fry in the sun, we'll not be much worse off than we are here in this smelly prison. what do you say? will you risk it?' “ 'i will,' she said—and gladly.' "so next morning two fidgits were found by the keeper floating on the top of the water in their the fidgit's story tank, stiff and dead. we gave a mighty good imitation of dead fish—although i say it myself. the keeper ran and got the old gentlemen with spectacles and whiskers. they threw up their hands in horror when they saw us. lifting us carefully out of the water they laid us on wet cloths. that was the hardest part of all. if you're a fish and get taken out of the water you have to keep opening and shutting your mouth to breathe at all—and even that you can't keep up for long. and all this time we had to stay stiff as sticks and breathe silently through half-closed lips. "well, the old fellows poked us and felt us and pinched us till i thought they'd never be done. then, when their backs were turned a moment, a wretched cat got up on the table and nearly ate us. luckily the old men turned round in time and shooed her away. you may be sure though that we took a couple of good gulps of air while they weren't looking; and that was the only thing that saved us from choking. i wanted to whisper to clippa to be brave and stick it out. but i couldn't even do that; because, as you know, most kinds of fish-talk can- not be heard—not even a shout—unless you're under water. "then, just as we were about to give it up and let on that we were alive, one of the old men shook his head sadly, lifted us up and carried us out of the building. the voyages of doctor dolittle “ 'now for it!' i thought to myself. 'we'll soon know our fate: liberty or the garbage-can. "outside, to our unspeakable horror, he made straight for a large ash-barrel which stood against the wall on the other side of a yard. most happily for us, however, while he was crossing this yard a very dirty man with a wagon and horses drove up and took the ash-barrel away. i suppose it was his property. "then the old man looked around for some other place to throw us. he seemed about to cast us upon the ground. but he evidently thought that this would make the yard untidy and he de- sisted. the suspense was terrible. he moved out- side the yard-gate and my heart sank once more as i saw that he now intended to throw us in the gutter of the roadway. but (fortune was indeed with us that day), a large man in blue clothes and silver buttons stopped him in the nick of time. evi- dently, from the way the large man lectured and waved a short thick stick, it was against the rules of the town to throw dead fish in the streets. "at last, to our unutterable joy, the old man turned and moved off with us towards the harbor. he walked so slowly, muttering to himself all the way and watching the man in blue out of the corner of his eye, that i wanted to bite his finger to make him hurry up. both clippa and i were actually at our last gasp. the fidgit's story "finally he reached the sea-wall and giving us one last sad look he dropped us into the waters of the harbor. "never had we realized anything like the thrill of that moment, as we felt the salt wetness close over our heads. with one flick of our tails we came to life again. the old man was so surprised that he fell right into the water, almost on top of us. from this he was rescued by a sailor with a boat-hook; and the last we saw of him, the man in blue was dragging him away by the coat-collar, lecturing him again. apparently it was also against the rules of the town to throw dead fish into the harbor. "but we?—what time or thought had we for his troubles? we were free! in lightning leaps, in curving spurts, in crazy zig-zags—whooping, shrieking with delight, we sped for home and the open sea! "that is all of my story and i will now, as i promised last night, try to answer any questions you may ask about the sea, on condition that i am set at liberty as soon as you have done." the doctor: is there any part of the sea deeper than that known as the nero deep—i mean the one near the island of guam ?" the fidgit: "why, certainly. there's one much deeper than that near the mouth of the amazon the voyages of doctor dolittle river. but it's small and hard to find. we call it 'the deep hole.' and there's another in the antarctic sea." the doctor: "can you talk any shellfish language yourself?" the fidgit: "no, not a word. we regular fishes. don't have anything to do with the shellfish. we consider them a low class." the doctor: "but when you're near them, can you hear the sound they make talking—i mean without necessarily understanding what they say?" the fidgit: "only with the very largest ones. shellfish have such weak small voices it is almost impossible for any but their own kind to hear them. but with the bigger ones it is different. they make a sad, booming noise, rather like an iron pipe being knocked with a stone—only not nearly so loud of course." the doctor: "i am most anxious to get down to the bottom of the sea—to study many things. but we land animals, as you no doubt know, are unable to breathe under water. have you any ideas that might help me?”. the fidgit: "i think that for both your difficulties the best thing for you to do would be to try and get hold of the great glass sea snail." the doctor: "er—who, or what, is the great glass sea snail ?" the fidgit: "he is an enormous salt-water snail, the voyages of doctor dolittle animals and all that. they say he is over seventy thousand years old." the doctor: "good gracious, what wonderful things he could tell me! i do wish i could meet him." the fidgit: "were there any more questions you wished to ask me? this water in your tank is getting quite warm and sickly. i'd like to be put back into the sea as soon as you can spare me." the doctor: "just one more thing: when chris- topher columbus crossed the atlantic in , he threw overboard two copies of his diary sealed up in barrels. one of them was never found. it must have sunk. i would like to get it for my library. do you happen to know where is is ?" the fidgit: "yes, i do. that too is in the deep hole. when the barrel sank the currents drifted it northwards down what we call the orinoco slope, till it finally disappeared into the deep hole. if it was any other part of the sea i'd try and get it for you; but not there." the doctor: "well, that is all, i think. i hate to put you back into the sea, because i know that as soon as i do, i'll think of a hundred other ques- tions i wanted to ask you. but i must keep my promise. would you care for anything before you go?—it seems a cold day—some cracker- crumbs or something?" the fidgit's story the fidgit: "no, i won't stop. all i want just at present is fresh sea-water." the doctor: "i cannot thank you enough for all the information you have given me. you have been very helpful and patient." the fidgit: "pray do not mention it. it has been a real pleasure to be of assistance to the great john dolittle. you are, as of course you know, already quite famous among the better class of fishes. goodbye and good luck to you, to your ship and to all your plans !". the doctor carried the listening-tank to a port- hole, opened it and emptied the tank into the sea. "good-bye!" he murmured as a faint splash reached us from without. i dropped my pencil on the table and leaned back with a sigh. my fingers were so stiff with writers' cramp that i felt as though i should never be able to open my hand again. but i, at least, had had a night's sleep. as for the poor doctor, he was so weary that he had hardly put the tank back upon the table and dropped into a chair, when his eyes closed and he began to snore. in the passage outside polynesia scratched angrily at the door. i rose and let her in. "a nice state of affairs !" she stormed. "what sort of a ship is this? there's that colored man upstairs asleep under the wheel; the doctor asleep the voyages of doctor dolittle down here; and you making pot-hooks in a copy- book with a pencil! expect the ship to steer her- self to brazil? we're just drifting around the sea like an empty bottle—and a week behind time as it is. what's happened to you all ?" she was so angry that her voice rose to a scream. but it would have taken more than that to wake the doctor. i put the note-book carefully in a drawer and went on deck to take the wheel. the third chapter bad weather s soon as i had the curlew swung round upon her course again i noticed some- thing peculiar: we were not going as fast as we had been. our favorable wind had almost entirely disappeared. this, at first, we did not worry about, thinking that at any moment it might spring up again. but the whole day went by; then two days; then a week, —ten days, and the wind grew no stronger. the curlew just dawdled along at the speed of a toddling babe. i now saw that the doctor was becoming uneasy. he kept getting out his sextant (an instrument which tells you what part of the ocean you are in) and making calculations. he was forever looking at his maps and measuring distances on them. the far edge of the sea, all around us, he examined with his telescope a hundred times a day. "but doctor," i said when i found him one afternoon mumbling to himself about the misty appearance of the sky, "it wouldn't matter so much, would it, if we did take a little longer over the trip? we've got plenty to eat on board now; the voyages of doctor dolittle and the purple bird-of-paradise will know that we have been delayed by something that we couldn't help." "yes, i suppose so," he said thoughtfully. "but i hate to keep her waiting. at this season of the year she generally goes to the peruvian mountains —for her health. and besides, the good weather she prophesied is likely to end any day now and delay us still further. if we could only keep moving at even a fair speed, i wouldn't mind. it's this hanging around, almost dead still, that gets me restless—ah, here comes a wind—not very strong —but maybe it'll grow." a gentle breeze from the northeast came singing through the ropes; and we smiled up hopefully at the curlew's leaning masts. "we've only got another hundred and fifty miles to make, to sight the coast of brazil," said the doc- tor. "if that wind would just stay with us, steady, for a full day we'd see land." but suddenly the wind changed, swung to the east, then back to the northeast—then to the north. it came in fitful gusts, as though it hadn't made up its mind which way to blow; and i was kept busy at the wheel, swinging the curlew this way and that to keep the right side of it. presently we heard polynesia, who was in the rigging keeping a look-out for land or passing ships, screech down to us, was _ bad weather "bad weather coming. that jumpy wind is an ugly sign. and look l-over there in the east—see that black line, low down?. if that isn't a storm i'm a land-lubber. the gales round here are fierce, when they do blow—tear your canvas out like paper. you take the wheel, doctor: it'll need a strong arm if it's a real storm. i'll go wake bumpo and chee-chee. this looks bad to me. we'd best get all the sail down right away, till we see how strong she's going to blow." indeed the whole sky was now beginning to take on a very threatening look. the black line to the eastward grew blacker as it came nearer and nearer. a low, rumbly, whispering noise went moaning over the sea. the water which had been so blue and smil. ing turned to a ruffled ugly gray. and across the darkening sky, shreds of cloud swept like tattered witches flying from the storm. i must confess i was frightened. you see i had only so far seen the sea in friendly moods: some- times quiet and lazy; sometimes laughing, venture- some and reckless; sometimes brooding and poetic, when moonbeams turned her ripples into silver threads and dreaming snowy night-clouds piled up fairy-castles in the sky. but as yet i had not known, or even guessed at, the terrible strength of the sea's wild anger. when that storm finally struck us we leaned right over flatly on our side, as though some in- the voyages of doctor dolittle visible giant had slapped the poor curlew on the cheek. after that things happened so thick and so fast that what with the wind that stopped your breath, the driving, blinding water, the deafening noise and the rest, i haven't a very clear idea of how our shipwreck came about. i remember seeing the sails, which we were now trying to roll up upon the deck, torn out of our hands by the wind and go overboard like a penny balloon—very nearly carrying chee-chee with them. and i have a dim recollection of polynesia screech- ing somewhere for one of us to go downstairs and close the port-holes. in spite of our masts being bare of sail we were now scudding along to the southward at a great pace. but every once in a while huge gray-black waves would arise from under the ship's side like nightmare monsters, swell and climb, then crash down upon us, pressing us into the sea; and the poor curlew would come to a standstill, half under water, like a gasping, drowning pig. while i was clambering along towards the wheel to see the doctor, clinging like a leech with hands and legs to the rails lest i be blown overboard, one of these tremendous seas tore loose my hold, filled my throat with water and swept me like a cork the full length of the deck. my head struck a door with an awful bang. and then i fainted. the fourth chapter wrecked! hen i awoke i was very hazy in my head. the sky was blue and the sea was calm. at first i thought that i must have fallen asleep in the sun on the deck of the curlew. and thinking that i would be late for my turn at the wheel, i tried to rise to my feet. i found i couldn't; my arms were tied to something behind me with a piece of rope. by twisting my neck around i found this to be a mast, broken off short. then i realized that i wasn't sitting on a ship at all; i was only sitting on a piece of one. i began to feel uncomfortably scared. screwing up my eyes, i searched the rim of the sea north, east, south and west: no land: no ships; nothing was in sight. i was alone in the ocean! at last, little by little, my bruised head began to remember what had happened: first, the coming of the storm; the sails going overboard; then the big wave which had banged me against the door. but what had become of the doctor and the others ? what day was this, to-morrow or the day after ?- and why was i sitting on only part of a ship? "i was alone in the ocean!" the voyages of doctor dolittle do anything she liked, it seemed; and his only an- swer was a lazy, saucy flip of the wing! he was the one who should be called the able seaman. for, come raging gale, come sunlit calm, this wilderness of water was his home. after swooping over the sea around me (just looking for food, i supposed) he went off in the direction from which he had come. and i was alone once more. i found i was somewhat hungry—and a little thirsty too. i began to think all sorts of miserable thoughts, the way one does when he is lonesome and has missed breakfast. what was going to become of me now, if the doctor and the rest were drowned? i would starve to death or die of thirst. then the sun went behind some clouds and i felt cold. how many hundreds or thousands of miles was i from any land ? what if another storm should come and smash up even this poor raft on which i stood ? i went on like this for a while, growing gloomier and gloomier, when suddenly i thought of poly- nesia. "you're always safe with the doctor," she had said. "he gets there. remember that." i'm sure i wouldn't have minded so much if he had been here with me. it was this being all alone that made me want to weep. and yet the petrel was alone !—what a baby i was, i told myself, to be scared to the verge of tears just by loneliness! wrecked! i was quite safe where i was—for the present any- how. john dolittle wouldn't get scared by a little thing like this. he only got excited when he made a discovery, found a new bug or something. and if what polynesia had said was true, he couldn't be drowned and things would come out all right in the end somehow. i threw out my chest, buttoned up my collar and began walking up and down the short raft to keep warm. i would be like john dolittle. i wouldn't cry—and i wouldn't get excited. how long i paced back and forth i don't know. but it was a long time—for i had nothing else to do. at last i got tired and lay down to rest. and in spite of all my troubles, i soon fell fast asleep. this time when i woke up, stars were staring down at me out of a cloudless sky. the sea was still calm; and my strange craft was rocking gently under me on an easy swell. all my fine courage left me as i gazed up into the big silent night and felt the pains of hunger and thirst set to work in my stomach harder than ever. "are you awake?" said a high silvery voice at my elbow. i sprang up as though some one had stuck a pin in me. and there, perched at the very end of my raft, her beautiful golden tail glowing dimly in the starlight, sat miranda, the purple bird-of-paradise ! the voyages of doctor dolittle never have i been so glad to see any one in my life. i almost fell into the water as i leapt to hug her. "i didn't want to wake you," said she. "i guessed you must be tired after all you've been through—don't squash the life out of me, boy: i'm not a stuffed duck, you know." "oh, miranda, you dear old thing," said i, "i'm so glad to see you. tell me, where is the doctor ? is he alive ?" "of course he's alive—and it's my firm belief he always will be. he's over there, about forty miles to the westward." "what's he doing there ?" "he's sitting on the other half of the curleu: shaving himself—or he was, when i left him." "well, thank heaven he's alive!" said i—"and bumpo—and the animals, are they all right?" "yes, they're with him. your ship broke in half in the storm. the doctor had tied you down when he found you stunned. and the part you were on got separated and floated away. golly, it was a storm! one has to be a gull or an albatross to stand that sort of weather. i had been watching for the doctor for three weeks, from a cliff-top; but last night i had to take refuge in a cave to keep my tail-feathers from blowing out. as soon as i found the doctor, he sent me off with some por- wrecked! poises to look for you. a stormy petrel vol- unteered to help us in our search. there had been quite a gathering of sea-birds waiting to greet the doctor; but the rough weather sort of broke up the arrangements that had been made to welcome him properly. it was the petrel that first gave us the tip where you were." "well, but how can i get to the doctor, mi- randa ?- i haven't any oars." "get to him !—why, you're going to him now. look behind you." i turned around. the moon was just rising on the sea's edge. and i now saw that my raft was moving through the water, but so gently that i had not noticed it before. "what's moving us?" i asked. "the porpoises," said miranda. i went to the back of the raft and looked down into the water. and just below the surface i could see the dim forms of four big porpoises, their sleek skins glinting in the moonlight, pushing at the raft with their noses. "they're old friends of the doctor's," said miranda. "they'd do anything for john dolittle. we should see his party soon now. we're pretty near the place i left them—yes, there they are! see that dark shape ?—no, more to the right of where you're looking. can't you make out the the voyages of doctor dolittle figure of the black man standing against the sky ?- now chee-chee spies us—he's waving. don't you see them ?" i didn't—for my eyes were not as sharp as miranda's. but presently from somewhere in the murky dusk i heard bumpo singing his african comic songs with the full force of his enormous voice. and in a little, by peering and peering in the direction of the sound, i at last made out a dim mass of tattered, splintered wreckage—all that re- mained of the poor curlew floating low down upon the water. a hulloa came through the night. and i an- swered it we kept it up, calling to one another back and forth across the calm night sea. and a few minutes later the two halves of our brave little ruined ship bumped gently together again. now that i was nearer and the moon was higher i could see more plainly. their half of the ship was much bigger than mine. it lay partly upon its side; and most of them were perched upon the top munching ship's biscuit. but close down to the edge of the water, using the sea's calm surface for a mirror and a piece of broken bottle for a razor, john dolittle was shav- ing his face by the light of the moon. the fifth chapter land! hey all gave me a great greeting as i clambered off my half of the ship on to theirs. bumpo brought me a wonder- ful drink of fresh water which he drew from a barrel; and chee-chee and polynesia stood around me feeding me ship's biscuit. but it was the sight of the doctor's smiling face - just knowing that i was with him once again— that cheered me more than anything else. as i watched him carefully wipe his glass razor and put it away for future use, i could not help comparing him in my mind with the stormy petrel. indeed the vast strange knowledge which he had gained from his speech and friendship with animals had brought him the power to do things which no other human being would dare to try. like the petrel, he could apparently play with the sea in all her moods. it was no wonder that many of the ignorant savage peoples among whom he passed in his voyages made statues of him showing him as half a fish, half a bird, and half a man. and ridiculous though it was, i could quite understand what miranda meant when she said she firmly believed that he the voyages of doctor dolittle could never die. just to be with him gave you a wonderful feeling of comfort and safety. except for his appearance (his clothes were crumpled and damp and his battered high hat was stained with salt water) that storm which had so terrified me had disturbed him no more than getting stuck on the mud-bank in puddleby river. politely thanking miranda for getting me so quickly, he asked her if she would now go ahead of us and show us the way to spidermonkey island. next, he gave orders to the porpoises to leave my old piece of the ship and push the bigger half wher- ever the bird-of-paradise should lead us. how much he had lost in the wreck besides his razor i did not know—everything, most likely, together with all the money he had saved up to buy the ship with. and still he was smiling as though he wanted for nothing in the world. the only things he had saved, as far as i could see—beyond the barrel of water and bag of biscuit—were his precious note-books. these, i saw when he stood up, he had strapped around his waist with yards and yards of twine. he was, as old matthew mugg used to say, a great man. he was unbeliev- able. and now for three days we continued our journey slowly but steadily—southward. the only inconvenience we suffered from was the cold. this seemed to increase as we went forward. land hands; and they made signs back to the doctor to tell hirn that if he came a step nearer they would kill us all. they evidently wanted us to leave the island at once. it was a very uncomfortable situa- tion. at last the doctor made them understand that he only wanted to see the island all over and that then he would go away—though how he meant to do it, with no boat to sail in, was more than i could imagine. while they were talking among themselves an- other indian arrived—apparently with a message that they were wanted in some other part of the is- land. because presently, shaking their spears threateningly at us, they went off with the new comer. "what discourteous pagans !" said bumpo. "did you ever see such inhospitability ?—never even asked us if we'd had breakfast, the benighted bounders !" "sh! they're going off to their village," said polynesia. "i'll bet there's a village on the other side of those mountains. if you take my advice, doctor, you'll get away from this beach while their backs are turned. let us go up into the higher land for the present—some place where they won't know where we are. they may grow friendlier when they see we mean no harm. they have the voyages of doctor dolittle honest, open faces and look like a decent crowd to me. they're just ignorant—probably never saw white folks before." so, feeling a little bit discouraged by our first reception, we moved off towards the mountains in the centre of the island. the sixth chapter the jabizri we found the woods at the feet of the hills thick and tangly and somewhat hard to get through. on polynesia's advice, we kept away from all paths and trails, feeling it best to avoid meeting any indians for the present. but she and chee-chee were good guides and splendid jungle-hunters; and the two of them set to work at once looking for food for us. in a very short space of time they had found quite a number of different fruits and nuts which made ex- cellent eating, though none of us knew the names of any of them. we discovered a nice clean stream of good water which came down from the mountains; so we were supplied with something to drink as well. we followed the stream up towards the heights. and presently we came to parts where the woods were thinner and the ground rocky and steep. here we could get glimpses of wonderful views all over the island, with the blue sea beyond. while we were admiring one of these the doctor the voyages of doctor dolittle suddenly said, "sh!—a jabizri!—don't you hear it?" we listened and heard, somewhere in the air about us, an extraordinarily musical hum—like a bee, but not just one note. this hum rose and fell, up and down—almost like some one sing- ing. "no other insect but the jabizri beetle hums like that," said the doctor. "i wonder where he is quite near, by the sound—flying among the trees probably. oh, if i only had my butterfly-net! why didn't i think to strap that around my waist too. confound the storm: i may miss the chance of a lifetime now of getting the rarest beetle in the world—oh look! there he goes !" a huge beetle, easily three inches long i should say, suddenly flew by our noses. the doctor got frightfully excited. he took off his hat to use as a net, swooped at the beetle and caught it. he nearly fell down a precipice on to the rocks below in his wild hurry, but that didn't bother him in the least. he knelt down, chortling, upon the ground with the jabizri safe under his hat. from his pocket he brought out a glass-topped box, and into this he very skilfully made the beetle walk from under the rim of the hat. then he rose up, happy as a child, to examine his new treasure through the glass lid. it certainly was a most beautiful insect. it was the jabizri pale blue underneath; but its back was glossy black with huge red spots on it. "there isn't an entymologist in the whole world who wouldn't give all he has to be in my shoes to-day," said the doctor—"hulloa! this jab- izri's got something on his leg—doesn't look like mud. i wonder what it is." he took the beetle carefully out of the box and held it by its back in his fingers, where it waved its six legs slowly in the air. we all crowded about him peering at it. rolled around the middle sec- tion of its right foreleg was something that looked like a thin dried leaf. it was bound on very neatly with strong spider-web. it was marvelous to see how john dolittle with his fat heavy fingers undid that cobweb cord and unrolled the leaf, whole, without tearing it or hurt- ing the precious beetle. the jabizri he put back into the box. then he spread the leaf out flat and examined it. you can imagine our surprise when we found that the inside of the leaf was covered with signs and pictures, drawn so tiny that you almost needed a magnifying-glass to tell what they were. some of the signs we couldn't make out at all; but nearly all of the pictures were quite plain, figures of men and mountains mostly. the whole was done in a curious sort of brown ink. for several moments there was a dead silence the voyages of doctor dolittle while we all stared at the leaf, fascinated and mys- tified. "i think this is written in blood," said the doctor at last. "it turns that color when it's dry. some- body pricked his finger to make these pictures. it's an old dodge when you're short of ink—but highly unsanitary—what an extraordinary thing to find tied to a beetle's leg! i wish i could talk beetle language, and find out where the jabizri got it from." "but what is it?" i asked—"rows of little pic- tures and signs. what do you make of it, doctor ?" "it's a letter," he said "a picture letter. all these little things put together mean a message- but why give a message to a beetle to carry—and to a jabizri, the rarest beetle in the world ?—what an extraordinary thing!" then he fell to muttering over the pictures "i wonder what it means: men walking up a mountain; men walking into a hole in a mountain; a mountain falling down—it's a good drawing, that; men pointing to their open mouths; bars- prison-bars, perhaps; men praying; men lying down—they look as though they might be sick; and last of all, just a mountain—a peculiar-shaped mountain." all of a sudden the doctor looked up sharply at me, a wonderful smile of delighted understanding spreading over his face. the jabizri “long arrow!" he cried, "don't you see, stubbins ?—why, of course! only a naturalist would think of doing a thing like this: giving his letter to a beetle—not to a common beetle, but to the rarest of all, one that other naturalists would try to catch—well, well! long arrow —a pic- ture-letter from long arrow. for pictures are the only writing that he knows." "yes, but who is the letter to?" i asked. "it's to me very likely. miranda had told him, i know, years ago, that some day i meant to come here. but if not for me, then it's for any one who caught the beetle and read it. it's a letter to the world." "well, but what does it say? it doesn't seem to me that it's much good to you now you've got it." "yes, it is," he said, "because, look, i can read it now. first picture: men walking up a mountain --that's long arrow and his party; men going into a hole in a mountain—they enter a cave looking for medicine-plants or mosses; a mountain falling down--some hanging rocks must have slipped and trapped them, imprisoned them in the cave. and this was the only living creature that could carry a message for them to the outside world—a beetle, who could burrow his way into the open air. of course it was only a slim chance that the beetle would be ever caught and the letter read. but it was a chance; and when men are in great danger the voyages of doctor dolittle they grab at any straw of hope. . . . all right. now look at the next picture: men pointing to their open mouths—they are hungry; men praying- begging any one who finds this letter to come to their assistance; men lying down—they are sick, or starv- ing. this letter, stubbins, is their last cry for help." he sprang to his feet as he ended, snatched out a note-book and put the letter between the leaves. his hands were trembling with haste and agitation. "come on!" he cried—"up the mountain—all of you. there's not a moment to lose. bumpo, bring the water and nuts with you. heaven only knows how long they've been pining underground. let's hope and pray we're not too late!" "but where are you going to look ?" i asked. "miranda said the island was a hundred miles long and the mountains seem to run all the way down the centre of it." "didn't you see the last picture?" he said, grab- bing up his hat from the ground and cramming it on his head. "it was an oddly shaped mountain- looked like a hawk's head. well, there's where he is—if he's still alive. first thing for us to do, is to get up on a high peak and look around the island for a mountain shaped like a hawks' head—just to think of it! there's a chance of my meeting long arrow, the son of golden arrow, after all -come on! hurry! to delay may mean death to the greatest naturalist ever born!". the seventh chapter hawk's-head mountain e all agreed afterwards that none of us had ever worked so hard in our lives before as we did that day. for my part, i know i was often on the point of dropping exhausted with fatigue; but i just kept on going like a machine—determined that, whatever happened, i would not be the first to give up. when we had scrambled to the top of a high peak, almost instantly we saw the strange mountain pictured in the letter. in shape it was the perfect image of a hawk's head, and was, as far as we could see, the second highest summit in the island. although we were all out of breath from our climb, the doctor didn't let us rest a second as soon as he had sighted it. with one look at the sun for direction, down he dashed again, breaking through thickets, splashing over brooks, taking all the short cuts. for a fat man, he was certainly the swiftest cross-country runner i ever saw. we floundered after him as fast as we could. when i say we, i mean bumpo and myself; for the animals, jip, chee-chee and polynesia, were a long the voyages of doctor dolittle way ahead—even beyond the doctor—enjoying the hunt like a paper-chase. at length we arrived at the foot of the mountain we were making for; and we found its sides very steep. said the doctor, "now we will separate and search for caves. this spot where we now are, will be our meeting- place. if anyone finds anything like a cave or a hole where the earth and rocks have fallen in, he must shout and hulloa to the rest of us. if we find nothing we will all gather here in about an hour's time—everybody understand ?”. then we all went off our different ways. each of us, you may be sure, was anxious to be the one to make a discovery. and never was a mountain searched so thoroughly. but alas! noth- ing could we find that looked in the least like a fal- len-in cave. there were plenty of places where rocks had tumbled down to the foot of the slopes; but none of these appeared as though caves or pas- sages could possibly lie behind them. one by one, tired and disappointed, we straggled back to the meeting-place. the doctor seemed gloomy and impatient but by no means inclined to give up. "jip," he said, "couldn't you smell anything like an indian anywhere?" "no," said jip. "i sniffed at every crack on the mountainside. but i am afraid my nose will be hawk's-head mountain of no use to you here, doctor. the trouble is, the whole air is so saturated with the smell of spider. monkeys that it drowns every other scent—and be- sides, it's too cold and dry for good smelling." "it is certainly that," said the doctor—"and get- ting colder all the time. i'm afraid the island is still drifting to the southward. let's hope it stops before long, or we won't be able to get even nuts and fruit to eat—everything in the island will perish —chee-chee, what luck did you have ?" "none, doctor. i climbed to every peak and pinnacle i could see. i searched every hollow and cleft. but not one place could i find where men might be hidden." "and polynesia," asked the doctor, "did you see nothing that might put us on the right track?" "not a thing, doctor—but i have a plan." "oh good !" cried john dolittle, full of hope re- newed. "what is it? let's hear it." "you still have that beetle with you," she asked —"the biz-biz, or whatever it is you call the wretched insect?" "yes," said the doctor, producing the glass- topped box from his pocket, "here it is." "all right. now listen," said she. "if what you have supposed is true that is, that long ar- row had been trapped inside the mountain by falling rock, he probably found that beetle inside the cave —perhaps many other different beetles too, eh? the voyages of doctor dolittle o ave. he wouldn't have been likely to take the biz-biz in with him, would he ?—he was hunting plants, you say, not beetles. isn't that right?" "yes," said the doctor, "that's probably so." "very well. it is fair to suppose then that the beetle's home, or his hole, is in that place—the part of the mountain where long arrow and his party are imprisoned, isn't it?". "quite, quite." "all right. then the thing to do is to let the beetle go—and watch him; and sooner or later he'll return to his home in long arrow's cave. and there we will follow him—or at all events," she added smoothing down her wing-feathers with a very superior air, "we will follow him till the mis- erable bug starts nosing under the earth. but at least he will show us what part of the mountain long arrow is hidden in." "but he may fly, if i let him out," said the doc- tor. "then we shall just lose him and be no better off than we were before." "let him fly," snorted polynesia scornfully. "a parrot can wing it as fast as a biz-biz, i fancy. if he takes to the air, i'll guarantee not to let the little devil out of my sight. and if he just crawls along the ground you can follow him yourself." "splendid !" cried the doctor. "polynesia, you have a great brain. i'll set him to work at once and see what happens." the voyages of doctor dolittle long it takes a beetle to walk round a mountain ? well, i assure you it takes an unbelievably long time. as the hours dragged by, we hoped and hoped that he would get up and fly the rest, and let polynesia carry on the work of following him. but he never opened his wings once. i had not realized before how hard it is for a human being to walk slowly enough to keep up with a beetle. it was the most tedious thing i have ever gone through. and as we dawdled along behind, watching him like hawks lest we lose him under a leaf or something, we all got so cross and ill-tempered we were ready to bite one another's heads off. and when he stopped to look at the scenery or polish his nose some more, i could hear polynesia behind me letting out the most dreadful seafaring swear-words you ever heard. after he had led us the whole way round the mountain he brought us to the exact spot where we started from and there he came to a dead stop. "well," said bumpo to polynesia, "what do you think of the beetle's sense now? you see he doesn't know enough to go home." "oh, be still, you hottentot !" snapped poly- nesia. "wouldn't you want to stretch your legs for exercise if you'd been shut up in a box all day. probably his home is near here, and that's why he's come back." hawk's-head mountain “but why," i asked, "did he go the whole way round the mountain first?" then the three of us got into a violent argument. but in the middle of it all the doctor suddenly called out, "look, look!" we turned and found that he was pointing to the jabizri, who was now walking up the mountain at a much faster and more business-like gait. "well," said bumpo sitting down wearily; "if he is going to walk over the mountain and back, for more exercise, i'll wait for him here. chee-chee and polynesia can follow him." indeed it would have taken a monkey or a bird to climb the place which the beetle was now walking up. it was a smooth, flat part of the mountain's side, steep as a wall. but presently, when the jabizri was no more than ten feet above our heads, we all cried out together. for, even while we watched him, he had disappeared into the face of the rock like a raindrop soaking into sand. "he's gone," cried polynesia. "there must be a hole up there." and in a twinkling she had flut- tered up the rock and was clinging to the face of it with her claws. "yes," she shouted down, "we've run him to earth at last. his hole is right here, behind a part five the first chapter a great moment the next part of our problem was the hardest of all: how to roll aside, pull down or break open, that gigantic slab. as we gazed up at it towering above our heads, it looked indeed a hopeless task for our tiny strength. but the sounds of life from inside the mountain had put new heart in us. and in a moment we were all scrambling around trying to find any open- ing or crevice which would give us something to work on. chee-chee scaled up the sheer wall of the slab and examined the top of it where it leaned against the mountain's side; i uprooted bushes and stripped off hanging creepers that might conceal a weak place; the doctor got more leaves and composed new picture-letters for the jabizri to take in if he should turn up again; whilst polynesia carried up a handful of nuts and pushed them into the beetle's hole, one by one, for the prisoners in- side to eat. "nuts are so nourishing," she said. but jip it was who, scratching at the foot of the the voyages of doctor dolittle slab like a good ratter, made the discovery which led to our final success. "doctor," he cried, running up to john dolittle with his nose all covered with black mud, "this slab is resting on nothing but a bed of soft earth. you never saw such easy digging. i guess the cave behind must be just too high up for the indians to reach the earth with their hands, or they could have scraped a way out long ago. if we can only scratch the earth-bed away from under, the slab might drop a little. then maybe the indians can climb out over the top." the doctor hurried to examine the place where jip had dug. "why, yes," he said, "if we can get the earth away from under this front edge, the slab is standing up so straight, we might even make it fall right down in this direction. it's well worth trying. let's get at it, quick." we had no tools but the sticks and slivers of stone which we could find around. a strange sight we must have looked, the whole crew of us squatting down on our heels, scratching and burrowing at the foot of the mountain, like six badgers in a row. after about an hour, during which in spite of the cold the sweat fell from our foreheads in all direct- ions, the doctor said, "be ready to jump from under, clear out of the way, if she shows signs of moving. if this slab “it was a great moment" the voyages of doctor dolittle but the indian knew no english of course, and the doctor knew no indian. presently, to my surprise, i heard the doctor trying him in different animal languages. "how do you do?" he said in dog-talk; "i am glad to see you," in horse-signs; "how long have you been buried ?" in deer-language. still the in- dian made no move but stood there, straight and stiff, understanding not a word. the doctor tried again, in several other animal dialects. but with no result. till at last he came to the language of eagles. "great red-skin," he said in the fierce screams and short grunts that the big birds use, "never have i been so glad in all my life as i am to-day to find you still alive." in a flash long arrow's stony face lit up with a smile of understanding; and back came the answer in eagle-tongue, "mighty white man, i owe my life to you. for the remainder of my days i am your servant to com- mand." afterwards long arrow told us that this was the only bird or animal language that he had ever been able to learn. but that he had not spoken it in a long time, for no eagles ever came to this island. then the doctor signaled to bumpo who came forward with the nuts and water. but long arrow neither ate nor drank. taking the supplies with a a great moment nod of thanks, he turned and carried them into the inner dimness of the cave. we followed him. inside we found nine other indians, men, women and boys, lying on the rock floor in a dreadful state of thinness and exhaustion. some had their eyes closed, as if dead. quickly the doctor went round them all and listened to their hearts. they were all alive; but one woman was too weak even to stand upon her feet. at a word from the doctor, chee-chee and polynesia sped off into the jungles after more fruit and water. while long arrow was handing round what food we had to his starving friends, we suddenly heard a sound outside the cave. turning about we saw, clustered at the entrance, the band of indians who had met us so inhospitably at the beach. they peered into the dark cave cautiously at first. but as soon as they saw long arrow and the other indians with us, they came rushing in, laughing, clapping their hands with joy and jabbering away at a tremendous rate. long arrow explained to the doctor that the nine indians we had found in the cave with him were two families who had accompanied him into the mountains to help him gather medicine-plants. and while they had been searching for a kind of moss —good for indigestion—which grows only inside of damp caves, the great rock slab had slid down the voyages of doctor dolittle and shut them in. then for two weeks they had lived on the medicine-moss and such fresh water as could be found dripping from the damp walls of the cave. the other indians on the island had given them up for lost and mourned them as dead; and they were now very surprised and happy to find their relatives alive. when long arrow turned to the newcomers and told them in their own language that it was the white man who had found and freed their relatives, they gathered round john dolittle, all talking at once and beating their breasts. long arrow said they were apologizing and try- ing to tell the doctor how sorry they were that they had seemed unfriendly to him at the beach. they had never seen a white man before and had really been afraid of him—especially when they saw him conversing with the porpoises. they had thought he was the devil, they said. then they went outside and looked at the great stone we had thrown down, big as a meadow; and they walked round and round it, pointing to the break running through the middle and wondering how the trick of felling it was done. travelers who have since visited spidermonkey island tell me that that huge stone slab is now one of the regular sights of the island. and that the indian guides, when showing it to visitors, always tell their story of how it came there. they say that a great moment when the doctor found that the rocks had entrapped his friend, long arrow, he was so angry that he ripped the mountain in halves with his bare hands and let him out. "the men of the moving land" this to-morrow. if nothing can be done about it, the indians had better take to canoes and leave the island. the chance of being wrecked will be better than getting frozen to death in the ice-floes of the antarctic." presently we came over a saddle in the hills, and looking downward on the far side of the island, we saw the village—a large cluster of grass huts and gaily colored totem-poles close by the edge of the sea. "how artistic !" said the doctor—"delightfully situated. what is the name of the village ?" "popsipetel," said long arrow. "that is the name also of the tribe. the word signifies in indian tongue, the men of the moving land. there are two tribes of indians on the island: the popsipetels at this end and the bag-jagderags at the other." "which is the larger of the two peoples ?" "the bag-jagderags, by far. their city covers two square leagues. but," added long arrow a slight frown darkening his handsome face, "for me, i would rather have one popsipetel than a hundred bag-jagderags." the news of the rescue we had made had evidently gone ahead of us. for as we drew nearer to the village we saw crowds of indians streaming out to greet the friends and relatives whom they had never thought to see again. ! these good people, when they too were told how . the voyages of doctor dolittle the rescue had been the work of the strange white visitor to their shores, all gathered round the doc- tor, shook him by the hands, patted him and hugged him. then they lifted him up upon their strong shoulders and carried him down the hill into the village. there the welcome we received was even more wonderful. in spite of the cold air of the coming night, the villagers, who had all been shivering within their houses, threw open their doors and came out in hundreds. i had no idea that the little vill- age could hold so many. they thronged about us, smiling and nodding and waving their hands; and as the details of what we had done were recited by long arrow they kept shouting strange singing noises, which we supposed were words of gratitude or praise. we were next escorted to a brand-new grass house, clean and sweet-smelling within, and informed that it was ours. six strong indian boys were told off to be our servants. on our way through the village we noticed a house, larger than the rest, standing at the end of the main street. long arrow pointed to it and told us it was the chief's house, but that it was now empty—no new chief having yet been elected to take the place of the old one who had died. inside our new home a feast of fish and fruit had been prepared. most of the more important men the third chapter fire then the doctor asked long arrow if he knew what fire was, explaining it to him by pictures drawn on the buckskin table-cloth. long arrow said he had seen such a thing—coming out of the tops of vol- canoes; but that neither he nor any of the popsipet- els knew how it was made. "poor perishing heathens !" muttered bumpo. "no wonder the old chief died of cold!" at that moment we heard a crying sound at the door. and turning round, we saw a weeping indian mother with a baby in her arms. she said some- thing to the indians which we could not understand; and long arrow told us the baby was sick and she wanted the white doctor to try and cure it. "oh lord !" groaned polynesia in my ear- "just like puddleby: patients arriving in the middle of dinner. well, one thing: the food's raw, so nothing can get cold anyway." the doctor examined the baby and found at once that it was thoroughly chilled. "fire—fire! that's what it needs," he said turning to long arrow—"that's what you all need. fire this child will have pneumonia if it isn't kept warm." "aye, truly. but how to make a fire," said long arrow—"where to get it: that is the difficulty. all the volcanoes in this land are dead." their we fell to hunting through our pockets to see if any matches had survived the shipwreck. the best we could muster were two whole ones and a half—all with the heads soaked off them by salt water. "hark, long arrow," said the doctor: "divers ways there be of making fire without the aid of matches. one: with a strong glass and the rays of the sun. that however, since the sun has set, we can- not now employ. another is by grinding a hard stick into a soft log—is the daylight gone without ?—alas yes. then i fear we must await the morrow; ofor besides the different woods, we need an old squirrel's nest for fuel—and that without lamps you could not find in your forests at this hour." "great are your cunning and your skill, oh white man," long arrow replied. "but in this you do us an injustice. know you not that all fireless peo- ples can see in the dark? having no lamps we are forced to train ourselves to travel through the black- est night, lightless. i will despatch a messenger and you shall have your squirrel's nest within the hour." he gave an order to two of our boy-servants who promptly disappeared running. and sure the voyages of doctor dolittle enough, in a very short space of time a squirrel's nest, together with hard and soft woods, was brought to our door. the moon had not yet risen and within the house it was practically pitch-black. i could feel and hear, however, that the indians were moving about com- fortably as though it were daylight. the task of making fire the doctor had to perform almost en- tirely by the sense of touch, asking long arrow and the indians to hand him his tools when he mislaid them in the dark. and then i made a curious dis- covery: now that i had to, i found that i was be- ginning to see a little in the dark myself. and for the first time i realized that of course there is no such thing as pitch-dark, so long as you have a door open or a sky above you. calling for the loan of a bow, the doctor loosened the string, put the hard stick into a loop and began grinding this stick into the soft wood of the log. soon i smelt that the log was smoking. then he kept feeding the part that was smoking with the inside lining of the squirrel's nest, and he asked me to blow upon it with my breath. he made the stick drill faster and faster. more smoke filled the room. and at last the darkness about us was sud- denly lit up. the squirrel's nest had burst into flame. the indians murmured and grunted with astonish- ment. at first they were all for falling on their the voyages of doctor dolittle little town fairly buzzed with a great low murmur: the popsipetels sitting up talking of their wonderful pale-faced visitor and this strange good thing he had brought with him—fire! the fourth chapter what makes an island float ery early in our experience of popsi- petel kindness we saw that if we were to get anything done at all, we would almost always have to do it secretly. the doctor was so popular and loved by all that as soon as he showed his face at his door in the morn- ing crowds of admirers, waiting patiently outside, flocked about him and followed him wherever he went. after his fire-making feat, this childlike peo- ple expected him, i think, to be continually doing magic; and they were determined not to miss a trick. it was only with great difficulty that we escaped from the crowd the first morning and set out with long arrow to explore the island at our leisure. in the interior we found that not only the plants and trees were suffering from the cold: the animal life was in even worse straits. everywhere shiver- ing birds were to be seen, their feathers all fluffed out, gathering together for flight to summer lands. and many lay dead upon the ground. going down to the shore, we watched land-crabs in large numbers taking to the sea to find some better home. while away to the southeast we could see many icebergs the voyages of doctor dolittle floating—a sign that we were now not far from the terrible region of the antarctic. as we were looking out to sea, we noticed our friends the porpoises jumping through the waves. the doctor hailed them and they came inshore. he asked them how far we were from the south polar continent. about a hundred miles, they told him. and then they asked why he wanted to know. "because this floating island we are on," said he, "is drifting southward all the time in a current. it's an island that ordinarily belongs somewhere in the tropic zone—real sultry weather, sunstrokes and all that. if it doesn't stop going southward pretty soon everything on it is going to perish." "well," said the porpoises, "then the thing to do is to get it back into a warmer climate, isn't it?" "yes, but how?" said the doctor. "we can't row it back." "no," said they, "but whales could push it— if you only got enough of them." "what a splendid idea !—whales, the very thing !" said the doctor. "do you think you could get me some ?" "why, certainly," said the porpoises, "we passed one herd of them out there, sporting about among the icebergs. we'll ask them to come over. and if they aren't enough, we'll try and hunt up some more. better have plenty.”. what makes an island float “thank you," said the doctor. "you are very kind—by the way, do you happen to know how this island came to be a floating island? at least half of it, i notice, is made of stone. it is very odd that it floats at all, isn't it?" "it is unusual," they said. "but the explanation is quite simple. it used to be a mountainous part of south america—an overhanging part—sort of an awkward corner, you might say. way back in the glacial days, thousands of years ago, it broke off from the mainland; and by some curious accident the inside of it, which is hollow, got filled with air as it fell into the ocean. you can only see less than half of the island: the bigger half is under water, and in the middle of it, underneath, is a huge rock air-chamber, running right up inside the mountains. and that's what keeps it floating.". "what a pecurious phenometer!" said bumpo. "it is indeed," said the doctor. "i must make a note of that." and out came the everlasting note-book. the porpoises went bounding off towards the icebergs. and not long after, we saw the sea heaving and frothing as a big herd of whales came towards us at-full speed. they certainly were enormous creatures; and there must have been a good two hundred of them. "here they are," said the porpoises, poking their heads out of the water. the voyages of doctor dolittle a chance to get corn without the labor of husbandry. if it were not that they are a much bigger tribe and hope to defeat their neighbor by sheer force of numbers, they would not have dared to make open war upon the brave popsipetels." when we reached the village we found it in a great state of excitement. everywhere men were seen putting their bows in order, sharpening spears, grinding battle-axes and making arrows by the hun- dred. women were raising a high fence of bamboo poles all round the village. scouts and messengers kept coming and going, bringing news of the move- ments of the enemy. while high up in the trees and hills about the village we could see look-outs watching the mountains to the southward. long arrow brought another indian, short but enormously broad, and introduced him to the doctor as big teeth, the chief warrior of the popsipetels. the doctor volunteered to go and see the enemy and try to argue the matter out peacefully with them instead of fighting; for war, he said, was at best a stupid wasteful business. but the two shook their heads. such a plan was hopeless, they said. in the last war when they had sent a messenger to do peaceful arguing, the enemy had merely hit him with an ax. while the doctor was asking big teeth how he meant to defend the village against attack, a cry of alarm was raised by the look-outs. war! "they're coming —the bag-jagderags—swarm- ing down the mountains in thousands !". "well," said the doctor, "it's all in the day's work, i suppose. i don't believe in war; but if the village is attacked we must help defend it." and he picked up a club from the ground and tried the heft of it against a stone. "this," he said, "seems like a pretty good tool to me." and he walked to the bamboo fence and took his place among the other waiting fighters. then we all got hold of some kind of weapon with which to help our friends, the gallant popsipetels : i borrowed a bow and a quiver full of arrows; jip was content to rely upon his old, but still strong teeth; chee-chee took a bag of rocks and climbed a palm where he could throw them down upon the enemies' heads; and bumpo marched after the doctor to the fence armed with a young tree in one hand and a door-post in the other. when the enemy drew near enough to be seen from where we stood we all gasped with astonish- ment. the hillsides were actually covered with them—thousands upon thousands. they made our small army within the village look like a mere hand- ful. "saints alive !" muttered polynesia, "our little lot will stand no chance against that swarm. this will never do. i'm going off to get some help." where she was going and what kind of help the voyages of doctor dolittle she meant to get, i had no idea. she just disap- peared from my side. but jip, who had heard her, poked his nose between the bamboo bars of the fence to get a better view of the enemy and said, "likely enough she's gone after the black par- rots. let's hope she finds them in time. just look at those ugly ruffians climbing down the rocks —millions of 'em! this fight's going to keep us all hopping." and jip was right. before a quarter of an hour had gone by our village was completely sur- rounded by one huge mob of yelling, raging bag. jagderags. i now come again to a part in the story of our voyages where things happened so quickly, one upon the other, that looking backwards i see the picture only in a confused kind of way. i know that if it had not been for the terrible three—as they came afterwards to be fondly called in popsipetel history—long arrow, bumpo and the doctor, the war would have been soon over and the whole island would have belonged to the worthless bag-jagderags. but the englishman, the african and the indian were a regiment in themselves; and between them they made that village a dangerous place for any man to try to enter. the bamboo fencing which had been hastily set up around the town was not a very strong affair; ооооооооооооооооооо оо о Астрал ООО оо ооооо . . cas а А : ооо ооо ре ооо ООО оооооооооооооооооооооооо the terrible three from an indian rock-engraving found on hawks'-head mountain, spidermonkey island the voyages of doctor dolittle and right from the start it gave way in one place after another as the enemy thronged and crowded against it. then the doctor, long arrow and bumpo would hurry to the weak spot, a terrific hand-to-hand fight would take place and the enemy be thrown out. but almost instantly a cry of alarm would come from some other part of the village-wall; and the three would have to rush off and do the same thing all over again. the popsipetels were themselves no mean fighters; but the strength and weight of those three men of different lands and colors, standing close together, swinging their enormous war-clubs, was really a sight for the wonder and admiration of any one. many weeks later when i was passing an indian camp-fire at night i heard this song being sung. it has since become one of the traditional folk- songs of the popsipetels. the song of the terrible three oh hear ye the song of the terrible three and the fight that they fought by the edge of the sea. down from the mountains, the rocks and the crags, swarming like wasps, came the bag-jagderags. surrounding our village, our walls they broke down. oh, sad was the plight of our men and our town! but heaven determined our land to set free and sent us the help of the terrible three. the sixth chapter general polynesia ut alas! even the three, mighty though they were, could not last forever against an army which seemed to have no end. in one of the hottest scrimmages, when the enemy had broken a particularly wide hole through the fence, i saw long arrow's great figure topple and come down with a spear sticking in his broad chest. for another half-hour bumpo and the doctor fought on side by side. how their strength held out so long i cannot tell, for never a second were they given to get their breath or rest their arms. the doctor—the quiet, kindly, peaceable, little doctor !—well, you wouldn't have known him if you had seen him that day dealing out whacks you could hear a mile off, walloping and swatting in all direc- tions. as for bumpo, with staring eye-balls and grim set teeth, he was a veritable demon. none dared come within yards of that wicked, wide-circling door- post. but a stone, skilfully thrown, struck him at last in the centre of the forehead. and down went general polynesia the second of the three. john dolittle, the last of the terribles, was left fighting alone. jip and i rushed to his side and tried to take the places of the fallen ones. but, far too light and too small, we made but a poor exchange. another length of the fence crashed down, and through the widened gap the bag-jagderags poured in on us like a flood. "to the canoes —to the sea !" shouted the pop- sipetels. "fly for your lives |--all is over !—the war is lost!" but the doctor and i never got a chance to fly for our lives. we were swept off our feet and knocked down flat by the sheer weight of the mob. and once down, we were unable to get up again. i thought we would surely be trampled to death. but at that moment, above the din and racket of the battle, we heard the most terrifying noise that ever assaulted human ears: the sound of millions and millions of parrots all screeching with fury to- gether. the army, which in the nick of time polynesia had brought fo our rescue, darkened the whole sky to the westward. i asked her afterwards how many birds there were; and she said she didn't know exactly but that they certainly numbered somewhere between sixty and seventy millions. in that extraordinarily short space of time she had brought them from the mainland of south america. general polynesia but with most, before the black birds had done with them, the ears presented a very singular appearance—like the edge of a postage-stamp. this treatment, very painful at the time, did not however do them any permanent harm beyond the change in looks. and it later got to be the tribal mark of the bag-jagderags. no really smart young lady of this tribe would be seen walking with a man who did not have scalloped ears—for such was a proof that he had been in the great war. and that (though it is not generally known to scientists) is how this people came to be called by the other indian nations, the ragged-eared bag-jagderags. as soon as the village was cleared of the enemy the doctor turned his attention to the wounded. in spite of the length and fierceness of the strug- gle, there were surprisingly few serious injuries. poor long arrow was the worst off. however, after the doctor had washed his wound and got him to bed, he opened his eyes and said he already felt better. bumpo was only badly stunned. with this part of the business over, the doctor called to polynesia to have the black parrots drive the enemy right back into their own country and to wait there, guarding them all night. polynesia gave the short word of command; and like one bird those millions of parrots opened their red beaks and let out once more their terrifying battle-scream. the seventh chapter the peace of the parrots was ne the next day we set out for the far end of the island, and reaching it in canoes (for we went by sea) after a journey of twenty-five hours, we remained no longer than was necessary in the city of bag-jag- derag. when he threw himself into that fight at popsi- petel, i saw the doctor really angry for the first time in my life. but his anger, once aroused, was slow to die. all the way down the coast of the island he never ceased to rail against this cowardly people who had attacked his friends, the popsi- petels, for no other reason but to rob them of their corn, because they were too idle to till the land themselves. and he was still angry when he reached the city of bag-jagderag. long arrow had not come with us for he was as yet too weak from his wound. but the doctor —always clever at languages—was already getting familiar with the indian tongue. besides, among the half-dozen popsipetels who accompanied us to paddle the canoes, was one boy to whom we had taught a little english. he and the doctor be- the peace of the parrots chief and all of them fell on their knees, calling out that they would submit to any conditions of peace he wished. then the doctor called for one of their scribes- that is, a man who did picture-writing. and on the stone walls of the palace of bag-jagderag he bade him write down the terms of the peace as he dic- tated it. this peace is known as the peace of the parrots, and—unlike most peaces—was, and is, strictly kept—even to this day. it was quite long in words. the half of the palace-front was covered with picture-writing, and fifty pots of paint were used, before the weary scribe had done. but the main part of it all was that there should be no more fighting; and that the two tribes should give solemn promise to help one another whenever there was corn-famine or other distress in the lands belonging to either. this greatly surprised the bag-jagderags. · they had expected from the doctor's angry face that he would at least chop a couple of hundred heads off- and probably make the rest of them slaves for life. but when they saw that he only meant kindly by them, their great fear of him changed to a tremen- dous admiration. and as he ended his long speech and walked briskly down the steps again on his way back to the canoes, the group of chieftains threw themselves at his feet and cried, "do but stay with us, great lord, and all the the voyages of doctor dolittle bag-jagderags followed us at a respectful distance all the way back to popsipetel. the doctor had determined to return by the other shore, so that we should be thus able to make a complete trip round the island's shores. shortly after we started, while still off the lower end of the island, we sighted a steep point on the coast where the sea was in a great state of turmoil, white with soapy froth. on going nearer, we found that this was caused by our friendly whales who were still faithfully working away with their noses against the end of the island, driving us north- ward. we had been kept so busy with the war that we had forgotten all about them. but as we paused and watched their mighty tails lashing and churning the sea, we suddenly realized that we had not felt cold in quite a long while. speeding up our boat lest the island be carried away from us al- together, we passed on up the coast; and here and there we noticed that the trees on the shore already looked greener and more healthy. spidermonkey island was getting back into her home climates. about halfway to popsipetel we went ashore and spent two or three days exploring the central part of the island. our indian paddlers took us up into the mountains, very steep and high in this region, overhanging the sea. and they showed us what they called the whispering rocks. this was a very peculiar and striking piece of the voyages of doctor dolittle canoes, they traveled faster than our party; and we judged that they should reach the village—if that was where they were going—many hours before we could. the doctor was now becoming anxious to see how long arrow was getting on, so we all took turns at the paddles and went on traveling by moon- light through the whole night. we reached popsipetel just as the dawn was breaking. to our great surprise we found that not only we, but the whole village also, had been up all night. a great crowd was gathered about the dead chief's house. and as we landed our canoes upon the beach we saw a large number of old men, the seniors of the tribe, coming out at the main door. we inquired what was the meaning of all this; and were told that the election of a new chief had been going on all through the whole night. bumpo asked the name of the new chief; but this, it seemed, had not yet been given out. it would be announced at mid-day. as soon as the doctor had paid a visit to long arrow and seen that he was doing nicely, we proceeded to our own house at the far end of the village. here we ate some breakfast and then lay down to take a good rest. rest, indeed, we needed; for life had been stren- the ninth chapter the election e were awakened by music. the glar- ing noonday sunlight was streaming in at our door, outside of which some kind of a band appeared to be playing. we got up and looked out. our house was sur- rounded by the whole population of popsipetel. we were used to having quite a number of curious and admiring indians waiting at our door at all hours; but this was quite different. the vast crowd was dressed in its best clothes. bright beads, gawdy feathers and gay blankets gave cheer- ful color to the scene. every one seemed in very good humor, singing or playing on musical in- struments—mostly painted wooden whistles or drums made from skins. we found polynesia—who while we slept had arrived back from bag-jagderag—sitting on our door-post watching the show. we asked her what all the holiday-making was about. "the result of the election has just been an- nounced," said she. "the name of the new chief was given out at noon." "and who is the new chief?" asked the doctor. the election "you are," said polynesia quietly. "i!" gasped the doctor—"well, of all things !" "yes," said she. "you're the one—and what's more, they've changed your surname for you. they didn't think that dolittle was a proper or respectful name for a man who had done so much. so you are now to be known as jong thinkalot. how do you like it?" "but i don't want to be a chief," said the doctor in an irritable voice. "i'm afraid you'll have hard work to get out of it now," said she—"unless you're willing to put to sea again in one of their rickety canoes. you see you've been elected not merely the chief of the popsipetels; you're to be a king—the king of the whole of spider- monkey island. the bag-jagderags, who were so anxious to have you govern them, sent spies and messengers ahead of you; and when they found that you had been elected chief of the popsipetels over- night they were bitterly disappointed. however, rather than lose you altogether, the bag-jagderags were willing to give up their independence, and in- sisted that they and their lands be united to the pop- sipetels in order that you could be made king of both. so now you're in for it." "oh lord !" groaned the doctor, "i do wish they wouldn't be so enthusiastic! bother it, i don't want to be a king!" "i should think, doctor," said i, "you'd feel the voyages of doctor dolittle by anything. it was in fact the only time i have known him to get thoroughly fussed. "oh dear!" i heard him murmur, looking around wildly for some escape. "what shall i do?— did any of you see where i laid that stud of mine ?—how on earth can i get this collar on without a stud? what a day this is, to be sure !—maybe it rolled under the bed, bumpo—i do think they might have given me a day or so to think it over in. who ever heard of waking a man right out of his sleep, and telling him he's got to be a king, before he has even washed his face? can't any of you find it? maybe you're standing on it, bumpo. move your feet." "oh don't bother about your stud," said poly- nesia. "you will have to be crowned without a col- lar. they won't know the difference." "i tell you i'm not going to be crowned," cried the doctor—"not if i can help it. i'll make them a speech. perhaps that will satisfy them." he turned back to the indians at the door. "my friends," he said, "i am not worthy of this great honor you would do me. little or no skill have i in the arts of kingcraft. assuredly among your own brave men you will find many better fitted to lead you. for this compliment, this confidence and trust, i thank you. but, i pray you, do not think of me for such high duties which i could not possibly fulfil.” the election the old man repeated his words to the people behind him in a louder voice. stolidly they shook their heads, moving not an inch. the old man turned back to the doctor. "you are the chosen one," said he. "they will have none but you." into the doctor's perplexed face suddenly there came a flash of hope. "i'll go and see long arrow," he whispered to me. "perhaps he will know of some way to get me out of this." and asking the personages to excuse him a mo- ment, he left them there, standing at his door, and hurried off in the direction of long arrow's house. i followed him. we found our big friend lying on a grass bed outside his home, where he had been moved that he might witness the holiday-making. "long arrow," said the doctor speaking quickly in eagle tongue so that the bystanders should not overhear, "in dire peril i come to you for help. these men would make me their king. if such a thing befall me, all the great work i hoped to do must go undone, for who is there unfreer than a king? i pray you speak with them and persuade their kind well-meaning hearts that what they plan to do would be unwise." long arrow raised himself upon his elbow. "oh kindly one," said he (this seemed now to the voyages of doctor dolittle have become the usual manner of address when speaking to the doctor), "sorely it grieves me that the first wish you ask of me i should be unable to grant. alas! i can do nothing. these people have so set their hearts on keeping you for king that if i tried to interfere they would drive me from their land and likely crown you in the end in any case. a king you must be, if only for a while. we must so arrange the business of governing that you may have time to give to nature's secrets. later we may be able to hit upon some plan to relieve you of the burden of the crown. but for now you must be king. these people are a headstrong tribe and they will have their way. there is no other course." sadly the doctor turned away from the bed and faced about. and there behind him stood the old man again, the crown still held in his wrinkled hands and the royal litter waiting at his elbow. with a deep reverence the bearers motioned towards the seat of the chair, inviting the white man to get in. once more the poor doctor looked wildly, hope- lessly about him for some means of escape. for a moment i thought he was going to take to his heels and run for it. but the crowd around us was far too thick and densely packed for anyone to break through it. a band of whistles and drums near by suddenly started the music of a solemn processional march. he turned back pleadingly again to long arrow in a last appeal for help. but the big the election indian merely shook his head and pointed, like the bearers, to the waiting chair. at last, almost in tears, john dolittle stepped slowly into the litter and sat down. as he was hoisted on to the broad shoulders of the bearers i heard him still feebly muttering beneath his breath, "botheration take it !i don't want to be a king!" "farewell !" called long arrow from his bed, "and may good fortune ever stand within the shadow of your throne !" . "he comes !—he comes !" murmured the crowd. "away! away!—to the whispering rocks!" and as the procession formed up to leave the vil- lage, the crowd about us began hurrying off in the direction of the mountains to make sure of good seats in the giant theatre where the crowning cere- mony would take place. the tenth chapter the coronation of king jong in my long lifetime i have seen many grand and inspiring things, but never anything that impressed me half as much as the sight of the whispering rocks as they looked on the day king jong was crowned. as bumpo, chee-chee, polynesia, jip and i finally reached the dizzy edge of the great bowl and looked down inside it, it was like gazing over a never-ending ocean of cop- per-colored faces; for every seat in the theatre was filled, every man, woman and child in the island- including long arrow who had been carried up on his sick bed—was there to see the show. yet not a sound, not a pin-drop, disturbed the solemn silence of the whispering rocks. it was quite creepy and sent chills running up and down your spine. bumpo told me afterwards that it took his breath away too much for him to speak, but that he hadn't known before that there were that many people in the world. away down by the table of the throne stood a brand-new, brightly colored totem-pole. all the indian families had totem-poles and kept them set the voyages of doctor dolittle distance above i distinctly heard a twig snap beneath his tread. walking to the throne accompanied by the old man, the doctor got up upon the stand and sat down. how tiny his little round figure looked when seen from that tremendous height! the throne had been made for longer-legged kings; and when he was seated, his feet did not reach the ground but dangled six inches from the top step. then the old man turned round and looking up at the people began to speak in a quiet even voice; but every word he said was easily heard in the furthest corner of the whispering rocks. first he recited the names of all the great pop- sipetel kings who in days long ago had been crowned in this ivory chair. he spoke of the greatness of the popsipetel people, of their triumphs, of their hardships. then waving his hand towards the doc- tor he began recounting the things which this king- to-be had done. and i am bound to say that they easily outmatched the deeds of those who had gone before him. as soon as he started to speak of what the doctor had achieved for the tribe, the people, still strictly silent, all began waving their right hands towards the throne. this gave to the vast theatre a very singular appearance: acres and acres of something moving—with never a sound. at last the old man finished his speech and step- the coronation of king jong ping up to the chair, very respectfully removed the doctor's battered high hat. he was about to put it upon the ground; but the doctor took it from him hastily and kept it on his lap. then taking up the sacred crown he placed it upon john dolittle's head. it did not fit very well (for it had been made for smaller-headed kings), and when the wind blew in freshly from the sunlit sea the doctor had some difficulty in keeping it on. but it looked very splendid. turning once more to the people, the old man said, "men of popsipetel, behold your elected king!- are you content?" and then at last the voice of the people broke loose. "jong! jong!" they shouted, "long live king kong!" the sound burst upon the solemn silence with the crash of a hundred cannon. there, where even a whisper carried miles, the shock of it was like a blow in the face. back and forth the mountains threw it to one another. i thought the echoes of it would never die away as it passed rumbling through the whole island, jangling among the lower valleys, booming in the distant sea-caves. suddenly i saw the old man point upward, to the highest mountain in the island; and looking over my shoulder, i was just in time to see the hanging the voyages of doctor dolittle stone topple slowly out of sight—down into the heart of the volcano. "see ye, men of the moving land !" the old man cried: "the stone has fallen and our legend has come true: the king of kings is crowned this day !" the doctor too had seen the stone fall and he was now standing up looking at the sea expectantly. "he's thinking of the air-chamber," said bumpo in my ear. "let us hope that the sea isn't very deep in these parts." after a full minute (so long did it take the stone to fall that depth) we heard a muffled, distant, crunching thud—and then immediately after, a great hissing of escaping air. the doctor, his face tense with anxiety, sat down in the throne again still watching the blue water of the ocean with star- ing eyes. soon we felt the island slowly sinking beneath us. we saw the sea creep inland over the beaches as the shores went down—one foot, three feet, ten feet, twenty, fifty, a hundred. and then, thank goodness, gently as a butterfly alighting on a rose, it stopped! spidermonkey island had come to rest on the sandy bottom of the atlantic, and earth was joined to earth once more. of course many of the houses near the shores were now under water. popsipetel village itself had entirely disappeared. but it didn't matter. no one was drowned; for every soul in the island the coronation of king jong was high up in the hills watching the coronation of king jong. the indians themselves did not realize at the time what was taking place, though of course they had felt the land sinking beneath them. the doc- tor told us afterwards that it must have been the shock of that tremendous shout, coming from a million throats at once, which had toppled the hanging stone off its perch. but in popsipetel history the story was handed down (and it is firmly believed to this day) that when king jong sat upon the throne, so great was his mighty weight, that the very island itself sank down to do him honor and never moved again. -ooo — new popsipetel a lot of new ideas. he showed them what town. sewers were, and how garbage should be collected each day and burnt. high up in the hills he made a large lake by damming a stream. this was the water-supply for the town. none of these things had the indians ever seen; and many of the sick- nesses which they had suffered from before were now entirely prevented by proper drainage and pure drinking-water. peoples who don't use fire do not of course have metals either; because without fire it is almost im- possible to shape iron and steel. one of the first things that john dolittle did was to search the mountains till he found iron and copper mines. then he set to work to teach the indians how these metals could be melted and made into knives and plows and water-pipes and all manner of things. in his kingdom the doctor tried his hardest to do away with most of the old-fashioned pomp and grandeur of a royal court. as he said to bumpo and me, if he must be a king he meant to be a thoroughly democratic one, that is a king who is chummy and friendly with his subjects and doesn't put on airs. and when he drew up the plans for the city of new popsipetel he had no palace shown of any kind. a little cottage in a back street was all that he had provided for himself. but this the indians would not permit on any account. they had been used to having their kings the voyages of doctor dolittle rule in a truly grand and kingly manner; and they insisted that he have built for himself the most magnificent palace ever seen. in all else they let him have his own way absolutely; but they wouldn't allow him to wriggle out of any of the ceremony or show that goes with being a king. a thousand serv- ants he had to keep in his palace, night and day, to wait on him. the royal canoe had to be kept up —a gorgeous, polished mahogany boat, seventy feet long, inlaid with mother-o'-pearl and paddled by the hundred strongest men in the island. the palace-gardens covered a square mile and employed a hundred and sixty gardeners. even in his dress the poor man was compelled always to be grand and elegant and uncomfortable. the beloved and battered high hat was put away in a closet and only looked at secretly. state robes had to be worn on all occasions. and when the doctor did once in a while manage to sneak off for a short, natural-history expedition he never dared to wear his old clothes, but had to chase his butter- fies with a crown upon his head and a scarlet cloak flying behind him in the wind. there was no end to the kinds of duties the doc- tor had to perform and the questions he had to decide upon—everything, from settling disputes about lands and boundaries, to making peace be- tween husband and wife who had been throwing shoes at one another. in the east wing of the minuto "had to chase his butterflies with a crown upon his head” ad's a the voyages of doctor dolittle royal palace was the hall of justice. and here king jong sat every morning from nine to eleven passing judgment on all cases that were brought be- fore him. then in the afternoon he taught school. the sort of things he taught were not always those you find in ordinary schools. grown-ups as well as children came to learn. you see, these indians were ignorant of many of the things that quite small white children know—though it is also true that they knew a lot that white grown-ups never dreamed of. bumpo and i helped with the teaching as far as we could—simple arithmetic, and easy things like that. but the classes in astronomy, farming sci- ence, the proper care of babies, with a host of other subjects, the doctor had to teach himself. the indians were tremendously keen about the schooling and they came in droves and crowds; so that even with the open-air classes (a school-house was im- possible of course) the doctor had to take them in relays and batches of five or six thousand at a time and used a big megaphone or trumpet to make him- self heard. the rest of his day was more than filled with road-making, building water-mills, attending the sick and a million other things. in spite of his being so unwilling to become a the second chapter thoughts of home in the royal palace bumpo and i had a beauti- ful suite of rooms of our very own—which polynesia, jip and chee-chee shared with us. officially bumpo was minister of the interior; while i was first lord of the treasury. long arrow also had quarters there; but at present he was absent, traveling abroad. one night after supper when the doctor was away in the town somewhere visiting a new-born baby, we were all sitting round the big table in bumpo's reception-room. this we did every evening, to talk over the plans for the following day and various affairs of state. it was a kind of cabinet meeting. to-night however we were talking about england --and also about things to eat. we had got a little tired of indian food. you see, none of the natives knew how to cook; and we had the most discouraging time training a chef for the royal kitchen. most of them were champions at spoiling good food. often we got so hungry that the doctor would sneak downstairs with us into the palace basement, after all the cooks were safe in bed, and fry pancakes secretly over the dying embers of the fire. the thoughts of home doctor himself was the finest cook that ever lived. but he used to make a terrible mess of the kitchen; and of course we had to be awfully careful that we didn't get caught. well, as i was saying, to-night food was the sub- ject of discussion at the cabinet meeting; and i had just been reminding bumpo of the nice dishes we had had at the bed-maker's house in monteverde. "i tell you what i would like now," said bumpo: "a large cup of cocoa with whipped cream on the top of it. in oxford we used to be able to get the most wonderful cocoa. it is really too bad they haven't any cocoa-trees in this island, or cows to give cream." "when do you suppose," asked jip, "the doctor intends to move on from here?" "i was talking to him about that only yesterday," said polynesia. "but i couldn't get any satisfactory answer out of him. he didn't seem to want to speak about it." there was a pause in the conversation. "do you know what i believe ?" she added pres- ently. "i believe the doctor has given up even thinking of going home." "good lord !" cried bumpo. "you don't say !" "sh!" said polynesia. "what's that noise ?" we listened; and away off in the distant corridors of the palace we heard the sentries crying, "the king !—make way!—the king !" thoughts of home to make any one exactly understand the situation. i am afraid that it would be impossible for me to leave the work i am now engaged on. ... you remember, when they first insisted on making me king, i told you it was not easy to shake off responsi- bilities, once you had taken them up. these people have come to rely on me for a great number of things. we found them ignorant of much that white people enjoy. and we have, one might say, changed the current of their lives considerably. now it is a very ticklish business, to change the lives of other people. and whether the changes we have made will be, in the end, for good or for bad, is our lookout." he thought a moment then went on in a quieter, sadder voice: "i would like to continue my voyages and my natural history work; and i would like to go back to puddleby—as much as any of you. this is march, and the crocuses will be showing in the lawn. ... but that which i feared has come true: i can- not close my eyes to what might happen if i should leave these people and run away. they would prob- ably go back to their old habits and customs : wars, superstitions, devil-worship and what not; and many of the new things we have taught them might be put to improper use and make their condition, then, worse by far than that in which we found them. thoughts of home "oh, kindly one," said he, "there is a traveler at the palace-gate who would have speech with your majesty." "another baby's been born, i'll bet a shilling," muttered polynesia. "did you ask the traveler's name?" enquired the doctor. "yes, your majesty," said the footman. "it is long arrow, the son of golden arrow." the third chapter the red man's science ong arrow!" cried the doctor. "how splendid! show him in—show him in at once." "i'm so glad," he continued, turning to us as soon as the footman had gone. "i've missed long arrow terribly. he's an awfully good man to have around—even if he doesn't talk much. let me see: it's five months now since he went off to brazil. i'm so glad he's back safe. he does take such tremendous chances with that canoe of his—clever as he is. it's no joke, crossing a hun- dred miles of open sea in a twelve-foot canoe. i wouldn't care to try it." another knock; and when the door swung open in answer to the doctor's call, there stood our big friend on the threshold, a smile upon his strong, bronzed face. behind him appeared two porters carrying loads done up in indian palm-matting. these, when the first salutations were over, long arrow ordered to lay their burdens down. "behold, oh kindly one," said he, "i bring you, as i promised, my collection of plants which i had the red man's science hidden in a cave in the andes. these treasures represent the labors of my life." the packages were opened; and inside were many smaller packages and bundles. carefully they were laid out in rows upon the table. it appeared at first a large but disappointing dis- play. there were plants, flowers, fruits, leaves, roots, nuts, beans, honeys, gums, bark, seeds, bees and a few kinds of insects. the study of plants—or botany, as it is called --was a kind of natural history which had never interested me very much. i had considered it, com- pared with the study of animals, a dull science. but as long arrow began taking up the various things in his collection and explaining their qualities to us, i became more and more fascinated. and before he had done i was completely absorbed by the won- ders of the vegetable kingdom which he had brought so far. "these," said he, taking up a little packet of big seeds, "are what i have called 'laughing- beans.'" "what are they for?" asked bumpo. "to cause mirth," said the indian. bumpo, while long arrow's back was turned, took three of the beans and swallowed them. "alas !" said the indian when he discovered what bumpo had done. "if he wished to try the powers of these seeds he should have eaten no more than a the voyages of doctor dolittle quarter of a one. let us hope that he does not die of laughter." the beans' effect upon bumpo was most ex- traordinary. first he broke into a broad smile; then he began to giggle; finally he burst into such prolonged roars of hearty laughter that we had to carry him into the next room and put him to bed. the doctor said afterwards that he probably would have died laughing if he had not had such a strong constitution. all through the night he gurgled happily in his sleep. and even when we woke him up the next morning he rolled out of bed still chuck- ling returning to the reception room, we were shown some red roots which long arrow told us had the property, when made into a soup with sugar and salt, of causing people to dance with extraordinary speed and endurance. he asked us to try them; but we refused, thanking him. after bumpo's ex- hibition we were a little afraid of any more experi- ments for the present. there was no end to the curious and useful things that long arrow had collected: an oil from a vine which would make hair grow in one night; an orange as big as a pumpkin which he had raised in his own mountain-garden in peru; a black honey (he had brought the bees that made it too and the seeds of the flowers they fed on) which would put you to sleep, just with a teaspoonful, and make you wake the red man's science up fresh in the morning; a nut that made the voice beautiful for singing; a water-weed that stopped cuts from bleeding; a moss that cured snake-bite; a lichen that prevented sea-sickness. the doctor of course was tremendously inter- ested. well into the early hours of the morning he was busy going over the articles on the table one by one, listing their names and writing their proper- ties and descriptions into a note-book as long arrow dictated. "there are things here, stubbins," he said as he ended, "which in the hands of skilled druggists will make a vast difference to the medicine and chemistry of the world. i suspect that this sleeping-honey by itself will take the place of half the bad drugs we have had to use so far. long arrow has discovered a pharmacopeia of his own. miranda was right: he is a great naturalist. his name deserves to be placed beside linnæus. some day i must get all these things to england—but when," he added sadly—"yes, that's the problem: when?”. the fourth chapter the sea-serpent or a long time after that cabinet meeting of which i have just told you we did not ask the doctor anything further about going home. life in spidermonkey is- land went forward, month in month out, busily and pleasantly. the winter, with christmas celebra- tions, came and went, and summer was with us once again before we knew it. as time passed the doctor became more and more taken up with the care of his big family; and the hours he could spare for his natural history work grew fewer and fewer. i knew that he often still thought of his house and garden in puddleby and of his old plans and ambitions; because once in a while we would notice his face grow thoughtful and a little sad, when something reminded him of eng- land or his old life. but he never spoke of these things. and i truly believe he would have spent the remainder of his days on spidermonkey island if it hadn't been for an accident—and for polynesia. the old parrot had grown very tired of the in- dians and she made no secret of it. "the very idea," she said to me one day as we the sea-serpent were walking on the seashore—"the idea of the famous john dolittle spending his valuable life waiting on these greasy natives !—why, it's pre- posterous !” all that morning we had been watching the doc- tor superintend the building of the new theatre in popsipetel—there was already an opera-house and a concert-hall; and finally she had got so grouchy and annoyed at the sight that i had suggested her taking a walk with me. "do you really think," i asked as we sat down on the sands, "that he will never go back to pud- dleby again ?" "i don't know," said she. "at one time i felt sure that the thought of the pets he had left be- hind at the house would take him home soon. but since miranda brought him word last august that everything was all right there, that hope's gone. for months and months i've been racking my brains to think up a plan. if we could only hit upon some- thing that would turn his thoughts back to natural history again—i mean something big enough to get him really excited—we might manage it. but how?"—she shrugged her shoulders in disgust- "how?—when all he thinks of now is paving streets and teaching papooses that twice one are two!" it was a perfect popsipetel day, bright and hot, blue and yellow. drowsily i looked out to sea . the voyages of doctor dolittle wor? gry may utle thinking of my mother and father. i wondered if they were getting anxious over my long absence. beside me old polynesia went on grumbling away in low steady tones; and her words began to mingle and mix with the gentle lapping of the waves upon the shore. it may have been the even murmur of her voice, helped by the soft and balmy air, that lulled me to sleep. i don't know. anyhow i pres- ently dreamed that the island had moved again —not floatingly as before, but suddenly, jerkily, as though something enormously powerful had heaved it up from its bed just once and let it down. how long i slept after that i have no idea. i was awakened by a gentle pecking on the nose. "tommy !—tommy!" (it was polynesia's voice) "wake up!—gosh, what a boy, to sleep through an earthquake and never notice it !—tommy, listen: here's our chance now. wake up, for goodness' sake!" "what's the matter?" i asked sitting up with a yawn. "sh !—look !" whispered polynesia pointing out to sea. still only half awake, i stared before me with bleary, sleep-laden eyes. · and in the shallow water, not more than thirty yards from shore i saw an enormous pale pink shell. dome-shaped, it towered up in a graceful rainbow curve to a tremendous height; and round its base the surf broke gently in the sea-serpent added in a whisper as i moved to go. "we must keep this a secret or we'll have a crowd of sight- seers round here in five minutes. it's mighty lucky we found the snail in a quiet bay." reaching the harbor, i picked out a small light canoe from among the number that were lying there and without telling any one what i wanted it for, got in and started off to paddle it down the shore. i was mortally afraid that the snail might have left before i got back. and you can imagine how delighted i was, when i rounded a rocky cape and came in sight of the bay, to find he was still there. polynesia, i saw, had got her errand done and returned ahead of me, bringing with her a pair of porpoises. these were already conversing in low tones with john dolittle. i beached the canoe and went up to listen. "what i want to know," the doctor was saying, "is how the snail comes to be here. i was given to understand that he usually stayed in the deep hole; and that when he did come to the surface it was always in mid-ocean." "oh, didn't you know?—haven't you heard?" the porpoises replied: "you covered up the deep hole when you sank the island. why yes: you let it down right on top of the mouth of the hole—sort of put the lid on, as it were. the fishes that were in it at the time have been trying to get out ever since. the great snail had the worst luck of all: the the sea-serpent “not a word," said they. "it's a most fright. fully difficult language." "do you think that you might be able to find me some kind of a fish that could ?" "we don't know," said the porpoises. "we might try." "i should be extremely grateful to you if you would," said the doctor. "there are many im. portant questions i want to ask this snail—and besides, i would like to do my best to cure his tail for him. it's the least i can do. after all, it was my fault, indirectly, that he got hurt." "well, if you wait here," said the porpoises, "we'll see what can be done.” istening it dor urgeliai dora ibecause je st i het hep" the voyages of doctor dolittle snail used, he began to put words together for him- self. you see, he was already familiar with one or two fish languages; and that helped him quite a little. after he had practised for a while like this he leant over the side of the canoe and putting his face be- low the water, tried speaking to the snail direct. it was hard and difficult work; and hours went by before he got any results. but presently i could tell by the happy look on his face that little by little he was succeeding. the sun was low in the west and the cool even- ing breeze was beginning to rustle softly through the bamboo-groves when the doctor finally turned from his work and said to me, "stubbins, i have persuaded the snail to come in on to the dry part of the beach and let me ex. amine his tail. will you please go back to the town and tell the workmen to stop working on the theatre for to-day? then go on to the palace and get my medicine-bag. i think i left it under the throne in the audience chamber." "and remember," polynesia whispered as i turned away, "not a word to a soul. if you get asked questions, keep your mouth shut. pretend you have a toothache or something." this time when i got back to the shore—with the medicine-bag—i found the snail high and dry on the beach. seeing him in his full length like this, it was easy to understand how old-time, superstitious ne the voyages of doctor dolittle if i wasn't so confoundedly busy i'd sit up with him myself. i wish i could, because i still have a lot of things to talk over with him." "but doctor," said polynesia as we prepared to go back to the town, "you ought to take a holiday. all kings take holidays once in the while—every one of them. king charles, for instance of course charles was before your time—but he ! - why, he was always holiday-making. not that he was ever what you would call a model king. but just the same, he was frightfully popular. every- body liked him—even the golden-carp in the fish- pond at hampton court. as a king, the only thing i had against him was his inventing those stupid, little, snappy dogs they call king charles spaniels. there are lots of stories told about poor charles; but that, in my opinion, is the worst thing he did. however, all this is beside the point. as i was saying, kings have to take holidays the same as anybody else. and you haven't taken one since you were crowned, have you now?" "no," said the doctor, "i suppose that's true." "well now i tell you what you do," said she: "as soon as you get back to the palace you publish a royal proclamation that you are going away for a week into the country for your health. and you're going without any servants, you understand—just like a plain person. it's called traveling incognito, when kings go off like that. they all do it—it's the voyages of doctor dolittle ing, the temptation will be too much for john do- little and he'll come, i know—especially as he'll be able to take those new plants and drugs of long arrow's to the english doctors, as well as see the floor of the ocean on the way." "how thrilling !" i cried. "do you mean the snail could take us under the sea all the way back to puddleby?" "certainly," said polynesia, "a little trip like that is nothing to him. he would crawl along the floor of the ocean and the doctor could see all the sights. perfectly simple. oh, john dolittle will come all right, if we can only get him to take that holiday—and if the snail will consent to give us the ride." "golly, i hope he does !" sighed jip. "i'm sick of these beastly tropics—they make you feel so lazy and good-for-nothing. and there are no rats or anything here--not that a fellow would have the energy to chase 'em even if there were. my, wouldn't i be glad to see old puddleby and the garden again! and won't dab-dab be glad to have us back!" "by the end of next month," said i, "it will be two whole years since we left england—since we pulled up the anchor at kingsbridge and bumped our way out into the river." "and got stuck on the mud-bank," added chee- chee in a dreamy, far-away voice. the seventh chapter the doctor's decision ell, you can guess how glad we were when next morning the doctor, after his all-night conversation with the snail, told us that he had made up his mind to take the holiday. a proclamation was pub- lished right away by the town crier that his maj- esty was going into the country for a seven-day rest, but that during his absence the palace and the gov- ernment offices would be kept open as usual. polynesia was immensely pleased. she at once set quietly to work making arrangements for our departure—taking good care the while that no one should get an inkling of where we were going, what we were taking with us, the hour of our leaving or which of the palace-gates we would go out by. cunning old schemer that she was, she forgot nothing. and not even we, who were of the doc- tor's party, could imagine what reasons she had for some of her preparations. she took me inside and told me that the one thing i must remember to bring with me was all of the doctor's note-books. long arrow, who was the only indian let into the se- cret of our destination, said he would like to come the doctor's decision te wers is as port with us as far as the beach to see the great snail; and him polynesia told to be sure and bring his collection of plants. bumpo she ordered to carry the doctor's high hat—carefully hidden under his coat. she sent off nearly all the footmen who were on night duty to do errands in the town, so that there should be as few servants as possible to see us leave. and midnight, the hour when most of the towns- people would be asleep, she finally chose for our departure. we had to take a week's food-supply with us for the royal holiday. so, with our other packages, we were heavy laden when on the stroke of twelve we opened the west door of the palace and stepped cautiously and quietly into the moonlit garden. "tiptoe incognito," whispered bumpo as we gently closed the heavy doors behind us. no one had seen us leave. at the foot of the stone steps leading from the peacock terrace to the sunken rosary, something made me pause and look back at the magnificent palace which we had built in this strange, far-off land where no white men but ourselves had ever come. somehow i felt it in my bones that we were leaving it to-night never to return again. and i wondered what other kings and ministers would dwell in its splendid halls when we were gone. the air was hot; and everything was deadly still but for the gentle splashing of the tame flamingoes paddling or out no one has the heavy whispered „ that com the voyages of doctor dolittle done your duty by them. it was their fault: they made you king. why not accept the snail's offer; and just drop everything now, and go? the work you'll do, the information you'll carry home, will be of far more value than what you're doing here." "good friend," said the doctor turning to her sadly, "i cannot. they would go back to their old unsanitary ways: bad water, uncooked fish, no drain- age, enteric fever and the rest. ... no. i must think of their health, their welfare. i began life as a people's doctor: i seem to have come back to it in the end. i cannot desert them. later perhaps something will turn up. but i cannot leave them now." "that's where you're wrong, doctor," said she. "now is when you should go. nothing will 'turn up.' the longer you stay, the harder it will be to leave—go now. go to-night." "what, steal away without even saying good-bye to them! why, polynesia, what a thing to suggest !" "a fat chance they would give you to say good- bye !" snorted polynesia growing impatient at last. "i tell you, doctor, if you go back to that palace tonight, for goodbys or anything else, you will stay there. now—this moment—is the time for you to go." the truth of the old parrot's words seemed to the voyages of doctor dolittle ill fortune? your way is clear. your future and your work beckon you back to your foreign home beyond the sea. with you will go also what lore i too have gathered for mankind—to lands where it will be of wider use than it can ever here. i see the glimmerings of dawn in the eastern heaven. day is at hand. go before your subjects are abroad. go before your project is discovered. for truly i believe that if you go not now you will linger the remainder of your days a captive king in popsipetel." great decisions often take no more than a mo- ment in the making. against the now paling sky i saw the doctor's figure suddenly stiffen. slowly he lifted the sacred crown from off his head and laid it on the sands. and when he spoke his voice was choked with tears. "they will find it here," he murmured, "when they come to search for me. and they will know that i have gone. . . . my children, my poor chil. dren !- i wonder will they ever understand why it was i left them. . .. i wonder will they ever un- derstand—and forgive." he took his old hat from bumpo; then facing long arrow, gripped his outstretched hand in silence. "you decide aright, oh kindly one," said the indian—"though none will miss and mourn you the voyages of doctor dolittle extremely comfortable to sit and lounge on—better than a sofa, when you once got accustomed to the damp and clammy feeling of it. he asked us, shortly after we started, if we wouldn't mind taking off our boots, as the hobnails in them hurt his back as we ran excitedly from one side to another to see the different sights. the motion was not unpleasant, very smooth and even; in fact, but for the landscape passing outside, you would not know, on the level going, that you were moving at all. i had always thought for some reason or other that the bottom of the sea was flat. i found that it was just as irregular and changeful as the surface of the dry land. we climbed over great mountain- ranges, with peaks towering above peaks. we threaded our way through dense forests of tall sea-plants. we crossed wide empty stretches of sandy mud, like deserts—so vast that you went on for a whole day with nothing ahead of you but a dim horizon. sometimes the scene was moss- covered, rolling country, green and restful to the eye like rich pastures; so that you almost looked to see sheep cropping on these underwater downs. and sometimes the snail would roll us forward inside him like peas, when he suddenly dipped down- ward to descend into some deep secluded valley with steeply sloping sides. in these lower levels we often came upon the the doctor's decision shadowy shapes of dead ships, wrecked and sunk heaven only knows how many years ago; and passing them we would speak in hushed whispers like children seeing monuments in churches. here too, in the deeper, darker waters, mon- strous fishes, feeding quietly in caves and hollows would suddenly spring up, alarmed at our approach, and flash away into the gloom with the speed of an arrow. while other bolder ones, all sorts of un- earthly shapes and colors, would come right up and peer in at us through the shell. "i suppose they think we are a sort of sana. quarium," said bumpo—"i'd hate to be a fish." it was a thrilling and ever-changing show. the doctor wrote or sketched incessantly. before long we had filled all the blank note-books we had left. then we searched our pockets for any odd scraps of paper on which to jot down still more ob- servations. we even went through the used books a second time, writing in between the lines, scribbling all over the covers, back and front. our greatest difficulty was getting enough light to see by. in the lower waters it was very dim. on the third day we passed a band of fire-eels, a sort of large, marine glow-worm; and the doctor asked the snail to get them to come with us for a way. this they did, swimming alongside; and their light was very helpful, though not brilliant. how our giant shellfish found his way across o the voyages of doctor dolittle ays. that vast and gloomy world was a great puzzle to us. john dolittle asked him by what means he navigated—how he knew he was on the right road to puddleby river. and what the snail said in reply got the doctor so excited, that having no paper left, he tore out the lining of his precious hat and covered it with notes. by night of course it was impossible to see any- thing; and during the hours of darkness the snail used to swim instead of crawl. when he did so he could travel at a terrific speed, just by waggling that long tail of his. this was the reason why we completed the trip in so short a time—five and a half days. the air of our chamber, not having a change in the whole voyage, got very close and stuffy; and for the first two days we all had headaches. but after that we got used to it and didn't mind it in the least. early in the afternoon of the sixth day, we no- ticed we were climbing a long gentle slope. as we went upward it grew lighter. finally we saw that the snail had crawled right out of the water al- together and had now come to a dead stop on a long strip of gray sand. behind us we saw the surface of the sea rippled by the wind. on our left was the mouth of a river with the tide running out. while in front, the low flat land stretched away into the mist—which the voyages of doctor dolittle out his old handbag from among the bundles— "with this wind from the east she'll need it to keep the animals in the house warm. come on. let's hug the river-bank so we don't miss our way in the fog. you know, there's something rather attractive in the bad weather of england—when you've got a kitchen-fire to look forward to. ... four o'clock! come along—we'll just be in nice time for tea.” the end il the end om gerard va hdi hw byu v the borrower must return this item on or before the last date stamped below. if another user places a recall for this item, the borrower will be notified of the need for an earlier return. non-receipt of overdue notices does not exempt the borrower from overdue fines. harvard college widener library cambridge, ma - widener sap. may: embeddabuelles vfancelles max wdenes widener widener dec nov book due cancelled please handle with care. thank you for helping to preserve library collections at harvard. avard coll conserved . library wloche ps . s harvard college library transferred ΤΟ harvard college library snickerty nick thur rath dance of spring snickerty nick by julia ellsworth, ford, that st rhymes by l ore gä witter bynner witter bynneflew jorre con illustrations by arthur rackham non-in ferior entes new york offat, yard& co pabo * r * p vard culliga ... kakva c duterte. rany wittis rign wid-lc ps r copyright, , by moffat, yard & co. *. the acting rights are reserved by the author. by the same author pictures by george frederick watts. ill astrations. introduction by author and thomas w. lamont. to, $ . . king solomon and the fair shulamite with photogravure illus- trations. mo, $ . . “a. e.” a note of appreciation, with portrait and facsimile. mo, $ . . simeon solomon. an appreciation, with illustrations. , $ . . the mist. a play in one act. produced in london at the little theatre november, . imagina. a fanciful tale for chil- dren and grown-ups. with colored illus- trations by arthur rackham and draw- in rs kıy lauren ford. $ . dutton. pan and the spirit of beauty, with witter bynner's "canticle of •pan." suttonhouse . consequences (translated into chinese), a novel. dutton. magic innerland, in prepara- tion. foreword the little child had come to take the giant to play in his garden, “which is paradise.” my indebtedness to this story is the character of the selfish giant. the little play of snickerty nick is not a dramatization of the selfish giant. the character of snickerty nick is an original character and the play centers around him. the little boy is only a loving and beloved child, and spring and winter are per- sonified by faeries and gnomes. to arthur rackham i tender my most sincere thanks whose magic touch, as in peter pan, grimm's faery tales and undine, making real all faeries and gnomes, endears all child life to grown-ups as well as to children. julia ellsworth ford. viii characters the giant.........baron bill-arron bomberrum the dwarf........snickerty nick the little boy the children winter spring winter's gnomes snow hail frost northwind chilblains spring's faeries—cowslip buttercup o & dandelion blue bell bumble bee ragged sailor the children may choose their names from mother goose or any they may fancy. if the children are dressed in national costume ,- chinese, japanese, dutch, old fashion english, german, french, russian, american, etc., it is very effective, and helps toward engendering an international spirit. a dog and a donkey can be used in this play. p. . the play has been set to music. a little boy came laughing and turned icicles into flowers and won a kingdom with love. scene i snickerty nick but the giant hates the children and chases them away; : and there can't be any summer here, the sun will never stay, for where no children ever come, it's winter every day. now i'm the giant's servant and i never have my way: for i have to tell the children that they mustn't come and play. for i wouldn't want them eaten up and so i have to say, it's not my grass, you can't come in, you've got to go away. [placing the paint brush in the paint can] pretty good work, nicky. one more touch and it will be finished. [while snickerty nick is eyeing his work, a small boy creeps through the hedge, tip- he has a quaint kind face arockbait more spanked against than spanking trespassers will the giant sticks his head out of the door snickerty nick dwarf what has that to do with ett? the most exquisite woman i ever met, etta by name, a love, a pet, here's what she had to do with ett- she et her egg with etiquette. but once her lovely sleeve got wet and it dripped when she danced the minuet and left a spot on the green carpet. and i made a note of her great regret in this little green book which i carry yet. giant stop your nonsense, talk sense. dwarf who talks sense anyway? [counting his buttons] richman? poorman? beggarman? thief? doctor? lawyer? merchant? chief? none of them talk sense. snickerty nick giant you irritate me. i'm going to kick you. dwarf [consulting the green book] you've already kicked me , times. when you've kicked me , times, according to your solemn promise as a giant, the kingdom will be mine. don't say i didn't warn you. five more! giant by beelzebub, i must kick you. [he kicks the dwarf.] dwarf [taking his score book out of his pocket] . got it in my score book-got it in— , kicks. [dusts his pants, where the giant has kicked snickerty nick him, with a whisk broom hanging on his coat.] giant [giant kicks dwarf again.] dwarf , kicks! only three more! [the dwarf chuckling, again takes the whisk giant hang the sign on the gate, you snickerty snicker! what were you made for? dwarf being, not doing, your highness. giant well, i was made for doing. i am faring away early to-morrow morning before you'll be up, snickerty nick sleepy head, to see the great cornish ogre to ask him why it's always winter in my garden. it's spring now and i want flowers in my gar- den and i don't understand why they won't grow. they bloom everywhere except here. i am the great giant, baron bill-arron bomberrum. and i will have flowers. look around and see if you can find me even one bud. [they both look.] dwarf i can't find one. i like my friend mary's gar- den better than yours, although i don't care for cockle shells and silver bells. personally, i pre- fer the pretty maids all in a row. giant listen! i shall be gone seven years. seven is a lucky number. i shall stay only seven years because my conversation is limited. sin see the little boy snickerty nick dwarf kick it quick! [to the audience, behind his hand] there's a brick in it! [the giant starts to kick the dwarf again.] dwarf [standing still] go on, kick me— [the giant stops his foot in time, shakes his stick at him.] giant not this time! dwarf nick of time, for all time belongs to snickerty nick. no time like the present. [takes off his hat and bows, then runs swiftly around in a circle.] snickerty nick giant what are you doing? dwarf killing time. i learned to do that when i was the amanuensis of the marquise of magog. giant hang up the sign and lock the gate. don't let anyone in. don't let the children play in my. garden. my own garden is my own garden and i will allow nobody to play in it but myself. do you hear? dwarf yes, your stoutness, i hear. hearing may be better than seeing—sometimes—it depends on what you look at. personally i prefer seeing, even when- snickerty nick giant here, snickerty nick, pull off my boots. i am going to bed. [dwarf pulls off one boot.] dwarf [looking at it quizzically] it has always been a puzzle to me, how that, old woman lived in the shoe with so many chil- dren. very insanitary. [as he pulls off the other boot, the giant kicks him. he rolls over, then gets up and makes the entry in his score book.] , ! one more kick and the kingdom's mine. hurrah! giant i am going to bed now. see that there is no noise around here. [giant puts on his night-cap and goes in.] dance of winter and gnomes snickerty nick [northwind dashes in clothed in purple, purple wings floating behind her.] winter blow your horn! call our friends! this is a delightful spot. we must invite snow, hail, frost, and chilblains and live here all the year round. northwind - - -ooh! [snow enters all in white carrying a basket filled with snowballs, and with snow to sprinkle on the bushes. hail, in grey, hops over one of the bushes and as he does so hailstones are heard. frost, in silver, waves a silver scarf over the flowers. chilblains, in blue, comically carries an enormous bottle of camphor.] winter let's dance. snickerty nick dwarf [waking up] dear me! what has happened! i'm a bit chilly on the projecting points. [dwarf rubs his ears and toes.] giant [poking his head out of the window with his night-cap on aud roaring] get out of my garden. unlock my door, you winter villains. you and your friends have killed all my flowers and the blossoms on my apple trees and there will be no golden fruit in the autumn. if i catch you i will kill you and gobble you all up. all [mocking him] fee, fi, fo, fum! baron bill-arron bomberrum! snickerty nick all [mocking and clapping their hands with the rhyme] pease porridge hot, pease porridge cold, pease porridge in the pot, the giant's growing old! chilblains give him the cold shoulder. [winter and gnomes turn left shoulder toward him.] ha! ha! look at your nose now! dwarf you are disturbing my rest with that beastly noise. go away, i want to sleep. giant get out of my garden. go to the north pole, there's where you belong. i wish you would go snickerty nick dwarf [howls.] my! my! what has happened to my toes? [sits on the ground and rubs them.] something has happened to my feet, one more thing to add to my woes. if i can't walk and have to use crutches, and the giant kicks me any more, i'll fall down and break my head, and lose my crown. personally i prefer walking. [chilblains touches the giant's nose.] giant [his nose is quite white.] my! my! what has happened to my nose? [giant steps back and stumbles over the dwarf and starts to kick him but stops.] no, nicky, i won't kick you any more for the present; i know just when to stop. [teeth chattering] i have had enough of this old garden. i won't . will carrara adul. rockba the great cornish ogre snickerty nick dwarf i'll give you a whistle and then you can whistle for it. northwind i am your sister; what will you do for me? dwarf i'll call you una and give you a dandelion to roar at you. frost i am your brother; what will you give me? dwarf i will give you the mint of my kingdom—a peppermint. snow i am your sweetheart; what will you give me? dwarf a trip to the moon. m the sandman watches smiling scene ii snickerty nick dwarf [in a sleepy voice] butter? butter is no good without bread. [he opens his eyes for a moment, then shuts them again.] buttercup [shaking him] he doesn't like butter! i can't wake him. spring ragged sailor, try what you can do. [ragged sailor with his shirt sticking out tugs at the dwarf.] ragged sailor ahoy, nicky! time you pulled up anchor. here, shift to port. [rolling him over on his side.] dwarf [sitting up] snickerty nick · hello, dicky dicky doubt, with your shirt- tail out! [they all laugh.] [nicky rubs his eyes and falls asleep again.] ragged sailor there's no moving him. he's aground, he is. [sailor fashion he dances a few steps.] spring sweet william, you try. [sweet william takes the paints that the dwarf has used for the sign and paints a dot of red on his forehead, his cheeks and then the end of his nose until he is a droll sight.] sweet william see what a funny face he has. he won't know himself when he wakes up. · wake up! wake up! i can't wake him. snickerty nick blue bell let me try. i will tickle him. tickely, tickely, on the knee, if you laugh, you don't love me. [she tickles him on the nose and on the knee. he sits up suddenly for a moment, rubs his nose and makes funny faces. finally he falls back asleep.] it's no use, he doesn't love me and he won't wake up. [the dwarf snickers in his sleep.] bumble bee [in a low buzzing voice.] i can wake him. i'll stick my itchy needle in, in, in. [the dwarf scratches first in one place, then in another, gives a kick and curls up asleep again.] snickerty nick spring i have an idea. trundle him in the wheelbarrow and dump him on the ground the way you dumped old winter when you didn't want him round. chorus trundle him in the wheelbarrow and dump him in the brook! we dumped a fat man in last week- mercy, how he shook! his face was like a cranky stove when the fire all goes out, and you ought to see the fat man now, he isn't half so stout. for we dumped him in the water and he rolled and rolled and rolled, he was harder than a snowball, he was frozen icy cold; snickerty nick all [rushing forward] let me do it. [they wheel him round. the wheelbarrow up- sets and the dwarf rolls out, jumps up and rubs his eyes. spring and the faeries dis- appear.] dwarf is it time to get up? i think i must have had a nap. i had a dream just now. what was it? have i slept seven years? [proudly] i must see if i am still as beautiful as i was. the marquise of magog loved me for my strange beauty. beauty is a joy forever. [he takes a mirror from his coat and looks at himself. glances over his shoulder to see if anyone could be looking into the mirror.] extraordinary! this must be some mistake. is this a face? well, well, well! personally i snickerty nick think beauty is only skin deep, fit for women and peacocks. but what is this? a dandelion? i must have been picking flowers in my sleep. i love to sleep-walk in a dell, to gather flowers and whistle- but o, i woke up with a yell the night i picked a thistle. i dreamed i kissed a little girl as pretty as my sister- but o, she had long finger-nails and scratched me when i kissed her. some people are like thistle-tops; they beckon and divert you, and look at you with friendly looks and smile at you—and hurt you. [the garden being now full of flowers, little children peep through the gate and call, pelting the dwarf with blossoms. d ecobedoo bethod little children peep through the gate snickerty nick second child he is a selfish old giant and he doesn't like us. there aren't any flowers when he's here. third child [who is timid] he won't let anyone play in his garden. i'm scared. i want to go home. first child we like it here and we can run when we hear him coming. fourth child it is better than playing on the hard road. the road is full of cobble-stones. dwarf quite true, quite true. cobble-stones gather no moss. second child it's such a nice garden. snickerty nick dwarf yes, geometrically it is very fine. geometry is very interesting—to those who love it. some people prefer the encyclopedia. too many facts, however, stunt the imagination. person- ally i prefer poetry. third child [timidly] if he comes back to-day, will he eat us up? dwarf he may not come until to-morrow. but if he does come to-day he will gobble you up. fee, fi, fo,fum, he'll smell the blood of little tom thumb, and yours and yours, and up he'll come and stuff you all in his great big tum! fee, fi, fo, fum! [third child looks frightened and hides behind one of the others.] snickerty nick fourth child aren't you afraid he will eat you up? dwarf no, i am very old and tough. he won't eat me. third child let's go away. first child no, i want to stay and pick some flowers. third child you'd better not, the giant won't like it. first child well, let's have a dance, then. dwarf all right. dancing is quite the vogue now. i am thinking of taking it up myself. d ) ar up “let's play" snickerty nick children nicky, nicky, where shall we hide? if the giant comes in the front gate he'll catch us. dwarf the giant always comes in the back gate. run, run. [the children run toward the big front gate but they cannot open it.] children the gate won't open, nicky. he'll catch us, he'll catch us. giant [heard coming nearer and nearer.] who is in my garden? i am the baron bill- arron bomberrum. my own garden is my own garden, and i will allow nobody to play in it but myself. snickerty nick [the children tug frantically at the gate but they cannot open it. they hide behind the bushes. the giant appears with a huge stick. the dwarf steals quickly toward the gate and opens it. the children finding the gate open rush toward it. the giant chases them with his stick. the little boy is left, whom the giant does not see.] giant [looking around astonished] what has happened. flowers in my garden? the cornish ogre said the flowers never bloomed in his garden and they never would in mine. [discovers the little boy lying under the trees, where he has been knocked down by the children in their flight.] little boy [holding up his hands] snickerty nick o, mr. giant, help me up. i have hurt my- self. [the giant looks at the child and puts the stick down, then lifts him up; and the little boy throws his arms around the giant's neck and kisses him.] little boy thank you, mr. giant. giant [reflectively] no one ever kissed me before. it feels queer. [giant puts him down.] little boy i'm all right now. [takes the giant's hand and looks up into his face.] i think i will run and play with the children now. good-bye, mr. giant. snickerty nick giant don't you want a flower? you may have one. i'll pick one for you. here it is. little boy thank you, good mr. giant. giant [gradually relenting] here is another, you may have this. [aside] no one ever called me “good mr. giant” before. [looks at the little boy with a smile.] little boy lean down and i will put one in your button- hole and one in mine. giant aren't you a little chap? little boy aren't you a big chap? little chaps like me like big chaps like you. snickerty nick dwarf it's awfully funny and yet it's true when the children came the flowers came too. giant go and find him and tell him all the children can come back and play with him. dwarf with me, too. don't forget, nicky. giant [taking up the sign.] nicky, i'm going to burn this sign up. dwarf [pulling it away from giant.] no, no. give it to me. i can fix it so that when they see it, they'll come back. [dwarf takes the brush and paints letters around the ett on the sign making it read petted.] snickerty nick [they join hands and dance round the giant.] dipsey-wipsey, snickerty says we may! dwarf [running in with the jingling keys and skip- ping round the outside of the circle and joining in the chorus which they repeat.] hurray! hurray! hurray! hurray! dipsey-wipsey, tiddledy ipsey, snickerty says we may. curtain [the dwarf puts his head out between the cur- tains and smiles. then he comes through and holds up a bunch of golden keys.] . . eleanor.whitney. davis harvard college library bauer i clara in blunderland some press opinionis. the atheneum --" the parody is one of the best specimens of that kind of literature, and the political satire is extremely good." the academy.--"clara in blun«lerland' is sure of an uproarious reception on both sides of the house, and it might have useful results, for many true words are spoken in jest in its pages.' the world. --“ both the prose and the verse of the famous companion volumes are imitated with unflagging cleverness and point in this diverting political skit. the author has maintained the parody throughout with a skill and ingenuity which will be keenly appreciated by all who know their lewis carroll and their contemporary statesmen.' the pall mall gazette." clara in blunderland' will give everybody who takes even the most superficial interest in politics a hearty laugh. ... while the prose is good, the adaptation of the familiar lyrics are excellent. ... take it for all in all it is excellent fooling.' the daily telegraph.-" it is good fun and there are some shrewd hits in its pages. the parody is sufficiently bright and amusing and s. r.'s illustrations, burlesquing the famous pictures of sir john tenniel, achieve consider- able success." the globe." it is thoroughly up-to-date and its por- traits of prominent politicians are unmistakable. ... it should prove entertaining to politicians of all parties, for its satire is as impartial and comprehensive as it is witty and genial." the scotsman._." a really clever political skit. both as a parody and a vehicle for a good deal of satire it is distinctly clever." the daily chronicle.—"the satire is good-humoured and its cleverness is unquestionable.” 文​/ 。 一 ​ Člara in blunderland by caroline lewis witii forty illustrations by s. r. london william heinemann . . harvard college library from the estate of mrs. charles robert sanger february , first impression, february second impression, march third impression, march fourth impression, march fifth impression, april all rights reserved dedicated with the most profound affection and respect to the memory of lewis carroll, to whom the author is as much indebted for the text as the illustrator to sir john tenniel for the ensuing parodies of his perfect pictures. also with the publisher's courteous acknowledgment to messrs. macmillan, the godfathers of the original "alice." pen drifting. all o'er the sea of politics full leisurely we glide ; and britain's bark, with little skill, and little care we guide, while little minds make little plans, and stronger hands are tied. ix Åh, cruel fate! to make us tell this very plaintive story, of clara's trip to blunderland, of creatures bold and boery ; and clothe in garb of fantasy prosaic whig and tory. a sense of duty urged us first to “hurry and begin it." fatuity then whispered low, “ it won't take half a minute !” we laughed to scorn the bare idea that there was money in it. so far we have confined our words to merely pointless chatter, as fat as other prefaces, perhaps a trifle flatter; but, as the reader always skips this part, it does not matter. one serious word—we have to pay our tribute to those sages who wrote ani drew that “ wonderland” on which are based these pages.. a classic which in nursery land will stand the test of ages. we claim that naught within these leaz'es has been set down in malice, that certainly against the state by us there no cabal is- and, reader, if you've praise to give, bestow it all on alice. contents. chay. i. in a hole again n. a mushroom caterpillar . . . . iii. the conservatory : : iv. the mad party v. crumpty-bumpty vi. boerdom . . . . . . vii. beknighted . . viii. friend or f. . . ix. flamjingos . : x. queens and questions . . .. . xi. dragon and turnturtle . . xii. on the cards . . . . . . xiii list of illustrations. . · . · · · · · · · · “ beware the porlok rock, my joe” . . . firontispiece page drifting . . . . . . . . . . ix clara felt very listless . . . . . . . . i “ time! time ! ” . . . . . . . . “ it will make you grow out of all conscience”. certainly she was growing. . . . “ i-can't-go--your-pace,” gasped clara. . chestnut land . . . . . . . a mushroom caterpillar . . “ you thought you could shoot that wildebeeste on your head” . . . . “ you could knock out the stuffing from him” . . . * pray, how do you manage to swallow ?”. “ aren't you afraid it will bite you ?". . she came across a little house nursing the voter . . .. the goose-baby. . . . “ up a tree again?” said clara . . . like the pictures in a biograph . . . “ your views want broadening,” said the hatter . . . : : . : . . : : xv in a hole again. eve her to learn about china and other places in which she never could feel any interest, and another lady to teach her the use of the globe ; but nobody to give her nice little lessons in kindergarten philosophy, or even to help her and her sister geraldine in making irish stew. no wonder she felt dull; and there was no occasion for surprise when, purely in search of distraction, she went right into a hole on the putting green to fetch out her ball. people do and say such funny things when they are bored at golf. you may think it wonderful that such a big girl as clara could get down a hole of this sort, but she had a marvellous gift in that way, and it was said that she could get into a hole when no one else would have found it possible; so you see she had no difficulty about it. this particular hole, however, appeared to be bottomless, and the moment she got into it she began to fall, which made her say at once to herself, “dear me! i must be dream- ing again, for of course in real life i could in a hole again. never fall at all. my aunt sarum would not allow it." but she fell, and fell, and fell. down, down, down, until she began to fear that she would fall right down to the level of the aberrationals, and come out in ireland, where the inhabitants are all cannibals, and the resources of civilisation have long ago been exhausted. “ i do wish,” she said, as she was falling, “i had geraldine with me. then i could hide in some cabinet or other where i should never be noticed and, perhaps, when the aberrationals had eaten her, they wouldn't be hungry for me. i never knew anybody except auntie for whom one of the family was not quite enough.” she was, so she thought, years and years in falling, and once she nearly saved herself by catching hold of an old age pension which was sticking out of a pigeon-hole in the wall, with nobody to look after it. but it pulled itself in a hole again. going to read the bill,” clara thought she had better try to find some way out, as she did not wish to pay for food she had not had. all the doors were locked, but through the key-hole of one (which bore the inscription “noblesse oblige. admittance £ , a year. liberal discount to successful brewers and unsuccessful generals.") she could see a beautiful garden, carpeted with flowers of here- ditary intellect, and filled with hundreds upon hundreds of happy children, of whom three formed a quorum, and of whom some seemed to be more than half awake. "i shall call that the palace of sleeping beauties,” cried clara, in ecstasies, quite forgetting that a garden can't be a palace. she tried very hard to get through the key- hole into this charming place, but it was of no use, and when she found that she would have to stop in the hall with the green chairs and hear the white rabbit read the bill, she sat down and cried and cried. "must i stop here for ever and ever?” she moaned. "my dear,” answered the white rabbit, in a hole again. “i am afraid you will never leave this house until it is dissolved.” “oh dear, oh dear,” she said, despairingly, “why was it built on such solid foundations ? ” "you ought to be very thank- ful,” he added, "after your great come down, to be here at all when you think how m a n y strange crea- tures are trying to get in and derpaesee x all can't.” after the bill was read the serious business began. the hall became full of all sorts of animals. “both quadrangles and biceps," as she told geraldine afterwards. there were a good niany geese, a very ugly duckling, some saucy monkeys, wolves in sheeps' clothing, parrots in eagles' in a hole again. mv vues tory sml cy euro child,” continued the dodo, with kindly patronage, “and what you want is protection.” “i do wear a chest protector in the winter," said clara, “and i don't like it, but aunt sarum makes- ” “tut! tut! my dear, you want more than that, you want protecting everywhere, and against everything. confide in me. i will protect you. take this bottle and drink its contents. you must drink it all if you want to be thoroughly protected.” in a hole again. " it would be very nice to be protected,” said clara, "for some of those beasts are rather terrifying.” she looked up into the fatherly face of the dodo and could not help having confidence in him ; he was so ponderous and bland. she took the bottle in her hand. “is it nice?” she asked. “delicious, my dear,” he replied. “it is all sugar on the top and there are lots of plums in it." clara had noticed the red queen, standing by the door and eyeing her narrowly, and every now and then, when the dodo wasn't looking, she seemed to be signing to clara not to drink the stuff. clara hesitated. “come, come, my dear,” said the dodo, persuasively. “it's so nice, besides it will make you grow out of all conscience. drink it up.” she uncorked the bottle cautiously, and sniffed at the contents. it was quite white, and didn't smell nasty; besides clara had a vague ambition to become something big. the red in a hole again. ii is swallowed the effect will not last. see, you are shrinking again already. you naughty child,” he continued, working himself up into a passion, "you have wasted all that old and crusted spirit of conservatism ; and there is we tetes alty elurry very little of the genuine article left in the country. we can only get the real thing in china now, and we have found the chinese article very expensive lately.” “oh, please !” sobbed clara, “ i'm so sorry - i'm sure, — ” “what would have happened i really don't chapter ii. a mushroom caterpillar. “faster—faster!” cried the red queen, as she dragged clara along until the breath had nearly left her body, and she felt as if cold water were being poured down her back. “where are you taking me to ?” clara, panted, “i can't help thinking— ” . . “if you want to do that,” said the red queen, "you and i must part. i never permit any one to think in my presence. it's rude; it's unnecessary.” saying this, she let go her hand, with the unkind remark that there wasn't room for both of them in the same country. same co a i jshroom caterpillar. when you do say something that is wrong too.” “but why am i wronger than other people?” “i didn't say you were. everybody is wrong, and i am here to tell them so.” “and how do you think you will put them right?” “i don't thin' ; i talk. i don't put them right. it takes me all my time red them they are wrong. the point is—what do you want?” " i'm not quite sure, if you please, sir,” said clara, timidly, “things are co funny to-day.” “ things are never funny; they are only wrong," said the caterpillar. “you are not sure what you want, i am. what you want is advice." "but you can't think what a lc advice i've had to-day,” replied clara, distractedly, "and i don't think it's done me one bit of good.” “that's because it wasn't mine " said the caterpillar. “i shall now read yo'. leading article i am cabling home.” “i didn't know people ever cabled leaders,” said clara. a mushroom caterpillar. "it is long, but it's very, very clever. it has been written entirely for your improvement.” clara felt that after this she could not refuse to listen, and the caterpillar still sucking the pipe, from which it seemed to draw its inspira- tion, read, as follows :- porlokrocky. 'tis warrig and the slinky pros do snibe and squirgle in the dark; all boersome are the interfoes, and the frogrags outyark. beware the porlokrock, my joe ! the orange peel, the olive patch! beware the brussels spouts, and o! mark well the kaiserspatch. they packed their milner to the cape : long time they drawled on this and that, so footled they on the dum-dum lay, and piffled as they sat. and as in snifty mood they piffed, the porlokrock, with soul aflame, came slimming through the spruity drift, pom-pomming as he came ! a mushroom caterpillar. one !—two!-three !-four! disasters came, the buckled blades went snipper snap; they left it dead—that's what they said, vermilioning the map. and will you slay the porlokrock ? (come to pall mall, my brittle brod !) perchance you may, if some fine day you catch him on the nod. 'tis warrig and the slinky pros do snibe and squirgle in the dark; all boersome are the interfoes, and the frogrags outyark. “thank you, sir,” said clara, when the cater- pillar had finished, “ i'm very much obliged to you, but i can't quite understand it.” "i never expected you would,” said the caterpillar. “but is it any good to give people advice when they don't understand ?” asked clara, in a puzzled tone. “of course it is,” answered the caterpillar. “it teaches them how stupid they are.” “i know i'm stupid,” said poor clara, very a mushroom caterpillar. seems humbly, “at least everybody seems to think so to-day, and yet there was a time when they all praised me, and said how clever i was.” “ah!” remarked the caterpillar, " that must have been before you tried to keep pace with the red queen, wasn't it?”. “yes,” said clara, almost in tears, “i may be silly, but aunt sarum will tell you that i know my lessons by heart, and i can say poetry too—so there!” "what can you say?”. “well, do you know,” said clara, brightening up, “when i saw you sitting up there writing so hard i could not help thinking of how i doth the little busy bee'?" “repeat it,” said the caterpillar, in a some- what softened tone. and clara, putting her hands behind her back, began :- how doth the arm-chair strategist improve each censored cable, converting it by natty twist, into egregious fable. a mushroom caterpillar. cm cu “ you are old, father johnnie,” the strategist said, “and it's years since you'd had a tough fight; yet you thought you could shoot that wildebeeste on your head- do you think, after all, you were right?" “ in my youth,said john bull, “ i developed my hand “upon arabs, and niggers, and such ; and i thought that these boers were of similar brand; but i found i was out of it-much." a mushroom caterpillar. quid “you are old, father john, as i mentioned before, and your body and ways are not slim— did you think that by bouncing on stead's brother boer' you could knock out the stuffing from him ? " “in my youth," said john bull, “ it was ever my plan to win viclory after defeat; and i certainly thought that, the worse i began, the better my chances to beat." a mushroom caterpillar. tunturt be zatements seitsmc > > > “ you are old, father john, and your teeth must be few, for your cheeks are both sunken and hollow; yet this trashy and most indigestible stew, pray, how do you manage to swallow ?”. “in my youth,” said john bull, “ i gave appetite scope upon kingdoms and countries galore. now with salisbury's peptonised bluff and soft soap, i can swallow just that and no more." a mushroom caterpillar. "oh, dear me,” groaned the caterpillar, " that's worse than ever. you seem to have strategists on the brain. i think you were better with the ‘busy bee' than with this. try that over again, and remember that it is about bees, not strategists." so clara tried once more :- how doth a timely vulture lend improvement to a tale, a verne-munchausen-crusoe blend, which makes de rougemont pale. crear “there, that's quite enough!” screamed the caterpillar, highly incensed. “run away and play. go and bother crumpty-bumpty, or twiddle-thumb and twaddle-d.” “but do tell me that vulture tale,” pleaded clara, “i should so love to hear it from you. why did it keep following you from pretoria ? why are the birds so fond of you? i have read of people who are always seeing snakes, and aunt sarum says she could make french- men see stars any time of the day, if she liked, but of course she doesn't, she's so kind. why did that bird follow you ? ” re a mushroom caterpillar. was “well, you see," said the caterpillar, “birds are like human beings, they are wrong. now that silly bird, in spite of my strikingly hand- some appearance-> he stopped abruptly. “well,” said clara, encouragingly, “please don't stop, it's getting so exciting.” “well then, that bird, you must know, was very hungry, and when it saw me, a brilliant mushroom caterpillar, it's idea was to treat me merely as a little grub.” “that was certainly rather humiliating,” said clara, sympathetically,“ but after all grubs and caterpillars are rather alike. why didn't it eat you ?” " it might have done that, had it not been for my verbal armiour. you see the vulture couldn't swallow my statements.” "and how did you get rid of it?" asked clara. “you won't tell anybody if i tell you?” said the caterpillar. “ no." “well, then i sang to it.” “can you sing ?” asked clara, clasping her hands rapturously together. a mushroom caterpillar. “oh! quite easily; i sang to him :- swallow on, swallow on; you may eat whate'er you see, you may even swallow official reports, but you'll never swallow me. “when i gave him "the belle of new york,' he flew away,” said the caterpillar, turning round to the spot where clara had been standing. but clara, like the vulture, had flown. the conservatory. cons the co vatory hallit ny re home. i'm sure they will be glad to see me if i go in.” a polite old frog-gardener opened the little door for her, and she found herself at once in a small kitchen which was full of fog from one end to the other. the duchess was sitting on tenter-hooks nursing a baby which seemed to dislike the process very much. at any rate the poor little thing screamed and howled, without intermis- the conservatory. sion, which was not very surprising, as the duchess alternately slapped and pinched it, and occasionally put a wet blanket on its head. the cook, in the intervals of stirring the soup, hurled everything she could think of at the baby's head, and frequently threw dust in its eyes. “in order,” she said, “to arouse it to a sense of its responsibilities.” the duchess did not seem to mind the pots and pans, even when they hit her, which wasn't often, and she seemed pleased whenever the dalmeny cat, who appeared to be trying to escape observation in a hot corner of the kitchen, got a particularly hard knock. "you see,” she said to clara, “ that cat does not really belong to this house.” “how do you make it stop here?” asked clara. “have you buttered its feet ? ” “we've buttered it all over, my dear, at times, and yet it won't stop.” “it seems a very nice cat,” said clara ; “ but i don't see that it will be much use here, and i'm sure there's no room for it in this pokey little kitchen.” “ah! my dear, you don't know what respec- iei the conservatory. you want to get to, and you don't seem to know yourself.” "you see,” said clara, “ i've tried the dodo and he's too old-fashioned ; and the red queen, she's too fast; and the duchess, she's too slow; and the caterpillar, he's too—too cock-sure," and she blushed a little at the use of an expression which she knew was slang, for her aunt had told her never to pay any attention to the words of the man in the street. “i don't much care where i go,” she con- tinued, “so long as i get somewhere.” “ you'll do that,” said the cat, “but whether you'll like it or not when you get there i can't say." “in that direction ” (waving its right paw) "lives a hatter ; and in that ” (waving its left) "lives a march hare. visit either you like, they're both mad.” “but i don't want to go among mad people.” "then you shouldn't have come to blunder- land at all. we are all mad here, and if any body isn't mad when he comes, we very soon make him. but it's usually unnecessary. the conservatory. wit as it was speaking, the cat began to flicker and change just like the pictures in a biograph, but, whenever it seemed likely to turn into something interesting, it always faded and went out with a fizzle, leaving nothing behind it but the sneer, which was always there. "i do wish you wouldn't go on chopping and changing like that,” clara cried at last, "you'll really make me dizzy.” “ oh dear no!” said the cat, “ you'll never be that.” chapter iv. the mad party. as at a turning of the road clara came upon the march hare and the grey hatter at tea, and she thought it would be only polite to join their party; "although,” said clara, “it must only be temporary, of course.” there was a table under a tree, and an essentially liberal dormouse was seated at it between the hatter and the hare. “very uncomfortable for the dormouse,” thought clara ; for the hatter and the march hare were resting their elbows upon it, and talking over its head. “but then,” said clara to her- self, “ they always do talk over everybody's the mad party. head.” and saying this, she sat down at the table. “no room! no room!” cried the march hare, with a strong irish brogue. “ there's plenty of room !” said clara ; (this tile jod humu “why,' there are more tea-cups than people, ever so many. besides, i didn't know it was your table.” this made the march hare laugh a great deal. “it isn't a table at all,” he said. “it's a platform. it's not all mine. the part above board belongs to him ”—pointing to the hatter the mad party. “if they only would !” sighed the dormouse. “what century is this?” asked the hatter suddenly, pulling out his watch and banging it on the table. “ it's the beginning of the eighteenth,” clara answered. “getting very near doomsday as far as you're concerned," muttered the dormouse, looking sleepily at clara with one eye. “the hands go round different ways," sighed the hatter. “i told you dynamite wouldn't suit the works!” he added, looking angrily at the hare. “it was the best non-explosive,” the hare replied, meekly. “yes, but it must have got mixed with some continental gas,” the hatter grumbled ; “ you shouldn't have put it in by moonlight.” “the dormouse is asleep again!” cried the hare, angrily, and he poured some dreadfully hot water upon its nose. the dormouse shook its head impatiently, and said, without opening its eyes, “ of course, of course ; just what i was going to remark myself. hear, hear; hear, hear !” the mad party. rmouse “does the dormouse ever open both its eyes ? ” asked clara. "only when it gets right into the hot water,” said the hare ; “ that makes it open its eyes, i can tell you." " but why does it get into hot water at all ?” clara asked. “ i'm always putting it there,” said the hare. “you see,” said the hatter, “this dormouse is such a sleepy old thing, that if i alone were on this side to keep it awake it would go to sleep on the other. so we have to sit on both sides of it, and when we both begin pinching it together you have no idea how it wakes up. why it even speaks, then!” “what does it say ?” asked clara. “o, the first thing that comes into its head,” replied the hatter. “generally something foolish!” cried the hare, thumping the dormouse in the side. " quite so, quite so," sighed the poor dormouse ; "hear, hear ; certainly, cer- tainly.” “has it a mind of its own ?” asked clara. “ it had once,” replied the hare, “but not the mad party. since i got hold of its tail. its mind belongs to me now.” “ half of it,” snapped the hatter. “ all of it,” said the hare. “that's ridiculous," retorted the hatter ; “you may have got the tail, but i've got the whig end, anyhow.” “were the halves of different sizes ?” asked clara, whose head was beginning to spin. “some of them,” answered the hatter. at this point the hatter pinched the dor- mouse on one side, and the hare pinched it on the other, and both cried : “wake up, and say something! wake up, and say something !” “ yes, do,” said clara. “once upon a time there were three little sisters," the dormouse began, in a great hurry; "and their names were patty, primrose, and plantagenetta ; and they lived at the bottom of a well— ” "why?” asked clara. “because they thought truth was there,” answered the dormouse. “and was it ? ” clara asked. the mad party. mou v un- " it took up all their time,” explained the dormouse. "and are they still at the bottom of the well ?” said clara. “no; they're at the bottom of the poll now," sighed the dormouse; “and it's very un- comfortable.” “after that,” said the hare to the hatter, in a threatening tone. "i quite agree," said the hatter, “the dormouse must be sup- pressed.” all this time clara had been getting very hungry, and at last she said, “aren't you going to get on with your tea ? i think i should like to have an egg, please.” “you can't have one now," said the hatter ; “ they're not in season, you must wait for the elections. but you shall have some potted dormouse, if you wait.” thereupon the march hare and the hatter said the hatter, crumpty-bumpty. came nearer the thing got more and more like a real egg until, as she came close up to it, she exclaimed, in surprise, “why, it's crumpty-bumpty himself, and how exactly like an egg he is !” it was indeed that celebrated character, and, just as she expected, he was sitting on a wall. for some time clara gazed at him in silence, admiring the immense expanse of cheek he presented to the public, and the skill with which he maintained his position on the wall. meanwhile crumpty-bumpty gave no sign of life whatever, and clara began to think he wasn't really alive after all, but only a figure, such as she had often seen at madame tus- saud's, “in which case,” she said, “ even a pin- prick will let all the sawdust out.” unfortunately she made the last remark out loud, and it seemed to hurt crumpty-bumpty's feelings very much indeed, for his mouth was suddenly opened, and he said, in a very loud and emphatic tone of voice, “i regard you as a barbarian with loathsome methods.” “i beg your pardon sir?” said clara. crumpty-bumpty. “but,” he went on, always avoiding clara's eye, and looking straight in front of him, “when i say 'barbarian, of course i mean a a civilised barbarian, and i shall be really displeased if you persist in considering the expression loathsome methods' at all cen- sorious. there are many loathsome methods, particularly in war, which are quite nice when you get to know them well, and which ought to be employed on proper occasions. take special notice, my dear, that i said 'employed,” not used. they should never be used.” “ it sounds very beautiful, sir,” said clara, respectfully, “but i'm afraid i don't understand you.” “no?" returned crumpty-bumpty. “well, you mustn't be discouraged. i know it's hard. why, very often i can't understand what i say myself until it's explained the next morning in the newspapers. there are hundreds of 'em that make a living out of explaining me. that's what you call fame you know." “i don't think i do,” said clara, doubtfully. “of course it is,"answered crumpty-bumpty, impatiently, “anybody knows that. don't crumpty-bumpty. ma the sun was bumping round the sky, bumping with all his might, he did his level best to set on britain's appetite, but, tho' he always rose betimes, he couldn't do it quite. the moon was chuckling icily, because she said the sun was like a little englander (that made him swear like fun), she said he ought to take a tour with cook or doctor lunn. crumpty-bumpty. . the sober voters looked at him, their followers were many, the sober voters winked their eye, and did not give a penny, meaning to say, tho' much obliged, they were not taking any. but some young voters hurried up, all glad to air their views, they said the truth was what they sought (terewth's the word they use). and this is odd, because, you see, they read the d--ly n-ws ! the walrus and the carpenter talked on, but no more came, and so they sat them down to think, and said it was a shame, while all the foolish l'oters said “now, what's your little game?” “ the time has come,” the walrus said, “ to talk like mother gamps, of pubs, and pumps, and chamberlain, of concentration camps, and how our military men are murderers and scamps." crumpty-bumpty. nap koy) jump on joe efface empire chuck church walower lorosa “ it seems a shame," the walrus said, “ to let our programme go, might we not give home rule a turn, or bring the high church low ?" the carpenter said nothing but, “ dash it, get on to joe !" “ i weep for him," the walrus said, “ all strife i deprecate,” with studious care he sorted out words of infernal hate, hurling with might at joseph's head the fishiest billingsgate. crumpty-bumpty. tell you,” said crumpty-bumpty, and he pointed away to the extreme left. the effort nearly caused him to over- balance himself. “oh! do take care, you're so roley-poley, you know,” cried clara, and she went on anxiously, “ i'm sure you must get giddy up there.” “everybody says i'm giddy,” said crumpty. bumpty, “but i'm not, though i admit i feel a bit addled at times. but it's better for me to maintain my equilibrium, for,” he continued, with great solemnity, “ i'm always afraid that if i were to fall, i should become quite cracked.” “that would be dreadful,” said clara, “be- sides i think i've read somewhere that, all the king's horses, and all the king's men, couldn't- " “of course they couldn't. they'd have a try though. but they couldn't do it without money. money will do anything. but you see i'm not a jingo, so i can't say, 'i've got the money too. i went to see the man with the money the other day, and tried to persuade him to promise to have me mended, but he was crumpty-bumpty. budget will udd "i bawled in his ear" crumpty-bumpty. wei very deaf. at last i bawled in his ear, “if i were to fall what would happen?' “did he hear that?” asked clara. “what did he say?” “he only said, “i should smile.'” “ how horrid of him,” said clara, indignantly. “what would become of you, then?”. “well,” said crumpty-bumpty, with a wink “ i have a card up my sleeve. the other day i held a secret meeting to which the news- papers were invited—some of them and i made them promise that, whenever i fall, they will patch me up somehow.” "and can they do it, do you think?” asked clara. “of course they can. newspaper people are so handy with paste and scissors." “it would be very difficult,” said clara. “come! you had better let me help you off the wall. i'm a very careful little girl, and i'm sure i should let you down more gently than some people i know.” “would you really, my dear?” said crumpty- bumpty, and he put out his hand. but poor little clara was not quite tall enough, and in crumpty-bumpty. dreadfully. in fact it was our pulling different ways that really brought him down.” “you've no idea of the difficulties it got us into," said twiddle-thumb. “why, there was that unfortunate message to the tail, and all that. did you never hear of it ? " said twaddle-d. and without waiting for clara to reply, the two little men began to repeat together, and in exactly the same tone, this poem :- i sent a message to the tail, i asked them, “ is the show to fail ? " the party tail they did agree to send an answer back to me. the tail replied, with much regret, “we will support you, sir, and yet" i sent to them again to say, “ it must be either aye or nay !”. the tail made answer, with a pooh ! “ this isn't, sir, a bit like you." i held a meeting large and strong, i made a speech, and it was long. crumpty-bumpty. i said, “ i'll end this dreadful mess, i'll abdicate at once, unless—" then some one came to me and said, “ the tail has really lost its head.” i said to him, i said it plain, “ the tail has everything to gain." but he was very old and chill, he said he worshipped me, but still — i took a corkscrew from the shelf, i boldly tried to draw myself. and when i saw that i was double, i said it saved a deal of trouble. and when i found the door unshut, i swore that i was happy, but “ is that all ?” asked clara, surprised at the sudden stoppage of the voices in the middle of a sentence. “yes,” they answered together, “you can invent the rest for yourself. you see we have to please so many people that we always crumpty-bumpty. - . talk like missing-word competitions. they're very popular, and anybody can guess what they like.” clara was getting tired of the twins. “please,” she said, “ can you tell me where crumpty · bumpty's beautiful garden is situated?" "it isn't situated,” said twaddle-d); “it lies -over there." “ is there no one to show me the way ?" said clara. chapter vi. boerdom. “nonow, my dear," said twiddle-thumb, “i cannot go with you.” “ contrariwise,” said twaddle-d, “you must go by yourself.” then they said together, “ you see, we can- not both go the same way, and we cannot separate from each other. the hyphen would be angry,” and with that they left her. “perhaps it's as well,” thought clara," for they don't seem able to walk straight. probably they're inebriated with the exuber- ance of their own verbosity.” she was not sorry, then, to get rid of the i boerdom. thing in the garden was lovely. why !” she continued, turning to the man, “they told me, for one thing, that it was full of beautiful creepers." "so it is,” he answered, “there are plenty of creepers, and crawlers as well. they are beauties too, the lot of 'em ; but that's not my idea of a garden.” “but you see i'm not going to stay,” said clara, disheartened; “i'm only going to see what it's like.” and she wandered dreamily on. at last she came to an archway over which was written the word boerdom, and, with a little shiver, she walked through. “this is a dirty place,” she said, as she passed under the archway. “it's more like a menagerie than a garden." she found herself standing close by a thing like a water butt, and all round her were hideous creatures, "just like,” as she explained, “the things that come and sit on your chest in bed after you've been dining with the souls.' “these must be the creepers,” said she. but clara was a brave little girl, and she went straight up to one of the beasts, who had ve boerdom. smash the old mug, not me! why, i couldn't get on without it. “i wasn't thinking of the mug. it was your poor nose,” answered clara. “isn't it very sore?” “oh, it burns a bit,” said the creature ; “ but it's been put out of joint long ago by these other animals. i'm only here, you know, because just now there ain't nothink in my line to do elsewhere. that's to say nothing striking. you see i'm one of the 'orny ’anded myself—one of them blokes wot's willin' to work, but won't. i've always got to seem to be a-pickin' 'oles in somethin' or else my mates wouldn't keep me goin'.” “what are you?” asked clara. “by purfession,” said the beast, “ i'm wot they call a 'anger-on." “ i've never heard of that as a plant, but it sounds like a sort of creeper,” mused clara ; “and what are those things that look like hedgehogs walking about on hairpins ?” “ those are the slinky pros you heard about before. they're called pros, you see, because they're against everything english.” boerdom. she liked the flowers better than the beasts, however. they were not beautiful, but, at any manchester guardian ut boots wer hein rate, they looked less creepy than the creep- ing things. there were beds and beds of these boer flowers, but she missed one face, and a face clara knew far better than all the others. “why isn't it here?” she asked herself, and beknighted. . wat cc site turinn crocs armex sr dpes sce the white knight beknighted. his horse was hung around with strange weapons—a broken wooden sword which did not look as if it could ever have done much damage even when new, and a heavy spik d club with which he belaboured his old horse, whose hide, however, was fortunately very thick. just as clara was about to run away and hide herself from this terrifying creature, she heard a voice in the distance, shouting, “ ulti- ulti-ulti-matum !” and a knight in red armour dashed out of the wood on the other side. coming up to the other, he saluted gravely, and said, “we will have a peace conference, and then a fight.” the white knight, after thinking for some time, remarked, “you will, i presume, observe the rules of battle.” "certainly,” replied the other, "you will observe your rules, and i'll observe mine.” “that is fair,” said the white knight, “i will now read you my rules so that there shall be no mistake." thereupon he took from his pocket a lengthy paper, and after clearing his throat, began :- beknighted. se acquainted with your methods, and i know you will adhere to them strictly, therefore we will pro- ceed to fight, each according to his own rules.” then they went at it hammer and tongs, the red knight of course using the hammer, and the white knight, the tongs. an unwritten rule seemed to be that each combatant should exclaim at intervals that he had “surrounded” his opponent, whereupon he stood still until the surrounded one knocked him off his horse. after each had been knocked off fourteen times, the battle ended by the red knight dismounting his opponent, capturing his tongs, and riding away with them. for some time the poor white knight lay unconscious, though clara did everything she could to bring him to, even burning under his nose a copy of the report on army reform, which she fortunately had in her pocket. the smell of the dead ashes seemed to revive him a little, and when he came to himself, he said to her, with a faint smile, “ thank you, my dear, it was a glorious victory, wasn't it?” “well,” replied clara rather doubtfully, “i don't know so much about that. it seemed to beknighted. "i don't see how you can keep other people from inventing things,” said clara. “surely you can't ? ” “ you couldn't,” returned the knight, “but i do. you see, i am the great war inventor in these parts. years and years before you were born i invented a way of saving money by not paying the soldiers their wages. the patent for that, however, has run out long ago, and lots of my opponents follow that plan now. it is the regular practice in countries as far off as china and turkey." “but yet,” said clara, “ i don't understand how you keep other people from inventing things.” “well,” said the knight, a beautiful look of peace and contentment suffusing his masked face, “it's done in this way. everybody has to send his invention to me, and then i put it away in a box, and tell him that i'll let him know about it in due course. i suppose you don't know what 'due course' means, do you?” “no, i don't,” said clara. “ah! you've never had a departmental beknighted. . wou training, you see. “due course' means just when i choose, and i generally don't choose. when i do choose, i tell him that his invention isn't any use at all, and that he musn't come bothering us any more. then he goes away quite satisfied." “but doesn't he sometimes take it else- where?” asked clara, who was very much puzzled. the poor knight looked annoyed. “you ought not to say things like that,” he said, very slowly, “they wound my feelings. there have been one or two people who have done that sort of thing, and the worst of it is that that red fellow, who was here just now, has bought some of their rubbish, which isn't fair.” clara didn't quite know what to say in answer to this, for the knight groaned in such a dreadful way when he thought about it that she was quite distressed, so, by way of turning the conversation, she said : “that's a very fine animal you're riding.” “ah! you may well say that,” said the knight, evidently pleased, “isn't he? this horse has been in my family for years and beknighted. exclaimed, excitedly, “you make my blood run cold. there couldn't be such a thing, but even if there were—mind you, i say if there were—i should be equal to the occasion. yes! i have made arrangements to deal even with the impossible. what do you think of that ? ” “well! what would you do?” asked clara, breathless with excitement. “i should resign,” said the knight, with solemn dignity. clara was disappointed. “i knew a man who did that once,” she said, “and do you know, the funny thing was that when it was all over they wouldn't have him back. said they didn't know what they paid him for, and lots of other rude things.” “that's all very well for common people,” the knight rejoined, airily ; “but it couldn't happen to me. you see i am what they call an integral factor in the constitution—you'd better look that out in the dictionary, when you get home—and they can't do without me. i'm the only one who can damp military ardour, and i was never so unhappy as when i found i couldn't damp colonial patriotism. why! i beknighted. yours to work out the task has been the soldiers' evolution, i am the outcome of routine—. rot and circumlocution.” i heard him then, for i had planned, a scheme, by means of plaster to hide our faces in the sand, and thus escape disaster. i thanked him (i applaud his nerve), and made a note by stealth, that candid officers deserve promotion to the shelf. and now whene'er i draw my screw, for playing loose and fast, i snigger in my sleeve anew, i think upon the past. and when my conscience whispers, “o! you've such a dirty slate," i smile, for it reminds me so of that poor man i used to know, whose ways were blunt, whose methods slow, who was with ardour all aglow, whose arm could deal sledge-hammer blow, who never feared a mortal foe, beknighted. who ran at gate like buffalo. who fell like ninepins in a row, who counselled “ yes" when we said “ no," whom we kept dodging to and fro, until he knew not where to go, but never let his gee-gee whoa! who always looked so comme-il-faut, who took to war his piano, and whom we used uncommon low, i proudly slap my chest and crow ; for it was i who made him som a-sitting on a gate. when he had finished, clara threw herself down on the grass, and burst into a flood of tears. “ you don't seem to laugh as heartily as i had expected,” said the knight, with a somewhat offended air. “that was a comic song." “i know, i know," sobbed clara ; " but it seems to me that it was very sad too in places, though perhaps you did not mean it to be so." with an effort, however, the brave little girl friend or f.o.? municate with another in that off-hand manner would constitute a breach of etiquette ; it would create a precedent.” “how awful,” said clara, stopping her ears. “well,” said she, more to pacify him than any- thing else, “there's the red queen, she would make a capital messenger; see how fast she runs." “excuse me, my dear, this requires serious thought. allow me to think.” thereupon the white knight once more threw himself head foremost into the ditch. his attitude had the desired effect, and at the end of a moment or two his voice was heard. the words sounded, thought clara, like a phonograph ; doubtless because his mouth was half full of dead leaves. “there's no help for it, you must take it yourself.” so clara, like the obedient little girl she was, started off, turning instinctively towards the thickest part of the wood. the foreign office, as she expected, was surrounded by a thick belt of officialdom, and clara slackened her pace, as she approached it. you see it was so very shady and mysterious. was friend or f.o. ? ioi gloom, she made her way, without further hesitation, to the foreign office itself. again clara's courage began to forsake her aurino tuoni caution no english need apply mittatti icion parle franÇais, when she found herself gazing at this fine architectural pile. “what a lot of room there must be in a place like that—for improvement," she said to herself. friend or f.o.? at the door was standing a very handsome footman, who was busily engaged in twiddling his thumbs. he glanced at clara, superciliously, but not unkindly. “q'est-ce que vous voulez, made- moiselle?” said he, shrugging his shoulders gracefully. "oh!” said clara, “why does he speak like that?” “you are ingleesh, mees. what for you come here?” "i want to see mr. downing, or somebody, and give him this letter.” “you can't do that,” said the funky, “this is the foreign office.” and he showed her a card on which was printed :- caution no english need apply “now you'll understand,” he said, “why it's called the foreign office. you see, if you'd flamjingoŚ. lead. “you see,” she said, to clara, “if i don't somebody else will, and then the muddle would be awful.” the duchess was there, looking crosser than ever, and trembling all over when. ever her eye caught the queen's. the welsh rabbit was sniffing suspiciously at a leek which they'd offered to him, but as he'd eaten a large one at birmingham, he said he never took them now unless they were forced upon him. then there was the white rabbit in a new wig, the march hare and the hatter, and the cat. and there, right in the background, propped up somehow on his wall again, was poor old crumpty-bumpty. he looked very dismal, and seemed quite out of shape, and when clara came closer to him, she found that he was quite cracked about the hyphen, and only held together by extracts from the star and the daily news. “how dare you go near that creature ? ” said the red queen, angrily, to clara. “come away at once.” “i only looked super-super-ciliously at her, when she talked to me like that,” explained clara, to geraldine afterwards, flamjingos. my nerves wouldn't stand it. we're going to watch the flamjingos play.” “who are the flamjingos?” asked clara. “i don't think i ever heard of them before.” “well,” replied the duchess, “nobody seems quite to know, but they're very useful creatures, when they don't get too excited, and it's very pretty to watch them at play. she," pointing with her chin at the red queen, as she spoke, “would like to join in the game herself, but we restrain her.” “i wonder how you do it,” said clara. “hush, my dear,” the duchess whispered, "some subjects are too sacred to be talked about, and that's one of them.” as she spoke the procession entered a large open space in which, to her great delight, clara saw hundreds upon hundreds of flamjingos running about, and cackling as loudly as ever they could. they certainly were the most curious birds she had ever seen and were even more peculiar, though not of course so repulsive, as the strange creatures she had left behind her in boerdom. they were painting everything red when clara flamjingos. came up, and each had a tin trumpet in its hand, and, tied to the feathers of its tail, a small union jack, which it continually waggled in the breeze. when they all blew and waggled together—which they did every three minutes —the effect was indescribable, and clara felt as though she must choke with the patriotic feel- ings which the magnificent spectacle aroused in her breast. at the same time they all sang different songs, such as “rule britannia,” “soldiers of the queen,” “ the absent-minded beggar,” and “ the british navy,” and as none of them knew all the words of any of the songs, and sang what they did know to tunes which they invented as they went on, you will under- stand that the noise was deafening. for a long time clara could not make out what they were playing at, but at last she found out that it was a kind of football, in which the balls were things like hedgehogs, which every now and then came out of holes in the ground in which they lay concealed. these creatures turned out to be really slinky pros, which had left their garden to try and get other creatures to come and live with them in boerdom. flamjingos. iii or foes a man might speak the thing he would, and clump over the head anybody who spoke the thing he wouldn't.” clara couldn't feel very much pity for the pros, for they seemed such dirty little creatures, and she noticed that whenever two of them did manage to meet they always began to explain to one another what wicked people their rela- tions were, and how their brothers revelled in atrocities of the most awful kind. she paid very little more attention to them, saying to herself, that it didn't matter very much after all if the flamjingos did kick them to death, though she didn't quite like to see them doing it. so like the others she shut her eyes to it. "what do you think of the game?” asked the duchess, rather anxiously. “well,” said clara, “ i'm afraid i don't quite follow it. it's very muddly up, i think.” “ you see,” said the red queen, decisively, “it suffers, like all football at the present day, from too much of the pro element.” the strength of the flamjingos appeared to be extraordinary, and clara, who always took ii flamjingos. great interest in questions of eating and drink- ing, asked the red queen what they fed on. “declarations of war, my dear," answered the queen, “and regrettable incidents.” “it must be rather an expensive sort of food,” said clara, thoughtfully. “you may say that, child,” said the red queen, “ but it doesn't matter very much. the duchess has to pay for them ; i don't. and the pros, as you know, belong to crumpty- bumpty." all this time the dalmeny cat kept appear- ing and disappearing in the air, until at last the red queen noticed it and said in a very decided voice, “ that cat must be destroyed.” “why?” asked clara, “ i'm sure it's a very pretty cat, and i don't see that it is doing any harm. it's not as though it were a real cat, you know.” “i don't know," retorted the queen, “but i do know that i am going to call the executioner and have its head chopped off at once.” “ you can't,” said clara, “it hasn't got body enough for that.” when the executioner, who turned out to be flamjingos. the duchess in disguise, came up, there was the most tremendous row. she couldn't hit the head of the cat, who disappeared whenever she struck at it, and then turned up again in a fresh place while part of the crowd cheered her efforts and the rest said, “ shame, shame," until she was more nervous than ever. at last the hubbub and confusion grew so great that clara thought she would never get out of it alive, and she said afterwards that she was sure she would never have escaped if it hadn't been for the red queen, who said, in the kindest way, “ just watch me, my dear, and do as i do." with that the queen and the duchess each caught a flamjingo, and got upon its back, and clara after a good deal of trouble did the same. it was dreadfully uncomfortable on the flam- wanata flamjingos. jingo's back, and clara couldn't help feeling that she looked very ridiculous, but still there seemed to be no other way of escape, so she clung on, and the flamjingos soon carried all three out of danger. " i told you,” said the duchess, with a soft sleepy chuckle, as she hung on to the flam- jingo's neck, “ that sometimes they are very useful birds." chapter x. queens and questions. clara could never remember afterwards whether they left the flamjingos or the flam- jingos left them ; all she knew was that after riding for a long, long way through a great deal of mud, which splashed her frock most dread- fully, she found herself with a sort of crown on her head sitting between the red queen and the duchess, who appeared to be very much out of temper with one another. "you may say what you like,” the duchess was saying, in a discontented voice, “but i shall never get used to that kind of thing. we needn't have ridden those birds half so hard as was neve queens and questions. question, remember—and don't forget to say ‘your majesty.'” clara thought for a long while, and at last she said, “ please, your majesty, i'm not quite sure. the pay couldn't remain if it were taken away, and i shouldn't think the yeoman would remain if he were not paid.” “so you think nothing would remain, do you?” “yes," answered clara, thoughtfully, “i think that must be the answer.” "wrong,” said the red queen, “the yeoman would remain. he always does, and you may thank your lucky stars it is so.” and the duchess said, “ really, clara, i'm surprised at you. any corporal could have told you that.” clara didn't feel at all comfortable at the way they spoke to her, but she was afraid to cry before the red queen, and resolved to do better next time. "if,” asked the duchess, “ you were really a queen-which you aren't yet you know—and somebody like her red majesty kept pushing you into all sorts of places you didn't like, and ce dragon and turnturtle. “oh, you,” replied the turnturtle, “mine's so sad, and besides i've got a sermon to prepare sim . within www com i (ill rs on brotherly love, with an excursus on the proper treatment of our black brother, and i can be thinking it out while you're talking." dragon and turnturtle. keep the dissectors away from me for ever so long on condition he has my head when they do begin.” “ but wouldn't the duchess protect you?” asked clara, in surprise. both creatures burst into a roar of laughter. “she protect me!” cried the dragon. “why,” bellowed the turnturtle ; “she can't even protect herself against a simple rustic person like me. you've only to roar at her and she runs away at once.” “ you surprise me,” said clara, “i always understood she had such a resolute disposition.” the dragon grinned. “ask her about port arthur,” he said. “and venezuela,” said the turnturtle. “you see,” said the dragon, “she never went to a really good school like we did.” “i've been to a good school too,” said clara, “if it comes to that.' “what did they teach you there?" inquired the turnturtle, anxiously. "reading, writing and arithmetic,” replied clara, “but i'm afraid i was never much good at the last.” dragon and turnturtle. “at ours,” said the dragon, " they taught us bleeding and blighting, thoroughly.” “and,” said the turnturtle, “i was taught mathematics—sedition, abstraction, stultifica- tion, and provision.” “what's the use of provision ?” asked clara. “to teach you how to provide for yourself, of course," said the turnturtle. “i mastered that rule.” “but didn't they teach you any real sums like the rule-of-three ? ” asked clara. “no,” replied the turnturtle, scornfully, “i worked that out for myself, and the answer was, ‘steyn, schreiner, and me.'”. the dragon, who didn't seem to care much for questions of modern education, said abruptly to the turnturtle : “ that professional spouter of yours, doctor leyds, wasn't exactly a top- side success, was he? clever young fellow, too. nice, gentleman-like manners, good address. christian, too, i understand?” “they imposed upon him," snapped the turnturtle; “and he, poor fellow, without knowing it, i'm sure, imposed upon me.” nan ss. dragon and turnturtle. would not, could not, would not, could not, would not join the fight, would not, could not, would not, could not, could not join the fight. “ o think of the religious life !" the wily boer replied, " ivhile britain's here we cannot tan the kaffir's heathen hide ; the further off is england the more we can unite, to sweat the blacks, with lash and tax, so come and join the fight ! will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the fight? will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you join the fight ? " when the turnturtle broke off, sobbing un- constrainedly, the dragon turned to clara, and solemnly winked his eye. “you know better than that, don't you?” he asked. “now, just oblige me, little girl, by standing up, hands behind your back, and re- peating, • 'tis the voice of the sluggard. it will do our friend here a world of good. begin firmly, and grow feeble as you go on." clara was so used to being ordered about by + dragon and turnturtle. ow this time that she never thought of refusing this request, and standing up immediately, she re- cited the well-known poem, in the following fashion :-- 'tis the voice of aunt sarum—" you'd better take care, if you do that again i shall ruffle your hair.” as the sand to an ostrich, so words are to her, she can bury herself in a threat, und not stir, when the foe's giving in, she's as fierce as a dragon, she will pull off his clothes till he hasn't a rag on ; but when he says “no!” and stamps hard on the ground, her voice has a timid and tremulous sound. “the next verse," said the dragon. “ it begins with, "i passed by his garden.' go ahead.” and clara went on :- i looked in at china and marked without fright, how the bear and the froggy were putting things right; the froggy got promises splendid and grand while the bear was content with a bird in the hand; when the bargain was over, the bear, rather blown, with great condescension accepted a loan, while the froggy received only papers and seals, and concluded the business by kic ....." dragon and turnturtle. “what is the use of repeating all that stuff?” interrupted the turnturtle. “it doesn't contain one word about independence! pure balder- dash!” “yes, i think you'd better leave off,” said the dragon, uneasily. “i didn't at all like your reference to the bear, though your omission of england from the conclusion of the bargain was remarkably fine-remarkably. quite masterly !" “england !” cried the turnturtle; “ the name is poison to me! and oh, i used to think that it was poison to everybody else, and i thought i had only to say, “down with eng- land,' and all the rest of the world would flock sword in hand to south africa.” "well, so they did, some of them,” answered clara. “ there were the australians and canadians, and contingents from india and ceylon. did you want any more?” “not of that sort,” sighed the turnturtle. “ and they came mounted !” clara grew a little red, “ they're still a little uncivilised in those parts,” she said, apologeti- cally, “and we tried to stop them, you know.” dragon and turnturtle. break their oath, and sing hymns before potting an ambulance-beautiful war ! beau—ootiful wa-ar! beau—ootiful wa—ar ! wa—ar against eng—eng—land, beautiful, beauti-ful war ! “chorus again!” cried the dragon, who was laughing consumedly, but the turnturtle burst into such a flow of tears that clara, who was really very tender-hearted, and who feared she might be tempted to give the turtle anything he asked, took to her heels and ran with all her might to find the red queen. “i feel rather faint,” she thought, “and i want a little bolstering up." on the cards. “oh, they're not that sort at all, miss,” said the rabbit, very politely, “these are the writs inviting everybody to the great trial where there's no prisoner, and where pretty nearly all the company ought to be in the dock. i've got one for you among the rest.” "but i don't belong to the trial at all,” com- plained clara. “ i'm what you call detached.” “well you'll find you'd better come, whether or no,” retorted the rabbit. “i suppose you don't want to have the verdict go against you, do you ?" at this moment there was a great ringing of bells, and blowing of fog-horns, and, as every- thing seemed to be dissolving all round her, clara ran as hard as she could to the big building which the rabbit said was the court- house. when she got inside she found that the trial had already begun, and that everybody was accusing everybody else of all the crimes he could think of. on the bench sat britannia (“ looking for all the world like a middle-aged mermaid without a tail,” said clara, afterwards). she seemed on the cards. dreadfully confused by all the noise and bluster. she wore her helmet over her wig, and was quinto cwb ore m turiu trying very hard to look judicial, but it was quite plain that she could not make out in the on the cards. least what all the dispute was about, and again and again implored somebody to tell her. by her side crouched a stuffed lion, with a much twisted tail, which roared mechanically when she dug it in the ribs. this she did, whenever she did not quite know what else to do. "you see, i don't understand politics, and i don't know why they make me pretend that i care what happens,” said britannia, to clara. “you're evidently quite at sea here,” piped the white king, in a squeaky voice, as he struggled hard to climb up the pinnacle of fame. “at sea?” cried britannia. “i wish i was at sea. the flamjingos keep telling me i rule the waves, but i can't rule a straight line in politics anyhow. nobody can.” "i'll guide your hand, when i get up there,” squeaked the white king, swarming up the pinnacle, as if he thought the lion was going to bite him. he puffed and blew so hard that clara picked him up between her finger and thumb, and placed him safely on the top of the wool- sack. “ you know,” he said, looking round the on the cards. and trying to strangle one another, were received with cheers and groans, and the walrus and the carpenter with groans and cheers. the duchess, who tried to push a great many people in through a side door, was turned out again with extreme violence, and told to mind her own business, and the fitful appearances of the dalmeny cat were greeted with tempests of execration. some of the people pretended to be very fond of the cat, and called, “ puss ! puss !” but when it came close to them they abused it, and tried to hit it. at last it became so disgusted that it threatened to vanish for good and all, and never come near the court again ; but it kept returning fitfully. at last clara thought it had really gone; but, suddenly, she looked up, and there it was with britannia and the white king on the platform. “what are you doing up there?” asked clara, surprised. “that's the place for the judges.” “i know," said the cat, “i have elected myself a judge of things in general. it's not so worrying.” and the court agreed on the cards. s to look upon it in that capacity for the future. “ what are all those oysters in that box for ? ” asked clara, of the white rabbit, “and why do they keep writing crosses on bits of paper ? “those are the people that ran away from the walrus and the carpenter. they're the jury, who have to come to decisions, and they make those marks to show that they are all at cross purposes and don't know their own minds." the noise was so great that it was all the white rabbit could do to make himself heard. he shouted, “ order! order!” continually, and at last he said to britannia, almost crossly, “i do wish you wouldn't make that lion roar so.” when the tumult had a little subsided crumpty-bumpty, who was heavily fettered by prejudice, managed somehow to attract the attention of the jury, and demanded to be allowed to give his evidence. "but,” said poor britannia, “there isn't any- body to give evidence against, and i'm sure i don't know what you're all talking about.” "you just wait, mum,” shouted crumpty- bumpty, “ till you've heard what i've got to say on the cards. on you.” but all the time she kept on feeling herself growing stronger, and bigger, and bigger, and stronger, until she said to herself, “i don't care if she does go. half the creatures here are make-believe, and the rest pasteboard. why i believe they're only a pack of rubbish after all.” " pack,” cried the red queen, “well, what do you expect at a political meeting? we have to pack them all at the present day.” then everything became confused and all sense of proportion was lost. the furniture began to move about, and the building rocked to its foundations. people who were seated found themselves suddenly out in the cold, and people who were standing were unexpectedly hustled into most uncomfortable seats. every- thing trembled in the balance. above the con- fusion rose cries of “bribery,” “corruption,” “ lies," and all sorts of creatures crowded upon poor clara until she cried out for her aunt sarum to take her home. but the more she cried the more they all hustled her, until at last all the creatures rose in the air and came flying in her face. es rose div on the cards. “why, i do believe,” said clara, “ that you're nothing but a lot of pictures. there's nothing in you after all.” but clara was mistaken, for when they fell face downwards clara saw that on their backs were the most dreadful legends ; such as- “city of london—two anti-vaccin- ationists, seven vegetarians, and an anti-gambler ;” “kent—seven teetotalers, and a deceased wife's sister;" “ birmingham_four socialists, two peculiar people, and a field cornet,'' and things like that. she closed her eyes so as not to read the writing upon them, but they only came thicker and thicker, and faster and faster until * * * * * * clara thought she had better wake up. * * * * * * and it was time. hd widener hw kpbx hood's chumorous poems illustrated by & charles e brocks li ww in harvard college library ver ultas the bequest of arthur stuart walcott class of june , humorous poems rt. КА ) . М.: • Гар ? - (c ue Л . - типу серуге, marched as mourners march.' humorous poems thomas hood with a preface by alfred ainger and one hundred and thirty illustrations charles e. brock london macmillan and co. and new york all rights reserved humorous poems e : by thomas hood with a preface by alfred ainger and one hundred and thirty illustrations by charles e. brock london macmillan and co. and new york all rights reserved . narvard college library bequest of arthur stuart walcott june , pŘetach namic tanu n vstava . ::::: ... some time in the year there was published in london a thin duodecimo volume having for title odes and addresses to great people. it bore no author's name on the title-page,—only a quotation from the citizen of the world, “catching all the oddities, the whimsies, the absurdities and the little- nesses of conscious greatness by the way.” the little book proved, on examination, to contain some fifteen humorous poems addressed to various public characters of greater or less claim to distinction at that day. there was one to mr. graham, the aeronaut; another to m'adam, the maker of roads; another to mrs. fry, the quaker philanthropist ; another to grimaldi, the clown, and so forth. an acute critic might, even then, i think, have detected not only that these fresh and amusing productions were of unequal viji selections from hood merit, but that they were not all by the same hand. but he would, most assuredly, have allowed that wit and ingenuity of a rare kind were to be found among them. the little volume quickly attracted attention, and was soon in a second edition. among those into whose hands it fell was samuel taylor coleridge, then residing under mr. gillman's roof at highgate. his delight was great, and in the absence of any in- formation as to the authorship, he at once assumed that such mingled fun and poetry could have emanated from but one living man—and that, the author of elia. accordingly coleridge wrote off at once to charles lamb :- my dear charles—this afternoon a little thin mean- looking sort of a foolscap sub-octavo of poems, printed on very dingy outsides, lay on the table, which the cover informed me was circulating in our book-club, so very grub streetish in all its appearance, internal as well as external, that i cannot explain by what accident of impulse (assuredly there was no motive in play) i came to look into it. least of all the title, odes and addresses to great men, which connected itself in my head with rejected addresses, and all the smith and theodore hook squad. but, my dear charles, it was certainly written by you, or under you, or unâ cum you. i know none of your frequent visitors, capacious and assimilative enough of your converse, to have reproduced you so honestly, supposing w once preface you had left yourself in pledge in his lock-up house. gillman, to whom i read the spirited parody on the introduction to peter bell, the ode to the great unknown, and to mrs. fry—he speaks doubtfully of reynolds and hood. ... thursday night, o`clock—no! charles, it is you! i have read them over again, and i understand why you have anoned the book. the puns are nine in ten good—many excellent,—the newgatory, transcendent! and then the exemplum sine exemplo of a volume of personalities and con- temporaneities without a single line that could inflict the in- finitesimal of an unpleasance on any man in his senses—saving and except, perhaps, in the envy-addled brain of the despiser of your lays. if not a triumph over him, it is, at least, an ovation. then moreover and besides (to speak with becoming modesty), excepting my own self, who is there but you who could write the musical lines and stanzas that are intermixed ? lamb writes back on the second of july from colebrooke row, islington, and after telling coleridge of his own recent illness and the weariness of being without occupation - he had just retired from the india house-he proceeds :- the odes are, four-fifths, done by hood—a silentish young man you met at islington one day, an invalid. the rest are reynolds's, whose sister hood has lately married. i have not had a broken finger in them. . . . hood will be gratified, as much as i am, by your mistake. and lamb is able to add at the close of his selections from hood letter : “ hood has just come in; his sick eyes sparkled with health when he read your approbation." the “silentish young man—an invalid” was then just six-and-twenty years of age. he had been forced to abandon, for health's sake, the engraver's desk to which he had been bound; had become in sub- editor of the london magazine, and in that service, and at the hospitable table of the publishers, taylor and hessey, had both practised his poetic gift and made the most valuable and inspiring friendships of his life,—with hazlitt, de quincey, hartley coleridge, and, above all, in hood's affection and admiration, charles lamb, then just beginning to contribute his essays to the magazine. one greater genius than any in the list it was not given to hood to know in the flesh. john keats had closed his brief life of suffering at rome in the february of the year in which hood joined the staff. but it was under the spell of that poetic genius that hood began his career as poet. among the friends he owed to the magazine was john hamilton reynolds, his future brother-in-law. reynolds had been one of keats's closest friends, and himself wrote verse of considerable mnerit, bearing strong marks of the keatsian influence. hood preface remained sub-editor for two or three years, and contributed many of his longer serious poems, clearly due in subject as well as style to the same influence— his “ lycus the centaur,” “ the two peacocks of bedfont,” the “ ode to autumn,” and others. but very early in his editorial career he had also printed in the magazine, modestly, among certain imaginary and whimsical “ notices to correspondents," a short and facetious “ ode to dr. kitchener," prelude and model of those which afterwards so captivated coleridge. but this, with all other of hood's con- tributions at this time, was anonymous, and together with the serious poetry, seems to have attracted scant notice. unsigned poetry, even seventy years ago, was sufficiently abundant, and, for the most part, sufficiently commonplace, for the general reader to pass it by as so inuch padding. and when the odes and addresses, the joint-production of hood and reynolds, appeared anonymously in , even those who lived in the world of literature were in some doubt as to the authorship. in hood married jane reynolds, contrary, it would seem, to the wishes of her family, and indeed, with his health and uncertain prospects, the match en s is хії selections from hood may well have been deemed imprudent. in any case the “bread and cheese" question had become urgent. the odes and addresses came out in the year following, to be soon followed by the two series of whims and oddities; and in hood reprinted his serious poems from the london magazine with some new matter, including the graceful poem which gave its name to the volume, “ the plea of the mid- summer fairies.” this poem was dedicated to charles lamb,the volume, as a whole, to coleridge, in grateful recognition of the praise he had bestowed hood's earlier efforts, —but neither poems nor dedications availed to awaken any interest in the reading public. the volume fell all but dead from the press; and the author, his son and daughter tell us, bought up a large number of the remainder copies, “ to save them from the butter-shop." it now became evident that if hood was to live by writing, it must be by his humorous, not his serious verse ; and though happily his poetic genius was not discouraged, the remaining eighteen years of his life were spent mainly in working that rich and unique vein of which he had given earliest proof in his odes and addresses. he was to show that in the hands preface xiii of a poet and humorist, the pun—that so-called “ verbal wit” —was to take higher rank and subserve quite other purposes than anything of the kind in our literature before. samuel johnson once remarked that “little things are not valued, but when they are done by those who can do greater things.” but he might have gone further, and said that the little things only become great when they proceed from those who can do greater, —who come to them, that is to say, from a higher ground. and, with hood, this higher ground was the poetic heart, and a vividness and rapidity of imagination such as never before had found such an outlet. the same instantaneous perception of the analogies and relations between, apparently, incongruous things that was possessed by dickens, hood possessed with regard to words and ideas. the pun, as ordinarily under- stood, is a play upon the double meanings of words, or on the resemblance of one word to another; and in the hands of one destitute of humour or fancy the pun begins and ends there. it may be purely mechanical, and if so, speedily becomes wearisoine and disgusting. to hear of any ordinary man that he makes puns is properly a warning to avoid his society. for with the xiv selections from hood funny man the verbal coincidence is everything ; there is nothing underlying it, or beyond it. in the hands of a hood the pun becomes an element in his fancy, his humour, his ethical teaching, even his pathos. as ordinarily experienced, the pun is the irre- concilable enemy of these things. it could not dwell with them “in one house." hood saw, and was the first to show, that the pun might become even their handmaid, and in this confidence dared to use it often in his serious poems, when he was conveying some moral truth, or expressing some profound human emotion. coleridge, as we have seen, remarking on the excellence of the puns in the odes and addresses, added, “the newgatory is transcendent !” hood was addressing the admirable mrs. fry, who, as every one knows, set up a school in newgate to teach the poor neglected outcasts what they had never heard from christian lips before. one of the chief points made by hood is this,—how much better, kinder, wiser, more politic even, it would be to multiply these schools outside, not inside the prison walls, so that pre- vention might take the place of cure. “keep your school out of newgate” is the burden of hood's remonstrance :- preface ah! who can tell how hard it is to teach miss nancy dawson on her bed of straw- to make long sal sew up the endless breach she made in manners-to write heaven's own law on hearts of granite; nay, how hard to preach, in cells, that are not memory's- to draw the moral thread thro the immoral eye of blunt whitechapel natures, mrs. fry!! and then, after a stanza or two, comes the one ending with the play on words that so fascinated coleridge :- i like your chocolate, good mistress fry! i like your cookery in every way; i like your shrove-tide service and supply; i like to hear your sweet pandeans play; i like the pity in your full-brimmed eye; i like your carriage, and your silken grey, your dove-like habits, and your silent preaching; but i don't like your newgatory teaching! the distinctive quality of hood's puns is exempli- fied here, but not more notably than in a hundred other instances that crowd upon the memory. the ordinary pun is, for the most part, profoundly depressing, being generally an impertinence ; while hood's at their best exhilarate and fill the reader with a glow of admira- tion and surprise. the“ sudden glory” which hobbes pronounced to be the secret of the pleasure derived from wit is true of hood's. there was a pretty drawing- xvi selections from hood room ballad by his brother-in-law reynolds, which our grandmothers used to sing to an equally pretty tune, beginning- go where the water glideth gently ever, glideth by meadows that the greenest be; go, listen to our own beloved river and think of me! hood had a young lady friend who was going to india, and he writes her a playful copy of verses, imi- tating reynolds's poem in metre and refrain hood noticed that the matrimonial market, already in his day, was somewhat overstocked, and that watchful parents had the comfort of hoping that daughters who lingered in england might yet find husbands in the smaller society of bombay or madras, and he adds go where the maiden on a mariage plan goes, consigned for wedlock to calcutta's quay, where woman goes for mart, the same as mangos, and think of me ! the same as man goes! how utter the surprise, and yet how inevitable the simile appears ! it is just as if the writer had not foreseen it—as if it had been mere accident—as if he had discovered the coincidence rather than arranged it. this is a special note of hood's best puns. they fall xviii selections from hood written to support an “ early closing movement” of hood's day, in which his interest was keen as it was in all proposed remedies for suffering and oppression. it seems strange that the verses have never been reprinted in behalf of grievances that still, after fifty years, cry aloud for redress. the poem is “ the assistant draper's petition, and the prodigal flow of wit and fancy that marks it, so far from be-littling its purpose, is surely fraught with a rare pathos, - though the point of the jests is chiefly got from the double meanings in well-known trade phrases : ah! who can tell the miseries of men that serve the very cheapest shops in town ? till faint and weary, they leave off at ten, knock'd up by ladies beating of 'em down.' (sydney smith laid it down as a rule that wit and pathos cannot dwell together,—that one must needs kill the other; but he wrote his famous lecture without knowing thomas hood.) and then there follows a plea for leisure-leisure to read and to think,—the leisure which noble institutions like toynbee hall are doing so much to foster and improve : o come then, gentle ladies, come in time, o’erwhelm our counters, and unload our shelves ; preface xix torment us all until the seventh chime, but let us have the remnant to ourselves.' we wish of knowledge to lay in a stock, and not remain in ignorance incurable ;- to study shakespeare, milton, dryden, locke, and other fabrics that have proved so durable. we long for thoughts of intellectual kind, and not to go bewilder'd to our beds; with stuff and fustian taking up the mind, and pins and needles running in our heads . for oh! the brain gets very dull and dry, selling from morn till night for cash or credit ; or with a vacant face and vacant eye, watching cheap prints that knight did never edit. till sick with toil, and lassitude extreme, we often think, when we are dull and vapoury, the bliss of paradise was so supreme, because that adam did not deal in drapery. it would be absurd to pretend that hood's lighter verse is always up to the same level. it was his mis- fortune to have to write for bread, and to struggle for half a lifetime against poverty and ill-health. much of his “comic copy” was manufactured, and that too when he was gravely ill, sitting propped up with pillows. the marvel is not that the quality was often so poor, but that he wrote so much that will live. he was only forty-five when he died, and for the last xx selections from hood twenty years had dwelt" in company with pain.” we probably owe to this circumstance that not only in his serious poetry, his “bridge of sighs," " song of, the shirt,” the “ haunted house," and the “elm tree,” but also in his humorous verse, his fancy turned so habitually to some or other form of death or suffering. a glance at the titles in our index will show how often he found suggestions of humour in “violent ends,” in accident and disaster. in the serious poems, indeed, a different origin may be found for this. hood's own deep compassion and his sense of man's inhumanity was, doubtless, quickened by his own experience of pain and disappointment, and by the shadow of decay and doom that never lifted. but he made no boast of it, or capital out of it; the pessimistic accent is never heard in his verse ; he never lost his own cheerful faith in providence, though he early learned that there's not a string attuned to mirth, but has its chord in melancholy. and the treatment of " catastrophe" in his lighter verse is too purely fantastic to be even grim, still less to leave any ill flavour of bad taste. he could never over- look the humorous analogies of things, even when they were his own sufferings. “i am obliged to lead a very preface xxi sedentary life," he wrote to a correspondent—" in fact, to be very chair-y of myself.” and when for his poor wasted frame, his faithful wife was preparing a mus- tard plaster, he murmured, “ ah! jane—a great deal of mustard to a very little meat !” what has been said of hood's punning faculty applies to the general quality of his humorous verse, namely, that the writer comes to it from a higher ground. owing to ill-health he had been from childhood an omnivorous reader, but his sympathies were with all that is best in literature. he had trained himself on the best poetic models. shakespeare and keats were the inspiration of his earliest verse ; and often in the hastiest of comic effusions the eye and practised hand of the poet are discernible. just as he did not hesitate to let a pun heighten the effect of some poignant reflec- tion, as in the “ode to melancholy," — even the bright extremes of joy bring on conclusions of disgust, like the sweet blossoms of the may whose fragrance ends in must,- so he did not grudge a really noble fancy even to some perfunctory copy for a magazine, where the first aim was to raise a laugh. there is a poem of his about xxii selections from hood a somnambulist (suggested by a once popular story, edgar huntly), the point of which is the contrast of the sleeper's romantic dream with the hard reality of the kitchen stairs down which he falls. the dreamer imagines himself in the rapids above niagara, and as he nears the brink, he notices the rainbow hovering in the spray below, and feels that the old pledge and covenant of hope is, in his case, the emblem of despair, -a thought that might have made the fortune of a sonnet or other lyric, had its author reserved it,—but he leaves it there. and this habit makes it difficult to classify his verse, the serious poetry often adopting the humorist's methods and the humorous often containing elements of genuine poetry. the present selection, while excluding the former of these, succeeds, i think, in showing hood's versatility and ingenuity in the latter. the “demon ship” exhibits the same hand that depicted the anguish of eugene aram : the “mermaid of margate” is a playful parody of the romantic legend of birger and his english followers; while others, such as “sally brown” and “nelly gray,” show the luinorous possi- bilities of the percy ballad. the “ epping hunt” is undisguisedly suggested by “ john gilpin," a preface xxiii “death's ramble” is by the “ devil's walk” of coleridge and southey — and “queen mab” shows how well hood might have written for children, had he chosen to work the vein, in the delightful fashion of mr. r. l. stevenson. true poet and true humorist, hood doubtless produced too much in both kinds for his fame. struggling against “ two weak evils," poverty and disease, he too often wrote when the fountains of his fancy were dry. but if he diluted his reputation in some ways, he was growing and “making himself” in others more important. he was a learner to the end—widening as well as deepening in his human insight, recognising, as he told sir robert peel in his last pathetic letter, the dangers of a "one-sided humanity, opposite to that catholic shakespearian sympathy, which felt with king as well as peasant, and duly estimated the mortal temptations of both stations.” hood's position among our minor poets is peculiar and interesting. he is much loved, but not much written about. critics will seldom be found analysing and dissecting his "work.” the scholar and the artist, the classic and the student of form, have their just and necessary place in our . p www. contents ha ,seb page . . preface . . . . . epping hunt. . . faithless sally brown the mermaid of margate a fairy tale . . equestrian courtship . . tim turpin : : .. death's ramble . . a parthian glance a sailor's apology for bow-legs john trot . . . . mary's ghost the carelesse nurse mayd . a report from below: the duel . . . . . the supper superstition faithless nelly gray. . . . . . . . . . xxvi selections from hood page . . . . . : . . . our village . . john day . . . . . lieutenant luff. the china-mender playing at soldiers . queen mab . morning meditations . the demon ship . . the drowning ducks. the lost heir . the assistant draper's petition the volunteer hit or miss . . . . . - . · . . . li yia w w mercedes worth ul m hours) page . . . frontispiece . . vii . . xxiv . . xxv . . xxvi xxvii xxxi marched as mourners marched' . . heading to preface tailpiece to preface heading to contents . . . . tailpiece to contents . . heading to list of illustrations tailpiece to list of illustrations heading to epping hunt . "at counter'. . . . of lustre superfine' . . as he began to show'. . 'flis spouse had made him vow' . ““hallo !” cried they ; "come, trot away “now welcome, lads," quoth he' . * enjoyed their "early purl" d their early purl”! . . each thicket served to thin it' : . . xxviii selections from hood page · . · · · . · · · · . · · · · . · · · · . · · · . · · · · . · · · · . · · · · . · · · . · · · · . · · · · · · · . · · · . · . · · . · · . · . · . · · . · . · . · * and like a bird was singing out'. . . 'so up on huggins' horse he got'. . * whilst huggins in the stirrup stood' ““ beasts of draught !”'. . . * when he was rubbed'. . . heading to faithless sally brown. "“now, young woman,” said he'.. 'he found she'd got another ben'. tailpiece to faithless sally brown . heading to the mermaid of margate . "and clasped him by the hand' his hair began to stiffen' .. ahoy!” . . . . heading to a fairy tale . * reading,—and wept'. . ' a horn-pipe' . . . «« took to the road” again! «« well! this is fairy work" heading to equestrian courtship . . • they rode by a churchyard, and then he spoke' heading to tim turpin . . . . now tim he wooed a servant maid' . ' he saw her very plain . . "a dozen men to try the fact'. . . . . * a great judge, and a little judge'. heading to death's ramble. . * he saw a watchman fast in his box a patient that pulled out his purse' ' he saw a sailor mixing his grog'. . heading to a parthian glance . . * to comfort my woes'. . . ‘was your face ever sent to the housemaid to scrub?' tailpiece to a parthian glance . . . . heading to a sailor's apology for bow-legs . . ''twas all along of poll' : : : : : 'to splice me, heel to heel'. . . . . . · . · . . · . . · . . · . . · . . · . . · . . · . . · . . · . . · . . · . . · . · . . · . · . · . . . list of illustrations xxix page · . · . . · · · · · · · . · · o · . · . · · · . · · · · · . · · . ioi · · . . · · · . · · · · . · · · · . · · · · · · · · · · . · · · · · · . · · · · . ‘my legs began to bend like winkin' . . tailpiece to a sailor's apology for bow-legs heading to john trot. . . . . ' took her quite amazed . . • they stripped his coat, and gave him kicks : * huzza ! the sergeant cried'. . . heading to mary's ghost . . • they've come and boned your mary'. 'in spirits and a phial'. tailpiece to mary's ghost . . . heading to the carelesse nurse mayd. tailpiece to the carelesse nurse mayd. heading to a report from below . . 'suppose the couple standing so'. ““come,” says she, quite in a huff' up goes the copper' . . . * a-staring at the wash-house roof'. heading to the duel . . . “i'll pop it into you’ . . . ‘said mr. c. to mr. b.' . . . tailpiece to the duel. . heading to the supper superstition ‘don't sup on that 'ere cod'. . 'to see what brutes would do' . . tailpiece to the supper superstition heading to faithless nelly gray . ‘she made him quite a scoff' . . * some other man'. . . . 'in four cross roads' . . heading to our village . . · right before the wicket' ‘the green man'. ' a select establishment'. “there's a barber's' . . heading to john day . . ‘and made an offer plump'. . . . ii . · . · · · · . · · . . · · . · · . · · · · . · · · · [ . · · i · · · · · · i · . · . . · . · · · . · . · · · · · · . · · · · . · · · · · . · · . . · · · · · · · . · · · · . . · · . · xxx selections from hood page . . · . . . · . . • . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . • he fretted all the way to stroud'. . . . i've lost my better half' . . heading to lieutenant luff. . * that old enemy the gout' . ‘said he, “this barrel is my last ”. heading to the china-mender . “he will so finger and touch'. . “stupid mr. lambert'. . “a hearty woman for her years' heading to playing at soldiers ‘or storm the garden gates' . “that would hold up the flag · and laid it out in cakes' . i've got a substitute' . . . . heading to queen mab . . *and ogres draw their cruel knives' . heading to morning meditations . . with charwomen and sweeps such early hours agree heading to the demon ship . . . . “that grimly one' . . . . . . 'they crowed their fill'. . . heading to the drowning ducks *the thing was strange'. . * there crawled some eels' .. heading to the lost heir . oh serjeant m‘farlane!' . * playing like angels' . . tailpiece to the lost heir . . . heading to the assistant draper’s petition . * for oh ! the brain gets very dull and dry' heading to the volunteer . . . looking forth with anxious eye'. .. “the mirror here confirmed me this? heading to hit or miss . . . . 'he seemed a dog adrift' . . “some savage nations use the style' . . . . . . . · · · . . . . . . · a . . · · . . . . · · . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . list of illustrations xxxi page . . · * putting his gravest visage on’ . * about the moors’. . . "to vent his rage'. . . . * for keepers, shy of such encroachers' . * and raps an oath' . . . . tailpiece to hit or miss . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . un ch epping hunty illic brak advertisement triding in the steps of strutt—the historian of a y the old english sports--the author of the following eqa pages has endeavoured to record a yearly revel, already fast hastening to decay. the easter chase will soon be numbered with the pastimes of past times : its dogs will have had their day, and its deer will be fallow. a few more seasons, and this city common hunt will become un- common. in proof of this melancholy decadence, the ensuing epistle is inserted. it was penned by an underling at the wells, a person more accustomed to riding than writing :- “sir,--about the hunt. in anser to your innqueries, their as been a great falling off laterally, so much so this year that there was nobody allmost. we did a mear nothing provisionally, b selections from hood hardly a bottle extra, wich is a proof in pint. in short our hunt may be said to be in the last stag of a decline. “i am, sir, “with respects from your humble servant, “ bartholomew rutt." “on monday they began to hunt.”—chevy chase. en tohn huggins was as bold a man as trade did ever know, a warehouse good he had, that stood hard by the church of bow. there people bought dutch cheeses round, and single glo'ster flat,- and english butter in a lump, and irish-in a pat. six days a week beheld him stand, his business next his heart, at counter, with his apron tied about his counter-part. the seventh in a sluice-house box, he took his pipe and pot ; epping hunt on sundays for eel-piety, a very noted spot. ca cf brock hay. . at counter.' ah, blest if he had never gone beyond its rural shed ! one easter-tide, some evil guide put epping in his head; epping for butter justly famed, and pork in sausage popp'd; where winter time, or summer time, pig's flesh is always chopt. selections from hood but famous more, as annals tell, because of easter chase : there ev'ry year, 'twixt dog and deer, there is a gallant race. with monday's sun john huggins rose, and slapt his leather thigh, and sang the burthen of the song, “this day a stag must die.” for all the livelong day before, and all the night in bed, like beckford, he had nourished“ thoughts on hunting” in his head. of horn and morn, and hark and bark, and echo's answering sounds, all poets' wit hath ever writ in dog-rel verse of hounds. alas! there was no warning voice to whisper in his ear, thou art a fool in leaving cheap to go and hunt the deer ! epping hunt no thought he had of twisted spine, or broken arms or legs ; not chicken-hearted he, altho’ 'twas whispered of his eggs ! w of lustre superfine.' ride out he would, and hunt he would, nor dreamt of ending ill; mayhap with dr. ridout's fee, · and surgeon hunter's bill. selections from hood so he drew on his sunday boots, of lustre superfine ; the liquid black they wore that day, was warren-ted to shine. his yellow buckskins fitted close, as once upon a stag ; thus well equipt he gaily skipt, at once, upon his nag. but first to him that held the rein, a crown he nimbly flung : for holding of the horse ?—why, no- for holding of his tongue. to say the horse was huggins' own, would only be a brag ; his neighbour fig and he went halves, like centaurs, in a nag. and he that day had got the grey, unknown to brother cit ; the horse he knew would never tell, altho' it was a tit. epping hunt a well-bred horse he was, i wis, as he began to show, by quickly “rearing up within the way he ought to go.” huggins med dr. دواع as he began to show.' copyright by macmillan & co. but huggins, like a wary man, was ne'er from saddle cast ; resolved, by going very slow, on sitting very fast. selections from hood and so he jogged to tot'n'am cross, an ancient town well known, where edward wept for eleanor in mortar and in stone. a royal game of fox and goose, to play on such a loss; wherever she set down her orts, thereby he put a cross. now huggins had a crony here, that lived beside the way ; one that had promised sure to be his comrade for the day. whereas the man had changed his mind, meanwhile upon the case ! and meaning not to hunt at all, had gone to enfield chase. for why, his spouse had made him vow to let a game alone, where folks that ride a bit of blood, may break a bit of bone. epping hunt “now, be his wife a plague for life! a coward sure is he: ” then huggins turned his horse's head, and crossed the bridge of lea. pm un •his spouse had made him vow. thence slowly on thro' laytonstone, past many a quaker's box,- no friends to hunters after deer, tho' followers of a fox. io selections from hood and many a score behind-before- the self-same route inclined, and minded all to march one way, made one great march of mind. gentle and simple, he and she, and swell, and blood, and prig ; and some had carts, and some a chaise, according to their gig. some long-eared jacks, some knacker's hacks (however odd it sounds), let out that day to hunt, instead of going to the hounds ! and some had horses of their own, and some were forced to job it : and some, while they inclined to hunt, betook themselves to cob-it. all sorts of vehicles and vans, bad, middling, and the smart ; here rolled along the gay barouche, and there a dirty cart ! epping hunt ii and lo! a cart that held a squad of costermonger line ; with one poor hack, like pegasus, that slaved for all the nine ! cebrock • " hallo !" cried they; "come, trot away. copyright by macmillan & co. yet marvel not at any load, that any horse might drag, when all, that morn, at once were drawn together by a stag ! selections from hood now when they saw john huggins go at such a sober pace; “hallo !” cried they ; "come, trot away, you'll never see the chase ! ” but john, as grave as any judge, made answer quite as blunt ; “ it will be time enough to trot, when i begin to hunt !” and so he paced to woodford wells, where many a horseman met, and letting go the reins, of course, prepared for heavy wet. and lo! within the crowded door, stood rounding, jovial elf ; here shall the muse frame no excuse, but frame the man himself. a snow-white head, a merry eye, a cheek of jolly blush ; a claret tint laid on by health, with master reynard's brush ; epping hunt a hearty frame, a courteous bow, the prince he learned it from ; his age about threescore and ten, and there you have old tom. in merriest key i trow was he, so many guests to boast; so certain congregations meet, and elevate the host. "now welcome, lads,” quoth he, “ and prads, you're all in glorious luck : old robin has a run to-day, a noted forest buck. "fair mead's the place, where bob and tom, in red already ridc ; 'tis but a step, and on a horse you soon may go a stride." so off they scampered, man and horse, as time and temper pressed-- but huggins, hitching on a tree, branched off from all the rest. selections from hood and now began a sudden stir, and then a sudden shout, the prison-doors were opened wide, and robin bounded out ! his antlered head shone blue and red, bedecked with ribbons fine; like other bucks that come to 'list the hawbucks in the line. one curious gaze of mild amaze, he turned and shortly took ; then gently ran adown the mead, and bounded o'er the brook. now huggins, standing far aloof, had never seen the deer, till all at once he saw the beast come charging in his rear. away he went, and many a score of riders did the same, on horse and ass—like high and low and jack pursuing game ! epping hunt good lord ! to see the riders now, thrown off with sudden whirl, a score within the purling brook, enjoyed their “early purl.” á *enjoyed their "early purl.”' a score were sprawling on the grass, and beavers fell in showers ; there was another floorer there, beside the queen of flowers ! some lost their stirrups, some their whips, some had no caps to show ; selections from hood but few, like charles at charing cross, rode on in statue quo. "o dear! o dear !” now might you hear, " i've surely broke a bone ;” “my head is sore,”—with many more such speeches from the thrown. howbeit their wailings never moved the wide satanic clan, who grinned, as once the devil grinned, to see the fall of man. and hunters good, that understood, their laughter knew no bounds, to see the horses “throwing off," so long before the hounds. for deer must have due course of law, like men the courts among ; before those barristers the dogs proceed to "giving tongue.” epping hunt and now old robin's foes were set, that fatal taint to find, that always is scent after him, yet always left behind. and here observe how dog and man a different temper shows, what hound resents that he is sent to follow his own nose ? was towler and jowler—howlers all, no single tongue was mute ; the stag had led a hart, and lo ! the whole pack followed suit. no spur he lacked ; fear stuck a knife and fork in either haunch; and every dog he knew had got an eye-tooth to his paunch ! away, away! he scudded like a ship before the gale ; now flew to “hills we know not of,” now, nun-like, took the vale. selections from hood another squadron charging now, went off at furious pitch ;- a perfect tam o' shanter mob, without a single witch. but who was he with flying skirts, a hunter did endorse, and like a poet seemed to ride upon a winged horse, — a whipper-in ?—no whipper-in : a huntsman ? no such soul. a connoisseur, or amateur ? why yes,-a horse patrol. a member of police, for whom the county found a nag, and, like acteon in the tale, he found himself in stag ! away they went then, dog and deer, and hunters all away,— the maddest horses never knew mad staggers such as they ! epping hunt some gave a shout, some rolled about, and anticked as they rode, and butchers whistled on their curs, and milkmen tally-hoed. e cry w ill cebrock - is m 'each thickct served to thin it,' about two score there were, not more, that galloped in the race ; the rest, alas ! lay on the grass, as once in chevy chase ! selections from hood but even those that galloped on were fewer every minute,—- the field kept getting more select, each thicket served to thin it. for some pulled up, and left the hunt, some fell in miry bogs, and vainly rose and “ran a muck," to overtake the dogs. and some, in charging hurdle stakes, were left bereft of sense- what else could be premised of blades that never learned to fence ? but rounding, tom, and bob, no gate, nor hedge, nor ditch, could stay ; o'er all they went, and did the work of leap years in a day. and by their side see huggins ride, as fast as he could speed ; for, like mazeppa, he was quite at mercy of his steed. epping hunt no means he had, by timely check, the gallop to remit, for firm and fast, between his teeth, the biter held the bit. trees raced along, all essex fled beneath him as he sate,- he never saw a county go at such a county rate ! "hold hard ! hold hard ! you'll lame the dogs.” quoth huggins, “so i do,— i've got the saddle well in hand, and hold as hard as you !” good lord ! to see him ride along, and throw his arms about, as if with stitches in the side, that he was drawing out ! and now he bounded up and down, now like a jelly shook : till bumped and galled—yet not where gall for bumps did ever look ! selections from hood and rowing with his legs the while, as tars are apt to ride, with every kick he gave a prick, deep in the horse's side ! when g. itu ai teris 'and like a bird was singing out.' but soon the horse was well avenged, for cruel smart of spurs, for, riding through a moor, he pitched his master in a furze ! where sharper set than hunget is he squatted all ſorlorn ; epping hunt and like a bird was singing out while sitting on a thorn ! right glad was he, as well might be, such cushion to resign : “ possession is nine points,” but his seemed more than ninety-nine. yet worse than all the prickly points that entered in his skin, his nag was running off the while the thorns were running in ! now had a papist seen his sport thus laid upon the shelf, altho' no horse he had to cross, he might have crossed himself. yet surely still the wind is ill that none can say is fair ; a jolly wight there was, that rode upon a sorry mare ! selections from hood a sorry mare, that surely came of pagan blood and bone ; for down upon her knees she went to many a stock and stone ! now seeing huggins' nag adrift, this farmer, shrewd and sage, resolved, by changing horses here, to hunt another stage ! tho’ felony, yet who would let another's horse alone, whose neck is placed in jeopardy by riding on his own ? and yet the conduct of the man seemed honest-like and fair ; for he seemed willing, horse and all, to go before the mare ! so up on huggins' horse he got, and swiftly rode away, while huggins mounted on the mare, done brown upon a bay! epping hunt and off they set, in double chase, for such was fortune's whim, the farmer rode to hunt the stag, and huggins hunted him ! so up on huggins' horse he got.' alas! with one that rode so well in vain it was to strive ; a dab was he, as dabs should be- all leaping and alive ! selections from hood howbeit there was no toll at all, they could not clear the gate. and, like fitzjames, he cursed the hunt, and sorely cursed the day, and mused a new gray's elegy on his departed grey ! now many a sign at woodford town its inn-vitation tells : but huggins, full of ills, of course, betook him to the wells. where rounding tried to cheer him up with many a merry laugh ; but huggins thought of neighbour fig, and called for half-and-half. yet, 'spite of drink, he could not blink remembrance of his loss ; to drown a care like his, required enough to drown a horse. epping hunt : when thus forlorn, a merry horn struck up without the door,- the mounted mob were all returned ; the epping hunt was o'er ! in lu s с.ebrock ""beasts of draught!"' and many a horse was taken out of saddle and of shaft; and men, by dint of drink, became the only “ beasts of draught !” . selections from hood for now begun a harder run on wine, and gin, and beer ; and overtaken man discussed the overtaken deer. how far he ran, and eke how fast, and how at bay he stood, deer-like, resolved to sell his life as dearly as he could ; and how the hunters stood aloof, regardful of their lives, and shunned a beast, whose very horns they knew could handle knives ! how huggins stood when he was rubbed by help and ostler kind, and when they cleaned the clay before, how worse “ remained behind.” and one, how he had found a horse adrift—a goodly grey! and kindly rode the nag, for fear the nag should go astray. afe en co ann pogo ju may . when he was rubbed.' copyright by macmillan & co. selections from hood now huggins, when he heard the tale, jumped up with sudden glee ; “ a goodly grey! why, then, i say that grey belongs to me! “let me endorse again my horse, delivered safe and sound; and, gladly, i will give the man a bottle and a pound !” the wine was drunk,—the money paid, tho' not without remorse, to pay another man so much, for riding on his horse. and let the chase again take place, for many a long, long year, john huggins will not ride again to hunt the epping deer! moral. thus pleasure oft eludes our grasp, just when we think to grip her ; and hunting after happiness, we only hunt a slipper. faithless sally brown - n o p ballas (oung ben he was a nice young man, - a carpenter by trade ; and he fell in love with sally brown, that was a lady's maid. but as they fetched a walk one day, they met a press-gang crew ; and sally she did faint away, whilst ben he was brought to. faithless sally brown the boatswain swore with wicked words, enough to shock a saint, that though she did seem in a fit, 'twas nothing but a feint. “come, girl,” said he, “hold up your head, he'll be as good as me ; for when your swain is in our boat, a boatswain he will be.” so when they'd made their game of her, and taken off her elf, she roused, and found she only was a coming to herself. “ and is he gone, and is he gone?” she cried, and wept outright : “ then i will to the water side, and see him out of sight.” a waterman came up to her, “now, young woman,” said he, “ if you weep on so, you will make eye-water in the sea.” selections from hood “ alas! they've taken my beau ben to sail with old benbow ;” . and her woe began to run afresh, as if she'd said gee woe ! cfbo ""now, young woman,” said he.' copyright by macmillan & co. says he, “ they've only taken him to the tender ship, you see ;” “the tender ship,” cried sally brown, “what a hard-ship that must be ! selections from hood then reading on his 'bacco box, he heaved a bitter sigh, and then began to eye his pipe, and then to pipe his eye. brock * he found she'd got another ben,' copyright by macmillan & co. and then he tried to sing “ all's well,” but could not though he tried : faithless sally brown his head was turned, and so he chewed his pigtail till he died. his death, which happened in his berth, at forty-odd befell : they went and told the sexton, and the sexton toll’d the bell. cobacter the mermaid of margate fare um fotot ceb “ alas! what perils do environ that man who meddles with a siren!" hudibras. n margate beach, where the sick one roams, and the sentimental reads; where the maiden flirts, and the widow comes like the ocean—to cast her weeds ;- where urchins wander to pick up shells, and the cit to spy at the ships, — like the water gala at sadler's wells,— and the chandler for watery dips ;- the mermaid of margate . there's a maiden sits by the ocean brim, as lovely and fair as sin ! but woe, deep water and woe to him, that she snareth like peter fin! her head is crowned with pretty sea-wares, and her locks are golden and loose, and seek to her feet, like other folks' heirs, to stand, of course, in her shoes ! and all day long she combeth them well, with a sea-shark's prickly jaw ; and her mouth is just like a rose-lipped shell, the fairest that man e'er saw ! and the fishmonger, humble as love may be, hath planted his seat by her side ; “good even, fair maid! is thy lover at sea, to make thee so watch the tide ? ” arta, she turned about with her pearly brows, and clasped him by the hand ; “come, love, with me; i've a bonny house on the golden goodwin sand.” . selections from hood and then she gave him a siren kiss, no honeycomb e'er was sweeter ; poor wretch ! how little he dreamt for this that peter should be salt-peter : palettar re bsp . and clasped him by the hand. and away with her prize to the wave she leapt, not walking, as damsels do, with toe and heel, as she ought to have stept, but she hopt like a kangaroo ; the mermaid of margate one plunge, and then the victim was blind, whilst they galloped across the tide ; at last, on the bank he waked in his mind, and the beauty was by his side. • his hair began to stiffin.' one half on the sand, and half in the sea, but his hair began to stiffen ; for when he looked where her feet should be, she had no more feet than miss biffen ! but a scaly tail, of a dolphin's growth, in the dabbling brine did soak : selections from hood at last she opened her pearly mouth, like an oyster, and thus she spoke : “you crimpt my father, who was a skate,--- and my sister you sold—a maid ; so here remain for a fish'ry fate, for lost you are, and betrayed ! ” and away she went, with a sea-gull's scream, and a splash of her saucy tail ; in a moment he lost the silvery gleam that shone on her splendid mail ! the sun went down with a blood-red flame, and the sky grew cloudy and black, and the tumbling billows like leap-frog came, each over the other's back! ah me! it had been a beautiful scene, with the safe terra-firma round; but the green water-hillocks all seem'd to him, like those in a churchyard ground; the mermaid of margate and christians love in the turf to lie, not in watery graves to be ; nay, the very fishes will sooner die on the land than in the sea. and whilst he stood, the watery strife encroached on every hand, and the ground decreased-—his inoments of life seemed measured, like time's, by sand; and still the waters foamed in, like ale, in front, and on either flank, he knew that goodwin and co. must fail, there was such a run on the bank. a little more, and a little more, the surges came tumbling in, he sang the evening hymn twice o'er, and thought of every sin ! each flounder and plaice lay cold at his heart, as cold as his marble slab; and he thought he felt, in every part, the pincers of scalded crab. $ selections from hood the squealing lobsters that he had boiled, and the little potted shrimps, all the horny prawns he had ever spoiled, gnawed into his soul, like imps ! and the billows were wandering to and fro, and the glorious sun was sunk, and day, getting black in the face, as though of the night-shade she had drunk ! had there been but a smuggler's cargo adrift, one tub, or keg, to be seen, it might have given his spirits a lift or an anker where hope might lean ! but there was not a box or a beam afloat, to raft him from that sad place; not a skiff, not a yawl, or a mackerel boat, nor a smack upon neptune's face. at last, his lingering hopes to buoy, he saw a sail and a mast, and called “ ahoy!”—but it was not a hoy, and so the vessel went past. the mermaid of margate and with saucy wing that flapped in his face, the wild bird about him flew, with a shrilly scream, that twitted his case, “why, thou art a sea-gull too ! ” "" ahoy!" and lo! the tide was over his feet; oh! his heart began to freeze, and slowly to pulse :-in another beat the wave was up to his knees ! he was deafened amidst the mountain tops, and the salt spray blinded his eyes, selections from hood and washed away the other salt drops that grief had caused to arise :- but just as his body was all afloat, and the surges above him broke, he was saved from the hungry deep by a boat of deal—(but builded of oak). the skipper gave him a dram, as he lay, and chafed his shivering skin ; and the angel returned that was flying away with the spirit of peter fin. selections from hood but made his business travel for itself, till he had made his pelf, and then retired—if one may call it so, of a roadsider. perchance, the very race and constant riot of stages, long and short, which thereby ran, made him more relish the repose and quiet of his now sedentary caravan ; . perchance, he loved the ground because 'twas common, and so he might impale a strip of soil that furnished, by his toil, some dusty greens, for him and his old woman ;- and five tall hollyhocks, in dingy flower : howbeit, the thoroughfare did no ways spoil his peace, unless, in some unlucky hour, a stray horse came, and gobbled up his bow'r. but tired of always looking at the coaches, the same to come,—when they had seen them one day! and, used to brisker life, both man and wife began to suffer n u e's approaches, and feel retirement like a long wet sunday,- a fairy tale so, having had some quarters of school breeding, they turned themselves, like other folks, to reading ; but setting out where others nigh have done, and being ripened in the seventh stage, the childhood of old age, began, as other children have begun,- not with the pastorals of mr. pope, or bard of hope, or paley ethical, or learned porson, but spelt, on sabbaths, in st. mark, or john, and then relax'd themselves with whittington, or valentine and orson- but chiefly fairy tales they loved to con, and being easily melted in their dotage, * slobber'd,—and kept reading, -and wept over the white cat, in their wooden cottage, thus reading on the longer they read, of course, their childish faith grew stronger in gnomes, and hags, and elves, and giants grim,-- if talking trees and birds revealed to him, she saw the flight of fairyland's fly-waggons, and magic fishes swim in puddle ponds, and took old crows for dragons,- selections from hood both were quite drunk from the enchanted flagons ; when as it fell upon a summer's day, have 'reading, -and wept. as the old man sat a feeding on the old-babe reading, beside his open street-and-parlour door, a hideous roar proclaimed a drove of beasts was coming by the way. a fairy tale long-horned, and short, of many a different breed, tall, tawny brutes, from famous lincoln-levels or durham feed, 'a horn-pipe. with some of those unquiet black dwarf devils from nether side of tweed, or firth of forth ; looking half wild with joy to leave the north, with dusty hides, all mobbing on together,- selections from hood when,—whether from a fly's malicious comment upon his tender flank, from which he shrank; or whether only in some enthusiastic moment,- however, one brown monster, in a frisk, giving his tail a perpendicular whisk, kicked out a passage through the beastly rabble ; and after a pas seul,—-or, if you will, a horn-pipe before the basket-maker's villa, leapt o'er the tiny pale,- backed his beefsteaks against the wooden gable, and thrust his brawny bell-rope of a tail right o'er the page, wherein the sage just then was spelling some romantic fable. the old man, half a scholar, half a dunce, could not peruse, who could ?—two tales at once ; and being huffed at what he knew was none of riquet's tuft, banged-to the door, but most unluckily enclosed a morsel of the intruding tail, and all the tassel :- the monster gave a roar, a fairy tale and bolting off with speed increased by pain, the little house became a coach once more, and, like macheath, “took to the road” again ! sammen med unluigheativit "" took to the road" again!' just then, by fortune's whimsical decree, the ancient woman stooping with her crupper towards sweet home, or where sweet home should be, was getting up some household herbs for supper ; thoughtful of cinderella, in the tale, and, quaintly wondering if magic shifts selections from hood could o'er a common pumpkin so prevail, to turn it to a coach ;--what pretty gifts might come of cabbages, and curly kale ; . meanwhile she never heard her old man's wail, nor turned, till home had turned a corner, quite gone out of sight! at last, conceive her, rising from the ground, weary of sitting on her russet clothing, a fairy tale and looking round where rest was to be found, there was no house—no villa there--no nothing ! no house ! the change was quite amazing ; it made her senses stagger for a minute, the riddle's explication seemed to harden ; but soon her superannuated nous explain'd the horrid mystery ;-and raising her hand to heaven, with the cabbage in it, on which she meant to sup,- “ well ! this is fairy work! i'll bet a farden, little prince silverwings has ketch'd me up, and set me down in some one else's garden !” an (ourtship t th t was a young maiden went forth to ride, * and there was a wooer to pace by her side ; his horse was so little, and hers so high, he thought his angel was up in the sky. his love was great, though his wit was small; he bade her ride easy—and that was all. the very horses began to neigh,-- because their betters had nought to say. they rode by elm, and they rode by oak, they rode by a churchyard, and then he spoke : equestrian courtship “my pretty maiden, if you'll agree, .you shall always amble through life with me." gebrock • they rode by a churchyard, and then he spoke.' copyright by macmillan & co. the damsel answered him never a word, but kicked the grey mare, and away she spurred, . selections from hood the wooer still followed behind the jade, and enjoyed—like a wooer—the dust she made. they rode thro' moss, and they rode thro' moor,- the gallant behind and the lass before :- at last they came to a miry place, and there the sad wooer gave up the chase.. ue. quoth he, “ if my nag was better to ride, i'd follow her over the world so wide. oh, it is not my love that begins to fail, but i've lost the last glimpse of the grey mare's tail !” turpin a pathetic ballad . tim turpin he was gravel blind, and ne'er had seen the skies ; for nature when his head was made, forgot to dot his eyes. ii. so, like a christmas pedagogue, poor tim was forced to do— look out for pupils ; for he had . a vacancy for two. iii. there's some have specs to help their sight of objects dim and small : selections from hood but tim had specks within his eyes, and could not see at all. un ch now tim he wooed a servant maid.' iv. now tim he wooed a servant maid, and took her to his arms; for he, like pyramus, had cast a wall-eye on her charms. tim turpin by day she led him up and down, where'er he wished to jog, a happy wife, altho’ she led the life of any dog. but just when tim had lived a month in honey with his wife, a surgeon op'd his milton eyes, like oysters, with a knife. vii. but when his eyes were opened thus, he wished them dark again : for when he look'd upon his wife, he saw her very plain. viii. her face was bad, her figure worse, he couldn't bear to eat : for she was anything but like a grace before his meat. selections from hood ix. now tim he was a feeling man ; for when his sight was thick it made him feel for everything- but that was with a stick. se 'he saw her very plain.' x. so, with a cudgel in his hand- it was not light or slim- he knocked at his wife's head until it opened unto him. tim turpin xi. and when the corpse was stiff and cold, he took his slaughtered spouse, and laid her in a heap with all the ashes of her house. xii. but like a wicked murderer, he lived in constant fear from day to day, and so he cut his throat from ear to ear. xiii. the neighbours fetched a doctor in ; said he, “ this wound i dread can hardly be sewed up—his life is hanging on a thread.” xiv. but when another week was gone, he gave him stronger hope-- instead of hanging on a thread, of hanging on a rope. selections from hood xv. ah! when he hid his bloody work in ashes round about, how little he supposed the truth would soon be sifted out. a dozen men to try the fact. xvi. but when the parish dustman came, his rubbish to withdraw, he found more dust within the heap than he contracted for! xvii. a dozen men to try the fact were sworn that very day ; tim turpin but though they all were jurors, yet no conjurors were they. xviii. said tim unto those jurymen, you need not waste your breath, for i confess myself at once the author of her death. xix. and, oh! when i reflect upon the blood that i have spilt, just like a button is my soul, inscribed with double guilt ! xx. then turning round his head again, he saw before his eyes, a great judge, and a little judge, the judges of a-size ! xxi. the great judge took his judgment cap, and put it on his head, selections from hood and sentenced tim by law to hang till he was three times dead. a great judge, and a little judge.' xxii. so he was tried, and he was hung (fit punishment for such) on horsham-drop, and none can say it was a drop too much. deaths ramble cele ne day the dreary old king of death inclined for some sport with the carnal, so he tied a pack of darts on his back, and quictly stole from his charnel. his head was bald of flesh and of hair, his body was lean and lank, his joints at each stir made a crack, and the cur took a gnaw, by the way, at his shank. and what did he do with his deadly darts, this goblin of grisly bone ? he dabbled and spilled man's blood, and he killed like a butcher that kills his own. selections from hood the first he slaughtered it made him laugh (for the man was a coffin-maker), to think how the mutes, and men in black suits, would mourn for an undertaker. death saw two quakers sitting at church, quoth he, “we shall not differ.” and he let them alone, like figures of stone, for he could not make them stiffer. he saw two duellists going to fight, in fear they could not smother ; and he shot one through at once—for he knew they never would shoot each other. he saw a watchman fast in his box, and he gave a snore infernal ; said death, “ he may keep his breath, for his sleep can never be more eternal.” sleep. he met a coachman driving his coach, so slow, that his fare grew sick ; death's ramble he saw a sailor mixing his grog, and he marked him out for slaughter ; va ceb he saw a sailor miring his grog.' for on water he scarcely had cared for death, and never on rum-and-water. selections from hood death saw two players playing at cards, but the game wasn't worth a dump, for he quickly laid them flat with a spade, to wait for the final trump! selections from hood iii. looking over time's crupper and over his tail, oh! what ages and pages there are to revise ! and as farther our back-searching glances prevail, like the emmets, “ how little we are in our eyes !” 'iv. what a sweet pretty innocent, half a yard long, on a dimity lap of true nursery make ! i can fancy i hear the old lullaby song that was meant to compose me, but kept me awake. v. methinks i still suffer the infantine throes, when my flesh was a cushion for any long pin- whilst they patted my body to comfort my woes, oh! how little they dreamt they were driving them in ! vi. infant sorrows are strong—infant pleasures as weak- but no grief was allowed to indulge in its note ; did you ever attempt a small “ bubble and squeak," thro' the dalby's carminative down in your throat? so selections from hood viii. then an urchin—i see myself urchin, indeed, with a smooth sunday face for a mother's delight; why should weeks have an end ?-i am sure there was need of a sabbath to follow each saturday night. ix. was your face ever sent to the housemaid to scrub? have you ever felt huckaback softened with sand ? had you ever your nose towelled up to a snub, and your eyes knuckled out with the back of the hand ? then a schoolboy—my tailor was nothing in fault, for an urchin will grow to a lad by degrees - but how well i remember that “pepper and salt " that was down to the elbows, and up to the knees ! xi. what a figure it cut when as norval i spoke ! with a lanky right leg duly planted before ; selections from hood xiii. with the bride all in white, and your body in blue, did you walk up the aisle—the genteelest of men ? when i think of that beautiful vision anew, oh! i seem but the biffin of what i was then ! xiv. i am withered and worn by a premature care, and my wrinkles confess the decline of my days ; old time's busy hand has made free with my hair, and i'm seeking to hide it-by writing for bays. sailor's apology for bow-lecs. be p here's some is born with their legs straight by natur- and some is born with bow-legs from the first- and some that should have growed a good deal straighter, but they were badly nursed, and set, you see, like bacchus, with their pegs astride of casks and kegs. i've got myself a sort of bow to larboard, and starboard, and this is what it was that warped my legs : selections from hood 'twas all along of poll, as i may say, that foul'd my cable when i ought to slip; but on the tenth of may, when i gets under weigh, som ''twas all along of poll.' copyright by macmillan & co. down there in hartfordshire, to join my ship, i sees the mail get under sail, the only one there was to make the trip. a sailor's apology for bow-legs well, i gives chase, but as she run two knots to one, there warn't no use in keeping on the race ! well, casting round about, what next to try on, and how to spin, i spies an ensign with a bloody lion, and bears away to leeward for the inn, beats round the gable, and fetches up before the coach horse stable. well, there they stand, four kickers in a row, and so i just makes free to cut a brown ’un's cable. but riding isn't in a seaman's natur ; so i whips out a toughish end of yarn, and gets a kind of sort of a land-waiter to splice me, heel to heel, under the she-mare's keel, and off i goes, and leaves the inn a-starn! my eyes ! how she did pitch ! and wouldn't keep her own to go in no line, selections from hood tho' i kept bowsing, bowsing at her bow-line, but always making lee-way to the ditch, situte anax . ceb to splice me, heel to heel.' and yawed her head about all sorts of ways. the devil sink the craft! and wasn't she tremendous slack in stays ! we couldn't, no how, keep the inn abaft! well, i suppose a sailor's apology for bow-legs we hadn't run a knot-or much beyond (what will you have on it?)—but off she goes, up to her bends in a fresh-water pond ! there i am! all a-back! so i looks forward for her bridle-gears, to heave her head round on the t'other tack; but when i starts, the leather parts, and goes away right over by the ears ! what could a fellow do, whose legs, like mine, you know, were in the bilboes, but trim myself upright for bringing-to, and square his yard-arms and brace up his elbows, in rig all snug and clever, just while his craft was taking in her water ? i didn't like my berth, though, howsomdever, because the yarn, you see, kept getting tauter. says i--i wish this job was rayther shorter ! the chase had gained a mile ahead, and still the she-mare stood a-drinking ; now, all the while her body didn't take, of course, to shrinking. says i, she's letting out her reefs, i'm thinking ; selections from hood lead my legs began to bend like winkin.' copyright by macmillan & co. and so she swelled and swelled, and yet the tackle held, till both my legs began to bend like winkin. my eyes ! but she took in enough to founder ! and there's my timbers straining every bit, a sailor's apology for bow-legs ready to split, and her tarnation hull a-growing rounder ! well, there—off hartford ness we lay both lashed and water-logged together, and can't contrive a signal of distress. thinks i, we must ride out this here foul weather, tho' sick of riding out, and nothing less ; when, looking round, i sees a man a-starn : “hollo !” says i, “come underneath her quarter ! ” and hands him out my knife to cut the yarn. so i gets off, and lands upon the road, and leaves the she-mare to her own consarn, a-standing by the water. if i get on another, i'll be blowed ! and that's the way, you see, my legs got bowed ! john trotter cs-sce s . john trot he was as tall a lad as york did ever rear- as his dear granny used to say, he'd make a grenadier. ii. a sergeant soon came down to york, with ribbons and a frill ; my lads, said he, let broadcast be, and come away to drill. john trot iii. but when he wanted john to 'list, in war he saw no fun, where what is called a raw recruit gets often over-done. iv. let others carry guns, said he, and go to war's alarms, but i have got a shoulder-knot imposed upon my arms. for john he had a footman's place to wait on lady wye- she was a dumpy woman, tho’ her family was high. vi. now when two years had passed away, her lord took very ill, and left her to her widowhood, of course more dumpy still. urse more selections from hood vii. said john, i am a proper man, and very tall to see ; who knows, but now her lord is low, she may look up to me? viii. a cunning woman told me once, such fortune would turn up ; she was a kind of sorceress, but studied in a cup! ix. so he walked up to lady wye, and took her quite amazed, - she thought, tho’ john was tall enough, he wanted to be raised. x. but john—for why? she was a dame of such a dwarfish sort- had only come to bid her make her mourning very short. john trot xi. . said he, your lord is dead and cold, you only cry in vain ; «Կառլյա un "logs ( od wir lului w - ceb ings 'he took her quite amazed.' copyright by macmillan & co. not all the cries of london now could call him back again ! selections from hood xii. you'll soon have many a noble beau, to dry your noble tears— but just consider this, that i have followed you for years. xiii. and tho' you are above me far, what matters high degree, when you are only four foot nine, and i am six foot three ! xiv. for tho' you are of lofty race, and i'm a low-born elf ; yet none among your friends could say, you matched beneath yourself. said she, such insolence as this can be no common case; tho' you are in my service, sir, your love is out of place. in trot xvi. o lady wye! o lady wye ! consider what you do ; how can you be so short with me, i am not so with you! ootd la fo they stripped his coat, and gave him kicks. xvii. then ringing for her serving men, they showed him to the door : said they, you turn out better now, why didn't you before ? selections from hood xviii. they stripped his coat, and gave him kicks for all his wages due ; and off, instead of green and gold, he went in black and blue. ca. ““huzza !" the sergeant cried: xix. no family would take him in, because of his discharge ; so he made up his mind to serve the country all at large. john trot xx. huzza! the sergeant cried, and put the money in his hand, and with a shilling cut him off from his paternal land. xxi. for when his regiment went to fight at saragossa town, a frenchman thought he looked too tall, and so he cut him down ! mary's chost ce wada РАТңєтіс В d i. he was in the middle of the night, to sleep young william tried ; when mary's ghost came stealing in, and stood at his bed-side. ii. o william dear! o william dear! my rest eternal ceases ; alas! my everlasting peace is broken into pieces. iii. i thought the last of all my cares would end with my last minute ; mary's ghost but though i went to my long home, i didn't stay long in it. wilow . they've come and boned your mary.' iv. the body-snatchers they have come, and made a snatch at me ; it's very hard them kind of men won't let a body be! selections from hood v. you thought that i was buried deep, quite decent like and chary, but from her grave in mary-bone, they've come and boned your mary. vi. the arm that used to take your arm is took to dr. vyse ; and both my legs are gone to walk the hospital at guy's. vii. i vowed that you should have my hand, but fate gives us denial ; you'll find it there, at dr. bell's, in spirits and a phial. viii. as for my feet, the little feet you used to call so pretty, there's one, i know, in bedford row, the t'other's in the city. mary's ghost ioi ix. i can't tell where my head is gone, but doctor carpue can ; as for my trunk it's all packed up to go by pickford's van. vini in spirits and a phial.' copyright by macmillan ở x. i wish you'd go to mr. p. and save me such a ride ; i don't half like the outside place, they've took for my inside. selections from hood xi. the cock it crows—i must be gone! my william, we must part ! but i'll be yours in death, altho' sir astley has my heart. xii. don't go to weep upon my grave, and think that there i be ; they haven't left an atom there of my anatomie. il tiff worden ts uy the careleſſe nvrſe mayd. sawe a mayd sitte on a bank, beguiled by wooer fayne and fond ! and whiles his flatterynge vowes she drank, her nurselynge slipt within a pond ! all even tide they talkde and kist, for she was fayre and he was kinde; the sunne went down before she wist another sonne had sett behinde ! with angrie hands and frownynge browe, that deemd her owne the urchine's sinne, she pluckt him out, but he was nowe past being whipt for fallynge in. selections from hood she then beginnes to wayle the ladde with shrikes that echo answered round- o foolishe mayd ! to be soe sadde the momente that her care was drownd ! il selections from hood our nature will not grovel ; one impulse moved both man and dame, he seized the tongs—she did the same, leaving the ruffian, if he came, the poker and the shovel. flugs • suppose the couple standing so.' suppose the couple standing so, when rushing footsteps from below made pulses fast and fervent, and first burst in the frantic cat, all steaming like a brewer's vat, and then—as white as my cravat- poor mary may, the servant ! selections from hood and empties every grain alive for to set the fue exploding. lawk, mrs. round !' says i, and stares, 'that quantum is unproper, w allet cosmeh mer ""come," says she, quite in a hufi' i'm sartin sure it can't not take a pound to sky a copper ; you'll powder both our heads off, so i tells you, with its puff, but she only dried her fingers, and she takes a pinch of snuff. uio selections from hood afore ever you was born, i was well used to things like these ; i shall put it in the grate, and let it turn up by degrees.' so in it goes, and bounce—o lord ! it gives us such a rattle, i thought we both were canonised, like sogers in a battle! up goes the copper like a squib, and us on both our backs, and bless the tubs, they bundled off, and split all into cracks. well, there i fainted dead away, and might have been cut shorter, but providence was kind, and brought me to with scalding water. i first looks round for mrs. round, and sees her at a distance, as stiff as starch, and looked as dead as anything in existence; all scorched and grimed, and more than that, i sees the copper slap right on her head, for all the world like a per- cussion copper cap. ii selections from hood well, there i am, a-scrambling up the things, all in a lump, when, mercy on us ! such a groan as makes my heart to jump. and there she is, a-lying with a crazy sort of eye, bnet a-staring at the wash-house roof.' a-staring at the wash-house roof, laid open to the sky; then she beckons with a finger, and so down to her i reaches, and puts my ear agin her mouth to hear her dying speeches, a report from below for, poor soul! she has a husband and young orphans, as i knew ; well, ma'am, you won't believe it, but it's gospel fact and true, but these words is all she whispered—why, where is the powder blew ?'” (the duel wi a serious ballad yu “ like the two kings of brentford smelling at one nosegay.” motan brentford town, of old renown, let there lived a mister bray, who fell in love with lucy bell, and so did mr. clay. to see her ride from hammersmith, by all it was allowed, such fair outsides are seldom seen, such angels on a cloud, the duel i said mr. bray to mr. clay, you choose to rival me, and court miss bell, but there your court no thoroughfare shall be. unless you now give up your suit, you may repent your love ; i who have shot a pigeon match can shoot a turtle dove. so pray before you woo her more, consider what you do ; if you pop aught to lucy bell— i'll pop it into you. said mr. clay to mr. bray, your threats i quite explode ; one who has been a volunteer knows how to prime and load. and so i say to you unless your passion quiet keeps, i who have shot and hit bulls' eyes, may chance to hit a sheep's. i selections from hood now gold is oft for silver changed, and that for copper red ; but these two went away to give each other change for lead. la ceb apel 'ril pop it into you.' but first they sought a friend apiece, this pleasant thought to give the duel when they were dead, they thus should have two seconds still to live. to measure out the ground not long the seconds then forbore, and having taken one rash step, they took a dozen more. they next prepared each pistol-pan against the deadly strife, by putting in the prime of death against the prime of life. now all was ready for the foes, but when they took their stands, fear made them tremble so, they found they both were shaking hands. said mr. c. to mr. b., here one of us may fall, and like st. paul's cathedral now be doomed to have a ball. the duel but look, the morning now is bright, though cloudy it begun : why can't we aim above, as if we had called out the sun ? so up into the harmless air their bullets they did send ; and may all other duels have that upshot in the end ! rii the supper superstition a pathetic ballad “oh flesh, flesh, how art thou fishified !”-shakspeare. was twelve o'clock by chelsea chimes, when all in hungry trim, good mister jupp sat down to sup with wife, and kate, and jim. ii. said he, “upon this dainty cod how bravely i shall sup”- when, whiter than the tablecloth, a ghost came rising up! selections from hood when down she went with all our hands, right in the channel's chops. vii. "just give a look in norey's chart, the very place it tells; i think it says twelve fathoms deep, clay bottom, mixed with shells. viii. “well, there we are till ‘hands aloft, we have at last a call ; the pug i had for brother jim, kate's parrot too, and all. ix. “but oh, my spirit cannot rest : in davy jones's sod, till i've appeared to you and said, don't sup on that 'ere cod ! the supper superstition - “ you live on land, and little think what passes in the sea ; last sunday week, at p.m., that cod was picking me! ball ir don't sup on that'ere cod.' . xi. “those oysters, too, that look so plump, and seem so nicely done, i selections from hood they put my corpse in many shells, instead of only one. xii. “oh, do not eat those oysters then, and do not touch the shrimps ; when i was in my briny grave, they sucked my blood like imps ! cebroek april isge 'to see what brutes would do.' xiii. “don't eat what brutes would never cat, the brutes i used to pat, the supper superstition they'll know the smell they used to smell, just try the dog and cat !” xiv. the spirit fled—they wept his fate, and cried, alack, alack ! at last up started brother jim, “ let's try if jack was jack ! ” xv. they called the dog, they called the cat, and little kitten too, and down they put the cod and sauce, to see what brutes would do. xvi. old tray licked all the oysters up, puss never stood at crimps, but munched the cod--and little kit quite feasted on the shrimps ! selections from hood xvii. the thing was odd, and minus cod and sauce, they stood like posts ; oh, prudent folks, for fear of hoax, put no belief in ghosts ! al uv del faithless, nelly gray a pathetic ballad en battle was a soldier bold, and used to war’s alarms; but a cannon ball took off his legs, so he laid down his arms ! now as they bore him off the field, said he, “let others shoot, for here i leave my second leg, and the forty-second foot !” i selections from hood the army-surgeons made him limbs : said he,—“they're only pegs : but there's as wooden members quite as represent my legs!” now ben he loved a pretty maid, her name was nelly gray ; so he went to pay her his devours when he'd devoured his pay! but when he called on nelly gray, she made him quite a scoff ; and when she saw his wooden legs, began to take them off! “o nelly gray! o nelly gray! is this your love so warm ? the love that loves a scarlet coat should be more uniform!” she said, “i loved a soldier once, for he was blithe and brave; but i will never have a man with both legs in the grave ! selections from hood at duty's call i left my legs in badajos's breaches !” "why then,” said she, “ you've lost the feet of legs in war's alarms, and now you cannot wear your shoes upon your feats of arms !” "oh, false and fickle nelly gray, i know why you refuse :- though i've no feet-some other man is standing in my shoes ! “i wish i ne'er had seen your face ; but now a long farewell ! for you will be my death ;-alas ! you will not be my nell !” now when he went from nelly gray, his heart so heavy got— . and life was such a burthen grown, it made him take a knot ! faithless nelly gray a dozen men sat on his corpse, to find out why he died- and they buried ben in four cross-roads, with a stake in his inside ! jillace othe tat: en byta villager nwy ur village, that's to say, not miss mitford's village, but our village of bullock's smithy, is come into by an avenue of trees, three oak pollards, two elders, and a withy ; and in the middle there's a green, of about not ex- ceeding an acre and a half; it's common to all and fed off by nineteen cows, six ponies, three horses, five asses, two foals, seven pigs, and a calf ! our village besides a pond in the middle, as is held by a sort of common law lease, livre right before the wicket.' copyright by macmillan & co. and contains twenty ducks, six drakes, three ganders, two dead dogs, four drowned kittens, and twelve geese. of course the green's cropt very close, and does famous for bowling when the little village boys play at cricket; our village i can't speak of the stocks, as nothing remains of them but the upright post; but the pound is kept in repairs for the sake of cob's horse as is always there almost. creen man • the green jan.' copyright by macmillan & co. theres a smithy of course, where that queer sort of a chap in his way, old joe bradley, perpetually hammers and stammers, for he stutters and shoes horses very badly. selections from hood there's a shop of all sorts that sells everything, kept by the widow of mr. task; but when you go there it's ten to one she's out of everything you ask. you'll know her house by the swarm of boys, like flies, about the old sugary cask : there are six empty houses and not so well papered inside as out, for bill-stickers won't beware, but stick notices of sales and election placards all about. that's the doctor's with a green door, where the garden pots in the window is seen; a weakly monthly rose that don't blow, and a dead geranium, and a teaplant with five black leaves, and one green. as for hollyhocks at the cottage doors, and honey- suckles and jasmines, you may go and whistle ; but the tailor's front garden grows two cabbages, a dock, a ha'porth of pennyroyal, two dandelions, and a thistle ! there are three small orchards — mr. busby's the schoolmaster's is the chief- with two pear trees that don't bear ; one plum, and an apple that every year is stripped by a thief. our village there's another small day-school too, kept by, the respectable mrs. gaby, ta sz a cebrook! • a select establishment.' copyright by macmillan & co. a select establishment for six little boys, and one big, and four little girls and a baby ; there's a rectory with pointed gables and strange odd chịmneys that never smokes, selections from hood for the rector don't live on his living like other christian sort of folks ; cetwock • there's a barber's.' copyright by macmillan & co. there's a barber's once a week well filled with rough black-bearded, shock-headed churls, and a window with two feminine men's heads, and two masculine ladies in false curls ; our village there's a butcher, and a carpenter's, and a plumber, and a small greengrocer's, and a baker, but he won't bake on a sunday; and there's a sexton that's a coal merchant besides, and an undertaker ; and a toyshop, but not a whole one, for a village can't compare with the london shops; one window sells drums, dolls, kites, carts, bats, clout's balls, and the other sells malt and hops. and mrs. brown in domestic economy not to be a bit behind her betters, lets her house to a milliner, a watchmaker, a rat- catcher, a cobbler, lives in it herself, and it's the post-office for letters. now i've gone through all the village—ay, from end to end, save and except one more house, but i haven't come to that—and i hope i never shall—and that's the village poor house ! john day > pathetic ballad “a day after the fair.”—old proverb. ohn day he was the biggest man of all the coachman kind, with back too broad to be conceived by any narrow mind. the very horses knew his weight, when he was in the rear, and wished his box a christmas box, to come but once a year. john day alas! against the shafts of love, what armour can avail ? soon cupid sent an arrow through his scarlet coat of mail. the barmaid of the crown he loved, from whom he never ranged, for though he changed his horses there, his love he never changed. he thought her fairest of all fares, so fondly love prefers ; and often, among twelve outsides, deemed no outside like hers! one day, as she was sitting down beside the porter-pump- he came, and knelt with all his fat, and made an offer plump. said she, my taste will never learn to like so huge a man, so i must beg you will come here as little as you can. selections from hood but still he stoutly urged his suit with vows, and sighs, and tears, - • and made an offer plump.' copyright by macmillan & co. yet could not pierce her heart, altho he drove the dart for years. john day in vain he wooed, in vain he sued, the maid was cold and proud, and sent him off to coventry, while on his way to stroud. of brock he fretted all the way to stroud.' copyright by macmillan & co. he fretted all the way to stroud, and thence all back to town, the course of love was never smooth, so his went up and down. selections from hood at last her coldness made him pine to merely bones and skin, . but still he loved like one resolved to love through thick and thin. ceb • i've lost my better halj. o mary! view my wasted back, and see my dwindled calf ; tho' i have never had a wife, i've lost my better half. john day alas, in vain he still assaild, her heart withstood the dint; though he had carried sixteen stone he could not move a fint. worn out, at last he made a vow to break his being's link; for he was so reduced in size, at nothing he could shrink. now some will talk in water's praise, and waste a deal of breath, but john, tho’ he drank nothing else, he drank himself to death! the cruel maid that caused his love found out the fatal close, for looking in the butt, she saw the butt-end of his woes. some say his spirit haunts the crown, but that is only talk—. for after riding all his life, his ghost objects to walk ! i lieutenant luff é a se comic ballady eb a - you that are too fond of wine, or any other stuff, take warning by the disinal fate of one lieutenant luff. a sober man he might have been, except in one regard, he did not like soft water, so he took to drinking hard ! said he, “ let others fancy slops, and talk in praise of tea, selections from hood full soon the sad effects of this his frame began to show, just lub ck brock "that old enemy the gout.' for that old enemy the gout had taken him in toe! selections from hood against his lungs he aimed the slugs, and not against his brain, so he blew out his lights—and none could blow them in again ! a jury for a verdict met, and gave it in these terms :- “ we find as how as certain slugs has sent him to the worms !” ceb *said he, “ this barrel is my last." : feo china fina-men tener der cebisga d-morning, mr. what-d'ye-call ! well ! here's another pretty job! lord help my lady !—what a smash !—if you had only heard her sob! it was all through mr. lambert : but for certain he was winey, to think for to go to sit down on a table full of chiney. “ deuce take your stupid head !” says my lady to his very face ; the china-mender and breaks a broken spout, and fresh chips a tea- cup handle : strimit m uime ce broch he will so finger and touch.' he's a dear, sweet little child, but he will so finger and touch, selections from hood and that's why my lady doesn't take to children much. se breek stupid mr. lambert.' well, there's stupid mr. lambert, with his two great- coat flaps, must go and sit down on the dresden shepherdesses' laps, selections from hood lawk! i never saw a man in all my life in such a taking ; i could find it in my heart to pity him for all his mischief-making. to see him stand a-hammering and stammering, like a zany ; but what signifies apologies, if they won't mend old chaney! if he sent her up whole crates full, from wedgwood's and mr. spode's, he couldn't make amends for the crack'd mandarins and smash'd toads. well! every one has their tastes, but, for my part, my own self, i'd rather have the figures on my poor dear grand- mother's old shelf: a nice pea-green poll-parrot, and two reapers with brown ears of corns, and a shepherd with a crook after a lamb with two gilt horns, and such a jemmy jessamy in top-boots and sky- blue vest, and a frill and flower'd waistcoat, with a fine bow- pot at the breast. the china-mender cale wÁc k hearty woman for her years.' god help her, poor old soul! i shall come into 'em at her death, selections from hood though she's a hearty woman for her years, except her shortness of breath. well ! you may think the things will mend—if they won't, lord mend us all ! my lady will go in fits, and mr. lambert won't need to call ; i'll be bound in any money, if i had a guinea to give, he won't sit down again on chiney the longest day he has to live. poor soul! i only hope it won't forbid his banns of marriage ; or he'd better have sat behind on the spikes of my lady's carriage. but you'll join 'em all of course, and stand poor mr. lambert's friend, i'll look in twice a day, just to see, like, how they mend. to be sure it is a sight that might draw tears from dogs and cats, here's this pretty little pagoda, now, has lost four of its cocked hats. be particular with the pagoda : and then here's this pretty bowl- the china-mender the chinese prince is making love to nothing be- cause of this hole ; and here's another chinese man, with a face just like a doll, do stick his pigtail on again, and just mend his parasol. but i needn't tell you what to do ; only do it out of hand, and charge whatever you like to charge—my lady won't make a stand. well! good morning, mr. what-d'ye-call, for it's time our gossip ended : and you know the proverb, the less as is said, the sooner the chiney's mended. m playing at soldiers just like that ancient shape of mist, in hamlet, crying “ 'list, oh 'list!” come, who will serve the king, and strike frog-eating frenchmen dead, and cut off bonyparty's head ?- and all that sort of thing. so used i, when i was a boy, to march with military toy, and ape the soldier's life ;-- and with a whistle or a hum, i thought myself a duke of drum at least, or earl of fife. with gun of tin and sword of lath, lord ! how i walk'd in glory's path with regimental mates, by sound of trump and rub-a-dubs-- to 'siege the washhouse--charge the tubs --- or storm the garden gates. ah me! my retrospective soul ! as over memory's muster-roll playing at soldiers and those two greedy blakes that took our money to the fair, benutututtaa huu ces and laid it out in cakes.' copyright by macmillan & co. to buy the corps a trumpet there, and laid it out in cakes. playing at soldiers the marts of silk and lace- bird's drums are filled with figs, and mute, and i—i've got a substitute to soldier in my place! ( i've got a substitute.' ueen m . ce brock a little fairy comes at night, her eyes are blue, her hair is brown, with silver spots upon her wings, and from the moon she flutters down. she has a little silver wand, and when a good child goes to bed she waves her wand from right to left, and makes a circle round its head. queen mab and then it dreams of pleasant things, of fountains filled with fairy fish, and trees that bear delicious fruit, and bow their branches at a wish : of arbours filled with dainty scents from lovely flowers that never fade ; bright flies that glitter in the sun, and glow-worms shining in the shade.. and talking birds with gifted tongues, for singing songs and telling tales, and pretty dwarfs to show the way through fairy hills and fairy dales. but when a bad child goes to bed, from left to right she weaves her rings, and then it dreams all through the night of only ugly, horrid things! then lions come with glaring eyes, and tigers growl, a dreadful noise, and ogres draw their cruel knives, to shed the blood of girls and boys. selections from hood cebrock july and ogres draw their cruel knives. then stormy waves rush on to drown, or raging flames come scorching round, fierce dragons hover in the air, and serpents crawl along the ground. rododicas dzacions et taylor preach upon a morning breezy, how well to rise while nights and larks are flying,— for my part getting up seems not so easy by half as lying. what if the lark does carol in the sky, soaring beyond the sight to find him out- wherefore am i to rise at such a fly? i'm not a trout. morning meditations so here i'll lie, my morning calls deferring, till something nearer to the stroke of noon ; a man that's fond precociously of stirring, must be a spoon.. me po was off the wash--the sun went down — the sea looked black and grim, for stormy clouds, with murky fleece, were muster- ing at the brim ; titanic shades ! enormous gloom !-as if the solid night of erebus rose suddenly to seize upon the light ! it was a time for mariners to bear a wary eye, with such a dark conspiracy between the sea and sky! selections from hood still flew my boat; alas ! alas ! her course was nearly run ! behold yon fatal billow rise-ten billows heap'd in one! with fearful speed the dreary mass came rolling, rolling fast, as if the scooping sea contain'd one only wave at last ! still on it came, with horrid roar, a swift pursuing grave; it seemed as though some cloud had turn'd its huge- ness to a wave! its briny sleet began to beat beforehand in my face- i felt the rearward keel begin to climb its swelling base! i saw its alpine hoary head impending over mine ! another pulse--and down it rush'd-an avalanche of brine ! brief pause had i, on god to cry, or think of wife and home; the waters closed—and when i shriek’d, i shriek'd below the foam ! beyond that rush i have no hint of any after deed- the demon ship for i was tossing on the waste, as senseless as a weed. “where am i?—in the breathing world, or in the world of death ?” with sharp and sudden pang i drew another birth of breath ; my eyes drank in a doubtful light, my ears a doubt- ful sound- and was that ship a real ship whose tackle seem'd around ? a moon, as if the earthly moon, was shining up aloft ; but were those beams the very beams that i had seen so oft ? a face, that mocked the human face, before me watched alone ; but were those eyes the eyes of man that look'd against my own ? oh, never may the moon again disclose me such a sight as met my gaze, when first i look’d, on that accursèd night! selections from hood i've seen a thousand horrid shapes begot of fierce extremes * that grimly one.' of fever ; and most frightful things have haunted in my dreams- hyenas—cats-blood-loving bats—and apes with hateful stare- the demon ship pernicious snakes, and shaggy bulls—the lion, and she-bear- strong enemies, with judas looks, of treachery and spite- detested features, hardly dimmed and banished by the light! pale-sheeted ghosts, with gory locks, upstarting from their tombs— all phantasies and images that fit in midnight glooms— hags, goblins, demons, lemures, have made me all aghast, - but nothing like that grimly one who stood beside the mast! his cheek was black_his brow was black_his eyes and hair as dark : his hand was black, and where it touched, it left a sable mark ; his throat was black, his vest the same, and when i looked beneath, his breast was black—all, all was black, except his grinning teeth. selections from hood his sooty crew were like in hue, as black as afric slaves ! oh horror ! c'en the ship was black that ploughed the inky waves ! “alas !” i cried, “ for love of truth and blessed mercy's sake! where am i? in what dreadful ship? upon what dreadful lake? what shape is that, so very grim, and black as any coal ? it is mahound, the evil one, and he has gained my soul ! oh, mother dear! my tender nurse! dear meadows that beguild my happy days, when i was yet a little sinless child, - my mother dear—my native fields, i never more shall see : i'm sailing in the devil's ship, úpon the devil's sea!” loud laughed that sable mariner, and loudly in return selections from hood they crowed their fill, and then the chief made answer for the whole ;- “our skins," said he, “are black, ye see, because we carry coal ; you'll find your mother sure enough, and see your native fields— for this here ship has picked you up—the mary ann of shields !” lisasi the drowninc ducks cort o mongst the sights that mrs. bond enjoyed yet grieved at more than others, were little ducklings in a pond, swimming about beside their mothers- small things like living water-lilies, but yellow as the daffo-dillies. " it's very hard,” she used to moan, “that other people have their ducklings to grace their waters—mine alone have never any pretty chucklings." the drowning ducks no peccant humour in a gander brought havoc on her little folks,- no poaching cook—a frying pander to appetite,—destroyed their yolks,- beneath her very eyes, od rot 'em ! they went, like plummets, to the bottom. the thing was strange--a contradiction it seemed of nature and her works ! for little ducks, beyond conviction, should float without the help of corks : great johnson it bewildered him- to hear of ducks that could not swim ! poor mrs. bond! what could she do but change the breed—and she tried divers which dived as all seemed born to do ; no little ones were e'er survivors- like those that copy gems i'm thinking, they all were given to die-sinking ! in vain their downy coats were shorn ; they floundered still !--- batch after batch went ! selections from hood umu cebrock • the thing was strange.' copyright by macanilla - co. the little fools seemed only born and hatched for nothing but a hatchment ! whene'er they launched—oh, sight of wonder ! like fires the water “got them under !” the lost heir you promised to have half an eye to him, you know you did, you dirty deceitful young drab. the last time as ever i see him, poor thing, was with my own blessed motherly eyes, sitting as good as gold in the gutter, a-playing at making little dirt pies. i wonder he left the court where he was better off than all the other young boys, with two bricks, an old shoe, nine oyster-shells, and a dead kitten by way of toys. when his father comes home, and he always comes home as sure as ever the clock strikes one, he'll be rampant, he will, at his child being lost; and the beef and the inguns not done! la bless you, good folks, mind your own consarns, and don't be making a mob in the street ; oh serjeant mʻfarlane ! you have not come across my poor little boy, have you, in your beat ? do, good people, move on! don't stand staring at me like a parcel of stupid stuck pigs; saints forbid ! but he's p'r’aps been inviggled away up a court for the sake of his clothes by the prigs ; come the lost heir but he'd got on a very good pinafore with only two slits and a burn on the breast. he'd a goodish sort of hat, if the crown was sew'd in, and: not quite so much jagg’d at the brim, with one shoe on, and the other shoe is a boot, and not a fit, and you'll know by that if it's him. except being so well dress'd my mind would mis- give, some old beggar woman in want of an orphan, had borrow'd the child to go a-begging with, but i'd rather see him laid out in his coffin ! do, good people, move on, such a rabble of boys ! i'll break every bone of 'em i come near, go home--you're spilling the porter — go home- tommy jones, go along home with your beer. this day is the sorrowfullest day of my life, ever since my name was betty morgan, them vile savoyards! they lost him once before all along of following a monkey and an organ. oh my billy—my head will turn right round—if he's got kiddynapp'd with them italians, they'll make him a plaster parish image boy, they will, the outlandish tatterdemalions. selections from hood billy--where are you, billy ? i'm as hoarse as a crow, with screaming for ye, you young sorrow ! au much a nd de 'playing like angels.' and shan't have half a voice, no more i shan't, for crying fresh herrings to-morrow. oh billy, you're bursting my heart in two, and my life won't be of no more vally, if i'm to see other folks' darlin's, and none of mine, playing like angels in our alley. the lost heir and what shall i do but cry out my eyes, when i looks at the old three-legged chair as billy used to make coach and horses of, and there a’n’t no billy there ! i would run all the wide world over to find him, if i only know'd where to run, little murphy, now i remember, was once lost for a month through stealing a penny bun,- the lord forbid of any child of mine! i think it would kill me railey, to find my bill holdin' up his little innocent hand at the old bailey. for though i say it as oughtn't, yet i will say, you may search for miles and mileses, and not find one better brought up, and more pretty behaved, from one end to t’other of st. giles's. and if i called him a beauty, it's no lie, but only as a mother ought to speak ; you never set eyes on a more handsomer face, only it hasn't been washed for a week ; as for hair, tho’ it's red, it's the most nicest hair when i've time to just show it the comb; i'll owe 'em five pounds, and a blessing besides, as will only bring him safe and sound home. selections from hood why there he is ! punch and judy hunting, the young wretch, it's that billy as sartin as sin ! but let me get him home, with a good grip of his hair, and i'm blest if he shall have a whole bone in his skin!” selections from hood we do revere her majesty the queen ; we venerate our glorious constitution ; we joy king william's advent should have been, and only want a counter revolution. 'tis not lord russell and his final measure, 'tis not lord melbourne's counsel to the throne, 'tis not this bill, or that, gives us displeasure, the measures we dislike are all our own. the cash law the “great western ” loves to name, the tone our foreign policy pervading ; the corn laws—none of these we care to blame, — our evils we refer to over-trading. by tax or tithe our murmurs are not drawn; we reverence the church—but hang the cloth ! we love her ministers—but curse the lawn ! we have, alas ! too much to do with both ! we love the sex ;—to serve them is a bliss ! we trust they find us civil, never surly ; the assistant draper’s petition all that we hope of female friends is this, that their last linen may be wanted early. ah! who can tell the miseries of men that serve the very cheapest shops in town? till faint and weary, they leave off at ten, knock'd up by ladies beating of 'em down ! but has not hamlet his opinion given- o hamlet had a heart for drapers' servants ! “ that custom is ”_say custom after seven- “ more honour'd in the breach than the observance.” ryance o come then, gentle ladies, come in time, o’erwhelm our counters, and unload our shelves ; torment us all until the seventh chime, but let us have the remnant to ourselves ! we wish of knowledge to lay in a stock, and not remain in ignorance incurable ;- to study shakespeare, milton, dryden, locke, and other fabrics that have proved so durable. selections from hood we long for thoughts of intellectual kind, and not to go bewilder'd to our beds ; with stuff and fustian taking up the mind, and pins and needles running in our heads ! @ " ca brucking aug 'for oh! the brain gets very dull and dry.' for oh! the brain gets very dull and dry, selling from morn till night for cash or credit ; or with a vacant face and vacant eye, watching cheap prints that knight did never edit. the volunteer xii. “ the fools that fight abroad for home,” thought i, “ may get a wrong one; let those that have no home at all go battle for a long one.” the mirror here confirmed me this reflection, by a strong one : xiii. for there, where i was wont to shave, and deck me like adonis, there stood the leader of our foes, with vultures for his cronies no corsican, but death itself, the bony of all bonies. xiv. a horrid sight it was, and sad, to see the grisly chap put on my crimson livery, and then begin to clap my helmet on—ah me! it felt like any felon's cap. selections from hood xv. my plume seemed borrowed from a hearse, an undertaker's crest; litinin (வறா ce brock aug. • the mirror here confirmed me this.' my epaulettes like coffin-plates ; my belt so heavy press’d, the volunteer four pipeclay cross-roads seem'd to lie at once upon my breast. xvi. my brazen breastplate only lack'd a little heap of salt, to make me like a corpse full dressid, preparing for the vault- to set up what the poet calls my everlasting halt. xvii. this funeral show inclined me quite to peace :—and here i am ! whilst better lions go to war, enjoying with the lamb a lengthen'd life, that might have been a martial epigram. con o u f eia seks ve , cle. is “twa dogs, that were na thrang at hame, forgather'd ance upon a time.”—burns. ne morn—it was the very morn september's sportive month was born- the hour, about the sunrise, carly : the sky grey, sober, still, and pearly, with sundry orange streaks and tinges through daylight's door, at cracks and hinges ; hit or miss when, rising o'er a gentle slope, that gave his view a better scope, he spied, some dozen furrows distant, but in a spot as inconsistent, a second dog across his track, without a master to his back ; as if for wages, workman-like, the sporting breed had made a strike, resolved nor birds nor puss to seek, without another paunch a week! this other was a truant curly, but, for a spaniel, wondrous surly ; instead of curvets gay and brisk, he slouched along without a frisk, with dogged air, as if he had a good half mind to running mad ; mayhap the shaking at his ear had been a quaver too severe ; mayhap the whip’s “exclusive dealing” had too much hurt e’en spaniel feeling, nor if he had been cut, 'twas plain he did not mean to come again. selections from hood , of course the pair soon spied each other ; but neither seemed to own a brother ; the course on both sides took a curve, as dogs when shy are apt to swerve ; but each o'er back and shoulder throwing a look to watch the other's going, till, having cleared sufficient ground, with one accord they turned them round, and squatting down, for forms not caring, at one another fell to staring; as if not proof against a touch of what plagues humankind so much, a prying itch to get at notions of all their neighbours' looks and motions. sir don at length was first to rise- the better dog in point of size, and, snuffing all the ground between, set off, with easy jaunty mien ; while dash, the stranger, rose to greet him, and made a dozen steps to meet him— their noses touch’d, and rubbed awhile (some savage nations use the style), and then their tails a wag began, though on a very cautious plan, hit or miss but in their signals quantum suff. to say “a civil dog enough.” thus having held out olive branches, they sank again, though not on haunches, sim behr cos ce brrek fyn ( / s follow some savage nations use the style.' but couchant, with their under jaws resting between the two forepaws, the prelude, on a luckier day, or sequel, to a game of play: but now they were in dumps, and thus selections from hood began their worries to discuss, the pointer, coming to the point the first, on times so out of joint. “well, friend,—so here's a new september as fine a first as i remember ; and, thanks to such an early spring, plenty of birds, and strong on wing.” “ birds !” cried the crusty little chap, as sharp and sudden as a snap, “a weasel suck them in the shell ! what matter birds, or flying well, or fly at all, or sporting weather, if fools with guns can't hit a feather !”, “ay, there's the rub, indeed,” said don, putting his gravest visage on ; “ in vain we beat our beaten way, and bring our organs into play, unless the proper killing kind of barrel tunes are played behind : but when we shoot—that's me and squirem we hit as often as we fire.” hit or miss “ more luck for you!” cried little woolly, who felt the cruel contrast fully ; “more luck for you, and squire to boot ! we miss as often as we shoot ! ” 'putting his gravest visage on.' “ indeed !-no wonder you're unhappy! i thought you looking rather snappy ; but fancied, when i saw you jogging, you'd had an overdose of flogging ; or p'raps the gun its range had tried while you were ranging rather wide.” hit or miss “why, he must be the county's scoff ! he ought to leave, and not let, off! , ce brock liggs e- m te vent his rage.' as fate denies his shooting wishes, why don't he take to catching fishes ? or any other sporting game, that don't require a bit of aim ?” q selections from hood “not he !—some dogs of human kind will hunt by sight, because they're blind, my master angle !—no such luck! there he might strike, who never struck ! my master shoots because he can't, and has an eye that aims aslant; nay, just by way of making trouble, he's changed his single gun for double ; and now, as girls a-walking do, his misses go by two and two ! i wish he had the mange, or reason as good, to miss the shooting season!” “why yes, it must be main unpleasant to point to covey, or to pheasant ; for snobs, who, when the point is mooting, think letting fly as good as shooting !” “ snobs !—if he'd wear his ruffled shirts, or coats with water-wagtail skirts, or trowsers in the place of smalls, or those tight fits he wears at balls, or pumps, and boots with tops, mayhap, why we might pass for snip and snap, hit or miss and shoot like blazes ! fly or sit, and none would stare, unless we hit. but no—to make the more combustion, - - e brock sep * for keepers, shy of such encroachers.' he goes in gaiters and in fustian, like captain ross, or topping sparks, and deuce a miss but some one marks ! for keepers, shy of such encroachers, selections from hood i never found, since i could bark, a barn that bore my master's mark!” “is that the case ?—why then, my brother, would we could swap with one another! or take the squire, with all my heart, nay, all my liver, so we part ! he'll hit you hares—(he uses cartridge) he'll hit you cocks—he'll hit a partridge ; he'll hit a snipe—he'll hit a pheasant ; he'll hit—he'll hit whatever's present ; he'll always hit,----as that's your wish-. his pepper never lacks a dish!” “come, come, you banter--let's be serious ; i'm sure that i am half delirious, your picture set me so a-sighing- but does he shoot so well-shoot flying ?” “ shoot flying? yes--and running, walking, - i've seen him shoot two farmers talking- he'll hit the game, whene'er he can, but failing that he'll hit a man, a boy—a horse's tail or head- hit or miss or make a pig a pig of lead,- oh, friend ! they say no dog as yet, however hot, was known to sweat, but sure i am that i perspire sometimes before my master's fire ! misses ! no, no, he always hits, but so as puts me into fits ! he shot my fellow dog this morning, which seemed to me sufficient warning !” “quite, quite enough !--so that's a hitter ! why, my own fate i thought was bitter, and full excuse for cut and run ; but give me still the missing gun! or rather, sirius ! send me this, no gun at all, to hit or miss, since sporting seems to shoot thus double, that right or left it brings us trouble!” so ended dash ;—and pointer don prepared to urge the moral on ; but here a whistle long and shrill came sounding o'er the council hill, and starting up, as if their tails hd widener hw kqvx u . i veturi tas su harvard college library contenta. bulwer lyttow, sir e. (g. e.l.). a strange hory. b. . kathewo, . big abel, and the little mau- i hattan n.y. harkeray, will. the kicklebungs on the ! rhine. n.y. . ( دارد و ربا . - ་ ་ ག་ ་ ་ ་ ་ ་ ་ ་ ་ ་ ་ ་ ་ ་ ་ ་ ་ .， ， ， ་，，，་；，་ ，，， ཟད་ _ ༢ / - - wu À strange sirsa tiesī leti at the monks well un attie a strange story. by conored sir e. bulwer-lytton. with engravings on steel by f. o. freeman, drawings by j. n. hyde, from designs by gardner a. fuller. boston: gardner a. fuller. . : , . . cilin riskini, sinične entered according to act of congress, in the year , by gardner a. fuller, in the clerk's office of the district court of the district of massachusetts. harvard university library ) cambridge: . allen & farnham, stereotypers and printers. a strange story. chapter i. in the year – i settled as a physician at one of the wealthiest of our great english towns, which i will designate by the initial l- i was yet young, but i had acquired some reputation by a professional work which is, i believe, still among the received authorities on the sub- ject of which it treats. i had studied at edinburgh and at paris, and had borne away from both those illustrious schools of medicine whatever guarantees for future distinction the praise of professors may concede to the ambition of students. on becoming a member of the college of physieians, i made a tour of the principal cities of europe, taking let- ters of introduction to eminent medical men; and, gathering from many theories and modes of treatment lints to enlarge the foundations of un- • prejudiced and comprehensive practice, i had resolved to fix my ulti- mate residence in london. but before this preparatory tour was com- pleted my · resolve was changed by one of those unexpected events which determine the fate man in vain would work out for himself. in passing through the tyrol, on my way into the north of italy, i found in a small inn, remote from medical attendance, an english traveller - seized with acute inflammation of the lungs, and in a state of imminent danger. i devoted myself to him night and day, and, perhaps more through careful nursing than active remedies, i had the happiness to effect his complete recovery. the traveller proved to be julius faber, a physician of great distinction - contented to reside, where he was born, in the provincial city of l , but whose reputation as a profound and original pathologist was widely spread, and whose writings had formed no unimportant part of my special studies. it was during a short holiday excursion, from which he was about to return with renovated vigor, that he had been thus stricken down. the patient so accidentally met with became the founder of my professional fortunes. he conceived a warm a strange story. attachment for me; perhaps the more affectionate because he was a childless bachelor, and the nephew who would succeed to his wealth evinced no desire to succeed to the toils by which the wealth had been acquired. thus, having an heir for the one, he had long looked about for an heir to the other, and now resolved on finding that heir in me. so when we parted dr. faber made me promise to correspond with him regularly, and it was not long before he disclosed by letter the plans he had formed in my favor. he said that he was growing old ; his practice was beyond his strength; he needed a partner; he was not disposed to put up to sale the health of patients whom he had learned to regard as his children. money was no object to him ; but it was an object close at his heart that the humanity he had served, and the reputation he had acquired should suffer no loss in his choice of a successor. in fine, he proposed that i should at once come to l a s his partner, with the view of suc- ceeding to his entire practice at the end of two years, when it was his intention to retire. the opening into fortune thus afforded to me was one that rarely pre- sents itself to a young man entering upon an overcrowded profession. and to an aspirant less allured by the desire of fortune than the hope of distinction, the fame of the physician who thus generously offered to me the inestimable benefits of his long experience, and his cordial' intro- duction, was in itself an assurance that a metropolitan practice is not essential to a national renown. i went, then, to l- , and before the two years of my partnership had expired, my success justified my kind friend's selection, and far more than realized my own expectations. i was fortunate in effecting some notable cures in the earliest cases submitted to me, and it is every thing in the career of a physician when good luck wins betimes for him that confidence which patients rarely accord except to lengthened experience. to the rapid facility with which my way was made, some circumstances apart from professional skill probably combined. i was saved from the suspicion of a medical adventurer by the accidents of birth and fortune. i belonged to an ancient family (a branch of the once powerful border clan of the fenwicks), that had for many generations held a 'fair estate in the neighborhood of windermere. as an only son i had succeeded to that estate on attaining my majority, and had sold it to pay off the debts which had been made by my father, who had the costly tastes of an anti- quarian and collector. the residue on the sale insured me a modest in- dependence apart from the profits of a profession, and as i had not been legally bound to defray my father's debts, so i obtained that character for disinterestedness and integrity which always in england tends to propi- tiate the public to the successes achieved by industry or talent. perhaps, a strange story. too, any professional ability i might possess was the more readily conceded, because i had cultivated with assiduity the sciences and the scholarship which are collaterally connected with the study of medicine. thus, in a word, i established a social position which came in aid of my professional repute, and silenced much of that envy which usually imbitters and some- times impedes success. dr. faber retired at the end of the two years agreed upon. he went abroad, and being, though advanced in years, of a frame still robust, and habits of mind still inquiring and eager, he commenced a lengthened course of foreign travel, during which our correspondence, at first frequent, grad- ually languished, and finally died away. i succeeded at once to the larger part of the practice which the labors of thirty years had secured to my predecessor. my chief rival was a dr. lloyd, a benevolent, fervid man, not without genius - if genius be present where judgment is absent; not without science, if that may be science which fails in precision. one of those clever desultory men who, in adopting a profession, do not give up to it the whole force and heat of their minds. men of that kind habitually accept a mechanical routine, because in the exercise of their ostensible calling their imaginative facul- ties are drawn away to pursuits more alluring. therefore, in their proper vocation they are seldom bold or inventive — out of it they are sometimes both to excess. and when they do take up a novelty in their own profession they cherish it with an obstinate tenacity, and an extrav- agant passion, unknown to those quiet philosophers who take up novelties every day, examine them with the sobriety of practised eyes, to lay down altogether, modify in part, or accept in whole, according as inductive ex- periment supports or destroys conjecture. dr. lloyd had been esteemed a learned naturalist long before he was admitted to be a tolerable physician. amidst the privations of his youth he had contrived to form, and with each succeeding year he had persever- ingly increased, a zoological collection of creatures, not alive, but, happily for the beholder, stuffed or embalmed. from what i have said it will be truly inferred that dr. lloyd's earlier career as a physician had not been brilliant; but of late years he had gradually rather aged than worked himself into that professional authority and station which time confers on a thoroughly respectable man, whom no one is disposed to envy and all are disposed to like. » now in l— there were two distinct social circles: that of the wealthy merchants and traders, and that of a few privileged families, inhabiting a part of the town aloof from the marts of commerce, and called the abbey hill. these superb areopagites exercised over the wives and daughters of the inferior citizens to whom all of l-—, except the abbey hill, owed a strange story. its prosperity, the same kind of mysterious influence which the fine ladies of mayfair and belgravia are reported to hold over the female denizens of bloomsbury and marylebone. abbey hill was not opulent, but it was powerful by a concentration of its resources in all matters of patronage. abbey hill had its own milliner, and its own draper, its own confectioner, butcher, baker, and tea-dealer, and the patronage of abbey hill was like the patronage of royalty — less lucrative in itself than as a solemn certificate of general merit. the shops on which abbey hill conferred its custom were certainly not the cheapest, possibly not the best. but they were undeniably the most imposing. the proprietors were decorously pompous — the shopmen superciliously polite. they could not be more so if they had belonged to the state, and been paid by a public which they benefited and despised. the ladies of low town (as the city subjacent to the hill had been styled from a date remote in the feudal ages) entered those shops with a certain awe, and left them with a certain pride. there they had learned what the hill approved. there they had bought what the hill had purchased. it is much in this life to be quite sure that we are in the right, whatever that conviction may cost us. abbey hill had been in the habit of appoint- mg, among other objects of patronage, its own physician. but that habit had fallen into disuse during the latter years of my predecessor's practice. his superiority over all other medical men in the town had become so incontestible that, though he was emphatically the doctor of low town, the head of its hospitals and infirmaries, and by birth related to its prin- cipal traders, still as abbey hill was occasionally subject to the physical infirmities of meaner mortals, so on those occasions it deemed it best not to push the point of honor to the wanton sacrifice of life. since low town possessed one of the most famous physicians in england, abbey hill mag- nanimously resolved not to crush him by a rival. abbey hill let him feel its pulse. when my predecessor retired i had presumptuously expected that the hill would have continued to suspend its normal right to a special physi- cian, and shown to me the same generous favor it had shown to him, who had declared me worthy to succeed to his honors. i had the more excuse for this presumption because the hill had already allowed me to visit a fair proportion of its invalids, had said some very gracious things to me about the great respectability of the fenwick family, and sent me some invitations to dinner, and a great many invitations to tea. but my self-conceit received a notable check. abbey hill declared that the time had come to reassert its dormant privilege -- it must have a doctor of its own choosing -a doctor who might, indeed, be permitted to visit low town from motives of humanity or gain, but who must emphat- a strange story. ically assert his special allegiance to abbey hill by fixing his home on that venerable promontory. miss brabazon, a spinster of uncertain age, but undoubted pedigree, with small fortune, but high nose, which she would pleasantly observe was a proof of her descent from humphrey duke of gloucester (with whom, indeed, i have no doubt, in spite of chron- ology, that she very often dined), was commissioned to inquire of me diplomatically, and without committing abbey till too much by overture, whether i would take a large and antiquated mansion, in which abbots were said to have lived many centuries ago, and which was still popularly styled abbots' house, situated on the verge of the hill, as in that case the “ hill” would think of me. “ it is a large house for. a single man, i allow," said miss brabazon, candidly; and then added, with a sidelong glance of alarming sweetness, " but when dr. fenwick has taken his true position (so old a family !) among us, he need not long remain single unless he prefer it.” i replied, with more asperity than the occasion called for, that i had no thought of changing my residence at present. and if the hill wanted me, the hill must send for me. two days afterward dr. lloyd took abbots' house, and in less than a week was proclaimed medical adviser to the hill. the election had been decided by the fiat of a great lady, who reigned supreme on the sacred eminence, under the name and title of mrs. volonel poyntz. “dr. fenwick," said this lady, " is a clever young man and a gentle- man, but he gives himself airs — the hill does not allow any airs but its own. besides, he is a new-comer: resistance to new-comers, and, indeed, to all things new, except caps and novels, is one of the bonds that keep old established societies together. accordingly, it is by my advice that dr. lloyd has taken abbots' house ; the rent would be too high for his means if the hill did not feel bound in honor to justify the trust he has placed in its patronage. i told him that all my friends, when they had any thing the matter with them, would send for him; those who are my friends will do so. what the hill does, plenty of common people down there will do also — so that question is settled !” and it was settled. dr. lloyd, thus taken by the hand, soon extended the range of his visits beyond the hill, which was not precisely a mountain of gold to doctors, and shared with myself, though in a comparatively small degree, the much more lucrative practice of low town. i had no cause to grudge his success, nor did i. but to my theories of medicine his diagnosis was shallow, and his prescriptions obsolete. when we were summoned to a joint consultation, our views as to the proper course of treatment seldom agreed. doubtless he thought i ought to have deferred to his seniority in years, but i held the doctrine which youth a strange story. deems a truth and age a paradox, namely, that in science the young men are the practical elders, inasmuch as they are schooled in the latest expe- riences science has gathered up, while their seniors are cramped by the dogmas they were schooled to believe when the world was some decades the younger. meanwhile my reputation continued rapidly to advance; it became more than local; my advice was sought even by patients from the me- · tropolis. that ambition which, conceived in early youth, had decided my career and sweetened all its labors — the ambition to take a rank and leave a name as one of the great pathologists to whom humanity accords a grateful, if calm, renown — saw before it a level field and a certain goal: i know not whether a success far beyond that usually attained at the age i had reached served to increase, but it seemed to myself to justify the main characteristic of my moral organization — intellectual pride. though mild and gentle to the sufferers under my care, as a necessary element of professional duty, i was intolerant of contradiction from those who belonged to my calling, or even from those who, in general opinion, opposed my favorite theories. i had espoused a school of medical philosophy severely rigid in its in- ductive logic. my creed was that of stern materialism. i had a con- tempt for the understanding of men who accepted with credulity what they could not explain by reason. my favorite phrase was “common sense.” at the same time i had no prejudice against bold discovery, and discovery necessitates conjecture; but i dismissed as idle all conjecture that could not be brought to a practical test. as in medicine i had been the pupil of broussais, so in metaphysics i was the disciple of condillac. i believed with that philosopher that " all our knowledge we owe to nature ; that in the beginning we can only instruct ourselves through her lessons, and that the whole art of reasoning consists in continging as she has compelled us to commence.” keeping natural philosophy apart from the doctrines of revelation, i never assailed the last, but i contended that by the first no accurate reasoner could arrive at the existence of the soul as a third principle of being equally distinct from mind and body. that by a miracle man might live again, was a question of faith and not of understanding. i left faith to religion, and banished it from philosophy. how define with a precision to satisfy the logic of philosophy what was to live again? the body? we know that the body rests in its grave till by the process of decomposition its elemental parts enter into other forms of matter. the mind ? but the mind was as clearly the result of the bodily organization as the music of the harpsichord is the result of the instrumental mechanism. the mind a strange story. shared the decrepitude of the-body in extreme old age, and in the full vigor of youth a sudden injury to the brain might forever destroy the intellect of a plato or a shakspeare. but the third principle -- the soul — the something lodged within the body, which yet was to survive it? where was that soul hid out of the ken of the anatomist? when philos- ophers attempted to define it, were they not compelled to confound its nature and its actions with those of the mind ? could they reduce it to the mere moral sense, varying according to education, circumstances, and physical constitution ? but even the moral sense in the most vir- tuous of men may be swept away by a fever. such at the time i now speak of were the views i held. views certainly not original nor pleas- ing; but i cherished them with as fond a tenacity as if they had been consolatory truths of which i was the first discoverer. i was intolerant to those who maintained opposite doctrines — despised them as irrational, or disliked them as insincere. certainly if i had fulfilled the career which my ambition predicted — become the founder of a new school in pathology, and summed up my theories in academical lectures, i should have added another authority, however feeble, to the sects which circum- scribe the interests of man to the life which has its close in his grave. possibly that which i have called my intellectual pride was more nour- ished than i should have been willing to grant by that self-reliance which an unusual degree of physical power is apt to bestow. nature had blessed me with the thews of an athlete. among the hardy youths of the northern athens i had been preëminently distinguished for feats of activity and strength. my mental labors and the anxiety which is insep- arable from the conscientious responsibilities of the medical profession, kept my health below the par of keen enjoyment, but had in no way diminished my rare muscular force. i walked through the crowd with the firm step and lofty crest of the mailed knight of old, who felt himself, in his casement of iron, a match against numbers. thus the sense of a robust individuality, strong alike in disciplined reason and animal vigor- habituated to aid others, needing no aid for itself — contributed to render me imperious in will and arrogant in opinion. nor were such defects injurious to me in my profession; on the contrary, aided as they were by a calm manner, and a presence not without that kind of dignity which is the livery of self-esteem, they served to impose respect and to inspire trust. . a strange story. chapter ii. i had been about six years at l- , when i became suddenly involved in a controversy with dr. lloyd. just as this ill-fated man ap- peared at the culminating point of his professional fortunes, he had the imprudence to proclaim himself not only an enthusiastic advocate of mes- merism, as a curative process, but an ardent believer of the reality of somnambular clairvoyance as an invaluable gift of certain privileged organizations. to these doctrines i sternly opposed myself, the more . sternly, perhaps, because on these doctrines dr. lloyd founded an argu- ment for the existence of soul, independent of mind, 'as of matter, and built thereon a superstructure of physiological phantasies, which, could it be substantiated, would replace every system of metaphysics on which recognized philosophy condescends to dispute. . about two years before he became a disciple rather of puysegur than mesmer (for mesmer had little faith in that gift of clairvoyance of which puysegur was, i believe, the first audacious assertor), dr. lloyd had been afflicted with the loss of a wife many years younger than himself, and to whom he had been tenderly attached. and this bereavement, in directing the hopes that consoled him to a world beyond the grave, had. 'served perhaps to render him more credulous of the phenomena in which he greeted additional proofs of purely spiritual existence. . certainly, if, in controverting the notions of another physiologist, i had restricted my- self to that fair antagonism which belongs to scientific disputants anxious only for the truth, i should need no apology for sincere conviction and honest argument; but when, with condescending good-nature, as if to a man much younger than himself, who was ignorant of the phenomena which he nevertheless denied, dr. lloyd invited me to attend his séances and witness his cures, my amour propre became roused and nettled, and it seemed to me necessary to put down what i asserted to be too gross an outrage on common sense to justify the ceremony of examination. i wrote, therefore, a small pamphlet on the subject, in which i exhausted all the weapons that irony can lend to contempt. dr. lloyd replied, and as he was no very skilful arguer, his reply injured him perhaps more than my assault. meanwhile, i had made some inquiries as to the moral character of his favorite clairvoyants. i imagined that i had learned enough to justify me in treating them as flagrant cheats, and himself as their egregious dupe. a strange story. low town soon ranged itself, with very few exceptions, on my side. the hill at first seemed disposed to rally round its insulted physician, and to make the dispute a party question, in which the hill would have been signally worsted, when suddenly the same lady paramount, who had secured to dr. lloyd the smile of the eminence, spoke forth against him, and the eminence frowned. "dr. lloyd,” said the queen of the hill, "is an amiable creature, but on this subject decidedly cracked. cracked poets may be all the better for being cracked; cracked doctors are dangerous. besides, in deserting that old-fashioned routine, his adherence to which made his claim to the hill's approbation; and unsettling the mind of the hill with wild revolu- tionary theories, dr. lloyd has betrayed the principles on which the hill itself rests its social foundations. of those principles dr. fenwick has made himself champion; and the hill is bound to support him. there, the question is settled!” and it was settled. from the moment mrs. colonel poyntz thus issued the word of com- mand, dr. lloyd was demolished. his practice was gone, as well as his repute. mortification or anger brought on a stroke of paralysis, which, disabling my opponent, put an end to our controversy. an obscure dr. jones, who had been the special pupil and protégé of dr. lloyd, offered himself as a candidate for the hill's tongues and pulses. the hill gave him little encouragement. it once more suspended its electoral privi- leges, and, without insisting on calling me up to it, it quietly called me in whenever its health needed other advice than that of its visiting apothe- cary. again it invited me, sometimes to dinner, often to tea. and again miss brabazon assured me by a sidelong glance that it was no fault of hers if i were still single. i had almost forgotten the dispute which had obtained for me so con- spicuous a triumph, when one winter's night i was roused from sleep by a summons to attend dr. lloyd, who, attacked by a second stroke a few hours previously, had, on recovering sense, expressed a vehement desire to consult the rival by whom he had suffered so severely. i dressed my- self in haste and hurried to his house. a february night, sharp and bitter. an iron-gray frost below --a spectral melancholy moon above. i had to ascend the abbey hill by a steep, blind lane between high walls. . i passed through stately gates, which stood wide open, into the garden ground that surrounded the old abbots' house. at the end of a short carriage-drive the dark and gloomy building cleared itself from leafless skeleton trees, the moon resting keen and cold on its abrupt gables and lofty chimney-stacks. an old woman servant received me at the door, and, without saying a word, led me a strange story. through a long low hall, and up dreary oak stairs, to a broad landing, at which she paused for a moment, listening. round and about hall, stair- case, and landing, were ranged the dead specimens of the savage world which it had been the pride of the naturalist's life to collect. close where i stood yawned the open jaws of the fell anaconda— its lower coils hid, as they rested on the floor below, by the winding of the massive stairs. against the dull wainscot walls were pendant cases stored with grotesque unfamiliar mummies, seen imperfectly by the moon that shot through the window-panes, and the candle in the old woman's hand. and as now: she turned toward me, nodding her signal to follow, and went on up the shadowy passage, rows of gigantic birds - ibis and vulture, and huge sea glaucus — glared at me in the false life of their angry eyes. so i entered the sick-room, and the first glance told me that my art was powerless there. the children of the stricken widower were grouped round his bed, the the eldest apparently about fifteen, the youngest four; one little girl - the only female child -- was clinging to her father's neck, her face pressed to his bosom, and in that room her sobs alone were loud. as i passed the threshold dr. lloyd lifted his face, which had been - bent over the weeping child, and gazed on me with an aspect of strange glee, which i failed to interpret.' then, as i stole toward him softly and slowly, he pressed his lips on the long fair tresses that streamed wild over his breast, motioned to a nurse who stood beside his pillow to take the child away, and, in a voice clearer than i could have expected in one on whose brow lay the unmistakable hand of death, he bade the nurse and the children quit the room. all went sorrowfully, but silently, save the little girl, who, borne off in the nurse's arms, continued to sob as if her heart were breaking i was not prepared for a scene so affecting; it moved me to the quick. my eyes wistfully followed the children, so soon to be orphans, as one afier one went out into the dark chill shadow, and amidst the bloodless forins of the dumb brute nature, ranged in grisly vista beyond the death- room of man. and when the last infant shape had vanished, and the door closed, with a jarring click, my sight wandered loiteringly around the chamber before i could bring myself to fix it on the broken form, beside which i now stood in all that glorious vigor of frame which had fostered the pride of my mind. in the moment consumed by my mournful survey the whole aspect of the place impressed itself ineffaceably on life-long remembrance. through- the high, deep-sunken casement, across which the thin, faded curtain was · but half-drawn, the moonlight rushed, and then settled on the floor in one shroud of white glimmer, lost under the gloom of the death-bed. the a strange story. ang, sher c roof was low, and seemed lower still by heavy intersecting beams, which i might have touched with my lifted hand. and the tall, guttering can- dle by the bed-side, and the flicker from the fire struggling out through the fuel but newly heaped on it, threw their reflection on the ceiling just over my head in a reek of quivering blackness, like an angry cloud. suddenly i felt my arm grasped, with his left hand (the right side was already lifeless); the dying man drew me toward him nearer and nearer, till his lips almost touched my ear. and, in a voice now firm, now split- ting into gasp and hiss, thus he said: " i have summoned you to gaze on your own work! you have stricken down my life at the moment when it was most needed by my children, and most serviceable' to mankind. had i lived a few years longer, my children would have entered on manhood, safe from the temptations of want and undejected by the charity of strangers. thanks to you, they will be penniless orphans. fellow-creatures afflicted by maladies your pharmacopæia had failed to reach, came to me for relief, and they found it. the effect of imagination,' you say. what matters, if i directed the imagination to cure ? now you have mocked the unhappy ones out of their last chance of life. they will suffer and perish. did you believe me in error ? still you knew that my object was research into truth. you employed against your brother in art venomous drugs and a poisoned probe. look at me! are you satisfied with your work ?” i sought to draw back and pluck my' arın from the dying man's grasp. i could not do so without using a force that would have been inhuman. his lips drew nearer still to my ear. “vain pretender, do not boast that you brought a genius for epigram to the service of science. science is lenient to all who offer experiment . as the test of conjecture. you are of the stuff of which inquisitors are made. you cry that truth is profaned when your dogmas are questioned. in your shallow presumption you have meted the dominions of nature, and where your eye halts its vision, you say, there, nature must close ;' in the bigotry which adds crime to presumption, you would stone the dis- coverer who, in annexing new realms to her chart, unsettles your arbi-, trary landmarks. verily, retribution shall await you. in those spaces which your sight has disdained to explore you shall yourself be a lost and bewildered straggler. hist! i see them already! the gibbering phan- toms are gathering round you !” the man's voice stopped abruptly ; his eye fixed in a glazing ståre; bis hand relaxed its hold; he fell back on his pillow. i stole from the room; on the landing-place i met the nurse and the old woman servant. happily the children were not there. but i heard the wail of the female child from some room not far distant. . a strange story. i whispered hurriedly to the nurse, “ all is over ! ” — passed again under the jaws of the vast anaconda — and on through the blind lạne between the dead walls — on through the ghastly streets, under the ghastly moon - went back to my solitary home. . chapter iii." it was some time before i could shake off the impression made on me by the words and look of that dying man. it was not that my conscience upbraided me. what had i done? denounced that which i held, in common with most men of sense in or out of my profession, to be one of those illusions by which quackery draws profit from the wonder of ignorance. was i to blame if i had refused to treat with the grave respect due to asserted discovery in legitimate science pretensions to powers akin to the fables of wizards ? was i to descend from the academe of decorous science to examine whether a slumbering sibyl could read from a book placed at her back, or tell me at l- what at that moment was being done by my friend at the antipodes? and what though dr. lloyd himself might be a worthy and honest man, and a sincere believer in the extravagances for which he demanded an equal credulity in others, do not honest men every day incur the pen- alty of ridicule if, from a defect of good sense, they make themselves ridiculous ? could i have foreseen that a satire so justly provoked would inflict so deadly a wound? was i inhumanly barbarous because the antagonist destroyed was morbidly sensitive ? my conscience, therefore, made me no reproach, and the public was as little severe as my conscience: the public had been with me in our contest -- the public knew nothing of my opponent's death-bed accusations — the public knew only that i had attended him in his last moments -- it admired the respect to his memory which i evinced in the simple tomb that i placed over his re- mains, inscribed with an epitaph that did justice to his incontestable benev- olence and integrity:— above all, it saw me walk beside the bier that bore him to his grave – it praised the energy with which i set on foot a sub- scription for his orphan children, and the generosity with which i headed that subscription by a sum that was large in proportion to my means. . to that sum i did not, indeed, limit my contribution. the sobs of the poor female child rang still on my heart. as her grief had been keener than that of her brothers, so she might be subjected to sharper trials than they, when the time came for her to fight her own way through the world; therefore i secured to her, but with such precautions that the gift a strange story.' could not be traced to my hand, a sum to accumulate till she was of mar- riageable age, and which then might suffice for a small wedding portion; or, if she remained single, for an income that would place her beyond the temptation of want, or the bitterness of a servile dependence. that dr. lloyd should have died in poverty was a matter of surprise at first, for his profits during the last few years had been considerable, and his mode of life far from extravagant. but just before the date of our controversy he had been induced to assist the brother of his lost wife, who was a junior partner in a london bank, with the loan of his accumu- lated savings. this man proved dishonest; he embezzled that and other sums intrusted to him, and fled the country. the same sentiment of conjugal affection which had cost dr. lloyd his fortune kept him silent as to the cause of the loss. it was reserved for his executors to discover the treachery of the brother-in-law whom he, poor man, would have gen- erously screened from additional disgrace. the mayor of l- , a wealthy and public-spirited merchant, purchased the museum which dr. lloyd's passion for natural history had induced him to form ; and the sum thus obtained, together with that raised by sub- scription, sufficed, not only to discharge all debts due by the deceased, but to insure to the orphans the benefits of an education that might fit at least the boys to enter fairly armed into that game, more of skill than of chance, in which fortune is really so little blinded that we see, in each turn of her wheel, wealth and its honors pass away from the lax fingers of igno- rance and sloth to the resolute grasp of labor and knowledge. meanwhile a relation in a distant country undertook the charge of the orphans; they disappeared from the scene, and the tides of life in a commercial community soon flowed over the place which the dead man had occupied in the thoughts of his bustling townsfolk. one person at l- ; and only one, appeared to share and inherit the rancor with which the poor physician had denounced me on his death- bed. it was a gentleman named vigors, distantly related to the de- ceased, and who had been, in point of station, the most eminent of dr. lloyd's partisans in the controversy with myself; a man of no great scholastic acquirements, but of respectable abilities. he had that kind of power which the world concedes to respectable abilities, when accom- panied with a temper more than usually stern, and a moral character more than usually austere. his ruling passion was to sit in judgment upon others; and, being a magistrate, he was the most active and the most rigid of all the magistrates - had ever known. mr. vigors at first spoke of me with great bitterness, as having ruined, and in fact killed, his friend by the uncharitable and unfair acerbity which he declared i had brought into what ought to have been an un. a strange story. prejudiced examination of a simple matter of fact. but finding no sym- pathy in these charges, he had the discretion to cease from making them, contenting himself with a solemn shake of his head if he heard my name mentioned in terms of praise, and an oracular sentence or two, such as, “ time will show;" “ all's well that ends well,” etc. mr. vigors, how- ever, mixed very little in the more convivial intercourse of the towns- people. he called himself domestic; but, in truth, he was ungenial. a stiff man, starched with self-esteem. he thought that his dignity of sta- tion was not sufficiently acknowledged by the merchants of low town, and his superiority of intellect not sufficiently recognized by the exclu- sives of the hill. his visits were, therefore, chiefly confined to the houses of neighboring squires, to whom his reputation as a magistrate, conjoined with his solemn exterior, made him one of those oracles by which men consent to be awed on condition that the awe is not often in- flicted. and though he opened his house three times a week, it was only to a select few, whom he first fed and then biologized. electro-biology was very naturally the special entertainment of a man whom no inter- course ever pleased in which his will was not imposed upon others. therefore he only invited to his table persons whom he could stare into the abnegation of their senses, willing to say that beef was lamb, or brandy was coffee, according, as he willed them to say. and, no doubt, the persons asked would have said any thing he willed so long as they - had, in substance as well as in idea, the beef and the brandy, the lamb and the coffee. i did not, then, often meet mr. vigors at the houses in which i occasionally spent my evenings. i heard of his enmity as a man safe in his home hears the sough of a wind on the common without. if now and then we chanced to pass in the streets, he looked up at me (he was a small man walking on tip-toe) with the sullen scowl of dislike. and from the height of my stature i dropped upon the small man and sullen scowl the affable smile of supreme indifference. chapter iv. i had now arrived at that age when an ambitious man, satisfied with his progress in the world without, begins to feel, in the cravings of unsat- isfied affection, the void of a solitary hearth. i resolved to marry, and looked out for a wife. i had never hitherto admitted into my life the passion of love. in fact, i had regarded that passion, even in my earlier youth, with a certain superb contempt — as á malady engendered by an effeminate idleness, and fostered by a sickly imagination. a strange 'story. i wished to find in a wife a rational companion, an affectionate and trust-worthy friend. no views of matrimony could be less romantic, more soberly sensible, than those which i conceived. nor were my re- quirements mercenary or presumptuous. i cared not for fortune; i asked nothing from connections. my ambition was exclusively profes- sional; it could be served by no titled kindred, accelerated by no wealthy dower. i was no slave to beauty. i did not seek in a wife the accomplishments of a finishing school-teacher. having decided that the time had come to select my helpmate, i im- agined that i should find no difficulty in a choice that my reason would approve. but day upon day, week upon week passed away, and though among the families i visited there were many young ladies who possessed more than the qualifications with which i conceived that i should be am- ply contented, and by whom i might flatter myself that my proposals would not be disdained, i saw not one to whose life-long companionship i should not infinitely have preferred the solitude i found so irksome. one evening, in returning home from visiting a poor female patient whom i attended gratuitously, and whose case demanded more thought than that of any other in my list for though it had been considered hopeless in the hospital, and she had come home to die, i felt certain that i could save her, and she seemed recovering under my care - one even- ing, it was the th of may, i found myself just before the gates of the house that had been inhabited by dr. lloyd. since his death the house had been unoccupied; the rent asked for it by the proprietor was consid- ered high; and from the sacred hill on which it was situated shyness or pride banished the wealthier traders. the garden gates stood wide open, as they had stood in the winter night on which i had passed through them to the chamber of death. the remembrance of that death-bed came vividly before me, and the dying man's fantastic threat rang again in my startled ears. an irresistible impulse, which i could not then ac- count for, and which i cannot account for now -- an impulse the reverse of that which usually makes us turn away with quickened step from a spot that recalls associations of pain — urged me on through the open gates, up the neglected, grass-grown road; urged me to look, under the westering sun of the joyous spring, at that house which i had never seen but in the gloom of a winter night, under the melancholy moon. as the building came in sight, with dark red bricks, partially overgrown with ivy, i perceived that it was no longer unoccupied. i saw forms passing athwart the open windows; a van laden with articles of furniture stood before the door; a servant in livery was beside it giving directions to the men who were unloading. evidently some family was just entering into possession. i felt somewhat ashamed of my trespass and turned round * . a strange story. quickly to retrace my steps. i had retreated but a few-yards when i saw before me, at the entrance gates, mr. vigors, walking beside a lady apparently of middle age; while just at hand a path cut through the shrubs gave a view of a small wicket-gate at the end of the grounds. i felt unwilling not only to meet the lady, whom i guessed to be the new occupier, and to whom i should have to make a somewhat awkward. apology for intrusion, but still more to encounter the scornful look of mr. vigors, in what appeared to my pride a false or undignified position. involuntariiy, therefore, i turned down the path which would favor my escape unobserved. when about half way between the house and the wicket-gate the shrubs that had clothed the path on either side suddenly opened to the left, bringing into view a circle of sward, surrounded by irregular fragments of old brick-work, partially covered with ferns, creepers, or rock-plants, weeds, or wild-flowers, and in the centre of the circle a fountain, or rather water-cistern, over which was built a gothic monastic dome, or canopy, resting on small norman columns, time-worn, dilapidated. a large willow overhung this unmistakable relic of the ancient abbey. there was an air of antiquity, romance, legend about this spot, so abruptly disclosed amidst the delicate green of the young shrubberies. but it was not the ruined wall nor the gothic well that chained my footstep and charmed my eye. it was a solitary human form - seated there amidst the mournful ruins. the form was so slight, the face so young, that at the first glance i murmured to myself, “ what a lovely child !” but as my eye lingered, it recognized in the upturned, thoughtful brow, in the sweet, serious aspect, in the rounded outlines of that slender shape, the inexpressible dignity of virgin woman. a book was on her lap, at her feet a little basket, half filled with violets and blossoms culled from the rock plants that nestled amidst the ruins. -behind her, the willow, like an emerald waterfall, showered down its arching abundant green, bough after bough, from the tree-top to the sward, descending in wavy verdure, bright toward the summit, in the smile of the setting sun, and darkening into shadow as it neared the earth. she did not notice, she did not see me; her eyes were fixed upon the horizon, where it sloped furthest into space, above the tree-tops and the ruins — fixed so intently that mechanically i turned my own gaze to fol low the flight of hers. it was as if she watched for some expected famil- iar sign to grow out from the depths of heaven; perhaps to greet, before other eyes beheld it, the ray of the earliest star. the birds dropped from the boughs on the turf around her, so fear- lessly that one alighted amidst the flowers in the little basket at her feet. there is a famous german poem, which i had read in my youth, a strange story. called “ the maiden from abroad,” variously supposed to be an allegory of spring, or of poetry, according to the choice of commentators; it seemed to me as if the poem had been made for her. verily, indeed, in her poet or painter might have seen an image equally true to either of those adorners of the earth; both outwarılly a delight to sense, yet both wakening up thoughts within us, not sad, but akin to sadness. i heard now a step behind me, and a voice which i recognized to be that of mr. vigors. i broke from the charm by which i had been so lin- geringly spell-bound, hurried on confusedly, gained the wicket-cate from which a short fight of stairs descended into the common thoroughfare. and there the everyday life lay again before me. on the opposite side houses, shops, church-spires; a few steps more, and the bustling streets ! how immeasurably far from, yet how familiarly near to the world in which we move and have being is that fairy land of romance which opens out from the hard earth before us, when love steals at first to our side, fading back into the hard earth again as love smiles or sighis its farewell! . chapter v... and before that evening i had looked on mr. vigors with supreme indifference — what importance he now assumed in my eyes! the lady with whom i had seen him was doubtless the new tenant of that liouse in which the young creature by whom my heart was so strangely moved evidently had her home. most probably the relation between the two . ladies was that of mother and daughter. mr. vigors, the friend of one, might himself be related to both — might prejudlive them against me — might- here, starting up, i snapped the thread of conjecture, for right before my eyes, on the table beside which i had seated myself on enter- ing the room, lay a card of invitation : mes. porntz. at home, wednesday, may . early. mrs. poyntz - mrs. colonel poyntz! the queen of the hill. there, at her house, i could not fail to learn all about the new-comers, who could never without her sanction have settled on her domain: i hastily changed my dress, and, with beating heart, wound my way, up the venerable eminence. i did not pass through the lane which led direct to abbots' house (for that old building stood solitary amidst its grounds, a little apart from the a strange story. . . spacious platform on which the society of the hill was concentred), but up the broad causeway, with vistaed gas-lamps; the gayer shops still un- closed, the tide of busy life only słowly ebbing from the still animated street, on to a square, in which the four main thoroughfares of the city converged, and which formed the boundary of low town. a huge dark archway, popularly called monk's gate, at the angle of this square, made the entrance to abbey hill. when the arch was passed, one felt wat once that one was in the town of a former day. the pavement was narrow and rugged; the shops small, their upper stories projecting, with here and there, plastered fronts, quaintly arabesqued. an ascent, short, but asteep and tortuous, conducted at once to the old abbey church, nobly situated in a vast quadrangle, round which were the genteel and gloomy dwellings of the areopagites of the hill. more genteel and less gloomy than the rest - lights at the windows and flowers on the balcony - stood forth, flanked by a garden wall at either side, the mansion of mrs. colonel poyntz. as i entered the drawing-room i heard the voice of the hostess; it was 'a voice clear, decided, metallic, bell-like, uttering these words: “ taken abbots' house? i will tell you." chapter vi. mrs. poentz was seated on the sofa; at her right sat fat mrs. bruce, who was a scotch lord's grand-daughter; at her left thin miss brabazon, who was an irish baronet's niece. around her -- a few seated, many standing — had grouped all the guests, save two old gentlemen, who re- mained aloof with colonel poyntz near the whist-table, waiting for the fourth old gentlenian, who was to make up the rubber, but who was at that moment speil-bound in the magic circle, which curiosity, that strong- est of social demons, had attracted round the hostess. “ taken abbots' house ? i will tell you. ah, dr. fenwick! charmed to see you. you know abbots' house is let at last? well, miss bra- bazon, dear, you ask who has taken it. i will tell you - a particular friend of mine." “ indeed! dear me!” said miss brabazon, looking confused. “i hope i did not say any thing to —” “ wound my feelings. not in the least. you said your uncle, sir phelim, had a coach-maker named ashleigh, that ashleigh was an uncom- mon name, though ashley was a common one; you intimated an appall- ing suspicion that the mrs. ashleigh who had come to the hill was the a strange story. coach-maker's widow. i relieve your mind — she is not; she is the widow of gilbert ashleigh, of kirby hall." "gilbert ashleigh,” said one of the guests, a bachelor, whose parents had reared him for the church, but who, like poor goldsmith, did not think himself good enough for it - a mistake of over-modesty, for he matured into a very harmless creature. “gilbert ashleigh. i was at oxford with him — a gentleman commoner of christ church. good-looking man - very: sapped—” “ sapped! what's that? oh, studied. that he did all his life. he married young — anne chaloner; she and i were girls together : mar- ried the same year. they settled at kirby hall — nice place, but dull. poyntz and i spent a christmas there. ashleigh when he talked was charming, but he talked very little. anne, when she talked, was com- mon-place, and she talked very much. naturally, poor thing, she was so happy. poyntz and i did not spend another christmas there. friend- ship is long, but life is short. gilbert ashleigh's life was short indeed; he died in the fifth year of his marriage, leaving only one child, a girl. since then, though i never spent another christmas at kirby hall, i have frequently spent a day there, doing my best to cheer up anne. she was no longer talkative, poor dear. wrapt up in her child, who has now grown into a beautiful girl of eighteen — such eyes, her father's — the real dark blue — rare ; sweet creature, but delicate ; not, i hope, con- sumptive, but delicate ; quiet — wants life. my girl jane adores her. jane has life enough for two.” . “is miss ashleigh the heiress to kirby hall ?” asked mrs. bruce, who had an unmarried son. “no. kirby hall passed to ashleigh sumner, the male heir, a cousin. and the luckiest of cousins! gilbert's sister, showy woman (indeed, all show), had contrived to marry her kinsman, sir walter ashleigh haugh- ton, the head of the ashleigh family,— just the man made to be the re- flector of a showy woman! he died years ago, leaving an only son, sir james, who was killed last winter by a fall from his horse. . and here, again, ashleigh sumner proved to be the male heir at law. during the minority of this fortunate youth, mrs. ashleigh had rented kirby hall of his guardian. he is now just coming of age, and that is why she leaves. lilian ashleigh will have, however, a very good fortune - is what we gen- teel paupers call an heiress. is there any thing more you want to know ?” said thin miss brabazon, who took advantage of her thinness to wedge herself into every one's affairs, “ a most interesting account. but what brings mrs. ashleigh here?” answered mrs. colonel poyntz, with the military frankness by which she kept her company in good-humor, as well as awe: a strange story. " why do any of us come here? can any one tell me ?” there was a blank silence, which the hostess herself was the first to break. “ none of us present can say why we came here. i can tell you why mrs. ashleigh came. our neighbor mr. vigors is a distant connection of the late gilbert ashleigh, one of the executors of his will, and the guar- dian to the heir-at-law. about ten days ago mr. vigors called on me, for the first time since i felt it my duty to express my opinion about the strange vagaries of our poor dear friend, dr. lloyd. and when he had taken his chair, just where you now sit, dr. fenwick, he said, in a sepul- chral voice, stretching out two fingers, so, as if i were one of the what- do-you-call-'ems who go to sleep when he bids them, “marm, you know mrs. ashleigh ? you correspond with her.' yes, mr. vigors ; is there any crime in that? you look as if there were. “no crime, marm,' said the man, quite seriously. “mrs. ashleigh is a lady of amiable temper, and you are a woman of mascưline understanding.'” here there was a general titter. mrs. colonel poyntz hushed it with a look of severe surprise. " what is there to laugh at ? all women would be men if they could. if my understanding is masculine, so much the better for me. i thanked mr. vigors for his very handsome compli- ment, and he then went on to say, 'that though mrs. ashleigh would now have to leave kirby hall in a very few weeks, she seemed quite unable to make up her mindwhere to go; that it had occurred to him that, as miss ashleigh was now of an age to see a little of the world, she ought not to remain buried in the country; while, being of quiet mind, she re- coiled from the dissipation of london. between the seelusion of the one and the turmoil of the other, the society of l— was a happy medium. he should be glad of my opinion. he had put off asking for it, because he owned his belief that i had behaved unkindly to his lamented friend, dr. lloyd; but he now found himself in rather an awkward position, ilis ward, young ashleigh sumner, had prudently resolved on fixing his country residence at kirby hall, rather than at haughton park, the much larger seat, which had so suddenly passed to his inheritance, and which he could not occupy without a vast establishment, that to a single man, so young, would be but a cumbersome and costly trouble.. mr. vigors was pledged to his ward to obtain him possession of kirby hall the precise day agreed upon, but mrs. ashleigh did not seem disposed to stir-could not decide where else to go. mr. vigors was loth to press hard on his old friend's widow and child. it was a thousand pities mrs. ashleigh could not make up her mind; she had had ample time for preparation. a word from me, at this moment, would be an effective kindness. abbots' house was vacant, with a garden so extensive that the ladies would not miss the country. another party was after it, but-'say no more,' i cried; a strange story. 'no party but my dear old friend, anne ashleigh, shall have abbots' house. so that question is settled.' i dismissed mr. vigors, sent for my carriage - that is, for mr. barker's yellow fly and his best horses -- and drove that very day to kirby hall, which, though not in this county, is only twenty-five miles distant. i slept there that night. by nine o'clock the next morning i had secured mrs. ashleigh's consent, on the promise to save her all trou- ble, came back, sent for the landlord, settled the rent, lease, agreement; engaged forbes' vans to remove the furniture from kirby hall, told forbes to begin with the beds. when her own bed came, .which was last night, anne ashleigh came too. i have seen her this morning. she likes the place, so does lilian. i asked them to meet you all here to-night; but mrs. ashleigh was tired. the last of the furniture was to arrive to-day; and though dear mrs. ashleigh is an undecided character, she is not inactive. but it is not only the planning where to put tables and chairs that would have tired her to-day; she has had mr. vigors on her hands all the afternoon, and he has been — here's her little note — what are the words ? no doubt, most overpowering and oppressive' - no, most kind and attentive'- different words, but, as applied to mr. vigors, they mean the same thing.” “and now next monday — we must leave them in peace till then - you will all call on the ashleighs. the hill knows what is due to itself; it cannot delegate to mr. vigors, a respectable man indeed, but who does not belong to its set, its own proper course of action towards those who would shelter themselves on its bosom. the hill cannot be kind and attentive, overpowering or oppressive, by proxy. to those new born into its family circle it cannot be an indifferent godmother; it has toward them all the feelings of a mother, or of a step-mother, as the case may be. where it says, “ this can be no child of mine,' it is a step-mother indeed; but, in all those whom i have presented to its arms, it has hith- erto, i am proud to say, recognized desirable acquaintances, and to them the hill has been a mother. and now, my dear mr. sloman, go to your rubber; poyntz is impatient, though he don't show it. miss brabazon, love, oblige us at the piano; something gay, but not very noisy - mr. leopold smythe will turn the leaves for you. mrs. bruce, your own favorite set at vingt-un, with four new recruits. dr. fenwick, you are like me, don't play cards, and don't care for music: sit here, and talk or not, as you please, while i knit.” the other guests thus disposed of, some at the card-tables, some round the piano, i placed myself at mrs. poyntz's side, on a seat niched in the recess of a window, which an evening unusually warm for the month of may permitted to be left open. i was next to one who had known lilian as a child, one from whom i had learned by what sweet name to call the image which my thoughts had already shrined. how much that i still a strange story. longed to know she could tell me! but in what form of question could i lead to the subject, yet not betray my absorbing interest in it? long- ing to speak, i felt as if stricken dumb; stealing an unquiet glance toward the face beside me, and deeply impressed with that truth which the hill had long ago reverently acknowledged, that mrs. colonel poyntz was a very superior woman — a very powerful creature. and there she sat knitting - rapidly, firmly: a woman somewhat on the other side of forty, complexion a bronzed paleness, hair a bronzed brown, in strong ringlets, cropped short behind — handsome hair for a man; lips that, when closed, showed inflexible decision, when speaking, became supple and flexile with an easy humor and a vigilant finesse; eyes of a red hazel, quick but steady; observant, piercing, dauntless eyes ; altogether a fine countenance - would have been a very fine countenance in a man ; profile sharp, straight, clear-cut, with an expres- sion, when in repose, like that of a sphinx; à frame robust, not corpu- lent, of middle height, but with an air and carriage that made her appear tall; peculiarly white firm hands, indicative of vigorous health, not a vein visible on the surface. there she sat knitting, knitting, and i by her side, gazing now on her- self, now on her work, with a vague idea that the threads in the skein of my own web of love or of life were passing quick through those noiseless fingers. and, indeed, in every web of romance, the fondest, one of the parcæ is sure to be some matter-of-fact she, social destiny, as little akin to romance herself - as was this worldly queen of the hill. chapter vii. . i have given a sketch of the outward woman of mrs. colonel poyntz. the inner woman was a recondite mystery, deep as that of the sphinx, whose features her own resembled. but between the outward and the in- ward woman there is ever a third woman — the conventional woman - such as the whole human being appears to the world — always mantled, sometimes masked. i am told that the fine people of london do not recognize the title of “mrs. colonel.” if that be true, the fine people of london must be clearly in the wrong, for no people in the universe could be finer than the fine people of abbey hill; and they considered their sovereign had as good a right to the title of mrs. colonel as the queen of england has a' strange story. to that of “ our gracious lady.” but mrs. poyntz herself never assumed the title of mrs. colonel; it never appeared on her cards any more than the title of " gracious lady” appears on the cards which convey the invitation that a lord steward or lord chamberlain is commanded by her majesty to issue. to titles, indeed, mrs. poyntz evinced no supersti- tious reverence. two peeresses related to her, not distantly, were in the habit of paying her a yearly visit, which lasted two or three days. thes hill considered these visits an honor to its eminence. mrs. poyntz never seemed to esteem them an honor to herself; never boasted of them; never sought to show off her grand relations, nor put herself the least out of the way to receive them. her mode of life was free from ostentation. she had the advantage of being a few hundreds a year richer than any other inhabitant of the hill; but she did not devote her superior re- sources to the invidious exhibition of superior splendor. like a wise sov- ereign, the revenues of her exchequer were applied to the benefit of her subjects, and not to the vanity of egotistical parade. as no one else on the hill kept a carriage, she declined to keep one. her entertainments were simple, but numerous. twice a week she received the hill, and was gen- uinely at home to it. she contrived to make her parties proverbially agreeable. the refreshments were of the same kind as those which the poorest of her old maids of honor might proffer; but they were better of their kind, the best of their kind — the best tea, the best lemonadle, the best cakes. her rooms had an air of comfort which was peculiar to them. they looked like rooms accustomed to receive, and receive in a friendly way; well warmed, well lighted, card-tables and piano in the place that made cards and music inviting. on the walls a few old family portraits, and three or four other pictures, said to be valuable, and ver- tainly pleasing-two watteau's, a canaletti, a weenix - plenty of easy chairs and settees covered with a cheerful chintz. in the arrangement of the furniture generally, an indescribable careless elegance. she her- self was studiously plain in dress, more conspicuously free from jewelry and trinkets than any married lady on the hill. but i have heard from those who were authorities on such a subject, that she was never seen in a dress of the last year's fashion. she adopted the noile as it came out, just enough to show that she was aware it was out; but with a sober reserve, as much as to say, “ i adopt the fashion as far as it suits myself; i do not permit the fashion to adopt me.” in short, mrs. colonel poyntz was sometimes rough, sometimes coarse, always masculine; and yet, somehow or other, masculine in a womanly way; but she was never vulgar, because never affected. it was impossible not to allow that she was a thorough gentlewoman, and she could do things that lower other gentlewomen without any loss of dignity. thus she was an admirable a strange story. mimic, certainly in itself the least lady-like condescension of humor. but when she mimicked, it was with so tranquil a gravity, or so royal a good- humor, that one could only say, “ what talents for society dear mrs. colonel has !” as she was a gentlewoman emphatically, so the other colonel, the he-colonel, was emphatically a gentleman ; rather shy, but not cold; hating trouble of every kind, pleased to seem a cipher in his own house. if the sole study of mrs colonel had been to make her hus- band comfortable, she could not have succeeded better than by bringing friends about him and then taking them off his hands. colonel poyntz, the he-colonel, had seen in his youth actual service; but had retired from his profession many years ago, shortly after his marriage. he was a younger brother of one of the principal squires in the county; inherited the house he lived in, with some other valuable property in and about l- , from an uncle; was considered a good landlord ; and popular in low town, though he never interfered in its affairs. he was punctili- ously neat in his dress; a thin youthful figure, crowned with a thick youthful wig. he never seemed to read any thing but the newspapers and the meteorological journal ; was supposed to be the most weather- wise man in all - he had another intellectual predilection --- whist. but in that he had less reputation for wisdom. perhaps it re- quires a rarer combination of mental faculties to win an odd trick than to divine a fall in the glass. for the rest, the he-colonel, many years older than his wife, despite the thin youthful figure, was an admirable aid-de- camp to the general in command, mrs. colonel ; and she could not have found one more obedient, more devoted, or more proud of a distinguished chief. in giving to mrs. colonel poyntz the appellation of queen of the hill, let there be no mistake. she was not a constitutional sovereign; her monarchy was absolute. all her proclamations had the force of laws. such ascendency could not have been attained without considerable talents for acquiring and keeping it. amidst all her off-hand, brisk, im- perious frankness, she had the ineffable discrimination of tact. whether civil or rude, she was never civil or rude but what she carried public opinion along with her. her knowledge of general society must have been limited, as must be that of all female sovereigns. but she seemed gifted with an intuitive knowledge of human nature which she applied to her special ambition of ruling it. i have not a doubt that if she had been suddenly transferred, a perfect stranger, to the world of london, she would have soon forced her way to its selectest circles, and, when once there, held her own against a duchess. i have said that she was not affected; this might be one cause of her a strange story. sway over a set in, which nearly every other female was trying rather to seem, than to be, a somebody. but if mrs. colonel poyntz was not artificial, she was artful, or per- haps i might more justly say — artistic. in all she said and did there were conduct, system, plan. she could be a most serviceable friend, a most damaging enemy; yet i believe she seldom indulged in strong lik- ings or strong hatreds. all was policy - a policy akin to that of a grand party chief, determined to raise up those whom, for any reason of state, it was prudent to favor, and to put down those whom, for any reason of state, it was expedient to humble or to crush. ever since the controversy with dr. lloyd this lady had honored me with her benignest countenance. and nothing could be more adroit than the manner in which, while imposing me on others as an oracular authority, she sought to subject to her will the oracle itself. she was in the habit of addressing me in a sort of motherly way as if she had the deepest interest in my welfare, happiness, and reputation. and thus, in every compliment, in every seeming mark of respect, she maintained the superior dignity of one who takes from responsible station the duty to encourage rising merit: so that, somehow or other, despite all that pride which made me believe that i needed no helping hand to ad- vance or to clear my way through the world, i could not shake off from my mind the impression that i was mysteriously patronized by mrs. col- onel poyntz. we might have sat together five minutes, side by side — in silence as complete as if in the cave of trophonius — when, without looking up from her work, mrs. poyntz said abruptly, “i am thinking about you, dr. fenwick. and you — are thinking about some other woman. ungrateful man!” “unjust accusation! my'very silence should prove how intently my thoughts were fixed on you, and on the weird web which springs under your hand in meshes that bewilder the gaze and snare the attention.” mrs. poyntz looked up at me for a moment — one rapid glance of the bright red hazel eye — and said, “ was i really in your thoughts? answer truly." truly, i answer, you were.” " that is strange! who can it be?” “ who can it be! what do you mean ? " “ if you were thinking of me, it was in connection with some other person — some other person of my own sex. it is certainly not poor dear miss brabazon. who-else can it be?”. again the red eye shot over me, and i felt my cheek redden beneath it. “ hush !” she said, lowering her voice; “ you are in love !" • a strange story. “in love!—i! permit me to ask you why you think so ?” “ the signs are unmistakable; you are altered in your manner, even in the expression of your face, since i last saw you; your manner is gen- erally quiet and observant, it is now restless and distracted; your expres- sion of face is generally proud and serene, it is now humbled and troubled. you have something on your mind! it is not anxiety for your reputation, that is established; nor for your fortune, that is made; it is not anxiety for a patient, or you would scarcely be here. but anxi- ety it is, an anxiety that is remote from your profession, that touches your heart and is new to it!” i was startled, almost awed. but i tried to cover my confusion with a forced laugh. “ profound observer! subtle analyst! you have convinced me that i must be in love, though i did not suspect it before. but when i strive to conjecture the object, i am as much perplexed as yourself; and with you, i ask, who can it be!” “whoever it be,” said mrs. poyntz, who had paused, while i spoke, from her knitting, and now resumed it very slowly and very carefully, as if her mind and her knitting worked in unison together. “whoever it be, love in you would be serious; and, with or without love, marriage is a serious thing to us all. it is not every pretty girl that would suit allen fenwick.” “ alas! is there any pretty girl whom allen fenwick would suit ?” “ tut! you should be above the fretful vanity that lays traps for a compliment. yes; the time has come in your life and your career when you would do well to marry. i give my consent to that,” she added, with a smile as if in jest, and a slight nod as if in earnest. the knitting here went on more decidedly, more quickly. “ but i do not yet see the person. no! 'tis a pity, allen fenwick " (whenever mrs. poyntz called me by my christian name, she always assumed her majestic motherly manner), “ a pity that, with your birth, energies, perseverance, talents, and, let me add, your advantages of man- ner and person — a pity that you did not choose a career that might achieve higher fortunes and louder fame than the most brilliant success can give to a provincial physician. but in that very choice you interest me. my choice has been much the same. a small circle, but the first in it. yet, had i been a man, or had my dear colonel been a man whom it was in the power of woman's art to raise one step higher in that meta- phorical ladder which is not the ladder of the angels, why, then — what then? no matter! i am contented. i transfer my ambition to jane. do you not think her handsome ?” “ there can be no doubt of that,” said i, carelessly and naturally. lo a strange story. “i have settled jane's lot in my own mind,” resumed mrs. poyntz, strik- ing firm into another row of the knitting. “she will marry a country gentleman of large estate. he will go into parliament. she will study his advancement as i study poyntz's comfort. if he be clever, she will help to make him a minister; if he be not clever, his wealth will make her a personage, and lift him into a personage's husband. and, now that you see i have no matrimonial designs on you, allen fenwick, think if it be worth while to confide in me. possibly i may be useful — " “i know not how to thank you. but, as yet i have nothing to con- fide.” while thus saying, i turned my eyes toward the open window, beside which i sat. it was a beautiful soft night. the may moon in all her splendor. the town stretched, far and wide, below with all its number- less lights; below — but somewhat distant — an intervening space was covered, here, by the broad quadrangle (in the midst of which stood, mas- sive and lonely, the grand old church); and, there, by the gardens and scattered cottages or mansions that clothed the sides of the hill. “is not that house,” i said, after a short pause, “yonder, with the three gables, the one in which – which poor dr. lloyd lived - abbots' house ?” i spoke abruptly, as if to intimate my desire to change the subject of conversation. my hostess stopped her knitting, half rose, looked forth. “yes. but what a lovely night! how is it that the moon blends into harmony things of which the sun only marks the contrast? that stately old church tower, gray with its thousand years — those vulgar tile-roofs and chimney-pots raw in the freshness of yesterday; now, under the moonlight, all melt into one indivisible charm!” as my hostess thus spoke she had left her seat, taking her work with her, and passed from the window into the balcony. it was not often that mrs. poyntz condescended to adinit what is called “sentiment” into the range of her sharp, practical, worldly talk, but she did so at times; always, when she did, giving me the notion of an intellect much too comprehensive not to allow that sentiment has a place in this life, but keeping it in its proper place by that mixture of affability and indifference with which some high-born beauty allows the genius but checks the presumption of a charming and penniless poet. for a few minutes her eyes roved over the scene in evident enjoyment; then, as they slowly settled upon the three gables of abbots' house, her face regained that something of hard- ness which belonged to its decided character; her fingers again mechani- cally resumed their knitting, and she said, in her clear, unsoftened, me- tallic chime of voice, “ can you gug te why i took so much trouble to oblige mr. vigors and locate. mrs. ashleyi yonder ? " “ you favored us with a full explanation of your reasons.” * a strange story. “ some of my reasons; not the main one. people who undertake the task of governing others, as l do, be their rule a kingdom or a hamlet, must adopt a principle of government and adhere to it. the principle that suits best with the hill is respect for the proprieties. we have not much money; entre nous, we have no great rank. our policy is, then, to set up the proprieties as an influence which money must court and rank is afraid of. i had learned just before mr. vigors called on me that lady * sarah bellasis entertained the idea of hiring abbots' house. london has set its face against her; a provincial town would be more charitable. an earl's daughter, with a good income and an awfully bad name, of the best manners and of the worst morals, would have made sad havoc among the proprieties. · how many of our primmest old maids would have deserted tea and mrs. poyntz, for champagne and her ladyship? the hill was never in so imminent a danger. rather than lady sarah bellasis should have had that house i would have taken it myself and stocked it with owls. “ mrs. ashleigh turned up just in the critical moment. lady sarah is foiled, the proprieties safe, and so that question is settled.” “ and it will be pleasant to have your early friend so near you.” mrs. poyntz lifted her eyes full upon me. “ do you know mrs. ashleigh ?” “ not the least." “ she has many virtues and few ideas. she is commonplace weak, as i am commonplace strong. but commonplace weak can be very lovable. her husband, a man of genius and learning, gave her his whole heart - a heart worth having; but he was not ambitious, and he despised the world.” “ i think you said your daughter was very much attached to miss ash- leigh ? does her character resemble her mother's ?” i was afraid while i spoke that i should again meet mrs. poyntz's searching gaze, but she did not this time look up from her work. "no; lilian is any thing but commonplace." “ you describe her as having delicate health; you implied a hope that she was not consumptive. i trust that there is no serious reason for ap- prehending a constitutional tendency which at her age would require the most careful watching!” “i trust not. if she were to die - dr. fenwick, what is the mat- ter?» so terrible had been the picture which this woman's words had brought before me, that i started as if my own life had received a shock. “i beg pardon,” i said, falteringly, pressing my hand to my heart; "a sudden spasm here - it is over now. you were saying that -- that " a strange story. , "i was about to say " and here mrs. poyntz laid her hand lightly on mine. “i was about to say, that if lilian ashleigh were to die, i should mourn for her less than i might for one who valued the things of the earth more. but i believe there is no cause for the alarm my words so inconsiderately excited in you. her mother is watchful and devoted ; and if the least thing ailed lilian, she would call in medical advice. mr. vigors would, i know, recommend dr. jones.” closing our conference with those stinging words, mrs. poyntz here turned back into the drawing-room. i remained some minutes on the balcony, disconcerted, enraged. with what consummate art had this practised diplomatist wound herself into my secret. that she had read my heart better than myself was evident from that parthian shaft, barbed with dr. jones, which she had shot over her shoulder in retreat. that from the first moment in which she had decoyed me to her side, she had detected “the something” on my mind, was perhaps but the ordinary quickness of female penetration. but it was with no ordinary craft that her whole conversation afterward had been so shaped as to learn the something, and lead me to reveal the some one to whom the something was linked. for what purpose ? what was it to her ? what motive could she have beyond the mere gratification of curiosity ? perhaps, at first, she thought i had been caught by her daughter's showy beauty, and hence the half-friendly, half- eynical frankness with which she had avowed her ambitious projects for that young lady's matrimonial advancement. satisfied by my manner that i cherished no presumptuous hopes in that quarter, her scrutiny was doubtless continued from that pleasure in the exercise of a wily intellect which impels schemers and politicians to an activity for which, without that pleasure itself, there would seem no adequate inducement; and be- sides, the ruling passion of this petty sovereign was power. and if knowl- edge be power, there is no better instrument of power over a contumacious subject than that hold on his heart which is gained in the knowledge of its secret. but “ secret!” had it really come to this? was it possible that the mere sight of a human face, never beheld before, could disturb the whole tenor of my life -- a stranger of whose mind and character i knew nothing, whose very voice i had never heard ? it was only by the intol- erable pang of anguish that had rent my heart in the words, carelessly, abruptly spoken, “ if she were to die,” that i had felt how the world would be changed to me, if indeed that face were seen in it no more ! yes, secret it was no longer to myself - i loved! and like all on whom love descends, sometimes softly, slowly, with the gradual wing of the. cushat settling down into its nest, sometimes with the swoop of the eagle a strange story. on his unsuspecting quarry, i believed that none ever before loved as i loved; that such love was an abnormal wonder, made solely for me, and i for it. then my mind insensibly hushed its angrier and more turbulent thoughts, as my gaze rested upon the roof-tops of lilian's home, and the shimmering silver of the moonlit willow, under which i had seen her gazing into the roseate heavens. chapter viii. when i returned to the drawing-room, the party was evidently about to break up. those who had grouped round the piano were now assem- bled round the refreshment table. the card-players had risen, and were settling or discussing gains and losses. while i was searching for my hat, which i had somewhere mislaid, a poor old gentleman, tormented by tic doloreux, crept timidly up to me — the proudest and the poorest of all the hidalgoes settled on the hill. he could not afford a fee for a physician's advice, but pain had humbled his pride, and i saw at a glance that he was considering how to take a surreptitious advantage of social intercourse, and obtain the advice without paying the fee. the old man discovered the hat before i did, stooped, took it up, extended it to me with the profound bow of the old school, while the other hand, clenched and quivering, was pressed into the hollow of his cheek, and his eyes met mine with wistful mute entreaty. the instinct of my profession seized me at once. i could never behold suffering without forgetting all else in the desire to relieve it. - you are in pain,” said i, softly. “ sit down and describe the symp- toms. here, it is true, i am no professional doctor, but i am a friend who is fond of doctoring, and knows something about it.” so we sat down a little apart from the other guests, and, after a few questions and answers, i was pleased to find that his “tic” did not belong to the less curable kind of that agonizing neuralgia. i was especially successful in my treatment of similar sufferings for which i had dis- covered an anodyne that was almost specific. i wrote on a leaf of my po ket-book a prescription which i felt sure would be efficacious, and as i tore it out and placed it in his hand, i chanced to look up, and saw the luzel eyes of my hostess fixed upon me with a kinder and softer expres- sion than they often condescended to admit into their cold and penetrat- ing lustre. at that moment, however, her attention was drawn from me a strange story. to a servant, who entered with a note, and i heard him say, though in an undertone, “ from mrs. ashleigh.” . . l. - she opened the note, read it hastily, ordered the servant to wait with- out the door, retired to her writing-table, which stood near the place at which i still lingered, rested her face on her hand, and seemed musing. her meditation was very soon over. she turned her head, and, to my surprise, beckoned to me. i approached. “ sit here,” she whispered; “turn your back toward those people, who are no doubt watching us. read this.” she placed in my hand the note she had just received. it contained but a few words to this effect:. "dear margaret, - i am so distressed. since i wrote to you, a few hours ago, lilian is taken suddenly ill, and i fear seriously. what medical man should i send for? let my servant have his name and address. a. a." i sprang from my seat. “stay,” said mrs. poyntz. “would you much care if i sent the ser-- vant to dr. jones ? " “ah, madam, you are cruel! what have i done that you should be- come my enemy?” “ enemy! no. you have just befriended one of my friends. in this world of fools, intellect should ally itself with intellect. no; i am not your enemy! but you have not yet asked me to be your friend." here she put into my hands a note she had written while thus speak- ing. “ receive your credentials. if there be any cause for alarm, or if i can be of use, send for me.” resuming the work she had suspended, but with lingering, uncertain fingers, she added, “ so far, then, this is settled. nay, no thanks; it is but little that is settled as yet.” chapter ix. in'a very few minutes i was once more in the grounds of that old gable house. the servant, who went before me, entered them by the stairs and the wicket-gate of the private entrance; that way was the shortest. so again i passed by the circling glade and the monastic well — sward, trees, and ruins, all suffused in the limpid moonlight. and now i was in the house; the servant took up stairs the note with which i was charged, and a minute or two afterward returned and con- a strange story. ducted me to the corridor above, in which mrs. ashleigh received me. i was the first to speak. “ your daughter-is-is — not seriously ill, i hope. what is it?” “ hush !” she said, under her breath. “will you step this way for a moment ?” she passed through a door-way to the right. i followed her, and as she placed on the table the light she had been holding, i looked round with a chill at the heart-it was the room in which dr. lloyd had died. impossible to mistake. the furniture, indeed, was changed — there was no bed in the chamber; but the shape of the room, the position of the high casement, which was now wide open, and through which the moonlight streamed more softly than on that drear winter night, the great square beams intersecting the low ceiling — all were impressed vividly on my memory. the chair to which mrs. ashleigh beckoned me was placed just on the spot where i had stood by the bed-head of the dying man. i shrank back — i could not have seated myself there. so i remained leaning against the chimney-piece, while mrs. ashleigh told her story. she said that on their arrival the day before, lilian had been in more than usually good health and spirits, delighted with the old house, the grounds, and especially the nook by the monk's well, at which mrs. ash- leigh had left her that evening in order to make some purchases in the town, in company with mr. vigors. when mrs. ashleigh returned, she and mr. vigors had sought lilian in that nook, and mrs. ashleigh then detected, with a mother's eye, some change in lilian, which alarmed her. she seemed listless and dejected, and was very pale; but she denied that she felt unwell. on regaining the house she had sat down in the room in which we then were “which,” said mrs. ashleigh, “as it is not required for a sleeping-room, my daughter, who is fond of reading, wished to fit up as her morning-room, or study. i left her here and went into the draw- ing-room below with mr. vigors. when he quitted me, which he did very soon, i remained for nearly an hour giving directions about the plac- ing of furniture, which had just arrived from our late residence. i then went up stairs to join my daughter, and to my terror found her apparently lifeless in her chair. she had fainted away.” i interrupted mrs. ashleigh here. “has miss ashleigh been subject to fainting fits ?” “no, never. when she recovered she seemed bewildered - disinclined to speak. i got her to bed, and as she then fell quietly to sleep, my mind was relieved. i thought it only a passing effect of excitement, in a change of abode; or caused by something like malaria in the atmosphere of that part of the grounds in which i had found her seated.” “ very likely. the hour of sunset at this time of year is trying to deli- cate constitutions. go on." . a strange story, “ about three-quarters of an hour ago she woke up with a loud cry, and has been ever since in a state of great agitation, weeping violently, and answering none of my questions. yet she does not seem light-headed, but rather what we call hysterical.” “ you will permit me now to see her. take comfort — in all you tell me i see nothing to warrant serious alarm.” chapter x. to the true physician there is an inexpressible sanctity in the sick- chamber. at its threshold the more human passions quit their hold on his heart. love there would be profanation. even the grief permitted to others he must put aside. he must enter that room — a calm intelli- gence. he is disabled for his mission if he suffer aught to obscure the keen quiet glance of his science. age or youth, beauty or deformity, innocence or guilt, merge their distinctions in one common attribute human suffering appealing to human skill. woe to the households in which the trusted healer feels not on his conscience the solemn obligations of his glorious art. reverently, as in a temple, i stood in the virgin's chamber. when her mother placed her hand in mine, and i felt the throb of its pulse, i was aware of no quicker beat of my own heart. i looked with a steady eye on the face, more beautiful from the flush that deepened the delicate hues of the young cheek, and the lustre that brightened the dark blue of the wandering eyes. she did not at first heed me; did not seem aware of my presence; but kept murmuring to herself words which i could not distinguish. at length, when i spoke to her, in that low, soothing tone which we learn at the sick-bed, the expression of her face altered suddenly; she passed the hand i did not hold over her forehead, turned round, looked at me full and long, with unmistakable surprise, yet not as if the surprise displeased her; less the surprise which recoils from the sight of a stranger than that which seems doubtfully to recognize an unexpected friend! yet on the surprise there seemed to creep something of apprehension — of fear; her hand trembled, her voice quivered, as she said, “ can it be, can it be? am i awake? mother, who is this?” “ only a kind visitor, dr. fenwick, sent by mrs. poyntz, for i was un- easy about you darling. how are you now?” “better. strangely better.” " a strange story. she removed her hand gently from mine, and with an involuntary modest shrinking, turned towards mrs. ashleigh, drawing her mother toward herself, so that she became at once hidden from me. satisfied that there was here no delirium, nor even more than the slight and temporary fever which often accompanies a sudden nervous attack in constitutions peculiarly sensitive, i retired noiselessly from the room, and went not into that which had been occupied by the deceased inmate, but down stairs into the drawing-room, to write my prescription. i had already sent the servant off with it to the chemist's before mrs. ashleigh joined me. “ she seems recovering surprisingly ; her forehead is cooler ; she is perfectly self-possessed, only she cannot account for her own seizure, can- not account either for the fainting or the agitation with which she awoke from sleep.” " i think i can account for both. the first room in which she entered - that in which she fainted — had its window open; the sides of the win- dow are overgrown with rank, creeping plants in full blossom. miss ashley had already predisposed herself to injurious effects from the effluvia, by fatigue, excitement, imprudence in sitting out at the fall of a heavy dew. the sleep after the fainting fit was the more disturbed, because nature, always alert and active in subjects so young, was making its own effort to right itself from an injury. nature has nearly succeeded. what i have prescribed will a little aid and accelerate that which nature has yet to do, and in a day or two i do not doubt that your daughter will be perfectly restored. only let me recommend care to avoid exposure to the open air during the close of the day. let her avoid also the room in which she was first seized, for it is a strange phenomenon in nervous temperaments that a nervous attack may, without visible cause, be repeated in the same place where it was first experienced. you had better shut up the chamber for at least some weeks, burn fires in it, repaint and paper it, sprinkle chloroform. you are not, perhaps, aware that dr. lloyd died in that room after a prolonged illness. suffer me to wait till your servant returns with the medicine, and let me employ the interval in asking a few questions. miss ashleigh, you say, never had a fainting fit before. i should presume that she is not what we call strong. but has she ever had any illness that alarmed you ?” “never.” “ no great liability to cold and cough, to attacks of the chest or lungs ? " “ certainly not. still i have feared that she may have a tendency to consumption. do you think so ? your questions alarm me!” “i do not think so; but before i pronounce a positive opinion, one a strange story. question more. you say you feared a tendency to consumption. is that disease in her family? she certainly did not inherit it from you. but on her father's side ? ” “her father,” said mrs. ashleigh, with tears in her voice, " died young, but of brain fever, which the medical men said was brought on by over- study.” “enough, my dear madam. what you say confirms my belief that your daughter's constitution is the very opposite to that in which the seeds of consumption lurk. it is rather that far nobler constitution which the keenness of the nervous susceptibility renders delicate but elastic - as quick to recover as it'is to suffer.” “ thank you, thank you, dr. fenwick, for what you say. you take a load from my heart. for mr. vigors, i know, thinks lilian consump- tive, and mrs. poyntz has rather frightened me at times by hints to the same effect. but when you speak of nervous susceptibility, i do not quite understand you. my daughter is not what is commonly called nervous. y even her temper is singularly even." “ but if not excitable, should you also say that she is not impression- able? the things which do not disturb her temper may, perhaps, deject. her spirits. do i make myself understood ?” “yes, i think i understand your distinction. but i am not quite sure if it applies. to most things that affect the spirits she is not more sensi- tive than other girls, perhaps less so. but she is certainly very impres- sionable in some things.” “in what?” “she is more moved than any one i ever knew by objects in external nature, rural scenery, rural sounds, by music, by the books that she reads - even books that are not works of imagination. perhaps in all this she takes after her poor father, but in a more marked degree - at least, i observe it more in her. for he was peculiarly silent and reserved. and perhaps also her peculiarities have been fostered by the seclusion in which she has been brought up. it was with a view to make her a little more like girls of her own age that our friend, mrs. poyntz, induced me to come here. lilian was reconciled to this change; but she shrank from the thoughts of london which i should have preferred. her poor father could not endure london.” “ miss ashleigh is fond of reading ?” “ yes, she is fond of reading, but more fond of music. she will sit by herself for hours without book or work, and seem as abstracted as if in a dream. she was so even in her earliest childhood. then she would tell me, what she had been conjuring up to herself. she would say that she had seen — positivelv seen - beautiful lands far away from earth; flowers th a strange story.. and trees not like ours. as she grew older this visionary talk displeased me, and i scolded her, and said that if others heard her they would think that she was not only silly, but very untruthful. so of late years she never ventures to tell me what, in such dreamy moments, she suffers her- self to imagine; but the habit of musing continues still. do you not agree with mrs. poyntz, that the best cure would be a little cheerful society among other young people ?” “ certainly,” said i, honestly, though with a jealous pang. “but here comes the medicine. will you take it up to her, and then sit with her half an hour or so ? by that time i expect she will be asleep. i will wait here till you return. oh, i can amuse myself with the newspapers and books on your table. stay! one caution: be sure there are no flow- ers in miss ashleigh's sleeping-room. i think i saw a treacherous rose- tree in a stand by the window. if so, banish it.” left alone, i examined the room in which, o thought of joy! i had surely now won the claim to become a privileged guest. i touched the books lilian must have touched ; in the articles of furniture, as yet so hastily disposed that the settled look of home was not about them, i still knew that i was gazing on things which her mind must associate with the history of her young life. that lute-harp must be surely hers, and the scarf, with a girl's favorite colors - pure white and pale blue — and the bird-cage, and the childish ivory work-case, with implements too pretty for use, all spoke of her. it was a blissful, intoxicating reverie, which mrs. ashleigh's entrance disturbed. lilian was sleeping calmly. i had no pretence to linger there any longer. “ i leave you, i trust, with your mind quite at ease," said i. “you will allow me to call to-morrow in the afternoon ?”. “oh yes, gratefully.” mrs. ashleigh held out her hand as i made toward the door. is there a physician who has not felt at times how that ceremonious fee throws him back from the garden land of humanity into the market- place of money - seems to put him out of the pale of equal friendship, and say, " true, you have given health and life. adieu ! there, you are paid for it.” with a poor person there would have been no dilemma, but mrs. ashleigh was affluent: to depart from custom here was almost impertinence. but had the penalty of my refusal been the doom of never again beholding lilian, i could not have taken her mother's gold. so i did not appear to notice the hand held out to me, and passed by with a quickened step. “ but, dr. fenwick, stop!” a strange story: -"o, ma'am, nol miss ashleigh would have recovered as soon with- ou' me. whenever my aid is really wanted, then — but heaven grant t'eat time may never come! we will talk again about her to-morrow." i was gone. now in the garden ground, odorous with blossoms; now in the lane, inclosed by the narrow walls ;- now in the deserted streets, over which the moon shone full as in that winter night when i hurried from the chamber of death. but the streets were not ghastly now, and the moon was no longer hecate, that dreary goddess of awe and spec- tres, but the sweet, simple lady of the stars, on whose gentle face lov- ers have gazed ever since (if that guess of astronomers be true) she was parted from earth to rule the tides of its deeps from afar, even as love from love divided rules the heart that yearns toward.it with mysterious law! sinori chapter xi. wito what increased benignity i listened to the patients who visited prieste next morning! the whole human race seemed to me worthier of love, and i longed to diffuse among all some rays of the glorious hope that had dawned upon my heart. my first call, when i went forth, was on the poor young woman from whom i had been returning the day before, when an impulse, which seemed like a fate, had lured me into the grounds where i had first seen lilian. i felt grateful to this poor patient; without her, lilian herself might be yet unknown to me. the girl's brother, a young man employed in the police, and whose pay supported a widowed mother and the suffering sister, received me at the threshold of the cottage. “oh, sir! she is so much better to-day; almost free from pain. will she live now? can she live ? " “if my treatment has really done the good you say; if she be really better under it, i think her recovery may be pronounced. but i must o my more as indeed wonderfully better. i felt that my skill was en many more al triumph, but that day even my intellectual pride was consumption iluxurious unfolding of that sense of heart which had so maal, with murh er.jossom. in the treatment of huureshold i smiled on the brother who was still lin- few days after i heard it is usly ill -- kept her room. waby. she needs now chiefly wine and good sately returning the visits . a strange st though light nourishment; these you wil und at my house, call there for them every day.” “god bless you, sir! if ever i can serve you --- his tongue fala o tered — he could say no more. serve me — allen fenwiek --- that poor policeman ! me, whom a king could not serve! what did i ask from earth but fame and lilian's heart? thrones and bread man wins from the aid of others. fame and woman's heart he can only gain through himself. : so i strode gayly up the hill, through the iron gates into the fairy ground, and stood before lilian's home. . , the man-servant, on opening the door, seemed somewhat confused, and said, hastily, before i spoke, “not at home, sir; a note for you." i turned the note mechanically in my hand; i felt stunned. “ not at home! miss ashleigh cannot be out. how is she?” “better, sir, thank you.” i still could not open the note; my eres turned wistfully towards the windows of the house, and there — at the drawing-room window - i en- countered the scowl of mr. vigors. i colored with resentment, divined that i was dismissed, and walked away with a prou crest and step. when i was out of the gates, in the blind lane, i opened the note. it began formally, “ mrs. ashleigh presents her compliments,” and went on to thank me, civilly enough, for my attendance the night before, would not give me the trouble to repeat my visit, and inclosed a fee, double the amount of the fee prescribed by custom, i flung the money, as an asp that had stung me, over the high wall, and tore the note into shreds. having thus idly vented my rage, a dull gnawing sorrow came heavily down upon all other emotions, stilling and replacing them. at the mouth of the lane i halted. i shrank from the thought of the crowded streets beyond. i shrank yet more from the routine of duties which stretched before me in the desert into which daily life was so suddenly smitten. i sat down by the roadside, shading my dejected face with a nerveless hand. i looked up as the sound of steps reached my ear, and say !r tanna coming briskly along the lane, evidently from abbots' hous have been there at the very time i had called. i was not but supplanted. i rose before he reached the spot on w! myself, and went my way into the town, went through of professional visits, but my attentions were not so skill so genially quickened by the glow of bene patients had found them in the morning. i have said how a physician should enter tb a strange story. intelligice!” but if you strike a blow on the heart, the intellect suffers. little urth, i suspect, was my “calm intelligence” that day. bichat, in his fames book upon ! " and death, divides life into two classes --- ani- mal ancorganic. man's intellect, with the brain for its centre, belongs 'to life aimal; hi passions to life organic, centred in the heart, in the viscera. alas: if the noblest passions, through which alone we lift our- selves ito the moral realm of the sublime and beautiful, really have their oprie in the life which the very vegetable, that lives organically, shares with us! and, alas ! if it be that life which we share with the vegetable, hat can cloud, obstruct, suspend, annul that life centred in the brain, which we share with every being howsoever angelic, in every star how- joever remote, on whom the creator bestows the faculty of thought ! chapter xii. rut suddenly i remembered mrs. poyntz. i ought to call on her. so · closti op round of visits at her door. but the day was then far ad- fanced, and win ovi vant politely informed me that mrs. poyntz was at dinner. i could only leave my card, with a message that i would pay my respects to her the next day. that erening i received from her this aote: "dear dr. fenwick, - regret much that i cannot have the pleasure of see- ng you to-morrow. poyntz and i are going to visit his brother, at the other end of the county, and we start early. we shall be away some days. sorry to hear tom mrs. ashleigh that she has been persuaded by mr. vigors to consult dr. jones about lilian. vigors and jones both frighten the poor mother, and insist upon consumptive tendencies. unluckily, you seem to have said there was little the matter. some doctors gain their practice, as some preachers fill their churches, by adroit use of the appeals to terror. you do not want patients; dr. jones does. and, after all, better perhaps as it is. yours, etc. "m. poyntz." to my more selfish grief anxiety for lilian was now added. i had seen many more patients die from being mistreated for consumption than from consumption itself. and dr. jones was a mercenary, cunning, needy man, with much crafty knowledge of human foibles, but very little skill in the treatment of human maladies. my fears were soon confirmed. a few days after i heard from miss brabazon that miss ashleigh was seri- basly ill — kept her room. mrs. ashleigh made this excuse for not imme- iately returning the visits which the hill had showered upon her. miss a strange story. .. brabazon had seen dr. jones, who had shaken his head; sal it was a serions case, but that time and care (his cime and his care!) ught effect wonders. how stealthily at the dead of the night i would imb the hi, and look toward the windows of the old sombre house - on window, ia which a light burned dim and mournful, the light of a sick-room ---of krs! . at length mrs. poyntz came back, and i entered her house, having fully resolved beforehand on the line of policy to be adopted towrd tle potentate whom i hoped to secure as an ally. it was clear that neither disguise nor half-confidence would baffle the penetration of so keen an intellect, nor propitiate the good-will of so imperious and resolute a tem. per. perfect frankness here was the wisest prudence; and, after all, it was most agreeable to my own nature, and most worthy of my own honor. luckily, i found mrs. poyntz alone, and, taking in both mine the hand she somewhat coldly extended to me, i said, with the earnestness of sup- pressed emotion : - you observed, when i last saw you, that i had not yet asked yon to be my friend. i ask it now. listen to me with all the indulgence you can vouchsafe, and let me at least profit by your counsel if you refuse to give me your aid.” ? rapidly, briefly, i vent on to say how i had first-oppan, and how sudden, how strange to myself had been che impression which that first sight of her had produced. “you remarked the change that had come over me," said i; “you di- vined the cause before i divined it myself; divined it as i sat there beside you, thinking that through you, i might see, in the freedom of social in- tercourse, the face that was then haunting me. you know what has since passed. miss ashleigh is ill; her case is, i am convinced, wholly misun- derstood. all other feelings are merged in one sense of anxiety -- of alarm. but it has become due to me, due to all, to incur the risk of your ridicule even more than of your reproof, by stating to you thus candidly, plainly, bluntly, the sentiment which renders alarm so poignant, and which if scarcely admissible to the romance of some wild, dreamy boy, may seem an unpardonable folly in a man of my years and my sober call- ing; due to me, to you, to mrs. ashleigh; because still the dearest thing in life to me is honor. and if you, who know mrs. ashleigh so intimately, who must be more or less aware of her plans or wishes for her daughter's future; if you believe that those plans or wishes lead to a lot får more ambitious than an alliance with me could offer to miss ashleigh, then aid, mr. vigors in excluding me from the house ; aid me in suppressing a pre- sumptuous, visionary passion. i cannot enter that house without love art hope at my heart. and the threshold of that house i must not cross. i a strange story. such love and such hope would be a sin and a treachery in the eyes of its owner. i might restore miss ashleigh to health ; her gratitude might - i cannot continue. this danger must not be to me nor to her, if her mother has views far above such a son-in-law. and i am the more bound to consider all this while it is yet time, because i heard you state that miss ashleigh. had a fortune -- was what would be here termed an heiress. and the full consciousness that whatever fame one in my profession may live to acquire, does not open those vistas of social power and grandeur which are opened by professions to my eyes less noble in themselves - that full consciousness, i say, was forced upon me by certain words of your own. for the rest, you know my descent is sufficiently recognized as that amidst well-born gentry to have rendered me no mésalliance to families the most proud of their ancestry, if i had kept my hereditary estate and avoided the career that makes me useful to man. but i ac- knowledge that on entering a profession such as mine - entering any profession except that of arms or the senate — all leave their pedigree at its door, an erased or dead letter. all must come as equals, high-born or low-born, into that arena in which men ask aid from a man as he makes himself; to them his dead forefathers are idle dust. therefore, to the advantage of birth i cease to have a claim. i am but a provincial physi- cian, whose station would be the same had he been a cobbler's son. but gold retains its grand privilege in all ranks. he who has gold is removed from the suspicion that attaches to the greedy fortune-hunter. my pri- vate fortune, swelled by my savings, is sufficient to secure to any one i married a larger settlement than many a wealthy squire can make. i need no fortune with a wife; if she have one, it would be settled on her- self. pardon these vulgar details. now, have i made myself under- stood ?” “fully," answered the queen of the hill, who had listened to me qui- etly, watchfully, and without one interruption. . “fully. and you have done well to confide in me with so generous an unreserve. but before i say further, let me ask, what would be your advice for lilian, supposing that you ought not to attend her ? you have no trust in dr. jones; neither have i. and anne ashleigh's note received to-day, begging me to call, justifies your alarm. still you think there is no tendency to consumption ? ". “ of that i am certain, so far as my slight glimpse of a case that to me, however, seems a simple and not uncommon one, will permit. but in the alternative you put — that my own skill, whatever its worth, is forbidden - my earnest advice is, that mrs. ashleigh should take her daughter at once to london, and consult there those great authorities to whom i can- not compare my own opinion or experience ; and by their counsel abide." a strange story. · mrs. poyntz shaded her eyes with her hand for a few moments, and seemed in deliberation with herself. then she said, with her peculiar smile, half grave, half ironical : “in matters more ordinary you would have won me to your side long ago. that mr. vigors should have presumed to cancel my recommenda- tion to a settler on the hill, was an act of rebellion, and involved the honor of my prerogative. but i suppressed my indignation at an affront so un- usual, partly out of pique against yourself, but much more, i think, out of regard for you." "i understand. you detected the secret of my heart; you knew that mrs. ashleigh would not wish to see her daughter the wife of a provincial physician.” “ am i sure, or are you sure, that the daughter herself would accept that fate; or if she accepted it, would not repent ?” “do not think me the vainest of men when i say this -- that i cannot believe i should be so enthralled by a feeling at war with my reason, unfavored by any thing i can detect in my habits of mind, or even by the dreams of a youth which exalted science and excluded love, unless i was intimately convinced that miss ashleigh's heart was free — that i could win, and that i could keep it! ask me why i am convinced of this, and i can tell you no more why i think that she could love me, than i can tell you why i love her!” “i am of the world, worldly. but i am woman, womanly — though i may not care to be thought it. and therefore, though what you say is - regarded in a worldly point of view, sheer nonsense — regarded in a womanly point of view, it is logically sound. but still you cannot know lilian as i do. your nature and hers are in stronge ontrast. i do not think she is a safe wife for you. the purest, the most innocent creature imaginable, certainly that, but always in the seventh heaven.' and you in the seventh heaven just at this moment, but with an irresistible gravi- tation to the solid earth, which will have its way again when the honey- moon is over. i do not believe you two would harmonize by intercourse. i do not believe lilian would sympathize with you, and i am sure you could not sympathize with her throughout the long dull course of this work-day life. and therefore, for your sake as well as hers, i was not displeased to find that dr. jones had replaced you; and now, in return for your frankness, i say, frankly + do not go again to that house. con- quer this sentiment, fancy, passion, whatever it be. and i will ad- vise mrs. ashleigh to take lilian to town. shall it be so settled ? ” i could not speak. i buried my face in my hands — misery, misery, desolation! i know not how long i remained thus silent, perhaps many minutes. at length i felt a cold, firm, but not ungentle hand placed upon mine; and a clear, full, but not discouraging voice said to me: ' a strange story. " leave me to think well over this conversation, and to ponder well the value of all you have shown that you so deeply feel. the interests of life do not fill both scales of the balance. the heart which does not always go in the same scale with the interests, still has its weight in the scale opposed to them. i have heard a few wise men say, as many a silly woman says, “better be unhappy with one we love, than be happy with one we love not.' do you say that, too?” “with every thought of my brain, every beat of my pulse, i say it." « after that answer, all my questionings cease. you shall hear from me to-morrow. by that time, i shall have seen anne and lilian. i shall have weighed both scales of the balance, and the heart here, allen fenwick, seems very heavy. go, now. i hear feet on the stairs. poyntz bringing up some friendly gossiper; gossipers are spies.” i passed my hand over my eyes, tearless, but how tears would have relieved the anguish that burdened them! and, without a word, went down the stairs, meeting at the landing-place colonel poyntz and the old man whose pain my prescription had cured. the old man was whistling a merry tune, perhaps first learned on the play-ground. he broke from it to thank, almost to embrace me, as i slid by him. i seized his jocund blessing as a good omen, and carried it with me as i passed into the broad sunlight. solitary -- solitary. should i be so evermore ? chapter xiii. the next day i had just dismissed the last of my visiting patients, and was about to enter my carriage and commence my round, when i re- ceived a twisted note containing but these words : : “call on me to-day, as soon as you can. m. poyntz." a few minutes afterward i was in mrs. poyntz's drawing-room. “ well, allen fenwick,” said she, “i do not serve friends by halves. no thanks! i but adhere to a principle i have laid down for myself. i spent last evening with the ashleighs. lilian is certainly much altered - very weak, i fear very ill, and i believe very unskilfully treated by dr. jones. i felt that it was my duty to insist on a change of physician, but there was something else to consider before deciding who that physician should be. i was bound, as your confidant, to consult your own scruples a strange story. of honor. of course i could not say point-blank to mrs. ashleigh, dr. fenwick admires your daughter, would you object to him as a son-in-law? of course i could not touch at all on the secret with which you intrusted me; but i have not the less arrived at a conclusion, in agreement with my previous belief, that not being a woman of the world, anne ashleigh has none of the ambition which women of the world would conceive for a daughter who has a good fortune and considerable beauty; that her pre- dominant anxiety is for her child's happiness, and her predominant fear is that her child will die. she would never oppose any attachment which lilian might form, and if that attachment were for one who had pre- served her daughter's life, i believe her own heart would gratefully go with her daughter's. so far, then, as honor is concerned, all scruples vanish.” i sprang from my seat, radiant with joy. mrs. poyntz dryly con- tinued: “ you value yourself on your common sense, and to that i address a few words of counsel which may not be welcome to your romance. i said that i did not think you and lilian would suit each other in the long-run; reflection confirms me in that supposition. do not look at me so incredulously and so sadly. listen and take heed. ask yourself what, as a man whose days are devoted to a laborious profession, whose ambition is entwined with its success, whose mind must be absorbed in its pursuits - ask yourself what kind of wife you would have sought to win, had not this sudden fancy for a charming face rushed over your better reason, and obliterated all previous plans and resolu- tions. surely some one with whom your heart would have been quite at rest; by whom your thoughts would have been undistracted from the channels into which your calling should concentratu their flow ; in short, a serene companion in the quiet holiday of a trustful home. is it not so ?” “you interpret my own thoughts when they have turned toward mar- riage. but what is there in lilian ashleigh that should mar the picture you have drawn?” “what is there in lilian ashleigh which in the least accords with the picture? in the first place, the wife of a young physician should not be his perpetual patient. the more he loves her, and the more worthy she may be of love, the more her case will haunt him wherever he goes. when he returns home, it is not to a holiday; the patient he most cares for, the anxiety that most gnaws him, awaits him there." “ but, good heavens! why should lilian ashleigh be a perpetual pa- tient? the sanitary resources of youth are incalculable. and —” “let me stop you; i cannot argue against a physician in love! i will give up that point in dispute, remaining convinced that there is a a strange story. ttu something in lilian's constitution which will perplex, torment, and baffle you. it was so wit her father, whom she resembles in face and in char- acter. he showed no symptoms of any grave malady. his outward form was like lilian's, a model of symmetry, except in this, that, like hers, it was too exquisitely delicate ; but, when seemingly in the midst of perfect health, at any slight jar on the nerves he would become alarmingly ill. i was sure that he would die young, and he did so." en “ay, but mrs. ashleigh said that his death was from brain-fever att brought on by over-study. rarely, indeed, do women so fatigue the brain. w no female patient, in the range of my practice ever died of purely men- tal exertion.” “ of purely mental exertion, no; but of heart emotion many female patients, perhaps? oh, you own that; i know nothing about nerves. but 'i suppose that, whether they act on the brain or the heart, the result to life is much the same if the nerves be too finely strung for life's daily dal wear and tear. and this is what i mean when i say you and lilian will hot suit. as yet she is a mere child; her nature undeveloped, and her fatal affe&non, therefore, untried. you might suppose that you had won her heart, she might believe that she gave it to you, and both be deceived. if fairies nowadays condescended to exchange their offspring with those of mortals, and if the popular tradition did not represent a fairy changeling as an ugly peevish creature with none of the grace of its parents, i should be half inclined to suspect that lilian was one of the elfin people. she never seems at home on earth; and i do not think she will ever be con- tented with a prosaic earthly lot. now i have told you why i do not think she will suit you. i must leave it to yourself to conjecture how far you would suit her. i say this in due season, while you may yet set a guard upon impulse; while you may yet watch, and weigh, and meditate; and from this moment on that subject i say no more. i lend advice, but i never throw it away." she came here to a dead pause, and began putting on her bonnet and scarf which lay on the table beside her. i was a little chilled by her words, and yet more by the blunt, shrewd, hard look and manner which aided the effect of their delivery. but the chill melted away on the sud- den glow of my heart when she again turned toward me and said: “ of course you guess, from these preliminary cautions, that you are going into danger ? 'mrs. ashleigh wishes to consult you about lilian, and i propose to take you to her house." “oh, my friend, my dear friend, how can i ever repay you !” i caught her hand, the white firm hand, and lifted it to my lips. she drew it somewhat hastily away, and laying it gently on my shoul- der, said, in a soft voice,“ poor allen, how little the world knows either a strange story. of us! but how little, perhaps, do we know ourselves. come, your çar- riage is here ? that is right; we must put down dr. jones publicly and in all our state.” in the carriage mrs. poyntz told me the purport of that conversation with mrs. ashleigh to which i owed my reintroduction to abbots' house. it seems that mr. vigors had called early the morning after my first visit; had evinced much discomposure on hearing that i had been summoned; dwelt much on my injurious treatment of dr. lloyd, whom, as distantly related to himself, and he (mr. vigors) being distantly connected to the late gilbert ashleigh, he endeavored to fasten upon his listener as one of her husband's family, whose quarrel she was bound in honor to take up. he spoke of me as an infidel “ tainted with french doctrines,” and as a practitioner rash and presumptuous, proving his own freedom from pre- sumption and rashness by flatly deciding that my opinion must be wrong. previous to mrs. ashleigh's migration to l- , mr. vigors had interested her in the pretended phenomena of mesmerism. he had consulted a clairvoyant much esteemed by poor dr. lloyd, as to lilian's health and the clairvoyant had declared her to be constitutionally predisposed to consumption. mr. vigors persuaded mrs. ashleigh to come at once with him and see this clairvoyant herself, armed with a lock of lilian's hair and a glove she had worn, as the media of mesmerical rapport. the clairvoyant, one of those i had publicly denounced as an impostor, naturally enough denounced me in return. on being asked solemnly by mr. vigors “to look at dr. fenwick and see if his influence would be beneficial to the subject,” the sibyl had become violently agitated, said that, “ when she looked at us together, we were enveloped in a black cloud; that this portended affliction and sinister consequences; that our rapport was antagonistic.” mr. vigors then told her to dismiss my image and conjure up that of dr. jones. therewith the somnambule became more tranquil, and said, “dr. jones would do well if he would be guided by higher lights than his own skill, and consult herself daily as to the proper remedies. the best remedy of all would be mesmerism. but since dr. lloyd's death she did not know of a mesmerist, sufficiently gifted, in affin- ity with the patient.” in fine, she impressed and awed mrs. ashleigh, who returned in haste, summoned dr. jones, and dismissed myself. . “i could not have conceived mrs. ashleigh to be so utterly wanting in common sense,” said i. “she talked rationally enough when i saw her.” “she has common sense in general, and plenty of the sense most com- mon," answered mrs. poyntz. “but she is easily led and easily fright- ened wherever her affections are concerned, and therefore just as easily as she had been persuaded by mr. vigors and terrified by the somnambule, i persuaded her against the one, and terrified her against the other. i a strange story. had positive experience on my side, since it was clear that lilian had been getting rapidly worse under dr. jones's care. the main objections i had to encounter in inducing her to consult you again žere, first, in mrs. ashleigh's reluctance to disoblige mr. vigors, as a friend and con- nection of lilian's father; and, secondly, a sentiment of shame in rein- viting your opinion after having treated you with so little respect. both these difficulties i took upon myself. i bring you to her house, and, on leaving you, i shall go on to mr. vigors, and tell him what is done is my doing, and not to be undone by him ; so that matter is settled. indeed, · if you were out of the question, i should not suffer mr. vigors to reintro- duce all these mummeries of clairvoyance and mesmerism into the pre- cincts of the hill. i did rfot demolish a man i'really liked in dr. lloyd, to set up a dr. jones, whom i despise, in his stead. clairvoyance on abbey hill, indeed! i saw enough of it before.” “ true; your strong intellect detected at once the absurdity of the whole pretende — the falsity of mesmerism — the impossibility of clair- voyance.” “ no, my strong intellect did nothing of the kind. i do not know whether mesmerism be false or clairvoyance impossible; and i don't wish to know. all i do know is, that i saw the hill in great danger; young ladies allowing themselves to be put to sleep by gentlemen, and pretend- ing they had no will of their own against such fascination! improper and shocking! and miss brabazon beginning to prophesy, and mrs. leopold smythe questioning her maid (whom dr. lloyd declared to be highly gifted) as to all the secrets of her friends. when i saw this, i said, “the hill is being demoralized; the hill is making itself ridiculous; the hill must be saved !' i remonstrated with dr. lloyd, as a friend ; he remained obdurate. i annihilated him as an enemy, not to me, but to the state. i slew my best lover for the good of rome. now you know why i took your part; not because i have any opinion one way or the other as to the truth or falsehood of what dr. lloyd asserted; but i have a strong opinion that whether they be true or false, his notions were those which are not to be allowed on the hill. and so, allen fenwick, that matter was settled.” perhaps at another time i might have felt some little humiliation to learn that i had been honored with the influence of this great potentate, not as a champion of truth, but as an instrument of policy ; and i might have owned to some twinge of conscience in having assisted to sacrifice a seeker after science- misled, no doubt, but preferring his indepen- dent belief to his worldly interest -- and sacrifice him to those deities with whom science is ever at war--the prejudices of a clique sanctified into the proprieties of the world. but at that moment the words i a strange story, heard made no perceptible impression on my mind. the gables of ab- bots' house were visible above the evergreens and lilacs; another mo- ment, and the carriage stopped at the door. chapter xiv. mrs. ashleigh received us in the dining-room. her manner to me, at first, was a little confused and shy. but my companion soon commu- nicated something of her own happy ease to her gentler friend. after a short conversation we all three went to lilian, who was in a little room on the ground floor, fitted up as her study. i was glad to perceive that my interdict of the death-chamber had been respected. she reclined on a sofa near the window, which was, however, jealously closed; the light of the bright may-day obscured by blinds and curtains; a large fire on the hearth ; the air of the room that of a hot-house — the ignorant, insensible, exploded system of nursing into consumption those who are confined on suspicion of it. she did not heed us as we entered noiselessly; her eyes were drooped languidly on the floor, and with difficulty i suppressed the exclamation that rose to my lips on seeing her. she seemed within the last few days so changed, and on the aspect of the countenance there was so profound a melancholy. but as she slowly turned at the sound of our footsteps, and her eyes met mine, a quick blush came into the wan cheek, and she half rose, but sank back as if the effect exhausted her. there was a struggle for breath, and a low hollow cough. was it possible that i had been mistaken, and that in that cough was heard the warning knell of the most insidious enemy to youthful life? i sat down by her side. i lured her on to talk of indifferent subjects — the weather, the gardens, the bird in the cage, which was placed on the table near her. her voice, at first low and feeble, became gradually stronger, and her face lighted up with a child's innocent playful smile. no, i had not been mistaken. that was no lymphatic nerveless temper- muament on which consumption fastens as its lawful prey — here there was no hectic pulse, no hurried waste of the vital flame. quietly and gently i made my observations, addressed my questions, applied my stethoscope; and when i turned my face towards her mother's anxious, eager eyes, that face spoke for me, for her mother sprang forward, clasped my hand, and said, through her struggling tears, “ you smile! you see nothing to fear ? ”. a strange story. " fear-no, indeed! you will soon be again yourself, miss ashleigh, will you not ?” • “yes,” she said, with her sweet laugh, “ i shall be well now very soon. but may i not have the window open ? may i not go into the garden ? i so long for fresh air.” “no, no, darling,” exclaimed mrs. ashleigh, “not while the east winds last. dr. jones said on no account. on no account, dr. fenwick, eh?” “will you take my arm, miss ashleigh, and walk about the room ?” said i. “we will then see how far we may rebel against dr. jones.” she rose with some little effort, but there was no cough. at firstcher step was languid - it became lighter and more elastie after a few mo- · ments. “let her come out,” said i to mrs. ashleigh. “the wind is not in the east, and, while we are out, pray bid your servant lower to the last bar in the grate, that fire-only fit for christmas." “but-" “ah, no buts. he is a poor doctor who is not a stern despot.” so the straw hat and mantle were sent for. lilian was wrapped with unnecessary care, and we all went forth into the garden. involuntarily we took the way to the monk's well, and at every step lilian seemed to revive under the bracing air and temperate sun. we paused by the well. “you do not feel fatigued, miss ashleigh ? " "no." “but your face seems changed. it is grown sadder.” * not sadder." “ sadder than when i first saw it-saw it when you were seated here ! ” i said this in a whisper. i felt her hand tremble as it lay on my arm. “ you saw me seated here !” “yes. i will tell you how some day.” . lilian lifted her eyes to mine, and there was in them that same sur- prise which i had noticed on my first visit - a surprise that perplexed me, blended with no displeasure, but yet with a something of vague alarm. we soon returned to the house. mrs. ashleigh made me a sign to follow her into the drawing-room, leaving mrs. poyntz with lilian. “well?” said she, tremblingly. “permit me to see dr. jones's prescriptions. thank you. ay, i thought so. , my dear madam, the mistake here has been in depressing nature instead of strengthening; in narcotics instead of stimulants. the main stimulants which leave no reaction are air and light. promise me . a strange story. that i may have my own way for a week; that all i recommend will be implicitly heeded ?” “i promise. but that cough; you noticed it ?” “yes. the nervous system is terribly lowered, and nervous exhaus- tion is a strange impostor — it imitates all manner of complaints with which it has no connection. the cough will soon disappear! but par- don my question. mrs. poyntz tells me that you consulted a clairvoy- ant about your daughter. does miss ashleigh know that you did so ?” “no, i did not tell her.” "i am glad of that. and pray, for heaven's sake, guard her against all that may set her thinking on such subjects. above all, guard her against concentring attention on any malady that your fears errone- ously ascribe to her. it is among the phenomena of our organization that you cannot closely rivet your consciousness on any part of the frame, however healthy, but it will soon begin to exhibit morbid sensibil- ity. try to fix all your attention on your little finger for half an hour, and before the half hour is over the little finger will be uneasy, probably even painful. how serious then is the danger to a young girl at the age in which imagination is most active, most intense, if you force upon her a belief that she is in danger of a mortal disease ; it is a peculiarity of youth to brood over the thought of early death much more resignedly, much more complacently, than we do in maturer years. impress on a young imaginative girl, as free from pulmonary tendencies 'as you and i are, the conviction that she must fade away into the grave, and though. she may not actually die of consumption, you instil slow poison into her system. hope is the natural aliment of youth. you impoverish nour- ishment where you discourage hope. as soon as this temporary illness is over, reject for your daughter the melancholy care which seems to her own mind to mark her out from others of her age. rear her for the air — which is the kindest life-giver; to sleep with open windows; to be out at sunrise. nature will do more for her than all our drugs can do. you have been hitherto fearing nature, now trust to her.” here mrs. poyntz joined us, and having, while i had been speaking, written my prescription and some general injunctions, i closed my advice with an appeal to that powerful protectress. . “ this, my dear madam, is a case in which i need your aid, and i ask it. miss ashleigh should not be left with no other companion than her mother. a change of faces is often as salutary as a change of air. if you could devote an hour or two this very evening to sit with miss ash- leigh, to talk to her with your usual easy cheerfulness, and — " anne," interrupted mrs. poyntz, “i will come and drink tea with . a strange story. you at half-past seven, and bring my knitting; and perhaps, if you ask him, dr. fenwick will come too! he can be tolerably entertaining when he likes it.” . “it is too great a tax on his kindness, i fear,” said mrs. ashleigh... “but,” she added cordially, “i should be grateful indeed if he would spare us an hour of his time.” i murmured an assent, which i endeavored to make not too joyous. “ so that matter is settled,” said mrs. payntz; “ and now i shall go to mr. vigors and prevent his further interference.” “oh! but, margaret, pray don't offend him ; a connection of my poor dear gilbert's. and so tetchy! i am sure i do not know how you'll manage to " " to get rid of him? never fear. as i manage every thing and ev- erybody,” said mrs. poyntz, bluntly. so she kissed her friend on the forehead, gave me a gracious nod, and, declining the offer of my carri- age, walked with her usual brisk, decided tread down the short path to- ward the town. mrs. ashleigh timidly approached me, and again the furtive hand bashfully insinuating the hateful fee! “ stay,” said i; “this is a case which needs the most constant watching, i wish to call so often that i should seem the most greedy of doctors if my visits were to be computed at guineas. let me be at ease to effect my cure; my pride of science is involved in it. and when among all the young ladies of the hill you can point to none with a fresher bloom, or a fairer promise of healthful life than the patient you intrust to my care, why, then the fee and the dismissal. nay, nay; i must refer you to our friend, mrs. poyntz. it was so settled with her before she brought me here to displace dr. jones.” therewith i escaped. chapter xv. in less than a week lilian was convalescent; in less than a fortnight she regained her usual health ; nay mrs. ashleigh declared that she had never known her daughter appear so cheerful and look so well. i had established a familiar intimacy at abbots' house; most of my evenings were spent there. as horse exercise formed an important part of my advice, mrs. ashleigh had purchased a pretty and quiet horse for her daughter; and, except the weather was very unfavorable, lilian now * a strange story. rode daily with colonel poyntz, who was a notable equestrian, and often accompanied by miss jane poyntz, and other young ladies of the hill. i was generally relieved from my duties in time to join her as she returned homeward. thus we made innocent appointments openly, frankly, in her mother's presence, she telling me beforehand in what direction ex- cursions had been planned with colonel poyntz, and i promising to fall in with the party — if my avocations would permit. at my suggestion, mrs. ashleigh now opened her house almost every evening to some of the neighboring families. lilian was thus habituated to the intercourse of young persons of her own age. music and dancing and childlike games made the old house gay. and the hill gratefully acknowledged to mrs. poyntz “that the ashleighs were indeed a great acquisition.” but my happiness was not uncheckered. in thus unselfishly surround- ing lilian with others, i felt the anguish of that jealousy which is insep- arable from those earlier stages of love -- when the lover as yet has won no right to that self-confidence which can only spring from the assurance that he is loved. . in these social reunions i remained aloof from lilian. i saw her courted by the gay young admirers whom her beauty and her fortune drew around her; her soft face brightening in the exercise of the dance, which the gravity of my profession rather than my years forbade me to join - and her laugh, so musically subdued, ravishing my ear and fretting my heart as if the laugh were a mockery on my sombre self and my presump- tuous dreams. but no, suddenly, shyly, her eyes would steal away from those about her, steal to the corner in which i sat, as if they missed me, and, meeting my own gaze, their light softened before they turned away; and the color on her cheek would deepen, and to her lip there came a smile different from the smile that it shed on others. and then- and then -- all jealousy, all sadness vanished, and i felt the glory which blends with the growing belief that we are loved. in that diviner epoch of man's mysterious passion, when ideas of per- fection and purity, vague and fugitive before, start forth and concentre themselves round one virgin shape — that rises out from the sea of crea- tion, welcomed by the houries and adorned by the graces — how the thought that this archetype of sweetness and beauty singles himself from the millions, singles himself for her choice, ennobles and lifts up his being. though after experience may rebuke the mortal's illusion that mistook. for a daughter of heaven a creature of clay like himself, yet for a while the illusion has grandeur. though it comes from the senses which shall later oppress and profane it, the senses at first shrink into shade, awed and hushed by the presence that charms them. all that is brightest and best in the man has soared up like long dormant instincts of heaven, to a strange story. . greet and to hallow what to him seems life's fairest dream of the heav- enly! take the wings from the image of love, and the god disappears from the form! thus, if at moments jealous doubt made my torture, so the moment's relief from it sufficed for my rapture. but i had a cause for disquiet less acute but less varying than jealousy. despite lilian's recovery from the special illness which had more im- mediately absorbed my care, i remained perplexed as to its cause and true nature. to her mother i gave it the convenient epithet of “ner- vous.” but the epithet did not explain to myself alt the symptoms i clas- sified by it. there was still, at times, when no cause was apparent or conjecturable, a sudden change in the expression of her countenance; in the beat of her pulse; the eye would become fixed, the bloom would van- ish, the pulse would sink feebler and feebler till it could be scarcely felt; yet there was no indication of heart disease, of which such sudden lower- ing of life is, in itself, sometimes a warning indication. the change would pass away after a few minutes, during which she seemed unconscious, or, at least, never spoke — never appeared to heed what was said to her. but in the expression of her countenance there was no character of suffering or distress; on the contrary, a wondrous serenity that made her beauty more beauteous, her very youthfulness younger; and when this spurious or partial kind of syncope passed, she recovered at once without effort, without acknowledging that she had felt faint or unwell, but rather with a sense of recruited vitality, as the weary obtain from a sleep. for the rest, her spirits were more generally light and joyous than i should have premised from her mother's previous description. she would enter mirth- fully into the mirth of young companions round her; she had evidently quick perception of the sunny sides of life ; an infantine gratitude for kindness; an infantine joy in the trifles that amuse only those who de- light in tastes pure and simple. but when talk rose into graver and more contemplative topics, her attention became earnest and absorbed, and sometimes a rich eloquence, such as i have never before or since heard from lips so young, would startle me first into a wondering silence, and soon into a disapproving alarm. for the thoughts she then uttered seemed to me too fantastic, too visionary, too much akin to the vagaries of a wild though beautiful imagination. and then i would seek to check, to sober, to distract fancies with which my reason had no sympathy, and the indulgence of which i regarded as injurious to the normal functions of the brain. when thus, sometimes with a chilly sentence, sometimes with a half- sarcastic laugh, i would repress outpourings frank and musical as the songs of a forest bird, she would look at me with a kind of plaintive sor- a strange story. row - sometimes sigh and shiver as she turned away. only in these modes did she show displeasure; otherwise ever sweet and docile, and ever, if, seeing that i had pained her, i asked forgiveness, humbling her- self rather to ask mine, and brightening our reconciliation with her angel smile. as yet i had not dared to speak of love; as yet i gazed on her as the captive gazes on the flowers and the stars through the gratings of his cell, murmuring to himself, “ when shall the doors unclose ?” chapter xvi. it was with a wrath suppressed in the presence of the fair embassa- dress that mr. vigors had received from mrs. poyntz the intelligence that i had replaced dr. jones at abbots' house, not less abruptly than dr. jones had previously supplanted me. as mrs. poyntz took upon herself the whole responsibility of this change, mr. vigors did not venture to condemn it to her face: for the administrator of laws was at heart no little in awe of the autocrat of proprieties; as authority, howsoever established, is in awe of opinion, howsoever capricious. to the mild mrs. ashleigh, the magistrate's anger was more decidedly manifested. he ceased from his visits; and in answer to a long and dep- récatory letter with which she endeavored to soften his resentment and win him back to the house, he replied by an elaborate combination of homily and satire. he began by excusing himself from accepting her in- vitations on the ground that his time was valuable, his habits domestic; and though ever willing to sacrifice both time and habits where he could do good, he owed it to himself and to mankind to sacrifice neither where his advice was rejected and his opinion contemned. he glanced briefly, . but not hastily, at the respect with which her late husband had deferred to his judgment, and the benefits which that deference had enabled him to bestow. he contrasted the husband's deference with the widow's con- tumely, and hinted at the evils which the contumely would not permit him to prevent. he could not presume to say what women of the world might think due to deceased husbands, but even women of the world gen- erally allowed the claims of living children, and did not act with levity where their interests were concerned, still less where their lives were at stake. as to dr. jones, he, mr. vigors, had the fullest confidence in his skill. mrs. ashleigh must judge for herself whether mrs. poyntz was as good an authority upon medical science as he had no doubt she was upon shawls , and ribbons. dr. jones was a man of caution and modesty; he did not a strange story. indulge in the hollow boasts by which charlatans decoyed their dupes; but dr. jones had privately assured him that though the case was one that admitted of no rash experiments, he had no fear of the result if his own prudent system were persevered in. what might be the consequences of any other system dr. jones would not say, because he was too high- minded to express his distrust of the rival who had made use of under- hand arts to supplant him. but mr. vigors was convinced, from other sources of information (meaning, i presume, the oracular prescience of his clairvoyants), that the time would come when the poor young lady herself would insist on discarding dr. fenwick, and when “ that person " would appear in a very different light to many who now so fondly ad- mired and so reverentially trusted him. when that time arrived he, mr. vigors, might again be of use ; but, meanwhile, though he declined to renew his intimacy at abbots' house, or to pay unavailing visits of mere ceremony, his interest in the daughter of his old friend remained undi- minished, nay, was rather increased by compassion; that he should silently keep his eye upon-her; and whenever any thing to her advantage sug- gested itself to him, he should not be deterred by the slight with which mrs. ashleigh had treated his judgment from calling on her, and placing before her conscience as a mother his ideas for her child's benefit, leaving to herself then, as now, the entire responsibility of rejecting the advice which he might say, without vanity, was deemed of some value by those who could distinguish between sterling qualities and specious pretences. mrs. ashleigh's was that thoroughly womanly nature which instinctively leans upon others. she was diffident, trustful, meek, affectionate. not quite justly had mrs. poyntz described her as “commonplace and weak," for though she might be called weak, it was not because she was common- place; she had a goodness of heart, a sweetness of disposition, to which that disparaging definition could not apply. she could only be called commonplace, inasmuch as in the ordinary daily affairs of life she had a great deal of ordinary daily commonplace good sense. give her a routine to follow, and no routine could be better adhered to. in the allotted sphere of a woman's duties she never seemed in fault. no household, not even mrs. poyntz's, was more happily managed. the old abbots' house had merged its original antique gloom in the softer character of pleas- ing repose. all her servants adored mrs. ashleigh; all found it a pleas- ure to please her; her establishment had the harmony of clock-work; comfort diffused itself round her like quiet sunshine round a sheltered spot. to gaze on her pleasing countenance, to listen to the simple talk that lapsed from her guileless lips in even, slow, and lulling murmur, was in itself a respite from “ eating cares.” she was to the mind what the color of green is to the eye. she had, therefore, excellent sense in all a strange story, that relates to everyday life. there, she needed not to consult another; there, the wisest might have consulted her with profit. but the moment any thing, however in itself trivial, jarred on the routine to which her mind had grown wedded; the moment an incident hurried her out of the beaten track of woman's daily life, then her confidence forsook her; then she needed a confidant, an adviser, and by that confidant or adviser she could be credulously lured or submissively controlled. therefore, when she lost, in mr. vigors, the guide she had been accustomed to consult whenever she needed guidance, she turned helplessly and piteously, first to mrs. poyntz, and then yet more imploringly to me, because a woman of that character is never quite satisfied without the advice of a man. and where an intimacy more familiar than that of his formal visits is once established with a physician, confidence in him grows fearless and rapid, as the natural result of sympathy concentred on an object of anxiety in common between himself and the home which opens its sacred recess to his observant but tender eye. thus mrs. ashleigh had shown me mr. vigors' letter, and forgetting that i might not be as amiable as herself, besought me to counsel her how to conciliate and soften her lost husband's friend and connection. that character clothed him with dignity and awe in her soft forgiving eyes. so, smothering my own resentment, less per- haps at the tone of offensive insinuation against myself than at the arro- gance with which this prejudiced intermeddler implied to a mother the necessity of his guardian watch over a child under her own care, i'sketched a reply which seemed to me both dignified and placatory, abstaining from all discussion, and conveying the assurance that mrs ashleigh would be at all times glad to hear, and disposed to respect, whatever suggestion so esteemed a friend of her husband's would kindly submit to her for the welfare of her daughter. there all communication had stopped for about a month since the date of my reintroduction to abbots' house. one afternoon i unexpectedly met mr. vigors at the entrance of the blind lane, i on my way to abbots' house, and my first glance at his face told me that he was coming from it, for the expression of that face was more than usually sinister; the sul- len scowl was lit into significant menace by a sneer of unmistakable tri- umph. i felt at once that he had succeeded in some machination against me, and with ominous misgivings quickened my steps. i found mrs. ashleigh seated alone in front of the house, under a large cedar-tree that formed a natural arbor in the centre of the sunny lawn. she was perceptibly embarrassed as i took my seat beside her. : “i hope,” said i, forcing a smile, “ that mr. vigors has not been telling you that i shall kill my patient, or that she looks much worse than she did under dr. jones's care ?” a strange story. “ no," she said. “he owned cheerfully that lilian was grown quite strong, and said, without any displeasure, that he had heard how gay she had been; riding out and even dancing — which is very kind in him - for he disapproves dancing, on principle. “but still, i can see he has said something to vex or annoy you; and, to judge by his countenance when i met him in the lane, i should con- jecture that that something was intended to lower the confidence you so kindly repose in me.” “i assure you not; he did not mention your name, either to me or to lilian.. i never knew him more friendly ; quite like old times. he is a good man at heart, very ; and was much attached to my poor husband.” “ did mr. ashleigh profess a very high opinion of mr. vigors ?” “ well, i don't quite know that, because my dear gilbert never spoke to me much about him. gilbert was naturally very silent. but he shrank from all trouble — all worldly affairs — and mr. vigors managed his estate, and inspected his steward's books, and protected him through a long lawsuit which he had inherited from his father. it killed his father. i don't know what we should have done without mr. vigors, and i am so glad he has forgiven me.” “ hem! where is miss ashleigh? in-doors ?” “ no; somewhere in the grounds. but my dear dr. fenwick, do not leave me yet: you are so very, very kind; and somehow i have grown to look on you quite as an old friend. something has happened which has put me out — quite put me out." she said this wearily and feebly, closing her eyes as if she were indeed put out in the sense of extinguished. “ the feeling of friendship you express," said i, with earnestness, “ is reciprocal. on my side it is accompanied with a peculiar gratitude. i am a lonely man, by a lonely fireside - no parents, no near kindred, and in this town, since dr. faber left it, no cordial intimacy till i knew you. in admitting me so familiarly to your hearth, you have given me what i have never known before since i came to man's estate: a glimpse of the happy domestic life; the charm and relief to eye, heart, and spirit, which is never known but in households cheered by the face of woman: thus my sentiment for you and yours is indeed that of an old friend ; and in any private confidence you show me, i feel as if i were no longer a lonely man, without kindred, without home.” mrs. ashleigh seemed much moved by these words, which my heart had forced from my lips, and after replying to me with simple unaffected warmth of kindness, she rose, took my arm, and continued thus as we walked slowly to and fro the lawn: a strange story. “ you know, perhaps, that my poor husband left a sister, now a widow as myself, lady haughton.” “i remember that mrs. poyntz said you had such a sister, but i never heard you mention lady haughton till now. well !” “well, mr. vigors has brought me a letter from her, and it is that which has put me out. i dare say you have not heard me speak before of lady haughton, for i am ashamed to say i had almost forgotten her existence. she is many years older than my husband was ; of a very different character. only came once to see him after our marriage. hurt me by ridiculing him as a book-worm. offended him by looking a little down on me, as a nobody without spirit and fashion, which was quite true. and, except by a cold and unfeeling letter of formal condo- lence after i lost my dear gilbert, i never heard from her since i have been a widow, till to-day. but, after all, she is my poor husband's sister, and his elder sister, and lilian's aunt; and, as mr. vigor says, duty is duty.” had mrs. ashleigh said “ duty is torture,” she could not have uttered the maxim with more mournful and despondent a resignation. “ and what does this lady require of you, which mr. vigors deems it your duty to comply with ?” “ dear me! what penetration! you have guessed the exact truth. but i think you will agree with mr. vigors. certainly i have no option; yes, i must do it.” . “my penetration is in fault now. do what? .pray explain ?” “ poor lady haughton, six months ago, lost her only son, sir james. mr. vigors says he was a very fine young man, of whom any mother would have been proud; i had heard he was wild. mr. vigors says, how- ever, that he was just going to reform, and marry a young lady whom his mother chose for him, when, unluckily, he would ride a steeple-chase, not being quite sober at the time, and broke his neck. lady haughton has been, of course, in great grief. she has retired to brighton; and she wrote to me from thence, and mr. vigors brought the letter. he will go back to her to-day." “ will go back to lady haughton? what! has he been to her? is he, then, as intimate with lady haughton as he was with her brother ? ” “no; but there has been a long and constant correspondence. she had a settlement on the kirby estate –a sum which was not paid off during gilbert's life; and a very small part of the property went to sir james, which part mr. ashleigh sumner, the heir-at-law to the rest of the estate, wished mr. vigors, as his guardian, to buy during his minority, and, as it was mixed up with lady haughton's settlement, her consent was necessary as well as sir james's." so there was much negotiation, a strange story. and, since then, ashleigh sumner has come into the haughton property, on poor sir james's decease ; so, that complicated all affairs between mr. vigors and lady haughton, and he has just been to brighton to see her. and poor lady haughton, in short, wants me and lilian to come and visit her. i don't like it at all. but you said the other day you thought sea air might be good for lilian during the heat of the summer, and she seems well enough now for the change. what do you think?” “ she is well enough, certainly. but brighton is not the place i would recommend for the summer; it wants shade, and is much hotter than l ” . “ yes, but unluckily lady haughton foresaw that objection, and she has a jointure-house some miles from brighton, and near the sea. she says the grounds are well wooded, and the place is proverbially cool and healthy, not far from st. leonard's forest. and, in short, i have written to say we will come. so we must, unless, indeed, you positively forbid it.” “when do you think of going ?” “next monday. mr. vigors would have me fix the day. if you knew how i dislike moving when i am once settled; and i do so dread lady haughton, she is so fine, and so satirical. but mr. vigors says she is very much altered, poor thing! i should like to show you her letter, but i had just sent it to margaret -- mrs. poyntz-a minute or two before you came. she knows something of lady haughton. margaret knows everybody. and we shall have to go in mourning for poor sir james, i suppose ; and margaret will choose it, for i am sure i can't guess to what extent we should be supposed to mourn. i ought to have gone in mourning before — poor gilbert's nephew — but i am so stupid, and i had never seen him. and — but oh, this is kind ! margaret her- self— my dear margaret !”. we had just turned away from the house, in our up and down walk; and mrs. poyntz stood immediately fronting us. “ so anne, you have actually accepted this invitation -- and for mon- day next ? ” “ yes. did i do wrong ?” “ what does dr. fenwick say? can lilian go with safety ?” i could not honestly say she might not go with safety, but my heart sank like lead as i answered : “ miss ashleigh does not now need merely medical care; but more than half her cure has depended on keeping her spirits free from depres- sion. she may miss the cheerful companionship of your own daughter, and other young ladies of her own age; a very melancholy house, sad- dened by a recent bereavement, without other guests; a hostess to whom a strange story. she is a stranger, and whom mrs. ashleigh herself appears to deem formidable, certainly these do not make that change of scene which a physician would recommend. when i spoke of sea air being good for miss ashleigh, i thought of our own northern coasts, at a later time of the year, when i could escape myself for a few weeks and attend her. the journey, too, would be shorter and less fatiguing; the air more invigo- rating. “no doubt that would be better,” said mrs. poyntz, dryly; " but so far as your objections to visiting lady haughton have been stated, they are groundless. her house will not be melancholy; she will have other guests, and lilian will find other companions young like herself - young ladies and young gentlemen too!”. there was something ominous, something compassionate, in the look which mrs. poyntz cast upon me, in concluding her speech, which in itself was calculated to rouse the fears of a lover. lilian away from me, in the house of a worldly fine lady — such as i judged lady haughton to be - surrounded by young gentlemen, as well as young ladies, by admirers, no doubt, of a higher rank and more brilliant fashion than she had yet known! i closed my eyes, and with strong effort suppressed a groan. “my dear anne, let me satisfy myself that dr. fenwick really does consent to this journey. he will say to me what he may not to you. pardon me, then, if i take him aside for a few minutes. let me find you here again under this cedar-tree.” placing her arm in mine, and without waiting for mrs. ashleigh's an-. swer, mrs. poyntz drew me into the more sequestered walk that belted the lawn; and, when we were out of mrs. ashleigh's sight and hearing, said: “ from what you have now seen of lilian ashleigh, do you still desire to gain her as your wife ?” “ still? oh! with an intensity proportioned to the fear with which i now dread that she is about to pass away from my eyes — from my life!” “does your judgment confirm the choice of your heart ? reflect be- fore you answer.” such selfish judgment as i had before i knew her would not confirm, but oppose it. the nobler judgment that now expands all my reason- ings, approves and seconds my heart. no, no; do not smile so sarcas- tically. this is not the voice of a blind and egotistical passion. let me explain myself if i can. i concede to you that lilian's character is unde- veloped. i concede to you that, amidst the childlike freshness and inno- cence of her nature, there is at times a strangeness, a mystery, which i a strange story. have not yet traced to its cause. but i am certain that the intellect is organically as sound as the heart, and that intellect and heart will ulti- mately — if under happy auspices — blend in that felicitous union which constitutes the perfection of woman. but it is because she does, and may for years, may perhaps always, need a more devoted, thoughtful care than natures less tremulously sensitive, that my judgment sanctions my choice; for whatever is best for her is best for me. and who would watch over her as i should ?” “ you have never yet spoken to lilian as lovers speak ? " “oh no, indeed.” “ and, nevertheless, you believe that your affection would not be unre- turned ?” “ i thought so once-i doubt now— yet, in doubting, hope. but why do you alarm me with these questions? you, too, forebode that in this visit i may lose her forever ?”. “ if you fear that, tell her so, and perhaps her artswer may dispel your fear.” “what, now — already, when she has scarcely known me a month! might i not risk all if too premature ?” “ there is no almanac for love. with many women love is born the moment they know they are beloved. all wisdom tells us that a moment once gone is irrevocable. were i in your place i should feel that i ap- proached a moment that i must not lose. i have said enough ; now i shall rejoin mrs. ashleigh.” “stay — tell me first what lady haughton's letter really contained to prompt the advice with which you so transport, and yet so daunt, me when you proffer it.” “not now — later, perhaps — not now. if you wish to see lilian alone, she is by the old monk's well; i saw her seated there as i came that way to the house." "one word more — only one. answer this question frankly, for it is one of honor. do you still believe now that my suit to her daughter would not be disapproved by mrs. ashleigh ?” “ at this moment i am sure it would not; a week hence i might not give you the same answer.”. so she passed on, with her quick but measured tread, back through the shady walk on to the open lawn, till the last glimpse of her pale gray robe disappeared under the boughs of the cedar-tree. then, with a start, i broke the irresolute tremulous suspense in which i had vainly endeavored to analyze my own mind, solve my own doubts, concentrate my own will, and went the opposite way, skirting the circle of that haunted ground; as now, on one side its lofty terrace, the houses of the . a strange story. neighboring city came full and close into view, divided from my fairy- land of life but by the trodden murmurous thoroughfare winding low beneath the ivied parapets; and as now, again, the world of men abruptly vanished behind the screening foliage of luxuriant june. . at last the enchanted glade opened out from the verdure, its borders fragrant with syringa, and rose, and woodbine; and there, by the gray memorial of the gone gothic age, my eyes seemed to close their unquiet wanderings, resting spell-bound on that image which had become to me the incarnation of earth’s bloom and youth. she stood amidst the past, backed by the fragments of walls which man had raised to seclude him from human passion, locking under those lids so downcast the secret of the only knowledge i asked from the bound- less future. ah, what mockery there is in that grand word, the world's fierce war- cry, freedom! who has not known one period of life, and that so solemn that its shadows may rest over all life hereafter, when one human creature has over him a sovereignty more supreme and absolute than orient servitude adores in the symbols of diadem and sceptre ? what crest so haughty that has not bowed before a hand which could exalt or humble? what heart so dauntless that has not trembled to call forth the voice at whose sound ope the gates of rapture or despair ? that life alone is free which rules and suffices for itself. that life we forfeit when we love! chapter xvii. how did i utter ht? by what words did my heart make itself known? i remember not. all was as a dream that falls upon a restless, feverish night, and fades away as the eyes unclose on the peace of a cloudless heaven, on the bliss of a golden sun. a new morrow seemed indeed upon the earth when i awoke from a lifelong yesterday, her dear hand in mine, her sweet face bowed upon my breast. and then there was that melodious silence in which there is no sound audible from without; yet within us there is heard a lulling celestial mu- sic, 'as if our whole being, grown harmonious with the universe, joined from its happy deeps in the hymn that unitès the stars. in that silence our two hearts seemed to make each other understood, to be growing near and nearer, blending by mysterious concord into the a strange story. completedness of a solemn union, never henceforth to be rent asun- der. at length i said softly: “ and it was here, on this spot, that i first saw you — here that i for the first time knew what power to change our , world and to rule our future goes forth from the charm of a human face!” and lilian asked me timidly, and without lifting her eyes, how i had so seen her, reminding me that i promised to tell her, and had never yet done so. and then i told her of the strange impulse that had led me into the grounds, and by what chance my steps had been diverted down the path that wound to the glade; how suddenly her form had shone upon my eyes, gathering round itself the rose hues of the setting sun; and how wistfully those eyes had followed her own silent gaze into the distant heaven. as i spoke her hand pressed mine eagerly, convulsively, and, raising her face from my breast, she looked at me with an intent, anxious earnestness. that look !-twice before it had thrilled and perplexed me. “ what is there in that look, oh, my lilian, which tells me that there is something that startles you — something you wish to confide, and yet shrink from explaining ? see how, already, i study the fair book from which the seal has been lifted, but as yet you must aid me to construe its language.” . “if i shrink from explaining, it is only because i fear that i cannot explain so as to be understood or believed. but you have a right to know the secrets of a life which you would link to your own. turn your face * aside from me;, a reproving look, an incredulous smile, chill-oh! you cannot guess how they chill me — when i would approach that which to me is so serious and so solemnly strange." i turned my face aside, and her voice grew firmer as, after a brief pause, she resumed: “ as far back as i can remember in my infancy, there have been mo- ments when there seems to fall a soft, hazy veil between my sight and the things around it, thickening and deepening till it has the likeness of one of those white fleecy clouds which gather on the verge of the horizon when the air is yet still, but the winds are about to rise, and then this vapor or veil will suddenly open, as clouds open, and let in the blue sky.” “go on,” i said, gently, for here she came to a stop. she continued, speaking somewhat more hurriedly. “ then, in that opening, strange appearances present themselves to me, a strange story. as in a vision. in my childhood these were chicfly landscapes of won- derful beauty. i could but faintly describe them then; i could not at- tempt to describe them now, for they are almost gone from my memory. my dear mother chid me for telling her what i saw, so i did not impress it on my mind by repeating it. as i grew up this kind of vision - if i may so call it — became much less frequent or much less distinct; i still saw the soft veil fall, the pale cloud form and open, but often what may then have appeared was entirely forgotten when i recovered myself, waking as from a sleep. sometimes, however, the recollection would be vivid and complete : sometimes i saw the face of my lost father; sometimes i heard his very voice, as i had seen and heard him in my early childhood, when he would let me rest for hours beside him as he mused or studied, happy to be so quietly near him — for i loved him, oh, so dearly! and i remember him so distinctly, though i was only in my sixth year when he died. much more recently, indeed, within the last few months — the images of things to come are reflected on the space that i gaze into as clearly as in a glass. thus, for weeks before i came hither, or knew that such a place existed, i saw distinctly the old house, yon trees, this sward, this moss-grown gothic fount, and, with the sight, an impression was conveyed to me that in the scene before me my old childlike life would pass into some solemn change. so that when i came here, and recognized the picture in my vision, i took an affection for the spot; an affection not without awe; a powerful, perplexing interest, as one who feels under the influence of a fate of which a prophetic glimpse has been vouchsafed. and in that evening when you first saw me, seated here - " “yes, lilian, on that evening — ?”. “i saw you also, but in my vision — yonder, far in the deeps of space -- and -- and my heart was stirred as it had never been before; and near where your image grew out from the cloud i saw my father's face, and i heard his voice, not in my ear, but as in my heart whispering — ” “yes, lilian, whispering ---- what?” “ these words - only these — ye will need one another. but then, suddenly, between my upward eyes and the two forms they had beheld, there rose from the earth, obscuring the skies, a vague dusky vapor, un- dulous, and coiling like a vast serpent, nothing, indeed, of its shape and figure definite, but of its face one abrupt glare — a flash from two dread luminous eyes, and a young head, like the medusa’s, changing more rap- idly than i could have drawn breath into a grinning skull. then my ter- ror made me bow my head, and when i raised it again all that i had seen was vanished. but the terror still remained, even when i felt my moth- er's arm round me and heard her voice. and then, when i entered the a strange story. house and sat down again alone, the recollection of what i had seen- those eyes — that face — that skull —grew on me stronger and stronger till i fainted, and remember no more until my eyes, opening, saw you by my side, and in my wonder there was not terror; no, a sense of joy, pro- tection, hope, yet still shadowed by a kind of fear or awe, in recognizing the countenance which had gleamed on me from the skies before the dark vapor had risen, and while my father's voice hadmurmured, · ye will need one another. and now - and now — will you love me less that you know a secret in my being which i have told to no other cannot construe to myself ? - only — only, at least, do not mock me - do not disbelieve me. nay, turn from me no longer now: now i ask to meet *your eyes. now, before our hands can join again, tell me that you do · not despise me as untruthful, do not pity me as insane." “hush — hush !” i said, drawing her to my breast. “of all you tell me we will talk hereafter. the scales of our science have no weights fine enough for the gossamer threads of a maiden's pure fancies. enough for me — for us both - if out from all such illusions start one truth told to you, lovely child, from the heavens; told to me, ruder man, on the earth — repeated by each pulse of this heart that woos you to hear and to trust; now and henceforth, through life unto death - each has need of the other'-i of you - i of you! my lilian - my lilian!” chapter xviii. · in spite of the previous assurance of mrs. poyntz, it was not without an uneasy apprehension that i approached the cedar-tree, under which mrs. ashleigh still sat, her friend beside her. i looked on the fair crea- ture whose arm was linked in mine. so young, so singularly lovely, and with all the gifts of birth and fortune which bend avarice and ambition the more submissively to youth and beauty, i felt as if i had wronged what a parent might justly deem her natural lot. “oh, if your mother should disapprove,” said i, falteringly. lilian leaned on my arm less lightly. “if i had thought so," she said, with her soft blush, “ should i be thus by your side ?” so we passed under the boughs of the dark tree, and lilian left me, and kissed mrs. ashleigh's cheek, then seating herself on the turf, laid her head quietly on her mother's lap. i looked on the queen of the hill, whose keen eye shot over me. i thought there was a momentary expres- a strange story. . sion of pain or displeasure on her countenance; but it passed. still there seemed to me something of irony, as well as of triumph or congratulation, in the half smile with which she quitted her seat, and in the tone with which she whispered, as she glided by me to the open sward, “ so, then, it is settled.” she walked lightly and quickly down the lawn. when she was out of sight, i breathed more freely. i took the seat which she had quitted, by mrs. ashleigh's side, and said, " a little while ago, i spoke of myself as a man without kindred, without home, and now i come to you and ask for both.” · mrs. ashleigh looked at me benignly, then raised her daughter's face from her lap, and whispered, “ lilian,” and lilian's lips moved, but i did not hear her answer. her mother did. she took lilian's hand, simply placed it in mine, and said, “ as she chooses, i choose ; whom she loves, i love." chapter xix. from that evening till the day mrs. ashleigh and lilian went on the dreaded visit, i was always at their house when my avocations allowed me to steal to it; and during those few days, the happiest i had ever known, it seemed to me that years could not have more deepened my in- timacy with lilian's exquisite nature, made me more reverential of its purity, or more enamoured of its sweetness. i could detect in her but one fault, and i rebuked myself for believing that it was a fault. we see many who neglect the minor duties of life, who lack watchful forethought and considerate care for others, and we recognize the cause of this failing in levity or egotism. certainly neither of those tendencies of character could be ascribed to lilian. yet still in daily trifles there was something of that neglect, some lack of that care and forethought. she loved her mother with fondness and devotion, yet it never occurred to her to aid in . those petty household cares in which her mother centred so much of habit- ual interest. she was full of tenderness and pity to all want and suffer- ing, yet many a young lady on the hill was more actively beneficent — vis- iting the poor in their sickness, or instructing their children in the infant schools. i was persuaded that her love for me was deep and truthful ; it was clearly void of all ambition ; doubtless she would have borne un- flinching and contented whatever the world considers to be sacrifice and a strange story. privation - yet i should never have expected her to take her share in the troubles of ordinary life. i could never have applied to her the homely but significant name of helpmate. i reproach myself while i write for noticing such defect -- if defect it were – in what may be called the practical routine of our positive, trivial, human existence. no doubt it was this that had caused mrs. poyntz's harsh judgment against the wis- dom of my choice. but such chiller shade upon her charming nature was reflected from no inert unamiable self-love. it was but the conse- quence of that self-absorption which the habit of reverie had fostered. i cautiously abstained from all allusion to those visionary deceptions, which she had confided to me, as the truthful impressions of spirit if not. of sense. to me any approach to what i termed superstition was dis- pleasing; any indulgence of phantasies not within the measured and beaten tracks of healthful imagination, more than displeased me in her — it alarmed. i would not by a word encourage her in persuasions which i felt it would be at present premature to reason against, and cruel indeed to ridicule. i was convinced that of themselves these mists round her native intelligence, engendered by a solitary and musing childhood, would subside in the fuller daylight of wedded life. she seemed pained when she saw how resolutely i shunned a subject dear to her thoughts. she made one or two timid attempts to renew it, but my grave look suf- ficed to check her. once or twice, indeed, on such occasions she would turn away and leave me, but she soon came back — that gentle heart could not bear one unkindlier shade between that and what it loved. it was agreed that our engagement should be for the present confided only to mrs. poyntz. when mrs. ashleigh and lilian returned, which would be in a few weeks at furthest, it should be proclaimed; and our marriage could take place in the autumn, when i should be most free for one brief holiday from professional toils. so we parted — as lovers part. i felt none of those jealous fears which, before we were affianced, had made me tremble at the thought of separation, and had conjured up irresistible rivals. but it was with a settled heavy gloom that i saw her depart. from earth was gone a glory; from life a blessing. chapter xx. during the busy years of my professional career i had snatched leisure · for some professional treatises, which had made more or less sensation, and a strange story. one of them, entitled “ the vital principle its waste and supply," had gained a wide circulation among the general public. this last treatise contained the results of certain experiments, then new in chemistry, which were adduced in support of a theory i entertained as to the rein- vigoration of the human system by principles similar to those which liebig has applied to the replenishment of an exhausted soil, namely, the giving back to the frame those essentials to its nutrition which it has lost by the action or accident of time; or supplying that special pabu- lum or energy in which the individual organism is constitutionally defi- cient; and neutralizing or counterbalancing that in which it supera- bounds — a theory upon which some eminent physicians have more recently improved with signal success. but on these essays, slight and suggestive, rather than dogmatic, i set no value. i had been for the last two years engaged on a work of much wider range, endeared to me by a far bolder ambition - a work upon which i fondly hoped to found an enduring reputation as a severe and original physiologist. it was an “ inquiry into organic life,” similar in comprehensiveness of survey to that by which the illustrious müller, of berlin, has enriched the science of our age; however inferior, alas, to that august combination of thought and learning, in the judgment which checks presumption, and the genius which adorns speculation. but at that day i was carried away by the ardor of composition, and i admired my performance because i loved my labor. this work had been entirely laid aside for the last agitated month. now that lilian was gone, i resumed it earnestly, as the sole occupation that had power and charm enough to rouse me from the aching sense of void and loss. the very night of the day she went i reopened my ms. i had left off at the commencement of a chapter upon knowledge as derived from our senses.” as my convictions on this head were founded on the well- known arguments of locke and condillac against innate ideas, and on the reasonings by which hume had resolved the combination of sensations into a general idea, to an impulse arising merely out of habit, so i set myself to oppose, as a dangerous concession to the sentimentalities or mysticism of a pseudo-philosophy, the doctrine favored by most of our recent physi- ologists, and of which some of the most eminent of german metaphysi- cians have accepted the substance, though refining into a subtlety its pos- itive form - i mean the doctrine which müller himself has expressed in these words: • that innate ideas may exist, cannot in the slightest degree be denied; it is, indeed, a fact. all the ideas of animals, which are induced by instinct, are innate and immediate. something presented to the mind, a desire to attain which is at the same time given. the new-born lamb a. strange story. and foal have such innate ideas, which lead them to follow their mother and suck the teats. is it not in some measure the same with the intellect- ual ideas of man? "* to this question i answered with an indignant “no." a “yes” would have shaken my creed of materialism to the dust. i wrote on rapidly, warmly. i defined the properties and meted the limits of natural laws, which i would not admit that a deity himself could alter. i clamped and soldered dogma to dogma in the links of my tinkered logic, till out from my page, to my own complacent eye, grew intellectual man, as the pure formation of his material senses ; mind, or what is called soul, born from and nurtured by them alone; though to act, and to perish with the ma- chinery they moved. strange, that at the very time my love for lilian might have taught me that there are mysteries in the core of the feelings which my analysis of ideas could not solve, i should so stubbornly have opposed as unreal all that could be referred to the spiritual! strange, that at the very time when the thought that i might lose from this life the being i had known scarce a month had just before so appalled me, i should thus complacently sit down to prove that according to the laws of the nature which my passion obeyed, i must lose for eternity the blessing i now hoped i had won to my life! but how distinctly dissimilar is man in his conduct from man in his systems ! see the poet reclined under forest-boughs, conning odes to his mistress; follow him out into the world; no mistress ever lived for him there! see the hard man of science, so austere in his passionless problems; follow him now where the brain rests from its toil, where the heart finds its sabbath - what child is so tender, so yielding and soft ? but i had proved to my own satisfaction that poet and sage are dust, and no more, when the pulse ceases to beat. and at that consolatory conclusion my pen stopped. suddenly beside me i distinctly heard a sigh- a compassionate, mourn- ful sigh. the sound was unmistakable. i started from my seat; looked round, amazed to discover no one — no living thing! the windows were closed, the night was still. that sigh was not the wail of the wind. but there, in the darker angle of the room, what was that? a silvery white- ness — vaguely shaped as a human form - receding, fading, gone! why i know not — for no face was visible, no form, if form it were, more dis- tinct than the colorless outline — why i know not, but i cried aloud, “ lilian! lilian!” my voice came strangely back to my own ear. i * müller's elements of physiology. vol. ii. p. . translated by dr. baley, † cowley, who wrote so elaborate a series of amatory poems, is said “never to have been in love but once, and then he never had resolution to tell his passion.” — johnson's lives of the poets: cowley. * a strange story. smiled and blushed at my foldy. “so i, too, have learned what is super- stition,” i muttered to myself. “and here is an anecdote at my own ex- pense (as müller frankly tells us anecdotes of the illusions which would haunt his eyes, shut or open), an anecdote i may quote when i come to my chapter on the cheats of the senses and spectral phantoms.” i went on with my book, and wrote till the lights waned in the gray of the dawn. and i said then, in the triumph of my pride, as i laid myself down to rest, “ i have written that which allots with precision man's place in the region of nature; written that which will found a school — form disciples; and race after race of those who cultivate truth through pure reason shall accept my basis if they enlarge my building.” and again i heard the sigh, but this time it caused no surprise. “ certainly," i murmured, “ a very strange thing is the nervous system !” so i turned on my pillow, and, wearied out, fell asleep. chapter xxi. the next day the last of the visiting patients to whom my forenoons were devoted had just quitted me when i was summoned in haste to at- tend the steward of a sir philip derval, not residing at his family seat, which was about five miles from l- it was rarely indeed that per- sons so far from the town, when of no higher rank than this applicant, asked my services. but it was my principle to go wherever i was sum- moned; my profession was not gain, it was healing, to which gain was an incident, not the essential. this case the messenger reported as urgent. i went on horseback, and rode fast; but swiftly as i cantered through the village that skirted the approach to sir philip derval's park the evident care bestowed on the accommodation of the cottagers forcibly struck me. i felt that i was on the lands of a rich, intelligent, and be- neficent proprietor. entering the park, and passing before the manor- house, the contrast between the neglect and decay of the absentee's stately hall and the smiling homes of his villagers was disconsolately mournful. an imposing pile, built apparently by vanbrugh, the decorated pilas- ters, pompous portico, with grand perron (or double flight of stairs to the entrance), enriched with urns and statues, but discolored, mildewed, chipped, half hid with unpruned creepers and ivy. most of the windows were closed with shutters, decaying for want of paint; in some of the case- a strange story. ments the panes were broken; the peacock perched on the shattered balustrade that fenced a garden overgrown with weeds. the sun glared hotly on the place, and made its ruinous condition still more painfully apparent. i was glad when a winding in the park road shut the house from my sight. suddenly, i emerged through a copse of ancient yew- trees, and before me there gleamed, in abrupt whiteness, a building evi- dently designed for the family mausoleum. classical in its outline, with the blind iron door niched into stonewalls of massive thickness, and sur- rounded by a funereal garden of roses and evergreens, fenced with an iron rail, parti-gilt. the suddenness with which this house of the dead came upon me heightened almost into pain, if not into awe, the dismal impression which the aspect of the deserted home, with its neighborhood, had made. i spurred my horse and soon arrived at the door of my patient, who lived in a fair brick house at the other extremity of the park. i found my patient, a man somewhat advanced in years, but of a ro- bust conformation, in bed; he had been seized with a fit, which was sup- posed to be apoplectic, a few hours before; but was already sensible, and out of immediate danger. after i had prescribed a few simple remedies, i took aside the patient's wife, and went with her to the parlor below stairs, to make some inquiry about her husband's ordinary regimen and habits of life. these seemed sufficiently regular; i could discover no ap- parent cause for the attack, which presented symptoms not familiar to my experience. “ has your husband never had such fits before ?" "never.” “ had he experienced any sudden emotion ? had he heard any unex- pected news? or had any thing happened to put him out?” the woman looked much disturbed at these inquiries. i pressed them more urgently. at last she burst into tears, and, clasping my hand, said, “oh! doctor, i ought to tell you — i sent for you on purpose — yet i fear you will not believe me — my good man has seen a ghost !” • "a ghost !” said i, repressing a smile. “ well, tell me all, that i may prevent the ghost coming again.” the woman's story was prolix. its substance was this: her husband, habitually an early riser, had left his bed that morning still earlier than usual, to give directions about some cattle that were to be sent for sale to a neighboring fair. an hour afterwards he had been found by a shep- herd near the mausoleum apparently lifeless. on being removed to his own house he had recovered speech, and bidding all except his wife leave the room, he then told her that on walking across the park toward the cattle-sheds he had seen what appeared to him at first a pale light by the iron door of the mausoleum. on approaching nearer, this light changed a strange story. into the distinct and visible form of his master, sir philip derval, who was then abroadsupposed to be in the east - where he had resided for many years. the impression on the steward's mind was so strong that he called out, “ oh! sir philip!” when, looking still more intently, he perceived that the face was that of a corpse. as he continued to gaze the apparition seemed gradually to recede, as if vanishing into the sepul- chre itself. he knew no more; he became unconscious. it was the excess of the poor woman's alarm, on hearing this strange tale, that had made her resolve to send for me instead of the parish apothecary. she fancied so astounding a cause for her husband's seizure could only be properly dealt with by some medical man reputed to have more than ordinary learning. and the steward himself objected to the apothecary in the immediate neighborhood as more likely to annoy him by gossip than a physician from a comparative distance. i took care not to lose the confidence of the good wife by parading too quickly my disbelief in the phantom her husband declared that he had seen ; but as the story itself seemed at once to decide the nature of the fit to be epileptic, i began to tell her of similar delusions which, in my experience, had occurred to those subjected to epilepsy, and finally soothed her into the conviction that the apparition was clearly reducible to natural causes. afterward i led her on to talk about sir philip der- val, less from any curiosity i felt about the absent proprietor than from my desire to re-familiarize her own mind to his image as a living man. the steward had been in the service of sir philip's father, and had known sir philip himself from a child. he was warmly attached to his master, whom the old woman described as a man of rare benevolence and great eccentricity, which last she imputed to his studious habits. he had succeeded to the title and estates as a minor. for the first few years after attaining his majority he had mixed much in the world. when at derval court his house had been filled with gay companions, and was the scene of lavish hospitality. but the estate was not in proportion to the. grandeur of the mansion, still less to the expenditure of the owner. he had become greatly embarrassed, and some love disappointment (so it was rumored) occurring simultaneously with his pecuniary difficulties, he had suddenly changed his way of life, shut himself up from his old friends, lived in seclusion, taking to books and scientific pursuits, and, as the old woman said, vaguely but expressively, “ to odd ways." he had gradually, by an economy that, towards himself, was penurious, but which did not preclude much judicious generosity to others, cleared off his debts, and, once more rich, he had suddenly quitted the country, and taken to a life of travel. he was now about forty-eight years old, and had been eighteen years abroad. he wrote frequently to his steward, giving him minute a strange story.. and thoughtful instructions as to the employment, comforts, and homes of the peasantry, but peremptorily ordering him to spend no money on the grounds and mansion, stating, as a reason why the latter might be al- lowed to fall to decay, his intention to pull it down whenever he returned to england. i staid some time longer than my engagements well warranted at my patient's house, not leaving till the sufferer, after a quiet sleep, had re- moved from his bed to his arm-chair, taken food, and seemed perfectly recovered from his attack. riding homeward i mused on the difference that education makes, even pathologically, between man and man. here was a brawny inhabitant of rural fields, leading the healthiest of lives, not conscious of the faculty we call imagination, stricken down almost to death's door by his fright at an optical illusion, explicable, if examined, by the same simple causes which had impressed me the night before with a moment's belief in a sound and a spectre- me, who, thanks to sublime education, went so quietly to sleep a few minutes after, convinced that no phantom, the ghostliest that ear ever heard, or eye ever saw, can be any thing else but a nervous phenomenon chapter xxii. , that evening i went to mrs. poyntz's; it was one of her ordinary “ reception nights,” and i felt that she would naturally expect my attend- ance as “ a proper attention.” i joined a group engaged in general conversation, of which mrs. poyntz herself made the centre, knitting, as usual, rapidly while she talked, slowly when she listened. without mentioning the visit i had paid that morning, i turned the conversation on the different country places in the neighborhood, and then incidentally asked, “ what sort of a man is sir philip derval ? is it not strange that he should suffer so fine a place to fall into decay ?” the answers i received added little to the information i had already ob- tained. mrs. poyntz knew nothing of sir philip derval, except as a man of large estates, whose rental had been greatly increased by a rise in the value of property he possessed in the town of l- , and which lay contiguous to that of her husband. two or three of the older inhabi- tants of the hill had remembered him in his early days, when he was gay, high-spirited, hospitable, lavish. one observed that the only person a strange story. in l- whom he had admitted to his subsequent seclusion was dr. lloyd, who was then without practice, and whom he had employed as an assistant in certain chemical experiments. here a gentleman struck into the conversation. he was a stranger to me and to l- , a visitor to one of the dwellers on the hill, who had asked leave to present him to its queen as a great traveller and an accom- plished antiquarian. said this gentleman : “ sir philip derval ! i know him. i met him in the east. he was then still, i believe, very fond of chemical science; a clever, odd, philanthropical man; had studied medicine, or at least prac- tised it; was said to have made many marvellous cures. i became ac- quainted with him in aleppo. he had come to that town, not much frequented by english travellers, in order to inquire into the murder of two men, of whom one was his friend, and the other his countryman.” “ this is interesting,” said mrs. poyntz, dryly. “we who live on this innocent hill all love stories of crime --- murder is the pleasantest subject you could have hit on. pray give us the details." “ so encouraged,” said the traveller, good-humoredly, “i will not hesi. tate to communicate the little i know. in aleppo there had lived for some years a man who was held by the natives in great reverence. he had the reputation of extraordinary wisdom, but was difficult of access ; the lively imagination of the orientals invested his character with the fascinations of fable ; in short, haroun of aleppo was popularly consid- ered as a magician. wild stories were told of his powers, of his preter- natural age, of his hoarded treasures. apart from such disputable titles to homage, there seemed no question, from all i heard, that his learning was considerable, his charities extensive, bis manner of life irreproachably ascetic. · he appears to have resembled those arabian sages of the gothic age to whom modern science is largely indebted — a mystic enthusiast but an earnest scholar. a wealthy but singular englishman, long resi- dent in another part of the east, afflicted by some languishing disease, took a journey to aleppo to consult this sage, who, among his other acquirements, was held to have discovered rare secrets in medicine — his countrymen said in charms. one morning, not long after the english- man's arrival, haroun was found dead in his bed, apparently strangled, and the englishman, who lodged in another part of the town, had disap- peared; but some of his clothes, and a crutch on which he habitually supported himself, were found a few miles distant from aleppo near the roadside. there appeared no doubt that he, too, had been murdered, but his corpse could not be discovered. sir philip derval had been a loving disciple of this sage of aleppo, to whom he assured me he owed not only that knowledge of medicine which, by report, sir philip pos- a strange story. sessed, but the insight into various truths of nature, on the promulgation of which it was evident sir philip cherished the ambition to found a phil- osophical celebrity for himself.” “of what description were those truths of nature?” i asked, some- what sarcastically. “sir, i am unable to tell you, for sir philip did not inform me, nor did i much care to ask, for what may be revered as truths in asia are usually despised as dreams in europe. to return to my story. sir philip had been in aleppo a little time before the murder; had left the englishman under the care of haroun; he returned to aleppo on hearing the tragic events i have related, and was busied in collecting such evidence as could be gleaned, and instituting inquiries after our missing countryman at the time that i myself chanced to arrive in the city. i assisted in his researches, but without avail. the assassins remained undiscovered. i do not myself doubt that they were mere vulgar robbers. sir philip had a darker suspicion, of which he made no secret to me, but as i confess that i thought the suspicion groundless, you will pardon me if i do not repeat it. whether, since i left the east, the englishman's remains have been discovered, i know not. very probably; for i understand that his heirs have got hold of what fortune he left, less than was generally supposed, but it was reported that he had buried great treasures, a ru- mor, however absurd, not altogether inconsistent with his character.” “ what was his character ?” asked mrs. poyntz. “ one of evil and sinister repute. he was regarded with terror by the attendants who had accompanied him to aleppo. but he had lived in a very remote part of the east, little known to europeans, and, from all i could learn, had there established an extraordinary power, strengthened by superstitious awe. he was said to have studied deeply that knowledge which the philosophers of old called occult,' not, like the sage of aleppo, for benevolent, but for malignant ends. he was accused of conferring with evil spirits, and filling his barbaric court (for he lived in a kind of savage royalty) with charmers and sorcerers. i suspect, after all, that he was only like myself, an ardent antiquarian, and cunningly made use of the fear he inspired in order to secure his authority, and prosecute, in safety, researches into ancient sepulchres or temples. his great passion was, indeed, in excavating such remains in his neighborhood, with what re- sult i know not, never having penetrated so far into regions infested by robbers and pestiferous with malaria. he wore the eastern dress, and al- ways carried jewels about him. i came to the conclusion that for the sake of these jewels he was murdered, perhaps by some of his own servants, who then at once buried his body, and kept their own secret. he was old, very infirm; could never have got far from the town without assistance.” a strange story. • “you have not yet told his name,” said mrs. poyntz. . “ his name was grayle.” “grayle !” exclaimed mrs. poyntz, dropping her work, “ louis grayle ? ” “ yes, louis grayle. you could not have known him ?” “ known bim! no. but i have often heard my father speak of him. such, then, was the tragic end of that strong dark creature, for whom as a young girl in the nursery, i used to feel a kind of fearful admiring interest ?” “ it is your turn to narrate now," said the traveller. and we all drew closer round our hostess, who remained silent some moments, her brow thoughtful, her work suspended. "well,” said she, at last, looking round us with a lofty air which seemed half defying ; " force and courage are always fascinating, even when they are quite in the wrong. i go with the world, because the world goes with me; if it did not —” here she stopped for a moment, clenched the firm white hand, and then scornfully waved it, left the sen- tence unfinished, and broke into another. “going with the world, of course we must march over those who stand against it. but when one man stands single-handed against our march we do not despise him; it is enough to crush. i am very glad i did not see louis grayle when i was a girl of sixteen.” again she paused a moment- and resumed : “ louis grayle was the only son of an usurer, infamous for the rapacity with which he had acquired enormous wealth. old grayle desired to rear his heir as a gentleman ; sent him to eton ; boys are always aristocratic; his birth was soon thrown in his teeth ; he was fierce ; he struck boys bigger than himself — fought till he was half killed. my father was at school with him; described him as a tiger whelp. one day he — still a fag -struck a sixth-form boy. sixth-form boys do not fight fags — they punish them. louis grayle was ordered to hold out his hand to the cane; he received the blow, drew forth his school-, boy knife and stabbed the punisher. after that he left eton. i don't think he was publicly expelled — too mere a child for that honor -- but he was taken or sent away; educated with great care under the first masters at home: when he was of age to enter the university old grayle was dead. louis was sent by his guardians to cambridge, with acquirements far exceeding the average of young men, and with unlimited command of money. my father was at the same college, and described him again - haughty, quarrelsome, reckless, handsome, aspiring, brave. does that kind of creature interest you, my dears ? ” (appealing to the ladies). “la!” said miss brabazon ; “ a horrid usurer's son !” “ ay, trae; the vulgar proverb says it is good to be born with a silver spoon in one's mouth; so it is when one has one's own family crest on it; but when it is a spoon on which people recognize their family crest, and a strange story. cry out, stolen from our plate-chest!' it is a heritage that outlaws a babe in his cradle. however, young men at college who want money are less · scrupulous about descent than boys at eton are. louis grayle found, · while at college, plenty of well-born acquaintances willing to recover from him some of the plunder his father had extorted from theirs. he was too wild to distinguish himself by academical honors, but my father said that the tutors of the college declared there were not six undergrad- uates in the wiversity who knew as much hard and dry science as wild louis grayle. he went into the world, no doubt, hoping to shine ; but. his father's name was too notorious to admit the son into good society. the polite world, it is true, does not examine a scutcheon with the nice eye of a herald, nor look upon riches with the stately contempt of a stoic — still the polite world has its family pride and its moral sentiment. it does not alike to be cheated -i mean in money matters — and when the son of the man who has. emptied its purse and foreclosed on its acres, rides by its club windows, hand on haunch, and head in the air, no lion has a scowl more awful, no hyæna a laugh more dread, than that same easy, good-tempered, tolerant, polite, well-bred world which is so pleasant an acquaintance, so languid a friend, and so remorseless an enemy. in short, louis grayle claimed the right to be courted — he was shunned; to be admired — he was loathed. even his old college acquaintances were shamed out of knowing him. perhaps he could have lived through all this had he sought to glide quietly into position ; but he wanted the tact of the well-bred, and strove to storm his way, not to steal it. re- duced for companions to needy parasites, he braved and he shocked all decorous opinion by that ostentation of excess which made richelieus and lauzuns the rage. but then richelieus and lauzuns were dukes! he now very naturally took the polite world into hate — gave it scorn for scorn. he would ally himself with democracy; his wealth could not get him into a club, but it would buy him into parliament; he could not be a lauzun, nor, perhaps, a mirabeau ; but he might be a danton. he had plenty of knowledge and audacity, and with knowledge and audacity a good hater is sure to be eloquent. possibly, then, this poor louis grayle might have made a great figure, left his mark on his age and his name in history; but in contesting the borough which he was sure to carry, he had to face an opponent in a real fine gentleman whom his father had ruined, cool and high-bred, with a tongue like a rapier, a sneer like an adder. a quarrel of course ; louis grayle sent a challenge. the fine gentleman, known to be no coward (fine gentlemen never are), was at first disposed to refuse with contempt. but grayle had made himself the idol of the mob; and at a word from grayle the fine gentleman might have been ducked at a pump, or tossed in a blanket -- that would have made him ridiculous - to be shot at is a trifle, to be laughed at is serious. he a strange story. ' therefore condescended to accept the challenge, and my father was his second. " it was settled, of course, according to english custom, that both com- batants should fire at the same time, and by signal. the antagonist fired at the right moment, his ball grazed louis grayle's temple. louis grayle had not fired. he now seemed to the seconds to take slow and deliberate aim. they called out to him not to fire -- they were rushing to prevent him— when the trigger was pulled and his opponent fall dead on the field. the fight was, therefore, considered unfair; louis grayle was tried for his life; he did not stand the trial in person. he escaped to the continent; hurried on to some distant uncivilized lands; could not be traced; reappeared in england no more. the lawyer who conducted his defence pleaded skilfully. he argued that the delay in firing was not intentional, therefore not criminal — the effect of the stun which the wound in the temple had occasioned. the judge was a gentleman, and summed up the evidence so as to direct the jury to a verdict against the low wretch who had murdered a gentleman. but the jurors were not gentlemen, and grayle's advocate had of course excited their sympathy for a son of the people whom a gentleman had wantonly insulted— the verdict was manslaughter. but the sentence emphatically marked the aggra- vated nature of the homicide — three years' imprisonment. grayle eluded the prison, but he was a man disgraced, his ambition blasted, his career an outlaw's, and his age not yet twenty-three. he left the country. my father said that he was supposed to have changed his name; none knew what had become of him. and so in his old age this creature, brilliant and daring, whom if born under better auspices we might now be all fawning on, cringing to - after living to old age, no one knows how - dies, murdered at aleppo, no one, you say, knows by whom.” “i saw some account of his death in the papers, about three years ago,” said one of the party, - but the name was misspelled, and i had no idea that it was the same man who had fought the duel which mrs. col- onel poyntz has so grapically described. i have a vague recollection of the trial; it took place when i was a boy more than forty years since. the affair made a stir at the time, but was soon forgotten.” “soon forgotten,” said mrs. poyntz; ay, what is not ? leave your place in the world for ten minutes, and when you come back somebody else has taken it: but when you leave the world for good who remembers that you had ever a place even in the parish register !”. “nevertheless,” said i, “ a great poet has said, finely and truly, ""the sun of homer shines upon us still.”” “but it does not shine upon homer; and learned folks tell me that we know no more who and what homer was, if there was ever a single a strange story. homer at all, or rather a whole herd of homers, than we know about the man in the moon - if there be one man there, or a million. now, my dear miss brabazon, it will be very kind in you to divert our thoughts into channels less gloomy. some pretty french air- dr. fenwick, i have something to say to you.” she drew me toward the window. “so, anne ashleigh writes me word that i am not to mention your engage- ment. do you think it quite prudent to keep it a secret ?” "i do not see how prudence is concerned in keeping it secret one way or the other — it is a mere matter of feeling. most people wish to abridge, as far as they can, the time in which their private arrangements are the topic of public gossip.” “ public gossip is sometimes the best security for the due completion of private arrangements. as long as a girl is not known to be engaged, her betrothed must be prepared for rivals. announce the engagement, and rivals are warned off.” “i fear no rivals.” . do you not ? bold man! i suppose you will write to lilian ?” “ certainly.” “do so, and constantly. by the way, mrs. ashleigh, before she went, asked me to send her back lady haughton's letter of invitation. what for ? to show to you?” “ very likely. have you the letter still ? may i see it ?” “ not just at present. when lilian or mrs. ashleigh write to you, come and tell me how they like their visit, and what other guests form the party” therewith she turned away and conversed apart with the traveller. her words disquieted me, and i felt that they were meant to do so. wherefore, i could not guess. but there is no language on earth which has more words with a double meaning than that spoken by the clever woman, who is never so guarded as when she appears to be frank. as i walked home thoughtfully i was accosted by a young man, the son of one of the wealthiest merchants in the town. i had attended him with success, some months before, in a rheumatic fever; he and his family were much attached to me. “ah, my dear fenwick, i am so glad to see you ; i owe you an obli- gation of which you are not aware - an exceedingly pleasant travelling companion. i came with him to-day from london, where i have been sight-seeing and holiday-making for the last fortnight.” “i suppose you mean that you kindly bring me a patient ?” “ no, only an admirer. i was staying at fenton's hotel. it so hap- pened one day that i had left in the coffee-room your last work on the vital principle, which, by-the-by, the bookseller assures me is selling a strange story. immensely among readers as non-professional as myself. coming into the coffee-room again i found a gentleman reading it. i claimed it politely; he as politely tendered his excuse for taking it. we made ac- quaintance on the spot. the next day we were intimate. he expressed great interest and curiosity about your theory and your experiments. i told him i knew you. you may guess if i described you as less clever in your practice than you are in your writings. and, in short, he came with me to l- , partly to see our flourishing town, principally on my promise to introduce him to you. my mother, you know, has what she calls a déjeûner to-morrow ; déjeûner and dance. you will be there ?” “ thank you for reminding me of her invitation. i will avail myself of it if i can. your new friend will be present ? who and what is he? a medical student ?” “no, a mere gentleman at ease; but seems to have a good deal of general information. very young; apparently very rich; wonderfully good-looking. i am sure you will like him; everybody must.” “ it is quite enough to prepare me to like him, that he is a friend of yours.” and so we shook hands and parted. chapter xxiii. it was late in the afternoon of the following day before i was able to join the party assembled at the merchant's house ; it was a villa about two miles out of the town, pleasantly situated, amidst flower-gardens cel- ebrated in the neighborhood for their beauty. the breakfast had been long over; the company was scattered over the lawn ; some formed into a dance on the smooth lawn; some seated under shady awnings; others gliding amidst parterres, in which all the glow of color took a glory yet more vivid under the flush of a brilliant sunshine, and the ripple of a soft western breeze. music, loud and lively, mingled with the laughter of happy children, who formed much the larger number of the party. standing at the entrance of an arched trellis, that led from the hardier flowers of the lawn to a rare collection of tropical plants under a lofty glass dome (connecting, as it were, the familiar vegetation of the north with that of the remotest east), was a form that instantaneously caught and fixed my gaze. the entrance of the arcade was covered with para- site creepers in prodigal luxuriance, of variegated gorgeous tints - scarlet, golden, purple – and the form, an idealized picture of man's youth fresh a strange story. from the hand of nature, stood literally in a frame of blooms. never have i seen human face so radiant as that young man's. there was in the aspect an indescribable something that literally daz- zled. as one continued to gaze, it was with surprise one was forced to acknowledge that in the features themselves there was no faultless regu- larity; nor was the young man's stature imposing — about the middle height. but the effect of the whole was not less transcendent. large eyes, unspeakably lustrous; a most harmonious coloring; an expression of contagious animation and joyousness; and the form itself so critically fine that the welded strength of its sinews was best shown in the light- ness and grace of its movements. he was resting one hand carelessly on the golden locks of a child that had nestled itself against his knees, looking up in his face in that silent loving wonder with which children regard something too strangely beau- tiful for noisy admiration; he himself was conversing with the host, an old gray-haired, gouty man, propped on his crutch-stick, and listening with a look of mournful envy. to the wealth of the old man, all the flowers in that garden owed their renewed delight in the summer air and sun. oh that his wealth could renew to himself one hour of the youth that stood beside him, lord, indeed, of creation ; its splendor woven into his crown of beauty ; its enjoyments subject to his sceptre of hope and gladness! i was startled by the hearty voice of the merchant's son: “ah, my dear fenwick, i was afraid you would not come you are late. there is the new friend of whom i spoke to you last night ; let me now make you acquainted with him.” he drew my arm in his and led me up to the young man, where he stood under the arching flowers, and whom he · then introduced to me by the name of margrave. nothing could be more frankly cordial than mr. margrave's man- ner. in a few minutes i found myself conversing with him familiarly, as if we had been reared in the same home, and sported together in the same play-ground. his vein of talk was peculiar, off-hand, careless, shifting from topic to topic, with a bright rapidity. he said that he liked the place; proposed to stay in it some weeks; asked my address, which i gave to him; promised to call soon at an early hour, while my time was yet free from professional visits. i endeavored, when i went away, to analyze to myself the fascination which this young stranger so notably exercised over all who approached him; and it seemed to me, ever seeking to find material causes for all moral effects, that it arose from the contagious vitality of that rarest of all rare gifts in highly civilized circles — perfect health ; that health which is in itself the most exquisite luxury, which, finding happiness in the mere sense of ex- a strange story. istence, diffuses round it, like an atmosphere, the harmless hilarity of its bright animal being. health, to the utmost perfection, is seldom 'known after childhood; health to the utmost cannot be enjoyed by those who overwork the brain, or admit the sure wear and tear of the passions. the creature i had just seen gave me the notion of youth in the golden age of the poets — the youth of the careless arcadian, before nymph or shepherdess had vexed his heart with a sigh. chapter xxiv. the house i occupied at l— was a quaint, old-fashioned building - a corner house - one side, in which was the front entrance, looked upon a street which, as there were no shops in it, and it was no direct thoroughfare to the busy centres of the town, was always quiet; and at some hours of the day almost deserted. the other side of the house fronted a lane; opposite to it was the long and high wall of the garden to a young ladies' boarding-school. my stables adjoined the house, abutting on a row of smaller buildings, with little gardens before them, chiefly occupied by mercantile clerks and retired tradesmen. by the lane there was short and ready access both to the high turnpike-road and to some pleasant walks through green meadows and along the banks of a river. this house i had inhabited since my arrival at l— , and it had to me so many attractions, in a situation sufficiently central to be convenient for patients, and yet free from noise, and favorable to ready outlet into the country for such foot or horse exercise as my professional avocations would allow me to carve for myself out of what the latin poet calls the • solid mass of the day,” that i had refused to change it for one better suited to my increased income; but it was not a house which mrs. ash- leigh would have liked for lilian. the main objection to it, in the eyes of the “genteel,” was, that it had formerly belonged to a member of the healing profession, who united the shop of an apothecary to the diploma of a surgeon: but that shop had given the house a special attraction to me;' for it had been built out on that side of the house which fronted the · lane, occupying the greater portion of a small gravel court, fenced from the road by a low iron palisade, and separated from the body of the house itself by a short and narrow corridor that communicated with the en- trance-hall. this shop i turned into a rude study for scientific experi- a strange story. ments, in which i generally spent some early hours of the morning, be- fore my visiting patients began to arrive. i enjoyed the stillness of its separation from the rest of the house; i enjoyed the glimpse of the great chestnut-trees which overtopped the wall of the school garden ; i enjoyed the ease with which, by opening the glazed sash-door, i could get out, if disposed for a short walk, into the pleasant fields; and so completely had i made this sanctuary my own, that not only my man-servant knew that i was never to be disturbed when in it, except by the summons of a patient, but even the house-maid was forbidden to enter it with broom or duster. except upon special invitation. the last thing at night, before retiring to rest, it was the man-servant's business to see that the sash-window was closed and the gate to the iron palisade locked, but during the daytime i so often went out of the house by that private way that the gate was then very seldom locked, nor the sash-door bolted from within. in the town of l- there was very little apprehension of house-robberies — especially in the daylight — and certainly in this room, cut off from the main building, there was nothing to attract a vulgar cupidity. a few of the apothecary's shelves and cases still remained on the walls, with here and there a bottle of some chemical preparation for experiment. two or three worm-eaten wooden chairs; two or three shabby old tables; an old walnut-tree bureau, without a lock, into which odds-and-ends were confusedly thrust, and sundry ugly-looking inventions of mechanical sci- ence, were assuredly not the articles which a timid proprietor would guard with jealous care from the chances of robbery. it will be seen later why i have been thus prolix in description. the morning after i had met the young stranger by whom i had been so favorably impressed, i was up, as usual, a little before the sun, and long before any of my ser- vants were astir. i went first into the room i have mentioned, and which i shall henceforth designate as my study, opened the window, unlocked the gate, and sauntered for some minutes up and down the silent lane skirting the opposite wall and overhung by the chestnut-trees, rich in the garniture of a glorious summer; then, refreshed for work, i reëntered my study, and was soon absorbed in the examination of that now well- known machine, which was then, to me at least, a novelty — invented, if i remember right, by monsieur dubois reymond, so distinguished by his researches into the mysteries of organic electricity. it is a wooden cylin- der fixed against the edge of a table; on the table two vessels filled with salt and water are so placed that, as you close your hands on the cylinder, the forefinger of each hand can drop into the water; each of the vessels has a metallic plate, and communicates by wires with a galvanometer with its needle. now the theory is, that if you clutch the cylinder firmly with the right hand, leaving the left perfectly passive, the needle in the a strange story. galvanometer will move from west to south ; if, in like manner, you ex- ert the left arm leaving the right arm passive, the needle will deflect from west to north. hence, it is argued that the electric current is in- duced through the agency of the nervous system, and that as human will produces the muscular contraction requisite, so is it human will that causes the deflection of the needle. i imagined that if this theory were substantiated by experiment, the discovery might lead to some sublime and unconjectured secrets of science. for human will, thus actively effective on the electric current, and all matter, animate or inanimate, having more or less of electricity, a vast field became opened to conjec- ture. by what series of patient experimental deduction might not science arrive at the solution of problems which the newtonian law of gravitation does not suffice to solve; and— but i must not suffer myself to be led away into the vague world of guess by the vague reminiscences of a knowledge long since wholly neglected, or half forgotten. i was dissatisfied with my experiment. the needle stirred, indeed, but erratically, and not in directions which, according to the theory, should correspond to my movement. i was about to dismiss the trial with some uncharitable contempt of the french philosopher's dogmas, when i heard a loud ring at my street door. while i paused to conjecture whether my servant was yet up to attend to the door, and which of my patients was the most likely to summon me at so unseasonable an hour, a shadow dark- ened my window. i looked up, and to my astonishment beheld the bril- liant face of mr. margrave. the sash to the door was already partially opened; he raised it higher and walked into the room.“ was it you who rang at the street door, and at this hour ?” said i. "yes; and observing, after i had rung, that all the shutters were still closed, i felt ashamed of my own rash action, and made off rather than brave the reproachful face of some injured house-maid, robbed of her morning dreams. i turned down that pretty lane — lured by the green of the chestnut-trees — caught sight of you through the window, took cour- age, and here i am! you forgive me?” while thus speaking he con- tinued to move along the littered floor of the dingy room with the undu- lating restlessness of some wild animal in the confines of its den, and he now went on, in short fragmentary sentences, very slightly linked together, but smoothed, as it were, into harmony by a voice musical and fresh as a skylark's warble. “morning dreams, indeed! dreams that waste the life of such a morning. rosy magnificence of a summer dawn! do you not pity the fool who prefers to lie abed, and to dream rather than to live? what! and you, strong man, with those noble limbs, in this den! do you not long for a rush through the green of the fields, a bath in the blue of the river?" a strange story. here he came to a pause, standing, still in the gray light of the grow- ing day, with eyes whose joyous lustre forestalled the sun's, and lips which seemed to laugh even in repose. but presently those eyes, as quick as they were bright, glanced over the walls; the floor, the shelves, the phials, the mechanical inventions, and " then rested full on my cylinder fixed to the table. he approached, ex- amined it curiously, asked what it was? i explained. to gratify him, i sat down, and renewed my experiment, with equally ill success. the needle, which should have moved from west to south, describing an angle of from deg. to or even deg., only made a few troubled un- decided oscillations. “ tut!” cried the young man, “i see what it is; you have a wound in your right hand.” that was true. i had burned my hand a few days before in a chemical experiment, and the sore had not healed. “well,” said i, “and what does that matter ? ” . “every thing; the least scratch in the skin of the hand produces chem- ical actions on the electric current, independently of your will. let me try.” he took my place, and in a moment the needle in the galvanometer responded to his grasp on the cylinder, exactly as the french philosopher had stated to be the due result of the experiment. i was startled. “but how came you, mr. margrave, to be so well acquainted with a scientific process little known, and but recently discovered ?” “i well acquainted ! not so. but i am fond of all experiments that relate to animal life. electricity especially is full of interest.” on that i drew him out (as i thought), and he talked volubly. i was amazed to find this young man, in whose brain i had conceived thought kept one careless holiday, was evidently familiar with the physical sci- ences, and especially with chemistry, which was my own study by predi- letion. but never had i met with a student in whom a knowledge so extel'sive was mixed up with notions so obsolete or so crotchety. in one sentence he showed that he had mastered some late discovery by faraday or liebig; in the next sentence he was talking the wild fallacies of car- dan or van helmont. i burst out laughing at some paradox about sym- pathetic powders, which he enounced as if it were a recognized truth. "pray tell me,” said i,“ who was your master in physics, for a cleverer pupil never had a more crack-brained teacher.” “no,” he answered, with his merry laugh, “it is not the teacher's fault. i am a mere parrot; just cry out a few scraps of learning picked up here and there. but, however, i am fond of all researches into nature; all a strange story. , guesses at her riddles. to tell you the truth, one reason why i have taken to you so heartily is not only that your published work caught my fancy in the dip which i took into the contents (pardon me if i say dip, i never do more than dip into any book), but also because young **** tells me that which all whom i have met in this town confirm; namely, that you are one of those few practical chemists who are at once exceed- ingly cautious and exceedingly bold — willing to try every new experi- ment, but submitting experiment to rigid tests. well, i have an experi- ment running wild in this giddy head of mine, and i want you, some day when at leisure, to catch it, fix it as you have fixed that cylinder: make something of it. i am sure you can.” " what is it?” "" something akin to the theories in your work. you would replenish or preserve to each special constitution the special substance that may fail to the equilibrium of its health. but you own that in a large proportion of cases, the best cure of disease is less to deal with the disease itself than to support and stimulate the whole system, so as to enable nature to cure the disease and restore the impaired equilibrium by her own agencies. thus, if you find that in certain cases of nervous debility a substance like nitric acid is efficacious, it is because the nitric acid has a virtue in lock- ing up, as it were, the nervous energy, that is, preventing all undue waste. again, in some cases of what is commonly called feverish cold, stimulants like ammonia assist nature itself to get rid of the disorder thať oppresses its normal action; and, on the same principle, i apprehend, it is contended that a large average of human lives is saved in those hospitals which have adopted the supporting system of ample nourishment and alcoholic stimu- lants. “ your medical learning surprises me," said i, smiling, “ and without pausing to notice where it deals somewhat superficially with disputable points in general, and my own theory in particular, i ask you for the de- duction you draw from your premises.” “ it is simply this: that to all animate bodies, however various, there. must be one principle in common — the vital principle itself. what if there be one certain means of recruiting that principle ? and what if that secret can be discovered ? ”. “ pshaw! the old illusion of the medieval empirics." “ not so. but the medieval empirics were great discoverers. you sneer at van helmont, who sought in water the principle of all things: but van helmont discovered in his search those invisible bodies called gases. now the principle of life must certainly be ascribed to a gas.* * according to the views we have mentioned, we must ascribe life to a gas, that is, to an aeriform body. - liebig, organic chemistry, playfair's translation, p. . a strange story. and whatever is a gas, chemistry should not despair of producing! but i can argue no longer now — never can argue long at a stretch — we are wasting-the morning; and joy! the sun is up! see! out! come out! out! and greet the great life-giver face to face.” i could not resist the young man's invitation. in a few minutes we were in the quiet lane under the glinting chestnut-trees. margrave was chanting, low, a wild tune – words in a strange language... “what words are those ? no european language, i think; for i know a little of most of the languages which are spoken in our quarter of the globe, at least by its more civilized races." “ civilized races! what is civilization ? those words were uttered by men who founded empires when europe itself was not civilized ! hush, is it not a grand old air ? ” and lifting his eyes towards the sun, he gave vent to a voice clear and deep as a mighty bell! the air was grand — the words had a sonorous swell that suited it, and they seemed to me jubilant and yet solemn. he stopped abruptly, as a path from the lane had led us into the fields, already half-bathed in sunlight - dews glit- tering on the hedge-rows. “ your song,” said i, “ would go well with the clash of cymbals or the peal of the organ. i am no judge of melody, but this strikes me as that of a religious hymn.” "i compliment you on the guess. it is a persian fire-worshipper's hymn to the sun. the dialect is very different from modern persian.. cyrus the great might have chanted it on his march upon babylon." "and where did you learn it ?”. " in persia itself.” "you have travelled much — learned much — and are so young and so fresh. is it an impertinent question if i ask whether your parents are yet living, or are you wholly lord of yourself ?" “ thank you for the question - pray make my answer known in the town. parents i have not — never had.” “never had parents !” “ well, i ought rather to say that no parents ever owned me. i am a natural son — a vagabond — a nobody.. when i came of age i received an anonymous letter, informing me that a sum – i need not say what - but more than enough for all i need, was lodged at an english banker's in my name ; that my mother had died in my infancy; that my father was also dead — but recently; that as i was a child of love, and he was unwilling that the secret of my birth should ever be traced, he had pro- vided for me, not by will, but in his life, by a sum consigned to the trust of the friend who now wrote to me; i need give myself no trouble to learn more ; faith, i never did. i am young, healthy, rich — yes, rich! a strange story. now you know all, and you had better tell it, that i may win no man's courtesy and no maiden's love upon false pretences. i have not even a right, you see, to the name i bear. hist! let me catch that squirrel.” with what a panther-like bound he sprang! the squirrel eluded his grasp, and was up the oak-tree; in a moment he was up the oak-tree too. in amazement i saw him rising from bough to bough; saw his bright eyes and glittering teeth through the green leaves; presently i heard the sharp, piteous cry of the squirrel — echoed by the youth's merry laugh — and down, through that maze of green, margrave came, dropping on the grass and bounding up as mercury might have bounded with his wings at his heels. “i have caught him — what pretty brown eyes!” suddenly the gay expression of his face changed to that of a savage; the squirrel had wrenched itself half-loose and bitten him. the poor brute! in an instant its neck was wrung - its body dashed on the ground; and that fair young creature, every feature quivering with rage, was stamping his foot on his victim again and again! it was horrible. i caught him by the arm indignantly. he turned round on me like a wild beast disturbed from its prey — his teeth set, his hand lifted, his eyes like balls of fire. “ shame !” said i, calmly; "shame on you!” he continued to gaze on me a moment or so his eye glaring, his breath panting — and then, as if mastering himself with an involuntary effort, his arm dropped to his side, and he said, quite humbly, “i beg your pardon ; indeed i do. i was beside myself for a moment; i cannot bear pain : ” and he looked in deep compassion for himself at his wounded hand. “ venomous brute!” and he stamped again on the body of the squirrel, already crushed out of shape. i moved away in disgust, and walked on. but presently i felt my arm softly drawn aside, and a voice, dulcet as the coo of a dove, stole its way into my ears. there was no resisting the charm with which this extraordinary mortal could fascinate even the hard and the cold; nor them, perhaps, the least. for as you see in extreme old age, when the heart seems to have shrunk into itself, and to leave but meagre and nipped affections for the nearest relations if grown up, the indurated egotism softens at once toward a playful child; or as you see in middle life some misanthrope, whose nature has been soured by wrong and sorrow, shrink from his own species, yet make friends with inferior races, and respond to the caress of a dog — so, for the worldling or the cynic, there was an attraction in the freshness of this joyous favorite of nature ; — an attraction like that of a beautiful child, spoilt and way. ward, or of a graceful animal, half docile, half fierce. “but,” said i, with a smile, as i felt all displeasure gone, “such indul- - -- a strange story. gence of passion for such a trifle is surely unworthy a student of philoso- phy.” “ trifle,” he said, dolorously. but i tell you it is pain; pain is no trifle. i suffer. look !” i looked at the hand, which i took in mine. the bite no doubt had been sharp; but the hand that lay in my own was that which the greek sculptor gives to a gladiator; not large (the extremities are never large in persons whose strength comes from the just proportion of all the mem- bers, rather than the factitious and partial force which continued muscu- lar exertion will give to one part of the frame, to the comparative weakening of the rest), but with the firm-knit joints, the solid fingers, the finished nails, the massive palm, the supple polished skin in which we recognize what nature designs the human hand to be — the skilled, swift, mighty doer of all those marvels which win nature herself from the wil- derness. " it is strange,” said i, thoughtfully; “ but your susceptibility to suffer- ing confirms my opinion, which is different from the popular belief, viz. : that pain is most acutely felt by those in whom the animal organization being perfect, and the sense of vitality exquisitely keen, every injury or lesion finds the whole system rise, as it were, to repel the mischief and communicate the consciousness of it to all those nerves which are the sentinels to the garrison of life. yet my theory is scarcely borne out by general fact. the indian savages must have a health as perfect as yours; a nervous system as fine. witness their marvellous accuracy of ear, of eye, of scent, probably also of touch, yet they are indifferent to physical pain; or must i mortify your pride by saying that they have some moral quality defective in you which enables them to rise superior to it.” “ the indian savages,” said margrave, sullenly, “ have not a health as perfect as mine, and in what you call vitality — the blissful consciousness of life -- they are as sticks and stones compared to me." “ how do you know ?” “ because i have lived with them. it is a fallacy to suppose that the savage has a health superior to that of the civilized man, -- if the civil- ized man be but temperate, - and even if not, he has a stamina that can resist for years what would destroy the savage in a month. as to their fine perceptions of sense, such do not come from exquisite equilibrium of system, but are hereditary attributes transmitted from race to race, and strengthened by training from infancy. but is a pointer stronger and healthier than a mastiff, because the pointer through long descent and early teaching creeps stealthily to his game and stands to it motionless ? i will talk of this later; now i suffer! pain, pain! has life any ill but pain ?" a strange story. it so happened that i had about me some roots of the white lily, which i meant,, before returning home, to leave with a patient suffering from one of those acute local inflammations, in which that simple remedy often affords great relief. i cut up one of these roots, and bound the cooling leaves to the wounded hand with my handkerchief. “ there,” said i. “ fortunately, if you feel pain more sensibly than others, you will recover from it more quickly.” and in a few minutes my companion felt perfectly relieved, and poured out his gratitude with an extravagance of expression and a beam- ing delight of countenance which positively touched me. “i almost feel,” said i, “as i do when i have stilled an infant's wailing, and restored it smiling to its mother's breast." “ you have done so. i am an infant, and nature is my mother. oh, to be restored to the full joy of life, the scent of wild flowers, the song of birds, and this air - summer air - summer air !” i know not why it was, but at that moment, looking at him and hear- ing him, i rejoiced that lilian was not at - “ but i came out to bathe. can we not bathe in that stream?” “no. you would derange the bandage round your hand; and for all bodily ills, from the least to the gravest, there is nothing like leaving nature at rest the moment we have hit on the means which assist her own efforts at cure.” " i obey, then, but i do so love the water." you swim, of course ?” “ ask the fish if it swim. ask the fish if it can escape me! i delight to dive down - down; to plunge after the startled trout, as an otter does; and then to get among those cool, fragrant reeds and bulrushes, or that forest of emerald weed which one sometimes finds waving under clear rivers. man! man! could you live but an hour of my life you would know how horrible a thing it is to die !” “ yet the dying do not think so; they pass away calm and smiling, as you will one day.” “i–i! die one day — die !” and he sank on the grass, and buried his face among the herbage, sobbing aloud. * before i could get through half a dozen words, meant to soothe, he had once more bounded up, dashed the tears from his eyes, and was again singing some wild, barbaric chant. i did not disturb him; in fact i soon grew absorbed in my own meditations on the singular nature, so wayward, so impulsive, which had forced intimacy on a man so grave and practical as myself. i was puzzled how to reconcile so passionate a childishness, so undisci- plined a want of self-control, with an experience of mankind so extended a strange story. from by travel, with an education, desultory and irregular indeed, but which must have been at some time or other familiarized to severe reasonings and laborious studies. there seemed to be wanting in him that mysteri- ous something which is needed to keep our faculties, however severally brilliant, harmoniously linked together - as the string by which a child mechanically binds the wild flowers it gathers, shaping them at choice into the garland or the chain. and eam- chapter xxv. ar- my intercourse with margrave grew habitual and familiar. he came to my house every morning before sunrise; in the evenings we were again brought together: sometimes in the houses to which we were both invited, sometimes at his hotel, sometimes in my own home. nothing more perplexed me than his aspect of extreme youthfulness, contrasted with the extent of the travels, which, if he were to be believed, had left little of the known world unexplored. one day i asked him, bluntly, how old he was ? “how old do i look? how old should you suppose me to be ?” “ i should have guessed you to be about twenty, till you spoke of hav- ing come of age some years ago." ' “is it a sign of longevity when a man looks much younger than he is ?” “ conjoined with other signs, certainly!”. “ have i the other signs ?” “ yes, a magnificent, perhaps a matchless, constitutional organization. but you have evaded my question as to your age; was it an impertinence to put it?” “ no. i came of age -- let me see — three years ago." so long since ? is it possible? i wish i had your secret!” “ secret! what secret ?” . the secret of preserving so much of boyish freshness in the wear and tear of man-like passions and man-like thoughts.” “ you are still young yourself - under forty ?” " oh yes! some years under forty.” “ and nature gave you a much grander frame and a much finer sym- metry of feature than she gave to me.” “ pooh! pooh! you have the beauty that must charm the eyes of woman, and that beauty in its sunny forenoon of youth. happy man! if you love -- and wish to be sure that you are loved again." a strange story. “what you call love — the unhealthy sentiment, the feverish folly-i left behind me, i think forever, when — " “ ay, indeed — when?” “i came of age !” “ hoary cynic! and you despise love! so did i once. your time may come.” “i think not. does any animal, except man, love its fellow she-ani- mal as man loves woman ?” “ as man loves woman? no, i suppose not.” “and why should the subject-animals be wiser than their king? but, to return — you would like to have my youth and my careless enjoyment of youth?” “ can you ask — who would not ?" margrave looked at me for a mo- ment with unusual seriousness, and then, in the abrupt changes common to his capricious temperament, began to sing softly one of his barbaric chants — a chant different from any i had heard him sing before - made either by the modulation of his voice or the nature of the tune - so sweet that, little as music generally affected me, this thrilled to my very heart's core. i drew closer and closer to him, and murmured when he paused, " is not that a love-song ?” “no,” said he, “it is the song by which the serpent-charmer charms the serpent." ; chapter xxvi. increased intimacy with my new acquaintance did not diminish the charm of his society, though it brought to light some startling defects, both in his mental and moral organization. i have before said that his knowl- edge, though it had swept over a wide circuit and dipped into curious, unfrequented recesses, was desultory and erratic. it certainly was not that knowledge, sustained and aspiring, which the poet assures us is " the wing on which we mount to heaven.” so; in his faculties them- selves there were singular inequalities, or contradictions. his power of memory in some things seemed prodigious; but when examined it was seldom accurate; it could apprehend, but did not hold together with a binding grasp, what metaphysicians call “ complex ideas.” he thus seemed unable to put it to any steadfast purpose in the sciences of which it retained, vaguely and loosely, many recondite principles. for the sublime and beautiful in literature he had no taste whatever. a pas- a strange story. sionate lover of nature, his imagination had no response to the arts by which nature is expressed or idealized; wholly unaffected by poetry or painting. of the fine arts, music alone attracted and pleased him. his conversation was often imminently suggestive, touching on much, whether in books or mankind, that set one thinking; but i never remember him to have uttered any of those lofty or tender sentiments which form the connecting links between youth and genius. for if poets sing to the young, and the young hail their own interpreters in poets, it is because the tendency of both is to idolize the realities of life, finding everywhere in the real a something that is noble or fair, and making the fair yet fairer, and the noble nobler still. in margrave's character there seemed no special vices, no special vir- tues; but a wonderful vivacity, joyousness, animal good-humor. he was singularly temperate, having a dislike to wine, perhaps from that purity of taste which belongs to health absolutely perfect. no healthful child likes alcohols, no animal, except man, prefers wine to water. but his main moral defect seemed to me, in a want of sympathy, even where he professed attachment. he who could feel so acutely for him- self, be unmanned at the bite of a squirrel, and sob at the thought that he should one day die, was as callous to the sufferings of another as a deer who deserts and butts from him a wounded comrade. i give an instance of this hardness of heart where i should have least expected to find it in him. he had met and joined me as i was walking to visit a patient on the outskirts of the town, when we fell in with a group of children, just let loose for an hour or two from their day-school. some of these children joyously recognized him as having played with them at their homes ; they ran up to him, and he seemed as glad as themselves at the meeting. he suffered them to drag him along with them, and became as merry and sportive as the youngest of the troop. well,” said i, laughing, “if you are going to play at leap-frog, pray don't let it be on the high road, or you will be run over by carts and draymen; see that meadow just in front to the left - off with you there!” “ with all my heart,” cried margrave," while you pay your visit. come along, boys.”. a little urchin, not above six years old, but 'who was lame, began to , cry, he could not run -- he should be left behind... margrave stopped. “ climb on my shoulder, little one, and i'll be your horse." the child dried its tears, and delightedly obeyed. “certainly,” said i, to myself, “ margrave, after all, must have a nature a strange story. . as gentle as it is simple. what other young man, so courted by all the allurements that steal innocence from pleasure, would stop in the thorough- fares to play with children ?” the thought had scarcely passed through my mind when i heard a scream of agony. margrave had leaped the railing that divided the meadow from the road, and in so doing the poor child, perched on his shoulder, had, perhaps from surprise or fright, loosened its hold, and fallen heavily. its cries were piteous. margrave clapped his hands to his ears - uttered an exclamation of anger — and not even stopping to lift up the boy, or examine what the hurt was, called to the other children to come on, and was soon rolling with them on the grass, and pelting them with daisies. when i came up only one child remained by the sufferer - its little brother, a year older than itself. the child had fallen on its arm, which was not broken, but violently contused. the pain must have been intense. i carried the child to its home, and had to remain there some time. i did not see margrave till the next morning, when he then called. i felt so indignant that i could scarcely speak to him. when at last i rebuked him for his inhumanity, he seemed surprised; with difficulty re- membered the circumstance, and then merely said - as if it were the most natural confession in the world — “ oh, nothing so discordant as a child's wail. i hate discords. i am pleased with the company of children; but they must be children who laugh and play. well! why do you look at me in that way? what have i said to shock you?”. “ shock me — you shock manhood itself! go; i can't talk to you now. i am busy." but he did not go; and his voice was so sweet, and his ways so winning, that disgust insensibly melted into that sort of forgiveness one accords (let me repeat the illustration) to the deer that forsakes its comrade. the poor thing knows no better. and what a graceful, beautiful thing this was ! the fascination — i can give it no other name — which margrave ex- ercised was not confined to me, it was universal - old, young, high, low, man, woman, child, all felt it. never in low town had stranger, even the most distinguished by fame, met with a reception so cordial — so flat- tering. his frank confession that he was a natural son, far from being to his injury, served to interest people more in him, and to prevent all those inquiries in regard to his connections and antecedents, which would other- wise have been afloat. to be sure, he was evidently rich; at least he had plenty of money. he lived in the best rooms in the principal hotel; was very hospitable ; entertained the families with whom he had grown inti- mate; made them bring their children - music and dancing after dinner. a strange story. i among the houses in which he had established familiar acquaintance was that of the mayor of the town, who had bought dr. lloyd's collection of subjects in natural history. to that collection the mayor had added largely by a very recent purchase. he had arranged these various speci- mens, which his last acquisitions had enriched by the interesting carcasses of an elephant and a hippopotamus, in a large wooden building con- tiguous to his dwelling, and which had been constructed by a former proprietor (a retired fox-hunter) as a riding-house. and being a man who much affected the diffusion of knowledge, he proposed to open this museum to the admiration of the general public, and at his death to ·bequeath it to the athenæum or literary institute of bis native town. margrave, seconded by the influence of the mayor's daughters, had scarcely been three days at i- before he had persuaded this excellent and public-spirited functionary to inaugurate the opening of his museum by • the popular ceremony of a ball. a temporary corridor should unite the drawing-rooms, which were on the ground-floor, with the building that contained the collection; and thus the fête would be elevated above the frivolous character of a fashionable amusement, and consecrated to the solemnization of an intellectual institute. dazzled by the brilliancy of this idea, the mayor announced his intention to give a ball that should in- clude the surrounding neighborhood, and be worthy, in all expensive re- spects, of the dignity of himself and the occasion. a night had been fixed for the ball a night that became memorable indeed to me! the enter- tainment was anticipated with a lively interest, in which even the hill condescended to share. the hill did not much patronize mayors in gen- eral; but when a mayor gave a ball for a purpose so patriotic, and on a scale so splendid, the hill liberally acknowledged that commerce was, on the whole, a thing which the eminence might, now and then, condescend to acknowledge without absolutely derogating from the rank which provi- dence had assigned to it among the high places of earth. accordingly, the hill was permitted by its queen to honor the first magistrate of low town by a promise to attend his ball. now, as this festivity had origi- nated in the suggestion of margrave, so, by a natural association of ideas, every one, in talking of the ball, talked also of margrave. the hill had at first affected to ignore a stranger whose début had been made in the mercantile circle of low town. but the queen of the hill now said, sententiously, “ this new man in a few days has be- come a celebrity. it is the policy of the hill to adopt celebrities, if the celebrities pay respect to the proprieties. dr. fenwick is requested to procure mr. margrave the advantage of being known to the hill.” . i found it somewhat difficult to persuade margrave to accept the hill's condescending overture. he seemed to have a dislike to all societies , a strange story. pretending to aristocratic distinction - a dislike expressed with a fierce- ness so unwonted that it made one suppose he had at some time or other been subjected to mortification by the supercilious airs that blow upon heights so elevated. however, he yielded to my instances, and accom- panied me one evening to mrs. poyntz's house. the hill was encamped there for the occasion. mrs. poyntz was exceedingly civil to him, and after a few commonplace speeches, hearing that he was fond of music, consigned him to the caressing care of miss brabazon, who was at the head of the musical department in the queen of the hill's administra- tion. mrs. poyntz retired to her favorite seat near the window, inviting me to sit beside her; and while she knitted in silence, in silence my eye glanced toward margrave in the midst of the group assembled round the piano. whether he was in more than usually high spirits, or whether he was , actuated by a malign and impish desire to upset the established laws of decorum by which the gayeties of the hill were habitually subdued into a serene and somewhat pensive pleasantness, i know not; but it was not many minutes before the orderly aspect of the place was grotesquely changed. miss brabazon having come to the close of a complicated and dreary sonata, i heard margrave abruptly ask her if she could play the taran- -tella, that famous neapolitan air which is founded on the legendary belief that the bite of the tarantula excites an irresistible desire to dance. on that high-bred spinster's confession that she was ignorant of the air, and had not even heard of the legend, margrave said, “ let me play it to you, with variations of my own." miss brabazon graciously yielded her place at the instrument. margrave seated himself — there was great curiosity to hear his performance. margrave's fingers rushed over the keys, and there was a general start, the prelude was so unlike any known combination of harmonious sounds. then he began a chant- song ). can scarcely call it - words certainly not in italian, perhaps in some un- civilized tongue, perhaps in impromptu gibberish. and the torture of the instrument now commenced in good earnest : it shrieked, it groaned : wilder and noisier. beethoven's storm, roused by the fell touch of a german pianist, were mild in comparison ; and the mighty voice, domin- ating the anguish of the cracking keys, had the full diapason of a chorus. certainly i am no judge of music, but to my ear the discord was ter- rific — to the ears of better informed amateurs it seemed ravishing. all were spell-bound; even mrs. poyntz paused from her knitting, as the fates paused from their web at the lyre of orpheus. to this breathless · delight, however, soon succeeded a general desire for movement. to a strange story.. my amazement, i be held these formal matrons and sober fathers of fami- lies forming themselves into a dance, turbulent as a children's ball at christmas. and when, suddenly desisting from his music, margrave started up, caught the skeleton hand of lean miss brabazon, and whirled her into the centre of the dance, i could have fancied myself at a witch's sabbat. my eye turned in scandalized alarm toward mrs. poyntz. that great creature seemed as much astounded as myself. her eyes were fixed on the scene in a stare of positive stupor. for the first time, no doubt, in her life, she was overcomè, deposed, dethroned. the awe of her presence was literally whirled away. the dance ceased as suddenly as it had begun. darting from the galvanized mummy whom he had se- lected as his partner, margrave shot to mrs. poyntz's side, and said, “ ten thousand pardons for quitting you so soon, but the clock warns me that i have an engagement elsewhere.” in another moment he was gone. the dance halted, people seemed slowly returning to their senses, look- ing at each other bashfully and ashamed. ; "i could not help it, dear,” sighed miss brabazon at last, sinking into a chair, and casting her deprecating, fainting eyes upon the hostess. “ it is witchcraft,” said fat mrs. bruce, wiping her forehead. “witchcraft!" echoed mrs. poyntz, “ it does indeed look like it. an amazing and portentous exhibition of animal spirits, and not to be en- dured by the proprieties. where on earth can that young savage have come from ?” from savage lands,” said i. “so he says.” “do not bring him here again,” said mrs. poyntz. "he would soon turn the hill topsy-turvy. but how charming! i should like to see more of him,” she added irran under voice,“ if he would call on me some morn- ing, and not in the presence of those for whose proprieties i am respon- sible. jane must be out in her ride with the colonel.” margrave never again attended the patrician festivities of the hill. invitations were poured upon him, especially by miss brabazon and the other old maids, but in vain. “ those people,” said he, “ are too tame and civilized for me; and so few young persons among them. even that girl jane is only young on the surface; inside, as old as the world or her mother. i like youth, real youth-i am young, i am young!” and, indeed, i observed that he would attach himself to some young person, often to some child, as if with cordial and special favor, yet for not more than an hour or so, never distinguishing them by the same pref- erence when he next met them. i made the remark to him, in rebuke a strange story.. of his fickleness, one evening when he had found me at work on my am- bitious book, reducing to rule and measure the laws of nature. ' it is not fickleness," said he, “it is necessity.” “necessity! explain yourself.” “ i seek to find what i have not found,” said he; “it is my necessity to seek it, and among the young; and disappointed in one, i turn to the other. necessity again. . but find it at last i must." " i suppose you mean what the young usually seek in the young; and . if, as you said the other day, you have left love behind you, you now . wander back to re-find it.” “tush! if i may judge by the talk of young fools, love may be found every day by him who looks out for it. what i seek is among the rarest of all discoveries. you might aid me to find it, and in so doing aid your- self to a knowledge far beyond all that your formal experiments can bestow.” “ prove your words, and command my services,” said i, smiling some- what disdainfully. “ you told me that you had examined into the alleged phenomena of animal magnetism, and proved some persons who pretend to the gift which the scotch call, second sight to be bungling impostors. you were right. i have seen the clairvoyants who drive their trade in this town; a com- mon gipsy could beat them in their own calling. but your experience must have shown you that there are certain temperaments in which the gift of the pythoness is stored, unknown to the possessor, undetected by the common observer; but the signs of which should be as apparent to the modern physiologist as they were to the ancient priest.” - . “i at least, as a physiologist, am ignorant of the signs -- what are they?” “i should despair of making you comprehend them by mere verbal description. i could guide your observation to distinguish them uner- ringly were living subjects before us. but not one in a million has the gift to an extent available for the purposes to which the wise would apply it. many have imperfect glimpses ; few, few indeed, the unveiled, lucent sight. they who have but the imperfect glimpses mislead and dupe the minds that consult them, because, being sometimes marvellously right, they excite a credulous belief in their general accuracy; and as they are but translators of dreams in their own brain, their assurances are no more to be trusted than are the dreams of commonplace sleepers. but where the gift exists to perfection, he who knows how to direct and to profit by it should be able to discover all that he desires to know for the guidance and preservation of his own life. he will be forewarned of every danger, a strange story. . forearmed in the means by which danger is avoided. for the eye of the true pythoness matter has no obstruction, space no confines, time no measurement." “my dear margrave, you may well say that creatures so gifted are rare; and for my part, i would as soon search for a unicorn as, to use your affected expression, for a pythoness." . i. “nevertheless, whenever there come across the course of your prac- tice some young creature to whom all the evil of the world is as yet un- known, to whom the ordinary cares and duties of the world are strange and unwelcome; who from the earliest dawn of reason has loved to sit apart and to muse; before whose eyes visions pass unsolicited; who con- verses with those who are not dwellers on the earth, and beholds in the space landscapes which the earth does not reflect —” “ margrave, margrave ! of whom do you speak?” “ whose frame, though exquisitely sensitive, has still a health and a soundness in which you recognize no disease; whose mind has a truthful- ness that you know cannot deceive you, and a simple intelligence too clear to deceive itself; who is moved to a mysterious degree by all the varying aspects of external nature – innocently joyous, or unaccountably sad; — when, i say, such a being comes across your experience, inform me; and the chances are that the true pythoness is found.” i had listened with vague terror, and with more than one exclamation of amazement, to descriptions which brought lilian ashleigh before me; and i now sat mute, bewildered, breathless, gazing upon margrave, and rejoicing that at least lilian he had never seen. he returned my own gaze steadily, searchingly, and then, breaking into a slight laugh, resumed : “ you call my word · pythoness' affected. i know of no other. my recollections of classic anecdote and history are confused and dim ; but somewhere i have read or heard that the priests of delphi were accus- tomed to travel chiefly into thrace or thessaly in search of the virgins who might fitly administer their oracles, and that the oracles gradually ceased in repute as the priests became unable to discover the organiza- tion requisite in the priestesses, and supplied by craft and imposture, or by such imperfect fragmentary developments as belong now to profes- sional clairvoyants, the gifts which nature failed to afford. indeed, the demand was one that must have rapidly exhausted so limited a supply. the constant strain upon faculties so wearing to the vital functions in their relentless exercise, under the artful stimulants by which the priests heightened their power, was mortal, and no pythoness ever retained her life more than three years from the time that her gift was elaborately trained and developed.” a strange story. “ pooh! i know of no classical authority for the details you so confi- dently cite. perhaps some such legends may be found in the alexan- drian platonists; but those mystics are no authority on such a subject. after all,” i added, recovering from my first surprise or awe, “the del- phic oracles wefe i proverbially ambiguous, and their responses might be read either way; a proof that the priests dictated the verses, though their - arts on the unhappy priestess might throw her into real convulsions, and the real convulsions, not the false gift, might shorten her life. enough of such idle subjects! yet no! one question more. if you found your pythoness, what then ?”. “ what then ? why, through her aid i might discover the process of an experiment which your practical science would assist me to com- plete.” “ tell me of what kind is your experiment; and precisely because · such little science as i possess is exclusively practical, i may assist you without the help of the pythoness.” margrave was silent for some minutes, passing his hand several times across his forehead, which was a frequent gesture of his, and then rising, he answered, in listless accents : “i cannot say more now, my brain is fatigued; and you are not yet in the right mood to hear me. by the way, how close and reserved you are with me.” “ how so ? " “ you never told me that you were engaged to be married. you leave me, who thought to have won your friendship, to hear what con- cerns you so intimately from a comparative stranger." “ who told you ? " “ that woman with eyes that pry and lips that scheme, to whose house you took me." “ mrs. poyntz! is it possible? when?" “ this afternoon. i met her in the street — she stopped me, and, after some unmeaning talk, asked if i had seen you lately ; if i did not find you very absent and distracted ; no wonder — you 'were in love. the young lady was away on a visit, and wooed by a dangerous rival.'” " wooed by a dangerous rival!” “ very'rich, good-looking, young. do you fear him? you turn pale." “i do not fear, except so far as he who loves truly, loves humbly, and fears not that another may be preferred, but that another may be wor- thier of preference than himself. but that mrs. poyntz should tell you all this does amaze me. did she mention the name of the young lady ?" “ yes; lilian ashleigh. henceforth be more frank with me. who knows? i may help you. adieu ! " a strange story. chapter xxvii. when margrave had gone i glanced at the clock — not yet nine. i resolved to go at once to mrs. poyntz. it was not an evening on which she received, but doubtless she would see me. she owed me an expla- nation. how thus carelessly divulge a secret she had been enjoined to keep ? and this rival of whom i was ignorant ? it was no longer a matter of wonder that margrave should have described lilian's peculiar idiosyn- crasies in his sketch of his fabulous pythoness. doubtless, mrs. poyntz had, with unpardonable levity of indiscretion, revealed all of which she disapproved in my choice. but for what object? was this her boasted friendship for me? was it consistent with the regard she professed for mrs. ashleigh and lilian? occupied by these perplexed and indignant thoughts, i arrived at mrs. poyntz's house, and was admitted to her pres- ence. she was fortunately alone ; her daughter and the colonel had gone to some party on the hill. i would not take the hand she held out to me on entrance ; seated myself in stern displeasure, and proceeded at once to inquire if she had really betrayed to mr. margrave the secret of my engagement to lilian. “yes, allen fenwick; i have this day told not only mr. margrave, but every person i met who is likely to tell it to some one else, the secret of your engagement to lilian ashleigh. i never promised to conceal it; on the contrary, i wrote word to anne ashleigh that i would therein act as my own judgment counselled me. i think my words to you were that * public gossip was sometimes the best security for the fulfilment of private engagements.'” - do you mean that mrs. or miss ashleigh recoils from the engage- ment with me, and that i should meanly compel them to fulfil it by call- ing in the public to censure them — if- if — oh, madam, this is worldly artifice indeed!” "be good enough to listen to me quietly. i have never yet showed you the letter to mrs. ashleigh, written by lady haughton, and deliv- ered by mr. vigors. that letter i will now show to you; but before doing so i must enter into a preliminary explanation. lady haughton is one of those women who love power, and cannot obtain it except through wealth and station - by her own intellect never obtain it. when her husband died she was reduced from an income of twelve thousand a year to a jointure of twelve hundred, but with the exclusive guardianship of a young son, a minor, and adequate allowances for the charge ; she a strange story. continued, therefore, to preside as mistress _over the establishments in town and country; still had the administration of her son's wealth and rank. she stinted his education in order to maintain her ascendency over him. he became a brainless prodigal — spendthrift alike of health and fortune. alarmed, she saw that probably he would die young and a beggar; his only hope of reform was in marriage. she reluctantly resolved to marry him to a penniless, well-born, soft-minded young lady whom she knew she could control: just before this marriage was to take place he was killed by a fall from his horse. the haughton estate passed to his cousin, the luckiest young man 'alive; the same ,ashleigh sumner who had already succeeded, in default of male issue, to poor gilbert ashleigh's landed possessions. over this young man lady haughton could expect no influence. she would be a stranger in his house. but she had a niece! mr. vigors assured her the niece was beautiful. and if the niece could become mrs. ashleigh sumner, then lady haughton would be a less unimportant nobody in the world, because she would still have her nearest relation in a somebody at haughton park. mr. vigors had his own pompous reasons for approving an alliance which he might help to bring about. the first step towards that alliance was obviously to bring into reciprocal attractions the natural charms of the young lady and the acquired merits of the young gentleman. mr. vigors could easily induce his ward to pay a visit to lady haughton, and lady haughton had only to extend her invitations to her niece; hence the letter to mrs. ashleigh, of which mr. vigors was the bearer, and hence my advice to you, of which you can now understand the mo- tive. since you thought lilian ashleigh the only woman you could love, and since i thought there were other women in the world who might do as well for ashleigh sumner, it seemed to me fair for all parties that lilian should not go to lady haughton's in ignorance of the sentiments with which she had inspired you. a girl can seldom be sure that she loves until she is sure that she is loved. and now," added mrs. poyntz, rising and walking across the room to her bureau -—"now i will show you lady haughton's invitation to mrs. ashleigh. here it is !” i ran my eye over the letter which she thrust into my hand, resuming her knitwork while i read. the letter was short, couched in conventional terms of hollow affection. the writer blamed herself for having so long neglected her brother's widow and child; her heart had been wrapped up too much in the son she had lost; that loss had made her turn to the ties of blood still left to her; she had heard much of lilian from their common friend, mr. vigors; she longed to embrace so charming a niece. then followed the invitation and the postscript. the postscript ran thus, so far as i can remember: a strange story. .. “ whatever my own grief at my irreparable bereavement, i am no egotist, i keep my sorrow to myself. you will find some pleasant guests at my house, among others our joint connection, young ashleigh sumner.” . woman's postscripts are proverbial for their significance,” said mrs. poyntz, when i had concluded the letter and laid it on the table ; " and if i did not at once show you this hypocritical effusion, it was simply because at the name ashleigh sumner its object became transparent, not perhaps to poor anne ashleigh nor to innocent lilian, but to my knowl- edge of the parties concerned, and to that shrewd intelligence which you derive partly from nature, partly from the insight into life which a true physician cannot fail to acquire. and if i know any thing of you, you would have romantically said, had you seen the letter at first, and un- derstood its covert intention, “let me not shackle the choice of the woman i love, and to whom an alliance so coveted in the eyes of the world might, if she were left free, be proffered.'” “i should not have gathered from the postscript all that you see in it, but had its purport been so suggested to me, you are right, i should have so said. well, and as mr. margrave tells me that you informed him that i have a rival, i am now to conclude that the rival is mr. ashleigh sumner?” “ has not mrs. ashleigh or lilian mentioned him in writing to you?” “yes, both ; lilián very slightly; mrs. ashleigh with some praise, as a young man of high character, and very courteous to her.” “yet, though i asked you to come and tell me who were the guests at lady haughton's you never did so." “pardon me; but of the guests i thought nothing, and letters addressed to my heart seemed to me too sacred to talk about. and ashleigh sum- ner then courts lilian! how do you know ?” “i know every thing that concerns me; and here the explanation is, simple. my aunt, lady delafield, is staying with lady haughton. . lady delafield is one of the women of fashion who shine by their own light; lady haughton shines by borrowed light, and borrows every ray she can find.” “ and lady delafield writes you word” “ that ashleigh sumner is caught by lilian's beauty.” . “ and lilian herself —”. women like lady delafield do not readily believe that any girl would refuse ashleigh sumner; considered in himself, he is steady and good-looking; considered as owner of kirby hall and haughton park, he has, in the eyes of any sensible' mother, the virtues of cato, and the beauty of antinous.” i pressed my hand to my heart-close to my heart lay a letter from a strange story. lilian - and there was no word in that letter which showed that her heart was gone from mine. i shook my head gently, and smiled in con- fiding triumph. • mrs. poyntz surveyed me with a bent brow and à compressed lip. "i understand your smile,” she said, ironically. “very likely lilian may be quite untouched by this young man's admiration, but anne ash- leigh may be dazzled by so brilliant a prospect for her daughter. and, in short, i thought it desirable to let your engagement be publicly known throughout the town to-day; that information will travel – it will reach ashleigh sumner through mr. vigors, or others in this neighborhood, with whom i know that he corresponds. it will bring affairs to a crisis, and before it may be too late. i think it well that ashleigh sumner should leave that house; if he leaves it for good so much the better. and, perhaps, the sooner lilian returns to l- the lighter your own heart will be.” “ and for those reasons you have published the secret of —" “your engagement? yes. prepare to be congratulated wherever you go. and now, if you hear either from mother or daughter, that ashleigh sumner has proposed, and been, let us say, refused, i do not doubt that in the pride of your heart you will come and tell me.” “ rely upon it, i will; but before i take my leave allow me to ask why you described to a young man like mr. margrave — whose wild and strange humors you have witnessed and not approved — any of those traits of character in miss ashleigh which distinguish her from other girls of her age ?” “i? you mistake. i said nothing to him of her character. i men- tioned her name, and said she was beautiful, that was all.” “nay, you said that she was fond of musing, of solitude; that in her fancies she believed in the reality of visions which might flit before her eyes as they flit before the eyes of all imaginative dreamers." “not a word did i say to mr. margrave of such peculiarities in lilian; not a word more than what i have told you, on my honor!” still incredulous, but disguising my incredulity with that convenient smile by which we accomplish so much of the polite dissimulation indis- pensable to the decencies of civilized life, i took my departure, returned home, and wrote to lilian. a strange story. chapter xxviii. tas conversation with mrs. poyntz left my mind restless and disqui- eted. i had no doubt, indeed, of lilian's truth; but could i be sure that the attentions of a young man with advantages of fortune so brilliant, would not force on her thoughts the contrast of the humbler lot and the duller walk of life in which she had accepted as companion a man re- moved from her romantic youth less by disparity of years than by gravity of pursuits? and would my suit now be as welcomed as it had been by a mother even so unworldly as mrs. ashleigh ? why, too, should both $ mother and daughter have left me so unprepared to hear that i had à rival? why not have implied some consoling assurance that such rivalry need not cause me alarm. lilian's letters, it is true, touched but little on any of the persons round her - they were filled with the outpourings of an ingenuous heart, colored by the glow of a golden fancy. they were written as if in the wide world we two stood apart, alone, consecrated É from the crowd by the love that, in linking us together, had hallowed each to each. but mrs. ashleigh's letters were more general and diffu- sive, detailed the habits of the household, sketched the guests, intimated continued fear of lady haughton, but had said nothing more of mr. ashleigh sumner than i had repeated to mrs. poyntz. however, in my . letter to lilian i related the intelligence that had reached me, and im- patiently i awaited her reply. three days after the interview with mrs. poyntz, and two days before the long-anticipated event of the mayor's ball, i was summoned to attend a nobleman who had lately been added to my list of patients, and whose residence was about twelve miles from - the nearest way was through sir philip derval's park. i went on horseback, and proposed to stop on the way to inquire after the steward, whom i had seen but once since his fit, and that was two days after it, when he called himself at my house to thank me for my attendance, and to declare that he was quite recovered. as i rode somewhat fast through sir p. derval's park, i came, however, upon the steward, just in front of the house. i reined in my horse and accosted him. he looked very cheerful. “ sir,” said he, in a whisper, “ i have heard from sir philip; his letter is dated since -since--my good woman told you what i saw; well, since then. so that it must have been alt a delusion of mine, as you told her. and yet, well - well - we will not talk of it, doctor. but i hope you a strange story. have kept the secret. sir philip would not like to hear of it if he comes back.” “ your secret is quite safe with me. but is sir philip likely to come back?” “i hope so, doctor. his letter is dated paris, and that's nearer home than he has been for many years; and — but bless me — some one is com- ing out of the house ? a young gentleman! who can it be ?” i looked, and to my surprise i saw margrave descending the stately stairs that led from the front door. the steward turned toward him, and i mechanically followed, for i was curious to know what had brought margrave to the house of the long-absent traveller. it was easily explained. mr. margrave had heard at l— much of the pictures and internal decorations of the mansion. he had by dint of coaxing (he said, with his enchanting laugh), persuaded the old house- keeper to show him the rooms. " it is against sir philip's positive orders to show the house to any stranger, sir; and the housekeeper has done very wrong," said the stew- ard. “pray don't scold her. i dare say sir philip would not have refused me a permission he might not give to every idle sight-seer. fellow-trar- ellers have a freemasonry with each other; and i have been much in the same far countries as himself. i heard of him there, and could tell you more about him, i dare say, than you know yourself.” “ you, sir! pray do then.” "“ the next time i come,” said margrave, gayly; and with a nod to me he glided off through the trees of the neighboring grove, along the wind- ing foot-path that led to the lodge. “a very cool gentleman,” muttered the steward; “ but what pleas- ant ways he has! you seem to know him, sir. who is he --- may i ask?” . “mr. margrave. a visitor at m , and he has been a great travel- ler, as he says; perhaps he met sir philip abroad." “i must go and hear what he said to mrs. gates; excuse me, sir, but i am so anxious about sir philip." “ if it be not too great a favor, may i be allowed the same privilege granted to mr. margrave? to judge by the outside of the house, the inside must be worth seeing; still, if it be against sir philip's positive orders —” “ his orders, were not to let the court become a show-house --- to ad- mit none without my consent; but i should be ungrateful indeed, doctor, if i refused that consent to you.” • i tied my horse to the rusty gate of the terrace walk, and followed the a strange story. . steward up the broad stairs of the terrace. the great doors were unlocked. we entered a lofty hall with a domed ceiling; at the back of the hall the grand staircase ascended by a double flight. the design was undoubt- edly vanbrugh's, an architect who, beyond all others, sought the effect of grandeur less in space than in proportion. but vanbrugh's designs need the relief of costume and movement, and the forms of a more pom- pous generation, in the bravery of velvets and laces, glancing amid those gilded columns, or descending with stately tread those broad pala- tial stairs. his halls and chambers are so made for festival and throng, that they become like deserted theatres, inexpressibly desolate, as we miss the glitter of the lamps and the movement of the actors. the housekeeper had now' appeared; a quiet, timid old woman. she exeused herself for admitting margrave, not very intelligibly. it was plain to see that she had, in truth, been unable to resist what the steward termed his “ pleasant ways.” as if to escape from a scolding, she talked volubly all the time, bus- tling nervously through the rooms, along which i followed her guidance with a hushed footstep. the principal apartments were on the ground- floor, or rather a floor raised some ten or fifteen feet above the ground; they had not been modernized since the date in which they were built. hangings of faded silk; tables of rare marble, and mouldered gilding; comfortless chairs at drill against the walls; pictures, of which connois- seurs alone could estimate the value,"darkened by dust or blistered by sun and damp, made a general character of discomfort. on not one room, on not one nook, still lingered some old smile of home. meanwhile i gathered from the housekeeper's rambling answers to ques- tions put to her by the steward, as i moved on, glancing at the pictures, that margrave's visit that day was not his first. he had been over the house twice before; his ostensible excuse that he was an amateur in pic- tures (though as i have before observed, for that department of art he had no taste); but each time he had talked much of sir philip. he said that, though not personally known to him, he had resided in the same towns abroad, and had friends equally intimate with sir philip; but when the steward inquired if the visitor had given any information as to the absentee, it became very clear that margrave had been rather asking questions than volunteering intelligence. we had now come to the end of the state apartments, the last of which was a library. “ and,” said the old woman, “i don't wonder the gentle- man knew sir philip, for he seemed a scholar, and looked very hard over the books, especially those old ones by the fire-place, which sir philip, heaven bless him, was always poring over.” mechanically i turned to the shelves by the fire-place, and examined a strange story. the volumes ranged in that department. i found they contained the works of those writers whom we may class together under the title of mystics — porphyry and plotinus ; swedenborg and behmen; sandivo- gius, van helmont, paracelsus, cardan. works, too, were there, by writers less renowned, on astrology, geomancy, chiromancy, etc. i began to understand among what class of authors margrave had picked up the strange notions with which he was apt to interpolate the doctrines of practical philosophy. " i suppose this library was sir philip's usual sitting-room ?” said i. “no, sir; he seldom sat here. this was his study;” and the old woman opened a small door, masked by false book backs. i followed her into a room of moderate size, and evidently of much earlier date than the rest of the house. “ it is the only room of an older mansion,” said the steward, in answer to my remarks. “i have heard it was left standing on account of the chimney-piece. but there is a latin inscription which will tell you all about it. i don't know latin myself,” said the steward. the chimney-piece reached to the ceiling. the frieze of the lower part rested on rude stone caryatides; in the upper part were oak panels very curiously carved in the geometrical designs favored by the taste prevalent in the reigns of elizabeth and james, but different from any i had ever seen in drawings of old houses. and i was not quite un- learned in such matters, for my poor father was a passionate antiquarian in all that relates to medieval art. the design in the oak panels was composed of triangles interlaced with varied ingenuity, and inclosed in circular bands inscribed with the signs of the zodiac on the stone frieze supported by the caryatide, immediately under the wood-work, was inserted a metal plate, on which was written, in latin, a few lines to the effect that “in this room simon forman, the seeker of hidden truth, taking refuge from unjust persecution, made those discov- eries in nature which he committed, for the benefit of a wiser age, to the charge of his protector and patron, the worshipful sir miles derval, knight.” forman! the name was not quite unfamiliar to me; but it was not without an effort that my memory enabled me to assign it to one of the most notorious of those astrologers or soothsayers whom the superstition of an earlier age alternately persecuted and honored. the general character of the room was more cheerful than the statelier chambers i had hitherto passed through, for it had still the look of habitation. the arm-chair by the fire-place; the knee-hole writing-table beside it; the sofa near the recess of a large bay-window, with book-prop and can- dlestick screwed to its back; maps, coiled in their cylinders, ranged under the cornice ; low strong safes skirting two sides of the room, and appar- a strange story. ently intended to hold papers and title deeds ; seats carefully affixed to their jealous locks. placed on the top of these old-fashioned receptacles were articles familiar to modern use; a fowling-piece here ; fishing-rods there ; two or three simple flower vases ; a pile of music-books; a box of crayons. all in this room seemed to speak of residence and owner- ship — of the idiosyncrasies of a lone single man, it is true, but of a man of one's own time - a country gentleman of plain habits but not unculti- vated tastes. i moved to the window; it opened by a sash upon a large balcony, within which a wooden stair wound to a little garden, not visible in front of the house, surrounded by a thick grove of evergreens, through which i one broad vista was cut'; and that vista was closed by a view of the mausoleum. i stepped out into the garden - a patch of sward with a fountain in the centre — and parterres, now more filled with weeds than flowers. at the left corner, was a tall wooden summer-house or pavilion ; its door wide open. “ oh, that's where sir philip used to study many a long summer's night," said the steward. “what! in that damp pavilion ?” “it was a pretty place enough then, sir; but it is very old. they say as old as the room you have just left.” “indeed, i must look at it then.” - the walls of this summer-house had once been painted in the arabesques of the rennaissance period; but the figures now were scarcely traceable. the wood-work had started in some places, and the sunbeams stole through the chinks and played on the floor, which was formed from old tiles quaintly tesselated and in tri- ; angular patterns, similar to those i had remarked in the chimney-piece. the room in the pavilion was large, furnished with old worm-eaten tables and settles. " it was not only here that sir philip studied, but sometimes in the room above,” said the steward. “how do you get to the room above? oh, i see; a staircase in the angle." i ascended the stairs with some caution, for they were crooked and decayed; and on entering the room above, comprehended at once why sir philip had favored it. the cornice of the ceiling rested on pilasters, within which the compart- ments were formed into open, unclosed arches, surrounded by a railed balcony. through these arches, on three sides of the room, the eye com- manded a magnificent extent of prospect. on the fourth side the view was bounded by the mausoleum. in this room was a large telescope, and on stepping into the balcony, i saw that a winding stair mounted a strange story. thence to a platform on the top of the pavilion - perhaps once used as an observatory by forman himself. “ the gentleman who was here to-day was very much pleased with this look-out, sir,” said the housekeeper. “who would not be ?” “i suppose sir philip has a taste for astron- omy. "i dare say, sir,” said the steward, looking grave; "he likes most out- of-the-way things." the position of the sun now warned me that my time pressed, and that i should have to ride fast to reach my new patient at the hour appointed. i therefore hastened back to my horse, and spurred on, wondering whether in that chain of association which so subtly links our pursuits in manhood to our impressions in childhood, it was the latin inscription on the chim- ney-piece that had originally biased sir philip derval's literary taste toward the mystic jargon of the books at which i had contemptuously glanced. chapter xxix. i did not see margrave the following day, but the next morning, a little after sunrise, he walked into my study, according to his ordinary habit. “ so you know something about sir philip derval ?” said i. “what sort of a man is he?” “ hateful!” cried margrave; and then checking himself, burst out into his merry laugh. “ just like my exaggerations! i am not acquainted with any thing to his prejudice. i came across his track once or twice in the east. travellers are always apt to be jealous of each other." ' . “you are a strange compound of cynicism and credulity. but i should have fancied that you and sir philip would have been congenial. spirits, when i found among his favorite books van helmont and para- celsus. perhaps you, too, study swedenborg, or, worse, still, ptolemy and lilly ? " “ astrologers ? no! they deal with the future! i live for the day, only i wish the day never had a morrow!” . “ have you not, then, that vague desire for the something beyond ; that not unhappy, but grand discontent with the limits of the immediate present, from which man takes his passion for improvement and progress, and from which some sentimental philosophers have deduced an argument in favor of his destined immortality ? " a strange story, "eh!” said margrave, with as vacant a stare as that of a peasant whom one has addressed in hebrew. “what farrago of words is this? i do not comprehend you." . “ with your natural abilities,” i asked, with interest, “ do you never feel a desire for fame?” “ fame! certainly not. i cannot even understand it !” "well, then, would you have no pleasure in the thought that you had rendered a service to humanity ?” margrave looked bewildered. after a moment's pause he took from the table a piece of bread that chanced to be there, opened the window, and threw the crumbs into the lane. the sparrows gathered round the crumbs. “now," said margrave, “ the sparrows come to that dull pavement for the bread that recruits their lives in this world ; do you believe that one sparrow would be silly enough to fly to a house-top for the sake of some benefit to other sparrows, or to be chirruped about after he was dead ? i care for science as the sparrow cares for bread; it may help me to something good for my own life, and as for fame and humanity, i care for them as a sparrow cares for the general interest and posthumous approba- tion of sparrows !” “ margrave! there is one thing in you that perplexes me more than all else — human puzzle-as you are in your many eccentricities and self- contradictions.” “ what is that one thing in me most perplexing ?” “ this; that in your enjoyment of nature you have all the freshness of a child, but when you speak of man and his objects in the world, you talk in the vein of some worn-out and hoary cynic. at such times, were i to close my eyes, i should say to myself, 'what weary old man is venting his spleen against the ambition which has failed, and the love which has forsaken him ? " outwardly the very personation of youth, and revelling like a butterfly in the warmth of the sun and the tints of the herbage, why have you none of the golden passions of the young ? their bright dreams of some impossible love -- their sublime enthusiasm for some un- attainable glory? the sentiment you have just clothed in your parable of the sparrows is too mean and too gloomy to be genuine at your age. misanthropy is among the dismal fallacies of graybeards. no man, till man's energies leave him, can divorce himself from the bonds of our social kind.” “our kind — your kind, possibly! but i —” he swept his hand over his brow, and resumed, in strange, absent, and wistful accents : “i wonder what it is that is wanting here, and of which at moments i have a dim reminiscence.” again he paused, and gazing on me, said, with * a strange story. more appearance of friendly interest than i had ever before remarked on his countenance, “ you are not looking well. despite your great physi- cal strength, you suffer like your own sickly patients.” “ true! i suffer at this moment, but not from bodily pain.” " you have some cause of mental disquietude.” “ who in this world has not?” "i never have." “because you own you have never loved ; and certainly you never seem to care for any one but yourself; and in yourself you find an un- broken sunny holiday - high spirits, youth, health, beauty, wealth. happy boy!” at that moment my heart was heavy within me. margrave resumed: “ among the secrets which your knowledge places at the command of your art, what would you give for one which would enable you to defy and deride a rival where you place your affections, which could lock to yourself and imperiously control the will of the being whom you desire to fascinate, by an influence paramount, transcendent ? ” “love has that secret,” said i," and love alone.” “a power stronger than love can suspend, can change, love itself. but if love be the object or dream of your life, love is the rosy associate of youth and beauty. beauty soon fades, youth soon departs. what if in nature were the means by which beauty and youth can be fixed into blooming duration - means that can arrest the course, nay, repair the effects, of time on the elements that make up the human frame !" “silly boy! have the rosicrucians bequeathed to you a prescription for the elixir of life ?" “if i had the prescription i should not ask your aid to discover its ingredients.” “and is it on the hope of that notable discovery you have studied chemistry, electricity, and magnetism? again i say, silly boy!” margrave did not hèed my reply. his face was overcast, gloomy, troubled. “ that the vital principle is a gas,” said he, abruptly, “i am fully con- vinced. can that gas be the one which combines caloric with oxygen?” “ phosoxygen? sir humphrey davy demonstrates that gas not to be, as lavoisier supposed, caloric, but light, combined with oxygen, and he suggests, not indeed that it is the vital principle itself, but the pabulum of life to organic beings." * "does he ?” said margrave, his face clearing up. “possibly, possibly * see sir humphrey davy on heat, light, and the combinations of light. a strange story. then, here we approach the great secret of secrets. look you, allen fen- wick, i promise to secure to you unfailing security from all the jealous fears that now torture your heart; if you care for that fame which to me is not worth the scent of a flower, the balm of a breeze. i will impart to you. a knowledge which, in the hands of ambition, would dwarf into com- monplace the boasted wonders of recognized science. i will do all this, if, in return, but for one month you will give yourself up to my guidance in whatever experiments i ask, no matter how wild they may seem to you.” “ my dear margrave, i reject your bribes as i would reject the moon and the stars which a child might offer to me in exchange for a toy. but i may give the child its toy for nothing, and i may test your experiments for nothing some day when i have leisure." ; i did not hear margrave's answer, for at that moment my servant en- tered with letters. lilian's hand! tremblingly, breathlessly, i broke the seal. such a loving, bright, happy letter; so sweet in its gentle chid- ing of my wrongful fears. it was implied rather than said that ashleigh sumner had proposed, and been refused. he had now left the house. lil- ian and her mother were coming back; in a few days we should meet. in this letter were inclosed a few lines from mrs. ashleigh. she was more ex- plicit as to my rival than lilian had been. if no allusion to his attentions had been made to me before, it was from delicate consideration for myself. mrs. ashleigh said that “the young man had heard from — of our engagement, and — disbelieved it;” but, as mrs. poyntz had so shrewdly predicted, hurried at once to the avowal of his own attachment, and the offer of his own hand. on lilian's refusal his pride had been deeply morti- fied. he had gone away manifestly in more anger than sorrow. “ lady delafield, dear margaret poyntz's aunt, had been most kind in trying to soothe lady haughton's disappointment, which was rudely expressed — so rudely,” added mrs. ashleigh, “ that it gives us an excuse to leave sooner than had been proposed — which i am very glad of. lady delafield feels much for mr. sumner; has invited him to visit her at a place she has near worthing: she leaves to-morrow in order to receive him ; promises to reconcile him to our rejection, which, as he was my poor gilbert's heir, and was very friendly at first, would be a great relief to my mind. lilian is well, and so happy at the thoughts of coming back.” when i lifted my eyes from these letters i was as a new man, and the earth seemed a new earth. i felt as if i had realized margrave's idle dreams - as if youth could never fade, love could never grow cold. “you care for no secrets of mine at this moment,” said margrave, abruptly. “ secrets," i murmured; "none now are worth knowing. i am loved - i am loved !” a strange story. “ i bide my time,” said margrave; and as my eyes met his, i saw there a look i had never seen in those eyes before — sinister, wrathful, menac- ing. he turned away, went out through the sash door of the study; and as he passed toward the fields under the luxuriant chestnut-trees, i heard his musical barbaric chant - the song by which the serpent-charmer charms the serpent; - sweet, so sweet - the very birds on the boughs hushed their carol as if to listen.“ chapter xxx. i called that day on mrs. poyntz, and communicated to her the prospect of the glad news i had received. she was still at work on the everlasting knitting, her firm fingers link- ing mesh into mesh as she listened; and when i had done, she laid her skein deliberately down, and said, in her favorite characteristic formula, “ so at last ! — that is settled !” she rose and paced the room as men are apt to do in reflection — women rarely need such movement to aid their thoughts — her eyes were fixed on the floor, and one hand was lightly pressed on the palm of the other, the gesture of a musing reasoner who is approaching the close of a diffi- cult calculation. at length she paused fronting me, and said, drily, “ accept my congratulations — life smiles on you now - guard that smile, and when we meet next may we be even firmer friends than we are now !” “when we meet next — that will be to-night — you surely go to the mayor's great ball. all the hill descends to low town to-night.” “no; we are obliged to leave l- this afternoon - in less than two hours we shall be gone — a family engagement. we may be weeks away; you will excuse me, then, if i take leave of you so unceremo niously. stay: a motherly word of caution. that friend of yours, mr. margrave! moderate your intimacy with him, and especially after you are married. there is in that stranger, of whom so little is known, a something which i cannot comprehend — a something that captivates, and yet revolts. i find him disturbing my thoughts, perplexing my con- jectures, haunting my fancies — i, plain woman of the world! lilian is imaginative: beware of her imagination, even when sure of her heart. beware of margrave. the sooner he quits l , the better, believe me, for your peace of mind. adieu, i must prepare for our journey." . a strange story. “ that woman," muttered i, on quitting her house, “ seems to have some strange spite against my poor lilian, ever seeking to rouse my own distrust of that exquisite nature which has just given me such proof of its truth. and yet — and yet - is that woman so 'wrong here? true ! margrave with his wild notions, his strange beauty!- true - true - he might dangerously encourage that turn for the mystic and visionary which distresses me in lilian. lilian should not know him. how induce him to leave l- ? ah— those experiments on which he asks my assist- ance! i might commence them when he comes again, and then invent some reason to send him for completer tests to the famous chemists of paris or berlin.” chapter xxxi. it is the night of the mayor's ball! the guests are assembling fast; county families twelve miles round have been invited, as well as the prin- cipal families of the town. all, before proceeding to the room set apart for the dance, moved in procession through the museum - homage to science before pleasure! the building was brilliantly lighted, and the effect was striking, per- haps because singular and grotesque. there, amidst stands of flowers and evergreens, lit up with colored lamps, were grouped the dead repre- sentatives of races all inferior — some deadly - to man. the fancy of the ladies had been permitted to decorate and arrange these types of the animal world. the tiger glared with glass eyes from amidst artificial reeds and herbage, as from his native jungle; the grizzly white bear peered from a mimic iceberg. there, in front, stood the sage elephant, facing a hideous hippopotamus; while an anaconda twined its long spire · round the stem of some tropical tree in zinc. in glass cases, brought into full light by festooned lamps, were dread specimens of the reptile race — scorpion and vampire, and cobra capella, with insects of gorgeous hues, not a few of them with venomed stings. but the chief boast of the collection was in the varieties of the genus simia — baboons and apes, chimpanzees, with their human visage, mock- eries of man, from the dwarf monkeys perched on boughs lopped from the mayor's shrubberies, to the formidable orang-outang leaning on his huge club. . every one expressed to the mayor delight, and to each other antipathy, for this unwonted and somewhat ghastly, though instructive addition to the revels of a ball-room. a strange story. margrave, of course, was there, and seemingly quite at home, gliding from group to group of gayly-dressed ladies, and brilliant with a childish eagerness to play off the showman. many of these grim fellow-creatures he declared he had seen, played, or fought with. he had something true or false to say about each. in his high spirits he contrived to make the tiger move, and imitated the hiss of the terrible anaconda. all that he did had its grace, its charm; and the buzz of admiration and the flat- tering glances of ladies' eyes followed him wherever he moved. however, there was a general feeling of relief when the mayor led the way from the museum into the ball-room. in provincial parties guests arrive pretty much within the same hour, and so few who had once paid their respects to the apes and serpents, the hippopotamus and the tiger, were disposed to repeat the visit, that long before eleven o'clock the museum was as free from the intrusion of human life as the wilderness in which its dead occupants had been born. i had gone my round through the rooms, and, little disposed to be so- cial, had crept into the retreat of a window-niche, pleased to think myself screened by its draperies -- not that i was melancholy, far from it — for the letter i had received that morning from lilian had raised my whole being into a sovereignty of happiness high beyond the reach of the young pleasure-hunters whose voices and laughter blended with that vul- gar music. to read her letter again i had stolen to my nook — and now, sure that none saw me kiss it, i replaced it in my bosom. i looked through the parted curtain ; the room was comparatively empty; but there, through the open folding-doors, i saw the gay crowd gathered round the dancers; and there again, at right angles, a vista along the corridor af- forded a glimpse of the great elephant in the deserted museum. presently i heard, close beside me, my host's voice... “ here's a cool corner, a pleasant sofa, you can have it all to yourself; what an honor to receive you under my roof, and on this interesting oc- casion! yes, as you say, great changes are here since you left us. so ciety is much improved. i must look about and find some persons to introduce to you. clever! oh, i know your tastes. we have a wonder- ful man--a new doctor. carries all before him-a very high character, too - good old family - greatly looked up to, even apart from his profes- sion. dogmatic a little-a sir oracle - lets no dog bark;' you remember the quotation - shakspeare. where on earth is he? my dear sir philip, i am sure you would enjoy his conversation." sir philip! could it be sir philip derval to whom the mayor was giving a flattering, yet scarcely propitiatory description of myself? curi- osity combined with a sense of propriety in not keeping myself an unsus- a strange story. pected listener: i emerged from the curtain, but silently, and reached the centre of the room before the mayor perceived me. he then came up to me eagerly, linked his arm in mine, and leading me to a gentle- man seated on a sofa close by the window i had quitted, said: “ doctor, i must present you to sir philip derval, just returned to england, and not six hours in l- if you would like to see the museum again, sir philip, the doctor, i'm sure, will accompany you.” “ no, i thank you ; it is painful to me at present to see, even under your roof, the collection which my poor dear friend, dr. lloyd, was so proudly beginning to form when i left these parts.” “ay, sir philip - dr. lloyd was a worthy man in his way, but sadly duped in his latter years: took to mesmerism, only think. but our young doctor here showed him up, i can tell you." sir philip, who had acknowledged my first introduction to his acquaint- ance by the quiet courtesy with which a well-bred man goes through a ceremony which custom enables him to endure with equal ease and indif- ference, now evinced by a slight change of manner how little the mayor's reference to my dispute with dr. lloyd advanced me in his good opin- ion. he turned away with a bow more formal than his first one, and said, calmly, "i regret to hear that a man so simple-minded and so sensitive as dr. lloyd should have provoked an encounter in which i can well conceive him to have been worsted. with your leave, mr. mayor, i will look into your ball-room. i may perhaps find there some old acquaintances.” he walked toward the dancers, and the mayor, linking his arm in mine, followed close behind, saying, in his loud, hearty tones, “come along, you too, dr. fenwick, my girls are here; you have not spoken to them yet.” sir philip who was then half-way across the room turned round abruptly, and looking me full in the face, said, “fenwick, is your name fenwick ? - allen fenwick ?" " that is my name, sir philip.” “ then permit me to shake you by the hand; you are no stranger, and no mere acquaintance to me. mr. mayor we will look into your ball- room later; do not let us keep you now from your other guests.” the mayor, not in the least offended by being thus summarily dis- missed, smiled, walked on, and was soon lost among the crowd. sir philip, still retaining my hand, reseated himself on the sofa, and i took my place by his side. ' the room was still deserted : now and then a straggler from the bah-room looked in for a moment, and then saun- tered back to the central place of attraction. a strange story. “i am trying to guess," said i, “ how my name should be known to you. possibly you may, in some visit to -the lakes, have known my father ?” “ no; i know none of your name but yourself — if, indeed, as i doubt not, you are the allen fenwick to whom i owe no small obligation. you were a medical student at edinburgh in the year * * *?" “yes." “so! at that time there was also at edinburgh a young man, named richard straban. he lodged in a fourth flat in the old town!” " i remember him very well.” " and you remember, also, that a fire broke out at night in the house in which he lodged ; that when it was discovered there seemed no hope of saving him. the flames wrapped the lower part of the house ; the staircase had given way. a boy, scarcely so old as himself, was the only human being in the crowd who dared to scale the ladder, that even then scarcely reached the windows from which the smoke rolled in volumes ; that boy penetrated into the room — found the inmate almost insensible — rallied, supported, dragged him to the window - got him on the ladder- saved his life then — and his life later, by nursing with a woman's tender- ness, through the fever caused by terror and excitement, the fellow- creature he had rescued by a man's daring. the name of that gallant student was allen fenwick, and richard strahan is my nearest living relation. are we friends now?” i answered confusedly. i had almost forgotten the circumstance referred to. richard strahan had not been one of my more intimate companions, and i had never seen nor heard of him since leaving college. i inquired what had become of him. “ he is at the scotch bar,” said sir philip, “ and of course without practice. i understand that he has fair average abilities, but no applica- tion. if i am rightly informed he is, however, a thoroughly honorable, upright man, and of an affectionate and grateful disposition.” “i can answer for all you have said in his praise. he had the qualities you name too deeply rooted in youth to have lost them now." sir philip remained for some moments in a musing silence. and i took advantage of that silence to examine him with more minute atten- tion than i had done before, much as the first sight of him had struck me. he was somewhat below the common height. so delicately formed that you might call him rather fragile than slight. but in his carriage and air there was a remarkable dignity. his countenance was at direct variance with his figure. for as delicacy was the attribute of the last, so power was unmistakably the characteristic of the first. he looked full the age his steward had ascribed to him - about forty-eight; at a super- a strange story. ficial glance, more ; for his hair was prematurely white — not gray, but white as snow. but his eyebrows were still jet black, and his eyes, equally dark, were serenely bright. his forehead was magnificent; lofty, and spacious, and with only one slight wrinkle between the brows. his complexion was sunburned, showing no sign of weak health. the out- line of his lips was that which i have often remarked in men accustomed to great dangers, and contracting in such dangers the habit of self-reliance; firm and quiet, compressed without an effort. and the power of this very noble countenance was not intimidating, not aggressive; it was mild - it was benignant. a man oppressed by some formidable tyranny, and despairing to find a protector, would, on seeing that face, have said, “ here is one who can protect me, and who will !” . sir philip was the first to break the silence. “ i have so many relations scattered over england that fortunately not one of them can venture to calculate on my property 'if i die childless, and therefore not one of them can feel himself injured when a few weeks hence he shall read in the newspapers that sir philip derval is married. but for richard strahan, at least, though i never saw him, i must do something before the newspapers make that announcement. his sister was very dear to me.” “ your neighbors, sir philip, will rejoice at your marriage, since, i presume, it may induce you to settle among them at derval court.” “at derval court ! no! i shall not settle there.” again he paused a moment or so, and then went on. “i have long lived a wandering life, and in it learned much that the wisdom of cities cannot teach. i return to my native land with a profound conviction that the happiest life is the life most in common with all. i have gone out of my way to do what i deemed good, and to avert or mitigate what appeared to me evil. i pause now and ask myself, whether the most virtuous existence be not that in which virtue flows spontaneously from the springs of quiet, every- day action; when a man does good without restlessly seeking it, does good unconsciously, simply because he is good and he lives? better, per- haps, for me if i had thought so long ago! and now i come back to england with the intention of marrying, late in life though it be, and with such hopes of happiness as any matter-of-fact man may form. but my home will not be at derval court. i shall reside either in london or its immediate neighborhood, and seek to gather round me.minds by which i can correct, if i cannot confide, the knowledge i myself have acquired.” “ nay, if, as i have accidentally heard, you are fond of scientific pur- suits, i cannot wonder that after so long an absence from england, you should feel interest in learning what new discoveries have been made, what new ideas are unfolding the germs of discoveries yet to be. but a strange story. pardon me if, in answer to your concluding remark, i venture to say that no man can hope to correct any error in his own knowledge, unless he has the courage to confide the error to those who can correct. la place has said, “ tout se tient dans la chaîne immense des vérités ;' and the mis- take we make in some science we have specially cultivated is often only to be seen by the light of a separate science as specially cultivated by another. thus, in the investigation of truth, frank exposition to conge- nial minds is essential to the earnest seeker.” “i am pleased with what you say," said sir philip, " and i shall be still more pleased to find in you the very confidant i require. but what was your controversy with my old friend dr. lloyd ? ' do i understand our host rightly, that it related to what in europe has of late days obtained the name of mesmerism?”. i had conteived a strong desire to conciliate the good opinion of a man who had treated me with so singular and so familiar a kindness, and it was sincerely that i expressed my regret at the acerbity with which i had assailed dr. lloyd ; but of his theories and pretensions i could not dis- guise my contempt. i enlarged on the extravagant fallacies involved in a fabulous clairvoyance,” which always failed when put to plain test by sober-minded examiners. i did not deny the effects of imagination on certain nervous constitutions.“ mesmerism could cure nobody; credu- lity could cure many. there was the well-known story of the old woman tried as a witch; she cured agues by a charm; she owned the impeach- ment, and was ready to endure gibbet or stake for the truth of her talis- man - more than a mesmerist would for the truth of his passes ! and the charm was a scroll of gibberish sewn in an old bag and given to the woman in a freak by the judge himself when a young scamp on the cir- cuit. but the charm cured ? certainly; just as mesmerism cures. fools believed in it. faith, that moves mountains, may well cure agues.” thus i ran on, supporting my views with anecdotes and facts, to which sir philip listened with placid gravity. when i had come to an end, he said, “ of mesmerism, as practised in europe, i know nothing, except by report. i can well understand, that medical men may hesitate to admit it among the legitimate resources of or- thodox pathology; because, as i gather from what you and others say of its practice, it must, at the best, be far too uncertain in its application to satisfy the requirements of science. yet an examination of its pretensions may enable you to perceive the truth that lies hid in the powers ascribed to witchcraft; benevolence is but a weak agency compared to malignity; magnetism perverted to evil may solve half the riddles of sorcery. on this, however, i say no more at present. but as to that which you appear to reject as the most preposterous and incredible pretension of the mes. a strange story. - merists, and which you designate by the word “ clairvoyance,' it is clear to me that you have never yourself witnessed even those very imperfect exhibitions which you decide at once to be imposture. i say imperfect, because it is only a limited number of persons whom the eye or the passes of the mesmerist can affect, and by such means, unaided by other means, it is rarely indeed that the magnetic sleep advances beyond the first vague, shadowy twilight dawn of that condition to which only in its fuller devel- opments i would apply the name of trance.' but still trance is as essen- tial a condition of being as sleep or as waking, having privileges peculiar to itself. by means within the range of the science that explores its na- ture and its laws, trance, unlike the clairvoyance you describe, is produci- ble in every human being, however unimpressible to mere mesmerism.” producible in every human being! pardon me if i say, that i will give any enchanter his own terms who will produce that effect upon me.” “will you? you consent to have the experiment tried on your- self ? » “consent most readily." “i will remember that promise. but to return to the subject. by the word trance i do not mean exclusively the spiritual trance of the alex- andrian platonists. there is one kind of trance — that to which all hu- man beings are susceptible - in which the soul has no share ; for of this kind of trance, and it was of this i spoke, some of the inferior animals are susceptible ; and, therefore, trance is no more a proof of soul than is the clairvoyance of the mesmerists, or the dream of our ordinary sleep, which last has been called a proof of soul, though any man who has kept a dog must have observed that dogs dream as vividly as we do. but in this trance there is an extraordinary cerebral activity — a projectile force given to the mind — distinct from the soul — by which it sends forth its own emanations to a distance in spite of material obstacles, just as a flower, in an altered condition of atmosphere, sends forth the particles of its aro- ma. this should not surprise you. your thought travels over land and sea in your waking state; thought, too, can travel in trance, and in trance may acquire an intensified force. there is, however, another kind of trance which is truly called spiritual, a trance much more rare, and in which the soul entirely supersedes the mere action of the mind.” “stay," said i, " you speak of the soul as something distinct from the mind. what the soul may be i cannot pretend to conjecture. but i cannot separate it from the intelligence!”. “can you not ? a blow on the brain can destroy the intelligence; do you think it can destroy the soul? it is recorded of newton, that, in the decline of his life, his mind had so worn out its functions that his own theorems had become to him unintellible. can you suppose that newton's a strange story. soul was as worn out as his mind? if you cannot distinguish mind from soul, i know not by what rational inductions you arrive at the conclusion that the soul is imperishable.” i remained silent. sir philip fixed on me his dark eyes quietly and searchingly, and after a short pause said: “ almost every known body in nature is susceptible of three several states of existence — the solid, the liquid, the æriform. these conditions depend on the quantity of heat they contain. the same object at one moment may be liquid, at the next moment solid, at the next æriform. the water that flows before your gaze may stop consolidated into ice, or ascend into air as vapor. thus is man susceptible of three states of ex- istence — the animal, the mental, the spiritual - and according as he is brought into relation or affinity with that occult agency of the whole nat- ural world, which we familiarly call heat, and which no science has yet explained; which no scale can weigh, and no eye discern; one or the other of these three states of being prevails or is subjected.” i still continued silent, for i was unwilling discourteously to say to a stranger, so much older than myself, that he seemed to me to reverse all the maxims of the philosophy to which he made pretence, in founding speculations audacious and abstruse upon unanalogous comparisons that would have been fantastic even in a poet. and sir philip, after another pause, resumed with a half smile: “ after what i have said, it will perhaps not very much surprise you when i add that but for my belief in the powers i ascribe to trance, we should not be known to each other at this moment." “how?-pray explain.” “ certain circumstances, which i trust to relate to you in detail here- after, have impoșed on me the duty to discover, and to bring human laws to bear upon, a creature armed with terrible powers of evil. this mon- ster - for, without metaphor, monster it is, not man like ourselves - bas, by arts superior to those of ordinary fugitives, however dextrous in con- cealment, hitherto for years eluded my research. through the trance of an arab child, who in her waking state never heard of his existence, i have learned that this being is in england is in l . i am here to en- counter him. i expect to do so this very night, and under this very roof." “ sir philip!” “ and if you wonder, as well you may, why i have been talking to you with this startling unreserve, know that this same arab child, on whom i thus implicitly rely, informs me that your life is mixed up with that of the being i seek to unmask and disarm - to be destroyed by his arts or his agents — or to combine in the causes by which the destroyer himself shall be brought to destruction.” a strange story. “ my life !— your arab child named me, allen fenwick?” “my arab child told me that the person in whom i should thus natur- ally seek an ally was he who had saved the life of the man whom i then meant for my heir, if i died unmarried and childless. she told me that i should not be many hours in this town, which she described minutely, before you would be made known to me. she described this house, with yonder lights and yon dancers. in her trance she saw us sitting together, as now we sit. i accepted the invitation of our host when he suddenly accosted me on entering the town, confident that i should meet you here, without even asking whether a person of your name were a resident in the place; and now you know why i have so freely unbosomed myself of much that might well make you, a physician, doubt the soundness of my understanding. the same infant, whose vision has been realized up to this moment, has warned me also that i am here at great peril. what that peril may be i have declined to learn, as i have ever declined to ask from the future what affects only my own life on this earth. that life i regard with supreme indifference, conscious that i have only to discharge, while it lasts, the duties for which it is imposed on me to the best of my imperfect power; and aware that minds the strongest and souls the pur- est may fall into the sloth habitual to predestinarians if they-suffer the actions due to the present hour to be awed and paralyzed by some grim shadow on the future! it is only where, irrespectively of aught that can menace myself, a-light not struck out of my own reason can guide me to disarm evil or minister to good, that i feel privileged to avail myself of those mirrors on which things, near and far, reflect themselves calm and distinct as the banks and the mountain peaks are reflected in the glass of a lake. here, then, under this roof, and by your side, i shall behold him who- lo! the moment has come -i behold him now !” as he spoke these last words sir philip had risen, and, startled by his action and voice, i involuntarily rose too. resting one hand on my shoulder, he pointed with the other toward the threshold of the ball-room. there, the prominent figure of a gay group- the sole male amidst a fluttering circle of silks and lawn, of flow- ery wreaths, of female loveliness, and female frippery - stood the radi- ant image of margrave. his eyes were not turned toward us. he was looking down, and his light laugh came soft, yet ringing, through the gen- eral murmur. i turned my astonished gaze back to sir philip - yes, unmistakably it was on margrave that his look was fixed. impossible to associate crime with the image of that fair youth! eccen- tric notions — fantastic speculations — vivacious egotism - defective be- nevolence - yes. but crime! no-- impossible. * a strange story. “impossible!” i said, aloud. as i spoke the group had moved on. margrave was no longer in sight. at the same moment some other guests came from the ball-room and seated themselves near us. sir philip looked round, and observing the deserted museum at the end of the corridor, drew me into it. when we were alone he said in a voice quick and low, but decided: “ it is of importance that i should convince you at once of the nature of that prodigy which is more hostile to mankind than the wolf is to the sheepfold. no words of mine could at present suffice to clear your sight from the deception which cheats it. i must enable you to judge for your- self. it must be now, and here. he will learn this night, if he has not learned already, that i am in the town. dim and confused though his memories of myself may be, they are memories still; and he well knows what cause he has to dread me. i must put another in possession of his secret. another, and at once. for all his arts will be brought to bear against me, and i cannot foretell its issue. go, then ; enter that giddy crowd - select that seeming young man - bring him hither. take care only not to mention my name; and when here, turn the key in the door, so as to prevent interruption — five minutes will suffice." “ am i sure that i guess whom you mean? the young lighted-hearted man, known in this place under the name of margrave? the young man with the radiant eyes, and the curls of a grecian statue ?” “the same; him whom i pointed out; quick, bring him hither." . my curiosity was too much roused to disobey. had i conceived that margrave, in the heat of youth, had committed some offence which placed him in danger of the law and in the power of sir philip derval, pos- sessed enough of the old borderers' black-mail loyalty to have given to the man whose hand i had familiarly clasped a hint and a help to escape. but all sir philip's talk had been so out of the reach of common sense, that i rather expected to see him confounded by some egregious illusion than margrave exposed to any well-grounded accusation. all, then, that i felt as i walked into the ball-room and approached margrave, was that curiosity which, i think, any one of my readers will acknowledge that, in my position, he himself would have felt. margrave was standing near the dancers, not joining them, but talking with a young couple in the ring. i drew him aside. “come with me for a few minutes into the museum ; i wish to talk to you.” “ what about ? 'an experiment ?” “ yes, an experiment.” “ then i am at your sevice.” in a minute more he had followed me into the desolate, dead museum. i looked round but did not see sir philip. a strange story. chapter xxxii. margrave threw himself on a seat just under the great anaconda ; Į closed and locked the door. when i had done so, my eye fell on the young man's face, and i was surprised to see that it had lost its color; that it showed great anxiety, great distress; that his hands were visibly trembling. " what is this?” he said, in feeble tones, and raising himself half from his seat as if with great effort. “help me up --- come away! something in this room is hostile to me - hostile, overpowering! what can it be ?” “ truth and my presence,"answered a stern, low voice; and sir philip derval, whose slight form the huge bulk of the dead elephant had before obscured from my view, came suddenly out from the shadow into the full rays of the lamps which lit up, as if for man's revel, that mocking tomb for the playmates of nature which he enslaves for his service or, slays for his sport. as sir philip spoke and advanced, margrave sank back into his seat, shrinking, collapsing, nerveless ; terror the most abject expressed in his staring eyes and parted lips. on the other hand, the simple dig- nity of sir philip derval's bearing, and the mild power of his countenance, were alike inconceivably heightened. a change had come over the whole man, the more impressive because wholly undefinable. halting opposite margrave, he uttered some words in a language un- known to me, and stretched one hand over the young man's head. mar- grave at once became stiff and rigid, as if turned to stone. sir philip said to me, “ place one of those lamps on the floor — there, by his feet.” i took down one of the colored lamps from the mimic tree round which the huge anaconda coiled its spires, and placed it as i was told. “ take the seat opposite to him, and watch.” i obeyed. meanwhile sir philip had drawn from his breast-pocket a small steel casket, and i observed, as he opened it, that the interior was subdivided into several compartments, each with its separate lid; from one of these he took and sprinkled over the flame of the lamp a few grains of a powder, colorless and sparkling as diamond dust; in a second or so a delicate per- fume, wholly unfamiliar to my sense, rose from the lamp. “you would test the condition of trance - test it, and in the spirit.” and as he spoke his hand rested lightly on my head. hitherto, amidst a surprise not unmixed with awe, i had preserved a certain defiance, a certain distrust. i had been, as it were, on my guard. . a strange story. but as those words were spoken, as that hand rested on my head, as that perfume arose from the lamp, all power of will deserted me. my first sensation was that of passive subjugation, but soon i was aware of a strange intoxicating effect from the odor of the lamp, round which there now played a dazzling vapor. the room swam before me. like a man oppressed by a nightmare, i tried to move, to cry out — feeling that to do so would suffice to burst the thrall that bound me; in vain. a time that seemed to me inexorably long, but which, as i found after- ward, could only have occupied a few seconds, elapsed in this preliminary state, which, however powerless, was not without a vague luxurious sense of delight. and then suddenly came pain — pain, that in rapid grada- tions passed into a rending agony. every bone, sinew, nerve, fibre of the body, seemed as if wrenched' open, and as if some hitherto unconject- ured presence in the vital organization were forcing itself to light with all the pangs of travail. the veins seemed swollen to bursting, the heart laboring to maintain its action by fierce spasms. i feel in this description how language fails me. enough that the anguish i then endured sur- passed all that i have ever experienced of physical pain. this dreadful interval subsided as suddenly as it had commenced. i felt as if a some- thing undefinable by any name had rushed from me, and in that rush that a struggle was over. i was sensible of the passive bliss which attends the release from torture, and then there grew on me a wonderful calm, and in that calm a consciousness of some lofty intelligence immeasurably be- yond that which human memory gathers from earthly knowledge. i saw before me the still rigid form of margrave, and my sight seemed with ease to penetrate through its covering of flesh and to survey the mechanism of the whole interior being. view that tenement of clay which now seems so fair, as it was when last i beheld it, three years ago, in the house of haroun of aleppo ! ” i looked, and gradually, and as shade after shade falls on the moun- tain-side, while the clouds gather, and the sun vanishes at last, so the form and face on which i looked changed from exuberant youth into infirm old age. the discolored wrinkled skin, the bleared dim eye, the flaccid muscles, the brittle, sapless bones. nor was the change that of age alone; the expression of the countenance had passed into gloomy dis- content, and in every furrow a passion or a vice had sown the seeds of grief. and the brain now opened on my sight, with all its labyrinth of cells. i seemed to have the clew to every winding in the maze. i saw therein a moral world, charred and ruined, as, in some fable i have read, the world of the moon is described to be; yet withal it was a brain of magnificent formation. the powers abused to evil had been a strange story. originally of rare order; imagination, and scope: the energies that dare ; the faculties that discover. but the moral part of the brain had failed to dominate the mental. defective veneration of what is good or great; cynical disdain of what is right and just; in fine, a great intellect first misguided, then perverted, and now falling with the decay of the body into ghastly but imposing ruins. such was the world of that brain as it had been three years ago. and still continuing to gaze thereon, i ob- served three separate emanations of light; the one of a pale red hue, the second of a pale azure, the third a silvery spark. the red light, which grew paler and paler as i looked, undulated from the brain along the arteries, the veins, the nerves. and i murmured to myself, “ is this the principle of animal life ?” the azure light equally permeated the frame, crossing and uniting with the red, but in a separate and distinct ray, exactly as in the outer world a ray of light crosses or unites with a ray of heat, though in itself a separate individual agency. and again i murmured to myself, “ is this the principle of intellectual being, directing or influencing that of animal life; with it, yet not of it?” but the silvery spark! what was that? its centre seemed the brain. but i could fix it to no single organ. nay, wherever i looked through the system, it reflected itself as a star reflects itself upon water. and i observed that while the red light was growing feebler and feebler, and the azure light was confused, irregular-now obstructed, now hurrying, now almost lost — the silvery spark was unaltered, undisturbed. so in- dependent of all which agitated and vexed the frame, that i became strangely aware that if the heart stopped its action, and the red light died out, if the brain were paralyzed, that energic mind smitten into idi- ocy, and the azure light wandering objectless as a meteor wanders over the morass, — still that silver spark would shine the same, indestructible by aught that shattered its tabernacle. and i murmured to myself, “ can that starry spark speak the presence of the soul ? does the sil- ver light shine within creatures to which no life immortal has been prom- ised by divine revelation ?” involuntarily i turned my sight toward the dead forms in the motley collection, and lo, in my trance or my vision, life returned to them all! to the elephant and the serpent; to the tiger, the vulture, the beetle, the moth; to the fish and the polypus, and to yon mockery of man in the giant ape. i seemed to see each as it lived in its native realm of earth, or of air, or of water; and the red light played, more or less warm, through the structure of each, and the azure light, though duller of hue, seemed to shoot through the red, and communicate to the creatures an intelligence a strange story. far inferior indeed to that of man, but sufficing to conduct the current of their will, and influence the cunning of their instincts. but in none, from the elephant to the moth, from the bird in which brain was the largest to the hybrid in which life seemed to live as in plants -- in none was visible the starry silver spark. i turned my eyes from the creatures around, back again to the form cowering under the huge anaconda, and in terror at the animation which the carcasses took in the awful illusions of that marvellous trance; for the tiger moved as if scenting blood, and to the eyes of the serpent the dread fascination seemed slowly return- ing. again i gazed on the starry spark in the form of the man. and i murmured to myself, “ but if this be the soul, why is it so undisturbed and undarkened by the sins which have left such trace and such ravage in the world of the brain ?" and gazing yet more intently on the spark, i became vaguely aware that it was not the soul, but the halo around the soul, as the star we see in heaven is not the star itself, but its circle of rays. and if the light itself was undisturbed and undarkened, it was because no sins done in the body could annihilate its essence, nor affect the eternity of its duration. the light was clear within the ruins of its lodgment, because it might pass away but could not be extinguished. but the soul itself, in the heart of the light, reflected back on my own soul within me its ineffable trouble, humiliation, and sorrow; for those ghastly wrecks of power placed at its sovereign command it was responsi- ble : and, appalled by its own sublime fate of duration, was about to carry into eternity the account of its mission in time. yet it seemed that while the soul was still there, though so forlorn and so guilty, even the wrecks around it were majestic. and the soul, whatever sentence it might merit, was not among the hopelessly lost. for in its remorse and its shame it might still have retained what could serve for redemption. and i saw that the mind was storming the soul in some terrible rebel- lious war - all of thought, of passion, of desire, through which the azure light poured its restless flow, were surging up round the starry spark, as in siege. and i could not comprehend the war, nor guess what it was that the mind demanded the soul to yield. only the distinction between the two was made intelligible by their antagonism. and i saw that the soul, sorely tempted, looked afar for escape from the subjects it had ever so ill controlled, and who sought to reduce to their vassal the power which had lost authority as their king. i could feel its terror in the sym- pathy of my own terror, the keenness of my own supplicating pity. i knew that it was imploring release from the perils it confessed its want of strength to encounter. and suddenly the starry spark rose from the ruins and the tumult around it - rose into space and vanished. and a strange story. where my soul had recognized the presence of soul there was a void. but the red light burned still, becoming more and more vivid ; and as it thus repaired and recruited its lustre, the whole animal form which had been so decrepit grew restored from decay, grew into vigor and youth : and i saw margrave as i had seen him in the waking world, the radiant image of animal life in the beauty of its fairest bloom. and over this rich vitality and this symmetric mechanism now reigned only, with the animal life, the mind. the starry light fled and the soul vanished, still was left visible the mind - mind, by which sensations con- vey and cumulate ideas, and muscles obey volition; mind, as in those animals that have more than the elementary instincts – mind as it might be in men, were men not immortal. as my eyes, in the vision, followed the azure light, undulating as before through the cells of the brain, and crossing the red amidst the labyrinth of the nerves, i perceived that the essence of that azure light had- undergone a change; it had lost that faculty of continuous and concentrated power by which man improves on the works of the past, and weaves schemes to be developed in the future. of remote generations; it had lost all sympathy in the past, because it had lost all conception of a future beyond the grave; it had lost con- science, it had lost remorse. the being it informed was no longer ac- countable through eternity for the employment of time. the azure light was even more vivid in certain organs useful to the conservation of exist- ence, as in those organs i had observed it more vivid among some of the inferior animals than it is in man – secretiveness, destructiveness, and the ready perception of things immediate to the wants of the day. and the azure light was brilliant in cerebral cells, where before it had been dark, such as those which harbor mirthfulness and hope, for there the light was recruited by the exuberant health of the joyous animal being. but it was lead-like, or dim, in the great social organs through which man suborns his own interest to that of his species, and utterly lost in those through which man is reminded of his duties to the throne of his maker. in that marvellous penetration with which the vision endowed me, i perceived that in this mind, though in energy far superior to many, though retaining, from memories of the former existence, the relics of a culture wide and in some things profound; though sharpened and quick- ened into formidable, if desultory, force whenever it schemed or aimed at the animal self-conservation, which now made its master-impulse or in- stinct; and though among the reminiscences of its state before its change were arts which i could not comprehend, but which i felt were dark and terrible, lending to a will never checked by remorse, arms that no health- ful philosophy has placed in the arsenal of disciplined genius; though the a strange story. mind in itself had an ally in a body as perfect in strength and elasticity as man can take from the favor of nature — still, i say, i felt that that. mind wanted the something, without which men never could found cities, frame laws, bind together, beautify, exalt the elements of this world, by creeds that habitually subject them to a reference to another. the ant, and the bee, and the beaver congregate and construct; but they do not improve. man improves because the future impels onward that which is not found in an ant, the bee, and the beaver — that which was gone from the being before me. i shrank appalled into myself, covered my face with my hands, and groaned aloud : “have i ever then doubted that the soul is distinct from mind!” a hand here again touched my forehead, the light in the lamp was extinguished, i became insensible, and when i recovered i found myself back in the room in which i had first conversed with sir philip derval, and seated, as before, on the sofa by his side. chapter xxxiii. my recollections of all which i have just attempted to describe were distinct and vivid ; except, with respect to time, it seemed to me as if many hours must have elapsed since i had entered the museum with margrave; but the clock on the mantelpiece met my eyes as i turned them wistfully round the room; and i was indeed amazed to perceive that five minutes had sufficed for all which it has taken me so long to narrate, and which in their transit had hurried me through ideas and emotions so remote from anterior experience. to my astonishment, now succeeded shame and indignation — shame that i, who had -scoffed at the possibility of the comparatively.credible influences of mesmeric action, should have been so helpless a puppet under the hand of the slight fellow-man beside me, and so morbidly im- pressed by phantasmagorical illusions; indignation that by some fumes which had special potency over the brain, i had thus been, as it were, conjured out of my senses: and, looking full into the calm face at my side, i said, with a smile to which i sought to convey disdain: “i congratulate you, sir philip derval, on having learned in your travels in the east so expert a familiarity with the tricks of its jugglers." “ the east has a proverb,"answered sir philip, quietly," that the jug- a strange story. . gler may learn much from the dervish, but the dervish can learn nothing from the juggler. you will pardon me, however, for the effect produced on you for a few minutes, whatever the cause of it may be, since it may serve to guard your whole life from calamities, to which it might other- wise have been exposed. and however you may consider that which you have just experienced to be a mere optical illusion, or the figment of a brain super-excited by the fumes of a vapor, look within yourself and tell me if you do not feel an inward and unanswerable conviction that there is more reason to shun and to fear the creature you left asleep un- der the dead jaws of the giant serpent, than there would be in the ser- pent itself could the venom return to its breath ?” i was silent, for i could not deny that that conviction had come to me. "henceforth, when you recover from the confusion or anger which now disturbs your impressions, you will be prepared to listen to my ex- planations and my recital, in a spirit far different from that with which you would have received them before you were subjected to the experi- ment, which, allow me to remind you, you invited and defied. you will now, i trust, be fitted to become my confidant and assistant - you will advise with me, how, for the sake of humanity, we should act together against the incarnate lie, the anomalous prodigy which glides through the crowd in the image of joyous beauty. for the present, i quit you. i have an engagement on worldly affairs, in the town this night. i am staying at l- , which i shall leave for derval court to-morrow even- ing. come to me there the day after to-morrow; at any hour that may suit you the best. adieu.” : here, sir philip derval rose, and left the room. i made no effort to detain him. my mind was too occupied in striving to recompose itself, and account for the phenomena that had scared it, and for the strength of the impression it still retained. i sought to find natural and accountable causes for effects so abnormal. lord bacon suggests that the ointments with which witches anointed themselves might have had the effect of stopping the pores and congest- ing the brain, and thus impressing the sleep of the unhappy dupes of their own imagination with dreams so vivid that, on waking, they were firmly convinced that they had been borne through the air to the sabbat. i remembered also having heard a distinguished french traveller- whose veracity was unquestionable--say, that he had witnessed extra- ordinary effects produced on the sensorium by certain fumigations used. by an african pretender to magic. a person, of however healthy a brain, subjected to the influence of these fumigations, was induced to believe that he saw the most frightful apparitions. however extraordinary such effects, they were not incredible — not at a strange story. variance with our notions of the known laws of nature. and to the vapor, or the odors which a powder applied to a lamp had called forth, i was, therefore, prepared to ascribe properties similar to those which bacon's conjecture ascribed to the witches' ointment, and the french traveller to the fumigations of the african conjurer. but, as i came to that conclusion, i was seized with an intense curiosity to examine for myself these chemical agencies with which sir philip der- val appeared so familiar;- to test the contents in that mysterious casket of steel. i also felt a curiosity no less eager, but more, in spite of my- self, intermingled with fear, to learn all that sir philip had to communi- cate of the past history of margrave. i could but suppose that the young man must indeed be a terrible criminal, for a person of years so grave, and station so high, to intimate accusations so vaguely dark, and to use means so extraordinary in order to enlist my imagination rather than my reason against a youth in whom there appeared none of the signs which suspicion interprets into guilt. while thus musing, i lifted my eyes and saw margrave himself there, at the threshold of the ball-room -- there, where sir philip had first pointed him out as the criminal he had come to l- to seek and dis- arm; and now, as then, margrave was the radiant centre of a joyous group; not the young boy-god, iacchus, amidst his nymphs could, in gre- - cian frieze or picture, have seemed more the type of the sportive, hilari- ous vitality of sensuous nature. he must have passed, unobserved by me, in my preoccupation of thought, from the museum and across the room in which i sat ; and now there was as little trace in that animated countenance of the terror it had exhibited at sir philip's approach, as of the change it had undergone in my trance or my phantasy. but he caught sight of me - left his young companions -- came gaily to my side.' “ did you not ask me to go with you into that museum about half an hour ago, or did i dream that i went with you ?” . “ yes; you went with me into that museum.” “ then pray what dull theme did you select, to set me asleep there ?” i looked hard at him, and made no reply. somewhat to my relief, i now heard my host's voice: - why, fenwick, what has become of sir philip derval ?” " he has left; he had business.” and, as i spoke, again i looked hard on margrave. his countenance now showed a change; not surprise, not dismay, but rather a play of the lip, a flash of the eye, that indicated complacency even triumph. ** so! sir philip derval. he is in l ; he has been here to-night sol as i expected.” a strange story. “ did you expect it ?” said our host. “no one else did. who could have told you ?” “ the movements of men so distinguished need never take us by sur- prise. i knew he was in paris the other day. natural he should come here. i was prepared for his coming.” margrave here turned away towards the window, which he threw open and looked out.. “ there is a storm in the air,” said he, as he continued to gaze into the night. was it possible that margrave was so wholly unconscious of what had passed in the museum, as to include in oblivion even the remembrance of sir philip derval's presence before he had been rendered insensible, or laid asleep? was it now only for the first time that he learned of sir philip's arrival in l , and visit to that house ? was there any inti- mation of menace in his words and his aspect ? i felt that the trouble of my heart communicated itself to my counte- nance and manner; and, longing for solitude and fresh air, i quitted the house. when i found myself in the street, i turned round and saw mar- grave still standing at the open window, but he did not appear to notice me; his eyes seemed fixed abstractedly on space. chapter xxxiv.. i walked on slowly and with the downcast head of a man absorbed in meditation. i had gained the broad place in which the main streets of the town converged, when i was overtaken by a violent storm of rain. i sought shelter under the dark archway of that entrance to the district of abbey hill which was still called monk-gate. the shadow within the arch was so deep that i was not aware that i had a companion, till i heard my own name, close at my side. i recognized the voice before i could distinguish the form of sir philip derval. “ the storm will be soon over,” said he, quietly. “i saw it coming on in time. i fear you neglected the first warning of those sable clouds, and must be already drenched.” i made no reply, but moved involuntarily away towards the mouth of the arch. “i see that you cherish a grudge against me!” resumed sir philip. “ are you then, by nature, vindictive? ” a strange story. · somewhat softened by the friendly tone of this reproach, i answered, half in jest, half in earnest, you must own, sir philip, that i have some little reason for the un- charitable anger your question imputes to me. but i can forgive you on one condition.” “ what is that?” “ the possession, for half an hour, of that mysterious steel casket which you carry about with you, and full permission to analyze and test its con- tents." “your analysis of the contents,” returned sir philip, dryly, “ would leave you as ignorant as before, of the uses to which they can be applied. but i will own to you frankly, that it is my intention to select some con- fidant among men of science, to whom i may safely communicate the wonderful properties which certain essences in that casket possess. i in- vite your acquaintance, nay, your friendship, in the hope that i may find such a confidant in you. but the casket contains other combinations, which, if wasted, could not be re-supplied; at least, by any process which the great master from whom i received them, placed within reach of my i knowledge. in this they resemble the diamond; when the chemist has found that the diamond affords no other substance by its combustion than pure carbonic acid gas, and that the only chemical difference between the costliest diamond, and a lump of pure charcoal, is a proportion of hydrogen, less than one fifty thousandth part of the weight of the sub- stance — can the chemist make you a diamond ? “ these, then, the more potent, but also the more perilous of the cas- ket's contents, shall be explored by no science, submitted to no test. they are the keys to masked doors in the ramparts of nature, which no mortal can pass through without rousing dread sentries never seen upon this side her wall. the powers they confer are secrets locked in my breast, to be lost in my.grave; as the casket which lies on my breast shall not be trans- ferred to the hands of another, till all the rest of my earthly possessions pass away with my last breath in life, and my first in eternity.” “ sir philip derval,” said i, struggling against the appeals to fancy or to awe, made in words so strange, uttered in a tone of earnest conviction, and heard amidst the glare of the lightning, the howl of the winds, and the roll of the thunder — " sir philip derval, you accost me in language which, but for my experience of the powers at your command, i should hear with the contempt that is due to the vaunts of a mountebank, or the pity we give to the morbid beliefs of his dupe. as it is, i decline the con fidence with which you would favor me, subject to the conditions which it seems you would impose. my profession abandons to quacks all drug a strange story. which may not be analyzed; all secrets which may not be fearlessly told: i cannot visit you at derval court. i cannot trust myself, voluntarily, again in the power of a man, who has arts of which i may not examine the nature, by which he can impose on my imagination, and steal away my reason." “reflect well, before you so decide,” said sir philip, with a solemnity that was stern. “if you refuse to be warned and to be armed by me, your reason and your imagination will alike be subjected to influences which i can only explain by telling you that there is truth in those im- memorial legends which depose to the existence of magic.” “magic!” “ there is magic of two kinds — the dark and evil, appertaining to witchcraft or necromancy; the pure and beneficent, which is but philoso- phy, applied to certain mysteries in nature remote from the beaten tracks of science, but, which deepened the wisdom of ancient sages, and can yet unriddle the myths of departed races.” “ sir philip,” i said, with impatient and angry interruption, “ if you think that a jargon of this kind be worthy a man of your acquirements and station, it is at least a waste of time to address it to me. i am led to conclude that you desire to make use of me for some pnrpose which i have a right to suppose honest and upright, because all you know of 'me. is, that i rendered to your relation services which cannot lower my char- acter in your eyes. if your object be, as you have intimated, to aid you in exposing and disabling a man whose antecedents have been those of guilt, and who threatens with danger the society which receives him, you must give me proofs that are not reducible to magic; and you must pre- possess me against the person you accuse, not by powders and fumes that disorder the brain, but by substantial statements, such as justify one man in condemning another. and, since you have thought fit to convince me that there are chemical means at your disposal, by which the imagina- tion can be so affected as to accept, temporarily, illusions for realities, so i again demand, and now still more decidedly than before, that while you address yourself to my reason, whether to explain your object or to vin- dicate your charges against a man whom i have admitted to my acquaint- ance, you will divest yourself of all means and agencies to warp my judg- ment, so illicit and fraudulent as those which you own yourself to possess. let the casket, with all its contents, be transferred to my hands, and pledge me your word that, in giving that casket, you reserve to yourself no other means by which chemistry can be abused to those influences over physical organization, which ignorance or imposture may ascribe to - magic." * . . a strange story. "i accept no conditions for my confidence, though i think the better of you for attempting to make them. if i live, you will seek me yourself and implore my aid. meanwhile, listen to me, and " “no; i prefer the rain and the thunder to the whispers that steal to my ear in the dark from one of whom i have reason to beware." so saying, i stepped forth, and at that moment the lightning flashed through the arch, and brought into full view the face of the man beside me. seen by that glare, it was pale as the face of a corpse, but its ex- pression was compassionate and serene. i hesitated, for the expression of that hueless countenance touched me; it was not the face which inspires distrust or fear. “come,” said i, gently; "grant my demand. the casket - " “ it is no scruple of distrust that now makes that demand; it is a curi- osity which in itself is a fearful tempter. did you now possess what at this moment you desire, how bitterly you would repent.” . “do you still refuse my demand ?” “i refuse." “ if then you really need me, it is you who will repent.” . i passed from the arch into the open space. the rain had paused, the thunder was more distant. i looked back when i had gained the opposite side of the way, at the angle of a street which led to my own house. as i did so, again the skies lightened, but the flash was comparatively slight and evanescent; it did not penetrate the gloom of the arch; it did not bring the form of sir philip into view ; but, just under the base of the outer buttress to the gateway, i descried the outline of a dark figure, cow- ering down, huddled up for shelter, the outline so indistinct and so soon lost to sight, as the flash faded, that i could not distinguish if it were man or brute. if it were some chance passer-by, who had sought refuge from the rain, and overheard any part of our strange talk," the listener," thought i, with a half smile, “must have been mightily perplexed.” chapter xxxv. on reaching my own home, i found my servant sitting up for me, with the information that my attendance was immediately required. the lit- tle boy whom margrave's carelessness had so injured, and for whose in- jury he had shown so little feeling, had been weakened by the confine- ment which the nature of the injury required, and for the last few days a strange story. che had been generally ailing. the father had come to my house a few min- utes before i reached it, in great distress of mind, saying that his child had been seized with fever; and had become delirious. hearing that i was at the mayor's house, he had hurried thither in search of me. i felt as if it were almost a relief to the troubled and haunting thoughts which tormented me, to be summoned to the exercise of a familiar knowl- edge. i hastened to the bedside of the little sufferer, and soon forgot all else in the anxious struggle for a human life. the struggle promised to be successful; the worst symptoms began to yield to remedies prompt and energetic, if simple. i remained at the house, rather to comfort and sup- port the parents, than because my continued attendance was absolutely, needed, till the night was wellnigh gone, and, all cause of immediate dan- ger having subsided, i then found myself once more in the streets. an atmosphere palely clear in the gray, of dawn had succeeded to the thun- der-clouds of the stormy night; the street lamps, here and there, burned wan and still. i was walking slowly and wearily, so tired out that i was scarcely conscious of my own thoughts, when, in a narrow lane, my feet stopped almost mechanically before a human form stretched at full length in the centre of the road, right in my path. the form was dark in the shadow thrown from the neighboring houses. “some poor drunkard," thought i, and the humanity inseparable from my calling not allowing me to leave a fellow-creature thus exposed to the risk of being run over by the first drowsy wagoner who might pass along the thoroughfare, i stooped to rouse and to lift the form. what was my horror when my eyes met the rigid stare of a dead man's. i started, looked again; it was the face of sir philip derval! he was lying on his back, the countenance up- turned, a dark stream oozing from the breast --- murdered, by two ghastly wounds — murdered not long since; the blood was still warm. stunned and terror-stricken, i stood bending over the body. suddenly i was touched on the shoulder. “ hollo! what is this?” said a gruff voice. “murder!” i answered, in hollow accents, which sounded strangely to my own ear. “murder! so it seems." and the policeman who had thus accosted me lifted the body. . “a gentleman, by his dress. how did this happen? how did you come here ?” and the policeman glanced suspiciously at me. at this moment, however, there came up another policeman, in whom i recognized the young man whose sister i had attended and cured. “dr. fenwick," said the last, lifting his hat respectfully, and at the sound of my name, his fellow-policeman changed his manner, and muttered an apology. À strange story. i now collected myself sufficiently to state the name and rank of the murdered man. the policemen bore the body to their station, to which i accompanied them. i then returned to my own house, and had searcely sunk on my bed, when sleep came over me. but what a sleep! never till then, had i known how awfully distinct dreams can be. the phan- tasmagoria of the naturalist's collection revived. life again awoke in the serpent and the tiger, the scorpion moved, and the vulture flapped its wings. and there was margrave, and there sir philip; but their posi- tion of power was reversed. and margrave's foot was on the breast of the dead man. still i slept on till' i was roused by the summons to at- tend on mr. vigors, the magistrate, to whom the police had reported the murder. i dressed hastily, and went forth. as i passed through the street, i found that the dismal news had already spread. i was accosted on my way to the magistrate by a hundred eager, tremulous, inquiring tongues. the scanty evidence i could impart was soon given. my introduction to sir philip at the mayor's house, our accidental meeting under the arch, my discovery of the corpse some hours afterwards on my return from my patient, my professional belief that the deed must have been done a very short time, perhaps but a few minutes, before i had chanced upon its vic- tim. but, in that case, how account for the long interval that had elapsed between the time in which i had left sir philip under the arch, and the time in which the murder must have been committed ? sir philip could not have been wandering through the streets all those hours. this doubt, however, was easily and speedily cleared up. a mr. jeeves, who was one of the principal solicitors in the town, stated that he had acted as sir philip's legal agent and adviser ever since sir philip came of age, and was charged with the exclusive management of some valuable house property which the deceased had possessed in ~ ; that when sir philip had arrived in the town late in the afternoon of the previous day, he had sent for mr. jeeves; informed him that he, sir philip, was engaged to be married; that he desired to have full and minute information as to the details of his house property (which had greatly increased in value since his absence from england), in connection with the settlements his marriage would render necessary; and that this information was also re- quired by him in respect to a codicil he desired to add to his will. he had, accordingly, requested mr. jeeves to have all the books and statements concerning the property ready for his inspection that night, when he would call, after leaving the ball which he had promised the mayor, whom he had accidentally met on entering the town, to attend. sir philip had also asked mr. jeeves to detain one of his clerks in his of fice, in order to serve conjointly with mr. jeeves as a witness to the codi- 'a strange story. , cil he desired to add to his will. sir philip had accordingly come to mr. jeeves's house a little before midnight; had gone carefully through all the statements prepared for him, and had executed the fresh codicil to his testament, which testament he had in their previous interview given to mr. jeeves's care, sealed up. mr. jeeves stated that sir philip, though a man of remarkable talents and great acquirements, was extremely ec- centric, and of a very peremptory temper, and that the importance at- tached to a promptitude for which there seemed no pressing occasion, did not surprise him in sir philip as it might have done in an ordinary client. sir philip said, indeed, that he should devote the next morning to the draft for his wedding settlements, according to the information of his property which he had acquired; and after a visit of very brief duration to derval court, should quit the neighborhood and return to paris, where : his intended bride then was, and in which city it had been settled that the marriage ceremony should take place. mr. jeeves had, however, observed to him, that if he were so soon to be married it was better to postpone any revision of testamentary be- quests, since after marriage he would have to make a new will alto- gether. and sir philip had simply answered,. . "life is uncertain; who can be sure of the morrow ?” sir philip's visit to mr. jeeves's house had lasted some hours, for the conversation between them had branched off from actual business to va- rious topics. mr. jeeves had not noticed the hour when sir philip went; he could only say that as he attended him to the street door, he observed, rather to his own surprise, that it was close upon daybreak. sir philip's body had been found not many yards distant from the ho- tel at which he had put up, and to which, therefore, he was evidently re- turning, when he left mr. jeeves. an old-fashioned hotel, which had been the principal one at l- when sir philip left england, though now outrivalled by the new and more central establishment, in which margrave was domiciled. the primary and natural súpposition was, that sir philip had been murdered for the sake of plunder; and this supposition was borne out by the fact to which his valet deposed : namely, that sir philip had about his person, on going to the mayor's house, a purse containing notes and sovereigns; and this purse was now miss- ing. the valet, who, though an albanian, spoke english fluently, said that the purse had a gold clasp, on which sir philip's crest and initials were engraved. sir philip's watch was, however, untaken. and, now, it was not without a quick beat of the heart, that i heard strange story. the valet declare that a steel casket, to which sir philip attached ex- traordinary value, and always carried about with him, was also missing. the albanian described this casket as of ancient byzantian workman- ship, opening with a peculiar spring, only known to sir philip, in whose possession it had been, so far as the servant knew, about three years;- when, after a visit to aleppo, in which the servant had not accompanied him, he had first observed it in his master's hands. he was asked if this casket contained articles to account for the value sir philip set on it- such as jewels, bank-notes, letters of credit, etc. the man replied that it might possibly do so ; he had never been allowed the opportunity of examining its contents; but that he was certain the casket held medicines, for he had seen sir philip take from it some small phials, by which he had performed great cures in the east, and especially during a pestilence which had visited damascus, just after sir philip had arrived at that city on quitting aleppo. almost every european traveller is supposed to be a physician; and sir philip was a man of great benevolence, and the ser- vant firmly believed him also to be of great medical skill. after this state- ment, it was very naturally and generally conjectured that sir philip was an amateur disciple of homeopathy, and that the casket contained the phials or globules in use among homeopathists. whether or not mr. vigors enjoyed a vindictive triumph in making me feel the weight of his authority, or whether his temper was ruffled in the excitement of so grave a case, i cannot say, but his manner was stern and his tone discourteous in the questions which he addressed to me. nor did the questions themselves seem very pertinent to the object of inves- tigation. “ pray, dr. fenwick,” said he, knitting his brows, and fixing his eyes on me rudely, " did sir philip derval, in his conversation with you, men- tion the steel casket which it seems he carried about with him ? ” i felt my countenance change slightly, as i answered, “ yes." ** did he tell you what it contained ? " “ he said it contained secrets." “ secrets of what nature, medicinal or chemical ? secrets which a phy- sician might be curious to learn and covetous to possess ?” this question seemed to me so offensively significant that it roused my indignation, and i answered haughtily, that “a physician of any degree of merited reputation did not much believe in, and still less covet, those secrets in his art, which were the boast of quacks and pretenders." " my question need not offend you, dr. fenwick. i put it in another shape. did sir philip derval so boast of the secrets contained in his casket, that a quack or pretender might deem such secrets of use to him?" “possibly he might, if he believed in such a boast." a strange story. • finden “humph - he might if he so believed. i have no more questions to put to you, at present, dr. fenwick.” little of any importance in connection with the deceased, or his mur- te der, transpired in the course of that day's examination and inquiries. bone the next day, a gentleman, distantly related to the young lady, to whom sir philip was engaged, and who had been for some time in cor- respondence with the deceased, arrived at l— he had been sent for pas at the suggestion of the albanian servant, who said that sir philip had stayed a day at this gentleman's house in london, on his way to i- , by mai from dover. the new comer, whose name was danvers, gave a more touching pa- thos to the horror which the murder had excited. it seemed that the inje motives which had swayed sir philip in the choice of his betrothed, were min singularly pure and noble. the young lady's father -- an intimate col- lege friend - had been visited by a sudden reverse of fortune, which had mis brought on a fever, that proved mortal. he had died some years ago, leaving his only child penniless, and had bequeathed her to the care and guardianship of sir philip. the orphan received her education at a convent near paris; and when sir philip, a few weeks since, arrived in that city from the east, he of- fered her his hand and fortune. “i know," said mr. danvers, “ from the conversation i held with him when he came to me in london, that he was induced to this offer by the conscientious desire to discharge the trust consigned to him by his old friend. sir philip was still too young to take under his own roof a female ward of eighteen, without injury to her good name. he could only get over that difficulty by making the ward his wife. she will be safer and happier with the man she will love and honor for her father's sake,' said the chivalrous gentleman, 'than she will be under any other roof i could find for her.”” and now there arrived another stranger to l- , sent for by mr. jeeves, the lawyer; - a stranger to l , but not to me; my old edin- burgh acquaintance, richard strahan. the will in mr. jeeves's keeping, with its recent codicil, was opened and read. the will itself bore date about six years anterior to the testator's tragic death; it was very short, and, with the exception of a few legacies, 'of which the most important was ten thousand pounds to his ward, the whole of his property was left to richard strahan, on the condition that he took the name and arms of derval within a year from the date of sir philip's decease. the codicil, added to the will the night before his death, increased the the legacy to the young lady from ten to thirty thou- sand pounds, and bequeathed an annuity of one hundred pounds a year to his albanian servant. accompanying the will, and within the same a strange story. envelope, was a sealed letter, addressed to richard strahan, and dated at paris two weeks before sir philip's decease. strahan brought that letter to me. it ran thus : “ richard strahan, i advise you to pull down the house called derval court, and to build another on a better site, the plans of which, to be modified according to your own taste and require- ments, will be found among my papers. this is a recommendation, not a command. but i strictly enjoin you entirely to demolish the more ancient part, which was chiefly occupied by myself, and to destroy by fire, without perusal, all the books and manuscripts found in the safes in my study. i have appointed you my sole executor, as well as my heir, because i have no personal friends in whom i can confide as i trust i may do in the man i have never seen, simply because he will bear my name and represent my lineage. there will be found in my writing-desk, which always accompanies me in my travels, an autobiographical work, a record of my own life, comprising discoveries, or hints at discovery, in science, through means little cultivated in our age. you will not be sur- prised that before selecting you as my heir and executor, from a crowd of relations not more distant, i should have made inquiries in order to justify my selection. the result of those inquiries informs me that you have not yourself the peculiar knowledge nor the habits of mind that could enable you to judge of matters which demand the attainments and the practice of science; but that you are of an honest affectionate nature, and will regard as sacred the last injunctions of a benefactor. i enjoin you, then, to submit the aforesaid manuscript memoir to some man on whose character for humanity and honor you can place confidential reli- ance, and who is accustomed to the study of the positive sciences, more especially chemistry, in connection with electricity and magnetism. my 'desire is that he shall edit and arrange this memoir for publication; and that, wherever he feels a conscientious doubt whether any discovery, or hint of discovery, therein contained, would not prove more dangerous than useful to mankind, he shall consult with any other three men of sci- ence whose names are a guarantee for probity and knowledge, and ac- cording to the best of his judgment, after such consultation, suppress or publish the passage of which he has so doubted. i own the ambition which first directed me towards studies of a very unusual character, and which has encouraged me in their pursuit through many years of volun- tary exile, in lands where they could be best facilitated or aided - the ambition of leaving behind me the renown of a bold discoverer in those recesses of nature which philosophy has hitherto abandoned to supersti- tion. but i feel, at the moment in which i trace these lines, & fear lest, in the absorbing interest of researches which tend to increase to a mar- vellous degree the power of man over all matter, animate or inanimate, i a strange story. . may have blunted my own moral perceptions; and that there may be much in the knowledge which i sought and acquired from the pure desire of investigating hidden truths, that could be more abused to purposes of tremendous evil than be likely to conduce to benignant good. and of this a mind disciplined to severe reasoning, and uninfluenced by the en- thusiasm which has probably obscured my own judgment, should be the unprejudiced arbiter. much as i have coveted and still do covet that fame which makes the memory of one man the common inheritance of all, i would infinitely rather that my name should pass away with my breath, than that i should transmit to my fellow men any portion of a knowledge which the good might forbear to exercise and the bad might unscrupu- lously pervert. i bear about with me, wherever i wander, a certain steel casket. i received this casket with its contents from a man whose mem- ory i hold in profound veneration. should i live to find a person whom, after minute and intimate trial of his character, i should deem worthy of such confidence, it is my intention to communicate to him the secret how to prepare and how to use such of the powders and essences stored within that casket as i myself have ventured to employ. others i have never tested, nor do i know how they could be re-supplied if lost or wasted. but as the contents of this casket, in the hands of any one not duly in- structed as to the mode of applying them, would either be useless, or con- duce, through inadvertent and ignorant misapplication, to the most dan- gerous consequences; so, if i die without having found, and in writing named, such a confidant as i have described above, i command you im- mediately to empty all the powders and essences found therein into any running stream of water, which will at once harmlessly dissolve them. on no account must they be cast into fire! “this letter, richard strahan, will only come under your eyes in case the plans and the hopes which i have formed for my earthly future should be frustrated by the death on which i do not calculate, but against the chances of which this will and this letter provide. i am about to re-visit england, in defiance of a warning that i shall be there subjected to some peril which i refuse to have defined, because i am unwilling that any mean apprehension of personal danger should enfeeble my nerves in the discharge of a stern and solemn duty. if i overcome that peril, you will not be my heir; my testament will be remodelled; this letter will be re- called and destroyed. i shall farm ties which promise me the happiness i have never hitherto found, though it is common to all men — the affec- tions of home, the caresses of children, among whom i may find one to whom hereafter i may bequeath, in my knowledge, a far nobler heritage than my lands. in that case, however, my first care would be to assure your own fortune. and the sum which this codicil assures to my be- a strange story. trothed, would be transferred to yourself on my wedding-day. do you know why, never having seen you, i thus select you for preference to all my other kindred? why my heart, in writing thus, warms to your image ? richard strahan, your only sister, many years older than your- self — you were then a child — was the object of my first love. we were to have been wedded, for her parents deceived me into the belief that she returned my affection. with a rare and noble candor, she herself in- formed me, that her heart was given to another, who possessed not my worldly gifts of wealth and station. in resigning my claims to her hand, i succeeded in propitiating her parents to her own choice. i obtained for her husband the living which he held, and i settled on your sister the dower which at her death passed to you as the brother to whom she had shown a mother's love, and the interest of which has secured you a mod- est independence. “if these lines ever reach you, recognize my title to reverential obedi- ence to commands which may seem to you wild, perhaps irrational; and repay, as if a debt due from your own lost sister, the affection i have borne to you for her sake.” while i read this long and strange letter, strahan sat by my side, cov- ering his face with his hands and weeping with honest tears for the man whose death had made him powerful and rich.. “ you will undertake the trust ordained to me in this letter,” said hè, struggling to compose himself. “you will read and edit this memoir; you are the very man he himself would have selected. of your honor and humanity there can be no doubt, and you have studied with success the sciences which he specifies as requisite for the discharge of the task he commands." at this request, though i could not be wholly unprepared for it, my first impulse was that of a vague terror. it seemed to me as if i were be- coming more and more entangled in a mysterious and fatal web. but this impulse soon faded in the eager yearnings of an ardent and irresist- ible curiosity. i promised to read the manuscript, and in order that i might fully im- bue my mind with the object and wish of the deceased, i asked leave to make a copy of the letter i had just read. to this strahan readily as- sented, and that copy i have transcribed in the preceding pages. i asked strahan if he had yet found the manuscript; he said, “ no, he had not yet had the heart to inspect the papers left by the deceased. he would now do so. he should go in a day or two to derval court, and reside there till the murderer was discovered, as, doubtless, he soon must be through the vigilance of the police. not till that discovery was made a strange story. should sir philip's remains, though already placed in their coffin, be con- signed to the family vault.” strahan seemed to have some "superstitious notion that the murderer hari might be more secure from justice if his victim were thrust, unavenged, into the tomb. chapter xxxvi. the belief prevalent in the town ascribed the murder of sir philip to the violence of some vulgar robber, probably not an inhabitant of l- mr. vigors did not favor that belief. he intimated an opinion seemed extravagant and groundless, that sir philip had been mullered, for the sake not of the missing purse, but of the missing casket. d as currently believed that the solemn magistrate had consulted one of his non pretended clairvoyants, and that this impostor had gulled him with assur- ances, to which he attached a credit that perverted into egregiously ab- surd directions his characteristic activity and zeal. be that as it may, the coroner's inquest closed without casting anylight on so mysterious a tragedy. what were my own conjectures i scarcely dared to admit - i certainly - could not venture to utter them. but my suspicions centred upon mar- grave. that for some reason or other he had cause to dread sir philips presence in l- was clear, even to my reason. and how could my reason reject all the influences which had been brought to bear on my imagination, whether by the scene in the museum or my conversation with the deceased ? but it was impossible to act on such suspicions — im- possible even to confide them. could i have told to any man the effect produced on me in the museum, he would have considered me a liar or a madman. and in sir philip's accusations against margrave, there was nothing tangible - nothing that could bear repetition. those accusa- tions, if analyzed, vanished into air. what did they imply?— that mar- grave was a magician, a monstrous prodigy, a creature exceptional to the ordinary conditions of humanity. would the most reckless of mortals have ventured to bring against the worst of characters such a charge, on the authority of a deceased witness, and to found on evidence so fantastic the awful accusation of murder? but of all men, certainly i-a sober, practical physician - was the last whom the public could excuse for such incredible implications — and certainly, of all men, the last against whom any suspicion of heinous crime would be readily entertained was that joyous youth in whose sunny aspect life and conscience alike seemed to shop a strange story. keep careless holiday. but i could not overcome, nor did i attempt to reason against, the horror akin to detestation, that had succeeded to the fascinating attraction by which margrave had before conciliated a liking founded rather on admiration than esteem. in order to avoid his visits i kept away from the study in which i had habitually spent my mornings, and to which he had been accustomed to so ready an access. and if he called at the front door i directed my servant to tell him that i was either from home or engaged. he did at- tempt for the first few days to visit me as before, but when my intention to shun him became thus manifest, desisted ; naturally enough, as any other man so pointedly repelled would have done. i abstained from all those houses in which i was likely to meet him; and went my professional round of visits in a close carriage; so that i might not be accosted by him in his walks. one morning, a very few days after strahan had shown me sir philip derval's letter, i received a note from my old college acquaintance, stat- ing that he was going to derval court that afternoon; that he should take with him the memoir which he had found; and begging me to visit him at his new home the next day, and commence my inspection of the mi pucript. i consented eagerly. that morning, on going my round, my carriage passed by another dray up to the pavement, and i recognized the figure of margrave standing beside the vehicle, and talking to some one seated within it. i looked back, as my-own carriage whirled rapidly by, and saw with un- easiness and alarm that it was richard strahan to whom margrave was thus familiarly addressing himself. how had the two made acquaint- ance? was it not an outrage on sir philip derval's memory, that the heir he had selected should be thus apparently intimate with the man whom he had so sternly denounced ? i became still more impatient to read the memoir - in all probability it would give such explanations with respect to margrave's antecedents, as, if not sufficing to criminate him of legal offences, would at least effectually terminate any acquaintance be- tween sir philip's successor and himself. all my thoughts were, however, diverted to channels of far deeper interest even than those in which my mind had of late been so tumultu- ously whirled along; when, on returning home, i found a note from mrs. ashleigh. she and lilian had just come back to l- , sooner than she had led me to anticipate. lilian had not seemed quite well the past day or two, and had been anxious to return. a strange story. h chapter xxxvii. . let me recall it — softly - softly! let me recall that evening spent with her!- that evening, the last before darkness rose between us like a solid wall. . it was evening, at the close of summer. the sun had set, the twilight was lingering still. we were in the old monastic garden — garden so quiet, so cool, so fragrant. she was seated on a bench under the one great cedar-tree that rose sombre in the midst of the grassy lawn, with its little paradise of flowers. i had thrown myself on the sward at her feet; her hand so confidingly lay in the clasp of mine. i see heran. how young, how fair, how innocent ! strange, strange! so inexpressibly english ; so thoroughly the sunat, ture of our sober, homely life! the pretty delicate white robe that i touch so timorously, and the ribbon-knots of blue that so well become the soft color of the fair cheek, the wavy silk of the brown hair! she is mur muring low her answer to my trembling question- po as well as when last we parted ? do you love me as well still ?" “there is no still’ written here,” said she, softly, pressing her hand to, her heart. “yesterday is as to-morrow in the forever.” “ah! lilian, if i could reply to you in words as akin to poetry as your own.” " fie ! you who affect not to care for poetry!” -" that was before you went away — before i missed you from my eyes, from my life – before i was quite conscious how precious you were to me, more precious than common words can tell! yes, there is one period in love when all men are poets, however the penury of their language may belie the luxuriance of their fancies. what would become of me if you ceased to love me?" “or of me, if you ceased to love ?" " and somehow it seems to me this evening as if my heart drew nearer to you — nearer as if for shelter.” " it is sympathy,” said she, with tremulous eagerness ; " that sort of mysterious sympathy which i have often heard you deny or deride ; for i, too, feel drawn nearer to you, as if there were a storm at hand. i was oppressed by an indescribable terror in returning home, and the moment i saw you there came a sense of protection.”. her head sank on my shoulder; we were silent some moments ; then. we both rose by the same involuntary impulse, and round her slight forir- i twined my strong arm of man. and now we are winding slow und * · a strange story. the lilacs and acacias that belt the lawn. lilian has not yet heard of the murder, which forms the one topic of the town, for all tales of violence and blood affected her as they affect a fearful child. mrs. ashleigh, therefore, had judiciously concealed from her the letters and the journals by which the dismal news had been carried to herself. i need scarcely say that the grim subject was not broached by me. in fact, my own mind escaped from the events which had of late so perplexed and tor: mented it; the tranquillity of the scene, the bliss of lilian's presence, had begun to chase away even that melancholy foreboding which had overshadowed me in the first moments of our reunion. so we came gradually to converse of the future of the day, not far distant, when we two should be as one. we planned our bridal excursion. we would visit the scenes endeared to her by song, to me by childhood - the banks and waves of my native windermere — our one brief holiday before life returned to labor, and hearts now so disquieted by hope and joy settled down to the calm serenity of home. as we thus talked, the moon, nearly rounded to her full, rose amidst skies without a cloud. we paused to gaze on her solemn haunting beauty, as where are the lovers who have not paused to gaze? we were then on the terrace walk, which commanded a view of the town beloft. before us was a parapet wall, low on the garden side, but inaccessible on the outer side, forming part of a straggling irregular street that made one of the boundaries dividing abbey hill from low town. the lamps of whe thoroughfares, in many a line and row beneath us, stretched far away, obscured, here and there, by intervening roofs and tall church towers. the hum of the city came to our ears, low and mellowed into a lulling sound. it was not displeasing to be reminded that there was a world without, as close and closer we drew each to each — worlds to one another! suddenly, there carolled forth the song of a human voice — a wild, irregular, half-savage melody - foreign, uncomprehended words - air and words not new to me. i recognized the voice and chant of mar- grave. i started, and uttered an angry exclamation. “ hush !” whispered lilian, and i felt her frame shiver within my encircling arm. “hush ! listen! yes; i have heard that voice before last night " “ last night! you were not here; you were more than a hundred miles away.” “ i heard it in a dream! hush, hush !” the song rose louder; impossible to describe its effect, in the midst of - the tranquil night, chiming over the serried roof-tops, and under the soli- tary moon. it was not like the artful song of man, for it was defective in the methodical harmony of tune ; it was not like the song of the wild a strange story. - - - bird, for it had no monotony in its sweetness : it was wandering and various as the sounds from an Æolian harp. but it affected the senses to a powerful degree, as in remote lands and in vast solitudes i have since found the note of the mocking-bird, suddenly heard, affect the listener half with delight, half with awe, as if some demon creature of the desert were mimicking man for its own merriment. the chant now had changed into an air of defying glee, of menacing exultation ; it might have been the triumphant war-song of some antique barbarian tribe. the note was •sinister ; a shudder passed through me, and lilian had closed her eyes, and was sighing heavily; then with a rapid change, sweet as the coo with which an arab mother lulls her babe to sleep, the melody died away. “ there, there, look," murmured lilian, moving from me, “ the same i saw last night in sleep; the same i saw in the space above, on the even- ing i first knew you !". · her eyes were fixed — her hand raised; my looks followed hers, and rested on the face and form of margrave. the moon shone full upon him, so full as if concentrating all its light upon his image. the place on which he stood (arbalcony to the upper story of a house about fifty yards distant) was considerably above the level of the terrace from which we gazed on him. his arms were folded on his breast, and he appeared to be looking straight towards us. ' even at that distance the lustrous youth of his countenance appeared to me terribly distinct, and the light of his wondrous eye seemed to rest on us in one lengthened, steady ray through the limpid moonshine. involuntarily i seized lilian's hand, and drew her away almost by force, for she was unwilling to move, and as i led her back, she turned her head to look round; i, too, turned in jealous rage! i breathed more freely. margrave had disappeared. “how came he there? it is not his hotel. whose house is it?" i said aloud, though speaking to myself. lilian remained silent; her eyes fixed upon the ground as if in deep reverie. i took her hand; it did not return my pressure. i felt cut to the heart when she drew coldly from me that hand, till then so frankly cordial. i stopped short: “lilian, what is this ? you are chilled towards me. can the mere sound of that man's voice, the mere glimpse of that man's face, have — ” i paused; i did not dare to complete my question. lilian lifted her eyes to mine, and i saw at once in those eyes a change. their look was cold; not haughty, but abstracted. “i do not understand you,” she said, in a weary, listless accent. “it is growing late; i must go in." so we walked on moodily, no longer arm in arm, nor hand in hand. then, it occurred to me that, the next day, lilian would be in that nar- row world of society; that there she could scarcely fail to hear of mar- a strange story. grave, to meet, to know him. jealously seized me with all its imaginary terrors, and amidst that jealousy a nobler, purer apprehension for herself. had i been lilian's brother instead of her betrothed, i should not have trembled less to foresee the shadow of margrave's mysterious influence passing over a mind so predisposed to the charm which mystery itself has for those whose thoughts fuse their outlines in fancies ; — whose world melts away into dreamland. therefore i spoke. " lilian, at the risk of offending you - alas! i have never done so before this night-i must address to you a prayer which i implore you not to regard as the dictate of a suspicion unworthy you and myself. the person whom you have just heard and seen is, at present, much courted in the circles of this town. i entreat you not to permit any one to intro- duce him to you. i entreat you not to know him. i cannot tell you all my reasons for this petition ; enough that i pledge you my honor that those reasons are grave. trust, then, in my truth as i trust in yours. be assured that i stretch not the rights which your heart has bestowed upon mine in the promise i ask, as i shall be freed from all fear by a promise which i know will be sacred when once it is given.” “what promise ?” asked lilian, absently, as if she had not heard my words. “ what promise ? why, to refuse all acquaintance with that man; his name is margrave. promise me, dearest, promise me." " why is your voice so changed ?” said lilian. “it's tone jars on my ear,” she added, with a peevishness so unlike her, that it startled me more than it offended ; and, withỐut a word further, she quickened her pace and entered the house. for the rest of the evening we were both taciturn and distant towards each other. in vain mrs. ashleigh kindly sought to break down our mutual reserve. i felt that i had the right to be resentful, and i clung to that right the more because lilian made no attempt at reconciliation. this, too, was wholly unlike herself, for her temper was ordinarily sweet - sweet to the extreme of meekness; saddened if the slightest misunder- standing between us had ever vexed me, and yearning to ask forgiveness if a look or a word had pained me. i was in hopes that, before i went away, peace between us would be restored. but long ere her usual hour for retiring to rest, she rose abruptly, and complaining of fatigue and headache, wished me good night, and avoided the hand i sorrowfully. held out to her as i opened the door. “ you must have been very unkind to poor lilian,” said mrs. ashleigh, between jest and earnest, "for i never saw her so cross to you before. and the first day of her return, too!” “ the fault is not mine," said i, somewhat sullenly; “ i did but ask heart is a strange story. , lilian, and that as a humble prayer, not to make the acquaintance of a stranger in this town against whom i have reasons for distrust and aver- sion. i know not why that prayer should displease her.” “ nor i. who is the stranger?” “ a person who calls himself margrave. . let me at least entreat you to avoid him ? " - " oh, i have no desire to make acquaintance with strangers. but, now lilian is gone, do tell me all about this dreadful murder ? the servants are full of it, and i cannot keep it long concealed from lilian. i was in hopes that you would have broken it to her.” i rose impatiently; i could not bear to talk thus of an event the trag- edy of which was associated in my mind with circumstances so mysterious. i became agitated and even angry when mrs. ashleigh persisted in ram- bling woman-like inquiries — “whº was suspected of the deed ? who did i think had committed it? what sort of a man was sir philip? what was that strange story about a casket ?” breaking from such interrogations, to which i could give but abrupt and evasive answers, i seized my hat, and took my departure. a s, chapter xxxviii. letter from allen fenwick to lilian ashleigh. “ i have promised to go to derval court to-day, and shall not return till to-morrow. i cannot bear the thought that so many hours should pass away with one feeling less kind than usual resting like a cloud upon you and me. lilian, if i offended you, forgive me? send me one line to say so ? — one line which i can place next to my heart and cover with grateful kisses till we meet again ?" reply. “ i scarcely know what you mean, nor do i quite understand my own state of mind at this moment. it cannot be that i love you less — and yet — but i will not write more now. i feel glad that we shall not meet for the next day or so, and then i hope to be quite recovered. i am not well at this moment. do not ask me to forgive you - but if it is i who am in fault — forgive me, oh, forgive me, allen.” and with this unsatisfactory note --- not worn next my heart, not cov- ered with kisses, but thrust crumbled into my desk like a creditor's un- a strange story. . welcome bill — i aung myself on my horse and rode to derval court. i was naturally proud; my pride came now to my aid. i felt bitterly indignant against lilian, so indignant that i resolved on my return to say to her, “ if in those words, ' and yet,' you implied a doubt whether you loved me less, i cancel your vows, i give you back your freedom.” and i could have passed from her threshold with a firm foot, though with the certainty that i should never smile again. does her note seem to you who may read these pages to justify such resentment? perhaps not. but there is an atmosphere in the letters of the one we love, which we alone — we who love — can feel, and in the 'atmosphere of that letter i felt the chill of the coming winter. - i reached the park lodge of derval court late in the day. i had occa- sion to visit some patients whose houses lay scattered many miles apart, and for that reason, as well as from the desire of some quick bodily exer- cise which is so natural an effect of irritable perturbation of mind, i had made the journey on horseback instead of using a carriage, that i could not have got through the lanes and field-paths by which alone the work set to myself could be accomplished in time.. just as i had entered the park, an uneasy thought seized hold of me with the strength which is ascribed to presentiments. i had passed through my study (which has been so elaborately described) to my stables, as i generally did when i wanted my saddle-horse, and, in so doing, had, doubtless, left open the gate to the iron palisade, and, proba- bly, the window of the study itself. i had been in this careless habit for several years, without ever once having cause for self-reproach. as i before said, there was nothing in my study to tempt a thief; the study shut out from the body of the house, and the servant sure at nightfall both to close the window and lock the gate; yet now, for the first time, i felt an impulse, urgent, keen, and disquieting, to ride back to the town and see those precautions taken. i could not guess why, but something whis- pered to me that my neglect had exposed me to some great danger. i even checked my horse and looked at my watch; too late! - already just on the stroke of strahan's dinner-hour as fixed in his note; my horse, too, was fatigued and spent; besides, what folly! what bearded man can believe in the warnings of a "presentiment.” i pushed on, and soon halted before the old-fashioned flight of stairs that led up to the ball. here i was accosted by the old steward; he had just descended the stairs, and, as i dismounted, he thrust his arm into mine unceremoniously, and drew me a little aside. “ doctor, i was right; it was his ghost that i saw by the iron door of the mausoleum. i saw it again at the same place last night, but i had no fit then. justice on his murderer! blood for blood ! ” a strange story. "ay!” said i, sternly; for if i suspected margrave before, i felt con- vinced now that the inexpiable deed was his. wherefore convinced ? simply because i now hated him more, and hate is so easily convinced ! “ lilian ! lilian!” i murmured to myself that name; the flame of my bate was fed by my jealousy. “ay!” said i, sternly, “ murder will out.” “what are the police about ?” said the old man, querulously; “ days pass on days, and no nearer the truth. but what does the new owner care ? he has the rents and acres; what does he care for the dead? i will never serve another master. i have just told mr. strahan so. how do i know whether he did not do the deed! who else had an interest in it." “ hush, hush !” i cried ; “ you do not know what you say so wildly." • the old man stared at me, shook his head, released my arm, and strode away. · a laboring man came out of the garden, and having unbuckled the saddle-bags, which contained the few things required for so short a visit, i consigned my horse to his care, and ascended the perron. the old in telo housekeeper met me in the hall, conducted me up the great staircase, showed me into a bedroom prepared for me, and told me that mr. strahan was already waiting dinner for me. i should find him in the study. i, hastened to join him. he began apologizing, very unnecessarily, for the state of his establishment. he had, as yet, engaged no new servants. the housekeeper, with the help of a housemaid, did all the work. - richard straban at college had been as little distinguishable from other young men as a youth neither rich nor poor, neither clever nor stupid, neither handsome nor ugly, neither audacious sinner nor formal saint, . possibly could be. yet, to those who understood him well, he was not without some of.. those moral qualities by which a youth of mediocre intellect often matures into a superior man. he was, as sir philip had been rightly informed, thoroughly honest and upright. but with a strong sense of duty, there was also a certain latent hardness. he was not indulgent. he had outward frankness with acquaintances, but was easily roused to suspicion. he had much of the thriftiness and self-denial of the north countryman, and i have no doubt that he had lived with calm content and systematic economy on an income which made him, as a bachelor, independent of his nominal profes- sion, but would not have sufficed, in itself, for the fitting maintenance of a wife and family. he was, therefore, still single. . it seemed to me, even during the few minutes in which we conversed before dinner was announced, that his character showed a new phase with his new fortunes. he talked in a grandiose style of the duties of · a strange story. . station and the woes of wealth. he seemed to be very much afraid of spending, and still more appalled at the idea of being cheated. his tem- per, too, was ruffled; the steward had given him notice to quit. mr. jeeves, who had spent the morning with him, had said the steward would be a great loss, and a steward, at once sharp and honest, was not to be easily found. what trifles can embitter the possession of great goods! strahan had taken a fancy to the old house; it was conformable to his notiohs, both of comfort and pomp, and sir philip had expressed a desire that the old house should be pulled down. strahan had inspected the plans for the new mansion to which sir philip had referred, and the plans did not please him; on the contrary, they terrified. “jeeves says that i could not build such a house under seventy or eighty thousand pounds, and then it will require twice the establishment which will suffice for this. i shall be ruined,” cried the man who had just come into possession of at least twelve thousand a year. “ sir philip did not enjoin you to pull down the old house; he only advised you to do so. perhaps he thought the site less healthy than that which he proposes for a new building, or was aware of some other draw- · back to the house, which you may discover later. wait a little and see before deciding.” “but, at all events, i suppose i must pull down this curious old room- the nicest part of the whole house !” · strahan, as he spoke, looked wistfully round at the quaint oak chimney- piece; the carved ceiling; the well-built solid walls, with the large mul- lion casement, opening so pleasantly on the sequestered gardens. he had ensconced himself in sir philip's study, the chamber in which the once famous mystic, forman, had found a refuge. “ so cozy a room for a single man!” sighed strahan. “near the stables and dog-kennels, too! but i suppose i must pull it down. i am not bound to do so legally; it is no condition of the will. but in honor and gratitude i ought not to disobey poor sir philip's positive injunc- tion." “of that,” said i, gravely, “ there cannot be a doubt." here our conversation was interrupted by mrs. gates, who informed us that dinner was served in the library. wine of great age was brought from the long-neglected cellars; strahan filled and refilled his glass, and, warmed into hilarity, began to talk of bringing old college friends around him in the winter season, and making the roof-tree ring with laughter and song once more. time wore away, and night had long set in, when strahan at last rose from the table, his speech thick and his tongue unsteady, we returned . a strange story. to the study, and i reminded my host of the special object of my visit to him, namely, the inspection of sir philip's manuscript. " it is tough reading,” said strahan; “ better put it off till tomorrow. you will stay here two or three days.” “ no; i must return to l- to-morrow. i cannot absent myself from my patients. and it is the more desirable that no time should be lost before examining the contents of the manuscript, because probably they may give some clue to the detection of the murderer.” “ why do you think that ? ” cried strahan, startled from the drowsiness that was creeping over him. “ because the manuscript may show that sir philip had some enemy - and who but an enemy could have had a motive for such a crime? come, bring forth the book. you of all men are bound to be alert in every research that may guide the retribution of justice to the assassin of your benefactor.” “ yes, yes. i will offer a reward of five thousand pounds for the dis- covery. allen, that wretched old steward had the insolence to tell me that i was the only man in the world who could have an interest in the death of his master; and he looked at me as if he thought that i had com": mitted the crime. you are right, it becomes me, of all men, to be alert. * the assassin must be found. he must hang." while thus speaking, strahan had risen, unlocked a desk which stood on one of the safes, and drawn forth a thick volume, the contents of which were protected by a clasp and lock. strahan proceeded to open this lock by one of a bunch of keys, which he said had been found on sir philip's person. “ there, allen, this is the memoir, i need not tell you what store. i place on it; not, between you and me, that i expect it will warrant poor sir philip's high opinion of his own scientific discoveries. that part of his letter seems to me very queer, and very flighty. but he evidently set his heart on the publication of his work, in part if not in whole. and, is naturally, i must desire to comply with a wish so distinctly intimated by one to whom i owe so much. i beg you, therefore, not to be too fastidi-'. ous. some valuable hints in medicine, i have reason to believe, the man- uscript will contain, and those may help you in your profession, allen.”, “ you have reason to believe! why?”. “oh, a charming young fellow, who, with most of the other gentry res- ident at l- , called on me at my hotel, told me that he had travelled in the east, and had there heard much of sir philip's knowedge of chem- istry, and the cures it had enabled him to perform.” - “ you speak of mr. margrave. he called on you?” " yes." a strange story. “ you did not, i trust, mention to him the existence of sir philips manuscript." “ indeed i did; and i said you had promised to examine it. he seemed delighted at that, and spoke most highly of your peculiar fitness for the task.” “give me the manuscript,” said i abruptly, “and, after i have looked at it to-night, i may have something to say to you to-morrow in reference to mr. margrave." “ there is the book,” said strahan; “i have just glanced åt it, and find much of it written in latin; and i am ashamed to say that i have so neglected the little latin i learned in our college days, that i could not construe what i looked at.” i sat down and placed the book before me; strahan fell into a doze, from which he was wakened by the housekeeper, who brought in the tea- things. “ well,” said strahan, languidly, “ do you find much in the book that explains the many puzzling riddles in poor sir philip's eccentric life and pursuits ? " .: yes,” said i. do not interrupt me.” . strahan again began to doze, and the housekeeper asked if we should want any thing more that night, and if i thought i could find my way to my bedroom. i dismissed her impatiently, and continued to read. . . strahan woke up again as the clock struck eleven, and finding me still absorbed in the manuscript, and disinclined to converse, lighted his can- dle, and telling me to replace the manuscript in the desk when i had done with it, and be sure to lock the desk and take charge of the key, which he took off the bunch and gave me, went up stairs, yawning. i was alone, in the wizard forman’s chamber, and bending over a stranger record than had ever excited my infant wonder, or, in later years, provoked my sceptic smile. chapter xxxix. the manuscript was written in a small and peculiar handwriting, which, though evidently by the same person whose letter to strahan i had read, was, whether from haste or some imperfection in the ink, much more hard to decipher. those parts of the memoir which related to experiments, . a strange story. or alleged secrets in nature, that the writer intimated a desire to submit exclusively to scholars or men of science, were in latin — and latin which, though grammatically correct, was frequently obscure. but all that detained the eye and attention on the page, necessarily served to impress the contents more deeply on remembrance. the narrative commenced with the writer's sketch of his childhood. both his parents had died before he attained his seventh year. the orphan had been sent by his guardians to a private school, and his holi- days had been passed at derval court. here, his earliest reminiscences were those of the quaint old room, in which i now sat, and of his childish wonder at the inscription on the chimney-piece — who, and what was the simon forman who had there found a refuge from persecution ? of what nature were the studies he had cultivated, and the discoveries he boasted to have made ? when he was about sixteen, philip derval had begun to read the many mystic books which the library contained; but without other result on his mind than the sentiment of disappointment and disgust. the im- pressions produced on the credulous imagination of childhood vanished. he went to the university; was sent abroad to travel: and on his return took that place in the circles of london which is so readily conceded to a young idler of birth and fortune. he passed quickly over that period of his life, as one of extravagance and dissipation, from which he was first drawn by the attachment for his cousin to which his letter to strahan referred. disappointed in the hopes which that affection had conceived, . and bis fortune impaired, partly by some years of reckless profusion, and . partly by the pecuniary sacrifices at which he had effected his cousin's marriage with another, he retired to derval court, to live there in soli- tude and seclusion. on searching for some old title-deeds required for a mortgage, he chanced upon a collection of manuscripts much discolored and, in part, eaten away by moth or damp. these, on examination, proved to be the writings of forman. some of them were astrological observations and predictions; some were upon the nature of the cabala ; some upon the invocations of spirits and the magic of the dark ages. all had a certain interest, for they were interspersed with personal remarks, anecdotes of eminent actors in a very stirring time, and were composed as colloquies, in imitation of erasmus; the second person in the dialogue being sir miles derval, the patron and pupil; the first person being forman, the philosopher and expounder. but along with these shadowy lucubrations were treatises of a more uncommon and a more startling character; discussions on various occult laws of nature, and detailed accounts of analytical experiments. these opened a new, and what seemed to sir philip a practical, field of inquiry a strange story. - a true border land between natural science and imaginative specula- tion. sir philip had cultivated philosophical science at the university; he resumed the study, and tested himself the truth of various experiments suggested by forman. some, to his surprise, proved successful — some wholly failed. these lucubrations first tempted the writer of the memoir towards the studies in which the remainder of his life had been consumed. but he spoke of the lucubrations themselves as valuable only where sug- gestive of some truths which forman had accidentally approached, with- out being aware of their true nature and importance. they were debased by absurd puerilities, and vitiated by the vain and presumptuous ignor- ance which characterized the astrology of the middle ages. for these reasons the writer intimated his intention (if he lived to return to eng- land) to destroy forman's manuscripts, together with sundry other books, and a few commentaries of his own upon studies which had for a while misled him — all now deposited in the safes of the room in which i sat. after some years passed in the retirement of derval court, sir philip was seized with the desire to travel, and the taste he had imbibed for oc- cult studies led him toward those eastern lands in which they took their origin, and still retain their professors. several pages of the manuscript were now occupied with minute state- ments of the writer's earlier disappointment in the objects of his singular research. the so-called magicians, accessible to the curiosity of euro- pean travellers, were either but ingenious jugglers, or produced effects & that perplexed him by practices they had mechanically learned, but of the rationale of which they were as ignorant as himself. it was not till he had resided some considerable time in the east, and acquired a famil- iar knowledge of its current languages and the social habits of its various populations, that he became acquainted with men in whom he recognized earnest cultivators of the lore which tradition ascribes to the colleges and priesthoods of the ancient world; men generally living remote, from others, and seldom to be bribed by money to exhibit their marvels or di- vulge their secrets. in his intercourse with these sages, sir philip arrived at the conviction that there does exist an art of magic, distinct from the guile of the conjurer, and applying to certain latent powers and affinities in nature a philosophy akin to that which we receive in our acknowledged schools, inasmuch as it is equally based upon experiment, and produces from definite causes definite results. in support of this startling proposi- tion, sir philip now devoted more than half his volume to the details of various experiments, to the process and result of which he pledged his guarantee as the actual operator. as most of these alleged experiments appeared to me wholly incredible, and as all of them were unfamiliar to my practical experience, and could only be verified or falsified by tests À strange story. . that would require no inconsiderable amount of time and care, i passed, with little heed, over the pages in which they were set forth. i was im- patient to arrive at that part of the manuscript which might throw light on the mystery in which my interest was the keenest. what were the links which connected the existence of margrave with the history of sir philip derval ? thus hurrying on page after page, i suddenly, toward the end of the volume, came upon the name that arrested my attention - haroun of aleppo. he who has read the words addressed to me in my trance may well conceive the thrill that shot through my heart when i came upon that name, and will readily understand how much more vividly my memory retains that part of the manuscript to which i now proceed than all which had gone before. “ it was,” wrote sir philip, “ in an obscure suburb of aleppo that i at length met with the wonderful man from whom i have acquired a knowledge immeasurably more profound and occult than that which may be tested in the experiments to which i have devoted so large a share of this me- moir. haroun of aleppo had, indeed, mastered every secret in nature which the nobler, or theurgic, magic seeks to fathom. “he had discovered the great principle of life, which had hitherto baffled the subtlest anatomist :- provided only that the great organs were not irreparably destroyed, there was no disease that he could not cure; no decrepitude to which he could not restore vigor; yet his science was based on the same theory as that espoused by the best professional prac- titioners of medicine - namely, that the true art of healing is to assist nature to throw off the disease — to summon, as it were, the whole sys- tem to eject the enemy that has fastened on a part. and thus his pro- cesses, though occasionally varying in the means employed, all combined in this —- namely, the reinvigorating and recruiting of the principle of life.” no one knew the birth or origin of haroun ; no one knew his age. in outward appearance he was in the strength and prime of mature man- hood. but, according to testimonies in which the writer of the memoir expressed a belief that, i need scarcely say, appeared to me egregiously credulous, haroun's existence under the same name, and known by the same repute, could be traced back to more than a hundred years. he told sir philip that he had thrice renewed his own life, and had resolved to do so no more - he had grown weary of living on. with all his gifts, haroun owned himself to be consumed by a profound melancholy. he complained that there was nothing new to him under the sun; he said that, while he had at his command unlimited wealth, wealth had ceased to bestow enjoyment; and he preferred living as simply as a peasant: he had tired out all the affections and all the passions of the human heart; * a strange story. he was in the universe as in a solitude. in a word, haroun would often repeat, with mournful solemnity, “ the soul is not meant to inhabit this earth, and in feshly tabernacle, for more than the period usually assigned to mortals; and when by art in repairing the walls of the body, we so retain it, the soul repines, becomes inert or dejected.” “ he only,” said haroun,“ would feel continued joy in continued existence who could pre- serve in perfection the sensual part of man, with such mind or reason as may be independent of the spiritual essence; but whom soul itself has quitted! man, in short, as the grandest of the animals, but without the sublime discontent of earth, which is the peculiar attribute of soul.” e one evening sir philip was surprised to find at haroun's house another european. he paused in his narrative to describe this man. he said to that for three or four years previously he had heard frequent mention, amongst the cultivators of magic, of an orientalized englishman engaged in researches similar to his own, and to whom was ascribed a terrible : te knowledge in those branches of the art which, even in the east, are con- demned as instrumental to evil. sir philip here distinguished at length, as he had so briefly distinguished in his conversation with me, between the two kinds of magic — that which he alleged to be as pure from sin as any other species of experimental knowledge, and that by which the agencies of witchcraft are invoked for the purposes of guilt. the englishman, to whom the culture of this latter and darker kind of magic was ascribed, sir philip derval had never hitherto come across. he now met him at the house of haroun ; decrepit, emaciated, bowed down with infirmities, and racked with pain. though little more than sixty, his aspect was that of extreme old age, but still on his face there were seen the ruins of a once singular beauty; and still, in his mind, there was a force that contrasted the decay of the body. sir philip had never met with an intellect more powerful and more corrupt. the sono of a notorious usurer, heir to immense wealth, and endowed with the talents which justify ambition, he had entered upon life burdened with the odium of his father's name. a duel, to which he had been provoked by an ungenerous taunt on his origin, but in which a temperament fiercely vindictive had led him to violate the usages prescribed by the social laws that regulate such encounters, had subjected him to a trial in which he escaped conviction, either by a flaw in the technicalities of legal proced- ure, or by the compassion of the jury; but the moral presumptions against him were sufficiently strong to set an indelible brand on his honor, and an insurmountable barrier to the hopes which his early ambition had con- ceived. after this trial he had quitted his country to return to it no more. thenceforth, much of his life had been passed out of sight-or con- jecture of civilized men, in remote regions and amongst barbarous tribes. te ab a case till mi klie en love a strange story. in . at intervals, however, he had reappeared in european capitals; shunned by and shunning his equals, surrounded by parasites, amongst whom were always to be found men of considerable learning, whom avarice or pov- subjected to the influences of his wealth. for the last nine or ten years he had settled in persia, purchased extensive lands, maintained the retinue, and exercised more than the power, of an oriental prince. such was the man who, prematurely worn out, and assured by physicians that he had not six weeks of life, had come to aleppo with the gaudy escort of an eastern satrap, had caused himself to be borne in his litter to the mud-hut of haroun the sage, and now called on the magician, in whose art was his last hope, to reprieve him from the grave. he turned round to sir philip when the latter entered the room, and exclaimed in english, “ i am here because you are. your intimacy with this man was known to me. i took your character as the guarantee of his own. tell me that i am no credulous dupe. tell him that i, louis grayle, am no needy petitioner. tell me of his wisdom; assure him of my wealth.” sir philip looked inquiringly at haroun, who remained seated on his carpet in profound silence. " what is it you ask of haroun ?” “ to live on --- to live on. for every year of life he can give me, i will load these floors with gold.” “ gold will not tempt haroun." “ what will ?” “ ask him yourself; you speak his language.” -“i have asked him ; he vouchsafes me no answer.” haroun here suddenly roused himself as from a reverie. he drew from under his robe a small phial, from which he let fall a single drop into a cup of water, and said, “ drink this. send to me to-morrow for such medicaments as i may prescribe. return hither yourself in three days; not before ! ” when grayle was gone, sir philip, moved to pity, asked haroun if, indeed, it were within the compass of his art to preserve life in a frame that appeared so thoroughly exhausted. haroun answered, “ a fever may so waste the lamp of life that one ruder gust of air could extinguish the flame, yet the sick man recovers. this sick's man's existence has been one long fever; this sick man can recover.” “ you will aid him to do so ?” three days hence i will tell you.” on the third day grayle revisited haroun, and, at haroun's request, sir philip came also. grayle declared that he had already derived un- speakable relief from the remedies administered; he was lavish in expres- a strange story. sions of gratitude; pressed large gifts on haroun, and seemed pained when they were refused. this time, haroun conversed freely, drawing forth grayle's own irregular, perverted, stormy, but powerful intellect.. i can best convey the general nature of grayle's share in the dialogue between himself, haroun, and derval - recorded in the narrative in words which i cannot trust my memory to repeat in detail — by stating the effect it produced on my own mind. it seemed, while i read, as if there passed before me some convulsion of nature - a storm, an earth- quake. outcries of rage, of scorñ, of despair; a despots vehemence of will; a rebels scoff at authority. yet, ever and anon, some swell of lofty thought, some burst of passionate genius — abrupt variations from the vaunt of superb defiance to the wail of intense remorse. the whole had in it, i know not what, of uncouth but colossal — like the chant, in the old lyrical tragedy, of one of those mythical giants, who, proud of descent from night and chaos, had held sway over the elements, while still crude and conflicting, to be crushed under the rocks, upheaved in their struggle, as order and harmony subjected a brightening crea- tion to the milder influences personified and throned in olympus. but it was not till the later passages of the dialogue in which my interest was now absorbed, that the language ascribed to this sinister personage lost a gloomy pathos, not the less impressive for the awe with which it was mingled. for, till then, it seemed to me as if in that tempestuous nature there were still broken glimpses of starry light ; that a character origi- nally lofty, if irregular and fierce, had been embittered by early and continuous war with the social world, and bad, in that war, become maimed and distorted; that, under happier circumstances, its fiery strength might have been disciplined to good; that even now, where remorse was so evidently poignant, evil could not be irredeemably con- firmed. at length all the dreamy compassion previously inspired vanished in one unqualified abhorrence. the subjects discussed changed from those which, relating to the com- mon world of men, were within the scope of my reason. haroun led his wild guest to boast of his own proficiency in magic, and, despite my incredulity, i could not overcome the shudder with which fictions, how- ever extravagant, that deal with that dark unknown abandoned to the chimeras of poets, will, at night and in solitude, send through the veins of men the least accessible to imaginary terrors. grayle spoke of the power he had exercised through the agency of evil spirits - a power to fascinate and to destroy. he spoke of the aid revealed to him, now too late, which such direful allies could afford, not only to a private revenge, but to a kingly ambition. had he acquired a strange story. tained to earth, yoked to the mind that corrupts it, and enslaved to the senses which thou bidst me restore to their tyrannous forces.” and grayle bowed his head and covered his face with his hands in silence and in trembling. then sir philip, seized with compassion, pleaded for him. “at least could not the soul have longer time on earth for repentance?” and while sir philip was so pleading, grayle fell prostrate in a swoon like that of death. when he recovered, his head was leaning on haroun's knee, and his opening eyes fixed on the glittering phial which haroun held, and from which his lips had been moistened. “wondrous !” he murmured; “ how i feel life flowing back to me. and that, then, is the elixir! it is no fable ! ” his hands stretched greedily as to seize the phial, and he cried, im- ploringly, “more, more !” haroun replaced the vessel in the folds of his robe and answered: "i will not renew thy youth, but i will release thee from bodily suffer- ing; i will leave the mind and the soul free from the pangs of the flesh, to reconcile, if yet possible, their long war. my skill may afford thee months yet for repentance; seek, in that interval, to atone for the evil of sixty years; apply thy wealth where it may most compensate for in- jury done, most relieve the indigent, and most aid the virtuous. listen to thy remorse. humble thyself in prayer.” grayle departed, sighing heavily, and muttering to himself. the next day haroun summoned sir philip derval and said to him: “ depart to damascus. in that city the pestilence has appeared. go thither thou, to heal and to save. in this easket are stored the surest antidotes to the poison of the plague. of that essence, undiluted and pure, which tempts to the undue prolongation of soul in the prison of flesh, this casket contains not a drop. i curse not my friend with so mournful a boon. thou hast learned enough of my art to know by what simples the health of the temperate is easily restored to its balance, and their path to the grave smoothed from pain. not more should man covet from nature for the solace and weal of the body. nobler gifts far than aught for the body this casket contains. herein are the essences which quicken the life of those duplicate senses that lie dormant and coiled in their chrysalis web, awaiting the wings of a future development - the senses by which we can see, though not with the eye, and hear, but not by the ear. herein are links between man's mind and nature's; herein are secrets more precious even than these those extracts of light which enable the soul to distinguish itself from the mind, and discriminate the spiritual life, not more from life carnal than life intellectual. where thou seest some noble intellect, studious of nature, intent upon truth, yet ig- ja a strange story. noring the fact that all animal life has a mind, and man alone on the earth ever asked, and has asked, from the hour his step trod the earth and his eye sought the heaven, · have i not a soul — can it perish ?' — there, such aids to the soul, in the innermost vision vouchsafed to the mind, thou mayst lawfully use. but the treasures contained in this cas- ket are like all which a mortal can win from the mines he explores ; - good or ill in their uses as they pass to the hands of the good or the evil. thou wilt never confide them but to those who will not abuse; and even then, thou art an adept too versed in the mysteries of nature not to dis- · criminate between the powers that may serve the good to good ends, and the powers that may tempt the good — where less wise than experience has made thee and me to the ends that are evil; and not even to thy friend, the most virtuous --if less proof against passion, than thou and i have become - wilt thou confide such contents of the casket as may work on the fancy, deafen the conscience, and imperil the soul.” sir philip took the casket, and with it directions for use, which he did not detail. he then spoke to haroun about louis grayle, who had in- spired him with a mingled sentiment of admiration and abhorrence; of pity and terror. and haroun answered. repeating, thus, the words ascribed to him, so far as i can trust, in regard to them -- as to all else in this marvellous narrative — to a memory habitually tenacious even in or- dinary matters, and strained to the utmost extent of its power, by the strangeness of the ideas presented to it, and the intensity of my personal interest in whatever admitted a ray into that cloud which, gathering fast over my reason, now threatened storm to my affections : “ when the mortal deliberately allies himself to the spirits of evil, he surrenders the citadel of his being to the guard of its enemies; and those who look from without can only dimly guess what passes within the pre- cincts abandoned to powers whose very nature we shrink to contemplate, lest our mere gaze should invite them. this man, whom thou pitiest, is not yet everlastingly consigned to the fiends ; because his soul still strug- gles against them. his life has been one long war between his intellect which is mighty and his spirit which is feeble. the intellect, armed and winged by the passions, has besieged and oppressed the soul; but the soul has never ceased to repine and to repent. and at moments it has gained its inherent ascendancy, persuaded revenge to drop the prey it had seized, turned the mind astray from hatred and wrath into unwonted paths of charity and love. in the long desert of guilt, there have been green spots and fountains of good. the fiends have occupied the intel- lect which invoked them, but they have never yet thoroughly mastered the soul which their presence appalls. in the struggle that now passes within a strange story. that breast, amidst the flickers of waning mortality, only allah, whose eye never slumbers, can aid.” haroun continued, in words yet more strange and yet more deeply graved in my memory: “ there have been men (thou mayst have known such), who, after an illness in which life itself seemed suspended, have arisen, as out of a sleep, with characters wholly changed. before, perhaps gentle and good and truthful, they now become bitter, malignant, and false. to the per- sons and the things they had before loved, they evince repugnance and loathing. sometimes this change is so marked and irrational, that their kindred ascribe it to madness. not the madness which affects them in the ordinary business of life, but that which turns into harshness and dis- cord the moral harmony that results from natures whole and complete. but there are dervishes who hold that in that illness, which had for its time the likeness of death, the soul itself has passed away, and an evil genius has fixed itself into the body and the brain, thus left void of their former tenant, and animates them in the unaccountable change from the past to the present existence. such mysteries have formed no part of my study, and i tell you the conjecture received in the east without haz- arding a comment whether of incredulity or belief. but if, in this war between the mind which the fiends have seized and the soul which im- plores refuge of allah; if, while the mind of yon traveller now covets life lengthened on earth for the enjoyments it had perverted its faculties to seek and to find in sin, and covets so eagearly that it would shrink from no crime, and revolt from no fiend, that could promise the gift — the soul shudderingly implores to be saved from new guilt, and would rather abide by the judgment of allah on the sins that have darkened it, than pass forever irredeemably away to the demons: if this be so, what if the soul's petition be heard – what if it rise from the ruins around it — what if the ruins be left to the witchcraft that seeks to rebuild them? there, if demons might enter, that which they sought as their prize has escaped them; that which they find would mock them by its own incompleteness even in evil. in vain might animal life the most perfect be given to the machine of the flesh; in vain might the mind, freed from the check of the soul, be left to roam at will through a brain stored with memories of knowledge and skilled in the command of its faculties; in vain, in addition to all that body and brain bestow on the normal condition of man, might unhallowed reminiscences gather all the arts and charms of the sorcery by which the fiends tempted the soul, before it fled, through the passions of flesh and the cravings of mind: the thing, thus devoid of a soul, would be an instrument of evil, doubtless; but an instrument À strange story. that of itself could not design, invent, and complete. the demons them- selves could have no permanent hold on the perishable materials. they might enter it for some gloomy end which allah permits in his inscrutable wisdom; but they could leave it no trace when they pass from it, because there is no conscience where soul is wanting. the human’animal with- out soul, but otherwise made felicitously perfect in its mere vital organi- zation, might ravage and destroy, as the tiger and the serpent may destroy and ravage, and the moment after, would sport in the sunlight harmless and rejoicing, because, like the serpent and the tiger it is inca- pable of remorse.” “why startle my wonder,” said derval, “ with so fantastic an im- age ? " “because, possibly, the image may come into palpable form! i know, while i speak to thee, that this miserable man is calling to his aid the evil sorcery over which he boasts his control. to gain the end he de- sires, he must pass through a crime. sorcery whispers to him how to pass through it secure from the detection of man. the soul resists, but, in re- sisting, is weak against the tyranny of the mind to which it has submitted so long. question me no more. but if i vanish from thine eyes, if thou hear that the death which, to my sorrow and in my foolishness i have failed to recognize as the merciful minister of heaven, has removed me at last from the earth, believe that the pale visitant was welcome, and that i humbly accept as a blessed release the lot of our common human- ity.” sir philip went to damascus. there, he found the pestilence raging - there, he devoted himself to the cure of the afflicted ; in no single in- stance, so, at least, he declared, did the antidotes stored in the casket fail. in their effect. the pestilence had passed; his medicaments were ex- hausted; when the news reached him that haroun was no more. the sage had been found one morning, lifeless in his solitary home, and, ac- cording to popular rumor, marks on his throat betrayed the murderous hand of the strangler. simultaneously, louis grayle had disappeared from the city, and was supposed to have shared the fate of haroun, and been secretly.buried by the assassins who had deprived him of life. sir philip hastened to aleppo. there, he ascertained that on the night in which haroun died, grayle did not disappear alone; with him were also missing two of his numerous suite; the one an arab woman, named ayesha, who had for some years been his constant companions, his pupil and associate in the mystic practices to which his intellect had been de- based, and who was said to have acquired a singular influence over him, partly by her beauty, and partly by the tenderness with which she had nursed him through his long decline: the other, an indian, specially as a strange story. . signed to her service, of whom all the wild retainers of grayle spoke with detestation and terror. he was believed by them to belong to that murderous sect of fanatics whose existence as a community has only re- cently been made known to europe, and who strangle their unsuspect- ing victim in the firm belief that they thereby propitiate the favor of the goddess they serve. the current opinion at aleppo was, that if these two persons had conspired to murder haroun, perhaps for the sake of the treasures he was said to possess, it was still more certain that they had made away with their own english lord, whether for the sake of the jewels he wore about him, or for the sake of treasures less doubtful than those imputed to haroun — and of which the hiding-place would to them be much better known. “i did not share that opinion," wrote the narrator; " for i assured myself that ayesha sincerely loved her awful master; and that love need excite no wonder, for louis grayle was one whom if a woman, and especially a woman of the east, had once loved, before old age and infirmity fell on him, she would love and cherish still more devotedly when it became her task to protect the being who, in his day of power and command, had exalted his slave into the rank of his pupil and companion. and the indian whom grayle had assigned to her service, was allowed to have that brute kind of fidelity which, though it recoils from no crime for a master, refuses all crime against i him. “i came to the conclusion that haroun had been murdered by order of louis grayle — for the sake of the elixir of life — murdered by juma the strangler; and that grayle himself had been aided in his flight from aleppo, and tended, through the effects of the life-giving drug thus mur- derously obtained, by the womanly love of the arab woman, ayesha. these convictions (since i could not — without being ridiculed as the wildest of dupes — even hint at the vital elixir) i failed to impress on the eastern officials, or even on a countryman of my own whom i chanced to find at aleppo. they only arrived at what seemed the common-sense verdict, namely, haroun might have been strangled, or might have died in a fit (the body, little examined, was buried long before i came to aleppo); louis grayle was murdered by his own treacherous dependents. but all trace of the fugitives was lost. “ and now," wrote sir philip, “ i will state by what means i discovered that louis grayle still lived — changed from age into youth; a new form, a new being; realizing, i verily believe, the image which haroun's words had raised up, in what then seemed to me the metaphysics of phantasy; criminal, without consciousness of crime; the dreadest of the mere animal race; an incarnation of the blind powers of nature - beautiful and joy. ous, wanton, and terrible, and destroying! such as ancient myths have a strange story. personified in the idols of oriental creeds; such as nature, of herself, might form man in her moments of favor, if man were wholly the animal, and spirit were no longer the essential distinction between himself and the races to which by superior formation and subtler perceptions he would still be the king. “but this being is yet more dire and potentous tloun the mere animal man, for in him are not only the fragmentary memories of a pristine in- telligence which no mind, unaided by the presence of soul, could have originally compassed, but amidst that intelligence are the secrets of the magic which is learned through the agencies of spirits, to our race the most hostile. and who shall say whether the fiends do not enter at their will this void and deserted temple whence the soul has departed, and use as their tools, passive and unconscious, all the faculties which, skilful in sorcery, still place a mind at the control of their malice ? " it was in the interest excited in me by the strange and terrible fate that befel an armenian family with which i was slightly acquainted, that i first traced, in the creature i am now about to describe, and whose course i devote myself to watch and trust to bring to a close--the mur- derer of haroun for the sake of the elixir of youth. " in this armenian family, there were three daughters; one of them " i had just read thus far, when a dim shadow fell over the page, and a cold air seemed to breathe on me. cold--so cold, that my blood halted in my veins as if suddenly frozen! involuntarily i started, and looked up, sure that some ghastly preseuce was in the room. and then, on the opposite side of the wall, i beheld an unsubstantial likeness of a human form. shadow i call it, but the word is not strictly correct, for it was luminous, though with a pale shine. in some exhibition in london there is shown a curious instance of optical illusion; at the end of a corridor you see, apparently in strong light, a human skull. you are convinced it is there as you approach; it is, however, only a reflection from a skull at a distance. the image before me was less vivid, less seemingly prominent than is the illusion i speak of. i was not deceived. i felt it was a spec- trum, a phantasm, but i felt no less surely that it was a reflection from an animate form — the form and the face of margrave; it was there, dis- tinct, unmistakable. conceiving that he himself must be behind me, i sought to rise, to turn round, to examine. i could not move; limb and muscle were over-mastered by some incomprehensible spell. gradually my senses forsook me, i became unconscious as well as motionless. when i recovered, i heard the clock strike three. i must have been nearly two hours insensible; the candles before me were burning low; my eyes rested on the table ; the dead man's manuscript was gone! . a strange story. chapter xl. the dead man's manuscript was gone. but how? a phantom might delude my eye, a human will, though exerted at a distance, might, if the tales of mesmerism be true, deprive me of movement and of consciousness; but neither phantom nor mesmeric will could surely remove from the ta- ble before me the material substance of the book that had vanished! was i to seek explanation in the arts of sorcery ascribed to louis grayle in the narrative ?- i would not pursue that conjecture. against it my reason rose up half alarmed, half disdainful. some one must have en- tered the room - some one have removed the manuscript. i looked round. the windows were closed, the curtains partially drawn over the shutters, as they were before my consciousness had left me; all seemed undisturbed. snatching up one of the candles, fast dying out, i went into the adjoining library, the desolate state-rooms, into the entrance-hall and examined the outer door. barred and locked! the robber had left no vestige of his stealthy presence. i resolved to go at once to strahan's room, and tell him of the loss sus- tained. a deposit had been confided to me, and i felt as if there were a slur on my honor every moment in which i kept its abstraction concealed from him to whom i was responsible for the trust. i hastily ascended the great staircase, grim with faded portraits, and found myself in a long cor- ridor opening on my own bed-room; no doubt also on strahan’s. which was his? i knew not. i opened rapidly, door after door, peered into empty chambers, went blundering on, when, to the right, down a narrow passage, i recognized the signs of my host's whereabout-- signs familiarly commonplace and vulgar, signs by which the inmate of any chamber in lodging-house or inn makes himself known — a chair before a doorway, clothes negligently thrown on it, beside it a pair of shoes. and so ludic- rous did such testimony of common every-day life, of the habits which strahan would necessarily have contracted in his desultory unluxurious bachelor's existence - so ludicrous, i say, did these homely details seem to me, so grotesquely at variance with the wonders of which i had been reading, with the wonders yet more incredible of which i myself had been witness and victim, that as i turned down the passage, i heard my own unconscious half-hysterical laugh; and, startled by the sound of that laugh as if it came from some one else, i paused, my hand on the door, and asked myself: “do i dream ? am i awake? and if awake, what am i to say to the commonplace mortal i am about to rouse ? speak to him of a phantom! speak to him of some weird spell over this strong frame ! À strange story. speak to him of a mystic trance in which has been stolen what he con- fided to me, without my knowledge! what will he say? what should i have said a week since to any man who told such a tale to me?” i did not wait to resolve these questions. i entered the room. there was strahan sound asleep on his bed. i shook him roughly. he started up, rubbed his eyes — “you, allen - you! what the deuce ? — what's the matter?” “ strahan, i have been robbed !--- robbed of the manuscript you lent me. i could not rest till i had told you.” “robbed, robbed! are you serious !” by this time strahan had thrown off the bed-clothes, and sat upright, staring at me. and then those questions which my mind had suggested while i was standing at his door, repeated themselves with double force. tell this man, this unimaginative, hard-headed, raw-boned, sandy-haired north countryman - tell this man a story which the most credulous school-girl would have rejected as a fable! impossible. “ i fell asleep,” said i, coloring and stammering, for the slightest devia- tion from truth was painful to me, “and — and — when i woke — the manuscript was gone. some one must have entered, and committed the theft " “some one entered the house at this hour of the night, and then only steal a manuscript which could be of no value to him! absurd! if thieves have come in, it must be for other objects -- for plate, for money, i will dress; we will see !” strahan hurried on his clothes, muttering to himself, and avoiding my eye. he was embarrassed. he did not like to say to an old friend what was on his mind, but i saw at once that he suspected i had resolved to deprive him of the manuscript, and invented a wild tale in order to con- ceal my own dishonesty. nevertheless, he proceeded to search the house. i followed him in si- lence, oppressed with my own thoughts, and longing for solitude in my own chamber. we found no one, no trace of any one, nothing to excite suspicion. there were but two female servants sleeping in the house — the old housekeeper, and a country girl who assisted her. it was not possible to suspect either of these persons, but in the course of our search we opened the doors of their rooms. we saw that they were both in bed, both seemingly asleep; it seemed idle to wake and question them. when the formality of our futile investigation was concluded, stra- han stopped at the door of my bed-room, and for the first time fixing his eyes on me steadily, said: . * a strange story. “ allen fenwick, i would have given half the fortune i have come into rather than this had happened. the manuscript, as you know, was be- queathed to me as a sacred trust by a benefactor whose slightest wish it is my duty to observe religiously. if it contained aught valuable to a man of your knowledge and profession, — why, you were free to use its contents. let me hope, allen, that the book will reappear to-morrow.” he said no more, drew himself away from the hand i voluntarily ex- tended, and walked quickly back towards his own room. alone once more, i sank on a seat, buried my face in my hands, and strove in vain to collect into some definite shape my own tumultuous and disordered thoughts. could i attach serious credit to the marvellous narra- tive i had read? were there, indeed, such powers given to man? such influences latent in the calm routine of nature? i could not believe it; i must have some morbid affection of the brain ; i must be under an hallu- cination. hallucination ? the phantom, yes — the trance, yes. but, still, how came the book gone? that, at least, was not hallucination. i left my room the next morning, with a vague hope that i should find the manuscript somewhere in the study; that, in my own trance, i might have secreted it, as sleep-walkers are said to secrete things, without re- membrance of their acts in their waking state. i searched minutely in every conceivable place. straban found me still employed in that hopeless task. he had breakfasted in his own room, and it was past eleven o'clock when he joined me. his manner was now hard, cold, and distant, and his suspicion so bluntly shown that my distress gave way to resentment. “is it possible,” i cried, indignantly, “ that you who have known me so well can suspect me of an act so base, and so gratuitously base? purloin, conceal a book confided to me, with full power to copy from it whatever i might desire, use its contents in any way that might seem to me service- able to science, or useful to me in my own calling!”. "i have not accused you," answered strahan, sullenly. “but what are we to say to mr. jeeves; to all others who know that this manuscript ex- isted? will they believe what you tell me ?” “mr. jeeves," i said, “ cannot suspect a fellow-townsman, whose char- acter is as high as mine, of untruth and theft. and to whom else have you communicated the facts connected with a memoir and a request of so extraordinary a nature ?” “ to young margrave; i told you so !” " true, true. we need not go further to find the thief. margrave has been in this house more than once. he knows the position of the rooms. you have named the robber!” a strange story. “ tut! what on earth could a gay young fellow like margrave want with a work of such dry and recondite nature, as i presume my poor kinsman's memoir must be ?” i was about to answer, when the door was abruptly opened, and the servant girl entered, followed by two men, in whom i recognized the su- perintendent of the police, and the same subordinate who had found me by sir philip's corpse. the superintendent came up to me with a grave face, and whispered in my ear. i did not at first comprehend him. “come with you,” i said, “ and to mr. vigors, the magistrate ? i thought my deposition was closed." the superintendent shook his head. “i have the authority here, dr. fenwick.” “well, i will come, of course. has any thing new transpired ?” the superintendent turned to the servant girl, who was standing with gaping mouth and staring eyes. “ show us dr. fenwick's room. you had better put up, sir, whatever things you have brought here. i will go up-stairs with you,” he whispered again. “come, dr. fenwick, i am in the discharge of my duty.” something in the man's manner was so sinister and menacing that i felt, at once, that some new.and strange calamity had befallen me. i turned towards strahan. he was at the threshold, speaking in a low voice to the subordinate policeman, and there was an expression of amazement and horror in his countenance. as i came towards him he darted away with- out a word. i went up the stairs, entered my bed-room, the superintendent close behind me. as i took up mechanically the few things i had brought with me, the police-officer drew them from me with an abruptness that appeared insolent, and deliberately searched the pockets of the coat which i had worn the evening before, then opened the drawers in the room, and even pried into the bed. • what do you mean ?” i asked, haughtily. “excuse me, sir. duty. you are “well, i am what?” “my prisoner; here is the warrant.” “warrant! on what charge ?" the murder of sir philip derval.” “i-i! murder !” i could say no more. i must hurry over this awful passage in my marvellous record. it is torture to dwell on the details, and indeed i have so sought to chase them from my recollection, that they only come back to me in hideous frag- ments, like the broken, incoherent remains of a horrible dream. a strange story. all that i need state is as follows: early on the very morning on which i had been arrested, a man, a stranger in the town, had privately sought mr. vigors, and deposed that, on the night of the murder, he had been taking refuge from a sudden storm under shelter of the eaves and but- tresses of a wall adjoining an old arch-way; that he had heard men talking within the archway; had heard one say to the other, “ you still bear me a grudge.” the other had replied, “i can forgive you on one condition." that he then lost much of the conversation that ensued, which was in a lower voice; but he gathered enough to know that the condition demanded by the one was the possession of a casket which the other carried about with him. that there seemed an altercation on this matter between the two men, which, to judge by the tone of voice, was angry on the part of the man demanding the casket; that, finally, this man said in a loud key, “do you still refuse?” and on receiving the answer, which the witness did not overhear, exclaimed threateningly, “ it is you who will repent;" and then stepped forth from the arch into the street. the rain had then ceased, but, by a broad flash of lightning, the witness saw distinctly the figure of the person thus quitting the shelter of the arch; a man of tall stature, powerful frame, erect carriage. a little time afterwards, witness saw a slighter and older man come from the arch, whom he could only examine by the flickering ray of the gas-lamp near the wall, the lightning having ceased, but whom he fully believed to be the person he afterwards discovered to be sir philip derval. he'said that he himself had only arrived at the town a few hours be- fore; a stranger to lm , and indeed to england; having come from the united states of america, where he had passed his life from childhood. he had journeyed on foot to l- , in the hope of finding there some distant relatives. he had put up at a small inn, after which he had strolled through the town, when the storm had driven him to seek shelter. he had then failed to find his way back to the inn, and after wandering about in vain, and seeing no one at that late hour of night of whom he could ask the way, he had crept under a portico and slept for two or three hours. waking towards the dawn, he had then got up, and again sought to find his way to the inn, when he saw in a narrow street before him two men, one of whom he recognized as the taller of the two, to whose conversation he had listened under the arch, the other he did not recognize at the moment. the taller man seemed angry and agitated, and he heard him say, “ the casket; i will have it.” there then seemed a struggle between these two persons, when the taller one struck down the shorter, knelt on his breast, and he caught distinctly the gleam of some steel instrument. that he was so frightened that he could not stir from the place, and that though he cried out, he believed his voice was not a strange story. . heard. he then saw the taller man rise, the other resting on the pave- ment motionless, and a minute or so afterwards beheld policemen com- ing to the place, on which he, the witness, walked away. he did not know that a murder had been committed; it might be only an assault; it was no business of his, he was a stranger. he thought it best not to inter- fere, the policemen having cognizance of the affair. he found out his inn; for the next few days he was, however, absent from l- in search of his relations who had left the town, many years ago, to fix their resi- dence in one of the neighboring villages. he was, however, disappointed, none of these relations now survived. he had returned to heard of the murder, was in doubt what to do, might get himself into trouble if, a mere stranger, he gave an unsup- ported testimony. but, on the day before the evidence was volunteered, as he was lounging in the streets, he had seen a gentleman pass by on horseback, in whom he immediately recognized the man who, in his belief, was the murderer of sir philip derval. he inquired of a by- stander the name of the gentleman, the answer was · dr. fenwick.' that, the rest of the day, he felt much disturbed in his mind, not liking to volunteer such a charge against a man of apparent respectability and station. but that his conscience would not let him sleep that night, and he had resolved at morning to go to a magistrate and make a clean breast of it. this story was in itself so improbable that any other magistrate but mr. vigors would, perhaps, have dismissed it in contempt. but mr. vigors, already so bitterly prejudiced against me, and not sorry, perhaps, to subject me to the humiliation of so horrible a charge, immediately issued his warrant to search my house. i was absent at derval court; the house was searched. in the bureau in my favorite study, which was left unlocked, the steel casket was discovered, and a large case-knife, on the blade of which the stains of blood were still perceptible. on this discovery i was apprehended, and on these evidences, and on the deposition of this vagrant stranger, i was, not indeed committed to take my trial for murder, but placed in confinement; all bail for my appearance refused, and the examination adjourned to give time for further evidence and inquiries. i had requested the professional aid of mr. jeeves. to my surprise and dismay mr. jeeves begged me to excuse him. he said he was preëngaged by mr. strahan to detect and prosecute the murderer of sir p. derval, and could not assist one accused of the murder. i gathered from the little he said that strahan had already been to him that morning and told him of the missing man- uscript — that strahan had ceased to be my friend. i engaged another solicitor, a young man of ability, and who professed personal esteem for me. mr. stanton (such was the lawyer's name) believed in my inno- a strange story. cence; but he warned me that appearances were grave, he implored me to be perfectly frank with him. had i held conversation with sir philip under the archway as reported by the witness ?. had i'used such or sim- ilar words? had the deceased said, “i had a grudge against him ?” had i demanded the casket ? had i threatened sir philip that he would repent? and of what? his refusal ? i felt myself grow pale as i answered, “ yes, i thought such or similar expressions had occurred in my conversation with the deceased.” “ what was the reason of the grudge? what was the nature of this casket, that i should so desire its possession ?" there, i became terribly embarrassed. what could i say to a keen, sensible, worldly man of law ? tell him of the powder and the fume, of the scene in the museum, of sir philip's tale, of the implied identity of the youthful margrave with the aged grayle, of the elixir of life, and of magic arts ? i-i tell such a romance! i, the noted adversary of all pretended mysticism! i-i-a sceptical practitioner of medicine! had that manuscript of sir philip's been available -- a substantial record of marvellous events by a man of repute for intellect and learning - i might, perhaps, have ventured to startle the solicitor of l- with my revelations. but the sole proof that all which the solicitor urged me to confide was not a monstrous fiction or an insane delusion, had disap- peared; and its disappearance was a part of the terrible mystery that en- veloped the whole. i answered, therefore, as composedly as i could, that “ i could have no serious grudge against sir philip, whom i had never seen before that evening; that the words, which applied to my supposed grudge, were lightly said by sir philip in reference to a physiological dis- pute on matters connected with mesmerical phenomena; that the de- ceased had declared his casket, which he had shown to me at the mayor's house, contained drugs of great potency in medicine; that i had asked permission to test those drugs myself; and that when i said he would re- pent of his refusal, i merely meant that he would repent of reliance on drugs not warranted by the experiments of professional science." my replies seemed to satisfy the lawyer so far, but “how could i account for the casket and the knife being found in my room ? " “in no way but this; the window of that room was a door-window opening on the lane, from which any one might enter it. i was in the habit, not only of going out myself that way, but of admitting through that door any more familiar private acquaintance." “ whom, for instance ?" , i hesitated a moment, and then said, with a significance i could not forbear, “mr. margrave! he would know the locale perfectly; he would know that the door was rarely bolted from within during the day- - a strange story. time; he could enter at all hours; he could place, or instruct any one to deposit, the knife and casket in my bureau, which he knew i never kept locked; it contained no secrets, no private correspondence-chiefly sur- gical implements, or such things as i might want for professional experi- ments. .“ mr. margrave! but you cannot suspect him - a lively, charming young man, against whose character not a whisper was ever heard of connivance with such a charge against you ; a connivance that would implicate him in the murder itself, for if you are accused wrongfully, he who accuses you is either the criminal or the criminal's accomplice ; his instigator or his tool.” “ mr. stanton,” i said firmly, after a moment's pause, “ i do suspect mr. margrave of a hand in this crime. sir philip, on seeing him at the mayor's house, expressed a strong abhorrence of him, more than hinted at crimes he had committed; appointed me to come to derval court the day after that on which the murder was committed. sir philip liad known something of this margrave in the east - margrave might dread exposure, revelations- of what i know not; but, strange as it may seem to you, it is my conviction, that this young man, apparently so gay and so thoughtless, is the real criminal, and in some way, which i cannot con- jecture, has employed this lying vagabond in the fabrication of a charge against myself. reflect: of mr. margrave's antecedents we know noth- ing; of them nothing was known even by the young gentleman who first introduced him to the society of this town. if you would serve and save me, it is to that quarter that you will direct your vigilant and unrelaxing researches." i had scarcely so said when i repented my candor; for i observed in the face of mr. stanton a sudden revulsion of feeling, an utter incredulity of the accusation' i had thus hazarded, and for the first time a doubt of my own innocence. the fascination exercised by margrave was universal; nor was it to be wondered at; for, besides the charm of his joyous pres- ence, he seemed so singularly free from even the errors common enough with the young. so gay and boon a companion, yet a shunner of wine ; so dazzling in aspect, so more than beautiful, so courted, so idolized by women, yet no tale of seduction, of profligacy, attached to his name ! as to his antecedents, he had so frankly owned himself a natural son, a nobody, a traveller, an idler; his expenses, though lavish, were so unos- tentatious, so regularly defrayed. he was so wholly the reverse of the character assigned to criminals, that it seemed as absurd to bring a charge of homicide against a butterfly or a goldfinch as against this seemingly. innocent and delightful favorite of humanity and nature. however, mr. stanton said little or nothing, and shortly afterwards a strange story. left me, with a dry expression of hope that my innocence would be cleared in spite of evidence that, he was bound to say, was of the most serious character. i was exhausted. i fell into a profound sleep early that night; it might be a little after twelve when i woke, and woke as fully, as completely, as much restored to life and consciousness, as it was then my habit to be at the break of day. and, so waking, i saw on the wall, opposite my bed, the same luminous phantom i had seen in the wizard's study at derval court. i have read in scandinavian legends of an apparition called the scin-læca, or shining corpse. it is supposed, in the northern supersti- tion, sometimes to haunt sepulchres, sometimes to foretell doom. it is the spectre of a human body seen in a phosphoric light. and so exactly did this phantom correspond to the description of such an apparition in scandinavian fable that i know not how to give it a better name than that of scin-læca — the shining corpse. there it was before me, corpse-like, yet not dead; there, as in the haunted study of the wizard forman! — the form and the face of margrave. constitutionally, my nerves are strong, and my temper hardy, and now i was resolved to battle against any impression which my senses might re- ceive from my own deluding fancies. things that witnessed for the first time daunt us, witnessed for the second time lose their terror. i rose from my bed with a bold aspect, i approached the phantom with a firm step; but when within two paces of it, and my hand outstretched to touch it, my arm became fixed in air, my feet locked to the ground. i did not experience fear; i felt that my heart beat regularly, but an in- vincible something opposed itself to me. i stood as if turned to stone, and then from the lips of this phantom there came a voice, but a voice which seemed borne from a great distance - very low, muffled, and yet distinct: i could not even be sure that my ear heard it, or whether the sound was not conveyed to me by an inner sense. " i, and i alone, can save and deliver you," said the voice. "i will do so, and the conditions i ask, in return, are simple and easy.” “ fiend or spectre, or mere delusion of my own brain,” cried i, “ there can be no compact between thee and me. i despise thy malice, i reject thy services; i accept no conditions to escape from tlie one or to obtain the other." “ you may give a different answer when i ask again.” the scin-læca slowly waned, and, fading first into a wan shadow, then vanished. i rejoiced at the reply i had given. two days elapsed before mr. stanton again came to me; in the interval the scin-læca did not reappear. i had mustered all my courage, all my common sense, noted down all the weak points of the false evidence against me, and felt calm and supported by the strength of my innocence. there a at his statesti a strange story. : the first few words of the solicitor dashed all my courage to the ground. for i was anxious to hear news of lilian, anxious to have some message from her that might cheer and strengthen me, and my first question was this: “ mr. stanton, you are aware that i am engaged in marriage to miss ashleigh. your family are not unacquainted with her. what says, what thinks she of this monstrous charge against her betrothed ?” . “i was for two hours at mrs. ashleigh's house last evening,” replied the lawyer; "she was naturally anxious to see me as employed in your defence. who do you think was there? who, eager to defend you, to express bis persuasion of your innocence, to declare his conviction that the real criminal would be soon discovered — who but that same mr. mar- grave, whom, pardon my frankness, you so rashly and groundlessly sus- pected.” - “ heavens! do you say that he is received in that house ? that he — he is familiarly admitted to her presence ?” “my good sir, why these unjust prepossessions against a true friend. it was as your friend that, as soon as the charge against you amazed and shocked the town of l- , mr. margrave called on mrs. ashleigh - presented to her by miss brabazon — and was so cheering and hopeful that — ” . "enough!” i exclaimed — “enough !” i paced the room in a state of excitement and rage, which the lawyer in vain endeavored to calm, until at length i halted abruptly: “ well, - and you saw miss ashleigh ? what message does she send to me — her betrothed ? ” mr. stanton looked confused.“ message! consider, sir — miss ash- leigh's situation — the delicacy - and — and " “i understand! no message, no word, from a young lady so respectable to a man accused of murder.” mr. stanton was silent for some moments; and then said quietly, “let us change this subject; let us think of what more immediately presses. i see you have been making some notes ; may i look at them — ” i composed myself and sat down. “ this accuser! have inquiries really been made as to himself, and his statement of his own proceedings? he comes, he says, from america - in what ship? at what port did he land? is there any evidence to corroborate his story of the relations he tricd to discover — of the inn at which he first put up, and to which he could not find his way?” "your suggestions are sensible, dr. fenwick. i have forestalled them. it is true that the man lodged at a small inn - the rising sun - true that he made inquiries about some relations of the name of walls, who a strange story. : .. formerly resided at - and afterwards removed to a village ten miles distant - two brothers -- tradesmen of small means but respectable char- acter. he at first refused to say at what seaport he landed, in what ship he sailed. i suspect that he has now told a falsehood as to these matters. i have sent my clerk to southampton - for it is there he said that he was put on shore; we shall see — the man himself is detained in close custody. i hear that his manner is strange and excitable ; but he preserves silence as much as possible. . it is generally believed that he is a bad character, perhaps a returned convict, and that this is the true reason why he so long delayed giving evidence, and has been since so reluctant to account for himself. but even if his testimony should be impugned, should break down, still we should have to account for the fact that the casket and the case-knife were found in your bureau. for, granting that a person could, in your absence, have entered your study and placed the articles in your bureau, it is clear that such a person must have been well acquainted with your house, and this stranger to l- could not have possessed that knowledge.” “ of course not -- mr. margrave did possess it!” " mr. margrave again! - oh, sir." i arose and moved away, with an impatient gesture. i could not trust myself to speak. that night i did not sleep; i watched impatiently, gaz- ing on the opposite wall, for the gleam of the scin-læca. but the night passed away, and the spectre did not appear. chapter xli. the lawyer came the next day, and almost with a smile on his lips. he brought me a few lines in pencil from mrs. ashleigh ; they were kindly expressed, bade me of good cheer; "she never for a moment be- lieved in my guilt; lilian bore up wonderfully under so terrible a trial; it was an unspeakable comfort to both to receive the visits of a friend so attached to me, and so confident of a triumphant refutation of the hideous calumny- under which i now suffered as mr. margrave !! the lawyer had seen margrave again – seen him in that house. mar- grave seemed almost domiciled there! i remained sullen and taciturn during this visit. i longed again for the night. night came. i heard the distant clock strike twelve, when again the icy wind passed through my hair, and against the wall stood the luminous shadow. a strange story. “have you considered ?” whispered the voice, still as from afar. “i repeat it — i alone can save you." "is it among the conditions which you ask, in return, that i shall re- sign to you the woman i love ?” "no." “is it one of the conditions that i should commit some crime — a crime perhaps heinous as that of which i am accused ?” s "no." with such reservations, i accept the conditions you may name, pro vided i, in my turn, may demand one condition from yourself.” “ name it." "i ask you to quit this town. i ask you, meanwhile, to cease your visits to the house that holds the woman betrothed to me.” "i will cease those visits. and before many days are over, i will quit this town.” “now, then, say what you ask from me. i am prepared to concede it. and not from fear for myself, but because i fear for the pure and innocent being who is under the spell of your deadly fascination. this is your power over me. you command me through my love for another. speak.” “my conditions are simple. you will pledge yourself to desist from all charge or insinuation against myself, of what nature soever. you will not, when you meet me in the flesh, refer to what you have known of my likeness in the shadow. you will be invited to the house at which i may be also a guest ; you will come; you will meet and converse with me as guest speaks with guest in the house of a host.” “is that all ?” " it is all.” " then i pledge you my faith ; keep your own.” "fear not; sleep secure in the certainty that you will soon be released from these walls.” the shadow waned and faded. darkness settled back, and a sleep, profound and calm, fell over me. the next day mr. stanton again visited me. he had received that morning a note from mr. margrave, stating that he had left l- to pursue, in person, an investigation which he had already commenced through another, affecting the man who had given evidence against me, and that, if his hope should prove well founded, he trusted to establish my innocence, and convict the real murderer of sir philip derval. in the research he thus volunteered, he had asked for, and obtained, the as- sistance of the policeman waby, who, grateful to me for saving the life of his sister, had expressed a strong desire to be employed in my service. a strange story. meanwhile, my most cruel assailant was my old college friend, richard strahan. for jeeves had spread abroad strahan's charge of purloining the memoir which had been intrusted to me, and that accusation had done me great injury in public opinion, because it seemed to give proba- bility to the only motive which ingenuity could ascribe to the foul deed imputed to me. that motive had been first suggested by mr. vigors. cases are on record of men whose life had been previously blameless, who have committed a crime, which seemed to belie their nature, in the monomania of some intense desire. in spain, a scholar reputed of aus- tere morals, murdered and robbed a traveller for money in order to pur- chase books; books written, too, by fathers of his church ! he was intent on solving some problem of theological casuistry. in france, an antiquarian esteemed not more for his learning, than for amiable and gentle qualities, murdered his most intimate friend for the possession of a medal, without which his own collection was incomplete. these, and similar anecdotes, tending to prove how fatally any vehement desire, morbidly cherished, may suspend the normal operations of reason and conscience, were whispered about by dr. lloyd's vindictive partisan, and the inference drawn from them and applied to the assumptions against myself, was the more credulously received, because of that over-refin- ing speculation on motive and act which the shallow accept, in their eagerness to show how readily they understand the profound. i was known to be fond of scientific, especially of chemical experi- ments; to be eager in testing the truth of any novel invention. strahan, catching hold of the magistrate's fantastic hypothesis, went about repeat- ing anecdotes of the absorbing passion for analysis and discovery which had characterized me in youth as a medical student, and to which, indeed, i owed the precocious reputation i had acquired. sir philip derval, according not only to report, but according to the direct testimony of his servant, had acquired in his travels many secrets in natural science, especially as connected with the healing art - his ser- vant had deposed to the remarkable cures he had effected by the medi- cinals stored in the stolen casket — doubtless sir philip, in boasting of these medicinals in the course of our conversation, had excited my curi- osity, influenced my imagination, and thus, when i afterwards suddenly met him in a lone spot, a passionate impulse had acted on a brain heated into madness by curiosity and covetous desire. all these suppositions, reduced into system, were corroborated by stra- han's charge that i had made away with the manuscript supposed to con- tain the explanations of the medical agencies employed by sir philip, and had sought to shelter my theft by a tale so improbable, that a man of my reputed talent could not have hazarded it if in his sound senses. a strange story. . i saw the web that had thus been spread around me by hostile preposses- sions and ignorant gossip: how could the arts of margrave scatter that web to the winds? i knew not, but i felt confidence in his promise and his power. still, so great had been my alarm for lilian, that the hope of clearing my own innocence was almost lost in my joy that margrave, at least, was no longer in her presence, and that i had received his pledge to quit the town in which she lived. thus, hours rolled on hours, till, i think, on the third day from that night in which i had last beheld the mysterious shadow, my door was hastily thrown open, a confused crowd presented itself at the threshold — o the governor of the prison, the police superintendent, mr. stanton, and other familiar faces shut out from me since my imprisonment. i knew at the first glance that i was no longer an outlaw beyond the pale of human friendship. and proudly, sternly, as i had supported myself hitherto in solitude and anxiety, when i felt warm hands clasping mine, heard joya : ous voices proffering congratulations, saw in the eyes of all that my inno- cence had been cleared, the revulsion of emotion was too strong for me- the room reeled on my sight - i fainted. i pass, as quickly as i can, oper the explanations that crowded on me when i recovered, and that were publicly given in evidence in court next morning. i had owed all to margrave. it seems that he had construed to my favor the very sup- position which had been bruited abroad to my prejudice. “for,” said he," it is conjectured that fenwick committed the crime of which he is accused on the impulse of a disordered reason. that conjecture is based upon the probability that a madman alone could have committed a crime without adequate motive. but it seems quite clear that the accused is not - mad; and i see cause to suspect that the accuser is.” groạnding this assumption on the current reports of the witness's manner and bear- ing since he had been placed under official surveillance, margrave had commissioned the policeman, waby, to make inquiries in the village to which the accuser asserted he had gone in quest of his relations, and waby had, there, found persons who remembered to have heard that the two brothers named walls lived less by the gains of the petty shop which they kept than by the proceeds of some property consigned to them as the nearest of kin to a lunatic who had once been tried for his life. mar- grave had then examined the advertisements in the daily newspapers. one of them, warning the public against a dangerous maniac who had effected his escape from an asylum in the west of england, caught his attention. to that asylum he had repaired. there he learned that the patient advertised was one whose propen- sity was homicide, consigned for life to the asylum on account of a mur-' der, for which he had been tried. the description of this person exactly * a strange story, tallied with that of the pretended american. the medical superintend- ent of the asylum, hearing all the particulars from margrave, expressed a strong persuasion that the witness was his missing patient, and had himself committed the crime of which he had accused another. if so, the superintendent undertook to coax from him the full confession of all the circumstances. like many other madmen, and not least those whose propensity is to crime, the fugitive maniac was exceedingly cunning, treacherous, secret, and habituated to trick and stratagem. more subtle than even the astute in possession of all their faculties, whether to achieve his purpose or to conceal it, and fabricate appearances against another. but, while, in ordinary conversation, he seemed rational enough to those who were not accustomed to study him, he had one hallucination which, when humored, led him always, not only to betray himself, but to glory in any crime proposed or committed. he was under the belief that he had made a bargain with satan, who, in return for implicit obedience, would bear him harmless through all the consequences of such submission, and finally raise him to great power and authority. it is no unfrequent illusion of homicidal maniacs to suppose they are under the influence of the evil one, or possessed by a demon. murderers have assigned as the only reason they themselves could give for their crime, that "the devil got into them," and urged the deed. but the insane have, perhaps, no attribute more in common than that of superweening self-esteem. the maniac who has been removed from a garret, stick straws in his hair and calls them a crown. so much does inordinate arrogance characterize mental aberration, that, in the course of my own practice, i have de- tected, in that infirmity, the certain symptom of insanity, especially moral insanity, long before the brain had made its disease manifest even to the most familiar kindred.. morbid self-esteem accordingly pervaded the dreadful illusion by which the man i now speak of was possessed. he was proud to be the protected agent of the fallen angel. and if that self-esteem were artfully appealed to, he would exult superbly in the evil he held himself ordered to per- form, as if a special prerogative, an official rank and privilege ; then, he would be led on to boast gleefully of thoughts which the most cynical of criminals, in whom intelligence was not ruined, would shrink from owning. then, he would reveal himself in all his deformity with as complaçent and frank a self-glorying as some vain good man displays in parading his amiable sentiments and his beneficent deeds. “ if,” said the superintendent, “ this be the patient who has escaped from me, and if his propensity to homicide has been, in some way directed towards the person who has been murdered, i shall not be with him a quarter of an hour before he will inform me how it happened; and detail a strange story. the arts he employed in shifting his crime upon another - all will be told as minutely as a child tells the tale of some schoolboy exploit, in which he counts on your sympathy, and feels sure of your applause.” margrave brought this gentleman back to l-, took him to the mayor, who was one of my warmest supporters ; the mayor had sufficient influ- ence to dictate and arrange the rest. the superintendent was introduced to the room in which the pretended american was lodged. at his own desire a select number of witnesses were admitted with him — margrave excused himself; he said candidly that he was tuo intimate a friend of mine to be an impartial listener to aught that concerned me so nearly.. the superintendent proved right in his suspicions, and verified his promises. my false accuser was his missing patient; the man recognized dr. *** with no apparent terror, rather with an air of condescension, and in a very few minutes was led to tell his own tale with a gloating complacency both at the agency by which he deemed himself exalted, and at the dexterous cunning with which he had acquitted himself of the task, that increased the horror of his narrative. . he spoke of the mode of his escape, which was extremely ingenious, but of which the details, long in themselves, did not interest me, and i understood them too imperfectly to repeat. he had encountered a sea- faring traveller on the road, whom he had knocked down with a stone and robbed of his glazed hat and pea-jacket, as well as of a small sum in coin, which last enabled him to pay his fare in a railway that conveyed him eighty miles away from the asylum. some trifling remnant of this money still in his pocket, he then travelled on foot along the high road till he came to a town about twenty miles distant from l- ; there. he had stayed a day or two, and there he said “ that the devil had told him to buy a case-knife, which he did.” “he knew by that order that the devil meant him to do something great.” “ his master," as he called the fiend, then directed him the road he should take. he came to l- put up, as he had correctly.stated before, at a small inn, wandered at night about the town, was surprised by the sudden storm, took shelter under the convent arch, overheard somewhat more of my conversation with sir philip than he had previously deposed — heard enough to excite his curiosity as to the casket: “while he listened, his master told him that he must get possession of that casket.” sir philip had quitted the archway almost immediately after i had done so, and he would then have attacked him if he had not caught sight of a policeman going his rounds. he had followed sir philip to a house (mr. jeeves's). “ his master told him to wait and watch.” he did so. when sir philip came forth, towards the dawn, he followed him, saw him enter a narrow street, came up to him, seized him by the arm, demanded all he had about him. sir philip tried À strange story. to shake him off --- struck at him. what follows, i spare the reader. the deed was done. he robbed the dead man both of the casket and of the purse that he found in the pockets ; had scarcely done so when he heard footsteps. he had just time to get behind the portico of a detached house at angles with the street, when i came up. he witnessed, from his hiding- place, the brief conference between myself and the policeman, and when they moved on, bearing the body, stole unobserved away. he was going back towards the inn, when it occurred to him that it would be safer if the casket and purse were not about his person ; that he asked his master to direct him how to dispose of them ; that his master guided him to an open yard (a stone-mason's), at a very little distance from the inn; that in this yard there stood an old wych-elm tree, from the gnarled roots of which the earth was worn away, leaving chinks and hollows, in one of which he placed the casket and purse, taking from the latter only two sovereigns and some silver, and then heaping loose mould over the hiding- place. that he then repaired to his inn, and left it late in the morning, on the pretence of seeking for his relatives persons, indeed, who really had been related to him, but of whose death years ago he was aware. he returned to l- a few days afterwards, and, in the dead of night, went to take up the casket and the money. he found the purse with its contents undisturbed ; but the lid of the casket was unclosed. from the hasty glance he had taken of it before burying it, it had seemed to be firmly locked — he was alarmed lest some one had been to the spot. but his master whispered to him not to mind, told him that he might now take the casket, and would be guided what to do with it; that he did so, and, opening the lid found the casket empty; that he took the rest of the · money out of the purse, but that he did not take the purse itself, for it had a crest and initials on it, which might lead to discovery of what had been done ; that he therefore left it in the hollow amongst the roots, heaping the mould over it as before; that, in the course of the day, he heard the people at the inn talk of the murder, and that his own first im- pulse was to get out of the town immediately, but that his master “ made him too wise for that," and bade him stay; that passing through the streets, he saw me come out of the sash-window door, go to a stable-yarde on the other side of the house, mount on horseback and ride away; that he observed the sash-door was left partially open; that he walked by it," and saw the room empty ;. there was only a dead wall opposite, the place was solitary, unobserved ; that his master directed him to lift up the sash gently, enter the room, and deposit the knife and the casket in a large walnut-tree bureau which stood unlocked near the window. all that fol- lowed — his visit to mr. vigors, his accusation against myself, his whole tale — was, he said, dictated by his master, who was highly pleased with a strange story. him, and promised to bring "him safely through. and here he turned round with a hideous smile, as if for approbation of his notable cleverness and respect for his high employ. mr. jeeves had the curiosity to request the keeper to inquire how, in what form, or in what manner, the fiend appeared to the narrator, or conveyed his infernal dictates. the man at first refused to say; but it was gradually drawn from him that the demon had no certain and inva- riable form; sometimes it appeared to him in the form of a rat; sometimes even of a leaf, or a fragment of wood, or a rusty nail; but, that his-mas- ter's voice always came to him distinct, whatever shape he appeared in ; only, he said, with an air of great importance, his master, this time, had graciously condescended, ever since he left the asylum, to communicate with him in a much more pleasing and imposing aspect than he had ever done before - in the form of a beautiful youth, or, rather, like a bright rose-colored shadow, in which the features of a young man were visible, and that he had heard the voice more distinctly than usual, though in a milder tone, and seeming to come to him from a great distance. after these revelations the man became suddenly disturbed. he shook from limb to limb, he seemed convulsed with terror; he cried out that he had betrayed the secret of his master, who had warned him not to describe his appearance and mode of communication, or he would give his servant up to the tormentors. then the maniac's terror gave way to fury; his more direful propensity made itself declared; he sprang into the midst of his frightened listeners, seized mr. vigors by the throat, and would have strangled him but for the prompt rush of the superintendent and his sat- ellites. foaming at the mouth, and horribly raving, he was then mana- cled, a strait-waistcoat thrust upon him, and the group so left him in charge of his captors. inquiries were immediately directed towards such circumstantial evidence as might corroborate the details he had so minutely set forth. the purse, recognized as sir philip's, by the valet of the de- ceased, was found buried under the wych-elm. a policeman, despatched, express, to the town in which the maniac declared the knife to have been purchased, brought back word that a cutler in the place remembered perfectly to have sold such a knife to a seafaring man, and identified the instrument when it was shown to him. from the chink of a door ajar, in the wall opposite my sash-window, a maid-servant, watching for her sweet- heart (a journeyman carpenter, who habitually passed that way on going home to dine), had, though unobserved by the murderer, seen him come out of my window at a time that corresponded with the dates of his own story, though she had thought nothing of it at the moment. he might be a patient, or have called on business ; she did not know that i was from home. the only point of importance not cleared up was that which re- a strange story. lated to the opening of the casket - the disappearance of the contents; the lock had been unquestionably forced. no one, however, could sup- pose that some third person had discovered the hiding-place and forced open the casket to abstract its contents and then 'rebury it. the only probable supposition was, that the man himself had forced it open, and, deeming the contents of no value, had thrown them away before he had hidden the casket and purse, and, in the chaos of his reason, had forgot- ten that he had so done. who could expect that every link in a mad- man's tale would be found integral and perfect ? in short, little impor- tance was attached to this solitary doubt. crowds accompanied me to my door, when i was set free, in open court, stainless ; -- it was a triumphal procession. the popularity i had previously enjoyed, superseded for a moment by so horrible a charge, came back to me tenfeld, as with the reaction of generous repentance for a momentary doubt. one man shared the public favor - the young man whose acuteness had delivered me from the peril, and cleared the truth from so awful a mystery; but margrave had escaped from congratulation and compliment; he had gone on a visit to strahan at derval court. alone, at last, in the welcome sanctuary of my own home, what were my thoughts? prominent amongst them all was that assertion of the madman, which had made me shudder when repeated to me: he had been guided to the murder and to all the subsequent proceedings by the luminous shadow of the beautiful youth — the scin-læca to which i had pledged myself. if sir philip derval could be believed, margrave was- possessed of powers, derived from fragmentary recollections of a knowl- edge acquired in a former state of being, which would render his re- morseless intelligence infinitely dire, and frustrate the endeavors of a reason unassisted by similar powers, to thwart his designs or bring the law against his crimes. had he then the arts that could thus influence the minds of others to serve his fell purposes, and achieve securely his own evil ends through agencies that could not be traced home to himself? but for what conceivable purpose had i been subjected as a victim to influences as much beyond my control as the fate or demoniac neces sity of a greek myth? in the legends of the classic world some august sufferer is oppressed by powers more than mortal, but with an ethical if gloomy vindication of his chastisement - he pays the penalty of crime committed by his ancestors or himself, or he has bráved, by arrogating equality with the gods, the mysterious calamity which the gods alone can inflict. but i, no descendant of pelops, no (edipus, boastful of a wisdom which could interpret the enigmas of the sphinx, while ignorant even of .! his own birth — what had i done to be singled out from the herd of men · for trials and visitations from the shadowland of ghosts and sorcerers ? a strange story. : it would be ludicrously absurd to suppose that dr. lloyd's dying impre- cation could have had a prophetic effect upon my destiny; to believe that the pretences of mesmerism were specially favored by providence, and that to question their assumptions was an offence of profanation to be punished by exposure to preternatural agencies. there was not even that congruity between cause and effect which fable seeks in excuse for its inventions. of all men living, i, unimaginative disciple of austere science, should be the last to become the sport of that witchcraft which even imagination reluctantly allows to the machinery of poets, and science casts aside into the mouldy lumber-room of obsolete supersti- tion. rousing my mind from enigmas impossible to solve - it was with in- tense and yet with most melancholy satisfaction that i turned to the im- age of lilian, rejoicing, though with a thrill of awe, that the promise so mysteriously conveyed to my senses, had, here too, been already fulfilled - margrave had left the town; lilian was no longer subjected to his -evil fascination. but an instinct told me that that fascination had al- ready produced an effect adverse to all hope of happiness for me. lil- ian's love for myself was gone. impossible otherwise that she -- in whose nature i had always admired that generous devotion which is, more or less, inseparable from the romance of youth - should have never conveyed to me one word of consolation in the hour of my agony and trial: that she who, till the last evening we had met, had ever been so docile, in the sweetness of a nature femininely submissive, to my slightest wish, should have disregarded my solemn injunction, in admitting mar- grave to acquaintance, nay, to familiar intimacy; and at the very time when to disobey my injunctions was to embitter my ordeal, and add her own contempt to the degradation imposed upon my honor! no, her heart must be wholly gone from me; her very nature wholly warped. a union between us had become impossible. my love for her remained unshattered; the more tender, perhaps, for a sentiment of compassion. but my pride was shocked, my heart was wounded. my love was not mean and servile. enough for me to think that she would be at least saved from margrave. her life associated with his ! — contemplation, horrible and ghastly!-- from that fate she was saved. later, she would recover the effect of an influence happily so brief. she might form some new attachment - some new tie. but love once withdrawn is never to be restored and her love was withdrawn from me. i had but to re- lease her, with my own lips from our engagement - she would welcome that release. mournful but firm in these thoughts and these resolutions, i sought mrs. ashleigh's house. . . a strange story. chapter xlii. it was twilight when i entered, unannounced (as had been my wont in our familiar intercourse), the quiet sitting-room in which i expected to find mother and child. but lilian was there alone, seated by the open window, her hands crossed and drooping on her knee, her eye fixed upon the darkening summer skies, in which the evening star had just stolen forth, bright and steadfast, near the pale sickle of a half-moon that was dimly visible, but gave as yet no light.. . let any lover imagine the reception he would expect to meet from his betrothed, coming into her presence after he had passed triumphant through a terrible peril to life and fame — and conceive what ice froze my blood, what anguish weighed down my heart, when lilian, turning towards me, rose not, spoke not — gazed at me heedlessly as 'if at some indifferent stranger — and — and but no matter! i cannot bear to recal it even now, at the distance of years! i sat down beside her, and took her hand, without pressing it; it rested languidly, passively in mine - one moment;—i dropped it then with a bitter sigh. “lilian,” i said, quietly, “you love me no longer. is it not so ?” she raised her eyes to mine, looked at me wistfully, and pressed her hand on her forehead, then said, in a strange voice,“ did i ever love you? what do you mean ?” “lilian, lilian, rouse yourself; are you not, while you speak, un- der some spell, some influence which you cannot describe nor account for?” she paused a moment before she answered, calmly, “no! again i. ask, what do you mean?” “ what do i mean? do you forget that we are betrothed ? do you forget how often, and how recently, our vows of affection and constancy have been exchanged ?" “ no, i do not forget; but i must have deceived you and myself - " “it is true, then, that you love me no more ?” " i suppose so." · “but, oh, lilian, is it that your heart is only closed to me? or is it — oh, answer truthfully – is it given to another ? — to him — to him— against whom i warned you, whom i implored you not to receive. tell me, at least, that your love is not gone to margrave " * to him - love to him! oh no, no “what, then, is your feeling toward him ?” lilian's face grew visibly paler -- even in that dim light. “i know a strange story. not,” she said, almost in a whisper; “but it is — partly awe- partly ” “what?” “ abhorrence!” she said, almost fiercely, and rose to her feet, with a wild, defying start. ". “ if that be so," i said gently, “ you would not grieve were you never again to see him " "but i shall see him again,” she murmured, in a tone of weary sad- ness, and sank back once more into her chair. “i think not,” said i, " and i hope not. and now hear me and heed me, lilian. it is enough for me, no matter what your feelings toward another, to hear from yourself that the affection you once professed for me is gone. i release you from your troth. if folks ask why we two henceforth separate the lives we had agreed to join, you may say, if you please, that you could not give your hand to a man who had known the taint of a felon's prison, even on a false charge. if that seems to you an ungenerous reason, we will leave it to your mother to find a better. farewell! for your own sake i can yet feel happiness — happiness to hear that you do not love the man against whom i warn you still more solemnly than before! will you not give me your hand in parting — and have i not spoken your own wish ?” she turned away her face, and resigned her hand to me in silence. silently i held it in mine, and my emotions nearly stifled me. one symptom of regret, of reluctance, on her part, and i should have fallen at her feet and cried, “do not let us break a tie which our vows should have made indissoluble; heed not my offers — wrung from a tortured heart. you cannot have ceased to love me!” but no such symptom of relenting showed itself in her, and with a groan i left the room. chapter xliii. i was just outside the garden-door, when i felt an arm thrown round me, my cheek kissed, and wetted with tears. could it be lilian? alas, no! it was her mother's voice, that, between laughing and crying, ex- claimed hysterically: “ this is joy, to see you again, and on these thresholds. i have just come from your house; i went there on pur- pose. to congratulate you, and to talk to you about lilian. but you have seen her ? " - strange story. “ yes; i have but this moment left her. come this way." i drew mrs. ashleigh back into the garden, along the old winding walk, which the shrubs concealed from view of the house. we sat down on a rustic seat, where i had often sat with lilian, midway between the house and the monk's well. i told the mother what had passed between me and her daughter; i made no complaint of lilian's coldness and change; i did not hint at its cause. · girls of her age will change,” said i, “and all that now remains is for us two to agree on such a tale to our curious neighbors, as may rest the whole blame on me. man's name is of robust fibre; it could not push its way to a place in the world, if it could not bear, without sinking, the load idle tongues may lay on it. not so, woman's name — what is but gossip against man, is scandal against woman.” * do not be rash, my dear allen,” said mrs. ashleigh, in great distress. “i feel for you, i understand; in your case i might act as you do. i can- not blame you. lilian is changed -changed unaccountably. yet sure i am that the change is only on the surface, that her heart is really yours, as entirely and as faithfully as ever it was; and that later, when she re- covers from the strange, dreamy kind of torpor which appears to have come over all her faculties and all her affections, she would awake with a despair which you cannot conjecture, to the knowledge that you had re- nounced her.” “i have not renounced her,” said i, impatiently; " i did but restore her freedom of choice. but pass by this now, and explain to me more fully the change in your daughter, which i gather from your words is not confined to me.” "i wished to speak of it before you saw her, and for that reason came to your house. it was on the morning in which we left her aunt's to re- turn hither that i first noticed something peculiar in her look and manner. she seemed absorbed and absent, so much so that i asked her several times to tell me what made her so grave, but i could only get from her that she had had a confused dream which she could not recal distinctly enough to relate, but that she was sure it boded evil. during the jour- ney she became gradually more herself, and began to look forward with delight to the idea of seeing you again. well, you came that evening. what passed between you and her, you know best. you complained that she slighted your request to shun all acquaintance with mr. margrave. i was surprised that, whether your wish were reasonable or not, she could have hesitated to comply with it. i spoke to her about it, after you had gone, and she wept bitterly at thinking she had displeased you.” " she wept! you amaze me. yet the next day what a note she re- turned to mine!” a strange story. . “ the next day the change in her became very visible to me. she told me, in an excited manner, that she was convinced she ought not to marry you. then came, the following day, the news of your committal. i heard of it, but dared not break it to her. i went to our friend the mayor, to consult with him what to say, what do; and to learn more dis- tinctly than i had done from terrified, incoherent servants, the rights of so dreadful a story. when i returned, i found, to my amazement, a young stranger in the drawing-room; it was mr. margrave — miss bra- bazon had brought him at his request. lilian was in the room, too, and my astonishment was increased when she said to me with a singular smile, vague but tranquil: “i know all about allen fenwick; mr. margrave has told me all. he is a friend of allen's. he says there is no cause for fear. mr. margrave then apologized to me for his intrusion in a caress- ing, kindly manner, as if one of the family. he said he was so intimate with you that he felt that he could best break to miss ashleigh an infor- mation she might receive elsewhere, for that he was the only man in the town who treated the charge with ridicule. you know the wonderful charm of this young man's manner. i cannot explain to you how it was, but in a few moments i was as much at home with him as if he had been your brother. to be brief, having once come, he came constantly. he had moved, two days before you went to derval court, from his hotel to apartments in mr. 's house, just opposite. we could see him on his balcony from our terrace; he would smile to us and come across. i did wrong in slighting your injunction, and suffering lilian to do so. i could not help it, he was such a comfort to me - to her, too — in our tribulation. he alone had no doleful words, wore no long face; he alone was inva- riably cheerful. •every thing,' he said, ' would come right in a day or two.'” “ and lilian could not but admire this young man, he is so beauti- ful.” “ beautiful ? well, perhaps. but if you have a jealous feeling you were never more mistaken. lilian, i am convinced, does more than dis- like him; he has inspired her with repugnance, with terror. and much as i own i like him, in his wild, joyous, careless, harmless way, do not think i flatter you if i say that mr. margrave is not the man to make any girl untrue to you — untrue to a lover with infinitely less advantages than you may pretend to. he would be an universal favorite, i grant; but there is a something in him, or a something wanting in him, which makes liking and admiration stop short of love. i know not why; perhaps, be- cause, with all his good humor, he is so absorbed in himself, so intensely egotistical — so light; were he less clever, i should say so frivolous. he could not make love, he could not say in the serious tone of a man in a strange story earnest, "i love you.' he owned as much to me, and owned, too, that he knew not even what love was. as to myself - mr. margrave appears rich; no whisper against his character or his honor ever reached me. yet were you out of the question, and were there no stain on his birth, pay, were he as high in rank and wealth as he is favored by nature in personal advantages, i confess i could never consent to trust him with my daughter's fate. a voice at my heart would cry, · no! it may be an unreasonable prejudice, but i could not bear to see him touch lilian's hand !” “did she never, then — never suffer him even to take her hand ?” “never. do not think so meanly of her as to suppose that she could be caught by a fair face, a graceful manner. reflect; just before, she had refused, for your sake, ashleigh sumner, whom lady haughton said, «no girl in her senses could refuse;' and this change in lilian really be- gan before we returned to l ; before she had ever seen mr. mar- grave. i am convinced it is something in the reach of your skill as physi- cian – it is on the nerves, the system. i will give you a proof of what i say, only do not betray me to her. it was during your imprisonment, the night before your release, that i was awakened by her coming to my bed- side. she was sobbing as if her heart would break. “oh, mother, mother!' she cried, pity me, help me - i am so wretched.' what is the matter, darling?' i have been so cruel to allen, and i know i shall be so again. i cannot help it. don't question me; only, if we are sep. arated, if he cast me off, or i reject him, tell him some day — perhaps when i am in my grave - not to believe appearances; and that i, in my heart of hearts, never ceased to love him!"" “she said that! you are not deceiving me ? " “oh no; how can you think so ?” “ there is hope still,” i murmured; and i bowed my head upon my hands, hot tears forcing their way through the clasped fingers. “one word more," said i; "you tell me that. lilian has a repugnance to this margrave, and yet that she found comfort in his visits — a comfort that could not be wholly ascribed to cheering words he might say about myself, since it is all but certain that i was not, at that time, uppermost in her mind." can you explain this apparent contradiction ?” “i cannot, otherwise than by a conjecture which you would ridicule.” “ i can ridicule nothing now. what is your conjecture ?” “ i know how much you disbelieve in the stories one hears of animal magnetism and electro-biology, otherwise ” “ you think that margrave exercises some power of that kind over lilian? has he spoken of such a power ?” “ not exactly; but he said that he was sure lilian possessed a faculty a strange story., that he called by some hard name, not clairvoyance, but a faculty, which he said, when i asked him to explain, was akin to prevision — to second sight. then he talked of the priestesses who had administered the an- cient oracles. lilian, he said, reminded him of them, with her deep eyes and mysterious smile.” « and lilian heard him? what said she ?” “nothing; she seemed in fear while she listened.” “ he did not offer to try any of those arts practised by professional mesmerists and other charlatans ?” “ i thought he was about to do so, but i forestalled him, saying i never would consent to any experiment of that kind, either on myself or my daughter.” “ and he replied ?" “ with his gay laugh, that i was very foolish ; that a person possessed of such a faculty as he attributed to lilian, would, if the faculty were de- veloped, be an invaluable adviser, he would have said more, but i begged him to desist. still i fancy at times --- do not be angry - that he does somehow or other bewitch her, unconsciously to herself; for she always knows when he is coming. indeed, i am not sure that he does not bewitch myself, for i by no means justify my conduct in admitting him to an intimacy so familiar, and in spite of your wish; i have re- proached myself, resolved to shut my door on him, or to show by my manner that his visits were unwelcome ; yet when lilian has said, in the drowsy lethargic tone which has come into her voice (her voice naturally earnest and impressive, though always low), · mother, he will be here in two minutes - i wish to leave the room, and cannot'- , too, have felt as if something constrained me against my will; as if, in short, i were under that influence which mr. vigors -- whom i will never forgive for his conduct to you would ascribe to mesmerism. but will you not come in and see lilian again ?" “no, not to-night; but watch and heed her, and if you see aught to make you honestly believe that she regrets the rupture of the old tie from which i have released her -- why you know, mrs. ashleigh, that -- that " my voice failed — i wrung the good woman's hand, and went my way. i had always till then considered mrs. ashleigh -- if not as mrs. poyntz described her-common-place weak'-still of an intelligence somewhat below mediocrity. i now regarded her with respect as well as grateful tenderness; her plain sense had divined what all my boasted knowledge had failed to detect in my earlier intimacy with margrave - namely, that in him there was a something present, or a something wanting, which * a strange story. forbade love and excited fear. young, beautiful, wealthy, seemingly blameless in life as he was, she would not have given her daughter's hand to him! ' chapter xliv. the next day my house was filled with visitors. i had no notion that i had so many friends. mr. vigors wrote me a generous and handsome letter, owning his prejudices against me on account of his sympathy with poor dr. lloyd, and begging my pardon for what he now felt to have been harshness, if not distorted justice. but what most moved me, was the entrance of strahan, who rushed up to me with the heartiness of old college days. “oh, my dear allen, can you ever forgive me; that i should have disbelieved your word — should have suspected you of ab- stracting my poor cousin's memoir ?” “ is it found, then ? " “oh yes; you must thank margrave. he, clever fellow, you know, came to me on a visit yesterday. he put me at once on the right scent. only guess; but you never can! it was that wretched old housekeeper who purloined the manuscript. you remember she came into the room while you were looking at the memoir. she heard us talk about it; her curiosity was roused; she longed to know the history of her old master, _under his own hand; she could not sleep; she heard me go up to bed; she thought you might leave the book on the table when you, too, went to rest. she stole down stairs, peeped through the keyhole of the lobby, saw you asleep, the book lying before you, entered, took away the book softly, meant to glance at its contents and to return it. you were sleep- ing so soundly she thought you would not wake for an hour; she carried it into the library, leaving the door open, and there began to pore over it; she stumbled first on one of the passages in latin; she hoped to find some part in plain english, turned over the leaves, putting her candle close to them, for the old woman's eyes were dim, when she heard you make some sound in your sleep. alarmed, she looked round; you were moving uneasily in your seat, and muttering to yourself. from watching you she was soon diverted by the consequence of her own confounded curiosity and folly. in moving, she had unconsciously brought the poor manuscript close to the candle; the leaves caught the flame; her own a strange story. cap and hand burning first made her aware of the mischief donę. she threw down the book; her sleeve was in flames; she had first to tear off the sleeve, which was, luckily for her, not sewn to her dress. by the time she recovered presence of mind to attend to the book half its leaves were reduced to tinder. she did not dare then to replace what was left of the manuscript on your table; returned, with it, to her room, hid it, and resolved to keep her own secret. i should never have guessed it; i had never even spoken to her on the occurrence; but when i talked over the disappearance of the book to margrave last night, and expressed my disbelief of your story, he said, in his merry way: ‘but do you think fenwick the only person curious about your cousin's odd ways and strange history? why, every servant in the household would have been equally curious. you have examined your servants, of course ?' 'no, i never thought of it.' •examine them now, then. examine especially that old housekeeper. i observe a great change in her manner since i came here, weeks ago, to look over the house. she has something on her mind - i see it in her eyes. then it occurred to me, too, that the woman's manner had altered, and that she seemed always in a tremble and a fidget. i went at once to her room, and charged her with stealing the book. she fell on her knees, and told the whole story as i have told it to you, and as i shall take care to tell it to all to whom i have so fool- ishly blabbed my yet more foolish suspicions of yourself. but can you forgive me, old friend ?” “heartily, heartily! and the book is burned ?” “ see;" and he produced the mutilated manuscript. strange, the part burned — reduced, indeed, to tinder -- was the concluding part that related to haroun - to grayle; no vestige of that part left; the earlier portions were scorched and mutilated, but, in some places, still decipher- able; but as my eye hastily ran over these places, i saw only mangled sentences of the experimental problems which the writer had so minutely elaborated... “will you keep the manuscript as it is, and as long as you like ?” said strahan. “no, no; i will have nothing more to do with it. consult some other man of science. and so this is the old woman's whole story? no ac- complice - none? no one else shared her curiosity and her task ?”. “no. oddly enough, though, she made much the same excuse for her pitiful fobby that the madman made for his terrible crime; she said the devil put it into her head.' of course he did, as he puts every thing wrong into any one's head. that does not mend the matter.” “how! did she, too, say she saw a shadow and heard a voice ?” “ no; not such a liar as that, and not mad enough for such a lie. but a strange story. she said that when she was in bed, thinking over the book, something irresistible urged her to get up and go down into the study; swore she felt something lead her by the hand; swore, too, that when she first discov- ered the manuscript was not in english, something whispered in her ear to turn over the leaves and approach them to the candle. but i had no patience to listen to all this rubbish. i sent her out of the house, bag and baggage. but, alas ! is this to be the end of all my wise cousin's grand discoveries?” true, of labors that aspired to bring into the chart of science new worlds, of which even the traditionary rumor was but à voice from the land of fable --nought left but broken vestiges of a daring footstep! the hope of a name imperishable amidst the loftiest hierarchy of nature's secret temple, with all the pomp of recorded experiment, that applied to the mysteries of egypt and chaldæa the inductions of bacon, the tests of liebig — was there nothing left of this but what, here and there, some puzzled student might extract, garbled, mutilated, perhaps unintelligible, from shreds of sentences, wrecks of problems ? o mind of man, can the works, on which thou wouldst found immortality below, be annulled into smoke and tinder by an inch of candle in the hand of an old woman! when strahan left me, i went out, but not yet to visit patients. i stole through by-paths into the fields; i needed solitude to bring my thoughts into shape and order. what was delusion, and what not ? — was i right or the public ? was margrave really the most innocent and serviceable of human beings, kindly, affectionate, employing a wonderful acuteness for benignant ends ? was i, in truth, indebted to him for the greatest boon one man can bestow on another ? for life rescued, for fair name justified? or had he, by some demoniac sorcery, guided the hand of the murderer against the life of the person who alone could imperil his own ? had he, by the same dark spells, urged the woman to the act that had destroyed the only record of his monstrous being the only evi- dence that i was not the sport of an illusion in the horror with which he inspired me? but if the latter supposition could be admissible, did he use his agents only to betray them afterwards to exposure, and that, without any possi- ble clue to his own detection as the instigator? then, there came over me confused recollections of tales of mediæval witchcraft, which i had read in boyhood. were there not on judicial record attestation and evi- dence solemn and circumstantial, of powers analogous to those how exer- cised by margrave? of sorcerers instigating to sin through influences ascribed to demons — making their apparitions glide through guarded walls, their voices heard from afar in the solitude of dungeons or monas- tic cells ? subjugating victims to their will, by means which no vigilanco a strange story. could have detected, if the victims themselves had not confessed the witchcraft that had ensnared - courting a sure and infamous death in that confession — preferring such death to a life so haunted? were stories so gravely set forth in the pomp of judicial evidence, and in the history of times comparatively recent, indeed, to be massed — pell-mell together, as a moles indigesta of senseless superstition, — all the witnesses to be deemed liars ? all the victims and tools of the sorcerers, lunatics? all the examiners or judges, with their solemn gradations- lay and cleri- cal -- from commissions of inquiry to courts of appeal, — to be despised for credulity, loathed for cruelty ; or, amidst records so numerous, so im- posingly attested, — were there the fragments of a terrible truth ? and had our ancestors been so unwise in those laws we now deem so savage, by which the world was rid of scourges more awful and more potent than the felon with his candid dagger ? fell instigators of the evil in men's secret hearts — shaping into action the vague, half-formed desire, and guiding with agencies, impalpable, unseen, their spell-bound instruments of calamity and death. such were the gloomy questions that i — by repute, the sternest advo- cate of common sense against fantastic errors; by profession, the searcher into flesh and blood, and tissue, and nerve, and sinew, for the causes of all that disease the mechanism of the universal human frame;- , self-boasting physician, sceptic, philosopher, materialist — revolved, not amidst gloomy pines, under grim winter skies, but as i paeed slow through laughing meadows, and by the banks of merry streams, in the ripeness of the golden august; the hum of insects in the fragrant grass, the flutter of birds ainid the delicate green of boughs chequered by playful sunbeams and gentle shadows, and ever in sight of the resorts of busy work-day man. walls, roof-tops, church-spires rising high. there, white and modern, the handwriting of our race, in this practical nineteenth century, on its square plain masonry and doric shafts, the town-hall, central in the animated market-place. and i-i-prying into long-neglected corners and dust-holes of memory for what my reason had flung there as worthless rubbish; reviving the jargon of french law, in the procès ver- bal, against a gille de retz, or an urbain grandier, and sifting the equity of sentences on witchcraft! bursting the links of this ghastly soliloquy with a laugh at my own folly, i struck into a narrow path that led back toward the city, by a quiet and rural suburb; the path wound on through a wide and solitary churchyard, at the base of the abbey hill. many of the former dwellers on that emi- nence now slept in the lowly burial-ground at its foot. and the place, mournfully decorated with the tombs which still jealously mark distinc- a strange story. tions of rànk amidst the levelling democracy of the grave, was kept trim with the care which comes half from piety, and half from pride. i seated myself on a bench, placed between the clipped yew-trees that bordered the path from the entrance to the church porch ; deeming vaguely that my own perplexing thoughts might imbibe a quiet from the quiet of the place. " and oh," i murmured to myself, “ oh that i had one bosom friend to whom i might freely confide all these torturing riddles which i cannot solve-one who could read my heart, assured of its truthfulness, and wise enough to enlighten its troubles." and as i so murmured, my eye fell upon the form of a kneeling child ; at the furthest end of the burial-ground, beside a grave with its new headstone gleaming white amidst the older moss-grown tombs, a female child, her head bowed, her hands clasped. i could see but the outline of her small form in its sable dress — an infant beside the dead. my eye and my thoughts were turned from that silent figure, too ab- sorbed in my own restless tumult of doubt and dread, for sympathy with the grief or the consolation of a kneeling child. and yet i should have remembered that tomb! again i murmured with a fierce impatience, " oh for a bosom friend in whom i could confide!” i heard steps on the walks under the yews. and an old man came in sight, slightly bent, with long gray hair, but still with enough vigor for years to come - in his tread, firm, though slow in the unshrunken muscle of his limbs and the steady light of his clear blue eye. i started. was it possible ? that countenance, marked, indeed, with the lines of laborious thought, but sweet in the mildness of humanity, and serene in the peace of conscience !- i could not be mistaken. julius faber was before me. the profound pathologist, to whom my own proud self-esteem acknowledged inferiority, without humiliation ; the generous benefactor to whom i owed my own smooth entrance into the arduous road of fame and fortune. i had longed for a friend, a confidant; what i sought stood suddenly at my side. chapter xlv. explanation, on his part, was short and simple. the nephew.whom he designed as the heir to his wealth, had largely outstripped the liberal allowance made to him — had incurred heavy debts; and, in order to a strange story. extricate himself from the debts, had plunged into ruinous speculations. faber had come back to england to save his heir from prison or outlawry, at the expense of more than three fourths of the destined inheritance. 'to add to all, the young man had married a young lady without fortune ; the uncle only heard of this marriage on arriving in england. the spendthrift was hiding from his creditors in the house of his father-in-law, in one of the western counties. faber there sought him; and, on becom- ing acquainted with his wife, grew reconciled to the marriage, and formed hopes of his nephew's future redemption. he spoke, indeed, of the young wife with great affection. she was good and sensible; willing and anxious to encounter any privation by which her husband might retrieve the effects of his folly. “so,” said faber, “ on consultation with this excellent creature — for my poor nephew is so broken down by repent- ance, that others must think for him how to exalt repentance into re- form - my plans were determined. i shall remove my prodigal from all scenes of temptation. he has youth, strength, plenty of energy, hitherto misdirected. i shall take him from the old world into the new. i have decided on australia. the fortune still left to me, small here, will be ample capital there. it is not enough to maintain us separately, so we must all live together. besides, i feel that, though i have neither the strength nor the experience which could best serve a young settler on a strange soil, still, under my eye, my poor boy will be at once more prudent and more persevering. we sail next week.” faber spoke so cheerfully that i knew not how to express compassion; yet, at his age, after a career of such prolonged and distinguished labor, to resign the ease and comforts of the civilized state for the hardships and rudeness of an infant colony, seemed to me a dreary prospect; and, as delicately, as tenderly as i could to one whom i loved and honored as a father, i placed at his disposal the fortune which, in great part, i owed to him, — pressing him at least to take from it enough to secure to him- self, in his own country, a home suited to his years and worthy of his sta- tion. he rejected all my offers, however earnestly urged on him, with his usual modest and gentle dignity; and assuring me that he looked for- ward with great interest to a residence in lands new to his experience, and affording ample scope for the hardy enjoyments which had always most allured his tastes, he hastened to change the subject. “and who, think you, is the admirable helpmate my scapegrace has had the saving good luck to find ? a daughter of the worthy man who undertook the care of poor dr. lloyd's orphans — the orphans who owed so much to your generous exertions to secure a provision for them and that child, now just risen from her father's grave, is my pet companion, my darling ewe-lamb- dr. lloyd's daughter, amy." a strange story. here the child joined us, quickening her pace as she recognized the old man, and nestling to his side as she glanced wistfully towards myself. a winning, candid, lovable child's face, somewhat melancholy, somewhat more thoughtful than is common to the face of childhood, but calm, intel- ligent, and ineffably mild. presently she stole from the old man and put her hand in mine: “are you not the kind gentleman who came to see him that night when he passed away from us, and who, they all say at home, was so good to my brothers and me? yes, i recollect you now;" and she put her pure face to mine, wooing me to kiss it. i kind! i good! i-i! alas! she little knew, little guessed, the wrathful imprecation her father had bequeathed to me that fatal night! i did not dare to kiss dr. lloyd's orphan daughter, but my tears fell over her hand. she took them as signs of pity, and, in her infant thank- fulness, silently kissed me. “oh, my friend !” i murmured to faber, “i have much that i long to say to you — alone — alone - come to my house with me, be at least my guest as long as you stay in this town.” “ willingly,” said faber, looking at me more intently than he had done before, and, with the true eye of the practised healer, at once soft and penetrating he rose, took my arm, and whispering a word in the ear of the little girl, she went on before us, turning her head, as she gained the gate, for another look at her father's grave. as we walked to my house, julius faber spoke to me much of this child. her brothers were all at school; she was greatly attached to his nephew's wife ; she had become yet more attached to faber himself, though on so short an acquaintance; it had been settled that she was to accompany the emigrants to australia. " there," said he, “the sum, that some munificent, but unknown, friend of her father has settled on her, will provide her no mean dower for a colonist's wife, when the time comes for her to bring a blessing to some other hearth than ours." he went on to say that she had wished to accompany him to l- , in order to visit her father's grave before crossing the wide seas ; " and she has taken such fond care of me all the way, that you might fancy i were the child of the two. i come back to this town, partly to dispose of a few poor houses in it which still belong to me, principally to bid you farewell before quitting the old world, no doubt forever. so, on arriving to-day, i left amy by herself in the churchyard while i went to your house, but you were from home. and now i must congratulate you on the reputation you have so rapidly ac- quired, which has even surpassed my predictions." “ you are aware,” said i, falteringly, “ of the extraordinary charge a strange story. . from which that part of my reputation dearest to all men has just emerged ? " he had but seen a short account in a weekly journal, written after my release. he asked details, which i postponed. reaching my home, i busied myself to provide for the comfort of my two unexpected guests ; strove to rally myself — to be cheerful. not till night, when julius faber and i were alone together, did i touch on what was weighing at my heart. then, drawing to his side, i told him all;- all of which the substance is herein written, from the death scene in dr. lloyd's chamber to the hour in which i had seen dr. lloyd's child at her father's grave. some of the incidents and conversations which had most impressed me, i had already committed to writing, in the fear that, other- wise, my fancy might forge for its own thraldom the links of reminiscence which my memory might let fall from its chain. faber listened with a silence only interrupted by short pertinent questions; and when i had done, he remained thoughtful for some moments; then the great physi- cian replied thus: "i take for granted your conviction of the reality of all you tell me, even of the luminous shadow, the bodiless voice; but, before admitting the reality itself, we must abide by the old maxim, not to accept as cause to effect those agencies which belong to the marvellous, when causes less improbable for the effect can be rationally conjectured. in this case are there not such causes ? certainly there are " “ there are !” “ listen ; you are one of those men who attempt to stifle their own imagination. but in all completed intellect, imagination exists, and will force its way; deny it healthful vents, and it may stray into morbid chan- nels. the death-room of dr. lloyd deeply impressed your heart, far more than your pride would own. this is clear, from the pains you took to exonerate your conscience, in your generosity to the orphans. as the heart was moved, so was the imagination stirred ; and, unaware to your- self, prepared for much that subsequently appealed to it. your sudden love, conceived in the very grounds of the house so associated with recol- lections in themselves strange and romantic; the peculiar temperament and nature of the girl to whom your love was attracted ; her own vision- ary beliefs, and the keen anxiety which infused into your love a deeper poetry of sentiment, - all insensibly tended to induce the imagination to dwell on the wonderful; and, in overstriving to reconcile each rarer phenomenon to the most positive laws of nature, your very intellect could discover no solution but in the preternatural. “ you visit a man who tells you he has seen sir philip derval's ghost; on that very evening, you hear a strange story, in which sir philips a strange story, . name is mixed up with a tale of murder, implicating two mysterious pre- tenders to magic - louis grayle, and the sage of aleppo. the tale so interests your fancy that even the glaring impossibility of a not unimpor- tant part of it escapes your notice — namely, the account of a criminal trial (in which the circumstantial evidence was more easily attainable than in all the rest of the narrative, but) which could not legally have taken place as told. thus it is whenever the mind begins, unconsciously, to admit the shadow of the supernatural; the obvious is lost to the eye that plunges its gaze into the obscure. almost immediately afterwards you become acquainted with a young stranger, whose traits of character interest and perplex, attract yet revolt you. all this time you are en- gaged in a physiological work that severely tasks the brain, and in which you examine the intricate question of soul distinct from mind. “ and, here, i can conceive a cause deep-hid amongst what metaphy- sicians would call latent associations, for a train of thought which disposed you to accept the fantastic impressions afterwards made on you by the scene in the museum and the visionary talk of sir philip derval. doubt- less, when at college you first studied metaphysical speculation, you would have glanced over beattie's essay on truth as one of the works written in opposition to your favorite, david hume." . “ yes, i read the book, but i have long since forgotten all its argu- ments.” “well, in that essay, beattie * cites the extraordinary instance of simon browne, a learned and pious clergyman, who seriously disbelieved the existence of his own soul; and imagined that, by interposition of divine power, his soul was annulled, and nothing left but a principle of animal life, which he held in common with the brutes! when years ago, a thoughtful imaginative student, you came on that story, probably enough you would have paused, revolved in your own mind and fancy what kind of a creature a man might be, if, retaining human life and merely human understanding, he was deprived of the powers and properties which rea- soners have ascribed to the existence of soul. something in this young man, unconsciously to yourself, revives that forgotten train of meditative ideas. his dread of death as the final cessation of being, his brute-like want of sympathy with his kind, his incapacity to comprehend the motives which carry man on to scheme and to build for a future that extends be- yond his grave, all start up before you at the very moment your reason is overtasked, your imagination fevered, in seeking the solution of problems which, to a philosophy based upon your system, must always remain * beattie's essay on truth, part i. c. ii. . the story of simon browne is to be found in the adventurer. a strange story. insoluble. the young man's conversation not only thus excites your fancies, it disturbs your affections. he speaks not only of drugs that renew youth, but of charms that secure love. you tremble for your lil- ian while you hear him! and the brain thus tasked, the imagination thus inflamed, the heart thus agitated, you are presented to sir philip derval, whose ghost your patient had supposed he saw weeks ago.” “ this person, a seeker after an occult philosophy, which had possibly acquainted him with some secrets in nature beyond the pale of our con- ventional experience, though, when analyzed, they might prove to be quite reconcilable with sober science, startles you with an undefined mys- terious charge against the young man who had previously seemed to you different from ordinary mortals. in a room stored with the dead things of the brute soulless world, your brain becomes intoxicated with the fumes of some vapor which produces effects not uncommon in the superstitious practices of the east; your brain thus excited, brings distinctly before you the vague impressions it had before received. margrave becomes identified with the louis grayle of whom you had previously heard an obscure and legendary tale, and all the anomalies in his character are explained by his being that which you had contended, in your physiolog- ical work, it was quite possible for man to be — namely, mind and body without soul! you were startled by the monster which man would be were your own theory possible; and in order to reconcile the contradic- tions in this very monster, you account for knowledge and for powers that mind, without soul, could not have attained, by ascribing to this prodigy broken memories of a former existence, demon attributes from former proficiency in evil magic. my friend, there is nothing here which your own study of morbid idiosyncrasies should not suffice to solve." “ so then,” said i, “ you would reduce all that have affected my senses as realities into the deceit of illusions ! but," i added, in a whisper, ter- rified by my own question, “ do not physiologists agree in this: namely, that though illusory phantasms may haunt the sane as well as the insane, the sane know that they are only illusions, and the insane do not ?” “such a distinction," answered faber, “ is far too arbitrary and rigid for more than a very general and qualified acceptance. müller, indeed, who is, perhaps, the highest authority on such a subject, says, with pru- dent réserve, “when a person who is not insane sees spectres and believes them to be real, his intellect must be imperfectly exercised.'* he would, indeed, be a bold physician who maintained that every man who believed he had really seen a ghost was of unsound mind. in dr. abercrombie's interesting account of spectral illusions, he tells us of a servant-girl who * müller's physiology of the senses, p. . a strange story, believed she saw, at the foot of her bed, the apparition of curran, in a sailor's jacket and an immense pair of whiskers.* no doubt the spectre was an illusion, and dr. abercrombie very ingeniously suggests the asso- ciation of ideas by which the apparition was conjured up with the grotesque adjuncts of the jacket and the whiskers; but the servant-girl, in believing the reality of the apparition, was certainly not insane. when i read in the american public journals t of spirit manifestation, in which large numbers of persons of at least the average degree of education, declare that they have actually witnessed various phantasms much more extraordinary than all which you have confided to me, and arrive, at once, at the conclusion that they are thus put into direct communication with departed souls, i must assume that they are under an illusion, but i should be utterly unwarranted in supposing that because they credited that illusion they were insane. i should only say with müller, that in their reasoning on the phenomena presented to them, their intellect was imperfectly exercised.' and an impression made on the senses, being in itself sufficiently rare to excite our wonder, may be strengthened till it takes the form of a positive fact, by various coincidences which are accepted as corroborative testimony, yet which are, nevertheless, nothing more than coincidences found in every-day matters of business, but only emphatically noticed when we can exclaim, · how astonishing !' in your case such coincidences have been, indeed, very signal, and might well aggravate the perplexities into which your reason was thrown. sir philip derval's murder, the missing casket, the exciting nature of the manuscript, in which a superstitious interest is already enlisted by your expectation to find in it the key to the narrator's boasted powers, and his reasons for the astounding denunciation of the man whom you suspect to be his mur- derer; in all this there is much to confirm, nay, to cause, an illusion, and for that very reason, when examined by strict laws of evidence, in all this there is but additional proof that the illusion was only illusion. your affections contribute to strengthen your fancy in its war on your reason. the girl you so passionately love develops, to your disquietude and terror, the visionary temperament which, at her age, is ever liable to fantastic caprices. she hears margrave's song, which, you say, has a wildness of charm that affects and thrills even you. who does not know the power of music ? and of all music, there is none so potential as that of the human voice. thus, in some languages, charm and song are iden- tical expressions; and even when a critic, in our own sober newspapers * abercrombie on the intellectual powers, p. . ( th edition.). - † at the date of faber's conversation with alen fenwick, the (so-called) spirit manifestations had not spread from america over europe. but if they had, faber's views would, no doubt, have remained the same. a strange story. extols a malibran or a grisi, you may be sure that he will call her "enchantress.' well, this lady, your betrothed, in whom the nervous system is extremely impressionable, hears a voice, which, even to your ear, is strangely melodious, and sees a form and face which, even to your eye, are endowed with a singular character of beauty. her fancy is im- pressed by what she thus hears and sees, and impressed the more, because, by a coincidence not very uncommon, a face like that which she beholds, has before been presented to her in a dream or a reverie. in the noble- ness of genuine, confiding, reverential love, rather than impute to your beloved a levity of sentiment that would seem to you a treason, you accept the chimera of magical fascination. in this frame of mind you sit down to read the memoir of a mystical enthusiast. do you begin now to account for the luminous shadow ? · a dream! and a dream no less because your eyes were open and you believed yourself awake. the dis- eased imagination resembles those mirrors which, being themselves dis- torted, represent distorted pictures as correct. “ and even this memoir of sir philip derval's ; — can you be quite sure that you actually read the part which relates to haroun and louis grayle ? you say that, while perusing the manuscript, you saw the luminous shadow and became insensible. the old woman says you were fast asleep. may you not really have fallen into a slumber, and in that slumber have dreamed the parts of the tale that relate to grayle ? dreamed that you beheld the shadow ? do you remember what is said so well by dr. abercrombie, to authorize the explanation i suggest to you: “a person under the influence of some strong mental impression falls asleep for a few seconds, perhaps without being sensible of it: some scene or person appears in a dream, and he starts up under the convic- tion that it was a spectral appearance.'”* * abercrombie on the intellectual powers, p. . ( th edition.) this author, not more to be admired for his intelligence than his candor, and who is entitled to praise for a higher degree of original thought than that to which he modestly pre- tends, relates a curious anecdote illustrating, “the analogy between dreaming and spectral illusion, which he received from the gentleman to whom it occurred — an eminent medical friend:” “having set up late one evening, under considerable anxiety for one of his children, who was ill, he fell asleep in his chair, and had a frightful dream, in which the prominent figure was an immense baboon. he awoke with the fright, got up instantly, and walked to a table which was in the middle of the room. he was then quite awake, and quite conscious of the articles around him; but close by the wall in the end of the apartment he distinctly saw the baboon making the same grimaces which he had seen in his dream; and this spectre continued visible for about half a minute.” now, a man who saw only a baboon would be quite ready to admit that it was but an optical illusion; but if, instead of a baboon, he had seen an intimate friend, and that friend, by some coin- * a strange story. but,” said i, “ the apparition was seen by me again, and when i, cer- tainly, was not sleeping.” “ true; and who should know better than a physician so well read as yourself that a spectral illusion once beheld is always apt to return again in the same form. thus, goethe was long haunted by one image; the phantom of a flower unfolding itself, and developing new flowers.* thus, one of our own most distinguished philosophers tells us of a lady known to himself, who would see her husband, hear him move and speak, when he was not even in the house. † but instances of the facility which phan- tasms, once admitted, repeat themselves to the senses are numberless. many are recorded by hibbert and abercrombie, and every physician in extensive practice can add largely from his own experience to the list. intense self-concentration is, in itself, a mighty magician. the magicians of the east inculcate the necessity of fast, solitude, and meditation for the due development of their imaginary powers. and i have no doubt with effect; because fast, solitude, and meditation - in other words, thought or fancy intensely concentred, will both raise apparitions and produce the invoker's belief in them. spinello, striving to conceive the image of lucifer for his picture of the fallen angels, was at first actually haunted by the shadow of the fiend. newton himself has been subjected to a phantom, though to him, son of light, the spectre presented was that of the sun! you remember the account that newton gives to locke of this visionary appearance. he says that though he had looked at- the sun with his right eye only, and not with the left, yet his fancy began to make an impression upon his left eye as well as his right, for if he shut his right and looked upon the clouds, or a book, or any bright object with his left eye, he could see the sun almost as plain as with the right, if he did but intend his fancy a little while on it;' nay, 'for some months after, as often as he began to meditate on the phenomena, the spectrum of the sun began to return, even though he lay in bed at midnight, with his cur- tains drawn !' seeing, then, how any vivid impression once made will recur, what wonder that you should behold in your prison the shining shadow that had first startled you in a wizard's chamber when poring over the records of a murdered visionary? the more minutely you ana- lyze your own hallucinations - pardon me the word — the more they assume the usual characteristics of a dream; contradictory, illogical, even cidence of time, had died about that date, he would be a very strong-minded man if he admitted, for the mystery of seeing his friend, the same natural solution which he would readily admit for seeing a baboon. * see müller's observations on this phenomenon, physiology of the senses, bayley's translation, p. . † sir david brewster's letters on natural magic, p. . a strange story. . .. in the marvels they represent. can any two persons be more totally in like each other, not merely as to form and years, but as to all the elements of character, than the grayle of whom you read, and the margrave in whom you evidently think that grayle is existent still ? the one repre- sented, you say, as gloomy, saturnine, with violent passions, but with an original grandeur of thought and will, consumed by an internal remorse ; the other, you paint to me as a joyous and wayward darling of nature, acute, yet frivolous, free from even the ordinary passions of youth, - taking delight in innocent amusements, incapable of continuous study, without a single pang of repentance for the crimes you so fancifully impute to him. and now, when your suspicions, so romantically con- ceived, are dispelled by positive facts, now, when it is clear that margrave neither murdered sir philip derval nor abstracted the memoir, you still, unconsciously to yourself, draw on your imagination in order to excuse the suspicion your pride of intellect declines to banish, and suppose that this youthful sorcerer tempted the madman to the murder, the woman to theft - ” “but you forget the madman said that he was led on by the lu- minous shadow of a beautiful youth,' that the woman said also that she was impelled by some mysterious agency." “i do not forget those coincidences; but how your learning would dis- miss them as nugatory were your imagination not disposed to exaggerate them! when you read the authentic histories of any popular illusion, such as the spurious inspirations of the jansenist convulsionaries, the ap- paritions that invaded convents, as deposed to in the trial of urbain grandier, the confessions of witches and wizards in places the most re- mote from each other, or, at this day, the tales of spirit-manifestation' recorded in half the towns and villages of america — do not all the superstitious impressions of a particular time have a common family like- ness? what one sees another sees, though there has been no commu- nication between the two. i cannot tell you why these phantasms thus partake of the nature of an atmospheric epidemic; the fact remains incon- testable. and, strange as may be the coincidence between your impres- sions of a mystic agency and those of some other brains not cognizant of the chimeras of your own, still is it not simpler philosophy to say, “ they are coincidences of the same nature which made witches in the same epoch all tell much the same story of the broomsticks they rode and the sabbats at which they danced to the fiend's piping,' and there leave the matter, as in science we must leave many of the most elementary and familiar phenomena inexplicable as to their causes — is not this, i say, more philosophical than to insist upon an explanation which accepts the supernatural rather than leave the extraordinary unaccounted for ?” a strange story. “ as you speak,” said i, resting my downcast face upon my band, “i should speak to any patient who had confided to me the tale i have told to you." “ and yet the explanation does not wholly satisfy you? very likely: to some phenomena there is, as yet, no explanation. perhaps newton himself could not explain quite to his own satisfaction why he was baunted at midnight by the spectrum of a sun ; though i have no doubt that some later philosopher, whose ingenuity has been stimulated by newton's account, has, by this time, suggested a rational solution of that enigma.* to return to your own case. i have offered such interpreta- * newton's explanation is as follows: “this story i tell you to let you under- stand, that in the observation related by mr. boyle, the man's fancy probably concurred with the impression made by the sun's light to produce that phantasm of the sun which he constantly saw in bright objects, and so your question about the cause of this phantasm involves another about the power of the fancy, which i must confess is too hard a knot for me to untie. to place this effect in a constant motion is hard, because the sun ought then to appear perpetually. it seems rather to consist in a disposition of the sensorium to move the imagination strongly, and to be easily moved both by the imagination and by the light as often as bright ob- jects are looked upon." - letter from sir i. newton to locke, lord king's life of locke, vol. i. pp. - . dr. roget (animal and vegetable physiology considered with reference to nat- ural theology, bridgewater treatise, pp. , ), thus refers to this phenome- non, which he states all of us may experience:". “when the impressions are very vivid” (dr. roget is speaking of visual im- pressions)“ another phenomenon often takes place, namely, their subsequent recur- rence after a certain interval, during which they are not felt, and quite independently of any renewed application of the cause which had originally excited them.” (i mark by italics the words which more precisely coincide with julius faber's ex- planations.) “if, for example, we look steadfastly at the sun for a second or two, and then immediately close our eyes, the image or spectrum of the sun remains for a long time present to the mind as if the light were still acting on the retina. it then gradually fades and disappears; but if we continue to keep the eyes shut, the same impression will, after a certain time, recur and again vanish: and this phe- nomenon will be repeated at intervals, the sensation becoming fainter at each renewal. it is probable that these reappearances of the image, after the light which produced the original impression has been withdrawn, are occasioned by spontaneous affections of the retina itself which are conveyed to the sensorium. in other cases where the impressions are less strong, the physical changes producing these changes are perhaps confined to the sensorium." it may be said that there is this difference between the spectrum of the sun and such a phantom as that which perplexed allen fenwick — namely, that the sun has been actually beheld before its visionary appearance can be reproduced, and that allen fenwick only imagines he has seen the apparition which repeats itself to his fancy. “but there are grounds for the suspicion” (says dr. hibbert, phi- a strange story. tions of the mysteries that confound you, as appear to me authorized by physiological science. should you adduce other facts which physiologi- cal science wants the data to resolve into phenomena always natural, however rare, still hold fast to that simple saying of goethe's, — myste- ries are not necessarily miracles. and, if all which physiological science comprehends in its experience wholly fails us, i may then hazard certain conjectures which, by acknowledging ignorance, is compelled to recog- nize the marvellous -- (for, as where knowledge enters the marvellous recedes, so where knowledge falters the marvellous advances) — yet still, even in those conjectures, i will distinguish the marvellous from the su-, pernatural. but, for the present, i advise you to accept the guess that may best quiet the fevered imagination which any bolder guess would only yet more excite." “you are right,” said i, rising proudly to the full height of my stature, my head erect and my heart defying. “ and so, let this subject be re- newed no more between us. i will brood over it no more myself. i re- gain the unclouded realm of my human intelligence; and, in that intelli- gence, i mock the sorcerer and disdain the spectre.” chapter xlvi. julius faber and amy lloyd stayed in my house three days, and in her presence i felt a healthful sense of security and peace. amy losophy of apparitions, p. ), “ that when ideas of vision are vivified to the height of sensation, a corresponding affection of the optic nerve accompanies the illusion.”. müller (physiology of the senses, p. , baley's translation) states the same opinion still more strongly, and sir david brewster, quoted by dr. hibbert (p. ), says: “in examining these mental impressions i have found that they follow the motions of the eyeball exactly like the spectral impressions of luminous objects, and that they resemble them also in their apparent immobility when the eye is dis- placed by an external force. if this result (which i state with much diffidence, from having only my own experience in its favor) shall be found generally true by others, it will follow that the objects of mental contemplation may be seen as distinctly as external objects, and will occupy the same local position in the axis of vision, as if they had been formed by the agency of light.” hence the impression of an image once conveyed to the senses, no matter how, whether by actual or illusory vision, is liable to renewal,“independently of any renewed application of the cause which had originally excited it," and can be seen in that renewal “as distinctly as exter- nal objects," for indeed “the revival of the fantastic figure really does affect those points of the retina which had been previously impressed." a strange story. wished to visit her father's house, and i asked faber, in taking her there, to seize the occasion to see lilian, that he might communicate to me his impression of a case so peculiar. i prepared mrs. ashleigh for this visit by a previous note. when the old man and the child came back, both brought me comfort. amy was charmed with lilian, who had received her with the sweetness natural to her real character, and i loved to hear lilian's praise from those innocent lips. faber's report was still more calculated to console me: “i have seen, i have conversed with her long and familiarly. you were quite right, there is no tendency to consumption in that exquisite, if delicate, organization; nor do i see cause for the fear to which your statement had preinclined me. that head is too nobly formed for any constitutional cerebral infirmity. in its organization, ideality, wonder, veneration are large, it is true, but they are balanced by other organs, now perhaps almost dormant, but which will come into play as life passes from romance into duty. something at this moment evidently oppresses her mind. in conversing with her, i observe abstraction - listlessness ; but i am so convinced of her truthfulness, that if she has once told you she returned your affection, and pledged to you her faith, i should, in your place, rest perfectly satisfied that whatever be the cloud that now rests on her imagination, and for a time obscures the idea of yourself, it will pass away.” faber was a believer in the main divisions of phrenology, though he did not accept all the dogmas of gall and spurzheim; while, to my mind, the refutation of phrenology in its fundamental propositions had been tri- umphantly established by the lucid arguments of sir w. hamilton.* but when faber rested on phrenological observations, assurances in honor of lilian, i forgot sir w. hamilton, and believed in phrenology. as iron girders and pillars expand and contract with the mere variations of tem- perature, so will the strongest conviction on which the human intellect rests its judgment, vary with the changes of the human heart; and the building is only safe where these variations are foreseen and allowed for by a wisdom intent on self-knowledge. + there was much in the affection that had sprung up between julius faber and amy lloyd which touched my heart and softened all its emo- * the summary of this distinguished lecturer's objections to phrenology is to be found in the appendix to vol. i. of lectures on metaphysics, p. et seq. edi- tion . † the change of length in iron girders caused by variation of temperature, has not unfrequently brought down the whole edifice into which they were admitted. good engineers and architects allow for such changes produced by temperature. in the tubular bridge across the menai straits, a self-acting record of the daily amount of its contraction and expanse is ingeniously contrived. a strange story. tions. this man, unblessed, like myself, by conjugal and parental ties, had, in his solitary age, turned for solace to the love of a child, as i, in the prime of manhood, had turned to the love of woman. but his love was without fear, without jealousy, without trouble. my sunshine came to me, in a fitful ray, through clouds that had gathered over my noon; his sun- shine covered all his landscape, hallowed and hallowing by the calm of declining day. and amy was no common child. she had no exuberant imagination ; she was haunted by no whispers from afar; she was a creature fitted for the earth, to accept its duties and to gladden its cares. her tender ob- servation, fine and tranquil, was alive to all the important household tri- fles, by which, at the earliest age, man's allotted soother asserts her privi- lege to tend and to comfort. it was pleasant to see her moving so noise- lessly through the rooms i had devoted to her venerable protector, know- ing all his simple wants, and providing for them as if by the mechanism of a heart exquisitely moulded to the loving uses of life. sometimes when i saw her setting his chair by the window (knowing, as i did, how much he habitually loved to be near the light) and smoothing his papers (in which he was apt to be unmethodical), placing the mark in his book when he ceased to read, divining, almost without his glance, some wish passing through his mind, and then seating herself at his feet, often with her work - which was always destined for him or for one of her absent brothers — now and then, with the one small book that she had carried with her, a selection of bible stories compiled for children ; — sometimes when i saw her thus, how i wished that lilian, too, could have seen her, and have compared her own ideal phantasies with those young develop- ments of the natural heavenly woman! but was there nothing in that sight from which i, proud of my arid · reason even in its perplexities, might have taken lessons for myself ? on the second evening of faber's visit i brought to him the draft of deeds for the sale of his property. he had never been a man of business out of his profession; he was impatient to sell his property, and disposed to accept an offer at half its value. i insisted on taking on myself the task of negotiator; perhaps, too, in this office i was egotistically anxious to prove to the great physician that that which he believed to be my " hallucination ” had in no way obscured my common sense in the daily affairs of life. so i concluded, and in a few hours, terms for his property that were only just, but were infinitely more advantageous than had ap- peared to himself to be possible. but, as i approached him with the papers, he put his finger to his lips. amy was standing by him with her little book in her hand, and his own bible lay open on the table. he was reading to her from the sacred volume itself, and impressing on her a strange story. the force and beauty of one of the parables, the adaptation of which had perplexed her; when he had done, she kissed him, bade him good night, and went away to rest. then said faber thoughtfully, and as if to him- self more than me, “what a lovely bridge between old age and childhood is religion ! how intuitively the child begins with prayer and worship on entering life, and how intuitively on quitting life the old man turns back to prayer and worship, putting himself again side by side with the infant!” i made no answer, but, after a pause, spoke of fines and freeholds, title-deeds and money; and when the business on hand was concluded, asked my learned guest if, before he departed, he would deign to look over the pages of my ambitious physiological work. there were parts of it on which i much desired his opinion, touching on subjects in which his special studies made him an authority as high as our land possessed. he made me bring him the manuscript, and devoted much of that night and the next day to its perusal. when he gave it me back, which was not till the morning of his de- parture, he commenced with eulogies on the scope of its design and the manner of its execution, which flattered my vanity so much that i could not help exclaiming, “ then, at least, there is no trace of 'hallucination' here!” “ alas, my poor allen ! here, perhaps, hallucination, or self-deception, is more apparent than in all the strange tales you confided to me. for here is the hallucination of a man seated on the shores of nature, and who would say to its measureless sea, “ so far shalt thou go and no fur- ther!' - here is the hallucination of the creature, who, not content with exploring the laws of the creator, ends with submitting to his interpreta- tion of some three or four laws, in the midst of a code of which all the rest are in language unknown to him— the powers and free-will of the lawgiver himself; here is the hallucination by which nature is left god- less — because man is left soulless. what would matter all our specula- tions on a deity who would cease to exist for us when we are in the grave? why mete out, like archytas, the earth and the sea, and num- ber the sands on the shore that divides them, if the end of this wisdom be a handful of dust sprinkled over a skull! "nec quidquam tibi prodest aerias tentasse domos, animoque rotundum percurrisse polum morituro.' your book is a proof of the soul that you fail to discover. without a' ? soul, no man would work for a future that begins for his fame when the breath is gone from his body. do you remember how you saw that little a strange story. child praying at the grave of her father? shall i tell you that in her simple orisons she prayed for the benefactor — who had cared for the or- phan; who had reared over dust that tomb which, in a christian burial- ground, is a mute but perceptible memorial of christian hopes; that the child prayed, haughty man, for you? and you sat by, knowing nought of this; sat by, amongst the graves, troubled and tortured with ghastly doubts - vain of a reason that was sceptical of eternity, and yet shaken like a reed by a moment's marvel. shall i tell the child to pray for you no more ? — that you disbelieve in a soul ? if you do so, what is the efficacy of prayer? speak, shall i tell her this ? shall the infant pray for you never more ?” i was silent; i was thrilled. “has it never occurred to you, who, in denying all innate perceptions as well as ideas, have passed on to deductions from which poor locke, humble christian that he was, would have shrunk in dismay; has it never occurred to you as a wonderful fact, that the easiest thing in the world to teach a child is that which seems to métaphysical schoolmen the ab- strusest of all problems ? read all those philosophers wrangling about a first cause, deciding on what are miracles, and then again deciding that such miracles cannot be; and when one has answered another, and left in the crucible of wisdom a caput mortuum of ignorance, then turn your eyes, and look at the infant praying to the invisible god at his mother's knees. this idea, so miraculously abstract, of a power that the infant has never seen, that cannot be symbolled forth and explained to him by the most erudite sage, - a power, nevertheless, that watches over him, that hears him, that sees him, that will carry him across the grave, that will enable him to live on forever; — this double mystery of a divinity and of a soul the infant learns with the most facile readiness, at the first glimpse of his reasoning faculty. before you can teach him a rule in addition, before you can venture to drill him into his hornbook, he leaps, with one intuitive spring of all his ideas, to the comprehension of the truths which are only incomprehensible to blundering sages! and you, as you stand before me, dare not say, “let the child pray for me no more!' but will the creator accept the child's prayer for the man who refuses prayer for himself? take my advice — pray! and in this counsel i do not overstep my province. i speak not as a preacher, but as a physician. for health is a word that comprehends our whole organization, and a just equilibrium of all faculties and functions is the condition of health. as in your lilian the equilibrium is deranged by the over-indulgence of a spiritual mysticism which withdraws from the nutriment of duty the essential pabulum of sober sense, so in you, the resolute negation of disciplined spiritual communion between thought a strange story. and divinity robs imagination of its noblest and safest vent. thus, from opposite extremes, you and your lilian meet in the same region of mist and cloud, losing sight of each other and of the true ends of life, as her eyes only gaze on the stars and yours only bend to the earth. were i advising her, i should say: 'your creator has placed the scene of your trial below, and not in the stars.' advising you, i say: but in the trial below, man should recognize education for heaven.' in a word, i would draw somewhat more downward her fancy, raise somewhat more upward your reason. take my advice then - pray. your mental system needs the support of prayer in order to preserve its balance. in the embarrass- ment and confusion of your senses, clearness of perception will come with habitual and tranquil confidence in him who alike rules the uni- verse and reads the heart. i only say here what has been said much better before by a reasoner in whom all students of nature recognize a guide. i see on your table the very volume of bacon which contains the passage i commend to your reflection. here it is. listen : "take an example of a dog, and mark what a generosity and courage he wilt put on when he finds himself maintained by a man who, to him, is instead of a god, or melior natura, which courage is manifestly such as that crea- ture, without that confidence of a better nature than his own, could never attain. so man, when he resteth and assureth himself upon divine protection and favor, gathereth a force and faith which human nature could not obtain.'* you are silent, but your gesture tells me your doubt - a doubt which your heart, so femininely tender, will not speak aloud lest you should rob the old man of a hope with which your strength of manhood dispenses — you doubt the efficacy of prayer! pause and re- flect, bold but candid inquirer into the laws of that guide you call nature. if there were no efficacy in prayer - if prayer were as mere an illusion of superstitious phantasy as aught against which your reason now strug. gles - do you think that nature herself would have made it amongst the most common and facile of all her dictates? do you believe that if there really did not exist that tie between man and his maker - that link be- tween life here and a life hereafter which is found in what we call soul, alone — that wherever you look through the universe, you would behold a child at prayer? nature inculcates nothing that is superfluous. na- ture does not impel the leviathan, or the lion, the eagle or the moth, to pray; she impels only man. why? because man only has soul, and soul seeks to commune with the everlasting, as a fountain struggles up * bacon's essay on atheism. this quotation is made with admirable felicity and force by dr. whewell, page of bridgewater treatise, on astronomy and general physics considered with reference to natural theology. - a strange story. to its source. burn your book. it would found you a reputation for learning and intellect and courage, i allow; but learning and intellect and courage wasted against a truth - like spray against a rock! a truth valuable to the world, the world will never part with. you will not injure the truth, but you will mislead and may destroy many, whose best security is in the truth which you so eruditely insinuate to be a fable. soul and hereafter are the heritage of all men; the humblest journey- man in those streets, the pettiest trader behind those counters, have in those beliefs their prerogatives of royalty. you would dethrone and em- brute the lords of the earth by your theories. for my part, having given the greater part of my life to the study and analysis of facts, i would rather be the author of the tritest homily, of the baldest poem, that incul- cated that imperishable essence of the soul to which i have neither scalpel nor probe - than be the founder of the subtlest school, or the framer of the loftiest verse, that robbed my fellow men of their faith in a spirit that eludes the dissecting-knife, in a being that escapes the grave- digger. burn your book --- accept this book instead; read and pray." he placed his bible in my hand, embraced me, and, an hour afterwards, the old man and the child left my hearth solitary oncé more. chapter xlvii. that night as i sat in my study, very thoughtful and very mournful, i revolved all that julius faber had said, and the impression. his words had produced, became gradually weaker and weaker, as my reason, nat- urally combative, rose up with all the replies which my philosophy sug- gested. no! if my imagination had really seduced and betrayed me into monstrous credulities, it was clear that the best remedy to such morbid tendencies towards the superstitious was in the severe exercise of the faculties most opposed to superstition; in the culture of pure reasoning; in the science of absolute fact. accordingly, i placed before me the very book which julius faber had advised me to burn; i forced all my powers of mind to go again over the passages which contained the doctrines that his admonition had censured; and, before daybreak, i had stated the sub- stance of his argument, and the logical reply to it, in an elaborate addition to my chapter on" sentimental philosophers.” while thus rejecting the purport of his parting counsels, i embodied in another portion of my work, a strange story. his views on my own “illusions,” and as here my common sense was in concord with his, i disposed of all my own previous doubts in an addition to my favorite chapter “on the cheats of the imagination.” and when the pen dropped from my hand, and the day-star gleained through the window, my heart escaped from the labor of my mind, and flew back to the image of lilian. the pride of the philosopher died out of me, the sorrow of the man reigned supreme, and i shrank from the coming of the sun, despondent. chapter xlviii. not till the law had completed its proceedings and satisfied the public mind as to the murder of sir philip derval, were the remains of the de- ceased consigned to the family mausoleum. the funeral was, as may be supposed, strictly private, and when it was over, the excitement caused by an event so tragical and singular, subsided. new topics engaged the public talk, and -- in my presence, at least — the delicate consideration due to one whose name had been so painfully mixed up in the dismal story, forbore a topic which i could not be expected to hear without dis- tressful emotion. mrs. ashleigh i saw frequently at my own house; she honestly confessed that lilian had not shown that grief at the cancelling of our engagement which would alone justify mrs. ashleigh in asking me again to see her daughter, and retract my conclusions against our union. she said that lilian was quiet, not uncheerful, never spoke of me nor of margrave, but seemed absent and preoccupied as before, taking pleasure in nothing that had been wont to please her; not in music, nor books, nor that tranquil pastime which women call work, and in which they find ex- cuse to meditate, in idleness, their own fancies. she rarely stirred out - even in the garden -- when she did, her eyes seemed to avoid the house in which margrave had lodged, and her steps the old favorite haunt by the monks' well. she would remain silent for long hours together, but the silence did not appear melancholy. for the rest, her health was more than usually good. still, mrs. ashleigh persisted in her belief that, sooner or later, lilian would return to her former self, her former sentiments for me, and she entreated me not as yet to let the world know that our en- gagement was broken off. “for if,” said she, with good sense, “ if it should prove not to be broken off, only suspended, and afterwards hap- pily renewed, there will be two stories to tell, when no story is needed. a strange story. besides, i should dread the effect on lilian, if offensive gossips babbled to her on a matter that would excite so much curiosity as the rupture of a union in which our neighbors have taken so general an interest.” i had no reason to refuse acquiescence in mrs. ashleigh's request, but i did not share in her hopes; i felt that the fair prospects of my life were blasted; i could never love another, never wed another; i resigned my- self to a solitary hearth, rejoiced, at least, that margrave had not revisited at mrs. ashleigh's; had not, indeed, reappeared in the town. he was still staying with strahan, who told me that his guest had ensconced him- self in forman’s old study, and amused himself with reading —though not for long at a time — the curious old books and manuscripts found in the library, or climbing trees like a schoolboy, and familiarizing himself with the deer and the cattle, which would group round him quite tame, and feed from his hand. was this the description of a criminal ? but if sir philip's assertion were really true; if the criminal were man without soul; if without squl, man would have no conscience, never be troubled by repentance, and the vague dread of a future world, - why, then, should not the criminal be gay despite his crimes, as the white bear gam- bols as friskily after his meal on human flesh? these questions would haunt me despite my determination to accept as the right solution of all marvels the construction put on my narrative by julius faber. days passed; i saw and heard nothing of margrave! i began half to hope that, in the desultory and rapid changes of mood and mind which characterized his restless nature, he had forgotten my existence. one morning, i went out early on my rounds, when i met straban unexpectedly. "i was in search of you," he said, “ for more than one person has told me that you are looking ill and jaded. so you are! and the town now is hot and unhealthy. you must come to derval court for a week or so. you can ride into town every day to see your patients. don't re- fuse. margrave, who is still with me, sends all kind messages, and bade me say that he entreats you to come to the house at which he also is a guest!” i started. what had the scin-læca required of me, and obtained to that condition my promise ? “ if you are asked to the house at which i also am a guest, you will come; you will meet and converse with me as guest speaks to guest in the house of a host !” was this one of the coin- cidences which my reason was bound to accept as coincidences and noth- ing more? tut, tut! was i returning again to my “ hallucinations ? " granting that faber and common sense were in the right, what was this margrave? a man to whose friendship, acuteness, and energy i was under the deepest obligations; to whom i was indebted for active services * a strange story. that had saved my life from a serious danger, acquitted my honor of a horrible suspicion. “i thank you,” i said to strahan, “ i will come; not, indeed, for a week, but, at all events, for a day or two." “ that's right; i will call for you in the carriage at six o'clock. you will have done your day's work by then ?”. - *« yes, i will so arrange.” on our way to derval court that evening, strahan talked much about' margrave, of whom, nevertheless, he seemed to be growing weary. “ his high spirits are too much for one,” said he; and then so restless - · so incapable of sustained quiet conversation. and clever though he is, he can't help me in the least about the new house i shall build. he has no notion of construction. i don't think he could build a barn." : “i thought you did not like to demolish the old house, and would con- tent yourself with pulling down the more ancient part of it?" • true. at first it seemed a pity to destroy so handsome a mansion ; but you see, since poor sir philip's manuscript, on which he set such store, has been too mutilated, i fear, to allow me to affect his wish with regard to it, i think i ought, at least, scrupulously to obey his other whims. and, besides i don't know there are odd noises about the old house. i don't believe in haunted houses, still there is something dreary in strange sounds at the dead of night, even if made by rats, or winds through decay- ing rafters. you, i remember at college, had a taste for architecture, and can draw plans. i wish to follow out sir philip's design, but on a smaller scale and with more attention to comfort." thus he continued to run on, satisfied to find me a silent and attentive listener. we arrived at the mansion an hour before sunset, the westering light shining full against the many windows cased in mouldering pilasters, and making the general dilapidation of the whole place yet more mourn- fully evident. it was but a few minutes to the dinner-hour. i went up at once to the room appropriated to me -- not the one i had before occupied. strahan had already got together a new establishment. i was glad to find in the servant who attended me an old acquaintance. he had been in my own employ when i first settled at l- , and left me to get married. he and his wife were now both in strahan's service. he spoke warmly of his new master and his contentment with his situation, while he unpacked my carpet-bag and assisted me to change my dress. but the chief object of his talk and his praise was mr. margrave. “ such a bright young gentleman, like the first fine day in may !” when i entered the drawing-room, margrave and stralian were both there. the former was blithe and genial, as usual, in his welcome. at dinner, and during the whole evening till we retired severally to our own a strange story. rooms, he was the principal talker; recounting incidents of travel, always very loosely strung together, jesting, good humoredly enough, at strahan's sudden hobby for building, then putting questions to me about mutual acquaintances, but never waiting for an answer, and every now and then, as if at random, startling us with some brilliant aphorism or some sugges- tion drawn from abstract science or unfamiliar erudition. the wholo effect was sparkling, but i could well understand, that if long continued, it would become oppressive. the soul has need of pauses of repose- intervals of escape not only from the flesh, but even from the mind. a man of the loftiest intellect will experience times when mere intellect not only fatigues him, but amidst its most original conceptions, amidst its proudest triumphs, has a something trite and common-place compared with one of those vague intimations of a spiritual destiny which are not within the ordinary domain of reason; and, gazing abstractedly into space, will leave suspended some problem of severest thought, or uncompleted some golden palace of imperial poetry, to indulge in hazy reveries that do not differ from those of an innocent quiet child! the soul has a long road to travel — from time through eternity. it demands its halting hours of contemplation. contemplation is serene. but with such wants of an immortal immaterial spirit, margrave had no fellowship, no sympathy; and for myself, i need scarcely add that the lines i have just traced i should not have written at the date at which my narrative has now ar- rived., chapter xlix. i had no case that necessitated my return to the following day. the earlier hours of the forenoon i devoted to strahan and his building plans. margrave flitted in and out of the room fitfully as an april sun- beam, sometimes flinging himself on a sofa and reading for a few minutes one of the volumes of the ancient mystics, in which sir philip's library was so rich. i remember it was a volume of proclus. he read that crabbed and difficult greek with a fluency that surprised me. “i picked up the ancient greek,” said he, “ years ago, in learning the modern." but the book soon tired him; then he would come and disturb us, archly enjoying strahan's peevishness at interruption; then he would throw open the window and leap down, chanting one of his wild savage airs; and in another moment he was half hid under the drooping boughs of a broad lime-tree, amidst the antlers of deer that gathered fondly round him. in · a strange story. the afternoon my host was called away to attend some visitors of impor- tance, and i found myself on the sward before the house, right in view of the mausoleum, and alone with margrave." i turned my eyes from that dumb house of death wherein rested the corpse of the last lord of the soil, so strangely murdered, with a strong desire to speak out to margrave the doubts respecting himself that tor- tured me. but, setting aside the promise to the contrary, which i had given, or dreamed i had given, to the luminous shadow — to fulfil that desire would have been impossible — impossible to any one gazing on that radiant youthful face !- i think i see him now as i saw him then; a white doe, that even my presence could not scare away from him, clung lovingly to his side, looking up at him with her soft eyes. he stood there like the incarnate principle of mythological sensuous life. i have before applied to him that illustration ; let the repetition be pardoned. impossible, i repeat it, to say to that creature, face to face, “ art thou the master of demoniac arts and the instigator of secret murder ?” as if from redundant happiness within himself, he was humming, or rather cooing, a strain of music, so sweet, so sweet, so wildly sweet, and so unlike the music one hears from tutored lips in crowded rooms! i passed my hand over my forehead in bewilderment and awe. “ are there,” i said, unconsciously — " are there, indeed, such prodigies in nature ?” -“nature !” he cried, catching up the word; “talk to me of nature! talk of her, the wondrous blissful mother! mother i may well call her. i am her spoiled child, her darling but oh, to die, ever to die, ever to lose sight of nature ! — to rot, senseless, whether under these turfs or within those dead walls — " i could not resist the answer : “ like yon murdered man! murdered, and by whom ?” “ by whom? i thought that was clearly proved ! ” “ the hand was proved; what influence moved the hand ?” “ tush! the poor wretch spoke of a demon! who can tell ? nature herself is a grand destroyer. see that pretty bird, in its beak a writhing worm! all nature's children live to take life ; * none, indeed, so lav- * may i be pardoned, since allen fenwick does not confute, in his reply, the trite fallacy contained in margrave's remarks on the destroying agency of nature, if i earnestly commend to the general reader the careful perasal of chapter xiii. page , of dr. buckland's bridgewater treatise (geology and mineralogy) on the “aggregate of animal enjoyment increased, and that of pain diminished, by the existence of carniverous races.” nothing to my mind can surpass the terseness and simplicity with which the truth of that proposition is worked out to the vindi- cation of the great drama of universal life. a strange story. . ishly as man. what hecatombs slaughtered, not to satisfy the irresistible sting of hunger, but for the wanton ostentation of a feast, which he may scarcely taste, or for the mere sport that he finds in destroying. we speak with dread of the beasts of prey: what beast of prey is so dire å ravager as man? so cruel and so treacherous ? look at yon flock of sheep, bred and fattened for the shambles; and this hind that i caress, – if i were the park-keeper, and her time for my bullet had come, would you think her life was the safer because, in my own idle whim, i had tamed her to trust to the hand raised to slay her?” “ it is true,” said i, “ a grim truth. nature, on the surface so loving and so gentle, is full of terror in her deeps when our thought descends into their abyss !” strahan now joined us with a party of country visitors.. • margrave is the man to show you the beauties of this park,” said he. “ margrave knows every bosk and dingle, twisted old thorn-tree, or open- ing glade, in its intricate, undulating ground.” margrave seemed delighted at this proposition, and as he led us through the park, though the way..was long, though the sun was fierce, no one seemed fatigued. for the pleasure he felt in pointing out detached beau- ties which escaped an ordinary eye was contagious. he did not talk as talks the poet or the painter; but at some lovely effect of light among the tremulous leaves, some sudden glimpse of a sportive rivulet below, he would halt, point it out to us in silence, and with a kind of childlike ecstasy in his own bright face, that seemed to reflect the life and the bliss of the blithe summer-day itself. thus seen, all my doubts in his dark secret nature faded away; all my horror, all my hate; it was impossible to resist the charm that breathed round him, not to feel a tender, affectionate yearning towards him as to some fair happy child. well might he call himself the darling of nature. was he not the mysterious likeness of that awful mother, beautiful as apollo in one aspect, direful as typhon in another ? chapter l. “what a strange looking cane you have, sir,” said a little girl, who was one of the party, and who had entwined her arm round margrave's. " let me look at it.” “yes,” said strahan; “ that cane, or rather walking-staff, is worth look- ing at. margrave bought it in egypt, and declares that it is very ancient.”. a strange story. this staff seemed constructed from a reed; looked at, it seemed light, in the hand it felt heavy; it was of a pale, faded yellow, wrought with black rings at equal distances, and graven with half obliterated charac- ters that seemed hieroglyphie. i remembered to have seen margrave with it before, but i had never noticed it with any attention till now, when it was passed from hand to hand. at the head of the cane there was a large unpolished stone of a dark blue. “ is this a pebble or a jewel ?” asked one of the party. “i cannot tell you its name or nature," said margrave; “but it is said to cure the bite of serpents,* and has other supposed virtues -a talisman, in short." he here placed the staff in my hands, and bade me look at it with care. then he changed the conversation, and renewed the way, leaving the staff with me, till, suddenly, i forced it back on him. i could not have explained why, but its touch, as it warmed in my clasp, seemed to send * the following description of a stone at corfu, celebrated as an antidote to the venom of the serpent's bite, was given to me by an eminent scholar and legal func- tionary in that island: "description of the blue stone. -- this stone is of an oval shape, one inch and two tenths long, seven tenths broad, three tenths thick, and, having been broken formerly, is now set in gold. “when a person is bitten by a poisonous snake, the bite must be opened by a lancet or razor long ways, and the stone applied within twenty-four hours. the stone then attaches itself firmly on the wound, and when it has done its office falls off; the cure is then complete. the stone must then be thrown into milk, where- upon it vomits the poison it has absorbed, which remains, green on the top of the milk, and the stone is then again fit for use. “this stone has been from time immemorial in the family of ventura, of corfu, a house of italian origin, and is notorious, so that peasants immediately apply for its aid. its virtue has not been impaired by the fracture. its nature or composi- tion is unknown. “in a case where two were stung at the same time by serpents, the stone was applied to one who recovered, but the other, for whom it could not be used, died. “it never failed but once, and then it was applied after the twenty-four hours. “its color is so dark as not to be distinguished from black. " p. m. colquhoun “ corfu, th nov., .” sir emerson tennent, in his popular and excellent work on ceylon, gives an account of snake stones” apparently similar to the one at corfu, except that they are “intensely black and highly polished," and which are applied, in much the same manner, to the wounds inflicted by the cobra capella. query – might it not be worth while to ascertain the chemical properties of these stones, and, if they be efficacious in the extraction of venom conveyed by a bite, might they not be as successful if applied to the bite of a mad dog as to that of a cobra capella ? a strange story. through my whole frame a singular thrill, and a sensation as if i no longer. felt my own weight - as if i walked on air. our rambles came to a close ; the visitors went away; i reentered the house through the sash-window of forman’s study; margrave threw his hat and staff on the table, and amused himself with examining minutely the tracery on the mantelpiece. strahan and myself left him thus occu- pied, and going into the adjoining library, resumed our task of examining the plans for the new house. i continued to draw outlines and sketches of various alterations tending to simplify and contract sir philip's general design. margrave soon joined us, and, this time, took his seat patiently beside our table, watching me use ruler and compass with unwonted at- tention. “i wish i could draw," he said, “ but i can do nothing useful.” * richmen like you,” said strahan, peevishly, “ can engage others, and are better employed in rewarding good artists than in making bad drawings themselves.” “yes, i can employ others; and — fenwick, when you have finished with strahan, i will ask permission to employ you, though without reward; the task i would impose will not take you a minute." he then threw himself back in his chair, and seemed to fall into a doze. the dressing-bell rang; strahan put away the plans — indeed, they were now pretty well finished and decided on. margrave woke up as our host left the room to dress, and drawing me towards another table in the room, placed before me one of his favorite mystic books, and, pointing to an old wood-cut, said: “i will ask you to copy this for me; it pretends to be a fac-simile of solomon's famous seal. i have a whimsical desire to have a copy of it. you observe two triangles interlaced and inserted in a circle? the pen-, tacle, in short. yes, just so. you need not add the astrological charac- ters, they are the senseless superfluous accessories of the dreamer who wrote the book. but the pentacle itself has an intelligible meaning; it be- longs to the only universal language, the language of symbol, in which all races that think — around, and above, and below us -- can establish com- munion of thought. if in the external universe any one constructive principle can be detected, it is the geomètrical; and in every part of the world in which magic pretends to a written character, i find that its hieroglyphics are geometrical figures. is it not laughable that the most positive of all the sciences should thus lend its angles and circles to the use of — what shall i call it ? -- the ignorance ? - ay, that is the word - the ignorance of dealers in magic !” he took up the paper on which i had hastily described the triangles and the circle, and went out of the room, chanting the serpent-charmer's song. a strange story. chapter li. when we separated for the night, which we did at eleven o'clock, margrave said: “good night and good-hy. i must leave you to-morrow, strahan, and before your usual hour for rising. i took the liberty of requesting one of your men to order me a chaise from l- pardon my seeming abruptness, but i always avoid long leave-takings, and i had fixed the date of my departure almost as soon as i accepted your invitation.” “i have no right to complain. the place must be dull, indeed, to a gay young fellow, like you. it is dull even to me. i am meditating flight already. are you going back to l- ?” “ not even for such things as i left at my lodging. when i settle somewhere, and can give an address, i shall direct them to be sent to me. there are, i hear, beautiful patches of scenery towards the north, only known to pedestrian tourists. i am a good walker; and you know, fen- wick, that i am also a child of nature. adieu to you both ; and many thanks to you, strahan, for your hospitality." he left the room.' “i am not sorry he is going,” said strahan, after a pause, and with a quick breath as if of relief. “do you not think that he exhausts one ? an excess of oxygen, as you would say in a lecture.” i was alone in my own chamber; i felt indisposed for bed and for sleep; the curious conversation i had held with margrave weighed on me. in that conversation, we had indirectly touched upon the prodigies which i had not brought myself to speak of with frank courage, and cer- tainly nothing in margrave's manner had betrayed consciousness of my suspicions; on the contrary, the open frankness with which he evinced his predilection for mystic speculation, or uttered his more unamiable sentiments, rather tended to disarm than encourage belief in gloomy secrets of sinister powers. and he was about to quit the neighborbood, he would not again see lilian, not even enter the town of l- was i to ascribe this relief from his presence to the promise of the shadow, or was i not rather right in battling firmly against any grotesque illusion and accepting his departure as a simple proof that my jealous fears had been amongst my other chimeras, and that as he had really only visited lilian out of friendship to me, in my peril, so he might, with his charac- teristic acuteness, have guessed my jealousy, and ceased his visits from a kindly motive delicately concealed ? and might not the same motive now have dictated the words which were intended to assure me that l- a strange story. . contained no attractions to tempt him to return to it? thus gradually soothed and cheered by the course to which my reflections led me, i con- tinued to muse for hours. at length, looking at my watch, i was sur- prised to find it was the second hour after midnight. i was just about to rise from my chair to undress, and secure some hours of sleep, when the well-remembered cold wind passed through the room, stirring the roots of my hair, and before me stood, against the wall, the luminous shadow. “rise and follow me,” said the voice, sounding much nearer to me than it had ever done before. and at those words i rose mechanically, and like a sleep-walker. “ take up the light.” i took it. · the scin-læca glided along the wall towards the threshold, and mo- tioned to me to open the door. i did so. the shadow fitted on through the corridor. i followed, with hushed footsteps, down a small stair into forman's study. in all my subsequent proceedings, about to be narrated, the shadow guided me, sometimes by voice, sometimes by sign. i obeyed the guidance not only unresistingly, but without a desire to resist. i was unconscious either of curiosity or of awe - only of a calm and passive indifference, neither pleasurable nor painful. in this obedience, from which all will seemed extracted, i took into my hands the staff which i had examined the day before, and which lay on the table, just where margrave had cast it on reëntering the house. i unclosed the shutter to the casement, lifted the sash, and, with the light in my left hand, the staff in my right, stepped forth into the garden. the night was still ; the flame of the candle scarcely trembled in the air; the shadow moved on before me towards the old pavilion described in an earlier part of this narrative, and of which the mouldering doors stood wide open. i fol- lowed the shadow into the pavilion, up the crazy stair to the room above, with its four great blank, unglazed windows, or rather arcades, north, south, east, and west. i halted on the middle of the floor. right before my eyes, through the vista made by breathless boughs, stood out from the moonlit air the dreary mausoleum. then, at the command conveyed to me, i placed the candle on a wooden settle, touched a spring in the handle of the staff, a lid flew back, and i drew from the hollow, first a lump of some dark bituminous substance, next a small slender wand of polished steel, of which the point was tipped with a translucent material which appeared to me like crystal. bending down, still obedient to the direction conveyed to me, i described on the floor with the lump of bitu- men (if i may so call it) the figure of the pentacle with the interlaced *triangles, in a circle nine feet in diameter, just as i had drawn it for margrave the evening before. the material used made the figure per- . a strangÉ story. : ceptible, in a dark color of mingled black and red. i applied the fame of the candle to the circle, and immediately it became lambent with a low steady splendor that rose about an inch from the floor, and gradually from this light there emanated a soft gray transparent mist and a faint but exquisite odor. i stood in the midst of the circle, and within the circle also, close by my side, stood the scin-læca ; no longer reflected on the wall, but apart from it, erect, rounded into more integral and disa. tinct form, yet impalpable, and from it there breathed an icy air. then lifting the wand the broader end of which rested in the palm of my hand, the two fore-fingers closing lightly over it in a line parallel with the point, i directed it towards the wide aperture before me, fronting the mausoleum. i repeated aloud some words whispered to me in a language i knew not: those words i would not trace on this paper could i remem- ber" them. as they came to a close, i heard a howl from the watch-dog in the yard -- a dismal, lugubrious howl. other dogs in the distant vil- lage caught up the sound, and bayed in a dirge-like chorus ; and the howling went on louder and louder. again strange words were whis- pered to me, and i repeated them in mechanical submission ; and when they, too, were ended, i felt the ground tremble beneath me, and as my eyes looked straight forward down the vista, that, stretching from the casement, was bounded by the solitary mausoleum, vague formless shad- ows seemed to pass across the moonlight - below, along the sward - above, in the air; and then suddenly a terror, not before conceived, came upon me. and a third time words were whispered; but though i knew no more of their meaning than i did of those that had preceded them, i felt a ré- pugnance to utter them aloud. mutely i turned towards the scin-læca, and the expression of its face was menacing and terrible; my will became yet more compelled to the control imposed upon it, and my lips com- menced the formula again whispered into my ear, when i heard distinctly a voice of warning and of anguish, that murmured “hold !” i knew the voice ; it was lilian's. i paused - i turned towards the quarter from which the voice had come, and in the space afar i saw the features, the form of lilian. her arms were stretched towards me in supplication, her countenance was deadly pale and anxious with unutterable distress. the whole image seemed in unison with the voice; - the look, the attitude, gesture, of one who sees another in deadly peril, and cries “ beware !." this apparition vanished in a moment; but that moment sufficed to free my mind from the constraint which had before enslaved it. i dashed the wand to the ground, sprang from the circle, rushed from the place. how i got into my own room i can remember not i know not; i have a vague reminiscence of some intervening wanderings, of giant trees, of a strange story. shroud-like moonlight, of the shining shadow and its angry aspect, of the blind walls and iron door of the house of the dead, of spectral images — a confused and dreary phantasmagoria. but all i can recall with distinctness is the sight of my own hueless face in the mirror in my own still room, by the light of the white moon through the window; and sinking down, i said to myself, “ this, at least, is an hallucination or a dream !" . chapter lii. a heavy sleep came over me at daybreak, but i did not undress nor go to bed. the sun was high in the heavens when, on waking, i saw the servant, who had attended me, bustling about the room. “i beg your pardon, sir, i am afraid i disturbed you ; but i have been three times to see if you were not coming down, and found you so soundly asleep i did not like to wake you. mr. straban has finished breakfast, and gone out riding; mr. margrave has left- left before six o'clock.” “ ah, he said he was going early.” : “ yes, sir; and he seemed so cross when he went. i could never have supposed so pleasant a gentleman could have put himself into such a passion!” “what was the matter ? » .“ why, his walking-stick could not be found; it was not in the hall. he said he had left it in the study; we could not find it there. at last he found it himself in the old summer-house, and said --i beg pardon, he said he was sure you had taken it there : that some one, at all events, had been meddling with it. however, i am · very glad it was found, since he seems to set such store on it.” - did mr. margrave go himself into the summer-house to look for it? “ yes, sir; no one else would have thought of such a place; no one likes to go there even in the daytime.” “ why?” “ why, sir, they say it is haunted since poor sir philip's death; and, indeed, there are strange noises in every part of the house. i am afraid you had a bad night, sir," continued the servant, with evident curiosity glancing towards the bed, which i had not pressed, and towards the evening dress, which, while he spoke, i was rapidly changing for that which i habitually wore in the morning. “i hope you did not feel your- belf ill?” a strange story. “no; but it seems i fell asleep in my chair.” “ did you hear, sir, how the dogs howled about two o'clock in the morning? they woke me. very frightful!”. “ the moon was at her full. dogs will bay the moon." i felt relieved to think that i should not find strahan in the breakfast- room, and hastening through the ceremony of a meal which i scarcely touched, i went out into the park unobserved, and creeping round the copses and into the neglected garden, made my way to the pavilion. i mounted the stairs — i looked on the floor of the upper room; yes, there, still was the black figure of the pentacle — the circle. so, then, it was not a dream! till then i had doubted. or might it not still be so far a dream, that i had walked in my sleep; and, with an imagination preoccu- pied by my conversations with margrave - by the hieroglyphics on the staff i had handled, by the very figure associated with superstitious practices which i had copied from some weird book at his request, by all the strange impressions previously stamped on my mind — might i not, in truth, have carried thither in sleep the staff, described the circle, and all the rest been but visionary delusion? surely — surely, so common sense and so julius faber would interpret the riddles that perplexed me. be that as it may, my first thought was to efface the marks on the floor. i found this easier than i had ventured to hope. i rubbed the circle and the pentacle away from the boards with the sole of my foot, leaving but an undistinguishable smudge behind. i know not why, but i felt the more nervously anxious to remove all such evidences of my nocturnal visit to that room, because margrave had so openly gone thither to seek for the staff, and had so rudely named me to the servant as having med- dled with it. might he not awake some suspicion against me? suspi- cion, what of? i knew not, but i feared! the healthful air of day gradually nerved my spirits and relieved my thoughts. but the place had become hateful to me. i resolved not to wait for strahan's return, but to walk back to l- , and leave a mes- sage for my host. it was sufficient excuse that i could not longer absent myself from my patients; accordingly, i gave directions to have the few things which i had brought with me sent to my house by any servant who might be going to l- , and was soon pleased to find myself outside the park gates and on the high road. i had not gone a mile before i met strahan on horseback. he received my apologies for not waiting his return to bid him farewell, without observation, and, dismounting, led his horse and walked beside me on my road. i saw that there was something on his mind; at last he said, looking down, “ did you hear the dogs howl last night ?” ! a strange story. “yes! the full moon !” . “ you were awake, then, at the time. did you hear any other sound ? did you see any thing ?” “ what should i hear or see?” strahan was silent for some moments; then he said, with great serious- ness, “ i could not sleep when i went to bed last night; i felt feverish and restless. somehow or other, margrave got into my head, mixed up, in some strange way, with sir philip derval. i heard the dogs howl, and at the same time, or rather a few minutes later, i felt the whole house tremble, as a frail corner-house in london seems to tremble at night when a carriage is driven past it. the howling had then ceased, and ceased as suddenly as it had begun. i felt a vague superstitious alarm; i got up, and went to my window, which was unclosed (it is my habit to sleep with my windows open) — the moon was very bright — and i saw, i declare i saw, along the green alley that leads from the old part of the house to the mausoleum- no, i will not say what i saw or believed i saw — you would ridicule me, and justly. but, whatever it might be, on the earth without or in the fancy within my brain, i was so terrified, that i rushed back to my bed, and buried my face in my pillow. i would have come to you; but i did not dare to stir. i have been riding hard all the morning in order to recover my nerves. but i dread sleeping again under that roof, and now that you and margrave leave me, i shall go this very day to london. i hope all that i have told you is no bad sign of coming disease ; blood to the head, eh?” “no; but imagination overstrained can produce wondrous effects. you do right to change the scene. go to london at once, amuse your- self, and " “ not return till the old house is razed to the ground. that is my re- solve. you approve ? thats well. all success to you, fenwick. i will canter back, and get my portmanteau ready and the carriage out in time for the five o'clock train.” . so, then, he, too, had seen — what? i did not dare and i did not de- sire to ask him. but he, at least, was not walking in his sleep! did we both dream, or neither ? * a strange story. chapter liii. there is an instance of the absorbing tyranny of every-day life which must have struck all such of my readers as have ever experienced one of those portents which are so at variance with every-day life, that the ordi- nary epithet bestowed on them is “supernatural.” and be my readers few or many, there will be no small proportion of them to whom, once, at least, in the course of their existence, a some- thing strange and eirie has occurred - à something which perplexed and baffled rational conjecture, and struck on those chords which vibrate to superstition. it may have been only a dream unaccountably verified, an undefinable presentiment or forewarning; but up from such slighter and vaguer tokens of the realm of marvel — up to the portents of ghostly apparitions or haunted chambers, i believe that the greater number of persons arrived at middle age, however instructed the class, however civ- ilized the land, however sceptical the period, to which they belong, have either in themselves experienced, or heard recorded by intimate asso- ciates whose veracity they accept as indisputable in all ordinary transac- tions of life — phenomena which are not to be solved by the wit that mocks them, nor, perhaps, always and entirely to the contentment of the reason or the philosophy that explains them away. such phenomena, i say, are infinitely more numerous than would appear from the instances currently quoted and dismissed with a jest, for few of those who have witnessed them are disposed to own it, and they who only hear of them through others, however trustworthy, would not impugn their character for common sense by professing a belief to which common sense is a merciless persecutor. but he who reads my assertion in the quiet of his own room will, perhaps, pause, ransack his memory, and find there in some dark corner which he excludes from “the babbling and remorseless day" a pale recollection that proves the assertion not untrue. and it is, i say, an instance of the absorbing tyranny of every-day life that whenever some such startling incident disturbs its regular tenor of thought and occupation, that same every-day life hastens to bury in its sands the object which has troubled its surface; the more unaccountable, the more prodigious has been the phenomenon which has scared and as- tounded us; the more, with involuntary effort, the mind seeks to rid itself of an enigma which might disease the reason that tries to solve it. we go about our mundane business with renewed avidity; we feel the necessity of proving to ourselves that we are still sober practical men, a strange story. and refuse to be unfitted for the world which we know, by unsolicited visitations from worlds into which every glimpse is soon lost amid shadows. and it amazes us to think how soon such incidents, though not actually forgotten, though they can be recalled - and recalled too vividly for health — at our will, are, nevertheless, thrust, as it were, out of the mind's sight, as we cast into lumber rooms the crutches and splints that remind us of a broken limb which has recovered its strength and tone. it is a felicitous peculiarity in our organization, which all members of my profession will have noticed, how soon, when a bodily pain is once past, it becomes erased from the recollection, how soon and how invariably the mind refuses to linger over and recall it. no man freed an hour before from a raging toothache, the rack of a neuralgia, seats himself in his arm-chair to recollect and ponder upon the anguish he has undergone. it is the same with certain afflictions of the mind — not with those that strike on our affections, or blast our fortunes, overshadowing our whole future with a sense of loss - but where a trouble or calamity has been an accident, an episode in our wonted life, where it affects ourselves alone, where it is attended with a sense of shame and humiliation, where the pain of recalling it seems idle, and if indulged would almost madden us; agonies of that kind we do not brood over as we do over the death or falsehood of beloved friends, or the train of events by which we are reduced from wealth to penury. no one, for instance, who has escaped from a shipwreck, from the brink of a precipice, from the jaws of a tiger, spends his days and nights in reviving bis terrors past, reimagining dan- gers not to occur again, or, if they do occur, from which the experience undergone can suggest no additional safeguards. the current of our life, indeed, like that of the rivers, is most rapid in the midmost channel, where all streams are alike, comparatively slow in the depth and along the shores in which each life, as each river has a character peculiar to itself. and hence, those who would sail with the tide of the world, as those who sail with the tide of a river, hasten to take the middle of the stream, as those who sail against the tide are found clinging to the shore. i returned to my habitual duties and avocations with renewed energy; i did not suffer my thoughts to dwell on the dreary wonders that had haunted me, from the evening i first met sir philip derval to the morn- ing in which i had quitted the house of his heir; whether realities or hallucinations, no guess of mine could unravel such marvels, and no pru- dence of mine guard me against their repetition. but i had no fear that they would be repeated, any more than the man who has gone through shipwreck, or the hairbreadth escape from a fall down a glacier, fears again to be found in a similar peril. margrave had departed, whither i knew not, and, with his departure, ceased all sense of his influence. a a strange story. certain calm within me, a tranquillizing feeling of relief, seemed to me like a pledge of permanent delivery. but that which did accompany and haunt me through all my occupa- tions and pursuits, was the melancholy remembrance of the love i had lost in lilian. i heard from mrs. ashleigh, who still frequently visited me, that her daughter seemed much in the same quiet state of mind - perfectly reconciled to our separation - seldom mentioning my name if mentioning it, with indifference; the only thing remarkable in her state was her aversion to all society, and a kind of lethargy that would come over her, often in the daytime. she would suddenly fall into sleep, and so remain for hours, but a sleep that seemed very serene and tran- quil, and from which she woke of herself. she kept much within her own room, and always retired to it when visitors were announced. mrs. ashleigh began reluctantly to relinguish the persuasion she had so long and so obstinately maintained that this state of feeling toward myself — and, indeed, this general change in lilian - was but temporary and abnormal; she began to allow that it was best to drop all thoughts of a renewed engagement - a future union. i proposed to see lilian in her presence and in my professional capacity; perhaps some physical cause, especially for this lethargy, might be detected and removed. mrs. ashleigh owned to me that the idea occurred to herself; she had sounded lilian upon it; but her daughter had so resolutely opposed it ; had said with so quiet a firmness, “ that all being over between us, a visit from me would be unwelcome and painful;" that mrs. ashleigh felt that an inter- view thus deprecated would only confirm estrangement. one day, in calling, she asked my advice whether it would not be better to try the effect of change of air and scene, and, in some other place, some other medical opinion might be taken ? i approved of this suggestion with un- speakable sadness. “ and,” said mrs. ashleigh, shedding tears, “ if that experiment prove unsuccessful, i will write and let you know; and we must then consider what to say to the world as a reason why the marriage is broken off. i can render this more easy by staying away. i will not return to till the matter has ceased to be the topic of talk, and at a distance any excuse will be less questioned and seem more natural. but still — still — let us hope still.” “ have you one ground for hope ?” "perhaps so; but you will think it very frail and fallacious.” “ name it, and let me judge.” . “ one night, in which you were on a visit to derval court -- " " ay, that night.” “lilian woke me by a loud cry (she sleeps in the next room to me, and a strange story. the door was left open); i hastened to her bedside in alarm; she was asleep, but appeared extremely agitated and convulsed. she kept call- ing op your name in a tone of passionate fondness, but as if in great ter- ror. she cried, 'do not go, allen! - do not go ! - you know not what you brave ! — what you do!” then she rose in her bed, clasping her hands. her face was set and rigid: i tried to awake her, but could not. after a little time, she breathed a deep sigh, and murmured, “ allen, allen! dear love! did you not hear?- did you not see me? what could thus baffle matter and traverse space but love and soul? can you still doubt me, allen? doubt that i love you now, shall love you evermore ? yon- der, yonder, as here below ?' she then sank back on her pillow, weep- ing, and then i woke her.” “ and what did she say on waking.” “she did not remember what she had dreamed, except that she had passed through some great terror— but added with a vague smile, ' it is over, and i feel happy now. then she turned round, and fell asleep again, but quietly as a child, the tears dried, the smile resting.” “ go, my dear friend, go; take lilian away from this place as soon as you can ; divert her mind with fresh scenes. i hope! - i do hope! let me know where you fix yourself. i will seize a holiday - i need one; i will arrange as to my patients - i will come to the same place; she need not know of it - but i must be by to watch, to hear your news of her. heaven bless you for what you have said! i hope ! - i do hope !" chapter liv. some days after, i received a few lines from mrs. ashleigh. her ar- rangements for departure were made. they were to start the next morn- ing. she had fixed on going into the north of devonshire, and staying some weeks either at ilfracombe.or lynton, whichever place lilian pre- ferred. she would write as soon as they were settled. i was up at my usual early hour the next morning. i resolved to go out towards mrs. ashleigh's house, and watch, unnoticed, where i might, perhaps, catch a glimpse of lilian as the carriage that would convey her to the railway passed my hiding-place. i was looking impatiently at the clock; it was yet two hours before the train by which mrs. ashleigh proposed to leave. a loud ring at my bell! i opened the door. mrs. ashleigh rushed in, falling on my breast. a strange story. “lilian ! lilian!” “ heavens! what has happened ?” : “she has left — she is gone - gone away! oh, allen! how? — whither? advise me. what is to be done ? ” “come in-compose yourself — tell me all — clearly, quickly. lilian gone ? - gone away? impossible! she must be hid somewhere in the house -- the garden ; she, perhaps, did not like the journey. she may have crept away to some young friend's house. but i talk when you should talk: tell me all.” · little enough to tell! lilian had seemed unusally cheerful the night before, and pleased at the thought of the excursion. mother and daughter retired to rest early: mrs. ashleigh saw lilian sleeping quietly before she herself went to bed. she woke betimes in the morning, dressed her- self, went into the next room to call lilian lilian was not there. no suspicion of fight occurred to her. perhaps her daughter might be up already, and gone down stairs, remembering something she might wish to pack and take with her on the journey. mrs. ashleigh was confirmed in this idea when she noticed that her own room door was left open. she went down stairs, met a maid-servant in the hall, who told her, with alarm and surprise, that both the street and garden doors were found unclosed. no one had seen lilian. mrs. ashleigh now became seriously uneasy. on remounting to her daughter's room, she missed lilian's bonnet and mantle. the house and garden were both searched in vain. there could be no doubt that lilian had gone - must have stolen noiselessly at night through her mother's room, and let herself out of the house and through the garden... “do you think she could have received any letter, any message, any visitor unknown to you ?”. “ i cannot think it. why do you ask? oh, allen, you do not believe there is any accomplice in this disappearance! no, you do not believe it. but my child's honor. what will the world think ?” not for the world cared i at that moment. i could think only for lil- ian, and without one suspicion that imputed blame to her. “be quiet, be silent; perhaps she has gone on some visit, and will re- turn. meanwhile, leave inquiry to me.” a strange story. chapter lv. it seemed incredible that lilian could wander far without being ob- served. i soon ascertained that she had not gone away by railway — by any public conveyance - had hired no carriage ; she must, therefore, be still in the town, or have left it on foot. the greater part of the day was consumed in unsuccessful inquiries, and faint hopes that she would return; meanwhile, the news of her disappearance had spread; how could such news fail to do so ? an acquaintance of mine met me under the archway of monks' gate. he wrung my hand, and looked at me with great compassion. · "i fear,” said he, “ that we were all deceived in that young margrave. he seemed so well conducted in spite of his lively manners. but — “ but what?” “mrs. ashleigh was, perhaps, imprudent to admit him into her house so familiarly. "he was certainly very handsome. young ladies will be romantic.” “ how dare you, sir !” i cried, choked with rage. “and without any coloring to so calumnious a suggestion! margrave has not been in the town for many days. no one knows even where he is.” “oh yes, it is known where he is. he wrote to order the effects which he had left here to be sent to penrith.” when'?” “ the letter arrived the day before yesterday. i happened to be call- ing at the house where he last lodged when at l- , the house opposite mrs. ashleigh's garden. no doubt the servants in both houses gossip with each other. miss ashleigh could scarcely fail to hear of mr. mar- grave's address from her maid; and since servants will exchange gossip, they may also convey letters. pardon me, you know i am your friend.”. “ not from the moment you breathe a word against my betrothed wife,” said i, fiercely. i wrenched myself from the clasp of the man's hand, but his words still rang in my ears. i mounted my horse; i rode into the adjoining suburbs, the neighboring villages; there, however, i learned nothing till, just at nightfall, in a hamlet, about ten miles from l- , a laborer declared he had seen a young lady dressed as i described, who passed by him in a path through the fields a little before noon; that he was surprised to see one so young, so well dressed, and a stranger to the neighborhood (for he knew by sight the ladies of the few families scattered round) walking alone; i that as he stepped out of the path to make way for her, he looked hard a strange story. into her face, and she did not heed him --- seemed to gaze, right before, into space. if her expression had been less quiet and gentle, he should have thought, he could scarcely say why, that she was not quite right in her mind -- there was a strange unconscious stare in her eyes, as if she were walking in her sleep. her pace was very steady — neither quick nor slow. he had watched her till she passed out of sight, amidst a wood through which the path wound its way to a village at some distance. i followed up this clue. i arrived at the village to which my informant directed me, but night bad set in. most of the houses were closed, so i could glean no further information from the cottages or at the inn. but the police superintendent of the district lived in the village, and to him i gave instruction, which i had not given, and indeed would have been dis- inclined to give, to the police at l- he was intelligent and kindly; he promised to communicate at once with the different police-stations for miles round, and with all delicacy and privacy. it was not probable that lilian could have wandered in one day much further than the place at which i then was; it was scarcely to be conceived that she could baffle my pursuit and the practised skill of the police. i rested but a few hours, at a small public-house, and was on horseback again at dawn. a little after sunrise, i again heard of the wanderer. at a lonely cottage, by a brick-kiln, in the midst of a wide common, she had stopped the previous evening, and asked for a draught of milk. the woman who gave it to her inquired if she had lost her way? she said, “no;" and only tarry- ing a few minutes, had gone across the common; and the woman sup- posed she was a visitor at a gentleman's house which was at the further end of the waste, for the path she took led to no town, no village. it occurred to me, then, that lilian avoided all highroads, all places even the humblest, where men congregated together. but where could she have passed the night ? not to fatigue the reader with the fruitless result of frequent inquiries, i will but say that at the end of the second day i had succeeded in ascertaining that i was still on her track: and though i had ridden to and fro nearly double the distance -- coming back again to places i had left behind — it was at the distance of forty miles from l- that i last heard of her that second day. she had been seen sit- ting alone by a little brook only an hour before. i was led to the very spot by a'woodman, - it was at the hour of twilight when he beheld her - she was leaning her face on her hand, and seemed weary. he spoke to her; she did not answer, but rose, and resumed her way along the banks of the streamlet. that night i put up at no inn; i followed the course of the brook for miles, then struck into every path that i could conceive her to have taken -- in vain. thus i consumed the night on foot, tying my horse to a tree, for he was tired out, and returning to him a strange story. at sunrise. at noon, the third day, i again heard of her, and in a remote savage part of the country. the features of the landscape were changed; there was little foliage and little culture, but the ground was broken into mounds and hollows, and covered with patches of heath and stunted brushwood. she had been seen by a shepherd, and he made the same observation as the first who had guided me on her track, she looked to him “ like some one walking in her sleep." an hour or two later, in a dell, amongst the furze-bushes, i chanced on a knot of ribbon. i recog- nized the color lilian habitually wore; i felt certain that the ribbon was hers. calculating the utmost speed i could ascribe to her, she could not be far off, yet still i failed to discover. the scene now was as solitary as a desert; i met no one on my way. at length, a little after sunset, i found myself in view of the sea. a small town nestled below the cliffs, on which i was guiding my weary horse. i entered the town and while my horse was baiting went in search of the resident policeman. the information i had directed to be sent round the country had reached him; he had acted on it, but without result. i was sur- prised to hear him address me by name, and looking at him more nar- rowly i recognized him for the policeman waby. this young man had always expressed so grateful a sense of my attendance on his sister, and had, indeed, so notably evinced his gratitude in prosecuting with mar- grave the inquiries which terminated in the discovery of sir philip der- val's murderer, that i confided to him the name of the wanderer of which he had not been previously informed; but which it would be, indeed, im- possible to conceal from him should the search in which his aid was asked prove successful, - as he knew miss ashleigh by sight. his face imme- diately became thoughtful. he paused a minute or two, and then said: “i think i have it, but i do not like to say ; i may pain you, sir.". “ not by confidence; you pain me by concealment.” the man hesitated still; i encouraged him, and then he spoke out frankly. “ sir, did you never think it strange that mr. margrave should move from his handsome rooms in the hotel to a somewhat uncomfortable lodg- ing, from the window of which he could look down on mrs. ashleigh's garden? i have seen him at night in the balcony of that window, and when i noticed him going so frequently into mrs. ashleigh's house during your unjust detention, i own, sir, i felt for you - " “nonsense ; mr. margrave went to mrs. ashleigh's house as my friend. he has left l- weeks ago. what has all this to do with ". “patience, sir ; hear me out. i was sent from l- to this station (on promotion, sir), a fortnight since last friday — for there has been a a strange story. good deal of crime hereabouts, it is a bad neighborhood, and full of smug- glers; - some days ago, in watching quietly near a lonely house, of which the owner is a suspicious character, down in my books, i saw, to my amaze- ment, mr. margrave come out of that house -- come out of a private door in it, which belongs to a part of the building not inhabited by the owner, but which used formerly, when the house was a sort of inn, to be let to night lodgers of the humblest description. i followed him; he went down to the sea-shore, walked about, singing to himself, then returned to the house, and reëntered by the same door. i soon learned that he lodged in the house, had lodged there for several days. the next morning, a fine yacht arrived at a tolerably convenient creek about a mile from the house, and there anchored. sailors came ashore, rambling down to this town. the yacht belonged to mr. margrave, he had purchased it by commission in london. it is stored for a long voyage. he had directed it to come to him in this out-of-the-way place, where no gentleman's yacht ever put in before, though the creek, or bay, is handy enough for such craft. well, sir, is it not strange that a rich young gentleman should come to this unfrequented sea-shore, put up with accommodation that must be of the rudest kind in the house of a man known as a desperate smug- gler, suspected to be worse? order a yacht to meet him here; is not all this strange? but would it be strange if he were waiting for a young lady? and if a young lady has filed at night from her home, and has come secretly along by-paths, which must have been very fully explained to her beforehand, and is now near that young gentleman's lodging, if not actually in it, if this be so, why, the affair is not so very strange after all. and now do you forgive me, sir ?” i “ where is this house ? lead me to it.”. “ you can hardly get to it except on foot; rough walking, sir, and about seven miles off by the shortest cut.” “ come, at once; come quickly. we must be there before – be- fore ” “ before the young lady can get to the place. well, from what you say of the spot in which she was last seen, i think, on reflection, we may easily do that. i am at your service, sir. but i should warn you that the owners of the house, man and wife, are both of villanous character would do any thing for money. mr. margrave, no doubt, has money enough, and if the young lady chooses to go away with mr. margrave, you know, i have no power to help it.” “leave all that to me; all i ask of you is to show me the house." we were soon out of the town; the night had closed in; it was very dark in spite of a few stars ; the path was rugged and precipitous, some- a strange story. times skirting the very brink of perilous cliffs ; sometimes delving down to the sea-shore — there stopped by rock or wave - and painfully rewind- ing up the ascent. " it is an ugly path, sir, but it saves four miles; and anyhow the road is a bad one.” we came, at last, to a few wretched fishermen's huts. the moon had now risen, and revealed the squalor of poverty-stricken ruinous hovels; a couple of boats moored to the shore; a moaning, fretful sea ; and at a distance, a vessel, with lights on board, lying perfectly still at anchor in a sheltered curve of the bold rude shore. the policeman pointed to the vessel : “ the yacht, sir; the wind will be in her favor if she sails to-night.” we quickened our pace as well as the nature of the path would per- mit, left the huts behind us, and, about a mile further on, came to a soli- tary house, larger than from the policeman's description of margrave's lodgment, i should have presupposed : a house that in the wilder parts of scotland might be almost a laird's; but even in the moonlight it looked very dilapidated and desolate. most of the windows were closed, some with panes broken, stuffed with wisps of straw; there were the remains of a wall round the house : it was broken in some parts (only its founda- tion left). on approaching the house, i observed two doors, one on the side fronting the sea, one on the other side facing a patch of broken ground that might once have been a garden, and lay waste within the enclosure of the ruined wall, encumbered with various litter - heaps of rubbish, a ruined shed, the carcase of a worn-out boat. this latter door stood wide open — the other was closed. the house was still and dark, as if either deserted or all within it retired to rest. "i think that open door leads at once to the rooms mr. margrave hires; he can go in and out without disturbing the other inmates. they used to keep, on the side which they inhabit, a beer-house, but the magis- trates shut it up; still it is a resort for bad characters. now, sir, what shall we do ?” “watch separately. you wait within the enclosure of the wall, hid by those heaps of rubbish, near the door ; none can enter but what you will observe them. if you see her, you will accost and stop her, and call aloud for me; i shall be in hearing. i will go back to the high part of the ground yonder, it seems to me that she must pass that way; and i would desire, if possible, to save her from the humiliation, the -- the shame of coming within the precincts of that man's abode. i feel i may trust you now and hereafter. it is a great thing for the happiness and honor of this poor young lady and her mother, that i may be able to declare that i did not take her from that man, from any man — from that house, from any . a strange story. house. you comprehend me, and will obey? i speak to you as a con- fidant - a friend.” " i thank you with my whole heart, sir, for so doing. you saved my sister's life, and the least i can do is to keep secret all that would pain your life if blabbed abroad. i know what mischief folks' tongues can make. i will wait by the door, never fear, and will rather lose my place than not strain all the legal power i possess to keep the young lady back from sorrow.” this dialogue was interchanged in close hurried whisper behind the broken wall, and out of all hearing. waby now crept through a wide gap into the enclosure, and nestled himself silently amidst the wrecks of the broken boat, not six feet from the open door, and close to the wall of the house itself. i went back some thirty yards up the road, to the rising ground which i had pointed out to him. according to the best calculation i could make — considering the pace at which i had cleared the precip- itous pathway, and reckoning from the place and time at which lilian had been last seen, she could not possibly have yet entered that house — i might presume it would be more than half an hour before she could arrive; i was in hopes that, during the interval, margrave might show himself, perhaps at the door, or from the windows, or i might even by some light from the latter be guided to the room in which to find him. if, after waiting a reasonable time, lilian should fail to appear, i had formed my own plan of action ; but it was important for the success of that plan that i should not lose myself in the strange house, nor bring its owners to margrave's aid — that i should surprise him alone and una- wares. half an hour, three quarters, a whole hour thus passed — no sign of my poor wanderer; but signs there were of the enemy, from whom i resolved, at whatever risk, to free and to save her. a window on the ground floor to the left of the door, which had long fixed my attention because i had seen light through the chinks of the shutters, slowly un- closed, the shutters fell back, the casement opened, and i beheld mar- grave distinctly; he held something in his hand that gleamed in the moonlight, directed not towards the mound on which i stood, nor towards the path i had taken, but towards an open space beyond the ruined wall, to the right. hid by a cluster of stunted shrubs, i watched him with a heart that beat with rage, not with terror. he seemed so intent in his own gaze, as to be inattentive or unconscious of all else. i stole round from my post, and still under cover, sometimes of the broken wall, some- times of the shaggy ridges that skirted the path, crept on, on till i reached the side of the house itself; then, there secure from his eyes, should he turn them, i stepped over the ruined wall, scarcely two feet high in that place, on — on towards the door. i passed the spot on which the police- a strange story. : man had shrouded himself; he was seated, his back against the ribs of the broken boat. i put my hand to his mouth that he might not cry out in surprise, and whispered in his ear; he stirred not. i shook him by the arm; still he stirred not. a ray of the moon fell on his face. i saw that he was in a profound slumber. persuaded that it was no natural sleep, and that he had become useless to me, i passed him by. i was at the threshold of the open door; the light from the window close by falling on the ground; i was in the passage ; a glimmer came through the chinks of a door to the left; i turned the handle noiselessly, and the next mo- ment, margrave was locked in my grasp. “ call out,” i hissed into his ear, “and i strangle you before any one can come to your help!” he did not call out; his eye, fixed on mine as he writhed round, saw, perhaps, his peril if he did. his countenance betrayed fear, but as i tightened my grasp that expression gave way to one of wrath and fierce- ness; and as, in turn, i felt the gripe of his hand, i knew that the strug- gle between us would be that of two strong men, each equally bent on the mastery of the other. i was, as i have said before, endowed with an unusual degree of phys- ical power, disciplined, in early youth, by athletic exercise and contest. in height and in muscle i had greatly the advantage over my antagonist, but such was the nervous vigor, the elastic energy of his incomparable frame, in which sinews seemed springs of steel, that had our encounter been one in which my strength was less heightened by rage, i believe that i could no more have coped with him than the bison can cope with the boa; but i was animated by that passion which trebles for a time all our forces - which makes even the weak man a match for the strong. i felt that if i were worsted, disabled, stricken down, lilian might be lost in losing her sole protector; and, on the other hand, margrave had been taken at the disadvantage of that surprise which will half unnerve the. fiercest of the wild beasts; while as we grappled, reeling and rocked to and fro in our struggle, i soon observed that his attention was distracted — that his eye was turned towards an object which he had drooped invol- untarily when i first seized him. he sought to drag me towards that object, and when near it, stooped to seize. it was a bright, slender, short wand of steel. i remembered when and where i had seen it, whether in my waking state, or in vision, and as his hand stole down to take it from the floor i set on the wand my strong foot. i cannot tell by what rapid process of thought and association i came to the belief that the possession of a little piece of blunted steel would decide the contest in favor of the possessor, but the struggle now was concentred in the attainment of that seemingly idle weapon. i was becoming breathless and exhausted, while * a strange story. margrave seemed every moment to gather up new force, when, collecting all my strength for one final effort, i lifted him suddenly high in the air, and hurled him to the furthest end of the cramped arena to which our contest was confined. he fell, and with a force by which most men would have been stunned; but he recovered himself with a quick rebound, and, as he stood facing me, there was something grand as well as terrible in his aspect. his eyes literally flamed, as those of a tiger; his rich hair, fung back from his knitted forehead, seemed to erect itself as an angry mane ; his lips, slightly parted, showed the glitter of his set teeth; his whole frame seemed larger in the tension of the muscles, and as gradually relaxing his first defying and haughty attitude, he crouched as the pan- ther crouches for its deadly spring, i felt as if it were a wild beast whose rush was coming upon me - wild beast, but still man, the king of the ani- mals, fashioned forth from no mixture of humbler races by the slow revo- lutions of time, but his royalty stamped on his form when the earth became fit for his coming.* at that moment i snatched up the wand, directed it towards him, and, advancing with a fearless stride, cried, “ down to my feet, miserable sorcerer!” to my own amaze the effect was instantaneous. my terrible antago nist dropped to the floor as a dog drops at the word of his master. the muscles of his frowning countenance relaxed, the glare of his wrathful eyes grew dull and rayless; his limbs lay prostrate and unnerved, his head resting against the wall, his arms limp and drooping by his side. i approached him slowly and cautiously; he seemed cast into a profound slumber. “you are at my mercy now !” he moved his head as in sign of deprecating submission.. “ you hear and understand me? speak!” his lips faintly muttered " yes." “i command you to answer truly the questions i shall address to you." “i must, while yet sensible of the power that has passed to your hand.” “ is it by some occult magnetic property in this wand that you have exercised so demoniac an influence over a creature so-pure as lilian ashleigh ? " * "and yet, even if we entirely omit the consideration of the soul, that immate- rial and immortal principle which is for a time united to his body, and view him only in his merely animal character, man is still the most excellent of animals." — dr. kidd on the adaptation of exterual nature to the physical condition of man (sect. iii. page ). r oman that see st u pila sebelum seed les des team hamu llls row essaan a f egister teemi an sanses hu strane vuotta w tamil minen uspore my terrible antagonist dropped to the floor as a dog drops at the word of lus master" le a die a strange story. by that wand and by other arts which you could not comprehend.“ “ and for what infamous object ? - her seduction, her dishonor ?” “no! i sought in her the aid of a gift which would cease, did she cease to be pure. at first i but cast my influence upon her that through her i might influence yourself. i needed your help to discover a secret. circumstances steeled your mind against me. i could no longer hope that you would voluntarily lend yourself to my will. meanwhile, i had found in her the light of a loftier knowledge than that of your science; through that knowledge, duly heeded and cultivated, i hoped to divine what i cannot of myself discover. therefore i deepened over her mind the spells i command — therefore i have drawn her hither as the load- stone draws the steel, and therefore i would have borne her with me to the shores to which i was about this night to sail. i had cast the inmates of the house, and all around it, into slumber, in order that none might witness her departure; had i not done so, i should have summoned others to my aid, in spite of your threat." “ and would lilian ashleigh have passively accompanied you, to her own irretrievable disgrace ?” . “she could not have helped it; she would have been unconscious of her acts ; she was, and is, in a trance ; nor, had she gone with me, would she have waked from that state while she lived ; that would not have been long." “ wretch! and for what object of unhallowed curiosity do you exert an influence which withers away the life of its victim ? " “ not curiosity, but the instinct of self-preservation. i count on no life beyond the grave. i would defy the grave, and live on.” “ and was it to learn, through some ghastly agencies, the secret of re- newing existence that you lured me by the shadow of your own image on the night when we met last ?”. the voice of margrave here became very faint as he answered me, and his countenance began to exhibit the signs of an exhaustion almost mortal. " be quick,” he murmured, “ or i die. the fluid which emanates from that wand in the hand of one who en venoms the fluid with his own hatred and rage will prove fatal to my life. lower the wand from my forehead; low-low:- lower still !” “what was the nature of that rite in which you constrained me to share ?” “i cannot say. you are killing me. enough that you were saved from a great danger by the apparition of the protecting image vouchsafed to your eye, otherwise you would you would — oh, release me! away! away!” a strange story. the foam gathered to his lips ; his limbs became fearfully convulsed. “ one question more: where is lilian at this moment ?. answer that question, and i depart." he raised his head, made a visible effort to rally his strength, and gasped out, . " yonder. pass through the open space, up the cliff, beside a thorn- tree - you will find her there, where she halted when the wand dropped from my hand. but — but — beware! ha! you will serve me yet, and through her! they said so that night, though you heard them not. they said it !” here his face became death-like; he pressed his hand on his heart, and shrieked out, “ away. — away! or you are my mur- derer!” i retreated to the other end of the room, turning the wand from him, and when i gained the door, looked back; his convulsions had ceased, but he seemed locked in a profound swoon. i left the room- the house paused by waby; he was still sleeping. “awake!” i said, and touched him with the wand. he started up at once, rubbed his eyes, began stam- mering out excuses. i checked them, and bade him follow me. i took "the way up the open ground towards which margrave had pointed the wand, and there, motionless, beside a gnarled fantastic thorn-tree, stood lilian. her arms were folded across her breast; her face, seen by the moonlight, looked so innocent and so infantine, that i needed no other evidence to tell me how unconscious she was of the peril to which her steps had been drawn. i took her gently by the hand. “ come with me," i said, in a whisper; and she obeyed me silently, and with a placid smile. rough though the way, she seemed unconscious of fatigue. i placed her arm in mine, but she did not lean on it. we got back to the town. i obtained there an old chaise and a pair of horses. at morning lilian was under her mother's roof. about the noon of that day fever seized her, she became rapidly worse, and, to all appearance, in imminent dan- ger. delirium set in; i watched beside her night and day, supported by an inward conviction of her recovery, but tortured by the sight of her sufferings. on the third day, a change for the better became visible, her sleep was calm, her breathing regular. shortly afterwards she woke, out of danger. her eyes fell at once on me, with all their old ineffable tender sweetness. “oh, allen, beloved, have i not been very ill ? but i am almost well now. do not weep; i shall live for you for your sake.” and she bent forward, drawing my hand from my streaming eyes, and kissing me with a child's guileless kiss on my burning forehead. a strange story. chapter lvi. .' lilian recovered, but the strange thing was this : all memory of the weeks that had elapsed since her return from-visiting her aunt was com- pletely obliterated ; she seemed in profound ignorance of the charge on which i had been confined; perfectly ignorant even of the existence of margrave; she had, indeed, a very vague reminiscence of her conversa- tion with me in the garden -- the first conversation which had ever been embittered by a disagreement - but that disagreement itself she did not recollect. her belief was that she had been ill and light-headed since that evening. from that evening to the hour of her waking, conscious and revived, all was a blank. her love for me was restored, as if its thread had never been broken. some such instances of oblivion after bodily illness or mental shock are familiar enough to the practice of all medical men ;* and i was therefore enabled to appease the anxiety and wonder of mrs. ashleigh by quoting various examples of loss, or suspen- sion, of memory. we agreed that it would be necessary to break to lilian, though very cautiously, the story of sir philip derval's murder, and the charge to which i had been subjected. she could not fail to hear of those events from others. how shall i express her womanly ter- ror, her loving sympathizing pity, on hearing the tale, which i softened as well as i could ? " and to think that i knew nothing of this !” she cried, clasping my hand; “ to think that you were in peril, and that i was not by your side!” her mother spoke of margrave as a visitor -- an agreeable, lively * such instances of suspense of memory are recorded in most physiological, and in some metaphysical, works. dr. abercrombie notices some, more or less similar to that related in the text: “a young lady who was present at a catastrophe in scotland, in which many people lost their lives by the fall of the gallery of a church, escaped without any injury, but with the complete loss of the recollection of any of the circumstances; and this extended not only to the accident, but to every thing that had occurred to her for a certain time before going to church. a lady whom i attended some years ago in a protracted illness, in which her memory became much impaired, lost the recollection of a period of about ten or twelve years, but spoke with perfect consistency of things as they stood before that time.” dr. abercrombie adds: “as far as i have been able to trace it, the principle in such cases seems to be, that when the memory is impaired to a certain degree, the loss of it extends backward to some event or some period by which a particularly deep impression had been made upon the mind." -abercrombie on the intellectual powers, pages , ( th edition). a strange story. stranger; lilian could not even recollect his name, but she seemed shocked to think that any visitor had been admitted while i was in cir- cumstances so awful! need i say that our engagement was renewed ? renewed! to her knowledge and to her heart it had never been inter- rupted for a moment. but oh, the malignity of the wrong world! oh, that strange lust of mangling reputations, which seizes on hearts the least wantonly cruel! let two idle tongues utter a tale against some third person, who never offended the babblers, and how the tale spreads, like fire, lighted none know how, in the herbage of an american prairie? who shall put it out ? what right have we to pry into the secrets of other men's hearths ? true or false, the tale that is gabbled to us, what concern of ours can it be? i speak not of cases to which the law has been summoned, which law has sifted, on which law has pronounced. but how, when the law is silent, can we assume its verdicts? how be all judges, where there has been no witness-box, no cross-examination, no jury? yet, every day we put on our ermine, and make ourselves judges — judges sure to condemn, and on what evidence ? that which no court of law will receive. somebody has said something to somebody, which somebody repeats to everybody! · the gossip of l- had set in full current against lilian's fair name. no ladies had called or sent to congratulate mrs. ashleigh on her return, or to inquire after lilian herself during her struggle between life and death. how i missed the queen of the hill at this critical moment! how i longed for aid to crush the slander, with which i knew not how to grapple-aid, in her knowledge of the world, and her ascendency over its judgments. i had heard from her once since her absence, briefly but kindly expressing her amazement at the ineffable stupidity which could for a moment have subjected me to a suspicion of sir philip derval's strange murder, and congratulating me heartily on my complete vindica- tion from so monstrous a charge. to this letter no address was given. i supposed the omission to be accidental, but on calling at her house to inquire her direction, i found that her servants did not know it. what, then, was my joy when, just at this juncture, i received a note from mrs. poyntz, stating that she had returned the night before, and would be glad to see me. . i hastened to her house. “ah,” thought i, as i sprang lightly up the ascent to the hill, “ how the tattlers will be silenced by a word from her imperial lips !” and only just as i approached her door did it strike me how difficult - nay, how impossible to explain to her - the hard positive woman, her who had, less ostensibly but more ruthlessly than myself, de- a strange story. stroyed dr. lloyd for his belief in the comparatively rational pretensions of clairvoyance — all the mystical excuses for lilian's flight from her home? how speak to her - or, indeed, to any one — about an occult fascination and a magic wand ? no matter : surely it would be enough to say that, at the time, lilian had been light-headed, under the influ- ence of the fever which had afterwards nearly proved fatal. the early friend of anne ashleigh would not be a severe critic on any tale that might right the good name of anne ashleigh's daughter. so assured, with light heart and cheerful face, i followed the servant into the great lady's pleasant but decorous presence-chamber. chapter lvii. mrs. poyntz was on her favorite seat by the window, and, for a won- der, not knitting — that classic task seemed done; but she was smoothing and folding the completed work with her white comely hand, and smiling over it, as if in complacent approval, when i entered the room. at the fireside sat the he-colonel, inspecting a newly-invented barometer; at another window, in the furthest recess of the room, stood miss jane poyntz, with a young gentleman whom i had never before seen, but who turned his eyes full upon me with a haughty look as the servant announced my name. he was tall, well proportioned, decidedly handsome, but with that expression of cold and concentred self-esteem in his very attitude, as well as his countenance, which makes a man of merit unpopular, a man without merit ridiculous. the he-colonel, always punctiliously civil, rose from his seat, shook hands with me cordially, and said, “ coldish weather to-day ; but we shall have rain to-morrow. rainy seasons come in cycles. we are about to commence a cycle of them with heavy showers.” he sighed, and returned to his barometer. miss jane bowed to me graciously enough, but was evidently a little confused, a circumstance which might well attract my notice, for i had never before seen that high-bred young lady deviate a hair's breadth from the even tenor of a manner admirable for a cheerful and courteous ease, which one felt convinced would be unaltered to those around her if an earthquake swallowed one up an inch before her feet. the young gentleman continued to eye me loftily, as the heir-apparent to some celestial planet might eye an inferior creature from a half-formed nebular suddenly dropped upon his sublime and perfected star. a strange story. mrs. poyntz extended to me two fingers, and said, frigidly, “ delighted to see you again! how kind to attend so soon to my note!” motion- ing me to a seat beside her, she here turned to her husband, and said, “ poyntz, since a cycle of rain begins to-morrow, better secure your ride to-day. take these young people with you. i want to talk with dr. fenwick.” the colonel carefully put away his barometer, and saying to his daughter, " come!” went forth. "jane followed her father; the young gentleman followed jane. the reception i had met chilled and disappointed me. i felt that mrs. poyntz was changed, and in her change the whole house seemed changed. the very chairs looked civilly unfriendly, as if preparing to turn their backs on me. however, i was not in the false position of an intruder; i had been summoned; it was for mrs. poyntz to speak first, and i waited quietly for her to do so. she finished the careful folding of her work, and then laid it at rest in the drawer of the table at which she sat. having so done, she turned to me, and said, "by the way, i ought to have introduced to you my young guest, mr. ashleigh sumner. you would like him. he has talents — not showy but solid. he will succeed in public life.” “ so that young man is mr. ashleigh sumner? i do not wonder that miss ashleigh rejected him.” i said this, for i was nettled, as well as surprised, at the coolness with which a lady who had professed a friendship for me mentioned that for- tunate young gentleman, with so complete an oblivion of all the ante- cedents that had once made his name painful to my ear. in turn, my answer seemed to nettle mrs. poyntz. “i am not so sure that she did reject; perhaps she rather misunder- stood him; gallant compliments are not always proposals of marriage. however that be, his spirits were not much damped by miss ashleigh's disdain, nor his heart deeply smitten by her charms, for he is now very happy, very much attached to another young lady, to whom he proposed, three days ago, at lady delafield's, and, not to make a mystery of what all our little world will know before to-morrow, that young lady is my daughter jane.” “ were i acquainted with mr. sumner, i should offer to him my sin- cere congratulation.” mrs. poyntz resumed, without heeding a reply more complimentary to miss jane than to the object of her choice: “ i told you that i meant jane to marry a rich country gentleman, and ashleigh sumner is the very country gentleman i had then in my thoughts. a strange story. he is cleverer and more ambitious than i could have hoped: he will be a minister some day, in right of his talents, and a peer if he wishes it, in right of his lands. so that matter is settled.” there was a pause, during which my mind passed rapidly through links of reminiscence and reasoning, which led me to a mingled sentiment of admiration for mrs. poyntz as a diplomatist and of distrust for mrs. poyntz as a friend. it was now clear why mrs. poyntz, before so little disposed to approve my love, had urged me at once to offer my hand to lilian, in order that she might depart affianced and engaged to the house in which she would meet mr. ashleigh sumner. hence, mrs. poyntz's anxiety to obtain all the information i could afford her of the sayings and doings at lady haughton's; hence, the publicity she had so suddenly given to my engagement; hence, when mr. sumner had gone away, a rejected suitor, her own departure from l- ; she had seized the very moment when a vain and proud man, piqued by the mortification received from one lady, falls the easier prey to the arts which allure his suit to another. all was so far clear to me. and i — was my self-conceit less egregious and less readily duped than that of yon gilded popinjay's! how skilfully this woman had knitted me into her work with the noiseless turn of her white hands! and yet, forsooth, i must vaunt the superior scope of my intellect, and plumb all the fountains of nature - i, who could not fathom the lit- tle pool of this female schemer's mind ! but that was no time for resentment to her or rebuke for myself. she was now the woman who could best protect and save from slander my in- nocent, beloved lilian. but how approach that perplexing subject. mrs. poyntz approached it, and with her usual decision of purpose which bore so deceitful a likeness to candor of mind. " but it was not to talk of my affairs that i asked you to call, allen fenwick.” as she uttered my name, her voice softened, and her man- ner took that maternal, caressing tenderness which had sometimes amused and sometimes misled me. "no, i do not forget that you asked me to be your friend, and i take, without scruple, the license of friendship. what are these stories that i have heard already about lilian ashleigh to whom you were once engaged ?” “ to whom i am still engaged.” " is it possible ? oh, then, of course the stories i have heard are all false. very likely; no fiction in scandal ever surprises me. poor dear lilian, then, never ran away from her mother's house ?”. i smothered the angry pain which this mode of questioning caused me; i knew how important it was to lilian to secure to her the countenance and support of this absolute autocrat; i spoke of lilian's long previous a strange story. distemper of mind; i accounted for it as any intelligent physician, unac- quainted with all that i could not reveal, would account. heaven for- give me for the venial falsehood, but i spoke of the terrible charge against myself as enough to unhinge, for a time, the intellect of a girl so acutely sensitive as lilian ; i sought to create that impression as to the origin of all that might otherwise seem strange; and in this state of cerebral excite- ment she had wandered from home - but alone. i had tracked every step of her way; i had found and restored her to her home. a critical delirium had followed, from which she now rose, cured in health, unsus- picious that there could be a whisper against her name. and then, with all the eloquence i could command, and in words as adapted as i could frame them to soften the heart of a woman, herself a mother, i implored mrs. poyntz's aid to silence all the cruelties of calumny, and extend her shield over the child of her own early friend. when i came to an end, i had taken, with caressing force, mrs. poyntz's reluctant hands in mine. there were tears in my voice, tears in my eyes. and the first sound of her voice in reply, gave me hope, for it was un- usually gentle. she was evidently moved. the hope was soon quelled. “ allen fenwick," she said, “ you have a noble heart, i grieve to see how it abuses your reason. i cannot aid lilian ashleigh in the way you ask. do not start back so indignantly. listen to me as patiently as i have listened to you. that when you brought back the unfortunate young wo- man to her poor mother, her mind was disordered, and became yet more dan- gerously so, i can well believe; that she is now recovered, and thinks with shame, or refuses to think at all, of her imprudent flight, i can be- lieve also; but i do not believe, the world cannot believe, that she did not, knowingly and purposely, quit her mother's roof, and in quest of that young stranger so incautiously, so unfeelingly admitted to her mother's house during the very time you were detained on the most awful of human accusations. every one in the town knows that mr. margrave visited daily at mrs. ashleigh's during that painful period; every one in the town knows in what strange, out-of-the-way place this young man had niched himself; and that a yacht was bought, and lying in wait there. what for? it is said that the chaise in which you brought miss ashleigh back to her home was hired at a village within an easy reach of mr. mar- grave's lodging — of mr. margrave's yacht. i rejoice that you saved the poor girl from ruin: but her good name is tarnished, and if anne ash- leigh, whom i sincerely pity, asks me my advice, i can but give her this: * leave l , take your daughter abroad, and if she is not to marry mr. margrave, marry her as quietly and as quickly as possible to some for- eigner."" a strange story. “madam! madam ! this, then, is your friendship to her - to me! oh, shame on you to insult thus an affianced husband! shame on me ever to have thought you had a heart !” "a heart, man!” she exclaimed, almost fiercely, springing up, and startling me with the change in her countenance and voice. “and little you would have valued, and pitilessly have crushed this heart, if i had - suffered myself to show it to you! what right have you to reproach me? i felt a warm interest in your career, an unusual attraction in your con- versation and society. do you blame me for that, or should i blame my- self ? condemned to live among brainless puppets, my dull occupation to pull the strings that moved them, it was a new charm to my life to es- tablish friendship and intercourse with intellect, and spirit, and courage. ah, i understand that look, half incredulous, half inquisitive.” " inquisitive, no! incredulous, yes! you desired my friendship, and how does your harsh judgment of my betrothed wife prove either to me or to her mother, whom you have known from your girlhood, the first duty of a friend, which is surely not that of leaving a friend's side the moment that he needs countenance in calumny, succor in trouble.” " it is a better duty to prevent the calumny and avert the trouble. leave aside anne ashleigh, a cipher that i can add or subtract from my sum of life as i please. what is my duty to yourself? it is plain. it is to tell you that your honor commands you to abandon all thoughts of lilian ashleigh as your wife. ungrateful that you are! do you sup- pose it was no mortification to my pride of woman and friend, that you never approached me in confidence except to ask my good offices in pro- moting your courtship to another ? no shock to the quiet plans i had formed as to our familiar though harmless intimacy, to hear that you were bent on a marriage in which my friend would be lost to me?” "not lost !-- not lost! on the contrary, the regard i must suppose you had for lilian would have been a new link between our homes.” " pooh! between me and that dreamy girl there could have been no sympathy, there could have grown up no regard. you would have been chained to your fireside, and — and — but no matter. i stifled my disap- pointment as soon as i felt it stifled it, as all my life i have stifled that which either destiny or duty-duty to myself as to others - forbids me to indulge. ah, do not fancy me one of the weak criminals who can suffer a worthy liking to grow into a debasing love. i was not in love with you, allen fenwick.” . “do you think i was ever so presumptuous a coxcomb as to fancy it?" “no," said she more softly; " i was not so false to my household ties and to my own nature. (but there are some friendships which are as jealous as love. , i could have cheerfully aided you in any choice which a strange story. my sense could have approved for you as wise ; i should have been pleased to have found in such a wife my most intimate companion. but that silly child !- absurd! nevertheless, the freshness and enthusiasm of your love touched me; you asked my aid, and i gave it - perhaps i did believe that when you saw more of lilian ashleigh you would be cured of a fancy conceived by the eye--i should have known better what dupes the wisest men can be to the witcheries of a fair face and eighteen! when i found your illusion obstinate, i wrenched myself away from a vain regret, turned to my own schemes and my own ambi- tion, and smiled bitterly to think that in pressing you to propose só hastily to lilian, i made your blind passion an agent in my own plans. enough of this. i speak thus openly and boldly to you now because now i have not a sentiment that can interfere with the dispassionate soundness of my counsels. i repeat, you cannot now marry lilian ashleigh; i cannot take my daughter to visit her; i cannot destroy the social laws that i myself have set in my petty kingdom.” “be it as you will. i have pleaded for her while she is still lilian ash- leigh. i plead for no one to whom i have once given my name. before the woman whom i have taken from the altar, i can place, as a shield sufficient, my strong breast of man. who has so deep an interest in lil- ian's purity as i have ? who is so fitted to know the exact truth of every wbisper against her? yet when i, whom you admit to have some repu- tation for shrewd intelligence, - i, who tracked her way,- , who restored her to her home, — when i, allen fenwick, am so assured of her inviolable innocence in thought as in deed, that i trust my honor to her keeping, — surely, surely, i confute the scandal which you yourself do not believe though you refuse to reject and annul it." “do not deceive yourself, allen fenwick," said she, still standing beside me, her countenance now hard and stern. “look, where i stand, i am the world! the world, not as satirists depreciate or as optimists extol its immutable properties, its all-pervasive authority. i am the world ! and my voice is the world's voice when it thus warns you. should you make this marriage, your dignity of character and position would be gone ! - if you look only to lucre and professional success, possibly they may not ultimately suffer. you have skill which men need; their need may still draw patients to your door and pour guineas into your purse. but you have the pride as well as the birth of a gentleman, and the wounds to that pride will be hourly chafed and never healed. your strong breast of man, has no shelter to the frail name of woman. the world, in its health, will look down on your wife, though its sick may look up to you. this is not all. the world, in its gentlest mood of indulgence, will say, compassionately, · poor man! how weak, and how a strange story. deceived! what an unfortunate marriage!' but the world is not often indulgent, it looks most to the motives most seen on the surface. and the world will more frequently say, ' no, much too clever a man to be duped. miss ashleigh had money. a good match to the man who liked gold better than honor.?” i sprang, to my feet, with difficulty suppressing my rage, and, remem- bering it was a woman who spoke to me, " farewell, madam," said i, through my grinded teeth. “were you, indeed, the personification of the world, whose mean notions you mouth so calmly, i could not disdain you more.” i turned to the door, and left her still standing erect and men- acing, the hard sneer on her resolute lip, the red glitter in her remorseless eye. chapter lviii. if ever my heart vowed itself to lilian, the vow was now the most trustful and the most sacred. i had relinquished our engagement before, but then her affection seemed, no matter from what cause, so estranged from me, that though i might be miserable to lose her, i deemed that she would be unhappy in our union. then, too, she was the gem and dar- ling of the little world in which she lived; no whisper assailed her; now, i knew that she loved me. i knew that her estrangement had been in- voluntary, i knew that appearances wronged her, and that they never could be explained. i was in the true position of man to woman: i was the shield, the bulwark, the fearless confiding protector! resign her now, because the world babbled, because my career might be impeded, because my good name might be impeached — resign her, and, in that resignation, confirm all that was said against her! could i do so, i should be the most craven of gentlemen, the meanest of men! i went to mrs. ashleigh, and entreated her to hasten my union with her daughter, and fix the marriage day. i found the poor lady dejected and distressed she was now sufficiently relieved from the absorbing anxiety for lilian to be aware for the change on the face of that world which the woman i had just quitted personified and concentred; she had learned the cause from the bloodless lips of miss brabazon. “my child — my poor child !” murmured the mother. “ and she so gudeless -- so sensitive! could she know what is said, it would kill * ' a strange story. her. she would never marry you, allen. she would never bring shame to you!” “she never need learn the barbarous calumny. give her to me, and at once; patients, fortune, fame, are not found only at l . give her to me at once. but let me name a condition : i have a patrimonial inde- pendence - i have amassed large savings - i have my profession and mv repute. i cannot touch her fortune - i cannot -- never can! take it while you live; when you die, leave it to accumulate for her children, if children she have; not to me; not to her- unless i am dead or ruined !” “oh, allen, what a heart ! — what a heart! no, not heart, allen that bird in its cage has a heart: soul - what a soul ! ” chapter lix. how innocent was lilian's virgin blush when i knelt to her and prayed that she would forestall the date that had been fixed for our union, and be my bride before the breath of the autumn had withered the pomp of the woodland and silenced the song of the birds. meanwhile, i was so fearfully anxious that she should risk no danger of hearing, even of surmising, the cruel slander against her - should meet no cold con- temptuous looks — above all, should be safe from the barbed talk of mrs. poyntz — that i insisted on the necessity of immediate change of air and scene. i proposed that we should all three depart, the next day, for the banks of my own beloved and native windermere. by that pure moun- tain air lilian's health would be soon reëstablished; in the church hal- lowed to me by the graves of my fathers our vows could be plighted. no calumny had ever cast a shadow over those graves. i felt as if my bride would be safer in the neighborhood of my mother's tomb. i carried my point: it was so arranged. mrs. ashleigh, however, was reluctant to leave before she had seen her dear friend margaret poyntz. i had not the courage to tell her what she might expect to hear from that dear friend, but, as delicately as i could, i informed her that i had already seen the queen of the hill, and contradicted the gossip that had reached her; but that as yet, like other absolute sovereigns, the queen of the hill thought it politic to go with the popular stream, reserving all check on its direction till the rush of its torrent might slacken ; and that it would be infinitely wiser in mrs. ashleigh to postpone conversation a strange story. with mrs. poyntz until lilian's return to l- as my wife ; slander by that time would have wearied itself out, and mrs. poyntz (assuming her friendship to mrs. ashleigh to be sincere) would then be enabled to say with authority to her subjects, “ dr. fenwick alone knows the facts of the story, and his marriage with miss ashleigh refutes all the gossip to her prejudice.” i made, that evening, arrangements with a young and rising practi- tioner; to secure attendance on my patients during my absence. i passed the greater part of the night in drawing up memoranda to guide my proxy in each case, however humble the sufferer. this task finished, i chanced, in searching for a small microscope, the wonders of which i thought might interest and amuse lilian, to open a drawer in which i kept the manuscript of my cherished physiological work, and, in so doing, my eye fell upon the wand which i had taken from margrave. i had thrown it into that drawer on my return home after restoring lilian to her mother's house, and, in the anxiety which had subsequently preyed upon my mind, had almost forgotten the strange possession i had as strangely acquired. there it now lay, the instrument of agencies over the mechanism of nature which no doctrine admitted by my philosophy could accept, side by side with the presumptuous work which had ana- lyzed the springs by which nature is moved, and decided the principles by which reason metes out, from the inch of its knowledge, the plan of the infinite unknown. i took up the wand and examined it curiously. it was evidently the work of an age far remote from our own, scored over with half-obliterated characters in some eastern tongue, perhaps no longer extant. i found that it was hollow within. a more accurate observation showed, in the centre of this hollow, an exceedingly fine thread-like wire, the unattached end of which would slightly touch the palm when the wand was taken into the hand. was it possible that there might be a natural and even a simple cause for the effects which this instrument produced ? could it serve to collect, from that great focus of animal heat and nervous energy which is placed in the palm of the human hand, some such latent fluid as that which reichenbach calls the “odic," and which, according to him, “rushes through and pervades universal nature ?” after all, why not? for how many centuries lay unknown all the virtues of the loadstone and the amber? it is but as yesterday that the forces of vapor have become to men genii more powerful than those conjured up by aladdin ; that light, at a touch, springs forth from invisible air; that thought finds a mes- senger swifter than the wings of the fabled afrite. as, thus musing, my hand closed over the wand, i felt a wild thrill through my frame. i recoiled; i was alarmed lest (according to the plain common-sense the- a strange story. ory of julius faber) i might be preparing my imagination to form and to credit its own illusions. hastily i laid down the wand. but then it occurred to me, that whatever its properties, it had so served the pur- poses of the dread fascinator from whom it had been taken, that he might probably seek to repossess himself of it; he might contrive to enter my house in my absence; more prudent to guard in my own watchful keeping the incomprehensible instrument of incomprehensible arts. i resolved, therefore, to take the wand with me, and placed it in my trav- elling-trunk with such effects as i selected for use in the excursion that was to commence with the morrow. i now laid down to rest, but i could not sleep. the recollections of the painful interview with mrs. poyntz became vivid and haunting. it was clear that the sentiment she had conceived for me was that of no simple friendship — something more or something less - but certainly something else; and this conviction brought before me that proud hard face, disturbed by a pang wrestled against but not subdued, and that clear metallic voice, troubled by the quiver of an emotion which, perhaps, she had never analyzed to herself. i did not need her own assurance to know that this sentiment was not to be con- founded with a love which she would have despised as a weakness and repelled as a crime ;' it was an inclination of the intellect, not a passion of the heart. but it admitted a jealousy little less keen than that which has love for its cause; so true it is that jealousy is never absent where self-love is always present. certainly it was no susceptibility of sober friendship which had made the stern arbitress of a coterie ascribe to her interest in me her pitiless judgment of lilian. strangely enough, with the image of this archetype of conventional usages and the trite social life, came that of the mysterious margrave, surrounded by all the attri- butes with which superstition clothes the being of the shadowy border land that lies beyond the chart of our visual world itself. by what link were creatures so dissimilar riveted together in the metaphysical chain of association ? both had entered into the record of my life when my life admitted its own first romance of love. through the aid of this cynical schemer i had been made known to lilian. at her house i had heard the dark story of that louis grayle, with whom, in mocking spite of my reason, conjectures (which that very reason must depose itself be- fore it could resolve into distempered fancies) identified the enigmatical margrave. and now both she, the representative of the formal world most opposed to visionary creeds, and he, who gathered round him all the terrors which haunt the realm of fable, stood united against me — foes with whom the intellect i had so haughtily cultured knew not how to cope. whatever assault i might expect from either, i was unable to assail again. alike, then, in this, are the slander, and the phantom; a strange story. that which appals us most in their power over us is our impotence against them. but up rose the sun, chasing the shadows from the earth, and brighten- ing insensibly the thoughts of man. after all, margrave had been baffled and defeated, whatever the arts he had practised and the secrets he pos- sessed. it was, at least, doubtful whether his evil machinations would be renewed. he had seemed so incapable of long-sustained fixity of pur- pose, that it was probable he was already in pursuit of some new agent or victim; and as to this common-place and conventional spectre, the so- called world, if it is everywhere to him whom it awes, it is nowhere to him who despises it. what was the good or bad word of a mrs. poyntz to me? ay, but to lilian? there, indeed, i trembled; but still even in trembling it was sweet to think that my home would be her shelter- my choice her vindication. ah, how unutterably tender and reverential love becomes when it assumes the duties of the guardian, and hallows its own heart into a sanctuary of refuge for the beloved ! chapter lx. the beautiful lake! we two are on its grassy margin. twilight melting into night; the stars stealing forth, one after one. what a won- derful change is made within us when we come from our callings amongst men, chafed, wearied, wounded ; gnawed by our cares, perplexed by the doubts of our very wisdom, stung by the adder that dwells in cities — slander; nay, even if renowned, fatigued with the burden of the very names that we have won; what a change is made within us when sud- denly we find ourselves transportede into the calm solitudes of nature; - into scenes familiar to our happy dreaming childhood; back, back from the dusty thoroughfares of our toil-worn manhood to the golden fountain of our youth! blessed is the change, even when we have no companion beside us to whom the heart can whisper its sense of relief and joy. but if the one, in whom all our future is garnered up, be with us there, instead of that weary world which has so magically vanished away from the eye and the thought, then does the change make one of those rare epochs of life in which the charm is the stillness. in the pause from all, by which our own turbulent struggles for happiness trouble existence, we feel with a rapt amaze how calm a thing it is to be happy. and so as the night, in deepening, brightened, lilian and i wandered by a strange story. the starry lake. conscious of no evil in ourselves, how secure we felt from evil! a few days more — a few days more, and we two should be as one. and that thought we uttered in many forms of words, brooding over it in the long intervals of enamoured silence. and when we turned back to the quiet inn at which we had taken up our abode, and her mother, with her soft face, advanced to meet us, i said to lilian : “ would that in these scenes we could fix our home for life, away and afar from the dull town we have left behind us, with the fret of its weary- ing cares and the jar of its idle babble !” “and why not, allen ? why not? but no, you would not be happy.” “ not be happy, and with you? sceptic! by what reasonings do you arrive at that ungracious conclusion ?” “the heart loves repose and the soul contemplation, but the mind needs action. is it not so ?” “ where learned you that aphorism, out of place on such rosy lips !” " i learned it in studying you,” murmured lilian, tenderly. here mrs. ashleigh joined us. for the first time i slept under the some roof as lilian. and i forgot that the universe contained an enigma to solve or an enemy to fear. chapter lxi. twenty days — the happiest my life had ever known — thus glided on. apart from the charm which love bestows on the beloved, there was that in lilian's conversation which made her a delightful companion. whether it was that, in this pause from the toils of my career, my mind could more pliantly supple itself to her graceful imagination, or that her imagination itself was less vague and dreamy amidst those rural scenes which realized in their loveliness and grandeur its long-conceived ideals, than it had been in the petty garden-ground neighbored by the stir and hubbub of the busy town, - in much that i had once slighted or con- temned as the vagaries of undisciplined fancy, i now recognized the spar- kle and play of an intuitive genius lighting up many a depth obscure to instructed thought. it is with some characters as with the subtler and more ethereal order of poets. to appreciate them we must suspend the course of artificial life. in the city we call them dreamers, on the mouni- tain-top we find them interpreters. a strange story. in lilian, the sympathy with nature was not, as in margrave, from the joy and sense of nature's lavish vitality, it was refined into exquisite per- ception of the diviner spirit by which that vitality is informed. thus, like the artist, from outward forms of beauty she drew forth the covert types, lending to things the most familiar exquisite meanings unconceived before. for it is truly said by a wise critic of old, that “the attribute of art is to suggest infinitely more than it expresses,” and such suggestions, passing from the artist's innermost thought into the mind that receives them, open on and on into the infinite of ideas, as a moonlit wave struck by a passing oar impels wave upon wave along one track of light. so the days glided by, and brought the eve of our bridal morn. it had been settled that, after the ceremony (which was to be performed by license in the village church, at no great distance, which adjoined my paternal home now passed away to strangers), we should make a short excursion into scotland; leaving mrs. ashleigh to await our return at the little inn. i had retired to my own room to answer some letters from anxious patients, and having finished these, i looked into my trunk for a guide- book to the north, which i had brought with me. my hand came upon margrave's wand, and remembering that strange thrill which had passed through me when i last handled it, i drew it forth, resolved to examine calmly if i could detect the cause of the sensation. it was not now the time of night in which the imagination is most liable to credulous impres- sions, nor was i now in the anxious and jaded state of mind in which such impressions may be the more readily conceived. the sun was slowly setting over the delicious landscape; the air cool and serene; my thoughts collected; heart and conscience alike at peace. i took, then, the wand, and adjusted it to the palm of the hand as i had done before. i felt the slight touch of the delicate wire within, and again the thrill! i did not this time recoil ; i continued to grasp the wand, and sought de- liberately to analyze my own sensations in the contact. there came over me an increased consciousness of vital power; a certain exhilaration, elasticity, vigor, such as a strong cordial may produce on a fainting man. all the forces of my frame seemed refreshed, redoubled; and as such effects on the physical system are ordinarily accompanied by correspond- ent effects on the mind, so i was sensible of a proud elation of spirits, a kind of defying, superb self-glorying. all fear seemed blotted out from my thought, as a weakness impossible to the grandeur and might which belong to intellectual man; i felt as if it were a royal delight to scorn earth and its opinions, brave hades and its spectres. rapidly this new-born arrogance enlarged itself into desires vague but daring; my mind reverting to the wild phenomena associated with its memories of À strange story. margrave, i said, half-aloud, “ if a créature so beneath myself in con- stancy of will and completion of thought can wrest from nature favors so marvellous, what could not be won from her by me, her patient persever- ing seeker ? what if there be spirits around and about, invisible to the common eye, but whom we can submit to our control, and what if this rod be charged with some occult fluid, that runs through all creation, and can be so disciplined as to establish communication wherever life and thought can reach to beings that live and think! so would the mystics of old explain what perplexes me. am i sure that the mystics of old duped themselves or their pupils ? this, then, this slight wand, light as a reed in my grasp, this, then, was the instrument by which margrave sent his irresistible will through air and space, and by which i smote him- self, in the midst of his tiger-like wrath, into the helplessness of a sick man's swoon! can the instrument at this distance still control him; if now meditating evil, disarm and disable his purpose ?” involuntarily as i revolved these ideas, i stretched forth the wand, with a concentred energy of desire that its influence should reach margrave and command him. and since i knew not his whereabout, yet was vaguely aware that, according to any conceivable theory by which the wand could be sup- posed to carry its imagined virtues to definite goals in distant space, it should be pointed in the direction of the object it was intended to affect, so i slowly moved the wand as if describing a circle, and thus, in some point of the circle-east, west, north, or south - the direction could not fail to be true. before i had performed half the circle, the wand of itself stopped, resisting palpably the movement of my hand to impel it onward. had it, then, found the point to which my will was guiding it, obeying my will by some magnetic sympathy never yet comprehended by any recognized science ?. i know not; but i had not held it thus fixed for many seconds, before a cold air, well remembered, passed by me, stirring the roots of my hair; and, reflected against the opposite wall, stood the hateful scin-læca. the shadow was dimmer in its light than when before beheld, and the outline of the features was less distinct, still it was the unmistakable lemúr, or image of margrave. and a voice was conveyed to my senses, saying, as from a great dis- tance, and in weary yet angry accents, you have summoned me! wherefore ?” · i overcame the startled shudder with which, at first, i beheld the shadow and heard the voice. “ i summoned you not,” said i ; “i sought but to impose upon you my will, that you should persecute, with your ghastly influences, me and mine no more. and now, by whatever authority this wand bestows on me, i so adjure and command you !” a strange story. i thought there was a sneer of disdain on the lip through which the answer seemed to come: “ vain and ignorant; it is but a shadow you command. my body you have cast into a sleep, and it knows not that the shadow is here ; nor, when it wakes, will the brain be aware of one reminiscence of the words that you utter or the words that you hear.” “ what, then, is this shadow that simulates the body? is it that which in popular language is called the soul ?” " it is not: soul is no shadow ?” “ what then?” " ask not me. use the wand to invoke intelligence higher than mine.” and how?” “i will tell you not. of yourself you may learn, if you guide the wand by your own pride of will and desire ; but in the hands of him who has learned not the art, the wand has its dangers. again, i say you have summoned me! wherefore ?” “ lying shade, i summoned thee not.” “ so wouldst thou say to the demons, did they come in their terrible wrath, when the bungler, who knows not the springs that he moves, calls them up unawares, and can neither control nor dispel. less revengeful than they, i leave thee unharmed, and depart !” “ stay. if, as thou sayest, no command i address to thee — to thee, who art only the image or shadow — can have effect on the body and mind of the being whose likeness thou art, still thou canst tell me what passes now in his brain. does it now harbor schemes against me through the woman i love ? answer truly." " i reply for the sleeper, of whom i am more than a likeness, though only the shadow. his thought speaks thus : 'i know, allen fenwick, that in thee is the agent i need for achieving the end that i seek. through the woman thou lovest i hope to subject thee. a grief that will harrow thy heart is at hand : when that grief shall befall, thou wilt wel- come my coming. in me alone thy hope will be placed — through me alone wilt thou seek a path out of thy sorrow. i shall ask my conditions: they will make thee my tool and my slave !'” the shadow waned - it was gone. i did not seek to detain it, nor, had i sought, could i have known by what process. but a new idea now possessed me. this shadow, then, that had once so appalled and con- trolled me, was, by its own confession, nothing more than a shadow! it had spoken of higher intelligences; from them i might learn what the shadow could not reveal. as still i held the wand firmer and firmer in my grasp, my thoughts grew haughtier and bolder. could the wand, then, bring those loftier beings thus darkly referred to before me ?. with a strange story. that thought, intense and engrossing, i guided the wand towards the space, opening boundless and blue from the casement that let in the skies. the wand no longer resisted my hand. in a few moments i felt the floors of the room vibrate; the air was darkened; a vaporous hazy cloud seemed to rise from the ground with- out the casement; an awe, infinitely more deep and solemn than that which the scin-læca had caused in its earliest apparition, curdled through my veins, and stilled the very beat of my heart. at that moment, i heard, without, the voice of lilian, singing a simple sacred song which i had learned at my mother's knees, and taught to her the day before: singing low, and as with a warning angel's voice. by an irresistible impulse i dashed the wand to the ground, and bowed my head as i had bowed it when my infant mind comprehended, without an effort, mysteries 'more solemn than those which perplexed me now. slowly i raised my eyes, and looked round: the vaporous hazy cloud had passed away, or melted into the ambient rose tints amidst which the sun had sunk. then, by one of those common reactions from a period of over-strained excitement, there succeeded to that sentiment of arrogance and daring with which these wild, half-conscious invocations had been fostered and sustained, a profound humility, a warning fear. “ what !” said i, inly, “ have all those sound resolutions, which my reason founded on the wise talk of julius faber, melted away in the wrack of haggard dissolving fancies ! is this my boasted intellect, my vaunted science! - , allen fenwick, not only the credulous believer, but the blundering practitioner, of an evil magic! grant what may be possible, however uncomprehended - grant that in this accursed instru- ment of antique superstition there be some real powers - chemical, mag- netic, no matter what — by which the imagination can be aroused, inflamed, deluded, so that it shapes the things i have seen, speaks in the tones i have heard — grant this, shall i keep ever ready, at the caprice of will, a constant tempter to steal away my reason and fool my senses ? — or if, on the other hand, i force my sense to admit what all sober men must reject — if i unschool myself to believe that in what i have just ex. perienced, there is no mental illusion, that sorcery is a fact, and a demon world has gates which open to a key that a mortal can forge — who but a saint would not shrink from the practice of powers by which each passing thought of ill might find in a fiend its abettor? in either case – in any case - while i keep this direful relic of obsolete arts, i am haunted cheated out of my senses — unfitted for the uses of life. if, as my ear or my fancy informs me, grief — human grief - is about to befall me, shall i, in the sting of impatient sorrow, have recourse to an aid which, the a strange story. · the same voice declares, will reduce me to a tool and a slave ?-tool and slave to a being i drçad as a foe! out on these nightmares ! and away with the thing that bewitches the brain to conceive them!” i rose; i took up the wand, holding it so that its hollow should not rest on the palm of the hand. i stole from the house by the back way, in order to avoid lilian, whose voice i still heard, singing low, on the lawn in front. i came to a creek, to the bank of which a boat was moored, undid its chain, rowed on to a deep part of the lake, and dropped the wand into its waves. it sank at once: scarcely a ripple furrowed the surface, not a bubble arose from the deep. and, as the boat glided on, the star mirrored itself on the spot where the placid waters had closed over the tempter to evil. light at heart i sprang again on the shore, and hastening to lilian, where she stood on the silvered shining sward, clasped her to my breast. “ spirit of my life !" i murmured," no enchantments for me but thine ! thine are the spells by which creation is beautified, and, in that beauty, hallowed. what, though we can see not into the measureless future from the verge of the moment - what though sorrow may smite us while we are dreaming of bliss, let the future not rob me of thee, and a balm will be found for each wound. love me ever as now, oh my lilian; troth to troth, side by side, till the grave!” “ and beyond the grave,” answered lilian, softly. chapter lxii. our vows are exchanged at the altar — the rite which made lilian my wife is performed — we are returned from the church, amongst the hills, in which my fathers had worshipped ; the joy-bells that rang for my mar- riage had pealed for my birth. lilian has gone to her room to prepare for our bridal excursion; while the carriage we have hired is waiting at the door. i am detaining her mother on the lawn, seeking to cheer and compose her spirits, painfully affected by that sense of change in the re- lations of child and parent which makes itself suddenly felt by the pa- rent's heart on the day that secures to the child another heart on which to lean. but mrs. ashleigh's was one of those gentle womanly natures which, if easily afflicted, are easily consoled. and, already smiling through her tears, she was about to quit me and join her daughter, when one of the . a strange story. inn servants came to me with some letters, which had just been delivered by the postman. as i took them from the servant, mrs. ashleigh asked if there were any letters for her ? she expected one from her house- keeper at l- , who had been taken ill in her absence, and about whom the kind mistress felt anxious. the servant replied that there was no letter for her, but one directed to miss ashleigh, which he had just sent up to the young lady. mrs. ashleigh did not doubt that her housekeeper had written to lilian, whom she had known from the cradle, and to whom she was tenderly at- tached, instead of to her mistress, and saying something to me to that ef- fect, quickened her steps towards the house. i was glancing over my own letters, chiefly from patients, with a rapid eye, when a cry of agony, a cry as of one suddenly stricken to the heart, pierced my ear- a cry from within the house. “heavens! was not that lilian's voice?” the same doubt struck mrs. ashleigh, who had already gained the door. she rushed on, disappearing within the threshold, and calling to me to follow. i bounded forward - passed her on the stairs — was in lilian's room before her. my bride was on the floor, prostrate, insensible. so still, so colorless! that my first dreadful thought was that life had gone. in her hand was a letter, crushed, as with a convulsive sudden grasp. it was long before the color came back to her cheek, before the breath was perceptible on her lip. she woke, but not to health, not to sense. hours were passed in violent convulsions, in which i momently feared her death. to these succeeded stupor, lethargy, not benignant sleep. that night, my bridal night, i passed as in some chamber to which i had been summoned to save youth from the grave. at length, life was rescued, was assured! life came back, but the mind was gone. she knew me not, nor her mother. she spoke little and faintly; in the words she uttered there was no reason. i pass hurriedly on; my experience here was in fault, my skill ineffect- ual. day followed day, and no ray came back to the darkened brain. we bore her, by gentle stages, to london. i was sanguine of good re- sult from skill more consummate than mine, and more specially devoted to diseases of the mind. i summoned the first advisers. in vain !-- in vain! a strange story. chapter lxiii. and the cause of this direful shock?. not this time could it be traced to some evil spell, some phantasmal influence. the cause was clear, and might have produced effects as sinister on nerves of stronger fibré if ac- companied with a heart as delicately sensitive, an honor as exquisitely pure. the letter found in her hand was without name; it was dated from l- , and bore the postmark of that town. it conveyed to lilian, in the biting words which female malice can make so sharp, the tale we had sought sedulously to guard from her ear— her flight, the construction that scandal put upon it. it affected for my blind infatuation a contemptuous pity; it asked her to pause before she brought on the name i offered to her an indelible disgrace. if she so decided, she was warned not to re- turn to l- , or to prepare there for the sentence that would exclude her from the society of her own sex. i cannot repeat more, i cannot min- ute down all that the letter expressed or implied, to wither the orange blossoms in a bride's wreath. the heart that took in the venom cast its poison on the brain, and the mind fled before the presence of a thought so deadly to all the ideas which its innocence had heretofore con- ceived. i knew not whom to suspect of the malignity of this mean and misera- ble outrage, nor did i much care to know. the handwriting, though evidently disguised, was that of a woman, and, therefore, had i discovered the author my manhood would have forbidden me the idle solace of re- venge. mrs. poyntz, however resolute and pitiless her hostility when once aroused, was not without a certain largeness of nature irreconcilable with the most dastardly of all the weapons that hatred or envy can sup- ply to the vile. she had too lofty a self-esteem and too decorous a re- gard for the moral sentiment of the world that she typified, to do, or con- nive at, an act which degrades the gentlewoman. putting her aside, what other female enemy had lilian provoked ? no matter! what other woman at l- was worth the condescension of a conjecture! after listening to all that the ablest of my professional brethren in the metropolis could suggest to guide me, and trying in vain their remedies, i brought back my charge to l- retaining my former residence for the visits of patients, i engaged, for the privacy of my home, a house two miles from the town, secluded in its own grounds, and guarded by high walls. * a strange story. lilian's mother removed to my mournful dwelling-place. abbots' house, in the centre of that tattling coterie, had become distasteful to her, and to me it was associated with thoughts of anguish and of terror. i could not, without a shudder, have entered its grounds - could not, with- out a stab at the heart, have seen again the old fairy land round the monk's well, nor the dark cedar-tree under which lilian's hand had been placed in mine. and a superstitious remembrance, banished while lilian's angel face had brightened the fatal precincts, now revived in full force. the dying man's curse — had it not been fulfilled ! a new occupant for the old house was found within a week after mrs. ashleigh had written from london to a house-agent at l- , intimating her desire to dispose of the lease. shortly before we had gone to win- dermere, miss brabazon had become enriched by a liberal life-annuity bequeathed to her by her uncle, sir phelim. her means thus enabled her to move, from the comparatively humble lodging she had hitherto oc- cupied, to abbots' house ; but just as she had there commenced a series of ostentatious entertainments, implying an ambitious desire to dispute with mrs. poyntz the sovereignty of the hill, she was attacked by some severe malady which appeared complicated with spinal disease, and after my return to l- i sometimes met her, on the spacious platform of the hill, drawn along slowly in a bath chair, her livid face peering forth from piles of indian shawls and siberian furs, and the gaunt figure of dr. jones stalking by her side, taciturn and gloomy as some sincere mourner who conducts to the grave the patron on whose life he had con- veniently lived himself. it was in the dismal month of february that i returned to l , and i took possession of my blighted nuptial home on the anniversary of the very day in which i had passed through the dead dumb world from the naturalist's gloomy death-room. chapter lxiv. lilian's wondrous gentleness of nature did not desert her in the sus- pension of her reason. she was habitually calm — very silent; when she spoke it was rarely on earthly things —on things-familiar to her past - things one could comprehend. her thought seemed to have quitted the earth, seeking refuge in some imaginary heaven. she spoke of war derings with her father as if he were living still; she did not seem to un- derstand the meaning we attach to the word death. she would sit for a strange story. . hours murmuring to herself; when one sought to catch the words, they seemed in converse with invisible spirits. we found it cruel to disturb her at such times, for if left unmolested, her face was serene - more se- renely beautiful than i had seen it even in our happiest hours; but when we called her back to the wrecks of her real life, her eye became troubled, restless, anxious, and she would sigh-oh, so heavily! at times, if we did not seem to observe her, she would quietly resume her once favorite accomplishments — drawing, music. and in these, her young excellence was still apparent, only the drawings were strange and fantastic : they had a resemblance to those with which the painter blake, himself a vis- ionary, illustrated the poems of the “ night thoughts” and “ the grave." faces of exquisite loveliness, forms of ærial grace, coming forth from the bells of flowers, or floating upwards amidst the spray of fountains, their outlines melting away in fountain or in flower. so with her music: her mother could not recognize the airs she played, for a while so sweetly and with so ineffable a pathos, that one could scarcely hear her without weeping; and then would come, as if involuntarily, an abrupt discord, and, starting, she would cease and look around, disquieted, aghast. and still she did not recognize mrs. ashleigh nor myself, as her mother, her husband; but she had by degrees learned to distinguish us both from others. to her mother she gave no name, seemed pleased to see her, but not sensibly to miss her when away; me she called her brother: if longer absent than usual, me she missed. when, after the toils of the day, i came to join her, even if she spoke not, her sweet face brightened. when she sang, she beckoned me to come near to her, and looked at me fixedly, with eyes ever tender, often tearful; when she drew, she would pause and glance over her shoulder to see that i was watching her, and point to the drawings with a smile of strange significance, as if they conveyed, in some covert allegory, messages meant for me; so, at least, i interpreted her smile, and taught myself to say, “ yes, lilian, i understand !” and more than once, when i had so answered, she rose and kissed my forehead. i thought my heart would have broken when i felt that spirit- like melancholy kiss. and yet how marvellously the human mind teaches itself to extract consolation from its sorrows. the least wretched of my hours were those that i passed in that saddened room, seeking how to establish frag- ments of intercourse, invent signs, by which each might interpret each, between the intellect i had so laboriously cultured, so arrogantly vaunted, and the fancies wandering through the dark, deprived of their guide in reason. it was something even of joy to feel myself needed for her guar- dianship, endeared and yearned for still by some unshattered instinct of her heart; and when, parting from her for the night, i stole the moment. a strange story. in which on her soft face seemed resting least of shadow, ask, in a trem- bling whisper, “ lilian, are the angels watching over you ?” and she would answer, “ yes,” sometimes in words, sometimes with a mysterious þappy smile — then — then i went to my lonely room, comforted and thankful, chapter lxv. the blow that had fallen on my hearth effectually, inevitably killed all the slander that might have troubled me in joy. before the awe of a great. calamity the small passions of a mean malignity slink abashed. i had requested mrs. ashleigh not to mention the vile letter which lilian had received. i would not give a triumph to the unknown calumniator, nor wring forth her vain remorse, by the pain of acknowledging an in- dignity to my darling's honor; yet, somehow or other, the true cause of lilian's affliction had crept out — perhaps through the talk of servants — and the public shock was universal. by one of those instincts of justice that lie deep in human hearts, though in ordinary moments overlaid by many a worldly layer, all felt (all mothers felt, especially) that innocence alone could have been so unprepared for reproach. the explanation i had previously given, discredited then, was now accepted without a ques- tion. lilian's present state accounted for all that ill nature had before misconstrued. her good name was restored to its maiden whiteness by the fate that had severed the ties of the bride. the formal dwellers on the hill vied with the franker, warmer-hearted households of low town in the nameless attentions by which sympathy and respect are rather delicately indicated than noisily proclaimed. could lilian have then recovered and been sensible of its repentant homage, how reverently that petty world would have thronged around her. and, ah! could for- tune and man's esteem have atoned for the blight of hopes that had been planted and cherished on ground beyond their reach, ambition and pride might have been well contented with the largeness of the exchange that courted their acceptance. patients on patients crowded on me. sym- pathy with my sorrow seemed to create and endear a more trustful belief in my skill. but the profession i had once so enthusiastically loved be- came to me wearisome, insipid, distasteful; the kindness heaped upon me gave no comfort, it but brought before me more vividly the conviction that - it came too late to avail me; it could not restore to me the mind, the love, the life of my life, which lay dark and shattered in the brain of my guile- a strange story. less lilian. secretly i felt a sullen resentment. i knew that to the crowd the resentment was unjust. the world itself is but an appearance; who can blame it if appearances guide its laws ? but to those who had been detached from the crowd by the professions of friendship — those who, when the slander was yet new, and might have been awed into silence had they stood by my side, - to the pressure of their hands, now, i had no response. against mrs. poyntz, above all others, i bore a remembrance of unre- laxed, unmitigable indignation. her schemes for her daughter's mar- riage had triumphed: jane was mrs. ashleigh sumner. her mind was, perhaps, softened now that the object which had sharpened its worldly. faculties was accomplished; but in vain, on first hearing of my affliction, had this she machiavel owned a humane remorse, and, with all her keen comprehension of each facility that circumstance gave to her will, availed herself of the general compassion to strengthen the popular reaction in favor of lilian's assaulted honor — in vain had she written to me with a gentleness of sympathy foreign to her habitual characteristics — in vain besought me to call on her - in vain waylaid and accosted me with a : humility that almost implored forgiveness; i vouchsafed no reproach, but i could imply no pardon. i put between her and my great sorrow the impenetrable wall of my freezing silence. one word of hers at the time that i had so pathetically besought her aid, and the parrot-flock that repeated her very whisper in noisy shrill- ness, would have been as loud to defend as it had been to defame; that vile letter might never have been written. whoever its writer, it surely was one of the babblers who took their malice itself from the jest or the nod of their female despot; and the writer might have justified herself in saying she did but coarsely proclaim what the oracle of worldly opinion, and the early friend of lilian's own mother, had authorized her to be- lieve. by degrees, the bitterness at my heart diffused itself to the circumfer- ence of the circle in which my life went its cheerless mechanical round. that cordial brotherhood with his patients, which is the true physician's happiest gift and humanest duty, forsook my breast. the warning words of mrs. poyntz had come true. a patient that monopolized my thoughts awaited me at my own hearth! my conscience became troubled; i felt that my skill was lessened. i said to myself, “ the physician who, on entering the sick room, feels, while there, something that distracts the finest powers of his intellect from the sufferer's case, is unfit for his calling." a year had scarcely passed since my fatal wedding day, before i had formed a resolution to quit l , and abandon my profession: a strange story. - and my resolution was confirmed, and my goal determined, by a letter i received from julius faber. i had written at length to him, not many days after the blow that had • fallen on me, stating all circumstances as calmly and clearly as my grief would allow, for i held his skill at a higher estimate than that of any liv- ing brother of my art, and i was not without hope in the efficacy of his advice. the letter i now received from him had been begun, and con- tinued at some length, before my communication reached him. and this earlier portion contained animated and cheerful descriptions of his aus- tralian life and home, which contrasted with the sorrowful tone of the supplement written in reply to the tidings with which i had wrung his friendly and tender heart. in this, the latter, part of his letter, he sug- gested that if time had wrought no material change for the better, it might be advisable to try the effect of foreign travel. scenes entirely • new might stimulate observation, and the observation of things external withdraw the sense from that brooding over images delusively formed within, which characterized the kind of mental alienation i had described. “let any intellect create for itself a visionary world, and all reasonings built on it are fallacious; the visionary world vanishes in proportion as we can arouse a predominant interest in the actual.” this grand authority, who owed half his consummate skill as a prac- titioner to the scope of his knowledge as a philosopher, then proceeded to give me a hope which i had not dared, of myself, to form. he said, “i distinguish the case you so minutely detail from that insanity which is reason lost; here it seems rather to be reason held in suspense. where there is hereditary predisposition, where there is organic change of struc- ture in the brain — nay, where there is that kind of insanity which takes the epithet of moral, whereby the whole character becomes so transformed that the prime element of sound understanding, conscience itself, is either erased or warped into the sanction of what, in a healthful state, it would most disapprove, it is only charlatans who promise effectual cure. but here i assume that there is no hereditary taint; here i am convinced, from my own observation, that the nobility of the organs, all fresh as yet in the vigor of youth, would rather submit to death than to the perma-- nent overthrow of their equilibrium in reason; here, where you tell me the character preserves all its moral attributes of gentleness and purity, and but over-indulges its own early habit of estranged contemplation; here, without deceiving you in false kindness, i give you the guarantee of my experience when i bid you hope !' i am persuaded that sooner or later, the mind, thus for a time affected, will right itself; because here, in the course of the malady, we do but deal with the nervous system. a strange story. and that, once righted, and the mind once disciplined in those practical duties which conjugal life necessitates, the malady itself will never re- turn; never be transmitted to the children, on whom your wife's restora- tion to health may permit you to count hereafter. if the course of travel i recommend and the prescriptions i conjoin with that course fail you, let me know; and though i would fain close my days in this land, i will come to you. i love you as my son. i will tend your wife as my daughter.” foreign travel! the idea smiled on me. julius faber's companion- ship, sympathy, matchless skill! the very thought seemed as a raft to a drowning mariner. i now read more attentively the earlier portions of his letter. they described, in glowing colors, the wondrous country in which he had fixed his home; the joyous elasticity of its atmosphere; the freshness of its primitive pastoral life; the strangeness of its scenery, with a flora and a fauna which have no similitudes in the ransacked quarters of the old world. and the strong impulse seized me to trans- fer to the solitudes of that blithesome and hardy nature a spirit no longer at home in the civilized haunts of men, and household gods that shrunk from all social eyes, and would fain have found a wilderness for the deso- late hearth, on which they had ceased to be sacred if unveiled. as if to give practical excuse and reason for the idea that seized me, julius faber mentioned, incidentally, that the house and property of a wealthy specu- lator in his immediate neighborhood were on sale at a price which seemed to me alluringly trivial, and, according to his judgment, far below the value they would soon reach in the hands of a more patient capitalist. he wrote at the period of the agricultural panic in the colony which pre- ceded the discovery of its earliest gold-fields. but his geological science had convinced him that strata within and around the property now for sale were auriferous, and his intelligence enabled him to predict how inevitably man would be attracted toward the gold, and how surely the gold would fertilize the soil and enrich its owners. he described the house thus to be sold — in case i might know of a purchaser; it had been built at a cost unusual in those early times, and by one who clung to english tastes amidst australian wilds, so that in this purchase a settler would escape the hardships he had then ordinarily to encounter: it was, in short, a home to which a man, more luxurious than i, might bear a bride with wants less simple than those which now sufficed for my darling lilian. this communication dwelt on my mind through the avocations of the day on which i received it, and in the evening i read all, except the sup- plement, aloud to mrs. ashleigh in her daughter's presence. i desired to see if faber's description of the country and its life, which in themselves were extremely spirited and striking, would arouse lilian's interest. at first, she did not seem to heed me while i read, but when i came to fa- a strange story. ber's loving account of little amy, lilian turned her eyes toward me, and evidently listened with attention. he wrote how the child had al- ready become the most useful person in the simple household.' how watchful the quickness of the heart had made the service of the eye; áll their associations of comfort had grown round her active noiseless move- ments; it was she who had contrived to monopolize the management, or supervision of all that added to home the nameless interior charm; under her eyes the rude furniture of the loghouse grew inviting with english neatness; she took charge of the dairy; she had made the garden gay with flowers selected from the wild, and suggested the trellised walk, al- ready covered with hardy vine; she was their confidant in every plan of improvement, their comforter in every anxious doubt, their nurse in every passing ailment; her very smile a refreshment in the weariness of daily toil. “how all that is best in womanhood," wrote the old man, with the enthusiasm which no time had reft from his hearty healthful genius, “how all that is best in womanhood is here opening fast into flower from the bud of the infant's soul! the atmosphere seems to suit it - the child-woman in the child-world!” i heard lilian sigh ; i looked towards her furtively; tears stood in her softened eyes; her lip was quivering. presently, she began to rub her right hand over the left over the wedding-ring — at first, slowly; then with quicker movement. “ it is not here,” she said, impatiently; “it is not here !” “what is not here ?” asked mrs. ashleigh, hanging over her.. lilian leant her head back on her mother's bosom, and answered faintly: “ the stain! some one said there was a stain on this hand. i do not see it- do you?” “ there is no stain, never was,” said i; “ the hand is white as your own innocence, or the lily from which you take your name.” “ hush! you do not know my name, i will whisper it. soft!- my name is nightshade! do you want to know where the lily is now, brother? i will tell you. there, in that letter -- you call her amy she is the lily - take her to your breast — hide her. hist! what are those bells ? marriage-bells. do not let her hear them. for there is a cruel wind that whispers the bells, and the bells ring out what it whispers, louder and louder, *stain on lily, . shame on lily, , wither lily.' if she hears what the wind whispers to the bells, she will creep away into the dark, and then she, too, will turn to nightshade.” a strange story. . “ lilian, look up, awake! you have been in a long, long dream : it is passing away. lilian, my beloved, my blessed lilian !” never till then had i heard from her even so vague an allusion to the fatal calumny, and its dreadful effect; and while her words now pierced my heart, it beat, amongst its pangs, with a thrilling hope. · but, alas! the idea that had gleamed upon her had vanished already. she murmured something about circles of fire, and a veiled woman in black garments; became restless, agitated, and unconscious of our pres- ence, and finally sank into a heavy sleep. that night (my room was next to hers with the intervening door open), i heard her cry out. i hastened to her side. she was still asleep, but there was an anxious laboring expression on her young face, and yet not an expression wholly of pain - for her lips were parted with a smile that glad yet troubled smile with which one who has been revolving some subject of perplexity or fear, greets a sudden thought that seems to solve the riddle, or prompt the escape from danger; and as i softly took her hand she returned my gentle pressure, and inclining towards me, said, still in sleep, . ' let us go.” “ whither ?” i answered, under my breath, so as not to awake her; is it to see the child of whom i read, and the land that is blooming out of the earth's childhood ?” , “ out of the dark into the light; where the leaves do not change ; where the night is our day, and the winter our summer. let us go- let us go !” “ we will go. dream on undisturbed, my bride. oh, that the dream could tell you that my love has not changed in our sorrow, holier and deeper than on the day in which our vows were exchanged! in you still all my hopes fold their wings: where you are, there still i myself have my drcamland !” . the sweet face grew bright as i spoke; all trouble left the smile ; softly she drew her hand from my clasp, and rested it for a moment on my bended head, as if in blessing. i rose ; stole back to my own room, closing the door, lest the sob i could not stifle should mar her sleep. : a strange story. chapter lxvi. i unfolded my new prospects to mrs. ashleigh. she was more easily reconciled to them than i could have supposed, judging by her habits, which were naturally indolent, and averse to all that disturbed their even tenor. but the great grief which had befallen her had roused up that strength of devotion which lies dormant in all hearts that are capable of loving another more than self. with her full consent i wrote to faber, communicating my intentions, instructing him to purchase the property he had so commended, and inclosing my banker's order for the amount, on an australian firm. i now announced my intention to retire from my profession; made prompt arrangements with a successor to my practice; disposed of my two houses at l- ; fixed the day of my de- parture. vanity was dead within me, or i might have been gratified by the sensation which the news of my design created. my faults became at once forgotten : such good qualities as i might possess were exagger- ated. the public regret vented and consoled itself in a costly testimo- nial, to which even the poorest of my patients insisted on the privilege to contribute, graced with an inscription flattering enough to have served for the epitaph on some great man's tomb. no one who has served an art and striven for a name, is a stoic 'to the esteem of others, and sweet indeed would such honors have been to me had not publicity itself seemed á wrong to the sanctity of that affliction which set lilian apart from the movement and the glories of the world. the two persons most active in “getting up” this testimonial were, nominally, colonel poyntz - in truth, his wife — and my old disparager, mr. vigors ! it is a long time since my narrative has referred to mr. vigors. it is due to him now to state that, in his capacity of magistrate, and in his own way, he had been both active and delicate in the inquiries set on foot for lilian during the unhappy time in which she had wan- dered, spellbound, from her home. he, alone of all the more influential magnates of the town, had upheld her innocence against the gossip that aspersed it; and during the last trying year of my residence 'at - he had sought me, with frank and manly confessions of his regret for his former prejudice against me, and assurances of the respect in which he had held me ever since my marriage — marriage but in rite — with lilian. he had then, strong in his ruling passion, besought me to consult his clairvoyants as to her case. i declined this invitation, so as not to affront him - declined it, not as i should once have done, but with no word nor look of incredulous disdain. the fact was, that i had conceived a sol- a strange story. emn terror of all practices and theories out of the beaten track of sense and science. perhaps in my refusal i did wrong. i know not. i was afraid of my own imagination. he continued not less friendly in spite of my refusal. and, such are the vicissitudes of human feeling, i parted from him whom i had regarded as my most bigoted foe, with a warmer sentiment of kindness than for any of those on whom i had counted on friendship. he had not deserted lilian. it was not so with mrs. poyntz. i would have paid tenfold the value of the testimonial to have erased, from the list of those who subscribed to it, her husband's name. the day before i quitted l- , and some weeks after i had, in fact, renounced my practice, i received an urgent entreaty from miss braba- zon to call on her. she wrote in lines so blurred that i could with diffi- culty decipher them, that she was very ill, given over by dr. jones, who had been attending her. she implored my opinion. chapter lxvii. on reaching the house, a formal man-servant, with indifferent face, transferred me to the guidance of a hired nurse, who led me up the stairs, and, before i was well aware of it, into the room in which dr. lloyd had died. widely different indeed, the aspect of the walls, the character of the furniture. the dingy paper-hangings were replaced by airy muslins, showing a rose-colored ground through their fanciful open-work; luxu- rious fauteuils, gilded wardrobes, full-length mirrors, a toilet-table tricked out with lace and ribbons, and glittering with an array of silver gewgaws and jewelled trinkets, - all transformed the sick chamber of the simple man of science to a boudoir of death for the vain coquette. but the room itself, in its high lattice and heavy ceiling, was the same — as the coffin itself has the same confines whether it be rich in velvets and bright with blazoning, or rude as a pauper's shell. and the bed, with its silken coverlid, and its pillows edged with the thread-work of louvain, stood in the same sharp angle as that over which had flickered the frowning smoke-reek above the dying resentful foe. as i approached, a man, who was seated beside the sufferer, turned round his face, and gave me a silent kindly nod of recognition. he was mr. c., one of the clergy of the town, the one with whom i had the most frequently come into contact wherever the physician resigns to the priest the language that bids man hope. mr. c., as a preacher, was renowned - a strange story. for his touching eloquence; as a pastor, revered for his benignant piety; as friend and neighbor, beloved for a sweetness of nature which seemed to regulate all the movements of a mind eminently masculine by the beat of a heart tender as the gentlest woman's. this good man, then whispering something to the sufferer which i did not overhear, stole towards me, took me by the hand, and said, also in a whisper, “ be merciful as christians are.” he led me to the bedside, there left me, went out, and closed the door. “do you think i am really dying, dr. fenwick ? ” said a feeble voice. “i fear dr. jones has misunderstood my case. i wish i had called you in at the first, but — but i could not -- i could not! will you feel my pulse ? don't you think you could do me good ?” i had no need to feel the pulse in that skeleton wrist; the aspect of the face sufficed to tell me that death was drawing near. mechanically, however, i went through the hackneyed formulæ of professional questions. this vain ceremony done; as gently and deli- cately as i could, i implied the expediency of concluding, if not yet set- tled, those affairs which relate to this world. “ this duty," i said, “in relieving the mind from care for others to whom we owe the forethought of affection, often relieves the body also of many a gnawing pain, and sometimes, to the surprise of the most expe- rienced physician, prolongs life itself.” “ ah,” said the old maid, peevishly, “ i understand! but it is not my will that troubles me. i should not be left to a nurse from a hospital if my relations did not know that my annuity dies with me; and i fore- stalled it in furnishing this house, dr. fenwick, and all these pretty things will be sold to pay those horrid tradesmen !-- very hard ! so hard ! — just as i had got things about me in the way i always said i . would have them if i could ever afford it. i always said i would have my bedroom hung with muslin, like dear lady l.'s;- and the drawing- room in geranium-colored silk : so pretty. you have not seen it: you would not know the house, dr. fenwick. and just when all is finished, to be taken away, and thrust into the grave. it is so cruel !” and she began to weep. her emotion brought on a violent paroxysm, which, when she recovered from it, had produced one of those startling changes of mind that are sometimes witnessed before death : changes whereby the whole character of a life seems to undergo solemn transformation. the hard will become gentle, the proud meek, the frivolous earnest. that awful moment when the things of earth pass away like dissolving scenes, leaving death visible on the back-ground by the glare that shoots up in the last flicker of life's lamp. as when she lifted her haggard face from my shoulder, and heard my. . a strange story. ashleigh would come back, and said how much i should like to take this house if she did not; and again he laughed, and said, “ birds never stay in the nest after the young ones are hurt,' and went away singing. when i got home, his laugh and his song haunted me. i thought i saw him still in my room, prompting me to write, and i sat down and wrote. oh, pardon, pardon me! i have been a foolish poor creature, but never meant to do such harm. the evil one tempted me! there he is, near me now! i see him yonder! there, at the doorway! he comes to claim me! as you hope for mercy yourself, free me from him!. forgive me !" i made an effort over myself. in naming margrave as her tempter, the woman had suggested an excuse echoed from that innermost cell of my mind, which i recoiled from gazing into, for there i should behold his image. inexpiable though the injury she had wrought against me and mine, still the woman was human — fellow-creature — like myself;- but he ? i took in both my hands the hand that still pressed my arm, and said with firm voice, “ be comforted. in the name of lilian, my wife, i forgive you for her and for me as freely and as fully as we are enjoined by him, against whose precepts the best of us daily sin, to forgive — we children of wrath - to forgive one another !' ,“ heaven bless you ! - oh, bless you !” she murmured, sinking back upon her pillow. " ah!” thought i, “what if the pardon i grant for a wrong far deeper than i inflicted on him whose imprecation smote me in this chamber, should, indeed, be received as atonement, and this blessing on the lips of the dying annul the dark curse that the dead has left on my path through the valley of the shadow !” i left my patient sleeping quietly, — the sleep that precedes the last. as i went down the stairs into the hall, i saw mrs. poyntz standing at the threshold, speaking to the man-servant and the nurse. i would have passed her with a formal bow but she stopped me. . “i came to inquire after poor miss brabazon,” said she. “you can tell me more than the servants can : is there no hope ?” “let the nurse go up and watch beside her. she may pass away in the sleep into which she has fallen.” : “ allen fenwick, i must speak with you — nay, but for a few minutes. i hear that you leave l- to-morrow. it is scarcely among the chances of life that we should meet again.” while thus saying, she drew me along the lawn down the path that led towards her own home. “i wish,” said she, earnestly, “ that you could part with a kindlier feeling a strange story towards me; but i can scarcely expect it. could i put myself in your place, and be moved by your feelings, i know that i should be implacable; but i. ” - “but you, madam, are the world ! and the world governs itself, and dictates to others, by laws which seem harsh to those who ask from its favor the services which the world cannot tender, for the world admits favorites but ignores friends. you did but act to me as the world ever acts to those who'mistake its favor for its friendship.” “ it is true," said mrs. poyntz, with blunt candor; and we continued to walk on silently. at length she said, abruptly, “ but do you not rashly deprive yourself of your only consolation in sorrow? when the heart suffers, does your skill admit any remedy like occupation to the mind ? yet you abandon that occupation to which your mind is most accustomed; you desert your career; you turn aside, in the midst of the race, from the fame which awaits at the goal; you go back from civilization itself, and dream that all your intellectual cravings can find content in the life of a herdsman, amidst the monotony of a wild! no, you will repent, for you are untrue to your mind.” “i am sick of the word “mind!”” said i, bitterly. and therewith i relapsed into musing. the enigmas which had foiled my intelligence in the unravelled sybil book of nature were mysteries strange to every man's normal practice of thought, even if reducible to the fraudulent impressions of outward sense. for illusions in a brain otherwise healthy, suggest problems in our human organization which the colleges that record them rather guess at than solve. but the blow which had shattered my life had been dealt by the hand of a fool. here, there were no mystic enchantments. motives the most common-place and paltry, suggested to a brain as trivial and shallow as ever made the frivolity of woman a theme for the satire of poets, had sufficed, in devastating the field of my affections, to blast the uses for which i had cultured my mind; and had my intellect been as great as heaven ever gave to man, it would have been as vain a shield as mine against the shaft that had lodged in my heart. while i had, indeed, been preparing my reason and my fortitude so meet such perils, weird and marvellous as those by which tales round the winter hearth scare the credulous child — a contrivance so vulgar and backneyed that not a day passes but what some hearth is vexed by an anonymous libel — had wrought a calamity more dread than aught which my dark guess into the shadow- land, unpierced by philosophy, could trace to the prompting of malig- nant witchcraft. so, ever this truth runs through all legends of ghost and demon - through the uniform records of what wonder accredits and science rejects as the supernatural - lo! the dread machinery whose . a strange story. wheels roll through hades! what need such awful engines for such mean results? the first blockhead we meet in our walk to our grocers can tell us more than the ghost tells us; the poorest envy we ever aroused hurts us more than the demon ! how true an interpreter is genius to hell as to earth. the fiend comes to faust, the tired seeker of knowledge; heaven and hell stake their cause in the mortal's temptation. and what does the fiend to astonish the mortal ? turn wine into fire, turn love into crime. we need no mephistopheles to accomplish these marvels every day! thus silently thinking, i walked by the side of the world-wise woman; and when she next spoke, i looked up and saw that we were at the monk's well, where i had first seen lilian gazing into heaven! .. mrs. poyntz had, as we walked, placed her hand on my arm, and, turning abruptly from the path into the glade, i found myself standing by her side in the scene where a new sense of being had first disclosed to my sight the hues with which love, the passionate beautifier, turns into pur- ple and gold the gray of the common air. thus, when romance has ended in sorrow, and the beautiful fades from the landscape, the trite and positive forms of life, banished for a time, reappear, and deepen our mournful remembrance of the glory they replace. and the woman of the world, finding how little i was induced to respond to her when she had talked of myself, began to speak in her habitual, clear, ringing accents of her own social schemes and devices: “i shall miss you when you are gone, allen fenwick, for though, dur- ing the last year or so, all actual intercourse between us has ceased, yet my interest in you gave some occupation to my thoughts when i sat alone -- having lost my main object of ambition in settling my daughter, and having no longer any one in the house with whom i could talk of the future, or for whom i could form a project. it is so wearisome to count the changes which pass within us, that we take interest in the changes that pass without. poyntz still has his weather-glass; i have no longer my jane.” "i cannot linger with you on this spot,” said i, impatiently, turning back into the path ; she followed, treading over fallen leaves. and unheeding my interruption, she thus continued her hard talk: sred “but i am not sick of my mind as you seem to be of yours; i am only somewhat tired of the little cage in which, since it has been alone, it ruffles its plumes against the flimsy wires that confine it from wider space. i shall take up my home for a time with the new-married couple: they want me. ashleigh sumner has come into parliament. he means to attend regularly and work hard, but he does not like jane to go into the world by herself, and he wishes her to go into the world, because he " a strange story. . . wants a wife to display his wealth for the improvement of his position. in ashleigh sumner's house, i shall have ample scope for my energies, such as they are. i have a curiosity to see the few that perch on the wheels of the state, and say, . it is we who move the wheels !! it will amuse me to learn if i can maintain in a capital the authority i have won in a country town; if not, i can but return to my small principality. wherever i live i must sway, not serve. if i succeed — as i ought, for in jane's beauty and ashleigh's fortune i have materials for the woof of ambition, wanting which here, i fall asleep over my knitting - if i succeed, there will be enough to occupy the rest of my life. ashleigh sumner must be a power; the power will be represented and enjoyed by my child, and created and maintained by me! allen fenwick, do as i do. be world with the world, and it will only be in moments of spleen and chagrin that you will sigh to think that the heart may be void when the mind is full. confess, you envy me while you listen.”... not so; all that to you seems so great, appears to me so small ! nature alone is always grand, in her terrors as well as her charms. the world for you; nature for me. farewell!” i “nature,” said mrs. poyntz, compassionately. “poor allen fenwick! nature indeed - intellectual suicide! nay, shake hands, then, if for the last time." so we shook hands and parted, where the wicket-gate and the stone stairs separated my blighted fairyland from the common thoroughfare. t chapter lxviii. that night, as i was employed in collecting the books and manu- scripts which i proposed to take with me, including my long-suspended physiological work, and such standard authorities as i might want to con- sult or refer to in the portions yet incompleted, my servant entered to inform me, in answer to the inquiries i had sent him to make, that miss brabazon bad peacefully breathed her last an hour before. well! my pardon had perhaps soothed her last moments; but how unavailing her death-bed repentance to undo the wrong she had done! i turned from that thought, and glancing at the work into which i had thrown all my learning, methodized into system with all my art, i recalled the pity which mrs. poyntz had expressed for my meditated waste of mind. the tone of superiority which this incarnation of common sense . a strange -story. ens may only understand the things that are above the height of the heavens." i paused at those words, and, closing the sacred volume, fell into deep, unquiet thought. chapter lxix. · i had hoped that the voyage would have had some beneficial effect .upon lilian; but no effect, good or bad, was perceptible, except, per- haps, a deeper silence, a gentler calm. she loved to sit on the deck when the nights were fair, and the stars mirrored on the deep. and once, thus, as i stood beside her, bending over the rail of the vessel, and gazing on the long wake of light which the moon made amidst the dark- ness of an ocean to which no. shore could be seen, i said to myself, where is my track of light through the measureless future? would that i could believe as i did when a child! woe is me, that all the reasonings i take from my knowledge should lead me away from the com- fort which the peasant who mourns finds in faith! why should riddles so dark have been thrust upon me? --- me, no fond child of fancy; me, sober pupil of schools the severest. yet what marvel - the strangest my senses haye witnessed or feigned in the fraud they have palmed on me — is greater than that by which a simple affection, that all men pro- fess to have known, has changed the courses of life prearranged by my hopes and confirmed by my judgment? how.calmly before i knew love i have anatomized its mechanism, as the tyro who dissects the web-work of tissues and nerves in the dead! lo ! it lives, lives in me; and, in liv- ing, escapes from my scalpel and mocks all my knowledge. can love be reduced to the realm of the senses ? no! what nun is more barred by her grate from the realm of the senses than my bride by her solemn affliction ? is love, then, the union of kindred, harmonious minds? no! my beloved one sits by my side, and i guess not her thoughts, and my mind is to her a sealed fountain. yet i love her more-oh ineffably more! for the doom which destroys the two causes philosophy assigns to love - in the form in the mind! how can i now, in my vain physiology, say what is love - what is not ? is it love which must tell me that man has a soul, and that in soul will be found the solution of problems never to be solved in body or mind alone ?" my self-questionings halted here, as lilian's hand touched my shoul- der. she had risen from her seat, and come to me. a strange story. “ are not the stars very far from earth ? " she said. “ very far.” “ are they seen for the first time to-night ?” “they were seen, i presume, as we see them, by the fathers of all hue man races!” “yet close below us they shine reflected in the waters; and yet, see, wave flows on wave before we can count it!” “lilian, by what sympathy do you read and answer my thought ?" her reply was incoherent and meaningless. if a gleam of intelligence had mysteriously lighted my heart to her view, it was gone. but draw- ing her nearer toward me, my eye long followed wistfully the path of light dividing the darkness on either hand, till it closed in the sloping horizon. chapter lxx. i. the voyage is over. at the seaport at which we landed i found a letter from faber. my instructions had reached him in time to effect the purchase on which his descriptions had fixed my desire. the stock, the implements of husbandry, the furniture of the house were included in the purchase. all was prepared for my arrival, and i hastened from the then miserable village, which may some day rise into one of the might- iest capitals of the world, to my lodge in the wilderness. it was the burst of the australian spring, which commences in our autumn month of october. the air was loaded with the perfume of the acacias. amidst the glades of the open forest land, or climbing the craggy banks of winding silvery creeks,* creepers and flowers of daz- zling hue contrasted the olive-green of the surrounding foliage. the exhilarating effect of the climate in that season heightens the charm of the strange scenery. in the brilliancy of the sky, in the lightness of the atmosphere, the sense of life is wondrously quickened. with the very breath the adventurer draws in from the racy air, he feels as if inhaling bope. we have reached our home — we are settled in it; the early unfamil- iar impressions are worn away. we have learned to dispense with much * creek is the name given by australian colonists to precarious watercourses and tributary streams. a. strange story. that we at first missed, and are reconciled to much that at first disap- pointed or displeased. the house is built but of logs -- the late proprietor had commenced, upon a rising ground, a mile distant, a more imposing edifice of stone; but it is not half finished. this log-house is commodious, and much has been done, within and without, to conceal or adorn its primitive rudeness. it is of irregular, picturesque form, with verandas round three sides of it, to which the grape- vine has been trained, with glossy leaves that clamber up to the gable roof. there is a large garden in front, in which many english fruit-trees have been set, and grow fast among the plants of the tropics, and the orange-trees of southern europe. beyond, stretch undulous pastures, studded with flocks and herds; to the left, soar up, in long range, the many-colored hills; to the right, meanders a creek, belted by feathery trees; and on its opposite bank a forest opens, through frequent breaks, into park-like glades and alleys. the territory of which i so suddenly find myself the lord is vast, even for a colonial capitalist. · it had been originally purchased as “a special survey," comprising twenty thousand acres, with the privilege of pasture over forty thousand more. in very little of this land, though it includes some of the most fertile districts in the known world, has cultivation been even commenced. at the time i entered into possession, even sheep were barely profitable; labor was scarce and costly. regarded as a speculation, i could not wonder that my predecessor fled in fear from his domain. had i invested the bulk of my capital in this lordly purchase i should have deemed my- self a ruined man; but a villa near london, with a hundred acres, would have cost me as much to buy, and thrice as much to keep up. i could afford the investment i had made. i found a scotch bailiff already on the estate, and i was contented to escape from rural occupations, to which i brought no experience, by making it worth his while to serve me with zeal. two domestics of my own, and two who had been for many years with mrs. ashleigh, had accompanied us; they remained faithful, and seemed contented. so the clock-work of our mere household arrange- ments went on much the same as in our native homes. lilian was not subjected to the ordinary privations and discomforts that await the wife even of the wealthy emigrant. alas! would she have heeded them if she had been ? the change of scene wrought a decided change for the better in her health and spirits, but not such as implied a dawn of reviving reason. but her countenance was now more rarely overcast. its usual aspect was glad with a soft mysterious smile. she would murmur snatches of songs, that were partly borrowed from english poets, partly gliding away into a strange story. what seemed spontaneous additions of her own – wanting intelligible meaning, but never melody nor rhyme. strange, that memory and imi- tation — the two earliest parents of all inventive knowledge -- should still be so active, and judgment— the after faculty, that combines the rest into purpose and method — be annulled. julius faber i see continually, though his residence is a few miles dis- tant. he is sanguine as to lilian's ultimate recovery; and, to my amaze- ment and to my envy, he has contrived, by some art which i cannot at- tain, to establish between her and himself intelligible communion. she comprehends his questions, when mine, though the simplest, seem to her in unknown language; and he construes into sense her words, that to me are meaningless riddles. - “i was right,” he said to me one day, leaving her seated in the garden beside her quiet, patient mother, and joining me where i lay — listless yet fretful — under the shadeless gum-trees, gazing not on the flocks and fields that i could call my own, but on the far mountain range, from which the arch of the horizon seemed to spring; —"i was right,” said the great physician; “this is reason suspended, not reason lost. your wife will re- cover; but —” " but what?” “give me your arm as i walk homeward, and i will tell you the con- clusion to which i have come.” i rose, the old man leaned on me,' and we went down the valley, along the craggy ridges of the winding creek. the woodland on the opposite bank was vocal with the chirp, and croak, and chatter of australian birds - all mirthful, all songless, save that sweetest of warblers, which some early irreverent emigrant degraded to the name of magpie, but whose note is sweeter than the nightingale's, and trills through the lucent air with a distinct ecstatic melody of joy that dominates all the discords ;-so ravishing the sense that, while it sings, the ear scarcely heeds the scream of the parrots. chapter lxxi. “you may remember,” said julius faber, “sir humphrey davy's eloquent description of the effect produced on him by the inhalation of nitrous oxide. he states that he began to lose the perception of exter- nal things; trains of vivid visible images rapidly passed through his mind, a strange story. and were connected with words in such a manner 'as to produce percep- tions perfectly novel. “i existed,' he says, in a world of newly-connected and newly-modified ideas. when he recovered, he exclaimed : nothing exists but thoughts; the universe is composed of impressions, ideas, pleas- ures, and pains!' "now observe, that thus, a cultivator of positive science, endowed with one of the healthiest of human brains, is, by the inhalation of a gas, ab- stracted from all external life — enters into a new world, which consists of images he himself creates, and animates so vividly — that, on waking, he resolves the universe itself into thoughts.” " well,” said i, “but what inference do you draw from that voluntary experiment, applicable to the malady of which you bid me hope the cure ?" . “ simply this: that the effect produced on a healthful brain by the nitrous oxide may be produced also by moral causes operating on the blood, or on the nerves. there is a degree of mental excitement in which ideas are more vivid than sensations, and then the world of external things gives way to the world within the brain.* but this, though a sus- pension of that reason which comprehends' accuracy of judgment, is no more a permanent aberration of reason than was sir humphrey davy's visionary ecstasies under the influence of the gas. the difference between the two states of suspension is that of time, and it is but an affair of time with our beloved patient. yet prepare yourself. i fear that the mind will not recover without some critical malady of the body." .. " critical! but not dangerous ? - say not dangerous. i can endure the pause of her reason ; i could not endure the void in the universe if her life were to fade from the earth.” “ poor friend! would not you yourself rather lose life than reason ?” » " - yes! but we men are taught to set cheap value on our own lives; we do not estimate at the same mean rate the lives of those we love. did we do so, humanity would lose its virtues.” “ what then! love teaches that there is something of nobler value than mere mind; yet surely it cannot be the mere body. what is it, if not that continuance of being which your philosophy declines to acknowl- edge — namely, soul? if you fear so painfully that your lilian should die, is it not that you fear to lose her forever ? ” “oh, cease, cease,” i cried, impatiently. “i cannot now argue on metaphysics. what is it that you anticipate of harm to her life? her health has been stronger ever since her affliction. she never seems to * see, on the theory elaborated from this principle, dr. hibbert's interesting and valuable work on the philosophy of apparitions. a strange story. know ailment now. do you not perceive that her cheek has a more hardy bloom, her frame a more rounded symmetry, than when you saw her in england ? ” “ unquestionably. her physical forces have been silently recruiting themselves in the dreams which half lull, half amuse her imagination. imagination, that faculty, the most glorious which is bestowed on the human mind, because it is the faculty which enables thought to create, is of all others the most exhausting to life when unduly stimulated, and con- sciously reasoning on its own creations. i think it probable that, had this sorrow not befallen you, you would have known a sorrow yet graver you would have long survived your lilian. as it is now, when she recovers, her whole organization, physical and mental, will have under- gone a beneficent change. but i repeat my prediction; some severe malady of the body will precede the restoration of the mind; and it is my hope that the present suspense or aberration of the more wearing powers of the mind fit the body to endure and surmount the physical crisis. i remember a case, within my own experience, in many respects similar to this, but in other respects it was less hopeful. i was consulted by a young student of the frailest physical conformation, of great mental energies, and consumed by an intense ambition. he was reading for university honors. he would not listen to me when i entreated him to rest his mind. i thought that he was certain to obtain the distinction for which he toiled, and equally certain to die a few months after obtaining it. he falsified both my deductions. he so overworked himself that, on the day of exam- ination, his nerves were agitated, his memory failed him; he passed, not without a certain credit, but fell far short of the rank among his fellow- competitors to which he aspired. here, then, the irritated mind acted on the disappointed heart, and raised a new train of emotions. he was first visited by spectral illusions; then he sank into a state in which the exter- nal world seemed quite blotted-out. he heeded nothing that was said to him; seemed to see nothing that was placed before his eyes; in a word, sen- sations became dormant, ideas preconceived usurped their place, and those ideas gave him.pleasure. he believed that his genius was recognized, and lived among its supposed creations, enjoying an imaginary fame. so it went on for two years. during that period his frail form became robust and vigorous. at the end of that time he was seizēd with a fever, which would have swept him in three days to the grave had it occurred when i was first called in to attend him. he conquered the fever, and, in recover- ing, acquired the full possession of the intellectual faculties so long suspended. when i last saw him, many years afterward, he was in perfect health, and the object of his young ambition was realized; the body had supported the mind — he had achieved distinction. now what had so, for a time, laid a strange story. this strong intellect into visionary sleep? the most agonizing of human emotions in a noble spirit --- shame! what has so stricken down your lilian ? you have told me the story; shame! -- the shame of a nature preeminently pure. but observe, that in his case as in hers, the shock in- flicted does not produce a succession of painful illusions; but, on the con- trary, in both, the illusions are generally pleasing. had the illusions been painful, the body would have suffered — the patient died. why did a painful shock produce pleasing illusions ? because, no matter how, a shock on the nerves may originate, if it affects the reason, it does but make more vivid than impressions from actual external objects the ideas previously most cherished. such ideas in the young student were ideas of earthly fame; such ideas in the young maiden are ideas of angel com- forters and heavenly edens. you miss her mind on the earth, and, while we speak, it is in paradise.” “much that you say, my friend, is authorized by the speculations of great writers, with whom i am not unfamiliar; but in none of those writers, nor in your encouraging words, do i find a solution for much that has no precedents in my experience – much, indeed, that has analogies which i have ever before despised as old wives' fables. i have bared to · your searching eye the weird mysteries of my life. how do you account for facts which you cannot resolve into illusions ? for the influence which that strange being, margrave, exercised over lilian's mind or fancy, so that for a time her love for me was as dormant as is her reason how : so that he could draw her — her whose nature you admit to be singularly pure and modest -- from her mother's home? the magic wand! the trance into which that wand threw margrave himself; the apparition which it conjured up in my own quiet chamber, when my mind was with- : out a care and my health without a flaw. how account for all this — as you endeavored and perhaps successfully, to account for all my impres- sions of the visions in the museum, of the luminous haunting shadow in its earlier apparitions, when my fancy was heated, my heart tormented, and, it might be, even the physical forces of this strong frame disor- dered ?" . “ allen," said the old pathologist,“ here we approach phenomena which few physicians have dared to examine. honor to those who, like our bold contemporary, elliotson, have braved scoff and sacrificed dross in seeking to extract what is practical in uses, what can be tested by experi- ment from those exceptional phenomena on which magic sought to found a philosophy, and to which philosophy tracks the origin of magic.” “what! do i understand you? is it you, julius faber, who attach faith to the wonders ascribed to animal magnetism and electro-biology, or subscribe to the doctrines which their practitioners teach ?” * a strange story. "i have not examined into those doctrines, nor seen with my own eyes the wonders recorded, upon evidence too respectable, nevertheless, to permit me peremptorily to deny what i have not witnessed.* but wher- ever i look through the history of mankind in all ages and all races, i find a concurrence in certain beliefs which seems to countenance the theory that there is in some peculiar and rare temperaments a power over forms of animated organization, with which they establish some un- * what faber here says is expressed with more authority by one of the most accomplished metaphysicians of our time (sir w. hamilton): "somnambulism is a phenomenon still more astonishing (than dreaming). in this singular state a person performs a regular series of rational actions, and those frequently of the most difficult and delicate nature; and what is still more marvel- lous, with a talent to which he could make no pretensions when awake. (cr. an- cillon, essais philos. ii. .) his memory and reminiscencé supply him with recollections of words and things which, perhaps, never were at his disposal in the ordinary state — he speaks more fluently a more refined language. and if we are to credit what the evidence on which it rests hardly allows us to disbelieve, he has not only perception of things through other channels than the common organs of sense, but the sphere of his cognition is amplified to an extent far beyond the limits to which sensible perception is confined. this subject is one of the most perplex- ing in the whole compass of philosophy; for, on the one hand, the phenomena are so remarkable that they cannot be believed, and yet, on the other, they are of so unambiguous and palpable a character, and the witnesses to their reality are so numerous, so intelligent, and so high above every suspicion of deceit, that it is equally impossible to deny credit to what is attested by such ample and unexcep- tional evidence." - sir w. hamilton's lectures on metaphysics and logic, vol. ii. p. . this perplexity, in which the distinguished philosopher leaves the judgment so equally balanced that it finds it impossible to believe, and yet impossible to disbe- lieve, forms the right state of mind in which a candid thinker should come to the examination of those more extraordinary phenomena which he has not himself vet witnessed, but the fair inquiry into which may be tendered to him by persons above the imputation of quackery and fraud. müller, who is not the least determined, as he is certainly one of the most distinguished disbelievers of mesmeric phenomena, does not appear to have witnessed, or at least to have carefully examined them, or he would, perhaps, have seen that even the more extraordinary of those phe- nomena confirm, rather than contradict, his own general theories, and may be ex- plained by the sympathies one sense has with another — “the laws of reflection through the medium of the brain.” (physiology of senses, p. .) and again by the maxim " that the mental principle, or cause of the mental phenomena, can- not be confined to the brain, but that it exists in a latent state in every part of the organism." (ib. p. .) the “perve power," contended for by mr. bain, also, may suggest a rational solution of much that has seemed incredible to those physi- ologists who have not condescended to sift the genuine phenomena of mesmerism from the imposture to which, in all ages, the phenomena exhibited by what may be called the ecstatic temperament, have been applied. a strange story. accountable affinity; and even, though much more rarely, a power over inanimate matter. you are familiar with the theory of descartes, that those particles of the blood which penetrate to the brain do not only serve to nourish and sustain its substance, but to produce there a certain very subtle aura, or rather a flame very vivid and pure that obtains the name of the animal spirits ;'* and at the close of his great fragment · upon man, he asserts that this flame is of no other nature than all the fires which are in inanimate bodies.'t this notion does but forestall the more recent doctrine that electricity is more or less in all, or nearly all, known matter. now, whether, in the electric fluid or some other fluid akin to it of which we know still less, thus equally pervading all matter, there may be a certain magnetic property more active, more operative upon sympathy in some human constitutions than in others, and which can account for the mysterious power i have spoken of, is a query i might suggest, but not an opinion i would hazard. for an opinion i must have that basis of experience or authority which i do not need when i submit a query to the experience and authority of others. still the supposition conveyed in the query is so far worthy of notice that the ecstatic temper- ament (in which phrase i comprehend all constitutional mystics) is pecu- liarly sensitive to electric atmospherie influences. this is a fact which most medical observers will have remarked in the range of their practice. accordingly i was prepared to find mr. hare townshend, in his inter- esting work,f state that he himself was of the electric temperament,' sparks flying from his hair when combed in the dark, etc. that accom- plished writer, whose veracity no one would impugn, affirms tható between this electrical endowment and whatever mesmeric properties he might possess, there is a remarkable relationship and parallelism. whatever state of the atmosphere tends to accumulate and insulate electricity in the body, promotes equally (says mr. townshend) the power and facility with which i influence others mesmerically.' what mr. townshend thus observes in himself, american physicians and professors of chemistry de- pose to have observed in those modern magicians, the mediums of (so called) .spirit manifestation.' they state that all such mediums are of the electric temperament, thus everywhere found allied with the ecstatic, and their power varies in proportion as the state of the atmosphere serves to depress or augment the electricity stored in themselves. here, then, in the midst of vagrant phenomena, either too hastily dismissed as alto- gether the tricks of fraudful imposture, or too credulously accepted as * descartes, l'homme, vol. iv. p. . cousins's edition. | ibid. p. . | facts on mesmerism. a strange story. supernatural portents — here, at least, in one generalized fact, we may, perhaps, find a starting-point, from which inductive experiment may arrive soon, or late, at a rational theory. but, however the power of which we are speaking (a power accorded to special physical tempera- ment) may or may not be accounted for by some patient student of nature, i am persuaded that it is in that power we are to seek for what- ever is not wholly imposture in the attributes assigned to magie or witch- craft. it is well said by a writer who has gone into the depth of these subjects, with the research of a scholar and the science of a pathologist, that if magic had exclusively reposed on credulity and falsehood, its reign would never have endured so long. but that its art took its origin in singular phenomena, proper to certain affections of the nerves, or manifested in the conditions of sleep. these phenomena, the principle of which was at first unknown, served to root faith in magic, and often abused even enlightened minds. the enchanters and magicians arrived, by divers practices, at the faculty of provoking in other brains a deter- mined order of dreams, of engendering hallucinations of all kinds, of in- ducing fits of hypnotism, trance, mania, during which the persons so affected imagined that they saw, heard, touched supernatural beings, con- versed with them, proved their influences, assisted at prodigies of which · magic proclaimed itself to possess the secret. the public, the enchanters, and the enchanted, were equally dupes.'* accepting this explanation, unintelligible to no physician of a practice so lengthened as mine has been, i draw from it the corollary that as these phenomena are exhibited only by certain special affections, to which only certain special constitutions are susceptible, so not in any superior faculties of intellect, or of spiritual endowment, but in peculiar physical temperaments, often strangely dis- ordered, the power of the sorcerer in affecting the imagination of others, is to be sought. in the native tribes of australasia the elders are instructed in the arts of this so-called sorcery, but only in a very few constitutions does instruction avail to produce effects in which the savages recognize the powers of a sorcerer; it is so with the obi of the negroes. the fascination of obi is an unquestionable fact, but the obi man cannot be trained by for- mal lessons; he is born a fascinator, as a poet is born a poet. it is so with the laplanders, of whom tornæus reports that of those instructed in the magical art only a few are capable of it. some,' he says,'' are natu- rally magicians. and this fact is emphatically insisted upon by the mystics of our own middle ages, who state that a man must be born a magician, in other words, that the gift is constitutional, though developed * la magie et l'astrologie dans l'antiquité et au moyen-age. par. l. f. alfred maury, membre de l'institut. p. . a strange story. by practice and art. now, that this gift and its practice should princi- pally obtain in imperfect states of civilization, and fade into insignificance in the busy social enlightenment of cities, may be accounted for by refer- ence to the known influences of imagination. in the cruder states of social life not only is imagination more frequently predominant over all other faculties, but it has not the healthful vents which the intellectual compe- tition of cities and civilization affords. the man who in a savage tribe, or in the dark feudal ages, would be a magician, is in our century a poet, an orator, a daring speculator, an inventive philosopher. in other words, his imagination is drawn to pursuits congenial to those amongst whom it works. it is the tendency of all intellect to follow the direction of the public opinion amidst which it is trained. where a magician is held in reverence or awe, there will be more practitioners of magic than where a magician is despised as an impostor or shut up as a lunatic. in scandi- navia, before the introduction of christianity, all tradition records the wonderful powers of the vala, or witch, who was then held in reverence and honor. christianity was introduced, and the early church denounced the vala as the instrument of satan, and from that moment down dropped the majestic prophetess into a miserable and execrated old hag !” “ the ideas you broach,” said i, musingly,“ have at moments crossed me, though i have shrunk from reducing them to a theory which is but one of pure hypothesis. but this magic, after all, then, you would place in the imagination of the operator, acting on the imagination of those whom it affects. here, at least, i can follow you, to a certain extent, for here we get back into the legitimate realm of physiology.”. “ and possibly,” said faber, " we may find hints to guide us to useful examination, if not to complete solution, of problems that, once demon- strated, may lead to discoveries of infinite value — hints, i say, in two writers of widely opposite genius — van helmont and bacon. van helmont, of all the mediæval mystics, is, in spite of his many extravagant whims, the one whose intellect is the most suggestive to the disciplined reasoners of our day. he supposed that the faculty which he calls phan- tasy, and which we familiarly call imagination, is invested with the power of creating for itself ideas independent of the senses, each idea clothed in a form fabricated by the imagination, and becoming an operative entity. this notion is so far favored by modern physiologists, that lincke reports a case where the eye itself was extirpated; yet the extirpation was followed by the appearance of luminous figures before the orbit. and again, a woman, stone blind, complained of luminous images, with pale colors before her eyes.' abercrombie mentions the case “ of a lady quite blind, her eyes being also disorganized and sunk, who never walked out without seeing a little old woman' in a red cloak who seemed to walk a strange story. before her.'* your favorite authority, the illustrious müller, who was himself in the habit of seeing different images in the field of vision when he lay quietly down to sleep,' asserts that these images are not merely presented to the fancy, but that even the images of dreams are really seen,' and that any one may satisfy himself of this by accustoming himself regularly to open his eyes when waking after a dream, the images seen in the dream are then sometimes visible, and can be observed to disappear gradually.' he confirms this statement, not only by the result of his own experience, but by the observations made by spinoza, and the yet higher authority of aristotle, who accounts for spectral appearance as the internal action of the sense of vision.t and this opinion is favored by sir david brewster, whose experience leads him to suggest that the objects of mental contemplation may be seen as distinctly as external objects, and will occupy the same local position in the axis of vision as if they had been formed by the agency of light. be this as it may, one fact remains, that images can be seen even by the blind as distinctly and as vividly as you and i now see the stream below our feet and the opossums at play upon yonder boughs. let us come next to some remarkable suggestions of lord bacon. in his natural history, treating of the force of the im- agination, and the help it receives • by one man working by another,' he cites an instance he had witnessed of a kind of juggler, who could tell a person what card he thought of. he mentioned this to a pretended learned man, curious in such things,' and this sage said to him, “ it is not the knowledge of the man's thought, for that is proper to god, but the enforcing of a thought upon him, and binding his imagination by a stronger, so that he could think of no other card. you see this sage an- ticipated our modern electro-biologists! and the learned man then shrewdly asked lord bacon, 'did the juggler tell the card to the man himself who had thought of it, or bid another tell it?' he bade another tell it,' answered lord bacon. 'i thought so,' returned his learned ac- quaintance, 'for the juggler himself could not have put on so strong an imagination.; but by telling the card to the other, who believed the jug- gler was some strange man who could do strange things, – that other man caught a strong imagination.'! the whole story is worth reading, be- * she had no illusions when within doors. — abercrombie on the intellectual powers, p. . ( th edition.) † müller, physiology of the senses, bayley's translation, pp. - , and elsewhere. mr. bain, in his thoughtful and suggestive work on the senses and intellect, makes very powerful use of these statements in support of his proposition, which faber advances in other words, namely, “the return of the nervous currents exactly on their old track in revived sensations." | perhaps it is for the reason suggested in the text, namely, that the magician a strange story. cause lord bacon evidently thinks it conveys a guess worth examining. and lord bacon, were he now living, would be the man to solve the mysteries that branch out of mesmerism or (so called) spiritual manifesta- tion, for he would not pretend to despise their phenomena for fear of hurting his reputation for good sense. bacon then goes on to state that there are three ways to fortify the imagination. first, authority derived from belief in an art and in the man who exercises it; secondly, means to quicken and corroborate the imagination; thirdly, means to repeat and refresh it.' for the second and the third he refers to the practices of magic; and proceeds afterwards to state on what things imagination has most force; “ upon things that have the lightest and easiest motions, and, therefore, above all, upon the spirits of men, and, in them, on such affec- tions as move lightest — in love, in fear, in irresolution. and, adds bacon, earnestly, in a very different spirit from that which dictates to the sages of our time, the philosophy of rejecting without trial that which belongs to the marvellous, and whatsoever is of this kind, should be thoroughly inquired into.' and this great founder or renovator of the sober inductive system of investigation, even so far leaves it a mat- ter of speculative inquiry whether imagination may not be so powerful that it can actually operate upon a plant, that he says, “this likewise should be made upon plants, and that diligently, as if you should tell a man that such a tree would die this year, and will him, at these and these times, to go unto it and see how it thriveth. i presume that no philoso- pher has followed such recommendations; had some great philosopher done so, possibly we should by this time know all the secrets of what is popularly called witchcraft.” . and as faber here paused there came a strange laugh from the fan- tastic she oak-tree overhanging the stream - a wild, impish laugh. “ pooh! it is but the great kingfisher, the laughing bird of the aus- tralian bush,” said julius faber, amused at my start of superstitious alarm. we walked on for some minutes in musing silence, and the rude log hut in which my wise companion had his home came in view ; the flocks grazing on undulous pastures, the kine drinking at a watercourse fringed requires the interposition of a third imagination between his own and that of the consulting believer, that any learned adept in (so called) magic will invariably refuse to exhibit without the presence of a third person. hence the author of dogme et rituel de la haute magie, printed at paris, – — a book less re- markable for its learning than for the earnest belief of a scholar of our own day in the reality of the art of which he records the history - insists much on the necessity of rigidly observing le ternaire, in the number of persons who assist in an enchanter's experiments. a strange story. . by the slender gum-trees; and a few fields, laboriously won from the lux- uriant grass-land, rippling with the wave of corn. i halted, and said, “ rest here for a few moments, till i gather up the conclusions to which your speculative reasoning seems to invite me.” we sat down on a rocky crag, half mantled by luxuriant creepers with vermilion buds. * from the guesses,” said i,“ which you have drawn from the erudition of others and your own ingenious and reflective inductions, i collect this solution of the mysteries, by which the experience i gain from my senses confounds all the dogmas approved by my judgment. to the rational conjectures by which, when we first conversed on the marvels that per- plexed me, you ascribed to my imagination, predisposed by mental ex- citement, physical fatigue, or derangement, and a concurrence of singular events tending to strengthen such predisposition, -- the phantasmal im- pressions produced on my senses; to these conjectures you now add a new one, more startling and less admitted by sober physiologists. you. conceive it possible that persons endowed with a rare and peculiar tem- perament can so operate on the imagination, and, through the imagina- tion, on the senses of others, as to exceed even the powers ascribed to the practitioners of mesmerism and electro-biology, and give a certain foun- dation of truth to the old tales of magic and witchcraft. you imply that margrave may be a person thus gifted, and hence the influence he unques- tionably exercised over lilian, and over, perhaps, less innocent agents, charmed or impelled by his will. and not discarding, as i own i should have been originally induced to do, the queries or suggestions adventured by bacon in his discursive speculations on nature, to witthat there be many things, some of them inanimate, that operate upon the spirits of men by secret sympathy and antipathy,' and to which bacon gave the quaint name of imaginants; ' so even that wand, of which i have described to you the magic-like effects, may have had properties communicated to it by which it performs the work of the magician, as mesmerists pretend that some substance mesmerized by them can act on the patient as sensi- bly as if it were the mesmerizer himself. do i state your suppositions correctly ?” “ yes; always remembering that they are only suppositions, and vol- unteered with the utmost diffidence. but since, thus seated in the early wilderness, we permit ourselves the indulgence of child-like guess, may it not be possible, apart from the doubtful question whether a man can com- municate to an inanimate material substance a power to act upon the mind or imagination of another man — may it not, i say, be possible that such a substance may contain in itself such a virtue or property potent over certain constitutions, though not over all. for instance, it is in my astra a strange story. experience that the common hazel-wood will strongly affect some nervous temperaments, though without effect on others. i remember a young girl who, having taken up a hazel stick freshly cut, could not relax her hold of it; and when it was wrenched away from her by force was irresisti- bly attracted towards it, repossessed herself of it, and, after holding it a few minutes, was cast into a kind of trance in which she beheld phantas- mal visions. mentioning this curious case, which i supposed unique, to a learned brother of our profession, he told me that he had known other instances of the effect of the hazel upon nervous temperaments in persons of both sexes. possibly it was some such peculiar property in the hazel that made it the wood selected for the old divining rod. again, we know that the bay-tree or laurel was dedicated to the oracular pythian apollo. now wherever, in the old world, we find that the learning of the priests enabled them to exhibit exceptional phenomena which imposed upon pop- ular credulity, there was a something or other which it is worth a philoso- pher's while to explore. and, accordingly, i always suspected that there was in the laurel some property favorable to ecstatic vision in highly im- pressionable temperaments. my suspicion, a few years ago, was justified by the experience of a german physician who had under his care a cat- aleptic or ecstatic patient, and who assured me that he found nothing in this patient so stimulated the state of sleep-waking,' or so disposed that state to indulge in the hallucinations of prevision, as the berry of the laurel.* well, we do not know what this wand that produced a seem- ingly magical effect upon you was really composed of. you did not notice the metal employed in the wire which you say communicated a thrill to the sensitive nerves in the palm of the hand. you cannot tell how far it might have been the vehicle of some fluid force in nature. or still more probably, whether the pores of your hand insensibly imbibed, and communicated to the brain, some of those powerful narcotics from which the boudhists and the arabs make unguents that induce visionary hallucinations, and in which substances undetected in the hollow of the wand, or the handle of the wand itself, might be steeped.t one thing we do know, namely, that amongst the ancients, and especially in the east, the construction of wands for magical purposes was no common- place mechanical craft, but a special and secret art appropriated to men who cultivated with assiduity all that was then known of natural science in order to extract from it agencies that might appear supernatural. pos- * i may add that dr. kerner instances the effect of laurel-berries on the seeress of prevorst, corresponding with that asserted by julius faber in the text. † see for these unguents the work of m. maury before quoted, la magie et l'astrologie, &c., p. . a strange story. sibly, then, the rods or wands of the east, and of which scripture makes mention, were framed upon some principles of which we in our day are very naturally ignorant, since we do not ransack science for the same secrets. and thus in the selection or preparation of the material em- ployed, mainly consisted, whatever may be referable to natural philosoph- ical causes, in the antique science of rhabdomancy, or divination and enchantment by wandse. the staff or wand of which you tell me, was, you say, made of iron or steel and tipped with crystal. possibly iron and crystal do really contain some properties not hitherto scientifically ana- lyzed, and only, indeed, potential over exceptional temperaments, which may account for the fact that iron and crystal have been favorites with all professed mystics, ancient and modern. the delphic pythoness had her iron tripod, mesmer, his iron bed; and many persons, indisputably honest, cannot gaze long upon a ball of crystal but what they begin to see visions. i suspect that a philosophical cause for such seemingly preter- natural effects of crystal and iron will be found in connection with the extreme impressionability to changes in temperature which is the charac- teristic both of crystal and iron. but if these materials do contain certain powers over exceptional constitutions, we do not arrive at a supernat- ural, but at a natural phenomenon.” “ still,” said i, “ even granting that your explanatory hypothesis hit or approach the truth. --- still what a terrible power you would assign to man's will over men's resignation." “ man's will,” answered faber, “has over men's deeds and reason, habitual and daily, power infinitely greater, and, when uncounterbalanced, infinitely more dangerous than that which superstition exaggerates in magic. man's will moves a war that decimates a race, and leaves behind it calamities little less dire than slaughter. man's will frames, but it also corrupts laws; exalts, but also demoralizes opinion ; sets the world mad with fanaticism, as often as it curbs the heart's fierce instincts by the wis- dom of brotherlike mercy. you revolt at the exceptional, limited sway over some two or three individuals, which the arts of a sorcerer (if sor- cerer there be) can effect; and yet, at the very moment in which you were perplexed and appalled by such sway, or by your reluctant belief in it, your will was devising an engine to unsettle the reason and wither the hopes of millions !” “ my will! what engine ?” “a book conceived by your intellect, adorned by your learning, and directed by your will to steal from the minds of other men their persuasion of the soul's everlasting hereafter.” i bowed my head, and felt myself grow pale. “ and if we accept bacon's theory of “secret sympathy,' or the plainer a strange story. -physiological maxim that there must be in the imagination, morbidly im- pressed by the will of another, some trains of idea in affinity with such influence and preinclined to receive it, no magician could warp you to evil, except through thoughts that themselves went astray. grant that the margrave, who still haunts your mind, did really, by some occult, sin- ister magnetism, guide the madman to murder - did influence the servant woman's vulgar desire to pry into the secrets of her ill-fated master - or the old maid's covetous wish and envious. malignity — what could this awful magician do more than any commonplace guilty adviser, to a mind predisposed to accept the advice ?” “you forget one example which destroys your argument - the spell which this mysterious fascinator could cast upon a creature so pure from all guilt as lilian!” “ will you forgive me if i answer frankly?” “ speak.” “ your lilian is spotless and pure, as you deem her, and the fascination, therefore, attempts no lure through a sinful desire; it blends with its at- traction no sentiment of affection untrue to yourself. nay, it is justice to your lilian, and may be a melancholy comfort to you, to state my con- viction, based on the answers my questions have drawn from her, that you were never more cherished by her love than when that love seemed to ? forsake you. her imagination impressed her with the illusion that through your love for her you were threatened with a great peril. what seemed the levity of her desertion was the devotion of self-sacrifice. and, in her strange, dream-led wanderings, do not think that she was conscious of the fascination you impute to this mysterious margrave; in her belief, it was your own guardian angel that-guided her steps, and her pilgrimage was ordained to disarm the foe that menaced you, and dissolve the spell that divided her life from yours! but had she not long before this wilfully prepared herself to be so deceived ? had not her fancies been delib- erately encouraged to dwell remote from the duties we are placed on the earth to perform ? the loftiest faculties in our nature are those that de- mand the finest poise, not to fall from their height and crush all the walls that they crown. with exquisite beauty of illustration, hume says of the dreamers of bright fancies,” “that they may be compared to those angels whom the scriptures represent as covering their eyes with their wings.' had you been, like my nephew, a wrestler for bread with the wilderness, what helpmate would your lilian have been to you? how often would you have cried out in justifiable anger, i, son of adam, am on earth, not in paradise. oh, that my eve were at home on my hearth, and not in the skies with the seraphs!' no margrave, i venture to say, could have suspended the healthful affections, or charmed into danger the wide-awake a strange story. soul, of my amy. when she rocks in its cradle the babe, the young pa- rents intrusts to her heed — when she calls the kine to the milking, the chicks to their corn—when she but fits through my room to renew the flowers on the stand, or range in neat order the books that i read — no spell on her fancy could lead her a step from the range of her provident cares! at day, she is contented to be on the commonplace earth; at evening, she and i knock together at the one door of heaven, which opes to thanksgiving and prayer, and thanksgiving and prayer send us back, calm and hopeful, to the tasks that each morrow renews.” i looked up as the old man paused, and in the limpid clearness of the australian atmosphere, i saw the child he thus praised, standing by the garden-gate, looking towards us, and, though still distant, she seemed near. i felt wroth with her. my heart so cherished my harmless, de- fenceless lilian, that i was jealous of the praise taken from her to be be- stowed on another. “ each of us," said i, coldly, " has his or her own nature, and the uses harmonious to that nature's idiosyncrasy. the world, i grant, would get on very ill, if women were not, more or less, actively useful and quietly good, like your amy. but the world would lose standards that exalt and refine, if no woman were permitted to gain, through the indulgence of fancy, thoughts exquisite as those which my lilian conceived, while thought, alas, flowed out of fancy. i do not wound you by citing your amy as a type of the mediocre. i do not claim for lilian the rank we accord to the type of genius. but both are alike to such types in this: namely, that the uses of mediocrity are for every-day life, and the uses of genius, amidst a thousand mistakes which mediocrity never com- mits, are to suggest and perpetuate ideas which raise the standard of the mediocre to a nobler level. there would be fewer amys in life, if there were no lilian! as there would be far fewer good men of sense, if there were no erring dreamer of genius!” “you say well, allen fenwick. and who should be so indulgent to the vagaries of the imagination as the philosophers who taught your youth to doubt every thing in the maker's plan of creation which could not be mathematically proved. the human mind,' said luther, is like a drunkard on horseback; prop it on one side, and it falls on the other.' so the man who is much too enlightened to believe in a peasant's religion, is always sure to set up some inane superstition of his own. open bio- graphical volumes wherever you please, and the man who has no faith in religion, is a man who has faith in a nightmare. see that type of the ele- gant sceptics — lord herbert, of cherbury. he is writing a book against revelation - he asks a sign from heaven to tell him if his book is ap- proved by his maker, and the man who cannot believe in the miracles a strange story, performed by his saviour, gravely tells us of a miracle vouchsafed to him- self. take the hardest and strongest intellect which the hardest and strongest race of mankind ever schooled and accomplished. see the greatest of great men, the great julius cæsar ! publicly he asserts in the senate, that the immortality of the soul is a vain chimera. he professes the creed which roman voluptuaries deduced from epicurus, and denies all divine interference in the affairs of the earth. a great authority for the materialists — they have none greater! they can show on their side no intellect equal to cæsar's! and yet this magnificent free-thinker, re- jecting a soul and a deity, habitually, on entering his chariot, muttered a charm; crawled on his knees up the steps of a temple to propitiate the abstraction called · nemesis ;' and did not cross the rubicon till he had consulted the omens. what does all this prove ? - a very simple truth. man has some instincts with the brutes; for instance, hunger and sexual love. man has one instinct peculiar to himself, found universally (or with alleged exceptions in savage states so rare, that they do not affect the general law) * — an instinct of an invisible power without this earth, and of a life beyond the grave, which that power vouchsafes to his spirit. but the best of us cannot violate an instinct with impunity. resist hunger as long as you can, and, rather than die of starvation, your instinct will make you a cannibal ; resist love when youth and nature impel to it, and what pathologist does not track one broad path into madness or crime? so with the noblest instinct of all. reject the internal conviction by which the grandest thinkers have sanctioned the hope of the humblest christian, and you are servile at once to some faith inconceivably more hard to believe. the imagination will not be withheld from its yearning for vistas beyond the walls of the flesh and the span of the present hour. philosophy itself, in rejecting the healthful creeds by which man finds his safeguards in sober prayer, and his guide through the wilderness of visionary doubt, invents systems compared to * it seems extremely doubtful whether the very few instances in which it has been asserted that a savage race has been found without recognition of a deity and a future state would bear searching examination. it is set forth, for example, in most of the popular works on australia, that the australian savages have no no- tion of a deity or a hereafter, that they only worship a devil, or evil spirit. this assumption, though made more peremptorily, and by a greater number of writers than any similar one regarding other savages, is, altogether erroneous, and has no other foundation than the ignorance of the writers. the australian savages rec- ognize a deity, but he is too august for a name in their own language; in eng- lish they call him the great master - an expression synonymous with “ the great lord.” they believe in a hereafter of eternal joy, and place it amongst the stars. - see strzelecki's physical description of new south wales. * a strange story. · which the mysteries of theology are simple. suppose any man of strong, plain understanding had never heard of a deity like him whom we christians adore, then ask this man whom he can the better comprehend in his mind, and accept as a natural faith, namely, the simple christianity of your shepherd or the pantheism of spinoza ? place before an accom- plished critic (who comes with a perfectly unprejudiced mind, to either inquiry), first, the arguments of david hume against the gospel miracles, and then the metaphysical crotchets of david hume himself. this sub- tle philosopher, not content, with berkeley, to get rid of matter — not content, with condillac, to get rid of spirit or mind — proceeds to a mir- acle greater than any his maker has yet vouchsafed to reveal. he, being then alive, and in the act of writing, gets rid of himself altogether. nay, he confesses he cannot reason with any one who is stupid enough to think he has a self. his words are: what we call a mind is nothing but a heap or collection of different perceptions or objects united together by certain relations, and supposed, though falsely, to be endowed with per- fect simplicity and identity. if any one upon serious and candid reflec- tion thinks he has a different notion of himself, i must confess i can rea- son with him no longer. certainly i would rather believe all the ghost stories upon record, than believe that i am not even a ghost, distinct and apart from the perceptions conveyed to me, no matter how — just as i am distinct and apart from the furniture in my room, no matter whether i found it there or whether i bought it. if some old cosmogonist asked you to believe that the primitive cause of the solar system was not to be traced to a divine intelligence, but to a nebulosity, originally so diffuse that its existence can with difficulty be conceived, and that the origin of the pres- ent system of organized beings equally dispensed with the agency of a creative mind, and could be referred to molecules formed in the water by the power of attraction, till, by modifications of cellular tissue in the gradual lapse of ages, one monad became an oyster and another a man - would you not say this cosmogony could scarcely have misled the hu- man understanding even in the earliest dawn of speculative inquiry ? yet such are the hypotheses to which the desire to philosophize away that simple proposition of a divine first cause, which every child can com- prehend, led two of the greatest geniuses and profoundest reasoners of modern times, la place and la marck.* certainly, the more you ex- amine those arch phantasmagorists, the philosophers, who would leave nothing in the universe but their own delusions, the more your intellectual pride may be humbled. the wildest phenomena which have startled you, are not more extravagant than the grave explanations which intellectual * see the observations on la place and la marck in the introduction to kirby's bridgewater treatise. a strange story. presumption adventures on the elements of our own organism and the re- lations between the world of matter and the world of ideas.” here our conversation stopped, for amy had now joined us, and, look- ing up to reply, i saw the child's innocent face between me and the fur- rowed brow of the old man. - chapter lxxii. i turned back alone. the sun was reddening the summits of the distant mountain range, but dark clouds, that portended rain, were gath- ering behind my way and deepening the shadows in many a chasm and hollow which volcanic fires had wrought on the surface of uplands undu- lating like diluvian billows fixed into stone in the midst of their stormy swell. i wandered on, and away from the beaten track, absorbed in thought. could i acknowledge in julius faber's conjectures any bases for logical ratiocination ? or were they not the ingenious fancies of that empirical philosophy of sentiment by which the aged, in the decline of severer faculties, sometimes assimilate their theories to the hazy romance of youth? i can well conceive that the story i tell will be regarded by most as a wild and fantastic fable; that by some it may be considered a vehicle for guesses at various riddles of nature, without or within us, which are free to the license of romance, though forbidden to the caution of science. but i-i- know unmistakably my own identity, my own positive place in a substantial universe. and beyond that knowledge what do i know? · yet had faber no ground for his startling parallels between the chimeras of superstition and the alternatives to faith volun- teered by the metaphysical speculations of knowledge. on the theorems of condillac, i, in common with numberless contemporaneous students (for, in my youth, condillac held sway in the schools, as now, driven forth from the schools, his opinions float loose through the talk and the scribble of men of the world, who perhaps never opened his page) — on the the- orems of condillac i had built up a system of thought designed to im- mure the swathed form of material philosophy from all rays and all sounds of a world not material, as the walls of some blind mausoleum shut out from the mummy within, the whisper of winds, and the gleam- ing of stars. and did not those very theorems, when carried out to their strict and a strange story. completing results by the close reasonings of hume, resolve my own liv- ing identity, the one conscious indivisible me, into a bundle of memories derived from the senses, which had bubbled and duped my experience, and reduce into a phantom, as spectral as that of the luminous shadow, the whole solid frame of creation ? while pondering these questions, the storm, whose forewarnings i had neglected to heed, burst forth with all the suddenness peculiar to the australian climes. the rains descended like the rushing of floods. in the beds of watercourses, which, at noon, seemed dried up and exhausted, the torrents began to swell and to rave; the gray crags around them were animated into living waterfalls. i looked round, and the landscape was as changed as a scene that replaces a scene on a player's stage. i was aware that i had wandered far from my home, and i knew not what direction i should take to regain it. close at hand, and raised above the torrents that now rushed in many a gully and tributary creek around and before me, the mouth of a deep cave, overgrown with bushes and creep- ing flowers tossed wildly to and fro between the rain from above and the spray of cascades below, offered a shelter from the storm. i entered; scaring innumerable flocks of bats striking against me, blinded by the glare of the lightning that followed me into the cavern; and hastening to resettle themselves on the pendants of stalactites, or the jagged but- tresses of primeval wall. from time to time the lightning darted into the gloom and lingered among its shadows, and i saw, by the flash, that the floors on which i stood were strewed with strange bones, some among them the fossilized relics of races destroyed by the deluge. the rain continued for more than two hours with unabated violence; then it ceased almost as suddenly as it had come on. and the lustrous moon of australia burst from the clouds, shining, bright as an english dawn into the hollows of the cave. and then simultaneously arose all the choral songs of the wilderness - creatures whose voices are heard at night, the loud whirr of the locusts, the musical boom of the bull-frog, the cuckoo note of the morepork, and, mournful amidst all those merrier sounds, the hoot of the owl, through the wizard she oaks and the pale green of the gum-trees. i stepped forth into the open air and gazed, first instinctively on the heavens, next, with more heedful eye, upon the earth. the nature of the soil bore the evidence of volcanic fires long since extinguished. just before my feet the rays fell full upon a bright yellow streak in the midst of a block of quartz, half embedded in the soft, moist soil. in the midst of all the solemn thoughts and the intense sorrows which weighed upon heart and mind, that yellow gleam startled the mind into a direction re- mote from philosophy, quickened the heart to a beat that chimed with no a strange story. household affections. involuntarily i stooped ; impulsively i struck the block with the hatchet, or tomahawk, i carried habitually about me, for the purpose of marking the trees that i wished to clear from the waste of my broad domain. the quartz was shattered by the stroke, and left disburied its glittering treasure. my first glance had not deceived me. i, vain seeker after knowledge; had, at least, discovered gold. i took up the bright metal; - gold! i paused; i looked round; the land that just before had seemed to me so worthless, took the value of ophir. its fea- tures had before been as unknown to me as the mountains of the moon, and now my memory became wonderfully quickened. i recalled the rough map of my possessions, the first careless ride-round their bounda- ries. yes, the land on which i stood — for miles, to the spur of those further mountains-- the land was mine, and, beneath its surface, there was gold! i closed my eyes; for some moments, visions of boundless wealth and of the royal power which such wealth could command, swept athwart my brain. but my heart rapidly settled back to its real treas- ure. “what matters,” i sighed, “ all this dross ? could ophir itself buy back to my lilian's smile one ray of the light which gave glory to the grass and splendor to the flower ?!" so muttering, i fung the gold into the torrent that raged below, and went on through the moonlight, sorrowing silently; only thankful for the discovery that had quickened my reminiscence of the landmarks by which to steer my way through the wilderness. the night was half gone, for even when i had gained the familiar track through the pastures, the swell of the many winding creeks that now intersected the way, obliged me often to retrace my steps; to find, some- times, the bridge of a felled tree which had been providently left unre- moved over the now foaming torrent and, more than once, to swim across the current, in which swimmers less strong or less practised would have been dashed down the falls, where loose logs and torn trees went clatter- ing and whirled: for i was in danger of life. a band of the savage na- tives were stealthily creeping on my track — the natives in those parts were not then so much awed by the white man as now. a boomerang* had whirred by me, burying itself among the herbage close before my feet. i had turned, sought to find and to face these dastardly foes; they contrived to elude me. but when i moved on, my ear, sharpened by danger, heard them moving too in my rear. once only three hideous forms suddenly faced me, springing up from a thicket, all tangled with honey-suckles and creepers of blue and vermilion. i walked steadily up to them; they halted a moment or so in suspense, but perhaps they were * a missile weapon peculiar to the australian savages. a strange story. scared by my stature or awed by my aspect; and the unfamiliar, though human, had terror for them, as the unfamiliar, although but a shadow, had had terror for me. they vanished, and as quickly as if they had crept into the earth. at length the air brought me the soft perfume of my well-known aca- cias, and my house rose before me, amidst english flowers and english fruit-trees, under the effulgent australian moon. just as i was opening the little gate which gave access from the pasture-land into the garden, a figure in white rose up from under light feathery boughs, and a hand was laid on my arm. i started; but my surprise was changed into fear when i saw the pale face and sweet eyes of lilian. “ heavens! you here ! you ! at this hour! lilian, what is this ?” . “ hush !” she whispered, clinging to me; “hush! do not tell; no one knows. i missed you when the storm came on; i have missed you ever since. others went in search of you and came back. i could not sleep, but the rest are sleeping, so i stole down to watch for you. brother, brother, if any harm chanced to you, even the angels could not comfort me; all would be dark, dark! but you are safe, safe, safe !” and she clung to me yet closer. “ ah, lilian, lilian, your vision in the hour i first beheld you was indeed prophetic — each has need of the other.' do you remember?" “ softly, softly,” she said, “ let me think !” she stood quietly by my side, looking up into the sky, with all its numberless stars, and its soli- tary moon now sinking slow behind the verge of the forest. it comes back to me,” she murmured, softly—“the long ago - the sweet long ago !” i held my breath to listen. “ there — there !” she resumed, pointing to the heavens; “ do you see? you are there, and my father, and — and ---- oh, that terrible face — those serpent eyes -- the dead man's skull! save me — save me!” she bowed her head upon my bosom, and i led her gently back toward the house. as we gained the door which she had left open, the starlight shining across the shadowy gloom within, she lifted her face from my breast and cast a hurried, fearful look round the shining garden, then into the dim recess beyond the threshold. " it is there-- there!- the shadow that lured me on, whispering that if i followed it i should join my beloved. false, dreadful shadow! it will fade soon, fade into the grinning, horrible skull. brother, brother, where is my allen? is he dead — dead -- or is it i who am dead to him?" i could but clasp her again to my breast, and seek to mantle her shive a strange story, ering form with my dripping garments, all the while my eyes, following the direction which hers had taken, dwelt on the walls of the nook within the threshold, half lost in darkness, half white in starlight. and there i too beheld the haunting luminous shadow, the spectral effigies of the mysterious being whose very existence in the flesh was a riddle unsolved by my reason. distinctly i saw the shadow, but its light was far paler, its outline far more vague, than when i had beheld it before. i took courage, as i felt lilian's heart beating against my own. i advancedi crossed the threshold — the shadow was gone. - “ there is no shadow here no phantom to daunt thee, my life's life,” said i, bending over lilian. “ it has touched me in passing; i feel it cold, cold, cold !” she an- swered, faintly. i bore her to her room, placed her on her bed, struck a light, watched over her. at dawn there was a change in her face, and from that time health gradually left her; strength slowly, slowly, yet to me perceptibly, ebbed from her life away. chapter lxxiii. months upon months have rolled away since the night in which lil- lian had watched for my coming amidst the chilling airs under the haunt- ing moon. i have said that from the date of that night her health began gradually to fail, but in her mind there was evidently at work some slow revolution. her visionary abstractions were less frequent; when they occurred, less prolonged. there was no longer in her soft face that celes- tial serenity which spoke her content in her dreams; but often a look of anxiety and trouble. she was even more silent than before; but when she did speak there were now evident some struggling gleams of memory. she startled us at times by a distinct allusion to the events and scenes of her early childhood. more than once she spoke of commonplace inci- dents and mere acquaintances at l- at last she seemed to recognize mrs. ashleigh as her mother; but me, as allen fenwick, her betrothed, her bridegroom, no! once or twice she spoke to me of her beloved as of a stranger to myself, and asked me not to deceive her— should she ever see him again? there was one change in this new phase of her state that wounded me to the quick. she had always previously seemed to welcome my presence; now there were hours, sometimes days together, a strange story. in which my presence was evidently painful to her. she would become agitated when i stole into her room - make signs to me to leave her - grow yet more disturbed if i did not immediately obey, and become calm again when i was gone. faber sought constantly to sustain my courage, and administer to my hopes by reminding me of the prediction he had hazarded — namely, that through some malady to the frame the reason would be ultimately restored. he said, “ observet her mind was first roused from its slumber by the affectionate, unconquered impulse of her heart. you were absent - the storm alarmed her — she missed you — feared for you. the love within her, not alienated, though latent, drew her thoughts into definite human tracks. and thus the words that you tell me she uttered when you ap- peared before her, were words of love, stricken, though as yet irregularly, as the winds strike the harp-strings, from chords of awakened memory. the same unwonted excitement, together with lengthened exposure to the cold night air, will account for the shock to her physical system, and the language and waste of strength by which it has been suc- ceeded.” " ay, and the shadow that we both saw within the threshold. what of that?” “ are there no records on evidence, which most physicians of very ex- tended practice will perhaps allow that their experience more or less tends to confirm — no records of the singular coincidences between indi- vidual impressions which are produced by sympathy? now, whether you or your lilian were first haunted by this shadow, i know not. per- haps before it appeared to you in the wizard's chamber, it had appeared to her by the monk's well. perhaps as it came to you in the prison, so it lured her through the solitudes, associating its illusory guidance with dreams of you. and again, when she saw it within your threshold, your phantasy, so abruptly invoked, made you see with the eyes of your lilian! does this doctrine of sympathy, though by that very mystery you two loved each other at first — though, without it, love at first sight were in itself an incredible miracle — does, i say, this doctrine of sympathy seem to you inadmissible? then nothing is left for us but to revolve the con- jecture i before threw out ? have certain organizations like that of mar- grave, the power to impress, through space, the imaginations of those over whom they have forced a control ? i know not. but if they have, it is not supernatural ; it is but one of those operations in nature so rare and exceptional, and of which testimony and evidence are so imperfect and so liable to superstitious illusions, that they have not yet been traced; as, if truthful, no doubt they can be, by the patient genius of science, to one a strange story. of those secondary causes by which the creator ordains that nature shall act on man.” · by degrees i became dissatisfied with my conversations with faber. i yearned for explanations; all guesses but bewildered me more. in his family, with one exception, i found no congenial association. his nephew seemed to me an ordinary specimen of a very trite human nature - a young man of limited ideas, fair moral tendencies, going mechanically right where not tempted to wrong. the same desire of gain which had urged him to gamble and speculate when thrown in societies rife with such examples, led him, now in the bush, to healthful, industrious, persevering labor. spes fovet agricolas, says the poet; the same hope which entices the fish to the hook impels the plough of the husbandman. the young farmer's young wife was somewhat superior to him; she had more refine- ment of taste, more culture of mind, but, living in his life, she was inevi- table levelled to his ends and pursuits. and, next to the babe in the cra- dle, no object seemed to her so important as that of guarding the sheep from the scab and the dingoes. i was amazed to see how quietly a man whose mind was so stored by life and by books as that of julius faber - a man who had loved the clash of conflicting intellects, and acquired the rewards of fame-could accommodate himself to the cabined range of his kinsfolk's half-civilized existence, take interest in their trivial talk, find varying excitement in the monotonous household of a peasant-like farmer. i could not help saying as much to him once. “my friend,” replied the old man, “believe me, that the happiest art of intellect, however lofty, is that which enables it to be cheerfully at home with the real !" the only one of the family in which faber was domesticated in whom i found an interest, to whose talk i could listen without fatigue, was the child amy. simple though she was in language, patient of labor as the most laborious, i recognized in her a quiet nobleness of sentiment which exalted above the commonplace the acts of her commonplace life. she had no precocious intellect, no enthusiastic fancies, but she had an exquisite activity of heart. it was her heart that animated her sense of duty, and made duty a sweetness and a joy. she felt to the core the kindness of those around her; exaggerated, with the warmth of her gratitude, the claims which that kindness imposed. even for the blessing of life, which she shared with all creation, she felt as if singled out by the undeserved favor of the creator, and thus was filled with religion because she was filled with love. my interest in this child was increased and deepened by my saddened and not wholly unremorseful remembrance of the night on which her sobs had pierced my ear — the night from which i secretly dated the mysterious agencies that had wrenched from their proper field and career a strange story. both my mind and my life. but a gentler interest endeared her to my thoughts in the pleasure that lilian felt in her visits, in the affectionate intercourse that sprang up between the afflicted sufferer and the harmless infant. often, when we failed to comprehend some meaning which lil- ian evidently wished to convey to us — we, her mother and her husband - she was understood with as much ease by amy, the unlettered child, as by faber, the gray-haired thinker. “how is it — how is it?" i asked impatiently and jealously, of faber. “ love is said to interpret where wisdom fails, and you yourself talk of the marvels which sympathy may effect between lover and beloved; yet when, for days together, i cannot succeed in unravelling lilian's wish or her thought — and her own mother is equally in fault - you or amy, closeted alone with her for five minutes, comprehend and are compre- hended ?" “ allen," answered faber, “ amy and i believe in spirit, and she, in whom mind is dormant but spirit awake, feels in that belief a sympathy which she has not, in that respect, with yourself nor even with her mother. you seek only through your mind to conjecture hers. her mother has sense clear enough where habitual experience can guide it, but that sense is confused and forsakes her when forced from the regular pathway in which it has been accustomed to tread. amy and i through soul guess at soul, and though mostly contented with earth, we can both rise at times into heaven. we pray.” “ alas!” said i, half mournfully, half angrily; " when you thus speak of mind as distinct from soul, it was only in that vision which you bid me regard as the illusion of a fancy stimulated by chemical vapors, pro- ducing on the brain an effect similar to that of opium, or the inhalation of the oxide gas, that i have ever seen the silver spark of the soul dis- tinct from the light of the mind. and holding, as i do, that all intellect- ual ideas are derived from the experiences of the body, whether i accept the theory of locke, or that of condillac, or that into which their prop- ositions reached their final development in the wonderful subtlety of hume, i cannot detect the immaterial spirit in the material substance, much less follow its escape from the organic matter in which the principle of thought ceases with the principle of life. when the metaphysician, contending for the immortality of the thinking faculty, analyzes mind, his analysis comprehends the mind of the brute, nay of the insect, as well as that of man. take reid's definition of mind, as the most com- prehensive which i can at the moment remember. by the mind of a man we understand that in him which thinks, remembers, reasons, and wills.' but this definition only distinguishes the mind of man from that of the brute by superiority in the same attributes, and not by attributes a strange story. • . denied to the brute. an animal, even an insect, thinks, remembers, rea- sons, and wills.* few naturalists will now support the doctrine that all the mental operations of brute or insect are to be exclusively referred to instincts; and even if they do, the word instinct is a very vague word — loose and large enough to cover an abyss which our knowledge has not sounded. and, indeed, in proportion as an animal, like the dog, becomes cultivated by intercourse, his instincts become weaker, and his ideas, formed by experience (namely, his mind), more developed, often to the conquest of the instincts themselves. hence, with his usual candor, dr. abercrombie, in contending that every thing mental ceases to exist after death, when we know that every thing corporeal continues to exist, is a gratuitous assymption contrary to every rule of philosophical in- quiry,' — feels compelled, by his reasoning, to admit the probability of a future life even to the lower animals. his words are: • to this mode of reasoning it has been objected that it would go to establish an immaterial principle in the lower animals, which in them exhibits many of the phe- nomena of mind. i have only to answer, be it so. there are in the lower animals many of the phenomena of mind, and with regard to these we also contend that they are entirely distinct from any thing we know of the properties of matter, which is all that we mean, or can mean, by being immaterial.'+ am i then driven to admit that if man's mind is immaterial and imperishable, so also is that of the ape and the ant?” "i own," said faber, with his peculiar smile, arch and genial, “ that if i were compelled to make that admission, it would not shock my pride. i do not presume to set any limit to the goodness of the creator; and should be as humbly pleased as the indian, if in i- yonder sky, my faithful dog should bear me company.' *" are intelligence and instinct, thus differing in their relative proportion in man as compared with all other animals, yet the same in kind and manner of ope- ration in both ? to this question we must give at once an affirmative answer. the expression of cuvier, regarding the faculty of reasoning in lower animals, leur intelligence exécute des opérations du même genre,' is true in its full sense. we can in no manner define reason so as to exclude acts which are at every mo- ment present to our observation, and which we find in many instances to contra- vene the natural instincts of the species. the demeanor and acts of the dog in reference to his master, or the various uses to which he is put by man, are as strictly logical as those we witness in the ordinary transactions of life.” – (sir henry holland, chapters on mental physiology, p. .) the whole of the chap- ter on instincts and habits in this work should be read in connection with the passages just quoted. the work itself, at once cautious and suggestive, is not one of the least obligations which philosophy and religion alike owe to the lucubrations of english medical men. * abercrombie's intellectual powers, p. . fifteenth edition. a strange story. you are too familiar with the works of that titan in wisdom and error, descartes, not to recollect the interesting correspondence between the urbane philosopher and our combative countryman, henry more,* on this very subject; in which certainly more has the best of it when des- cartes insists on reducing what he calls the soul (l'âme) of brutes into the same kind of machines as man constructs from inorganized matter. the learning, indeed, lavished on the insoluble question involved in the psy- chology of the inferior animals, is a proof at least of the all-inquisitive, redundant spirit of man.t we have almost a literature in itself devoted to endeavors to interpret the language of brutes. $ dupont de nemours has discovered that dogs talk in vowels, using only two consonants, g, z, when they are angry. he asserts that cats employ the same vowels as dogs; but their language is more affluent in consonants, including m, n, b, r, v, f. how many laborious efforts have been made to define and to construe the song of the nightingale! one version of that song by beckstein, the naturalist, published in , i remember to have seen. and i heard a lady, gifted with a singularly charming voice, chaunt the mysterious vowels with so exquisite a pathos, that one could not refuse to believe her when she declared that she fully comprehended the bird's meaning, and gave to the nightingale's warble the tender interpretation of her own woman's heart. “but leaving all such discussions to their proper place amongst the curiosities of literature, i come in earnest to the question you have so earnestly raised, and to me the distinction between man and the lower animals in reference to a spiritual nature designed for a future existence, and the mental operations whose uses are bounded to an existence on earth, seems ineffaceably clear. whether ideas or even perceptions be innate or all formed by experience is a speculation for metaphysicians, which, so far as affects the question of an immaterial principle, i am quite willing to lay aside. i can well understand that a materialist may admit innate ideas in man, as he must admit them in the instinct of brutes, tracing them to hereditary predispositions. on the other hand, we know that the most devout believers in our spiritual nature have insisted, with locke, in denying any idea, even of the deity, to be innate. * euvres de descartes, vol. x. p. , et seq. (cousin's edition). † m. tissot, the distinguished professor of philosophy at dijon, in his recent work, la vie dans l'homme, p. , gives a long and illustrious list of philosophers who assign a rational soul (âme) to the inferior animals, though he truly adds. " that they have not always the courage of their opinion.” some idea of the extent of research and imagination bestowed on this subject may be gleaned from the sprightly work of pierquin de gembloux, idiomologie des animaux, published at paris, . a strange story. “but here comes my argument. i care not how ideas are formed, the material point is how are the capacities to receive ideas formed. the ideas may all come from experience, but the capacity to receive the ideas must be inherent. i take the word capacity as a good plain english word, rather than the more technical word “receptivity, employed by kant. and by capacity i mean the passive power* to receive ideas, whether in man or in any living thing by which ideas are received. a • man and an elephant is each formed with capacities to receive ideas suited to the several places in the universe held by, each. “ the more i look through nature the more i find that on all varieties of organized life is carefully bestowed the capacity to receive the im- pressions, be they called perceptions or ideas, which are adapted to the uses each creature is intended to derive from them. i find, then, that man alone is endowed with the capacity to receive the ideas of a god, of soul, of worship, of a hereafter. i see no trace of such a capacity in the inferior races; nor, however their intelligence may be refined by cul- ture, is such capacity ever apparent in them. “but wherever capacities to receive impressions are sufficiently general in any given species of creature, to be called universal to that species, and yet not given to another species, then, from all analogy throughout nature, those capacities are surely designed by providence for the distinct use and conservation of the species to which they are given. " it is no answer to me to say that the inherent capacities thus bestowed on man do not suffice in themselves to make him form right notions of a deity or a hereafter; because it is plainly the design of providence that man must learn to correct and improve all his notions by his own study and observation. he must build a hut before he can build a parthenon; he must believe with the savage or the heathen before he can believe with the philosopher or christian. in a word, in all his capacities, man has only given to him, not the immediate knowledge of the perfect, but the means to strive toward the perfect. and thus one of the most accomplished of modern reasoners, to whose lectures you must have listened with delight in your college days, says well : “accordingly, the sciences always stud- ied with keenest interest are those in a state of progress and uncertainty; absolute certainty and absolute completion would be the paralysis of any study, and the last worst calamity that could befall man, as he is at present constituted, would be that full and final possession of speculative truth which he now vainly anticipates as the consummation of his intel- lectual happiness.* * faculty is active power; capacity is passive power.” -- sir w. hamilton, lec- tures on metaphysics and logic, vol. i. p. . * sir w. hamilton's lectures, vol. i. p. . * . a strange story. “ well, then, in all those capacities for the reception of impressions from external nature, which are given to man and not to the brutes, i see the evidence of man's soul. i can understand why the inferior ani- mal has no capacity to receive the idea of a deity and of worship- simply because the inferior animal, even if graciously admitted to a future life, may not therein preserve the sense of its identity. i can understand even why that sympathy with each other which we men possess, and which constitutes the great virtue we emphatically call humanity, is not pos- sessed by the lesser animals (or, at least, in a very rare and exceptional degree), even where they live in communities, like beavers, or bees, or ants; because men are destined to meet, to know, and to love each other in the life to come, and the bond between the brutes ceases here. “now the more, then, we examine the inherent capacities bestowed distinctly and solely on man, the more they seem to distinguish him from the other races by their comprehension of objects beyond his life upon this earth. “man alone,' says müller, can conceive abstract notions :' and it is in abstract notions — such as time, space, matter, spirit, light, form, quantity, essence — that man grounds not only all philosophy, all science, but all that practically improves one generation for the benefit of the next. and why?. because all these abstract notions unconsciously lead the mind away from the material into the immaterial; from the present into the future. but if man ceases to exist when he disappears in the grave, you must be compelled to affirm that he is the only creature in existence whom nature or providence has condescended to deceive and cheat by capacities for which there are no available objects. how nobly and how truly has chalmers said: what inference shall we draw from this remarkable law in nature that there is nothing waste and noth- ing meaningless in the feelings and faculties wherewith living creatures are endowed ? for each desire there is a counterpart object: for each faculty there is room and opportunity for exercise either in the present or in the coming futurity. now, but for the doctrine of immortality, man would be an exception to this law — he would stand forth as an anomaly in nature, with aspirations in his heart for which the universe had no antitype to offer, with capacities of understanding and thought that never were to be followed by objects of corresponding greatness through the whole history of his being ! - * * * * “. with the inferior animals there is a certain squareness of adjustment, if we may so term it, between each desire and its correspondent gratifica- tion. the one is evenly met by the other, and there is a fulness and definiteness of enjoyment up to the capacity of enjoyment. not so with man, who, both from the vastness of his propensities and the vastness of a strange story. his powers, feels himself chained and beset in a field too narrow for him. he alone labors under the discomfort of an incongruity between his cir- cumstances and his powers, and unless there be new circumstances await- ing him in a more advanced state of being, he, the noblest of nature's products here, would turn out to be the greatest of her failures.' * “ this, then, i take to be the proof of soul in man, not that he has a mind — because, as you justly say, inferior animals have that, though in a lesser degree — but because he has the capacities to comprehend, as soon as he is capable of any abstract ideas whatsoever, the very truths not needed for self-conservation on earth, and therefore not given to yonder ox and opossum, namely, the nature of deity - soul — hereafter. and in the recognition of these truths the human society that excels the so- ciety of beavers, bees, and ants by perpetual and progressive improve- ment on the notions inherited from its progenitors, rests its basis. thus, in fact, this world is benefited for men by their belief in the next, while the society of brutes remains age after age the same. neither the bee nor the beaver has, in all probability, improved since the deluge. “but inseparable from the conviction of these truths is the impulse of prayer and worship. it does not touch my argument when a philosopher of the school of bolingbroke or lucretius says, “that the origin of prayer is in man's ignorance of the phenomena of nature. that it is fear or ignorance which, when rocked the mountains, or when groaned the ground, taught the weak to bend, the proud to pray,' my answer is — the brutes are much more forcibly impressed by natural phenomena than man is; the bird and the beast know before you and i do when the mountain will rock and the ground groan, and their instinct leads them to shelter; but it does not lead them to prayer. if my theory be right that soul is to be sought not in the question whether mental ideas be in- nate or formed by experience, by the senses, by association or habit, but in the inherent capacity to receive ideas, — the capacity bestowed on man alone, to be impressed by nature herself with the idea of a power supe- rior to nature, with which power he can establish commune, is a proof that to man alone the maker has made nature itself proclaim his exist- ence — that to man alone the deity vouchsafes the communion with himself which comes from prayer.” . . “even were this so," said i, “is not the creator omniscient? if all-wise, all-fore-seeing ? if all-fore-seeing, all-preordaining? can the prayer of his creature alter the ways of his will ?” * chalmers, bridgewater treatise, vol. ii. pp. , . perhaps i should observe that here and elsewhere, in the dialogues between faber and fenwick, it has been generally thought better to substitute the words of the author quoted for the mere outline or purport of the quotation which memory afforded to the interlocutor. a strange story. “ f'or an answer to that question,” returned faber, " which is so often asked by the clever men of the world, i ought to refer you to the skilled theologians who have so triumphantly carried the reasoner over that ford of doubt which is crossed every day by the infant. but as we have not their books in the wilderness, i am contented to draw my reply as a nec- essary and logical sequence from the propositions i have sought to ground in the plain observation of nature. i can only guess at the deity's om- niscience, or his modes of enforcing his power, by the observation of his general laws, i know of none so general as the impulse which bids men pray — which makes nature so act that all the phenomena of nature we can conceive, however startling and inexperienced, do not make the brute pray; but there is not a trouble that can happen to man but what his impulse is to pray — always provided, indeed, that he is not a philosopher. i say not this in scorn of the philosopher, to whose wildest guess our ob- ligations are infinite, but simply because for all which is impulsive to man, there is a reason in nature which no philosophy can explain away. i do not, then, bewilder myself by seeking to bind and limit the omnis cience of the deity to my finite ideas. i content myself with believing that, somehow or other, he has made it quite compatible with his om- niscience that man should obey the impulse that leads him to believe that, in addressing a deity, he is addressing a tender, compassionate, be- nignant father, and in that obedience shall obtain beneficial results. if that impulse be an illusion, then we must say that heaven governs the earth by a lie ; and that it is impossible, because, reasoning by analogy, all nature is truthful - that is, nature gives to no species instincts or im- pulses which are not of service to it. should i not be a shallow physi- cian if, where i find in the human organization a principle or a property so general that i must believe it normal to the healthful conditions of that organization, i should refuse to admit that nature intended it for use ? reasoning by all analogy, must i not say the habitual neglect of its use must more or less injure the harmonious well-being of the whole human system ? i could have much to add upon the point in dispute, by which the creed implied in your question would inthral the divine mer- cy by the necessities of its divine wisdom, and substitute for a benignant deity a relentless fate. but here i should exceed my province. i am no theologian. enough for me that in all affliction, all perplexity, an im- pulse that i obey as an instinct moves me at once to prayer. do i find by experience that the prayer is heard, that the affliction is removed, the doubt is solved ? that, indeed, would be presumptuous to say. but it is not presumptuous to think that by the efficacy of prayer my heart be- comes more fortified against the sorrow, and my reason more serene amidst the doubt.” a strange story. i listened, and ceased to argue. i felt as if in that solitude, and in the pause of my wonted mental occupations, my intellect was growing lan- guid, and its old weapons rusting in disuse. my pride took alarm. i had so from my boyhood cherished the idea of fame, and so glorified the search after knowledge, that i recoiled in dismay from the thought that i had relinquished knowledge, and cut myself off from fame. i resolved to resume my once favorite philosophical pursuits, reëxamine and com- plete the work to which i had once committed my hopes of renown; and, simultaneously, a restless desire seized me to communicate, though but at brief intervals, with other minds than those immediately within my reach — minds fresh from the old world, and reviving the memories of its vivid civilization. emigrants frequently passed my doors, but i had hitherto shrunk from tendering the hospitalities so universally ac- corded in the colony. i could not endure to expose to such rough strangers my lilian's mournful affliction, and that thought was not less intolerable to mrs. ashleigh. i now hastily constructed a log building a few hundred yards from the house, and near the main track taken by travellers through the spacious pastures. i transported to this building my books and scientific instruments. in an upper story i placed my telescopes and lenses, my crucibles and retorts. i renewed my chemical experiments — i sought to invigorate my mind by other branches of science which i had hitherto less cultured – meditated new theories on light and color - collected specimens in natural history — subjected animalcules to my microscope - geological fossils to my hammer. with -all these quickened oceupations of thought, i strove to distract myself from sorrow, and strengthen my reason against the illusions of my fantasy. the luminous shadow was not seen again on my wall, and the thought of margrave himself was banished. in this building i passed many hours of each day, more and more ear- nestly plunging my thoughts into the depths of abstract study, as lilian's unaccountable dislike to my presence became more and more decided. when i thus ceased to think that my life cheered and comforted hers, my heart's occupation was gone. i had annexed to the apartment re- served for myself in this log-hut a couple of spare rooms, in which i could accommodate passing strangers. i learned to look forward to their com- ing with interest, and to see them depart with regret; yet, for the most part, they were of the ordinary class of colonial adventurers: bankrupt tradesmen, unlucky farmers, forlorn mechanics, hordes of unskilled labor- ers, now and then a briefless barrister, or a sporting collegian who had lost his all on the derby. one day, however, a young man of educa tion and manners that unmistakably proclaimed the cultured gentleman of europe, stopped at my door. he was a cadet, of a noble prussian a strange story. family, which for mine political reasons had settled itself in paris ; there be had become intimate with young french nobles, and, living the life of a young french noble, bad soon scandalized his german parents, forestalled his slender inheritance, and been compelled to fly his father's frown and his tailors' bills. all this he told me with a lively frankness which proved how much the wit of a german can be quickened in the atmosphere of paris. an old college friend, of birth inferior to his own, had been as unfortunate in seeking to make money as this young prodigal had been an adept in spending it. the friend, a few years previously, had accompanied other germans in a migration to australia, and was already thriving; the spendthrift noble was on his way to join the bankrupt trader, at a german settlement fifty miles distant from my house. this young man was unlike any german i ever met. he had all the exquis- ite levity by which the well-bred frenchman gives to the doctrines of the cynic the grace of the epicurean. he owned himself to be good for nothing with an elegance of candor which not only disarmed censure, but seemed to challenge admiration; and, withal, the happy spendthrift was so inebriate with hope — sure that he should be rich before he was thirty. how and wherefore rich ?- he could have no more explained than i can square the circle. when the grand serious german nature does frenchify itself, it can become so extravagantly french! i listened, almost enviously, to this light-hearted profligate's babble as we sat by my rude fireside — i, sombre man of science and sorrow, he, smiling child of idlesse and pleasure, so much one of nature's courtier- like nobles, that there, as he smoked his villanous pipe, in his dust-soiled shabby garments, and with his ruffianly revolver stuck into his belt, i would defy the daintiest aristarch who ever presided as critic over the holiday world not to have said, " there sits the genius beyond my laws, the born darling of the graces, who in every circumstance, in every age, like aristippus, would have socially charmed — would have been wel. come to the orgies of a cæsar or a claudius, to the boudoirs of a monte- span or a pompadour — have lounged through the mulberry gardens with a rochester and a buckingham, or smiled from the death-cart with a richelieu and á lauzun--a gentleman's disdain of a mob!” i was so thinking as we sat, his light talk frothing up from his careless lips, when suddenly from the spray and the sparkle of that light talk was flung forth the name of margrave. “ margrave!” i exclaimed. “pardon me. what of him?" “what of him! i asked if, by chance, you knew the only englishman i ever had the meanness to envy ?” “ perhaps you speak of one person, and i thought of another.” " pardieu, my dear host, there can scarcely be two margraves! the a strange story. .: one i mean flashed like a meteor upon paris, bought from a prince of the bourse a palace that might have lodged a prince of the blood royal, eclipsed our jew bankers in splendor, our jeunesse dorée in good looks and hair-brain adventures, and, strangest of all, filled his salons with phi- losophers and charlatans, chemists and spirit-rappers ; insulting the grav- est dons of the schools by bringing them face to face with the most impu- dent quacks, the most ridiculous dreamers - and yet, withal, himself so racy and charming, so bon prince, so bon enfant! for six inonths he was the rage at paris; perhaps he might have continued to be the rage for six years, but all at once the meteor vanished as suddenly as it had flashed. is this the margrave whom you know ? ” “i should not have thought the margrave whom i knew could have reconciled his tastes to the life of cities." “nor could this man : cities were too tame for him. he has gone to some far-remote wilds in the east — some say in search of the philoso- pher's stone — for he actually maintained in his house a sicilian adven- turer, who, when at work on that famous discovery, was stifled by the fumes of his own crucible. after that misfortune margrave took paris in disgust, and we lost him." “ so this is the only gentleman whom you envy! envy him! why?” “because he is the only englishman i ever met who contrived to be rich and yet free from the spleen ; i envied him because one had only to look at his face, and see how thoroughly he enjoyed the life of which your countrymen seem to be so heartily tired! but now that i have sat- isfied your curiosity, pray satisfy mine. who and what is this english- man?” “ who and what was he supposed in paris to be ?” “ conjectures were numberless. one of your countrymen suggested that which was most generally favored. this gentleman, whose name i forget, but who was one of those old roués who fancy themselves young because they live with the young, no sooner set eyes upon margrave than he exclaimed, · louis grayle come to life again, as i saw him forty-four years ago! but no - still younger, still handsomer- it must be his son !"" “ louis grayle, who was said to be murdered at aleppo ?” “ the same. that strange old man was enormously rich, but it seems that he hated his lawful heirs, and left behind him a fortune so far below that which he was known to possess, that he must certainly have disposed of it secretly before his death. why so dispose of it, if not to enrich some natural son, whom, for private reasons, he might not have wished to acknowledge or point out to the world, by the signal bequest of his will ? all that margrave ever said of himself and the source of his wealth con- a strange story. . firmed his belief. he frankly proclaimed himself a natural son, enriched by a father whose name he knew not nor cared to know." “ it is true. and margrave quitted paris for the east ? when?" “i can tell you the date within a day or two, for his flight preceded mine by a week; and, happily, all paris was so busy in talking of it that i slipped away without notice.” · and the prussian then named a date which it thrilled me to hear, for it was in that very month, and about that very day, that the luminous shadow had stood within my threshold. the young count now struck off into other subjects of talk; nothing more was said of margrave. an hour or two afterward he went on his way, and i remained long gazing musingly on the embers of the fire dying low on my hearth., chapter lxxiv. my work, my philosophical work — the ambitious hope of my intel- leetual life — how eagerly i returned to it again! far away from my household grief, far away from my haggard perplexities. neither a lil- ian nor a margrave there! as i went over what i had before written, each link in its chain of reasoning seemed so serried, that to alter one were to derange all: and the whole reasoning was so opposed to the possibility of the wonders i myself had experienced, so hostile to the subtle hypotheses of a faber or the childlike belief of an amy, that i must have destroyed the entire work if i had admitted such contradictions to its design! but the work was i myself! i, in my solid, sober, healthful mind, be- fore the brain had been perplexed by a phantom. were phantoms to be allowed as testimonies against science ? no; in returning to my book i returned to my former me! how strange is that contradiction between our being as a man and our being as an author! take any writer enamoured of a system - a thou- sand things may happen to him every day which might shake his faith in that system; and while he moves about as a mere man, his faith is shaken. but when he settles himself back into the phase of his being as author, the mere act of taking pen in hand and smoothing the paper before him restores his speculations to their ancient mechanical train. the system, the beloved system, reasserts its tyrannic sway, and he either ignores, or a strange story. moulds into fresh proofs of his theory as author, all which, an hour before, had given his theory the lie in his living perceptions as man. i adhered to my system: i continued my work. here, in the barbar- ous desert, was a link between me and the cities of europe. all else might break down under me. the love i had dreamed of was blotted out from the world and might never be restored; my hearth might be lonely, my life be an exile's. my reason might, at last, give way before the spectres which awed my senses or the sorrows which stormed my heart. but here, at least, was a monument of my rational, thoughtful me — of my individualized identity in multiform creation. and my mind, in the noon of its force, would shed its light on the earth when my form was resolved to its elements. alas! in this very yearning for the hereafter, though but the hereafter of a name, could i see only the craving of mind, and hear not the whisper of soul ? - the avocations of a colonist, usually so active, had little interest for me. this vast territorial lordship, in which, could i have endeared its possession by the hopes that animate a founder, i should have felt all the zest and the pride of ownership, was but the run of a common to the passing emigrant, who would leave no sons to inherit the tardy products of his labor. i was not goaded to industry by the stimulus of need. i could only be ruined if i risked all my capital in the attempt to improve. i lived, therefore, among my fertile pastures, as careless of culture as the english occupant of the highland moor, which he rents for the range of its solitudes. i knew, indeed, that if ever i became avaricious, i might swell my modest affluence into absolute wealth. i had revisited the spot in which i had discovered the nugget of gold, and had found the precious metal in rich abundance just under the first coverings of the alluvial soil. i concealed my discovery from all. i knew that did i proclaim it, the charm of my bush-life would be gone. my fields would be infested by all the wild adventurers who gather to gold as the vultures of prey round a carcass; my servants would desert me, my very flocks would be shep- herdless ! months again rolled on months. i had just approached the close of my beloved work when it was again suspended, and by an anguish keener than all which i had previously known. lilian became alarmingly ill. her state of health, long gradually de- clining, had hitherto admitted checkered intervals of improvement, and exhibited no symptoms of actual danger. but now she was seized with a kind of chronic fever, attended with absolute privation of sleep, an aversion to even the lightest nourishment, and an acute nervous suscepti- - bility to all the outward impressions, of which she had long seemed so a strange story. unconscious; morbidly alive to the faintest sound, shrinking from the light as from a torture. her previous impatience at my entrance into her room became aggravated into vehement emotions, convulsive parox- ysms of distress. so that faber banished me from her chamber, and, with a heart bleeding at every fibre, i submitted to the cruel sen- tence. faber had taken up his abode in my house and brought amy with him; one or the other never left lilian, night or day. the great physi- cian spoke doubtfully of the case, but not despairingly. “remember,” he said, “ that, in spite of the want of sleep, the absti- nence from food, the form has not wasted as it would do were this fever inevitably mortal. it is upon that phenomenon i build a hope that i have not been mistaken in the opinion i hazarded from the first. we are now in the midst of the critical struggle between life and reason; if she preserve the one, my conviction is that she will regain the other. that seeming antipathy to yourself is a good omen. you are insepara- bly associated with her intellectual world ; in proportion as she revives to it, must become vivid and powerful the reminiscences of the shock that annulled for a time that world to her. so i welcome, rather than fear, the over-susceptibility of the awakening senses to external sights and sounds. a few days will decide if i am right. in this climate the pro- gress of acute maladies is swift, but the recovery from them is yet more startlingly rapid. wait - endure — be prepared to submit to the will of heaven; but do not despond of its mercy.” i rushed away from the consoler - away into the thick of the forests, the heart of the solitude. all around me, there, was joyous with life; the locusts sang amidst the herbage; the cranes gambolled on the banks of the creek ; the squirrel-like opossums frolicked on the feathery boughs. “ and what,” said i to myself — " what if that which seems so fabulous in the distant being, whose existence has bewitched my own, be substan- tially true? what if to some potent medicament margrave owes his glorious vitality, his radiant youth? oh! that i had not so disdainfully turned away from his hinted solicitations — to what? - to nothing guiltier than lawful experiment. had i been less devoted a bigot to this vain schoolcraft, which we call the medical art, and which alone in this age of science, has made no perceptible progress since the days of its earliest teachers — had i said in the true humility of genuine knowledge, 'these alchemists were men of genius and thought; we owe to them nearly all the grand hints of our chemical science – is it likely that they would have been wholly drivellers and idiots in the one faith they clung to the most ?'— had i said that, i might now have no fear of losing my lilian. why, after all, should there not be in nature one primary essence, a strange story. : one master substance, in which is stored the specific nutriment of life ?” thus incoherently muttering to the woods what my pride of reason would not have suffered me gravely to say to my fellow men, fatigued my tormented spirits into a gloomy calm, and mechanically retraced my steps at the decline of day. i seated myself at the door of my solitary log-hut, leaning my cheek upon my hand, and musing. wearily i looked up, roused by a discord of clattering hoofs and lumbering wheels on the hollow-sounding grass track. a crazy, groaning vehicle, drawn by four horses, emerged from the copse of gum-trees — fast, fast along the road, which no such pompous vehicle had traversed since that which had borne me — luxurious satrap for an early colonist — to my lodge in the wilder- ness. what emigrant rich enough to squander, in the hire of such an equipage, more than its cost in england, could thus be entering on my waste domain ? an ominous thrill shot through me. the driver - perhaps some broken-down son of luxury in the old world, fit for nothing in the new world but to ply for hire the task that might have led to his ruin when plied in sport — stopped at the door of my hut, and called out, “ friend, is not this the great fenwick section ? and is not yonder long pile of building the master's house ?” before i could answer i heard a faint voice, within the vehicle, speak- ing to the driver; the last nodded, descended from his seat, opened the carriage door, and offered his arm to a man, who, waving aside the prof- fered aid, descended slowly and feebly; paused a moment as if for breath, and then, leaning on his staff, walked from the road, across the sward rank with luxuriant herbage, through the little gate in the new-set fra- grant wattle-fence, wearily, languidly, halting often, till he stood facing me, leaning both wan, emaciated hands upon his staff, and his meagre form shrinking deep within the folds of a cloak lined thick with costly sables. his face was sharp, his complexion of a livid yellow, his eyes shone out from their hollowed orbits, unnaturally enlarged and fatally bright. thus, in ghastly contrast to his former splendor of youth and opulence of life, margrave stood before me. "i come to you,” said margrave, in accents hoarse and broken, “from the shores of the east. give me shelter and rest. i have that to say which will more than repay you." whatever till that moment my hate and my fear of this unexpected visitant, hate would have been inhumanity, fear a meanness, conceived for a creature so awfully stricken down. silently, involuntarily, i led him into the house. there he rested a few minutes with closed eyes and painful gasps for breath. meanwhile the driver brought from the carriage a travelling-bag and a small wooden a strange story. chest or coffer, strongly banded with iron clamps. margrave, looking up as the man drew near, exclaimed, fiercely, “ who told you to touch that chest? how dare you? take it from that man, fenwick! place it here — here by my side!” i took the chest from the driver, whose rising anger at being so imperi- ously rated in the land of democratic equality, was appeased by the gold which margrave lavishly flung to him. “ take care of the poor gentleman, squire,” he whispered to me, in the spontaneous impulse of gratitude ; “i fear he will not trouble you long. he must be monstrous rich. arrived in a vessel hired all to himself, and a train of outlandish attendants, whom he has left behind in the town - yonder! may i bait my horses in your stables? they have come a long way." i pointed to the neighboring stables, and the man nodded his thanks, remounted his box, and drove off. i returned to margrave. a faint smile came to his lips as i placed the chest beside him. “ ay, ay !” he muttered. “ safe, safe! i shall soon be well again — very soon! and now i can sleep in peace !” .“ i led him into an inner room, in which there was a bed. he threw himself on it with a loud sigh of relief. soon, half raising himself on his elbow, he exclaimed, “ the chest -- bring it hither! i need it always beside me! there, there! now a few hours of sleep; and then, if i can take food, or some such restoring cordial as your skill may suggest, i shall be strong enough to talk. we will talk !-- we will talk !” his eyes closed heavily as his voice fell into a drowsy mutter. a mo- ment more and he was asleep. i watched beside him in mingled wonder and compassion. looking into that face so altered, yet still so young, i could not sternly question what had been the evil of that mystic life, which seemed now oozing away through the last sands in the hour-glass. i placed my hand softly on his pulse : it scarcely beat. i put my ear to his breast, and involuntarily sighed as i distinguished in its fluttering heave that dull, dumb sound in which the heart seems knelling itself to the greedy grave! was this indeed the potent magician whom i had so feared ? this the guide to the rosicrucian's secret of life's renewal, in whom but an hour or two ago my fancies gulled my credulous trust ? but suddenly, even while thus chiding my wild superstitions, - a fear that to most will seem scarcely less superstitious, shot across me. could lilian be affected by the near neighborhood of one to whose magnetic influence she had once been so strangely subjected ? i left margrave still sleeping, closed and locked the door of the hut, went back to my a strange story. dwelling, and met amy at the threshold. her smile was so cheering that i felt at once relieved. “ hush!” said the child, putting her finger to her lips,“ she is so quiet! i was coming in search of you, with a message from her.” "from lilian to me what! to me?” “ hush! about an hour ago she beckoned me to draw near to her, and then said, very softly, · tell allen that light is coming back to me, and it all settles on him - on him. tell him that i pray to be spared to walk by his side on earth, hand-in-hand to that heaven which is no dream, amy. tell him that;- no dream."" while the child spoke my tears gushed, and the strong hands in which i veiled my face quivered like the leaf of the aspen. and when i could command my voice, i said, plaintively, “ may i not, then, see her ? — only for a moment, and answer her mes- sage, though but by a look ? ” . “ no, no !” • “no! where is faber?” “ gone into the forest, in search of some herbs, but he gave me this note for you.” i wiped the blinding tears from my eyes, and read these lines : “i have, though with hesitation, permitted amy to tell you the cheer- ing words, by which our beloved patient confirms my belief that reason is coming back to her — slowly, laboringly, but, if she survive, for perma- nent restoration. on no account attempt to precipitate or disturb the work of nature. as dangerous as a sudden glare of light to eyes long blind and newly regaining vision, in the friendly and soothing dark, - would be the agitation that your presence at this crisis would cause. confide in me.” i remained brooding over these lines and over lilian's message, long and silently, while amy's soothing whispers stole into my ear, soft as the murmurs of a rill heard in the gloom of forests. rousing myself at length, my thoughts returned to margrave. doubtless he would soon awake. i bade amy bring me such slight nutriment as i thought best suited to his enfeebled state, telling her it was for a sick traveller resting himself in my hut. when amy returned, i took from her the little basket with which she was charged, and "having, meanwhile, made a careful selection from the contents of my medicine-chest, went back to the hut. i had not long resumed my place beside margrave's pillow before he awoke. " what o'clock is it?” he asked, with an anxious voice. about seven.” . not later? that is well ; my time is precious.” . compose yourself, and eat.” * a strange story. i placed the food before him, and he partook of it, though sparingly, and as if with effort. he then dozed for a short time, again woke up, and impatiently demanded the cordial, which i had prepared in the mean while. its effect was greater and more immediate than i could have an- ticipated, proving, perhaps, how much of youth there was still left in his system, however undermined and ravaged by disease. color came back to his cheek, bis voice grew perceptibly stronger. and as i lighted the lamp on the table near us - for it was growing dark - he gathered him- self up, and spoke thus: “you remember that i once pressed on you certain experiments. my object then was to discover the materials from which is extracted the specific that enables the organs of life to expel disease and regain vigor. in that hope i sought your intimacy. an intimacy you gave, but with- drew.” “dare you complain? who and what was the being from whose inti- macy i shrunk appalled ?” “ ask what questions you please,” cried margrave, impatiently,“ later,– if i have strength left to answer them. but do not interrupt me while i husband my force to say what alone is important to me and to you. dis- appointed in the hopes i had placed in you, i resolved to repair to paris, -- that great furnace of all bold ideas. i questioned learned for- malists; i listened to audacious empirics. the first, with all their boasted knowledge, were too timid to concede my premises; the second, with all their speculative daring, too knavish to let me trust to their conclusions. i found but one man, a sicilian, who comprehended the secrets that are called occult, and had the courage to meet nature and all her agencies face to face. he believed, and sincerely, that he was approaching the grand result, at the very moment when he perished from want of the common precautions which a tyro in chemistry would have taken. at his death the gaudy city became hateful; all its pretended pleasures only served to exhaust life the faster. the true joys of youth are those of the wild bird and wild brute in the healthful enjoyment of nature. in cities, youth is but old age with a varnish. i fled to the east; i passed through the tents of the arabs ; i was guided — no matter by whom or by what to the house of a dervish, who had had for his teacher the most erudite master of secrets occult, whom i knew years ago at aleppo – why that exclamation ?” “ proceed. what i have to say will come -- later.” “ from this dervish i half-forced and half-purchased the secret i sought to obtain. i now know from what peculiar substance the so-called elixir of life is extracted; i know also the steps of the process through which that task is accomplished. you smile incredulously? what is your doubt ? a strange story. state it while i rest for a moment. my breath labors ; give me more of the cordial.” " need i tell you my doubt? you have, you say, at your command the elixir of life of which cagliostro did not leave his disciples the recipe; and you stretch out your hand for a vulgar cordial which any village chemist could give you!” “i can explain this apparent contradiction. the process by which the elixir is extracted from the material which hoards its essence is one that requires a hardihood of courage which few possess. this dervish, who had passed through that process once, was deaf to all prayer, and un- moved by all bribes, to attempt it again. he was poor, for the secret by which metals may be transmuted is not, as the old alchemists seem to im- ply, identical with that by which the elixir of life is extracted. he had only been enabled to discover, in the niggard strata of the lands within range of his travel, a few scanty morsels of the glorious substance. from these he had extracted scarcely enough of the elixir to fill a third of that little glass which i have just drained. he guarded every drop for him- self. who that holds bealthful life as the one boon above all price to the living, would waste upon others, what prolongs and recruits his own be- ing? therefore, though he sold me his secret he would not sell me his treasure.” “any quack may sell you the information how to make not only an elixir, but a sun and a moon, and then scare you from the experiment by tales of the danger of trying it! how do you know that this essence which the dervish possessed was the elixir of life, since it seems you have not tried on yourself what effect its precious drops could produce ? poor wretch! who once seemed to me so awfully potent, do you come to the antipodes in search of a drug that only exists in the fables by which a child is amused ?” “ the elixir of life is no fable,” cried margrave, with a kindling of eye, a power of voice, a dilation of form that startled me in one just before so feeble. “ that elixir was bright in my veins when we last met. from that golden draught of the life-spring of joy i took all that can gladden creation. what sage would not have exchanged his wearisome knowledge for my lusty revels with nature? what monarch would not have bar- tered his crown, with its brain-ache of care, for the radiance that circled my brows flashing out from the light that was in me? oh again, oh again, to enjoy the freedom of air with the bird, and the glow of the sun with the lizard; to sport through the blooms of the earth, nature's play- mate and darling; to face, in the forest and desert, the pard and the lion - nature's bravest and fiercest, — her first-born, the heir of her realm, with the rest of her children for slaves !” a strange story. veyed to damascus, i languished for weeks between life and death. but for the virtue of that essence, which lingered yet in my veins, i could not have survived — even thus feeble and shattered. i need not say that i now abandoned all thought of discovering the dervish. i had at least his secret, if i had failed of the paltry supply he had drawn from its uses. such appliances as he had told me were needful are procured in the east with more ease than in europe. to sum up, i am here - instructed in all the knowledge, and supplied with all the aids, which warrant me in saying, “do you care for new life in its richest enjoy- ments, if not for yourself, for one whom you love, and would reprieve from the grave ?' then share with me in a task that a single night will accomplish, and ravish a prize by which the life that you value the most will be saved from the dust and the worm, to live on, ever young, ever blooming, 'while each infant -- new-born while i speak -- shall have passed to the grave. nay, where is the limit to life while the earth bides the substance by which life is renewed ? ” i give as faithfully as i can recall them, the words in which margrave addressed me. but who can guess by cold words transcribed, even were they artfully ranged by a master of languages, the effect words produce when warm from the breath of the speaker ? ask one of an audience which some orator held enthralled why his words do not quicken a beat in the reader's pulse, and the answer of one who had listened will be, “ the words took their charm from the voice and the eye, the aspect, the manner, the man !” so it was with the incomprehensible being before me. though his youth was faded, though his beauty was dimmed, though my fancies clothed him with memories of abhorrent dread, though my reason opposed his audacious beliefs and assumptions, still he charmed and spell-bound me; still he was the mystical fascinator ; still, if the legends of magic had truth for their basis, he was the born magician; as genius, in what calling soever, is born with the gift to enchant and subdue us. "constraining myself to answer calmly, i said, “ you have told me your story; you have defined the object of the experiment in which you ask me to aid. you do right to bid me postpone my replies or my ques- tions. seek to recruit by sleep the strength you have so sorely tasked. to-morrow • to-morrow, ere night, you will decide whether the man whom out of all earth i have selected to aid me, shall be the foe to condemn me to per- ish! i tell you plainly i need your aid, and your prompt aid. three days from this and all aid will be too late ! ” i had already gained the door of the room, when he called to me to come back. a strange story. “ you do not live in this hut, but with your family yonder. do not tell them that i am here ; let no one but yourself see me as i now am. lock the door of the hut when you quit it. i should not close my eyes if i were not secure from intruders.” “ there is but one in my house, or in these parts, whom i would except from the interdict you impose. you are aware of your own imminent danger; the life which you believe the discovery of a dervish will indefi- nitely prolong seems to my eye of physician to hang on a thread. i have already formed my own conjecture as to the nature of the disease that cnfeebles you. but i would fain compare that conjecture with the weightier opinion of one whose experience and skill are superior to mine. permit me, then, when i return to you to-morrow, to bring with me the great physican to whom i refer. his name will not, perhaps, be unknown to you. i speak of julius faber.” “a physician of the schools ! i can guess well enough how learnedly - he would prate and how little he could do. but i will not object to his visit, if it satisfies you that, since i should die under the hands of the doc- tors, i may be permitted to indulge my own whim in placing my hopes in a dervish. yet stay. you have, doubtless, spoken of me to this julius faber, your fellow-physician and friend ? promise me, if you bring him here that you will not name me, that you will not repeat to him the tale i have told you, or the hope which has led me to these shores. what i have told to you, no matter whether at this moment you consider me the dupe of a chimera, is still under the seal of the confidence which a patient reposes in the physician he himself selects for his confidant. i select you, and not julius faber!” “ be it as you will,” said i, after a moment's reflection. “the moment you make yourself my patient i am bound to consider what is best for you. and you may more respect and profit by an opinion based upon your purely physical condition than by one in which you might sup- pose the advice was directed rather to the disease of the mind than to that of the body." “how amazed and indignant your brother physician will be if he ever see me a second time! how learnedly he will prove that, according to all correct principles of science and nature, i ought to be dead !” he uttered this jest with a faint, dreary echo of his old merry, melo- dious laugh, then turned his face to the wall; and so i left him to repose. a strange story. chapter lxxv. i found mrs. ashleigh waiting for me in our usual sitting-room. she was in tears. she had begun to despond of lilian's recovery, and she infected me with her own alarm. however, i disguised my participation in her fears, soothed and sustained her as i best could, and persuaded her to retire to rest. i saw faber for a few minutes before i sought my own chamber. he assured me that there was no perceptible change for the worse in lilian's physical state since he had last seen me, and that her mind, even within the last few hours, had become decidedly more clear. he thought that within the next twenty-four hours the reason would make a strong and successful effort for complete recovery; but he de- clined to hazard more than a hope that the effort would not exhaust the enfeebled powers of the frame. he himself was so in need of a few hours of rest that i ceased to harass him with questions which he could not an- swer, and fears which he could not appease. before leaving him for the night, i told him briefly that there was a traveller in my hut smitten by a disease that seemed to me so grave that i would ask his opinion of the case, if he could accompany me to the hut the next morning. my own thoughts that night were not such as would suffer me to sleep. before margrave's melancholy state much of my former fear and ab- horrence faded away. this being, so exceptional that fancy might well invest him with preternatural attributes, was now reduced by human suf- fering to human sympathy and comprehension. yet his utier want of conscience was still as apparent as in his day of joyous animal spirits. with what hideous candor he had related his perfidy and ingratitude to the man to whom, in his belief, he owed an inestimable obligation, and with what insensibility to the signal retribution which in most natures would have awakened remorse! and by what dark hints and confessions did he seem to confirm the incredible memoir of sir philip derval! he owned that he had borne from the corpse of haroun the medicament to which he ascribed his re- covery from a state yet more hopeless than that under which he now labored! he had alluded rapidly, obscurely, to some knowledge at his command “surer than man's !” and now, even now, the mere wreck of his former existence, by what strange charm did he still control and confuse my reason! and how was it that i felt myself murmuring, again and again, “ but what, after all, if his hope be no chimera, and if: nature do hide a secret by which i could save the life of my beloved lilian ?” a strange story. and again and again, as that thought would force itself on me, i rose and crept to lilian's threshold, listening to catch the faintest sound of her breathing. all still, all dark! and the great physician doubts whether recognized science can turn aside from her couch the stealthy tread of death, while in yon. log-hut one whose malady recognized science could not doubt to be mortal has composed himself to sleep confident of life! recognized science ! recognized ignorance! the science of to-day is the ignorance of to-morrow! every year some bold guess lights up a truth to which -but the year before the school-men of science were as blinded as moles. “ what then,” my lips kept repeating — "what if nature do hide a secret by which the life of my life can be saved ? what do we know of. the secrets of nature ? what said newton himself of his knowledge ? “i am like a child picking up pebbles and shells on the sand, while the great ocean of truth lies all undiscovered around me!' and did new- ton himself, in the ripest growth of his matchless intellect, hold the creed of the alchemists in scorn ? had he not given to one object of their re- search, in the transmutation of metals, his days and his nights ? is there proof that he ever convinced himself that the research was the dream which we, who are not newtons, call it ? * and that other great sage, inferior only to newton -- the calculating doubt-weigher, descartes - had he not believed in the yet nobler hope of the alchemists - believed in some occult nostrum or process by which human life could attain to the age of the patriarchs ? ”f. * “besides the three great subjects of newton's labors — the fluxional calculus, physical astronomy, and optics — a very large portion of his time, while resident in his college, was devoted to researches of which scarcely a trace remains. al- chemy, which had fascinated so many eager and ambitious minds, seems to have tempted newton with an overwhelming force. what theories he formed, what experiments he tried, in that laboratory where, it is said, the fire was scarcely ex- tinguished for weeks together, will never be known. it is certain that no success attended his labors; and newton was not a man — like kepler — to detail to the world all the hopes and disappointments, all the crude and mystical fancies, which mixed themselves up with his career of philosophy. . . . . many years later we find newton in correspondence with locke, with reference to a mysterious red earth by which boyle, who was then recently dead, had asserted that he could ef- fect the grand desideratum of multiplying gold. by this time, however, newton's faith had become somewhat shaken by the unsatisfactory communications which he had himself received from boyle on the subject of the golden recipe, though he did not abandon the idea of giving the experiment a further trial as soon as the weather should become suitable for furnace experiments.” - quarterly review, no. , pp. - . † southey, in his doctor, vol. vi. p. , reports the conversation of sir kenelm digby with descartes, in which the great geometrician said, “that as for rendering a strange story. · in thoughts like these the night wore away, the moonbeams that streamed through my window lighting up the spacious solitudes beyond — men immortal, it was what he could not venture to promise, but that he was very sure he could prolong his life to the standard of the patriarchs.” and southey adds, “ that st. evremond, to whom digby repeated this, says that this opinion of descartes was well known both to his friends in holland and in france." by the stress southey lays on this hearsay evidence, it is clear that he was not acquainted with the works and biography of descartes, or he would have gone to the fountain- head for authority on descartes's opinions — namely, descartes himself. it is to be wished that southey had done so, for no one more than he would have appreciated the exquisitely candid and lovable nature of the illustrious frenchman, and the sincerity with which he cherished in his heart whatever doctrine he conceived in his understanding. descartes, whose knowledge of anatomy was considerable, had that passion for the art of medicine which is almost inseparable from the pursuit of natural philosophy. at the age of twenty-four he had sought (in germany) to obtain initiation into the brotherhood of the rosicrucians, but unluckily could not discover any member of the society to introduce him. “he desired," says cousin, " to assure the health of man, diminish his ills, extend his existence. he was ter- rified by the rapid and almost momentary passage of man upon earth. he believed it was not, perhaps, impossible to prolong its duration.” there is a hidden recess of grandeur in this idea, and the means proposed by descartes for the execution of his project were not less grand. in his discourse on method, descartes says, "if it is possible to find some means to render generally men more wise and more able than they have been till now, it is, i believe, in medicine that those means must be sought. ... i am sure that there is no one, even in the medical profes- sion, who will not avow that all which one knows of the medical art is almost noth- ing in comparison to that which remains to learn, and that one could be exempted from an infinity of maladies, both of body and mind, and even, perhaps, from the decrepitude of old age, if one had sufficient lore of their causes and of all the rem- edies which nature provides for them. therefore, having design to employ all my life in the research of a science so necessary, and having discovered a path which appears to me such that one ought infallibly, in following to find it, if one is not hindered prematurely by the brevity of life or by the defects of experience, i consider that there is no better remedy against those two hindrances than to communicate faith- fully to the public the little i have found,” etc. (discours de la méthode, vol. i. euvres de descartes, cousin's edition.) and again, in his correspondence (vol. ix. p. ), he says, “ the conservation of health has been always the prin- cipal object of my studies, and i have no doubt that there is a means of acquiring much knowledge touching medicine which, up to this time, is ignored.” he then refers to his meditated treatise on animals as only an entrance upon that knowl- edge. but whatever secrets descartes may have thought to discover, they are not made known to the public according to his promise. and in a letter to m. chanut, written (four years before he died), he says ingenuously, “i will tell you in confidence that the notion, such as it is, which i have endeavored to acquire in physical philosophy, has greatly assisted me to establish certain foundations for moral philosophy; and that i am more easily satisfied upon this point than i am on many others touching medicine, to which i have, nevertheless, devoted much more time. so that” (adds the grand thinker with a pathetic nobleness) . a strange story. mead and creek, forest land, mountain top— and the silence without broken by the wild cry of the night-hawk and the sibilant melancholy dirge of the shining chrysococyx;* bird that never sings but at night, and obstinately haunts the roofs of the sick and dying, ominous of woe and death. but up sprang the sun, and, chasing these gloomy sounds, out burst the wonderful chorus of australian groves, the great kingfisher opening the jocund melodious babble with the glee of his social laugh. and now i heard faber's step in lilian's room — heard, through the . door, her soft voice, though i could not distinguish the words. it was not long before i saw the kind physician standing at the threshold of my chamber. he pressed his finger to his lip, and made me a sign to follow him. i obeyed, with noiseless tread and stifled breathing. he waited me in the garden under the flowering acacias, passed his arm in mine, : and drew me into the open pasture-land. “compose yourself,” he then said; “i bring you tidings both of glad- ness and of fear. your lilian's mind is restored : even the memories which had been swept away by the fever that followed her return to her home in l- are returning, though as yet indistinct. she yearns to see you, to bless you for all your noble devotion, your generous, great- hearted love; but i forbid such interview now. if in a few hours she become either decidedly stronger or decidedly more enfeebled, you shall be summoned to her side. even if you are condemned to a loss for which the sole consolation must be placed in the life hereafter, you shall have at least the last mortal commune of soul with soul. courage - courage! you are man! bear as man what you have so often bid other men submit to endure." i had fung myself on the ground — writhing worm that had no home but on earth! man, indeed! man! all at that moment i took from manhood was its acute sensibility to love and to anguish! but after all such paroxysms of mortal pain there comes a strange lull. thought itself halts, like the still hush of water between two descending torrents. i rose in a calm, which faber might well mistake for fortitude. “well,” i said, quietly, “fulfil your promise. if lilian is to pass away “so that, instead of finding the means to preserve life, i have found another good, more easy and more sure, which is -- not to fear death." * chrysococyx lucidus-namely, the bird popularly called the shining or bronzed cuckoo. “ its note is an exceedingly melancholy whistle, heard at night, when it is very annoying to any sick or nervous person who may be inclined to sleep. i have known many instances where the bird has been perched on a tree in the vi- cinity of the room of an invalid uttering its mournful notes, and it was only with the greatest difficulty that it could be dislodged from its position," -- dr. bennett's gatherings of a naturalist in australasia. a strange story.. from me, i shall see her, at least, again; no wall, you tell me, between our minds : mind to mind once more — once more !" “ allen,” said faber, mournfully and softly, “why do you shun to re- peat my words — soul to soul ?” “ay, ay-i understand. those words mean that you have resigned all hope that lilian's life will linger here when her mind comes back in full consciousness. i know well thát last lightning flash and the darkness which swallows it up!” “ you exaggerate my fears. i have not resigned the hope that lilian will survive the struggle through which she is passing; but it would be cruel to deceive you — my hope is weaker than it was.” “ay, ay — again i understand! your science is in fault - it de- sponds. its last trust is in the wonderful resources of nature — the vi- tality stored in the young ?”. “ you have said. those resources of nature are wondrous. the vitality of youth is a fountain springing up from the deeps out of sight, when, a moment before, we had measured the drops oozing out from the sands, and thought that the well was exhausted.” “ come with me — come. i told you of another sufferer yonder. i want your opinion of his case. but can you be spared a few minutes from lilian's side ? ” “ yes; i left her asleep. what is the case that perplexes your eye of physician, which is usually keener than mine, despite all the length of my practice ?" “ the sufferer is young -- his organization rare in its vigor. he has gone through and survived assaults upon life that are commonly fatal. his system has been poisoned by the fangs of a venomous asp, and shat- tered by the blast of the plague. these alone, i believe, would not suf- fice to destroy him. but he is one who has a strong dread of death. and while the heart was thus languid and feeble, it has been gnawed by emotions of hope or of fear. i suspect that he is dying, not from the bite of the reptile, not from the taint of the pestilence, but from the hope and the fear that have overtasked the heart's functions. judge for yourself.” we were now at the door of the hut. i unlocked it: we entered. margrave had quitted his bed, and was pacing the room slowly. his step was less feeble, his countenance less haggard than on the previous even- ing. ile submitted himself to faber's questioning with a quiet indifference, and evidently cared nothing for any opinion which the great physician might found on his replies. when faber had learned all he could, he said, with a grave smile, “ i see that my advice will have little weight with you ; such as it is, at least you cyong would you live on st live as the old you a strange story. reflect on it. the conclusions to which your host arrived in his view of your case, and which he confided to me, are, in my humble judgment, correct. i have no doubt that the great organ of the heart is involved in the cause of your sufferings; but the heart is a noble and much-endur- ing organ. i have known men in whom it has been more severely and unequivocally affected with disease than it is in you, live on for many years, and ultimately die of some other disorder. but then life was held, as yours must be held, upon one condition repose. i enjoin you to ab- stain from all violent action; to shun all excitements that cause moral disturbance. you are' young: would you live on, you must live as the old. more than this — it is my duty to warn you that your tenure on earth is very precarious; you may attain to many years; you may be suddenly called hence to-morrow. the best mode to regard this uncer- tainty, with the calm in which is your only chance of long life, is so 'to arrange all your worldly affairs, and so to discipline all your human anx- ieties, as to feel always prepared for the summons that may come without warning. for the rest, quit this climate as soon as you can — it is the cli- mate in which the blood courses too quickly for one who should shun all excitement. seek the most equable atmosphere -- choose the most tran- quil pursuits — and fenwick himself, in his magnificent pride of stature and strength, may be nearer the grave than you are.” “your opinion coincides with that i have just heard ? " asked mar- grave, turning to me. "in much — yes.” "it is more favorable than i should have supposed. i am far from disdaining the advice so kindly offered. permit me, in turn, two or three questions, dr. faber. do you prescribe to me no drugs from your phar- macopæia ?” “drugs may palliate many sufferings incidental to organic disease; but drugs cannot reach organic disease itself.” “do you believe that even where disease is plainly organic, nature herself has no alterative and reparative powers by which the organ as- sailed may recover itself?” "a few exceptional instances of such forces in nature are upon record; but we must go by general laws, and not by exceptions." . “ have you never known instances, do you not at this moment know one, in which a patient whose malady baffles the doctor's skill, imagines or dreams of a remedy ? call it a whim, if you please, learned sir; do you not listen to the whim, and, in despair of your own prescriptions, com- ply with those of the patient ?” faber changed countenance, and even started. margrave watched him, and laughed. * strange story. is there some prophet-hint of nature there also, directing me not to scorn the secret which a wanderer, so suddenly dropped on my solitude, assures me that nature will sometimes reveal to her seeker? and oh, that dark wanderer ; has nature a marvel more weird than himself !” chapter lxxvi. i strayed through the forest till noon, in debate with myself, and strove to shape my wild doubts into purpose before i could nerve and compose myself again to face margrave alone. i reëntered the hut. to my surprise, margrave was not in the room in which i had left him, nor in that which adjoined it. i ascended the stairs to the kind of loft in which i had been accustomed to pursue my studies, but in which i had not set foot since my alarm for lilian had sus- pended my labors. there i saw margrave quietly seated before the manuscript of my ambitious work, which lay open on the rude table just as i had left it in the midst of its concluding summary. “i have taken the license of former days, you see,” said margrare, smiling, “and have hit by chance on a passage i can understand without effort. but why such a waste of argument to prove a fact so simple ? in man, as in brute, life once lost, is lost forever; and that is why life is so precious to man.” i took the book from his hand and flung it aside in wrath. his approval revolted me more with my own theories than all the argumentative rebukes of faber. “and now," i said, sternly," the time has come for the explanation you promised. before i can aid you in any experiment that may serve to prolong your life, i must know how far that life has been a baleful and destroying influence ?” “ i have some faint recollection of having saved your life from an im- minent danger, and if gratitude were the attribute of man, as it is of the dog, i should claim your aid to save mine as a right. ask me what you will. - you must have seen enough of me to know that i do not affect either the virtues or vices of others. i regard both with so supreme an indifference that i believe i am vicious or virtuous unawares. i know not if i can ex- plain what seems to have perplexed you, but if i cannot explain i have no intention to lie. speak; i listen? we have time enough now be- fore us." a strange story. so saying, he reclined back in the chair, stretching out his limbs wearily. all round this spoiled darling of material nature, the aids and appliances of intellectual science! books, and telescopes, and crucibles, with the light of day coming through a small circular aperture in the boarded case- ment as i had constructed the opening for my experimental observation of the prismal rays. while i write, his image is as visible before my remembrance as if be- fore the actual eye — beautiful even in its decay, awful even in its weak- ness, mysterious as is nature herself amidst all the mechanism by which our fancied knowledge attempts to measure her laws and analyze her light. - but at that moment no such subtle reflections delayed my inquisitive, eager mind from its immediate purpose — who and what was this creature boasting of a secret through which i might rescue from death, the life of her who was my all upon the earth ? i gathered rapidly and succinctly together all that i knew and all that i guessed of margrave's existence and arts. i commenced from my vision in that mimic golgotha of creatures inferior to man, close by the scene of man's most trivial and meaningless pastime. i went on : der- val's murder; the missing contents of the casket; the apparition seen by the maniac assassin guiding him to the horrid deed; the luminous haunt- ing shadow; the positive charge in the murdered man's memoir connect- ing margrave with louis grayle, and accusing him of the murder of haroun; the night in the moonlit pavilion at derval court; the baneful influence on lilian; the struggle between me and himself in the house by the sea-shore - the strange, all that is told in this. strange story. but warming as i spoke, and in a kind of fierce joy to be enabled thus to free my own heart of the doubts that had burdened it, now that i was fairly face to face with the being by whom my reason had been so per- plexed and my life so tortured, i was restrained by none of the fears lest my own fancy deceived me, with which in his absence i had striven to reduce to natural causes the portents of terror and wonder. i stated plainly, directly, the beliefs, the impressions which i had never dared even to myself to own without seeking to explain them away. and coming at last to a close, i said: “ such are the evidences that seem to me to justify abhorrence of the life that you ask me to aid in prolonging. your own tale of last night but confirms them. and why to me - to me - do you come with wild entreaties to lengthen the life that has blighted my own? how did you even learn the home in which i sought unavailing refuge ? how--as your hint to faber clearly revealed — were you aware that, in yon house, where the sorrow is veiled, where the groan is suppressed, where the foot-tread falls ghostlike, there struggles now between life and a strange story. death my heart's twin, my world's sunshine ? ah! through my terror for her, is it a demon that tells you how to bribe my abhorrence into submis- sion, and supple my reason into use to your ends ?” margrave had listened to me throughout with a fixed attention, at times with a bewildered stare, at times with exclamations of surprise, but not of denial. and when i had done he remained for some moments silent, seemingly, stupefied, passing his hand repeatedly over his brow, in the gesture so familiar to him in former days. at length he said, quietly, without evincing any sign either of resent- ment or humiliation: “ in much that you tell me i recognize myself; in much i am as lost in amazement as you in wild doubt or fierce wrath. of the effect that you say philip derval produced on me i have no recollection. of him- self i have only this: that he was my foe, that he came to england intent on schemes to shorten my life or destroy its enjoyments. all my facul- ties tend to self-preservation ; there they converge as rays in a focus; in that focus they illume and — they burn. i willed to destroy my intended destroyer. did my will enforce itself on the agent to which it was guided ? likely enough. be it so. would you blame me for slaying the tiger or serpent — not by the naked hand, but by weapons that arm it? but what could tiger and serpent do more against me than the man who would rob me of life? he had his arts for assault, i had mine for self- defence. he was to me as the tiger that creeps through the jungle, or the serpent uncoiling his folds for the spring. death to those whose life is destruction to mine, be they serpent, or tiger, or man! derval per- ished. yes! the spot in which the maniac had buried the casket was re- vealed to me — no matter how; the contents of the casket passed into my hands. i coveted that possession because i believed that derval had learned from haroun of aleppo the secret by which the elixir of life is prepared, and i supposed that some stores of the essence would be found in his casket. i was deceived; not a drop! what i there found i knew not how to use or apply, nor did i care to learn. what i sought was not there. you see a luminous shadow of myself; it haunts, it accosts, it compels you. of this i know nothing. was it the emanation of my in- tense will really producing this spectre of myself? or was it the thing of your own imagination — an imagination which my will impressed and . subjugated ? i know not. at the hours when my shadow, real or sup- posed, was with you, my senses would have been locked in sleep. it is true, however, that i intensely desired to learn from races always near to man, but concealed from his everyday vision, the secret that i believed philip derval had carried with him to the tomb; and from some cause or another i cannot now of myself alone, as i could years ago, subject a strange story. those races to my command. i must in that act through or with the mind of another. it is true that i sought to impress upon your waking thoughts the images of the circle, the powers of the wand, which, in your trance or sleep-walking, made you the involuntary agent of my will. i knew by a dream — for by dreams, more or less vivid, are the results of my waking will sometimes divulged to myself — that the spell had been broken, the discovery i sought not effected. all my hopes were then transferred from yourself, the dull votary of science, to the girl whom i charmed to my thraldom through her love for you, and through her dreams of a realm which the science of schools never enters. in her imagination was all pure and all potent, and tell me, oh, practical rea- soner! if reason has ever advanced one step into knowledge except through that imaginative faculty which is strongest in the wisdom of igno- rance, and weakest in the ignorance of the wise. ponder this, and those marvels that perplex you will cease to be marvellous. i pass on to the riddle that puzzles you most. by philip derval's account i am, in truth, louis grayle restored to youth by the elixir, and while yet infirm, de- crepit, murdered haroun — a man of a frame as athletic as yours! by accepting this notion you seem to yourself alone to unravel the mysteries you ascribe to my life and my powers. oh, wise philosopher! oh, pro- found logician! you accept that notion, yet hold my belief in the der- vish's tale a chimera! i am grayle made young by the elixir, and yet the elixir itself is a fable!” he paused and laughed, but the laugh was no longer even an echo of. its former merriment or playfulness - a sinister and terrible laugh, mock- ing, threatening, malignant. again he swept his hand over his brows, and resumed : “is it not easier to so accomplished a sage as you to believe that the idlers of paris have guessed the true solution of that problem - my place on this earth ? may i not be the love son of louis grayle ? and when haroun refused the elixir to him, or he found that his frame was too far exhausted for even the elixir to repair organic lesions of structure in the worn frame of old age, may he not have indulged the common illusion of fathers, and soothed his death pangs with the thought that he should live again in his son ? haroun is found dead on his .carpet - rumor said strangled. what proof of the truth of that rumor? might he not have passed away in a fit? will it lessen your perplexity if i state recollec- tions ? they are vague — they often perplex myself; but so far from a wish to deceive you, my desire is to relate them so truthfully that you may aid me to reduce them into more definite form." his face now became very troubled, the tone of his voice very irreso- lute -- the face and the voice of a man who is either blundering his way through an intricate falsehood or through obscure reminiscences. a strange story. “ this louis grayle ! this louis grayle! i remember him well, as one remembers a nightmare. whenever i look back, before the illness of which i will presently speak, the image of louis grayle returns to me. i see myself with him in african wilds, commanding the fierce abyssini- ans. i see myself with him in the fair persian valley - lofty, snow-cov- ered mountains encircling the garden of roses. i see myself with him in the hush of the golden noon, reclined by the spray of cool fountains; now listening to cymbals and lutes; now arguing with gray-beards on secrets bequeathed by the chaldees. with him, with him in moonlit nights, stealing into the sepulchres of mythical kings. i see myself with him in the aisles of dark caverns, surrounded by awful shapes, which have no likeness among the creatures of earth. louis grayle! louis grayle! all my earlier memories go back to louis grayle! all my arts and powers, all that i have learned of the languages spoken in europe, of the sciences taught in her schools, i owe to louis grayle. but am i one and the same with him? no. i am but a pale reflection of his giant intellect. i have not even a reflection of his childlike agonies of sorrow. louis grayle! he stands apart from me, as a rock from the tree that grows out from its chasms. yes, the gossip was right; i must be his son.” he leaned his face on both hands, rocking himself to and fro. at length, with a sigh, he resumed : “i remember, too, a long and oppressive illness, attended with rack- ing pains; a dismal journey in a wearisome litter, the light hand of the woman ayesha, so sad and so stately, smoothing my pillow or fanning my brows. i remember the evening on which my nurse drew the folds of the litter aside, and said, ' see aleppo! and the star of thy birth shin- ing over its walls ! “i remember a face inexpressibly solemn and mournful. i remember the chill that the calm of its ominous eye sent through my veins — the face of haroun, the sage of aleppo. i remember the vessel of crystal he bore in his hand, and the blessed relief from my pains that a drop from the essence which flashed through the crystal bestowed! and then - and then i remember no more till the night on which ayesha came to my couch and said, 'rise.' "and i rose, leaning on her, supported by her. we went through dim, narrow streets, faintly lit by wan stars, disturbing the prowl of the dogs, that slunk from the look of that woman. we came to a solitary house, small and low, and my nurse said, · wait.' “she opened the door and went in; i seated myself on the threshold. and after a time she came out from the house, and led me, still leaning on her, into a chamber. “a man lay, as in sleep, on the carpet, and beside him stood another a strange story. to false youth in the person of margrave, such might have been his laugh and such. his words. the whole mind of margrave seemed to have un; dergone change since i last saw him; more rich in idea, more crafty even in candor, more powerful, more concentred. as we see in our ordinary experience that some infirmity, threatening dissolution, brings forth more vividly the reminiscences of early years, when impressions were vigorously stamped, so i might have thought that, as margrave neared the tomb, the memories he had retained from his former existence in a being more amply endowed, more formidably potent, struggled back to the brain, and the mind that had lived in louis grayle moved the lips : of the dying margrave. i “ for the powers and the arts that it equally puzzles your reason to assign or deny to me,” resumed my terrible guest, “ i will say briefly but this : they come from faculties stored within myself, and doubtless con- duce to my self-preservation — faculties more or less, perhaps (so van helmont asserts), given to all men, though dormant in most — vivid and active in me, because in me self-preservation has been and yet is the strong master-passion or instinct; and because i have been taught how to use and direct such faculties by disciplined teachers; some by louis grayle, the enchanter; some by my nurse, the singer of charmed songs. but in much that i will to have done i know no more than yourself how the agency acts. enough for me to will what i wished, and sink calmly in slumber, sure that the will would work somehow its way. but when i have willed to know what, when known, should shape my own courses, i could see, without aid from your pitiful telescopes, all objects howsoever afar. what wonder in that? have you no learned, puzzle-brain metaphysicians, who tell you that space is but an idea, all this palpable universe an idea in the mind, and no more! why am i an enigma as dark as the sibyl's, and your metaphysicians as plain as a horn-book ?" again the sardonic laugh. “enough: let what i have said obscure or enlighten your guesses, we come back to the same link of union, which binds man to man, bids states arise from the desert, and foemen embrace as brothers. i need you, and you need me; without your aid my life is doomed; without my secret the breath will have gone from the lips of your lilian before the. sun of to-morrow is red on yon hill-tops." “ fiend or juggler!” i cried, in rage, “ you shall not so enslave and enthral me by this mystic farrago and jargon! make your fantastic ex- periment on yourself, if you will: trust to your arts and your powers. my lilian's life shall not hang on your fiat. i trust it — to—” " to what – to man's skill? hear what the sage of the college shall tell you, before i ask you again for your aid. do you trust to god's saving mercy ? ah, of course you believe in a god? who except a a strange story. philosopher can reason a maker away? but that the maker will alter his courses to hear you; that, whether or not you trust in him or in your doctor, it will change by a hair-breadth the thing that must be do you believe this, allen fenwick ?” and there sat this reader of hearts! a boy in his aspect, mocking me and the gray-beards of schools. i could listen no more; i turned to the door and fled down the stairs, and heard as i fled a low chant; feeble and faint, it was still the old barbaric chant by which the serpent is drawn from its hole by the charmer. chapter lxxvii. to those of my readers who may seek with julius faber to explore, through intelligible causes, solutions of the marvels i narrate, margrave's confession may serve to explain away much that my own superstitious be- liefs had obscured. to them margrave is evidently the son of louis grayle. the elixir of life is reduced to some simple restorative, owing much of its effect to the faith of a credulous patient; youth is so soon re- stored to its joy in the sun, with or without an elixir. to them, mar- grave's arts of enchantment are reduced to those idiosyncrasies of tem- perament on which the disciples of mesmer build up their theories; exaggerated, in much, by my own superstitions; aided, in part, by such natural, purely physical magic as, explored by the ancient priestcrafts, is despised by the modern philosophies, and only remains occult because science delights no more in the slides of the lantern which fascinated her childhood with simulated phantoms. to them, margrave is, per- haps, an enthusiast, but, because an enthusiast, not less an impostor. “ l'homme se pique,” says charron. man cogs the dice for himself ere he rattles the box for his dupes. was there ever successful impostor , who did not commence by a fraud on his own understanding ? cradled in orient fable-land, what though margrave believes in its legends; in a wand, an elixir; in sorcerers or afrites ? that belief in itself makes him keen to detect, and skilful to profit by, the latent but kindred cre- dulities of others. in all illustrations of duper and duped through the records of superstition from the guile of a cromwell, a mahomet, down to the cheats of a gipsy - professional visionaries are amongst the astutest observers. the knowledge that margrave had gained of my abode, of my affliction, or of the innermost thoughts in my mind, it a strange story. surely demanded no preternatural aids to acquire. an old bailey attorney could have got at the one, and any quick student of human hearts have readily mastered the other. in fine, margrave, thus ration- ally criticized, is no other prodigy (save in degree and concurrence of attributes simple, though not very common) than may be found in each alley that harbors a fortune-teller who has just faith enough in the stars or the cards to bubble himself while he swindles his victims; earnest, indeed, in the self-conviction that he is really a seer, but reading the looks of his listeners, divining the thoughts that induce them to listen, and acquiring by practice a startling ability to judge what the listeners. will deem it most seer-like to read in the cards or divine from the stars. i leave this interpretation unassailed. it is that which is the most probable, it is clearly that which, in a case not my own i should have accepted; and yet i revolved and dismissed it. the moment we deal with things beyond our comprehension, and in which our own senses are appealed to and baffled, we revolt from the probable, as it seems to the senses of those who have not experienced what we have. and the same principle of wonder that led our philosophy up from inert ignorance into restless knowledge, now winding back into shadow-land reverses its rule by the way, and, at last, leaves us lost in the maze, our knowledge inert, and our ignorance restless. and putting aside all other reasons for hesitating to believe that mar- grave was the son of louis grayle - reasons which his own narrative might suggest - was it not strange that sir philip derval, who had instituted inquiries so minute, and reported them in his memoir with so faithful a care, should not have discovered that a youth, attended by the same woman who had attended grayle, had disappeared from the town on the same night as grayle himself disappeared ? but derval had re- lated truthfully, according to margrave's account, the flight of ayesha and her indian servant, yet not even alluded to the flight, not even to the existence, of the boy, who must have been of no mean importance - in the suite of louis grayle, if he were, indeed, the son whom grayle had made his constant companion, and constituted his principal heir. not many minutes did i give myself up to the cloud of reflections through which no sunbeam of light forced its way. one thought over- mastered all: margrave had threatened death to my lilian, and warned me of what i should learn from the lips of faber," the sage of the college.” i stood, shuddering, at the door of my home; i did not dare to enter. "allen," said a voice, in which my ear detected an unwonted tremu- lous faltering, “ be firm — be calm. i keep my promise. the hour is come in which you may again see the lilian of old — mind to mind, soul to soul.” * a strange story. faber's hand took mine, and led me into the house. “ you do, then, fear that this interview will be too much for her strength ? ” said i, whisperingly. “i cannot say; but she demands the interview, and i dare not refuse it.” chapter lxxviii. i left faber on the stairs, and paused at the door of lilian's room. the door opened suddenly, noiselessly, and her mother came out with one hand before her face and the other locked in amy's, who was leading her as a child leads the blind. mrs. ashleigh looked up, as i touched her, with a vacant, dreary stare. she was not weeping, as was her womanly wont in every pettier grief, but amy was. no word was ex- changed between us. i entered, and closed the door; my eyes turned mechanically to the corner in which was placed the small virgin bed, with its curtains white as a shroud. lilian was not there. i looked round, and saw her half-reclined on a couch near the window. she was dressed, and with care. was not that her bridal robe ? “ allen — allen,” she murmured. “ again, again my allen — again, again your lilian !” and, striving in vain to rise, she stretched out her arms in the yearning of reunited love. and as i knelt beside her, those arms closed round me for the first time, in the frank, chaste, holy tender- ness of a wife's embrace. “ah!” she said, in her low voice (her voice like cordelia’s was ever low), “ all has come back to me - all that i owe to your protecting, no- ble, trustful, guardian love!” “hush! hush! the gratitude rests with me - it is so sweet to love, to trust, to guard ! - my own, my beautiful, still my beautiful! suffering has not dimmed the light of those dear eyes to me! put your lips to my ear. whisper but these words : 'i love you, and for your sake i wish to live!'” “for your sake i pray — with my whole weak human heart -- i pray to live. listen. some day hereafter, if i am spared, under the purple blossoms of yonder waving trees, i shall tell you all, as i see it now, all that darkened or shone on me in my long dream, and before the dream closed around me, like a night in which cloud and star chase each other! some day hereafter, some quiet, sunlit, happy, happy day. but now all i would say is this : before that dreadful morning.” here she paused, a strange story. . shuddered, and passionately burst forth, “ allen, allen! you did not be- lieve that slanderous letter! god bless you! god bless you! great- hearted, high-souled -- god bless you, my darling! my husband! and he will! pray to him humbly as i do, and he will bless you." she stooped and kissed away my tears, then she resumed, feebly, meekly, .. sorrowfully : “ before that morning i was not worthy of such a heart, such a love as yours. no, no; hear me. not that a thought of love for another ever crossed me! never, when conscious and reasoning, was i untrue to you - even in fancy. but i was a child — wayward as the child who pines for what earth cannot give, and covets the moon for a toy. heaven had been so kind to my lot on earth, and yet with my lot on earth i was secretly discontented. when i felt that you loved me, and my heart told me that i loved again, i said to myself, now the void that my soul finds on earth will be filled.' i longed for your coming, and yet when you went i murmured, · but is this the ideal of which i had dreamed ?' i asked for an impossible sympathy. sympathy with what? nay, smile on me, dearest ! — sympathy with what? i could not have said. ah! allen, then, then i was not worthy of you, infant that i was, i asked you to understand me. now i know that i am woman, and my task is to study you! do i make myself clear ? do you forgive me ? i was not untrue to you; i was untrue to my own duties in life. i be- lieved, in my vain conceit, that a mortal's dim vision of heaven raised me above the earth; i did not perceive the truth that earth is a part of the same universe as heaven! now, perhaps in the awful affliction that darkened my reason, my soul has been made more clear. as if to chas- tise but to teach me, my soul has been permitted to indulge its own pre- sumptuous desire ; it has wandered forth from the trammels of mortal duties and destinies; it comes back, alarmed by the dangers of its own rash and presumptuous escape from the tasks which it should desire on earth to perform allen, allen, i am less unworthy of you now! per- haps in my darkness one rapid glimpse of the true world of spirit has been vouchsafed to me. if so, how unlike to the visions my childhood indulged as divine! now, while i know still more deeply that there is a world for the angels, i know also that the mortal must pass through probation in the world of mortals. oh, may i pass through it with you - grieving in your griefs, rejoicing in your joys !” here language failed her. again the dear arms embraced me, and the dear face, eloquent with love, hid itself on my human breast. a strange story. chapter lxxix. that interview is over! again i am banished from lilian's room; the agitation, the joy of that meeting has overstrained her enfeebled nerves. convulsive tremblings of the whole frame, accompanied with vehement sobs, succeeded our brief interchange of sweet and bitter thoughts. faber, in tearing me from her side, imperiously and sternly warned me that the sole chance yet left of preserving her life was in the merciful suspense of the emotions that my presence excited. he and amy resumed their place in her chamber. even her mother shared my sentence of banishment. so mrs. ashleigh and i sat facing each other in the room below; over me a leaden stupor had fallen, and i heard, as a voice from afar or in a dream, the mother's murmured wailings. “ she will die — she will die! her eyes have the same beavenly look as my gilbert's on the day on which his closed forever. her very words are his last words -- forgive me all my faults to you.' she will die she will die!” ilours thus passed away. at length faber entered the room; he spoke first to mrs. ashleigh - meaningless soothings, familiar to the lips of all who pass from the chamber of the dying to the presence of mourners, and know that it is a falsehood to say “ hope,” and a mockery, as yet, to say “ endure.” but he led her away to her own room docile as a wearied child led to sleep, stayed with her some time, and then returned to me, pressing me to his breast, father-like. “no hope -- no hope !” said i, recoiling from his embrace. “you are silent. speak! speak! let me know the worst.” “i have a hope, yet i scarcely dare to bid you share it, for it grows rather out of my heart as man than my experience as physician. i cannot think that her soul would be now so reconciled to earth — so fondly, so earnestly cling to this mortal life - if it were about to be summoned away. you know how commonly even the sufferers who have dreaded death the most become calmly resigned to its coming, when death visibly reveals itself out from the shadows in which its shape has been guessed and not seen. as it is a bad sign for life when the patient has lost all will to live on, so there is hope while the patient yet young and with no perceptible breach in the great centres of life (however violently their forts may be stormed), has still intense faith in recovery, perhaps drawn (who can say ?) from the whispers conveyed from above to the soul. “ i cannot bring myself to think that all the uses for which a reason, a strange story. always so lovely even in its errors, has been restored, are yet fulfilled. it seems to me as if your union, as yet so imperfect, has still for its end that holy life on earth by which two mortal beings strengthen each other for a sphere of existence to which this is the spiritual ladder. through yourself i have hope yet for her. gifted with powers that rank you high in the manifold orders of man — thoughtful, laborious, and brave; with a heart that makes intellect vibrate to every fine touch of humanity; in error itself conscientious, in delusions still eager for truth; in anger, forgiving; in wrong, seeking how to repair; and best of all, strong in a love which the mean would have shrunk to defend from the fangs of the slanderer — a love, raising passion itself out of the realm of the senses, made sublime by the sorrows that tried its devotion ; with all these noble proofs in yourself of a being not meant to end here — your life has stopped short in its uses, your mind itself has been drifted, a bark without rud- der or pilot, over seas without shore, under skies without stars. and wherefore ? because the mind you so haughtily vaunted has refused its companion and teacher in soul. “and therefore, through you, i hope that she will be spared yet to live on. she; in whom soul has been led dimly astray, by unheeding the checks and the definite goals which the mind is ordained to prescribe to its wanderings while bere; the mind taking thoughts from the actual and visible world, and the soul but vague glimpses and hints from the instinct of its ultimate heritage. each of you two seems to me as yet incomplete, and your destinies yet uncompleted. through the bonds of the heart, through the trials of time, ye have-both to consummate your marriage. i do not — believe me - i do not say this in the fanciful wis- dom of allegory and type, save that, wherever deeply examined, allegory and type run through all the most commonplace phases of outward and material life. i hope, then, that she may yet be spared to you — hope it, not from my skill as physician, but my inward belief as a christian. to perfect your own being and end, each of you has need of the other !” i started — the very words that lilian had heard in her vision.! “ but,” resumed faber, “ how can i presume to trace the numberless links of effects up to the first cause, far off — oh, far off — out of the scope of my reason. i leave that to philosophers, who would laugh my meek hope to scorn. “ possibly, probably, where i, whose calling has been but to save flesh from the worm, deem that the life of your lilian is needed yet, to de- velop and train your own convictions of soul, heaven in its wisdom may see that her death would instruct you far more than her life. i have said: be prepared for either ; wisdom through joy, or wisdom through grief. enough that, looking only through the mechanism by which this a strange story. moral world is impelled and improved, you know that cruelty is impossi- ble to wisdom. even a man, or man's law, is never wise but when it is merciful. but mercy has general conditions; and that which is mercy to the myriads may seem hard to the one; and that which seems hard to the one in the pang of a moment may be mercy when viewed by the eye that looks on through eternity.” and from all this discourse - of which i now, at calm distance of time, recall every word — my human, loving heart bore away for the moment but this sentence, “ each hás need of the other;” so that i cried out, “ life, life, life! is there no hope for her life? have you no hope as physician ? i am physician too; i will see her. i will judge. i will not be banished from my post.” “ judge then, as physician, and let the responsibility rest with you. at this moment all convulsion, all struggle has ceased, the frame is at rest. look on her, and perhaps only the physician's eye could distin- guish her state from death. it is not sleep, it is not trance, it is not the dooming coma from which there is no awaking. shall i call it by the name received in our schools ? is it the catalepsy in which life is sus- pended, but consciousness acute ? she is motionless, rigid ; it is but with a strain of my own sense that i know that the breath still breathes, and the heart still beats. but i am convinced that though she can neither speak nor stir, nor give sign, that she is fully, sensitively con- scious of all that passes around her. she is like those who have seen the very coffin carried into their chamber, and been unable to cry out, . do not bury me alive!' judge then for yourself, with this intense con- sciousness and this impotence to evince it, what might be the effect of your presence — first an agony of despair, and then the complete extinc- tion of life!” : "i have known but one such case. a mother whose heart was wrapped up in a suffering infant. she had lain for two days and two nights, still, as if in her shroud. all, save myself, said, “life is gone. i said, life still is there. they brought in the infant, to try what effect its presence would produce; then her lips moved, and the hands crossed upon her bosom trembled.” “ and the result ?” exclaimed faber, eagerly. “if the result of your experience sanction your presence, come; the sight of the babe re- kindled life ?” “ no; extinguished its last spark! i will not enter lilian's room. i will go away- away from the house itselt. that acute consciousness ! i know it well! she may even hear me move in the room below, hear me speak at this moment. go back to her, go back! but if hers be the state which i have known in another, which may be yet more familiar to a strange story. persons of far ampler experience than mine, there is no immediate danger of death. the state will last through to-day, through to-night; perhaps for days to come. is it so ?” “i believe that for at least twelve hours there will be no change in her state. i believe also that if she recover from it calm and refreshed, as from a sleep, the danger of death will have passed away.” “ and for twelve hours my presence would be hurtful ? ” “ rather say fatal, if my diagnosis be right.” i wrung my friend's hand, and we parted. « oh, to lose her now !-- now that her love and her reason had both returned, each more vivid than before! futile, indeed, might be mar- grave's boasted secret; but at least in that secret was hope. in recog- nized science i saw only despair. and at that thought all dread of this mysterious visitor vanished - all anxiety to question more of his attributes or his history. his life itself became to me dear and precious. what if it should fail me in the steps of the process, whatever that was, by which the life of my lilian might be saved ! the shades of evening were now closing in. i remembered that i had left margrave without even food for many hours. i stole round to the back of the house, filled a basket with aliments, more generous than those of the former day; extracted fresh drugs from my stores, and, thus laden, hurried back to the hut. i found margrave in the room below, seated on his mysterious coffer, leaning his face on his hand. when i entered, he looked up and said: “ you have neglected me. my strength is waning. give me more of the cordial, for we have work before us to-night, and i need support.” he took for granted my assent to his wild experiment; and he was right. i administered the cordial. i placed food before him, and this time he did not eat, with repugnance. i poured out wine, and he drank it sparingly, but with ready compliance, saying, “in perfect health i looked upon wine as poison, now it is like a foretaste of the glorious elixir." after 'he had thus recruited himself, he seemed to acquire an energy that startlingly contrasted his languor the day before; the effort of breath- ing was scarcely perceptible; the color came back to his cheeks; his bended frame rose elastic and erect. “ if i understood you rightly,” said i, “ the experiment you ask me to aid can be accomplished in a single night?” “in a single night - this night!” a strange story, “ command me. why not begin at once? what apparatus or chem- ical agencies do you need ? ” “ah,” said margrave; “ formerly, how i was misled! formerly, how - my conjectures blundered! i thought, when i asked you to give a month to the experiment i wished to make, that i should need the subt- lest skill of the chemist. i then believed, with van helmont, that the principle of life is a gas, and that the secret was but in the mode by which the gas might be rightly administered. but now all that i need is contained in this coffer, save one very simple material — fuel suffi- cient for a steady fire for six hours. i see even that is at hand, piled up in your outhouse. and now for the substance itself — to that you must guide me.” explain.” “ near this very spot is there not gold — in mines yet undiscovered ? - and gold of the purest metal ?” “ there is. what then? do you, with the alchemists, blend in one discovery — gold and life ?” . “ no. but it is only where the chemistry of earth or of man produces gold that the substance from which the great pabulum of life, extracted by ferment, is found. possibly, in the attempts at that transmutation of metals, which i think your own great chemist — sir humphrey davy - allowed might be possible, but held to be not worth the cost of the pro- cess — possibly, in those attempts, some scanty grains of this substance were found by the alchemists in the crucible, with grains of the metal as niggardly yielded by pitiful mimicry of nature's stupendous laboratory; and from such grains enough of the essence might, perhaps, have been drawn forth to add a few years of existence to some feeble graybeard — granting, what rests on no proofs, that some of the alchemists reached an age rarely given to man. but it is not in the miserly crucible, it is in the matrix of nature herself that we must seek in prolific abundance nature's grand principle — life. as the loadstone is rife with the mag- netic virtue, as amber contains the electric, so in this substance, to which we yet want a name, is found the bright life-giving fluid. in the old gold mines of asia and europe the substance exists, but can rarely be met with. the soil for its nutriment may there be well-nigh exhausted. it is here, where nature herself is all vital with youth, that the nutriment of youth must be sought. near this spot is gold — guide me to it.” “you cannot come with me. the place which i know as auriferous is some miles distant; the way rugged. you cannot walk to it. it is true i have horses, but " “ do you think i have come this distance, and not foreseen and fore- a strange story. stalled all that i want for my object? trouble yourself not with con- jectures how i can arrive at the place. i have provided the means to arrive at, and leave it. my litter and its bearers are in reach of my call. give me your arm to the rising ground fifty yards from your door." i obeyed mechanically, stifling all surprise. i had made my resolve, and admitted no thought that could shake it. when we reached the summit of the grassy hillock, which sloped from the road that led to the sea-port, margrave, after pausing to recover breath, lifted up his voice in a key not loud, but shrill and slow and pro- longed, half cry and half chant, like the night-hawk's. through that air, so limpid and still, bringing near far objects, far sounds, the voice pierced its way, artfully pausing, till wave after wave of the atmosphere bore and transmitted it on. in a few minutes the call seemed reëchoed, so exactly, so cheerily, that for the moment i thought that the note was the mimicry of the shy mocking lyre-bird, which mimics so merrily all that it hears in the cov- erts, from the whirr of the locust to the howl of the wild dog. “what king,” said the mystic charmer, and as he spoke he carelessly rested his hand on my shoulder, so that i trembled to feel that this dread son of nature, godless and soulless, who had been — and my heart whis- pered, who still could be — my bane and mind-darkener, leaned upon me for support, as the spoiled younger born on his brother — "what king,” said this cynical mocker, with his beautiful boyish face — " what king in your civilized europe has the sway of a chief of the east ? what link is so strong between mortal and mortal as that between lord and slave? i transport yon poor fools from the land of their birth ; they preserve here their old habits - obedience and awe. they would wait till they starved in the solitude — wait to hearken and answer my call. and i, who thus rule them or charm them — i use and despise them. they know that and yet serve me! between you and me, my philoso- pher, there is but one thing worth living for – life for one's self.”. is it age, is it youth, that thus shocks all my sense, in my solemn com- pleteness of man? perhaps, in great capitals, young men of pleasure will answer, “it is youth; and we think what he says !” young friends, i do not believe you. .. a strange story. chapter lxxx. along the grass track i saw now, under the moon, just risen, a strange procession - never seen before in australian pastures. it moved on, noiselessly but quickly. we descended the billock, and met it on the way. a sable litter, borne by four men, in unfamiliar eastern garments; two other swarthy servitors, more bravely dressed, yataghans and silver- hilted pistols in their belts, preceding this sombre equipage. perhaps margrave divined the disdainful thought that passed through my mind, vaguely and half consciously; for he said, with the hollow, bitter laugh that had replaced the lively peal of his once melodious mirth: “ a little leisure and a little gold, and your raw colonist, too, will have the tastes of a pashaw.” i made no answer. i had ceased to care who and what was my tempter. to me his whole being was resolved into one problem. had he a secret by which death could be turned from lilian ? but now, as the litter halted, from the long dark shadow which it cast upon the turf, the figure of a woman emerged, and stood before us. the outlines of her shape were lost in the loose folds of a black mantle, and the features of her face were hidden by a black veil, except only the dark, bright, solemn eyes. her stature was lofty, her bearing majestic, whether in movement or repose. margrave accosted her in some language unknown to me. she replied in what seemed to my ear the same tongue. the tones of her voice were sweet, but inexpressibly mournful. the words that they uttered appeared intended to warn, or deprecate, or dissuade, for they called to margrave's brow a lowering frown, and drew from his lips a burst of unmistakable anger. the woman rejoined, in the same melancholy music of voice. and margrave then, leaning his arm upon her shoulder, as he had leaned it on mine, drew her away from the group into a neighboring copse of the flowering eucalypti — mystic trees, never changing the hues of their pale-green leaves, ever shifting the tints of their ash-gray, shedding bark. for some moments i gazed on the two human forms, dimly seen by the glinting moonlight through the gaps in the foliage. then, turning away my eyes, i saw, standing close at my side, a man whom i had not noticed before. his footstep, as it stole to me, had fallen on the sward without sound. his dress, though oriental, differed from that of his companions, both in shape and color; fitting close to the breast, leaving the arms bare to the elbow, and of a uniform, ghastly white, as, are the cerements of a strange story. : the grave. his visage was even darker than those of the syrians or arabs behind him, and his features were those of a bird of prey -- the beak of the eagle, but the eye of the vulture. his cheeks were hollow; the arms, crossed on his breast, were long and fleshless. yet in that skeleton form there was a something which conveyed the idea of a ser- pent's suppleness and strength; and as the hungry, watchful eyes met my own startled gaze, i recoiled impulsively with that inward warning of danger which is conveyed to man, as to inferior animals, in the very as- pect of the creatures that sting or devour. at my movement the man inclined his head in the submissive eastern salutation, and spoke in his foreign tongue, softly, humbly, fawningly, to judge by his tone and his gesture. i moved yet further away from him with loathing, and now the liuman thought flashed upon me: was i in truth exposed to no danger in trust- ing myself to the mercy of the weird and remorseless master of those hirelings from the east ? — seven men in number, two at least of them formidably armed, and docile as bloodhounds to the hunter, who has only to show them their prey. but fear of man like myself is not my weak- ness; where fear found its way to my heart it was through the doubts or the fancies in which man like myself disappeared in the attributes, dark and unknown, which we give to a fiend or a spectre. and perhaps, if i could have paused to analyze my own sensations, the very presence of this escort — creatures of flesh and blood -- lessened the dread of my incomprehensible tempter. rather, a hundred times, front and defy those seven eastern slaves — i, haughty son of the anglo-saxon who conquers all races because he fears no odds - than have seen again on the walls of my threshold the luminous, bodiless shadow! besides, lilian — lilian! for one chance of saving her life, however wild and chimerical that chance might be, i would have shrunk not a foot from the march of an army. thus reassured and thus resolved, i advanced, with a smile of disdain, to meet margrave and his veiled companion, as they now came from the moonlit copse. “well,” i said to him, with an irony that unconsciously mimicked his own,“ have you taken advice with your nurse? i assume that the dark form by your side is that of ayesha!” the woman looked at me from her sable veil, with her steadfast, sol- emn eyes, and said, in english, though with a foreign accent, “ the nurse, born in asia, is but wise through her love; the pale son of europe is wise through his art. the nurse says, “forbear!' do you say · adventure ?'” “peace!” exclaimed margrave, stamping his foot on the ground, “i . . a strange story. hitherto the veiled woman had remained in the rear, with the white- robed, skeleton-like image that had crept to my side unawares, with its noiseless step. thus, in each winding turn of the difficult path at which the convoy, following behind me, came into sight, i had seen first the two gayly-dressed armed men, next the black bier-like litter, and last the black-veiled woman and the white-robed skeleton. but now, as i halted on the table-land, backed by the mountain and fronting the valley, the woman left her companion, passed by the litter and the armed men, and paused by my side, at the mouth of the moonlit cavern. " there for a moment she stood, silent, the procession below mounting upward laboriously and slow; then she turned to me, and her veil was withdrawn. the face on which i gazed was wondrously beautiful, and severely awful. there was neither youth nor age — a beauty mature and majes- tic as that of a marble demeter. “do you believe in that which you seek ?" she asked, in her foreign, melodious, melancholy accents. “i have no belief,” was my answer. " true science has none. true science questions all things, takes nothing upon credit. it knows but three states of mind — denial, conviction, and that vast interval between the two which is not belief, but suspense of judgment.” the woman let fall her veil, moved from me, and seated herself on a crag above that cleft between mountain and creek, to which, when i had first discovered the gold that the land nourished, the rain from the ·clouds had given the rushing life of the cataract, but which now, in the drought and hush of the skies, was but a dead pile of stones. the litter now ascended the height; its bearers halted; a lean hand tore the curtains aside, and margrave descended, leaning, this time, not on the black-veiled woman, but on the white-robed skeleton. there, as he stood, the moon shone full on his wasted form; on his face, resolute, cheerful, and proud, despite its hollowed outlines and sick- lied hues. he raised his head, spoke in the language unknown to me, and the armed men and the litter-bearers grouped round him, bending low, their eyes fixed on the ground. the veiled woman rose slowly and came to his side, motioning away with a mute sign the ghastly form on which he leaned, and passing round him silently instead her own sus- taining arm. margrave spoke again a few sentences, of which i could not even guess the meaning. when he had concluded, the armed men and the litter-bearers came nearer to his feet, knelt down, and kissed his hand. they then rose and took from the bier-like vehicle the coffer and the fuel. this done, they lifted again the litter, and again, preceded by * a strange story. the armed men, the procession descended down the sloping hill-side, down into the valley below. margrave now whispered for some moments into the ear of the hideous creature who had made way for the veiled woman. the grim skeleton bowed his head submissively, and strode noiselessly away through the long grasses; the slender stems, trampled under his 'stealthy feet, relifting themselves, as after a passing wind. and thus he too sank out of sight down into the valley below. on the table-land of the hill remained only we three — margrave, myself, and the veiled woman. she had reseated herself apart; on the gray crag above the dried tor- rent. he stood at the entrance of the cavern round the sides of which clustered parasital plants, with flowers of all colors, some among them opening their petals and exhaling their fragrance only in the hours of night; so that, as his form filled up the jaws of the dull arch, obscuring the moonbeam that strove to pierce the shadows that slept within, it stood now — wan and blighted — as i had seen it first, radiant and joyous,“ lit- erally framed in blooms.” chapter lxxxii. . “ so," said margrave, turning to me, “under the soil that spreads around us lies the gold, which to you and to me is at this moment of no value, except as a guide to its twin-born — the regenerator of life!” “you have not yet described to me the nature of the substance which we are to explore, nor of the process by which the virtues you impute to it are to be extracted.” “let us first find the gold, and instead of describing the life-amber, so let me call it, i will point it out to your own eyes. as to the process, your share in it is so simple, that you will ask me why i seek aid from a chemist. the life-amber, when found, has but to be subjected to heat and fermentation for six hours; it will be placed in a small caldron which 'that coffer contains, over the fire which that fuel will feed. to give effect to the process, certain alkalis and other ingredients are required. but these are prepared, and mine is the task to commingle them. from your science as a chemist i need and ask naught. in you i have sought only the aid of a man." “ if that be so, why, indeed, seek me at all ?” why not confide in those swarthy attendants who doubtless are slaves to your orders ? ” a strange story. “ confide in slaves! when the first task enjoined to them would be to discover, and refrain from purloining gold. seven such unscrupulous knaves, or even one such, and i thus defenceless and feeble! such is not the work that wise masters confide to fierce slaves. but that is the least of the reasons which exclude them from my choice, and fix my choice of assistant on you. do you forget what i told you of the danger which the dervish declared no bribe i could offer could tempt him a sec- ond time to brave?” “i remember now; those words had passed away from my mind.” . “ and because they had passed away from your mind, i chose you for my comrade. i need a man by whom danger is scorned.” “but in the process of which you tell me i see no possible danger un- less the ingredients you mix in your caldron have poisonous fumes." “ it is not that. the ingredients i use are not poisons.” " what other danger except you dread your own eastern slaves ? but if so, why lead them to these solitudes ? and if so, why not bid me be armed ? ” “ the eastern slaves, fulfilling my commands, will wait for my sum- mons where their eyes cannot see what we do. the danger is of a kind in which the boldest son of the east would be more craven perhaps than the daintiest sybarite of europe, who would shrink from a panther and laugh at a ghost. in the creed of the dervish, and of all who adven- ture into that realm of nature which is closed to philosophy and open to magic, there are races in the magnitude of space unseen as animal- cules in the world of a drop. for the tribes of the drop science has its microscope. of the hosts of yon azure infinite, magic gains sight, and through them gains command over fluid conductors that link all the parts of creation. of these races some are wholly indifferent to man,-some benign to him, and some dreadly hostile. in all the regular and prescribed conditions of mortal being this magic realm seems as blank and tenantless as yon vacant air. but when a seeker of powers beyond the rude functions by which man plies the clock-work, that measures his hours and stops when its chain reaches the end of its coil, strives to pass over those boundaries at which philosophy says, “ knowl- edge ends,' then he is like all other travellers in regions unknown; he must propitiate or brave the tribes that are hostile, must depend for his life on the tribes that are friendly. though your science dis- credits the alchemist's dogmas, your learning informs you that all al- chemists were not ignorant impostors; yet those whose discoveries prove them to have been the nearest allies to your practical knowledge, ever hint in their mystical works at the reality of that realm which is open to magic — ever hint that some means less familiar than furnace and bellows a strange story. are essential to him who explores the elixir of life. he who once quaffs that elixir obtains in his very veins the bright fluid by which he trans- mits the force of his will to agencies dormant in nature, to giants unseen in the space. and here, as he passes the boundary which divides his al- . lotted and normal mortality from the regions and races that magic alone can explore, so here he breaks down the safeguard between himself and the tribes that are hostile. is it not ever thus between man and man? let a race, the most gentle and timid and civilized, dwell on one side a river or mountain, and another have home in the region beyond, each, if it pass not the intervening barrier between them, may with each live in peace. but if ambitious adventurers scale the mountain, or cross the river, with design to subdue and enslave the populations they boldly invade, then all the invaded rise in wrath and defiance — the neighbors are changed into foes. and, therefore, this process, by which a simple though rare mate- rial of nature is made to yield to a mortal the boon of a life which brings with its glorious resistance to time, desires, and faculties to subject to its service beings that dwell in the earth, and the air, and the deep, has ever been one of the same peril which an invader must brave when he crosses the bounds of his nation. by this key alone you unlock all the cells of the alchemist's lore; by this alone understand how a labor, which a chemist's crudest apprentice could perform, has baffled the giant fathers of all your dwarfed children of science. nature, that stores this price- less boon, seems to shrink from conceding it to man — the invisible tribes that abhor him oppose themselves to the gain that might give them a master. the duller of those, who were the life-seekers of old, would have told you how some chance, trivial, unlooked for, foiled their grand hope at the very point of fruition; some doltish mistake, some improv- ident oversight; a defect in the sulphur, a wild overflow in the quick- silver, or a flaw in the bellows, or a pupil, who had but to replenish the fuel, fell asleep by the furnace.. the invisible foes seldom vouchsafe to make themselves visible where they can frustrate the bungler, as they mock at his toils from their ambush. but the mightier adventurers, equally foiled in despite of their patience and skill, would have said, “ not with us rests the fault; we neglected no caution, we failed from no over- sight. but out from the caldron dread faces arose, and spectres or de- mons dismayed and baffled us. such, then, is the danger which seems so appalling to a son of the east, as it seemed to a seer in the dark age of europe. but we can deride all its threats, you and i. for myself, i own frankly i take all the safety that the charms and resources of magic bestow. you, for your safety, have the cultured and disciplined reason which reduces all phantasies to nervous impressions, and i rely on the courage of one who has questioned unquailing the luminous shadow, oud a strange story. wrested from the hand of the magician himself the wand which concen- tred the wonders of will !” to this strange and long discourse i listened without interruption, and now quietly answered, " i do not merit the trust you affect in my courage; but i am now on my guard against the cheats of the fancy, and the fumes of a vapor can scarcely bewilder the brain in the open air of this mountain-land. i believe in no races like those which you tell me lie viewless in space, as do gases. i believe not in magic; i ask not its aids, and i dread not its terrors, for the rest i am confident of one mournful courage — the cour- age that comes from despair. i submit to your guidance, whatever it be, as a sufferer whom colleges doom to the grave submits to the quack, who says, " take my specific and live!' my life is naught in itself; my life lives in another. you and i are both brave from despair; you would turn death from yourself, i would turn death from one i love more than myself. both know how little aid we can win from the colleges, and both, therefore, turn to the promises most audaciously cheering: dervish or magician, alchemist or phantom, what care you and ? and if they fail us, what then? they cannot fail us more than the colleges do!” chapter lxxxiii. the gold has been gained with an easy labor. i knew where to seek for it, whether under the turf or in the bed of the creek. but mar- grave's eyes, hungrily gazing round every spot. from which the ore was disburied, could not detect the substance of which he alone knew the outward appearance. i had begun to believe that even in the descrip- tion given to him of this material he had been credulously duped, and that no such material existed; when coming back from the bed of the watercourse, i saw a faint yellow gleam amidst the roots of a giant para- site plant, the leaves and blossoms of which climbed up the sides of the cave with its antediluvian relics. the gleam was the gleam of gold, and on removing the loose earth round the roots of the plant we came on - no, i will not - i dare not describe it. the gold-digger would cast it aside, the naturalist would pause not to heed it, and did i describe it, and chemistry deign to subject it to analysis, could chemistry alone detach or discover its boasted virtues ? its particles, indeed, are very minute, not seeming readily to crystal- a strange story. lize with each other, each in itself of uniform shape and size, spherical : as the egg which contains the germ of life, and small as the egg from which the life of an insect may quicken. but margrave's keen eye caught sight of the atoms upcast by the light of the moon. he exclaimed to me,“ found! i shall live!” and then, as he gathered up the grains with tremulous hands, he called out to the veiled woman, hitherto still seated motionless on the crag. at his word she rose and went to the place hard by, where the fuel was piled, busy- ing herself there. i had no leisure to heed her. i continued my search in the soft and yielding soil that time and the decay of vegetable life had accumulated over the pre-adamite strata on which the arch of the cave rested its mighty keystones. when we had collected of these particles about thrice as much as a man might hold in his hand, we seemed to have exhausted their bed. we continued still to find gold, but no more of the delicate substance to which, in our sight, gold was as dross. “enough,” then said margrave, reluctantly desisting. “what we have gained already will suffice for a life thrice as long as legend attrib- utes to haroun. i shall live-i shall live through the centuries.” “forget not that i claim my share.”. “ your share-yours! true — your half of my life ! - it is true.” he paused with a low, ironical, malignant laugh, and then added, as he rose and turned away, “but the work is yet to be done.” chapter lxxxiv. . while we had thus labored and found, ayesha had placed the fuel where the moonlight fell fullest on the sward of the table-land — a part of it already piled as for a fire, the rest of it heaped confusedly close at hand - and by the pile she had placed the coffer. and there she stood, her arms folded under her mantle, her dark image seeming darker still as the moonlight whiteņed all the ground from which the image arose mo- tionless. margrave opened his coffer, the veiled woman did not aid him, and i watched in silence, while he as silently made his weird and · wizard-like preparations. a strange story. and on the ring. observe, the contents of the vessel must be thriftily husbanded; there is enough, but not more than enough to sustain the light in the lamps, on the lines traced round the caldron and on the fur- ther ring for six hours. the compounds dissolved in this fluid are scarce - only obtainable in the east, and even in the east months might have passed before i could have increased my supply. i had no months to waste. replenish, then, the light only when it begins to flicker or fade. take heed, above all, that no part of the outer ring — no, not an inch and no lamp of the twelve, that are to its zodiac like stars, fade for one moment in darkness.” i took the crystal vessel from his hand. “ the vessel is small,” said i, “and what is yet left of its contents is but scanty; whether its drops suffice to replenish the lights i cannot guess, i can but obey your instructions. but more important by far than the light to the lamps and the circle, which in asia or africa might scare away the wild beasts unknown to this land - more important than light to a lamp is the strength to your frame, weak magician! what will sup- port you through six weary hours of night-watch?” " hope!” answered margrave, with a ray of his old dazzling smile. .“ hope! i shall live — i shall live through the centuries !” chapter lxxxvi. one hour passed away; the fagots under the caldron burned clear in the sullen sultry air. the materials within began to seethe, and their color, at first dull and turbid, changed into a pale rose hue; from time to time the veiled woman replenished the fire, after she had done so reseating herself close by the pyre, with her head bowed over her knees and her face hid under her veil. the lights in the lamps and along the ring and the triangles now began to pale. i resupplied their nutriment from the crystal vessel. as yet noth- ing strange startled my eye or my ear beyond the rim of the circle. noth- ing audible save, at a distance, the musical, wheel-like click of the locusts, and, further still in the forest, the howl of the wild dogs that never bark. nothing visible but the trees and the mountain range girding the plains silvered by the moon, and the arch of the cavern, the flush of wild blooms on its sides, and the gleam of dry bones on its floor where the moonlight shot into the gloom. a strange story. the second hour passed like the first. i had taken my stand by the side of margrave, watching with him the process at work in the caldron, when i felt the ground slightly vibrate beneath my feet, and, looking up, it seemed as if all the plains beyond the circle were heaving like the swell of the sea, and as if in the air itself there was a perceptible tremor. i placed my hand on margrave's shoulder and whispered, “ to me earth and air seem to vibrate. do they seem to vibrate to you?” “i know not, i care not,” he answered, impetuously. “ the essence is bursting the shell that confined it. here are my air and my earth! trouble me not. look to the circle — feed the lamps if they fail.” . i passed by the veiled woman as i walked toward a place in the ring in which the flame was waning dim. and i whispered to her the same question which i had whispered to margrave. she looked slowly around, and answered, “ so it is before the invisible make themselves visible! did i not bid him forbear?” her head again drooped on her breast, and her watch was again fixed on the fire. i advanced to the circle, and stooped to replenish the light where it waned. as i did so, on my arm, which stretched somewhat beyond the line of the ring, i felt a shock like that of electricity. the arm fell to .. my side numbed and nerveless, and from my hand dropped, but within the ring, the vessel that contained the fluid. recovering my surprise or my stun, hastily with the other hand i caught up the vessel, but some of the scanty liquid was already spilled on the sward ; and i saw with a thrill of dismay that contrasted, indeed, the tranquil indifference with which i had first undertaken my charge, how small a supply was now left. i went back to margrave and told him of the shock, and of its conse- quence in the waste of the liquid. “beware,” said he, “ that not a motion of the arm, not an inch of the foot passes the verge of the ring; and if the fluid be thus unhappily stinted, reserve all that is left for the protecting circle and the twelve outer lamps. see how the grand work advances ! how the hues in the caldron are glowing blood-red through the film on the surface !” : and now four hours of the six were gone; my arm had gradually re- covered its strength. neither the ring nor the lamps had again required replenishing; perhaps their light was exhausted less quickly, as it was no longer to be exposed to the rays of the intense australian moon. clouds had gathered over the sky, and though the moon gleamed at times in the gaps that they left in the blue air, her beam was more hazy and dulled. the locusts no longer were heard in the grass, nor the howl of the dogs in the forest. out of the circle the stillness was profound. a strange story. and about this time i saw distinctly in the distance a vast eye! it drew nearer and nearer, seeming to move from the ground at the height of some lofty giant. its gaze riveted mine; my blood curdled in the blaze from its angry ball; and now as it advanced, larger and larger, other eyes, as if of giants in its train, grew out from the space in its rear: numbers on numbers, like the spear-heads of some eastern army, seen afar by pale warders of battlements doomed to the dust. my voice long refused an utterance to my awe; at length it burst forth, shrill and lond : “look - look! those terrible eyes! legions on legions. and hark! that tramp of numberless feet; they are not seen, but the hollows of earth echo the sound of their march !” margrave, more than ever intent on the caldron, in which, from time to time, he kept dropping powders or essences drawn forth from his cof- fer, looked up, defyingly, fiercely: “ye come,” he said in a low mutter, his once mighty voice sounding hollow and laboring, but fearless and firm — ye come, not to conquer, vain rebels !-- ye, whose dark chief i struck down at my feet in the tomb where my spell had raised up the ghost of your first human master, the chaldee! earth and air have their armies still faithful to me, and still i remember the war-song that summons them up to confront you! ayesha - ayesha! recall the wild troth that we pledged among the roses; recall the dread bond by which we united our sway over hosts that yet own thee as queen, though my sceptre is broken, my diadem reft from my brows!” the veiled woman rose at this adjuration. her veil was now with- drawn, and the blaze of the fire between margrave and herself alushed, as with the rosy bloom of youth, the grand beauty of her softened face. it was seen, detached, as it were, from her dark-mantled form ; seen through the mist of the vapors which rose from the caldron, framing it round like the clouds that are yieldingly pierced by the light of the evening star. through the haze of the vapor came her voice, more musical, more plaintive than i had heard it before, but far softer, more tender; still in her foreign tongue; the words unknown to me, and yet their sense, per- .haps made intelligible by the love, which has one common language and one common look to all who have loved — the love unmistakably heard in the loving tone, unmistakably seen in the loving face. a moment or so more, and she had come round from the opposite side. of the fire pile, and, bending over margrave's upturned brow, kissed it, quietly, solemnly; and then her countenance grew fierce, her crest rose erect: it was the lioness protecting her young. she stretched forth her a strange story. / arm from the black mantle, athwart the pale front that now again bent over the caldron ; stretched it toward the haunted and hollow-sounding space beyond, in the gesture of one whose right hand has the sway of the sceptre! and then her voice stole on the air in the music of a chant not loud, yet far-reaching; so thrilling, so sweet, and yet so solemn, that i could at once comprehend how legend united of old the spell of enchant- ment with the power of song. all that i recalled of the effects which in the former tine margrave's strange chants had produced on the ear that they ravished and the thoughts they confused was but as the wild bird's imitative carol compared to the depth, and the art, and the soul of the singer, whose voice seemed endowed with a charm to enthrall all the tribes of creation, though the language it used for that charm might to them, as to me, be unknown. as the song ceased i heard from behind sounds like those i had heard in the spaces before me: the tramp of invisible feet, the whirr of invisible wings, as if armies were marching to aid against armies in march to destroy “look not in front nor around,” said ayesha. “look, like him, on the caldron below. the circle and the lamps are yet bright; i will tell thee when their light again fails.” i dropped my eyes on the caldron. " see,” whispered margrave, “the sparkles at last begin to arise, and the rose-hues to deepen; signs that we near the last process.” chapter lxxxvii. the fifth hour had passed away, when ayesha said to me, “lo! the circle is fading; the lamps grow dim. look now without fear on the space beyond ; the eyes that appalled thee are again lost in air, as light- nings that fleet back into cloud.” i looked up, and the spectres had vanished. the sky was tinged with sulphureous hues, the red and the black intermixed. i replenished the lamps and the ring in front, thriftily, heedfully; but when i came to the sixth lamp, not a drop in the vessel that fed them was left. in a vague dismay i now looked round the half of the wide circle in rear of the two bended figures intent on the caldron. all along that disk the light was already broken, here and there flickering up, here and there dying down; the six lamps in that half of the circle still twinkled, but faintly, as stars shrinking fast from the dawn of day. but it was not the fading a strange story. shine in that lialf of the magical ring which daunted my eye and quick- ened with terror the pulse of my heart; the bush-land beyond was on fire. from the back-ground of the forest rose the flame and the smoke; the smoke there still half-smothering the flame. but along the width of the grasses and herbage, between the verge of the forest and the bed of the water creek just below the raised platform from which i beheld the dread conflagration, the fire was advancing; wave upon wave, clear and red against the columns of rock behind; as the rush of a flood through the mists of some alp crowned with lightnings. roused from my stun at the first sight of a danger not foreseen by the mind i had steeled against far rarer portents of nature, i cared no more for the lamps and the circle. hurrying back to ayesha, i exclaimed, “ the phantoms have gone from the spaces in front; but what incantation or spell can arrest the red march of the foe, speeding on in the rear? while we gazed on the caldron of life, behind us, unheeded, behold the destroyer!” ayesha looked and made no reply, but, as by involuntary instinct, - bowed her majestic head, then rearing it erect, placed herself yet more immediately before the wasted form of the young magician (he still bending over the caldron, and hearing me not in the absorption and hope of his watch): placed herself before him, as the bird whose first care is her fledgling. as we two there stood, fronting the deluge of fire, we heard margrave behind us, murmuring low, “ see the bubbles of light, how they sparkle and dance — i shall live, i shall live!” and his words scarcely died on our ears before, crash upon crash, came the fall of the age-long trees in the forest; and nearer, all near us through the blazing grasses, the hiss of the serpents, the scream of the birds, and the bellow and tramp of the herds plunging wild through the billowy red of their pastures. ayesha now wound her arms around margrave, and wrenched him, reluctant and struggling, from his watch over the seething caldron. in rebuke of his angry exclamations, she pointed to the march of the fire, spoke in sorrowful tones a few words in her own language, and then, ap- pealing to me in english, said: “ i tell him that here the spirits who oppose us have summoned a foe that is deaf to my voice, and —" “ and,” exclaimed margrave, no longer with gasp and effort, but with the swell of a voice which drowned all the discords of terror and of ag- ony sent forth from the phlegethon burning below — "and this witch, whom i trusted, is a vile slave and impostor, more desiring my death than my life. she thinks that in life i should scorn and forsake her, that in death i should die in her arins! sorceress, avaunt! art thou useless · a strange story. and powerless now when i need thee most? go! let the world be one funeral pyre! what to me is the world if i perish? my world is my life. thou knowest that my last hope is here, that all the strength left me this night will die down, like the lamps in the circle, unless the elixir restore it. bold friend, spurn that sorceress away. hours yet ere those flames can assail us! a few minutes more, and life to your lilian and me!” thus having said, margrave turned from us, and cast into the caldron the last essence yet left in his emptied coffer. ayesha silently drew her black veil over her face, and turned, with the being she loved, from the terror he scorned, to share in the hope that he cherished. thus left alone, with my reason disenthralled, disenchanted, i surveyed more calmly the extent of the actual peril with which we were threat- ened, and the peril seemed less, so surveyed. it is true, all the bush-land behind, almost up to the bed of the creek, was on fire; but the grasses, through which the flame spread so rapidly, ceased at the opposite marge of the creek. watery pools were still, at intervals, left in the bed of the creek, shining tremulous, like waves of fire, in the glare reflected from the burning land; and even where the water failed, the stony course of the exhausted rivulet was a barrier against the march of the conflagration. thus, unless the wind, now still, should rise, and waft some sparks to the parched combustible herbage immediately around us, we were saved from the fire, and our work might yet be achieved. i whispered to ayesha the conclusion to which i came. " thinkest thou,” she answered, without raising her mournful head, “that the agencies of nature are the movements of chance. the spirits i invoked to his aid are leagued with the hosts that assail. a mightier than i am has doomed him!” scarcely had she uttered these words before margrave exclaimed, “behold how the rose of the alchemist's dream enlarges its bloom from the folds of its petals! i shall live, i shall live!” i looked, and the liquid which glowed in the caldron had now taken a splendor that mocked all comparisons borrowed from the lustre of gems. in · its prevalent color it had, indeed, the dazzle and flash of the ruby; but out from the mass of the molten red broke coruscations of all prismal hues, shooting, shifting, in a play that made the wavelets themselves seem living things sensible of their joy. no longer was there scum or film upon the surface; only ever and anon a light rosy vapor floating up, and quick lost in the haggard, heavy, sulphurous air, hot with the conflagration rushing toward us from behind. and these coruscations formed on the surface * a strange story of the molten ruby literally the shape of a rose, its leaves made distinct in their outlines by sparks of emerald, and diamond, and sapphire. even while gazing on this animate liquid lustre a buoyant delight seemed infused into my senses; all terrors conceived before were an- nulled; the phantoms, whose armies had filled the wide spaces in front, were forgotten; the crash of the forest behind was unheard. in the re- alection of that glory margrave's wan cheek seemed already restored to the radiance it wore when i saw it first in the frame-work of bloom. as i gazed, thus enchanted, a cold hand touched my own. “hush!” whispered ayesha, from the black veil, against which the rays from the caldron fell blunt and absorbed into dark. “behind us the light of the circle is extinct, but there we are guarded from all save the brutal and soulless destroyers. but, before !— but, before ! see! two of the lamps have died out!- see the blank of the gap in the ring! guard that breach — there, the demons will enter !” “not a drop is there left in this vessel by which to replenish the lamps on the ring." “ advance, then; thou hast still the light of the soul, and the demons may recoil before a soul that is dauntless and guiltless. if not, three are lost! - as it is, one is doomed.” · thus adjured, silently, involuntarily, i passed from the veiled woman's side, over the sere lines on the turf which had been traced by the triangles of light long since extinguished, and toward the verge of the circle. as i advanced, overhead rushed a dark cloud of wings, birds dislodged from the forest on fire, and screaming, in dissonant terror, as they flew towards the furthermost mountains : close by my feet hissed and glided the snakes, driven forth from their blazing coverts, and glancing through the ring, unscared by its waning lamps; all undulating by me, bright-eyed and hissing; all made inocuous by fear: even the terrible death-adder, which i trampled on as i halted at the verge of the circle, did not turn to bite, but crept harmless away. i halted at the gap between the two dead lamps, and bowed my head to look again into the crystal vessel. were there, indeed, no lingering drops yet left, if but to recruit the lamps for some priceless minutes more? as i thus stood, right into the gap between the two dead lamps, strode a gigantic foot. all the rest of the form was unseen; only, as volume after volume of smoke poured on from the burning land behind, it seemed as if one great column of vapor, eddying round, settled itself aloft from the circle, and that out from that column strode the giant foot. and as strode the foot, so with it came, like the sound of its tread, a roll of muttered thunder. i recoiled, with a cry that rang loud through the lurid air. a strange story. “ courage !” said the voice of ayesha. “trembling soul, yield not an inch to the demon !” at the charm, the wonderful charm in the tone of the veiled woman's voice, my will seemed to take a force more sublime than its own. i folded my arms on my breast, and stood as if rooted to the spot, con- fronting the column of smoke and the stride of the giant foot. and the foot halted, mute. again, in the momentary hush of that suspense, i heard a voice — it was margrave's. “ the last hour expires -- the work is accomplished! come! come !-- aid me to take the caldron from the fire — and quick! or a drop may be wasted in vapor, the elixir of life, from the caldron !” at that cry i receded, and the foot advanced. and at that moment, suddenly, unawares, from behind, i was stricken down. over me, as i lay, swept a whirlwind of trampling hoofs and glancing horns. the herds, in their flight from the burning pastures, had rushed over the bed of the watercourse --- scaled the slopes of the banks. snorting and bellowing, they plunged their blind way to the mountains. one cry alone more wild than their own savage blare pierced the reek through which the brute hurricane swept. at that cry of wrath and despair i struggled to rise, again dashed to the earth by the hoofs and the horns. but was it the dream-like deceit of my reeling senses, or did i see that giant foot stride past through the close-serried ranks of the maddening herds ? did i hear, distinct through all the huge uproar of animal terror, the roll of low thunder which followed the stride of that foot? chapter lxxxviii. when my sense had recovered its shock, and my eyes looked diz- zily round, the charge of the beasts had swept by; and of all the wild tribes which had invaded the magical circle, the only lingerer was the brown death-adder, coiled close by the spot where my head had rested. beside the extinguished lamps which the hoofs had confusedly scattered, the fire, arrested by the watercourse, had consumed the grasses that fed it, and there the plains stretched black and desert as the phlegræan field of the poet's hell. but the fire still raged in the forest beyond - white flames, soaring up from the trunks of the tallest trees, and forining, through the sullen dark of the smoke-reek, innumerable pillars of fire, like the halls in the city of fiends. a strange story. gathering myself up, i turned my eyes from the terrible pomp of the lurid forest, and looked fearfully down on the hoof-trampled sward for my two companions. i saw the dark image of ayesha still seated, still bending, as i had seen it last. i saw a pale hand feebly grasping the rim of the magical caldron, which lay, hurled down from its tripod by the rush of the beasts, yards away from the dim fading embers of the scattered wood pyre. i saw the faint writhings of a frail, wasted frame, over which the veiled woman was bending. i saw, as i moved with bruised limbs to the place, close by the lips of the dying magician, the flash of the ruby-like essence spilled on the sward, and, meteor-like, sparkling up from the torn tufts of herbage. i now reached margrave's side, bending over him as the veiled woman bent; and as i sought gently to raise him, he turned his face, fiercely, faltering out, “ touch me not, rob me not. you share with me! never -- never. these glorious drops are all mine!” die all else! i will live – i will live!” writhing himself from my pitying arms, he plunged his face amidst the beautiful, playful flame of the essence, as if to lap the elixir with lips scorched away from its intolerable burning. suddenly, with a low shriek, he fell back, his face upturned to mine, and on that face unmistakably reigned death. then ayesha tenderly, silently drew the young head to her lap, and it vanished from my sight behind her black veil. i knelt beside her, murmuring some trite words of comfort; but she heeded me not, rocking herself to and fro as the mother who cradles a child to sleep. soon the fast flickering sparkles of the lost elixir died out on the grass, and with their last sportive diamond-like tremble of light, up, in all the suddenness of australian day, rose the sun, lifting himself royally above the mountain-tops, and fronting the meaner blaze of the forest as a young king fronts his rebels. and as there, where the bush fires had ravaged, all was a desert, so there, where their fury had not spread, all was a garden. afar, at the foot of the mountains, the fugitive herds were grazing; the cranes, flocking back to the pools, renewed the strange grace of their gambols; and the great kingfisher, whose laugh, half in mirth, half in mockery, leads the choir that welcome the morn - which in europe is night — alighted bold on the roof of the cavern, whose floors were still white with the bones of races extinct before, formed to " walk erect and to gaze upon the stars," rose-so helpless through instincts, so royal through soul — rose man! but there, on the ground where the dazzling elixir had wasted its vir- tues, there the herbage already had a freshness of verdure which, amidst the duller sward around it, was like an oasis of green in a desert. and a strange story. there wild flowers, whose chill hues the eye would have scarcely distin- guished the day before, now glittered forth in blooms of unfamiliar beauty. toward that spot were attracted myriads of happy insects, whose hum of intense joy was musically loud. but the form of the life- seeking sorcerer lay rigid and stark; blind to the bloom of the wild flow- ers, deaf to the glee of the insects; one hand still resting heavily on the rim of the emptied caldron, and the face still hid behind the black veil. what! the wondrous elixir, sought with such hope and well-nigh achieved through such dread, fleeting back to the earth from which its material was drawn, to give bloom, indeed, but to herbs, - joy, indeed, but to insects ! and now in the flash of the sun slowly wound up the slopes that led to the circle the same barbaric procession which had sunk into the valley under the ray of the moon. the armed men came first, stalwart and tall, their vests brave with crimson and golden lace, their weapons gayly gleaming with holiday silver. after them, the black litter. as they came to the place, ayesha, not raising her head, spoke to them in their own eastern tongue. a wail was their answer. the armed men bounded forward, and the bearers left the litter. all gathered round the dead form with the face concealed under the black veil; all knelt, and all wept. far in the distance, at the foot of the blue mountains, a crowd of the savage natives had risen up as if from the earth; they stood motionless, leaning on their clubs and spears, and looking toward the spot on which we were – strangely thus brought into the landscape, as if they, too, the wild dwellers on the verge which humanity guards from the brute, were among the mourners for the mys- terious child of mysterious nature! and still in the herbage hummed the small insects, and still from the cavern laughed the great kingfisher. i said to ayesha, “ farewell, your love mourns the dead; mine calls me to the living. you are now with your own people; they may console you; say if i can assist.” “ there is no consolation for me! what mourner can be consoled if the dead die forever? nothing for him is left but a grave; that grave shall be in the land where the song of ayesha first lulled him to sleep! thou assist me— thou - the wise man of europe! from me ask assist- ance. what road wilt thou take to thy home?” “ there is but one road known to me through the maze of the solitude, that which we took to this upland.” “on that road death lurks and awaits thee! blind dupe, couldst thou think that if the grand secret of life had been won, he whose head rests on my lap would have yielded thee one petty drop of the essence which had filched from his store of life but a moment? me, who so a strange story. loved and so cherished him— me, he would have doomed to the pitiless cord of my servant, the strangler, if my death could have lengthened a hairbreadth the span of his being. but what matters to me his crime or his madness? i loved him - i loved him!” she bowed her veiled head lower and lower; perhaps, under the veil, her lips kissed the lips of the dead. then she said, whisperingly : * juma, the strangler, whose word never failed to his master, whose prey never slipped from his snare, waits thy step on the road to thy home! but thy death cannot now profit the dead, the beloved. and thou hast had pity for him who took but thine aid to design thy destruc- tion. his life is lost, thine is saved !”. she spoke no more in the tongue that i could interpret. she spoke, in the language unknown, a few murmured words to her swarthy attend- ants; then the armed men, still weeping, rose, and made a dumb sign to me to go with them. i understood by the sign that ayesha had told them to guard me on my way; but she gave no reply to my parting thanks chapter lxxxix. i descended into the valley; the armed men followed. the path, on that side of the watercourse not reached by the flames, wound through meadows still green, or amidst groves still unscathed. as a turning in the way brought in front of my sight the place i had left be- hind, i beheld the black litter creeping down the descent, with its cur- tains closed, and the veiled woman walking by its side. but soon the funeral procession was lost to my eyes, and the thoughts that it roused were erased. the waves in man's brain are like those of the sea, rush- ing on, rushing over the wrecks of the vessels that rode on their surface to sink, after storm, in their deeps. one thought cast forth into the fu- ture now mastered all in the past. “was lilian living still ?” absorbed in the gloom of that thought, hurried on by the goad that my heart, in its tortured impatience, gave to my footstep, i outstripped the slow stride of the armed men, and, midway between the place i had left and the home which i sped to, came, far in advance of my guards, into the thicket in which the bushmen had started up in my path on the night that lilian had watched for my coming. the earth at my feet was rife with creep- ing plants and many-colored flowers, the sky overhead was half hid by motionless pines. suddenly, whether crawling out from the herbage or a strange story. dropping down from the trees, by my side stood the white-robed and skeleton form — ayesha's attendant, the strangler. ' i sprang from him in shuddering, then halted and faced him. the hideous creature crept toward me, cringing and fawning, making signs. of humble good-will and servile obeisance. again i recoiled — wrathfully, loathingly; turned my face homeward and fled on. i thought i had baf- fied his chase, when, just at the mouth of the thicket, he dropped from a bough in my path close behind me. before i could turn, some dark muffing substance fell between my sight and the sun, and i felt a fierce strain at my throat. but the words of ayesha had warned me; with one rapid hand i seized the noose before it could tighten too closely, with the other i tore the bandage away from my eyes, and, wheeling round on the dastardly foe, struck him down with one spurn of my foot. his hand, as he fell, relaxed its hold on the noose; i freed my throat from the knot, and sprang from the copse into the broad sunlit plain. i saw no more of the armed men or the strangler. panting and breathless i paused at last before the fence, fragrant with blossoms, that divided my home from the solitude. the windows of lilian's room were darkened — all within the house seemed still. darkened and silenced home! with the light and sounds of the jocund day all around it. was there yet hope in the universe for me? all to which i had trusted hope, had broken down; the anchors i had forged for her hold in the beds of the ocean, her stay from the drifts of the storm, had snapped like the reeds which pierce the side that leans on the barb of their points and confides in the strength of their stems. no hope in the baffled resources of recognized knowledge! no hope in the daring adventures of mind into regions unknown; vain alike the calm lore of the practised physician and the magical arts of the fated enchanter! i had fled from the commonplace teachings of nature to explore in her shadow-land marvels at variance with reason. made brave by the grandeur of love, i had opposed without quailing the stride of the demon, and my hope, when fruition seemed nearest, had been trodden into dust by the hoofs of the beast! and yet, all the while, i had scorned, as a dream more wild than the word of a sorcerer, the hope that the old man and child, the wise and the ignorant, took from their souls as inborn! man and fiend had alike failed a mind not ignoble, not skilless, not abjectly craven; alike failed a heart not feeble and selfish, not dead to the hero's devotion, willing to shed every drop of its blood for a something more dear than an animal's life for itself! what remained — what remained for man's hope ? – man's mind and man's heart thus exhausting their all with no other result but despair? what . a strange story. remained but the mystery of mysteries, so clear to the sunrise of child- hood, the sunset of age, only dimmed by the clouds which collect round the noon of our manhood? where yet was hope found ? in the soul; in its everyday impulse to supplicate comfort and light from the giver of soul, wherever the heart is afflicted, the mind is obscured. then the words of ayesha rushed over me: “ what mourner can be consoled if the dead die forever ?” through every pulse of my frame throbbed that dread question. all nature around seened to murmur it. and suddenly, as by a flash from heaven, the grand truth in faber's grand reasoning shone on me, and lighted up all within and without. man alone, of all earthly creatures, asks, “ can the dead die forever?” and the instinct that urges the question itself is god's answer to man ! no instinct is given in vain. and, born with the instinct of soul is the instinct that leads the soul from the seen to the unseen, from time to eternity, from the torrent that foams toward the ocean of death, to the source of its stream, far aloft from the ocean. “ know thyself,” said the pythian of old. “that precept descended from heaven.” know thyself! is that maxim wise? if so, know thy soul. but never yet did man come to the thorough conviction of soul but what he acknowledged the sovereign necessity of prayer. in my awe, in my rapture, all my thoughts seemed enlarged and illumed and exalted. i prayed — all my soul seemed one prayer. all my past, with its pride and presumption and folly, grew distinct as the form of a peni- tent kneeling for pardon before setting forth on the pilgrimage vowed to a shrine. and, sure now, in the deeps of a soul first revealed to myself, that the dead do not die forever, my human love soared beyond its brief trial of terror and sorrow. daring not to ask from heaven's wisdom that lilian, for my sake, might not yet pass away from the earth, i prayed that my soul might be fitted to bear with submission whatever my maker might ordain. and if, surviving her, without whom no beam from yon material sun could ever warm into joy a morrow in human life — so to guide my steps that they might rejoin her at last, and, in rejoining, re- gain forever! how trivial now became the weird riddles that, a little while before, had been clothed in so solemn an awe. what mattered it to the vast interests involved in the clear recognition of soul and hereafter, whether or not my bodily sense, for a moment, obscured the face of the nature, i should one day behold as a spirit ? doubtless the sights and the sounds which had haunted the last gloomy night, the calm reason of faber would strip of their magical seemings; — the eyes in the space and the foot in the circle might be those of no terrible demons, but of a strange story. the wild's savage children whom i had seen, balting, curious and mute, in the light of the morning. the tremor of the ground (if not, as here- tofore, explicable by the illusory impression of my own treacherous senses) might be but the natural effect of elements struggling yet under a soil unmistakably charred by volcanoes. the luminous atoms dissolved in the caldron might as little be fraught with a vital elixir as are the splendors of naphtha or phosphor. as it was, the weird rite had no magic result. the magician was not rent limb from limb by the fiends. by causes as natural as ever extinguished life's spark in the frail lamp of clay, he had died out of sight - under the black veil. what mattered henceforth to faith, in its far grander questions and answers, whether reason, in faber, or fancy, in me, supplied the more probable guess at a hieroglyph which, if construed aright, was but a word of small mark in the mystical language of nature? if all the arts of enchantment recorded by fable were attested by facts which sages were forced to acknowledge, sages would sooner or later find some cause for such portents-- not supernatural. but what sage, without cause supernatural, both without and within him, can guess at the wonders he views in the growth of a blade of grass, or the tints on an insect's wing? whatever art man can achieve in his progress through time, man's 월 ​reason, in time, can suffice to explain." but the wonders of god? these belong to the infinite ; and these, o immortal ! will but develop new wonder on wonder, though thy sight be a spirit's, and thy leisure to track and to solve, an eternity. as i raised my face from my clasped hands my eyes fell full upon a form standing in the open door-way. there, where on the night in which lilian's long struggle for reason and life had begun, the luminous shadow had been beheld in the doubtful light of a dying moon and a yet hazy dawn; there, on the threshold, gathering round her bright locks the aureole of the glorious sun, stood amy, the blessed child ! and as i gazed, drawing nearer and nearer to the silenced house, and that image of peace on its threshold, i felt that hope met me at the door — hope in the child's steadfast eyes — hope in the child's welcom- ing smile! “i was at watch for you,” whispered amy. “ all is well!” “ she lives still — she lives! thank god — thank god!” “she lives — she will recover!” said another voice, as my head sunk on faber's shoulder. “for some hours in the night her sleep was dis- turbed — convulsed. i feared then the worst. suddenly, just before the dawn, she called out aloud, still in sleep, . the cold and dark shadow has passed away from me and from allen - passed away from us both forever!' a strange story. “ and from that moment the fever left her; the breathing became soft, the pulse steady, and the color stole gradually back to her cheek. the crisis is past. nature's benign disposer has permitted nature to restore your life's gentle partner, heart to heart, mind to mind — " " and soul to soul!” i cried, in my solemn joy. " above as below, soul to soul !” then, at a sign from faber, the child took me by the hand and led me up the stairs into lilian's room. again those dear arms closed round me in wife-like and holy love, and those true lips kissed away my tears ; - even as now, at the distance of years from that happy morn, while i write the last words of this strange story, the same faithful arms close around me, the same tender lips kiss away my tears. the end. ature to . . author's note. dove as ender ip de the reader will here observe a discrepancy between mrs. poyntz's account and sir philip derval's narrative. according to the former, louis grayle was tried in his absence from england, and sentenced to three years' imprisonment, which his flight enabled him to evade. according to the latter, louis grayle stood his trial, and obtained an acquittal. sir philip's account must, at least, be nearer the truth than the lady's, because louis grayle could not, according to english law, have been tried on a capital charge without being present in court. mrs. poyntz tells her story as a woman generally does tell a story - sure to make a mistake where she touches on a question of law; and - unconsciously perhaps to herself - the woman of the world warps the facts in her narrative so as to save the personal dignity of the hero who has captivated her interest, not from the moral odium of a great crime, but the debasing position of a prisoner at the bar. allen fenwick, no doubt, purposely omits to notice the discrepancy between these two statements, or to animadvert on the mistake which, in the eyes of a lawyer, would discredit mrs. poyntz’s. it is consistent with some of the objects for which allen fenwick makes public his strange story, to invite the reader to draw his own inferences from the contradictions by which, even in the most commonplace matters (and how much more in any tale of wonder!), a fact stated by one person is made to differ from the same fact stated by another. the rapidity with which a truth be- comes transformed into fable, when it is once sent on its travels from lip to lip, is illustrated by an amusement at this moment in fashion. the amusement is this. in a party of eight or ten persons, let one whisper to another an account of some supposed transaction, or a piece of invented gossip relating to absent persons, dead or alive; let the person, who thus first hears the story, proceed to whisper it, as exactly as he can remember what he has just heard, to the next; the next does the same to his neighbor, and so on, till the tale has run the round of the party. each narrator, as soon as he has whispered his version of the tale, writes down what he has whispered. and though, in this game, no one has any interest to misrepresent, but, on the contrary, each, for his own credit's sake, strives to repeat what he has heard as faithfully as he can, it will be almost invariably found that the story told by the first person has received the most material alterations before it has reached the eighth or the tenth. sometimes, the most important feature of the whole narrative is altogether omitted; sometimes, a feature altogether new, and preposterously absurd, has been added. at the close of the experiment one is tempted to exclaim, “how, after this, can any of those portions of history which the chronicler took from hearsay, be believed ?" but, above all, does not every anecdote of scandal which has passed, not through ten lips, but perhaps through ten thousand, before it has reached us, become quite as perplexing to him who would get at the truth, as the marvels he recounts are to the bewildered rea' son of. fenwick the sceptic? e. bolwer lytton. tales and works of fiction imported and for sale by wiley and putnam, broadway. by clar distinction, a tale. by the author of the baroness. vols. . history of margaret catchpole, a suffolk girl. vols., with illustra- tions. - - .: . tales, essays, and sketches, by the late robert macnish. with the author's life. vols. - sketches of irish character. by mrs. s. c. hall. vol., half morocco, with engravings. . - the scottish chiefs. by miss porter. vols., large vo., beautifully illustrated. - . progress of romance, through times, countries, and manners. reeve. vol , half-bound, very scarce. - - rhyme, romance, and revery. by j. b. "rogerson. thick volume, mo. - - naomi, or the last days of jerusalem. vol.. the life of a fox, written by himself. vol. . poole's comic miscellany. vol., portrait. tales of the genii. vol., mo., with a fine engraving. cruikshank's comic almanac, various years, each. broad grins, or tales in verse. by g. colman. hood's comic annual for . (the last). grattan's legends of the rhine. i vol. . five tales of old time. in vol., engravings. fouquè's wonderful history of peter schleinibl, with engravings. legends of rubezahl, and other tales. vol. .. new arabian nights' entertainments. vols. . louisa, or the bride. by the author of the fairy bower. the lost brooch. by the same author. vols. imitations of celebrated authors. vol. eastern romance. select 'tales from arabian sources. - howitt's wanderings of a german tailor. vol. life and adventures of peter wilkins, a cornish man. cruikshank at home, a family album. . emily's reward; or the holiday trip to paris. by mrs. hofland. punch's snapdragon for christmas. vol. the camp of refuge, an old english novellette. vols. - a volume of varieties. by charles knight. rebecca nathan, or a daughter of israel. vol. avon plein wiley & put nam's library of american books. , big abel, and the little manhattan. big a bel, and the little manhattan: by cornelius mathews. new york: wiley and putnam, broadway. mdcccxlv. . , co's entered according to act of congress, in the year , by wiley & putnam, in the clerk's office of the district court for the southern district of new-york. stereotyped by t. b. smite william street to jedediah b. auld, my true friend and early school-fellow: one of the six hundred scampering boys of the old crosby- street high-school : i dedicate this little book, with sincere affection and regard. c. m. new-york, march d, . contents. chap. i. the ghost of new-york . . . . . . i “ ii. big abel and the little manhattan come to terms, and get a night-view of the city . “ iii. how it goes the first day, with the city waking up . . . . . . . " iv. the city head-foremost in business; and the second day's work . . . . . . “ v. it strikes three; and the city takes his com fort . . . . . . . . . « vi. the city at his crimes; the little manhattan and big abel still busy. . . . . the fifth day of it; and the city disporting himself in a very low way. . . . “ viii. big abel and the little manhattan busy as ever. the city in his working-jacket . ix. they are in the seventh day; and where the city finds his children . . . . . . u x. it all winds up with an entertainment: a bird's-eye view of the whole, and where the city's moving to . . . . . big a bel, and the little manhattan. chapter i. the ghost of new york. whoever has sailed up or down the east river in a fog, or driven to hallet's cove, long island, on a dusty day, or walked the third avenue in the moonlight, has been beset by the vision of a great white tower, rising, ghost-like, in the air, and holding all the neighborhood in subjection to its repose and supernatural port. the shot-tower is a strange old fellow, to be sure ! 'spite of that incessant buzzing in his head, he holds himself as high and grandly, as though he hadn't the trouble of making shot for the six-and-twenty united states. he never dozes or nods, even in the summer noon; nor does he fall asleep in the most crickety nights, but winks, with that iron top of his, at all the stars, as they come up, one by one ; and outwatches them all. there he is, gaunt and clean, as a ghost in a new shroud, every day in the year. build as you may, old gotham! hammer and ding and trowel on all sides of him, if you choose,—you cannot stir him an inch, nor sully the whiteness in which he sees himself clothed, in that pure glass of his of kipp's bay! if you have seen him once, you know him always. a sturdy shot-tower to be sure !_and go where you will, you carry him with you. he is the ghost of . big abel, and [chap. i. new york, gone into the suburbs to meditate on the wickedness of mankind, and haunt the big city, in many a dream of war, and gun-shot wounds, and pattering carnage, when he falls asleep. and can you see him from the back steps of the city hall ? not with the naked eye: but lankey fogle standing there, once on a time, had him present to him, and shook at the very thought. he had just come down from the witness-stand, within, and was pausing at the porch, when he was of a sudden smitten on the shoulder, and he heard, audibly, a voice say to him: “ meet me by the shot-tower, at twelve to-night !” a voice, but nobody ; for he looked about promptly, and down the steps, and back through the hall. no one visible; but he knew the voice, and had a mind-yes, he was forced to have a mind, to obey it. lankey fogle had the shot-tower in fear; but he must go. his hat pressed close upon his eyes-eye-brow and brim were part each of the other; a faded blue coat, out at elbows, the broad wrists hanging over his hand ; shuffling shoes ; and lankey, a little man, withal : he descended the steps slowly, struck across the park, by the angle of the rotunda, and stood on the brow of chatham street, towards the square. the jews were as thick, with their gloomy whiskers, as blackberries; the air smelt of old coats and hats, and the side ways were glutted with dresses and over-coats and little, fat, greasy children. there were countrymen moving up and down the street, horribly harassed and perplexed, and every now and then falling into the hands of one of these fierce-whiskered jews, carried into a gloomy cavern, and presently sent forth again, in a garment, coat or hat or breeches, in which he might dance and turn his partner, to- boot. lankey fogle plunged down the declivity. “a coat, sir ?” “wont you, now, a new under-tog ?” " that 'ere hat !" “this way, sir, we're the no mistake !" the ghost.] the little manhattan. and as he slipped out of their hands- “cotton-baggin', sir, to fill out ?” “my eyes! there's holes for a ratter!” “ he'll be a wreck, i say, 'fore he reaches the square—he'll never live past roosevelt—my 'ord for it!" a soft strain of the flute floated from a back-room, as his figure passed the door, joined by a mellow, low whistle, which are, it is supposed, integral parts of speech in the dialect of jewry. lankey glided along, wrapped up in his coat and inner medita- tions, for it was nearing night; but it was of a truth as much as he was worth to get himself clear of the young barbarians who hung upon his skirts, as he passed along, and nearly brought them away. it was a bad case certainly, for the sun getting toward a level, shot through and through his apparel, passing in at an elbow and coming out at the hand; or piercing him through, from back to breast, as he turned ; till every dusty corner of lankey was lighted up with a sort of dim splendor. and when he came by the theatre (the chatham), the case was worse than all, for he was set upon from the area of the theatre by a swarm of fly-away boys, with— “ lankey! which way, now ?” “ i say, lankey fogle, where are you larking to ?”, “come in, will you ? kirby on the top round.” “ yes, yes, he's in the big bellows to-night. we'll treat you to a go!” “ and peanuts besides !” “keep off, will you, you young serpents !” and he glanced from under his rim. “why, what on earth’s the matter, now ? lankey in a huff!" “ three cheers for lankey in a huff!" the air was cracked with a small storm of cheers, which, blow- ing over, they renewed their game; but lankey stood firm ; and when they had all run up to him with a question and a close look in his face, and twisted him round on his heels by the arm, big abel, and [chap. i. he passed on, and reached the square, thinking of the old white shot-tower, and the figure it would make by the time he go there, toward the round hour of night. he was in the elbow, turning to cross the long walk, when he was called by name. he looked up; it was the little franklin theatre, abutting the burying-ground, you know, with all its golden letters blotted out, its balcony for the pretty actresses to stand in razed away, its little snug box-office crushed, and the heart and soul of it, in the shape of foot-lights and curtains, taken out; it was a second-hand shop, when lankey looked up at it, and a mysterious little man standing in an upper window winked at lankey, and uttered in a low voice : “ all right!" lankey looked at him with astonishment written out on his countenance in magnificent large text. “i say, it's all right!” the devil it is, thought lankey; and looked again. “i say, it's all right," a third time; this time with a knock on the crown of his hat. lankey smiled scornfully on the mysterious man and moved on; he had a new motive for speed. there was doyer street, yet; a war-path to the west, once, it is said, in indian times; and if he could get past that once, all would be well. but doyer street is a queer street, we all know; so crooked and gad-about and whimsical. ten chances to one if a man enter it at one end with his head on his shoulders it be not turned about by the time he is fairly out at the other. doyer street was not born, like other streets, in the commission. er's office, but was laid, so to speak, at the door of the square, exposed to the tender mercies, dependant on the charities of chance-comers (for every man is father to this disinterested little by-way), to give it a stone or a touch of a kerb! the eye of the druggist's red bottle was bloodshot, at the corner, for one thing; and there was a melancholy old woman carrying in a the ghost.) the little manhattan. bunch of eels with their heads down for another! but lankey fogle had a hope, and as sure as there's white light from the moon, he cleared it at a moderate run. when lankey stood fairly at the mouth of the bowery, he looked far away up its broad path as if he could see, looming up on its line, that ugly old shot-tower; that everlasting ghost of a tower that, go where he would, was in lankey fogle's eye, without an eye-stone to take it out. but he saw instead, this time, how, moved by a patriotism out of bounds, the whole air about this other theatre was indescribably hung with flags; a general hanging out, there seemed to be, of all the bunting of the country. the rope was strong; the flags were thick ; and they waved away, shutting out the sky and making a better heaven for the east bowery gazers to look up at and live under. and black vulture, that marvellous steed, how he came down the great, black, gaping precipice, upon the bills, striking the printer's ink from his heels, like fire! and the patriotic putnam, how he held on and clinched his teeth and set his hat fiercely a-cock! the bills were huge and yellow, and the type fear- fully large; and how the ragamuffins plunged down the steps, and the muffin-eaters rushed up! lankey fogle's resolution shook within him ; his feet quivered in his shoes with doubt; and he was on the eve of throwing himself in the wake of a chimney-sweeper down the pit-entrance, when, looking straight before him, at the bill, his eye, in spite of itself, fell upon a por. tentous “ beware !" it was enough: he hurried on as though the devil were at his back. and although now and then accosted by a bowery boy with a rough hand, and run against in token of affectionate recog- nition by a big vagabond, lankey, all things considered, made good speed; and, before he well knew it, was out upon the avenue ; and then he began to quake. he had not gone many steps in this direction when an arm was quietly thrust into his own; and he found himself march. big abel, and [chap. i. ing abreast of a stranger. he looked around. the stranger was a short man in a dusty coat, with a red, blossomy nose. what was the stranger's business with lankey fogle? there was a mighty din upon the avenue, and it was not easy to tell. the hard riders were coming in from harlem, and the road roared with the spinning of wheels, and the air was thick with flying dust. there were men, solitary, in little gossamer-built sulkies, who seemed borne along on the air itself: and men in couples in light waggons; and hard-drinking parties of four in barouches; and gentlemen far gone in close coaches; all in tremendous speed as if some great event were coming off imme- diately, a mile or two ahead, and they bound to be there at the peril of their lives. then they were mightily bothered by men on horseback, who, taking each the footpath at the side of the road, laid themselves out on their horses and swept everything clean before them. then by great lumbering butcher-boys, who, on shambling cart-horses, came down the avenue in troops, allowing themselves to be tossed about the road like so many hulks fallen into an eddy they could not manage ; scram- bling hay-carts, with the hay off, returning, and running their scraggy poles and shelving into the ribs of travellers, without the slightest reference to utility or ornament. so, with all they had a hard time of it, lankey and the stranger. but they had got by this time at the cross-road that strikes off to cato's; and there began to be prospect of conver- sation ; and happy that there was, for lankey fogle was smart- ing for it. “sir !” said the stranger, turning full upon lankey at a point where they began to have a glimpse of the tower, “this is the most important event of your life !”. lankey did not deny it. “it involves the destiny," continued the stranger, “the desti- ny, i say, of you and your posterity to the latest generation." the proposition was laid down and no one opposed it. the ghost.) the little manhattan. “whether the hopes of mankind are to be blighted by the course you shall adopt to-night, remains to be seen!” it did. “remains to be seen,” he resumed ; “ and how far you are worthy of the trust reposed in you—" their noses were close together; and they watched each other like dogs. “by the confiding and generous henry.” lankey fogle seized his hand. “i understand you,” said lankey—“enough said !" * the stranger buttoned his coat and went into a small pot- house by the road-side. lankey fogle took the road again, as far as cato's, and was forced to go in : it was not the cato's of infancy, the cato's governed by that venerable and worthy and dusky man, in his little cropped pate and clean apron: when stages from far countries (rye, and saw pitts, and danbury, and cross river) came jingling, with their merry chains, to the door ; the driver dismounted, and the inside gentlemen dis- mounted, and there was a mighty bringing out of lemonade and crackers and sugar-biscuit to be tendered in the most gallant style to the green-veiled beauties within. no, no, that cato's was gone away; a great grave had been digged for that, a clean white cloth had been spread over it, and it was buried beyond resurrection. that cato's had been launched on the stream of time, and had gone backward, like an ark of peace and comfort, and true jollity, sailing to whence it could not return. but there stood the great white tower over the way ; reproaching it silently for parting company: for tavern and tower they had known each other from the corner-stone: and lankey fogle hurried in, for he thought the old tower some how or other stooped his back to the very door of the new cato's, to see what kind of nonsense could be going on there now that the old soul was gone. lankey called for a monongahela, hot-and-hot. big abel, and [chap. i. the landlord brought it himself. “a queer night this,” said the landlord. lankey fogle took a long pull. “a skimmery shimmery night, sir,” pursued the landlord. another pull toward the bottom. “ the shot-tower has been busy as a bee all day to-day ; and such a singing as he's kept up !" lankey fogle admitted it by his manner of setting down the glass. he went out very quietly, winking at the landlord in a sleepy way; at which the landlord, in turn, shook his head. as he got into the road again, a great hay-cart was passing, so high piled up, that the moon now abroad, seemed to be sleeping in its top among the fresh-mown blades. his heart sunk within him. he entered the wide gate at the mount vernon school, where the trot- ting-course used to be. he passed through the orchard. there was a shout behind him ; it was the city leaving off its work, with a cheer. there was a mighty blaze in the sky; the city lighted up for the night. how green the grass was !-how it sparkled and winked and laughed in the clear moonshine! but there was a shadow on it now-a huge shadow, made neither by man, nor house, nor tree; it was the dark side of the old shot-tower; and when lankey looked up, how wickedly and wilfully, cool and self-possessed, that old white ghost of a tower held himself! not inquisitive, nor overbearing, but scandalously calm and indifferent. lankey fogle was alarmed, much more than if he had pitched himself head-foremost into lankey's waist- coat, and offered downright fight; and when he saw in its shadow a figure leaning down and delving the earth—he leaped the fence! was it to keep his appointment, or fly from it ? th. night-view.] the little manhattan. chapter ii. big abel and the little manhattan come to terms; and get a night-view of the city. “ hillo !" a voice again as at the city hall porch : and this time a body. it wasn't the shot-tower that spoke, as you might suppose ; but the figure that delved the ground rose up, slowly, bringing with it out of the earth, some burthen or other in its hand (that was clear); and leaning his spade against the tower came forward, now, getting towards the light, bearing by a ring an oblong iron box. “ hillo—i say !" lankey fogle hadn't said a word as yet : and the other step- ped out into the moonlight. he was a goodly figure to look on : a tall square person : a new hat-it shone like a cat's back in the clear light-straight out at the rim: a new blue coat, brass. buttoned : pantaloons of a drab tint: and in boots that as he walked whispered in a pleasant creak of the shop they had lately left: he stood, as i said, a goodly figure to look at, square upon the ground; with the small oblong iron box in his hand. lankey fogle paused in contemplation a second or so: and then went forward and took this other by the hand. “i'm glad you've come,” said the holder of the box. “i be- gan to have a doubt.” lankey fogle looked up at the moon. there was something that glistened, like dew, creeping down his cheek. " it's hard,” said the other. “no doubt of that.” and he wrung lankey again by the hand. “but it's the best we can big abel, and [chap. ii. do, i believe. the island is clearly ours,” he went on to say. “ yours or mine : from his snout at the battery to where he flanks off at kingsbridge and harlæm. one of us knows that: whichever of the two it is: and if that supreme court of judi- cature, as they call it, had its due—it would sit in that nice building over there, and never have leave to adjourn." lankey's eyes glowed in the dark and looked toward the prison, off the shore: where it sate in the clear night, a great square cold block, locking in, like a stone with a toad at its heart, as it did, so many pale men and women, drearily. “i've had enough of this,” pursued the other. “loitering about the courts : opening attorneys' doors, softly on their hinges : and taking off my hat to the judges, going in and out. ten years is enough, i think ; with getting called up (they had you to-day) to testify to all the rumpuses about the door.” it was enough. lankey acknowledged that by being there. “ isn't it wonderful, now, there never was a lawyer to be found among all them hungry, starving, trotting, dancing fellows, to take up our cases—cases involving the property and buildings of all this city—there was a chance for 'em, i should say, to make a figure in! nobody for plaintiff, in fogle versus the corporation ; or, as i thought it ought to run, corporation at the suit of abel henry hudson. the bar has been in fits ever since our case was first opened in the offices. that's clear: and they'll never wake up or come to, i'm afraid. we are to make a verdict for ourselves. is that it ?” lankey fogle took his hand again. that was it. “we are friends ?” “i hope so," lankey made answer. “big abel-we are !" this was big abel, then! as hearty a person as you'd see in many a day: with his fair blue eyes and sturdy girth. “and we'll do—as we talked of!" said big abel..little manhattan (as you think your title rightly runs)—are we agreed ?" the night-view.] the little manhattan. the little manhattan was silent at the question. so silent that he seemed to be a part of nature there : as one of the dark, old, slumbering, silent trees: and not a man of speech. hard, hard it was to him to come to any terms by which his great inheritance, as he in his poor visionary way account- ed it, should pass away; to part with any share the least or greatest of all that wide domain the city held. it was the best (big abel said): and so it was. the bay rippled gently: as in counsel to the act: softly the old oak trees whispered, far on high, holding council thereabout themselves : and toward the moon the old tower held up its head, and white as she and fair to look on, might have agreed with her that this of big abel and lankey was well done. done it was: and, out at the mount vernon gate again, they struck across the country. there is a little hill there, and climbing that by winding paths, through an orchard, they got upon the road. beyond, descend- ing now, they come upon the sunken meadows, with little rills running, creeping rather, here and there, and glittering in the moon. about, a few late fellows, the frogs were piping, in a revel of their own; and now and then, as lankey and big abel glide along, some little birds, troubled in their dreams, stirring in the bushes. in the midst of all this stillness or calm motion of the night, a figure passed them : in the very middle of the field : a figure, singing. it was quite clear who this was ; without a question. a poor scholar—who had wandered out into the open country, and the clear night, to coax away certain cares that pressed at his heart: to think over a past full of gloom and sadness and hard perplexities; and to call up as he wandered on a fair shape whose shadowy hand he sought in vain, for it flew away ever as he stretched his own toward it. pale he was, indeed, but with eyes lit as the night was with a more than common and day-time lustre. his apparel-one could see—was plain and darkened into a better black than belonged to it in broad day- the night-view.] the little manhattan. the wild flying horses and their driver, and the two within, the brother and the mistress of the suicide. pry keenly as they would into the wide domain they discerned that, and nothing more. when by and by lankey fogle, listening, in the dead stillness heard the beating of a doleful bell, and then what seemed to his ear like the drumming of the partridge in the woods, from down the city; a phenix rather ; for present- ly there sprung a mighty flame (how grimly lankey fogle smiled at that!) which swallowed in an instant all the dusky light: put out the lamps: and brought up swifter than in a goblin dream the shining house-tops far away, and glittering vanes, and yellow caps :-in which lankey fogle and big abel stood out upon murray's hill, that you might have seen them many a mile around. and then it fell: a great shouting that kept it company falling with it: and all was dark again. big abel and lankey came down the hill, by the way of the old road, and met going toward the city a countryman in a felt hat, with a herd of cattle. nothing passed, except that big abel asked how many head he drove. lankey fogle spoke not a word. he had another thought, moving among the great, green trees, that huddle together and make a wood of them. selves, just there. they were aiming for the reservoir : the one off bloomingdale : and crossing a few meadows: then a road: then the rail-track that hurries forward here, with a spring to clear the gloomy tunnel, not more than three miles away, they were under its very wall. it was lankey that led this time : and climbing the steps, big abel close after, they came upon the wall. a goodly mug, in truth, for the city to drink from. but that wasn't it. a gloomy face, with all sorts of strange, fantastic eyes, shining in it-everywhere. nor that. it was here, as lankey made known to big abel, where the old manhattan in the indian time stopped pursuing his 'game : and well he might, for at that day 'twas all a wide, waste, dreary flood beyond, so it is said. he claimed beyond this v?" [chap. ii. big abel, and no right-and made it over, to big abel, once and for ever. in. side this line, he set his claim. with their backs against the city-as they looked abroad to- ward the unhoused country—a man in a woollen cap, and lame withal, hobbled out of the little box at the middle of the wall, and shouted after them “ay—ay—there—what do you want ?” it was a gruff voice; and big abel and lankey halted. “ what do you want, i say ?” big abel looked into the reservoir, then down the wall, fifty feet or so, and made answer “we're here to look after our property !!! the woollen cap went away with great speed, and closing the door of the box, mounted a chair inside and looked through a window over the door. “ madmen no doubt, got away !” he said. he watched till he was quite weary in the leg: and nothing came of it: except that lankey and big abel rambled the wall :—then he unchaired himself and went to bed, making up his mind as well as he could to have to drag the reservoir in the morning. without reference to the woollen cap they got to the ground, and made for a little public house they knew of in that suburb; catching far-off glimpses down side-streets of the river, with a watchman now and then ; or what they supposed to be a watch. man; a something silent and monumental with a leathern top, and lifeless stick hanging at the side. and, now they had a view of the little public house they were glad, by his windows, to see him yet awake. the city all about there looked so stark and deep in slumber; the little public house the only soul astir all round; and going in, big abel and lankey found there was work there, and plenty of it, without anything from them, for about a table with a speckled, oil-cloth top, four boys were hard at play with cards. one of these was a little fellow, the night-view.] the little manhattan. with a thin, pale face, and eyes so broad and dark and mourn- ful, they seemed always on the very edge of tears. with cards, but in a game of their own devising, the process and order of which (it was called newspaper) seemed to be this: that the two and fifty cards were inscribed each on its face with the name of a city journal : morning, evening, semi- weekly, weekly: with an ironical reference, by the way, in some cases, for these gentlemen have a turn for that: and dis- tributed to the four young gentlemen equally. now, the forfeit lay here, that at each round the holder accounted on the table with a chalk, for the value, at news-boy rates, of the thirteen journals in his hand, and the difference between the two lowest was the penalty against the lowest, payable in meat and drink. it so happened (as it came out in the course of time), that the luck, shape the dealing as they would, fell against the little pale-faced boy. the games to play, were three. “now for the albany-brewed !” this was the cry at the end of the first round, raised by a pock-pitted player, with a frayed black neck-cloth raking the table as he bent over his cards. the albany-brewed came in, in four glazed mugs. another game : the little, pale-faced boy fishing in his pocket again, short of a penny to pay for the poached eggs. “ broke!” said the pock-pitted player. “he must go out !” said another over-grown fellow, who was disposing of the eggs with his eyes as fast as he could. “ to be sure, he must!" returned the pock-pitted player: and without further ado, they proceeded—this was strictly according to the rule and usage of the game—to hustle him. he resisted a little : not much. one of the players spoke for him, but it was of no use ; and when the scrambling was over on the outside they came back presently, bringing with them a new boy: re-opened the game : and on the third hand (going against the new-comer, with a rush) they ordered oysters, and clearing big abel, and [chap. it. off the cards, set in for a regular time. somebody was crying at the door: but this was nothing : and, through oysters and poached eggs, by comfortable stages they came upon the beer. three games more : all for beer this time: and if the house had been a mile wide, and a couple or so high, it would have been hardly big enough to hold them. lòng ago, though, big abel and lankey fogle had seen the way through their busi- ness; for at the very coming into the little stall they had enter- ed upon it, by big abel's clapping his oblong box, with the ring towards him, on the table, swinging up its lid, and saying, “ there's my proofs !" called for lankey's. all that lankey fogle did, was to call out to the landlord to put more light on, which being done, he threw off his hat, turned about and looked calmly on big abel. there was the straight black hair, the swarthy skin, the slumberous and au- tumnal eye. there was no mistaking these. the little man. hattan, beyond a doubt! and now big abel—where are you? a little musty scrap, out of the box, another, and still another. it seems so. in truth it does. old henry hudson's lineal heir : great-grandson, it would seem. lankey fogle (this was a name he got from idle boys, and not by birth), great-grandson to that fierce old chief, who swayed with iron, this island once, heading his red manhattanese! big abel, great grandson to the old navigator-trader, of brave english blood. by right of nature this city, built it who did, is the little manhattan's clearly, all. big abel claims, as first discoverer (lankey fogle glares on this); but, better still, purchase of some old chief or other. he thinks it was the same chief that lankey claims from : but this he can't make out so well. the oblong box is shut again: the city is between them, but whose, who can tell ? to-morrow they will set forth, dividing it for them. selves : each taking what he can, in fairness and good will. for they are friends now. perfect confidence : perfect confi.. dence between them. the long mistrust with which they have the night-view.] the little manhattan, lowered at each other through the courts is ended now; melted into a fine, twilight mist; in which each seems magnified and gentle to the other. to-bed, now, not as for many years, but hopeful of their own. yes—these, so far apart in many things, so close together in their fortunes now—are whimsical enough to make belief that the old merchant-navigator and the old indian chief are still abroad through all these streets, in spirit; that, somehow or other, as the color of the soil shows itself in the tree, they are still out of their very graves, holding to the city as their own. well! we shall see what came of it. big abel, and [chap. iii chapter iii. how it goes the first day: with the city waking up. breakfast for the little manhattan and abel henry hud. son (known as big abel everywhere)! spread in an upper chamber, with a cheerful look out at the window, on the river: a snowy cloth: a roasted duck, shot on the river, not far away: a steak of savory deer: a pile of honest buckwheat cakes. big abel fell to, as became his girth; but lankey, quietly, and thoughtful of other viands that came into his mind and offered themselves. then, brightening up after a while, how pleasant they were: talking over plans and routes through the city; which course now, which now. “i shall claim all i can!” said big abel. lankey made no objection. “ he was a navigator, you know, my great-grandfather ?” very well. “a trader ?” well again. “a builder, with a touch of carpenter's craft in his day ?" very well, too. “ and now, what are you going to claim ?" “ we shall see !” said lankey. he said nothing more, and they set out. big abel paying the bill, by the way, to start. it was a bright and cheerful morning, this, on which the little manhattan and big abel set forth to divide the city : pilgrims both, of good heart, and bent to seize, each what he could, in fairness, to himself. a clear day before them, as ever lit the island from its first day down; so clear, the [chap. iii. big abel, and “ he was to have driv' twenty in hand, on a wager, next week,” spoke up one from the walk, a little man, “and he'd have done it !" he was a little man, this speaker; but how their eyes sharp- ened and their ears grew when he spoke. he was stoop-shoul. dered, too, and hardier of aspect than the others: a hard-headed little fellow: and he held all these rugged drivers in his hand like so many hackneys. what an authority that little man was! and when he said, “ he'd have done it !” it was settled for ever. there was no doubt he would: they all allowed it, in chorus. then it came out, in further discourse, that the gentleman in question had made the quickest trip, from the village to white hall, anywhere on record, since the first stage was set on the route-in too few minutes to speak of. but there was another gentleman mentioned, he was present, the little driver himself, in person, who had carried a heavier fare. fourteen inside, i think it was, two with him on the seat, a cradle a-top, with a family market-basket, a boy ; in fact, there was no end to the load ; and he might as well have moved the village down into the city, come to that, churches and all, while he was about it. this omnibus-life, the little manhattan's or big abel's ? for the build (henry hudson having, it is said, brought the first wheeled carriage into the island), big abel's; but then for horse-speed, that being at the pace and a good deal after the manner, of the wild-horse indian scampers, lankey's. this being the case, they hurried on, leaving them to run without jurisdiction, as they always will, i guess. further on, they were passed by great swarthy charcoal waggons, leaping along, with a tinkling twang from underneath, as though they had been great grasshoppers with iron lungs. then they encountered, coming out, masons in green baize jack- ets, bearing stone-hammers in their hands, and full of speed. [chap. iii. big abel, and . there stood before them on a little pedestal, a panther's skin about his loins, a feather in his raven hair, in one hand a bow, tawny too in every limb, a figure that seemed to have posses- sion of the spot by right. a tobacconist's ; this a dumb indian; proffering to all comers, with the other hand, cigars. yet, sim- ple as it is, and cheap, big abel staggers at recollection that the town is held in every part by such as these. the iron box he bore began to grow heavy enough: the thought even came into his mind of dashing it in pieces on the ground: how could his title hold against these swarming figures everywhere ? but lankey claimed; this was a great comfort to big abel; the shops alone—and did not say these indians held the city, as he might, in trust for him. presently big abel took possession of a great range of mer. chants' shops (the seeds of which were sown, no doubt, by trader captain hudson, long ago); and they went on more cheerfully than ever. cheerfully ? aye-proudly, and more than that. looking at the majestic style in which he walked that street, only, you'd have certainly thought big abel owned the city, without any reference whatever to his iron box! big abel began to see his way clearly ; for wherever they went he saw, shops, shops; the trade that first set foot upon the soil with henry hudson, carrying all before it in a flood. wigwams! he scorned (in his soul, that is to say) the thought ! what were bare tents, with little dusky old women and pa- pooses, diving in and out, to these gay rows with ladies, fair to see as day, gliding in and forth again, the many-colored show about the doors, the smiling clerks within ; this was fairy-land to him, the other heathendom and worse. there went tumbling before them just then, before swarthy lankey, fair-complexioned abel, in the sunshine a little negro. boy. his garments, coarse and clean, were blotched with patch- es :—no doubt of that. a rainbow would have faded before him, and made a leap into the sky for another set of colors at friday.] the little manhattan. the very sight. he was black: very black. his hair was woolly as the old ram's fleece. his foot, flat as the ground it stood on. and yet was there ever such a great black earthen jar-full, with its two wide ears, of genuine jollity, the very ex- tract and oil of gladness, such a bounding, rolling, laughing piece of broad mirth ? a great green bag, plethoric with morning lessons, slung over his shoulder: sometimes on the side- walk, then over the gutter into the very middle of the street, at the tail of an omnibus, on his own account: then back again with a cry for the shoulder's sake of some other : then zigzag. ing his way along the stoops, making the most, with his great broad eyes, of the shop windows ('specially of that everlasting white lady in the pinched-up waist, seated by the side of the gentleman in superhuman blue pantaloons) : the day was bright- er, and bluer, and happier altogether, for that cheerful negro. boy, depend upon it! as he rushed between the two, carolling and capering like a colt, big abel dropped, unseen, a piece of silver in his gaping bag; and lankey fogle dropped not money, for money he had none, but a look so kind and magical after it, it must have changed the coin to yellow gold before it slided to the bottom. another dumb indian! under the same circumstances as before, only this one wore a short blue frock, and carried a box in his hand as though he was setting out on a journey in a great hurry, but not forgetting to take his cigars with him. farther down there stands a half-way house ; the hurrah house, the neighbors call it; where the omnibus-drivers halt in hot summer days, and resort of nights; with heavy streaked and dabbled columns; a mighty lamp of many colors above its porch (a mere child though, like the boot, to a lantern on the - east side), great enough to entertain a small drinking party in. but as there was no ladder, just then, to get in by, big abel and lankey passed into the house himself. now this house is a noisy house, and a dirty-waitered house, and badly.watered, friday.] the little manhattan. useful knowledge came over passengers, you know, with captain hudson), and on great squares of stately houses all around. the little manhattan saw none of these, nor cared to see them; for out of the dark there sprung to him, dusky men who bore to grassy hillocks there, a warrior with his bow, a maiden in her long black tress, a prophet in his cunning robe, and laid them down ; and though they turned their back on these now for a time, and went away, they came again, and still again, and never, through all time and change of place, forgot to come, and think in peace and kindliness that here their wise man, warrior, maiden lay. willingly and cheerfully, so to speak of it, the little manhattan took this sacred field, and yielded up the church without a stint! long lingering, at length they rose ; wondering at each other not a little, and trying in the dark to guess each other's thoughts. they passed an open window, and out of it came a voice whose sadness and sweet tarrying on the tones it poured out checked them, as though they had some part in its gentle sor- row. they had listened for a minute, when the little manhattan turned on his friend, and said “ this is part of the song sung in the open fields by that poor scholar!" “ it is,” he answered ; "and this is william's mistress. you see her, crossing the light now !" lankey did : a fair gentle shape that might have lived in the sun-beam or moon-beam for ever, and fallen by no act or seek. ing of its own, to earth, among the shadows and gross cares of common clay. but she was clearly not at ease. she moved about, singing sometimes as before, then silent, glad, pensive, hopeful, despair. ing, as a scholar's mistress, in this land of ours, well may be. [chap. iii. big abel, and then she came to the window and looked abroad ; counting no doubt, from afar, each step that echoed through the street ; and then falling back into the shadow of the room, was lost in gloom. big abel and the little manhattan passed on. there is a yellow house, not far from the parade ground, famous for the cider that he draws; newark cider, fresh and latest, a full supply; and you may go there and drink when you choose, and that little public-house is always at home, with a glass for you. thither lankey and big abel repaired; and there they supped, with many a draught, now that they were in for work, of that same golden drink; and then they chambered themselves up stairs. but not asleep quite so soon as you might think, for this was a cart-street in which they lodged; in other words, an avenue patronized by those lay-bishops, the carting gentry, in their morning and evening trips up and down town; and, returning now from the day's work, they kept up a buzz of wheels for hours. sometimes a slow cart, they could tell each one by his sound, sauntering along with a tired horse; then a fast cart, heard in his approach far off, thundering by the door, and rattling away, for whole squares. then three or four carts in company, with a talk of cartmen; these were moderate movers; to each other as they jogged along. then a couple of racers; full speed after each other; tearing up the street, and shaking the windows, nay, the very houses to the founda- tion. then long, long after these, a cart going home late (there was a ship in down town somewhere, that night, i know), having the whole street to himself, and keeping up his melancholy song till the ear ached, and would not believe he could ever go out of hearing. and by that time (whenever it came), the little manhattan and big abel were asleep. big abel, and [chap. iv. court as having some knowledge, got up the river, of his old indian title). " it's all settled !” said lankey, when he had gone near to the boatman. " it is ?” said the boatman. this was evidently a matter of considerable wonderment to mr. barskin, and he denoted by his manner a vehement desire to know the particulars, it having occurred to him that it might not be so very easy a case to dis- pose of, as it involved the proprietorship of all new york. and when lankey made known to him, with the aid of big abel, the manner of the adjustment, he kept his surprise and astonishment at the same point. “really, now!” this was what the boatman said. “you don't say so.” what was better still; this was big abel speaking ; they were going to celebrate the settlement on thursday evening next, at the old banking-house, at the head of the city, and would be glad to see mr. barskin there. he'd be there. big abel and lankey hurried on, passing now great numbers of old boilers, rusty dogs, and long gone out of use, lying along- side of the river (with a very uncomfortable feeling, one would think, towards all that good water): a dutch woman in a door- way mending a sail : coils of tarred rope at chandlers' shops : when, farther down, the little negro-boy coming out of a side street with plenty of kite tackle in his arms, and at his side a little white, a delicate, fair-eyed little fellow, bearing kite tackle too. pompey smith (that was his name), and his white young friend come over from the east side to catch a breeze; and if you would but look that way, how still the city lay. no breath among the steeple-vanes; no fluttering of the rosy flags; and the long straight streets, with houses stretching on and on in calm upright lines, suggested to the mind not a thought of shouting masons, clattering bricks, or ringing trowels; but stood . . . saturday.] the little manhattan. there, as if there they had stood for ever. the wind brought no mention of the far-off carts or jolting stages, but they passed as pictures to the eye, and nothing more. but here where pom- pey and the white boy had come, a little gust, just an infant in his modest way of drawing on, crept in from the sea; and the white boy, as being readiest, set his kite on end, in pompey's hand, who running back a score of yards, gave her a slide up into the air; the white boy sped away, and up she flew! the house-top first; that was no feat at all; then, with another gentle leap, over the liberty-cap, near by ; then, with her tail raking the very steeple's point; and off she shot, beyond all city heights, away! then pompey, planting his on end, against a post; to go by herself; pulled such a foot, that, ere a minute could be born to follow it from earth, she elbowed white boy's in the very bend of heaven; and now a gallant show it was; what coaxing of the string, what humoring of the tail, what paying out. a flight of pigeons, set forth from an old brewery some quarter of an hour before, hanging, like motes against the sun,' were children to these two eager kites. who has it ? pompey now—and now the other: and now no mortal eye can tell, for both are gone from sight. a twanging snap, a wriggling of the skirt (a snake dropped out of heaven!), a mad plunge, twenty yards or so, and down she goes: pom- pey's: and all through the neighborhood there springs a count- less cry of boys, “ broke loose-kite loose !” and quick eyes having gauged her falling-place, quick feet make after ; boys, short and tall, great and little, from all streets about ; but pom- pey's friend, his kite put in hand of a stander-by, swiftest and foremost of all. below this, a great number of people in gay dresses, many with ribbons about them, and children at their side, came pour- ing down the street, their eyes shifting from a little house at the river-side to a green walk beyond the river. they made for the little house first, which kept up, by aid of a bell hung [chap. iv. big abel, and in a cover to shield his precious voice from the weather, and a red-faced, bulky body of a man at the end of it, a great racket; and the more desperate grew the red-faced man, the more they rushed upon him, and the more he begged them, through the bell, to keep rushing. now, among these there came down two you would have known in a thousand, or in ten thousand, because they were beautiful in person to begin with ; but that was nothing ; because they were making for the red-faced gate-man with great speed, that wasn't much; because they were young and pure of heart, clearly : but let us hope there were many such seeking the free air of the green fields beyond the river: but most of all, and all in all, because they were evidently bound for pleasure, as two spirits in one, making up into a little bank all the hopes and fears and joys of two, as a common fund to draw upon when days should grow dark and hours creep wearily, and the pale trouble should run upon and try to break them some bleak november afternoon, far on in time. william and mary! it was they, and no other ! the poor scholar, with his inky finger, white for once; and his mistress, with nothing but angels sitting in her eyes, or dancing about there whenever she turned on him. the book was written! that was it. that little rounded life which he had discerned lying in the midst of many things; that plan of a book unborn, which might grow to beauty in his brain ; which had risen as by magic day by day out of nothing; which had borrowed a color of the morning light, and a whisper from the wind, and a golden substance from the very stones un. der foot. it was done. ah, happiness, who knows its like ? the child is born; womb, cradle, mother's arms and father's smiling, all in one. the book was done! old trepidation, that said it could not be written, thou’rt a weazen, shivering, good-for- nothing fool! and friendly doubt, that picked a blemish in you at the very thought of your conceiving, sit with cripples ever. saturday.] the little manhattan. more, and go not, thou, henceforth among true-shapen men ! the book was writ! and what an afternoon was that to mary and the poor scholar. was there ever such a sun sent to shine of an afternoon before! and such a ferry-master to take the pay ; the jolliest of all tax-gatherers, depend upon it! and such a charm of a boat; and the fields; that afternoon they took the name, elysian, and rightfully have held it ever since ! that book was doing wonders this very afternoon; and these were nothing to the miracles it was going to do in the way of wedding-garments, and parson's fee, and housekeeping, down an everlasting perspective of purest domesticity. there was a cloud came flying across the sun just then, and they stepped upon the boat. lankey fogle might have set up a claim here, as being a cove or creek, which in old time the indians used to make with their canoes in crossing, to and fro, the river; but he had his glimmering eye elsewhere. the afternoon steamboats were coming out; with the bridle off, it was quite clear at the first view; a herd of them. the arrow first; darting like a ray along the water; the troy, the brave old albany. what fellows they were for speed! and all so easily swinging their long walking-beams as a gentleman swings his cane in an easy promenade, when the world goes well with him after dinner. flags in great plenty flying from long staves : music too (two or three bands on their way to the springs) : and how cheerfully packed they seem in the bows, at the stern, on the upper deck: with people too who are, to innocent lookers-on from shore, all bent-for a vague wonder and curiosity hangs, even yet, about the people that go a voyage-for pleasure-land, somewhere ahead, without a thought of care to cross their track. here and away with a breath, these swiftsure steamers flew ; each cheered, from the pier- heads, by swarming boys; they are at the pains to execute this piece of goodness every sunny afternoon ; with a whirl of caps [chap. . big abel, and and a piping shout. seen for an instant; then out of sight. after these, with flags too (hinting at nothing), came boats for dobb's ferry, hastings, sing-sing; slow coaches creeping on, with twilight at their backs before they're out of sight. then a staggering old hulk that aims for somewhere over the river, and has been this many years; but whether he ever gets there, no traveller has ever come back that way to tell. and now, with quite another look, though built the same; down the river, with a racer's leap between them—the people all aghast on board, and quite awe-stricken at coming on the city at his even. ing meal—three others; and sweltering the river with glowing coals let drop in haste, they round upon him, and hug-to with panting breath. by the fiery light he makes in wheeling round lankey espies on one an indian, all of paint, upon his side ; the old canoes come back upon his thought, the dusky oars. men, and their early rule along this water. lankey! these are yours ! a mighty street now they came to, running back with a start at the river as though he'd carry the city all before him! as they passed across this, both lankey fogle and big abel had a vision; of a sudden. it was of an endless series of deep- down cellars, with gloomy small-coal fires alight therein, tended by men in sleeves, each with the handle of a black iron noggin in one hand, and with the other feeding them from time to time, from countless streaked bowls. the canal-street plan of oyster-stewing—that was it! and there swung, as far as eye could see, high in air, rising one upon the other, the red. white oyster-moons; to light the seeker down, and look shrewd. ly after what goes on below. many a revel has he seen that faded, swinging, half-extinguished oyster-moon! the tales he has to tell, up there rolling to and fro, about his pole ; of wil. ful, wicked men who sell their souls, almost, to keep his com- pany from night to night; of watchmen off the guard to pass their hours, with no upbraiding from the bitter wind and pelting saturday.] the little manhattan. rain ; of jolly players there carousing, wet and dry; of par- sons even who have changed their stocks from white to black to get an interview of these white-armed ministers below; of alder- men, and magistrates of high degree: ah, who has seen the half, or who can tell the third of what he knows, that wicked, staring oyster-moon! these are the little manhattan's all of these the only planets he can see shining in his faded firmament! but there's more business forward, beyond; waggons of every order; garden-carts; barrows; all full, all tending one way, and pressing upon the great market on the river as though they would smother him. every variety of driver, too ; dusty men, with hats apparently dug out of the earth; boys; women, in rusty bombazines and dirty strings about their waists. a wild, tumultuous rush of eager men bearing hats, of a second-hand, you might say a twenty-second hand, complexion, in long crates, with which they push in and out among the crowd of people who fill up all the intervals between the carts. . and now the market himself; a low, broad-backed spread with alleys, running hither and thither, and little platforms up and down, and swarms of dealers of every kind, borne down, too great for any mortal market to get along with, by great ribs and haunches and slabs of bright red beef; and hung all about, till he almost stooped in the shoulders, with poultry, chicken, duck, turkey. then upon the floor great heaps of apples, and baskets of melons; and again upon the walls rab- bits dangling by their legs; and deer; and strings of pigeons ; and bird.cages, all alive with bobolinks and blackbirds and quails and canaries. that market had as much on his mind as he could carry, i know; and seeing all he owned came fresh, with scarce a hand between, out of the old dark mould of the very earth his fathers were laid in, the little manhattan would have claimed it for himself. but big abel had a word to say. leading lankey big abel, and [chap. iv. to a pier-head before the market, he drew from his box, which he planted on a spile, a part of his documents, and would have it that his great-grandfather hudson had made a landing there, and had an understanding with the tribe by which it became his fee. it didn't appear very clearly, but there was an old parchment for it, which (to tell the truth plainly) lankey fogle couldn't read, and big abel took it, one might say, by default. but going back, on an errand they had there, when the little manhattan saw how weather-beaten this poor market was, and tumbling and moss-covered, and what noble promise it gave of returning, so to speak, to the very grass that grew there once, again, he went aside and chuckled like a very indian, at the thought. the errand was yet to do, and going to the very heart of the place, they came upon a mighty huckster-woman, mrs. saltus by name, the mightiest of her tribe. she sate in the very lap of the deep shade cast by the market -her back to it, her face toward the river-at that hour ; with- in a world of greens, dewy from the fields, in baskets, in bunch- es, spread on a table before her, heaped about her on the ground. and how she glowed upon that cheery summer's afternoon, with her broad, happy face, as though she it was that ripened all with her beaming look; she had: they got from her the ripeness and the flavor (touches of good heart) dearest to the buyers, i am sure. how she talked on, savoring in her rust- ling speech, and sparkling eyes and waving motion, of the corn-field, the brook, and garden-life, where all these things took their growth. she was waiting on a bachelor of the old school, who always bought of her; silver-buckled at the knee, clean-hosed, and with a maple cane upon the ground. “your turn next, sonny!” to a little. white-headed fellow, lingering bashfully near the table's edge, with a couple of coppers in his fingers. “what'll you have this afternoon. now, my dear. well, dick.” this was a serving-man with a saturday.] the little manhattan. basket. “ lankey! bless me, this is a cure for sore eyes. chickweed ?" this was the white-headed little fellow's order. “ well. what can you want? canary-seed: ah, my beauty, there's trouble in your eye; one of them is gone, i see. sweet jack or bob—which was it ?” it was bob, mrs. saltus; that died upon his perch this morn- ing: he came out of this corner of the market, you know ! diving to her pocket-bottom, in her gown, from time to time; a strange cavern, that! what merry music of the little coin crept out upon the air. mrs. saltus! that market knew well his place, and held his breath each morning 'till she came in. then off at the very top of his speed! who knew the bills, the ragged, tat- tered, dingy bills so well as she; when butchers rushed, white- aproned, on her, these flying in their hands? who kept the news so well from all the country, east, north, south, west, as she? whose bank of change so deep ? whose pitcher dewy always, with draughts so clear and cold ? stories, too! in all the pauses of the market, aye, over all its din as well, at times, the murmur of the water-wheel that throws off brightness at his every bound, could fill the air about not half so freshly ! the great snow-storm she loved to dwell on in these glowing summer-days, when bells did all the talking of the town, and people glided to and fro like magic to the eye! the season short of greens! the famous wild-pigeon flights over the city, that played the mischief with the sun and moon! would she come to big abel's, lankey fogle's entertain- ment (she was friend of both) ? bless their dear hearts, wouldn't she ! 'zekiel, that was her grandson, should bring her in the garden waggon. be there! if there were stairs to the house (she hoped there was), and the walls could hold her up. good-bye, my son (to big abel); good-bye, dear old indian. [chap. iv. big abel, and with which god-speed they proceeded to a little cabinet or tin, about the size of a bird's cage, standing on four thin legs, in the skirts of the market, where coffee was served in white cups, out of the tin kept a-glow by the coals under him, and cakes out of his top, along with it. while they were busy at the tin, there came to them from mrs. saltus—by a little boy, a hanger-on of the place—a cou- ple of dainty pot-cheeses ; taking which in hand, they looked towards her gratefully, and were met; she was evidently wait- ing for it; with a broad, kindly smile, that said plainly enough, “ there's something nice for you !" which acted as a delicious ġrace before cheese, and answered in the place of small gold dishes, and knife and fork of solid silver. now, what a time there was, a little below this ! how they howl! men with whips and sticks, and long eager arms, stretched through the steam-boat gates ; raging like evil spirits kept out of paradise. and all for the sake of certain little leathern rolls and square boxes, borne in hand or guarded by well-dressed persons within, as though they had come long journeys just to vex and torment and hideously agitate the gen. tlemen outside, by the sight of them! the afternoon boats, in! when that shout goes up, what a din fills all the streets about ; how they run, rush, scamper, tattered fellows, white, black, dingy (chiefly), boys, men. and if they fail to make a meal, by their manner, of these evil-disposed men who unrighteously and cruelly keep them out of their own, in the way of trunks and carpet-bags, they're more christian than i am willing to allow them to be, just now. but the day settles by degrees over even so fierce a tumult as this, and night comes on, bringing out lights upon the water, twinkling ; lights on land, streaking the water far away; a gloomy sound of plashing boats along the shore, coming to or scudding along close in. one sound after another, of all the big abel, and [chap. v. chapter v. it strikes three; and the city takes his comfort. lankey! big abel! awake! awake! see! see! the day creeps through the windows, and filling all the chamber, gently tells you to arise. they sleep; lankey like a dark old wood, whose leaves are still, and all at once! big abel, as a giant boat who takes in slumber for a week to come, against the river-shore! there is no sound astir ; the silence walks about and wears his cloak of sabbath air, that no man knows or sees or feels he is abroad. there's something moving through this house at least : enter. ing now where lankey and big abel lie : not silence, but his twin, a sleek, calm, white-coated man (civil as the dawn itself). “will the gentlemen be good enough to take breakfast ?". to be sure they will ; in the little room, next. breakfast served. each has a window to himself; and now the battery begins to rouse a little, slowly, and, clearly with a will against it. but he hears some bells far up the city, and there enters at his upper gate ; first faint sign of coming life ! a little man, quite a little man, with a cane, and gaiters and small whiskers, evidently out of health all round, who creeps along the railing by the water; ah, how his constitution pines for salt! and gets to a bench half way along, and there stops to smell the sea. after him, a couple of stouter gentlemen, in gaiters too, and checkered pantaloons, arm in arm, up and down with rapid pace, taking in the fresh air, and using it as a delicate steam to keep them in this good motion. then an old gentleman, ques- tionable as to legs, wheeled in, in a red sulky, by a servant, and sunday.] the little manhattan. run up and down briskly for ten minutes or so, and then left by the servant, with his face towards the water, looking quite com- fortable, but a little out of breath. several other whiskered gentlemen hurrying in, a drove of them, and getting under way very promptly, and losing no time on the course. that battery ; near as you may think it; was a great way off to big abel and lankey that day: and it was by slow de- grees alone they ever reached it. beginning with a look out taken at the windows, sleepily and at full length, by both ; then, after a long while, chairs in the little balcony (he was getting nearer, clearly); then a descent to the ground, a long pause in the door-way, taking minutes idly of the people going up and down; with a very confused notion, however, of their number and destination ; an actual passage of the street, opening of the gate, and inside they are! not so fast, either. when the gate is closed behind them, they stop to take in the battery for him- self; all round, up and down. well : that's quite to their mind. then a little way up the right walk, to see what comes of that part (this is lazy work for you, big abel, with your iron safe at home; and lankey—but little manhattan, i believe, is in a dream or maze, and big abel has caught it of him); a turn back again, over toward the water; against the rail, looking into that element, after an idle sort, and not making much out of it either. then sitting on a bench, under a broad tree, at about the battery's heart, the better part of an hour; perhaps two, or three ; for time doesn't count with them to-day. people pass quietly about them; there are more now; the fast walkers have all gone away, and everybody takes the day for what he finds him. and a lazy summer's day was that (as you have found by this time); so lazy and sleepy in his look, the wonder is that he got abroad at all, and hadn't lain behind the clouds for ever. there was the old fort, sitting as settled and solid on his base as if he'd never speak a word again, though twenty thousand [chap. v. big abel, and british ships should run their beaks directly in his face; and far away other forts on governor's island, and bedloe's, and gibbet’s, quite as sleepy as he. and farther still, high in the soft haze, staten island dozing as though he belonged to another world, beyond the cares and tribulation of this; and the soft, broad, slumibrous bay, stretching like an idle leviathan off toward the · narrows. "nearer by, jersey city, low-lying and humbled under the rule of a single great chimney that peers about, high up in the air, as if he were specially delegated to stretch his neck for a view of new york. and on the other hand, gowanus, moving lazily along the road toward bath and rockaway. s and how bore the old battery this far-and-wide repose ? settled in the midst of it like a smooth-backed duck in the water! he held his breath and listened for the bay to speak, and the ships, and the islands. the great trees; not a whisper from them! the grass ; not the rustling of a blade! and up and down the paths there moved stout old gentlemen, and thin young gentlemen with canes under their arms, and masters and 'prentices, and shop-keepers and shop- boys, throngs of them; and, the very spirit of the whole thing, there went along, close to the railing, as near the water as he could, an old sea-dog of a grizzled captain, who snuffed the salt air and caught a flavor of the oakum and the tar that lingers round about, and seemed to hush within himself the thousand storms he knew of, off bahamas and the capes, and down the hot gulf stream. there was a packet-captain for you! not a word of the sea, nor of fine company on ship-board, nor wrecks, nor great north-westerners, nor strange appearances far from shore, nor spouting whales, cutting voyages, men overboard. but all about a little. plot of ground, he mentioned, in westchester : a few acres only: the soil was good, the plough went always twenty inches in the mould ; sufficient for a horse and cow. so much for land. the house (this was his vision of a house), sunday.] the little manhattan. red-roofed, one-storied, with a dainty balcony before (for smokers in long summer afternoons); à grassy green; some sea-thought there, no doubt! and then, roving there, as easy and as kind and soft in glossy beauty for the eye to dwell on as : the summer's day itself, a smooth, snug, cobby horse. not far off, a gig; at rest now; but out upon the road once with that cobby horse, they'll play the mischief all the country round ! and, as for drivers, where's to match that grizzled seaman with his cunning hand! climbing far away the winding roads ; there are such roads there; they get, a truth to tell, a look-out to the sea. ah, there it is again, old sea-dog ; all the salt is in you still, and keeps fresh that stormy heart, though beating in : the very bloom of silent fields ! the packet-captain took big abel by the hand as he passed, and was asked to the old banking-house. nothing better for him than a walk the city's length. he'd bring his telescope along. very good, mr. captain. you shall have a welcome, with a jolly company ! big abel and lankey had no thought of going in-doors to dinner, but made their meal at a stand at the east gate. quite a number were doing the same thing. and about this time there came a pause, when the battery was clear of everybody but lankey and big abel, who loitered up and down the ways; and getting towards the lower side, looked off into the great business streets. how still they were! the stillness, too, of mere idiots and fools, with no business in the world whatever : you laughed at them they seemed so simple-witted and purpose- less, on this quiet sabbath-day; and all their properties partook of this. the boxes lying there, heaped on each other, sheer absurdities! the hogsheads, great-bodied nothings! and as for the coils of chain, they lay so heavy on the ground you would have thought no soul nor circumstance nor chance could ever, by possibility, put the breath of life in them again. and the great stores stood there, long-sided gawkies, looking about as though big abel, and [chap. v. themselves. an old patron of these entertainments gave it as his opinion (he had seen it burned to the ground nine-and- twenty times during the season), that moscow would not be fired that night. he took occasion to remind them—they were at a point of expectation where it was hard to bring it home to them—that this was sunday night. as for the rockets, they saw how softly they went up: but as for moscow that would never do, and they'd better make up their minds to it. after a time they came to the steady patron's view of the matter : the twinkling haze of the garden-lamps fell down : the garden grew dark and gloomy, taking his station for the night in a settled melancholy way, and the crowd went off, without even a cheer in behalf of the spirited proprietors. a foolish crowd! for by the time they had got well away, there crept over the water from down the bay, a sound, with music in it; faint at first, then rising, rising, and coming on towards the green old battery, that lankey fogle seemed to hear the voices of another land, and deluded himself for a little while with the belief that the islands, showing now like shadows in the far-off water, had gone from this, and were the mansions, in another world, of spirits akin to his. a boat moved through the distance, not far from these, plashing with her wheel as gently as she could ; and in her breast she seemed to bear the magic harmony that troubled lankey so. a singing-school made nest within her decks; and that it was that on this peace- ful evening blessed the waters with the shower of cheerful notes they scattered as the wheel went round. a pause now! and now again it springs afresh, that tuneful tempest on the bay, bearing into the heart of lonesome night such sounds, that he must grow like day, and smile at thinking that so sweet a comfort may be his! and now it has gone away so far, no mortal ear from shore may follow it. ' nothing comes to fill this dreary blank, which seems to hold the very world. what was the little manhattan claiming, that he sate so sunday.] the little manhattan. silent? was it the bay—the islands—the battery himself, perhaps ? he kept his eye long fixed upon a spot toward the point, and there sprung up after a while to his fancy, in its visionary way, a red blaze; and, gathering round it, in its dusky light, there sate a score of men who seemed to have come out of the darkness, and brought a tinge of it upon their cheeks, and in their soft black eyes and sombre brows. they inclined their eyes upon the ground; or, lifting them, peered within the blaze. big abel felt how it was going with poor lankey's heart. “ this is yours, of course!” he said. “and must be yours for ever. no street shall cross : no shop shall sit upon this ground. the trees are speaking for you, lankey ; and are always telling heaven of the council-fires that used to burnish up their leaves. yours, lankey ; yours for ever !” the little manhattan smiled at that; the bay-girt battery thus made forever lankey fogle's ground; and rising up, they made for rest. big abel, and [chap. vi. chapter vi. the city at his crimes; the little manhattan and big abel still busy. the city wide awake again! nimble, serpent-eyed, fresh, · how he bears his crest this monday morning, as though he had got back somehow to his prime, without a thought of all his cares and crosses and riots! clear and wide awake! every. body abroad, with a new face born of sunday! everybody with a sprightly good-morrow! everybody at a higher rate of speed ! people coming in from the islands, from jersey, from down the bay, ripe for new traffic on the keenest edge! the cartmen hurrying to the wharves in clean frocks; collars even, snow-white, twinkling among the whiskers of omnibus-drivers ! “up broadway ? right-up! right-up !" this was the cry, passing the bowling-green. presently a gouty old gentleman, from one of the hotels, is got in. “up broadway ? right-up! right-up!" how the great square stage rolls about, like a heavy fellow as he is, upon his wheels. he's in no hurry—you may be sure of that. a confused grumbling in his bowels, and the gouty old gen- tleman seen, through the windows, to be growing red in the face. a voice down the money-hole, and silence; followed by a mo- tion, on the part of the stage, of six paces; a pause ; and still the cry goes on- “right-up! up broadway! right-up !" wall-street, now. plenty pouring down, neat-dressed, trim- whiskered, but none coming out; a fine full flow of smoothly. - - monday.] the little manhattan. shaven, well broad-clothed, sprightly gentlemen as eye can light upon. not frightful, and blood-seeking, and cruel-eyed as the story goes out of doors; but nice, comfortable persons, as ready for a good turn, when their hand is in, as though their business lay in rose-street, where the quakers live! big abel and lankey came to a pause here, too, and pitched their eye against the very head of the street. "big abel saw rising there a massy house, stone upon stone, high in the air, with carvings and crosses, and doors and niches. the little manhattan, not one of these ; but a great mound of earth swell. ing in the sun, green at the top, and prouder, in his rugged look, than the massy house itself. big abel looked upon new trinity: the old earth that stood there, many a year before, as high as he, that was what lankey (wicked lankey!) saw. the cheerful chirrup of the drivers still kept up; the pale, quick men, whose fingers change all to gold they touch, still poured down the street. the flood of porters, clerks, and masters, increased and deepened as they went on; but, a little further on, the stream was ruffled with a sudden cry, and there came tearing through it, as for life or death, a line of ragged boys. with what watchful faces everybody listened : with eager hands clutched out from underneath the arms of these, the sheets they bore: and on they sped, more furious' in their cry as they neared wall-street. extra sun! extra tribune! extra herald ! the great western steamship was in, of a sunday (always of a sunday !); and the news-boys laid themselves out in a big hour's work to make it known. barnum's now ; barnum's museum, with the giant, full- length upon his canvass, going to take the dwarf: you see the little fellow quite well if you carry a spy-glass : by way of a pinch of snuff. the band hard at work in the balcony; that patriotic band, whose wind will blow nothing but “ hail colum- bia" and " the star-spangled flag" for a hundred years, if big abel, and [chap. vi. they hold out so long. the moose, the elk, the buffalo; these were all up stairs; almost as good as life. barnum's was lankey's—that was clear! then there rolled past the fork of the park, in a good deal of dust which it was at the pains to raise for itself, by help of two great coach-horses, fed up to the last oat, a carriage all in blue, a crown all of gold (no doubt some near kinsman of good queen victoria within !) upon the panel, a couple of live boys holding on behind, in blue too. lankey fogle was taken strongly with the paint, although he had a notion that pure red ; as being more according to his honest indian taste; would have been a shade or two nearer the thing. big abel-a strange fellow, he! burst out with a laugh so quick, so hearty and tem- pestuous, one would have thought dashing against its side it must have shattered blue-coach all to naught, but blue-coach rolled away, and big abel, with lankey, recollecting dinner, stepped back a square or two, and were at a door where, at this hour, a broad stream of busy-looking men poured in and out, without a pause. and well they might! there was a saloon for you! where the eagle that spreads his wings above it, whets his beak every morning (it is said) upon a carving-knife ; where flags fly at the house-top to make known to all the town about that dinner's ready ; where, without end, along the floor small tables stand and call for company, with salt-cellar, pepper-box, and black-bottle, with his quill, for pepper-sauce (or some such thing); where young gentlemen, all alike as twins, in white jackets and aprons (white once, it is said, and since the flood), run to and fro, in answer to a hubbub on every side, from every one and all at once, interpretable by them alone ; where strange dishes float along the air, sometimes a bowl, steaming high with nothing to prompt him, inside ; then a yellow ball (pudding, it is said) upon a plate; then a cup, with a faded spoon upright therein, waxing sadder day by day, till some day or other he will go off, [chap. vi. big abel, and up town, where they had set themselves in an attitude, proceed. ed now at the gentlemanliest pace in the world ; tapping the ground daintily with the point of a light stick; ranging their eyes about in a smooth semi-circle; or greeting, occasionally, the blue sky overhead, with a look of complacent regard. a better gentleman, in his way, by far, than these ; with twenty tricks, to one of all park row; who is it now that shows himself? a bubbling smack, as when a genial cork is drawn; then out of water with his smooth bald head, the fountain ! coming slowly out—not tired, not he, with eight-and-thirty miles of travel on this hot summer's day; but modest, and proud, too, for he knows his worth. now another spring, and head and shoulders out. now-how swift he grows—tall as any alder- · man: now as barnum's giant, there : and now a grenadier, his feather flying high, beyond all mortal measurement! he's not on the treadmill, i am sure, for any sins of his; but how he seems to climb the air. and what a frizzled pate he shakes to every passer-by, beyond the rail! he has their confidence, each man's; and whispers something to him, going up or down the street. be of good heart! be of good heart! he always says that; this cheerful, unfeed city counsellor. “a good thing for health,” big abel says, “ to have such fountains at the city's core.” but lankey thinks of dark old trees; of shadowy deer be. tween; and cataracts falling, falling, not ascending like this idle youngster here, down the air. the park is his, though railed with twenty tons of iron ; a hunting-ground of old ; and lankey's eyes are wild and far away, pursuing game about its walks. big abel seizes on all the squares of houses round about, as before, preferring them by great odds to trees. there were two looking at the fountain beside big abel and lankey ; looking at it keenly ; reading it to the very heart; following it with their eyes up and down again ; up, always monday.] the little manhattan. with a hope ; and down with something, why was this ? some- thing of a sinking spirit. the poor scholar and his mistress! there by accident, or by choice ? by accident, no doubt; and when their eyes glanc- ed once past the leaping stream, they smile, by chance again ; and then when they meet, why does mary chirrup so ? “i'm sure of you, now !” she said, at once. sure of what ? “ there it is !! mary listened; it was a little while before she could make anything out of a news-boy uproar which raged about the fork of the park, and spread itself on either hand through the two great thoroughfares. “ that's not it!" “why-yes it is-step, a little way, from the fountain, and you won't fail to make it out!” “i do make it out; but it's not your book !" “bless you! had you that in your head. how could you have that in your head ? no, to be sure—that's a great book just come in from—”. “ not from england, again !” “no, no. this is from france; by a very great writer. what hearts must beat in men, in those elder lands, where great books grow like precious weeds !" “ and perish, too!” how scornful mary was in saying that. “don't say that! i feel that i am but—". it wouldn't be easy to state nicely what the poor scholar's feeling was, for at that moment there was a horrible outcry with the news-boys, a fresh detachment having broken out by way of ann-street; and what with this, and the altogether gratuitous dinner-summons at the hotel over the way, there was nothing left for the poor scholar and his mistress but to hang their heads and take their way, whithersoever they would, in silence. full to the door the stages all went by, now; rolling off on [chap. vi. big abel, and either hand, as fast as they could ; clambering the far declivi- ties, toward a world of dust which they pierced, like so many toiling bugs, and disappeared. and yet the old city hall stood there, elbowing broadway on one hand, and on the other nudg- ing the records' office, to bring him books and papers (for a claim of title that's always going on within), with all his might and main. sleep or banquet as all others will, he's wide awake, at least, and will not go to dinner till somewhere to- ward midnight. lawyers—a great many of them knew big abel and lankey, and smiled sideways on them as they passed-climbing in, with clients at their heels; officers; wit. nesses, jaded and worn down, coming out; a pale clerk toiling up with two arms-full of law.calf-bound books, making such a face over them, as no doubt the suitors will when, one day, they come to eye the costs; and, by and by, crossing the park, towards a small court beyond, a little old man, withered with breathing many a year the close air of the ward courts. he was grizzled, and wrinkle-eyed, and bent—not with carrying too many cases, i will warrant !—and wore his coat buttoned by way of waist- coat. this gentleman would have undertaken lankey fogle's suit, but he hadn't the seven-and-sixpence wherewith to pay the opening fees. a few words passed with him and lankey, and he was asked to come to the entertainment. spreading his hand upon his breast in act of executing a sort of gentlemen-of-the-jury cough he had, he said he would; by all means; and went away very feebly to the small court. they were now setting toward the tombs, and passed on their way a rusty, full-chopped fellow, in charge of an officer, whose story it was, over and over again—as he was borne along-that a man, unknown to him, had met him in a certain street, and placed the little bits of hardware, in question as of a larceny, . in his hands. the officer, when he had told this a dozen times or so, turned his eye upon him; and the great fellow turned his, but not quite so boldly, too. all in the eye. that was all that monday.] x the little manhattan. passed, and they went on after that with a better understanding. the shadow of a cloud was flying up the city, leaping streets, houses, steeples, every barrier that man builds to make secure community ; but not swifter than the spirit of a man they led in irons toward the tombs, hurried on to where no shadow of his should ever fall upon the sunny street again. another officer came in from a bye-way. that was a wicked devil he had in charge-make up your mind to that. a mur. derer ? why, no. a wronger of orphans in their pale and tender youth? not that either. a cutter to the quick of honest fame? i can't say that. suspected—that's all. a wicked devil, you see. his coat shows that, by its thin, shiver- ing way of sitting about the shoulders. his spindle limbs that just keep him up; his face, colored with no memory of a suffi- cient meal, even a long way off. suspected ? who better or more than he ? of all the men that run or walk or ride within the city bounds, he is the guiltiest-suspected wretch. thrust him in a cell: the ground must be damp: on bread and water; where rats, if any are to be had thereabout, may have free resort to him; and in a few days—a very few days—suspicion, at a touch almost, will become fearful certainty. he will be dead! lawgivers and magistrates-you know-he will be dead! big abel would have passed the tombs, in something of a hurry, i believe; but the little manhattan, from a whim he had, halted and went in. the sessions were packed close that afternoon. it was a case of life and death, or near that, that was up; or meant to be. . but it had very little chance just then, for the two lawyers were setting to at each other over a reporter's table; the three judges were on their feet, on the bench, bending down to appease the fray; the clerk had put his hat on in the confusion; and all the officers of the court, busy as they could be, thrusting their staves at the combatants. this was at its height when lankey monday.] the little manhattan. and who shook the house every time he winked. his bob-tailed coat, when he turned about, was too much for several gentle- men in the first tier, and they went out and came back regularly as long as he kept doing it. to close the day, they resorted to a refectory, hard by: a spruce, elegant, fashionable, that's-your-sorts, refectory : where they were allowed, at tip-top prices, to embower themselves in a genteel stall, and to be shut in by gorgeous blue curtains, in company with a castor all of silver; when there came to them, at tip-top prices, a gentlemanly man of a mulatto aspect, who was good enough (still on the same terms) to request their plea- sure ; which, being known, he returned presently at tip-top speed, to answer to the prices, with a dish of birds (quails, he called them; that was the dialect of the place), very much crisped up, very much be-saged and be-seasoned and be-condi- mented; and the quails flew away presently—for there was a good appetite between them-tip-top, from the first moment to the last. then wine of the same family. then the genteel stall fell in and lost compass, and was altogether too narrow for big abel and lankey, who, putting their heads forth from time to time, made discovery of numbers of elegant young gentle- men coming in, bringing with them little black smutches upon the lip, and cocked hats, and small canes, which all together proceeded to a white marble bar, and were impertinent. but, still, at tip-top prices, everything being allowed, on these terms, at that shop. neither lankey fogle nor big abel went out, as you may guess, to find lodgings that night, but made the best of the refectory, picking out a downy spot, and dreaming, one of them, all night long of a hideous man (the civilest man in the world !) with a bill, bearing a strong family likeness to the silent man in the bar. tuesday.) the little manhattan. and arm-as though they stood in the very glow and focus of some fiery furnace that blared in the neighborhood, and would in due time, perhaps, have them for creatures of his hungry element. yet women still (the men no longer men !); for who ever looked upon them kindly—not in bending pride, but pure, true love of heart—they did not make it known to him there lived in every ruin of them all a woman still ? black, portly, little jugs in the windows now. two or three men sallying forth, one of these was black, with round rings in his ears; a little fellow in a door-way, with uncombed hair, in his bare feet, one trouser's leg hoisted, one arm in his pocket, the other swinging by its loops a boot. and they stood at the points, the very five ; and when they looked back, they saw how on the crown they had come down from, a waggon, passing, stood out, so high it was above this flat, in every spoke and line of har. ness and button almost of the driver's coat, against the sky. at the five points; for, toward the spot they stood upon, opposite the little park, cross-street came down his hill with a sharp, quick trot, bringing a great church with him, some scaly tenements of brick, and some of wood, these being shaken no little by the way; and anthony, with a long rolling gallop, which gave his houses more leisure to keep their place (but they were all tipsy, and none the better for his considerate speed); and orange-street creeping lazily along the mud, taking his own time too, and miring himself dreadfully by the way. and there you had the points! who claims them now? lankey, looking off, espied swinging at his ease, as if he felt the torture not the least, a tawny indian on a sign, with a store of herbs at the window just under his nose, for him to cheer himself with at glaring noon-time; standing out with his bow in hand, an end touching the ground, as calmly as you please. and then he recollects that once in this hollow was kept a famous indian revel, with dances wild and strange, outcries through all the moonlight night, and many games, where the rough hand [chap. vii. big abel, and bore the sway. lankey's it was, no doubt; and still his title holds, for still that revel rules the spot, although the dark faces are all in the ground, and the white above it. big abel, seek. ing privilege of lankey fogle first, looking sternly on the little park, there at its very heart; for the souls' sake of the poor wretches swarming round it, ordered, it is said, a chapel there, but i guess nobody heard him, for the chapel isn't there to this day. the little manhattan, for himself, thought the points might yet go back to the swamp they grew from—how his dark, sleepy eye lighted up at that !—and that fixed his claim like iron. and now the rain fell finely; pattering and splashing, spout- ing from the gutters, settling in pools, and having everything his own way with these; but then nobody went in doors, or stopped business, or hurried in their talk. it was as com- fortable as heart could wish-the good understanding of the shower and the points. there was one, an unshaven man, standing in a cellar-way, one step down, who seemed to think it the best thing the shower could do, to pour away (this, it should be known, was a gentleman that entertained a mean opinion of mankind as well, oysters being out of season); and he curled his lip and looked upon the pattering pools with quite a sullen eye. there was a man, too, in a glazed hat and roundabout, who crossed the points at the head of a vagabond black horse ; having given him the reins upon his back to carry for himself; with a low cart, heaped in a corner with glossy wet apples, whistling a martial air which he had imported on ship- board, from the southern country; being a sailor once on a time ; making a pleasure of the drizzling shower and the wet middle of the street. passing on, they came to the sign, where they found standing at the door, a sort of gentle twin to the chieftain, a meek man, the indian doctor himself, with less of dusk in his aspect, less of tuesday.] the little manhattan. autumn in his slumbrous eyes, than the little manhattan, by far. this was a friend of lankey's; and being bidden to the thursday evening's entertainment, promised to be there (hav- ing a patient, an aged lady, of a nervous turn, in that neigh- borhood, whom he was carrying, softly, through a course of herbs, with great advantage, he thought). from the hill-top toward the east, there rose a sound the sweetest in all nature's many melodies, save one, of little voices, children's voices, in farewell of their day's tasks; sup- pliant, tiny, clear as thoughts that know no taint of earth, and floating out at the windows over that dark valley of the points, they seemed to bear a blessing that made it less dreary to the eye. and all the wonder is they do not, by a heavenly magic in them, raise these sad creatures to be blest spirits, and leave the darkling path they walk, for ever. as they climbed the street now, they came upon little neddy mellish (that was the little white-boy's name) again, at the corner; his hands in his pocket, a green school-bag over his shoulder; looking about, from minute to minute, through the street the other way. . little neddy mellish was not at ease, that was clear. what was he lingering for in that strange way? 'they passed a little farther on—big abel and lankey-and when, presently, they came to the public school ; the nest of all these happy voices; they were overpowered by two streams of boys that poured out of the two gates, and nearly took them off their feet. it was public school no. , and all black; all but the teeth and the wide-awake eyes, and they flashed as so many ripples or whirlpools in the current. they shook their ears in the rain, and spread themselves through the streets all about, coloring them with a dingy streak as far as the eye could follow. wild laughers, and boisterous as the wind that whistled in the school- house eaves, all ! till one came, slower than the rest, and about him there fell a silence. they couldn't have much heart for tuesday.] the little manhattan. was ever a poor scholar's mistress in such spirits before ! and then the way in which she took possession of the bower; if the green chair had been of solid gold she couldn't have treated it more grandly. three raps of the knuckles, and there was a banquet—not much of a one, to be sure—but what of that! william had something to say, that was clear; but such spirits as mary's—why the stoutest man living would have quailed before them, much less a poor scholar. “ the book's to be printed, will? i believe you admit that at last !" “to be sure it is—they've accepted it.” “ a happy time of it for the printers, now! turning all your gentle fancies out upon the page; making your mirth laugh, your sorrow weep; your little men and women grow again in light, and take a shape to every human eye, all the wide world over! oh what dreams they'll have the first night. they'll not sleep a wink, i fear, with thinking all your magic over !" foolish mary ! “ and then the binder's girls, who have the folding of them daintily! many a clipping of wages will they lose this very week, lingering, as they should not, naughtily about that wicked book !" mary, too fanciful by half. “tuesday, now! by friday, at the latest, that little bright- eyed, clean-apparelled gentleman (your book, i mean, will) must come down stairs, and begin to see company! oh for the first look at his sweet and cheerful face !" in the young scholar's heart that was settled long ago. “the show-bills, now! all over town, speaking up, with fresh, clean looks! coaxing every one to stop and read ! every one to hurry in and buy! and then away to taste the dainty to his core !" was there ever such a foolish, thoughtless mistress to a poor scholar, all the world over ? big abel, and [chap. vii. she stopped, and looked at will as though she saw a blessed spirit, stepped out from the sun, and not a mortal man. but he was very pale, and still had something to say, and now could say it. “you forget germany, mary!” that was what he had to say. no: she didn't. she recollected it perfectly well; it was in all the maps, upon the globes, and hung up in the windows. but in this connexion she didn't recollect it, she confessed. what was germany to this ? she hadn't heard of a famous rendering or translation out of that country, that was talked about, a mighty book, with such a power of chains, by way of binding up and riveting the reader; such a thrilling, enchanting, wonderful and miraculous book ? strange, she hadn't heard of that! that was the book ! what, to come betwixt this book of william's and the light of day ? william was pale, i said, and mary now, too. had those men who played these changeful tricks stood there, or sate within that bower, they must have been torn piece-meal, limb by limb, by little angry devils, leaping out of mary's eyes, a score at once, and many score ! when they had got forth, big abel and lankey (how poor william and his mistress got away, heaven, whence it came from, knows !), the shower was deepening, and they made quickly for a house not far away. and there it was. that little, tidy, shining palace; palace it is in all the spirit within ; of brick; sitting by itself, in cleanliness and purity, and through all the falling rain eyeing calmly all passers-by with his little winking knob and bell-pull. . at home? the ladies of this mansion are always at home, and have been any time these fifty years. a snug parlor, everything tidy, everything in a high state of polish, everything demure and settled calmly in his place. the plaster-rabbits tuesday the little manhattan. on the mantel, not zoologically perfect, inasmuch as the necks are movable, and have no visible appurtenance to the bodies; and yet, to the mind, all that could be reasonably expected of rabbits under such circumstances. a little door is slided open, and out of a back room a nice, comfortable, smiling body- seventy! yes; this was the youngest of the two maiden sisters, big abel's friends, living here. pretty good, for seventy! cheerful, quick of speech and gait, and cordial, too, as the days of hearty june are long. another appearance out of the back room-eighty! not so tall, nor quite so stout, but more cheerful, quicker of motion, decidedly more cordial. there was a great shaking of hands, i tell you, there! no difference made between fair-looking abel and the swarthy lankey-not the least! talk! plenty of it; and after that there came, out of the back room, too, a little square table, which was suddenly clothed (by eighty) with a snowy cloth, and put in possession (by seventy) of a little family of cups and saucers, then of a dainty pile of toast, then of a cold ham, then of a steaming pot, and the little table was set up in the world, and ready to do business. . the two sisters and big abel had the table to themselves, the little manhattan declining tea, being furnished out of a closet with a small bag of delicate indian corn, his hat thrown off, and shoes, sate with his bare feet on the red brick hearth, and by aid of a brazier, with a furnace, parched it to his heart's content. then when the tea was fairly flowing, the toast a-wing, what stories they had to tell of this shrewd city's early day, how small he was. (how out of his dusky corner, like an ember, glowed lankey fogle's eye at this !) seventy had to tell of that old negro plot, when all the blackness of the city roused, and like an angry tempest rising from the earth-not now, from heaven !-threatened every life. then, that other, of the doctor's riot. it was clear that in the little chap. vii. big abel, and manhattan's heart there grew a thought or wish that riot even yet—the city not grown too great for him—might strangle him one day, and make it all his lair. then of huge fires that came upon him in his youth, and singed him to the ground like straw. the longest tales were seventy's, by far. eighty's were the best, for memory in her was a quick furnace-light in which all these past old things lived, like sacred children, moving there in brighter glow, and losing not a hair of all their precious heads. and now to-bed; up-stairs, with candles, one to lead and one to follow, they wait on lankey and big abel. tidy chambers, and in half a minute big abel sound asleep. but still the rain kept pattering down, and stirred poor lankey's indian heart with strange effect. in this humor, as he lay awake, he heard in a far-off street the doleful cry from some late-tarrying man, “oysters !”—on a wet drizzly summer's night the melancholiest sound,-delivered to his ear as though it was sung in a far-off world. then, as lankey thought of turbulent rivers, swelled by this heavy fall of rain, and the roar of the angry bay stretching far out to sea, there sprung upon the air, from down the dreary hollow they had rambled through that day, a quick, sharp cry for life; a woman's voice; a fearful cry for dead midnight ! lankey was troubled. he could not sleep; and going to the window, he bent himself upon his hands, and looked abroad. while yet his eyes glowed strangely upon the dark, there came gliding along a woman's shape, with hair streaming back with the little light that was abroad from lamps about, and eyes glis- tening-wet with sadness or joy too great to keep its fountain in the heart. ah, what a cry shot up just then against the sky! she spread her hands. there was no one near to see her, save lankey, none besides, nor far away; all the wide city's eyes were shut; and she possessed the night alone, with sorrow, for another night, within her breast. for ever so! the keenest tuesday.] the little manhattan. hurts, the deadliest wrongs life lays on human souls, have none, save god and the poor heart, to know of them! following this dim figure through the perilous night along the winding way, the little manhattan called to mind how once an ancient path that led into the hills ran there before it, and how in sadness deep as this the dusky maiden took her way, so long ago, up towards the calm, blue heaven, and sought to soothe her spirit with the silence of the woods, the sight of stars, and whispering of the winds of night! when he sought sleep again, he had a troubled dream in which, by some strange magic in his thoughts, the city passed back out of all his squares and streets and stony flats into his fresh, fair, lovely island-youth ; of hill, stream, valley, wood. ah, how he pined to have them by the hand, his kinsmen, as he saw them now, silent in the lodge, or swift at chase, or shining from the ruddy fight! but morning came, and took them all away. (chap. viii. big abel, and chapter viii. big abel and the little manhattan busy as ever : the city in his working jacket. up with the light; and forth before the two good sisters could know it, they crossed the city; tarrying for breakfast by the way; and entered a long, winding, narrow way (pearl street, i guess), choked with bald, high-headed stores--that kept tumbling great square boxes out, as though they had a hundred hands a.piece: or swallowing them with throats that gulped them up, like giants. (big abel, as they went along, kept seizing up stores, streets, squares, by the score.) men hurrying up and down: some reading signs to help them on their journey ; others dashing in and out as though they had the whole street at their fingers' ends. then, at about one o'clock of the day, the street gave a great roar; this was the auction-stores going off into a large sale, with a number of deep-chested gentlemen to encourage them by shouting at the top of their lungs; and how he packed 'em, close and hot and plenty of 'em, up-town merchants, and country merchants, and brooklyn merchants, and jersey city merchants; the sight of a green vine at the back window was decidedly refreshing : and if that breeze, that was idling his time away with a church-vane, had only looked in, he'd have been received with a cheer, i know. then, from time to time, as noon was turning down towards three; young gentlemen in shoals, coming abroad with flying skirts, and rushing to and fro, with soiled leather- books crushed in the hand ; and then, again, a portly man, this was the silent partner, no doubt, coming out from a very thrifty [chap. viii. . big abel, and sloop, perogue, long-boat, cock-boat, jolly-boat; english, french, dutch, russian, norwegian, kamschatkan—i'm ready. i've looked into the matter a little, and know the state of this harbor pretty well. there's a great variety of tonnage, i can tell you; and you may lay as deep as you please without going to china. come along !" and then he cocks his eye toward the narrows, on a sharp lookout for more sail : and how he rattles his cordage and waves his streamers when a spanking wind comes in! all the ships in harbor with their noisy can. vass talking at once; and he listening to every one ; and under- standing them all. now they're still again! and the old street, as he measures himself in the river before him, takes on a grave and earnest look, with such a weight of thought about his head and ears, it makes one tremble almost to look at him! just then he lets out from one of his sumptuous houses, a smooth man, of a wholesome and a hearty look,with a touch or two of care about the eye when he looks on the water : alto- gether a very pleasant and well-seeming gentleman ; who comes to where big abel (who has seized the shipping to half a ton, with a boastful reference, i can tell you, to old captain hudson, who first of all the many ships lay in this port, you know), and lankey stand: a south street merchant of the highest grade ; a tip-top merchant of south street; and better than that, an old friend of big abel's. “well, abel,” the south street merchant said : this was his friendly way—“how goes the lawsuit ?'! big abel smiled; and looked majestically about upon the ships, the stores, the wharves. “we've taken the matter into our own hands,” that was big abel's answer. “ the little manhattan and i ; you see him here, and are now dividing the property.” the merchant being an upright and well-intentioned man, was evidently pleased that it had been got along with so easily. “we shall be through by to-morrow night; and then we wednesday.] the little manhattan. wind up with a little celebration with our friends: you'll come, will you not ? at the old banking-house ; you ’ll come ?" the merchant knew the old banking-house well; he had business there many a day gone by. he would come, certainly, with great pleasure : and shaking big abel and lankey warmly by the hand, he went away to help in naming a bran-new ship, just put in water. but lankey fogle and big able tarry- ing still about the spot, espied, standing out upon a pier-head, a figure; that drew their look upon him as though he had been a beacon-light. comely and young, and fair; but pale as water at his greatest trouble: standing there, his hair in motion by the wind—that grew now to a gale—as conscious more of something far away and suffering, than of the cheerful vessels safely harbored round him. sometimes he cast his eyes upon the ground: and when, in some other motion of his spirit, he looked up again, his eye flew off with eager fearful speed to the far, endless fading of the narrows, toward the sea. he was not one who feared a ship would never come : who lingered long upon the farthest sky to see her smoke or sail ascending. no, no; this was the poor scholar, who trembled lest too happy speed in her should bring some fatal ship to blight his hope ; bearing from far lands some other book to take the place of his. she was not due ; but he leaped in spirit, through the waves before her prow: and saw her cut the sea like light, in speed no ship had ever made, could ever make. oh, blame him not ; that he in thought would cast a chain about her way, and hold her back a day or so. play other tunes than those you pipe on now, good wind, for that poor scholar's sake—two days. a day is all he asks. another day, and he will have his little hope embarked; then come, as sharply as you will! good wind-another day! going on, big abel and lankey came to a street which op- pressed them ; with mighty leaden hats; copper serpents coiling big abel, and [chap. viii. about at the doors ; cauldrons ; bells; but chiefly stoves : wherever the eye went, up or down, it was troubled with the sight of cones, and squares, and columns, and pyramids, but all with a trick in them, stoves. patent too! to cook with, to sleep with, to sit with, to travel with —you could do anything in that street, in the way of stoves! and, if it should so come about at night, when a few old fellows, rusty dogs, are left with- out in the lonesome street, with no one to watch or check their gambols (the young ones being all fast-locked in inside), what a frolic and a tussle they must have among themselves—these patent stoves! how they must, with all the wit that's in them, fight and quarrel with each other for the upper hand! there's high work, late at night, i'll warrant, in that street! now big abel, prompted by the striking of two o'clock at a watchmaker's, recollected an old house (a house of his: having clearly the very heart and soul of the old english captain in it) not far away. trotting up a hilly street ; out upon franklin-square ; and there he was. old walton house ! , not quite so grand as when he had his scores of waiters pouring in and out; liveried footmen mounting and dismounting at the door ; fine gentlemen and fine ladies alighting or taking car. riage; and that great man, whom all men love and honor, now, walking the long garden down to the very river's edge. - not grandly: but soberly: and with a decent gravity as conscious of what he was once. not in so high a line of life as then : for now he furnishes drinks at his bar; and sends out stages (ignominious, this) to oyster bay, cold spring, and hempstead. and yet, through all, he carries the same old front with his heavy eye-brows, iron-pitted doors, and a knocker that speaks out in as high a key as ever. here big abel and lankey sought to dine. there was no table spread in the cellar, as is the usage in some houses: nor in the parlor: nor the drawing-room: nor bed-room: nor garret: but going to the great hall of the second floor, you found a goodly banquet wednesday.) the little manhattan. stretched out: disdaining the rooms all about : up stairs and below. what a company the old house has to meals! as though his sturdy old heart, by some magic in it, could draw them out wherever they lurked, all through the city: whoever has a touch of his quaint humor in them. these were old men and old women; faded bachelors; faded spinsters; not in one costume by any means: but all with a whim in their bear. ing; and a trick in the fashion of a cap, or neck-cloth, or shoe- buckle, or wristband—that told plainly enough these were the old house's friends; and that they stood by him to the last. they knew the little manhattan and big abel well: this strange old company: and gave place to them; and entertained them, to the end of the feast, with ancient courtesy. in the midst of an antic, hobnobbing or philandering, or some such whim, big abel and the little manhattan took their leave; car. rying their hats in hand till they reached the door. returning toward the river, they passed numbers of bars or lodging-houses: with green or yellow doors: with red curtains sometimes in the windows, with tall pale bottles or small portly glass decanters, crowned with lemons : sometimes a coil of close tobacco in one corner: and, hanging at the door (this was regular), a green parrot in a cage. the doors were all open ; and about them stood women, chiefly in plain bombazine, with some ribbon or other about the waist, and men, duck-trowsered, in low tarpaulin hats. big abel's heart leaped up to these. they all seemed to know him there, too; and well they might, for, in the very midst of all, there stood upon a board, henry hudson, the brave old navigator himself: couldn't you catch a trick of big abel in his look and bearing? then the signs that swung above these bars. oftenest, a maiden lady, in a new white gown, smiling: always smiling : and leaning on an anchor, as though it had been a divan. and about the bars, keeping as close to them as they could, great swarms of red-shirts, and pea-jackets, and glazed hats, at cor- thursi the little manhattan. chapter ix. they are in the seventh day; and where the city finds his children. when, at morning, big abel and the little manhattan set forth from their lodging-house, there was a great turmoil of waggons about the ferry; a long, lazy man taking money at the gate, at his leisure, with incidental pulls at a bell; an array of horses, with their heads in the street, and their carts against the mar- ket-a piebald range of heads: they were, in a word, entering the wild and wonderful region of east bowery; of which catharine-street makes the southern boundary, and the great bowery the western line. people who live in the west and the south have strange notions, i am told, of all this vicinage : and have more than once made it over in fee to the little man- hattan as a land of savages. dark rumors prevail as to the diet, dress, and habitation of its denizens: children are seen there—not sparely, too—and grown men and women. this is the report: and when, from time to time, some wild, adventurous broadway gentleman takes cab, and allows himself to be carried by a most desperate driver, thither: he comes back, it is said, with hair on end, and talks in such a way of plain, simple-witted, honest republican folks, that listeners lift their hands on high, and coming down, take toddies all around, and lifting them again, find comfort in their horror. a perilous day was this, then, on which little lankey and big abel now were bound: the last : and when they looked along the street, the very air they saw was red, and blue, and yellow, with long stripes shot from housetop to walk, from windows to awning-posts, up out of cel. [chap. ix. big abel, and lars, and across the way: so that you would have said a devil's darning-needle must have lost his wings in any attempt to fly through. and yet through all there was a steady rush of butch- ers' carts, lively and frisky as young lambs: and market- wagons, driven up and down by strange old women, who were tossed about, with their faded black bonnets tumbling about their ears, in a manner you would suppose no old woman would ever submit to: a constant scamper of people to the ferry: shoppers, cheapening from shop to shop: and altogether a street as full as it could hold, and wonderfully gloomy and dispirited in his look, 'spite of all the good company he kept, and all the business he was doing. nevertheless, lankey fogle and big abel made their way to a part towards the head, where they heard a tradition of a great kite that had been once sent up, swinging a man at his tail, over the roofs : also of an indian squaw, who had sojourned thereabout, to a marvellous old age: and then they were at division-street, setting due eastward. here was a cheerful street for men to walk ! the dainty milliners! what tidy caps, enticing little hats and bonnets (of no kin to those the market-women wore, i war. rant you !) perched on sticks. inside, the gentle milliners them. selves—their clerks in little rooms beyond and keeping up through all the neighborhood a pleasant sound of ribbons drawn through the hand and clicking scissors; keeping time with the dainty minutes as they hopped over the garden fence, just at the back-door, you see !-at the invitation of the young gentlemen in the study-windows-they all have studies, there of east broad. way. brim-full of little shops! everybody taking breakfast one step up in the world : with a glass door by way of provoca- tion to strange gentlemen passing by—without privilege of stop- ping to say good morning. well: this was big abel's, if you could believe the story that he told of just such a dainty body as one of these sent up into the island from the captain's ship two hundred years before and settling hereabout, had fixed thursday.] the little manhattan. the fashions, downward from that time. but then no one claimed certain tall, spare, grizzled, useless old gentlemen, who are always seen lounging about these shops ; making be- lieve keep the accounts; and going forth from day to day, and coming back too, with baskets on their arms. these are said to be husbands to the dainty milliners; but don't believe a word of it; they're evil spirits appointed, for some wicked deeds in youth, to pass their grey old days in tending on these milliners : in sight of beauty ever, no nearer, though they linger there as long as old methusalem! when they had got beyond this pleasant pass; and reached the little square where hester street, i think it is, shakes hands with him (a trick the side. ways all about here play)—the little manhattan, being put in countenance by a fierce and gloomy little indian, in autumnal costume-every color in the rainbow and some not in that pat- tern—who watches that neighborhood from his pedestal ; came to a dead pause and set up peremptorily, quite peremptorily for lankey, a claim to all east bowery without reservation. i big abel came to a halt, too: and demanded proofs. it was then that lankey fogle, with an emphasis of manner unknown in all their past rambles, called big abel's attention, distinctly and pointedly, to what was going on around them. all over the neighborhood, up street, down street, on the long walk of the square, in doorways, windows—there was but one business forward: every man of them pulling away, with a face of in- tense employment, at a little dark roll he carried in his mouth : men passing in carts, in waggons, on horseback, all smoking for life. the little manhattan thought there was evidence for him : they both knew whose weed it was they wore. big abel, to tell the simple truth, was staggered at the sight: but recovering as soon as ever he could, he moved forward a 'pace or two, to where, at the very heart of the square, there springs a tall and stately pole; bearing high upon his top a golden cap. big abel, and [chap. ix. march about the world, they measured now their grateful steps. abel : lankey : lingered-how could they fail to ? and pre- sently there rose from out the bosom of that little house: a song : a simple, sacred song. hearts in it, too. but over all, the old, the young: whatever voices strive to plead thanksgiv- ingly: the two went up, with tears, it seemed almost in every thrill. poor little roof, you could not stay these praises from the place they sought. heaven had them ere they were a min- nute-old! hurrying along, they caught some pickled garlics in their hands (popular and prevailing everywhere in east bowery, i am told): and with a rusk or two, made meal as on they sped. and now they were fairly in east bowery; at its very heart ; and there big abel, making with the little manhattan great speed to accomplish their work by night-fall, were hailed from a distance. “hallo, my worthy !" and there came down the street two broad-shouldered, broad- chested, flushed men carrying pinkeys each in his little finger the little finger of the other-a custom believed to be endemical in east bowery; each man being, by a figure of speech, the pinkey of the other. they were both in light-colored coats, with great, round, staring white metal buttons, pantaloons intensely striped, round, flat-rimmed hats, and oily locks dashed in little patches on either side of the head. one was at least a head higher than the other in person, and in bearing and deport- ment several heads. this one it was that cried out: and as he drew nearer, he renewed the cry, “well, old boy-how goes that 'ere suit ?" big abel took him warmly by the hand as a friend of his, and made known the terms he had come to with the little man. hattan. “what do you say to that ?" he asked, turning to the lesser gentleman at his side. thursday.) the little manhattan. “ that's the feature !” he made answer. big abel mentioned the entertainment and hoped to see him there: nobody but friends to be on hand. be there, to be sure, and he'd bring somebody with him to shove it along; to wit the interesting gentleman at his side- who again remarked that, that was the feature. a sweltering day was this; and the two pinkeys, who never uncover to anything, having taken off their hats to the sun- quite civilly to the sun—to stand aside in the shade and hold this talk with big abel, clapped them back again, with a knock on the top, and moved off. now, down again towards the east river, they came to a cemetery; and along its walls of brick a choice company of boys were met, some at play, throwing somersets against its side ; some at marbles; some hop-scotching : among them all was one who, standing near the iron gate, wrought out with chalk, a name, letter by letter, slowly. big abel and lankey fell back and watched him as he worked. he stood close up against the wall and holding in one hand with which he partly scratched his head, by the leather front, a cap that fell down behind, worked with the other, in a slow and troubled way. he wrote it down, then rubbed it out again-then down and out again: and down and out again, and every time 'twas pompey smith, or pomp'. this was little neddy mellish, no doubt. “why, what's the matter, little neddy ?" said big abel, as he paused and looked about upon the other boys. “ it's all up, sir, i'm afraid !" answered neddy, whose face, to tell the truth, was very white. “what, with him ?" pointing to the name upon the wall. “ he'll not hold out till morning, they say !" and little neddy took big abel's hand and wrung it hard, as though some com. fort was to be got that way. so [chap. ix. big abel, and “dear heart!” neddy spoke up again, “i wish the doctors would let him stay, and send me off.” the doctors ! they knew little neddy mellish well; for now, for many days, while this pale trouble followed pomp’-he had followed them to the sick boy's door, and from the door, ques- tioning their calm faces for a hope-aye, even leaping to the stirrups of their gigs as on they sped, to get a word from them, for pompey's sake. believe it whether you will or no, white neddy mellish watched, for many days, and nights too, come to that, nor would be driven off-beside black pompey's bed! but now he was not there. he hung his head and looked up with a fear to big abel's face. “i couldn't stay to see him die !” said little neddy, with bitter self-reproach. “oh, what a cruel wretch i am–i couldn't though. to see him writhing in his bed, when they told me that he fought for life, was hard enough. play-fellow ! i've seen you work at many games.” pompey was before him in spirit even then. “but this was one, where all your skill and mirth and speedy foot would go for nothing, once for all! pomp’, pomp', by this time poor pomp’ is dead !” what could big abel say? what lankey ?—to that little wounded, heart-sore child ? not a word. they looked through the grated gate, upon the grave-yard within. clearly there was no property of theirs. the dead had it to themselves. a few white stones; a little grassy green; a few mouldering bodies. nothing more. nothing to claim—and big abel and lankey fogle walked in silence many streets (little neddy mellish was fading at a swift pace, like a ghost, far, far away), until they came to the river himself; and there they found a little old ferry; faded as to his house ; with a broken bell ; a gate-keeper gone to seed long, long ago; and, altogether, keeping the breath in his body by being very humble, and obsequious and obliging to a number of old, long-island market-women, for the sake of the baskets they had to carry. but now, what magic sweetened all thursday.] the little manhattan. the air to big abel, who grew in bulk, his bright, blue eye, brighter, his foot more firm upon the ground. a sound of hammers, all in chorus ! a cheery shout! and, how they heave in sight and cut great hollows in the air-ships on stocks! and busy under them, as moles, what brisk and sturdy men! a whole company of ships on stocks; but one had the heart, that afternoon, of all about. by some wonder in him drew the eye of men and boys who, gathered in a swarm near by, looked on with curious eyes. some sought to know him better, mounted to his back, and rode him as a gentle beast astride; but how they toiled, the brisk and sturdy men, to knock away his pins, and let him take the water as he should. in the very glow and zenith of their work, big abel stood there; tall and stout you know he was; and when they caught a sight of him, they came and put within his hand the launch. ing-sledge (she now was near her time); with a stroke he brushed away the lingering prop, and with a leap she took the stream. a shout! and back through all the streets the city took it up! a shout that had the city's heart and soul in it! a shout that al- ways goes with that stout ship through every sea, to every land ! lives in her timbers, fills her sails, and keeps her keel aright! big abel shook his ears as though he too had taken water; and crowed in spirit at the sight. all henry hudson in him stirred to life; and with a voice he claimed those mighty yards, and who gainsayed him ? fine ships, no doubt (this was what came into the little man. hattan's head); clear in the hull; oak-ribbed; arrows for speed. but when he cast back an eye, although the liberty-pole was still like a great splinter in his head ; and though he claimed no more that day; how his look brightened, too, on all around—at sight of tumbling houses, tumbling fast; poor broken ways; and in some pier heads, falling off, he even saw or thought he saw, thursday.] the little manhattan. that minute the old banking house became a piece of fairy- land, and big abel took the part of first fairy at a bound. why, what a spot is this they've come upon ? far as the eye can reach on every side, the stoops, the walks, the area- steps, are pattered thick with children, as though they had been sprinkled there, in some strange freak, out of a boundless water- ing pot; a little shower on every side. when the old city looks for children, he comes here i know. out at windows idle women lean, and talk to neighbors near at hand, or hail across the way. men, heavy in their walk and fat of look, plunge down; ducking beneath blue signs; and in the beer shops, everywhere, quench and put out the glowing day. the sturdy foundries by the river, too, are tired at last, and make it known to all the world by ringing out a peal upon their bells. through all that world of eastern bowery, work is done ; and everything, till daylight come again, is sport, in name, whatever it may be. and moving on, there approached big abel and lankey, what seem- ed a small swarm of glowing fire-flies, burning their way through the dusk with an even wing, which always kept them at a cer- tain height above the earth. but, drawing nearer, these lights helped them to see behind them the sallow faces of a body of fire-boys, smoking their path through the street. presently a watchman's rattle was sprung; the constellation knew it at once; broke up chaotically, and went round the neighboring corners in several pieces. shortly after this, an overwhelming shout in a neighboring street; and in less than a minute there came tumbling back, a square box on wheels (a fire-engine, no doubt); and tore away, in the very teeth of the sturdy watch, and made merry, in its rough way, for miles. and now, in tompkins' square; the trees sickly, and thin; the benches rude; the walks, ill-tended—but what a sight, off toward the east! the river, with its smoothest bay, and all it had of gentleness and calm, in that fair summer hour, seemed floating to the eye on towards this silent square, and blessing it. [chap. x. big abel, and serene! the children stopped, in all their frolics stopped, to look at it, as on a picture in a pleasant book; old men thought over all their lives gone by, however dark and rough, with something of a holy calm; and women drew into their gentle hearts the spell of all it showed, to nurse their gentle. ness yet more. that square, abuse him as you may, and treat him to as poor a culture as you will, can never grow a base, or low, or worthless square, while he may look out on the river, as now he looks. the prison, too, upon the island (lankey and big abel knew him well), no more a prison, but softened to a palace and an ark of rest, lingering there some fairy changes of the tide, to glide away; or silently go off in silver mist, up into the sky! they cannot loiter now—for company is for- ward at the old banking house, and big abel, with lankey, make new speed out at a gate on the west; and crossing a nim- ble thoroughfare, they come upon a street that makes them pause again. the heart of little neddy mellish guessed aright. poor pomp’ was dead! who else could be so calmly borne away: this was his procession passing now !-no heatse, no horse, no coach; a little coffin borne by men; and after it a line of poor black women in kerchiefs crossed upon the breast. how silently they moved !-was death nearer in the thought of these poor women, now that little pomp' was borne away with quiet tread, than when there is a tramp of hoofs, and rolling wheels, and talkers scaring him ? one white mourner only. gliding on-oh what a peace there is about that little coffin borne by friendly hands; as like to life as death may be in all the gentle, tender bearing of it up. one white mourner! the street is still- there is a hope of human hearts as yet-and children hang about its path; and wonder with their little simple eyes what gentle show this is that moves so deftly on. but little neddy mellish. he is in the line, as calm, as orderly as any. behind them all alone! although they speak to him—the poor black thursday.) the little manhattan. women-with their looks, and tell him softly to bear up. away from that—he must be nearer to his old, dear, little friend ! nearer? he ought to lie, now, by his very side. close to the coffin, helping in his feeble way to hold it up; although he weeps, there's comfort in the burthen that he bears. who thought that he should ever carry pompey so! and once or twice the fancy came into his little foolish head to knock upon the coffin lid as though poor pomp’, so summoned, might arise and come again to play with little neddy. not to the churchyard where little neddy mellish wrought his name (no, not there—for there white people lie alone in all their ashen splendor !:) but toward a country-field they're moving with poor pomp’: good-bye—thou little negro-boy ; perhaps there is a heaven for thee after all- who knows? and at the suburb, lankey and big abel (who had kept it company all along) part with it, and take their way -how pale they saw that little neddy was ! little negro-boy and at the subupart with it, an celebration.] the little manhattan. shell, a lawyer of the least degree. the poor attorney took his seat humbly though; and had no motion to make at all; none whatever. presently, a gush of mint (it wasn't the indian doctor with his herbs !) came up the scuttle ; a playful scuffling by the way; followed by the two pinkeys (great pinkey and small pinkey, lankey in his humor called them): who executed impromptu, on arriving on the roof, an oriental saraband (out of east bowery); in which they went off, impromptu again, into the two sexes; turning each other; forwarding; and deporting altogether as though this was a regular thing, in the way of a dance, and no mistake. to the huge delight of mrs. saltus, who rolled in her chair; and put them in countenance whenever the course of their proceedings brought them that way. by the time they had subsided into a playful fist-fight, in a corner; with a solid tread, but gentlemanly withal, and self-sustain- ed, there came along—the south street merchant; the south street merchant of the highest grade; the tip-top merchant of south street; and better than that, an old friend of big abel's. and now the indian doctor! a quiet man, with not a word to say; who settled like a piece of shadow, far over on the roof, under a corner of the canvass; by a pole, as though he had some faint notion of a wigwam, in his head, and meant to stand by it, that night. as one who ascends a companion ladder, as the best of stairs; bearing in his hand, as having worlds within it, his great glass ; out came the good old packet captain ; and shook himself, once on the roof, as though he stood upon the deck of some brave ship, and saw far out to sea. a proud man was the old packet captain; but when he saw quite close at hand, green fields and trees, he softened down, and talked with his old crony, the great merchant of south street; of many things, born under both their eyes, far in the past. what a scrambling fellow he is, that boatman, barskin, by name ! he's used to sloops, and their way of coming on deck, you may see at once. the great company on the roof, they're apple deal. yo [chap. x. big abel, and ers to barskin, and country people with firkins to freight down the river, that's all they are to him ; or can ever be. but like a streak of gentle light, coming not from heaven, as it should ; one who meant to be the first of all that company ; but who was crossed, most sadly crossed in an iron she had to deal with (a little, wicked, perverse, over-fiery iron !) the young semp- stress! there was a blessing for big abel he could never out- go (in all his thousand, thousand city friends) when that young sempstress took his hand, in what a grasp for one so young and pale; and smiled on him. she had brought—this kept her back a little, too,-a favor—a bright red ribbon of the color of true heart's blood-with a quaint device ; for big abel to wear. the company all assembled ; and what have we here ? a table spread (big abel had this in his mind as long ago as when he met lankey at the tower) with every city growth, with every city dainty ; piled high, stretched out, and deep with row on row. take to ! take to ! you are all welcome. big abel has a good heart for you all (for it is he that gives the feast ; though the little manhattan in his poor way is one of the entertainers). a joyous time, a cheerful time; for, though unlike, how big abel drew them all together, and had them move, through that good feast, as one. you don't know the half as yet, though! for there was big abel's health to drink; and a speech from big abel. big abel was very grateful (this was his speech as i have been told): that his friends were with him there that night. he loved them ; every one. for many a day he had known them, every one ; and watched them grow out of the very city's heart. they had a soul in them, all of them, that would never die. (he meant this in a way of his own.) the time could never come, in this great city, when mrs. saltus should cease to be, for one : the great packet captain for another: the two pinkeys for [chap. i. big abel, and and caught them in his vasty net. what wonder then, there grew in lankey fogle's heart (poor sad manhattan); a hope that downfall yet would come upon the city's head; that yet he would be led against his will, oh sorely now against his will, back to his old drear wilderness; and lose himself in dusky lodges and by silent paths as though never he had been. it cannot be, i fear as yet, poor lankey! no, no. the city grows; but you decline, i fear. (they never thought to drink your health !) you still will wander as a shade, the city-hills, the city-slopes; sit sadly down by mile-stones as the city grows; stand by the river's side, seeing there, what no other eye may see; dwin- dling like a spirit to the city's eye, while he, big abel, waxes on sturdier by every street he walks; by every square he builds. they say that you it is (but i for one will not believe it), that through the city light, unseen, great fires at night: and threaten with red overthrow the town from end to end. i know you love the grass that grows at times (by chance only, lan. key !) under horses' hoofs in swift thoroughfares. that often in the market-house, you sleep alone; or in a rolling boat upon the river; or underneath a tree out of the city's hateful breath, where you may get a sight of ancient stars. often withdraw. ing too, into that little village of manhattanville at the island's farthest point—it is said—for long, long spells. happiest, perchance, in that calm season of your own, the in. dian summer-time, when air and earth, and all things in and on them, share the gentle melancholy of your spirit, and nature shades her beauty and the brightness of her eye, in sympathy with you. then little manhattan walks about, more master of the city for a little while, than sturdy abel, even. there is a light; of all the lights that burned that night; wink- ing near by at this high revel; a cheerful light; not star-light, , nor moon-light, nor sun-light, nor candle-light altogether; but wedding-light; made up of the best, choicest beams of all the other. you see them moving in its broad ray as though it stringer & townsend's edition, in periodical form, of cooper’s novels, at twenty-five cents per volume. w . stringer & townsend having purchased of j. fenimore cooper, esq., the copy- right of all his tales and romances, are enabled to publish them at the reduced price of twenty-five cents per volume. the opportunity is thus presented to purchase this popular series of tales at a price within the means of every person; and a reduction of twenty per cent. will be made to persons purchasing the complete set, embracing deerslayer, or the first war path. vols. vois. . . . . pathfinder, or the inland sea. vols. . last of the mohicans, a tale of . vols. pioneers, or the sources of the susquehanna. vols. prairie. vols. . . . . . water witch, or the skimmer of the seas. v pilot, a tale of the sea. vols. . . . two admirals, a tale of the sea. vols. wing-and-wing, or le feu-follet. vols. sea lions, or the lost sealers. vols. . red rover. vols. . . . . . . afloat and ashore, or the adventures of mile lingford. vols. . wept of wish-ton-wish. vols. . spy, a tale of the neutral ground. vols... oak openings, or the bee hunters. vols. jack tier, or the florida reef. vols. the crater, or vulcan's peak. vols. redskins, or indian and ingin. vols.. satanstoe, or littlepage manuscripts. vols. chain bearer, a tale of the colony. vols. homeward bound, or the chase. vols. . home as found, a tale. vols.. headsman, a novel. vols. . . heidenmauer, a tale. vols. lionel lincoln, or the leaguer of boston. vols. mercedes of castile. vols.. monikins. vols. . . . ned myers, or a life before the mast. vol.. travelling bachelor. vols.. wyandotte. vols. . bravo, a tale. vols. . in all thirty-one different works, or sixty-three volumes. n. b.-any of the above works can be purchased separately, and forwarded by mail to any part of the country. the publishers have constantly on hand complete sets, bound in a uniform library style, vols. in one, cents. these works are sold by all booksellers and periodical dealers throughout the country. stringer & townsend, publishers, broadway, new york. an essay on thunder and small beer. any reader who may have a fancy to purchase a copy of this present second edition of the history of the kickleburys abroad, had best be warned in time, that the times newspaper does not i approve of the work, and has but a bad opinion both of the author and his readers. nothing can be fairer than this state- ment; if you happen to take up the poor little volume at a railroad station, and read this sentence, lay the book down and buy something else. you are warned. what more can the author say? if after this you will buy—amen! pay your money, take your book, and fall to. between ourselves, honest reader, it is no very strong potation which the present purveyor offers to you. it will not trouble your head much in the drink- ing.' it was intended for that sort of negus which is offered at christmas parties; and of which ladies and children may par- take with refreshment and cheerfulness. last year i tried a brew which was old, bitter, and strong ; and scarce any one would drink it. this year we send round a milder tap, and it is liked by customers : though the critics (who like strony ale, the rogues !) turn up their noses. in heaven's name, mr. sinith, serve round the liquor to the gentlefolks. pray, dear madam, another glass ; it is christmas time, it will do you no harm. it is not intended to keep long, this sort of drink. ( come, froth up, mr. publisher, and pass quickly round!) and, as for the professional gentlemen, we must get a stronger sort for them some day. the times gentleman (a very difficult gent. to please) is the loudest and noisiest of all, and has made more hideous faces . ai essai un thunder and small beer. over the refreshment offered to him than any other critic. there is no use shirking this statement: when a man has been abused in the times he can't hide it, any more than he could hide the knowledge of his having been committed to prison by mr. henry, or publicly caned in pall-mall. you see it in your friends' eyes when they meet you. they know it. they have chuckled over it to a man. they whisper about it at the club, and look over the paper at you. my next door neighbor came to sec me this morning, and i saw by his face that he had the whole story pat. “hem !” says he, “ well, i have heard of it ; and the fact is they were a talking about you at dinner last night, and mentioning that the times had—ahem !—'walked into you."" my good m- , (i say, and m— will corroborate, if need be, the statement i make here,) here is the times article, dated january th, which states so and so, and here is a letter from the publisher, likewise, dated january th, and which says : “my dear sir-having this day sold the last copy of the first edition (of x thousand) of the kickleburys abroad, and having orders for more, had we not better proceed to a second edition ? and will you permit me to inclose an order on," &c. ? singular coincidence ! and if every author who was so abused by a critic had a similar pote from a publisher, good lord ! how easily would we take the critics' censure ! “yes, yes," you say ; “it is all very well for a writer to affect to be indifferent to a critique from the times. you bear it as a boy bears a flogging at school, without crying out; but don't swagger and brag as if you liked it.” let us have truth before all. i would rather have a good word than a bad one from any person ; but if a critic abuses me from a high place, and it is worth my while, i will appeal. if i can show that the judge who is delivering sentence against me, and laying down the law, and making a pretence of learning, has 'no learning and no law, and is neither more por less than a pom- an essay on thunder and small beer. pous noodle, who ought not to be heard in any respectable court, i will do so; and then, dear friends, perhaps you will bave something to laugh at in this book. the kickleburys on the rhine. it has been customary of late years for the purveyors of amusing literature-the popular authors of the day-to put forth certain opuscules, denominated “ christmas books," with the ostensible in- tention of swelling the tide of exhilaration or other expansive emo- tions incident upon the exodus of the old and the inauguration of the new year. we have said that their ostensible intention was such, because there is another motive for these productions, locked up (as the popular author deems) in his own breast, but which be- trays itself, in the quality of the work, as his principal incentive. o, that any muse should be set upon a 'high stool to cast up accounts and balance a ledger! yet so it is; and the popular author finds it convenient to fill up the declared deficit, and place himself in a posi- tion the more effectually to encounter those liabilities which sternly assert themselves contemporaneously and in contrast with the care- less and freehanded tendencies of the season, by the emission of christmas books—a kind of literary assignats, representing to the emitter expunged debts, to the receiver an investment of enigmatical value. for the most part bearing the stamp of their origin in the vacuity of the writer's exchequer rather than in the fullness of his genius, they suggest by their feeble flavor the rinsings of a void brain after the more important concoctions of the expired year. indeed, we should as little think of taking these compositions as examples of the merits of their authors as we should think of mea- suring the valuable services of mr. walker, the postman, or mr. bell the dust-collector, by the copy of verses they leave at our doors as a provocative of the expected annual gratuity-effusions with which they may fairly be classed for their intrinsic worth no less than their ultimate purport. in the christmas book presently under notice mr. thackeray appears (under the thin disguise of mr. michael angelo titmarsh) in propriâ personâ, as the popular author, the contributor to punch, the remorseless pursuer of unconscious vulgarity and feeblemindedness, launched upon a tour of relaxation to the rhine. but though exer. an essay on thunder and small beer. cising, as is the wont of popular authors in their moments of leisure, a plentiful reserve of those higher qualities to which they are indebted for their fame, his professional instincts are not altogether in abeyance. from the moment his eye lights upon a luckless family group embarked on the same steamer with himself, the sight of his accustomed quarry--vulgarity, imbecility, and affectation- reänimates his relaxed sinews, and, playfully fastening his satiric fangs upon the familiar prey, he dallies with it in mimic ferocity like a satiated mouser. though faintly and carelessly indicated, the characters are those with which the author loves to surround himself. a tuft-hunting county baronet's widow, an inane captain of dragoons, a graceless young baronet, a lady with groundless pretensions to feeble health and poetry, an obsequious nonentity, her husband, and a flimsy and artificial young lady, are the personages in whom we are expected to find amusement. two individuals alone form an exception to the above category, and are offered to the respectful admiration of the reader-the one, a shadowy serjeant-at-law, mr. titmarsh's traveling companion, who escapes with a few side puffs of flattery, which the author struggles not to render ironical, and a myste- rious countess, spoken of in a tone of religious reverence, and appa- rently introduced that we may learn by what delicate discrimina- tions our adoration of rank should be regulated. to those who love to hug themselves in a sense of superiority by admeasurement with the most worthless of their species, in their most worthless aspects, the kickleburys on the rhine will afford an agreeable treat, especially as the purveyor of the feast offers bis own moments of human weakness as a modest entrée in this ban- quet of erring mortality. to our own perhaps unphilosophical taste--the aspirations towards sentimental perfection of another popular author are infinitely preferable to these sardonic divings after the pearl of truth, whose luster is eclipsed in the display of the diseased oyster. much, in the present instance, perhaps all the disagreeable effect of his subject, is no doubt attributable to the absence of mr. thackeray's usual brilliancy of style. a few flashes, however, occur, such as the description of m. lenoir's gaming establishment, with the momentous crisis to which it was subjected, and the quaint and imaginative sallies evoked by the old town of rougetnoirbourg and its lawful prince. these, with the illustra- an essay on thunder and small beer. tions, which are spirited enough, redeem the book from an abso- lute ban. mr. thuckeray's pencil is more congenial than his pen. he cannot draw his men and women with their skins off, and therefore, the effigies of his characters are pleasanter to contem- plate than the flayed anatomies of the letter-press. there is the whole article. and the reader will see (in the paragraph preceding that memorable one which winds up with the diseased oyster) that he must be a worthless creature for daring to like the book, as he could only do so from a desire to hug himself in a sense of superiority by admeasurement with the most worthless of his fellow-creatures ! the reader is worthless for liking a book of which the cha- racters are worthless, except two which are offered to his respect- ful admiration; and of these two the author does not respect one, but struggles not to laugh in his face; whilst he apparently speaks of another in a tone of religious reverence, because the lady is a countess, and because he (the author) is a sneak. so reader, author, characters, are rogues all. be there any honest men left, hal ? about printing-house square, maybap you may light on an honest man, a squeamish man, a proper moral man, a man that shall talk you latin by the half column if you will but hear him. and what a style it is, that great man's! what heighth of fioine language entoirely! how he can discourse you in eng- lish for all the world as if it was latin ! for instance, sup- pose you and i had to announce the important news that some writers published what are called christmas books; that christ- mas books are so called because they are published at christmas; and that the purpose of the authors is to try and amuse people. suppose, i say, we had by the sheer force of intellect, or by other means of observation or information, discovered these great truths, we should have announced them in so many words. and there it is that the difference lies between a great writer and a poor onc; and we may see how an inferior man may fling & an essay on thunder and small beer. . it convenient to fill up the declared deficit by the emission of christmas books—a kind of assignats that bear the stamp of their origin in the vacuity of the writer's exchequer.” there is a trope for you! you rascal, you wrote because you wanted money! his lordship has found out what you were at, and that there is a deficit in your till. but he goes on to say that we poor devils are to be pitied in our necessity, and that these compositions are no more to be taken as examples of our mer- its than the verses which the dustman leaves at his lordship's door, “as a provocative of the expected annual gratuity," are to be considered as measuring his, the scavenger's, valu- able services-nevertheless the author's and the scavenger's “effusions may fairly be classed, for their intrinsic worth, no less than their ultimate purport.” heaven bless his lordship on the bench-what a gentleman- like badinage he has, and what a charming and playful wit al- ways at hand! what a sense he has for a simile, or what mrs. malaprop calls an odorous comparison, and how gracefully he conducts it to “its ultimate purport !” a gentleman writing a poor little book is a scavenger asking for a christmas-box ! as i try this small-beer which has called down such a deal of thunder, i can't help thinking that it is not jove who has inter- fered (the case was scarce worthy of his divine vindictiveness) ; but the thunderer's man, jupiter jeames, taking his master's place, adopting his manner and trying to dazzle and roar like his awful employer. the figure of the dustman has hardly been filung from heaven : that “ ultimate purport” is a subject which the immortal would hardly handle. well, well ; let us allow that the book is not worthy of such a polite critic--that the beer is not strong enough for a gentleman who has taste and experi- ence in beer. that opinion no man can ask his honor to alter ; but (the beer being the question) why make unpleasant allusions to the gazette, and hint at the probable bankruptcy of the brewer? why twit an essay on thunder and small beer. who leaves a copy of verses at his door, and begs for a christmas- box, i must again cry out, and say, “ my dear sir, it is true your simile is offensive, but can you make it out? are you not hasty in your figures and allusions ?" if i might give a hint to so. consummate a rhetorician, you should be more careful in mak- ing your figures figures, and similes like : for instance, when you talk of a book “ swelling the tide of exhilaration incident to the inauguration of the new year,” or of a book “bearing the stamp of its origin in vacuity,” &c.,-or of a man diving sardonically ; or of a pearl eclipsed in the display of a diseased oyster—there are some people who will not apprehend your meaning : some will doubt whether you had a meaning : some even will question your great powers, and say, “ is this man to be a critic in a news- paper, which knows what english, and latin too, and what sense and scholarship are ?” i don't quarrel with you—i take for granted your wit and learning, your modesty and benevolence- but why scavenger-jupiter jeames-why scavenger? a gen- tleman, whose biography the examiner was fond of quoting, be- fore he took his present serious and orthodox turn, was pursued by an outraged wife to the very last stage of his existence with an appeal almost as pathetic_" ah, sir, why scavenger ?” how can i be like a dustman that rings for a christmas-box at your hall-door? i never was there in my life. i never left at your door a copy of verses provocative of an annual gratuity, as your noble honor styles it. who are you? if you are the man i take you to be, it was you who asked the publisher for my book, and not i who sent it in, and begged a gratuity of your worship. you abused me out of the times' window ; but if ever your no- ble honor sent me a gratuity out of your own door, may i never drive another dust-cart. “provocative of a gratuity !" o splen- did swell! how much was it your worship sent out to me by the footman ? every farthing you have paid i will restore to your lordship, and i swear i shall not be a halfpenny the poorer. as before, and on similar seasons and occasions, i bave com- an essay on thunder and small beer. · pared myself to a person following a not dissimilar calling, let me suppose, now, for a minute, that i am a writer of a christmas farce, who sits in the pit, and sees the performance of his own piece. there comes applause, hissing, yawning, laughter, as may be ; but the loudest critic of all is our friend the cheap buck, who sits yonder and makes bis remarks, so that all the audience may hear. “this a farce !” says beau tibbs, “ demmy! it's the work of a poor devil who writes for money,-confound bis vulgarity! this a farce! why isn't it a tragedy, or a comedy, or an epic poem, stap my vitals ? this a farce, indeed ? it's a feller as sends round his 'at, and appeals to charity. let's 'ave our money back again, i say.” and he swaggers off; and you find the fellow came in with an author's order. but if, in spite of tibbs, our“kyind friends,” &c., &c., &c.— if the little farce, which was meant to amuse christmas (or what my classical friend calls exodus) is asked for, even up to twelfth night-shall the publishers stop because tibbs is dissatisfied ? whenever that capitalist calls to get bis money back, he may see the letter from the respected publisher, informing the author that all the copies are sold, and that there are demands for a new edition. up with the curtain, then! vivat regina ! and no money returned, except the times” “gratuity !! jan. , . m. a. titmarsh. the kickleburys on the rhine. - the cabman, when he brought us to the wharf, and made his usual charge of six times his legal fare, before the settlement of which he pretended to refuse the privilege of an exeat regno to our luggage; glared like a disappointed fiend, when lankin, call- ing up the faithful hutchison, his clerk, who was in attendance, said to him, “hutchison, you will pay this man. my name is sergeant lankin, my chambers are in pump court. my clerk will settle with you, sir.” the cabman trembled ; we stepped on board ; our lightsome luggage was speedily whisked away by the crew ; our berths had been secured by the previous agency of hutchison; and a couple of tickets, on which were written, “ mr. sergeant lankin,” “ mr. titmarsh,” (lankin's, by the way, incomparably the best, and comfortablest sleeping place,) were pinned on to two of the curtains of the beds in a side cabin when we descended. who was on board ? there were jews with sunday papers, and fruit; there were couriers and servants struggling about; there were those bearded foreign visitors of england, who always seem to decline to shave or to wash themselves on the day of a voyage, and, on the eve of quitting our country, appear inclined to carry away as much as possible of its soil on their hands and linen : there were parties already cozily established on deck under the awning; and steady-going travelers, for’ard, smoking, already, the pleasant morning segar, and watching the phenom. ena of departure. . the kickleburys on the rhine. fancy, both red and angry, and strutting off with his great cavalry lurch and swagger; whilst my friend, the sergeant, looks at him lost in admiration, and surveys his shining little boots, his chains and breloques, his whiskers and ambrosial mustaches, his gloves, and other dandifications with a pleased wonder-as the ladies of the sultan's harem surveyed the great lady from park lane who paid them a visit ; or the simple subjects of montezuma looked at one of cortez's heavy dragoons. "that must be a marquis, at least, whispers lankin, who consults me on points of society, and is pleased to have a great opinion of my experience. i burst out in a scorntal laugh; “ that!" i say, “ he is a captain of dragoons, and his father is an attorney in bedford row. the whiskers of a rotuirer, my good lankin, grow as long as the beard of a plantagenet. it don't require much noble blood to learn the polka. if you were younger, lankin, we might go for a shilling a-night, and dance every evening at m. laurent's casino, and skip about in a little time as well as that fellow.—only we despise the kind of thing, you know—only we're too grave and too steady.” " and too fat,” whispers lankin with a laugh. “ speak for yourself, you maypole,” says i. " if you can't dance yourself, people can dance round you—put a wreathe of flowers upon your old poll, put you up in a village green, and so make use of you." "i should gladly be turned into anything so pleasant, lan- kin answers ; "and so, at least, get a chance of seeing a pretty girl now and then. they don't show in pump court, or at the university club, where i dine. you are a lucky fellow, tit- marsh, and go about in the world—as for me, i never — “and the judge's wives, you rogue ?” i say. “well, no man is satisfied ; and the only reason i have to be angry with the captain yonder is, that the other night at mrs. perkins, be- ing in conversation with a charming young creature, who knows all my favorite passages in the church controversy, just as we the kickleburys on the rhine. were in the very closest, dearest, pleasantest part of the talk, comes up young hotspur yonder, and whisks her away in a polka. what have you and i to do with polkas, lankin ? he took her down to supper—what have you and i to do with suppers ?" "our duty is to leave them alone,” said the philosophical sergeant; and now about breakfast-shall we have some ?" and as we spoke, a savory little procession of stewards and stew- ards' boys, with drab tin dish-covers, passed from the caboose, and descended the stairs to the cabin. the vessel had passed greenwich by this time, and had worked its way out of the mast-forest which guards the approaches of our city. the owners of those innumerable boxes, bags, oil-skins, guitar- cases, whereon the letter k was engraven, appeared to be three ladies, with a slim gentleman of two or three and thirty, who was probably the husband of one of them. he had numberless shawls under his arm and guardianship. he had a strap full of murray's handbooks and continental guides in his keeping; and a little collection of parasols and umbrellas, bound together, and to be carried in state before the chief of the party, like the lictors' fasces before the consul. the chief of the party was evidently the stout lady. one parasol being left free, she waved it about, and commanded the luggage and the menials to and fro. “horace, we will sit there,” she exclaimed, pointing to a comfortable place on the deck. horace went and placed the shawls and the guidebooks. "hirsch, avy vou conty les baggages ? tront sett morso ong too ?” the german courier said, “ oui, miladi,” and bowed a rather sulky assent. “bowman, you will see that finch is comfortable, and send her to me.” the gigantic bowman, a gentlemen in an undress uniform, with very large and splendid armorial buttons, and with traces of the powder of the season still lingering on his hair, bows, and speeds upon my lady's errand. precognize hirsch, a well known face upon the european high road, where he has traveled with many acquaintances. the kickleburys on the rhine. with whom is he making the tour now ? mr. hirsch is acting as courier to mr. and mrs. horace milliken. they have not been married many months, and they are traveling, hirsch says, with a contraction of his bushy eyebrows, with miladi, mrs. milliken's mamma. and who is her ladyship? hirsch's brow contracts into deeper furrows. “it is miladi gigglebury," he -says, “ mr. didmarsh. berhaps you know her.” he scowls round at her, as she calls out loudly, “hirsch, hirsch," and obeys that summons. it is the great lady kicklebury, of pocklington square, about whom i remember mrs. perkins made so much ado at her last ball, and whom old perkin conducted to supper. when sir thomas kicklebury died (he was one of the first tenants of the square,) who does not remember the scutcheon with the coronet with two balls, that flamed over no ? her son was at eton then, and has subsequently taken an honorary degree at oxford, and been an ornament of platt’s and the owestry club. he fled into st. james' from the great house in pocklington square, and from st. james' to italy and the mediterranean, where he has been for some time in a wholesome exile. her eldest daugh- ter's marriage with lord roughhead was talked about last year ; but lord rough head, it is known, married miss brent; and horace milliken, very much to his surprise, found himself the affianced husband of miss lavinia kicklebury, after an agitating evening at lady polkimore's, when miss lavinia, feeling her- self faint, went out on to the leads (the terrace, lady polki- more will call it,) on the arm of mr. milliken. they were married in january—it's not a bad match for miss k. lady kicklebury goes and stops for six months of the year at pigeon- cot with her daughter and son-in-law; and now that they are come abroad, she comes too. she must be with lavinia under the present circumstances. when i am arm-in-arm, i tell this story glibly off to lankia, the kickleburys on the rhine. those two damp black mutton chops which nobody else will take, will fall to our cold share.. at this minute a voice clear and sweet, from a tall lady in a black veil, says, “mr. titmarsh,” and i start and murmur an ejaculation of respectful surprise, as i recognize no less a person than the right honorable the countess of knightsbridge, taking her tea, breaking ap little bits of toast with her slim fingers, and sitting between a belgian horse-dealer and a german violoncello player, who has a conge after the opera—like any other mortal. i whisper her ladyship's name to lankin. the sergeant looks toward her with curiosity and awe. even he, in his pump court solitudes, has heard of that star of fashion—that diana severe yet simple, the accomplished aurelia of knightsbridge. her husband has but a small share of her qualities, how should he? the turf and the fox-chase are his delights—the smoking- room at the traveler's—nay, shall we say it ?—the illuminated arcades of vauxhall, and the gambols of the dishevelled terpsi- chore. knightsbridge has his faults—ah! even the peerage of england is not exempt from them. with diana for his wife, he flies the halls where she sits severe and serene, and is to be found (shrouded in smoke, 'tis true), in those caves where the contrite chimney-sweep sings his terrible death-chaunt, or the bacchanalian judge administers a satyric law. lord knights- bridge has his faults then, but he has the gout at rougetnoirbourg, near the rhine, and thither his wife is hastening to minister to him. “i have done,” says lady knightsbridge, with a gentle bow, as she rises ; “ you may have this place mr. titmarsh ; and i am sorry my breakfast is over, i should have prolonged it had i thought that you were coming to sit by me. thank you—my glove;" (such an absurd little glove, by the way ;) “ we shall meet on the deck when you have done.” and she moves away with an august courtesy. i can't tell how it is, or what it is, in that lady ; but she says “how do you do ?” as nobody else knows how to say it. in all her actions, the kickleburys on the rhine. joining them ; and miss p. went away presently, to look to her guests)—that is miss fanny kicklebury. a sudden pang shot athwart my bosom. lankin might have perceived it, but the honest sergeant was so awe-stricken by his late interview with the countess of knightsbridge, that his mind was unfit to grapple with other subjects—a pang of feeling (which i concealed under the grin and graceful bow wherewith miss fanny's salutations were acknowledged) tore my heart-strings -as i thought of—i need not say—of hicks. he had danced with her, he had supped with her—he was here, on board the boat. where was that dragoon? i looked round for him. in quite a far corner,—but so as he could com- mand the kicklebury party, i thought-he was eating his break- fast, the great healthy oaf, and consuming one boiled egg after another. in the course of the afternoon, all parties, as it may be sup- posed, emerged upon deck again, and miss fanny and her mamma began walking the quarter-deck with a quick pace, like a couple of post-captains. when miss fanny saw me she stopped and smiled, and recognized the gentleman who had amused her so at mrs. perkins'. what a dear sweet creature eliza perkins was ! they had been at school together. she was going to write to eliza everything that happened in the voyage. " everything ?" i said, in my particular sarcastic manner. “well, everything that was worth telling. there was a great number of things that were very stupid, and of people that were very stupid. everything that you say, mr. titmarsh, i am sure i may put down. yoù have seen mr. titmarsh's funny books, mamma ?” mamma said, she had heard, she had no doubt they were very amusing. “was not that—ahem-lady knightsbridge to whom i saw you speaking, sir ?” “ yes ; she is going to nurse lord knightsbridge, who has the gout at rougetnoirbourg.". the kickleburys on the rhine. “ indeed! how very fortunate ! what an extraordinary coin- cidence! we are going too,” said lady kicklebury. i remarked, “ that everybody was going to rougetnoirbourg this year; and i heard of two gentlemen-count carambole and colonel cannon—who had been obliged to sleep there on a bill- iard-table, for want of a bed.” “my son kicklebury—are you acquainted with sir thomas kicklebury ?” her ladyship said, with great stateliness—" is at noirbourg, and will take lodgings for us. the springs are parti- cularly recommended for my daughter, mrs. milliken ; and, at great personal sacrifice, i am going thither myself; but what will not a mother do, mr. titmarsh? did i understand you to say that you have the—the entree at knightsbridge house ? the parties are not what they used to be, i am told. not that i have any knowledge. i am but a poor country baronet's wi- dow, mr. titmarsh; though the kicklebury's date from henry iii., and my family is not of the most modern in the country. you have heard of general guff, my father, perhaps ? aide- de-camp to the duke of york, and wounded by his royal high- ness' side at the bombardment of valenciennes. we move in our own sphere." “ mrs. perkins is a very kind creature," i said, “and it was a very pleasant ball ; did you not think it so, miss kicklebury ?” “ i thought it odious,” said miss fanny. “i mean it was pleasant until that~that stupid man—what was his name? came and took me away to dance with him." “what, don't you care for a red coat and mustaches ?” i asked. “ i adore genius, mr. titmarsh,” said the young lady, with a most thrilling look of her beautiful blue eyes, " and i have every one of your works by heart—all except the last, which i can't endure. i think it's wicked, positively wicked-my dar- ling scott! how can you. and are you going to make a christmas-book this year ?" “shall i tell you about it?" the kickleburys on the rhine. looked up under the blue hood, so archly and gaily ; ever so many dimples began playing about her face; her little voice rang so fresh and sweet, that a heart which has never loved a tree or flower, but the vegetable in question, was sure to perish—a heart worn down and sickened by repeated disappointment, mockery, faithlessness—a heart whereof despair is an accustomed tenant, and in whose desolate and lonely depths dwells an abiding gloom, began to throb once more-began to beckon hope from the win- dow—began to admit sunshine-began to-o folly, folly ! o, fanny ! o miss k., how lovely you looked as you said, “ we call those hoods uglies.” ugly, indeed ! this is a chronicle of feelings and characters, not of events and places so much. all this time our vessel was making rapid way up the riyer, and we saw before us the slim towers of the noble cathedral of antwerp soaring in the rosy sunshine. lankin and i had agreed to go to the grand laboureur on the place de meir. they give you a particular kind of jam tarts there, called nun's tarts ; i think that i remember, these twenty years, as the very best tarts—as good as the tarts which we ate when we were boys. the laboureur is a dear old quiet comfortable hotel ; and there is no man in england who likes a good dinner better than lankin. “what hotel do you go to ?" i asked of lady kicklebury, “we go to the saint antoine, of course. everybody goes to the saint antoine,” her ladyship said. “we propose to rest here ; to do the rubens and to proceed to cologne to-morrow. horace, call finch and bowinan ; and your courier, if he will have the condescension to wait upon me, will perhaps look to the baggage.” “ i think, lankin,” said i, “as everybody seems going to the saint antoine, we may as well go, and not spoil the party.” “ i think i'll go too,” says hicks; as if he belonged to the party. and , it was a great sight when we landed, and at every the kickleburys on the rhine. her and this poor hicks there could be nothing serious, for she had laughed at him and mimicked him to me half-a-dozen times in the course of the day. we “do the rubens?” as lady kicklebury says ; we trudge from cathedral to picture-gallery, from church to church. we see the calm old city, with its towers and gables, the bourse, and the vast town-ball; and i have the honor to give lady kickle- bury my arm during these peregrinations, and to hear a hun- dred particulars regarding her ladyship’s life and family. how milliken has been recently building at pigeoncot; how he will have two thousand a year more when his uncle dies ; how she had peremptorily to put a stop to the assiduities of that unprin- cipled young man, lord roughhead, whom lavinia always detested, and who married miss brent out of sheer pique. it was a great escape for her darling lavinia. roughhead is a most wild and dissipated young man, one of kicklebury's christchurch friends, of whom her son has too many, alas! and she enters into many particulars respecting the conduct of kick- lebury—the unhappy boy's smoking, his love of billiards, his fondness for the turf; she fears he has already injured his in- come, she fears he is even now playing at noirburg ; she is going thither to wear him if possible, from his companions and his gayeties—what may not a mother effect? she only wrote to him the day before they left london to announce that she was marching on him with her family.-he is in many respects like his poor father—the same openness and frankness, the same easy disposition, alas! the same love of pleasure. but she had re- formed the father, and will do her utmost to call back her dear misguided boy. she had an advantageous match for him in view—a lady not beautiful in person, it is true, but possessed of every good principle, and a very, very handsome fortune. it was under pretence of flying from this lady that kicklebury left town. but she knew better. i say young men will be young men, and sow their wild oats ; the kickleburys on the rhine. and think to myself that the invasion of bis mamma will be per- haps more surprising than pleasant to young sir thomas kickle- bury, and that she possibly talks about herself and her family, and her virtues, and her daughters a little too much ; but she will make a confidant of me, and all the time we are going to the rubens' she is talking of the pictures at kicklebury, of her portrait by lawrence, pronounced to be his finest work, of la- vinia's talent for drawing, and the expense of fanny's music- masters; of her house in town, (where she hopes to see me ;) of her parties which were stopped by the illness of her butler. she talks kicklebury until i am sick. and o, miss fanny, all this i endure, like an old fool, for an occasional sight of your bright eyes and rosy face ! [another parenthesis. “we hope to see you in town, mr. titmarsh.” foolish mockery! if all the people whom one has met abroad, and who have said “we hope to meet you often in town,” bad but made any the slightest efforts to realize their hopes by sending a simple line of invitation through the penny post, what an enormous dinner acquaintance one would have had! but i mistrust people who say “ we hope to see you in town.”] lankin comes in at the end of the day, just before dinner time. he has paced the whole town by himself-church, tower, and fortifications, and rubens, and all. he is full of egmont and alva. he is up to all the history of the siege, when chas- see defended and the french attacked the place. after dinner we stroll along the quays; and, over the quiet segar in the hotel court, monsieur lankin discourses about the rubens pictures, in a way which shows that the learned sergeant has an eye for pic- torial beauty, as well as other beauties in this world, and can rightly admire the vast energy, the prodigal genius, the royal splendor of the king of antwerp. in the most modest way in the world he has remarked a student making clever sketches at the museum, and has ordered a couple of copies from him, of the the kickleburys on the rhine. you have such a bad dinner ?” hearken to hirsch's commina- tions over the luggage. look at the honest soldiers and that fat freyschutz on guard, bis rifle in one hand, and the other hand in his pocket. captain hicks burst into a laugh at the sight of the fat freyschutz, and says, “ by jove, titmarsh, you must cawickachaw him.” and we take our seats at length and at leisure, and the railway trumpets blow, and, (save a brief halt,) we never stop till night, trumpeting by green flats and pastures, by broad canals and old towns, through liege and verviers, through aix and cologne, till we are landed at bonn at night- fall. we have all supper, or tea-we have become pretty inti- mate—we look at the stranger's book, as a matter of course, in the great room of the star hotel. why, everybody is on the rhine! here are the names of half one's acquaintances. “ i see lord and lady exborough are gone on," says lady kicklebury, whose eye fastens naturally on her kindred aristoc- racy. “lord and lady wyebridge and suite, lady zedland and her family.” “hallo ! bere's cutler of the onety-oneth, and macmull, of the greens, en route to noirbourg,” says hicks, confidentially. “know macmull ?-devilish good fellow-such a fellow to smoke.” lankin, too, reads and grins. “why, are they going the rhenish circuit ?” he says and reads :- . sir thomas minos, lady minos, nebst begleitung aus eng- land. sir john eachus, mit familie und dienerschaft aus england. sir roger rhadamanthus. thomas smith, sergeant. sergeant brown and mrs. brown, aus england. sergeant tomkins, anglais. madame tomkins, mesdemoi- selle tomkins. the kickleburys on the rhine. at oxford. there are few characters more amiable, and delightful to watch, and contemplate, than some of those middle aged oxford bucks, who hang about the university, and live with the young tufts. leader can talk racing and boating with the fastest young christchurch gentleman. leader occasionally rides to cover with lord talboys; is a good shot, and seldom walks out with- out a setter or a spaniel at his heels. leader knows the peerage, and the racing calendar, as well as the oxford cram books. lead- er comes up to town, and dines with lord grimsby. leader goes to court every two years. he is the greatest swell in bis common room. he drinks claret, and can't stand port wine any longer ; and the old fellows of his college admire him, and pet him, and get all their knowledge of the world and the aristocracy from him. i admire those kind old dons, when they appear, af- fable and jaunty men of the world, members of the camford and oxbridge club, upon the london pavement. i like to see them over the morning post in the common room ; with a “ha, i see lady rackstraw has another daughter.”. “poppleton, there has been another party at x— house, and you we. 't asked, my boy.” “lord coverdale has got a large party siaying at coverdale. did you know him at christchurch? he was a very handsome man before he broke his nose, fighting the barge- men at ifily ; a light weight, but a beautiful sparrer,”' &c. let me add, that leader, although he does love a tuft, has a kind heart; as his mother and sisters in yorkshire, know; as all the village knows too—which is proved of his position in the great world—and welcoines him very kindly when he comes down and takes the duty at christmas, and preaches to them one or two of “the very sermons which lord grimsbury was good enough to like, when i delivered them at talboys." “ you are not acquainted with lord talboys ?" leader asks, with a degage air, “ i shall have much pleasure in introducing you to him. talboys, let me introduce you to lady kicklebury, sir thomas kicklebury was not at christchurch in your time; the kickleburys on the rhine. but you have heard of him, i dare say.-your son has left a re- putation at oxford.” " i should think i have, too. he walked a hundred miles in a hundred hours. they said he bet that he'd drink a hundred pints of beer in a hundred hours: but i don't think he could do it, not strong beer ; don't think any man could., the beer here isn't worth a—" “my dear talboys,” says leader, with a winning smile. “i suppose lady kicklebury is not a judge of beer—and what an un- romantic subject of conversation, here, under the castled crag im- mortalized by byron." "what the deuce does it mean about peasant girls with dark blue eyes, and hands that offer corn and wine,” asks talboys; “ i've never seen any peasant girls, except the-ugly set of women i ever looked at.” “ the poet's license. i see, milliken, you are making a charm- ing sketch. you used to draw when you were at brazennose, milliken ; and play-yes, you played the violoncello.” mr. milyen still possessed these accomplishments. he was taken up that very evening, by a soldier, at coblentz, for making a sketch of ehrenbreitstein. mrs. milliken sketches, immensely too, and writes poetry; such dreary pictures, such dreary poems ! but professional people are proverbially jealous; and i doubt whether our fellow passenger, the german, would even allow that milliken could play the violoncello. . lady kicklebury gives miss fanny a nudge when lord tal- boys appears, and orders her to exert all her fascinations. . how the old lady coaxes, and she wheedles! she pours out the tal- boys pedigree upon him ; and asks after his aunt, and his mother's family. is he going to noirburg ?-how delightful. there is nothing like british spirit; and to see an english matron well set upon a man of large fortune, and high rank, is a great and cu- rious sight. and yet, somehow, the british doggedness does not always answer. “do you know that old woman in the drab jacket, dej the kickleburys on the rhine. titmarsh ?” my hereditary legislator asks of me. “what the devil is she bothering me for, about my aunts, and setting her daughter at me? i aint such a fool as that. i aint clever, tit- marsh; i never said i was. i never pretend to be clever, and that-but why does that old fool bother me, hay ? heigho ? i'm devilish thirsty.. i was devilish cut last night. i think i must have another go off. hallo you! kellner! garsong ; ody soda, oter petty vare do dyvee de conac. that's your sort; isn't it, leader ?" “you will speak french well enough if you practice,” says leader with a tender voice, “practice is everything. shall we dine at the table d'hote ? waiter, put down the name of viscount talboys, and mr. leader if you please.” the boat is full of all sorts and conditions of men. for’ard, there are peasants and soldiers ; stumpy, placid-looking little warriors for the most part, smoking feeble segars, and looking quite harmless under their enormous helmets. a poor, stunted, dull-looking boy of sixteen, staggering before a black-striped sentry-box, with an enormous musket on his shoulder, does not seem to be a martial, or awe-inspiring object. has it not been said that we carry our prejudices everywhere; and only admire what we are accustomed to admire in our own country? yonder walks a handsome young soldier who has just been marrying a wife. how happy they seem ! and how pleased that everybody should remark their happiness. it is a fact that in the full sunshine, and before a couple of hundred people on board the joseph miller steamer, the soldier absolutely kissed mrs. soldier, at which the sweet fanny kicklebury was made to blush. we were standing together looking at the various groups, the pretty peasant woman, (really pretty for once,) with the red head-dress and fluttering ribbons, and the child in her arms; the jolly fat old gentleman, (who little thought he would ever be a frontispiece in this life,) and who was drinking rhine wine before noon, and turning his back upon all the castles, towers and ruins, which reflected their crumbling peaks in the water, npon the the kickleburys on the rhine. then, upon his sardonic countenance, comes up, and says, “ tit- marsh, how can you be so impertinent ?” “ impertinent! as how?" “ the girl must understand what you mean ; and you should not laugh at her own mother to her. did you ever see anything like the way in which that horrible woman is following the young lord about?" “ see! you see it every day, my dear fellow ; only the trick is better done, and lady kicklebury is rather a clumsy practitioner-see! why nobody is better aware of the sprinys which are set to catch him, than that young fellow himself, who is as knowing as any veteran in may fair. and you don't sup- pose that lady kicklebury fancies that she is doing anything mean, or anything wrong? heaven bless you! she never did anything wrong in her life. she has no idea but that every- thing she says, and thinks, and does, is right. and no doubt she never did rob a church ; and was a faithful wife to sir thomas, and pays her tradesmen. confound her virtue! it is that which makes her so wonderful—that brass armor in which she walks so impenetrable—not knowing what pity is or charity; crying sometimes when she is vexed, or thwarted, but laughing never-crying and domineering by the same natural instinct, never doubting about herself above all. let us rise, and revolt against those people, lankin. let us war with them, and smite them utterly. it is to use against these, especially, that scorn and satire were invented.” “ and the animal you attack,” says lankin, “is provided with a hide to defend him—it is a common ordinance of nature.” and so we pass by tower and town, and float up the rhine. we don't describe the river. who does not know it! how you see people asleep in the cabins at the most picturesque parts, and angry to be awakened when they fire off those stupid guns for the echoes! it is as familiar to numbers of people as green- wich; and we know the merits of the inns along the road as if they were the trafalgar or the star and garter. how stale the kickleburys on the rhine. everything grows! if we were to live in a garden of eden now, and the gate were open, we should go out, and tramp forward, and push on, and get up early in the morning, and push on again—anything to keep moving, anything to get a change, any- thing but quiet for the restless children of cain. so many thousands of english folks have been at rougetnoir. bourg in this and past seasons, that it is scarcely needful to alter the name of that pretty little gay wicked place. there were se many british barristers there this year that they called the hotel des quatre saisons, the hotel of quarter sessions. there were judges and their wives, sergeants and their ladies, queen's counsel learned in the law, the northern circuit and the western circuit—there were officers of half-pay and full-pay, military officers, naval officers, and sheriffs' officers. there were people of high fashion and rank, and people of no rank at all—there were men and women of reputation, and of the two kinds of reputation—there were english boys playing cricket; english pointers putting up the german partridges, and english guns knocking them down-there were women whose husbands, and men whose wives were at home—there was high church and low church-england turned out for a holiday, in a word. how much farther shall we extend our holiday ground, and where shall we camp next? a winter at cairo is nothing now. perhaps ere long we shall be going to saratoga springs, and the ameri- cans coming to margate for the summer. apartments befitting her dignity and the number of her family, had been secured for lady kicklebury by her dutiful son, in the same house in which one of lankin's friends had secured for us much humbler lodgings. kicklebury received his mother's ad- vent with a great deal of good humor; and a wonderful figure the good-natured little baronet was when he presented himself to his astonished friends scarcely recognizable by his own parent and sisters, and the staring retainers of their house. “mercy, kicklebury ! have you become a red republican ?” his mother asked. the kickleburys on the rhine. “i can't find a place to kiss you,” said miss fanny, laughing at her brother, and he gave her pretty cheek such a scrub with his red beard as made some folks think it would be very pleasant to be miss fanny's brother. in the course of his travels, one of sir thomas kicklebury's chief amusements and cares had been to cultivate this bushy · auburn ornament. he said that no man could pronounce ger- man properly without a beard to his jaws; but he did not appear to have got much beyond the preliminary step to learning ; and, in spite of his beard, his honest english accent came out, as his jolly english face looked forth from behind that fierce and bristly decoration, perfectly good-humored and unmistakable. we try our best to look like foreigners, but we can't. every italian mendicant or pont neuf beggar knows his englishman, in spite of blouse, and beard, and slouched hat. “there is a pe- culiar high-bred grace about us," i whisper to lady kicklebury, "an aristocratic je ne sais quoi, which is not to be found in any but englishmen; and it is that which makes us so immensely liked and admired all over the continent.” well, this may be truth or joke—this may be a sneer or a simple assertion; our vulgarities and our insolences may, perhaps, make us as remark- able, as that high-breeding which we assume to possess. it may be that the continental society ridicules and detests us as we walk domineering over europe-but, after all, which of us would de- nationalize himself? who wouldn't be an englishman? come, sir, cosmopolite as you are, passing all your winters at rome or at paris; exile by choice, or poverty, from your own country; - preferring easier manners, cheaper pleasures, a simple life ; are you not still proud of your british citizenship, and would you like to be a frenchman ? kicklebury has a great acquaintance at noirbourg, and as he walks into the great concert room at night, introducing his mo- ther and sisters there, he seems to look about with a little anxiety lest all of his acquaintance should recognize him. there are some in that most strange and motley company with whom he the kickleburys on the rhine. balls and music, and all the newspaper-rooms and parks, all the feasting and pleasures of this delightful rougetnoirbourg would bave been at an end. for though he is a wicked gambling prince lenoir, he is be- loved in all these regions; his establishment gives life to the town, to the lodging-house and hotel-keepers, to the milliners, and hackney-coachmen, to the letters of horse-filesh, to the huntsmen and gardes-de-chasse ; to all these honest fiddlers and trumpeters who play so delectably. were lenoir's bank to break, the whole little city would shut up, and all the noir bourgers wish him prosperity, and benefit by his good fortune. three years since, the noirbourgers underwent a mighty panic. there came, at a time when the chief lenoir was at paris, and the reins of government were in the hands of his younger brother, a company of adventurers from belgium, with a capital of three hundred thousand francs, and an infallible system for playing rouge et noir, and they boldly challenged the bank of lenoir, and sat down before his croupiers and defied bim. they called themselves, in their pride, the contre-banque de noirbourg : they had their croupiers and punters, even as lenoir had his : they had their rouleaux of napoleons, stamped with their contre- banquish seal :—and they began to play. as, when two mighty giants step out of a host and engage, the armies stand still in expectation, and the puny privates and commonalty remain quiet to witness the tremendous cham- pions of the war, so, it is said, that when the contrebanque ar- rived, and ranged itself before the officers of lenoir-rouleau to rouleau, bank note to bank note, war for war, controlment for controlment, all the minor punters and gamblers ceased their peddling play, and looked on in silence round the verdant plain, where the great combat was to be decided. not used to the vast operations of war, like his elder brother, lenoir junior, the lieutenant, telegraphed to bis absent chief the news of the mighty enemy who had come down upon him, asked the kickleburys on the rhine. music, and rejoice in his victory ; i am glad he beat those con- trebanquists. dissipati sunt. the game is up with them. the instances of this man's magnanimity are numerous, and worthy of alexander the great, or harry the fifth, or robin hood. most gentle is he, and thoughtful to the poor, and mer- ciful to the vanquished. when jeremy diddler, who had lost twenty pounds at his table, lay in inglorious pawn at his inn ; when o'toole could not leave noirbourg until he had received his remittances from ireland, the noble lenoir paid diddler's inn bill, advanced o'toole money upon his well known signature, franked both of them back to their native country again ; and has never, wonderful to state, been paid from that day to this. if you will go play at his table, you may; but nobody forces you. if you lose, pay with a cheerful heart. dulce est desipere in loco. this is not a treaty of morals. friar tuck was not an exemplary ccclesiastic, nor robin hood a model man; but he was a jolly outlaw ; and, i dare say, the sheriff of notting- . ham, whose money he took, rather relished his feast at robin's green table. and if you lose, worthy friend, as possibly you will, at le- noir's pretty games, console yourself by thinking that it is much better for you in the end that you should lose, than that you should win. let me, for my part, make a clean breast of it, and own that your humble servant did, on one occasion, win a score of napoleons, and beginning with a sum of no less than five shil- lings. but until i had lost them again i was so feverish, excited, and uneasy, that i had neither delectation in reading the most exciting french novels, nor pleasure in seeing pretty landscapes, nor appetite for dinner. the moment, however, that graceless money was gone, equanimity was restored, paul feval and eugene sue began to be terrifically interesting again ; and the dinners at noirbourg, though by no means good culinary speci- mens, were perfectly sufficient for my easy and tranquil mind. lankin, who played only a lawyer's rubber at whist, marked the salutary change in his friend's condition ; and, for my part, i the kickleburys on the rhine. hope and pray that every honest reader of this volume, who plays at m. lenoir's table, will lose every shilling of his win- nings before he goes away. where are the gamblers whom we have read of? where are the card-players whom we can re- member in our early days ? at one time almost every gentle- man played, and there were whist tables in every lady's draw- ing-room. but trumps are going out along with numbers of old world institutions; and, before very long, a blackleg will be as rare an animal as a knight in armor. there was a little dwarfish, abortive, counterbank set up at noirbourg this year, but the gentlemen soon disagreed among themselves; and, let us hope, were cut off in detail by the great lenoir. and there was a frenchman at our inn who had won two napoleons per day for the last six weeks, and who had an infallible system, whereof he kindly consented to communicate the secret for the consideration of a hundred louis; but there came one fatal night when the poor frenchman's system could not make head against fortune, and her wheel went over him, and he disappeared utterly. with the early morning everybody rises and makes his or her appearance at the springs, where they partake of water with a wonderful energy and perseverance. they say that people get to be fond of this water at last ; as to what tastes cannot men accustom themselves ? i drank a couple of an abominable sort of feeble salts in a state of very gentle effervescence, but though there was a very pretty girl who served it, the drink was abominable, and it was a marvel to see the various topers, who tossed off glass after glass, which the fair-haired little hebe de- livered sparkling from the well. seeing my wry faces, old captain carver expostulated, with a jolly twinkle of his eye, as he absorbed the contents of a spark- ling crystal beaker. “ pooh! take another glass, sir : you'll like it better and better every day. it refreshes you, sir : it fortifies you: and as for liking it-gad! i remember the time when i didn't like claret. times are altered now, ha! ha! the kickleburys on the rhine. how rich they are. “who is that very stylish-looking woman, to whom mr. washington walker spoke just now ?" she asks of kicklebury. kicklebury gives a twinkle of his eye. “o, that, mother! that is madame la princess de mogador—it's a french title.” “she danced last night, and danced exceedingly well, i re- marked her. there's a very high-bred grace about the prin- cess.” “yes, exceedingly. we'd better come on," says kickle- bury, blushing rather as he returns the princess's nod. it is wonderful how large kicklebury's acquaintance is. he has a word and a joke in the best german he can muster for everybody-for the high well-born lady, as for the german peas- ant maiden, who stood for the lovely portrait which faces this page, as for the pretty little washerwoman, who comes full sail down the streets, a basket on her head, and one of mrs. fan- tail's wonderful gowns swelling on each arm. as we were going to the schloss-garten i caught a sight of the rogue’s grinning face yesterday, close at little gretal's ear, under her basket, but spying out his mother advancing, he dashed down a by street, and when we came up with her, gretal was alone. one but seldom sees the english and the holiday visitors in the ancient parts of noirbourg ; they keep to the streets of new buildings and garden villas which have sprung up under the ma- gic influence of m. lenoir, under the white towers and gables of the old german town. the prince of trente et quarante has quite overcome the old serene sovereign of noirbourg, whom one cannot help fancying a prince like a prince in a christmas pantomime—a burlesque prince with twopence-halfpenny for a revenue, jolly and irascible, a prime minister-kicking prince, fed upon fabulous plum-puddings and enormous pasteboard joints, by cooks and valets with large heads which never alter their grin. not that this portrait is from the life. perhaps he has no life. perhaps there is no prince in the great white tower that we see for miles before we enter the little town. perhaps he has been the kickleburys on the rhine. the stalwart brothers of the now all but extinct generation are there; their quarrels and their pleasures, their glories and dis- graces, enemies, flatterers, detractors, admirers—all now buried. is it not curious to think, that the king of trumps now virtually reigas in this place, and has deposed the other dynasty ? very early one morning, wishing to have a sketch of the white tower in which our english princess had been imprisoned, i repaired to the gardens, and set about a work, which, when completed, will no doubt have the honor of a place on the line, at the exhibition ; and, returning homeward to breakfast, musing upon the strange fortunes and inhabitants of the queer, fantastic, melancholy place, behold, i came suddenly upon a couple of persons, a male and a female; the latter of whom wore a blue hood or “ ugly,” and blushed very much on seeing me. the man began to laugh behind his mustaches, the which cacchination was checked by an appealing look from the young lady ; and he held out his hand, and said, “ how d’ye do, titmarsh. been out making some cawickachaws, hay?” i need not say that the youth before me was the heavy dra- goon, and the maiden was miss fanny kicklebury. or need i repeat that in the course of my blighted being, i never loved a young gazelle to glad me with its dark blue eye, but when it came to, &c., the usual disappointment was sure to ensue? there is no necessity why i should allude to my feelings at this most manifest and outrageous case. i gave a withering glance of scorn at the pair, and with a stately salutation, passed on. miss fanny came tripping after me. she held out her little hand with such a pretty look of deprecation, that i could not but take it; and she said, “ mr. titmarsh, if you please, i want to speak to you if you please ;' and choking with emotion, i bade her speak on. “my brother knows all about, and highly approves of captain hicks,” she said with her head banging down ; "and o, he's the kickleburys on the rhine. very good and kind ; and i know him much better now, than i did when i came on board the steamer." i thought i had mimicked him, and what an ass i had been. “ and you know,” she continued, “ that you have quito deserted me for the last ten days for your great acquaintances.” .“ i have been to play chess with lord knightsbridge, who has the gout.” “ and to drink tea constantly with that american lady ; and you have written verses in her album, and in lavinia’s album ; and as i saw that you had quite thrown me off, why my bro- ther approves of it highly; and—as captain hicks likes you very much, and says you amuse him very much—indeed he does,” says the arch little wretch. and then she added a postscript, as it were, to her letter, which contained, as usual, the point which she wished to urge :- “you—won't break it to mamma—will you be so kind? my brother will do that”—and i promised her; and she ran away kissing her hand to me. and i did not say a word to lady kicklebury, and not above a thousand people at noirbourg knew that miss kicklebury and captain hicks were engaged. and now let those who are too confident of their virtue listen to the truthful and melancholy story which i have to relate, and humble themselves, and bear in mind that the most perfect among us are liable to fall. kicklebury was not perfect. i do not de- fend his practice. he spent a great deal more time and money than was good for bim at m. lenoir's gaming-table, and the only thing which the young fellow never lost was his good humor. if fortune shook her swift wings and fled away from him, he laughed at the retreating pinions, and you saw him dancing and laughing as gaily after losing a rouleau, as if he was made of money, and really had the five thousand a-year which his mo- ther said was the amount of the kicklebury property. but when bor ladyship’s jointure, and the young ladies' allowances, and the kickleburys on the rhine. as the son of an english earl, heir to many thousands per annum, lady kicklebury permitted him to do. and she introduced her- sélf to madame la princesse de mogador, mentioning to her highness that she had the pleasure of meeting madame la prin- cesse at rougetnoirbourg ; that she, lady k., was the mother of the chevalier de kicklebury, who had the advantage of the acquaintance of madame la princesse ; and that she hoped ma- dame la princesse had enjoyed her stay at the waters. to these advances the princess of mogador returned a gracious and affable salutation, exchanging glances of peculiar meaning with two highly respectable bearded gentlemen who traveled in her suite ; and, when asked by milady whereabouts her highness' residence was at paris, said that her hotel was in the rue notre dame de lo- rette, where lady kicklebury hoped to have the honor of wait- ing upon madame la princesse de mogador. but when one of the bearded gentlemen called the princess by the familiar name of fifine, and the other said, “veux tu fumer, mogador,” and the princess actually took a segar and began to smoke, lady kicklebury was aghast, and trembled; and pre- sently lord talboys burst into a loud fit of laughter. " what is the cause of your lordship’s amusement ?” asked the dowager, looking very much frightened, and blushing like a maiden of sixteen. "excuse me, lady kicklebury, but i can't help it,” he said. “ you've been talking to your opposite neighbor. she don't understand a word of english, and calling her princess, and high- ness, and she's no more a princess than you or i. she is a little milliner in the street she mentioned, and she dances at mabille and chateau rouge.” hearing these two familiar names, the princess looked hard at lord talboys, but he never lost countenance ; and at the next station lady kicklebury rushed out of the smoking carriage, and returned to her own place ; where, i dare say, captain hicks and miss fanny were delighted once more to have the advantage the kickleburys on the rhine. the carts begin to creak and rattle, and wake the sleeping echoes. ding, ding, ding, the steamers' bells begin to ring; the people on board to stir and wake; the lights may be extin- guished, and take their turn of sleep; the active boats shake themselves, and push out into the river; the great bridge opens, and gives them passage; the church bells of the city begin to clink; the cavalry trumpets blow from the opposite bank ; the sailor is at the wheel, the porter at his burthen, the soldier at his musket, and the priest at his prayers and lo! in a flash of crimson splendor, with blazing scarlet clouds running before his chariot, and heralding his majestic ap- proach, god's sun rises upon the world, and all nature wakens and brightens. o glorious spectacle of light and life! o beatific symbol of power, love, joy, beauty! let us look at thee with humble wonder, and thankfully acknowledge and adore. what gracious forethought is it—what generous and loving provision, that deigns to prepare for our eyes and to soothe our hearts with such a splendid morning festival! for these magnificent bounties of heaven to us, let us be thankful, even that we can feel thank- ful ; (for thanks surely is the noblest effort, as it is the greatest delight, of the gentle soul,) and so, a grace for this feast, let all say who partake of it. see! the mist clears off drachenfels, and it looks out from the distance, and bids us a friendly farewell. farewell to holi- day and sunshine ; farewell to kindly sport and pleasant leisure ! let us say good bye to the rhine, friend. • fogs, and cares, and labors are awaiting us by the thames ; and a kind face or two looking out for us to cheer and bid us welcome. hd widener hw rlrh dem mia chr то class of of boston grenville howland norcross the gift of tasi ve ri vard library arvard college voan sia ccle nono k.m. . -- -- -- - - - - -- -- -- ,- /? མ་ཡོམ་ཆ--བ ག ཡས་ s. ebelen & mason's precious forte restrict رع- سری 一一一一一一一一一一一一一一 ​ madeiro, azores bermudas tcloms] ocean level cot + + atlantis bottom of ocean nautical miles wide --- the profile of atlantis, ao revealed by the deep-sea soundings of u. . riip "challenger," and the u. s. alip "dulphin." obtinhos atlantis: the antediluvian world. by ignatius donnelly. illustrated, " the world has made such comet-like advance lately on science, we may almost hope, before we die of sheer decay, to learn something about our infancy; when lived that great, original, broad-eyed, sunken race, whose knowledge, like the sea-sustaining rocks, hath formed the base of this world's fluctuous lore." festus. seventh edition, new york: harper & brothers. franklin square. geog. , . harvard hrvard colles ili l library entered according to act of congress, in the year , by harper & brothers, in the office of the librarian of congress, at washington. all rights reserved. contents. chap. part i. the history of atlantis. pagr i. the purpose of the book . . . . . . . . . . . . . ii. plato's history of atlantis . ...... iii. the probabilities of plato's story ... iv. was such a catastrophe possible? ... v. the testimony of the sea . . . . . . . . . . . . vi. the testimony of the flora and fauna ...... ... .. part ii. the deluge. i. the destruction of atlantis described in the deltge legends . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ii. the deluge of the bible. . . . . . . . . . . . . iii. the deluge of the chaldeans . . . . . . . . . . . iv. the deluge legends of other nations . . . . . . . . v. the deluge legends of america . . . . . . . . . . vi. some consideration of the deluge legends . . . . . . part iii. the civilization of the old world and new compared. i. civilization an inheritance . . . . . . . . . . . . ii. the identity of the civilizations of the old world and the new . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . iii. american evidences of intercourse with europe or atlantis contents. cap. page iv. corroborating circumstances. . . . . . . . . . . v. the question of complexion . . . . . . . . . . . vi. genesis contains a history of atlantis . . . . . . . vii. the origin of our alphabet . . . . . . . . . . . viii. the bronze age in europe. . . . . . . . . . . ix. artificial deformation of the skull . . . . . . . . part iv. the mythologies of the old world a recollection of atlantis. i. traditions of atlantis . . . . . . . . . . . . . ii. the kings of atlantis become the gods of the greeks. iii. the gods of the phenicians also kings of atlantis . . iv. the god opix, woden, or wotan . . . . . . . . . v. the pyramid, the cross, and the garden of eden ... vi. gold and silver the sacred metals of atlantis. ... part v. the colonies of atlantis. i. the central american and mexican colonies . . . . . ii. the egyptian colony. . . . . . . . . . . . . . iii. the colonies of the mississippi valley . . . . . . . iv. the iberian colonies of atlantis . . . . . . . . . v. the peruvian colony. . . . . . . . . . . ... vi. the african colonies . ... vii. the irish colonies from atlantis . . . . . . . . . viii. the oldest son or noah . . . . . . . . . . . . ix. the antiquity of some of orr great inventions . . . . x. the aryan colonies from atlantis. . . . . . . . . xi. atlantis reconstructed . . . . . . . . . . . . illustrations. page the profile of atlantis . . . . . . . . . . . . frontispiece coal-measures of pennsylvania . . . . . . . . . . . . . destruction of pompeii. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . calabrian peasants ingulſed by crevasses ( ) ...... fort of sindree, on the eastern branch of the indus, before it was submerged by the earthquake of . .. . .. . ... view of the fort of sindree from the west in march, . eruption of vesuvius in . . . . . . . . . . . . . map of atlantis, with its islands and connecting ridges, from deep. sea soundings . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ancient islands between atlantis and the mediterranean, from deep- sea soundings . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ancient carving, stratford-on-avon, england . cereals of the age of stone in europe . . . . . . . . . . ancient irish pipes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ancient indian pipe, new jersey ... the world, according to cosmos . . . . . map of europe, after cosmos. . . . . . . . . . . . . . the mountain the sun goes behind at night . . . . . . . . the starting point of the aztecs, according to the gamelli careri pictured ms. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . the starting-point of the aztecs, according to the boturini pict- ured writing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . calendar stone . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . the god of the flood . . . . . . . . . . . · · · · mosaics at mitla, mexico . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . carving on the buddhist tower, sárnáth, india . . . . . . . ancient irish vase of the bronze age . . . . · · · · · · ancient vase from the mounds of the united states .. of tho r . viii illustrations. . . . page ancient mexican vase . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . bearded head, from teotihuacan ........ elephant mound, wisconsin . . . . . . . elephant pipe, louisa county, iowa ... . . elephant-trunk ilead-dress, palenque ... . mexican representation of elephant . ... . negro idols found in central america . . . . . . . . . . negroid figure, palenque . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . negro head, vera cruz . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . governor and other indians of the pueblo of san domingo, new mexico . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . choctaw . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . nees . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . savonarola . . · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · the races of men according to the egyptians .... ruins of the pyramid of cholula . . . . . . . great serpent-mound, ohio......... . stone implements of europe and america . . . . landa's alphabet . . . . . . . . · · · the alphabet . . . . . . . . . . . . . . implements and ornaments of the bronze age .. ornaments of the bronze age . . . . . . . . . . . . . celtic warrior, from egyptian monuments . ...... • celtic warrior, from assyrian monuments . . . . . . . • a skull of the age of stone, denmark. ..... . a skull of the earliest times of the age of iron, denmark . . irish celt. . . . . . . . . . . · · · · · · · · · danish celt. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . leaf-shaped bronze swords, . . . . . . . . . . . . . stone celt, mound in tennessee.... bronze knives from denmark . . . . . . . . . . . . . bronze knives from switzerland ... hut urn, albano . . . . . . . . . bronze lake village . . . . . .. bronze razor-knives. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ancient galley, from a roman coin · · · · · · · · . . . ship of william the conqueror. · · · · · · · · . . . . irish bronze dagger. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . inscribed celt. . . . . . . · · · · · · · · · · . . bronze hair-pins . . . . . · · · · · · · · · · · . . vases from mounds in the mississippi valley. ... . . . . . . . . . . illustrations. · . . · · . . . . . . . page vases from switzerland .. .. .. . .. .... ancient swiss vase and supporter . . . . . . . . . . . bronze chisels. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . spirals from scotland . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . spiral from new mexico . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . discoidal stones, illinois . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . copper spear-head, lake superior ... . . bronze hatchets, switzerland. . . . . . . . . . . . . . spiral from new mexico ............. shell ornament, mound near nashville, tennessee . . . . . . copper axe, from a mound near laporte, indiana . . . . . . copper axe, waterford, ireland. . . . . . . . . . . . . . fragment of pottery, lake neufchatel, switzerland . . . . . . fragment of pottery, san josé, mexico ........ stucco bass-relief in the palace of palenque . . . . . . . . . ancient swiss skull. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . peruvian skull . . . . . . . . . . · · · · · · · · chinook (flat-head), after catlin . . . . . . . . . . . . jleads from palenque . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . outlines of skulls of different races. . . . . . . . . . . egyptian heads . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . central american head . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . egyptian head . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . peruvian inca skull, from the ancient cemetery of pachacamac . the empire of atlantis . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . poseidon, or neptune . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . egyptian tau . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . cross from monuments of palenque . . . . . . . . . . . ancient irish cross . . . . . . · · · · · · · · · · · central american cross . . . . . . . . . copper coin, teotihuacan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ancient irish cross-pre-christian-kilnaboy . . . . cross from egyptian monuments . . . . . . . . . . . . pyramids of egypt. . . . . . · · . pyramids of teotihuacan ... . the great mound, near miamisburg, ohio .. · · great pyramid of xcoch, mexico . . . . . · · · · · · · common form of arch, central america . . . . . . . . section of the treasure-house of atreus at mycenæ · · · · · arch of las monjas, palenque, central america · · · · · · . graded way near piketon, ohio . . . . . . . . . . . . · . . · . . · . . · . . · . . . . . illustrations. . . page walls at gran-chimu, peru . . . . . . . . . . . . . . cross and pyramid mound, ohio . . . . . . . . . . . . from the mounds of the ohio valley . . . . . . . . . . cyclopcan wall, greece . . . . . . · · · · · · · · · cyclopean masonry, peru · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · owl-headed vase, troy . . . . . . . . owl-headed vase, peru . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . owl-headed vase, peru. . . . . . . . . . .'. . . . . owl-headed vase, troy. · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · . . tamahu, from the egyptian monuments, b.c. . . . . . . the burgh of moussa, in the shetlands . . . . . . . . . . round-tower of the cañon of the mancos, colorado, u.s. ... cow-headed idol, mycenæ (from schliemann) . . . . . . . religious emblem of the bronze age, switzerland .... baal, the phænician god . . . . . . . . . . . . . moqui idol . . . . . . . . · · · · · · · · · · · · dakota idol . . . . . . · · · · · · · · · · · · · peruvian devil . . ... greek siren . . . . . . . . chinese magnetic car .... ancient coins of tyre. . . . . . . · · · · · · · · · coin from central america . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ancient egyptian plough .... · atlantis: the antediluvian world. part i. tiil history of atlantis. chapter i. the purpose of the book. this book is an attempt to demonstrate several distinct and novel propositions. these are: . that there once existed in the atlantic ocean, opposite the mouth of the mediterranean sea, a large island, which was the remnant of an atlantic continent, and known to the an- cient world as atlantis. . that the description of this island given by plato is not, as has been long supposed, fable, but veritable bistory. . that atlantis was the region where man first rose from a state of barbarism to civilization. . that it became, in the course of ages, a populous and mighty nation, from whose overflowings the shores of the gulf of mexico, the mississippi river, the amazon, the pacific coast of south america, the mediterranean, the west coast of europe and africa, the baltic, the black sea, and the caspian were populated by civilized nations. . that it was the true antediluvian world ; the garden of eden ; the gardens of the hesperides; the elysian fields; atlantis: the antediluvian world. the gardens of alcinous; the mesomphalos; the olympos; the asgard of the traditions of the ancient nations; representing a universal memory of a great land, where early mankind dwelt for ages in peace and bappiness. . that the gods and goddesses of the ancient greeks, the phænicians, the hindoos, and the scandinavians were simply the kings, queens, and heroes of atlantis ; and the acts at- tributed to them in mythology are a confused recollection of real historical events. . that the mythology of egypt and pern represented the original religion of atlantis, which was sun-worship. . that the oldest colony formed by the atlanteans was probably in egypt, whose civilization was a reproduction of that of the atlantic island. . that the implements of the “bronze age” of europe were derived from atlantis. the atlanteans were also the first manufacturers of iron. . that the phænician alphabet, parent of all the euro- pean alphabets, was derived from an atlantis alphabet, which was also conveyed from atlantis to the mayas of central america. . that atlantis was the original seat of the aryan or indo - european family of nations, as well as of the semitic peoples, and possibly also of the turanian races. . that atlantis perished in a terrible convulsion of nature, in which the whole island sunk into the ocean, with nearly all its inhabitants. . that a few persons escaped in ships and on rafts, and carried to the nations east and west the tidings of the ap- palling catastrophe, which has survived to our own time in the flood and deluge legends of the different nations of the old and new worlds. if these propositions can be proved, they will solve many problems which now perplex mankind; they will confirm in the purpose of the book. many respects the statements in the opening chapters of gen- esis; they will widen the area of human history; they will ex- plain the remarkable resemblances which exist between the ancient civilizations found upon the opposite shores of the at- lantic ocean, in the old and new worlds; and they will aid us to rehabilitate the fathers of our civilization, our blood, and our fundamental ideas—the men who lived, loved, and labored ages before the aryans descended upon india, or the phæni- cian had settled in syria, or the goth had reached the shores of the baltic. • the fact that the story of atlantis was for thousands of years regarded as a fable proves nothing. there is an unbelief which grows out of ignorance, as well as a scepticism which is born of intelligence. the people nearest to the past are not always those who are best informed concerning the past. for a thousand years it was believed that the legends of the buried cities of pompeii and herculaneum were myths: they were spoken of as “the fabulous cities.” for a thousand years the educated world did not credit the accounts given by he- rodotus of the wonders of the ancient civilizations of the nile and of chaldea. he was called “the father of liars.” even plutarch sneered at himn. now, in the language of frederick schlegel, “the deeper and more comprehensive the researches of the moderns have been, the more their regard and esteem for herodotus has increased.” buckle says, “ his minute in- formation about egypt and asia minor is admitted by all geographers.” there was a time when the expedition sent out by pharaoh necho to circumnavigate africa was doubted, because the ex- plorers stated that after they had progressed a certain distance the sun was north of them; this circumstance, which then aroused suspicion, now proves to us that the egyptian navi- gators had really passed the equator, and anticipated by years vasquez de gama in his discovery of the cape of good hope. atlantis: the antediluvian world. if i succeed in demonstrating the truth of the somewhat startling propositions with which i commenced this chapter, it will only be by bringing to bear upon the question of at- lantis a thousand converging lines of light from a multitude of researches made by scholars in different fields of modern thought. further investigations and discoveries will, i trust, confirm the correctness of the conclusions at which i have arrived. plato's history of atlantis. chapter ii. plato's history of atlantis. plato has preserved for us the history of atlantis. if our views are correct, it is one of the most valuable records which have come down to us from antiquity. plato lived years before the birth of christ. his an- cestor, solon, was the great law-giver of athens years be- fore the christian era. solon visited egypt. plutarch says, “solon attempted in verse a large description, or rather fabu- lous account of the atlantic island, which he had learned from the wise men of sais, and which particularly concerned the athenians; but by reason of his age, not want of leisure (as plato would have it), he was apprehensive the work would be too much for him, and therefore did not go through with it. these verses are a proof that business was not the binderance: “i grow in learning as i grow in age.' and again : “* wine, wit, and beauty still their charms bestow, light all the shades of life, and cheer us as we go.' “plato, ambitious to cultivate and adorn the subject of the atlantic island, as a delightful spot in some fair field unoccu- pied, to which also he had some claim by reason of his being related to solon, laid out magnificent courts and enclosures, and erected a grand entrance to it, such as no other story, fable, or poem ever had. but, as he began it late, he ended his life before the work, so that the more the reader is delighted with atlantis: the antediluvian world. the part that is written, the more regret he has to find it un- finished.” there can be no question that solon visited egypt. the causes of his departure from athens, for a period of ten years, are fully explained by plutarch. he dwelt, he tells us, “on the canopian shore, by nile's deep mouth.” there he conversed upon points of philosophy and history with the most learned of the egyptian priests. he was a man of extraordinary force and penetration of mind, as his laws and his sayings, which have been preserved to us, tęstify. there is no improbability in the statement that lie commenced in verse a history and description of atlantis, which he left unfinished at his death; and it requires no great stretch of the imagina- tion to believe that this manuscript reached the hands of his successor and descendant, plato; a scholar, thinker, and his- torian like himself, and, like himself, one of the profoundest minds of the ancient world. the egyptian priest had said to solon, “ you have no antiquity of history, and no history of antiquity;" and solon doubtless realized fully the vast impor- tance of a record wbich carried human history back, not only thousands of years before the era of greek civilization, but inany thousands of years before even the establishment of the kingdom of egypt; and he was anxious to preserve for his half-civilized countrymen this inestimable record of the past. we know of no better way to commence a book about at- lantis than by giving in full the record preserved by plato. it is as follows: critias. then listen, socrates, to a strange tale, which is, however, certainly true, as solon, who was the wisest of the seven sayes, declared. lle was a relative and great friend of my great-grandfather, dropidas, as he himself says in several of his poems; and dropidas told critias, my grandfather, who re- membered, and told us, that there were of old great and mar- vellous actions of the athenians, which have passed into ob- livion through time and the destruction of the human race- plato's history of atlantis. and one in particular, which was the greatest of them all, the recital of which will be a suitable testimony of our gratitude to yon. ... socrates. very good; and what is this ancient famous ac- tion of which critias spoke, not as a mere legend, but as a veritable action of the athenian state, which solon recounted ? critias. i will tell an old-world story which i heard from an aged man; for critias was, as he said, at that time nearly ninety years of age, and i was about ten years of age. now the day was that day of the apaturia which is called the regis- tration of youth; at which, according to custom, our parents gave prizes for recitations, and the poems of several poets were recited by us boys, and many of us sing the poems of solon, which were new at the time. one of our tribe, either because this was his real opinion, or because he thought that he would please critias, said that, in his judgment, solon was not only the wisest of men but the noblest of poets. the old man, i well remember, brightened up at this, and said, smiling: “yes, amynander, if solon bad only, like other poets, made poetry the business of his life, and had completed the tale which he brought with him from egypt, and had not been compelled, by reason of the factions and troubles which he found stirring in this country when he came home, to attend to other mat- ters, in my opinion he would have been as famous as homer, or hesiod, or any poet." “and what was that poem about, critias?" said the person who addressed him. " about the greatest action which the athenians ever did, and which ought to have been most famous, but which, through the lapse of time and the destruction of the actors, has not come down to us." “tell us,” said the other, “the whole story, and how and from whom solon heard this veritable tradition.” he replied :" at the head of the egyptian delta, where the river nile divides, there is a certain district which is called the district of sais, and the great city of the district is also called sais, and is the city from which amasis the king was sprung. and the citizens have a deity who is their foundress: she is called in the egyptian tongue neitli, which is asserted by them to be the same whom the hellenes called athene. now, the citizens of this city are great lovers of the athenians, and atlantis: the antediluvian world. say that they are in some way related to them. thither came solon, who was received by them with great honor; and he asked the priests, who were most skilful in such matters, abont antiquity, and made the discovery that neither he nor any oth- er hellene knew anything worth mentioning about the times of old. on one occasion, when he was drawing them on to speak of antiquity, he began to tell about the most ancient things in our part of the world — about phoroneus, who is called “the first,' and about niobe; and, after the deluge, to tell of the lives of deucalion and pyrrha; and he traced the genealogy of their descendants, and attempted to reckon how many years old were the events of which he was speaking, and to give the dates. thereupon, onc of the priests, who was of very great age, said, “o solon, solon, you hellenes are but children, and there is never an old man who is an ilellene.' solon, hearing this, said, “what do you mean? “i mean to say,' he replied, that in mind you are all young; there is no old opinion handed down among you by ancient tradition, nor any sci- ence which is hoary with age. and i will tell you the reason of this: there have been, and there will be again, many des structions of mankind arising out of many causes. there is a story which even you have preserved, that once upon a time phaëthon, the son of helios, having yoked the steeds in his father's chariot, because he was not able to drive them in the path of his father, burnt up all that was upon the earth, and was himself destroyed by a thunder-bolt. now, this has the form of a myth, but really signifies a declination of the bodies moving around the earth and in the heavens, and a great confla- gration of things upon the earth recurring at long intervals of time: when this happens, those who live upon the mountains and in dry and lofty places are more liable to destruction than those who dwell by rivers or on the sea-shore; and from this calamity the nile, who is our never-failing savior, saves and de- livers us. when, on the other hand, the gods purge the earth with a deluge of water, among you herdsmen and shepherds on the mountains are the survivors, whereas those of you who live in cities are carried by the rivers into the sea; but in this country neither at that time nor at any other does the water come from above on the fields, having always a tendency to come up from below, for which reason the things preserved here are said to be the oldest. the fact is, that wherever the plato’s history of atlantis. extremity of winter frost or of summer sun does not prevent, the human race is always increasing at times, and at other times diminishing in numbers. and whatever happened either in your country or in ours, or in any other region of which we are informed—if any action which is noble or great, or in any other way remarkable has taken place, all that has been writ- ten down of old, and is preserved in our temples; whereas you and other nations are just being provided with letters and the other things which states require; and then, at the usual period, the stream from heaven descends like a pestilence, and leaves only those of you who are destitute of letters and edu- cation ; and thus you have to begin all over again as children, and know nothing of what happened in ancient times, either among us or among yourselves. as for those genealogies of yours which you have recounted to us, solon, they are no bet- ter than the tales of children; for, in the first place, you re- member one delige only, whereas there were many of them; and, in the next place, you do not know that there dwelt in your land the fairest and noblest race of men which ever lived, of whom you and your whole city are but a seed or remnant. and this was unknown to you, because for many generations the survivors of that destruction died and made no sign. for there was a time, solon, before that great deluge of all, when the city which now is athens was first in war, and was pre- eminent for the excellence of her laws, and is said to have per- formed the noblest deeds, and to have had the fairest consti- tution of any of which tradition tells, under the face of heaven.' solon marvelled at this, and earnestly requested the priest to in- form him exactly and in order about these former citizens. “you are welcome to hear about them, solon,' said the priest, ‘both for your own sake and for that of the city; and, above all, for the sake of the goddess who is the common patron and pro- tector and educator of both our cities. she founded your city a thousand years before ours, receiving from the earth and hephæstus the seed of your race, and then she founded ours, the constitution of which is set down in our sacred registers as years old. as touching the citizens of years ago, i will briefly inform you of their laws and of the noblest of their actions; and the exact particulars of the whole we will hereafter go through at our leisure in the sacred registers them- selves. if you compare these very laws with your own, you * atlantis: the antediluvian world. will find that many of ours are the counterpart of yours, as they were in the olden time. in the first place, there is the caste of priests, which is separated from all the others; next there are the artificers, who exercise their several crafts by themselves, and without admixture of any other; and also there is the class of shepherds and that of hunters, as well as that of husbandmen; and you will observe, too, that the war- riors in egypt are separated from all the other classes, and are commanded by the law only to engage in war; moreover, the weapons with which they are equipped are shields and spears, and this the goddess taught first among you, and then in asi- atic countries, and we among the asiatics first adopted. ". then, as to wisdom, do you observe what care the law took from the very first, searching out and comprehending the whole order of things down to prophecy and medicine (the lat- ter with a view to health); and out of these divine elements drawing what was needful for human life, and adding every sort of knowledge which was connected with them. all this order and arrangement the goddess first imparted to you when establishing your city; and she chose the spot of earth in which you were born, because she saw that the happy tem- perament of the seasons in that land would produce the wisest of men. wherefore the goddess, who was a lover both of war and of wisdom, selected, and first of all settled that spot which was the most likely to produce men likest herself. and there you dwelt, having such laws as these and still better ones, and excelled all mankind in all virtue, as became the children and disciples of the gods. many great and wonderful deeds are recorded of your state in our histories; but one of them ex- ceeds all the rest in greatness and valor; for these histories tell of a mighty power which was aggressing wantonly against the whole of europe and asia, and to which your city put an end. this power came forth out of the atlantic ocean, for in those days the atlantic was navigable; and there was an island situated in front of the straits which you call the col- umns of heracles: the island was larger than libya and asia put together, and was the way to other islands, and from the islands you might pass through the whole of the opposite con- tinent which surrounded the true ocean ; for this sea which is within the straits of heracles is only a harbor, having a nar- row entrance, but that other is a real sea, and the surrounding plato's history of atlantis. land may be most truly called a continent. now, in the island of atlantis there was a great and wonderful empire, which had rule over the whole island and several others, as well as over parts of the continent; and, besides these, they subjected the parts of libya within the columns of heracles as far as egypt, and of europe as far as tyrrhenia. the vast power thus gath- ered into one, endeavored to subdue at one blow our country and yours, and the whole of the land which was within the straits; and then, solon, your country shone forth, in the ex- cellence of her virtue and strength, among all mankind; for she was the first in courage and military skill, and was the leader of the hellenes. and when the rest fell off from her, being compelled to stand alone, after having undergone the very extremity of danger, she defeated and triumphed over the invaders, and preserved from slavery those who were not yet subjected, and freely liberated all the others who dwelt within the limits of heracles. but afterward there occurred violent earthquakes and floods, and in a single day and night of rain all your warlike men in a body sunk into the earth, and the island of atlantis in like manner disappeared, and was sunk beneath the sea. and that is the reason why the sea in those parts is impassable and impenetrable, because there is such a quantity of shallow mud in the way; and this was caused by the subsidence of the island.' (* plato's dialogues,” ii., , timæus.) ... “but in addition to the gods whom you have mentioned, i would specially invoke mnemosyne; for all the important part of what i have to tell is dependent on her favor, and if i can recollect and recite enough of what was said by the priests, and brought hither by solon, i doubt not that i shall satisfy the requirements of this theatre. to that task, then, i will at once address myself. “let me begin by observing, first of all, that nine thou- sand was the sun of years which had clapsed since the war which was said to have taken place between all those who dwelt outside the pillars of lleracles and those who dwelt within tben : this war i am now to describe. of the combat- ants on the one side the city of athens was reported to have been the ruler, and to have directed the contest ; the combat- ants on the other side were led by the kings of the islands of atlantis, which, as i was saying, once had an extent greater atlantis: the antediluvian world. than that of libya and asia; and, when afterward sink by an earthquake, became an impassable barrier of mud to voyagers sailing from hence to the ocean. the progress of the history will unfold the various tribes of barbarians and hellenes which then existed, as they successively appear on the scene; but i inust begin by describing, first of all, the athenians as they were in that day, and their enemies who fought with them; and i shall have to tell of the power and form of government of both of thein. let us give the precedence to athens. ... “many great deluges have taken place during the nine thon- sand years, for that is the number of years which have elapsed since the time of which i am spcaking; and in all the ages and changes of things there has never been any settlement of the cartb flowing down from the mountains, as in other places, which is worth speaking of; it has always been carried round in a circle, and disappeared in the depthis below. the conse- quence is that, in comparison of what then was, there are re- maining in small islets only the bones of the wasted body, as they may be called, all the richer and softer parts of the soil having fallen away, and the mere skeleton of the country being left. ::: “and next, if i have not forgotten what i heard when i was a child, i will impart to you the character and origin of their adversaries; for friends should not keep their stories to them- selves, but hare them in common. yet, before proceeding far- ther in the narrative, i ought to warn you that you must not be surprised if you should hear hellenic names given to for- eigners. i will tell you the reason of this: solon, who was in- tending to use the tale for his poein, made an investigation into the meaning of the names, and found that the early egyptians, in writing them down, bad translated them into their own lan- guage, and he recovered the meaning of the several names and retranslated them, and copied them out again in our language. my great-grandfather, dropidas, had the original writing, which is still in my possession, and was carefully studied by me when i was a child. therefore, if you hear names such as are used in this country, you must not be surprised, for i have told you the reason of them. “the tale, which was of great length, began as follows: i have before remarked, in speaking of the allotments of the gods, that they distributed the whole earth into portions dif- plato's history of atlantis. fering in extent, and made themselves temples and sacrifices. and poscidon, receiving for his lot the island of atlantis, be- gat children by a mortal woman, and settled them in a part of the island which i will proceed to describe. on the side to- ward the sea, and in the centre of the whole island, there was a plain which is said to have been the fairest of all plains, and very fertile. near the plain again, and also in the centre of the island, at a distance of about fifty stadia, there was a mountain, not very high on any side. in this mountain there dwelt one of the earth-born primeval men of that country, whose name was evenor, and he had a wife named leucippe, and they had an only danghter, who was named cleito. the maiden was growing up to womanhood when her father and mother died ; poseidon fell in love with her, and had intercourse with her; and, breaking the ground, enclosed the bill in which she dwelt all round, making alternate zones of sea and land, larger and smaller, encircling one another, there were two of land and three of water, which he turned as with a lathe out of the cen- tre of the island, equidistant every way, so that no man could get to the island, for ships and voyages were not yet heard of. he himself, as he was a god, found no difficulty in making special arrangements for the centre island, bringing two streams of water under the earth, which he caused to ascend as springs, one of warm water and the other of cold, and making every variety of food to spring up abundantly in the earth. he also begat and brought up five pairs of male children, dividing the island of atlantis into ten portions: he gave to the first-born of the eldest pair his mother's dwelling and the surrounding allotment, which was the largest and best, and made him king over the rest; the others he made princes, and gave them rule over many men and a large territory. and he named them all: the eldest, who was king, he named atlas, and from him the whole island and the ocean received the name of atlantic. to his twin-brother, who was born after him, and obtained as his lot the extremity of the island toward the pillars of heracles, as far as the country which is still called the region of gades in that part of the world, he gave the name which in the ilel- lenic language is eumelus, in the language of the country which is named after him, gadeirus. of the second pair of twins, he called one ampheres and the other evamon. to the third pair of twins he gave the name mneseus to the elder, and au- atlantis: tiie antediluvian world. tochthon to the one who followed him. of the fourth pair of twins he called the elder elasippus and the younger nestor. and of the fifth pair he gave to the elder the name of azaes, and to the younger diaprepes. all these and their descendants were the inhabitants and rulers of divers islands in the open sea; and also, as has been already said, they held sway in the other direction over the country within the pillars as far as egypt and tyrrhenia. now atlas had a numerous and honor- able family, and his eldest branch always retained the kingdom, which the eldest son handed on to his eldest for many genera- tions; and they had such an amount of wealth as was never be- fore possessed by kings and potentates, and is not likely ever to be again, and they were furnished with everything which they could have, both in city and country. for, because of the great- ness of their empire, many things were brought to them from foreign countries, and the island itself provided much of what was required by them for the uscs of life. in the first place, they dug out of the earth whatever was to be found there, min- eral as well as metal, and that which is now only a name, and was then something more than a name-orichalcum-was dug ont of the earth in many parts of the island, and, with the exception of gold, was esteemed the most precious of metals among the men of those days. there was an abundance of wood for carpenters' work, and sufficient maintenance for tame and wild animals. moreover, there were a great number of ele- phants in the island, and there was provision for animals of every kind, both for those which live in lakes and marshes and rivers, and also for those which live in mountains and on plains, and therefore for the animal which is the largest and most vó- racious of them. also, whatever fragrant things there are in the earth, whether roots, or herbage, or woods, or distilling drops of flowers or fruits, grew and thrived in that land; and again, the cultivated fruit of the earth, both the dry edible fruit and other species of food, which we call by the general name of legumes, and the fruits having a hard rind, affording drinks, and meats, and ointments, and good store of chestnuts and the like, which may be used to play with, and are fruits which spoil with keeping-and the pleasant kinds of dessert which console us after dinner, when we are full and tired of eating--all these that sacred island lying beneath the sun brought forth fair and won- drous in infinite abundance. all these things they received plato's history of atlantis. from the earth, and they employed themselves in constructing their teinples, and palaces, and harbors, and docks; and they arranged the whole country in the following manner: first of all they bridged over the zones of sea which surrounded the ancient metropolis, and made a passage into and out of the royal palace; and then they began to build the palace in the habitation of the god and of their ancestors. this they con- tinued to ornament in successive generations, every king sur- passing the one who came before him to the utmost of his power, until they made the building a marvel to behold for size and for beauty. and, beginning from the sea, they dug a canal three hundred feet in width and one hundred feet in depth, and fifty stadia in length, which they carried through to the outermost zone, making a passage from the sea up to this, which became a harbor, and leaving an opening sufficient to en- able the largest vessels to find ingress. moreover, they divided the zones of land which parted the zones of sea, constructing bridges of such a width as would leave a passage for a single trireme to pass out of one into another, and roofed thein over; and there was a way underneath for the ships, for the banks of the zones were raised considerably above the water. now the largest of the zones into which a passage was cut from the sea was three stadia in breadth, aud the zone of land which cane next of equal breadth; but the next two, as well the zone of water as of land, were two stadia, and the one which surrounded the central island was a stadinm only in width. the island in which the palace was situated had a diameter of five stadia. this, and the zones and the bridge, which was the sixth part of a stadiun in width, they surrounded by a stone wall, on either side placing towers, and gates on the bridges where the sea passed in. the stone which was used in the work they quarried from underneath the centre island and from under- neath the zones, on the outer as well as the inner side. one kind of stone was wbite, another black, and a third red; and, as they quarried, they at the saine tiine hollowed out docks double within, having roofs formed out of the native rock. some of their buildings were simple, but in others they put together dif- ferent stones, which they intermingled for the sake of orna- ment, to be a natural source of delight. the entire circuit of the wall which went round the outermost one they covered with a coating of brass, and the circuit of the next wall thev atlantis: the avtediluvian world. coated with tin, and the third, which encompassed the citadel, flashed with the red light of orichalcum. the palaces in the interior of the citadel were constructed in this wise: in the centre was a holy temple dedicated to cleito and poseidon, which remained inaccessible, and was surrounded by an enclos- ure of gold ; this was the spot in which they originally begat the race of the ten princes, and thither they annually brought the fruits of the earth in their season from all the ten portions, and performed sacrifices to each of them. llere, too, was po- seidon's own temple, of a stadium in length and half a stadium in width, and of a proportionate height, having a sort of bai- baric splendor. all the outside of the temple, with the excep. tion of the pinnacles, they covered with silver, and the pinnacles with gold. in the interior of the temple the roof was of ivory, adorned everywhere with gold and silver and orichalcum; all the other parts of the walls and pillars and floor they lined with orichalcum. in the temple they placed statues of gold : there was the god himself standing in a chariot-the charioteer of six winged horses—and of such a size that he touched the roof of the building with his head; around him there were a hun- dred nereids riding on dolphins, for such was thought to be the number of them in that day. there were also in the inte- rior of the temple other images which had been dedicated by private individuals. and around the temple on the outside were placed statues of gold of all the ten kings and of their wives; and there were many other great offerings, both of kings and of private individuals, coming both from the city itself and the for eign cities over which they hield sway. there was an altar, too, which in size and workmanship corresponded to the rest of the work, and there were palaces in like manner which answered to the greatness of the kingdom and the glory of the temple. "in the next place, they used fountains both of cold and hot springs; these were very abundant, and both kinds wonder- fuliy adapted to use by reason of the sweetness and excellence of their waters. they constructed buildings about them, and planted suitable trees; also cisterns, some open to the heaven, others which they roofed over, to be used in winter as warm baths: there were the king's baths, and the baths of private persons, which were kept apart; also separate baths for women, and others again for horses and cattle, and to them they gave as much adornment as was suitable for them. the water which ... plato's history of atlantis. ran off they carried, some to the grove of poseidon, where were growing all manner of trees of wonderful height and beauty, owing to the excellence of the soil; the remainder was con- veyed by aqueducts which passed over the bridges to the outer circles: and there were many temples built and dedicated to many gods; also gardens and places of exercise, some for men, and some set apart for horses, in both of the two islands forin- ed by the zones; and in the centre of the larger of the two there was a race-course of a stadium in width, and in length allowed to extend all round the island, for horses to race in. also there were guard-honses at intervals for the body-guard, the more trusted of whom had their duties appointed to them in the lesser zone, which was nearer the acropolis; while the most trusted of all had houses given them within the citadel, and about the persons of the kings. the docks were full of triremes and naval stores, and all things were quite ready for use. enough of the plan of the royal palace. crossing the outer harbors, which were three in number, you would come to a wall which began at the sea and went all round: this was crerywhere distant fifty stadia from the largest zone and har- bor, and enclosed the whole, meeting at the mouth of the chan- nel toward the sea. the entire area was densely crowded with habitations; and the canal and the largest of the harbors were full of vessels and merchants coming from all parts, who, from their numbers, kept up a multitudinous sound of human voices and din of all sorts night and day. i have repeated his de- scriptions of the city and the parts about the ancient palace nearly as he gave them, and now i must endeavor to describe the nature and arrangement of the rest of the country. the whole country was described as being very loftv and precipi- tous on the side of the sea, but the country immediately about and surrounding the city was a level plain, itself surrounded by mountains which descended toward the sea; it was smooth and even, but of an oblong shape, extending in one direction three thousand stadia, and going up the country from the sea through the centre of the island two thousand stadia; the whole region of the island lies toward the south, and is shelter- ed from the north. the surrounding mountains he celebrated for their number and size and beauty, in which they exceeded all that are now to be seen anywhere; having in them also many wealthy inhabited villages, and rivers and lakes, and atlantis: the antediluvian world. meadows supplying food enough for every animal, wild or tame, and wood of various sorts, abundant for every kind of work. i will now describe the plain, which had been cultivated during many ages by many generations of kings. it was rect- angular, and for the most part straight and oblong; and what it wanted of the straight line followed the line of the circular ditch. the depth and width and length of this ditch were incredible, and gave the impression that such a work, in addition to so many other works, could hardly have been wrought by the hand of man. but i must say what i have heard. it was excavated to the depth of a hundred feet, and its breadth was a stadium everywhere; it was carried round the whole of the plain, and was ten thousand stadia in length. it received the streams which came down from the mountains, and winding round the plain, and touching the city at various points, was there let off into the sea. from above, likewise, straight canals of a huna dred feet in width were cut in the plain, and again let off into the ditch, toward the sca; these canals were at intervals of a hundred stadia, and by them they brought down the wood from the mountains to the city, and conveyed the fruits of the earth in ships, cutting transverse passages from one canal into another, and to the city. twice in the year they gathered the fruits of the earth-in winter having the benefit of the rains, and in summer introducing the water of the canals. as to the population, each of the lots in the plain had an appointed chief of men who were fit for military service, and the size of the lot was to be a square of ten stadia each way, and the total number of all the lots was sixty thousand. “and of the inhabitants of the mountains and of the rest of the country there was also a vast multitude having leaders, to whom they were assigned according to their dwellings and villages. the leader was required to furnish for the war the sixth portion of a war-chariot, so as to make up a total of ten thousand chariots; also two horses and riders upon them, and a light chariot without a seat, accompanied by a fighting man on foot carrying a small shield, and having a charioteer mount- ed to guide the horses; also, he was bound to furnish two heavy-arined men, two archers, two slingers, three stone-shoot- ers, and three javelin men, who were skirmishers, and four sail- ors to make up a complement of twelve hundred ships. such was the order of war in the royal city-that of the other nine plato's history of atlantis. governments was different in each of them, and would be wea- risome to narrate. as to offices and honors, the following was the arrangement from the first: each of the ten kings, in his own division and in his own city, had the absolute control of the citizens, and in many cases of the laws, puuishing and slay- ing whioinsoever he would. "now the relations of their governments to one another were regulated by the injunctions of poseidon as the law had banded them down. these were inscribed by the first men on a column of orichalcum, which was situated in the iniddle of the island, at the temple of poseidon, whither the people were gathered together every fifth and sixth years alternately, thus giving equal honor to the odd and to the even number. and when they were gathered together they consulted about public affairs, and inquired if any one had transgressed in anything, and passed judgment on him accordingly-and before they passed judgment they gave their pledges to one another in this wise: there were bulls who had the range of the temple of poseidon ; and the ten who were left alone in the temple, after they had offered prayers to the gods that they might take the sacrifices which were acceptable to them, bunted the bulls without weapons, but with staves and nooses; and the bull which they caught they led up to the column; the victim was then struck on the head by them, and slain over the sacred inscription. now on the column, besides the law, there was inscribed an oath invoking mighty cuirses on the disobedient. when, therefore, after offering sacrifice according to their cus- toms, they had burnt the limbs of the bull, they mingled a cup and cast in a clot of blood for each of them; the rest of the victime they took to the fire, after having made a purification of the column all round. then they drew from the cup in golden vessels, and, pouring a libation on the fire, they swore that they would judge according to the laws on the column, and would punish any one who had previously transgressed, and that for the future they would not, if they could help, transgress any of the inscriptions, and would not command or obey any ruler who commanded them to act otherwise than according to the laws of their father poseidon. this was the prayer which each of them offered up for himself and for his family, at the same time drinking, and dedicating the vessel in the temple of the god; and, after spending some necessary atlantis: tie antediluvian world. time at supper, when darkness came on and the fire about the sacrifice was cool, all of them put on most beautiful azure robes, and, sitting on the ground at night near the embers of the sacrifices on which they had sworn, and extinguishing all the fire about the temple, they received and gave judy- ment, if any of them had any accusation to bring against any one; and, when they had given judgment, at daybreak they wrote down their sentences on a golden tablet, and deposited them as memorials with their robes. there were many special laws which the several kings had inscribed about the temples, but the most important was the following: that they were not to take up arms against one another, and they were all to come to the rescue if any one in any city attempted to over- throw the royal house. like their ancestors, they were to de- liberate in common about war and other matters, giving the supremacy to the family of atlas; and the king was not to have the power of life and death over any of his kinsmen, un- less he had the assent of the majority of the ten kings. “such was the vast power which the god settled in the lost island of atlantis; and this he afterward directed against onr land on the following pretext, as traditions tell: for many generations, as long as the divine nature lasted in them, they were obedient to the laws, and well - affectioned toward the gods, who were their kinsmen; for they possessed true and in every way great spirits, practising gentleness and wisdom in the various chances of life, and in their intercourse with one another. they despised everything but virtne, not caring for their present state of life, and thinking lightly on the posses- sion of gold and other property, which seemed only a burden to them; neither were they intoxicated by luxury; nor did wealth deprive them of their self-control; but they were sober, and saw clearly that all these goods are increased by virtuous friendship with one another, and that by excessive zeal for them, and honor of them, the good of them is lost, and friend- sbip perishes with them. "by such reflections, and by the continuance in them of a divine nature, all that which we have described waxed and in- creased in them; but when this divine portion began to fade away in them, and became diluted too often, and with too much of the mortal admixture, and the human nature got the : upper-hand, then, they being unable to bear their fortune, be- plato's history of atlantis. came unseemly, and to him who had an eye to see, they began to appear base, and had lost the fairest of their precious gifts; but to those who had no eye to see the true happiness, they still appeared glorious and blessed at the very time when they were filled with unrighteous avarice and power. zeus, the god of gods, who rules with law, and is able to see into such things, perceiving that an honorable race was in a most wretched state, and wanting to inflict punishment on them, that they might be chastened and improved, collected all the gods into his most holy habitation, which, being placed in the centre of the world, sees all things that partake of generation. and when he had called them together he spake as follows:” [here plato's story abruptly ends.] atlantis: the antediluvian world. chapter iii. the probabilities of plato's story. there is nothing improbable in this narrative, so far as it describes a great, rich, cultured, and educated people. almost every part of plato's story can be paralleled by descriptions of the people of egypt or peru; in fact, in some respects plato's account of atlantis falls short of herodotus's description of the grandeur of egypt, or prescott's picture of the wealth and civilization of pern. for instance, prescott, in his “conquest of peru " (vol. i., p. ), says: “the most renowned of the peruvian temples, the pride of the capital and the wonder of the empire, was at cuzco, where, under the munificence of successive sovereigns, it had become so enriched that it received the name of coricancha, or the place of gold.' ... the interior of the temple was literally a mine of gold. on the western wall was emblazoned a rep- resentation of the deity, consisting of a human countenance looking forth from amid innumerable rays of light, which ema- nated from it in every direction, in the same manner as the sun is often personified with us. the figure was engraved on a massive plate of gold, of enormous dimensions, thickly pow- dered with emeralds and precious stones. ... the walls and ceilings were everywhere incrusted with golden ornaments; every part of the interior of the temple glowed with burnished plates and studs of the precious metal; the cornices were of the same material." there are in plato's narrative no marvels; no myths; no tales of gods, gorgons, hobgoblins, or giants. it is a plain and reasonable history of a people who built temples, ships, and canals; who lived by agriculture and commerce; who, in the probabilities of plato's story. pursuit of trade, reached out to all the countries around them. the early history of most nations begins with gods and de- mons, while here we have nothing of the kind; we see an im- migrant enter the country, marry one of the native women, and settle down; in time a great nation grows up around him. it reminds one of the information given by the egyptian priests to herodotus. “during the space of eleven thousand three hundred and forty years they assert,” says herodotus, " that no divinity has appeared in human shape, ... they ab- solutely denied the possibility of a human being's descent from a god.” if plato bad sought to draw from his imagination a wonderful and pleasing story, we should not have had so plain and reasonable a narrative. he would have given us a bistory like the legends of greek mythology, full of the adventures of gods and goddesses, nymphs, fauns, and satyrs. neither is there any evidence on the face of this history that plato sought to convey in it a moral or political lesson, n the guise of a fable, as did bacon in the “new atlantis," and more in the “kingdom of nowhere.” there is no ideal republic delineated here. it is a straightforward, reasonable history of a people ruled over by their kings, living and pro- gressing as other nations have lived and progressed since their day. plato says that in atlantis there was “ a great and wonderful empire,” which "aggressed wantonly against the whole of eu rope and asia," thus testifying to the extent of its dominion. it not only subjugated africa as far as egypt, and europe as far as italy, but it ruled “as well over parts of the continent,” to wit, " the opposite continent” of america, " which surrounded the true ocean." those parts of america over which it ruled were, as we will show hereafter, central america, perii, and the valley of the mississippi, occupied by the “mound builders.” moreover, he tells us that “this vast power was gathered one;" that is to say, from egypt to peru it was one con- ndated empire. we will see hereafter that the legends of atlantis: the antediluvian world, the hindoos as to deva nahusha distinctly refer to this vast empire, which covered the whole of the known world. another corroboration of the truth of plato's narrative is found in the fact that upon the azores black lava rocks, and rocks red and white in color, are now found. he says they built with white, red, and black stone. sir c. wyville thom- son describes a narrow neck of land between fayal and monte da guia, called “monte queimada” (the burnt mountain), as follows: “it is formed partly of stratified tufa of a dark choc- olate color, and partly of lumps of black lava, porous, and cach with a large cavity in the centre, which must have been ejected as volcanic bonibs in a glorious display of fireworks at some period beyond the records of acorean history, but late in the geological annals of the island” (“ voyage of the challenger," vol. ii., p. ). he also describes immense walls of black vol- canic rock in the island. the plain of atlantis, plato tells us, “had been cultivated during many ages by many generations of kings.” if, as we believe, agriculture, the domestication of the horse, ox, sheep, goat, and hoy, and the discovery or development of wheat, oats, rye, and barley originated in this region, then this lan- guage of plato in reference to "the many ages, and the suc- cessive generations of kings,” accords with the great periods of time which were necessary to bring man from a savage to a civilized condition. in the great ditch surrounding the whole land like a circle, and into which streams flowed down from the mountains, we probably see the original of the four rivers of paradise, and the emblem of the cross surrounded by a circle, which, as we will show hereafter, was, from the carliest pre-christian ages, accepted as the emblem of the garden of eden. we know that plato did not invent the name of poseidon, for the worship of poseidon was universal in the earliest ages of europe; “poseidon-worship seems to have been a peculi- arity of all the colonies previous to the time of sidon” (“pre- tie probabilities of plato's story. historic nations," p. .) this worship“ was carried to spain, and to northern africa, but most abundantly to italy, to many of the islands, and to the regions around the Ægean sca; also to thrace.” (ibid., p. .) poseidon, or neptune, is represented in greek mythology as a sea-god; but he is figured as standing in a war-chariot drawn by horses. the association of the horse (a land animal) with a sca-god is inexplicable, except with the light given by plato. poseidon was a sea-god because he ruled over a great land in the sea, and was the national god of a maritime people; he is associated with horses, because in atlantis the horse was first domesticated; and, as plato shows, the atlanteans bad great race-courses for the development of speed in horses; and posei. don is represented as standing in a war-chariot, becanse doubt- less wheeled vehicles were first invented by the same people who tamed the horse; and they transmitted these war-chariots to their descendants from egypt to britain. we know that horses were the favorite objects chosen for sacrifice to posei- don by the nations of antiquity within the historical period; they were killed, and cast into the sea from high precipices. the religious horse-feasts of the pagan scandinavians were a survival of this poseidon-worship, which once prevailed along all the coasts of europe; they continued until the conversion of the people to christianity, and were then suppressed by the church with great difficulty. we find in plato's narrative the names of some of the phe- nician deities among the kings of atlantis. where did the greek, plato, get these names if the story is a fable ? does plato, in speaking of “the fruits having a hard rind, affording drinks and meats and ointments,” refer to the cocoa nut? again : plato tells us that atlantis abounded in both cold and hot springs. how did he come to hit upon the hot springs if he was drawing a picture from his imagination? it is a singular confirmation of his story that hot springs abound in bi''! dieselltis , : atlantis: the-antediluvian world. a vows .thie azores, which are the surviving fragments of atlantis; and an experience wider than that possessed by plato has taught scientific men that hot springs are a common feature of regions subject to volcanic convulsions. plato tells us, “the whole country was very lofty and pre- cipitous on the side of the sea, but the country immediately about and surrounding the city was a level plain, itself sur- rounded by mountains which descended toward the sea.” one has but to look at the profile of the “dolphin's ridge,” as revealed by the deep-sea soundings of the challenger, given as the frontispiece to this volume, to see that this is a faithful description of that precipitous elevation. “the surrounding mountains," which sheltered the plain from the north, are rep- resented in the present towering peaks of the azores. plato tells us that the destruction of atlantis filled the sea with mud, and interfered with navigation. for thousands of years the ancients believed the atlantic ocean to be "a muddy, shallow, dark, and misty sea, mare tenebrosum.” (“cosmos," vol. ii., p. .) the three-pronged sceptre or trident of poseidon reappears constantly in ancient history. we find it in the hands of ilindoo gods, and at the base of all the religious beliefs of antiquity. “ among the numerals the sacred three has ever been con- sidered the mark of perfection, and was therefore exclusively ascribed to the supreme deity, or to its earthly representative —a king, emperor, or any sovereign. for this reason triple einblems of various shapes are found on the belts, neckties, or any encircling fixture, as can be seen on the works of ancient art in yucatan, guatemala, chiapas, mexico, etc., whenever the object has reference to divine supremacy.” (dr. arthur schiott, “smith. rep.," , p. .) we are reminded of the “ tiara," and the “triple round of sovereignty.” in the same manner the ten kingdoms of atlantis are per- petuated in all the ancient traditions. the probabilities of plato's story. “in the number given by the bible for the antediluvian patriarchs we have the first instance of a striking agreement with the traditions of various nations. ten are mentioned in the book of genesis. other nations, to whatever epoch they carry back their ancestors, whether before or after the deluge, whether the mythical or historical character prevail, they are constant to this sacred number ten, which some have vainiy attempted to connect with the specuations of later religious philosophers on the mystical value of numbers. in chaldea, berosus enumerates ten antcdiluvian kings whose fabulous reign extended to thousands of years. the legends of the iranian race commence with the reign of ten peisdadien (posei- dou?) kings, 'men of the ancient law, who lived on pure lloma (water of lifc)' (nectar?), “and who preserved their sanctity.' in india we meet with the nine brahinadikas, who, with brah- ina, their founder, make ten, and who are called the ten pe- tris, or fathers. the chinese count ten emperors, partakers of the divine nature, before the dawn of historical times. the germans believed in the ten ancestors of odin, and the arabs in the ten mythical kings of the adites." (lenormant and chevallier, “ anc. hist. of the east," vol. i., p. .) the story of plato finds confirmation from other sources. an extract preserved in proclus, taken from a work now ! lost, which is quoted by boeckh in bis commentary on plato, i mentions islands in the exterior sea, beyond the pillars of her- cules, and says it was known that in one of these islands "the inbabitants preserved from their ancestors a remembrance of atlantis, an extremely large island, which for a long time held dominion over all the islands of the atlantic ocean.” Ælian, in his “ varia historia” (book iii., chap. xviii.), tells ns that theopompus ( b.c.) related the particulars of an interview between midas, king of phrygia, and silenus, in which silenus reported the existence of a great continent be- yond the atlantic, “larger than asia, europe, and libya to- gether." he stated that a race of men called meropes dwelt there, and had extensive cities. they were persuaded that their country alone was a continent. out of curiosity some of them crossed the ocean and visited the ilyperboreans. atlantis: tue antediluvian world. "the gauls possessed traditions upon the subject of atlan- tis which were collected by the roman historian timagenes, who lived in the first century before christ. he represents that three distinct people dwelt in gaul: . the indigenous population, which i suppose to be mongoloids, who had long dwelt in eu- rope; . the invaders from a distant island, which i under- stand to be atlantis; . the aryan gauls.” (“preadamites," p. .) marcellus, in a work on the ethiopians, speaks of seven isl. ands lying in the atlantic ocean-probably the canaries-and the inhabitants of these islands, he says, preserve the memory of a much greater island, atlantis, " which had for a long time exercised dominion over the smaller ones.” (didot mül- ler, “ fragmenta historicorum græcorum," vol. iv., p. .) diodorus siculus relates that the phænicians discovered “a large island in the atlantic ocean, beyond the pillars of her- cules, several days' sail from the coast of africa. this island abounded in all manner of riches. the soil was exceedingly fertile; the scenery was diversified by rivers, mountains, and forests. it was the custom of the inhabitants to retire during the summer to magnificent conntry-houses, which stood in the midst of beautiful gardens. fish and game were found in great abundance; the climate was delicious, and the trees bore fruit at all seasons of the year.” homer, plutarch, and other ancient writers mention islands situated in the atlantic, “ sev- eral thousand stadia from the pillars of hercules." silenus tells midas that there was another continent besides europe, asia, and africa—“a country where gold and silver are so plentiful that they are esteemed no more than we estcem iron.” st. clement, in bis epistle to the corinthians, says that there were other worlds beyond the ocean. attention may here be called to the extraordinary number of instances in which allusion is made in the old testament to the “islands of the sea,” especially in isaiah and ezekiel. what had an inland people, like the jews, to do with seas and the probabilities of plato's story. islands? did these references grow out of vague traditions linking their race with “islands in the sea ?” the orphic argonaut sings of the division of the ancient lyktonia into separate islands. he says, “when the dark- haired poseidon, in anger with father kronion, struck lyk- tonia with the golden trident.” plato states that the egyptians told solon that the destruc- tion of atlantis occurred years before that date, to wit, about years before the christian era. this looks like an extraordinarily long period of time, but it must be remem- bered that geologists clain that the remains of man found in the caves of europe date back , years; and the fossil calaveras skull was found deep under the base of table moun- tain, california, the whole mountain having been formed since the man to whom it belonged lived and died. "m. oppert read an essay at the brussels congress to show, from the astronomical observations of the egyptians and as- syrians, that , years before our era man existed on the earth at such a stage of civilization as to be able to take note of astronomical phenomena, and to calculate with considerable accuracy the length of the year. the egyptians, says he, cal- culated by cycles of years—zodiacal cycles, as they were called. their year consisted of days, which caused them to lose one day in every four solar years, and, consequently, they would attain their original starting-point again only after years ( x ). therefore, the zodiacal cycle ending in the year of our era commenced in the year b.c. on the other hand, the assyrian cycle was years, or , lunations. an assyrian cycle began b.c. the chaldeans state that between the deluge and their first his- toric dynasty there was a period of , years. now, what means this number? it stands for egyptian zodiacal cy- cles plus assyrian lunar cycles. x = , x = , “these two modes of calculating time are in agreement with each other, and were known simultaneously to one peo- atlantis: the antediluviay world. ple, the chaldeans. let us now build up the series of both cycles, starting from our cra, and the result will be as follows: zodiacal cycle. lunar cycle. , .................. ......... , , ......................... ....... . , , , ... , ... , , , . ............. , , . . , , ..... , ... , ... “at the year , b.c. the two cycles came together, and consequently they had on that year their common origin in one and the same astronomical observation." that observation was probably made in atlantis. the wide divergence of languages which is found to exist among the atlanteans at the beginning of the historical pe- riod implies a vast lapse of time. the fact that the nations of the old world remembered so little of atlantis, except the colossal fact of its sudden and overwhelming destruction, would also seem to remove that event into a remote past. herodotus tells us that he learned from the egyptians that hercules was one of their most ancient deities, and that he was one of the twelve produced from the eight gods, , years before the reign of amasis. in short, i fail to see why this story of plato, told as his- tory, derived from the egyptians, a people who, it is known, preserved most ancient records, and who were able to trace their existence back to a vast antiquity, should have been con- temptuously set aside as a fable by greeks, romans, and the modern world. it can only be because our predecessors, with their limited knowledge of the geological history of the world, did not believe it possible that any large part of the earth's surface could have been thus suddenly swallowed up by the sea. let us then first address ourselves to that question. was such a catastrophe possible ? chapter iv. was such a catastrophe possible ? ol fsc all that is needed to answer this question is to briefly refer to some of the facts revealed by the study of geology. in the first place, the earth's surface is a record of successive risings and fallings of the land. the accompanying picture represents a section of the anthracite coal- measures of pennsylvania. each of the coal deposits here shown, indicated by the black lines, was created when the land had risen sufficiently above the sea to maintain vegetation ; each of the strata of rock, many of them hundreds of feet in thickness, was deposited under water. here we have twenty-three different changes of the level of the land during the formation of feet of rock and coal; and these changes took place over vast areas, embracing thousands of square miles. all the continents which now exist were, it is well understood, once under water, and the rocks of which they are composed were deposited beneath the water; more than this, most of the rocks so deposited were the detritus or wash- ings of other continents, which then stood stace coal coal state coal coal coal-measures of penn- sylvania atlantis: the antediluvian world. where the occans now roll, and whose mountains and plains were ground down by the action of volcanoes and earthquakes, and frost, ice, wind, and rain, and washed into the sea, to form the rocks upon which the nations now dwell; so that we have changed the conditions of land and water: that which is now continent was once sea, and that which is now sea was formerly continent. there can be no question that the au- stralian archipelago is simply the mountain-tops of a drowned continent, which once reached from india to south america. science has gone so far as to even give it a name; it is called “lemuria," and here, it is claimed, the human race originated. an examination of the geological formation of our atlantic states proves beyond a doubt, from the manner in wbich the sedimentary rocks, the sand, gravel, and mud-aggregating a thickness of , feet—are deposited, that they came from the north and east. “they represent the detritus of pre-exist- ing lands, the washings of rain, rivers, coast-currents, and other agencies of erosion; and since the areas supplying the waste could scarcely have been of less extent than the new strata it formed, it is reasonably inferred that land masses of continen- tal magnitude must have occupied the region now covered by the north atlantic before america began to be, and onward at least through the palæozoic ages of american history. the proof of this fact is that the great strata of rocks are thicker the nearer we approach their source in the cast: the maximum thickness of the palæozoic rocks of the appalachian formation is , to , feet in pennsylvania and virginia, while their minimum thickness in illinois and missouri is from to feet; the rougher and grosser-textured rocks predom- inate in the east, while the farther west we go the finer the deposits were of which the rocks are composed; the finer ma- terials were carried farther west by the water.” (“new amer. cyclop.," art. coal.) the history of the growth of the european continent, as recounted by professor geikie, gives an instructive illustration was such a catastrophe possible? tec us tis ce es allet le ch com ilu a tele tua nes sunt cha . le v . destruction of pompeii. of the relations of geology to geography. the carliest euro- pean land, he says, appears to have existed in the north and north-west, comprising scandinavia, finland, and the north- west of the british area, and to have extended thence through boreal and arctic latitudes into north america. of the height and mass of this primeval land some idea may be formed by considering the enormous bulk of the material derived from its disintegration. in the silurian formations of the british isl- ands alone there is a mass of rock, worn from the land, whicli would form a mountain-chain extending from marseilles to the north cape ( miles), with a mean breadth of over thirty- three miles, and an average height of , feet. as the great continent which stood where the atlantic ocean now is wore away, the continents of america and eu- * atlantis: the antediluvian world. rope were formed; and there seems to have been from remote times a continuous rising, still going on, of the new lands, and a sinking of the old ones. within five thousand years, or since the age of the “polished stone," the shores of sweden, den- mark, and norway have risen from to feet. professor winchell says ("the preadamites," p. ): “we are in the widst of great changes, and are scarcely conscious of it. we have seen worlds in flames, and have felt a comet strike the earth. we have seen the whole coast of south america lifted up bodily ten or fifteen feet and let down again in an hour. we have seen the andes sivk feet in seventy years. . . . vast transpositions have taken place in the coast-line of china. the ancient capital, located, in all probability, in an accessible position near the centre of the empire, has now become nearly surrounded by water, and its site is on the peninsula of ('orea. ... there was a time when the rocky barriers of the thracian bosphorus gave way and the black sea subsided. it had covered a vast area in the north and east. now this area became drained, and was known as the ancient lectonia : it is now the prairie region of russia, and the granary of europe." there is ample geological evidence that at one time the entire area of great britain was submerged to the depth of ut least seventeen hundred feet. over the face of the submerged land was strewn thick beds of sand, gravel, and clay, termed by geologists “the northern drift.” the british islands rose again from the sea, bearing these water-deposits on their bos- om. what is now sicily once lay deep beneath the sea : it subsequently rose feet above the sea-level. the desert of sahara was once under water, and its now burning sands are a deposit of the sea. geologically speaking, the submergence of atlantis, within the historical period, was simply the last of a number of vast changes, by which the continent which once occupied the v greater part of the atlantic had gradually sunk under the ocean, while the new lands were rising on both sides of it. was such a catastrophe possible? we come now to the second question, is it possible that i atlantis could have been suddenly destroyed by such a con- vulsion of nature as is described by plato ? the ancients regarded this part of his story as a fable. with the wider knowledge which scientific research has afforded the modern world, we can affirm that such an event is not only possible, but that the history of even the last two centuries has fur- nished us with striking parallels for it. we now possess the record of numerous islands lifted above the waters, and others sunk beneath the waves, accompanied by storms and earth- quakes similar to those which marked the destruction of at- lantis. in iceland was visited by convulsions more tremen- dous than any recorded in the modern annals of that country. about a month previous to the eruption on the main-land a submarine volcano burst forth in the sea, at a distance of thirty miles from the shore. it ejected so much pumice that the sea was covered with it for a distance of miles, and ships were considerably impeded in their course. a new island was thrown up, consisting of high cliffs, which was claimed by his danish majesty, and named “nyöe,” or the new island ; but before a year had elapsed it sunk beneath the sea, leaving a reef of rocks thirty fathoms under water. the earthquake of in iceland destroyed people out of a population of , ; twenty villages were consumed by fire or inundated by water, and a mass of lava thrown out "greater than the bulk of mont blanc." on the th of october, , a great earthquake occurred on the island of java, near the mountain of galung gung. "a loud explosion was heard, the earth shook, and immense columns of hot water and boiling mud, mixed with burning brimstone, ashes, and lapilli, of the size of nuts, were projected from the mountain like a water-spout, with such prodigious violence that large quantities fell beyond the river tandoi, which is forty miles distant. . . . the first ernption lasted atlantis: the antediluvian world. nearly five hours; and on the following days the rain fell in torrents, and the rivers, densely charged with mud, deluged the country far and wide. at the end of four days (october th), a second eruption occurred, more violent than the first, in which hot water and mud were again vomited, and great blocks of basalt were thrown to the distance of seven miles from the volcano. there was at the same time a violent earth- quake, the face of the mountain was utterly changed, its sum- mits broken down, and one side, which had been covered with trees, became an enormous gulf in the form of a seinicircle. over persons were killed and villages destroyed." (lyell's “ principles of geology," p. .) in a new island was born in the mediterranean, ncar the coast of sicily. it was called graham's island. it came up with an earthquake, and "a water-spout sixty feet high and eight hundred yards in circumference rising from the sea." in about a month the island was two hundred feet high and three miles in circumference; it soon, however, sunk beneath the sea. the canary islands were probably a part of the original empire of atlantis. on the st of september, , the earth split open near yaira, in the island of lancerota. in one night a considerable hill of ejected matter was thrown up; in a few days another vent opened and gave out a lava stream which overran several villages. it flowed at first rapidly, like water, but became afterward heavy and slow, like honey. on the th of september more lava flowed out, covering up a village, and precipitating itself with a horrible roar into the sea. dead fish floated on the waters in indescribable multitudes, or were thrown dying on the shore; the cattle throughout the country dropped lifeless to the ground, suffocated by putrid vapors, which condensed and fell down in drops. these manifesta- tions were accompanied by a storm such as the people of the country had never known before. these dreadful commotions lasted for five years. the lavas thrown out covered one-third of the whole island of lancerota. was such a catastrophe possible? the gulf of santorin, in the grecian archipelago, has been for two thousand years a scene of active volcanic operations. pliny informs us that in the year b.c. the island of “old kaimeni,” or the sacred isle, was lifted up from the sea; and in a.d. the island of “thia" (the divine) made its appear- ance. in a.d. another island was created, called “the small sunburnt island." in a volcanic convulsion of three months' duration created a great shoal; an carthquake to calabrian peasants ingulfed by orevasses ( ). destroyed many lionses in thera, and the sulphur and hydrogen issuing from the sea killed persons and domestic ani- mals. a recent examination of these islands shows that the whole mass of santorin has sunk, since its projection from the sea, over feet. atlantis: tiie antediluvian world. the fort and village of sindree, on the eastern arm of the in- dus, above luckput, was subinerged in by an earthquake, together with a tract of country square miles in extent. “in sir a. burnes went in a boat to the ruins of sindree, where a single remaining tower was seen in the midst of a wide expanse of sea. the tops of the ruined walls still rose two or three feet above the level of the water; and, stand- ing on one of these, he could behold nothing in the horizon but water, except in one direction, where a blue streak of land to the north indicated the ullah bund. this scene," sars lyell (“principles of geology," p. ), “presents to the im- agination a lively picture of the revolutions now in progress on the earth-a waste of waters where a few years before all was land, and the only land visible consisting of ground uplift- ed by a recent carthquake.” we give from lyell's great work the following curious pict- ures of the appearance of the fort of sindree before and after the inundation. in april, , one of the most frightful cruptions recorded in history occurred in the province of tomboro, in the island of sumbawa, about two hundred miles from the castern ex- tremity of java. it lasted from april th to july of that year; but was most violent on the th and th of july. the sound of the explosions was heard for nearly one thon- sand miles. out of a population of , , in the province of tombora, only twenty-six individuals escaped. “violent whirl- winds carried up men, horses, and cattle into the air, tore up the largest trees by the roots, and covered the whole sea with floating timber.” (raffles's “ history of java," vol. i., p. .) the ashes darkened the air ; " the floating cinders to the west- ward of sumatra formed, on the th of april, a mass two feet thick and several miles in extent, through which ships with dif- ficulty forced their way." the darkness in daytime was more profound than the blackest night. “the town called tom- boro, on the west side of sumbawa, was overflowed by the sea, which encroached upon the shore, so that the water remained was such a catastrophe possible ? ve sel blo wi meg fort of bindree, ox tile eastern branoil of tue indus, before it was submerged by the eartuquake of . he in ollie ! to view of the fort of sindree from the west in marcii, . permanently eighteen feet deep in places where there was land before. the area covered by the convulsion was eng- lish miles in circumference. “in the island of amboyna, in the same month and year, the ground opened, threw out water, atlantis: the antediluvian world. and then closed again.” (raffles's “ history of java," vol. i., p. .) but it is at that point of the european coast nearest to the site of atlantis at lisbon that the most tremendous carth- quake of modern times bas occurred. on the st of novein- ber, , a sound of thunder was heard underground, and inmediately afterward a violent shock threw down the greater part of the city. in six minutes , persons perished. a great concourse of people had collected for safety upon a new quay, built entirely of marble; but suddenly it sunk down with all the people on it, and not one of the dead bodies ever float- ed to the surface. a great number of small boats and vessels anchored near it, and, full of people, were swallowed up as in a whirlpool. no fragments of these wrecks ever rose again to the surface; the water where the quay went down is now feet deep. the area covered by this earthquake was very great. humboldt says that a portion of the earth's surface, four times as great as the size of europe, was simultaneously shaken. it extended from the baltic to the west indies, and from canada to algiers. at eight leagues from morocco the grond opened and swallowed a village of , inhabitants, and closed again over them. it is very probable that the centre of the convulsion was in the bed of the atlantic, at or near the buried island of atlan- tis, and that it was a successor of the great earth throe which, thousands of years before, bad brought destruction upon that land. ireland also lies near the axis of this great volcanic area, reaching from the canaries to iceland, and it lias been many times in the past the seat of disturbance. the ancient annals contain numerous accounts of eruptions, preceded by volcanic action. in , at the ox mountains, sligo, one occurred by which one hundred persons and numbers of cattle were destroy- ed; and a volcanic eruption in may, , on the hill of knock- lade, antrim, poured a stream of lava sixty yards wide for thir- he is re . s pie te gere el lore set c eluption of vesuvius in . was such a catastrophe possible ? ty-nine bours, and destroyed the village of ballyowen and all the inhabitants, save a man and his wife and two children. (* amer. cyclop.," art. ireland.) while we find lisbon and ireland, cast of atlantis, subjected to these great earthquake shocks, the west india islands, west of the same centre, have been repeatedly visited in a similar manner. in jamaica suffered frora a violent earthquake. the earth opened, and great quantities of water were cast out; many people were swallowed up in these rents; the carth caught some of them by the middle and squeezed them to death; the heads of others only appeared above-ground. a tract of land near the town of port royal, about a thousand acres in extent, sunk down in less than one minute, and the sca immediately rolled in. the azore islands are undoubtedly the peaks of the moun- tains of atlantis. they are even yet the centre of great vol- canic activity. they have suffered severely from eruptions and earthquakes. in a volcano rose suddenly in san jorge to the height of feet, and burnt for six days, desolating the entire island. in a volcano rose from the sea, near san miguel, creating an island fect high, which was named sambrina, but which soon sunk beneath the sea. sim- ilar volcanic eruptions occurred in the azores in and . along a great line, a mighty fracture in the surface of the globe, stretching north and south through the atlantic, we find a continuous series of active or extinct volcanoes. in iceland we have qerafa, hecla, and rauda kamba; another in pico, in the azores; the peak of teneriffe; fogo, in one of the cape de verde islands: while of extinct volcanoes we have several in icelard, and two in madeira; while fernando de noronha, the island of ascension, st. helena, and tristan d'acunha are all of volcanic origin. (“cosmos," vol. v., p. .) the following singular passage we quote entire from lyell's “ principles of geology," p. : atlantis: the antediluvian world. “in the nautical magazine for , p. , and for , p. , and in the comptes rendus, april, , accounts are given of a series of volcanic phenomena, earthquakes, troubled water, floating scoria, and columns of smoke, which have been observed at intervals since the middle of the last century, in a space of open sea between longitudes ° and ° w., about half a degree south of the equator. these facts, says mr. dar- win, seem to show that an island or archipelago is in process of formation in the middle of the atlantic. a line joining st. ilelena and ascension would, if prolonged, intersect this slowly nascent focus of volcanic action. should land be event- ually formed here, it will not be the first that has been produced by igneous action in this occan since it was inhabited by the existing species of testacea. at porto prava, in st. jago, one of the azores, a horizontal, calcareous stratum occurs, contain- ing shells of recent marine species, covered by a great sheet of basalt eighty feet thick. it would be difficult to estimate too highly the commercial and political importance which a group of islands might acquire if, in the next two or three thou- sand years, they should rise in mid-ocean between st. helena and ascension." these facts would seem to show that the great fires which destroyed atlantis are still smouldering in the depths of the ocean; that the vast oscillations which carried plato's conti- nent beneath the sea may again bring it, with all its buried treasures, to the light; and that even the wild imagination of jules verne, when he described captain nemo, in his diving- armor, looking down upon the temples and towers of the lost island, lit by the fires of submarine volcanoes, had some ground- work of possibility to build upon. but who will say, in the presence of all the facts here enumerated, that the submergence of atlantis, in some great world-shaking cataclysm, is either impossible or improbable ? as will be shown hereafter, when we come to discuss the flood legends, every particular which has come down to us of the destruction of atlantis has been duplicated in some of the ac- counts just given. was such a catastrophe possible? we conclude, therefore: . that it is proven beyond question, by geological evidence, that vast masses of land once existed in the region where atlantis is located by plato, and that there- fore such an island must have existed; . that there is noth- ing improbable or impossible in the statement that it was de- stroyed suddenly by an earthquake “in one dreadful night and day." atlantis: the antediluvian world. chapter v. the testimony of the sea. suppose we were to find in mid-atlantic, in front of the mediterranean, in the neighborhood of the azores, the remains of an immense island, sunk beneath the sea-one thousand miles in width, and two or three thousand miles long-would it not go far to confirm the statement of plato that, “beyond the strait where you place the pillars of hercules, there was an island larger than asia (minor) and libya combined,” called atlantis ? and suppose we found that the azores were the mountain peaks of this drowned island, and were torn and rent by tremendous volcanic convulsions; while around them, de- scending into the sea, were found great strata of lava; and the whole face of the sunken land was covered for thousands of miles with volcanic débris, would we not be obliged to confess that these facts furnished strong corroborative proofs of the truth of plato's statement, that “in one day and one fatal night there came mighty carthquakes and inundations which ingulfed that mighty people? atlantis disappeared beneath the sea; and then that sea became inaccessible on account of the quantity of mud which the ingulfed island left in its place.” and all these things recent investigation bas proved conclu- sively. deep-sea soundings have been made by ships of differ- ent nations; the united states ship dolphin, the german frig- ate gazelle, and the british ships hydra, porcupine, and chal- lenger have mapped out the bottom of the atlantic, and the result is the revelation of a great elevation, reaching from a point on the coast of the british islands southwardly to the coast of south america, at cape orange, thence south-east- sirela gt.brita rance brass o fra spai "dolphin's ridge" (atlantis) гс А sur i r .c.verde islands f a connecting ridge" est, ost.paulo ascension south e rica st.iielena la mer "challenger ridge's d map of atlantis, with its islands and connecting i ts and connecting lidges, from deep - sea ., from soundings. the testimony of the sea, wardly to the coast of africa, and thence southwardly to tristan d'acunha. i give one map showing the profile of this eleva- tion in the frontispiece, and another map, showing the outlines of the submerged land, on page . it rises about feet above the great atlantic depths around it, and in the azores, st. paul's rocks, ascension, and tristan d'acunha it reaches the surface of the ocean. evidence that this elevation was once dry land is found in the fact that “the inequalities, the mountains and valleys of its surface, could never have been produced in accordance with any laws for the deposition of sediment, nor by submarine ele- vation; but, on the contrary, must have been carved by agen- cies acting above the water level.” (scientific american, july th, .) mr. j. starke gardner, the eminent english geologist, is of the opinion that in the eocene period a great extension of jand existed to the west of cornwall. referring to the loca- tion of the "dolpbin ” and “ challenger” ridges, he asserts that "a great tract of land formerly existed where the sea now is, and that cornwall, the scilly and channel islands, ireland and brittany, are the remains of its highest summits.” (popular science review, july, .) here, then, we have the backbone of the ancient continent which once occupied the whole of the atlantic ocean, and from whose washings europe and america were constructed; the deepest parts of the ocean, fathoms deep, represent those portions which sunk first, to wit, the plains to the east and west of the central mountain range; some of the loftiest peaks of this range—the azores, st. paul's, ascension, tristan d'acunba-are still above the ocean level; while the great body of atlantis lies a few hundred fathoms beneath the sea. in these “connecting ridges” we see the pathway which once extended between the new world and the old, and by means of which the plants and animals of one continent travelled to the other; and by the same avenues black men found their atlantis: the antediluvian world. way, as we will show hereafter, from africa to america, and red men from america to africa. and, as i have shown, the same great law which gradually depressed the atlantic continent, and raised the lands cast and west of it, is still at work: the coast of greenland, which may be regarded as the northern extremity of the atlantic continent, is still sinking “so rapidly that ancient buildings on low rock-islands are now submerged, and the greenlander has learned by experience never to build near the water's edge." (“north amer. of antiq.," p. .) the same subsidence is going on along the shore of south carolina and georgia, while the north of europe and the atlantic coast of south america are rising rapidly. along the latter raised beaches, miles long and from to feet high, have been traced. when these connecting ridges extended from america to europe and africa, they shut off the flow of the tropical wa- ters of the ocean to the north ; there was then no “gulf stream;" the land-locked ocean that laved the shores of north- ern europe was then intensely cold; and the result was the glacial period. when the barriers of atlantis sunk suffi- ciently to permit the natural expansion of the heated water of the tropics to the north, the ice and snow which covered europe gradually disappeared; the gulf stream flowed around atlantis, and it still retains the circular motion first iinparted to it by the presence of that island. the officers of the challenger found the entire ridge of at- lantis covered with volcanic deposits; these are the subsided mud which, as plato tells us, rendered the sea impassable after the destruction of the island. it does not follow that, at the time atlantis was finally in- gulfed, the ridges connecting it with america and africa rose above the water-level; these may have gradually subsided into the sea, or have gone down in cataclysms such as are described in the central american books. the atlantis of plato may have been confined to the “dolphin ridge” of our map. / roca portugal .. st. vincent josephine bk. . gettysburg bk. . .... ... madeira avon - morocco otovo naries anolent islands between atlantis and tue mediterranean, from deep-sea boundings. the testimony of the sea. the united states sloop gettysburg has also made some remarkable discoveries in a neighboring field. i quote from jobn james wild (in nature, march st, , p. ): “the recently announced discovery by commander gor- ringe, of the united states sloop gettysburg, of a bank of soundings bearing n. ° w., and distant miles from cape st. vincent, during the last voyage of the vessel across the atlantic, taken in connection with previous soundings ob- tained in the same region of the north atlantic, suggests the probable existence of a submarine ridge or plateau connecting the island of madeira with the coast of portugal, and the prob- able subaerial connection in prehistoric times of that island with the south-western extremity of europe." ... “these soundings reveal the existence of a channel of an average depth of from to fathoms, extending in a north- easterly direction from its entrance between madeira and the canary islands toward cape st. vincent. ... commander gorringe, when about miles from the strait of gibraltar, found that the soundings decreased from fathoms to fathoms in the distance of a few miles. the subsequent soundings (five miles apart) gave , , , and fath- oms; and eventually a depth of fathoms was obtained, in which the vessel anchored. the bottom was found to consist of live pink coral, and the position of the bank in lat. ° ' n., long. ° ' w.". the map on page shows the position of these elevations. they must have been originally islands ;-stepping-stones, as it were, between atlantis and the coast of europe. sir c. wyville thomson found that the specimens of the fauna of the coast of brazil, brought up in his dredging-ma- chine, are similar to those of the western coast of southern europe. this is accounted for by the connecting ridges reach- ing from europe to south america. a member of the challenger staff, in a lecture delivered in london, soon after the termination of the expedition, gave it as his opinion that the great submarine plateau is the remains of "the lost atlantis." atlantis: the antediluvian world. chapter vi. the testimony of the flora and fauna. proofs are abundant that there must have been at one time uninterrupted land communication between europe and ameri- ca. in the words of a writer upon this subject, “when the animals and plants of the old and new world are compared, one cannot but be struck with their identity; all or nearly all belong to the same genera, while many, even of the species, are common to both continents. this is most important in its bearing on our theory, as indicating that they radiated from a common centre after the glacial period. ... the hairy mammoth, woolly-haired rhinoceros, the irish elk, the musk-ox, the reindeer, the glutton, the lemming, etc., more or less accompanied this flora, and their remains are always found in the post-glacial deposits of europe as low down as the south of france. in the new world beds of the same age contain similar remains, indicating that they came from a com- mon centre, and were spread out over both continents alike.” (westminster review, january, , p. .) recent discoveries in the fossil beds of the bad lands of nebraska prove that the horse originated in america. pro- fessor marsh, of yale college, has identified the several preced- ing forms from which it was developed, rising, in the course of ages, from a creature not larger than a fox until, by succes- sive steps, it developed into the true horse. how did the wild horse pass from america to europe and asia if there was not continuous land communication between the two conti- nents? he seems to have existed in europe in a wild state prior to his domestication by man. the testimony of the flora and fauna. the fossil remains of the camel are found in india, africa, south america, and in kansas. the existing alpacas and llamas of south america arc but varieties of the camel family. the care bear, whose remains are found associated with the bones of the mammoth and the bones and works of man in the caves of europe, was identical with the grizzly bear of our rocky mountains. the musk-ox, whose relics are found in the same deposits, now roams the wilds of arctic america. the glutton of northern europe, in the stone age, is identical with the wolverine of the united states. according to ruti- meyer, the ancient bison (bos priscus) of europe was identical with the existing american buffalo. “every stage between the ancient care bison and the european aurochs can be traced.” the norway elk, now nearly extinct, is identical with the american moose. the cervus americanus found in kentucky was as large as the irish elk, which it greatly resembled. the lagomys, or tailless hare, of the european caves, is now found in the colder regions of north america. the reindeer, which once occupied europe as far down as france, was the same as the reindeer of america. remains of the cave lion of europe (felix spelæa), a larger beast than the largest of the existing species, have been found at natchez, mississippi. the euro- pean cave wolf was identical with the american wolf. cattle were domesticated among the people of switzerland during the earliest part of the stone period (darwin's “ani- mals under domestication,” vol. i., p. ), that is to say, be- fore the bronze age and the age of iron. even at that remote period they had already, by long-continued selection, been de- veloped out of wild forms akin to the american buffalo. m. gervais (“hist. nat. des mammifores,” vol. xi., p. ) concludes that the wild race from which our domestic sheep was derived is now extinct. the remains of domestic sheep are found in the debris of the swiss lake-dwellings during the stone age. the domestic horse, ass, hog, and goat also date back to a like great antiquity. we have historical records years old, atlantis: the antediluvian world. and during that time no similar domestication of a wild animal has been made. this fact speaks volumes as to the vast periods of time during which man must have lived in a civilized state to effect the domestication of so many and such useful animals. and when we turn from the fauna to the flora, we find the same state of things. an examination of the fossil beds of switzerland of the miocene age reveals the remains of more than eight hundred different species of flower-bearing plants, besides mosses, ferns, etc. the total number of fossil plants catalogued from those beds, cryptogamous as well as phænogamous, is upward of three thousand. the majority of these species have migrated to america. there were others that passed into asia, africa, and even to australia. the american types are, however, in the largest proportion. the analogues of the flora of the miocene age of europe now grow in the forests of virginia, north and south carolina, and florida; they include such familiar examples as magnolias, tulip-trees, evergreen oaks, maples, plane-trees, robinas, sequoias, etc. it would seem to be impos- sible that these trees could have migrated from switzerland to america unless there was unbroken land communication be- tween the two continents. it is a still more remarkable fact that a comparison of the flora of the old world and new goes to show that not only was there communication by land, over which the plants of one continent could extend to another, but that man must have existed, and have helped this transmigration, in the case of certain plants that were incapable of making the journey un- aided. otto kuntze, a distinguished german botanist, who has spent many years in the tropics, announces his conclusion that " in america and in asia the principal domesticated tropical plants are represented by the same species.” ile instances the manihot utilissima, whose roots yield a fine flour; the tarro (colocasia esculenta), the spanish or red pepper, the tomato, tie testimony of the flora and fauna. the bamboo, the guava, the mango-fruit, and especially the banana. he denies that the american origin of tobacco, maize, and the cocoa-nut is proved. he refers to the paritium tiliaceum, a malvaceous plant, hardly noticed by europeans, but very highly prized by the natives of the tropics, and culti- vated everywhere in the east and west indies; it supplies to the natives of these regions so far apart their ropes and cord- age. it is always seedless in a cultivated state. it existed in america before the arrival of columbus. but professor kuntze pays especial attention to the banana, or plantain. the banana is seedless. it is found throughout tropical asia and africa. professor kuntze asks, “in what way was this plant, which cannot stand a voyage through the temperate zone, carried to america ?” and yet it was general- ly cultivated in america before . says professor kuntze, "it must be remembered that the plantain is a tree-like, herba- ceous plant, possessing no easily transportable bulbs, like the potato or the dahlia, nor propagable by cuttings, like the wil- low or the poplar. it has only a perennial root, which, once planted, needs hardly any care, and yet produces the most abundant crop of any known tropical plant.” he then pro- ceeds to discuss how it could have passed from asia to amer- ica. he admits that the roots must have been transported from one country to the other by civilized man. he argues that it could not have crossed the pacific from asia to ameri- ca, becanse the pacific is nearly thrice or four times as wide as the atlantic. the only way he can account for the plantain reaching america is to suppose that it was carried there when the north pole bad a tropical climate! is there any proof that civilized man existed at the north pole when it possessed the climate of africa ? is it not more reasonable to suppose that the plantain, or banana, was cultivated by the people of atlantis, and carried by their civilized agricultural colonies to the east and the west ? do we not find a confirmation of this view in the fact alluded * atlantis: the antediluvian world. to by professor kuntze in these words: “a cultivated plant which does not possess seeds must have been under culture for a very long period—we have not in europe a single exclusively seedless, berry-bearing, cultivated plant—and hence it is per- haps fair to infer that these plants were cultivated as early as the beginning of the middle of the diluvial period." is it possible that a plant of this kind could have been cul- tivated for this immense period of time in both asia and america? where are the two nations, agricultural and highly civilized, on those continents by whom it was so cultivated ? what has become of them? where are the traces of their civilization? all the civilizations of europe, asia, and africa radiated from the mediterranean; the hindoo-aryans advanced from the north-west ; they were kindred to the persians, who were next-door neighbors to the arabians (cousins of the phæ- nicians), and who lived along-side of the egyptians, who had in turn derived their civilization from the phænicians. it would be a marvel of marvels if one nation, on one con- tinent, had cultivated the banana for such a vast period of time until it became seedless; the nation retaining a peaceful, con- tinuous, agricultural civilization during all that time. but to suppose that two nations could have cultivated the same plant, under the same circumstances, on two different continents, for the same unparalleled lapse of time, is supposing an impossi- bility. we find just such a civilization as was necessary, according to plato, and under just such a climate, in atlantis and no- where else. we have found it reaching, by its contiguous islands, within one hundred and fifty miles of the coast of europe on the one side, and almost touching the west india islands on the other, while, by its connecting ridges, it bound together brazil and africa. but it may be said these animals and plants may have passed from asia to america across the pacific by the continent of lemuria ; or there may have been continuous land communi- the testimony of the flora and fauna. cation at one time at behring's strait. true; but an exami- pation of the flora of the pacific states shows that very many of the trees and plants common to europe and the atlantic states are not to be seen west of the rocky mountains. the magnificent magnolias, the tulip-trees, the plane - trees, etc., which were found existing in the miocene aye in switzerland, and are found at the present day in the united states, are al- together lacking on the pacific coast. the sources of supply of that region seem to have been far inferior to the sources of supply of the atlantic states. professor asa gray tells us that, out of sixty-six genera and one hundred and fifty-five species found in the forests east of the rocky mountains, only thirty-one genera and seventy-eight species are found west of the mountains. the pacific coast possesses no papaw, no lin- den or basswood, no locust-trees, no cherry-tree large enough for a timber tree, no gum-trees, no sorrel-tree, nor kalmia; no persimmon-trees, not a holly, only one ash that may be called a timber tree, no catalpa or sassafras, not a single elm or hack- berry, not a mulberry, not a hickory, or a beech, or a true chest- nnt. these facts would seem to indicate that the forest flora of north america entered it from the east, and that the pa- cific states possess only those fragments of it that were able to struggle over or around the great dividing mountain-chain. we thus see that the flora and fauna of america and eu-! rope testify not only to the existence of atlantis, but to the fact that in an earlier age it must have extended from the shores of one continent to those of the other; and by this bridge of land the plants and animals of one region passed to the other. the cultivation of the cotton-plant and the manufacture of its product was known to both the old and new world. hierodotus describes it ( b.c.) as the tree of india that bears a fleece more beautiful than that of the sheep. colum- bus found the natives of the west indies using cotton cloth. it was also found in mexico and peru. it is a significant fact atlantis: the antediluvian world. that the cotton-plant has been found growing wild in many parts of america, but never in the old world. this would seem to indicate that the plant was a native of america ; and this is confirmed by the superiority of american cotton, and the further fact that the plants taken from america to india constantly degenerate, while those taken from india to america as constantly improve. there is a question whether the potato, maize, and tobacco were not cultivated in china ages before columbus discovered america. a recent trav- eller says, “the interior of china, along the course of the yang-tse - kiang, is a land full of wonders. in one place piscicultural nurseries line the banks for nearly fifty miles. all sorts of in- ventions, the cotton-gin in- cluded, claimed by euro- peans and americans, are to be found there forty centuries old. plants, yield- ing drugs of great value, without number, the fa- miliar tobacco and potato, maize, white and yellow corn, and other plants believed to be indigenous to america, have been cultivated there from time immemorial.” bonafous (“histoire naturelle du mais,” paris, ) attrib- utes a european or asiatic origin to maize. the word maize, (indian corn) is derived from mahiz or mahis, the name of the plant in the language of the island of hayti. and yet, strange to say, in the lettish and livonian languages, in the north of europe, mayse signifies bread; in irish, maise is food, and in the old high german, maz is meat. may not likewise the span- : ancient carving-stratford-on-avon england. the testimony of the flora and fauna. ish maiz have antedated the time of columbus, and borne tes- timony to early intercommunication between the people of the old and new worlds ? it is to atlantis we must look for the origin of nearly all our valuable plants. darwin says (" animals and plants under domestication," vol. i., p. ), “ it has often been remarked that we do not owe a single useful plant to australia, or the cape of good hope-countries abounding to an unparalleled degree with endemic species-or to new zealand, or to ameri- ca south of the plata ; and, according to some authors, not to america north of mexico.” in other words, the domesticated plants are only found within the limits of what i shall show hereafter was the empire of atlantis and its colonies ; for only here was to be found an ancient, long-continuing civilization, capable of developing from a wild state those plants which were valuable to man, including all the cereals on which to-day civilized man depends for subsistence. m. alphonse de can- dolle tells us that we owe useful plants to mexico, peru, and chili. according to the same high authority, of valuable cultivated plants can be traced back to their wild state; as to , there is donbt as to their origin; while are utterly un- known in their aboriginal condition. (“geograph. botan. rai- sonnée," , pp. – .) certain roses—the imperial lily, the tuberose and the lilac—are said to have been cultivated from such a vast antiquity that they are not known in their wild state. (darwin, “animals and plants,” vol. i., p. .) and these facts are the more remarkable because, as de candolle has shown, all the plants historically known to have been first cultivated in europe still exist there in the wild state. (ibid.) the inference is strong that the great cereals -- wheat, oats, barley, rye, and maize-must have been first domesticated in a vast antiquity, or in some continent which has since disap- peared, carrying the original wild plants with it. darwin quotes approvingly the opinion of mr. bentham (“ llist. notes cult. plants”), “ as the result of all the most atlantis: the antediluviay world. reliable evidence that none of the ceralia-wheat, rye, barley, and oats—exist or have existed truly wild in their present state." in the stone age of europe five varieties of wheat and three of barley were cultivated. (darwin, “ animals and plants," vol. i., p. .) ile says that it may be inferred, from the presence in cereals of the age of stone in europe. the lake habitations of switzerland of a variety of wheat known as the egyptian wheat, and from the nature of the weeds that grew among their crops, “ that the lake inhabitants either still kept up commercial intercourse with some southern people, or had originally proceeded as colonists from the south.” i should argue that they were colonists from the land where wheat and the testimony of the flora and fauna. barley were first domesticated, to wit, atlantis. and when the bronze age came, we find oats and rye making their appear- ance with the weapons of bronze, together with a peculiar kind of pea. darwin concludes (ibid., vol. i., p. ) that wheat, bar- ley, rye, and oats were either descended from ten or fifteen dis- tinct species, “most of which are now unknown or extinct," or from four or eight species closely resembling our present forms, or so“ widely different as to escape identification;" in which lat- ter case, he says, “inan must have cultivated the cereals at an enormously remote period," and at that time practised “some degree of selection.” rawlinson (" ancient monarchics," vol. i., p. ) expresses the opinion that the ancient assyrians possessed the pineapple. “the representation on the monuments is so exact that i can scarcely doubt the pineapple being intended." (see layard's “nineveh and babylon,” p. .) the pineapple (bromelia an- anassa) is supposed to be of american origin, and unknown to europe before the time of columbus; and yet, apart from the revelations of the assyrian monuments, there has been some dispute upon this point. (“amer. cyclop.," vol. xiii., p. .) it is not even certain that the use of tobacco was not known ancient irishi pipes. atlantis: the antediluvian world. to the colonists from atlantis settled in ireland in an age long prior to sir walter raleigh. great numbers of pipes have been found in the raths and tumuli of ireland, which, there is every reason to believe, were placed there by men of the prehistoric period. the illustration on p. represents some of the so-called “danes' pipes” now in the collection of the royal irish academy. the danes entered ireland many cen- turies before the time of columbus, and if the pipes are theirs, they must have used tobacco, or some substitute for it, at that early period. it is probable, however, that the tumuli of ire- land antedate the danes thousands of years. compare these pipes from the ancient mounds of ireland with the accompanying picture of an indian pipe of the stone age of new jersey. (“smithsonian rep.,” , p. .) ancient indian pipe, new jersky. recent portuguese travellers have found the most remote tribes of savage negroes in africa, holding no commercial in- tercourse with europeans, using strangely shaped pipes, in which they smoked a plant of the country. investigations in america lead to the conclusion that tobacco was first burnt as an incense to the gods, the priest alone using the pipe; and from this beginning the extraordinary practice spread to the people, and thence over all the world. it may have crossed the atlantic in a remote age, and have subsequently disap- peared with the failure of retrograding colonists to raise the tobacco-plant. the destruction of atlantis. part ii. the deluge. chapter i. the destruction of atlantis described in the deluge legends. having demonstrated, as we think successfully, that there is no improbability in the statement of plato that a large island, almost a continent, existed in the past in the atlantic ocean, nay, more, that it is a geological certainty that it did exist; and having further shown that it is not improbable but very possible that it may have sunk beneath the sea in the manner described by plato, we come now to the next ques- tion, is the memory of this gigantic catastrophe preserved among the traditions of mankind? we think there can be no doubt that an affirmative answer must be given to this question. an event, which in a few hours destroyed, amid horrible con- vulsions, an entire country, with all its vast population—that population the ancestors of the great races of both continents, and they themselves the custodians of the civilization of their agecould not fail to impress with terrible force the minds of inen, and to project its gloomy shadow over all human his- tory. and hence, whether we turn to the hebrews, the ary- ans, the phænicians, the greeks, the cushites, or the inhabi- tants of america, we find everywhere traditions of the del- atlantis: the antediluvian world. uge; and we shall sce that all these traditions point unmis- takably to the destruction of atlantis. françois lenormant says (contemp. rev., nov., ): “the result authorizes us to affirm the story of the deluge to be a universal tradition among all branches of the human race, with the one exception, however, of the black. now, a recollection thus precise and concordant cannot be a myth vol- untarily invented. no religious or cosmogonic myth presents this character of universality. it must arise from the reminis- cence of a real and terrible event, so powerfully impressing the imagination of the first ancestors of our race as never to have been forgotten by their descendants. this cataclysin must have occurred near the first cradle of mankind, and before the dispersion of the families from which the principal races were to spring; for it would be at once improbable and uncritical to adınit that, at as many different points of the globe as we should have to assume in order to explain the wide spread of these traditions, local phenomena so exactly alike should have occurred, their memory having assumed an identical forin, and presenting circumstances that need not necessarily have oc- curred to the mind in such cases. “let us observe, however, that probably the diluvian tradition is not primitive, but imported in america ; that it undoubtedly wears the aspect of an importation among the rare populations of the yellow race where it is found ; and lastly, that it is doubtful among the polynesians of oceania. there will still remain three great races to which it is undoubtedly peculiar, who have not borrowed it from each other, but among whom the tradition is primitive, and goes back to the most ancient times, and these three races are precisely the only ones of which the bible speaks as being descended from noah—those of which it gives the ethnic filiation in the tenth chapter of genesis. this observation, which i hold to be undeniable, attaches a singularly historic and exact value to the tradition as recorded by the sacred book, even if, on the other hand, it may lead to giving it a more limited geographical and eth- nological significance. ... “but, as the case now stands, we do not hesitate to declare that, far from being a myth, the biblical deluge is a real and historical fact, having, to say the least, left its impress on the the destruction of atlantis. ancestors of three races-aryan, or indo-european, semitic, or syro-arabian, chamitic, or cushite-that is to say, on the three great civilized races of the ancient world, those which constitute the bigher humanity-before the ancestors of those races had as yet separated, and in the part of asia they together in- habited.” such profound scholars and sincere christians as m. sche- bel (paris, ), and m. omalius d'halloy (bruxelles, ), deny the universality of the deluge, and claim that “it ex- tended only to the principal centre of humanity, to those who remained near its primitive cradle, without reaching the scat- tered tribes who had already spread themselves far away in almost desert regions. it is certain that the bible narrative commences by relating facts common to the whole human species, confining itself subscquently to the annals of the race peculiarly chosen by the designs of providence." (lenormant and chevallier, “ anc. hist. of the east,” p. .) this theory is supported by that eminent authority on anthropology, m. de quatrefages, as well as by cuvier; the rev. r. p. bellynck, s.j., admits that it has nothing expressly opposed to orthodoxy. plato identifies “the great deluge of all” with the destruc- tion of atlantis. the priest of sais told solon that before “the great deluge of all ” athens possessed a noble race, who performed many noble deeds, the last and greatest of which was resisting the attempts of atlantis to subjugate them; and after this came the destruction of atlantis, and the same great convulsion which overwhelmed that island destroyed a num- ber of the greeks. so that the egyptians, who possessed the memory of many partial deluges, regarded this as “the great deluge of all.” atlantis: the antediluvian world. chapter ii. the deluge of the bible. we give first the bible history of the deluge, as found in genesis (chap. vi. to chap. viii.): “and it came to pass, when men began to multiply on the face of the earth, and daughters were born unto them, that the sons of god saw the daughters of men that they were fair; and they took them wives of all which they chose. "and the lord said, my spirit shall not always strive with man, for that he also is flesh : yet his days shall be a hundred and twenty years. “there were giants in the earth in those days; and also after that, when the sons of god came in unto the daughters of men, and they bare children to them, the same became mighty men which were of old, men of renown. “and god saw that the wickedness of man was great in the earth, and that every imagination of the thoughts of his heart was only evil continually. and it repented the lord that he bad made man on the earth, and it grieved him at his heart. and the lord said, i will destroy man whom i have created from the face of the earth; both man, and beast, and the creeping thing, and the fowls of the air; for it repenteth me that i have made them. but noah found grace in the eyes of the lord. [“ these are the generations of noah: noah was a just man and perfect in his generations, and noah walked with god. and noah begat three sons, shem, ham, and japheth.] “the earth also was corrupt before god; and the earth was filled with violence. and god looked upon the earth, and, behold, it was corrupt; for all flesh had corrupted his way upon the earth. and god said unto noah, the end of all flesh is come before me; for the earth is filled with violence the deluge of the bible. through them; and, behold, i will destroy them with the earth. make thee an ark of gopher wood; rooms shalt thou make in the ark, and shalt pitch it within and without with pitch. and this is the fashion which thou shalt make it of: the length of the ark shall be three hundred cubits, the breadth of it fifty cubits, and the height of it thirty cubits. a window shalt thoi make to the ark, and in a cubit shalt thou finish it above; and the door of the ark shalt thou set in the side thereof; with lower, second, and third stories shalt thou make it. and, be- hold, i, even i, do bring a flood of waters upon the earth, to destroy all flesh, wherein is the breath of life, from under heaven; and everything that is in the earth shall die. but with thee will i establish my covenant; and thou shalt come into the ark, thou, and thy sons, and thy wife, and thy sons' wives with thee. and of every living thing of all flesh, two of every sort shalt thou bring into the ark, to keep them alive with thee; they shall be male and female. of fowls after their kind, and of cattle after their kind, of every creeping thing of the earth after his kind; two of every sort shall come unto thee, to keep them alive. and take thou unto thee of all food that is eaten, and thou shalt gather it to thee; and it shall be for food for thee, and for them, “thus did noah; according to all that god commanded bim, so did he. “and the lord said unto noah, come thou and all thy house into the ark; for thee have i seen righteous before me in this generation. of every clean beast thou shalt take to thee by sevens, the male and his female: and of beasts that are not clean by two, the male and his female. of fowls also of the air by sevens, the male and the female; to keep seed alive npon the face of all the earth. for yet seven days, and i will cause it to rain upon the earth forty days and forty nights; and every living substance that i have made will i destroy from off the face of the earth. “and noah did according unto all that the lord command- ed him. and noah was six hundred years old when the flood of waters was upon the earth. “and noah went in, and his sons, and his wife, and his sons' wives with bim, into the ark, because of the waters of the flood. of clean beasts, and of beasts that are not clean, and of fowls, and of everything that creepeth upon the earth, there atlantis: the antediluvian world. went in two and two unto noah into the ark, the male and the female, as god had commanded noal. “and it came to pass after seven days, that the waters of the flood were upon the earth. in the six hundredth year of noah's life, in the second month, the seventeenth day of the month, the same day were all the fountains of the great deep broken up, and the windows of heaven were opened. and the rain was upon the earth forty days and forty nights. in the self- sume day entered noah, and shem, and ilam, and japbeth, the sons of noah, and noah's wife, and the three wives of his sons with them, into the ark; they, and every beast after his kind, and all the cattle after their kind, and every creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth after his kind, and every fowl after his kind, every bird of every sort. and they went in unto noah into the ark, two and two of all flesh, wherein is the breath of life. and they that went in, went in male and female of all flesh, as god had commanded him: and the lord shut him in. “ and the flood was forty days upon the earth; and the wa- ters increased, and bare up the ark, and it was lifted up above the earth. and the waters prevailed, and were increased greatly upon the earth; and the ark went upon the face of the waters. and the waters prevailed exceedingly upon the earth; and all the high bills, that were under the whole heaven, were covered. fifteen cubits upward did the waters prevail; and the mountains were covered. and all flesh died that moved upon the earth, both of fowl, and of cattle, and of beast, and of every creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth, and every man: ali in whose nostrils was the breath of life, of all that was in the dry land, died. and every liv- ing substance was destroyed which was upon the face of the ground, both man, and cattle, and the creeping things, and the fowl of the heaven; and they were destroyed from the earth : and noah only remained alive, and they that were with him in the ark. and the waters prevailed upon the earth a hundred and fifty days. “ and god remembered noah, and every living thing, and all the cattle that was with him in the ark : and god made a wind to pass over the earth, and the waters assuaged. the fountains also of the deep and the windows of heaven were stopped, and the rain from heaven was restrained. and the the deluge of the bible. waters returned from off the earth continually: and after the end of the hundred and fifty days the waters were abated. and the ark rested in the seventh month, on the seventeenth day of the month, upon the mountains of ararat. and the waters decreased continually until the tenth month: in the tenth month, on the first day of the month, were the tops of the mountains seen. “and it came to pass at the end of forty days, that noah opened the window of the ark which he had made: and be sent forth a raven, which went forth to and fro, until the wa- ters were dried up from off the earth. also he sent forth a dove from him, to see if the waters were abated from off the face of the ground. but the dove found no rest for the sole of her foot, and she returned unto him into the ark; for the waters were on the face of the whole earth. then he put forth his hand, and took her, and pulled her in unto him into the ark. and he stayed yet other seven days; and again he sent forth the dove out of the ark. and the dove came in to him in the evening, and, lo, in her mouth was an olive leaf plucked off: so noah knew that the waters were abated from off the earth. and he stayed yet other seven days, and sent forth the dove, which returned not again unto him any more. “and it came to pass in the six hundredth and first year, in the first month, the first day of the month, the waters were dried up from off the earth : and noah removed the covering of the ark, and looked, and, behold, the face of the ground was dry. and in the second month, on the seven and twenti- eth day of the month, was the earth dried. "and god spake unto noah, saying, go forth of the ark, thou, and thy wife, and thy sons, and thy sons' wives with thee. bring forth with thee every living thing that is with thee, of all flesh, both of fowl and of cattle, and of every creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth; that they may breed abundantly in the earth, and be fruitful, and multiply upon the earth. “and noah went forth, and his sons, and his wife, and his sons' wives with him: every beast, every creeping thing, and every fowl, and whatsoever creepeth upon the earth, after their kinds, went forth out of the ark. “and noah builded an altar unto the lord; and took of every clean beast, and of every clean fowl, and offered burnt offerings on the altar. and the lord smelled a sweet savour; atlantis: the antediluvian world. and the lord said in his heart, i will not again curse the ground any more for man's sake; for the imagination of man's heart is evil from his youth: neither will i again smite any more every thing living, as i have done. while the earth remaineth, seedtime and harvest, and cold and heat, and summer and win- ter, and day and night shall not cease." let us briefly consider this record. it shows, taken in connection with the opening chapters of genesis: . that the land destroyed by water was the country in which the civilization of the human race originated. adam was at first naked (gen., chap. ii., ); then he clothed himself in leaves; then in the skins of animals (chap. iii., ): he was the first that tilled the earth, having emerged from a more primitive condition in which he lived upon the fruits of the forest (chap. ii., ); his son abel was the first of those that kept flocks of sheep (chap. iv., ); his son cain was the build- er of the first city (chap. iv., ); his descendant, tubal-cain, was the first metallurgist (chap. iv., ); jabal was the first that erected tents and kept cattle (chap. iv., ); jubal was the first that made musical instruments. we have here the successive steps by which a savage race advances to civiliza- tion. we will see hereafter that the atlanteans passed through precisely similar stages of development. , . the bible agrees with plato in the statement that these antediluvians had reached great populousness and wickedness, and that it was on account of their wickedness god resolved to destroy them. " . in both cases the inhabitants of the doomed land were .• destroyed in a great catastrophe by the agency of water; they were drowned. . the bible tells us that in an earlier age, before their de- struction, mankind bad dwelt in a happy, peaceful, sinless con- - dition in a garden of eden. plato tells us the same thing of the earlier ages of the atlanteans. the deluge of the bible. . in both the bible history and plato's story the destruc- tion of the people was largely caused by the intermarriage of the superior or divine race," the sons of god," with an infe- ferior stock, “ the children of men,” whereby they were de- graded and rendered wicked. we will see hereafter that the hebrews and their flood legend are closely connected with the phænicians, whose con- nection with atlantis is established in many ways. it is now conceded by scholars that the genealogical table given in the bible (gen., chap. x.) is not intended to include the true negro races, or the chinese, the japanese, the finns or lapps, the australians, or the american red men. it refers al- together to the mediterranean races, the aryans, the cushites, the phænicians, the hebrews, and the egyptians. “the sons of ham” were not true negroes, but the dark - brown races. (sec winchell's “preadamites," chap. vii.) if these races (the chinese, australians, americans, etc.) are not descended from noah they could not have been included in the deluge. if neither china, japan, america, northern europe, nor australia were depopulated by the deluge, the deluge could not have been universal. but as it is alleged that it did destroy a country, and drowned all the people thereof except noah and his family, the country so destroyed could not have been europe, asia, africa, america, or aus- tralia, for there has been no universal destruction of the peo- ple of those regions; or, if there had been, how can we ac- count for the existence to-day of people on all of those conti- nents whose descent genesis does not trace back to noah, and, in fact, abont whom the writer of genesis seems to have known nothing? we are thus driven to one of two alternative conclusions : either the deluge record of the bible is altogether fabulous, or it relates to some land other than europe, asia, africa, or australia, some land that was destroyed by water. it is not fabulous; and the land it refers to is not europe, asia, africa, atlantis: the antediluvian world. or australia—but atlantis. no other land is known to history or tradition that was overthrown in a great catastrophe by the agency of water; that was civilized, populous, powerful, and given over to wickedness. that high and orthodox authority, françois lenormant, says (“ancient hist. of the east," vol. i., p. ), “ the descendants of shem, ham, and japhet, so admirably catalogued by moses, include one only of the races of humanity, the white race, whose three chief divisions he gives us as now recognized by anthropologists. the other three races — yellow, black, and red-have no place in the bible list of nations sprung from noah.” as, therefore, the deluge of the bible destroyed only the land and people of noah, it could not have been universal. the religious world does not pretend to fix the location of the garden of eden. the rev. george leo ilaydock says, “the precise situation cannot be ascertained; how great might be its extent we do not know;" and we will see hereafter that the unwritten traditions of the church pointed to a region in the west, beyond the ocean which bounds europe in that direction, as the locality in which “mankind dwelt before the deluge." it will be more and more evident, as we proceed in the con- sideration of the flood legends of other nations, that the ante- diluvian world was none other than atlantis. the deluge of the chaldeans. chapter iii. the deluge of the chaldeans. we have two versions of the chaldean story- unequally developed, incleod, but exbibiting a remarkable agreement. the one most anciently known, and also the sliorter, is that which berosus took from the sacred books of babylon, and introduced into the history that he wrote for the use of the greeks. after speaking of the last nine antediluvian kings, the chaldean priest continues thus; “ obartès elbaratutu being dead, his son xisuthros (kha- sisatra) reigned eighteen sares ( , years). it was under him that the great deluge took place, the history of which is told in the sacred documents as follows: cronos (ea) ap- peared to him in his sleep, and announced that on the fifteenth of the month of daisios (the assyrian month sivan-a little before the summer solstice) all men should perish by a flood. he therefore commanded him to take the beginning, the mid- dle, and the end of whatever was consigned to writing, and to bury it in the city of the sun, at sippara; then to build a ves- sel, and to enter it with his family and dearest friends; to place in this vessel provisions to eat and drink, and to cause animals, birds, and quadrupeds to enter it; lastly, to prepare everything for navigation. and when xisuthros inquired in what direc- tion he should steer his bark, he was answered, 'toward the gods,' and enjoined to pray that good might come of it for men. “xisuthros obeyed, and constructed a vessel five stadia long and five broad; he collected all that had been prescribed to him, and embarked his wife, his children, and bis intimate friends. “the deluge baving come, and soon going down, xisuthros atlantis: the antediluvian world. loosed some of the birds. these, finding no food nor place to alight on, returned to the ship. a few days later xisutbros again let them free, but they returned again to the vessel, their feet full of mud. finally, loosed the third time, the birds came no more back. then xisuthros understood that the earth was bare. he made an opening in the roof of the ship, and saw that it had grounded on the top of a mountain. he then de- scended with his wife, his daughter, and his pilot, who wor- shipped the earth, raised an altar, and there sacrificed to the gods; at the same moment he vanished with those who ac- companied bim. “ meanwhile those who had remained in the vessel, not see- ing xisuthros return, descended too, and began to seek him, calling him by his name. they saw xisuthros no more; but a voice from heaven was heard commanding them piety to- ward the gods; that he, indeed, was receiving the reward of his piety in being carried away to dwell thenceforth in the midst of the gods, and that his wife, his daughter, and the pilot of the ship shared the same honor. the voice further said that they were to return to babylon, and, conformably to the de- crees of fate, disinter the writings buried at sippara in order to transmit them to men. it added that the country in which they found themselves was armenia. these, then, having heard the voice, sacrificed to the gods and returned on foot to babylon. of the vessel of xisnthros, which had finally land- ed in armenia, a portion is still to be found in the gordyan mountains in armenia, and pilgrims bring thence asphalte that they have scraped from its fragments. it is used to keep off the influence of witchcraft. as to the companions of xisuthros, they came to babylon, disinterred the writings left at sippara, founded numerous cities, built temples, and restored babylon." "by the side of this version," says lenormant, “ which, in- teresting though it be, is, after all, second-hand, we are now able to place an original chaldeo - babylonian edition, which the lamented george smith was the first to decipher on the cuneiform tablets exhumed at nineveh, and now in the british museum. here the narrative of the deluge appears as an epi- sode in the eleventh tablet, or eleventh chant of the great the deluge of the chaldeans. epic of the town of uruk. the hero of this poem, a kind of hercules, whose name has not as yet been made out with cer- tainty, being attacked by disease (a kind of leprosy), goes, with a view to its cure, to consult the patriarch saved from the del- uge, khasisatra, in the distant land to which the gods have transported him, there to enjoy eternal felicity. he asks khasisatra to reveal the secret of the events which led to bis obtaining the privilege of immortality, and thus the patriarch is induced to relate the cataclysın. “by a comparison of the three copies of the poem that the library of the palace of nineveh contained, it has been possible to restore the narrative with hardly any breaks. these three copies were, by order of the king of assyria, asshurbanabal, made in the eighth century b.c., from a very ancient specimen in the sacerdotal library of the town of uruk, founded by the monarchs of the first chaldean empire. it is difficult precisely to fix the date of the original, copied by assyrian scribes, but it certainly goes back to the ancient empire, seventeen centu- ries at least before our era, and even probably beyond; it was therefore much anterior to moses, and nearly contemporaneous with abraham. the variations presented by the three exist- ing copies prove that the original was in the primitive mode of writing called the hieratic, a character which must have al- ready become difficult to decipher in the eighth century b.c., as the copyists have differed as to the interpretation to be given to certain signs, and in other cases have simply repro- duced exactly the forms of such as they did not understand. finally, it results from a comparison of these variations, that the original, transcribed by order of asshurbanabal, must it- self have been a copy of some still more ancient manuscript, in which the original text had already received interlinear com- ments. some of the copyists have introduced these into their text, others have omitted them. with these preliminary ob- servations, i proceed to give integrally the narrative ascribed in the poem to kbasisatra : atlantis: the antediluvian world. “i will reveal to thee, o izdhubar, the history of my pres- ervation—and tell to thee the decision of the gods. “the town of shurippak, a town which thou knowest, is situated on the euphrates—it was ancient, and in it (men did not honor) the gods. [i alone, i was their servant, to the great gods-[the gods took counsel on the appeal of] anu- [a deluge was proposed by] bel-[and approved by nabon, nergal and] adar. “* and the god [ea), the immutable lord, repeated this com- mand in a dream.- i listened to the decree of fate that he an- nounced, and he said to me:—“man of shurippak, son of uba- ratutu—thou, build a vessel and finish it (quickly).—(by a del- uge] i will destroy substance and life.—cause thon to go up into the vessel the substance of all that has life.—the vessel thou shall build- cubits shall be the measure of its length —and cubits the amount of its breadth and of its height.- launch it] thus on the ocean, and cover it with a roof."--i understood, and i said to ea, my lord:-"the vessel] that thou commaudest me to build thus-[when] i shall do it,- young and old [shall laugh at me.]”—[ea opened his mouth and spoke. -he said to me, his servant:-"if they laugh at thee) thou shalt say to them :-(shall be punished] he who has insulted me, [for the protection of the gods] is over me.- ... like to cav- erns ...- ... i will exercise my judgment on that which is on high and that which is below ...- ... close the ves- sel ...- ... at a given moment that i shall cause thee to know,-enter into it, and draw the door of the ship toward thee. — within it, thy grains, thy furniture, thy provisions, thy riches, thy men-servants, and thy maid-servants, and thy young people—the cattle of the field, and the wild beasts of the plain that i will assemble—and that i will send thee, shall be kept behind thy door."-khasisatra opened his mouth and spoke ;-he said to ea, his lord :-“no one has made such a) ship.—on the prow i will fix ...-i shall see ... and the vessel...-the vessel thou commandest me to build thus- which in ..." “on the fifth day (the two sides of the bark] were raised. -in its covering fourteen in all were its rafters-fourteen in all did it count above.-i placed its roof, and i covered it.—i embarked in it on the sixth day; i divided its floors on the seventh ;-i divided the interior compartments on the eighth. the deluge of the chaldeans. i stopped up the chinks through which the water entered in ; -i visited the chinks, and added what was wanting.-i poured on the exterior three times measures of asphalte,-and three times measures of asphalte within.— three times men, porters, brought on their heads the chests of pro- visions.—i kept chests for the nourishment of my fami- ly, -and the mariners divided among themselves twice chests. — for (provisioning] i had oxen slain ;-i instituted (ra- tions for each day.-in (anticipation of the need of] drinks, of barrels, and of wine-[i collected in quantity] like to the waters of a river, [of provisions] in quantity like to the dust of the earth.—[to arrange them in the chests i set my hand to. - ... of the sun ... the vessel was completed.- ... strong and—i had carried above and below the furniture of the ship. –[this lading filled the two-thirds.] “* all that i possessed i gathered together; all i possessed of silver i gathered together; all that i possessed of cold i gathered-all that i possessed of the substance of life of every kind i gathered together.-i made all ascend into the vessel; my servants, male and female,—the cattle of the fields, the wild beasts of the plains, and the sons of the people, i made them all ascend. “shamash (the sun) made the moment determined, and he announced it in these terms :-“in the evening i will cause it to rain abundantly from heaven; enter into the vessel and close the door.”— the fixed moment had arrived, which he announced in these terms:-“in the evening i will cause it to rain abundantly from heaven."— when the evening of that day arrived, i was afraid, i entered into the vessel and shut my door. in shutting the vessel, to buzur-shadi-rabi, the pilot, i confided this dwelling, with all that it contained. "m -sheri-ida-namari-rose from the foundations of heav- en in a black cloud ;-ramman thundered in the midst of the cloud, -and nabon and sharru marched before ;—they march- ed, devastating the mountain and the plain :-nergal the pow- erful dragged chastisements after him ;-adar advanced, over- throwing before him ;-the archangels of the abyss brought destruction,-in their terrors they agitated the earth.—the in- undation of ramman swelled up to the sky,—and [the earth] became without lustre, was changed into a desert. ““they broke ... of the surface of the earth like ...;- atlantis: the antediluvian world. (they destroyed] the living beings of the surface of the earth. —the terrible [deluge] on men swelled up to [heaven]. - the brother no longer saw his brother; men no longer knew each other. in heaven-the gods became afraid of the water- spout, and-sought a refuge; they mounted up to the heaven of anu.— the gods were stretched out motionless, pressing one against another like dogs.—ishtar wailed like a child, - the great goddess pronounced her discourse :“here is hu- manity returned into mud, and—this is the misfortune that i have announced in the presence of the gods.—so i announced the misfortune in the presence of the gods for the evil i an- nounced the terrible (chastisement) of men who are mine.-i am the mother who gave birth to men, and like to the race of fishes, there they are filling the sea ;—and the gods, by rea- son of that—which the archangels of the abyss are doing, weep with me.”—the gods on their seats were seated in tears,-and they held their lips closed, [revolving] future things. "six days and as many nights passed; the wind, the water- spout, and the diluvian rain were in all their strength. at the approach of the seventh day the diluvian rain grew weaker, the terrible water-spout—which had assailed after the fashion of an earthquake-grew calın, the sea inclined to dry up, and the wind and the water-spout came to an end. i looked at the sea, attentively observing - and the whole of humanity had returned to mud; like unto sea-weeds the corpses floated. i opened the window, and the light smote on my face. i was seized with sadness; i sat down and i wept;-and my tears came over my face. “i looked at the regions bounding the sea : toward the twelve points of the horizon; not any continent.—the vessel was borne above the land of nizir,—the mountain of nizir arrested the vessel, and did not permit it to pass over.-a day and a second day the mountain of nizir arrested the vessel, and did not permit it to pass over ;—the third and fourth day the mountain of nizir arrested the vessel, and did not permit it to pass over ;—the fifth and sixth day the mountain of nizir arrested the vessel, and did not permit it to pass over. at the approach of the seventh day, i sent out and loosed a dove. the dove went, turned, and found no place to light on, and it came back. i sent out and loosed a swallow; the swallow went, turned, and found no place to light on, and it came the deluge of the chaldea vs. back. i sent out and loosed a raven; the raven went and saw the corpses on the waters; it ate, rested, turned, and came not back. “i then sent out (what was in the vessel) toward the four winds, and i offered a sacrifice. i raised the pile of my burnt- offering on the peak of the mountain ; seven by seven i dis- posed the measured vases, -and beneath i spread rushes, cedar, and juniper-wood. the gods were seized with the desire of it-the gods were seized with a benevolent desire of it;-and the gods assembled like flies above the master of the sacrifice. from afar, in approaching, the great goddess raised the great zones that anu has made for their glory (the gods). these gods, luminous crystal before me, i will never leave them; in that day i prayed that i might never leave them. “let the gods come to my sacrificial pile !—but never may bel come to my sacrificial pile! for he did not master himself, and he has made the water-spout for the deluge, and he has numbered my men for the pit." “ * from far, in drawing near, bel-saw the vessel, and bel stopped ;-he was filled with anger against the gods and the celestial archangels :- *** no one shall come out alive! no man shall be pre- served from the abyss !"— adar opened his mouth and said, he said to the warrior bel :-“what other than ea should have formed this resolution ?-for ea possesses knowledge, and [he foresees) all.”—ea opened his mouth and spake; he said to the warrior bel:—“o thou, herald of the gods, warrior,-as thou didst not master thyself, thou hast made the water-spout of the deluge.—let the sinner carry the weight of his sins, the blasphemer the weight of his blasphemy.- please thyself with this good pleasure, and it shall never be infringed; faith in it never [shall be violated).—instead of thy making a new deluge, let lions appear and reduce the number of men ;-in- stead of thy making a new deluge, let hyenas appear and re- duce the number of men ;-instead of thy making a new del- uge, let there be famine, and let the earth be [devastated] ;- instead of thy making a new deluge, let dibbara appear, and let men be (mown down). i have not revealed the decision of the great gods ;—it is khasisatra who interpreted a dream and comprehended what the gods had decided.” “then, when his resolve was arrested, bel entered into the atlantis: tiie antediluvian world. vessel.--he took my band and made me rise.—he macle my wife rise, and made her place herself at my side.—he turned around us and stopped short; he approached our group.- “until now khasisatra has made part of perishable humani- ty ;—but lo, now khasisatra and bis wife are going to be car- ried away to live like the gods,—and khasisatra will reside afar at the mouth of the rivers.”—they carried me away, and established me in a remote place at the mouth of the streams. "this narrative," says lenormant, “ follows with great ex- actness the same course as that, or, rather, as those of genesis; and the analogies are, on both sides, striking." when we consider these two forms of the same legend, we see many points wherein the story points directly to atlantis. . in the first place, berosus tells us that the god who gave warning of the coming of the deluge was chronos. chronos, it is well known, was the same as saturn. saturn was an an- cient king of italy, who, far anterior to the founding of rome, introduced civilization from some other country to the ital- ians. he established industry and social order, filled the land with plenty, and created the golden age of italy. he was suddenly removed to the abodes of the gods. his name is connected, in the mythological legends, with “a great satur- nian continent” in the atlantic ocean, and a great kingdom which, in the remote ages, embraced northern africa and the european coast of the mediterranean as far as the peninsula of italy, and “certain islands in the sea ;" agreeing, in this re- spect, with the story of plato as to the dominions of atlantis. the romans called the atlantic ocean “ chronium mare," the sea of chronos, thus identifying chronos with that ocean. the pillars of hercules were also called by the ancients “the pil- lars of chronos.” llere, then, we have convincing testimony that the country referred to in the chaldean legends was the land of chronos, or saturn-the ocean world, the dominion of atlantis. . hea or ea, the god of the nineveh tablets, was a fish-god; the deluge of the chaldeans. he was represented in the chaldean monuments as half man and half fish; he was described as the god, not of the rivers and seas, but of “the abyss "—to wit, the ocean. he it was who was said to bave brought civilization and letters to the ancestors of the assyrians. he clearly represented an ancient, inaritime, civilized nation; he came from the ocean, and was associated with some land and people that had been destroyed by rain and inundations. the fact that the scene of the del- uge is located on the euphrates proves nothing, for we will see hereafter that almost every nation had its especial moun- tain on which, according to its traditions, the ark rested; just as every greek tribe had its own particular mountain of olym- pos. the god bel of the legend was the baal of the phæni- cians, who, as we shall show, were of atlantean origin. bel, or baal, was worshipped on the western and northern coasts of europe, and gave his name to the baltic, the great and little belt, baleshaugen, balestranden, etc.; and to many localities in the british islands, as, for instance, belan and the baal hills in yorkshire. . in those respects wherein the chaldean legend, evidently the older form of the tradition, differs from the biblical rec- ord, we see that in each instance we approach nearer to atlan- tis. the account given in genesis is the form of the tradition that would be natural to an inland people. although there is an allusion to “the breaking up of the fountains of the great deep” (about which i shall speak more fully hereafter), the principal destruction seems to have been accomplished by rain; hence the greater period allowed for the deluge, to give time enough for the rain to fall, and subsequently drain off from the land. a people dwelling in the midst of a continent could not conceive the possibility of a whole world. sinking beneath the sea; they therefore supposed the destruction to have been caused by a continuous down-pour of rain for forty days and forty nights. in the chaldean legend, on the contrary, the rain lasted but atlantis: the antediluvian world. seven days; and we see that the writer had a glimpse of the fact that the destruction occurred in the midst of or near the sea. the ark of genesis (tébâh) was simply a chest, a cof- fer, a big box, such as might be imagined by an inland people. the ark of the chaldeans was a veritable ship; it had a prow, a helm, and a pilot, and men to manage it; and it navigated " the sea." . the chaldean legend represents not a mere rain-storm, but a tremendous cataclysm. there was rain, it is true, but there was also thunder, lightning, earthquakes, wind, a water-spout, and a devastation of mountain and land by the war of the elements. all the dreadful forces of nature were fighting together over the doomed land : “the archangel of the abyss brought destruction,” “the water rose to the sky,” “the broth- er no longer saw his brother; men no longer knew each other;" the men “ filled the sea like fishes ;" the sea was filled with mud, and“ the corpses floated like sea-weed.” when the storm abated the land had totally disappeared—there was no longer “ any continent." does not all this accord with “that dread- ful day and night” described by plato ? . in the original it appears that izdhubar, when he started to find the deified khasisatra, travelled first, for nine days' jour- ney, to the sea; then secured the services of a boatman, and, entering a ship, sailed for fifteen days before finding the chal- dean noah. this would show that khasisatra dwelt in a far country, one only attainable by crossing the water; and this, too, seems like a reminiscence of the real site of atlantis. the sea which a sailing - vessel required fifteen days to cross must have been a very large body of water; in fact, an ocean. the deluge legends of other nations. chapter iv. the deluge legends of other nations. a collection of the deluge legends of other nations will throw light upon the biblical and chaldean records of that great event. the author of the treatise “ on the syrian goddess" ac- quaints us with the diluvian tradition of the arameans, di- rectly derived from that of chaldea, as it was narrated in the celebrated sanctuary of hierapolis, or bambyce. “the generality of people,” he says, “tells us that the found- er of the temple was deucalion sisythes—that deucalion in whose time the great inundation occurred. i have also heard the account given by the greeks themselves of deucalion; the myth runs thus: the actual race of men is not the first, for there was a previous one, all the members of which perished. we belong to a second race, descended from deucalion, and multiplied in the course of time. as to the former men, they are said to have been full of insolence and pride, committing many crimes, disregarding their oath, neglecting the rights of hospitality, unsparing to suppliants; accordingly, they were pun- ished by an immense disaster. all on a sudden enormous vol- umes of water issued from the earth, and rains of extraordinary abundance began to fall; the rivers left their beds, and the sea overflowed its shores ; the whole earth was covered with water, and all men perished. deucalion alone, because of his virtue and piety, was preserved alive to give birth to a new race. this is how he was saved: he placed himself, his children, and his wives in a great coffer that he had, in which pigs, horses, lions, serpents, and all other terrestrial animals came to seek refuge with him. he received them all; and while they atlantis: tiie antediluvian world. were in the coffer zeus inspired them with reciprocal amity, which prevented their devouring one another. in this man ner, shut up within one single coffer, they floated as long as the waters remained in force. such is the account given by the greeks of deucalion. “but to this, which they equally tell, the people of hicrapo- jis add a marvellous narrative: that in their country a great chası opened, into which all the waters of the deluge poured. then deucalion raised an altar, and dedicated a temple to hera (atargatis) close to this very chasm. i have seen it; it is very narrow, and situated under the temple. whether it was once large, and has now shrunk, i do not know; but i have seen it, and it is quite small. in memory of the event the following is the rite accomplished : twice a year sea-water is bronglit to the temple. this is not only done by the priests, but nu- merous pilgrims come from the whole of syria and arabia, and even from beyond the euphrates, bringing water. it is poured out in the temple and goes into the cleft, which, nar- row as it is, swallows up a considerable quantity. this is said to be in virtue of a religions law instituted by deucalion to preserve the memory of the catastrople, and of the benefits that he received from the gods. such is the ancient tradition of the temple.” “ it appears to me difficult,” says lenormant, “not to recog- nize an echo of fables popular in all semitic countries about this chasm of hierapolis, and the part it played in the del- nge, in the enigmatic expressions of the koran respecting the oven (tannur) which began to bubble and disgorge water all around at the commencement of the deluge. we know that this tannur has been the occasion of most grotesque imagin- ings of mussulman commentators, who had lost the tradition of the story to which mohammed made allusion. and, more- over, the koran formally states that the waters of the deluge were absorbed in the bosom of the earth.” here the xisuthros of berosus becomes deucalion-sisythes. the animals are not collected together by deucalion, as in the case of noah and khasisatra, but they crowded into the vessel of their own accord, driven by the terror with which the storm the deluge legends of other nations. had inspired them; as in great calamities the creatures of the forest have been kuown to seek refuge in the houses of men. india affords us an account of the deluge which, by its pov- erty, strikingly contrasts with that of the bible and the chal- deans. its most simple and ancient form is found in the Ça- tapatha brâhmana of the rig veda. it has been translated for the first time by max müller. “one morning water for washing was brought to manu, and when he had washed himself a fish remained in his hands, and it addressed these words to him: “protect me, and i will save thee.' 'from what wilt thou save me?' 'a deluge will sweep all creatures away ; it is from that i will save thee.' how shall i protect thee?" the fish replied, “while we are small we run great dangers, for fish swallow fish. keep me at first in a vasc; when i become too large for it, dig a basin to put me into. when i shall have grown still more, throw me into the ocean; then i shall be preserved from destruction.' soon it grew a large fish. it said to manu, . the very year i shall have reached my full growth the deluge will happen. then build a vessel and worship me. when the waters vise, enter the vessel, and i will save thee.' “after keeping him thus, manu carried the fish to the sea. in the year indicated manu built a vessel and worshipped the fish. and when the deluge came he entered the vessel. then the fish came swimming up to him, and manu fastened the cable of the ship to the horn of the fish, by which means the latter made it pass over the mountain of the north. the fish said, 'i have saved thec; fasten the vessel to a tree, that the water may not sweep it away while thou art on the mountain ; and in proportion as the waters decrease thou shalt descend.' manu descended with the waters, and this is what is called the descent of manu on the mountain of the north. the deluge had carried away all creatures, and manu remained alone." there is another form of the hindoo legend in the purânas. lenormant says: “we must also remark that in the puranas it is no longer manu vaivasata that the divine fish saves from the deluge, but a different personage, the king of the dâstas—i. e., fishers atlantis: tiie antediluvian world. -satyravata,' the man who loves justice and truth,' strikingly corresponding to the chaldean khasisatra. nor is the puranic version of the legend of the deluge to be despised, though it be of recent date, and full of fantastic and often puerile details. in certain aspects it is less aryanized than that of brâhmana or than the mahâbhârata ; and, above all, it gives some circum- stances omitted in these carlier versions, which must yet have belonged to the original foundation, since they appear in the babylonian legend; a circumstance preserved, no doubt, by the oral tradition-popular, and not brahmanic-with which the puranas are so deeply imbued. this has already been ob- served by pictet, who lays due stress on the following passage of the bhagavata - purâna : 'in seven days,' said vishnu to satyravata, 'the three worlds shall be submerged.' there is nothing like this in the brahmana nor the mahâbhârata, but in genesis the lord says to noah, ‘yct seven days and i will cause it to rain upon the earth ;' and a little farther we read, ‘after seven days the waters of the flood were upon the earth.' ... nor must we pay less attention to the directions given by the fish-god to satyravata for the placing of the sacred script- ures in a safe place, in order to preserve them from havagrica, a marine horse dwelling in the abyss. ... we recognize in it, under an indian garb, the very tradition of the interment of the sacred writings at sippara by khasisatra, such as we have seen it in the fragment of berosus.” the references to “the three worlds " and the "fish-god" in these legends point to atlantis. the "three worlds" probably refers to the great empire of atlantis, described by plato, to wit, the western continent, america, the eastern continent, eu- rope and africa, considered as one, and the island of atlantis. as we have seen, poseidon, the founder of the civilization of atlantis, is identical with neptune, who is always represented riding a dolphin, bearing a trident, or three-pronged symbol, in his hand, emblematical probably of the triple kingdom. he is thus a sea-god, or fish-god, and he comes to save the representa- tive of his country. and we have also a new and singular form of the legend in the following. lenormant says: the deluge legends of other nations. “among the iranians, in the sacred books containing the fundamental zoroastrian doctrines, and dating very far back, we meet with a tradition which must assuredly be looked upon as a variety of that of the deluge, though possessing a special character, and diverging in some essential particulars from those we have been examining. it relates how yima, who, in the original and primitive conception, was the father of the human race, was warned by ahuramazda, the good deity, of the carth being about to be devastated by a flood. the god ordered yima to construct a refuge, a square garden, vara, protected by an enclosure, and to cause the germs of men, beasts, and plants to enter it, in order to escape annihilation. according- ly, when the inundation occurred, the garden of yima, with all that it contained, was alone spared, and the message of safety was brought thither by the bird karshipta, the envoy of abu- ramazda.” (“vendûdid,” vol. ii., p. .) this clearly signifies that, prior to the destruction of atlan- tis, a colony had been sent out to some neighboring country. these emigrants built a walled town, and brought to it the grains and domestic animals of the mother country; and when the island of atlantis sunk in the ocean, a messenger brought the terrible tidings to them in a ship. “the greeks had two principal legends as to the cataclysm by which primitive humanity was destroyed. the first was connected with the name of ogyges, the most ancient of the kings of baotia or attica—a quite mythical personage, lost in the night of ages, his very name seemingly derived from one signifying deluge in aryan idioms, in sanscrit angha. it is said that in his time the whole land was covered by a flood, whose waters reached the sky, and from which he, together with some companions, escaped in a vessel. "the second tradition is the thessalian legend of deucalion. zeus having worked to destroy the men of the age of bronze, with whose crimes he was wroth, deucalion, by the advice of prometheus, his father, constructed a coffer, in which he took refuge with his wife, pyrrha. the deluge came; the chest, or coffer, floated at the mercy of the waves for nine days and nine nights, and was finally stranded on mount parnassus. deucalion and pyrrha leave it, offer sacrifice, and, according atlantis: tiie antediluvian world. to the command of zeus, repeople the world by throwing be- hind them the bones of the earth'- namely, stones, which change into men. this deluge of deucalion is, in grecian tradition, what most resembles a universal deluge. many au- thors aflirm that it extended to the whole earth, and that the whole human race perished. at athens, in memory of the event, and to appcase the manes of its victims, a ceremony called hydrophoria was observed, having so close a resem- blance to that in use at ilierapolis, in syria, that we can hard- ly fail to look upon it as a syro-phænician jinportation, and the result of an assimilation established in remote antiquity between the deluge of deucalion and that of khasisatra, as described by the author of the treatise “on the syrian god- dess.' close to the temple of the olympian zeus a fissure in the soil was shown, in length but one cubit, through which it was said the waters of the deluge bad been swallowed up, thus, every year, on the third day of the festival of the an- thestéria, a day of mourning consecrated to the dead-that is, on the thirteenth of the month of anthestérion, toward the be- ginning of march-it was customary, as at bambyce, to pour water into the fissure, together with flour mixed with honey, poured also into the trench dog to the west of the tomb, in the funeral sacrifices of the athenians.” in this legend, also, there are passages which point to atlan- tis. we will see hereafter that the greek god zeus was one of the kings of atlantis. ' “ the men of the age of bronze” indicates the civilization of the doomed people; they were the great metallurgists of their day, who, as we will see, were probably the source of the great number of implements and weapons of bronze found all over europe. llere, also, while no length of time is assigned to the duration of the storm, we find that the ark floated but nine days and nights. noah was one year and ten days in the ark, khasisatra was not half that time, while deucalion was afloat only nine days. at megara, in greece, it was the eponym of the city, mega- ros, son of zeus and one of the nymphs, sithnides, who, warn- ed by the cry of cranes of the imminence of the danger of the coming flood, took refuge on mount geranien. again, there the deluge legends of other nations. was the thessalian cerambos, who was said to have escaped the flood by rising into the air on wings given him by the nymphs; and it was perirrhoos, son of eolus, that zens naios had preserved at dodona. for the inhabitants of the isle of cos the hero of the deluge was merops, son of hyas, who there assembled under his rule the remnant of humanity pre- served with him. the traditions of rhodes only supposed the telchines, those of crete sasion, to have escaped the cat- aclysm. in samothracia the same character was attributed to saon, said to be the son of zeus or of llermes. it will be observed that in all these legends the name of zeus, king of atlantis, reappears. it would appear probable that many parties had escaped from the catastrophe, and had landed at the different points named in the traditions; or else that colonies had already been established by the atlanteans at those places. it would appear impossible that a maritime peo- ple could be totally destroyed; doubtless many were on ship- board in the harbors, and others going and coming on distant voyages. "the invasion of the east,” says baldwin ('prehistoric na- tions,' p. ), “ to which the story of atlantis refers, seems to have given rise to the panathenxa, the oldest, greatest, and most splendid festivals in honor of athena celebrated in atti- ca. these festivals are said to have been established by erich- thonns in the most ancient times remembered by the historical traditions of athens. boeckh says of them, in his ‘commen- tary on plato: “in the greater panathenaa there was carried in proces- sion a peplum of minerva, representing the war with the giants and the victory of the gods of olympus. in the lesser pan- athenæa they carried another peplum (covered with symbolic devices), which showed how the athenians, supported by mi- nerva, bad the advantage in the war with the atlantes. a scholia quoted from proclus by humboldt and boeckh says: “the historians who speak of the islands of the exterior sea atlantis: the antediluvian world. tell us that in their time there were seven islands consecrated to proserpine, and three others of immense extent, of which the first was consecrated to pluto, the second to ammon, and the third to neptune. the inhabitants of the latter had pre- served a recollection (transmitted to them by their ancestors) of the island of atlantis, which was extremely large, and for a long time held sway over all the islands of the atlantic ocean. atlantis was also consecrated to neptune.'” (see humboldt's “histoire de la géographie du nouveau continent,” vol. i.) no one can read these legends and doubt that the flood was an historical reality. it is impossible that in two different places in the old world, remote from each other, religious ceremo- nies should have been established and perpetuated from age to age in memory of an event which never occurred. we have seen that at athens and at hierapolis, in syria, pilgrims came from a distance to appease the god of the earthquake, by pour- ing offerings into fissures of the earth said to have been made at the time atlantis was destroyed. more than this, we know from plato's history that the athe- nians long preserved in their books the memory of a victory won over the atlanteans in the early ages, and celebrated it by national festivals, with processions and religious ceremonies. it is too much to ask us to believe that biblical history, chaldean, iranian, and greek legends signify nothing, and that even religious pilgrimages and national festivities were based upon a myth. i would call attention to the further fact that in the deluge legend of the isle of cos the hero of the affair was merops. now we have seen that, according to theopompus, one of the names of the people of atlantis was “meropes." but we have not reached the end of our flood legends. the persian magi possessed a tradition in which the waters issued from the oven of an old woman. mohammed borrowed this story, and in the koran he refers to the deluge as coming from an oven. “all men were drowned save noah and his family; and then god said, 'o earth, swallow up thy waters; the deluge legends of other nations. and thon, o heaven, withhold thy rain ;' and immediately the waters abated.” in the bardic poems of wales we have a tradition of the deluge which, although recent, under the concise forms of the triads, is still deserving of attention. as usual, the legend is localized in the country, and the deluge counts among three terrible catastrophes of the island of prydian, or britain, the .-'* other two consisting of devastation by fire and by drought. “the first of these events," it is said," was the eruption of llyn-llion, or the lake of waves,' and the inundation (bawdd) of the whole country, by which all mankind was drowned with the exception of dwyfan and dwyfach, who saved themselves in a vessel without rigging, and it was by them that the island of prydian was repeopled.” pictet here observes : “although the triads in their actual form hardly date far- ther than the thirteenth or fourteenth century, some of them are undoubtedly connected with very ancient traditions, and nothing here points to a borrowing from genesis. “but it is not so, perhaps, with another triad, speaking of the vessel nefyddnuf-neifion, which at the time of the over- flow of llyon-llion, bore a pair of all living creatures, and rather too much resembles the ark of noah. the very name of the patriarch may have suggested this triple epithet, obscure as to its meaning, but evidently formed on the principle of cymric alliteration. in the same triad we have the enigmatic story of the horned oxen (ychain banog) of hu the mighty, who drew ont of llyon-llion the avanc (beaver or crocodile ?), in order that the lake should not overflow. the meaning of these enigmas could only be hoped from deciphering the chaos of barbaric monuments of the welsh middle age; but mean while we cannot doubt that the cymri possessed an indigenous tra- dition of the deluge.” we also find a vestige of the same tradition in the scandi- navian ealda. here the story is combined with a cosmogonic myth. the three sons of borr-othin, wili, and we-grand- sons of buri, the first man, slay ymir, the father of the hrim- atlantis: the antediluvian world. thursar, or ice giants, and his body serves them for the con- struction of the world. blood flows from his wounds in such abundance that all the race of giants is drowned in it except bergelmir, who saves himself, with his wife, in a boat, and reproduces the race. in the edda of sæmund, “the vala's prophecy” (stz. – , p. ), we seem to catch traditional glimpses of a terrible catas- trophe, which reminds us of the chaldean legend : “then trembles yggdrasil's ash yet standing, groans that an- cient tree, and the jötun loki is loosed. the shadows groan on the ways of hel (the goddess of death), until the fire of surt has consumed the tree. hyrm steers from the east, the waters rise, the mundane snake is coiled in jötun-rage. the worm beats the water and the eagle screams; the pale of beak tears carcasses ; (the ship) naglfar is loosed. surt from the sonth comes with fickering flame; shines from his sword the valgod's sun. the stony hills are dashed together, the giant- esses totter; men tread the path of ilel, and heaven is cloven. the sun darkens, earth in ocean sinks, fall from heaven the bright stars, fire's breath assails the all-nourishing, towering fire plays against heaven itself." egypt does not contain a single allusion to the flood. le- normant says: “while the tradition of the deluge holds so considerable a place in the legendary memories of all branches of the aryan race, the monuments and original texts of egypt, with their many cosmogonic speculations, have not afforded one, even dis- tant, allusion to this cataclysm. when the greeks told the egyptian priests of the deluge of deucalion, their reply was that they had been preserved from it as well as from the con- flagration produced by phaëthon; they even added that the hellenes were childish in attaching so much importance to that event, as there had been several other local catastrophes resembling it. according to a passage in manetho, much sus- pected, however, of being an interpolation, thoth, or hermes trismegistus, had himself, before the cataclysm, inscribed on stelæ, in hieroglyphical and sacred language, the principles of all knowledge. after it the second thoth translated into the the deluge legends of other nations. valgar tongue the contents of these stelæ. this would be the only egyptian mention of the deluge, the same manetho not speaking of it in what remains to us of his ‘dynasties,' his only complete authentic work. the silence of all other myths of the pharaonic religion on this head render it very likely that the above is merely a foreign tradition, recently intro- duced, and no doubt of asiatic and chaldean origin.” to my mind the explanation of this singular omission is very plain. the egyptians had preserved in their annals the pre- cise history of the destruction of atlantis, out of which the flood legends grew; and, as they told the greeks, there had been no universal flood, but only local catastrophes. possess- ing the real history of the local catastrophe which destroyed atlantis, they did not indulge in any myths about a univer- sal deluge covering the mountain-tops of all the world. they had no ararat in their neighborhood. thc traditions of the early christian ages touching the del- uge pointed to the quar- ter of the world in which atlantis was situated. there was a quaint old monk named cos- inos, who, about one thousand years ago, pub- lished a book, "topo- graphia christiana,” ac- companied by a map, in which he gives his view of the world as it was then understood. it was the world, according to cosmos. a body surrounded by water, and resting on nothing. “the earth," says cosmos, “presses downward, but the igneous parts tend upward," and between the conflicting forces the earth hangs suspended, like mohammed's coffin in the old story. the accompanying illus- . atlantis: the antediluvian world. tration (page ) represents the earth surrounded by the ocean, and beyond this ocean was “the land where men dwelt before the deluge." he then gives us a more accurate map, in detail, of the known world of bis day. i copy this map, not to show how much more we know than poor cosmos, but because he taught that all around this habitable world there was yet another world, adhering closely on all sides to the circumscribing walls of heaven. “upon the castern side of this transmarine land he judges man was created; and that there the paradise of gladness was located, alanya hubuh map of europe, after oosmos. such as here on the eastern edge is described, where it re- ceived our first parents, driven out of paradise to that extreme point of land on the sea-shore. hence, upon the coming of the deluge, noah and his sons were borne by the ark to the earth we now inbabit. the four rivers be supposes to be gushing up the spouts of paradise.” they are depicted on the above map: is the mediterranean sea; p, the arabian gulf; l, the caspian sea; q, the tigris; m, the river pison; "and j, the land where men dwelt before the flood.” the deluge legends of other nations. it will be observed that, while he locates paradise in the east, he places the scene of the deluge in the west ;, and he supposes that noah came from the scene of the deluge to europe. this shows that the traditions in the time of cosmos looked to the west as the place of the deluge, and that after the del- uge noah came to the shores of the mediterranean. the fact, too, that there was land in the west beyond the ocean is recog- nized by cosmos, and is probably a dim echo from atlantean times. the following rude cut, from cosmos, represents the high mountain in the north behind which the sun hid himself at night, thus producing the alternations of day and night. his solar majesty is just getting behind the mountain, while luna looks calmly on at the operation. the mountain is as crooked as culhuacan, the crooked mountain of atzlan described by the aztecs. o the mountain the sun hors behind at night. atlantis: the antediluvian world. chapter v. the deluge legends of america. "it is a very remarkable fact,” says alfred maury, “that we find in america traditions of the deluge coming infinitely nearer to that of the bible and the chaldean religion than among any people of the old world. it is difficult to sup- pose that the emigration that certainly took place from asia into north america by the kourile and aleutian islands, and still does so in our day, should have brought in these mem- ories, since no trace is found of them among those mongol or siberian populations which were fused with the natives of the new world. ... the attempts that have been made to trace the origin of mexican civilization to asia have not as yet led to any sufficiently conclusive facts. besides, had buddhism, which we doubt, made its way into america, it could not have introduced a myth not found in its own scriptures. the cause of these similarities between the diluvian traditions of the na- tions of the new world and that of the bible remains there- fore unexplained.” the cause of these similarities can be easily explained: the legends of the flood did not pass into america by way of the aleutian islands, or through the buddhists of asia, but were derived from an actual knowledge of atlantis possessed by the people of america. atlantis and the western continent had from an immemo- rial age held intercourse with cach other; the great nations of america were simply colonies from atlantis, sharing in its civilization, language, religion, and blood. from mexico to the peninsula of yucatan, from the shores of brazil to the heights of bolivia and peru, from the gulf of mexico to the head-waters of the mississippi river, the colonies of atlantis the deluge legends of america. extended ; and therefore it is not strange to find, as alfred manry says, american traditions of the deluge coming nearer to that of the bible and the chaldean record than those of any people of the old world. “the most important among the american traditions are the mexican, for they appear to have been definitively fixed by syin bolic and mnemonic paintings before any contact with europeans. according to these documents, the noah of the mexican cataclysm was coxcox, called by certain peoples teo- cipactli or tezpi. he had saved himself, together with his wife xochiquetzal, in a bark, or, according to other traditions, on a raft macle of cypress-wood (cupressus disticha). paint- ings retracing the deluge of coxcox bave been discovered among the aztecs, miztecs, zapotecs, tlascaltecs, and mechoa- caneses. the tradition of the latter is still more strikingly in conformity with the story as we have it in genesis, and in chal- dean sources. it tells how tezpi embarked in a spacious ves- sel with his wife, his children, and several animals, and grain, whose preservation was essential to the subsistence of the human race. when the great god tezcatlipoca decreed that the waters should retire, tezpi sent a vulture from the bark. the bird, feeding on the carcasses with which the earth was laden, did not return. tezpi sent out other birds, of which the humming-bird only came back with a leafy branch in its beak. then tezpi, seeing that the country began to vegetatc, left bis bark on the mountain of colhuacan. "the document, however, that gives the most valuable in- formation," says lenormant, “as to the cosmogony of the mexicans is one known as “codex vaticanus,' from the libra- ry where it is preserved. it consists of four syinbolic pictures, representing the four ages of the world preceding the actual one. they were copied at chobula from a manuscript ante- rior to the conquest, and accompanied by the explanatory con- mentary of pedro de los rios, a dominican monk, who, in , less than fifty years after the arrival of cortez, devoted himself to the research of indigenous traditions as being neces- sary to his missionary work.” there were, according to this document, four ages of the world. the first was an age of giants (the great mammalia) atlantis: the antediluvian world. who were destroyed by famine; the second age ended in a conflagration; the third age was an age of monkeys. “then comes the fourth age, atonatiuh, “sun of water,' whose number is x + , or . it ends by a great inundation, a veritable deluge. all mankind are changed into fish, with the exception of one man and his wife, who save themselves in a bark made of the trunk of a cypress-tree. the picture represents matlalcueye, goddess of waters, and consort of tlaloc, god of rain, as darting down toward earth. coxcox and xochiquetzal, the two human beings preserved, are seen seated on a trec-trunk and floating in the midst of the waters. this flood is represented as the last cataclysm that devastates the earth." the learned abbé brasseur de bourbourg translates from the aztec language of the “codex chimalpopoca" the follow- ing flood legend : “this is the sun called nahui-atl, ' water. now the wa- ter was tranquil for forty years, plus twelve, and men lived for the third and fourth times. when the sun nahui-atl came there had passed away four hundred years, plus two ages, plus seventy-six years. then all mankind was lost and drowned, and found themselves changed into fish. the sky came near- er the water. in a single day all was lost, and the day nahui- xochiti, ‘ flower,' destroyed all our flesh. “ and that vear was that of cé-calli, ‘ bouse,' and the day nahui -atl all was lost. even the mountains sunk into the water, and the water remained tranquil for fifty-two springs. “now at the end of the year the god titlacahuan had warn- ed nata and his spoiise nena, saying, “make no more wine of agave, but begin to hollow out a great cypress, and you will enter into it when in the month tozontli the water approaches the sky.' " then they entered in, and when the god had closed the door, he said, “thou shalt eat but one car of maize, and thy wife one also.' “but as soon as they had finished they went out, and the water remained calm, for the wood no longer moved, and, on opening it, they began to see fish. the deluge legends of america. “then they lit a fire, by rubbing together pieces of wood, and they roasted fish. “the gods citlallinicué and citlalatonac, instantly looking down said: “divine lord, what is that fire that is making there? why do they thus smoke the sky? at once titla- cahuan - tezcatlipoca descended. he began to chide, saying, *who has made this fire here ? and, seizing hold of the fish, he shaped their loins and heads, and they were transformed into dogs (chichime).” here we note a remarkable approximation to plato's account of the destruction of atlantis. “in one day and one fatal night,” says plato," there came mighty earthquakes and inun- dations that ingulfed that warlike people.” “in a single day all was lost," says the aztec legend. and, instead of a rain- fall of forty days and forty nights, as represented in the bible, here we see “in a single day ... even the mountains sunk into the water ;" not only the land on which the people dwelt who were turned into fish, but the very mountains of that land sunk into the water. does not this describe the fate of atlantis ? in the chaldean legend "the great goddess ishtar wailed like a child,” saying, “ i am the mother who gave birth to men, and, like to the race of fishes, they are filling the sea." in the account in genesis, noah“ builded an altar unto the lord, and took of every clean beast, and of every clean fowl, and offered burnt offerings on the altar. and the lord smell- ed a sweet savor; and the lord said in his heart, ‘i will not again curse the ground any more for man's sake.'” in the chaldean legend we are told that khasisatra also offered a sacrifice, a burnt offering, “and the gods assembled like flies above the master of the sacrifice.” but bel came in a high state of indignation, just as the aztec god did, and was about to finish the work of the deluge, when the great god ea took pity in his heart and interfered to save the remnant of mankind. these resemblances cannot be accidental; neither can they be the interpolations of christian missionaries, for it will be observed the aztec legends differ from the bible in points atlantis: the antediluvian world. where they resemble on the one hand plato's record, and on the other the chaldean legend. the name of the hero of the aztec story, nata, pronounced with the broad sound of the a, is not far from the name of noah or noe. the deluge of genesis is a phænician, semitic, or hebraic legend, and yet, strange to say, the name of noah, which occurs in it, bears no appropriate meaning in those tongues, but is derived from aryan sources; its fundamental root is na, to which in all the aryan language is attached the meaning of water-vákıv, to flow; võua, water; nympha, neptunus, water deities. (lenormant and chevallier, “anc. hist. of the east,” vol. i., p. .) we find the root na re- peated in the name of this central american noah, na-ta, and probably in the word "na-bui-atl”—the age of water. but still more striking analogies exist between the chaldean legend and the story of the deluge as told in the “popul vuh " (the sacred book) of the central americans : “then the waters were agitated by the will of the iieart of heaven (hurakan), and a great inundation came upon the leads of these creatures. ... they were ingulfed, and a resinous thick- ness descended from heaven;... the face of the earth was ob- scured, and a heavy darkening rain commenced—rain by day and rain by night. ... there was heard a great noise above their heads, as if produced by fire. then were men seen run- ning, pushing each other, filled with despair; they wished to climb upon their houses, and the houses, tumbling down, fell to the ground; they wished to cli:nb upon the trees, and the trees shook them off; they wished to enter into the grottoes (caves), and the grottoes closed themselves before them. ... water and fire contributed to the universal ruin at the time of the last great cataclysm which preceded the fourth creation.” observe the similarities here to the chaldean legend. there is the saine graphic description of a terrible event. the “black cloud” is referred to in both instances; also the dread- ful noises, the rising water, the earthquake rocking the trees, overthrowing the houses, and crushing even the mountain cav- the deluge legends of america. erns; "the men running and pushing each other, filled with despair,” says the “popul vuh;” “the brother no longer saw his brother," says the assyrian legend. and here i may note that this word hurakan—the spirit of the abyss, the god of storm, the hurricane-is very suggestive, and testifies to an early intercourse between the opposite shores of the atlantic. we find in spanish the word huracan; in portuguese, furacan; in french, ouragan; in german, danish, and swedish, orcan—all of them signifying a storm; while in latin furo, or furio, means to rage. and are not the old swed- ish hurra, to be driven along; our own word hurried; the ice- landic word hurra, to be rattled over frozen ground, all derived from the same root from which the god of the abyss, hura- kan, obtained his name? the last thing a people forgets is the name of their god; we retain to this day, in the names of the days of the wcek, the designations of four scandinavian gods and one roman deity. it seems to me certain the above are simply two versions of the same event; that while ships from atlantis carried terrified passengers to tell the story of the dreadful catastrophe to the people of the mediterranean shores, other ships, flying from the tempest, bore similar awful tidings to the civilized races around the gulf of mexico. the native mexican historian, ixtlilxochit, gave this as the toltec legend of the flood: “it is found in the histories of the toltecs that this age and first world, as they call it, lasted years; that men were destroyed by tremendous rains and lightning from the sky, and even all the land, without the exception of anything, and the highest mountains, were covered up and submerged in water fifteen cubits (caxtolmolatli); and here they added other fables of how men came to multiply from the few who escaped from this destruction in a “toptlipetlocali;" that this word nearly signifies a close chest; and how, after men had multi- plied, they erected a very bigh “zacuali,” wbich is to-day a tower of great height, in order to take refuge in it should the atlantis: the antediluvian world. second world (age) be destroyed. presently their languages were confused, and, not being able to understand each other, they went to different parts of the earth. “the toltecs, consisting of seven friends, with their wives, who understood the same language, came to these parts, hav- ing first passed great land and seas, having lived in caves, and having endured great hardships in order to reach this land; ... they wandered years through different parts of the world before they reached hue hue tlapalan, which was in ce tecpatl, vears after the flood.” (“ixtlilxochitl rela- ciones," in kingsborough's “mex. ant.," vol. ix., pp. , .) it will of course be said that this account, in those particu- lars where it agrees with the bible, was derived from the teach- ings of the spanish priests; but it must be remembered that ixtlilxochitl was an indian, a native of tezcuco, a son of the queen, and that his “relaciones” were drawn from the archives of his family and the ancient writings of bis nation: he bad no motive to falsify documents that were probably in the hands of hundreds at that time. here we see that the depth of the water over the earth, “ fifteen cubits,” given in the toltec legend, is precisely the same as that named in the bible: “fifteen cubits upward did the waters prevail.” (gen., chap. vii., .) in the two curious picture-histories of the aztecs preserved in the boturini collection, and published by gamelli careri and uu the starting-point of the az- teos, aocording to thie ga- nelli qalert piotured ms. tue starting - point of tiie azteos, ao- oording to tie boturini piotu red writing, the deluge legends of america. others, there is a record of their migrations from their origi- nal location through various parts of the north american con- tinent until their arrival in mexico. in both cases their start- ing-point is an island, from which they pass in a boat; and the island contains in one case a mountain, and in the other a high temple in the inidst thereof. these things seem to be reminiscences of their origin in atlantis. in each case we see the crooked mountain of the aztec le- gends, the calbuacan, looking not unlike the bent mountain of the monk, cosmos. in the legends of the chibchas of bogota we seem to have distinct reminiscences of atlantis. bocbica was their leading divinity. during two thousand years he employed himself in elevating his subjects. he lived in the sun, while his wife chia occupied the moon. this would appear to be an allu- sion to the worship of the sun and moon. beneath bochica in their mythology was chibchacum. in an angry mood he brought a deluge on the people of the table-land. bochica punished him for this act, and obliged him ever after, like atlas, to bear the burden of the earth on his back. occa- sionally he shifts the earth from one shoulder to another, and this causes earthquakes ! here we have allusions to an ancient people who, during thousands of years, were elevated in the scale of civilization, and were destroyed by a deluge; and with this is associated an atlantean god bearing the world on his back. we find even the rainbow appearing in connection with this legend. when bochica appeared in answer to prayer to quell the deluge he is seated on a rainbow. he opened a breach in the earth at tequendama, through which the waters of the flood escaped, precisely as we have seen them disappearing through the crev- ice in the earth near bambyce, in greece. the toltecs traced their migrations back to a starting-point called “aztlan,” or “atlan.” this could be no other than atlantis. (bancroft's “native races," vol. v., p. .) “the * atlantis: the antediluvian world. original home of the nahuatlacas was aztlan, the location of which has been the subject of much discussion. the causes that led to their exodus from that country can only be con- jectured; but they may be supposed to have been driven out by their enemies, for aztlan is described as a land too fair and beantiful to be left willingly in the mere hope of finding a better.” (bancroft's “native races,” vol. v., p. .) the aztecs also claimed to have come originally from aztlan. (ibid., p. .) their very name, aztecs, was derived from aztlan. (ibid., vol. ii., p. ). they were atlanteans. the “popul vuh" tells us that after the migration from aztlan three sons of the king of the quiches, upon the death of their father, “determined to go as their fathers had ordered. to the east, on the shores of the sea whence their fathers had come, to receive the royalty,' bidding adieu to their brothers and friends, and promising to return.' doubtless they passed over the sea when they went to the east to receive the royalty. now this is the name of the lord, of the monarch of the peo- ple of the east where they went. and when they arrived before the lord nacxit, the name of the great lord, the only judge, whose power was without limit, behold he granted them the sign of royalty and all that represents it ... and the in- signia of royalty ... all the things, in fact, which they brought on their return, and which they went to receive from the other side of the sca—the art of painting from tulan, a system of writing, they said, for the things recorded in their histories." (bancroft's “ native races," vol. v., p. ; “popul vuh,” p. .) this legend not only points to the east as the place of origin of these races, but also proves that this land of the east, this aztlan, this atlantis, exercised dominion over the colonies in central america, and furnished them with the es- sentials of civilization. how completely does this agree with the statement of plato tbat the kings of atlantis held domin- ion over parts of “the great opposite continent!". the deluge legends of america. professor valentini (“maya archæol.,” p. ) describes an aztec picture in the work of gemelli (“il giro del mondo," vol. vi.) of the migration of the aztecs from aztlan : “out of a sheet of water there projects the peak of a moun- tain; on it stands a tree, and on the tree a bird spreads its wings. at the foot of the mountain-peak there comes out of the water the heads of a man and a woman. the one wears on his head the symbol of his name, coxcox, a pheasant. the other head bears that of a band with a bouquet (zochitl, a flower, and quetzal, shining in green gold). in the foreground is a boat, out of which a naked man stretches out his hand imploringly to heaven. now turn to the sculpture in the flood tablet (on the great calendar stone). there you will find represented the flood, and with great emphasis, by the accuinolation of all those symbols with which the ancient mexicans conveyed the idea of water: a tub of standing wa- ter, drops springing out-not two, as heretofore in the symbol for atl, water — but four drops; the picture for moisture, a snail ; above, a crocodile, the king of the rivers. in the midst of these symbols you notice the profile of a man with a fillet, and a smaller one of a woman. there can be no doubt these are the mexican noah, coxcox, and his wife, xochiquetzal ; and at the same time it is evident (the calendar stone, we know, was made in a.d., ) that the story of calendar stone. them, and the pictures representing the story, have not been invented by the catholic clergy, but really existed among these nations long before the conquest.” the above figure represents the flood tablet on the great calendar stone. when we turn to the uncivilized indians of america, while we still find legends referring to the deluge, they are, with one exception, in such garbled and uncouth forms that we can only see glimpses of the truth shining through a mass of fable. the following tradition was current among the indians of the great lakes : atlantis: the antediluvian world. “in former times the father of the indian tribes dwelt to- ward the rising sun. having been warned in a dream that a deluge was coming upon the earth, he built a raft, on which he saved himself, with his family and all the animals. he floated thus for several months. the animals, who at that time spoke, loudly complained and murmured against him. at last a new earth appeared, on which he landed with all the animals, who from that time lost the power of speech, as a punishment for their murmurs against their deliverer.” according to father charlevoix, the tribes of canada and the valley of the mississippi relate in their rude legends that all mankind was destroyed by a flood, and that the good spir- it, to repeople the earth, had changed animals into men. it is to j. s. kohl we owe our acquaintance with the version of the chippeways — full of grotesque and perplexing touches — in which the man saved from the deluge is called menaboshu. to know if the earth be drying, he sends a bird, the diver, out of his bark; then becomes the restorer of the buman race and the founder of existing society. a clergyman who visited the indians north-west of the ohio in met, at a treaty, a party of indians from the west of the mississippi. “they informed him that one of their most ancient tradi- tions was that, a great while ago, they had a common father, who lived toward the rising of the sun, and governed the whole world; that all the white people's heads were under his feet; that he had twelve sons, by whom he administered the govern- ment; that the twelve sons behaved very bad, and tyrannized over the people, abusing their power; that the great spirit, be- ing thus angry with them, suffered the white people to intro- duce spirituous liquors among them, made them drunk, stole the special gift of the great spirit from them, and by this means usurped power over them; and ever since the indians' heads were under the white people's feet.” (boudinot's “star in the west,” p. .) here we note that they looked" toward the rising sun"-to- ward atlantis—for the original home of their race; that this the deluge legends of america. region governed “the whole world;" that it contained white people, who were at first a subject race, but who subsequently rebelled, and acquired dominion over the darker races. we will see reason hereafter to conclude that atlantis had a com- posite population, and that the rebellion of the titans in greek mythology was the rising up of a subject population. in c. s. rafinesque published in philadelphia, pa., a work called “the american nations," in which he gives the historical songs or chants of the lenni-lenapi, or delaware in- dians, the tribe that originally dwelt along the delaware river. after describing a time" when there was nothing but sea-water on top of the land," and the creation of sun, moon, stars, earth, and man, the legend depicts the golden age and the fall in these words: “all were willingly pleased, all were easy-think- ing, and all were well-bappified. but after a while a snake- priest, powako, brings on earth secretly the snake-worship (ini- tako) of the god of the snakes, wakon. and there came wick- edness, crime, and unhappiness. and bad weather was com- ing, distemper was coming, with death was coming. all this happened very long ago, at the first land, netamaki, beyond the great ocean kitahikau." then follows the song of the flood: “there was, long ago, a powerful snake, maskanako, when the men had become bad beings, makowini. this strong snake had become the foe of the jins, and they became troubled, hat- ing each other. both were fighting, both were spoiling, both were never peaceful. and they were fighting, least man mat- tapewi with dead-keeper nihaulowit. and the strong snake readily resolved to destroy or fight the beings or the men. the dark snake he brought, the monster (amanyam) he bronght, snake-rushing water he brought (it). much water is rushing, much go to hills, much penetrate, much destroying. meanwhile at tula (this is the same tula referred to in the central ameri- can legends), at that island, nana-bush (the great hare nana) becomes the ancestor of beings and men. being born creep- ing, he is ready to move and dwell at tula. the beings and men all go forth from the flood creeping in shallow water or atlantis: the antediluvian world. swimming afloat, asking which is the way to the turtle-back, tula-pin. but there are many monsters in the way, and some men were devoured by them. but the daughter of a spirit helped them in a boat, saying, 'come, come; they were com- ing and were helped. the name of the boat or raft is mo- kol. . . . water running off, it is drying; in the plains and the mountains, at the path of the cave, elsewhere went the power- ful action or motion.” then follows song , describing the condition of mankind after the flood. like the aryans, they moved into a cold country: “it freezes was there; it snows was there; it is cold was there.” they move to a milder re- gion to hunt cattle; they divided their forces into tillers and hunters. “the good and the holy were the hunters ;" they spread themselves north, south, east, and west. “meantime all the snakes were afraid in their huts, and the snake-priest na- kopowa said to all, “let us go.' eastwardly they go forth at snakeland ( akhokink), and they went away earnestly grieving." afterward the fathers of the delawares, who “were always boating and navigating," find that the snake-people have taken possession of a fine country; and they collect together the peo- ple from north, south, east, and west, and attempt “to pass over the waters of the frozen sea to possess that land." they seem to travel in the dark of an arctic winter until they come to a gap of open sea. they can go no farther ; but some tarry at firland, while the rest return to where they started from," the old turtle land.” here we find that the land that was destroyed was the “first land;" that it was an island" beyond the great ocean.” in an early age the people were bappy and peaceful; they became wicked; “snake worship” was introduced, and was associated, as in genesis, with the “fall of man;" nana-bush became the ancestor of the new race; his name reminds us of the toltec nata and the hebrew noah. after the flood came a disper- sion of the people, and a separation into hunters and tillers of the soil. among the mandan indians we not only find flood legends, but, more remarkable still, we find an image of the ark preserved from generation to generation, and a religious ceremony per- the deluge legends of america. formed which refers plainly to the destruction of atlantis, and to the arrival of one of those who escaped from the flood, bringing the dreadful tidings of the disaster. it must be re- membered, as we will show hereafter, that many of these man- dan indians were wbite men, with hazel, gray, and blue eyes, and all shades of color of the hair froin black to pure white; that they dwelt in houses in fortified towns, and manufactured earthen-ware pots in which they could boil water—an art un- known to the ordinary indians, who boiled water by putting heated stones into it. i quote the very interesting account of george catlin, who visited the mandans nearly fifty years ago, lately republished in london in the “ north american indians," a very curious and valuable work. he says (vol. i., p. ): “in the centre of the village is an open space, or public square, feet in diameter and circular in form, which is used for all public games and festivals, shows and exhibitions. the lodges around this open space front in, with their doors toward the centre; and in the middle of this stands an object of great religious veneration, on account of the importance it has in connection with the annual religious ceremonies. this object is in the form of a large hogshead, some eight or ten feet high, made of planks and hoops, containing within it some of their choicest mysteries or medicines. they call it the ‘big canoe.'” this is a representation of the ark; the ancient jews vener- ated a similar image, and some of the ancient greek states followed in processions a model of the ark of deucalion. but it is indeed surprising to find this practice perpetuated, even to our own times, by a race of indians in the heart of america. on page of the first volume of the same work catlin de- scribes the great annual mysteries and religious ceremonials of which this image of the ark was the centre. he says: “on the day set apart for the commencement of the cere- monies a solitary figure is seen approaching the village. “during the deafening din and confusion within the pickets atlantis: the antediluvian world. of the village the figure discovered on the prairie continued to approach with a dignified step, and in a right line toward the village; all eyes were upon him, and he at length made his appearance within the pickets, and proceeded toward the cen- tre of the village, where all the chiefs and braves stood ready to receive him, which they did in a cordial manner by shaking hands, recognizing him as an old acquaintance, and pronounc- ing his name, nu-mohk-muck-a-nah (the first or only man). the body of this strange personage, which was chiefly naked, was painted with white clay, so as to resemble at a distance a white man. ile enters the medicine lodge, and goes through certain mysterious ceremonies. “during the whole of this day nu-mohk-muck-a-nah (the first or only man) travelled through the village, stopping in front of each man's lodge, and crying until the owner of the lodge came out and asked who he was, and what was the mat- ter? to which he replied by narrating the sad catastrophe which had happened on the earth's surface by the over flowing of the waters, saying that he was the only person saved from the universal calamity; that he landed his big canoe on a high mountain in the west, where he now resides; that he has come to open the medicine lodge, which must needs receive a pres- ent of an edged tool from the owner of every wigwam, that it may be sacrificed to the water; for,' he says, 'if this is not done there will be another flood, and no one will be saved, as it was with such tools that the big canoe was made.' “having visited every lodge in the village during the day, and having received such a present from each as a hatchet, a knife, etc. (which is undoubtedly always prepared ready for the occasion), he places them in the medicine lodge; and, on the last day of the ceremony, they are thrown into a deep place in the river— sacrificed to the spirit of the waters.'” among the sacred articles kept in the great medicine lodge are four sacks of water, called eeh-tech-ka, sewed together, each of them in the form of a tortoise lying on its back, with a bunch of eagle feathers attached to its tail. “these four tor- toises,” they told me, "contained the waters from the four quarters of the world—that those waters had been contained therein ever since the settling down of the waters," "i did the deluge legends of america. not,” says catlin, who knew nothing of an atlantis theory, “think it best to advance anything against such a ridiculous belief." catlin tried to purchase one of these water-sacks, but could not obtain it for any price; he was told they were “a society property." he then describes a dance by twelve men around the ark: “they arrange themselves according to the four cardinal points; two are painted perfectly black, two are vermilion color, some were painted partially white. they dance a dance called “bel- lohck-na-pie,'” with horns on their heads, like those used in europe as symbolical of bel, or baal. could anything be more evident than the connection of these ceremonies with the destruction of atlantis? ilere we have the image of the ark; here we have a white man coming with the news that “the waters had overflowed the land," and that all the people were destroyed except himself; here we have the sacrifice to appease the spirit that caused the flood, just as we find the flood terminating, in the hebrew, chaldean, and central american legends, with a sacrifice. here, too, we have the image of the tortoise, which we find in other flood legends of the indians, and which is a very natural symbol for an island. as one of our own poets has expressed it, “very fair and full of promise lay the island of st. thomas; like a great green turtle slumbered on the sea which it encumbered," here we have, too, the four quarters of atlantis, divided by its four rivers, as we shall see a little farther on, represented in a dance, where the dancers arrange themselves according to the four cardinal points of the compass; the dancers are paint- ed to represent the black and red races, while “the first and only. man” represents the white race; and the name of the dance is a reminiscence of baal, the ancient god of the races derived from atlantis. but this is not all. the mandans were evidently of the race atlantis: the antediluvian world. of atlantis. they have another singular legend, which we find in the account of lewis and clarke: “their belief in a future state is connected with this theory of their origin: the whole nation resided in one large village, underground, near a subterranean lake. a grape-vine extend- ed its roots down to their habitation, and gave them a view of the light. some of the most adventurous climbed up the vine, and were delighted with the sight of the earth, which they found covered with buffalo, and rich with every kind of fruit. returning with the grapes they had gathered, their country- men were so pleased with the taste of them that the whole na- tion resolved to leave their dull residence for the charms of the upper region. men, women, and children ascended by means of the vine, but, when about half the nation had reached the surface of the earth, a corpulent woman, who was clambering up the vine, broke it with ber weight, and closed upon berself and the rest of the nation the light of the sun." the ll this curious tradition means that the present nation dwelt in a large settlement underground, that is, beyond the land, in the sea; the sea being represented by “the subterranean lake." at one time the people had free intercourse between this “ large village” and the american continent, and they found- ed extensive colonies on this continent; whereupon some mis- hap cut them off from the mother country. this explanation is confirmed by the fact that in the legends of the iowa in- dians, who were a branch of the dakotas, or sioux indians, and relatives of the mandans (according to major james w. lynd), “ all the tribes of indians were formerly one, and all dwelt together on an island, or at least across a large wa- ter toward the east or sunrise. they crossed this water in skin canoes, or by swimming; but they know not how long they were in crossing, or whether the water was salt or fresh.” while the dakotas, according to major lynd, who lived among them for nine years, possessed legends of “huge skiffs, in which the dakotas of old floated for weeks, finally gaining dry land"--a reminiscence of ships and long sea-voyages. the deluge legends of america. the mandans celebrated their great religious festival above described in the season when the willow is first in leaf, and a dove is mixed up in the ceremonies; and they further relate a legend that “the world was once a great tortoise, borne on the waters, and covered with earth, and that when one day, in dig- ging the soil, a tribe of white men, who had made boles in the earth to a great depth digging for badgers, at length pierced the shell of the tortoise, it sank, and the water covering it drowned all men with the exception of one, who saved himself in a boat; and when the earth re-emerged, sent out a dove, who returned with a branch of willow in its beak.” the holes dug to find badgers were a sarage's recollection of mining operations; and when the great disaster came, and the island sunk in the sea amid volcanic convulsions, doubtless men said it was due to the deep mines, which bad opened the way to the central fires. but the recurrence of “white men” as the miners, and of a white man as “the last and only man,” and the presence of white blood in the veins of the people, all point to the same conclusion—that the man- dans were colonists from atlantis. and here i might add that catlin found the following singu- lar resemblances between the mandan tongue and the welsh : english. mandan. welsh. pronounced. mi. you. me. ne. me. chwe. chwi. a. e. he. she. it. a ea. ount. we. they. noo. no; or there is not. eonah. megosh. hwynt. hooynt. ni. ne. hona, fem. hona. nagoes. nagosh. na. pen. pan. mawr mosoor penathir. panæther. no. head. the great spirit. pan. maho peneta. major lynd found the following resemblances between the akota tongue and the languages of the old world: atlantis: the antediluvian world. comparison of dakota, or sioux, witii other languages. latin. english. saxon. sanscrit. german. danish. sioux, other languages. primary signification. pinso.... vudo appearing, visible. benting. passage qni.. see, seen.. seon.... pound..... puuian.. went....) wendan.. wend... town..... tun....... who. hwa.... was.... weapon... wepu..... ic......... agam... core ..... eight ..... achta..... aute..... ego. ...... sionx dimin. wi- i pena. centre, beart. cor.. reed, weed, wood. swelling. canna... cane......... pock.... pock...... poc. with...... with ... donghty... dohtig.... tight..... tian..... trungo... touch... trecan. take.... tactus... child.... cild... work ..... wercan... sehen...... sigt......... sin...... pau...... . pwynian..... winta.... zann. tun...... tonwe... gaelic, dun.... wir........ trwe..... wapeu.... vanpen.. wipe.... ich........ jek......... mish........ co..... gr., keap........ acht...... otte... shaktogan... gr., oktw....... arm., caven.. can. heb., can......? w., cawu......) pocke..... pukkel...... poka.... dutch, poca.. wider..... wila...... goth., gewithan. dita...... taugen .... digtig..... dilara... dicht... digt....... tital.. t: .. ticken .... tekkan ... hauka. kind...... kuld...... cin. woccan ... dritch, werkan. wirken.... hecoll..... span., hecho. ar., shakula...) shka... teton, shakulan) kniva.... schubig.... schabbig.... shabya.... ilot, brave, daring. strain. touch, take. progeny. labor, motion. shackle... seoacul... to bind (a lipk). query....... shabby .... the deluge legends of america. according to major lynd, the dakotas, or sionx, belonged to the same race as the mandans; hence the interest which attaches to these verbal similarities. “among the iroquois there is a tradition that the sea and waters infringed upon the land, so that all human life was de- stroyed. the chickasaws assert that the world was once de- stroyed by water, but that one family was saved, and two ani- mals of every kind. the sioux ray there was a time when there was no dry land, and all men had disappeared from ex- istence.” (see lynd's “ms. history of the dakotas," library of historical society of minnesota.) “the okanagans have a god, skyappe, and also one called chacha, who appear to be endowed with omniscience; but their principal divinity is their great mythical ruler and hero- ine, scomalt. long ago, when the sun was no bigger than a star, this strong medicine-woman ruled over what appears to have now become a lost island. at last the peace of the island was destroyed by war, and the noise of battle was heard, with which scoinalt was exceeding wroth, whereupon she rose up in her might and drove her rebellious subjects to one end of the island, and broke off the piece of land on which they were huddled and pushed it out to sea, to drift whither it would. this floating island was tossed to and fro and buffcted by the winds till all but two died. a man and woman escaped in a canoe, and arrived on the main-land; and from these the oka- nagaus are descended.” (bancroft's “native races," vol. iii., p. .) here we have the flood legend clearly connected with a lost island. the nicaraguans believed “that ages ago the world was de- stroyed by a flood, in which the most part of mankind per- ished. afterward the teotes, or gods, restored the earth as at the beginning.” (ibid., p. .) the wild a paches, "wild from their natal hour," have a legend that “the first days of the world were happy and peaceful days;" then came a great flood, from which montezuma and the coyote alone escaped. montezuma became then very wicked, and attempted to build a house that would reach to heaven, but the great atlantis: the antediluvian world. spirit destroyed it with thunderbolts. (bancroft's “native races,” vol. iii., p. .) the pimas, an indian tribe allied to the papagos, have a peculiar flood legend. the son of the creator was called szeu- kha (ze-us?). an eagle prophesied the deluge to the proph- ct of the people three times in succession, but his warning was despised; "then in the twinkling of an eye there came a peal of thunder and an awful crash, and a green mound of water reared itself over the plain. it seemed to stand upright for a second, then, cut incessantly by the lightning, goaded on like a great beast, it flung itself upon the prophet's hut. when the morning broke there was nothing to be seen alive but one man-if indeed he were a man; szeu-kha, the son of the cre- ator, had saved himself by floating on a ball of gum or resin.” this instantaneous catastrophe reminds one forcibly of the de- struction of atlantis. szeu-kha killed the eagle, restored its victims to life, and repeopled the earth with them, as deucalion repeopled the earth with the stones. some consideration of the deluge legends. chapter vi. soje consideration of the deluge legends. the fountains of the great deep.—as atlantis perished in a volcanic convulsion, it must have possessed volcanoes. this is rendered the more probable when we remember that the ridge of land of which it was a part, stretching from north to south, from iceland to st. helena, contains even now great volca- noes—as in iceland, the azores, the canaries, etc.—and that the very sea- bed along the line of its original axis is, to this day, as we have shown, the scene of great volcanic disturb- ances. if, then, the mountains of atlantis contained volcanoes, of which the peaks of the azores are the surviving representa- tives, it is not improbable that the convulsion which drowned it in the sea was accompanied by great discharges of water. we have seen that such discharges occurred in the island of java, when four thousand people perished. “immense col- umns of hot water and boiling mud were thrown out” of the volcano of galung gung; the water was projected from the mountain "like a water-spout." when a volcanic island was created near sicily in , it was accompanied by “a water- spout sixty feet high.” in the island of dominica, one of the islands constituting the leeward group of the west indies, and nearest to the site of atlantis, on the th of january, , occurred a series of convulsions which reminds us forcibly of the destruction of plato's island; and the similarity extends to another particu- lar: dominica contains, like atlantis, we are told, numerous atlantis: the antediluvian world. hot and sulphur springs. i abridge the account given by the new york herald of january th, : “a little after o'clock a.m., soon after high-mass in the roman catholic cathedral, and while divine service was still going on in the anglican and wesleyan chape!s, all the in. dications of an approaching thunder-storm suddenly showed themselves; the atmosphere, which just previously had been cool and pleasant-slight showers falling since early morning -became at once nearly stilling hot; the rumbling of distant thunder was heard, and the light-blue and fleecy white of the sky turned into a heavy and lowering black. soon the thun- der-peals came near and loud, the lightning flashes, of a blue and red color, more frequent and vivid; and the rain, first with a few heavy drops, commenced to pour as if the floodgates of heaven were open. in a moment it darkened, as if night had come; a strong, nearly overpowering smell of sulphur an- nounced itself; and people who happened to be out in the streets felt the rain - drops falling on their heads, backs, and shoulders lilie showers of hailstones. the cause of this was to be noted by looking at the spouts, from wbich the water was rushing like so many cataracts of molten lead, while the gutters below ran swollen streams of thick gray mud, looking like nothing ever seen in them before. in the mean time the roseau river had worked itself into a state of mad fury, overflowing its banks, carrying down rocks and large trees, and threatening destruction to the bridges over it and the houses in its neighborhood. when the storm ceased—it last- ed till twelve, mid-day—the roofs and walls of the buildings in town, the street pavement, the door-steps and back-yards were found covered with a deposit of volcanic débris, holding together like clay, dark-gray in color, and in some places lying more than an inch thick, with small, shining metallic particles on the surface, which could be easily identified as iron pyrites. scraping up some of the stuff, it required only a slight exami- nation to determine its main constituents—sandstone and mag- nesia, the pyrites being slightly mixed, and silver showing itself in even sınaller quantity. this is, in fact, the composition of the volcanic mud thrown up by the soufrières at watton wa- ven and in the boiling lake country, and it is found in solu- tion as well in the lake water. the devil's billiard - table, soje consideration of the deluge legends. within half a mile of the boiling lake, is composed wholly of this substance, which there assumes the character of stone in formation. inquiries instituted on monday morning revealed the fact that, except on the south-east, the mud shower had not extended beyond the limits of the town. on the north-west, in the direction of fond colo and morne daniel, nothing but pure rain-water had fallen, and neither loubière nor pointe michel had seen any signs of volcanic disturbance. ... "but what happened at pointe mulâtre enables us to spot the locale of the eruption. pointe mulâtre lies at the foot of the range of mountains on the top of which the boiling lake frets and seethes. the only outlet of the lake is a cascade which falls into one of the branches of the pointe mulâtre river, the color and temperature of which, at one time and another, shows the existence or otherwise of volcanic activity in the lake-country. we may observe, en passant, that the fall of the water from the lake is similar in appearance to the falls on the sides of roairama, in the interior of british guiana; there is no continuous stream, but the water overleaps its ba- sin like a kettle boiling over, and comes down in detached cascades from the top. may there not be a boiling lake on the unapproachable summit of roairama? the phenomena noted at pointe mulâtre on sunday were similar to what we witnessed in roscan, but with every feature more strongly marked. the fall of mud was heavier, covering all the fields; the atmospheric disturbance was greater, and the change in the appearance of the running water about the place more surpris- ing. the pointe mulâtre river suddenly began to run volcan- ic mud and water; then the mud predominated, and almost buried the stream under its weight, and the odor of sulphur in the air became positively oppressive. soon the fish in the wa- ter-brochet, camoo, meye, crocro, mullet, down to the eel, the crawfish, the loche, the tétar, and the dormer--died, and were thrown on the banks. the mud carried down by the river has formed a bank at the mouth which nearly dams up the stream, and threatens to throw it back over the low-lving lands of the pointe mulâtre estate. the reports from the laudat section of the boiling lake district are curious. the bach- elor and admiral rivers, and the numerous mineral springs which arise in that part of the island, are all running a thick white flood, like cream milk. the face of the entire country, atlantis: the antediluvian world. from the admiral river to the solfatera plain, has undergone some portentous change, which the frightened peasants who bring the news to roseau seem unable clearly and connectedly to describe, and the volcanic activity still continues." from this account it appears that the rain of water and mud came from a boiling lake on the mountains; it must have risen to a great height, “like a water-spout," and then fallen in showers over the face of the country. we are reminded, in this boiling lake of dominica, of the welsh legend of the eruption of the llyn-llion, “ the lake of waves," which “in- undated the whole country.” on the top of a mountain in the county of kerry, ireland, called mangerton, there is a deep lake known as poulle-i-feron, which signifies hell-hole; it fre- quently overflows, and rolls down the mountain in frightful torrents. on slieve-donart, in the territory of mourne, in the county of down, ireland, a lake occupies the mountain-top, and its overflowings help to form rivers. if we suppose the destruction of atlantis to have been, in like manner, accompanied by a tremendous outpour of water from one or more of its volcanoes, thrown to a great height, and delaging the land, we can understand the description in the chaldean legend of “ the terrible water-spout,” which even “the gods grew afraid of,” and which “rose to the sky," and which seems to have been one of the chief causes, together with the earthquake, of the destruction of the country. and in this view we are confirmed by the aramean legend of the deluge, probably derived at an earlier age from the chaldean tradition. in it we are told, “all on a sudden enormous vol- umes of water issued from the earth, and rains of extraordinary abundance began to fall; the rivers left their beds, and the ocean overflowed its banks.” the disturbance in dominica duplicates this description exactly: "in a moment ” the water and mud burst from the mountains, “ the floodgates of heaven were opened,” and “the river overflowed its banks.” and here, again, we are reminded of the expression in gen- some consideration of the deluge legends. esis," the same day were all the fountains of the great deep broken up” (chap. vii., ). that this does not refer to the rain is clear from the manner in which it is stated: “the same day were all the fountains of the great deep broken up, and the windows of heaven were opened. and the rain was upon the earth," etc. and when the work of destruction is finished, we are told “the fountains also of the deep and the windows of heaven were stopped.” this is a reminiscence by an inland people, living where such tremendous volcanic dis- turbances were nearly unknown, of "the terrible water-spout” which “ rose to the sky," of the chaldean legend, and of "the enormous voluines of water issuing from the carth" of the aramaan tradition. the hindoo legend of the flood speaks of “the marine god hayagriva, who dwelt in the abyss," who produced the cataclysm. this is doubtless “the archangel of the abyss " spoken of in the chaldean tradition. the mountains of the north.—we have in plato the fol- lowing reference to the mountains of atlantis: “the whole country was described as being very lofty and precipitous on the side of the sea. ... the whole region of the island lies toward the south, and is sheltered from the north. ... the surrounding mountains ... exceeded all that are to be seen now anywhere." these mountains were the present azores. one has but to contemplate their present elevation, and remember the depth to which they de- scend in the ocean, to realize their tre- mendous altitude and the correctness of the description given by plato. in the hindoo legend we find the fish- god, who represents poseidon, father of atlantis, helping manu over " the moun- tain of the north.” in the chaldean, au legend khasisatra's vessel is stopped by “the mountain of nizir” until the sea goes down. til god of tie flood), (from "the walls of nineveh.") . atlantis: the antediluvian world. the mud which stopped navigation. we are told by pla- to, “ atlantis disappeared beneath the sea, and then that sea became inaccessible, so that navigation on it ceased, on account of the quantity of mud which the ingulfed island left in its place." this is one of the points of plato's story which pro- voked the incredulity and ridicule of the ancient, and even of the modern, world. we find in the chaldean legend some- thing of the same kind : khasisatra says, “i looked at the sea attentively, observing, and the whole of humanity had return- ed to mud.” in the “ popol vuh” we are told that a "resin- ous thickness descended from heaven," even as in dominica the rain was full of “thick gray mud,” accompanied by an “over- powering smell of sulphur.” the explorations of the ship challenger show that the whole of the submerged ridge of which atlantis is a part is to this day thickly covered with volcanic débris. we have but to remember the cities of pompeii and hercu- laneum, which were covered with such a mass of volcanic ashes from the eruption of a.d. that for seventeen centuries they remained buried at a depth of from fifteen to thirty feet; a new population lived and labored above them; an aqueduct was constructed over their heads; and it was only when a farmer, in digging for a well, penetrated the roof of a house, that they were once more brought to the light of day and the knowledge of mankind. we have seen that, in , the volcanic eruption in iceland covered the sea with pumice for a distance of one hundred and fifty miles, “and ships were considerably impeded in their course." the eruption in the island of sumbawa, in april, , threw out such masses of ashes as to darken the air. “the floating cinders to the west of sumatra formed, on the th of april, a mass two feet thick and several miles in extent, through which ships with difficulty forced their way." it thus appears that the very statement of plato which has some consideration of the deluge legends. provoked the ridicule of scholars is in itself one of the corrob- orating features of his story. it is probable that the ships of the atlanteans, when they returned after the tempest to look for their country, found the sea impassable from the masses of volcanic ashes and punice. they returned terrified to the shores of europe; and the shock inflicted by the destruction of atlantis upon the civilization of the world probably led to one of those retrograde periods in the history of our race in which they lost all intercourse with the western continent. the freservation of a record.—there is a singular coinci- dence in the stories of the deluge in another particular. the legends of the phænicians, preserved by sanchoniathon, tell us that taautos, or taut, was the inventor of the alphabet and of the art of writing. now, we find in the egyptian legends a passage of manetho, in which thoth (or hermes trismegistus), before the deluge, inscribed on stelæ, or tablets, in bieroglyphics, or sacred char- acters, the principles of all knowledge. after the deluge the second thoth translated the contents of these stelæ into the vulgar tongue. josephus tells us that “the patriarch seth, in order that wisdom and astronomical knowledge should not perish, erect- ed, in prevision of the double destruction by fire and water predicted by adam, two columns, one of brick, the other of stone, on which this knowledge was engraved, and which ex- isted in the siriadic country.” in the chaldean legends the god ea ordered khasisatra to inscribe the divine learning, and the principles of all sciences, on tables of terra-cotta, and bury them, before the deluge, “ in the city of the sun at sippara.” berosus, in his version of the chaldean flood, says: “the deity, chronos, appeared to him (xisuthros) in a vision, and warned him that, upon the th day of the month desius, there would be a flood by which mankind would be destroyed. he therefore enjoined him to write a history of the beginning, atlantis: the antediluvian world. procedure, and conclusion of all things, and to bury it in the city of the sun at sippara, and to build a vessel," etc. the hindoo bhagavata - purâna tells us that the fish-god, who warned satyravata of the coming of the flood, directed him to place the sacred scriptures in a safe place, “in order to preserve them from hayagriva, a marine horse dwelling in the abyss." are we to find the original of these legends in the following passage from plato's history of atlantis ? “now, the relations of their governments to one another were regulated by the injunctions of poseidon, as the law had hand- ed them down. these were inscribed by the first men on a column of orichalcum, which was situated in the middle of the island, at the temple of poseidon, whither the people were gathered together. ... they received and gave judgments, and at day break they wrote down their sentences on a golden tab- let, and deposited them as memorials with their robes. there were many special laws which the several kings had inscribed about the temples." (critias, p. .) a succession of disasters.—the central american books, translated by de bourbourg, state that originally a part of the american continent extended far into the atlantic ocean. this tradition is strikingly confirmed by the explorations of the ship challenger, which show that the “dolphin's ridge” was con- nected with the shore of south america north of the mouth of the amazon. the central american books tell us that this region of the continent was destroyed by a succession of fright- ful convulsions, probably at long intervals apart; three of these catastrophes are constantly mentioned, and sometimes there is reference to one or two more. “the land," in these convulsions," was shaken by frightful earthquakes, and the waves of the sea combined with volcanic fires to overwhelm and ingulf it. : . . each convulsion swept away portions of the land until the whole disappeared, leaving the line of coast as it now is. most of the inhabitants, over.. some consideration of the deluge legends. taken amid their regular employments, were destroyed; but some escaped in ships, and some fled for safety to the summits of high mountains, or to portions of the land which for a time escaped immediate destruction." (baldwin's “ancient amer- ica,” p. .) this accords precisely with the teachings of geology. we know that the land from which america and europe were formed once covered nearly or quite the whole space now oc- cupied by the atlantic between the continents; and it is rea- sonable to believe that it went down piecemeal, and that atlan- tis was but the stump of the ancient continent, which at last perished from the same causes and in the same way. the fact that this tradition existed among the inhabitants of america is proven by the existence of festivals, “especially one in the month izcalli, which were instituted to commemorate this frightful destruction of land and people, and in which, say the sacred books, ' princes and people humbled themselves be- fore the divinity, and besought him to withhold a return of such terrible calamities.'” can we doubt the reality of events which we thus find con- firmed by religious ceremonies at athens, in syria, and on the shores of central america ? and we find this succession of great destructions of the at- lantic continent in the triads of wales, where traditions are preserved of “three terrible catastrophes." we are told by the explorations of the ship challenger that the higher lands reach in the direction of the british islands; and the celts had traditions that a part of their country once extended far out into the atlantic, and was subsequently destroyed. and the same succession of destructions is referred to in the greek legends, where a deluge of ogyges—"the most ancient of the kings of bæotia or attica, a quite mythical person, lost in the night of ages”—preceded that of deucalion. we will find hereafter the most ancient hymns of the ary- ans praying god to hold the land firm. the people of atlan- atlantis: the antediluvian world. tis, having seen their country thus destroyed, section by sec- tion, and judging that their own time inust inevitably come, must have lived under a great and perpetual terror, which will go far to explain the origin of primeval religion, and the hold which it took upon the minds of men; and this condition of things may furnish us a solution of the legends which have come down to us of their efforts to perpetuate their learning on pillars, and also an explanation of that other legend of the tower of babel, which, as i will show hereafter, was common to both continents, and in which they sought to build a tower high enough to escape the deluge. all the legends of the preservation of a record prove that the united voice of antiquity taught that the antediluvians had advanced so far in civilization as to possess an alphabet and a system of writing; a conclusion which, as we will see hereafter, finds confirmation in the original identity of the alphabetical signs used in the old world and the new. civilizatiov av lvheritance. part iii. the civilization of the old world and new compared. chapter i. civilization an inheritance. material civilization might be defined to be the result of a series of inventions and discoveries, whereby man improves his condition, and controls the forces of nature for his own advan- tage. the savage man is a pitiable creature; as menaboshu says, in the chippeway legends, he is pursued by a “perpetual hun- ger;" he is exposed unprotected to the blasts of winter and the heats of summer. a great terror sits upon his soul; for eve- ry inanifestation of nature-the storm, the wind, the thunder, the lightning, the cold, the heat-all are threatening and dan- gerous demons. the seasons bring him neither seed-time nor harvest; pinched with hunger, appeasing in part the everlast- ing craving of his stomach with seeds, berries, and creeping things, he sees the animals of the forest dash by him, and he has no means to arrest their flight. he is powerless and mis- erable in the midst of plenty. every step toward civilization is a step of conquest over nature. the invention of the bow and arrow was, in its time, a far greater stride forward for the human race than the steam-engine or the telegraph. the sav- age could now reach his game; his insatiable hunger could be atlantis: the antediluvian world. to cook, tlie savage, bus pottery satisfied; the very eagle, “ towering in its pride of place,” was not beyond the reach of this new and wonderful weapon. the discovery of fire and the art of cooking was another immense step forward. the savage, having nothing but wooden vessels in which to cook, covered the wood with clay; the clay hard- ened in the fire. the savage gradually learned that he could dispense with the wood, and thus pottery was invented. then some one (if we are to believe the chippeway legends, on the shores of lake superior) found fragments of the pure copper of that region, beat them into shape, and the art of metallurgy was begun; iron was first worked in the same way by shaping meteoric iron into spear-heads. but it must not be supposed that these inventions followed one another in rapid succession. thousands, and perhaps tens of thousands, of years intervened between each step; many savage races have not to this day achieved some of these steps. prof. richard owen says, “unprepossessed and sober experi- ence teaches that arts, language, literature are of slow growth, the results of gradual development." i shall undertake to show hereafter that nearly all the arts essential to civilization which we possess date back to the time of atlantis — certainly to that ancient egyptian civilization which was coeval with, and an outgrowth from, atlantis. in six thousand years the world made no advance on the civ- ilization which it received from atlantis. i phænicia, egypt, chaldea, india, greece, and rome passed the torch of civilization from one to the other; but in all that lapse of time they added nothing to the arts which existed at the earliest period of egyptian history. in architecture, sculpture, painting, engraving, mining, metallurgy, navigation, c.c. pottery, glass-ware, the construction of canals, roads, and aque- ducts, the arts of phænicia and egypt extended, without ma- terial change or improvement, to a period but two or three hundred years ago. the present age has entered upon a new era; it has added a series of wonderful inventions to the at- civilizatio.v an inheritance. lantean list; it has subjugated steam and electricity to the nses of man. and its work has but commenced : it will continue until it lifts man to a plane as much higher than the present as the present is above the barbaric condition; and in the future it will be said that between the birth of civilization in atlantis and the new civilization there stretches a period of many thousands of years, during which mankind did not in vent, but simply perpetuated. herodotus tells us ( euterpe," cxlii.) that, according to the .. information he received from the egyptian priests, their writ- xay ten history dated back , years before his era, or nearly , years prior to this time. they introduced him into a spacious temple, and showed him the statues of high- priests who had in turn succeeded each other; and yet the age of columbus possessed no arts, except that of printing (which was ancient in china), which was not known to the egyptians; and the civilization of egypt at its first appearance was of a higher order than at any subsequent period of its history, this testifying that it drew its greatness from a fountain higher than itself. it was in its early days that egypt worshipped one only god; in the later ages this simple and sublime belief: was buried under the corruptions of polytheism. the greatest pyramids were built by the fourth dynasty, and so universal was education at that time among the people that the stones with which they were built retain to this day the writing of the workmen. the first king was menes. “at the epoch of menes,” says winebell, “ the egyptians were already a civilized and numerous people. manetho tells us that athotis, the son of this first king, menes, built the palace at memphis; that he was a physician, and left ana- tomical books. . all these statements imply that even at this early period the egyptians were in a high state of civiliza- tion." (winchell's “preadamites,” p. .) “in the time of menes the egyptians had long been architects, sculptors, painters, mythologists, and theologians.” professor richard owen says: “egypt is recorded to have been a civilized and atlantis: tiie avtediluvian world. governed community before the time of menes. the pas- toral community of a group of nomad families, as portrayed in the pentateuch, may be admitted as an early step in civ- ilization. but how far in advance of this stage is a nation administered by a kingly government, consisting of grades of society, with divisions of labor, of which one kind, assigned to the priesthood, was to record or chronicle the names and dynas- ties of the kings, the duration and chief events of their reigns !" ernest renan points out that “egypt at the beginning appears mature, old, and entirely without mythical and heroic ages, as if the country had never known youth. its civilization has no infancy, and its art no archaic period. the civilization of the old monarchy did not begin with infancy. it was already mature." we shall attempt to show that it matured in atlantis, and that the egyptian people were unable to maintain it at the high standard at which they had received it, as depicted in the pages of plato. what king of assyria, or greece, or rome, or even of these modern nations, has ever devoted himself to the study of medicine and the writing of medical books for the benefit of mankind? their mission has been to kill, not to heal the people; yet here, at the very dawn of mediterranean history, we find the son of the first king of egypt recorded “ as a physician, and as having left anatomical books." i hold it to be incontestable that, in some region of the earth, primitive mankind must have existed during vast spaces of time, and under most favorable circumstances, to create, in- vent, and discover those arts and things which constitute civil- ization. when we have it before our eyes that for six thou- sand years mankind in europe, asia, and africa, even when led by great nations, and illuminated by marvellous minds, did not advance one inch beyond the arts of egypt, we may conceive what lapses, what æons, of time it must have required to bring savage man to that condition of refinement and civilization possessed by egypt when it first comes within the purview of history. that illustrious frenchman, h. a. taine (“ history of eng- civilization an inheritance. lish literature," p. ), sees the unity of the indo-european races manifest in their languages, literature, and philosophies, and argues that these pre-eminent traits are "the great marks of an original model," and that when we meet with them "fifteen, twenty, thirty centuries before our cra, in an aryan, an egyp- tian, a chinese, they represent the work of a great many ages, perhaps of several myriads of centuries. . . . such is the first and richest source of these master faculties from which histor- ical events take their rise; and one sees that if it be powerful it is because this is no simple spring, but a kind of lake, a deep reservoir, wherein other springs have, for a multitude of cen- turies, discharged their several streams.” in other words, the capacity of the egyptian, aryan, chaldean, chinese, saxon, and celt to maintain civilization is simply the result of civilized training during “myriads of centuries” in some original home of the race. i cannot believe that the great inventions were duplicated spontaneously, as some would have us believe, in different countries; there is no truth in the theory that men pressed by necessity will always hit upon the same invention to relieve their wants. if this were so, all savages would have invented the boomerang; all savages would possess pottery, bows and arrows, slings, tents, and canoes; in short, all races would have risen to civilization, for certainly the comforts of life are as agreeable to one people as another. civilization is not communicable to all; many sarage tribes are incapable of it. there are two great divisions of mankind, the civilized and the savage; and, as we shall show, every civ- alized race in the world has had something of civilization from the earliest ages; and as “all roads lead to rome," so all the converging lines of civilization lead to atlantis. the abyss between the civilized man and the savage is simply incalcula- ble; it represents not alone a difference in arts and methods of life, but in the mental constitution, the instincts, and the predispositions of the soul. the child of the civilized races atlantis: the antediluvian world. in his sports manufactures water-wheels, wagons, and houses of cobs; the savage boy amuses himself with bows and arrows: the one belongs to a building and creating race; the other to a wild, hunting stock. this abyss between savagery and civ- ilization has never been passed by any nation through its own original force, and without external influences, during the his- toric period; those who were savages at the dawn of history are savages still; barbarian slaves may have been taught some- thing of the arts of their masters, and conquered races have shared some of the advantages possessed by their conquerors ; but we will seek in vain for any example of a savage people developing civilization of and among themselves. i may be reminded of the gauls, goths, and britons; but these were not savages, they possessed written languages, poetry, oratory, and history; they were controlled by religious ideas; they be- lieved in god and the immortality of the soul, and in a state of rewards and punishments after death. wherever the romans came in contact with gauls, or britons, or german tribes, they found them armed with weapons of iron. the scots, accord- ing to tacitus, used chariots and iron swords in the battle of the grampians—“enormes gladii sine mucrone.” the celts of gaul are stated by diodorus siculus to have used iron-head- ed spears and coats-of - mail, and the gauls who encountered the roman arms in b.c. were armed with soft iron swords, as well as at the time when cæsar conquered their country. among the gauls men would lend money to be repaid in the next world, and, we need not add, that no christian people has yet reached that sublime height of faith; they cultivated the ground, built houses and walled towns, wove cloth, and employed wheeled vehicles; they possessed nearly all the ce- reals and domestic animals we have, and they wrought in iron, bronze, and steel. the gauls bad even invented a ma- chine on wheels to cut their grain, thus anticipating our reap- ers and mowers by two thousand years. the difference be- tween the civilization of the romans under julius cæsar and civilization an inheritance. the gauls under vercingetorix was a difference in degree and not in kind. the roman civilization was simply a develop- ment and perfection of the civilization possessed by all the european populations; it was drawn from the common foun- tain of atlantis. if we find on both sides of the atlantic precisely the same arts, sciences, religious beliefs, habits, customs, and traditions, it is absurd to say that the peoples of the two continents ar- rived separately, by precisely the same steps, at precisely the same ends. when we consider the resemblance of the civ- ilizations of the mediterranean nations to one another, no man is silly enough to pretend that rome, greece, egypt, as- syria, phænicia, each spontaneously and separately invented the arts, sciences, habits, and opinions in which they agreed; but we proceed to trace out the thread of descent or connec- tion from one to ancther. why should a rule of interpreta- tion prevail, as between the two sides of the atlantic, different from that which holds good as to the two sides of the medi- terranean sea ? if, in the one case, similarity of origin has un- questionably produced similarity of arts, customs, and condi- tion, why, in the other, should not similarity of arts, customs, and condition prove similarity of origin? is there any in- stance in the world of two peoples, without knowledge of or intercourse with each other, happening upon the same inven- tion, whether that invention be an arrow-head or a steam-en- gine? if it required of mankind a lapse of at least six thou- sand years before it began anew the work of invention, and took up the thread of original thought where atlantis dropped it, what probability is there of three or four separate nations all advancing at the same speed to precisely the same arts and opinions? the proposition is untenable. if, then, we prove that, on both sides of the atlantic, civiliza- tions were found substantially identical, we have demonstrated that they must have descended one from the other, or have radiated from some common source. atlantis: tie antediluvian world. chapter ii. the identity of the civilizations of the old world and the new. architecture.—plato tells us that the atlanteans possessed architecture; that they built walls, temples, and palaces. we need not add that this art was found in egypt and all the civilized countries of europe, as well as in peru, mexico, and central america. among both the peruvians and egyp- tians the walls receded inward, and the doors were narrower at the top than at the threshold. the obelisks of egypt, covered with hieroglyphics, are paral- leled by the round columns of central anerica, and both are supposed to have originated in phallus-worship. “the usual symbol of the phallus was an erect stone, often in its rough state, sometimes sculptured.” (squier, “serpent syınbol," p. ; bancroft's “native races,” vol. iii., p. .) the worship of priapus was found in asia, egypt, along the european shore of the mediterranean, and in the forests of central america, the mounds of europe and asia were made in the same way and for the same purposes as those of america. herod- otus describes the burial of a scythian king; he says, “ after this they set to work to raise a vast mound above the grave, all of them vying with each other, and seeking to make it as tall as possible.” “it must be confessed," says foster (“pre- historic races," p. ), " that these scythic burial rites have a strong resemblance to those of the mound builders.” ho- mer describes the erection of a great symmetrical mound over achilles, also one over hector. alexander the great raised a ter hil juil toutta liin wd elizate nu fb eserta munduaniawan illilul m assal a mualatunturidgeotti dintrol luarte lorontroles putasutsatt tittadiotterian automatisktblanklauloidaan c nnubis . be o htumishi until ΤΑ ΠΕΡΙΗΤΗ ΤΡΙΗΓΗΘΕΙ tul k muuttum onur lot lfi u ww o ulu datorit dim g e amus, tuottamattomien nollow n oskati croatia witrynutitanyahut liens mosaics at mitla. mexico. civilizations of the old world and the new. great mound over his friend hephaestion, at a cost of more than a million dollars; and semiramis raised a similar mound over her busband. the pyramids of egypt, assyria, and phe- nicia had their duplicates in mexico and central america. the grare-cists made of stone of the american mounds are exactly like the stone chests, or kistvaen for the dead, found ring thritta of sv onun united seperti dilol ot en css win rss eur deo stage carving on tie buddhist tower, sÁenatii, india. in the british mounds. (foster's “prehistoric races," p. .) tumuli have been found in yorkshire enclosing wooden cof- fins, precisely as in the mounds of the mississippi valley. (ibid., p. .) the articles associated with the dead are the same in both continents: arms, trinkets, food, clothes, and funeral urns. in both the mississippi valley and among the atlantis: tiie antediluvian world. atlantis: tie antediluvian world. chaldeans vases were constructed around the bones, the neck of the vase being too small to permit the extraction of the skull. (foster's “ prehistoric races," p. .) the use of cement was known alike to the european and american nations. the use of the arch was known on both sides of the atlantic. the manufacture of bricks was known in both the old and new worlds. the style of ornamentation in architecture was much the same on both hemispheres, as shown in the preceding designs, pages , . metallurgy.---the atlanteans mined ores, and worked in metals; they used copper, tin, bronze, gold, and silver, and probably iron. the american nations possessed all these metals, the age of bronze, or of copper combined with tin, was preceded in america, and nowhere else, by a simpler age of copper; and, therefore, the working of metals probably originated in amer- ica, or in some region to which it was tributary. the mexi- cans manufactured bronze, and the incas mined iron near lake titicaca; and the civilization of this latter region, as we will show, probably dated back to atlantean times. the peruvians called gold the tears of the sun: it was sacred to the sun, as silver was to the moon. sculpture.— the atlanteans possessed this art; so did the american and mediterranean nations. dr. arthur schott (“smith. rep.," , p. ), in describ- ing the “ cara gigantesca,” or gigantic face, a monument of yzamal, in yucatan, says, “behind and on both sides, from under the mitre, a short veil falls upon the shoulders, so as to protect the back of the head and the neck. this particular appendage vividly calls to mind the same feature in the sym- bolic adornments of egyptian and hindoo priests, and even those of the hebrew hierarchy." dr. schott sees in the orbic- ular whecl-like plates of this statue the wheel symbol of kronos - atlantis: the antediluvian world. similar to mile-stones were placed along the roads in peru. (see prescott's “peru.") navigation.-sailing vessels were known to the peruvians and the central americans. columbus met, in , at an island near honduras, a party of the mayas in a large vessel, equipped with sails, and loaded with a variety of textile fabrics af divers colors. manufactures.—the american nations manufactured wool- len and cotton goods; they made pottery as beautiful as the oooooo goo ooooooo o no d onnonooma! bdsg sd na nomino nnnn com balinipanino que >>>>> >>> > > a pamainonno p wannnnnn maarung o up ancient irisu vabe of tiie bronze agl wares of egypt; they manufactured glass; they engraved gems and precious stones. the peruvians had such immense numbers of vessels and ornaments of gold that the inca paid with them a ransom for himself to pizarro of the value of fifteen million dollars. music. it has been pointed out that there is great resem- blance between the five-toned music of the highland scotch civilizations of the old world and the new. and that of the chinese and other eastern nations. (“anthro- pology," p. .) weupons.—the weapons of the new world were identically the same as those of the old world; they consisted of bows and arrows, spears, darts, short swords, battle - axes, and slings; and both peo- ples used shields or buck- lers, and casques of wood or hide covered with metal. if these weapons had been de- rived from separate sources of invention, one country or the other would have possessed implements not known to the other, like the blow - pipe, the boomerang, etc. absolute identity in so many weapons strongly ar- united states gues identity of origin. religion.—the religion of the atlanteans, as plato tells us, was pure and simple; they made no regular sacrifices but fruits and flowers; they worshipped the sun. in peru a single deity was worshipped, and the sun, bis most glorious work, was honored as his representative. quetzalco- atl, the founder of the aztecs, condemned all sacrifice but that of fruits and flowers. the first religion of egypt was pure and simple; its sacrifices were fruits and flowers; temples were erected to the sun, ra, throughout egypt. in peru the great festival of the sun was called ra-mi. the phænicians wor- shipped baal and moloch; the one represented the beneficent, and the other the injurious powers of the sun. religious beliefs.—the guanches of the canary islands, who were probably a fragment of the old atlantean population, believed in the immortality of the soul and the resurrection of ancient vase from tiix mounds of tii civilizations of the old world and the new. the egyptian priest of sais told solon that the myth of phaëthon, the son of helios, having attempted to drive the chariot of the sun, and thereby burning up the earth, referred to " a declination of the bodies moving round the earth and in the heavens” (comets), which caused a “great conflagration upon the earth,” from which those only escaped who lived near rivers and seas. the “ codex chimalpopoca”—a nahua, central american record — tells us that the third era of the world, or “third sun," is called quia tonatiuh, or sun of rain, " because in this age there fell a rain of fire, all which existed burned, and there fell a rain of gravel ;" the rocks “boiled with tumult, and there also arose the rocks of vermilion col- or.” in other words, the traditions of these people go back to a great cataclysm of fire, when the earth possibly encountered, as in the egyptian story, one of “the bodies moving round the earth and in the heavens ;" they had also memories of "the drift period,” and of the outburst of plutonic rocks. if man has existed on the carth as long as science asserts, he must have passed through many of the great catastrophes which are written upon the face of the planet; and it is very natural that in myths and legends he should preserve some recollection of events so appalling and destructive. among the early greeks pan was the ancient god; his wife was maia. the abbé brasseur de bourbourg calls attention to the fact that pan was adored in all parts of mexico and central america ; and at panuco, or panca, literally panopolis, the spaniards found, upon their entrance into mexico, superb tem- ples and images of pan. (brasseur's introduction in landa's “relacion.") the names of both pan and maya enter exten- sively into the maya vocabulary, maia being the same as maya, the principal name of the peninsula; and pan, added to maya, makes the name of the ancient capital mayapan. in the nahua language pan, or pani, signifies “equality to that which is above," and pentecatl was the progenitor of all beings. (“north americans of antiquity,” p. .) atlantis: the antediluvian world. the ancient mexicans believed that the sun-god would de- stroy the world in the last night of the fifty-second year, and that he would never come back. they offered sacrifices to him at that time to propitiate him; they extinguished all the fires in the kingdom; they broke all their household furni- ture; they hung black masks before their faces; they prayed and fasted; and on the evening of the last night they formed a great procession to a neighboring mountain. a human be- ing was sacrificed exactly at midnight; a block of wood was laid at once on the body, and fire was then produced by rapid- ly revolving another piece of wood upon it; a spark was car- ried to a funeral pile, whose rising flame proclaimed to the anxious people the promise of the god not to destroy the world for another fifty-two years. precisely the same custom ob- tained among the nations of asia minor and other parts of the continent of asia, wherever sun-worship prevailed, at the peri- odical reproduction of the sacred fire, but not with the same bloody rites as in mexico. (valentini, “maya archæology," p. .) to this day the brahman of india “churns” his sacred fire out of a board by boring into it with a stick; the romans re- newed their sacred fire in the same way; and in sweden even now a “need-fire is kindled in this manner when cholera or other pestilence is abont.” (tylor's “ anthropology,” p. .) a belief in ghosts is found on both continents. the amer- ican indians think that the spirits of the dead retain the form and features which they wore while living; that there is a hell and a heaven; that hell is below the carth, and heaven above the clouds; that the souls of the wicked sometimes wander the face of the earth, appearing occasionally to mortals. the story of tantalus is found among the chippewayans, who believed that bad souls stand up to their chins in water in sight of the spirit-land, which they can never enter. the dead passed to heaven across a stream of water by means of a narrow and slip- pery bridge, from which many were lost. the zuñis set apart civilizations of the old world and the new. a day in each year which they spent among the graves of their dead, communing with their spirits, and bringing them presents --a kind of all-souls-day. (dorman, “prim. superst.," p. .) the stygian flood, and scylla and charybdis, are found among the legends of the caribs. (ibid., p. .) even the boat of charon reappears in the traditions of the chippewayans. the oriental belief in the transinigration of souls is found in every american tribe. the souls of men passed into ani- inals or other men. (schoolcraft, vol. i., p. .) the souls of the wicked passed into toads and wild beasts. (dorman, “prim. superst.," p. .) among both the germans and the american indians lycan- thropy, or the metamorphosis of men into wolves, was believed in. in british columbia the men-wolves have often been seen seated around a fire, with their wolf-hides hung upon sticks to dry! the irish legend of hunters pursuing an animal which suddenly disappears, whereupon a human being appears in its place, is found among all the american tribes. that timid and harmless animai, the hare, was, singularly enough, an object of superstitious reverence and fear in eu- rope, asia, and america. the ancient irish killed all the hares they found on may-day among their cattle, believing them to be witches. cæsar gives an account of the horror in which this animal was held by the britons. the calmucks regarded the rabbit with fear and reverence. divine honors were paid to the bare in mexico. wabasso was changed into a white rabbit, and canonized in that form. the white bull, apis, of the egyptians, reappears in the sa- cred white buffalo of the dakotas, which was supposed to pos- sess supernatural power, and after death became a god. the white doe of european legend had its representative in the white deer of the housatonic valley, whose death brought misery to the tribe. the transmission of spirits by the laying on of hands, and the exorcism of demons, were part of the re- ligion of the american tribes. atlantis: the antediluvian world. the witches of scandinavia, who produced tempests by their incantations, are duplicated in america. a cree sorcerer sold three days of fair weather for one pound of tobacco! the in- dian sorcerers around freshwater bay kept the winds in leather bags, and disposed of them as they pleased. among the american indians it is believed that those who are insane or epileptic are“ possessed of devils." (tylor, “prim. cult.," vol. ii., pp. – .) sickness is caused by evil spirits entering into the sick person. (eastman's “sioux.") the spirits of animals are much feared, and their departure out of the body of the invalid is a cause of thanksgiving. thus an omaha, after an eructation, says, “thank you, animal.” (dor- man, “ prim. superst.," p. .) the confession of their sins was with a view to satisfy the evil spirit and induce him to leave them. (ibid., p. .) in both continents burnt-offerings were sacrificed to the gods. in both continents the priests divined the future from the condition of the internal organs of the man or animal sac- rificed. (ibid., pp. , .) in both continents the future was revealed by the flight of birds and by dreams. in peru and mexico there were colleges of augurs, as in rome, who practised divination by watching the movements and songs of birds. (ibid., p. .) animals were worshipped in central america and on the banks of the nile. (ibid., p. .) the ojibbeways believed that the barking of a fox was ominous of ill. (ibid., p. ). the peasantry of western europe have the same belief as to the howling of a dog. the belief in satyrs, and other creatures half man and half animal, survived in america. the kickapoos are darwini- ans. “they think their ancestors had tails, and when they lost them the impudent fox sent every morning to ask how their tails were, and the bear shook his fat sides at the joke.” (ibid., p. .) among the natives of brazil the father cut a stick at the wedding of his daughter; "this was done to civilizations of the old world and the new. cut off the tails of any future grandchildren.” (tylor, vol. i., p. .) jove, with the thunder-bolts in his hand, is duplicated in the mexican god of thunder, mixcoat), who is represented holding a bundle of arrows. “he rode upon a tornado, and scattered the lightnings.” (dorman,“ prim. superst.,” p. .) dionysus, or bacchus, is represented by the mexican god texcatzoncat), the god of wine. (bancroft, vol. iii., p. .) atlas reappears in chibchacum, the deity of the chibchas; he bears the world on his shoulders, and when he shifts the burden from one shoulder to another severe earthquakes are produced. (bollært, pp. , .) deucalion repeopling the world is repeated in xololt, who, after the destruction of the world, descended to mictlan, the realm of the dead, and brought thence a bone of the perished race. this, sprinkled with blood, grew into a youth, the fa- ther of the present race. the quiche hero-gods, hunaphu and xblanque, dicd; their bodies were burnt, their bones ground to powder and thrown into the waters, whereupon they changed into handsome youths, with the same features as before. (dor- man, "prim. superst.," p. .) witches and warlocks, mermaids and mermen, are part of the mythology of the american tribes, as they were of the european races. (ibid., p. .) the mermaid of the ottawas was “ woman to the waist and fair;" thence fish-like. (ibid., p. .) the snake-locks of medusa are represented in the snake- locks of at-otarho, an ancient culture-hero of the iroquois. a belief in the incarnation of gods in men, and the physical translation of heroes to heaven, is part of the mythology of the hindoos and the american races. hiawatha, we are told, rose to heaven in the presence of the multitude, and vanished from sight in the inidst of sweet music. the vocal statues and oracles of egypt and greece were duplicated in america. in peru, in the valley of rimac, there atlantis: the antediluvian world. was an idol which answered questions and became famous as an oracle. (dorman, “prim. superst.," p. .) the peruvians believed that men were sometimes metamor. phosed into stones. the oneidas claimed descent from a stone, as the greeks from the stones of deucalion. (ibid., p. .) witchcraft is an article of faith among all the american races. among the illinois indians “they made small images to represent those whose days they have a mind to shorten, and which they stab to the heart," whereupon the person rep- resented is expected to die. (charlevoix, vol. ii., p. .) the witches of europe made figures of wax of their enemies, and gradually melted them at the fire, and as they diminished the victim was supposed to sicken and die. a writer in the popular science monthly (april, , p. ) points out the fact that there is an absolute identity be- tween the folk-lore of the negroes on the plantations of the south and the myths and stories of certain tribes of indians in south america, as revealed by mr. herbert smith's “brazil, the amazons, and the coast." (new york: scribner, .) mr. harris, the author of a work on the folk-lore of the ne- groes, asks this question, “when did the negro or the north american indian come in contact with the tribes of south america ?" customs.-both peoples manufactured a fermented, intoxi- cating drink, the one deriving it from barley, the other from maize. both drank toasts. both had the institution of mar- riage, an important part of the ceremony consisting in the join- ing of hands; both recognized divorce, and the peruvians and mexicans established special courts to decide cases of this kind. both the americans and europeans erected arches, and had triumphal processions for their victorious kings, and both strewed the ground before them with leaves and flowers. both celebrated important events with bonfires and illumina- tions; both used banners; both invoked blessings. the phæ- civilizations of the old world and the new. picians, hebrews, and egyptians practised circumcision. pala- cio relates that at azori, in honduras, the natives circumcised boys before an idol called icelca. (“carta," p. .) lord kingsborough tells us the central americans used the same rite, and mckenzie (quoted by retzius) says he saw the cere- mony performed by the chippeways. both had bards and minstrels, who on great festivals sung the deeds of kings and heroes. both the egyptians and the peruvians held agricultu- ral fairs; both took a census of the people. among both the land was divided per capitu among the people; in judea a new division was made every fifty years. the peruvians renewed cvery year all the fires of the kingdom from the temple of the sun, the new fire being kindled from concave mirrors by the sun's rays. the romans under numa had precisely the same custom. the peruvians had theatrical plays. they chewed the leaves of the cucu mixed with lime, as the hindoo to-day chews the leaves of the betel mixed with lime. both the american and european nations were divided into castes; both practised planet - worship; both used scales and weights and mirrors. the peruvians, egyptians, and chaldeans divided the year into twelve months, and the months into lesser divisions of weeks. both inserted additional days, so as to give the year three hundred and sixty-five days. the mexicans added five intercalary days; and the egyptians, in the time of amu- noph i., had already the same practice. humboldt, whose high authority cannot be questioned, by an elaborate discussion (“vues des cordilleras," p. et seq., ed. ), has shown the relative likeness of the nahua calen- dar to that of asia. he cites the fact that the chinese, jap- ancse, calmucks, mongols, mantchou, and other hordes of tar- tars bave cycles of sixty years' duration, divided into five brief periods of twelve years each. the method of citing a date by means of signs and numbers is quite similar with asiatics and mexicans. he further shows satisfactorily that the majority of the names of the twenty days employed by the aztecs are atlantis: the antediluvian world. those of a zodiac used since the most remote antiquity among the peoples of eastern asia. cabera thinks he finds analogies between the mexican and egyptian calendars. adopting the view of several writers that the mexican year began on the th of february, he finds the date to correspond with the beginning of the egyptian year. the american nations believed in four great primeval ages, as the hindoo does to this day. “in the greeks of homer,” says volney, “i find the cus- toms, discourse, and manners of the iroquois, delawares, and miamis. the tragedies of sophocles and euripides paint to me almost literally the sentiments of the red men respecting necessity, fatality, the iniseries of human life, and the rigor of blind destiny.” (volney's “view of the united states.") the mexicans represent an eclipse of the moon as the moon being devoured by a dragon; and the hindoos have precisely the same figure; and both nations continued to use this expres- sion long after they had discovered the real meaning of an eclipsc. the tartars believe that if they cut with an axe near a fire, or stick a knife into a burning stick, or touch the fire with a knife, they will “cut the top off the fire.” the sioux indians will not stick an awl or a needle into a stick of wood on the fire, or chop on it with an axe or a knife. cremation was extensively practised in the new world. the dead were burnt, and their ashes collected and placed in vases and urns, as in europe. wooden statues of the dead were made. there is a very curious and apparently inexplicable custom, called the “ couvade,” which extends from china to the mis- sissippi valley; it demands “that, when a child is born, the father must take to his bed, while the mother attends to all the duties of the household.” marco polo found the custom among the chinese in the thirteenth century. civilizations of the old world and the new. the widow tells hudibras- “chineses thus are said to lie-in in their ladies' stead.” the practice remarked by marco polo continues to this day among the hill-tribes of china. “the father of a new-born child, as soon as the mother has become strong enough to leave her couch, gets into bed himself, and there receives the congratulations of bis acquaintances." (max müller's “ chips from a german workshop,” vol. ii., p. .) strabo (vol. jii., pp. , ) mentions that, among the iberians of the north of spain, the women, after the birth of a child, tend their hus- bands, putting them to bed instead of going themselves. the same custom existed among the basqnes only a few years ago. “in biscay,” says m. f. michel, “the women rise immediate- ly after childbirth and attend to the duties of the household, while the husband goes to bed, taking the baby with him, and thus receives the neighbors' compliments.” the same custom was found in france, and is said to exist to this day in some cantons of béarn. diodorus siculus tells us that among the corsicans the wife was neglected, and the husband put to bed and treated as the patient. apollonius rhodius says that among the tibereni, at the south of the black sea, “when a child was born the father lay groaning, with his head tied up, while the mother tended him with food and prepared his baths.” the same absurd custom extends throughout the tribes of north and south america. among the caribs in the west indies (and the caribs, brasseur de bourbourg says, were the same as the ancient carians of the mediterranean sea) the man takes to his bed as soon as a child is born, and kills no animals. and herein we find an explanation of a custom otherwise inexplicable. among the american indians it is believed that, if the father kills an animal during the infancy of the child, the spirit of the animal will revenge itself by in- flicting some disease upon the helpless little one. “for six months the carib father must not cat birds or fish, for what- * atlantis: the antediluvlÍn world. ever animals he cats will impress their likeness on the child, or produce disease by entering its body.” (dorman, “prim. superst.,” p. .) among the abipones the husband goes to bed, fasts a number of days, “ and you would think,” says do- brizhoffer," that it was he that had had the child.” the bra- zilian father takes to his hammock during and after the birth of the child, and for fifteen days eats io meat and hunts no game. among the esquimaux the husbands forbear hunting during the lying-in of their wives and for some time thereafter. here, then, we have a very extraordinary and unnatural uus- tom, existing to this day on both sides of the atlantic, reach- ing back to a vast antiquity, and finding its explanation only in the superstition of the american races. a practice so ab- surd could scarcely have originated scparately in the two con- tinents; its existence is a very strong proof of unity of origin of the races on the opposite sides of the atlantic; and the fact that the custom and the reason for it are both found in amer- ica, while the custom remains in europe without the reason, would imply that the american population was the older of the two. the indian practice of depositing weapons and food with the dead was universal in ancient europe, and in german vil- lages nowadays a needle and thread is placed in the coffin for the dead to mend their torn clothes with; " while all over eu- rope the dead man had a piece of money put in his hand to pay his way with.” (“anthropology,” p. .) the american indian leaves food with the dead; the rus- sian peasant puts crumbs of bread behind the saints' pictures on the little iron shelf, and believes that the souls of his fore- fathers creep in and out and eat them. at the cemetery of père-la-chaise, paris, on all-souls-day, they “still put cakes and sweetmeats on the graves; and in brittany the peasants that night do not forget to make up the fire and leave the fray- ments of the supper on the table for the souls of the dead." (ibid., p. .) civilizations of the old world and the new. the indian prays to the spirits of his forefathers; the chinese religion is largely “ancestor-worship;" and the rites paid to the dead ancestors, or lares, held the roman family together.” (" anthropology," p. .) we find the indian practice of burying the dead in a sitting posture in use among the nasamonians, a tribe of libyans. herodotns, speaking of the wandering tribes of northern af- rica, says, “they bury their dead according to the fashion of the greeks. ... they bury them sitting, and are right careful, when the sick man is at the point of giving up the ghost, to make him sit, and not let him die lying down." the dead bodies of the caciques of bogota were protected from desecration by diverting the course of a river and making the grave in its bed, and then letting the stream return to its natural course. alaric, the leader of the goths, was secretly buried in the same way. (dorman, “prim. superst.," p. .) among the american tribes no man is permitted to marry a wife of the same clan-name or totem as himself. in india a brahman is not allowed to marry a wife whose clan-name (her“cow-stall,” as they say) is the same as his own; nor may a chinaman take a wife of his own surname. (“anthropology,” p. .) “throughout india the hill-tribes are divided into septs or clans, and a man may not marry a woman belonging to his own clan. the calmucks of tartary are divided into hordes, and a man may not marry a girl of his own horde. the same custom prevails among the circassians and the sam- oyeds of siberia. the ostyaks and yakuts regard it as a crime to marry a woman of the same family, or even of the same name.” (sir john lubbock, “smith. rep.," p. , .) sutteeism—the burning of the widow upon the funeral-pile of the husband—was extensively practised in america (west's “journal,” p. ); as was also the practice of sacrificing warriors, servants, and animals at the funeral of a great chief (dorman, pp. - .) beautiful girls were sacrificed to appease the anger of the gods, as among the mediterranean atlantis: the antediluvian world. races. (bancroft, vol. iii., p. .) fathers offered up their children for a like purpose, as among the carthaginians. the poisoned arrows of america had their representatives in europe. odysseus went to ephyra for the man-slaying drug with which to smear his bronze-tipped arrows. (tylor's “ anthropology," p. .) “the bark canoe of america was not unknown in asia and africa” (ibid., p. ), while the skin canoes of our indians and the esquimaux were found on the shores of the thames and the euphrates. in peru and on the euphrates commerce was carried on upon rafts supported by inflated skins. they are still used on the tigris. the indian boils his meat by dropping red-hot stones into a water- vessel made of hide; and linnæus found the both- land people brewing beer in this way—“and to this day the rude carinthian boor drinks such stone - beer, as it is called.” (ibid., p. .) in the buffalo dance of the mandan indians the dancers cov- ered their heads with a mask made of the head and horns of the buffalo. to-day in the temples of india, or among the lamas of thibet, the priests dance the demons ont, or the new year in, arrayed in animal masks (ibid., p. ); and the “mummers” at yule-tide, in england, are a survival of the same custom. (ibid., p. .) the north american dog and bear dances, wherein the dancers acted the part of those ani- mals, had their prototype in the greek dances at the festivals of dionysia. (ibid., p. .) tattooing was practised in both continents. among the indians it was fetichistic in its origin; "every indian had the image of an animal tattooed on his breast or arm, to charm away evil spirits.” (dorman, “prim. superst.,” p. .) the sailors of europe and america preserve to this day á custom which was once universal among the ancient races. banners, flags, and armorial bearings are supposed to be survivals of the old to- temic tattooing. the arab woman still tattoos her face, arms, civilizations of the old world and the new. and ankles. the war-paint of the american savage reappeared in the woad with which the ancient briton stained his body; and tylor suggests that the painted stripes on the circus clown are a survival of a custom once universal. (tylor's “ anthro- polgy," p. .) in america, as in the old world, the temples of worship were built over the dead. (dorman, “prim. superst.," p. .) says prudentius, the roman bard, “there were as many tem- ples of gods as sepulchres.” the etruscan belief that evil spirits strove for the posses- sion of the dead was found among the mosquito indians. (bancroft, “native races,” vol. i., p. .) the belief in fairies, which forms so large a part of the folk- jore of western europe, is found among the american races. the ojibbeways see thousands of fairies dancing in a sunbeam; during a rain myriads of them hide in the flowers. when dis- turbed they disappear underground. they have their dances, like the irish fairies; and, like them, they kill the domes tic animals of those who offend them. the dakotas also be- lieve in fairies. the otoes located the “little people" in a mound at the mouth of whitestone river; they were eighteen inches high, with very large heads; they were armed with bows and arrows, and killed those who approached their resi- dence. (sce dorman's “origin of primitive superstitions," p. .) “the shoshone legends people the mountains of mon- tana with little imps, called nirumbees, two feet long, naked, and with a tail.” they stole the children of the indians, and left in their stead the young of their own baneful race, who resembled the stolen children so much that the mothers were deceived and suckled them, whereupon they died. this great- ly resembles the european belief in “changelings.” (ibid., p. .) in both continents we find tree - worship. in mexico and central america cypresses and palms were planted near the temples, generally in groups of threes; they were tended with atlantis: the antediĻuvian world. great care, and received offerings of incense and gifts. the same custom prevailed among the romans—the cypress was dedicated to pluto, and the palm to victory. not only infant baptism by water was found both in the old babylonian religion and among the mexicans, but an of- fering of cakes, which is recorded by the prophet jeremiah as part of the worship of the babylonian goddess-mother, " the queen of heaven," was also found in the ritual of the aztecs. (“builders of babel,” p. .) in babylonia, china, and mexico the caste at the bottom of the social scale lived upon floating islands of reeds or rafts, covered with earth, on the lakes and rivers. in peru and babylonia marriages were made but once a year, at a public festival. among the romans, the chinese, the abyssinians, and the indians of canada the singular custom prevails of lifting the bride over the door-step of her husband's home. (sir john lubbock, “smith. rep.," , p. .) “the bride-cake which so invariably accompanies a wedding among ourselves, and which must always be cut by the bride, may be traced back to the old roinan form of marriage by .conferreatio,' or eating together. so, also, among the iro- quois the bride and bridegroom used to partake together of a cake of sagamite, which the bride always offered to her hus- band.” (ibid.) among many american tribes, notably in brazil, the hus- band captured the wife by main force, as the men of benja- min carried off the daughters of shiloh at the feast, and as the romans captured the sabine women. “within a few gen- erations the same old habit was kept up in wales, where the bridegroom and his friends, mounted and armed as for war, carried off the bride; and in ireland they used even to hurl spears at the bride's people, though at such a distance that no one was hurt, except now and then by accident--as happened when one lord iloath lost an eye, which mischance put an end civilizations of the old world and the new. to this curious relic of antiquity.” (tylor's “anthropology," p. .) marriage in mexico was performed by the priest. he ex- horted them to maintain peace and harmony, and tied the end of the man's mantle to the dress of the woman; he per- fumed them, and placed on each a shawl on which was paint- ed a skeleton, “as a symbol that only death could now sep- arate them from one another.” (dorman, “prim. superst.,” p. .) the priesthood was thoroughly organized in mexico and peru. they were prophets as well as priests. “they brought the newly-born infant into the religious society; they directed their training and cducation; they determined the entrance of the young men into the service of the state; they con- secrated marriage by their blessing; they comforted the sick and assisted the dying.” (ibid., p. .) there were five thousand priests in the temples of mexico. they confessed and absolved the sinners, arranged the festivals, and man- aged the choirs in the churches. they lived in conventual discipline, but were allowed to marry; they practised flagella- tion and fasting, and prayed at regular hours. there were great preachers and exhorters among them. there were also convents into which females were admitted. the novice had her hair cut off and took vows of celibacy; they lived holy and pious lives. (ibid., pp. , .) the king was the high- priest of the religious orders. a new king ascended the tem- ple naked, except his girdle; he was sprinkled four times with water which had been blessed; he was then clothed in a man- tle, and on his knees took an oath to maintain the ancient religion. the priests then instructed him in his royal du- ties. (ibid., p. .) besides the regular priesthood there were monks who were confined in cloisters. (ibid., p. .) cortes says the mexican priests were very strict in the prac- tice of honesty and chastity, and any deviation was punished with death. they wore long white robes and burned incense. atlantis: the antediluvian world. (dorinan, “prim. superst.," p. .) the first fruits of the earth were devoted to the support of the priesthood. (ibid., p. .) the priests of the isthmus were sworn to perpetual chastity. the american doctors practised phlebotomy. they bled the sick man because they believed the evil spirit which afflicted him would come away with the blood. in europe phlebot- omy continued to a late period, but the original superstition out of which it arose, in this case as in many others, was for- gotten. there is opportunity here for the pbilosopher to meditate upon the perversity of human nature and the persistence of hereditary error. the superstition of one age becomes the science of another; men were first bled to withdraw the evil spirit, then to cure the disease; and a practice whose origin is lost in the night of ages is continued into the midst of civiliza- tion, and only overthrown after it has sent millions of human beings to untimely graves. dr. sangrado could have found the explanation of his profession only among the red men of america. folk-lore.—says max müller: “not only do we find the same words and the same terminations in sanscrit and gothic; not only do we find the same name for zeus in sanscrit, latin, and german; not only is the abstract name for god the same in india, greece, and italy; but these very stories, these • mährchen’ which nurses still tell, with almost the same words, in the thuringian forest and in the norwegian villages, and to which crowds of children listen under the pippal-trees of india—these stories, too, belonged to the common heir- loom of the indo-european race, and their origin carries us back to ibe same distant past, when no greek bad set foot in europe, no hindoo bad bathed in the sacred waters of the ganges." and we find that an identity of origin can be established between the folk-lore or fairy tales of america and those of civilizations of the old world and the new. the old world, precisely such as exists between the legends of norway and india. mr. tylor tells us the story of the two brothers in central america who, starting on their dangerous journey to the land of xibalba, where their father bad perished, plant cach a cane in the middle of their grandmother's house, that she may know by its flourishing or withering whether they are alive or dead. exactly the same conception occurs in grimm's “ mährchen," when the two gold-children wish to see the world and to leave their father; and when their father is sad, and asks them how he shall hear news of them, they tell him, “we leave you the two golden lilies; from these you can see how we fare. if they are fresh, we are well; if they fade, we are ill; if they fall, we are dead.” grimm traces the same idea in hindoo stories. "now this," says max müller, “is strange enough, and its oc- currence in india, germany, and central america is stranger still.” compare the following stories, which we print in parallel columns, one from the ojibbeway indians, the other from ire- land: the ojibbeway story. the irisii story.. the birds met together one day to try the birds all met together one day, and which could fly the highest. some flew settled among themselves that whichever up very swift, but soon got tired, and were of them could fly highest was to be the passed by others of stronger wing. but king of all. well, just as they were on the eagle went up beyond them all, and the hinges of being off, what does the little was ready to claim the victory, when the rogue of a wren do but hop up and perch gray linnet, a very small bird, flew from himself unbeknown on the engle's tail. so the eagle's back, where it had perched un- they flew and flew ever so high, till the ea- perceived, and, being fresh and unexhaust- gle was miles above all the rest, and could ed, succeeded in going the highest. when not fly another stroke, he was so tired. the birds came down and met in council to “then," says he, "i'm king of the birds." award the prize, it was given to the eagle, "you lie !" says the wren, darting up a because that bird had not only gone up perch and a half above the big fellow. nearer to the sun than any of the larger well, the eagle was so mad to think how birds, but it had carried the linnet on its he was done, that when the wren was com- back. ing down he gave him a stroke of his wing, for this reason the eagle's feathers be- and from that day to this the wren was came the most honorable marks of distinc- never able to fly farther than a hawthorn- tion a warrior could bear. bush. atlantis: the antediluvian world. compare the following stories : the asiatic story. the american story. in hindoo mythology urvasi came down wampee, a great hunter, once came to a from heaven and became the wife of the strange prairie, where he heard faint sounds son of buddha only on condition that two of music, and looking up saw a speck in the pet rams should never be taken from her sky, which proved itself to be a basket con- bedside, and that she should never behold taining twelve most beautiful maidens, who, her lord undressed. the immortals, how- on reaching the earth, forth with set them- erer, wishing urvasi back in heaven, con selves to dance. he tried to catch the trired to steal the rams; and, as the king youngest, but in vain ; ultimately he suc- pursued the robbers with his sword in the ceeded by assuming the disguise of a mouse. dark, the lightning revealed his person, the he was very attentive to his new wife, who compact was broken, and urvasi disappear- was really a daughter of one of the stars, ed. this same story is found in different but she wished to return home, so she made forms among many people of aryan and a wicker basket secretly, and, by help of a turanian descent, the central idea being charm she remembered, ascended to her that of a man marrying some one of an father. aerial or aquatic origin, and living happily with her till he breaks the condition on wliich her residence with him depends; stories exactly parallel to that of raymond of toulouse, who chances in the hunt upon the beautiful melusina at a fountain, and lives with her happily until he discover: her fish-nature and she vanishes. if the legend of cadmus recovering europa, after she has been carried away by the white bull, the spotless cloud, mcanis that “the sun must journey westward until he sees again the beautiful tints which greeted his eyes in the morning,” it is curious to find a story current in north america to the effect that a man once had a beautiful daughter, whom he forbade to leave the lodge lest she should be carried off by the king of the buffaloes; and that as she sat, notwithstanding, outside the house combing her hair, “ all of a sudden the king of the buf- faloes came dashing on, with his herd of followers, and, taking hier between his horns, away he cantered over plains, plunged into a river which bounded his land, and carried her safely to liis lodge on the other side," whence she was finally recovered by her father. games. the same games and sports extended from india to the shores of lake superior. the game of the hindoos, civilizations of the old world and the new. called pachisi, is played upon a cross-shaped board or cloth; it is a combination of checkers and draughts, with the throw- ing of dice, the dice determining the number of moves; when the spaniards entered mexico they found the aztecs playing a game called patolli, identical with the hindoo pachisi, on a similar cross-shaped board. the game of ball, which the in- dians of america were in the habit of playing at the time of the discovery of the country, from california to the atlantic, was identical with the european chueca, crosse, or hockey. one may well pause, after reading this catalogue, and ask himself, wherein do these peoples differ? it is absurd to pre- tend that all these similarities could have been the result of accidental coincidences. these two peoples, separated by the great ocean, were bap- tized alike in infancy with blessed water; they prayed alike to the gods; they worshipped together the sun, moon, and stars ; they confessed their sins alike; they were instructed alike by an established priesthood; they were married in the same way and by the joining of hands; they armed themselves with the same weapons; when children came, the man, on both conti- nents, went to bed and left his wife to do the honors of the household; they tattooed and painted themselves in the same fashion; they became intoxicated on kindred drinks; their dresses were alike; they cooked in the same manner; they used the same metals; they employed the same exorcisms and bleedings for disease; they believed alike in ghosts, demons, and fairies; they listened to the same stories; they played the same games; they used the same musical instruments; they danced the same dances, and when they died they were em- balmed in the same way and buried sitting; while over them were erected, on both continents, the same mounds, pyramids, obelisks, and temples.' and yet we are asked to believe that there was no relationship between them, and that they had never had any ante-columbian intercourse with each other. atlantis: the antediluvian world. if our knowledge of atlantis was more thorough, it would no doubt appear that, in every instance wherein the people of europe accord with the people of america, they were both in accord with the people of atlantis; and that atlantis was the common centre froin which both peoples derived their arts, sci- ences, customs, and opinions. it will be seen that in every case where plato gives us any information in this respect as to at- jantis, we find this agreement to exist. it existed in archi- tecture, sculpture, navigation, engraving, writing, an established priesthood, the mode of worship, agriculture, the construction of roads and canals; and it is reasonable to suppose that the same correspondence extended down to all the minor details treated of in this chapter. intercourse with europe or atlantis. chapter iii. american evidences of intercourse with europe or atlantis. . on the monuments of central america there are repre- sentations of bearded men. how could the beardless ameri- can indians have imagined a bearded race ? . all the traditions of the civilized races of central america point to an eastern origin. the leader and civilizer of the nahua family was quetzal- coatl. this is the legend respecting him: "from the distant east, from the fabulous iiue hue tlapalan, this mysterious person came to tula, and became the patron god and high-priest of the ancestors of the toltecs. he is described as having been a white man, with strong formation of body, broad forehead, large eyes, and flowing beard. ile wore a mitre on bis head, and was dressed in a long white robe reaching to his feet, and covered with red crosses. in his hand he held a sickle. his habits were ascetic, he never married, was most chaste and pure in life, and is said to have endured penance in a neighboring mountain, not for its effects upon himself, but as a warning to others. he condemned sac- rifices, except of fruits and flowers, and was known as the god of peace; for, when addressed on the subject of war, he is re- ported to have stopped his cars with his fingers.” (“north amer. of antiq.," p. .) “he was skilled in many arts: he invented” (that is, import- ed) “gem-cutting and metal-casting; he originated letters, and invented the mexican calendar. iie finally returned to the land in the east from which he came: leaving the american coast at vera cruz, he embarked in a canoe made of serpent- skins, and 'sailed away into the eust.'” (ibid., p. .) atlantis: the antediluvian world. dr. le plongeon says of the columns at chichen : “the base is formed by the bead of cukulcan, the shaft of the body of the serpent, with its feathers beautifully carved to the very chapiter. on the chapi- ters of the columns that support the portico, at the entrance of the castle in chichen itza, may be seen the carved figures of long-bearded men, with upraised hands, in the act of worshipping sacred trees. they forcibly recall to mind the same worship in assyria.” in the accompanying cut of an ancient vase from tula, we see a bearded figure grasping a beardless man. in the cut given below we see a face that might be duplicated among the old men of any part of ancient mexican vase. europe. tut the cakchiquel ms. sars: “four persons came from tulan, from the direction of the rising sun—that is one tulan. there is another tulan in xibalbay, and another where the sun sets, and it is there that we came; and in the direction of the setting sun there is another, where is the god; so that there are four tulans; and it is where the sun sets that we came to tulan, from the other side of the sea, where this tulan is; and it is there that we were conceived and begotten by our mothers and fathers.” bearded head, pron teotihuacan. that is to say, the birthplace of the race was in the east, across the sea, at a place called tulan; and when they einigrated they called their first stopping-place on the american continent tulan also; and besides this there were two other tulans. intercourse with europe or atlantis. “of the nahua predecessors of the toltecs in mexico the olmecs and xicalancans were the most important. they were the forerunners of the great races that followed. according to ixtlilxochit), these people—which are conceded to be one- occupied the world in the third age; they came from the east in ships or barks to the land of potonchan, which they com- menced to populate.” . the abbé brasseur de bourbourg, in one of the notes of the introduction of the “ popol vuh," presents a very remark- able analogy between the kingdom of xibalba, described in that work, and atlantis. he says: “both countries are magnificent, exceedingly fertile, and abound in the precious metals. the empire of atlantis was divided into ten kingdoms, governed by five couples of twin sons of poseidon, the eldest being supreme over the others; and the ten constituted a tribunal that managed the affairs of the empire. their descendants governed after them. the ten kings of xibalba, who reigned (in couples) under hun-came and vukub-came (and who together constituted a grand coun- cil of the kingdom), certainly furnish curious points of compar- ison. and there is wanting neither a catastrophe--for xibal- ba had a terrific inundation-nor the name of atlas, of which the etymology is found only in the nahuatl tongue: it comes from all, water; and we know that a city of atlan (near the water) still existed on the atlantic side of the isthmus of panama at the time of the conquest.” “in yucatan the traditions all point to an eastern and for- eign origin for the race. the early writers report that the na- tives believe their ancestors to have crossed the sea by a passage which was opened for them.” (landa's “relacion," p. .) “it was also believed that part of the population came into the country from the west. lizana says that the smaller por- tion, the little descent,' came from the east, while the greater portion, 'the great descent,' came from the west. cogolluda considers the eastern colony to have been the larger. ... the culture-hero zamna, the author of all civilization in yucatan, is described as the teacher of letters, and the leader of the people from their ancient home. ... ile was the leader of a colony from the east.” (“north amer. of autiq.," p. .) atlantis: the antediluvian world. the ancient mexican legends say that, after the flood, cox- cox and his wife, after wandering one hundred and four years, landed at antlan, and passed thence to capultepec, and thence to culhuacan, and lastly to mexico. coming from atlantis, they named their first landing-place antlan. all the races that settled mexico, we are told, traced their origin back to an aztlun (atlan-tis). duran describes aztlan as “a most attractive land.” (“north amer. of antiq.," p. .) samé, the great name of brazilian legend, came across the ocean from the rising sun. he had power over the elements and tempests; the trees of the forests would recede to make room for him (cutting down the trees); the animals used to crouch before him (domesticated animals); lakes and rivers became solid for him (boats and bridges); and he taught the use of agriculture and magic. like him, bochica, the great law-giver of the muyscas, and son of the sun-he who invent- ed for them the calendar and regulated their festivals—had a white bcard, a detail in which all the american culture-heroes agree. the “samé" of brazil was probably the “ zamna" of yucatan. . we find in america numerous representations of the ele- phant. we are forced to one of two conclusions: either the b run et de elephant mound, wisconsin. monuments date back to the time of the mammoth in north america, or these people held intercourse at some time in the intercourse with europe or atlantis. past with races who possessed the elephant, and from whom they obtained pictures of that singular animal. plato tells us that the atlanteans possessed great numbers of elephants. there are in wisconsin a number of mounds of earth representing different animals — men, birds, and quadrupeds. elephant pite, louisa county, iowa. among the latter is a mound representing an elephant, “so perfect in its proportions, and complete in its representation of an elephant, that its builders must have been well acquaint- ed with all the physical characteristics of the animal which they delineated.” we copy the representation of this mound on page . on a farm in louisa county, iowa, a pipe was ploughed up which also represents an elephant. we are indebted to the valuable work of john t. short (“the north amer- icans of antiquity,” p. ) for a picture of this singular object. it was found in a sec- tion where the ancient mounds were very abundant and rich in relics. the pipe is of elepiiant-trunk head- sandstone, of the ordinary mound-builder's dress, palenque. type, and has every appearance of age and usage. there can be no doubt of its genuineness. the finder had no conception of its archæological value. in the ruined city of palenque we find, in one of the pal- atlantis: the antediluvian world. aces, a stucco bass-relief of a priest. his elaborate head-dress or helmet represents very faithfully the head of an elephant. the cut on page is from a drawing made by waldeck. the decoration known as “elephant-trunks" is found in many parts of the ancient ruins of central america, project- ing from above the door-ways of the buildings. in tylor's “researches into the early history of mankind," p. , i find a remarkable representation of an elephant, taken from an ancient mexican manuscript. it is as follows: mexican representation of elephant. corroborating circumstances. ] chapter iv. corroborating circumstances. . lenormant insists that the human race issued from upa. merou, and adds that some greek traditions point to “this lo- cality—particularly the expression péponeg å vopw tol, which can only mean the men sprung from meron.'” (“manual,” p. .) theopompus tells us that the people who inhabited atlantis were the meropes, the people of merou. . whence comes the word atlantic? the dictionaries tell us that the ocean is named after the mountains of atlas ; but whence did the atlas mountains get their name? “the words atlas and atlantic have no satisfactory etymol- ogy in any language known to europe. they are not greek, and cannot be referred to any known language of the old world. but in the nahuatl language we find immediately the radical a, atl, which signifies water, war, and the top of the head. (molina, “vocab. en lengua mexicana y castellana.") from this comes a series of words, such as atlan-on the bor- der of or amid the water—from which we have the adjective atlantic. we have also atlaça, to combat, or be in agony; it means likewise to hurl or dart from the water, and in the pre- terit makes atlaz. a city named atlan existed when the con- tinent was discovered by columbus, at the entrance of the gulf of uraba, in darien. with a good harbor, it is now reduced to an unimportant pueblo named acla." (baldwin's “ an- cient america,” p. .) plato tells us that atlantis and the atlantic ocean were named after atlas, the eldest son of poseidon, the founder of the kingdom. . upon that part of the african continent nearest to the site atlantis: the avtediluvian world. of atlantis we find a chain of mountains, known from the most ancient times as the atlas mountains. whence this name at- las, if it be not from the name of the great king of atlantis ? and if this be not its origin, how coines it that we find it in the most north-western corner of africa ? and how does it happen that in the time of herodotus there dwelt near this mountain-chain a people called the atlantes, probably a rem- nant of a colony from solon's island? how comes it that the people of the barbary states were known to the greeks, ro- mans, and carthaginians as the “atlantes," this name being especially applied to the inhabitants of fezzan and bilma? where did they get the name from? there is no etymology for it east of the atlantic ocean. (lenormant's “anc. hist. of the east," p. .) look at it! au “atlas” mountain on the shore of africa; an “atlan” town on the shore of america; the “atlantes" living along the north and west coast of africa; an aztec people from aztlan, in central america; an ocean rolling be- tween the two worlds called the “atlantic;" a mythological deity called “atlas ” holding the world on his shoulders; and an immemorial tradition of an island of atlantis. can all these things be the result of accident? . plato says that there was a “passage west from atlantis to the rest of the islands, as well as from these islands to the whole opposite continent that surrounds that real sea." he calls it a real sea, as contradistinguished from the mediterra- nean, which, as he says, is not a real sea (or ocean) but a land- locked body of water, like a harbor. now, plato might have created atlantis out of his imag- ination; but how could he have invented the islands beyond (the west india islands), and the whole continent (america) enclosing that real sea ? if we look at the map, we see that the continent of america docs “surround" the ocean in a great half-circle. could plato have guessed all this? if there had been no atlantis, and no series of voyages from it that re- corroborating circumstances. vealed the half-circle of the continent from newfoundland to cape st. roche, how could plato have guessed it? and how could he have known that the mediterranean was only a har- bor compared with the magnitude of the great ocean surround- ing atlantis? long sea-voyages were necessary to establish that fact, and the greeks, who kept close to the shores in their short journeys, did not make such voyages. . how can we, without atlantis, explain the presence of the basques in europe, who have no lingual affinities with any other race on the continent of europe, but whose language is similar to the languages of america ? plato tells us that the dominion of gadeirus, one of the kings of atlantis, extended “toward the pillars of heracles (hercules) as far as the country which is still called the region of gades in that part of the world.” gades is the cadiz of to- day, and the dominion of gadeirus embraced the land of the iberians or basques, their chief city taking its name from a king of atlantis, and they themselves being atlanteaus. dr. farrar, referring to the basque language, says: “what is certain about it is, that its structure is polysyn- thetic, like the languages of america. like them, it forms its compounds by the elimination of certain radicals in the simple words; so that ilhun, the twilight, is contracted from hill, dead, and egun, day; and belhaur, the knee, from belhar, front, and oin, leg. ... the fact is indisputable, and is eminently noteworthy, that while the affinities of the basque roots have never been conclusively elucidated, there has never been any doubt that this isolated language, preserving its identity in a western corner of europe, between two mighty kingdoms, re- sembles, in its grammatical structure, the aboriginal languages of the vast opposite continent (america), and those alone.” (“ families of speech,” p. .) if there was an atlantis, forming, with its connecting ridges, a continuous bridge of land from america to africa, we can understand how the basques could have passed from one conti- nent to another; but if the wide atlantic rolled at all times un- atlantis: the antediluvian world. broken between the two continents, it is difficult to conceive of such an emigration by an uncivilized people. . without atlantis, how can we explain the fact that the early egyptians were depicted by themselves as red men on their own monuments? and, on the other hand, how can we account for the representations of negroes on the monuments of central america ? désirè charnay, now engaged in exploring those monu- ments, has published in the north american review for d-- cember, , photographs of a number of idols exhumed at san juan de teotihuacan, from which i select the following strikingly negroid faces: negro idols found in mexioo. corroborating circumstances. dr. le plongeon says: “besides the sculptures of long-bearded men seen by the explorer at chichen itza, there were tall figures of people with small heads, thick lips, and curly short hair or wool, regarded as negroes. we always see them as standard or parasol bear- ers, but never engaged in actual warfare.'” (“maya archæ- ology,” p. .) the following cut is from the court of the palace of pa- lenque, figured by stephens. the face is strongly ethiopian. the figure below represents a gi- gantic granite head, found near the volcano of tuxtla, in the mexican state of vera cruz, at caxapa. the features are unmistakably negroid. as the negroes have never been a sea-going race, the presence of these faces among the antiquities of central america proves one of two things, either the existence of a land connection between ameri- ca and africa via atlantis, as re- vealed by the deep-sea soundings of the challenger, or commercial negroid figure, palenque. relations between america and af- rica through the ships of the atlanteans or some other civilized race, whereby the negroes were brought to america as slaves at a very remote epoch. and we find some corroboration of the latter theory in that singular book of the quiches, the “popol vuh," in which, af- ter describing the creation of the first men" in the region of the rising sun”. (bancroft's “native races," vol. v., p. ), negbo head, vera oruz. ruu- atlantis: the antediluvian world. and enumerating their first generations, we are told, “ all seem to have spoken one language, and to have lived in great peace, black men and white together. here they awaited the rising of the sun, and prayed to the heart of. heaven." (bancroft's • “native races,” p. .) how did the red men of central america know anything about “black men and white men ?” the conclusion seems inevitable that these legends of a primi- tive, peaceful, and happy land, an aztlan in the east, inhabited by black and white men, to which all the civilized nations of america traced their origin, could only refer to atlantis—that bridge of land where the white, dark, and red races met. the “popol vuh" proceeds to tell how this first home of the race became over-populous, and how the people under balam-quitze 'migrated; how their language became “confounded,” in other words, broken up into dialects, in consequence of separation; and how some of the people “ went to the east, and many came hither to guatemala.” (ibid., p. .) m. a. de quatrefages (“human specics," p. ) says, “black populations have been found in america in very small num- bers only, as isolated tribes in the midst of very different popu- lations. such are the charruas of brazil, the black carribees of saint vincent, in the gulf of mexico; the jamassi of flori- da, and the dark-complexioned californians. . . . such, again, is the tribe that balboa saw some representatives of in his pas- sage of the isthmus of darien in ;... they were true ne- groes." . ilow comes it that all the civilizations of the old world radiate from the shores of the mediterranean? the mediter- ranean is a cul de sac, with atlantis opposite its mouth. ev. ery civilization on its shores possesses traditions that point to atlantis. we hear of no civilization coming to the mediterra- nean from asia, africa, or europe—from north, south, or west; but north, south, east, and west we find civilization radiating from the mediterranean to other lands. we see the aryans descending upon hindostan from the direction of the medi- corroborating circumstances. terranean; and we find the chinese borrowing inventions from hindostan, and claiming descent from a region not far from the mediterranean. the mediterranean has been the centre of the modern world, because it lay in the path of the extension of an older civiliza- · tion, whose ships colonized its shores, as they did also the shores of america. plato says, “the nations are gathered around the shores of the mediterranean like frogs around a marsh." dr. mccausland says: “the obvious conclusion from these facts is, that at some time previous to these migrations a people speaking a language of a superior and complicated structure broke up their society, and, under some strong impulse, poured out in different direc- tions, and gradually established themselves in all the lands now inhabited by the caucasian race. their territories extend from the atlantic to the ganges, and from iceland to ceylon, and are bordered on the north and cast by the asiatic mongols, and on the south by the negro tribes of central africa. they present all the appearances of a later race, expanding itself be- tween and into the territories of two pre-existing neighboring races, and forcibly appropriating the room required for its in- creasing population.” (mccausland's “ adam and the adam- ites," p. .) modern civilization is atlantean. without the thousands of years of development which were had in atlantis modern civilization could not have existed. the inventive faculty of the present age is taking up the great delegated work of crea- tion where atlantis left it thousands of years ago. . how are we to explain the existence of the semitic race in europe without atlantis? it is an intrusive race; a race colonized on sea-coasts. where are its old world affinities? . why is it that the origin of wheat, barley, oats, maize, and rye—the essential plants of civilization-is totally lost in the mists of a vast antiquity? we have in the greek mythol- ogy legends of the introduction of most of these by atlan- tean kings or gods into europe ; but no european nation * atlantis: the antediluvian world. claims to have discovered or developed them, and it has been impossible to trace them to their wild originals. out of the whole flora of the world mankind in the last seven thousand years has not developed a single food-plant to compare in im- portance to the human family with these. if a wise and scien- tific nation should propose nowadays to add to this list, it would have to form great botanical gardens, and, by systematic and long-continued experiments, develop useful plants from the humble productions of the field and forest. was this done in the past on the island of atlantis ? . why is it that we find in ptolemy's “geography of asia minor,” in a list of cities in armenia major in a.d. , the names of five cities which have their counterparts in the names of localities in central america ? armenian cities. central american localities. chol. chol-ula colua. colua-can. zuivana. zuivan. cholima. colima. zalissa. xalisco. (short's “north americans of antiquity," p. .) . how comes it that the sandals upon the feet of the statue of chacmol, discovered at chichen itza, are “exact rep- resentations of those found on the feet of the guanches, the early inhabitants of the canary islands, whose mummies are occasionally discovered in the caves of teneriffe ?" dr. merritt deems the axe or chisel heads dug up at chiriqui, central america, “almost identical in form as well as material with specimens found in suffolk county, england.” (bancroft's “native races,” vol. iv., p. .) the rock-carvings of chiri- qui are pronounced by mr. seemann to have a striking resem. blance to the ancient incised characters found on the rocks of northumberland, england. (ibid.) “some stones have recently been discovered in hierro and las palmas (canary islands), bearing sculptured symbols simi- corroborating circumstances. lar to those found on the shores of lake superior; and this has led m. bertholet, the historiographer of the canary islands, to conclude that the first inhabitants of the canaries and those of the great west were one in race.” (benjamin, “ the atlan- tic islands," p. .) . how comes it that that very bigh authority, professor retzius (“smithsonian report,” , p. ), declares, “ with regard to the primitive dolichocephalæ of america i enter- tain a hypothesis still more bold, namely, that they are ncar- ly related to the guanches in the canary islands, and to the atlantic populations of africa, the moors, tuaricks, copts, etc., which latham comprises under the name of egyptian- atlantidæ. we find one and the same form of skull in the canary islands, in front of the african coast, and in the carib islands, on the opposite coast, which faces africa. the color of the skin on both sides of the atlantic is represented in these populations as being of a reddish-brown.” . the barbarians who are alluded to by homer and thu- cydides were a race of ancient navigators and pirates called cares, or carians, who occupied the isles of greece before the pelasgi, and antedated the phænicians in the control of the sea. the abbé brasseur de bourbourg claims that these ca- rians were identical with the caribs of the west indies, the caras of honduras, and the gurani of south america. (lan- das, “relacion,” pp. - .) . when we consider it closely, one of the most extraordi- nary customs ever known to mankind is that to which i have already alluded in a preceding chapter, to wit, the embalming of the body of the dead man, with a purpose that the body itself may live again in a future state. to arrive at this prac- tice several things must coexist : a. the people must be highly religious, and possessed of an organized and influential priesthood, to perpetuate so trouble- some a custom from age to age. b. they must believe implicitly in the immortality of the atlantis: the antediluvian world. soul; and this implies a belief in rewards and punishments after death; in a heaven and a hell. c. they must believe in the immortality of the body, and its resurrection from the grave on some day of judgment in the "distant future. d. but a belief in the immortality of the soul and the resur- rection of the body is not enough, for all christian nations hold to these beliefs; they must supplement these with a deter- mination that the body shall not perish; that the very flesh and blood in which the man died shall rise with him on the last day, and not a merely spiritual body. now all these four things must coexist before a people pro- ceed to embalm their dead for religious purposes. the proba- bility that all these four things should coexist by accident in several widely separated races is slight indeed. the doctrine of chances is all against it. there is here no common necessi- ty driving men to the same expedient, with which so many re- semblances have been explained; the practice is a religious cere- mony, growing out of religious beliefs by no means common or universal, to wit, that the man who is dead shall live again, and live again in the very body in which he died. not even all the jews believed in these things. if, then, it should appear that among the races which we claim were descended from atlantis this practice of embalm- ing the dead is found, and nowhere else, we bave certainly furnished evidence which can only be explained by admitting the existence of atlantis, and of some great religious race dwelling on atlantis, who believed in the immortality of soul and body, and who embalmed their dead. we find, as i have shown: first. that the guanches of the canary islands, supposed to be a remnant of the atlantean population, preserved their dead as mummies. second. that the egyptians, the oldest colony of atlantis, embalmed their dead in such vast multitudes that they are corroborating circumstances. now exported by the ton to england, and ground up into manures to grow english turnips. third. that the assyrians, the ethiopians, the persians, the greeks, and even the romans embalmed their dead. fourth. on the american continents we find that the peru- vians, the central americans, the mexicans, and some of the indian tribes, followed the same practice. is it possible to account for this singular custom, reaching through a belt of nations, and completely around the habitable world, without atlantis? . all the traditions of the mediterranean races look to the ocean as the source of men and gods. homer sings of “ocean, the origin of gods and mother tethys." orpheus says, “ the fair river of ocean was the first to marry, and he espoused his sister tethys, who was his mother's daugh- ter.” (plato's “dialogues," cratylus, p. .) the ancients always alluded to the ocean as a river encircling the earth, as in the map of cosmos (see page ante); probably a remi- niscence of the great canal described by plato which surround- ed the plain of atlantis. homer (iliad, book xviii.) describes tethys, "the mother goddess,” coming to achilles “from the deep abysses of the main :" “the circling nereids with their mistress weep, and all the sea-green sisters of the deep." plato surrounds the great statue of poseidon in atlantis with the images of one hundred nereids. . in the deluge legends of the hindoos (as given on page ante), we have seen manu saving a small fish, which sub- sequently grew to a great size, and warned him of the coming of the flood. in this legend all the indications point to an ocean as the scene of the catastrophe. it says: “at the close of the last calpa there was a general destruction, caused by the sleep of brahma, whence his creatures, in different worlds, were atlantis: the antediluvian world. drowned in a vast ocean. ... a holy king, named satyavrata, then reigned, a servant of the spirit which moved on the waves" (poseidon ?), “and so devout that water was his only suste- nance. . . . in seven days the three worlds" (remember posei- don's trident) “shall be plunged in an ocean of death."... " • thou shalt enter the spacious ark, and continue in it secure from the flood on one immense ocean.' ... the sea overwhelmed its shores, deluged the whole earth, augmented by showers from immense clouds.” (“asiatic researches," vol. i., p. .) all this reminds us of “the fountains of the great deep and the flood-gates of heaven," and seems to repeat precisely the story of plato as to the sinking of atlantis in the ocean. . while i do not attach much weight to verbal similari- ties in the languages of the two continents, nevertheless there are some that are very remarkable. we have seen the pan and maia of the greeks reappearing in the pan and maya of the mayas of central america. the god of the welsh tri- ads, “hu the mighty," is found in the hu-nap-hu, the hero- god of the quiches; in hu-napu, a hero-god; and in hu-hu- nap-hu, in hu-ncam, in hu-nbatz, semi-divine heroes of the quiches. the phænician deity el “was subdivided into a number of hypostases called the baalim, secondary divinities, emanating from the substance of the deity” (“anc. hist. east,” vol. ii., p. ); and this word baalim we find appear- ing in the mythology of the central americans, applied to the semi-divine progenitors of the human race, balam-quitze, ba. lam-agab, and iqui-balam. the question of complexion. chapter v. the question of complexion. the tendency of scientific thought in ethnology is in the direction of giving more and more importance to the race characteristics, such as height, color of the hair, eyes and skin, and the formation of the skull and body generally, than to language. the language possessed by a people may be merely the result of conquest or migration. for instance, in the united states to-day, white, black, and red men, the de- scendants of french, spanish, italians, mexicans, irish, ger- mans, scandinavians, africans, all speak the english language, and by the test of language they are all englishmen; and yet none of them are connected by birth or descent with the coun- try where that language was developed. there is a general misconception as to the color of the eu- ropean and american races. europe is supposed to be peopled exclusively by white men; but in reality every shade of color is represented on that continent, from the fair complexion of the fairest of the swedes to the dark-skinned inhabitants of the mediterranean coast, only a shade lighter than the berbers, or moors, on the opposite side of that sea. tacitus spoke of the “black celts,” and the term, so far as complexion goes, might not inappropriately be applied to some of the italians, span- iards, and portuguese, while the basques are represented as of a still darker hue. tylor says (“anthropology,” p. ), “ on the whole, it seems that the distinction of color, from the fairest englishman to the darkest african, has no bard and fast lines, but varies gradually from one tint to another.” and when we turn to america we find that the popular atlantis: the antediluvian world. opinion that all indians are “red men," and of the same hue from patagonia to hudson's bay, is a gross error. prichard says (“researches into the physical history of mankind,” vol. i., p. , th ed., ): " it will be easy to show that the american races show near- ly as great a variety in this respect as the nations of the old continent; there are among them white races with a florid complexion, and tribes black or of a very dark hue; that their stature, figure, and countenance are almost equally diversified.” john t. short says (“north americans of antiquity," p. ): “the menominees, sometimes called the white indians,' formerly occupied the region bordering on lake michigan, around green bay. the whiteness of these indians, which is compared to that of white mulattocs, early attracted the atten- tion of the jesuit missionaries, and has often been commented on by travellers. while it is true that hybridy has done much to lighten the color of many of the tribes, still the peculiarity of the complexion of this people has been marked since the first time a european encountered them. almost every shade, from the ash-color of the menominees through the cinnamon- red, copper, and bronze tints, may be found among the tribes formerly occupying the territory cast of the mississippi, until we reach the dark-skinned kaws of kansas, who are nearly as black as the negro. the variety of complexion is as great in south america as among the tribes of the northern part of the continent." in foot-note of p. of vol. iji. of “u. s. explorations for a railroad route to the pacific ocean," we are told, “many of the indians of zuni (new mexico) are wbite. they have a fair skin, blue eyes, chestnut or auburn hair, and are quite good-looking. they claim to be full-blooded zunians, and have no tradition of intermarriage with any foreign race. the cir. cumstance creates no surprise among this people, for from time immemorial a similar class of people has existed among the tribe.” the question of complexion. winchell says: "the ancient indians of california, in the latitude of forty- two degrees, were as black as the negroes of guinea, while in mexico were tribes of an olive or reddish complexion, relatively light. among the black races of tropical regions we find, gen- erally, some light-colored tribes interspersed. these sometimes have light hair and blue eyes. this is the case with the tua- reg of the sahara, the afghans of india, and the aborigines of the banks of the oronoco and the amazon." (winchell's “pre- adamites,” p. .) william penn said of the indians of pennsylvania, in his letter of august, : “the natives ... are generally tall, straight, well-built, and of singular proporțion; they tread strong and clever, and most- ly walk with a lofty chin. ... their eye is little and black, not unlike a straight-looked jew. ... i have seen among them as comely european-like faces of both sexes as on your side of the sea; and truly an italian complexion hath not much more of the white, and the noses of several of them have as inuch of the roman. ... for their original, i am ready to believe them to be of the jewish race-i mean of the stock of the ten tribes —and that for the following reasons: first, ...; in the next place, i find them to be of the like countenance, and their chil- dren of so lively a resemblance that a man would think himself in duke's place or berry street in london when he seeth them. but this is not all: they agree in rites, they reckon by moons, they offer their first-fruits, they have a kind of feast of taber- nacles, they are said to lay their altars upon twelve stones, their mourning a year, customs of women, with many other things that do not now occur.” upon this question of complexion catlin, in his “ indians of north america,” vol. i., p. , etc., gives us some curious in- formation. we have already seen that the mandans preserved an image of the ark, and possessed legends of a clearly atlan- tean character. catlin says: “a stranger in the mandan village is first struck with the different shades of complexion and various colors of hair which atlantis: the antediluvian world. he sees in a crowd about him, and is at once disposed to ex- claim, “these are not indians. there are a great many of these people whose complexions appear as light as half-breeds; and among the women particularly there are many whose skins are almost white, with the most pleasing symmetry and pro- portion of feature; with bazel, with gray, and with blue eyes; with mildness and sweetness of expression and excessive mod- esty of demeanor, which render them exceedingly pleasing and beautiful. why this diversity of complexion i cannot tell, nor can they themselves account for it. their traditions, so far as i can learn them, afford us no information of their having had any knowledge of white men before the visit of lewis and clarke, made to their village thirty-three years ago. since that time until now ( ) there have been very few visits of white men to this place, and surely not enough to have changed the complexions and customs of a nation. and i recollect perfectly well that governor clarke told me, before i started for this place, that i would find the mandans a strange people and half white. "among the females may be seen every shade and color of hair that can be seen in our own country except red or auburn, which is not to be found. ... there are very many of both sexes, and of every age, from infancy to manhood and old age, with hair of a bright silvery-gray, and in some instances almost perfectly white. this unaccountable phenomenon is not the result of disease or habit, but it is unquestionably an hereditary characteristic which runs in families, and indicates no inequali- ty in disposition or intellect. and by passing this hair through my hands i have found it uniformly to be as coarse and harsh as a horse's mane, differing materially from the hair of other colors, which, among the mandans, is generally as fine and soft as silk. “the stature of the mandans is rather below the ordinary size of man, with beautiful symmetry of form and proportion, and wonderful suppleness and elasticity.” catlin gives a group ( ) showing this great diversity in complexion: one of the figures is painted almost pure white, and with light hair. the faces are european. major james w. lynd, who lived among the dakota indians for nine years, and was killed by them in the great outbreak of governor and other indians of tiie pueblo of ban domingo, new mexico. the question of complexion. , says (ms. “hist. of dakotas," library, historical socie- ty, minnesota, p. ), after calling attention to the fact that the different tribes of the sioux nation represent several different degrees of darkness of color: “the dakota child is of lighter complexion than the young brave; this one lighter than the middle-aged man, and the middle-aged man lighter than the superannuated homo, who, by smoke, paint, dirt, and a drying up of the vital juices, ap- pears to be the true copper-colored dakota. the color of the dakotas varies with the nation, and also with the age and con- dition of the individual. it may be set down, however, as a shade lighter than olive ; yet it becomes still lighter by change of condition or mode of life, and nearly vanishes, even in the child, under constant ablutions and avoiding of exposure. those children in the mission at hazlewood, who are taken very young, and not allowed to expose themselves, lose almost entirely the olive shade, and become quite as white as the american child. the mandans are as light as the peasants of spain, while their brothers, the crows, are as dark as the arabs. dr. goodrich, in the universal traveller,' p. , says that the modern peruvians, in the warmer regions of peru, are as fair as the people of the south of europe." the aymaras, the ancient inhabitants of the mountains of peru and bolivia, are described as having an olive-brown com- plexion, with regular features, large heads, and a thoughtful and melancholy cast of countenance. they practised in early times the deformation of the skull. professor wilson describes the hair of the ancient peruvians, as found upon their mummies, as “a lightish brown, and of a fineness of texture which equals that of the anglo-saxon race.” "the ancient peruvians,” says short (“north americans of antiquity,” p. ), “ appear, from numerous examples of hair found in their tombs, to have been an auburn-haired race.” gar- cilasso, who had an opportunity of seeing the body of the king, viracocha, describes the hair of that monarch as snow-white. haywood tells us of the discovery, at the beginning of this century, of three mummies in a cave on the south side of the atlantis: the antediluvian world. cumberland river (tennessee), who were buried in baskets, as the peruvians were occasionally buried, and whose skin was fair and white, and their hair auburn, and of a fine texture. (“natural and aboriginal history of tennessee," p. .) choctaw. neither is the common opinion correct which asserts all the american indians to be of the same type of features. the por- traits on this page and on pages and , taken from the "report of the u. s. survey for a route for a pacific rail- road," present features very much like those of europeans; in fact, every face here could be precisely matched among the in- habitants of the southern part of the old continent. on the other hand, look at the portrait of the great italian orator and reformer, savonarola, on page . it looks more the question of complexion. like the hunting indians of north-western america than any of the preceding faces. in fact, if it was dressed with a scalp- lock it would pass muster anywhere as a portrait of the “man- afraid-of-his-horses,” or “ sitting bull.” retinere serie ban ne savonarola. adam was, it appears, a red man. winchell tells us that adam is derived from the red earth. the radical letters adam are found in a damah, “ something out of which vegetation was made to germinate,” to wit, the earth. Â dÔm and Âdom signifies red, ruddy, bay-colored, as of a horse, the color of a red heifer. “Â dâm, a man, a human being, male or female, red, ruddy.” (“preadamites,” p. .) "the arabs distinguished mankind into two races, one red, ruddy, the other black.” (ibid.) they classed themselves among the red men. atlantis: the antediluvian world. not only was adam a red man, but there is evidence that, from the highest antiquity, red was a sacred color; the gods of the ancients were always painted red. the wisdom of sol- omon refers to this custom: “the carpenter carved it elegant- ly, and formed it by the skill of bis understanding, and fash- ioned it to the shape of a man, or made it like some vile beast, laying it over with vermilion, and with paint, coloring it red, and covering every spot therein.” the idols of the indians were also painted red, and red was the religious color. (lynd's ms. “hist, of dakotas,” library, ilist. society, minn.) the cusbites and ethiopians, early branches of the atlan- tean stock, took their name from their "sunburnt " complex- ion; they were red men. the name of the phænicians signified red. himyar, the prefix of the himyaritic arabians, also means red, and the arabs were painted red on the egyptian monuments. the ancient egyptians were red men. they recognized four races of men—the red, yellow, black, and wbite men. they themselves belonged to the “rot," or red men; the yellow men they called “namu”-it included the asiatic races; the black men were called “ nahsu," and the white men“ tamhu." the following figures are copied from nott and gliddon's “ types of mankind," p. , and were taken by them from the great works of belzoni, champollion, and lepsius. in later ages so desirous were the egyptians of preserving the aristocratic distinction of the color of their skin, that they represented themselves on the monuments as of a crimson bue -an exaggeration of their original race complexion. in the same way we find that the ancient aryan writings divided mankind into four races—the white, red, yellow, and black: the four castes of india were founded upon these dis- tinctions in color; in fact, the word for color in sanscrit (var- na) means caste. the red men, according to the mahabharata, were the kshatriyas—the warrior caste—who were afterward the question of complexion. engaged in a fierce contest with the wbites—the brahmans- and were nearly exterminated, although some of them survived, and from their stock buddha was born. so that not only the mohammedan and christian but the buddhistic religion seem to be derived from branches of the hamitic or red stock. the great manu was also of the red race. so:: sono red yellow. black white. tule races of men according to the egyitiang. the egyptians, while they painted themselves red - brown, represented the nations of palestine as yellow-brown, and the libyans yellow - white. the present inhabitants of egypt range from a yellow color in the north parts to a deep bronze. tylor is of opinion (" anthropology,” p. ) that the ancient egyptians belonged to a brown race, which embraced the nubian tribes and, to some extent, the berbers of algiers and tunis. he groups the assyrians, phænicians, persians, greeks, romans, andalusians, bretons, dark welshmen, and people of the caucasus into one body, and designates them as “dark- whites.” the himyarite arabs, as i have shown, derived their name originally from their red color, and they were con- stantly depicted on the egyptian monuments as red or light atlantis: tiie antediluvian world. brown. iierodotus tells us that there was a nation of libyans, called the maxyans, who claimed descent from the people of troy (the walls of troy, we shall see, were built by poseidon ; that is to say, troy was an atlantean colony). these maxyans painted their whole bodies red. the zavecians, the ancestors of the zuavas of algiers (the tribe that gave their name to the french zouaves), also painted themselves red. some of the ethiopians were “copper-colored.” (“ ainer. cyclop.," art. egypt, p. .) tylor says (" anthropology,” p. ): “the language of the ancient egyptians, though it cannot be classed in the semitic family with hebrew, has important points of correspondence, whether due to the long intercourse between the two races in egypt or to some deeper ancestral connection; and such analogies also appear in the berber languages of north africa." these last were called by the ancients the atlanteans. “if a congregation of twelve representatives from malacca, china, japan, mongolia, sandwich islands, chili, peru, brazil, chickasaws, comanches, etc., were dressed alike, or undressed and unshaven, the most skilful anatomist could not, from their appearance, separate them.” (fontaine's “how the world was peopled," pp. , .) ferdinand columbus, in his relation of his father's voyages, compares the inhabitants of guanaani to the canary islanders (an atlantean race), and describes the inhabitants of san do- mingo as still more beautiful and fair. in peru the charanza- nis, studied by m. angrand, also resemble the canary islanders. l'abbé brasseur de bourbourg imagined himself surrounded by arabs when all his indians of rabinal were around him; for they had, he said, their complexion, features, and beard. pierre martyr speaks of the indians of the parian gulf as hav- ing fair hair. (“the iiuman species," p. .) the same author believes that tribes belonging to the semitic type are also found in america. lle refers to “certain traditions of the question of complexion. guiana, and the use in the country of a weapon entirely charac- teristic of the ancient canary islanders.” when science is able to disabuse itself of the mortonian theory that the aborigines of america are all red men, and all belong to one race, we may hope that the confluence upon the continent of widely different races from different countries may come to be recognized and intelligently studied. there can be no doubt that red, white, black, and yellow men have united to form the original population of america. and there can be as little doubt that the entire population of europe and the south shore of the mediterranean is a mongrel race-a combi- nation, in varying proportions, of a dark- brown or red race with a white race; the characteristics of the different nations depending upon the proportions in which the dark and light races are mingled, for peculiar mental and moral characteristics go with these complexions. the red-haired people are a dis- tinct variety of the white stock; there were once whole tribes and nations with this color of hair; their blood is now inter- iningled with all the races of men, from palestine to iceland. everything in europe speaks of vast periods of time and long- continued and constant interfusion of bloods, until there is not a fair-skinned man on the continent that has not the blood of the dark-haired race in his veins; nor scarcely a dark-skinned man that is not lighter in hue from intermixture with the white stock. atlantis: the antediluvian world. chapter vi. genesis contains a history of atlantis. the hebrews are a branch of the great family of which that powerful commercial race, the phænicians, who were the merchants of the world fifteen hundred years before the time of christ, were a part. the hebrews carried out from the common storehouse of their race a mass of traditions, many of which have come down to us in that oldest and most ven- erable of human compositions, the book of genesis. i have shown that the story of the deluge plainly refers to the de- struction of atlantis, and that it agrees in many important particulars with the account given by plato. the people de- stroyed were, in both instances, the ancient race that had cre- ated civilization; they had formerly been in a happy and sin- less condition; they had become great and wicked; they were destroyed for their sins—they were destroyed by water. but we can go farther, and it can be asserted that there is scarcely a prominent fact in the opening chapters of the book of genesis that cannot be duplicated from the legends of the american nations, and scarcely a custom known to the jews that does not find its counterpart among the people of the new world. even in the history of the creation we find these similarities : the bible tells us (gen. i., ) that in the beginning the earth was without form and void, and covered with water. in the quiche legends we are told, “ at first all was sea—no man, ani- mal, bird, or green herb--there was nothing to be seen but the sea and the heavens." genesis contains a history of atlantis. the bible says (gen. i., ), “and the spirit of god moved upon the face of the waters." the quiche legend says, “the creator—the former, the dominator—the feathered serpent —those that give life, moved upon the waters like a glowing light.” the bible says (gen. i., ), “ and god said, let the waters under the heaven be gathered together unto one place, and let the dry land appear: and it was so.” the quiche legend says, “the creative spirits cried out · earth!' and in an instant it was formed, and rose like a vapor - cloud; immediately the plains and the mountains arose, and the cypress and pine ap- peared." the bible tells us, “ and god saw that it was good.” the quiche legend says, “ then gucumatz was filled with joy, and cried out, ‘blessed be thy coming, o heart of heaven, hura- kan, thunder-bolt.'” the order in which the vegetables, animals, and man were formed is the same in both records. in genesis (chap. ii., ) we are told, “and the lord god formed man of the dust of the ground." the quiche legend says, " the first man was made of clay; but he had no intelli- gence, and was consumed in the water." in genesis the first man is represented as naked. the az- tec legend says, “the sun was much nearer the carth then than now, and his grateful warmth rendered clothing unnecessary." even the temptation of eve reappears in the american le- gends. lord kingsborough says: “ the toltecs had paintings of a garden, with a single tree standing in the midst; round the root of the tree is entwined a serpent, wliose head appear- ing above the foliage displays the face of a woman. torque- mada admits the existence of this tradition among them, and agrees with the indian historians, who affirm that this was the first woman in the world, who bore children, and from whom all mankind are descended.” (“mexican antiquities," vol. viii., p. .) there is also a legend of suchiquecal, who disobedi- atlantis: the antediluvian world. ently gathered roses from a tree, and thereby disgraced and in- jured herself and all her posterity. (“mexican antiquities,” vol. vi., p. .) the legends of the old world which underlie genesis, and were used by milton in the “paradise lost," appear in the mexi- can legends of a war of angels in heaven, and the fall of zou- tem-que (soutem, satan-arabic, shatana ?) and the other re- bellious spirits. we have seen that the central americans possessed striking parallels to the account of the deluge in genesis. there is also a clearly established legend which singularly resembles the bible record of the tower of babel. father duran, in his ms. “historia antiqua de la nueva espana,” a.d. , quotes from the lips of a native of cho- tula, over one hundred years old, a version of the legend as to the building of the great pyramid of cholula. it is as follows: “in the beginning, before the light of the sun had been created, this land (cholula) was in obscurity and darkness, and void of any created thing; all was a plain, without hill or ele- vation, encircled in every part by water, without tree or created thing; and immediately after the light and the sun arose in the east there appeared gigantic men of deformed stature and possessed the land, and desiring to see the nativity of the sun, as well as his occident, proposed to go and seek them. di- viding themselves into two parties, some journeyed to the west and others toward the east; these travelled until the sea cut off their road, whereupon they determined to return to the place from which they started, and arriving at this place (cholula), not finding the means of reaching the sun, enamored of his light and beauty, they determined to build a tower so high that its summit should reach the sky. having collected materials for the purpose, they found a very adhesive clay and bitumen, with which they speedily commenced to build the tower; and having reared it to the greatest possible altitude, so that they say it reached to the sky, the lord of the heavens, enraged, said to the inhabitants of the sky, ‘have you observed how they of the earth have built a high and baughty tower to mount bither, being enamored of the light of the sun and genesis contains a history of atlantis. pion wan matijena es een hoa ruins of tile pyramid of cholula. his beauty ? come and confound them, because it is not right that they of the earth, living in the flesh, should mingle with uns.' immediately the inhabitants of the sky sallied forth like flashes of lightning ; they destroyed the edifice, and divided and scattered its builders to all parts of the earth.” one can recognize in this legend the recollection, by a rnder race, of a highly civilized people ; for only a highly civilized people would have attempted such a vast work. their mental superiority and command of the arts gave them the character of giants who arrived from the east; who had divided into two great emigrations, one moving eastward (toward europe), the other westward (toward america). they were sun-wor- * atlantis: the antediluvian world. shippers; for we are told “they were enamored of the light and beauty of the sun,” and they built a high place for bis worship. the pyramid of cholula is one of the greatest constructions ever erected by human hands. it is even now, in its ruined condition, feet high, feet square at the base, and covers forty-five acres; we have only to remember that the greatest pyramid of egypt, cheops, covers but twelve or thir- teen acres, to form some conception of the magnitude of this american structure. it must not be forgotten that this legend was taken down by a catholic priest, shortly after the conquest of mexico, from the lips of an old indian who was born before columbus sailed from spain. observe the resemblances between this legend and the bible account of the building of the tower of babel : “all was a plain without hill or elevation,” says the indian legend. “they found a plain in the land of shinar, and they dwelt there,” says the bible. they built of brick in both cases. “let us build us a tower whose top may reach unto heaven," says the bible. “they determined to build a tower so high that its summit should reach the sky," says the indian legend. “and the lord came down to see the city and the tower which the children of men had builded. and the lord said, behold ... nothing will be restrained from them which they have imagined to do. go to, let us go down and confound them,” says the bible record. “the lord of the heavens, enraged, said to the inhabitants of the sky, ‘have you observed,' etc. come and confound them,” says the indian record. “and the lord scattered them abroad from thence on all the face of the earth,” says the bible. “they scattered its builders to all parts of the earth,” says the mexican legend. can any one doubt that these two legends must have sprung in some way from one another, or from some common source ? there are enough points of difference to show that the amer- genesis contains a history of atlantis. . ican is not a servile copy of the hebrew legend. in the for- mer the story comes from a native of cholula: it is told under the shadow of the mighty pyramid it commemorates; it is a local legend which he repeats. the men who built it, accord- ing to his account, were foreigners. they built it to reach the sun—that is to say, as a sun-temple; while in the bible record babel was built to perpetuate the glory of its architects. in the indian legend the gods stop the work by a great storm, in the bible account by confounding the speech of the people. both legends were probably derived from atlantis, and re- ferred to some gigantic structure of great height built by that people; and when the story emigrated to the east and west, it was in the one case affixed to the tower of the chaldeans, and in the other to the pyramid of cholula, precisely as we find the ark of the deluge resting upon separate mountain- chains all the way from greece to armenia. in one form of the tower of babel legend, that of the toltecs, we are told that the pyramid of cholula was erected “as a means of es- cape from a second flood, should another occur.” but the resemblances between genesis and the american legends do not stop here. we are told (gen. ii., ) that “the lord god caused a deep sleep to fall upon adam," and while he slept god made eve out of one of his ribs. according to the quiche tradition, there were four men from whom the races of the world de- scended (probably a recollection of the red, black, yellow, and white races); and these men were without wives, and the cre- ator made wives for them“ while they slept.” some wicked misanthrope referred to these traditions when he said, “and man's first sleep became his last repose." in genesis (chap. iii., ), “and the lord god said, behold, the man is become as one of us, to know good and evil: and now, lest he put forth his hand, and take also of the tree of life, and eat, and live forever:" therefore god drove him out of the garden. in the quiche legends we are told, " the gods feared atlantis: the avtediluvian world. that they had made men too perfect, and they breathed a cloud of mist over their vision." when the ancestors of the quiches migrated to america the divinity parted the sea for their passage, as the red sea was parted for the israelites. the story of samson is paralleled in the history of a hero named zipanca, told of in the “ popol vuh,” who, being capt- ured by his enemies and placed in a pit, pulled down the build- ing in which his captors had assembled, and killed four hundred of them. "there were giants in those days," says the bible. a great deal of the central american history is taken up with the do- ings of an ancient race of giants called quinames. this parallelism runs through a hundred particulars : both the jews and mexicans worshipped toward the east. both called the south “the right hand of the world." both burnt incense toward the four corners of the earth. confession of sin and sacrifice of atonement were common to both peoples. both were punctilious about washings and ablutions. both believed in devils, and both were afflicted with leprosy. both considered women who died in childbirth as worthy of honor as soldiers who fell in battle. both punished adultery with stoning to death. as david leaped and danced before the ark of the lord, so did the mexican monarchs before their idols. both had an ark, the abiding-place of an invisible god. both had a species of serpent-worship. compare our representation of the great serpent-mound in adams county, ohio, with the following description of a great serpent-mound in scotland : “serpent-worship in the west. some additional light appears to have been thrown upon ancient serpent-worship in the west by the recent archæological explorations of mr. john s. phené, f.g.s., f.r.g.s., in scotland. mr. phené has just investigated genesis contains a history of atlantis. a curious earthen mound in glen feechan, argyleshire, referred . to by him, at the late meeting of the british association in edinburgh, as being in the form of a serpent or saurian. the mound, says the scotsman, is a most perfect one. the head is a large cairn, and the body of the earthen reptile feet long; and in the centre of the head there were evidences, when mr. phené first visited it, of an altar having been placed there. the position with regard to ben cruachan is most remarkable. > om vou ora sanat too . amin brush creek . c great eerpent-mount), oho. the three peaks are seen over the length of the reptile when a person is standing on the bead, or cairn. the shape can only be seen so as to be understood when looked down upon from an elevation, as the ontline cannot be understood unless the whole of it can be seen. this is most perfect when the spec- tator is on the head of the animal form, or on the lofty rock to the west of it. this mound corresponds almost entirely with one feet long in america, an account of which was lately published, after careful survey, by mr. squier. the altar toward the head in each case agrees. in the american mound three rivers (also objects of worship with the ancients) were evident- ly identified. the number three was a sacred number in all ancient mythologies. the sinuous winding and articulations of the vertebral spinal arrangement are anatomically perfect genesis contains a liistory of atlantis. the same singular custom which is found among the jews and the hindoos, for “a man to raise up seed for his deceased brother by marrying his widow," was found among the cen- tral american nations. (las casas, ms. “ hist. apoloq.," cap. ccxiii., ccxv. torquemada, “monarq. ind.,” tom. ii., – .) no one but the jewish high-priest might enter the holy of holies. a similar custom obtained in peru. both ate the flesh of the sacrifices of atonement; both poured the blood of the sacrifice on the earth; they sprinkled it, they marked per- sons with it, they smeared it upon walls and stones. the mex- ican temple, like the jewish, faced the east. “as among the jews the ark was a sort of portable temple, in which the deity was supposed to be continually present, so among the mexi- cans, the cherokees, and the indians of michoacan and hon- duras, an ark was held in the highest veneration, and was con- sidered an object too sacred to be touched by any but the priests." (kingsborough, “mex. antiq.," vol. viii., p. .) the peruvians believed that the rainbow was a sign that the earth would not be again destroyed by a deluge. (ibid., p. .) the jewish custom of laying the sins of the people upon the head of an animal, and turning him out into the wilder- ness, had its counterpart among the mexicans, who, to cure a fever, formed a dog of maize paste and left it by the roadside, saying the first passer-by would carry away the illness. (dor- man, “prim. super.,” p. .) jacob's ladder had its duplicate in the vine or tree of the ojibbeways, which led from the carth to heaven, up and down which the spirits passed. (ibid., p. .) both jews and mexicans offered water to a stranger that he might wash his feet; both ate dust in token of humility ; both anointed with oil; both sacrificed prisoners; both periodically separated the women, and both agreed in the strong and uni- versal idea of uncleanness connected with that period. both believed in the occult power of water, and both prac- tised baptism. atlantis: the antediluvian world. " then the mexican midwife gave the child to taste of the water, putting her moistened fingers in its mouth, and said, • take this; by this thou hast to live on the earth, to grow and to flourish; through this we get all things that support existence on the earth; receive it.' then with moistened fin- gers she touched the breast of the child, and said, “ behold the pure water that washes and cleanses thy heart, that removes all filthiness ; receive it: may the goddess sce good to purify and cleanse thine heart.' then the midwife poured water upon the head of the child, saying, “o my grandson-my son-take this water of the lord of the world, which is thy life, invigo- rating and refreshing, washing and cleansing. i pray that this celestial water, blue and light blue, may enter into thy body, and there live; i pray that it may destroy in thee and put away from thee all the thing's evil and adverse that were given thee before the beginning of the world. ... wberesoever thout art in this child, o thou hurtful thing, begone! leave it, put thyself apart; for now does it live anew, and anew is it born; now again is it purified and cleansed; now again is it shaped and engendered by our mother, the goddess of water.” (ban- croft's “native races," vol. iii., p. .) here we find many resemblances to the christian ordinance of baptism: the pouring of the water on the head, the putting of the fingers in the mouth, the touching of the breast, the new birth, and the washing away of the original sin. the christian rite, we know, was not a christian invention, but was borrowed from ancient times, from the great storehouse of asiatic tradi- tions and beliefs. the mexicans hung up the heads of their sacrificed enemies; this was also a jewish custom : “and the lord said unto moses, take all the heads of the people, and hang them up before the lord against the sun, ihat the fierce anger of the lord may be turned away from israel. and moses said unto the judges of israel, slay ve every one his men that were joined unto baal-peor.” (numb., xxv., , .) the scythians, herodotus tells us, scalped their enemies, genesis contains a history of atlantis. and carried the scalp at the pommel of their saddles; the jews probably scalped their enemies : “but god shall wound the head of his enemies, and the hairy scalp of such a one as goeth on still in his trespasses." (psa., lxviii., .) the ancient scandinavians practised scalping. when har- old llarefoot seized his rival, alfred, with six hundred follow- ers, he had them maimed, blinded, hamstrung, scalped, or em- bowelled.” (taine's “ hist. eng. lit.,” p. .) herodotus describes the scythian mode of taking the scalp: “he makes a cut round the liead near the cars, and shakes the. skull out.” this is precisely the indian custom. “the more scalps a man has," says herodotus, "the more highly he is es- teemed among them.” the indian scalp-lock is found on the egyptian monuments as one of the characteristics of the japhetic libyans, who shaved all the head except one lock in the middle. the mantchoos of tartary wear a scalp-lock, as do the mod- crn chinese. byron describes the heads of the dead tartars under the walls of corinth, devoured by the wild dogs : “crimson and green were the shawls of their wear, and each scalp had a single long tuft of hair, all the rest was shaven and bare." these resemblances are so striking and so numerous that repeated attempts bave been made to prove that the inbab- itants of america are the descendants of the jews; some have claimed that they represented “the lost tribes” of that peo- ple. but the jews were never a maritime or emigrating peo- ple; they formed no colonies; and it is impossible to believe (as has been asserted) that they left their flocks and herds, marched across the whole face of asia, took ships and sailed across the greatest of the oceans to a continent of the exist- ence of which they had no knowledge. atlantis: the antediluvian world. if we seek the origin of these extraordinary coincidences in opinions and habits, we must go far back of the time of the lost tribes. we must seck it in the relationship of the jews to the family of noah, and in the identity of the noachic race destroyed in the deluge with the people of the drowned atlantis. nor need it surprise us to find traditions perpetuated for thousands upon thousands of years, especially among a people having a religious priesthood. the essence of religion is conservatism ; little is invented; nothing perishes; change comes from without; and even when one religion is supplanted by another its gods live on as the demons of the new faith, or they pass into the folk-lore and fairy stories of the people. we see votan, a hero in america, become the god odin or woden in scandinavia; and when his worship as a god dies out odin survives (as dr. dasent has proved) in the wild huntsman of the ilartz, and in the robin hood (oodin) of popular legend. the hellequin of france be- comes the harlequin of our pantomimes. william tell never existed; he is a myth; a survival of the sun-god apollo, indra, who was worshipped on the altars of atlantis. “nothing here but it doth change into something rich and strange." the rite of circumcision dates back to the first days of phæ- nicia, egypt, and the cushites. it, too, was probably an at- lantean custom, invented in the stone age. tens of thousands of years have passed since the stone age; the ages of copper, bronze, and iron have intervened; and yet to this day the he- brew rabbi performs the ceremony of circumcision with a stone knife. frothinghàm says, speaking of st. peter's cathedral, in rome: “into what depths of antiquity the ceremonies carried me back! to the mysteries of eleusis; to the sacrificial rites of phænicia. the boys swung the censors as censors had been genesis contains a history of atlantis. swung in the adoration of bacchus. the girdle and cassock of the priests came from persia; the veil and tonsure were from egypt; the alb and chasuble were prescribed by numa pompilius; the stole was borrowed from the official who used to throw it on the back of the victim that was to be sacrificed ; the white surplice was the same as described by juvenal and ovid.” although it is evident that many thousands of years must have passed since the men who wrote in sanscrit, in north- western india, could have dwelt in europe, yet to this day they preserve among their ancient books maps and descrip- tions of the western coast of europe, and even of england and ireland; and we find among them a fuller knowledge of the vexed question of the sources of the nile than was possessed by any nation in the world twenty-five years ago. this perpetuation of forms and beliefs is illustrated in the fact that the formulas used in the middle ages in europe to exorcise evil spirits were assyrian words, imported probably thousands of years before from the magicians of chaldea. when the european conjurer cried out to the demon, “ hilka, hilka, besha, besha,” he had no idea that he was repeating the very words of a people who had perished ages before, and that they signified go away, go away, evil one, evil one. (lenor- mant, “ anc. hist. east,” vol. i., p. .) our circle of degrees; the division of a chord of the circle equal to the radius into equal parts, called degrees; the division of these into minutes, of the minute into seconds, and the second into thirds; the division of the day into hours, cach hour into minutes, cach minute into seconds; the division of the week into seven days, and the very order of the days—all have come down to us from the chal- deo-assyrians; and these things will probably be perpetuated among our posterity “to the last syllable of recorded time.” we need not be surprised, therefore, to find the same legends and beliefs cropping out among the nations of central america atlantis: the antediluvian world. and the people of israel. nay, it should teach us to regard the book of genesis with increased veneration, as a relic dating from the most ancient days of man's history on earth; its roots cross the great ocean; every line is valuable; a word, a letter, an accent may throw light upon the gravest problems of the birth of civilization. the vital conviction which, during thousands of years, at all times pressed home upon the israelites, was that they were a “chosen people,” selected out of all the multitudes of the eartlı, to perpetuate the great truth that there was but one god-an illimitable, omnipotent, paternal spirit, who rewarded the good and punished the wicked-in contradistinction from the multi- farious, subordinate, animal and bestial demi-gods of the other nations of the earth. this sublime monotheism could only have been the outgrowth of a high civilization, for man's first religion is necessarily a worship of “stocks and stones," and history teaches us that the gods decrease in number as man in- creases in intelligence. it was probably in atlantis that mono- theism was first preached. the proverbs of “ ptah-hotep," the oldest book of the egyptians, show that this most ancient col- ony from atlantis received the pure faith from the mother-land at the very dawn of history: this book preached the doctrine of one god," the rewarder of the good and the punisher of the wicked.” (reginald s. poole, contemporary rev., aug., , p. .) “in the early days the egyptians worshipped one only god, the maker of all things, without beginning and withont end. to the last the priests preserved this doctrine and taught it privately to a select few.” (“amer. encycl.," vol. vi., p. .) the jews took up this great truth where the egyptians dropped it, and over the heads and over the ruins of egypt, chaldea, phænicia, greece, rome, and india this handful of poor shop- herds-ignorant, debased, and despised—have carried down to our own times a conception which could only have originated in the highest possible state of human society. and even skepticism must pause before the miracle of the genesis contains a history of atlantis. continued existence of this strange people, wading through the ages, bearing on their shoulders the burden of their great trust, and pressing forward under the force of a perpetual and irre- sistible impulse. the speech that may be heard to-day in the synagogues of chicago and melbourne resounded two thousand years ago in the streets of rome; and, at a still earlier period, it could be heard in the palaces of babylon and the shops of thebes—in tyre, in sidon, in gades, in palmyra, in nineveli. how many nations have perished, how many languages have ceased to exist, how many splendid civilizations have crumbled into ruin, how many temples and towers and towns have gone down to dust since the sublime frenzy of monotheism first seized this extraordinary people! all their kindred nomadic tribes are gone; their land of promise is in the hands of stran- gers; but judaism, with its offspring, christianity, is taking possession of the habitable world; and the continuous life of one people—one poor, obscure, and wretched people — spans the tremendous gulf between “ptah-hotep” and this nine- teenth century. if the spirit of which the universe is but an expression-of whose frame the stars are the infinite molecules--can be sup- posed ever to interfere with the laws of matter and reach down, into the doings of men, would it not be to save from the wreck and waste of time the most sublime fruit of the civilization of the drowned atlantis-a belief in the one, only, just god, the father of all life, the imposer of all moral obligations ? .- atlantis: the antediluvian world. chapter vii. the origin of our alphabet. one of the most marvellous inventions for the advancement of mankind is the phonetic alphabet, or a system of signs rep- resenting the sounds of human speech. without it our pres- ent civilization could scarcely have been possible. no solution of the origin of our european alphabet has yet been obtained: we can trace it back from nation to nation, and form to form, until we reach the egyptians, and the ar- chaic forms of the phænicians, hebrews, and cushites, but be- yond this the light fails us. the egyptians spoke of their bieroglyphic system of writ- ing not as their own invention, but as “the language of the gods.” (lenormant and cheval, “ anc. hist. of the east," vol. ii., p. .) “the gods” were, doubtless, their highly civilized ancestors--the people of atlantis—who, as we shall hereafter see, became the gods of many of the mediterrancan races. “ according to the phænicians, the art of writing was invent- ed by taantus, or taut, whom the egyptians call thouth,' and the egyptians said it was invented by thonth, or thoth, otherwise called the first hermes,' in which we clearly see that both the phænicians and egyptians referred the invention to a period older than their own separate political existence, and to an older nation, from which both peoples received it." (baldwin's “prebistoric nations," p. .) the “first hermes," here referred to (afterward called mer- cury by the romans), was a son of zeus and maia, a daughter of atlis. this is the same maia whom the abbé brasseur de bourbourg identifies with the maya of central america. the origin of our alphabet. sir william drummond, in his “ origines," said: “there seems to be no way of accounting either for the early use of letters among so many different nations, or for the resemblance which existed between some of the graphic systems employed by those nations, than by supposing hiero- glyphical writing, if i inay be allowed the term, to have been in use among the tsabaists in the first ages after the flood, when tsabaism (planet-worship) was the religion of almost every country that was yet inhabited.” sir henry rawlinson says: “so great is the analogy between the first principles of the science of writing, as it appears to have been pursued in chal- dea, and as we can actually trace its progress in egypt, that we can hardly hesitate to assign the original invention to a period before the hamitic race had broken up and divided." it is not to be believed that such an extraordinary system of sound-signs could have been the invention of any one man or even of any one age: like all our other acquisitions, it must have been the slow growth and accretion of ages; it must have risen step by step from picture-writing through an inter- mediate condition like that of the chinese, where each word or thing was represented by a separate sign. the fact that so old and enlightened a people as the chinese have never reach- ed a phonetic alphabet, gives us some indication of the great- ness of the people among whom it was invented, and the lapse of time before they attained to it. humboldt says: “ according to the views which, since champollion's great discovery, have been gradually adopted regarding the earlier condition of the development of alphabetical writing, the phe- nician as well as the semitic characters are to be regarded as a phonetic alphabet that has originated froin pictorial writ- ing; as one in which the ideal signification of the symbols is wholly disregarded, and the characters are regarded as mere signs for sounds.” (“cosmos," vol. ii., p. .) the origin of our alphabet. none of which bear the slightest affinity to the phænician letters. it is a surprising fact that we find in central america a pho- netic alphabet. this is in the alphabet of the mayas, the an- cient people of the peninsula of yucatan, who claim that their civilization came to them across the sea in ships from the east, that is, from the direction of atlantis. the mayas succeeded to the colhuas, whose era terminated one thousand years be- fore the time of christ; from them they received their alpha- bet. it has come to us through bishop landa, one of the early missionary bishops, who confesses to having burnt a great number of maya books because they contained nothing but the works of the devil. he fortunately, however, pre- . . i . served for posterity the alphabet of this people. . we present it herewith. a n @ . ku o ☺. . s diego de landa was the first bishop of yuca- tan. he wrote a history of the mayas and their o. country, which was pre- served in manuscript at . madrid in the library of the royal academy of . history.... it contains a description and explana- . tion of the phonetic al- phabet of the mayas. . landa's manuscript seems to have lain neglected in the library, for little or nothing was heard of it until it was discovered by the french priest bras- seur de bourbourg, who, by means of it, has deci- najom . f. ex og . (vanation a aho ma me or mo. (varadia %) Ý ti ha o siga d' aspiration landa's alpiiabet. (from "north amer. of antiquity," p. .) atlantis: the antediluvian world. phered some of the old american writings. he says, 'the alphabet and signs explained by landa have been to me a rosetta stone.?” (baldwin's “ ancient america,” p. .) when we observe, in the table of alphabets of different eu- ropean nations which i give herewith, how greatly the forms of the phænician letters have been modified, it would surprise us to find any resemblance between the maya alphabet of two or three centuries since and the ancient european forms. it must, however, be remembered that the mayas are one of the most conservative peoples in the world. they still adhere with striking pertinacity to the language they spoke when colum- bus landed on san salvador; and it is believed that that lan- guage is the same as the one inscribed on the most ancient monuments of their country. señor pimental says of thein, “ the indians have preserved this idiom with such tenacity that they will speak no other; it is necessary for the whites to address them in their own language to communicate with them.” it is therefore probable, as their alphabet did not pass from nation to nation, as did the phænician, that it has not departed so widely from the original forms received from the colhuas. but when we consider the vast extent of time which has elapsed, and the fact that we are probably without the inter- mediate stages of the alphabet which preceded the archaic phænician, it will be astonishing if we find resemblances be- tween any of the maya letters and the european forms, even though we concede that they are related. if we find decided affinities between two or three letters, we may reasonably pre- sume that similar coincidences existed as to many others which have disappeared under the attrition of centuries. the first thought that occurs to us on examining the landa alphabet is the complex and ornate character of the letters. instead of the two or three strokes with which we indicate a sign for a sound, we have here rude pictures of objects. and we find that these are themselves simplifications of older forms the alphabet. an daony maye pasochhis intentdiada forms stone or moab aso r.c. achaic phanical phoenician il carthagin tan loud greek samarilar irish paal hieratic egrtian *** * * a/ala co d i - a lolala a tf? yule i @xo sina yyyyy imtb c % m w wygw gminy nisi islnls ls lunss! sexis * | { ° p h sloppl p | / / the origin of our alphabet. of a still more complex character. take, for instance, the let- ter pp in landa's alphabet, : here are evidently the traces of a face. the same appear, but not so plainly, in the sign for t, which is s. now, if we turn to the ancient hiero- glyphics upon the monuments of central america, we will find ihe human face appearing in a great many of them, as in the following, which we copy from the tablet of the cross at palenque. we take the bieroglyphs from the left-hand side of the inscription. here it will be seen that, out of scven hieroglyphical figures, six contain human faces. and we find that in the whole inscription of the tab- let of the cross there are figures out of that are made up in part of the human countenance. we can see, therefore, in the landa alphabet a tendency to simplification. and this is what we would naturally expect. when the emblems—which b ) were probably first intended for religious inscrip- tions, where they could be slowly and carefully elab- orated—were placed in the hands of a busy, active, commercial people, such as were the atlanteans, and afterward the phænicians, men with whom time was valuable, the natural tendency would be to simplify and condense them; and when the original meaning of the picture was lost, they would natu- rally slur it, as we find in the letters pp and of the maya alphabet, where the figure of the human face remains only in rude lines. the same tendency is plainly shown in the two forms of the letter h, as given in landa's alphabet; the original form is more elaborate than the variation of it. the original form is on. the variation is given as . now let us suppose this simplification to be carried a step farther: we have seen the upper and lower parts of the first form shrink into a smaller and less claborate shape; let us imagine that the same tenden- cy does away with them altogether; we would then have the atlantis: the antediluvian world. letter h of the maya alphabet represented by this figure, d; now, as it takes less time to make a single stroke than a double one, this would become in time . we turn now to the ar- chaic greek and the old hebrew, and we find the letter h indi- cated by this sign, e, precisely the maya letter h simplified. we turn to the archaic hebrew, and we find it . now it is known that the phænicians wrote from right to left, and just as we in writing from left to right slope our letters to the right, so did the phænicians slope their letters to the left. hence the maya sign becomes in the archaic phænician this, bi in some of the phænician alphabets we even find the letter h. made with the double strokes above and below, as in the mayah. the egyptian hicroglyph for h is while ch is i. in time the greeks carried the work of simplification still farther, and eliminated the top lines, as we have supposed the atlanteans to have climinated the double strokes, and they left the letter as it has come down to us, ii. now it may be said that all this is coincidence. if it is, it is certainly remarkable. but let us go a step farther : we have seen in landa's alphabet that there are two forms of the letter m. the first is g. but we find also an m com- bined with the letter o, a, or e, says landa, in this form, ono. the m here is certainly indicated by the central part of this combination, the figure ; where does that come from? it is clearly taken from the heart of the original figure wherein it appears. what does this prove? that the atlanteans, or mayas, when they sought to simplify their letters and combine them with others, took from the centre of the ornate hiero- glyphical figure some characteristic mark with wbich they rep- resented the whole figure. now let us apply this rule: we have seen in the table of alphabets that in every lan- guage, from our own day to the time of the phænicians, o has been represented by a circle or a circle within a circle. now where did the phænicians get it? clearly from the mayas. there are two figures for o in the maya alphabet; they are the origin of our alphabet. and ; now, if we apply the rule which we have seen to exist in the case of the maya m to these figures, the essential characteristic found in each is the circle, in the first case pen- dant from the hieroglyph; in the other, in the centre of the lower part of it. and that this circle was withdrawn from the hieroglyph, and used alone, as in the case of the m, is proved by the very sign used at the foot of landa's alphabet, which is, aho. landa calls this ma, me, or mo; it is prob- ably the latter, and in it we have the circle detached from the hieroglyph. we find the precise maya o a circle in a circle, or a dot within a circle, repeated in the phænician forms for o, thus, o and o, and by exactly the same forms in the egyptian hieroglyphics; in the runic we have the circle in the circle ; in one form of the greek o the dot was placed along-side of the circle instead of below it, as in the maya. are these another set of coincidences ? take another letter: the letter n of the maya alphabet is represented by this sign, itself probably a simplification of some more ornate form, s. this is something like our letter s, but quite unlike our n. but let us exainine into the pedigree of our n. we find in the archaic ethiopian, a language as old as the egyptian, and which represents the cusbite branch of the atlantean stock, the sign for n (na) is ; in archaic phænician it comes still closer to the s shape, thus, , or in this form, ; we have but to curve these angles to approximate it very closely to the maya n; in troy this form was found, . the samaritan makes it ; the old hebrew ; the moab stone inscription gives it y ; the later phænicians simplified the archaic form still further, until it became ; then it passed into : the archaic greek form is ; the later greeks made n, from which it passed into the present form, n. all these forms seem to be representations of a serpent; we turn to the atlantis: the antediluvian world. valley of the nile, and we find that the egyptian hieroglyphic for n was the serpent, n ; the pelasgian n was ; the ar- cadian, s; the etruscan, . can anything be more significant than to find the serpent the sign for n in central america, and in all these old world languages ? now turn to the letter k. the maya sign for k is . this does not look much like our letter k; but let us examine it. following the precedent established for us by the mayas in the case of the letter m, let us see what is the distinguishing feature here; it is clearly the figure of a serpent standing erect, with its tail doubled around its middle, forming a circle. it has already been remarked by savolini that this erect serpent is very much like the egyptian uræus, an erect serpent with an enlarged body-a sacred emblem found in the hair of their deities. we turn again to the valley of the nile, and we find that the egyptian hieroglyphic for k was a serpent with a convo- lution or protuberance in the middle, precisely as in the maya, thus, q ; this was transformed into the egyptian letter s; the serpent and the protuberance reappear in one of the phæ- nician forms of k, to wit, s ; while in the punic we have these forms, and l. now suppose a busy people trying to give this sign: instead of drawing the serpent in all its details they would abbreviate it into something like this, Ø ; now we turn to the ancient ethiopian sign for k (ka), and we have , or the himyaritic arabian ; while in the phænician it becomes t; in the archaic greek, y; and in the later greek, when they changed the writing from left to right, k. so that the two lines projecting from the upright stroke of our english k are a reminiscence of the convolution of the serpent in the maya original and the egyptian copy. turn now to the maya sign for t: it is ca. what is the distinctive mark about this figure? it is the cross composed of two curved lines, thus, . it is probable that in this the origin of our alphabet. maya sign the cross is united at the bottom, like a figure . here again we turn to the valley of the nile, and we find that the egyptian hieroglyph for t is %* and ^; and in the syr- iac t it is . we even find the curved lines of the maya t, which give it something of the appearance of the numeral , repeated accurately in the mediterranean alphabets; thus the punic t repeats the maya form almost exactly as x and x. now suppose a busy people compelled to make this mark every day for a thousand years, and generally in a hurry, and the cross would soon be made without curving the lines; it would become x. but before it reached even that simplified form it had crossed the atlantic, and appeared in the archaic ethiopian sign for tsa, thus, x. in the archaic phænician the sign for t is and x; the oldest greek form is ®, or x, and the later greeks gave it to the romans t, and modi- fied this into ©; the old hebrew gave it as x and +; the moab stone as x; this became in time † and t. take the letter a. in the maya there are three forms given for this letter. the first is ; the third is . the first looks very much like the foot of a lion or tiger; the third is plainly a foot or boot. if one were required to give hurriedly a rude outline of either of these, would he not represent it thus, d; and can we not conceive that this could have been in time modified into the phænician a, which was d? the hieratic egyptian a was ; the ancient hebrew, which was a , or ; the ancient greek was the foot reversed, a; the later greek became our a. turn next to the maya sign for q (ku): it is . now what is the peculiarity of this hieroglyph? the circle below is not significant, for there are many circular figures in the maya alphabet. clearly, if one was called upon to simplify this, he would retain the two small circles joined side by side at the top, and would indicate the lower circle with a line or dash. and when we turn to the egyptian q we find it in this shape, * atlantis: the antediluvian world. wq; we turn to the ethiopian q (khua), and we find it op, or as qua, d.; wbile the phænician comes still nearer the sup- posed maya form in p; the moab stone was q; the himya- ritic arabian form became q; the greek form was q, which graduated into the roman q. but a still more striking proof of the descent of the phænician alphabet from the maya is found in the other form of the q, the maya cu, which is ). now, if we apply the maya rule to this, and discard the outside circle, we have this left, y. in time the curved line would be made straight, and the figure would assume this form, xl; the next step would be to make the cross on the straight line, thus, *. one of the ancient phænician forms is . can all this be accident? the letter c or g (for the two probably gave the same sound as in the phænician) is given in the maya alphabet as follows, . this would in time be simplified into a figure repre- senting the two sides of a triangle with the apex upward, thus, . this is precisely the form found by dr. schliemann in the ruins of troy, . what is the phænician form for g, as found on the moab stone? it is . the carthaginian phæ- nicians gave it more of a rounded form, thus, n. the hieratic egyptian figure for g was ; in the earlier greek form the left limb of the figure was shortened, thus, ; the later greeks reversed it, and wrote it [; the romans changed this into l, and it finally became c. in the maya we have one sign for p, and another for pp. the first contains a curious figure, precisely like our - laid on its back, f. . there is, apparently, no r in the maya al- phabet; and the roman ~ grew out of the later phænician r formed thus, a; it would appear that the carliest phænician alphabet did not contain the letter r. but if we now turn to the phænician alphabet, we will find one of the curious forms the origin of our alphabet. of the p given thus, s, a very fair representation of an r lying upon its face. is it not another remarkable coincidence that the p, in both maya and phænician, should contain this singu- lar sign? the form of pp in the maya alphabet is this, f. if we are asked, on the principle already indicated, to reduce this. to its elements, we would use a figure like this, h; in time the tendency would be to shorten one of these perpendicular lines, thus, h; and this we find is very much like the phænician p, & the greek ph is d. the letter l in the maya is in two forms; one of these is , the other is oy. now, if we again apply the rule which we observed to hold good with the letter m—that is, draw from the inside of the hieroglyph some symbol that will briefly indicate the whole letter — we will have one of two forms, either a right-angled figure formed thus, b, or an acute angle formed by joining the two lines which are unconnected, thus, k; and either of these forms brings us quite close to the letter l of the old world. we find l on the moab stone thus formed, . the archaic phænician form of i was , or l; the archaic hebrew was z and l; the hieratic egyptian was lo; the greek form was -the roman l. the maya letter b is shaped thus, e. now, if we turn to the phænician, we find that b is represented by the same crescent- like figure which we find in the middle of this hieroglyph, but reversed in the direction of the writing, thus, ); while in the archaic hebrew we have the same crescent figure as in the maya, turned in the same direction, but accompanied by a line drawn downward, and to the left, thus, st; a similar form is also found in the phænician q; and this in the earliest greek changed into , and in the later greek into b. one of the etruscan signs for b was , while the pelasgian b was repre- atlantis: the antediluvian world. sented thus, ]; the chaldaic was ; the syriac sign for b was ; the illyrian b was : the maya e is ; this became in time ; then ... (we see this form on the maya monuments); the dots in time were indicated by strokes, and we reach the hieratic egyptian form, ta: we even find in some of the ancient phænician inscrip- tions the original maya circles preserved in making the let- ter e, thus, ; then we find the old greek form, ; the old hebrew, ; and the later phænician, : when the direction of the writing was changed this became e. dr. schliemann found a form like this on inscriptions deep in the ruins of troy, so. this is exactly the forın found on the american monuments. the maya i isty; this became in time #t; this developed into a still simpler form, a; and this passed into the phæni- cian form, m. the samaritan i was formed thus, mt; the egyptian letter i is : gradually in all these the left-hand line was dropped, and we come to the figure used on the stone of moab, and ; this in time became the old hebrew or z; and this developed into the greek i. we have seen the complicated symbol for m reduced by the mayas themselves into this figure, r: if we attempt to write this rapidly, we find it very difficult to always keep the base lines horizontal; naturally we form something like this, v : the distinctive figure within the sign for m in the maya is a or c. we see this repeated in the egyptian hieroglyphics for m, c, and www, and ; in the chaldaic m, -; and in the ethiopic od. we find one form of the phænician where the m is made thus, lo; and in the punic it appears thus, % ; and this is not unlike the m on the stone of moab, wy, or the ancient phænician forins, w, uy, and the old greek m, or the ancient hebrew w y . the origin of our alphabet. the x, x, of the maya alphabet is a hand pointing downward, ; this, reduced to its elements, would be expressed some- thing like this, iii, or ww; and this is very much like the x of the archaic phænician, ; or the moab stone, f; or the later phænician, t; or the hebrew, }, }; or the old greek, : the later greek form was e. the maya alphabet contains no sign for the letter s; there is, however, a symbol called ca immediately above the letter k; it is probable that the sign ca stands for the soft sound of c, as in our words citron, circle, civil, circus, etc. as it is written in the maya alphabet ca, and not k, it evidently represents a different sound. the sign ca is this, €. a somewhat sim- ilar sign is found in the body of the symbol for k, thus, tt; this would appear to be a simplification of ca, but turned down- ward. if now we turn to the egyptian letters we find the sign k represented by this figure we , simplified again into c ; while the sign for k in the phænician inscription on the stone of moab is . if now we turn to the s sound, indicated by the maya sign ca, , we find the resemblance still more striking to kindred european letters. the phænician s is w ww; in the greek this becomes mm; the hebrew is w w; the sa- maritan, wu. the egyptian hieroglyph for s is yixy; the egyp- tian letters is w; the ethiopic, og; the chaldaic, w; and the illyrian sc is u. we have thus traced back the forms of eighteen of the an- cient letters to the maya alphabet. in some cases the pedigree is so plain as to be indisputable. for instance, take the h: maya, ; old greek, ; old hebrew, ; phænician, e. or take the letter o: maya, o; old greek, o; old ilebrew, ; phænician, o. or take the letter t: maya, ; old greek, Ⓡ; old phænician, (+) and x. tiie origiv of our alphabet. maya, were supplied by imitating the maya sign for b; and it is a curious fact that while the phænician legends clain that taaut invented the art of writing, yet they tell us that taaut made records, and “delivered them to his successors and to foreigners, of whom one was isiris (osiris, the egyptian god), the inventor of the three letters.” did these three letters in- clude the d and r, which they did not receive from the atlan- tean alphabet, as represented to us by the maya alphabet ? in the alphabetical table which we herewith append we have represented the sign v, or vau, or f, by the maya sign for u. “in the present so-called hebrew, as in the syriac, sabaic, pal- myrenic, and some other kindred writings, the vau takes the place of f, and indicates the sounds of v and u. f occurs in the same place also on the idalian tablet of cyprus, in lycian, also in tuarik (berber), and some other writings.” (“ ameri- can cyclopædia,” art. f.) since writing the above, i find in the “proceedings of the american philosophical society” for december, , p. , an interesting article pointing out other resemblances between the maya alphabet and the egyptian. i quote: “it is astonishing to notice that while landa's first b is, ac- cording to valentini, represented by a footprint, and that path and footprint are pronounced be in the maya dictionary, the egyptian sign for b was the human leg. “ still more surprising is it that the ii of landa's alphabet is a tie of cord, while the egyptian h is a twisted cord. ... but the most striking coincidence of all occurs in the coiled or curled line representing landa's u; for it is absolutely identi- cal with the egyptian curled u. the mayan word for to wind or bend is uuc; but why should egyptians, confined as they were to the valley of the nile, and abhorring as they did the sea and sailors, write their u precisely like landa's alphabet u in central america ? there is one other remarkable coinci- dence between landa's and the egyptian alphabets; and, by- the-way, the english and other teutonic dialects have a curi- ouis share in it. landa's d (t) is a disk with lines inside the four quarters, the allowed mexican symbol for a day or sun. atlantis: the antediluvian world. so far as sound is concerned, the english day represents it; so far as the form is concerned, the egyptian cake, ideograph for ( ) country and ( ) the sun's orbit is essentially the same.” it would appear as if both the phænicians and egyptians drew their alphabet from a common source, of which the maya is a survival, but did not borrow from one another. they fol- lowed out different characteristics in the same original biero- glyph, as, for instance, in the letter b. and yet i have shown that the closest resemblances exist between the maya alphabet and the egyptian signs—in the c, h, t, i, k, l, m, n, ,, and s- eleven letters in all; in some cases, as in the n and k, the signs are identical; the k, in both alphabets, is not only a serpent, but a serpent with a protuberance or convolution in the mid- dle! if we add to the above the b and u, referred to in the “ proceedings of the american philosophical society," we have thirteen letters out of sixteen in the maya and egyptian re- lated to each other. can any theory of accidental coincidences account for all this? and it must be remembered that these resemblances are found between the only two phonetic systems of alphabet in the world. let us suppose that two men agree that each shall construct apart from the other a phonetic alphabet of sixteen letters; that they shall employ only simple forms--combinations of straight or curved lines—and that their signs shall not in any- wise resemble the letters now in use. they go to work apart; they have a multitudinous array of forms to draw from-the thousand possible combinations of lines, angles, circles, and curves; when they have finished, they bring their alphabets to- gether for comparison. under such circumstances it is possi- ble that out of the sixteen signs one sign might appear in both alphabets; there is one chance in one hundred that such might be the case; but there is not one chance in five hundred that this sign should in both cases represent the same sound. it is barely possible that two men working thus apart should hit upon two or three identical forms, but altogether impossible the origin of our alphabet. that these forms should have the same significance; and by no stretch of the imagination can it be supposed that in these alpha- bets so created, without correspondence, thirteen out of sixteen signs should be the same in form and the same in meaning. it is probable that a full study of the central american mon- uments may throw stronger light upon the connection between the maya and the european alphabets, and that further discov- eries of inscriptions in europe may approximate the alphabets of the new and old world still more closely by supplying in- termediate forms. we find in the american bieroglypbs peculiar signs which take the place of pictures, and which probably, like the bie- ratic symbols mingled with the hieroglyphics of egypt, repre- sent alphabetical sounds. for instance, we find this sign on the walls of the palace of palenque, e ; this is not unlike the form of the phænician t used in writing, and g; we find also upon these monuments the letter o represented by a small circle, and entering into many of the hieroglyphs; we also find the tau sign (thus t) often repeated; also the sign which we have supposed to represent b, (; also this sign, oo, which we think is the simplification of the letter k; also this sign, which we suppose to represent e, o; also this figure, u; and this, w. there is an evident tendency to reduce the complex figures to simple signs whenever the writers pro- ceed to form words. although it has so far been found difficult, if not impossi- ble, to translate the compound words formed from the maya alphabet, yet we can go far enough to see that they used the system of simpler sounds for the whole hieroglyph to which we have referred. bishop landa gives us, in addition to the alphabet, the signs which represent the days and months, and which are evidently compounds of the maya letters. for instance, we have this figure as the representative of the month mo here we atlantis: the antediluvian world. see very plainly the letter - for m, the sign © for ; and we will possibly find the sign for l in the right angle to the right of the m sign, and which is derived from the figure in the sec- ond sign for l in the maya alphabet. one of the most ancient races of central america is the chiapenec, a branch of the mayas. they claim to be the first settlers of the country. they came, their legends tell us, from the east, from beyond the sea. and even after the lapse of so many thousand years most remarkable resemblances have been found to exist between the chiapenec language and the hebrew, the living representative of the phænician tongue. the mexican scholar, señor melgar (“north americans of antiquity,” p. ) gives the, following list of words taken from the chiapenec and the hebrew : english. chiapenec. hebrew. son .......... ... been.... ..ben. daughter............. ... batz.......... bath. father............... ... abagh ..........abba. star in zodiac........... ...chimax .........chimah. king ............... . molo....... .maloc. name applied to adam. .. abagh ........ .. abah. amicted........ ...chanam...... ...chanan. god................. ... elab............ elab. september... ..tsiquin....... .tischiri. more........ ..chic............ ..chi. rich............ ...chabin..........chabic. son of seth........... .enos. to give.................... votan........... votan. nenec. : : : : : : : .enot... thus, while we find such extraordinary resemblances between the maya alphabet and the phænician alphabet, we find equally surprising coincidences between the chiapenec tongue, a branch of the mayas, and the hebrew, a branch of the phænician. attempts have been repeatedly made by european scholars to trace the letters of the phænician alphabet back to the elab- orate hieroglyphics from which all authorities agree they must the origin of our alphabet. have been developed, but all such attempts have been failures. but here, in the maya alphabet, we are not only able to extract from the heart of the hieroglyphic the typical sign for the sound, but we are able to go a step farther, and, by means of the inscriptions upon the monuments of copan and palenque, deduce the alphabetical hieroglyph itself from an older and more ornate figure; we thus not only discover the relationship of the european alphabet to the american, but we trace its de- scent in the very mode in which reason tells us it must have been developed. all this proves that the similarities in ques- tion did not come from phænicians having accidentally visited the shores of america, but that we have before us the origin, the source, the very matrix in which the phænician alphabet was formed. in the light of such a discovery the inscriptions upon the monuments of central america assume incalculable importance; they take us back to a civilization far anterior to the oldest known in europe; they represent the language of antediluvian times. it may be said that it is improbable that the use of an al- pbabet could have ascended to antediluvian times, or to that prehistoric age when intercourse existed between ancient eu- rope and america; but it must be remembered that if the flood legends of europe and asia are worth anything they prove that the art of writing existed at the date of the deluge, and that records of antediluvian learning were preserved by those who escaped the flood; while plato tells us that the people of atlantis engraved their laws upon columns of bronze and plates of gold. there was a general belief among the ancient nations that the art of writing was known to the antediluvians. the druids believed in books more ancient than the flood. they styled them “the books of pheryllt,” and “the writings of pridian or hu.” “ceridwen consults them before she prepares the mys- terious caldron which shadows out the awful catastrophe of the deluge.” (faber's “pagan idolatry,” vol. ii., pp. , .) atlantis: the antediluvian world. in the first avatar of vishnu we are told that “the divine ordi- nances were stolen by the demon haya-griva. vishnu became a fish; and after the deluge, when the waters had subsided, he recovered the holy books from the bottom of the ocean." bero- sus, speaking of the time before the deluge, says: “oannes wrote concerning the generations of mankind and their civil polity.” the hebrew commentators on genesis say, “ our rab- bins assert that adam, our father of blessed memory, com- posed a book of precepts, which were delivered to bim by god in paradise.” (smith's “sacred annals,” p. .) that is to say, the hebrews preserved a tradition that the ad-ami, the people of ad, or adlantis, possessed, while yet dwelling in paradise, the art of writing. it has been suggested that withi- out the use of letters it would have been impossible to preserve the many details as to dates, ages, and measurements, as of the ark, handed down to us in genesis. josephus, quoting jewish traditions, suys, “ the births and deaths of illustrions men, be- tween adam and noab, were noted down at the time with great accuracy.” (ant., lib. , cap. iii., sec. .) suidas, a greek lexi- cographer of the eleventh century, expresses tradition when lie says, “ adam was the author of arts and letters." the egyp- tians said that their god anubis was an antediluvian, and “wrote annals before the flood.” the chinese bave traditions that the earliest race of their nation, prior to bistory, “ taught all the arts of life and wrote books.” “the goths always had the use of letters ;" and le grand affirms that before or soon after the flood "there were found the acts of great men en- graved in letters on large stones." (fosbroke’s “encyclopædia of antiquity," vol. i., p. .) pliny says, “ letters were always in use.” strabo says, “ the inhabitants of spain possessed rec- ords written before the deluge.” (jackson's “ chronicles of antiquity,” vol. ij., p. .) mitford (“ilistory of greece," vol. i., p. ) says, “nothing appears to us so probable as that it (the alphabet) was derived from the antediluvian world.” atlantis: the antediluvian world. covered the art of combining them, and yet in europe the re- mains of no such age have been found. sir john lubbock says (“prehistoric times,” p. ), “the absence of implements made either of copper or tin scems to me to indicate that the art of making bronze wus introduced into, not invented in, er- rope.” the absence of articles of copper is especially marked; nearly all the european specimens of copper implements have been found in ireland; and yet out of twelve hundred and eighty-three articles of the bronze age, in the great museum at dublin, only thirty celts and one sword-blade are said to be made of pure copper; and even as to some of these there seems to be a question. where on the face of the earth are we to find a copper age? is it in the barbaric depths of that asia out of whose uncivil- ized tribes all civilization is said to have issued ? by no means. again we are compelled to turn to the west. in america, from bolivia to lake superior, we find everywhere the traces of a long-enduring copper age; bronze existed, it is true, in mexi- co, but it held the same relation to the copper as the copper held to the bronze in europe—it was the exception as against the rule. and among the chippeways of the shores of lake superior, and among them alone, we find any traditions of the origin of the manufacture of copper implements; and on the shores of that lake we find pure copper, ont of which the first inetal tools were probably hammered before man had learned to reduce the ore or run the metal into moulds. and on the shores of this same american lake we find the ancient mines from which some people, thousands of years ago, derived their supplies of copper. sir w. r. wilde says, “it is remarkable that so few antique copper implements have been found (in europe), although a knowledge of that metal must have been the preliminary stage in the manufacture of bronze.” he thinks that this may be accounted for by supposing that “but a short time elapsed between the knowledge of smelting and casting copper ore irish mould for casting bronze celts. bronze reaping-hook, switzerland. finger-ring. ear-ring. bronze chisel. bronze hammer. ancient adze, ireland. ini'lements and ornaments of the bronze age. the bronze age in europe. and the introduction of tin, and the subsequent nianufacture and use of bronze.” but here we have in america the evidence that thousands of years must have elapsed during which copper was used alone, before it was discovered that by adding one-tenth part of tin it gave a harder edge, and produced a superior metal. the bronze age cannot be attributed to the roman civiliza- tion. sir john lubbock shows (“prehistoric times," p. ) that bronze weapons have never been found associated with roman coins or pottery, or other remains of the roman peri- od ; that bronze articles have been found in the greatest abun- dance in countries like ireland and denmark, which were never invaded by roman armies; and that the character of the orna- mentation of the works of bronze is not roman in character, and that the roman bronze contained a large proportion of lead, which is never the case in that of the bronze age. it has been custoniary to assume that the bronze age was due to the phænicians, but of late the highest authorities have taken issue with this opinion. sir john lubbock (ibid., p. ) gives the following reasons why the phænicians could not have been the authors of the bronze age: first, the orna- mentation is different. in the bronze age "this always con- sists of geometrical figures, and we rarely, if ever, find upon them representations of animals and plants, while on the or- namented shields, etc., described by homer, as well as in the decoration of solomon's temple, animals and plants were abun- dantly represented.” the cuts on p. will show the char. acter of the ornamentation of the bronze age. in the next place, the form of burial is different in the bronze age from. that of the phænicians. “in the third place, the phænicians, so far as we know them, were well acquainted with the use of iron; in homer we find the warriors already armed with iron weapons, and the tools used in preparing the materials for sol- omon's temple were of this metal.” this view is also held by m. de fallenberg, in the “bulletin tie bronze age iv europe. the phænicians carried to the people of the north only pure bronzes without the alloy of lead. if the civilized people of the mediterranean added lead to their bronzes, it can scarcely be doubted that the calculating phænicians would have done as much, and, at least, with distant and half-civilized tribes, have replaced the more costly tin by the cheaper metal. ... on the whole, then, i consider that the first knowledge of bronze may have been conveyed to the populations of the period under review not only by the phænicians, but by oth- er civilized people dwelling more to the south-east.” professor e. desor, in his work on the “lacustrian con- structions of the lake of neuchatel,” says, “the phænicians certainly knew the use of iron, and it can scarcely be conceived why they should have excluded it from their commerce on the scandinavian coasts. ... the etruscans, moreover, were acquainted with the use of iron as well as the phænicians, and it has already been seen that the composition of their bronzes is different, since it contains lead, which is en- tirely a stranger to our bronze epoch. ... we must look, then, beyond both the etruscans and phænicians in attempting to identify the commerce of the bronze age of our palafittes. it will be the province of the historian to inquire whether, ex- clusive of phænicians and carthaginians, there may not have been some maritime and commercial people who carried on a traffic through the ports of liguria with the populations of the age of bronze of the lakes of italy before the discovery of iron. we may remark, in passing, that there is nothing to prove that the phænicians were the first navigators. history, on the con- trary, positively mentions prisoners, under the name of tokhari, who were vanquished in a naval battle fought by rhamses iii. in the thirteenth century before our era, and whose physiogno- my, according to morton, would indicate the celtic type. now there is room to suppose that if these tokhari were energetic enough to measure their strength on the sea with one of the powerful kings of egypt, they must, with stronger reason, have been in a condition to carry on a commerce along the coasts of the mediterranean, and perhaps of the atlantic. if such a commerce really existed before the time of the phænicians, it would not be limited to the southern slope of the alps; it atlantis: the antediluvian world. would have extended also to the people of the age of bronze in switzerland. the introduction of bronze would thus as- cend to a very high antiquity, doubtless beyond the limits of the most ancient european races." ordicdoo moi for the merchants of the bronze age we must look beyond even the tokhari, who were contemporaries of the phænicians. the tokhari, we have seen, are represented as taken prison- ers in a sea-fight with rhainses iii., of the twentieth dynasty, about the thirteenth century b.c. they are probably the tochari of strabo. the accompanying figure represents one of these people as they appear upon the egyptian monuments. (see nott and glid- don's “types of mankind," p. .) here we have, not an inhabitant of atlantis, but probably a repre- sentative of one of the mixed races that sprung from its colonies. dr. morton thinks these people, celtic warrior, from egyptian as painted on the egyptian monu- ments, to have “strong celtic feat. ures. those familiar with the scotch highlanders may recog- nize a speaking likeness." it is at least interesting to have a portrait of one of the daring race who more than three thousand years ago left the west of europe in their ships to attack the mighty power of egypt. they were troublesome to the nations of the east for many centuries; for in b.c. we find them depicted on the as. syrian monuments. this figure represents one of the tokhari of the time of sennacherib. it will be observed that the head- dress (apparently of feathers) is the same in both portraits, al- though separated by a period of six hundred years. it is more reasonable to suppose that the authors of the monuments. the bronze age in europe. bronze age of europe were the people described by plato, who were workers in metal, who were highly civilized, who pre- ceded in time all the nations which we call ancient. it was this people who passed through an age of copper be- fore they reached the age of bronze, and whose colonies in america repre- sented this older form of metallurgy as it existed for many generations. professor desor says: “we are asked if the preparation of bronze was not an indigenous invention which had originated on the slopes of the alps?... in this idea we acquiesced for a moment. but we are met by the objection that, if this were so, the na- tives, like the ancient tribes of america, would have commenced by manufactur- ing utensils of copper; yet thus far no utensils of this metal have been found except a few in the strand of lake gar- da. the great majority of metallic ob- jects is of bronze, which necessitated the employment of tin, and this could not be obtained except by commerce, veltic warrior, from assyb- inasmuch as it is a stranger to the alps. it would appear, therefore, more nat- ural to admit that the art of combining tin with copper-in other words, that the manufacture of bronze-was of foreign importation." he then shows that, although copper ores are found in the alps, the probability is that even “the copper also was of foreign importation. now, in view of the pro- digious quantity of bronze manufactured at that epoch, this single branch of commerce must itself have necessitated the most incessant commercial communications." ian monuments. and as this commerce could not, as we have seen, have been carried on by the romans, grecks, etruscans, or phænicians, atlantis: the antediluvian world. because their civilizations flourished during the iron age, to which this age of bronze was anterior, where then are we to look for a great maritime and commercial people, who carried vast quantities of copper, tin, and bronze (unalloyed by the lead of the south of europe) to denmark, norway, sweden, ireland, england, france, spain, switzerland, and italy? where can we find them save in that people of atlantis, whose ships, docks, canals, and commerce provoked the astonishment of the ancient egyptians, as recorded by plato. the toltec root for water is atl; the peruvian word for copper is anti (from which, probably, the andes derived their name, as there was a province of anti on their slopes): may it not be that the name of atlantis is derived from these originals, and signified the copper island, or the copper mountains in the sea? and from these came the thousands of tons of copper and tin that must, during the bronze age, have been introduced into europe ? there are no ancient works to indicate that the tin mines of cornwall were worked for any length of time in the early days (see “prehistoric times,” p. ). morlot has pointed out that the bronze implements of hallstadt, in austria, were of foreign origin, because they contain no lead or silver. or, if we are to seek for the source of the vast amount of copper brought into europe somewhere else than in atlantis, may it not be that these supplies were drawn in large part from the shores of lake superior in america ? the mining opera- tions of some ancient people were there carried on upon a gi- gantic scale, not only along the shores of the lake but even far out upon its islands. at isle royale vast works were found, reaching to a depth of sixty feet; great intelligence was shown in following up the richest veins even when interrupted; the excavations were drained by underground drains. on three sections of land on this island the amount of mining exceeded that mined in twenty years in one of our largest mines, with a numerous force constantly employed. in one place the exca. vations extended in a nearly continuous line for two miles. no the bronze age in europe. remains of the dead and no mounds are found near these mines; it would seem, therefore, that the miners came from a distance, and carried their dead back with them. henry gillman (“smith- sonian rep.,” , p. ) supposes that the curious so-called “garden beds” of michigan were the fields from which they drew their supplies of food. he adds, “the discoveries in isle royale throw a new light on the character of the mound builders,' giving us a totally distinct conception of them, and dignifying them with something of the prowess and spirit of adventure which we associate with the higher races. the copper, the result of their mining, to be available, must, in all probability, have been conveyed in ves- sels, great or small, across a treacherous and stormy sea, whose dangers are formidable to us now, being dreaded even by our largest craft, and often proving their destruction. leaving their homes, those men dared to face the unknown, to brave the hardships and perils of the deep and of the wilderness, actu- ated by an ambition which we to-day would not be ashamed to acknowledge.” such vast works in so remote a land must have been inspired by the commercial necessities of some great civilization; and why not by that ancient and mighty people who covered eu- rope, asia, and africa with their manufactures of bronze-and who possessed, as plato tells us, enormous fleets trading to all parts of the inhabited world—whose cities roared with the con- tinual tumult of traffic, whose dominion extended to italy and egypt, and who held parts of “the great opposite continent" of america under their control? a continuous water-way led from the island of atlantis to the gulf of mexico, and thence up the mississippi river and its tributaries almost to these very mines of lake superior. arthur mitchell says (“ the past in the present,” p. ), “the discovery of bronze, and the knowledge of how to make it, may, as a mere intellectual effort, be regarded as rath- er above than below the effort which is involved in the discov- ery and use of iron. as regards bronze, there is first the dis- atlantis': the antediluvian world. covery of copper, and the way of getting it from its ore; then the discovery of tin, and the way to get it from its ore ; and then the further discovery that, by an admixture of tin with copper in proper proportions, an alloy with the qualities of a hard metal can be produced. it is surely no mistake to say that there goes quite as much thinking to this as to the getting of iron from its ore, and the conversion of that iron into steel. there is a considerable leap from stone to bronze, but the leap from bronze to iron is comparatively small. ... it seems highly improbable, if not altogether absurd, that the human mind, at some particular stage of its development, should here, there, and everywhere-independently, and as the result of reaching that stage-discover that an alloy of copper and tin yields a hard metal useful in the manufacture of tools and weapons. there is nothing analogous to such an occurrence in the known history of human progress. it is infinitely more probable that bronze was discovered in one or more centres by one or more men, and that its first use was solely in such centre or centres. that the invention should then be perfected, and its various applications found out, and that it should thereafter spread more or less broadly over the face of the earth, is a thing easi- ly understood." we will find the knowledge of bronze wherever the colonies of atlantis extended, and nowhere else; and plato tells us that the people of atlantis possessed and used that metal. the indications are that the bronze age represents the com- ing in of a new people-a civilized people. with that era, it is believed, appears in europe for the first time the domesticated animals—the horse, the ox, the sheep, the goat, and the hog. (morlot, “smithsonian rep.," , p. .) it was a small race, with very small hands; this is shown in the size of the sword-hilts: they are not large enongh to be used by the pres- ent races of europe. they were a race with long skulls, as con- tradistinguished from the round heads of the stone period. the drawings on the following page represent the types of the two races. this people must have sent out colonies to the shores of france, spain, italy, ireland, denmark, and norway, who bore the bronze age iv europe. a skull of the age of stone, denmark (+ natural size). a skull of the earliest times of the age of irox, denmark (+ natural size). with them the arts and implements of civilized life. they raised crops of grain, as is proved by the bronze sickles found in different parts of europe. it is not even certain that their explorations did not reach to iceland. says humboldt, “when the northmen first landed in iceland (a.d. ), al- though the country was uninhabited, they found there irish books, mass- bells, and other objects which had been left be- hind by earlier visitors, called papar; these papæ (fathers) were the clerici of dicuil. if, then, as we may suppose from the testimony here referred to, these objects belonged to irish monks (papar), who had come from the faroe islands, why should they have been termed in the native sagas · west men' (vestmen), who had come over the sea from the westward' (kommer til vestan um haf)?” (humboldt's “ cosmos," vol. ii., p. .) if they came “from the west” they could not have come from ireland; and the scandinavians may easily have mis- taken atlantean books and bells for irish books and mass- bells. they do not say that there were any evidences that these relics belonged to a people who had recently visited the island; and, as they found the island uninhabited, it would be impossible for them to tell how many years or centuries had elapsed since the books and bells were left there. * atlantis: the antediluvian world. the fact that the implements of the bronze age came from some common centre, and did not originate independently in different countries, is proved by the striking similarity which exists between the bronze implements of regions as widely separated as switzerland, ireland, denmark, and africa. it is not to be supposed that any overland communication existed in that early age between these countries; and the coincidence of design which we find to exist can only be accounted for by the fact that the articles of bronze were obtained from some sca-going people, who carried on a commerce at the same time with all these regions. compare, for instance, these two decorated bronze celts, the first from ireland, the second from denmark; and then com- www ibisii oelt. danisu celt. lig o . denmark. ireland. switzerland. leaf-shaped stone sword, from ancient earth- work on big harpetb river, tennessee. % natural sizo.) sweden. leaf-shaped bronze swords. the bronze age in europe. in tennessee. pare both these with a stone celt found in a mound in tennes- see, given below. here we have the same form precisely. compare the bronze swords in the four preceding illustra- tions—from ireland, sweden, switzerland, and denmark—and then observe the same very peculiar shape- the leaf-shape, as it is called — in the stone sword from big harpeth river, tennessee. we shall find, as we proceed, that the phoe- nicians were unquestionably identified with atlantis, and that it was probably from at- lantis they derived their god baal, or bel, or el, whose name crops out in the bel of the babylonians, the elohim, and the beelzebub of the jews, and the allah of the arabians. and we find that this great deity, whose wor- ship extended so widely among the mediter- ! ranean races, was known and adored also upon stone oelt, mound the northern and western coasts of europe. professor nilsson finds traces of baal worship in scandinavia; he tells us that the festival of baal, or balder, was celebrated on midsummer's night in scania, and far up into norway, al- most to the loffoden islands, until within the last fifty years. the feast of baal, or beltinne, was celebrated in ireland to a late period. i argue from these facts, not that the worship of baal came to ireland and norway from assyria or arabia, but that the same great parent-race which carried the knowledge of baal to the mediterranean brought it also to the western coasts of europe, and with the adoration of baal they import- ed also the implements of bronze now found in such abundance in those regions. the same similarity of form exists in the bronze knives from denmark and switzerland, as represented in the illustrations on p. . in the central figure we have a representation of an egyp- tian-looking man holding a cup before him. we shall see, as. atlantis: the antediluvian world. we proceed, that the magnetic needle, or “mariner's compass," dates back to the days of hercules, and that it consisted of a bar of magnetized ) ay iron floating upon a piece of wood in a bronze knives from denmark. cup. it is possible that in this ancient relic of the bronze age we have a rep- resentation of the magnetic cup. the magnetic needle must certainly have been an object of great interest to a people who, through its agency, were able to carry on commerce on all the shores of europe, from the mediterra- nean to the baltic. the second knife bronze knives from represented above has upon its handle a wheel, or cross surrounded by a ring, which, we shall see here: after, was pre-eminently the symbol of atlantis. bwitzerland, the bronze age in europe. dimua if we are satisfied that these implements of bronze were the work of the artisans of atlantis—of the antediluvians—they must acquire additional and ex- traordinary interest in our eyes, and we turn to them to learn something of the habits and cus- toms of "that great, original, broad-eyed, sunken race.” we find among the relics of the bronze age an urn, which probably gives us some idea of the houses of the atlanteans: it is evidently made to represent a house, and shows us even the hut urn, albano. rude fashion in which they fast- ened their doors. the mandan indians built round houses very much of this appearance. the museum at munich contains a very interesting piece of pottery, which is supposed to represent one of the lake villages or hamlets of the era when the people of switzerland dwelt in houses erect- ed on piles driven into the bottom of the lakes of that country. the accompanying il- lustration represents it. the double spi- ral ornament upon it shows that it belongs to the bronze age. among the curious relics of the bronze age are a number of razor-like knives; from which we may conclude that the habit of shaving the whole or some part of the face or head bronze lake village. atlantis: the antediluvian world. dates back to a great antiquity. the illustrations below repre. sent them. these knives were found in denmark. the figures upon them represent ships, and it is not impossible that their curi- ous appendages may have been a primitive kind of sails. an examination of the second of these bronze knives rereals a singular feature: upon the handle of the razor there are ten wa n rronze razor-knives. series of lines; the stars in the sky are ten in number; and there were probably ten rings at the left-hand side of the fig- ure, two being obliterated. there were, we are told, ten sub- kingdoms in atlantis ; and precisely as the thirteen 'stripes on the american flag symbolize the thirteen original states of the union, so the recurrence of the figure ten in the emblems upon the bronze age in europe. this bronze implement may have reference to the ten sub- divisions of atlantis. the large object in the middle of this ship may be in- tended to represent a palm - tree — the symbol, as we shall see, in america, of aztlan, or atlantis. we have but to compare the pictures of the ships upon these ancient razor-knives with the ac- companying representations of a roman galley and a ship of william the conqueror's time, to see that there can be no question that they represented the galleys of that remote age. they are doubtless faithful portraits of the great vessels which plato described as filling the harbors of atlantis. ancient galley, from a boman ooin. fotoattom ship of william the conqueror. we give on page a representation of a bronze dagger found in ireland, a strongly-made weapon. the cut below it represents the only implement of the bronze age yet found con- taining an inscription. it has been impossible to decipher it, or even to tell to what group of languages its alphabet belongs. atlantis: the antediluvian world. ds it is proper to note, in connection with a discussion of the bronze age, that our word bronze is derived from the basque, or iberian broncea, from which the spanish derive bronce, and the italians bronzo. the copper mines of the basques were extensively worked at a very early age of the world, either by the people of atlantis or by the basques themselves, a colony from at- lantis. the probabilities are that the name for bronze, as well as the metal itself, dates back to plato's island. i give some illustrations on pages and of ornaments and implements of the bronze age, which may serve to throw light upon the habits of the an- cient people. it will be seen that they had reached a considerable degree of civilization ; that they raised crops of grain, and cut them with sickles; that their women ornamented themselves with bracelets, armlets, ear- rings, finger- rings, hair-pins, and amulets; that their me- chanics used hammers, adzes, and chis- els; and that they possessed very fair specimens of pottery. sir john lub- bock argues (“ prehistoric times,” pp. , , etc.): “a new civilization is indicated not only by the mere presence of bronze unit relirrrrrrullrirrrrrrrrrrrr rusilicitudieguistuimillilunch irisii bronze dagger, da sad » inscribed celt. the bronze age in europe. but by the beauty and variety of the articles made from it. we find not only, as before, during the stone age, axes, arrows, and knives, but, in addition, swords, lances, sickles, fish - hooks, ear-rings, bracelets, pins, rings, and a variety of other articles.” if the bronze implements of eu- rope had been derived from the phæ- nicians, greeks, etruscans, or ro- mans, the nearer we approached the site of those nations the greater should be the number of bronze weapons we would find; but the re- verse is the case. sir john lubbock (“prehistoric times,” p. ) shows that more than three hundred and fifty bronze swords have been found in den- mark, and that the dublin museum con- tains twelve hundred and eighty-three bronze weapons found in ireland ; "while," he says, “i have only been able to hear of six bronze swords in all italy.” this state of things is inexplica- ble unless we suppose that ireland and den- mark received their bronze implements di- rectly from some mar- itime nation whose pl bronze tiair-pina. atlantis: the antediluvian world. site was practically as near their shores as it was to the shores of the mediterranean. we have but to look at our map on page , ante, to see that atlantis was considerably nearer to ireland than it was to italy. the striking resemblance between the bronze implements found in the different portions of europe is another proof that they were derived from one and the same source-froin some great mercantile people who carried on their commerce at the same time with denmark, norway, ireland, spain, greece, ita- ly, egypt, switzerland, and hungary. mr. wright (“essays on archæology,” p. ) says, “whenever we find the bronze swords or celts, whether in ireland, in the far west, in scotland, in distant scandinavia, in germany, or still farther east, in the sclavonic countries, they are the same—not similar in char- acter, but identical.” says sir john lubbock (“prehistoric times,” p. ), “not only are the several varieties of celts lo hl asses re vases from mounds in tie mississippi valley. found throughout europe alike, but some of the swords, knives, daggers, etc., are so similar that they seem as if they must have been cast by the same maker.” what race was there, other than the people of atlantis, that existed before the iron age-before the greek, roman, etrus- ... the bronze age in europe. can, and phænician--that was civilized, that worked in metals, that carried on a commerce with all parts of europe ? does history. or tradition make mention of any such ? we find a great resemblance between the pottery of the bronze-age in europe and the pottery of the ancient inhabi- tants of america. the two figures on page represent vases from one of the mounds of the mississippi valley. compare them with the following from the lake dwellings of switzer- land: vases frox switzerland. it will be seen that these vases could scarcely stand upright unsupported; and we find that the ancient inhabitants of switz- erland had circles or rings of baked earth in which they placed them when in use, as in the an- nexed figure. the mound build- ers used the same contrivance. the illustrations of discoidal stones on page are from the “north americans of antiquity," p. . the objects represented were taken from an ancient mound in illinois. it would be ancient swiss vase and sup- indeed surprising if two distinct peoples, living in two different continents, thousands of miles m porter, atlantis: the antediluvian world. apart, should, without any intercourse with each oth- er, not only form their vases in the same inconven- ient form, but should hit upon the same expedient as a remedy. we observe, in the american spear-head and the swiss hatchets, on the opposite page, the same over- lapping of the metal around the staff, or handle-a very peculiar mode of uniting them together, which has now passed out of use. a favorite design of the nien of the bronze age in europe is the spiral or double-spiral form. it appears on the face of the urn in the shape of a lake dwelling, which is given on p. ; it also appears in the rock sculptures of argyleshire, scotland, here shown. spirals, from tland. central america. switzerland. bronze chisels. we find the same figure in an ancient fragment of pottery from the little colorado, as given in the “united states pacific railroad survey report,” vol. iii., p. , art. pottery. it was part of a large vessel. the an- nexed illustration represents this. the same design is also found in bpieal, from new mexico. ancient rock etchings of the zuñis of new mexico, of which the cut on p. is an illustration. discoidal stones, illinois. oopper spear-head, lake superior bronze datohets, switzerland. -- --- - ---- ----- -- - - the bronze age in europe. spiral, from new mexioo. ce we also find this figure repeated upon a vase from a mississippi valley mound, which we give elsewhere. (see p. .) it is found upon many of the monuments of central america. in the treasure house of atreus, at mycenæ, greece, a fragment of a pillar was found which is literally covered with this double- spiral design. (see “rosengarten's architectural styles," p. .) this treasure house of atreus is one of the oldest buildings in greece. we find the double-spiral figure upon a shell ornament found on the breast of a skeleton, in a care- fully constructed stone coffin, in a mound near nashville, tennessee. lenormant remarks (“anc. civil.,” vol. ii., p. ) that the bronze implements found in egypt, near memphis, bad been buried for six thousand years ; and that at that time, as the egyptians had a horror of the sca, some coinmercial na- tion must bave brought the tin, of which the bronze was in part composed, from in- dia, the caucasus, or spain, the nearest points to egypt in which tin is found. heer has shown that the civilized plants of the lake dwellings are not of asiatic, but of african, and, to a great extent, of egyptian origin. their stone axes are made largely of jade or siell ornament, mound near nashville, tennessee. atlantis: the antediluvian world. nephrite, "a mineral which, strange to say, geologists have not found in place on the continent of europe.” (foster's “ prehistoric races," p. .) compare this pict- ure of a copper axe from a mound near laporte, indiana, with this representation of a copper axe of the copper axe, from a mound bronze age, found copper axe, water- near waterford, ire- land. professor foster pronounces them almost identical. compare this specimen of pottery from the lake dwellings of switzerland with the following specimen from san josé, near laporte, indiana. ford, ireland, fragment of pottery, lake neuf- guatel, switzerland. fragment of pottery, san josÉ, mexioo. mexico. professor foster calls attention to the striking resem- blance in the designs of these two widely separated works of art, one belonging to the bronze age of europe, the other to the copper age of america. these, then, in conclusion, are our reasons for believing that the bronze age of europe has relation to atlantis : . the admitted fact that it is anterior in time to the iron age relegates it to a great antiquity. . the fact that it is, anterior in time to the iron age is the bronze age in europe. conclusive that it is not due to any of the known european 'or asiatic nations, all of which belong to the iron age. . the fact that there was in europe, asia, or africa no cop- per or tin age prior to the bronze age, is conclusive testimony that the manufacture of bronze was an importation into those continents from some foreign country. . the fact that in america alone of all the world is found the copper age, which must necessarily have preceded the bronze age, teaches us to look to the westward of europe and beyond the sea for that foreign country . we find many similarities in forms of implements be- tween the bronze age of europe and the copper age of america. . if plato told the truth, the atlanteans were a great com- mercial nation, trading to america and europe, and, at the same time, they possessed bronze, and were great workers in the other metals. . we shall see hereafter that the mythological traditions of greece referred to a bronze age which preceded an iron age, and placed this in the land of the gods, which was an island in the atlantic ocean, beyond the pillars of hercules; and this land was, as we shall see, clearly atlantis. . as we find but a small development of the bronze age in america, it is reasonable to suppose that there must have been some intermediate station between america and europe, where, during a long period of time, the bronze age was de- veloped out of the copper age, and immense quantities of bronze implements were manufactured and carried to europe. atlantis: the antediluvian world. chapter ix. artificial deformation of the skull. an examination of the american monuments shows (see fig- ure on page ) that the people represented were in the habit of flattening the skull by artificial means. the greek and roman writers had mentioned this practice, but it was long totally forgotten by the civilized world, until it was discover- ed, as an unheard-of wonder, to be the usage among the ca- rib islanders, and several indian tribes in north america. it was afterward found that the ancient peruvians and mexicans practised this art: several flattened peruvian skulls are depict- ed in morton's “ crania americana." it is still in use among the flat-head indians of the north-western part of the united states. in a remarkable memoir appeared from the pen of m. ratlıke, showing that similar skulls had been found near kertsch, in the crimea, and calling attention to the book of hippocrates, “ de aeris, aquis et locu,” lib. iv., and a passage of strabo, which speaks of the practice among the scythians. in dr. fitzinger published a learned memoir on the skulls of the avars, a branch of the uralian race of turks. he shows that the practice of flattening the head had existed from an early date throughout the east, and described an ancient skull, greatly distorted by artificial means, which had lately been found in lower austria. skulls similarly flattened have been found in switzerland and savoy. the luns under attila had the same practice of flattening the heads. professor anders retzius proved (see “smithsonian report," ) that the cus- tom still exists in the south of france, and in parts of turkey. artificial deformation of the skull. “not long since a french physician surprised the world by the fact that nurses in normandy were still giving the chil- dren's heads a sugar-loaf shape by bandages and a tight cap, stuooo bass-relief in the palace of palenque. wbile in brittany they preferred to press it round. no doubt they are doing so to this day.” (tylor's “anthropology," p. .) professor wilson remarks: “trifling as it may appear, it is not without interest to have the fact brought under our notice, by the disclosures of ancient atlantis: the antediluvian world, barrows and cysts, that the same practice of nursing the child and carrying it about, bound to a flat cradle-board, prevailed in britain and the north of europe long before the first notices of written history reveal the presence of man beyond the baltic or the english channel, and that in all probability the same cus- tom prevailed continuously from the shores of the german ocean to behring's strait.” (“smithsonian report,” , p. .) inwill dr. l. a. gosse testifics to the prevalence of the same custom among the caledonians and scandinavians in the earliest times; and dr. thurman has treated of the same peculiarity among the anglo-saxons. (“ crania britannica," chap. iv., p. .) here, then, is an extraor- dinary and unnatural prac- tice which has existed from the highest antiquity, over vast regions of country, on both sides of the atlantic, and which is perpetuated unto this day in races as widely separated as the turks, the french, and the flat-head indians. is it possible to explain this ex- cept by supposing that it originated from some com- mon centre ? the annexed cut repre- sents an ancient swiss skull, from a cemetery near lau- sanne, from a drawing of frederick troyon. compare this with the illustration given on page , which represents a peruvian flat-head, copied from morton's “ethnography and archæology of the american aborigines," . this skull is shockingly distorted. the dotted lines indicate the course of the band- ages by which the skull was deformed. ancient swiss skull. artificial deformation of the skull. peruvian skull ohinook (flat-head), after oatlin. the following heads are from del rio's “ account of pa- lenque,” copied into nott and gliddon's “ types of mankind,” p. . they show that the receding forehead was a natural characteristic of the ancient people of central america. the same form of head has been found even in fossil skulls. we may therefore conclude that the skull-flattening, which we find to have been practised in both the old and new worlds, was atlantis: the antediluvian world. an attempt of other races to imitate the form of skull of a peo- ple whose likenesses are found on the monuments of egypt and of america. it has been shown that this peculiar form of the head was present even in the fætus of the peruvian mummies. hippocrates tells us that the practice among the scythians was for the purpose of giving a certain aristocratic distinction. heads from palenque. amedee thierry, in his “history of attila," says the huns used it for the same reason; and the same purpose influences the indians of oregon. dr. lund, a swedish naturalist, found in the bone caves of minas-geraes, brazil, ancient human bones associated with the remains of extinct quadrupeds. “these skulls,” says lund, “show not only the peculiarity of the american race but in an excessive degree, even to the entire disappearance of the fore- head.” sir robert schomburgh found on some of the affluents of the orinoco a tribe known as frog indians, whose heads were flattened by nature, as shown in newly-born children. artificial deformation of the skull. and in the accompanying plate we show the difference in the conformation of the fore- head in various races. the upper dotted line, a, rep- resents the shape of the european forehead; the next line, b, that of the australian ; the next, c, that of the mound build- er of the united states; outlines of skulls of different races. the next, d, that of the guanche of the canary islands; and the next, e, that of a skull from the inca cemetery of peru. we have but to com- pare these lines with the skulls of the egyptians, kurds, and the heroic type of heads in the statues of the gods of greece, to see that there was formerly an ancient race marked by a receding forehead; and that the practice of flattening the skull was probably an attempt to approximate the shape of the head to this standard of an early civilized and dominant people. not only do we find the same receding forehead in the skulls of the ancient races of europe and america, and the same at- tempt to imitate this natural and peculiar conformation by arti- ficial flattening of the head, but it has been found (see henry gillman's “ancient man in michigan,” “smithsonian report," , p. ) that the mound builders and peruvians of amer- ica, and the neolithic people of france and the canary islands, had alike an extraordinary custom of boring a circular hole in the top of the skulls of their dead, so that the soul might readily pass in and out. more than this, it has been found that in all these ancient populations the skeletons exhibit a remarkable degree of platicnemism, or flattening of the tibiæ or leg bones. (ibid., , p. .) in this respect the mound builders of michigan were identical with the man of cro mag- non and the ancient inhabitants of wales. * atlantis: the antediluvian world. the annexed ancient egyptian heads, copied from the mon- uments, indicate either that the people of the nile deformed their heads by pressure upon the front of the skull, or that egyptian heads. there was some race characteristic which gave this appearance to their heads. these heads are all the heads of priests, and therefore represented the aristocratic class. the first illustration below is taken from a stucco relief found in a temple at palenque, central america. the sec- ond is from an egyptian monu- inent of the time of rameses iv. the outline draw- ing on the following egyptian head. page shows the form central american head. artificial deformation of the skull. of the skull of the royal inca line: the receding forehead here seems to be natural, and not the result of artificial compression. both illustrations at the bottom of the preceding page show the same receding form of the forehead, due to either artificial deformation of the skull or to a common race charac- teristic. we must add the fact that the extraordinary prac- tice of deforming the skull was found all over europe and america to the cata- logue of other proofs that the people of both conti- nents were originally united in blood and race. with the couvade, the practice of circumcision, unity of relig- ious beliefs and customs, folk-lore, and alphabetical signs, lan- guage and flood legends, we array together a mass of unan- swerable proofs of prehistoric identity of race. peruvlan inoa bkull, from the ancient cemetery of pacuacamao. atlantis: the antediluvian world. part iv. the mythologies of the old world a recollection of atlantis. chapter i. traditions of atlantis. we find allusions to the atlanteans in the most ancient traditions of many different races. the great antediluvian king of the mussulman was shedd- ad-ben-ad, or shed-ad, the son of ad, or atlantis. among the arabians the first inhabitants of that country are known as the adites, from their progenitor, who is called ad, v the grandson of ham. these adites were probably the people of atlantis or ad-lantis. “they are personified by a monarch to whom everything is ascribed, and to whom is assigned sev- eral centuries of life." ("ancient history of the east," lenor- mant and chevallier, vol. ii., p. .) ad came from the north- cast. “he married a thousand wives, had four thousand sons, and lived twelve hundred years. iiis descendants multiplied con- siderably. after his death his sons shadid and shedad reign- ed in succession over the adites. in the time of the latter the people of ad were a thousand tribes, each composed of several thousands of men. great conquests are attributed to shedad; he subdued, it is said, all arabia and irak. the migration of the canaanites, their establishment in syria, and the shepherd invasion of egypt are, by many arab writers, attributed to an expedition of shedad.” (ibid., p. .) traditions of atlantis. shedad built a palace ornamented with superb columns, and surrounded by a magnificent garden. it was called irem. “it was a paradise that shedad had built in imitation of the celes- tial paradise, of whose delights he had heard.” (“ancient history of the east," p. .) in other words, an ancient, sun-worshipping, powerful, and conquering race overran arabia at the very dawn of history; they were the sons of adlantis : their king tried to create a palace and garden of eden like that of atlantis. the adites are remembered by the arabians as a great and civilized race. “they are depicted as men of gigantic stature; their strength was equal to their size, and they easily moved enormous blocks of stone.” (ibid.) they were architects and builders. “they raised many monuments of their power; and hence, among the arabs, arose the custom of calling great ruins "buildings of the adites.” to this day the arabs say “as old as ad.” in the koran allusion is made to the edifices they built on “high places for vain uses;" expressions proving that their “ idolatry was considered to have been tainted with sa- bæism or star-worship.” (ibid.) “in these legends," says le- normant, “ we find traces of a wealthy nation, constructors of great buildings, with an advanced civilization, analogous to that of chaldea, professing a religion similar to the babylonian; a nation, in short, with whom material progress was allied to great moral depravity and obscene rites. these facts must be true and strictly historical, for they are everywhere met with among the cushites, as among the canaanites, their brothers by origin." nor is there wanting a great catastrophe which destroys the whole adite nation, except a very few who escape because they had renounced idolatry. a black cloud assails their country, from which proceeds a terrible hurricane (the water-spout ?) which sweeps away everything. the first adites were followed by a second adite race; prob- ably the colonists who had escaped the deluge. the centre of its power was the country of sheba proper. this empire atlantis: the antediluvian world. endured for a thousand years. the adites are represented upon the egyptian monuments as very much like the egyp- tians themselves; in other words, they were a red or sunburnt race: their great temples were pyramidal, surmounted by build- ings. (“ancient history of the east,” p. .) “the sabæ- ans," says agatharchides (“de mari erythræo,” p. ), “ have in their houses an incredible number of vases, and utensils of all sorts, of gold and silver, beds and tripods of silver, and all the furniture of astonishing richness. their buildings have porticos with columns sheathed with gold, or surmounted by capitals of silver. on the friezes, ornaments, and the frame- work of the doors they place plates of gold incrusted with precious stones.” all this reminds one of the descriptions given by the span- iards of the temples of the suy in peru. the adites worshipped the gods of the phænicians under names but slightly changed ; "their religion was especially solar. ... it was originally a religion without images, without idolatry, and without a priesthood.” (ibid., p. .) they “worshipped the sun from the tops of pyramids.” (ibid.) they believed in the immortality of the soul. in all these things we see resemblances to the atlanteans. the great ethiopian or cushite empire, which in the earli- est ages prevailed, as mr. rawlinson says, “from the caucasus to the indian ocean, from the shores of the mediterranean to the mouth of the ganges," was the empire of dionysos, the empire of “ad," the empire of atlantis. el eldrisi called the language spoken to this day by the arabs of mahrah, in east- crn arabia, “the language of the people of ad," and dr. j. h. carter, in the bombay journal of july, , says, “it is the softest and sweetest language i have ever heard.” it would be interesting to compare this primitive tongue with the lan- guages of central america. the god thoth of the egyptians, who was the god of a for- eign country, and who invented letters, was called at-hothes. atlantis: the antediluvian world. originally kings of atlantis. but it seems that these ancient divinities are grouped together as “the aditya ;" and in this name “ad-itya" we find a strong likeness to the semitic“ ad- ites," and another reminiscence of atlantis, or adlantis. in corroboration of this view we find, . the gods who are grouped together as the aditya are the most ancient in the hindoo mythology. . they are all gods of light, or solar gods. (whitney's “oriental and linguistic studies," p. .) . there are twelve of them. (ibid.) . these twelve gods presided over twelve months in the year. . they are a dim recollection of a very remote past. says whitney, “it seems as if here was an attempt on the part of the indian religion to take a new development in a moral direc- tion, which a change in the character and circunstances of the people has caused to fail in the midst, and fall back again into forgetfulness, while yet half finished and indistinct.” (ibid.) . these gods are called “the sons of aditi," just as in the bible we have allusions to “the sons of adah,” who were the first metallurgists and musicians. “aditi” is not a goddess. she is addressed as a queen's daughter, “she of fair cbil- dren.” ; . the aditya “are elevated above all imperfections; they do not sleep or wink.” the greeks represented their gods as equally wakeful and omniscient. “their character is all truth ; they hate and punish guilt.” we have seen the same traits ascribed by the greeks to the atlantean kings. . the sun is sometimes addressed as an aditya. . among the aditya is varuna, the equivalent of uranos, whose identification with atlantis i have shown. in the ve- das varuna is “the god of the ocean." . the aditya represent an earlier and purer form of relig- ion: “while in hymns to the other deities long life, wealth, power, are the objects commonly prayed for, of the aditya is traditions of atlantis. craved purity, forgiveness of sin, freedom from guilt, and re- pentance." ("oriental and linguistic studies," p. .) . the aditya, like the adites, are identified with the doc- trine of the immortality of the soul. yama is the god of the abode beyond the grave. in the persian story he appears as yima, and “is made ruler of the golden age and founder of the paradise.” (ibid., p. .) (see“ zamna," p. ante.) in view of all these facts, one cannot doubt that the legends of the “sons of ad," " the adites," and "the aditya,” all refer to atlantis. mr. george smith, in the chaldean account of the creation (p. ), deciphered from the babylonian tablets, shows that there was an original race of men at the beginning of chaldean history, a dark race, the zalmat-qaqadi, who were called ad-mi, or ad-ami; they were the race. “ who had fallen,” and were contradistinguished from " the sarku, or light race.” the “fall” probably refers to their destruction by a deluge, in con- sequence of their moral degradation and the indignation of the gods. the name adam is used in these legends, but as the name of a race, not of a man. genesis (chap. v., ) distinctly says that god created man male and female, and “called their name adam.” that is to say, the people were the ad-ami, the people of “ ad," or atlantis. “the author of the book of genesis,” says m. schobel, “in speaking of the men who were swallowed up by the deluge, always describes them as 'haadam,'« adamite hu- manity.'” the race of cain lived and multiplied far away from the land of seth; in other words, far from the land de- stroyed by the deluge. josephus, who gives us the primitive traditions of the jews, tells us (chap. ii., p. ) that “cain travelled over many countries" before he came to the land of nod. the bible does not tell us that the race of cain perished in the deluge. “cain went out from the presence of jehovah ;" he did not call on his name; the people that were destroyed were the “sons of jehovah." all this indi- atlantis: tie antediluvian world. cates that large colonies had been sent out by the mother-land before it sunk in the sea. across the ocean we find the people of guatemala claiming their descent from a goddess called at-tit, or grandmother, who lived for four hundred years, and first taught the worship of the true god, which they afterward forgot. (bancroft's “na- tive races,” vol. iii., p. .) while the famous mexican calen- dar stone shows that the sun was commonly called tonatiuh, but when it was referred to as the god of the deluge it was then called atl-tona-ti-uh, or at-onatiuh. (valentini's “mexi- can calendar stone,” art. maya archæology, p. .) we thus find the sons of ad at the base of all the most ancient races of men, to wit, the hebrews, the arabians, the chaldeans, the ilindoos, the persians, the egyptians, the etbi- opians, the mexicans, and the central americans; testimony that all these races traced their beginning back to a dimly-re- membered ad-lantis. kings of atlantis the gods of the greeks. chapter ii. the kings of atlantis become the gods of the greeks. lord bacon said : “the mythology of the greeks, which their oldest writers do not pretend to have invented, was no more than a light air, which had passed from a more ancient people into the flutes of the greeks, which they modulated to such descants as best suit- ed their fancies.” this profoundly wise and great man, who has illuminated every subject which he has touched, guessed very close to the truth in this utterance. the hon. w. e. gladstone has had quite a debate of late with mr. cox as to whether the greek mythology was under- laid by a nature worship, or a planetary or solar worship. peru, worshipping the sun and moon and planets, probably represents very closely the simple and primitive religion of at- lantis, with its sacrifices of fruits and flowers. this passed directly to their colony in egypt. we find the egyptians in their early ages sun and planet worshippers. ptah was the object of their highest adoration. iie is the father of the god of the sun, the ruler of the region of light. ra was the sun- god. he was the supreme divinity at on, or heliopolis, near memphis. his symbol was the solar disk, supported by two rings. he created all that exists below the heavens. the babylonian trinity was composed of hea, anu, and bel. bel represented the sun, and was the favorite god. sin was the goddess of the moon. the phænicians were also sun-worshippers. the sun was atlantis: tie antediluvian world. represented by baal-samin, the great god, the god of light and the heavens, the creator and rejuvenator. “the attributes of both baal and moloch (the good and bad powers of the sun) were united in the phænician god melkart, “king of the city," whom the inhabitants of tyre considered their special patron. the greeks called him “melicertes," and identitied him with hercules. by his great strength and pow- er he turned evil into good, brought life out of destruction, pulled back the sun to the earth at the time of the solstices, lessened excessive heat and cold, and rectified the evil signs of the zodiac. in phænician legends he conquers the suvage races of distant coasts, founds the ancient settlements on the mediterranean, and plants the rocks in the straits of gibral- tar. (“ american cyclopædia,” art. mythology.) the egyptians worshipped the sun under the name of ra; the hindoos worshipped the sun under the name of rama; while the great festival of the sun, of the peruvians, was called ray-mi. of sun-worship, as the ancient religion of atlantis, underlies all the superstitions of the colonies of that country. the sam- dyed woman says to the sun,“ when thou, god, risest, i too rise from my bed.” every morning even now the brahmans stand on one foot, with their hands held out before them and their faces turned to the east, adoring the sun. “in germa- ny or france one may still see the peasant take off his hat to the rising sun." (" anthropology," p. .) the romans, even, in later times, worshipped the sun at emesa, under the name of elagabalus, " typified in the form of a black conical stone, which it was believed had fallen from heaven.” the conical stone was the emblem of bel. did it have relation to the mounds and pyramids ? sun-worship was the primitive religion of the red men of america. it was found among all the tribes. (dorman, “ori- gin of primitive superstitions, p. .) the chichiinecs called the sun their father. the comanches have a similar belief. but, compared with such ancient nations as the egyptians kings of atlantis the gods of the greeks. and babylonians, the greeks were children. a priest of sais said to solon, “you greeks are novices in knowledge of antiquity. you are ignorant of what passed either here or among yourselves in days of old. the history of eight thousand years is deposited in our sacred books; but i can ascend to a much higher antiq- uity, and tell you what our fathers have done for nine thousand years; i mean their institutions, their laws, and their most brilliant achievements.” the greeks, too young to have shared in the religion of at- lantis, but preserving some memory of that great country and its history, proceeded to convert its kings into gods, and to de- pict atlantis itself as the heaven of the human race. thus we find a great solar or nature worship in the elder nations, wbile greece has nothing but an incongruous jumble of gods and goddesses, who are born and cat and drink and make love and ravish and steal and die; and who are worshipped as immortal in presence of the very monuments that testify to their death. “these deities, to whom the affairs of the world were in- trusted, were, it is believed, immortal, though not eternal in their existence. in crete there was even a story of the death of zeus, his tomb being pointed out.” (murray's “mytholo- gy," p. .) the history of atlantis is the key of the greek mythology. there can be no question that these gods of greece were hu- man beings. the tendency to attach divine attributes to great earthly rulers is one deeply implanted in human nature. the savages who killed captain cook firmly believed that he was immortal, that he was yet alive, and would return to punish them. the highly civilized romans made gods out of their dead emperors. dr. livingstone mentions that on one occa- sion, after talking to a bushman for some time about the deity, he found that the savage thought he was speaking of sekomi, the principal chief of the district. we find the barbarians of the coast of the mediterranean re- atlantis: the antediluvian world. garding the civilized people of atlantis with awe and wonder: “ their physical strength was extraordinary, the earth shaking sometimes under their tread. whatever they did was done speedily. they moved through space almost without the loss of a moment of time.” this probably alluded to the rapid motion of their sailing - vessels. “they were wise, and com- municated their wisdom to men.” that is to say, they civil- ized the people they came in contact with. “they had a strict sense of justice, and punished crime rigorously, and rewarded noble actions, though it is true they were less conspicuous for the latter.” (murray's “mythology," p. .) we should under- stand this to mean that where they colonized they established a government of law, as contradistinguished from the anarchy of barbarism. “there were tales of personal visits and adventures of the gods among men, taking part in battles and appearing in dreams. they were conceived to possess the form of human beings, and to be, like men, subject to love and pain, but al- ways characterized by the highest qualities and grandest forms that could be imagined.” (ibid.) another proof that the gods of the greeks were but the dei- fied kings of atlantis is found in the fact that "the gods were not looked upon as having created the world.” they succeed- ed to the management of a world already in existence. the gods dwelt on olympus. they lived together like hu- man beings; they possessed palaces, storehouses, stables, horses, etc.; "they dwelt in a social state which was but a magnified reflection of the social system on earth. quarrels, love pas- sages, mutual assistance, and such instances as characterize hu- man life, were ascribed to them.” (ibid., p. .) where was olympus? it was in atlantis. “the ocean en- circled the earth with a great stream, and was a region of won- ders of all kinds.” (ibid., p. .) it was a great island, the then civilized world. the “encircling ocean” was spoken of in all the ancient legends. “okeanos lived there with his wife kings of atlantis the gods of the greeks. - tethys: these were the islands of the blessed, the garden of the gods, the sources of the nectar and ambrosia on which the gods lived.” (murray’s “ mythology," p. .) nectar was probably a fermented intoxicating liquor, and ambrosia bread made from wheat. soma was a kind of whiskey, and the hindoos deified it. “the gods lived on nectar and ambrosia" simply meant that the inhabitants of these blessed islands were civilized, and possessed a liquor of some kind and a species of food superior to anything in use among the barbarous tribes with whom they came in contact. this blessed land answers to the description of atlantis. it was an island full of wonders. it lay spread out in the ocean “like a disk, with the mountains rising from it.” (ibid.) on the highest point of this mountain dwelt zeus (the king), “while the mansions of the other deities were arranged upon plateaus, or in ravines lower down the mountain. these deities, includ- ing zeus, were twelve in number: zeus (or jupiter), hera (or juno), poseidon (or neptune), demeter (or ceres), apollo, artemis (or diana), hephæstos (or vulcan), pallas athena (or minerva), ares (or mars), aphrodite (or venus), hermes (or mercury), and hestia (or vesta).” these were doubtless the twelve gods from whom the egyptians derived their kings. where two names are given to a deity in the above list, the • first name is that bestowed by the greeks, the last that given by the romans. it is not impossible that our division of the year into twelve parts is a reminiscence of the twelve gods of atlantis. diodo- rus siculus tells us that among the babylonians there were twelve gods of the heavens, each personified by one of the signs of the zodiac, and worshipped in a certain month of the year. the ilindoos had twelve primal gods, “the aditya.” moses erected twelve pillars at sinai. the mandan indians celebrated the flood with twelve typical characters, who danced around the ark. the scandinavians believed in the twelve gods, the aesir, who dwelt on asgard, the norse olympus. atlantis: the antediluvian world. diligent investigation may yet reveal that the number of a mod- ern jury, twelve, is a survival of the ancient council of asgard. “according to the traditions of the phænicians, the gardens of the hesperides were in the remote west." (murray's “man- ual of mythology," p. .) atlas lived in these gardens. (ibid., p. .) atlas, we have seen, was king of atlantis. “the elysian fields (the bappy islands) were commonly placed in the remote west. they were ruled over by chronos.” (ibid., p. .) tartarus, the region of hades, the gloonzy bome of the dead, was also located "under the mountains of an island in the midst of the ocean in the remote west.” (ibid., p. .) atlas was described in greek mythology as “an enormous giant, who stood upon the western con fines of the earth, and support- ed the heavens on bis shoulders, in a region of the west where the sun continued to shine after he had set upon greece.” (ibid., p. .) greek tradition located the island in which olympus was situated " in the far west,” “ in the ocean beyond africa," " on the western boundary of the known world," " where the sun shone when it had ceased to shine on greece," and where the mighty atlas “held up the heavens.” and plato tells us that the land where poseidon and atlas ruled was atlantis. “the garden of the hesperides” (another name for the dwelling-place of the gods) “ was situated at the extreme limit of africa. atlas was said to have surrounded it on every side with high mountains.” (smith's “sacred annals, patriarchal age,” p. .) here were found the golden apples. this is very much like the description which plato gives of the great plain of atlantis, covered with fruit of every kind, and surrounded by precipitous mountains descending to the sea. the greek mythology, in speaking of the garden of the hes- perides, tells us that “the outer edge of the garden was slightly raised, so that the water miglit not run in and overflow the land.” another reminiscence of the surrounding mountains of atlantis as described by plato, and as revealed by the deep- sea soundings of modern times. kings of atlantis the gods of the greeks. chronos, or saturn, dionysos, ilyperion, atlas, hercules, were all connected with “a great saturnian continent;" they were kings that ruled over countries on the western shores of the mediterranean, africa and spain. one account says: “hyperion, atlas, and saturn, or chronos, were sons of ura- nos, who reigned over a great kingdom composed of countries around the western part of the mediterranean, with certain isl- ands in the atlantic. hyperion succeeded his father, and was then killed by the titans. the kingdom was then divided be- tween atlas and saturn-atlas taking northern africa, with the atlantic islands, and saturn the countries on the opposite shore of the mediterranean to italy and sicily.” (baldwin's “ prehistoric nations,” p. .) plato says, speaking of the traditions of the greeks (“dia- logies, laws,” c. iv., p. ), “there is a tradition of the happy life of mankind in the days when all things were spontaneous and abundant. . . . in like manner god in his love of mankind placed over us the demons, who are a superior race, and they, with great care and pleasure to themselves and no less to us, taking care of us and giving us place and reverence and order and justice never failing, made the tribes of men happy and peaceful ... for cronos knew that no human nature, invested with supreme power, is able to order human affairs and not overflow with insolence and wrong." in other words, this tradition refers to an ancient time when the forefathers of the greeks were governed by chronos, of the cronian sea (the atlantic), king of atlantis, through civilized atlantean governors, who by their wisdom preserved peace and created a golden age for all the populations under their control —they were the demons, that is, “the knowing ones," the civ- ilized. plato puts into the mouth of socrates these words (“dia- logues, cratylus,” p. ): “my notion would be that the sun, moon, and stars, earth, and heaven, which are still the gods of many barbarians, were the only gods known to the aboriginal hellenes. . . . what shall follow the gods? must not demons atlantis: the antediluvian world. and heroes and men come next?... consider the real meaning of the word demons. you know hesiod uses the word. he speaks of ' a golden race of men’ who came first. he says of them, “ but now that fate has closed over this race, they are holy demons upon earth, beneficent averters of ills, guardians of mortal men.' he means by the golden men not men literally made of gold, but good and noble men; he says we are of the age of iron.' he called them demons because they were canuoves (knowing or wise).” this is made the more evident when we read that this region of the gods, of chronos and uranos and zeus, passed througli, first, a golden age, then a silver age — these constituting a great period of peace and happiness; then it reached a bronze age; then an iron age, and finally perished by a great flood, sent upon these people by zeus as a punishment for their sins. we read: “men were rich then (in the silver age), as in the golden age of chronos, and lived in plenty; but still they wanted the innocence and contentment which were the true sources of hu- man lappiness in the former age; and accordingly, while liv- ing in luxury and delicacy, they became overbcaring in their manners to the highest degree, were never satisfied, and forgot the gods, to whom, in their confidence of prosperity and com- fort, they denied the reverence they owed. ... then followed the bronze age, a period of constant quarrelling and deeds of violence. instead of cultivated lands, and a life of peaceful occupations and orderly habits, there came a day when every- where might was right, and men, big and powerful as they were, became physically worn out. ... finally came the iron age, in which enfeebled mankind had to toil for bread with their hands, and, bent on gain, did their best to overreach each other. dike, or astræa, the goddess of justice and good faith, modesty and truth, turned her back on such scenes, and retired to olympus, while zens deterinined to destroy the hu- man race by a great flood. the whole of greece lay under wa- ter, and none but deucalion and his wife pyrrha were saved." (murray’s “ mythology," p. .) kings of atlantis the gods of the greeks. it is remarkable that we find here the same succession of the iron age after the bronze age that has been revealed to scien- tific men by the patient examination of the relics of antiquity in europe. and this identification of the land that was de- stroyed by a food — the land of chronos and poseidon and zeus — with the bronze age, confirms the view expressed in chapter viii. (page , ante), that the bronze implements and weapons of europe were mainly imported from atlantis. and here we find that the flood that destroyed this land of the gods was the flood of deucalion, and the flood of deuca- lion was the flood of the bible, and this, as we have shown, was “the last great deluge of all,” according to the egyptians, which destroyed atlantis. the foregoing description of the golden age of chronos, when “men were rich and lived in plenty," reminds us of plato's description of the happy age of atlantis, when “men despised everything but virtue, not caring for their present state of life, and thiuking lightly of the possession of gold and other property;" a time when, as the chants of the delaware indians stated it (page , ante), “ all were willingly pleased, all were well - happified.” while the description given by murray in the above extract of the degeneracy of mankind in the land of the gods, “a period of constant quarrelling and deeds of vio- lence, when might was right," agrees with plato's account of the atlanteans, when they became "aggressive," “ unable to bear their fortune," "unseemly," “ base,” “ filled with unright- cous avarice and power,” and “in a inost wretched state." and here again i might quote from the chant of the delaware indians-“they became troubled, hating each other; both were fighting, both were spoiling, both were never peaceful.” . and in all three instances the gods punished the depravity of man- kind by a great deluge. can all these precise coincidences be the result of accident? may we not even suppose that the very word “olympus” is a transformation from “atlantis," in accordance with the laws atlantis: the antediluvian world. that regulate the changes of letters of the same class into each other? olympus was written by the greeks “ olumpos.” the letter a in atlantis was sounded by the ancient world broad and full, like the a in our words all or altar; in these words it ap- proximates very closely to the sound of o. it is not far to go to convert otlontis into oluntos, and this into olumpos. we may, therefore, suppose that when the greeks said that their gods dwelt in “olympus," it was the same as if they said that they dwelt in “atlantis." nearly all the gods of greece are connected with atlantis. we have seen the twelve principal gods all dwelling on the mountain of olympus, in the midst of an island in the ocean in the far west, which was subsequently destroyed by a deluge on account of the wickedness of its people. and when we turn to plato's description of atlantis (p. , ante) we find that poseidon and atlas dwelt upon a mountain in the midst of the island; and on this mountain were their magnificent temples and palaces, where they lived, separated by great walls from their subjects. it may be urged that mount olympus could not have refer- red to any mountain in atlantis, because the greeks gave that name to a group of mountains partly in macedonia and partly in thessaly. but in mysia, lycia, cyprus, and elsewhere there were mountains called olympus; and on the plain of olympia, in elis, there was an eminence bearing the same designation. there is a natural tendency among uncivilized peoples to give a “local babitation ” to every general tradition. “many of the oldest myths,” says baldwin (“ prehistoric nations," p. ), “relate to spain, north-western africa, and other regions on the atlantic, such as those concerning her- cules, the cronidæ, the ilyperboreans, the hesperides, and the islands of the blessed. ilomer described the atlantic region of europe in his account of the wanderings of ulysses. ... in the ages previous to the decline of phænician influence in greece and around the Ægean sea, the people of those re- gions must have had a much better knowledge of western kings of atlantis the gods of the greeks. europe than prevailed there during the ionian or hellenic period.” the mythology of greece is really a history of the kings of atlantis. the greek heaven was atlantis. hence the refer- ences to statues, swords, etc., that fell from heaven, and were preserved in the temples of the different states along the shores of the mediterranean from a vast antiquity, and which were regarded as the most precious possessions of the people. they were relics of the lost race received in the early ages. thus we read of the brazen or bronze anvil that was preserved in one city, which fell from heaven, and was nine days and nine nights in falling; in other words, it took nine days and nights of a sailing-voyage to bring it from atlantis. the modern theory that the gods of greece never had any personal existence, but represented atmospheric and meteoro- logical myths, the movements of clouds, planets, and the sun, is absurd. rude nations repeat, they do not invent; to sup- pose a barbarous people creating their deities out of clouds and sunsets is to reverse nature. men first worship stones, then other men, then spirits. resemblances of names prove noth- ing; it is as if one would show that the name of the great napoleon meant “the lion of the desert” (napo-leon), and should thence argue that napoleon never existed, that he was a myth, that he represented power in solitude, or some such stuff. when we read that jove whipped his wife, and threw her son out of the window, the inference is that jove was a man, and actually did something like the thing described ; certainly gods, sublimated spirits, aerial sprites, do not act after this fashion ; and it would puzzle the myth-inakers to prove that the sun, moon, or stars whipped their wives or flung recalcitrant young men out of windows. the history of atlantis could be in part reconstructed out of the mythology of greece; it is a history of kings, queens, and princes; of love-making, adulteries, rebellions, wars, murders, sea-voyages, and colonizations; of palaces, tem- ples, workshops, and forges; of sword-making, engraving and atlantis: the antediluvian world. . metallurgy; of wine, barley, wheat, cattle, sheep, horses, and agriculture generally. who can doubt that it represents the history of a real people ? uranos was the first god; that is to say, the first king of the great race. as he was at the commencement of all things, his symbol was the sky. lle probably represented the race previ- ous even to the settlement of atlantis. he was a son of gæa (the earth). he seems to have been the parent of three races- the titans, the hekatoncheires, and the kyklopes or cyclops. i incline to the belief that these were civilized races, and that the peculiarities ascribed to the last two refer to the ves- sels in which they visited the shores of the barbarians. the empire of the titans was clearly the empire of atlan- tis. “the most judicious among our mythologists” (says dr. rees, “new british cyclopædia,” art. titans)—“such as ge- rard vossius, marsham, bochart, and father thomassinare of opinion that the partition of the world among the sons of noah-shem, ham, and japheth—was the original of the tra- dition of the same partition among jupiter, neptune, and plu- to," upon the breaking up of the great empire of the titans. “the learned pezron contends that the division which was made of this vast empire came, in after-times, to be taken for the partition of the wbole world; that asia remaining in the hands of jupiter (zeus), the most potent of the three brothers, made him looked upon as the god of olympus; that the sea and islands which fell to neptune occasioned their giving him the title of god of the sea;' and that spain, the extremity of the then known world, thought to be a very low country in re- spect of asia, and famous for its excellent mines of gold and silver, falling to pluto, occasioned him to be taken for the 'god of the infernal regions.” we should suppose that pluto possi- bly ruled over the transatlantic possessions of atlantis in ameri- ca, over those“ portions of the opposite continent" which plato tells us were doininated by atlas and his posterity, and which, being far beyond or below sunset, were the “under-world" of recetec egeev erectic lantis ΞΟΞΜΞΕΞΑΝ see tuk empire of atlantis. kings of atlantis the gods of the greeks. the ancients; while atlantis, the canaries, etc., constituted the island division with western africa and spain. murray tells us (“mythology," p. ) that pluto's share of the kingdom was supposed to lie “in the remote west.” the under-world of the dead was simply the world below the western horizon; “the home of the dead has to do with that far west region where the sun dies at night.” (“ anthropology,” p. .) “on the coast of brittany, where cape raz stands out westward into the ocean, there is 'the bay of souls,' the launching-place where the departed spirits sail off across the sea.” (ibid.) in like manner, odysseus found the land of the dead in the ocean beyond the pillars of hercules. there, indeed, was the land of the mighty dead, the grave of the drowned atlanteans. " however this be," continues f. pezron, “ the empire of the titans, according to the ancients, was very extensive; they pos- sessed phrygia, thrace, a part of greece, the island of crete, and several other provinces to the inmost recesses of spain. to these sanchoniathon seems to join syria; and diodorus adds a part of africa, and the kingdoms of mauritania.” the kingdoms of mauritania embraced all that north-western region of africa nearest to atlantis in which are the atlas mountains, and in which, in the days of herodotus, dwelt the atlantes. neptune, or poseidon, says, in answer to a message from jupiter, no vassal god, nor of his train am i. three brothers, deities, from saturn came, and ancient rhea, earth's immortal dame; assigned by lot our triple rule we know; infernal pluto sways the shades below: o'er the wide clouds, and o'er the starry plain ethereal jove extends his high domain ; my court beneath the hoary waves i keep, and hush the roaring of the sacred deep. iliad, book xviii. homer alludes to poseidon as “the god whose liquid arms are hurled around the globe, whose earthquakes rock the world." * atlantis: the antediluvian world. mythology tells us that when the titans were defeated by saturn they retreated into the interior of spain ; jupiter fol- lowed them up, and beat them for the last time near tartessus, and thus terminated a ten-years' war. here we have a real battle on an actual battle-field. if we needed any further proof that the empire of the ti- tans was the empire of atlantis, we would find it in the names of the titans: among these were oceanus, saturn or chronos, and atlas; they were all the sons of uranos. oceanus was at the base of the greek mythology. plato says (“dialogues," timæus, vol. ii., p. ): “oceanus and tethys were the chil- dren of earth and heaven, and from these sprung phorcys, and chronos, and rhea, and many more with them; and from chro- nos and rhea sprung zeus and hera, and all those whom we know as their brethren, and others who were their children." in other words, all their gods came out of the ocean ; they were rulers over some ocean realm; chronos was the son of oceanus, and chronos was an atlantean god, and from him the atlantic ocean was called by the ancients “the chronian sea.” the elder minos was called “the son of the ocean :" he first gave civilization to the cretans; he engraved his laws on brass, pre- cisely as plato tells us the laws of atlantis were engraved on pillars of brass. the wanderings of clysses, as detailed in the “odyssey " of homer, are strangely connected with the atlantic ocean. the islands of the phæacians were apparently in mid-ocean: we dwell apart, afar within the unmeasured deep, amid its waves the most remote of men; no other race hath commerce with us.-ollyssey, book vi. the description of the phæacian walls, harbors, cities, pal- aces, ships, etc., seems like a recollection of atlantis. the isl- and of calypso appears also to have been in the atlantic ocean, twenty days' sail from the phæacian isles; and when ulysses kings of atlantis the gods of the greeks. goes to the land of pluto, “the under-world,” the home of the dead, he “ reached the far confines of oceanus,” . beyond the pillars of hercules. it would be curious to in- quire how far the poems of homer are atlantean in their rela- tions and inspiration. ulysses's wanderings were a prolonged struggle with poseidon, the founder and god of atlantis. “ the hekatoncheires, or cetimani, beings each with a hun- dred hands, were three in number — kottos, gyges or gyes, and briareus—and represented the frightful crashing of waves, and its resemblance to the convulsions of earthquakes." (mur- ray’s “ mythology," p. .) are not these bundred arms the oars of the galleys, and the frightful crashing of the waves their movements in the water? “the kyklopes also were three in number— brontes, with his thunder; steropes, vith his lightning; and arges, with his stream of light. they were represented as having only one eye, which was placed at the juncture between the nose and brow. it was, however, a large, flashing eye, as became beings who were personifications of the storin-cloud, with its flashes of destructive lightning and peals of thunder.” we shall show hereafter that the invention of gunpowder dates back to the days of the phænicians, and may have been derived by them from atlantis. it is not impossible that in this picture of the kyklopes we see a tradition of sea-going ships, with a light burning at the prow, and armed with some explosive preparation, which, with a roar like thunder, and a flash like lightning, destroyed those against whom it was employed ? it at least requires less strain upon our credulity to suppose these monsters were a barbarian's memory of great ships than to believe that human beings ever existed with a hundred arms, and with one eye in the middle of the forehead, and giving out thunder and lightning. the natives of the west india islands regarded the ships of columbus as living creatures, and that their sails were wings. atlantis: the antediluvian world. berosus tells us, speaking of the ancient days of chaldea, “in the first year there appeared, from that part of the ery- thræan sea which borders upon babylonia, an animal endowed with reason, by name cannes, whose whole body (according to the account of apollodorus) was that of a fish ; that under the fish's head he had another head, with feet also below, similar to those of a man, subjoined to the fish's tail. his voice too and language was articulate and human, and a representation of him is preserved even unto this day. this being was accus- tomed to pass the day among men, but took no food at that season, and he gave them an insight into letters and arts of all kinds. he taught them to construct cities, to found temples, to compile laws, and explained to them the principles of geo- metrical knowledge. ile made them distinguish the seeds of the earth, and showed them how to collect the fruits; in short, he instructed them in everything which could tend to soften manners and humanize their laws. from that time nothing ma- terial has been added by way of improvement to his instructions. and when the sun set, this being, oannes, retired again into the sea, and passed the night in the deep, for he was amphibious. after this there appeared other animals like oanncs.” this is clearly the tradition preserved by a barbarous people of the great ships of a civilized nation, who colonized their coast and introduced the arts and sciences among them. and here we see the same tendency to represent the ship as a living thing, which converted the war-vessels of the atlanteans (the kyklopes) into men with one blazing eye in the middle of the forehead. uranos was deposed from the throne, and succeeded by his son chronos. he was called “the ripener, the harvest-god," and was probably identified with the beginning of the agricult- ural period. he married his sister rhea, who bore him pluto, poseidon, zeus, hestia, demeter, and ilera. ile anticipated that his sons would dethrone him, as he had dethroned his fa- ther, uranos, and he swallowed his first five children, and would have swallowed the sixth child, zens, but that his wife rhea deceived him with a stone image of the child; and zeus was conveyed to the island of crete, and there concealed in a cave kings of atlantis the gods of the greeks. and raised to manhood. subsequently chronos“ yielded back to the light the children he had swallowed.” this myth prob- ably means that chronos had his children raised in some secret place, where they could not be used by his enemies as the instruments of a rebellion against his throne; and the stone image of zeus, palmed off upon him by rhea, was probably some other child substituted for his own. his precautions seem to have been wise; for as soon as the children returned to the light they commenced a rebellion, and drove the old gentleman from his throne. a rebellion of the titans fol- lowed. the struggle was a tremendous one, and seems to have been decided at last by the use of gunpowder, as i shall show farther on. we have seen chronos identified with the atlantic, called by the romans the “ chronian sea." he was known to the romans under the name of saturn, and ruled over “a great sa- turnian continent" in the western ocean. saturn, or chronos, came to italy: he presented himself to the king, janus, “and proceeded to instruct the subjects of the latter in agriculture, gardening, and many other arts then quite unknown to them; as, for example, bow to tend and cultivate the vine. by such means he at length raised the people from a rude and compara- tively barbarous condition to one of order and peaceful occupa- tions, in consequence of which he was everywhere held in high esteem, and, in course of time, was selected by janus to share with him the government of the country, which thereupon as- sumed the name of saturnia—a land of seed and fruit.' the period of saturn's government was sung in later days by poets as a happy time, when sorrows were unknown, when innocence, freedom, and gladness reigned throughout the land in such a degree as to deserve the title of the golden age." (murray's “mythology," p. .) all this accords with plato's story. he tells us that the rule of the atlanteans extended to italy; that they were a civilized, agricultural, and commercial people. the civilization of rome atlantis: the avtediluvian world. was therefore an outgrowth directly from the civilization of atlantis. the roman saturnalia was a remembrance of the atlantean colonization. it was a period of joy and festivity; master and slave met as equals; the distinctions of poverty and wealth were forgotten; no punishments for crime were inflicted; ser- vants and slaves went about dressed in the clothes of their mas- ters; and children received presents from their parents or rel- atives. it was a time of jollity and mirth, a recollection of the golden age. we find a reminiscence of it in the roman “ carnival.” the third and last on the throne of the highest god was zeus. we shall see bim, a little farther on, by the aid of some mysterious engine overthrowing the rebels, the titans, who rose against his power, amid the flash of lightning and the roar of thunder. ile was called "the thunderer," and "the mighty thunderer.” he was represented with thunder-bolts in his hand and an eagle at his feet. during the time of zeus atlantis seems to have reached its greatest height of power. he was recognized as the father of the whole world; he everywhere rewarded uprightness, truth, faithfulness, and kindness; he was merciful to the poor, and punished the cruel. to illustrate his rule on earth the follow- ing story is told : “philemon and baukis, an aged couple of the poorer class, were living peacefully and full of piety toward the gods in their cottage in phrygia, when zeus, who often visited the earth, disguised, to inquire into the behavior of men, paid a visit, in passing through phrygia on such a journey, to these poor old people, and was received by them very kindly as a weary trav- eller, which he pretended to be. bidding him welcome to the house, they set about preparing for their guest, who was ac- companied by ilermes, as excellent a meal as they could afford, and for this purpose were about to kill the only goose they had left, when zeus interfered; for he was touched by their kindli- ness and genuine piety, and that all the more because he had atlantis: the antediluvian world. athena, in a rebellion to put the old fellow in a strait-jacket, " and would have succeeded bad not thetis brought to his aid the sea-giant Ægæon,” probably a war-ship. she seems in the main, however, to have been a good wife, and was the type of all the womanly virtues. poseidon, the first king of atlantis, according to plato, was, according to greek mythology, a brother of zeus, and a son of chronos. in the division of the kingdom he fell heir to the ocean and its islands, and to the navigable rivers; in other words, he was king of a maritime and commercial people. his symbol was the horse. “ile was the first to train and employ horses;" that is to say, his people first domesticated the horse. this agrees with what plato tells us of the importance attached to the horse in atlantis, and of the baths and race-courses pro- vided for him. he was worshipped in the island of tenos "in the character of a physician,” showing that he represented an advanced civilization. he was also master of an agricultural people; "the ram with the golden fleece for which the argo- nauts sailed was the offspring of poseidon." he carried in his hand a three-pronged symbol, the trident, doubtless an ein- blem of the three continents that were embraced in the empire of atlantis. he founded many colonies along the shores of the mediterranean; "he helped to build the walls of troy;" the tradition thus tracing the trojan civilization to an atlan- tean source. he settled attica and founded athens, named after his niece athena, daughter of zeus, who had no mother, but had sprung from the head of zeus, which probably signi- fied that her mother's name was not known-she was a found- ling. athena caused the first olive-tree to grow on the acrop- olis of athens, parent of all the olive-trees of greece. poseidon seems to have had settlements at corinth, Ægina, naxos, and delphi. temples were erected to his honor in nearly all the seaport towns of greece. he sent a sea-monster, to wit, a ship, to ravage part of the trojan territory. in the “iliad" poseidon appears “as ruler of the sea, inhab- kings of atlantis the gods of the greeks. iting a brilliant palare in its depths, traversing its surface in a chariot, or stirring the powerful billows until the earth shakes as they crashı upon the shores. ... he is also associated with well - watered plains and valleys.” (murray's “mythology," p. .) the palace in the depths of the sea was the palace upon olympus in atlantis; the traversing of the sea referred to the movements of a mercantile race; the shaking of the poseidox, or nbitune. earth was an association with earthquakes; the “ well-watered plains and valleys” remind us of the great plain of atlantis described by plato. all the traditions of the coming of civilization into europe point to atlantis. for instance, keleos, who lived at eleusis, near athens, hos- pitably received demeter, the greek ceres, the daughter of po- seidon, when she landed; and in return she taught him the use of the plough, and presented his son with the seed of barley, and sent him out to teach mankind how to sow and utilize that grain. dionysos, grandson of poseidon, travelled “through all atlantis: tiie antediluvian world. the known world, even into the remotest parts of india, in- structing the people, as he proceeded, how to tend the vine, and how to practise many other arts of peace, besides teaching them the value of just and honorable dealings." (murray's "mythology,” p. .) the greeks celebrated great festivals in his honor down to the coming of christianity. "the nymphs of grecian mythology were a kind of mid- dle beings between the gods and men, communicating with both, loved and respected by both; ... living like the gods on ambrosia. in extraordinary cases they were summoned, it was believed, to the councils of the olympian gods; but they usual- ly remained in their particular spheres, in secluded grottoes and peaceful valleys, occupied in spinning, weaving, bathing, sing- ing sweet songs, dancing, sporting, or accompanying deities who passed through their territories-hunting with arteinis (diana), rushing about with dionysos (bacchus), making mer- j'y with apollo or hermes (mercury), but always in a hostile attitude toward the wanton and excited satyrs." the nymphs were plainly the female inhabitants of atlantis dwelling on the plains, while the aristocracy lived on the high- er lands. and this is confirmed by the fact that part of them were called atlantids, offspring of atlantis. the hesperides were also “daughters of atlas ;” their mother was hesperis, a personification of "the region of the west.” their home was "an island in the ocean," off the north or west coast of africa. and here we find a tradition which not only points to at- lantis, but also shows some kinship to the legend in genesis of the tree and the serpent. titaa, “a goddess of the earth,” gave zeus a tree bearing golden apples on it. this tree was put in the care of the iles- perides, but they could not resist the temptation to pluck and eat its fruit; thereupon a serpent named ladon was put to watch the tree. hercules slew the serpent, and gave the apples to tlie llesperides. heracles (hercules), we have seen, was a son of zeus, king of atlantis. one of his twelve labors (the tenth) was the car- atlantis: the antediluvian world. chapter iii. the gods of the phenicians also kings of atlantis. not alone were the gods of the greeks the deified kings of atlantis, but we find that the mythology of the phænicians was drawn from the same source. for instance, we find in the phænician cosmogony that the titans (rephaim) derive their origin from the phoenician gods agrus and agrotus. this connects the phænicians with that island in the remote west, in the midst of ocean, where, ac- cording to the greeks, the titans dwelt. according to sanchoniathon, ouranos was the son of au- tochthon, and, according to plato, autochthon was one of the ten kings of atlantis. he married his sister ge. he is the uranos of the greeks, who was the son of gæa (the earth), whom he married. the phænicians tell us, “ ouranos had by ge four sons: ilus (ei), who is called chronos, and betylus (beth-el), and dagon, which signifies bread-corn, and atlas (tammuz ?).” iiere, again, we have the names of two other kings of atlantis. these four sons probably represented four races, the offspring of the earth. the greek uranos was the father of chronos, and the ancestor of atlas. the phænician god ouranos had a great many other wives: his wife ge was jealous; they quarrelled, and he attempted to kill the children he had by her. this is the legend which the greeks told of zeus and juno. in the phænician mythology chronos raised a rebellion against ouranos, and, after a great battle, dethroned him. in the greek legends it is zeus who attacks and over- throws his father, chronos. ouranos had a daughter called as- gods of the phenicians kings of atlantis. tarte (ashtoreth), another called rhea. “and dagon, after he had found out bread-corn and the plough, was called zeus-aro- trius.” we find also, in the phoenician legends, mention made of poseidon, founder and king of atlantis. chronos gave attica to his daughter athena, as in the greek legends. in a time of plague he sacrificed his son to ouranos, and “circumcised himself, and compelled his allies to do the same thing." it would thus appear that this singular rite, practised as we have seen by the atlantidæ of the old and new worlds, the egyptians, the phænicians, the hebrews, the ethiopians, the mexicans, and the red men of america, dates back, as we might have expected, to atlantis. “chronos visits the different regions of the habitable world." ile gave egypt as a kingdom to the god taaut, who had in- vented the alphabet. the egyptians called him thoth, and he was represented among them as “the god of letters, the clerk of the under-world," bearing a tablet, pen, and palm- branch. this not only connects the phænicians with atlantis, but shows the relations of egyptian civilization to both atlantis and the phænicians. there can be no doubt that the royal personages who form- ed the gods of greece were also the gods of the phænicians. we have seen the autochthon of plato reappearing in the au- tochthon of the phænicians; the atlas of plato in the atlas of the phænicians; the poseidon of plato in the poseidon of the phænicians; while the kings mestor and mneseus of plato are probably the gods misor and amynus of the phænicians. sanchoniathon tells us, after narrating all the discoveries by which the people advanced to civilization, that the cabiri set down their records of the past by the command of the god taaut, “and they delivered them to their successors and to foreigners, of whom one was isiris (osiris), the inventor of the three letters, the brother of chua, who is called the first phe- gods of the phenicians kings of atlantis. pillars of hercules." (murray's “mythology," p. .) her- cules stole the cattle from this remote oceanic island, and, re- . turning, drove them “ through iberia, gaul, over the alps, and through italy.” (ibid.) it is probable that a people emigrat- ing from the erythræan sea, that is, from the atlantic, first gave their name to a town on the coast of spain, and at a later date to the persian gulf—as we have seen the name of york carried from england to the banks of the hudson, and then to the arctic circle. the builders of the central american cities are reported to have been a bearded race. the phænicians, in common with the indians, practised human sacrifices to a great extent; they worshipped fire and water, adopted the names of the animals whose skins they wore—that is to say, they had the totemic system-telegraphed by means of fires, poisoned their arrows, offered peace before beginning battle, and used drums. (ban- croft's “ native races," vol. v., p. .) the extent of country covered by the commerce of the phæ- nicians represents to some degree the area of the old atlantean empire. their colonies and trading-posts extended east and west from the shores of the black sea, through the mediterra- nean to the west coast of africa and of spain, and around to ireland and england; while from north to south they ranged from the baltic to the persian gulf. they touched every point where civilization in later ages made its appearance. strabo estimated that they had three hundred cities along the west coast of africa. when columbus sailed to discover a new world, or re-discover an old one, he took his departure from a phænician scaport, founded by that great race two thousand five hundred years previously. this atlantean sailor, with his phænician features, sailing from an atlantean port, simply re-opened the path of commerce and colonization which had been closed when plato's island sunk in the sea. and it is a curious fact that columbus bad the antediluvian world in bis mind's eye even then, for when he reached the mouth of atlantis: the antediluvian world. the orinoco he thought it was the river gihon, that flowed out of paradise, and he wrote home to spain, “ there are here great indications suggesting the proximity of the earthly paradise, for not only does it correspond in mathematical po- sition with the opinions of the holy and learned theologians, but all other signs concur to make it probable.” sanchoniathon claims that the learning of egypt, greece, and judæa was derived from the phænicians. it would ap- pear probable that, while other races represent the conquests or colonizations of atlantis, the phænicians succeeded to their arts, sciences, and especially their commercial supremacy; and hence the close resemblances which we have found to exist between the hebrews, a branch of the phænician stock, and the people of america. upon the syrian sea the people live who style themselves phoenicians.... these were the first great founders of the world- founders of cities and of mighty states- who showed a path through seas before unknown. in the first ages, when the sons of men knew not which way to turn them, they assigned to each bis first department; they bestowed of land a portion and of sea a lot, and sent each wandering tribe far off to share a different soil and climate. hence arose the great diversity, so plainly seen, 'mid nations widely severed. dyonysius of susiana, a.d. . the god odin, wodev, or wotan. chapter iv. the god odin, woden, or wotan. in the scandinavian mythology the chief god was odin, the woden, wotan, or wuotan of the germans. iie is represent- ed with many of the attributes of the greek god zeus, and is supposed by some to be identical with him. lle dwelt with the twelve Æsir, or gods, upon asgard, the norse olympus, which arose out of midgard, a land half-way between the re- gions of frost and fire (to wit, in a temperate climate). the scandinavian olympus was probably atlantis. odin is repre- sented as a grave-looking elderly man with a long beard, car- rying in bis hand a spear, and accompanied by two dogs and two ravens. he was the father of poetry, and the inventor of runic writing. the chiapenese of central america (the people whose lan- guage we have seen furnishing such remarkable resemblances to hebrew) claim to have been the first people of the new world. clavigero tells us (“hist. antiq. del messico," eng. trans., , vol. i.) that according to the traditions of the chiapenese there was a votan who was the grandson of the man who built the ark to save himself and family from the deluge; he was one of those who undertook to build the tower that should reach to heaven. the lord ordered him to people america. “he came from the eust.” he brought seven families with him. he had been preceded in america by two others, igh and imox. ile built a great city in america called “nachan," city of the serpents (the serpent that tempted eve was na- haslı), from his own race, which was named chan, a serpent. this nachan is supposed to have been palenque. the date of atlantis: the antediluvian world. his journey is placed in the legends in the year of the world, and in the tenth century b.c. he also founded three tributary monarchies, whose capitals were tulan, mayapan, and chiquimala. he wrote a book containing a history of his deeds, and proofs that he belonged to the tribe of chanes (ser- pents). he states that “be is the third of the votans; that he conducted seven families from valumn-votan to this conti- nent, and assigned lands to them; that he determined to travel until he came to the root of heaven and found his relations, the culebres, and made himself known to them; that he ac- cordingly made four voyages to chivim ; that he arrived in spain; that he went to rome; that he saw the house of god building; that he went by the road which his brethren, the culebres, had bored ; that he marked it, and that he passed by the houses of the thirteen culebres. he relates that, in return- ing from one of his voyages, he found seven other families of the tzequil nation who had joined the first inhabitants, and rec- ognized in them the same origin as his own, that is, of the cu- lebres; he speaks of the place where they built the first town, which from its founders received the name of tzequil; be af- firms that, having taught them the refinement of manners in the use of the table, table-cloths, dishes, basins, cups, and nap- kins, they taught him the knowledge of god and his worship; his first ideas of a king, and obedience to him; that he was chosen captain of all these united families." it is probable that spain and rome are interpolations. ca- brera claims that the votanites were carthaginians. he thinks the chivim of votan were the hivim, or givim, who were de- scended of heth, son of canaan, phænicians; they were the builders of accaron, azotus, ascalon, and gaza. the script- ures refer to them as hivites (givim) in deuteronomy (chap. ii., verse ), and joshua (chap. xiii., verse ). he claims that cadmus and his wife hermione were of this stock; and accord- ing to ovid they were metamorphosed into snakes (culebres). the name hivites in phænician signifies a snake. atlantis: tie antediluvian world. live there with their families and cattle, when molested by the watuta, a warlike race, descended from the zooloo kafirs." but it is interesting to find in this book of votan, however little reliance we may place in its dates or details, evidence that there was actual intercourse between the old world and the new in remote ages. humboldt remarks: “we have fixed the special attention of our readers upon this votan, or wodan, an american who appears of the same family with the wods or odius of the goths and of the people of celtic origin. since, according to the learned researches of sir william jonés, odin and buddha are probably the same person, it is curious to see the names of bondvar, wodansdag, and votan designating in india, scandinavia, and in mexico the day of a brief period.” (“ vues des cordilleras," p. , ed. .) there are many things to connect the mythology of the gothic nations with atlantis; they had, as we have seen, flood legends; their gods krodo and satar were the chronos and saturn of atlantis; their baal was the bel of the phænicians, who were closely connected with poseidon and atlas; and, as we shall see hereafter, their language has a distinct relationship with the tongues of the arabians, cushites, chaldeans, and phænicians. pyramid, cross, and garden of eden. chapter v. the pyramid, the cross, and the garden of eden. no fact is better established than the reverence shown to the sign of the cross in all the ages prior to christianity. we can- not do better than quote from an able article in the edinburgh review of july, , upon this question : " from the dawn of organized paganism in the eastern world to the final establishment of christianity in the western, the cross was undoubtedly one of the commonest and most sacred of symbolical monuments; and, to a remarkable extent, it is so still in almost erery land where that of calvary is unrecognized or unknown. apart from any distinctions of social or intel- lectual superiority, of caste, color, nationality, or location in either hemisphere, it appears to have been the aboriginal pos- session of every people in antiquity—the elastic girdle, so to say, which embraced the most widely separated heathen con- munities—the most significant token of a universal brother- hood, to which all the families of mankind were severally and irresistibly drawn, and by which their common descent was em- phatically erpressed, or by means of which each and all pre- served, amid every vicissitude of fortune, a knowledge of the primeval happiness and dignity of their species. where au- thentic history is silent on the subject, the material relics of past and long since forgotten races are not wanting to confirm and strengthen this supposition. diversified forms of the sym- bol are delineated more or less artistically, according to the progress achieved in civilization at the period, on the ruined walls of temples and palaces, on natural rocks and sepulchral galleries, on the hoariest monoliths and the rudest statuary ; on coins, medals, and vases of every description; and, in not a few instances, are preserved in the architectural proportions of sub- atlantis: tiie avtediluvian world. terranean as well as superterranean structures, of tumuli as well as fanes. the extraordinary sanctity attaching to the symbol, in every age and under every variety of circumstance, justified any expenditure incurred in its fabrication or embellishment; hence the most persistent labor, the most consummate ingenui- ty, were lavished upon it. populations of essentially different culture, tastes, and pursuits—the highly-civilized and the demi- civilized, the settled and nomadic-vied with each other in their efforts to extend the knowledge of its exceptional import and virtue among their latest posterities. the marvellous rock- hewn caves of elephanta and ellora, and the stately temples of mathura and terputty, in the east, may be cited as characteris- tic examples of one laborious inethod of exhibiting it; and the megalithic structures of callernish and newgrange, in the west, of another; while a third may be instanced in the great temple at mitzla, 'the city of the moon,' in ojaaca, central america, also excavated in the living rock, and manifesting the same stu- pendous labor and ingenuity as are observable in the cognate caverns of salsette-of endeavors, we repeat, made by peoples as intellectually as geographically distinct, and followers withal of independent and unassociated deities, to magnify and per- petuate some grand primeval symbol. ... “of the several varieties of the cross still in vogue, as nation- al or ecclesiastical emblems, in this and other european states, and distinguished by the familiar appellations of st. george, st. andrew, the maltese, the greek, the latin, etc., etc., there is not one among them the existence of which may not be traced to the remotest antiquity. they were the common property of the eastern nations. no revolution or other casu- alty has wrought any perceptible difference in their several forms or delineations; they have passed from one hemisphere to the other intact; have survived dynastics, cmpires, and races; have been borne on the crest of each successive wave of aryan population in its course toward the west; and, having been re- consecrated in later times by their lineal descendants, are still recognized as military and national badges of distinction. ... "among the earliest known types is the crux ansata, vulgarly called 'the key of the nile,' because of its being found sculpt- ured or otherwise represented so frequently upon egyptian and coptic monuments. it has, however, a very much older and more sacred signification than this. it was the symbol of pyramid, cross, and garden of eden. symbols, the mystical tau, 'the hidden wisdom,' not only of the ancient egyptians but also of the chaldeans, phænicians, mexicans, peruvians, and of every other ancient people com- memorated in history, in either hemispliere, and is formed very similarly to our letter t, with a roundlet, or oval, placed imme- diately above it. thus it was figured on the gigantic emerald or glass statue of serapis, which was transported ( b.c.) by order of ptolemy soter froin sinope, on the southern shores of the uthmt black sea, re-erected within that fa- mous labyrinth which encompassed the banks of lake mæris, and destroved by the victorious army of theodosius (a.d. ), despite the earnest entreaties of the egyptian priesthood to spare it, egyitian tau. because it was the emblem of their god and of the life to come.' sometimes, as may be seen on the breast of an egyptian mummy in the museum of the london university, the simple i only is planted on the frustum of a cone; and sometiines it is represented as springing from a heart; in the first instance signifying goodness; in the sec- ond, hope or expectation of reward. as in the oldest tem- ples and catacombs of egypt, so this type like- wise abounds in the ruined cities of mexico and central america, graven as well upon the most ancient cyclopean and polygonal walls as upon the more modern and perfect examples of mason- ry; and is displayed in an equally conspicuous manner upon the breasts of innumerable bronze statuettes which have been recently disinterred oboss from. from the cemetery of juigalpa (of unknown an- palenque. tiquity) in nicaragua." monuments of when the spanish missionaries first set foot upon the soil of america, in the fifteenth century, they were amazed to find the cross was as devoutly worshipped by the red indians as by themselves, and were in doubt whether to ascribe the fact to the pious labors of st. thomas or to the cunning device of the evil one. the hallowed symbol challenged their atten- atlantis: the antediluvian world. tion on every hand and in almost every variety of form. it ap- peared on the bass-reliefs of ruin- ed and deserted as well as on those of inhabited palaces, and was the most conspicuous orna- ment in the great temple of go- zumel, off the coast of yucatan. according to the particular lo. cality, and the purpose which it served, it was formed of various ancient irisu cros . materials — of marble and gyp- sum in the open spaces of cities and by the way-side; of wood in the teocallis or chapels on pyramidal summits and in sub- terranean sanctuaries; and of emerald or jasper in the palaces of kings and nobles. when we ask the question how it comes that the sign of the cross has thus been reverenced from the highest antiquity by the races of the old and new worlds, we learn that it is a reminiscence of the garden of eden, in other words, of atlantis. professor hardwicke says: “all these and similar traditions are but mocking satires of the old hebrew story—jarred orntral amerioan and broken notes of the same strain ; but with all their exaggerations they intimate how in the background of man's vision lay a paradise of holy joy-a paradise secured froin every kind of profanation, and made inaccessible to the guilty ; a paradise full of ob- jects that were calculated to delight the senses and to elevate the mind; a paradise that granted to its tenant rich and rare immunities, and that fed with its perennial streams the tree of life and immor- tality.” • to quote again from the writer in the edin- burgh review, already cited: orobb. oopper coin- teotihuacan. pyramid, cross, and garden of eden. “ its undoubted antiquity, no less than its extraordinary dif- fusion, evidences that it must have been, as it may be said to be still in unchristianized lands, emblematical of some funda- mental doctrine or mystery. the reader will not have failed to observe that it is most usually associated with water; it was the key of the nile,' that mystical instrument by means of which, in the popular judgment of his egyptian devotees, osi- ris produced the annual revivifying inundations of the sacred stream; it is discernible in that mysterious pitcher or vase por- trayed on the brazen table of bembus, before-mentioned, with its four lips discharging as many streams of water in opposite directions; it was the emblem of the water-deities of the baby- lonians in the east and of the gothic nations in the west, as ancient irisii cross-pre-curistian-kilna boy. well as that of the rain-deities respectively of the mixed popu- lation in ainerica. we have seen with what peculiar rites the symbol was honored by those widely - separated races in the western hemisphere; and the monumental slabs of nineveh, now in the museums of london and paris, show us how it was similarly honored by the successors of the chaldees in the castern, ... “in egypt, assyria, and britain it was emblematical of crea- tive power and eternity; in india, china, and scandinavia, of heaven and immortality; in the two americas, of rejuvenes- cence and freedom from physical suffering; wbile in both hemi- spheres it was the common symbol of the resurrection, or “the sign of the life to come;' and, finally, in all heathen communi- * atlantis: tiie antediluvian world. ties, without exception, it was the emphatic type, the sole en- during evidence, of the divine unity. this circumstance alone determines its extreme antiquity-an antiquity, in all likeli- hood, long antecedent to the foundation of either of the three great systems of religion in the east. and, lastly, we have seen how, as a rule, it is found in conjunction with a stream or streams of water, with exuberant vegetation, and with a hill or a mountainous region—in a word, with a land of beauty, fertili. ity, und joy. thus it was expressed upon those circular and sacred cakes of the egyptians, composed of the richest materi- als—of flour, of honey, of milk-and with which the serpent and bull, as well as other reptiles and beasts con- secrated to the service of isis and their higher divinities, were daily fed; and upon certain festi- vals were eaten with extraordinary ceremony by the people and their priests. the cross-cake,' says sir gardner wilkinson, “was their hiero- s from yoyt glyph for civilized land ;' obviously a land su- perior to their own, as it was, indeed, to all other mundane territories; for it was that distant, traditional country of sempiternal contentment and repose, of exquisite delight and serenity, where nature, inassisted by man, produces all that is necessary for his sustentation.” and this land was the garden of eden of our race. this was the olympus of the greeks, where “this same mild season gives the blooms to blow, . the buds to harden and the fruits to grow." tian monuments. in the midst of it was a sacred and glorious eminence-the umbilicus orbis terrarum—“toward which the heathen in all parts of the world, and in all ages, turned a wistful gaze in ev- ery act of devotion, and to which they hoped to be admitted, or, rather, to be restored, at the close of this transitory scene.” in this “glorious eminence" do we not see plato's moun- tain in the middle of atlantis, as he describes it : “near the plain and in the centre of the island there was a mountain, not very high on any side. in this mountain there dwelt one of the earth-born primeval men of that country, pyramid, cross, and garden of eden. whose name was evenor, and he had a wife named leucippe, and they had an only daughter, who was named cleito. posei- don married her. he enclosed the hill in which she dwelt all around, making alternate zones of sea and land, larger and smaller, encircling one another; there were two of land and three of water...so that no man could get to the island. ... he brought streams of water under the earth to this mountain- island, and made all manner of food to grow upon it. this island became the seat of atlas, the over-king of the whole island; upon it they built the great temple of their nation; they continued to ornament it in successive generations, every king surpassing the one who came before him to the utmost of his power, until they made the building a marvel to behold for size and beauty. ... and they bad such an amount of wealth as was never before possessed by kings and potentates- as is not likely ever to be again.” the gardens of alcinous and laertes, of which we read in homeric song, and those of babylon, were probably transcripts of atlantis. “the sacred eminence in the midst of a super- abundant, happy region figures more or less distinctly in al- most every mythology, ancient or modern. it was the me- somphalos of the earlier greeks, and the omphalium of the cretans, dominating the elysian fields, upon whose tops, bathed in pure, brilliant, incomparable light, the gods passed their days in ceaseless joys." “the buddhists and brahmans, who together constitute nearly half the population of the world, tell us that the decus- sated figure (the cross), whether in a simple or a complex form, symbolizes the traditional happy abode of their primeval ances- tors — that ‘paradise of eden toward the east,' as we find it expressed in the hebrew. and, let us ask, what better picture, or more significant characters, in the complicated alphabet of symbolism, could have been selected for the purpose than a cir- cle and a cross : the one to denote a region of absolute purity and perpetual felicity; the other, those four perennial streams that divided and watered the several quarters of it?" (edin- burgh review, january, .) and when we turn to the mythology of the greeks, we find pyramid, cross, and garden of eden. it is the slávratta, 'the celestial earth,' of the hindoo, the summit of his golden mountain meru, the city of brahma, in the centre of jambadwípa, and from the four sides of which gush forth the four primeval rivers, reflecting in their passage the colorific glories of their source, and severally flowing northi- ward, southward, eastward, and westward.” it is the garden of eden of the hebrews : “and the lord god planted a garden eastward in eden ; and there he put the man whom he had formed. and out of the ground made the lord god to grow every tree that is pleas- ant to the sight, and good for food; the tree of life also in the midst of the garden, and the tree of knowledge of good and evil. and a river went out of eden to water the garden; and from thence it was parted, and became into four heads. the name of the first is pison; that is it which compasscth the whole land of havilah, where there is gold; and the gold of that land is good : there is bdellium and the onyx stone. and the name of the second river is gihon: the same is it that compasseth the whole land of ethiopia. and the name of the third river is hiddekel : that is it which goeth toward the east of assyria. and the fourth river is euphrates. and the lord god took the man and put him into the garden of eden to dress it and to keep it.” (gen. ii., – .) as the four rivers named in genesis are not branches of any one stream, and head in very different regions, it is evident that there was an attempt, on the part of the writer of the book, to adapt an ancient tradition concerning another country to the known features of the region in which he dwelt. josephus tells us (chap. i., p. ), “now the garden (of eden) was watered by one river, which ran round about the whole earth, and was parted into four parts." here in the four parts we see the origin of the cross, while in the river running around the whole earth we have the wonderful canal of atlantis, de- scribed by plato, which was “carried around the whole of the plain,” and received the streams which came down from the mountains. the streams named by josephus would seem to represent the migrations of people from atlantis to its colo- pyramid, cross, and garden of eden. which plato describes — the same mountain to which all the legends of the most ancient races of europe refer. the inhabitants of aztlan were boatmen. (bancroft's “na- tive races," vol. v., p. .) e. g. squier, in his “notes on central america," p. , says, “ it is a significant fact that in the map of their migrations, presented by gemelli, the place of the origin of the aztecs is designated by the sign of water, all standing for atzlan, a pyramidal temple with grades, and near these a palm-tree.” this circumstance did not escape the attention of humboldt, who says, “i am astonished at finding a palm-tree near this teocalli. this tree certainly does not in- dicate a northern origin. ... the possibility that an unskilful artist should unintentionally represent a tree of which he had no knowledge is so great, that any argument dependent on it hangs upon a slender thread.” (“north americans of antiq. uity,” p. .) the miztecs, a tribe dwelling on the outskirts of mexico, had a tradition that the gods, “ in the day of obscurity and darkness," built “a sumptuous palace, a masterpiece of skill, in which they made their abode upon a mountain. the rock was called “the place of heaven ;' there the gods first abode on earth, living many years in great rest and content, as in a happy and delicious land, though the world still lay in obscu- rity and darkness. the children of these gods made to them- selves a garden, in which they put many trees, and fruit-trees, and flowers, and roses, and odorous herbs. subsequently there came a great deluge, in which many of the sons and daughters of the gods perished.” (bancroft's “native races,” vol. iii., p. .) here we have a distinct reference to olympus, the garden of plato, and the destruction of atlantis. and in plato's account of atlantis we have another descrip- tion of the garden of eden and the golden age of the world: “also, whatever fragrant things there are in the earth, wheth- er roots, or herbage, or woods, or distilling drops of flowers and fruits, grew and thrived in that land; and again the cultivated atlantis: the antediluvian world. fruits of the earth, both the edible fruits and other species of food which we call by the name of legumes, and the fruits hav. ing a hard rind, affording drinks and meats and ointments ... all these that sacred island, lying beneath the sun, brought forth in abundance. for many generations, as long as the divine nature lasted in them, they were obedient to the laws, and well- affectioned toward the gods, who were their kinsmen ; for they possessed true and in every way great spirits, practising gentle- ness and wisdom in the various chances of life, and in their in- tercourse with one another. they despised everything but vir- tue, not caring for their present state of life, and thinking light- ly of the possession of gold and other property, which seemed only a burden to them ; neither were they intoxicated by luxn- ry; nor did wealth deprive them of their self-control; but they were sober, and saw clearly that all these goods were increased by virtuous friendship with one another, and that by excessive zeal for them, and honor of them, the good of them is lost, and friendship perishes.with them." all this cannot be a mere coincidence; it points to a com- mon tradition of a veritable land, where four rivers flowed down in opposite directions from a central mountain-peak. and these four rivers, flowing to the north, south, east, and west, constitute the origin of that sign of the cross which we have seen meeting us at every point among the races who were either descended from the people of atlantis, or who, by com- merce and colonization, received their opinions and civilization from them. let us look at the question of the identity of the garden of eden with atlantis from another point of view : if the alphabet of the phænicians is kindred with the maya alphabet, as i think is clear, then the phænicians were of the same race, or of some race with which the mayas were connect- ed; in other words, they were from atlantis. now we know that the phænicians and iiebrews were of the same stock, used the same alphabet, and spoke almost pre- cisely the same language. the phænicians preserved traditions, which have come down pyramid, cross, and garden of eden. to us in the writings of sanchoniathon, of all the great essen- tial inventions or discoveries which underlie civilization. the first two human beings, they tell us, were protogonos and aion (adam and 'ilavath), who produce genos and genea (qên and qenath), from whom again are descended three brothers, named phos, phur, and phlox (light, fire, and flame), because they “have discovered how to produce fire by the friction of two pieces of wood, and have taught the use of this element." in another fragment, at the origin of the human race we see in succession the fraternal couples of autochthon and technites (adam and quen — cain?), inventors of the manufacture of bricks; agros and agrotes (sade and cêd), fathers of the ag- riculturists and hunters; then amynos and magos, “who taught to dwell in villages and rear flocks.” the connection between these atlantean traditions and the bible record is shown in many things. for instance, “the greek text, in expressing the invention of amynos, uses the words kúpaç kai toljevac, which are precisely the same as the terms óhel umiqneh, which the bible uses in speaking of the dwellings of the descendants of jabal (gen., chap. iv., v. ). in like manner lamech, both in the signification of his name and also ir the savage character attributed to him by the le- gend attached to his memory, is a true synonyme of agrotes." “and the title of 'alirai, given to agros and agrotes in the greek of the phænician history, fits in wonderfully with the physiognomy of the race of the cainites in the bible narra- tive, whether we take ałīrai simply as a hellenized transcrip- tion of the semitic elim, 'the strong, the mighty, or whetlier we take it in its greek acceptation, the wanderers;' for such is the destiny of cain and his race according to the very terms of the condemnation which was inflicted upon him after his crime (gen. iv., ), and this is what is signified by the name of his grandson ’yirad. only, in sanchoniathon the genealogy does not end with amynos and magos, as that of the cainites in the bible does with the three sons of lamech. these two person- ages are succeeded by misôr and sydyk, 'the released and the pyramid, cross, and gardey of eden. the psalmist, the garden itself was situated on an eminence. (psalms, chap. iii., v. , and chap. ixviii., vs. , , .) the pyramid is one of the marvellous features of that prob- lem which confronts us everywhere, and which is insoluble without atlantis. the arabian traditions linked the pyramid with the flood. in a manuscript preserved in the bodleian library, and trans- lated by dr. sprenger, abou balkhi says: “the wise men, previous to the flood, foreseeing an impend- ing judginent from heaven, either by submersion or fire, which would destroy every created thing, built upon the tops of the mountains in upper egypt many pyramids of stone, in order to have some refuge against the approaching calamity. two of these buildings exceeded the rest in height, being four hun- dred cubits high and as many broad and as many long. they were built with large blocks of marble, and they were so well put together that the joints were scarcely perceptible. upon the exterior of the building every charm and wonder of physic was inscribed.” this tradition locates these monster structures upon the mountains of upper egypt, but there are no buildings of such dimensions to be found anywhere in egypt. is it not proba- ble that we have here another reference to the great record preserved in the land of the deluge? were not the pyramids of egypt and america imitations of similar structures in at- lantis? might not the building of such a gigantic edifice have given rise to the legends existing on both continents in regard to a tower of babel? how did the human mind lit upon this singular edifice- the pyramid ? by what process of development did it reach it? why should these extraordinary structures crop out on the banks of the nile, and amid the forests and plains of ameri- ca? and why, in both countries, should they stand with their sides square to the four cardinal points of the compass? are they in this, too, a reininiscence of the cross, and of the four rivers of atlantis that ran to the north, south, east, and west ? pyramid, cross, and gardev of edex were anciently applied to have been threcfold — namely, as tombs, temples, and observatories; and this view he labors to establish in the third volume of his ‘indian antiquities.' now, whatever may be their actual date, or with whatsoever people they may have originated, whether in africa or asia, in the lower valley of the nile or in the plains of chaldea, the pyra- inids of egypt were unquestionably destined to very opposite purposes. according to herodotus, they were introduced by the hyksos; and proclus, the platonic philosopher, connects them with the science of astronomy-a science which, he adds, the egyptians derived from the chaldeans. hence we may reasonably infer that they served as well for temples for plane- tary worship as for observatories. subscquently to the descent of the shepherds, their hallowed precincts were invaded by royalty, from motives of pride and superstition; and the prin- cipal chamber in each was used as tombs." the pyramidal imitations, dear to the hearts of colonists of the sacred mountain upon which their gods dwelt, was devoted, as perhaps the mountain itself was, to sun and fire worship. the same writer says: “that sabian worship once extensively prevailed in the new world is a well-authenticated fact; it is yet practised to some extent by the wandering tribes on the northern continent, and was the national religion of the peruvians at the time of the conquest. that it was also the religion of their more highly civilized predecessors on the soil, south of the equator more es- pecially, is evidenced by the remains of fire-altars, both round and square, scattered about the shores of lakes umayu and titicaca, and which are the counterparts of the gueber dokh- mebs overhanging the caspian sea. accordingly, we find, among these and other vestiges of antiquity that indissolubly connected those lovg-since extinct populations in the new with the races of the old world, the well-defined symbol of the maltesc cross. on the mexican feroher before alluded to, and which is most elaborately carved in bass - relief on a massive piece of polygonous granite, constituting a portion of a cyclo- pean wall, the cross is enclosed within the ring, and accompa- nying it are four tassel - like ornaments, graved equally well. those accompaniments, however, are disposed without any par- atlantis: the antediluvian world. ticular regard to order, but the four arms of the cross, never- theless, severally and accurately point to the cardinal quarters. the same regularity is observable on a much smaller but not less curious monument, which was discovered soine time since in an ancient peruvian huaca or catacomb-namely, a syrinx, or pandean pipe, cut out of a solid mass of lapis ollaris, the sides of which are profusely ornamented, not only with mal- tese crosses, but also with other symbols very similar in style to those inscribed on the obelisks of egypt and on the mono- litlis of this country. the like figure occurs on the equally an- cient otrusco black pottery. but by far the most reloarkable example of this form of the cross in the new world is that which appears on a second type of the mexican feroher, en- graved on a tablet of gypsin, and which is described at length by its discoverer, captain du paix, and depicted by his friend, m. baradère. iiere the accompaniments a shield, a hamlet, and a couple of bead-annulets or rosaries-are, with a single ex- ception, identical in even the minutest particular with an as- syrian monument emblematical of the deity.... "no coun‘ry in the world can compare with india for the exposition of the pyramidal cross. there the stupendous la- bors of egypt are rivalled, and sometimes surpassed. indeed, but for the fact of such monuments of patient industry and uexampled skill being still in existence, the accounts of some others which have long since disappeared, having succumbed to the ravages of time and the fury of the bigoted mussulman, would sound in our ears as incredible as the story of porsenna': tomb, which 'o'ertopped old pelion,' and made 'ossa like a wart.' yet something not very dissimilar in character to it wa; formerly the boast of the ancient city of benares, on the banks of the ganges. we allude to the great temple of bindh madhu, which was demolished in the seventeenth century by the em. peror aurungzebe. tavernier, the french baron, who travelled thither about the year , has preserved a brief description of it. the body of the temple was constructed in the figure of a colossal cross (i.e., a st. andrew's cross), with a lofty dome at the centre, above which rose a massive structure of a pyra- midal form. at the four extremities of the cross there were four other pyramids of proportionate dimensions, and which were ascended from the outside by steps, with balconies at stated distances for places of rest, reminding us of the temple pyramid, cross, and gardev of edev. of belus, as described in the pages of herodotus. the re- mains of a similar building are found at mhuttra, on the banks of the jumna. this and many others, including the subterra- nean temple at elephanta and the caverns of ellora and salsette, are described at length in the well-known work by maurice; who adds that, besides these, there was vet another device in which the hindoo displayed the all-pervading sign; this was by pyramidal towers placed crosswise. at the famous temple of chillambrim, on the coromandel coast, there were seven lofty walls, one within the other, round the central quadrangle, and as many pyramidal gate-ways in the midst of each side which forms the limbs of a vast cross.” in mexico pyramids were found everywhere. cortez, in a letter to charles v., states that he counted four bundred of them at cholula. their temples were on those “high places." the most ancient pyramids in mexico are at teotihuacan, cight leagues from the city of mexico; the two largest were dedi- cated to the sun and moon respectively, each built of cut stone, with a level area at the summit, and four stages lead- ing up to it. the larger one is feet square at the base, about feet high, and covers an area of eleven acres. the pyramid of cholula, measured by humboldt, is feet high, feet square at the base, and covers forty - five acres ! the great pyramid of egypt, cheops, is feet square, feet high, and covers between twelve and thirteen acres. so that it appears that the base of the teotihuacan structure is nearly as large as that of cheops, while that of cholula covers nearly four times as much space. the cheops pyra- mid, however, exceeds very much in height both the american structures. señor garcia y cubas thinks the pyramids of teotihuacan (mexico) were built for the same purpose as those of egypt. lle considers the analogy established in eleven particulars, as follows: , the site chosen is the same; , the structures are orientated with slight variation ; , the line through the cen- tres of the structures is in the astronomical meridian ; , the pyramid, cross, and garden of eden. eight feet long, whose thickness exceeded the stature of a tall man. (“prehistoric nations,” p. .) “if," says ferguson, “ we still hesitate to pronounce that there was any connection between the builders of the pyra- mids of suku and oajaca, or the temples of xochialco and boro buddor, we must at least allow that the likeness is star- tling, and difficult to account for on the theory of mere acci- dental coincidence.” the egyptian pyramids all stand with their sides to the car- wa thirut t edmonds.sg pyramids of egypt, dinal points, while many of the mexican pyramids do likewise. the egyptian pyramids were penetrated by small passage-ways; $ were the mexican. the pyramid of teotihuacan, according to almarez, bas, at a point sixty-nine feet from the base, a gal- lery large enough to admit a man crawling on hands and knees, atlantis: the antediluvian world. which extends inward, on an incline, a distance of twenty-five feet, and terminates in two square wells or chambers, each five feet square, and one of them fifteen feet deep. mr. löwenstern pyramids of teotiu aoan. states, according to mr. bancroft (“native races," vol. iv., p. ), that “the gallery is one hundred and fifty-seven feet long, increasing in height to over six feet and a half as it penetrates the pyramid ; that the well is over six feet square, extending (apparently) down to the base and up to the sum- mit; and that other cross-galleries are blocked up by débris.” in the pyramid of cheops there is a similar opening or pas- sage-way forty-nine feet above the base; it is three feet eleven inches high, and three feet five and a half inches wide ; it leads down a slope to a sepulchral chamber or well, and con- neots with other passage-ways leading up into the body of the pyramid. steinunn ama rina the great mound, near mia misburg, onto. atlantis: the antediluvian world. long), circular ditches, and stone circles, almost identical with those found in the valley of the mississippi. in ireland the dead were buried in vaults of stone, and the earth raised over them in pyramids flattened on the top. they were called “moats” by the people. we have found the stone vaults at the base of similar truncated pyramids in ohio. there can be no doubt that the pyramid was a developed and perfected mound, and that the parent form of these curious structures is to be found in silsbury hill, and in the mounds of earth of central america and the mississippi valley. we find the emblem of the cross in pre-christian times ven- erated as a holy symbol on both sides of the atlantic; and we find it explained as a type of the four rivers of the happy island where the civilization of the race originated. we find everywhere among the european and american na- tions the memory of an eden of the race, where the first inen dwelt in primeval peace and happiness, and which was after- ward destroyed by water. we find the pyramid on both sides of the atlantic, with its four sides pointing, like the arms of the cross, to the four car- dinal points-a reminiscence of olympus; and in the aztec representation of olympos (aztlan) we find the pyramid as the central and typical figure. is it possible to suppose all these extraordinary coincidences to be the result of accident? we might just as well say that the similarities between the american and english forms of government were not the result of relationship or descent, but that men placed in similar circumstances had spontaneously and necessarily reached the same results. gold and silver sacred metals of atlantis. chapter vi. gold and silver the sacred metals of atlantis. money is the instrumentality by which man is lifted above the limitations of barter. baron storch terms it “the marvel- lous instrument to which we are indebted for our wealth and civilization.” it is interesting to inquire into the various articles which have been used in different countries and ages as money. the following is a table of some of them : articles of utility. india ........ .cakes of tea. china ..................... ..pieces of silk. abyssinia ......... ......salt. iceland and newfoundland. .... ..codfish, illinois (in early days)..... .....coon-skins. bornoo (africa)........ .cotton shirts. ancient russia........ ...skins of wild animals. west india islands ( ) .cocoa-nuts. massachusetts indians ..... .wampum and musket-balls. virginia ( ) ............. ..... tobacco. british west india islands.. ......pins, snuff, and whiskey. central south america .. .soap, chocolate, and eggs. ancient romans... ......cattle. " greece.......... .nails of copper and iron. the lacedemonians...... ..... iron. the burman empire ....... ..... lead. russia ( to ). .............. platinum. rome (under numa pompilius)....... wood and leather. " ( " the cæsars) ............ land. atlantis: the avtediluvian world. articles of utility—continued. carthaginians. .....................leather. ancient britons ....................cattle, slaves, brass, and iron. england (under james ii.). .......... tin, gun-metal, and pewter. south sea islands ............ ......axes and hammers. articles of ornament. ancient jews ......................jewels. the indian islands and africa. .. .. ...cowrie shells. conventional signs. holland ( ). ........ .........pieces of pasteboard. china ( ) ......................bark of the mulberry-tree. it is evident that every primitive people uses as money those articles upon which they set the highest value-as cattle, jew- els, slaves, salt, musket-balls, pins, snuff, whiskey, cotton shirts, leather, axes, and hammers; or those articles for which there was a foreign demand, and which they could trade off to the merchants for articles of necessity—as tea, silk, codfish, coon- skins, cocoa-nuts, and tobacco. then there is a later stage, when the stamp of the government is impressed upon paper, wood, pasteboard, or the bark of trees, and these articles are given a legal-tender character. when a civilized nation comes in contact with a barbarous people they seek to trade with them for those things which they need; a metal-working people, manufacturing weapons of iron or copper, will seek for the useful metals, and hence we find iron, copper, tin, and lead coming into use as a standard of values—as money; for they can always be converted into articles of use and weapons of war. but when we ask how it chanced that gold and silver came to be used as money, and why it is that gold is regarded as so much more valuable than silver, no answer presents itself. it was impossible to make either of them into pots or pans, swords or spears; they were not necessarily more beautiful than glass or the combinations of tin and copper. nothing astonished the american races gold and silver sacred metals of atlantis. more than the extraordinary value set upon gold and silver by the spaniards; they could not understand it. a west indian savage traded a handful of gold-dust with one of the sailors ac- companying columbus for some tool, and then ran for his life to the woods lest the sailor should repent his bargain and call him back. the mexicans had coins of tin shaped like a letter t. we can understand this, for tin was necessary to them in hardening their bronze implements, and it may have been the highest type of metallic value among them. a round copper coin with a serpent stamped on it was found at palenque, and t-shaped copper coins are very abundant in the ruins of cen- tral ainerica. this too we can understand, for copper was nec- essary in every work of art or utility. all these nations were familiar with gold and silver, but they used them as sacred metals for the adornment of the temples of the sun and moon. the color of gold was something of the color of the sun's rays, while the color of silver resembled the pale light of the moon, and hence they were respectively sa- cred to the gods of the sun and moon. and this is probably the origin of the comparative value of these metals: they be- came the precious metals because they were the sacred metals, and gold was more valuable than silver, just as the sun-god was the great god of the nations, while the mild moon was simply an attendant upon the sun. the peruvians called gold “the tears wept by the sun.” it was not used among the people for ornament or money. the great temple of the sun at cuzco was called the “place of gold.” it was, as i have shown, literally a mine of gold. walls, cornices, statuary, plate, ornaments, all were of gold; the very ewers, pipes, and aqueducts — even the agricultural implements used in the garden of the temple—were of gold and silver. the value of the jewels which adorned the temple was equal to one hundred and eighty millions of dollars! the riches of the kingdom can be conceived when we remember that from a pyramid in chimu a spanish explorer named * atlantis: tie antediluvian world. toledo took, in , $ , , in gold and silver. (“new american cyclopædia,” art. american antiquities.) the gold and silver of peru largely contributed to forın the metallic cur- rency upon which europe has carried on her commerce during the last three hundred years. gold and silver were not valued in peru for any intrinsic usefulness; they were regarded as sacred because reserved for the two great gods of the nation. as we find gold and silver mined and worked on both sides of the atlantic at the earliest periods of recorded history, we may fairly conclude that they were known to the atlantcans; and this view is confirmed by the statements of plato, who represents a condition of things in atlantis exactly like that which pizarro found in peru. doubt- less the vast accumulations of gold and silver in both countries were due to the fact that these metals were not permitted to be used by the people. in peru the annual taxes of the people were paid to the inca in part in gold and silver from the mines, and they were used to ornament the temples; and thus the work of accumulating the sacred metals went on from gener- ation to generation. the same process doubtless led to the vast accumulations in the temples of atlantis, as described by plato. now, as the atlanteans carried on an immense commerce with all the countries of europe and western asia, they doubt- less inquired and traded for gold and silver for the adornment of their temples, and they thus produced a demand for and gave a value to the two metals otherwise comparatively useless to man—a value higher than any other commodity which the people could offer their civilized customers; and as the rever- ence for the great burning orb of the sun, master of all the manifestations of nature, was tenfold as great as the veneration for the smaller, weaker, and variable goddess of the night, so was the demand for the metal sacred to the sun ten times as great as for the metal sacred to the moon. this view is con- firmed by the fact that the root of the word by which the celts, gold and silver sacred metals of atlantis. the greeks, and the romans designated gold was the sanscrit word harat, which means," the color of the sun." among the assyrians gold and silver were respectively consecrated to the sun and moon precisely as they were in peru. a pyramid be- longing to the palace of nineveh is referred to repeatedly in the inscriptions. it was composed of seven stages, equal in height, and each one smaller in area than the one beneath it; each stage was covered with stucco of different colors, “a dif- ferent color representing each of the heavenly bodies, the least important being at the base: white (venus); black (saturn); purple (jupiter); blue (mercury); vermillion (mars); silver (the moon); and gold (the sun)." (lenormant's “ancient history of the east," vol. i., p. .) “in england, to this day the new moon is saluted with a bow or a courtesy, as well as the curious practice of turning one's silver,' which seems a relic of the offering of the moon's proper metal.” (tylor's “ an- thropology, p. .) the custom of wishing, when one first sees the new moon, is probably a survival of moon-worship; the wish taking the place of the prayer. and thus has it come to pass that, precisely as the physicians of europe, fifty years ago, practised bleeding, because for thou- sands of years their savage ancestors had used it to draw away the evil spirits out of the man, so the business of our modern civilization is dependent upon the superstition of a past civiliza- tion, and the bankers of the world are to-day perpetuating the adoration of "the tears wept by the sun” which was com- menced ages since on the island of atlantis. and it becomes a grave question—when we remember that the rapidly increasing business of the world, consequent upon an increasing population, and a civilization advancing with giant steps, is measured by the standard of a currency limited by natural laws, decreasing annually in production, and incapa- ble of expanding proportionately to the growth of the world- whether this atlantean superstition may not yet inflict more incalculable injuries on mankind than those which resulted from the practice of phlebotomy. the central american and mexican colonies. dr. le plongeon, who spent four years exploring yucatan, says: “one-third of this tongue (the maya) is pure greek. who brought the dialect of homer to america ? or who took to greece that of the mayas? greek is the offspring of the san-. scrit. is maya? or are they coeval? ... the maya is not de- void of words from the assyrian.” that the population of central america (and in this term i include mexico) was at one time very dense, and bad attain- ed to a high degree of civilization, higher even than that of en- rope in the time of columbus, there can be no question; and it is also probable, as i have shown, that they originally be- longed to the wbite race. désirè charnay, who is now explor- ing the ruins of central america, says (north american re- view, january, , p. ), “the toltecs were fair, robust, and bearded. i have often seen indians of pure blood with blue eyes.” quetzalcoatl was represented as large, “ with a big head and a heavy beard.” the same author speaks (page ) of “the ocean of ruins all around, not inferior in size to those of egypt.” at teotihuacan he measured one building two thonsand feet wide on each side, and fifteen pyramids, each nearly as large in the base as cheops. “the city is indeed of vast extent ... the whole ground, over a space of five or six miles in diameter, is covered with heaps of ruins-ruins which at first make no impression, so complete is their dilapidation." he asserts the great antiquity of these ruins, because he found the very highways of the ancient city to be composed of broken bricks and pottery, the débris left by earlier populations. “this continent,” he says (page ), “is the land of mysteries; we here enter an infinity whose limits we cannot estimate. ... i shall soon have to quit work in this place. the long avenue on which it stands is lined with ruins of public buildings and pal- aces, forming continuous lines, as in the streets of modern cities. still, all these edifices and halls were as nothing compared with the vast substructures which strengthened their foundations." atlantis: the antediluvian world. we find the strongest resemblances to the works of the an. cient european races: the masonry is similar; the cement is the same; the sculptures are alike; both peoples used the arch; in both continents we find bricks, glassware, and even porcelain (north american review, december, , pp. , ), “ with - blue figures on a white ground;" also bronze composed of the same elements of copper and tin in like proportions; coins made of copper, round and t-shaped, and even metallic can- dlesticks. dësirè charnay believes that he has found in the ruins of tula the bones of swine, sheep, oxen, and biorses, in a fossil state, in- dicating an immense antiquity. the toltecs possessed a pure and simple religion, like that of atlantis, as described by plato, with the same sacrifices of fruits and flowers; they were farm- ers; they raised and wove cotton ; they cultivated fruits; they used the sign of the cross extensively; they cut and engraved precious stones; among their carvings have been found repre- sentations of the elephant and the lion, both animals not known in america. the forms of sepulture were the same as among the ancient races of the old world ; they burnt the bodies of their great men, and enclosed the dust in funeral urns; some of their dead were buried in a sitting position, others reclined at full length, and many were embalmed like the egyptian mummies. when we turn to mexico, the same resemblances present theinselves. the government was an elective monarchy, like that of po- land, the king being selected from the royal family by the votes of the nobles of the kingdom. there was a royal fami- ly, an aristocracy, a privileged priesthood, a judiciary, and a common people. here we have all the several estates into which society in europe is divided. there were thirty grand nobles in the kingdom, and the vastness of the realın may be judged by the fact that each of these could muster one hundred thousand vassals from their the central american and mexican colonies. own estates, or a total of three millions. and we have only to read of the vast hordes brought into the field against cortez to know that this was not an exaggeration. they even possessed that which has been considered the crowning feature of european society, the feudal system. they nobles held their lands upon the tenure of military service. but the most striking feature was the organization of the judiciary. the judges were independent even of the king, and held their offices for life. there were supreme judges for the larger divisions of the kingdom, district judges in each of the provinces, and magistrates chosen by the people throughout the country. there was also a general legislative assembly, congress, or parliainent, held every eighty days, presided over by the king, consisting of all the judges of the realm, to which the last ap- peal lay. “the rites of marriage,” says prescott, “ were celebrated with as much formality as in any christian country; and the institution was held in such reverence that a tribunal was insti- tuted for the sole purpose of determining questions relating to it. divorces could not be obtained until authorized by a sen- tence of the court, after a patient hearing of the parties.” slavery was tolerated, but the labors of the slave were light, his rights carefully guarded, and his children were free. the slave could own property, and even other slaves. their religion possessed so many features similar to those of the old world, that the spanish priests declared the devil bad given them a bogus imitation of christianity to destroy their sonls. “the devil,” said they, “stole all he could." they had confessions, absolution of sins, and baptism. when their children were named, they sprinkled their lips and bosoms with water, and “the lord was implored to permit the holy drops to wash away the sin that was given it before the foundation of the world." the priests were numerous and powerful. they practised atlantis: the antediluvian worll. fasts, vigils, flagellations, and many of them lived in monastic seclusion. the aztecs, like the egyptians, had progressed through all the three different modes of writing—the picture-writing, the symbolical, and the phonetic. they recorded all their laws, their tribute-rolls specifying the various imposts, their mythol- ogy, astronomical calendars, and rituals, their political annals and their chronology. they wrote on cotton-cloth, on skins prepared like parchment, on a composition of silk and gum, and on a species of paper, soft and beautiful, made from the aloe. their books were about the size and shape of our own, but the leaves were long strips folded together in many folds. they wrote poetry and cultivated oratory, and paid much attention to rhetoric. they also had a species of theatrical performances. their proficiency in astronomy is thus spoken of by pres- cott: “that they should be capable of accurately adjusting their festivals by the movements of the heavenly bodies, and should fix the true length of the tropical year with a precision un- known to the great philosophers of antiquity, could be the result only of a long series of nice and patient observations, evincing no slight progress in civilization." “their women,” says the same author, "are described by the spaniards as pretty, though with a serious and rather mel- ancholy cast of countenance. their long, black hair might generally be seen wreathed with flowers, or, among the richer people, with strings of precious stones and pearls from the gulf of california. they appear to have been treated with much consideration by their husbands; and passed their time in in- dolent tranquillity, or in such feminine occupations as spinning, embroidery, and the like; while their maidens beguiled the hours by the rehearsal of traditionary tales and ballads. “numerous attendants of both sexes waited at the banquets. the halls were scented with perfumes, and the courts strewed with odoriferous herbs and flowers, which were distributed in profusion among the guests as they arrived. cotton napkins and ewers of water were placed before them as they took their the central american and mexican colonies. seats at the board. tobacco was then offered, in pipes, mixed with aromatic substances, or in the form of cigars inserted in tubes of tortoise-shell or silver. it is a curious fact that the aztecs also took the dried tobacco leaf in the pulverized form of snuff. “the table was well supplied with substantial meats, espe- cially game, among which the most conspicuous was the turkey. also, there were found vegetables and fruits of every delicious variety dative to the continent. their palate was still further regaled by confections and pastry, for which their maize-flower and sugar furnished them ample materials. the meats were kept warm with chafing - dishes. the table was ornamented common form of arcu, central amerioa. with vases of silver and sometimes gold of delicate workman- ship. the favorite beverage was chocolatl, flavored with va- milla and different spices. the fermented juice of the maguey, with a mixture of sweets and acids, supplied various agreeable drinks of different degrees of strength.” it is not necessary to describe their great public works, their boating gardens, their aqueducts, bridges, forts, temples, pal- atlantis: tiie antediluvian world. tuttar stanloria t laura countries motor lue section of the treasure-louse of atreus at mycene. aces, and gigantic pyramids, all ornamented with wonderful stat- wait. we find a strong resemblance between the forin of arch used in the architecture of central america and that of the oldest buildings of greece. the palenque arch is made by the gradual overlapping of the strata of the building, as shown in the accompanying cut from baldwin's “ ancient america," page . it was the custom of these ancient architects to fill in the arch itself with masonry, as shown in the picture h / nៃថាពររបពេលដែល ។ aron of las monjas, palenque, central america. atlantis: the antediluvian world. chapter ii. the egyptian colony. what proofs have we that the egyptians were a colony from atlantis ? . they claimed descent from “the twelve great gods," which must have meant the twelve gods of atlantis, to wit, poseidon and cleito and their ten sons. . according to the traditions of the phænicians, the egyp- tians derived their civilization from them; and as the egyp- tians far antedated the rise of the phænician nations proper, this must have meant that egypt derived its civilization from the same country to which the phænicians owed their own origin. the phænician legends show that misor, from whom the egyptians were descended, was the child of the phænician gods amynus and magus. misor gave birth to taaut, the god of letters, the inventor of the alphabet, and taaut became thoth, the god of history of the egyptians. sanchoniathon tells us that “ chrorios (king of atlantis) visited the south, and gave all egypt to the god taaut, that it might be his kingdom.” “misor" is probably the king “mestor” nained by plato. . according to the bible, the egyptians were descendants of ham, who was one of the three sons of noah who escaped from the deluge, to wit, the destruction of atlantis. . the great similarity between the egyptian civilization and that of the american nations. . the fact that the egyptians claimed to be red men. - . the religion of egypt was pre-eminently sun-worship; and ra was the sun-god of egypt, rama, the sun of the hin- the egyptian colovy. doos, rana, a god of the toltecs, raymi, the great festival of the sun of the peruvians, and rayam, a god of yemen. . the presence of pyramids in egypt and america. . the egyptians were the only people of antiquity who were well-informed as to the history of atlantis. the egyp- tians were never a maritime people, and the atlanteans must have brought that knowledge to them. they were not likely to send ships to atlantis. . we find another proof of the descent of the egyptians from atlantis in their belief as to the “under-world." this land of the dead was situated in the west-hence the tombs were all placed, whenever possible, on the west bank of the nile. the constant cry of the mourners as the funeral pro- cession moved forward was, “to the west; to the west.” this under-world was beyond the water, hence the funeral proces- sion always crossed a body of water. “where the tombs were, as in most cases, on the west bank of the nile, the nile was crossed; where they were on the eastern shore the procession passed over a sacred lake." (r. s. poole, contemporary re- view, august, , p. .) in the procession was “a sacred ark of the sun," all this is very plain : the under - world in the west, the land of the dead, was atlantis, the drowned world, the world beneath the horizon, beneath the sea, to which the peasants of brittany looked from cape raz, the most western cape project- ing into the atlantic. it was only to be reached from egypt by crossing the water, and it was associated with the ark, the emblem of atlantis in all lands. the soul of the dead man was supposed to journey to the under-world by “a water progress” (ibid., p. ), his destina- tion was the elysian fields, where mighty corn grew, and where he was expected to cultivate the carth ; “this task was of sn- preine importance.” (ibid., p. .) the elysian fields were the “elysion ” of the greeks, the abode of the blessed, which we have seen was an island in the remote west." the egyp. the egyptian colony. tain to. their system of writing, also, is found to have been complete from the very first. ... “but what are we to think when the antiquary, grubbing in the dust and silt of five thousand years ago to discover some traces of infant effort-some rude specimens of the ages of ma- gog and mizraim, in which we may admire the germ that has since developed into a wonderful art-breaks his shins against an article so perfect that it equals if it does not excel the su- preme stretch of modern ability ? how shall we support the theory if it come to our knowledge that, before noah was cold in his grave, bis descendants were adepts in construction and in the fine arts, and that their achievements were for magnitude such as, if we possess the requisite skill, we never attempt to emulate?... “as we have not yet discovered any trace of the rude, sav- age egypt, but have seen her in her very earliest manifestations already skilful, erudite, and strong, it is impossible to deter- mine the order of her inventions. light may yet be thrown upon her rise and progress, but our deepest researches have hitherto shown her to us as only the mother of a most accom- plished race. how they came by their knowledge is matter for speculation; that they possessed it is matter of fact. we never find them without the ability to organize labor, or shrink- ing from the very boldest efforts in digging canals and irrigat- ing, in quarrying rock, in building, and in sculpture.” the explanation is simple: the waters of the atlantic now flow over the country where all this magnificence and power were developed by slow stages from the rude beginnings of barbarism. and how mighty must have been the parent nation of which this egypt was a colony ! egypt was the magnificent, the golden bridge, ten thousand years long, glorious with temples and pyramids, illuminated and illustrated by the most complete and continuous records of human history, along which the civilization of atlantis, in a great procession of kings and priests, philosophers and astron- omers, artists and artisans, streamed forward to greece, to rome, to europe, to america. as far back in the ages as the atlantis: the antediluvian world. eye can penetrate, even where the perspective dwindles almost to a point, we can still see the swarming multitudes, possessed of all the arts of the highest civilization, pressing forward from out that other and greater empire of which even this wonder- working nile-land is but a faint and imperfect copy. look at the record of egyptian greatness as preserved in her works : the pyramids, still in their ruins, are the marvel of mankind. the river nile was diverted from its course by mon- strous embankments to make a place for the city of memphis. the artificial lake of mæris was created as a reservoir for the waters of the nile: it was four hundred and fifty miles in cir- cumference and three hundred and fifty feet deep, with sub- terranean channels, flood-gates, locks, and dams, by which the wilderness was redeemed from sterility. look at the magnifi- cent mason-work of this ancient people! mr. kenrick, speak- ing of the casing of the great pyramid, says, “the joints are scarcely perceptible, and not wider than the thickness of silver- paper, and the cement so tenacious that fragments of the cas- ing-stones still remain in their original position, notwithstand- ing the lapse of so many centuries, and the violence by which they were detached.” look at the ruins of the labyrinth, which aroused the astonishment of herodotus; it had three thousand chambers, half of them above ground and half below -a combination of courts, chambers, colonnades, statues, and pyramids. look at the temple of karnac, covering a square each side of which is eighteen hundred feet. says a recent writer, “travellers one and all appear to have been unable to find words to express the feelings with which these sublime remains inspired them. they have been astounded and over- come by the magnificence and the prodigality of workmanship here to be admired. courts, halls, gate-ways, pillars, obelisks, monolithic figures, sculptures, rows of sphinxes, are massed in such profusion that the sight is too much for modern compre- hension.” denon says, “it is hardly possible to believe, after having seen it, in the reality of the existence of so many build- the egyptian colony. ings collected on a single point-in their dimensions, in the resolute perseverance which their construction required, and in the incalculable expense of so much magnificence.” and again, “ it is necessary that the reader should fancy what is before him to be a dream, as he who views the objects them- selves occasionally yields to the doubt whether he be perfectly awake.” there were lakes and mountains within the periphery of the sanctuary. “the cathedral of notre dame at paris could be set inside one of the halls of karnac, and not touch the walls ! ... the whole valley and delta of the nile, from the catacombs to the sea, was covered with temples, palaces, tombs, pyramids, and pillars.” every stone was covered with inscriptions. the state of society in the early days of egypt approximated very closely to our modern civilization. religion consisted in the worship of one god and the practice of virtue; forty-two commandments prescribed the duties of men to themselves, their neighbors, their country, and the deity; a heaven await- ed the good and a hell the vicious; there was a judgment-day when the hearts of men were weighed: “he is sifting out the hearts of men before his judgment-seat.” monogamy was the strict rule; not even the kings, in the early days, were allowed to have more than one wife. the wife's rights of separate property and her dower were protected by law; she was "the lady of the house;" she could "buy, sell, and trade on her own account;" in case of divorce her dowry was to be repaid to her, with interest at a high rate. the marriage-ceremony embraced an oath not to contract any other matrimonial alliance. the wife's status was as high in the earliest days of egypt as it is now in the most civilized nations of europe or america. slavery was permitted, but the slaves were treated with the greatest humanity. in the confessions, buried with the dead, atlantis: the antediluvian world. the soul is made to declare that “i have not incriminated the slave to his master.” there was also a clause in the command- ments “which protected the laboring man against the exac- tion of more than his day's labor.” they were merciful to the captives made in war; no picture represents torture inflicted upon them; while the representation of a sea-fight shows them saving their drowning enemies. reginald stuart poole says ( contemporary review, august, , p. ): “when we consider the high ideal of the egyptians, as proved by their portrayals of a just life, the principles they laid down as the basis of ethics, the elevation of women among them, their humanity in war, we must admit that their moral place ranks very high among the nations of antiquity. “the true comparison of egyptian life is with that of mod- ern nations. this is far too difficult a task to be here under- taken. enough has been said, however, to show that we need not think that in all respects they were far behind us." then look at the proficiency in art of this ancient people. they were the first mathematicians of the old world. those greeks whom we regard as the fathers of mathematics were simply pupils of egypt. they were the first land-survey- ors. they were the first astronomers, calculating eclipses, and watching the periods of planets and constellations. they knew the rotundity of the earth, which it was supposed columbus had discovered ! “the signs of the zodiac were certainly in use among the egyptians years before christ. one of the learned men of our day, who for fifty years labored to decipher the hiero- glyphics of the ancients, found upon a mummy - case in the british museum a delineation of the signs of the zodiac, and the position of the planets; the date to which they pointed was the autumnal equinox of the year b.c. professor mitchell, to whom the fact was communicated, emploved his assistants to ascertain the exact position of the heavenly bodies belonging to our solar system on the equinox of that year. this was done, and a diagram furnished by parties ignorant of his object, which showed that on the th of october, b.c., the egyptian colony, been reached by thousands of years of progress. in museums still may be examined the work of their joiners, stone-cutters, goldsmiths, wonderful in skill and finish, and often putting to shame the modern artificer. . . . to see gold jewellery of the highest order, the student should examine that of the ancients, such as the egyptian, greek, and etruscan.” the carpenters' and masons' tools of the ancient egyptians were almost identical with those used among us to-day. there is a plate showing an aztec priestess in delafield's “ antiquities of america,” p. , which presents a head-dress strikingly egyptian. in the celebrated “ tablet of the cross," at palenque, we see a cross with a bird perched upon it, to which (or to the cross) two priests are offering sacrifice. in mr. stephens's representation from the vocal memnon we find almost the same thing, the difference being that, instead of an ornamented latin cross, we have a crux commissa, and instead of one bird there are two, not on the cross, but immediately above it. in both cases the hieroglyphics, though the char- acters are of course different, are disposed upon the stone in much the same manner. (bancroft's “native races,” vol. v., p. .) even the obelisks of egypt have their counterpart in america. quoting from molina (“ history of chili,” tom. i., p. ), mccullough writes, “between the hills of mendoza and la punta is a pillar of stone one hundred and fifty feet high, and twelve feet in diameter.” (“researches,” pp. , .) the columns of copan stand detached and solitary, so do the obe- lisks of egypt; both are square or four-sided, and covered with sculpture. (bancroft's “native races," vol. v., p. .) in a letter by jomard, quoted by delafield, we read, “i have recognized in your memoir on the division of time among the mexican nations, compared with those of asia, some very striking analogies between the toltec characters and institutions observed on the banks of the nile. among these . the egyptian colony. which transmitted some part of its astronomical knowledge to its colonies through their respective priesthoods. can we, in the presence of such facts, doubt the statements of the egyptian priests to solon, as to the glory and greatness of atlantis, its monuments, its sculpture, its laws, its religion, its civilization ? in egypt we have the oldest of the old world children of atlantis ; in her magnificence we have a testimony to the de- velopment attained by the parent country; by that country whose kings were the gods of succeeding nations, and whose kingdom extended to the uttermost ends of the earth. the egyptian historian, manetho, referred to a period of thirteen thousand nine hundred years as “the reign of the gods,” and placed this period at the very beginning of egyp- tian history. these thirteen thousand-nine hundred years were probably a recollection of atlantis. such a lapse of time, vast as it may appear, is but as a day compared with some of our recognized geological epochs. * chapter iii. the colonies of the mississippi valley. if we will suppose a civilized, maritime people to have plant ed colonies, in the remote past, along the headlands and shores of the gulf of mexico, spreading thence, in time, to the table- lands of mexico and to the plains and mountains of new mex- ico and colorado, what would be more natural than that these adventurous navigators, passing around the shores of the golf, should, sooner or later, discover the mouth of the mississippi river; and what more certain than that they would enter it, ex- plore it, and plant colonies along its shores, wherever they found a fertile soil and a salubrious climate. their outlying provinces would penetrate even into regions where the severity of the climate would prevent great density of population or develop- ment of civilization. the results we have presupposed are precisely those which we find to have existed at one time in the mississippi valley. the mound builders of the united states were pre-eminent- ly a river people. their densest settlements and greatest works were near the mississippi and its tributaries. says foster (“ pre- historic races," p. ), “the navigable streams were the great highways of the mound builders.” mr. fontaine claims (“how the world was peopled ") that this ancient people constructed "levees" to control and utilize the bayous of the mississippi for the purpose of agri- culture and commerce. the yazoo river is called yazoo-ok- hinnah—the river of ancient ruins. “there is no evidence that they had reached the atlantic coast; no authentic re- atlantis: the antediluvian world. the mound builders had attained a considerable degree of civilization; they were able to form, in the construction of their works, perfect circles and perfect squares of great accuracy, car- ried over the varying surface of the country. one large en- closure comprises exactly forty acres. at hopetown, ohio, are two walled figures-one a square, the other a circle-each con- taining precisely twenty acres. they must have possessed reg- ular scales of measurement, and the means of determining an- gles and of computing the area to be enclosed by the square and thic circle, so that the space enclosed by each might ex- actly correspond. “the most skilful engineer of this day would find it diffi- cult,” says mr. squier, “ without the aid of instruments, to lay down an accurate square of the great dimensions above repre- sented, measuring, as they do, more than four-fifths of a mile in circumference. ... but we not only find accurate squares and perfect circles, but also, as we have seen, octagons of great dimensions." they also possessed an accurate system of weights; bracelets of copper on the arms of a skeleton have been found to be of uniform size, measuring cach two and nine-tenth inches, and each weighing precisely four ounces. they built great military works surrounded by walls and ditches, with artificial lakes in the centre to supply water. one work, fort ancient, on the little miami river, ohio, has a cir- cuit of between four and five miles; the embankment was twenty feet high; the fort could have held a garrison of sixty thousand men with their families and provisions. not only do we find pyramidal structures of earth in the mississippi valley very much like the pyramids of egypt, mex- ico, and peru, but a very singular structure is repeated in ohio and peru: i refer to the double walls or prolonged pyramids, if i may coin an expression, shown in the cut page . the mound builders possessed chains of fortifications reach- ing from the southern line of new york diagonally across the ΣΤΗ ΚΑ!! Η. . Η Η . Σ oeaded way near piketon, οπιο. atlantis: the antediluvian world. mound is feet long, and the other two each feet in length. is this curious design a reminiscence of atlantis and the three-pronged trident of poseidon? (see th fig., p. , ante.) the mound builders made sun-dried brick mixed with rushes, as the egyptians made sun-dried bricks mixed with straw; they worked in copper, silver, lead, and there are evidences, as we shall see, that they wrought even in iron. copper implements are very numerous in the mounds. cop- per axes, spear - heads, hollow buttons, bosses for ornaments, bracelets, rings, etc., are found in very many of them strikingly similar to those of the bronze age in europe. in one in but- ler county, ohio, was found a copper fillet around the head of a skeleton, with strange devices marked upon it. silver ornaments have also been found, but not in such great numbers. they seem to have attached a high value to silver, and it is often found in thin sheets, no thicker than paper, wrapped over copper or stone ornaments so neatly as almost to escape detection. the great esteem in which they held a metal so intrinsically valueless as silver, is another evidence that they must have drawn their superstitions from the same source as the european nations. copper is also often found in this manner plated over stone pipes, presenting an unbroken metallic lustre, the overlapping edges so well polished as to be scarcely discoverable. beads and stars made of shells have sometimes been found doubly plated, first with copper then with silver. the mound builders also understood the art of casting metals, or they held intercourse with some race who did; a copper axe "cast” has been found in the state of new york. (sec lubbock's “prehistoric times,” p. , note.) professor foster (“prehistoric races,” p. ) also proves that the an- cient people of the mississippi valley possessed this art, and he gives us representations of various articles plainly showing the marks of the mould upon them. the colonies of the mississippi valley. a rude article in the shape of an axe, composed of pure lead, weighing about half a pound, was found in sinking a well within the trench of the ancient works at circleville. there can be no doubt it was the production of the mound builders, as galena has often been found on the altars in the mounds. it has been generally thought, by mr. squier and others, that there were no evidences that the mound builders were ac- quainted with the use of iron, or that their plating was more than a simple overlaying of one metal on another, or on some foreign substance. some years since, however, a mound was opened at marietta, ohio, which seems to have refuted these opinions. dr. s. p. hildreth, in a letter to the american antiquarian society, thus speaks of it: “lying immediately over or on the forehead of the body were found three large circular bosses, or ornaments for a sword-belt or buckler; they are composed of copper overlaid with a thick plate of silver. the fronts are slightly convex, with a depression like a cup in the centre, and they measure two inches and a quarter across the face of each. on the back side, opposite the depressed portion, is a copper rivet or nail, around which are two separate plates by which they were fast- ened to the leather. two small pieces of leather were found lying between the plates of one of the bosses; they resemble the skin of a mummy, and seem to have been preserved by the salts of copper. near the side of the body was found a plate of silver, which appears to have been the upper part of a sword scabbard; it is six inches in length, two in breadth, and weighs one ounce. it seems to have been fastened to the scabbard by three or four rivets, the holes of which remain in the silver. “ two or three pieces of copper tube were also found, filled with iron rust. these pieces, from their appearance, composed the lower end of the scabbard, near the point of the sword. no signs of the sword itself were discovered, except the rust above mentioned. " the mound had every appearance of being as old as any in the neighborhood, and was at the first settlement of marietta covered with large trees. it seems to have been made for this atlantis: the antediluvian world. single personage, as this skeleton alone was discovered. the bones were very much decayed, and many of them crumbled to dust upon exposure to the air.” mr. squier says, “these articles have been critically ex- amined, and it is beyond doubt that the copper bosses were absolutely plated, not simply overlaid, with silver. between the copper and the silver exists a connection such as, it seems to me, could only be produced by heat, and if it is admitted that these are genuine relics of the mound builders, it must, at the same time, be admitted that they possessed the difficult art of plating one metal upon another. there is but one alterna- tive, viz., that they had occasional or constant intercourse with a people advanced in the arts, from whom these articles were obtained. again, if dr. ilildreth is not mistaken, oxydized iron or steel was also discovered in connection with the above re- mains, from which also follows the extraordinary conclusion that the mound builders were acquainted with the use of iron, the conclusion being, of course, subject to the improbable alter- native already mentioned.” in connection with this subject, we would refer to the inter- esting evidences that the copper mines of the shore of lake superior had been at some very remote period worked by the mound builders. there were found deep excavations, with rude ladders, huge masses of rock broken off, also numerous stone tools, and all the evidences of extensive and long-contin- ued labor. it is even said that the great ontonagon mass of pure copper which is now in washington was excavated by these ancient miners, and that when first found its surface showed numerous marks of their tools. there seems to be no doubt, then, that the mound builders were familiar with the use of copper, silver, and lead, and in all probability of iron. they possessed various mechanical contrivances. they were very probably acquainted with the lathe. beads of shell have been found, looking very much like ivory, and showing the circular striæ, identical with those pro- duced by turning in a lathe. in a mound on the scioto river was found around the neck the colonies of the mississippi valley. of a skeleton triple rows of beads, made of marine shells and the tusks of some animal, “several of these," says squier, “still retain their polish, and bear marks which seem to indicate that they were turned in some machine, instead of being carved or rubbed into shape by hand.” “not among the least interesting and remarkable relics," continues the same author, “obtained from the mounds are the stone tubes. they are all carved from fine-grained materials, capable of receiving a polish, and being made ornamental as well as useful. the finest specimen yet discovered, and which can scarcely be surpassed in the delicacy of its workmanship, was found in a mound in the immediate vicinity of chillicothe. it is composed of a compact variety of slate. this stone cuts with great clearness, and receives a fine though not glaring polish. the tube under notice is thirteen inches long by one and one-tenth in diameter; one end swells slightly, and the other terminates in a broad, flattened, triangular mouth-piece of fine proportions, which is carved with mathematical preci- sion. it is drilled throughout; the bore is seven-tenths of an inch in diameter at the cylindrical end of the tube, and retains that calibre until it reaches the point where the cylinder sub- sides into the mouth-piece, when it contracts gradually to one- tenth of an inch. the inner surface of the tube is perfectly smooth till within a short distance of the point of contraction. for the remaining distance the circular stria, formed by the drill in boring, are distinctly marked. the carving upon it is very fine.” that they possessed saws is proved by the fact that on some fossil teeth found in one of the mounds the striæ of the teeth of the saw could be distinctly perceived. when we consider that some of their porphyry carvings will turn the edge of the best-tempered knife, we are forced to con- clude that they possessed that singular process, known to the mexicans and peruvians, of tempering copper to the hardness of steel. atlantis: the antediluvian world. we find in the mounds adzes similar in shape to our own, with the edges bevelled from the inside. drills and gravers of copper have also been found, with chisel-shaped edges or sharp points. “it is not impossible,” says squier, “but, on the contrary, very probable, from a close inspection of the mound pottery, that the ancient people possessed the simple approximation toward the potter's wheel; and the polish which some of the finer vessels possess is due to other causes than vitrification." their sculptures show a considerable degree of progress. they consist of figures of birds, animals, reptiles, and the faces of men, carved from various kinds of stones, upon the bowls of pipes, upon toys, upon rings, and in distinct and sepa- rate figures. we give the opinions of those who have exam- ined them. mr. squier observes: “various though not abundant speci- mens of their skill have been recovered, which in elegance of model, delicacy, and finish, as also in fineness of material, come fully up to the best peruvian specimens, to which they bcar, in many respects, a close resemblance. the bowls of most of the stone pipes are carved in miniature figures of animals, birds, reptiles, etc. all of them are executed with strict fidelity to nature, and with exquisite skill. not only are the features of the objects faithfully represented, but their peculiarities and habits are in some degree exhibited. ... the two heads bere presented, intended to represent the eagle, are far superior in point of finish, spirit, and truthfulness, to any miniature cary- ings, ancient or modern, which have fallen under the notice of the authors. the peculiar defiant expression of the king of birds is admirably preserved in the carving, which in this re- spect, more than any other, displays the skill of the artist.” traces of cloth with “doubled and twisted fibre” have been found in the mounds; also matting; also shuttle-like tablets, used in weaving. there have also been found numerous musi- cal pipes, with mouth-pieces and stops; lovers' pipes, curiously and delicately carved, reminding us of bryant's lines- the colonies of the mississippi valley. “till twilight came, and lovers walked and wooed in a forgotten language; and old tunes, from instruments of unremembered forms, gave the soft winds a voice." there is evidence which goes to prove that the mound builders had relations with the people of a semi-tropical re- gion in the direction of atlantis. among their sculptures, in ohio, we find accurate representations of the lamantinc, mana- tee, or sea-cow—found to-day on the shores of florida, brazil, and central america—and of the toucan, a tropical and almost exclusively south american bird. sea-shells from the gulf, pearls from the atlantic, and obsidian from mexico, have also been found side by side in their mounds. the antiquity of their works is now generally conceded. "from the ruins of nineveh and babylon,” says mr. glid- don, “ we have bones of at least two thousand five hundred years old; from the pyramids and the catacombs of egypt both mummied and unmummied crania have been taken, of still higher antiquity, in perfect preservation; nevertheless, the skeletons deposited in our indian mounds, from the lakes to the gulf, are crumbling into dust through age alone." all the evidence points to the conclusion that civilized or semi-civilized man has dwelt on the western continent from a vast antiquity. maize, tobacco, quinoa, and the mandico plants have been cultivated so long that their wild originals have quite disappeared. “ the only species of palm cultivated by the south american indians, that known as the gulielma speciosa, has lost through that culture its original nut-like seed, and is dependent on the hands of its cultivators for its life. alluding to the above- named plants dr. brinton (“myths of the new world," p. ) remarks, 'several are sure to perish unless fostered by human care. what numberless ages does this suggest? how many centuries elapsed ere man thought of cultivating indian corn? how many more ere it had spread over nearly a hundred de- grees of latitude and lost all resemblance to its original form ?' atlantis: the antediluvian world. gaul and britain drew southward upon the destruction of rome. . the natchez indians, who are supposed to have descend- ed from the mound builders, kept a perpetual fire burning be- fore an altar, watched by old men who were a sort of priest- hood, as in europe. . if the tablet said to have been found in a mound near davenport, iowa, is genuine, which appears probable, the mound builders must either have possessed an alphabet, or have held intercourse with some people who did. (sce“ north americans of antiquity," p. .) this singular relic exhibits what appears to be a sacrificial mound with a fire upon it; over it are the sun, moon, and stars, and above these a mass of hieroglyphics which bear some reseinblance to the letters of european alphabets, and especially to that unknown alphabet which appears upon the inscribed bronze celt found near rome. (see p. of this work.) for instance, one of the letters on the celt is this, a; on the davenport tablet we find this sign, d; on the celt we have d ; on the tablet, d; on the celt we have b; on the tablet, . atlantis: the antediluvian world. als of ancient timos, and also poems and laws set in verse, for which they claim an antiquity of six thousand years.” (strabo, lib. iii., p. .) the iberians are represented to-day by the basques. the basques are “of middle size, compactly built, robust and agile, of a darker complexion than the spaniards, with gray eyes and black hair. they are simple but proud, impetuous, merry, and hospitable. the women are beautiful, skilful in performing men's work, and remarkable for their vivacity and grace. the basques are much attached to dancing, and are very fond of the music of the bagpipe.” (“new american cyclopædia,” art. basques.) "according to paul broca their language stands quite alone, or has mere analogies with the american type. of all euro- peans, we must provisionally hold the basques to be the oldest inhabitants of our quarter of the world.” (peschel, “ races of men," p. .) the basque language - the euscara-“has some common traits with the magyar, osmanli, and other dialects of the altai family, as, for instance, with the finnic on the old continent, as well as the algonquin-lenape language and some others in amer- ica.” (“new american cyclopædia,” art. busques.) duponceau says of the basque tongue: “this language, preserved in a corner of europe by a few thousand monntaineers, is the sole remaining fragment of, per- haps, a hundred dialects constructed on the same plan, which probably existed and were universally spoken at a remote pe- riod in that quarter of the world. like the bones of the mam- moth, it remains a monument of the destruction produced by a succession of ages. it stands single and alone of its kind, sur- rounded by idioms that have no affinity with it." we have seen them settling, in the earliest ages, in ireland. they also formed the base of the dark-haired population of england and scotland. they seem to have race affinities with the berbers, on the mediterrancan coast of africa. the iberian colonies of atlantis. dr. bodichon, for fifteen years a surgeon in algiers, says: “persons who have inhabited brittany, and then go to algeria, are struck with the resemblance between the ancient armori- cans (the bretons) and the cabyles (of algiers). in fact, the moral and physical character is identical. the breton of pure blood has a long head, light yellow complexion of bistre tinge, eyes black or brown, stature short, and the black hair of the cabyle. like him, he instinctively hates strangers; in both are the same perverseness and obstinacy, same endurance of fatigue, same love of independence, same inflexion of the voice, same expression of feelings. listen to a cabyle speaking his native tongue, and you will think you hear a breton talking celtic.” the bretons, he tells us, form a strong contrast to the peo- ple around them, who are “ celts of tall stature, with blue eyes, white skins, and blond hair: they are communicative, impetii- ous, versatile; they pass rapidly from courage to despair. the bretons are entirely different: they are taciturn, hold strongly to their ideas and usages, are persevering and melancholic; in a word, both in morale and physique they present the type of a southern race—of the atlanteans.” by atlanteans dr. bodichon refers to the inhabitants of the barbary states—that being one of the names by which they were known to the greeks and romans. he adds: “the atlanteans, among the ancients, passed for the favorite children of neptune; they made known the worship of this god to other nations—to the egyptians, for example. in oth- er words, the atlanteans were the first known navigators. like all navigators, they must have planted colonies at a distance. the bretons, in our opinion, sprung from one of them.” neptune was poseidon, according to plato, founder of at- lantis. i could multiply proofs of the close relationship between the people of the bronze age of europe and the ancient inhab- itants of northern africa, which should be read remember- ing that “connecting ridge” which, according to the deep-sea soundings, united africa and atlantis. atlantis: the antediluvian world. chapter v. the peruvian colony. if we look at the map of atlantis, as revealed by the deep sea soundings, we will find that it approaches at one point, by its connecting ridge, quite closely to the shore of south amer- ica, above the mouth of the amazon, and that probably it was originally connected with it. if the population of atlantis expanded westwardly, it natu- rally found its way in its ships up the magnificent valley of the amazon and its tributaries; and, passing by the low and fever- stricken lands of brazil, it rested not until it had reached the high, fertile, beautiful, and healthful regions of bolivia, from which it would eventually cross the mountains into peru. here it would establish its outlying colonies at the terminus of its western line of advance, arrested only by the pacific ocean, precisely as we have seen it advancing up the valley of the mississippi, and carrying on its mining operations on the shores of lake superior; precisely as we have seen it going castward up the mediterranean, past the dardanelles, and founding aryan, hamitic, and probably turanian colonies on the farther shores of the black sea and on the caspian. this is the universal empire over which, the hindoo books tell us, deva nahusha was ruler; this was "the great and aggressive empire" to which plato alludes; this was the mighty kingdom, embracing the whole of the then known world, from which the greeks obtained their conception of the universal father of all men in king zeus. and in this universal empire señor lopez must find an explanation of the similarity which, as we the peruvian colovy. shall show, exists between the speech of the south american pacific coast on the one hand, and the speech of gaul, ireland, england, italy, greece, bactria, and hindostan on the other. montesino tells us that at some time near the date of the deluge, in other words, in the highest antiquity, america was invaded by a people with four leaders, named ayar - inanco- topa, ayar-chaki, ayar-aucca, and ayar-nyssu. “ayar,” says señor lopez, “is the sanscrit ajar, or aje, and means primi- tive chief; and manco, chaki, aucca, and uyssu, mean believers, wanderers, soldiers, husbandmen. we have here a tradition of castes like that preserved in the four tribal names of athens.” the laboring class (naturally enough in a new colony) obtained the supremacy, and its leader was named pirhua- manco, re- vealer of pir, light (tūp, umbrian pir). do the laws which control the changes of language, by which a labial succeeds a labial, indicate that the mero or merou of theopompus, the name of atlantis, was carried by the colonists of atlantis to south america (as the name of old york was transplanted in a later age to new york), and became in time pérou or peru ? was not the nubian “ island of merou," with its pyramids built by “red men,” a similar transplantation? and when the hindoo priest points to his sacred emblem with five projecting points upon it, and tells us that they typify “mero and the four quarters of the world," does he not refer to atlantis and its ancient universal empire ? manco, in the names of the peruvian colonists, it has been urged, was the same as mannus, manu, and the santhal maniko. it reminds us of menes, minos, etc., who are found at the be- ginning of so many of the old world traditions. the quichuas—this invading people—were originally a fair- skinned race, with blue eyes and light and even anburn hair; they had regular features, large heads, and large bodies. their descendants are to this day an olive-skinned people, much lighter in color than the indian tribes subjugated by them. they were a great race. peru, as it was known to the span- atlantis: the antediluvian world. iards, held very much the same relation to the ancient quichua civilization as england in the sixteenth century held to the civilization of the empire of the cæsars. the incas were sim- ply an offshoot, who, descending from the mountains, subdued the rude races of the sea-coast, and imposed their ancient civil- ization upon thein. the quichua nation extended at one time over a region of country more than two thousand miles long. this whole region, when the spaniards arrived, “was a populous and pros- perous empire, complete in its civil organization, supported by an efficient system of industry, and presenting a notable development of some of the more important arts of civilized life.” (baldwin's “ancient america,” p. .) the companions of pizarro found everywhere the evidences of a civilization of vast antiquity. cieça de leon mentions “great edifices” that were in ruins at tiahuanaca, “an artificial hill raised on a groundwork of stone,” and “two stone idols, apparently made by skilful artificers,” ten or twelve feet high, clothed in long robes. “in this place, also," says de leon, “there are stones so large and so overgrown that our wonder is excited, it being incomprehensible how the power of man could have placed them where we see them. they are vari- ously wrought, and some of them, having the form of men, must have been idols. near the walls are many caves and ex- cavations under the earth; but in another place, farther west, are other and greater monuments, such as large gate-ways with hinges, platforms, and porches, each made of a single stone. it surprised me to see these enormous gate-ways, made of great masses of stone, some of which were thirty feet long, fifteen high, and six thick.” the capital of the chimus of northern peru at gran-chimu was conquered by the incas after a long and bloody struggle, and the capital was given up to barbaric ravage and spoliation. “but its remains exist to-day, the marvel of the southern con- tinent, covering not less than twenty square miles. tombs, atlantis: the antediluvian world. quito to chili; another, starting from this at cuzco, went down to the coast, and extended northward to the equator. these roads were from twenty to twenty-five feet wide, were macad- amized with pulverized stone mixed with lime and bituminous cement, and were walled in by strong walls “more than a fathom in thickness.” in many places these roads were cut for leagues through the rock; great ravines were filled up with solid masonry; rivers were crossed by suspension bridges, used here ages before their introduction into europe. says bald- win, “ the builders of our pacific railroad, with their superior engineering skill and mechanical appliances, might reasonably shrink from the cost and the difficulties of such a work as this. extending from one degree north of quito to cuzco, and from cuzco to chili, it was quite as long as the two pacific railroads, and its wild route among the mountains was far more difficult." sarmiento, describing it, said, “it seems to me that if the em- peror (charles v.) should see fit to order the construction of another road like that which leads from quito to cuzco, or that which from cuzco goes toward chili, i certainly think he would not be able to make it, with all his power." hum- boldt said, “this road was marvellous; none of the roman roads i had seen in italy, in the south of france, or in spain, appeared to me more imposing than this work of the ancient peruvians.” : along these great roads caravansaries were established for the accommodation of travellers. these roads were ancient in the time of the incas. they were the work of the white, auburn-haired, bearded men from atlantis, thousands of years before the time of the incas. when huayna capac marched his army over the main road to invade quito, it was so old and decayed “that he found great difficulties in the passage," and he immediately ordered the necessary reconstructions. it is not necessary, in a work of this kind, to give a detailed description of the arts and civilization of the peruvians. they atlantis: the antediluvian world, vians and the ancient european races ; i will again briefly re- fer to a few of them : . they worshipped the sun, moon, and planets. . they believed in the immortality of the soul. . they believed in the resurrection of the body, and accord- ingly embalmed their dead. . the priest examined the entrails of the animals offered in sacrifice, and, like the roman augurs, divined the future from their appearance. . they had an order of women vowed to celibacy-vestal virgins-nuns; and a violation of their vow was punished, in both continents, by their being buried alive. . they divided the year into twelve months. . their enumeration was by tens; the people were divided into decades and hundreds, like the anglo-saxons; and the whole nation into bodies of , , and , , with a gov- ernor over each. . they possessed castes; and the trade of the father de- scended to the son, as in india. . they had bards and minstrels, who sung at the great festivals. . their weapons were the same as those of the old world, and made after the same pattern. . they drank toasts and invoked blessings. . they built triumphal arches for their returning heroes, and strewed the road before them with leaves and flowers. . they used sedan-chairs. . they regarded agriculture as the principal interest of the nation, and held great agricultural fairs and festivals for the interchange of the productions of the farmers. . the king opened the agricultural season by a great cele- bration, and, like the kings of egypt, he put his hand to the plough, and ploughed the first furrow. . they had an order of knighthood, in which the candi- date knelt before the king; his sandals were put on by a no- the peruvian colony. bleman, very much as the spurs were buckled on the european knight; he was then allowed to use the girdle or sash around the loins, corresponding to the a toga virilis of the romans; cyclopean wall, greece. he was then crowned with flowers. according to fernandez, the candidates wore white shirts, like the knights of the middle ages, with a cross em- broidered in front. . there was a striking resemblance between the architect- ure of the peruvians and that of some of the nations of the old world. it is enough for me to quote mr. ferguson's words, that the coincidence between the buildings of the incas --- to cs re osno- bit. oyolonean masonry, peru. atlantis: the antediluvian world. and the cyclopean remains attributed to the pelasgians in italy and greece, “is the most remarkable in the history of archi- tecture.” the illustrations on page strikingly confirm mr. fergu- son's views. “the sloping jambs, the window cornice, the polygonal ma- sonry, and other forms so closely resemble what is found in the old pelasgic cities of greece and italy, that it is difficult to re- sist the conclusion that there may be some relation between them." even the mode of decorating their palaces and temples finds a parallel in the old world. a recent writer says: “we may end by observing, what seems to bave escaped señor lopez, that the interior of an inca palace, with its walls owl-headed vase, troy. owl-headed vase, peru. covered with gold, as described by spaniards, with its artificial golden flowers and golden beasts, must have been exactly like the interior of the house of alkinous or menelaus- the peruvian colony. “the doors were framed of gold, where underneath the brazen floor doth glass silver pilasters, which with grace uphold lintel of silver framed; the ring was burnished gold, and dogs on each side of the door there stand, silver and golden.'” “i can personally testify” (says winchell, “preadamites," p. ) “ that a study of ancient peruvian pottery has constant- ly reminded me of forms with which we are familiar in egyp- tian archæology." dr. schliemann, in his excavations of the ruins of troy, found a number of what he calls “ owl-headed idols” and vases. i give specimens on page and page . in peru we find vases with very much the same style of face. i might pursue those parallels much farther; but it seems to me that these extraordinary coin- cidences must have arisen either from identity of origin or long- continued ancient intercourse. there can be little doubt that a fair-skinned, light-haired, bearded race, holding the religion which plato says prevailed in atlantis, carried an atlantean civilization at an early day up the valley of the amazon to the heights of bo- livia and peru, precisely as a sim- ilar emigration of aryans went westward to the shores of the mediterranean and caspian, and it is very likely that these diverse migrations habitually spoke the same language. señor vincente lopez, a spanish gentleman of montevideo, in published a work entitled “les races aryennes in pérou," in which he attempts to prove that the great qui- chua language, which the incas imposed on their subjects over owl-headed vase, peru. the peruvian colony. guage, from the traces of institutions, from religious beliefs, from legendary records, and artistic remains. the evidence from language is treated scientifically, and not as a kind of in- genious guessing. señor lopez first combats the idea that the living dialect of peru is barbarous and fluctuating. it is not one of the casual and shifting forms of speech produced by nomad races. to which of the stages of language does this belong—the agglutinative, in which one root is fastened on to another, and a word is formed in which the constitutive ele- ments are obviously distinct, or the inflexional, where the aux- iliary roots get worn down and are only distinguishable by the philologist? as all known aryan tongues are inflexional, señor lopez may appear to contradict himself when he says that quichua is an agglutinative aryan language. but he quotes mr. max müller's opinion that there must have been a time when the germs of aryan tongues bad not yet reached the in- flexional stage, and shows that while the form of quichua is agglutinative, as in turanian, the roots of words are aryan. if this be so, quichua may be a linguistic missing link. “when we first look at quichua, with its multitude of words beginning with hu, and its great preponderance of q's, it seems almost as odd as mexican. but many of these forms are due to a scanty alphabet, and really express familiar sounds; and many, again, result from the casual spelling of the spaniards. we must now examine some of the forms which aryan roots are supposed to take in quichua. in the first place, quichua abhors the shock of two consonants. thus, a word like adéw in greek would be unpleasant to the peruvian's car, and he says pillui, “i sail.' the plu, again, in pluma, a feather, is said to be found in pillu, 'to fly.' quichua has no v, any more than greek has, and just as the greeks had to spell roman words beginning with v with ou, like valerius-ovadéploc-so, where sanscrit has v, quichua has sometimes hu. here is a list of words in hu : quichua. huakia, to call. l'acc, to speak. huasi, a house. l'als, to inhabit. huara, air, aŭoa. l'â, to breathe. huasa, the back. vas, to be able ( pouvoir). “there is a sanscrit root, kr, to act, to do: this root is found in more than three hundred names of peoples and places in sanborit. atlantis: tie antediluvian world. southern america. thus there are the caribs, whose name may have the same origin as that of our old friends the ca- rians, and mean the braves, and their land the home of the braves, like kaleva-la, in finnish. the same root gives kara, the hand, the greek trip, and kkalli, brave, which a person of fancy may connect with kalóg. again, quichua has an 'alpha privative'—thus a-stani means 'i change a thing's place;' for ni or mi is the first person singular, and, added to the root of a verb, is the sign of the first person of the present indicative. for instance, can means being, and can-mi, or cani, is, 'i am.' in the same way munanmi, or nunani, is “i love,' and apan- mi, or apani, “i carry.' so lord strangford was wrong when he supposed that the last verb in mi lived with the last patriot in lithuania. peru has stores of a grammatical form which has happily perished in europe. it is impossible to do more than refer to the supposed aryan roots contained in the glos- sary, but it may be noticed that the future of the quichuan verb is formed in s—i love, munani; i shall love, munasa- and that the aflixes denoting cases in the noun are curiously like the greek prepositions.” the resemblance between the quichua and mandan words for i or me-mi-will here be observed. very recently dr. rudolf falb has announced (neue freie presse, of vienna) that he has discovered that the relation of the quichua and aimara languages to the aryan and semitic tongues is very closc; that, in fact, they “exhibit the most astounding affinities with the semitic tongue, and particularly the arabic, in which tongue dr. falb has been skilled from his boyhood. following up the lines of this discovery, dr. falb has found ( ) a connecting link with the aryan roots, and ( ) has ultimately arrived face to face with the surprising revela- tion that “the semitic roots are universally aryan.” the com- mon stems of all the variants are found in their purest condi- tion in quichua and aimara, from which fact dr. falb de- rives the conclusion that the high plains of peru and bolivia must be regarded as the point of exit of the present human race. the peruvian colony. [since the above was written i have received a letter from dr. falb, dated leipsic, april th, . scholars will be glad to learn that dr. falb's great work on the relationship of the aryan and semitic languages to the quichua and aimara tongues will be published in a year or two; the manuscript contains over two thousand pages, and dr. falb has devoted to it ten years of study. a work from such a source, upon so curious and important a subject, will be looked for with great interest.] but it is impossible that the quichuas and aimaras could have passed across the wide atlantic to europe if there had been no stepping-stone in the shape of atlantis with its bridge- like ridges connecting the two continents. it is, however, more reasonable to suppose that the quichuas and aimaras were a race of emigrants from plato's island than to think that atlantis was populated from south america. the very traditions to which we have referred as existing among the peruvians, that the civilized race were white and bearded, and that they entered or invaded the country, would show that civilization did not originate in peru, but was a transplantation from abroad, and only in the direction of atlantis can we look for a white and bearded race. in fact, kindred races, with the same arts, and speaking the same tongue in an early age of the world, separated in atlan- tis and went east and west-the one to repeat the civilization of the mother-country along the shores of the mediterranean sea, which, like a great river, may be said to flow out from the black sea, with the nile as one of its tributaries, and along the shores of the red sea and the persian gulf; while the other emigration advanced up the amazon, and created mighty nations upon its head-waters in the valleys of the andes and on the shores of the pacifio. atlantis: the antediluvian world. chapter vi. the african colonies. africa, like europe and america, evidences a commingling of different stocks: the blacks are not all black, nor all woolly- haired; the africans pass through all shades, from that of the light berber, no darker than the spaniard, to the deep black of the iolofs, between senegal and gambia. the traces of red men or copper-colored races are found in many parts of the continent. prichard divides the true ne- groes into four classes ; his second class is thus described : “ . other tribes have forms and features like the euro- pean; their complexion is black, or a deep olive, or a copper color approaching to black, while their hair, though often crisp and frizzled, is not in the least woolly. such are the bishari and danekil and hazorta, and the darkest of the abyssinians. ** the complexion and hair of the abyssinians vary very much, their complexion ranging from almost white to dark brown or black, and their hair from straight to crisp, frizzled, and almost woolly.” (nott and gliddon, " types of mankind," p. .) “some of the nibians are copper-colored or black, with a tinge of red.” (ibid., p. .) speaking of the barbary states, these authors further say (ibid., p. ): “on the northern coast of africa, between the mediterra- ncan and the great desert, including morocco, algiers, tunis, tripoli, and benzazi, there is a continuous system of high- lands, which have been included under the general term atlas -anciently atlantis, now the barbary states. ... throughout the african colonies. barbary we encounter a peculiar group of races, subdivided into many tribes of various shades, now spread over a vast area, but which formerly had its principal and perhaps aborigi- nal abode along the mountain slopes of atlas. ... the real name of the berbers is mazirgh, with the article prefixed or suffixed-t-amazirgh or amazirgh-t-meaning free, dominant, or 'noble race.'... we have every reason to believe the ber- bers existed in the remotest times, with all their essential mor- al and physical peculiarities, ... they existed in the time of menes in the saine condition in which they were discovered by phænician navigators previously to the foundation of car- thage. they are an indomitable, nomadic people, who, since the introduction of camels, have penetrated in considerable numbers into the desert, and even as far as nigritia. ... some of these clans are white, others black, with woolly hair.” speaking of the barbary moors, prichard says: “ their figure and stature are nearly the same as those of the southern europeans, and their complexion, if darker, is only so in proportion to the higher temperature of the country. it displays great varieties." jackson says: “the men of temsena and showiah are of a strong, robust make, and of a copper color ; the women are beautiful. the women of fez are fair as the europeans, but hair and eyes always dark. the women of mequinas are very beautiful, and have the red-and-white complexion of english women.” spix and martius, the german travellers, depict the moors as follows: “a high forehead, an oval countenance, large, speaking, black eyes, shaded by arched and strong eyebrows, a thin, rather long, but not too pointed nose, rather broad lips, meet- ing in an acute angle, brownish-yellow complexion, thick, smooth, and black hair, and a stature greater than the middle height.” hodgson states: “ the tuarycks are a white people, of the berber race; the mozabiaks are a remarkably white people, and mixed with the bedouin arabs. the wadreagans and wurgelans are of a dark bronze, with woolly hair." the african colonies. hindostan, for instance, and america. “in africa,” he says, “cromlechs are called tombs of the idolaters"—the idolaters be- ing neither romans, nor christians, nor phænicians, but some antique race. he regards the berbers as the descendants of the primitive dolmen-builders. certain egyptian monuments tell of invasions of lower egypt one thousand five hundred years before our era by blond tribes from the west. the bones found in the cromlechs are those of a large and dolicho- cephalous race. general faidherbe gives the average stature (including the women) at . or . metre, while the aver- age stature of french carabineers is only . metre. he did not find a single brachycephalous skull. the profiles indicated great intelligence. the egyptian documents already refer- red to call the invaders tamahu, which must have come from the invaders' own language, as it is not egyptian. the tuaregs of the present day may be re- garded as the best representatives of the tamahus. they are of lofty stature, have blue eyes, and cling to the custom of bearing long swords, to be wielded by both hands. in soudan, on the banks of the niger, dwells a negro tribe ruled by a royal family (masas), who tamauu, from the egyttian monuments, .c. are of rather fair complexion, and claim * descent from white men. masas is perhaps the same as ma- shash, which occurs in the egyptian documents applied to the tamahus. the masas wear the hair in the same fashion as the tamahus, and general faidherbe is inclined to think that they too are the descendants of the dolmen-builders. these people, according to my theory, were colonists from atlantis-colonists of three different races—white, yellow, and sunburnt or red. rcedrosse s atlantis: tiie antediluvian world. was sun-worship; this, as was the case in other countries, be- came subsequently overlaid with idol-worship. in the reign of king tighernmas the worship of idols was introduced. the priests constituted the order of druids. naturally many an- alogies have been found to exist between the beliefs and cus- toms of the druids and the other religions which were drawn from atlantis. we have seen in the chapter on sun-worship how extensive this form of religion was in the atlantean days, both in europe and america. it would appear probable that the religion of the druids passed from ireland to england and france. the metemp- sychosis or transmigration of souls was one of the articles of their belief long before the time of pythagoras; it bad prob- ably been drawn from the storehouse of atlantis, whence it passed to the druids, the greeks, and the hindoos. the druids had a pontifex maximus to whom they yielded entire obcdi- ence. here again we see a practice which extended to the phænicians, egyptians, hindoos, peruvians, and mexicans. the druids of gaul and britain offered human sacrifices, while it is claimed that the irish druids did not. this would appear to have been a corrupt after-growth imposed upon the earlier and purer sacrifice of fruits and flowers known in atlan- tis, and due in part to greater cruelty and barbarism in their descendants. hence we find it practised in degenerate ages on both sides of the atlantic. the irish druidical rites manifested themselves principally in sun-worship. their chief god was bel or baal—the same worshipped by the phænicians—the god of the sun. the irish name for the sun, grian, is, according to virgil, one of the names of apollo — another sun-god, gryneus. sun-worship continued in ireland down to the time of st. patrick, and some of its customs exist among the peasantry of that country to this day. we have seen that among the peruvians, romans, and other nations, on a certain day all fires were extinguish ed throughout the kingdom, and a new fire kindled at the the irish colonies from atlantis. chief temple by the sun's rays, from which the people obtained their fire for the coming year. in ireland the same practice was found to exist. a piece of land was set apart, where the four provinces met, in the present county of meath; here, at a palace called tlachta, the divine fire was kindled. upon the night of what is now all-saints-day the druids assembled at this place to offer sacrifice, and it was established, under heavy penalties, that no fire should be kindled except from this source. on the first of may a convocation of druids was held in the royal palace of the king of connaught, and two fires were lit, between which cattle were driven, as a preventive of murrain and other pestilential disorders. this was called beltinne, or the day of bel's fire. and unto this day the irish call the first day of may“ lha-beul-tinne," which signifies “the day of bel's fire.” the celebration in ireland of st. john's-eve by watch- fires is a relic of the ancient sun-worship of atlantis. the prac- tice of driving cattle through the fire continued for a long time, and kelly mentions in his “folk - lore” that in northampton- shire, in england, a calf was sacrificed in one of these fires to “stop the murrain" during the present century. fires are still lighted in england and scotland as well as ireland for super- stitious purposes ; so that the people of great britain, it may be said, are still in some sense in the midst of the ancient sun- worship of atlantis. we find among the irish of to-day many oriental customs. the game of “jacks,” or throwing up five pebbles and catch- ing them on the back of the hand, was known in rome. “the irish keen (caoine), or the lament over the dead, may still be heard in algeria and upper egypt, even as herodotus heard it chanted by the libyan women.” the same practice exist- ed among the egyptians, etruscans, and romans. the irish wakes are identical with the funeral feasts of the greeks, etrus- cans, and romans. (cusack's “history of ireland,” p. .) the irish custom of saying “god bless you!" when one sneezes, is a very ancient practice; it was known to the ro- atlantis: the antediluvian world. mans, and referred, it is said, to a plague in the remote past, whose first symptom was sneczing. we find many points of resemblance between the customs of the irish and those of the hindoo. the practice of the creditor fasting at the door-step of his debtor until he is paid, is known to both countries; the kindly “god save you!" is the same as the eastern “god be gracious to you, my son !" the reverence for the wren in ireland and scotland reminds us of the oriental and greek respect for that bird. the prac- tice of pilgrimages, fasting, bodily macerations, and devotion to holy wells and particular places, extends from ireland to india. all these things speak of a common origin; this fact has been generally recognized, but it has always been interpreted that the irish came from the east, and were in fact a migration of hindoos. there is not the slightest evidence to sustain this theory. the hindoos have never within the knowledge of man sent out colonies or fleets for exploration; but there is abun- dant evidence, on the other hand, of migrations from atlantis eastward. and how could the sanscrit writings have pre- served maps of ireland, england, and spain, giving the shape and outline of their coasts, and their very names, and yet have preserved no memory of the expeditions or colonizations by which they acquired that knowledge ? another proof of our theory is found in the round-towers" of ireland. attempts have been made to show, by dr. petrie and others, that these extraordinary structures are of modern origin, and were built by the christian priests, in which to keep their church-plate. but it is shown that the “annals of ul- ster” mention the destruction of fifty-seven of them by an earth- quake in a.d. ; and giraldus cambrensis shows that lough neagh was created by an inundation, or sinking of the land, in a.d. , and that in his day the fishermen could “see the round-towers of other days in the waves beneath them shining." the irish colonies from atlantis. moreover, we find diodorus siculus, in a well-known pas- sage, referring to ireland, and describing it as “an island in the ocean over against gaul, to the north, and not inferior in size to sicily, the soil of which is so fruitful that they mow there twice in the year.” he mentions the skill of their harpers, their sacred groves, and their singular temples of round form. we find similar structures in america, sardinia, and india. the remains of similar round-towers are very abundant in the orkneys and shetlands. “they have been supposed by some,” says sir john lubbock, “to be scandinavian, but no similar buildings exist in norway, sweden, or denmark, so that this style of architecture is no doubt anterior to the arrival of the an in the burgu of moubsa, in the suetlanda. northmen.” i give above a picture of the burgh or broch of the little island of moussa, in the shetlands. it is circular in forin, forty-one feet in height, open at the top; the central * the irish colonies from atlantis. sleeper's sail,” where the starving boy dreams of the pleasant and plentiful land: “ mother, i've been on the cliffs out yonder, straining my eyes o'er the breakers free to the lovely spot where the sun was setting, setting and sinking into the sea. “the sky was full of the fairest colors- pink and purple and paly green, with great soft masses of gray and amber, and great bright rifts of gold between. “* and all the birds that way were flying, heron and curlew overhead, with a mighty eagle westward floating, every plume in their pinions red. “ • and then i saw it, the fairy city, far away o'er the waters deep; towers and castles and chapels glowing, like blesséd dreams that we see in sleep. “what is its name?' "be still, acushla (thy hair is wet with the mists, my boy); thou hast looked perchance on the tir-na-n'oge, land of eternal youth and joy! "out of the sea, when the sun is setting, it rises, golden and fair to view; no trace of ruin, or change of sorrow, no sign of age where all is new. « forever sunny, forever blooming, nor cloud nor frost can touch that spot, where the happy people are ever roaming, the bitter pangs of the past forgot.' this is the greek story of elysion; these are the elysian fields of the egyptians; these are the gardens of the lles- perides; this is the region in the west to which the peasant of brittany looks from the shores of cape raz; this is atlantis. atlantis: the antediluvian world. the starving child seeks to reach this blessed land in a boat, and is drowned. “high on the cliffs the light-house keeper caught the sound of a piercing scream; low in her hut the lonely widow moaned in the maze of a troubled dream; “and saw in her sleep a seaman ghostly, with sea-weeds clinging in his hair, into her room, all wet and dripping, a drowned boy on his bosom bear. “over death sea on a bridge of silver the child to his father's arms had passed; heaven was nearer than tir-na-n'oge, and the golden city was reached at last." atlantis: the antediluvian world. which have enabled us to treat their languages as so many varieties of the same type—and so also of the semitic—the field thus opened is vast enough, and its careful clearing and cultivation will occupy several generations of scholars. and this original relationship, i believe, can be proved. naines of the principal deities, words also expressive of the most essential elements of religion, such as prayer, sacrifice, altar, spirit, law, and faith, have been preserved among the aryan and among the semitic nations, and these relics admit of one explanation only. after that, a comparative study of the turanian relig- ions may be approached with better hope of success; for that there was not only a primitive aryan and a primitive semitic religion, but likewise a primitive turanian religion, before each of these primeval races was broken up and became separated in language, worship, and national sentiment, admits, i believe, of lit- tle doubt. ... there was a period during which the ancestors of the semitic family had not yet been divided, whether in lan- guage or in religion. that period transcends the recollection of every one of the semitic races, in the same way as neither ilindoos, greeks, nor romans have any recollection of the time when they spoke a common language, and worshipped their father in heaven by a name that was as yet neither sanscrit, nor greek, nor latin. but i do not hesitate to call this pre- historic period historical in the best sense of the word. it was a real period, because, unless it was real, all the realities of the semitic languages and the semitic religions, such as we find them after their separation, would be uvintelligible. iiebrew, syriac, and arabic point to a common gource as much as san- scrit, greek, and latin; and unless we can bring ourselves to doubt that the ilindoos, the greeks, the romans, and the teu- tons derived the worship of their principal deity from their common aryan sanctuary, we shall not be able to deny that there was likewise a primitive religion of the whole semitic race, and that el, the strong one in heaven, was invoked by the ancestors of all the semitic races before there were baby. lonians in babylon, phænicians in sidon and tyrus-before there were jews in mesopotamia or jerusalem. the evidence of the semitic is the same as that of the aryan languages: the conclusion cannot be different. ... “ these three classes of religion are not to be mistaken-as little as the three classes of language, the turanian, the semitic, the oldest son of noah. and the aryan. they mark three events in the most ancient history of the world, events which have determined the whole fate of the human race, and of which we ourselves still feel the consequences in our language, in our thoughts, and in our re- ligion." . we have seen that all the evidence points to the fact that this original seat of the phænician hebrew family was in at- lantis. the great god of the so-called semites was el, the strong one, from whose name comes the biblical names beth-el, the house of god; ha-el, the strong one; el-ohim, the gods ; el-oah, god; and from the same name is derived the arabian name of god, al-lah. another evidence of the connection between the grecks, phænicians, hebrews, and atlanteans is shown in the name of adonis. the greeks tell us that adonis was the lover of aphrodite, or venus, who was the offspring of uranus—“she came out of the sea;" uranus was the father of chronos, and the grand- father of poseidon, king of atlantis. now we find adonâi in the old testament used exclusively as the name of jehovah, while among the phænicians adonai was the supreme deity. in both cases the root ad is probably a reminiscence of ad-lantis. there seem to exist similar connections between the egyp- tian and the turanian mythology. the great god of egypt was neph or num; the chief god of the samoyedes is num; and max müller established an identity between the num of the samoyedes and the god yum-ala of the finns, and proba- bly with the name of the god nam of the thibetians. that mysterious people, the etruscans, who inhabited part of italy, and whose bronze implements agreed exactly in style and workmanship with those which we think were derived from atlantis, were, it is now claimed, a branch of the turanian family. atlantis: the antediluvian world. “at a recent mecting of the english philological society great interest was excited by a paper on etruscan numerals, by the rev. isaac taylor. he stated that the long-sought key to the etruscan language had at last been discovered. two dice had been found in a tomb, with their six faces marked with words instead of pips. he showed that these words were identical with the first six digits in the altaic branch of the turanian family of speech. guided by this clew, it was easy to prove that the grammar and vocabulary of the etrus- can inscriptions were also altaic. the words denoting kin- dred, the pronouns, the conjugations, and the declensions, cor- responded closely to those of the tartar tribes of siberia. the etruscan mythology proved to be essentially the same as that of the kalevala, the great finnic epic.” according to lenormant (" ancient history of the east," vol. i., p. ; vol. ii., p. ), the early contests between the aryans and the turanians are represented in the iranian tradi- tions as “contests between hostile brothers ... the ugro-finnish races must, according to all appearances, be looked upon as a branch, earlier detached than the others from the japhetic stem.” if it be true that the first branch originating from atlantis was the turanian, which includes the chinese and japanese, then we have derived from atlantis all the building and metal- working races of men who have proved themselves capable of civilization; and we may, therefore, divide mankind into two great classes : those capable of civilization, derived from atlan- tis, and those essentially and at all times barbarian, who hold no blood relationship with the people of atlantis. humboldt is sure “that some connection existed between ancient ethiopia and the elevated plain of central asia.” there were invasions which reached from the shores of arabia into china. “an arabian sovereign, schamar-iarasch (abou karib), is described by hamza, nuwayri, and others as a power- ful ruler and conqueror, who carried his arms successfully far into central asia; he occupied samarcand and invaded china. he erected an edifice at samarcand, bearing an inscription, in atlantis: the antediluvian world. their vast importance to humanity, associated the bull and cow with religious ideas, as revealed in the oldest hymns of the aryans and the cow-headed idols of troy, a representation of one of which is shown on the preceding page. upon the head of their great god baal they placed the horns of the bull; and these have descended in popular imagination to the spirit of evil of our day. burifs says: "o thou! whatever title suit thee, auld hornie, satan, nick, or clootie." “ clootie” is derived from the cleft hoof of a cow; while the scotch name for a bull is bill, a corruption, probably, of bel. less than two hundred years ago it was custoinary to sacrifice a bull on the th of august to the “god mowrie" and "liis devilans” on the island of inis marce, scotland. ("the past religious emblem of the bronze age, switzerland. baal, tuk pieeniojan god. in the present," p. .) the trident of poseidon bas degener- ated into the pitchfork of beelzebub! and when we cross the atlantic, we find in america the horns of baal reappearing in a singular manner. the first cut on page represents an idol of the moquis of new mexico: the head is very bull-like. in the next figure we have a repre- sentation of the war-god of the dakotas, with something like a atlantis: the antediluvian world. nasions race. “fuh - loi, who is regarded as a demi-god, founded the chinese empire b.c. he introduced cattle, taught the people how to raise them, and taught the art of writing." (“american cyclopædia," art. china.) he might bave in- vented his alphabet, but he did not invent the cattle; be must have got them from some nation who, during many centu- ries of civilization, had domesticated them; and from what nation was he more likely to bave ob- tained them than from the atlanteans, whose colonies we have seen reached bis borders, and whose armies in- vaded his territory ? “he instituted the ceremony of mar- riage.” (ibid.) this also was an importation from a civ- ilized land. “his successor, shin-nung, during a reign of one hundred and forty years, introduced agriculture and med- ical science. the next emperor, hwang-ti, is believed to have invented weapons, wagons, ships, clocks, and musical instru- ments, and to have introduced coins, weights, and measures." (ibid.) as these various inventions in all other countries have been the result of slow development, running through many centuries, or are borrowed from some other more civilized people, it is certain that no emperor of china ever invent- ed them all during a period of one hundred and sixty-four indivi greek siren. the oldest son of noah. years. these, then, were also importations from the west. in fact, the chinese themselves claim to have invaded china in the early days from the north-west ; and their first location is placed by winchell near lake balkat, a short distance east of the caspian, where we have already seen aryan atlantean colonies planted at an early day. “the third successor of fuh-hi, ti-ku, established schools, and was the first to practise polygamy. in his son yau ascended the throne, and it is from his reign that the regular historical records begin. a great flood, which occurred in his reign, has been considered synchronous and identical with the noachic deluge, and to yau is attributed the merit of having successfully battled against the waters." there can be no question that the chinese themselves, in their early legends, connected their origin with a people who were destroyed by water in a tremendous convulsion of the earth. associated with this event was a divine personage called niu-va (noah ?). sir william jones says: “the chinese believe the earth to have been wholly covered with water, which, in works of undisputed authenticity, they describe as flowing abundantly, then subsiding and separating the higher from the lower ages of mankind ; that this division of time, from which their poetical history begins, just preceded the appearance of fo-hi on the mountains of chin. (“ dis- course on the chinese; asiatic researches," vol. ii., p. .) the following history of this destruction of their ancestors vividly recalls to us the convulsion depicted in the chaldean and american legends: “the pillars of heaven were broken ; the carth shook to its very foundations; the heavens sunk lower toward the north; the sun, the moon, and the stars changed their motions; the earth fell to pieces, and the waters enclosed within its bosom burst forth with violence and overflowed it. man having re- belled against heaven, the system of the universe was totally atlantis: the antediluvian world, disordered. the sun was eclipsed, the planets altered their course, and the grand harmony of nature was disturbed.” a learned frenchman, m. terrien de la couperic, member of the asiatic society of paris, has just published a work ( ) in which he demonstrates the astonishing fact that the chinese language is clearly related to the chaldean, and that both the chinese characters and the cuneiform alphabet are degenerate descendants of an original hieroglyphical alphabet. the same signs exist for many words, while numerous words are very much alike. m. de la couperie gives a table of some of these similarities, from which i quote as follows: chinese. chaldec. to shine ...........mut...... . mul. to die ............. mut ............ . mit. book .............. king ...... kin. cloth ..............sik......... right hand.........,dzek ............zag. hero............ .tan..............dun. earth..............kien-kai..........kiengi. cow ...............lub .............lu, lup. brick..............ku ..............ku. english. .....sik. this surprising discovery brings the chinese civilization still nearer to the mediterranean head - quarters of the races, and increases the probability that the arts of china were of atlan- tean origin; and that the name of nai hoang-ti, or nai korti, the founder of chinese civilization, may be a reminiscence of nakhunta, the chief of the gods, as recorded in the susian texts, and this, in turn, a recollection of the deva-nahusha of the hindoos, the dionysos of the greeks, the king of atlantis, whose great empire reached to the “farther parts of india," and embraced, according to plato, “parts of the continent of america.” linguistic science achieved a great discovery when it es- tablished the fact that there was a continuous belt of languages from iceland to ceylon which were the variant forms of one the oldest son of noah. mother-tongue, the indo-european; but it must prepare itself for a still wider generalization. there is abundant proof-proof with which pages might be filled—that there was a still older mother-tongue, from which aryan, semitic, and hamitic were all derived—the language of noah, the language of atlantis, the language of the great "aggressive empire” of plato, the language of the empire of the titans. the arabic word bin, within, becomes, when it means inter- val, space, binnon ; this is the german and dutch binnen and saxon binnon, signifying within. the ethiopian word aorf, to fall asleep, is the root of the word morpheus, the god of sleep. the hebrew word chanah, to dwell, is the parent of the anglo- saxon inne and icelandic inni, a house, and of our word inn, a hotel. the hebrew word naval or nafal signifies to fall; from it is derived our word fall and fool (one who falls); the chaldee word is nabal, to make foul, and the arabic word nabala means to die, that is, to fall. from the last syllable of the chaldee nasar, to saw, we can derive the latin serra, the high german sagen, the danish sauga, and our word to saw, the arabic na fida, to fade, is the same as the italian fado, the latin fatuus (foolish, tasteless), the dutch vadden, and our to fade. the ethiopic word gaber, to make, to do, and the ara- bic word jabara, to make strong, becomes the welsh word goberu, to work, to operate, the latin operor, and the english operate. the arabic word abara signities to prick, to sting; we see this root in the welsh bar, a summit, and pâr, a spear, and per, a spit; whence our word spear. in the chaldee, syri- ac, and arabic zug means to join, to couple; from this the greeks obtained guyos, the romans jugum, and we the word yoke; while the germans obtained jok or jog, the dutch juk, the swedes ok. the sanscrit is juga. the arabic sanna, to be old, reappears in the latin senex, the welsh hen, and our senile. the hebrew banah, to build, is the irish bun, founda- tion, and the latin fundo, fundare, to found. the arabic ba- raka, to bend the knee, to fall on the breast, is probably the atlantis: the antediluvian world. saxon brecau, the danish bräkke, the swedish bräcka, welsh bregu, and our word to break. the arabic baraka also signi- fies to rain violently; and from this we get the saxon rægn, to rain, dutch regen, to rain, cimbric rækia, rain, welsh rheg, rain. the chaldee word braic, a branch, is the irish braic or raigh, an arm, the welsh braic, the latin brachium, and the english brace, something which supports like an arm. the chaldee frak, to rub, to tread out grain, is the same as the latin frico, frio, and our word rake. the arabic word to rub is fraka. the chaldee rag, ragag, means to desire, to long for; it is the same as the greek opeyw, the latin porrigere, the saxon ræccan, the icelandic rakna, the german reichen, and our to reach, to rage. the arabic rauka, to strain or purify, as wine, is precisely our english word rack, to rack wine. the hebrew word bara, to create, is our word to bear, as to bear children: a great number of words in all the european languages con- tain this root in its various modifications. the hebrew word kafar, to cover, is our word to cover, and coffer, something which covers, and covert, a secret place; from this root also comes the latin cooperio and the french couvrir, to cover. the arabic word shakala, to bind under the belly, is our word to shackle. from the arabic walada and ethiopian walad, to beget, to bring forth, we get the welsh llawd, a shooting out; and hence our word lad. our word matter, or pus, is from the arabic madda ; our word mature is originally from the chaldee mita. the arabic word amida signifies to end, and from this comes the noun, a linit, a termination, latin meta, and our words meet and mete. i might continue this list, but i have given enough to show that all the atlantean races once spoke the same language, and that the dispersion on the plains of shivar signifies that break- ing up of the tongues of one people under the operation of vast spaces of time. philology is yet in its infancy, and the time is not far distant when the identity of the languages of all the noachic races will be as clearly established and as uni- the oldest son of noah. versally acknowledged as is now the identity of the languages of the aryan family of nations. and precisely as recent research has demonstrated the rela- tionship between pekin and babylon, so investigation in cen- tral america has proved that there is a mysterious bond of union connecting the chinese and one of the races of mexico. the resemblances are so great that mr. short (“north ameri- cans of antiquity," p. ) says, “ there is no doubt that strong analogies exist between the otomi and the chinese.” señor najera (“dissertacion sobre la lingua othomi, mexi- co," pp. , ) gives a list of words from which i quote the following: ten... siao sui. v .. tien. ye... na.. hu.. ye... hoa. nugo.. he... chinese. othomi. english. chinese. othomi. english. cho ..... to....... the, that. pa...... da....... to give. y....... n-y...... a wound. tsun.... nsu ...... honor. .. gu, mu... head. hu.. hmu sir, lord. night. that. ..tsi....... tooth. he... cold. shining and. happiness. hia.. word. ku death. po... . no. ni su... thou. na... ta.. who... the good. win... .. female. ta.. da.... the great. tsi, ti .... son. li.... ti.... gain. tso..... tsa ...... to perfect. ho..... to. who. kuan.... khuani... true. to leave. siao..... sa....... to mock. | mu, mo .. mother. ky. o .. man. hao.. su.. tseu..... pa me. recently herr forchhammer, of leipsic, has published a truly scientific comparison of the grammatical structure of the choctaw, chickasaw, muscogee, and seminole languages with the ural-altaic tongues, in which he has developed many in- teresting points of resemblance. it has been the custom to ascribe the recognized similarities between the indians of america and the chinese and japan- ese to a migration by way of behring's strait from asia into america ; but when we find that the chinese themselves only atlantis: the antediluvian world. reached the pacific coast within the historical period, and that they came to it from the direction of the mediterranean and atlantis, and when we find so many and such distinct recol- lections of the destruction of atlantis in the flood legends of the american races, it seems more reasonable to conclude that the resemblances between the othomi and the chinese are to be accounted for by intercourse through atlantis. we find a confirmation in all these facts of the order in which genesis names the sons of noah : “now these are the generations of the sons of noah: shem, ham, and japheth, and unto them were sons born after the flood.” can we not suppose that these three sons represent three great races in the order of their precedence ? the record of genesis claims that the phænicians were de- scended from ilam, while the hebrews were descended from shem; yet we find the hebrews and phænicians united by the ties of a common language, common traditions, and common race characteristics. the jews are the great merchants of the world eighteen centuries after christ, just as the phænicians were the great inerchants of the world fifteen centuries before christ. moreover, the arabians, who are popularly classed as semites, or sons of shem, admit in their traditions that they are de- scended from “ad, the son of ham ;" and the tenth chapter of genesis classes them among the descendants of ham, calling them seba, havilah, raamah, etc. if the two great so-called semitic stocks—the phænicians and arabians—are hamites, surely the third member of the group belongs to the same "sunburnt” race. if we concede that the jews were also a branch of the hamitic stock, then we have, firstly, a semitic stock, the tura- nian, embracing the etruscans, the finns, the tartars, the mon- gols, the chinese, and japanese ; secondly, a hamitic family, the oldest son of noah. “the sunburnt” race — a red race — including the cushites, phænicians, egyptians, hebrews, berbers, etc.; and, thirdly, a japhetic or whiter stock, embracing the greeks, italians, celts, goths, and the men who wrote sanscrit-in other words, the entire aryan family. if we add to these three races the negro race-which cannot be traced back to atlantis, and is not included, according to genesis, among the descendants of noah-we have the four races, the white, red, yellow, and black, recognized by the egyp- tians as embracing all the people known to them. there seems to be some confusion in genesis as to the semnitic stock. it classes different races as both semites and hamites; as, for instance, sheba and havilah ; while the race of mash, or meshech, is classed among the sons of shem and the sons of japheth. in fact, there seems to be a confusion of hamitic and semitic stocks. “this is shown in the blending of hamitic and semitic in some of the most ancient inscrip- tions; in the facility of intercourse between the semites of asia and the hamites of egypt; in the peaceful and unobserved absorption of all the asiatic hamites, and the semitic adoption of the hamitic gods and religious system. it is manifest that, at a period not long previous, the two families had dwelt to- gether and spoken the same language.” (winchell's “pre- adamites,” p. .) is it not more reasonable to suppose that the so-called semitic races of genesis were a mere division of the hamitic stock, and that we are to look for the third great division of the sons of noah among the turanians ? francis lenormant, high anthority, is of the opinion that the turanian races are descended from magog, the son of japheth. he regards the turanians as intermediate between the white and yellow races, graduating insensibly into each. “the cz- becs, the osinanli turks, and the hungarians are not to be dis- tinguished in appearance from the most perfect branches of the white race; on the other hand, the tchondes almost exactly resemble the tongouses, who belong to the yellow race. the oldest son of noah, we encounter at suku, in java, a teocalli which is absolutely identical with that of tehuantepec mr. ferguson said, as we advance eastward from the valley of the euphrates, at every step we meet with forms of art becoming more and more like those of central america.'” (“builders of babel,” p. .) prescott says: “the coincidences are sufficiently strong to authorize a belief that the civilization of anahuac was in some degree in- fluenced by that of eastern asia; and, secondly, that the dis- crepancies are such as to carry back the communication to a very remote period.” (“mexico," vol. iii., p. .) “all appearances,” continues lenormant (" ancient history of the east," vol. i., p. ), “would lead us to regard the tura- nian race as the first branch of the family of japheth which went forth into the world; and by that premature separation, by an isolated and antagonistic existence, took, or rather pre- served, a completely distinct physiognomy.... it is a type of the white race imperfectly developed.” we may regard this yellow race as the first and oldest wave from atlantis, and, therefore, reaching farthest away from the common source; then came the hamitic race; then the japhetic. atlantis: the avtediluvian world. chapter ix. the antiquity of some of our great inven- tions. it may seem like a flight of the imagination to suppose that the mariner's compass was known to the inhabitants of atlan- tis. and yet, if my readers are satisfied that the atlanteans were a highly civilized maritime people, carrying on commerce with regions as far apart as peru and syria, we must conclude that they possessed some means of tracing their course in the great scas they traversed; and accordingly, when we proceed to investigate this subject, we find that as far back as we may go in the study of the ancient races of the world, we find them possessed of a knowledge of the virtues of the magnetic stone, and in the habit of utilizing it. the people of europe, rising a few centuries since out of a state of semi-barbarism, have been in the habit of claiming the invention of many things which they simply borrowed from the older nations. this was the case with the mariner's compass. it was believed for many years that it was first invented by an italian named amalfi, a.d. . in that interesting work, goodrich's “life of columbus,” we find a curious history of the magnetic com- pass prior to that time, from which we collate the following points: “in a.d. it was employed by the northmen.” (“the landnamabok," vol. i., chap. .) an italian poem of a.d. refers to it as in use among the italian sailors at that date. in the ancient language of the hindoos, the sanscrit—which has been a dead langnage for twenty-two hundred years—the antiquity of some of our great inventions. magnet was called “the precious stone beloved of iron.” the talmud speaks of it as “the stone of attraction;" and it is al- luded to in the early hebrew prayers as kalamitah, the same name given it by the greeks, from the reed upon which the compass floated. the phænicians were familiar with the use of the magnet. at the prow of their vessels stood the figure of a woman (astarte) holding a cross in one hand and point- ing the way with the other; the cross represented the com- pass, which was a magnetized needle, floating in water cross- wise upon a piece of reed or wood. the cross became the coat of arms of the phænicians-not only, possibly, as we have shown, as a recollection of the four rivers of atlantis, but because it represented the secret of their great sea-voy- ages, to which they owed their national greatness. the hy- perborean magician, abaras, carried “a guiding arrow," which pythagoras gave him, “ in order that it may be useful to him in all difficulties in his long journey.” (“herodotus," vol. iv., p. .) the magnet was called the “stone of hercules.” hercules was the patron divinity of the phænicians. ile was, as we have shown elsewhere, one of the gods of atlantis-probably one of its great kings and navigators. the atlanteans were, as plato tells us, a maritime, commercial people, trading up the mediterranean as far as egypt and syria, and across the at- lantic to “the whole opposite continent that surrounds the sea ;" the phænicians, as their successors and descendants, and colonized on the shores of the mediterranean, inherited their civilization and their maritime habits, and with these that invention without which their great voyages were impos- sible. from them the magnet passed to the hindoos, and from them to the chinese, who certainly possessed it at an early date. in the year b.c. the emperor wang-ti placed a magnetic figure with an extended arm, like the astarte of the phænicians, on the front of carriages, the arm always turning and pointing to the south, which the chinese regarded as the * atlantis: the antediluvian world. principal pole. (see goodrich's “ columbus," p. , etc.) this illustration represents one of these chariots : lu va dom quinese magnetic cae. in the seventh century it was used by the navigators of the baltic sea and the german ocean. the ancient egyptians called the loadstone the bone of haroeri, and iron the bone of typhon. haroeri was the son of osiris and grandson of rhea, a goddess of the earth, a queen of atlantis, and mother of poseidon ; typhon was a wind-god and an evil genius, but also a son of rhea, the earth goddess. do we find in this curious designation of iron and loadstone as " bones of the descendants of the earth,” an explanation of that otherwise inexplicable greek legend about dencalion “throw- ing the bones of the earth behind him, when instantly men rose from the ground, and the world was repeopled ?" does it mean that by means of the magnet he sailed, after the flood, to the european colonies of atlantis, already thickly inhabited! antiquity of sove of our great inventions. a late writer, speaking upon the subject of the loadstone, tells us : “hercules, it was said, being once overpowered by the heat of the sun, drew his bow against that luminary; whereupon the god phæbus, admiring his intrepidity, gave him a gold- en cup, with which he sailed over the ocean. this cup was the compass, which old writers have called lapis heracleus. pisander says oceanus lent him the cup, and lucian says it was a sea-shell. tradition affirms that the magnet originally was not on a pivot, but set to float on water in a cup. the old antiquarian is wildly theoretical on this point, and sees a compass in the golden fleece of argos, in the oracular needle which nero worshipped, and in everything else. yet undoubt- edly there are some curious facts connected with the matter. osonius says that gama and the portuguese got the compass from some pirates at the cape of good hope, a.d. . m. fauchet, the french antiquarian, finds it plainly alluded to in some old poem of brittany belonging to the year a.d. . paulo venetus brought it in the thirteenth century from china, where it was regarded as oracular. genebrand says melvius, a neapolitan, brought it to europe in a.d. . costa says gama got it from mohammedan seamen. but all nations with whom it was found associate it with regions where heraclean myths prevailed. and one of the most curious facts is that the ancient britons, as the welsh do to-day, call a pilot llywydd (lode). lodemanage, in skinner's 'etymology,' is the word for the price paid to a pilot. but whether this famous, and afterward deified, mariner (hercules) had a compass or not, we can hardly regard the association of his name with so many western monuments as accidental.” hercules was, as we know, a god of atlantis, and oceanos, who lent the magnetic cup to hercules, was the name by which the greeks designated the atlantic ocean. and this may be the explanation of the recurrence of a cup in many antique paintings and statues. hercules is often represented with a cup in his hand; we even find the cup upon the handle of the bronze dagger found in denmark, and represented in the chap- ter on the bronze age, in this work. (see p. ante.) atlantis: the antediluvian world. so “oracular” an object as this self-moving needle, always pointing to the north, would doubtless affect vividly the minds of the people, and appear in their works of art. when hercules left the coast of europe to sail to the island of erythea in the atlantic, in the remote west, we are told, in greek mytholo- gy (murray, p. ), that he borrowed "the cup” of helios, in (with) which “lie was accustomed to sail every night.” tiere we seem to have a reference to the magnetic cup used in lates win muh to steel hali ancient coins of tyre. night sailing; and this is another proof that the use of the magnetic needle in sea - voyages was associated with the at- lantean gods. lucian tells us that a sea-shell often took the place of the cup, as a vessel in which to hold the water where the needle floated, and hence upon the ancient coins of tyre we find a sea-shell represented. here, too, we have the pillars of hercules, supposed to have been placed at the mouth of the mediterranean, and the tree of life or knowledge, with the serpent twined around it, which appears in genesis; and in the combination of the two pillars and the serpent we have, it is said, the original source of our dollar mark [$]. compare these phænician coins with the following repre- antiquity of some of our great inventions. “hiero of syracuse built, under the superintendence of ar- chimedes, a vessel which consumed in its construction the ma- terial for fifty galleys; it contained galleries, gardens, stables, fish-ponds, mills, baths, a temple of venus, and an engine to throw stones three hundred pounds in weight, and arrows thirty-six feet long. the floors of this monstrous vessel were inlaid with scenes from homer's “iliad.'” (ibid., p. .) the fleet of sesostris consisted of four hundred ships; and when semiramis invaded india she was opposed by four thon- sand vessels. it is probable that in the earliest times the vessels were sheeted with metal. a roman ship of the time of trajan has been recovered from lake ricciole after years. the outside was covered with sheets of lead fastened with small cop- per nails. even the use of iron chains in place of ropes for the auchors was known at an early period. julius cæsar tells us that the galleys of the veneti were thus equipped. (goodrich's “ columbus,” p. .) gunpowder.—it is not impossible that even the invention of gunpowder may date back to atlantis. it was certainly known in europe long before the time of the german monk, berthold schwarz, who is commonly credited with the inven- tion of it. it was employed in at the siege of niebla, in spain. it was described in an arab treatise of the thirteenth century. in a.d. the emperor leo employed fire-arms. “greek-fire” is supposed to have been gunpowder mixed with resin or petroleum, and thrown in the form of fuses and ex- plosive shells. it was introduced from egypt a.d. . in a.d. the arabs used fire-arms against mecca, bringing the knowledge of them from india. in a.d. the chinese obtained from india a knowledge of gunpowder. there is reason to believe that the carthaginian (phænician) general, hannibal, used gunpowder in breaking a way for his army over the alps. the romans, who were ignorant of its use, said that hannibal made his way by making fires against the rocks, and pouring atlantis: the antediluviav world. vinegar and water over the ashes. it is evident that fire and vinegar would have no effect on masses of the alps great enough to arrest the march of an army. dr. william ma- ginn has suggested that the wood was probably burnt by han- nibal to obtain charcoal; and the word which has been trans- lated "vinegar” probably signified some preparation of nitre and sulphur, and that hannibal made gunpowder and blew up the rocks. the same author suggests that the story of handi- bal breaking loose from the mountains where he was surround- ed on all sides by the romans, and in danger of starvation, by fastening firebrands to the horns of two thousand oxen, and sending them rushing at night among the terrified romans, simply refers to the use of rockets. as maginn well asks, how could hannibal be in danger of starvation when he had two thousand oxen to spare for such an experiment? and why should the veteran roman troops have been so terrified and panic-stricken by a lot of cattle with firebrands on their horus? at the battle of lake trasymene, between hannibal and flaminius, we have another curious piece of information which goes far to confirm the belief that hannibal was familiar with the use of gunpowder. in the midst of the battle there was, say the roman historians, an “carthquake;" the earth reeled under the feet of the soldiers, a tremendous crash was heard, a fog or smoke covered the scene, the earth broke open, and the rocks fell upon the heads of the romans. this reads very much as if the carthaginians had decoyed the romans into a pass where they had already planted a mine, and had exploded it at the proper moment to throw them into a panic. earthquakes do not cast rocks up in the air to fall on men's heads! and that this is not all surmise is shown by the fact that a city of india, in the time of alexander the great, defended itself by the use of gunpowder: it was said to be a favorite of the gods, because thunder and lightning came from its walls to resist the attacks of its assailants. antiquity of some of our great inventions. as the hebrews were a branch of the phænician race, it is not surprising that we find some things in their history which look very much like legends of gunpowder. when korah, dathan, and abiram led a rebellion against moses, moses separated the faithful from the unfaithful, and thereupon the ground clave asunder that was under them: and the earth opened her mouth, and swallowed them up, and their houses, and all the men that appertained unto korah, and all their goods. . . . and there came out a fire from the lord, and consumed the two hundred and fifty men that offered in- cense. . . . but on the morrow all the congregation of the children of israel murmured against moses and against aaron, saying, ye have killed the people of the lord.” (numb. xvi., - .) this looks very much as if moses had blown up the rebels with gunpowder. roger bacon, who himself rediscovered gunpowder, was of opinion that the event described in judges vii., where gideon captured the camp of the midianites with the roar of trumpets, the crash caused by the breaking of innumerable pitchers, and the flash of a multitude of lanterns, had reference to the use of gunpowder; that the noise made by the breaking of the pitch- ers represented the detonation of an explosion, the flame of the lights the blaze, and the noise of the trumpets the thunder of the gunpowder. we can understand, in this wise, the re- sults that followed ; but we cannot otherwise understand how the breaking of pitchers, the flashing of lamps, and the clangor of trumpets would throw an army into panic, until " every man's sword was set against his fellow, and the host fled to beth-shittah ;" and this, too, without any attack upon the part of the israelites, for “they stood every man in his place around the camp; and all the host ran and cried and fled.” . if it was a miraculous interposition in behalf of the jews, the lord could have scared the midianites out of their wits without the smashed pitchers and lanterns; and certain it is antiquity of some of our great inventions. not add a single new invention to the list they received from atlantis ? iron.—we have seen that the greek mythological legends asserted that before the submergence of the great race over whom their gods reigned there had been not only an age of bronze but an age of iron. this metal was known to the egyptians in the earliest ages; fragments of iron have been found in the oldest pyramids. the iron age in northern europe far antedated intercourse with the greeks or romans. in the mounds of the mississippi valley, as i have shown, the remains of iron implements have been found. in the “mercu- rio peruano" (tom. i., p. , ) it is stated that“ anciently the peruvian sovereigns worked magnificent iron mines at an- coriaines, on the west shore of lake titicaca.” “it is remark- able," says molina, “ that iron, which has been thought un- known to the ancient americans, had particular names in some of their tongnies.” in official peruvian it was called quillay, and in chilian panilic. the mound builders fashioned im- plements out of meteoric iron. (foster's “ prehistoric races," p. .) as we find this metal known to man in the earliest ages on both sides of the atlantic, the presumption is very strong that it was borrowed by the nations, east and west, from atlantis. paper.—the same argument holds good as to paper. the oldest egyptian monuments contain pictures of the papyrus roll; while in mexico, as i have shown, a beautiful paper was manufactured and formed into books shaped like our own. in peru a paper was made of plantain leaves, and books were com- mon in the earlier ages. humboldt mentions books of hiero- glyphical writings among the panoes, which were "bundles of their paper resembling our volumes in quarto.” silk manufacture.— the manufacture of a woven fabric of great beauty out of the delicate fibre of the egg-cocoon of a worm could only have originated among a people who had attained the highest degroe of civilization; it implies the antiquity of some of our great inventions. the artificer of night and day.” all this greek learning was probably drawn from the egyptians. only among the atlanteans in europe and america do we find traditions preserved as to the origin of all the principal in- ventions which have raised man from a savage to a civilized con- dition. we can give in part the very names of the inventors. starting with the chippeway legends, and following with the bible and phænician records, we make a table like the appended : the invention or discovery. the race. the inventors. atlantean..... phos, phur, and phlox. chippeway.... mana boshu. fire....... the bow and arrow.... the use of flint.... the use of copper...... the manufacture of bricks agriculture and hunting.. village life, and the rearing of flocks.... the use of salt ......... the use of letters....... navigation ............. the art of music........ metallurgy, and the use of iron ........... the syrinx............. the lyre............... autochthon and technites, argos and agrotes. amynos and magos. misor and sydyk. taautos, or taut. the cabiri, or corybantes. hebrew jubal. ..... tubal-cain. gree pan. “ ........ hermes. we cannot consider all these evidences of the vast antiqui- ty of the great inventions upon which our civilization mainly rests, including the art of writing, which, as i have shown, dates back far beyond the beginning of history; we cannot remem- ber that the origin of all the great food-plants, such as wheat, oats, barley, rye, and maize, is lost in the remote past; and that all the domesticated animals, the horse, the ass, the ox, the sheep, the goat, and the hog had been reduced to subjection to man in ages long previous to written history, without having the conclusion forced upon is irresistibly that beyond egypt and greece, beyond chaldea and china, there existed a mighty civilization, of which these states were but the broken fragments. the aryan colonies from atlantis. is mount ararat, where it is said the ark rested—another iden- tification with the flood regions, as it represents the usual trans- fer of the atlantis legend by an atlantean people to a high mountain in their new home. now turn to a map: suppose the ships of atlantis to have reached the shores of syria, at the eastern end of the mediter- ranean, where dwelt a people who, as we have seen, used the central american maya alphabet; the atlantis ships are then but two hundred miles distant from armenia. but these ships need not stop at syria, they can go by the dardanelles and the black sea, by uninterrupted water communication, to the shores of armenia itself. if we admit, then, that it was from ar- menia the aryans stocked europe and india, there is no reason why the original population of armenia should not have been themselves colonists from atlantis. but we have seen that in the earliest ages, before the first armenian migration of the historical aryans, a people went from iberian spain and settled in ireland, and the language of this people, it is now admitted, is aryan. and these iberians were originally, according to tradition, from the west. the mediterranean aryans are known to have been in south- eastern europe, along the shores of the mediterranean, b.c. they at that early date possessed the plough; also wheat, rye, barley, gold, silver, and bronze. aryan faces are found depict- ed upon the monuments of egypt, painted four thousand years before the time of christ. “the conflicts between the kelts (an aryan race) and the iberians were far anterior in date to the settlements of the phænicians, greeks, carthaginians, and noachites on the coasts of the mediterranean sea.” (“ameri- can cyclopædia," art. basques.) there is reason to believe that these kelts were originally part of the population and empire of atlantis. we are told (rees's “british encyclo- pædia,” art. titans) that “mercury, one of the atlantean gods, was placed as ruler over the celtæ, and became their great divinity.” f. pezron, in his “antiquity of the celtæ,” makes atlantis: the antediluvian world. out that the celtæ were the same as the titans, the giant race who rebelled in atlantis, and “that their princes were the same with the giants of scripture.” he adds that the word titan “is perfect celtic, and comes from tit, the earth, and ten or den, man, and hence the greeks very properly also called them terriginæ, or earth-born." and it will be remembered that plato uses the same phrase when he speaks of the race into which poseidon intermarried as “the earth-born primeval inen of that country.” the greeks, who are aryans, traced their descent from the people who were destroyed by the flood, as did other races clearly aryan. “the nations who are comprehended under the common appellation of indo-european," says max müller-"the hin- doos, the persians, the celts, germans, romans, greeks, and slavs—do not only share the same words and the same gram- mar, slightly modified in cach country, but they seem to have likewise preserved a mass of popular traditions which had grown up before they left their common home.” “bonfey, l. geiger, and other students of the ancient indo- european languages, have recently advanced the opinion that the original home of the indo-european races must be sought in europe, because their stock of words is rich in the names of plants and animals, and contains names of seasons that are not found in tropical countries or anywhere in asia.” (“american cyclopædia,” art. ethnology.) by the study of comparative philology, or the seeking out of the words common to the various branches of the aryan race before they separated, we are able to reconstruct an out- line of the civilization of that ancient people. max müller has given this subject great study, and availing ourselves of his researches we can determine the following facts as to the progenitors of the aryan stock: they were a civilized race; they possessed the institution of marriage; they recog- nized the relationship of father, mother, son, daughter, grand- tiie aryan colonies from atlantis. son, brother, sister, mother-in-law, father-in-law, son-in-law, daughter-in-law, brother-in-law, and sister-in-law, and had separate words for each of these relationships, which we are only able to express by adding the words “in-law.” they recognized also the condition of widows, or “the husband- less." they lived in an organized society, governed by a king. they possessed houses with doors and solid walls. they had wagons and carriages. they possessed family names. they dwelt in towns and cities, on highways. they were not hunters or nomads. they were a peaceful people; the warlike words in the different aryan languages cannot be traced back to this original race. they lived in a country having few wild beasts ; the only wild animals whose names can be assigned to this parent stock being the bear, the wolf, and the serpent. the name of the elephant, “the beast with a hand," occurs only twice in the “rig-veda;” a singular omission if the aryans were from time immemorial an asiatic race; and “when it does oc- cur, it is in such a way as to show that he was still an object of wonder and terror to them.” (whitney's “oriental and linguistic studies,” p. .) they possessed nearly all the do- mestic animals we now have—the ox and the cow, the horse, the dog, the sheep, the goat, the hog, the donkey, and the goose. they divided the year into twelve months. they were farmers; they used the plough ; their name as a race (aryan) was de- rived from it; they were, par excellence, ploughmen; they raised various kinds of grain, including flax, barley, hemp, and wheat; they had mills and millers, and ground their corn. the presence of millers shows that they bad proceeded beyond the primitive condition where each family ground its corn in its own mill. they used fire, and cooked and baked their food; they wove cloth and wore clothing; they spun wool; they possessed the dif- ferent metals, even iron: they had gold. the word for “water” also meant “salt made from water," from which it might be in- ferred that the water with which they were familiar was salt- water. it is evident they manufactured salt by evaporating salt- the aryan colonies from atlantis. they hot bloodshed ; – colf, and serpentin its la fore greek was greek, celt was celt, hindoo was hindoo, or goth was goth, have been located? the common opinion says, in armenia or bactria, in asia. but where in asia could they have found a country so peaceful as to know no terms for war or bloodshed;—a country so civilized as to possess no wild beasts save the bear, wolf, and serpent? no people could have been developed in asia without bearing in its language traces of century - long battles for life with the rude and barbarous races around them; no nation could have fought for ages for existence against "man - eating" tigers, lions, elephants, and hyenas, without bearing the memory of these things in their tongue. a tiger, identical with that of bengal, still exists around lake aral, in asia; from time to time it is seen in si- beria. “the last tiger killed in was on the lena, in lati- tude fifty-two degrees thirty minutes, in a climate colder than that of st. petersburg and stockholm.” the fathers of the aryan race must have dwelt for many thousand years so completely protected from barbarians and wild beasts that they at last lost all memory of them, and all words descriptive of them; and where could this have been possible save in some great, long-civilized land, surrounded by the sea, and isolated from the attack of the savage tribes that occupied the rest of the world? and if such a great civilized nation had dwelt for centuries in asia, europe, or africa, why have not their monuments long ago been discovered and identi- fied? where is the race who are their natural successors, and who must have continued to live after them in that sheltered and happy land, where they knew no human and scarcely any animal enemies? why would any people have altogether left such a home? why, when their civilization had spread to the ends of the carth, did it cease to exist in the peaceful region where it originated ? savage nations cannot usually count beyond five. this peo- ple had names for the numerals up to one hundred, and the power, doubtless, of combining these to still higher powers, as atlantis: the antediluvian world. three hundred, five hundred, ten hundred, etc. says a high authority, “if any more proof were wanted as to the reality of that period which must have preceded the dispersion of the aryan race, we might appeal to the aryan numerals as irre- fragable evidence of that long-continued intellectual life which characterizes that period.” such a degree of progress implies necessarily an alphabet, writing, commerce, and trade, even as the existence of words for boats and ships has already implied navigation. in what have we added to the civilization of this ancient people? their domestic animals were the same as our own, except one fowl adopted from america. in the past ten thou- sand years we have added one bird to their list of domesticated animals! they raised wheat and wool, and spun and wove as we do, except that we have added some mechanical contrivances to produce the same results. their metals are ours. even iron, the triumph, as we had supposed, of more modern times, they had already discovered. and it must not be forgotten that greek mythology tells us that the god-like race who dwelt on olympus, that great island "in the midst of the atlantic," in the remote west, wrought in iron; and we find the remains of an iron sword and meteoric iron weapons in the mounds of the mississippi valley, while the name of the metal is found in the ancient languages of peru and chili, and the incas worked in iron on the shores of lake titicaca. a still further evidence of the civilization of this ancient race is found in the fact that, before the dispersion from their origi- nal home, the aryans had reached such a degree of development that they possessed a regularly organized religion: they wor- shipped god, they believed in an evil spirit, they believed in a heaven for the just. all this presupposes temples, priests, sac- rifices, and an orderly state of society. we have seen that greek mythology is really a bistory of the kings and queens of atlantis. when we turn to that other branch of the great aryan the aryan colonies from atlantis. the older greeks describe him as a king very great during his life, and deified after death. ... amon, king of arabia or ethiopia, married rhea, sister of chronos, who reigned over italy, sicily, and certain countries of northern africa.” diony- sos, according to the egyptians, was the son of amon by the beautiful amalthea. chronos and amon had a prolonged war; dionysos defeated chronos and captured his capital, de- throned him, and put his son zeus in his place; zeus reigned nobly, and won a great fame. dionysos succeeded his father ainon, and “became the greatest of sovereigns. he extend- ed his sway in all the neighboring countries, and completed the conquest of india. . . . he gave much attention to the cushite colonies in egypt, greatly increasing their strength, intelligence, and prosperity.” (baldwin's “prehistoric na- tions,” p. .) • when we turn to the hindoo we still find this atlantean king. in the sanscrit books we find reference to a god called deva- nahusha, who has been identified by scholars with dionysos. he is connected “ with the oldest history and mythology in the world.” he is said to have been a contemporary with indra, king of meru, who was also deified, and who appears in the veda as a principal form of representation of the supreine being. “the warmest colors of imagination are used in portraying the greatness of deva-nahusha. for a time he had sovereign control of affairs in meru; he conquered the seven dwipas, and led his armies through all the known countries of the world ; by means of matchless wisdom and miraculous heroism he made his empire universal.” (ibid., p. .) here we see that the great god indra, chief god of the hin- doos, was formerly king of meru, and that deva - nahusha (de(va)nushas — de-onyshas) had also been king of meru ; and we must remember that theopompus tell us that the isl- and of atlantis was inhabited by the “meropes;" and lenor- * atlantis: the antediluvian world. mant has reached the conclusion that the first people of the ancient world were “the men of mero." we can well believe, when we see traces of the same civiliza- tion extending from peru and lake superior to armenia and the frontiers of china, that this atlantean kingdom was indeed "universal," and extended through all the “known countries of the world.” “we can see in the legends that părūră vas, nahusha, and others had no connection with sanscrit history. they are re- ferred to ages very long anterior to the sanscrit immigration, and must have been great personages celebrated in the tradi- tions of the natives or dasyus. ... părūrăvas was a king of great renown, who ruled over thirteen islands of the ocean, al- together surrounded by inhuman (or superhuman) personages; he engaged in a contest with brahmans, and perished. na- husha, mentioned by maull, and in many legends, as famous for hostility to the brahmans, lived at the time when indra ruled on earth. he was a very great king, who ruled with justice a mighty empire, and attained the sovereignty of three worlds.” (europe, africa, and america ?) “being intoxicated with pride, he was arrogant to brahmans, compelled them to bear his palanquin, and even dared to touch one of them with his foot " (kicked him ?)," whereupon he was transformed into a serpent." (baldwin's “ prehistoric nations,” p. .) the egyptians placed dionysos (osiris) at the close of the period of their history which was assigned to the gods, that is, toward the close of the great empire of atlantis. when we remember that the hymns of the “rig-veda" are admitted to date back to a vast antiquity, and are written in a language that had ceased to be a living tongue thousands of years ago, we can almost fancy those hymns preserve some part of the songs of praise uttered of old upon the island of atlantis. many of them seem to belong to sun-worship, and might have been sung with propriety upon the high places of peru : "in the beginning there arose the golden child. he was the one born lord of all that is. he established the earth and the sky. who is the god to whom we shall offer sacrifice? the aryan colonies from atlantis. “he who gives life; he who gives strength; whose com- mand all the bright gods” (the stars ?) “ revere; whose light is immortality; whose shadow is death. . . . he who through his power is the one god of the breathing and awakening world. he who governs all, man and beast. he whose greatness these snowy mountains, whose greatness the sea proclaims, with the distant river. he through whom the sky is bright and the earth firm. ... he who measured out the light in the air. ... wherever the mighty water-clouds went, where they placed the seed and lit the fire, thence arose he who is the sole life of the bright gods. . . . he to whom heaven and earth, stand- ing firm by his will, look up, treinbling inwardly. ... may he not destroy us; he, the creator of the earth; he, the righteous, who created heaven. he also created the bright and mighty waters." this is plainly a hymn to the sun, or to a god whose most glorious representative was the sun. it is the hymn of a peo- ple near the son; it was not written by a people living in the heart of asia. it was the hymn of a people living in a vol- canic country, who call upon their god to keep the earth “firm" and not to destroy them. it was sung at daybreak, as the sun rolled up the sky over an “awakening world.” the fire (agni) upon the altar was regarded as a messenger rising from the earth to the sun: “youngest of the gods, their messenger, their invoker. ... for thou, o sage, goest wisely between these two creations (heaven and earth, god and man) like a friendly messenger between two hamulets.” the dawn of the day (ushas), part of the sun-worship, be- came also a god : “she shines upon us like a young wife, rousing every living being to go to his work. when the fire had to be kindled by man, she made the light by striking down the darkness.” as the egyptians and the greeks looked to a happy abode (an under-world) in the west, beyond the waters, so the aryan's paradise was the other side of some body of water. in the atlantis: the antediluvian world. veda (vii. , ) we find a prayer to the maruts, the storm- gods: “o, maruts, may there be to us a strong son, who is a living ruler of men; through whom we may cross the waters on our way to the happy abode.” this happy abode is de- scribed as “where king vaivasvata reigns; where the secret place of heaven is; where the mighty waters are ... where there is food and rejoicing ... where there is happiness and delight; where joy and pleasure reside.” (rig-veda ix, , .) this is the paradise beyond the seas; the elysion; the elysian fields of the greek and the egyptian, located upon an island in the atlantic which was destroyed by water. one great chain of tradition binds together these widely separated races. “the religion of the veda knows no idols," says max müller; "the worship of idols in india is a secondary forma- tion, a degradation of the more primitive worship of ideal gods." it was pure sun-worship, such as prevailed in peru on the arrival of the spaniards. it accords with plato's description of the religion of atlantis. “the dolphin's ridge,” at the bottom of the atlantic, or the high land revealed by the soundings taken by the ship challenger, is, as will be seen, of a three-pronged form-one prong pointing toward the west coast of ireland, another con- necting with the north-east coast of south america, and a third near or on the west coast of africa. it does not follow that the island of atlantis, at any time wbile inhabited by civilized people, actually reached these coasts; there is a strong proba- bility that races of men may have found their way there from the three continents of europe, america, and africa; or the great continent which once filled the whole bed of the present atlantic ocean, and from whose débris geology tells us the old and new worlds were constructed, may have been the scene of the development, during immense periods of time, of diverse races of men, occupying different zones of climate. there are many indications that there were three races of men the aryan colonies from atlantis. dwelling on atlantis. noah, according to genesis, had three sons -shem, ham, and japheth—who represented three different races of men of different colors. the greek legends tell us of the rebellions inaugurated at different times in olympus. one of these was a rebellion of the giants, “a race of beings sprung from the blood of uranos,” the great original progenitor of the stock. “their king or leader was porphyrion, their most powerful champion alkyoneus.”. their mother was the earth: this probably meant that they represented the common people of a darker bue. they made a desperate struggle for suprem- acy, but were conquered by zeus. there were also two rebel- lions of the titans. the titans seem to have had a govern- ment of their own, and the names of twelve of their kings are given in the greek mythology (sce murray, p. ). they also were of “the blood of uranos,” the adam of the people. we read, in fact, that uranos married gæa (the carth), and had three families: , the titans; , the hekatoncheires; and , the kyklopes. we should conclude that the last two were maritime peoples, and i have shown that their mythical char- acteristics were probably derived from the appearance of their ships. here we have, i think, a reference to the three races : , the red or sunburnt men, like the egyptians, the phæni- cians, the basques, and the berber and cushite stocks; , the sons of shem, possibly the yellow or turanian race; and , the whiter men, the aryans, the greeks, kelts, goths, slavs, etc. if this view is correct, then we may suppose that colonies of the pale-faced stock may have been sent out from atlantis to the northern coasts of europe at different and perhaps wide- ly separated periods of time, from some of which the aryan families of europe proceeded; hence the legend, which is found among them, that they were once forced to dwell in a country where the summers were only two months long. from the earliest times two grand divisions are recognized in the aryan family : “to the cast those who specially called themselves arians, whose descendants inhabited persia, india, atlantis: tiie antediluvian world. etc.; to the west, the yavana, or the young ones, who first emi- grated westward, and from whom have descended the various nations that have populated europe. this is the name (javan) found in the tenth chapter of genesis.” (lenormant and chevallier, “ ancient history of the east,” vol. ii., p. .) but surely those who “first emigrated westward,” the earliest to leave the parent stock, could not be the “young ones;" they would be rather the elder brothers. but if we can suppose the bactrian population to have left atlantis at an early date, and the greeks, latins, and celts to have left it at a later period, then they would indeed be the “ young ones" of the family, following on the heels of the earlier migrations, and herein we would find the explavation of the resemblance be- tween the latin and celtic tongues. lenormant says the name of erin (ireland) is derived from aryan; and yet we have seen this island populated and named erin by races distinctly con- nected with spain, iberia, africa, and atlantis. / there is another reason for supposing that the aryan na- tions came from atlantis. we find all europe, except a small corner of spain and a strip along the arctic circle, occupied by nations recognized as aryan; but when we turn to asia, there is but a corner of it, and that corner in the part nearest europe, occupied by the aryans. all the rest of that great continent bas been filled from immemorial ages by non-aryan races. there are seven branches of the aryan family : . germanic or teutonic; . slavo-lithuanic; . celtic; . italic; . greck; . iranian or persian ; . sanscritic or indian ; and of these seven branches five dwell on the soil of europe, and the other two are intru- sive races in asia from the direction of europe. the aryans in europe have dwelt there apparently since the close of the stone age, if not before it, while the movements of the aryans in asia are within the historical period, and they appear as intrusive stocks, forming a high caste amid a vast population of a different race. the vedas are supposed to date back to tue aryan colonies from atlantis. b.c., while there is every reason to believe that the celt inhabited western europe b.c. if the aryan race had originated in the heart of asia, why would not its ramifications have extended into siberia, china, and japan, and all over asia? and if the aryans moved at a comparatively recent date into europe from bactria, where are the populations that then inhabited europe—the men of the ages of stone and bronze ? we should expect to find the western coasts of europe filled with them, just as the eastern coasts of asia and india are filled with turanian populations. on the contrary, we know that the aryans descended upon india from the punjab, which lies to the north-west of that region; and that their traditions represent that they came there from the west, to wit, from the direction of europe and atlantis. atlantis reconstructed. the presence of the plough in egypt and peru implies that they possessed that implement. and as the horns and ox-head of baal show the esteem in which cattle were held among them, we may suppose that they had passed the stage in which the plough was drawn by men, as in peru and egypt in ancient times, and in sweden during the historical period, and that it was drawn by oxen or horses. they first domesticated the horse, hence the association of poseidon or neptune, a sea- god, with horses; hence the race-courses for horses described by plato. they possessed sheep, and manufactured woollen goods; they also had goats, dogs, and swine. they raised cotton and made cotton goods; they probably cultivated maize, wheat, oats, barley, rye, tobacco, hemp, and flax, and possibly potatoes; they built aqueducts and practised irrigation; they were archi- tects, sculptors, and engravers; they possessed an alphabet ; they worked in tin, copper, bronze, silver, gold, and iron. during the vast period of their duration, as peace and agri- culture caused their population to increase to overflowing, they spread out in colonies cast and west to the ends of the earth. this was not the work of a few years, but of many centuries; and the relations between these colonies may have been some- thing like the relation between the different colonies that in a later age were established by the phænicians, the greeks, and the romans; there was an intermingling with the more ancient races, the autochthones of the different lands where they settled; and the same crossing of stocks, which we know to have been continued all through the historical period, must have been going on for thousands of years, whereby new races and new dialects were formed; and the result of all this has been that the smaller races of antiquity have grown larger, while all the complexions shade into each other, so that we can pass from the whitest to the darkest by insensible degrees. in some respects the atlanteans exhibited conditions similar to those of the british islands: there were the same, and even greater, race differences in the population; the same plantation atlantis: the antediluvian world. of colonies in europe, asia, and america; the same carrying of civilization to the ends of the earth. we have seen colo- nies from great britain going out in the third and fifth centu- ries to settle on the shores of france, in brittany, representing one of the nationalities and languages of the mother-country- a race atlantean in origin. in the same way we may suppose hamitic emigrations to have gone out from atlantis to syria, egypt, and the barbary states. if we could imagine high- land scotch, welsh, cornish, and irish populations emigrating en masse from england in later times, and carrying to their new lands the civilization of england, with peculiar languages not english, we would have a state of things probably more like the migrations which took place from atlantis. england, with a civilization atlantean in origin, peopled by races from the same source, is repeating in these modern times the ein- pire of zeus and chronos; and, just as we have seen troy, egypt, and greece warring against the parent race, so in later days we have seen brittany and the united states separating themselves from england, the race characteristics remaining after the governmental connection had ceased. in religion the atlanteans had reached all the great thonghts which underlie our modern creeds. they had attained to the conception of one universal, omnipotent, great first cause. we find the worship of this one god in peru and in carly egypt. they looked upon the sun as the mighty emblem, type, and instrumentality of this one god. such a conception could only have come with civilization. it is not until these later days that science has realized the utter dependence of all earthly life upon the sun's rays: “ all applications of animal power may be regarded as de- rived directly or indirectly from the static chemical power of the vegetable substance by which the various organisms and their capabilities are sustained ; and this power, in turn, from the kinetic action of the sun's rays. “winds and ocean currents, hailstorms and rain, sliding atlantis: the antediluvian world. a kingly government; they had their courts, their judges, their records, their monuments covered with inscriptions, their mines, their founderies, their workshops, their looms, their grist-mills, their boats and sailing - vessels, their highways, aqueducts, wharves, docks, and canals. they had processions, banners, and triumphal arches for their kings and heroes; they built pyramids, temples, round-towers, and obelisks; they practised religious ablutions; they knew the use of the magnet and of gunpowder. in short, they were in the enjoyment of a civiliza- tion nearly as high as our own, lacking only the printing-press, and those inventions in which steam, electricity, and magnetism are used. we are told that deva-nahusha visited his colonies in farther india. an empire which reached from the andes to hindostan, if not to china, must have been magnificent indeed. in its markets must have met the maize of the mississippi valley, the copper of lake superior, the gold and silver of peru and mexico, the spices of india, the tin of wales and cornwall, the bronze of iberia, the amber of the baltic, the wheat and barley of greece, italy, and switzerland. it is not surprising that when this mighty nation sank beneath the waves, in the midst of terrible convulsions, with all its millions of people, the event left an everlasting impres- sion upon the imagination of mankind. let us suppose that great britain should to-morrow meet with a similar fate. wbat a wild consternation would fall upon her colonies and upon the whole human family! the world might relapse into barbarism, deep and almost universal. william the conqueror, richard cæur de lion, alfred the great, cromwell, and victo- ria might survive only as the gods or demons of later races ; but the memory of the cataclysm in which the centre of a universal empire instantaneously went down to death would never be forgotten ; it would survive in fragments, more or less complete, in every land on earth; it would outlive the memory of a thousand lesser convulsions of nature; it would survive dynasties, nations, creeds, and languages; it would never atlantis: the antediluvian world. we are but beginning to understand the past: one hundred years ago the world knew nothing of pompeii or herculaneum; nothing of the lingual tie that binds together the indo-european nations; nothing of the significance of the vast volume of in- scriptions upon the tombs and temples of egypt; nothing of the meaning of the arrow-headed inscriptions of babylon; noih- ning of the marvellous civilizations revealed in the remains of yucatan, mexico, and peru. we are on the threshold. scien- tific investigation is advancing with giant strides. who shall say that one bundred years from now the great museums of the world may not be adorned with gems, statues, arms, and implements from atlantis, while the libraries of the world shall contain translations of its inscriptions, throwing new light upon all the past history of the human race, and all the great probe lems which now perplex the thinkers of our day? inde x. a. . . : eastern origin of the races, , , abaras, . s; not all red men, +; not all of acla, . same type, . ad, the people of, : "as old as ad," amon, . : people of, colonized arabia, : lampheres, son of poseidon), . empire of, ; language of, ; at amyander, . base of many rices, . amynos, . adah, sons of, . ancestor-worship, . adam, ; a red man, ; composed aucient ships, of troy, ; of rameses books in paradise, ; author of arts | the great, ; of sesostris, ; of and letters, , . syracuse, : of the rumaus, ; of ad-amah, . the veneti, . all-imi, the, , . animal-worship, . ad-in, . antediluvian patriarchs, ; kings of all-ima, . chaldea, . adites, ancient people of arabia, , ; antediluvinus, the, possessed au alpha- sull-worshippers, ; red-men, . bet, . aditi, the, . antla, , . aditya, the, , anubis, . ad, mashab, . apache, the, flood legends, . alimi, . apar, aphar, apara, . allon, . apaturia, . adonii, . api-, . adonis, . aqueducts, the, of perii, . all: shed-ad, ben, . arabs, ; red mell, . ege:un sea, . ar-ad, . Ælian, . arimeas, their deluge legend, . afghaus, . arch, the, ; of central america, , africa, egyptian circumnavigation of, . ; of ancient greece, ; of the africans not all negroes, ; red and etruscans, . white races among, , ; origin of architecture of europe and america these, . compired, . ayutharcides, . ark, the, veuerated by different nations, ayni, the god, . ; of the mandaus, ; of the eyp- agriculture, ; origin of, . tiws, . agros, . armenia major, list of cities in, . ahuramazda, s. arys, the, from europe and atlantis, alcinions, gardens of. . . , , , ; not from asin, ; alexander the great, . their civilization), ; their religion, allah, . : the two great divisions of, . alphabet, the, origin of. : egyptians ascension), the island of, . did not invent the, ; slow growth asgard. , . of ages, ; letters added by greeks | asshurbauapal, . aud romans, ; the phoenici leta assyrian cycles, ; esorcisms, . ters, : the mava alphabet. ; -astronomy, perfection of, among aucient ayzed, ; table of alphabets, ; egyptians, ; origin o , . relation of phænician and euryptian astynome, . alphabets, ; autiquity of, . atargatis, . amasis, king of egypt, . a:hene, , . ambrosia, . athens, ancient pre-eminence of, : led america, deluse le rends of, . the forces opposed to atlantis, ; american continent described by priests founded by poseidon, . of egypt, ; ruled over by atlantis, ai-hotes, the egyptian god, . index. b atlantes described by herodotus, . atlantic ocean impenetrable, ; origin of name, , . baal, ; in ireland, ; the horns of, atlantids, the, . , . atlantis, plato's history of, was true, ; baalim, . was the biribplace of civilization, ; was babel, tower oſ, american legend, , colonized by europe and america, : . was the garden of eden, ; its kinys babylon, . became the gods of greece, ; founded bacchus, , , , . egypt, ; its bronze age, ; origin:ted bacon, “new atlantis, ; his opinion one alphabet, ; original seat of ary- of greek mythology, . ans and semites, ; suunk in the ocean, balam agab, . ; deluge legends refer to destruction | boulam quitze, , . of, : solon's account of, ; described | balboa, . . by priests of sais, ; size of, ; ex- banana, carried by man in ancient times tent of its empire, ; its invasion of across the atlantic, . greece, : its destruction, : de- / baubha, the lady, . ecribed i: detail by plato, ; its fruits baptism, mexican, described and flowers, ; its kinys, ; its ani- barbarians of homer, . mals, ; its temples, harbors, and barbary states, . docks, ; its great canal, ; its archi basques, the, described, ; their lan. tecture, ; its walls, ; its baths and guiage, , their american affinities, race - courses, ; its docks, ; its . mountains, ; its ships and merchants, baths, hot and cold, in atlantis, . ; its great plain, ; its military ser baukis, . vice, ; the arrangement of its gov- bearded men in america, , . ernment, ; its columus covered with bel, . inscriptions, ; the adininistration belus, temple of, , . of justice in, ; its records, ; its berber languages, , . golden age, ; its wickedness, ; berosus, ; his version of the chaldean traditions of, ; sun-worship in, ; deluge legend, . its kings become the gods of the beth-el, , . greeks, , ; and of the phænic | bhagavata purana, s , . cians, ; original seat of phænicians, bilma, . ; the garden of eden, ; the col bind madhn, temple opies of, ; the inventions derived black caribbees, . from, ; reconstrncted, ; inter- black celis, . diction of swine-flesh in, ; practice black indians of california, . of circumcision in, ; its religion, black sea, . ; its destruction, . bochica, . alas, oldesi son of poseidon, ; - boeckh, , . premeruler of atlantis, , , ; ori | brahma, , . of name, : mountains of, , brahmadikas, the, . ; he lived in the hesperides, , . brasseur de bourbourg, , , ; his all-tona-ti- h, . description of indians, ; he discoy. at-otarho, . ers landa's ms. in madrid library, , atrens, mycena, treasure house at, . . attika, , . brazil, fauna of, . at-tit, . bretode, the, . augurs, , . bricks, ise of, ou both continents, . anstralia archipelago, . bride-cake, . autochthon, son of poseidon, , , brigantia, . , . british islands, formerly enbmerged, . ayar, . britons, a civilized race, ; aucient, aymaras, . horror of hares, , azaes, son of poseidon, . bronze age, its origin, ; flood occurred ocks of. : the islands during, ; in europe, ; a perplex- of, are surviving fragments of atlan ing problem, : preceded by an age tis, ; earthquakes in, ; revealed of copper and tin, ; was imported by deep-sea soudings, ; covered into europe, , ; not attributable with volcanic debris, , ; climale to romans, ; dor phoenicians, ; of, . represents new people, ; in iceland. azum, , , , . ; came from common centre, ; aztecs, the, were from aztlan, : their in olympus, . civilization, ; their religion, ; bronze celte, , ; one with inscrip- their customs, . tion, . index. couvade, the, . earth, ; fubmergences of, , . cow-headed idols, . eastern origin of american races, , coxcox, the mexica noah, . , . cremation practised on both continents, egypt, its mythology from atlantis, ; . was the oldest colony of atlantis, critias, , . founded by athene, ; no flood le- cro-magnon, the man of, . gends in, ; vast antiquity of, : cromlechs of africa and europe, . people came from atlantis, ; given cross, the, , : st. george's, ; st. by chronos to taunt, ; the purile andrew's, , ; maltese, , ; mids of, ; colonized by atlantis, greek, ; latin, ; of the nile, $: burial rites of, ; treat antig- , ; of central america, ; a uity of, ; vast monuments of, ; symbol of the garden of eden, ; the laws of ancient, ; their arts, . "key of the nile," ; of nineveh, egyptian cross, ; cross-cake, . ; of britain, ; of india, ; of egyptian plants found in lake dwellings china, ; of scandinavia, . of switzerland, . cross-cake of egyptiaus, . egyptian priests gave solon traditions crow indians, the, . of atlantis, . crux-ansata, the, . egyptiaus, circumnavigation of africa, Çüdüg, . ; cycles, ; red men, ; their ear- culebres, the, . ly religion monotheism, ; aristo- culhuacan, , . cratic classes had receding foreheads, cukulcan, . . cusbites, red men, . el, , . customs, similarities of, in europe and elasippus, son of poseidon, . america, . elephauts, in atlantis, ; in america, cycles of sixiy years, . ; elephant mound, wisconsin, ; cyclops, . elephant pipe, iowa, ; elephant hel. met, ; mexican representation of d. elephant, ; elephant truuks, . dagon, , . eleusivian mysteries, the, . dakota legends of atlantis, . eloah, . dances: the bodo dance, : the elohim, . "mummers,'' ; dog dauces, ; elysian fields, , , . dyonisiac dances, . elysion, , dites' pipes in ireland, . embalming the dead, , . dark-whites, the, . england, rock carvings in, . darwin, charles, submarine phenomena, engraving, ihe art of, very ancient, . ; origin of our domestic animals, ; epilepsy, . of onr domestic plants, . erichthonis, . deformation of skull, s. erythea, . deluge, herdsmen and shepherds only erythraean sea, . survive in the, s: there were several ethiopians, ; were red men, . deluges, ; the bible record, ; de etruscans not the authors of the bronze fcribes destruction of atlantis, , . age of europe, , : they proba- deluge letrends relate to destruction of bly possessed the mariner's compass, atlantis, , ; tradition universal, ; , of the chaldeans, ; of america, , enmelns, . demeter, , eveemon, son of poseidon, . deucalion, douge of, , , , . eve, in toltec legende, . deva nathisha, , . evenor, . dinprepes, son of poseidon, . exorcism of demons, . diodorus siculiis describes atlantis, . dionysus, , , , . f. dolphin, u.s. ship, . dolphin's ridge, , , s. fairies of america and europe, . dominica, earthquake in, . fauna of europe and america com- donnelly, miss eleanor c., poem of, . pared, t. dropidas, , . fayal, . druids, their books, . fezzan, . dryfach, . fir-bolus, the, . dwyfan, . fire, sacred, of mexicans, ; of asia minor, ; of india, - ; of sweden, ; of romans, , ; of peru, . e: . chaldean god of the fluod, , , flat-head indians, . . | flood of deucalion, . index. ii. g. flood tablet, calendar stone, mexico, | gulf stream, . gulguntius, . flora of europe and america compared, , gurani, . flora of pacific states of america, . fogo), . haadam, . folk-lore, , , hades, . foolahs, the, . ham, what races descended from, . formorians, the, s. hure, superstitious fear of, . frog indians, . harlequin, . haroeri, . havilah, . gadeirus, . hayagriva, ss, . gades, part of empire of atlantis, ; heuris, hanging up of enemies', . why so named, , . hebrew language, similarity to chia- gæn, . penec, . gæthulighe, . hebrews, greater health of, . galley, of bronze age, ; of romans, hecla, . ; of william the congneror, . tektoncheires, ; described, . gama, vasquez de, discovery of the cape hellenes, s. of good hope, . llera, s , . games the sume on both continents, . llerenlaneum and pompeii, once called garden of eden, , ; cross a symbol "the fabulous cities, . of, ; described, , , . ilercules, ; columus of, , , , s; ganus, possessed traditions of atlantis, the stone of, , . ; a civilized race, . hermes trismegistus, . ge, . llerodotus, increased respect for, ; genea, . quotation from, ; burial rites of genesis, ; contains a history of atlan scythians, ; describes the max- tis, ; similarities to american le- yans, ; describes scythian nude gends, ; its great antiquity, . of scalping enemies, , , . genos, . ilesiod, . geological formation of united stat llesperides, the gardens of the, were in ; of europe, . allantis, ; golden apples of, . germans, ancient, a civilized race, . ilesperis, . gettysburg, u. s. ship, explorations by, hiawatha, . . hierapolis, ; chasm of, so. geryon, . hieroglyphics, , , . ghosts, beliefin, on both continents, . him yuritic-arabians, . gihon, the river, , . hindoo legends of deluge, , s , , . glacial period, the, causes of, . ilirim, . gobi, . hivites, . gold sacred in assyria and peru to the iloma, water of life, . $ ), . ilomer, , , , . gold, a sacred metal of atlantis, : a llood, robin, . sacred metal of peruvians, .. horse, race-courses and baths for, in golden age, the, , . atlantis, ; associated with atlantis gomer, . and poseidon, ; originated in north gömüshtepe, . america, ; domesticated in very goths, ancient writings of, ; their ancient times, . mythology, , . , , ; the writings of, . graham's island, . it -hu-nap-hu, . grave-cists, . hunaphu, , . gray, professor asa, on florn of the pa- hunbatz, . citic coast, . ilumcan, . greeks, no history of antiquity, ; their hue hue tlapalan, , - . legends of the deluge, ; their divin- ilumboldt, , , , , , . iries the rulers of atlantis, . huns, the aucient, flattened the skull, gunpowder, its antiquity, ; known ! . to ancient chinese, to the phæni. hurakan, a central american god, . cians, ; to hindoos, ; tu moses, hurricane, origin of word, . ; to atlantis, . hydrophoria, greek ceremony having gulbaani, inhabitants of, . reference to deluye, . guanches, , , , . ilyksos, the, . guatemala, . hyperboreans, people from atlantis vis- gucumutz, . ited the, . index. p. atlantis, : probabilities of his history of atlantis, , , . painting, antiqnity of the art of, . plough festivals of peru and egypt, , palenque, negroid figure from, , : . pau adored in europe and america, plutarch, opinion of herodotus, ; men- . tions islands in atlantic, . panthenea, . pluto, , , . panuco, city of, . poisoned arrows, . paper, antiquity of, ; of egypt, ; pompeii and herculaneum once called of mexico, ; of perni, . " the fabulous cities," ; their discov. parian gulf, indians of, . ery, . partholan, . popul vrh, ; deluge legend of, ; passage, west, from atlantis to ameri ii describes atlanus, , . ca, . port royal, earthquake at, . peisdadien, the, kings, . porto praya, . penance, . poseidon, receives atlantis as his share penn, william, letter oſ, describing in of the world, ; marrics (leito, ; dians, . builds a city, ; his temple, ; his perirrhoos, . chariot, , : his grove, ; ancient persian gulf, , . worship of, in europe, ; called nep- persian magi, flood leveud, . tume, ; associated with the horse, pern, description of temple of cuzco, ; horses sacriticed to, ; his trident, ; ruled over by atlantis, ; great , , , , ; described, , public roads of, ; aqueducts, ; , , . posts, ; mile-stones, . potato known to ancient chinese, go, peruvians, ancient, their color, ; col | pottery of bronze age and mounds of onized from atlantis, ; their civ. united states compared, : of cola ilization, ; ils antiquity, ; their orado, ; of zunis, ; switzerland great monuments, ; their pyri and mexico, . mids, ; roads, ; customs, ; poulle-i-feron (hell-holc), . language, . priapus worship, . petecall, . priesthood, in mexico, ; celibacy of, petris, the ten, . . phracians, the, . proclus, his allusion to atlantis, . phaëton, s; the myth of, found in protogonos, . america, . ptah-hotep, , . phallus worship, . ptolemy's list of ancient cities, . pharaoh nechý, circumnavigation of public roads of peru, . africa, . pyramid, the, , ; a transcript of pheryllt, books of, . the holy mountain, : arabian tra- philemon, , ditions as to, ; of india, , ; phison, . of mexico, , ; of eyypt, , . phænicians, their gods derived from pyrrha, . atlantis, ; leiters. ; red men, : origin of their alphabet, : not the anthors of the bronze age of europe, qen, . , ; their mythology from atliuiqenath, . tis, ; they came from the erythraean quetzalcoatl, . sea, ; from atlantis, , humani quiches, , ; their gods, ; their sacritices among, ; extent of their legends of the creation, . commerce, ; association with bible quichuas, the, . records, quinames, the giants, . phoroneus, . quipu, the, . phos, phur, and phlox, . pico, . pimis, flood legends of, . ra, s . pimerital, señor, . races, the four, known to the egyptians, pineapple known to ancient assyrians, ; to the aryans, . . rainbow, the, ; sign of promise tc pipes, tobacco, prehistoric in ireland, peruviane, . : indian. ; african, . rama, . phlebotomy in america, . rana, . plants, aucicut, domesticated in europe rauda kamba, . and america, ; origin of, . rayam, . platicnemism of ancient races, . raymi, . plato, his story true, ; bis history of raz, cape, , . r. index. s. renping-machine, on wheels, of the au- | shedd-ad-ben-ad, . cient gauls, . sheep, ancient, domestication of, . red men, ancient egyptians, . shem, the oldest son of noah, ; what red a sacred color, ; cushites and races descended from, , . ethiopians red men, . sicanes, aun iberian colouy, . religion of aucient races, ; the great sicily, formerly submerged, . religions derived from red men, ; sidon, . the essence of is conservatism, . silenas describes altantis, , . republicau form of goverument, origiu silk, antiquity of manufacture of, ; of, . kuown to ancient hindoos, ; to an- rerzins, anders, professor, . cient chinese, ; to phæniciaus, . rhea, . silsbury hill, england, . round-towers, of ireland, : of india, silver age, the, . ; of surdinia, ; of the shetlans, silver, a sacred metal of atlantis, ; : of new mexico and colorado, + . sacred in assyria to the moon, . ria, . similarities of customs, ; of languages ru-ad, . of mandans and welsh, ; dakota and european tongues, . sabxans, the, . sindree, submergence of, . sabinu worship, . sippara, city of the sw), ; antedilu- sailin.r-vessels kuown in ancient amer vian records buried there, . ica, . sirens, the greek, s. st. brendan, of ireland, visits america, sithnides, . . skull, artificial deformation of, ; found st. helena, . in europe, asia, and america, ; still st. paul's rocks, . practised in normaudy, ; aucient sahara, sands of desert of, . sviss skull, : peruvian, ; chape sais, city and district of, in egypt, ; of in different races, : boring holes priests of told sulon of atlantis, , ; in by ancient vations, . description of, . slieve-donart, . sakkarah, . solon wrote an account of atlantis, ; samné, . be visited egypt, ; verscs by, ; his samson, . | poems recited, ; his reception at sais, sanchoniathon, , , , , , , . soma, . sanscrit maps of westeru europe, . surcerers who produce fair and foul santorin, gulf of, . weather, is. surki, the, . spiral, the double, peculiar to bronze satar, a gothic god, . aye, . saturo, . stone age in america and europe, . saturnalia, the roman, , . stone are of europe, animals of, ; its saturnia, . two divisions, . siturnian continent, the, . stone-beer, . satyravata, s. strabo, , . satyrs, . submergences of the earth, , . savonarola, . suchiquecal, . scalping practised in europe and amer- sumbawa, convulsions in, . ica, . sun-worship, ; peru, ; egypt, ; scandinavia, mythology of, , . babylonia, ; phænicia, ; at- scandinavian flood legends, . lantis, ; samoyeds, ; american scandinavians, ; aucient, flattened races, . the skull, . sutteeism, . schlegel, frederick, opinion of herodo swine-flesh, use of, . tus, . swiss, ancient, poutery of, ; bronze scholt, dr. arthur, , . implements of, . scots, inicient, used iron swords, . switzerland, fossil beds of, . sculpture, the art of, . sydyk, , . scomalt, . t. scythians, their burial rites, , . seedless plats, ss. tanut, the phænician god who invented semiramis, . the alphabet, . semitic, the, races, ; from atlantis, taautos, . . thi-ko-fokee, . serpent-mounds, . tamahu, the, . serpeut-worship, . tumhu, . seth, the patriarch, . tartars, the, . s. * this book should be returned to the library on or before the last date stamped below. a fine is incurred by retaining it beyond the specified time. please return promptly. pateeled may - ' h . &' hd widener hw rfdk h princess and the goblin bwt !! xmas contents. chap. xx.-irene's clue........... ........ xxi.-the escape............ xxii.—the old lady and curdie........... ...... xxiii.---curdie and his mother........... ............. ....... ............... ............ xxiv.-irene behaves like a princess......... xxv.-curdie comes to grief.............. xxvi.—the goblin-miners.... xxvii.—the goblins in the king's house...... xxviii.—curdie's guide........... xxix.—mason-work................. xxx.—the king and the kiss.............. xxxi.—the subterranean waters....... ............. xx -mason-work...... . . . . . ............. ........... ........... xxxii.-the last chapter............ the princess and the goblin. why the princess has a story about her. there was once a little princess who— “but, mr. author, why do you always write about princesses ??? “because every little girl is a princess.” “you will make them vain if you tell them that." “not if they understand what i mean." “then what do you mean ?" “what do you mean by a princess ?”' “the daughter of a king.” “very well; then every little girl is a princess, and there would be no need to say anything about it, except that she is always in danger of forgetting her rank, and behav- ing as if she had grown out of the mud. i have seen little princesses behave like the children of thieves and lying beggars, and that is why they need to be told they are princesses. and that is why, when i tell a story of this kind, i like to tell it about a princess. then i can say better what i mean, because i can then give her every beautiful thing i want her to have." “please go on." * the princess and the goblin. there was once a little princess whose father was king over a great country full of mountains and valleys. his palace was built upon one of the mountains, and was very grand and beautiful. the princess, whose name was irene, was born there, but she was sent soon after her birth, because her mother was not very strong, to be brought up by country people in a large house, half castle, half farm-house, on the side of another mountain, about halfway between its base and its peak. the princess was a sweet little creature, and at the time my story begins was about eight years old, i think, but she got older very fast. her face was fair and pretty, why the princess, etc. with eyes like two bits of night-sky, each with a star dis- solved in the blue. those eyes you would have thought must have known they came from there, so often were they turned up in that direction. the ceiling of her nursery was blue, with stars in it, as like the sky as they could make it. but i doubt if ever she saw the real sky with the stars in it, for a reason which i had better men- tion at once. these mountains were full of hollow places under- neath; huge caverns, and winding ways, some with water running through them, and some shining with all colors of the rainbow when a light was taken in. there would not have been much known about them, had there not been mines there, great deep pits, with long galleries and passages running off from them, which had been dug to get at the ore of which the mountains were full. in the course of digging, the miners came upon many of these natural caverns. a few of them had far-off open- ings out on the side of a mountain, or into a ravine. now in these subterranean caverns lived a strange race of beings, called by some gnomes, by some kobolds, by some goblins. there was a legend current in the country that at one time they lived above ground, and were very like other people. but for some reason or other, con- cerning which there were different legendary theories, the king had laid what they thought too severe taxes upon them, or had required observances of them they did not like, or had begun to treat them with more severity in some way or other, and impose stricter laws; and the con- sequence was that they had all disappeared from the face of the country. according to the legend, however, instead of going to some other country, they had all taken refuge in the subterranean caverns, whence they the princess and the goblin. never came out but at night, and then seldom showed themselves in any numbers, and never to many.people at once. it was only in the least frequented and most diffi- cult parts of the mountains that they were said to gather even at night in the open air. those who had caught sight of any of them said that they had greatly altered in avi the course of generations; and no wonder, seeing they lived away from the sun, in cold and wet and dark places. they were now, not ordinarily ugly, but either absolutely hideous, or ludicrously grotesque both in face and form. there was no invention, they said, of the most lawless imagination expressed by pen or pencil, why the princess, etc. that could surpass the extravagance of their appearance. and as they grew mis-shapen in body, they had grown in knowledge and cleverness, and now were able to do things no mortal could see the possibility of. but as they grew in cunning, they grew in mischief, and their great delight was in every way they could think of to annoy the people who lived in the open-air-story above them. they had enough of affection left for each other, to pre- serve them from being absolutely cruel for cruelty's sake to those that came in their way ; but still they so heartily cherished the ancestral grudge against those who occupied their former possession, and especially against the de- scendants of the king who had caused their expulsion, that they sought every opportunity of tormenting them in ways that were as odd as their inventors; and although dwarfed and mis-shapen, they had strength equal to their cunning. in the process of time they had got a king, and a government of their own, whose chief business, beyond their own simple affairs, was to devise trouble for their neighbors. it will now be pretty evident why the little princess had never seen the sky at night. they were much too afraid of the goblins to let her out of the house then, even in company with ever so many attend- ants; and they had good reason, as we shall see by-and- by. a * the princess and the goblin. . ii. the princess loses herself. i have said the princess irene was about eight years old when my story begins. and this is how it begins. one very wet day, when the mountain was covered with mist which was constantly gathering itself together into rain-drops, and pouring down on the roofs of the great old house, whence it fell in a fringe of water from the eaves all round about it, the princess could not of course go out. she got very tired, so tired that even her toys could no longer amuse her. you would wonder at that if i had time to describe to you one half of the toys she had. but then you wouldn't have the toys them , selves, and that makes all the difference: you can't get tired of a thing before you have it. it was a picture, though, worth seeing—the princess sitting in the nursery with the sky-ceiling over her head, at a great table covered with her toys. if the artist would like to draw this, i should advise him not to meddle with the toys. i am afraid of attempting to describe them, and i think he had better not try to draw them. he had better not. he can do a thousand things i can't, but i don't think he could draw those toys. no man could better make the princess herself than he could, though-leaning with her back bowed into the back of the chair, her head hanging down, and her hands in her lap, very miserable as she would say herself, not even knowing what she would like, except it were to go out and get thoroughly wet, and catch a particularly nice cold, and have to go the princess loses herself. ii to bed and take gruel. the next moment after you see her sitting there, her nurse goes out of the room. even that is a change, and the princess wakes up a little, and looks about her. then she tumbles off her chair, and runs out of the door, not the same door the nurse went out of, but one which opened at the foot of a sa satinin d ufhehr- curious old stair of worm-eaten oak, which looked as if never any one had set foot upon it. she had once before been up six steps, and that was sufficient reason, in such a day, for trying to find out what was at the top of it. up and up she ran—such a long way it seemed to her ! until she came to the top of the third flight. there she the princess and the goblin. found the landing was the end of a long passage. into this she ran. it was full of doors on each side. there were so many that she did not care to open any, but ran on to the end, where she turned into another passage, also full of doors. when she had turned twice more, and still saw doors and only doors about her, she began to get frightened. it was so silent! and all those doors must hide rooms with nobody in them! that was dreadful. also the rain made a great trampling noise on the roof. she turned and started at full speed, her little footsteps cchoing through the sounds of the rain- back for the stairs and her safe nursery. so she thought, but she had lost herself long ago. it doesn't follow that she was lost, because she had lost herself though. she ran for some distance, turned several times, and then began to be afraid. very soon she was sure that she had lost the way back. rooms everywhere, and no stair! her little heart beat as fast as her little feet ran, and a lump of tears was growing in her throat. but she was too eager and perhaps too frightened to cry for some time. at last her hope failed her. nothing, but passages and doors everywhere! she threw herself on the floor, and burst into a wailing cry broken by sobs. she did not cry long, however, for she was as brave as could be expected of a princess of her age. after a good cry, she got up, and brushed the dust from her frock. oh what old dust it was ! then she wiped her eyes with her hands, for princesses don't always have their hand- kerchiefs in their pockets, any more than some other little girls i know of. next, like a true princess, she resolved on going wisely to work to find her way back : she would walk through the passages, and look in every direction for the stair. this she did, but without success. the princess and-who? she went over the same ground again and again without knowing it, for the passages and doors were all alike. at last, in a corner, through a half-open door, she did see a stair. but alas ! it went the wrong way: instead of going down, it went up. frightened as she was, how- ever, she could not help wishing to see where yet further the stair could lead. it was very narrow, and so steep that she went up like a four-legged creature on her hands and feet. ΙΙΙ. the princess and—we shall see who. w h en she came to the top, she found herself in a vv little square place, with three doors, two opposite each other, and one opposite the top of the stair. she stood for a moment, without an idea in her little head what to do next. but as she stood, she began to hear a curious humming sound. could it be the rain ? no. it was much more gentle, and even monotonous than the sound of the rain, which now she scarcely heard. the low sweet humming sound went on, sometimes stopping for a little while and then beginning again. it was more like the hum of a very happy bee that had found a rich well of honey in some globular flower, than anything else i can think of at this moment. where could it come from? she laid her ear first to one of the doors to hearken if it was there—then to another. when she laid her ear against the third door, there could be no doubt where it came from : it must be from something in that room. what could it be? she was rather the princess and the goblin. afraid, but her curiosity was stronger than her fear, and she opened the door very gently and peeped in. what do you think she saw ? a very old lady who sat spin- ning. “oh, mr. editor! i know the story you are going to tell : it's the sleeping beauty; only you're spinning too, and making it longer." ilmu pl “no, indeed, it is not that story. why should i tell one that every properly educated child knows already ? more old ladies than one have sat spinning in a garret. besides, the old lady in that story was only spinning with a spindle, and this one was spinning with a spinning-wheel, the princess and—who? else how could the princess have heard the sweet noise through the door? do you know the difference? did you ever see a spindle or a spinning-wheel? i daresay you never did. well, ask your mamma to explain to you the difference. between ourselves, however, i shouldn't wonder if she didn't know much better than you. another thing is, that this is not a fairy story; but a goblin story. and one thing more, this old lady spinning was not an old nurse-but-you shall see who. i think i have now made it quite plain that this is not that lovely story of the sleeping beauty. it is quite a new one, i assure you, and i will try to tell it as prettily as i can." perhaps you will wonder how the princess could tell that the old lady was an old lady, when i inform you that not only was she beautiful, but her skin was smooth and white. i will tell you more. her hair was combed back from her forehead and face, and hung loose far down and all over her back. that is not much like an old lady—is it? ah! but it was white almost as snow. and although her face was so smooth, her eyes looked so wise that you could not have helped seeing she must be old. the princess, though she could not have told you why, did think her very old indeed-quite fifty-she said to herself. but she was rather older than that, as you shall hear. while the princess stared bewildered, with her head just inside the door, the old lady lifted hers, and said, in a sweet, but old and rather shaky voice, which mingled very pleasantly with the continued hum of her wheel : “come in, my dear; come in. i am glad to see you." that the princess was a real princess, you might see now quite plainly; for she didn't hang on to the handle of the door, and stare without moving, as i have known the princess and the goblin. some do who ought to have been princesses, but were only rather vulgar little girls. she did as she was told, stepped inside the door at once, and shut it gently behind her. “ come to me, my dear,” said the old lady. and again the princess did as she was told. she ap- proached the old lady-rather slowly, i confess, but did not stop until she stood by her side, and looked up in her face with her blue eyes and the two melted stars in them. “why, what have you been doing with your eyes, child ?”' asked the old lady. “ crying," answered the princess. why, child ?” “ because i couldn't find my way down again." “but you could find your way up.”. “not at first-not for a long time." “but your face is streaked like the back of a zebra. hadn't you a handkerchief to wipe your eyes with ?" "no." " then why didn't you come to me to wipe them for you?" “please i didn't know you were here. i will next time." “there's a good child !” said the old lady. then she stopped her wheel, and rose, and, going out of the room, returned with a little silver basin and a soft white towel, with which she washed and wiped the bright little face. and the princess thought her hands were so smooth and nice ! when she carried away the basin and towel, the little princess wondered to see how straight and tall she was, for, although she was so old, she didn't stoop a bit. she was dressed in black velvet with thick white heavy- the princess and-who? looking lace about it; and on the black dress her hair shone like silver. there was hardly any more furni- ture in the room than there might have been in that of the poorest old woman who made her bread by her spinning. there was no carpet on the floor-no table anywhere-nothing but the spinning-wheel and the chair beside it. when she came back, she sat down again, and without a word began her spinning once more, while irene, who had never seen a spinning-wheel, stood by her side and looked on. when the old lady had got her thread fairly going again, she said to the princess, but without looking at her : “do you know my name, child ?” “no, i don't know it," answered the princess. “my name is irene." “that's my name !" cried the princess. “i know that. i let you have mine. i haven't got your name. you've got mine." “how can that be?'' asked the princess, bewildered. “ i've always had my name.” “your papa, the king, asked me if i had any objec- tion to your having it; and of course i hadn't. i let you have it with pleasure." “ it was very kind of you to give me your name—and such a pretty one,' said the princess. “oh, not so very kind !” said the old lady. “a name is one of those things one can give away and keep all the same. i have a good many such things. wouldn't you like to know who i am, child ?". “yes, that i should—very much.” “i'm your great-great-grandmother,” said the lady. “what's that ?'' asked the princess. “i'm your father's mother's father's mother." * the princess and the goblin. "oh dear! i can't understand that,” said the princess. “i daresay not. i didn't expect you would. but that's no reason why i shouldn't say it." “oh no!" answered the princess. “i will explain it all to you when you are older," the lady went on. “but you will be able to understand this much now : i came here to take care of you." “is it long since you came? was it yesterday? or was it to-day, because it was so wet that i couldn't get out?' “i've been here ever since you came yourself.” “what a long time !” said the princess. “i don't remember it at all." “no. i suppose not.” “but i never saw you before.” “no. but you shall see me again.” “do you live in this room always ?'' “i don't sleep in it. i sleep on the opposite side of the landing. i sit here most of the day." “i shouldn't like it. my nursery is much prettier. you must be a queen too, if you are my great big grand- mother." “yes, i am a queen.” ...where is your crown then?" “in my bedroom.” “i should like to see it." “you shall some day—not to-day.” “i wonder why nursie never told me.” “nursie doesn't know. she never saw me." “but somebody knows that you are in the house?” “ no; nobody." “how do you get your dinner then ?!! “i keep poultry—of a sort.” the princess and-who? “where do you keep them ?” “i will show you.” “and who makes the chicken broth for you?”. “i never kill any of my chickens.” "then i can't understand.”. “what did you have for breakfast this morning ?” “oh! i had bread and milk, and an egg.-i daresay you eat their eggs.” “yes, that's it. i eat their eggs." “is that what makes your hair so white ?" “no, my dear. it's old age. i am very old.” “i thought so. are you fifty ?!! “ yes—more than that.” “ are you a hundred ?” “ yes—more than that. i am too old for you to guess. come and see my chickens." again she stopped her spinning. she rose, took the princess by the hand, led her out of the room, and opened the door opposite the stair. the princess ex- pected to see a lot of hens and chickens, but instead of that, she saw the blue sky first, and then the roofs of the house, with a multitude of the loveliest pigeons, mostly white, but of all colors, walking about, making bows to each other, and talking a language she could not understand. she clapped her hands with delight, and up rose such a flapping of wings, that she in her turc was startled. “you've frightened my poultry," said the old lady, smiling. "and they've frightened me,” said the princess, smiling too. “but what very nice poultry! are the eggs nice?" “yes, very nice." the princess and the goblin. “what a small egg-spoon you must have ! wouldn't it be better to keep hens, and get bigger eggs?" “how should i feed them, though ?” “i see," said the princess. “the pigeons feed them- selves. they've got wings.”. “just so. if they couldn't fly, i couldn't eat their eggs." “but how do you get at the eggs? where are their nests ?'' the lady took hold of a little loop of string in the wall at the side of the door, and lifting a shutter, showed a great many pigeon-holes with nests, some with young ones and some with eggs in them. the birds came in at the other side, and she took out the eggs on this side. she closed it again quickly, lest the young ones should be frightened. “oh what a nice way!" cried the princess. “will you give me an egg to eat, i'm rather hungry?” “i will some day, but now you must go back, or nursie will be miserable about you. i daresay she's looking for you everywhere." “except here," answered the princess. “oh how surprised she will be when i tell her about my great big grand-grandmother !” “yes, that she will !" said the old lady with a curious smile. “mind you tell her all about it exactly." " that i will. please will you take me back to her ?'' “i can't go all the way, but i will take you to the top of the stair, and then you must run down quite fast into your own room." the little princess put her hand in the old lady's, who, looking this way and that, brought her to the top of the what the nurse thought of it. first stair, and thence to the bottom of the second, and did not leave her till she saw her half way down the third. when she heard the cry of her nurse's pleasure at finding her, she turned and walked up the stairs again, very fast indeed for such a very great grandmother, and sat down to her spinning with another strange smile on her sweet old face. about this spinning of hers i will tell you more next time. guess what she was spinning. iv. what the nurse thought of it. w h y, where can you have been, princess ?”' asked vv the nurse, taking her in her arms. “it's very unkind of you to hide away so long. i began to be afraid," here she checked herself. “what were you afraid of, nursie ?'' asked the prin- cess. “never mind," she answered. “perhaps i will tell you another day. now tell me where you have been ?" “ i've been up a long way to see my very great, huge, old grandmother,” said the princess. “what do you mean by that?'' asked the nurse, who thought she was making fun. “i mean that i've been a long way up and up to see my great grandmother. ah, nursie, you don't know what a beautiful mother of grandmothers i've got up- stairs. she is such an old lady! with such lovely white the princess and the goblin. hair !—as white as my silver cup. now, when i think of it, i think her hair must be silver." “what nonsense you are talking, princess !" said the nurse. “ i'm not talking nonsense,” returned irene, rather offended. “i will tell you all about her. she's much taller than you, and much prettier.” “oh, i daresay !” remarked the nurse. “and she lives upon pigeons' eggs." “most likely,” said the nurse. “and she sits in an empty room, spin-spinning all day long." “not a doubt of it,” said the nurse. “ and she keeps her crown in her bedroom.” “of course-quite the proper place to keep her crown in. she wears it in bed, i'll be bound.” "she didn't say that. and i don't think she does. that wouldn't be comfortable — would it? i don't think my papa wears his crown for a night-cap. does he, nursie?". “i never asked him. i daresay he does." " and she's been there ever since i came here—ever so many years." “anybody could have told you that,” said the nurse, who did not believe a word irene was saying. “why didn't you tell me then ?”. “there was no necessity. you could make it all up for yourself.” “ you don't believe me then !” exclaimed the princess, astonished and angry, as well she might be. “did you expect me to believe you, princess ?” asked the nurse coldly. “i know princesses are in the habit of telling make-believes, but you are the first i ever heard what the nurse thought of it. of who expected to have them believed," she added, see- ing that the child was strangely in earnest. the princess burst into tears. “well, i must say,” remarked the nurse, now thor- oughly vexed with her for crying, “it is not at all be- coming in a princess to tell stories and expect to be believed just because she is a princess." “but it's quite true, i tell you, nursie.” “you've dreamt it, then, child." “no, i didn't dream it. i went up-stairs, and i lost myself, and if i hadn't found the beautiful lady, i should never have found myself.” “oh, i daresay!” “well, you just come up with me, and see if i'm not telling the truth." “ indeed i have other work to do. it's your dinner- time, and i won't have any more such nonsense.” the princess wiped her eyes, and her face grew so hot that they were soon quite dry. she sat down to her din- ner, but ate next to nothing. not to be believed does not at all agree with princesses; for a real princess cannot tell a lie. so all the afternoon she did not speak a word. only when the nurse spoke to her, she answered her, for a real princess is never rude—even when she does well to be offended. of course the nurse was not comfortable in her mind- not that she suspected the least truth in irene's story, but that she loved her dearly, and was vexed with herself for having been cross to her. she thought her crossness was the cause of the princess' unhappiness, and had no idea that she was really and deeply hurt at not being believed. but, as it became more and more plain during the even- ing in every motion and look, that, although she tried to . the princess and the goblin. amuse herself with her toys, her heart was too vexed and troubled to enjoy them, her nurse's discomfort grew and grew. when bedtime came, she undressed and laid her down, but the child, instead of holding up her little mouth to be kissed, turned away from her and lay still. then nursie's heart gave away altogether, and she began to cry. at the sound of her first sob, the princess turned again, and held her face to kiss her as usual. but the nurse had her handkerchief to her eyes, and did not see the movement. “nursie," said the princess, “why won't you believe me?' “because i can't believe you,” said the nurse, getting angry again. “ah! then you can't help it,” said irene, “and i will not be vexed with you any more. i will give you a kiss and go to sleep." “you little angel !" cried the nurse, and caught her out of bed, and walked about the room with her in her arms, kissing and hugging her. “you will let me take you to see my dear old great big grandmother? won't you?”' said the princess, as she laid her down again. “and you won't say i'm ugly, any more—will you, princess ??? “nursie! i never said you were ugly. what can you mean? “well, if you didn't say it, you meant it." “ indeed, i never did.” “you said i wasn't so pretty as that," “as my beautiful grandmother-yes, i did say that; and i say it again, for it's quite true.” what the nurse thought of it. “then i do think you are unkind !" said the nurse, and put her handkerchief to her eyes again. “nursie, dear, everybody can't be as beautiful as every other body, you know. you are very nice-look- ing, but if you had been as beautiful as my grand- mother—" “bother your grandmother !" said the nurse. “ nurse, that's very rude. you are not fit to be spoken to-till you can behave better." the princess turned away once more, and again the nurse was ashamed of herself. “ i'm sure i beg your pardon, princess,” she said, though still in an offended tone. but the princess let the tone pass, and heeded only the words. “you won't say it again, i am sure," she answered, once more turning toward her nurse. i was only going to say that if you had been twice as nice-looking as you are, some king or other would have married you, and then what would have become of me?" “ you are an angel !" repeated the nurse, again em- bracing her. “now,” insisted irene, “ you will come and see my grandmother-won't you ?”. “i will go with you anywhere you like, my cherub," she answered; and in two minutes the weary little princess was fast asleep. the princess lets well alone. “oh, no, no!" returned irene, suddenly reflecting they might disturb the old lady in getting it, and that even if they did not, she would have one less in con- sequence. “what a strange creature you are," said the nurse- “first to want a thing and then to refuse it !" but she did not say it crossly, and the princess never minded any remarks that were not unfriendly. “well, you see, lootie, there are reasons,” she re- turned, and said no more, for she did not want to bring up the subject of their former strife, lest her nurse should offer to go before she had had her grandmother's per- mission to bring her. of course she could refuse to take her, but then she would believe her less than ever. now the nurse, as she said herself afterward, could not be every moment in the room, and as never before yesterday had the princess given her the smallest reason for anxiety, it had not yet come into her head to watch her more closely. so she soon gave her a chance, and, the very first that offered, irene was off and up the stairs again. this day's adventure, however, did not turn out like yesterday's, although it began like it; and indeed to-day is very seldom like yesterday, if people would note the differences—even when it rains. the princess ran through passage after passage, and could not find the stair of the tower. my own suspicion is that she had not gone up high enough, and was searching on the second instead of the third floor. when she turned to go back, she failed equally in her search after the stair. she was lost once more. something made it even worse to bear this time, and it was no wonder that she cried again. suddenly it the princess and the goblin. occurred to her that it was after having cried before that she had found her grandmother's stair. she got up at once, wiped her eyes, and started upon a fresh quest. this time, although she did not find what she hoped, she found what was next best : she did not come on a stair that went up, but she came upon one that went rinti down. it was evidently not the stair she had come up, yet it was a good deal better than none; so down she went, and was singing merrily before she reached the bottom. there, to her surprise, she found herself in the kitchen. although she was not allowed to go there alone, her nurse had often taken her, and she was a the little miner. great favorite with the servants. so there was a general rush at her the moment she appeared, for every one wanted to have her; and the report of where she was soon reached the nurse's ears. she came at once to fetch her; but she never suspected how she had got there, and the princess kept her own counsel. her failure to find the old lady not only disappointed her, but made her very thoughtful. sometimes she came almost to the nurse's opinion that she had dreamed all about her ; but that fancy never lasted very long. she wondered much whether she should ever see her again, and thought it very sad not to have been able to find her when she particularly wanted her. she resolved to say nothing more to her nurse on the subject, seeing it was so little in her power to prove her words. vi. the little miner. the next day the great cloud still hung over the mountain, and the rain poured like water from a full sponge. the princess was very fond of being out of doors, and she nearly cried when she saw that the weather was no better. but the mist was not of such a dark dingy gray; there was light in it; and as the hours went on, it grew brighter and brighter, until it was almost too brilliant to look at; and late in the afternoon, the sun broke out so gloriously that irene clapped her hands, crying, “see, see, lootie ! the sun has had his face washed. * the princess and the goblin. look how bright he is! do get my hat, and let us go out for a walk. oh dear! oh dear! how happy i am !'' lootie was very glad to please the princess. she got her hat and cloak, and they set out together for a walk up the mountain ; for the road was so hard and steep that the water could not rest upon it, and it was always dry enough for walking a few minutes after the rain ceased. the clouds were rolling away in broken pieces, like great, overwoolly sheep, whose wool the sun had bleached till it was almost too white for the eyes to bear. between them the sky shone with a deeper and purer blue, because of the rain. the trees on the road-side were hung all over with drops, which sparkled in the sun like jewels. the only things that were no brighter for the rain, were the brooks that ran clown the mountain ; they had changed from the clearness of crystal to a muddy brown; but what they lost in color they gained in sound-or at least in noise, for a brook when it is swollen is not so musical as before. but irene was in raptures with the great brown streams tumbling down everywhere; and lootie shared in her delight, for she too had been confined to the house for three days. at length she observed that the sun was getting low, and said it was time to be going back. she made the remark again and again, but, every time, the princess begged her to go on just a little farther and a little farther; reminding her that it was much easier to go down hill, and saying that when they did turn, they would be at home in a moment. so on and on they did go, now to look at a group of ferns over whose tops a stream was pouring in a watery arch, now to pick a shining stone from a rock by the wayside, now to watch the flight of some bird. sudden- ly the shadow of a great mountain peak came up from the little miner. behind, and shot in front of them. when the nurse saw it, she started and shook, and catching hold of the princess' hand turned and began to run down the hill. “what's all the haste, nursie ?” asked irene, running alongside of her. “we must not be out a moment longer." “but we can't help being out a good many moments longer." it was too true. the nurse almost cried. they were much too far from home. it was against express orders to be out with the princess one moment after the sun was down; and they were nearly a mile up the mountain! if his majesty, irene's papa, were to hear of it, lootie would certainly be dismissed ; and to leave the princess would break her heart. it was no wonder she ran. but irene was not in the least frightened, not knowing anything to be frightened at. she kept on chattering as well as she could, but it was not easy. “lootie ! lootie ! why do you run so fast ? it shakes my teeth when i talk." " then don't talk," said lootie. but the princess went on talking. she was always saying, “look, look, lootie,” but lootie paid no more heed to anything she said, only ran on. “look, look, lootie ! don't you see that funny man peeping over the rock?” lootie only ran the faster. they had to pass the rock, and when they came nearer, the princess saw it was only a lump of the rock itself that she had taken for a man. “look, look, lootie! there's such a curious crea- ture at the foot of that old tree. look at it, lootie! it's making faces at us, i do think.” the princess and the goblin. lootie gave a stifled cry, and ran faster still so fast, that irene's little legs could not keep up with her, and she fell with a clash. it was a hard down-hill road, and she had been running very fast--so it was no wonder she began to cry. this put the nurse nearly beside herself; but all she could do was to run on, the moment she got the princess on her feet again. a “who's that laughing at me?" said the princess, trying to keep in her sobs, and running too fast for her grazed knees. “nobody, child," said the nurse, almost angrily. but that instant there came a burst of coarse tittering the princess and the goblin. “we've taken the wrong turning somewhere, and i don't know where we are. we are lost, lost !'' the terror she was in had quite bewildered her. it was true enough they had lost the way. they had been running down into a little valley in which there was no house to be seen. now irene did not know what good reason there was for her nurse's terror, for the servants had all strict orders never to mention the goblins to her, but it was very discomposing to see her nurse in such a fright. before, however, she had time to grow thoroughly alarmed like her, she heard the sound of whistling, and that revived her. presently she saw a boy coming up the road from the valley to meet them. he was the whistler; but before they met, his whistling changed to singing. and this is something like what he sang. “ring! dod! bang! go the hammers' clang! hit and turn and bore! whizz and puff and roar! thus we rive the rocks, force the goblin locks. see the shining ore! one, two, three- bright as gold can be ! four, five, six- shovels, mattocks, picks! seven, eight, nine- light your lamp at mine. ten, eleven, twelve- loosely hold the helve. we're the merry miner-boys, make the goblins hold their noise." ..“i wish you would hold your noise," said the nurse the princess and the goblin. “you don't think of me," said the nurse. “yes, i do, lootie. the boy says they won't touch us if we don't run." “yes; but if they know at the house that i've kept you out so late, i shall be turned away, and that would break my heart.” “ turned away, lootie. who would turn you away?'' “your pápa, child.”. “but i'll tell him it was all my fault. and you know it was, lootie." “he won't mind that. i'm sure he won't.” “ then i'll cry, and go down on my knees to him, and beg him not to take away my own dear lootie.” the nurse was comforted at hearing this, and said no more. they went on, walking pretty fast, but taking care not to run a step. “i want to talk to you," said irene to the little miner; “but it's so awkward! i don't know your name." “my name's curdie, little princess." " what a funny name! curdie! what more?" “ curdie peterson. what's your name, please ?" “ irene." “what more ?" “i don't know what more.-what more is my name, lootie ?" “ princesses haven't got more than one name. they don't want it." “oh then, curdie, you must call me just irene, and no more." .“ no, indeed,” said the nurse indignantly." he shall do no such thing." the little miner. “what shall he call me, then, lootie?" “ your royal highness.". “my royal highness! what's that ? no, no, lootie. i won't be called names. i don't like them. you told me once yourself it's only rude children that call narnes; and i'm sure curdie wouldn't be rude.—curdie, my name's irene." “well, irene," said curdie, with a glance at the nurse which showed he enjoyed teasing her, “it's very kind of you to let me call you anything. i like your name very much.” he expected the nurse to interfere again ; but he soon saw that she was too frightened to speak. she was staring at something a few yards before them, in the middle of the path, where it narrowed between rocks so that only one could pass at a time. “it's very much kinder of you to go out of your way to take us home,'' said irene. "i'm not going out of my way yet,” said curdie. “it's on the other side those rocks the path turns off to my father's." “you wouldn't think of leaving us till we're safe home, i'm sure,'' gasped the nurse. “of course not,” said curdie. “you dear, good, kind curdie! i'll give you a kiss when we get home,'' said the princess. the nurse gave her a great pull by the hand she held. but at that instant the something in the middle of the way, which had looked like a great lump of earth brought down by the rain, began to move. one after another it shot out four long things, like two arms and two legs, but it was now too dark to tell what they were. the nurse began to trenible from head to foot. irene clasped ave her a gtmething in the earth brousit the princess and the goblin. curdie's hand yet faster, and curdie began to sing again. “ one, two- hit and hew! three, four- blast and bore ! five, six- there's a fix ! seven, eight- hold it straight. nine, ten- hit again! hurry! scurry ! bother! smother! there's a toad in the road! smash it! squash it! fry it! dry it! you're another! up and off! there's enough !—huuuuuh!" as he uttered the last words, curdie let go his hold vi his companion, and rushed at the thing in the road, as if he would trample it under his feet. it gave a great spring, and ran straight up one of the rocks like a huge spider. curdie turned back laughing, and took irene's hand again. she grasped his very tight, but said nothing till they had passed the rocks. a few yards more and she found herself on a part of the road she knew, and was able to speak again. “do you know, curdie, i don't quite like your song ; it sounds to me rather rude,” she said. “well, perhaps it is," answered curdie. “i never the little miner. thought of that; it's a way we have. we do it because they don't like it." “who don't like it?” “ the cobs, as we call them.” “ don't !" said the nurse. “why not?” said curdie. “i beg you won't. please don't.” “oh, if you ask me that way, of course i won't; though i don't a bit know why. look! there are the lights of your great house down below. you'll be at home in five minutes now." nothing more happened. they reached home in safety. nobody had missed them, or even known they had gone out; and they arrived at the door belonging to their part of the house without any one seeing them. the nurse was rushing in with a hurried and not over gracious good-night to curdie; but the princess pulled her hand from hers, and was just throwing her arms around curdie's neck, when she caught her again and dragged her away. “lootie, lootie, i promised curdie a kiss," cried irene. “a princess mustn't give kisses. it's not at all proper,” said lootie. “but i promised,” said the princess. “there's no occasion ; he's only a miner-boy." “he is a good boy, and a brave boy, and he has been very kind to us. lootie ! lootie! i promised.” “ then you shouldn't have promised.”. “lootie, i promised him a kiss." “your royal highness," said lootie, suddenly grown very respectful, “must come in directly." “nurse, a princess must not break her word,” said irene, drawing herself up and standing stockstill. the princess and the goblin. lootie did not know which the king might count the worst—to let the princess be out after sunset, or to let her kiss a miner-boy. she did not know that, being a gentleman, as many kings have been, he would have counted neither of them the worse. however much he might have disliked his daughter to kiss the miner-boy, sire : he would not have had her break her word for all the goblins in creation. but, as i say, the nurse was not lady enough to understand this, and so she was in a great difficulty, for, if she insisted, some one might hear the princess cry and run to see, and then all would come out. but here curdie came again to the rescue. the mines. “never mind, princess irene," he said. “you mustn't kiss me to-night. but you sha'n't break your word. i will come another time. you may be sure i will." “oh, thank you, curdie !" said the princess, and stopped crying. “good night, irene; good night, lootie,” said cur- die, and turned and was out of sight in a moment. “i should like to see him!” muttered the nurse, as she carried the princess to the nursery. “you will see him," said irene. “you may be sure curdie will keep his word. he's sure to come again.” “i should like to see him !" repeated the nurse, and said no more. she did not want to open a new cause of strife with the princess by saying more plainly what she meant. glad enough that she had succeeded both in getting home unseen, and in keeping the princess from kissing the miner's boy, she resolved to watch her far better in future. her carelessness had already doubled the danger she was in. formerly the goblins were her only fear; now she had to protect her charge from curdie as well. vii. the mines. f urdie went home whistling. he resolved to say nothing about the princess for fear of getting the nurse into trouble, for while he enjoyed teasing her because of her absurdity, he was careful not to do her the princess and the goblin. any harm. he saw no more of the goblins, and was soon fast asleep in his bed. he woke in the middle of the night, and thought he heard curious noises outside. he sat up and listened ; then got up, and, opening the door very quietly, went out. when he peeped round the corner, he saw, under his own window, a group of stumpy creatures, whom he at once recognized by their shape. hardly, however, had he begun his “one, two, three !" when they broke asunder, scurried away, and were out of sight. he re- turned laughing, got into bed again, and was fast asleep in a moment. reflecting a little over the matter in the morning, he came to the conclusion that, as nothing of the kind had ever happened before, they must be annoyed with him for interfering to protect the princess. by the time he was dressed, however, he was thinking of something quite different, for he did not value the enmity of the goblins in the least. as soon as they had had breakfast, he set off with his father for the mine. they entered the hill by a natural opening under a huge rock, where a little stream rushed out. they fol- - lowed its course for a few yards, when the passage took a turn, and sloped steeply into the heart of the hill. with many angles and windings and branchings off, and some- times with steps where it came upon a natural gulf, it led them deep into the hill before they arrived at the place where they were at present digging out the precious ore. this was of various kinds, for the mountain was very rich with the better sorts of metals. with flint and steel, and tinder box, they lighted their lamps, then fixed them on their heads, and were soon hard at work with their tiie mines. pickaxes and shovels and hammers. father and son were at work near each other, but not in the same gang —the passages out of which the ore was dug, they called gangs—for when the lode, or vein of ore, was small, one miner would have to dig away alone in a passage no bigger than gave him just room to work—sometimes in uncomfortable cramped positions. if they stopped for a moment they could hear everywhere around them, some nearer, some farther off, the sounds of their companions burrowing away in all directions in the inside of the great mountain—some boring holes in the rock in order to blow it up with gunpowder, others shoveling the the princess and the goblin. broken ore into baskets to be carried to the mouth of the mine, others hitting away with their pickaxes. some- times, if the miner was in a very lonely part, he would hear only a tap-tapping, no louder than that of a wood- pecker, for the sound would come from a great distance off through the solid mountain rock... the work was hard at best, for it is very warm under- ground; but it was not particularly unpleasant, and some of the miners, when they wanted to earn a little more money for a particular purpose, would stop behind the rest, and work all night. but you could not tell night from day down there, except from feeling tired and sleepy; for no light of the sun ever came into those gloomy re- gions. some who had thus remained behind during the night, although certain there were none of their compan- ions at work, would declare the next morning that they heard, every time they halted for a moment to take breath, a tap-tapping all about them, as if the mountain were then more full of miners than ever it was during the day; and some in consequence would never stay over night, for all knew those were the sounds of the goblins. they worked only at night, for the miners' night was the goblins' day. indeed, the greater number of the miners were afraid of the goblins: for there were strange stories well known amongst them of the treatment some had received whom the goblins had surprised at their work during the night. the more courageous of them, how- ever, amongst them peter peterson and curdie, who in this took after his father, had stayed in the mine all night again and again, and although they had several times encountered a few stray goblins, had never yet failed in driving them away. as i have indicated al- ready, the chief defence against them was verse, for they the miner. hated verse of every kind, and some kinds they could not endure at all. i suspect they could not make any themselves, and that was why they disliked it so much. at all events, those who were most afraid of them were those who could neither make verses themselves, nor remember the verses that other people made for them ; while those who were never afraid were those who could make verses for themselves; for although there were cer- tain old rhymes which were very effectual, yet it was well known that a new rhyme, if of the right sort, was even more distasteful to them, and therefore more effectual in putting them to flight. perhaps my readers may be wondering what the gob- lins could be about, working all night long, seeing they never carried up the ore and sold it; but when i have informed them concerning what curdie learned the very next night, they will be able to understand. for curdie had determined, if his father would per- mit him, to remain there alone this night—and that for two reasons: first, he wanted to get extra wages that he might buy a very warm red petticoat for his mother, who had begun to complain of the cold of the mountain air sooner than usual this autumn; and second, he had just a faint hope of finding out what the goblins were about under his window the night before. when he told his father, he made no objection, for he had great confidence in his boy's courage and resources. “i'm sorry i can't stay with you,'' said peter; “but i want to go and pay the parson a visit this evening, and besides i've had a bit of a headache all day." “i'm sorry for that, father,” said curdie. “oh! it's not much. you'll be sure to take care of yourself, won't you?” the princess and the goblin. . “yes, father; i will. i'll keep a sharp look out, i promise you." curdie was the only one that remained in the mine. about six o'clock the rest went away, every one bidding him good night, and telling him to take care of himself; for he was a great favorite with them all. " don't forget your xhymes,” said one. “no, no," answered curdie. “it's no matter if he does,” said another, “for he'll only have to make a new one." “yes, but he mightn't be able to make it fast enough," said another; " and while it was cooking in his head, they might take a mean advantage and set upon him." “i'll do my best,” said curdie, “i'm not afraid." “we all know that,” they returned, and left him. viii. the goblins. lor some time curdie worked away briskly, throw- t ing all the ore he had disengaged on one side be- hind him, to be ready for carrying out in the morning. he heard a good deal of goblin-tapping, but it all sounded far away in the hill, and he paid it little heed. toward midnight he began to feel rather hungry; so he dropped his pickaxe, got a lump of bread which in the morning he had laid in a damp hole in the rock, sat down on a heap of ore and ate his supper. then he leaned back for five minutes' rest before beginning his work again, and laid his head against the rock. he had the goblins. not kept the position for one minute before he heard something which made him sharpen his ears. it sounded like a voice inside the rock. after a while he heard it again. it was a goblin-voice—there could be no doubt about that—and this time he could make out the words. “hadn't we better be moving ?”' it said. a rougher and deeper voice replied : “ there's no hurry. that wretched little mole won't be through to-night, if he work ever so hard. he's not by any means at the thinnest place.” “but you still think the lode does come through into our house ?”' said the first voice. the princess and the goblin. “yes, but a good bit farther on than he has got to yet. if he had struck a stroke more to the side just here,” said the goblin, tapping the very stone, as it seemed to curdie, against which his head lay, “he would have been through; but he's a couple of yards past it now, and if he follow the lode it will be a week before it leads him in. you see it back there—a long way. still, perhaps, in case of accident, it would be as well to be getting out of this. helfer, you'll take the great chest. that's your business, you know." “yes, dad," said a third voice. “but you must help me to get it on my back. it's awfully heavy, you know." “well, it isn't just a bag of smoke, i admit. but you're as strong as a mountain, helfer." . you say so, dad. i think myself i'm all right. but i could carry ten times as much if it wasn't for my feet.” “ that is your weak point, i confess, my boy." “ ain't it yours too, father ??? "well, to be honest, it is a goblin-weakness. why they come so soft, i declare i haven't an idea." “specially when your head's so hard, you know, father." “yes, my boy. the goblin's glory is his head. to think how the fellows up above there have to put on helmets and things when they go fighting! ha! ha!”. • but why don't we wear shoes like them, father? i should like it-specially when i've got a chest like that on my head.” "well, you see, it's not the fashion. the king never wears shoes." “ the queen does.”' the goblins. “ yes; but that's for distinction. the first queen, you see-i mean the king's first wife-wore shoes of course, because she came from up stairs; and so, when she died, the next queen would not be inferior to her as she called it, and would wear shoes too. it was all pride. she is the hardest in forbidding them to the rest of the women.” “ i'm sure i wouldn't wear them—no, not for—that i wouldn't !'' said the first voice, which was evidently that of the mother of the family. “i can't think why either of them should." “ didn't i tell you the first was from up stairs ?”' said the other. “that was the only silly thing i ever knew his majesty guilty of. why should he marry an outland- ish woman like that—one of our natural enemies too ?" “i suppose he fell in love with her.” “pooh! pooh! he's just as happy now with one of his own people.” “did she die very soon? they didn't tease her to death, did they?". “oh dear no! the king worshiped her very foot- marks." “what made her die, then? didn't the air agree with her ?” “she died when the young prince was born." “ how silly of her! we never do that. it must have been because she wore shoes.” “i don't know that.” “why do they wear slıoes up there?” “ah! now that's a sensible question, and i will answer it. but in order to do so, i must first tell you a secret. i once saw the queen's feet.”' " without her shoes ?” the goblins. “oh yes, you do mean something. you always do mean something." “it's more than you do, then, wife.” " that may be ; but it's not more than i find out, you know." “ha! ha! you're a sharp one. what a mother you've got, helfer !" “yes, father.” “well, i suppose i must tell you. they're all at the palace consulting about it to-night; and as soon as we've got away from this thin place, i'm going there to hear what night they fix upon. i should like to see that * the goblins. was commonly said to be the fact. one of the miners, indeed, who had had more schooling than the rest, was wont to argue that such must have been the primordial condition of humanity, and that education and handi- craft had developed both toes and fingers—with which proposition curdie had once heard his father sarcastically agree, alleging in support of it the probability that babies' gloves were a traditional remnant of the old state of things; while the stockings of all ages, no regard being paid in them to the toes, pointed in the same direc- tion. but what was of importance was the fact con- cerning the softness of the goblin-feet, which he fore- saw might be useful to all miners. what he had to do in the mean time, however, was to discover, if possi- ble, the special evil design the goblins had now in their heads. although he knew all the gangs and all the natural galleries with which they communicated in the mined part of the mountain, he had not the least idea where the palace of the king of the gnomes was; otherwise he would have set out at once on the enterprise of discover- ing what the said design was. he judged, and rightly, that it must lie in a farther part of the mountain, between which and the mine there was as yet no communication. there must be one nearly completed, however; for it could be but a thin partition which now separated them. if only he could get through in time to follow the goblins as they retreated! a few blows would doubtless be suf- ficient—just where his ear now lay; but if he attempted to strike there with his pickaxe, he would only hasten the departure of the family, put them on their guard, and perhaps lose their involuntary guidance. he therefore began to feel the wall with his hands, and soon found the princess. and the goblin. that some of the stones were loose enough to be drawn out with little noise. laying hold of a large one with both his hands, he drew it gently out, and let it down softly. “what was that noise ?'' said the goblin father. curdie blew out his light, lest it should shine through. “ it must be that one miner that stayed behind the rest,” said the mother. “no; he's been gone a good while. i haven't heard. a blow for an hour. besides, it wasn't like that.” “then i suppose it must have been a stone carried down the brook inside." “perhaps. it will have more room by and by." curdie kept quite still. after a little while, hearing nothing but the sounds of their preparations for depart- ure, mingled with an occasional word of direction, and anxious to know whether the removal of the stone had made an opening into the goblins' house, he put in his hand to feel. it went in a good way, and then came in contact with something soft. he had but a moment to feel it over, it was so quickly withdra' in : it was one of the toeless goblin-feet. the owner of it gave a cry of fright. " what's the matter, helfer ?”' asked his mother. “a beast came out of the wall, and licked my foot.” “nonsense! there are no wild beasts in our coun- try,” said his father. “but it was, father. i felt it. “nonsense, i say. will you malign your native realms and reduce them to a level with the country up stairs ? that is swarming with wild beasts of every description." “but i did feel it, father." the princess and the goblin. ix. the hall of the goblin palace. a sound of many soft feet followed, but soon ceased. then curdie flew at the hole like a tiger, and tore and pulled. the sides gave way, and it was soon large enough for him to crawl through. he would not betray himself by rekindling his lamp, but the torches of the retreating company, which he found de- parting in a straight line up a long avenue from the door of their cave, threw back light enough to afford him a glance round the deserted home of the goblins.. to his surprise, he could discover nothing to distinguish it from an ordinary natural cave in the rock, upon many of which he had come with the rest of the miners in the progress of their excavations. the goblins had talked of coming back for the rest of their household gear: he saw nothing that would have made him suspect a family had taken shelter there for a single night. the floor was rough and stony; the walls full of projecting corners; the roof in one place twenty feet high, in an- other endangering his forehead; while on one side a stream, no thicker than a needle, it is true, but still suf- ficient to spread a wide dampness over the wall, flowed down the face of the rock. but the troop in front of him was toiling under heavy burdens. he could dis- tinguish helfer now and then, in the flickering light and shade, with his heavy chest on his bending shoulders ; while the second brother was almost buried in what looked like a great feather-bed. “where do they get the feathers ?” thought curdie; but in a moment the hall of the goblin palace. troop disappeared at a turn of the way, and it was now both safe and necessary for curdie to follow them, lest they should be round the next turning before he saw them again, for so he might lose them altogether. he darted after them like a grayhound. when he reached the corner and looked cautiously round, he saw them again at some distance down another long passage. none of the galleries he saw that night bore signs of the work of man-or of goblin either. stalactites far older than the mines, hung from their roofs; and their floors were rough with boulders and large round stones, showing that there water must have once run. he waited again at бо the princess and the goblin. this corner till they had disappeared round the next, and so followed them a long way through one passage after another. the passages grew more and more lofty, and were more and more covered in the roof with shining stalactites. it was a strange enough procession which he followed. but the strangest part of it was the household animals which crowded amongst the feet of the goblins. it was true they had no wild animals down there—at least they did not know of any; but they had a wonderful number of tame ones. i must, however, reserve any contributions toward the natural history of these for a later position in niy story. at length, turning a corner too abruptly, he had al- most rushed into the middle of the goblin family ; for there they had already set down all their burdens on the floor of a cave considerably larger than that which they had left. they were as yet too breathless to speak, else he would have had warning of their arrest. he started back, however, before any one saw him, and retreating a good way, stood watching till the father should come out to go to the palace. before very long, both he and his son helfer appeared and kept on in the same direction as before, while curdie followed them again with renewed precaution. for a long time he heard no sound except something like the rush of a river inside the rock; but at length what seemed the far-off noise of a great shouting reached his ears, which however presently ceased. after advancing a good way farther, he thought he heard a single voice. it sounded clearer and clearer as he went on, until at last he could almost distinguish the words. in a moment or two, keeping after the goblins round hall of the goblin palace. another corner, he once more started back—this time in amazement. he was at the entrance of a magnificent cavern, of an oval shape, once probably a huge natural reservoir of water, now the great palace hall of the goblins. it rose to a tremendous height, but the roof was composed of such shining materials, and the multitude of torches car- ried by the goblins who crowded the floor lighted up the place so brilliantly, that curdie could see to the top quite well. but he had no idea how immense the place was, until his eyes had got accustomed to it, which was not for a good many minutes. the rough projections on the walls, and the shadows thrown upward from them by the torches, made the sides of the chamber look as if they were crowded with statues upon brackets and pedestals, reaching in irregular tiers from floor to roof. the walls themselves were, in many parts, of gloriously shining sub- stances, some of them gorgeously colored besides, which powerfully contrasted with the shadows. curdie could not help wondering whether his rhymes would be of any use against such a multitude of goblins as filled the floor of the hall, and indeed felt considerably tempted to begin his shout of one, two, three! but as there was no reason for routing them, and much for endeavoring to discover their designs, he kept himself perfectly quiet, and peeping round the edge of the doorway, listened with both his sharp ears. at the other end of the hall, high above the heads of the multitude, was a terrace-like ledge of considerable height, caused by the receding of the upper part of the cavern wall. upon this sat the king and his court, the king on a throne hollowed out of a huge block of green copper ore, and his court upon lower seats around it. the princess and the goblin. the king had been making them a speech, and the applause which followed it was what curdie had heard. one of the court was now addressing the multitude. what he heard him say was to the following effect : “hence it appears that two plans have been for some time together working in the strong head of his majesty for the deliverance of his people. regardless of the fact that we were the first possessors of the regions they now inhabit, regardless equally of the fact that we abandoned that region from the loftiest motives; regardless also of the self-evident fact that we excel them as far in mental ability as they excel us in stature, they look upon us as a degraded race, and make a mockery of all our finer feel- ings. but the time has almost arrived when—thanks to his majesty's inventive genius-it will be in our power to take a thorough revenge upon them once for all, in re- spect of their unfriendly behavior." “may it please your majesty—” cried a voice close by the door, which curdie recognized as that of the goblin he had followed. “who is he that interrupts the chancellor ?”' cried an- other from near the throne. “ glump,” answered several voices. “he is our trusty subject,” said the king himself, in a slow and stately voice: “ let him come forward and speak.” a lane was parted through the crowd, and glump having ascended the platform and bowed to the king, spoke as follows:- “sire, i would have held my peace, had i not known that i only knew how near was the moment to which the chancellor had just referred. in all probability, before another day is past, the enemy will have broken through hall of the goblin palace. lins be expected to exercise courtesy? well might he wish that he had brought his lamp and tinder-box with him, of which he had not thought when he crept so eagerly after the goblins ! he wished it all the more when after a while, he found his way blocked up, and could get no farther. it was of no use to turn back, for he had not the least idea where he had begun to go wrong. mechanically, however, he kept feeling about the walls that hemmed him in. his hand came upon a place where a tiny stream of water was running down the face of the rock. “what a stupid i am !” he said to himself. “i am actually at the end of my journey !- and there are the goblins coming back to fetch their things !” he added, as the red glimmer of their torches appeared at the end of the long avenue that led up to the cave. in a moment he had thrown himself on the floor, and wriggled backward through the hole. the floor on the other side was several feet lower, which made it easier to get back. it was all he could do to lift the largest stone he had taken out of the hole, but he did manage to shove it in again. he sat down on the ore- heap and thought. he was pretty sure that the latter plan of the goblins was to inundate the mine by breaking outlets for the water accumulated in the natural reservoirs of the moun- tain, as well as running through portions of it. while the part hollowed by the miners remained shut off from that inhabited by the goblins, they had had no opportu- nity of injuring them thus; but now that a passage was broken through, and the goblins' part proved the higher in the mountain, it was clear to curdie that the mine could be destroyed in an hour. water was always the chief danger to which the miners were exposed. they * the princess and the goblin. met with a little choke-damp sometimes, but never with the explosive fire-damp so common in coal mines. hence they were careful as soon as they saw any appear- ance of water. as the result of his reflections while the goblins were busy in their old home, it seemed to curdie that it would be best to build up the whole of this gang, filling it with stone, and clay or lime, so that there should be no small- est channel for the water to get into. there was not, however, any immediate danger, for the execution of the goblins' plan was contingent upon the failure of that un- known design which was to take precedence of it; and he was most anxious to keep the door of communication open, that he might if possible discover what that former plan was. at the same time they could not then resume their intermitted labors for the inundation without his finding it out; when by putting all hands to the work, the one existing outlet might in a single night be rendered impenetrable to any weight of water; for by filling the gang entirely up, their embankment would be buttressed by the sides of the mountain itself. as soon as he found that the goblins had again retired, he lighted his lamp, and proceeded to fill the hole he had made, with such stones as he could withdraw when he pleased. he then thought it better, as he might have occasion to be up a good many nights after this, to go home and have some sleep. how pleasant the night-air felt upon the outside of the mountain after what he had gone through in the inside of it! he hurried up the hill, without meeting a single goblin on the way, and called and tapped at the window until he woke his father, who soon rose and let him in. he told him the whole story, and just as he had expected, the princess's king-papa. his father thought it best to work that lode no farther, but at the same time to pretend occasionally to be at work there still, in order that the goblins might have no sus- picions. both father and son went then to bed, and slept soundly until the morning. the princess's king-papa. the weather continued fine for weeks, and the little princess went out every day. so long a period of fine weather had indeed never been known upon that mountain. the only uncomfortable thing was that her nurse was so nervous and particular about being in before the sun was down, that often she would take to her heels when nothing worse than a fleecy cloud crossing the sun threw a shadow on the hill-side ; and many an evening they were home a full hour before the sunlight had left the weathercock on the stables. if it had not been for such behavior, irene would by this time have almost forgotten the goblins. she never forgot curdie, but him she remembered for his own sake, and indeed would have remembered him if only because a princess never forgets her debts until they are paid. one splendid sunshiny day, about an hour after noon, irene, who was playing on a lawn in the garden, heard the distant blast of a bugle. she jumped up with a cry of joy, for she knew by that particular blast that her father was on his way to see her. this part of the garden lay on the slope of the hill, and allowed a full view of the country below. so she shaded her eyes with her the princess's king-papa. the sun. it was a long time since he had been to see her, and her little heart beat faster and faster as the shining troop approached, for she loved her king-papa very dearly, and was nowhere so happy as in his arms. when they reached a certain point, after which she could see them no more from the garden, she ran to the thins pne gate, and there stood till up they came clanging and stamping, with one more bright bugle-blast which said, “ irene, i am come.” by this time the people of the house were all gathered at the gate, but irene stood alone in front of them. when the horseman pulled up, she ran to the side of the the princess and the goblin. white horse, and held up her arms. the king stooped, and took her hands. in an instant she was on the saddle, and clasped in his great strong arms. i wish i could describe the king, so that you could see him in your mind. he had gentle blue eyes, but a nose that made him look like an eagle. a long dark beard, streaked with silvery lines, flowed from his mouth almost to his waist, and as irene sat on the saddle and hid her glad face upon his bosom, it mingled with the golden hair which her mother had given her, and the two to- gether were like a cloud with streaks of the sun woven through it. after he had held her to his heart for a minute, he spoke to his white horse, and the great beau- tiful creature, which had been prancing so proudly a little while before, walked as gently as a lady-for he knew he had a little lady on his back—through the gate and up to the door of the house. then the king set her on the ground, and dismounting, took her hand and walked with her into the great hall, which was hardly ever entered except when he came to see his little prin. cess. there he sat down with two of his councillors who had accompanied him, to have some refreshment, and irene sat on his right hand, and drank her milk out of a wooden bowl, curiously carved. after the king had eaten and drunk, he turned to the princess and said, stroking her hair- “now, my child, what shall we do next?” this was the question he almost always put to her first after their meal together; and irene had been waiting for it with some impatience, for now, she thought, she should be able to settle a question which constantly per- plexed her. the princess and the goblin. xi. the old lady's bedroom. n othing more happened worth telling for some iv time. the autumn came and went by. there were no more flowers in the garden. the winds blew strong, and howled among the rocks. the rain fell, and drenched the few yellow and red leaves that could not get off the bare branches. again and again there would be a glorious morning followed by a pouring afternoon, and sometimes, for a week together, there would be rain, nothing but rain, all day, and then the most lovely cloud- less night, with the sky all out in full-blown stars—not one missing. but the princess could not see much of them, for she went to bed early. the winter drew on, and she found things growing dreary. when it was too stormy to go out, and she had got tired of her toys, lootie would take her about the house, sometimes to the housekeeper's room, where the housekeeper, who was a good, kind old woman, made much of her—sometimes to the servants' hall or the kitchen, where she was not princess merely, but absolute queen, and ran a great risk of being spoiled. sometimes she would run of herself to the room where the men-at-arms whom the king had left, sat, and they showed her their arms and accou- trements, and did what they could to amuse her. still at times she found it very dreary, and often and often wished that her huge great grandmother had not been a dream. one morning the nurse left her with the housekeeper for a while. to amuse her, she turned out the contents the old lady’s bedroom. of an old cabinet upon the table. the little princess found her treasures, queer ancient ornaments and many things the uses of which she could not imagine, far more interesting than her own toys, and sat playing with them for two hours or more. but at length, in handling a curious old-fashioned brooch, she ran the pin of it into her thumb, and gave a little scream with the sharpness of the pain, but would have thought little more of it, had not the pain increased and her thumb-begun to swell. this alarmed the housekeeper greatly. the nurse was fetched; the doctor was sent for ; her hand was poulticed, and long before her usual time she was put to bed. the pain still continued, and although she fell asleep and dreamed a good many dreams, there was the pain always in every dream. at last it woke her up. the moon was shining brightly into the room. the poultice had fallen off her hand, and it was burning hot. she fancied if she could hold it into the moonlight, that would cool it. so she got out of bed, without waking the nurse who lay at the other end of the room, and went to the window. when she looked out, she saw one of the men-at-arms walking in the garden, with the moon- light glancing on his armor. she was just going to tap on the window and call him, for she wanted to tell him all about it, when she bethought herself that that might wake lootie, and she would put her into her bed again. so she resolved to go to the window of another room, and call him from there. it was so much nicer to have somebody to talk to than to lie awake in bed with the burning pain in her hand. she opened the door very gently and went through the nursery, which did not look into the garden, to go to the other window. but when she came to the foot of the old stairc se, there was the : the princess and the goblin. moon shining down from some window high up, and making the worm-eaten oak look very strange and deli- cate and lovely. in a moment she was putting her little feet one after the other in the silvery path up the stair, looking behind as she went, to see the shadow they made in the middle of the silver. some little girls would have been afraid to find themselves thus alone in the middle of the night, but irene was a princess. as she went slowly up the stairs, not quite sure that she was not dreaming, suddenly a great longing woke up in her heart to try once more whether she could not find the old, old lady with the silvery hair. the princess and the goblin. “that you are hardly old enough to understand: but you would have found me sooner if you hadn't come to think i was a dream. i will give you one reason though why you couldn't find me. i didn't want you to find me." “why, please ?” “ because i did not want lootie to know i was here." “ but you told me to tell lootie.” “ yes. but i knew lootie would not believe you. if she were to see me sitting spinning here, she wouldn't believe me either.” “why." “because she couldn't. she would rub her eyes, and go away and say she felt queer, and forget half of it and more, and then say it had been all a dream." “ just like me," said irene, feeling very much ashamed of herself. “yes, a good deal like you, but not just like you ; for you've come again ; and lootie wouldn't have come again. she would have said, no, no-she had had enough of such nonsense.” “is it naughty of lootie then ?”. “ it would be naughty of you. i've never done any- thing for lootie.” “and you did wash my face and hands for me," said irene, beginning to cry. the old lady smiled a sweet smile and said, “i'm not vexed with you, my child—nor with lootie either. but i don't want you to say anything more to lootie about me. if she should ask you, you must just be silent. but i do not think she will ask you." all the time they talked, the old lady kept on spin- ning. i the princess and the goblin. the old lady rose, and left her wheel standing just as it was. you see there was no good in putting it away, for where there was not any furniture, there was no dan- ger of being untidy.. then she took irene by the hand, but it was her bad hand, and irene gave a little cry of pain. “my child !" said her grandmother, “what is the matter?" irene held her hand into the moonlight, that the old lady might see it, and told her all about it, at which she looked grave. but she only said—“give me your other hand ;'' and, having led her out upon the little dark land- ing, opened the door on the opposite side of it. what was irene's surprise to see the loveliest room she had ever seen in her life! it was large and lofty, and dome- shaped. from the centre hung a lamp as round as a ball, shining as if with the brightest moonlight, which made everything visible in the room, though not so clearly that the princess could tell what many of the things were. a large oval bed stood in the middle, with a coverlid of rose-color, and velvet curtains all round it of a lovely pale blue. the walls were also blue-spangled all over with what looked like stars of silver. the old lady left her, and going to a strange-looking cabinet, opened it and took out a curious silver casket. then she sat down on a low chair, and calling irene, made her kneel before her, while she looked at her hand. having examined it, she opened the casket, and took from it a little ointment. the sweetest odor filled the room-like that of roses and lilies—as she rubbed the ointment gently all over the hot swollen hand. her touch was so pleasant and cool, that it seemed to drive away the pain and heat wherever it came. the old lady’s bedroom. “oh, grandmother! it is so nice !” said irene. “thank you; thank you." then the old lady went to a chest of drawers, and took out a large handkerchief of gossamer-like cambric, which she tied around her hand. “i don't think i can let you go away to-night," she said. “would you like to sleep with me?”. “oh, yes, yes, dear grandmother !” said irene, and would have clapped her hands, forgetting that she could not. “you won't be afraid then to go to bed with such an old woman?” “no. you are so beautiful, grandmother.” “but i am very old.” “and i suppose i am very young. you won't mind sleeping with such a very young woman, grandmother?'' " you sweet little pertness !” said the old lady, and drew her toward her, and kissed her on the forehead and the cheek and the mouth. then she got a large silver basin, and having poured some water into it, made irene sit on the chair, and washed her feet. this done, she was ready for bed. and oh, what a delicious bed it was into which her grandmother laid her! she hardly could have told she was lying upon anything: she felt nothing but the soft- ness. the old lady having undressed herself, lay down beside her. “why don't you put out your moon ?? asked the princess. “that never goes out, night or day," she answered. “in the darkest night, if any of my pigeons are out on a message, they always see my moon, and know where to fly to." the princess and the goblin. “but if somebody besides the pigeons were to see it, somebody about the house, i mean-they would come to look what it was, and find you.” “ the better for them then," said the old lady. “but it does not happen above five times in a hundred years that any one does see it. the greater part of those who do, take it for a meteor, wink their eyes, and forget it again. besides, nobody could find the room except i pleased. besides again-i will tell you a secret—if that light were to go out, you would fancy yourself lying in a bare garret, on a heap of old straw, and would not see one of the pleasant things round about you all the time." “i hope it will never go out,” said the princess. “i hope not. but it is time we both went to sleep. shall i take you in my arms?”' the little princess nestled close up to the old lady, who took her in both her arms, and held her close to her bosom. “oh dear! this is so nice !" said the princess. “i didn't know anything in the whole world could be so comfortable. i should like to lie here for ever." . “you may if you will,'' said the old lady. “but i must put you to one trial-not a very hard one, i hope. -this night week you must come back to me. if you don't, i do not know when you may find me again, and you will soon want me very much.” “oh! please, don't let me forget." “you shall not forget. the only question is whether you will believe i am anywhere—whether you will believe i am anything but a dream. you may be sure i will do all i can to help you to come. but it will rest with your- self after all. on the night of next friday, you must come to me. mind now.”. a short chapter about curdie. “i will try,” said the princess. " then good night,” said the old lady, and kissed the forehead which lay in her bosom. in a moment more the little princess was dreaming in the midst of the loveliest dreams—of summer seas and moonlight and mossy springs and great murmuring trees, and beds of wild flowers with such odors as she had never smelled before. but after all, no dream could be more lovely than what she had left behind when she fell asleep. in the morning she found herself in her own bed. there was no handkerchief or anything else on her hand, only a sweet odor lingering about it. the swelling had all gone down; the prick of the brooch had vanished :- in fact her hand was perfectly well. xii. a short chapter about curdie. curdie spent many nights in the mine. his father and he had taken mrs. peterson into the secret, for they knew mother could hold her tongue, which was more than could be said of all the miners' wives. but curdie did not tell her that every night he spent in the mine, part of it went in earning a new red petticoat for her. mrs. peterson was such a nice good mother! all mothers are nice and good more or less, but mrs. peter- son was nice and good all more and no less. she made and kept a little heaven in that poor cottage on the hill- the princess and the goblin. side—for her husband and son to go home to out of the low and rather dreary earth in which they worked. i doubt if the princess was very much happier even in the arms of her huge great-grandmother than peter and curdie were in the arms of mrs. peterson. true, her hands were hard, and chapped, and large, but it was with work for them; and therefore in the sight of the angels, her hands were so much the more beautiful. and if curdie worked hard to get her a petticoat, she worked hard every day to get him comforts which he would have missed much more than she would a new petticoat even in winter. not that she and curdie ever thought of how much they worked for each other : that would have spoiled everything. when left alone in the mine, curdie always worked on for an hour or two first, following the lode which, ac- cording to glump, would lead at last into the deserted habitation. after that, he would set out on a reconnoit- ring expedition. in order to manage this, or rather the return from it, better than the first time, he had bought a huge ball of fine string, having learned the trick from hop-o'-my-thumb, whose history his mother had often told him. not that hop-o'-my-thumb had ever used a ball of string—i should be sorry to be supposed so far out in my classics—but the principle was the same as that of the pebbles. the end of this string he fastened to his pickaxe, which figured no bad anchor, and then, with the ball in his hand, unrolling as he went, set out in the dark through the natural gangs of the goblins' territory. the first night or two he came upon nothing worth remembering ; saw only a little of the home-life of the cobs in the various caves they called houses; failed in coming upon anything to cast light upon the foregoing a short chapter about curdie. design which kept the inundation for the present in the background. but at length, i think on the third or fourth night, he found, partly guided by the noise of their implements, a company of evidently the best sap- pers and miners amongst them, hard at work. what were they about? it could not well be the inundation, seeing that had in the mean time been postponed to something else. then what was it? he lurked and watched, every now and then in the greatest risk of being detected, but without success. he had again and again to retreat in haste, a proceeding rendered the more dif- ficult that he had to gather up his string as he returned upon its course. it was not that he was afraid of the goblins, but that he was afraid of their finding out that they were watched, which might have prevented the dis- covery at which he aimed. sometimes his haste had to be such that, when he reached home toward morning, his string for lack of time to wind it up as he “dodged the cobs," would be in what seemed the most hopeless entanglement; but after a good sleep though a short one, he always found his mother had got it right again. there it was, wound in a most respectable ball, ready for use the moment he should want it! “i can't think how you do it, mother,” he would say. “i follow the thread," she would answer—"just as you do in the mine." she never had more to say about it; but the less clever she was with her words, the more clever she was with her hands; and the less his mother said, the more, cur- die believed, she had to say. but still he had made no discovery as to what the goblin miners were about. the princess and the goblin. xiii. the cobs' creatures. about this time, the gentlemen whom the king had a left behind him to watch over the princess, had each occasion to doubt the testimony of his own eyes, for more than strange were the objects to which they would bear witness. they were of one sort-creatures -but so grotesque and misshapen as to be more like a child's drawings upon his slate than anything natural. the cobs' creatures. they saw them only at night, while on guard about the house. the testimony of the man who first reported having seen one of them was that, as he was walking slowly round the house, while yet in the shadow, he caught sight of a creature standing on its hind legs in the moonlight, with its fore feet upon a window-ledge, staring in at the window. its body might have been that of a dog or wolf–he thought, but he declared on his honor that its head was twice the size it ought to have been for the size of its body, and as round as a ball, while the face, which it turned upon him as it fled, was more like one carved by a boy upon the turnip inside which he is going to put a candle, than anything else he could think of. it rushed into the garden. he sent an arrow after it, and thought he must have struck it, for it gave an unearthly howl, and he could not find his arrow any more than the beast, although he searched all about the place where it vanished, they laughed at him until he was driven to hold his tongue ; and said he must have taken too long a pull at the ale-jug. but before two nights were over, he had one to side with him ; for he too had seen something strange, only quite different from that reported by the other. the descrip- tion the second man gave of the creature he had seen was yet more grotesque and unlikely. they were both laughed at by the rest ; but night after night another came over to their side, until at last there was only one left to laugh at all his companions. two nights more passed, and he saw nothing; but on the third, he came rushing from the garden to the other two before the *house, in such an agitation that they declared-for it was their turn now—that the band of his helmet was cracking under his chin with the rising of his hair inside the princess and the goblin. it. running with him into that part of the garden which i have already described, they saw a score of creatures, to not one of which they could give a name, and not one of which was like another, hideous and ludicrous at once, gamboling on the lawn in the moonlight. the supernatural or rather subnatural ugliness of their faces, ? que the length of legs and necks in some, and the apparent absence of both or either in others, made the spectators, although in one consent as to what they saw, yet doubt- ful, as i have said, of the evidence of their own eyes- and ears as well; for the noises they made, although not loud, were as uncouth and varied as their forms, and the cobs' creatures. could be described neither as grunts nor squeaks nor roars nor howls nor barks nor yells nor screams nor croaks nor hisses nor mews nor shrieks, but only as something like all of them mingled in one horrible dis- sonance. keeping in the shade, the watchers had a few moments to recover themselves before the hideous assem- bly suspected their presence; but all at once, as if by common consent, they scampered off in the direction of a great rock, and vanished before the men had come to themselves sufficiently to think of following them. my readers will suspect what these were ; but i will now give them full information concerning them. they were of course household animals belonging to the gob- lins, whose ancestors had taken their ancestors many cen- turies before from the upper regions of light into the lower regions of darkness. the original stocks of these horrible creatures were very much the same as the ani- mals now seen about farms and homes in the country, with the exception of a few of them, which had been wild creatures, such as foxes, and indeed wolves and small bears, which the goblins, from their proclivity to. ward the animal creation, had caught when cubs and tamed. but in the course of time, all had undergone eren greater changes than had passed upon their owners. they had altered—that is, their descendants had altered -into such creatures as i have not attempted to describe except in the vaguest manner—the various parts of their bodies assuming, in an apparently arbitrary and self- willed manner, the most abnormal developments. in- deed, so little did any distinct type predominate in some of the bewildering results, that you could only have guessed at any known animal as the original, and even then, what likeness remained would be more one of gen. * the princess and the goblin. find the tower in which she had either seen or dreamed her grandmother. her nurse could not help wondering what had come to the child—she would sit so thoughtfully silent, and even in the midst of a game with her, would so suddenly fall into a dreamy mood. but irene took care to betray nothing, whatever efforts lootie might make to get at her thoughts. and lootie had to say to herself, “what an odd child she is !" and give it up. at length the long looked-for friday arrived, and lest lootie should be moved to watch her, irene endeavored to keep herself as quiet as possible. in the afternoon she asked for her doll's house, and went on arranging and rearranging the various rooms and their inhabitants for a whole hour. then she gave a sigh and threw her- self back in her chair.. one of the dolls would not sit, and another would not stand, and they were all very tiresome. indeed there was one that would not even lie down, which was too bad. but it was now getting dark, and the darker it got the more excited irene became, and the more she felt it necessary to be composed. “i see you want your tea, princess," said the nurse : “i will go and get it. the room feels close: i will open the window a little. the evening is mild : it won't hurt you.”.. . “ there's no fear of that, lootie,” said irene, wishing she had put off going for the tea till it was darker, when she might have made her attempt with every advantage. i fancy lootie was longer in returning than she had intended; for when irene, who had been lost in thought, looked up, she saw it was nearly dark, and at the same moment caught sight of a pair of eyes, bright with a green light, glowering at her through the open window. that night week. · the next instant something leaped into the room. it was like a cat, with legs as long as a horse's, irene said, but its body no bigger and its legs no thicker than those of a cat. she was too frightened to cry out, but not too frightened to jump from her chair and run from the room. it is plain enough to every one of my readers what she ought to have done-and indeed irene thought of it her- self; but when she came to the foot of the old stair, just outside the nursery door, she imagined the creature run- ning up those long ascents after her, and pursuing her through the dark passages—which, after all, might lead to no tower! that thought was too much. her heart failed her, and turning from the stair, she rushed along tọ the hall, whence, finding the front door open, she darted into the court, pursued-at least she thought som by the creature. no one happening to see her, on she ran, unable to think for fear, and ready to run anywhere to elude the awful creature with the stilt-legs. not dar- ing to look behind her, she rushed straight out of the gate, and up the mountain. it was foolish indeed—thus to run farther and farther from all who could help her, as if she had been seeking a fit spot for the goblin-creature to eat her in at his leisure; but that is the way fear serves us: it always sides with the thing we are afraid of. the princess was soon out of breath with running up hill; but she ran on, for she fancied the horrible creature just behind her, forgetting that, had it been after her, such legs as those must have overtaken her long ago. at last she could run no longer, and fell, unable even to scream, by the roadside, where she lay for some time, half dead with terror. but finding nothing lay hold of her, and her breath beginning to come back, she ventured at length to get half up, and peer anxiously about her. the princess and the goblin. it was now so dark that she could see nothing. not a single star was out. she could not even tell in what direction the house lay, and between her and home she fancied the dreadful creature lying ready to pounce upon her. she saw now that she ought to have run up the stairs at once. it was well she did not scream ; for, although very few of the goblins had come out for weeks, a stray idler or two might have heard her. she sat down upon a stone, and nobody but one who had done some- thing wrong could have been more miserable. she had quite forgotten her promise to visit her grandmother. a rain-drop fell on her face. she looked up, and for a moment her terror was lost in astonishment. at first she thought the rising moon had left her place, and drawn nigh to see what could be the matter with the little girl, sitting alone, without hat or cloak, on the dark bare mountain; but she soon saw she was mistaken, for there was no light on the ground at her feet, and no shadow anywhere. but a great silvery globe was hanging in the air; and as she gazed at the lovely thing, her courage revived. if she were but indoors again she would fear nothing, not even the terrible creature with the long legs! but how was she to find her way back? what could that light be? could it be —? no, it couldn't. but what if it should be-yes-it must be—her great-great- grandmother's lamp, which guided her pigeons home through the darkest night! she jumped up: she had but to keep that light in view, and she must find the house. her heart grew strong. speedily, yet softly, she walked down the hill, hoping to pass the watching crea- ture unseen. dark as it was, there was little danger now of choosing the wrong road. and—which was most that night week. strange—the light that filled her eyes from the lamp, in- stead of blinding them for a moment to the object upon which they next fell, enabled her for a moment to see it, despite the darkness. by looking at the lamp and then dropping her eyes, she could see the road for a yard or two in front of her, and this saved her from several falls, min for the road was very rough. but all at once, to her dis- may, it vanished, and the terror of the beast, which had left her the moment she began to return, again laid hold of her heart. the same instant, however, she caught the light of the windows, and knew exactly where she was. it was too dark to rụn, but she made what haste she the princess and the goblin. could, and reached the gate in safety. she found the house-door still open, ran through the hall, and, without even looking into the nursery, bounded straight up the stair, and the next, and the next; then turning to the right, ran through the long avenue of silent rooms, and found her way at once to the door at the foot of the tower stair. when first the nurse missed her, she fancied she was playing her a trick, and for some time took no trouble about her; but at last, getting frightened, she had begun to search; and when the princess entered, the whole household was hither and thither, over the house, hunt- ing for her. a few seconds after she reached the stair of the tower, they had even begun to search the neglected rooms, in which they would never have thought of look- ing had they not already searched every other place they could think of in vain. but by this time she was knock- ing at the old lady's door. xv. woven and then spun. c ome in, irene," said the silvery voice of her grandmother. the princess opened the door, and peeped in. but the room was quite dark, and there was no sound of the spinning-wheel. she grew frightened once more, think- ing that, although the room was there, the old lady might be a dream after all. every little girl knows how dread- ful it is to find a room empty where she thought some- body was ; but irene had to fancy for a moment that the woven and then spun. person she came to find was nowhere at all. she re- membered however that at night she spun only in the moonlight, and concluded that must be why there was no sweet, bee-likę humming: the old lady might be somewhere in the darkness. before she had time to think another thought, she heard her voice again, saying as before- “come in, irene." from the sound, she understood at once that she was not in the room beside her. perhaps she was in her bed- room. she turned across the passage, feeling her way to the other door. when her hand fell on the lock, again the old lady spoke — “shut the other door behind you, irene. i always close the door of my workroom when i go to my cham- ber." irene wondered to hear her voice so plainly through the door ; having shut the other, she opened it and went in. oh, what a lovely haven to reach from the darkness and fear through which she had come! the soft light made her feel as if she were going into the heart of the milkiest pearl ; while the blue walls and their silver stars for a moment perplexed her with the fancy that they were in reality the sky which she had left outside a minute ago covered with rain-clouds. “i've lighted a fire for you, irene: you're cold and wet,” said her grandmother. then irene looked again, and saw that what she had taken for a huge bouquet of red roses on a low.stand against the wall, was in fact a fire which burned in the shapes of the loveliest and reddest roses, glowing gor- geously between the heads and wings of two cherubs of shining silver. and when she came nearer, she found woven and then spun. so likely to do it again. it is when people do wrong things willfully that they are the more likely to do them again. come.” and still she held out her arms. “but, grandmother, you're so beautiful and grand with your crown on! and i am so dirty with mud w and rain !—i should quite spoil your beautiful blue dress." with a merry little laugh, the lady sprung from her chair, more lightly far than irene herself could, caught the child to her bosom, and kissing the tear-stained face over and over, sat down with her in her lap. the princess and the goblin. “oh, grandmother! you'll make yourself such a mess !” cried irene, clinging to her. “you darling ! do you think i care more for my dress than for my little girl! beside-look here." as she spoke she set her down, and irene saw to her dismay that the lovely dress was covered with the mud of her fall on the mountain road. but the lady stooped to the fire, and taking from it, by the stalk in her fin- gers, one of the burning roses, passed it once and again and a third time over the front of her dress ; and when irene looked, not a single stain was to be discovered. “ there !" said her grandmother, “you won't mind coming to me now?'' but irene again hung back, eyeing the flaming rose which the lady held in her hand. “you're not afraid of the rose--are you?" she said, about to throw it on the hearth again. “oh! don't, please !” cried irene. “won't you hold it to my frock and my hands and my face? and i'm afraid my feet and my knees want it too !" “no,"? answered her grandmother, smiling a little sadly, as she threw the rose from her; “it is too hot for you yet. it would set your frock in a flame. besides, i don't want to make you clean to-night. i want your nurse and the rest of the people to see you as you are, for you will have to tell them how you ran away for ſear of the long-legged cat. i should like to wash you, but they would not believe you then. do you see that bath behind you?" the princess looked, and saw a large oval tub of sil- ver, shining brilliantly in the light of the wonderful lamp. “go and look into it,” said the lady. you woven and then spun. . irene went, and came back very silently, with her eyes shining. “what did you see?”' asked her grandmother. “ the sky and the moon and the stars,” she answered. “ it looked as if there was no bottom to it." the lady smiled a pleased satisfied smile, and was silent also for a few moments. then she said- “any time you want a bath, come to me. i know you have a bath every morning, but sometimes you want one at night too." - thank you, grandmother; i will—i will indeed," answered irene, and was again silent for some moments thinking. then she said, “how was it, grandmother, that i saw your beautiful lamp-not the light of it only —but the great round silver lamp itself, hanging alone in the great open air high up? it was your lamp i saw- wasn't it?' .“ yes, my child; it was my lamp." " then how was it? i don't see a window all round.” “when i please, i can make the lamp shine through the walls—shine so strong that it melts them away from before the sight, and shows itself as you saw it. but, as i told you, it is not everybody can see it." “how is it that i can then? i'm sure i don't know." “it is a gift born with you. and one day i hope everybody will have it." “ but how do you make it shine through the walls ?” “ah! that you would not understand if i were to try ever so much to make you-not yet—not yet. but," added the lady rising, "you must sit in my chair while i get you the present i have been preparing for you. i told you my spinning was for you. it is finished now, * the princess and the goblin. and i am going to fetch it. i have been keeping it warm under one of my brooding pigeons." irene sat down in the low chair, and her grandmother left her, shutting the door behind her. the child sat gazing, now at the rose-fire, now at the starry walls, now at the silvery light; and a great quietness grew in her heart. if all the long-legged cats in the world had come rushing at her then, she would not have been afraid of them for a moment. how this was she could not tell ;- she only knew there was no fear in her, and everything was so right and safe that it could not get in. she had been gazing at the lovely lamp for some minutes fixedly: turning her eyes, she found the wall had vanished, for she was looking out on the dark cloudy night. but though she heard the wind blowing, none of it blew upon her. in a moment more, the clouds them- selves parted, or rather vanished like the wall, and she looked straight into the starry herds, flashing gloriously in the dark blue. it was but for a moment. the clouds gathered again and shut out the stars; the wall gathered again and shut out the clouds; and there stood the lady beside her with the loveliest smile on her face, and a shimmering ball in her hand, about the size of a pigeon's egg. “ there, irene; there is my work for you !" she said, holding out the ball to the princess. she took it in her hand, and looked at it all over. it sparkled a little, and shone here and shone there, but not much. it was of a sort of gray whiteness, something like spun glass. “is this all your spinning, grandmother?”' she asked. “all since you came to the house. there is more there than you think.” the princess and the goblin. “of course not. but don't trouble yourself about it. you will see when the time comes." so saying, the lady turned, and threw the little ball into the rose-fire. “oh, grandmother !” exclaimed irene; “i thought you had spun it for me." “so i did, my child. and you've got it.” “no; it's burnt in the fire.” the lady put her hand in the fire, brought out the ball, glimmering as before, and held it toward her. irene stretched out her hand to take it, but the lady turned, and going to her cabinet, opened a drawer, and laid the ball in it. “have i done anything to vex you, grandmother?”' said irene pitifully. “no, my darling. but you must understand that no one ever gives anything to another properly and really without keeping it. that ball is yours.' “oh! i'm not to take it with me! you are going to keep it for me!'' “you are to take it with you. i've fastened the end of it to the ring on your finger." irene looked at the ring. “i can't see it there, grandmother,” she said. “feel-a little way from the ring—toward the cab- inet," said the lady. “oh! i do feel it !” exclaimed the princess. “but i can't see it,” she added, looking close to her outstretched hand. “no. the thread is too fine for you to see it. you can only feel it. now you can fancy how much spin- ning that took, although it does seem such a little ball”, woven and then spun. “but what use can i make of it, if it lies in your cab- inet ??? “ that is what i will explain to you. it would be of no use to you—it wouldn't be yours at all if it did not lie in my cabinet. now listen. if ever you find your- self in any danger-such, for example, as you were in this evening--you must take off your ring, and put it under the pillow of your bed. then you must lay your forefinger, the same that wore the ring, upon the thread, and follow the thread wherever it leads you." “oh, how delightful! it will lead me to you, grand- mother, i know !”. “ yes. but, remember, it may seem to you a very roundabout way indeed, and you must not doubt the thread. of one thing you may be sure, that while you hold it, i hold it too.” “it is very wonderful !” said irene thoughtfully. then suddenly becoming aware, she jumped up, crying -“oh, grandmother ! here have i been sitting all this time in your chair, and you standing! i beg your par- don." the lady laid her hand on her shoulder and said : “sit down again, irene. nothing pleases me better than to see any one sit in my chair. i am only too glad to stand so long as any one will sit in it.” “how kind of you !" said the princess, and sat down again. “ it makes me happy," said the lady. “but,” said irene, still puzzled, “won't the thread get in somebody's way and be broken, if the one end is fast to my ring and the other laid in your cabinet ?”. “you will find all that arrange itself. i am afraid it is time for you to go.'' the princess and the goblin. “mightn't i stay and sleep with you to-night, grand- mother?" “no, not to-night. if i had meant you to stay to- night, i should have given you a bath ; but you know everybody in the house is miserable about you, and it would be cruel to keep them so all night. you must go down stairs." “i'm so glad, grandmother, you didn't say-go homem for this is my home. mayn't i call this my home ?” “you may, my child. and i trust you will always think it your home. now come. i must take you back without any one seeing you." “please, i want to ask you one question more," said irene. “is it because you have your crown on that you look so young?" “no, child," answered her grandmother; “it is be- cause i felt so young this evening, that i put my crown on. and i thought you would like to see your old grand- mother in her best.” . “why do you call yourself old ? you're not old, grandmother.” "i am very old indeed. it is so silly of people-i don't mean you, for you are such a tiny, and couldn't know better—but it is so silly of people to fancy that old age means crookedness and witheredness and feebleness and sticks and spectacles and rheumatism and forgetful- ness! it is so silly! old age has nothing whatever to do with all that. the right old age means strength and beauty and mirth and courage and clear eyes and strong painless limbs. i am older than you are able to think, and " “and look at you, grandmother !" cried irene, jump- ing up, and flinging her arms about her neck. “i won't woven and then spun. be so silly again, i promise you. at least-i'm rather afraid to promise—but if i am, i promise to be sorry for it-i do. i wish i were as old as you, grandmother. i don't think you are ever afraid of anything." “not for long, at least, my child. perhaps by the time i am two thousand years of age, i shall, indeed, never be afraid of anything. but i confess i have some- times been afraid about my children-sometimes about you, irene." “oh, i'm so sorry, grandmother !—to-night, i sup- pose, you mean." “yes—a little to-night; but a good deal when you had all but made up your mind that i was a dream, and no real great-great-grandmother.--you must not suppose i am blaming you for that, i daresay you could not help it." "i don't know, grandmother,” said the princess, be- ginning to cry. “i can't always do myself as i should like. and i don't always try.—i'm very sorry anyhow." the lady stooped, lifted her in her arms, and sat down with her in her chair, holding her close to her bosom. in a few minutes the princess had sobbed herself to sleep. how long she slept, i do not know. when she came to herself she was sitting in her own high chair at the nur- sery table, with her doll's-house before her. the ring. exactly know which was the wisest thing to do at the moment." “i wouldn't run up the mountain, anyhow,' 'returned lootie. “not if you had time to think about it. but when those creatures came at you that night on the mountain, you were so frightened yourself that you lost your way home." this put a stop to lootie's reproaches. she had been on the point of saying that the long-legged cat must have been a twilight fancy of the princess's, but the memory of the horrors of that night, and of the talking-to which the king had given her in consequence, prevented her from saying what after all she did not half believe having a strong suspicion that the cat was a goblin ; for she knew nothing of the difference between the goblins and their creatures: she counted them all just goblins. without another word she went and got some fresh tea and bread and butter for the princess. before she re- turned, the whole household, headed by the housekeeper, burst into the nursery to exult over their darling. the gentlemen-at-arms followed, and were ready enough to believe all she told them about the long-legged cat. in- deed, though wise enough to say nothing about it, they remembered with no little horror, just such a creature amongst those they had surprised at their gambols upon the princess's lawn. in their own hearts they blamed themselves for not having kept better watch. and their captain gave order that from this night the front door and all the windows on the ground floor, should be locked immediately the sun set, and opened after upon no pretence whatever. the men-at-arms redoubled their the princess and the goblin. vigilance, and for some time there was no further cause of alarm. when the princess woke the next morning, her nurse was bending over her. “how your ring does glow this morning, princess !- just like a fiery rose !” she said. “does it, lootie ?”' returned irene. “who gave me the ring, lootie?” i know i've had it a long time, but where did i get it? i don't remember." “i think it must have been your mother gave it you, princess; but really, for as long as you have worn it, i don't remember that ever i heard,” answered her nurse. “i will ask my king-papa the next time he comes,” said irene. xvii. spring-time. the spring so dear to all creatures, young and old, came at last, and before the first few days of it had gone, the king rode through its budding valleys to see his little daughter. he had been in a distant part of his dominions all the winter, for he was not in the habit of stopping in one great city, or of visiting only his favorite country houses, but he moved from place to place, that all his people might know him. wherever he journeyed, he kept a constant look out for the ablest and best men to put into office; and wherever he found himself mis- taken, and those he had appointed incapable or unjust, he removed them at once. hence you see it was his care the princess and the goblin. xviii. curdie's clue. curdie was as watchful as ever, but was almost get- ting tired of his ill-success. every other night or so he followed the goblins about, as they went on digging and boring, and getting as near them as he could, watched them from behind stones and rocks; but as yet he seemeil no nearer finding out what they had in view. as at first, he always kept hold of the end of his string, while his pickaxe, left just outside the hole by which he entered the goblins' country from the mine, continued to serve as an anchor and hold fast the other end. the goblins hearing no more noise in that quarter, had ceased to apprehend an immediate invasion, and kept no watch. one night, after dodging about and listening till he was nearly falling asleep with weariness, he began to roll up his ball, for he had resolved to go home to bed. it was not long, however, before he began to feel bewil- dered. one after another he passed goblin-houses, caves that is, occupied by goblin families, and at length was sure they were many more than he had passed as he came. he had to use great caution to pass unseen—they lay so close together. could his string have led him wrong? he still followed winding it, and still it led him into more thickly populated quarters, until he be- came quite uneasy, and indeed apprehensive ; for although he was not afraid of the cobs, he was afraid of not find- ing his way out. but what could he do? it was of no use to sit down and wait for the morning—the morning made no difference here. it was all dark, and always curdie's clue. dark; and if his string failed him he was helpless. he might even arrive within a yard of the mine, and never know it. seeing he could do nothing better, he would at least find where the end of the string was, and if possi- ble how it had come to play him such a trick. he knew by the size of the ball that he was getting pretty near the last of it, when he began to feel a tugging and pulling at it. what could it mean? turning a sharp corner, he thought he heard strange sounds. these grew, as he went on, to a scuffling and growling and squeaking; and the noise increased, until, turning a second sharp corner, he found himself in the midst of it, and the same mo- ment tumbled over a wallowing mass, which he knew must be a knot of the cobs' creatures. before he could recover his feet, he had caught some great scratches on his face, and several severe bites on his legs and arms. but as he scrambled to get up, his hand fell upon his pickaxe, and before the horrid beasts could do him any serious harm, he was laying about with it right and left in the dark. the hideous cries which followed gave him the satisfaction of knowing that he had punished some of them pretty smartly for their rudeness, and by their scampering and their retreating howls, he perceived that he had routed them. he stood a little, weighing his battle-axe in his hand as if it had been the most pre- cious lump of metal—but indeed no lump of gold itself could have been so precious at that time as that common tool—then untied the end of the string from it, put the ball in his pocket, and still stood thinking. it was clear that the cobs' creatures had found his axe, had between them carried it off, and had so led him he knew not where. but for all his thinking he could not tell what he ought to do, until suddenly he became aware of a curdie's clue. below sat a little group of goblins around a fire, the smoke of which vanished in the darkness far aloft. the sides of the cave were full of shining minerals like those of the palace-hall; and the company was evidently of a superior order, for every one wore stones about head, or arms, or waist, shining dull, gorgeous colors in the light of the fire. nor had curdie looked long before he recognized the king himself, and found that he had made his way into the inner apartment of the royal family. he had never had such a good chance of hear- ing something ! he crept through the hole as softly as he could, scrambled a good way down the wall toward them without attracting attention, and then sat down and listened. the king, evidently the queen, and pro- bably the crown-prince and the prime minister were talking together. he was sure of the queen by her shoes, for as she warmed her feet at the fire, he saw them quite plainly. “ that will be fun !" said the one he took for the crown-prince. it was the first whole sentence he heard. “i don't see why you should think it such a grand affair!” said his stepmother, tossing her head backward. “ you must remember, my spouse,” interposed his majesty, as if making excuse for his son, “ he has got the same blood in him. his mother,” “don't talk to me of his mother ! you positively encourage his unnatural fancies. whatever belongs to that mother, ought to be cut out of him." “ you forget yourself, my dear!” said the king. “i don't,” said the queen, “nor you either. if you expect me to approve of such coarse tastes, you will find yourself mistaken. i don't wear shoes for nothing." curdie's clue. the queen was the only one curdie could see with any distinctness. she sat sideways to him, and the light of the fire shone full upon her face. he could not consider her handsome. her nose was certainly broader at the end than its extreme length, and her eyes, instead of being horizontal, were set up like two perpendicular eggs, one on the broad, the other on the small end. her an mouth was no bigger than a small button-hole until she laughed, when it stretched from ear to ear-only to be sure her ears were very nearly in the middle of her cheeks. anxious to hear everything they might say, curdie ventured to slide down a smooth part of the rock just under him, to a projection below, upon which he thought the princess and the goblin. to rest. but whether he was not careful enough, or the projection gave way, down he came with a rush on the floor of the cavern, bringing with him a great rumbling shower of stones. the goblins jumped from their seats in more anger than consternation, for they had never yet seen anything to be afraid of in the palace. but when they saw curdie with his pick in his hand, their rage was mingled with fear, for they took him for the first of an invasion of miners. the king notwithstanding drew himself up to his full height of four feet, spread himself to his full breadth of three and a half, for he was the handsomest and squarest of all the goblins, and strutting up to curdie, planted himself with outspread feet before him, and said with dignity- “pray what right have you in my palace ?” “the right of necessity, your majesty," answered curdie. “i lost my way, and did not know where i was wandering to." “ how did you get in ?". “by a hole in the mountain.” • but you are a miner! look at your pickaxe !" curdie did look at it, answering, “i came upon it, lying on the ground, a little way from here. i tumbled over some wild beasts who were playing with it. look, your majesty." and curdie showed him how he was scratched and bitten. the king was pleased to find him behave more politely than he had expected from what his people had told him concerning the miners, for he attributed it to the power of his own presence; but he did not therefore feel friendly to the intruder. “you will oblige me by walking out of my dominions curdie’s clue. at once,” he said, well knowing what a mockery lay in the words. “with pleasure, if your majesty will give me a guide," said curdie. “i will give you a thousand,” said the king, with a scoffing air of magnificent liberality. “one will be quite sufficient,” said curdie. but the king uttered a strange shout, half halloo, half roar, and in rushed goblins till the cave was swarming. he said something to the first of them which curdie could not hear, and it was passed from one to another till in a moment the farthest in the crowd had evidently heard and understood it. they began to gather about him in a way he did not relish, and he retreated toward the wall. they pressed upon him. “stand back," said curdie, grasping his pickaxe tighter by his knee. they only grinned and pressed closer. curdie be- thought himself, and began to rhyme. “ ten, twenty, thirty- you're all so very dirty! twenty, thirty, forty- you're all so thick and snorty! “ thirty, forty, fifty- you're all so puff-and-sniſty! forty, fifty, sixty- beast and man so mixty! « fifty, sixty, seventy- mixty, maxty, leaventy! sixty, seventy, eighty- all your cheeks so slaty! « seventy, eighty, ninety, all your hands so flinty! the princess and the goblin. eighty, ninety, hundred, altogether dundred!" the goblins fell back a little when he began, and made horrible grimaces all through the rhyme, as if eating something so disagreeable that it set their teeth on edge and gave them the creeps; but whether it was that the rhyming words were most of them no words at all, for a new rhyme being considered more efficacious, curdie had made it on the spur of the moment, or whether it was that the presence of the king and queen gave them courage, i cannot tell; but the moment the rhyme was over, they crowded on him again, and out shot a hundred long arms, with a multitude of thick nailless fingers at the end of them, to lay hold upon him. then curdie heaved up his axe. but being as gentle as courageous and not wishing to kill any of them, he turned the end which was square and blunt like a hammer, and with that came down a great blow on the head of the goblin nearest him. hard as the heads of all goblins are, he thought he must feel that. and so he did, no doubt; but he only gave a horrible cry, and sprung at curdie's throat. curdie however drew back in time, and just at that critical moment, remembered the vulnerable part of the goblin-body. he made a sudden rush at the king, and stamped with all his might on his majesty's feet. the king gave a most unkingly howl, and almost fell into the fire. curdie then rushed into the crowd, stamping right and left. the goblins drew back howling on every side as he approached, but they were so crowded that few of those he attacked could escape his tread; and the shriek- ing and roaring that filled the cave would have appalled curdie, but for the good hope it gave him. they were tumbling over each other in heaps in their eagerness to curdie's clue. rush from the cave, when a new assailant suddenly faced him:—the queen, with flaming eyes and expanded nostrils, her hair standing half up from her head, rushed at him. she trusted in her shoes; they were of granite-hollowed like french sabots. curdie would have endured much rather than hurt a woman, even if she was a goblin ; but here was an affair of life and death: forgetting her shoes, he made a great stamp on one of her feet. but she in- stantly returned it with very different effect, causing him frightful pain and almost disabling him. his only chance with her would have been to attack the granite shoes with his pickaxe, but before he could think of that, she had caught him up in her arms, and was rushing with him across the cave. she dashed him into a hole in the wall, with a force that almost stunned him. but although he could not move, he was not too far gone to hear her great cry, and the rush of multitudes of soft feet, followed by the sounds of something heaved up against the rock; after which came a multitudinous patter of stones falling near him. the last had not ceased when he grew very faint, for his head had been badly cut, and at last insensible. when he came to himself, there was perfect silence about him, and utter darkness, but for the merest glim- mer in one tiny spot. he crawled to it, and found that they had heaved a slab against the mouth of the hole, past the edge of which a poor little gleam found its way from the fire. he could not move it a hair's breadth, for they had piled a great heap of stones against it. he crawled back to where he had been lying, in the faint hope of finding his pickaxe. but after a vain search, he was at last compelled to acknowledge himself in an evil plight. he sat down and tried to think, but soon fell fast asleep. goblin counsels. “if i may be allowed a word,” interposed the queen, "—and i think i ought to have some voice in the matter—" “ the wretch is entirely at your disposal, my spouse,'' interrupted the king. “he is your property. you caught him yourself. we should never have done it." the queen laughed. she seemed in far better humor than the night before. “i was about to say," she resumed, “that it does seem a pity to waste so much fresh meat.” “what are you thinking of, my love ?'' said the king. “ the very notion of starving him implies that we are not going to give him any meat, either salt or fresh.” “i'm not such a stupid as that comes to," returned her majesty. “what i mean is, that by the time he is starved, there will hardly be a picking upon his bones.” the king gave a great laugh. “well, my spouse, you may have him when you like,” he said. “i don't fancy him for my part. i am pretty sure he is tough eating.” " that would be to honor instead of punish his inso- lence,”' returned the queen. “but why should our poor creatures be deprived of so much nourishment ? our little dogs and cats and pigs and small bears would enjoy him very much.” “you are the best of housekeepers, my lovely queen !'' said her husband. “let it be so by all means. let us have our people in, and get him out and kill him at once. he deserves it. the mischief he might have brought upon us, now that he had penetrated so far as our most retired citadel, is incalculable. or rather let us tie him hand and foot, and have the pleasure of see- * goblin counsels. “once there was a goblin living in a hole; busy he was cobblin' a shoe without a sole. “ by came a birdie : “goblin, what do you do? cobble at a sturdie upper leather shoe.' «« what's the good o' that, sir?" said the little bird, • why it's very pat, sir- plain without a word. “• where 'tis all a hill, sir, never can be holes : why should their shoes have soles, sir, when they've got no souls ?! ” “what's that horrible noise ?”' cried the queen, shud- dering from pot-metal head to granite shoes. “i declare,” said the king with solemn indignation, “it's the sun-creature in the hole !" “stop that disgusting noise !" cried the crown-prince valiantly, getting up and standing in front of the heap of stones, with his face toward curdie's prison.—“do now, or i'll break your head.” “break away,” shouted curdie, and began singing again- “ once there was a goblin living in a hole—” “i really cannot bear it,” said the queen. “if i could only get at his horrid toes with my slippers again!" the princess and the goblin. “i think we had better go to bed,” said the king. “it's not time to go to bed," said the queen. · “i would if i was you,” said curdie. “ impertinent wretch !" said the queen, with the ut- most scorn in her voice. “an impossible if,” said his majesty with dignity. “quite,'' returned curdie, and began singing again- “go to bed, goblin, do. help the queen take off her shoe. if you do, it will disclose a horrid set of sprouting toes." “what a lie !"' roared the queen in a rage. “by the way, that reminds me," said the king, “ that, for as long as we have been married, i have never seen your feet, queen. i think you might take off your shoes when you go to bed! they positively hurt me some- times." “i will do as i like," retorted the queen sulkily. “you ought to do as your own hubby wishes you,” said the king. “i will not,” said the queen. “ then i insist upon it," said the king. apparently his majesty approached the queen for the purpose of following the advice given by curdie, for the latter heard a scuffle, and then a great roar from the king. “will you be quiet then?" said the queen wickedly. “yes, yes, queen. i only meant to coax you.” goblin counsels. “ hands off !" cried the queen triumphantly. “i'm going to bed. you may come when you like. but as long as i am queen, i will sleep in my shoes. it is my royal privilege. harelip, go to bed.” “i'm going," said harelip sleepily. “so am i,” said the king. “come along then,” said the queen ; “and mind you are good, or i'll—". “oh, no, no, no!" screamed the king, in the most supplicating of tones. curdie heard only a muttered reply in the distance; and then the cave was quite still. they had left the fire burning, and the light came through brighter than before. curdie thought it was time to try again if anything could be done. but he found he could not get even a finger through the chink between the slab and the rock. he gave a great rush with his shoulder against the slab, but it yielded no more than if it had been part of the rock. all he could do was to sit down and think again. by and by he came to the resolution to pretend to be dying, in the hope they might take him out before his strength was too much exhausted to let him have a chance. then, for the creatures, if he could but find his axe again, he would have no fear of them; and if it were not for the queen's horrid shoes, he would have no fear at all. meantime, until they should come again at night, there was nothing for him to do but forge new rhymes, now his only weapons. he had no intention of using them at present, of course ; but it was well to have a stock, for he might live to want them, and the manufacture of them would help to while away the time. the princess and the goblin. after leading her up a good distance, the thread turned to the left, and down the path upon which she and lootie had met curdie. but she never thought of that, for now in the morning light, with its far outlook over the country, no path could have been more open and airy and cheerful. she could see the road almost to the horizon, along which she had so often watched her king-papa and his troop come shining, with the bugle- blast cleaving the air before them; and it was like a com- panion to her. down and down the path went, then up, and then down, and then up again, getting rugged and more rugged as it went; still along the path went the silvery thread, and still along the thread went irene's little rosy-tipped forefinger. by and by she came to a little stream that jabbered and prattled down the hill, and up the side of the stream went both path and thread. and still the path grew rougher and steeper, and the mountain grew wilder, till irene began to think she was going a very long way from home; and when she turned to look back, she saw that the level country had vanished and the rough bare mountain had closed in about her. but still on went the thread, and on went the princess. everything around her was getting brighter and brighter as the sun came nearer; till at length his first rays all at once alighted on the top of a rock before her, like some golden creature fresh from the sky. then she saw that the little stream ran out of a hole in that rock, that the path did not go past the rock, and that the thread was leading her straight up to it. a shudder ran through her from head to foot when she found that the thread was actually taking her into the hole out of which the stream ran. it ran out babbling joyously, but she had to go in. irene's clue. she did not hesitate. right into the hole she went, which was high enough to let her walk without stooping. for a little way there was a brown glimmer, but at the first turn it all but ceased, and before she had gone many paces she was in total darkness. then she began to be frightened indeed. every moment she kept feeling the thread backward, and as she went farther and farther into the darkness of the great hollow mountain, she kept thinking more and more about her grandmother, and all that she had said to her, and how kind she had been, and how beautiful she was, and all about her lovely room, and the fire of roses, and the great lamp that sent its light through stone walls. and she became more and more the princess and the goblin, sure that the thread could not have gone there of itself, and that her grandmother must have sent it. but it tried her dreadfully when the path went down very steep, and especially when she came to places where she had to go down rough stairs, and even sometimes a ladder. through one narrow passage after another, over lumps of rock and sand and clay, the thread guided her, until she came to a small hole through which she had to creep. finding no change on the other side—“shall i ever get back ?”' she thought, over and over again, wondering at herself that she was not ten times more frightened, and often feeling as if she were only walking in the story of a dream. sometimes she heard the noise of water, a dull gurgling inside the rock. by and by she heard the sounds of blows, which came nearer and nearer; but again they grew duller and almost died away. in a hundred direc- tions she turned, obedient to the guiding thread. at last she spied a dull red shine, and came up to the mica-window, and thence away and round about, and right into a cavern, where glowed the red embers of a fire. here the thread began to rise. it rose as high as her head, and higher still. what should she do if she lost her hold ? she was pulling it down! she might break it! she could see it far up, glowing as red as her fire-opal in the light of the embers. but presently she came to a huge heap of stones, piled in a slope against the wall of the cavern. on these she climbed, and soon recovered the level of the thread- only however to find, the next moment, that it vanished through the heap of stones, and left her standing on it, with her face to the solid rock. for one terrible moment, she felt as if her grandmother had forsaken her. the thread which the spiders had spun far over irene's clue. the seas, which her grandmother had sat in the moon- light and spun again for her, which she had tempered in the rose-fire, and tied to her opal ring, had left her- had gone where she could no longer follow it—had brought her into a horrible cavern, and there left her! she was forsaken indeed! “when shall i wake?” she said to herself in an agony, but the same moment knew that it was no dream. she threw herself upon the heap, and began to cry. it was well she did not know what creatures, one of them with stone shoes on her feet, were lying in the next cave. but neither did she know who was on the other side of the slab. at length the thought struck her, that at least she could follow the thread backward, and thus get out of the mountain, and home. she rose at once, and found the thread. but the instant she tried to feel it back- ward, it vanished from her touch. forward, it led her hand up to the heap of stones—backward, it seemed nowhere. neither could she see it as before in the light of the fire. she burst into a wailing cry, and again threw herself down on the stones. xxi. the escape. as the princess lay and sobbed, she kept feeling the a thread mechanically, following it with her finger many times up to the stones in which it disappeared. by and by she began, still mechanically, to poke her finger in after it between the stones as far as she could. the princess and the goblin. all at once it came into her head that she might remove some of the stones and see where the thread went next. almost laughing at herself for never having thought of this before, she jumped to her feet. her fear vanished ; once more she was certain her grandmother's thread could not have brought her there just to leave her there ; and she began to throw away the stones from the top as fast as she could, sometimes two or three at a handful, some- times taking both hands to lift one. after clearing them away a little, she found that the thread turned and went straight downward. hence, as the heap sloped a good deal, growing of course wider toward its base, she had to throw away a multitude of stones to follow the thread. the escape. but this was not all, for she soon found that the thread, after going straight down for a little way, turned first side- ways in one direction, then sideways in another, and then shot, at various angles, hither and thither inside the heap, so that she began to be afraid that to clear the thread, she must remove the whole huge gathering. she was dis- mayed at the very idea, but, losing no time, set to work with a will; and with aching back, and bleeding fingers and hands, she worked on, sustained by the pleasure of seeing the heap slowly diminish, and begin to show it- self on the opposite side of the fire. another thing which helped to keep up her courage was, that as often as she uncovered a turn of the thread, instead of lying loose upon the stones, it tightened up; this made her sure that her grandmother was at the end of it some- where. she had got about half way down when she started, and nearly fell with fright. close to her ear as it seemed, a voice broke out singing, “ jabber, bother, smash! you'll have it all in a crash. jabber, smash, bother! you'll have the worst of the pother. smash, bother, jabber !—" here curdie stopped, either because he could not find a rhyme to jabber, or because he remembered what he had forgotten when he woke up at the sound of irene's labors, that his plan was to make the goblins think he was getting weak. but he had uttered enough to let irene know who he was. " it's curdie !" she cried joyfully. “hush, hush !" came curdie's voice again from some- where. - speak softly.” * s the princess and the goblin. “why, you were singing loud !” said irene. “yes. but they know i am here, and they don't know you are. who are you?” “i'm irene," answered the princess. “i know who you are quite well. you're curdie.”' “why, how ever did you come here, irene?” “my great-great-grandmother sent me; and i think i've found out why. you can't get out, i suppose ?” “no, i can't. what are you doing?” “clearing away a huge heap of stones.” • there's a princess !'' exclaimed curdie, in a tone of delight, but still speaking in little more than a whisper. “i can't think how you got here, though." “my grandmother sent me after her thread." “i don't know what you mean,” said curdie ; " but so you're there, it doesn't much matter." “oh, yes it does !”' returned irene. “i should never have been here but for her.” “you can tell me all about it when we get out, then. there's no time to lose now,” said curdie. and irene went to work, as fresh as when she began. “ there's' such a lot of stones !" she said. “it will take me a long time to get them all away." “how far on have you got?" asked curdie. “ i've got about the half way, but the other half is ever so much bigger.” “i don't think you will have to move the lower half. do you see a slab laid up against the wall ?” irene looked and felt about with her hands, and soon perceived the outlines of the slab. “ yes,” she answered, “ i do." “ then, i think,” rejoined curdie, “when you have the princess and the goblin. she had already begun to follow it over the fallen slab into the hole, while curdie was searching the floor of the cavern for his pickaxe. “here it is !” he cried. “ no, it is not !” he added, in a disappointed tone. "what can it be then ?-i de- clare it's a torch. that is jolly! it's better almost than my pickaxe. much better if it weren't for those stone shoes !” he went on, as he lighted the torch by blowing the last embers of the expiring fire. when he looked up, with the lighted torch casting a glare into the great darkness of the huge cavern, he caught sight of irene disappearing in the hole out of - which he had himself just come. “where are you going there?” he cried. “that's not the way out. that's where i couldn't get out." “i know that," whispered irene. “but this is the way my thread goes, and i must follow it.” “what nonsense the child talks !” said curdie to him- self. “i must follow her, though, and see that she comes to no harm. she' will soon find she can't get out that way, and then she will come with me." so he crept once more over the slab into the hole with his torch in his hand. but when he looked about in it, he could see her nowhere. and now he discovered that although the hole was narrow, it was much larger than he had supposed; for in one direction the roof came down very low, and the hole went off in a narrow passage, of which he could not see the end. the princess must have crept in there. he got on his knees and one hand, holding the torch with the other, and crept after her. the hole twisted about, in some parts so low that he could hardly get through, in others so high that he could not see the roof, but everywhere it was narrow-far too the escape. narrow for a goblin to get through, and so i presume they never thought that curdie might. he was beginning to feel very uncomfortable lest something should have be- fallen the princess, when he heard her voice almost close to his ear, whispering- “aren't you coming, curdie?” and when he turned the next corner, there she stood waiting for him. “i knew you couldn't go wrong in that narrow hole, but now you must keep by me, for here is a great wide place,” she said. "i can't understand it,” said curdie, half to himself, half to irene. “ never mind," she returned. “wait till we get out." curdie, utterly astonished that she had already got so far, and by a path he had known nothing of, thought it better to let her do as she pleased. “at all events,” he said again to himself, “i know nothing about the way, miner as i am ; and she seems to think she does know something about it, though how she should, passes my comprehension. sò she's just as likely to find her way as i am, and as she insists on taking the lead, i must follow. we can't be much worse off than we are, anyhow.” reasoning thus, he followed her a few steps, and came out in another great cavern, across which irene walked in a straight line, as confidently as if she knew every step of the way. cu:die went on after her, flash- ing his torch about, and trying to see something of what lay around them. suddenly he started back a pace as the light fell upon something close by which irene was passing. it was a platform of rock raised a few feet the princess and the goblin. from the floor and covered with sheep skins, upon which lay two horrible figures asleep, at once recognized by curdie as the king and queen of the goblins. he lowered his torch instantly lest the light should awake them. as he did so, it flashed upon his pickaxe, lying by the side of the queen, whose hand lay close by the handle of it. a “stop one moment,” he whispered. “hold my torch, and don't let the light on their faces.” irene shuddered when she saw the frightful creatures, whom she had passed without observing them, but she did as he requested, and turning her back, held the torch low in front of her. curdie drew his pickaxe the escape. carefully away, and as he did so, spied one of her feet, projecting from under the skins. the great clumsy granite shoe, exposed thus to his hand, was a tempta- tion not to be resisted. he laid hold of it, and with cautious efforts, drew it off. the moment he succeeded, he saw to his astonishment that what he had sung in ignorance, to annoy the queen, was actually true: she had six horrible toes. overjoyed at his success, and seeing by the huge bump in the sheep skins where the other foot was, he proceeded to lift them gently, for, if he could only succeed in carrying away the other shoe as well, he would be no more afraid of the goblins than of so many flies. but as he pulled at the second shoe, the queen gave a growl and sat up in bed. the same instant the king awoke also, and sat up beside her. “run, irene !” cried curdie, for though he was not now in the least afraid for himself, he was for the princess. irene looked once round, saw the fearful creatures awake, and like the wise princess she was, dashed the torch on the ground and extinguished it, crying out- “here, curdie, take my hand.” he darted to her side, forgetting neither the queen's shoe nor his pickaxe, and caught hold of her hand, as she sped fearlessly where her thread guided her. they heard the queen give a great bellow; but they had a good start, for it would be some time before they could get torches lighted to pursue them. just as they thought they saw a gleam behind them, the thread brought them to a very narrow opening, through which irene crept easily, and curdie with difficulty. “now," said curdie ; “i think we shall be safe." “of course we shall,” returned irene. “why do you think so ?”' asked curdie. the princess and the goblin. “we're not out yet,” said curdie. “we soon shall be," returned irene confidently. and now the thread went downward, and led irene's hand to a hole in the floor of the cavern, whence came a sound of running water which they had been hearing for some time. “ it goes into the ground now, curdie,” she said, stop- ping. he had been listening to another sound, which his practiced ear had caught long ago, and which also had been growing louder. it was the noise the goblin miners made at their work, and they seemed to be at no great distance now. irene heard it the moment she stopped. “what is that noise ?" she asked. “do you know, curdie?”' “yes. it is the goblins digging and burrowing," he answered. and don't you know what they do it for?'' “no; i haven't the least idea. would you like to see them ?” he asked, wishing to have another try after their secret. “if my thread took me there, i shouldn't much mind; but i don't want to see them, and i can't leave my thread. it leads me down into the hole, and we had better go at once.”' - very well. shall i go in first ?'' said curdie. “ no; better not. you can't feel the thread," she answered, stepping down through a narrow break in the floor of the cavern. "oh!" she cried, “i am in the water. it is running strong—but it is not deep, and there is just room to walk. make haste, curdie." he tried, but the hole was too small for him to get in. the escape. “go on a little bit,” he said, shouldering his pick- axe. in a few moments he had cleared a large opening and followed her. they went on, down and down with the running water, curdie getting more and more afraid it was leading them to some terrible gulf in the heart of the mountain. in one or two places he had to break away the rock to make room before even irene could get through—at least without hurting herself. but at length they spied a glimmer of light, and in a minute more, they were almost blinded by the full sunlight into which they emerged. it was some little time before the princess could see well enough to discover that they stood in her own garden, close by the seat on which she and her king-papa had sat that afternoon. they had come out by the channel of the little stream. she danced and clapped her hands with delight. “now, curdie !" she cried, “won't you believe what i told you about my grandmother and her thread ?" for she had felt all the time that curdie was not be- lieving what she had told him. “there !-don't you see it shining on before us?”' she added. “i don't see anything," persisted curdie. “then you must believe without seeing," said the princess ; “ for you can't deny it has brought me out of the mountain.” “i can't deny we are out of the mountain, and i should be very ungrateful indeed to deny that you had brought me out of it." “i couldn't have done it but for the thread,” persisted irene. - that's the part i don't understand.” the old lady and curdie. xxii. the old lady and curdie. t p the stair then they went, and the next and the next, and through the long rows of empty rooms, and up the little tower stairs, irene growing happier and hap- pier as she ascended. there was no answer when she knocked at length at the door of the workroom, nor could she hear any sound of the spinning-wheel, and once more her heart sank within her—but only for one moment, as she turned and knocked at the other door. “come in,” answered the sweet voice of her grand- mother, and irene opened the door and entered, followed by curdie. “ you darling !" cried the lady, who was seated by a fire of red roses mingled with white—“i've been wait- ing for you, and indeed getting a little anxious about you, and beginning to think whether i had not better go and fetch you myself.” as she spoke she took the little princess in her arms and placed her upon her lap. she was dressed in white now, and looking if possible more lovely than ever. “i've brought curdie, grandmother. he wouldn't believe what i told him, and so i've brought him.” “ yes—i see him. he is a good boy, curdie, and a brave boy. aren't you glad you have got him out ?”! “yes, grandmother. but it wasn't very good of him not to believe me when i was telling him the truth." “people must believe what they can, and those who believe more must not be hard upon those who believe less. i doubt if you would have believed it all yourself if you hadn't seen some of it." * the princess and the goblin. the stairs, and that will take you to the hall where the great door is.” “oh! i don't doubt i can find my way—without you, princess, or your old grannie's thread either,” said cur- die, quite rudely. “oh, curdie! curdie !" “i wish i had gone home at once. i'm very much obliged to you, irene, for getting me out of that hole, but i wish you hadn't made a fool of me afterward." he said this as he opened the door, which he left open, and, without another word, went down the stair. irene listened with dismay to his departing footsteps. then turning again to the lady- “what does it all mean, grandmother ?'' she sobbed, and burst into fresh tears. “it means, my love, that i did not mean to show my- self. curdie is not yet able to believe some things. see- ing is not believing—it is only seeing. you remember i told you that if lootie were to see me, she would rub her eyes, forget the half she saw, and call the other half non- sense." “ yes; but i should have thought curdie " . you are right. curdie is much farther on than lootie, and you will see what will come of it. but in the mean time, you must be content, i say, to be misun- derstood for a while. we are all very anxious to be understood, and it is very hard not to be. but there is one thing much more necessary.” . what is that, grandmother?" “ to understand other people.” . yes, grandmother. i must be fair—for if i'm not fair to other people, i'm not worth being understood my- the old lady and curdie. self i see. so as curdie can't help it, i will not be vexed with him, but just wait.” "there's my own dear child," said her grandmother, and pressed her close to her bosom. "why weren't you in your workroom, when we came up, grandmother?” asked irene, after a few moments’ silence. “if i had been there, curdie would have seen me well enough. but why should i be there rather than in this beautiful room ?” “i thought you would be spinning.” “i've nobody to spin for just at present. i never spin without knowing for whom i am spinning.” “that reminds me—there is one thing that puzzles me," said the princess : “how are you to get the thread out of the mountain again ? surely you won't have to make another for me! that would be such a trouble !”. the lady set her down, and rose, and went to the fire. putting in her hand, she drew it out again, and held up the shining ball between her finger and thumb. “i've got it now, you see,” she said, coming back to the princess, "all ready for you when you want it.” going to her cabinet, she laid it in the same drawer as before. “and here is your ring,” she added, taking it from the little finger of her left hand, and putting it on the forefinger of irene's right hand. “oh, thank you, grandmother. i feel so safe now!”' “you are very tired, my child,” the lady went on. “your hands are hurt with the stones, and i have counted nine bruises on you. just look what you are like.” and she held up to her a little mirror which she had brought from the cabinet. the princess burst into a the princess and the goblin. xxiii. . curdie and his mother. urdie went up the mountain neither whistling nor singing, for he was vexed with irene for taking him in, as he called it; and he was vexed with himself for having spoken to her so angrily. his mother gave a cry of joy when she saw him, and at once set about getting him something to eat, asking him questions all the time, which he did not answer so cheerfully as usual. when his meal was ready, she left him to eat it, and hurried to the mine to let his father know he was safe. when she came back, she found him fast asleep upon her bed; nor did he wake until his father came home in the evening. “now, curdie,'' his mother said, as they sat at supper, “ tell us the whole story from beginning to end, just as it all happened.” curdie obeyed, and told everything to the point where they came out upon the lawn in the garden of the king's house. " and what happened after that?”' asked his mother. “you haven't told us all. you ought to be very happy at having got away from those demons, and instead of that, i never saw you so gloomy. there must be some- thing more. besides, you do not speak of that lovely child as i should like to hear you. she saved your life at the risk of her own, and yet somehow you don't seem to think much of it.”. “she talked such nonsense !"' answered curdie, “and told me a pack of things that weren't a bit true ; and i can't get over it." curdie and his mother. " what were they?' asked his father. "your mother may be able to throw some light upon them.” then curdie made a clean breast of it, and told them everything. they all sat silent for some time, pondering the strange tale. at last curdie's mother spoke. “you confess, my boy,” she said, “there is some- thing about the whole affair you do not understand ?” “yes, of course, mother,” he answered, “i cannot understand how a child knowing nothing about the moun- tain, or even that i was shut up in it, should come all that way alone, straight to where i was; and then, after get- ting me out of the hole, lead me out of the mountain too, where i should not have known a step of the way if it had been as light as in the open air.” “ then you have no right to say that what she told you was not true. she did take you out, and she must have had something to guide her: why not a thread as well as a rope, or anything else? there is something you can- not explain, and her explanation may be the right one.'' “it's no explanation at all, mother; and i can't be- lieve it." "that may be only because you do not understand it. if you did, you would probably find it was an explana- tion, and believe it thoroughly. i don't blame you for not being able to believe it, but i do blame you for fancy- ing such a child would try to deceive you. why should she? depend upon it, she told you all she knew. until you had found a better way of accounting for it all, you might at least have been more sparing of your judg- ment." “that is what something inside me has been saying all the princess and the goblin. the time," said curdie, hanging down his head. “but what do you make of the grandmother ? that is what i can't get over. to take me up to an old garret, and try to persuade me against the sight of my own eyes that it was a beautiful room, with blue walls and silver stars, and no end of things in it, when there was nothing there but an old tub and a withered apple and a heap of straw and a sunbeam! it was too bad! she might have had some old woman there at least to pass for her precious grandmother!” “didn't she speak as if she saw those other things her- self, curdie?" “yes. that's what bothers me. you would have thought she really meant and believed that she saw every one of the things she talked about. and not one of them there! it was too bad, i say.”. “perhaps some people can see things other people can't see, curdie," said his mother very gravely. “i think i will tell you something i saw myself once-only perhaps you won't believe me either!”. “oh, mother, mother!” cried curdie, bursting into tears; “i don't deserve that, surely !" “but what i am going to tell you is very strange," persisted his mother; “and if having heard it, you were to say i must have been dreaming, i don't know that i should have any right to be vexed with you, though i know at least that i was not asleep." “do tell me, mother. perhaps it will help me to think better of the princess.". " that's why i am tempted to tell you,” replied his mother. “but first, i may as well mention, that accord- ing to old whispers, there is something more than com- mon about the king's family; and the queen was of the curdie and his mother. same blood, for they were cousins of some degree. there were strange stories told concerning them—all good stories - but strange, very strange. what they were i cannot tell, for i only remember the faces of my grandmother and my mother as they talked together about them. there was wonder and awe—not fear, in their eyes, and they whispered, and never spoke aloud. but what i saw myself, was this: your father was going to work in the mine, one night, and i had been down with his supper. it was soon after we were married, and not very long be- fore you were born. he came with me to the mouth of the mine, and left me to go home alone, for i knew the way almost as well as the floor of our own cottage. it was pretty dark, and in some parts of the road where the rocks overhung, nearly quite dark. but i got along per- fectly well, never thinking of being afraid, until i reached a spot you know well enough, curdie, where the path has to make a sharp turn out of the way of a great rock on the left hand side. when i got there, i was suddenly surrounded by about half-a-dozen of the cobs, the first i had ever seen, although i had heard tell of them often enough. one of them blocked up the path, and they all began tormenting and teasing me in a way it makes me shudder to think of even now." “if i had only been with you !” cried father and son in a breath. the mother gave a funny little smile, and went on. “ they had some of their horrible creatures with them too, and i must confess i was dreadfully frightened. they had torn my clothes very much, and i was afraid they were going to tear myself to pieces, when suddenly a great white soft light shone upon me. i looked up. a broad ray, like a shining road, came down from a the princess and the goblin. be well aware. now tell us, my boy, what the two things are, and see whether we guess at the same third as you." “i don't see what that has to do with the princess,” interposed his mother. “i will soon let you see that, mother. perhaps you may think me foolish, but until i am sure there is no- thing in my present fancy, i am more determined than ever to go on with my observations. just as we came to the channel by which we got out, i heard the miners at work somewhere near-i think down below us. now since i began to watch them, they have mined a good half mile, in a straight line; and so far as i am aware, they are working in no other part of the mountain. but i never could tell in what direction they were going. when we came out in the king's garden, however, i thought at once whether it was possible they were work- ing toward the king's house; and what i want to do to- night is to make sure whether they are or not. i will take a light with me,” “oh, curdie,'' cried his mother, “then they will see you." “i'm no more afraid of them now than i was before," rejoined curdie,-"now that i've got this precious shoe. they can't make another such in a hurry, and one bare foot will do for my purpose. woman as she may be, i won't spare her next time. but i shall be careful with my light, for i don't want them to see me. i won't stick it in my hat.” “go on, then, and tell us what you mean to do." “i mean to take a bit of paper with me and a pencil, and go in at the mouth of the stream by which we came out. i shall mark on the paper as near as i can the angle curdie and his mother. of every turning i take until i find the cobs at work, and so get a good idea in what direction they are going. if it should prove to be nearly parallel with the stream, i shall know it is toward the king's house they are working." “and what if you should ? how much wiser will you be then?" “wait a minute, mother, dear. i told you that when i came upon the royal family in the cave, they were talk- ing of their prince-harelip, they called him-marrying a sun-woman—that means one of us-one with toes to her feet. now in the speech one of them made that night at their great gathering, of which i heard only a part, he said that peace would be secured for a generation at least by the pledge the prince would hold for the good behavior of her relatives: that's what he said, and he must have meant the sun-woman the prince was to marry. i am quite sure the king is much too proud to wish his son to marry any but a princess, and much too knowing to fancy that his having a peasant woman for a wife would be of any great advantage to them.” “i see what you are driving at now,” said his mother. “but,” said his father, “ the king would dig the mountain to the plain before he would have his princess the wife of a cob, if he were ten times a prince.” “yes; but they think so much of themselves !” said his mother. “ small creatures always do. the bantam is the proudest cock in my little yard.”. “and i fancy,” said curdie, “ if they once get her, they would tell the king they would kill her except he consented to the marriage.” “they might say so," said his father, “but they wouldn't kill her; they would keep her alive for the sake irene behaves like a princess. every one stared at these words. up to this moment, they had all regarded her as little more than a baby. but the housekeeper was afraid of the nurse, and sought to patch matters up, saying- “i am sure, princess, nursey did not mean to be rude to you." “i do not think my papa would wish me to have a nurse who spoke to me as lootie does. if she thinks i tell lies, she had better either say so to my papa, or go away. sir walter, will you take charge of me?". “with the greatest of pleasure, princess,” answered the captain of the gentlemen-at-arms, walking with his great stride into the room. the crowd of servants made eager way for him, and he bowed low before the little princess's bed. “i shall send my servant at once, on the fastest horse in the stable, to tell your king-papa that your royal highness desires his presence. when you have chosen one of these under-servants to wait upon you, i shall order the room to be cleared.” “ thank you very much, sir walter," said the princess, and her eye glanced toward a rosy-cheeked girl who had lately come to the house as a scullery-maid. but when lootie saw the eyes of her dear princess going in search of another instead of her, she fell upon her knees by the bedside, and burst into a great cry of distress. “ i think, sir walter,” said the princess, “i will keep loctie. but i put myself under your care; and you need not trouble my king-papa until i speak to you again. will you all please to go away? i am quite safe and well, and i did not hide myself for the sake either of amusing myself, or of troubling my people. lootie, will you please to dress me?" the princess and the goblin. xxv. curdie comes to grief. cverything was for some time quiet above u ground. the king was still away in a distant part of his dominions. the men-at-arms kept watching about the house. they had been considerably aston- ished by finding at the foot of the rock in the garden, the hideous body of the goblin-creature killed by cur- die; but they came to the conclusion that it had been slain in the mines, and had crept out there to die; and except an occasional glimpse of a live one they saw nothing to cause alarm. curdie kept watching in the mountain, and the goblins kept burrowing deeper into the earth. as long as they went deeper, there was, curdie judged, no immediate danger. to irene, the summer was as full of pleasure as ever, and for a long time, although she often thought of her grandmother during the day, and often dreamed about her at night, she did not see her. the kids and the flowers were as much her delight as ever, and she made as much friendship with the miners' children she met on the mountain as lootie would permit; but lootie had very foolish notions concerning the dignity of a princess, not understanding that the truest princess is just the one who loves all her brothers and sisters best, and who is most able to do them good by being humble toward them. at the same time she was considerably altered for the better in her behavior to the princess. she could not help seeing that she was no longer a mere child, but wiser than her age would account for. she kept fool- ishly whispering to the servants, however-sometimes curdie comes to grief. “ impertinence will do you no good. you have no business here in the king's grounds, and if you don't give a true account of yourself, you shall fare as a thief." “why, what else could he be ?”' said one. “he might have been after a lost kid, you know,” suggested another. “i see no good in trying to excuse him. he has no business here anyhow.” “let me go away then, if you please," said curdie. “ but we don't please—not except you give a good account of yourself.” the princess and the goblin. “i don't feel quite sure whether i can trust you,” said curdie. “we are the king's own men-at-arms,” said the cap- tain, courteously, for he was taken with curdie's appear- ance and courage. : “well, i will tell you all about itif you will promise to listen to me and not do anything rash.” “i call that cool!" said one of the party laughing. “he will tell us what mischief he was about, if we prom- ise to do as pleases him.” “i was about no mischief,” said curdie. but ere he could say more he turned faint, and fell senseless on the grass. then first they discovered that the bolt they had shot, taking him for one of the goblin creatures, had wounded him. they carried him into the house, and laid him down in the hall. the report spread that they had caught a robber, and the servants crowded in to see the villain. amongst the rest came the nurse. the moment she saw him she exclaimed with indignation : “i declare it's the same young rascal of a miner that was rude to me and the princess on the mountain. he actually wanted to kiss the princess. i took good care of that--the wretch! and he was prowling about—was he? just like his impudence !" the princess being fast asleep, and curdie in a faint, she could misrepresent at her pleasure. when he heard this, the captain, although he had con- siderable doubt of its truth, resolved to keep curdie a prisoner until they could search into the affair. so, after they had brought him round a little, and attended to his wound, which was rather a bad one, they laid him, still exhausted from the loss of blood, upon a mattress in a curdie comes to grief. disused room-one of those already so often mentioned —and locked the door, and left him. he passed a trou- bled night, and in the morning they found him talking wildly. in the evening he came to himself, but felt very weak, and his leg was exceedingly painful. wondering where he was, and seeing one of the men-at-arms in the room, he began to question him, and soon recalled the events of the preceding night. as he was himself unable to watch any more, he told the soldier all he knew about the goblins, and begged him to tell his companions, and stir them up to watch with tenfold vigilance; but whether it was that he did not talk quite coherently, or that the whole thing appeared incredible, certainly the man con- cluded that curdie was only raving still, and tried to coax him into holding his tongue. this, of course, an- noyed curdie dreadfully, who now felt in his turn what it was not to be believed, and the consequence was that his fever returned, and by the time when, at his persist- ent entreaties, the captain was called, there could be no doubt that he was raving. they did for him what they could, and promised everything he wanted, but with no intention of fulfillment. at last he went to sleep, and when at length his sleep grew profound and peaceful, they left him, locked the door again, and withdrew, in- tending to revisit him early in the morning. * the goblin-miners. them, and the house quivered. they all started up in affright, and rushing to the hall found the gentlemen-at- arms in consternation also. they had sent to wake their captain, who said from their description that it must have been an earthquake, an occurrence which, although very rare in that country, had taken place almost within the century; and then went to bed again, strange to say, and fell fast asleep without once thinking of curdie, or asso- ciating the noises they had heard with what he had told them. he had not believed curdie. if he had, he would at once have thought of what he had said, and would have taken precautions. as they heard nothing more, they concluded that sir walter was right, and that the danger was over for perhaps another hundred years. the fact, as discovered afterward, was that the goblins had, in working up a second sloping face of stone, arrived at a huge block which lay under the cellars of the house, within the line of the foundations. it was so round that when they succeeded, after hard work, in dislodging it without blasting, it rolled thundering down the slope with a bounding, jarring roll, which shook the foundations of the house. . the goblins were themselves dismayed at the noise, for they knew, by careful spying and measuring, that they must now be very near, if not under, the king's house, and they feared giving an alarm. they, therefore, remained quiet for a while, and when they began to work again, they no doubt thought themselves very fortunate in coming upon a vein of sand which filled a winding fissure in the rock on which the house was built. by scooping this away they soon came out in the king's wine- cellar. no sooner did they find where they were, than they scurried back again, like rats into their holes, and run- the princess and the goblin. ning at full speed to the goblin palace, announcing their success to the king and queen with shouts of triumph. in a moment the goblin royal family and the whole gob- lin people were on their way in hot haste to the king's house, each eager to have a share in the glory of carry- ing off that same night the princess irene. the queen went stumping along in one shoe of stone and one of skin. this could not have been pleasant, and my readers may wonder that, with such skillful workmen about lier, she had not yet replaced the shoe carried off by curdie. as the king however had more than one ground of objection to her stone shoes, he no doubt took advantage of the discovery of her toes, and threat- ened to expose her deformity if she had another made. i presume he insisted on her being content with skin- shoes, and allowed her to wear the remaining granite one on the present occasion only because she was going out to war. they soon arrived in the king's wine-cellar, and re- gardless of its huge vessels, of which they did not know the use, proceeded at once, but as quietly as they could to force the door that led upward. xxvii. the goblins in the king's house. w h en curdie fell asleep he began at once to vv dream. he thought he was ascending the mountain-side from the mouth of the mine, whistling and singing “ ring, dod, bang !" when he came upon a goblins in the king's house. woman and child who had lost their way; and fruin that point he went on dreaming everything that had happened to him since he thus met the princess and lootie; how he had watched the goblins, how he had been taken by them, how he had been rescued by the princess; everything indeed, until he was wounded, captured and imprisoned by the men-at-arms. and now he thought he was lying wide awake where they had laid him, when suddenly he heard a great thundering sound. “the cobs are coming!” he said. “they didn't believe a word i told them! the cobs'll be carrying off the princess from under their stupid noses ! but they sha'n't ! that they sha’n’t !" he jumped up, as he thought, and began to dress, but, to his dismay, found that he was still lying in bed. “now then i will !” he said. “here goes! i am up now!' but yet again he found himself snug in bed. twenty times he tried, and twenty times he failed; for in fact he was not awake, only dreaming that he was. at length in an agony of despair, fancying he heard the goblins all over the house, he gave a great cry. then there came, as he thought, a hand upon the lock of the door. it opened, and, looking up, he saw a lady with white hair, carrying a silver box in her hand, enter the room. she came to his bed, he thought, stroked his head and face with cool, soft hands, took the dressing from his leg, rubbed it with something that smelled like roses, and then waved her hands over him three times. at the last wave of her hands everything vanished, he felt himself sinking into the profoundest slumber, and remembered nothing more until he awoke in earnest. the princess and the goblin. the setting moon was throwing a feeble light through the casement, and the house was full of uproar. there was soft heavy multitudinous stamping, a clashing and clanging of weapons, the voices of men and the cries of women, mixed with a hideous bellowing, which sounded victorious. the cobs were in the house! he sprung from his bed, hurried on some of his clothes, not for- getting his shoes, which were armed with nails; then spy- ing an old hunting-knife, or short sword, hanging on the wall, he caught it, and rushed down the stairs, guided by the sounds of strife, which grew louder and louder. when he reached the ground floor he found the whole place swarming. all the goblins of the mountain seemed gathered there. he rushed amongst them, shouting-- “ one, two, hit and hew! three, four, blast and bore !" and with every rhyme he came down a great stamp upon a foot, cutting at the same time at their faces-executing, indeed, a sword dance of the wildest description. away scattered the goblins in every direction,-into closets, up stairs, into chimneys, up on rafters, and down to the cellars. curdie went on stamping and slashing and sing- ing, but saw nothing of the people of the house until he came to the great hall, in which, the moment he entered it, arose a great goblin shout. the last of the men-at- arms, the captain himself, was on the floor, buried be- neath a wallowing crowd of goblins. for, while each knight was busy defending himself as well as he could, by stabs in the thick bodies of the goblins, for he had soon found their heads all but invulnerable, the queen goblins in the king's house. had attacked his legs and feet with her horrible granite shoe, and he was soon down ; but the captain had got his back to the wall and stood out longer. the goblins would have torn them all to pieces, but the king had given orders to carry them away alive, and over each of them, in twelve groups, was standing a knot of goblins, while as many as could find room were sitting upon their prostrate bodies. curdie burst in dancing and gyrating and stamping and singing like a small incarnate whirlwind, “ where 'tis all a hole, sir, never can be holes : why should their shoes have soles, sir, when they've got no souls ? “ but she upon her foot, sir, has a granite shve: the strongest leather boot, sir, six would soon be through.” the queen gave a howl of rage and dismay; and before she recovered her presence of mind, curdie, having begun with the group nearest him, had eleven of the knights on their legs again “stamp on their feet !” he cried, as each man rose, and in a few minutes the hall was nearly empty, the gob- lins running from it as fast as they could, howling and shrieking and limping, and cowering every now and then as they ran to cuddle their wounded feet in their hard hands, or to protect them from the frightful stamp- stamp of the armed men. and now curdie approached the group which, trust- ing in the queen and her shoe, kept their guard over the prostrate captain. the king sat on the captain's the princess and the goblin. head, but the queen stood in front, like an infuriated cat, with her perpendicular eyes gleaming green, and her hair standing half up from her horrid head. her heart was quaking, however, and she kept moving about her skin-shod foot with nervous apprehension. when curdie was within a few paces, she rushed at him, made one tremendous stamp at his opposing foot, which happily he withdrew in time, and caught him round the waist, to dash him on the marble floor. but just as she caught him, he came down with all the weight of his iron-shod shoe upon her skin-shod foot, and with a hideous howl she dropped him, squatted on the floor and took her foot in both her hands. meanwhile the rest rushed on the king and the bodyguard, sent them flying, and lifted the prostrate captain, who was all but pressed to death. it was some moments before he re- covered breath and consciousness. “where's the princess ?” cried curdie again and again. no one knew, and off they all rushed in search of her. through every room in the house they went, but no- where was she to be found. neither was one of the ser- vants to be seen. but curdie, who had kept to the lower part of the house, which was now quiet enough, began to hear a confused sound as of a distant hubbub, and set out to find where it came from. · the noise grew as his sharp ears guided him to a stair and so to the wine cellar. it was full of goblins, whom the butler was sup- plying with wine as fast as he could draw it. . while the queen and her party had encountered the men-at-arms, harelip with another company had gone off to search the house. they captured every one they met, and when they could find no more, they hurried the princess and the goblin. the domestics unwatched, but cowering without courage to attempt their escape. amongst them was the terror- stricken face of lootie; but nowhere could he see the prin- cess. seized with the horrible conviction that harelip had already carried her off, he rushed amongst them, unable for wrath to sing any more, but stamping and cutting with greater fury than ever. “stamp on their feet; stamp on their feet !'' he shouted, and in a moment the goblins were disappearing through the hole in the floor like rats and mice. they could not vanish so fast, however, but that many more goblin feet had to go limping back over the under- ground ways of the mountain that morning. presently however they were reinforced from above by the king and his party, with the redoubtable queen at their head. finding curdie again busy amongst her un- fortunate subjects, she rushed at him once more with the rage of despair, and this time gave him a bad bruise on the foot. then a regular stamping fight got up between them, curdie with the point of his hunting knife keeping her from clasping her mighty arms about him, as he watched his opportunity of getting once more a good stamp at her skin-shod foot. but the queen was more wary as well as more agile than hitherto. the rest meantime, finding their adversary thus matched for the moment, paused in their headlong hurry, and turned to the shivering group of women in the corner. as if determined to emulate his father and have a sun- woman of some sort to share his future throne, harelip rushed at them, caught up lootie and sped with her to the hole. she gave a great shriek, and curdie heard her, and saw the plight she was in. gathering all his strength, he gave the queen a sudden cut across the face with his goblins in the king's house. weapon, came down, as she started back, with all his weight on the proper foot, and sprung to lootie's rescue. the prince had two defenceless feet, and on both of them curdie stamped just as he reached the hole. he dropped his burden and rolled shrieking into the earth. curdie made one stab at him as he disappeared, caught hold of the senseless lootie, and having dragged her back to the corner, there mounted guard over her, pre- paring once more to encounter the queen. her face streaming with blood, and her eyes flashing green light- ning through it, she came on with her mouth open and her teeth grinning like a tiger's, followed by the king and her bodyguard of the thickest goblins. but the same moment in rushed the captain and his men, and ran at them stamping furiously. they dared not en- counter such an onset. away they scurried, the queen foremost. of course the right thing would have been to take the king and queen prisoners, and hold them hos- tages for the princess, but they were so anxious to find her that no one thought of detaining them until it was too late. having thus rescued the servants, they set about search- ing the house once more. none of them could give the least information concerning the princess. lootie was almost silly with terror, and although scarcely able to walk, would not leave curdie's side for a single moment. again he allowed the others to search the rest of the house—where, except a dismayed goblin lurking here and there, they found no one—while he requested lootie to take him to the princess's room. she was as submis- sive and obedient as if he had been the king. he found the hed-clothes tossed about, and most of them on the floor, while the princess's garments were scattered all curdie's guide. however at the place where the path turned off for the mine, he found that the thread did not turn with it, but went straight up the mountain. could it be that the thread was leading him home to his mother's cottage ? could the princess be there? he bounded up the moun- tain like one of its own goats, and before the sun was up, the thread had brought him indeed to his mother's door. there it vanished from his fingers, and he could not find it, search as he might. the door was on the latch, and he entered. there sat his mother by the fire, and in her arms lay the princess fast asleep. “ hush, curdie !” said his mother. “do not wake her. i'm so glad you're come! i thought the cols must have got you again !". with a heart full.of delight, curdie sat down at a cor- ner of the hearth, on a stool opposite his mother's chair, and gazed at the princess, who slept as peacefully as if she had been in her own bed. all at once she opened her eyes and fixed them on him. “oh, curdie! you're come !" she said quietly. "i thought you would !" curdie rose and stood before her with downcast eyes. “ irene," he said, “i am very sorry i did not believe you.” “oh, never mind, curdie !" answered the princess. “you couldn't, you know. you do believe me now, don't you?” “i can't help it now. i ought to have helped it before.” “why can't you help it now?" “ because, just as i was going into the mountain to look for you, i got hold of your thread, and it brought me here." * mason.work. when he reached the mouth of the mine, after rousing all the miners within reach, he found his father and a good many more just entering. they all hurried to the gang by which he had found a way into the goblin coun- try. there the foresight of peter had already collected a great many blocks of stone, with cement, ready for building up the weak place—well enough known to the goblins. although there was not room for more than two to be actually building at once, they managed, by setting all the rest to work in preparing the cement, and passing the stones, to finish in the course of the day a huge buttress filling the whole gang, and supported every- where by the live rock. before the hour when they usually dropped work, they were satisfied that the mine was secure. they had heard goblin hammers and pickaxes busy all the time, and at length fancied they heard sounds of water they had never heard before. but that was other- wise accounted for when they left the mine; for they stepped out into a tremendous storm which was raging all over the mountain. the thunder was bellowing, and the lightning lancing out of a huge black cloud which lay above it, and hung down its edges of thick mist over its sides. the lightning was breaking out of the mountain, too, and flashing up into the cloud. from the state of the brooks, now swollen into raging torrents, it was evi- dent that the storm had been storming all day. the wind was blowing as if it would blow him off the mountain, but, anxious about his mother and the prin- cess, curdie darted up through the thick of the tempest. even if they had not set out before the storm came on, he did not judge them safe, for, in such a storm even their poor little house was in danger. indeed he soon the princess and the goblin. found that but for a huge rock against which it was built, and which protected it both from the blasts and the waters, it must have been swept if it was not blown away; for the two torrents into which this rock parted the rush of water behind it united again in front of the cottage- two roaring and dangerous streams, which his mother and the princess could not possibly have passed. it was with great difficulty that he forced his way through one of them, and up to the door. the moment his hand fell on the latch, through all the uproar of winds and waters came the joyous cry of the princess :- “ there's curdie ! curdie! curdie !" she was sitting wrapped in blankets on the bed, his mother trying for the hundredth time to light the fire which had been drowned by the rain that came down the chimney. the clay floor was one mass of mud, and the whole place looked wretched. but the faces of the mother and the princess shone as if their troubles only made them merrier. curdie burst out laughing at the sight of them. “i never had such fun !'' said the princess, her eyes twinkling and her pretty teeth shining. “how nice it must be to live in a cottage on the mountain !". “ it all depends on what kind your inside house is," said the mother. “i know what you mean," said irene. “that's the kind of thing my grandmother says.” by the time peter returned, the storm was nearly over, but the streams were so fierce and so swollen, that it was not only out of the question for the princess to go down the mountain, but most dangerous for peter even or curdie to make the attempt in the gathering darkness. the king and the kiss. “they will be dreadfully frightened about you," said peter to the princess, “but we cannot help it. we must wait till the morning." with curdie's help, the fire was lighted at last, and the mother set about making their supper; and after supper they all told the princess stories till she grew sleepy. then curdie's mother laid her in curdie's bed, which was in a tiny little garret-room. as soon as she was in bed, through a little window low down in the roof she caught sight of her grandmother's lamp shining far away beneath, and she gazed at the beautiful silvery globe until she fell fast asleep. xxx. the king and the kiss. the next morning the sun rose so bright that irene i said the rain had washed his face and let the light out clean. the torrents were still roaring down the side of the mountain, but they were so much smaller as not to be dangerous in the daylight. after an early break- fast, peter went to his work, and curdie and his mother set out to take the princess home. they had difficulty in getting her dry across the streams, and curdie had again and again to carry her, but at last they got safe on the broader part of the road, and walked gently down toward the king's house. and what should they see as they turned the last corner, but the last of the king's troop riding through the gate ! “oh, curdie !"' cried irene, clapping her hands right joyfully, “my king-papa is come.” the princess and the goblin. the moment curdie heard that, he caught her up in his arms, and set off at full speed, crying- “come on, mother dear! the king may break his heart before he knows that she is safe.” irene clung round his neck, and he ran with her like a deer. when he entered the gate into the court, there sat the king on his horse, with all the people of the house about him, weeping and hanging their heads. the king was not weeping, but his face was white as a dead man's, and he looked as if the life had gone out of him. the men-at-arms he had brought with him, sat with horror-stricken faces, but eyes flashing with rage, the king and the kiss. waiting only for the word of the king to do something- they did not know what, and nobody knew what. the day before the men-at-arms belonging to the house, as soon as they were satisfied the princess had been carried away, rushed after the goblins into the hole, but found that they had already so skillfully blockaded the narrowest part, not many feet below the cellar, that with- out miners and their tools they could do nothing. not one of them knew where the mouth of the mine lay, and some of those who had set out to find it had been over- taken by the storm and had not even yet returned. poor sir walter was especially filled with shame, and almost hoped the king would order his head to be cut off, for to think of that sweet little face down amongst the goblins was unendurable. when curdie ran in at the gate with the princess in his arms, they were all so absorbed in their own misery and awed by the king's presence and grief, that no one ob- served his arrival. he went straight up to the king, where he sat on his horse. “papa ! papa !” the princess cried, stretching out her arms to him ; “here i am !" the king started. the color rushed to his face. he gave an inarticulate cry. curdie held up the princess, and the king bent down and took her from his arms. as he clasped her to his bosom, the big tears went dropping down his cheeks and his beard. and such a shout arose from all the bystanders, that the startled horses pranced and capered, and the armor rang and clattered, and the rocks of the mountain echoed back the noises. the princess greeted them all as she nestled in her father's bosom, and the king did not set her down until she had told them all the story. but she had more to tell about the princess and the goblin. curdie than about herself, and what she did tell about herself none of them could understand except the king and curdie, who stood by the king's knee stroking the neck of the great white horse. and still as she told what curdie had done, sir walter and others added to what she told, even lootie joining in the praises of his courage and energy. curdie held his peace, looking quietly up in the king's face. and his mother stood on the outskirts of the crowd listening with delight, for her son's deeds were pleasant in her ears, until the princess caught sight of her. “ and there is his mother, king-papa !" she said. the king and the kiss. “see-there. she is such a nice mother, and has been so kind to me!" they all parted asunder as the king made a sign to her to come forward. she obeyed, and he gave her his hand, but could not speak. “and now, king-papa,” the princess went on, “i must tell you another thing. one night long ago curdie drove the goblins away and brought lootie and me safe from the mountain. and i promised him a kiss when we got home, but lootie wouldn't let me give it him. i don't want you to scold lootie, but i want you to tell her that a princess must do as she promises.” “indeed she must, my child-except it be wrong," said the king. “there, give curdie a kiss.” and as he spoke he held her toward him. the princess reached down, threw her arms round curdie's neck, and kissed him on the mouth, saying- “there, curdie! there's the kiss i promised you !" then they all went into the house, and the cook rushed to the kitchen, and the servants to their work. lootie. dressed irene in her shiningest clothes, and the king put off his armor, and put on purple and gold; and a mes- senger was sent for peter and all the miners, and there was a great and grand feast, which continued long after the princess was put to bed. the subterranean waters. : then curdie, who at the first word of the king had slipped from his seat, and laid his ear to the ground, rose up quickly, and approaching the king said, speaking very fast- “please your majesty, i think i know what it is. i have no time to explain, for that might make it too late for some of us. will your majesty give orders that every- body leave the house as quickly as possible, and get up the mountain." the king, who was the wisest man in the kingdom, knew well there was a time when things must be done, and questions left till afterward. he had faith in curdie, and rose instantly, with irene in his arms. “every man and woman follow me,” he said, and strode out into the darkness. before he had reached the gate, the noise had grown to a great thundering roar, and the ground trembled be- neath their feet, and before the last of them had crossed the court, out after them from the great hall-door came a huge rush of turbid water, and almost swept them away. but they got safe out of the gate and up the mountain, while the torrent went roaring down the road into the valley beneath. curdie had left the king and the princess to look after his mother, whom he and his father, one on each side, caught up when the stream overtook them and carried safe and dry. when the king had got out of the way of the water, a little up the mountain, he stood with the princess in his arms, looking back with amazement on the issuing tor- rent, which glimmered fierce and foamy through the night. there curdie rejoined them. * the princess and the goblin. tossing about in the current through the house. they had been caught in their own snare; instead of the mine they had flooded their own country, whence they were now swept up drowned. irene shuddered, but the king held her close to his bosom. then he turned to sir walter, and said, “bring curdie's father and mother here." “i wish,” said the king, when they stood before him, “ to take your son with me. he shall enter my body- guard at once, and wait further promotion." peter and his wife, overcome, only murmured almost inaudible thanks. but curdie spoke aloud. “ please your majesty," he said, “i cannot leave my father and mother.". “ that's right, curdie !" cried the princess. “i wouldn't if i was you." the king looked at the princess and then at curdie with a glow of satisfaction on his countenance. “i too think you are right, curdie,” he said, “and i will not ask you again. but i shall have a chance of doing something for you some time.” “your majesty has already allowed me to serve you," said curdie. “but, curdie,” said his mother, “why shouldn't you go with the king? we can get on very well without you." “but i can't get on very well without you," said curdie. “the king is very kind, but i could not be half the use to him that i am to you. please your maj- esty, if you wouldn't mind giving my mother a red pet- ticoat! i should have got her one long ago, but for the goblins." “ as soon as we get home,” said the king, “ irene and the princess and the goblin. curdie saw that something must be done. he spoke to his father and the rest of the miners, and they at once proceeded to make another outlet for the waters. by setting all hands to the work, tunneling here and build- ing there, they soon succeeded; and having also made a little tunnel to drain the water away from under the king's house, they were soon able to get into the wine cellar, where they found a multitude of dead goblins- among the rest the queen, with the skin-shoe gone, and the stone one fast to her ankle—for the water had swept away the barricade which prevented the men-at-arms from following the goblins, and had greatly widened the passage. they built it securely up, and then went back to their labors in the mine. a good many of the goblins with their creatures escaped from the inundation out upon the mountain. but most of them soon left that part of the country, and most of those who remained grew milder in character, and indeed became very much like the scotch brownies. their skulls became softer as well as their hearts, and their feet grew harder, and by degrees they became friendly with the inhabitants of the mountain and even with the miners. but the latter were merciless to any of the cobs' creatures that came in their way, until at length they all but disappeared. still- "but, mr. author, we would rather hear more about the princess and curdie. we don't care about the gob- lins and their nasty creatures. they frighten us-rather.” “but you know if you once get rid of the goblins there is no fear of the princess or of curdie." “but we want to know more about them.” “some day, perhaps, i may tell you the further history of both of them; how curdie came to visit irene's grand- the last chapter. mother, and what she did for him; and how the princess and he met again after they were older—and how—but there! i don't mean to go any farther at present.” “ then you're leaving the story unfinished, mr. author !" “ not more unfinished than a story ought to be, i hope. if you ever knew a story finished, all i can say is, i never did. somehow, stories won't finish. i think i know why, but i won't say that either, now.” tuie end, list of publications of of j b. lippincott & co. philadelphia. will be sent by mail, post paid, on receipt of the price. the albert n'yanza. great basin of the nile, and explorations of the nile sources. by sir samuel white baker, m. a., f. r. g. s., &c. with maps and numerous illus- trations, from sketches by mr. baker. new edition. crown vo. extra cloth, $ . “it is one of the most interesting and i “one of the most fascinating, and cer- instructive books of travel ever issued ; tainly not the least important, bouks of and this edition, at a reduced price, will travel published during the century." bring it within the reach of many who boston eve. transcript. have not before seen it.”-boston journal. the nile tributaries of abyssinia, and the sword- hunters of the hamran arabs. by sir samuel white baker, m. a., f. r. g. s., &c. with maps and numerous illustrations, from original sketches by the author. new edition. crown vo. extra cloth, $ . . “we have rarely met with a descriptive | dially recommend it to public patronage. work so well conceived and so attractively ... it is beautifully illustrated."-n.o. written as baker's abyssinia, and we cor- | times. by sir eight years' wandering in ceylon. samuel white baker, m. a., f. r. g. s., &c. with illustra. tions. mo. extra cloth, $ . . 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'u the purity of its tone, and the sound . publications of . b. lippincott & co. lippincott's pronouncing dictionary of biography and mythology containing memoirs of the eminent persons of all ages and countries and accounts of the various subjects of the norse, hindoo and classic mythologies, with the pronunciation of their names in the different languages in which they occur. by j. thomas, a. m., m. d. imperial vo. published in parts of pages. price cents per part. in two handsome vols. per vol., extra cloth, $ . sheep, $ . half turkey, $ . . this invaluable work enbraces the following peculiar features to an eminent degree : i. great completeness and conciseness in the biographical sketches. ii. succinct but comprehensive accounts of all the more interest- ing subjects of mythology, ii, a logical system of orthography, iv. the accurate pronunciation of the names. v. full bibliographical references. “i have taken the trouble to look out a “i can speak in high terms of the tho- large number of names, such as seened roughness and accuracy with which the to me good tests of the compass, suf work has been prepared. it is a store- ficency and accuray of the biographical house of valuable and trustworthy infor- notices. the rest it has been in a high mation. the pronunciation of the names, degree satisfactory. so far as i have ex which is systematically given, will add amined nobody was omitted that deserved much to the usefulness of the work."- a place, and the just proportions were from prof. james hadley, yale col- maintained between the various claim lege. ants to their page, or paragraph, or line. "i think that the work when completed the star of the first magnitude was not will supply a real want. i was especially shorn of its radiance, and the scarcely visi pleased with the sensible and learned ble spark was allowed its little glimmer." preface of the editor, and am persuaded from dr. oliver wendell holmes. that he has chosen the true system of “it is a work which i shall be glad to orthography. from what i know of dr. possess, both on account of the fullness thomas, i feel sure that he will give us a of its matter, and because the pronuncia book that may be depended on for com- tion of the names is given. i have had prehensiveness and accuracy, the two occasion, from the other works of dr. great desideranda in such an undertak- homas, to be convinced of his great ex ing."--from prof. jas. russell low- actress in that respect. the work will be ell. a valuable addition to the books of refer “it is the most valuable work of the ence in our language.”-from william | kind in english that i have seen.".-from cullen bryant. gen. r. e. lee, washington college. special circulars, containing a full description of the work, with specimen pages, will be sent, post-paid, on application. 'subscriptions received by the publishers, and the parts forwarded to subscribers by mail, post-paid, as issued, on receipt of the price ( cents) for each part. agents wanted in all parts of the united states on liberal terms, address the publishers. this book should be returned to the library on or before the last date stamped below. a fine is incurred by retaining it beyond the specified time. please return promptly. aug canes mayo book hd widener hw spci lucu coll: nglo christo cclesiae harva nova tard:ca igvinv exchange of tuhlicates the gift of john g. palfrey, d.d , ll.d., of boston, (class of .) march , . karum watch w hi uritian hona www www linu low wiuni mummotion ܂ ܃ ܃ ܃ ܃ ܃ ܃ ܃ ܃ : ; . . _ ;:" : . . .: ift. * * ' : ; ': ix. the oriental story: book. a collection of tales. translated from the german of wilhelm hauff, by g. p. quackenbos. illustrated by j. w. orr. new york: d. appleton and company, & broadway. . : . > , clari, banco cochr ici buurt nov to the rev. w. c. duncan, a. m., of new orleans in remembrance of a long friendship, and many happy hours spent with him over the german classics, this little volume is affectionately inscribed. the caravan. introduction. n a beautiful distant kingdom, of which there is a saying, that the sun on its everlasting green gardens never goes down, ruled, from the beginning of time even to the present day, queen phantasie. with full hands, she used to distribute for many hundred years, the abun- dance of her blessings among her subjects, and was beloved and respected by all who knew her. the heart of the queen, how- ever, was too great to allow her to stop at her own land with her charities; she herself, in the royal attire of her everlasting youth and beauty, descended upon the earth; for she had heard that there men lived, who passed their lives in sorrowful seriousness, in the midst of care and toil. unto these she had sent the finest gifts out of her kingdom, and ever since the beauteous queen came introduction. through the fields of earth, men were merry at their labor, and happy in their seriousness. her children, moreover, not less fair and lovely than their royal mother, she had sent forth to bring happiness to men. one day märchen*, the eldest daughter of the queen, came back in haste from the earth. the mother observed that märchen was sorrowful; yes, at times it would seem to her as if her eyes would be consumed by weeping. “what is the matter with thee, beloved märchen ?" said the queen to her. “ever since thy journey, thou art so sorrowful and dejected; wilt thou not confide to thy mother what ails thee?" “ ah! dear mother,” answered märchen, “i would have kept silence, had i not known that my sorrow is thine also.” “speak, my daughter !” entreated the fair queen. “grief is a stone, which presses down him who bears it alone, but two draw it lightly out of the way.” “ thou wishest it,” rejoined märchen, “so * märchen represents the fairy or legendary tales, of which the germans were at one time so fond. introduction. listen. thou knowest how gladly i associate with men, how cheerfully i sit down before the huts of the poor, to while away a little hour for them after their labor; formerly, when i came, they used to ask me kindly for my hand to salute, and looked upon me after- wards, when i went away, smiling and con- tented; but in these days, it is so no longer !" "poor märchen!” said the queen as she caressed her cheek, which was wet with a tear. “but, perhaps, thou only fanciest all this.” "believe me, i feel it but too well,” rejoined märchen; “they love me no more. wherev- er i go, cold looks meet me; nowhere am i any more gladly seen; even the children, who ever loved me so well, laugh at me, and slyly turn their backs upon me.” the queen leaned her forehead on her hand, and was silent in reflection. “and how, then, märchen,” she asked, “ should it happen that the people there below have become so changed ?” “see, o queen phantasie! men have sta- tioned vigilant watchmen, who inspect and examine all that comes from thy kingdom, introduction. with sharp eyes. if one should arrive who is not according to their mind, they raise a loud cry, and put him to death, or else so slander him to men, who believe their every word, that one finds no longer any love, any little ray of confidence. ah! how fortunate are my brothers, the dreams! they leap merrily and lightly down upon the earth, care nothing for those artful men, seek the slumbering, and weave and paint for them, what makes happy the heart, and brightens the eye with joy." “ thy brothers are light-footed,” said the queen, “ and thou, my darling, hast no reason for envying them. besides, i know these border-watchmen well; men are not so wrong in sending them out; there came so many boastful fellows, who acted as if they had come straight from my kingdom, and yet they had, at best, only looked down upon us from some mountain.” “but why did they make me, thine own daughter, suffer for this?" wept forth märchen. “ ah, if thou knewest how they have acted to- wards me! they called me an old maid, and threatened the next time not to admit me!" “how, my daughter ?-not to admit thee introduction. more ?” asked the queen, as anger heightened the color on her cheeks. “but already i see whence this comes; that wicked cousin has slandered us!" " fashion ? impossible !” exclaimed mär- chen ; "she always used to act so friendly towards us.” “oh, i know her, the false one!" answered the queen. “but try it again in spite of her, my daughter: whoever wishes to do good, must not rest.” “ah, mother! suppose, then, they send me back again, or slander me so that men let me stay in a corner, disregarded, or alone and slighted !" “if the old, deluded by fashion, value thee at nothing, then turn thee to the young ; truly they are my little favorites. i send to them my loveliest pictures through thy brothers, the dreams; yes, already i have often hovered over them.in person, caressed and kissed them, and played fine games with them. they, also, know me well, though not by name ; for i have often observed how in the night they laugh at my stars, and in the morning, when my shining fleeces play over the heavens, how introduction. they clap their hands for joy. moreover, when they grow larger, they love me still ; then i help the charming maids to weave variegated garlands, and the wild boys to be- come still, while i seat myself near them, on the lofty summit of a cliff, steep lofty cities and brilliant palaces in the mist-world of the blue mountains in the distance, and, on the red- tinged clouds of evening, paint brave troops of horsemen, and strange pilgrim processions.” “oh, the dear children !” exclaimed mär- chen, deeply affected. “yes-be it so! with them i will make one more trial.” “ yes, my good child,” answered the queen; “go unto them; but i will attire thee in fine style, that thou mayest please the little ones, and that the old may not drive thee away. see! the dress of an almanach* will i give thee.” “an almanach, mother? ah!—i will be ashamed to parade, in such a way, before the people.” the queen gave the signal, and the attend- * the german “ almanach” corresponds in a measure with the english “ annual." introduction. ants brought in the rich dress of an almanach. it was inwrought with brilliant colors, and beautiful figures. the waiting-maids plaited the long hair of the fair girl, bound golden sandals on her feet, and arrayed her in the robe. the modest märchen dared not look up; her mother, however, beheld her with satisfac- tion, and clasped her in her arms. “go forth !" said she unto the little one; “my blessing be with thee. if they despise and scorn thee, turn quickly unto me ; perhaps later genera- tions, more true to nature, may again incline to thee their hearts.” thus spoke queen phantasie, while mär- chen went down upon the earth. with beat- ing heart she approached the city, in which the cunning watchmen dwelt: she dropped her head towards the earth, wrapped her fine robe closely around her, and with trembling step drew near unto the gate. “hold !” exclaimed a deep, rough voice. “look out, there! here comes a new alma- nach !" märchen trembled as she heard this; many old men, with gloomy countenances, rushed introduction. forth ; they had sharp quills in their fists, and held them towards märchen. one of the multitude strode up to her, and seized her with rough hand by the chin. “just lift up your head, mr. almanach,” he cried, “that one may see in your eyes whether you be right or not.” blushing, märchen lifted her little head quite up, and raised her dark eye. "märchen!” exclaimed the watchmen, laugh- ing boisterously. “märchen! that we should have had any doubt as to who was here! how come you, now, by this dress ?” “mother put it on me," answered mär- chen. “so! she wishes to smuggle you past us! not this time! out of the way; see that you be gone !” exclaimed the watchmen among themselves, lifting up their sharp quills. “but, indeed, i will go only to the children,”. entreated märchen; "this, surely, you will grant to me.” “stay there not, already, enough of these menials in the land around ?” exclaimed one of the watchmen. “ they only prattle non- sense to our children.” introduction. “let us see what she knows this time," said another. “well then,” cried they," tell us what you know; but make haste, for we have not much time for you.” märchen stretched forth her hand, and de- scribed with the forefinger, various figures in the air. thereupon they saw confused images move slowly across it ;-caravans, fine horses, riders gayly attired, numerous tents upon the sand of the desert ; birds, and ships upon the stormy seas; silent forests, and populous places, and highways; battles, and peaceful wander- ing tribes—all hovered, a motley crowd, in animated pictures, over before them. märchen, in the eagerness with which she had caused the figures to rise forth, had not observed that the watchmen of the gate had one by one fallen asleep. just as she was about to describe new lines, a friendly man came up to her, and seized her hand. “ look here, good märchen,” said he, as he pointed to the sleepers ; " for these thy varied creations are as nothing; slip nimbly through the door ; they will not suspect that thou art in the land, and thou canst quietly and unobserved pursue introduction. thy way. i will lead thee unto my children ; in my house will give thee a peaceful, friendly home; there thou mayest remain and live by thyself; whenever my sons and daughters shall have learned their lessons well, they shall be permitted to run to thee with their plays, and attend to thee. dost thou agree ?” “oh! how gladly will i follow thee unto thy dear children! how diligently will i en- deavor to make, at times, for them, a happy little hour!" the good man nodded to her cordially, and assisted her to step over the feet of the sleep- ing men. märchen, when she had got safely across, looked around smilingly, and then slipped quickly through the gate. the caravan. nce upon a time, there march ed through the wilderness a large caravan. upon the vast plain, where one sees nothing but sand and heaven, were heard already, in the far distance, the little bells of the camels, and the silver-toned ones of the horses; a thick cloud of dust, which preceded them, announced their approach, and when a gale of wind separated the clouds, glittering weapons and brilliant dresses dazzled the eye. such was the appearance of the caravan to a man who was riding up towards it in an oblique direction. he was mounted on a fine arabian courser, covered with a tiger-skin; silver bells were suspended from the deep-red stripe work, and on the head of the horse waved a plume of heron feathers. the rider was of majestic mien, and his attire corresponded with the splendor of his horse : a white turban, richly * the caravan. inwrought with gold, adorned his head, his habit and wide pantaloons were of bright red, and a curved sword with a magnificent handle hung by his side. he had arranged the tur- ban far down upon his forehead; this, together with the dark eyes which gleamed forth from under his bushy brows, and the long beard which hung down under his arched nose, gave him a wild, daring expression. when the horseman had advanced fifty paces farther, the foremost line of the caravan was near, and putting spurs to his steed, in the twinkling of an eye he was at the head of the procession. it was so unusual a thing to see a solitary rider travelling through the desert, that the guard, ap- prehending an attack, put their lances in rest. “what mean you ?” exclaimed the horse- man, as he saw himself received in so hostile a manner. “do you imagine that a single man would attack your caravan ?” ashamed of their precipitation, the guards lowered their lances, and their leader rode forth to the stranger, and asked to know his pleasure. “who is the lord of this caravan ?" inquired the cavalier. the caravan. "it belongs to no single lord," answered the interrogated one; “but to several merchants, who march from mecca to their native coun- try, and whom we escort through the desert; for oftentimes scoundrels of every kind alarm those who travel here." “ then lead me to the merchants,” respond- ed the stranger. “that cannot be now,” rejoined the other, "for we must proceed without delay, and the merchants are at least a quarter of a mile be- hind; if, however, you would like to ride along with me until we halt to take our siesta, i will execute your desire.” : the stranger said nothing further; he drew forth a long pipe which he had attached to his saddle, and began to smoke with slow puffs, as he rode along by the leader of the van. the latter knew not what to make of the stranger, and ventured not to ask his name in so many words; but when he artfully endeavored to weave up a conversation, the cavalier, to his remarks, “ you smoke there a good tobacco," or, “your horse has a brave gait,” constantly replied with only a brief “ yes, yes!" at last they arrived at the place where they were to the caravan. halt for the siesta: the chief sent his people forward to keep a look-out, while he remained with the stranger to receive the caravan. first, thirty camels passed by, heavily laden, guided by armed drivers. after these, on fine horses, came the five merchants to whom the caravan belonged. they were, for the most part, men of advanced age, of grave and se- rious aspect; one, however, seemed much younger, as well as more gay and lively than the rest. a large number of camels and pack- horses closed the procession. tents were pitched, and the camels and horses fastened around. in the midst was a large pavilion of blue silk, to which the chief of the escort conducted the stranger. when they reached the entrance, they saw the five merchants seated on gold-embroidered cush- ions; black slaves were carrying around to them food and drink. “whom bringest thou hither to us?” exclaimed the young merchant unto the leader: before, however, the latter could reply, the stranger spoke. “i am called selim baruch, and am from bagdad; i was taken captive by a robber- horde on a ride to mecca, but three days ago the caravan. time. i feel this tediousness much, for i am ac. customed after dinner to see dancers, or to hear singing and music. know you nothing, my friends, that will pass away the time for us?” the four elder merchants smoked away, and seemed to be seriously reflecting, but the stranger spoke : “if it be allowed me, i will make a proposition to you. i think one of us, at this resting-place, could relate something for the amusement of the rest : this, certainly, would serve to pass the time.” "selim baruch, thou hast well spoken," said achmet, the oldest of the merchants; “let us accept the proposal.” “i am rejoiced that it pleases you,” answer- ed selim ; " and, in order that you may see that i desire nothing unreasonable, i will my- self begin.” the five merchants, overjoyed, drew nearer together, and placed the stranger in their midst. the slaves replenished their cups, filled the pipes of their masters afresh, and brought glowing coals for a light. selim cleared his voice with a hearty draught of sherbet, smoothed back the long beard from his mouth, and said, “ listen then to the his- tory of caliph stork.” tourisc chapter i nce upon a time, on a fine afternoon, the caliph cha- sid was seated on his sofa in bagdad : he had slept a little, (for it was a hot day,) and now, after his nap, uuess looked quite happy. he smoked a long pipe of rose- wood, sipped, now and then, a little coffee which a slave poured out for him, and stroked his beard, well-satisfied, for the flavor pleased him. in a word, it was no evident that the caliph was in a good humor. at this season one could easily speak with him, for he was always very mild and affable ; on which account did his grand- history of caliph stork. vizier, mansor, seek him at this hour, every day. on the afternoon in question he also came, but looked very serious, quite contrary to his usual custom. the caliph removed the pipe, a moment, from his mouth, and said, “ where- fore, grand-vizier, wearest thou so thoughtful a visage ?” the grand-vizier folded his arms crosswise over his breast, made reverence to his lord, and answered : “ sir, whether i wear a thoughtful look, i know not, but there, below the palace, stands a trader who has such fine goods, that it vexes me not to have abundant money." the caliph, who had often before this gladly indulged his vizier, sent down his black slave to bring up the merchant, and in a moment they entered together. he was a short, fat man, of swarthy countenance and tattered dress. he carried a chest in which were all kinds of wares-pearls and rings, richly- wrought pistols, goblets, and combs. the caliph and his vizier examined them all, and the former at length purchased fine pistols for himseli and mansor, and a comb for the vizier's history of caliph stork. wife. when the pedler was about to close his chest, the caliph espied a little drawer, and inquired whether there were wares in that also. the trader drew forth the drawer, and pointed out therein a box of black powder, and a paper with strange characters, which neither the caliph nor mansor could read. “i obtained these two articles, some time ago, from a merchant, who found them in the street at mecca,” said the trader. “i know not what they contain. they are at your ser- vice for a moderate price; i can do nothing with them.” the caliph, who gladly kept old manuscripts in his library, though he could not read them, purchased writing and box, and discharged the merchant. the caliph, how- ever, thought he would like to know what the writing contained, and asked the vizier if he knew any one who could decipher it. “most worthy lord and master,” answered he,“ near the great mosque lives a man called 'selim the learned,' who understands all languages : let him come, perhaps he is ac- quainted with these mysterious characters.” the learned selim was soon brought in. “selim," said the caliph to him, “selim, they history of caliph stork. say thou art very wise ; look a moment at this manuscript, and see if thou canst read it. if thou canst, thou shalt receive from me a new festival-garment; if not, thou shalt have twelve blows on the cheek, and five and twen- ty on the soles of the feet, since, in that case, thou art unjustly called selim the learned." selim bowed himself and said, “sire, thy will be done!" for a long time he pored over the manuscript, but suddenly exclaimed, “this is latin, sire, or i will suffer myself to be hung." “if it is latin, tell us what is therein," commanded the caliph. selim began to trans- late: “man, whosoever thou mayest be that findest this, praise allah for his goodness! whoever snuffs of the dust of this powder, and at the same time says, mutabor, can change himself into any animal, and shall also understand its language. if he wishes to re- turn to the form of a man, then let him bow three times to the east, and repeat the same word. but take thou care, if thou be transformed, that thou laugh not; otherwise shall the magic word fade altogether from history of caliph stork. thy remembrance, and thou shalt remain a beast!” when selim the learned had thus read, the caliph was overjoyed. he made the translator swear to tell no one of their secret, presented him a beautiful garment, and dis- charged him. to his grand-vizier, however, he said : “ that i call a good purchase, mansor! how can i contain myself until i become an animal! early in the morning, do thou come to me. then will we go to- gether into the country, take a little snuff out of my box, and hear what is said in the air and in the water, in the forest and in the field.” history of caliph stork. chapter ii. euroverture lo un uilo t v oja bistem carcely, on the next morn- ing, had the caliph chasid breakfasted and dressed him- self, when the grand-vizier appeared, to accompany him, as he had commanded, on his walk. the caliph placed the box with the magic powder in his girdle, and having com- manded his train to remain behind, set out, all alone with mansor, upon their expedition. they went at first through the extensive gar- dens of the caliph, but looked around in vain for some living thing, in order to make their strange experiment. · the vizier finally pro- posed to go farther on, to a pond, where he had often before seen many storks, which, by their grave behavior and clattering, had al- ways excited his attention. the caliph ap- proved of the proposition of his vizier, and went with him to the pond. when they reached it they saw a stork walking gravely to and fro, seeking for frogs, and now and then clattering at something before her. presently history of caliph stork. they saw, too, another stork hovering far up in the air. "i will wager my beard, most worthy sire,” exclaimed the grand-vizier, “ that these two long-feet are even now carrying on a fine con- versation with one another. how would it be, if we should become storks ?” “well spoken !" answered the caliph. “but first, we will consider how we may become men again.—right! three times bow to the east, and exclaim 'mutabor ! then will i be caliph once more, and thou vizier. only, for the sake of heaven, laugh not, or we are lost !” while the caliph was thus speaking, he saw the other stork hovering over their heads, and sinking slowly to the ground. he drew the box quickly out of his girdle, and took a good pinch; then he presented it to the grand- vizier, who also snuffed some of the powder, and both exclaimed “mutabor !” immediate. ly their legs shrivelled away and became slen- der and red; the handsome yellow slippers of the caliph and his companion became mis- shapen stork's feet; their arms turned to wings; the neck extended up from the shoulders, and * history of caliph stork. was an ell long ; their beards had vanished, and their whole bodies were covered with soft feathers. “you have a beautiful beak, my lord grand- vizier,” exclaimed the caliph after long aston- ishment. “by the beard of the prophet, in my whole life i have not seen any thing like it!” "most humble thanks!” responded the vizier, . as he bowed. “but if i dared venture it, i might assert that your highness looks almost as handsome when a stork, as when a caliph. but suppose, if it be pleasing to you, that we observe and listen to our comrades, to see, if we actually understand storkish.” meanwhile the other stork reached the earth. he cleaned his feet with his bill, smoothed his feathers, and moved towards the first. both the new birds, thereupon, made haste to draw near, and to their astonishment, heard the following conversation. “good-morning, madam long-legs; already, so early, upon the pond ?”. "fine thanks, beloved clatter-beak. i have brought me a little breakfast. would you like, perhaps, the quarter of an eider-duck, or a little frog's thigh?” history of caliph stork. “my best thanks, but this morning i have little appetite. i come to the pond for a very different reason. i have to dance to-day be- fore the guests of my father, and i wish to practise a little in private.” immediately, thereupon, the young lady- stork stepped, in great excitement, over the plain. the caliph and mansor looked on her in amazement. when, however, she stood in a picturesque attitude upon one foot, and, at the same time, gracefully moved her wings like a fan, the two could contain themselves no longer; a loud laugh broke forth from their bills. the caliph was the first to recover himself. “that were once a joke,” said he, “which gold could not have purchased. pity! that the stupid birds should have been driven away by our laughter; otherwise they would certainly even yet have been singing." but already it occurred to the grand-vizier that, during their metamorphosis, laughter was prohibited; he shared his anxiety on this head with the caliph. “by mecca and medina! that were a sorry jest, if i am to remain a stork. bethink thyself, then, of the foolish word, for i can recall it not." history of caliph stork. “three times must we bow ourselves to the east, and at the same time say, mu-mu- mu" they turned to the east, and bowed so low that their beaks almost touched the earth. but, o misery! that magic word had escaped them; and though the caliph prostrated him- self again and again, though at the same time the vizier earnestly cried “mu-mu—," all recollection thereof had vanished, and poor chasid and his vizier were to remain storks. history of caliph stork. chapter iii. he enchanted ones wandered sorrowfully through the fields, not knowing, in their calami- ty, what they should first set about. to the city they could not return, for the purpose of discovering themselves, for who would have believed å stork that he was the caliph ? or, if he should find credit, would the inhabitants of bagdad have been willing to have such a bird for their master ? thus, for several days, did they wander around, support- ing themselves on the produce of the fields, which, however, on account of their long bills, they could not readily pick up. for eider- ducks and frogs they had no appetite, for they feared with such dainty morsels to ruin their stomachs. in this pitiable situation their only consolation was that they could fly, and ac- cordingly they often winged their way to the roofs of bagdad, to see what was going on therein. history of caliph stork. on the first day they observed great com- motion and mourning in the streets; but on the fourth after their transformation, they light- ed by chance upon the royal palace, from which they saw, in the street beneath, a splen- did procession. drums and fifes sounded; on a richly-caparisoned steed was seated a man, in a scarlet mantle embroidered with gold, sur- rounded by gorgeously-attired attendants. half bagdad was running after him, crying, “hail, mizra! lord of bagdad !" all this the two storks beheld from the roof of the palace, and the caliph chasid exclaimed, “perceivest thou now why i am enchanted, grand-vizier? this mizra is the son of my deadly enemy, the mighty sorcerer kaschnur, who, in an evil hour, vowed revenge against me. still i do not abandon all hope. come with me, thou faithful companion of my mis- ery; we will go to the grave of the prophet; perhaps in that holy spot the charm may be dissolved.” they raised themselves from the roof of the palace, and flew in the direction of medina. in the use of their wings, however, they experienced some difficulty, for the two storks history of caliph stork. had, as yet, but little practice. “o sire!" groaned out the vizier, after a couple of hours; “with your permission, i can hold out no long- er; you fly so rapidly! besides, it is already evening, and we would do well to seek a shel ter for the night.” chasid gave ear to the request of his attend- ant, and thereupon saw, in the vale beneath, a ruin which appeared to promise safe lodgings; and thither, accordingly, they flew. the place where they had alighted for the night, seemed formerly to have been a castle. gorgeous columns projected from under the rubbish, and several chambers, which were still in a state of tolerable preservation, testified to the former magnificence of the mansion. chasid and his companion went around through the corridor, to seek for themselves a dry resting-place; suddenly the stork mansor paused. “lord and master,” he whispered softly, “were it not foolish for a grand-vizier, still more for a stork, to be alarmed at spectres, my mind is very uncomfortable ; for here, close at hand, sighs and groans are very plainly perceptible.” the caliph now in turn stood still, and quite dis- tinctly heard a low moaning, which seemed to history of caliph stork. “welcome to you, storks! you are to me a good omen of deliverance, for it was once prophesied to me that, through storks, a great piece of good fortune is to fall to my lot.” when the caliph recovered from his amaze- ment, he bowed his long neck, brought his slender feet into an elegant position, and said : “screech-owl, after your words, i venture to believe that i see in you a companion in mis- fortune. but, alas! this hope that through us thy deliverance will take place, is groundless. thou wilt, thyself, realize our helplessness, when thou hearest our history." the screech-owl entreated him to impart it to her, and the caliph, raising himself up, re- lated what we already know. history of caliph stork. chapter iv. hen the caliph had told his history to the owl, she thanked him, and said: “listen to my story, also, and hear how i am no less unfortunate than thy- self. my father is the king of india; i, his only, unfortunate daughter, am called lusa. that same sorcerer kaschnur, who transform- ed you, has plunged me also in this affliction. he came, one day, to my father, and asked me in marriage for his son mizra. my father, however, who is a passionate man, cast him down the steps. the wretch managed to creep up to me again under another form, and as i was on one occasion taking the fresh air in my garden, clad as a slave, he presented me a potion which changed me into this de- testable figure. he brought me hither, swoon- ing through fear, and exclaimed in my ear with awful voice, “there shalt thou remain, frightful one, despised even by beasts, until thy death, or till one, of his own free will, even history of caliph stork. under this execrable form, take thee to wife. thus revenge i myself upon thee, and thy haughty father! "since then, many months have elapsed; alone and mournfully i live, like a hermit, in these walls, abhorred by the world, an abomi- nation even to brutes. beautiful nature is shut out from me; for i am blind by day, and only when the moon sheds her wan light upon this ruin, falls the shrouding veil from mine eye.” the owl ended, and again wiped her eyes with her wing, for the narration of her wo had called forth tears. the caliph was plunged in deep meditation by the story of the prin- cess. “if i am not altogether deceived,” said he, “ you will find that between our misfor- tunes a secret connection exists; but where can i find the key to this enigma ?” the owl answered him, “my lord! this also is plain to me; for once, in early youth, it was foretold to me by a wise woman, that a stork would bring me great happiness, and perhaps i might know how we may save ourselves.” the caliph was much astonished, and in. quired in what way she meant. history of caliph stork. “ the enchanter who has made us both miserable,” said she, “comes once every month to these ruins. not far from this chamber is a hall; there, with many con- federates, he is wont to banquet. already i have often watched them : they relate to one another their shameful deeds — perhaps he might then mention the magic word which you have forgotten.” “oh, dearest princess !” exclaimed the ca- liph: “tell us—when will he come, and where is the hall ?” the owl was silent a moment, and then said :: “take it not unkindly, but only on one condition can i grant your wish.” . “speak out! speak out !” cried chasid. “command; whatever it may be, i am ready to obey.” “it is this: i would fain at the same time be free; this, however, can only take place, if one of you offer me his hand.” at this propo- sition the storks seemed somewhat surprised, and the caliph beckoned to his attendant to step aside with him a moment. “grand- vizier,” said the caliph before the door, “ this is a stupid affair, but you can set it all right.” history of caliph stork. with pillars, and splendidly decorated, in which many colored lamps restored the light of day. in the midst of the saloon stood a round table, laden with various choice meats. around the table extended a sofa, on which eight men were seated. in one of these men the storks recognised the very merchant, who had sold them the magic powder. his neighbor desired him to tell them his latest exploits; whereupon he related, among others, the story of the ca- liph and his vizier. “what did you give them for a word ?" in- quired of him one of the other magicians. “a right ponderous latin one-mutabor." history of caliph stork. chapter v. hen the storks heard this through their chasm in the wall, they became almost be- side themselves with joy. they ran so quickly with their long feet to the door of the ruin, that the owl could scarcely keep up with them. there- upon spoke the caliph to her: “preserver of my life and that of my friend, in token of our eternal thanks for what thou hast done for us, take me as thy husband." then he turned to the east : three times they bowed their long necks towards the sun, which was even now rising above the mountains, and at the same moment exclaimed “ mutabor!” in a twink- ling they were restored, and in the excessive joy of their newly-bestowed life, alternately laughing and weeping, were folded in each other's arms. but who can describe their astonishment when they looked around ? a beautiful woman, attired as a queen, stood history of caliph stork. before them. smiling, she gave the caliph her hand, and said, “know you your screech- owl no longer ?" it was she ; the caliph was in such transports at her beauty and pleasant- ness, as to cry out, that it was the most fortu- . nate moment in his life, when he became a stork. the three now proceeded together to bag- dad. the caliph found in his dress, not only the box of magic powder, but also his money- bag. by means thereof, he purchased at the nearest village what was necessary for their journey, and accordingly they soon appeared before the gates of the city. here, however, the arrival of the caliph excited great as- tonishment. they had given out that he was dead, and the people were therefore highly rejoiced to have again their beloved lord. so much the more, however, burned their hatred against the impostor mizra. they proceeded to the palace, and caught the old magician and his son. the old man the ca- liph sent to the same chamber in the ruin, which the princess, as a screech-owl, had history of caliph store. inhabited, and there had him hung; unto the son, however, who understood nothing of his father's arts, he gave his choice,-to die, or snuff some of the powder. having chosen the latter, the grand-vizier presented him the box. a hearty pinch, and the magic word of the caliph converted him into a stork. chasid had him locked up in an iron cage, and hung in his garden. long and happily lived caliph chasid with his spouse, the princess; his pleasantest hours were always those, when in the afternoon the vizier sought him; and whenever the caliph was in a very good humor, he would let him- self down so far, as to show mansor how he looked, when a stork. he would gravely march along, with rigid feet, up and down the chamber, make a clattering noise, wave his arms like wings, and show how, in vain, he had prostrated himself to the east, and cried out, mu~mu. to the princess and her children, this imitation always afforded great amuse- ment: when, however, the caliph clattered, and bowed, and cried out, too long, then the vizier would threaten him that he would the caravan. disclose to his spouse what had been pro- posed outside the door of the princess screech- owl! wun orbs when selim baruch had finished his story, the merchants declared themselves delighted therewith. “verily, the afternoon has passed away from us without our having observed it !” exclaimed one of them, throwing back the covering of the tent : “ the evening wind blows cool, we can still make a good distance on our journey.” to this his companions agreed ; the tents were struck, and the cara- van proceeded on its way in the same order in which it had come up. the caravan. pro reech they rode almost all the night long, for it was refreshing and starry, whereas the day was sultry. at last they arrived at a con- venient stopping-place ; here they pitched their tents, and composed themselves to rest. to the stranger the merchants attended, as a most valued guest. one gave him cushions, a sec- ond covering, a third slaves; in a word, he was as well provided for as if he had been at home. the hottest hours of the day had al- ready arrived, when they awoke again, and they unanimously determined to wait for even- ing in this place. after they had eaten to- gether, they moved more closely to each other, and the young merchant, turning to the oldest, addressed him: “ selim baruch yester- day made a pleasant afternoon for us; suppose achmet, that you also tell us something, be it - either from your long life, which has known so many adventures, or even a pretty märchen.” upon these words achmet was silent some time, as if he were in doubt whether to tell this or that; at last he began to speak : “dear friends, on this our journey you have proved yourselves faithful companions, and selim also deserves my confidence ; i will therefore im- the caravan. part to you something of my life, of which, under other circumstances, i would speak re- luctantly, and, indeed, not to any one: the history of the spectre ship. the history of the spectre ship. t j.mora sc initialini meses os y father had a little shop in balsora; he was neither rich, nor poor, but one of those who do not like to risk any thing, through fear of losing the little that they have. he brought me up plainly, but virtuously, and soon i advanced so far, that i was able to make valuable suggestions to him in his business. when i reached my eighteenth year, in the midst of his first speculation of any importance, he died; probably the spectre ship. through anxiety at having intrusted a thou- sand gold pieces to the sea. i was obliged, soon after, to deem him happy in his for- tunate death, for in a few weeks the intelli- gence reached us, that the vessel, to which my father had committed his goods, had been wrecked. this misfortune, however, could not depress my youthful spirits. i converted all that my father had left into money, and set out to try my fortune in foreign lands, accom- panied only by an old servant of the family, who, on account of ancient attachment, would not part from me and my destiny. in the harbor of balsora we embarked, with a favorable wind. the ship, in which i had taken passage, was bound to india. we had now for fifteen days sailed in the usual track, when the captain predicted to us a storm. he wore a thoughtful look, for it seemed he knew that, in this place, there was not sufficient depth of water to encounter a storm wiih safety. he ordered them to take in all sail, and we moved along quite slowly. the night set in clear and cold, and the captain began to think that he had been mistaken in his fore- bodings. all at once there floated close by the spectre ship. ours, a ship which none of us had observed before. a wild shout and cry ascended from the deck, at which, occurring at this anxious season, before a storm, i wondered not a little. but the captain by my side was deadly pale : “my ship is lost,” cried he; “there sails death!” before i could demand an explana- tion of these singular words, the sailors rushed in, weeping and wailing. “have you seen it ?” they exclaimed : “all is now over with us!” but the captain had words of consolation read to them out of the koran, and seated himself at the helm. but in vain! the tem- pest began visibly to rise with a roaring noise, and, before an hour passed by, the ship struck and remained aground. the boats were low- ered, and scarcely had the last sailors saved themselves, when the vessel went down before our eyes, and i was launched, a beggar, upon the sea. but our misfortune had still no end. frightfully roared the tempest, the boat could no longer be governed. i fastened myself firmly to my old servant, and we mutually promised not to be separated from each other. at last the day broke, but, with the first glance history of of the morning-red, the wind struck and upset the boat in which we were seated. after that i saw my shipmates no more. the shock de- prived me of consciousness, and when i re- turned to my senses, i found myself in the arms of my old faithful attendant, who had saved himself on the boat which had been up- turned, and had come in search of me. the storm had abated; of our vessel there was nothing any more to be seen, but we plainly descried, at no great distance from us, another ship, towards which the waves were driving us. as we approached, i recognised the ves- sel as the same which had passed by us in the night, and which had thrown the captain into such consternation. i felt a strange horror of this ship; the intimation of the captain, which had been so fearfully corroborated, the deso- late appearance of the ship, on which, although as we drew near we uttered loud cries, no one was visible, alarmed me. nevertheless this was our only expedient; accordingly, we prais- ed the prophet, who had so miraculously pre- served us. from the fore-part of the ship hung down a long cable; for the purpose of laying hold of history of captain there nailed to the mast would bend his rigid eyes upon us, or lest one of the corp- ses should turn his head. at last we arrived at a staircase, which led into the hold. there involuntarily we came to a halt, and looked at each other, for neither of us exactly ventured to express his thoughts. “master," said my faithful servant, “some- thing awful has happened here. nevertheless, even if the ship down there below is full of murderers, still would i rather submit myself to their mercy or cruelty, than spend a longer time among these dead bodies.” i agreed with him, and so we took heart, and descended, full of apprehension. but the stillness of death prevailed here also, and there was no sound save that of our steps upon the stairs. we stood before the door of the cabin ; i applied my ear, and listened—there was nothing to be heard. i opened it. the room presented a confused appearance; clothes, weapons, and other articles, lay disordered together. the crew, or at least the captain, must shortly be- fore have been carousing, for the remains of a banquet lay scattered around. we went on from room to room, from chamber to chamber the spectre ship. finding, in all, royal stores of silk, pearls, and other costly articles. i was beside myself with joy at the sight, for as there was no one on the ship, i thought i could appropriate all to myself; but ibrahim thereupon called to my notice that we were still far from land, at which we could not arrive, alone and without human help. we refreshed ourselves with the meats and drink, which we found in rich profusion, and at last ascended upon deck. but here again we shivered at the awful sight of the bodies. we determined to free ourselves therefrom, by throwing them overboard; but how were we startled to find, that no one could move them from their places! so firmly were they fastened to the floor, that to remove them one would have had to take up the planks of the deck, for which tools were wanting to us. the captain, moreover, could not be loosened from the mast, nor could we even wrest the sabre from his rigid hand. we passed the day in sorrowful reflection on our condition; ana, when night began to draw near, i gave permission to the old ibrahim to lie down to sleep, while i would watch upon the deck, to history of look out for means of deliverance. when, however, the moon shone forth, and by the stars i calculated that it was about the elev- enth hour, sleep so irresistibly overpowered me that i fell back, involuntarily, behind a cask which stood upon the deck. it was rath- er lethargy than sleep, for i plainly heard the sea beat against the side of the vessel, and the sails creak and whistle in the wind. all at once i thought i heard voices, and the steps of men upon the deck. i wished to arise and see what it was, but a strange power fettered my limbs, and i could not once open my eyes. but still more distinct became the voices; it appeared to me as if a merry crew were mov. ing around upon the deck. in the midst of this i thought i distinguished the powerful voice of a commander, followed by the noise of ropes and sails. gradually my senses left me; i fell into a deep slumber, in which i still seemed to hear the din of weapons, and awoke only when the sun was high in the heavens, and sent down his burning rays upon my face. full of wonder, i gazed about me; storm, ship, the bodies, and all that i had heard in the night, recurred to me as a dream; but when i the spectre ship. to overpower me. my companion, thereupon, advised me to repeat some sentences from the koran, which assisted me to retain my con- sciousness. all at once it seemed to become lively overhead; the ropes creaked, there were steps upon the deck, and several voices were plainly distinguishable. we remained, a few moments, in intense anxiety; then we heard something descending the cabin stairs. when the old man became aware of this, he began to repeat the words which his grandfather had taught him to use against spirits and witch- craft: “ come you, from the air descending, rise you from the deep sea-cave, spring you forth where flames are blending, glide you in the dismal grave: allah reigns, let all adore him! own him, spirits—bow before him !” i must confess i did not put much faith in this verse, and my hair stood on end when the door flew open. the same large, stately man entered, whom i had seen nailed to the mast. the spike still passed through the mid- dle of his brain, but he had sheathed his sword. behind him entered another, attired sa de the spectre ship. and shrieks—of a sudden all was deep silence. when, after many hours, we ventured to go forth, we found every thing as before; not one lay differently—all were as stiff as wooden figures. thus passed we several days on the vessel ; it moved continually towards the east, in which direction, according to my calculation, lay the land; but if by day it made many miles, by night it appeared to go back again, for we always found ourselves in the same spot when the sun went down. we could ex- plain this in no other way, than that the dead men every night sailed back again with a full breeze. in order to prevent this, we took in all the sail before it became night, and employed the same means as at the door in the cabin; we wrote on parchment the name of the prophet, and also, in addition, the little stanza of the grandfather, and bound them upon the furled sail. anxiously we awaited the result in our chamber. the ghosts appeared this time not to rage so wickedly; and, mark, the next morning the sails were still rolled up as we had left them. during the day we extended only as much as was history of necessary to bear the ship gently along, and so in five days we made considerable head- way. at last, on the morning of the sixth day, we espied land at a short distance, and thanked allah and his prophet for our wonderful de- liverance. this day and the following night we sailed along the coast, and on the seventh morning thought we discovered a city at no great distance: with a good deal of trouble we cast an anchor into the sea, which soon reached the bottom; then launching a boat which stood upon the deck, we rowed with all our might towards the city. after half an hour we ran into a river that emptied into the sea, and stepped ashore. at the gate we inqui- red what the place was called, and learned that it was an indian city, not far from the region to which at first i had intended to sail. we repaired to a caravansery, and refreshed our- selves after our adventurous sail. i there in- quired for a wise and intelligent man, at the same time giving the landlord to understand that i would like to have one tolerably conver- sant with magic. he conducted me to an unsightly house in a remote street, knocked the spectre ship. thereat, and one let me in with the injunction that i should ask only for muley. in the house, came to me a little old man with grizzled beard and a long nose, to demand my business. i told him i was in search of the wise muley; he answered me that he was the man. i then asked his advice as to what i should do to the dead bodies, and how i must handle them in order to remove them from the ship. he answered me that the people of the ship were probably enchanted on account of a crime somewhere upon the sea: he thought the spell would be dissolved by bringing them to land, but this could be done only by taking up the planks on which they lay. in the sight of god and justice, he said that the ship, to- gether with all the goods, belonged to me, since i had, as it were, found it; and, if i would keep it very secret, and make him a small present out of my abundance, he would assist me with his slaves to remove the bodies. · i promised to reward him richly, and we set out on our expedition with five slaves, who were supplied with saws and hatchets. on the way, the magician muley could not sufficiently history of praise our happy expedient of binding the sails around with the sentences from the koran. he said this was the only means, by which we could have saved ourselves. it was still pretty early in the day when we reached the ship. we immediately set to work, and in an hour placed four in the boat. some of the slaves were then obliged to row to land to bury them there. they told us, when they returned, that the bodies had spared them the trouble of burying, since, the moment they laid them on the earth, they had fallen to dust. we diligently set to work to saw off the bodies, and before evening all were brought to land. there were, at last, no more on board than the one that was nailed to the mast. vainly sought we to draw the nail out of the wood, no strength was able to start it even a hair's-breadth. i knew not what next to do, for we could not hew down the mast in order to bring him to land; but in this dilemma mu- ley came to my assistance. he quickly or- dered a slave to row to land and bring a pot of earth. when he had arrived with it, the magician pronounced over it some mysterious words, and cast it on the dead man's head. the spectre ship. immediately the latter opened his eyes, drew a deep breath, and the wound of the nail in his forehead began to bleed. we now drew it lightly forth, and the wounded man fell into the arms of one of the slaves. “who bore me hither ?” he exclaimed, after he seemed to have recovered himself a little. muley made signs to me, and i stepped up to him. “thank thee, unknown stranger; thou hast freed me from long torment. for fifty years has my body been sailing through these waves, and my spirit was condemned to return to it every night. but now my head has come in contact with the earth, and, my crime expiated, i can go to my fathers !" i entreated him, thereupon, to tell how he had been brought to this horrible state, and he began- “fifty years ago, i was an influential, dis- tinguished man, and resided in algiers : a pas- sion for gain urged me on to fit out a ship, and turn pirate. i had already followed this busi- ness some time, when once, at zante, i took on board a dervise, who wished to travel for nothing. i and my companions were impious * history of men, and paid no respect to the holiness of the man; i, in particular, made sport of him. when, however, on one occasion he upbraided me with holy zeal for my wicked course of life, that same evening, after i had been drinking to excess with my pilot in the cabin, anger overpowered me. reflecting on what the dervise had said to me, which i would not have borne from a sultan, i rushed upon deck, and plunged my dagger into his breast. dy- ing, he cursed me and my crew, and doomed us not to die and not to live, until we should lay our heads upon the earth. “ the dervise expired, and we cast him overboard, laughing at his menaces; that same night, however, were his words fulfilled. one portion of my crew rose against me; with ter- rible courage the struggle continued, until my supporters fell, and i myself was nailed to the mast. the mutineers, however, also sank un- der their wounds, and soon my ship was but one vast grave. my eyes also closed, my breath stopped—i thought i was dying. but it was only a torpor which held me chained : the following night, at the same hour in which we had cast the dervise into the sea, i awoke, the spectre ship. together with all my comrades ; life returned, but we could do and say nothing but what had been done and said on that fatal night. thus we sailed for fifty years, neither living nor dy- ing, for how could we reach the land ? with mad joy we ever dashed along, with full sails, before the storm, for we hoped at last to be wrecked upon some cliff, and to compose our weary heads to rest upon the bottom of the sea; but in this we never succeeded. now i shall die! once again, unknown preserver, accept my thanks, and if treasures can reward thee, then take my ship in token of my grati- tude.” with these words the captain let his head drop, and expired. like his companions, he immediately fell to dust. we collected this in a little vessel, and buried it on the shore : and i took workmen from the city to put the ship in good condition. after i had exchanged, with great advantage, the wares i had on board for others, i hired a crew, richly rewarded my friend muley, and set sail for my fatherland. i took a circuitous route, in the course of which i landed at several islands and countries, to bring my goods to market. the prophet the spectre ship. blessed my undertaking. after several years i ran into balsora, twice as rich as the dying captain had made me. my fellow-citizens were amazed at my wealth and good fortune, and would believe nothing else but that i had found the diamond-valley of the far-famed traveller sinbad. i left them to their belief; henceforth must the young folks of balsora, when they have scarcely arrived at their eighteenth year, go forth into the world, like me, to seek their fortunes. i, however, live in peace and tranquillity, and every five years make a journey to mecca, to thank the lord for his protection, in that holy place, and to entreat for the captain and his crew, that he will admit them into paradise. the caravan. his whole conduct had inspired them with re- spect and confidence. he had only one hand, and some of his companions conjectured that, perhaps, this loss gave so grave a tone to his character. zaleukos thus answered muley's friendly request : "i am much honored by your confidence : grief have i none, at least none from which, even with your best wishes, you can relieve me. nevertheless, since muley appears to blame me for my seriousness, i will relate to you something which will justify me when i am more grave than others. you see that i have lost my left hand; this came not to me at my birth, but i lost it in the most unhappy days of my life. whether i bear the fault thereof, whether i am wrong to be more seri- ous than my condition in life would seem to make me, you must decide, when i have told you the story of the hewn-off hand.” hewn off hand was born in constantino- ple ; my father was a drag- oman of the ottoman porte, and carried on, besides, a tolerably lucrative trade in cu essences and silk goods. he gave me a good education, csa since he partly superintended it a himself, and partly had me in- b structed by one of our priests. at first, he intended that i should one day take charge of his business : but since i displayed greater capa- city than he expected, with the ad- u the story of vice of his friends, he resolved that i should study medicine; for a physician, if he only knows more than a common quack, can make his fortune in constantinople. many frenchmen were in the habit of com- ing to our house, and one of them prevailed upon my father to let me go to the city of paris, in his fatherland, where one could learn the profession gratuitously, and with the best advantages: he himself would take me with him, at his own expense, when he returned. my father, who in his youth had also been a traveller, consented, and the frenchman told me to hold myself in readiness in three months. i was beside myself with delight to see foreign lands, and could not wait for the moment in which we should embark. at last the stranger had finished his business, and was ready to start. on the evening preceding our voyage, my father conducted me into his sleeping apart- ment; there i saw fine garments and weapons lying on the table; but what most attracted my eye was a large pile of gold, for i had nev- er before seen so much together. my father embraced me, and said. the hewn-off hand. * see, my son, i nave provided thee with garments for thy journey. these weapons are thine; they are those which thy grandfather hung upon me, when i went forth into foreign lands. i know thou canst wield them; but use them not, unless thou art attacked; then, how- ever, lay on with right good-will. my wealth is not great; see! i have divided it into three parts: one is thine; one shall be for my sup- port, and spare money in case of necessity; the third shall be sacred and untouched by me, it may serve thee in the hour of need." thus spoke my old father, while tears hung in his eyes, perhaps from a presentiment, for i have never seen him since. our voyage was favorable; we soon reach- ed the land of the franks, and six days' jour- ney brought us to the large city, paris. here my french friend hired me a room, and ad- vised me to be prudent in spending my money, which amounted to two thousand thalers. in this city i lived three years, and learned all that a well-educated physician should know. i would be speaking falsely, however, if i said that i was very happy, for the customs of the people pleased me not; moreover, i had but the story of few good friends among them, but these were young men of nobility. the longing after my native land at length became irresistible ; during the whole time i had heard nothing from my father, and i there- fore seized a favorable opportunity to return home. there was going an embassy from france to the supreme porte: i agreed to join the train of the ambassador as surgeon, and soon arrived once more at stamboul. my father's dwelling, however, i found closed, and the neighbors, astonished at see- ing me, said that my father had been dead for two months. the priest, who had instructed me in youth, brought me the key. alone and forsaken, i entered the desolate house. i found all as my father had left it; but the gold which he promised to leave to me, was missing. i in- quired of the priest respecting it, and he bowed and said : “ your father died like a holy man, for he left his gold to the church !”. this was incomprehensible to me; never- theless, what could i do? i had no proofs against the priest, and could only congratulate myself that he had not also looked upon the the hewn-off hand. house, and wares of my father, in the light of a legacy. this was the first misfortune that met me; but after this came one upon an- other. my reputation as a physician would not extend itself, because i was ashamed to play the quack; above all, i missed the recom- mendation of my father, who had introduced me to the richest and most respectable fami- lies; but now they thought no more of the poor zaleukos. moreover, the wares of my father found no sale, for his customers had been scattered at his death, and new ones came only after a long time. one day, as i was reflecting sorrowfully upon my situation, it occurred to me that in france i had often seen countrymen of mine, who travelled through the land, and exposed their goods at the market-places of the cities : i recol- lected that people gladly purchased of them, because they came from foreign lands; and that by such a trade, one could make a hun- dred-fold. my resolution was forthwith taken; i sold my paternal dwelling, gave a portion of the money obtained thereby to a tried friend to preserve for me, and with the remainder purchased such articles as were rare in france, the hewn-off hand. might recover from the fatigues of my journey. i hired myself a shop in the quarter of the city called st. croce, and in a tavern not far therefrom, took a couple of fine rooms which led out upon a balcony. immediately i had my bills carried around, which announced me as a physician and merchant. i had no sooner · opened my shop than buyers streamed in upon me, and although i asked a tolerably high price, still i sold more than others, because i was attentive and friendly to my customers. well satisfied, i had spent four days in florence, when one evening, after i had shut my shop, and according to custom was examin- ing my stock of ointment-boxes, i found, in one of the smaller ones, a letter which i did not remember to have put in. i opened it and found therein an invitation to repair that night, punctually at twelve, to the bridge called the ponte vecchio. for some time i reflected upon this, as to who it could be that had thus invited me; as, however, i knew not a soul in flo- rence, i thought, as had often happened al- ready, that one wished to lead me privately to some sick person. accordingly i resolved to go; nevertheless, as a precautionary measure, * the story of i put on the sabre which my father had given me. as it was fast approaching midnight, i set out upon my way, and soon arrived at the ponte vecchio; i found the bridge forsaken and desolate, and resolved to wait until it should appear who had addressed me. it was a cold night; the moon shone clear as i looked down upon the waters of the arno, which sparkled in her light. on the church of the city the twelfth hour was sounding, when i looked up, and before me stood a tall man, en- tirely covered with a red cloak, a corner of which he held before his face. at this sudden apparition i was at first somewhat startled, but i soon recovered myself and said, “if you have summoned me hither, tell me, what is your pleasure ?”. the red-mantle turned, and solemnly ejacu- lated, “follow!" my mind was nevertheless somewhat uneasy at the idea of going alone with this unknown; i stood still and said, “ not so, dear sir ; you will first tell me whither; moreover, you may show me your face a little, that i may see whether you have good intentions towards me." the story of ing the cloak, that i had found it; but in that case the unknown could send for it by a third person, and i would have no explanation of the matter. while thus meditating i took a nearer view of the garment. it was of heavy genoese velvet, of dark red color, bordered with fur from astrachan, and richly em- broidered with gold. the gorgeousness of the cloak suggested to me a plan, which i resolved to put in execution. i carried it to my shop and offered it for sale, taking care, however, to set so high a price upon it, that i would be certain to find no purchaser. my object in this was to fix my eye keenly upon every one who should come to inquire after it; for the figure of the unknown, which, after the loss of the mantle, had been exposed to me distinctly though transiently, i could recognise out of thousands. many merchants came after the cloak, the extraordinary beauty of which drew all eyes upon it; but none bore the slightest resemblance to the unknown, none would give for it the high price of two hun- dred zechins. it was surprising to me, that when i asked one and another whether there was a similar mantle in florence, all answered the hewn-off hand. in the negative, and protested that they had never seen such costly and elegant workman- ship. it was just becoming evening, when at last there came a young man who had often been in there, and had also that very day bid high for the mantle; he threw upon the table a bag of zechins, exclaiming- “by heaven! zaleukos, i must have your mantle, should i be made a beggar by it.” immediately he began to count out his gold pieces. i was in a great dilemma ; i had ex- posed the mantle, in order thereby to get a sight of my unknown friend, and now came a young simpleton to give the unheard-of price. nevertheless, what remained for me? i com- plied, for on the other hand the reflection con- soled me, that my night adventure would be so well rewarded. the young man put on the cloak and departed; he turned, however, upon the threshold, while he loosened a paper which was attached to the collar, and threw it to- wards me, saying, “here, zaleukos, hangs something, that does not properly belong to my purchase.” indifferently, i received the note ; but lo! these were the contents :- the story of “ this night, at the hour thou knowest, bring the mantle to the ponte vecchio; four hundred zechins await thee !" i stood as one thunder-struck: thus had i trifled with fortune, and entirely missed my aim. nevertheless, i reflected not long; catch- ing up the two hundred zechins, i bounded to the side of the young man and said, “ take your zechins again, my good friend, and leave me the cloak ; i cannot possibly part with it.” at first he treated the thing as a jest, but when he saw it was earnest, he fell in a pas- sion at my presumption, and called me a fool; and thus at last we came to blows. i was fortunate enough to seize the mantle in the scuffle, and was already making off with it, when the young man called the police to his assistance, and had both of us carried before a court of justice. the magistrate was much astonished at the accusation, and adjudged the cloak to my opponent. i however, offered the young man twenty, fifty, eighty, at last a hun- dred, zechins, in addition to his two hundred, if he would surrender it to me. what my en- treaties could not accomplish, my gold did. he took my good zechins, while i went off in the story of face, as if wishing to conceal his tears. he beckoned me to the bed, and bidding me set about my business speedily yet carefully, went out by the door. i seized my knives, which, as a physician, i constantly carried with me, and approached the bed. only the head of the corpse was visible, but that was so beautiful that the deep- est compassion involuntarily came over me. in long braids the dark hair hung down; the face was pale, the eyes closed. at first, i made an incision in the skin, according to the practice of surgeons when they remove a limb. then i took my sharpest knife and cut entirely through the throat. but, horror! the dead opened her eyes--shut them again—and in a deep sigh seemed now, for the first time, to breathe forth her life! straightway a stream of hot blood sprang forth from the wound. i was convinced that i had killed the poor girl ; for that she was dead there could be no doubt--from such a wound there was no chance of recovering. i stood some mo- ments in anxious wo, thinking on what had happened. had the red-mantle deceived me, or was his sister, perhaps, only apparently the story of not denounce me. i immediately resolved to attend to my business in my shop, and to put on as careless an air as possible. but, alas! a new misfortune, which i now for the first time observed, augmented my sorrow. my cap and girdle, as also my knives, were miss- ing; and i knew not whether they had been left in the chamber of the dead, or lost during my flight. alas! the former seemed more probable, and they could discover in me the murderer. i opened my shop at the usual time; a neigh- bor stepped in, as was his custom, being a communicative man. “ah! what say you to the horrid deed,” he cried, “that was commit- ted last night ?” i started as if i knew noth- ing. “how! know you not that with which the whole city is filled ? know you not that last night, the fairest flower in florence, bian- ca, the daughter of the governor, was murder- ed? ah! only yesterday i saw her walking happily through the streets with her bride- groom, for to-day she would have had her nup- tial festival!" every word of my neighbor was a dagger to my heart; and how often returned my tor- the hewn-off hand. ments! for each of my customers told me the story, one more frightfully than another; yet not one could tell it half so horribly as it had seemed to me. about mid-day, an officer of justice unexpectedly walked into my shop, and asked me to clear it of the bystanders. “signor zaleukos,” said he, showing me the articles i had lost, “belong these things to you ?” i reflected whether i should not en- tirely disown them ; but when i saw through the half-opened door, my landlord and several acquaintances, who could readily testify against me, i determined not to make the matter worse by a falsehood, and acknowledged the articles exhibited as my own. the officer told me to follow him, and conducted me to a spacious building, which i soon recognised as the prison. then, a little farther on, he showed me into an apartment. my situation was terrible, as i reflected on it in my solitude. the thought of having com- mitted a murder, even against my wish, re- turned again and again. moreover, i could not conceal from myself that the glance of the gold had dazzled my senses; otherwise i would not have fallen so blindly into the snare. * the story of two hours after my arrest, i was led from my chamber, and after descending several flights of stairs, entered a spacious saloon. around a long table hung with black, were seated twelve men, mostly gray with age. along the side of the room, benches were ar- ranged, on which were seated the first people of florence. in the gallery, which was built quite high, stood the spectators, closely crowd- ed together. as soon as i reached the black table, a man with a gloomy, sorrowful air arose -it was the governor. he told the audience that, as a father, he could not judge impartially in this matter, and that he, for this occasion, would surrender his seat to the oldest of the senators. the latter was a gray-headed man, of at least ninety years. he arose, stooping beneath the weight of age; his temples were covered with thin white hair, but his eyes still burned brightly, and his voice was strong and steady. he began by asking me whether i confessed the murder. i entreated his atten- tion, and with dauntless, distinct voice, related what i had done and all that i knew. i ob- served that the governor during my recital turned first pale, then red, and when i conclu- the hewn-off hand. ded, became furious. “how, wretch!” he cried out to me,“ wishest thou thus to lay upon another, the crime thy avarice has committed ?” the senator rebuked him for his interrup- tion, after having of his own free will resigned his right; moreover, that it was not so clear, that i had done the deed through avarice, for according to his own testimony, nothing had been taken from the corpse. yes, he went still further; he told the governor that he must give an account of his daughter's early life, for in this way only could one conclude whether i had told the truth or not. immedi- ately he closed the court for that day, for the purpose, as he said, of consulting the papers of the deceased, which the governor was to give him. i was carried back to my prison, where i passed a sorrowful day, constantly occupied with the ardent hope, that they would in some way discover the connection between the de- ceased and the red-mantle. full of hope, i proceeded the next day to the justice-hall. several letters lay upon the table; the old senator asked whether they were of my writing. i looked at them, and found that they were by the same hand as the story of both the letters that i had received. this i disclosed to the senator; but he seemed give but little weight to it, answering that i must have written both, for the name subscribed was unquestionably a z, the initial of my name. the letters, however, contained men- aces against. the deceased, and warnings against the marriage which she was on the point of consummating. the governor seem- ed to have imparted something strange and untrue, with respect to my person ; for i was treated this day with more suspicion and se- verity. for my justification, i appealed to the papers, which would be found in my room, but i was informed that search had been made and nothing found. thus, at the close of the court, vanished all my hope; and when, on the third day, i was led again to the hall, the judg. ment was read aloud, that i was convicted of a premeditated murder, and sentenced to death. to such extremity had i come; forsaken by all that was dear to me on earth, far from my native land, innocent and in the bloom of my years, i was to die by the axe! on the evening of this terrible day which had decided my fate, i was seated in my lonely the hewn-off hand. dungeon, my hopes past, my thoughts seriously turned upon death, when the door of my prison opened, and a man entered who regarded me long in silence. “do i see you again, in this situation, zaleu- kos ?” he began. by the dim light of my lamp i had not recognised him, but the sound of his voice awoke within me old recollections. it was valetty, one of the few friends i had made during my studies at paris. he said that he had casually come to florence, where his father, a distinguished man, resided; he had heard of my story, and come to see me once more, to inquire with his own lips, how i could have been guilty of such an awful crime. i told him the whole history: he seemed lost in wonder, and conjured me to tell him, my only friend, all the truth, and not to depart with a lie upon my tongue. i swore to him with the most solemn oath, that i had spoken the truth ; and that no other guilt could be attached to me, than that, having been blinded by the glance of the gold, i had not seen the improba- bility of the stranger's story. “ then did you not know bianca ?” asked he. i assured him that i had never seen her. valetty thereupon the story of told me that there was a deep mystery in the matter; that the governor in great haste had urged my condemnation, and that a report was current among the people, that i had known bianca for a long time, and had mur- dered her out of revenge for her intended mar- riage with another. i informed him that all this was probably true of the red-mantle, but that i could not prove his participation in the deed. valetty embraced me, weeping, and promised me to do all that he could ; to save my life, it nothing more. i had not much hope ; never- theless, i knew that my friend was a wise man, and well acquainted with the laws, and that he would do all in his power to preserve me. two long days was i in suspense; at length valetty appeared. “i bring consolation, though even that is attended with sorrow. you shall live and be free, but with the loss of a hand !" overjoyed, i thanked my friend for my life. he told me that the governor had been inex- orable, and would not once look into the mat- ter: that at length, however, rather than appear unjust, he had agreed, if a similar case could be found in the annals of florentine history, that my penalty should be regulated by the the hewn-off hand. that a strange man had, in my name, bought a house in the quarter of the greeks, and told the neighbors that i would soon, myself, re- turn. i immediately proceeded to it with my friend, and was joyfully received by all my old acquaintances. an aged merchant handed me a letter which the man who purchased for me had left. i read :- “ zaleukos! two hands stand ready to work unceasingly, that thou mayest not feel the loss of one. that house which thou seest and all therein are thine, and every year shalt thou receive so much, that thou shalt be among the rich of thy nation. mayest thou forgive one who is more unhappy than thyself!" i could guess who was the writer, and the merchant told me, in answer to my inquiry that it was a man covered with a red cloak, whom he had taken for a frenchman. i knew enough to convince me that the unknown was not entirely devoid of generous feeling. in my new house i found all arranged in the best style; a shop, moreover, full of wares, finer than any i had ever had. ten years have elapsed since then ; more in compliance with ancient custom, than because it is neces- the caravan. sary, do i continue to travel in foreign lands for purposes of trade, but the land which was so fatal to me i have never seen since. every year i receive a thousand pieces of gold ; but although it rejoices me to know that this unfortunate is so noble, still can his money never remove wo from my soul, for there lives forever the heart-rending image of the murdered bianca! thus ended the story of zaleukos, the grecian merchant. with great interest had the others listened; the stranger, in particu- far, seemed to be wrapt up in it: more than · the caravan. once he had drawn a deep sigh, and muley looked as if he had had tears in his eyes. no one spoke for some time after the recital. “and hate you not the unknown, who so basely cost you a noble member of your body, and even put your life in danger ?” inquired selim. “perhaps there were hours at first,” an- swered the greek, “in which my heart ac- cused him before god, of having brought this misfortune upon me, and embittered my life; but i found consolation in the religion of my fathers, which commanded me to love my ene- mies. moreover, he probably is more unhappy than myself.” “you are a noble man!” exclaimed selim, cordially pressing the hand of the greek. the leader of the escort, however, here in- terrupted their conversation. he came with a troubled air into the tent, and told them that they could not give themselves up to repose, for this was the place in which caravans were usually attacked, and his guards imagined they had seen several horsemen in the distance. the merchants were confounded at this in. telligence. selim, the stranger, however, ex- the caravan. lance, and commanded one of the slaves to plant it in front of the tent: he would venture his life upon it, he said, that the horsemen, when they saw this signal, would quietly march back again. muley trusted not the result; still the slave put out the lance in front of the tent. meanwhile all in the camp had seized their weapons, and were looking upon the horsemen in eager expectation. the latter, however, appeared to have espied the signal; they suddenly swerved from their direct course towards the encampment, and, in a large circle, moved off to the side. struck with wonder, the travellers stood some moments, gazing alternately at the horse- men and the stranger. the latter stood in front of the tent quite indifferently, as though nothing had happened, looking upon the plain before him. at last muley broke the silence. “who art thou, mighty stranger," he ex- claimed," that restrainest with a glance the wild hordes of the desert ?” “ you rate my art higher than it deserves,” answered selim baruch. “i observed this signal when i fled from captivity; what it means, i know not-only thus much i know, * the caravan. his death. he however had reached an old age, so that before two years i returned to my native land, having known nothing, before, of the misfortune which had meanwhile fallen upon my family, and how allah had turned it to advantage. busslnky a.n.ora sc. ilx fatima's deliverance. viii y brother mustapha and my sister fatima were al- most of the same age; the former was at most but two years older. they loved o each other fervently, and ou did in concert, all that could lighten, for our suffering father, the burden of his old age. on fatima’s seventeenth birthday, my brother prepared a festival. he invited all her com. panions, and set before them a choice banquet in the gardens of fatima's deliverance. our father, and, towards evening, proposed to them to take a little sail upon the sea, in a boat which he had hired, and adorned in grand style. fatima and her companions agreed with joy, for the evening was fine, and the city, particularly when viewed by evening from the sea, promised a magnificent prospect. the girls, however, were so well pleased upon the bark, that they continually entreated my brother to go farther out upon the sea. mus- tapha, however, yielded reluctantly, because a corsair had been seen, for several days back, in that vicinity. not far from the city, a promontory project- ed into the sea ; thither the maidens were anxious to go, in order to see the sun sink into the water. having rowed thither, they beheld a boat occupied by armed men. anticipating no good, my brother commanded the oarsmen to turn the vessel, and make for land. his apprehensions seemed, indeed, to be confirmed, for the boat quickly approached that of my brother, and getting ahead of it, (for it had more rowers,) ran between it and the land. the young girls, moreover, when they knew the danger to which they were exposed, sprang fatima's deliverance. up with cries and lamentations : in vain mus- tapha sought to quiet them, in vain enjoined upon them to be still, lest their running to and fro should upset the vessel. it was of no avail ; and when, in consequence of the proximity of the other boat, all ran upon the further side, it was upset. meanwhile, they had observed from the land the approach of the strange boat, and, inasmuch as, for some time back, they had been in anxiety on account of corsairs, their suspicions were excited, and several boats put off from the land to their assistance: but they only came in time to pick up the drowning. in the confusion, the hostile boat escaped. in both barks, however, which had taken in those who were preserved, they were uncertain whether all had been saved. they approach- ed each other, and, alas ! found that my sister and one of her companions were missing; at the same time, in their number a stranger was discovered, who was known to none. in an. swer to mustapha's threats, he confessed that he belonged to the hostile ship, which was ly- ing at anchor two miles to the eastward, and that his companions had left him behind in fatima's deliverance. search of his sister and her friend, after having asked the blessing of his father upon his efforts, and now that father had sent him forth into the world, laden with his curse. as, however, his former grief had bowed him down, so this con- summation of misfortune, which he had not deserved, tended to steel his mind. he went to the imprisoned pirate, and, demanding whither the ship was bound, learned that she carried on a trade in slaves, and usually had a great sale thereof in balsora. on his return to the house, in order to pre- pare for his journey, the anger of his father seemed to have subsided a little, for he sent him a purse full of gold, to support him during his travels. mustapha, thereupon, in tears took leave of the parents of zoraida, (for so his affianced was called,) and set out upon the route to balsora. mustapha travelled by land, because from our little city there was no ship that went di- rect to balsora. he was obliged, therefore, to use all expedition, in order not to arrive too long after the sea-robbers. having a good horse and no luggage, he hoped to reach this city by the end of the sixth day. on the fatima’s deliverance. distinctly sounded the melody of a guitar, blended with two fine manly voices. it seem- ed to my brother as if people who had chosen so blithesome a resting-place, could have no evil intentions towards himself; and according- ly, without apprehension, he obeyed the sum- mons of his conductors, who had unbound his feet, and made signs to him to follow. they led him into a tent which was larger than the rest, and on the inside was magnificently fitted up. splendid cushions embroidered with gold, woven carpets, gilded censers, would elsewhere have bespoken opulence and respectability, but here seemed only the booty of a robber band. upon one of the cushions an old and small-sized man was reclining: his countenance was ugly; a dark-brown and shining skin, a disgusting expression around his eyes, and a mouth of malicious cunning, combined to ren- der his whole appearance odious. although this man sought to put on a commanding air, still mustapha soon perceived that not for him was the tent so richly adorned, and the conver- sation of his conductors seemed to confirm him in his opinion. fatima's deliverance. “where is the mighty ?” inquired they of the little man. “he is out upon a short hunt,” was the an- swer; "but he has commissioned me to attend to his affairs." “ that has he not wisely done,” rejoined one of the robbers ; "for it must soon be de- termined whether this dog is to die or be ran- somed, and that the mighty knows better than thou.” being very sensitive in all that related to his usurped dignity, the little man, raising himself, stretched forward in order to reach the other's ear with the extremity of his hand, for he seemed desirous of revenging himself by a blow; but when he saw that his attempt was fruitless, he set about abusing him (and indeed the others did not remain much in his debt) to such a degree, that the tent resounded with their strife. thereupon, of a sudden, the tent- door opened, and in walked a tall, stately man, young and handsome as a persian prince. his garments and weapons, with the exception of a richly-mounted poniard and gleaming sabre, were plain and simple; his serious eye, however, and his whole ap- fatimas deliverance. pearance, demanded respect without exciting fear. “who is it that dares to engage in strife within my tent ?” exclaimed he, as they started back aghast. for a long time deep stillness prevailed, till at last one of those who had cap- tured mustapha, related to him how it had be- gun. thereupon the countenance of “the mighty,” as they had called him, seemed to grow red with passion. “when would i have placed thee, hassan, over my concerns ?” he cried, in frightful ac- cents, to the little man. the latter, in his fear, shrunk until he seemed even smaller than be- fore, and crept towards the door of the tent. one step of the mighty was sufficient to send him through the entrance with a long singular bound. as soon as the little man had vanish- ed, the three led mustapha before the master of the tent, who had meanwhile reclined upon the cushion. “here bring we thee him, whom thou com- mandedst us to take.” he regarded the pris- oner for some time, and then said, “bashaw of sulieika, thine own conscience will tell thee why thou standest before orbasan.” when fatima's deliverance. upon awaking, he found himself all alone in the tent, but, before the entrance, heard several voices in conversation, which seemed to be- long to the swarthy little man and the bandit- chief. he listened awhile, and to his horror heard the little man eagerly urging the other to slay the stranger, since, if he were let go, he could betray them all. mustapha immedi- ately perceived that the little man hated him, for having been the cause of his rough treat- ment the day before. the mighty seemed to be reflecting a moment. "no," said he ; "he is my guest, and the laws of hospitality are with me sacred: more- over, he does not look like one that would be- tray us.” having thus spoken, he threw back the tent- cover, and walked in. “peace be with thee, mustapha !” he said : “let us taste the morning- drink, and then prepare thyself for thy journey." he offered my brother a cup of sherbet, and after they had drunk, they saddled their horses, and mustapha mounted, with a lighter heart, indeed, than when he entered the vale. they had soon turned their backs upon the tents, and took a broad path, which led into the for- fatima's deliverance. est. the mighty informed my brother, that this bashaw whom they had captured in the chase, had promised them that they should re- main undisturbed within his jurisdiction; but some weeks before, he had taken one of their bravest men, and had him hung, after the most terrible tortures. he had waited for him a long time, and to-day he must die. mustapha ventured not to say a word in opposition, for he was glad to have escaped himself with a whole skin. at the entrance of the forest, the mighty checked his horse, showed mustapha the way, and gave him his hand with these words: “mustapha, thou becamest in a strange way the guest of the robber orbasan. i will not ask thee not to betray what thou hast seen and heard. thou hast unjustly endured the pains of death, and i owe thee a recompense. take this dagger as a remembrance, and when thou hast need of help, send it to me, and i will hasten to thy assistance. this purse thou wilt perhaps need upon thy journey.” my brother thanked him for his generosity; he took the dagger, but refused the purse. orbasan, however, pressed once again his hand, fatima’s deliverance. let the money fall to the ground, and galloped with the speed of the wind into the forest mustapha, seeing that he could not overtake him, dismounted to secure the purse, and was astonished at the great magnanimity of his host, for it contained a large sum of gold. he thanked allah for his deliverance, commended the generous robber to his mercy, and again started, with fresh courage, upon the route to balsora. lezah paused, and looked inquiringly at achmet, the old merchant. “no! if it be so," said the latter," then will i gladly correct my opinion of orbasan; for indeed he acted nobly towards thy brother.” “he behaved like a brave mussulman,” ex- claimed muley; "but i hope thou hast not here finished thy story, for, as it seems to me, we are all eager to hear still further, how it went with thy brother, and whether he succeeded in rescuing thy sister and the fair zoraida.” "i will willingly proceed,” rejoined lezah, “if it be not tiresome to you; for my brother's history is, throughout, full of the most wonder. ful adventures." fatima’s deliverance. about the middle of the seventh day after his departure, mustapha entered the gate of balsora. as soon as he had arrived at a ca- ravansery, he inquired whether the slave-mar- ket, which was held here every year, had opened; but received the startling answer, that he had come two days too late. his in- former deplored his tardiness, telling him that on the last day of the market, two female slaves had arrived, of such great beauty as to attract to themselves the eyes of all the merchants. he inquired more particularly as to their appearance, and there was no doubt in his mind, that they were the unfortunate ones of whom he was in search. moreover, he learned that the man who had purchased them both, was called thiuli-kos, and lived forty leagues from balsora, an illustrious and wealthy, but quite old man, who had been in his early years capudan-bashaw of the sultan, but had now settled down into private life with the riches he had acquired. mustapha was, at first, on the point of re- mounting his horse with all possible speed, in order to overtake thiuli-kos, who could fatima's deliverance. scarcely have had a day's start; but when he reflected that, as a single man, he could not prevail against the powerful traveller, could still less rescue from him his prey, he set about reflecting for another plan, and soon hit upon one. his resemblance to the bashaw of su- lieika, which had almost been fatal to him, sug- gested to him the thought of going to the house of thiuli-kos under this name, and, in that way, making an attempt for the deliverance of the two unfortunate maidens. accordingly he hired attendants and horses, in which the money of orbasan opportunely came to his as- sistance, furnished himself and his servants with splendid garments, and set out in the di- rection of thiuli's castle. after five days he arrived in its vicinity. it was situated in a beautiful plain, and was surrounded on all sides by lofty walls, which were but slightly over- topped by the structure itself. when musta- pha had arrived quite near, he dyed his hair and beard black, and stained his face with the juice of a plant, which gave it a brownish color, exactly similar to that of the bashaw. from this place he sent forward one of his attendants to the castle, and bade him ask a night's lodg. fatima's deliverance. mustapha was beside himself with fear and anger; at the very moment when he thought he had arrived at the happy accomplishment of his wishes, must this wretch come, and frus- trate them all! it was the only way to carry his plan into execution he must slay the little monster: with one bound, he sprang from the bed upon him; but the other, who might perhaps have anticipated something of the kind, let the lamp fall, which was immedi- ately extinguished, and rushed forth in the dark, crying vehemently for help. now was the time for decisive action; the maids he was obliged, for the moment, to aban- don, and attend only to his own safety: ac- cordingly, he approached the window, to see if he could not spring from it. it was a toler- able distance from the ground, and on the other side stood a lofty wall, which he would have to surmount. reflecting, he stood by the window until he heard many voices ap- proaching his chamber : already were they at the door, when seizing desperately his dagger, and garments, he let himself down from the window. the fall was hard, but he felt that no bone was broken ; immediately he sprang fatima’s deliverance. being recognised, for the beard disfigured him so that he scarcely knew himself. arrived in the vicinity of the castle, he an- nounced himself as the physician chakamanka- budibaba, and matters turned out as he had expected. the splendor of the name procured him extraordinary favor with the old fool, who invited him to table. chakamankabudibaba appeared before thiuli, and, having conversed with him scarcely an hour, the old man re- solved that all his female slaves should sub- mit to the examination of the wise physician. the latter could scarcely conceal his joy at the idea of once more beholding his beloved sister, and with palpitating heart followed thi- uli, who conducted him to his seraglio. they reached an unoccupied room, which was beau- tifully furnished. “chambaba, or whatever thou mayest be called, my good physician,” said thiuli-kos, “ look once at that hole in the wall; thence shall each of my slaves stretch forth her arm, and thou canst feel whether the pulse betoken sickness or health.” answer as he might, mustapha could not arrange it so that he might see them ; never- * fatima's deliverance. fatima once more, pushed the note beneath her bracelet, and then handed her the liquid through the opening in the wall. thiuli seemed to be in great anxiety on fatima's account, and postponed the examination of the rest to a more fitting opportunity. as he left the room with mustapha, he addressed him in sorrowful ac- cents : “chadibaba, tell me plainly, what thinkest thou of fatima's illness ?” my brother answered with a deep sigh : “ah, sir, may the prophet give you consola- tion! she has a slow fever, which may, per- haps, cost her life !" then burned thiuli's anger: “what sayest thou, cursed dog of a physician ? she, for whom i gave two thousand gold pieces-shall she die like a cow ? know, if thou preservest her not, i will chop off thine head!” my brother immediately saw that he had made a misstep, and again inspired thiuli with hope. while they were yet conversing, a black slave came from the seraglio to tell the physician, that the drink had been of no as- sistance. “put forth all thy skill, chakamdababelda, fati deliverano fatima’s deliverance. or whatever thy name may be; i will pay thee what thou askest !” cried out thiuli-kos, well-nigh howling with sorrow, at the idea of losing so much gold. “i will give her a potion, which will put her out of all danger," answered the physician. “ yes, yes !-give it her,” sobbed the old thiuli. with joyful heart mustapha went to bring his soporific, and having given it to the black slave, and shown him how much it was neces- sary to take for a dose, he went to thiuli, and, telling him he must procure some medicinal herbs from the sea, hastened through the gate. on the shore, which was not far from the cas- tle, he removed his false garments, and cast them into the water, where they floated mer- rily around; concealing himself, however, in a thicket, he awaited the night, and then stole softly to the burying-place of thiuli's castle. hardly an hour had mustapha been absent, when they brought thiuli the intelligence that his slave fatima was in the agonies of death. he sent them to the sea-coast to bring the physician back with all speed, but his messen- gers returned alone, with the news that the fatima's deliverance. in the same city where he had converted himself into a physician, with his last money he purchased a horse, and procured lodgings for fatima, with a poor woman in the suburbs. he, however, hastened towards the mountain where he had first met orbasan, and reached it in three days. he soon found the tent, and unexpectedly walked in before the chieftain, who welcomed him with friendly courtesy. he related to him his unsuccessful attempts, whereupon the grave orbasan could not re- strain himself from laughing a little now and then, particularly when he announced himself as the physician chakamankabudibaba. at the treachery of the little man, however, he was furious; and swore, if he could find him, to hang him with his own hand. he assured my brother that he was ready to assist him the moment he should be sufficiently recovered from his ride. accordingly, mustapha remain- ed that night again in the robber's tent, and with the first morning-red they set out, orba- san taking with him three of his bravest men, well mounted and armed. they rode rapidly, and in two days arrived at the little city, where mustapha had left the rescued fatima. thence fatima's deliverance. they rode on with her unto the forest, from which, at a little distance, they could see thiu- li's castle ; there they concealed themselves, to await the night. as soon as it was dark, guided by fatima, they proceeded softly to the brook, where the aqueduct commenced, and soon found it. there they left fatima and a serv- ant with the horses, and prepared themselves for the descent: before they started, however, fatima once more repeated, with precision, the directions she had given; namely, that, on emerging from the fountain into the inner court-yard, they would find a tower in each corner on the right and left; that inside the sixth gate from the right tower, they would find fatima and zoraida, guarded by two black slaves. well provided with weapons and iron implements for forcing the doors, mustapha, orbasan, and the two other men, descended through the aqueduct; they sank, indeed, in water, up to the middle, but not the less vigor- ously on that account did they press forward. in a half hour they arrived at the fountain, and immediately began to ply their tools. the wall was thick and firm, but could not long resist the united strength of the four men; they fatima's deliverance.. fat deliverance. soon made a breach sufficiently large to allow them to slip through without difficulty. orba- san was the first to emerge, and then assisted the others. being now all in the court-yard, they examined the side of the castle which lay before them, in order to find the door which had been described. but they could not agree as to which it was, for on counting from the right tower to the left, they found one door which had been walled up, and they knew not whether fatima had included this in her cal- culation. but orbasan was not long in making up his mind : “my good sword will open to me this gate,” he exclaimed, advancing to the sixth, while the others followed him. they opened it, and found six black slaves lying asleep upon the floor; imagining that they had missed the object of their search, they were already softly drawing back, when a figure raised itself in the corner, and in well-known accents called for help. it was the little man of the robber-encampment. but ere the slaves knew what had taken place, orbasan sprang upon the little man, tore his girdle in two, stopped his mouth, and bound his hands be- hind his back ; then he turned to the slaves, fatima's deliverance. some of whom were already half bound by mustapha and the two others, and assisted in completely overpowering them. they pre- sented their daggers to the breasts of the slaves, and asked where nourmahal and mirza were: they confessed that they were in the next chamber. mustapha rushed into the room, and found fatima and zoraida awakened by the noise. they were not long in collecting their jewels and garments, and following my brother. meanwhile the two robbers proposed to or- basan to carry off what they could find, but he forbade them, saying: “it shall never be told of orbasan, that he enters houses by night, to steal gold.” mustapha, and those he had preserved, quickly stepped into the aqueduct, whither orbasan promised to follow them im- mediately. as soon as they had departed, the chieftain and one of the robbers led forth the little man into the court-yard; there, having fastened around his neck a silken cord, which they had brought for that purpose, they hung him on the highest point of the fountain. after having thus punished the treachery of the wretch, they also entered the aqueduct, and fatima's deliverance. followed mustapha. with tears the two maid- ens thanked their brave preserver, orbasan; but he urged them in haste to their flight, for it was very probable that thiuli-kos would seek them in every direction. with deep emotion, on the next day, did mustapha and the rescued maidens part with orbasan. indeed, they never will forget him! fatima, the freed slave, left us in disguise for balsora, in order to take passage thence to her native land. after a short and agreeable journey, my brother and his companions reached home. delight at seeing them once more, almost killed my old father; the next day after their arrival, he gave a great festival, to which all the city was invited. before a large assemblage of relations and friends, my brother had to relate his story, and with one voice they praised him and the noble robber. when, however, mustapha had finished, my father arose and led zoraida to him. “thus remove i,” said he with solemn voice, “the curse from thy head; take this maiden as the reward which thy unwearied courage has merited. receive my fatherly blessing: and * the caravan. may there never be wanting to our city, men who, in brotherly love, in prudence, and bra- very, may be thy equals !" the caravan had reached the end of the desert, and gladly did the travellers salute the green meadows, and thickly-leaved trees, of whose charms they had been deprived for so many days. in a lovely valley lay a caravan- sery, which they selected as their resting-place for the night; and though it offered but limited accommodations and refreshment, still was the the caravan. whole company more happy and sociable than ever: for the thought of having passed through the dangers and hardships, with which a jour- ney through the desert is ever accompanied, had opened every heart, and attuned their minds to jest and gayety. muley, the young and merry merchant, went through a comic dance, and sang songs thereto, which elicited a laugh, even from zaleukos, the serious greek. but not content with having raised the spirits of his comrades by dance and merriment, he also gave them, in the best style, the story he had promised, and, as soon as he could recover breath from his gambols, began the following tale. little muck. body, little and smart as it was, carried a head much larger and thicker than that of others. he lived all alone in a large house, and even cooked for himself; moreover, it would not have been known in the city whether he was alive or dead, (for he went forth but once in four weeks,) had not every day, about the hour of noon, strong fumes come forth from the house. nevertheless, in the evening he was often to be seen walking to and fro upon his roof; although, from the street, it seemed as if it were his head alone that was running around there. i and my comrades were wicked fellows, who teased and ridiculed every one; accord- ingly, to us it was a holiday when the little muck went forth: on the appointed day we would assemble before his house, and wait for him to come out. when, then, the door open- ed, and at first the immense head and still larger turban peered forth, when the rest of the body followed covered with a small cloak which had been irregularly curtailed, with wide pantaloons, and a broad girdle in which hung a long dagger, so long that one could not tell whether muck was fastened to the dagger, the story of or the dagger to muck-when in this guise he came forth, then would the air resound with our cries of joy ; then would we aling our caps aloft, and dance round him, like mad. little muck, however, would salute us with a serious bow, and walk with long strides through the street, shuffling now and then his feet, for he wore large wide slippers, such as i have never elsewhere seen. we boys would run behind him, crying continually, “little muck! little muck!” we also had a droll little verse, which we would now and then sing in his honor ; it ran thus :- “ little muck, oh little muck ! what a fine, brave dwarf art thou ! livest in a house so tall; goest forth but once a month, mountain-headed, though so small. turn thyself but once, and look ! run, and catch us, little muck." in this way had we often carried on our sport, and, to my shame, i must confess that i took the most wicked part in it, for i often plucked him by the mantle, and once trod from behind on his large slippers, so that he fell down. this was, at first, a source of little muck. the greatest amusement to me, but my laughter soon ceased when i saw the little muck go up to my father's house ; he walked straight in, and remained there some time. i conceal- ed myself near the door, and saw muck come forth again, escorted by my father, who re- spectfully shook his hand, and with many bows parted with him at the door. my mind was uneasy, and i remained some time in my con- cealment; at length, however, hunger, which i feared more than blows, drove me in, and ashamed and with downcast head, i walked in before my father. “thou hast, as i hear, insulted the good muck,” said he with a very serious tone. “i will tell thee the history of this muck, and then i am sure thou wilt ridicule him no more. but first, thou shalt receive thy allowance.” the allowance was five-and-twenty lashes, which he took care to count only too honestly. he thereupon took a long pipe-stem, unscrewed the amber mouthpiece, and beat me more se- verely than he had ever done before. when the five-and-twenty were all made up, he commanded me to attend, and told me the following story of little muck. little muck. what was too long, and then put them on. he seemed, however, to have forgotten that he must also take from their width; hence the strange dress that he wears at the present day; the huge turban, the broad girdle, the wide breeches, the blue cloak, all these he has inherited from his father, and worn ever since. the long damascus dagger of his father, too, he attached to his girdle, and seizing a little staff, set out from the door. gayly he wandered, the whole day, for he had set out to seek his fortune: if he saw upon the ground a potsherd shining in the sunlight, he took care to pick it up, in the belief that he could change it into a diamond of the first water; if he saw in the distance the cupola of a mosque sparkling like fire, or the sea glitter- ing like a mirror, he would hasten up, fully persuaded that he had arrived at fairy-land. but ah! these phantoms vanished as he ap- proached, and too soon fatigue, and his stomach gnawed by hunger, convinced him that he was still in the land of mortals. in this way he travelled two days, in hunger and grief, and despaired of finding his fortune; the produce of the field was his only support, the hard earth the story of his bed. on the morning of the third day, he espied a large city upon an eminence. brightly shone the crescent upon her pinnacles, varie- gated flags waved over the roofs, and seemed to be beckoning little muck to themselves. in surprise he stood still, contemplating the city and the surrounding country. “there at length will klein-muck find his fortune,” said he to himself, and in spite of his fatigue bounded in the air; “there or nowhere!" he collected all his strength, and walked to- wards the city. but although the latter seem- ed quite near, he could not reach it until mid- day, for his little limbs almost entirely refused him their assistance, and he was obliged to sit down to rest in the shade of a palm-tree. at last he reached the gate; he fixed the mantle jauntily, wound the turban still more tastily around his head, made the girdle broader, and arranged the dagger so as to fall still more ob- liquely: then, wiping the dust from his shoes, and seizing his cane, he marched bravely through the gate. he had already wandered through a few streets, but nowhere did any door open to him, nowhere did any one exclaim, as he had antici. little muck. out, he had to give them all his attention ; when they ate, he placed their bowls before them; and, at night, he had to lay them on silken cushions, and wrap them up in velvet coverings. there were, moreover, a few little dogs in the house, on which he was obliged to wait; but there were not so many ceremonies gone through with these as with the cats, whom frau ahavzi treated as her own chil- dren. as for the rest, muck led as retired a life as in his father's house, for with the ex- ception of the frau, he saw every day only dogs and cats. for a long time it went very well with lit- tle muck; he had enough to eat, and but little to do; and the old woman seemed to be per- fectly satisfied with him. but, by-and-by, the cats began to behave very badly; the moment the frau went out, they ran around the rooms as if possessed, threw down every thing in confusion, and broke considerable fine crock- ery, which stood in their way. when, how- ever, they heard their mistress coming up the steps, they would creep to their cushions, and wag their tails, when they saw her, as if noth- ing had happened. the frau ahavzi always * · the story of awoke, he reflected on the singular vision, and resolved to make the experiment immediately. he put on the slippers, lifted one foot, and be- gan to turn around upon his heel. but who- ever has attempted to perform this manœuvre in an enormously wide slipper, will not won- der that the little muck could not succeed, particularly when he remembers that his heavy head kept falling on this side and on that. the poor little fellow fell several times vio- lently upon his nose; nevertheless, that did not deter him from making the trial again, and at last he succeeded. like a wheel he went around upon his heel, wishing himself in the nearest large city, and—the slippers mounted into the air, ran with the speed of the wind through the clouds, and before little muck knew what to make of it, he found himself in a large market-place, where many stalls were erected, and innumerable men were busily running to and fro. he moved among the people, but considered it more prudent to re- tire into a less frequented street, for near the market one of the slippers bore him along so rapidly, that he almost fell down, or else ran little muck. against one and another with his projecting dagger, so that it was with difficulty he avoided their blows. little muck now seriously reflected what he should set about, in order to earn a piece of money. he had, it is true, a staff which would show him concealed treasures, but how could he find a place where gold or silver was buried. he could, indeed, in this emergency, have ex- hibited himself for money, but for this he was too proud. at last the quickness of his gait occurred to him. perhaps, thought he, my slippers can procure me support, and he de- termined to hire himself out as a courier. he ventured to hope that the king of the city re- warded such service well, so he inquired for the palace. before the door of the palace stood a guard, who asked him what he sought there. on answering that he was in search of service, they led him to the overseer of the slaves. before this one he laid his request, and en- treated that he might be admitted among the royal couriers. the overseer measured him with his eyes from head to foot, and said : “how! with thy little feet, which are scarcely a span long, wishest thou to become a royal little muck. erected, in order to see the boastful dwarf run. as soon as the king and his sons and daughters had taken their places upon the platform, the little muck walked forth upon the meadow, and made before the noble sove- reign a very elegant bow. a universal cry of joy arose, the moment they beheld the little fellow; such a figure had they never seen. the small body with the mighty head, the little cloak and the wide pantaloons, the long dagger in the broad girdle, the tiny feet in the immense slippers—no! it was so droll a sight they could not keep from laughing aloud. little muck, however, was not disconcerted by their laugh- ter. he proudly walked forward, supported by his cane, and awaited his opponent. at muck's own desire, the overseer of the slaves had se- lected the best runner. walking in, he placed himself near the dwarf, and both looked for the signal. thereupon the princess amarza made a sign with her veil as had been preconcerted, and, like two arrows shot from the same bow, the racers flew over the meadow. at first the courier took a tremendous bound, but muck pursued him in his slipper carriage, the story of overtook him, passed him, and had been stand- ing for some time at the goal, when his oppo- nent, gasping for breath, ran up. amazement for a few moments enchained the spectators : the king was the first to clap his hands; then shouted the crowd for joy, all exclaiming, “long live the little muck, the victor in the race !" meanwhile they had brought up the little man; he prostrated himself before the king, saying, “ most mighty king, i have here given thee but a small proof of my powers; al- low them, i pray thee, to give me a place : among thy couriers.” the king answer- ed: “nay, dear muck, thou shalt be my favorite messenger, and shalt remain about my person; every year shalt thou have a hundred gold pieces as thy wages, and thou shalt sup at the table of my first attendant.” then muck thought he had at last found the fortune, of which he had so long been in search, and was merry and light-hearted. moreover, he rejoiced in the peculiar favor of the king, for the latter employed him on his quickest and most secret errands, which he little muck. performed with the greatest care, and with in- conceivable rapidity. but the other attendants of the king were not well affected towards him, because they reluctantly saw themselves displaced from their lord's favor by a dwarf, who knew how to do nothing, but to run fast. they set on foot many a conspiracy against him in order to work his destruction, but all failed, through the confi- dence which the king placed in his private oberleibläufer, (for to this dignity had he in so short a time arrived.) muck, upon whom these movements against himself produced no effect, thought not of re- venge ; for that he had too good a heart : no, he reflected upon the means of making himself necessary to his enemies, and beloved by them. thereupon the staff, which in his good fortune he had forgotten, occurred to him; if he could find treasures, he thought the lords would be more favorably disposed towards him. he had before this often heard that the father of the present king had buried much of his gold, when the enemy had invaded the land; they said, moreover, that he had died without im- parting the secret to his son. from this time the story of muck always carried his cane, in the hope that he would some time pass over the place where the money of the old king was buried. - one evening, chance led him into a remote portion of the castle-garden, which he seldom visited, when suddenly he felt the staff move in his hand, and three times it beat upon the ground. he knew in an instant what this in. dicated; accordingly he drew forth his dagger, made marks on the surrounding trees, and then slipped back into the castle. then he procured a spade, and awaited night for his undertaking. treasure-digging, however, gave muck more trouble than he had anticipated. his arms were very feeble, his spade large and heavy; he might perhaps have been laboring a couple of hours, without getting any farther down than as many feet. at length he hit upon something hard, which sounded like iron : he then set to work still more diligently, and soon brought up a large cover; he then descended into the hole, in order to examine what the cover concealed, and found a large pot com- pletely full of gold pieces. his feeble wisdom, however, did not teach him to lift up the pot; the story of treasurer, his most wicked enemy, who him- self, even, now and then put his hand into his lord's coffers, exclaimed, “ he is a thief.” in order to be sure of the thing, they consulted together, and the, head cup-bearer, korchuz, placed himself one day, with a very sorrowful and depressed air, before the eyes of the king. he made his wo so apparent, that the king asked him what was the matter. “ah!" answered he, “i am sorry that i have lost the favor of my lord !” “why talkest thou idly, friend korchuz?” rejoined the monarch. “since when have i veiled from thee the sun of my favor ?" the cup-bearer answered, that he loaded his private oberleibläufer with money, but gave his poor faithful servants nothing. the king was much astonished at this accusation, had the story of muck's gold-distribution told him, and the conspirators soon aroused in him the suspicion that the dwarf had, in some way or other, stolen the money from the treasure- chamber. very pleasant was this turn of the matter to the treasurer, who would not other- wise have willingly submitted his accounts to examination. the king thereupon command- little muck. ed that they should secretly watch all the niovements of the dwarf, in order, if possible, to surprise him in the act. when, now, on the night which followed the fatal day, seeing his funds almost exhausted by his generosity, muck crept forth, with his spade, into the castle-garden, to bring new supplies from his secret treasury, the watch followed him in the distance, led by ahuli and archaz; and, at the moment when he was removing the gold from the pot to his cloak, they fell upon him, bound him, and immediately led him before the king. the latter, whom, independently of any thing else, this interruption of his sleep would have enraged, received his poor dwarf very ungraciously, and ordered an immediate trial. meanwhile they had dug the full pot out of the ground, and with the spade and cloak full of gold had placed it before the king. the treasurer said that he had surprised muck with his guard, just as he had buried this ves- sel of gold in the earth. the king thereupon inquired of the accused, whether it was true, and whence the gold had come. little muck, conscious of innocence, an- the story of swered that he had discovered this pot in the garden; that he had not buried it, but had brought it to light. all present laughed aloud at this defence; the king, however, provoked in the highest de- gree by the supposed impudence of the dwarf, exclaimed, “how, wretch! wilt thou so stu- pidly and shamelessly lie to thy king, after having stolen from him ? treasurer archaz, i command thee to say whether thou knowest this sum of gold to be the same that is missing from my treasury." the treasurer thereupon answered that he was sure of the thing; that so much and even more had been missing from the royal treas- ures; and he could take his oath that this was the stolen money. then the king command- ed them to place little muck in galling chains, and convey him to prison : to archaz, how- ever, he gave the gold, that he might restore it to the treasury. delighted at the fortunate issue of the matter, the officer took it, and counted out, at home, the glittering gold pieces ; but the bad man never disclosed that down in the pot lay a letter, to the following pur- port:- the story of commanded him to find it with his cane. in a few moments he succeeded in doing so, for the staff beat three times distinctly upon the ground. then the king saw that his treasurer had betrayed him, and sent him, as is customary in the east, a silken cord, wherewith he should strangle himself. to little muck, however, he said :- “i have indeed promised thee thy life, but it seems to me that this is not the only secret thou art possessed of, connected with this staff. therefore thou shalt remain in everlasting captivity, if thou do not confess what re- lation exists between it and thy rapid run- ning." little muck, whom one night in his dun- geon had deprived of all desire for further con- finement, acknowledged that his whole art lay in the slippers ; nevertheless, he informed not the king of the wonderful effect of turning three times upon the heel. the king put on the slippers, himself, in order to make the ex- periment, and ran, like mad, through the gar- den; often did he wish to hold up, but he knew not how to bring the slippers to a halt, and muck, who could not deny himself this re- little muck. he would not look so ridiculous, and, on trying it, he found that his ears had vanished. he ran straight back to the stream, in order to convince himself thereof; it was actually so; his ears had resumed their original figure, his long misshapen nose was no more! he soon perceived how all this had happened; from the first fig-tree he had received the long nose and ears, the second had relieved him of them: he saw with joy that kind destiny yet again placed in his hands the means of becoming fortunate. he plucked, therefore, from each tree as many figs as he could carry, and went back to the land which shortly before he had left. there, in the first town, he disguised himself by means of different garments; then, turning again to the city inhabited by the king, he soon arrived at it. for about a year ripe fruit had been quite scarce ; little muck, therefore, placed himself before the gate of the palace, for from his former residence there, it was well known to him, that here such rareties would be pur- chased by the kitchen-master for the royal table. muck had not long been seated, when he saw that dignitary walking across the court- the story of bait ? yard. he examined the articles of the tra- ders who had placed themselves at the pal- ace-gate; at length his eye fell upon muck's little basket. . “ah! a dainty morsel!" said he, “which will certainly please his majesty: what wish you for the whole basket ?" muck set a high price upon them, and the bargain was soon struck. the kitchen-master gave the basket to his slave, and went his way: meantime little muck stole away, for he feared, when the change should show itself on the heads of the court, that he, as the one who sold them, would be sought for punishment. at table the king was well pleased, and praised his kitchen-master more than ever, on account of his good kitchen, and the care with which he always sought the rarest morsels for his table; the officer, however, who well knew what dainties he had in the back-ground, smiled pleasantly, and let fall but few words: “ the day is not all past till evening,” or “ end good, all good;" so that the princesses were very curious to know what he would still bring on. the moment, however, he had the fine, inviting figs set upon the table, a universal little muck. “ah!" escaped the lips of those who were present. “how ripe! how delicate!". ex- claimed the king; “kitchen-master, thou art a whole-souled man, and deservest our peculiar favor!” thus speaking, the king, who with such choice dishes took care to be very spa- ring, with his own hands distributed the figs around the table. each prince and princess received two; the ladies of the court, the viziers and agas, each one; the rest he placed before himself, and began to swallow them with great delight. “in the name of heaven, father, why look- est thou so strange ?” suddenly exclaimed the princess amarza. all gazed in astonishment upon the king; vast ears hung down from his head, a long nose stretched itself bridge- like, over above his chin; upon themselves also they looked, one upon another, with amazement and horror; all, more or less, were adorned with the same strange head- dress. the horror of the court may be imagined. all the physicians in the city were imme- diately sent for; they came with a bluster- ing air, prescribed pills and mixtures, but the story of ears and noses remained. they operated on one of the princes, but the ears grew out again. from the place of concealment into which he had withdrawn, muck had heard the whole story, and perceived that it was now time for him to commence operations. he had already, with the money obtained by the sale of his figs, procured a dress which would rep- resent him as a learned man; a long beard of goat's hair completed the illusion. with a small sack full of figs he repaired to the royal palace, and offered his assistance as a foreign physician. at first they were quite incredu- lous; but when little muck gave a fig to one of the princes, and thereby restored ears and nose to their original shape, then were all eager to be cured by the stranger. but the king took him silently by the hand, and led him to his apartment; then, opening a door that led into the treasure-chamber, he made signs to muck to follow. “here are my treasures,” said the king; “choose for thyself: whatever it may be, it shall be thine, if thou wilt free me from this shameful evil.” this was sweet music in the little muck. ears of little muck: at the moment of enter- ing he had seen his slippers standing upon the floor, and hard by lay his little staff. he moved around the room, as if in wonder at the royal treasures; but no sooner had he reached his beloved shoes, than he hastily slipped into them, and seizing the little cane, tore off his false beard, and displayed to the astonished king the well-known countenance of his exiled muck. “false king !” said he, “who rewardest faithful service with ingratitude, take, as well- deserved punishment, the deformity which thou now hast. the ears i leave thee, that, each day they may remind thee of little * the caravan. muck.” having thus spoken, he turned quick- ly around upon his heel, wished himself far away, and before the king could call for help little muck had vanished. ever since, he has lived here in great affluence, but alone, for men he despises. experience has made him a wise man-one who, though there is something offensive in his exterior, deserves rather your admiration than your ridicule. such was my father's story. i assured him that i sincerely repented of my behavior to- wards the good little man, and he remitted the other half of the punishment which he had in- tended for me. to my comrades i told the wonderful history of the dwarf, and we con- ceived such an affection for him, that no one insulted him any more. on the contrary, we honored him as long as he lived, and bowed as low to him as to cadi or mufti. the travellers determined to rest a day in this caravansery, in order to refresh them- selves and their beasts for the rest of their the caravan. journey. the gayety of the day before again prevailed, and they diverted themselves with various sports. after the meal, however, they called upon the fifth merchant, ali sizah, to perform his duty to the rest, and give them a story. he answered, that his life was too poor in remarkable adventures for him to relate one connected therewith, but he would tell them something which had no relation to it: “ the story of the false prince.” the false, prince, urr sc mw here was once an honest journeyman tailor, by name labakan, who learned his trade with an excellent master in alexandria. it could not be said that la- bakan was unhandy with the needle; on the contrary, he could make excellent work: moreover, one would have done him injustice to have called him lazy. nevertheless, his companions knew not what to make of him, for he would often sew for hours to- the false prince. childhood ; the young man had never known his parents. but shortly before, elfi bey, hav- ing been attacked by his enemies, and, after three disastrous engagements, mortally wound- ed, was obliged to flee, and disclosed to his charge that he was not his nephew, but the son of a powerful lord, who, inspired with fear by the prophecy of his astrologer, had sent the young prince away from his court, with an oath never to see him again until his twenty- second birthday. elfi bey had not told him his father's name, but had enjoined upon him with the greatest precision, on the fourth day of the coming month ramadan, on which day he would be two-and-twenty years old, to re- pair to the celebrated pillar el-serujah, four days' journey east of alexandria : there he should offer to the men who would be standing by the pillar, a dagger which he gave him, with these words, 'here am i, whom ye seek!" if they answered, “blessed be the prophet, who has preserved thee !" then he was to follow them—they would lead him to his father. the journeyman tailor, labakan, was much astonished at this information ; from this time the false prince. he looked upon prince omar with envious eyes, irritated because fortune conferred upon him, though already he passed for the nephew of a mighty bashaw, the dignity of a king's son; but on him, whom she had endowed with all things necessary for a prince, bestowed in ridicule, an obscure lineage, and an every-day vocation. he instituted a comparison between himself and the prince. he was obliged to confess that the latter was a man of very lively aspect; that fine sparkling eyes belonged to him, a boldly-arched nose, a gentlemanly, complaisant demeanor, in a word, all the exter- nal accomplishments, which every one is wont to commend. but numerous as were the charms he found in his companion, still he was compelled to acknowledge to himself, that a labakan would be no less acceptable to the royal father than the genuine prince. these thoughts pursued labakan the whole day; with them he went to sleep in the near- est night-lodgings; but when he awoke in the morning, and his eye rested upon omar sleep- ing near him, who was reposing so quietly, and could dream of his now certain fortune, then arose in him the thought of gaining, by the false prince. stratagem or violence, what unpropitious des- tiny had denied him. the dagger, the return- ing prince's token of recognition, hung in the sleeper's girdle; he softly drew it forth, to plunge it in the breast of its owner. never- theless, the peaceable soul of the journeyman recoiled before thoughts of murder ; he con- tented himself with appropriating the dagger, and bridling for himself the faster horse of the prince; and, ere omar awoke to see himself despoiled of all his hopes, his perfidious com- panion was several miles upon his way. the day on which labakan robbed the prince was the first of the holy month rama. dan, and he had therefore four days to reach the pillar el-serujah, the locality of which was well known to him. although the region wherein it was situated could at farthest be at a distance of but four days' journey, still he hastened to reach it, through a constant fear of being overtaken by the real prince. by the end of the second day, he came in sight of the pillar el-serujah. it stood upon a little elevation, in the midst of an extensive plain, and could be seen at a distance of two or three leagues. labakan's heart beat high the false prince. at the sight: though he had had time enough on horseback, for the last two days, to think of the part he was to play, still a consciousness of guilt made him anxious ; the thought that he was born for a prince, however, encouraged him again, and he advanced towards the mark with renewed confidence. the country around the pillar was uninhab- ited and desert, and the new prince would have experienced some difficulty in finding susten- ance, if he had not previously supplied himself for several days. he lay down beside his horse beneath some palm-trees, and there awaited his distant destiny. towards the middle of the next day, he saw a large procession of horses and camels cross- ing the plain in the direction of the pillar el- serujah. it reached the foot of the hill, on which the pillar stood; there they pitched splendid tents, and the whole looked like the travelling-suite of some rich bashaw or sheik. labakan perceived that the numerous train which met his eye, had taken the pains to come hither on his account, and gladly would he that moment have shown them their future lord; but he mastered his eager desire to walk • the false prince. as prince; for, indeed, the next morning would consummate his boldest wishes. the morning sun awoke the too happy tailor to the most important moment of his life, which would elevate him from an inferior situation, to the side of a royal father. as he was bridling his horse to ride to the pillar, the injustice of his course, indeed, occurred to him; his thoughts pictured to him the anguish of the true prince, betrayed in his fine hopes; but the die was cast: what was done could not be un- done, and self-love whispered to him that he looked stately enough to pass for the son of the mightiest king. inspirited by these reflections, he sprang upon his horse, and collecting all his courage to bring him to an ordinary gallop, in less than a quarter of an hour, reached the foot of the hill. he dismounted from his horse, and fastened it to one of the shrubs that were growing near; then he drew the dagger of prince omar, and proceeded up the hill. at the base of the pillar six persons were standing around an old gray-haired man, of lofty king- like aspect. a splendid caftan of gold cloth surrounded by a white cashmere shawl, a snowy turban spangled with glittering pre- * the false prince. · cious stones, pointed him out as a man of opulence and nobility. to him labakan pro- ceeded, and bowing low before him, said, as he extended the dagger- “here am i, whom you seek.” “praise to the prophet who has preserved thee !” answered the gray-haired one, with tears of joy. “ omar, my beloved son, em- brace thine old father !” the good tailor was deeply affected by these solemn words, and sank, with mingled emotions of joy and shame, into the arms of the old noble. but only for a moment was he to enjoy the unclouded delight of his new rank; raising himself from the arms of the king, he saw a rider hastening over the plain in the direction of the hill. the traveller and his horse pre- sented a strange appearance; the animal, either from obstinacy or fatigue, seemed un- willing to proceed. he went along with a stumbling gait, which was neither a pace nor a trot; but the rider urged him on, with hands and feet, to a faster run. only too soon did labakan recognise his horse murva, and the real prince omar. but the evil spirit of false- hood once more prevailed within him, and he the false prince. have sprung upon labakan, but the bystand- ers, throwing themselves between, secured him, while the old man said : “truly, my beloved son, the poor man is crazed. let them bind him and place him on one of our dromedaries; perhaps we may be of some assistance to the unfortunate.” the anger of the prince had abated; in tears, he cried out to the old man, “my heart tells me that you are my father ; by the mem- ory of my mother, i conjure you-hear me!" “alas! god guard us!" answered he: “al- ready he again begins to talk wildly. how can the man come by such crazy thoughts ?" thereupon, seizing labakan's arm, he made him accompany him down the hill. they both mounted fine and richly-caparisoned cour- sers, and rode at the head of the procession, across the plain. they tied the hands of the unfortunate prince, however, and bound him securely upon a dromedary. two horsemen rode constantly by his side, who kept a watch- ful eye upon his every movement. the old prince was saaud, sultan of the wechabites. for some time had he lived without children ; at last a prince, for whom the false prince. he had so ardently longed, was born to him. but the astrologer, whom he consulted respect- ing the destiny of his son, told him that, until his twenty-second year, he would be in danger of being supplanted by an enemy. on that account, in order that he might be perfectly safe, had the sultan given him, to be brought up, to his old and tried friend, elfi-bey; and twenty-two sad years had lived without look- ing upon him. this did the sultan impart to his supposed son, and seemed delighted beyond measure with his figure and dignified demeanor. when they reached the sultan's dominions, they were everywhere received by the inhab- itants with shouts of joy; for the rumor of the prince's arrival had spread like wildfire through the cities and towns. in the streets through which they proceeded, arches of flowers and branches were erected; bright carpets of all colors adorned the houses; and the people loudly praised god and his prophet, who had discovered to them so noble a prince. all this filled the proud heart of the tailor with delight: so much the more unhappy did it make the real omar, who, still bound, followed the pro- the false prince. cession in silent despair. in this universal jubilee, though it was all in his honor, no one paid him any attention. a thousand, and again a thousand, voices shouted the name of omar; but of him who really bore this name, of him none took notice: at most, only one or two inquired whom they were carrying with them, so tightly bound, and frightfully in the ears of the prince sounded the answer of his guards, “ it is a mad tailor.” the procession at last reached the capital of the sultan, where all was prepared for their reception with still more brilliancy than in the other cities. the sultana, an elderly woman of majestic appearance, awaited them, with her whole court, in the most splendid saloon of the castle. the floor of this room was cover- ed with a large carpet; the walls were adorned with bright blue tapestry, which was suspended from massive silver hooks, by cords and tassels of gold. it was dark by the time the procession came up, and accordingly many globular colored lamps were lighted in the saloon, which made night brilliant as day; but with the clearest brilliancy and most varied colors, shone those vanuinnvana : horn turvalostival en mutta tour od the false prince. in the farthest part of the saloon, where the sultana was seated upon a throne. the throne stood upon four steps, and was of pure gold, inlaid with amethysts. the four most illustri- ous emirs held a canopy of crimson silk over the head of their mistress; and the sheik of medina cooled her with a fan of peacock feathers. thus awaited the sultana her hus- band and son; the latter she had never looked on since his birth, but significant dreams had so plainly shown her the object of her long- ings, that she would know him out of thou- sands. now they heard the noise of the ap- proaching troop; trumpets and drums mingled with the huzzas of the populace; the hoofs of the horses sounded on the court of the palace; steps came nearer and nearer; the doors of the room flew open, and, through rows of prostrate attendants, hastened the sultan, hold- ing his son by the hand, towards the mother's throne. “here,” said he,“ do i bring to thee, him for whom thou hast so often longed.” the sultana, however, interrupted him, cry- ing: “this is not my son! these are not the the false prince. from the lips of the prince himself, as to be able to play his part without betraying him- self. she called to her the men who had attended the sultan to the pillar el-serujah, in order to have the whole matter exactly laid before her, and then took counsel with her most trusty female slaves. she chose, and in a moment rejected, this means and that; at length, melechsalah, an old and cunning circassian, spoke. “if i have heard rightly, honored mistress, the one who bore this dagger called him whom thou holdest to be thy son, a crazy tailor, la- bakan ?” “ yes, it is so," answered the sultana; “ but what wilt thou make of that ?” “what think you," proceeded the slave, “ of this impostor's having stitched his own name upon your son ? if this be so, we have an ex- cellent way of catching the deceiver, which i will impart to you in private.” the sultana gave ear to her slave, and the latter whispered to her a plan which seemed to please her, for she immediately got ready to go to the sultan. the sultana was a sensible the false prince. woman, and knew not only the weak side of her husband, but also the way to take advan- tage of it. she seemed therefore to give up, and to be willing to acknowledge her son, only offering one condition: the sultan, whom the outbreak between himself and his wife had grieved, agreed thereto, and she said : $ “i would fain have from each a proof of his skill; another, perhaps, would have them con- tend in riding, in single conflict, or in hurling spears : but these are things which every one can do; i will give them something which will require both knowledge and dexterity. it shall be this; each shall make a caftan, and a pair of pantaloons, and then will we see at once who can make the finest ones.” the sultan laughingly answered, “ ah! thou hast hit on a fine expedient! shall my son contend with a mad tailor, to see who can make the best caftan ? no! that cannot be.” the sultana, however, cried out, that he had already agreed to the condition, and her hus- band, who was a man of his word, at length yielded, though he swore, should the mad tai- lor make his caftan ever so beautiful, he would never acknowledge him as his son. the false prince. the sultan thereupon went to his son, and entreated him to submit to the caprices of his mother, who now positively wished to see a caftan from his hands. the heart of the good labakan laughed with delight; if that be all that is wanting, thought he to himself, then shall the lady sultana soon behold me with joy. two rooms had been fitted up, one for the prince, the other for the tailor; there were they to try their skill, and each was furnished with shears, needles, thread, and a sufficient quantity of silk. the sultan was very eager to see what sort of a caftan his son would bring to light, but the heart of the sultana beat unquietly, from ap- prehension lest her stratagem might be unsuc- cessful. two days had they been confined to their work; on the third, the sultan sent for his wife, and when she appeared, dispatched her to the apartments to bring the two caftans and their makers. with triumphant air labakan walked in, and extended his garment before the astonished eyes of the sultan. “behold, father," said he, “look, mother! see if this be not a masterpiece of a caftan. i will leave it to the most skilful court-tailor, the false prince. upon a wager, whether he can produce such another.” the sultana, smiling, turned to omar :- “and thou, my son, what hast thou brought ?” indignantly he cast the silk and shears upon the floor. “ they have taught me to tame horses, and to swing my sabre ; and my lance will strike you a mark at sixty paces. but the art of the needle is unknown to me; it were unworthy a pupil of elfi bey, the lord of cairo!" “oh, thou true son of my heart!” exclaimed the sultana. “ ah, that i might embrace thee, and call thee, son! forgive me, husband and master,” she continued, turning to the sultan, “ for having set on foot this stratagem against you. see you not now who is prince, and who tailor? of a truth the caftan which your lord son has made, is magnificent, and i would fain ask with what master he has learned !" the sultan was lost in deep reflection, look- ang with distrust, now on his wife, now on labakan, who vainly sought to conceal his blushes and consternation at having so stupidly betrayed himself. “this proof pleases me not,” said he; “but, allah be praised! i know a * the false prince. the fortune of being thy son? what more noble than the wealth of thy favor? i choose the chest which bears the inscription, fortune and wealth.” “we will soon learn whether thou hast made the right choice; meanwhile sit down upon that cushion, near the bashaw of medi- na,” said the sultan, again motioning to his slaves. omar was led in; his eye was mournful, his air dejected, and his appearance excited uni- versal sympathy among the spectators. he threw himself before the throne, and inquired after the sultan's pleasure. saoud informed him that he was to choose one of the chests: he arose, and approached the table. he read attentively both inscriptions, and said :- “ the few last days have informed me how insecure is fortune, how transient is wealth ; but they have also taught me that, in the breast of the brave, lives what can never be destroy- ed, honor, and that the bright star of renown sets not with fortune. the die is cast! should i resign a crown, honor and fame, you are my choice!" he placed his hand upon the casket that he had chosen, but the sultan com- the false prince. and a little linen thread. the sultan com- manded both to bring their caskets before him: he took the little crown from the cushion in his hand, and, wonderful to see!' it became larger and larger, until it reached the size of a real crown. placing it on his son omar, who kneeled before him, he kissed his forehead, and bade him sit upon his right hand. to laba- kan, however, he turned and said :- “there is an old proverb, ‘shoemaker, stick to thy last ;' it seems that thou shouldst stick to thy needle. thou hast not, indeed, merited much mercy at my hands, but one has suppli- cated for thee, whom this day i can refuse nothing ; therefore give i thee thy paltry life; but, if i may advise, haste thee to leave my land.” ashamed, ruined as he was, the poor tailor could answer nothing: he threw himself before the prince, and tears came into his eyes. “can you forgive me, prince ?” he said. “ to be true to a friend, magnanimous to a foe, is the pride of the abassidæ !” answered the prince, raising him. “go in peace !” “my true son !" cried the old sultan, deeply affected, and sinking upon omar's breast. the emirs and bashaws, and all the nobles of the the false prince. which his master had so shockingly torn. he was called off from his work, but on returning to it, what a wonderful sight met his eyes! the needle was sewing industriously away, without being touched by any one; it took fine, elegant stitches, such as labakan himself had never made even in his most skilful moments. truly the smallest present of a kind fairy is useful, and of great value! still another good quality had the gift ; be the needle as industri- ous as it might, the little stock of thread never gave out. labakan obtained many customers, and was soon the most famous tailor for miles around. he cut out the garments, and took the first stitch therein with the needle, and immediately the latter worked away, without cessation, un- til the whole was completed. master labakan soon had the whole city for customers, for his work was beautiful, and his charges low; and only one thing troubled the brains of the people of alexandria, namely, how he finished his work entirely without journeymen, and with closed doors. thus was the motto of the chest which promised fortune and wealth undergoing its the false prince. accomplishment. fortune and wealth ac- companied, with gradual increase, the steps of the good tailor, and when he listened to the praises of the young sultan omar, who lived in every mouth ; when he heard that this brave man was the object of his people's pride and love, the terror of his enernies; then would the quondam prince say to himself, “ still is it better that i remained a tailor, for honor and fame are ever accompanied by danger.” thus lived labakan, contented with himself, respected by his fellow-burghers; and if the needle, meanwhile, has not lost her cunning, she is still sewing with the everlasting thread of the good fairy adolzaide. l ed loridas snorr s the caravan. ar sundown the caravan set out, and soon reached birket-el-had, or “the pilgrims' foun- tain,” whence the distance to cairo was three leagues. the caravan had been expected at this time, and the merchants soon had the pleas- ure of seeing their friends coming forth from the city to meet them. they entered through the gate bebel-falch, for it was considered a good omen for those who came from mecca to enter by this gate, because the prophet him- self had passed through it. at the market-place the four turkish mer- chants took leave of the stranger and the greek zaleukos, and went home with their friends. zaleukos, however, showed his com- panion a good caravansery, and invited him to dine with him. the stranger agreed, and promised to make his appearance as soon as he should have changed his dress. the greek made every arrangement for giving a fine entertainment to the stranger, for whom, upon the journey, he had conceived a deep feeling of esteem; and when the meats and drink had the caravan. may fully understand my story. i was born in alexandria, of christian parents. my fa- ther, the youngest son of an ancient illustrious french family, was consul for his native land in the city i have just mentioned. from my tenth year i was brought up in france, by one of my mother's brothers, and left my father- land for the first time a few years after the revolution broke out there, in company with my uncle, who was no longer safe in the land of his ancestors, in order to seek refuge with my parents beyond the sea. we landed eager- ly, hoping to find in my father's house the rest and quiet of which the troubles of france had deprived us. but ah! in my father's house i found not all as it should be: the external storms of these stirring times had not, it is true, reached it; but the more unexpectedly had misfortune made her home in the inmost hearts of my family. my brother, a promising young man, first secretary of my father, had shortly before married a young lady, the daughter of a florentine noble who lived in our vicinity: two days before our arrival she had suddenly disappeared, and neither our family nor her own father could discern the the caravan. slightest trace of her. at last they came to the conclusion that she had ventured too far in a walk, and had fallen into the hands of robbers. almost agreeable was this thought to my poor brother, when compared to the truth, which only too soon became known. the perfidious one had eloped with a young nea- politan, with whom she had become acquaint- ed in her father's house. my brother, who was exceedingly affected by this step, employed every means to bring the guilty one to punish- ment; but in vain : his attempts, which in naples and florence had excited wonder, served only to complete his and our misfor- tune. the florentine nobleman returned to his native land, under the pretence of seeing justice done to my brother, but with the real determination of destroying us all. he frus- trated all those examinations which my brother had set on foot, and knew how to use his influ- ence, which he had obtained in various ways, so well, that my father and brother fell under suspicion of their government, were seized in the most shameful manner, carried to france, and there suffered death by the axe of the exe- cutioner. my poor mother lost her mind; the caravan. and not until ten long months had passed, did death release her from her awful situation, though for the few last days she was possessed of perfect consciousness. thus did i now stand isulated in the world: one thought alone occupied my whole soul, one thought alone bade me forget my sorrows; it was the mighty flame which my mother in her last moments had kindled within me. “in her last moments, as i said, recollection returned; she had me summoned, and spoke with composure of our fate, and her own death. then she sent all out of the room, raised her- self, with a solemn air, from her miserable bed, and said that i should receive her blessing, if i would swear to accomplish something with which she would charge me. amazed at the words of my dying mother, i promised with an oath to do whatever she should tell me. she thereupon broke forth in imprecations against the florentine and his daughter, and charged me, with the most frightful threats of her curse, to avenge upon him the misfortunes of my house. she died in my arms. this thought of vengeance had long slumbered in my soul ; it now awoke in all its might. i collected what the caravan. remained of my paternal property, and bound myself by an oath to stake it all upon revenge, and, rather than be unsuccessful, to perish in the attempt. “i soon arrived in florence, where i kept myself as private as possible; it was very dif- ficult to put my plan in execution on account of the situation which my enemy occupied. the old florentine had become governor, and thus had in his hand all the means of destroy- ing me, should he entertain the slightest suspi- cion. an accident came to my assistance. one evening i saw a man in well-known liv- ery, walking through the streets: his uncertain gait, his gloomy appearance, and the muttered "santo sacramento,' and `maledetto diavolo,' soon made me recognise old pietro, a servant of the florentine, whom i had formerly known in alexandria. there was no doubt but that he was in a passion with his master, and i re- solved to turn his humor to my advantage. he appeared much surprised to see me there, told me his grievances, that he could do noth- ing aright for his master since he had become governor, and my gold supported by his anger soon brought him over to my side. most of the caravan. my undertaking seemed, at one time, to be tot- tering; hence the scene with the mantle. “pietro opened for us the little gate in the governor's palace; he would have let us out, also, in the same secret manner, if we had not fled, overcome by horror at the frightful spec- tacle, which, through the crack of the door, presented itself to our eyes. pursued by ter- ror and remorse, i ran on about two hundred paces, until i sank down upon the steps of a church. there i collected myself again, and my first thought was of you, and your awful fate, if found within the house. “i crept back to the palace, but neither of pietro nor yourself could i discover a single trace. the door, however, was open, and i could at least hope that you had not neglected this opportunity of flight. "but when the day broke, fear of detection, and an unconquerable feeling of remorse, al- lowed me to remain no longer within the walls of florence. i hastened to rome. imagine my consternation, when, after a few days, the story was everywhere told, with the addition that, in a grecian physician, they had detected the murderer. in anxious fear, i returned to the caravan. florence; my vengeance now seemed too great: i cursed it again and again, for with your life it was purchased all too dearly. i arrived on the same day which cost you a hand. i will not tell you what i felt, when i saw you ascend the scaffold, and bear all with such heroism. but when the blood gushed forth in streams, then was my resolution taken, to sweeten the rest of your days. what has since happened you know; it only now re- mains to tell you, why i have travelled with you. as the thought that you had never yet forgiven me, pressed heavily upon me, i deter- mined to spend some days with you, and at last to give you an explanation of what i had done." silently had the greek listened to his guest; with a kind look, as he finished, he offered him his right hand. “i knew very well that you must be more unhappy than i, for that awful deed will, like a thick cloud, forever darken your days. from my heart i forgive you. but answer me yet one question : how came you under this form, in the wilderness? what did you set about, after purchasing my house in constantinople?” hd widener hw spej juvenile books. short story ti ta larse ressed ainter collections and ko listo- work. books the will u au with price re ousin silk of the . the cents. pic be annie. un dmira- bly vi in: nature 'it will gentle del cre cents ons by nd and , imag- it. wikisard frescoti iarles . $ . . ne form beauty. w harvard college library boston, win juvenile books. the rollo books. by rev. jacob abbott. in fourteen volumes. new edition, with finely executed engravings from original designs by billings. price $ ; single, cents. any volume sold separately. rollo learning to talk. rollo's museum. rollo learning to read. rollo's travels. rollo at work, rollo's correspondence. rollo at play. rollo's philosophy-water. rollo at school. rollo's philosophy-fire. rollo's vacation. rollo's philosophy-air. rollo's experiments. rollo's philosophy-sky. renato this is undoubtedly the most popular series of jurenile books ever published in america. this edition is far more attractive externally than the one by which the author first became known. nearly one hun- dred new engravings, clear and fine paper, a new and beautiful cover, with a neat box to contain the whole, will give to this series, if possible, a still wider and more enduring reputation. the same, without illustrations, fourteen volumes, muslin, $ . . the rollo story books; being designed for younger children. volumes, illustrated, in neat box, $ . . the optic' library, comprising “ all aboard," " the boat club," "now or never," “ try again," and "poor and proud." volumes, with illustrations. price, per volume, cents. the publishers desire to call especial attention to this series of books, believing them to be fur ahead of any other series of new juveniles before the public. vacation story books. volumes, with fine wood engravings. price, in cloth, cents per volume; gilt, cents. minnie, the charm. the cheerful heart. the daisy. little blossom's reward. the violet. holidays at chestnut hill. worth not wealth. country life. great rosy diamond. the angel children. little mary. a scries of stories that will give unfailing entertainment and instruction. excelsior gift books. six volumes, large mo., illustrated. price, in cloth, cents per volume ; gilt, $ . . christmas roses. the ice king. favorite story book. youth's diadem. little messenger birds. juvenile keepsake. a beautiful series of books, and universally popular. arabian days' entertainments. translated from the german, by ii. p. curtis, esq. in cne large volume. mo. with illustrations by hoppin. price, $ . . this collection of oriental stories has long been a classic in germany; but only a portion of them have ever appeared in english. the present translation is believed to be the only faithful and elegant one. the taste for the marvellous will always demand gratification; and to the imaginative youth, as well as to adults who are not ashamed of being amused, no more entertaining book can be presented than this de- lightful reflex of eastern life and character. the stories are full of invention and fancy, and gracefully told; at the same time they are free from the objectionable features of their great prototype " the arabian nights' entertainments.” juvenile story books. seven volumes, illustrated. price, in cloth, - cents per volume: gilt, cents. aunt mary's stories. country scenes and gift story book, characters. good child's fairy gift. peep at he animals. frank and fanny. peep at the birds. published by phillips, satipson & co., doston, and for sale by all booksellers in the united states. ر ka he v wor the caravan. arabian days entertainments. translated from the german, by herbert pelham curtis. boston: phillips, sampson and company, winter street. . . harvard college library bequest of winward prescott january , entered according to act of congress, in the year , by herbert peliiam curtis, in the clerk's office of the district court for the district of massachusetts. stereotyped by hobart & robbins, now england type and stereotype foundery boston preface. the translator submits the following stories to the public, with a conviction that they will be found to afford amusement to a wide and very varied circle of readers. they are a connected series of tales, written by no means solely for children, but suited as well for readers of a larger growth and maturer intellect. the popularity attained by them in germany has been and still is immense, and it is believed that an examination will show this popularity to be well de- served three or four of these stories, only, have already appeared in this country in sundry magazines; but it is thought that the present is the only complete and per- fect translation of them which has ever been made in any language. a french version of part third was published in paris, with excellent illustrations, in . iv preface. the translator ventures to suggest that the interest of these tales will be increased by reading each part con- tinuously. the various stories are so closely connected with the narrative which unites them, that, though each is a whole in itself, much will be gained, he believes, by attention to this recommendation. the anw szinte contents. translator's preface. - introduction, .............. . . . .... the caravan, ............... the caliph stork, · · · · · · · · the spectral ship, . .... the severed hand, . .. fatima's rescue, .... little muck, ................ the false prince, ....... .... . . . .... the sheik of alexandria and his slaves, . . nosey, the dwarf, ............. abner, the jew, ............ the young englishman, ............ the story of almansor, · · · · · · · the tavern in spessart, .......... the prophecy of the silver florin, .. the cold heart. part i., ......... said's adventures, ..... the cavern of steenfoll, .......... the cold heart. part ii., .......... ..... introduction. princess fairy-story in masquerade. in a fair and distant empire, on whose gardens of perennial verdure report says the sun never sets, has reigned from the beginning of time to the present day the lovely queen phantasy. for countless centuries has she scattered unmeasured blessings over her peo- ple, and been loved, honored and adored, by all who knew her. but the heart of this queen was too large to permit her to confine her benevolence within her own domains. in her royal attire of eternal youth and beauty she was wont to descend from her lofty realm to this earth; for she had heard it said that here dwelt beings, called men, who dragged on painfully a life of labor and struggle. to these wretched creatures she brought the finest treasures of her empire ; and ever since this beautiful queen traversed the dreary plains of earth have men become joyous over their labor, light- hearted in their desolate misery. to cheer mankind, she sent down her children, also, no less lovely and amiable than their royal mother. after one of these missions, fairy-story, her eldest daughter, came back from the earth. her mother saw arabian days' entertainments. that fairy-story was sad, and thought she noticed that her daughter had been weeping. “what grieves you, dearest fairy-story?" said the queen. “ever since your journey you have been sad and miserable ; will you not confide to your mother the cause of your unhappiness ?” “alas ! dear mother," replied fairy-story, “i should keep silence, spite of your inquiry, did i not feel that my wrongs were no less yours.” “speak,” answered the beautiful queen phantasy. “sorrow, my daughter, is a burthen weighing heavily on the lonely, but easily sustained by two sympathiz- ing, loving souls.” “ it is your will," answered fairy-story; "therefore hearken. you know how gladly i mingle with man- kind, and with what pleasure i seat myself in the cot- tages of the poor, to beguile their hours of leisure after their daily toil. they have ever hitherto fondly greeted me when i came, and looked after me with smiles and love when i went away. but it is so no longer.” - “poor fairy-story !” sighed the queen, stroking her daughter's tearful cheek; “may not this change be mere imagination ?” "believe me, i know too well,” answered fairy- story, “ that i am loved no longer. wherever i go i meet cold looks ; nowhere is pleasure shown at my approach ; even the children, who used once to love me so fondly, now scoff at me, and scornfully turn their backs." the queen leaned her brow upon her hand, and sank into deep thought. ..." and why is it,” at length inquired she, “ that men have so much changed ?" - " alas! they have appointed a body of watchful offi- introduction. cers, who examine with sharp attention and carefully test everything which comes from you realm, o queen! now-a-days, if any stranger makes his appear- ance, witl credentials not in accordance with their laws of taste, they raise a furious outcry, and either strike him dead on the spot, or calumniate him so much with mankind, who believe every word they say, that he can no longer win men's love. ah, how happy are my brothers, the dreams! they glide joyously and lightly to the earth, caring nothing for the vigilant watchmen, visit the human race in their slumbers, and weave enchanting pictures before their mental vision.” “your brothers are merry and light of foot,” said the queen ; “but you have no cause to envy them, my dar- ling. i know the officers you speak of well. mankind are not so much in error to commission them ; for they have been visited lately by many an empty, impudent fellow, who pretended to have come directly from my fairy realm, and yet at best has merely obtained a fleet- ing glimpse of us from some distant mountain summit.” “but why do they make me, your only daughter, suffer for these impostors' sins ?” wept fairy-story. “ah! if you only knew how they have treated me! they laughed at me as an old maid, and threatened, the next time i came, not to admit me to their dwellings." "what, a daughter of mine ! not admit her!” ex- claimed the queen ; and anger deepened the rose in her cheeks. “but i see clearly whence this comes; your wicked aunt has calumniated us!” "what! aunt fashion ? impossible !” cried fairy- story. “she has always been so friendly to us!” “i know her, the traitress !" answered the queen. “but make another attempt, in spite of her, dearest. who would do good, must not be idle." arabian days' entertainments. “alas i mother, if they should expel or malign me, so that men will no longer receive me; or if they should make me stand in a corner, lonely and disgraced !” – “my darling, if the old, deceived by your aunt fash- ion, estimate you beneath your merits, turn your thoughts to the young. they are my favorites ; to them i send my fairest visions through your brothers, the dreams; nay, i have often visited them myself, to fondle and caress them. my name, indeed, they have never heard ; but they know me well, and i have seen them laughing with pleasure to see my stars by night, and clapping their hands with glee when my shining flocks draw slowly towards the zenith in the morning's light. as they grow up they love me still, for i help the sweet young girls to weave their pretty garlands, and the noisy lads become silent when i seat myself at their side on some lofty peak, and, from the cloud-land of the azure hills around, cause lofty towers and palaces to rise before their sight, or paint squadrons of bold knights, or trains of weary pilgrims, in the crimson glo- ries of the west." "o, the dear children !" cried the excited fairy- story. “yes, i will return to earth once more and visit the children!” “ay, dearest daughter," said the queen, “go to them. i will give you a beautiful dress, so that you may please the younger folks, and not be pushed out of doors by the old ones. i will give you the robe of an almanac." “ an almanac, mother! o, i should blush to be dressed so magnificently before people !”. the queen made a sign, and her attendant ladies brought an almanac's superb apparel. it was brilliant introduction. with gleaming colors, and beautiful figures were woven in its fabric. the ladies of the court arranged the fair maiden's long locks, bound sandals of gold on her feet, and arrayed her rapidly in the handsome robe. the modest fairy-story dared not raise her eyes, but her mother gazed at her with delight, and clasped her in her arms. “go,” she said to her darling daughter, "go, and carry my blessing with you. if they despise and reject you, come back to me, and be patient. per- haps later generations, more true in their allegiance to nature, will hereafter gladly open their hearts to your appeals.” so spoke queen phantasy, and fairy-story descended to this earth. she approached with a beating heart the place where the learned sentinels dwelt, and, sinking her head upon her bosom, drew her robe closer about her, and with hesitating steps approached the door. “halt!” cried a deep, harsh voice. "turn out the guard! here comes a new almanac!” fairy-story trembled in her shoes. several old men, of forbidding aspect, started forward. they held point- ed feathers in their hands, and levelled them at fairy- story. one of the guard stepped up to her, and with ungentle hand took her by the chin. “hold up your head, sir almanac,” he cried, “ so that we can look in your face, and see whether you are good for anything!” fairy-story with a deep blush lifted her head, and lowered her dark, beautiful eyes. . “fairy-story !” cried the watchmen, laughing heartily. “fairy-story! a new marvel! how came you by that dress ?” “my mother gave it me," answered fairy-story. “so! you would smuggle yourself among us in mas- arabian days' entertainments. querade! hal impossible! away with you! pack off at once! begone!” cried the watchmen, with one voice, poising their sharpened quills. “but i came only to see the children,” sobbed fairy- story. “surely, you will not refuse me this?” “ the mob of such visitors is too large already,” said one of the watchmen. “they only teach our children nonsense.” “let us see what she knows," spoke another. “yes,” they cried, “tell us what you know; but make haste, for we have little time to waste." fairy-story raised her hand, and wrote many signs in the air with her fore-finger. at once gay images were seen to pass along; caravans, fine horses, count- less tents on sandy deserts ; birds and ships on stormy seas; lonely woods ; populous streets and squares ; battles and peaceful emigrations; all these hovered around the watchmen in living, brilliant, animated throngs. fairy-story, in the zeal with which she had conjured up these scenes, had not perceived that the watchmen at the gate had dropped one after another into deep sleep. she was about to summon up more visions, when a courteous gentleman approached her, and took her hand. “look, sweet fairy-story !” said he, point- ing to the sleepers ; “your lovely pictures are not for such as these. slip quickly through the gate while they remain unconscious of your movements, and follow out your own plans, unmolested and at peace. i will lead you to my children, and give you a quiet, easy corner in my house ; there you shall live and carry out your wishes in your own charming way; and when my sons and daughters have studied their daily tasks, introduction. they shall come with their playmates and listen to your teachings. will you come ?”. “ , willingly; most willingly!” answered fairy- story. “ , how earnestly will i strive to amuse their hours of leisure !" her new friend smiled kindly, and helped her to step softly over the feet of the slumbering sentinels. fairy- story looked behind her with a joyous laugh, and slipped quickly into the house. the caravan. once on a time a great caravan was passing through the desert. over the vast plain, where nothing was visible on every side but sand and sky, could be heard already in the far distance the bells of the camels and the tinkling of the horses' silver chains. a dense cloud of dust concealed their position ; but, as often as a breeze lifted the dusty veil, gleaming arms and bril- liant costumes glittered on the sight. this appearance the caravan presented to a man who was approaching it from the side. he rode a superb arabian horse, covered with a saddle-cloth of leopard's skin, and silver bells hung from its straps of scarlet leather. on the horse's head waved a plume of heron's feathers. the rider had an air of great nobility and splendor, and his dress corresponded in magnificence with the beauty of his steed. a white turban, richly adorned with gold, protected his head ; his coat and his wide trousers were of a brilliant crimson ; and a curved scimetar, with a richly-embossed and jewelled hilt, hung at his side. he had pressed his turban low over his forehead; and his black eyes, gleaming from under massive eyebrows, with his long beard and high, arched nose, gave him a bold and martial aspect. when the horseman came within fifty paces of the head of the caravan, his steed bounded forward, and he the caravan. reached in a few moments the van of the procession. it was such an unusual event to see a single horseman thus journeying across the desert, that the guard, fearing a surprise, levelled their long lances. “wbat !” cried the rider, observing the hostile character of his recep- tion, “think you a single man will attack your cara- van ?" the guard, ashamed of their fears, swung their lances back over their shoulders, while their captain rode up to the stranger, and demanded his business. "who is the owner of this caravan ?” inquired the knight. “it belongs to no one man," was the answer, “but to several merchants, who are returning from mecca to their native country, and whom we are escorting through the desert to protect them from ruffians.” " then lead me to these merchants," demanded the stranger. " that is impossible at this moment,” answered the captain ; “for we must advance without delay, and the merchants are behind us at least a league ; but if you will ride on with us till we halt for our noon-day rest, i will then do what you ask.” the stranger made no reply; but, filling a long pipe, which had been till now tied to his saddle, began to smoke in long, steady pulls, meanwhile riding forward near the leader of the vanguard. the latter could make nothing of the new arrival. he did not venture plumply to demand his name ; and, skilful as were his efforts to open a conversation, the stranger, to all such observations as “you smoke good tobacco,” or “ your horse steps well," answered merely with a short “ay, ay.” at length they reached the place selected for their noon-day halt. the leader posted his men as sen- tinels, himself remaining with the stranger, to wait till arabian days' entertainments. the caravan came up. thirty camels, heavily laden, passed by, accompanied by armed keepers. behind these, mounted on beautiful horses, came the five mer- chants to whom the caravan belonged. four of them were men of advanced age, and of grave and dignified aspect; but the fifth seemed much younger, as well as gayer and more animated, than the others. a large number of camels and pack-horses closed the proces- sion. tents were now pitched, and the camels and horses picketed outside. a large tent of blue silk was erected in the centre, to which the captain of the guard con- ducted the stranger. passing the curtain of the tent, they saw the five merchants seated on cushions wrought with gold, and partaking of rich viands and sherbets handed them by black slaves. “ whom do you bring us ?” cried the youngest merchant to the cap- tain. before the captain could answer, the stranger interrupted him: “my name is selim baruch, and i came from bagdad. on my way to mecca i was cap- tured by a horde of robbers, and three days since escaped from their imprisonment. the prophet permit- ted me to hear your caravan bells in the far distance, and therefore i came. let me travel in your company. you will be extending your protection to no unworthy person, and when we reach bagdad i will amply reward your courtesy, for i am the nephew of the grand vizier." the oldest of the merchants took upon himself to reply. “selim baruch," said he, “ be welcome. it gives us great pleasure to be of service to you. first of all, sit down and eat with us." selim baruch took his seat with the merchants, and ate and drank. after the repast was ended, the slaves the caravan. cleared away the relics, and brought in long pipes and turkish sherbet. the merchants sat a long while in silence, blowing out volumes of blue smoke, and watch- ing it float, rise and vanish in the air. the youngest at length broke silence : “thus have we sat,” said he, “ for three days, on horseback or at table, without find- ing means to amuse our tedious hours. i suffer greatly from ennui, for i am accustomed after dinner to see dancing, or listen to song and music. know you not some way, my friend, by which we can make the time pass more swiftly?”. the four elder merchants smoked on, in thoughtful silence, while the stranger replied: “with your per- mission, i will make a proposal. i suggest that at every halting-place one of us shall narrate his adven- tures or tell some story to the others. this would cause our time to slip away agreeably.” “selim baruch, you have said well,” said achmed, the oldest of the merchants. “let us adopt the sug- gestion.” "i am rejoiced to have pleased you,” said selim ; " and that you may see i mean only to be fair, i will begin myself.” the five merchants pressed eagerly around him, placing him in their midst. the slaves re-filled the cups, loaded afresh their masters' pipes, and brought in hot coals to light them with. selim cleared his voice with a deep draught of sherbet, brushed away his long moustache from before his mouth, and said: “listen now to the history of caliph stork." * arabian days entertainments. the history of caliph stork. once upon a time, the caliph chasid, of bagdad, was sitting comfortably of a lovely afternoon on his sofa. he had been snoozing a little, for the weather was warm, and he was looking all the brighter for his brief slumber. he was smoking a long rosewood pipe, and drinking occasionally a little coffee, brought him by a slave, and stroked incessantly his flowing beard as if he felt particularly well and happy. in short, the caliph was evidently in excellent spirits. he was particularly accessible on these occasions, though his disposition was at all times mild and affable, and this was the hour invariably selected by his grand vizier, mansour, to visit him. sure enough, he made his appearance at the usual time, but, contrary to his general custom, looking very thoughtful and meditative. the caliph took his pipe a moment from his mouth, and said: “what makes you so pensive to-day, grand vizier ?” the grand vizier crossed his arms over his breast, made his obeisance before his master, and answered : “my lord and master, whether i appear pensive i know not; but at the castle gate stands a pedler, who offers for sale such beautiful wares, that it vexes me to haro so little superfluous money." the caliph, who had for some time past been wish- ing to do a kindness to his grand vizier, sent his black slave down to bring up the pedler. he soon came back, bringing him with him. the pedler was a little thick-set fellow, of dark complexion and ragged attire. he carried a box stored with all sorts of wares, ama the caliph stork. the history of caliph stork. -pearls and rings, richly-ornamented pistols, cups, combs, and many other articles. the caliph and his vizier looked the collection through, and the caliph selected at length a pair of beautiful pistols for himself, and another for mansour, and a comb for the vizier's wife. as the pedler was about to shut his box, the caliph caught sight of a little drawer, and inquired whether he had any wares in that also. the pedler drew it out, and showed in it a box containing a blackish powder, and a paper with some strange writing upon it, which neither the caliph nor mansour could read. “i obtained these things some time ago,” said the ped- ler, “ from a merchant, who found them in the street, in mecca. i do not know what they mean. they are at your service for a small sum, for i can do nothing with them.” the caliph, who delighted to collect old manu- scripts in his library, although unable to read, bought the box and the writing, and dismissed the pedler. the caliph, however, thought he would like mightily to know what the writing meant, and asked the vizier if he knew nobody who could decipher it. “most excel- lent lord and master,” answered the vizier, “there is a man living in the great mosque, who is called selim the wise, and he is said to understand all languages. let him be summoned ; perhaps he can interpret these mys- terious characters.” the learned selim was speedily summoned. “se- lim," said the caliph, “they tell me you are very wise; take a peep at this writing, and see whether you can read it. if you can, you shall receive a new suit of clothes ; if you cannot, you shall have twelve blows on your back, and five-and-twenty on your feet, because men call you selim the wise without reason." selim prostrated himself humbly, and said: “my arabian days' entertainments. lord, thy will is law." he pored a long while over the writing, and suddenly exclaimed: “this is latin, my lord, or i'll consent you shall hang me!” " tell us what it means," replied the caliph, “if it is latin." selim began to translate : “man, who findest this, praise allah for his goodness. whoever snuffs of the powder in this box, and at the same time says, in a low tone, “mutabor,' can change himself into any animal he chooses, and will also understand the language of brutes. should he wish to return to his human form again, let him bow thrice towards the east, and repeat the same word. but when he is transformed, let him beware lest he laugh; for, should he do so, the magic word will instantly vanish from his memory, and he will remain an animal forever.” when selim the wise had read this, the caliph was enchanted beyond measure. he bound the learned man by an oath not to divulge the secret, gave him a beautiful robe, and sent him away. to his grand vizier he said: “this i call a good bargain, mansour! how delightful it will be to become beasts! come here early to-morrow. we will go out into the fields together, snuff a little at my box, and then overhear whatever is said, whether in the air, the water, the woods, or the meadows. praises to allah! there are plenty of brutes in my dominions." ii. . the caliph chasid had scarcely dressed and break- fasted the next morning, before the grand vizier made his appearance. the caliph stowed away the box of magic powder in his girdle, and, giving orders to his escort to remain behind, he and the grand vizier started the history of caliph stork. off on their excursion alone. they first traversed the vast gardens of the palace, seeking in vain for any living thing on which to prove their power. the vizier at last suggested that they should go further away to a certain ditch, where he had often noticed storks, which, by the gravity of their demeanor and the noise they made, had frequently excited his curiosity. the caliph assented, and both went to the ditch. as they came to the edge they perceived a stork walking solemnly up and down, on the look-out for frogs, and occasionally muttering something in a low tone to him- self. at the same time they saw far up in the air another stork hovering down upon the place. : “i will wager my beard, most noble master,” said the grand vizier, “that these two spindle-shanks will carry on a fine conversation with each other. suppose we change ourselves into storks.” “well said !” answered the caliph. “but let us consider first how we can become men again. ah, yes ! bow towards the east three times, say mutabor, and, presto! i am caliph and you grand vizier again. but for the love of heaven no laughing, or we are lost for- ever!” while the caliph was speaking, he saw the other stork floating over their heads, and slowly descending to the earth. he drew his box of powder from his gir- dle, took a good snuff, held it out for the vizier to do the same, and both exclaimed, “mutabor !” instantly their legs grew small and red, their fine yellow slippers turned into ugly storks' feet, their arms became wings, their necks sprouted from their shoul- ders and grew a yard in length, their beards disap- peared, and their bodies were covered with soft feath- ers. arabian days' entertainments. “ you have a beautiful beak, grand vizier,” said the caliph, after a long pause of astonishment. “by the beard of the prophet! i have never seen so fine a one in my whole life.” “ thanks, your highness," answered the vizier, bending low. "if i might venture on the liberty, i could assure your highness that you look perhaps hand- somer as a stork than as a caliph. but, if it be your pleasure, let us take a closer look at our fellow-beings yonder, and see if we really understand the storkish language.” the other stork had meanwhile reached the ground. he dressed his feet with his beak, laid his feathers in exact order, and approached the other. the two newly- made storks hastened to get within hearing, and listened with amazement to the following conversation : “good morning, lady longlegs! out on the meadow so early ?” “thank you, my dear noisybeak! yes, i've been eating a morsel of breakfast. will you take a hind quarter of lizard, or a nice frog's leg to-day?” “many thanks, my lady ; but i have no appetite. i came to this meadow for a very different purpose. i must dance to-day to entertain my father's guests, and i want to practice a little in private." with this the young stork began to stride about the meadow with the most extraordinary motions, and the caliph and mansour looked after her with astonishment. but when she placed herself in a picturesque attitude on one foot, and fluttered her wings with affected grace, our two companions could restrain themselves no longer, and a burst of irrepressible laughter issued from their beaks. the caliph was the first to recover his gravity. “this the history of caliph stork. is a joke indeed,” he cried ; “and worth its weight in gold. too bad that these foolish creatures bave been frightened away by our laughter; for beyond question they would have given us a song before long.” but it now occurred to the grand vizier that laugh- ter was expressly forbidden during their transformation. he imparted his uneasiness to the caliph. “mecca and meina! it would be a dreadful scrape, indeed, if i were forced to remain a stork all my life! try to recollect the wretched word, for i can't possibly bring it to mind !” “we were ordered to bend three times towards the east, and say, at the same time, mu— mu — mu — mu —" they faced to the east, and bowed so low that their beaks almost entered the ground. but, , woel the magic word had escaped their memories, and however low the caliph might bend, however desperately his vizier cry “mu— mu —,” all recollection of the word had fled, and the unlucky chasid and his vizier were, and continued to be, storks. iii. our bewitched victims wandered sadly through the fields, not knowing, in their abyss of misery, what to do. they could not lay aside their storkish bodies, nor could they return to the city and make themselves known; for what people would believe a stork if he said he was the caliph ? and, fancying them for a mo- ment so credulous, could it be supposed that the inhab- itants of bagdad would submit to have a stork for their sovereign ? they wandered thus for several days up and down, sustaining their lives miserably on wild fruits, which arabian days' entertainments. they could hardly eat on account of their long beaks. they could find no appetite for lizards and frogs, fear- ing permanent injury to their stomachs by such titbits as these. their sole pleasure in this sad condition was their power to fly, and they flew very often to the roofs of bagdad, to see what was going on there. the first day they noticed great mourning and lamen- tation in the streets. but, about the fourth day after their transformation, they were sitting on the roof of the caliph's palace, when they saw beneath them a gor- geous procession. drums and fifes were sounding, and a man, in a scarlet mantle embroidered with gold, was sitting on a handsomely-decorated horse, surrounded by resplendent followers. half bagdad ran after him, and every one shouted: “hail, mizra! the preserver of bagdad !” the two storks on the palace roof looked at one another, and the caliph said: “do you suspect now why i am bewitched, grand vizier? this mizra is · the son of my mortal foe, the mighty wizard kaschnur, who in an evil hour swore vengeance against me. but i do not renounce all hope. come, faithful companion of my misfortunes, let us visit the grave of our prophet. perhaps in that holy place this witchcraft will be over- powered and expelled.” they soared from the roof of the palace, and flew straight to messina. they were not very successful in flying, however, for the two storks had had as yet but little practice. “ , my lord and master !” groaned the grand vizier, after a couple of hours' flight; “with your gracious permis- sion, i can hold out no longer ; you fly too fast for me. besides, it is already evening, and we should be doing well to seek for some place of shelter." chasid was not indifferent to his servant's request; the history of caliph stork. and perceiving a ruin in the valley below, which seemed to promise well, thither they turned their flight. the place seemed to have been in former times a castle. beautiful columns still projected from the ruins ; and several apartments, still in tolerable preservation, at- tested the ancient splendor of the edifice. chasid and his attendant went up and down along the corridors in search of a dry place to sleep in, when suddenly man- sour came to a dead halt. “lord and master,” he whispered, softly, “if it were not disgraceful in a grand vizier, and still more so in a stork, to be afraid of ghosts, i should be in a terrible fright, for close by i hear very plainly a great groaning and sighing.” the caliph also paused, and heard very distinctly a faint moan, sounding more as if made by a man than an ani. mal. he was about to seek the place whence the sound appeared to issue, when the grand vizier laid hold of him by the wing with his beak, and implored him fervently not to expose himself to new and unknown dangers. all in vain. the caliph, who carried a bold heart under his wing, tore himself away, with the loss of a few feathers, and hastened down a dark passage. he soon came to a door standing only on the latch, and through which audible sighs, accompanied at intervals by a low wail, reached his ear. he thrust the door open with his beak, and remained fixed in astonishment on the threshold. he saw in the ruined chamber, which was dimly lighted by a little latticed window, a great night-owl sitting on the ground. plenteous tears were rolling from her large, round eyes, and harsh lamentations poured from her curved beak. as soon as she caught sight of the caliph and his vizier, who had meanwhile slunk after, she uttered a loud cry of delight. she wiped the tears from her eyes, in a graceful manner, arabian days' Èntertainments. with her brown spotted wing, and exclaimed in good human arabic: “welcome, noble storks, welcome! your arrival is a precious token of my speedy rescue ; for it was once foretold me that a great happiness would come to me through storks." when the caliph had recovered from his surprise, he made a graceful bow with his long neck, brought his feet into a courtly attitude, and said : “ night-owl, after what you have said, i can easily believe that i see in you a companion in misfortune. but, alas ! vain is your hope that rescue will come to you through us you will yourself recognize our inability to aid you when you hear our melancholy story.” the night-owl requested him to go on, and the caliph proceeded to tell her what we already know. iv. when the caliph had ended his recital to the owl, she thanked him, and said: “listen now to my story, and learn that i am no less unfortunate than you. my father is the king of the indies ; i am his only daugh- ter, and my name is lusa. the same magician, kasch- nur, who bewitched you, also brought this misery upon me. he came one day to my father, and demanded me in marriage for his son, mizra. my father, who is a passionate man, ordered him to be thrown down stairs. the villain knew how to creep again into my presence under another form ; and, while i was taking some refreshments on a certain occasion in my garden, he brought me, in the disguise of a slave, a drink which changed me immediately into this frightful figure. he then carried me, powerless with horror, to this place, and shrieked in my ear, with a hideous voice: ‘here shall you remain, hated and despised even by brutes, the history of caliph stork. till the day of your death, or till some one, in spite of this hideous disguise, takes you voluntarily to be his wife. thus do i take my revenge on you and your insolent father.' “many months have passed since then. i live like a hermit in this deserted spot, lonely and miserable, ab- horred by the world, an object of horror to the very brutes. fair nature is darkened to me, for i am blind by day, and only when the moon sheds down its pallid rays over these ruins, does my impenetrable veil fall from before my eyes." the owl ceased, and again wiped her eyes with her wing, for the recital of her sorrows had unlocked her tears once more. the caliph was plunged into deep thought by the story of the princess. “if i am not greatly mistaken,” said he, “there exists some secret connection in our misfortunes; but when shall i find the key to the mys- tery?" the owl answered : “my lord, i have also this pre- sentiment; for in my early infancy it was foretold me by a wise woman that a stork would bring to me great happiness at some period of my life. perhaps i know already the means by which we can save ourselves.” the caliph, much astonished, inquired her meaning. “the magician who has involved us in this wretched- ness," answered she, “comes once a month to these ruins. there is a hall, not far from this chamber, where he holds high revelry with his companions. i have often watched them without his knowledge. on such occasions they often describe to each other their evil deeds, and perhaps he will mention next time the magic word which you have forgotten.” arabian days' entertainments. “ , dearest princess !” cried the caliph, “tell me, when does he come, and where is the hall.” the owl was silent a moment, and then said: “take it not ill, noble caliph ; but only on one condition can i answer your questions.” “speak! speak!” cried chasid. “your will is law." “i would fain be free myself; and this can only hap- pen if one of you will offer me his hand.” the storks seemed somewhat confounded at this pro- posal, and the caliph signed to his vizier to retire with him for a moment. “grand vizier,” said the caliph, when they were out- side the door, “this is a bad business, but you can manage it very easily.” “ indeed!” answered the vizier ; “ to have my wife scratch out my eyes when i go home again! besides, i am an old man, and you are young and unmarried, and can surely give your hand to a young and beautiful princess !” .“ just so,” sighed the caliph, drooping his wings in dismay. “who told you that she was young and beau- tiful ? it is like buying a cât in a bag.” they discussed the question in this way a long while ; but finally, after the caliph saw that his vizier preferred to remain a stork all the rest of his life rather than marry the princess, he made up his mind to fulfil the condition himself. the owl was delighted. she informed them that they could by no possibility have come at a better time, for probably the magicians would meet that very night. she left the chamber with the storks, to lead them to the hall. they went for some distance along a dark passage, till at last a light shone upon them the history of caliph stork. through a half-ruined wall. when they reached this place, the owl directed them to keep profoundly silent. from the gap at which they had ensconced themselves, they could look from one end to the other of a vast hall. it was handsomely furnished, and ornamented on every side with lofty columns numerous colored lamps rivalled the light of day. in the middle of the apart- ment stood a round table, covered with many viands. around the table was a circular sofa, on which were sitting eight men. in one of these our storks recognized the pedler who had sold them the magic powder. his next neighbor inquired of him an account of his latest deeds, and, among others, he told the story of the caliph and his vizier. iv. “what was the word which you gave them ?” asked another of the magicians. “a very hard latin word, mutabor," replied the pedler. when the storks heard this, they were almost beside themselves with joy. they ran on their long legs so quickly to the door of the ruined castle, that the owl could scarcely keep up with them. the caliph, over- whelmed with gratitude, said to her: “preserver of my friend's and my own life, take me as your husband, in partial recompense for what you have done for us." he then turned towards the east. thrice the storks bent their long necks to the sun, just rising behind the hills. “mutabor!" they shouted, and in a twinkling they were restored to their former shapes. master and servant, in the plenitude of their joy over the new gift of existence, lay weeping and laughing in each other's arms. but who can describe their astonishment when * arabian days' entertainments. they looked around ? a beautiful lady, elegantly dressed, stood before them, and gave her hand to the caliph with a sinile. “do you recognize your night-owl no longer?” said she. it was she, indeed ; and the caliph was so enraptured by her beauty and amiability, that he declared that his becoming a stork was the greatest piece of luck that had ever befallen him. the three companions took up their course for bag- dad. the caliph found in his girdle, not only the box of magic powder, but his purse of gold also. he bought, therefore, in the next village, what they needed for their journey, and they soon came to bagdad's gates. the appearance of the caliph excited there the greatest astonishment. the people had given him up for dead, and were of course highly delighted to have their beloved ruler among them again. all the more fiercely, therefore, burned their hatred for the impostor, mizra. they rushed to the palace, and made prisoners of the old magician and his son. the caliph sent the old sinner to the same room in the ruined tower which the princess had occupied during her owl-hood, and there hung him. to the son, who knew nothing of his father's arts, the caliph gave his choice, either to die or sniff. as he chose the latter, the grand vizier offered him the box. a mighty snuff and the caliph's magic word changed him to a stork. the caliph caused him to be enclosed in an iron cage, and hung him up in his garden. caliph chasid lived long and happily with his lady, the princess ; and the pleasantest hours of his life were those when the grand vizier visited him in the after- noon ; for then they would talk over their storkish adventures; and when the caliph felt particularly jovial and good-humored, he would even condescend to imitate the history of caliph stork. the grand vizier's appearance when a stork. he would stalk solemnly, with stiffened legs, up and down the room, gabble, paddle his arms in the manner of wings, and show how they both turned towards the east and shouted, “mu — mu —" to no purpose. this exhibi- tion always afforded the greatest pleasure to his princess and her children. when, however, the caliph gabbled, and bowed, and cried “mu - mu " too long, the vizier used to threaten “that he would communicate to his royal mistress what the caliph had said while standing outside the door of the princess night-owl's - room in the ruin." when selim baruch had ended his story the five merchants gave audible utterance to their delight. “upon my word, the afternoon has gone without our knowing it !” said one of them, throwing back the cover of the tent. “the evening wind blows cool now, and we can get over a good piece of our journey.” at this the friends rose, the tents were taken down, and the caravan moved on, in the same order in which it came on the scene the day before. they rode almost the whole night long, for the days were sultry, while the nights were refreshing and beau- tiful. coming at last to a convenient resting-place, they pitched their tents, and betook themselves to re- pose. the merchants took as much care of the stranger as if he had been their most cherished friend and ally. one gave him a pillow, another coverings for his bed, a third, slaves ; in short, he was as well looked after as if he had been at home. the heat of the day soon drew on, when they all rose again, resolving unan- imously to wait in this spot for the arrival of evening. after dining together, they formed a narrow circle, and arabian days' entertainments. the young merchant, turning to the eldest, said: “se- lim baruch enabled us to pass a very agreeable after- noon yesterday; suppose, achmed, you tell us some story, either out of your own long life, which must have abounded in curious adventures, or else some pretty fairy-tale." achmed made no response to this address for some time, as if hesitating whether to adopt the former or the latter course, or neither. at last, however, he thus began : “my dear friends, - you have proved yourselves trusty companions on this tedious journey, and selim, here, also deserves my confidence. i will therefore tell you something from my own experience, which i never narrate willingly, and which i have communicated to but very few persons.” the story of the spectral ship. my father occupied a little shop in balsora. he was neither very poor, nor very rich, and was one of those persons who venture nothing, without great delibera- tion, for fear of losing the little they possess. he brought me up plainly and honestly, and it was not long before i was of considerable assistance to him. when i was eighteen years old, and just at the time when he had made his first really great speculation, he died, probably from anxiety at having entrusted so large a sum as a thousand gold-pieces to the treachery of the ocean. the result compelled me, not long after, to regard him as happy in his death ; for a few weeks after- wards the news came that the ship in which my father ཟླ་ ༣ ༔ ， ་ ༔ ，， ， ， ：， ， ་，་ ， ་， ： .， y()] པ་ ༣; :： y} ： ， ， ，་， ， ， ཡ -. . . titutionur minimum t untivo n mmon ' sium mini flux do the spectre silip. the story of the spectral ship. had ventured his goods, had gone to the bottom. but this misfortune could not break my youthful courage. i turned everything which my father had possessed into money, and set forth to try my fortune among strangers, accompanied by only one aged servant, who, from old associations, refused to separate himself from my destinies. we embarked at balsora, with favorable winds. the ship i had selected was bound for india. we had been sailing for fifteen days on the usual course, when the captain gave us notice of the approach of a tempest. he wore an air of great uneasiness, and confessed that, in this locality, he was not well enough acquainted with the true course to encounter a storm with indiffer- ence. he took in all the sails, and we ploughed along very slowly. the night had come on, clear and cold, and the captain was already beginning to think that he had been deceived in his anticipations, when suddenly a ship, which we had not seen till now, came on close by us with great speed. wild shouts and frantic rev- elry sounded from her deck. the captain at my side was as pale as a ghost. “my ship is lost!” he cried ; “ for there sails death i” before i had time to inquire the meaning of his strange exclamation, the ship's crew rushed up, shrieking and howling. “did you see him ?" they shouted. “our end has come at last!" the captain ordered passages from the koran to be read aloud, and took the helm himself. in vain ; the storm visibly increased, and, before an hour had passed, the ship began to settle in the waves. the boats were hoisted out, and scarcely had the last man time to quit the wreck, when the vessel sunk before our eyes, and i was floating beggared on the open sea. but our suffer- ings were not yet over. the tempest raged with the story of the spectral ship. temples went a long nail, fastening him to the mast. he was stone dead. such was my horror that i scarcely dared to breathe. meanwhile my old servant had succeeded in following me. he, too, stood aghast at the sight of the deck, peopled solely by so many frightful corpses. we ventured at last, after calming somewhat the anguish of our souls by prayers to the prophet, to advance further into the ship. at every step we looked for some fresh and more dreadful horror to present itself to our gaze. but there was no further change; far and wide, no living creatures but ourselves, and the restless sea. we dared not speak above our breaths, lest the dead and transfixed master should turn his staring eyes upon us, or one of the dead bodies lift its ghastly head. at length we came to the stairs lead- ing to the cabin. we halted involuntarily, and looked long at each other in silence, neither of us daring to express his thoughts aloud. "o, master!” at length said my old servant, "some horrible deed has been committed here. but should the ship below be filled with murderers, i would rather throw myself at once on their mercy, than re- main a moment longer among these frightful dead i” i shared his feelings, and, plucking up a little courage, we descended to the cabin. here, too, all was silent, and our footsteps on the stairs were the only sounds we heard. we halted at the cabin door. i held my breath and listened ; but no murmur came to our ears. i opened it. the room was in the greatest disorder. clothes, weapons and other articles, lay scattered con- fusedly about. nothing was in its place. the crew, or perhaps the captain, had been carousing, to judge from appearances, only a short time before the massacre. we went on, from room to room, and everywhere we arabian days' entertainments. . found scattered about vast stores of silks, pearls, sugars and other valuable goods. i was beside myself with joy at all this ; for, as there was no one on board to claim them, i thought i might fairly appropriate them to myself; but ibrahim called to my remembrance that we were still far from land, and that without assistance from others we must despair of reaching it. we refreshed ourselves somewhat with the food and wine, which we found at hand in great abundance, and at length reäscended to the deck. but here our flesh crawled at the frightful appearance of the dead men, and we resolved to throw them overboard, and relieve ourselves of their presence. but imagine our sensa- tions when we found that not one of them could be lifted from his position! they adhered so firmly to the deck that we should have been obliged to tear up the planking to remove them, and instruments to do this were not at hand. our attempts to release the captain from the mast were equally unsuccessful ; nor could we even take away the sabre from his stark and rigid hand. we spent the day in unhappy reflections over our situ- ation, and on the approach of night i permitted ibrahim to lie down to get some sleep; i myself remaining awake on deck, to keep a look-out for means of escape or rescue. but when the moon rose, and i had judged by the stars that it was about eleven o'clock, such an irresistible torpor overpowered me, that i fell involun- tarily to the deck behind a cask which was standing near. still my condition more nearly resembled a stu- pefaction than a sleep, for i could plainly hear the sea beating against the sides of the vessel, and the sails creaking and groaning in the wind. suddenly i thought i heard voices and men's footsteps on the deck. i tried to raise myself to look, but an invisible power held me the story of the spectral ship. motionless, and i could not move my eyes. yet the voices came constantly plainer to my ears; and it seemed as if a jovial ship’s company were hurrying to and fro about the deck. now and then, too, i thought i heard a master's powerful voice, and the sound of ropes and sails drawn noisily up and down. gradually, however, my senses left me, and i fell into a profound sleep, during which i thought i could hear the clash of arms; and i did not wake till the sun stood high in heaven, and was painfully burning my face. i looked about, confused and bewildered; the storm, the ship, the dead men, and the occurrences of the past night, .coming before me like a dream. but, when i looked up, everything remained as it had been the previous day. unmoved lay the bodies ; the captain stood immovably at the mainmast. i laughed at my dream, and rose to seek my old servant. . i found him sitting sadly in the cabin. “ , mas- ter!” he exclaimed as i entered, “i would rather lie at the bottom of the ocean than spend another night on board this ship." i inquired the cause of his distress, and he answered : “after sleeping some hours, i awoke, hearing people running up and down over my head. i thought at first it was you pacing the deck ; but instantly perceived my mistake, for there were twenty or thirty moving over iny head, and orders shouted in a stentorian voice struck hideously on my ear. at last heavy footsteps descended the stairs. i knew nothing further for some time; but, consciousness at length returning for a few moments, i saw the man who is nailed to the mast overhead sitting at this table, drinking and carousing, and him whose body, dressed in a suit of crimson, lies nearest to the captain, sitting here also, and sharing in his revels.” arabian days' entertainments. you may easily imagine, my friends, the effect this statement had on me. it had been, then, no vision of an excited fancy which had disturbed my slumbers, but a stern and terrible reality. meanwhile ibrahim had been deep in thought. “i have it !” he exclaimed, at length. a stanza had occurred to his memory, which had been taught him by his grandfather, and which was of potent efficacy in exorcising apparitions; and he hoped by its aid, and by fervent prayers from the koran, to keep away during the coming night the torpor which had overpowered “our senses the evening before. the old man's suggestion pleased me; and we waited in gloomy expectation the approach of night. there was a little apartment, opening out of the cabin, in which we resolved to take refuge. we bored several holes in the door, large enough to enable us to overlook the whole cabin, and then fastened the door on the inside as well as we could, while ibrahim wrote the name of the prophet in the four corners. thus pre- pared, we waited for the horrors of the coming night. about eleven o'clock a strong inclination to sleep came over me; but my companion begged me to recite prayers from the koran, and i did so, with marked effect. all at once everything over our heads became replete with life : the ropes creaked, steps moved up and down on deck, and several voices could be plainly heard. we sat several minutes in intense anxiety, when we heard some one descending the cabin stairs. hear- ing this, my old servant commenced reciting the verse which his grandfather had given him as a protection against magic : “be ye spirits of upper air, or haunt ye the depths of the sea ? the story of the spectral ship. in loathsome tombs do ye have your lair, or come ye from fire to me? remember allah, your god and lord ; all wand'ring souls obey his word.” i am free to confess i felt little confidence in this stanza; and, when the door opened, my hair stood on end. the same tall, handsome man, whom i had seen nailed to the mainmast, entered the cabin. the nail still pierced his forehead, but he had returned his sword to its sheath ; and behind him came another man, less richly clad than his leader, whom i had also seen lying dead on deck. the captain, for such he undoubtedly was, had a livid face, a large black beard, and a pair of fierce, rolling eyes, with which he searched every corner of the cabin. i saw him with great distinctness as he passed our little chamber ; but he seemed to take no notice of the door behind which we were concealed. both took their seats at the table in the middle of the cabin, and conversed with each other in loud, harsh tones, and in an unknown tongue. their voices grew louder and harsher, until at last the captain brought down his clenched fist on the table with such force that the whole room shook. the other sprang up, with a wild burst of laughter, and signed to the captain to follow him. the latter rose from his seat, tore his sabre from its sheath, and both left the apartment. we breathed more freely after they had left us; but our terror was far from being at an end. the uproar on deck grew louder and louder. we could hear them running rapidly to and fro overhead, shouting, laughing, and yelling. at last a hellish noise was heard, mingled with yells and the clash of arms; then came a sudden silence. when we ventured to return to the deck, many hours arabian days' entertainments. after, we found everything as we had left it the day before. not one of the bodies had changed its posture, and all were as stiff as if carved in wood. thus passed many days on the ship. we drove con- stantly towards the east, where, according to my reck- oning, land was surely to be reached at last. but though by day we traversed many miles, we seemed to return to our previous position during the night, for we found ourselves, when the sun rose, invariably in the same place. we could not explain this, otherwise than by supposing that the dead men steered their ship back every night with the trade wind. to prevent this we took in all the sails before night, and secured them by the same means we had employed with the cabin door: we wrote the name of the prophet on parchment, to- gether with the above-mentioned stanza, and fastened the talismans to the lowered sails. we waited in our state-room for the result, in intense anxiety. that night, magic seemed to be working with increased fury; but, , joy! the next morning the sails were still furled as we had left them the evening before. henceforth, we spread during the day only so much sail as was needed to urge the ship moderately forward ; and in this way in five days we advanced a considerable dis- tance on our voyage. at length, on the sixth day, we discovered land in the horizon, and gave thanks to allah and his prophet for our wonderful preservation. all this day and the following night we drove onward towards the coast, and on the seventh morning thought we discovered a city at no great distance. with great difficulty we hove over an anchor into the sea, and launching a small boat, which stood on the deck, rowed with all our strength towards the city. in half an hour we ran the story of the spectral ship. into the mouth of a stream which discharged into the ocean, and landed on the shore. proceeding on foot to the city, we inquired its name at the gates, and learned that it was an indian city, at no great distance from my original place of destination. we took lodgings at a caravansary; and, after refreshing our strength, which had been exhausted by our perilous voyage, i made inquiries for a man of wisdom and learning, giving our landlord to understand that i should prefer one some- what acquainted with magic. he took me to a retired street, and knocked at an obscure house, giving me directions to inquire for muley. as i entered, an old, diminutive man, with a gray beard and a long nose, came towards me, and demanded my business. on my replying that i was in search of muley the wise, he told me it was himself. i asked him for advice as to what i should do with the dead bodies, and what measures i should adopt to get them out of the ship. he replied, that the people in the vessel had probably been bewitched because of some great crime perpetrated on the sea. he thought this witchcraft could be exorcised if they could be brought on shore; but that this was impossible, unless the planks on which they lay were taken up; that by all the laws of god and justice, the ship and all she con- tained belonged to me, but that i must keep pro- foundly silent in regard to it; and, if i would present to him a small portion of my surplus wealth, that he would bring his own slaves to help me in disposing of the bodies. i promised to reward him handsomely ; and we set out for the ship, with five slaves, provided with saws and hatchets. while on our way, the magi- cian could not sufficiently compliment the wisdom of our plan of guarding the sails with quotations from the * arabian days' entertainments. koran. he declared that this was the sole means by which we could have been saved. it was still early in the morning when we reached the ship. we went zealously to work, and in an hour's time had placed four of the bodies in the skiff. some of the slaves were ordered to.row them ashore and bury them. they declared, when they came back, that the dead men had saved them the trouble of burial, for no sooner had they been laid on the ground than they had crumbled into dust. we continued to remove the corpses, and before evening every one of them had been carried to the land. no one was left but the man whom we had found nailed to the mainmast. we tried in vain to draw out the nail. no exercise of strength seemed to start it a hair's breadth. i was at a loss what to do next; for it was out of the question to cut down the mast in order to take him ashore. but muley helped us out of this embarrassment. he directed a slave to row quickly to the shore, and bring away a basket of earth. when this had been done the magi- cian uttered some mysterious words, and sprinkled the earth on the dead man's head. the latter instantly opened his eyes, drew a deep breath, and the wound made by the nail in his brow began to bleed. we now drew the spike out without difficulty, and the body fell into the arms of one of our slaves. " who has brought me here?” he asked. muley pointed to me, and i stepped closer. “thanks, un- known stranger," said he. "you have released me from long torments. for fifteen years my body has been sailing on these waters, and my soul been con- demned to revisit it at night. but now earth has rested on my head, and i can go to my fathers, forgiven." the story of the spectral ship. i begged him to let us know how he had merited this fearful punishment, and he went on : “fifteen years ago i was a powerful and distinguished man, and lived in algiers. a thirst for gain induced me to fit out a ship and take to piracy. i had practised this mode of life for some time, when one day i took on board at zante a dervish, who wished to travel free of expense. i and my crew were fierce people, and paid no regard to the sanctity of our passenger, but, on the contrary, made him the object of our ridicule. but on one occasion, when, in his holy zeal, he had rebuked my sinful course of life, my anger, which was more easily excited as i had been drinking deeply, obtained complete mastery over me, furious at hearing from a dervish what i would not have endured tamely from the sultan himself, i plunged my dagger in his heart. with his dying breath he cursed my crew and me, condemn- ing us to an existence of neither life nor death till we had laid our heads upon the earth. the dervish died, and we threw him into the sea, laughing at his impre- cations ; but that very night his sentence was fulfilled. a part of my crew mutinied. we fought with dread- ful fury till my adherents were all slain, and i nailed to the mast. but the mutineers also perished of their wounds, and soon my ship was merely one vast grave. my sight left me, my breath failed, and i awaited death. but it was only a torpor which had overpowered me. on the next night, at the same hour in which we had thrown the dervish into the sea, i and all my crew awoke to life; existence had returned to us again, but we could do nothing, say nothing, but what we had said and done that dreadful night. thus we have sailed for fifteen years, unable to live, unable to die. we have spread every sail to the tempest with frantic arabian days' entertainments. joy, hoping to be dashed at last upon some friendly cliff, and lay our weary heads at rest on the bottom of the ocean. it was denied to us. but now i can die. once more, my unknown savior, i thank you; and, if you value treasures, take my ship and its contents in token of my gratitude.” the captain let his head fall upon his breast, and, like his companions in suffering, crumbled into dust. we collected his ashes in a box, and buried them on the beach; and i obtained workmen from the city, who soon put my vessel in repair. after i had bartered away, at a great profit, the goods which i found on board, i hired seamen, remunerated richly my friend muley, and sailed for my native country. i took a circuitous route, visiting many countries and islands, and disposing of my goods. the prophet blessed my undertaking. at the end of nine months i returned to balsora twice as rich as the dying captain's bequest had made me. my fellow-citizens were surprised at my wealth and good fortune, and would not believe but that i had found the valley of diamonds of the famous voyager, sindbad. i left them to their belief; and my example tempted all the youths of balsora to go out into the world, in order, like me, to make their fortunes. i lived calmly and at peace, and have made, every five years since then, a journey to mecca, that i might thank god, in his holy place, for all his blessings, and pray for the captain and his crew, that he would receive them into paradise. the caravan's journey was continued the next day without interruption, and, when it halted, selim the stranger thus accosted muley, the youngest of the mer- chants : the story of the severed hand. “you are, we know, the youngest of us all, but you are always in gay spirits, and surely have in your mem- ory some lively tale for our amusement. pray, serve it up, to refresh us after the heat of the day.” “i should be most happy,” said muley in reply, " to tell you anything to afford you entertainment; but modesty is becoming to the young; my older fellow- travellers here must take precedence. why should not zaleukos, now, always so grave and reserved, disclose to us what has made his life so gloomy? perhaps we could alleviate his sorrows. to a brother, though he be of a different faith, we should be always ready to do a service." the traveller referred to was a greek merchant, of middle age, handsome and vigorous, but of unchanging gravity. though an unbeliever in the prophet, his companions were warmly attached to him ; for his demeanor had inspired them with entire respect and confidence. he had lost one hand, and his fellow-trav- ellers suspected that this was the occasion of his deep and unvarying melancholy. zaleukos, in reply to muley's suggestion, answered : “i am very grateful for your sympathy; sorrows i have none, at least none of which you, with the best inten- tions, could lighten the burthen. still, as muley accuses me of being melancholy, i will narrate to you an event which will go far towards justifying me. you see that i have lost my left hand. it is not a natural defect, but was lost at a period the most horrible of my life. whether i am wrong to be, since then, more grave than my condition seems to authorize, you shall judge when you have heard the story of the severed hand." arabian days' entertainments. the story of the severed hand. i was born in constantinople. my father was a dragoman of the sublime porte, and drove a lucrative trade in costly essences and silks. he gave me a good education; in part instructing me himself, partly employing one of our priests for my tuition. he intended at first that i should succeed him in his busi- ness, but, finding that i showed more capacity than he had expected, he resolved, with the advice of friends, to educate me to the practice of medicine; since a phy- sician, if he has but very little more knowledge than a quack, can make his fortune in constantinople. our house was much resorted to by franks, and one of them advised my father to send me to paris, where such studies could be followed at little expense and to the best advantage. he offered to take me with him, free of cost, on his return to that city. my father, who had travelled much in his youth, accepted the offer, and the frank informed me i must be prepared to start in three months. i was beside myself with delight at the expectation of seeing foreign lands, and could scarcely wait for the time when we were to embark. the frank at last transacted all his affairs, and prepared for the journey; and, the evening before the day fixed for our departure, my father called me into his bed- chamber. beautiful arms and clothes were lying on the table; but what principally drew my attention was a large heap of gold, having never seen in my life so much money together before. my father embraced me and said: “you see, my son, i have provided you clothes for your journey. these arms are yours also; they are the same which your grandfather gave me . araltai , . !! ties it! triinu i ' ist dia as well in lim . es tait moist!....cus . . {"iii s... etve. p r i i 'bisite to the patine !! · must bo od • bile nyil,'. - , % larmis, . . . . . . . . , : . t on which ! severed hand the story of the severed hand. when i set out for foreign lands. i know you are skil- ful in their use; but never use your skill unless attacked; then strike, and strike boldly. my property is not large, but what i have i have divided into three parts. one is for you, another for my own wants, and the third shall be a sacred fund to serve you in you: hour of need.” so spoke my father, tears flowing from his eyes, perhaps from a sad foreboding, for we never met again. our journey was a prosperous one. we soon arrived in france, and six days' further travel brought us to the vast city of paris. here my friend hired me a cham- ber, advising me to make a prudent use of my money, which amounted in the whole to about two thousand ducats. i lived three years in paris, and learned much of what a skilful physician requires to know. i should be deceiving you, however, if i described my residence in paris as a willing one, for the customs of the people gave me great displeasure ; moreover, i had but very few friends, though those i had were all young men of noble character and distin- guished talents. home-sickness at last conquered me; and as, during my whole absence, i had heard not a word from my father, i availed myself of a favorable opportunity and returned to my native land. . this opportunity was an embassy which was just leaving france for the court of the sublime porte. i enrolled myself as surgeon in the suite of the ambassa- dor, and reached stamboul without accident. i found my father's house closed, and the neighbors, filled with surprise at my sudden arrival, told me that he had been dead two months. the priest who had been my tutor in my youth brought me the key, and, lonely and friend- - arabian days' entertainments. less, i took possession of the empty residence. i found everything as my father had left it; but the gold which he had promised to bequeath me was missing. i asked the priest concerning it, and he answered with a low bow : “your father died a religious man, and made over his property to the church.” this was incredi- ble; yet what could i do? i had no evidence to bring against the priest, and my only course was to be grateful that he had not appropriated the house and goods as well. this was the first misfortune which befell me. but henceforth the blows of fate followed in rapid suc- cession. my profession was far from lucrative, partly because i felt ashamed to adopt the habits of the quacks, but principally because i could no longer look to my father's recommendation, which, had he lived, would have introduced me to the patronage of the rich and the great, who now had no thoughts to spare for the humble zaleukos. in addition to these misfor- tunes, my father's stock of goods found no purchasers, for his former customers had gone elsewhere after his death, and new ones were not easily obtained. on one occasion, while i was sitting thinking sadly of my con- dition, the thought struck me that i had frequently seen people of my nation in france, who travelled through the country exposing their goods for sale in the market- places of the different towns. i recollected that their foreign aspect and origin readily found them customers, and that it was not at all uncommon in this business to increase one's means a hundred-fold. my resolution was taken. i sold my father's house ; gave a part of the purchase money to be taken care of for me by a tried friend ; purchased with the remainder a variety of articles, which were rarities in france, such as shawls, the story of the severed hand. silk stuffs, salves, and fine oils ; secured my passage in a vessel, and entered on my second journey to france. it seemed, as soon as i had left behind the gates of the dardanelles, as if fortune had again become favor- able. our voyage was short and prosperous. i vis- ited in succession all the large cities and towns of the country, and found everywhere ready purchasers of my goods. my friend in stamboul kept me con- stantly supplied with new articles, and i grew richer day by day. at length, when i had accumulated so much that i believed i might safely venture on a wider field, i travelled with my wares into italy. i have omitted to mention, what was a considerable source of profit to me, that i also brought my medical knowledge into frequent play. wherever i went, i caused it to be announced by posters that a celebrated greek phy- sician, who had effected many remarkable cures, had arrived in the city; and my balsams and medicines brought many ducats to my pocket. in the course of my wanderings i arrived at last at the italian city of florence. i resolved to remain longer than usual in this city, partly because its beauty greatly pleased me, and partly because i wished to recover from the fatigues of my travels. i hired a shop in the quarter santa croce, together with a couple of handsome apartments, at no great distance, opening upon a balcony, and immedi- ately distributed my posters, describing me as a phy- sician and merchant. i had scarcely opened my shop when a stream of customers began to flow in; and, although my prices were high, i sold more than other merchants, because my manners towards my patrons were pleasant and courteous. i had been living in florence with great contentment four days, when one evening, after i had closed my shop, and was as usual toget distance, my posters, scarcely arabian days' entertainments. counting over the stock remaining in my cases, i found, in one of the empty boxes, a little note, which i could not remember having placed there. i opened it, and found that it was a request for me to go, that night, at exactly twelve o'clock, to the bridge called ponte vecchio. i pondered a long time over it, trying to imagine who my anonymous correspondent could be; but, as i knew not a soul in florence, i came at length to the opinion that it must be from some one desirous to procure, secretly, my services for some sick man, - a thing which happened not unfrequently. i determined to go, but for greater security armed myself with the sabre which my father had given me some time before. · towards midnight i set out on my expedition, and came soon to the ponte vecchio. i found the bridge empty and deserted, and resolved to wait till he who had requested my presence made his appearance. the night was cold ; the moon shone brightly, and i stood gazing down on the waters of the arno, which glistened sweetly in the moonlight. as the bells of the city sounded twelve, i raised my head, and a tall man was standing before me, concealed in a red cloak, and hold- ing one of its folds before his features. i was startled at first at the mysterious suddenness of his appearance ; but soon regained my presence of mind, and said to my unknown summoner: “if i have been bidden here by you, tell me quickly what are your wishes.” the stranger turned, and slowly answered : "follow !” it was far from being an agreeable idea, this going, completely unprotected, with a perfect stranger, and i replied, without moving from my posi- tion: “not so, my dear sir; you must first inform me whither; and i should prefer you would show me a little of your face, that i may see whether you mean to the story of the severed hand. no purpose waiting on this butt by eve deal fairly by me.” the stranger seemed not to heed this latter request. “you refuse, zaleukos ? stay then !” and he retired. my anger was excited by this treatment. “and do you think,” i cried, “ that i am a man to be made a butt by every fool, and that i have been waiting on this bridge this bitter night to no purpose ?” overtaking him in three bounds, i seized him by his mantle, shouting at the top of my voice, and, at the same time, laying my other hand on my sabre ; but the mantle remained in my grasp, and its unknown wearer vanished round the neighboring cor- ner. my wrath doubled with every step; but i had possession of the cloak, and i was determined it should serve as my clue to this singular adventure. so, throw- . ing it over my shoulders, i went in the direction of my house. i had scarcely advanced a hundred paces, when some one passed close by me, and whispered in my ear in the french language: “have a care, count; nothing can be done to-night.” before i could turn, the individual had passed on, and all i saw was a shadow gliding along the houses. that this warning was intended for the owner of the mantle, i saw clearly, but it threw no light on the mystery. the next morning i deliberated what to do. i thought at first i would cause the mantle to be cried, as if i had found it; but i reflected that, in that case, the unknown could reclaim it through a third party, and i should obtain no explanation of the strange affair. while i was hesitating, i examined the mantle closer. it was made of heavy genoa velvet, of a purple color, edged with astrachan fur, and richly adorned with gold. the splendor of the cloak suggested an idea, which i resolved to carry out. i carried it to my shop, and exhibited it as if for sale, setting so high a price arabian days' entertainments. upon it that i felt certain of not finding a purchaser. my purpose was to make a seaching examination of every one who made inquiries concerning the mantle ; for the figure and appearance of the unknown, though i had caught only a momentary glimpse of them, i had clearly seen, and could have told among a thousand. the cloak found many admirers, — for its extraordinary beauty attracted all eyes, — but none of them resembled the unknown, and none were willing to pay the high price of two hundred ducats for it. i thought it a striking circumstance, moreover, that, when i occasion- ally made inquiry of my customers whether there had ever been a mantle like it in florence, every one answered in the negative, and assured me that they had never seen before so costly and magnificent a garment. at length, towards evening, a young man came into my shop, who had called frequently before, and had made me many offers for the mantle, and, throwing a purse of ducats on the counter, cried: “by heaven, zaleukos, i must have your mantle, if it beggars me!” — and he began at the same time to count out his gold pieces. i was much embarrassed; for i had merely exhibited the cloak to attract possibly the attention of my mysterious guide, and now came a young fool who was willing to pay the monstrous price i had set upon it. yet what could i do? i submitted; for, on the other hand, it was no unpleasant reflection that i had been so well recompensed for my previous night's adventure. the young man threw it over his shoulders, and turned to go; but he halted on the threshold, and, detaching a paper which had been fastened to the mantle, said, throwing it over to me: “ zaleukos, here is something which does not belong to my cloak.” i took up the paper indifferently, when, to my astonish- the story of the severed hand. ment, i saw written: “bring the mantle, this night,' at the same hour, to the ponte vecchio, and four hun- dred ducats are yours.” i stood thunder-struck. i had then not only thrown away my good fortune, but had wholly failed in my resolution to discover the owner. i did not long hesitate, but, gathering up the two hundred ducats, sprang after my purchaser, and cried : “take your money back again, good friend, and give me my cloak; i cannot possibly part with it.” at first he took what i said for a joke; but, seeing i was in earnest, he fell into a passion, called me a fool, and we came at last to blows. i was fortunate enough to pull off the cloak in the scuffle, and was already making off with it, when the young man shouted for the police, and dragged me before the judge. the judge was greatly surprised at the accusation, and of course awarded the cloak to my opponent. i offered the young man twenty, thirty, fifty, eighty, a hundred ducats beyond his two hun- dred, if he would restore me the mantle. what my entreaties failed to effect, my gold accomplished. he accepted my good ducats and i departed with the mantle triumphant, contented to be thought a madman by all florence. the opinion of the people was per- fectly immaterial to me; for i knew better than they how much i was a gainer by the transaction. i waited for night with impatience, and, at the same hour as on the previous evening, set out for the ponte vecchio, mantle under my arm. the figure came out of the darkness at the last toll of the bell, and came towards me. it was unmistakably the same man. “have you the mantle?” i was asked. “yes, my lord,”' i replied; "but it cost me, in cash, a hundred ducats.": "i know it,” replied he; “see, here are * arabian days' entertainments. four hundred.” he stepped with me to the broad coping of the bridge, and told down the gold pieces. there were four hundred. they gleamed beautifully in the light of the moon, and filled my heart with joy. ah, little did i imagine, that it was the last i should ever feel! i thrust the gold into my pocket, trying at the same time to take an accurate view of the gener- ous unknown ; but he wore a mask, and his dark eyes gleamed fearfully through its openings. “i thank you, my lord, for your generosity,” said i. “what would you have of me? but, first of all, i insist it must be nothing wrong." -"your caution is unneces- sary,” he answered, throwing the cloak over his shoulders. “i need your aid as a physician, - not for the living, but for the dead !” “how can that be?” i cried, full of astonishment.. “i came with my sister from a distant country," — he answered, motioning me to follow him, — "and was living with her at the house of a friend of my family. she died yesterday, after a brief illness, and her rela- tions will bury her to-morrow. according to an old usage of our family, the bodies of its members must repose in the ancestral tomb. many of us, who have died in foreign lands, have been interred in our own sepulchre by the aid of embalmment. so, in the present case, although i resign her body to the possession of her relations, i must carry to my father at least her head, that he may see his daughter once again.” this resolution of cutting off the head of a beloved sister struck me as something dreadful, but i ventured no objections, for fear of angering my benefactor. i told him, therefore, that i was familiar with the process of embalmment, and asked to be conducted to the dead person. but i could not refrain from inquiring, why the story of the severed hand. all this must be done so mysteriously, and under the cover of night. he replied that his relations, who regarded his purpose as revolting, would interfere by day. let the head be once removed, however, and he should value little their upbraidings. he could have brought the head to me himself, but a natural reluc- tance restrained him from performing the dismember- ment with his own hand. we had by this time reached a large, handsome house, which my guide told me was the termination of our midnight promenade. we passed the main entrance, and entering by a small door, which the unknown closed carefully behind us, mounted a flight of winding stairs in total darkness. these led us to a dimly-lighted corridor, through which we passed to a chamber, lighted by a single lamp suspended from the ceiling. in this room stood a bed, in which lay the corpse. the unknown turned away his face, and seemed to be striving to restrain his tears. he then pointed to the bed, and, ordering me to perform my duty skilfully and swiftly, left the chamber. i took out the knife, which, as a surgeon, i always carried about me, and approached the bed. only the face of the corpse was visible ; but this was of such extreme beauty, that i felt inspired with the deepest compassion. her dark hair hung down in large masses on the pillow, her face was pale, her eyes closed. i first made an incision in the skin, such as physicians make at the amputation of a limb; then, taking my sharpest knife, with one effort divided the throat. but, o horror! the corpse instantly opened its eyes, closed them again, and seemed in one deep sigh for the first time to breathe away its life. a jet of warm blood at arabian days' entertainments. the same time spouted from the wound. i felt con- vinced that i was the slayer of the unhappy creature. there could be no doubt that she was now dead, for there could be no recovery from the wound i had inflicted. i stood several minutes overpowered with regret for what had happened. could the stranger have deceived me? or had it been a case of apparent death? the latter seemed more probable. i could not tell her brother that perhaps a less rapid incision would have recalled her to life ; and i resolved, there- fore, to complete the operation. i proceeded to en- large the wound, preparatory to removing the head, when, suddenly, the dying girl gave another groan, and, with a convulsive movement of pain, gave up the ghost. i rushed from the chamber, completely un- manned by horror. the entry was dark ; the lamp had gone out; no trace of my guide was to be seen; and i was compelled to trust to chance in finding the stairs by feeling along the wall. i found them at length, and, half-falling, half-gliding, plunged down. no one was below. i found the door on the latch, and breathed freer when i reached the street. spurred on by terror, i ran furiously to my lodgings, and, burying myself in the pillows of my bed, strove to obliterate from my memory the horror i had been guilty of. but sleep refused to visit me, and morning at last warned me to collect my scattered senses. i thought it probable that the man would not denounce me, who had led me into the commission of this, as it now seemed to me, ac- cursed deed. i resolved, at last, to open my shop as usual, and assume, if possible, a calm demeanor. but, alas!. a new circumstance, which i now noticed for the first time, added to my despair. my cap and girdle were missing, and i was uncertain whether i had left the story of the severed hand. them in the chamber of the dead girl, or lost them in my flight. the former supposition appeared the more probable; and, in that case, i was certain to be discov- ered. i opened my shop at the usual hour. my neighbor came in, as he was in the habit of doing every morning, being a sociable, talkative man, and began : “well, what do you think of the dreadful affair which happened last night?” i pretended not to understand. “why, have n't you heard of what is the talk of the whole city? have n't you heard that the governor's daugh- ter, bianca, the loveliest flower of florence, was mur- dered last night? ah! i saw her only yesterday, walking so happily in the streets with her lover! the wedding was to have taken place to-day.” every word my neighbor said was a dagger in my heart; and my torture was constantly repeating itself; for each of my customers told me the same story, increasing its hor- rors with every recital, and yet no one could paint it so terribly as i myself had seen it. about noon an officer of justice entered my shop, and commanded me to turn out all present. “signor zaleukos,” said he, drawing out the articles i had lost, “ do these belong to you?” i reflected whether i should deny them ; but, seeing through the half-opened door my landlord and several acquaintances, who could testify directly against me, i thought it better not to make things worse by false- hood, and acknowledged that they were mine. the officer ordered me to follow, and took me to a huge building, which i soon saw was the prison. there he assigned me temporarily a room. reflecting in solitude over my position, i saw that it was a fearful one. the thought that i was a murderer, though without intention, incessantly recurred to me. arabian days' entertainments. so, too, i could not conceal from myself that the glis- tening of the ducats had taken my judgment prisoner, for, otherwise, i should not have entered so blindly into this miserable tragedy. two hours after my arrest i was taken out of my cell. we descended a flight of steps, and i found myself in a large hall, where twelve aged men sat round a long table covered with black. seats were arranged round the sides of the room, which were filled with the nobility of florence, and a dense throng of spectators occupied the galleries. when i had been placed before the black table, a man of gloomy and unhappy aspect rose from his seat. it was the governor. he announced to the assembled audience, that, being the father of the victim, he could not hon- orably act as judge in this investigation, and that he resigned his seat for this occasion to the oldest of the senators. this latter personage was a hoary-headed man, of at least ninety years of age. his form was bent, and his temples were hung with thin white hair; but his eyes still burned brightly, and his voice was strong and full. he began by asking me if i confessed the murder. i begged a hearing, and then stated, without fear and in a distinct voice, what i had done and what i knew. i noticed that the governor, during my recital, grew alternately pale and red; and, when i ended, he broke out furiously: “how, villain! you throw upon another the crime which you committed solely from avarice!” the senator rebuked his inter- ruption as improper, since he had voluntarily resigned his right to interpose, and especially since it was not shown that i had committed the crime from avarice, as, by his own testimony, nothing had been stolen from the body. nay, he went further. he declared to the governor that he must detail the incidents of his the story of the severed hand. daughter's latter years ; for in that way alone could it be determined whether i had spoken truth or falsehood. he then adjourned the court for the day, to form his opinion, as he said, from the papers of the deceased, which the governor must surrender to him. i was again transferred to my cell, where i passed a misera- ble day, tormented with the burning hope that some connection might yet be discovered between the de- ceased and the man with the red mantle. the next day, when i entered the hall of justice, several letters were lying on the table. the old senator demanded of me if they were in my hand-writing. i looked at them, and saw at once that they were from the same hand as the two notes received by me. i pointed this out to the senator, but he seemed to regard it as of little im- portance, and answered that i could, and, indeed, must have written all myself, for the signature at the bottom of the letters was unmistakably a “z,” the initial let- ter of my name. the letters contained threats against the deceased, mingled with warnings against the mar- riage which she was about to consummate. the governor seemed to have been making some extraordinary statements with regard to my character. for the whole of this day i was treated with far greater suspicion and severity. i referred, for my justification, to my papers, to be found at my lodgings; but i was told that search had been already made there, and that nothing had been found. at the close of this investi- gation, every hope had vanished; and, when i was brought into the hall of justice on the third day, the sentence was read to me that i was convicted of delib- erate murder, and condemned to death. it had come to this! deprived of all which made my life yet dear to me, i was about to die a felon’s death, far from my arabian days' entertainments. native land and in the prime of life, at the hand of the executioner! on the evening of the day which had decided my fate i was sitting sadly in my cell, my hopes fled, my thoughts earnestly directed upon death, when the door of my prison opened, and a man entered, who looked at me a long time in silence. “do i find you again, and in this condition, zaleukos !” he said at length. i had not recognized him by the dim light of my lamp, but the tones of his voice awoke old recollections in my heart. it was valetty, one of the few friends whom i had known in paris. he said he had come by chance to florence, where his father, a man of distinction, resided ; that he had heard my history, and had come to pay me a final visit, to learn from my own lips my motive for so hideous a crime. i told him the whole story. he appeared much astonished, and adjured me to divulge all to him, my only friend, and not add false- hood to my other crimes, when on the very eve of death. i answered, with the most solemn protestations, that i had spoken only truth, and that i was guilty of no other sin than, blinded by the gleam of gold, of not detecting at once the improbability of the statement of the unknown. “you did not know bianca, then?” he asked. i assured him i had never seen her. valetty now told me that there was a deep mystery in the fact that the governor had so hastily insisted on my con- demnation, and that a report was now prevalent among the people that i had known bianca a long time, and had murdered her out of rage at her marriage with another. i pointed out that all this applied to the man with the red mantle; but that i had no means whatso- ever of proving his complicity in the affair. valetty embraced me in tears, and promised to do all in his the story of the severed hand. power to save at least my life. i felt but feeble hopes ; but i knew him to be an able man, and learned in the law, and that he would make every effort to save me within his reach. i remained in uncertainty two long days, but valetty appeared at last. “i bring you good news,” said he, “though slight. your life is spared, and you will be released; but you must lose your hand.” i thanked him with the deepest emotion. he told me “that the governor had been at first inexorable in refusing to permit the matter to be further investi- gated; but, to avoid the appearance of injustice, he had at last consented that, if a similar case could be found in the florentine histories, my punishment should be regulated by the sentence there pronounced ; that he and his father had searched day and night through the ancient records, and had found at last a case precisely parallel. thus ran the sentence: ‘his left hand shall be hewn off, his property confiscated, and himself con- demned to perpetual banishment;' that such was now my sentence, and i must prepare myself for the torture which awaited me." i will not, my friends, describe that fearful day when i laid my hand on the block in the open market-place, and my own blood spouted over me in arching jets. valetty took me to his own house till i was healed, and then furnished me generously with means for my journey ; for everything which i had accumulated with · so much toil had become the property of the state. i journeyed from florence to sicily, and thence in the first ship i could find to constantinople. there my only support was the sum which i had entrusted to my friend, and i begged him to give me a refuge in his house. what was my astonishment, when he inquired why i did not take possession of my own? he told arabian days' entertainments. me that a stranger had lately bought a house in the greek quarter, in my name, and had told the neighbors i should soon return. i went there immediately with my friend, and was kindly welcomed by all my old acquaintances. an aged merchant gave me a letter, which the man, who had made the purchase, had left with him for me. i read: “ zaleukos! two hands are · ready to labor ceaselessly that you may never feel the loss of one. this house, and everything therein, is yours. every year will be given to you such a sum as shall rank you among the richest of your people. par- don one who is more unfortunate than yourself.” i could guess the writer; and the merchant told me that it was a man whom he took to be a frenchman, and that he wore a crimson mantle. i had seen enough to be convinced that the unknown was still possessed of many noble impulses. i found all the arrangements of my new house of the best description; and it con- tained a shop filled with goods better than those i had - lost. ten years have passed since then. more from the force of habit than from need i continue to engage in business; but that land where i met such misfortune i have never seen again. i receive every year, from an unknown source, a thousand pieces of gold; but, though it gives me pleasure to learn thereby the nobility of that unhappy sufferer, still he cannot buy from me the an- guish of my soul, for the fearful picture of the murdered bianca lives eternally in my memory. zaleukos had ended his narrative. the others had listened to him with great sympathy; and the stranger, especially, appeared to be deeply interested and im- pressed. he had sighed deeply several times, and the story of the severed hand. seemed to muley to have been shedding tears. they conversed a considerable time on the subject of the story. " and do you not hate the unknown wretch who caused you so basely to lose a noble member of your body, nay, brought your very life in danger ?” “there have been hours, in times gone by,” an- swered the greek, “when my heart has cursed him before god, for bringing me this misery, and poisoning the happiness of my life. but i found consolation in the religion of my father, which commands me to love my enemies. besides, he is more unfortunate than i.” “you are a noble being,” cried the stranger, pressing the greek's hand warmly. the captain of the guard interrupted them at this point. stepping, with an anxious air, into the tent, he announced that no one must sleep that day, as they were now at the place where caravans were frequently attacked; and his soldiers believed they had already seen horsemen in the horizon. the merchants were much disconcerted at this infor- mation. selim, the stranger, expressed surprise at their confusion, and suggested that, with so strong an escort, they had no reason to fear an army of thievish arabs. " true, sir," answered the captain. "if we only had to look out for such common rubbish as these, we might all sleep without danger. but, for some time past, the terrible orbasan has shown himself again ; and now one has to look out for his safety." the stranger asked, who was this orbasan; and ach- med, the old merchant, replied : “ there are innumerable stories circulating among the common people about this singular man. some arabian days' entertainments. hold him to be a supernatural being, as he often sus- tains a successful struggle with five or six opponents at once ; while others regard him as a courageous french- man, whom misfortune has banished to this place. thus much is certain, however, that he is an accursed robber and thief.” " you should not assert that without qualification," answered lezah, another of the merchants. “he is a robber, but he is a noble fellow, nevertheless, and proved himself such to a brother of mine, as i could easily show you. he has brought his tribe to the most perfect dis- cipline; and, so long as he ranges these deserts, no other tribe dares show itself. besides, he does not rob like other villains, but exacts protection money from the caravans; and whoever pays him this willingly can complete his journey unmolested, for orbasan is the sovereign of the desert.” our travellers continued to chat thus with each other in their tent. meanwhile, the escort, which had been posted around the encampment, began to show signs of great uneasiness. a considerable body of armed horsemen had shown itself at the distance of half an hour's ride, and appeared to be advancing directly upon the camp. one of the guard, therefore, came to the tent to announce that they were probably about to be attacked. the merchants consulted together on what course they should adopt, whether to advance towards their assailants, or to wait in their present po- sition for the attack. achmed and the two older mer- chants preferred the latter; but zaleukos and the fiery muley insisted on advancing, and called on the stranger for his assistance. this latter drew calmly from his girdle a little red handkerchief, dotted with blue stars, and, binding it to a lance, directed one of the slaves to the story of the severed hand. attach it to the tent. he pledged his life, he said, that the horsemen, when they saw this signal, would retire without molesting them. muley had no faith in this result; but the slave fastened the lance to the top of the tent. meanwhile, all in the camp had seized their arms, and were looking at the approaching horsemen, in strained expectation. the little banner appeared, however, to exert a remarkable influence over these fierce children of the desert, for they turned suddenly from their course, and swept away in a large circle over the sandy desert. our travellers stood some minutes in amazement. the stranger wore an air of calm indifference, and stood gazing from the front of the tent across the plain. at length, muley broke silence. “who art thou, mighty stranger,” he cried, “who tamest, by a sign, the wild hordes of the desert ?”. “ you rank my power higher than it deserves," an- swered selim baruch. “i provided myself with this signal when i made my escape. what it means i know not; but this much i do know, that whoever travels with this emblem finds in it a powerful protector.” the merchants thanked the stranger, calling him the savior of their lives. in truth, the number of the assailants had been so large that the caravan could have made only a brief resistance to their attack. every one retired to rest, with a lighter heart, after this event; and, when the sun began to sink, and the evening wind blew freshly over the wilderness of sand, they broke up their encampment, and set forth again on their journey. the following day the camp was pitched not more than a day's journey from the borders of the desert. * . arabian days' entertainments. when the travellers had assembled again in the large tent, lezah, the merchant, took his turn to speak. “i said to you, yesterday, that the dreaded orbasan was a man of a noble heart: let me prove it, to-day, by narrating an adventure of my brother's. “my father was cadi in acara, and had three children. i was the oldest, my brother and sister being much younger. when i was twenty years old, my uncle, my father's brother, summoned me before him. he ap- pointed me the heir of all his property, on the condition that i should remain with him till his decease. he reached a good old age, so that two years had elapsed before i returned to my father's house, and then, for the first time, learned the dreadful fate which had fallen on my family, and to what gracious ends great allah had directed it at last.” the rescue of fatima. my brother, mustapha, and fatima, my sister, were nearly of the same age; the former but two years the elder. they lived together affectionately, and did mutually everything in their power to lighten the bur- den of our father's declining years. on fatima's six- teenth birthday her brother made arrangements for a feast. he invited all their playmates, set a handsome entertainment before them in his father's garden, and, when evening came on, invited them to take a short trip out to sea, in a vessel he had hired, and had had handsomely decorated for the occasion. fatima and her playmates assented with delight, for the evening was lovely, and the city, when seen from the water, keris ad ན མ ༤་ ཀྱི་ beste op aaa. the rescue of fatima. and especially at evening, wore its most beautiful aspect. the girls were so much pleased with their trip that they urged my brother to extend their excursion. mustapha yielded, with great unwillingness, for a cor- sair had been observed in the neighborhood only a few days before. there was a promontory, which ran out into the sea, not far from the city, and the girls ex- pressed a wish to go to it, to witness the sunset. as they rowed round the point, they saw, a short distance off, a vessel crowded with armed men. suspecting evil, my brother ordered the boatmen to put about and make for the shore. his anxiety was soon justified, for the strange vessel commenced a rapid pursuit, and, having more oars, soon succeeded in placing itself between my brother and the shore. the girls, when they perceived the danger of their position, sprang from their seats, crying and shrieking. in vain did musta- pha attempt to tranquillize them ; in vain represent to them that they must remain quiet, as they exposed the boat to the danger of oversetting, by running needlessly from one end to the other. it was of no avail; and at last, when the near approach of the other boat caused them all to crowd to the opposite side of their own, it overturned. meanwhile, the people on shore had been watch- ing the movements of the strange boat; and, as for some time past great anxiety had been felt on ac- count of pirates, suspicion was aroused, and several vessels put out from land to bring aid to our voyagers. but they came only just in time to rescue them from a watery grave. the hostile boat had disappeared during the confusion; and great uncertainty existed on board the two boats which had received the saved whether all had escaped. they approached one another, and arabian days' entertainments. ah! it was discovered that my sister and one of her playmates was absent, while, at the same time, they discovered a stranger, in one of the boats, whom no one knew. in answer to mustapha's threats, he confessed that he belonged to the hostile vessel which lay at anchor two miles further out, and that his companions had left him in the lurch, in their hasty flight, while he was engaged in helping out of the water the sinking girls ; and he admitted to have seen them bear away two of the maidens to their ship. my old father's sorrow was intense, ånd mustapha's grief almost brought him to the grave; for, not only had he lost a darling sister, — and accused himself incessantly of being the cause of her misfortune, — but fatima's friend, too, who shared her misery, had been promised to him, by her parents, for his bride, and he had not yet ventured to confess his engagement to his father, because her family were poor and of humble station. my father was a harsh and cruel man. when the acuteness of his sorrow had grown somewhat less, he summoned mustapha to his presence, and said to him: “ your folly has robbed me of the consolation of my old age, and the joy of my eyes. go! i banish you forever from my presence. i curse you and your descendants ; and never shall you be released from your father's mal- ediction till you bring back my lost fatima to my arms." my poor brother had not looked for this. he had already resolved to go in search of his sister and her friend, and had hoped to obtain his father's blessing on his undertaking, and now he had sent him, instead, laden with his curse, into the world. but as his pre- vious misery had dejected him, so this climax to his unhappiness, which he had not merited, served only to steel his courage. the rescue of fatima. he repaired to the imprisoned pirate, to inquire what had been his ship’s intended voyage, and was informed that she was engaged in the slave-trade, and usually found an extensive market in balsora. when he returned to the house to prepare himself for his journey, his father's anger seemed to have mod- erated somewhat, and he sent him a purse of gold as a provision for his travels. mustapha took a tearful leave of the parents of zoraide, — for so his bride was named, — and set forth on the road to balsora. he made the journey by land, since no ship went directly to balsora from our little city; and he was compelled to make his daily journeys long, so as not to reach balsora too long after the pirates. but having a good horse, and no baggage, he hoped to reach the latter city in six days. on the evening of the fourth day, while riding on alone, three men suddenly attacked him. seeing that they were well-armed, powerful men, and supposing them to aim rather at his horse and his money than his life, he called out to them that he sur- rendered. they dismounted from their horses, bound his feet together under his horse's belly, and, taking him between them, and leading his horse by the bridle, rode swiftly away with their prisoner, without speaking a word. mustapha surrendered himself to dark despair. his father's curse seemed to be already tending to its ac- complishment, and how could he hope to bring safety to his sister and zoraide, when, robbed of all his means, he had only his worthless life to devote to their delivery. mustapha and his silent escort had ridden perhaps an hour, when they turned aside into a retired vale. this little valley was bordered by lofty trees, and its soft, green turf, and a brook which flowed gayly down its arabian days' entertainments. centre, invited repose. to his surprise he perceived fifteen or twenty tents pitched here. camels and horses were fastened to the tent-pegs, while from one of the tents came the joyous tones of a lute, accompa- nying two superb male voices. it seemed to my brother impossible that people, who had selected so lovely a place for their encampment, could entertain evil inten- tions against him, and he obeyed, therefore, without apprehension, the directions of his guides, who, unbind- ing him, ordered him to dismount. they led him to a tent, larger than the others, and which was handsomely, nay, luxuriously, decorated. superb gold-wrought cushions, embroidered foot-cloths, and gilded censers, would, anywhere else, have denoted wealth and dig- nity ; but here they indicated only audacious robbery. on one of the cushions sat a small, elderly man; his face was hideous; his skin was of a dark brown hue ; and a disagreeable expression of knavish cunning about his eyes and mouth made his general appearance highly repulsive. although the little creature was trying to assume an air of authority, mustapha soon saw that this richly-furnished tent was not for him, and his opinion was confirmed by the manner of his guides. “where is the chief ?” they demanded. “ he has gone hunting,” replied the other; “but he has ordered me to take his place." “he has done a foolish thing, then,” answered one of the robbers ; “ for it must be settled soon whether this hound shall live or die ; and that the chief knows better than you." the little manikin, sensitive as to his dignity, rose from his seat, and stretched out his arm as if to reach the offender's ear; but, seeing his attempt was useless, he opened a torrent of abuse which shook the tent. the rescue of fatima. the door suddenly flew back, and a tall, stately person entered, young and handsome as a prince. his clothes and arms, with the exception of a richly-ornamented dagger and a gleaming sabre, were plain and simple ; but his stern eye and his martial aspect commanded instant respect. “who dares quarrel in my tent ?” he cried to the terrified disputants. a deep silence prevailed for some time, and, finally, one of the three guards told how it came about. the chief's face flamed with anger. “when did i ever appoint you to my place, hassan ?” he exclaimed to the little man, in a terrible voice. the latter, in his terror, shrunk smaller than before, and crept towards the door of the tent. a significant ges- ture of the chieftain caused him to fly through the aper- ture with a leap of extraordinary agility. when the pigmy had disappeared, the three men placed mustapha before the master of the tent, who had meanwhile stretched himself upon the cushions. “we bring him, my lord, whom you commanded us to seize." the chief looked long at his prisoner, and said, at length : “pasha of sulieika! your own conscience will tell you why you are now standing before orbasan.” my brother threw himself on his knees before him, and answered: “my lord, you are in error. i am a miserable wretch, but not the pasha whom you seek.”. every one in the tent showed signs of great surprise, and the master of the tent answered: “wretch! it can avail you little to deny yourself, for i will bring before you those who know you well.” he called for zuleima, and an old woman was brought into the tent, who replied to the question whether she recognized in my brother the pasha of sulieika : “ yes ; i swear by arabian days' entertainments. the grave of the prophet, that it is the pasha, and no other." "you see, miserable, how your falsehood has melted away!” cried the chief, in a fury. “you are too base for me to soil my good dagger with your blood ! at sunrise, to-morrow, i will bind you to the tail of my horse, and drag you through the forest, till the sun sets behind the hills of sulieika !” my unhappy brother's courage sank. “it is my cruel father's curse, which brings me to an ignominious death!” he exclaimed, weeping bitterly ; "and you are lost, sweet sister; and you, zoraide !” , “your dissimulation is of no avail,” said one of the robbers, binding his hands behind his back. “make good time in leaving the tent, for the chief is biting his lips, and feeling for his dagger! if you would live another night, come away!” at the instant that the robbers were removing my brother from the tent, they encountered three other men, driving a prisoner before them. they entered with him, and, with the words, “we bring here the pasha, as you ordered us,” placed the second prisoner before the couch of the chief. my brother had a chance to look at the prisoner, as they brought him in, and he · himself could see the resemblance which this man bore to him, though his complexion was darker, and his beard had a blacker shade. the chief seemed bewildered at the entrance of the second prisoner. “which of you is the true pasha ?” he asked, at length, looking alternately at my brother and the pasha. "if you mean the pasha of sulieika," replied the prisoner, in a haughty tone, "i am he.” the chief looked at him long with a stern and fearful the rescue of fatima. gaze, and made a silent gesture to remove him from the tent. when this had been done, he approached my brother, and, cutting his bonds with his dagger, signed to him to take his seat on the couch. “it gives me pain," said he," that i have mistaken you for that mon- ster; but, stranger, attribute it to the decree of provi- dence, that you fell into the hands of my soldiers exactly at the hour appointed for the downfall of yon accursed fiend.” my brother begged, in reply, a single favor, which was, to permit him to resume his journey, for that delay was fatal to his peace. the chief inquired the cause of his extreme haste ; and, when mustapha had told his story, persuaded him to remain during the night in his tent, as he and his horse greatly needed rest, and promised that the next morning he would point him out a road which would bring him to balsora in a day and a half. my brother assented, was hospita- bly entertained, and slept calmly in the robber's tent till morning. when he awoke, the next day, he found himself alone. he heard the sound of voices outside the tent, appar- ently those of the chief and his little dark-skinned ser- vant. he listened a moment, and to his horror over- heard the pigmy strenuously urging his master to kill the stranger, lest, when set at liberty, he should betray them all. mustapha saw that the little man hated iim for hav- ing been the cause of his unfortunate experience of the preceding day. the chief seemed to hesitate a moment. “no,” said he ; “he is my guest, and the laws of hos- pitality are sacred. he does not look like one who would betray us." saying this, he threw back the curtain of the tent and entered. “peace be with you, mustapha ” be arabian days' entertainments. said ; “let us take our morning draught, and prepare ourselves for our departure." he handed my brother a cup of sherbet, and, having drunk a similar one himself, gave orders for their horses to be saddled, and musta- pha mounted his steed with a lighter heart. they left the encampment, and entered a broad path which led into the forest. the chief told my brother that the pasha, whom they had captured while hunting, had given him his promise to permit him and his people to remain unmolested in his territory; but that, a few weeks previously, he had taken one of his bravest men, and had hanged him after the most frightful tortures. the tribe had in consequence been on the watch for him ever since; and to-day he was to die. mustapha did not venture to oppose this resolution, for he was only too glad to escape himself. at the borders of the forest the chief reined in his horse, and, pointing out the road, gave my brother a parting grasp of the hand, and said : “mustapha, you have been, in a wonderful manner, the guest of the rob- ber orbasan; but i shall not exact of you a promise not to betray what you have seen and heard. you have endured unjustly, at my hand, all the agony of antici- pated death, and i owe you a recompense. take this dagger as a souvenir. should you ever need assistance, send it to me, and i will hasten to your aid. this purse you may perhaps find useful for your journey.” my brother thanked him for his generosity, and accepted the dagger, but declined the purse. orbasan pressed his hand once more, and, dropping the purse on the ground, disappeared swiftly in the forest. as musta- pha saw that it would be idle to attempt to overtake him, he dismounted to pick up the purse, and was filled with surprise at the liberality of his host; for the purse the rescue of fatima. was filled with gold pieces. he thanked allah for his escape, and, commending the noble robber to his favor, set forth with heightened courage on his journey to balsora." lezah paused, and looked inquiringly at achmed. “ nay, if this be so," said the latter, “i shall change my opinion of orbasan, for his conduct toward your brother was most noble.” "he acted as a valiant mussulman should,” cried muley ; “but i hope you have not ended your story yet, for we are all curious to hear how it fared with your brother, and whether he succeeded in rescuing your sister fatima and the beautiful zoraide.” “if i do not tire you, i will continue the story with pleasure, for my brother's subsequent adventures were singularly strange and varied." at noon of the seventh day mustapha entered the gate of balsora. dismounting at a caravansary, he inquired when the slave-market took place, which was annually held in the city. he received the frightful answer that he had come two days too late. great regrets were expressed for his tardiness, and he was told that his loss was heavy; for that two female slaves had arrived on the last day of the sale, of such wonderful beauty that they had drawn upon them the eyes of every beholder; that they had excited the greatest competition; and that they had at last been disposed of at an enormous price, and carried by their purchaser into the country. on further inquiries re- garding these two slaves, no doubt remained in his mind that they were the unfortunate girls he was in search of. he learned, moreover, that the man who had bought them resided forty leagues from balsora ; that his name was thiuli-kos, and that he was a arabian days' entertainments. wealthy and distinguished, but aged man, who had in former days been the sultan's capitan-pasha, but now was leading a life of ease and retirement on his estates. mustapha thought at first of instantly remounting, to overtake thiuli-kos, who could scarcely be a day in advance; but, reflecting that, being alone, he could not hope to influence the powerful pasha, much less deprive him of his purchase by force, he set to work to devise another plan, and soon hit upon one. his resemblance to the pasha of sulieika, which had so nearly cost him his life, suggested to him to pay a visit under this name to the house of thiuli-kos, and there make an attempt to rescue the two unfortunate prisoners. he hired, with this intention, some servants and horses, for which orbasan's gold stood him in excellent stead; and, having procured handsome garments for himself and his followers, set out for thiuli's castle. at the end of five days' journey he arrived in its neighbor- hood. it lay in a beautiful plain, and was encircled by lofty walls, of a height little less than that of the build- ings within. when mustapha had arrived at the place, he darkened his hair and beard, and having dyed his complexion with the juice of an herb, to resemble that of the pasha, he sent one of his followers to the castle, and craved a night's lodging in the name of the pasha of sulieika. the servant soon returned, having with him four handsomely-dressed slaves, who took musta- pha's horse by the bridle and led him into the court- yard. there they helped him to dismount, and four other slaves, similarly dressed, escorted him up a broad flight of marble steps into the presence of thiuli-kos. thiuli, who was an old, jovial fellow, received my brother courteously, and set before him the best his the rescue of fatima. house afforded. after supper, mustapha brought round the conversation, little by little, to the new purchases, and thiuli extolled their beauty to the skies, regretting, at the same time, their constant melancholy, though this, he thought, would soon pass off. my brother was delighted with the success of his manoeuvre, and retired to rest with the highest expectations of a for- tunate result. he had slept, perhaps, an hour, when he was awak- ened by the gleam of a lamp which fell blindingly upon his eyes. raising himself, the thought occurred that he must be still dreaming, for before him stood the little, dark-skinned rascal of orbasan's tent, a lamp in his hand, and his mouth expanded into a broad grin. mus- tapha pinched his arm, and tweaked his nose, to satisfy himself that he was awake, but the apparition remained unaltered. “what do you want in my chamber?” cried musta- pha, when he had recovered from his amazement. “keep cool, my lord,” said the dwarf. “the simple fact is, i have detected the reason of your visit here. i well remember your agreeable face; but really, if i had not helped to hang the pasha with my own hands, i think you would have deceived even me. but i am here now to make you a proposal.” “ first of all, tell me how you came here,” said mus- tapha, full of suspicion that he had been betrayed. “certainly," answered the other. “i could not live harmoniously any longer with the chief, and, conse- quently, ran away. you, mustapha, were the sole cause of our disagreement, and you must therefore promise to give me your sister to wife, and i will help you to run away with her. if you refuse, i will go to my new mas- ter, and tell him a thing or two about the new pasha." * arabian days' entertainments. mustapha was beside himself with apprehension and rage. just when he believed himself at the accom- plishment of his hopes, this miserable wretch must come and overthrow them! there was but one way to prevent the destruction of his plans : he must kill the little mon- ster. with one bound, he leaped from the bed towards the intruder; but the latter, who had probably antici- pated some such event, dropped the lamp, which imme- diately went out, and rushed out into the darkness, shouting violently for help. wise counsels were now precious. he must abandon the prisoners for the moment, and think only of his own safety. he went to the window, to see if he could jump out. the distance to the ground was considerable, and beyond stood a high wall, which must be surmounted. he stood at the window hesitating, when he heard many voices approaching his chamber. they were already at the door; so, seizing his dagger and clothes, in desperation he leaped out. the fall was a severe one, but he felt that no limbs were broken ; and, jumping up, he ran to the wall which encircled the castle, climbed over it, to the astonishment of his pursuers, and found himself at liberty. he ran till he came to a small wood, and there threw himself down exhausted. here he deliberated on what was to be done. his horses and servants he had been compelled to leave in the lurch, but his gold, which he carried in his girdle, he had suc- ceeded in saving. his shrewd brain soon suggested to him another means of affecting a rescue. he went still deeper into the wood, till he came to a village, where he bought a horse for a small sum, by the aid of which he soon reached a neighboring city. there he made inquiries for a physician, and was directed to an old and experi- the rescue of fatima. enced man of that profession. mustapha persuaded him, for a few pieces of gold, to provide him with a medicine which would induce a sleep resembling death, and obtained from him also its antidote. possessed of these articles, he purchased a long, false beard, a black robe, and various books and apparatus, so as to person- ate a travelling physician, and, loading his property on an ass, travelled back again to the castle of thiuli-kos. he felt sure of escaping detection this time, for his beard disguised him so entirely that he scarcely recog- nized himself. arriving at thiuli's castle, he gave out that he was the famous physician, chakamankabudi- baba ; and the result was as he had anticipated, for his sonorous name recommended him so mightily to the old blockhead, that he invited him to his own table. chak- amankabudibaba made his appearance before thiuli, and they had conversed together scarcely an hour, before the old fellow resolved to submit his female slaves to the skill of the learned physician. mustapha could with difficulty conceal his joy that he was now on the point of once more seeing his beloved sister, and followed thiuli, with a beating heart, into his seraglio. they came to a handsomely-furnished cham- ber, in which there was no one to be seen. “chambaba, or whatever your name is, most excel- lent doctor," said thiuli-kos, “place yourself by that hole in the wall ; each of my slaves shall put her arm through it, and you can decide then whether her pulse is feverish or healthy." say what he pleased, mustapha could not get per- mission to see his patients. thiuli now drew a long strip of paper from his girdle, and began to call his slaves one by one in a loud tone, and at each name a hand came through the wall, and our physician felt its arabian days' entertainments. pulse. six had been called and pronounced in good health, when thiuli read the name of “fatima," and a little white hand slipped through the hole. mustapha seized it, trembling with delight, and declared impres- sively that it showed indications of severe illness. thiuli was much concerned, and gave orders to the learned chakamankabudibaba to prepare a medicine for her without delay. the physician left the room, and wrote on a slip of paper the following words : “fatima, i can rescue you, if you will resolve to take a potion which will deprive you of consciousness. i possess the means of restoring you to life. if you have the courage to do this, say that this drink has done you no good, and i shall take it as a sign that you assent." he soon came back into the room where thiuli was waiting for him. he brought with him a harmless liquid, and, feeling her pulse once more, thrust the little note under her bracelet, while he handed the drink through the hole. thiuli seemed to be in great uneasiness on fatima's account, and postponed the examination of the remainder till a more convenient time. when he had left the chamber with mustapha, he asked, in a melancholy tone : “ chadibaba, tell me frankly, what is your opinion of fatima's illness ?”. chakamankabudibaba answered, with a deep sigh : “ah, my lord! may the prophet send you conso- lation, but i fear she has a dangerous fever, which may carry her off at any moment." at this thiuli's ánger broke forth. “how ! accursed dog of a physician! shall she, for whom i gave two thousand pieces of gold, die on my hands, like a worth- the rescue of fatima. less cow ? hark'ee, if you do not save her i will chop off your head.” my brother saw that he had made a false step, and held out a little hope of her recovery. while they were talking, a black slave came out of the seraglio to tell the physician that the drink had done no good. - "call up all your skill, chakamdababelda, or what- ever your name is ; i'll pay whatever you ask," cried thiuli-kos, frantic at the thought of losing so much money. “i will give her a decoction," answered the physi- cian, “which will free her from all her ills.” “yes, yes,” sobbed old thiuli, "give her a decoc- tion." mustapha retired full of hope to prepare his draught, and having given it to the black slave, and showed him how much should be taken at once, he went to thiuli- kos, and, telling him he must go and gather some sooth- ing herbs from the sea-shore, immediately hurried out. reaching the sea, which lay at no great distance from the castle, he pulled off his false robes and threw them into the water, where they floated about merrily; and, concealing himself immediately in the thicket, waited for the approach of night, when he crept quietly to the grave-yard of thiuli's castle. · mustapha had been absent from the castle scarcely an hour, when news was brought to thiuli that his slave fatima was at the point of death. he sent to the sea-shore to fetch the physician; but his messen- gers soon came back with the information that the poor physician had fallen into the water, and was drowned, for they had seen his black robe floating on the surface, and his stately beard appearing at inter- "vals above the waves. seeing from this that there was arabian days' entertainments. no further hope, thiuli cursed himself and all the rest of mankind, tearing his beard, and beating his head against the wall. but all was of no avail, and fatima soon gave up the ghost. when thiuli received the news of her death, he ordered a coffin to be made at once, not being able to endure a dead body in his house, and ordered her to be borne to the grave-yard. the bearers carried thither the coffin, set it down quickly, and ran away; for they heard a loud groaning and sighing, apparently coming from the other coffins. mustapha, who had concealed himself behind them, and had been the cause of the bearers' alarm, came for- ward from his place of refuge, and, lighting a lamp which he had provided for the purpose, drew out the glass vessel containing the antidote, and raised the lid of fatima's coffin. but what was his dismay, when he saw, by the light of his lamp, the features of a total stranger! neither his sister, nor zoraide, but a wholly different person, lay in the coffin. it took him long to recover from this second stroke of misfortune ; but compassion finally vanquished rage. he opened his phial, and administered the potion. the figure opened her eyes, drew a long breath, and seemed for some time trying to remember where she was. at length she seemed to become conscious of what had taken place; for she rose from her coffin, and fell at mustapha's feet. “how can i thank you, gracious being,” she cried, “for liberating me from my hideous imprisonment?" mustapha interrupted her expressions of gratitude by asking “how it had happened that she had been saved, and not his sister fatima ?” she looked at him with astonishment. “my rescue is now intelligible,” she answered, “which before i could not understand. i am called fatima, in this cas- the rescue of fatima. tle ; and i am she to whom you gave the letter and the sleeping-draught.” my brother entreated her to give him information of his sister and zoraide, and learned that they were both in the castle, but had received different names. they were now called mirza and nourmahal. fatima, seeing my brother overwhelmed by his mis- take, bade him take courage, and promised to devise some means by which to liberate both the captives. en- couraged by these assurances, mustapha conceived new hopes, and begged her to explain : whereupon she said : “i have been thiuli's slave for full five months, and have been constantly plotting to escape. but the attempt was too difficult to undertake alone. you may have noticed, in the inner court of the castle, a foun- tain, spouting water from ten orifices. this fountain struck my attention. i remembered to have seen a sim- ilar one in my father's house, the water of which was conveyed through a spacious conduit. to learn wheth- er this was constructed in the same way, i extolled its beauty one day to thiuli, and asked who was its architect. “i designed it myself,' replied he; and what you see is the least part of it; for the water comes here from a stream at least a thousand feet distant, and flows through an arched pipe of the diameter of a man's height; and all this i built myself.' when i heard this, i longed for the strength of a man for only a single mo- ment, that i might pull out a stone from the side of the fountain, and escape from the place through the pipe. i will show you it. through it you can penetrate into the castle, and free your friends. but you must have with you at least two men, to overpower the slaves who. guard the seraglio." this was her project. my brother mustapha, though arabian days' entertainments. twice defeated in his hopes, plucked up courage a third time, and hoped, with allah's aid, to carry out the slave's suggestion. he promised to aid her to return to her home, on condition she would assist him in enter- ing the castle. one anxiety still troubled him; and that was, where he should procure two or three faithful assistants. he remembered, suddenly, orbasan's dag- ger, and the promise he had given to hasten to his aid in time of need; and he set out immediately with fatima in search of the robber. in the city where he had transformed himself to a physician, he bought a horse with his last remaining piece of gold, at the same time obtaining lodgings for fatima in the suburbs, in the house of a poor woman. he himself hastened to the mountains, where he had first fallen in with orbasan, and reached them in three days. he soon found the tent, and placed himself unexpectedly before the robber, who welcomed him warmly. he described his several unsuccessful at- tempts, at which the grave orbasan could not avoid laughing a little, especially when he thought of the physician chakamankabudibaba. he was furious at the treachery of the pigmy, and swore to hang him with his own hands, wherever be caught him. he promised my brother, however, to give his assistance, as soon as the latter had refreshed himself from the fatigues of his journey. mustapha, therefore, again spent the night in orbasan's tent, and they set forth on their expedition with the earliest beams of the sun, the robber taking with him three of his boldest men, well mounted and armed. they rode steadily, and came, after two days' journey, to the little city where mustapha had left the rescued fatima. thence they travelled on with her to the little wood, whence thiuli's castle could be plainly "the rescue of fatima. . seen ; and there they halted to wait for night. as soon as it was dark they crept on, under fatima's guidance, to the stream into which the water-pipe opened, and succeeded in finding it after a brief search. arrived there, they sent back fatima and one of the servants with the horses, and prepared to enter; but, before she left them, fatima once more went accurately over her instructions to them, which were : “ that they would come out through the fountain into the inner court; that they would find there, in the corners right and left, two towers ; and that in the sixth door, count- ing from the right-hand tower, they would find fatima and zoraide, guarded by two black slaves." orbasan, mustapha, and the two others, well pro- vided with weapons and crowbars, entered the conduit. they found themselves up to their waists in water, but went forward bravely. they came to the fountain, after half an hour, and speedily inserted their crowbars. the walls were thick and strong, but they could not long resist the united strength of four powerful men, and an opening was soon broken, large enough to allow them to creep easily through. orbasan went first, and helped the others to follow him. when they had all penetrated the court-yard, they examined the side of the castle facing them, in search of the designated door. but they were not unanimous as to which it was, for, counting from the right tower towards the left, they found a door which had been walled up ; and they could not decide whether fatima had omitted or included this in her reckoning. but orbasan hesitated only a mo- ment; and, crying, “my good sword shall open this door !” went to the sixth, the others following him. they opened the door, and found six black slaves lying asleep on the floor. they were just about to close it arabian days' entertainments. again softly, seeing their mistake, when a figure in the corner rose from its recumbent posture, and in a well- known voice shrieked for help. it was the pigmy from orbasan's camp. before the blacks rightly knew what had happened to them, orbasan rushed upon the dwarf, tore his girdle in two, gagged his mouth, and tied his hands behind his back. he then turned to the slaves, several of whom had been already partly bound by mustapha and the two other men, and aided in over- powering them. they then put their daggers to the slaves' hearts, and, demanding where mirza and nour- mahal were, learned that they were in the next chamber. mustapha rushed to it, and there found fatima and zoraide, who had been awakened by the uproar. the two girls hastily collected their jewels and clothes, and followed mustapha. the two robbers sug- gested to orbasan to plunder what they could find ; but he forbade it, saying, “no man shall have it in his power to say that orbasan enters houses by night to steal gold.” - mustapha and the rescued captives slipped quickly into the conduit, where orbasan promised to follow them soon. as soon as the former bad disappeared within the opening, orbasan and one of the robbers took the dwarf, and carried him out into the court. there they bound round his neck a silken cord, which they had brought for the purpose, and hung him from the highest branch of the fountain. having punished, in this efficacious way, the scoundrel's treachery, they followed mustapha. the two rescued ones thanked their noble preserver with tears of gratitude; but orba- san compelled them to a hasty flight, for it was more than probable that thiuli-kos would institute a prompt pursuit. - the rescue of fatima.: · the next day mustapha and his rescued captives parted from orbasan with deep emotion. they will never forget the obligations they owe to him. fatima, the released slave, went in disguise to balsora, to take ship thence to her native country. the hero and heroines of my story reached home after a short and pleasant journey. the joy of meeting almost killed my old father. he gave a great feast, on the day after their return, to which he invited the entire city, where my brother was made to tell his story be- fore a great assemblage of relatives and friends, and all, with one voice, extolled the noble robber to the skies. when my brother had ended his recital, my father rose from his seat and led zoraide to him. “i absolve you from my curse!” said he, in solemn tones. “ take, as a recompense, her whom your ceaseless zeal has bravely won. take my paternal blessing; and may our city never perish for want of men rivalling you, my son, in brotherly love, courage, and devotion." the caravan had reached the end of the desert, and the travellers greeted with delight the green meadows and dense foliage, whose beauties they had been long- ing for so many days. a caravansary lay in a pleasant valley near by, where they determined to pass the night; and, although it promised little ease or refresh- ment to our wayworn merchants, the whole company felt gayer and happier than before ; for the thought that they had passed safely through all the dangers and diffi- culties which a journey through the desert of necessity brings with it, had opened every heart, and attuned their souls to merriment and jest. muley danced a comic dance, and sang songs which elicited smiles even from the grave zaleukos. but, not satisfied with ?. itet og menin s.l.a. !^" ** in i !". listings.. boas's m . stu :.. s har privers in t." ir w ii ciis, lit. al., *?!!! viuri. oh, w is rende ub.r hoyra, p ils .. lel to tet loy ** . o p..sa i ve :. sinops soien . ? ... 'p, yerlies wili treener , roti b anitars leedulandare it , betti. . [ avus "? it's vzi . is nice a mort, .." diye v ... .. til ng is tijd in the mont ti xrs, ., li ich it is not į in will und little muck. arabian days' entertainments. having enlivened his companions with song and dance, he gave them, in his best manner, the story he had promised them, beginning, as soon as he had recovered from the effect of his gambols, in the following way. the story of little muck. in mecca, my beloved native city, lived a man, whom people called little muck. although very young at the time, i can still distinctly remember him, partly because i was once nearly cudgelled to death by my father on his account. little muck, when i knew him, was already a very old fellow, yet he was only three or four feet high. in addition to this, he had an extraor- dinary figure ; for his body, small and slender as it was, carried a head much larger and thicker than any other head in the city. he lived entirely alone in a large house, and did all his cooking "himself; and no one in the city would have known whether he was alive or dead, — for he only went out once a month, - but for the fact that about noon every day a mighty steam ascended from his house. he was occasionally seen of an evening walking up and down on the roof of his house, though people who saw him from the street below, thought that it was his head alone, taking its evening exercise by itself. i and my comrades were riotous boys, ready to ban- ter and laugh at everybody; and it was consequently a day of great rejoicing with us whenever little muck came out. we used to assemble in front of his house on the appointed day, which was always the same, and wait till he made his appearance; and as soon - little vik. arabian days' entertainments. and saw little muck come out again some time after, accompanied by my father, who held him very respect- fully by the hand, and parted with him at the front door with many, bows. i felt very ill at ease, and remained in my place of concealment a long time ; but at length hunger, which i disliked even more than a flogging, drove me out, and, with submissive air and hanging head, i stood before my father. “i am informed you have insulted good muck," he said, in a severe tone. “i will tell you the story of this muck, and you will never laugh at him again ; but before and after, sir, you shall receive your regular dose." my regular dose was five-and-twenty blows with a stick, which my father never failed to pay with exact punctuality. he now took down a long pipe-stick, unscrewed the amber mouth-piece, and belabored me with the stem more severely than ever. the five and twenty having been administered, he commanded me to listen, and told me the story of little muck. the father of little muck, whose real name is mukra, was a respectable but poor man, and lived almost as much the life of an anchorite as his son does now. he could never endure his son mukra, being ashamed of his dwarfish appearance, and left him to grow up in total neglect and ignorance. little muck was, even to his sixteenth year, a mero child, and his father, who was a stern man, found incessant fault with him for being so stupid and silly at an age when he ought long before to have outgrown his baby-shoes. • the old man, however, met with a bad accident, which soon after cost him his life, and muck was left, poor, ignorant, and destitute, on the world. his hard. vir than even adminis story of . : the story of little muck. hearted relations, whom the deceased owed more than he could pay, drove the poor little fellow from the house, and advised him to go abroad and seek his for- tune. little muck replied that he was perfectly ready to start, and only begged that his father's clothes might be given him. the request was granted. his father had been a large, stout man, and, of course, the fit was the worst in the world. but muck soon determined on his remedy, and, cutting off their superfluous length, put them on. but he had forgotten that it was neces- sary to take off some of their width as well ; in conse- quence of which mistake he presented the extraordi- nary appearance which he still retains. the large tur- ban, the broad girdle, the wide hose, the mantle, are all heirlooms, from his father, which he has worn : ever since. but what mattered it to him? he thrust the long damascus dagger into his girdle, and, seizing a staff, departed from his father's house. he wandered merrily about the whole day, for he had set out to seek his fortune. if he saw a piece of broken pottery shining in the sun, he picked it joyfully up, in the belief it would change into a diamond ; if he saw a pond shining like a mirror, or the dome of a distant mosque glancing like fire in the sun, he ran towards them with delight, thinking he had come to a land of magic. but, alas ! · the delusive pictures vanished as he approached them; and all too soon his fatigue, and the craving in his stomach, reminded him that he was still in the land of the living. he travelled in this manner for two days, suffering much from hunger and wretchedness, and began to doubt considerably of the success of his search after fortune. the fruits of the field were his sole nourishment, and the hard earth his only bed. on the morning of the third day he saw from the arabian days' entertainments. top of a hill a large city. the crescent-moon shone brightly on its pinnacles, gay banners fluttered from its roofs, and seemed to beckon to our little muck. taken by surprise, he paused and stood gazing at the city and the surrounding landscape. “here surely will little muck find his fortune!” he said to himself, leap- ing for joy in spite of his fatigue ; “here or nowhere." he summoned all his strength, and walked rapidly to the city. but, near as it had seemed, it was mid-day before he reached it, for his puny limbs almost refused their office, and he was fain to sit down in the shade of a palm-tree and rest himself. at length, however, he reached the gate. he pulled his mantle straight, bound his turban in neater folds, spread out his silken girdle still wider, and sloped his dagger at a more graceful angle; and then, brushing the dust from his shoes, and taking a fresh grasp of his stick, passed boldly through the gate. he passed slowly along through several streets ; but no doors flew open at his approach, and, contrary to his expectations, no one called after him, “little muck, come into my house, and eat and drink, and rest your little feet.” he was gazing at a large, handsome house, with great longing, when a window opened overhead, and an old woman put her head out and called, in a sing- song tone : “come up, come up, all, ready to sup - the porridge is ready, so come, with your friends, and taste of the food which my bounty extends. come up, come up, all, ready to sup." the story of little muck. . the door of the house opened, and muck saw a great many cats and dogs going in. he stood several minutes in doubt whether to follow up the invitation; but he plucked up courage at last and entered. a couple of young kittens were going on in front of him, and he determined to follow their lead, thinking that they probably knew better than he did where the kitchen lay. when muck had mounted the stairs, he met the old woman who had screamed from the window. she looked at him surlily, and demanded his business. “you just now invited everybody to come and taste of your porridge,” replied little muck; “so, being very hungry, i accepted your invitation.” the old lady laughed, and said: “you odd fellow, where on earth do you come from? the whole city knows that i cook for nobody but my darling cats, though sometimes, as you saw, i invite their friends from the neighborhood.” muck told the old lady how hardly fate had dealt with him since his father's death, and entreated her to let him feed to-day with her cats. the good lady, much moved by the open-hearted story of the little fellow, invited him to be her guest, and gave him abun- dance to eat and drink. when he had refreshed him- self, the lady took a long look at him, and said at length: “little muck, stay with me in my service ; you shall have little work to do, and shall be treated well.” muck, to whom the cats' broth had given great satis- faction, immediately assented, and became on the spot the servant of lady ahavzi. his duties were easy, but peculiar. lady ahavzi was the owner of two cats and four kittens, and every morning muck was obliged arabian days' entertainments. to comb their coats and rub them with costly oint- ments. if the lady went out, it was his business to keep guard over them ; when they eat, he was to keep their dishes supplied with food; and, at night, his duty was to lay them on silken cushions, and wrap them in velvet coverings. there were also several little dogs in the house, which he had likewise to attend to; but these were not so well taken care of as the cats, which lady ahavzi loved like her own children. with these exceptions, muck led as solitary an existence as when in his father's house ; for, not counting his mistress, he saw, all day long, nothing but cats and dogs. for some time all went well ; he had plenty to eat, and little to do, and the old lady appeared to be well satisfied with his fidelity. but the cats gradually grew mis- chievous. when their mistress went out, they would run like mad round the room, knock down the furni- ture, and break a great many valuable articles in their way ; but, as soon as they would hear her coming up stairs, they would creep back to their cushions, and be playing with their tails in the most innocent manner, as if nothing had happened. lady ahavzi would fall into a violent passion when she saw her goods so much damaged and broken, and lay all the blame on muck, let him protest his innocence as much as he pleased ; for she believed her cats, who looked so innocent, sooner than her servant. little muck was much cast down at this second fail- ure in finding his fortune, and determined to quit lady ahavzi's service. but as he had discovered, on his first journey, how miserably a man lives who has no money in his pocket, he resolved to obtain by some means or other the wages which the old lady had often promised but never paid him. in lady ahavzi's house the story of little muck. there was one chamber which was always locked, and which he had never seen the inside of. while thinking about his wages, the thought struck him that here must be the place where the old lady kept her treas- ures; for he had often heard her bustling about in there, and had several times felt willing to lay down his life if he could only know what she was doing. but the door was always locked, and he could never get at her treasures. one morning, when lady ahavzi had gone out, one of the little dogs, which had always been treated negli- gently by his mistress, but whose friendship muck had cultivated by all sorts of kind attentions, pulled at his wide trousers, and seemed to be making signs for muck to follow him. muck did so, and, to his sur- prise, the dog led him into lady ahavzi's bedroom, and to a little door there, which he had never noticed before, and which he soon opened. the dog went in, followed by muck, and he was mightily pleased to find himself in the room which had been so long the goal of his ambition. he sought in every direction to find some money, but failed. nothing but old clothes and oddly-shaped vessels lay about. one of these latter drew his wondering attention. it was made of crystal, with elegantly wrought figures upon it. he took it up, and turned it about in all directions. but, , horror! he had not noticed that its cover was but slightly attached! the cover fell down, and broke into a thou- sand pieces. muck stood some time, paralyzed with terror. his fate was decided now beyond recall; for if he did not run away, the old woman would strike him dead. he instantly formed his resolution, and only paused for a moment to look about for something belonging to arabian days' entertainments. lady ahavzi, which he might need for his journey. suddenly his eyes fell on a huge pair of slippers. they were far from handsome, to be sure, but his own were too far gone for travelling in ; and the very size of these was a recommendation, for he flattered himself everybody would see at once with half an eye that he had got beyond baby-shoes. he pulled off his own, therefore, and jumped into the big ones. a walking- stick with a handsomely-carved lion's head on it, seemed to him to be standing far too idly in the corner; so he appropriated this, also, and hurried from the room. he flew to his chamber, threw on his mantle, put on his paternal turban, thrust his dagger into his girdle, and ran, as fast as his legs could carry him, out of the house and out of the city. once out of the city, he continued to run, from terror of the old woman, till he could scarcely stir another step from fatigue. he had never run so fast before in his life, and it actually seemed as if he could not stop, for an invisible power appeared to be driving him forward. at last he noticed that this was owing to some mysterious property in the slippers, for they continued to shuffle on without a moment's pause, carrying him with them. he tried to stop in every way, but without success; and at last, in the greatest desperation, he shouted to himself, as one speaks to a horse : “ whoa! — , whoa! — whoa!” — when the slippers stopped, and muck threw himself on the ground exhausted. his slippers delighted him immensely. he saw that at any rate he had gained something during his service, which would help him finely through the world in his search after fortune. in spite of his joy, however, he went to sleep through mere exhaustion ; for little muck's body, having to carry so heavy a head at the top of it, - the story of little muck. could not bear much fatigue. in his dreams, the little dog who had helped him to the slippers at lady ahavzi's house, appeared before him, and said : “my dear muck, you do not yet fully understand the uses of your slip- pers; know, that you can fly wherever you please, if you will turn round three times on one heel; and your stick you can use to discover treasure, for it will strike thrice on the ground wherever gold is buried, and, where silver, twice." thus dreamed our little muck. as soon as he awoke, he recalled to mind his singular dream, and determined to put it to the test as soon as possible. he pulled on the slippers, and, raising one foot in the air, attempted to turn round on the heel of the other. but whoever has tried to perform this experiment thrice in succession, with a very loose slipper, will not be sur- prised that muck's efforts were rather unsuccessful, especially when he remembers that the dwarf's heavy head kept pulling him down, now on one side and now on the other. the unlucky pigmy fell heavily several times on his nose, but he would not allow himself to be disheartened, and at length success crowned his labors. he spun on his heel like a humming-top, wished himself in the near- est large city, and — the slippers mounted into the air, flew through the clouds like lightning, and, before little muck knew what had happened, he found himself in a large market-place, surrounded with open shops, and countless men running busily up and down. he walked about a little while among the people, but soon saw that it would be prudent to betake himself to a more retired street; for in the market-place either some one would tread on his slippers, so as almost to throw him down, or he would be continually hitting somebody or other -.. . . arabian days' entertainments. with his long projecting dagger, so as with difficulty to escape being flogged. little muck pondered earnestly on what he should do to earn a little money. to be sure, he had a staff, which would point out hidden gold and silver, but where should he find the place where gold and silver lay hid- den? should he exhibit himself for money ? no; he was still too proud for that. at last he remembered the swiftness of his feet. “perhaps," he thought, “my slippers can earn me a living ;” and he resolved to take service as a courier. having reason to suppose that the king of the city would pay better than anybody else for such services, he inquired of the people in the street the way to the royal palace. before the door stood a guard, the captain of which demanded his busi- ness; and, on his answering that he sought employ- ment, referred him to the superintendent of the slaves. on his requesting the latter to obtain him employment among the royal messengers, the superintendent meas- ured him superciliously from head to foot with his eyes, and replied : “and with your little feet, scarcely a span long, do you expect to be made king's messenger! be off with you! i'm not here to waste time with every fool.” muck assured him that his proposal was made in all good faith, and that he would prove it by running for a wager with the fastest messenger he had. the super- intendent thought it an excellent joke. he directed him to hold himself in readiness for a trial of speed towards evening; and, taking him to the kitchen, gave orders that he should be well supplied with meat and drink. he himself sought the king, and told him of the little man and his proposal. the king was a jovial fel- low, and was greatly tickled that the superintendent the story of little muck. had retained little muck, intending to make a butt of him. he commanded preparations to be made on the most extensive scale behind the palace, so that the race could be seen with ease by the entire court; and, order- ing the greatest care to be taken of the dwarf, sent immediately to inform the princes and princesses of the amusing exhibition to come off that evening. these told it again to their suites, so that, when evening arrived, every one was in the highest state of expecta- tion, and all who had feet streamed out to the meadow, where scaffolds and galleries had been erected, to see the trial of speed of the boastful dwarf. when the king and his sons and daughters had taken their places on the platform, little muck stepped out into the plain, and made a bow of great dignity and elegance to the assembled nobility. a universal shout of delight went up when the little fellow came in sight. such a strange figure had never before been seen in the place. the little body with its prodigious head, the small mantle and wide trousers, the long dagger thrust into the girdle, - no; the spectacle was so ridiculous that they could not refrain from bursting into shouts of laughter. little muck, however, paid no atten- tion to the general roar. he leaned in a haughty atti- tude on his stick, and waited for his opponent. the superintendent had selected his swiftest runner, at muck's express request. the latter now stepped out, took his place near the pigmy, and both waited for the signal. the princess amarza gave the signal with her veil, as it had been arranged she should do, and, like a pair of arrows shot at the same target, our two racers flew over the plain. muck's adversary had at the beginning a noticeable advantage ; but muck, in his vehicular slippers, flew arabian days' entertainments. after him, overtook, and passed him, and had stood some time at the goal when the other, panting for breath, suc- ceeded in reaching it. wonder and astonishment filled the spectators for several minutes, but when the king set the example of clapping his hands, the entire multi- tude shouted, in one voice: “long live little muck, the winner of the race!” muck was brought before the platform. he threw himself on the earth before the king, and said: “all- powerful sovereign, i have shown you but a very small example of my skill; grant me permission to take my place among your majesty's runners.” “no,” replied the king, "you shall be my private courier, and attached always to my person; your salary shall be a hundred pieces of gold, and you shall eat at the table of my highest servants.” muck began to think he had found his fortune at last, and joy and happiness filled his heart. he enjoyed the especial favor of the king, who used him to carry his most important secret despatches; and, in the execution of his trust, he never failed to show the greatest accu- racy and the most incredible speed. but the rest of the king's, servants were ill-disposed to him, for the reason that they very unwillingly saw themselves supplanted in their.king's favor by a dwarf who understood nothing except how to run. they organized, therefore, many a conspiracy to overthrow him ; but all their efforts failed to impair the implicit confidence felt by the king in his high and confidential private courier, — for even in this short time he had arrived at this high dignity. muck, whose attention these plots did not escape, entertained no thoughts of revenge, for which his dispo- sition was far too good. no; he looked about for means the story of little muck. to make himself beloved by and useful to his enemies. suddenly he remembered his stick, which in his pros- perity had escaped his recollection. if he could find a treasure, thought he, the gentlemen would surely be better inclined towards him. he had often heard it said that his present majesty's father had buried pro- digious sums, at a time when enemies had invaded his territories ; and people said, also, that he had subse- quently died without being able to divulge its place of concealment to his son. from this time forth, there- fore, muck invariably carried his stick, in the hope, some time or other, of passing over the spot where the old king's money lay buried. one evening, chance led him to a remote part of the palace-gardens, which he had hitherto little visited, when suddenly he felt his stick move in his hand, and strike three times on the earth. he well knew what this meant, so drawing his dagger he slashed the neighboring trees, and then crept quietly into the palace; there he procured a spade, and waited for night to commence operations. the buried treasure gave muck more trouble than he had anticipated. his arms were weak, and the spade was large and heavy ; and he had worked at least two hours before he had dug to the depth of a couple of feet. at last his spade struck on some hard substance, which sounded like iron. he dug now with greater zeal, and soon exposed to the light of day a large iron lid. he jumped into the hole, to see what this lid covered, and sure enough he found a huge pot filled with pieces of gold. but his feeble strength was insufficient to lift it out of the hole ; so he crammed into his trousers and girdle as much as he could carry, and, filling his cloak as full as it could hold, covered up the remainder with great care. but so much was he oppressed by the * arabian days' entertainments. weight of his gold, that, but for his magic slippers, he would never have succeeded in leaving the spot. he succeeded, however, in reaching his chamber unob- served, and concealed his gold under the pillows of his sofa. finding himself the possessor of so much wealth, muck now thought that his misfortunes would turn over a new leaf, and he would gain many patrons and warm adherents among his enemies at court. but, from this single fact, it is obvious that muck had never enjoyed the advantages of even a moderate education, for other- wise he never could have imagined it possible to gain true friends through gold. alas! he should have bribed his slippers, and, with his cloak full of gold, scampered away as fast as they could carry him! the gold which little muck now squandered with liberal hands, awakened the envy of his fellow-servants. the chief cook, ahuli, swore he was a coiner. the overseer of the slaves declared he must have been cajoling the king; while archaz, the treasurer, his bit- terest enemy, who had a nibble now and then at the king's coffers himself, pronounced authoritatively that he must have stolen it. certain at last of their game, they laid a plot among themselves, and korchuz, the chief butler, put himself one day, with a sad and down- cast air, directly in the king's way. he made his mis- ery so conspicuous, that the king asked him what was the matter. "ah!” answered korchuz, “i am unhappy at hav- ing lost the favor of my sovereign." “what nonsense are you talking ?” replied the king. “since when have i withdrawn from you the sunbeams of my favor ?" the chief butler responded that he judged he had arabian days' entertainments. in the garden, and that, so far from burying it, he had dug it up. all present laughed contemptuously at this excuse, and the king shouted, his anger excited to the highest degree by the supposed impudence of the little dwarf: “how, miserable! do you dare so stupidly and basely to deceive your king, after having robbed him ? treas- urer archaz, i command you to state whether you rec- ognize this quantity of gold for the same which is lack- ing from my treasury.” the treasurer replied that he was perfectly certain of what he alleged ; that as much and more had been missing some time from the royal treasury; and that he would willingly take his oath that this was the stolen property. the king, thereupon, gave orders that little muck should be cast into chains, and conducted to the tower; and delivered the gold to the treasurer, to be again replaced in the treasury delighted with the fortunate turn of events, the latter carried it away, and, when at home, counted the glittering coins. but the wicked man never mentioned that at the bottom of the pot lay a note, which said: "the enemy have invaded my land, for which reason i bury here a portion of my treasures. whoever finds it shall be blasted by the curse of a king if he does not instantly surrender it to my son. king sadi." little muck, in his lonely cell, was overwhelmed by sad reflections. he knew that the penalty for convert- ing royal property was death; yet he hesitated to disclose the secret of his walking-stick to the king, justly fearing that he would be deprived immediately of both that and his slippers. his slippers, alas ! were of po benefit to him in his present emergency, for he the story of little muck. was fastened to the wall with short chains; and, try as hard as he pleased, he could not turn round on his heels. his sentence of death being made known to him on the following day, he came to the conclusion that it was better to live without his magic cane than die with it; so, craving a secret audience, he disclosed the mystery to the king. at first the king placed no con- fidence in his confession ; but, on muck's promising to give him proofs if the king would agree to spare his life, he assented ; and, causing some gold to be buried in the garden, unseen by muck, ordered him to find it with his stick. he did so in a few minutes, the stick striking very visibly three times against the ground. the king instantly saw that his treasurer had deceived him, and sent him, according to the custom of the east, a silken cord with which to strangle himself. to little muck, however, he said, “i have promised to spare your life, it is true; but my opinion is that this secret of the stick is not the only one you possess. i shall keep you in perpetual imprisonment, therefore, until you confess the mystery of your wonderful swiftness." muck, whose one night's experience in the tower had deprived him of all appetite for longer imprison- ment, admitted that his whole skill lay in his slippers, but did not divulge to the king the secret of turning three times on the heels. the king pulled on the slip- pers, to convince himself of their peculiar properties, and ran like mad round the garden. he tried to stop, but, not knowing the magic word, wholly without suc- cess; and muck, who could not find it in his heart to renounce this bit of revenge, let him run till he fell down insensible. when his majesty had recovered his senses again, he was frightfully angry with little muck for having let arabian days' entertainments. him run himself so out of breath. “i have given my royal word,” said he,“ to grant you your life and lib- erty ; but i will have you hanged as high as haman if you do not quit my territory within twelve hours." he ordered the slippers and the stick to be laid away in his bed-chamber. unhappy little muck left the country as poor as ever, cursing the folly which had induced him to think he could play a distinguished part at court. the kingdom from which he was ejected was fortunately not large, so he reached the boundary in eight hours, although, from being used to his darling slippers, he found walk- ing came very hard to him. after crossing the boundary he quitted the travelled road, and sought the thickest solitudes of the forest, feeling a hatred for all mankind. he came upon a spot in a dense grove, which appeared suited exactly to the resolution he had taken to live alone. a pure stream, overshadowed by large fig-trees, and a fresh, soft turf, invited him in, and here he threw himself down with the determination to take no more food, but wait till death relieved his woes. but his melancholy put him to sleep, and when he woke up, and the gnawing of hunger began to be felt, he remembered that death by famine was a dangerous matter, and he looked about to find something to eat. the trees under which he had gone to sleep were cov- ered with ripe figs; so he climbed up to pluck some, found them very toothsome, and afterwards descended to slake his thirst at the brook. but what was his hor- ror when the water showed him his head adorned with a pair of enormous ears and a long thick nose! he felt of his ears, confounded, and actually they were more than half a yard long. the story of little muck. “i deserve ass's ears !” he cried, “ for i have tram- pled my fortune under foot like a very ass.” he wan- dered about under the trees, and, hunger again coming upon him after a while, he was compelled to have re- course to the figs, for he could find nothing else edible. while reflecting, over his second dose of figs, whether he might not find room for his ears under his big turban, so as to prevent his looking so ridiculous, he felt that they had vanished. he ran back to the brook to convince himself, and, sure enough, his ears had regained their former size, and his long, shapeless nose was shapeless no more. he had now discovered the cause of these changes — he had obtained the long nose and ears from the first tree, and had banished them by means of the second. perceiving with joy that his good destiny had once more put into his hands the means of happiness, he plucked as much as he could carry from each tree, and went directly back into the kingdom which he had so lately quitted. there, in the first vil- lage he came to, he disguised himself by a change of dress, and proceeded without delay to the imperial city. • it was the season of the year when ripe fruits were still a rarity. little muck sat down near the palace gate, for he knew from former experience that here was the place where such delicacies as his were purchased by the head cook for the royal table. muck had sat there but a few minutes when he saw the head cook crossing the court-yard. the latter examined the wares of the various tradesmen who had assembled around the palace gate, and at length his eyes fell on muck's bas- ket. “aha!” said he," a rare luxury! what will you take for the whole basket ? ” muck named a moderate price, and the bargain was soon struck. the cook arabian days' entertainments. handed the basket to a slave and went on, and muck immediately made himself scarce, for he feared lest, if any misfortune fell upon the head of the sovereign, they would hunt out and punish the seller. the king that day was much pleased with his dinner, and complimented his head cook more than once on his excellent cookery, and on the care with which he ever provided the choicest rarities; but the latter, who knew what a tit-bit he had still in the background, only sim- pered blandly and answered oracularly, “ evening has not come yet,” or “ all 's well that ends well ;" so that the princesses grew very curious to know what he intended to produce next. when the handsome, inviting figs made their appear- ance, a general “ !” escaped from every one's mouth. “how ripe! how appetizing !” cried the king. “cook, you are a perfect jewel, and deserve our especial favor.” so saying, the king, who was wont to be very stingy of such luxuries, divided the figs round the table with his own hands. each prince and princess received two, the court ladies and the viziers and agas, one each, and the rest he took to himself, and began to devour them with great relish. “good heavens, father! what makes you look so strangely?” cried all at once the princess amarza. all gazed at the king with astonishment, for enormous ears hung down from his head, and a long nose ex- tended below his chin ; and they looked at one another also, with wonder and dismay, for every one was deco- rated more or less with the same ornaments. imagine the horror of the court! surgeons and phy- sicians were sent for, and came in crowds ; but, though they prescribed pills and mixtures, the noses and ears - the story of little muck. refused to decrease. an operation was performed on one of the princes, but his ears grew out again. muck had heard the whole story, in the hiding-place where he had taken refuge, and saw that now was the time to be up and doing. he had already procured, with the money obtained from the sale of his figs, a dress which disguised him as a professor of literature ; a long beard of goat's hair completed the deception. he wandered into the royal palace, with a small bag full of his figs, and offered his services as a foreign physi- cian. people were at first incredulous ; but, after lit- tle muck had given a fig to one of the princes to eat, and had restored his nose and ears to their original size, every one wanted to be cured by the unknown doctor. the king took him in silence by the hand, and led him into his chamber; there he opened the door leading into the private treasury, and motioned muck to follow. “here are my treasures," said his majesty ; “take your choice. it shall be yours, whatever you select, if you will only free me from this terrible deformity." this was music to little muck's ears. he had no- ticed, as he entered, his slippers lying on the floor, and his cane not far off standing in a corner. he made the circuit of the room, as if admiring the king's treasures ; but, the moment he came to his slippers, he pulled them on, seized his cane, tore off his false beard, and showed to the astonished sovereign the well-known face of the banished muck. ."faithless king,” said he, “who reward the most faithful services with wicked ingrati- tude, take these disfigurements as a well-merited pun- ishment for your offences. i leave you your ears, to remind you daily of the ill-used muck.” so saying, he spun himself round rapidly on his heels, wished himself far away, and, before the king could find breath to call pri i po jos , . . to r .id $.. . ; berit;f's a w de " !! !clien 'd ?", " "ipa's . į : steisen ! weit . . then . nu sp thall .";. !!, pune, at that pt.** i . tudidats i . pas apm;any in ielimy *** a'?? , :,"? brothers it. itsel: . awit banque pateikiama vile weredeti i do sheid is tada vita ristian',q. vos plie built! :. :v . . . . . is le ; tỉ tú!", oo dic oxooxxxxx% o conne pl <nnen-filmert zoopin meeting of labakan and the true prince. arabian days' entertainments. for help, little muck had disappeared. since that time muck has lived in this city, in great comfort, but wholly alone, on account of his contempt for men. he has become, through age and experience, a wise gen- tleman, who, though his exterior may be peculiar, deserves your admiration rather than your ridicule. this was the story told me by my father. i ex- pressed my regrets for my thoughtless conduct towards the good little man, and he presented me on the spot with the other half of my punishment. i told my com- rades the dwarf's wonderful history; and we conceived so strong a regard for him that none of us ever insuited him again. on the contrary, we honored him as long as he lived, and used to bow before him as humbly as we did before cadi or mufti. the travellers resolved to spend a day at the cara- vansary to strengthen themselves and their animals for the continuation of their journey. the gayety of yes- terday had not yet wholly evaporated, and they amused themselves with all kinds of jovial games. after din- ner they called upon the fifth merchant, ali sizab, to pay his debt to the rest of the company by telling a story. he replied that his life had been altogether too destitute of striking events to relate any experiences of his own, but that he would tell them the story of the false prince. once on a time there lived a respectable journeyman- tailor, named labakan, who studied his trade with a skilful master in alexandria. no one could truly say that labakan was clumsy with his needle ; on the con- beeting tabakan and the tr, pr the story of the false prince. trary, he understood his business extremely well ; and it would be doing him injustice, too, to call him lazy. still, there was something or other not quite right about the lad; for although, when the fit was on him, he could sew by the hour together, as no other man could, till his needle grew hot and his thread smoked, yet, at other times, — and these fits came even oftener than the former, - he would sit for hours lost in thought, his eyes fixed on vacancy, and his face wearing so strange and peculiar an expression, that his master and fellow- journeymen never spoke of this condition of his without calling it “ labakan's gentleman-fit.” on fridays, after prayers, when other people gener- ally go quietly back to their work, labakan used to strut out of the mosque, in a rich suit of clothes which a rigid economy had enabled him to purchase, and pace pompously through the streets and squares of the city ; and, if one of his comrades saluted him with “ peace be with you!” or “how goes it, friend labakan ?” he would return the courtesy by a gracious wave of the hand, or a benign nod of the head. whenever his master said to him, jokingly, “a prince was lost in you, labakan," he showed signs of great satisfaction, and would generally answer, “have you remarked it too ?” or “ i have thought so myself a long while." in this manner the skilful journeyman, labakan, spent a considerable portion of his life, while his master bit- terly cursed his folly and vanity, for, in his right senses, he was a good fellow and an industrious workman. but one day, selim, the sultan's brother, who was passing through alexandria, sent a dress-suit to laba- kan’s master, to have some alterations made, and the tailor entrusted it to labakan, as being most dexterous in the nicest work. that evening, when his master and arabian days' entertainments. fellow-journeymen had quitted the shop to take their customary recreation after the toils of the day, an irre- sistible impulse drove labakan back again to the work- room, where the clothes of the imperial customer were hanging. he stood a long while before them, admiring now the beauty of the embroidery, now the varying colors of the velvet and the silk. he could not resist his desire to try them on ; he did so, and, to his delight, they fitted him, as if made expressly to his measure. " why am i not as good a prince as another?” he asked himself, strutting up and down the room. “ has n't master himself often said that i was born to be à prince?" our journeyman seemed to have assumed with the clothes a regal tone of thought. he could not persuade himself that he was not some scion of royalty, and, in this belief, resolved to travel into the world, and abandon a place where the people had so stupidly refused to recognize his noble origin. the splendid dress seemed to him to have been sent by some benevolent fairy ; so, warning himself against despising so valuable a gift, he collected his little ready cash, and, favored by the darkness of night, wandered, without definite purpose, from alexandria's gates. the new prince excited everywhere the greatest curiosity, for his superb dress and his grave, majestic aspect seemed wholly unsuited to a pedestrian trav- eller. when questioned concerning this, he would answer, with a mysterious air, that he had secret but excellent motives for this apparent inconsistency. . perceiving, however, that he exposed himself to ridi- cule by travelling on foot, he procured, for a trifling sum, an old horse, exactly suited to his requirements ; for, being of unvarying gentleness and steadiness of demeanor, the animal never embarrassed him by draw- the story of the false prince. ing too largely on his equestrian skill, — that being an accomplishment which his previous habits of life had hitherto compelled him to neglect. one day, while riding slowly on murva, — for so he called his steed, – a horseman joined him, requesting permission to travel in his company, as the length of the road would be much shortened by conversation. the rider was a young man of agreeable and taking address. he had soon compared notes with labakan on the whither and the whence of their journey, and it came out that he too, like the tailor, was entering the world, without previous preparation for its trials. he said that his name was omar; that he was the nephew of elfi bey, the unfortunate pasha of cairo, and that he was now travelling to fulfil a behest which his uncle had given him on his death-bed. labakan was much less communicative upon his own affairs, but gave him to understand that his own origin was still higher than the stranger's, and that he was travelling for his mere pleasure. the two young gentlemen found each other's society agreeable, and went on together. on the second day of their union of forces, labakan inquired of his com- panion, omar, what the behest was which he had under- taken to fufil; and, to his astonishment, received for answer, “ that elfi bey, the pasha of cairo, had brought up omar from his earliest infancy, and that the latter had never known his parents. when the bey, over- powered by his enemies, had been compelled to retreat after three unsuccessful battles, mortally wounded, he disclosed to his adopted child that he was not his nephew, as he supposed, but the son of a powerful sovereign, who, alarmed by the prognostications of his astrologers had removed the young prince from his * arabian days entertainments. court, and had bound the pasha by an oath to restore him again on his two-and-twentieth birthday. elfi bey had not imparted to him the name of his father, but had directed him to betake himself, on the fourth day of the month ramadan, at which time he would be twenty-two years old, to the famous pillar el-serujah, four days' journey from alexandria ; that there he should deliver a certain dagger to the men he would find standing by the column, with these words: 'here am i whom you seek ;' and that, if they answered, glory be to the prophet, who has preserved thee!' he should follow them, and they would conduct him to his father.” labakan was greatly impressed by this communi- cation, and henceforth looked on prince omar with envious eyes, indignant that fate should confer on him the dignity of royal birth, having already blessed him with the rank of nephew to a powerful pasha ; while on himself, as if in scorn of the princely qualities which adorned his mind, he had bestowed a doubtful origin and an obscure life. he instituted comparisons between himself and the prince. he could not but admit that the latter was a person of a very attractive appearance, having handsome, flashing eyes, a well-arched nose, and a soft, obliging manner; in short, every external attraction, which a man could desire, was undeniably his. yet, whatever the graces he found in his compan- ion, he argued to himself that a labakan would have proved a far more acceptable son and heir to the old sovereign than the genuine prince. these reflections tormented labakan the whole day, and pervaded his dreams by night; but when morning broke, and his glance fell on the sleeping omar, repos- ing so peacefully, and dreaming perhaps of his certain . the story of the false prince. fortunes, his mind conceived the idea of obtaining, by fraud or force, what cruel fate had refused to bestow voluntarily. he softly drew out the dagger from the sleeper's girdle, — the proof of the identity of the homeward-bound prince, — to plunge it into the - breast of its owner. but his unwarlike soul shrunk before the thought of murder; so he satisfied himself with slipping the dagger through his own girdle, and causing the prince's more powerful horse to be saddled in place of his own; and before omar had waked to dis- cover himself robbed of all his hopes, his faithless com- rade had already obtained a start of several miles. it was the first day of the sacred month ramadan when labakan committed this robbery, and he had still four days in which to reach the pillar of el-serujah. although the place where this pillar stood was at most two days' journey distant, he hurried forward as rapidly as he could, dreading constantly to be overtaken by the true prince. towards the close of the following day labakan's eyes rested on the pillar of el-serujah. it stood on a little elevation in the midst of an extensive plain, and could be seen at the distance of two or three leagues. labakan's heart beat loudly. although he had had during the last two days abundant time to reflect on the part he was about to play, yet his evil conscience made him timid ; but, on the other hand, the belief that he was born to be a prince encouraged him, so that he went on to the place of meeting with a certain degree of confidence. . the country round the pillar of el-serujah was barren and unfrequented, and the new prince would have been much embarrassed on the score of provisions, had he not brought with him a supply for several days. he arabian days' entertainments. lay down, therefore, near his horse, under some palms, and awaited anxiously his approaching fate. towards the middle of the second day he saw a long train of horses and camels approaching the pillar of el- serujah across the plain. it halted at the foot of the hill, where handsome tents were soon erected, and the whole looked like the escort of some wealthy pasha or sheik. labakan's heart whispered that the multitude before him had all come hither on his account, and he longed to show them instantly their future master; but he restrained his inclination to play the prince, con- scious that the next morning his wildest hopes were to be more than realized. the morning sun awoke the fortunate tailor to the most important moment of his life; one which was about to raise him from the humblest condition to equality with royalty itself. to be sure, as he saddled his horse to ride to the pillar, the thought occurred to him of the dishonesty of his conduct; and imagination pictured the misery of the prince defrauded of his birth- right. but the die was cast; he could not now recede; and vanity whispered that his appearance was suffi- ciently regal to sustain his claim to relationship with the greatest king on earth. encouraged by this reflec- tion, he climbed into the saddle, and, summoning all his courage, urged his horse to a respectable gallop, and reached the foot of the hill in a few moments. here he dismounted, and, fastening his horse to a shrub, of which several grew on the hill, and drawing out prince omar's dagger, commenced his ascent. six men were standing, at the foot of the pillar, around. a gray-beard of kingly aspect; a gorgeous caftan of cloth of gold, girded about by a white cashmere shawl, and the story of the false prince. a snowy turban adorned with precious stones, showed him to be a person of great wealth and dignity. lakakan approached him, and said, with a deep rev- erence, holding out the dagger: “here am i, whom you seek.” "glory be to the prophet who has preserved thee !" answered the aged man, shedding tears of joy. “em- brace your father, my beloved son omar." . the valiant tailor was much affected by these im-. pressive words, and, with mingled feelings of joy and shame, sank into the arms of the aged king. . he enjoyed unalloyed, however, only for a moment, the luxury of his new rank. as he raised himself from the arms of the princely stranger, he saw a horseman hastening across the plain towards the hill. both rider and horse presented a singular appearance. the steed, either from obstinacy or weariness, seemed reluctant to move, and came on with a stumbling gait which resem- bled neither a walk nor a trot, the rider, meanwhile, constantly trying to accelerate his progress with hand and heel. labakan recognized, with a sinking heart, his horse murva, and the true prince omar; but the evil spirit of lies held sway in his breast, and he resolved, whatever the result, to insist with a brazen front on his pretended claims. the horseman had been seen for some time gesticu- lating fiercely as he approached, and had by this time reached the foot of the hill, in spite of murva's misera- ble gait. throwing himself from the saddle, he rushed up to the top. “stop!” he shouted; “whoever you may be, be not deceived by that impudent impostor. i am omar, and let no mortal dare to arrogate my name !" profound astonishment came across the faces of the arabian days' entertainments. by-standers at this strange turn of events. the old king, especially, seemed utterly confounded, and looked inquiringly from one to the other. labakan, with a desperate attempt at composure, said to him : “ most gracious lord and father, let not this man's statement occasion you doubt. he is, i believe, a crazy, half- witted journeyman-tailor, from alexandria, named lab- akan, and deserves our compassion rather than our anger." this impudent statement drove the true prince nearly to madness. foaming with rage, he was about to throw himself upon labakan, when the by-standers interposed, and held him fast, and the old king said to his pretended son: "the poor man is mad indeed. let him be bound, and placed on one of our dromedaries. perhaps we can render some assistance to the unhappy creature." the wrath of the prince subsided at these words, and he exclaimed, with many tears: “my heart tells me that you are my father, sire. i implore you, by the memory of my mother, listen to me.” "god forbid !” answered the latter. “he is begin- ning to rave again. how can the poor fellow have come by such crazy notions !” saying this, and taking labakan's arm, he descended the hill with the impostor, and both, mounting handsome, richly-decorated horses, rode across the plain to the head of the escort. the guards tied the hands of the unfortunate prince behind his back, bound him firmly on a dromedary, and a couple of horsemen remained constantly by his side, keeping a watchful eye on his every motion. this old sovereign was saand, sultan of the wecha- bites. he had lived childless a long time, but had been made happy at last by the arrival of what he had been the story of the false prince. longing for so earnestly. but the astrologers, whom he had interrogated concerning the fate of his son, had answered, “that he stood in danger, till his two-and- twentieth year, of being displaced by an enemy." wherefore, for greater safety, the sultan had confided his son to the care of his long-tried friend, elfi bey, and for twenty-two sorrowful years had been waiting for his restoration. the sultan told all this to his pretended son, show- ing, by his incessant caresses, his high satisfaction in the handsome exterior and graceful demeanor of his heir. when they reached the sultan's kingdom, they were everywhere received with shouts of joy by the delighted inhabitants, for the rumor of the prince's return had spread through all the towns and villages like wildfire. triumphal arches of flowers and branches spanned the streets through which the procession passed; hangings of varied colors decorated every house; and the people glorified god and his prophet for having sent them so handsome a youth to be their prince. all these events filled the tailor's conceited heart with rapture ; but they made the real omar feel all the more miserable, as, still in chains and sunk in the deepest despair, he followed in the rear of the cavalcade. amid the universal rejoic- ings, no one paid him the least attention. thousands of voices shouted the name of omar; but he to whom the name belonged was left abandoned and unhappy. if, by the merest chance, some man inquired of his guards who was the prisoner they held so tightly bound, his ear was shocked by the answer of his keep- ers, that "it was a crazy tailor." the cavalcade came at last to the sultan's capital, where a still more splendid reception had been prepared arabian days' entertainments. for them. the sultana, an aged and venerable lady, was waiting, with all the court, in the magnificent hall of the imperial palace. the floor was spread with a vast carpet, and the walls were draped with cloth of a heavenly blue, suspended by golden cords and loops from massive hooks of silver. it was dark when the procession reached the palace, and the hall was lighted by countless colored lamps, rivalling in brilliancy the light of day. the illumina- tion was brightest and gayest at the end of the apart- ment, where the sultana was seated on her throne. the throne was elevated on four steps, and was covered with heavy plates of pure gold, adorned with amethysts. four emirs, of the highest rank, held a canopy over the sultana's head, and the sheik of medina protected her from the heat with a fan of peacock's feathers. in this regal state the sultana was waiting for the arrival of her husband and her son. like the sultan, she had never seen him since his birth; but many a life- like dream had convinced her that she would recognize her darling son among a thousand. the sounds of the approaching cavalcade now fell upon the ear. trumpets and drums mingled with the rejoicings of the crowd ; the noise of horses' feet sound- ed in the court-yard of the palace; nearer and nearer cchoed the footsteps of the approaching multitude, and, the doors of the vast hall flying open, the sultan hast- ened through the circle of prostrate courtiers, leading his supposed son by the hand, to the throne of the ex- pectant mother. “i bring you,” said he, “your child, whom you have yearned after so many years.” the sultana interrupted him: “that is not my, son," the story of the false prince. she cried. “those are not the features which the prophet has shown me in my dreams !" reproaches for her incredulity had not yet passed the sultan's lips, when the door of the hall flew open. prince omar rushed in, pursued by his guards, whom he had overpowered for a moment by a desperate exer- tion of strength, and threw himself breathless at the foot of the throne. “here will i die,” he cried, “if it be your will, cruel father; for i can bear this disgrace no longer!” the audience were confounded, and crowded around the unfortunate prince; and the guards, who had by this time overtaken him, were on the point of seizing and binding him a second time, when the sultana, who had witnessed the scene in speechless astonishment, sprang from the throne. “stop!” she shrieked. “this one, and no other, is my true son! this one is he whom my heart has known, though my eyes have never see his face." the guards shrunk back involuntarily; but the sul- tan, on fire with contemptuous anger, called on them to bind the madman. “it is mine to command here !” he shouted, in an imperious voice. “we follow, here, not woman's dreams, but sure and absolute evidence. this one," pointing to labakan, “is my son; for he has brought the dagger of my ally, elfi.” . “he stole it !” cried omar. “he made a treach- erous use of my unsuspecting confidence.” the sultan paid no attention to his son's words, for he was wont to follow his own judgment despotically in all matters, and ordered the unhappy omar to be dragged from the hall. he then retired with labakan to his own apartments, filled with wrath against the arabian days' entertainments. sultana, with whom, till this moment, he had lived for fifty years in peace and love. . the sultana was overcome with distress, for she was certain a traitor had crept into the sultan's heart. too many vivid dreams had shown her the features of her absent son, to permit her to be deceived by the pre- tences of an impostor. when the poignancy of her sorrow had somewhat moderated, she set about devising means by which to convince the sultan of his error. it was an undertaking of extreme difficulty ; for the traitor, who pretended to be her son, had not only exhibited the dagger, the proof of his identity, but, also, as she learned, had been able to recount as his own so much of omar's previous life, that he was enabled to play his part without risk of detection. she summoned to her presence the men who had accompanied the sultan to the pillar of el-serujah, to obtain accurate information of the circumstances of that meeting, and then took counsel as to her course with the attendants, who enjoyed 'her especial confidence. one plan after another was offered and rejected; but, finally, melechsalah, a shrewd old maid-of-honor, took her turn to speak. “if i have heard the story correctly, gracious mis- tress, the impostor declares that the name of him you claim to be your son is labakan, a crazy tailor?” “you are right,” answered the sultana ; "but wiat hopes do you draw from that circumstance?" “why may not this traitor," continued the other, “have given your son his own name? and, if this be the fact, there is an excellent means to detect the im- postor, which i will communicate to you in secret." the sultana stepped aside, and the lady whispered in the story of the false prince. her ear the plan she had devised. it seemed to please her mistress so much, that she made immediate prepara- tions to visit the sultan. the sultana was a judicious lady, who knew perfectly well the sultan's weak side, and understood how to take advantage of it. she assumed an appearance of sub- mission, and a readiness to acknowledge her son, and craved only the favor of a single test. the sultan, who regretted already his anger towards his wife, granted the favor, and she said : "i should like to obtain from both candidates a proof of their dexterity. some persons, perhaps, would require them to ride, or fight, or throw the javelin. but no; i will give them something which shall test their manual skill. it is this: each of them shall make a caftan and a pair of trousers, and we shall see at once who succeeds the best.” the sultan replied, with a laugh : “my dear, your suggestion is admirable! what! my son contest, with your crazy tailor, which can make the best caftan ? no; i refuse my consent to a test like that.” the sultana urged, however, that he had previously assented to her request, and the sultan at length yield- ed, for he was a man of his word ; although he swore, that, let the mad tailor make his caftan never so well, he could never be persuaded to acknowledge him as his son. the sultan went in person to his pretended son, and directed him to yield without opposition to his mother's whim, telling him she had an invincible desire to see a caftan of his own manufacture. the heart of the excel- lent labakan laughed for joy; if that were all that was required, he thought to himself, the sultana shall soon be satisfied.” arabian days' entertainments. two chambers were soon made ready, in which the rivals were to prove their respective skill, and scissors, needles and thread, were provided in ample quantities. the sultan felt great curiosity to see the caftan his son would exhibit as his handiwork, while the heart of the sultana throbbed with equal anxiety for the suc- cessful issue of her experiment. two days the rivals devoted to their work; on the third the sultan sum- moned his queen, and, on her appearance, sent to the two rooms to fetch out the caftans and their makers. labakan came forth with a triumphant air, and spread his caftan before the astonished eyes of the sultan. “look, father,” said he, “look, my honored mother, is not this garment a master-piece? i will lay a wager with the most accomplished tailor in the city that he cannot produce a better one.” the sultana laughed, and turned to omar. “and what have you to show us, my son ?” said she. omar threw his cloth and scissors scornfully on the floor. “i was taught to guide a horse and wield a sabre,” said he, “and to strike my lance into the target at fifty paces. of the use of the needle i know nothing, and such knowledge would be unworthy a foster child of elfi bey.” “ , true son of my lord !” cried the sultana. "ah, that i might be permitted to embrace you, and call you my son! pardon, my lord and husband,” said she, turning to the sultan, “for having used this arti- fice. are you still blind as to which is the prince, and which the tailor ? on my honor, the caftan your son has made is magnificent, and i should like to ask him of what master he has learned his trade.” the sultan sat in deep thought, looking alternately from the sultana to labakan, while the latter sought the story of the false prince. desperately to conquer his confusion at having betrayed himself so foolishly. “this test is not sufficient," said the sultan at length; “but, allah be praised, i know a sure method by which i can find out whether i am deceived or not." he ordered his fleetest steed to be brought out, and rode to a forest which stood at no great distance from the city. there, rumor said, dwelt a good fairy, named adolzaide, who had often assisted with her advice the sovereigns of his race. thither the sultan hurried. in the middle of the forest was an open space, over- hung by lofty cedars. tradition said that here the fairy dwelt, and mortal man rarely ventured to approach the place ; for from time immemorial an aversion towards it had been bequeathed from father to son among the people. arrived at this spot, the sultan dismounted, and, tying his horse to a tree, took his position in the cen- tre, and cried in a loud voice: “if it be true, that you have given good counsel to my ancestors in their hour of need, despise not now the petition of their descend- ant, but advise him to-day on a point too difficult for the short-sightedness of human understanding." he had scarcely spoken the last words, when one of the cedars opened, and a veiled female figure, in long white robes, stepped forth. “i know wherefore you are come, sultan saand ; your wish is honorable, and my assistance shall be faithful. take these two boxes. let those who claim to be your sons select between them. he, whose claim is just, will make the right decision.” saying these words, she gave him two little ivory boxes, richly adorned with pearls and gold ; on the lids, which the sultan attempted in vain to open, were inscriptions inlaid in numerous small diamonds. * arabian days' entertainments. the sultan tried to imagine, while riding home, what there could possibly be in these boxes, which, spite of every effort, he could not succeed in opening. the inscriptions threw no light whatever on the matter, for on one was, “ honor and glory," on the other, “ hap- piness and riches.” the sultan confessed that the choice would be difficult, even to himself, to decide between two things so equally attractive. arriving at his palace, he ordered the sultana to be summoned, and disclosed to her the fairy's declaration; and a wonderful assurance filled her heart that the youth to whom her affections were so strongly drawn would make the choice which would prove to a certainty his royal birth. . two tables were placed before the sultan's throne, on which the sultan set the ivory boxes with his own hand. he then ascended the throne, and signed to a slave to throw open the doors of the hall. a splendid assemblage of pashas and emirs of the empire, whom the sultan had invited, streamed at once through the opened portals, and took their seats on magnificent cushions, ranged along the walls of the apartment. after all were seated, the sultan signed a second time, and labakan was brought in. he crossed the hall with a haughty step, and, throwing himself on his knees before the throne, said: “what is my lord and father's will ?” the sultan rose from his throne, and replied: “my son, doubts have been thrown on the justice of your pretensions to this title ; one of these boxes contains the proof of your true origin ; choose between them. i doubt not you will choose the right.” labakan rose from the ground, and walked to the tables. after hesitating long over which he should the story of the false prince. select, he said to the sultan: “most honored father, what can be higher than the happiness of being your son; what nobler than the riches of your favor ? i choose the box inscribed • happiness and riches.'”. “we will learn shortly whether your choice be wise,” said the sultan, signing to his slaves. “take your seat for the present on the cushion near the pasha of medina." omar was now brought in. his look was gloomy, his air was sad, and his appearance excited universal sympathy among the audience. he threw himself down at the foot of the throne, and inquired the sultan's will. the sultan explained to him that he must choose between the boxes. he rose and approached the table. having read attentively the two inscriptions, he said : "the events of the last few days have taught me how insecure is happiness, how transitory are riches ; but they have also shown me that an imperishable treasure, honor; dwells in the heart of the brave, and that the radiant star of glory survives the loss of happiness. though thereby i renounce a crown, the die is cast; and, 'honor and glory,' i take you as my choice!” he put his hand on the box which he had chosen ; but, commanding him to wait, the sultan made a sign to labakan, and the latter likewise placed his hand on the object of his selection. the sultan caused a basin to be brought, filled with water from the sacred fountain zemzem, in mecca, and, washing his hands, turned his face to the east, and, throwing himself on his knees, uttered the following prayer: “o god, my father! thou who for cen- turies hast preserved my race from stain or dishonor, arabian days' entertainments. - suffer not now an impostor to disgrace the name of the abassides ; but be near, god, to my true son, in this his hour of trial.' the sultan descended from his throne. a common expectation held the assemblage motionless ; scarcely a breath was drawn, and even a mouse could have been heard to cross the hall, so silent and intent were the spectators of this curious scene. those behind stretched forward to see the boxes over the heads of those in front. the sultan said : “open the boxes !” and these, which hitherto no strength could move, now flew open of their own accord. in the box which omar had selected, lay on a velvet cushion a tiny golden crown and sceptre; in that of labakan – a huge needle and a morsel of thread. the sultan commanded them to bring the boxes to him. he took the little crown into his hand, and, wonderful to relate, as he held it, it grew larger and larger, till it had reached the dimensions of a real diadem. he set it on the head of his son omar, who knelt before him, and, kissing his forehead, assigned him a seat at his right hand. then, turning to labakan, he said ; “ an old proverb says, let the cobbler stick to his last: it seems you are to stick to your needle. you have not deserved my favor, but my mercy has been implored for you by one whom, to-day, i can deny nothing. i grant you, therefore, your miserable life ; but, if you are well advised, you will make haste to get beyond the boundaries of my empire.” mortified, annihilated as he was, the poor tailor could make no reply. he threw himself at the feet of the prince, with tears streaming from his eyes. “can you forgive me, prince ?” he said. “faith towards a friend, forgiveness towards a foe, the story of the false prince. is the motto of the abassides,” replied the prince, rais- ing him from the floor; “ depart in peace.”—“ , my true, my real son!” sobbed the sultana, sinking on his breast. the emirs and pashas, and all the grandees of the empire, rose from their seats, and shouted with one voice, “hail to our future sovereign !” and, amid the universal rejoicings, labakan, his box under his arm, slunk from the hall. he descended to the sultan's stables, and, saddling his old horse, murva, rode through the city gates towards alexandria. his entire prince's life seemed to him a dream, and the splendid box, brilliant with pearls and diamonds, alone remained to prove the reality of what he had gone through. he reached alexandria at last; and, riding to the house of his former master, he dismounted at the door, tied his horse to a post, and went into the workshop. the master, not recognizing him, made him a humble obeisance, and inquired in what way he could be of service; but when, on a nearer examination, he recog- nized his former journeyman, he shouted for his apprentices and pupils, and all, falling like madmen on poor labakan, who had anticipated no such reception, thumped and pounded him with flat-irons and yard- sticks, pricked him with needles, and nipped him with sharp scissors, till he fell down at length on a heap of old clothes, exhausted with pain and terror. while he lay there his master accused him fiercely of stealing the imperial dress-suit. in vain did laba- kan assert that he had returned home to prove his innocence ; in vain did he offer to replace its value three- fold; the master and his apprentices fell upon him again, and, after beating him savagely, threw him out of doors into the street. bruised and wounded, he arabian days' entertainments. mounted murva, and rode to a caravansary. there, laying down his weary, aching head, he reflected on the miseries of this world, the mistaken merits of men, and the transitoriness of all earthly blessings. he went to sleep at last with a resolution to renounce ambition, and to become a respectable, obscure, steady-going citizen. nor did he repent of his determination when he waked the next morning, for the heavy hands of his master and the apprentices seemed to have driven all ambitious notions out of him. he sold his box to a jeweller for a large sum, and, buying himself a house, opened a workshop for the prosecution of his former business. when he had put everything in order, and had hung out a sign with the inscription, “labakan, tailor," over his window, he set himself down, and began to mend, with the needle and thread he had found in the ivory box, the coat which his master had so disastrously ill-treated. he was called away from his work for a moment, and what was his amazement, on returning to his shop, to see the needle sewing busily on by itself, plying its trade in the most industrious manner, and making fine, delicate, elegant stitches, such as labakan in his most skilful moments could never hope to rival! truly, even the smallest gift of a benevolent fairy is advantageous and valuable! but we have not mentioned all the good qualities of this precious donation ; for, let the needle be as industrious as it pleased, the thread possessed the additional recommend- ation of never giving out. labakan obtained many customers, and was before many months the most celebrated tailor of the time. his habit was to cut out the clothes and take one stitch the story of the false prince. with his magic needle, and instantly the little journey- man would labor on, without a moment's intermission, till the job was done. master labakan had soon the whole city for his customers, for he did his work well, and at a remarkably reasonable price. one thing only did the good people of alexandria shake their heads over, namely, that he worked without a single assistant, and with his doors invariably closed. the motto of the ivory box, “ happiness and riches," was thus fulfilled. happiness and riches accompanied the steps of the good tailor, though in a different way from what he had once looked for; and when he heard of the glory of the young sultan omar, - when he heard that this hero was the pride of his subjects, and the ter- ror of his enemies, – the former prince thought to him- self: “it is much better for me that i have remained a tailor, for honor and glory are very dangerous things.” so labakan lived, contented with himself, and respected by his fellow-townsmen ; and if the needle has not lost its cunning, it is doubtless sewing away still with the endless thread of the benevolent fairy adolzaide. the caravan broke up its encampment at sunset, and soon arrived at birket el had, or the pilgrim's brook, which is distant only three leagues' journey from cairo. the caravan had been expected about this time, and the merchants soon had the pleasure of seeing their friends coming out from cairo to meet them. they entered the city through the gate bebel falch, it being considered a favorable omen to enter by this gate on arriving from mecca, because the prophet himself had once passed through it. the four turkish merchants parted from the stranger and the greek zaleukos in the market-place, and went arabian days' entertainments. to their respective homes with their friends. zaleukos showed the stranger a good caravansary, and invited him to dine. the latter accepted the invitation, and promised to make his appearance as soon as he had changed his travel-stained garments. the greek made every preparation to receive the stranger, whom he had learned to love warmly during the journey, and, when the materials had been suitably arranged for the dinner, sat down to wait for his guest. he soon heard him approaching through the entry leading to the chamber, and rose politely to welcome him on the threshold ; but, on the opening of the door, he started back with horror, for the long-remembered, terrible purple mantle was seen entering the room. he glanced at the figure once more, to assure himself that he was under no delusion; but he could feel no doubt. the same lofty, commanding figure; the mask through which his dark eyes gleamed brightly; the purple man- tle with the gold embroidery; all these were only too deeply impressed on his recollection by the most dread- ful experiences of his life. conflicting emotions strove in zaleukos' breast. he had long since forgiven this phantom of his memory, yet its appearance here opened afresh all his deep but healing wounds. those terrible hours of agony, and that sorrow which had poisoned the fountain of his life, passed in the flight of an instant across his soul. “what seek you, terrible being ?” cried the greek to the motionless figure on the threshold. “vanish, or i curse you !" “ zaleukos !” spoke a familiar voice behind the mask. " zaleukos! is it thus you receive your invited guest ?” the speaker removed his mask and threw back his mantle – it was the strange traveller, selim baruch. sequel of the severed hand. it was long before zaleukos became calm ; he still shuddered at the presence of the stranger; for he had recognized in him too distinctly the unknown of the ponte vecchio. at length, long habits of hospitality prevailed, and he motioned silently to his guest to be seated at the table. “i know your thoughts,” said the stranger, taking his seat, “ for your eyes have an inquiring gaze. friend, i ought, perhaps, to have buried the past in profound silence, and never again dared to enter your presence; but, owing you a greater recompense than you have yet received, i have ventured, at the risk of receiv- ing your bitter curse, to appear once more before you in my former guise. you said to me once: "the relig- ion of my fathers commands me to love him ; and besides he is more unfortunate than i.' it is indeed so, my friend ; listen to my exculpation : . .."i must begin far back, to make my story intelligible. i was born in alexandria, of christian parents. my father, the younger son of an ancient and distinguished french family, was the consul of that nation at alex- andria. i was brought up from my tenth year in france, at the house of my mother's brother, and left it for the first time, some years after the commencement of the revolution, for the purpose of seeking a refuge with my uncle, who was no longer safe in his own country, at the residence of my parents beyond the sea. we landed from the ship, full of the hope of finding in my father's house that peace and tranquillity which the frantic pop- ulace had robbed us of in france. but, alas! the tran- quillity of my home had been destroyed forever. the external tempests of those stormy times had, it is true, not yet extended to our quiet city ; but affliction had fallen with the deadlier force on the hearts of my kin. arabian days' entertainments. dred. my brother, a youth of great promise and my father's principal secretary, had married, some little time previously, a lovely girl, the daughter of a floren- tine nobleman residing in our neighborhood. only two days before our arrival she had suddenly disappeared, and neither our family nor her own could find the faint- est trace of her existence. we decided at last that she had wandered too far away in one of her walks, and had fallen into the hands of robbers. to my unhappy brother this belief was, if possible, less painful than the true explanation of her disappearance, which shortly came to our knowledge. the faithless wife had fled with a young neapolitan whom she had known at her father's house. driven to fury by this discovery, my brother made every effort to bring his guilty bride to punishment; but in vain. his attempts, which had excited attention in florence and naples, served only to complete the destruction of our family. the floren- tine noble travelled back to his native country, on the pretext of seeking justice for my unhappy brother, but in fact to effect our ruin. he succeeded in defeating the inquiries which my brother had instituted, and used so skilfully his great influence, acquired by every art at his command, that my father and brother came to be suspected by their government, were taken prisoners by the basest treachery, carried in chains to france, and there met their deaths at the hand of the execu- tioner. my poor mother lost her reason, and not till ten weary months had passed did death release her from her dreadful sufferings. thus was i left, at last, friendless in the world ; and but one idea occupied my soul, one purpose caused me to forget my misery. it was the consuming flame of revenge which my mother, on her death-bed, had kindled in my heart. sequel of the severed hand, "during the last moments of her life, her conscious- ness returned. she summoned me to her bedside, and spoke with calmness of her death and our unhappy fate, she then caused all the attendants to leave the chamber, and, raising herself solemnly in her bed, told me that i could never obtain her dying blessing unless i swore to perform the duty which she was about to confide to me. excited to frenzy, i promised with a solemn oath to obey her commands. calling down imprecations upon the florentine and his daughter, she adjured me, by the terror of her curse, to revenge on him and her the misfortunes of our house. she died soon after in my arms. the thoughts of vengeance, which had long slumbered in my bosom, were awakened in all their fury. i collected the relics of my father's property, and swore to peril all for my revenge, or perish myself in the attempt. “i soon reached florence, where i kept myself as secretly as possible. the difficulties of my plan were much increased by the social position in which i found my enemies. the old florentine had been elected gov- ernor, and of course had every means at hand to crush me, on the slightest suspicion of my presence. chance came to my assistance. one evening i saw a servant in a well-known livery passing through the street; his uncertain walk, his sullen look, and his half-audible imprecations of santo sacramento and maledetto diavolo, enabled me to recognize instantly old pietro, a servant of the florentine, whom i had formerly known in alex- andria. i felt no doubt, from his appearance, that he was angry with his master for some good or foolish rea- son, and i resolved on the spot to avail myself of his present humor. he seemed much surprised to see me in florence, and detailed to me his wrongs, telling me arabian days' entertainments. . that, since his master had been governor of the city, he could never do anything to satisfy him ; and my gold, combined with his anger, soon brought him to my side. the greatest obstacle was now removed. i had a man in my pay, who at any moment could open for me my enemy's door, and now my revenge drew swiftly to its accomplishment. the life of the old florentine appeared to me too worthless, when weighed in the balance with the ruin of my house. he should witness the murder of his dearest treasure, and this was his daughter bianca. she had sinned so deeply against my brother that she was, after all, the principal cause of our destruction. most welcome to my rage-devoured heart was the news that about this time bianca was about to wed a second time. it was settled she must die. but i shuddered at such a deed myself, and i had too little confidence in pietro's strength of will to en- trust its perpetration to him. we sought, therefore, for a man fit to accomplish our purposes. i dared not enlist a florentine, for no one would have undertaken such a deed against the governor. suddenly pietro conceived the plan, which we afterwards carried out, and represented you, a stranger and a surgeon, as the most fitted for our purposes. the result, you know. my project was nearly wrecked at one time by your caution and honor. hence the accident with the mantle. “it was pietro who had opened for us the little door in the governor's palace, and he would have guided us out by the same way, had we not both fled from the spot, aghast at the terrible spectacle presented to our gaze through the door of bianca's chamber. “pursued by horror and remorse, i ran madly two hundred paces, and sank down on the steps of a church. sequel of the severed hand. there, for the first time, i collected my scattered senses, and my first thought was of you and the frightful fate which awaited you should you be discovered in the house. “i crept to the palace, but could find not the slight- est trace either of you ar of pietro. but the door stood open, so i could at least hope that you had made use of your opportunity to escape. “ as soon as day broke, the dread of discovery and an irresistible feeling of remorse drove me from flor- ence. i hastened to rome. but conceive the despair of my soul, when, a few days later, the story was cir- culated among the people, with the addition that a greek physician had been arrested as the murderer. i hurried back in dreadful agitation to florence ; for, if my vengeance had already seemed too fearful, i cursed myself now as having purchased it far too dearly at the price of your guiltless life. i arrived on the same day which deprived you of your hand. i will not de- scribe the feelings which racked my soul when i saw you ascend the scaffold and suffer so heroically your unmerited punishment. but, as i saw your blood spout forth in streams, i formed the fixed resolve to alleviate by the devotion of my life the unhappy remainder of your own. what has happened since you know too well; and it only remains to me now to tell you why i have made this long journey in your company. “ the thought that you had never forgiven me weighed upon my soul like a dreadful burthen. i re- solved therefore to spend many days in your society, to confess myself at last the unhappy cause of the suf- ferings you had undergone, and hear from your own lips my forgiveness or condemnation.” the greek listened in silence to his guest's recital, * arabian days' entertainments. and, on his ceasing to speak, held out his hand, with a glance of compassion. “i was sure,” said he, “that you were a greater sufferer than myself, for that terri- ble crime will darken like a cloud the remainder of your life. i forgive you from my heart. but permit me a single question. how came you in the desert under that strange disguise? whither did you go after you had bought the house in constantinople ?" “i returned to alexandria,” answered the stranger, “hatred to all mankind flaming in my heart; burning hate especially toward those nations called by men civilized. i preferred to be among the moslemites. scarcely had i been a month in alexandria, when my countrymen, the french, invaded the land. "i saw in them only the slayers of my father and my brother; so, collecting a handful of my acquaint- ance, i joined the valiant mamelukes, who had so often been the terror of the french army. at the termination of the campaign, i could not persuade myself to return to the habits of peaceful life, and lived with my band of congenial friends a restless, wandering existence, devoted to warfare and the chase. i lived contented among these people, who revere me as their master; for, if my asiatics are less civilized than your europe- ans, they are at least far more exempt from envy and malice, selfishness and ambition.” zaleukos thanked the stranger for his frank avowal, but urged upon him that he would find it more suited to his rank and his accomplishments to live and toil in christian european lands. he seized his hand in his, and entreated him earnestly to abandon his present reckless life, to go with him, and to live and die in his own house. his guest looked at him with great emo- tion. -“from this i know,” said he, “that i have sequel of the severed hand. gained your full forgiveness and your love. accept my heartfelt gratitude.” he sprang up and stood at his full height before the greek, who almost shrank before the warlike figure, the dark, gleaming eyes, and the deep, mysterious, voice of his guest. “your offer is a noble one,” he continued. “to any other it would be resistless. i cannot accept it. already my horse stands saddled ; already my servants are waiting for my return. farewell, zaleukos." · the two friends, whom fate had so strangely united, threw themselves into each other's arms in a parting embrace. "and what is your name? how shall i think of my guest, who will live forever in my memory?” asked the greek. the stranger gazed long in his face, and, pressing his hand once more, said, “they call me the sovereign of the desert. i am the robber orbasan!” bo art desenesro wren. - mer ser come con ford the sheik of alexandria. the sheik of alexandria. of the in the mobie sheik ali band, the sheik of alexandria, was a peculiar man. in the morning, when he went through the streets of the city, with his folded turban of cashmere shawls, his dress of state, and his sumptuous girdle, worth at least fifty camels ; when he passed along, with a slow and stately step, his forehead contracted into deep fur- rows, his eyes cast down, and his hand thoughtfully stroking his long black beard, to expound, in accord- ance with the duty of his office, selections from the koran to faithful followers of the prophet, his servants waiting in the streets outside used to look after their master, and say one to another, “what a handsome, stately man he is !” — “and rich, immensely rich," another would add,“ enormously rich. has n't he a pal- ace on the bay of stamboul? has n't he estates, and stock, and thousands on thousands of cattle, and count- less troops of slaves?” “yes," a third would say ; “ and the tartar, who was sent to him lately from stam- boul, from the holy sultan himself, — whom our prophet bless i — told me that our sheik was held in the highest honor by the reis-effendi, by the kapidshi-baschi, by every great man there." -“ay, ay,” cried a fourth ; “his footsteps are blessed. he is a wealthy, splendid nobleman ; but — but - you know what i mean!” — “ay, ay,” the rest would murmur, “ay, ay; he has his ਹੁੰਚ ਕਿ . : the sheik of alexandria. own load to carry; we would not change places with him. he is a rich, splendid gentleman; but-but-" ali banu had a palace on the first square in alexan- dria. in front was a wide terrace, walled with marble, and shaded by palms, among which he often sat in the evenings and smoked his jewelled water-pipe. twelve slaves in superb liveries waited at a respectful distance for his nod; one carried his betel, another his parasol, a third cups of beaten gold filled with sherbet, a fourth a fan of peacock's feathers to keep away the flies from his master; others were musicians, and carried lutes and wind instruments, to supply him with music when he felt disposed ; and the most highly honored of all held rolls of manuscript to read aloud to him when he felt inclined to hear. but they waited in vain for his sign. he wanted not music, nor singing ; he refused to listen to the poems of the wise poets of the past; he declined his sherbet and his betel, and even the bearer of the peacock-fan wasted his labors, for his lord paid no heed to the buzz- ing flies which hovered about his head. the passers-by often paused in their walks to admire the splendor of the palace, the rich dresses of the slaves, and the luxury displayed in everything around; but, when they saw the sheik, as he sat so sadly under the palms, his eyes never wandering from the azure clouds of his pipe, they would shake their heads, and say to each other, “ truly, this rich man is a poor man. he, having much, is poorer than we, who have nothing; for the prophet has denied him the ability to enjoy.” so spoke the people, and went their ways, laughing at the sheik. one evening, as the sheik was sitting under the palms before his door, surrounded by every beauty of the sheik of alexandria. dancing, reading proverbs and listening to poems by trumpery poets! no; i would manage things very differently. the sheik has splendid horses and camels, and heaps of gold. if i were in his place, i would ride to the end of the world, ay, even to moscow or to france. i should consider no journey too long, if, by taking it, i could see the splendors of the world. that is what i would do if i were that man yonder.” "youth is a happy time, and the age of highest en- joyment,” said an old man, of shabby appearance, stand- ing near them, and who had overheard their conversa- tion. “but permit me to say that youth is also foolish, and does a great deal of idle chattering in the course of a day.” " what do you mean by that, old fellow ?" asked the young men in amazement. “do you refer to us? what business is it of yours if we talk about the sheik's mode of life?” «•if any one is better informed than his neighbor, let him enlighten his error,' the blessed prophet tells us," answered the old man. “the sheik is blessed with vast riches, it is true, and has everything that heart can desire ; but he has good reasons for being so grave and sad. think you he has been so all his life? no; i saw him often fifteen years ago, and he was as gay and joyous as a gazelle, living happily and enjoy- ing his wealth. he had a son, then, the delight of his life, handsome and intelligent as can be conceived; and whoever saw him or heard him speak envied the sheik the possession of such a treasure, for he was only ten years old and yet as wise as others generally are at eighteen.” “and he died ? unhappy sheik !” exclaimed the writer. arabian days' entertainments. ." it would have been a consolation to his father to know that he had gone home to the mansions of the prophet, where his life would be happier than here in alexandria,” replied the old man. “but the truth is far worse. it was the time when the french came here, like a pack of hungry wolves, and warred against us in our own land. they had taken alexandria, and were marching deeper and deeper into the land, and had conquered the mamelukes. the sheik was a pru- dent man, and was wise enough to keep on good terms with the oppressors. but whether it was that they thirsted for his treasures, or whether it was that he showed an interest in his oppressed brethren among the faithful, i do not know; enough that they came one day to his house, accusing him of having secretly sup- plied the mamelukes with arms, horses, and provisions. protest his innocence as he might, it availed nothing, for the french are a cruel people, when their object is to extort gold. they took his little son, kairam, into their camp as a hostage. he offered them great sums for his return, but they refused to release him, and insisted on his making them a higher offer. suddenly the order came from their pasha, or whatever he was called, to reëmbark. no one in alexandria knew a word of their intention, and suddenly they were on the high seas, and had carried with them little kai- ram, ali banu's son. nothing has ever been heard of him from that day to this." “ , the unhappy man! how has allah smitten bim!” exclaimed the young men, looking with sympathy at the old sheik, as, surrounded with splendor, he sat mourning under the palms. “his wife, whom he fondly loved, died of grief for the loss of her son. he himself purchased a ship, and, the sheik of alexandria. having fitted her out, induced the french physician, who lives near yonder fountain, to travel with him to france in search of his lost son. . they had a long voyage, but reached at last the country of the giaours, the unbe- lievers. there they found that frightful events had come to pass. the people had overthrown their sultan and pashas, and rich and poor were striking each oth- ers' heads from their shoulders, and there was no order in the land.' they sought, without success, through every city, for little kairam. but no one knew of him ; and the french physician at length prevailed on the sheik to reëmbark and return home, lest in the univer- sal madness which ruled the hour they should forfeit their own heads. “ they came back to alexandria, and since his return the sheik has passed his life, as you have seen him to-day, mourning for his son ; and he is right. must he not think, when he eats and drinks, perhaps my poor son is now fainting with hunger and thirst'? and when he clothes himself with rich shawls and robes, as his office requires, can he avoid thinking in his own mind : ‘perhaps at this moment my son has nothing with which to hide his nakedness'! and when sur- rounded by singers and dancers, thinks he not: ‘per- haps my unbappy son is forced like these to dance and leap, at the will of his french master'? and what occasions bim the deepest sorrow, is the fear that his little son, so far away from his native land, and sur- rounded by unbelievers, who deride his religion, will be turned away from his father's faith, and he shall never clasp him to his heart in the garden of paradise.” “for this reason is he so gentle to his slaves, and so nobly generous to the poor ; for he thinks that allah will requite his benevolence, and soften the hearts of arabian days' entertainments. - the franks, who hold his son, so that they will use him kindly. and on every return of the day when his son was torn from his arms, he gives their freedom to twelve slaves." “i had heard something like this before," said the scribe; “but strange tales circulate among the people. i had heard it said that he is a peculiar man, and eager to excess after good stories. hence he encourages every year a contest among his slaves, and gives free- dom to him who tells the best tale." “do not put faith in vulgar rumors," said the old man. “the truth is as i tell you, and i am certain of what i say. possibly he may become more cheerful on that painful day, and listen to stories told him by his slaves; but he makes them free for his son's sake. well, the evening grows cool, and i must go further. schalem aleikum! peace be with you, young gentlemen, and, in future, think better of the good sheik!”. the young men thanked the old stranger for his infor- mation, and, taking one more look at the sorrowing father, went their way, saying to one another: “i would not be the sheik ali banu." not long after these young men had had their con- versation with the aged stranger, they had occasion to pass again through the same street at the hour of morn- ing prayer. the stranger and his story recurred to their recollection, and, expressing their sympathy for the unhappy sheik, they looked towards his house. but what was their astonishment when they saw everything dressed in the greatest splendor! from the roof, where richly-dressed slave-girls were walking about, waved pendants and streamers ; the great hall was spread with precious carpets ; silken drapery mingled with the car- the sheik of alexandria. pet covering the steps ; and cloths were laid over the street itself, of such costly splendor, that many a one would have been proud to make himself a holiday suit from their very remnants. “why, how the sheik has altered his habits within the last few days !” said the young writer. “does he mean to hold a festival? or is he practising his singers and dancers ? look at this cloth! is there another so fine in all alexandria ? and such a cloth as this on the public sidewalk! really, such extravagance is almost disgraceful!” "i'll tell you what i think," said another. “he must be entertaining some distinguished guest; for preparations like these are only made when the gov- ernor of some great territory, or an effendi of the sul- tan, honors a house with a visit. who can have come here to-day, i wonder ?” “look! is n't that old man yonder our new acquaint- ance ? he knows everything, and can, no doubt, explain this mystery. — hallo ! old friend! this way a moment, if you please !" the old man heard their calls, and approached, rec- ognizing them at once as the young men he had talked with a few days before. they called his attention to the preparations going on in the sheik's house, and asked him if he knew what distinguished guest was expected. “so you suppose,” he answered, “ that ali banu is honoring the visit of some great man? far from it. this is the twelfth day of the month ramadan, and is the day on which his son was taken to the french camp." “but, by the beard of the prophet l” cried one of the young men, "everything here is as gay as a wedding, arabian days' entertainments. and yet it ought to be his day of especial lamentation ! how do you reconcile these two things ? surely, the sheik is touched in his upper story!" “do you form all your opinions so rapidly, my young friend ?” said the old man, laughing. “your arrow was sharp and pointed, and the string of your bow was strong; but you have shot very wide of the mark. know that to-day the sheik expects his son.” “ has he been found?” exclaimed the young men, delighted. “no; nor will he be for a long time. but, listen. eight or ten years ago, when the sheik was wont to pass this day in mourning and lamentation, releasing his slaves, and feeding multitudes of the poor, it hap- pened that he supplied with food a dervish, who lay, weary and faint, in the shadow of his house. this der- vish was a holy man, and skilled in astrology and divina- tion. refreshed by the gentle hand of the sheik, he came to him and said: 'i know the cause of your sorrow. is not to-day the twelfth of ramadan ? and did you not lose your son on this day ? take courage. this day of grief shall be to you a day of rejoicing; for know that on this day your son will hereafter return to you.' thus spoke the dervish. it is a sin in every good mus- sulman to doubt the promise of such a man; and, though ali's grief was not diminished, he has expected, ever since, his son's return on this day, and decorates his house and hall, and these steps, as if he thought his child might arrive at any hour.” " wonderful !” cried .the young writer. "i would like extremely to see the magnificence of his prepara- tions, and to witness his melancholy in the midst of all this splendor; and, above all, i should like to listen to the stories which his slaves tell him." the sheik of alexandria. "nothing easier than that,” answered the old man. “ the superintendent of his slaves has been a friend of mine for many years, and on this anniversary always keeps for me a place in the hall, where, in the crowd of the sheik's servants and friends, a single stranger escapes notice. i will ask him to let you in. there are but four of you, and there can be no difficulty in the matter. come at nine o'clock to this place, and i will give you his answer.” thus spoke the old man, and the young people, thanking him, retired from the place, full of curiosity to see the end of the adventure. they returned at the appointed hour to the square before the sheik's house, and found there the old man, who told them that the superintendent had granted his request. he led them forward, and, passing the deco- rated steps and sumptuous door, took them through a little side-entrance, which he closed carefully behind them. he then led them along several passages, till they came to the great hall. here, on every side, was a dense throng. here were richly-clad gentlemen, great noblemen of alexandria, and friends of the sheik, who had come to console him in his afflictions. here, also, were slaves, of all nations and all conditions. but all looked grave and mournful ; for they loved and sym- pathized with the aged mourner. at the end of the hall sat ali's most valued friends, waited upon by slaves. the sheik himself sat on the floor near by, sor- row for his son forbidding him to take his seat on the carpets of indulgence. his head was supported in his hand, and he seemed to hear little of the consolations which his friends whispered in his ear. several men, in the dress of slaves, sat opposite. the old stranger informed his young friends that these were to be lib- * arabian days' entertainments. erated on this day by ali banu. there were several franks among them, and the old man called the atten- tion of his friends to one of these, who was of distin- guished beauty and extreme youth. the sheik had purchased him a few days previously of a slave-dealer of tunis, at an enormous price, and gave him his free- dom thus early, in the belief that the more franks he restored to their native land, the sooner would the prophet release his son from captivity. after refreshments had been passed around among the entire assembly, the sheik gave a signal to his superintendent. the latter rose, and a profound silence reigned throughout the hall. he stepped in front of the slaves set apart to be liberated, and said, in impressive tones : “men, who are this day to be restored to free- dom through the favor of my lord ali banu, do now what is customary in this house on this day, and begin your narrations.” the slaves addressed whispered a moment among themselves. thereupon an aged captive took up the word, and commenced. nosey, the dwarf. o, master! those persons are much deceived, who believe that fairies and magicians have ceased to exist since the times of haroun al-raschid, sovereign of bagdad, or who assert that those stories of the doings of genii, which one hears from story-tellers in the mar- ket-place, are all untrue. there are fairies in existence at this very day; and i myself was witness, not a great lunni within in win pavam lv/ waarva cimrmz em a andre nosey the dwarf. nosey, the dwarf. while since, of an incident in which genii manifestly had a hand, and which i will now relate to you. many years ago, in a considerable city of my dear native land, germany, lived a cobbler and his wife. the cobbler sat daily at the corner of the street, mend- ing shoes and slippers, and making new ones when any one would trust him with the commission. his wife sold herbs and fruits, which she cultivated in a little garden before her house; and many persons bought of her in preference to any other person, because her dress was always clean and neat, and she knew how to spread out and arrange her herbs in an attractive fashion. this old couple had a son, of agreeable face and figure, and, for a lad of twelve years of age, well grown. he usually sat by the old lady in the market- place, to carry home fruits and vegetables for the house- wives who bought of his mother; and he rarely came back from such errands without some pretty flower, or bit of money, or some nice trifle to eat; for the masters and mistresses were always glad to see the boy's pleas- ant face at their houses, and used to reward him hand- somely. the shoemaker's wife was sitting one day, as usual, in the market; before her stood her baskets of herbs, cabbages, roots, and vegetables, and in a smaller one a choice lot of early pears, apples, and apricots. little jacob was sitting near her, and calling the wares in his high, shrill voice: “here, gentlemen, see what fine cabbages and elegant vegetables we havel ladies, here are early pears, apples, and apricots! who buys? who buys? my mother sells very cheap.” while the boy was shouting his recommendations in this way, an old woman entered the market. her clothes were tattered and shabby, and she had a little, pointed face, wrinkled arabian days' entertainments. with age, red eyes, and a sharp, hooked nose hanging down to her chin. she walked leaning on a long cane, but it was hard to see how she managed to get along ; for she hobbled and stumbled so much that it seemed as if she had sticks in her legs, and would tumble down and scratch her long nose on the pavement every instant. the shoemaker's wife watched this old woman atten- tively. she had sat now for sixteen years in the mar- ket-place every day, and had never before seen so sin- gular a figure; and she shrank involuntarily when the old creature hobbled up to her, and stopped before her baskets. “are you hannah, who sells greens?” inquired the old woman, in a harsh, disagreeable voice, shaking her head incessantly. “yes,” answered the shoemaker's wife ; “ do you wish to buy?” “perhaps so, perhaps so; let us see your cabbages ; you may have what i want,” replied the old beldame, bending down over the baskets, and feeling of the veg- etables with her brown, skinny hands. she picked out the nicely-spread cabbages with her long, spider-fingers, and, bringing them one after the other to her nose, smelt them all over. the heart of the shoemaker's wife was in her mouth when she saw the old crone treating her delicate greens in this way, but she ventured no remark; for every buyer had a right to examine the goods, and she felt, moreover, a mysterious dread of the old creature. after the latter had gone through the entire stock, she muttered : “miserable trash i wretched stuff! nothing here to suit me! things used to be a great deal better fifty years ago. worthless stuff! worthless stuff!" nosey, the dwarf. such criticisms disgusted little jacob extremely. “ hark! you are a shameless old woman,” he cried angrily; "first you grope with your long fingers among the beautiful greens, squeezing them out of shape, and then you hold them to your long, ugly nose, so that nobody who saw you will buy them; and, after all, you call them miserable trash, though the duke's own cook always buys of us !”. the old hag leered at the angry boy, laughed a fright- ful laugh, and said, in a harsh voice : "sonny, sonny! so my nose displeases you, hey ; my long, handsome nose? then you shall have one yourself hanging down to your chin.” while speaking, she slipped along to the other bas- ket, and, taking up one of the finest white cabbage- heads in her hand, squeezed it together till you could hear it groan, and then, throwing it carelessly into the basket again, said: “miserable trash! miserable trash!" “don't wag your head about so frightfully,', cried the little boy, in great wrath. “your neck is as lean as a cabbage-stalk, and may break off as easily, and then your head would fall into our basket. who do you think would buy then?” “so you don't like my long, lean neck ?” muttered the old woman, laughing. “then you shall have none at all; your head shall stick close to your shoulders, so it cannot fall off from your little puny body." “don't chatter such stuff to the little boy,” said the shoemaker's wife, angry at the incessant inspecting, fingering, and smelling. “if you wish to buy anything, make haste, for you frighten away the rest of my cus- tomers." “very good; so be it, then,” cried the old woman, arabian days' entertainments. with a savage glance. “i will take these six cabbage- heads; but, you see, i must lean on my stick here, and can carry nothing, of course. let your son carry them home for me, and i will pay him handsomely." the boy felt little inclined to go, and began to cry, for he felt a horror at the hideous hag; but his mother sternly ordered him to do so, for she thought it a sin to impose such a burden on the feeble old creature. so, half crying, he obeyed her commands, and, collecting the cabbages into a basket, followed the beldame out of the market. she moved along very slowly, and it was nearly three quarters of an hour before she halted at a small, tumble- down house in a remote quarter of the city. there she drew an old, rusty key from her pocket, and thrust it dexterously into a little hole in the door, which flew open, creaking loudly. but fancy little jacob's aston- ishment when he entered the house! the interior of the building was furnished magnificently; the walls and ceilings were of marble, the furniture of the finest ebony, inlaid with gold and precious stones, while the floors were of glass, and, withal, so polished and smooth that little jacob slipped and fell on them several times. the old woman now drew from her pocket a little silver pipe, and blew a blast which sounded shrilly through the house. several guinea-pigs rushed immediately up stairs, and jacob was filled with profound astonishment at seeing that they walked upright on their hind legs, wore nutshells on their feet instead of shoes, and were dressed from head to tail in men's clothes. “where are my slippers, you vile rabble ?” cried the old lady, striking among them with her cane. "how long must i stand here in this condition ?" they ran hastily down stairs, and returned with a nosey, the dwarf. couple of cocoa-nut shells, lined with leather, which they put dexterously on the old woman's feet. all her hobbling and slipping were at an end. throw- ing her stick away, and taking jacob's hand, she slid with great speed across the glass floor. at length she paused in a room bearing some resemblance to a kitchen, though the tables were made of polished mahogany, and the sofas, which were covered with rich damask, would have better suited a drawing-room. "sit down,” said the old witch very kindly, pushing him into the corner of a sofa, and shoving a table before him so that he could not escape ; "sit down. you have had a heavy load to carry; men's heads are far from light, far from light.” " what are you talking so strangely for, ma'am ?” cried the little fellow. "i am tired, i know, but it was the cabbages i carried which made me so; you bought them of my mother, you remember.” “ha, ha, you are mistaken,” laughed the old woman, uncovering the basket, and taking out a human head by a tuft of hair. the boy was beside himself with horror; he could not comprehend how such a thing had hap- pened, and his thoughts reverted to his mother. “if any one were to hear of these human heads,” he thought to himself, “my mother would certainly be informed against.” "i must give you some little present now, since you are so obliging,” muttered the hag; “wait a few mo- ments, child, and i will get you a morsel to eat, which you will remember till the day of your death." saying this, she again blew her pipe. several guinea- pigs instantly appeared, dressed in cooks'aprons, with ladles and carving-knives stuck in their girdles. these were followed by a troop of nimble squirrels, wearing arabian days' entertainments. wide turkish trousers, walking upright, and with caps of green velvet on their heads. these last seemed to be the scullions of the establishment, for they clam- bered with great celerity up the walls, and bringing down pans, dishes, eggs and butter, and herbs and meal, carried them to the hearth. at the fire-place the old lady was bustling about very busily in her slippers of cocoa-nut shell, and the boy saw that she was cook- ing some very nice treat for him. the fire began to blaze, the pans steamed and boiled, a pleasant smell filled the room, and the old woman kept running up and down, with the guinea-pigs and squirrels at her heels, and, every time she came near the hearth, poking her long nose into the pot. at length the contents began to hiss and bubble, steam ascended from the pot, and froth flew out into the fire. she took it off the hearth, poured some of the contents into a silver saucer, and set it before little jacob. “there, little son,” said she, “eat this nice por- ridge ; you never tasted anything so nice in all your life. and you shall be a skilful cook, lad, and be a famous man yet; but the cabbages, - no, you will never find the cabbages ; why had n't your mother any cab- bages in her basket?”. the little boy understood very little of what she said, but directed his whole energies upon the porridge, which he found excellent. his mother had made him a great many nice titbits, but never any so good as this. the vapor of his herbs and cabbages rose to his nostrils, and the porridge was very strong and thick. while he was supping up the last drops of the precious fluid, the guinea-pigs lighted some arabian incense, which floated in azure clouds through the room. thicker and thicker grew the clouds, the vapor exercising a magic influence nosey, the he dwarf. . . dwarf.on the little boy. remind himself as often as he pleased that he ought to go back to his mother, --recover his consciousness as often as he might, he would sink back irresistibly into slumber again ; and at length he lay sound asleep on the old woman's sofa. strange dreams visited his slumbers. it seemed to him that the old woman had taken off his clothes, and dressed him instead in the skin of a squirrel. he could now spring and climb like a squirrel, and serve his mistress about the house with the rest of the little animals, whom he found very sensible, intelligent creatures. at first he was employed merely as a shoeblack; that is, he had to rub with oil and polish brightly the cocoa-nut shells which the old lady used for slippers. as he had often been engaged in this business at home, these duties came easily to his hand. at the end of a year he dreamed he was appointed to higher duties. with sev- eral other squirrels he was employed to gather atoms from the sunbeams, and, after collecting a sufficient quantity, sift them through the finest hair-sieves. the old woman prized these sun-atoms as precious esculents, and, being unable to bite for want of teeth, prepared her bread from these impalpable particles. at the end of another year he was promoted to the office of collector of water for the old lady's drinking. do not imagine that a cistern of this fluid stood ready in the garden, or that they resorted to a cask in the court-yard, placed there to collect the rain. their duties were far more onerous. jacob and the squirrels had to draw dew from roses, in shells of hazel-nuts; and, this being the only drink used by their dainty mistress, and her thirst being excessive, the offices of these little water-carriers were far from sinecures. another year passed, and he was appointed to ser- arabian days' entertainments. vice within the house. it was now his duty to keep the floors unsoiled, and these being made of glass, which betrayed the faintest breath, his cares of office were extremely burdensome. he and his fellow-labor- ers were compelled to brush them incessantly, and travel dexterously about the room with their feet wrapped in old rags. after four years' service he was promoted to the kitchen ; an honorable post, to be attained only after long preliminary training. there jacob rose gradually from scullion to first pastry-maker, and acquired by degrees such extraordinary skill in everything apper- taining to the art of cookery, that he was often lost in wonder at his own accomplishments. the most difficult and delicate compounds, – pastry flavored with two hun- dred essences, herb-soups composed of all the vegeta- bles of the earth, — all these he learned to prepare with the greatest skill and celerity. seven years had thus passed in the service of the old woman, when one day, while she drew off her cocoa-nut shoes, and took her basket and cane to go out, she directed him to pluck a young chicken, stuff it with herbs, and roast it beautifully brown and crisp, against she came back. he began according to all the rules of art. he twisted the chicken's neck, scalded it in hot water, skilfully drew out its feathers, and scraped its skin till it was smooth and soft. he then began to get together the herbs to make the stuffing. while doing this, he discovered in the herb-room a cup- board, which he had never before noticed. approach- ing it curiously to see what it contained, he saw, to his surprise, numerous little baskets standing inside, from which issued a strong and delightful odor. opening one of them he found in it a plant of extraordinary nosey, the dwarf. shape and color. the stalks and leaves were of a bluish-green, and bore aloft a small flower of burning red, edged with yellow. while gazing thoughtfully at this flower, and smelling of it, the same strong odor streamed out which had ascended to his nostrils years ago from the broth which the old woman had cooked for him; the smell was so powerful that he began to sneeze, and the sneezing became more and more violent, till at last — he woke up. he found himself lying on the old woman's sofa, and looked round him in bewilderment. “it is astonishing how vivid one's dreams are sometimes !” said he to himself. “i could have sworn just now that i was a filthy squirrel, a companion of guinea-pigs and other brutes, and that i had become a wonderful cook. how mother will laugh when i tell her the story! but i'm afraid she will scold me, too, for going to sleep in a strange house, instead of helping her in the market.” with these reflections he picked himself up to take his departure ; but his limbs were still stiff from sleeping, and he found it impossible to turn his head, and he laughed heartily at his excessive sleepiness, too, for be was constantly thrusting his nose against a cupboard, or the wall, or striking it against the door-post when he turned hastily round. the squirrels and guinea- pigs ran whining around him, as if they wanted to go away also, and he invited them to do so when he reached the threshold ; but they ran swiftly back into the house on their nut-shell shoes, and he could hear them yelping in the far distance as he walked away. it was a remote quarter of the city to which the old beldame had taken him, and he could scarcely find his way out of the narrow lanes. there was a great throng of people in them besides, and the boy thought to him- arabian days' entertainments. *self that there must be a dwarf to be seen somewhere in the neighborhood, for he heard cries everywhere about him of, “ho! see the ugly dwarf! where does this dwarf come from? ho, what a long nose he has ! and how his head sticks to his shoulders ! and see his hideous brown hands !" at any other time he would have lingered to follow this creature, for he liked noth- ing so much in his life as to see giants and dwarfs, and similar monstrosities; but now he was in too great a hurry to get home to his mother. . he felt ready to cry when he came to the market- place. his mother was still sitting where he had left her, with a good deal of fruit left in her baskets, so that he could not have slept a great while ; and yet, it seemed to him, from the distance, as if she were look- ing very sad and unhappy, for she did not call to the passers-by to come and buy her wares, but was sitting silent, with her head supported in her hand; and, as he came nearer, the thought struck him that she seemed paler than usual. he hesitated what to do, but he plucked up courage at last, and creeping behind her, laid his hand confidingly on her shoulder, and said, “mother, what is the matter? are you angry with me?" the woman turned round to look at him, but started back with a cry of horror. “what do you want with me, you frightful dwarf ?” she shrieked. “away with you! i will not bear such tom-foolery !” “but, mother, what possesses you? don't you know me?” asked little jacob, terrified. “you are surely ill. why do you drive your own son away from you?” · “i told you to begone," answered hannah, angrily. nosey, the dwarf. “ you will get no money from me by such tricks, you frightful abortion !” “ alas! god has taken away her understanding!” said jacob, greatly alarmed. “what shall i do to get her home? dear mother, be reasonable a moment; · look at me; i am your son, your own jacob.” “o, this is too shameless !” cried hannah to her neighbors. “look at this hideous dwarf; he stands here driving away all my customers, and dares to make a jest of my misfortunes. he calls himself my son, my own jacob! the monster!” at this her neighbors gathered round, and began to scold him with all their might, – and market-women, you know, understand that art perfectly, — and abused him for jesting at poor hannah's unhappiness, who had had her pretty son stolen seven years before ; and they threatened to fall upon him and tear him to pieces, unless he went away instantly. poor jacob could not tell what to make of all this. he had come, as he believed, early this very morning, as usual, with his mother to the market-place. he had helped to set out her fruit; had afterwards gone to the house of the old woman, and dropped asleep for a few hours; and now here he was back again, and yet his mother and the neighbors talked about seven years ! and they called him a disgusting dwarf! “what,” thought he, “can have happened to me ?” seeing that his mother would have nothing to say to him, his eyes filled with tears, and he went sadly down the street to the shop where his father mended shoes during the day. “i will see,” he thought to himself, “whether he refuses to know me too. i will stand at the door and speak to him.” when he came to the shoemaker's shop, he stopped at the door and looked * arabian days' entertainments. in. the shoemaker was so busy with his work that he did not see him at first; but casting accidentally a glance at the door, he dropped shoe, awl, and thread on the floor, and exclaimed in terror, “ for god's sake, what is that! what is that!” “good evening, master,” said the boy, coming into the shop. “how do you do?” “badly, badly, little gentleman," answered his father, to jacob's great astonishment; for he too appeared not to recognize him. “business comes in very slow. i am all alone, and growing old now, and yet i can't afford a journeyman." “but have you no son, who could be of assistance to you ?" inquired the boy. "i had a son once, named jacob, who ought to be now a slim, strong lad of twenty, able to tuck me cleverly under his arm. ah! what a clever fellow he would have been! when he was only twelve years old he was so intelligent, and skilful, and understood even then so many handy tricks, and was so pleasant and pretty! ah! he would have drawn me customers, i'll be bound! i should n't have had to cobble much, i warrant. none but new shoes made here then! but so goes the world !” “ but where is your son ?” asked jacob, in a trem- . bling voice. “god only knows,” he answered. “seven years ago, — yes, full that, — he was stolen from the market- place.” “seven years ago !” cried jacob, with horror. “yes, little gentleman, seven years ago. i can see my wife, as if it were to-day, come crying and shrieking home, saying that the child had been away the whole day, and that she had hunted for him everywhere, and nosey, the dwarf. could not find him. i always expected it would be so; for jacob was a pretty boy, though i say it that should n't say it, and my wife was very proud, and liked to hear people praise him, and often sent him with vegetables, and such like, to the great houses. that was all right; he was always handsomely tipped ; but, said i, take care ; the city is large; many bad people live in it; take care of little jacob! and so it turned out. there comes, at last, an ugly old woman to the market, bar- gains for fruit, and buys so much in the end that she can't carry it home. my wife, tender soul ! sends the little boy with her, and he has never been seen from that day to this.” . “ and that is now seven years, you say?" “seven years next spring. we sent the crier about; we went ourselves from house to house asking for him. many persons knew the handsome boy, and liked him, and hunted with us. but all in vain ; and nobody knew the woman who bought the fruit. but à decrepit old lady, ninety years old, said it might possibly have been the wicked fairy, krauterweis, who comes out once every fifty years to make purchases." while saying this, jacob's father sat pounding his shoe bravely, and drawing out his threads with both fists. it was growing evident to the little lad that what he had gone through was no dream, and that he had actually served seven years as a squirrel with the wicked fairy. anger and grief filled his heart almost to bursting. seven years of his life the old hag had stolen from him, and what remuneration had he to show for it ? he could polish slippers of cocoanut shell, and could clean chambers with floors of glass, and he had learned from the guinea-pigs the mysteries of cooking! he stood thus a good while, thinking of his fate, and arabian days' entertainments. at last, his father asked him: “would you like some thing of my manufacture, young gentleman ? perhaps a pair of slippers would suit you; or,” added he, laugh- ing, “perhaps a leathern case for your nose ?” “why do you refer to my nose ? " inquired jacob. " why should i like a case for it?" “nay," answered the shoemaker; “ every one to his taste ; but i must say, if i had such a terrible nose, i would have a case made for it at once of red shiny leather. look, sir, i have a beautiful piece handy ; you would require a yard of it at least. but, consider how well you would be protected. with a case, you might knock it against every door-post; you might even let a cart run over it, and never hurt you.” the little fellow stood dumb with horror. he felt of his nose, and found it thick, heavy, and two feet long! the old woman, then, had altered his shape! this was the reason why his mother did not know him, and why everybody called him a hideous dwarf! “master," said he, half crying, “have you a looking-glass at hand, in which i can look at myself ?” "young gentleman,” answered his father gravely, “you have no cause to be vain of the figure nature has given you, and no good reason to be looking all the time in the glass. give up the habit, i advise you. in . your case nothing can be more ridiculous.” “ alas! please let me look in your looking-glass,” cried the little fellow. "believe me, it is not from vanity." “don't bother me, young gentleman. i have no such thing in the shop,” replied the cobbler. “my wife has a little one, i believe, but i don't know where she hides it. if you must have a looking-glass, urban, the bar- ber, lives across the street, and he has one twice as big nosey, the dwarf. as your head. go look into his; and now, good-morn- ing." with these words, his father pushed him gently out of the shop, and, shutting the door behind him, went back to his work. the boy went across the street, in a very miserable state of mind, to urban, the barber's, whom he had known very well in former times. “good-morning, urban,” said he to him. “i've come to beg as a favor that you will let me look a moment in your looking-glass.” “with all the pleasure in the world ; there it is," cried the barber, laughing, and the customers waiting to be shaved laughed uproariously with him. “you are a pretty lad, i must confess; so slender and grace- ful, with a neck like a swan, hands like a queen, and a nose which i never saw equalled! you have some reason to be vain, to be sure. take a good look, sir; take a good look. nobody shall say i refused you per- mission out of envy of your beauty." a rude horse-laugh filled the barber's shop, while the boy walked to the mirror and looked at his reflection. tears streamed from his eyes as he gazed. “no won- der you did not recognize your little son jacob, dear mother,” said he to himself. his eyes had grown small like a pig's; his nose was huge and hung down over his chin ; his neck seemed to have disappeared, and his head was joined to his shoulders ; it was with the greatest difficulty he could turn it from one side to the other. his body was of the same size as it had been seven years previously, when he was twelve years of age ; but, while others grew in height from twelve to twenty, he had only increased in breadth, and his back and breast were curved like a bow, and looked like a little, well-filled sack. this extraordinary trunk was arabian days' entertainments. supported on a pair of small, weak legs, very ill- adapted to sustain the burthen, while the arms, which hung down at his sides, were as large as those of a well-grown man. his hands were yellow, and his fingers long and spidery, and, when he extended them to their full length, he could touch the ground without stooping. such was little jacob's appearance as he looked in the glass. he had been changed into a small, misshapen dwarf. his thoughts went back to that morning when the old witch had examined his mother's baskets. everything which he had then ridiculed, — the long nose, the hideous fingers, – she had now given to him ; and the long, trembling neck was the only thing she had omitted. "well, have you inspected yourself long enough, my prince?” said the barber, stepping up and looking him over with a laugh. “upon my word, if a man should attempt to dream such a figure, he could never imagine one so comical. come, i will make you an offer, my little man. my barber's shop has a great deal of custom, of course, but, still, not so much as i should like. the reason is, my neighbor lather, the barber, has picked up a giant somewhere, who draws cus- tomers. now, a giant is one thing, but a manikin like you is another. come into my service, little chap; you shall be found everything, lodging, eating, drink- ing, clothes, pocket-money. your duty shall be to stand at the door every morning, and invite the people in; or make the lather, and hand napkins to the customers; and you may feel sure we shall both of us make by it, - i get more customers than that fellow with the giant, and you will get pocket-money from. everybody.” " nosey, the dwarf.:. · the boy felt, inwardly, bitterly outraged at the proposal that he should act as the barber's decoy-bird. but he was in no condition to resent the insult; so he quietly told the barber that he had no time to spend in such occupations, and left the shop. · although the old harridan had changed his body, he felt a consciousness that she had failed to affect his mind, for he saw that his thoughts and feelings were no longer juvenile, as they had been seven years previously ; nay, he believed he had become much wiser and more intelligent in this interval. he did not mourn the loss of his departed beauty, nor sigh at the ugliness of his present figure. his sole cause of unhappiness was that he had been hunted like a dog from his father's door. he resolved to make another and final effort to convince his mother of his identity. he went up to her, as she sat in the market-place, and entreated her to listen patiently to his story. he reminded her of the day on which he had gone away with the old woman; he reminded her of all the little events of his childhood ; he then told her that he had served seven years with the fairy, as a squirrel, and that she had transformed him because he had once insulted her. the shoemaker's wife knew not what to think. everything was true which he had told concerning his childhood, but when he added that he had been a squirrel for seven years, she said : “it is impossible, and there are no such things as fairies ;” and when she looked at him, she shuddered with disgust, and would not believe him to be her son. she decided, at last, that she had better consult with her husband; so she collected her baskets together arabian days' entertainments. and directed him to follow. they went to the shoe- maker's shop together. “hushand,” said she, “ see here ; this man insists that he is our son jacob. he has told me everything, how he was stolen seven years ago, and how he has been bewitched by a fairy.” “ indeed !” interrupted the cobbler, in a contempt- uous tone. “has he been telling you all this? the scoundrel! why, i told him the whole story not an hour ago, and now he goes and makes a fool of you. so you have been bewitched, my man? wait a minute, and i will exorcise you." saying this, he took down a bundle of straps, which he had just cut, and, springing on the little pigmy, beat him over his crooked back and long arms, till the dwarf shrieked with pain and ran away crying. in that city, as everywhere else, there were very few compassionate souls, ready to assist an unfortunate person, whose misery rendered him also ridiculous. hence it was, that our unhappy dwarf went the whole day without food or drink, and at night was forced to make his bed as best he might on the cold, hard steps of a church. when the early beams of the rising sun awoke him the next morning from his slumbers, he considered seriously how he should earn his daily bread, since his father and mother had repudiated him. he had too much pride to act as a barber's decoy-duck, and he was unwilling to hire himself to a showman, and be exhibited for money. what was he to do? it oc- curred to his recollection, that, during his squirrel existence, he had made much progress in the science of cookery; and he believed, with good reason, that he might venture to back his skill against many a cook of nosey, the dwarf. high reputation. he resolved to avail himself of his accomplishments. as soon as the streets grew busy, and the day had really begun, he entered the church, and performed his devotions, and then set about the accomplishment of his plans. the duke of the country was a notorious glutton and gormandizer, fond of a good table, and hunting for skilful cooks in every quarter of the globe. our dwarf betook himself to his palace. coming to the outer gate, the sentries at the door demanded his business, and made him the butt of their brutal ridicule ; but, undisturbed by their laughter, he in- quired for the director of the kitchen. they conducted him through the court-yard into the palace, and, wher- ever he appeared, all the servants stopped in what they were about, stared after him, and, laughing up- roariously, joined the procession, so that by degrees a large train of servants of every degree approached the palace stairs ; the hostlers threw down their curry- combs, the runners ran, the carpet-cleaners forgot to beat their carpets ; all crowded after the misshapen pigmy. there was an uproar as if an enemy were at the gates, and the air was filled with a universal cry of: “ a dwarfl a dwarf! have you seen the dwarf?”. at this moment the superintendent of the palace appeared at the door, with an angry look on his face, and a huge whip in his hand. “for heaven's sake, ye hounds, why this noise ? do you forget that the duke is asleep?” and, swinging his whip round his head, he brought it down heavily on the backs of the hostlers and sentries. “sir / sir !!! cried they, “don't you see? we are bringing a dwarf, — a dwarf, such as you never saw in your life.” · the superintendent with difficulty suppressed a arabian days' entertainments. stentorian laugh, when he caught sight of the diminu- tive lad; for he feared, by laughing, to injure his dig- nity. so, driving the rabble away with his whip, he led the boy into the palace, and inquired his business. when he heard that the latter desired to see the head cook, he replied : “you have made a mistake, my little fellow ; you want to see me, the superintendent of the palace, i am sure. you would be the duke's dwarf, would you not ?" "no, your honor," answered the dwarf; “i am a skilful cook, and learned in the composition of all rare delicacies for the table. would you be so good as to take me to the chief cook? perhaps he may find my services useful." “every one to his taste, little man; but you are a foolish chap, and don't know your own good. the kitchen you want, is it? as the duke's dwarf, now, you would have had no work to do, beautiful clothes to wear, and as much to eat and drink as your heart could wish. however, we shall see. your skill in cooking will hardly amount to what is wanted in the duke's cook, and you are too good for a scullion." with these words, the superintendent took him by the hand, and led him into the pantry of the overseer of the kitchen. “excellent sir,” said the dwarf to the overseer, bow- ing so low that he rubbed his long nose against the carpet, “ are you in want of a skilful cook ?” the director of the kitchen looked him all over from head to foot, and burst into a loud laugh. " what!" he cried ; “ you a cook! do you think our ovens are low enough for a little fellow like you to look into, without standing on tiptoe and stretching your head clean off yeur shoulders ? you little jewel, whoever nosey, the dwarf. . has sent you to me for a cook, has sent you on a fool's errand.” saying this, the director laughed heartily, in chorus with the superintendent and all the servants who were in the room. the dwarf, however, was not to be diverted from his purpose. “what matters an egg or two,” said he, " and a little sirup and wine, with a little meal and spice, in a house like this? only give me some dainty trifle to get up, and find me what i need for it, and i will get it ready before your eyes, so that you shall be compelled to say, "he is a cook of science and genius.'". the dwarf continued to urge these and similar arguments, his eyes gleaming, his long nose twisting, and his spidery fingers working, as if empha- sizing his words. “very well !” said the director, at length, taking the superintendent by the arm. “very well, for the joke's sake, so be it; come.” they passed through several halls and corridors, and came at last to the kitchen. this was a lofty, spacious apartment, nobly arranged and fitted up; huge fires burned on twenty hearths; a stream of transparent water flowed down the middle, containing fish; the provisions were stored in compartments of marble and costly woods, ever ready to the hand; and on either side were ten store-rooms, in which were gathered in large quantities whatever rare and choice delicacies can be found for man's palate in all europe and the east. servants of every grade were running to and fro, rat- tling and clattering among pots and pans ; but the instant the director entered the kitchen every one stood motionless, in whatever part of the room he chanced to be, and the only sounds to be heard in the apartment were the crackling of the fire and the rippling of the stream. arabian days' entertainments. • what has the duke ordered for breakfast, this morn- ing?” the director inquired of the chief breakfast-cook, an old and venerable man. "my lord, he has ordered the danish soup, and red hamburg dumplings." “good," said the director. “you heard the duke's orders, my little man ? do you think you can cook these difficult articles ? you will certainly fail in the dumplings, for their manufacture is a secret.” “nothing easier," said the dwarf, to the general sur- prise of those present; he had often prepared these delicacies while a squirrel. “nothing easier. let me have, for the soup, such and such herbs, such and such spices, the feet of a wild pig, and greens and eggs. but for the dumplings," said he, in a lower tone, so that only the director and the breakfast-cook might hear, “ for the dumplings i need meat of four sorts, some duck's fat, a little ginger, and a certain herb called magentrost (stomach-warmer).” "ho! by saint benedict! of what magician have you learned your art ?” cried the cook, in astonishment. “he has described the receipt to a hair; and the herb magentrost we knew nothing about. ay, that must be a vast improvement. , you miracle among cooks!” “i should never have thought it,” said the superin- tendent. “however, let him give us a proof of his skill. give him the things he wants, utensils and all, and let him get up the breakfast.” the servants were told to obey his orders, and every- thing was placed in readiness on the hearth. but it was found that his nose scarcely reached the level of the fireplace. two chairs were therefore set together, a block of marble placed on them, and the little prodigy invited to commence his demonstration. the cooks, nosey, the dwarf. -, . scullions, and servants, stood round in a wide circle, and witnessed with astonishment the dexterity and nim- bleness of his hands, and the delicacy and elegance of the results of his labors. when he had completed all his preliminary arrangements, he directed that both the pots should be set on the fire and permitted to simmer till he should give the word ; then he began to count, one, two, three, and so on, till, exactly at five hundred, he cried out, “halt!” the pots were taken off the fire, and the dwarf invited the director to taste. the master-cook caused one of the scullions to bring him a golden spoon, and, washing it in the brook, handed it to the director. the latter stepped to the hearth with a solemn air, took up a little of the food in the spoon, and, tasting it, shut his eyes and smacked his lips with delight, exclaiming: “ delicious! by the life of the duke, delicious ! would you like a spoon, superintendent ?” the latter bowed, took the spoon, and tasted, and was beside himself with delight. “with all respect for your great skill, breakfast-maker, and i know you to be a very accomplished man, you have never made in all your life such admirable soup, and such delicious hamburg dumplings as these.” the cook now tasted in his turn, and, shaking the dwarf with reverence by the hand, said to him, “ pig- my, you are a master of your profession! that magen- trost does indeed impart a unique and miraculous flavor to the entire compound.” at this moment the duke's groom of the chambers entered the kitchen, and said that his grace was inquir- ing for his breakfast. the soup and dumplings were straightway served upon silver dishes, and sent to the duke, the director of the kitchen meanwhile taking the * arabian days' entertainments. little wonder into his private room to converse with him. they had been there hardly as long as it takes to recite a paternoster (which is a sort of prayer of the franks, my lord, not half as long as the prayers of true believ- ers), when a message came, summoning the director into the duke's presence. he put on a dress-suit as rapidly as he could, and followed the messenger. . the duke's countenance wore an expression of ex- treme satisfaction. he had swallowed the whole con- tents of the silver dishes, and was wiping his beard as the director entered. “look, director," said the duke, “i have been invariably delighted with your cooks ; but tell me who it was that cooked my breakfast this morning. it was never so delicious since i mounted the throne of my ancestors. tell me the name of the cook, that i may send him a token of my gratitude.” “please your highness, it's a wonderful story," answered the director of the kitchen, and told him how, early that morning, a dwarf had been brought to him, who insisted on being a cook, and how everything had turned out. the duke, greatly surprised, called the dwarf into his presence, and asked him who he was, and whence he came. of course little jacob could not tell the duke that he had been bewitched, and had been serving hitherto in the capacity of a squirrel. still he adhered to the truth when he stated that he was with- out father or mother, and had studied his art with an old woman. the duke inquired no further, but made merry over the extraordinary figure of his new cook. .“ if you will stay in my service,” said he, “your wages shall be fifty ducats a year, besides a suit of clothes and two extra pairs of trousers. in return, you must cook my breakfast every day with your own hands, look after the dressing of my dinner, and take general nosey, the dwarf. charge of my kitchen. as every one in my palace re- ceives his name from me, your name shall be nosey, and you shall hold the rank of sub-kitchen-inspector." nosey fell at the feet of the mighty duke, and, kiss- ing his shoes, swore to serve him faithfully. thus, at length, was the little fellow well provided for; and his subsequent efforts covered his office with glory. it can be safely asserted that the duke was a different man during nosey's administration. hitherto he had often been pleased to throw the dishes and plates at his cook's head; nay, he once struck the director himself so violently on the head with a baked calf's foot, which he declared was too tough, that he fell senseless to the ground, and was obliged to keep his bed three days. to be sure, the duke repaired whatever damages his anger inflicted, by the gift of handfuls of ducats; but, notwithstanding, his cooks never entered his high- ness' presence without fear and trembling. since the arrival of the dwarf, however, everything seemed magi- cally changed. the duke now took five instead of three meals every day, so as to get the full benefit of his diminutive servant's skill, and never showed the faint- est indication of discontent. on the contrary, every- thing the dwarf prepared he declared to be original and excellent. he became amiable and condescending, and grew fatter every day. he frequently summoned the kitchen-director and nosey into his presence while dining, and, seating one on his right hand and the other on his left, would shove bits of the choicest delicacies into their mouths with his own fingers, an honor which both well knew how to appreciate. the dwarf was the wonder of the city. people craved of the kitchen-director, with tears in their eyes, arabian days' entertainments. to be permitted to see the sub-inspector cook, and some of the most distinguished men of the dukedom obtained permission to send their servants to the royal kitchen to take lessons from nosey by the hour; a proceeding which brought him in no little money, for each paid a half ducat daily. to keep the other cooks in good- humor, and prevent any feeling of jealousy, nosey resigned to them all the money which the gentlemen paid for the instruction of their servants. in this way nosey passed two years in extreme com- fort and honor; and the only reflection causing him a pang was the memory of his parents. thus he lived, with nothing remarkable to disturb the even tenor of his way, till the following event occurred. being ex- ceedingly skilful and fortunate in his purchases, he went in person, as often as time permitted him, to the market, to procure poultry and fruit for the duke's table. he went one morning to the goose-market, and made in- quiries for fat geese, of which his highness was ex- tremely fond. his appearance, so far from exciting laughter and ridicule, inspired the greatest respect and veneration, for he was well known as the duke's famous master-cook, and every market-woman felt herself fortu- nate if he so much as turned his nose in her direction. he saw at length a woman sitting in a corner, at the extreme end of the row, who had geese for sale like the rest, but who did not, like them, commend her wares or shout to buyers to come and purchase. he went up to her and examined and weighed her geese they proved to be such as he wanted, and, buying three, with the cage containing them, hoisted them upon his broad shoulders and trudged back to the palace. it struck him as singular that only two of the geese gab- bled and screamed like common birds, while the third nosey, the dwarf. sat perfectly silent and absorbed, heaving deep sighs, and groaning like a human being. “this one is sick," said he to himself; “i must make haste to kill and dress her.” the goose answered, in a perfectly distinct and audible voice : “one movement of thy murd'rous knife, and instant snaps thy thread of life! by fear, if not by love, be stayed ; then, stranger, spare, , spare thy blade !" nosey the dwarf, much terrified, set down his cage on the ground, and the goose, sighing profoundly, gazed at him with her beautiful, intelligent eyes. “the deuce !” cried nosey. “so you can talk, miss goose ? i should never have thought it. nay, never be so down-hearted. men are no fools, and no one would put an end to so rare a bird. but i lay a wager, you have not always worn feathers. i myself was once a filthy squirrel.” “you are right,” answered the goose ; “i was not born to this ignominious body. alas! it was not sung to me in my cradle, that mimi, the daughter of the great wetterbock, was to be slain in the kitchen of a duke." “ make your mind easy, my dear miss mimi,” said the dwarf, consolingly. “as surely as i am an honest fellow, and sub-kitchen-inspector to his highness the duke, no one shall touch a hair of your head. i will give you a coop in my private room; you shall have food in abundance, and i will devote all my leisure time to your entertainment. i will tell the rest of the kitchen gentlemen that i am fattening a goose for the duke with a variety of choice herbs; and, as soon as i find a good · opportunity, i will set you at liberty." the goose thanked him with tears in her eyes, and nosey, the dwarf. tinguished gourmand living. be careful, therefore, that my table is so attended to that he shall be thrown into profounder admiration every day. with this view, you must never, under fear of my displeasure, produce the same dish twice. you can obtain from my treasurer whatever. sums you need. and, if you find yourself obliged to cook diamonds and gold, do so without hesi- tation. i prefer being impoverished to blushing before my guest.” so spake the duke, and the dwarf answered with a respectful bow : “it shall be as you say, your high- ness. god willing, everything i make shall be suited precisely to the taste of this prince of good-livers." the little cook now summoned to his, aid all the resources of his art. he had no mercy on the duke's treasury, and was still less lenient to himself. he was seen the whole day long enveloped in a cloud of fire and smoke, and his voice sounded incessantly through the arches of the kitchen ; for he ruled the under-cooks and scullions like a sovereign. - my lord sheik, i might do here as the camel-drivers of aleppo do, in the stories they tell to travellers, when they undertake to describe a sumptuous feast. they enlarge by the hour together on every dish set before the guests, awakening thereby great appetites in their listeners, who, in consequence, involuntarily alter their intentions, and halt for dinner, of which, you may be sure, the camel-drivers get an ample share. but i hold this custom more honored in the breach than in the observance, and shall avoid it. the foreign prince had already staid a fortnight with the duke, and feasted royally. they devoured not less than five meals a day, and the duke was well satisfied with nis cook's efforts, for he saw contentment in the arabian days' entertainments. features of his guest. on the fifteenth day, however, it happened that his highness called the dwarf into his presence, and, presenting him to the prince, asked him if his dwarf had pleased him. “you are a wonderful cook," answered the foreign prince. “during the whole time i have been here, you have not repeated a single dish, and everything has been cooked sublimely. but, pray explain why you have delayed so long in producing that queen of delicacies, the pie souzeraine ?”. the dwarf was much startled, for he had never heard of this pastry-queen; but, summoning his presence of mind, he answered : “may it please your highness, i was in hopes that your presence might still long illumi- nate this court, and for this reason i delayed this sov- ereign dish. for with what should your slave testify his veneration at your departure, if not with the pie souzeraine ?" "so," answered the duke, laughing, “in my case you intended to wait till the day of my death before tes- tifying your veneration. for, i remember, you have never sent up to me this wonderful pastry. but you must devise some other testimonial, for tomorrow you must furnish us with the pie souzeraine." “your will is law, your highness," answered the dwarf, and withdrew. his mind was much agitated, for the day of his disgrace was at hand he could not imagine the composition of this pie, and retired to his private room, weeping over his unhappy fate. while thus engaged, mimi the goose, who had the run of his chamber, inquired the cause of his lamentations. “dry your tears,” said she, when she had heard of the pie souzeraine ; “ this dish came often to my fath- er's table, and i know nearly all its ingredients. you nosey, the dwarf. take this and that, so much and so much; and, even supposing these are not all that are necessary, the tastes of your master and his friend are not delicate enough to discover the deficiencies.” at these words of mimi, the dwarf sprang up de- lighted, and, blessing the day on which he had bought the goose, set at once about preparing the queen of pies. he made a little at first by way of experiment, and its flavor was so delicious that the director of the kitchen department, to whom he gave a little to taste, again glorified his inimitable genius. next day he prepared a similar pie, of larger size, and sent it to the royal table, warm from the oven, and decorated with wreaths of flowers. he himself slipped on his best court-suit, and took his post in the dining- hall. at the moment he entered, the head carver was cutting up the pie and handing it to the duke and his guest on silver plates. the duke swallowed a huge mouthful, and, casting his eyes up to the ceiling, said, after gulping it down : “ah! ah! ah ! this pie is justly called the pastry-queen ; and my cook is no less the pastry-king ; is he not, my friend ?” his guest took a small piece on his plate, and, having tasted it with great attention, burst into a scornful laugh. “this thing is well made,” he answered, push- ing away his plate, “but it is not quite up to the souze- raine. i expected as much.” the duke wrinkled his forehead with rage, and blushed with mortification. “hound of a dwarf !” he cried, “how dare you play this trick on your master ? must i have your big head chopped off as a punishment for your infamous cookery ?” “alas ! my lord, i swear to heaven i cooked the - ... arabian days' entertainments. dish by all the rules of art; failure is impossible,” replied the dwarf, in an agony of terror. “it is a lie, you knave !" shouted the duke, kicking him from one end of the room to the other. “do you think the prince would say so, if it were not? i will have you chopped to pieces and baked in a pie your- self !” “have mercy !” cried the pigmy, falling on his knees, and embracing the prince's feet. “say, sire, what is wanting to this pastry, to render it acceptable to your palate ? suffer me not to die for a handful of meat and flour!” " it will be useless to tell you, my dear nosey," answered the stranger with a laugh. “i was thinking all yesterday that you could not make this pie like my cook. but, if you must know, it needs an herb, unknown to anyone in this country, called sneeze- with-pleasure ; without this the pie is without flavor, and your master will never eat it as i do." the duke was boiling with rage. “but i will eat it,” he cried, his eyes sparkling with fury; “for i swear by my princely honor, either i will show it to you tomorrow as you want it, or the head of this scoundrel here shall disfigure the gate of my palace. go, dog! i give you four-and-twenty hours' time to retrieve yourself.” the dwarf repaired to his chamber, and told the goose with many tears that his death was near, for he had never heard of the herb sneeze-with-pleasure. “is that all ?" said she ; " then i can soon help you, for my father taught me every herb that grows. at any other time your death were certain, but fortunately to-night is the new-moon, and at this time the plant is the duke she will never eat it does without fla nosey, the dwarf. : in flower. tell me, are there any old chestnut-trees near the palace ?" :"yes, indeed,” answered the dwarf with reviving courage. “a large group of them stands on the lake- shore, not two hundred paces from the house. but why do you ask?”. “ this herb grows only at the foot of old chestnut- trees," said mimi. “let us lose no time, but seek for it at once. take me under your arm, and set me down when you get into the open air. i will help you hunt for it." he did as she directed, and went with her to the palace gate. but the sentinel there held out his mus- ket, saying, “my dear nosey, it is all up with you. i have positive orders not to let you leave the palace.” “but surely i can go into the garden ?" answered the dwarf. “be obliging now; send one of your com- rades to the superintendent, and ask him whether i may not go into the garden and hunt for herbs.” the sentinel assented, and permission was given ; for the garden had high walls, and escape from it was inconceivable. as soon as the dwarf reached the open air, he set mimi carefully down, and she went before him rapidly to the lake-shore, where stood the chestnut- trees. he followed her with a beating heart, for it was his last and only hope. should she fail to find the herb, his resolve was taken unalterably to throw him- self into the water, rather than submit to be beheaded. the goose sought everywhere in vain, wandering about under the chestnut-trees, and turning over every tuft of grass with her bill. the herb was nowhere to be found, and she began to cry with compassion and anguish; for the evening was growing darker, and arabian days' entertainments. objects around becoming more and more difficult to recognize. the dwarf's eyes were turned to the opposite shore of the lake, and he suddenly cried :“see, see, there is a large, old tree on the other side yonder! let us go there and search; perhaps the herb is growing there.” the goose hopped and flew to the spot, and he ran after, as fast as his little legs would let him. the chest- nut-tree cast a vast shadow, and it was so dark in its vicinity that scarcely anything could be discerned. but the goose suddenly came to a halt, and, clapping her wings with joy, thrust her head into the tall grass, and plucked out something which she gave in her bill to the astonished dwarf with great caution, saying : “ this is your herb, and a great abundance of it is growing here; so it will never fail you in future.” the dwarf gazed at the plant in deep thought; a sweet odor was streaming from it, which reminded him involuntarily of the scene of his transformation. the stalk and leaves were a bluish-green, and supported a crimson flower with a yellow edge. “god be praised !” he cried, after a pause. “a miracle! do you know, mimi, i think this is the same plant which changed me from a squirrel into this hide- ous shape ? shall i make the trial ?” “ not yet,” entreated the goose. «take a handful of this herb with you, go with me to your room, collect your money and the rest of your property, and then we will try the power of this plant." obedient to her directions, the dwarf carried her back to his chamber, his heart beating audibly from exces- sive anxiety. after tying about fifty ducats, the amount of his savings, with some clothes and shoes into a bundle, he said : “ please god, i will now get nosey, the dwarf. rid of my burthen ;” and, thrusting his nose deep into the flower, he took a long, strong sniff of the fragrance. he instantly felt a snapping in all his limbs, and was conscious that his head was rising from his shoulders. he took a look at his nose, and saw that it was grow- ing smaller and smaller. his back and breast began to straighten, and his legs grew longer and bigger. the goose gazed in astonishment at all these changes. “ha ! how large, how handsome you are ! ” she ex- claimed. “god be praised i there is not a particle left of what you were a moment ago.” jacob was rejoiced beyond measure, and in the abundance of his gratitude folded his hands and prayed. but his joy did not cause him to forget the extent of his obligations to mimi. his heart impelled him to fly at once to his parents, but he repressed the impulse, and said to his invaluable ally : “whom have i to thank but you, that i am restored again to myself? without you i should never have found this herb ; without you i should have retained forever this fright- ful figure, or perhaps have died under the headsman's axe. come! i will requite you. i will take you to your father. he, who is so skilful in all the arts of magic, will be able to disenchant you without diffi- culty.” the goose shed tears of pleasure, and accepted his proposal. jacob passed unrecognized out of the pal- åce, and set forth on the road to the sea-coast to find mimi's home. what more shall i. say, my lord sheik, except that they accomplished their journey successfully ; that wetterbock disenchanted his daughter, and dismissed jacob, laden with splendid presents; that he returned to his native land, and his parents recognized with * arabian days' entertainments. delight their long-lost son ; that he purchased a shop with the gifts which he had received from wetterbock, and that he became a rich, happy and successful man? i will only add, that a tremendous excitement took place at the palace, after the dwarf's flight; for when, on the following day, the duke made ready to perform his oath, and gave orders to strike off the dwarf's head if he had not procured the required herb, he was, of course, nowhere to be found; and the foreign prince, suspecting that the duke had secretly removed the cul- prit, in order to avoid depriving himself of his best cook, accused him of being faithless to his pledge. as a necessary result, a great war arose between the two princes, well known in history by the name of “the vegetable war.” many battles were fought, and much injury inflicted on either side ; but, in the end, a peace was made, which europeans call “the pastry peace,” because, at the feast given in honor of the rec- onciliation of the two nations, the prince's cook was sent for, for the express purpose of providing the souze- raine, the queen of pies, for the royal table, where the duke devoured it with intense satisfaction. thus, as you see, my lord sheik, the greatest results often flow from the smallest causes; and this is the his- tory of nosey, the dwarf. · such was the story told by the european. after he had ended, ali banu directed fruit to be served to him and the other slaves, for their refreshment, and con- versed, while they ate, with his friends sitting near him. the youths, whom the old stranger had intro- duced, were overflowing with admiration for the sheik, his house, and all his arrangements. “upon my honor," said the young clerk, “there is no pleasanter way of arabian days' entertainments. mingled more with men, these short stories ceased to please me. i wanted them longer, and liked to have them treat of human beings, and marvellous adven- tures." “ay, i remember those times perfectly," interrupt- ed one of his friends. “it was you who inspired us with our thirst for narrative. one of your slaves knew as many stories as a camel-driver of medina, and, as soon as his work was done, it was his duty, you recol- lect, to join us on the lawn before your house, and there tell us adventures till the night was far ad- vanced.” “ and on such occasions," said the clerk,“ did not a new and unknown realm unfold itself, - a land of genii and fairies, luxurious with wonders of the vegetable world, adorned with palaces of emeralds and rubies, peopled by slaves of gigantic size, who appeared when you turned a ring about on your finger, or rubbed a lamp, or uttered an incantation of solomon, and who brought sumptuous feasts in golden dishes ? we felt ourselves irresistibly citizens of those lands; we made wonderful voyages with sindbad ; we walked in the evenings with haroun al raschid, the commander of the faithful; we knew giaffar, his grand vizier, as well as we knew ourselves. in short, we lived in those fables, as a man lives in his dreams; and no part of the day was so pleasant to us as the afternoons when we assembled on the lawn, and your old slave told us sto- ries by the hour. tell us, old friend, why is it, that we took so much pleasure then in listening to tales, that even now we can find no more delightful entertain- ment?" the sensation manifested in the hall at this point, and the calls for silence uttered by the overseer of the abner, the jew. slaves, prevented the old man from answering. the young friends were in doubt whether to be glad that they were about to listen to a new tale, or to regret the interruption to their conversation with the aged stran- ger; but a second slave now rose from his seat, and began thus : abner, the jew, who had seen nothing. my lord sheik, my native place is mogadore, on the shores of the great sea; and at the time the all-powerful emperor muley ismael reigned over morocco, a story circulated among the people, which you would perhaps be pleased to hear. it is the history of “ abner, the jew, who had seen nothing.” jews, as you know, are found the world over, and they are everywhere jews; crafty, with eyes like a falcon's for the smallest advantage ; cunning, and the more so the more they are abused ; fertile in expedient, and ever on the watch for gain. but that this excess of subtlety sometimes brings about a jew's discomfit- ure, is proved by the example of abner, on the occa- sion of his taking a walk one evening outside the gates of morocco. he walks along, with his pointed cap on his head and his scanty and dingy cloak on his back, taking from time to time a pinch of snuff from his golden box, which he keeps carefully out of sight, and stroking his long beard ; and, in spite of the restless eyes, which perpetual fear and anxiety, and the desire to discover something to add to his gains, keep in incessant mo- tion, his mobile features shine with self-satisfaction. arabian days' entertainments. his appearance indicates that his business to-day has been successful; and such is, indeed, the fact. he is a physician, a merchant, a broker, — everything which brings him in money. he has bought a slave to-day with a secret blemish; he has bought a camel's load of gum at a very low price ; and he has, above all, pre- pared the last draught for a sick man of great wealth, not with a view to his recovery, but to his decease. he had just left the borders of a little grove of palms and date-trees, when he heard behind him the shouts of a number of men, who came running at full speed in his direction. they were a body of imperial hostlers, with the superintendent of the stables at their head, and were throwing anxious glances on all sides, like men searching for something they had lost. “hollo, mosey !” cried the superintendent, gasping for breath ; “have you seen one of the imperial horses, with saddle and bridle on, run this way?” “ the finest runner in the world ?" answered abner; “ with very small hoofs, and shoes of fourteen-carat silver ; his hair shining like gold; fifteen hands high ; his tail three feet and a half long, and his bit made of twenty-two carat gold ?”. “ the very one !” cried the superintendent. “the very one!” cried the chorus of hostlers. “it is the emir," said an old groom. “i have told prince abdal- lah, at least a dozen times, he should ride the emir with a snaffle. i know the beast. i have warned the prince he would throw him off; and i warned him as if i had to pay with my head for the pain in his back. but where is he? which way did he go ?” “i have seen no horse," answered abner, laughing. “how should i know which way he went ?” astonished at this answer, the gentlemen of the sta- abner, the jew. ble were on the point of insisting on a reply to their question, when another event happened to interrupt them. by a strange coincidence, such as so rarely comes to pass, the empress' pet lap-dog had just escaped from the palace. a crowd of black slaves came up at full speed to the place where the hostlers were standing, shouting, as they approached : “have you seen the empress' lap-dog about here?”. “it is not a dog you are looking for, i think, gentle- men,” said abner. “it is a female." "exactly!” cried the chief eunuch, delighted. - " aline, where are you?” “a small setter,” continued abner, “with long ears, a silky tail, and limps on the right fore-foot ?". “her exact description to a hair !” cried the chorus of blacks. “ aline, to a t. the empress fell into con- vulsions as soon as she was missed. aline, where are you? what will become of us, if we go back to the harem without her? quick! which way did she run ?” “i have seen no dog,” said abner. “i never knew before that the empress — god bless her! - had a lap- dog." the hostlers and slaves were furious at what they called abner's impudence, in cracking jokes over the property of their majesties, and doubted not for a mo- ment, so improbable were his denials, that he had stolen both horse and dog. while the rest continued the search, the head-hostler and the chief eunuch seized the jew, and carried him, half-laughing, half-terrified, be- fore the emperor. . . muley ismael, furious with anger at hearing what had taken place, called together the council of the pal- ace, and, in consideration of the importance of the occa- * abner, the jew.. : diamond, inflexible as iron, — since it is permitted to your paltry slave to raise his voice before your beam- ing face, hear me. i swear by the god of my fathers, by moses and the prophets, that my eyes of flesh have never seen your majesty's sacred horse, nor my adora- ble empress' most lovely dog. hearken to the expla- nation of the affair : “i was taking a walk to refresh myself, after the bur- then and heat of the day, in the little grove of palms, where i had the honor of meeting his excellency the head hostler of your venerable stables, and his vigilance the black superintendent of your blessed harem. i hap- pened to notice in the fine sand between the palms the track of some animal, and, being very familiar with the traces made by animals in motion, i soon recognized it as the mark left by a small dog. minute, protracted furrows ran along between the foot-prints, over the little inequalities of the sandy ground, and i said to myself, it is a female, and she has pendent dugs.' other marks near the prints of the fore feet, where the sand seemed to have been softly brushed away, showed me that the animal had a pair of wide, hanging ears; and, , observing that the sand at longer intervals was more deeply furrowed, i thought to myself, “the little crea- ture has a handsome, long-haired tail, like a bunch of feathers, which she has been whipping the sand with ;' and i noticed, at the same time, that one of her feet had entered less deeply into the sand than the others, so i came to the conclusion that the lap-dog of my most adorable mistress, if i may dare to use the expression, went a little lame. “as regards the horse, may it please your majesty, know that, as i was passing slowly through one of the alleys of the grove, my attention was drawn to the arabian days'. entertainments. tracks of a horse. i had hardly glanced at the beauti- ful hoof, and the deep though delicate frog, when i said to myself, . this was a horse of the tschenner breed, the finest in the world.' seeing how wide apart and how exquisitely regular the foot-prints were, may it please your majesty, i thought in my heart, “this is a splendid, a wonderful galloper ;' and i remembered job's description of the war-horse : he paweth ir the valley, and rejoiceth in his strength; he goeth on to meet the armed men. he mocketh at fear, and is not affrighted; neither turneth he back from the sword. the quiver rattleth against him, the glittering spear and the shield.' seeing something glitter on the ground, i bent down, as i always do, and lo! it was a bit of marble, in which the shoe of the running horse had made a dent, and i saw at once that the shoe must have been made of fourteen-carat silver; for i know perfectly the signs of every sort of metal, true or false.. . “the alley in which i was walking was seven feet wide, and on each side i noticed the dust was brushed away from the trunks of the trees. this horse has been switching his tail,' said i, and it must have been three feet and a half long.' under the trees, whose foliage began five feet from the ground, i saw strewed about some fresh leaves. his rapidity's back must have knocked these off,' thought i; 'so we have a horse of fifteen hands high.' under the same trees lay little tufts of hair of a golden hue, and of course i knew it must be a yellowish dun horse. just as i left the grove, a trace of gold on a face of rock struck my eye. you should know this mark,' said i ; 'what can this mean?' a touchstone was soon applied to the rock, and the result was a minute bit of gold, as pure and fine as any the seven united states of holland can produce. of abner, the jew. i course, the mark must have been made by the bit of the filying horse, rubbed for a moment against the rock as he ran past. any one who knows your sublime fond- ness for magnificence, king of kings ! knows also that the meanest of your majesty's horses would blush to champ on any other than a golden bit. this, please your majesty, was the way it happened, and if — ". “now, by mecca and medina !” exclaimed muley ismael, “these are what i call eyes. such eyes would not disgrace you, chief huntsman, and they would save you a couple of hounds. you, minister of police, would be able with such to see further than all your beadles and spies. now, scoundrel, in consideration of your uncommon sagacity, we shall treat you honorably. the fifty blows, which you have justly received, are worth fifty ducats ; so pay down fifty in cash. draw out your purse, and beware for the future of cracking jokes on our imperial property. for the rest, our mercy is extended to you." the whole court were filled with admiration of abner's sagacity, for his majesty himself had sworn that he was a sharp-witted fellow. but this was no recompense for his sufferings, and no consolation for the loss of his pre- cious ducats. while he stood, with groans and sighs, drawing one after the other slowly from his purse, and reluctantly poising each, as it left his hand, on the tips of his fingers, schnuri, the imperial jester, poked fun at him, by inquiring whether his ducats had all been tested on the same stone on which prince abdallah's horse had proved the purity of his bit. “your wisdom has earned a deal of glcry to-day,” said he ; “but i wager fifty ducats you wish you had held your tongue. but what says the prophet: 'a spoken word no chariot can over- take, though it be drawn by four swift horses,' -— and arabian days' entertainments. no lap-dog either, friend abner, unless it happens to limp." not long after this, to abner, so melancholy incident, he went one day to take another walk in the green val- leys which lie between the spurs of the atlas moun- tains. while sauntering along he was overtaken, as before, by a crowd of armed men, and the leader shouted to him! “hollo! friend! did you see goro, one of the emperor's body-guard, run this way? he has made his escape, and we think he must have taken this way into the mountains." "i cannot aid you, my lord general," answered abner. “ , ho! are not you the sharp-eyed jew who had not seen his majesty's horse and dog ? come, no hesi- tation. the slave must have run this way; perhaps you still smell him in the air? or do you see the prints of his flying feet in this tall grass ? speak! he must be about here. he is unrivalled in shooting sparrows with the blow-pipe, his majesty's favorite amusement. come, sir, speak, or i will handcuff you on the spot." “ general, can i say i have seen what in fact i have not seen?” "jew! for the last time, which way did that slave run ? remember your bastinado ! remember your ducats !" "o, unhappy man that i am! if you will insist that i saw this sparrow-shooter, why, he ran that way. if you do not find him there, you will somewhere else.". “then you did see him?" growled the soldier. “certainly, mr. officer, since you insist on it.” away went the soldiers like the wind in the direction indicated, and abner returned home, greatly tickled abner, the jew. with the success of his artifice. but he was scarcely four-and-twenty hours older when a crowd of palace- guards forced their way into his house, - of course, it being the sabbath, polluting it with their presence, - and hauled abner into the presence of the emperor of morocco. “dog of a jew!” roared his majesty. “do you dare send imperial soldiers, in search of a runaway slave, on a false scent into the mountains, while the fugitive was really running towards the sea-coast, and nearly escaped on board a spanish ship? soldiers, seize him! a bundred blows on his feet! a hundred ducats from his purse! as much as his feet swell, so much his purse shall shrink!” you are aware, my lord sheik, that in the empire of morocco people like justice to be speedy; so poor abner was mulcted and bastinadoed before it occurred to anybody to ask his consent. he cursed the hard fate which condemned his feet and his purse to bleed as often as his majesty deigned to meet with a loss. as he was limping out of the hall with howls and groans, amid the laughter of the heartless courtiers, schnuri, the jester, accosted him: “be not discon- tented; be grateful, thankless abner! is n't it suffi- cient honor for you that every loss which our sacred emperor, god bless him ! meets with, should occasion perceptible sorrow to such a fellow as you? promise to pay me a good fee, however, and i will come to your shop every time, a full hour before the lord of the west ioses anything, and say to you, 'don't leave your house to-day, abner ; you know the reason why. shut your- self in your own room under lock and key, till sun- set.'" * arabian days' entertainments. this, my lord, is the history of abner the jew, who saw nothing. when the slave had brought his tale to a close, and silence again prevailed, the young clerk reminded the old stranger of their previous conversation, and begged he would now show them wherein lay the resistless charm of fiction. "i will do so with the greatest pleasure," answered the old man. “flowing water, which adapts itself to every outline, and by degrees forces its way through the hardest obstacles, is less plastic and changing than the human soul. the soul of man is as light and free as the air of heaven, and becomes, like air, lighter and purer the higher it floats above this erring earth. hence there is a yearning in every man to lift himself above the common dulnesses of daily life, and to move more freely, be it in dreams alone, in a higher, nobler sphere. you yourself said, my young friend, “we lived in those stories, we thought and felt with those men ;' and this explains the charm they had for you. while you listened to the slave's fables, which were but the poetry of another's mind, you were poetizing your- self. you no longer felt the vicinity of things around you ; your mind no longer pondered on its usual thoughts. no, you lived it all; you were he to whom this or that marvellous adventure happened,—you iden- tified yourself with the hero of whom the story was related. thus your soul rose above the level present, which seemed so dull, so unattractive. thus your soul moved free and untrammelled in a new and loftier sphere. fiction was to you reality; or, if you prefer it, reality became fiction, while your mind, your essence, lived in the lands of fable.” the sheik of alexandria. “i do not wholly understand you,” answered the young merchant; “but you are right in saying that we lived in fable, or rather fable lived in us. those happy days are still vivid in my recollection. we used to dream in our waking hours. we imagined ourselves cast destitute on some wild, unpeopled island, and took counsel with ourselves how to sustain our lives. often have we built ourselves huts in some dense thicket of willows, and made a frugal meal on fruits, although not a hundred paces distant stood our home, where we could have obtained every luxury. nay, there were even times when we looked for the appearance of some kind fairy, or wonderful dwarf, who would approach and say to us, 'the earth is about to open, and will you honor me by descending to my crystal palace, and en- joying at your ease what my servants, the apes, shall set before you?'" the young men laughed, and admitted that their friend had described their own experience. “further,” said another, “i am frequently surprised at this mys- terious fact. for example, i should be not a little angry at the falsehood, if my brother were to rush into my room and say, 'have you heard of the calamity of our neighbor, the fat baker? he has had a quarrel with a magician, and the latter, out of revenge, has changed him into a bear, and he is now lying on the floor of his chamber growling?' i should be extremely angry, and charge him with lying. but it would be different if i were told that my fat neighbor had made a long journey into a remote country, and had there fallen into the hands of a magician, who had changed him into a bear. i should become, in such case, identified with the story, travel in company with my obese baker, encounter his adventures, and should feel no surprise arabian days' entertainments. if he were in the end to be thrust into a bearskin, and compelled to walk on all fours," • “true,” said the aged stranger; "and there is another very agreeable kind of narrative, in which fairies and magicians play no part, and with which palaces of crystal, and genii carrying wonderful meats, have nothing to do. no 'roc' birds and no magic horses are alluded to in these, which differ totally from those called 'fairy tales.'” “what do you mean?" said the young men. “an- other sort than fairy tales ?" “i think a distinction should be drawn between fairy tales and those narratives called "fictions.' if i say to you, “i will tell you a fairy story,' you infer from the outset that it is to be a recital of circum- stances, deviating wholly from the usual course of com- mon events, and placed in scenery totally different from ordinary nature. or, to be more intelligible, you expect in a fairy tale to hear of other beings than mortal men ; mysterious agencies meddling with the fate of the per- son of whom the fairy tale treats — wizards and fairies, mighty genii and princes of the ghostly world. the entire fable assumes an unusual, wonderful form, and resembles, perhaps, the textures of our carpets, or those drawings of our best masters, called by euro- peans ' arabesque.' it is forbidden to true mussulmen to reproduce in colors and outlines allah's finest handi- work, man; and hence one sees in these fabrics strange twisted trees and branches terminating in human heads, human bodies ending in fishes' tails, and short figures reminding you of common life, and yet distorted and impossible. do you see my meaning ?” "i think i do," replied the scribe. “but go on." " the fairy story is of this character, fabulous, myse the sheik of alexandria. terious, startling; and, because so contrary to our common experience, the scene is generally laid in foreign countries, or in remote and forgotten times. every nation has such fictions; the turks no less than the persians, chinese, mongols. there are many such even in the lands of the franks, as i was once told by a learned giaour. but they are less beautiful than our own; for, in place of fairies dwelling in splen- did palaces, they describe devilish women called witches, mischievous, hateful creatures, who live in filthy huts ; and, instead or traversing the blue air in shell-shaped chariots drawn by dragons, ride through the clouds on brooms. they have, also gnomes and earth-spectres, which they depict as small, distorted beings, occupied incessantly in deeds of mischief. such is the fairy tale. those narratives called, briefly, fictions, are wholly dif- ferent. these generally confine themselves to this earth; their scenes are laid in ordinary life, and their marvellous part is at most the development of some man's destiny, who becomes rich or poor, fortunate or miserable, not by the interposition of witchcraft or sor- cery, but by his own deeds, or strange combinations of events.” " true!” answered one of the young men. “simi- lar stories are to be found among those glorious tales of scheherazade, called 'the thousand and one nights.' most of the adventures of the caliph haroun al raschid and his vizier are of this character. they go forth disguised, meet with various mysterious occurrences, and subsequently discover a perfectly natural explana- tion of the apparent miracles.” " and you must admit, i think,” continued the old man, “ that these tales are not the worst in the thou- sand and one nights. and yet how different are they arabian days' entertainments. in their origin, progress and character, from the fable of prince camaralzaman, or the three one-eyed der- vishes, or the fisherman who draws out of the sea a chest sealed with solomon's seal! but, after all, there is a solid reason for the charm which pervades both, namely, that in both we find something striking and unusual. the extraordinary in the fairy tale consists in the min- gling of supernatural influences with the ordinary life of man. in the fiction, so called, it results from events happening according to natural laws, to be sure, but in a marvellous and startling manner.” “strange,” cried the scribe, “ strange, that this nat- ural course of events should give us as much pleasure as the supernatural incidents of fairy tales. what is the explanation of this ?” “the solution is in the development of the individual,” answered the stranger. in the fairy tale the marvellous so preponderates, the man acts so little from his own impulses, that single figures and the characters they exhibit can only be shown superficially. it is otherwise in the common fiction, where the manner in which each person speaks and acts according to the character of his mind, constitutes at once the point and the charm of the narrative." “you are right,” answered the young merchant. “i have never taken time to reflect on the subject, and have simply noticed the fact to be so, and let it pass, finding this tale delightful, or that one tedious, without consid- ering the reason. but you have given us a key to un- lock the mystery, a touchstone by which we can test the merits of the stories we meet with in future.” “use it always," answered the old man, “and your pleasure will increase in proportion as you learn to think do auto boss wp hopp andrenale the young englishman. . :? !' (;? .: ):"(; :": ܆܇ . . "' ܐ :; ، , ' ? :i܂ .از عد و ا و را لے کر the young englishman. on what you hear. but look; another slave is rising to begin.” the young englishman. · my lord sheik, i am by birth a german, and have been in your country too short a time to be able to tell a persian fairy tale, or to talk agreeably of sultans and viziers. i must ask the favor, therefore, of being per- mitted to speak of my father-land, from which perhaps i can draw something to afford you entertainment. un- fortunately, our stories are rarely so elegant as yours ; that is, they speak rarely of sultans or kings, nor allude to viziers or pashas, called by us ministers of justice, finance, or the like; they live, unless their heroes are soldiers, a very humble existence, and find their encour- agement principally among the common people. · in the southern part of germany lies the little city of grunwiesel, where i was born and bred. it is small, as all cities are in that country. in the centre is a little market-place with a fountain, an old guildhall on one side, and round the market the houses of the justice of the peace and the more influential merchants ; and a couple of narrow streets hold all the rest of the inhab- itants. all know each other; every one knows what happens everywhere else ; and if the priest, the burgo- master, or the doctor, has an additional dish on his table, by dinner-time it is known to the entire city. in the afternoon the ladies go to each other's houses, paying visits as they call it, to talk, over strong coffee and sweet biscuits, about this great event; and the general conclusion arrived at is that the priest must have in- vested in a lottery and won money sinfully, or the bur- arabian days' entertainments. gomaster have taken a bribe, or the doctor have received money from the apothecary on the condition of writing expensive prescriptions. you may imagine, my lord sheik, how disagreeable a circumstance it must have been for so well-regulated a place as grunwiesel, when a man arrived there, of whom nobody knew whence he came, what he wanted, or how he lived. the burgo- master, to be sure, had seen his passport, — a paper which every one is obliged to have among us - “is it so unsafe in your streets,” interrupted the sheik, “ that you require to have a firman from your sultan to inspire robbers with respect?”. no, my lord, - answered the slave ; – these papers are no protection against thieves, but are made neces- sary by the law, which requires that it must be known everywhere who is who. now the burgomaster had ex- amined the passport, and had declared, at a coffee party at the doctor's, that it was certainly correctly viséd from berlin to grunwiesel ; but he feared there was some- thing behind, for the man had a very suspicious look about him. the burgomaster had great authority in the city, so it is no matter of surprise that in conse- quence the stranger came to be regarded as a very doubtful character. his mode of life did not tend to disabuse my countryman of this opinion. he hired a house for his exclusive use, put into it a cart-load of strange-looking furniture, such as furnaces, sand-baths, crucibles, and the like, and lived henceforward entirely alone. nay, he even did his own cooking, and his house was entered by no human being, except one old man of grunwiesel, whose duty it was to buy his bread, meat, and vegetables. even this person was only ad- mitted to the lower floor, where the stranger met him to receive his purchases. the young englishman. - . - : • i was a boy of ten years of age when the stranger took up his residence in our city; and i can call to mind, as plainly as if it had happened but yesterday, the excitement the man occasioned in the place. he never came of an afternoon, like other people, to the bowling- green ; never of an evening to the tavern, to talk of the times over his pipe and tobacco. in vain did the bur- gomaster, the justice, the doctor, the priest, each in his turn, invite him to dinner or tea; he invariably begged to be excused. in consequence of all this, some people regarded him as a desperado ; some thought he must be a jew; and a third party declared with great solemnity that he was a magician or sor- cerer. i grew to be eighteen, twenty years old, and still the man was always called in the city “the stranger." it happened, one day, that some people came to the city with a collection of strange animals. it was one of those wandering troops, which show a camel trained to make a bow, a dancing-bear, and dogs and apes, comi- cally dressed in men's clothes, and playing all sorts of tricks. the custom of these people is, to pass through the city, halting at the cross-streets and squares, make hideous sounds with a drum and fife to call people together, then cause their animals to go through their performances, and finally collect money from the houses. the troop, which showed itself on this occasion in grunwiesel, was distinguished by the possession of a monstrous orang-outang, nearly as large as a man, which went on two legs, and knew all sorts of cunning sleights of hand. it chanced that these performances took place in front of the stranger's house. when the drum and fife sounded, he made his appearance, at first with visible vexation, behind the dark, dust-begrimmed arabian days' entertainments. window of his residence. soon, however, he grew more amiable, and, opening his window to everybody's astonishment, looked out and laughed heartily at the orang-outang's gambols. nay, he paid so large a piece of silver for the entertainment that the whole city talked of it. the next morning the collection of animals went on their way. the camel carried numerous baskets, in which sat the dogs and monkeys, while the proprietors walked behind with the large ape. they had scarcely made a league on their journey, when the stranger sent to the post-house, demanding to the postmaster's amazement a post-chaise and horses, and set forth by the same gate and on the same road taken by the men- agerie. the whole city was furious at not being able to learn whither he was going. it was night when the stranger again returned to the gate in the post-chaise. a person was sitting with him in the vehicle, with his hat pressed closely down over his face, and his mouth and ears bound in a silk handkerchief. the gate-keeper considered it his duty to speak to the second stranger, and demand his passport. his answer was surly, and growled out in some unintelligible language. "it is my nephew," said the stranger, politely put- ting several silver coins into the gate-keeper's hand; “he understands very little german. what he said just now was swearing at our being delayed here." . “ahl if he is your nephew, sir,” answered the gate- keeper, “of course he can enter without a passport. he will live in your house, no doubt ?" “certainly,” said the stranger; “and will probably remain with me a long while.” the gate-keeper made no further opposition, and the stranger and his nephew passed into the city. the the young englishman. burgomaster and the whole town were much dispreased with the conduct of the gate-keeper. he should at least have taken notice of the nephew's language ; it would then have been an easy matter to decide to what nation he and his uncle belonged. the gate-keeper asserted, in reply to these complaints, that it was neither italian nor french, but had sounded a good deal like english ; and, unless his ears had deceived him, the younger gentleman had said distinctly, “ ros-bif !” by this the gate-keeper helped himself out of his scrape, and, at the same time, assisted the young man to a name ; for nothing was talked of now in the city but the young englishman. the young man, however, was no greater frequenter of the bowling-green or the tavern than his uncle was ; but he furnished the people much food for conversation in another way. it happened now, not unfrequently, that in the hitherto silent house would be heard a frightful uproar and shrieking, so that the passers-by would stop before the house in crowds, and gaze up at the windows. the young englishman would be seen, dressed in a red frock and green trousers, his hair erect, and his appearance indicating terror, running with great speed through the rooms, from window to window, the old stranger pursuing him with a hunting- whip in his hand, and often failing to overtake him. but it sometimes seemed to the crowd below that he had succeeded in catching the young man ; for they could hear, issuing from the rooms above, cries of anguish and sounds of blows. the ladies of the city took such deep concern in this cruel treatment of the youthful stranger, that they induced the burgomaster at last to take some notice of the affair. he wrote a letter to the strange gentleman, in which he alluded in * the young englishman. on without paying further attention to the matter. three months passed by, and the tuition in german seemed to have come to a close ; but the old man went a step further. there lived in the city an old, infirm, frenchman, who gave lessons in dancing to the young people. this man the stranger summoned to his house, and told him that he desired him to teach his nephew to dance. he gave him to understand that the young man was extremely docile, but somewhat obsti- nate as regarded dancing; that he had learned dancing previously of another master, and had been taught such extraordinary tours, that he could not safely be produced in society ; that, notwithstanding, his nephew considered himself a beautiful dancer, although his style bore not the faintest resemblance to the waltz or galop, - dances, my lord sheik, very popular in my country, - and still less to the ecossaise or the fran- çaise. he promised to pay him a dollar an hour, and the dancing-master agreed with great readiness to undertake the instruction of the obstinate pupil. there was nothing, the frenchman secretly declared, so wonderful in all the world as these dancing-lessons. the nephew, a tall, slim, young man, with rather short legs, made his appearance, he said, in a red frock, his hair nicely curled, wide trousers, and white gloves. he spoke little, and with a foreign accent, and seemed, in the beginning, rather intelligent and docile ; but he frequently broke out into the most ridiculous leaps, dancing the wildest tours, in which he made entrechats which surpassed all the dancing-masters he had ever seen or heard of. when it was attempted to check his ex- travagances, he would pull off the delicate dancing-shoes from his feet, throw them at the frenchman's head, and run round the chamber on all fours. at the noise, the * arabian days' entertainments. old gentleman would rush out of his room, in a large red bed-gown, and a cap of gold paper on his head, and lay his whip heavily over his nephew's shoulders. the nephew would at once begin to howl in the most fright- ful manner, spring on the table and high book-cases, and even on the upper sashes of the windows, and talk all the time a strange foreign language. the old gen- tleman would give him no respite, but, seizing him by the leg, would pull him down, beat him soundly, and draw his neckcloth tighter round his neck by the buckle ; after which the nephew would become man- nerly and sober again, and the dancing-lesson go on quietly to its close. but when the dancing-master had carried his pupil so far that music became necessary for his instruction, the nephew seemed as if crazy. a fiddler was hired, and set on a table in the hall of the old house. the dancing-master represented the lady, and was com- pelled by the old gentleman to wear a silk gown and an indian shawl. the nephew would then invite him to dance, and begin at once to waltz and spin ; but he was an unwearying and most violent dancer, and no persuasions could induce him to release the frenchman from his long, powerful arms; no matter if he groaned or bellowed, he had to dance till he either dropped down exhausted, or the musician's arm grew lame with fiddling. these dancing-lessons very nearly killed the old frenchman ; but the dollar which he regularly received and the good wine which the old gentleman brought out, always took him back to his pupil, often as he resolved never to set foot in the hateful house again. the people of grunwiesel looked on these things very differently from the frenchman. they settled in "the young englishman. their own minds that the young gentleman possessed great talents for society ; and the ladies in the place all congratulated themselves — suffering as they did from a great lack of gentlemen - on the acquisition of so vigorous a dancer for the coming winter. one morning the maids, returning from market, described to their masters and mistresses a singular incident. they had seen an elegant carriage standing before the stranger's house, and a servant in rich livery holding the step. the door of the old house had suddenly opened, and two finely-dressed gentlemen · came out, one the old stranger, and the other probably the young nephew who danced so madly and learned german with so much difficulty. the two gentlemen had entered the carriage, the servant sprung into the boot behind, and the carriage - only imagine it! drove straight off to the house of the burgomaster. when the ladies heard this story from their maids, they hastily snatched off their kitchen aprons and hoods, and took their seats in state. “nothing is more certain,” — said they to their families, while every- body ran about, dressing up the best parlor, -"noth- ing can be more certain than that the stranger is going to introduce his nephew to society. the old brute has got had the civility to set his foot inside our houses for the last ten years, but, for the sake of his nephew, who must be a delightful young man, we will forgive him this once.” and they warned their sons and daugh- ters to be on their best behavior when the gentlemen came ; to sit up straight, and to be careful to use a better pronunciation than usual. the shrewd ladies had judged correctly, for the old gentleman was making the tour of the city with his nephew, to bespeak the arabian days' entertainments. friendship of the society of grunweisel for himself and his young relative. everywhere people were in raptures with the two strangers, and regretted only that they had not made their acquaintance earlier. the old gentleman showed himself to be a well-bred, sensible man, who laughed a little to be sure in everything he said ; rendering it dif- ficult to know whether he was in jest or earnest; but who talked of the weather, the scenery, and the picnics to the cave in the mountain, so politely and shrewdly that every one was delighted. but the nephew! he bewitched everybody; he won all hearts. as for his exterior, it was impossible to call him exactly hand- some. the lower part of his face, especially his jaw, projected too far, and his complexion was extremely dark; while occasionally he made the most remarkable grimaces, shutting his eyes, and snapping his teeth together queerly; but people found the shape of his features exceedingly interesting. nothing could be more graceful and elegant than his figure. his clothes, to be sure, fitted somewhat loosely to his person, but their effect was highly becoming. he moved about the parlors with wonderful vivacity, throwing himself down, now on a sofa, now into an easy-chair, and extend- ing his legs at full length ; but what in other young men would have been thought extremely common and vulgar, passed in the nephew's case for gentlemanly ease. “he is an englishman,” people said ; “ they are all so. we must not be too particular with an englishman.” towards his old uncle he was very submissive ; for whenever he began to jump too vivaciously about the room, or, as he seemed particularly inclined to do, drew his feet up under him on his chair, a single stern the young englishman. glance from the old man served to bring him to order at once. and how could one be angry with the young man, when his uncle, in every house, said to the lady, “my nephew is still a little raw and ill-bred, madam ; but i anticipate much from the mollifying effect pro- duced by your society, and i implore your forgiveness forgiveness for any gaucheries he may happen to be guilty of.” thus was the nephew at length introduced to the gay world, and all grunwiesel spoke of nothing else for the two following days but this great event. the old gentleman renounced his habits of retirement, and seemed to have wholly altered his modes of thought and life. in the afternoons he went, with his nephew, to the cave in the mountain, where the more important citizens of grunwiesel drank beer and rolled ninepins. here the nephew showed himself a skilful master of the game ; for he never threw less than five or six balls. occasionally a strange humor seized him. it happened, more than once, that he rushed like an arrow down among the ninepins with one of the balls, making a dreadful racket, and when he made a spare or a ten- strike, the fancy sometimes came over him to stand erect on his nicely-curled head, and extend his legs high into the air; or, if a carriage happened to pass, before one knew what he was about he would be seen sitting on the top of the vehicle, making the most ludi- crous grimaces, and, after riding on a short distance, return, with prodigious leaps and bounds, to the party he had quitted. the old gentleman, at such incidents as these, was wont to beg ten thousand pardons of the burgomaster and the other gentlemen, for his nephew's eccentricities. they, in reply, would laugh, ascribe such conduct to bis youthful spirits, declare they had been just the same entertainments. arabian da in their youth, and admire the young springal, as they called him, immensely. there were times, however, when they grew ex-, tremely angry with him, though they ventured to make no remark, as the young englishman was everywhere looked upon as a model of taste and judgment. the old gentleman was in the habit of dropping in of an evening, with his nephew, at the golden stag, the only tavern in the city. although the nephew was still a very young man, he assumed there the manners of a very old one ; for he would sit down over his glass, put on a huge pair of spectacles, draw out his pipe, and smoke more vigorously than any one present. the conversation would, perhaps, turn on the times, the war, the peace, or what not, and the doctor would give his opinion one way, the burgomaster another, and the other gentlemen assembled there would be duly aston- ished at the extent of their political knowledge and acu- men. it would suddenly occur to the nephew to enter- tain a totally different view. he would bring down his gloved hand heavily on the table, and give the burgo- master and the doctor bluntly to understand that they knew nothing whatever about the matter ; that he had heard that these matters were totally different, and that his penetration was far greater and more reliable than theirs. he would then express his sentiments on the subject, in strange, broken german ; which sentiments, to the huge indignation of the refuted burgomaster, everybody would find admirable ; for, being an english- man, of course he knew better than any one else. on such occasions, did the burgomaster and doctor, boiling with suppressed rage, set themselves down to a game of chess, the nephew would draw up his chair near their table, and, looking with his huge spectacles the young englishman. . over the burgomaster's shoulder, find fault with this or that move, or tell the doctor he should play so and so, to the secret indignation of both these gentlemen. and, if the burgomaster should angrily challenge him to play, and threaten to mate him in the twinkling of a bed-post, - for he looked upon himself as a second philidor, the old gentleman would buckle his nephew's cravat tighter, and the latter would at once become polite and courteous, and proceed to checkmate the burgomaster. hitherto it had been very common in grunwiesel to play cards, at a half-kreutzer a point; but these bets the nephew declared to be contemptible, and wagered enormous sums in ducats and crowns, boasting that no one's game was equal to his ; greatly consoling the wounded feelings of his adversaries, however, by losing monstrous sums of money. they made no scruples in taking the money ; for, said they," he is an english- man, and made of money, of course," and straightway shoved the cash into their pockets. in this way the nephew of the stranger came, before long, to be held in high favor in the city and environs. no one could recall ever having seen a young man like him in grunwiesel before ; and he was, indeed, the strangest apparition which had ever visited their tor- ders. no one could accuse him of cultivation, of any possible kind, except, perhaps, a little dancing. latin and greek were both greek to him. at a round game at the burgomaster's house, it once fell to his lot to bo obliged to write something, and it was found that he could not even sign his name. in geography he made the most stupendous blunders ; for he made no hesita- tion in locating a german city in france, or a danish one in poland. he had read nothing; he had studied nothing; and the priest often shook his head signifi- ntertainments. arabian d cantly over the dreadful ignorance of the young gentle- man. still, in spite of this, everything he said and did was held to be excellent; for he was impudent enough to insist always on being right, and the last words of every remark he made were: “i understand this much better than you.” . the winter came on, and now our hero shone in the height of his glory. every assembly was tedious at which he was not present. people yawned when a wise man made a remark; but when the nephew uttered the maddest trash, in the most detestable german, they were all ears. it was found now that the wonderful young man was a poet; for scarce an evening passed but he drew some bit of paper from his pockets and read the assembled company several sonnets. to be sure, there were some persons who asserted that much of these verses was absolutely unintelligible, and the remainder they had seen somewhere in print; but all their efforts failed to disturb the young englishman's equanimity. he read, and read, called attention to the beauty of his poems, and was everywhere greeted with enthusiastic applause. the scenes of his greatest triumphs, however, were the grunwiesel balls. no one danced so perseveringly, none so vigorously as he; no one made such bold, such graceful jumps. his uncle dressed him for such occa- sions in the newest and handsomest fashions; and, although it was impossible to make his clothes fit, yet everybody considered his dress charming. the gentle- men, to be sure, took offence, at these balls, at the new style which he introduced. hitherto the burgomaster had always opened the ball in person, and the most highly-born young men exercised the right of regulat- 'ng the rest of the dances; but since the young english- the young englishman." man's arrival, a total change had been brought about. he would seize the prettiest girl by the hand without leave or license, take his place with her in the figure, manage everything precisely as he pleased, and consti- tute himself, without ceremony, lord, master, and king of the ball. but as the ladies found these manners extremely elegant, the young men dared not venture on resistance, and the eccentric nephew retained unop- posed his self-assumed dignity and rank. balls like these appeared to furnish the liveliest satis- faction to the old gentleman. he kept his eyes inces- santly on his nephew, laughing constantly to himself, and when the guests crowded round him, to congratu- late him on the elegance and good-breeding of his pro- tégé, he seemed unable to repress his delight, broke out into a stentorian laugh, and, in short, acted like a fool. the grunwieselonians ascribed these strange explosions to his passionate fondness for his nephew, and found them perfectly en régle. but now and then he was compelled to exercise his fatherly supervision over the young man; for, in the middle of the most dignified dance, it sometimes pleased his nephew's fancy to leap, with one enormous spring, into the gal- lery among the musicians, seize the contra-bass from the hands of the leader, and extort from the instrument diabolical sounds; or sometimes he would suddenly reverse his position, and dance on his hands, stretching his legs perpendicularly into the air. at such times, his uncle would take him to one side, give him a little serious advice, and draw his cravat tighter round his neck, whereupon he would resume immediately a tran- quil and gentlemanly demeanor. such was the behavior adopted by the nephew at balls and parties in grunwiesel. as is too often the arabian days' entertainments. case in other matters, bad habits come into vogue much easier than good ones, and a new and striking fashion, especially if it be ridiculous, has ever some- thing in it highly attractive for the young, who have not yet formed an accurate or sensible judgment of themselves and the world. so it was in grunwiesel with the nephew and his extraordinary manners. for, when the younger world perceived that the young stranger won more admiration than he incurred rebuke for his awkward habits, his loud laughter, and his inso- lent answers to his seniors, and that these passed merely as evidences of his spiritual nature, they thought to themselves : “ nothing is easier than to make my- self exactly such another spiritual brute.” they had formerly been industrious, clever youths ; but now they thought: “of what use is learning, when ignorance carries a man so much further ?” so, abandoning their books, they spent their time in dissipation on the streets. in former times, they had been polite and courteous ; waiting till spoken to, and answering mod- estly; now they forced their way into the society of men, talking loudly, and stating their opinions, laugh- ing in the face of the burgomaster himself, and boasting that they knew everything better than he. till now, the grunwiesel young men had entertained a proper dislike to a rough and vulgar demeanor ; now they sang all sorts of vile songs, smoked huge pipes of tobacco, and spent much time in low pot-houses. they bought also big spectacles, notwithstanding the excel- lence of their eyesight, and, mounting them on their noses, believed themselves at once to be finished gentleman, for with them they resembled the young englishmen, at home, or on a visit, they lay down in boots and spurs on the ottomans; at assemblies they tilted their the young englishman.; chairs, or put both elbows on the table. in vain their older friends represented to them how foolish, how disgraceful this behavior was; they referred to the shining example of the nephew. it was said to them, in vain, that a certain degree of rudeness must be for- given in the nephew, in consideration of his english birth; the young grunwieselonians declared that they had as good a right as the best englishman in the world to be vulgar in a spiritual way. in short, it was a general complaint that gentlemanly breeding and behavior had been entirely eradicated from grun- wiesel by the evil example of the young stranger. but the pleasure of the young men, in their rude and reckless life, was of short duration, for the following incident changed the whole aspect of affairs. a great concert was resolved upon, to close the winter amuse- ments, to be given partly by the regular city musicians, partly by skilful amateurs of grunwiesel. the burgo- master played the violoncello, the doctor the bassoon with great skill, the apothecary, though he had no ear, blew the flute, several young ladies of the city had studied arias, and every preliminary had been carefully arranged. the old stranger expressed the opinion, that, though doubtless the concert would be admirable as it was, he noticed that no duet was included in the programme, and that a duet was, as every one knew, a necessary element of every concert. this opinion occasioned a good deal of embarrassment. the burgomaster's daughter, to be sure, sang like a nightin- gale ; but where was the gentleman who could sing a duet with her? they thought, at last, of falling back on the old organist, who had sung an excellent bass in former days; but the stranger announced that all this anxiety was needless, for his nephew had a voice arabian days' entertainments. of surprising cultivation and power. no little aston- ishment was felt at this new accomplishment of the young man; nothing would do but he must give an exhibition of his skill, and, with the exception of a few eccentricities of style, which his audience took to be english, the general opinion was that he sang like an angel. the duet, therefore, was studied with all haste, and the evening at length arrived, on which the ears of the people of grunwiesel were to be enraptured by the concert. the old stranger was unable to be present at his nephew's triumph, in consequence of illness, but he gave to the burgomaster, who visited him during the day, some rules for the guidance of his eccentric relative. “he is a good soul,” said he ; "but now and then he is seized with some strange notions, and breaks out into the wildest freaks. i regret, extremely, my inability to be present at the concert this evening, for his demeanor is perfectly decorous while i am by. he well knows why, the scamp! let me assure your excellency that this vivacity of his is not a mental vice, but merely a bodily infirmity. whenever, there- fore, any such humor seizes him, so that he seats himself on a music-stand, or attempts to knock down the contra-bass, or the like, if your excellency would take the trouble to loosen his cravat a little, or if nothing better can be done, take it off altogether, you will see how quiet and well-bred he will at once become.” the burgomaster thanked the sick man for his con- fidence, and promised, in case the necessity arose, to follow his directions to the letter. the concert-room was filled to suffocation, for all grunwiesel and the neighborhood had taken tickets. the young englishman. all the huntsmen, pastors, officers, farmers, and the like, within a radius of three leagues from the city, had streamed in with their families, to share with the grun- wieselonians in the rare entertainment. the city musi- cians came out in great strength, followed by the bur- gomaster on the violoncello in a duet with the apothe- cary on the flute; after these the organist played a voluntary with prodigious applause ; and even the doctor was clapped immensely on the occasion of his exquisite solo on the bassoon. part first of the concert was over, and everybody was on the tenter-hooks of expectation for the second, in which the young englishman was to perform a duet with the burgomaster's daughter. the nephew had made his appearance in gorgeous costume, and had long ago drawn upon himself the attention of all present. he had thrown himself down, without the slightest ceremony, in the elegant arm-chair provided for a countess of the vicinity, and, stretching his legs to their full length, had stared the audience out of countenance through a huge opera-glass which he had provided in addition to his ordinary spectacles ; playing incessantly, meanwhile, with a large mastiff which he had persisted in introducing in spite of the regulations prohibiting all such animals. the countess, for whom the arm-chair had been provided, soon appeared ; but the young englishman made no movement to resign his seat. on the contrary, he only assumed a more comfortable attitude, and no one' present ventured to rebuke his insolence. the distinguished lady was consequently obliged to take her seat in an ordinary cane chair among the other ladies of the city, in a state of intense and natural indignation. all through the elegant performance of the burgo- * arabian days' entertainments. master, all through the organist's exquisite voluntary, nay, all the time that the doctor was improvising on his bassoon, and while every one else was holding his breath to listen, the nephew was sending his dog after his handkerchief, or talking in a loud tone to his neighbor; so that all who were unacquainted with his habits were filled with anger at the extraordinary indecency of the young gentleman's behavior. no wonder, therefore, that everybody was curious to see how he would succeed with his duet. the second part began; the city musicians played the introductory bars, and now the burgomaster led up his daughter to the young englishman, and, handing him a sheet of music, said to him, “my dear sir, are you disposed to begin the duet?” the stranger laughed, showed his teeth, and, springing up, preceded the two others to the music-stand, while the audience was filled with excitement and anticipation. the organist beat the time, and nodded to the englishman to begin. the latter looked at the music through his spectacles a moment, and gave utterance to some hideous and melancholy howls ; whereupon, the organ- ist shouted to him : “ two notes lower, your honor; c, - you must sing c.” instead of singing c, the stranger pulled off one of his shoes, and flung it at the organist's head, making the powder fly in clouds. seeing this, the burgo- master thought to himself: “ha! his bodily infirmity has got hold of him again ; ” and, seizing him by the neck, he loosened the buckle of his cravat. but, at this, the young man's conduct became only the more out- rageous. he dropped the use of german, and confined himself to an extraordinary and unintelligible language, taking all the while the most tremendous leaps. the the young englishman. burgomaster was in despair at this unpleasant inter- ruption to the entertainment, and instantly resolved to take off entirely the cravat of the young englishnan, whom some unusually violent paroxysm must have suddenly seized. but no sooner had he done this, than he started back aghast. instead of a human skin and complexion, a dark brown fur enveloped the neck of the youthful stranger, who instantly pro- ceeded upon still higher and more marvellous leaps ; and, twisting his white gloves into his hair, he pulled it entirely off, and, wonder of wonders ! this beautiful hair was only a wig, which he threw into the burgo- master's face, and his head made its appearance clothed in the same brown fur as his neck. he overturned tables and benches, threw down music-stands, smashed the fiddles and clarinets, and in short behaved like a lunatic. “seize him! seize him !" shouted the burgomaster beside himself; “ he is raving, — seize him!” this, however, was a difficult matter, for he had pulled off his gloves, and showed his brown hands, armed with frightful nails, with which he assaulted the faces of the company. a courageous huntsman at length succeeded in taking him prisoner. he pressed his long arms down to his sides, so that he could do nothing except struggle fiercely with his feet, and laugh and shriek in a piercing voice. the audience gathered round to look at the eccentric young gentle- man, who by this time had lost every semblance of a human being. among them, a learned gentleman of the environs, who possessed a large collection of stuffed animals, approached him, and after a close examination, suddenly exclaimed: “good god, ladies and gentlemen ! why do you admit this beast into good society? this is an ape, the homo triglodites linncei, arabian days' entertainments. and i will give you six dollars for him, if you like, and stuff him for my cabinet.” fancy the astonishment of the citizens of grunwiesel, when they heard this! “what! an ape, an orang- outang in our best society! the young englishman nothing but a filthy ape!” they stared at each other in dumb bewilderment. they could not believe it! they would not trust their eyes, and they examined the animal more narrowly; but, gaze as they pleased, a vulgar ape he was, and a vulgar ape he remained. “but how is this possible?” cried the burgomaster's lady. “has n't he frequently read me his poems? has n't he often dined with me?" “what!” shrieked the doctor's wife. “has n't he drank tea with me over and over again? and smoked and talked literature with my husband ?” "it's impossible !” cried the gentlemen. “has n't he often played ninepins with us at the cave, and dis- cussed politics as well as the rest of us?” “and, besides,” exclaimed everybody, “has n't he danced ever so many times at our balls ? an ape? an ape? it's a miracle! it's sorcery!" “yes, it must be sorcery, devilish sorcery !” said the burgomaster, bringing the ape's cravat. “look ! here in this cravat lies the witchcraft which has blinded our eyes. here is a broad strip of parchment, inscribed with strange characters. it is latin, i believe ; can anybody read it?" the pastor, a man of extensive learning, who had often lost a game of chess to the young englishman, stepped up, and, looking at the parchment, said: “cer- tainly, this is latin, and means : * this ape is a very ridiculous creature, and to see through and shun false pretences will teach you."" the young englishman. “ay, ay; it is an infernal swindle ; in itself a species of witchcraft,” he continued, “and should meet with exemplary punishment.” the burgomaster was of the same opinion, and started forthwith to arrest the stranger, who could be nothing but a magician. six soldiers carried the ape, for they were determined to bring the old scoundrel to instant trial. they reached the desolate house, followed by a crowd of people, for every one wanted to see how the affair would end. they knocked at the door, they pulled the bell; but all in vain — no one showed himself in answer to their appeals. the burgomaster finally caused the door to be beaten in, and mounted to the sick man's chamber. nothing was to be seen but old, worthless household rubbish. the stranger had van, ished. on his writing-table, however, lay a large, sealed letter, addressed to the burgomaster, which the latter opened. he read : “my dear grunwieselonians : when you read this i shall be no longer in your village, and you will have discovered the rank and nation of my darling nephew. take the joke which i have ventured to play upon you as a good lesson not to insist on inflicting your society upon a stranger, when he wishes to live in retirement. i felt myself too well-bred to be involved in your eternal tattle, your bad manners, and your ridiculous customs. i procured, therefore, the young orang-outang, whom you have caressed so affectionately, to act as my substi- tute. farewell, my friends, and lay this lesson to heart.” the citizens of grunwiesel were the laughing-stock of the whole country, and felt intensely mortified. their consolation was, that all this must have been brought about by supernatural means. but the greatest con- arabian days' entertainments. fusion was felt by the young men of the city, for they had made the bad manners of a beastly ape the object of their approval and imitation. henceforth they ceased to lean their elbows on the table ; they balanced them- selves no longer on their chairs ; they were silent till addressed, and became modest and civil as of old; and it became a byword with the grunwieselonians, when any one showed signs of relapsing into such vulgar and ridiculous practices, to call him “the old gentleman's ape.” the orang-outang, who had played so long the part of a gentleman of fashion, was handed over to the pro- prietor of the cabinet of natural history. this gentle- man feeds him, gives him the run of his yard, and shows him to every stranger as a great rarity; and there he is to be seen to the present day. a burst of laughter, in which the young men joined, filled the hall when the slave had ended his story. “they must be singular people, those franks," said one of them ; " and i should much prefer living here in alexandria with sheik and mufti, to the society of the priest and the burgomaster and the silly women of grunwiesel.” “i agree with you," said the young merchant. “i should choose to die anywhere else than in frankistan. the franks are a rude, barbarous nation, and, for a pol- ished turk or persian, it must be torture to be obliged to live among them.” “you will soon hear about that," answered the old man. “from what the superintendent told me, the handsome young slave yonder is about to tell us a good the sheik of alexandria. deal about frankistan. for, though a mussulman by birth, he has spent a number of years there." “what! that one sitting at the end of the row? upon my honor, it is a sin in the sheik to give him his freedom! he is the handsomest slave in the country. only look at that spirited face, those bold eyes, that graceful figure! he should give him some easy occu- pation. he might make him his fly-flapper, or his pipe- bearer. such duties are a mere trifle, and a slave like that is an ornament to the whole house. and he has had him only three days, you say, and now lets him go ? it is atrocious! shameful !”. "blame not one who is wiser than all egypt!" said the old stranger. “have i not told you that he releases him because he thinks thereby to obtain the blessing of allah? you call him handsome and grace- ful, and you say truth. but the son of the sheik - whom the prophet restore to his father's arms ! — was a handsome lad, and must be now a large and well- grown man. shall he, then, spare his gold and dis- miss some cheap and worn-out slave, in the hope of recovering his son?” “and see! the eyes of the sheik are constantly fast- ened on this slave. i have noticed it the whole even: ing. all through the other stories he was perpetually turning his gaze upon him, and lingering on the noble features of the youth. i am sure he regrets to let him go." "do not so judge his excellency !" said the old man. “ think you he grudges a thousand tomauns, whose daily income exceeds that sum three-fold ? while his glance rests sadly on the young slave's face, believe me, he is thinking of his son grieving among strangers, and wondering whether some compassionate man arabian days' entertainments. dwells there, who will send him home to his bereaved father.” · "you are right," answered the young merchant; "and i feel shame, honored sir, that i always ascribe to people common and vulgar sensations, while to your eyes some beautiful emotion lies visible beneath the sur- face. and yet, sir, has not your experience taught you that the generality of men are bad?” “precisely because experience has taught me the contrary, do i take pleasure in thinking well of men,” answered the other. " it was once with me exactly as with you. in my younger days i heard many base things of men, witnessed myself much evil, and ended by believing all mankind to be vile. but i reflected that allah, who is as just as wise, would not suffer so fair a spot as earth to be peopled by such degraded beings. i thought more rationally on what i had seen and heard, and, behold! i had retained the evil in my memory, and had dismissed the good! i had passed it by unnoticed when a fellow-being performed some deed of charity ; i had been indifferent when men lived vir- tuous and moral lives; but when i had heard of a bad deed, or fearful crime, these i had imprinted indelibly on my recollection. i began, henceforth, to see with other eyes. i saw that virtue was not so sparingly dis- tributed as i had fancied ; i noticed evil less, or it found in me more charity; and thus i learned to love my fel- low-men, and to value more justly their good qualities ; and throughout my long life i have ever erred more rarely in believing in the existence of virtue, than in holding men, without reflection, to be covetous, selfish, and wicked." the venerable stranger was interrupted, at this mo- ment, by the approach of the superintendent, who said: the sheik of alexandria. - “sir, my lord, the sheik of alexandria, ali banu, has noticed with pleasure your presence in his house, and invites you to draw nearer and take your seat by his side.” the young people were not a little surprised at the honor which had befallen their unknown friend, whom they had taken for a beggar; and after he had left them to take his seat with the sheik, the scribe stopped the superintendent and inquired: “i entreat you, by the beard of the prophet, tell us, who is this old man, to whom the sheik shows so much honor ?" “what !” cried the superintendent, lifting his hands in wonder; “ do you not know him ?” . “no; we have no idea who he is." "but i have seen you conversing with him several times in the street; and my lord the sheik, who has noticed it also, said lately: “those must be excellent young men whom this man holds worthy of his friend- ship.'" “tell us, for heaven's sake, who it is !” cried the young merchant, in great impatience. "you are jesting," answered the superintendent. “ no one ever enters this hall without a special invita- tion; and this morning this aged man sent word to the sheik that he would with his permission bring with him several young friends; and ali banu replied, at once, that in his house his word was supreme law." “we beseech you, keep us no longer in ignorance. as we live, we know not who he is, and we made his acquaintance by the merest accident." “then, gentlemen, you may consider yourselves for- tunate ; for you have been conversing with a learned and celebrated man, and all present are envying you on arabian days' entertainments. his account. he is no other than mustapha, the wise dervish." . “mustapha! the wise mustapha! the tutor of the sheik's son! who has written so many learned books ! who has visited all parts of the world! have we been talking with mustapha ? — and talking to him as if he were one of ourselves, without the slightest tokens of respect!” the young men were still in conversation over the dervish mustapha. they felt themselves much hon- ored that so old and famous a man should have so often talked and argued with them, or considered them worthy of his notice. the superintendent suddenly approached, and invited them to follow him into the presence of the sheik. their hearts throbbed loudly. never yet had they conversed with a man of such ex- alted station. but, bracing their courage, they followed the superintendent. ali banu was sitting on a rich pillow, sipping sherbet. the aged stranger was sitting at his right; his tattered cloak was resting on superb cushions, and his worn-out sandals reposed on a persian carpet; but his apostolic head, and his expression of dignity and wisdom, showed him to be worthy to sit near even a man of the sheik's high rank and fame. the sheik was very sad, and the youths suspected their summons to be an artifice of the old dervish, to relieve the sorrowing father's oppression by leading him into conversation with other men. “welcome, young friends,” said ali banu ; "wel- come to my house. my aged friend here deserves my thanks for having brought you hither ; but i ant some- what vexed with him, too, for not having given me your friendship earlier. which of you is the young scribe ?” the sheik of alexandria. . “i, my lord, and the humblest of your servants," said the clerk, crossing his arms on his breast, and making a low obeisance. . “so you are fond of listening to good stories, and like to read books of poems, you say ?”. the young man answered, blushing deeply : “my lord, i know no more delightful occupation than to spend the day in such enjoyments. but each man has his own tastes. and i blame no one who —" - very good! very good l” interrupted the sheik, laughing, and signing to the second. “and who are you?" “my lord, i am a physician's pupil, and have cured several sick persons already myself.” : “good !” replied the sheik. “and you it is who love a merry life. you would like to dine occasionally with a few choice friends? have i guessed your wishes ?” the young man was abashed. he felt he had been betrayed, and that the old stranger had reported to the sheik what he had said. plucking up courage, how- ever, he replied : “yes, my lord ; i count it one of the felicities of life to be able to make merry now and then with a few tried friends. my purse goes no further now than to entertain them with watermelons and such cheap luxuries. we are happy even with these ; but, had i more money, i doubt not we should be far more ." the sheik was delighted with this frank reply, and laughed heartily. “which of you is the merchant ?" he continued. the young merchant bowed with an air of good- breeding before the sheik, and the latter said : “so you take pleasure in music and the dance ? you arabian days' entertainments. enjoy hearing good musicians play and sing, and like to witness the performances of skilful dancers ?” the young merchant replied: “i see clearly, my lord sheik, that yonder venerable dervish has been describ- ing our follies for your amusement. if he has thereby succeeded in lightening your sorrows i am well content. as regards music and dancing, i confess that there is something in them which delights my heart. but think not, my lord, that i find fault, because you too do not—" “enough, no more !” cried the sheik, laughing, and stopping him with a motion of his hand. “every one to his tastes, you would say. but there stands still · another; this must be he who is so fond of travelling. and who are you, young gentleman ?” “i am a painter, my lord,” answered the young man addressed ; "a landscape painter. to visit foreign countries is the fondest wish of my heart; for what an artist sketches from nature is in general far more beau- tiful than the scenes of his own invention." the sheik gazed at the handsome youths, and his glance was grave and sad. “i had once a dear son," he said, “ and he would now have been of your age, had he remained with me, you should have been his comrades, and each one's wish should have been satis- fied by him. with you he would have read, with you heard music, with this young man he would have made merry with his friends, and with the artist here i would have sent him to visit scenes of beauty, certain of his return. but allah has willed otherwise, and i submit without a murmur. it still lies in my power to fulfil your wishes, and you shall go from ali banu with joyful hearts. you, my honored friend," he continued, turning to the clerk, “shall reside henceforward in my house, in charge of my library. you can procure for - the sheik of alexandria.“ it what books you wish and value, and your only duty shall be to describe to me the beauties which you meet with in your reading. you, my young friend, who love a good table and the society of friends, shall be the superintendent of my pleasures. i myself lead a joy- less life; but my office brings with it the necessity of entertaining guests. you shall have charge of all such matters in my place, and can invite what friends of yours you please : let it be to something better than watermelons. i must not,” he continued, turning to the young tradesman, " draw away the merchant from his business; but every evening, my young friend, shall dancers and musicians be at your command, as many as you will. enjoy music and dancing to your heart's desire. and you,” he said to the painter, “ shall visit strange lands, and cultivate your taste by foreign travel. my treasurer shall furnish you a thousand pieces of gold, two horses, and a slave, to equip you for your departure. travel whither your wishes lead, and when you see some lovely landscape, paint it for me." the young men were speechless with gratitude and . joy. they attempted to kiss the ground at the feet of their benefactor, but he prevented them. “if you have any one to thank,” said he, “it is this wise old man, who told me concerning you. he has been the means of bringing pleasure to me also, in making me acquainted with four such excellent young men.” the dervish mustapha checked their thanks. “see,” said he, “how unwise are hasty judgments ! did i say too much of this noble man " “let us listen now to another of the slaves who are released to-day," interrupted ali banu ; and the young men retired to their seats. the young slave, whose beauty and courageous * i ub ! orisc. vish for i virfut, ui! .', rupte lui de ilis vos qui i to pic) ui!, i lv', is bahoi! fuit! vi[ ?Álv , doti m lium ." " ledalietilps a) dicindo !! si? bago!" }' u pro ? to di .. ! ?? p lus tot oiliürit. i l timate bitti : piia i . ..', er, iti copy leisur muse : pii! " se paistavad cost roprio t .; "shers, "lone . sv. *!, flix, : et sted ut pj . l. " ot i ty" uint } . . . i . reis lorem, sies!! .. dove ponosni the ... madol bhute we win moto li vn almansor. withi arabian days' entertainments. glance had attracted such general admiration, now stood up, and bowing before the sheik, began in a musical voice the following tale. the history of almansor. my lord sheik, the men who have preceded me have told you many wonderful tales learned in foreign coun- tries. i confess with shame that i have no story worthy your attention. let me describe, unless i tire you, the strange fate of one of my friends. on board the algerian corsair, from which your gen- erous hand released me, was a young man of my own age, who seemed to me born to a better destiny than a life of servitude. the other prisoners on board the vessel were either ferocious wretches with whom i could not sympathize, or people whose language i could not understand. in consequence, at every leisure moment, i gladly sought the society of the young captive. he called himself almansor, and his language showed him to be an egyptian. we conceived a warm friendship for one another, and went so far one day as to tell each other our adventures; and of these my friend's were far more remarkable than mine. almansor's father was a distinguished man in one of the cities of egypt, the name of which he did not tell me. his childhood passed happily away in the midst of every luxury and comfort; yet was he not brought up effeminately, for his soul had been trained from his infancy to manly thoughts. his wise and prudent father had early taught him the necessity of virtue, and he had had besides a learned and famous dervish for his bir cobwe mansur. the history of almansor. instructor, who had imparted to him all the accomplish- ments which a youth of family and fortune ought to be familiar with. almansor was ten years of age when the franks invaded his country from beyond the sea, and made war upon the people of his nation. the father of the boy must have been ill-affected to- wards the franks, for one day, when about to go to morning prayers, they came to his house and demanded his wife as a hostage for his sincerity; and on his refusal they carried his son by force into their camp at this point of the slave's recital the sheik covered his face with his hands, and a murmur of indignant dis- approval ran through the hall. the superintendent, full of anger, ordered the slave to cease. the young man was of course much surprised, and inquired of ali banu whether any part of his story had been the occasion of this excitement. the sheik regained his firmness at the question, and said : “be calm, my friends. how can this youth know aught of my unhappy fate? may it not be that, among the horrors perpetrated by these franks, some wretched father met a like misfortune to myself? may it not be that this almansor - con- tinue, continue, my young friend." the slave bowed and proceeded : almansor was carried to the frankish camp. his life there was not a painful one, for one of the officers caused him to be brought to his tent, and was delighted with the intelligence of the lad's answers, which a dragoman translated to him. he took care that he should not want for food and clothing ; but a yearning to return to his father made the child extremely unhappy. he spent several days in constant weeping; but his tears had no effect upon his stern captors. the camp was broken up, and almansor now believed they would permit him to arabian days' entertainments. depart; but it was not so. the army moved about the country, warring with the mamelukes, and almansor was compelled to accompany it. when he implored the generals to suffer him to go back, they sternly refused, telling him he must remain as a hostage for his father's faith. thus was be kept on the incessant march for many days. all at once rumors circulated through the camp, which did not escape the boy's attention. they spoke of re- treating, of reëmbarking, and almansor was crazy with delight; for now, if the franks retired to their own country, he would be released. cavalry and infantry retired toward the coast, and at length, after traversing a great extent of country, they could see their ships lying at anchor in the bay. the soldiers proceeded to embark; but night surprised them before many had left the shore. anxiously as almansor strove to remain awake, thinking every moment to be set at liberty, he fell at last into a profound sleep; and it was his belief, he said, that the franks had mingled some soporific with his food. when he again awoke, the light of day was shining brightly into a little chamber, in which he was sure he had not fallen asleep. he sprang up, but fell on reaching the floor, for the floor was rocking to and fro, and everything seemed to be dancing in a circle around him. he gathered himself up, and was obliged to hold fast by the wall, to be able to quit the chamber in which he had been lying. a strange roaring and whistling fell upon his ear, unlike any sounds he had ever heard before. he came at length to a little flight of stairs, and, mounting them with difficulty, what was his horror to find himself on board a ship, and in every direction nothing to be seen but sky and sea! he began to weep bitterly, and the history of almansor. demanded to be taken back. he attempted to leap overboard and swim ashore; but the franks held him fast, and one of the officers calling him before him, promised to restore him before long to his native coun- try, and represented to him how impossible it was to send him back by land; saying that, had they abandoned him on shore, he would assuredly have perished. but the franks did not fulfil their word, for the ship continued to sail for many days, and when it at last came to an anchor, he found himself not on the coast of egypt, but in france ! almansor had learned, during his long voyage and his residence in the camp, perfectly to understand and speak the french tongue; an acquisition which stood him in excellent stead in this foreign country. he was carried, for many days, into the interior, and everywhere the people assembled in crowds to see him ; for his captors gave it out that he was the son of the king of egypt, who had sent him to france to complete his education. but the soldiers merely said this to lead the people to believe that they had conquered egypt, and stood on terms of peace and friendship with that nation. after a journey through the country of several days, they arrived at a vast city, the terminus of their march, where almansor was entrusted to the care of a phy- sician, to be instructed by him in the customs and man- ners of the french nation. he was first of all compelled to adopt the frankish dress, which is very narrow and straight, and far less graceful than the egyptian costume. he was taught to discontinue bowing with folded arms, and instructed, when he wished to show respect, to lift from his head with one hand the huge black hat, uni- versally worn there, bring his other hand down close to arabian days' entertainments. his side, and scrape with the right foot. he was for- bidden to sit with crossed legs, – that graceful habit of eastern lands,- and was instructed to perch himself on high chairs, and leave his legs to dangle to the ground. the french mode of eating gave him much trouble; for everything he wished to carry to his mouth he was compelled first to transfix with an iron fork. the doctor with whom he lived was a harsh, stern man, and treated the boy unkindly. if he ever hap- pened to forget himself, and, for example, addressed a visitor with “ schalem aleikum,”' instead of "votre servi- teur,” his master would beat him with a stick. he forbade him to think or speak in his native tongue, and almansor would probably have soon forgotten his own language, had it not been for a man who lived in the same city, and who, in some particulars, was of the greatest service to him. this was an old and very learned man, acquainted with many eastern languages, — arabic, persian, cop- tic, and chinese. he passed in france for a miracle of learning, and earned a handsome income by instruct- ing people in these tongues. this person invited almansor to his house several times each week, enter- taining him on such . occasions with rare fruits and sweetmeats. the lad, while here, could almost believe he was at home; for the old gentleman was of sin- gularly eccentric habits. he had clothes made for almansor like those worn by men of distinction in egypt, and kept them laid away in a private room. as often as almansor came, he sent him with a servant to this chamber, and caused him to be dressed from head to foot in the fashion of his country; he was then taken to a large apartment in the wise man's house, which went by the name of “ lesser araby.” the history of almansor. · this room or hall was decorated with all sorts of artificial trees, such as palms, bamboos, cedars, and the like, and flowers native only to eastern lands. per- sian carpets covered the floor, and, in place of french tables or chairs, handsome cushions were laid against the walls. the professor sat on one of these cushions totally disguised. he wore on his head a turkish shawl folded as a turban ; and fastened to his chin was a gray, artificial beard, reaching to his girdle, and resembling the natural beard of some venerable eastern magnate. in addition to these he wore a talar cut from a brocaded bed-gown, wide turkish trousers, and yellow slippers; and, peaceable as was his disposition, girded himself, on these occasions, with a huge scime- tar, and thrust into his girdle a dagger studded with mock jewels. here he would smoke a pipe two yards long, and was waited on in oriental style by servants whom he thrust into persian clothes, and whose hands and faces he dyed of a jet black. naturally enough all this seemed absurd to the young egyptian ; but he soon perceived that, by accom- modating himself to the old man's humor, he might make these visits of extreme advantage to himself. while with the doctor no egyptian word was per- mitted ; here, on the contrary, the french language was entirely prohibited. almansor was expected, on enter- ing, to give the oriental salutation of peace, which the professor responded to with great solemnity. he would then motion to the young man to seat himself by his side, and begin a mixture of persian, arabic, coptic, and other languages, under the belief that it was a learned oriental conversation. near him would be standing one of his servants, holding a large book. this was a dictionary, and when the old gentleman arabian days' entertainments. was at a loss for a word, he would make a sign to his slave, hastily open the volume, find what he wanted, and continue his conversation. the slaves brought also sherbet and such articles, in turkish cups, and almansor had only to say that every- thing was conducted precisely as in eastern lands, to occasion the old gentleman the supremest satisfaction. his greatest recommendation in the eyes of the old professor, however, was the fluency with which he read persian. the latter had in his possession numer- ous persian manuscripts, which he would direct alman- sor to read aloud, while he read carefully after him, in order to acquire the correct pronunciation. such days were festivals to poor almansor; for the professor never allowed him to retire without a present, and he often carried away with him costly gifts in money, linen, or other useful articles. almansor lived in this way several years in the capital of france, and the intensity of his homesickness was never so much moderated. but, about his fifteenth year, an event hap- pened which exerted much influence over his subse- quent fate. the franks had chosen their greatest general — the same one who had so often talked with almansor in egypt - to be their king. almansor knew by the universal festivities that some great event had taken place; but still he could not believe that the new king was the same person whom he had known in egypt, for that general had been a man of extreme youth. but one day almansor was crossing one of the many bridges which span the broad river encircling the city, and, while doing so, became aware of a man in a plain military uniform, leaning on the parapet, and gazing down upon the water. the soldier's features the history of almansor.' struck him as familiar. he traversed rapidly all the chambers of his memory, and, on recalling egypt, sud- denly became conscious that this man was the same french general whom he had often talked with in the camp, and who had interested himself so often in his well-being. he had never known his real name, but, plucking up courage, he approached him, and, calling him by the title by which he had been known among the soldiers of his army, crossed his arms upon his breast in the manner of his nation, and said : “schalem aleikum, petit caporal.” the man looked round astonished, and, turning a sharp glance upon the young man, reflected a moment, and exclaimed: “heavens! is it possible ? you here, almansor ? where is your father? how go affairs in egypt? what brings you here?” almansor could no longer restrain himself, but said, bursting into tears : “ then you do not know, petit caporal, how the hounds, your countrymen, have used me? you did not know that i have not seen the land of my fathers for many years ?” “i cannot believe," said the man, and his brow grew dark, “ that they stole you away with them when they left your country.” .“ alas! it is true !" answered almansor " on the day when your army embarked, i saw my country for the last time. they brought me away with them, and an officer, who pitied my miserable condition, paid money for my support to an accursed doctor, who beats me, and leaves me to die of hunger. but listen, petit caporal,” he continued; “i am fortunate in meeting you here, for you must help me.” the man laughed, and inquired how he should serve him. i arabian days' entertainments. "look, petit caporal,” said almansor, “it would be dishonor to beg of you. you were always good to me; but i know you are a poor man, and, though you were the general, you were never so well dressed as the others. and even now, to judge from your coat and hat, you are far from being in easy circumstances. but the franks have lately chosen a sultan, and without doubt you are acquainted with people who may some- times approach him, – perhaps the aga of his janissaries, or his reis effendi, or his capudan pasha. is it not so?" “ yes," answered the man; "what then?” “you might put in a good word for me with these officers, petit caporal, so that they may beg the sultan of the franks to let me go home. i need a little money, besides, for a journey across the sea; but you must promise, above all, to say nothing about it to the doc- tor or the arabic professor.” " who is the arabic professor ?" inquired the stranger. “ah, petit caporal, he is a strange being, and i will tell you about him another time. if those two were to hear of this, i should never get away from frankistan. but will you speak to the aga for me? answer me frankly." “come with me," said the officer; "perhaps i can be of service to you.” "now?" cried the lad with dismay. “by no means, petit caporal; the doctor would cudgel me. i must hurry home this moment." “what are you carrying in your basket ?” asked the other, taking him by the arm. almansor blushed, and at first refused to show it. “look, petit caporal, i am compelled to serve here the history of almansor. like my father's meanest slave. the doctor is an ava- ricious man, and sends me every day a walk of several miles to the fish-market, because things are a trifle cheaper there than in our quarter of the city. seel for the sake of this wretched herring, for the sake of this handful of lettuce and this scrap of butter, i am obliged to walk two leagues. ah, if my father did but know it!" the soldier seemed to sympathize with the boy's misery, and answered : “come with me, and be of good courage. the doctor shall not harm you, even if he loses to-day both herring and lettuce. take heart, and come with me.” saying this, he took almansor by the arm, and led him away; and, though his heart throbbed when he thought of the doctor, yet so much encouragement lay in the words and manner of his new-found friend, that he resolved to follow him. he went on through many streets by the side of the soldier, his basket on his arm, and wondered greatly that everybody they met took off his hat as they approached. he mentioned this to his guide, but the latter laughed and made no reply. they came at length to a splendid palace, when his friend halted. “do you live here, petit caporal ?” asked almansor. “this is my home,” replied the unknown. “i must present you to my wife.” : “is it possible ?” continued almansor. “surely the sultan must have given you this palace ?" “you are right; i received this house from the sul- tan,” answered the stranger, leading him into the pal- ace. they mounted a flight of stairs, and, directing him to set down his basket, his guide led him into a superb apartment, where sat a lady on a high divan. arabian days' entertainments. the man said something in a foreign language, at which both laughed heartily, and the lady made several inqui- ries of almansor in the french tongue concerning egypt. finally, petit caporal said to the lad : "i will tell you the best course for you to follow. i will take you to the emperor himself, and speak to him in your favor." almansor was terribly startled; but he thought of his misery and of his native land, and said : “ allah gives courage to the unfortunate in the hour of need, and he will not abandon a poor, sorrowing boy. i will go to the emperor. but tell me, caporal, must i fall at his feet? must i touch the floor with my head ? what must i do?” both laughed again at this, and assured him that all such ceremonies were unnecessary. “has he a terrible and majestic aspect ?" he then asked. “has he a long beard ? are his eyes flames ? tell me, how does he look ?” his guide laughed still more heartily, and answered: “i will not describe him, almansor; you shall judge for yourself. but i will give you this sign by which to know him. every one in the hall will take off his hat respectfully when the emperor enters. he who con- tinues to wear it will be the man you seek.” saying this, he took him by the hand, and went with him into the emperor's hall. the nearer he came, the louder beat his heart, and by the time they reached the door his knees knocked together. a servant 'opened the door, and there stood, in a half circle, at least thirty men, superbly dressed, and covered with gold and stars, as is the custom in the land of the franks with the royal agas and pashas; and almansor thought to himself that his guide, plainly clothed as he was, must be the arabian days' entertainments. summoned him into his presence, and informed him that the ship in which he had designed to send him to egypt, was lying at anchor, and about to sail. al- mansor was beside himself with joy. a few days suf- ficed to equip him for the voyage, and richly laden with valuable gifts, and with a heart swelling with grati- tude, he bade farewell to the good emperor, and em- barked. but allah designed to prove him still longer, still longer strengthen his courage by disaster, and forbade him yet to see his native shores. another frank- ish nation, called english, was waging war at this time with the emperor, on the sea. they seized every ship which they could conquer; and it came about that on the sixth day of their voyage the ship which carried amansor was attacked and captured by an eng- lish frigate. it was compelled to surrender, and all its passengers and crew were placed on board a smaller vessel which accompanied the larger. but, at sea, life is not less insecure than in our deserts, where robbers fall suddenly on the unsuspecting caravan, and murder and rob its merchants. a corsair from tunis attacked the tender, which had been separated from the frigate by a storm, captured it, and its whole crew were carried to algiers and sold. almansor, being a true believer, found his servitude less rigorous than that of the christian dogs, his fel- lows, but still all hopes of seeing again his father and his home were for the second time overthrown. he lived here five years in the service of a rich lord, and was made to water his flowers and tend his garden. this rich man dying without heirs, his property was divided, and almansor fell into the hands of a slave- dealer. this person fitted out a ship, about this time, the history of almansor. to carry his slaves to a better market. chance willed that i myself was one of these slaves, and i was put on board the same ship which held almansor. here we became acquainted with each other, and here he de- scribed to me his remarkable adventures. when we landed i was a witness of allah's wonderful providence. it was the shore of his native country on which we dis- embarked, - it was the market of his native city where we were exposed for sale, — and, my lord, let me say it briefly, it was his own dear father who purchased him from the dealer! the sheik ali banu was plunged by this story into deep thought. it had interested him deeply, and his breast heaved, his eyes glowed, and he had been fre- quently on the point of interrupting the narrator; but the end of the tale seemed not to satisfy him. . “he was about one-and-twenty years of age, you say?” he began. “my lord, he was of my age - two-and-twenty years." “and what city did he call his birthplace ? you have not yet told us." “if i am not wrong," answered the slave, “it was alexandria." “ alexandria !” exclaimed the sheik. “it is my son! whither did he go? said you not his name was kai- ram ? had he dark eyes and brown hair?” “he had, my lord sheik, and in his hours of melan- choly called himself kairam, and not almansor.” “but, allah! allah! said you his father bought him before your eyes ? did he say he was his father? alas, le cannot, then, be my son!” “he said to me, allah be praised, after such long arabian days' entertainments. misfortune! this is the market-place of the city of my birth. soon after, a distinguished-looking man came to our corner, and he cried, 'i see my dear father once again ! the nobleman approached us, and, looking at one after another, at length bought him of whom this tale is told. he uttered a devout prayer of thanks to allah, and whispered to me, 'i return once more to the scene of my former happiness. it is my own father who has bought me.'" “it cannot be my son, my long-lost kairam !” said the sheik, overpowered with emotion. . the youth could restrain himself no longer. with tears of joy streaming from his eyes, he threw himself at the sheik's feet, and cried, “and yet it is your son, kairam almansor, for it was you who bought him !”. " allah! allah! a wonder! a miracle !” shouted the audience, pressing around father and son. the sheik stood speechless, gazing at the youth, who raised his beautiful face towards his. “my friend mustapha,” he said to the aged dervish, “ before my eyes hangs a veil of tears, so that i cannot see whether the features of the mother who bore my kairam are here imprinted on this young man's face. step hither and look for me."! .. the old man drew near, gazed on him a long while, and, laying his hand on the youth's brow, said, “kai- ram ! what was the saying which i gave you in the frankish camp, in the days of your misfortune ?" “my darling teacher," answered the young slave, pressing the old man's hand to his lips, “it was this : • so that one loves allah, and keeps his conscience pure, in the desert of misery, he is not alone; for he has two consolers ever at his side.'” raising his eyes gratefully to heaven, the aged dervish the history of almansor.. drew the youth upon his breast, and gave him to the sheik, saying, “take him to your heart; as surely as you have mourned for him ten long years, so surely has your son kairam returned to you at last.” the sheik was beside himself with joy and rapture. he gazed again and again at the features of the returned wanderer, and found unmistakably the image of the son whom he had lost. all present shared his delight; for they all loved the good sheik, and every person there felt as if he had this day regained a son himself. song and revelry again filled the halls. the young man was made to tell his story over again, more minutely than before, and all praised the arabic professor, and the emperor, and every one who had been kind to kairam. the rejoicings lasted far into the night, and when they separated the sheik made a costly present to each of his friends, to remind them pleasantly of his day of joy. the four young men he presented to his son, and invited them to pay him frequent visits; and it was arranged that he should read with the clerk, make short excursions with the painter, the merchant should enjoy with him the song and dance, and the fourth should superintend all the enjoyments and pleasures of the others. each was then presented with a handsome gift; and they left the sheik's house in a state of per- fect contentment. • to whom are we indebted for all this," said they among themselves, “if not to the old stranger? who would have expected this result, when we were stand- ing opposite this house, and criticizing the sheik ?” "and how easy it would have been for us to neglect the old man !” said another of them, “ or to have arabian days' entertainments. despised and repulsed him! he looked very ragged and poor. who could have suspected him to be the wise mustapha ?” "strange! — was it not here that we expressed our wishes?” said the scribe. “one preferred travel, another singing and dancing, a third agreeable society, and i to read and listen to stories; and are not all our wishes fully accomplished? can i not read or buy all the books i want ?” “and can i not regulate the sheik's table, and superintend his choicest pleasures, as well as be at them myself ?” said the second. “and as often as i feel inclined to hear singing and music, or see dancing, can i not come hither, and ask for his slaves to entertain me?" “and i!” cried the painter; “yesterday, i was a poor artist, unable to set foot beyond the city ; now i can travel where i will.” “yes," said they all ; " it was a good thing that we listened to the old stranger. who knows what might otherwise have become of us?” thus, they talked together, and went home happy and fortunate. the tavern of spessart. mlay the tavern in spessart. many years ago, when the roads in spessart were much less frequented than they are now, two young men were wending their way through the forest. one of them, about eighteen years of age, followed the trade of compass-maker; while the other, a goldsmith, could scarcely have exceeded his sixteenth year, and was evidently making his first journey into the world. the evening was far advanced, and the narrow path which the two friends followed was darkened by the shadows of gigantic pines and beeches. the compass-maker strode boldly on, whistling an air and playing occa- sionally with his dog pluck, and seemed little affected by the knowledge that night was close at hand, and that the nearest inn was far distant. but felix, the goldsmith, often looked round uneasily. when the wind muttered through the trees, he believed he heard footsteps coming behind him. when the shrubs along the path waved, or opened for a moment, he could not help thinking he saw faces lurking behind them. · the young goldsmith was usually neither superstitious nor timid. in wurzburg, where he had learned his trade, he passed with his comrades for an intrepid lad whose heart was in the right place; but to-day a strange depression affected his spirits. he had been told so much of the dangers of spessart:—that a numerous band the tavern in spessart. of robbers plied their trade in the forest; that many travellers had been plundered within the last few weeks ; nay, that dreadful deeds of blood had been committed there at no distant time; — that he could not banish the thought that he and his friend were only two defenceless men, and could offer little resistance to a gang of armed marauders. he regretted that he had been persuaded by the compass-maker to go on another stage, instead of remaining over night at the entrance of the forest. “ if i am murdered to-night, and robbed of every- thing i have, it is your fault, compass-maker, for you have brought me into this frightful wood.” “don't be a coward !” replied the other. “a travel- ling journeyman should never be afraid. what is it you dread? do you think that the gentlemen robbers in spessart will do us the honor to attack and murder us? why should they take the trouble ? for the sake of my sunday-coat in the knapsack, or the dollar we have for expenses ? men must travel in companies, and be dressed in silk and gold, to make it worth these robbers' while to murder them for booty." “stop! did you hear a whistle in the forest ?” cried felix, in agony. "it was only the wind whistling through the trees. step out bravely ; this road cannot be much longer.” “it's very well for you to talk as you do about being murdered,” continued the goldsmith. “they ask you what you have, and at most take away your sunday- coat, and a few kreutzers. but me they will murder on the spot, for the sake of the jewels and trinkets i have about me." “ bah! why should they murder you for that? sup- pose four or five men came out of that bush, with arabian days' entertainments. * loaded guns, and should say very politely, 'gentle- men, what have you in your pockets ?! or, give yourselves no uneasiness, gentlemen, we will help you carry your burdens.' you would not behave like a fool ; you would open your knapsack, lay your yellow vest, and your blue coat, your two shirts, and your necklaces, bracelets, combs, and what not, politely on the ground, and consider yourself a lucky fellow for saving your life so easily." .“and do you think," answered felix, “i would sur- render so easily, the jewels i am carrying to my god- mother, the countess ? my life sooner! -sooner be cut into little pieces ! has she not always been a mother to me, and brought me up since i was ten years old ? has she not paid for my education, my clothes, my everything? and now, when i can visit her, and carry her some of my own work which she ordered of my master, -when i can show her some specimens of the beautiful trade i have learned, -- am i to give up everything? and the yellow vest, which she gave me, besides ? no, i will die before i will give my god- mother's jewels to these rascals." “don't be a fool!” cried the compass-maker. “if they murder you, the countess will not get her jewels any sooner. so it is better for you to give them up, and save your life.” felix made no reply. the night was by this time upon them, and by the dim light of the moon they could scarcely see three paces in advance. felix grew more uneasy every moment, kept closer by his friend's side, and hesitated whether to assent to his arguments or not. after advancing for nearly a league, they perceived a light in the distance. the young goldsmith suggested that they should not trust it, for it might be the house of * arabian days' entertainments. the robbers; but the compass-maker answered that robbers had their houses, or rather their holes, under ground, and that this must be the tavern to which they had been directed by a man who met them at the en. trance of the wood. the house was long and low, and before it stood a cart, the horses of which they could hear neighing in the stable. the compass-maker beckoned his compan- ion to a window, the shutters of which stood open. by standing on tiptoe, they could overlook the whole room. a man was sleeping in a chair by the fireplace, who, judging by his dress, was probably a carrier, and doubt- less the owner of the cart before the door. on the opposite side, a woman and her maid sat spinning. be- yond the table, and against the wall, sat a man with a glass of wine before him, his head resting in his hands, so that his features could not be seen the compass-maker inferred from his dress, however, that he was a man of considerable rank. while they were still peering in, a dog barked inside the house. pluck answered, and a maid-servant ap- peared at the door, and looked out at the strangers. on the promise of obtaining supper and beds, they entered the house, and, laying down their heavy bun- dles and their hats and sticks in a corner, seated them- selves at the table near the gentleman. the latter, raising his head at their salute, proved to be a hand- some young man, who thanked them courteously for their greeting. “you are late on the road,” said he. “were you not afraid to travel through spessart so dark a night? for my own part, i preferred to put up my horse at this tavern, to riding a single league further.” “you were perfectly right, sir,” answered the com- the tavern in spessart. - pass-maker. “the footsteps of a fine horse are music to the ears of robbers. they will hear it a league dis- tant; but when a couple of poor lads like us creep on foot through the forest, people whom the robbers would be obliged to help instead of plundering, they never stir a foot!" “that is so," said the carrier, who had been waked by the entrance of the new-comers. “they cannot make much in the shape of money out of a poor man. but there are instances where they have cut down poor people from a mere lust for murder, or else com- pelled them to enter their gang and serve as robbers themselves.” "nay, if that is the kind of people in this forest," said the young goldsmith, “this house will be little protection to us. we are only four, or, with the host- ler, five; and, suppose a dozen of them saw fit to attack us, what resistance could we make? and, besides," he added, in a whisper, “what reason have we for think- ing that the people of this house are honest ?” “no fear of that,” answered the carrier. "i have known this tavern for ten years, and have never noticed anything suspicious. the master is seldom at home; they say he deals in wine. the woman is a very quiet person, and will harm nobody. no; you do her injus- tice, young man.” “and yet,” broke in the gentleman, “i cannot easily forget what people say about them. you remember the rumor of those persons who disappeared some time ago, in this forest, and left no trace of their wherea- bouts. several people said they had spent the night in this tavern; and yet, when weeks elapsed, and noth- ing was heard of their fate, and their path had been traced as far as this house, the reply to every inquiry arabian days' entertainments. was that they had never been here. it is certainly sus- picious." "god knows it is !” cried the compass-maker. “it would have been safer for us to have passed the night under the nearest tree, than within these four walls, where escape is impossible ; for the windows are grated.” the turn the conversation had taken made them all thoughtful. it seemed far from improbable that this road-side inn was, either by free will' or compulsion, in alliance with the robbers. the night threatened there- fore to be perilous, for they had heard many stories of travellers attacked and murdered in their sleep; and, even if their lives were not in danger, yet some of the guests of the tavern were of such narrow means that the loss of even a part of their property would have been extremely embarrassing. the four companions looked moodily into their glasses. the young gentle- man wished he was travelling on his trusty horse through a safe, open valley ; the compass-maker, that he had a dozen of his comrades, armed with cudgels, as a body-guard. felix, the goldsmith, was unhappy, more for the sake of his benefactress' jewels, than him- self; but the carrier, who sat blowing the smoke of his pipe from his lips with a thoughtful air, said, after a pause: “gentlemen, we ought not to permit them to surprise us in our sleep. i, for one, will keep guard all night, if one of you will back me." "i am ready," -"so am i," – "and so am i, cried the other three. “i should find it impossible to sleep,” added the young gentleman. “well, what shall we do to keep ourselves awake?” said the carrier. “as there are just four of us, i think • the tavern in spessart. - à game of cards would be a good thing. it will keep us awake, and help the time along too." "i never play cards,” answered the gentleman ; " so i, at least, cannot join you in it." “and i know nothing of cards," added felix. -"what can we do, then?” said the compass-maker. “ sing? that would only attract the robbers, besides being stupid. propose riddles and conundrums? that would not last long. gentlemen, what do you say to tell- ing stories ? amusing or serious, true or false, they will keep us awake, and pass the time as well as card-play- ing.” "i'm agreed, if you will begin," said the young gen- tleman, laughing. “you men of business travel into all countries, and, no doubt, have plenty of excellent stories at your tongues' ends. every city has its own tales and traditions." “ay, ay, we hear a good many things," answered the compass-maker. “but gentlemen like you study books, and read a great many wonderful things. of course you can tell much finer and stranger tales than poor journeymen travellers like us. i am very much mistaken, if you are not a scholar.” “no scholar," replied the gentleman, with a laugh ; “merely a student, returning home for my vacation. but what we find in our books resembles stories much less than what you pick up here and there in your wan- derings. so begin, friend, if the others are ready." “when a man tells me a good story,” said the car- rier, “i prefer it to playing cards. i often travel these country roads for leagues and leagues at a snail's pace, listening to some person walking alongside, and telling me a story. in bad weather i have taken up many a man in my cart, on condition he would tell me some * arabian days' entertainments. tale; and i never like a companion so well, i believe, as when he can describe his own or other people's adventures for seven or eight hours together." “so it is with me," said the young goldsmith. "i could listen to stories all my life, i believe; and my master in wurzburg was obliged to forbid me to look at books, lest i should read too many novels and neg- lect my work. so, give us something good, compass- maker, for i know you can tell stories from now till to-morrow morning before your stock is exhausted.” . the compass-maker took a long draught to improve his elocution, and began. the prophecy of the silver florin. in upper suabia stand to this day the ruins of a cas- tle, once the noblest in all that region. it was called hohenzollern, and rose from the summit of a steep, round hill, from whose rugged heights one could see a prodigious distance in every direction. further than this castle could be seen from the country round was the valiant race of zollern feared and respected, and their names were known and honored in every german land. many centuries ago, i believe when gunpowder was just invented, a zollern lived in this castle, whom nature had made a singular being. it could not be alleged against him that he oppressed his vassals, or that he had ever lived in feud with his neighbors; but, on account of his gloomy eye, his frowning brows, and his monosyllabic, surly manners, no one liked or trusted him. few persons outside the castle walls had ever heard him speak civilly, like other men ; for, when he rode through the valley, and any one met him and said, etit the prophecy of the silver florin. the prophecy of the silver florin. with a respectful bow, “good day, your lordship; this is fine weather!” or some similar remark, he would always retort gruffly, with “stuff and nonsense !” or, “i knew that before.” and if anything occurred to ex- cite his anger, — if a peasant's cart chanced to stand in the road, so as to prevent his horse from passing as quickly as he liked, - his fury would break forth in a volley of frightful oaths and curses. in all the region round about, he went among the people by the name of “thunder-storm von zollern." thunder-storm von zollern had a wife, who was his direct opposite, and as mild and gentle as a summer's day. often had persons, who had been offended by her husband's ferocity, been reconciled to him again through her soft glances and gracious words. her tenderness to the poor was proverbial, and she never hesitated, in the fiercest heats of summer or the wildest winter snows, to leave the rugged hill, and visit poor peasants and sick children in the valley. when the count met her on such errands of mercy, he would say, sulkily: “stuff and nonsense !” and ride on. these savage manners would have intimidated or de- terred most women. one would have thought : “ what business is it of mine to attend to these poor people, when my husband considers it stupid nonsense ?” another, perhaps, through pride or indignation, would have cooled in her love towards so savage a husband. but not so lady hedwig von zollern. she loved him as deeply as ever, sought to smooth the wrinkles of his dark brow with her soft, white hand, and adored him with all the strength of her nature. when, after the lapse of a year, heaven sent them a little heir, she loved her husband not the less, but lavished on her dar- ling offspring all the tender duties of a mother. three arabian days' entertainments. years passed, during which time the count von zollern saw his son only on sundays after dinner, when he was brought to him by the nurse. he looked at him on these occasions perfectly unmoved, growled something in his beard, and gave him back to his nurse. when the little fellow first lisped “father," the count gave the nurse a florin. towards the child his expression remained unaltered. on his third birthday the count caused his son to be breeched for the first time, and dressed him richly in velvet and silk. he then gave orders for his own horse and another to be made ready, and, taking his little son in his arm, descended the winding stairs with ringing spurs. lady hedwig was aghast at the sight. she was accustomed to make no such inquiry as “whither out?” or “when home?" on his leaving the castle ; but anxiety for her child now opened her lips. “are you going for a ride, count?” said she. he made no answer. “where are you taking the child ?" she continued ; “euno is to take a walk with me.” “i knew that before," answered thunder-storm von zollern, without stopping. when he reached the court-yard, he took his little son by one foot, raised him into the saddle, and, binding him firmly on with his handkerchief, mounted his own steed, and trotted out of the gate, holding the bridle of euno's horse in his hand. the little fellow seemed at first to consider it great fun. he clapped his hands, and shook his horse's mane to make him go faster, so that the count was greatly pleased, and said, several times, he was a plucky lad. but when they reached the plain, and the count changed his pace to a canter, the little boy lost heart. he begged his father, very imploringly, to ride slower; the prophecy of the silver florin. but, as their speed increased, and the high wind almost deprived little euno of breath, he began to cry, at first silently, but, growing rapidly more terrified, finally burst out with all the strength of his lungs. “i knew so. stuff and nonsense!” began his father. “ the young one howls on his first ride. hush'l or " just as he was about to reässure his son, with a curse, his horse reared, and the bridle of the other steed slipped from his hand. he strove frantically to reduce his horse to subjection, and succeeding at last, and looking round with anguish to find his son, saw the horse running up the mountain, his saddle empty, and the tiny rider nowhere to be seen. . ::: stern and calm as the count von zollern usually was, this was a moment of torture to his heart. he · looked for nothing but to see his son lying shattered in the road, and he tore his beard and howled in agony. he could find no trace of his child far as he retraced his course ; and he already felt a foreboding that the maddened horse must have hurled him into a lake which edged the road, when he suddenly heard behind him a childish voice calling him by name, and, turning about like lightning - look ! an old woman sat under a tree not far from the path, fondling the infant on her knees. “how came you by the child, old witch ?” cried the count in great anger. bring him to me instantly !" “not so fast, not so fast, excellency!” laughed the old creature. “how came i by the child, say you ? why, his horse ran by here, and he was hanging to the saddle by one foot with his hair trailing on the ground, so i caught him in my apron.” “i knew it !” snarled the count von zollern. “give him to me. i cannot dismount, for my horse is wild, and might strike him." arabian days' entertainments. "give me a silver florin first,” said the woman, in a humble tone. "stuff and nonsense !" cried the count, throwing a few pennies under the tree. “no; i must have a florin !” she insisted. “a florin ! you don't deserve it!” yelled the count. “quick with the child here, or i set my dogs on you !" “so! i don't deserve a florin !" answered the bag, with a scornful laugh. “ha! see, before many years, how much of your inheritance sells for a silver florin. here, take back your pennies.” saying this, she threw the bits of copper to the count with so much skill that each fell exactly into the small leathern purse which he still held in his hand. the count was silent for several minutes with aston- ishment at her dexterity ; but at length his amazement changed to wrath. he seized his gun, and, cocking it, took aim at the old woman. she fondled and kissed the little count with great composure, holding him carefully before her, so that the bullet must have first struck him. “you are a good, pious child," said she; “ remain so, and you will never suffer." then set- ting him down, she shook her finger at the count: “ zollern, zollern, you owe me a silver florin !” she shrieked, and, untroubled by his curses, she crept into the wood, leaning for support on her staff. conrad, the count's squire, dismounted, trembling, from his horse, and, placing the little noble on his saddle, mounted behind him, and rode after his master to the castle. this was the first and only time that thunder-storm von zollern ever took his son to ride. because he had wept and cried when the horse broke into a trot, he the prophecy of the silver florin. held him to be a cowardly lad, of whom no good could be expected. he never saw him but with displeasure, and as often as the boy, who loved his father from his heart, came fondly to his knees, he would push him away, crying: “i knew so! stuff and nonsense !” lady hedwig had borne submissively all her husband's ill- humor and ferocity, but this cruel treatment of her innocent child undermined her health. she sickened from terror several times when the gloomy count pun- ished the boy severely for some trifling fault, and died at last, in the prime of life, mourned by her household and the whole neighborhood, and most deeply of all by her infant son. from this time the count's feelings became more and more alienated from his little heir. he committed him to the nurse and the chaplain to be brought up ; and for the future saw little of him, especially after marrying a rich lady, shortly subsequent to the countess' death, who, after the lapse of a year, presented him with twins. euno's favorite walk was to the old woman who had saved his life. she told him many anecdotes of his dead mother, and how much kindness she had always received from her. the maids and grooms warned him frequently against going so often to see the old woman of feldheim, as they called her, as she was neither more nor less than a witch ; but the child felt no fears, for the chaplain told him that witches had never existed; and that the traditions of old women being able to bewitch people, and to ride on broomsticks through the air to the brocken, were totally false. to be sure, he saw several things about the beldame which he could not quite comprehend. her adroitness with the three pen- nies, which she had thrown so skilfully into his father's purse, he still remembered perfectly; and she under- arabian days' entertainments. stood the composition of all kinds of draughts and oint. ments with which to heal the illnesses of men and cat- tle ; but he was certain there was no truth in the story people told that she had a weather-pan, as they called it, which, when hung over her fire, brought on frightful thunder-storms. she taught the little count many things very useful to him ; for example, several cures for horse-maladies, a remedy against hydrophobia, an irresistible bait for fish, and many other valuable bits of information. this old creature was soon his only intimate, for his nurse died, and his stepmother never concerned herself about him. as his brothers grew up, euno led a more unhappy life than before, for they had the good fortune not to fall from the horse on their first ride with their father; and thunder-storm von zollern held them therefore for intelligent lads, loved them exclusively, and rode every day with them, teaching them everything he knew him- self. they learned little that was good, however. their father could neither read nor write, and he was resolved that his precious sons should not waste their time over such useless studies; and, when only ten years old, they could curse and swear as frightfully as their father, pick a quarrel with any one they saw fit, and fight with each other as savagely as cat and dog, becom- ing friends again only when they waged war with euno. their mother was perfectly indifferent to this, for she considered the children's quarrelling to be wholesome and useful ; but, on a servant's mentioning it one day to the old count, though he answered, “i knew it before ; stuff and nonsense !” he resolved to devise some means to prevent his sons from striking each other dead in their furious quarrels. the threat of the old woman of feldheim, whom he firmly believed to be a desperate arabian days' entertainments. “stuff and nonsense!” and he continued to curse and swear till he died. scarcely was his body in the ground, when the count- ess came with the will in her hand, and said scornfully to euno, her step-son, that he could now give a proof of his erudition by reading with his own eyes the con- tents of the will, namely, that he had no further claim to zollern ; and she and her sons congratulated them- selves over the beautiful property and the two castles out of which they had defrauded the first-born. euno submitted without a murmur, but took leave with tears of the castle in which he had been born, under which his mother lay buried, and near to which his only friend, the woman of feldheim, had her cottage. the castle of silverburg was a handsome, stately struc- ture, but he found it lonely and desolate, and soon grew ill from home-sickness for hohenzollern. the countess, and the two brothers now eighteen years old, were sitting one evening on the balcony, and looking down the mountain-side, when their eyes rested on a knight, approaching on horseback, followed by a sumptuous litter and several attendants. they made numberless surmises as to who it could be, and “little rogue” exclaimed at last : “by jove, it's no other than our most honorable brother of silverburg!" "who? that stupid euno ?” said the countess, sur- prised. “no doubt he means to do us the honor to invite us to visit him, and has brought that handsome litter to carry me to silverburg. come, so much polite- ness i never expected from the blockhead. one civility deserves another; so let us go down to the castle gate to receive him. put on your most friendly looks, sons, and perhaps he will give you something from silver- the prophecy of the silver florin. burg; you a horse, perhaps, and the other a coat of armor. i have been wishing a great while for his moth- er's jewelry.” “i want no presents from euno," answered wolf, "and i will put on no friendly looks. as far as i am concerned, he may follow my excellent progenitor to the grave as soon as he likes ; for then we should inherit silverburg, and we would let you have the jewels, mother, cheap." “so, you profligate,” answered his mother angrily, “must i buy the jewels of you? is this your gratitude for my having secured zollern for you? rogue, you will give me the jewels for nothing, i am sure ?”. "only death can be had for nothing, mother!” an- swered her son, laughing ; “and if it is true that his mother's jewels are worth as much as many a castle, as folks say they are, we are not such fools as to hang them round your neck for nothing. as soon as euno dies, we will ride over there and divide these jewels, and i shall sell my share for what they will bring. if you offer more than the jews, mother dear, you shall have them, i promise you." they had by this time reached the castle gate, and it was with difficulty that madam the countess repressed her anger sufficiently to receive count euno civilly, as he rode over the drawbridge. seeing his step-mother and his brothers, he checked his steed, and, dismount- ing, greeted them courteously. for though they had done him great wrong, yet he kept it in mind that the two young men were his brothers, and that his father had once loved this wicked woman, “now, this is delightful, that the oldest son should come to see us in this way," said the countess, with a heavenly smile and melodious voice. “how do you arabian days' entertainments. enjoy silverburg? do you grow accustomed to the place? i see you have a litter, too! ay, and how handsome it is! an empress need not be ashamed of it! i suppose it will not be long before you have a countess to ride about the country in it?" “i have not yet thought of that matter, madam,” answered euno ; " for which reason i desire to take a friend to my house, and have therefore brought hither this litter.” “indeed, sir, you are extremely polite," interrupted the lady, with a bow. - "you know he finds horseback riding difficult at his years,” continued euno calmly ; “i refer, of course, to father joseph, your chaplain. i desire to take him with me for a while, as he was my tutor in my boyhood, you know, madam, and he agreed to pay me a visit when i left zollern. i design also taking with me the old woman of feldheim. she saved my life once, when i rode out for the first time with my lamented father. i have room enough for her in silverburg, and there she shall breathe her last.” saying this, he passed through the court-yard in search of the reverend chaplain. wolf bit his lips with rage, and his mother the count- ess turned yellow with fury, but rogue burst into a fit of laughter. “what will you give me for the horse he is going to present me with ? ” said he. “brother wolf, give me your coat of mail in exchange? ha, ha, ha! so he means to take the chaplain and the old witch with him, does he ? a lovely couple, upon my word! in the forenoons he can study greek with the reverend, and take lessons in witchcraft in the afternoons of the old woman! what will stupid euno do next, i wonder?" “he is a very vulgar fellow," answered the count- the prophecy of the silver florin. ess, “and you ought not to laugh, rogue. it is a dis- grace to the whole family, and we shall blush to look our neighbors in the face when it becomes known that count von zollern has carried that old witch to his cas- tle, and lets her live there. he got his low tastes from his mother, who had the same vulgar fondness for sick beggars and such base animals. o, his father would turn in his coffin, if he knew this!” “yes," added rogue, “father would say in the tomb, “i knew so; stuff and nonsense !'". “upon my word! here he comes with the old man, and not ashamed to walk with him arm-in-arm !” cried the countess with horror. “come away, my sons; i will see him no more.” they disappeared, and euno accompanied his old teacher to the drawbridge, and helped him into the litter with his own hands. at the foot of the mountain, he stopped before the cottage of the woman of feldheim, and found her ready and waiting for his arrival. the result was otherwise than the countess' wicked imagination had anticipated. no one in the neighbor- hood felt the slightest surprise at what count euno had done. on the contrary, they considered it a praisewor- thy action in him to desire to render happy the old age of the venerable woman, and they praised him as a pious christian for having taken father joseph into his castle. the only persons incensed with him were his brothers and the countess ; but solely to their own disgrace ; for the whole neighborhood were indignant at the conduct of the unnatural brothers, and in retri- bution the rumor was circulated that they lived on ill terms with their mother, and were incessantly wran- gling and injuring each other. count euno of zollern-silverburg made many efforts * arabian days' entertainments. to effect a reconciliation between his brothers and bim- self; for he found it insupportable to have them riding by his castle, and never addressing or visiting him; or meeting him often in the wood or plain, and greeting hini distantly, like a total stranger. but all his at- tempts were fruitless, and responded to only by addi- tional insults. one day, a method suggested itself by which he might possibly win their regard, knowing, as he did, their natural selfishness and greed. a pond lay between, and almost equi-distant from the three castles, and just within the borders of euno's domains. it was peopled by the finest carps and pike in the whole neighborhood, and the brothers, who loved to fish, found it an intense source of regret that their father had forgotten to include this pond within their limits. they were too haughty to fish there without their brother's knowledge, and yet unwilling, by civili- ties, to obtain his consent. count euno knew, how- ever, that this pond lay near their hearts, and one day he invited them to meet him there. it was a charming spring morning when the three brothers, almost at the same moment, reached the pond from their respective castles. “well,” cried rogue, “this is remarkable! i left roguesburg as the clock struck seven.” “and i zollern” — “and i silverburg” — answered his two brothers. “ this pond must be exactly in the centre,” con- tinued rogue ; “it is a beautiful bit of water." “yes, and i have invited you here for that very rea- son. i know that both of you are fond of fishing, and though i am inclined sometimes to throw a fly myself, yet the pond has fish enough to supply us all, and there is room enough on its shores even if we all fish at the the prophecy of the silver florin. ers and them në ng his d greit all bini same time. so i am willing that from this day the water shall be common property, and each of you shall have equal rights in it with myself.” “hollo ! our noble brother is uncommonly gracious to-day,” said rogue, with a scornful laugh. “he has positively given us a few hogsheads of water and a couple of hundred fish! bah! what must we give in return? for only death is gratis in this world.” “you shall have it for nothing," said euno. "ah! i only wish to see and speak with you sometimes at this pond. are we not all sons of one father?" "no!" answered rogue. “this arrangement is absurd, for nothing is more foolish than to fish in com- pany. each one frightens away the others' fish. but divide the days: monday and thursday you, euno; tuesday and friday wolf; and i wednesday and sat- urday, and it will suit us exactly.” “i will have nothing of the sort,” cried the savage wolf; “i will take no present, and will share with no one. you are right, euno, to offer us this pond, for we have properly all three an equal right in it. but let us throw dice to decide who shall own it for the future. if i am more lucky than you, and win it, you may always ask my permission to fish here." "i never throw dice," answered euno, mourning over the obduracy of his brothers. “of course not,” sneered rogue. “he is very reli- gious, this noble brother of ours, and considers dice- playing a mortal sin. but i propose another plan, at which the most god-fearing monk could have no scru- ples. let us get our fishing-tackle out, and he who has taken the most fish when the clock at zollern strikes twelve shall own the pond.” "i am a fool indeed," said euno, "to risk on a wager arabian days' entertainments. that which belongs to me already. but, to prove to you that i was sincere in my proposal of division, i will bring my fishing-tackle here and make the trial.” they rode away, each to his castle. the twins sent out their servants in all haste to turn over every stone to find bait. euno, however, took his ordinary tackle, and the bait which the woman of feldheim had taught him to prepare, and was the first to appear at the place of meeting. when the twins arrived he permitted them to select the most convenient places, and then threw in his line. it seemed as if the fish recognized him as their master. the carp and pike rushed and played round his hook in shoals. the oldest and biggest pushed the smaller ones away, and every moment he drew one out; and when he threw his line again into the water twenty or thirty opened their mouths above the surface to snap at the hook. two hours had not passed before the ground around him was covered with the finest fish. he stopped fishing, and went to his brothers to see what progress they had made. rogue had caught two wretched cuttle-fish and a carp; wolf, three barbel and two little groundlings; and both were gazing disconso- lately into the pond, for from where they stood they could see plainly the shoals of fish which euno had taken. when euno came up to wolf, the latter sprang up in a fury, and, tearing off the line, broke his pole in pieces, and threw the whole into the water. "i wish it was a thousand hooks instead of one which i throw in, and one of your creatures here would bite at every one of them !” he shouted. “but it can never have happened thus by fair means; it is jugglery and witch- craft, or how, blockhead euno, could you catch more fish in an hour than i can in a year ?” “ay, ay, i remember now," said rogue; "he has the prophecy of the silver florin. learned to fish of the woman of feldheim, that horrible witch, and we were fools to fish with him. he will be a wizard himself before long.” "you wicked men,” answered euno, in anger; “i have had abundant time in this short morning to see your greediness, your impudence, and your ferocity. leave this place and never return to it; and, believe me, it were better for your souls if you were half as pious and good as the woman you call a witch." "no, on second thoughts, she can't be a real witch," said rogue, laughing scornfully. “witches can fore- tell future events ; but this woman of feldheim can no more foretell events than a goose can turn into a swan. she told father that a good part of his property would be worth less than a silver florin. she meant, of course, he would lose it all; and yet, when he died, every acre one can see from the turrets of zollern belonged to him. bah! the old woman of feldheim is nothing but a silly old idiot, and you are a stupid blockhead, euno!” saying this, rogue retired in a great hurry, for he feared his brother's strong arm, and wolf followed him, yelling all the curses which he had learned from his father. euno returned to his castle, grieved to the depths of his soul, for he saw that his brothers and himself would never more be friends. he took their brutal language so much to heart that the next day he was ill, and only the pious consolations of father joseph, and the effica- cious liquids of the old woman of feldheim saved him from death. when the two brothers heard that euno was lying ill at home, they held at once a great feast; and, flushed with wine, promised each other that when blockhead euno should die, he who learned it first would fire all arabian days' entertainments.:. his cannon to communicate the fact to the other, and he who first fired should be entitled to carry off the best cask of wine in euno's cellar. wolf, from this time, had one of his servants always waiting in the neighbor- hood of castle silverburg; and rogue bribed one of euno's servants, with large sums of money, to let him know the instant his master lay at the point of death. this servant however was more attached to his pious and gentle master than to the wicked count of rogues, burg; he inquired therefore one evening, secretly, of the old woman of feldheim, as to his master's condition ; and, on her telling him that he was nearly recovered, he informed her of the agreement of the two brothers, and that they intended to discharge cannon in celebration of count euno's death. the old lady was excessively angry. she speedily reported it to the count; and on his refusing to believe in such utter heartlessness, ad- vised him to put the matter to the proof, and cause it to be given out that he was dead; whereupon he would soon hear whether they fired their cannon or not. · the count summoned the servant whom his brother had bribed, questioned him further, and ordered him to ride to roguesburg and announce his immediate death. while the groom was riding rapidly down the moun- tain-side, he was stopped by the servant of count wolf, who inquired why he was riding so hastily. “ah!" said the other, “my poor master will never live through the night; they have all given him over.” “so, it's come at last!” cried the first; and, run- ning to his horse, he mounted, and galloped so rapidly to zollern that his horse fell at the gate, and he himself could only gasp the words, “ count euno is dying," be- fore he dropped senseless. the cannon of hohenzol- lern at once thundered forth the information, and count the prophecy of the silver florin. wolf and his mother congratulated each other over the cask of wine, the inheritance, the pond, the jewels, and the glorious echo of the cannon. but what they took for an echo were the cannon of roguesburg, and wolf said, with a laugh, to his mother: “so rogue has had his spies out as well as myself, and we shall have to divide the wine like the rest of the inheritance." he then mounted his horse, for he suspected his brother rogue might attempt to get before him, and perhaps take away some of the treasures of the deceased before he came. the two brothers encountered one another at the fish- pond, and each blushed as he met the other's gaze, for each had intended to arrive at silverburg first. they. spoke not a syllable of euno as they rode on, but dis- cussed in a friendly way how the property should be divided, and which should take silverburg. but, as they crossed the drawbridge, and rode into the court, whom should they see but their brother euno looking from the window, to all appearance perfectly well! the brothers were greatly startled, and, taking him for a spectre, crossed themselves devoutly. but, soon seeing that he was good flesh and blood, wolf cried, “ hol- lo! this is strange. stuff and nonsense! i thought you were dead." “well, better luck next time!” said rogue, looking up at euno with poisonous glances. euno answered in a voice of thunder: “from this hour all bonds of relationship are broken between us. i well understood your salvoes of artillery ; but mark, i have also five field-pieces in the court, and have loaded them to the muzzle in your honor. away with you beyond the range of my bullets, or you shall be taught how we aim in silverburg!”. arabian days' entertainments. - - the twins gave no time for this warning to be re- peated, for they saw from his manner that he was thor- oughly in earnest; so, putting spurs to their steeds, they hurried down the mountain, while their brother sent a cannon-ball after them so close to their heads that both made a courteous bow to avoid it. his object, however, was more to terrify than to injure them. “why did you fire your cannon ?” asked rogue, angrily. “i only fired because i heard yours, you fool !” “on the contrary, ask mother how it was,” answered wolf. “it was you who fired first, and you have brought this disgrace on us, you puppy!” rogue was not sparing of epithets; and when they reached the fish-pond, they mutually lavished on each other the curses they had inherited from old “thun- der-storm von zollern,” and parted in hate and enmity. the next day euno made his will, and the woman of feldheim said to father joseph: “i would wager something he speaks of that cannon-firing as it deserves.” but, spite of her curiosity, the count refused to tell her what he had written, and she never learned ; for, a year afterwards, the good lady departed, her salves and medicines rendering her no service; she died of a trifling illness, but in the ninety-eighth year of her age ; a period of life at which a strong and healthy man need not be ashamed to render up the ghost. count euno caused her obsequies to be celebrated as if she had been his own mother, and his castle became more and more lonesome and distasteful to him, especially as father joseph soon after followed the old lady of feldheim to the grave. but this loneliness afflicted him not much longer. count euno died in his eight and twentieth year, sus the prophecy of the silver florin. pected by many to have been poisoned through the instrumentality of rogue. however this may have been, not many hours elapsed after his death, before the thunder of the cannon again echoed through the valley; and in zollern and rogues- burg five and twenty salvoes of artillery were let off. " this time, he is really dead, and there is no mistake about it,” said rogue, when they met on their way to silverburg. “yes,” answered wolf, " and if he rises again and comes to the window, as he did before, i have a gun here which shall make him civil, i promise you." as they rode up to silverburg, they were joined by a knight and his suite, whom they did not recognize. they supposed him to be some friend of their brother, who had come to attend his funeral. they, therefore, assumed an air of intense grief, and, praising the char- acter of the deceased, mourned his early death ; while rogue even succeeded in shedding a few crocodile- tears over their bereavement. the knight made no reply to these eulogies, but rode at their side up the mountain, silent and impassive. “so, now let us make ourselves comfortable,” cried wolf, dismounting. “butler, some of your best wine here!” they passed up the winding stairs, and entered the hall. thither the silent horseman followed them, and, after the twins had seated themselves gayly at the table, he drow from his doublet a piece of silver, and, throw- ing it on the stone table, where it rolled and tinkled, said: “there is your inheritance, gentlemen, exactly one silver florin.” the two brothers looked at the knight with surprise, and inquired with a sneer what he meant. the knight drew forth a sheet of parchment, with arabian days' entertainments. numerous seals; in it the “blockhead” euno had recited all the wrongs which his brothers had done him during his life, and at the end of it he had ordered and directed that his whole property, goods and chattels, should, in case of his death, be sold to wurtemburg, and for the price of — a paltry silver forin! his mother's jewels, he directed, should be devoted to the erection of a house for the poor in the village of balingen! the brothers' faces were pictures of astonishment, but their laughter suddenly ceased, and they bit their lips in fury at their inability to resist the city of wur- temburg. and thus they had forfeited lands, forests, fields, the village of balingen, and even the fish-pond, and inherited nothing but a contemptible florin! this, wolf thrust insolently into his doublet, and, dashing his cap on his head, left the castle without a word of salu- tation to the commissioner from wurtemburg, and, throwing himself on his horse, rode home to zollern. tormented by the complaints of his mother that they had forfeited estates and jewels at once, he rode over the next morning to rogue, at roguesburg. “shall we spend our inheritance in gambling or drinking ?” he inquired. “drinking is the best,” said rogue, " for then we both get the benefit of it. let us ride to balingen, and show ourselves to the rabble, to prove our indifference to the loss of their dirty village.” “ and they sell red wine there, at the lamb, fit for an emperor,” added wolf. so they rode to balingen, and, dismounting at the lamb, demanded a measure of red wine, and continued to drink till their florin was fully due. wolf then rose, and drawing out the silver coin, threw it on the table the prophecy of the silver florin. and said, “there is a florin for your "reckoning, landlord.” the landlord took up the florin, and, turning it over in his hand, said with a laugh: “yes, gentlemen, very true ; but yesterday evening a messenger came from stuttgart, and this morning it has been published here, in the name of the city of wurtemburg, to whom this village belongs now, that these are declared un- current; so you must give me other money.” • the two brothers looked at each other with pal- lid faces. “pay, wolf,” said one. “have you no change?” said the other; and, in short, they were obliged to owe the money to the landlord. they returned home silent and thoughtful. when they reached the cross-road, which led on the right to zol- lern, and left to roguesburg, rogue said: “ well, wolf, it seems we have inherited actually less than nothing, and the wine was abominable besides." "true enough," answered his brother ; “what the old woman of feldheim foretold has come to pass. we have not been able to buy even a measure of wine with our inheritance.” “i know it already!” retorted rogue, sulkily. “ stuff and nonsense !” said zollern, and rode to his castle, furious against himself and all the world. “this is the story of the prophecy of the silver florin,” said the compass-maker, “and there is no doubt of its truth. the landlord in durrwangen, which lies not far from the three castles, told it to a friend of mine, who frequently travels over the swabian alps, and who always puts up at that tavern." the guests expressed their approval. “what things one does hear in this world !” cried the carrier. arabian days' entertainments. “really, i am very glad we did not spend our time playing cards, for this is so much better; and i have paid so much attention to the story, that i can tell it to my comrades to-morrow, without missing a word.” “a clever story occurred to me, while you were telling yours," said the student. “ , tell it ! tell it !” cried the compass-maker and felix in one breath. “very well,” answered the other ; “it is immaterial whether my turn comes now or later; you must under- stand that what i am about to tell you actually took place.” he assumed an easy posture, and was on the point of beginning his story, when the landlady set her spin- ning-wheel aside, and came towards the guests at the table. “gentlemen, it is time to go to bed,” said she. “it has struck nine, and you can have all day to-morrow.” “what! go to bed now !” exclaimed the student; “ my dear madam, set a bottle of wine before us, and we will keep you up no longer.” "out of the question,” replied she, surlily ; “ as long as the guests remain in the kitchen, the landlady and servants never go to bed. in short, gentlemen, be off to your rooms. i am tired, and nobody tipples in my house after nine o'clock." “what are you thinking of, landlady?" asked the compass-maker in amazement. “what objection can you have to our sitting here, if you are not kept up by us? we are honest people, and shall carry nothing away, nor leave your house without paying our bills. such treatment as this i never met with in a tavern in all my life.” the woman's eyes flashed with anger. “do you * the tavern În spessart. think," said she, “ that i am going to change all my rules for the sake of every fool of a journeyman, or every loafer who owes me a dozen kreutzers ? i tell you once for all, i 'll do no such thing." the young man was about to make some reply to this tirade, when the student gave him a meaning glance, and made a sign to the rest. “well,” said he, “if the landlady insists on it, we will go to our rooms. of course you will give us lights to find our way with ?” “it cannot be done,” replied the woman angrily. “ the others must find their way in the dark, and this bit of candle is big enough for your purposes. i have nothing else in the house.” the young gentleman made no answer, but silently took up the candle, and rose from his seat. the others followed his example, and the two journeymen took up their bundles to carry them to their chamber. they then followed the student, who lighted them up stairs. when they came to the top, the student requested them to walk softly, and, opening his chamber door, invited them by a gesture to enter. “ there can be no doubt,” said he,“ that they mean to betray us. did you notice how earnestly she tried to send us to bed, and how she deprived us of all means of keeping together and remaining awake? she thinks, probably, we shall soon go to sleep, and her game will be all the easier." “but do you think we cannot escape?” said felix. “in the wood we might defend ourselves more easily than in this room." “the windows are all barred, like those below," said the student, trying in vain to loosen one of the iron cross-bars. “but one way of escape is left to us, * arabian days' entertainments. and that is by the front door; but i do not believe they would let us go out." “we can but try it," said the carrier. “i will try whether i can go out into the court-yard. if it can be done, i will come back and show you the way.” the rest approving of this proposition, the carrier slipped off his shoes and crept on tiptoe down stairs. his comrades listened in intense anxiety from their chamber above. already had half the flight been de- scended without mishap, when, as the carrier turned a corner round a pillar, a huge dog suddenly rose on his hind legs before him, and, resting his paws on his shoulders, showed a double row of long, sharp teeth, directly before his eyes. he was afraid either to ad- vance or retreat, for, at his slightest movement, the hor- rible creature snapped fiercely at his throat. he began, therefore, a fearful howling and bellowing, and the hostler and the landlady speedily made their appearance with lights in their hands. “where are you going? what do you want?” cried the mistress of the house. "i want to get something from my cart," answered the carrier, trembling for his life, for, as the door opened he had caught sight of several dark, suspicious-looking men with guns in their hands, sitting in the kitchen. " you should have got all you wanted before," said the landlady grufilly. “grip, come here. jacob, open the front door, and light the gentleman to his cart.” the dog withdrew his frightful muzzle from the car- rier's face, and lay down again on the stairs ; the hostler meanwhile had thrown open the door, and held a light for the carrier. while thinking what he should select from the articles in his cart, he called to mind a pound of wax candles which he was to carry to the neighbor- the tavern in spessart. ing city on the following day. “that little candle-end will hardly last a quarter of an hour,” said he to him- self, "and lights we must have.” so, taking a couple of wax candles and concealing them in his sleeve, he took for the sake of appearance a thick cloak from the cart, which he told the groom he wanted to cover himself with during the night. he returned to the chamber of the student without accident. here he told his comrades of the large dog keeping watch on the stairs, of the men of whom he had caught a momentary glimpse, and of all the precau- tions the robbers had taken to insure success, and ended with a sigh, saying, “we shall never live through this night.” . "i do not think so," answered the student. “i can- not believe these robbers so reckless as to sacrifice the lives of four men for the sake of the trifling gain they can expect to make out of us. but we had better offer no resistance i think. i, for my part, am willing to abandon all i have. my horse is already in their hands; it cost me fifty ducats only four weeks ago; and my purse and clothes i will surrender willingly, for i confess i value my life more than all these put to- gether." “you have spoken sensibly,” said the carrier, “as far as you yourself are concerned, for such things as you can lose can put you to little inconvenience. but i am the carrier from aschaffenburg, and have all sorts of valuable articles in my cart, to say nothing of two fine horses in the stable here, which are all i own in the world.” “i hardly believe they will do you any injury,” inter- posed the compass-maker. “the robbery of a carrier would make too great an excitement through the coun. arabian days' entertainments. try. i am of the opinion of this gentleman. i would rather surrender everything i have in the world, and take an oath to say nothing about it, than venture my life against men with pistols and guns in their hands." in the course of these observations the carrier had produced his wax candles, and, lighting one of them, set it on the table. “then let us trust in god," said he," and await what happens. let us sit down again together, and keep ourselves awake by story-telling." “good; so we will," answered the student; “and, as the turn came to me, i will tell you my story now.” the cold heart. part first. whoever journeys through swabia should, on no ac- count, neglect to pay a visit to the black forest; not so much to see the forest itself, — although such countless numbers of vast pines are not to be found in all coun- tries, -as to study the inhabitants, between whom and the people in the neighborhood there exists a striking difference. they are of larger stature than the gener- ality of men, with broad shoulders and strong limbs, and seem as if the invigorating air, which at morning blows through the pine trees, had imparted to them from their youth up a freer breath, a clearer eye, and a ruder courage, than to the inhabitants of the valleys and the plains. and not only in height and bearing, but in their habits and manners also, they differ strikingly from the people outside. the residents in the black forest dress themselves with much taste ; the men allow the beard, which nature has planted on the chin, to grow to . tv part var i! the cold heart. mw wo win lume my sdn o . in w : da 'flobin the cold heart. its full length, and their black doublets, huge, loose trousers, red stockings, and pointed hats encircled by a wide flapping brim, give them a peculiar but dignified appearance. their occupation is principally glass- making; but they also manufacture watches, and carry them over half the world. on the opposite side of the forest dwell a branch of the same people, whose mode of life has given them habits and customs differing from those of their glass- making brethren. they deal with their forest; they fell and hew the pine trees, and float them down the magold to the neckar, from the neckar to the rhine, till the people of the black forest and their huge rafts are known as far as holland. they halt at all the cities on the streams down which they pass, and wait till men come to buy their timbers and boards; and their strong- est and longest timbers they sell to the mynheers to build ships with. these men are accustomed to a wild and wandering existence ; their chief enjoyment is to descend their rivers on their rafts, their sole regret to return again to shore. their dress differs much from that of the glass-blowers in the other part of the forest. their doublets are of dark-colored linen, with suspend- ers of green material, the width of the hand, crossing on their breasts, and their trousers are of black leather, from whose pockets project brass foot-rules. but their chief pride is in their boots, which are longer than those worn anywhere else in the world, for their wide legs reach high above the knee, and the wearers can walk for hours dry-shod through three feet of water. till within a recent period the dwellers of the forest firmly believed in wood-demons, and only very lately has this degrading superstition been at all diminished in strength. it is a singular fact, moreover, that these arabian days' entertainments. demons, who are reputed to dwell in the black forest, wear the same distinctive garments as the human inhab- itants. thus, it is said that the glass manikin, a be- nevolent spirit about four feet in height, never appears but in a peaked hat with a wide brim, a doublet, trou- sers, and red stockings. hollander michael, on the other hand, who resides on the other side of the forest, is described as a huge, broad-shouldered fellow, in the dress of a woodman; and several persons who have seen him have solemnly declared that their purses were not deep enough to buy the calves whose skins would be required to make his boots. “they would take in a com- mon man up to his neck,” they asserted, and never would confess to the least exaggeration in their statement. a young native of the black forest was in the habit of describing, not long ago, a strange adventure with these wood-demons, which i will now tell you. there was a certain widow, mistress barbara munk, who lived in the black forest, whose husband had been a charcoal-burner; and, after his death, she had brought up her son, a lad of sixteen years, to the same business. young peter munk, a sharp-witted youth, was for a time satisfied with his lot, for during his father's life he had never looked at the matter otherwise than as sitting the whole week near the roaring kiln, or going down to the city, black and dirty, to sell the coal. but a char- coal-burner has much leisure for reflection; and when peter sat at his kiln, the waving trees overhead, the pro- found silence of the forest, moved his heart to unwonted tears and longings. something, he knew not what, inspired him with a mixed feeling of despondency and anger. at last, however, he discovered the cause of these emotions: it was his station in life. “a dirty, lonely charcoal-burner !” he said to himself. “it is a the cold heart. miserable life. how respectable are glass-blowers, watch-makers, musicians ! but when peter munk makes his appearance, washed and dressed, in his father's best doublet with silver buttons, and his bran- new red stockings, and any one comes behind him and says, 'who can this slim lad be?' and secretly ad- mires his stockings and his graceful walk, when he passes me and looks in my face, he is sure to say, ‘bah, it's only peter munk, the charcoal-burner!'". the woodmen on the other side of the forest were also objects of his envy. when these wood-giants came over, in their handsome 'dresses, and carrying on their person, in chains, buekles and buttons, half a hundred weight of silver, when they stood looking on at the dance with straddled legs and grinning faces, with their dutch oaths, and their cologne pipes a yard in length, like distinguished mynheers, peter would hold them up to his imagination as perfect pictures of happy men. and when these fortunate beings thrust their hands into their pockets, and, pulling out hand- fuls of great dollars, squandered instead of a paltry sixpence, like peter, six florins here and ten there, peter's strength of mind gave way, and he would sneak home miserable to his hut. for many a holiday he had seen one or another of these “wood-masters" play away more money in five minutes than poor peter could hope to earn in a year. there were three of these men especially of whom he could not determine which to admire the most. one of them was a thick, stout man, with a red face, who passed for the richest person in the neighborhood. they called him fat ezekiel. he made two journeys every year to amsterdam, and had the good fortune to sell his timber invariably so much dearer than his rivals that, while the others came home the cold heart. day, sorrowfully; for the day before had been a holiday, and everybody had met at the tavern ; “if luck does n't come to me soon, i shall do something i shall be sorry for. if i were only now as rich and distinguished as fat ezekiel, or as bold and influential as long slurker, or could toss dollars to the musicians like king dance! where can that fellow have got his money?" he went over in his mind every method of earning a fortune he could think of; but none suited him. at last occurred to his mind the traditions he had heard, of people who had been made rich years ago by “hollander michael ” and the “glass manikin.” while his father was alive, a good many poor men had been to visit him, and they had talked of little else but men of wealth, and how they had got their money. in many of these stories the glass manikin had played an important part; and, as peter sat pondering, he could almost remember the verse of poetry which must be spoken at the great pine in the middle of the forest to make the manikin appear. it began thus, he was sure : “ treasurer in the forest green, who so many hundred years hast seen, thine is the land where the pine-trees stand," — but, rub up his memory as he pleased, he could not call to mind another line. he deliberated whether he should inquire of some old man what the rest of the verse was ; but a dislike to betray his thoughts re- pressed his impulse, and, besides, he decided that the tradition of the glass manikin could not be widely known, and very few persons must be acquainted with the poetry, for rich men were not numerous in the for- est; and why had not his father and the other poor men the cold heart. about their roots. besides, the finest trees could only have been used for firewood, for the raftsmen never admitted a tree from this dangerous group among their other timber, from respect for the tradition that both man and timber would surely be unlucky if one of these pine-trees was with them afloat; and hence it came, that in the pine group here the trees stood so lofty and crowded, that even at mid-day it seemed almost night. peter munk's heart was in a fearful state of agitation ; for he heard no voice, no footstep but his own, and even the birds seemed to avoid this scene of gloom. the charcoal-burner had now reached the highest point of the pine grove, and took his stand before a tree of prodigious girth, which a dutch shipwright would have given many hundred florins for as it stood. “here,” thought he, “must the treasurer surely dwell,” and, removing his large hat and making a hum- ble reverence to the tree, he cleared his throat, and said, in a trembling voice : “i wish you a pleasant evening, mr. glass-blower !” no answer came, and everything was silent as before. “perhaps i must repeat the verses,” thought he; and he muttered, in a low tone : - treasurer in the forest green, who so many hundred years hast seen, thine is the land where the pine-trees stand," as he said these words, he saw, to his intense alarm, a little singular apparition, peering out from behind the vast tree. he saw the glass manikin precisely as he had heard him described ; the little black doublet, the red stockings, the tiny hat, all, even to the pale, shrewd, handsome face of which he had heard so much, he now believed he had this instant caught a glimpse arabian days' entertainments. of. but, unluckily, rapidly as the manikin had peeped out, he had darted back again as rapidly. “mr. glass-blower,” cried peter, after a pause, “be reasonable, if you please, and don't take me for a fool. mr. glass-blower, if you think i did n't see you, you are very much mistaken ; for i distinctly saw you peep out from behind that tree.” still no answer, though he thought occasionally he could distinguish a faint giggle behind the trunk. at last his impatience overcame the terror which had hitherto restrained him. “wait, you little chap!” cried he; “i'll catch you in a twinkling!” and he sprang, with one bound, behind the tree; but no treasurer could he find in the green thicket, and he saw nothing but an active little squirrel darting up the trunk. peter munk shook his head. he saw that he had succeeded perfectly with the exorcism to a certain point, and that perhaps a single rhyme only was want- ed to enable him to entice the manikin wholly out. he rubbed his ear; he scratched his pate ; but all in vain. the squirrel took its seat on the lowest branch, and seemed to be laughing at him. it dressed its fur, whisked its pretty tail, and looked at peter with its cunning eyes, so that at last the lad began to be afraid to be alone with the creature ; for now it seemed to him the squirrel had a man's head, and wore a three-cor- nered hat; now again it had on its hind legs red stock- ings and black shoes. in short, the merry little animal alarmed peter a good deal, for he could not but think there was a great deal of mystery about it. peter left the place much more rapidly than he had come to it. the gloomy shades of the pine forest seemed to increase in depth, the trees to stand more compactly together, and he began to be so much terri- the cold heart. fied that he retreated on the full run; and not till he heard in the distance the barking of a dog, and saw the smoke of a cottage through the trees, did he become more easy and relieved in mind. but as he drew nearer, and could distinguish the costume of the people in the hut, he found that in his excitement he had taken a wrong direction, and, instead of the glass-blowers, had come among the raftsmen. the occupants of the hut he saw were wood-cutters ; they were an aged man, his son, the proprietor of the house, and several well-grown grand-children. they received peter, who begged lodging for the night, with great hospitality, making no inquiry into his name or residence, gave him plenty of cider to drink, and, in the evening, sat before him a roasted heathcock, the choicest delicacy of the black forest. after supper the mistress of the house and her daugh- ters seated themselves with their distaffs round a large torch supplied by the children with the finest resin ; the grandfather, the guest, and the husband, sat smoking and looking at the women; and the boys busied them- selves in making wooden spoons and forks. outside, the storm howled and roared through the pines ; the crash of falling trees was heard at frequent intervals, and the whole forest seemed to be breaking over their heads. the fearless boys wanted to run out into the wood to witness the terrible scene, but their grand- father checked them with a stern look and word. “i recommend no one,” said he, “to leave the house to- night, for by heaven he will never come back. hol- lander michael is felling a raft to-night.” · the boys looked at him in amazement; they had heard before of hollander michael, but they begged their grandfather to tell them, once for all, his whole * arabian days' entertainments. history. peter munk, also, who had heard indistinct rumors of hollander michael on the other side of the forest, chimed in with their entreaties, and inquired of the old man who and where he was. “he is the lord of this forest,” answered the gray- beard ; " and that at your age you have never yet heard about him shows that you do not live nearer than the pine grove on the hill yonder, and probably a good way further. i will tell you what little i know of hollander michael and the various traditions concerning him. a century ago, so my grandfather used to say, there were no more respectable, honorable people in the whole world than the dwellers in the black forest. now, since money has grown to be so plenty, men have become dishonest and wicked. the young fellows dance and revel on sundays, and swear enough to make your blood run cold. it was very different formerly ; and, if hollander michael were to look into that win- dow this moment, i would say, as i have often said before, that he is solely to blame for all this corruption. there lived a hundred years ago a rich timber-master hereabouts, who had many servants. he traded far down the rhine ; and, being a pious man, his business prospered. one evening a man came to his door whose equal he had never seen before. his dress was that of the lads of the black forest, but he was a head taller than any one else, and no man could have believed that such a giant existed. the stranger begged for employ- ment with the wood-cutters, and the wood-master, seeing his great strength and how much work he could do, settled the amount of wages he should pay him, and the bargain was struck. such a workman the master had never before had in his employ. at felling trees he was equal to three men; and when six were drag- the cold heart. ging at one end of a log, he carried the other with- out apparent exertion. after felling timber for six months he went to his master. “i have hewed wood long enough,” said he, “and would like to see where my trees go. what do you say to letting me take down your rafts one of these days.” the wood-master answered: “i will not stand in your way, michael, if you wish to see a little of the world. to be sure, i need for tree-felling strong, able- bodied men like you ; but still, your dexterity won't be wasted with my rafts; so, if you wish to go, i agree for once.” so the thing was settled. the raft which he was to manage had eight sections, the last one composed of the largest ship-timbers. but what happened? the evening before he was to start michael brought down to the river eight beams, far longer and bigger than any ever seen before, and yet carried so easily on his shoulder that all who saw him were aghast. where he had felled them, nobody knows to this day. the wood-master's heart laughed for joy on seeing them, for he saw at a glance what a monstrous price they would fetch ; and michael said: “these are for me to travel on; i should never get along on those wretched little joists there.” his master, in the height of his grati- tude, gave him a handsome pair of river-boots; but he threw them aside, and produced a pair of unheard-of dimensions ; my grandfather used to say that they weighed a hundred pounds, and stood at least five feet high. the raft set off; and if michael had hitherto aston- ished the wood-cutters, he now filled the raftsmen with utter amazement, for, instead of the raft's floating slowly down the stream, as people had expected from the vast arabian days' entertainments. size of the timber, no sooner had it reached the neckar than it flew along like an arrow. at every bend in the neckar, where the raftsmen usually had great trouble in keeping the raft in the middle and preventing it from striking on the gravel or sand, michael invariably sprang into the water and with one shove pushed the timber right or left, so that it slipped by without danger; and when he came to a straight part of the river, he ran forward on to the front division and, thrusting his huge weaver's beam into the gravel, with one mighty push would send the raft along so that shores and trees and villages seemed to be all racing in the contrary direc- tion. in this way, in half the time they usually required, they reached the city of cologne, where they were wont to dispose of their timber ; but here michael said: “you are fine merchants, are you not, and understand your business! do you suppose the people of cologne use all the timber which comes from the black forest ? no, they buy it of you for half its value, and sell it in hol- land again at double price. let us sell the small tim- bers here, and go ourselves with the larger ones to holland. whatever we get beyond the usual price is our own profit." thus spoke the crafty michael, and the others as- sented at once, some because they were anxious to visit holland, and others for the sake of the expected profit. one only of the gang was honest, and warned them against exposing their master's property to danger, or cheating him out of the higher price ; but the others would not listen, and forgot his words, though hollander michael did not. they descended the rhine with the raft, under michael's guidance, and soon arrived at rot- terdam. here they obtained fourfold the usual price for their goods, and michael's huge timbers especially the cold heart. fetched a monstrous sum of money. seeing so much gold within their reach, the black foresters lost all self- control. michael divided the purchase-money, one- fourth to his master and three to the raftsmen, and they squandered and gambled it away in all sorts of debauchery, frequenting the low pot-houses and taverns with sailors and other dissipated people; while the brave man who had attempted to dissuade them from their purpose was sold, it is thought, by michael to the devil, for he was never seen again. from this time holland was a paradise to the lads of the black forest, and hollander michael their king. their masters heard nothing of the proceeding for a long time; and money, swearing, bad manners, drunkenness, and gambling, came insensibly from holland to these once happy regions. when the story came out at last, hollander michael was nowhere to be found. but dead he certainly is not; for these hundred years past he has been playing his pranks in this forest, and they say he has helped a great many persons to grow rich, but — at the price of their poor souls, and i say no more of that. but this much is certain, that on just such stormy nights as this he tears down the largest pines in the pine grove yonder where no one works; and my father saw him once snap off one, four feet in diameter, like a reed. these he gives to those men who turn aside from virtue and follow him. at midnight they carry them down to the river, and he steers them down to holland. but if i were king of holland i would have him blown from the cannon's mouth, for every ship will surely sink which has in her one of hollander michael's timbers. this is why wo hear of so many shipwrecks ; for what else should make a handsome, strong ship, as big as a church, sink to arabian days' entertainments. the bottom of the ocean? i tell you, just so often as hollander michael fells a pine in the black forest, one of his old timbers springs out from the bottom of some ship; the water of course pours in, and the vessel is lost with crew and cargo. this is the story of hollander michael; and true it is that every evil in these woods must be ascribed to him. o, he can make a man rich!” added the old grandfather mysteriously; "but not for worlds would i take anything from him. i would n't be in the skin of fat ezekiel or long slurker for all the indies ! king dance has sold himself to him, too, or i am much mistaken.” the storm had gone down while the old man was speaking; the girls, trembling with fear, lighted their lamps and went away to bed, and the men laid a bag of leaves on the stove-bench as a pillow for peter munk, and bade him good-night. peter had never had such fearful dreams as on this night. now, he imagined that he saw the gigantic hollander michael tear open the cottage window, and hold in with his prodigiously long arm a purse full of gold pieces, which he shook together with a sweet metallic ring; now, on the other hand, he thought he saw the little, good-natured glass manikin riding round the room on a huge green bottle, and he thought he could again distinguish the faint giggle he had neard in the pine-grove. soon his left ear caught a murmur: “ in holland is gold, in sums untold, at a low price sold, gold, gold.” then he heard, in his right ear, the song of the treas- the cold heart. urer in the leafy pine forest, and a soft voice whispered : “stupid coal-burner, stupid peter munk, cannot find a word to rhyme with stand, and yet was born at noon on sunday! rhyme, stupid peter, rhyme ! ” he groaned and grunted in his sleep, trying to find a rhyme, but as he had never made one in his life, all the efforts of his dream were fruitless. waking with the earliest beams of morning, his memory still retained the marvels of the previous night, and, sitting near the table with folded arms, he pondered over the whispered words which still lingered in his ear. “rhyme, stupid peter, rhyme,” said he to himself, knocking at his fore- head with his finger ; but no rhyme came. as he was sitting staring at the floor and thinking of a rhyme for stand, three lads passed the house in the direction of the wood, and one of them sang : « on the mountain i did stand, and i gazed across the dell, and i saw her wave her hand in eternal farewell.” it went into peter's ear like a flash of lightning, and starting up hastily, in fear lest he had heard incor- rectly, he rushed from the house and seized the singer roughly by the arm. “halt, friend !” he cried, “what was your rhyme to stand ? do me the favor to repeat what you sang just now.” “what business is it of yours, man?” answered the youth, “i will sing just what i please; and let go my arm this moment, or — ". “you must and shall tell me what you were singing!” shouted peter, almost crazy with anxiety, and tighten- ing his grasp ; whereupon, the two others, without an instant's delay, seized him in their powerful grip, and the cold heart. linen cloth, and the huge boots drawn up over his leather breeches peter recognized at once as those described by tradition. "peter munk, what brings you to the pine grove?" asked the forest king at length in a deep and threaten- ing voice. “good-morning, mr. countryman,” answered peter, seeking to conceal his fear, but trembling violently; “i was only going home through this pine grove." “peter munk,” said the giant, turning on him a penetrating glance, "your road goes not through this grove." "no, sir, not exactly," replied peter, “but the day is warm, and i thought it would be cooler here." "no lies, charcoal-burner!" shouted hollander mi- chael, in a voice of thunder, “or i will strike you dead with this staff! think you i did not see you begging of the manikin ?” he added more softly. “pooh, pooh, peter! that was a stupid business, and you were lucky in not remembering the poetry. he is a niggard, that little wretch, and never gives much, and those who receive from him are never happy. peter, you are a poor simpleton, and i pity you from my soul; such a high-spirited, handsome lad, who could do so much in the great world, and yet only a charcoal-burner i only able to bring out sixpence, when other men shake out big dollars from their pockets ! it's a wretched life !" “so it is, sir; you are right; it is a wretched life indeed!” “well, well,” continued the frightful michael ; “ you will not be the first brave lad i have helped out of his difficulties. say, peter, how many hundred dollars do you want for your first instalment?” arabian days' entertainments. saying this, he rattled the gold in his big pockets, and a sound came to peter's ears like that he had heard in his dream. but his heart throbbed with terror at these words of the spectre, for hollander michael did not look like one who gave money for charity's sake alone. the old man's mysterious remarks about rich men recurred to his memory, and, filled with an inexpressible alarm, he cried : “much obliged, sir ! but i wish to have nothing to do with you; i know you of old," and ran, as he had never run before. the demon carne after him with prodigious strides, mutter- ing in a hollow and menacing voice: “you will regret this, peter. it is written on your forehead, i can read it in your eyes, that you will not escape me. do not run so fast ; listen to one sensible word, peter, before you cross my boundary." hearing these words, and seeing before him at no great distance a narrow trench, peter redoubled his efforts to reach the limits, michael pursu- ing him with threats and curses. the young man leaped across the trench with a desperate spring, just as he saw the spectre raise his staff to deal a fatal blow upon his head. he crossed the trench without mishap, and the staff splintered in the air as if it had struck an invisible wall, and a long fragment fell at peter's feet. he picked the piece up triumphantly to throw it back at hollander michael ; but the moment he did so he felt the stick move in his hand, and he saw to his horror that he held in his grasp a morstrous ser- pent, which was already ascending his arm with drip- ping tongue and gleaming eyes, to assail his throat. he relaxed his hold, but the reptile had wound itself round his arm, and its darting head drew nearer and nearer to his face. suddenly a gigantic heathcock flew down, and, seizing the serpent's head in his beak, flew the cold heart. first two are absolute; but the third, if it is a foolish one, i am at liberty to refuse. so, state what you want. but, peter, let it be something useful and good.” “huzza! ! you are an excellent manikin, and properly called treasurer, for treasures are at home in your house! let me see. if i may wish whatever i please, sir, let the first be that i may dance better than king dance himself, and have always as much money in my pocket as fat ezekiel.” “you fool!” said the dwarf, angrily. “what a mis- erable wish is this, to dance well, and have money to squander! are you not ashamed, stupid peter, to cheat yourself of your good fortune in this way? what advantage is it to you and your poor mother, that you can dance? what benefit is all your money, which, according to your wish, is only for the tavern, and remains there like that of the worthless king dance ? i give you one more free wish ; but mind you wish more sensibly.” peter scratched his ears, and said, after some delay : “well, i wish for the finest and richest glass-house in the black forest, and money to carry it on." “nothing else?” asked the dwarf, anxiously; “pe- ter, nothing else ?” “well, sir, you might add a horse, and a little car- riage —" “ , you stupid charcoal-burner!” cried the pigmy, in a rage, throwing his glass pipe against a pine, where it broke into a thousand pieces. “horses ! car- riages! sense, i tell you, good common sense you ought to have wished for, and not horses and carriages ! come, don't be so downcast; it is not so disgraceful, after all. your second wish was not so very absurd, * arabian days' entertainments. a good glass-house keeps master and man; but if you had taken prudence and common sense with it, the horse and carriage would have come of themselves.” “but, lord treasurer,” said peter, “i have still one wish left. i can wish for common sense, if you think it so necessary.” “no, no. you will get into many a difficulty, peter, where you will be happy to think that you have a wish on hand. here,” said the manikin, drawing a little purse from his pocket, “here are two thousand florins, and enough for you, too; and never come here again to ask for money. if you do, i shall hang you up on the highest pine in the forest. i have always done so since i lived in this wood. old winkfritz, who owned the great glass-house in the lower forest, died three days ago. go there to-morrow morning early, and make a fair offer for the property as it stands. live honestly, be industrious, and i will visit you occasionally to assist you with advice, since you failed to ask for common sense. but — i say it earnestly — your first wish was bad. beware of going to the tavern, peter. it never benefited anybody yet!” while he spoke, the little man had pulled out a fresh pipe of glass, and, stuffing it with dry rosin, thrust it into his tiny, toothless mouth. then drawing forth a huge burning-glass, he stepped into the sunshine and lighted his pipe. when everything was ready, he held out his hand graciously to peter, and, giving him some good counsel as they went along, smoked and blew faster and faster, till he vanished at length in a cloud of smoke, which, slowly curling, floated away among the pines. when peter reached home, he found his mother in great anxiety on his account; for, from his staying the cold heart." away so long, the good lady was persuaded that her son had been drawn for a soldier. he made his appear- ance, however, joyous and cheerful, and told her at great length how he had met a good friend in the for- est, who had advanced him some money to aid him in commencing a different business. although his mother had lived in charcoal thirty years, and had become as much accustomed to smutty-faced people as a miller's wife is to the mealy visage of her husband, she was foolish enough, as soon as her peter entered on a more brilliant career, to despise her former condition, and used to say: “ay, ay, as the mother of a glass-house owner, i am of a different sort from neighbors gretchen and betty; and in future i mean to sit in church in the front seats, where the rich folks go.” . her son soon struck a bargain with the heirs of the glass-maker. he hired all the workmen he could find, and went to work making glass night and day. at first the business delighted him. he would go. leis- urely down to the glass-house with a consequential strut, his hands deep in his trousers' pockets, and his eyes staring insolently in all directions, and there make a variety of sententious and absurd remarks, to the intense amusement of his workmen, and the total de- struction of their respect. his greatest pleasure con- sisted in watching the operation of glass-blowing; and he often took hold himself and formed odd figures from the plastic mass. but the business rapidly grew tedious, and his visits to the factory soon occupied but one hour in the day; soon after, one in two days; and at last he fell into the easy habit of coming only once a week, leaving his workmen in the interval to do pre- cisely as they pleased. all this was the necessary consequence of his devotion to the tavern.. arabian days' entertainments. the sunday after his return from the pine grove he repaired to the pot-house, and who should spring on to the dancing-floor, as he entered, but king dance himself, while fat ezekiel sat behind his tankard, dicing for dollars. peter felt hastily in his pockets, to see if the glass mani- kin had kept his promise; and, see! they were crammed to bursting with silver and gold! his legs, too, were jerking and quivering, as if they yearned to be dancing, and, as soon as the first dance was ended, he placed himself with his partner opposite king dance. when the latter jumped three feet into the air, peter jumped four; and when his rival made the most rare and deli- cate figurings, peter so played and twisted his feet that the spectators went nearly crazy with admiration. but when it was known in the dancing-room that peter had purchased a glass-house, when people saw that as often as he came near the musicians he threw them a crown, there was no end to their astonishment. some believed he had found a treasure in the woods; others thought he must have received a legacy; but all honored him immensely, and looked upon him as a perfect gentle- man, only because he had plenty of money. though he gambled away twenty florins during the evening, yet his money still jingled in his pocket, as if there were at least a hundred dollars there. when peter perceived how important he had grown, he lost all self-restraint from joy and pride. he threw about his money with open hands, and shared it lavishly among the poor, remembering how heavily poverty had once weighed upon himself. the arts of king dance were now cast into the shade by the supernatural skill of his new competitor, and peter received the name of em- peror dance. the most desperate gamblers never bet so much on sundays as he ; nor, on the other hand, did ... the cold heart. i they lose so much. still, the more he lost, the more he seemed to have. this resulted from the form of his wish to the glass manikin. he had wished for just as much money in his pocket as fat ezekiel had, and he it was to whom he lost his gold. so, when he lost twenty or thirty guilders on one bet, he had them back in his pocket as soon as ezekiel had bagged his gains. very soon he had gone further in gluttony and gambling than the vilest debauchees in the black forest; and people now oftener called him gambling peter than emperor dance ; for he played now almost every week-day. hence his glass-house gradually fell into complete dis- order, by reason of peter's utter want of sense. he made all the glass he could possibly manufacture; but he had not bought, with the house, the secret of selling it to the best advantage. he was at a loss at last how to dispose of the vast quantity on hand, and sold it finally piecemeal to travelling merchants for half its value, solely for means to pay his workmen. one evening he was going home from the tavern, and thinking with dismay, spite of the wine he had drunk, of the ruin of his property. noticing suddenly that some one was walking near him, he looked round, and saw the glass manikin. he boiled over directly with anger and fury, and, assuming a haughty tone, swore that the pigmy was responsible for all his misfortunes. “what can i do now with a horse and carriage ? " he cried. “what good do i get from my glass-house and all my glass? when i was a miserable charcoal- burner, i lived happier and freer from care than i do now. i expect every day the bailiff will come and seize my goods for my debts." “so!” answered the manikin, “i am to blame if you are unlucky? is this your gratitude for my benev- arabian days entertainments olence? who taught you to make such foolish wishes? you chose to be a glass-blower, and didn't know where to sell your glass! did i not tell you you should have wished more prudently? common sense, peter; you wanted common sense.” “what good is there in common sense ?” cried pe ter. “i have as much of it as anybody else, as i'll show you, you manikin!” and with these words he seized the dwarf by the collar, shouting: “have i got you now, treasurer ? ha! ha! i'll make my third wish now, and you shall grant it to me, whether or no! i will have, this instant, two hundred thousand hard dollars, and a house, and - , horror!” he cried, shaking his hand in agony; for the manikin had sud- denly changed into liquid glass, and burned his hand like jets of fire. nothing was to be seen of the pigmy. his swollen hand reminded him, for many days, of his folly and ingratitude. but he stifled the voice of conscience, and said to himself, “well, if they sell up my glass-house, and everything else, at any rate they can't take fat ezekiel. as long as he has money on sundays, i shall never want.” yes, peter. but suppose he has none? and one day so it happened in the most striking manner. one sunday peter drove up to the tavern at full speed, and the people inside thrust their heads out of the window to see him, one saying: “here comes gambling peter!” and another, “ay, emperor dance, the rich glass- maker !” while a third shook his head, saying softly : “ his riches are all very well ; but people say all sorts of things of his debts ; and i heard somebody say in the city that the bailiff was intending to attach his property before long.” peter saluted the people at the arabian days' entertainments. and a well-known voice behind him said, “ that is the last!" he looked round, and the gigantic hollander michael stood behind his chair. in his terror he let the money which he had just won, fall to the ground. but fat ezekiel saw nothing, and requested gambling peter to lend him ten guilders. peter thrust his hand into his pocket, in a half-dreaming state ; but no money was there. he felt in his other pocket; still the same. he turned his coat inside out, but not a far- thing fell. and now for the first time he remembered his first wish, which was that he might always have as much money as fat ezekiel. every guilder had van- ished. as he continued to feel for his money, ezekiel and the landlord looked at him in amazement. they could not believe that he had none left ; but at last, after feeling in his pockets themselves, they became furious, and swore that gambling peter must be a wicked ma- gician, and had wished all his winnings away to his own house. peter denied it manfully, but appearances were against him. ezekiel declared he would tell the fright- ful story to every person in the black forest, and the landlord vowed he would go to the city the first thing in the inorning and denounce peter munk as a wizard, and he would live, he added, to see the rascal burned at the stake. at last they both fell upon him in a fury, and, tearing his coat from his back, threw him out of the door. not a star was shining in heaven as peter slunk sadly homewards ; but he could perceive a dark figure striding by his side, which said at length : “it is all up with you, peter; all your splendor is gone now, and i could have told you it would be so when you the cold heart. refused to listen to my offers, and ran away to that stupid glass dwarf. see what a man gets by despising my advice. but try your chance with me once, for i feel compassion for your bad luck. no one ever repented coming to me; and, if you are not afraid, i can be spoken with all day to-morrow at the pine-grove, when- ever you call me.” peter knew very well who the speaker was; but his presence filled him with terror, and he ran home without making any answer. a noise in front of the tavern interrupted the speaker at this point. they heard a carriage drive up, several voices call for lights, a loud knocking at the front door, and several dogs howling and barking outside. the chamber assigned to the carrier and the journeyman looked out on the road, and the four companions ran into it to see what had taken place. from what they could see by the faint light of the lanterns, a large trav- elling-carriage was standing before the inn; a tall man was helping a couple of ladies to alight, and they could see a coachman in livery taking out the horses, and another servant busy unbuckling the trunks. “god help them !” sighed the carrier. “if these people escape with whole skins from this horrible tavern, i need feel no anxiety for my poor cart.” “hush !" whispered the student. "i suspect the robbers have been lying in wait for these persons, and not for us. probably they were informed of their route. if we could only put them on their guard! stop. in the whole tavern there is not a decent chamber for the ladies except that next to mine. they will put them there. stay quietly in this room, and i will try to warn the servant." the young man crept back to his chamber and extin- arabian days' entertainments. guished the candles, leaving the lamp burning which the landlady had given him, and then listened at the door. he soon heard the landlady coming up stairs with the ladies, and showing them into the neighboring room with many compliments. after urging her guests to go to sleep without delay, as they must be much fatigued by their long journey, she went down stairs. the student soon heard heavy footsteps ascending. he opened the door cautiously, and saw through the crack the tall man who had helped the ladies out of the carriage. he wore a hunting-suit, had a cutlass by his side, and was apparently the cou- rier or equerry of the lady travellers. the student seeing that he was alone, opened his door rapidly and beckoned him in. the stranger approached with some surprise, and, before he could inquire what was wanted of him, the student whispered : “sir, you have fallen to-night into a den of robbers !” the man started back. the student now drew him wholly into the room, and told him all the circumstances which had excited his suspicions. the stranger was much alarmed. he told the young man that the ladies, a countess and her waiting-woman, had at first intended to travel all night; but that about half a league's distance from this tavern they had met a horseman, who had inquired of them where they were going, and on being told that they were intending to travel all night through spessart, he warned them that now-a-days the roads were very insecure. “ if you set any value on an honest man's advice,” he added, “ give up your intention. there is a tavern not far off; bad and uncomfortable as it is, you would do better to pass the night there than run any unnecessary danger this dark night." the man who had given this advice had the cold heart. an honest look; and, in her fear of an attack of robbers, the countess had ordered her carriage to be stopped at the inn. the courier held it to be his duty to inform the ladies of the threatened danger. he went into the next room, and soon after opened the door leading from the count- ess's chamber into the student's. the countess, a lady of about forty years, came towards the student, pale with fear, and made him repeat the whole story. they then consulted what to do in this painful state of affairs, and decided at last to collect together as cau- tiously as possible the two servants, the carrier, and the travelling journeymen, in order to make, in case of an attack, at least a decent resistance. when this had been done, the countess' chamber was locked towards the passage, and barricaded with chairs and sofas. she seated herself on the bed with her waiting-woman, and the two servants took their posts at her side. the earlier guests and the courier seated themselves round the table in the student's room, and resolved there to wait for the attack. it was now about ten o'clock; everything in the house was perfectly quiet and still, and as yet not a movement had been made to disturb the guests. the compass-maker now said: “to keep ourselves awake, our best course is to do as we were doing before. that is, sir, we were telling each other all sorts of stories; and if, mr. courier, you have no objection, we might go on." the courier assented at once; and, to show his wil- lingness, promised to tell them a story himself. he thus began: arabian days' entertainments. the fortunes of said. in the time of haroun al raschid, sovereign of bag- dad, there lived in balsora a man named benezar, who had sufficient property to enable him to live quietly and comfortably without engaging in business. nor did the birth of a son induce him to make a change in his habits. “why should i take to buying and selling in my old age,” said he to his neighbors, “ to leave to my son said, if things turn out well, a thousand pieces of gold, or so, more, after my death? “a dinner for two is enough for three,' the proverb says; and, provided he grows up a good boy, he shall never come to want." so spoke benezar, and he kept his word. he edu- cated his son to no trade or profession, but instructed him carefully in all the books of wisdom; and as, in his opinion, nothing adorned a young man more, with the exception of learning and reverence for age, than trained strength and courage, he caused him to be early taught the use of arms; and said was soon regarded, by youths of his own age, and even by his elders, as a formidable opponent; while in riding and swimming he had no superior. · when he was eighteen years old his father sent him to mecca, to visit the grave of the prophet, that he might perform his religious duties at the fountain-head of all holiness. before he set out, his father called him into his presence, and, having praised his past life, and given him much good advice, furnished him with money for his journey, and addressed him in the following words: “one thing more, son said. you know me, i sup ws um bolero the fortunes of said. - i ****. n iem ment!!!! , p. "!!,,?,, ! ,""!!!" ... i, [ *** '. lisas l. whe, !''}, }" s d rliyi histe inspiration by inte d'un grand priokas, "liedt totusi i sider tuis mi. . :!:,trb says' ann, piliitto ry *}* u srijptis proud isip ko, is hull eerie i boin saat it has set ! illitenni , di ļ . :,liyi blog mi se mort', tu - ir??...*.*mio!! ?"i: ' '? ** i .s . t" . lions sovi, fillitasie . you kr y? , . arabian days' entertainments. self in. as i crossed the threshold, such a stupefying odor of roses, pinks and hyacinths, assailed my nos- trils, that i came near fainting. your mother gave you into my arms, and pointed at the same time to a tiny silver pipe attached to a chain of gold as fine as silk, which you were wearing round your neck. the kind fairy of whom i told you has been here,' said your mother, and gave this birthday-present to your son.' - the same person, i suppose, who brightened up the weather, and left this odor of pinks and roses behind her,' said i, laughing incredulously. she might have given something better than this pipe, really ; a purse of gold, or a horse, or something of that sort.' your mother implored me not to jest, lest the offerded fairy should turn her blessings into maledictions. “from respect for her illness, i obeyed her wishes, and we spoke no more of the singular incident till six years later, when she felt that she was about to die. she then gave me the pipe, and enjoined upon me to deliver it to you on your twentieth birthday, saying that i must not suffer you to leave me, even for an hour, till that time. she then died; and here is the present,” continued benezar, taking a little silver pipe and a fine gold chain from a box. “i give it to you in your eighteenth instead of your twentieth year, as you are about to take a long journey, and i may, perhaps, be gathered to my fathers before you return. i see no reasonable ground for your remaining here with me two years longer, notwithstanding the timid forebodings of your mother. you are a good and prudent lad, you handle your weapons as skilfully as many a man of four-and-twenty, and i can therefore as safely acknowl- edge you to be of age now as two years hence. and now depart in peace; and both in good and ill-fortune, the fortunes of said. against which last may god preserve you, -— remember your father." benczar of balsora thus ended, and dismissed his son. said took a tearful leave, and, hanging the chain round his neck, and thrusting the pipe into his girdle, mounted his horse and rode to the place where caravans for mecca usually assembled. eighty camels and many hundred men were there collected. the caravan took up its line of march, and said rode from the gates of his native city balsora, to see it again only after the lapse of many years. the novelty of the journey, and the numberless strange objects presented to his attention, at first sus- tained his spirits and dissipated his sorrow ; but as they approached the desert, and the landscape grew more and more desolate, he began to think of the events of his past life, and, among others, recalled the words which his father benezar had said to him at parting. he drew forth the pipe to examine it, and at length set it to his lips to test the sweetness and purity of its tone ; but to his surprise it gave no sound. he puffed out his cheeks and blew with all his force, but not a note could he elicit, and, vexed with the uselessness of the present, he thrust it back into his girdle. but his thoughts soon reverted to his mother's mysterious words. he had heard many stories of fairies, but had never found that any of his neighbors in balsora had had dealings with one of these supernatural beings. his informants had always laid their traditions of these spirits in distant countries and remote periods of time, and he had thus been led to suppose that such agencies had long since ceased to exist, or that fairies had dis- continued visiting mankind, or taking any interest in their destinies. in spite of this incredulity, however, arabian days entertainments. he found himself incessantly trying to believe in some- thing mysterious and supernatural having happened to his mother; and the result was that he sat his horse like a dreamer almost the whole day, taking no part in the conversation of his fellow-travellers, and wholly inattentive to their joyous singing and laughter. said was a youth of extreme beauty. his eye was bold and frank, his mouth full of sweetness, and, young as he was, there was an air of dignity in his appearance such as one rarely finds in persons of his age; while the light and easy grace with which he sat his steed drew upon him the attention of many of the travellers. one old man, riding by his side, was greatly attracted by his appearance, and endeavored to sound his dispo- sition by a variety of questions. said, upon whom a reverence for age had been carefully impressed, an- swered so modestly, and with so much shrewdness and reserve, that the old man was delighted. but as the lad's mind had been occupied almost the whole day with a single subject, they soon came to talk of the mysterious influence of fairies; and said inquired at last of the aged stranger whether he believed in the existence of spirits, good or bad, who protected or tormented mankind. the old man stroked his beard, and, nodding his head, answered : “it cannot be denied that stories are told of such beings, though to this day i myself have never seen either a spectral dwarf, or a gigantic genius, or even a plain magician.” he then went on to tell said such extraordinary sto.. ries that his head absolutely reeled, and he felt per- suaded at last that all which had happened at his birth, - the change in the weather and the odor of the roses the fortunes of said.. . and hyacinths, - was of great significance ; that he himself stood under the especial protection of some powerful and benevolent fairy; and that the pipe had been given him for no other purpose than to whistle for the fairy in case of need. he dreamed all night long of castles, magic steeds, genii, and the like, and lived for the time in a genuine fairy-realm. but, on the following day, he was painfully shown how delusive were all his sleeping and waking dreams. the caravan had advanced at an easy pace for the greater part of the day, when dark shadows became visible on the extreme verge of the horizon. some of the travellers took them to be hills of sand, others pro- nounced them clouds, others that they were another caravan; but the old man, who had crossed the desert many times, shouted to his companions to look out for themselves, for that it was a horde of arab robbers on the march. the men seized their arms, the women and treasures were placed in the middle, and everything was made ready for an attack. the dark mass advanced across the plains with a rapidly-increasing pace, and the travellers had scarcely time to make out clearly men and lances, before the enemy rushed down with the speed of the wind, and made a furious charge upon the caravan. its owners made a valiant resistance, but the robbers were over four hundred strong. they attacked them on every side, killed many, and then charged them with the lance. said, who had been all the time fighting boldly among the foremost, at this terrible moment called to mind his pipe. he drew it quickly out, set it to his lips, blew - and sadly let it fall again, for it emitted not the faintest sound. furious at this disap- pointment, he took a steady aim, and shot through the the fortunes of said. head rapidly about, and to his joy caught sight of his aged companion, whom he had supposed to be among the slain. trees and tents were visible at last in the distance, and, as they came nearer, a stream of women and chil. dren rushed out to meet them ; but they had scarcely exchanged three words with the returning band, when they broke out into a frightful howl, and followed said, menacing him with threatening gestures, and heaping him with maledictions. “he is the hound,” they shouted, “who has slain almansor, the bravest of the brave! he must die! we will give his flesh to the jackal of the desert.” thereupon they assaulted said so furiously with sticks, stones, and clods of earth, that the robbers were compelled to interpose. " away, you children! women, away!” cried they, scattering the crowd with their lances. “he has slain the great almansor in battle, and must die ; but by the sword of a warrior, not by the hand of a woman." the procession halted in an open space among the tents. the prisoners were tied together, two and two, and the booty carried to the tents; while said was chained alone, and led into a large marquee. in this sat an aged, richly-dressed man, whose stern and haughty air showed him to be the chief of the tribe. the men in charge of said took their stand before him with low- ered heads. “the women's wails have told me what has taken place,” said the chieftain, looking at each of the robbers in turn; “and your looks confirm it, — almansor has fallen!” “ almansor has fallen," answered the men ; “but here, selim, sovereign of the desert, is his murderer, whom we bring for you to judge. what death shall be the fortunes of sÁid. ; is a friend's duty to avenge a fallen friend. we should hew him to pieces on this spot !” “but we have sworn to the chief,” cried a fourth, " that we would not kill him, and our oath must not be broken.” “it is true," said the others, “we have sworn, and the murderer goes unscathed from the hands of his ene- mies.” . “stay !” cried one, the fiercest of them all. “old selim is crafty ; but not so crafty as men think. have we sworn to him to carry this boy to any particular place ? no! he took of us an oath to spare his life; and that we will spare him. but the burning sun and the teeth of the jackals will accomplish our revenge. we will leave him bound upon the sands." said had been for some minutes prepared for the worst, and, as the last words were spoken, turned his steed suddenly aside, and, giving him a vigorous cut, flew like a bird across the plain. the five men halted a moment in surprise ; but, familiar with such incidents, they instantly divided, and pursued him right and left; and, being better acquainted with the ground and the mode of riding suited to the desert, two of them speedily overtook the fugitive and turned his flank, and, on his drawing his rein to avoid them, he found on his other side also two enemies, and at his back a fifth. their oath to spare his life restrained them from making use of their weapons ; so, a second time throwing a lasso over his head, they dragged him from his horse, and, beating him unmercifully, tied his hands and feet together and laid him down on the glowing sands of the desert. said uttered heart-rending cries for mercy, and prom- ised them a prodigious ransom if they would spare his arabian days' entertainments. life ; but, laughing at his offers, they mounted their horses and rode away like the wind. for a few moments he listened to the light footsteps of their steeds, and then gave himself up for lost. he thought of his father, and of the old man's anguish should his son return no more ; he thought of his own hard fate to be obliged to die so young; for nothing seemed more certain than that he was to suffer the agonies of a languishing death on the scorching sands, or be torn to pieces by the jackals. the sun rose higher and higher, and beat fiercely on his face, and with inexpressible difficulty he suc- ceeded in turning over; but to find little relief. in consequence of his exertions the pipe had fallen from his girdle. he struggled till he succeeded in reaching it with his mouth, and tried to blow, but even in this frightful extremity it refused its aid. despairing of escape his head fell, and, the burning sun soon deprived him of his senses ; he sank into a deep swoon. after the lapse of many hours a sound in his vicin- ity recalled said to himself; he felt at the same time a grasp on his shoulder, and, believing it to be a jackal about to devour him, uttered a cry of horror. at the same moment he felt himself seized by the legs, but he perceived that they were no wild beast's teeth which held him, but the hands of a man busily occupied in releasing him from his bonds, and who was talking with two or three others, who stood looking on. “he lives,” they whispered, “but he takes us for enemies." said now opened his eyes, and saw bending over him the face of a little, ugly man, with small eyes and a long beard. this stranger spoke to him kindly, helped him to rise to his feet, and, supplying him with food " thË fortunes of said. "- and drink, told him, while he refreshed his exhausted strength, that he was a merchant from bagdad, that his name was kalum beg, and that he dealt in shawls and costly veils for ladies' use. he had been making a journey on business, and was now on his return, and had found said lying senseless on the ground. said's rich dress and the jewels in his dagger had attracted the merchant's attention; he had made every effort to restore him to animation, and had fortunately succeeded. the young man thanked him for his life, for he saw clearly that but for the intervention of this stranger, he must have died a miserable, lingering death ; and having neither means to extricate himself from his perils, nor inclination to travel through the desert alone and on foot, he accepted gratefully a seat on one of the merchant's camels, and resolved to go with him to bagdad, in the hopes of finding there a caravan about to return to balsora. on the way the merchant told his newly-found com- panion many stories of the excellent commander of the faithful, haroun al raschid. he described his love of justice, and his marvellous acuteness, and how he could adjust the most complicated lawsuits in the simplest and most admirable way. among others, he told him the story of the ropemaker, and of the pot of olives ; stories which every child is familiar with, but which excited in said the deepest interest. “our lord, the commander of the faithful,” continued the merchant, “is a wonderful man. if you suppose he sleeps like ordinary men, you are greatly mistaken. two or three hours' sleep in the early morning, is all the refreshment he obtains. my information is sure, for messour, his first chamberlain, is my cousin, and although as silent as the grave on the secrets of his master's household, * arabian days' entertainments. yet now and then he gives a little hint of what goes on behind the scenes to a valued relation, when he sees him almost crazy from curiosity. instead of sleeping like common men, the caliph walks in disguise through the streets of bagdad, and, a week rarely passes in which he does not encounter some adventure ; for you must know, as in fact is proved by the story of the pot of olives, which is as true as the koran, that he does not go about with his guard, and on horseback, in full dress and with a hundred torch-bearers, as he might if he chose, but wanders round in disguise, sometimes as a merchant, sometimes a sailor, then again a soldier, or perhaps a mufti, and sees with his own eyes if every- thing is in good order in his dominions. “hence it comes that in no city in the world are men so polite to every rogue they meet at night, as in bagdad ; for it may as likely as not prove to be the caliph himself disguised as a dirty arab, and there is enough wood growing to give every man in bagdad the basti- nado, in case of impertinence.” so spoke the merchant; and said, though torn by a desire to see his father, still rejoiced much at the pros- pect of seeing bagdad and the famous haroun al raschid. they reached bagdad in about ten days, and said was filled with admiration at the magnificence of the city, at that time at the acme of its splendor. the merchant invited him to take up his residence with him, and said willingly accepted the offer; for in this torrent of human beings, it now occurred to him, for the first time, that, excepting the air, the waters of the tigris, and a sleeping-place on the steps of some mosque, nothing here could be obtained without money. - the day after his arrival, while he was putting the the fortunes of said. of what a man can do who is skilled in the use of arms. but you have saved my life, and i thank you. what do you think to do with me? if you refuse to feed me, i must beg; and i cannot ask favors of my equals. i will go to the caliph.” "so !” said the merchant, laughing contemptuously. "and will no other serve your turn but our most admirable caliph ? that i call presumption indeed ! ha, ha! remember, young gentleman, that the road to *the caliph is through my cousin messour, and that it will cost me but one word to put him on his guard against your atrocious lying. but i feel compassion for your youth, said. you can make something of yourself if you will. i will take you into my shop in the bazaar, and you shall serve with me for one year. when this is passed, if you do not choose to stay, i will pay you your wages, and let you go whither you please, to aleppo, medina, stamboul, balsora, to the infidels for all i care. i give you till noon to decide. if you agree to my terms, good; if not, i will calculate reasonably the expenses you have put me to, and the seat you filled on my camel, pay myself with your clothes, and throw you into the street; there you may beg as you please." with these words the wicked fellow left the room, and said looked after him in a state of stupor. he was bewildered by the baseness of this man, who had so evidently brought him to bagdad and invited him into his house, merely to get him into his power. he looked about for some means of escape, but the win- dows were grated and the door locked. at last, after a long struggle with his repugnance, he decided to accept the merchant's offer, and take service in his shop. he felt, indeed, that no better course was left to him ; for, supposing he escaped, still, without money, arabian days' entertainments. lofty, spacious hall, of greater splendor than said had ever seen before. there the old lady seated herself exhausted on a cushion ; and, motioning the boy to lay down his bundle, handed him a bit of silver, and bade him go. he had already reached the door, when a clear, sweet voice called, “said !” surprised at being known here, he looked round, and, in place of the old woman, a beautiful lady, surrounded by scores of slaves and women-servants, was sitting on the cushion. said, dumb with astonishment, crossed his arms and made a respectful inclination.. “said, my dear child," said the lady, “much as i regret the accident which brought you to bagdad, this was the only place decreed by fate where, in case you left your father's house before your twentieth year, you could release yourself from your destiny. said, have you your pipe still ?” “i have, indeed," answered the lad joyously, draw- ing out the golden chain; "and you are, perhaps, the good fairy who gave me it the day i was born ?” “i was your mother's friend," answered the fairy, "and am yours also. ah! if your father, foolish man, had but followed my advice, you would have escaped much suffering.” “nay, it was my destiny !" answered said. “but, darling fairy, give orders to have a strong east wind harnessed to your chariot, and carry me to balsora in a couple of minutes. i will pass there in patience the six months to elapse before my twentieth year.” the fairy laughed. “you have a taking way of ask- ing a favor," she answered; "but, poor said, it is im- possible! i can do nothing wonderful for, you so long as you are under twenty years of age. i cannot even -- the fortunes of said... release you from the power of the miserable kalum beg! he stands under the protection of your greatest enemy." ..“ then i have an enemy as well as a friend," ex- claimed said. “i believe i have often felt her influ- ence. but at least you can aid me with your advice ? shall i not go to the caliph and implore his protection? he is a wise man, and will protect me against kalum beg." “yes, haroun is a wise man," replied the fairy; “but, alas, he is still but a man. he trusts messour, his head chamberlain, as freely as himself; and he is right, for he has proved him and found him true. mes- sour, however, trusts your friend kalum beg as freely as himself, and herein he is wrong, for kalum is a bad man, though he is messour's relation. kalum is a cun- ning knave, and as soon as he came to bagdad reported a story about you to his cousin the chamberlain, which the chamberlain straightway carried to the caliph ; so that you would find yourself inhospitably received if you entered the palace of haroun, for he has no faith in you. but there are other ways of approaching him, and it stands written in the stars that you shall yet win his favor.” “this is a bad prospect, indeed,” groaned said. “i must serve some time longer, then, as an advertisement with that scoundrel kalum. but, charming fairy, there is one favor which it is in your power to grant me. i was early taught a knowledge of arms, and a mock- fight is my highest enjoyment. the young nobles of this city hold every week a tournament. but only gentlemen are permitted to ride inside the barriers, excluding, of course, every servant in the bazaar. if you could so bring it about that i could obtain every arabian days' entertainments. week a horse, a suit of armor, and weapons, and alter my expression so as to disguise me completely — " . “ 'tis a wish which a gentleman may utter without shame," said the fairy. “your mother's father was the bravest man in all syria, and his spirit seems to be in- herited by you. observe this house. you shall find here every week a horse and two mounted esquires, suitable arms and clothes, and a magic wash for your face, which shall render your disguise impenetrable to all eyes. and now, said, farewell ! persevere, be cautious and honest! in six months your pipe will sound, and zulima's ear will be open to receive its music.” the youth took leave of his protectress with gratitude and reverence, and, taking accurate notice of the street and the house, went back to the bazaar. said arrived precisely in time to support and rescue his lord and master, kalum beg. a great throng had gathered round the shop, boys were dancing and jeer- ing round the old merchant, and the older portion of the crowd were shaking with noisy laughter. kalum was standing before the shop, trembling with anger, and holding in one hand a shawl, in the other a rich veil. this singular scene was the result of an incident which had taken place after said's departure. kalum had taken his stand before his door in place of his hand- some servant, and had been proclaiming his goods ; but no one would buy of the old, hideous creature. two men had passed through the bazaar in search of a pres- ent for their wives. they had already passed several times up and down before the shops, and had lately been seen by kalum approaching his open door on their way through the market. the fortunes of said. · kalum beg, desirous to turn this circumstance to his advantage, called out to them : “here, gentlemen, here! what are you looking for? beautiful veils, beautiful shawls!” "old fellow," answered one of them, “no doubt your wares are extremely good, but our wives are whim- sical, and it is the fashion in the city to buy veils of the handsome shopman, said. we have wandered up and down here now a good half hour in search of him. if you can tell us where he is to be found, we will buy of you some other time.” “allah il allah !” cried kalum beg, grinning invit- ingly. “the prophet has brought you to the right shop. you would buy a veil of the handsome shopman, you say ? come in, then, gentlemen ; this is his estab- lishment." one of the gentlemen laughed heartily at kalum's diminutive figure, and his supposed impudence in claim- ing to be the handsome shopman. the other, however, thought that kalum was cracking his jokes on them, and rated him soundly. kalum beg was almost beside himself; he called his neighbors to bear witness that no other establishment than his own was called the shop of the handsome shopman; but the neighbors, who envied him the extensive custom he had for some time enjoyed, pretended to know nothing about it, and the two men treated the old liar, as they called him, to a severe flogging. kalum defended himself more with shrieks and outcries than with his fists, and a crowd was soon collected before the door. half the city knowing him for a stingy, close-fisted niggard, the thumps and blows he was receiving excited no sympa- thy; and already one of the two assailants had the old man fast by the beard, when he felt himself seized by , "y arabian days' entertainments. the arm, and with one vigorous shove thrown to the ground, so that by the force of the fall his turban fell off, and his slippers flew to some distance. the crowd, who enjoyed mightily seeing kalum beg abused, murmured audibly, and the companion of the man knocked down looked round to see who had dared to assault his friend ; but, seeing a tall, vigorous youth with gleaming eyes and angry bearing, he did not ven- ture to retaliate, especially when kalum, whose rescue seemed to him a miracle, pointed at the lad, crying: “now! what more do you want? there he stands, gentlemen! that is said, the handsome shopman !” the people around laughed tremendously, while the prostrate foe rose from the ground in great mortifica- tion, and hobbled away with his comrade, without buy- ing either shawl or veil. “ , thou star of shopmen! thou glory of the bazaar!” cried kalum, when his magnet had carried him into the shop; “ truly, this i call being punctual! that scoun- drel lay on the ground, as if he never meant to get up again ; and i—i should never more have needed a bar- ber to comb my beard, if you had come two minutes later! how shall i ever recompense you?” it had been a spontaneous feeling of compassion which had nerved said's hand and heart; and, as this feeling subsided, he regretted deeply that he had saved the old rascal from his deserved flogging; a dozen hairs less in his beard, he thought to himself, would have made him, for as many days, less harsh and exact- ing. he availed himself, however, of the merchant's transitory generosity, and begged of him, as a token of his gratitude, one afternoon of each week for his own pleasures ; which request kalum granted, for he was perfectly aware that his unwilling servant was too the fortunes of said. sensible a fellow to attempt to escape without money or clothes. thus speedily had said obtained the object of his de- sires. the next week, on the day when the young nobles of bagdad assembled in the open square to prac- tise their military exercises, he told kalum that he would take this afternoon for his own purposes ; and, having obtained his permission, went to the street where the fairy dwelt, and knocked at the door, which flew open without an instant's delay. the servants seemed forewarned of his arrival, for, without demanding his business, they led him up the steps into a beautiful chamber, and there handed him: the wash which was to prevent his recognition. he rubbed his face with the liquid, and, looking in the mir- ror, could scarcely recognize himself; for he was now deeply sun-burnt, wore a handsome black beard, and looked at least ten years older than he really was. from here they led him into a second apartment, | where he found a complete suit of armor, of which the caliph himself would have had no reason to feel ashamed. besides a turban of the finest texture, with an agraffe of diamonds and heron's feathers, and a cloak of crimson silk, embroidered with silver flowers, said found a breastplate of silver rings, so finely wrought that it adapted itself to every movement of his body, yet im- penetrable to lance or sword. a damascus blade, with a hilt whose jewels seemed to said of inestimable value, completed his military outfit. as he left the room after equipping himself in these garments, one of the servants handed him a silken cloth, and told him that the mis- tress of the house sent it him; and that the beard and brown hue of his complexion would vanish as soon as he wiped his face with it. * arabian days' entertainments. · three horses were standing in the court-yard. said mounted the finest, his servants the two others, and they trotted to the scene of combat. the brilliancy of his dress and the beauty of his arms and horse, attracted universal attention, and a murmur of admiration passed through the multitude when he rode inside the ring. it was a gorgeous assemblage of the bravest and noblest youths of bagdad, and even the caliph's brothers were there, managing their steeds and brandishing their glit- tering lances. when said rode in, apparently a stranger, the son of the grand vizier approached him, and, saluting him gracefully, invited him to take part in their sports, and inquired his name and country. said replied that his name was almansor, that he came from cairo, and that he had heard so much of the courage and dexterity of the young gentlemen of bagdad, that he had allowed himself no rest till he had seen and known them. his manly bearing pleased the young men so much, that they handed him a lance, and permitted him to choose his side ; for the combatants had divided themselves into two parties. if said's external appearance had hitherto drawn so much attention, his extraordinary dexterity now ex- cited increased admiration and amazement. his horse was fleeter than a bird, and his sword flew round his head like lightning. he threw his lance as truly to its target as though it were an arrow sent from an un- erring bow. he vanquished the most skilful of his antagonists, and, at the conclusion of the combat, was so unanimously pronounced the victor, that one of the brothers of the caliph and the son of the grand vizier, who had fought on said's side, begged him to give them also an opportunity to test his skill. ali, the caliph's the fortunes of said. brother, was defeated by him ; but the son of the grand vizier resisted him so successfully, that, after a long contest, they thought it better to postpone the decis- ion till the next engagement.. the day after this entertainment, nothing was talked of in all bagdad but the handsome, rich, and valiant stranger. all who had seen him, nay, those whom he had defeated, were in raptures at his noble bearing, and they talked of him, in his own hearing, in kalum beg's shop. the only regret of the people was that no one knew where he lived. the next time, he found in the fairy's house a still handsomer suit and still more costly weapons. this time half bagdad had assembled, and the caliph himself was witnessing the spectacle from a balcony. he too expressed his admiration for almansor, and, at the ter- mination of the games, hung a medal round his neck, by a chain of gold, in token of his gratification. the natu- ral consequence of this second and more glorious vic- tory was, to excite the jealousy of the young men of bagdad. “shall a stranger," they said, “come here to bagdad, and rob us of glory and victory? it will disgrace us to have other cities boasting that there is no one among all the noble youths of bagdad able to compete with this unknown champion.” and they resolved that at the next spectacle, as if by accident, five or six should attack him at the same time.' this jealousy did not escape said's penetrating eye. he saw them clustering together in the corners, and whispering and pointing at him with angry gestures, and he felt that, except the caliph's brother and the son of the grand vizier, there was no one of all his rivals but hated him deeply; and he had been lately much annoyed by the pointed questions addressed to him, arabian days' entertainments. such as, where he might be visited; how he spent his time; what things had pleased him in bagdad; and the like. it was a strange coincidence, that the noble who showed towards said-almansor the greatest hostility, was no other than the man whom, some time previously, he had knocked down in front of kalum beg's shop though said had twice vanquished him in the tourna- ment, still this was no good ground for the excess of his antipathy, and said began to fear he might have recognized him by his figure or his voice as the daunt- less shopman,- a discovery which would have exposed him to the scorn and fury of the whole city. the con- spiracy which his antagonists had devised was wrecked by his own sagacity and courage, and by the friendship which the brother of the caliph and the grand vizier's son had conceived for him. when these two young nobles saw their friend attacked by five or six assail- ants who were striving either to unhorse or disarm him, they rushed to the rescue, and, scattering the crowd, threatened the young men, who had behaved so treacherously, with instant expulsion from the tourna- ment ground. for more than four months had said thus astonished bagdad by his skill in the use of arms, when one even- ing, as he was returning home, he overheard voices which struck him as familiar. four men were walking before him with slow steps, apparently in deep consulta- tion. as said came nearer, he recogrized the dialect of the tribe of selim, his desert protector, and at once suspected them to be plotting some robbery. his first impulse was to withdraw from their neighborhood; but, believing, on second thoughts, that he might be arabian days' entertainments. bazaar to the street which the robbers had designated, and concealed himself behind a projecting corner. he had been standing there, perhaps an hour, when he heard two men coming slowly down the street. he took them at first for the caliph and his grand vizier, but was quickly undeceived; for one of them clapped his hands, and instantly two others hurried noiselessly up the street from the bazaar. they whispered to- gether a few moments, and then separated again. three concealed themselves not far from said, and the fourth walked up and down the street. the night being very still and dark, said was compelled to de- pend almost wholly on his sharp sense of hearing. a half hour had scarcely elapsed when footsteps were again heard coming from the bazaar. the robber must also have heard them, for he crept past said in their direction. the steps came nearer, and already said could distinguish two dark figures in the gloom, when the robber clapped his hands, and the three others rushed from their concealment. the men assaulted must also have been armed, for he could hear distinctly the clash of swords. he drew forth his damascus blade, and, rushing out upon the robbers with the cry of “down with the enemies of the great haroun ! " struck one of them to the ground with the first blow, and pressed vigorously upon two others, who were just on the point of disarming a man round whose body they had thrown a noose. he struck blindly at the cord to cut it asunder, but in so doing inflicted so severe a blow on the arm of one of the assailants that he cut off his hand at the wrist, and the wounded man fell on his knees with a cry of agony. the fourth, who had been hitherto fighting with another man, now turned upon said; but the man around whom the cord had the fortunes of said. when kalum beg heard this, he exclaimed, with many oaths : “ he has robbed me and dressed himself in his spoils. , wretched man that i am!” he ran instantly to the head of the police, and, on his stating that he was a relation of messour, the head chamber- lain, found no difficulty in obtaining police officers to arrest said. said was sitting in front of the caravan- sary, talking composedly with a merchant he had found there, about the journey to. balsora, when suddenly several men fell upon him, and, in spite of his resist- ance, bound his hands behind his back. he demanded their authority for this violence, and was told that it was done in the name of the police department and by his lawful master, kalum beg. at this moment, the little, hideous man stepped forward, and, heaping in- sults and abuse on him, felt in his pockets, and, with a yell of delight, drew out a large purse of gold. “look! he has robbed me of all this money, the scoundrel !” he cried ; and the people, looking with · horror at the prisoner, exclaimed: “what! so young, so handsome, and yet so wicked ! to the judge! to the judge! let him have the basti- nado !" they hurried him along, a prodigious crowd closing around him, shouting: “look! this is the handsome shopman of the ba- zaar! he has robbed his master and run away! he has stolen two hundred pieces of gold !” the judge received the prisoner with a menacing air. said tried to speak, but the official commanded silence, and listened only to the little merchant. he showed him the purse, and inquired whether the gold had been stolen from him. kalum beg swore that it had been. but his perjury, though it helped him to the money, arabian days' entertainments. gained strength, and the ship was torn from the cliff on which she had till now stuck fast, and dashed into a thousand pieces. said had grasped the mast, and when the vessel went to pieces clung to it with the energy of despair. the waves tossed him hither and thither, but he managed to keep himself above the surface. he swam for half an hour at the momentary peril of his life, when the pipe attached to the golden chain again fell from his girdle, and the thought occurred to him to try once more its magic virtues. holding fast with one hand, with the other he set it to his mouth. the instant he blew, a clear, pure note rang out, and in a moment the storm went down, and the waves subsided as if oil had been poured on them. he looked about him with a lighter heart, to see if he could spy land in some direc- tion, when the mast under him began strangely to en- large and move, and, not a little to his terror, he perceived that he was riding on a huge dolphin. after a few moments, however, his presence of mind returned, and he then saw that the dolphin was swiftly and evenly pursuing an onward course; and, ascribing bis miracu- lous rescue to the silver pipe and the benevolent fairy, he shouted his heartfelt thanks into the air. swiftly as an arrow his marvellous steed bore him through the waves, and before evening he could dis- tinguish land, and saw a wide river, into which the dol- phin turned. while ascending the stream his speed was slackened ; and, to avoid exhaustion from hunger, said, who knew from his recollection of old fairy stories how to use his magic instrument, drew out his pipe, and, blowing a loud blast, wished himself a good sup- per. the fish instantly halted, and up from the water rose a table, as dry as if it had been standing a week in arabian days' entertainments. "my lord," answered said, “ if you will accord mo permission, i will relate to you the misery i have been through during the last two years.” he then began and told the three men his history from the moment when he left his father's house in balsora to his won- derful rescue from a watery death. he was frequently interrupted by exclamations of astonishment; and, as soon as he had ended, the master of the house said : “i believe your story, said. but you tell us that you won a chain in the tournament, and that the caliph gave you a ring; can you show these ? ”. “here in my bosom i have preserved them both," said the youth in reply," and would have parted with them only with my life ; for i looked on it as the most glorious and splendid action of my life to have rescued the great caliph from the hands of his murderers." at the same time he drew forth the ring and chain, and handed them to his questioner. “by the beard of the prophet, it is my ring!” ex- claimed the handsome nobleman. “grand vizier, let us embrace our preserver." said thought himself dreaming when the two gentle- men embraced him ; but, recovering his presence of mind, he threw himself to the ground and said, “ par- don, pardon, commander of the faithful, that i have spoken thus freely in your presence, for you can be none other than haroun al raschid, the great caliph of bagdad !” “he i am," answered haroun, “and your friend. from this moment your misery shall cease. follow me to bagdad, remain near me, and be one of my most trusted friends ; for truly you showed on that night of peril that haroun was not indifferent to you; and it is arabian days' entertainments. of the bazaar, stands without, may it please your majesty," said the chamberlain," and he has a singu- lar controversy with a man from balsora, whose son was at one time in kalum's service. the youth subse- quently stole some of his master's property, ran away to avoid punishment, and has not been seen since that time. the father seeks now to reclaim his son from my cousin, although he has him not. the latter therefore begs the favor that, by the force of your majesty's great wisdom and penetration, you will decide between this man from balsora and himself.” “i will decide," answered the caliph. “let your excellent cousin come to the hall of justice with his adversary in half an hour." after messour had expressed his thanks and taken his departure, haroun said: “this must be your father, said ; and, since fortunately i know already the facts in the case, my judgment shall equal solomon's for wisdom. you, said, hide yourself behind the curtain of my throne till i call you, and you, grand vizier, have the wicked police judge instantly summoned. i shall need him in this investigation." both did as he commanded. said's heart beat loudly when he saw his father, pale and feeble, enter the hall with tottering step; and the soft, confident laugh, with which kalum beg whispered something to his cousin the head chamberlain, made him so angry that he longed to rush out from his place of concealment, and fall upon him then and there, for he had this scoundrel alone to thank for all his suffering and misery. the hall was thronged with men who had come to hear the caliph give judgment. the grand vizier, after the commander of the faithful had taken his seat on the the fortunes of said. - throne, commanded silence, and asked who appeared as a complainant before his lord the caliph. kalum beg stepped forward with a brazen front, and said : “several days ago i was standing before the door of my shop in the bazaar, when a crier, with a purse of gold in his hand, and this man following, came through the market, shouting, “a purse of gold to him who can give information concerning said of balsora !' this said had been in my service, and i of course called out, • here, this way, friend. i can earn that purse.' there- upon this man, who is now so embittered against me, approached, and inquired what i knew. i answered : * perhaps you are his father, benezar?' and, on his assenting, i told him how i had found the young man in the desert, saved and taken care of him, and brought him to bagdad. in the joy of his heart he presented me with the purse. but when this crazy fellow hears that his son had been in my employ, that he had played me a knavish trick, and had afterwards disappeared, he refuses to believe what i say, torments my life out for several days past, and demands back his money and his son, neither of which will i give him, for the money belongs to me for the information i gave him, and his rascally son i have never been able to find."'. it was now benezar's turn. he described how vir- tuous his son had always been, and declared that he never could have been so wicked as to steal ; and he called upon the caliph to investigate the matter to the bottom. “i hope,” said haroun, “ that you did your duty, and denounced the theft, kalum beg?" “ certainly, your majesty,” cried kalum with a laugh. “i carried him immediately before the police judge—" “summon the police judge,” the caliph commanded. arabian days entertainments. to the astonishment of all, the judge instantly ap- peared, as if by magic. the caliph demanded whether he had any recollection of this affair, and he replied that he had. “did you examine the young man? did he confess the theft ? ” asked haroun. “no, your majesty ; he was so obdurate as to refuse to confess to any one but your majesty,” answered the judge. "i do not remember to have seen him," said the caliph. “of course, your majesty, why should you? i could send you a crowd of such rascals every day, all anxious to speak with your majesty.” “you know that my ear is open to every man," answered haroun ; “but probably the proofs of the theft were so clear that it was unnecessary to bring the young man before me. you had, of course, wit- nesses to prove that the gold stolen from you was your property, kalum ?”. “witnesses ?” answered the merchant, turning pale. “no, i had no witnesses, and you are aware, com- mander of the faithful, that one gold piece is just like another. where could i get witnesses to show that these particular gold pieces were taken from my coffers ?" “and how did you know, then, that exactly that amount belonged to you ? ” asked the caliph. “by the purse in which they were," answered kalum. “have you the purse with you ?" demanded haroun. “here it is,” said the merchant, drawing out the purse and handing it to the grand vizier to pass to the caliph. the fortunes of said. no sooner had the vizier taken it, than he exclaimed with well feigned astonishment: “by the beard of the prophet! do you say this purse is yours, you dog? the purse belongs to me, and i gave it with a hundred pieces of gold to a brave young man who rescuel me from a great peril.” “can you swear to this ?" inquired the caliph. "as surely as that i shall hereafter get to para- dise," answered the vizier, “for my daughter made it with her own hands." "indeed!” cried haroun, "and did you judge falsely, police justice? why did you believe that the purse belonged to this merchant ?” “he swore it," answered the judge, timidly. “so you swore falsely ?” thundered the caliph to kalum, who stood pale and trembling before him. “allah! allah!” cried he. “i have nothing to allege against the grand vizier, for he is a reliable, honest man. but, ah! the purse was mine, notwith- standing, and the good-for-nothing said stole it from me. i would give a thousand tomans if he were now on the spot." " what did you do with this said ?” asked the caliph. “inform us whither we must send for him.” “i sent him to a desolate island,” replied the police judge. “ , said ! my son, my son!” cried the unfortunate father, weeping. “ then he confessed the crime?” asked haroun. the judge turned pale. he rolled his eyes in every direction, and stammered at last: “if i recollect rightly on you are . we “ then you are not certain ?" continued the caliph in a terrible voice. “we will learn from his own lips. arabian days' entertainments. said, come forth ; and, kalum beg, pay down a thousand pieces of gold instantly, for he is here on the spot.” kalum and the police justice thought they saw a ghost, and fell upon their knees, crying, “mercy ! mercy!” benezar, half fainting with joy, rushed into the embrace of his long-lost son. the caliph continued with iron severity, “police judge, here stands said. did he confess his crime?” “no, no!” howled the judge. “i listened only to kalum's testimony, because i knew that he was a man of standing.” “have i appointed you a judge over all my subjects, that you should listen only to men of standing ?” cried haroun al raschid, with noble indignation. “i banish you to a desolate island for ten years; there you can reflect on justice. and you, miserable wretch, who revive the dying, not to save, but to reduce them to slavery, you shall pay, as i have already said, a thousand tomans, according to your offer if said would appear to testify." kalum congratulated himself at escaping from the difficulty so cheaply, and was beginning to thank the lenient caliph. but the latter went on: “for the false oath concerning the hundred pieces of gold, you shall receive a hundred blows on the soles of your feet. for the rest, said himself shall choose whether he will take your whole shop as his property, and you as his porter, or will be contented with ten pieces of gold for every day which he spent in your service.” “let the scoundrel go, your majesty !” cried the youth. “i will have nothing which belongs to him." “no," replied haroun, “it is my will that you be recompensed. i decide in your stead for the ten gold the fortunes of said. pieces, and you shall reckon how many days you were in his claws. and now, away with these wretches." they were borne off, and the caliph led benezar and said into another hall. there he described to the happy father his wonderful rescue through said's coura- geous interference, interrupted occasionally, though not disagreeably so, by the howls of kalum beg, who was receiving his hundred pieces of gold on the soles of his fvet in the court-yard of the palace. the caliph invited benezar to live with said, in bag- dad, under his protection. he accepted the offer, returning home once more to collect together his pos- sessions. said lived like a prince in the palace which the grateful caliph caused to be built for him. the caliph's brother and the son of the grand vizier were his most intimate friends, and, “ , that i might be as valiant and as fortunate as said, the son of benezar !" grew to be a byword among the people of bagdad. “with such entertainment as this, sleep would never visit my eyes, if i had to stay awake half a dozen nights,” said the compass-maker, when the courier had ended. “i have often had proof of this before. it was some years ago, when i was journeyman to a bell- founder. my master was a rich man, and no niggard, and for this reason we were not a little surprised on one occasion, when we had a large job in hand, to see how, contrary to his usual habits, he seemed to have suddenly grown as stingy as a jew. we had been cast- ing a bell for a new church, and we journeymen and apprentices were obliged to sit by the furnace all night and watch the fire. we expected, of course, that the master would tap his big cask and give us some of his best wine. far from it. he passed round a draught arabian days' entertainments. of water every hour or so, and beguiled the time by telling us all sorts of stories picked up in his wander- ings ; when he ended, the turn came to the journeymen, and so on round the circle, and not one of us felt sleepy, so interested had we become in the adventures related. before we knew it, it was day, and we then saw the master's prudence in keeping us awake by story-telling. when the bell was finished, he was no longer sparing of his wine, but brought out in abun- dance what he had wisely saved the night before.” “he was a sensible man,” said the student. “for keeping away sleep nothing is so efficacious as conver- sation, no doubt. that is the reason why i chose not to be alone to-night, for i should have assuredly fallen asleep by eleven o'clock.” “country-people are well aware of this fact,” said the courier. “when the women spin, in the long winter evenings, they never stay at home alone, for they know if they do they will drop asleep over their work, but they get together in what they call their lamp-rooms, and tell stories while working in company.” “yes,” interposed the carrier, “and their stories are enough sometimes to frighten a man's hair off his head, for they tell of fiery spectres who wander round the earth, and kobolds who make a racket in your chamber at night, and ghosts who drive men and cattle crazy.” “ then they do not appreciate the highest kind of enjoyment, in my opinion,” said the student. “noth- ing is so disagreeable to me as ghost-stories." "well, i think exactly the contrary,' cried the compass-maker. “i enjoy a genuine ghost-story from the bottom of my heart. it is just like a storm outside when you sleep under the roof. you hear the rain- arabian days' entertainments. minds of children with such notions. i assure you, i have known brave, dauntless men, huntsmen, not afraid of the devil himself, who, when they were lying in wait at night for poachers, would suddenly lose all courage ; taking every tree for a frightful spectre, every bush for a witch, and a couple of glowworms for the eyes of some monster about to spring out on them.” “and i think entertainments of this sort injurious, not only for children, but for grown persons also," con- tinued the student. “what sensible man will occupy himself with the doings and sayings of creatures which exist only in the minds of fools? the greatest harm these fables do is among country people. this class believes firmly in this sort of narrative, and the belief is fostered in their spinning-rooms and taverns, where they sit in crowded groups and tell in a mysterious voice the most dreadful horrors.” “yes, sir,” answered the carrier, “you are right. many a misfortune has happened through such stories, and my own sister miserably perished in consequence of one of them.” “what! by one of these ghost-stories?” cried his companions, surprised. “from no other cause," said the carrier. “in the village where my father lived it is customary for the women to meet together in the long winter evenings to spin. the young farmers come in afterwards and tell stories. it happened one evening that they had been talking of apparitions; and the young men told of an old grocer who had been dead ten years, and could find no rest in his grave. every night he threw off the earth, and, rising from his grave, crept, coughing as he arabian days' entertainments. “she reached the spot, and, trembling from head to foot, knelt and plucked the flowers. suddenly her ears caught a sound in her neighborhood. she looked round. two steps from where she knelt she saw the earth up- heaving from a grave, and a ghastly figure slowly rise to view. it was an old, pale man, with a white nightcap on his head. my sister was horror-struck; she looked once more to convince herself that she had seen aright. but when the tenant of the grave said, in a nasal voice, good evening, damsel. why so late ? 'horror seized her. springing up, she ran over the graves back to the house, told in a half-fainting state what she had seen, and became so weak that they were obliged to carry her to her home. it availed us little to learn on the follow- ing day that the sexton had been making a grave in that neighborhood, and had spoken to my poor sister. before she could be told this she sank into a fever, of which · she died within three days. the roses of her death- garland she had pulled with her own hands !” the carrier ended, and his eyes filled with tears, while the others gazed on him with the deepest sympa- thy. “ alas i then the poor child died in the belief of hav- ing seen a spectre!” said the goldsmith. “i am reminded by the sad incident of a story which i may as well tell you, and which resulted in a similar catastrophe.” the cavern of steenfoll. the cavern of steenfoll. a tale of scotland. on one of the rocky islands off the coast of scotland lived many years ago, in the utmost harmony, two fish- ermen. they were both unmarried, were both without relatives, and supported themselves by their common labor. in age they were nearly equal, but in person and disposition resembled each other as little as an eagle and a seal. donald douglas was a short, thick-set man, with a broad face and good-humored, laughing eyes, where care and sorrow seemed to be total strangers. he was sleepy and torpid as well as fat, and, on him fell the cares of the household, cooking and baking, making nets for catching fish, and a large share of the cultiva- tion of the little field around the cottage. his compan- ion was diametrically his opposite ; tall and spare, with the eyes of a hawk, and a high, arched nose, he was known as the most energetic and successful fisherman, the most daring climber for birds, the busiest farmer, and the shrewdest merchant in kirkwall; but, as his wares were good and his dealings rigidly honest, every one was ready to trade with him, and william falke -- so the country people called him and his friend donald douglas, with whom the former, notwithstanding his avarice, ungrudgingly divided his hard-earned gains, made not only a comfortable livelihood, but were in a fair way to reach a decent independence. but indepen- dence merely was not the goal at which falke's avarice aimed; he wished to be rich, —very rich ; and, as he had early discovered that wealth came but slowly by the arabian days' entertainments. common highway of industry, he formed the idea at last that he should obtain the object of his ambition by some unforeseen and sudden stroke of fortune; and, when once this belief had obtained possession of his vigorous mind, he found room in it for no other idea, and began to talk of the subject to donald douglas as if it were a matter of absolute certainty. the latter, who took for gospel everything falke said, told it about among his neighbors, and the rumor soon spread that william falke had either actually sold himself for money to the evil one, or that he had had an offer to that end from the prince of the lower world. at first falke laughed at these reports ; but gradually his mind adopted the idea that some spirit could disclose a treasure to him if he would, and he ceased to contra- dict his neighbors when they questioned him concerning his fatal bargain. he continued to follow his business, but with far less zeal than he had formerly shown, and often lost the time which he had been wont to devote to fishing and other useful labors, in idle search for means by which suddenly to obtain enormous riches. as ill luck would have it, moreover, as he was standing one day on the seashore, gazing with excited hopes over the restless ocean, a big wave rolled up to his feet, among a mass of loose seaweed and pebbles, a yellow bullet, — a bullet of precious gold. william stood like one entranced ; his hopes then had not been mere idle dreams, for the sea had given him gold, pure and precious gold, perhaps the relic of some heavy ingot which the waves had worn away against the ocean bed to the size of a rifle-ball. and now his imagination conceived the idea that a richly-freighted vessel must have been wrecked years ago on this shore, and that he was the one marked out by destiny to dis- the cavern of steenfoll. cover its treasures. henceforth this was his sole aim in life ; musing ever on his hopes, reserved in the presence of his closest friends, he neglected all other pursuits to spend his days and nights on this beach, where he passed the time in casting into the sea, not nets for fishes, but a peculiarly-constructed scoop for the recov- ery of sunken gold. but he found nothing save poverty, for his own earnings utterly ceased, and donald's indo- lent labors were not sufficient to support both. in his search for greater treasures vanished not only the gold he had obtained by chance, but by degrees the whole accumulations of the two friends. but, as in earlier times douglas had trusted to falke for the greater part of his support, so now he submitted without a murmur to his comrade's profitless aberrations; and it was pre- cisely this submissive patience which incited falke still more to continue his unceasing search for treasure. and what urged him to increased exertions was, that, as often as he lay down to rest his weary limbs, his ear caught a whisper of strange words, whose meaning at the time he thought he understood, and which, never- theless, he could never remember on waking. to be sure, he knew not what connection this circumstance, strange as it was, had with his present efforts ; but, on a disposition like william falke's, every incident had its effect, and this mysterious whisper only helped to strengthen him in the belief that some great good for- tune was in store for him, which assumed in his uncul- tivated mind only the shape of a huge pile of gold. one day a tempest overtook him on the shore where he had found the golden bullet, and its severity drove him to take refuge in a neighboring cave. this cave, which the inhabitants called the cavern of steenfoll, consisted of a long subterranean passage, open to the sea the cavern of steenfoll. continued, rowing rapidly away. “go back to hell! i will have no dealings with you!”. the little being gnashed his teeth, and yelled curses on the fisherman ; but the latter was soon out of his hearing, and, after rounding a cliff, beyond his sight. but the discovery that the evil one was seeking to avail himself of his lust for wealth, to entice him into his snares by a golden bait, had no effect in diverting the deluded man from his purpose. on the contrary, . he even hoped to take advantage of the assistance, without placing himself in the clutches, of the fiend; so, continuing to dredge for gold off the desolate coast, he neglected utterly the independence which the rich fishing-grounds in the neighboring waters offered him, and sank with his companion day by day into deeper pov- erty. yet, although this state of things was due solely to falke's infatuation, and the providing sustenance for both now fell wholly on donald, the latter never complained. he showed him always the same devo- tion, the same confidence in his superior intellect, as in the times when his undertakings were successful and rational ; and while this submissiveness greatly increased falke's misery, it stimulated him all the more to search for gold, hoping thereby to indemnify his generous friend for his deprivations. all this time, the devilish whisper, “carmilhan," continued to pursue him in his slumbers. in short, want, hope and avarice drove him at last into a sort of madness; and he re- solved, finally, to carry out what the demon had sug- gested to him, although he knew well that, according to tradition, he was surrendering himself by so doing to the powers of darkness. all donald's dissuasions were thrown away. falke grew the more determined the more the other implored arabian days' entertainments. him to desist; and the good-natured fellow consented at last to accompany him, and help him carry out his plan. the hearts of both throbbed painfully as they fast- ened a rope round the horns of a fine cow, their last article of property, which they had raised from a calf, and which they had always refused to sell, from an unwillingness to see her pass into the hands of stran- gers. but the evil spirit, which had got the mastery over falke, stifled all the better feelings of his heart, and donald was unable to resist his will. it was the month of september, and the long nights of the scottish winter had already begun. the even- ing clouds drove swiftly before the fierce night-winds; deep shadows filled the valleys, and the wet turf-bogs and the turbid channels of the streams looked black and fearful as the mouths of hell. falke strode in front, fol- lowed by douglas, shuddering at his own boldness, and tears filling his eyes whenever he looked at the poor animal, going so confidingly to her speedy death, to be inflicted by the same hand which had fed her so many years. they reached, at last, a narrow, marshy vale, here and there overgrown with moss and heath and sprinkled with huge boulders, and which was rarely visited by the foot of man. a wild mountain chain encircled the spot, losing itself in the distance in the gray evening mist. they approached, with hesitating steps, a huge stone lying in the middle of this desolate spot, and from which a frightened eagle rose screaming into the air. the cow lowed mournfully, as if conscious of the horror of the place, and of her own approaching fate; and donald turned aside to wipe away his streaming tears. he looked down the gorge which they had just climbed, the cavern of steenfoll. and through which he could hear the distant surging of the sea; then upwards to the mountain peaks, on which an inky cloud had settled, and from which, at intervals, descended a hollow roar. when he again looked at falke, the latter had bound the cow to a rock, and was standing, with upraised axe, to take the poor brute's life. it was too much for his resolution. he fell upon his knees, wringing his hands. “for god's sake, wil- liam,” he exclaimed, in an agonizing tone, “spare her! o, spare yourself and me! have mercy on your own soul! or, if you are resolved thus to tempt your maker, wait till to-morrow, and obtain some other than our darling cow for this wicked sacrifice.” "donald, are you mad?” shrieked william, poising the axe above his head. “shall i spare the cow and starve ?" "you shall not starve," answered donald firmly. “ while i have hands you shall not starve. i will work for you from morning till night. but peril not the sal- vation of your soul, and let the poor brute live.” “take the axe then, and cleave my head,” cried falke in a despairing tone. “i go not from this place till i have obtained what i desire. can you raise the treasures of the carmilhan? can your hands earn more than the barest necessities of life? but you can end my misery. come, let me be the sacrifice !”. “william, i plead not for myself, but for your eternal happiness! alas! this is the altar of the picts, and the sacrifice you bring belongs to hell.” .“i deny it,” cried falke, with a frantic laugh. “doug- las, you are mad, and make me mad! but here,” he continued, throwing away the axe, and taking his knife arabian days' entertainments. as if to plunge, it into his heart; “here, keep the cow at the price of your friend's life!” donald was at his side in a moment, and, snatching the weapon of death from his hand, seized the axe, and, swinging it round his head, brought it down with such force on the forehead of the loved animal that, without a shudder, it fell dead at its master's feet. a flash of lightning, accompanied by a terrific peal of thunder, followed this hasty deed ; and falke stared at his friend with the look with which a man wonders at a child who has ventured to do what he himself lacks courage to attempt. douglas, however, seemed neither terrified by the thunder nor disconcerted by the bewil- dered gaze of his companion, but bent over the cow without a word, and began to take off its hide. when falke had recovered his composure, he helped him in the operation, but with a reluctance as visible as he had previously shown anxiety. meanwhile the tempest had increased in fury, the thunder echoed in the mountains, and frightful flashes of lightning illuminated the scanty herbage of the defile, while the wind, which had not yet reached this altitude, filled the lower valleys with its wild howling. both men found themselves drenched to the skin by the time they had finished stripping off the hide. they spread it out on the ground, and donald bound falke firmly into it. when this was done the poor man for the first time broke the prolonged silence, and, looking down compassionately on his friend, asked in a trembling voice: “ can i do anything more for you, william ?”. “nothing more !” answered falke. “farewell !” “farewell !” replied donald. “god protect you, and pardon you as i do!” these were the last words which falke heard from the cavern of steenfoll.- at last he could make out voices, and thought he recognized the words of the song. the voices were now in the valley below, and working himself along with great difficulty to a stone, on which he laid his head, he perceived a procession of human beings mov- ing in his direction. their faces showed signs of grief and misery, and their garments seemed to drip with water. they were now at no great distance, and their music ceased. at their head went several musi- cians, followed by a number of sailors, and behind came a tall, powerful man, in an antiquated, gold-embroidered dress, a sword by his side, and in his hand a thick spanish cane with a golden head. at his left walked a negro boy, handing his master from time to time a long pipe, from which he drew in several solemn draughts of smoke, and strode on. he drew himself up to his full height before falke, and other less sumptuously dressed men arranged themselves on either side, all with pipes in their hands. other persons followed these, among whom were several women, some of whom carried little children in their arms, or led them by the hand, and all in handsome but old-fashioned garments. a crowd of dutch sailors closed the procession, each holding be- tween his teeth a short, black pipe, which he smoked in gloomy silence. the fisherman looked with terror on this singular assemblage, but the expectation of what was to ensue sustained his courage. they stood around him for a long time, and the smoke from their pipes rose in a cloud above their heads. the crowd continued to close up on falke, and thicker and thicker poured the clouds from their mouths and pipes. falke was a bold, deter- mined man; he had braced himself for something super- natural; but when he saw this mysterious group press- arabian days' entertainments. the black and foam-streaked billows rushed thunder- ing in. he looked anxiously around, and saw at length some- thing shining dimly beneath the water. he laid down his torch, and, leaping in, grasped some heavy object, which he succeeded in raising. it was an iron chest filled with gold pieces. he told his companion what he had found, but turned a deaf ear to his earnest en- treaties to be satisfied with his success and reäscend. falke thought that this was but the first fruits of his long and arduous toils. he again sprang in. a loud peal of scornful laughter sounded through the cavern, and william falke was never seen again! donald went home alone, an altered man. the shocks which bis feeble brain had received destroyed his mind. he left everything to go to ruin, and wan- dered about day and night, gazing vacantly around, an object of pity and sympathy to all his former friends. one of the fishermen insists that he recognized william falke one stormy night standing on the shore among the crew of the carmilhan. on the same night vanished also donald douglas. he was sought for in every direction without success. tradition says, however, that he has often been seen since standing with falke among the men of the spectre- ship, which since that time has annually been visible in the cavern of steenfoll. “midnight is long passed,” said the student, when the goldsmith had ended his story. “there can be no further danger; and for my part i feel so sleepy that i advise all to go to bed, and sleep without further alarm.” "i'll not trust the rogues before two o'clock,” an- the tavern in spessart. swered the courier. “the proverb says, you know, * from eleven till two thieves mischief do.'" “i agree with you,” observed the compass-maker. “when a man means to take you at a disadvantage, no time is so suitable as after midnight. but why cannot mr. student, here, go on with the story he left unfinished ?" “i have no objection,” said the student. “but our friend the courier has not heard the beginning of it." "never mind that,” said the courier; “i'll try to guess at it from the conclusion." " very well, then,” said the student; and was about to recommence, when he was interrupted by the barking of a dog, and all held their breaths to listen. at the same moment one of the countess' servants rushed into the room, and told them hurriedly that ten or twelve armed men were approaching the tavern at the side. the courier seized his rifle, the student his pistols, the journeymen grasped their sticks, and the carrier drew a long knife from his pocket. thus prepared, they stood and gazed uneasily in each others' faces. “let us go to the head of the stairs," said the stu- dent. "two or three of these villains shall die, at any rate, before we are overpowered.” at the same time he gave the compass-maker his second pistol, and rec- ommended him to reserve his fire till his own pistol had been discharged. they placed themselves at the stairs ; the student and the courier occupied their breadth, the valiant compass-maker stood at their side, bending over the balustrade and pointing his pistol down the centre of the flight, while the carrier and the goldsmith stood be hind them, ready to do their part in case of a conflict of man against mạn. they stood for some minutes in silent expectation, till at length a noise of opening the front door reached their ears, and they thought they could arabian days' entertainments. make out the whispering of several voices. they heard soon after the footsteps of a number of men approach- ing, and then mounting the stairs, and at the turn three men came into view, who were certainly unprepared for the reception which awaited them, for, no sooner had they appeared round the central pillar, than the courier cried in a steady voice : “ halt! one step further, and you are dead men! our pistols are loaded, friends, and our aim is good.” the robbers hastily retreated to consult with the others below. one of them came back shortly and said, “gentlemen, it would be folly in you to sacrifice your lives, for we are numerous enough to exterminate you. retire, gentlemen, and none of you shall suffer the slightest injury. we will not rob you of the value of a farthing." “what is your purpose, then?” retorted the student. “think you we will trust men of your stamp ? never! if you need anything of ours, come and take it, in god's name ; but i shall fire at the forehead of the first man who ventures to turn that corner, and i promise him he shall never have the headache again.” “surrender the lady to us, then, voluntarily,” an- swered the robber. “nothing shall happen to her; we will merely take her to a place of safety, and her people shall be allowed to ride back and notify the count that he can obtain her release for twenty thousand florins." “are we dogs, that you make such base proposals to us ?” cried the courier, foaming with rage, and cocking his rifle. “i shall count three, and shoot you at the third, unless you instantly retire. one, two — " “halt!” shouted the robber in a voice of thunder. « is it your custom to fire at an unarmed man who is talking with you peacefully? foolish men ! you can arabian days' entertainments. myself in the countess' clothes, and these wretches would discover their mistake too late to prevent her escape.” the lady's misfortunes had made a deep impression on felix. he felt towards her as he would lave felt towards his own mother had he found her in this fearful position, and was willing and happy to sacrifice his life for hers. hence, when the student made this last re- mark, a sudden thought flashed through his mind. he forgot every consideration of danger, and thought only of saving the lady from her perilous position. “if this is all,” said he, stepping forward with a blush, “if it requires merely a beardless chin, a small body, and a stout heart, to rescue this honorable lady, perhaps she will condescend to accept my humble services. madam, in god's name, i entreat you to put on my coat, place my hat on your beautiful locks, take my bundle on your back, and assume the character of felix the goldsmith.” the youth's courage filled every one with surprise, and the courier embraced him in the deepest gratitude. “my dear lad,” he exclaimed, “and will you do this? are you willing to assume her dress and save her from these villains ? god has sent you to our aid. but you shall not go alone. i will surrender myself with you ; and while i live they shall not harm a hair of your head." “i too will go with you,” cried the student. it consumed much time to persuade the countess to consent to this proposal. she could not bear to think that a perfect stranger should sacrifice his liberty, and perhaps his life, for her sake ; and she pictured to her- self the fearful revenge of the robbers on the young man, in case of their subsequent discovery of the deceit. but partly the young lad's entreaties, and partly the the tavern in spessart. others' representations of the influences she could bring to bear to effect the release of her preserver, conquered her unwillingness at last. the courier and the other travellers accompanied felix into the student's chamber, where he speedily donned some of the clothes of the countess. the courier provided him with a few of the waiting-woman's false curls, and a lady's bon- net, and all present assured him that detection was impossible. the compass-maker vowed that, were he to meet him thus disguised in the street, he should take off his hat and make him a polite bow, never dreaming that he was paying his respects to his stout-hearted fellow-traveller. the countess meanwhile, with the aid of her waiting- woman, had supplied herself with a disguise from the goldsmith's knapsack. the hat, pressed low on her forehead, the walking-staff in her hand, and the bundle, somewhat lightened of its former burthen, on her back, completely altered her appearance; and at any other time the allies would have laughed heartily at this amusing masquerade. the newly-made journeyman thanked felix with tears of gratitude, and promised him the most speedy assistance. “i have but one request to make," said felix in answer. “in this knapsack you will find a little box. guard it with care, for should it be lost i should be miserable forever. i am taking it to my godmother, and " “gottfried, the courier, knows my castle,” inter- rupted the countess. “it shall be restored to you unin- jured. you will come for it i trust in person, noble youth, to receive the thanks of my husband and my- self.” before felis could answer, the harsh voices of the arabian days' entertainments. robbers sounded up the stairs, crying that the respite had passed, and everything was ready for the countess' departure. the courier went down and told them his intention of accompanying the lady, stating that he pre- ferred to go with them wherever they carried her, rather than appear before the count without his mistress. the student also expressed a similar resolve. the rob- bers consulted together a moment over this proposal, and then assented, on the condition that the courier laid aside his arms. at the same time, they ordered the other travellers to remain quietly behind when the countess should be carried away. felix lowered the veil attached to his bonnet, and seating himself in a corner, with his head supported in his hand, waited in an attitude of deep grief the arrival of the robbers. the rest of the travellers had with- drawn into the next chamber, but were still able to overlook what took place. the courier sat apparently overwhelmed with sorrow, but watching attentively everything which occurred in the opposite corner of the room. after sitting in this way a few minutes the door opened, and a handsome, richly-dressed man entered the chamber. he wore a sort of military uniform with an order on his breast, carried a sabre at his side, and held in his hand a hat decorated with beautiful feathers. two of his men closed the door immediately after his entrance. he approached felix with a profound bow, appearing to be somewhat embarrassed in the presence of a lady of such high rank, and tried several times before he suc- ceeded in expressing himself to his mind: “most honorable madam,” said he, “circumstances sometimes happen in which one is obliged to practise a little patience. such is your situation now. do not arabian days' entertainments. goldsmith's pocket. this she held clasped convulsively in her rigid hand, prepared to kill herself rather than submit to such a fate. felix's mind was in a state of no less anxiety. to be sure he was strengthened and consoled by the thought that it was a manly and honor- able deed to aid thus an oppressed and helpless woman; but he was constantly in fear lest he should disclose the secret by some awkward movement or by the tone of his voice. his uneasiness increased when the robber spoke of a letter he must write. how should he write? what title should he give the count? what form to the letter, so as not to betray himself? his excitement reached its climax when the leader of the band laid before him paper and pens, and re- quested him to lift his veil and write to the count. felix was unconscious of the becomingness of his dis- guise. had he known how well he looked, he would have felt no fears of a discovery ; for when, driven by necessity, he at length threw back his veil, the gentle- man in uniform appeared much struck by the lady's beauty and her manly and courageous expression, and looked upon her with increased respect. the quick eyes of the goldsmith did not fail to notice this ; and, satisfied that for the present no danger of detection need be feared, he took the pen and wrote a letter to his sup- posed husband, following a form which he had long ago seen in some old book. it ran thus : “my lord and husband: i, your unhappy wife, have been suddenly arrested in my journey, in the middle of the night, by people to whom it is impossible to attrib- ute good motives. they mean to detain me in their keeping, my lord count, till you have advanced the sum of twenty thousand florins for my ransom. arabian days' entertainments. such project, and, should he do so, i should stick at nothing to frustrate his purpose.” the trembling waiting-woman promised everything. she was now ordered to pack a few articles of dress and clean linen in a bundle, for the countess' use, as the robbers were not disposed to be incommoded by much luggage ; and when this had been done the leader of the gang, with a profound bow, requested the lady to fol- low him. felix rose, the courier and student joined him, and all three went down stairs in company with the robber-captain. a number of horses were standing before the tavern. one of these was assigned to the courier, another, a small, handsome animal provided with a side-saddle, stood ready for the countess, and a third was given to the student. the captain lifted the goldsmith into the saddle, and, fastening him firmly on, mounted his horse. he took his own place at the lady's right hand, and on her left rode another of the band. the student and the courier were guarded in the same way. the rest of the band having mounted, the leader gave the signal for departure, and the whole gang soon disappeared in the forest. the party assembled in the upper chamber slowly recovered their tranquillity after this scene. as is usual in cases of great misfortune or sudden danger, their spirits would probably have been all the gayer from the reaction, had they not been filled with concern for the fate of their three friends who had so lately been carried into captivity before their eyes. they were never tired of expressing their admiration of the young goldsmith, and the countess shed tears of emotion when she thought of the vast debt of gratitude she owed a youth to whom she had never done a kindness, and arabian days' entertainments. things were the cause of the countess' present good- fortune. if things had looked less suspicious in the tavern, if the landlady's conduct had not been so singu- lar, we should not have remained awake to stand by one another. the robbers would have had us at their mercy, and this fortunate exchange would never have been made." they all coïncided in the carrier's opinion, and made up their minds to accuse the landlady and her servants to the proper authorities. but more effectually to carry their project into execution, they thought it best to excite no suspicions of their intention. the carrier and the servants descended therefore to the kitchen, released the wretches from their confinement, and showed them all the sympathy and attention they had it in their power to feign. to console her guests as much as she could, the landlady made out a very moderate bill to each, and invited them politely to come again. the carrier paid his reckoning, and, taking leave of his companions, continued his journey. the two journeymen also took their departure from the inn. light as the goldsmith's bundle was, it fatigued the delicate lady not a little. but still heavier was her heart, when the landlady, standing at the door, held out her treacherous hand to bid good-by. “why, what a young lad you are, truly !” said she at sight of the delicate woman. “so young, and wandering already! you must be a naughty boy, surely, whom your master has expelled from his shop. well, it 's none of my business. come and see me when you come back. pleasant journey!” the countess could not answer from fear and agita- tion, dreading to betray herself by the softness of her voice. the compass-maker, noticing this, took the arm the tavern in spessart. the courier, surprised at the lad's demeanor, so different from his recent courage and firmness. · “hear my story, and you will justify me," answered felix. “my father was a skilful goldsmith of nurem- burg. my mother, before her marriage, had been in the service of a lady of rank, and, when she married my father, was generously endowed by the countess her mistress. this kindness was not forgotten by my parents, and when i came into the world the same good lady became my god-mother, and gave me a hand- some sum of money. both my parents dying soon after, my god-mother took pity on my unfortunate con- dition and sent me to school; and, as soon as i was old enough, wrote to inquire if i had any inclination for my father's trade. i joyfully assented, and at once ob- tained a place in the shop of a master-goldsmith of wurzburg. i showed a taste for the business, and made such progress that i was soon pronounced fit to commence my travels. i wrote to inform my god- mother of this, and she immediately answered that she would supply the money for my expenses. she also sent me some jewels, which i was to furnish with a handsome setting, and bring them to her myself, as evidences of my skill. i had never yet seen her, and you may imagine how deeply i felt her kindness. i worked at the trinkets day and night, and succeeded in making them so elegant that even my master was filled with admiration. when finished, i packed them carefully away in the bottom of my knapsack, and, taking leave of my master, set out for my god-mother's castle. then came,” continued the lad, bursting into tears, “ these infamous robbers, and overthrew all my hopes. for if the countess were to lose these jewels, or should she forget what i said to her and throw away arabian days? entertainments. my worthless knapsack, how shall i ever have the face to enter the presence of my kind benefactress ? how shall i ever exonerate myself ? how replace the stones? i shall seem to her an ungrateful wretch, shamefully throwing away her promised benefits. and after all, no one will believe me when i tell of this strange accident?” “have no fears of that,” answered the courier. “i feel sure that your jewels are perfectly safe in the coun- tess' hands; and, if not, she will undoubtedly make their loss good to her preserver, and add her testimony as to the truth of these events. we will leave you now for a few hours, as we stand much in need of sleep, and after the exertions of this night you must yourself want rest. to-morrow we will try to forget our mis- fortunes in conversation, or, what is better still, devise some means of escape.” they bade him good-night, and felix made his best endeavors to follow the courier's advice. when the courier came back with the student, several hours later, he found his young friend in better spirits than on the previous night. he told felix that the leader of the band had directed him to take the greatest care of the lady, and that in a few minutes one of the women whom they had seen among the huts would bring her some coffee, and offer her services to wait upon her. they resolved, for the sake of privacy, not to accept these hospitalities; and when the old, hideous gipsey came with the breakfast, and asked, with a friendly leer, if she could be of any service, on her delay- ing to depart, the courier took her by the arm and pushed her out of the cabin. the student then described the result of their observations in the rob- bers' camp. “the hovel you occupy, lovely count- h ਇਹ :: ਦੇ ਨੂੰ Ι δουν, e-ι the cold heart. fart . .. on jieart. pert . the cold heart. ess," said he, “ appears to have been originally in- tended for the captain. it is not so roomy, but is much handsomer than the others. there are six others, in which the women and children live. one of the rob- bers stands guard not far from this hut, another below here on the road up the hill, and a third is on the look- out at the entrance of the defile. they are relieved every two hours. in addition, each man has a couple of large dogs lying near him, and they are all so watch- ful, that one cannot set his foot outside the huts without being immediately challenged. i have abandoned all hopes of effecting our escape.” “pray do not cast down my revived courage," answered felix, “nor give up all hope. if you fear our being overheard, let us talk of something else, and not make ourselves unhappy before our time. mr. student, you began a good story at the tavern ; why not finish it now? we have plenty of spare time.” “i scarcely remember where i left off," answered the young man. “you were telling the story of the cold heart, and stopped where the landlord and the other gainbler had thrown peter out of the front door." “true, i recollect now," answered he. “if you are disposed for more, i will go on.” the cold heart. part second. the following monday, when peter went to his glass- house, he found there not only his workmen, but several unwelcome strangers, namely, the bailiff and three con- arabian days' entertainments. stables. the bailiff bade peter good-morning, and, having inquired how he slept the night before, drew from his pocket a long document containing a list of his creditors. “can you pay, or not?” demanded he with a stern look. “and cut it short, too, for i've not much time to throw away, and i've been here three good hours already." the despondent peter confessed that his means were exhausted, and surrendered all his property, house, yard, sheds, stalls, wagons, and horses, to be appraised by the bailiff; and while the latter was going about with the constables, examining and appraising, the thought crossed his mind that the pine grove was not far off, and, as the dwarf had done him no good, he had better pay a visit to the giant. he ran to the pine grove as fast as if the constables were at his heels; and, though it seemed to him, as he passed the place where he had first spoken to the glass manikin, that an invisible hand held him back, he tore himself loose, and ran on to the ditch which he had noticed in former times; and scarcely had he shouted breathlessly, “hollander michael! hol- lander michael !” when the gigantic raftsman stood before him, staff in hand. “so you have come already ?” said he, laughing. “they have been skinning you, no doubt, and want to sell you to your creditors. well, well, be easy ; your whole trouble comes, as i told you it would, from that contemptible glass manikin, the hypocrite! if a man means to benefit another, he should do it hand. somely, and not like that stingy curmudgeon. but come,” continued he, turning into the wood, “follow me to my house, and we'll see then whether we can come to terms." rtainments. arabian day sation, and told of the pleasures of the world, of foreign countries, of beautiful cities and rivers, till peter began to feel a strong desire to visit these places, and said as much to his host. " if your whole body were running over with courage for bold undertakings, peter, a couple of throbs of your foolish, useless heart would make you tremble. why should a sensible fellow like you trouble himself about dishonor or misfortune? did you feel it in your head when they called you lately scoundrel and rogue ? did it make your stomach ache when the bailiff came to pitch you out of your glass-house ? tell me, peter, my boy, what part of you felt these annoyances ?” “my heart,” said peter, pressing his hand to his throbbing breast. “you have thrown away-no offence, peter- a great many hundred florins on dirty beggars and such vermin, and what good has it done you? they blessed you, to be sure, and wished you health ; but did you ever find yourself better for that ? for half the money you have wasted on beggars you might have kept a physician in your pay. as if a blessing were of any use when a man is thrust out of doors ! bah! and what was it, peter, drove you to feel in your pockets whenever a beggar pulled off his greasy hat to you? your heart, peter, always your heart! not your eyes, nor your tongue, nor your arms, nor your legs, but your heart ! you took everything too much to heart, as the say- ing is.” “but how can a man help it, sir? i give myself all the trouble in the world to keep my heart down, but it beats and pains me all the same.” “by yourself, of course," said his host, laughing, "you can do nothing to prevent it. but give me the the cold heart. troublesome thing, and you will see at once how com- fortable you will be.” “give you my heart !" cried peter in terror. “i should die on the spot.” "of course you would, if one of your rascally sur- geons were to take it out of your body ; you would die, no doubt. but it's a very different affair with me. come and see for yourself.” rising from his seat he opened a door and led peter into another room. peter's heart contracted painfully as he crossed the threshold, for the sight which met his eye was strange and startling glass vessels filled with a transparent liquid, and each containing a human heart, were ranged on wooden shelves round the room, and on each vessel was pasted a ticket with a name written on it, which peter read with great surprise. here was the heart of the bailiff of f., of fat ezekiel, of king dance, of the head forester; there six hearts of usurers, eight of recruiting-officers, three of money- brokers. in short, it was a museum of the most respectable hearts within a radius of twenty leagues. “look," said hollander michael ; "all these have 'thrown aside the cares and anxieties of life. none of these hearts ever beat with sorrow and suffering, and their former owners never cease to congratulate them- selves that they have expelled the uneasy guest from their houses." “but what do they carry in their breasts in their place?” inquired peter, giddy at the dreadful sight. “this,” replied the giant, taking from his pocket a heart of marble. “indeed !” answered peter, unable to repress a shud. der. “a marble heart! but, hollander michael, it must feel very cold in a man's bosom." arabian days' entertainments. - “of course," said the spectre ; “very agreeably so, however. where is the advantage of a warm heart? the warmth is no benefit in winter, for a glass of brandy and a good fire are a great deal better; and in summer, when everything is so sultry and hot, you have no idea how cooling such a heart as this is ! besides, as i said before, you will never feel pain nor fear; and silly com- passion and such ridiculous emotions will never annoy you again." “and this is all you can give me?" asked peter, dis- contentedly. “i was expecting money, and you offer me only a marble heart!” “nay, a hundred thousand florins i thought would be enough for you at first. if you manage it well, you will soon get to be a millionaire.” "a hundred thousand !" cried the poor charcoal- burner joyfully. “aha! my heart beats so violently i see we shall soon understand one another. very well, michael, give me the stone and the money, and you may have all the uneasiness for yourself.” “i thought you were a sensible lad," said the hol- lander, laughing kindly. “come, let's take a drink or two, and i'll count out the money." they sat down to their wine again, and continued to drink till peter sank into a deep sleep. • he was awakened at last by the merry sounds of a post-horn, and to his surprise found himself sitting in a handsome coach, and travelling on a broad and level road; and, bending out of the window, he saw the black forest lying behind him in the blue horizon. at first he could not believe that it was he sitting in this fine carriage. his clothes were certainly not those which he had worn yesterday ; but his memory of what had the cold heart. never sad, and never pleased ; and i am as though i were but half alive. can you not infuse a little life into my stony heart? or rather, michael, give me back my own. i had been used to it for five-and-twenty years, and, if it did sometimes play me a treacherous trick, after all it was joyous and alive.”. the spectre laughed a bitter, cruel laugh. “when you are dead, peter,” he answered, “you shall have it without fail. you shall then receive again your soft, throbbing heart, and be capable of feel- ing the ensuing joy — or misery. it can never again be yours on earth. but, peter, you say you have trav- elled, and yet, live as you pleased, have never tasted pleasure. establish yourself here in this forest, build you a house, marry, and invest your wealth in trade. you only need occupation. you felt ennui merely from idleness, and now ascribe all your unhappiness to this harmless heart.”. peter saw that michael was right, as far as concerned idleness, and resolved to devote himself day and night to the accumulation of money. michael gave him another hundred thousand florins, and once more dismissed him, persuaded that the giant was his devoted friend. the rumor soon spread through the forest that char- coal peter, or gambling peter, had come home richer than before, and the result was the same as it has ever been since the beginning of the world. as long as he was in poverty they pitched him out of the house into the sun ; now, when he made his first appearance at the tavern on a sunday afternoon, people shook his hand, admired his horse, inquired about his travels, and when he sat down, as he did at once, to play for hard dollars with fat ezekiel, the respect he inspired was as high as ever. his business now was no longer glass-making, arabian days' entertainments. she had believed she understood the management of a household, but she found too late that she could never do anything to her husband's satisfaction. she felt compassion for the poor, and, as her husband was rich, thought there could be no sin in giving a poor beggar- woman an occasional penny, or an old mendicant a glass of schnapps; but, seeing her doing this one day, peter said to her in an angry voice: “why do you waste my property on beggars and thieves ? did you bring so much into my house that you can afford to throw it away like dirt ? your father's beggary never warmed me a supper yet, and you throw my money about like a queen! do so again, madam, and you shall feel the weight of my hand !” the beautiful elizabeth wept bitterly in her chamber over her husband's cruelty, and often longed to be at home in her father's miserable hut, rather than live with the rich, stingy, hard-hearted peter. alas! had she known that his heart was of marble, and that he could never love any human being, she would have ceased to wonder. henceforth, whenever she sat at the door, and a passing beggar pulled off his hat and craved a little aid, she would shut her eyes to prevent her seeing the sufferer, and clench her hand for fear of thrusting it into her pocket and taking out a piece of money. the consequence of this naturally was, that elizabeth grew to be the talk of the whole forest, and people declared that she was even stingier than peter himself. one day she was sitting before the door spinning, and hum- ming a little song, for she felt in good spirits, as the weather was fine and peter had ridden out to his fields, when a little, old man came down the road, carrying on his shoulders a heavy sack, and coughing so pitifully that she could hear him a long way off. elizabeth - the cold heart.;""; looked at him compassionately, and thought in her ten- der heart how wrong it was that so old and small a man should be compelled to carry so heavy a load. meanwhile the little man coughed and staggered along, and, when opposite elizabeth, almost broke down under his burthen. “alas! madam, have the goodness to give me a draught of cold water,” said he ; “i can go no further, and am almost fainting.” “but you should not carry such heavy loads in your old age, poor man,” said elizabeth. “yes; but i am obliged to do these jobs from pov- erty,” replied he. “ah, so rich a lady as you are has no idea how heavily poverty presses, and how refresh- ing is a draught of cool water in such sultry heat as this !" elizabeth ran into the house, and, taking a pitcher from the shelf, filled it with water; but, standing a few paces distant, and seeing how sadly the little man sat on his sack, her heart overflowed with compassion, and, remembering that her husband was from home, she set down the pitcher of water, and, filling a cup with wine, cut a large slice of rye bread, and brought both to the old mendicant. “a glass of wine will do you more good than water, as you are so old,” said she ; “ drink it slowly, and eat this bread with it." the little fellow looked at her with surprise, and, with big tears standing in his eyes, drank the wine and said : “i have lived many years, but i have seen few peo- ple so compassionate, and who know so well how to use their wealth, as you, madam elizabeth. you will be happy hereafter, for so good a heart does not go un- rewarded." arabian days' entertainments. “no; and she shall receive her reward on the spot,” cried an angry voice, and peter stood before her, his face crimson with rage. “so you give my best wine to beggars, do you? and my own cup you lend to such rascals as this! i'll pay you!" she fell at his feet, entreating him for mercy; but his stony heart knew no compassion. he reversed the whip which he held in his hand, and struck her so heav- ily on her beautiful brow, with its ebony handle, that she sank lifeless into the old man's arms. seeing this, a sort of selfish regret seized him for a moment, and he bent down to see if she still retained a spark of life, when the old man said, in a well-known voice : .“ give yourself no trouble, peter. she was the fairest flower in the black forest, but you have crushed her under foot, and she will never bloom again.” peter's cheeks blanched in a moment. “so it is you, mr. treasurer? well, what is done is done, and it was sure to come at last. i hope, sir, you will not denounce me to the officers as a murderer.” “ villain !” answered the glass manikin. “what pleasure should i have in bringing your perishable body to the gallows? no human judge have you to fear, but another and more dreadful arbiter, for you have lost your soul to the prince of evil.” “and if i have lost my soul,” yelled peter, “you and your treacherous gifts are the only ones to blame. you, malicious demon, have led me into ruin ; you have driven me to seek assistance from another, and on your shoulders lies the whole responsibility.” scarcely had he said this, when the glass manikin began to dilate and expand; his eyes became as large as soup-plates, and his mouth like a lighted furnace, with flames issu- arabian days' entertainments. the blood of the saintly elizabeth ; and if he could not justify himself to the old man, her father, were he to come and ask him, “where is my daughter and your wife ?” how could he stand before the face of one, to whom belonged all woods, all seas, all mountains, and all human souls ? his dreams at night were restless, and incessantly a sweet voice awoke him, calling, “ peter, seek a warmer heart!”-a voice he knew to be elizabeth's. the next day he repaired to the tavern to dissipate bis mel- ancholy thoughts, and there found, as usual, fat ezekiel. he sat down by his side, and the two friends talked of various subjects, — of the fine weather, the war, the heavy taxes, and what not, and at length of sudden death. peter asked ezekiel what he thought of death, and if he had ever reflected on his life hereafter. ezekiel answered, that the body was buried under ground, and the soul departed at once to heaven or to hell. “ and is the heart buried also ?" inquired peter earnestly. “of course, the heart also." “but if one has no heart?” continued peter. ezekiel looked at him with terror in his face. “what do you mean? are you mocking me? think you i have no heart ?” “ , heart enough, and as hard as a stone !" replied peter. ezekiel looked astounded, and, gazing nervously round to see that no one overheard, whispered: “how do you know that? or perhaps yours too has ceased to feel?” “mine too has ceased to feel, at least in my own bosom," answered peter.' “but tell me, since you the cold. heart. now know all, how will it fare with our hearts hereafter?” " why should that trouble you, neighbor ?” said ezekiel, laughing. “you are well enough off during your lifetime, at any rate. it is the greatest comfort of our cold hearts that such notions give us no un- easiness." "true enough, but we think of them, nevertheless ; and, though i cannot now feel fear, yet i remember dis- tinctly how terribly afraid of hell i felt when i was a little, innocent child.” "well — we shan't go there just yet, i hope,” said ezekiel. “i once asked a schoolmaster about it, and he told me that after death hearts were always weighed, to judge how grievously they had sinned. the light ones rise, the heavy sink; and i'm thinking ours, peter, will show a decent weight.”? "they will indeed," answered peter; “and it often makes me uneasy to find how unmoved and indifferent my heart remains when i think of these matters." the next night he heard five or six times the same familiar voice whisper in his ear: “peter, seek a warmer heart !” he felt no remorse for her death, but when he told his servants that their mistress had gone on a journey, he thought to himself: “what journey can she be travelling now?” six days he spent in this way, and night after night he heard the voice, and day after day recalled the spectre and his frightful menace. on the seventh morning he sprang from his bed, exclaiming: “yes, i will try to obtain a warmer heart, for this insensible stone within makes my life only a burthen and fatigue.” he put his sunday suit hastily on, and, mounting his horse, rode to the pine gros@ .. .we he seventh i will try within makes day suit arabian days' entertainments. he dismounted at a place where the trees grew close and thick, and, fastening his horse to a branch, ran with hasty steps to the big pine, and recited his verse : " treasurer in the forest green, who so many hundred years hast seen, thine is the land where the pine-trees stand, and sabbath-born children bless thy hand.” the glass manikin instantly appeared, but a stern and angry expression had displaced his former kindly glance. he wore a doublet of black glass, with a long crape fluttering from his hat, and peter well knew for whom he mourned. “what would you have of me?” he asked in a gloomy voice. “i have one wish left, sir treasurer," answered peter, with downcast eyes. “can hearts of marble wish ?" said the dwarf. “you have now all your wicked mind can desire, and shall have no more." ; “but you promised me three wishes, and one is still unused," urged munk. “ if it is foolish, i can refuse it,” said the spectre; “speak; what is it you would ask ?”. . “take from my breast this block of stone, and give me back my living heart,” said peter. "was it i who made the exchange?" said the mani- kin. “am i hollander michael, to give away riches and marble hearts? you must seek your heart from him." “alas, he never gives back!” sobbed peter. “bad as you are, i feel for your unhappiness," said the glass manikin after a moment's thought. “ as your wish is not foolish, i will not refuse my aid. listen. the cold heart... you can never recover you heart by force, but you can by guile, and perhaps without much difficulty, for mi- chael has ever been stupid michael, although he thinks himself extremely shrewd. go to him, and do as i direct.” then, telling him what course to follow to attain his object, he gave him a small cross of finest glass, and said : " as long as you live he can do you no injury; and he will let you pass unopposed, if you hold this out to- wards him, and pray to god. when you have obtained what you go for, come back at once to this place.” peter took the crucifix, and, imprinting every word on his memory, went on to hollander michael's abode. he called his name three times, and the giant stood before him. “so you have killed your wife ?” he said, with a horrid laugh. “you were perfectly right to do so, for she squandered your property on beggars. but you must leave the country for a while, for it will lead to trouble when people find she does not come back. you want money i suppose, and have come to get it?” " you have guessed it,” said peter," and a good deal this time, for it's a long road to america.” michael led him to his cottage ; and opening a coffer, in which lay heaps of gold, took out many rolls of the precious metal. while he was counting it down on the table, peter said: “you are a tricky fellow, michael, with your lies about my carrying a stone in my breast and yourself having my real heart." “ and is it not so ?” said michael, amazed. "do you feel your heart still? is it not cold, like ice? do you feel fear, or sorrow? do you ever repent a sin ?” “ you have merely deadened my heart a little, but i arabian days' entertainments. have it in my bosom yet, and so has ezekiel, who told me you had cheated us. you have no power to take a man's heart so neatly and safely out of his body. you would have to use magic to do such a thing.” “but i assure you,” cried michael, offended, “that ezekiel, and all the rich people about here who have had dealings with me, have just such marble hearts as yours, and their true hearts are all stowed away here in my chamber.” "pooh, michael, how easily the lies run off your tongue !” laughed peter. “tell that story to the ma- rines! do you suppose i have n't seen tricks of this sort by the dozen during my travels? these hearts in your chamber are all made of wax. you are a rich dog, i admit, but you are no wizard.” the giant tore open the chamber door, foaming with anger. “come in and read these tickets, and that one yon- der. see! that is · peter munk's heart!' do you see how it beats? can wax do that, think you ?” “pooh, pooh ; nothing but wax," answered peter. “ that does n't beat like a real heart, and i have my own still here in my breast. you are no wizard, that's certain." “i will prove it to you !" cried the giant in a rage. “you shall feel for yourself that it is your own heart." with that, he tore open peter's doublet, and, taking the stone from his breast, held it up before his eyes. then he took down the true heart, and, breathing upon it, set it carefully in peter's side, — and instantly the young man felt it beating under his ribs, and found him- self capable of enjoying the sensation. “how does it feel now?” inquired michael with a laugh. arabian days' entertainments. a little pipe, and his expression was softer than before. “why do you weep, charcoal-burner?” he asked. “ have you failed to obtain your heart ? lies the mar- ble still in your bosom?”. “alas ! sir,” sighed peter, " as long as i carried a marble heart i never wept, and my eyes were as dry as the ground in july. but my old heart is almost break- ing at the remembrance of my crimes. i have driven my debtors to despair, i have set my dogs on the poor and sick, and you have not forgotten how my whip fell on that beautiful forehead!” “peter, you have been a great sinner!" said the dwarf. “money and idleness have been your ruin, till your heart changed to stone, and you could feel no longer joy or sorrow, remorse or compassion. but re- pentance atones for sin ; and, were i sure that you felt remorse for your past life, it is still in my power to do you a great good.” “i wish nothing more," answered peter, and his head sank sadly on his breast. “hope has filed. i can never be happy again. what can i do, alone in the world ? my mother will never pardon the wrongs i have done to her; and perhaps, monster that i am, i have already brought her with sorrow to the grave! and elizabeth! my dear wife ! - alas, treasurer, rather strike me dead on the spot and bring my wretched life to an instant close !" "well,” answered the dwarf, “ if you are resolved upon it, let it be so. i have my axe ready in my hand." he took his pipe quietly from his mouth, extinguished it, and thrust it into his pocket. then, rising slowly from his seat, he disappeared behind the trees. peter sat weeping on the grass ; his life was worthless in his sight, and he waited patiently for his death-blow. in a * the cold heart. few moments he heard soft footsteps behind him, and thought to himself, “ he is coming now.” "look behind you, peter munk!” cried the dwarf. he wiped the tears from his eyes and turned his head. there stood his mother and elizabeth, looking at him tenderly. he sprang up in a frenzy of delight. "you are not dead, then, elizabeth! and you here, too, mother! have you forgiven me ?”. “ they are willing to forgive you,” answered the glass manikin, “because you feel sincere remorse. re- turn now to your father's cottage, and become a char- coal-burner as before. if you are honest and manly you will honor your occupation, and your neighbors will respect and love you more than if you possessed ten tons of gold.” with this admonition the glass manikin bade them farewell. the three blessed and praised him, and slowly returned home. the handsome house of rich peter munk was standing no longer; the lightning had struck it and destroyed it with all his treasures. but his father's hut stood at no great distance, and thither they turned their steps, unconcerned at the great losses they had so recently sustained. but great was their amazement when they reached the hut. it had been changed into a handsome farmer's cottage, and all its interior arrangements, though sim- ple, were tasteful and good. “the good glass manikin has done this !” cried peter. “how charming !” said elizabeth. “this is much more like home than that great house of ours with its crowd of servants." henceforth peter munk was a busy and active man. contented with what he had, he applied himself indus- triously to his business; and thus it came about that he arabian days' entertainments. grew prosperous through his own exertions and activity, and was respected and admired throughout the forest. he ceased to quarrel with the beautiful elizabeth, treated his mother with affection and reverence, and gave freely to the needy who knocked at his door. after the lapse of a year and a day elizabeth gave birth to a handsome boy, and peter went to the pine grove and recited the verses. but no glass manikin answered to his summons. “my lord treasurer," he shouted, “ listen to me a moment. i only wish to ask you to be god-father to my little son." no answer came back, but a puff of wind sighed through the pine-trees, and cast a few pine-cones down into the grass. “i will take these cones as a keepsake, since you refuse to answer to my call,” cried peter, and, putting them in his pocket, went back to his cottage. but when he drew off his sunday doublet, and his mother turned out the pockets to put the coat safely away in the press, four large rolls of money fell out, and, on opening them, their eyes were dazzled by the shine of countless, good, new, handsome ducats, with not a false one among them. and this was the present of the manikin to his little god-child. henceforth they lived calmly and at peace; and peter 'frequently said in after years, when his head was white and his limbs feeble: “it is far better to be contented with little, than to possess money and goods and a cold heart." five days passed away, during which felix, the courier, and the student, remained the prisoners of the robber-band. they were well treated by the captain and his subordinates, but still they longed for their release from captivity, as every day increased their arabian days' entertainments. and a man made his appearance. it was the captain. he closed it carefully behind him, and, making a sign to the two prisoners to be silent, seated himself near felix and said: “my lady countess, you are in a dangerous situation. your husband has not obeyed your request. he has not only neglected to send the ransom, but he has also called the authorities to his assistance, and an armed force is now working its way through the forest on every side, to capture me and my people. i warned your husband that i should put you to death in case he made any attempt to arrest us; but it seems he sets little value on your life, or he has no belief in my reso- lution. your life is in our hands, and is forfeited according to our laws. what objections have you to oppose to this proceeding ?” the captives were silent from terror and dismay, and felix was well aware that the confession of his decep- tion would only enhance the peril of his situation. "i find myself unable,” continued the robber, " to assail the life of a lady who has gained, as you have done, my profound respect. i will make you, therefore, a proposition for your rescue, the sole means of escape which remains to you: i will fly with you!” the prisoners looked at him in bewilderment. he continued : “ the majority of my band have formed the resolution to fly into italy and take service with a cel- ebrated band of brigands in that country. pride will not permit me to obey the orders of another, and i can- not therefore join them in their determination. if you will give me your sacred word, my lady, to intercede for me, and to influence your powerful relatives in my behalf, it is not yet too late for me to set you at lib- erty." arabiaŃ days' entertainments. and, had it not been for your assistance, who can tell what would have been the countess' fate? no, you have done no wrong; besides, i think he will meet with lenient treatment from the authorities, if he, the very head of this gang of villains, surrenders himself to jus- tice." this last argument calmed the conscience of the young goldsmith. they passed the succeeding hours full of hope, and yet filled, too, with a gloomy appre- hension for the success of their plan. it was dark when the captain again appeared for a moment at the door of the hut, and said, laying down a bundle of clothes : “madam, it will be necessary for you to put on these men's clothes to facilitate our flight. prepare yourself to set out in an hour.” he then left the captives, and the courier had some trouble to suppress a hearty laugh. "this will be your second disguise,” he cried, “and i will take my oath it will please you better than the first!" they opened the bundle, and found in it a handsome hunting-coat, which became felix extremely. when he had finished dressing, the courier was about to throw the countess' clothes in a corner of the cabin; but felix prohibited it, and, laying them together in a little bundle, said he should request the countess to make him a present of them, that they might serve during his whole life as a memorial of these eventful days. · the captain came at last. he was completely armed, and brought the courier his rifle and a powder. horn. to the student he gave a musket, and to felix a hunt- ing-sword, with the request to hand it to him in case of need. it was fortunate for the three prisoners that the night was dark, for the look of exultation with which the tavern in spessart. felix received this weapon might have betrayed to the robber his true character. as they issued softly from the hut the courier noticed that the usual sentries had not been posted round the houses. it was thus possi- ble for them to creep unnoticed from the camp; but the captain avoided the usual path which led from the defile into the level forest, and advanced towards a cliff which lay before them, perpendicular and apparently insur- mountable. on reaching this place, the robber pointed to a rope-ladder suspended from the cliff. throwing his gun on his back he began the ascent, and, calling on the countess to follow, gave her his hand to help her up, while the courier and the student came last. be- yond this cliff a foot-path showed itself, which the four fugitives hastily struck into, and hurried forward. “ this foot-path,” said the captain, “opens into the road to aschaffenburg. we will go there, for i have certain information that the count your husband is at present in that neighborhood.” . they pressed on in silence, the robber in front, the three others close behind. after advancing three leagues they halted, and the captain urged felix to sit down on the fallen trunk of a tree, and recover from his fatigue. here he drew some bread and a flask of old wine from his pocket, and offered them to the weary travellers. "i think," said he, “ that in less than an hour we shall arrive at the cordon which the soldiery have drawn through this forest. in case we do so, i beg you to speak to the commander of the detachment, and request for me good treatment.” felix nodded assent, though he anticipated small results from his intercession. they rested here for half an hour, and started again. they had gone on for per- arabian days' entertainments. haps an hour, and were nearing the high-road, while daylight was rapidly coming on, and the gloom of the forest giving place to the morning sun, when their prog- ress was suddenly arrested by a cry of “halt!” . they obeyed, and five soldiers advanced and informed them they must go before the commanding officer and account for themselves. . after advancing about fifty paces, they saw weapons glistening in the thicket on every side, evidence that a large force had taken possession of the forest. the major was sitting under an oak, surrounded by a group of officers and friends. the prisoners were set before him, and he was on the point of interrogating them as to the object of their journey, when one of the men of the surrounding group sprang hastily up, exclaiming: “my god! what do i see? this is gottfried, our courier!” “very true, mr. bailiff," answered the courier in a delighted voice. “here i am, and rescued in a marvel- lous manner from the hands of that gang of robbers.” the officers looked surprised to see him in this situ- ation. the courier requested the major and the bailiff to step aside, and told them briefly how they had been rescued, and who the third person was who accompa- nied the goldsmith and himself. delighted with this information, the major speedily made arrangements for effectually guarding and trans- porting the important prisoner; and then, leading the goldsmith to the group of officers, presented him to them as the heroic youth who had saved the countess from capture by his courage and presence of mind. all shook felix warmly by the hand, praised him with enthusiasm, and were never weary of hearing him and arabian days' entertainments. reward for his magnanimity, the count seemed no less resolute in insisting that he should do so. the boy suddenly remembered the probable fate of the robber- chieftain ; he told how he had saved their lives, and that this rescue had been intended for the countess. the count, moved not so much by the conduct of the robber as by this fresh proof of disinterestedness exbib- ited by felix, promised to use his best endeavors to save the criminal from his deserved punishment. on the same day the count, accompanied by his bold courier, carried the goldsmith to his castle, where the countess, filled with anxiety for the fate of her youthful champion, was waiting impatiently for news of what had taken place. who can picture her joy when her husband entered the room with her preserver at his side? she could not question, she could not thank him sufficiently. she caused her children to be brought to her, and showed to them the noble-hearted youth to whom their mother owed so large a debt of gratitude; and the warm affection with which they seized his hands, the childlike tenderness of their earnest thanks, and their declarations that, next to their father and mother, they loved him better than all the world beside, were an ample recompense for his many sufferings and sleepless nights in the robber's hut. when the first joyful moments of the happy meeting had passed by, the countess gave a signal to a servant, who soon returned, bringing the clothes and the well- known knapsack which felix had entrusted to the countess. "everything is here,” said she, with a kind laugh, “ which you gave me in that moment of peril. here are the spells you threw over me to blind the eyes of my pursuers. they are again at your disposal ; but the tavern in spessart. i beg you to leave these clothes with me, to be kept as memorials of your devotion, and accept, in exchange, the sum which the robbers.fixed upon as my ransom.” felix was frightened at the magnitude of the gift. his lofty spirit was reluctant to receive a reward for what he had done from an exalted sense of duty “noble lady,” said he, with emotion, “i cannot suf- fer this. the clothes shall be yours, as you command, but the sum you offer i cannot take. yet, knowing your desire to show me some substantial gratitude, in place of other reward retain me in your friendly remem- brance; and, should i ever chance to need your aid, believe me. i will not hesitate to come to you." they tried long to induce the youth to change his resolution, but to no purpose. the countess and her husband submitted at last, and the servant was about to carry away the clothes and knapsack, when felix remembered the jewels, which he had wholly forgotten till now in the emotions excited by so many joyful events. “stop!” cried he. “one thing, noble lady, you must permit me to take from my knapsack; the rest shall be exclusively your own.". “do as pleases you best,” said she ; “ though i would gladly keep all as memorials of your bravery. will it be rude in me to inquire what it is lies so near your heart that you cannot leave it with me?”. while the countess was speaking, the young man had opened the knapsack and taken from it a small red morocco case. .“ whatever is my own i gladly give you,” he an- swered, laughing ; “but this box belongs to my dear god-mother. i made the jewels with my own hands, and must deliver them to hers. it is a set of ornaments, the tavern in spessart. the countess kept her word. she equipped the happy felix richly for his travels. when he came home, a skilful workman in his trade, she bought him a house in nuremburg, which she stocked and furnished hand- somely; and among the most valued "decorations of his dwelling were two pictures, one representing the scene at the roadside tavern, and the other felix's life among the robbers. here felix lived, a skilful goldsmith, and the fame of his talents, added to the report of his wonderful heroism, obtained him customers from every land. many strangers, passing through the fair city of nurem- burg, caused themselves to be taken to the workshop of the famous master felix, not only to see and admire him, but to order handsome trinkets of his manufacture. his favorite visitors, however, were the courier, the compass-maker, the student, and the carrier. as often as the latter travelled his accustomed route, he made a call on felix ; the courier brought him almost every year presents from the countess; and the compass- maker, after long wandering through foreign countries, established himself at last with felix. one day they received a visit from the student. he had become meanwhile a man of great distinction in the state, but was none the less ready and delighted to pass a jovial evening with master felix and the com- pass-maker. they revived in their conversation all the incidents of the treacherous tavern of spessart; and the whilom student stated that he had since seen the robber-chieftain in italy; that his character had wholly altered, and he was serving as a brave soldier in the army of the king of naples. this information gave felix much pleasure. though without this man he might never have encountered the novels and tales. the autocrat of the breakfast table. by oliver wexdell iiolxes. in one volume, mo. about pp. with characteristic illustrations by lloppin. price, $ . . a fine edition of the autocrat cn hot-pressed paper, in bevelled boards, gilt. the success of this series has been unexampled in magazine literature; no articles in american periodi cals, and, it is believed, none from easlish pens, unless it may be the loctes ambrosiance, have ever attend such a wide-spread popularity. the publishers believe that this book will have a perinanent interest, and will take its place with the works of the few humorists whom the world agrees to call great. for nice and almost affectionate appreciation of nature; for knowledge of what is most subtile in human thought and feeling for a genial humor that makes eren salire amiable; and for poetry by turns ui!!! 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a frosty old king is he! he sits on his throne -- an icy block, firm and fixed as the solid rock, and with frozen snow in fluted fold enwrapping his icy shoulders cold, his beard long icicles, sharp and thin, which crackle beneath his pointed chin. o the ice king, the ice king! a frosty old king is he!! and i hope, dear children, you or i may never the ice king see! the ice king, and o the ice king, the ice king! a frigid old king is he! ranged around in regular row, his satellites grim of sorrow and woe, in casque and cuirass of icy mail, studded around with bullets of hail, rattle their spears, most fearful to see, shaped from the ice of the frozen sea. o the ice king, the ice king! a frigid old king is he! and i hope, dear children, you or i may never the ice king see. o the ice king, the ice king ! a bitter old king is he! he points with his bloodless finger, cold, to the hearts of mortals, young and old, and there the mischief 'tis hard to tell, which the ice king works with his icy spell, chilling, congealing, turning to stone the virtues which dwell there, one by one ! * the sweet wei south wind. o the ice king, the ice king! a bitter old king is he! and i hope, dear children, you or i may never the ice king see.. yet for all the ice king sits there in such stern majesty upon his lofty throne, which is as broad, and as brilliant, as the mighty falls of niagara would be, were the whole glorious mass of waters, in their stupendous leap, suddenly to become solid glittering ice; and although he is guarded on every side by those icy-mailed warriors rattling their sharp pointed spears,— yet the ice king sometimes shakes with fear, and mighty throes, as of an earthquake, heave his stony bosom, and great drops gather upon his brow, and then falling slowly down his icy face, and freezing as they fall, rattle like hailstones through his icicled beard. the ice king, and ah, then how the frigid limbs of the ice king tremble! how he shudders and quakes! for he fears that, mighty as he is, he is slipping from his broad, glittering throne — and that the throne itself is slowly, slowly sinking, like a huge iceberg, into the deep, deep ocean! but why does he fear! what is the pow- er which can thus dispute his sway, and move the frozen majesty of the ice monarch! what the mighty spirit overcoming might - which thus threatens to hurl both mon- arch and throne into the watery depths ! ah, my dear little readers, it is no warrior grim travelling over the earth like the valiant men of olden time, to battle against oppres- sion and tyranny! it is no monstrous giant, with breath of flame, preparing bolts of fire to crush and dissolve the power of the sweet south wind. the ice king! for not such the foes does the ice king fear. it is the sweet south wind, balmy and soft as the breath of a babe on its mother's breast. it is the sweet south wind moving gently on, unseen, but felt, which causes the monarch to quake and tremble, and softly and mildly as the beautiful words of jesus should move the heart of a little child to goodness, does the sweet south wind, in low murmuring tones, proclaim his presence. very bitter is the hatred which the ice king bears to the sweet south wind — just as sin always hates that which is good and lovely; and various are the ways by which he strives to oppose the entrance of his gen- tle but powerful foe into his dominions. * as soon as he feels the sweet south wind approaching, he blows from his monstrous the ice king, and . mouth, and from his wide-expanded nos- , ing all around him, forms a huge icy barrier, which it would seem no power could over- come, and as the ice king sits behind that frozen barricade, there are sounds like the howling of hungry bears upon the polar ice, and strange growlings, and roarings most dreadful to hear; and now and then sharp reports, like the firing of many guns, by which the ice king hopes to frighten away the gentle sweet south wind. nor is it only in this, the very region of his icy dominion, that he fears the gentle in- fluence. for into the homes and haunts of mortals, the ice king sends forth a band of cruel spirits to work his will. clad in robes of sleet and snow, they come riding on dark, leaden clouds, wailing and the sweet south wind. shrieking as they weave their icy spells. and to some of these is given power to touch the hearts of mortals with evil, and to chill in them those gentle feelings of love. pity, kindness, and charity, which god has im- planted in every breast. · and it is here that the ice king again feels and dreads the power of the sweet south wind. shall i tell you why? then listen :- o the sweet south wind, the sweet south wind! a spirit of beauty is he! throned on a cloud of azure bright, beaming and rosy as morning light, over the earth, and across the sea, the sweet south wind moves lovingly, while softly swelleth all around, music of sweet Æolian sound. the ice king, and o the sweet south wind, the sweet south wind! a spirit of beauty is he! and i hope, dear children, you and i this spirit of beauty may see. o the sweet south wind, the sweet south wind! a spirit of gladness is he! forever around him beings fair circle and swim in the balmy air, their robes more pure than the snow-white dove; they float near the spirit with looks of love, their rosy pinions half unfurled, blessings to bear to a sinful world. o the sweet south wind, the sweet south wind ! a spirit of gladness is he! and i hope, dear children, you and i this spirit of gladness may see. the sweet south wind. o the sweet south wind, the sweet south wind! a spirit of joy is he! for where the light of his smile is seen, fair flowerets spring, the fields are green, bright waters dance o'er the laughing earth, the bird and the butterfly wake to mirth, and the icy spells the ice king wove are melted away by that smile of love. o the sweet south wind, the sweet south wind! a spirit of joy is he! and i hope, dear children, you and i this spirit of joy may see. u o the sweet south wind, the sweet south wind! a spirit of love is he! there is not a babe of mortal birth, or a being that walks the beautiful eartis, the ice king, and the spirit of love would not keep from harm, and draw unto him with his loving arm, while in every heart he would claim abode, and point earth's children the way to god. o the sweet south wind, the sweet south wind ! a spirit of love is he! and i hope, dear children, you and i this spirit of love may see. now, dear children, the spirits of the ice king have great power, and are the cause of a great deal of sorrow in the world; and were it not for the gentle pleadings of the beautiful messengers which the sweet south wind sends forth to oppose their influence i am sure i do not know what would be- come of us; there would be no love, no pity, no kindness, i am afraid, among us, and our hearts would be cold as the ice king's own. the sweet south wind. often the pitiless ice king points his fin- ger at the breast of some old gray-headed man, and then the spirits who obey his will fill the heart of that old man with avarice and cruelty, so that he will not even give a poor starving fellow-creature a crust of mouldy bread to keep him alive. perhaps it is around the heart of some wife and mother, some young man or maiden, that the evil spirits would weave their spells, chilling all their generous and kindly feel- ings, and making them cold, selfish, and oftentimes very, very wicked! and even young and innocent childhood cannot escape the power of the ice king! and indeed it is over children he loves best to exert his pow- er: their young and tender hearts it is his delight to chill. he would make them dis- obedient to their parents. he would have the ice king, and them forget god. he would like them to be selfish and cruel. he would have them hate their books, and, indeed, so freeze and harden their hearts, little by little, that, should they live to be old, only a lump of ice, shaped like a human heart, would re- main in their bosoms. it is no wonder that the grim old ice king hates the sweet south wind; for often, when he thinks the ice spirits have fastened their icy chains firmly around the heart of their victim, the sweet south wind, robed in beauty, glides softly in, and with balmy breath melis away their work, pen- etrates the fast-freezing heart, and, with a smile of resistless love, enthrones therein a band of gentle spirits, over whom neither the ice king nor the ice spirits can have con- trol; for wherever the lovely followers of the sweet south wind. the sweet south wind dwell, whether in palace or cottage, or in the hearts of mortals, these cruel spirits cannot enter. no. like huge lions they may howl around — they may rattle and shiver their icy spears against the windows and doors, and knock, knock, knock, with their cold, stony fingers, at the heart — but all in vain! subdued at length by the power of goodness, they yield — they disappear — and as they vanish, the bright green grass springs up, and beautiful flow- ers blossom for joy. perhaps, my dear young readers, you will understand my meaning better, if i relate to you some stories, which shall show you in what manner the ice king and the sweet south wind may touch even your hearts, and influence your conduct. i dare say many of you have read Æsop's the ice king, and fables — that pleasant book, which makes the birds, and the beasts, and even the little fishes proclaim good and evil. i am not going to tell you fables. but perhaps you already say, that the ice king and the sweet south wind are but a fable. very well. i will therefore illustrate my fable, if fable you say it is, by giving you some little sketches of those children whom i know to have been made happy or unhappy — who were be- loved or disliked by every one — through the influence which these opposite spirits of the good and of the evil held over them. let me hope their example may open your young hearts to the gentle and beauti- ful spirits of the sweet south wind, and that the power of the ice king may melt away like the snows of winter under the genial breath of spring. phe christmas cake the sweet south wind. - tia, ...to oso it is a more." con . ..! wire oil." hrs . rogelsn i . podat k i o slimit !!!, add it as quen...; . r k, curly iness, an û ** . e the ice king, and newfoundland dog might do, he exclaimed, laughing, – “there, mother — all right — this side up. now, what is the errand ?” “o alick, alick, what a careless boy you are!” said mrs. alison. “only see how you have spattered the water about! but come, put on your jacket, and your great- coat too, for it is growing cold. now, here is a basket of eggs which you are to take to mr. girder's store, — be very careful you don't break them, alick, — and ask him to give you some flour and sugar for them.” “suppose i ask him to stir the eggs into the flour and sugar for a christmas pud- ding,” cried alick, roguishly. “o, nonsense, child — do mind what i say. well, after you have got the flower and sugar for the eggs, go over to mrs. plant's , the sweet south wind. with this pail of butter, — there are just four pounds, — and get the money for it; and then, alick, come straight home, and don't stop to play with any of the boys; and be sure that you get the flour and sugar, for if you don't, you cannot have your christmas cake, and what is more, your little sister can- not have hers. there, now, run along; but do be careful, there's a good boy, not to up- set your basket.” “o, never fear, mother," answered alick ; “i will walk as steady as our old gander, and shan't be goose enough to forget any thing, i can tell you. i am off. good-by, mother!” and kissing her bright-eyed, handsome boy, mrs. alison saw him de- part. it was the day before christmas, and a fine pleasant day it was. not a cloud could the ice king, and be seen floating on the bright blue sky, which bent so beautifully over the snow-covered earth, and the snow itself all crisped and sparkling in the glad sunshine; and as little alick trudged along over the scarcely worn path, carefully balancing in each hand the basket, and the little tin pail of butter, he was as happy as child could be. he thought of the morrow, and of the fine christmas cake which he was to have, and he won- dered if any other little boy would be as happy. it was true he had heard his mother tell a great many stories about christmas, and what fine things santa claus sometimes gave good children. but this did not make him at all discontented or unhappy. santa claus had never given him any thing, to be sure; but he did not doubt that if he only knew there was such a little boy as alick the sweet south wind. alison, he would fetch him something; so that it was not his fault. his mother was poor, and he knew she had to work very hard. now, if good santa claus would only bring her a new gown, or a warm shawl, that indeed would be nice. “but never mind, i shall soon be a man," thought this brave little boy of nine years old, “and then i shall be able to earn a great deal of money, and i will give it all to my mother.” and on went alick, whistling and singing, across the snow. he was now more than half way to the vil- lage. he already saw the gilded weather- cock on the steeple of the meeting-house, glittering in the sunshine, and could see the smoke curling up from the black chimney tops, and he fancied he could almost hear the shouts of the children playing in the the ice king, and streets; and alick stepped more briskly for- ward. but now, what should alick see but a flock of pretty little quails, hopping about on the snow. pretty creatures they were, in their little brown coats, pecking the spar- kling crust with their slender bills. “now, i shouldn't wonder," thought alick, “ if i could hit one of those little fellows. how nice it would be for mother's christmas dinner! i have a great mind to try.” so he very foolishly set down the basket of eggs, and the pail of butter, upon the top of a snow bank, by the side of the road; and then, scoop- ing up the snow, he began to roll it round and round in his little hands, squeezing it tighter and tighter, into little hard snowballs, to throw at the poor quails. ah, take care, alick, take care; you had better let them alone. the sweet south wind. but the little brown-coated quails did not seem to be at all frightened at the prepara- tions alick was making for his mother's christmas dinner. they cocked their little heads very knowingly as they skipped along, whistling, “ no, you don't, no, you don't ;” and some of them nodded at him, and shook their little wings, just as if they were laugh- ing at him. at last, approaching very softly, tip-tip-tipping on tiptoe, alick let fly a large snowball right in the midst of them. the quails hopped up to it, tried it with their lit- tle black bills, and then, again nodding their cunning little heads, they whistled, “ well done, well done." alick aimed a second time. the little quails threw out their pretty feet, and began bobbing about, as if they were dancing a polka ; and then, to show their independence, the sweet south wind. if he had been suddenly turned into a lit- tle snow man, he could not have stood more still than he did for a minute or two, as he saw the consequence of his carelessness. poor little boy! at last he threw himself down in the snow, and began to cry bitterly, “o dear, o dear, what shall i do? what will mother say to me? o, what a naughty boy i have been!” and then he thought of the christmas cake, and his tears fell all the faster — not so much for his own disappointment, as be- cause his little sister, who was both sick and lame, could not have any. “o, those ugly quails, how i wish i had never seen them !” cried alick, impatiently, as he wiped his eyes, and began to consider what he should do. ah, alick, don't call those pretty harmless the sweet south wind. him, and he would be so grateful to him be- sides. you may be very certain that alick did not stop to snowball any more quails, but kept on very steadily, as he should have done at first, until he reached the village. he went directly to mrs. plant's with the butter, and knocked softly at the kitchen door. it was opened by mrs. plant herself, her sleeves turned up over her elbows, a rolling- pin in her hand, and her good-humored face all sprinkled with flour. you might have known it was merry christmas time. “come in, my little man; why, you look half frozen ; come sit down by the fire, and warm yourself,” she said, pointing to a little stool. alick did feel a little cold; so he went and the ice king, and ove sat down in the corner of the large fireplace, piled up with great big logs, and where there was fire enough to have roasted a whole ox for christmas, as they did in old times. a table stood out in the middle of the kitchen, covered with mince pies, and apple pies, and puddings, all ready to be put in the oven ; and mrs. plant's two little girls were stoning raisins, and beating eggs, which made poor alick think again of his christmas cake; and little tommy, no bigger than himself, was pounding away at a great big mortar. , such preparations for merry christmas little alick had never seen! and then such a delicious smell of cake and other good things! for the first time in his life, a feeling of envy crept into the heart of the little boy, as he looked at these happy children, and the sweet south wind. thought what a fine christmas they were going to have, and how, perhaps, his little sister and himself would not have any thing to eat but a bowl of hasty-pudding and milk, or a roast potato. his bright eyes clouded over with discontent, and he could scarcely refrain from crying. envy is one of the spirits of the ice king. the cheerful voice of mrs. plant aroused the little boy :- “i suppose your mother wants the money for the butter, alick!" “if you please, ma'am.” “well, here it is. now be careful; don't lose it; and here is a nice christmas cooky for you to eat as you go along," said mrs. plant, putting into his hand a bright silver half dollar, and a pretty little cake baked in the shape of a rose. the ice king, and “thank you, thank you!” cried alick joyfully. and as soon as he got out of doors, he put the cake very carefully in his pocket, to carry home to his little sister. he would not have eaten it himself for the world. he no longer felt the wicked spirit of envy; but as he bent his way to the grocery store, in his grateful little heart alick hoped that good mrs. plant's children would be happier on the morrow than any little chil- dren ever were before. how much good a kind word, or even a look, may do! “ah, here you come, alick!” said mr. girder, as the little boy entered the store. “so you have brought the eggs at last — why didn't you come sooner, eh? here, betty, come back; here are some fine fresh eggs, tell your mistress - eggs worth having. the ice king, and “i could not help it,” sobbed out alick again. “i did not mean to do it; i am very sorry." “o, you are sorry, are you? what good will that do me? i should like to know." “indeed, i am very sorry; i know i have done wrong. i was throwing snowballs at some quails, and i hit the basket.” “snowballing quails, eh!. o, you're a precious fellow; i'd quail you if you was my boy. well, what do you want then ? what brought you here, eh?” said cross mr. girder. alick felt better now; so he looked up into the face of mr. girder, half smiling through his tears, and said, - “ if you please, sir, i came to ask you if you would be so good as to let me have some flour and sugar for mother, as much the sweet south wind. as the eggs would have come to, sir, and i will work for you every day, sir, until i pay you." at these words the grocer burst out a laughing. “well, if you ain't the most impudent young scamp i ever saw! ask me to pay for eggs i never had, do you? get out of my store quick, before i catch hold of you!”. “but, mr. girder,” persisted alick, “we shan't be able to have any christmas cake, if you don't let me have the things for mother; please do, sir !” “ christmas cake! you don't deserve to have any: away with you; i'll teach you how to break eggs!” and the grocer shook his hard red fist at the little boy. alick now thought of the half dollar which mrs. plant had paid him for the butter, and . the swek sweet south wind. but there was no such good fortune for alick. when he reached mrs. plant's house, he knocked very timidly, and asked, with tears in his eyes, if he had dropped the half dollar there. no, it was not there; and mrs. plant called him a very careless little boy, which grieved him almost as much as the loss of the money. poor little alick! he had been very care- less, it is true; but you would have pitied him, as he turned from the village and began to walk slowly homeward. when he left his dear mother, only two hours before, how happy he was ! and now he was going back to her in disgrace and empty-handed. he thought how sorry she would feel, and how much his bad behavior would grieve her; and then his poor little sister, how the sweet south wind. wonder how much there is in it.” and the little boy sat down on the snow by the road- side, and was about to open the pretty shin- ing purse, when suddenly the thought came over him, that he must not — that it was not his. “perhaps santa claus did not mean it for me, after all!” he said ; “ somebody may have dropped it—no, i must not open it—but, o dear, how i do, do wish it was mine!” and little alick looked at it wishfully, and turned it over and over in his hand, still wishing it was his. and while he sat thus looking at it, a very strange and terrible feeling came over the child. why does he tremble so? why look so stealthily all around him, and up and down the road, as if he was doing a very wicked thing, and was afraid some one was looking at him? was ome ne was the ice king, and shall i tell you ? it was because the wicked spirits of the ice king were near him, and he felt their chill breath freezing his blood; and his cheek turned white, and his heart grew cold, as they hoarsely whispered, — “keep it, keep the purse, alick! nobody saw you pick it up; put it in your pocket; it is yours !” “no, dear alick!” sighed the spirit of the sweet south wind, kissing his cheek, “it is not yours; don't be so wicked as to keep it !" “it will give you a christmas cake, alick - it will give you a great many nice things; keep it!” urged the ice spirit. “ alick, alick! “thou shalt not steal!"" again whispered the gentle spirit of the sweet south wind. “it is not stealing ; you found the purse — it is yours!” cried the other. the sweet south wind. and now, while these two spirits of good, and of evil, were thus contending for the heart of little alick, the child saw a lady walking very slowly towards him, with her eyes bent upon the ground, and looking carefully on each side of the road, and into all the little snow drifts. “get over the fence quick, and hide your- self — keep the purse; there is gold in it, alick!” and it seemed to the little boy as if he felt the icy fangs of the ice spirit strik- ing deeper and deeper into his heart. then, with his dear mother's eyes, did the upon him, and under that sorrowful, but kindly smile, the little boy felt his heart grow warm again. his eye brightened; he no longer trembled like some criminal. the ice king, and “no, the purse is not mine — i will not keep it!” he exclaimed. and as the child spoke, the wicked spirits of the ice king fled away. “have you lost any thing, ma'am ?” said alick, running to meet the lady. “yes, i have lost my purse," was the answer. “is this it?” holding up the little steel purse, with the tempting gold shining through it. “yes, it is mine— thank you, my good lit- tle boy,” said the lady. “i was very much afraid i should not be able to find it again in the snow. you are an honest little fellow, i see, and here is a silver dollar for you." "o, thank you, thank you, ma'am! i am so much obliged to you!” cried the little the sweet south wind. boy. “please, ma'am, may i spend it?” he asked, looking up eagerly into her face. “why, to be sure you may if you wish — it is your own,” replied the lady, smiling ; “ but what do you want to buy?” “why, i thought i would go back to the village and get some things for my mother, for to-morrow will be christmas. , i am so happy, so glad! now little nelly can have her christmas cake!” and as he said this, little alick was so full of joy, that he actually jumped up on the top of a high snow bank, and cut two or three droll capers. o, how much happier he felt than if he had wickedly kept the purse ! the lady could not help laughing to see the little boy so merry, and she was pleased, too, to hear him say that it was for his mother he wanted to spend his money; so the sweet south wind. very wicked he felt, when he held her pretty purse in his hand, and how something whis- pered him to hide it and keep the money; and then that he seemed to see his mother looking at him, , so sorrowful, which made him know in a moment how very bad his thoughts were. “ and o, i was so glad,” continued the little boy, “when i saw you coming along the road, for i was sure that the purse was yours, and i felt a great deal happier when i had given it to you!” the lady told him she was very sorry that he had been so wicked as to even think for a moment of keeping her purse, but that he had done well to struggle against such a temptation, and to confess his fault. by this time they had reached the village, and alick hastened into the grocery store to the ice king, and purchase some nice things for his mother. seeing that he held the money in his hand, mr. girder suddenly became very kind to the little boy, whom only a short time before he had turned out of his store, and he weighed out the flour and the sugar, and a pound of nice tea, with a very pleasant smile, and even joked the little boy about his snow- balling the birds. while waiting for his things, alick hap- pened to cast his eyes upon the floor, and what should he see but his own bright silver half dollar which mrs. plant had paid him! yes, there it lay among some straw which had been thrown out of a crockery crate! alick had pulled it out of his pocket with his handkerchief, when he first came into the store ; but it fell so softly upon the straw, that he did not hear it drop. the sweet south wind. “here it is — here is my half dollar!” he exclaimed joyfully to the lady, who had fol- lowed him into the store. but now mr. girder put on a very serious and threatening look, and told alick the money could not be his ; and i am very much afraid that if the lady had not come forward to the assistance of the little boy, and claimed the money for him, poor alick would have been cheated by cruel mr. gir- der, whose heart had long lain cold and heavy in the fetters of the ice king. “ and now, alick," said his kind friend, “you must have some plums; for what would a christmas cake be without plums!” so, to alick's great delight, she bought him some fine fresh raisins, and filled up his little tin pail with oranges, and figs, and al- monds; and what delighted little alick even www the sweet south wind. f. l wedne osoby : ven : fisso intesis . ir dear : bad kesayang. sot eve !! srrants when tu galia nimi: humneriu the ice king, and little annie in every thing; for mrs. leslie told them they must let her dear little girl do just as she pleased, and never attempt to oppose her wishes, but the very moment she expressed a desire to have any thing, or do any thing, whether right or wrong, she must be gratified. now, this was not only very foolish, but very wrong; and the result of such bad man- agement was, that it made little annie very disagreeable to every body, except to her poor mother, whose eyes were entirely blinded to her faults. but poor mrs. leslie was such an invalid that we must pity her weakness, and not condemn her. if she had been in health she would no doubt have done very differently. well, as i said before, when annie was ten years old mrs. leslie died. very soon the sweet south wind. after this, her father, who was an officer in the navy, and who was seldom at home any length of time, was ordered off upon a long voyage. he felt very much grieved, as you may well suppose, to be obliged to leave his dear and motherless little girl for so long a time to the care of strangers. so he re- solved at length to write to his sister, who lived many miles away in a pretty town, and ask her to receive his little annie under her care. the answer was satisfactory, and in a few days, under the charge of an old family servant, little annie arrived at her aunt's. when the coach stopped, annie saw a fine-looking lady standing in the door of a pretty cottage, holding by the hand a little girl quite as tall as annie herself, while a boy about twelve years old was frolicking with a beautiful dog in the high sweet clover. the ice king, and mrs. morland advanced to meet little annie, as she was lifted from the coach, and kissing her tenderly on each cheek, she said, — “you are welcome, my dear little girl. come here, albert and minnie; this is your little cousin annie leslie. kiss her, and tell her how glad you are to see her.” . the children came forward smiling and blushing, and holding out their hands to the little stranger. but fetching a shrill scream, annie stamped her foot, and throwing her- self into the arms of the woman who accom- panied her, cried out, — “go away. i won't be kissed! i want to go home. i don't like you!” “but you will like us one of these days," said mrs. morland, smiling; “so come into the house now, and we will soon get ac- use e the sweet south wind. quainted.” and she attempted to take annie's hand to lead her in; but the child, still cling- ing tightly to the servant, screamed, - “i won't go in — take away the dog! i hate dogs — take him away, you ugly great boy!” “the dog will not hurt you, my dear; but if you are afraid of him, albert will take him off,” said mrs. morland, gently. master albert looked very much insulted, not only at the disrespect shown to his favor- ite fido, but that his little cousin should apply the epithet “ugly” to himself; and it was with a flushed cheek and an angry glance at annie, that, whistling to fido, he bounded away through an adjoining field. after great coaxing, miss annie was at length prevailed upon to go up the steps leading into the pretty little porch, thence the ice king, and into the house, where, after much resistance, her bonnet and shawl were taken off. but the little girl sat sulkily upon one end of the sofa, and would not answer any of the ques- tions her aunt put to her, or even speak to little minnie, who had already brought her new doll for her to play with, and one or two pretty books besides. “have you got a doll, annie ?” asked min- nie, sitting down on a little stool at her cousin's feet. . “to be sure i have. i don't want to see you? there!” and she pushed little min- nie's arm, who, with tears swelling to her pretty blue eyes, walked away to the win- dow, and hid her face in the curtain. “what a small room this is, ain't it, jane ? why, it is not half so big as papa's parlor ; the sweet south wind. and what an ugly carpet, and what ugly chairs !” said annie, casting her eyes around with a very disdainful air. “o, hush, miss annie; you must not talk so!” said the woman, looking half frightened at mrs. morland. “but i will talk so, and say just what i please,” answered the naughty girl. “i hate the place, and i won't stay here !” “fie, miss annie! you know your dear papa has sent you here to live with your aunt until he comes back, and she will love you, and be kind to you." “i don't want her to be kind to me, and love me. i want to go home with you." “if you can be happy without love and kindness, you must be a very strange little girl,” said mrs. morland, smiling. “but come, we will go in to tea. i think you can- not live without eating, at any rate.” ve the ice king, and annie sat down to the nicely-spread sup- per table, but would scarcely taste of any thing. albert had returned, and quite got over his pet; so he coaxed her to eat some red ripe strawberries, which he had picked from his own little garden on purpose for her; but annie only pouted, and pushed them away from her plate. by and by fido must needs pop his nose into the supper-room, just to remind albert, i suppose, that dogs could be hungry as well as boys; but no sooner did annie espy him, than she sprang up on her feet in the chair, and screamed as loud as ever she could. “a nice playmate she will be, minnie ! cross as a little bear!” whispered albert to his sister, as he indignantly left the supper table, to take away the dog again. this uncomfortable supper was at length the sweet south wind. over; made so by the perverse and obsti- nate conduct of little annie; and soon after, her aunt led her up stairs, and showed her the pretty room in which she was to sleep, and which, she told her, was to be her own. such a comfortable little room as it was, opening right into her aunt's apartment! there was a pretty green and white carpet on the floor; there were white muslin cur- tains to the windows, looped up with green silk cord and tassels ; and a bureau, and a washstand, painted green and white to match the carpet; and a pretty looking-glass hung over the bureau. the chairs, too, were white and green, and there was a little table with a nice white napkin upon it, and in the middle of it was a beautiful china vase filled with roses, which little minnie had picked and arranged herself. the ice king, and ter one could not help being perfectly charmed with such a pretty room to sleep in ? but annie, of course, did not seem at all pleased or grateful; because she was so naughty that she was determined not to like any thing she saw, or that her aunt and cousins did for her. are you not sorry that the ice king has already touched annie's young heart? let us hope that the spirits of the sweet south wind may not be far off. “o mother, how disappointed i am!” cried minnie morland, as her mother came in after seeing annie in bed; “i don't like her a bit!” “nor i, i am sure !” added albert, hug- ging the great shaggy head of fido to his breast. “i never saw such a cross thing as the ice king, and so bad for her to scream at fido; do you, mother?” cried minnie. “well, children, i know you have not much reason to be pleased with annie,” said mrs. morland. “if you had found her per- fect, there would be no virtue in liking her; so now try to love her with all her faults ; then, indeed, you will do well!” “but she is so cross !” cried albert. “and she will not speak to me!” added minnie. “called me a great ugly' boy, and pouted her lips at my strawberries!” urged albert. “and says she hates us all!” sobbed minnie outright. “i know it, my dear children. now, let us see if we cannot make her love us,” mrs. morland said. “you must not forget that the sweet south wind. annie's poor mother was sick for a long, long time, and probably the little girl has either been left to her own self-will, or, what is perhaps worse, been under the influence of improper persons. this is a great misfor- tune, but is not, i hope, without a remedy. although her manners are so very rude and disagreeable, your little cousin annie may after all have a very kind heart." “true, mother, so she may; and if she did not scowl so, she would be very pretty, wouldn't she?” said albert. "what beautiful long curls she has ! i wish my hair was as pretty," cried minnie. “ and what red cheeks !” albert added. “yes, and her eyes are as blue as yours!” said minnie. “ it seems, then, you find little annie very pretty,” said mrs. morland, smiling; “ well, the ice king, and let us hope, then, my dear children, that her beauty may be really her least attraction.” the next morning, long before annie awoke, the woman who came with her left the village to return home. mrs. morland thought it best she should do so, in order to spare the little girl the pain of parting. when annie opened her eyes, she called loudly for jane, and upon being told that she was gone, nothing could exceed her — i really do not know whether to say grief or anger; for she shrieked and screamed at a terrible rate, seeming to be more angry than sorry — would not let her aunt or her cous- ins come near her, and indeed behaved very badly, spending the most of the morn- ing kicking and crying upon the bed. that was a hard day indeed, not only for albert and minnie, but for mrs. morland the sweet south wind. herself. the children were very sorry for her, for they thought how bad they should feel if they were taken from their own home and left among strangers, and therefore they did every thing they could think of to amuse her; and fido was shut up in the barn, poor fellow! the most of the day, lest he might cause some fresh disturbance to the wilful child. on his part, for annie's entertainment, albert brought forward his rabbits, and his little fawn, and made his little bantam rooster perch on his finger, flap his white wings, and crow. minnie ran up stairs to the play- room, and brought down all her choicest playthings; but finding her little cousin would take no notice of them, she coaxed the old cat to let her have her four cunning little kittens to show her. pussy very obligingly tiie ice king, and said " miow," which of course meant "yes ;" and so in came minnie, holding the little creatures carefully in her apron. “o, the ugly things! do, for mercy sake, take them away!” cried annie, lifting her hand, and striking the poor little black and white kitty upon its head. “o, annie, how can you!” said minnie, almost crying, as she hastily ran back to the old cat, and deposited the little brood safe in the basket. she then offered to show annie pictures out of the great books in the library. no; annie hated all pictures. would she play “ dr. busby,” or “trades,” or “the man- sion of happiness,” or “loto”? no, annie hated all games. would she like to walk in the garden? no. would she like to go into the fields, and pick berries ? no. the sweet south wind. finding, at length, all their patient efforts to please annie successless, with a sad and puzzled look at their mother, albert and minnie took their books and sat down to read. the next day, and the next, i am sorry to say, annie behaved no better. her cous- ins were perfect patterns of good nature, and continued their efforts to make her happy. it was of no use. she sulked all day, screamed as bad as ever if fido came near her, and spoke in a very improper manner to her kind aunt. mrs. morland herself was nearly discouraged, and some- times almost regretted that she had under- taken so great a charge. the example, too, of such a child as annie, she felt would be bad for her own children, especially for little minnie. then she was a perfect torment to the ice king, and poor albert; all his favorite pursuits were interrupted by her wilfulness; and indeed mrs. morland had very great reason to fear that the naturally cheerful and pleasant tem- pers of both her children might be soured by such constant trials as they were exposed to through annie's peevishness. a week passed with no better results ; but mrs. morland loved the motherless little girl with all her faults; while the gentle spirits dwelling in her breast bade her per- severe, and rescue poor little annie from the power of the ice king. monday morning, mrs. morland called annie to her, and, smoothing her pretty golden curls, she said, - “i am very sorry, my dear little annie, that you are not more happy with us. i am afraid it is your own fault, for i am very sure the ice king, and aunt said this, for she loved her papa ; but she was so very naughty and stubborn, that she would not give up; so she only shrugged her shoulders, and said she was sure she did not care. never in all her life had little annie leslie felt so lonesome as she did that morning after albert and minnie had gone with their mother into the library; for although she refused to play with her cousins, it was some pleasure to this naughty girl to have them to fret at, and find fault with. what to do with herself she did not know. she did not like to read, and of all things she hated sew- ing. she missed albert's good-humored laugh, and little minnie's pleasant smile; and she now thought she should really like to have them come and play with her. at last annie walked out into the garden; the sweet south wind. knew there was nothing which prevented her enjoyment but her own stubborn will; and yet she was so naughty that she would not yield, but continued to go moping and fretting about. sometimes indeed, but rarely, she suffered herself to be amused, and for a little while would play very pleasantly with her cousins; but these occasions were so in- frequent that they gave no satisfaction either to albert or minnie. they began at length to tire of annie's whims, and held long talks together not very flattering to their little cousin, and by mutual consent they soon re- solved to let her entirely alone. day after day, therefore, they arranged their little sports, and took long and pleasant walks into the woods and fields, without the least refer- ence to little annie, who was thus left to seek *her own amusements. when she noticed the ice king, and this, it made her feel very unhappy and ashamed, for she knew she deserved it, and that she had not treated her cousins as she ought to have done. she became more gen- tle in her manners, seemed more desirous to please her aunt, and one day she even went so far as to offer minnie her own beautiful wax doll which could open and shut its eyes. minnie looked up wonderingly, and then, very much pleased, she took the doll to play with ; but as she thought it was only a sud- den whim of annie's, it made no difference in her feelings, and she soon ran off to join her brother, leaving her little cousin once more alone. mrs. morland had been a silent observer of all that was passing, and although she was sorry to see this almost total alienation of the children, she began also to feel some the sweet south wind. ra encouragement, for she saw that the ill nature and obstinacy of annie was gradually wear- ing away. she could not really blame al- bert and minnie, either, for keeping so en- tirely away from their cousin, for she knew they had both been very patient and kind to the little girl; yet she did not think it was right to encourage them in slighting hr, particularly as she saw that it made the child uuhappy. so one evening she said to them, — “my dear children, i have a little story to tell you ; should you like to hear it?” “ a story! yes, indeed, dear mother; i do love to hear you tell stories,” exclaimed albert. “and so do i,” said little minnie ; “ will you tell it now, mother?” “ yes, but first let us go into the piazza, . the ice king, and them before they could hurt each other; and often would chain them together by a short iron chain, and make them run around the deck, the bear trying to go one way, and the dog the other; but as the bear was the strong- est, the poor dog was dragged along, very much against his will, just where the other pleased to go. well, one day, while they were chained in this uncomfortable manner, they seated themselves, as if by tacit consent, near a coil of ropes, and the captain, who happened to be walking the quarter deck, was surprised to hear something like a con- versation going on between them. curious to know what these two creatures could be saying, he leaned over the side of the vessel, pretending to be watching the beautiful waves, and the great porpoises, which every moment came tumbling by, though in reality the sweet south wind. captain often cruelly chains us together as we are now. then, let me ask you, what is the use of our quarrelling all the time, and making ourselves even more disagreeable to each other than nature intended ? sup- pose, then, that we agree, for the rest of the time we are to live together, to go along peaceably and in good fellowship. what say you ?' “ • with all my heart, answered bruin ; ' for what you say sounds like good sense. yet, should we meet on shore, we will — ha, you understand me!' and the bear shook his head and grinned fiercely. ““o, i take your meaning, friend, replied the dog; here is my paw upon it. but until then, let us try to make our voyage together pleasant. our natures, it is true, are very unlike, as also our education; yet i do the sweet south wind. son away determined also to profit by the lesson learned from the dog and the bear.” “i think i know what you mean by this story, mother,” said albert, looking up archly into mrs. morland's face. “so do i,” said minnie; “ do you, annie ?” annie blushed, and hung down her head for a moment. “ yes, i think i know what aunt means.” “ then, my dear children,” said mrs. mor- land, “ if you all understand the meaning of my story, can you not do as well as the dog and the bear?” albert and minnie laughed merrily at this. “ yes, yes, we will try, mother!” “then kiss and be friends, and i hope i shall never again see any thing but harmony between my three children.” the ice king, and bear to you, poor fellow. come, let's be friends, will you ? 'give us your paw.?” and fido, as if he perfectly understood her, laughed as only a dog can laugh, and put his great shaggy paw in her hand. “hurra! hurra for the dog and the bear!” cried albert, leaping over the balustrade down into the dewy clover. “follow me, annie; come, minnie ; now for a run in the garden by the bright moonlight. o, i am so happy! come, fido, come along, old fel- low!” and then, as the little girls sprang to his side, he caught annie in his arms, gave her another hearty kiss, and then away went all three bounding down the walk, with fido jumping and frolicking after them. from that evening iii humor and self-will, the two spirits of evil which the ice king had sent into the heart of little annie, gradu- the ice king, and glancing across the looking-glass, as if to snatch a glimpse of its own beauty, peeped, with a broad smile, right into the face of caspar, as much as to say, “come, it is time you were up!” and up caspar sprang, with a merry shout, and ran to the window. how beautiful every thing looked! the trees were all glittering with the drops which the long summer rain had hid in their bright green leaves, and the dear little birds were flitting about among the branches, shaking their wings with gladness, and pouring the sweetest music from their little throats. wreaths of snowy clouds were chasing each other over the beautiful blue sky, and the tall grass and the bright flowers bent to the loving kiss of the summer wind. “o, what a pleasant, pleasant day!” cried caspar; “now i can go to uncle nathan's !” the sweet south wind. then rapidly putting on his clothes, he ran down stairs, and out into the garden, where already his mother was weeding her flower-beds. mrs. thorne playfully gave caspar nine little taps upon his rosy cheek, and then nine sweet kisses to mark his birth- day, caspar struggling and laughing all the time, and pretending he wanted to get away from her. now, his father and mother had promised him that if the weather was pleasant, and he was a good boy, he might pass the day at his uncle nathan's, a farmer who lived about three miles from the town. but every day for a week it had done nothing but rain, rain, rain ; rain in the morning when cas- par awoke, rain at noon when he ate his din- ner, and rain at night when he went to bed; rain, rain, drip, drip, patter, patter, patter the sweet south wind. “now, be very sure, caspar, that you leave your uncle nathan's before sundown, so that you can get home before dark; for we shall not be able to send for you to-night,” said mrs. thorne. “ pooh! my dear, don't make a baby of the boy. why, if he could not find his way from woodland even in the dark, i should call him pretty stupid - eh, caspar!” added mr. thorne. caspar laughed, and said he guessed there was no fear of him; and then, kissing his father and mother, he bounded away down the green and shady lane, and was soon lost to sight. poor old john could hardly keep pace with the active speed of the little boy, and was very glad when they arrived within half a mile of woodland, as there he was to leave the ice king, and caspar, and might take his own slow, steady gait homeward. "well, good-by, my little master,” said john. “now, remember the road, will you? don't forget the turn to the left, and mind and start from home long before sundown.” “good-by, john. ha, ha, ha! why, i could find the way back blindfolded. don't you be afraid. give my love to mother. good-by!” cried caspar; and waving his hand, he ran gayly along the side of the road, scaring the butterflies up from the little flow- ers nestling in the high grass, and making the grasshoppers hop about at a great rate. pretty soon he saw the old brown house of uncle nathan peeping out from a pretty grove of fine old trees, elms, buttonwood, and maples; then he heard the low of cattle, and the tinkling of cow-bells, and saw a • the ice king, and playing “ hide and seek” among the lilac bushes ; but as soon as they saw him, they left their play, and ran, with merry shouts, to meet him ; then they seized him by each hand, and dragged him along through the high clover into the dairy, where his aunt stood turning and buttering the great yellow cheeses. “here is caspar, mother! here is caspar!" shouted the children; and a hearty welcome did the little boy receive from his good aunt. never did any thing taste so nice as the great slice of bread and butter which she put into his hand; and then such milk ! caspar was convinced that uncle nathan's cows were different from any other cows, and he meant to speak to his father about it. i do not think that any little boy was ever the sweet south wind. happier than caspar that day, his birthday. the hours flew very swiftly. his cousins had a great many things to show him — the pet lamb, the little white calf, the new brood of goslings, the cunning little ducks, and the guinea pigs. then caspar must go into the woods, and see the pretty robin's nest which james had found; and sarah too had a nest to show him; but hers was hid away down in the bulrushes which grew around the pond in the meadow. when his uncle and cousin john came in from the field, they shook hands with the little boy, and said he was almost big enough for a ploughboy. then they gave him a ride upon the old horse, which so much pleased caspar, that his uncle told him he might have the little colt he saw in the barn for his own, and that he would take care of it for him, until the sweet south wind. thinking what à pleasant day he had spent, and wishing he might visit james, and sarah, and good uncle nathan more frequently, and of what his father would say when he should tell him about the beautiful colt. a little squirrel skipped nimbly along the fence just before him, and caspar had a mind to try his speed too; so he started off upon a full run — the squirrel now and then stopping as if to let the little boy come up with him, and then, just as caspar got al- most to him, he would wave his tail, leap down on the stones, scamper along over the ground, and then again, perching himself upon the rails, very gravely wait, with his little fore paws held up to his nose, for the approach of his rival racer. so intent was caspar upon this sport, that he did not notice when he came to the turn the ice king, and of the roads, and unfortunately continued on the right hand, which led to the woods. but by and by, when he was tired of the chase, he looked around him, and found he was in a strange place; he had already reached the entrance to that deep wood. caspar was very much surprised and frightened, for he saw, too, that the sun was already down, and the twilight deepening. he turned hastily to retrace his steps, and get back into the right road; but in his con- fusion and hurry he again went wrong, tak- ing a path which led him still deeper into the forest. at every step he was more and more bewildered - the trees grew thicker, and the underbrush soon choked up every trace of a path. caspar now began to weep, and call loudly for assistance; but nobody appeared to hear him, and the poor boy the sweet south wind. went on plunging deeper and deeper into the woods. now, he could see a few stars shining away up above the tree tops, and sometimes a ray of moonlight shot through the branches ; but still it was growing very, very dark in that lonesome wood. then the tree- toads began their song, the mournful whip- poor-will uttered a cry close by his elbow, and he could hear, too, the dismal hooting of the owls. at the foot of a large oak, which stood where the trees did not grow so thick together, and where the light of the moon made it less lonely, the poor little fellow now crouched down, weeping and trembling with grief and terror. how sadly his pleasant day had terminat- ed! and when he thought of his dear father and mother, of his home, and of woodland, vil the sweet south wind. something brushes by him, and then a hand, touching the shoulder of the little boy, gently shakes him :- “hillo, little fellow ! are you asleep? what are you doing here?” , how delighted caspar was to hear a human voice! he raised his head quickly, and then he was almost frightened again ; for standing before him, plainly revealed in the moonlight which shone brightly around the old oak, he saw a little figure not more than three feet high, with a large hump upon its back, and long, thin arms, nearly reaching to the ground! no wonder that caspar was frightened at the sudden appear- ance of such a strange little figure, in that lonely place. now, he had read a great many fairy tales, and wonderful stories about giants and gob- thorne. well, it is too late to go home to- night; so you must come along to mother's with me, and in the morning i will show you then the little hunchback led caspar further into the woods, when pretty soon they came to a path where the trees were not so thick, and where the underbrush had been cleared away. the moon shone very bright, and caspar could not help staring again and again at the queer little boy, who walked beside him. bill told him he was fourteen, but his head scarcely reached to caspar's waist, and seemed to be placed as it were in the middle of his breast.. in about half an hour, they arrived at a small house built of logs. bill pushed the door open softly, and caspar followed him in. the ice king, and and crying under a tree. but the best of it is, mother, he took me for something strange; a fairy, or something of that sort, and was afraid of me, and put up his little hands, and begged me not to hurt him. ha, ha, ha!” the woman smiled sadly as bill said this, and the tears stood in her eyes. “well, well, never mind!” said she, kiss- ing him. “o, i don't mind it, mother!” answered the little hunchback, laughing and shaking caspar's hand. “i am ugly enough, i know, to be thought almost any thing." “but you are a good boy, bill, and what would your poor old grandfather or i do without you, i wonder!” then, going to a little cupboard, she brought out a bowl of milk, and some coarse the sweet south wind seemed scarcely to be alive; and then the woman herself, looking so very pale and sick. what blessings then could they have to be thankful for ? ah, caspar did not know that the door of that poor wretched cottage was barred against the spirits of the ice king, and that under that humble roof dwelt love and content- ment, messengers of the sweet south wind! while thinking of all that he had seen, caspar at length fell asleep. just as the day was breaking, bill shook him gently, and told him it was time to get up. the little boy stared around him, quite bewil- dered at first to find himself in such a strange place; but he soon found his senses, and sprang up joyfully from his little bed. he ate a slice of bread, and drank some the ice king, and milk; and then, thanking the woman who had been so kind to him, caspar set forth from the cottage, with the little hunchback. he now felt very happy, chatting and laugh- ing gayly with bill, as they walked along through the woods. he told him all about his father and mother, and good uncle na- than, and what a beautiful place woodland was, and promised bill, when he got his little horse from uncle nathan, he would come and see him, and give him a ride. at length they got out of the woods; and then bill told caspar he did not like to go any farther with him, but that he must keep straight on to the branch of the roads, and soon see the village. before they parted, the boys sat down, for a little while, on the stump of an old tree. the sweet south wind. traits in his character which will make him appear less amiable. .. for several weeks he thought often of the little hunchback, and would beg his father to let him go and see him. but mr. thorne had never any spare time to go with him; so he put him off, with a “one of these days." at length, caspar began to think less and less of his kind little preserver, and as new pleasures and new pursuits came in his way, his interest in the little hunchback, and his gratitude, faded alike. more than a year passed on. caspar was now nearly eleven, and had grown tall and manly. but he had also grown proud, and with pride came selfishness and vanity also. mr. thorne was a rich man, and caspar knew it; he had been told so to flatter him; and he knew that few of his school-fellows the sweet south wind. “have you forgotten the night when you were lost in the woods, and i found you cry- ing under a tree?" asked bill. “did it get lost in the woodsy, poor baby? did it cry, and did beauty find it?” cried one of the city lads in a mocking tone, and chucking caspar under the chin. · this made caspar mad. “ he lies!” he exclaimed. “i never saw him before !” bill turned away; then stopping a moment, he said, looking the wicked boy reproach- fully in the face, “i have not forgotten my promise, caspar thorne, made when we sat on that old stump by the roadside; you have yours! my mother and my grandfather are dead, and i came to you to find a friend, as i said i would. but no matter. good-by, caspar. god will soon take me from the world!” the ice king, and through the woods, how his heart leaped with joy and thankfulness. he recollected, too, that parting with the little hunchback, at the old stump by the roadside ; and how he had promised bill that he would love him, and be a friend to him, when he should be all alone in the world, and that when bill had said to him, “i am afraid you will be ashamed of me,” how boldly he had declared no, that he never could feel ashamed of him; and yet he had not only been so wicked as to do this, but had also called him a liar, and scoffed at him! and now caspar began to weep bitterly, for he felt very, very wretched; and no wonder, for he had not only been guilty of the basest ingratitude, but had added to it the sin of falsehood and of insult! again caspar seemed to hear the voice of the poor the sweet south wind. friendless boy, crying, “good-by, caspar. god will soon take me from the world." now, while, with sighs and tears, he was thus bitterly repenting of his wickedness, the beautiful spirits of the sweet south wind came floating in the soft moonlight, and hovered lovingly around the pillow of the little boy, smiling upon him, and fanning his fevered brow with their snowy pinions. caspar knew not of their glad presence, al- though it was their gentle voices bade him go in search of the poor forlorn hunchback, and, asking pardon for his cruelty, bring him home, and be to him the friend he had prom- ised; and as he listened to their healthful promptings, his heart burst from the icy fetters of the ice king. then the sweet spirits sang to him gently, as it might be the song of angels over a the ice king, and redeemed soul; and caspar soon fell into a peaceful slumber. at the dawn of day, caspar awoke and the spirits of the sweet south wind were yet smiling upon him. hastily dress- ing himself, the penitent boy left the house, and went in search of poor bill. he took the road leading to the wood, and made such speed that he soon found himself in the for- est. he had not proceeded very far, when, to his great joy, he discovered the object of his search, sitting upon the ground, with his head resting against the trunk of a fallen tree. he was asleep, and caspar, sitting down softly beside him, began to weep afresh as he looked upon the pale, haggard coun- tenance of the unfortunate. with a deep sigh bill soon awoke. then caspar, throwing his arms around him, kissed the sweet south wind. him, and begged forgiveness for his very wicked conduct; and he told him he had now come to take him home with him, and that he was going to ask his father to let him live with them always. but for a long time the desolate boy re- fused to listen to caspar; he told him those rude boys he saw with him the day before would again insult him. “if they dare to make fun of you, bill, i will fight every one of them !” cried caspar, strong in his good resolution. bill then urged that perhaps caspar him- self might sometimes feel ashamed to ac- knowledge an acquaintance with such a poor misshapen object as he was. but the spirits of the sweet south wind assured caspar that if they dwelt with him, he would never «again be so base ; and caspar told bill so. the ice king, and his entreaties finally prevailed; and lead- ing the little hunchback by the hand, he soon reached home. the family were at breakfast. still hold- ing the hand of bill, caspar entered the room, and, going directly to his father, said, " father, this is the kind boy, who found me the night i got lost in the woods. he came to me yesterday, but i was so wicked and ungrateful that i pretended not to know him, and made fun of him, and drove him away. i am sorry for it. i am ashamed of it. bill has no friends, no home, father, in the world. i want him to live here with us, and i will be kind to him, and will never see him insulted.” mr. thorne could not but admire the noble spirit of his son; and shaking hands with bill, he said, — the sweet south wind. us, and we will try to make you happy. duct yesterday was unworthy of you; it was base, unmanly, wicked; nor can you atone for it by this one act of generosity. let your continued friendship and kindness to this friendless boy mark your contrition.” the young friends of caspar, who sat at the table, were heartily ashamed of their be- havior the day before. they rose up, and, shaking hands with bill, confessed their re- gret, and asked pardon of the despised little hunchback. and this proved a lesson to them which they never forgot. the ice king, and - tos pisobedient litiie in ༔ ༩ ༢༠ s} ས ༢༢ ཎ ， （༤ ttg， lived mfr. ciresel und somi. qui tineri prodotti sono i wenn ; suik. . . , for winter chains ! *: ?? o boast of a n. *. ' . arr ay sirrel, this ! ! ahol { it was, it is in no not a futób pat, nor a dog, a poca to soror winter crack . one fine dar ustidagi just as the $;? : squire you rubbing his is tai hama mash the disobedience daryle squirrels the sweet south wind. “ ah, ha! my dear wife, make ready, i pray; we will go to the woods, and gather to-day the nuts for winter cracking !” mrs. squirrel sprang up as eager as he, (a helpmate indeed, mrs. squirrel was she !) then calling the children, she said, “now be good, and your father and i will bring from the wood fine nuts for winter cracking!” le she lifted her paw, her eyes wet with tears, and stroking them fondly, “ be careful, my dears! don't stir from the nest - now mind what i say --- until we come back at the close of the day, with nuts for winter cracking.” each little one scraped its little hind leg, and shaking its ears, said, “ mother, we beg the sweet south wind. for a time, as happy as squirrels could be, they played in their nest in the button-ball tree. first whisking and frisking, they scamper about, now hiding within it, now peeping without, chippering and chatting in innocent play, as their parents requested when they went away. at last little bonny, the eldest, said he, “why, this is dull work; here is nothing to see! it is stupid enough, shut up so all day! i'd like to be off on the fences to play, and cut a few capers for once without fear, which i never can do in this old nest here ! we have no one to speak to, but madam red- breast, and she makes a fuss if we go near her nest, and all in a flutter, 'o, pray don't!' she begs. dear me! as if we wanted her little blue eggs! besides, do you know, that my friend katydid said she would not stay here? she did, katydid! the ice king, and and hark, now, i pray, to the bob-o-link's song: · bob — bonny - ha, ha! where are you? come along ! it is too bad for you, and too bad for me, to stay here all day in this button-ball tree ! so come, follow me; we will have some fine fun, and be home again ere the set of the sun.” thus spake naughty bonny. then little bright eye raised her dear little paw, heaving a sigh, and patting him fondly, “don't, bonny dear! indeed, it is wrong; you had better stay here! our dear parents' wishes pray don't disobey ; remain in the nest, do, while they are away!” “che ---- che ! ” cried bonny, with looks of con- tempt; “stay home if you please; on a frolic i'm bent.” then placing his paw aside of his nose, “i hope, miss bright eye, you do not suppose you are able to rule me! fine time of day, when a baby like you disputes what i say, the ice king, and why, i'm sure it must be a most charming place: let us go in and view it; come, now for a race. ah, what a fine thing is travel, my dears ! how much i shall know for one of my years!” but bobby and bushy were hungry and tired: “o, what can we eat ?” they sadly inquired. “ eat !” replies bonny, “why, look at that tree; fruit riper and rarer i never did see! no squirrel, i am sure, could wish to dine on apples more tempting, so rosy and fine! che--che! i am sure all is nonsense we hear about spring-traps and guns; there is nothing to fear; and the talk about dogs, it's all in my eye, and only to scare us: che, che ! let them try! how lucky it is we came out to-day! it would have been foolish at home to stay!” as he spoke, “ bang!” “ bang!” alas ! bonny fell dead, shot through the heart by a bullet of lead! -- the sweet south wind. while bobby and bushy, appalled at the sight, leaped over the fences, screaming with fright. but, sad to relate, bob was bit to the bone by a great ugly dog! and then a sharp stone, thrown at poor little bushy, sore wounded his leg! with most pitiful cries, o, how he did beg to go to his home in the button-ball tree, his father, and mother, and bright eye to see! but alas ! poor bushy-'twas a dreadful doom to be put in a cage in that lonely room! and a large gray cat, with eyes of fire, clapped her sharp claws through the iron wire ! when he felt the nails of this terrible foe, down his pitiful nose how the tears did flow! and he wished he was home in that dear old nest, and pressed quite close to his mother's breast. all trembling with terror, the poor squirrel sat, and glaring upon him the eyes of the cat; the ice king, and he saw her great claws, and he felt her hot breath; . a shudder crept o'er him; he knew it was death! these poor little things were but squirrels, it's yet their story, dear child, is a lesson for you; for had they but done as their parents thought best, to this day they might have been safe in their nest. so when your own parents you would disobey, the fate of these squirrels remember, i pray. the ice king, and doll shall have a party, and your doll must come to it, and we will set out our cups and saucers with candy and sugar-plums.” “and i will get on to my new rocking horse, and ride over and eat supper with you!” added frank, “and then we will play some new games." “yes,” lisped little eddie," and i will take all the animals out of my noah's ark, and play mena — mena — ” “menagerie, eddie." “yes, mangeree." “and perhaps i will paint you some pic- tures with my new paints," said emeline. “o, how i wish christmas was come !" they all exclaimed again. “there are a great many children,” said gertrude, as she took little eddie upon her knee, “who have no parents or friends to give them pretty presents on christmas, and the sweet south wind.. who can hardly get even a crust of bread to eat: don't you feel sorry for them ?” “yes, i do,” answered little laura ; " and if i knew where they lived, i would buy ever so many toys with my gold dollar, and give to them !” and as she said this, little laura looked as beautiful, with her soft blue eyes and pleasant smile, as one of the spirits of the sweet south wind. “ mercy, what an idea, laura !” cried emeline, tossing her head; “why, they know nothing about christmas; so of course it can make no difference to them! what was that you were reading last night, ger- trude? o, i remember. • where ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to be wise!' and emeline drew herself up, and looked around with an air of great self-satisfaction. the ice king, and “ but i don't think there can be much bliss in having nothing but a crust of bread to eat !” cried frank. “now, i will tell you what i would do," said fanny; “i would ask all these poor little children to come up stairs into our play- room and play with us." “o, you strange child !” exclaimed em- eline; "what, have those creatures han- out their dirty fingers ! fie, fanny!” “i did not think of that; i should not like to have my pretty new playthings soiled,” fanny answered. “well, i tell you what we might do, fan; “ we might give them all our old ones,” said laura. “i am sure my baby-house is quite nice yet; mother said it was.” “and what would you do, frank ?” asked gertrude. the sweet south wind. “i don't know; i think it would be fun to see such a set of ragged beggars in the house. i don't know what i should do, but i should want to treat them well. i would ask mother to give them all a good dinner, i guess." “and candy,” put in little eddie. “and i would ask the waiter to open the street door, and push them all out!” cried emeline. that evening, after the children were in bed, gertrude may repeated this conversa- tion to her mother; but no notice was taken of it until the day before christmas really arrived. it was a beautiful bright morning, and mrs. may and the children were all as- sembled in the pleasant sitting-room. some were reading, some sewing, some playing, but all very happy in expectation of the were the ice king, and little fanny burst into tears, and sobbed out, — “o, what shall i do — what shall i do? my nice cups and saucers — and my new doll — o dear — i broke the — leg - off my old — doll yesterday — and her nose — is- all — o dear, dear!” “do stop crying, fan: how silly! why, child, you are not obliged to give up your presents, you little goose!” said emeline. “shall you give up yours, gertrude ?”. "i think an approving conscience will be better than the coral bracelet i was to have,” gertrude answered, with a pleasant smile. “what are you thinking of, laura ?" “why, i was thinking,” replied the little girl, half laughing and half crying, “ that, after all, our presents would not be worth enough to buy many clothes for poor chil- the sweet south wind. d was dren, and i was wishing that father was richer, and that our presents would fill a great big room, heaping full, way up to the top; then, indeed, it would be something like to give them up!" “and i tell you what i wish,” cried frank, suddenly stopping his horse and cart, loaded with gertrude's spools of thread; “i wish i could catch old santa claus to-night; i would ask him to let all the rich children alone, and only go down the chimneys where the poor little girls and boys live.” "i do not see, for my part, why we should be asked to do such a ridiculous thing,” said emeline : “i am sure there are a great many people richer than we are, and who will have all their beautiful presents without once thinking of poor folks. i don't see why we should trouble ourselves about a parcel of dirty, ragged children!” the ice king, and “ if every one thought as you do, emeline wretched indeed would be the lot of the poor!” said gertrude. “could you sleep to-morrow night, emeline, if you knew that some poor little child was freezing to death, whom you might have made comfortable, by practising a little self-denial ?” “o, don't begin to preach : i shall do as i please,” was the retort of emeline. in the evening, mr. and mrs. may, with gertrude and emeline, sat around the centre table, drawn up in front of a cheerful fire. the patting of little feet was heard in the hall, and the children came in to say good- night, and to give their written answers to their mother's proposal. as each child put up a rosy mouth for a kiss, a small piece of paper was slipped into mrs. may's hand by cunning little fingers. the ice king, and ni through long entries, and into half-darkened rooms, to peep and wonder at the mysterious squares and angles, which have unshaped the shapely stocking hung in the chimney corner. of this number were our little friends laura, frank, and fanny. “after all,” said they,“ perhaps we shall get some pretty pres- ents, if not as many as we did last christ- mas!” so, hand in hand, they tripped softly down stairs, and into the sitting-room, where, with a feeble hope of getting something, they had hung up their stockings. but no ; the stockings were empty: not even a cake or an apple crowding out the little toes! and half laughing, half crying, the children crept back to bed. the breakfast table at mr. may's, christ- mas morning, was not as noisy as usual; the the sweet south wind. little mouths had now more leisure to eat the nice warm toast, for there was less to talk about, and no beautiful toys waiting for their little hands. but just as they rose from the table, a handsome sleigh, drawn by two beautiful white horses, stopped before the door, and mr. may told the children to make haste and get ready, and he would give them a fine sleigh ride. what an unexpected pleasure! a sleigh ride! and away they all ran with merry shouts, the girls for their cloaks and bonnets, and master frank for his velvet cap and pa- letot. they were soon ready, and sprang laughing into the comfortable sleigh. mr.may wrapped the nice warm buffalo skins snugly around them; he touched the reins, and then away swiftly glided the sleigh over the ice- the ice king, and crusted pavements, to the merry music of the bells, and children's glad voices. the city clocks were striking twelve as the happy party returned from their delight- ful ride. o, such a nice time as they had been having! never was any thing half so fine! and as gertrude helped them off with their things, it was really wonderful to hear what strange sights they had seen during that few hours' drive! then gertrude told them, that, as soon as they were warm, their mother wanted them to come up stairs very quietly into the play-room; and as she said this, gertrude looked so mysterious and so happy, that the children thought no more about being cold, but were all ready in a moment to accom- pany her. so they.went up stairs, and ger- trude very gently opened the door of the play-room. the sweet south wind. and then, such a sight as met the eyes of the wondering little group, i wish was more frequently witnessed. in the centre of the room, a large table was drawn out, covered with shawls and cloaks, hoods, mittens, gowns, aprons, and nice warm stockings and shoes; then there were also boys' roundabouts, woollen shirts, pantaloons, mittens, caps, and good strong boots; while upon a smaller table were spread out bibles, testaments, and primers, spelling-books, pretty story-books, and slates and pencils ! but all these things the children scarcely saw; for what astonished them more was, that all around the room, upon benches and chairs, twenty little children were seated ! some were very ragged; some had old shoes on their feet, but no stockings; others had the sweet south wind. mrs. may told laura and fanny, and also little frank, that they might gather all the things they could reach from the lower branches, and give them around to the little company, while gertrude and herself would take those suspended upon the higher limbs. little eddie, standing on tiptoe, was allowed to perform his share of this pleasant work, and even emeline, who had become inter- ested and pleased in what was passing, came forward to offer her assistance; but her mother motioned her away. mortified, and really ashamed, emeline withdrew, for she knew that in the happy scene before her she had no part. she had not helped to deck the wan faces of those poor little children with bright, happy smiles! in exchange for their old ragged garments, she now saw them neatly and the ice king, and cleanly clad, and their cold feet made warm by nice stockings and shoes ; but not through her means had it been done —she had prac- tised no self-denial to render them happy! the pleasure caused by doing a kind, be- nevolent action, and which shone so brightly on the faces of her little brothers and sisters, she could not partake in ; for the ice king, with a bolt of ice, had shut in her heart from all such enjoyment ! how much emeline now regretted her selfishness! o, to be the means of making others happy, by a little self-sacrifice, she thought, was worth more than to receive all the presents in the world! in the mean time, a servant announced that the dinner was ready — a christmas dinner for those starving children! mrs. may then told them all to take hold the ice king, and then such a christmas pudding was never seen; so large and round, with the plums all peeping out to look into the glad faces of the little ones! fanny, frank, and laura were allowed to act as waiters upon the occasion, which they did with great credit to themselves, and satisfaction of their guests, who, although rather frightened at first, soon lost all fear in the good things before them, and ate with an appetite and a relish such as an epicure might have envied. . when they had all finished, mrs. may dismissed the happy little things to their homes; some to go into low, damp cellars, and some into garrets ; but each little child went off happier than it had ever been be- fore; each with nice warm clothes and some pretty plaything; and each bearing a the sweet south wind. grateful heart to the good lady and her chil- dren, who had made them so happy. when they were gone, little laura and fanny declared they had never passed so pleasant a christmas ; and frank wished that every day could be just such a christ- mas to the children of the poor! “well, my dear children," said mrs. may, who overheard their expressions of delight, “ do you not feel much happier than you would had you refused to relinquish your christmas presents for the comfort of others? think how many little hearts you have made glad by practising a little self- denial! yes, to-day, my dears, you have really done unto others as ye would they should do unto you.”” the children kissed their mother, and as- sured her they had never felt so happy. the sweet south wind. “but every little helps, darling,” said ger- trude, kissing her. after tea, mrs. may told the children that, as it was christmas night, they might sit up and have a little dance, if sister gertrude would play for them. gertrude accordingly sat down to the piano, and the little feet of the children were soon tripping merrily over the carpet. all at once the folding doors were drawn aside, and there, in the centre of the back par- lor, stood a christmas tree most brilliantly lighted! on the top was placed the figure of a little fairy with beautiful golden wings; in one hand she held a scroll, on which was painted, -- a good action merits reward. with the other she pointed to santa claus, the the sweet south wind. them!” exclaimed emeline. “i do not merit them. keep them for me, will you, mother, until you think i better deserve them than i now do!” mrs. may embraced the penitent girl, and promised she would do so. nor was it long, i am happy to say, before emeline received them from her dear mother's hands. christmas, after all, proved a happy day for emeline; for with it came the spirits of the sweet south wind, to rescue her young heart from the power of the ice king. i the ice king, and poor lulu lee. the sweetest babe that ever nestled its little head to its mother's bosom was little lulu lee, with her pretty coral red lip, her little round chin with the one cunning dim- ple! soft golden hair in tiny curls kissed the pure brow of the little darling, like threads of golden sunshine playing in the lily's cup, and her eyes, large and tender, were of a deep, deep heavenly blue; then the plump little arm, and the wee fingers, the fat little shoulders, and cunning little toes! o, never was there so lovely a babe as my little lulu lee! the ice king, and the sweetest were not ! ) priser sss sonuna hakim m y pour bile lemn the sweet south wind. : by and by the darling could toddle about : on her cunning little feet; and next her. sweet infantile prattle was like the continual singing of a little bird in the house. out in the garden little lulu's father had built a beautiful bower, where the sunlight, stealing softly through the sweet honey- suckles, flickered and danced in merry gam- bols over the smooth green turf; then, close by, a little brook gurgled gayly along over a bed of shining pebbles, with thousands of beautiful flowers nodding to each other upon the bank. this pretty bower was little lulu lee's favorite play-ground ; and here her mamma would often sit with her, on a balmy summer's afternoon, sewing or reading, while the dear little girl toddled softly about with her doll and her kitten. one day little lulu slipped softly out of the ice king, and her little crib, where her mamma had laid her down to go to sleep, and wandered away by herself out into the garden ; and a happy little thing she was when she found herself all alone in this beautiful bower, her lap filled with flowers, and her little kitten frisk- ing by her side. but suddenly great rain drops began to patter through the leaves, drip-drip-dripping upon the golden head of lulu, who, perfectly delighted, held up her tiny hands to catch the big round silver beads as they came leaping down through the honeysuckled roof. when her mamma found her, little lulu was very wet. her thin muslin robe clung to her pretty limbs ; her little red shoes were all soaked through and through, and the water dripped from her golden curls upon her white dimpled shoulders. the sweet south winÐ. would then sit down at her mother's feet in that favorite bower, and hold the pretty blos- soms in her hands, or form them into gar- lands; but as soon as she saw them begin to droop and wither, she would burst into tears, press them one by one to her lips, and then lay them in her bosom. th f the birds she called the songs of angels. and when in the morning their joyous notes first met her ear, she would spring from her little bed, and pat softly across the floor to the window; and then she would wave her little arms, and smile sweetly as the birds flitted about the branches of the old elm, for she said they were angels singing to her, and telling her beautiful stories about heaven. but at length, like her own cherished flowers, the life of little lulu began to droop ill hx dmea n a l . & #, /, / . cŞ%@% sº/( / g % ( %’ ºccº #arpart (college library the bequest of winward prescott class of s ， ， silent, white and beautiful books by tod robbins the unholy three red of surley silent, white and beautiful and other stories tod robbins b o n i a n d l i v e r t g h t p u b l is h e r s new york a / /.../, / & y harward college library bequest of winward prescott january , - copyright, , by • boni & liveright, inc. printed in the united states of america - - - - - - preface * boston! i find myself on a hot august afternoon under the shade of a friendly elm beneath which sumner and webster and holmes and lowell and other great new englanders had, in the past, i hope, taken the unpro- hibited refreshment of the common. commerce has conquered culture; the patriots have passed to make way for the profiteers; there is a jangle of traffic in the air, an echo of money making . . . business is business. h - ponzi, the cagliostro of pi alley, filtering the cash.' of his investors through their own socks, was by a new process of chemical calculus returning it more or less doubled . . . business was business. * * * * * * * * an elderly man, mopping his brow with a voluminous silk handkerchief, detached himself from the throng and sat down beside me. he carried on his arm one of those green cloth bags the which, anywhere north of springfield, is the croix de guerre for bravery in bat- tle with literature. occasionally a lawyer can be seen with one, but it is no guarantee that he is bookish be- yond blackstone. returning to the green bag; what did it contain? one may not ask impudent questions in boston. i will viii preface gazed toward bunker hill monument hoping for cour- age from that direction. how could i open the con- versation, what could i . . . he began talking to me, not as stranger speaks to stranger, but with a fine air of cordiality and obvious desire to converse. he revealed himself a dealer in rare volumes. “i’ve ransacked every second-hand book store in bos- ton. that's my hobby,” he said, opening the green bag and diving into its mysterious depths. “first editions?” i inquired. “by all means; commencing as far back as cotton mather. a first fanshawe by hawthorne passed through my hands; also a new england primer— slightly mutilated—ever so priceless now.” “what became of those books?” a spasm flowed across his face. “i sold them—at the wrong time. that's the only trouble about this business; one never knows how long to hang on.” “then you collect onl - “to sell; that's it,” said he, concluding my sentence. “just to make a living. i’ve had first editions of most all the american authors: cooper, irving, thoreau, longfellow ” the hand was withdrawn from the green bag. “here, look at these: a copy of ekkoes from ken- tucky by petroleum v. nasby; artemus, ward and a copy of the overland monthly containing bret harte's * - **-- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -- * ****** - preface - ix i * luck of roaring camp. all in good condition.” “you have read the works of these writers?” i in- terrogated, gratified to be in the presence of one so well informed. “never!” was the astonishing admission. “i buy and sell; nothing more. my preference, when i do read, is for supernatural, weird and fantastic tales. when i get hold of a good book along these lines i keep it. poe, bulwer-lytton, fitz james o’brien, dante, the poems of baudelaire, tales of haunted houses, amaz- ing prophecies, spiritualism, the world’s unsolved mys- teries, and material of that sort. i want to be enter- tained, thrilled, mystified. i am reading stevenson's dr. jekyll and mr. hyde for the tenth time. i first read bulwer's zanoni when i was fifteen years of age; repeatedly since. splendid.” he returned nasby, ward and harte to the green' bag, pulled the puckering string as one tightens low- ingly a money bag, and prepared to take his leave. “have you read tod robbins?” i hastened to in- quire before he escaped me. “no. what has he written? who is he most like?” “himself | the chief charm about robbins is that he has developed an entirely new method of treatment for the fashioning of tales which stand upon the pedes- tal of improbability. while taking the most incompre- hensible liberties with reality—he proceeds with such boldness and imaginative courage that the reader ac- cepts the result as logical and conclusive.” ex preface “does he believe in ghosts, and banshees and fairies and”— the green bagger gripped my hand tightly— “grimness?” “yes,” i assured him, “and writes about them with such conviction that others agree with him. i would suggest that you read the tale, silent, white and beauti- ful, from which his latest book takes its title. that story surely is grim enough for any man. do you play billiards?” . “i did when i was young. a waste of time,” he re- plied with his mind searching the past. “then i refer you to wild wullie the waster. a capital ghost story full of shadows and dust and hatreds that cannot die, to say nothing of remarkable billiards. one may hear the balls click and carom, shot from cues held in the fingers of the shades.” i had made up my mind to paul revere his hobby, and so i rode with resounding hoofs. “or better still, who wants a green. bottle?” i con- tinued, lifting a hand to invoke silence. “have you an uncle?” “one,” he answered, “very well to do—and aged.” “exactly! the green bottle story will give you much to reflect upon. there is a real'banshee—scotch extraction—in its pages; and philosophy and humor and reasoning, to say nothing of hints to prospective heirs—especially nephews.” “you entertain me greatly,” he said with real boston warmth. - e preface xi * i permitted that observation to pass without com- ment, knowing that he would be the more indebted after the book had come into his hands. “sir, you have stimulated my appetite. where can a copy of silent, white and beautiful be had if your estimate is correct i shall not only read it, but i may perhaps lay in a few copies and . . . why not be mod- ern ? algernon blackwood is being collected.” he made a significant gesture—the palms of his hands floating outward and upward. i informed him that the volume was to be issued in september, that i had read all of the stories in manu- script and in my capacity as an editor accepted and published most of tod robbins' fiction in magazines. also, that i approved of him mightily and found much pleasure in recommending his works to those who select their reading with discrimination, and seek origi- nality in thought and expression. originality, united with a graceful style and power of delineation, endows a book with immortality. + + + + * + + this volume i do commend to the public with the same fervor that i sang its praises to the old boston book-buyer, who, occupied only with profits, seldom stopped to examine the contents of the treasures he sold. to collectors, however, i beg to point out the fact that silent, white and beautiful is valuable two- fold: first, because it is at once worth reading, and second, in the to-morrow of americana it will be much xii preface sought after as a source of historical light, serving to illuminate the life of a writer who is destined to take his place among the uncommons of grubb street. thus comes to an end these observations which are destined to be, as is not infrequently the case with utterances made in the environs of new england, more or less prognostications. this attempt at prefacy has become prophecy. let it stand! robert h. davis. boston common, * august th, . * preface by r. h. davis silent, white and beautiful . who wants a green bottle” wild, wullie, the waster . fort art's sake contents page vii - * -， → … --★ → → → → → → → → → → → → → → → → → → silent, white and - beautiful / silent, white and beautiful i omorrow at this time i shall be dead! i have repeated this phrase over and over since breakfast with the utmost calmness, with the ut- most resignation. in no way have i attempted to blind myself to the truth. he who does that is lost. the philosopher alone is wise. before the clear calm eyes of reason, the imaginary terrors of dissolution become infinitesimal specks of dust. i breathe upon them and they are gone. º and yet i cannot visualize my death. i have tried to many times, but have failed. sitting down on the left hand corner of my cot, i attempt to picture the exe- cution. my imagination has always been supernatural- ly acute. i can see the room and the chair—the chair dreaded by so many. and the witnesses? yes, i can see them—all those sensation-mongers. there is one fat old gentleman in a striped flannel waistcoat— an old gentleman who keeps on smiling and smiling. one would think he were at a wedding, his smile is so * . silent, white and beautiful sentinel in my cell, i have become a stranger to my- self—an uncouth awkward stranger. the egoist has fled, the artist who crushed conventionality beneath his heel; and in his place stands an unknown, terrible fel- low—a fellow who needs watching. i could have pleaded insanity at my trial and escaped the chair. it is so easy for me to act. but now— why could not the judge and jury see me now? but i must not peer too long into my soul. intro- spection looks down the shaft, and soon sees the grin- ning face of madness floating on the black water. the austere countenance of the philosopher casts back a re- flection which he recognizes with a shudder. the moon may be—. but i must not wander. one source of solace has been with me constantly during my days of imprisonment. to a man such as i—a man condemned to death—the daily newspapers are of great value. it is comforting to realize that there are thousands, nay millions, of human beings who are cognizant of my existence, perhaps intimately interested in the outcome of my career. during these last few weeks, as never before, i have felt myself to be an important link in the human chain—a link which daily holds the attention of a multitude of minds. i, the unknown sculptor, the young man of limited means and limited reputation, am now something of a celeb- rity. what an enduring hold has egotism i caught myself smiling a self-satisfied smile when i wrote, “something of a celebrity.” avaunt, false pride! you are in the presence of the shadow. back, back silent, white and beautiful to the highway of life, where the multitude sit in the sunlight. i have no need of you here. i realize perfectly what a storm of curiosity my actions have aroused and it is not my purpose to leave this planet without a satisfying answer to the question which i myself have raised. you, who have so often studied my striking portrait in the papers, you, who have so puzzled over my whimsical acts during the ill- fated month of march, you, my friends and admirers, shall learn of everything which prompted me to a ser- ies of crimes destined to set the world of sensation agog. and you, my fair readers, you, whose soft cheeks so quickly change from rose to lily, you, who shudder and turn away, look again into the face which you have covertly abstracted from the newspaper—the face of rené galien, your humble servant; rené galien who created that group “the happy family.” respect is akin to fear, is it not? you shall respect me. ii i come of an old french family. there is the blood of kings in my veins. you smile; but it is a fact, i assure you. have you not noted in my many portraits, the finely chiseled features, the aristocratic curl to the lips, the small shell-like ears? but my hands! they are what tell the story. the long tapering fingers, the delicacy of wrist and palm—yes, these are the hands of one refined by the gradual process of centuries. why * silent, white and beautiful do my eyes hold your attention then, when i have such hands as these? after the revolution, my great grandfather emi- grated to america. since then the galiens have been bobbing up and down like corks. you know how it is —one year a mansion, servants, horses, dogs; another year a boarding house, genteel respectability, a single suit shiny at the elbows and knees. that comes from an excess of aristocratic blood in a plebeian age. the male members of my family have never been saving with their money. my father cried out on his death- bed: “it is glorious to die in debt. one has succeeded in cheating one's enemy, the world.” a strange man was he, with a laugh like the cackling of a frightened hen and dry, shriveled hands which rustled in the empty pockets of his frock-coat like bank- notes. my mother died before i can remember. at an early age i was sent to a school in paris. once a year i was allowed to cross the sea and visit my father in new york. he would meet me each time at the pier, look- ing very somber in his frock-coat. i remember that towards the last his face seemed as yellow as the pale bloodless oranges one buys. he resided at a small boarding-house in thirty-third street—a french boarding-house where one encountered all manner of odd characters. madame fabien, the landlady, was a woman well on in middle life. at the time of which i speak, she attempted to maintain a silent, white and beautiful semblance of youth by a plentiful use of cosmetics. her face, as haggard as a death's head, had a vivid splash of color beneath each prominent cheek-bone; and above it, her hair, yellow and fuzzy, reminded me of sundried weeds. her eyes were a bitter blue, but they softened when they looked upon my father. in some way—perhaps by his glib tongue and pol- ished manners—he had wormed himself into the land- lady's good grace. the pitcher of cream always stood beside his place at the breakfast table; and, when he came to die, for many nights she went about the house mewing like a sick cat. no doubt with him was bur- ied the last romance of her checkered career. perhaps the realization of this added to the poignancy of her grief. madame fabien had a daughter of about my own age who did much to make my visits to new york agreeable. she was a pretty vivacious child, with a mind far too precocious for her years. looking, through keyholes had given one of her eyelids an un- conscious droop. she had made herself the bane of the boarders' existence. it is needless to say that what youthful innocence a french boarding school had left me, vanished after a month’s sojourn at madame tabien’s. after my father’s death, i returned to paris with a letter of introduction to an old friend of the landlady's —a certain paul montaigne. he was a successful sculptor of the period—a man, who, if he had not been addicted to drugs, might have reached high places. silent, white and beautiful *- from the first i loved him. there was something restful in his companionship—something which re- minded me of a calm autumn day. he gave me the key which opened the door to a new resplendent world. art was his mistress. she soon became mine. before long i, too, could see the beauty in ugliness, the joy in tears. if he had lived, what might i not have done? paul montaigne adopted me. i posed for him; i swept up the studio; i enlivened him when he was plunged into one of those fits of melancholy which fol- lowed his excesses. in return for this, he taught me his art. i was an apt pupil. soon i conceived several small pieces of my own, which i sold on the paris streets. once a week i took my stand on the rue mont- martre and peddled my wares to any passerby. one afternoon i returned to the studio and found my benefactor dead. he was lying at the feet of a statue upon which he had been working—a statue rep- resenting justice. his body seemed to be in an atti- tude of supplication. a thin ribbon of blood crawled towards the door like a miniature river of red. he had cut his throat. it seemed unbelievable at first. when i saw him lying thus, i felt that i had lost everything in the world. dropping the bag which contained sev- eral tiny statues i had not sold, i sank to my knees and began to blubber like a baby. there the concierge found me an hour later, sobbing as though my heart would break. after paul montaigne's death, i returned to amer- ica. it seemed to me that i could make my fortune ' silent, white and beautiful there much more readily. surely in the united states competition was not so great. my four years with the sculptor had given me a foundation few could boast of. montaigne had often told me that i possessed a talent which was in no way inferior to his own. it was with high hopes that i set sail from france. on arriving in new york, i took a cab to the fam- iliar boarding-house. madame fabien opened the door for me. i scarcely recognized her. in the four years which had elapsed she had become an old hag and looked every day of sixty. after my father's death she had evidently buried her cosmetics. her face, wrinkled and yellow, was so thin that the sharp pro- truding cheekbones seemed at any moment about to penetrate the skin; her scanty hair was now a splotched grey; and she leaned heavily on her cane in the door- way, reminding me of the witches in macbeth. but her eyes had not changed. no, they were that same bitter blue. now they looked at me suspiciously from be- neath a ragged boudoir cap. “well?” said she. “is this madame fabien?” i asked, suspecting that my memory had played me tricks. “yes, this is madame fabien. what is it you wish of me, young man?” “i am rené galien,” i answered, stepping forward. “do you not remember me?” “mon dieu!” the old woman's expression changed from suspicion to joy. she tapped me playfully on the shoulder with her cane. “come in, come in of silent, white and beautiful course it is rené. why, you are your father over again! the same carriage of the head, the same air distingué. only the eyes are different. but come to these old arms. i have heard such things of you from paull you are the great sculptor now, is it not so?” in spite of an inner qualm, i submitted myself to the old hag's embraces. she pinched my cheeks with fingers as yellow as sticks of cinnamon; she rose on tiptoe to press her lips to my forehead; she smoothed my silky hair with the palm of her hand—a palm which was as rough as a nutmeg grater. she was like the cracked dusty vase in which lies buried the trampled rose-leaves of the preceding spring. once a vessel of de- sire, she had been quaffed to the very dregs. “louise will be delighted to see you, rené,” she said, leering up at me. “ah, you blush, eh? you re- member her—the little cat that she was. but now! how she has changed i like you, she has grown tall and beautiful. and such a figure! the art students draw her twice during the week. how the pencils shake in their hands, how their eyes stare and starel they are like men in a trance—so beautiful is shel” “is she a model?” i asked. - * “yes; but there is none other like her in new york. when my last boarder left, it was necessary that she do something. we must live, is it not so? but i will tell her that you are here. she will be overjoyed.” madame fabien hobbled down the passageway, leav- ing me standing in the hot stuffy hall. as i watched her figure receding in the shadows, i made up my mind ––––-------------- silent, white and beautiful to remain in her good graces. i had been barely able to scrape up enough money in paris to pay for my pas- sage; i was now in a wellnigh penniless condition. of course i would soon be successful, but in the meantime i must not neglect any slight smile of fortune. before the old woman returned with her daughter, i had made up my mind to be enthusiastic. louise did not make my rôle difficult to play. she had, indeed, matured into a kind of rare if sulky beau- ty. her full lips, although pouting and discontented, were still inviting; and, although her figure was rather buxom according to my standard, still there were men who would have thought it perfect. my raised hands and upturned eyes therefore, while delighting both mother and daughter, even to myself had no savor of the ludicrous. “is she not changed?” asked madame fabien. “changed!” i cried. “ma foil she is transfig- ured l’” louise blushed and smiled. evidently i had pleased her. “you, yourself, have altered for the better,” she said, looking at me quaintly, “you are no longer the ugly duckling.” i murmured a graceful acknowledgement, then, turn- ing to her mother, immediately reverted to the point in hand. “do you still take boarders?” i asked. “if so, i would consider myself fortunate in securing—” “most certainly you may board here,” the old woman silent, white and beautiful answered. “at present there is no one, and we can give you the better attention. my fees are moderate to the son of an old friend.” again louise smiled, disclosing two rows of large white teeth. . “follow me,” she said, picking up my valise in spite of my protests. “i will show you to your room.” madame fabien leered at me as i passed her. she again reached up and pinched my cheek. it nauseated me. without the slightest compunction, i could have put my hands on her weed-like throat and choked the life out of her. even then i felt that she and i could not live under the same roof without disastrous results. i hesitated for a moment on the landing before i fol- lowed louise up the creaking staircase. iii i must break off for the time. father flynn has been shown into my cell. why does he insist on offering ghostly consolation to me? can he not realize that i am a man of adamant will, of unshakable determination? this priest in the sunshine dares to come to me in the shadow—dares to come to me and cry: “see, there is everlasting life!” everlasting life? bah! rather everlasting death— everlasting death with its calm immobility—everlasting death with its enigmatic smile. yes, there i will be • silent, white and beautiful reigning like a mountain peak, cold, still and thought- ful. but now father flynn is approaching. his long black robe brushes over the floor of my cell with a swish- ing sound. his solemn eyes are fixed upon my face. , about his neck a crucifix is suspended. christ hangs on this crucifix, tiny, weak, and helpless—christ made into a doll. when he speaks of life everlasting i shall point at his toy christ and laugh. - iv. father flynn has left me. his brain, heavy and ponderous as a mediaeval battle-ax, was no match for the lightning thrusts of mine. i have hurt him in a sensitive spot beneath his armor of religion; i have penetrated his self-esteem. he now doubts himself, which is far worse than doubting god. like an old woman who suddenly encounters a mouse in her bedroom, like an old woman with dragging skirts and downcast eyes, he has hurried from the cell. in his opinion, i am eternally damned—a man for whom the jaws of hell are yawning. i have refused to reverence the doll dangling from his neck, therefore i am as one lost. poor old man! i pity him for his childish credulity, while i envy him his simple trust. but if i had had a christ, if i had had a sacred symbol of something greater than myself, i would not hang it about my neck silent, white and beautiful not long before i started working in dead earnest. ere a month went by, i had created several miniatures which i thought i could dispose of for a fair sum. my moments of leisure were spent with louise and her mother. i felt it necessary to keep in the good graces of both women. but what a bore it was l my flesh fairly crawled when madame fabien touched me. it was as much as i could do to submit to her caresses. and then the atmosphere of the house began to get on my nerves. it was so hot and stuffy downstairs, and a sweet sickening odor hovered about everything. in the parlor there were a multitude of photographs, repre- senting madame fabien in her youth. she had evi- dently been a vaudeville performer of versatile reper- toire. there were pictures of her walking a tightrope, a parasol above her head, smiling sentimentally at space; pictures of her in knickerbockers, riding an old- fashioned bicycle; pictures of her in tights, toe-dancing on a horse's back. and in all these photographs she resembled louise. yes, there was the same haggard face with high cheek-bones and petulant lips, the same full-bosomed, broad-hipped figure, the same sensual drooping eyelids. thirty years ago my landlady had been another louise. and, when i realized this, what little affection i had for the girl faded. although i continued to ply her assiduously with compliments, my words no longer had the slightest ring of truth. and as the weeks went by, i came to realize that it would be difficult to escape my environment. daily a web of attachment took shape. both these women re- silent, white and beautiful garded me now with an air of ownership. to madame fabien, i was a living embodiment of one to whom she had given the last dying sparks of passion; to louise i was a companion of childhood suddenly transformed into a fairy prince who had crossed the seas to win her. and i? why, struggle as i might to free myself, my feet were sinking in the quicksand. a month passed, and i had not sold a single piece of work. where else could i go? i was penniless and in debt. contrary to my expectations, my miniatures went begging. these imaginative figures which i had sold so easily in paris —these weird gargoyles, nymphs and satyrs, were shuddered at, but never bought. i found myself battering my head against an obstin- ate senseless wall of optimism. the beauty which lurks in ugliness, the transcending horror depicted in my work, the morbid terror which enwrapped those tiny figures—all was quite lost on the stupid smiling people who passed me by. they hurried on, these people; hurried on through the tunnel of life unheedingly, look- ing neither up nor down, quite immersed in their own bright dreams and unwilling to contemplate the stern austere countenance of art. i might have gone on for centuries in my garret, striving, creating, and quite un- noticed, were it not for that group “the happy fam- ily.” at last my affairs reached a climax. i could no longer avoid fate. i married louise. yes, loathing her with all my soul, seeing in her a future madame fabien, i married her. it came about like this: - silent, white and beautiful one afternoon, while i was at work, a knock sounded on my door. it was louise. the night before she had heard me express a wish for a female model. she had come to offer her services. yes, she was quite willing" to pose for me. it was no trouble at all. she would be ready in a moment now. with brazenness, even for a professional model, she began to disrobe. i attempted to detain her. i put my hand on her arm, but she only kissed me and called me a foolish boy. “are we not already as good as married?” said she. i did not realize how truly she spoke until i looked over her shoulder and saw madame fabien standing in the doorway. i was positive that something was about to happen. my landlady, among her other accom- plishments, had at one time been a melodramatic tra- gedienne. on her face was mirrored the rôle which she was about to play. “sol” she cried in a voice which squeaked like a violin out of tune. “so! i find you thus! is this how you repay me, rené? has it not been enough to live here week after week, to take board and lodging from me gratis, to receive from my hands all the at- tention of a mother, without attacking the virtue of my daughter? no, don’t attempt to explain away your guilt. thank god my eyes can still be trusted! louise, go to your room! i will talk to this young man alone.” fifteen minutes later, all was over. i had agreed to marry louise on the following day. that old virago had so battered me with words that my brain was reel- silent, white and beautiful priest's wrinkled face, i became unpleasantly conscious of madame fabien's proximity. i felt her breath fan- ning the back of my neck. involuntarily i shuddered and yet beads of perspiration dotted my forehead. at last the ceremony was over, and we returned home. home! what a blasphemous title to apply to such a place! and yet the roof sheltered my head, the walls shut out the darkness and the cold. where else could i find as much, i asked myself. think of the irony of it! i, a young man of talent, an individualist, an art- ist, and yet forced to acknowledge such a defeat. it was then i came to the realization that there was some- thing wrong with the world. surely it had been rolling downhill for ages—a wicked ball bent on destruction. in vain we supermen seek to push it up, to place it on the heights—it evades our eager hands and descends into the black depths. to this day, i cannot contem- plate its final degradation without a feeling of regret, even of horror. it is not my purpose to dwell too long on my married life. suffice it to say, that it soon became unendurable to me. living with one woman constantly is prone to wear on the nerves of the sensitive man; but, when this woman is lacking in both mentality and feeling, artistic appreciation and higher aspirations, she becomes a burning coal of agony which one is forced to hold to one's bare breast. before a week had passed, i hated louise as i had never thought to hate any human being. what made it worse, the girl positively adored me. silent, white and beautiful | she gave me no peace. she would break into my studio while i was at work, and shower me with loathsome caresses. i had no solitude of the soul so necessary to an artist. she sought to occupy every cranny of my life. if i reprimanded her, if, driven to desperation, i struck her, waves of hysterics would follow—hysterics, that abomination of woman—and to avoid this shriek- ing inferno it was necessary for me to calm her with kisses and protestations of affection. then there was madame fabien—madame fabien with her fishy eyes! how her tongue clattered i have often thought that she must have assassinated my father with it. and life was still strong in this bag of old bones! it shown evilly out of her bitter blue eyes; it spoke volubly through her dry, shriveled lips. she might live twenty years more—live and persecute me. one night inspiration touched me—the inspiration of “the happy family.” true perception springs from contrast. it has always been my experience that in the city one can visualize the country with an acute clarity. so it is with all things. the musician com- poses a dirge on a bright spring day; the starving poet writes an ode to sparkling wine and luscious fruit. thus it was in my case. from a confirmed unbe- liever in marriage, i could now see the joys of wed- lock. my own unfortunate affair had conjured up in my mind an ideal picture of wedded bliss—a happy family, united in thought and deed; a silent, happy family who found mere speech unnecessary to a com- plete mental understanding. - * silent, white and beautiful and as i sat at dinner, listening to the shrill voices of the women, watching their distorted mouths and glistening eyes, in an instant it became apparent what made them so hideous, so revolting. it was life that marred them; hot, noisy life which twisted them into repellent shapes; life which made them detestable and unforgivable. as statues—deprived of breath, motion, speech—they would no longer cause me any pain. on the contrary, i might be proud of them. madame fa- bien could very well have been rodin’s “courtesan,” alive, clothed and speaking. such ugliness was beau- tiful in art. it was only when it stepped down from its pedestal that it became loathsome and degraded. and louise? if she would not speak in that whining tone, if her face could always remain calm and placid, if she could be placed in an artistic posture with her chin resting on her hand—why, she would be beautiful! and then in my imagination i saw them as statues; saw them sitting there, silent, white and beautiful; saw them sitting on a pedestal, united and peaceful, cleansed of life's impurities, quietly waiting for the children yet unborn—i saw “the happy family”! why was it not possible to make them so? a few drops of poison in their coffee, and life would quickly fade away. and then? why, then i would carry them up to my studio where i had so often worked before. but this time i would not work in vain. no, i would make statues of them—enclose them in a special prepar- ation of clay which might last through all the centur- ies. their bodies would not decompose in such a cov- silent, white and beautiful ering. it would be easy—easy! perhaps i could sell them to an art dealer. at this thought, i laughed aloud. “why are you laughing, rené?” asked madame fa- bien with one of her quick, suspicious looks. “i was thinking of what an excellent statue you would make, mama. may i use you for a model?” she shook her bony head at me like an old vulture. “careful, rené, careful,” she mumbled. “don’t bite the hand that feeds you. youth should respect age.” “but i was in earnest, mama,” i assured her. “bah!” she rose and hobbled off on her cane, leav- ing louise to wash up the dinner things. for the moment i was free. telling my wife that i had to post a letter, i put on my hat and left the house. when i returned i had a small vial of poison in my waistcoat pocket. / as i lay beside louise that night, i dreamed peace- fully of “the happy family.” vii have you ever considered what a childishly simple thing it is to take a human life? we are all so trusting with our fellows, so guileless and trusting, that, when the murderous hand reaches out to cut the cord of existence, we stand blinking our eyes stupidly, quite unable to realize the danger. if it silent, white and beautiful were not for the bodies of his victims—bodies which, although silent, bear unfaltering testimony to the truth —the assassin might stalk unmolested through the world. our immortality seems so assured to us, that we seldom question the eyes of those who may have it in their keeping. louise and her mother suspected nothing. on the following evening, when i suggested that i prepare their coffee in a manner new to them—a method which i had picked up in paris—they assented readily. it was only when i placed the two steaming cups upon the table that any difficulty arose. “i should not drink any coffee,” said madame fa- bien, shaking her head sorrowfully. i felt a sudden flicker of fear. “why not, mama?” i murmured, bending over her solicitously. “it keeps me awake at night. i cannot sleep when i drink coffee.” i could not refrain from smiling. “never fear, mama,” i answered reassuringly. “this coffee is so prepared that you will not be trou- bled by insomnia. i guarantee that you will sleep soundly to-night—very soundly.” and then, without hesitation, without fear, almost without taking breath, these two women drank their poisoned coffee. i watched them with a calm, imper- sonal curiosity. and yet the next few moments were the most embarrassing moments of my life. i felt, that i was conversing with spectres. everything i said silent, white and beautiful, rang out of tune. i attempted to joke, and my witti- cisms fell far below humor. i attempted to laugh, and my own familiar laugh sounded as hoarse and guttural as the cawing of a crow. and these two women seemed like stiff formal strangers who could not in any way be amused. madame fabien was the first to go. one side of her shriveled face drew up into knots, as though a cord in her cheek had been suddenly pulled. she clapped her hand to her stomach. “oh!” she cried. “i sufferl i—i-. get the doc- tor. get the ” she rolled to the floor, and lay there kicking and clawing like a wounded wildcat. louise rose and bent over her. “rené, run out and get dr. milburn,” she called over her shoulder in an agitated voice. i had no desire to see them die. a wanton taste for cruelty has never been one of my characteristics. i quitted the room, and, mounting the stairs to my studio, spent a few peaceful moments over a cigar. when i returned to the dining room, i found both women dead. louise's body lay across her mother's. her upturned face wore an expression of amazement. it was as though i had given her a sudden surprise. then the real work began. that night i toiled like a galley-slave. i carried the bodies up to my studio; i disrobed them; i burned the clothing piecemeal; and then i commenced my famous group, “the happy family.” silent, white and beautiful with the firm, sure hand of an artist, i enclosed them in clinging garments of clay; i gave them immor- tal skins which might last through all eternity. and now that the life had gone out of them, these women were no longer repulsive to me. no, on the contrary, i felt a sensation of ennobling pride as i busied myself about them, placing them on the pedestal, making of them enduring works of art. when the sun finally peered in at me through the blind, two statues con- fronted me—two statues so lifelike, so virile, that the hand of rodin himself could not have done better. my work enraptured me. at last i had created something which might live. what a contrast was this!—madame fabien so thin and withered, cowering in the early light; and beside her, louise, so strong and buxom, her chin resting in the hollow of her hand. this was art! for the first time in my life i loved them. i was so proud of them that it was all i could do to refrain from running out into the street and bring- ing back with me the first passerby to see what i had done. for the moment i was living on the sunlit heights of great achievement. viii unfortunately the artist is never satisfied with his first creation. he must go on and on, enlarging his original conception, until sometimes it winds itself about him like a many-membered octopus and sucks the life out of him. silent, white and beautiful so it was with me. for a week i busied myself in the studio, constructing a large pedestal for my statues; but at the end of that time, i found myself longing to add to the group. what was a happy family without children, i asked myself. a mother-in-law and a wife were all very well; but surely, without tender human plants sprouting up about them, they were meaningless and thrown away. yes, both were lonely and must have childish companionship. the longing look on louise's face touched my heart. it was shortly after this that i began to visit the park. with bags of candy in my pocket, i soon made friends with a multitude of children. finally i se- lected two rosy-cheeked little dears—a boy and a girl of four and five, who seemed worthy to join “the jhappy family.” by promises of sweets beyond their wildest dreams, i enticed them to my house one after- noon. the rest was easy. two sticks of peppermint, the vial—and that night, cleansed and beautiful, white and spotless, turned into tiny statues, they knelt at louise's feet. - another week of blissful contemplation went by; and then the loneliness on louise's face again caused me an acute pain. madame fabien, of course, was perfectly content to sit silent in the sunlight with her grandchildren about her; but louise was still young, still imbued with thoughts of love, still desirous of male companionship. she must have a husband. it was necessary that i procure her one. then indeed “the happy family” would be complete. silent, white and beautiful one afternoon, as i sat pondering in my studio, the door-bell rang. when i answered it, i found a tall good-looking young man on the stoop. evidently fate was again playing into my hand. this young man would make an ideal husband for louise. i could not refrain from smiling, as i stood aside and bade him enter. “is this madame fabien's house?” he asked, stepping into the hallway. “yes.” “is she at home? may i see her?” “no, she has gone to the country for a month,” i murmured. “she may be away even longer.” i shrugged my shoulders. “well,” said the young man, eyeing me suspiciously, “i have a warrant to search the house. i am a police of ficer. see this.” he threw back his coat, disclosing a metal badge. in spite of myself, my voice was a trifle unsteady when i spoke. - “but why do you wish to search the house?” “for evidence,” the young man answered. “several children have been kidnapped lately. two of them were seen entering this house.” he pushed past me and began mounting the stairs. i followed him. my heart was beating wildly; but my face, i feel convinced, was as expressionless as a bare wall. as he searched the different rooms on the second floor, it became quite clear to me that i was perfectly safe. how could he suspect my statues of concealing silent, white and beautiful what he sought? soon i would lead him to my studio and thus divert all suspicion from “the happy fam- ily.” and afterwards, when he had found nothing, i would offer him a cooling drink of my own concoction —a drink which would contain an everlasting sleeping potion. already i could see him on the pedestal beside louise—a silent, loving husband. “if you are ready,” i said to the young man, “i will show you my studio. i am a sculptor. you will find children there, but they are only statues.” he ignored my pleasantry and merely nodded. he was a very brusque young man. “show me your studio,” he said. i conducted him to it in silence. opening the door, i stood aside and motioned him to enter. my heart was now beating calmly and evenly. no fear lurked in my soul. i would show this young man my statues, and perhaps he would appreciate what art could do. i was introducing him to his future family. soon he would be sitting there, white, motionless, and smiling. he looked about the room carelessly, and finally his eyes became fixed on the statues. “they’re good,” he muttered, “–damnably good!” and then turning to me with a new respect, he said: “i had an ambition to become a sculptor myself. i studied at the school, but couldn’t make a go of it. i know enough about the game though, to realize how good these are. rodin himself wouldn’t be ashamed of that old woman. what do you call this group?” “‘the happy family,’” i answered. silent, white and beautiful _-_-_* “‘the happy family’?” he repeated thoughtfully. “they don't look very happy—any of them. they look as if they had just been surprised by something—un- pleasantly surprised. take that old woman, for in- stance. she looks “nonsense!” i broke in angrily. “they are happy —happy.” this young man's stupidity began to ag- gravate me. “in life they would have been loathsome and repulsive. but here? look at this old woman!” i approached and put my hand proudly on her shriv- eled shoulder. “she is a masterpiece. she-’” “look out!” cried the detective suddenly. “look out! she's falling!” i uttered a cry of horror and clutched at madame fa- bien. but it was too late! unconsciously i had leaned my full weight for an instant on her shoulder; and now, swaying once or twice, she was falling forward. in vain i sought to clasp her in my arms, to shield her body with mine, she bore me over backwards and we both came toppling to the floor. the plaster, covering her face, was broken into a thousand bits; and then the head of madame fabien—the head with its ghastly grin and glassy eyes—like some evil jack-in-the-box, popped out into the sunlight. i remembered nothing more. the room, the detec- tive, the statues, were swallowed up in blackness. i fainted. when i regained consciousness, it was to find myself jolting through the streets on my way to prison. *- silent, white and beautiful - ix it is morning. already the grey light of dawn is sifting through the window. my task is over. i have told you faithfully the story of “the happy family.” and now that the tale is told, now that the time grows short, i want to impress upon you, the reading public, you who have become so interested in my fate, that i, rené galien, am not afraid of death. to-morrow they may lie about me in the papers; they may say i had to be carried to the chair, that i wept, that i pleaded, that i even prayed. but you, my admirers, my friends, my brothers, shall not believe them. no, i only fear something which lurks on the invisible frontier; something which is approaching steadily and relentlessly. what is this something? i do not know. but it is not death. . . . no, it is not death. i weio wants a green bottle i uddenly there came a flash of lightning, so brilliant, so dazzling, that all the wild country- side was lit up for an instant as though by an immense conflagration. then, far off, from the other side of those threatening, hump-backed mountains, i heard a low, rumbling sound as night once more closed and barred her ebony doors. but in that brief moment i had caught a glimpse of what i sought. there, not a hundred yards away, on a rise of ground overlooking the road and the valley, was the long, low building which a second before the lightning had traced on a madly galloping background of clouds. now, although my eyes were still straining in that direction, i saw nothing. not a light beckoned. the house, the hill, the sky, had been blotted out. nevertheless i had the general direction. backing the car into a nest of bushes beside the road, i took out my small electric flashlight and began to ascend the slope. - it was a stiff climb for a corpulent man well over fifty; soon i was breathing like one of my asthmatic patients. what little breath i had left was swept away who wants a green bottle by a gust of wind which struck me full in the face, just as i breasted the slope. it took me quite by surprise— for down below i could have held a lighted match till it burned my fingers—and snatched off my soft hat, spin- ning it away somewhere into space. my legs were not too steady under me when i reached the house. for a space i leaned against one of the large, white pillars on the veranda to regain my breath and my dignity. as i waited, another gust, straight from the lake, went howling by, stirring the tall pine-trees about the house into a muttering, mutinous revolt and causing a loose shutter somewhere in the upper blackness to beat out a devil's tattoo against the ivy-covered wall. then suddenly all became silence again—a brilliant silence lit up by a flash of lightning which showed me the rounded bowl of the valley and the white stretch of road. and on its heels there followed such a crash of thunder that the whole landscape seemed to turn sick and dizzy. “this is no night to be out,” i thought, and, wasting no more time, rapped sharply on the door. scarcely had the echo of my knocking died away when the windows on the lower floor winked out at me; and, before i could so much as brush the wind-tossed hair out of my eyes, the door swung open and i came face to face with the laird of lockleaven. after the blackness which had followed the flash of lightning, that hallway seemed blazing. and there he stood, as long and lean as a fishing-pole, looking out at me with the great terror-stricken eyes of a startled deer. silent, white and beautiful he wore some kind of fuzzy bathrobe which made him seem even taller; and he had a mad tuft of grey hair on his chin which twitched oddly—or maybe it was the wind stroking it. that was all i caught at a glance. “come in, dr. o’brien,” he said with a bow like a dancing-master. “you’re late.” now what from the battering of the wind, the loss of my best hat, and perhaps a glass too many at the clay- more, i was too fuddled already to marvel much at his words. not a thought did i give to how he knew my name or why he expected me at all, till after the door had closed on the night. “you’ll pardon my intrusion, sir,” i said as soon as i got my breath. “the fact is that i was motoring home, and a half mile up the road my headlights flick- ered out. now, if there had been a moon, or but he cut me short with a wave of his hand. “non- sense, dr. o'brien!” he said as sharp as the crack of a whip. “i was expecting you; and this lady and gen- tieman—they were expecting you, too.” he jerked his thumb toward the wall. wheeling about in some confusion at that, i came face to face with a hard-featured old chap in a periwig glaring down at me from a mildewed picture-frame. to his right was the portrait of a very determined old lady with a pointed chin that curled up like the toe of an old slipper. she had a fan in her hand, but she held it as i have seen boys grip their shillalahs on the way to the county-fair. “ancestors?” i asked with a half-hearted chuckle, for weio wants a green bottle the stony eyes of the painted lady had somehow or other gotten under my skin. “my great grandfather and grandmother, sir robert lockleaven and his lady,” he says rather proud. “now step this way, dr. o'brien. there's a fire in the lib- rary and a bottle of good old port uncorked. and i’m thinking you’ll be needing both before the dawn breaks.” with that he ushered me into as cheery a room as i ever want to see. in the days when this house had been built, they knew the meaning of fireplaces. it did my heart good to see the great log flaring up on the hearth, a log the size of a well-grown tree-trunk; in front of it, a semicircle of easy-chairs that tired men could sleep in; and, last of all, the mahogany table with two glasses and a decanter of wine which glowed ruby- red where the light touched it. and even the glimpse i caught of other sour-faced portraits on the wall failed to overshadow my good spirits. \ he motioned me into one of the easy-chairs and, pouring out two glasses of port, handed me one and raised the other aloft. “here's success to you, dr. o'brien!” he cried, while his frightened eyes flashed and once again the mad wisp of hair on his chin twitched oddly. “and here's success to you,” said i, draining my glass at a swallow, for the dust of the road had got into my throat. “that goes without saying,” said he. “if you win, i : ** silent, white and beautiful win. do you happen to have a green glass bottle in your pocket, dr. o'brien?” “a green glass bottle?” i said dumfounded. “what- ever would i be doing with a green glass bottle, mr. “lockleaven’s the name,” he muttered, seating him- self and adjusting the folds of his bathrobe as i have seen old ladies do with their skirts after getting into a bus. “i was christened robert lockleaven after my great grandfather.” he bent his head and began to pick nervously at a loose strand of worsted. “i’m pretty well known in the village,” he finished with a haughty tilt to his chin. at that i started so that i nearly dropped the glass. i was new to that country, but already the name was familiar enough. indeed it had more than once figured in scottish history. but gradually that fiery stream had slackened; and now, if report could be believed, the last of the line was a man weakened in both body and mind. in the village he was known as “the daft laird of lockleaven;” and scandalous stories were still told of his escapades before old age had taken the marrow out of his bones. now, as he refilled my glass, i studied the man. he had the high, broad forehead of a thinker, the deep-set, fiery eyes of a dreamer, the firmly arched nose and expanding nostrils of a warrior. but the lower half of his face was deplorable. here all the weaknesses of his soul were laid bare. the pitiable indecision of that twitching chin, the animal pout of the thickish - who wants a green bottle red lips, the long, yellow tooth poking out at each side of his mouth—all these were enough to give a christian the shivers. “how did you know that i was coming to-night, mr. tockleaven?” i asked. “know it!” he cried with an unpleasant snicker. “why, i know everything.” he paused, and a look of caution creased his jowls. “besides, didn’t i send meg for you?” he finished. “i’ve been away for the week, and but again he cut me short with a quick motion of his hand. “never puzzle your head over that, man,” he cried peevishly. “there's more pressing matters afoot. what's crystal-gazing and such bairns' play when it comes to the saving of a live, human soul?” “is there some one sick here?” i asked. “so there is,” he said soberly; “so there is—unco sick. but sh! what's that ?” usually i am as steady as the next man. but there was something in the laird of lockleaven's eyes, some- thing in the laird of lockleaven’s voice, which grated on my nervous system like sand-paper. i felt goose- flesh rippling up my back. tor several moments we both sat silent, listening to the reverberating thunder which still echoed faintly far off in the hills, to the crackling of the fire, to the scampering of the mice behind the wainscoting in the wall. “do you hear them?” he asked. “i hear nothing,” i answered sharply enough; * a : * silent, white and beautiful “nothing but the thunder and the fire and the mice in the wall.” “the mice!” cried the laird of lockleaven with a quick, low laugh. “did you ever hear tell of mice that could sing and talk and cry? put your ear to the wall and listen.” to humor him i did as he told me. at first i could hear nothing; but soon a low, suppressed note, very much like a muffled sob, made my eardrum tingle. “poor aunt mary!” said the laird of lockleaven solemnly. “she wouldn't stop mourning in life and now she cannot. night and day i hear her, night and day.” with a mighty effort i shook off the strange, numbing fear which was creeping over me like a coverlet of snow. “mr. lockleaven,” i cried with a forced laugh, “you are to be congratulated—you have singing mice in your wall! they’re not too common, but there are such things. look, there goes one now!” i pointed to a little, brown speck which scurried across the room and vanished somewhere in the shadows. the laird of lockleaven raised his head. “my grandfather has just let his cattle out to graze,” he murmured. “what did you say?” i asked, making no sense out of his words. for a moment he was silent, and then he cried out in a loud, authoritative voice: “will you listen to me, dr. o'brien, or will i just have to be trusting my soul ‘silent, white and beautiful till at last there was only meg and me to minister to him. what a spider of a man he was—going about the house, soft-footed, in his list slippers and cocking his eye at us if we so much as blinked at his iron-bound chest. i can see him now with his sidelong gait, his long thin fingers stroking his beard like bent twigs in a hedge, and his silly, solitary smile wrinkling the loose skin of his jowls. - “when he came to die there was little mourning in lockleaven hall. i was a lean lad of eighteen on the night when the great sickness gripped him. meg set me to watch at his bedside, while she scuttled off to the village for dr. mclean. before she left she lighted the old-fashioned tapers above his bed; and i sat all hunched up in one corner, watching the light flickering over the sick man's face and the heaving of the bed- clothes at each long breath. “how long i sat there, to this day i don't know— it might have been an hour or more—but after a time i grew drowsy and closed my eyes for a bit. when i opened them again, there had come a change. the laird had been lying flat on his back, his eyes on the ceiling; but now he lay on one side, his face to the wall. the frayed fringe of his whiskers trembled slightly, but his loud breathing had ceased. “i rose and approached my uncle with a feeling of awe that death should have hovered so near while i slept; and then, as i put my hand on the footboard of his bed and looked down, horror gripped me by the hair. horror did i say? it was more than that. it who wants a green bottle * was just as though my brain had been turned into soft, quivering jelly. “my eyes had wandered to my uncle's grey beard. there, through the tangled meshes on the pillow, i saw a tiny crouching form and a pair of flaming pinpoint eyes. for an instant it glared up at me like a cornered rat under a wisp of hay; and then, with a shrill squeak, away it swished under the rumpled bedclothes and was gone.” the laird of lockleaven paused to wipe gleaming drops of perspiration from his forehead. through the silence which followed his words, i heard a great com- motion behind the wainscoting—a galloping as of a troop of horse, a shrill piteous squeaking, and then a sound which might have been a distant bugle-call. “you hear them?” he said with a haggard smile. “that's mad anthony and his hounds. they’ve sighted a buck, or i’m much mistaken.” “there's an army of rats and mice in your walls,” i broke in with an involuntary shudder, for the knowing, listening tilt of his head was an unhealthy thing to see. “rats and mice there are for those who hunt and ride,” he said. “but it’s not these i have in mind, nor one of them i saw that night through the tangle of my dead uncle’s beard.” “what was it then?” i asked, taking another long drink of port to steady me. - “i’m coming to that,” said he. “after my uncle's death, the chest of money was mine. you can readily silent, white and beautiful surmise that i lost no time in opening it. having no taste of pleasure up to this—for the most part going about in rags with a belly as empty as a toy balloon —it was no wonder that i played pitch and toss with the ten commandments. “i can give you my word that i lived the devil of a life for a round dozen years, with never a breathing spell on the sabbath, till my uncle's old chest sounded as hollow as a drum when i gave it a tap with the toe of my boot. and meg grew soft and yellow as a tub of butter from good living and gin; and tales were told in the village of how she was seen taking a glass with the devil on black friar's heath. “well, time went on with a jig-step till one all- soul's eve—twenty years ago to-night. i had had a few gentlemen playing cards with me up at the hall, but they had ridden off before midnight in a black rage with some cock-and-bull story of how i had slipped a card up my sleeve. - “i was sitting in this very chair, nodding a bit, an empty glass in my hand, when what should i see but a gold piece lying on the carpet at my feet. i was about to reach down for it—for i was always a careful man even in drink—when out of the corner of my eye i spied something which made the hair on my head ruffle up. “you can believe it or not—but there, creeping out from the wall, was a wee man no bigger than my thumb; a wee man in a yellow gown and nightcap, with a few threads of beard hanging from his chin. on weio wants a green bottle all fours he was creeping toward me, wagging his head as he came. “‘a fairy !” i said to myself, remembering what meg had told me of the tiny folk who dance in the moonlight. ‘if i can catch him, he'll give me a wish.’ so i waited as patient as job with my eye-lashes lowered, snoring a bit just to put heart in him, till up he came and laid hold of the gold piece. then you should have seen the sweating time he had over it! first he'd bend his crooked old back and hoist and hoist till he had lifted it up a pin's breadth on one side; and then, just as he thought he had it fairly started, down it would come on his knuckle-bones and he'd let out a shrill squeak like a mouse. it was all i could do to watch him and not roar with laughter. “‘so!' i thought to myself. “after all the good things i’ve heard tell of you from meg, you’re nothing but a pack of thieves when it comes to that l break into my house and steal my gold, will you’? as quick as a flash, i leaned down and clapped my glass over him—and he with his back still bent over the coin. “but he wasn’t quiet long. no sooner did he have the bottom of the tumbler as a roof for his head, than up he jumped as spry as you please. and what a com- motion there was first he leaped straight up like a startled buck, and the top of his head clinked against the glass; next he whirled about with outstretched arms, making a noise all the time like a beetle caught between two window-panes; and then, when there came no hope from heaven or hell, down he flopped on his knees and silent, white and beautiful whimpered and whined till all the tumbler was tinkling with it. “by this time, as you may guess, i was near dead from laughing so. but soon i remembered that it was all-soul's eve and that, if meg did not lie, a wish might be had for the asking. so i got down on all fours and squinted through the tumbler. then, of a sudden, i knew the wee man and i clapped my hand to my mouth to keep back a yell.” iii the laird of lockleaven paused. all his face was twitching till it seemed to me that he hadn’t one face but a dozen. but his eyes were still; they looked like two frozen lakes in the moonlight. “and who was the little man?” i asked. “there was only one mortal man could cock his eye like a kelpie,” he answered solemnly. “’twas none other than my dead and buried uncle. - “yes, there he sat in his old yellow robe and slippers, his nightcap clapped on his head all awry, his bitter blue eyes eating holes in my self-esteem. it was a sight to make your blood run cold. and he was champing his lean old jaws at me like one who has the taste of bitter words on his tongue. - “‘well, uncle peter,’ said i, ‘though my teeth were , clicking together from fright, ‘it’s a pleasure to welcome you home to the hall. and to see you so spry for a weio wants a green bottle man of your years,” i added, for he had made a spring against the glass like a spider at a fly. “‘robbie lockleaven,” my uncle cried, “i’ll have the hide off you for this!' “‘you will not, uncle peter,’ said i. ‘you’ll stay right where you are as a disgusting example of an old man in his cups!” “at that his eyes glowed like two fireflies and his beard curled up, till i would have taken to my heels had it not been for the good liquor in me. as small as he was, i couldn’t forget the fear i had of him. . “‘robbie lockleaven,” he cried again in a voice like a pin scratching against the window-pane, ‘you’re a spendthrift and worse! you're building up a mountain of trouble in the life to come. but just, lift up the tumbler, laddie, and i’ll let bygones be bygones. ye'll no be adding disrespect to your ither sins? you'll no be sic a fule, robbie?’ “now as his speech began to soften into the dialect of the countryside, i saw plain enough that i had the upper hand. besides, when it came to that, how could a mite of a man do me bodily harm” thinking in this wise, i spoke up bravely enough. - “‘i’ll lift up the glass under one condition, uncle peter,” i said. “it’s all soul's eve; it's only fair that a body should wish a wish. grant me a wish, and i’ll let you go free.” “well, he grinned a bit in an uncommonly nasty way, he stroked his beard a bit, and then he lifted his voice in a whine. ‘hae ye no had my bonny treasure- silent, white and beautiful box?” he squalled. ‘hae ye no scattered my siller to the four winds like chaff º hae ye no made me come oot o' the wall to lift precious guineas till my back is no more than a broken reed?' “now i knew that i had won the victory, and i laughed aloud. ‘you old foxy-eyed thief pi cried. ‘i’ve caught you fair; and a wish i will have. you can't go prowling about lockleaven hall when you should be six feet deep in the kirk-yard, stealing my money and playing pranks altogether unseemly for a man of your years, without just paying the piper. a wish i will have.” “‘weel then, have your wish and be damned” uncle peter cried in a rage. “wish quick now, for the fumes of vile liquor in this glass are making my auld head spin around like a whirligig.” - “well, i thought for a while before i spoke. finally i said: “there's only one thing worth knowing to a worldly wise man like me. i’m going to ask you for that which has no weight in the hand, but is more precious than jewels. i’m just seeking knowledge of heaven and hell. what's the human soul like, uncle peter; and what follows life for the good and the bad? “now the old man again cocked his eye at me and stroked his beard like i’d often seen him do while driving home a good bargain. “so that's your wish, robbie?’ he says, smooth as syrup. “by the tone of his voice, the manner he had of stroking his beard, and most of all by the glint in his eye, i knew well enough that trouble was brewing. who wants a green bottle but i couldn't retract, having once stated my wish in the kings' english. so i answered, “just that,’ and held my breath like a man under water. “‘weel then, to begin,’ said uncle peter with a twitch of a smile, ‘the human soul is just a wee mite o' a man like me. i am the human soul of peter lock- leaven, deceased.’ “‘did you take shape after death? i asked. “‘na, na,’ says he. “i was always in the man like the core in an apple. you have one as weel, robbie lockleaven—a canny wee man, hidin’ within, as like to yoursel’ as two peas. hae ye no felt him tinkerin’ awa at your brain?’ “‘nonsense!” said i. ‘such a theory is contrary to science.” “‘is it so?” he cried. “to modern science, ye mean. there were wise men of old who knew well enough that the human soul had a body to it. did they no debate lang syne on the matter—growin’ red in the face ower the question of how many souls could be dancin' a hieland fling on the point of a needle? robbie, will ye be denyin' that the human body weighs a wee mite less when the soul has sped ? “‘so i have heard,” i answered with a flicker of fear. ‘yet surely it can be accounted for b “but uncle peter brushed my words aside as though they had been so many dead leaves. ‘na, na,’ he piped. ‘it canna be accounted for—except ye believe lees. there's nae doot aboot it—a human soul there is, with a body to it and all.” who wants a green bottle: robbie. dinna ye hear 'em scramblin’ aboot in the wainscotin', chatterin’ and whimperin', blowin' on horns and pipin’ on bagpipes? rats and mice? na, na. though some of 'em we hae for mad anthony, who is never content till he's thrown his leg ower the back of a nag and is awa to the huntin’. twascore lockleavens hae died in this house—twascore souls are in yonder wall. you’ll be joinin’ us soon, robbie, i’m thinkin’.” “but still i wasn’t convinced that uncle peter was telling the truth. ‘if i let you out of the tumbler, i said, ‘you’ll just have to show me heaven and hell.’ “‘i canna do that, robbie,’ he whined. “heaven is no for me. they wouldna hae us prowlin’ aboot through that blessed wall. now will a visit to hell content ye?” “well, i thought so hard for a minute that my head ached; and then, all of a sudden, i made up my mind like a man jumping off a high cliff. “i’ll just have to be contented with hell, uncle peter,” i said, ‘seeing that you’re not over-anxious to take me to heaven.” “‘dinna think that!” he cried with a shake of his head. “the will is there, but the godliness is missin'. now just lift up the tumbler, robbie, and we'll be startin’ in twa shakes.” “‘and you will not take to your heels? i asked. “‘na, na,’ he muttered. “i couldna do that on all souls’ eve.” “‘and you’ll bring me back safe out of hell, uncle peter?' i said, not liking the grin that twitched his flea-bitten beard. silent, white and beautiful “‘that i will, laddie,” he says very solemn. “well, dr. o'brien, i took a long drink out of a bot. tle of scotch which stood on the table and then i bent down and lifted the tumbler. and my dead uncle sat still as a toad the while, and never so much as blinked an eye. - “‘now sit ye doun beside me, robbie,’ he said. and when i had done as he wished, he began to sing a snatch of a song which ran something like this: “‘dinna ye hear the pipes of locklear aweepin’ and whimperin' oot there in the night? dinna ye greet for souls that maun keep a watchin’ and waitin’ for threads o' the light? come oot o' the body wee souls while ye can, * there's buckets o' toddy for ilka wee man.” “hardly had his voice died away, when everything seemed to vanish into space. i felt that i was enclosed in some kind of shadowy dungeon—or rather at the bottom of some pit down which a faint light sifted. and with this feeling, there came a wild desire to escape. i climbed up and up and soon came to the mouth of the tunnel. squeezing between two jagged lines of ivory pillars which blocked my path, i leaped out into the open. “at the next moment, i was rolling down a steep declivity with the speed of lightning. soon i collided violently with uncle peter at the bottom—an uncle who wants a green bottle: peter who had suddenly regained his full stature and who was regarding me sourly. “‘ye daft fule!” he cried, rubbing his back. ‘is that ony way to be runnin’ against a man? ye should look afore ye leap oot o' sic a tall hame.’ iv. “well, dr. o’brien, i looked up and saw that i was standing in the shadow of a gigantic statue—a statue which i thought must be at least two hundred feet tall. it sat cross-legged with bowed head and its huge tunnel- like mouth was open. “‘what's that, uncle peter? i asked. “‘that's naething more nor less than your ain body, robbie lockleaven,” he said very solemn. “i’ve charmed your soul oot o' it.” “‘i see you’ve grown to full size!” i cried. “‘na, na,” said he. ‘it’s you that's grown small as a match. but we’d best be on our way, robbie, for it's a lang walk to the wall of hell and i’m no so spry as i was.” “well, as you may guess, my head was spinning around from all i’d heard; so i thought it best to say no more, but to follow his lead. when he started ambling off with a jerk of his head at me, i put my best foot forward and was at his heels in no time. “first we skirted a small tower of glass, which uncle peter said was the tumbler—not that i believed silent, white and beautiful him or could—and off we started across a level space where long red grass sprouted up above my slippers. “‘ye should tear up this carpet, robbie,” uncle peter called back over his shoulder. ‘it’s most unco wearisome when a body’s leg-weary.” “but i made him no answer, for i was looking about and wondering at all i saw. i seemed to be on a kind of desert. as far as the eye could reach, the landscape was level, except for the statue and several weird wooden structures which rose up on each side of it. the sky was a threatening grey. not a star glimmered. but somewhere in the remote distance, i saw a gigantic sun which lighted the whole landscape with blazing effrontery. “‘so this is hell!? i murmured. “‘na, na,” said uncle peter, uneasily. ‘we hae no reached it yet. this is naething more than the library of lockleaven hall.” “‘what's hell like, uncle peter'? i asked, coming up alongside of him. “‘hell?” he cried with a start. “why, hell is just hell! ye can be takin’ notes soon enow, robbie. it’s an unco wearisome place.” “‘then why were you so anxious to go back to it?’ i couldn’t help asking, for the drink and curiosity were still strong in me. “‘anxious to gang back!' cried uncle peter. ‘are ye daft, robbie? if ye had a wee mite of sense, ye’d have just kept me in that bonnie glass till judgment- day. and i’d have thanked ye for it on my bended * who wants a green bottle º knees, robbie; though i’m a temperate man with a distaste for the smell o' strong drink.” “‘you were clammering loud enough to get out of it,” said i. “‘nae doot,” he muttered. “but ye shouldna hae given me heed. 'twas not me that was clamorin', robbie, but the spirit of hell which gives me no rest. after we leave our mortal bodies behind us, we can no longer do just as we please. we've just got to scuttle awa on the devil's errands, and pay with sweat for our sins.” “‘and how do you pay, uncle peter? i asked. “‘why, just by livin' under the same roof with a fule like you,” he says very sharp. “do ye no think i sweat tears o' blood when i see ye throwin’ my gude siller awa like it was chaff twascore times hae i seen my bright gold pieces lyin' on the carpet; twascore times hae i-bent my auld back to 'em—just to find them ower heavy to lift. me, who they say was a wee bit too canny, to see sic wastefulness in lockleaven . biall !” “uncle peter had worked himself up into such a fury that i thought it best to say no more for the present; so once again i glanced about me. “we had been walking at a brisk pace for upward of a half-hour, yet, on looking over my shoulder, i could still see that gigantic seated colossus which my uncle assured me was my own body. indeed, from this distance, i noted a certain resemblance to myself. of course, when i had been standing directly under it, silent, white and beautiful it had seemed all out of human proportion; but now, from a mile or so away, i noted with an odd sensation of fear that it had something strangely familiar about it. perhaps it was the incongruity of a statue wearing dressing-gown and slippers which caused great beads of perspiration to spring out on my brow. “as i continued to stare back, i suddenly heard a threatening roar above my head and, looking up, saw a flock of strange birds flying swiftly past. larger than eagles and inky black, they emitted a thundering sound like a thousand steam-engines going at once. soon they became black specks in the distance, specks which hovered over the statue. finally i saw one of them descend on its nose. “‘never fash your head ower them, robbie,” said uncle peter. “they're naething more nor less than house-flies taking a wee flight. come awa, laddie.’ “i turned about. as i did so, i saw, very dim and hazy in the distance, a black, towering cliff which seemed to rise straight up into the somber sky. “‘’tis the wall of hell,” said uncle peter sadly and started off at a brisk pace. - “now, as i followed him, pushing through the tangle of red grass, i fell to wondering what the old gentleman meant when he said that he'd have been happy to live out his days in my whisky glass. perhaps, if i found hell to be such an unpleasant place as he hinted, i could cheat it in time, had i once the secret. “‘were you safe from hell in that glass, uncle peter?' i asked. who wants a green bottle * “‘not altogether,’ he said kind of careless over his shoulder. “they couldna hae got me out, but they would hae tormented me sore. had it been a green glass bottle, robbie—as green as the sea—why, i’d hae been as safe as a bug in a rug.” “at that i burst out into a laugh. “thank you kindly, uncle peter!' i cried. ‘so a green glass bottle is the refuge from hell? i’ll be minding that when my time comes to die.’ “and then, as i saw plainly, the old gentleman could have snapped his own nose off in rage. but all he said was: ‘ah weel, robbie, there's mony a slip twixt the cup and the lip. ye canna hide awa in green glass bottles when hell is beckonin’.” “but now we were in the shadow of the cliff. and well might uncle peter call it a wall, for it shot straight up with no foothold for man or beast. and away to the left, a great cave had been scooped out of it; and in this cave, roaring and thundering, was a many- headed sheet of flame fully a hundred feet high. “‘is that hell? i asked. “‘na, na,” said uncle peter with a snort of contempt. ‘that's naething but your ain fireplace and a wee birch log sputterin’ a bit. come this way, robbie, if ye are seekin’ hell.” “at that, uncle peter took my hand as though i were a bairn and led me right up to the face of the cliff. then i saw that it was no cliff at all, rightly speaking; but just a great wall of dark-colored wood which ran up and up till it lost itself in the sky. and down at silent, white and beautiful my feet was a round hole in this wall, just large enough for a man to put his head and shoulders through. “‘i’ll gang first,’ whispered uncle peter. and he got down on his knees and popped into that hole as smooth as a rat. “before i followed, i turned and took a last look at the world i was leaving. “there, that strange desert stretched away as flat as the palm of your hand; and there, like a giant brooding over the universe, sat that great statue of me in its gown and slippers, its jaw dropped low on its chest. how i pitied it then, dr. o'brien—yet, for the life of me, i couldn’t tell why. there it sat, staring out over that crimson grass with its sightless eyes. “you are leaving me forever,’ it seemed to be saying, ‘me who has carried you in sickness and health, in joy and in sorrow! shame on your soul, robbie lock- leaven!’ “‘now that ye are at hell's gate, do ye fear to enter?' said uncle peter, popping his head out of the hole and sneering at me. ‘i misdoot ye have heart for the venture.” “for answer, i flopped down on my hands and knees and, after a tight squeeze of it, crawled after him through the gates of hell.” * v tagain the laird of lockleaven paused to wipe glistening drops of moisture from his forehead; who wants a green bottle while i took advantage of his silence to stir the fire a bit. indeed, i was needing the warmth and cheer of it. what from my host's wild words, the distant rumble of thunder and all, i was never before so much in want of creature comforts. i have seen mad men enough in my day, but never one with such a plausible way of telling a tale as this same old chap in his gown and felt slippers. and to make matters worse, as the saying is, the rats and mice in the wall were never still for a minute. i could hear them tripping and trapesing about as though they were dancing; and, every now and then, a thin, quavering squeak which sounded uncommonly like a poorly played fiddle. “it's the highland fling they're dancing,” said the laird of lockleaven with a ghastly grin. “do you get the lilt of it, dr. o’brien?” and he began to sway his head from side to side and tap out the tune with the toe of his slipper. “you were about to tell me of hell,” i said, thinking the man was better talking. - - “to be sure,” said he with a start. “i had just entered the jaws of hell, had i not?” “you had,” i answered, wishing with all my heart that he had stayed there. “well, dr. o'brien, it was a tight squeeze at first; and so black that you couldn’t see hand before face. but after a few minutes of crawling, we got through the neck and into the belly of hell, so to speak. the tunnel grew bigger and bigger till a man could stand silent, white and beautiful t on his feet. and then a strange, green, quivering light came creeping along the black roof like a snake. “‘where does this unwholesome light come from ? i asked in a voice which i intended to make low, but which echoed through the vault like the boom of a cannon. “uncle peter chuckled at that, and it made a most horrid din. ‘’tis naething more nor less,” said he, ‘than the sulfur ta'en from matches. hae ye no heard meg complainin’ about findin’ wee broken bits of 'em lyin' on the carpet? weel, for all her witchcraft, she had no suspicion 'twas her auld master had a hand in it.” “he turned and started on again, still cackling to himself over his thieving, while i followed uneasily beneath the band of quivering light. at first the passage was so straight that you might have shot an arrow down it, but soon it began to twist a bit from side to side like the trail of a man coming home from the alehouse. and then, on a sudden, a wind arose, hot as the breath of a furnace—a strange wind made up of a multitude of voices, indistinct, muffled, vaguely reproachful and filled with a great longing to be heard. but there were so many of them and so intermingled that they were like drops of water in a swiftly moving stream. “‘where does this wind come from, uncle peter? i asked. “‘death-bed repentences, robbie,” he answered. ‘breath wasted lang syne by puir fules who knew no better. they thought nae doot that god would be who wants a green bottle lendin’ an ear to their skirlin'. dead men's lees, laddie, choaked in dust.” “for some time we plodded on in silence, while that melancholy wind swept past us like a perpetual lament. a cold sweat broke out on me from the heat of it, and all the time i was shaken by fear. and then, on a sudden, uncle peter spun around on his heel and pushed me up against the wall. “‘hush, laddie!” he whispered hot in my ear. ‘the hunt's on, or i’m much mistaken. mad anthony is ridin’ hard to-night; he's no the man to turn aside for anither soul. flatten yoursel to the wall, robbie! dinna ye hear the thunderin’ and screechin’? all hell’s let loose when mad anthony rides!” “and now, dr. o'brien, i heard a great hubbub. first, there came to my ears the clear note of a hunting- horn; next, a shrill scream and a thundering as of horses’ hoofs; and then, as i peered fearfully into the gloom, i saw the huge figure of a man astride some strange round-eared beast." down this wild rider swept on me like the wind, with never a look to right or left, leaning low on the neck of his steed like a man winning a race. and not four jumps behind, were a dozen grey monsters with long dragging tails. “but before i had time to draw breath, before i could so much as let out a groan, they were past me and vanishing in the shadows. and now i heard uncle peter’s unpleasant snicker. “‘ha, ha, robbie,” he says, nudging me with the point of his elbow, “ye're no owerpleased with hell, i’m silent, white and beautiful * thinkin’. but never ye fash yoursel aboot mad anthony. he, who was for always huntin’ the puir beasties, must now be hunted by 'em. there's a kind o' justice in hell, robbie. 'tis only with me they’ve been owersevere.” “‘what's he being hunted by ? i asked with a shudder. “‘just a half dozen o' rats, robbie,” said uncle peter. “and mad anthony’s ridin’ a wee gray mousie. but step along, laddie; we hae muckle to see ere the dawn breaks.’ “uncle peter started off again at a kind of ambling trot. although i was trembling in every limb, i fol- lowed close at his heels. we went on down the passage for a hundred yards or so and then took a sudden turn to the right which brought us up sharp in a large chamber which had no less than four phosphorescent ribbons of light on the ceiling. there were a score of dark figures in the center of this chamber; and a monotonous stream of talk rose from them, as though the floodgates of reason had been swept away. “‘what manner of place is this? i asked. “‘’tis just the council-room of those puir souls that went aboot the world tryin’ to make ithers understand them,” said uncle peter very solemnly. - “step up, robbie, and lend an ear to their talk.” “i strode up to the group. aſthough i was nearly deafened by their uproar, i managed to overhear a few words of a man and a woman who stood on the out- skirts. looking up into his face piteously, she was who wants a green bottle saying, ‘hector lockleaven, canna ye no understand me? my soul is—' and he was saying at the same time, giving no heed to her, “anna, my dear, canna ye no understand me? when i do this it is not because—” and then both his words and hers were swept away in a furious torrent of words from the others—words which battered against the ceiling and fell back again, hollow and dead. . i heard a loud buzzing about me of ‘won't you listen?’ ‘can't you understand?’ ‘i’ve got something to tell you,' till i couldn’t bear it any longer and, showing my thumbs in my ears, hurried back to my uncle. “‘not one of them hears what the other is saying!” i cried. “they’re all talking at once, uncle peter! what's the "meaning of it?” “he grinned at me in his queer way and turned to go. “all those souls,’ he mumbled over his shoulder, ‘hae pestered the lives oot o' ithers by bein’ ower- communicative. tak warnin', robbie. if ye want to be understood in the world, say naething aboot your- sel.” “uncle peter led the way out of that chamber and into another, several hundred yards further down the passage. this was larger than the first, and even more noisy. before we reached it, my ears were deafened by a thundering sound as though a thousand hammers were beating on iron, intermingled with loud shouts and deep groans. “‘here ye will find the chieftains of lockleaven who were owerfond of blood and rapine,” said uncle peter silent, white and beautiful when we reached the threshold. “these gentry wer quick to draw steel.” “i saw a dozen figures in armor, slashing at each other as though their blood were up. the clashing o their claymores, the clanking of their shields, their shouts and groans, made the hollow chamber echo like a drum. “i watched them for several moments with a beating heart. “no one falls, uncle peter!” i cried at last. “‘quite right,” said he with a bitter smile. ‘we hag no victors and no vanquished here—and no rest. they must just keep at it, with aching backs and wheezing lungs, till the end of time. this is hell, robbie.” “‘i think i'll be stepping back into the library, uncle peter,” i said. “you’ve shown me more than i wanted to see.” " “‘ye'll no be ganging hame till ye’ve had a peep at your ain chamber? murmured uncle peter in his most persuasive tone. “i’ll no rest content till i’ve given ye a glimpse at pleasure hall.” “‘pleasure hall?” said i. “‘pleasure hall,” said he. “tis the room we hae gi'en to those jolly souls who hae frisked aboot. ye'll find gude company there, robbie.” “now by this time i had had a belly-full of hell. but i could not offend uncle peter on his own hearth- stone, so to speak; so i just followed where he led. well, we may have walked for a dozen score yards or more, when suddenly i heard such a howling and screaming and sobbing that it was enough to make who wants a green bottle your blood run cold. i can hear that hubbub yet in my dreams. and pretty soon we came to a bright light, and then the laird of lockleaven broke down and clasped his hands over his eyes. and then he began to tremble in his armchair like a leaf in a gale. for my part, i finished the wine in my glass and stirred the fire and wished for the dawn to break. if the rats and mice had only kept still, i could have stood the shadows in lockleaven hall. how they did creep out at me from the corners! and the portraits seemed to be nodding and winking on the walls. at last my host dropped his hands from his face. “i cannot tell you of pleasure hall,” he said very solemn, “what i saw there is locked in my breast for all time. but this i will say: no man could have seen what i saw and gone about thereafter like other men. it left a red mark on my brain like the touch of a bloody hand.” “there's no doubt about that,” i thought to myself. but aloud i said: “did your uncle guide you safely back out of hell, mr. lockleaven?” “yes, he did that. but he kept chuckling all the way like a man who is well pleased with a stroke of business. i didn't pay him much heed, for my mind was on other matters. we got out of hell, some way or other, and waded back across the miles of red grass till we came to the big statue of me which sat with its chin on its breast. now he chanted some devil's rhyme and up i popped into the statue’s mouth and silent, white and beautiful squeezed through the ivory pillars. then, before a man could call for hot scotch, i blinked my eyes open and saw uncle peter scuttling away, turned into a wee man not as big as a pencil.” “and you let him go back to hell?” i asked. “i did so,” said the laird of lockleaven with a weary, gesture. “after the unpleasant time he'd given me, i wouldn’t have saved uncle peter had i been able. besides, there was no green-glass bottle handy.” wi after the laird of lockleaven had told his tale, he closed his eyes like a man who is tired. the lamp on the table was going out in a fretful, flickering way; and had it not been for the lusty log in the fireplace, the room would have been as black as a cellar. “i’m afraid i’m keeping you out of bed, mr. lock- leaven,” i said at last. “there's the dampness of morning in the air. why not turn in and leave me here? i'll be off when the light is strong enough to see the road by.” but he wouldn't listen to that. “no, no,” he said, sitting up with a start. “there are many matters we’ve got to face ere daybreak.” “matters to face, mr. lockleaven? what do you mean by that?” “just what i’m saying!” he cried, wiggling his beard at me in an excited way. “first we’ll drink a toast to who wants a green bottle the confusion of hell; then we’ll prepare our plans.” he rose to his feet and poured out two glasses of wine. then he handed me one with a courtly bow, but he hid the other for an instant in the folds of his gown ere he lifted it on high. “here's confusion to hell!” he shouted, and drained the glass without once taking his lips from the brim. “with all my heart, mr. lockleaven,” said i, fol- lowing suit. “from what you’ve told me this night, 'tis not a country i’d like to be traveling in.” “then get yourself a greenglass bottle when your time comes to die,” he muttered. “that's what i’m doing this night.” “but, mr. lockleaven,” i put in, persuasive enough, “your time's not come yet. there's a round score of years to run before you’ll be tipping your hat to the devil.” at that, he laughed as wild as a loon on the lake. “so you think so, dr. o'brien?” he cried. “and do you suppose that i’d be willing to live those years with the devils of doubt gnawing away inside, not knowing at what moment my soul might pop out and be off to the wall of hell? no, no, i’ve had enough of this life; now i’m just longing to rest in a green glass bottle.” “don’t tell me,” said i, “that you’ve-” “just that,” said he, very calm. “i’ve taken a wee nip of poison. it was in that glass of port. no, don’t trouble me, man”—for i had leaped to my feet—“just give heed to my words.” silent, white and beautiful “if you’ve taken poison, i’ll have it out of you!” i cried. “you’ll not,” said he, “for it's ” and he mentioned the name of the deadliest drug known to man. “but there are matters of more importance on hand. come close, for already i'm feeling its grip on me.” as i bent over the dying laird of lockleaven, he raised his voice to a shrill halloo. “meg!” he cried, “meg! you bag of old bones, where are you?” now hardly had the echo of his voice died away, when i saw the library door swing open. and there, on the threshold, curtsying and grinning, was a scrawny old woman with the long white whiskers of a cat. in one hand she held something which flashed green where the light touched it. “have you got the bottle, meg?” cried the laird of lockleaven. “aye, that i have, robbie,” she cackled, stepping up to him like a walking broomstick. “'tis the bonnie one oot o' the cellar with the wee angels stamped all ower it. ye can rest quiet betimes, robbie.” - the laird of lockleaven heaved a deep sigh of relief and the twitching of his beard ceased as though by magic. “well done, tried and trusted servant,” he muttered, and his chin sank down on his breast. but soon he bethought himself of something and raised his great eyes to my face. “'tis your duty as a medical-man, dr. o'brien,” he said with a catch in his breath which i knew meant the beginning of the end, who wants a green bottle “to tell meg the exact moment when the spark of life flickers out; and then to help her find my soul and pop it into the bottle.” “whar think ye it'll be hidin' when it's weel oot o' your body?” piped meg, champing her nutcracker jaws. “i dinna ken rightly whar to be searchin'.” “just search my body from top to toe!” cried the laird of lockleaven in a breaking voice. “and dr. o’brien, here, will be lending you a helping hand. oh, but the pain grips me!” and his face seemed to writhe up into ridges and knots, while the knuckles of his hands stood out white from the grip he had on the arms of the chair. now, being a doctor of long experience, i had seen many men die in my time—some with a smile and a sigh like tired children going off to sleep, some fighting hard for their breath with the black dread of hell deep down in their eyes, some making a great hubbub for fear st. peter was taking a nap and wouldn’t open the gate to their rapping—but never one of them all had played such a tune on the strings of my heart as this long, lean laird of lockleaven. we carried him over to the couch by the window where the light from the fire could scarce reach us. and we propped a pillow under his head, then sat ourselves down and waited for death and the morning. but how long the man took to die! a dozen times i thought his soul had sped; but when i’d bent down, i’d see the mournful gleam of his eyes and the twitch of his beard which meant that life was still in him. silent, white and beautiful - once he murmured low: “have you the greenglass bottle handy?” and meg, who held it tight to her breast, piped up: “i hae it, robbie.” - well, the gray of morning was sifting through the blind like the mildewed shreds of a rotting pall, when the laird of lockleaven sat up on a sudden as quick as the blade of a jack-knife. “i’m a dead man!” he cried in a voice which seemed to come from far down underground. “i’m a dead man! take heed, for my soul is ganging awa!” and at that he fell back with a gasp and a sigh. but before i could so much as reach out to feel for his heart beats, meg, that withered old witch, had sprung on him like a cat on a mouse. “i’ll find your bonnie soul, robbie!” she mumbled. and she began to paw him in a manner i thought unseemly. “away with you, old she-cat!” i cried, for it made my blood run cold to see her antics. “have you no respect for the dead?” but she paid me no heed—just began to cackle away like a dozen hens disturbed in the night. “get out of this!” i shouted. “get down from that perch, or i’ll give you the back of my hand!” now she let out a squeal like a banshee; and i saw both her withered old hands slip under his robe and grip hold of something. then she turned her head over her shoulder; and, though the light was still dim enough, i could see that her eyes were as bright as a weio wants a green bottle toad's and that the long grey hairs on her chin were trembling. “i hae it fast!” she cried. “the soul of robbie lockleaven will no sup in hell this day! will ye just hand me the bottle, dr. o'brien?” “i will not, meg,” i said, for the light of dawn was giving me commonsense. “all night i’ve been lending an ear to the most scandalous lies that ever were told. you're mad, like your master before you; and i’m through with dancing attendance on goblins and fairies.” “mon, mon,” cried meg in a voice shrill with alarm, “don’t be standin’ there blasphemin'! if ye winna bring me the bottle, just grip robbie's wee soul tight —it's owerstrong for these auld fingers!” well, as you've found out by this for yourselves, i am an accommodating, easy-going man. in an instant i realized that the only way to get meg off her master's chest was by humoring her a bit. madness is kindlier disposed when you pat it on the back. so i nodded my head, without any more to say on the matter, and leaned down and put my hands where she showed me. “do ye feel the wee body o' it?” she mumbled, cocking her eye at me. “yes,” said i–for at the moment i had felt some- thing through his robe which might have been a chamois-bag where he kept a charm against evil. “weel, hold tight to it,” she said, “while i’m gettin' the bottle. a human soul is an unco canny beastie when it's fairly oot o' the body.” silent, white and beautiful “never you fear for that,” said i. “i’ll never let go of it this side of hell,” i’ve often noticed that when a man throws big brave words up into the air they’re as like as not to come down on his head. so it happened to me. no sooner had i said my say, thinking that i had a bag of beads in my fist and nothing more, no sooner had meg come down from her perch and hobbled off for the bottle, than i let out a yell and loosened my grip. and well might i stagger back from the fright of it, for the bag had come alive in my hand. alive did i say? yes, and more than that. it had kicked out like a beast caught in a net; it had wriggled and turned; and, last of all, it had set its teeth in my thumb. and i have the scar to this day to prove that my story is true. “mother of god! what's that?” i cried as soon as i could speak at all. then meg spun around on her heel. “ye fule!” she cried. “ye have let robbie's soul slip frae your fingers!” and then, as i stood silent with a great fear at my heart, she scuttled back to the laird of lock- leaven. “quick!” she cried. “dinna be gapin’ and gabblin’ there! on your knees, mon, and be searchin? the floor; while i give a look to the couch.” well, i did as she told me—for, somehow or other, i believed all she said. but it was a black business crawling over the carpet, with not light enough yet to make out what lurked in the corners. once i caught sight of something near the fireplace which scampered who wants a green bottle & away into the wall when i reached out a hand. what- ever it was, it was too quick to be caught by a portly old chap on all fours. at last, winded and dusty, i climbed to my feet. meg, too, had given up the search. she now sat beside her dead master, rocking back and forth, her face in her hands. never will i forget that scene if i live to be a hundred—the pallid light of dawn resting on both the quick and the dead; the laird of lock- leaven rumpled and shaken like a pillow in the search for his soul; and that old hag, crouched down beside him, swinging back and forth like a gate in the wind. “the laird of lockleaven is ganging awa!” she moaned. - “nonsense, woman!” i cried sharply enough. “'twas nothing more nor less than a mouse in his gown. —now i’m off to the village for help. he's in no fit state to go into his grave.” but meg never so much as lifted her face from her hands. bending backward and forward, giving no heed to my words, she mournfully chanted that dismal refrain: “the laird of lockleaven is ganging awa! the laird of lockleaven is ganging awa!” and to my overstrained nerves it seemed, that behind the wains- coting in the wall, i heard an echo of her lament rising and falling with the melancholy cadence of the wind: “the laird of lockleaven is ganging awa!—the laird of lockleaven is ganging awa!” * % + * º $ $ silent, white and beautiful you have heard my story. now, what do you think? was it a mouse i held in the fold of his gown, or was it— but why should i put such thoughts in your head? they’ve worried me now for ten long years— worried me so that each night i put my ear to the wall, listening and wondering, till i seem to hear voices and music and the treading of feet. perhaps it was a mouse after all. don’t let such thoughts work into your mind. if they once get in, they’ll rattle about like dice in a cup. and they'll make you do very strange things—things which you wouldn't confide to your neighbors. what sort of things? why, soon you'll be collecting bottles of every shape and size known to man—little ones and big ones, thin ones and fat ones, round ones and square ones. and here's a queer thing! they may be all shapes, and they may be all sizes; but there's only one color you’ll want. and that color will be green—pale green like the sea. isn’t that strange, now? wild wullie, the waster i must bridge the river styx and retrace my steps to the other shore. it is difficult for me to once again inhabit the worn-out shell which for so many years i called myself; to mentally conjure up the petty human emotions which spurred me to rash words and still rasher deeds; to describe to you, my gentle ghostly readers, the lamentable and inexcusable quarrel which ended so disastrously for roderick ding- wall and myself. however, i must not dodge the issue. i have taken up the pen, and i will not turn back. unfortunately for my natural egotism, this chronicle opens at a period when i was still alive. as i sit beside the library window in a pale shaft of moonlight, what a pitiful atom of dust my former mortal self appears! blown hither and thither by every earthly passion, it yet had the colossal conceit to con- sider itself a reasonable being living according to a reasonable plan. roderick is sitting near me, his chin resting on his hand. the white linen about his throat glimmers faintly. poor roderick! he was another such silent, white and beautiful as i–both blind atoms whirling in the wind. and now he must wear that stock always or else— but i must begin at the beginning or there can be no end. when my brother, the twelfth laird of brangler, died i was living a shabby, out-of-elbows existence in a small boarding-house in london. since my father’s death, forty years before, alexander and i had scarcely laid eyes on one another. perhaps i was to blame for this; for, although i had run through a considerable part of the family fortune, i had never squandered a grain of the family pride—but i rather think it was my memory of him which held me back like a ball and chain. he was a mean man even when young—mean and cunning with a white film over one eye like a patch of frost on a window-pane. they say he had a bag of gold pieces still clutched in his fist when they fished him out of the lake back of the house; and that, if he could have made up his mind to let go of it, he might have weathered it through to the other bank. how- ever, that’s beside the question. when i received word that alexander was dead, my first thought was of roderick. he and i had grown old together. starting out as wild lads, we had had vices enough to fill a stable. but a vice is a poor nag to ride when a man has no gold spurs strapped to his heels. then old age and old wine had taken the marrow out of our bones. two doddering fossils now, all we cared for was our saturday-night game of billiards. a wild wullie, the waster once a week we met in a rowdy basement just off the strand and played with cues like shillalahs and billiard-balls like the eggs of some unsystematic mother goose. now, of course, all this could be changed. roderick and i would pack up and leave london for good. we would settle at brangler hall and there regale ourselves in a manner becoming elderly gentlemen of means. i remembered with a kindling of the blood the well- appointed billiard-room my father had installed shortly before his death.' surely the rats and spiders had not been able to completely destroy this sanctum during my brother's unsympathetic reign. and then there was the old gentleman's wine cellar. surely between those hallowed walls the mellow port and burgundy had gained the subtle tang which only longevity bestows. although, as i have already said, my friend and i had pawned most of our vices, still a glass of rare old wine could enhance the moments we spent téte-à-tête. say what you will, it is only the old who can appreciate the old. roderick entered into my plans for the future with enthusiasm. the prospect of a happy old age spent in the seclusion of brangler hall, with unlimited leisure to bestow on his favorite pastime, brought a glint to his eye and a flush to his cheek. he even trod a few steps of the highland fling, his old knee-bones clatter- ing together like castanets. * well, to cut a long story short, we sailed for scotland silent, white and beautiful that very week with never a thought of the 'black trouble in store for us. indeed, as we drove up the broad driveway, we were more like two schoolboys out on a jaunt than two gray-bearded old sinners with not many more years of life in our bones at the most. every tree and bush, every thicket and hedge, seemed to hold out a hand in greeting. and the old house itself, with the red ivy clinging to it like the rusted armor of my forebears, had all the look of a proud mother. “welcome home!” the wind seemed to be singing through the fir-trees. “welcome home to brangler hall !” as soon as roderick and i had removed the stains of travel, we hurried down to the banquet hall. here it was, in this great wainscoted room—a room where the gentry for miles around had so often wined and feasted till the break of dawn—that we met with our first mischance. two steaming bowls were waiting for us, one at either end of the board, and they contained nothing but a meager mess of porridge. i give you my word, the very portraits on the walls curled their lips at the sight of it. “like master, like man,” i thought to myself and clapped my hand down on the bell. and then old tam —serving man in the family for fifty-odd years— hobbled in, soft-footed in his list slippers. “what's the meaning of this?” said i, cocking my eye at the bowl of porridge. “is such hogs' swill fit for the laird of brangler hall and his guest?” at that, tam grinned at me in a most disrespectful wild wullie, the waster fashion. “aye,” he mumbled. “it’s been gude enow for the laird of brangler hall and his guests for mony years. 'tis better for the saul when the belly's no ower full o' flesh and fowl and ither puir murdered beasties —so at least my dead master was thinkin’.” “he and his thoughts are buried together,” i broke in sternly. “there's a new master in brangler hall, and you’d best be minding it. now be off to the kitchen and tell the cook to serve us something fit for a gentle- man's stomach. and you can be bringing back with you a bottle of wine from the cellar.” “but i dinna ken rightly whar to be lookin’ for the wine, master wullie.” “you need not be looking,” roderick broke in very sharp. “by the shade of your nose, it should lead you aright.” - tam left the room with a grieved air. “daft fules both !” i heard him mutter under his breath. “a puir body’s no safe wi' 'em.” but for all his dolorous shakes of the head, his prolonged sighs, when next he appeared he carried with him cheer for two hungry and thirsty men—a nice cut of venison and a bottle of wine gray with cobwebs. you may be sure that roderick and i did the provender ample justice. between mouthfuls, i cross- questioned tam about my dead brother. as yet the mystery attached to his sudden and ungentlemanly demise had not been cleared up. “what induced the laird to go out of the house at that time of the night?” i asked." silent, white and beautiful tam’s wizen face drew up into knots of cunning. “”tis no so difficult to understand,” he mumbled. “’twas just the fear of his ain brother spurred him on.” “the fear of me?” “just that. dr. macpherson told him a month back that his days were numbered. he got thinkin’ o' the ill use ye’d be puttin' to all the gude siller he'd saved betimes. the thought o' that was like fire in the puir body's brain. “wild wullie, the waster,’ was his name for ye in his best moods. soon he got wanderin’ awa’ from the hall, searchin’ naedoot for a hidin'-place for his treasure. midnight was his favorite hour for prowlin’ aboot the grounds. one dark night he slipped into the lake by mischance. alec was a gude lad, but one who wadna let a bag o' siller slip frae his fingers once he gripped it. i misdoot this wee vice led him to his watery grave—him, who should hae died like a christian between white sheets, with god lookin' on and smilin’ or maybe droppin’ a tear from his een. it’s great and wonderful what the power of prayer “roderick,” i broke in, rising, “let’s you and me seek the seclusion of the billiard-room. religion is the one subject which tam and i agree upon.” the old man gave me a disbelieving stare as i turned to the door. “‘wild wullie, the waster” a christian!” he mumbled. “na, na! i'll no believe that till the puir sauls in the kirk-yard rise up and confirm the glad news. ‘wild wullie, the waster’ is kin to the prodigal * * , wild willie, the waster son. first he maun lie dowh with hogs and eat husks. so 'tis written in the gude book.” ii soon roderick and i settled comfortably into the groove of our new existence. fortunately the billiard-room, although in disuse for so many years, had been kept scrupulously clean. tam did not number laziness among his faults. each morning, with a gray duster wound tight about his bald pate, resembling a decrepit old pirate retired from the high seas, he superintended the maids at their work. and what a taskmaster he was with the lasses!—his sharp, old tongue snapping behind their bent backs like the lash of a dog-whip, his bitter blue eyes roving here and there for a speck of dust overlooked. like many another old bachelor, he considered that the opposite sex owed him a lasting debt, and was not slow in taking his payment in threats and gibes. but roderick and i gave tam little heed, except to see that he provided us with the wine and food due our station. all our time was spent at billiards. winter set in before we had been a week in brangler hall— great falls of snow which made the driveway impass- able and a steady wind from the northeast which cut the face like sharp, snapping twigs. so we had no mind to go out, but just stayed in the house as snug as two fleas on a sheep-dog, and played billiards from morn till night. silent, white and beautiful now, say what you will, it's a difficult thing to see but one face day after day and not in time grow to hate it. and it's aggravating for two men to sit by the fireside with nothing to say to each other but just the threadbare topics of speech grown thin from overhandling. there's madness in solitary confine- ment, yes; but there's madness and there's murder when two are locked up in the same cage. it was not long before roderick began to get on my nerves. he had a slow, hesitating way of speech which set my eardrums tingling as though a handful of nettles had been thrown into them, a wart just beneath his right cheek-bone which seemed to grow larger as the days went by; but what aggravated me most in the man was his adam's apple. it was a gymnastic adam's apple, popping up and down like a jack-in-the-box; and it was as large and round as a billiard-ball, making the wrinkled skin of his neck all tight and shining where it bulged out like an orange through a paper bag. toward the last, the sight of it would unnerve me so that i would often miss a simple shot. now, do not judge by this that my nerves alone were chafed raw. roderick has since confided in me that there were little mannerisms of my own which touched him on sensitive spots like a lash. the way i had of clicking my tongue when i had made a difficult shot, the leisurely fashion with which i took aim, the jubilant air in which i called out the points i had scored—all these trifles at the time made him see red. well, matters went on from bad to worse between us. * silent, white and beautiful a great gust of wind dropped down the chimney and blew a handful of ashes into my face. i sneezed— god bless me, how could i help it?—roderick's bent elbow twitched and the cue-ball slipped to one side, missing both the others as neat as a whistle. “i see you’ve missed your shot,” said i, speaking pleasant enough. * “missed!” says he, looking up with a fiery red face. “by god, mr. campbell, your ancestors should be proud of you this night!” w “how's that, mr. dingwall?” i asked, cold as ice. the jerking adam’s apple of the man made my gorge rise. “by that, mr. campbell, i’m meaning that 'tis not a gentlemanly way to resort to such tricks and contrivances while engaged in sport. in short, mr. campbell, to sneeze at such a critical moment is proof enough for me of what i’ve long suspected.” “and what may that be, mr. dingwall?” “that there's very little of the gentleman about you but the name, mr. campbell,” he says very short, turn- ing his back on me. “a clip-eared, bob-tailed kind of gentleman were you always, although i was fool enough not to heed it.” now, there's a strain of the wild macgregor blood in me—blood which makes me see red at an insult. roderick’s words and his lifted lip stirred up a raging rob roy. without a thought to our lifelong friend- ship, i strode up to the man and struck him with my open hand which brought the crimson to his cheek. wild wullie, the waster surely there was nothing lovable in this fat old man lying dead on the carpet—in this waxen puppet with the lack-luster eyes and protruding paunch. for the first time i caught a true vision of myself, and it was far from flattering. “gude save us! ye’ve slain master wullie!” it was tam who thus broke the silence. he was on his knees beside the corpse with his hand on its breast. his withered old face was ashen, and his head shook from side to side as though he had the palsy. my eyes sought roderick. he was standing in identically the same spot as when i had seen him at my last gasp-his feet wide apart, his right hand grasping the billiard cue. but the expression of his face had changed. on it now was written a great horror and self-loathing. “i’ll just be gangin' awa’ to dr. macpherson,” said tam, rising unsteadily to his feet and stepping through me as though i had been so much air. “not that there's ony hope at all,” he added sourly. “master wullie's puir saul hae sped.” at the door he paused, and i knew that he was whispering to the scared lasses: “mary, just slip awa’ to squire templeton's ower the hill and tell him murder's been done at the hall. peg, bide here a bit and keep your een on that dingwall man. justice will no owerlook this, i’m thinkin’.” when roderick and i were left alone together, he went down on his knees by the corpse. he was shaking all over like a tree in a gale, and his adam’s apple was leaping about as though demented. silent, white and beautiful “god help me!” he muttered. “god help me!” well, i put my hand on his shoulder then, so great a pity i had for the man, and i spoke kind words in his ear—but neither my touch nor my voice was con- soling at all. you see, he could neither feel my hand nor yet hear my voice; and i knew it well enough at the time, but habit was too strong for me. and also i knew what was going on in his brain. self-destruction was plotting there. and how was he to know that it is only the blow which a man strikes himself that leaves a telltale mark in his second life? but i knew, and i feared for my friend. after a time he stood up again with a wild light in his eye. “they’ll never take me alive,” he says very solemn, and tramps out of the room without so much as a look behind. - down the great hall he went, while i flitted at his heels—down the great hall and out into the moonlight and cold. then away through the snow he plodded, taking long steps like a man walking a race; and i still at his heels, like a spaniel. well, there was a full moon that night—a calm moon with a patient, sorrowful face. across the glistening snow she beckoned us on to the lake which shone like a black diamond through the trees. roderick never paused or faltered. he was a firm man, once he had made up his mind; and i knew there was no stopping him. soon we were standing on the bank, all glistening now as though encrusted with tiny sapphires. and it was here i met my brother. wild wullie, the waster yes, there he sat as lonely as a scare-crow, his blind eye squinting up at the moon and all frosted with cold, a bag of gold pieces gripped tight in his fist. all in all, he was a deplorable sight to see. “so this is what comes of taking your own life!” i thought as i seated myself beside him. “will roderick be such another ?” after a moment alexander spit a piece of ice out of his mouth and spoke. “wullie,” he says very pleasant, while the icicles in his beard tinkled faintly like tiny bells, “wullie, are ye bringin' me company?” and he jerked his thumb toward roderick, who stood very tall and straight on the bank. “god forbid, alec l’” said i, slipping into the familiar speech of our boyhood. “it’s no the sort 'o' death i’d be wishin' a friend of mine. nor the sort o' life after,” i added, with a look at his frosty eye. “ye'll no be haunting him then to his end?” he says with a kind of sigh. “weel, that's a pity. it's lonely here on winter nights—unco lonelyl but in the sum- mer it's no so wearisome. we hae the music o' frogs and whippoorwills and wee hoot-owls. ye should see the bats frisk aboot to it. it's a merry spot in the summer.” “he’ll no join ye wi' my consent,” i broke in sharply. “but, mon, i tell ye he'd like it in the summer,” alexander says as smooth as oil. “there's life here then—weasels and ferrets and snakes ye can wear aboot your neck like a chain.” he bent forward, and i felt silent, white and beautiful his breath like a cold draft in my ear. “and there's money, wullie—muckle gold pieces to spend.” at that i laughed aloud. “i misdoot ye’d be only too glad, alec, to have him share your load. but he'll no do that, for i’m thinkin' this lake has a good foot of ice above water. he canna very weel drown himsel’ to-night.” “but he can try,” says alexander, still hopeful. “he can try, wullie. now, should he dive from that bank yonder, he'd crack his skull like a hickory-nut. canna he no try, wullie?” “na, na!” i cried in anger. “ye hae no changed muckle since lang syne. ye are ever thinkin’ o' yersel', alec. but ye canna hae roderick—even now he's awa’ to the house.” indeed, roderick had turned away with a doleful shake of his head, and was plodding back wearily over the snow. his black shadow lay at our feet. “”tis a pity,” says alexander then with a shake of his head and a hypocritical smile. “i’m thinkin’ he'll be findin’ a worse way to shake off his skin— some coarse, bluddy way, nae doot. weel, 'tis yer ain business, wullie.” with that, my brother turned his back on me and closed his eyes. but i could see by the way he munched his jaws that he was out of sorts with the world. he never even wished me good night as i flitted away. well, as i followed roderick back to the house, alexander's unpleasant prophecy haunted me. what could i do to keep my friend from some rash act which wild wullie, the waster would leave a lasting mark in his life to come? then, for the first time, i realized the pitiful impotence of a ghost to shape the affairs of the living. i wrung my hands in despair as i flitted over the snow. but soon a ray of hope came to me. surely there was one thing i could do—i could appear before roderick in my old bodily shape at twelve o’clock. it was the unwritten law of the spirit world. at twelve o'clock, then, if he lived till that hour, i would appear before him and make him understand by gestures the severe punishment which attended the crime of suicide. by now we had reached the house. roderick, with- out a glance to right or left, mounted the stairs to his own room. in gloomy silence he approached his dresser, pulled out one of the drawers, and took a razor from it. as he opened it, the blade shone blue in the moonlight. you can imagine my feelings, then, my gentle ghostly readers. horror overmastered me. i called to him, but he did not hear me; i seized his arm, but it passed through my fingers. and now my only hope rested in the grandfather clock which stood in the hall. would it strike twelve before this crime was perpetrated? one fact gave me hope. roderick did not seem to be in any hurry about cutting his throat. on the contrary, he went about his preparations with marked deliberation. several times he felt the edge of the razor with his thumb, and once he stropped it carefully to a fine edge. finally he raised it to his throat, but * silent, white and beautiful even then he hesitated. evidently he wished to taste the unlawful sweets of suicide to the dregs. lowering the razor, he was plunged into a profound 'reverie. i heard him murmur: “if i don't get it over with, they’ll swing me up as high as a church steeple. think of the disgrace in a dingwall dangling from the gallow's-tree. i maun do it.” again he lifted the razor till it hovered just beneath his adam's apple. but at that very instant, to my joy, the clock below stairs began to strike twelve. “i’ll wait till it's done,” he muttered peevishly. “it’s—” but i gave him no time to finish his sentence. with a glad cry, i leaped out of the shadows and confronted him in my bodily form. pointing at his throat, i shook my head angrily. alas, poor roderick! he thought that i’d come out of my grave to see that he went into his. at my sudden appearance, his hand shot backward and the blue steel blade sheared his throat from ear to ear. and as i bent over him, as i tried to quench the flow of his blood, he cowered away with fear and loathing in his eyes. “gang awa, ye warlock!” he gasped through foam-flecked lips. “gang awa—the deil and ye hae done for me!” then his head slithered back on the floor, and he died with the black curse of suicide on him. iv now it wasn’t longer than the space of a deep breath before roderick lived again. but it was wild wullie, the waster as i had thought—the poor man bore the mark of his last earthly misdeed. his throat, where the razor had bitten home, was not a pretty thing to see. red it was, and gaping like a toothless laugh. but poor roderick did not heed it at first. he was all for shaking my hand and thanking me for what i had tried to do. “to think,” said he, with a tear in his eye, “that you should have bothered so over a man who had just taken your life! that bespeaks a kind heart, willie campbell. a misdirected good action is none the less a good action.” “misdirected?” i cried. “what may you be meaning by that?” “it’s as plain as the nose on your face, man,” says he, giving his corpse on the floor a scornful look. “am i not better out of that ugly carcass when all’s said and done?” “perhaps,” said i, realizing that the man had not as yet grasped the truth. “but will you be saying that, roderick, when you know the worst’ step up to the mirror on the wall and just be taking a look at your- self.” at that his face fell, and i could see that there was fear in him. he wheeled about on his heel and stepped up to the mirror, which shone gray in the moonlight. for a long moment he stood there without a word— then i heard a click in his throat like a clock running down. * silent, white and beautiful “good god!” he cried, putting his hands over his eyes. “good god!” | and that was all i could get out of him for a long time. poor roderick! a neat man he had been in life, a man who had ever kept an eye on his personal appearance; and now in death he was a neat ghost by temperament and training, supersensitive to anything which might mar his good looks. no wonder the sight of that red, smiling throat was enough to turn the joy of resurrection sour in his mouth. well, i did my best to console him. but it was hard going at the best. finally i hit on a scheme which made him brighten up a bit. “you’d best wear a white stock from now onwards, roderick,” i suggested. “it’s becoming enough to a ghost with your cast of feature. and it's neat as a pin, roderick.” “neat it may be,” he says with a sour smile, “but it’s an article of dress i never much fancied. it's sugges- tive of boils. however, when the deil drives—” he shook his fist at the mirror. “well, willie man, i’ll be doing just as you say.” the stock worked miracles with my friend's peace of mind. it wasn’t long before roderick was his old merry self again. and also it had a quieting effect on my own nerves. to say nothing of his cut throat, he had always had a gymnastic adam's apple which, in my opinion, was better hid. with the stock nicely tied, his long, curly locks all silvery in the moonlight, he wild wullie, the waster was as handsome a ghost as a man could find in a night's walk. we soon settled back into our midnight game of bil- liards—only now there was no bitterness at all, but just pride in our skill and mutual understanding. and we discarded the cues altogether, just guiding the balls by the strength of our minds. a calm, thoughtful game it was, with the moon as a marker—the balls clicking gently together, and now and then the sad sigh of the wind in the fireplace. and we were careful not to let tarn and the waiting lasses get sight or sound of us. we knew well enough that if they once caught a glimpse of us standing about in the corners, they’d be out of the house in no time. then who could we get to tidy the billiard-room and brush the dust from the table? it's been my ex- perience that only a silly, childish ghost goes about try- ing to impress humans by maybe a groan or two or by the glimpse of his face in the moonlight. what's to be gained by it?—just silence and dust and loneliness. a leserted house with the cobwebs dangling from the ceil- ing, and the rats playing hide-and-go-seek in the walls, is no proper home, as i have found by bitter expe- rience. well, as i have already said, roderick and i were silent and wary. but we hadn’t taken into considera- tion tam’s prying, thieving ways—his old ears relig- iously pricked for the devil’s gossip, his old eyes squint- ing through keyholes and around corners. one night he caught us red-handed. silent, white and beautiful it was well past twelve o’clock. roderick and i had been playing billiards for upwards of an hour. absorbed in our game, and thinking the servants safe in bed and snoring, we were little prepared for the sudden opening of the door and the flashing on of the lights. in fact, roderick had just made a shot, and the ball was still rolling. “what hae i told ye?” cried tam, hopping about like a punch and judy. “the deil's playin' billiards in brangler hall!” he spoke to a solemn man who had come in with him, a man wearing glasses whom i recognized as law- yer mctavish, of edinborough. the two of them were staring at the billiard balls with their eyes nearly popping out of their heads. “a very pretty shot,” said mctavish at last with a kind of sick smile. “three cushions and never a hitch to it! a well-planned shot. what's the trick to it, tam ° “there's no trick at all!” cried tam in anger. “'tis naething more nor less than master wullie and his friend playin' at billiards. mony's the night i’ve stood out in the hall in my night-cap and slippers, drawn frae my bed by the click o’ the balls. -i canna rightly dance attendance on ghaists. it’s no seemly for a mon o' my years.” while tam thus expressed himself, mctavish exam- ined the billiard-table carefully. first he picked up the balls and held them to his short-sighted eyes; next he rolled them across the green cloth; and finally he wild wullie, the waster bent down and looked under the table. roderick and i, swathed in our garments of invisibility, interchanged smiles. all he could get would be a crick in the neck for his pains. “ye'll find naething o' interest,” tam continued. “weel enow i grasp that ye lawyer bodies hae little or no respect for the ways o' the deil. ye think ye've improved on 'em, nae doot. howsomever, here's real witchcraft afoot, and ye may as weel confess it.” at that, mctavish looked up and straightened his back. “i can’t understand it, and that's true enough,” said he. “now, if the window had been up, i’d say the wind might have done it. or if we had not switched the lights on, i’d say a rat had started the ball rolling with the swish of his tail. but as it is, perhaps—” “hoot, mon!” cried tam peevishly. “gie the deil credit and hae done! 'tis no muckle matter when all's said—just a wee three-cushion shot like i’ve seen mas- ter wullie contrive mony's the time.” mctavish ran his hand through his hair. “i think the least said about this the better,” he muttered. “keep a quiet tongue in your head when the new owner of brangler hall arrives in the morning.” “i’ll no be aboot the premises,” said tam. “”tis time i was restin’ my auld bones. i’m awa wi' the sunrise.” “well, i wouldn't talk about it to the neighbors,” mctavish continued. “silence is golden.” he put his hand in his pocket and drew out a guinea. “here's silent, white and beautiful here for the vacation together. well, we'll give them a warm welcome to brangler hall.” “welcome?” says roderick, with a sad smile. “alas, but we cannot! if they see hide or hair of us, they'll be off like startled bucks. we'd just better be hiding ourselves as much as possible. 'tis the only way for two ghosts to keep their guests satisfied.” “but we can hover about unbeknownst to them,” said i. “and maybe we can get joy from their company— listening to their young voices and perhaps directing their tastes in wine, or entering into their sport with- out so much as by-your-leave.” “be careful, willie,” says roderick very solemn. “you must not forget for a moment that a ghost is a ghost and a laddie a laddie. they’re not altogether companionable.” well, neither roderick nor i could sleep that day for thinking of the two lads beneath stairs. although we had been contented enough up to this, now the great ache of loneliness was in our bones. the sight of these two young kinsfolk of ours brought up a thousand recollections of our own youth—not nice tales for a sunday-school perhaps; but still diverting enough to keep our sides shaking till dusk. no sooner had night fairly settled in than we flitted out of the attic and down the great stairs to the ban- quet-hall. the young men by now were seated at table, doing justice to every dish put before them. and what merry lads they were, laughing and joking, with never a care; drinking their wine as gentlemen should silent, white and beautiful s figure in his tale. i have no aversion for them, be they of this world or the next.” “nor i,” says jamie. “but we'll just have to be con- tenting ourselves with what's here. what do you say if we play billiards ourselves to-night and cheat the ghosts of their game?” * “i’m your man!” cried hector, jumping to his feet. “it’s a long time since we’ve crossed cues, jamie.” well, without any more words on the matter, the two lads strode into the billiard-room, roderick and i close at their heels. as luck would have it, hector camp- bell picked up my old cue, while jamie chose his dead uncle's. then the game started—if you could call it a game, which i much misdoubt. i give you my word, those two made us blush for them. the way they handled their cues was enough to sicken a man. they had no skill in their fingers and less in their heads. the simplest shot was too much for them. it was all roderick and i could do to hold our tongues and our tempers in check. well, time went drearily on till the stroke of twelve, with never a flash of excitement. they'd shoot and they’d miss, and they’d shoot again till my back teeth were all of an edge. here they were, the young fools, keeping roderick and me from our game—and they with no more right to be playing than two scarecrows in a wheat-field. my old fingers were fair itching for the cue. - at last roderick could stand it no longer. “willie,” wild wullie, the waster he whispered, “this fool game is near driving me daft. let's you and me take a hand.” “and how may we be doing that?” i murmured. “the way it looks now, these lads will be playing till morning.” “never worry your head over that, man,” says rod- erick in my ear. “they shouldn't count. it's only by sheer luck that they ever score a point. eliminate them from the game altogether. or better yet, you play your kinsman's shots for him by the strength of your mind, and i'll just be helping jamie.” “but will it work, roderick?” “at least there's no harm in trying,” says he. “now, concentrate, willie. it's your shot, for hector camp- bell’s juggling the cue between his fingers.” well, i did as he told me. with the full force of my mind, i planned a very neat shot with a reverse eng. lish to it. around the table the cue ball went and clicked against the others, like a mother kissing her children. “well played ſ” cried jamie, with a laugh. “i sup- pose you planned that shot, hector?” young campbell looked up with a startled face. “i’ll not say so much as that,” says he. “however, here goes for another try.” once more he bent over the table. instantly i focused my mind on a draw shot which might gather the balls together like sheep in a hurdle. it worked to the queen’s taste, and this time jamie let out an oath of astonishment. but hector was too wild wullie, the waster come here to lend us both a hand with our game. shoot again, jamie.” * - so jamie shot again and again with never a miss at all till the day was breaking—shot with a white face of fear and a glance from time to time over his shoul- der. roderick was in fine form. never had i seen him take such care with each play. something of the old sweating pride in his skill was written on his fur- rowed forehead; and there was a twitch of a smile to his lips which i didn’t quite fancy. - when the dawn finally broke like a bubble of blood, we flitted up to the attic after seeing the lads to their beds. roderick was still grinning like a sick cat —a nasty grin which set all my nerves on edge. “i’m thinking jamie had the better of your kins- man,” says he, just before we closed our eyes for the day. “you’ll not say that to-morrow at this time, roder- ick dingwall!” i cried hotly. “i’ll see to it that hec- tor holds his own l’” “you mean you'll try,” he says with a grin. “but if i were you, willie, i would not set my heart on it.” vi now, the life of a ghost is hard sometimes, and none knows it better than i. just as long as a body keeps to his own and doesn’t go mixing himself up into human affairs, he's as safe and happy as a bug in a rug. but just let him once start being wild wullie, the waster ing his tally—the four of us would have been at each other's throats if the dawn had not intervened. when roderick and i climbed up to our attic that morning, i had a glimmer of reason. what was all this leading to but just murder and suicide again? here were these two handsome laddies being haunted into their graves by two selfish old ghosts who wouldn't leave them alone at their game! what right had we to interfere?—we who were supposed to have given up the sinful joys of the flesh. “roderick,” said i, addressing him for the first time in ten days—“roderick, all this must stop.” “if you are referring to your kinsman's inability to count correctly,” he says very stiffly, “why, i'm agreeing with you in the matter, mr. campbell.” “man, man!” i cried, grasping him by the arm in my excitement. “cannot you see where this game is lead- ing? and the bonnie laddies below stairs! are you wanting their blood on your head, roderick dingwall? was not mine enough?” “when a gentleman is owed a debt by another gen- tleman, he should not be the first to speak of it,” says roderick, still very stately. but for all that, i could see that he had given heed to my words. “this is no time to stand on your dignity, man!” i cried, pressing my point. “another night and it may be too late! there was murder in jamie's eyes but a few moments back!” “and hector was showing his teeth like a wildcat,” . wild wullie, the waster . “that's a pity,” said hector with a polite sneer. “it’s a game that requires thought.” he ostentatiously chalked his cue and bent over the table to shoot. now, in my turn, i concentrated on a miss, but with more delicacy than roderick. this time the cue ball ran in the right direction, but i saw to it that it missed the others by a hair. hector looked amazed. “i missed!” he muttered. “that's strange! it was an easy shot enough!” now it was jamie's turn to sneer. “i’ve seen you miss easier shots than that. i guess your streak of luck's about through. science will tell in the end,” says he, and misses a carom which a blindfolded child could have made. well, they bungled shot after shot. but they kept at it just the same. and the longer they played the worse their tempers grew. they were not so much dis- gusted with the game as they were just disgusted with one another. roderick and i were at our wits' end. at any moment we expected to see murder done. “shall we give them back some of our skill?” roder- ick whispered. “it wouldn’t do any good now,” i murmured sadly. “i’m afraid we’ve been consorting too much with the lads.” hardly had i spoken before the climax came. hec- tor was taking aim, when jamie, intent on chalking his cue, accidentally lrushed against his arm. at that, my kinsman straightened his back and his eyes flashed sparks. silent, white and beautiful “i’ll trouble you to play like a gentleman, mr. ding- wall,” says he cold as ice. “while you’re in the house of a campbell, you'd best remember that it's not a campbell's way to stoop to stable-boy's tricks to win a game.” at that, jamie puffed up like a pouter-pigeon. “by god, mr. campbell,” cried he, “i’ll have you know that a dingwall can learn nothing from a campbell but just how to lead cattle away in the moonlight!” now, at this direct blow at the macgregor blood in his veins, hector struck jamie with his open hand across the cheek-bone. and jamie, being a lad of some spirit himself, was at him like a wild man with his cue gripped by the small end. “my god!” i cried to roderick, wringing my hands. “stop them before it's too late. we've driven them to this, just you and il man, man, stop them before murder's done!” “what can i do, willie?” he wailed, with his face in his hands. “what can i do?” just at this moment the clock in the hallway struck bravely above the din of the rattling cues. it was twelve—that hour when ghosts can assume their old bodily form. hardly had the last stroke died away before roder- ick raised his face. on it was a look of brave purpose. a sensitive man he had always been, sensitive to a fault about his personal appearance, but now i read in his eyes a great renunciation. wild wullie, the waster “what are you about to do, roderick?” i whispered. for answer, his hand went up to his stock and be- gan to fumble with the safety pin which held it in place. unwinding the band of white linen, he leaped to his feet and bounded between the combatants. then, assuming his old bodily form, he pointed at the gaping wound in his throat. “desist!” he cried in an agonized voice. “look on me, jamie! i am the spirit of your uncle roderick, the suicide. behold in me, hector campbell, the ghost of him who murdered ‘wild wul- lie, the waster’l” it was a magnificent act. when one considers the supersensitiveness of his nature, one must give roder- ick due credit. he had sacrificed his personal vanity to make his appearance effective. at the best, that slit throat of his was an unsightly thing to see. and if the act were magnificent, so were the results of the act. the combatants dropped their cues in hor- ror. for an instant they stared open-mouthed at this terrible apparition, then they turned and fled, bare- headed, out into the starlit night. “roderick,” i cried, grasping his hand, “i congratu- late you!” but with averted eyes and trembling fingers he was hurriedly replacing his stock, and so gave me no heed. . at last he murmured: “whatever will jamie be think- ing of his own uncle this night?” it was the one complaint i ever heard out of the iſlall. silent, white and beautiful all this happened a long time ago. since that night roderick and i have had brangler hall quite to our- selves. hector and jamie have never ventured back. in fact, we’ve seen no mortal face in thirty long years. no doubt, it is better so. but the rats and spiders give us no peace. long ago they ended our billiards, tearing the cloth on the table to shreds and weaving their webs from corner to cor- wner. then there is the dust which half covers the balls, and which only mortal hand may remove. often, sit- ting idle in a corner, we have wished that thieving old tam were still with us. roderick is smiling at me as i write. he thinks my literary aspirations are a pose. like many another kindly ghost, he is perfectly content to sit in the moon- light and twiddle his thumbs. because he has lived on such intimate terms with me, he cannot understand why i should have an artistic bent. perhaps these pages will open his eyes. indeed, wild wullie, the waster, is wild wullie, the waster, no more. silent, white and beautiful * - - - w were, and quite malign. handbooks of assassins, they but i must begin at the beginning. my younger brother, paul, was responsible for bringing martin and me together. he had picked him up in some bohemian restaurant which he frequented and from that time forward was so loud in his praises that natural curiosity prompted me to see this paragon for myself. “you must meet burgess martin, charley,” paul said one evening. “he’s just the sort of chap you'd want to room with in paris. he's an artist to the core.” but i was not inclined to take my brother's state- ments without a pinch of salt. my four years exper- ience in college ways—i was then a senior at columbia university—had made me slightly intolerant of fresh- man enthusiasm. besides paul had already shown a marked tendency toward strong drink and the false friendships that went with it. on more than one oc- casion he had brought back to our apartment “a good fellow” who needed considerable moral persuasion to depart in the morning without a few valuables. t have even known paul’s bibulous friends to pocket salt- cellers and spoons, so it is no wonder that his laudatory statements about martin at first did not move me. “but i tell you he's an artist,” paul repeated belli- gerently. “what kind of an artist? does he mix drinks artis- tically?” * > * for art's safce “don’t be a damn fool, charley. burgess martin is the most intelligent chap i ever met. he's in my class in english literature and he knows more about the sub- ject than professor brent himself.” “so you have discovered a genius in the freshman class,” i said with all the weary tolerance of a senior. “what a strange anomaly | this year i thought they seemed especially unripened.” “martin isn’t. he makes what he says alive, some- how. you must really meet him, charley. i’m going over to his rooms to-night. why don’t you come along?” “you say he's going to paris next fall to take up painting?” “yes, he'll study under verone. if you two fellows hit it off, you might room together. get your hat, charley.” i could see that paul had set his heart on my meet. ing his new friend and so i could no longer resist. “now i’m in for a boring evening,” i thought as i fol- lowed my brother out of the apartment. burgess martin at that time lived in one of those delapidated old boarding houses still to be found in the down-town section of new york city. this particu- lar building seemed to be tottering on its foundation. it had a sodden, dissipated air about it—the air, in fact, of a femme de monde who realizes that she is aging. here was the tomb of dead intrigue, of soiled romance. we were admitted by a slatternly landlady and ~ silent, white and beautiful mounted two flights of rickety stairs. on the second landing paul came to a halt and thundered on a door which was peeling like the face of a florid man who has sat too long in the sun. almost immediately it swung open and i confronted that strange individual whose personality was one day to overshadow both our lives. * burgess martin was a tall man, well over six feet. bhe had one of those faces which seem to challenge time —a face that when young, looks old; and when old, seems young. it was long, lean, ascetic—the lips, col- orless and thin; the nose, hooked and warlike; the eyes, small and grey with the piercing quality of gimlets; the forehead, a threatening protuberance which over- shadowed the rest and hinted at phenomenal intellect- ual powers. his body was thin, almost to the point of emaciation; yet, for all that, one sensed a great virility stirring in that skeleton frame. - i was immediately conscious of this virility and of something which perhaps sprang from it. the man exuded an unpleasant atmosphere, an atmosphere very difficult to resist. his personality, like an octopus, wound its many cold arms of reason about one. to struggle against it was useless and yet one struggled automatically. genius is one of the most irritating traits in others. to acknowledge it, one must bend the stiff neck of self-pride. perhaps my nerves were a trifle out of tune at the time. it is the only way i have of accounting for that strange sensation which ran through me as martin's for art's sare thin, cool hand slipped into mine. i felt as though i had a precious secret which must be guarded at all costs and which even now was threatened. the man's unfeeling grey eyes were fixed intently on me; those eyes which, like magnets, seemed drawing my ego out of my body. “have a seat, gentlemen. and help yourselves to those cigarettes.” martin turned to paul and i felt instant relief. seating myself in one of the rickety chairs the room afforded, i lit a cigarette and passed the box to my host. “no, thank you,” he said a trifle bruskly. “i don't smoke. it wastes too much time.” “are you so busy as all that?” i asked. “i had no idea the freshman requirements were especially stiff. in my time, one could squeeze through without much work.” martin's thin lips drew up at the corners like a cat's. it was his nearest approach to a smile. “my dear fellow,” said he, “i hadn’t my college work in mind. of course, that's childishly simple. i am try- ing to perfect myself in one or two of the arts and that requires time when one hasn’t the proper guidance.” “the proper guidance!” i murmured. “surely pro- fessor brent is a competent teacher of english litera- ture. he's had several books of essays published.” again martin’s lips drew up at the corners. “a small man,” said he “–a small man with a small mind. his work fairly bristles with penny-whistle platitudes. silent, white and beautiful all his sunny little essays are woven out of the worsted mottoes our grandmothers used to frame and hang on the wall: ‘be good and you’ll be happy’, ‘virtue is its own reward’, ‘if at first you don’t succeed, why try, try again’. what sickening, sentimental slop! teach me literature? why, he can’t even teach himself!” martin's words and the sneering contempt with which they were uttered, made me boil inwardly. my college career had formed me into the usual type of undergraduate to whom the institutions of the univer- sity were sacred matters not lightly to be tampered with. professor brent had grown grey in service and had even made his voice heard in the outer world; yet here was a green freshman attempting to overthrow him! what consummate conceit! but i would put this young ass in his place. “perhaps you can tell me how professor brent’s essay on man could be improved upon,” i said coldly. “i happen to have the book with me.” “oh, i say, charley,” paul broke in, running his hand through his hair, “that’s his very best essay ! of course, there's nothing much wrong with it.” but martin’s grey-eyes brightened as he took the small leather volume i offered him. “without doubt the ideas expressed in it are puerile,” said he, opening the book to the essay in question. “let us examine the style. ah, just as i thought—stiff, laborious—a very poor flow of words.” “could you do as well?” i asked ironically. the for art's sake man's insufferable egotism grated on my nerves like sandpaper. t “much better,” he answered simply. “come, i’ll prove it. you are familiar with this essay, i pre- sume?” “i know it by heart.” “so much the better. now i’ll read it as it should have been written, transposing as i go along.” martin bent his brows over the essay while my brother and i interchanged glances. although i tapped my forehead with a meaning forefinger, paul smiled triumphantly. evidently he had perfect con- fidence in his new-found acquaintance. now our host's voice broke the silence—a voice, rich, vibrant, which carried one along with it as on a swiftly moving stream. and, strange to say, although the meaning of the essay was in no manner changed, the style was entirely altered. new life seemed to have been infused into every line. the sentences glowed with poetic fire. my artistic sense was stirred by such a perfect phraseology. it seemed well nigh impossible that any man could read on without hesitation and transpose so remarkably. “splendid!” i cried when he had done. “but surely you worked that out before?” “i never even read it until just now,” he answered, smiling at paul. “really, i wouldn't waste my time over such material. well, did i improve upon it?” “that's a matter of opinion,” i muttered, overcom- silent, white and beautiful “and you mean to say, burgess, that you made a sketch of her while she lay bleeding there!” paul cried. “don’t tell me that you’re such a hard-hearted brute as all that! i don’t believe a word of it.” martin regarded him for a moment with a kind of cold curiosity in his grey eyes. “i see that you read me like an open book, paul,” he murmured. “not at all. but no one could sit down calmly beside a murdered friend and make a sketch of her. the thing is impossible.” “perhaps. but that is exactly how she looked when i found her.” “what was the motive for the crime?” i asked. “apparently no motive,” martin answered with a shrug of his shoulders. “or, at least, none that could be discovered but let's say no more about it. it's a nasty story and brings back unpleasant recollections.” soon the talk drifted into other channels. martin gave us a glimpse into his childhood which must have been far from a happy one. at an early age he had lost both parents and had been adopted by an eccentric aunt who had taken him to live with her in a lonely house far out in the country. this aunt had had many peculiarities. a firm believer in spiritualism, consid- ering herself a medium, she had often taken her small nephew into a dark room at the top of the house where she carried on ghostly conversations with the dead. “i was only six years old at the time,” martin fin- ished, “and you can readily understand what effect such treatment had on my forming mind.” silent, white and beautiful paul had been going down hill steadily ever since entering college the previous fall. he was one of those unfortunate men over whom alcohol in any form has a deadly influence. high spirited, generous to a fault, full of the joy of life, my younger brother was a de- lightful companion and one of the most popular fresh- men in the university. but let him have a few drinks and soon a startling transformation would take place. he would become morose, intolerant, prone to fly into a rage at the slightest provocation. then would follow a period of deep depression which bordered on melan- cholia—a dangerous mental state when i have known him to contemplate suicide. but martin, in some miraculous fashion, succeeded in curing him. paul no longer returned at night the worse for liquor. he gave up café life altogether and took up reading seriously. i often saw him in the col- lege library browsing over some book which martin had recommended. in those last few weeks of the spring term, he succeeded in passing his examinations. the following autumn found martin and me snugly ensconced in a comfortable apartment in paris. my father provided me with an ample income to pursue my artistic studies and i was not slow in spending it and making acquaintances in the latin quarter. those were happy days. our studio soon became the meeting-place of congenial spirits. martin struck the one jarring note in an otherwise perfect harmony. wmong those gay chattering magpies of art, he seemed as somber and solitary as a crow. he avoided my for art’s sake guests as much as possible; behind his back, they called him “monsieur la nuit.” he had an especial detes- tation of women, alluding to them very much as a man might speak of some deadly and prevalent disease. when he heard the swish of their skirts on our landing, he would lock himself in his bed-room and not come out again until they had gone. “a true artist can have but one mistress—his art,” he was wont to say. “the rest are leeches.” although i failed to share my roommate's views, i never allowed friends to interfere with my work. i improved rapidly. often our instructor, the famous verone, stood before my easel longer than was his wont with the other students. martin's drawings alone overshadowed mine; yet i felt vaguely that they were disappointing to the master. one bright sunshiny afternoon in may, emile ver- one rested his hand for a moment on my shoulder. “ah, monsieur,” he murmured, “you have talent and your heart is in it. there is life in that figure. you have caught it in a web of youth. bravo!” leaving me jubilant, he passed on to martin’s easel. here he remained motionless for several moments, a frown of perplexity creasing his forehead, gazing at my roommate's canvas in the manner of a man attemp- ting to read a riddle. “it is good—very good,” i heard him mutter. “and yet there is something lacking. it is not technique, it is feeling. it-. ah, i have guessed your little secret. silent, white and beautiful your heart is not in your task. am i not right, mon- sieur martin’” “perfectly,” martin answered, glancing up. “the model is not to my taste. that big, fat peasant with a face like a pumpkin does not inspire me.” i knew of verone's hasty temper and was prepared for some manifestation of it. my roommate's answer had been rather unceremonious. but the little prenchman did not appear to be the least bit ruffled. his voice suddenly sank into a soothing murmur. “quite so,” he said mildly. “every artist has his likes and his dislikes. but i have a plan. absent yourself from the class for a month and choose a model for yourself. i will be anxiously awaiting the result. does that satisfy you, monsieur” “yes, indeed,” martin answered with a strange glint in his grey eyes. “nothing could suit me better.” during the days that followed i saw very little of my roommate. he would leave the studio each morn- ing, his portfolio under his arm, and not return again till the shadows of nightfall. and the few hours which he did spend in the apartment were spent in the priv- acy of his bedroom behind a locked door. to tell the truth, i was relieved by his absence. the man was like a wet blanket thrown on the bonfire of goodfellowship which i was attempting to kindle in the studio. my guests were ill at ease in his com- pany; and i, myself, felt a strange irritation at his every word and gesture. now, as i look back on it, i think it was his atmosphere—that ever-present atmos- for art's sare phere of personal power—which we could not forgive him and which was as gall and wormwood to our own growing personalities. one night, while champagne corks were popping merrily and laughter echoed through the studio, mar- tin’s bedroom door swung open and he stepped into our midst. his face was a deathly white and there were great, black hollows under his eyes. instantly our laughter died away. “pour yourself a glass of wine,” i said with forced heartiness. “have you come to join the merry- makers?” “just that,” martin muttered. “what have you been doing with yourself?” one of my guests asked. “you’re as pale as a ghost, mon- sieur.” “i’ve been living with a corpse for a month,” mar- tin said slowly. “would you like to see the results?” he turned and re-entered his bedroom. a moment later he glided out again with a canvas under his arm. placing it on the mantlepiece where we could all get a good view of it, he turned toward us and said in his deep, sonorous voice: “allow me to introduce to you the results, gentlemen.” again there was silence, broken only by the deep breathing of those about me. all eyes were fixed on the painting. for many moments we stared at it, spellbound, motionless. it was the most sincere tribute i have seen paid to a living artist. there were two or three men present that night who afterward became silent, white and beautiful international figures; but, at the moment, we knew in our souls that there was but one great master and that he now stood before us. what was there in this painting to move us so? it is beyond my feeble pen to describe adequately the sen- sations of horror with which it filled me, horror, over- mastering and vaguely sinister; horror whose breath was cold and damp as the tomb. one seemed to en- ter that picture bodily; to enter it and lose oneself in the shadows. the painting represented the morgue in the dim twi- light and more especially the body of a man lying on one of the marble slabs. the upturned face of the corpse was a mottled green shade; the protruding eyes were covered with a kind of fungus. and to add to its horror, the bristling chin had dropped, disclosing two yellow fangs in a ghastly grin. on either side of this grim figure, partly revealed in the semi-gloom, were other slabs—each the bed of some new fantastic terror. underneath this revolting conception was writ- ten in english these four words, “he laughs at death.” we toasted martin with brimming glasses, we shook him by the hand, we called him “master.” and he, for once, shook off his cloak of aloofness. indeed, he put himself out to amuse us, telling us stories so in- tensely droll that we roared with laughter till all un- consciously our eyes returned to the painting. then, as the laughter died in our throats, as the smiles faded for art's sake from our faces, i thought i saw his lips curl in triumph. iii emile verone went into ecstacies over martin's painting, calling it “a masterpiece of the terrible”; and soon it became noised abroad that my room- mate was one of those rare freaks of nature, a genius. art students now began to seek martin out as a profitable acquaintance. but he refused to be drawn out of his cocoon of solitude and mystery. his personality, as always, enwrapped him like an im- penetrable coat of mail. would-be friends and admir- ers flinched when they met his cold grey eyes. soon the first fine edge of their excitement wore off; they gave him up as impossible with a shrug of the shoul- ders and a muttered “monsieur la nuit.” time passed quickly. almost before i realized it, a year rolled by. martin had worked diligently; now the walls of our studio were covered with morbid mas- terpieces. as one might imagine, a highly strung per- son could not have entered this apartment for the first time without an inward tremor. indeed, when the lights burned low, the room seemed to be a vertible charnel-house. one gloomy afternoon in autumn, these paintings were too much for my self-control. i was on the brink of a serious sickness at the time; and, as i sat alone before the dying fire, the flickering flames would re- veal first one stiffening horror and then another till for art's sake i felt that i was lying naked on the scorching sands of a desert beneath the rays of a blistering sun. it was useless to struggle; i was held down by some invisible weight. and over my bare, burning body an army of tiny ants was crawling, causing me acute agony. but just as my sufferings were at their height, martin’s lean face bent over me, his cold grey eyes peered cur- iously into mine, and he said earnestly: “how do you feel now?” when i at last came out of the land of delirum, i was as weak as a new-born child. the sun was stream- ing through the window, casting its javelins of light on every side. one of them lay across the bed like a bar of molten gold. it occurred to me that i would like to feel its reassuring warmth, but i had scarcely enough strength to reach out my hand. suddenly martin's voice broke the silence. “how do you feel now?” he asked. i started at these words which had echoed through my dreams. i had to steady myself before i answered feebly: “much better, thank you.” during the next few days i improved rapidly. mar- tin was a competent nurse. sitting beside my bed, he whiled away the tedious hours by his remarkable knack of story-telling. it was not the stories themselves which held me—he would often repeat those i had already heard—but his truly remarkable wording which made them flow as smoothly as a river of oil and was as pleasing to the ear as music. sometimes i would speak of paul, and then martin silent, white and beautiful would be the eager listener. i received several letters from home. one of these worried me. it was from my father and ran as follows: “dear charles: paul is drinking again. i can do nothing with him. the slightest reprimand drives him into a frenzy of remorse and despondency. at such times he is quite capable of taking his own life. i wish you were home. perhaps you could manage him. affectionately, dad.” this letter came while i was still very weak and i asked martin to read it aloud to me. i saw his face darken as he perused it. when he had finished, he sat in gloomy silence. at last i heard him mutter: “it’s in his blood. i could handle him, but another might take the wrong way. it would be fatal to-" “you must think a great deal of paul,” i broke in. “a great deal?” he cried vehemently. “why, paul means more to me than my art! do you think i would have wasted my time pulling you out of the valley of death if you weren't his brother?” he rose without waiting to hear my response and hurried from the room. although it may seem sur- prising, i was relieved by what he had just said. i had never liked the fellow; and to be weighed down under a load of obligations to one heartily disliked, is a very unpleasant experience. if he had nursed me back to health merely on account of his friendship for paul, surely i did not owe him as much as if he had been actuated solely out of regard for me. silent, white and beautiful “i will have to do that in any case to follow the career which i have planned for myself.” “what is this precious career?” “literature,” he answered calmly. “i took up draw- ing merely to illustrate my stories. no other man could do them justice.” “so you are one of those numerous young men who think they can write,” i said in a tone which brought a flush to his sallow cheeks. “what reason have you to suppose so?” “you must acknowledge that i can tell a story.” “yes, but your stories are not original. have you a keen imagination?” “not a vestige of one,” he said simply. “then how can you expect to become a successful writer ? a literary man without any imagination is doomed to failure from the start.” “you are wrong—entirely wrong!” “how so?” i demanded. “because a writer does not necessarily need a crea- tive imagination,” he said a trifle wearily. “i, my- self, have what is far better—a concise memory and the ability to write in the most perfect wording exactly what i see and feel. there is enough going on in the world at this moment to serve as the substance for a million stories. of course, one has to branch away from the beaten path to find such material. but that is exactly what i am going to do.” “but you haven’t mingled enough with other men,” i hastened to add. “you know little or nothing of for art's sake human nature. a man to be a successful writer”—i was quoting professor brent—“must be a student and admirer of his fellow men. without companionship, a writer misses the human touch.” martin’s lips curled up at the corners in one of his irritating smiles. “my dear smithers,” he said in a tone which he might have used in speaking to a tire- some child, “you’re entirely at fault in such a surmise. surely an onlooker, a mere spectator with no party feeling of any kind, can witness the battle of life with better results than can the actual combatants. you say that a writer should study and admire his fellowmen. that is impossible. if we admire a man, we cannot study him. we are prematurely blinded to all but his virtues. by taking that attitude toward mankind at large, we lose the larger half of faults and follies which go into the makeup of the average mortal.” “i don't agree with you,” i said coldly. “but even if you were right, you’d be a fool to throw away a cer- tainty for an obscure possibility. have you stopped to think that the successful writer of to-day has to cater to the mob as you call them p. “but i won’t have to do that,” he cried with flashing eyes. “i intend devoting my time exclusively to hor- ror tales. have you ever witnessed an accident on the street? well, in a moment, hundreds collect where there was but one. they are drawn thither by that morbid streak in humanity, that overmastering desire to feast one's eyes on gruesome details. such a sensa- tion will be gratified in my stories. men and women for art's sake to be painted as they are, but as they think they are flatter them cleverly enough, and you’ll soon become what the world considers a successful artist. what a soul-stirring vocation! your watchword through life shall be: “when i touch my patron's vanity i also touch his pocketbook.” “i’ll never do that—not if i have to starve first l” i cried angrily. but martin only smiled unpleasantly and picked up his suitcase. with a curt nod, he turned and strode out of the room. a moment late i heard the outer door slam. he had gone. º iv that same week martin sailed for home. he left behind him his gruesome paintings which he bequeathed to me in a sarcastic note. i im- mediately removed those grisly masterpieces and hung up in their place some of my own work. at the time i was living a trifle beyond my means; and so, when i received what i then considered a handsome offer from emile verone for my roommate's morbid creations, i was glad enough to accept it. of course i intended paying martin the price i received for them at some future date—a date which, unfortunately, never mater- ialized. these same paintings, i now understand, hang in the louvre and are worth their weight in gold. after martin had left paris, i began to look around for another roommate who would share my expenses. - silent, white and beautiful one evening, as luck would have it, i happened to run into an old acquaintance at the follies bergere. he had wandered to paris alone to amuse himself and was delighted at the prospect of living with a former col- lege friend who knew the ropes. * wilbur huntington was a plump young man who had made quite a reputation for himself at the univer- sity. no one had ever caught him in the act of open- ing a book, yet he had always glided smoothly through the examinations. he was an anomaly to the profess- ors who claimed that success required effort. his half- shut, sleepy, brown eyes, his bland smile, his round, expressionless face, quite belied the man’s intelligence. although he was lazy to a fault, his mind was as keen as a knife which had just visited the grindstone. i have never met his equal as a psychologist. i was lucky to have fallen in with him. he came of a very wealthy new york family, who gave him a lavish income—an income which he was not slow in spending. money meant little or nothing to him. dur- ing the months we roomed together we lived like fight- ing cocks. there was nothing huntington liked better than to fill our studio with emile verone's pupils and discuss art. he would start the ball rolling with some titbit of knowledge which he had picked up; start it rolling, and then sink back comfortably on the lounge, close his narrow-lidded eyes and smile blandly at the ceiling. he liked to hear the maniacs rave, as he expressed it. in the latin quarter he was called “le cochon d’inde.” for art's safce they facetiously brought him offerings of lettuce leaves which he devoured solemnly and rapaciously. the man's appetite was amazing. with such a companion, the months sped by merrily. occasionally i received a letter from home. it seemed that paul had reformed, and that this reformation had been brought about through martin. apparently my former roommate had sought him out immediately on his return to america and had once more succeeded where others had failed. the letter, which informed me of this, was written by my mother. it ran as follows: “my dear son: you will be glad to know that paul has given up drinking. what a relief this has been to your father and me! we have been so worried about him since you left home! but now everything seems to be all right. we owe paul’s reformation to your friend, mr. mar- tin. he has a remarkable influence over the boy. and yet, somehow, i can’t bring myself to like him. when he is in the room, i always feel as though i had a prec- ious secret which i must keep from him at all cost. this is absurd, of course. my dear boy, i am glad that you are getting along so well in your studies! i hope you will come home soon. father has not been in good health lately. i believe he has been worrying over business affairs. lovingly, - mother.” at the time i did not give much heed to the last few. lines of my mother's letter. father had always been such a strong, robust man that i could not imagine him silent, white and beautiful sick. death and failure seemed quite remote from him. and so, when i received a letter from paul two months later, i was quite unprepared for what it had to tell me. the news which it contained was like a bolt from the blue. i quote it here: “dear charley: come home at once. father died this morning, and we need you. only yesterday i learned that the firm had failed. would write more, but mother is calling. hurry home. affectionately, paul.” “what's the trouble?” huntington asked. he had come into the studio unnoticed and now stood at my elbow. what's the trouble?” he repeated. “you’re as white as a ghost.” - i tried to answer him but couldn't. something clicked in my throat like a clock running down. i handed him the letter in silence. “i don’t know what to say,” he muttered a moment later. “i’m awfully sorry, charley. i want you to know that.” he offered me his plump hand boyishly. but i did not see it. there were weak, womanly tears in my eyes. father was dead—not only dead but ruined l i had pictured to myself two more years in paris and then a luxurious studio in new york; and now these air castles had crumbled in an instant. but what a selfish brute i was! father had just died, and i was already thinking of myself. martin had been right in his estimate of me. for art’s sake , “the marseillaise sails to-morrow,” huntington said. “i’ll hustle down and get our staterooms re- served.” “but surely you’re not going to leave paris?” i mur- mured. “i can make it all right by myself.” huntington smiled sleepily. “don’t you worry about that,” he answered. “i’m sick of paris. when you go, i go. besides, as you know, queer birds are my hobby; and i’m rather anxious to meet this chap, mar- tin, of whom you have told me so much.” on the following day we took passage for new york. the ocean was rather rough for that time of year; to my natural depression were added the qualms of sea- sickness. but on that trip i learned the true worth of the plump, sleepy man whom my associates of the latin quarter called “le cochon d’inde”. he was inde- fatigable in his efforts to cheer me up. i found affairs at home even worse than i had ima- gined. my father had died a bankrupt. he had left nothing except the house which was heavily mortgaged and several debts incurred during his illness. these bills, added to the natural grief attending his death, had aged my mother at least ten years. i had, indeed, come home at the right moment if i could help. my one pleasant surprise was paul. he had ma- tured considerably in the last few years. i found him looking splendidly—a handsome, capable fellow, if there ever was one. on the first night of my home- coming we had a long talk together after mother had gone to bed. silent, white and beautiful “they tell me you’re not drinking any more, paul ?” i said casually. “no,” he answered with a grim smile. “i’m through with that stuff for good. martin cured me.” “how did he go about it?” i asked. “oh, he showed me a few examples of what it could do to a fellow. you see he's living in the slums these days, and he has lots of opportunity to study drunks in their last stages.” “in the slums! why does he live there?” “he’s gathering material for a book on murder— studying the criminal types close up. he says it pays to get first-hand knowledge of a subject. when i begin practicing law, he'll send me a lot of clients.” “when do you go up for your final examinations?” “next month—thanks to martin. if it weren’t for him, i’d probably be hitting the high life yet. but one night he collared me, dragged me over to his tene- ment, and introduced me to a bleary-eyed old chap who was fighting imaginary snakes. what a sight he was ” paul passed his hands across his eyes as though to shut out a picture. “he had been a gentleman, too, in his day—a harvard man, i believe. any one could tell he wasn't an ordinary drunk by his ravings he quoted a lot of poetry to keep off the snakes. dante's inferno i believe it was. well, it cured me.” “i’m glad of that. but you mustn't give martin all the credit. a great deal belongs to you.” “not a bit,” he answered with a rueful shake of the head. “martin scared me into it. but what are you for art’s safoe going to do now, charley? are you going to paint por- traits?” - “yes, if i can get any sitters. i’ve got to look around a bit first. you don’t know any wealthy beauty who wants to have her face immortalized ?” paul rose yawning. “no,” he answered. “but if i did, i don’t think i'd hand her over to you until i had discovered if there weren’t some legitimate, legal way of separating her from her cash.” the next day i began writing letters to former ac- quaintances with the hope that they might know of some one who was anxious to have a portrait painted by a pupil of the famous emile verone. i soon learned that i could hope for little from this source. most of my college friends were so busy or so absent-minded that they failed to answer my note; and the few replies which i did receive were far from encouraging. evi- dently the world at large was not at all interested in furthering the future of an aspiring young genius. the pile of bills in my mother's desk grew higher day by day. i no longer dared to open them. my spirits were at very low ebb on the morning when i received a note from wilbur huntington which gave me a ray of hope. it ran as follows: “dear charley: the mater wants her portrait painted. she's not much on looks, but she has a well- lined pocketbook. i have boosted you to the skies. she now thinks that you are a van dyke, a whistler, and a sargent, all in one. call on her next monday and make good. as ever, wilbur. silent, white and beautiful when i finished this hope-inspiring epistle, i uttered a whoop of joy which brought paul out on the veranda in no time. “i’ve struck it at last,” i cried. “what's the matter?” he asked. “have you found a half-dollar or something?” “i’ve found a good many half dollars,” i answered gleefully. “i’ve been asked to do a portrait of mrs. huntington—you know, wilbur huntington’s mother. it's the chance of a lifetime. if i make good, she’ll recommend me to her society friends and it will be smooth sailing after that.” “good man!” cried paul. “you’ve struck it all right. but look here. i’ve got another surprise for you.” “what is it?” i asked. “it’s a story by martin,” he answered. “they’re featuring it this month in the footstool magazine. just look it over while i run downtown. i want your opinion of it. it's the first piece of work he's had published.” after paul had gone, i opened the magazine. on the first page was an illustration by martin himself. i recognized it instantly. it was a miniature of that first painting i had seen of his—that vivid conception of the girl lying dead in the snow. it had been im- proved by a few deft strokes of the brush so that now it was a veritable masterpiece of mystery. for a long moment i gazed at it while the well-remembered feeling of intense cold passed through my frame. at last, with for art’s sake * an effort, i turned the page. “the murder of mary mortimer,” was the title of the story. “some melodramatic nonsense, no doubt,” i told my- self and began to read. * but from the first page i knew that i was wrong— entirely wrong. i could not blind myself to the truth. if the man’s illustration was gruesome and yet mas- terful, the man's story was diabolic and yet a classic. as i read, i felt the same sensations stirring in me that the deformed idiot in martin's story felt when the voice whispered in his ear: “you are losing her l is it not better to have her dead?” and when he is driven by this voice to strike her down, when she falls like a red ruin in the snow, i saw that scene as though i were standing where the dark shadows of nightfall were closing in. “i see you like my story,” said a familiar voice. i looked up with a start and encountered martin’s cold grey eyes. his thin lips were curling up at the corners in their wonted cat-like grimace. for a. in o- ment i experienced the unpleasant nervous shock of a somnambulist who is suddenly awakened. “a remarkable story!” i said at length in a rather unsteady tone. “the most startlingly vivid piece of fiction i ever read! surely you must have imagina- tion to write like that?” “on the contrary, not a grain of it. as i told you once before, there are countless themes drifting about and a man has only to get off the beaten path to find * for art’s safoe right circumstances, of course. but where is paul this morning?” “he went downtown,” i said brusquely. “he prob- ably won't be back for an hour or two.” “well, i’ll not wait. tell him i called, won't you? good-bye, smithers.” for some time i sat watching his tall, lean figure re- ceding in the distance. finally i rose, and, moved by a sudden fit of childish irritation, picked up the magazine, entered the library, and deposited it care- fully on a bed of glowing coals. “it’s better out of the way,” i told myself. i never knew until years later how truly i had spoken. * v it was not long before martin's prophecy about my career came true. spurred on by adversity and a natural desire to please i soon became one of those flourishing society portrait painters who fatten on the vanity of women. mrs. huntington's picture did not suit her until i had touched it up to such an extent that her own son could not recognize any likeness. but when i had beautified her to her heart's content, she became enthusiastic and recommended me to all her wealthy friends. that was the beginning. soon i had all i could do to fill the many orders which rained down on me. my work became the vogue—i was no longer a man but a fashion. silent, white and beautiful prosperity brought the fulfillment of my youthful dreams. i was now able to rent and fit out one of the most artistic studios in washington square. but, in spite of this, i was far from happy. i had moments of deep depression when my work galled me cruelly— moments when the only spur that kept me going was the knowledge that before long i could retire and live a life of leisure. * meanwhile paul had passed his examinations to the bar and was actually practicing. no sooner had he hung out his shingle than he was beseiged daily by a ragged multitude of clients whom he shrewdly sus- pected martin had sent his way. a stream of villain- ous faces passed through his office at all hours—faces which one could imagine as being associated with every crime in the calender. paul had a keen mind; he soon developed into a criminal lawyer of exceptional reputa- tion. his clients, in spite of their poverty-stricken ap- pearance, paid him well for his services and he soon became affluent. i saw a great deal of my brother at this time. we had become much closer friends. the four years which divided us, no longer seemed such an insurmountable barrier. now he would often take me into his con- fidence. * there was only one topic on which we could not agree. paul was still an ardent admirer of martin; while i, although i had to acknowledge the man’s gifts, loathed the very mention of his name. i could not forgive him his prophecy concerning my career. yes, silent, white and beautiful writing for over two years now and has had only one story in print. won’t the publishers take his work?” now paul, in his turn, would flush angrily and his blue eyes would grow darker. “how should i know? he never talks about himself. but i’ll tell you this, charley—when his work is published, the whole world will know about it!” often, after one of these heated controversies, i would leave my brother's apartment in a temper and walk the streets for hours before i regained my habitual calm. it was on one of these midnight rambles that i met martin, himself, under rather singular and sinister circumstances—circumstances which left a never-to-be-forgotten impression on my mind. one mild march night i left paul's apartment with rather more than my usual irritation. i was so heated, in fact, that i determined to walk it out of my system, if possible, before retiring. as i knew by former experience, a nocturnal ramble has a quieting effect on ruffled nerves. all the poor, petty passions of man flourish best between four walls. they are soon smothered in the sable robe of outer night. it was a fine evening for a stroll. the aroma of budding spring was strong in the air—spring, that supple, green-limbed goddess whose presence is felt even in the cold, atrophied arteries of the city. a new moon hung lazily in the heavens, riding the small, silver clouds which swept past it like charging breakers. but the stars were not so fortunate. often they were for art’s sake submerged beneath these foam-flecked billows of the infinite, bobbing up again into view like floating lan- terns. as i walked along toward washington square, the irritation, which had been so real a moment before, vanished entirely. it was followed by an almost philosophic calm. i began to take myself to task. why should i interfere with paul in his choice of friends? surely he was old enough now to choose them for himself. just because i happened to dislike martin, that was no reason why i should attempt to influence my brother against him. and when it came to that, what had the fellow ever done to me that i should so hate the sound of his name? he had told me several truths hard to stomach, indeed; but no doubt they had been intended kindly as a warning. on the other hand, he had nursed me back to health when my life had hung in the balance. what had i ever done to thank him? nothing—absolutely nothing. well, i would turn over a new leaf; i would apologize to paul for what i had said. by this time i was within a few blocks of home. seeing an inviting alley which i had not yet explored and which might prove to be a short cut, i wandered into it and into a strange adventure as well. winding smoothly along for several hundred yards, it was so narrow and tortuous that the old brick houses on either side seemed to be twisted out of normal shape; to be tottering toward each other like drunkards about to silent, white and beautiful embrace. and then suddenly, almost violently, the alley ended in a precipitous, ivy-covered wall. this wall brought me to an abrupt halt. i expe- rienced a sensation of surprise, of chagrin. i had followed this alley as a man follows an odd and rather attractive philosophy, thinking that in due course it would bring me out into familiar, homely surround- ings; and here was this disconcerting wall looming up like an abrupt and positive negative. i could not have been more unpleasantly surprised if a friend, while telling me a whimsical, fantastic tale, had suddenly dropped dead in the middle of a sentence. indeed there was something brooding and brutal about this wall, like death itself. the little street was as dark as a subterranean passageway. i might very easily have blundered into the wall without seeing it, had it not been for an antique, iron lantern which was suspended from it and which shed its flickering beams over its rough, red surface. the light, however, was not sufficient to make objects at a short distance discernable. for instance the houses on either side, and more especially their areaways, were in tottering, unstable shadow. i came to an enforced halt near the wall and glanced at the house on my right. it seemed to me that the shadowy figure of a man was sitting on the stoop in the attitude of one who is patiently waiting; but i could not be sure of this as the mantle of gloom enshrouding the house was almost impenetrable. what- ever it was, it remained absolutely motionless. for art's sake attitude of nonchalant unconcern. there was some- thing in this man’s air of easy indifference which was galling in the extreme. weak as i was, i managed to sit up and rub my head. “oh come now, smithers,” the voice continued unfeelingly, “you’ve been playing dead long enough. that was the merest tap you got—nothing to make a fuss about. they’re all gone now. it’s quite safe to stage a resurrection.” and now i knew the voice. who but martin could show such an utter lack of human feeling? there he stood, as indifferent as fate, the lamp light accentuat- ing the dark hollows under his eyes and revealing the cruel catlike curve of his lips. like a pleased spectator at some farce, he leaned against the wall, smiling and playing absently with a small silver-headed cane. “so it's you, martin,” i said, rising weakly to my feet. “how did you happen to find me?” “i didn’t,” he answered carelessly. “on the con- trary, you found me. i was sitting on the stoop of my house when you and your friend began quarreling.” “you were the man on the stoop then,” i muttered. “i remember now. but what happened to that poor fellow in the green coat?” " “your friend ?” he asked. “he was no friend of mine. i never saw him before. but what happened to him? you must have seen what happened to him?” “he’s lying over there,” martin said lightly, jerking his pointed chin over his shoulder. “and he's not silent, white and beautiful playing dead, smithers. you and your other friends finished him off to the queen's taste.” “my other friends?” i cried, putting my hand to my throbbing head. “who do you mean?” “why, all those impulsive gentlemen who came charging down the street a few minutes ago,” he answered, “those gentlemen armed with clubs. what a devil's tattoo they did play on that poor fellow's ribs! he's nothing but a bag of broken bones now, smithers.” “they were no friends of mine!” i cried angrily. “no” he said, raising his eyebrows whimsically. “you seemed rather anxious to keep that poor fellow here till they had played their little game with him. if you had boosted him up on the wall, as he wanted, no doubt he'd be alive this minute.” “surely he's not dead, martin?” i asked with a heavy heart. “don’t tell me that he's dead!” “as dead as a doornail,” he answered laconically. “but look for yourself.” / he stepped to one side and i saw something which a moment before had been hidden by his shadow. the body of the man in the green coat seemed suddenly to spring out of the gloom. there it lay, like a scarecrow which has been blown over on its face—a grotesque, inhuman figure huddled up against the wall. and from it, dark running puddles of blood crawled away, leaving strange, fern-like traceries on the dusty pavement. yes, he was undoubtedly dead. only the green coat seemed still alive. one of its tails stirred slightly as the strong march breeze eddied about it. silent, white and beautiful “how so?” “well, you carried a heavy cane. now it is broken in half. this man has been beaten to death. you are found near the body with a wound on your head.” “and you?” “why, i live on this street, smithers. there is some reason why i should be here, while there is no reason under the sun why a society portrait painter should be found up a miserable, blind alley at midnight. if nothing more, it would cause considerable newspaper notoriety which i don’t think would do you any good with your wealthy patrons.” “but i can’t sneak out of it like this,” i said weakly. “i feel that i’m too much to blame. that poor fellow might have got away if i hadn't been such a suspicious fool.” “don’t take all this so much to heart, smithers,” martin murmured with one of his enigmatic smiles. “after all, what is one human life more or less? they are like ants, such men—only not so industrious. this fellow perished to-night in a good cause—for art's sake, indeed, for i intend to make the description of his murder a masterpiece.” “you’re not human, martin,” i said, turning away. “however, i think i’ll accept your advice and be off before the police come.” “i knew you would,” he said triumphantly. “one can always depend on you, smithers.” “and what are you going to do?” “why, i have modeled myself after the moon,” he silent, white and beautiful s i received had inflicted a severe scalp wound which called for medical attention; while, added to this, the unnatural excitement had brought me to the verge of a breakdown. at night i was subjected to horrible dreams from which i awoke bathed in a copious sweat. on the day after the murder i scanned the papers eagerly. my curiosity was finally rewarded by the following paragraph: beaten to death early this morning the body of a man was found at the foot of the wall which terminates tyndall place. his death was caused by the heavy blows of some blunt instrument. as yet the body has not been identified. i laid the paper down with a sigh. so this was all the publicity the evening star thought such a ghastly business to be worth ! what had shaken me to the depths of my soul, the evening star could dismiss in a few lines. i had expected to see the affair written up on the first page with perhaps a full-length picture of the man in the green coat. and i had found it only with difficulty, hidden away among the advertisements. how different it would have been had the victim possessed social prominence or even a moderate income! then he would have come into his own on the front page in big, glaring type; a host of detectives would by now be hot on the trail of his assassins and the wheels of justice would soon be humming merrily, grinding into chaff those impulsive gentlemen, as mar- for art's safoe tin called them, who had broken simultaneously the skull of the green-coated man and the fifth command- ment. martin l evidently he had disappeared from the scene before the police arrived. otherwise some allusion to him would have appeared in that article. no doubt he, like myself, had avoided getting himself mixed up in the affair on account of the unpleasant newspaper notoriety which was sure to follow. but why could he not have said as much to me? that was like the man—to hide his own frailties under mine; to make it appear that he was going to face the music, while in reality he was only waiting till my back was turned before he beat a hasty retreat. well, hereafter, i would take what he said with a grain of salt. in spite of his insufferable air of egotism, he evidently had human weaknesses like the rest of us. for the duration of that week i rested till i regained my mental and physical equilibrium. i had several callers, including huntington, to whom i told in con- fidence what had befallen me in the alley. wilbur listened with more than his customary attention, his eyes half closed and his blunt, shapeless nose twitching slightly. it was at times like these that one appreciated thoroughly the aptness of his sobriquet. never have i seen a man who so closely resembled a guinea pig. “martin must be an unfeeling sort of chap,” he muttered when i had finished. “you say he didn’t seem to be at all disturbed by what had happened?” “not the least bit in the world,” i assured him. silent, white and beautiful “why, he began joking about it! you'd think he was used to seeing murders every night.” “used to seeing murders every night!” huntington repeated thoughtfully. “what an idea!” “that's the impression he'd give any one. there's something not quite human about the man.” “you must bring us together, charley,” wilbur said abruptly. “i’ve taken an interest in him. psychology is my hobby, you know. burgess martin seems worth studying. if i weren’t so infernally lazy, i’d look him up in that slum where he lives. why was i born so lazy, charley?” “i don’t know. possibly you’d be a menace to society if you weren’t. your pleasing plumpness and hibernat- ing habits are the bars of your hutch. within, you nibble contentedly at your lettuce leaves; but, once out, you might turn carnivorous.” “a guinea pig turn carnivorous?” he said, rising. “it isn’t done. but i imagine i could have much more fun with my hobby if i weren’t so lazy. if crimes were committed in my back yard, i feel that i would be a famous detective. why is it that i have a kind honest man for a valet when i long for one who has all the subtle instincts of those famous poisoners of the renaissance?” “personally i should prefer the kind, honest valet, wilbur. you can eat your lettuce leaves without the fear that they may be colored with paris green.” “well, at any rate, introduce me to martin, charley. i’m very anxious to meet him.” for art's sake but huntington was not the only one of my acquaintances who wished to meet martin. his story, “the murder of mary mortimer,” had excited the interest and the admiration of a young writer who lived in the same apartment house as myself. during the last few months we had become friends; and when he learned that i had roomed with martin in paris, he was eager to know him. - rupert farrington was one of those young vision- aries to be found in the bohemian quarter of any large city. tall and slender, with large melancholy blue eyes and a girlish coloring, one had but to glance at him to realize that here was a dreamer who was incap- able of crystallizing his dreams into a concrete form. there was something disconcertingly vague about his personality; one could forget his presence in the room as though he had no more mental or physical substance than a shadow. and yet, in spite of his apparent weak- ness, there were fiery depths in his nature capable of being roused into a storm. he loved his art passion- ately. although he had never had anything accepted, he still worked on grimly with a firm belief that the editors were at fault. in fact he visualized these magazine monarchs, as he called them, as a kind of unscrupulous aristocracy which should be torn down. he spent his time writing, receiving rejection slips, and railing at the man in the editorial chair. his voice, even when raised, impressed no one—it was like the droning of a harmless fly. - “the murder of mary mortimer” still held this for art's sake farrington glared at me for a moment in speechless anger. in the same breath, i had committed two unpar- donable offenses—i had criticized martin's work unfavorably, and i had spoken well of magazine editors. he could not have been more thoroughly aroused if i had slapped him in the face. “i didn’t expect to hear anything like this from ayou,” he said at length in a voice which he attempted to make calm. “you had the rare privilege of living with him in paris, and yet you seem to have absorbed nothing of his spartan philosophy. wasn't it oscar wilde who said: “there is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. books are well written or badly written. that is all.’” “if i were an editor, i wouldn't publish any of his stories,” i said stubbornly. “i’ll make you a little bet right here and now—i bet you’ll never see any more of his work in print.” w “i’ll take that,” farrington said, rising. “you’re forgetting, smithers, that there's another road to the public besides the magazine route. martin's next thing may be a novel or a book of short stories.” “perhaps,” i answered, “but i’ll not retract. on the contrary, i'll make another bet with you. i’ll bet you that if he does publish anything, some day you'll wish that you hadn’t wasted your time reading it.” “what do you want to bet?” “i’ll lay a hundred on both.” “all right; i’ll take both,” he said with a con- silent, white and beautiful | - temptuous laugh. “martin couldn't write anything that wasn’t worth reading. good night, smithers.” “you’re young yet,” i called after him. “some day you may outgrow this silly hero-worship.” “i might live to be a thousand,” he said over his shoulder, “but i’ll never regret reading martin.” both farrington and i were to remember those parting words of his on a certain dramatic occasion several years later. but at the time, they seemed of no more importance than the crackling of dry shells underfoot. viii although i religiously scanned the papers for the next month or so, i found no further reference to the murder of the man in the green coat. no doubt the police considered the solution of such an insig- nificant mystery scarcely worth their best efforts; and the press, siding with them and quite indifferent as to the fate of the victim, very obligingly let the mat- ter drop. the old saying, “murder will out,” like many another old saying, has little or no foundation of truth. it is a matter for speculation as to how many unsolved murder mysteries, like submerged dere- licts, are buried deep under the waters of time. after my week's vacation i returned to work, refreshed in body and mind. there were several por- traits which had to be finished before i received the generous checks that they were thought to be worth. silent, white and beautiful : pair of pink worsted slippers adorning his flat feet, his flannel shirt open at his bony throat—waving the book about his head as though it were a tomahawk. no doubt paul would think that such an apparition was quite a customary sight in washington square. i glanced at him and saw that his lips were twitching in their attempt to restrain a smile. “you’re not much of a prophet, smithers,” far- rington continued excitedly. “i told you there were more ways than one of finding recognition.” i haven’t the slightest idea what you're driving at, rupert,” i said reprovingly. “your words and your gestures convey nothing to my mind. if you will kindly refrain from dashing my brains out with that crimson tome, i’ll introduce you to my brother.” “oh, i beg your pardon” farrington muttered, evidently seeing paul for the first time. “glad to meet you, i’m sure. this book got me so worked up that i’m not quite myself.” “i’m very pleased to meet you,” paul murmured in the tone of a man saying: “oh, don’t mind me! i know this is bohemia—so be just as wild as you want.” “now sit down, rupert,” i continued, “and explain what you mean. you say that you win. what do you win? you say that i am a poor prophet. when did i ever prophesy to you?” farrington seated himself and smiled triumphantly. “i win a hundred dollars from you,” said he, “and i win it, because you made a false prophecy about burgess martin.” silent, white and beautiful º smithers,” said he. “the brainsworth publishing company doesn't bring out dime novels.” “but i presume you’ll acknowledge that even the brainsworth publishing company can make mistakes. we'll see what the critics have to say about it.” farrington burst out into a laugh. “that's like you, smithers. you’d never acknowledge anything was good till a band of learned asses told you so. have you ever heard of sir vivian gerard?” “the famous london critic? of course! who hasn’t ” “well, the brainsworth publishing company sent the manuscript of ‘many murders' to him for his opinion. he wrote a glowing review of it which they are now using for advertising purposes. here's a selection from it which they enclosed with each review copy.” farrington fumbled in his pocket and drew out a small wrinkled sheet of printed matter. adjusting his spectacles on his bony nose, he began to read the re- view. it ran as follows: z “a master of horror. “it gives me great pleasure to introduce to the world an undoubted master of the horror tale. not since the days of poe has america produced such a consummate craftsman. i do not hesitate to say that even the im- mortal creator of “the gold bug' had not the power of description which makes burgess martin’s work unfor- getable. “‘many murders'—mr. martin's first book—is a silent, white and beautiful are right on his heels, you understand—but the nar- rator is a conventional fool who, because the victim wears rags, thinks that he must be a crook trying to escape from the police. he refuses to help; a crowd of thugs dash up; and it's all over with the poor devil. by the way, smithers, that chap who wouldn’t help the other reminds me of you.” “thanks,” i murmured with a wildly beating heart. “perhaps i would have acted so under the same cir- cumstances. but i don’t see anything remarkable about that story.” “it isn’t the theme!” cried farrington impatiently. “it's the way it's treated. why, you can see the whole thing—the obstinate stone wall partly illumined by an antique lantern; the poor, cowering wretch, on his hands and knees, begging for mercy; and then the mob, with their cudgels, approaching like a many-headed monster. but the death of the man in the green coat! how vivid that is! you can see him squirming beneath a forest of clubs, you can hear the dull thudding blows! and when it's all over, when the many-headed monster crawls back into its lair, you have a vivid impression of the scene—the body crumpled up against the wall, the moon peering down with her enigmatic smile, and the conventional fool striding off before the police come, to avoid unpleasant notoriety.” “and what happened to martin?” i cried out incau- tiously. “didn’t he sneak away, too?” “martin?” said paul. “why, what do you mean, charley? this is only a story!” ,-- for art's sake “to be sure,” i said with a forced laugh. “rupert told it so vividly that it made me forget. lend me the book, will you?” “certainly, smithers,” farrington answered, eyeing me curiously. “i’ll be very glad to have you read it. at last you seem to be interested in martin. you'd better read it to-night while you’re in the right mood.” i acted on his suggestion. after he and paul had gone, i took up “many murders” and turned to the last story. there it was, my adventure in the alley, so vivid, so remorseless, that it was as though i were living once again those terrible moments. and as i read on, great drops of sweat gathered on my forehead —gathered there and trickled down into my smarting eyes. martin had indeed succeeded in painting a picture with words. º ix “many murders” set the whole literary world agog for several months. critical articles concerning it ap- peared in all the leading newspapers and magazines. it is to be noted that none of these referred to it as an average work of fiction. no, this volume of sketches was called a masterpiece or else the sensational night- mare of a disordered brain. soon the public became excited and bought the book by the thousands, thereby proving that martin had been right when he had said that his stories would prove popular. sir vivian gerard wrote an article for one of the periodicals in which he claimed that silent, white and beautiful - it was the first classic to become a best-seller imme- diately after publication. farrington kept me well posted as to the success of martin's book. not contented with winning his bet, he had an irritating way of gloating over my dis- comfiture. if “many murders” had been his own work, he could not have taken a greater pride in its reception by the world. he would drop into the studio of an evening with a laudatory criticism of the book. “well, when will you acknowledge that you have lost the other bet too, smithers?” he would ask. “what other bet?” “why, the bet you made the other day that at some future date i would regret having read martin’s work.” “oh, i’d forgotten about it. but i won’t have to pay that bet for a long time. you might regret having read martin's work when you were on your deathbed.” “don’t be a piker, smithers. name some definite date.” “oh, very well. let's say about twenty years from inow.” “you are a piker, smithers. but have it your own way.” - i saw very little of martin during the months which followed the publication of his book. sometimes i met him at paul’s apartment where, in spite of the fact that he was now one of the shining literary lights of the world, he was a frequent visitor. naturally i " … ." . " - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -----__ for art's sake avoided him whenever i could. beside my inherent repulsion for the man which had grown since our adventure in the alley, i felt instinctively that he was laughing inwardly to see his prophecy about my career turning out to be so true. one bright october afternoon, paul and martin paid me a visit. as chance would have it, the studio door stood ajar and they entered without the formality of a knock. at the moment i was retouching a portrait of mrs. wanderveer, a prominent figure in the society world, and was so intent on my work that i did not notice their presence till martin spoke. “and who is that supposed to be?” he asked in his cold impersonal way. at the sound of his voice i started like a guilty schoolboy. “mrs. wanderveer,” i muttered. “but it isn't finished yet.” “really?” said he. “i’ve known her for some time. my sight must be failing.” “no, it's not that!” i cried bitterly. “i know it looks no more like her than her own daughter but a man must live!” martin eyed me ironically and his lips curled up at the corners. “that's what people think down on my street,” he murmured. “it’s a fine old saying, and many a brave man has adorned the end of a rope because of it.” “cut out the shop talk!” paul broke in, seeing the embarrassment and hot anger written on my face. “burgess and i are going on a little trip to the maine silent, white and beautiful woods. we've both got a vacation coming to us.” “when do you leave?” i asked, turning my back on martin. - “saturday morning. it will be corking in the woods now. we should get some good shooting. why don't you join us, charley?” “no, i’ve a lot of work on hand. i’ve got to finish five portraits by christmas. remember me, paul, if you get a buck and smuggle a few nice steaks back with you. you know how i like venison.” although i was not looking at martin when i refused paul's invitation, i felt instinctively that he was pleased to know that i would not accompany them. and so what was my surprise when he seconded by brother's proposal. there was a genuine ring in his voice which i had never heard before. “you’d better come, smithers,” he said. “an artist should find delight in the woods at this time of year. the foliage will be ablaze with color. you’ll regret it ..if you don't come, smithers.” i stared at him in amazement. there was a propit- iatory air about the man, quite foreign to his usual manner. it was almost as though he were pleading with me to go. \ what possible reason could he have for applying balm to my wounded sensibilities at this late date? well, i would give him a taste of his own medicine— i would show him, once and for all, that i was not the sort of man one could take liberties with and then expect to jog along behind at a kind word like a silent, white and beautiful on the street. they were walking side by side. as never before, the contrast between the two men caused me a sensation of amazement. paul was so flushed with health, so alive, so virile; martin, gliding beside him with a catlike tread, his sallow face turned toward me, was so ethereal by comparison, so ghostlike, so unwholesome! it was as though life and death were walking in the bright october sunshine. “that man is like an evil shadow,” i muttered. “what can paul see in him? surely they won’t stay up in the woods for two months. paul will grow tired of it before then and come home.” several days after paul and martin had left the city, i went out of town for a week-end with wilbur hunt- ington. he had a country place on long island; and we spent saturday, sunday, and the better part of monday, sauntering about a nearby golf course and sipping cool drinks afterward in the shade of the veranda. on monday afternoon wilbur insisted on driving me into town in his racing car. i arrived at the studio in due course, wind-swept and dusty, with the dazed feeling of one who has been shot through space with the velocity of a falling star. huntington’s laziness did not extend to his motor. he had entered it in the vanderbilt cup and i was confident that afternoon that it had every chance of winning. i was attempting to get some of the long island dust out of my eyes, when i heard a loud knocking on the * for art's sake \ studio door. “come in,” i shouted. “i’m washing up. i'll be there in a moment.” my caller proved to be rupert farrington. he did not wait for me to complete my ablutions, but hurried into the bathroom and handed me a telegram. “it came while i was at lunch,” he explained. “you told me that you’d be home for dinner, so i signed the book for you.” - “i’m much obliged,” i answered, drying my hands. “it’s probably from mrs. dyer. she's been pestering me to death about having her portrait finished before christmas. this will be her third telegram.” “it must be a wonderful feeling to know that one is so necessary to society at large,” rupert said unpleas- antly. “you’re a lucky dog, smithers. but i’ve got to be going. drop in and see me when art’s not beckon- ing.” i made a rather careful toilet before i opened the yellow envelope. telegrams were no novelty to me. i had learned by bitter experience that a certain class of women send them with no more urgent reason than so many children scribbling notes behind their teacher’s back. at last i strode back into the studio where the red light from the setting sun touched one of the canvases as though with fire. striding to the window, i tore open the telegram and glanced at it. the next instant it fluttered from my hand to the floor. “good god!” i muttered. unconsciously i looked down at the piece of yellow silent, white and beautiful paper which lay in a band of crimson light that seemed to stain it as though with blood. the black letters leaped up from it into my brain. once more i read their purport: “paul is dead. am bringing him home on the four- fifteen. martin.” “paul is dead,” i repeated. but it meant nothing to me then—nothing! it seemed as impossible as the wildest dream. like a tongue-tied actor attempting to make his lines clear and convincing, i repeated those few words over and over again: “paul is dead—paul is dead.” ibut still that thin partition standing between me and the realization of the truth, resisted the dull pounding of those hammerlike words. and suddenly a brain- numbing fear stole over me, a fear that i could never be more than a puppet which had been wound up to repeat endlessly that meaningless phrase: “paul is dead.” “come now!” i told myself. “you must make your- self realize what this telegram means. you must suffer. it is right that you should suffer. other men would suffer in your place. can you not under- stand? paul is dead!” , but still that thin partition was standing bravely against those hammerlike words. and wonderingly, fearfully, like a child in the dark, i looked out over the city. for art's sake the sun was slowly setting far away over those dingy housetops which were like uneven stepping-stones above the murmur of a brook. the sky hung over them like a sea of blood dotted here and there with floating islands of ice. somewhere in the distance the shrill voice of a siren drifted, melancholy, forlorn, tearing its way like a projectile through a muttering multitude of other sounds. surely it was pain in- carnate—pain which i sought and which evaded me. and as i gazed wonderingly at the passionate sky, a thought edged its way into my benumbed brain. surely it was after five o'clock. what was it that this yellow, wrinkled piece of paper at my feet warned me of something which martin was bringing home on the four-fifteen. it was already an hour past that time. but what was this inanimate thing of which he spoke? why, it was paul—my brother paul, dead, already cold—paul who had joked and laughed with me, who had fought and forgiven me—paul' and like a weary swimmer who has dived from a high cliff into the sea, slowly true realization fought its way up through the dark depths. i was no longer a mere puppet, squeaking a meaningless phrase. pain was born in an instant—blinding, unbearable pain. paul was dead! i, who had known him so intimately, who had loved him so dearly, realized that fully now. striding to and fro, quite careless of the furniture for art's sake * home dead and you treat the whole affair as a matter of course! why, common curiosity should prompt you to ask a few questions!” “you don’t understand me, martin,” i said with a brave attempt at dignity. “what do i care about such details now? he's dead—that's all i care to know. later, perhaps. poor old paul! if i’d gone with him. - but martin interrupted me with a quick, author- itative gesture. “listen, smithers,” he ordered. “it happened this way: our guide had a gallon of whisky. paul began drinking again heavily. you know how it was when the stuff was in reach; he simply couldn’t resist it. i tried to reason with him, but it wasn’t any use. after the whisky was all gone, he had an attack of melancholia. you remember how depressed he used to get after a drinking bout at college?” “yes,” i muttered. “well, this time it was far worse. he refused to be dragged out of the depths. one night the guide and i awoke with the sound of a gunshot in our ears. we ran out of the cabin to find paul lying on the ground.” “dead?” . “i should think so!” martin answered brutally. “why, he had a hole in his side that you could stick your arm intol” - the coroner bore out martin's statement in regard to paul’s death. there was no doubt that the poor fellow, suffering from acute melancholia, had taken his own life. tying a piece of string about the trigger of silent, white and beautiful. * his shotgun, he had leaned his weight upon the muzzle and discharged it by pressing his foot down hard upon the loose, dangling cord. his death must have been almost instantaneous. the heavy buckshot had ripped its way through his heart. my mother was prostrated by the news. ever since father's death she had been in poor health, and this was the last straw. on the day of the funeral she was so weak that the doctor refused to allow her to leave her bed. i was the only member of the family to attend the solemn ceremony. but wilbur huntington, although he knew paul only slightly, was kind enough to accompany me. it was one of those dismal days in late autumn, i remember—a day when all nature is solemn, melan- choly, as though mourning for the wasteful abandon- ment of her youth. a gray drizzle of rain was falling which seemed to curtain us off from the outer world. like strange, solemn ships, the funeral procession drifted slowly toward its goal. our snail's pace through the glistening streets grated on my overtaxed nerves. i had a wild impulse to shout to the man on the box, to order him to whip up his horses and drive us faster. . suddenly huntington's voice broke in upon my thoughts. “when a man takes a bitter dose of medicine, he takes it in a hurry. he doesn't sip it for the taste, does he?” “no,” i answered, at a loss for his meaning. “then why all this?” he asked, pointing at my for art's sake black clothes. “and why is it that we can't rattle along the streets at a livelier pace?” “custom,” i explained. “custom be damned! the decent, sensible thing is to hide one's inner feelings from the world—not to parade them through the streets, as we are doing now, for the mob to gibber at. a funeral procession is a relic of barbarism; and there goes another.” we were entering the cemetery as he spoke, and the dull tolling of a bell rang out on the still air. like the beating of a grief-stricken heart, solemnly, sadly, it uttered its message of misery to the living. and on every side, where tiny crosses held out their weary arms, where tombstones seemed kneeling phantoms, where long flat slabs of granite crouched like lizards, a sad echo seemed to rise and steal away on noiseless wings. “all this,” huntington continued, “your friend martin would very truly call toys made for the mass- mind. they hide true feeling and, like wine, intensify the emotions. but here we are.” - “poor old paul!” i murmured. - the carriage came to a halt and we got out. soon a number of my brother's friends assembled at the open grave and the simple service was well under way. once, moved by an unaccountable impulse, i turned my head and saw martin standing directly behind me. his face was as expressionless as though it had been hewn out of marble; his bloodshot eyes were staring straight at the coffin. for art’s sare gaining the inner sanctuary—a poor moth doomed to outer darkness, struggling for recognition till his wings were singed. day after day he fought valiantly to compose one stirring line; day after day, bitter disappointment was his lot. like many another man of his type, he could not criticize what he had written. to him, each poem was good—perhaps a masterpiece. the editors were at fault. they could not recognize genius when they saw it. hatred of them had become an over-mastering obsession. he would rail against them till he grew purple in the face. - i remember distinctly one christmas morning, a month before martin's second book came out. rupert broke in on me while i was having breakfast, his eyes wild and staring, his face suffused with blood. stamp- ing up and down the room, he gave vent to such a blind, ungovernable fit of fury that i feared for his reason. “what’s the trouble?” i asked when i could make myself heard. “trouble?” he fairly shouted. “trouble? i’d like to wring his damn neck!” “whose neck?” “why, hubbard's neck—hubbard of the firefly.” “what's he done to you?” i asked mildly. farrington came to an abrupt halt and fixed his blazing eyes on my face. “i’ll tell you what he's done,” he said in a voice which he attempted to make calm but which trembled on a sob. “do you remember my silent, white and beautiful last poem, ‘the sea-gull'? well, it was a pretty smooth piece of work, although you didn’t seem to appre- ciate it.” “what has “the sea-gull' got to do with hubbard?” i inquired. “i sent it to him for his magazine,” he answered bitterly. “that was a month ago. they’ve had it ever since. i thought that i’d landed something at last. what's to-day, smithers?” “to-day? why, it's christmas morning.” “to be sure—christmas morning! well, i got it back in the first mail, tied up with red ribbons. now maybe you think that’s a joke, smithers—a damn good joke?” * “no, i don’t,” i hastened to assure him. “well, i don’t either,” said farrington grimly. “i’ve worked too hard for that. it seems to me a contemptible thing to do—a low-down, contemptible thing! to keep it so long that i had hope and then to send it back tied up with red ribbons on christmas day! i wish i had him here, that’s all! i could beat him to death without the slightest compunction. a man who would do such a thing, should be beaten to death! why, smithers, i tell you it “but how do you know that hubbard is responsible for this?” i broke in. “it sounds more like one of his office force to me—some silly little stenographer playing a practical joke.” but farrington shook his head stubbornly. “no, it was hubbard—undoubtedly it was hubbard. it's his for art’s sare kind of humor. have you ever seen the man? have you ever talked to him?” “no.” “well, he's a pompous jelly bag with a silly, secre- tive smile—a sly man and a cruel man, a man who sits in his office like a round-bellied spider waiting to pounce on the flies. he makes game of us, smithers— we poor fellows who try so hard and get so little! but he and his kind are driving me too hard! there are things that i won’t stand, things that “i think you’re mistaken, rupert,” i broke in. “calm yourself. this magazine proposition is driving you dotty. what possible reason could hubbard have for doing such a thing?” “oh, just a little recreation,” rupert muttered. “his humor has to be tickled ever so often. but he's driving me too far, smithers—a damn sight too far!” i did not see farrington again for several days. i was called out of town on an important business engage- ment; and when i returned, it was to find that he had gone home for the week-end. one night, ten days later, i walked past his door and noticed that it was ajar. glancing in, i saw rupert seated in his favorite rocking-chair. as usual, when alone, he wore a faded brown smoking jacket and crim- son worsted slippers. but to-night there was something incongruous about the man which drew my attention. perhaps it was the rigid way he sat, or perhaps it was natural curiosity to learn what had transpired since i had seen him last, but something prompted me to silent, white and beautiful i enter. glancing at him again, as i did so, i noticed a volume bound in red morocco resting on the arm of his chair. “rupert,” i said, “what have you been doing with yourself?” but he did not answer me. silent, immovable, he sat, staring into space. “what's the matter with you, rupert?” i said in a louder tone. “you’re not sick, are you?” i bent for- ward and touched him on the shoulder. at that, he started and looked up. his eyes were bloodshot, the veins on his forehead were black and bulging, his thick red lips were extended in an animal pout. º “what's the trouble?” he said thickly. “is that you, smithers?” by this time i was thoroughly alarmed. “you’re not sick, are you?” i repeated, shaking him by the arm. “what's the matter, rupert?” “matter?” he repeated dazedly, shaking his head as though to rid himself of an unpleasant thought. “there's nothing the matter, smithers. i’ve been thinking, that’s all.” - “you were in a kind of coma when i first came in.” he laughed a trifle shamefacedly it seemed to me. “thoughts carry me away sometimes,” he said in a more natural tone. “they drag my ego out of my body by the hair.” he paused and ran his hand across his forehead. “at least, martin’s thoughts do,” he finished with a faint smile. for art’s sake “martin’s thoughts? has his new book come out yet? is that it?” i pointed to the red morocco volume on the arm of his chair. º “yes, that’s his new book,” rupert answered. “this is another advance copy. i believe it is, to be published in a few days.” “what’s the title?” “‘the confessions of constantine. “do you like it as well as ‘many murders’?” “like it?” he cried with a nervous start. “that’s scarcely the word, smithers. you can't like a book of this kind—you can only marvel at it!” “own up now, rupert,” i said quickly, thinking that the man was quibbling to defend his idol. “own up, this book has fallen below your expectations. in a word, it disappoints you.” “good lord, no!” he cried almost fiercely. “if ‘many murders' were a masterpiece, “the confessions of constantine’ is a super-masterpiece! it is so great that one fears it; so great that it conquers one’s mind! can there be such a thing as hypnotic writing, smithers?” “of course not,” i answered irritably. “the trouble with you is that you’re mentally sick. what you need is a long vacation somewhere. why don't you go home for a month or so?” “perhaps i will,” he muttered. “perhaps i will.” he picked up the book and began to turn the leaves. “i know i ought to go home,” he added a trifle wistfully. - silent, white and beautiful “have you forgiven hubbard yet?” i asked, turning toward the door. “or have you found out that he wasn’t responsible for that christmas present?” but farrington did not answer me. evidently he had once more become engrossed in martin's new book. oblivious to everything about him, he sat with a strange, rigid attention, slowly turning the leaves. and, as i glanced back at him over my shoulder, it seemed to me that his face suddenly underwent a change—that the whites of his eyes were suffused with blood; that the veins in his forehead became black and bulging; that his moist, red lips puffed out at each long breath. and i left him thus, alone with “the confessions of constantine.” xii martin's new book was published the following week. if his first volume had caused a breeze of public com- ment, his second created a whirlwind. those who were unfortunate enough to have read “the confessions of constantine” before it was suppressed by the govern- ment, can still remember the terrifying sensations with which it inspired them. sir vivian gerard aptly phrased it in a newspaper article which ended in these words: “i trembled when i read ‘many murders' as though i were actually witnessing the terrible crimes which it described; but when i perused ‘the confessions of constantine,’ my hand was steady and my brain on for art's sake fire with the blood lust of the murderer as he strikes the fatal blow. i felt no repulsion at the savagery of it;" only the great, unholy joy of brute rage. i cannot cri- ticize this book; i can only wonder at it.” it was shortly after “the confessions of constan- tine” made its appearance that the still well-remem- bered crime wave swept new york from end to end. the police fought valiantly to hold it in check, but failed. in vain they made countless arrests; new mur- derers sprang up on all sides. it was as though it were some kind of contagious disease—a “murder microbe.” as some learned fool maintained. one afternoon, while this dangerous plague was at its height, wilbur huntington dropped into the studio on his way to the cap and gown club. i was delighted to see him and stopped work for a time to chat. “well, what do you think of this murder scourge we're having?” i asked, laying my brush aside. “it’s rather interesting, don't you think?” he said, half closing his eyes. “i see you have a new bolt on your door, charley.” “yes,” i answered, flushing slightly. “one has to nowadays. bolts and locks are the fashion. they tell me the chief of police has himself guarded like a feudal baron.” “strange that every one should be murdering some one,” huntington continued, his nose twitching slight- ly. “but seriously, charley, the baffling fact about these crimes is the manner in which they are perpe- trated.” f |for art's sake ' “rupert hasn’t been himself lately,” i hastened to explain. “you’ve got to make allowances for the poor fellow. all his life he's tried to become a famous poet and he's no further advanced now than he was ten years ago.” “that's a shame!” huntington muttered. “i never knew he had worked so hard. isn’t there anything we could do for him—bribe some publisher to bring out his poems, for instance?” - “i’m afraid that wouldn’t do any good,” i answered. “you see, he really hasn’t got the stuff. it would be a mistaken kindness. what he ought to do, would be to—” “who's that laughing in the hallway?” huntington broke in suddenly. “that's a devil of a racket! have you got a crazy man about the premises?” “i don’t hear anything. you must be mistaken.” but huntington cautioned me to silence with a lifted finger. “listen!” he whispered. * then i heard it. and what a laugh it was, starting deep down in the throat in a kind of horrid chuckling and rising higher and higher till it ended in a dismal howl! nearer and nearer it came, rising and falling, battering on the eardrums with a savage insistency. , finally the studio door flew open and we caught a glimpse of him who laughed. rupert farrington stood on the threshold, swaying back and forth as though shaken by that inhuman merriment which tore his lips apart. his face was a deep crimson; beneath the flushed skin, all the muscles for art's sake bottled up in his throat. his bloodshot eyes left the ceiling and became fixed on huntington's face. “tell him i like it,” he said thickly. “tell him it's true—damn true! a dull knife makes no difference— even a paper cutter will serve. to have one beneath you whom you hate; and then to strike—to strike not once or twice but a hundred times!” farrington raised one of his long arms above his head and i saw with horror that his coat-sleeve was stained with blood. “tell burgess martin that i have read “the con- fessions of constantine’ over and over again,” he con- tinued in a singsong voice. “tell him that i have often crept into its pages. it is such a small book; yet i feel that i can find my way into it at will. that door is never locked. it opens readily. sometimes before one knows it, one is inside. this afternoon i took a walk with “the confessions of constantine. we walked till i met a man who should not live—an editor who should not live!” “he means hubbard of the ‘firefly,’” i whispered to huntington. “do you think he has-" but farrington broke in upon me. he had lifted his voice to a shout. “the book opened its leaves to me, you understand. i entered a small room. he was sitting with his back turned toward me. there was an inviting ripple of flesh above his collar. like a luscious bun it bulged out anxiously to receive the knife's sharp kiss. i hated this man and i approached. but did i hate him after all? ah, no. surely i loved him with silent, white and beautiful a great if transitory love! does the butcher hate the sheep that is bleating in its death agonies? does the tiger hate the fawn which has fallen to its lot? surely it is not hatred which makes us kill, but love—love for farrington broke off suddenly. the color receded from his face; his eyes seemed to be covered with a thin coating of glass. he swayed forward. “catch him!” huntington cried sharply. “he’s going off into a swoon!” hardly had he spoken before rupert fell into my arms. he was a light man, and i had no difficulty in supporting him to the lounge where he promptly col- lapsed into a senseless heap of humanity. then i turned to wilbur with a dawning suspicion of the truth. - “what did he mean?” i cried. “do you think he has killed any one?” huntington nodded grimly. “i shouldn’t wonder,” he muttered. “who was the man in the room? has he quarreled with an editor?” “yes and no. he thinks he has a grudge against hubbard of the ‘firefly.” but it was nothing serious —nothing to make a man commit murder.” wilbur shook his head. “that doesn’t seem to matter nowadays. murders are committed for the merest trifles. yesterday an old chap killed his housekeeper because she forgot to put sugar on his grapefruit. did you know that farrington was quoting from ‘the confessions of constantine’ just before he caved in ’” for art's sake “no, i didn’t. i haven’t read the book.” “well, he was. i remember the passage distinctly. it's the most unpleasant thing in the whole damn book. it's a description of a murder which is supposed to be written by the murderer himself; and while you’re reading it, you feel that you’re sticking the knife in with your own hand!” “do you think rupert's insane?” “i don’t know. it seems to me more like a fit—or a hypnotic trance. the man was not responsible for what he did, that’s certain. but i’m going to look into this new book of martin’s—by heaven, i am!” for some time longer we talked in lowered voices with an occasional side-long look at farrington who had apparently sunk into a deep sleep. the young poet lay on his back—one of his hands dangled nearly to the floor; the other rested on his breast, protruding from the bloodstained coat-sleeve like a white flower from an earthen jug. his small, rather girlish face had regained its habitual calm; now a smile hovered about the lips. “i shouldn’t wonder if he awoke in his right mind,” huntington whispered. at that moment, rupert opened his large, melancholy eyes. “where am i?” he murmured. “it’s all right,” i hastened to assure him. “you’re in my studio. you've been sick, rupert.” “sick?” he repeated. “i had a terrible dream. i thought i had killed hubbard and that i had actually enjoyed doing it.” he smiled weakly. - “don’t talk too much,” huntington warned him. for art's safoe rupert rose and confronted them. “that's my name,” he said quietly. “what do you want of me?” * “you’re wanted for the murder of j. e. hubbard, editor of the ‘firefly,’” the officer answered, stepping up to rupert and slipping a pair of handcuffs on his slender wrists. “you’d better go quietly, sir.” “very well,” farrington answered. and then turn- ing to me with a brave smile which wrung my heart, he said in a voice that trembled only very slightly: “smithers, you have won our last bet. i am sorry— damn sorry!—that i ever read any of martin's work!” . xiii weeks passed and still the crime wave swept the city. one had but to glance at the papers to see how widely this homicidal plague had spread. other towns soon became infected. boston, philadelphia, and chicago suffered even more severely than new york; and, strange to say, the police annals proved that these modern murderers sprang, not from the illiterate, un- educated classes as one might fancy, but from the reading public and more especially from the highest intellectual types. it was during those ill-fated days that college pro- fessors, school-teachers, and literary critics began to run amuck. there was poor old professor brent of the university, for instance—professor brent who had written so many sugar-coated essays on the brotherhood silent, white and beautiful of man. who would have thought it possible that this kindly old fellow—this senile optimist whose work had always been well sweetened before it went to press— should attempt to do away with a whole class of college students one bright spring morning? and yet one had to believe it. there it was in the papers, with a host of other incomprehensible crimes as well. but perhaps the southern states suffered most of all. of late years lynching parties had been rather few and far between; now they happened again with almost machinelike regularity. scarcely a day passed in any of those towns on the other side of the mason and dixon's line when some negro did not dance out his life at the end of a rope. and the leaders of these lynching parties—the men who adjusted the noose about the cowering wretch’s neck or lit the fagots which had been piled up against his knees—were invariably men of keen sensibilities and higher education—men who would have shrunk from such a task a few months before. as this crimson wave passed over the country, leaving horror and desolation in its track, the creative thinkers, who had as yet remained untouched, began to ask them- selves a multitude of questions: what would be the final outcome of this catastrophe? if the higher type of intelligence fell victim to this homicidal mania, what could one expect from the illiterate, unimaginative masses who were born to follow like so many sheep? for the first time in human history, education had joined hands with crime. what would be the final for art’s sake dénouement? possibly we were now facing the end of the world—a bloody end of order, a return to those primeval days when every man's hand was raised against the other. it was during these days of dark despair, days when our modern civilization seemed tottering in the balance, that a young man gained access to the chief of the new york police force and pointed out a simple cure which had been overlooked by all the criminal experts. wilbur huntington, for it was he, had some difficulty at first in securing an interview. the chief of police, on account of the many attempts made on his life, was taking no more chances with strangers. . if hunting- ton's family had not been so prominent in the city, so influential in political circles, it is doubtful if wilbur would have been able to gain access to that official's office. as it was, the meeting was arranged and the following conversation took place: “well, what can i do for you?” asked the chief, fixing a vigilant eye on his visitor. “i came to see you about this crime wave.” “well ?” “you want these murders stopped, don't you?” wil- bur asked simply. for the first time in many days the chief burst out into a laugh. “of course!” he answered. “well, i know how to stop them—or at least, the great majority.” now the chief regarded his visitor with a look of fatherly pity, a look which seemed to say: “too bad, silent, white and beautiful too bad! another madman to deal with. i’d better humor him a bit.” “it will be all right, mr. huntington,” he said aloud. “don’t you worry your poor head about it. just you go home and but at this point, wilbur interrupted him by stepping forward and placing a book bound in red morocco on his desk. “here's the root of the whole matter,” he declared. “my dear young man,” the chief said wearily, “i can’t be bothered by this sort of thing. the state pays competent men to—” * but again wilbur broke in upon him with scant ceremony. “i know you think i’m a crank!” he cried. “but i’m going to prove that i’m not. will you give me five minutes of your time?” the chief glanced at his office clock and nodded. “fire away,” said he. “five minutes and no more.” “students of crime know that a diseased brain often prompts murder,” huntington began quickly. “yester- day i visited the homes of the fifty murderers who were apprehended in this city last week and in forty-five of them i found the book which i have just placed on your desk. are you familiar with it? it is called ‘the con- fessions of constantine.’” “no,” the chief answered, becoming interested in spite of himself. “but how can a book have anything to do with crime? it was merely coincidence that you found it in their homes.” “perhaps,” huntington agreed. “but a book such for art's sake as this can incite crime and i’m going to prove it. you, yourself, must have noticed that if an unusual murder is committed, is given publicity by the press, other murders of almost identically the same nature are sure to follow. what causes these other crimes? the answer seems obvious—mental suggestion; or, in other words, a printed description of the ghastly details which appeals to the brutal instinct in man.” “very well put,” the chief said approvingly, a note of respect creeping into his voice. “i had never thought , of such a thing, but it sounds quite plausible. and you think this book could possibly “i know it!” wilbur broke in. “just think, chief. if the description of a murder crudely written by some inartistic cub reporter can excite crime, what could not a book like “the confessions of constantine’ accom- plish : it is a work of undoubted genius and gives one a vivid portrayal of both the murder and the sensations of bloodlust in the brain of the murderer. why, this book can overmaster the sensitive dreamer; can hypno- tize him into crime as though by the beckoning of a bloodstained finger! and here is another clew which should not be overlooked: all of these assassins are inveterate readers who live their real lives between the covers of countless books. such people can be ruled by the printed words of a genius. a sensitive bookworm is easily excited to laughter or tears by a well-written story, so why can he not be excited to brute rage as well ?” “there is a great deal in what you say,” the chief for art's sare lips. but what can we do? this murder propaganda is scattered all over the world by now.” “that is your problem,” huntington said, rising. “no doubt “the confessions of constantine' can be traced through the brainsworth company and the various stores. have the book condemned by the gov- ernment, secure every copy printed, apply some kero- sene and a lighted match—that's my advice. you'll soon find that, after “the confessions of constantine' is done away with, this murder microbe will no longer be a menace to society. good afternoon.” it is needless to say that his advice was taken and acted upon. before six months had passed there were only two copies of “the confessions of constantine” in existence—one in wilbur huntington’s possession, the other at police headquarters—and manslaughter had once more become a comparatively rare crime. indirectly huntington's discovery saved rupert far- rington's life. it led to a very thorough examination of the prisoners on trial for murder and a suspension of sentence when it was found that they had been mentally unbalanced by martin's book. rupert was transferred to matteawan for several months where he was under the personal supervision of several eminent brain specialists. finally he was liberated. he returned home, thoroughly cured of his literary aspi- rations. the chief of police got all the glory when the crime wave was broken, but wilbur huntington was allowed for art's sake i took “many murders” out of the bookcase and handed it to him. he opened it at random and read a portion of “in a blind alley” aloud. at length he closed the book and picked up “the confessions of constantine.” “he didn’t have to have imagination to write that story, charley,” he said. “you shared the adventure with him, i believe?” “yes, it was that murder in the alley i told you about. he saw it all.” huntington nodded and opened “the confessions of constantine.” for some time he read silently, moving his lips. he seemed to be weighing each word. finally he spoke again. “‘many murders' came out before your brother's death, didn’t it?” he asked. “yes.” “and “the confessions of constantine’ about two years after his death?” “i believe so.” “then i have a little theory which, if it stands the acid test of truth, will put martin hors de combat for good and all. perhaps the world has little more to fear from him.” “i’m sure i don’t know what you’re driving at, wilbur.” “have patience, charley. listen! i think i hear some one tapping on your door.” when i flung the door open, i found a freckled messenger boy in the corridor. he had a registered : silent, white and beautiful letter for wilbur, addressed in very small but legible writing—writing which, for some unaccountable reason, seemed familiar. signing for the letter, i returned to huntington. “here's a letter for you,” i said, handing him the note. “whoever addressed this envelope has a con- foundedly steady hand. it's like engraving.” “you’re an inquisitive cuss!” huntington murmured. “perhaps it's from a lady friend.” he tore open the envelope and glanced at its contents. the next moment, his eyebrows crawled up his forehead in surprise. “speaking about the devil!” he cried. “well, what do you know about this!” “nothing. but i'd like to. that handwriting interests me. there's something familiar about it. is it from your mother?” “not exactly!” huntington replied. “just listen to this.” holding the letter on a level with his eyes, he began to read as follows: “my dear mr. huntington: i understand that you have recently become a literary critic. allow me to congratulate you on your judgment in regard to my book, ‘the confessions of constantine.” no doubt, as you so wisely pointed out to the police, it was a work which proved rather detrimental to the morals of the reading public. by condemning it, the government paid me the highest tribute which can fall to the lot of any artist—the tribute of taking my mental creations seriously. i have just finished another book of short stories, and i should like your opinion of it before it goes to for art’s sake “send wilbur home?” i repeated dazedly. “why, he left here last week, mrs. huntington! he told me then that he intended staying with you the rest of the time he was in new york.” there came a long-drawn silence and then a deafen- ing volley of words. “why, he never came! i haven’t seen him for over two months. do you suppose any- thing could have happened to the poor boy? oh, i’m so frightened he was such a reckless driver! he might have driven his car out into the country and had a smash-up on some lonely road. what shall i do, mr. smithers ?” “please be calm,” i told her. “no doubt wilbur is all right. probably he's gone out to long island. have you called up his bungalow'” “no, of course not! i thought he was with you.” “well, phone there and i’m pretty sure you’ll find him. if not, call me up. i’ll find him for you.” “thank you so much! probably you’re right. but he should have let me know. good-by, mr. smithers.” “good-by,” i answered and hung up the receiver with a feeling of uncertainty. for the rest of that morning i attempted to paint, but made a miserable failure of it. try as i would, i could not fix my attention on the work at hand. huntington's incomprehensible words about martin kept ringing through my head. at last i tossed the brush aside and left the studio with the intention of inquiring for wilbur at the cap and gown club. i was descending the stairs and had reached the first silent, white and beautiful landing when i came face to face with a small man who was coming up. i was about to stand aside so as to give him room to pass, when he addressed me. “are you mr. smithers?” he asked. “yes,” i said in surprise. “what can i do for you?” “i want to ask you a few questions about a friend of yours. you know wilbur huntington, i presume?” “yes, indeed.” “well, i think we'd better have our talk in your apartment, if you don't mind.” i led the way back to the studio with the feeling that something quite unexpected was about to happen. in fact, my brain was in a whirl. who could this rather common-looking little man be? and what could he possibly want to know about huntington? but my visitor gave me no time to compose myself. no sooner had the door closed behind us than he spoke. “i understand that mr. huntington was here on the afternoon of the twenty-fifth #" “yes, he was.” - “i’m greene from police headquarters,” the littl man continued, opening his coat and displaying a metal badge. “as i believe you know, mr. huntington has been missing now for several days. his mother has just put the case in our hands.” “he wasn’t at his bungalow, then?” “no, he hasn't been there in over a month. mrs. huntington thought you might be able to give us valuable information. where was he going when he left your apartment, mr. smithers?” for art's safoe “he was going to the house of mr. burgess martin on tyndall place.” “burgess martin, eh? that's interesting! was there anything unusual about mr. huntington's manner —anything which would lead you to suspect that he wasn’t in a normal state of mind?” then i did a very foolish thing—a thing which i have regretted ever since. i revealed everything to the detective, answering his questions with the candor of a child. i told him of the letter huntington had received, of his wild words about martin, and of his final threat. and when i had finished, my visitor thanked me heartily. “if other people were as willing to give evidence as you, mr. smithers,” said he, “the work of a detective would soon dwindle down to nothing. what you say about burgess martin is especially interesting. word has just come to us that he, too, is missing.” “what p? “yes, his landlady hasn't seen him in days.” the detective turned toward the door. “i’ve got to be off on this new clew you’ve given me, mr. smithers,” he called back over his shoulder. “it’s just possible, if we can lay our hands on mr. huntington, that he'll be able to tell us something about burgess martin.” when the detective had gone, i realized fully what i had done. i had branded my best friend as a mur- derer. i had slipped the halter about his neck. then, for the first time, i saw clearly the significance of wilbur's threatening words when coupled with the dis- silent, white and beautiful appearance of martin. yes, i had made an ass of myself. but there was no helping that now. the damage was done. i could do nothing more—only wait as patiently as possible for the results. days turned into weeks, weeks into months, but the two men still remained missing. meanwhile the news- papers made much of the mystery and soon it became the sensation of the year. it was remembered that it was through wilbur huntington’s efforts that martin's last book had been condemned by the government. from that fact, they argued that there was bad blood between the two men, and this gave rise to all manner of wild conjectures. possibly they had fought a duel to the death; or perhaps it had been a suicide pact. the yellow journals knew how to make hay while the sun shone. - nearly two months after the detective visited me, a body was found floating in the east river. the face had been beaten into an unrecognizable condition by some heavy weapon and the corpse generally was so disfigured by its long submersion in the water, that, had it not been for a ring on the second finger of the left hand, identification would have proved impossible. this ring was engraved with the initials b. m. the news spread quickly through the city. news- paper extras appeared with startling headlines. for a time excitement quickened the most feeble pulse. on all sides, one heard this question—“but where is wilbur huntington?” on the following day the rumor was verified. mar- for art's sake tin's tailor, a little russian jew who had made his clothes for many years, visited the morgue and identi- fied the corpse's water-soaked suit by his own initials which he had sewed into the sleeve. after this there could no longer be any doubt; it was indeed burgess martin’s body. but if martin had been murdered, as the wounds on his face and head evinced, what had become of his companion, wilbur huntington, on the night when they had both disappeared? had huntington killed martin and then fled? if he were innocent, would he not come forward and prove it? questions like these appeared in all the papers. but the missing man still remained missing; the mystery was no nearer its solution than before. no doubt the chief of police at this time was pestered daily by hun- dreds of letters from cranks who had worked themselves up into a frenzy over this insoluble riddle. at last he wrote an article for the gazette which ended in these words: “it is not possible that wilbur huntington, after sav- ing the world from a thousand crimes, failed to take his own cure and fell a victim to that brain malady from which he had rescued so many others?” after this opinion was published, there could be but one verdict. the world regarded my friend as a mur- derer and a madman. silent, white and beautiful xvi several years passed and the mystery still remained unsolved. it was as though wilbur huntington had vanished into thin air. although many of the leading criminal experts had taken up the search, no clew to his whereabouts was forthcoming. one by one these detectives acknowledged themselves beaten and went back to the solving of less difficult problems. mean- while new sensational mysteries arose to attract the attention of the public; soon the affair was practically forgotten. during that time, i prospered exceedingly. each year brought me greater wealth, a larger circle of acquaintances, and more material luxuries of every kind. i had won the respect of a great many people who envied me my position in the world—people who little guessed what i had sacrificed in order to climb. i soon learned that the respect of the mob was of small value. the world, as a whole, judges an artist as it judges a business man—not by the excellence of his work, but by the size of his bank account. i was a symbol to them of the golden image and they pros- trated themselves accordingly. little guessing the bitter irony their words conveyed, they called me to my face “the painter who had made good.” sometimes it gave me a kind of brutal satisfaction to realize how completely i had sold the public. but now and then another thought would steal into my brain—the thought silent, white and beautiful * train at fort myers and engaged a delapidated. ford to take me to naples. the driver gave me a hand with my numerous belongings, climbed back on his seat, and we were off. * it was a forty mile drive from fort myers over a road sadly needing repair. two hours later i caught sight of the wooden structure which my driver assured me was the hotel. in spite of my natural fatigue, i warmed to the majestic scene which had appeared with the startling suddenness of a vision. - there, stretching away as far as the eye could see, was the gulf of mexico, now reflecting on its slightly agitated bosom the last scattered rays of the setting sun. already the dark shadows of approaching night stole out from the palm trees which lined the beach. the melancholy call of an owl suddenly rose on the still air and was thrown to and fro by a multitude of echoes before it was allowed to die away. naples was known to only a limited number of sports- men. there were not more than a dozen people at the hotel when i arrived. i felt fairly certain that i could secure the services of bill pete. after dinner i inquired about him at the desk. * “no, he's not here now,” the clerk informed me. “but he generally paddles over for his newspaper about eight o'clock. i'll let you know when he arrives.” i nodded and, lighting a cigar, strolled out on the veranda. the moon, by now, was slowly rising over the treetops—a blood-red moon which, as it ascended, grad- ually lost its vivid coloring and became a pale silver. * silent, white and beautiful ºº - “it is though nature had placed that death's-head in the heavens as a warning to all mankind,” he continued solemnly. “oh perhaps she hung it there to kindle the imagination, to beckon us on to unparalleled achieve- ment, to blow into flame a glowing spark of curiosity. what is death and what are the sensations of death? who can answer? and yet mankind is unwilling to learn. they hide the truth from themselves, disguising it under many different masks. they play with the moon as a baby might play with the face of its dead mother. they even write songs about her, calling her the jolly, smiling moon! and all these years that great, white face has looked down upon them in frozen horror!” i felt the mental itch of curiosity as i listened. where had i heard that voice before? he had been speaking in a very low tone, but each word had a familiar ring. * “i think i must have met you before,” i said. “you’re a poet, aren’t you? i used to know a good many poets when i lived in washington square.” “i am no poet,” he said curtly. “but you write,” i insisted. “i’m sure i’ve heard your voice before. i used to know several novelists. there was—” “i don’t write,” he broke in rather brusquely. “my name's bill pete and i’ve lived around here nearly all my life.” “not bill pete, the guide?” i cried in amazement. “the very same. the clerk told me that you were *. for art’s safce looking for me. if you want a guide, i think you’ll find that i know my business... i’m familiar with every rookery in these parts and i’ve got a snug little cabin across the bay if you were thinking of camping out.” “so you’re bill pete,” i muttered under my breath. “well, you’ve got a most astonishing vocabulary for a backwoodsman!” aloud, i said: “you’ve worked for doctor street’’ “yes, frequently. he always engages me when he comes to the hotel.” “then, you’re the man i want. you may consider yourself engaged from now on. i think i’ll use your cabin to-morrow night. is it comfortable?” “yes, sir,” bill pete murmured. “i think you’ll find it very comfortable.” once more i shot a quick look at that tall, shadowy figure beside me. i had heard him speak before; each moment i grew surer of it. when was it and where? i would find out in the course of the next two or three days—that was certain. “you’ll pardon me if i ask a rather personal question, mr. pete?” i said. “you didn't get your education in the woods, did you? your choice of words seems to be rather fine, rather i broke off suddenly. a moonbeam had touched the side of his face. i could see that his heavily bearded cheeks and chin were trembling as though from sup- pressed merriment, and yet his voice was quite steady when he answered me. º silent, white and beautiful “i’m a college man, sir,” he replied, moving his head slightly so that his face was once more veiled in shadow. “i’ve had my chances and i’ve thrown them away. there are lots of us like that.” he paused for an instant and then added: “good night, sir. i’ll paddle over for you in the morning.” xvii the following morning, bill pete paddled me across the bay to his cabin with the deft, silent strokes of an indian. sitting in the bow of the canoe and facing him, i studied the man, attempting to account for the impression i had had the night before. but, try as i would, my memory failed me. certainly there was nothing familiar in that bronzed, heavily bearded face. and yet there was something about bill pete which struck a long disused, discordant note in my breast. what was it? his eyes? they were hidden behind dark-blue spectacles which re- sembled the cavernous sockets in a skull. perhaps the answer to the riddle was concealed by these spectacles. for one mad moment i was tempted to spring forward and jerk them off his nose. “why do you wear those things?” i said at length. “what things?” he asked blankly. although his face was half turned away from me, i felt instinctively that his eyes were boring into mine. “why, those spectacles,” i said testily. “they make your face look like a skull.” for art's sake “my eyes are very weak. these glasses protect them from the sun.” " “oh, i see.” not another word was said till the canoe grounded on the beach. i assisted bill pete in moving the pro- visions we had brought with us into the shade; then he showed me his cabin. it was an ordinary woodsman's shack, built of rough- hewn logs and containing two bunks. there was a crudely constructed table in the center of the single room, some pots and pans hanging on the wall, a wood stove in one corner, and a doorway without any vestige of a door. to a city-bred man, no building is complete without a door. this architectural omission bothered me till i learned that no wild animal availed itself of it with the single exception of a razor-back hog that each night entered after we had gone to bed and gnawed savagely at one of the logs. barely a hundred yards from the cabin, which stood on a slight rise of ground, the bay stretched out like a luminous shawl of bright spangles. encircling it, was a dark somber army of tropical trees which stood like sentinels about a treasure. on windy nights, the lapping waves on the beach and the murmuring of the branches overhead mingled in a soothing melody which soon wafted one off to the land of dreams. bill pete proved to be a very silent, man, speaking very rarely and then always to the point. a smile seldom brightened his somber face. but although he was a poor companion, he proved to be an excellent | | º for art's sake bill pete nodded and puffed silver rings of smoke skyward. his spectacles for an instant reflected the firelight as he turned his face toward me. “doctor street will be here to-morrow,” i continued in a desperate attempt to make the man talk. “you’d better paddle over to the hotel in the morning.” again bill pete merely nodded his head. “you remind me of a man i used to know a good many years ago,” i said irritably. “like you, he had unpleasant theories about the moon and for days together would scarcely say a word.” “who was he?” bill pete asked, with a sudden note of interest in his tone. “a man by the name of martin—burgess martin.” i heard something snap like a dry twig. glancing at bill pete, i saw the red glowing bowl of his pipe lying on the ground at his feet. he had bitten through the stem. “and what became of burgess martin?” he asked after a moment. “why, you must know!” i said in surprise. “he was that famous writer who was murdered several years ago. surely you remember the case?” “i believe i did read something about it,” he answered in a low voice. “he was murdered by a literary critic, wasn’t he? the murderer's name was huntington, i believe; and he had previously had one of martin's books condemned by the government.” “that's never been proved,” i said with some heat. “wilbur huntington was a personal friend of mine and * for art's sare up. then, for the first time, i realized that i was tied hand and foot with strong leather straps which a giant could scarcely have broken. “it is useless to struggle, smithers,” martin con- tinued coldly; “not only useless but dangerous. my patience is worn thin. when i think of what i have suffered, when i think of what art has suffered, i can have no more tolerance for stupidity.” “then you weren't murdered after all?” i muttered through dry lips. “most assuredly not,” he answered with one of his catlike grimaces. seating himself on the side of the bunk, he regarded me with a speculative stare. “why is man invariably blinded by the obvious?” he con- tinued. “a chain of circumstantial evidence can so easily be forged by a master mind that one should test it thoroughly before one believes. why should you think that wilbur huntington murdered me?” “i never thought so,” i muttered. “ah, but you did, smithers,” he said lifting one of his long, thin hands in expostulation. “you did and the world did. and why? simply because a body was found floating in the east river—a decomposing, unrec- ognizable body which wore my ring and clothes. and because he visited me that night, because he disliked my works, because he disappeared—you, his best friend, branded him a murderer. what a trifling thing i renounced when i sacrificed friendship on the altar!” he paused as another reverberating peal of thunder shook the cabin. for an instant his sallow face was silent, white and beautiful illumined by a sickly flash of lightning; i saw a tiny, pendulous drop of blood on his chin where the razor had slipped and nicked the flesh. strange to say, the sight of this single crimson bead of blood was reassuring; it spurred my flagging courage. if he could bleed, surely he was human. “and what became of wilbur huntington?” i asked. “why, it was his body which was floating down the river,” martin answered coldly. “he wore my clothes and ring, and the water had changed him somewhat— that was all.” once more horror overmastered me. i caught a glimpse of the truth. “who murdered him?” i cried. “good god, martin, did you he bowed and i saw a smile crease his cheek like a scar. “of course, smithers. wasn't it the natural out- come of his visit to me that night? this man stood in my path—in the path of art. i had to destroy him, or else my ambition was doomed. he had become an insur- mountable obstacle in my path. i could go no further until i had forcibly removed him. how simple, how true! why, even he had a premonition of the truth. he came to my rooms as a hero goes to battle. he was a brave man, smithers.” once more martin paused and stroked his chin. i saw the pendulous drop of blood stain his finger tips. and now this blood was no longer reassuring. it revolted me. those vibrating crimson finger tips were a symbol—a symbol of the stealthy assassin who slays by night. soon they might be fastened about my throat for art's sake —or, perhaps, they would grasp the hilt of the hunting knife suspended from his belt. no matter how death came, those finger tips would play their part in it. i felt that life and i were soon to part. like a fallen tree trunk, i was at the mercy of this forester of lives. he confided in me so readily because he judged me as one already dead. it amused him to play on my emotions before he cut the thin thread which held me to existence. he was confessing to me now as a cat might confess to the mouse between its paws. but i would keep a stiff upper lip! i was afraid— yes, deadly afraid—but he should never know it. he had laughed at me many times. he had called me a weakling. he had held me up to ridicule. but i would show him that i could face death. perhaps i did not have the courage to brave life, but i had the courage to brave death. i would show him that—i would show him that even a weakling knew how to die. “why did you tie me?” i asked at length. “are you going to murder me?” he started and glanced up. “not necessarily. per- haps you will want to go. man lives to learn; why cannot he die to learn? is it not strange that human curiosity cannot overcome human fear? are you afraid of the dark, smithers? will you not open the door for truth? what is the exact sensation of death, smithers? tell me—has that question never worried you?” “never,” i muttered. “why should it?” martin shrugged his shoulders. “perhaps it silent, white and beautiful shouldn’t. but to me, it—well, you wouldn’t under- stand. only the moon understands. but you must listen to my story. no doubt you will think it one long, red road of wanton cruelty and mad blood lust. no doubt you will be unable to appreciate the supreme sacrifice of a strong nature—the sacrifice of human flesh, of human love, on the altar of the muse—that sacrifice to kindle the immortal flame of genius and create the indestructible. what i have done for art no man has done; what i will do for art you must bear witness to. i have chosen you as my messenger to the world.” - at that instant a shaft of lightning flashed between us like a lifted sword blade. it was immediately fol- lowed by such a deafening peal of thunder that the tiny cabin echoed it like a hollow drum. now the rain came down in a silver deluge, tapping on the boards overhead as though a multitude of hammers were at work. several drops trickled through a chink between the logs and fell on my upturned face. and they kept on falling relentlessly while i listened to martin's confession. xix ~ “as you already know, smithers,” martin began, “my parents both died when i was very young and my aunt took me to live with her. in that great, gloomy house the books were my only companions. and what a col- lection l i believe every great horror tale ever written found a permanent resting place on the shelves which silent, white and beautiful can suffer. ambition was already planted deep in my soul and i felt that it could never flower without imagination. tears gushed from my eyes; i was a plaything for grief. no doubt my literary career would have ended there and then, had it not been for the strange occurrence which befell on that same, sunshiny afternoon. “my aunt had been very sick for over a month. now she was dying. as i sat with weak tears running down my face, her nurse entered the library and took me to the sick room to say a last farewell. no doubt she considered that my emotion was caused by natural grief at the expectation of losing a near relative. she wiped my eyes and attempted to console me, before she led me to my aunt's bedside. “the old lady was almost at her last gasp. her thin, yellow hands were fluttering over the coverlet, resembling the fallen, windswept leaves of autumn; the death rattle rasped harshly in her wizened throat with the mechanical vibration of an engine running down; her heavy, blue-veined eyelids were closed and did not open as i knelt beside her. soon her breathing stopped. she was dead. “on my way back to the library, the scene which i had just witnessed was pictured in glowing colors in my brain. nothing could wipe it out. wherever i looked, i saw my aunt lying in her great four-poster bed like a fallen branch on a snowbank. “once more i picked up my discarded paper and pencil and began idly to picture in words what i had silent, white and beautiful “now true realization of the truth was born in upon me. i was, indeed, a writer without imagination and therefore i must rely solely on what i saw with my own eyes and what i heard with my own ears. i had determined to devote myself to horror tales. very well. but in order to be a master of tragedy, i must steel my heart against all weakness, all feeling; i must, perhaps, witness the perpetration of crime so as to impress my readers with its reality. it was necessary for an unimaginative artist to associate with the scum of the world in order to rise above the world. there- fore i must tear out my heart so that my head might rise above the stars. all this i realized, but i did not turn back.” there came another crash of thunder which drowned him out. his next few words were lost, swallowed up by the rattling of the pots and pans on the wall, the tapping fingers of rain, and a gust of wind which went howling about the cabin. “for many months i trained myself for my future career,” martin resumed. “fortunately, at that time, i had no friends except a few household pets on which i had centered my affections. because i loved them, i knew that they must go. i must have no human weaknesses to hold me back—nothing which could later interfere with art by making my will subordinate to mercy. - “so, coldly, methodically, but with unparalleled mental anguish, i tortured to death each one of my poor pets. my brain reeled, but my hand was steady; for art's safce and, after each atrocious act, i felt the natural repulsion for these cruelties growing less and less. i slowly conquered myself. “it was about this time that i first took up drawing with the intention of illustrating my future work. as in writing, it came naturally to me when death was my model. sitting before one of my slaughtered pets, i would first write a vivid description of its demise and then draw a striking, realistic picture of the scene. i kept a child’s diary, illustrated with no little skill, depicting the various crimes i had committed and por- traying my various emotions with such clarity of vision that i am sure it would have had a disastrous effect on the minds of other children had it been published. like “the confessions of constantine,” it might have created a wave of crime. “shortly after this, i entered a nearby school and almost immediately obtained the theme for my first short story. one afternoon, while walking home, i saw one of my classmates—a rather pretty girl whom i had unconsciously grown quite fond of—on the arm of an overgrown yokel whose vacant eyes and moving lips indicated a weak mentality. that evening i made inquiries in town and discovered that this yokel often carried her books home from school and that she tolerated him only out of kindness. it was plain to see that he adored her and that he was extremely jealous as are most weak-minded persons. “on the following day, i won the affections of the poor fellow by some small kindness and ascertained silent, white and beautiful that my theory was correct. his brain was like a clouded mirror, but he loved the girl devotedly. you know the rest, smithers. i wrote it up in ‘the murder of mary mortimer.” “i was the voice which drove the poor idiot on, the voice which turned the love in his undeveloped nature into a seething inferno of jealous hatred. and then, when he murdered her, when i saw her fall bleeding on a carpet of soft white snow, i stole out of the bushes where i had concealed myself, and made a sketch of her. you remember the painting, i think. it was a vivid portrayal, but rather crude in its color scheme.” martin broke off and regarded me intently. seeing the horror written on my face, no doubt, he attempted to explain and thereby made his crime all the more revolting. “to say that i felt no compassion for her would be to lie,” he continued. “as i told you, smithers, i was fond of the girl—dangerously fond. otherwise i would not have driven the idiot to kill her. a dozen times i was on the point of leaping forward, of rescuing her before it was too late; and a dozen times the voice of reason whispered: “fool, fool, would you refuse art your first human sacrifice? it is necessary to tear out the heart so that the head may rise above the stars.” that voice spoke the truth, smithers; it was the voice of my destiny. “when the girl was lifeless, strange to say, all com- passion vanished. i was once more the artist, calm and silent, white and beautiful must thrust them aside, we must crush them if need be, to reach our goal. all tender emotions clog the stream of inspiration. i could only create by forming myself into a machine devoid of all the warmer instincts of nature. paul must go! “but i was weak. i lacked the resolution to leave him. i dodged the issue. why could i not follow my career and still keep this single affection, i asked myself. surely it was possible. before now many a man had led a double life. art would not demand a complete excommunication from my fellows. as long as paul remained, i would never be quite alone. “thinking that i could serve two masters at once, i engaged lodgings on tyndall place and soon was on intimate terms with the scrapings of the neighborhood —men who would slice a throat for slight compensation and often for the merest whim. before many weeks had passed, i gathered about me a band of the most bloodthirsty rascals unhung. they nicknamed me ‘the boss' and were overjoyed to have a leader who could plan their little escapades skillfully and who sought no material gain for himself. “under my leadership a dozen murders were per- petrated and the police in every case failed to appre- hend the assassin. i witnessed all of these crimes and they are reported faithfully in my first book. yet each murder was a torture to me; and the remorse i felt when i visited paul, was almost more than i could bear. you scarcely realized my true emotions, smithers, on the night when we met on tyndall place. for art's sake , no doubt you thought i was calm and collected; but, in reality, i was suffering far more than you. every blow which descended on that writhing body, fell on my soul as well. as never before, paul's influence was about to gain the ascendancy. for one mad moment i was tempted to throw myself beneath that shower of clubs and perish with my victim. “although “many murders' was acclaimed a great success by the leading critics, it was in reality a miser- able failure. i had succeeded in writing several vivid descriptions of violent death, but they were written from the standpoint of the spectator. i had only suc- ceeded in portraying the sensations of an eyewitness— the commonplace form of narration in horror writing. surely there was room for great improvement in my next book. could i not probe far deeper into the subject? now, if i could describe accurately and vividly the thoughts and sensations of the assassin as . he struck the fatal blow, i would be accomplishing a unique effect in literature. but, unfortunately, i was not blessed with an imagination. in order to write a series of such stories, i must first commit a series of such crimes. i could no longer depend on my band of cutthroats to create models for me; i must shed human blood with my own hands. who could know the sensations of the assassin but the assassin'? it was necessary for me to become an actual murderer. “several days after i had come to this decision, i attempted to kill a man. he had been drugged and was lying unconscious in my crime studio on tyndall * silent, white and beautiful place. i was alone with him. stealing up beside the bed where he lay, i poised a needle-pointed stiletto above his heart. a single movement of my arm and he would have been a corpse; yet, try as i would, this simple act was beyond me. thinking that i saw a resemblance to paul on his white, upturned face, i sank to my knees and burst out into uncontrollable sobs. defeated, broken, i crouched there until my intended victim awoke. “that night i fought a great and final battle. all through the dark hours the struggle raged. at one moment my love for paul, and all the human weak- nesses which followed in its train, would gain the ascendancy; at the next, the calm and radiant goddess, art, would hold my will in the hollow of her hand. it was not until the gray light of dawn descended on the city that the victory was won. “‘i must sever the last link which holds me to humanity,” i told myself. “paul must be sacrificed, as others have been sacrificed, on the funeral pyre of genius. brave men have starved for it, shall i turn back? kind men have forfeited their loved ones for it, shall i be weak? no, paul, my dear friend, you must die!’” ~ xx martin paused and passed his hand across his fore- head. great drops of perspiration had formed there, which at any moment threatened to run down into his for art's sake eyes. evidently the memory of these mental sufferings could still move him. i might have pitied the man, had i not had such a hearty detestation and horror of him. “three weeks later paul and i went to the woods together,” he continued. “i had shipped a barrel of whisky to the camp several days before. it was child's play for me to overcome your brother's scruples and start him drinking again. for five days i kept him in a drunken stupor by passing him my flask when he showed signs of returning reason. on the sixth day i hid the barrel in the spring and refused to give him any more whisky. when he came to himself, he had an attack of violent melancholia. sick in body, he was sicker yet in mind. “as you know, paul’s fits of mental depression were rather dangerous. before this he had always had some one to cheer him up, some one to drag him bodily out of the slough of despondency. but now i did just the opposite. instead of trying to lighten his mind, i burdened it with all the weary weight of remorse. i gave him no hope to cling to. i told him that what had happened here in the woods would happen again and again; that there was no hope of ultimate cure for a drunkard; that he was predestined to die with delirium tremens. i even described his death rather vividly. i had always had a mental ascendancy over paul; now i used this ascendancy as a weapon to destroy him. when i left him by the camp fire that night, i knew that the thought of immediate suicide was implanted in his whisky-soaked brain. º for art's sake “‘you are quick to see the truth,' i said. “if you wished to live, you should not have treated a great book in such a manner. it may be years before i can write another equally as good.’ “‘that's what i came to see you about—your art!" he cried with strange enthusiasm. “you’re going to kill me immediately, i presume?’ “‘most certainly,” i answered. ‘i never waste time when i am anxious to be at work.’ “‘then hear me first,” he broke in excitedly. “i want to speak of your work.” “‘well? i asked. “‘you have described crime from the standpoint of the onlooker and from the standpoint of the assassin,” he said. “that is true, is it not?' “‘yes,’ i assented. “‘but you have missed the great situation—the truly artistic situation!” he continued quickly. “‘how so?' i demanded hotly. “‘why, you have never written a story from the standpoint of the victimſ’ he cried. “in other words, what is the exact sensation of death?’ “‘what is the exact sensation of death?' i repeated dully." “‘to be sure!’ he shouted almost gleefully. ‘you’re worse than a failure, martin, for you are only a partial success! you, whom they call the recorder of sen- sations, have missed the only unknown sensation—that mysterious sensation of death! there is material beyond your reach. till you have mastered it, you will silent, white and beautiful remain a living lie. i will know that secret, but it will not be mirrored in my dead eyes! you will have to go further, martin—further!' “and then, smithers, the truth of his words flashed through my brain like lightning. what was the sen- sation of death? all my life i had been straining toward that unknown knowledge without realizing it; all my life i had known instinctively that dead things guard a precious secret. without this secret, i was a mere scribbler forced to give shopworn offerings to the muse. what was the sensation of death? if i knew that, unborn millions would live to fear me; my shadow would rest like black plumage over the world; and life, once gay and carefree, would shudder on the brink of the tomb! “but now red rage flamed up in me—blind rage at my own impotence. how i hated this man who had pointed out the truth! my only thought was to destroy that brain which had grappled and was grappling with mine. “grasping the heavy poker which leaned against the grate, i struck him on the head with all my might. the iron bit into his skull and he fell senseless at my feet. but blind fury still possessed me. i struck again and again till his face was beaten into an unrecognizable mass. “and then i stopped, ashamed. i knew that he had escaped; that my first blow had opened the door for him; that he was now safe from me, quite safe and the possessor of a priceless knowledge... and i dared not for art’s sake look into his eyes for fear that i would see that relent- less question: ‘what was the sensation of death?’ “you know the rest, smithers. i dressed his body in my clothes. i slipped my ring on his finger and later that night i had him thrown into the river. then i left the city by stealth. solitude has always appealed to me. i took to the woods, grew a beard and soon became familiar with my new life.” he paused and regarded me solemnly for a moment. “tell me,” he muttered, “why did huntington call me a failure? do you think that i am a failure, smithers? i have tried so hard and now ” he shook his head sadly. “we, who serve, must give everything—every- thing!” and now a new terror was added to my others. there remained no doubt in my mind. looking up into his thin, convulsed face, i realized that burgess martin was mad. there he sat, his eyes fixed on mine with a speculative stare—a madman with the red stain of murder in his brain l how long before his slender, crimson finger tips would be at their wonted trade? how long had i to live? xxi “all that i have told you happened such a long, long time ago,” martin resumed in a weary voice. “now nothing amuses me—nothing! for ten unbearable years that relentless question has burned my brain like molten lava. the world, no doubt, would think me silent, white and beautiful mad, but the moon knows better. to-night, as i sat by the fire, she bent down from the heavens and whispered to me, telling me how i could find the answer and be as wise as she and other cold things. just think what it must mean to be wise as the moon! “but do not imagine that i seek to learn this truth for myself alone. ah, no, i do it for art—i do it so that she may become all-powerful, so that she may rule over the dead as over the living. i shall leave a message behind which will open those dark portals. no longer shall the breath from the tomb be heavy- laden with mystery. the time has come for my last sacrifice!” all this time his eyes had been fixed on me; his face had been so close to mine that i could feel his hot breath on my cheek. but now he rose and straightened himself to his full height. slowly his right hand stole downward till it rested on the hilt of the hunting knife suspended from his belt. a moment later i saw the sharp blade gleam dully in the feeble lamplight. “tell me,” he said softly, bending forward as a mother might stoop to caress her sleeping child. “tell me, would you not like to go? paul has trod that path; huntington laughed as i struck him down. surely you will not remain behind º' and then, for the first time in all that terrible night, my courage deserted me. “help!” i shouted. “help!” but the moaning of the wind, that everlasting mourner, was my only answer. “you were always a weakling,” martin said with a for art’s saece sneer strong in his voice. “but i will not press you. you shall be my messenger to the world.” now he bent down lower still, and, with the speed of lightning, passed the sharp blade of the hunting knife across the arteries in his left wrist. instantly a warm stream of blood fell on my upturned face. at this new horror, everything grew black before my eyes. i fainted. when i regained consciousness, martin still lived, although his blood was dry on my cheek. he sat beside the table in the center of the room, bending over it and writing hurriedly. his left arm hung motionless by his side. from the wrist a dark ribbon of blood stole downward over the hand and, separating at each finger, dripped to the floor. the storm had died down, the rain had ceased. i could distinctly hear the scratch- ing sound his pencil made while traveling over the paper, the intermittent pattering of blooddrops on the loose boards at his feet. for the moment i was incapable of thought. i stared stupidly at this absorbed figure, scarcely realizing the struggle going on between mind and body, between life and death. and then the pencil—that swiftly moving pencil riveted my gaze. i felt that it was being pur- sued, that pencil; that it was a tiny terror-stricken creature, fleeing, dodging this way and that, leaping forward in a frenzy to escape. but what pursued it? what implacable destiny waited for it silently at the end of the page? now it faltered, now it sped on again, now it moved jerkily forward for an inch or - -- for art’s sake was in bill pete's cabin, hired a canoe and paddled across. he found me tied to my bunk and raving in a high fever. on the floor, within a few feet of the table, lay the stiffening remains of burgess martin. several weeks later, after i had recovered my health and strength, dr. street gave me further details. it seems that martin's usually somber face was trans- figured by a strange, unearthly smile and that he held in his right hand, crumpled up into a ball, a sheet of paper on which he had succeeded in writing several sentences. i have that sheet of paper before me now and, as i am convinced that his last message can do no harm in its unfinished state, i quote from it verbatim: “i am dying, slowly, painlessly. from me are fall- ing, one by one, the dry husks of life. a great weak- ness, which clarifies the senses, is stealing over me. i am a child again—a child who stands on the tiptoe of expectancy. something is about to happen. what? i do not know. and yet i feel so sure of approaching freedom. i have lived my life behind iron bars; and now—why, now i smell the sea! yes, and i see it—that sea of eternity, that sea which holds a million, million souls' i hear it. my ears catch up the refrain and hold it like shells on life's shore. all my life i have sought to probe its mystery— that beautiful, sparkling sea of death. why am i so weak? the pencil is falling from my hand. i must hold it tighter—tighter! i have lived my life for art's sake; i must die for art’s sake. but hush! she is coming! my love is coming, my cold bride! and who is that beside her? who is that who holds her hand in his? it is death—proud - *- * * - - - -- | | friar rush the historie of frier rysh: how he came to a houſe of religion to feeke ſeruice, and being entertained by the priour, was firſt made vnder cooke. being full of pleaſant mirth and delight for young people. helhi imprinted at london by edw. all-de, dwelling neere chriſt-church. o. a pleaſant hiſtorie home againe in the morning ſo ſecretly, that no man ſhall ſpye it. and alſo i ſhall keepe your counſaile ſo ſecretly, that it ſhall neuer be knowne. and when the priour heard ruſh ſpeake ſo, he was right glad of him, and ſaid : ruſh, if thou canſt doe as thou haſt ſaid ? i ſhall reward thee well for thy labour, and thou ſhalt be my moſt welbeloued feruant: wherefore make an end of thy buſineſſe, for ſoone thou ſhalt goe a little way on a meſſage for me, and ſo he departed and went to ſup- per. and when euery man had ſupped, and ruſs had done all his buſineſſe in the kitchin, hee came vnto his maiſter the priour, and ſaid, sir, what is your will with me ? the priour anſwered and ſaid : here a little beſide dwelleth a faire gentlewoman, the which i loue very well, but i dare not diſcouer my minde vnto her my ſelfe: and if thou canſt finde thé meanes to bring her ſecretly vnto me, i ſhall reward thee right well for thy labour and paine. and when ruſs had heard the words of his maifter, and knew all his minde, he an- ſwered and ſaid: sir, be of good cheere, and let mee alone with that matter : for i ſhall goe vnto the gentle- womans houſe, and i ſhall ſay your meſſage ſo well, that this night ſhe ſhall come to you: and ſo departed ruſh from his maiſter, and went ſtraight vnto this gen- tlewomans houſe. and when he was thither come, hee found the gentlewoman ſitting all alone. and when ruſh was eſpied of her, he made vnto her great courteſie, and with many reuerences theſe words he ſaid. how a pleaſant hiſtorie in the lent, and in the aduent, both fridayes and alſo other dayes, he put bacon into their pottage pot, the which made the pottage to ſavour well, and he dreſſed their meate ſo deliciouſly, that the priour and all the friers had great meruaile that he did it ſo well : in ſo much that they ſaid he did much better then their other maiſter cookę did, & that he was a more cunninger man in his occupation, and could doe much better in. his office. thus ruſh continued in that office the ſpace of feauen yeares, and did right well, and euery man had him in loue and fauour. then it fortuned vpon a day the priour and his brethren were af- ſembled together in a generall counſaile, and as they ſtood talking together, the priour remembred ruſh, and anon he ſaid vnto his brethren : friends we haue here ruſh which is our maiſter cooke in our kitchin, and he is an olde ſeruant, and much diligent and true ſeruice he hath done to vs, and he hath continued among vs longer then 'any ſeruant that euer wee had : wherefore me thinke it reaſon, that hee were promoted into ſome other office, and made a brother among vs. then all the whole couent with one voice ſaid they were content it ſhould ſo be. so the priour ſent for ruſh, and when he was come before him and all his brethren, the priour ſaid, ruſh it is ſo, thou haſt beene here a long ſeaſon, and we haue found thee hitherto a true and diligent ſeruant, wherefore wee will that thou be promoted, and take vpon thee an habite as we haue, and to become a brother among vs. ruſh anſwered and ſaid: my maiſters i thanke you all, and then the priour gaue ruſh an habite, and put it on his backe, and ſo ruß became a brother in the place, neuerthe- leſſe he kept his office ſtill. how of frier ruſh. ii manner of light therein whereby the one might ſee the other; and when he had ſo done, he tooke his trun- cheon in his hand, and went into the quier among the thickest of the friers the which were fighting freſhly without light, and there he laid ſo luſtily about, that many of them he felled to the ground, and left them there for dead, and when he had ſo done, he ſtole his way from them, and as hee went, he found ſtanding in the portall of the quier, a great olde deſke, and anon hee tooke the delke betweene both his hands, and threw it ouer the portall into the quier among all the friers, and hurt many fore, in ſo much that ſome had an arme broken, and ſome a legge, and other ſome had their noſes cleane pared from their faces, that the bloud ranne in their mouthes, and as for broken heads to the hard ſcalpe were no dainty, for euery man had one, there ſcaped none free away, who had been there, frould haue had a goodly paſtime to ſee the friers creepe about the quier, and in ſteede of (domine labia) they cried out alas and well away. then when the fray was done, and all the noyſe feaſed, ruſh came in among them with a candell light in his hand, and made as he had knowne nothing thereof, and ſaid to them: fie for ſhame sirs, how fortuned this diſcord to fall among your ſelues ? i ſee well now you regard not your honour, nor the good name of your place. all the people ſhall ſay ye honest, nor good religious men, the which words i would be loath to heare, and i may not ſuffer our place ſo to fall in an euill name: wherefore good maſters, i require you to ſet your hearts at reſt, and put the matter into my hands, and i ſhall doe ſo much that all ſhall be well, and you ſhal be good friends againe, and no words ſhall be ſpoken thereof, then euery man complained to him of their great hurt, and he made ſemblance as he c had be not ez.. conf. rm. ne introduction. there seems to be some considerable reason for believing that the hero of this story was a reality. the story tells us that he lived in the marsh of the isle of ely, and that he became "a brewer's man " at lyn, and traded to wisbeach. this little piece of geographical evidence enables us to fix the story as belonging to the great fen district, which occupied the north of cambridgeshire and norfolk. the antiquary thomas hearne has gone so far as to identify the hero of tradition with a doughty knight of the crusaders. writing in the quarterly review (vol. xxi. p. ), sir francis palgrave says:— "mr. thomas hickathrift, afterwards sir thomas hicka- thrift, knight, is praised by mr. thomas hearne as a 'famous champion.' the honest antiquary has identified this well- known knight with the far less celebrated sir frederick de tylney, baron of tylney in norfolk, the ancestor of the tylney family, who was killed at aeon, in syria, in the reign of richard cceur de lion. hycophric, or hycothrift, as the mister-wight observes, being probably a corruption of frederick. introduction. this happy exertion of etymological acumen is not wholly due to hearne, who only adopted a hint given by mr. philip le neve, whilome of the college of arms." there does not seem to be the slightest evidence for hearne's identification any more than there is for his philological con- clusions, and we may pass over this for other and more reliable information. we must first of all turn to the story itself, as it has come down to us in its chapbook form. it is divided into two parts. the first part of the story is the earliest; the second part being evidently a printer's or a chapman's addition. our reprint of the former is taken from the copy in the pepysian library at magdalene college, cambridge, and which was printed probably about — o; the latter is taken from the british museum copy, the date of which, according to the museum authorities, is . in trying to ascertain something as to the date of the story apart from that of its printed version, it will therefore be necessary to put out of consideration the second portion. this has been written by some one well acquainted with the original first part, and with the spirit of the story; but in spite of this there is undoubted evidence of its literary origin at a date later than the first part. but turning to the first part there are two expressions in this early pepysian version which have not been repeated in the later editions—those of the eighteenth century; and these two expressions appear to me to indicate a introduction. iii date afttr which the story could not have been originated. on page i we read that tom hickathrift dwelt " in the marsh of the isle of ely." in the earliest brit'sh museum copy this appears as "in the parish of the isle of ely." again, on page tom is described as laying out the giant's estate," some of which he gave to the poor for their common, and the rest he made pastures of and divided the most part into good ground, to main- tain him and his old mother jane hickathrift." in the earliest british museum copy the expression " good ground " is dis- placed by " tillage." now it is clear from these curious trans- position of words in the earliest and latest editions that some-- thing had been going on to change the nature of the country. the eighteenth-century people did not know the " marsh " of ely, so they read " parish ": they did not know the meaning of "good ground" so they read "tillage." and hence it is clear that at the printing of this earliest version the fen lands of cambridge and norfolk had not yet been drained; there was still " marsh land " which was being made into " good land." but i think there is evidence in this printed chap-book version of the story which tells us that it was taken from a traditional version. let any one take the trouble to read aloud the first part, and he will at once perceive that there is a ring and a cadence given to the voice by the wording of the story, and particularly by the curious punctuation, which at once reminds us of a narrative from word of mouth. and besides this there is some little evidence of phonetic spelling, just such introduction. vii grew so hot that at length it came to blows; and that hicki- fric, being a person of extraordinary stature and courage, took an axletree from a cart instead of a sword, and the wheel for his buckler, and, being so armed, most stoutly repelled those bold invaders: for further testimony of which notable exploit they to this day show a large gravestone near the east end of the chancel in tilney churchyard, whereupon the form of a cross is so cut as that the upper part thereof by reason of the flou- rishes (wherewith the carver hath adorned it) sheweth to be somewhat circular, which they will, therefore, needs have to be the wheel and the shaft the axletree." this version, taken from dugdale's history of jmbanking, , p. , though differing in form, at all events serves to carry us back to , the date when sir william dugdale's history was first published. but the local tradition can be carried further back than , because the learned sir henry spelman, in his icenia sive norfokiae descriptio topographica, p. , and written about , says, when speaking of tilney, in marshland hundred: "hie se expandit insignis area quae a planicie nun- cupatur tylney-smelth, pinguis adeo et luxurians ut paduana pascua videatur superasse tuentur earn indigenae velut aras et focos, fabellamque recitant longa petitam vetustate de hikifrico (nescio quo) haii illius instar in scotorum chronicis, qui civium suorum dedignatus fuga, aratrum quod agebat, solvit; arrsptoque temone furibundus insiliit introduction. ix sword, and tooke one of the cart-wheeles which he held as a buckler; with these weapons he set vpon the common aduer- saries or aduersaries of the common, encouraged his neigh- bours to go forward, and fight valiantly in defence of their liberties; who being animated by his manly prowesse, they tooke heart to grasse, as the prouerbe is, insomuch that they, ehased the landlord and his companie to the vtmost verge of the said common; which from that time they haue quietly enioyed to this very day. the axell-tree and cart-wheele are cut and figured in diuers places of the church and church windowes, which makes the story, you must needs say, more probable. this relation doth in many parts parallell with that of one hay, a strong braue spirited scottish plowman, who vpon a set battell of scots against the danes, being working at the same time in the next field, and seeing some of his countreymen to flie from that hote encounter, caught vp an oxe yoke (boethius saith, a plough-beame), with which (after some exhortation that they should not bee faint- hearted) he beate the said straglers backe againe to the maine army, where he with his two sonnes (who tooke likewise such weapons as came next to their hands) renewed the charge so furiously that they quite discomfited the enemy, obtaining the glory .of the day and victory for their drad lord and soue- raigne kenneth the third, king of scotland; and this hap- pened in the yeare , the second of the king's raigne. this you may reade at large in the history of scotland^ thus abridged introduction. by camden as followeth."—weever's funerall monuments, , pp. - . and sir francis palgrave, quoting the legend from spelman, observes,— "from the most remote antiquity the fables and achievements of hickifric have been obstinately credited by the inhabitants of the township of tylney. hickifric is venerated by them as the assertor of the rights and liberties of their an- cestors. the 'monstrous giant' who guarded the marsh was in truth no other than the tyrannical lord of the manor who attempted to keep his copyholders out of the common field, tylney smeeth; but who was driven away with his retainers by the prowess of tom armed only with his axletree and cart-wheel."* this does not appear to me to put the case too strongly. a tradition told so readily and believed so generally in the middle of the seventeenth century must have had a strong vitality in it only to be obtained by age. let us now turn to the other side, namely, the existence of a traditional version in modern days, because it is important to note that the printing of a chapbook version need not have disturbed the full current of traditional thought. in a note sir francis palgrave seems to imply that the story was still extant without the aid of printed literature. he writes: "a norfolk antiquary has had the goodness to procure for us an authentic report of the present state of tom's sepulchre. quarterly review, vol. xxi. p. . introduction. xi it is a stone soros, of the usual shape and dimensions; the sculptured lid or cover no longer exists. it must have been entire about fifty years ago, for when we were good gaffer crane would rehearse tom's achievements, and tell us that he had cut out the moss which filled up the inscription with his penknife, but he could not read the letters." * and clare, in his village minstrel, tells us that:— "here lubin listen'd with awestruck surprise, when hickathrift's great strength has met his ear; how he kih'd giants as they were but flies, and lifted trees as one would a spear, though not much bigger than his fellows were; he knew no troubles waggoners have known, of getting stall'd and such disasters drear; up he'd chuck sacks as we would hurl a stone, and draw whole loads of grain unaided and alone." and this view as to the existence still of a traditional form of the story is almost borne out by what the country people only recently had to say relative to a monument in that part of the country over which sir william dugdale travelled, and of which he has left us such a valuable memorial in his history of imbanking. a writer in the journal of the archaeological asso- ciation (vol. xxv. p. ) says:—" a mound close to the smeeth road station, between lynn and wisbech, is called the giant's * quarterly review, vol, xxi. p. , note. xii introduction. grave, and the inhabitants relate that there lie the remains of the great giant slain by hickathrift with the cart wheel and axletree. a cross was erected upon it, and is to be seen in the neighbouring churchyard of torrington st. john's, bearing the singular name of hickathrift's candlestick." it appears, then, that the following may be considered the chief evidence which we have obtained about the existence of the story:— that a chapbook or literary form of the story has existed from the sixteenth century; that a traditional story existed quite independently of the literary story in the seventeenth century; that a traditional story exists at the present time, or until very recently; and knowing what folk-lore has to say about the long life of traditions, about their constant repetition age after age, it is not, i venture to think, too much to conclude that a story which can be shown by evidence to have lived on from mouth to mouth for two centuries is capable of going back to an almost endless antiquity for its true original. let us now consider what may be the origin of this story. there is one theory as to this which has gained the authority of sir francis palgrave. the pranks which tom performed "must be noticed," says sir francis, "as being correctly scan- dinavian" he then goes on to say, "similar were the achieve- ments of the great northern champion grettir, when he kept introduction. xvii a capteine in the warres can liue without manuell labour, and thereto is able and will beare the post, charge, and- counte- nance of a gentleman, he shall be called master, which is the title that men giue to esquiers and gentlemen and reputed for gentlemen."—harrison's description of england, (edited by f. j. furnivall for the new shakspere society, ), p- " - of yeomen he says, " and albeit they be not called master as gentlemen are, or sir as to knights apperteineth, but onelie john and thomas,". &c. (p. ): and of "the third and last sort," "named the yeomanrie," he adds, " that they be not called masters and gentlemen, but goodmen, as goodman smith, goodman coot, goodman ; cornell, goodman mascall, goodman cockswet," &c. (p. ). mr. furnivall's note (p. ) is as follows:—"every begger almost is called maister.—see lancelot's 'maister launcelet' in the merchant of venice, ii. ii. , and the extract illustrating it from sir thomas smith's commonwealth of england, bk. i. ch. (founded on harrison, i. , ), which i printed in new sh. soc.'s trans. - , p- i - - also shakspere getting his ' yeoman' father.arms, and making him a 'gentleman' in .—(leopold shakspere, introduc- tion, p.veiiu)." we thus get still further indication of the early date of the story, the significance of the title "master" having died out during the seventeenth century. the following is a bibliographical list of some of the editions, the pleasant history of thomas hic-ka-thrift, his birth and parentage, and the true man- ner of his performing many manly acts, and hew he killed a gyant. young man, here thou mayest behold what honour tom came unto. and if that thou dost buy this book, be sure that thou dost in it look, and read it o're, then thou wilt say, thy money is not thrown away. in the reign before william the conqueror, i have read in ancient histories that there dwelt a man in the marsh of the isle of ely, in the county of cambridge, whose name was thomas hic-ka-thrift, a poor man and day labourer, yet he was a very stout man, and able to perform two days works thomas hic-ka-thrift. how tom came to be a brewer's man; and how he came to kill a giant, and at last was mr. hic-ka-thrift. tom's fame being spread abroad in the country, there was not a man durst give tom an angry word for he was some- thing foolhardy, and he did not care what he did at them; so that those that knew him would not in the least displease him. but at length there was a brewer at lyn, that wanted a good lusty man to carry his beer in the marsh and to wis- bech; so hearing of tom went to hire him, but tom seemed coy and would not be his man, until his mother and friends did perswade him, and his master intreated him; and likewise pro- mised him a new suit of clothes and cloath him from top to toe; and besides he should eat and drink of the best. so tom at last yielded to be his man, and his master told him how far he should go; for you are to understand there was a monstrous gyant, who kept some part of the marsh, and none durst go that way; for if they did he would keep them or kill them, or else he would make bond slaves of them. but to come to tom and his master, that he did more work the pleasant history of and maids, and lived most bravely; and he made him a park to keep deer in; and by his house, which is a town, he built a famous church and gave it the name of st. james' church, because he killed the gyant on that day, which is so to this hour and ever will be; and many more good deeds he did which is too tedious to write in this column, but to tell the chief i shall do my endeavour. the pleasant history of 'thomas hic-ka-thrift. so tom steps to the gate and takes one of the rails for his staff; so to it they fell, the tinker at tom, and tom at the tinker, like two giants they laid on at each other. the tinker had a leathern coat on, and at every blow tom gave the tinker, his coat roar'd again, yet the tinker did not give way to tom an inch. but tom gave the tinker a blow on the side of the head, which felled the tinker. now, tinker, where are you? said tom. but the tinker being a nimble fellow, leapt up again, and gave tom a blow, made him reel again, and followed his blows, and took tom on the other side which made tom's neck crack again. so tom flung down his weapon and yielded the tinker the better on't, and took him home to his house, where i shall leave tom and the tinker till they be recovered of their sad wounds and bruises. finis. the pleasant history of thomas hickathrift. the second part. chap. i. tom hickathrift and the tinker conquered and overcame three thousand rebellious subjects. in and about the isle of ely, many disaffected persons, to the number of ten thousand and upwards drew themselves up in a body, presuming to contend for their pretended ancient rights and liberties, insomuch that the gentry and civil magistrates of the country was in great danger; at which time the sheriff, by night, privately got into the house of thomas hickathrift, as a secure place of refuge, in so eminent a time of danger : where before thomas hickathrift, he laid open the villainous intent of 'thomas hickathrift. their heads were taken and made public examples of justice, the rest being pardoned at the humble request of thomas hicka- thrift and the tinker. ao the pleasant history of chap. ii. tom hickathrift and the tinker was sent for to court and of their kind entertainment there, etc. the king being truly informed of the faithful services per- form'd by these his loving subjects, thomas hickathrift and the tinker, he was pleased to send for them to his palace, where a royal banquet was prepared for their entertainment, most of the nobility being present. now after the banquet was over, the king said unto all that were there, these are my trusty and well-beloved subjects, men of approved courage and valour, they are the men that overcame and conquer'd ten thousand which were got together to disturb the peace of my realm; according to the character that hath been given to tho. hickathrift and henry nonsuch, persons here present, they cannot be matcht in any other kingdom in the world; were it possible to have an army of twenty thousand such as these, i dare venture to act the part of alexander the great over again: yet in the mean- while, as a proof of my royal favour, kneel down and receive the antient order of knighthood, mr. hickathrift, which was instantly perform'd. and as for henry nonesuch, i will settle —r~ - thomas hickathrift. upon him, as a reward for his great service, the sum of forty shillings a year, during life. which said, the king withdrew, and sir thomas hickathrift and henry nonesuch the tinker, returned home, attended by many persons of quality, some miles from the court. but to the great grief of sir thomas, at his return from the court, he found his aged mother drawing to her end, who in a few days after died and was buried in the isle of ely. the pleasant history of chap. iii. tom after his old mother's death went a wooing; and how he served a young gallant who affronted him before his mistress. tom's mother being dead, and he left alone in a large and spacious house, he found himself strange and uncouth, therefore he began to consider with himself that it would not be amiss to seek out for a wife; and hearing of a young rich widow, not far from cambridge, to her he went, and made his addresses: and at the first coming she seem'd to shew him much favour and countenance; but between this and his coming again, she had given some entertainment to a more genteel and airy spark, who happened likewise to come while honest tom was there the second time; he look'd wishfully at tom, and he star'd as wishfully at him again; at last the young spark began with abuseful language to affront tom, telling him he was such a great lubberly whelp, adding that such a one as he should not pretend to make love to a lady, as he was but a brewer's servant. scoundrel quoth tom better words should become you, and if you do not mend your manners, you shall not fail to feel my thomas hickathrift. . , sharp correction. at which the young spark challenged him forth into the back yard; for, as he said, he did n t question but to make a fool of tom in a trice. into the yard they both walk together, the young spark with a naked sword, and tom with neither stick nor staff in his hand, nor any other weapon. what says the spark, have you nothing to defend yourself? well i shall the sooner dispatch you. which said, he ran furiously forward, making a pass at tom, which he put by, and then wheeling round to his backside, tom gave him such a swinging kick on the breech, which sent the spark like a crow up into the air* from whence he fell upon the ridge of a thatcht house, and then came down into a large fish pond, and had been certainly drown'd if it had not been for a poor shepherd who was walking that way, and seeing him float upon the water, dragged him out with his hook, and home he returned like a drowned rat; while tom enjoy'd the kind embraces of his fair mistress. thomas hickathrift. would appoint a punishment for her himself; which was this; he bor'd a hole thro' her nose and tying a string therein, then order'd her to be stript stark naked, commanding the rest of the old women to stick a candle in her fundament, and lead her by the nose thro' all the streets and lanes in cambridge, which comical sight caused a general laughter. this done, she had her cloaths restor'd her again, and so was acquitted. - - - - - - - - - **** the cave girl saves waldo's life. chapter part i page i flotsam . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . i ii the wild people...................... i iii. the little eden....................... iv death's doorway ..................... v awakening ... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . vi. a choice . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . o vii thandar, the seeker................... o viii nadara again ........................ ix the seeker . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . x the trail's end....................... iii xi capture . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . i part ii i king big fist......................... ii king thandar ........................ iii. the great nagoola.................... iv the battle . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . v the abduction of nadara.............. o vi. the search .......................... i vii first mate stark...................... viii the wild men........................ ix building the boat..................... o x the head-hunters .................... xi the rescue .......................... xii pirates .............................. o xiii homeward bound ..................... i contents part i the cave girl chapter i flotsam he dim shadow of the thing was but a blur against the dim shadows of the wood behind it. the young man could distinguish no outline that might mark the presence as either brute or human. he could see no eyes, yet he knew that some- where from out of that noiseless mass stealthy eyes were fixed upon him. this was the fourth time that the thing had crept from out the wood as darkness was settling—the fourth time during those three horrible weeks since he had been cast upon that lonely shore that he had watched, terror-stricken, while night engulfed the shadowy form that lurked at the forest's edge. it had never attacked him, but to his distorted imagination it seemed to slink closer and closer as night fell—waiting, always waiting for the mo- ment that it might find him unprepared. \ i the cave girl waldo emerson smith-jones was not overly courageous. he had been reared among surround- ings of culture plus and ultra-intellectuality in the exclusive back bay home of his ancestors. he had been taught to look with contempt upon all that savored of muscular superiority—such things were gross, brutal, primitive. it had been a giant intellect only that he had craved—he and a fond mother—and their wishes had been fulfilled. at twenty-one waldo was an animated encyclopedia—and about as muscular as a real one. now he slunk shivering with fright at the very edge of the beach, as far from the grim forest as he could get. cold sweat broke from every pore of his long, lank, six-foot-two body. his skinny arms and legs trembled as with palsy. occasionally he coughed —it had been the cough that had banished him upon this ill-starred sea voyage. as he crouched in the sand, staring with wide, horror-dilated eyes into the black night, great tears rolled down his thin, white cheeks. it was with difficulty that he restrained an over- powering desire to shriek. his mind was filled with forlorn regrets that he had not remained at home to meet the wasting death that the doctor had pre- dicted—a peaceful death at least—not the brutal flotsam end which faced him now. the lazy swell of the south pacific lapped his legs, stretched upon the sand, for he had retreated before that menacing shadow as far as the ocean would permit. as the slow minutes dragged into age-long hours, the nervous strain told so heavily upon the weak boy that toward midnight he lapsed into merciful unconsciousness. the warm sun awoke him the following morn- ing, but it brought with it but a faint renewal of courage. things could not creep to his side unseen now, but still they could come, for the sun would not protect him. even now some savage beast might be lurking just within the forest. the thought unnerved him to such an extent that he dared not venture to the woods for the fruit that had formed the major portion of his suste- nance. along the beach he picked up a few mouth- fuls of sea-food, but that was all. the day passed, as had the other terrible days which had preceded it, in scanning alternately the ocean and the forest's edge—the one for a ship and the other for the cruel death which he momen- tarily expected to see stalk out of the dreary shades to claim him. a more practical and a braver man would have constructed some manner of shelter in which he might have spent his nights in comparative safety . the cave girl and comfort, but waldo emerson's education had been conducted along lines of undiluted intellectu- ality—pursuits and knowledge which were prac- tical were commonplace, and commonplaces were vulgar. it was preposterous that a smith-jones should ever have need of vulgar knowledge. for the twenty-second time since the great wave had washed him from the steamer's deck and hurled him, choking and sputtering, upon this inhospitable shore, waldo emerson saw the sun sinking rapidly toward the western horizon. as it descended the young man's terror increased, and he kept his eyes glued upon the spot from which the shadow had emerged the previous evening. he felt that he could not endure another night of the torture he had passed through four times be- fore. that he should go mad he was positive, and he commenced to tremble and whimper even while daylight yet remained. for a time he tried turning his back to the forest, and then he sat huddled up gazing out upon the ocean; but the tears which rolled down his cheeks so blurred his eyes that he saw nothing. finally he could endure it no longer, and with a sudden gasp of horror he wheeled toward the wood. there was nothing visible, yet he broke down and sobbed like a child, for loneliness and terror. when he was able to control his tears for a flotsam moment he took the opportunity to scan the deepen- ing shadows once more. the first glance brought a piercing shriek from his white lips. the thing was there! the young man did not fall groveling to the sand this time—instead, he stood staring with protrud- ing eyes at the vague form, while shriek after shriek broke from his grinning lips. reason was tottering. the thing, whatever it was, halted at the first blood-curdling cry, and then when the cries con- tinued it slunk back toward the wood. with what remained of his ebbing mentality waldo emerson realized that it were better to die at once than face the awful fears of the black night. he would rush to meet his fate, and thus end this awful agony of suspense. with the thought came action, so that, still shrieking, he rushed headlong toward the thing at the wood's rim. as he ran it turned and fled into the forest, and after it went waldo emerson, his long, skinny legs carrying his emaciated body in great leaps and bounds through the tearing under- brush. he emitted shriek after shriek—ear-piercing shrieks that ended in long drawn out wails, more wolfish than human. and the thing that fled the cave girl through the night before him was shrieking, too, ow. time and again the young man stumbled and fell. thorns and brambles tore his clothing and his soft flesh. blood smeared him from head to feet. yet on and on he rushed through the semi- darkness of the now moonlit forest. at first impelled by the mad desire to embrace death and wrest the peace of oblivion from its cruel clutch, waldo emerson had come to pursue the screaming shadow before him. from an entirely different motive. now it was for companionship. he screamed now because of a fear that the thing would elude him and that he should be left alone in the depth of this weird wood. slowly but surely it was drawing away from him, and as waldo emerson realized the fact he re- doubled his efforts to overtake it. he had stopped screaming now, for the strain of his physical exer- tion found his weak lungs barely adequate to the needs of his gasping respiration. suddenly the pursuit emerged from the forest to cross a little moonlit clearing, at the opposite side of which towered a high and rocky cliff. toward this the fleeing creature sped, and in an instant more was swallowed, apparently, by the face of the cliff. its disappearance was as mysterious and awesome flotsam as its identity had been, and left the young man in blank despair. with the object of pursuit gone, the reaction came, and waldo emerson sank trembling and ex- hausted at the foot of the cliff. a paroxysm of coughing seized him, and thus he lay in an agony of apprehension, fright, and misery until from very weakness he sank into a deep sleep. it was daylight when he awoke—stiff, lame, sore, hungry, and miserable—but, withal, refreshed and sane. his first consideration was prompted by the craving of a starved stomach; yet it was with the utmost difficulty that he urged his cowardly brain to direct his steps toward the forest, where hung fruit in abundance. at every little noise he halted in tense silence, poised to flee. his knees trembled so violently that they knocked together; but at length he entered the dim shadows, and presently was gorging himself with ripe fruits. to reach some of the more luscious viands he had picked from the ground a piece of fallen limb, which tapered from a diameter of four inches at one end to a trifle over an inch at the other. it was the first practical thing that waldo emerson had done since he had been cast upon the shore of his new home—in fact, it was, in all likelihood, the nearest approximation to a practical thing which the cave girl he had ever done in all his life. waldo had never been allowed to read fiction, nor had he ever cared to so waste his time or im- poverish his brain, and nowhere in the fund of deep erudition which he had accumulated could he recall any condition analogous to those which now con- fronted him. waldo, of course, knew that there were such things as step-ladders, and had he had one he would have used it as a means to reach the fruit above his hand's reach; but that he could knock the delicacies down with a broken branch seemed indeed a mighty discovery—a valuable addition to the sum total of human knowledge. aristotle himself had never reasoned more logically. waldo had taken the first step in his life toward independent mental action—heretofore his ideas, his thoughts, his acts, even, had been borrowed from the musty writing of the ancients, or directed by the immaculate mind of his superior mother. and he clung to his discovery as a child clings to a new toy. when he emerged from the forest he brought his stick with him. he determined to continue the pursuit of the creature that had eluded him the night before. it would, indeed, be curious to look upon a thing that feared him. io the cave girl there was nothing visible, but the interior was dark and forbidding. waldo felt cold and clammy. he began to tremble. then he turned and looked back toward the forest, the thought of another night spent within sight of that dismal place almost overcame him. no! a thousand times no! any fate were better than that, and so after several futile efforts he forced his unwilling body through the small aperture. he found himself on a path between two rocky walls—a path that rose before him at a steep angle. at intervals the blue sky was visible above through openings that had not been filled with debris. to another it would have been apparent that the cleft had been kept open by human beings—that it was a thoroughfare which was used, if not fre- quently, at least sufficiently often to warrant con- siderable labor having been expended upon it to keep it free from the debris which must be con- stantly falling from above. where the path led, or what he expected to find at the other end, waldo had not the remotest idea. he was not an imaginative youth. but he kept on up the ascent in the hope that at the end he would find the creature which had escaped him the night before. as it had fled for a brief instant across the clear- flotsam ii p- ing beneath the moon's soft rays, waldo had thought that it bore a remarkable resemblance to a human figure; but of that he could not be positive. at last his path broke suddenly into the sunlight. the walls on either side were but little higher than his head, and a moment later he emerged from the cleft onto a broad and beautiful plateau. before him stretched a wide, grassy plain, and beyond towered a range of mighty hills. between them and him lay a belt of forest. a new emotion welled in the breast of waldo emerson smith-jones. it was akin to that which balboa may have felt when he gazed for the first time upon the mighty pacific from the sierra de quarequa. for the moment, as he contemplated this new and beautiful scene of rolling meadowland, distant forest, and serrated hilltops, he almost for- got to be afraid. and on the impulse of the instant he set out across the tableland to explore the un- known which lay beyond the forest. well it was for waldo emerson's peace of mind that no faint conception of what lay there entered his unimaginative mind. to him a land without civilization—without cities and towns peopled by humans with manners and customs similar to those which obtain in boston—was beyond belief. as he walked he strained his eyes in every direc- tion for some indication of human habitation—a i the cave girl fence, a chimney—anything that would be man- built; but his efforts were unrewarded. at the verge of the forest he halted, fearing to enter; but at last, when he saw that the wood was more open than that near the ocean, and that there was but little underbrush, he mustered sufficient courage to step timidly within. on careful tiptoe he threaded his way through the parklike grove, stopping every few minutes to listen, and ready at the first note of danger to fly screaming toward the open plain. notwithstanding his fears, he reached the op- posite boundary of the forest without seeing or hearing anything to arouse suspicion, and, emerg- ing from the cool shade, found himself a little dis- tance from a perpendicular white cliff, the face of which was honeycombed with the mouths of many caves. - there was no living creature in sight, nor did the very apparent artificiality of the caves suggest to the impractical waldo that they might be the habi- tations of perhaps savage human beings. with the spell of discovery still upon him, he crossed the open toward the cliffs; but he had by no means forgotten his chronic state of abject fear. ears and eyes were alert for hidden dangers; every few steps were punctuated by a timid halt and a searching survey of his surroundings. flotsam i it was during one of these halts, when he had crossed half the distance between the forest and the cliff, that he discerned a slight movement in the wood behind him. for an instant he stood staring and frozen, un- able to determine whether he had been mistaken or really had seen a creature moving in the forest. he had about decided that he had but imagined a presence when a great, hairy brute of a man stepped suddenly from behind the bole of a tree. chapter ii the wild people he creature was naked except for a bit of hide that hung from a leathern waist thong. if waldo viewed the newcomer with wonder, it was no less than the wonder which the sight of him inspired in the breast of the hairy one, for what he saw was as truly remarkable to his eyes as was his appearance to those of the cultured bostonian. and waldo did indeed present a most startling ex- terior. his six-feet-two was accentuated by his extreme skinniness; his gray eyes looked weak and watery within the inflamed circles which rimmed them, and which had been produced by loss of sleep and much weeping. - his yellow hair was tangled and matted, and streaked with dirt and blood. blood stained his soiled and tattered ducks. his shirt was but a mass of frayed ribbons held to him at all only by the neck-band. as he stood helplessly staring with bulging eyes at the awful figure glowering at him from the forest his jaw dropped, his knees trembled, and he seemed about to collapse from sheer terror. the wild people i then the hideous man crouched and came creep- ing warily toward him. with an agonized scream waldo turned and fled toward the cliff. a quick glance over his shoulder brought another series of shrieks from the fright- ened fugitive, for it revealed not alone the fact that the awful man was pursuing him, but that behind him raced at least a dozen more equally frightful. waldo ran toward the cliffs only because that direction lay straight away from his pursuers. he had no idea what he should do when he reached the rocky barrier—he was far too frightened to think. his pursuers were gaining upon him, their sav- ' age yells mingling with his piercing cries and spur- ring him on to undreamed-of pinnacles of speed. as he ran, his knees came nearly to his shoul- ders at each frantic bound; his left hand was ex- tended far ahead, clutching wildly at the air as though he were endeavoring to pull himself ahead, while his right hand, still grasping the cudgel, de- scribed a rapid circle, like the arm of a windmill gone mad. in action waldo was an inspiring spec- tacle. at the foot of the cliff he came to a momentary halt, while he glanced hurriedly about for a means of escape; but now he saw that the enemy had i the cave girl spread out toward the right and left, leaving no means of escape except up the precipitous side of the cliff. up this narrow trails led steeply from ledge to ledge. in places crude ladders scaled perpendicular heights from one tier of caves to the next above; but to waldo the thing which confronted him seemed absolutely unscalable, and then another backward glance showed him the rapidly nearing enemy; and he launched himself at the face of that seemingly impregnable barrier, clutching desper- ately with fingers and toes. his progress was impeded by the cudgel to which he still clung, but he did not drop it; though why it would have been difficult to tell, unless it was that his acts were now purely mechanical, there being no room in his mind for aught else than terror. close behind him came the foremost cave man; yet, though he had acquired the agility of a monkey through a lifetime of practice, he was amazed at the uncanny speed with which waldo emerson clawed his shrieking way aloft. half-way up the ascent, however, a great hairy hand came almost to his ankle. it was during the perilous negotiation of one of the loose and wabbly ladders—little more than small trees leaning precariously against the per- pendicular rocky surface—that the nearest foe- the wild people man came so close to the fugitive; but at the top chance intervened to save waldo, for a time at least. it was at the moment that he scrambled frantically to a tiny ledge from the frightfully slipping sapling. in his haste he did by accident what a resourceful man would have done by intent—in pushing him- self onto the ledge he kicked the ladder outward— for a second it hung toppling in the balance, and then with a lunge crashed down the cliff's face with its human burden, in its fall scraping others of the pursuing horde with it. a chorus of rage came up from below him, but waldo had not even turned his head to learn of his temporary good fortune. up, ever up he sped, until at length he stood upon the topmost ledge, facing an overhanging wall of blank rock that tow- ered another twenty-five feet above him to the summit of the bluff. time and again he leaped futilely against the smooth surface, tearing at it with his nails in a mad endeavor to climb still higher. at his right was the low opening to a black cave, but he did not see it—his mind could cope with but the single idea: to clamber from the horrible creatures which pursued him. but finally it was borne in on his half-mad brain that this was the end—he could fly no farther—here, in a moment more, death would overtake him. the cave girl he turned to meet it, and below saw a number of the cave men placing another ladder in lieu of that which had fallen. in a moment they were re- suming the ascent after him. on the narrow ledge above them the young man stood, chattering and grinning like a madman. his pitiful cries were now punctuated with the hollow coughing which his violent exercise had induced. tears rolled down his begrimed face, leaving crooked, muddy streaks in their wake. his knees smote together so violently that he could barely stand, and it was into the face of this apparition of cowardice that the first of the cave men looked as he scrambled above the ledge on which waldo stood. and then, of a sudden, there rose within the breast of waldo emerson smith-jones a spark that generations of overrefinement and emasculating cul- ture had all but extinguished—the instinct of self- preservation by force. heretofore it had been purely by flight. with the frenzy of the fear of death upon him, he raised his cudgel, and, swinging it high above his head, brought it down full upon the unprotected skull of his enemy. another took the fallen man's place—he, too, went down with a broken head. waldo was fight- ing now like a cornered rat, and through it all he the wild people chattered and gibbered; but he no longer wept. at first he was horrified at the bloody havoc he wrought with his crude weapon. his nature re- volted at the sight of blood, and when he saw it mixed with matted hair along the side of his cudgel, and realized that it was human hair and human blood, and that he, waldo emerson smith-jones, had struck the blows that had plastered it there so thickly in all its hideousness, a wave of nausea swept over him, so that he almost toppled from his dizzy perch. for a few minutes there was a lull in hostilities while the cave men congregated below, shaking their fists at waldo and crying out threats and chal- lenges. the young man stood looking down upon them, scarcely able to realize that alone he had met savage men in physical encounter and defeated them. he was shocked and horrified; not, odd to say, because of the thing he had done, but rather be- cause of a strange and unaccountable glow of pride in his brutal supremacy over brutes. what would his mother have thought could she have seen her precious boy now? suddenly waldo became conscious from the corner of his eye that something was creeping upon him from behind out of the dark cave before which he had fought. simultaneously with the realization o the cave girl of it he swung his cudgel in a wicked blow at this new enemy as he turned to meet it. the creature dodged back, and the blow that would have crushed its skull grazed a hairbreadth from its face. waldo struck no second blow, and the cold sweat sprang to his forehead when he realized how nearly he had come to murdering a young girl. she crouched now in the mouth of the cave, eying him fearfully. waldo removed his tattered cap, bowing low. “i crave your pardon,” he said. “i had no idea that there was a lady here. i am very glad that i did not injure you.” there must have been something either in his tone or manner that reassured her, for she smiled and came out upon the ledge beside him. as she did so a scarlet flush mantled waldo's face and neck and ears—he could feel them burn- ing. with a nervous cough he turned and became intently occupied with the distant scenery. presently he cast a surreptitious glance behind him. shocking! she was still there. again he coughed nervously. “excuse me,” he said. “but—er—ah—you —i am a total stranger, you know; hadn't you better go back in, and—er—get your clothes?” she made no reply, and so he forced himself to the wild people i turn toward her once more. she was smiling at him. waldo had never been so horribly embarrassed in all his life before—it was a distinct shock to him to realize that the girl was not embarrassed at all. he spoke to her a second time, and at last she answered; but in a tongue which he did not under- stand. it bore not the slightest resemblance to any language, modern or dead, with which he was familiar, and waldo was more or less master of them all—especially the dead ones. he tried not to look at her after that, for he realized that he must appear very ridiculous. but now his attention was required by more pressing affairs—the cave men were returning to the attack. they carried stones this time, and, while some of them threw the missiles at waldo, the others attempted to rush his position. it was then that the girl hurried back into the cave, only to reappear a moment later carrying some stone utensils in her arms. there was a huge mortar in which she had col- lected a pestle and several smaller pieces of stone. she pushed them along the ledge to waldo. at first he did not grasp the meaning of her act; but presently she pretended to pick up an imagi- nary missile and hurl it down upon the creatures below—then she pointed to the things she had brought and to waldo. the cave girl he understood. so she was upon his side. he did not understand why, but he was glad. following her suggestion, he gathered up a couple of the smaller objects and hurled them down upon the men beneath. but on and on they came—waldo was not a very good shot. the girl was busy now gathering such of the cave men's missiles as fell upon the ledge. these she placed in a pile beside waldo. occasionally the young man would strike an enemy by accident, and then she would give a little scream of pleasure—clapping her hands and jump- ing up and down. it was not long before waldo was surprised to find that this applause fell sweetly upon his ears. it was then that he began to take better aim. in the midst of it all there flashed suddenly upon him a picture of his devoted mother and the select coterie of intellectual young people with which she had always surrounded him. waldo felt a new pang of horror as he tried to realize with what emotions they would look upon him now as he stood upon the face of a towering cliff beside an almost naked girl hurling rocks down upon the heads of hairy men who hopped about, screaming with rage, below him. it was awful! a great billow of mortification rolled over him. - the wild people he turned to cast a look of disapprobation at the shameless young woman behind him—she should not think that he countenanced such coarse and vulgar proceedings. their eyes met—in hers he saw the sparkle of excitement and the joy of life and such a look of comradeship as he never be- fore had seen in the eyes of another mortal. then she pointed excitedly over the edge of the ledge. waldo looked. a great brute of a cave man had crawled, unseen, almost to their refuge. he was but five feet below them, and at the moment that he looked up waldo dropped a fifty- pound stone mortar full upon his upturned face. the young woman emitted a little shriek of joy, and waldo emerson smith-jones, his face bisected by a broad grin, turned toward her. chapter iii the little eden he mortar ended hostilities—temporarily, at least; but the cave men loitered about the base of the cliff during the balance of the after- noon, occasionally shouting taunts at the two above them. these the girl answered, evidently in kind sometimes she would point to waldo and make ferocious signs, doubtless indicative of the horrible slaughter which awaited them at his hands if they did not go away and leave their betters alone. when the young man realized the significance of her pantomime he felt his heart swell with an emotion which he feared was pride in brutal, primitive, vul- gar physical prowess. as the long day wore on waldo became both very hungry and very thirsty. in the valley below he could see a tiny brooklet purling, clear and beautiful, toward the south. the sight of it drove him nearly mad, as did also that of the fruit which he glimpsed hanging ripe for eating at the edge of the forest. by means of signs he asked the girl if she, too, were hungry, for he had come to a point now where the little eden he could look at her almost without visible signs of mortification. she nodded her head and, pointing toward the descending sun, made it plain to him that after dark they would descend and eat. the cave men had not left when darkness came, and it seemed to waldo a very foolhardy thing to venture down while they might be about; but the girl made it so evident that she considered him an invincible warrior that he was torn with the con- flicting emotions of cowardice and an unaccount- able desire to appear well in her eyes, that he might by his acts justify her belief in him. it seemed very wonderful to waldo that any one should look upon him in the light of a tower of strength and a haven of refuge; he was not quite certain in his own mind but that the reputation might lead him into most uncomfortable and em- barrassing situations. incidentally, he wondered if the girl was a good runner; he hoped so. it must have been quite near midnight when his companion intimated that the time had arrived when they should fare forth and dine. waldo wanted her to go first, but she shrank close to him, timidly, and held back. there was nothing else for it, then, than to take the plunge, though had the sun been shining it would have revealed a very pale and wide-eyed champion, who slipped gingerly over the side of the the cave girl ledge to grope with his feet for a foothold beneath. half-way down the moon rose above the forest —a great, full, tropic moon, that lighted the face of the cliff almost as brilliantly as might the sun itself. it shone into the mouth of a cave upon the ledge that waldo had just reached in his descent, revealing to the horrified eyes of the young man a great, hairy form stretched in slumber not a yard from him. as he looked, the wicked little eyes opened and looked straight into his. with difficulty waldo suppressed a shriek of dis- may as he turned to plunge madly down the pre- cipitous trail. the girl had not yet descended from the ledge above. she must have sensed what had happened, for as waldo turned to fly she gave a little cry of terror. at the same instant the cave man leaped to his feet. but the girl's voice had touched something in the breast of waldo emerson which generations of disuse had almost atrophied, and for the first time in his life he did a brave and courageous thing. he could easily have escaped the cave man and reached the valley—alone; but at the first note of the young girl's cry he wheeled and scrambled back to the ledge to face the burly, primitive man, who could have crushed him with a single blow. waldo emerson no longer trembled. his nerves the little eden and muscles were very steady as he swung his cudgel in an arc that brought it crashing down upon the upraised guarding arm of the cave man. there was a snapping of bone beneath the blow, a scream of pain—the man staggered back, the girl sprang to waldo's side from the ledge above, and hand in hand they turned and fled down the face of the cliff. from a dozen cave-mouths above issued a score of cave men, but the fleeing pair were half-way across the clearing before the slow-witted brutes were fully aware of what had happened. by the time they had taken up the pursuit waldo and the girl had entered the forest. for a few yards the latter led waldo straight into the shadows of the wood, then she turned abruptly toward the north, at right angles to the course they had been pursuing. she still clung to the young man's hand, nor did she slacken her speed the least after they had entered the darkness beneath the trees. she ran as surely and confidently through the impenetrable night of the forest as though the way had been lighted by flaming arcs; but waldo was continu- ally stumbling and falling. the sound of pursuit presently became fainter; it was apparent that the cave men had continued on straight into the wood; but the girl raced on the cave girl * with the panting waldo for what seemed to the winded young man an eternity. presently, how- ever, they came to the banks of the little stream that had been visible from the caves. here the girl fell into a walk, and a moment later dragged the bostonian down a shelving bank into water that came above his knees. up the bed of the stream she led him, sometimes floundering through holes so deep that they were entirely submerged. waldo had never learned the vulgar art of swim- ming, so it was that he would have drowned but for the strong, brown hand of his companion, which dragged him, spluttering and coughing, through one awful hole after another, until, half-strangled and entirely panic-stricken, she hauled him safely upon a low, grassy bank at the foot of a rocky wall which formed one side of a gorge, through which the river boiled. it must not be assumed that when waldo emer- son returned to face the hairy brute who threatened to separate him from his new-found companion that by a miracle he had been transformed from a hare into a lion—far from it. now that he had a moment in which to lie quite still and speculate upon the adventures of the past hour, the reaction came, and waldo emerson thanked the kindly night that obscured from the the little eden eyes of the girl the pitiable spectacle of his palsied limbs and trembling lip. once again he was in a blue funk, with shattered nerves that begged to cry aloud in the extremity of their terror. it was not warm in the damp cañon, through which the wind swept over the cold water, so that to waldo's mental anguish was added the physical discomfort of cold and wet. he was indeed a miserable figure as he lay huddled upon the sward, praying for the rising of the sun, yet dreading the daylight that might reveal him to his enemies. but at last dawn came, and after a fitful sleep waldo awoke to find himself in a snug and beauti- ful little paradise hemmed in by the high cliffs that flanked the river, upon a sloping grassy shore that was all but invisible except from a short stretch of cliff-top upon the farther side of the stream. a few feet from him lay the girl. she was still asleep. her head was pillowed upon one firm, brown arm. her soft black hair fell in disorder across one cheek and over the other arm, to spread gracefully upon the green grass about her. as waldo looked he saw that she was very comely. never before had he seen a girl just like her. his young women friends had been rather prim and plain, with long, white faces and thin the cave girl lips that scarcely ever dared to smile and scorned to unbend in plebeian laughter. this girl's lips seemed to have been made for laughing—and for something else, though at the time it is only fair to waldo to say that he did not realize the full possibilities that they presented. as his eyes wandered along the lines of her young body his puritanical training brought a hot flush of embarrassment to his face, and he deliber- ately turned his back upon her. it was indeed awful to waldo emerson to con- template, to say the least, the unconventional posi- tion into which fate had forced him. the longer he pondered it the redder he became. it was fright- ful—what would his mother say when she heard of it? what would this girl’s mother say? but, more to the point, and—horrible thought—what would her father or her brothers do to waldo if they found them thus together—and she with only a scanty garment of skin about her waist—a gar- ment which reached scarcely below her knees at any point, and at others terminated far above? waldo was chagrined. he could not understand what the girl could be thinking of, for in other re- spects she seemed quite nice, and he was sure that the great eyes of her reflected only goodness and innocence. the little eden i while he sat thus, thinking, the girl awoke and with a merry laugh addressed him. “good morning,” said waldo quite severely. he wished that he could speak her language, so that he could convey to her a suggestion of the dis- approbation which he felt for her attire. he was on the point of attempting it by signs, when she rose, lithe and graceful as a tigress, and walked to the river's brim. with a deft movement of her fingers she loosed the thong that held her single garment, and as it fell to the ground waldo, with a horrified gasp, turned upon his face, burying his tightly closed eyes in his hands. then the girl dived into the cool waters for her matutinal bath. she called to him several times to join her, but waldo could not look at the spectacle presented; his soul was scandalized. it was some time after she emerged from the river before he dared risk a hesitating glance. with a sigh of relief he saw that she had donned her single garment, and thereafter he could look at her unashamed when she was thus clothed. he felt that by comparison it constituted a most modest gown. together they strolled along the river's edge, gathering such fruits and roots as the girl knew to be edible. waldo emerson gathered those she in- the cave girl dicated—with all his learning he found it neces- sary to depend upon the untutored mind of this little primitive maiden for guidance. then she taught him how to catch fish with a bent twig and a lightninglike movement of her brown hands—or, rather, tried to teach him, for he was far too slow and awkward to succeed. afterward they sat upon the soft grass beneath the shade of a wild fig-tree to eat the fish she had caught. waldo wondered how in the world the girl could make fire without matches, for he was quite sure that she had none; and even should she be able to make fire it would be quite useless, since she had neither cooking utensils nor stove. he was not left long in wonderment. she arranged the fish in a little pile between them, and with a sweet smile motioned to the man to partake; then she selected one for herself, and while waldo emerson looked on in horror, sunk her firm, white teeth into the raw fish. waldo turned away in sickening disgust. the girl seemed surprised and worried that he did not eat. time and again she tried to coax him by signs to join her; but he could not even look at her. he had tried, after the first wave of revolt had subsided, but when he discovered that she ate the entire fish, without bothering to clean it or re- move the scales, he became too ill to think of food. the little eden several times during the following week they ventured from their hiding-place, and at these times it was evident from the girl's actions that she was endeavoring to elude their enemies and reach a place of safety other than that in which they were concealed. but at each venture her quick ears or sensitive nostrils warned her of the proximity of danger, so that they had been compelled to hurry back into their little eden. during this period she taught waldo many words of her native tongue, so that by means of signs to bridge the gaps between, they were able to com- municate with a fair degree of satisfaction. waldo's mastery of the language was rapid. on the tenth day the girl was able to make him understand that she wished to escape with him to her own people; that these men among whom he had found her were enemies of her tribe, and that she had been hiding from them when waldo stumbled upon her cave. “i fled,” she said. “my mother was killed. my father took another mate, always cruel to me. but when i had wandered into the land of these ene- mies i was afraid, and would have returned to my father's cave. but i had gone too far. “i would have to run very fast to escape them. once i ran down a narrow path to the ocean. it was dark. the little eden it was well that the girl did not see his pallid face and popping eyes as he looked into the evil mask of the great black panther that crouched watching them from the river's further bank. into waldo's breast came great panic. it was only because his fear-prostrated muscles refused to respond to his will that he did not scurry, scream- ing, from the sight of that ferocious countenance. then, through the fog of his cowardly terror, he heard again the girl's sweet voice: “i knew that you must be very brave to live all alone by the edge of that wicked forest.” for the first time in his life a wave of shame swept over waldo emerson. the girl called in a taunting voice to the panther, and then turned, smiling, toward waldo. “how brave i am now,” she laughed. “i am no longer afraid of nagoola. you are with me.” “no,” said waldo emerson, in a very weak voice, “you need not fear while i am with you.” “oh!” she cried. “slay him. how proud i should be to return to my people with one who van- quished nagoola, and wore his hide about his loins as proof of his prowess.” “y-yes,” acquiesced waldo faintly. “but,” continued the girl, “you have slain many of nagoola's brothers and sisters. it is no longer sport to kill one of his kind.” the cave girl “yes—yes,” cried waldo. “yes, that is it— panthers bore me now.” “oh!” the girl clasped her hands in ecstasy. “how many have you slain?” “er—why, let me see,” the young man blundered. “as a matter of fact, i never kept any record of the panthers i killed.” waldo was becoming frantic. he had never lied before in all his life. he hated a lie and loathed a liar. he wondered why he had lied now. surely it were nothing to boast of to have butchered one of god's creatures—and as for claiming to have killed so many that he could not recall the number, it was little short of horrible. yet he became conscious of a poignant regret that he had not killed a thousand panthers, and pre- served all the pelts as evidence of his valor. the panther still regarded them from the safety of the farther shore. the girl drew quite close to waldo in the instinctive plea for protection that belongs to her sex. she laid a timid hand upon his skinny arm and raised her great, trusting eyes to his face in reverent adoration. “how do you kill them?” she whispered. “tell me.” then it was that waldo determined to make a clean breast of it, and admit that he never before had seen a live panther. but as he opened his the little eden mouth to make the humiliating confession he re- alized, quite suddenly, why it was that he had lied —he wished to appear well in the eyes of this savage, half-clothed girl. he, waldo emerson smith-jones, craved the ap- plause of a barbarian, and to win it had simulated that physical prowess which generations of smith- joneses had viewed from afar—disgusted, dis- approving. the girl repeated her question. “oh,” said waldo, “it is really quite simple. after i catch them i beat them severely with a stick.” the girl sighed. “how wonderful!” she said. waldo became the victim of a number of unpleas- ant emotions—mortification for this suddenly de- veloped moral turpitude; apprehension for the future, when the girl might discover him in his true colors; fear, consuming, terrible fear, that she might insist upon his going forth at once to slay nagoola. but she did nothing of the kind, and presently the panther tired of watching them and turned back into the tangle of bushes behind him. it was with a sigh of relief that waldo saw him depart. chapter iv death's doorway ate in the afternoon the girl suggested that they start that night upon the journey toward her village. “the bad men will not be abroad after dark,” she said. “with you at my side, i shall not fear nagoola.” - “how far is it to your village?” asked waldo. “it will take us three nights,” she replied. “by day we must hide, for even you could not vanquish a great number of bad men should they attack you at once.” “no,” said waldo; “i presume not.” “it was very wonderful to watch you, though,” she went on, “when you battled upon the cliff-side, beating them down as they came upon you. how brave you were ! how terrible! you trembled from rage.” “yes,” admitted waldo, “i was quite angry. i always tremble like that when my ire is excited. sometimes i get so bad that my knees knock to- gether. if you ever see them do that you will realize how exceedingly angry i am.” “yes,” murmured the girl. deathps doorway presently waldo saw that she was laughing quietly to herself. a great fear rose in his breast. could it be that she was less gullible than she had appeared? did she, after all, penetrate the bombast with which he had sought to cloak his cowardice? he finally mustered sufficient courage to ask: “why do you laugh?” “i think of the surprise that awaits old flatfoot and korth and the others when i lead you to them.” “why will they be surprised?” asked waldo. “at the way you will crack their heads.” waldo shuddered. “why should i crack their heads?” he asked. “why should you crack their heads!” it was apparently incredible to the girl that he should not understand. - “how little you know,” she said. “you cannot swim, you do not know the language which men may understand, you would be lost in the woods were i to leave you, and now you say that you do not know that when you come to a strange tribe they will try to kill you, and only take you as one of them when you have proven your worth by killing at least one of their strongest men.” “at least one!” said waldo, half to himself. he was dazed by this information. he had ex- pected to be welcomed with open arms into the best the cave girl society that the girl's community afforded. he had thought of it in just this way, for he had not even yet learned that there might be a whole people liv- ing under entirely different conditions than those which existed in boston, massachusetts. her reference to his ignorance also came as a distinct shock to him. he had always considered himself a man of considerable learning. it had been his secret boast and his mother's open pride. and now to be pitied for his ignorance by one who probably thought the earth flat, if she ever thought about such matters at all—by one who could neither read nor write. and the worst of it all was that her indictment was correct—only she had not gone far enough. there was little of practical value that he did know. . with the realization of his limitations waldo emerson took, unknown to himself, a great stride toward a broader wisdom than his narrow soul had ever conceived. that night, after the sun had set and the stars and moon come out, the two set forth from their retreat toward the northwest, where the girl said that the village of her people lay. they walked hand in hand through the dark wood, the girl directing their steps, the young man grasping his long cudgel in his right hand and searching into the shadows for the terrible creatures deathps doorway i conjured by his cowardly brain, but mostly for the two awesome spots of fire which he had gathered from the girl's talk would mark the presence of nagoola. strange noises assailed his ears, and once the girl crouched close to him as her quick ears caught the sound of the movement of a great body through the underbrush at their left. waldo emerson was almost paralyzed by terror; but at length the creature, whatever it may have been, turned off into the forest without molesting them. for several hours thereafter they suffered no alarm, but the constant tension of apprehension on the man's already over-wrought nerves had re- duced him to a state of such abject nervous terror that he was no longer master of himself. so it was that when the girl suddenly halted him with an affrighted little gasp and, pointing straight ahead, whispered, “nagoola,” he went momentarily mad with fear. for a bare instant he paused in his tracks, and then breaking away from her, he raised his club above his head, and with an awful shriek dashed— straight toward the panther. in the minds of some there may be a doubt as to which of the two—the sleek, silent, black cat or the grinning, screaming waldo—was the most awe-inspiring. the cave girl be that as it may, it was quite evident that no doubt assailed the mind of the cat, for with a single answering scream, he turned and faded into the blackness of the black night. but waldo did not see him go. still shrieking, he raced on through the forest until he tripped over a creeper and fell exhausted to the earth. there he lay panting, twitching, and trembling until the girl found him, an hour after sunrise. at the sound of her voice he would have strug- gled to his feet and dashed on into the woods, for he felt that he could never face her again after the spectacle of cowardice with which he had treated her a few hours before. but even as he gained his feet her first words reassured him, and dissipated every vestige of his intention to elude her. “did you catch him?” she cried. “no,” panted waldo emerson quite truthfully. “he got away.” they rested a little while, and then waldo in- sisted that they resume their journey by day instead of by night. he had positively determined that he never should or could endure another such a night of mental torture. he would much rather take the chance of meeting with the bad men than suffer the constant feeling that unseen enemies were peering out of the darkness at him every moment. death's doorway in the day they would at least have the advan- tage of seeing their foes before they were struck. he did not give these reasons to the girl, however. under the circumstances he felt that another expla- nation would be better adapted to her ears. “you see,” he said, “if it hadn’t been so dark nagoola might not have escaped me. it is too bad —too bad.” “yes,” agreed the girl, “it is too bad. we shall travel by day. it will be safe now. we have left the country of the bad men, and there are few men living between us and my people.” that night they spent in a cave they found in the steep bank of a small river. it was damp and muddy and cold, but they were both very tired, and so they fell asleep and slept as soundly as though the best of mattresses lay beneath them. the girl probably slept better, since she had never been accustomed to anything much superior to this in all her life. the journey required five days, instead of three, and during all the time waldo was learning more and more woodcraft from the girl. at first his atti- tude had been such that he could profit but little from her greater practical knowledge, for he had been inclined to look down upon her as an untutored savage. now, however, he was a willing student, and the cave girl when waldo emerson elected to study there was nothing that he could not master and retain in a remarkable manner. he had a well-trained mind— the principal trouble with it being that it had been crammed full of useless knowledge. his mother had always made the error of confusing knowledge with wisdom. waldo was not the only one to learn new things upon this journey. the girl learned something, too—something which had been threatening for days to rise above the threshold of her conscious mind, and now she realized that it had lain in her heart almost ever since the first moment that she had been with this strange young man. waldo emerson had been endowed by nature with a chivalrous heart, and his training had been such that he mechanically accorded to all women the gallant little courtesies and consideration which are of the fine things that go with breeding. nor was he one whit less punctilious in his relations with this wild cave girl than he would have been with the daughter of the finest family of his own aristoc- racy. he had been kind and thoughtful and sympa- thetic always, and to the girl, who had never been accustomed to such treatment from men, nor had ever seen a man accord it to any woman, it seemed little short of miraculous that such gentle tender- death's doorway ness could belong to a nature so warlike and fero- cious as that with which she had endowed waldo emerson. but she was quite satisfied that it should be so. she would not have cared for him had he been gentle with her, yet cowardly. had she dreamed of the real truth—had she had the slightest sus- picion that waldo emerson was at heart the most arrant poltroon upon whom the sun had ever shone, she would have loathed and hated him, for in the primitive code of ethics which governed the savage community which was her world there was no place for the craven or the weakling—and waldo emer- son was both. as the realization of her growing sentiment toward the man awakened, it imparted to her ways with him a sudden coyness and maidenly aloofness which had been entirely wanting before. until then their companionship, in so far as the girl was concerned, had been rather that of one youth to- ward another; but now that she found herself thrilling at his slightest careless touch, she became aware of a paradoxical impulse to avoid him. for the first time in her life, too, she realized her nakedness, and was ashamed. possibly this was due to the fact that waldo appeared so solicitous in endeavoring to coerce his rags into the impos- sible feat of entirely covering his body. the cave girl as they neared their journey's end waldo be- came more and more perturbed. during the last night horrible visions of flatfoot and korth haunted his dreams. he saw the great, hairy beasts rushing upon him in all the ferocity of their primeval savagery—tearing him limb from limb in their bestial rage. with a shriek he awoke. to the girl's startled inquiry he replied that he had been but dreaming. “did you dream of flatfoot and korth?” she laughed. “of the things that you will do to them tomorrow?” “yes,” replied waldo; “i dreamed of flatfoot and korth.” but the girl did not see how he trembled and hid his head in the hollow of his arm. the last day's march was the most agonizing experience of waldo emerson’s life. he was posi- tive that he was going to his death, but to him the horror of the thing lay more in the manner of his coming death than in the thought of death itself. as a matter of fact, he had again reached a point when he would have welcomed death. the future held for him nothing but a life of dis- comfort and misery and constant mental anguish, superinduced by the condition of awful fear under which he must drag out his existence in this strange and terrible land. the cave girl human being, and her society much better than none at all. while hope had still lingered that he might live to escape and return to his beloved boston, he had often wondered whether he would dare tell his mother of his unconventional acquaint- ance with this young woman. of course, it would be out of the question for him to go at all into details. he would not, for example, dare to attempt a description of her toilet to his prim parent. the fact that they had been alone together, day and night, for weeks was another item which troubled waldo considerably. he knew that the shock of such information might prostrate his mother, and for a long time he debated the wisdom of omitting any mention of the girl whatever. at length he decided that a little, white lie would be permissible, inasmuch as his mother's health and the girl's reputation were both at stake. so he had decided to mention that the girl's aunt had been with them in the capacity of chaperon; that fixed it nicely, and on this point waldo's mind was more at case. late in the afternoon they wound down a nar- row trail that led from the plateau into a narrow, beautiful valley. a tree-bordered river meandered through the center of the level plain that formed the valley's floor, while beyond rose precipitous i deathps doorway ! cliffs, which trailed off in either direction as far as the eye could reach. “there live my people,” said the girl, pointing toward the distant barrier. waldo groaned inwardly. “let us rest here,” he said, “until tomorrow, that we may come to your home rested and refreshed.” “oh, no,” cried the girl; “we can reach the caves before dark. i can scarcely wait until i shall have seen how you shall slay flatfoot, and maybe korth also. though i think that after one of them has felt your might the others will be glad to take you into the tribe at the price of your friendship.” “is there not some way,” ventured the distracted waldo, “that i may come into your village without fighting? i should dislike to kill one of your friends,” said waldo solemnly. the girl laughed. “neither flatfoot nor korth are friends of mine,” she replied; “i hate them both. they are terrible men. it would be better for all the tribe were they killed. they are so strong and cruel that we all hate them, since they use their strength to abuse those who are weaker. “they make us all work very hard for them. they take other men's mates, and if the other men object they kill them. there is scarcely a moon the cave girl * passes that does not see either korth or flatfoot kill some one. “nor is it always men they kill. often when they are angry they kill women and little children just for the pleasure of killing; but when you come among us there will be no more of that, for you will kill them both if they be not good.” waldo was too horrified by this description of his soon-to-be antagonists to make any reply—his tongue clave to the roof of his mouth—all his vocal organs seemed paralyzed. but the girl did not notice. she went on joy- ously, ripping waldo's nervous system out of him and tearing it into shreds. “you see,” she continued, “flatfoot and korth are greater than the other men of my tribe. they f can do as they will. they are frightful to look upon, and i have often thought that the hearts of others dried up when they saw either of them coming for them. “and they are so strong! i have seen korth crush the skull of a full-grown man with a single blow from his open palm; while one of flatfoot's amusements is the breaking of men's arms and legs with his bare hands. they had entered the valley now, and in silence they continued on toward the fringe of trees which grew beside the little river. death's doorway nadara led the way toward a ford, which they quickly crossed. all the way across the valley waldo had been searching for some avenue of escape. he dared not enter that awful village and face those terrible men, and he was almost equally averse to admitting to the girl that he was afraid. he would gladly have died to have escaped either alternative, but he preferred to choose the manner of his death. the thought of entering the village and meeting a horrible end at the hands of the brutes who awaited him there and of being compelled to dem- onstrate before the girl's eyes that he was neither a mighty fighter nor a hero was more than he could endure. occupied with these harrowing speculations, waldo and nadara came to the farther side of the forest, whence they could see the towering cliffs rising steeply from the valley's bed, three hundred yards away. along their face and at their feet waldo descried a host of half-naked men, women, and children moving about in the consummation of their various duties. involuntarily he halted. the girl came to his side. together they looked out upon the scene, the like of which waldo emer- son never before had seen. the cave girl it was as though he had been suddenly snatched back through countless ages to a long-dead past and dropped into the midst of the prehistoric life of his paleolithic progenitors. upon the narrow ledges before their caves, women, with long, flowing hair, ground food in rude stone mortars. - naked children played about them, perilously close to the precipitous cliff edge. hairy men squatted, gorillalike, before pieces of flat stone, upon which green hides were stretched, while they scraped, scraped, scraped with the sharp edge of smaller bits of stone. there was no laughter and no song. occasionally waldo saw one of the fierce crea- tures address another, and sometimes one would raise his thick lips in a nasty snarl that exposed his fighting fangs; but they were too far away for their words to reach the young man. chapter v awakening de ome,” said the girl, “let us make haste. i cannot wait to be home again! how good it looks!” waldo gazed at her in horror. it did not seem credible that this beautiful young creature could be of such clay as that he looked upon. it was revolt- ing to believe that she had sprung from the loins of one of those half-brutes, or that a woman as fierce, repulsive, such as those he saw before him, could have borne her. it made him sick with disgust. he turned from her. “go to your people, nadara,” he said, for an idea had come to him. he had evolved a scheme for escaping a meet- ing with flatfoot and korth, and the sudden dis- gust which he felt for the girl made it easier for him to carry out his design. “are you not coming with me?” she cried. “not at once,” replied waldo, quite truthfully. “i wish you to go first. were we to go together they might harm you when they rushed out to attack me.” the cave girl the girl had no fear of this, but she felt that it was very thoughtful of the man to consider her welfare so tenderly. to humor him, she acceded to his request. “as you wish, thandar,” she answered, smiling. thandar was a name of her own choosing, after waldo had informed her in answer to a request for his name, that she might call him mr. waldo emerson smith-jones. “i shall call you thandar,” she had replied; “it is shorter, more easily remem- bered, and describes you. it means the brave one.” and so thandar he had become. the girl had scarcely emerged from the forest on her way toward the cliffs when thandar the brave one, turned and ran at top speed in the opposite direction. when he came to the river he gave immediate evidence of the strides he had taken in woodcraft during the brief weeks that he had been under the girl's tutorage, for he plunged imme- diately into the water, setting out up-stream upon the gravelly bottom where he would leave no spoor to be tracked down by the eagle eyes of these primi- tive men. he supposed that the girl would search for him; but he felt no compunction at having deserted her so scurvily. of course, he had no suspicion of her real sentiments toward him—it would have shocked him to have imagined that a low-born per- the cave girl such pity. but waldo had not as yet learned enough to realize how very little he knew. in the morning he continued his flight, gather- ing his breakfast from tree and shrub as he fled. here again was he wholly indebted to nadara, for without her training he would have been restricted to a couple of fruits, whereas now he had a great variety of fruits, roots, berries, and nuts to choose from in safety. the stream that he had been following had now become a narrow, rushing, mountain torrent. it leaped suddenly over little precipices in wild and picturesque waterfalls; it rioted in foaming cas- cades; and ever it led waldo farther into high and rugged country. - the climbing was difficult and oftentimes danger- ous. waldo was surprised at the steeps he nego- tiated—perilous ascents from which he would have snrunk in palsied fear a few weeks earlier. waldo was coming on. " - another fact which struck him with amazement at the same time that it filled him with rejoicing, was that he no longer coughed. it was quite be- yond belief, too, since never in his life had he been so exposed to cold and wet and discomfort. at home, he realized, he would long since have curled up and died had he been subjected to one- tenth the exposure that he had undergone since the awakening great wave had lifted him bodily from the deck of the steamer to land him unceremoniously in the midst of this new life of hardships and terrors. toward noon waldo began to travel with less haste. he had seen or heard no evidence of pur- suit. at times he stopped to look back along the trail he had passed, but though he could see the little valley below him for a considerable distance he discovered nothing to arouse alarm. presently he realized that he was very lonely. a dozen times in as many minutes he thought of ob- servations he would have been glad to make had there been some one with him to hear. there were queries, too, relative to this new country that he should have liked very much to propound, and it flashed upon him that in all the world there was only one whom he knew who could give him cor- rect answers to these queries. he wondered what the girl had thought when he did not follow her into the village, and set upon flatfoot and korth. at the thought he found him- self flushing in a most unaccountable manner. what would the girl think! would she guess the truth? well, what difference if she did? what was her opinion to a cultured gentleman such as waldo emerson smith-jones? but yet he found his mind constantly reverting to this unhappy specu- lation; it was most annoying. the cave girl as he thought of her he discovered with what distinctness he recalled every feature of her piquant little face, her olive skin tinged beautifully by the ruddy glow of health; her fine, straight nose and delicate nostrils, her perfect eyes, soft, yet filled with the fire of courage and intelligence. waldo wondered why it was that he recalled these things now, and dwelt upon them; he had been with her for weeks without realizing that he had particularly noticed them. but most vividly he conjured again the memory of her soft, liquid speech, her ready retorts, her bright, interesting observations on the little hap- penings of their daily life; her thoughtful kindli- ness to him, a stranger within her gates, and— again he flushed hotly—her sincere, though re- markable, belief in his prowess. it took waldo a long time to admit to himself that he missed the girl; it must have been weeks before he finally did so unreservedly. simultane- ously he determined to return to her village and find her. he had even gone so far as to start the return journey when the memory of her descrip- tion of flatfoot and korth brought him to a sud- den halt—a most humiliating halt. the blood surged to his face—he could feel it burning there. and then waldo did two things which he had never done before: he looked at his awakening soul and saw himself as he was, and—he swore. “waldo emerson smith-jones,” he said aloud, “you're a darned coward! worse than that, you're an unthinkable cad. that girl was kind to you. she treated you with the tender solicitude of a mother. and how have you returned her kind- ness? by looking down upon her with arrogant condescension. by pitying her. “pitying her! you—you miserable weakling —ingrate, pitying that fine, intelligent, generous girl. you, with your pitiful little store of second- hand knowledge, pitying that girl's ignorance. why, she's forgotten more real things than you ever heard of, you—you—” words utterly failed him. waldo's awakening was thorough—painfully thorough. it left no tiny hidden recess of his con- temptible little soul unrevealed from his searching self-analysis. looking back over the twenty-one years of his uneventful life, he failed to resurrect but a single act of which he might now be proud, and that, strange to say, in the light of his past training, had to do neither with culture, intellect, birth, breeding, nor knowledge. it was a purely gross, physical act. it was hide- ously, violently, repulsively animal—it was no other than the instant of heroism in which he had turned back upon the cliff's face to battle with the the cave girl horrible, hairy man who had threatened to prevent nadara's escape. even now waldo could not realize that it had been he who ventured so foolhardy an act; but none the less his breast swelled with pride as he recalled it. it put into the heart of the man a new hope and into his head a new purpose—a purpose that would have caused his back bay mother to seek an early grave could she have known of it. nor did waldo emerson lose any time in initiat- ing the new regime which was eventually to fit him for the consummation of his splendid purpose. he thought of it as splendid now, though a few weeks before the vulgar atrocity of it would have nauseated him. far up in the hills, near the source of the little river, waldo had found a rocky cave. this he had chosen as his new home. he cleaned it out with scrupulous care, littering the floor with leaves and grasses. before the entrance he piled a dozen large boul- ders, so arranged that three of them could be re- moved or replaced either from within or without, thus forming a means of egress and ingress which could be effectually closed against intruders. from the top of a high promontory, a half mile beyond his cave, waldo could obtain a view of the ocean, some eight or ten miles distant. it was al- awakening ways in his mind that some day a ship would come, and waldo longed to return to the haunts of civili- zation, but he did not expect the ship before his plans had properly matured and been put into execution. he argued that he could not sail away from this shore forever without first seeing nadara, and restoring the confidence in him which he felt his recent desertion had unquestionably shaken to its foundations. as a part of his new regime, waldo required exercise, and to this end he set about making a trip to the ocean at least once each week. the way was rough and hazardous, and the first few times waldo found it almost beyond his strength to make even one leg of the journey between sunrise and dark. this necessitated sleeping out over night; but this, too, accorded with the details of the task he had set himself, and so he did it quite cheerfully and with a sense of martyrdom that he found ef- fectually stilled his most poignant fits of cowardice. as time went on he was able to cover the whole distance to the ocean and return in a single day. he never coughed now, nor did he glance fearfully from side to side as he strode through the woods and open places of his wild domain. his eyes were bright and clear, his head and shoulders were thrown well back, and the mountain climbing had expanded his chest to a degree that the cave girl appalled him—the while it gave him much secret satisfaction. it was a very different waldo from the miserable creature which had been vomited up by the ocean upon the sand of that distant beach. the days that waldo did not make a trip to the ocean he spent in rambling about the hills in the vicinity of his cave. he knew every rock and tree within five miles of his lair. he knew where nagoola hid by day, and the path that he took down to the valley by night. nor did he longer tremble at sight of the great, black cat. true, waldo avoided him, but it was through cool and deliberate caution, which is quite another thing from the senseless panic of fear. waldo was biding his time. he would not always avoid nagoola. nagoola was a part of waldo's great plan, but waldo was not ready for him yet. the young man still bore his cudgel, and in addi- tion he had practised throwing rocks until he could almost have hit a near-by bird upon the wing. be- sides these weapons waldo was working upon a spear. it had occurred to him that a spear would be a mighty handy weapon against either man or beast, and so he had set to work to fashion one. he found a very straight young sapling, a little over an inch in diameter and ten feet long. by awakening means of a piece of edged flint he succeeded in tapering it to a sharp point. a rawhide thong, plaited from many pieces of small bits of hide taken from the little animals that had fallen before his missiles, served to sling the crude weapon across his shoulders when he walked. with his spear he practised hour upon hour each day, until he could transfix a fruit the size of an apple three times out of five, at a distance of fifty feet, and at a hundred hit a target the size of a man almost without a miss. six months had passed since he had fled from an encounter with flatfoot and korth. then waldo had been a skinny, cowardly weak- ling; now his great frame had filled out with healthy flesh, while beneath his skin hard muscles rolled as he bent to one of the many herculean tasks he had set for himself. for six months he had worked with a single pur- pose in view, but still he felt that the day was not yet come when he might safely venture to put his newfound manhood to the test. down, far down, in the depth of his soul he feared that he was yet a coward at heart—and he dared not take the risk. it was too much to ex- pect, he told himself, that a man should be entirely metamorphosed in a brief half year. he would wait a little longer. the cave girl it was about this time that waldo first saw a human being after his last sight of nadara. it was while he was on his way to the ocean, on one of the trips that had by this time become thrice weekly affairs, that he suddenly came face to face with a skulking, hairy brute. waldo halted to see what would happen. the man eyed him with those small, cunning, red-rimmed eyes that reminded waldo of the eyes of a pig. - finally waldo spoke in the language of nadara. “who are you?” he asked. “sag the killer,” replied the man. “who are you?” “thandar,” answered waldo. “i do not know you,” said sag; “but i can kill you.” he lowered his bull head and came for waldo like a battering ram. the young man dropped the point of his ready spear, bracing his feet. the point entered sag's breast below the collar-bone, stopping only after it had passed entirely through the savage heart. waldo had not moved; the momentum of the man's body had been sufficient to impale him. as the body rolled over, stiffening after a few convulsive kicks, waldo withdrew his spear from it. blood smeared its point for a distance of a foot, awakening but waldo showed no sign of loathing or disgust. instead he smiled. it had been so much easier than he had anticipated. leaving sag where he had fallen he continued toward the ocean. an hour later he heard unusual noises behind him. he stopped to listen. he was being pursued. from the sounds he estimated that there must be several in the party, and a moment later, as he was crossing a clearing, he got his first view of them as they emerged from the forest he had just quitted. there were at least twenty powerfully muscled brutes. in skin bags thrown across their shoulders each carried a supply of stones, and these they began to hurl at waldo as they raced toward him. for a moment the man held his ground, but he quickly realized the futility of pitting himself against such odds. turning, he ran toward the forest upon the other side of the clearing while a shower of rocks whizzed about him. once within the shelter of the trees there was less likelihood of his being hit by one of the mis- siles, but occasionally a well-aimed rock would strike him a glancing blow. waldo hoped that they would tire of the chase before the beach was reached, for he knew that there could be but one , outcome of a battle in which one man faced twenty. the cave girl as the pursued and the pursuers raced on through the forest one of the latter, fleeter than his com- panions, commenced to close up the gap which had existed between waldo and the twenty. on and on he came, until a backward glance showed waldo that in another moment this swift foeman would be upon him. he was younger than his fellows and more active, and, having thrown all his stones, was free from any burden of weight other than the single garment about his hips. waldo still clung to his tattered ducks, which from lack of support and more or less rapid disin- tegration were continually slipping down from his hips, so that they tended to hinder his movements and reduce his speed. had he been as naked as his pursuer he would doubtless have distanced him; but he was not, and it was evident that because of this fact he must take a chance in a hand-to-hand encounter that might delay him sufficiently to permit the balance of the horde to reach him—that would be the end of everything. but waldo emerson neither screamed in terror nor trembled. when he wheeled to meet the now close savage there was a smile upon his lips, for waldo emerson had “killed his man,” and there was no longer the haunting fear within his soul that at heart he was a coward. awakening as he turned with couched spear the cave man came to a sudden stop. this was not what waldo had anticipated. the other savages were running rapidly toward him, but the fellow who had first overhauled him remained at a safe twenty feet from the point of his weapon. waldo was being cleverly held until the remain- der of the enemy could arrive and overwhelm him. he knew that if he turned to run the fellow who danced and yelled just beyond his reach would plunge forward and be upon his back in an instant. he tried rushing the man, but the other retreated nimbly, drawing waldo still closer to those who were coming on. there was no time to be lost. a moment more and the entire twenty would be upon him; but there were possibilities in a spear that the cave man in his ignorance dreamed not of. there was a light- ninglike movement of waldo's arm, and the abori- gine saw the spear darting swiftly through space toward his breast. he tried to dodge, but was too late. down he went, clutching madly at the slender thing which protruded from his heart. although one of the dead man's companions was now quite close, waldo could not relinquish his weapon without an effort—it had cost him consid- erable time to make, and twice today it had saved his life. forgetful that he had ever been a coward the cave girl he leaped toward the fallen man, reaching his side at the same instant as his foremost pursuer. the two came together like mad bulls—the savage reaching for waldo's throat, waldo wield- ing his light cudgel. for a moment they struggled backward and forward, turning and twisting, the cave man in an effort to close upon waldo's wind, waldo to hold the other at arm's length for the brief instant that would be necessary for one sud- den, effective blow from the cudgel. the other savages were almost upon them when the young man found his antagonist's throat. throwing all his weight and strength into the effort, waldo forced the cave man back until there was room between them for the play of the stick. a single blow was sufficient. as the limp body of his foeman slipped from his grasp, waldo snatched his precious spear from the heart of its victim, and with the hands of the in- furiated pack almost upon him, turned once more into his flight toward the ocean. the howling band was close upon his heels now, nor could he greatly increase the distance that sep- arated him from them. he wondered what the outcome of the matter was to be; he did not wish to die. his thoughts kept reverting to his boyhood home, to his indulgent mother, to the friends that had been his. he felt that at the last moment he awakening was about to lose his nerve—that, after all, his hard earned manliness was counterfeit. then there came to him a vision of an oval, olive face framed by a mass of soft, black hair; and be- fore it the fear of death dissolved into a grim smile. he did not pause to analyze the reason for it—nor could he have done so then had he tried. he only knew that with those eyes upon him he could not be aught else than courageous. a moment later he burst through the last fringe of underbrush to emerge upon the clearing that faced the sea. there by a tiny rivulet he saw a sight that filled him with thanksgiving, and farther out upon the ocean that which he had been waiting and hoping for for all these long, hard months—a ship. chapter vi a choice eamen upon the beach were filling water- casks. there were a dozen of them, and as waldo plunged from the forest they looked with startled apprehension at the strange apparition. a great, brown giant they saw, clad in a few ragged strings of white duck, for waldo had kept his apparel as immaculately clean as hard rubbing in cold water would permit. in one hand the strange creature carried a long, bloody spear, in the other a light cudgel. long, yel- low hair streamed back over his broad shoulders. several of the men—those who were armed— leveled guns and revolvers at him; but when, as he drew closer, they saw a broad grin upon his face, and heard in perfectly good english, “don’t shoot; i'm a white man,” they lowered their weapons and awaited him. - he had scarcely reached them when they saw a swarm of naked men dash from the forest in his wake. waldo saw their eyes directed past him and knew that his pursuers had come into view. “you’ll have to shoot at them, i imagine,” he a choice said. “they're not exactly domesticated. try fir- ing over their heads at first; maybe you can scare them away without hurting any of them.” he disliked the idea of seeing the poor savages slaughtered. it didn't seem just like fair play to mow them down with bullets. - the sailors followed his suggestion. at the first reports the cave men halted in surprise and con- sternation. “let’s rush 'em,” suggested one of the men, and this was all that was needed to send them scurrying back into the woods. waldo found that the ship was english, and that all the men spoke his mother tongue in more or less understandable fashion. the second mate, who was in charge of the landing party, proved to have originated in boston. it was much like being at home again. waldo was so excited and wanted to ask so many questions all at once that he became almost unin- telligible. it seemed scarcely possible that a ship had really come. he realized now that he had never actually enter- tained any very definite belief that a ship ever would come to this out-of-the-way corner of the world. he had hoped and dreamed, but down in the bottom of his heart he must have felt that years might elapse before he would be rescued. the cave girl even now it was difficult to believe that these were really civilized beings like himself. they were on their way to a civilized world; they would soon be surrounded by their families and friends, and he, waldo emerson smith-jones, was going with them! in a few months he would see his mother and his father and all his friends—he would be among his books once more. even as the last thought flashed through his mind it was succeeded by mild wonderment that this outlook failed to raise his temperature as he might have expected that it would. his books had been his real life in the past—could it be that they had lost something of their glamour? had his brief experience with the realities of life dulled the edge of his appetite for second-hand hopes, aspira- tions, deeds, and emotions? it had. waldo yet craved his books, but they alone would no longer suffice. he wanted something bigger, something more real and tangible—he wanted to read and study, but even more he wanted to do. and back there in his own world there would be plenty awaiting the doing. his heart thrilled at the possibilities that lay be- fore the new waldo emerson—possibilities of which he never would have dreamed but for the * – f a choice range chance which had snatched him bodily from one life to throw him into this new one, which had forced upon him the development of attributes of self-reliance, courage, initiative, and resourceful- ness that would have lain dormant within him al- ways but for the necessity which had given birth to them. yes, waldo realized that he owed a great deal to this experience—a great deal to — and then a sudden realization of the truth rushed in upon —he owed everything to nadara. == i was never shipwrecked on a desert island,” said the second mate, breaking in upon waldo's reveries, “but i can imagine just about how good you feel at the thought that you are at last rescued and that in an hour or so you will see the shore- line of your prison growing smaller and smaller upon the southern horizon.” “yes,” acquiesced waldo in a far away voice: “it’s awfully good of you, but i am not going with you.” two hours later waldo emerson stood alone upon the beach, watching the diminishing hull of a great ship as it dropped over the rim of the world far to the north. a vague hint of tears dimmed his vision; then he threw back his shoulders, swallowed the thing that the cave girl had risen into his throat, and with high held head turned back into the forest. in one hand he carried a razor and a plug of to- bacco–the sole mementos of his recent brief con- tact with the world of civilization. the kindly sailors had urged him to reconsider his decision, but when he remained obdurate they had insisted that they be permitted to leave some of the comforts of life with him. the only thing that he could think of that he wanted very badly was a razor—firearms he would not accept, for he had worked out a rather fine chivalry of his own here in this savage world—a chivalry which would not permit him to take any advantage over the primeval inhabitants he had found here other than what his own hands and head might give him. at the last moment one of the seamen, prompted by a generous heart and a keen realization of what life must be without even bare necessities, had thrust upon waldo the plug of tobacco. as he looked at it now the young man smiled. “that would indeed be the last step, according to mother's ideas,” he soliloquized. “no lower could i sink.” the ship that bore away waldo's chance of escape carried also a long letter to waldo's mother. in portions it was rather vague and rambling. it a choice mentioned, among other things, that he had an ob- ligation to fulfil before he could leave his present habitat; but that the moment he was free he should “take the first steamer for boston.” the skipper of the ship which had just sailed away had told waldo that in so far as he knew there might never be another ship touch his island, which was so far out of the beaten course that only the shore-line of it had ever been explored, and scarce a score of vessels had reported it since cap- tain cook discovered it in . yet it was in the face of this that waldo had refused to leave. as he walked slowly through the wood on his way back toward his cave he tried to convince himself that he had acted purely from motives of gratitude and fairness—that as a gen- tleman he could do no less than see nadara and thank her for the friendly services she had rendered him; but for some reason this seemed a very futile and childish excuse for relinquishing what might easily be his only opportunity to return to civiliza- tion. his final decision was that he had acted the part of a fool; yet as he walked he hummed a joyous tune, and his heart was full of happiness and pleasant expectations of what he could not have told. to one thing he had made up his mind, and that the cave girl was that the next sun would see him on his way to the village of nadara. his experience with the savages that day had convinced him that he might with reasonable safety face flatfoot and korth. the more he dwelt upon this idea the more light- hearted he became—he could not understand it. he should be plunged into the blackest despair, for had he not but just relinquished a chance to return home, and was he not within a day or two to enter the village of the ferocious flatfoot and the mighty korth? even so, his heart sang. waldo saw nothing of his enemies of the earlier part of the day as he moved cautiously through the forest or crossed the little plains and meadows which lay along the route between the ocean and his lair; but his thoughts often reverted to them and to his adventures of the morning, and the re- sult was that he became aware of a deficiency in his equipment—a deficiency which his recent bat- tle made glaringly apparent. in fact, there were two points that might be easily remedied. one was the lack of a shield. had he had protection of this nature he would have been in comparatively little danger from the shower of missiles that the savages had flung at him. the other was a sword. with a sword and shield he could have let his enemies come to very close quarters with perfect impunity to himself and -! a choice then have run them through with infinite ease. this new idea would necessitate a delay in his plans; he must finish both shield and sword before he departed for the village of flatfoot. what with his meditation and his planning, waldo had made poor time on the return journey from the coast, so that it was after sunset when he entered the last deep ravine beyond the farther summit of which lay his rocky home. in the depths of the ravine it was already quite dark, though a dim twilight still hung upon the surrounding hill-tops. he had about completed the arduous ascent of the last steep trail, at the crest of which was his journey's end, when above him, silhouetted against the darkening sky, loomed a great black, crouch- ing mass, from the center of which blazed two balls of fire. it was nagoola, and he occupied the center of the only trail that led over the edge of the ridge from the ravine below. “i had almost forgotten you, nagoola,” mur- mured waldo emerson. “i could never have gone upon my journey without first interviewing you, but i could have wished a different time and place than this. let us postpone the matter for a day or so,” he concluded aloud; but the only response from nagoola was an ominous growl. waldo felt rather uncomfortable. the cave girl he could not have come upon the great, black panther at a more inopportune time or place. it was too dark for waldo's human eyes, and the cat was above him and waldo upon a steep hillside that under the best of conditions offered but a precari- ous foothold. he tried to shoo the formidable beast away by shouts and menacing gesticulations, but nagoola would not shoo. instead he crept slowly forward, edging his sinu- ous body inch by inch along the rocky trail until it hung poised above the waiting man a dozen feet below him. six months before waldo would long since have been shrieking in meteorlike flight down the bed of the ravine behind him. that a wonderful transfor- mation had been wrought within him was evident from the fact that no cry of fright escaped him, and that, far from fleeing, he edged inch by inch upward toward the menacing creature hanging there above him. he carried his spear with the point leveled a trifle below those baleful eyes. he had advanced but a foot or two, however, when, with an awful shriek, the terrible beast launched itself full upon him. as the heavy body struck him waldo went over backward down the cliff, and with him went nagoola. clawing, tearing, and scratching, the two rolled a choice and bounded down the rocky hillside until, near the bottom, they came to a sudden stop against a large tree. the growling and screeching ceased, the claw- ing paws and hands were still. presently the tropic moon rose over the hill-top to look down upon a little tangled mound of man and beast that lay very quiet against the bole of a great tree near the bot- tom of a dark ravine. chapter vii thandar, the seeker or a long time there was no sign of life in that strange pile of flesh and bone and brawn and glossy black fur and long, yellow hair and blood. but toward dawn it moved a little, down near the bottom of the heap, and a little later there was a groan, and then all was still again for many minutes. presently it moved again, this time more ener- getically, and after several efforts a yellow head streaked and matted with blood emerged from be- neath. it required the better part of an hour for the stunned and lacerated waldo to extricate him- self from the entangling embrace of nagoola. when, finally, he staggered to his feet he saw that the great cat lay dead before him, the broken shaft of the spear protruding from the sleek, black breast. it was quite evident that the beast had lived but the barest fraction of an instant after it had launched itself upon the man; but during that brief interval of time it had wrought sore havoc with its mighty talons, though fortunately for waldo the great jaws had not found him. thandar, the seeker i from breast to knees ghastly wounds were fur- rowed in the man's brown skin where the powerful hind feet of the beast had raked him. that he owed his life to the chance that had brought about the encounter upon a steep hillside rather than on the level seemed quite apparent, for during their tumble down the declivity nagoola had been unable to score with any degree of ac- curacy. as waldo looked down upon himself he was at first horrified by the frightful appearance of his wounds; but when a closer examination showed them to be superficial he realized that the only danger lay in infection. every bone and muscle in his body ached from the man-handling and the fall, and the wounds themselves were painful, al- most excruciatingly so when a movement of his body stretched or tore them; but notwithstanding his suffering he found himself smiling as he con- templated the remnants of his long-suffering ducks. there remained of their once stylish glory not a shred—the panther's sharp claws had finished what time and brambles had so well commenced. and of their linen partner—the white outing shirt— only the neckband remained, with a single frag- ment as large as one's hand depending behind. “nature is a wonderful leveler,” thought waldo. “it is evident that she hates artificiality as she does the cave girl a vacuum. i shall really need you now,” he con- cluded, looking at the beautiful, black coat of na- goola. despite his suffering, waldo crawled to his lair, where he selected a couple of sharp-edged stones from his collection and returned to the side of nagoola. leaving his tools there he went on down to the bottom of the ravine, where in a little crystal stream he bathed his wounds. then he returned once more to his kill. after half a day of the most arduous labor waldo succeeded in removing the panther's hide, which he dragged laboriously to his lair, where he fell exhausted, unable even to crawl within. the next day waldo worked upon the inner sur- face of the hide, removing every particle of flesh by scraping it with a sharp stone, so that there might be no danger of decomposition. he was still very weak and sore, but he could not bear the thought of losing the pelt that had cost him so much to obtain. when the last vestige of flesh had been scraped away he crawled into his lair, where he remained for a week, only emerging for food and water. at the end of that time his wounds were almost healed, and he had entirely recovered from his lameness and the shock of the adventure, so that it thandar, the seeker was with real pleasure and exultation that he gloated over his beautiful trophy. - always as he thought of the time that he should have it made ready for girting about his loins he saw himself, not through his own eyes, but as he imagined that another would see him, and that other was nadara. for many days waldo scraped and pounded the great skin as he had seen the cave men scrape and pound in the brief instant he had watched them with nadara from the edge of the forest before the vil- lage of flatfoot. at last he was rewarded with a pelt sufficiently pliable for the purpose of the rude apparel he contemplated. a strip an inch wide he trimmed off to form a supporting belt. with this he tied the black skin about his waist, passed one arm through a hole he had made for that purpose near the upper edge; bringing the fore paws forward about his chest, he crossed and fastened them to secure the garment from falling from the upper part of his body. it was a very proud waldo that strutted forth in the finery of his new apparel; but the pride was in the prowess that had won the thing for him— vulgar, gross, brutal physical prowess—the very attribute upon which he had looked with super- cilious contempt six months before. next waldo turned his attention toward the the cave girl fashioning of a sword, a new spear, and a shield. the first two were comparatively easy of accom- plishment—he had them both completed in half a day, and from a two-inch strip of panther hide he made also a sword belt to pass over his right shoulder and support his sword at his left side; but the shield almost defied his small skill and newborn ingenuity. with small twigs and grasses he succeeded, after nearly a week of painstaking endeavor, in weav- ing a rude, oval buckler some three feet long by two wide, which he covered with the skins of sev- eral small animals that had fallen before his death- dealing stones. a strip of hide fastened upon the back of the shield held it to his left arm. with it waldo felt more secure against the swift- ly thrown missiles of the savages he knew he should encounter on his forthcoming expedition. at last came the morning for departure. ris- ing with the sun, waldo took his morning “tub” in the cold spring that rose a few yards from his cave, then he got out the razor that the sailor had given him, and after scraping off his scanty, yellow beard, hacked his tawny hair until it no longer fell about his shoulders and in his eyes. then he gathered up his weapons, rolled the boulders before the entrance to his cave, and turn- ing his back upon his rough home set off down the thandar, the seeker little stream toward the distant valley where it wound through the forest along the face of the cliffs to flatfoot and korth. as he stepped lightly along the hazardous trail, leaping from ledge to ledge in the descent of the many sheer drops over which the stream fell, he might have been a reincarnation of some primeval hunter from whose savage loins had sprung the warriors and the strong men of a world. the tall, well-muscled, brown body; the clear, bright eyes; the high-held head; the sword, the spear, the shield were all a far cry from the weak and futile thing that had lain groveling in the sand upon the beach, sweating and shrieking in terror six short months before. and yet it was the same. what one good but mistaken woman had smothered another had brought out, and the result of the influence of both was a much finer specimen of manhood than either might have evolved alone. in the afternoon of the third day waldo came to the forest opposite the cliffs where lay the home of nadara. cautiously he stole from tree to tree until he could look out unseen upon the honey- combed face of the lofty escarpment. all was lifeless and deserted. the cave mouths looked out upon the valley, sad and lonely. there was no sign of life in any direction as far as waldo could see. the cave girl coming from the forest he crossed the clearing and approached the cliffs. his eye, now become alert in woodcraft, detected the young grass grow- ing in what had once been well-beaten trails. he needed no further evidence to assure him that the caves were deserted, and had been for some time. one by one he entered and explored several of the cliff dwellings. all gave the same mute corro- boration of what was everywhere apparent—the village had been evacuated without haste in an or- derly manner. everything of value had been re- moved—only a few broken utensils remaining as indication that it had ever constituted human habi, tation. waldo was utterly confounded. he had not the remotest idea in which direction to search. dur- ing the balance of the afternoon he wandered along the various ledges, entering first one cave and then another. he wondered which had been nadara's. he tried to imagine her life among these crude, primi- tive surroundings; among the beastlike men and women who were her people. she did not seem to harmonize with either. he was convinced that she was more out of place here than flatfoot would have been in a back bay drawing-room. the more his mind dwelt upon her the sadder he became. he tried to convince himself that it was thandar, the seeker purely disappointment in being thwarted in his de- sire to thank her for her kindness to him, and demonstrate that her confidence in his prowess had not been misplaced; but always he discovered that his thoughts returned to nadara rather than to the ostensible object of his adventure. in short he began to realize, rather vaguely it is true, that he had come because he wanted to see the girl again; but why he wanted to see her he did not know. that night he slept in one of the deserted caves, and the next morning set forth upon his quest for nadara. for three days he searched the little val- ley, but without results. there was no sign of any other village within it. then he passed over into another valley to the north. for weeks he wandered hither and thither without being rewarded by even a sight of a human being. early one afternoon as he was topping a barrier in search of other valleys he came suddenly face to face with a great, hairy man. both stopped—the hairy one glaring with his nasty little eyes. “i can kill you,” growled the savage. waldo had no desire to fight—it was informa- tion he was searching. but he almost smiled at the ready greeting of the man. it was the same that sag the killer had accorded him that day he had the ca e girl gone down to the sea for the last time. it came as readily and as glibly from these primi- tive men as “good morning” falls from the lips of the civilized races, yet among the latter he realized that it had its counterpart in the stony stares which anglo saxon strangers vouchsafe one another. “i have no quarrel with you,” replied waldo. “let us be friends.” “you are afraid,” taunted the hairy one. waldo pointed to his sable garment. “ask nagoola,” he said. the man looked at the trophy. there could be no mightier argument for a man's valor than that. he came a step closer that he might scrutinize it more carefully. “full-grown and in perfect health,” he grunted to himself. “this is no worn and mangy hide peeled from the rotting carcass of one dead of sick- ess. “how did you slay nagoola?” he asked sud- denly. waldo indicated his spear, then he drew his gar- ment aside and pointed to the vivid, new-healed scars that striped his body. “we met at dusk at a cliff-top. he was above, i below. when we reached the bottom of the ravine nagoola was dead. but it was nothing for thandar. i am thandar.” thandar, the seeker waldo rightly suspected that a little bravado would make a good impression on the intellect primeval, nor was he mistaken. “what do you here in my country?” asked the man, but his tone was less truculent than before. “i am searching for flatfoot and korth—and nadara,” said waldo. the other's eyes narrowed. “what would you of them?” he asked. “nadara was good to me—i would repay her.” “but flatfoot and korth—what of them?” in- sisted the man. “my business is with them. when i see them i shall transact it,” waldo parried, for he had seen the cunning look in the man's eyes and he did not like it. “can you lead me to them?” “i can tell you where they are, but i am not bound thither,” replied the man. “three days to- ward the setting sun will bring you to the village of flatfoot. there you will find korth also-and nadara,” and without further parley the savage turned and trotted toward the east. chapter viii nadara again aldo watched him out of sight, half minded to follow, for he was far from satisfied that the fellow had been entirely honest with him. why he should have been otherwise waldo could not imagine, but nevertheless there had been an indefinable suggestion of duplicity in the man's behavior that had puzzled him. however, waldo took up his search toward the west, passing down from the hills into a deep val- ley, the bottom of which was overgrown by a thick tangle of tropical jungle. he had forced his way through this for nearly half a mile when he came to the bank of a wide, slow-moving river. its water was thick with sedi- ment—not clean, sparkling, and inviting, as were the little mountain streams of the hills and valleys farther south. waldo traveled along the edge of the river in a northwesterly direction, searching for a ford. the steep, muddy banks offered no foothold, so he dared not venture a crossing until he could be sure of a safe landing upon the opposite shore. a couple of hundred yards from the point at nadara again i which he had come upon the stream he found a broad trail leading down into the water, and on the other side saw a similar track cutting up through the bank. this, evidently, was the ford he sought, but as he started toward the river he noticed the imprints- of the feet of many animals—human and brute. waldo stooped to examine them minutely. there were the broad pads of nagoola, the smaller im- prints of countless rodents, but back and forth among them all were old and new signs of man. there were the great, flat-foot prints of huge adult males, the smaller but equally flat-footed im- presses of the women and children; but one there was that caught his eye particularly. it was the fine and dainty outline of a perfect foot, with the arch well defined. it was new, as were many of the others, and, like the other newer ones, it led down to the river and then back again, as though she who made it had come for water and then returned from whence she had come. waldo knew that the tracks leading away from the river were the newer, because where the two trails over- lapped those coming up from the ford were always over those which led downward. the multiplicity of signs indicated a considerable community, and their newness the proximity of the makers. the cave girl waldo hesitated but a moment before he reached a decision, and then he turned up the trail away from the river, and at a rapid trot followed the spoor along its winding course through the jungle to where it emerged at the base of the foothills, to wind upward toward their crest. he found that the trail he was following crossed the hills but a few yards from the spot at which he had met the cave man a short time before. evi- dently the man had been returning from the river when he had espied waldo. the young man could see where the fellow's tracks had left the main trail, and he followed them to the point where the man had stood during his conversation with waldo; from there they led to- ward the east for a short distance, and then turned suddenly north to reenter the main trail. waldo could see that as soon as the man had reached a point from which he would be safe from the stranger's observation he had broken into a rapid trot, and as he already had two hours’ start waldo felt that he would have to hurry were he to overtake him. just why he wished to do so he did not consider, but, intuitively possibly, he felt that the surly brute could give him much more and accurate informa- tion than he had. nor could waldo eliminate the memory of those dainty feminine footprints. nadara again it was foolish, of course, and he fully realized the fact; but his silly mind would insist upon at- tributing them to the cave girl—nadara. for two hours he trotted doggedly along the trail, which for the most part was well defined. there were places, of course, which taxed his trailing ability, but by circling widely from these points he always was able to pick up the tracks again. he had come down from the hills and entered an open forest, where the trail was entirely lost in the mossy carpet that lay beneath the trees, when he was startled by a scream—a woman's scream— and the hoarse gutturals of two men, deep and angry. hastening toward the sound, waldo came upon the authors of the commotion in a little glade half hidden by surrounding bushes. there were three actors in the hideous tragedy— a hairy brute dragging a protesting girl by her long, black hair and an old man, who followed, pro- testing futilely against the outrage that threatened the young woman. none of them saw waldo as he ran toward them until he was almost upon them, and then the beast who grasped the girl looked up, and waldo recog- nized him as the same who had sent him toward the west earlier in the day. at the same instant he saw the girl was nadara. the cave girl in the brief interval that the recognition required there sloughed from the heart and mind and soul of waldo emerson smith-jones every particle of the civilization and culture and refinement that had required countless ages in the building, stripping him naked, age on age, down to the primordial beast that had begot his first human progenitor. he saw red through blood as he leaped for the throat of the man-beast whose ruthless hands were upon nadara. his lip curled in the fighting snarl that exposed his long-unused canine fangs. he forgot sword and shield and spear. he was no longer a man, but a terrible beast; and the hairy brute that witnessed the metamor- phosis blanched and shrank back in fear. but he could not escape the fury of that mad charge or the raging creature that sought his throat. for a moment they struggled in a surging, sway- ing embrace, and then toppled to the ground—the hairy one beneath. rolling, tearing, and biting, they battled—each seeking a death hold upon the other. time and again the gleaming teeth of the once- fastidious bostonian sank into the breast and shoul- der of his antagonist, but it was the jugular his primal instinct sought. the girl and the old man had drawn away where nadara again they could watch the battle in safety. nadara's eyes were wide in fascination. her slim, brown hands were tight pressed against her rapidly rising and falling breasts as she leaned a little forward with parted lips, drinking in every detail of the conflict between the two beasts. ah, but was the yellow-haired giant really fight- ing for possession of her, or merely in protection, because she was a woman? she could readily conceive from her knowledge of him that he might be acting now solely from some peculiar sense of duty which she realized that he might entertain, although she could not herself understand it. yes, that was it, and when he had conquered his rival he would run away again, as he had months before. at the thought nadara felt herself flush with mortification. no, he should never have an- other opportunity to repeat that terrible affront. as she allowed her mind to dwell on the humili- ating moment that had witnessed the discovery that thandar had fled from her at the very threshold of her home nadara found herself hating him again as fiercely as she had all these long months— a hatred that had almost dissolved at sight of him as he rushed out of the underbrush a moment be- fore to wrest her from the clutches of her hideous tormentor. the cave girl waldo and his antagonist were still tearing futilely at one another in mad efforts to maim or kill. the giant muscles of the cave man gave him but little if any advantage over his agile, though slightly less-powerful, adversary. the hairy one used his teeth to better advantage, with the result that waldo was badly torn and bleeding from a dozen wounds. both were weakening now, and it seemed to the girl who watched that the younger man would be the first to succumb to the terrific strain under which both had been. she took a step forward and, stooping, picked up a stone. her small strength would be ample to turn the scales as she might choose—a sharp blow upon the head of either would give his adversary the trifling advantage that would spell death for the one she struck. the two men had struggled to their feet again as she approached with raised weapon. - at the very moment that it left her hand they swung completely round, so that waldo faced her, and in the instant before the missile struck his fore- head he saw nadara in the very act of throwing— upon her face an expression of hatred and loathing. then he lost consciousness and went down, drag- ging with him the cave man, upon whose throat his fingers had just found their hold. chapter ix the seeker hen the old man saw what had happened he ran forward and grasped nadara by the wrist. “quick!” he cried—“quick, my daughter! you have killed him who would have saved you, and now nothing but flight may keep korth from having his way with you.” as in a trance the girl turned and departed with him. they had scarcely disappeared within the under- brush when waldo returned to consciousness, so slight had been the effect of the blow upon his head. to his surprise he found the cave man lying very still beside him, but an instant later he read the reason for it in the little projecting ridge of rock upon which lay his foe's forehead—in falling the savage man had struck thus and lost consciousness. almost immediately the hairy one opened his eyes, but before he could gather his scattered senses sinewy fingers found his throat, and he lapsed once more into oblivion—from which there was no awakening. as waldo staggered to his feet he saw that the the cave girl girl had vanished, and there swept back into his mind the memory of the hate that had been in her face as she struck him down. it seemed incredible that she should have turned against him so, and at the very moment, too, when he had risked his life in her service; but that she had there could be no doubt, for he had seen her cast the stone—with his own eyes he had seen her, and, too, he had seen the hatred and loathing in her face as she looked straight into his. but what he had not seen was the look of horror that followed as the missile struck him instead of korth, sending him crumpling to earth. slowly waldo turned away from the scene of battle, and without even a second look at his van- quished enemy limped painfully into the brush. his heart was very heavy and he was weak from ex- haustion and loss of blood, but he staggered on, back toward his mountain lair, as he thought, until unable to go further he sank down upon a little grassy knoll and slept. when nadara recovered from the shock of the thing she had done sufficiently to reason for herself she realized that after all thandar might not be dead, and though the old man protested long and loudly against it, she insisted upon retracing her steps toward the spot where they had left the yel- low giant in the clutches of korth. the seeker very cautiously the girl threaded her way through the maze of shrubbery and creepers that filled the intervening space between the forest trees, until she came silently to the edge of the clearing in which the two had fought. as she peered anxiously through the last curtain f foliage she saw a single body lying quiet and still upon the sward, and an instant later recognized it as korth's. for several minutes she watched it be- fore she became convinced that the man who had so terrorized her whole childish life could never again affer her harm. she looked about for thandar, but he was no- where to be seen. nadara could scarcely believe that her eyes were not deceiving her. it was incredible that the yellow one could have gone down to unconsciousness before her uninten- tional blow and yet have mastered the mighty korth; but how else could korth have met his death and thandar be gone? she approached quite close to the dead man, turn- ing the body over with her foot until the throat was visible. there she saw the finger-marks that had done the work, and with a little thrill of pride she turned back into the forest, calling thandar's name aloud. - but thandar did not hear. half a mile away he lay weak and unconscious from loss of blood. ioo the cave girl morning found nadara sleeping in a sturdy tree upon the trail along which waldo had followed korth. she had discovered the footprints of the two men the evening before while she had been searching unsuccessfully for the trail which waldo had followed after the battle. she hoped now that the spoor might lead her to thandar's cave, to which she felt it quite possible he might have re- turned by another way. when the girl awoke she again took up her jour- ney, following the tracks as unerringly as a hound up through the hilly country, across the divide and down into the jungle to the very watering place at which her tribe had drank a few days earlier. here she made a brief stay. then on again down the river, back through the jungle and onto the divide once more. she was much mystified by the windings of the trail, but for days she followed the fading spoor until, be- coming fainter and fainter as it grew older, she lost it entirely at last. - she was quite sure by now, however, that it led from her tribe's former territory, and so she kept on, hoping against hope, that soon she would come across the fresh track of thandar where he had passed her on his return journey to his home. nadara had eluded the old man when she started upon her search for thandar, so it was that the old the seeker ioi fellow returned to the dwellings of his people alone the following day. flatfoot was the first to greet him. “where is the girl?” he growled. “and where is korth? has he taken her? answer me the truth or i will break every bone in your carcass.” “i do not know where the girl is,” answered the old man truthfully enough, “but korth lies dead in the little glade beyond the three great trees. a mighty man killed him as he was dragging nadara off into the thicket—” “and the man has taken the girl for himself?” yelled flatfoot. “you old thief you. this is some of your work. always have you tried to cheat me of this girl since first you knew that i desired her. whither went they? quick! before i kill you.” “i do not know,” replied the old man. “for hours i searched, until darkness came, but neither of them could i find, and my old eyes are no longer keen for trailing, so i was forced to abandon my hunt and return here when morning came.” “by the three trees the trail starts, you say?” cried flatfoot. “that is enough—i shall find them. and when i return with the girl it will be time enough to kill you; now it would delay me too much,” and with that the cave man hurried away into the forest. it took him half a day to find nadara's trail, but io the cave girl at last his search was rewarded, and as she had made no effort to hide it he moved rapidly along in the wake of the unsuspecting girl; but he was not as swift as she, and the chase bid fair to be a long one. when waldo woke he found the sun beating down upon his face, and though he was lame and sore he felt quite strong enough to continue his journey; but whither he should go he did not know. now that nadara had turned against him the island held nothing for him, and he was on the point of starting back toward his far distant lair from where he might visit the ocean often to watch for a passing ship, when the sudden decision came to him to see the girl again, regardless of her evi- dent hostility, and learn from her own lips the exact reason of her hatred for him. he had had no idea that the loss of her friend- ship would prove such a blow to him, so that his pride suffered as well as his heart as he contem- plated his harrowed emotions. of course he was reasonably sure that nadara's attitude was due to his ungallant desertion, for which act he had long suffered the most acute pangs of remorse and contrition. yet he felt that her ap- parent vindictiveness was not warranted by even the grave offense against chivalry and gratitude of which he had been guilty. io the cave girl smith-jones as though he had been born and reared in the most rocky and barren cave of this savage island, nor did they sound strange or unusual to him. it seemed that he had said the most natural and proper thing under the circumstances that there was to say. “flatfoot is not here,” said the old man, “nor is nadara. she-” but here waldo interrupted him. - “korth, then,” he demanded. “where is korth? i can kill him first and flatfoot when he returns.” the old man looked at the speaker in unfeigned surprise. “korth !” he exclaimed. “korth is dead. can it be that you do not know that he, whom you killed yesterday, was korth?” waldo's eyes opened as wide in surprise as had the old man's. korth ! he had killed the redoubtable korth with his bare hands—korth, who could crush the skull of a full-grown man with a single blow from his open palm. clearly he recollected the very words in which nadara had described this horrible brute that time she had harrowed his poor, coward nerves, as they approached the village of flatfoot. and now he, waldo emerson smith-jones, had met and killed « the seeker io/ the creature from whom he had so fearfully fled a few months ago! and, wonder of wonders, he had not even thought to use the weapons upon which he had spent so many hours of handicraft and months of prac- tise in preparation for just this occasion. of a sud- den he recalled the old man's statement that na- dara was not there. “where is she—nadara?” he cried, turning so suddenly upon the ancient one that the old fellow drew back in alarm. “i have done nothing to harm her,” he cried. “i followed and would have brought her back, but i am old and could not find her. once, when i was young, there was no better trailer or mighty war- rior among my people than i, but “yes, yes,” exclaimed waldo impatiently; “but nadara! where is she?” “i do not know,” replied the old man. “she has gone, and i could not find her. well do i re- member how, years ago, when the trail of an enemy was faint or the signs of game hard to find, men would come to ask me to help them, but now “of course,” interrupted waldo; “but nadara. do you not even know in what direction she has gone?” “no; but since flatfoot has set forth upon her trail it should be easy to track the two of them.” io& the cave girl “flatfoot set out after nadara!” cried waldo. “why?” “for many moons he has craved her for his mate, as has korth,” explained nadara's father; “but i think that each feared the other, and be- cause of that fact nadara was saved from both; but at last korth came upon us alone and away from the village, and then he grasped nadara and would have taken her away, for flatfoot was not about to prevent. “you came then, and the rest you know. if i had been younger neither flatfoot nor korth would have dared menace nadara, for when i was a young man i was very terrible and the record of my kills was a “how long since did flatfoot set out after na- dara?” waldo broke in. “but a few hours since,” replied the old man. “it would be an easy thing for me to overtake him by night had i the speed of my youth, for i well remember »y “from where did flatfoot start upon the trail?” cried the young man. “lead me to the place.” “this way then, thandar,” said the other, start- ing off toward the forest. “i will show you if you will save nadara from flatfoot. i love her. she has been very kind and good to me. she is unlike the rest of our people. the seeker io “i should die happy if i knew that you have saved her from flatfoot, but i am an old man and may not live until nadara returns. ah, that re- minds me; there is that in my cave which belongs to nadara, and were i to die there would be none to protect it for her. “will you wait for the moment that it will take me to run and fetch it, that you may carry it to her, for i am sure that you will find her; though i am not as sure that you will overcome flatfoot if you meet him. he is a very terrible man.” waldo hated to waste a minute of the precious time that was allowing flatfoot to win nearer and nearer nadara; but if it were in a service for the girl who had been so kind to him and for the hap- piness of her old father he could not refuse, so he waited impatiently while the old fellow tottered off toward the caves. those who had come half-way to meet waldo had hovered at a safe distance while he had been speaking to nadara's father, and when the two turned toward the forest all had returned to their work in evident relief; for the old man had told them that the stranger was the mighty warrior who had killed the terrible korth with his bare hands, nor had the story lost anything in the telling. after what seemed hours to the waiting waldo the old man returned with a little package care- iio the cave girl fully wrapped in the skin of a small rodent, the seams laboriously sewed in a manner of lacing with pieces of gut. “this is nadara's,” he said as they continued their way toward the forest. “it contains many strange things of which i know not the meaning or purpose. they all were taken from the body of her mother when the woman died. you will give them to her?” “yes,” said waldo. “i will give them to na- dara, or die in the trying of it.” chapter x the trail’s end oon they came upon the trail of flatfoot in the glade by the three great trees; they had not searched for it sooner, for the old man knew that it would start from that point upon its quest for the girl. the tracks circled the glade a dozen times in widening laps until at last, at the point where flat- foot must have picked up the spoor of nadara, they broke suddenly away into the underbrush. once the way was plain waldo bid the old man be of good heart, for he would surely bring his daughter back to him unharmed if the thing lay in the power of man. then he hurried off upon the new-made trail that lay as plain and readable before him as had the printed page of his former life; but never had he bent with such keen interest to the reading of his favorite author as he did to this absorbing drama written in the turned leaves, the scattered twigs, and the soft mud of a primeval forest by the feet of a savage man and a savage maid. toward mid-afternoon waldo became aware that he was much weaker from the effects of his battle ii the cave girl with korth than he had supposed. he had lost much blood from his wounds, and the exertion of following the trail at a swift pace had reopened some of the worse ones, so that now, as he ran, he was leaving a little trail of blood behind him. the discovery made him almost frantic, for it seemed to presage failure. his condition would handicap him in the race after the two along whose track he pursued so that it would be a miracle were he to reach flatfoot before the brute overtook na- dara. and if he did overtake him in time—what then? would he be physically able to cope with the brawny monster? he feared that he would not, but that he kept doggedly to the grueling chase augured well for the new manhood that had been so recently born within him. on and on he stumbled, until at dusk he slipped and fell exhausted to the earth. twice he struggled to his feet in an attempt to go on, but he was forced to give in, lying where he was until morning. slightly refreshed, he ate of the roots and fruit which abounded in the forest, taking up the chase again, but this time more slowly. he was now convinced that the way led back along the same trail which he had followed into the country, and when he reached the point at which he had first met korth on the previous day he cut the trail’s end ii * across the little space which intervened between the cave man's tracks and the point at which he had stood before he went down over the divide into the jungle toward the river and the ford. a moment later he was rewarded by the sight of nadara's dainty footprints as well as those of flatfoot leading away along his old trail. the act had saved him several miles of needless tracking. all that day he followed as rapidly as his weak- ened condition would permit, but his best efforts seemed dismally snail-like. along the way he bowled over a couple of large rodents, which he ate raw, for he had long since learned the desirability of a meat diet for one un- dergoing severe physical exertion, and had con- quered his natural aversion for the uncooked flesh. he even had come to relish it, though often as he dined thus upon meat a broad grin illumined his countenance at the thought of the horror with which his mother and his boston friends would view such a hideous performance. as he continued trailing the two be was at first surprised to discover the fidelity with which nadara had clung to his old trail, and because of this fact he often was able to save miles at a time by taking cross-cuts where, on his way in, he had made wide detours. but at last, on the third day, when he attempted ii the cave girl this at a place which would have saved him fully ten miles, he was dismayed by the discovery that he could not again pick up either nadara's trail or that of the cave man. even his own old trail was en- tirely obliterated. it was this fact which caused him the greatest concern, for it meant that if nadara really had been following it she must now be wandering rather aimlessly, possibly in an attempt to again locate it. in which event her speed would be materially re- duced, and the probability of her capture by flat- foot much enhanced. it was possible, too, that the beast already had overtaken her—this, in fact, might be the true cause of the cessation of the pursuit along the way which it had proceeded up to this point. the thought sent waldo back along his former route, which he was able to follow by recollection, though the spoor was seldom visible. he came upon no sign of those he sought that day, but the next morning he found the point at which nadara had lost his old trail upon a rocky ridge. the girl evidently assumed that it would lead into the valley below where.she might pick it up again in the soft earth, and so her footprints led down a shelving bluff, while plain above them showed the huge imprints of flatfoot. up to this point at least he had not caught up the trail’s end ii with her. waldo breathed a sigh of relief at the discovery. the trail was at least two days old, for nadara and flatfoot had traveled much more rap- idly than the wounded man who haunted their foot- steps like a grim shadow. about noon waldo came to a little stream at which both those who preceded him had evidently stopped to drink—he could see where they had knelt in the soft grass at the water's edge. as waldo stopped to quench his own thirst his eyes rested for an instant upon the farther bank, which at that point was little more than ten feet from him. he saw that the opposite shore was less grassy, and that it sloped down to the water, forming a muddy beach partially submerged. but what riveted his attention were several deep imprints in the mud. he could not be certain, of course, at that dis- tance, but he was sure enough that he had recog- nized them to cause him to leap to his feet, forget- ful of his thirst, and plunge through the stream for a closer inspection. as he bent to examine the spoor at close range he could scarce repress a cry of exultation—they had been made by the hands and knees of nadara as she had stooped to drink at the very spot not twenty-four hours before. she must have circled back toward the brook for ii the cave girl some reason; but by far the greatest cause for re- joicing was the fact that nadara's trail alone was there. flatfoot had not yet come upon her, and waldo now was between them. the knowledge that he might yet be in time, and that he was gaining sufficiently in strength to make it reasonably certain that he could overhaul the girl eventually, filled waldo with renewed vigor. he hastened along nadara's trail now with some- thing of the energy that had been his directly be- fore his battle with korth. his wounds had ceased bleeding, and for several days he had eaten well, and by night slept soundly, for he had reasoned that only by conserving his energy and fortifying himself in every way possible could he succor the girl. that night he slept in a little thicket which had evidently harbored nadara the night before. the following day the way lay across a rolling country, cut by numerous deep ravines and lofty divides. that the pace was telling on the girl waldo could read in the telltale spoor that revealed her lagging footsteps. upon each eminence the man halted to strain his eyes ahead for a sight of her. about noon he discerned far ahead a shimmering line which he knew must be the sea. surely his long pursuit must end there. * * the trail’s end as he was about to plunge on again along na- dara's trail something drew his eyes toward the rear, and there upon another hilltop a mile or two. behind he saw the stocky figure of a half-naked man—it was flatfoot. the cave man must have seen waldo at the same instant, for, with a menacing wave of his huge fist, he increased his gait to a run, an instant later dis- appearing into the ravine which lay at the bottom of the hill upon which he had come into view. waldo was undecided whether to wait for the encounter where he was or hasten on in an effort to overtake nadara, that she might not escape him entirely. he knew that he stood a good chance of being killed in the conflict, and he also knew that were he victorious it might easily be at such a terrible price that he would be physically incapable of continuing his search for the girl for many days. as he meditated his eyes wandered back and forth across the landscape before him searching for nadara. to his right lay, at a little distance, a level plain which stretched to the foot of low-lying cliffs at the valley's southern rim, some three or four miles distant. in this direction his view was almost un- obstructed, but it was not in the direction of the girl's flight, so that it was but by accident that waldo's eyes swept casually across the peaceful ii the cave girl scene which would, at another time, have chained his attention with its quiet and alluring beauty. it was as he swept a backward glance in the di- rection of flatfoot that his eye was arrested by the hint of something far out across the valley, a little behind his own position. to the waldo of a few months previous it would not have been visible, but the new woodcraft of the man scented the abnormal in the vague suggestion of movement out among the long-waving grasses of the plain. - and now, with every sense alert and riveted upon the spot, he was quick to perceive that it was an animal moving slowly toward the cliffs at the up- per end of the valley. presently a little rise of ground, less thickly grassed, brought the creature into full view for an instant; but in that instant waldo saw that the thing he watched was a woman. as he turned to hurry after her he saw flatfoot top another hill a half mile nearer than he had be- fore been, and as the cave man came into view he turned his eyes in the direction that waldo had been looking. a second later and he had abandoned the pursuit of waldo and was running rapidly toward the woman. nadara had apparently circled back once more, this time from the sea, and coming up the valley had passed waldo and come opposite flatfoot be- the trail’s end ii fore either of them had discovered her. the young man gave a little cry of alarm as he realized that the cave man was nearer to the girl than he—by a good half mile, he judged, and so he put every ounce of his speed into the wild dash he made down the hill into a gully which led out upon the valley. on and on he raced unable to see either flat- foot or nadara; hoping, ever hoping, that he would be the first to win to her side; for nadara had told him of the atrocities that such a creature as flat- foot might perpetrate upon a woman rather than permit her to escape him or fall into the hands of another. nadara, being up wind, caught neither the scent nor noise of the two who were racing madly to- ward her. the first knowledge she had that she was not alone in the valley was the sight of flat- foot as he broke suddenly through a clump of tail grass not fifty paces from her. she gave a little scream and started to run; but she was very tired from the days of unremitting flight which had so sorely taxed her endurance, and thus it was no wonder that she slipped and fell be- fore she had taken a dozen steps. scarcely had she gained her feet when flatfoot was upon her, one hand grasping her by the arm. “come with me in peace or i will kill you!” he cried. the cave girl “kill me, then,” retorted the despairing girl, “for i shall never come with you; first will i kill myself.” flatfoot did not wish to kill her, nor did he wish her to escape, as she would be very likely to do should he be interrupted by the fellow who must even now be quite close to them. possibly if he could keep the girl quiet they might hide in the grass until their pursuer had gone by, and so flatfoot, acting upon the idea, clapped a rough hand over nadara's mouth and dragged her back along the trail he had just made. the girl struggled—striking and clawing at the hairy brute that pulled her along at his side—but she was as helpless in his clutches as if she had been a day-old babe. she did not know that help was so close at hand, or she would have found the means to free her mouth and cry out once at least. as it was, she wondered that flatfoot should attempt to silence her in this way if there were none to hear her sctea s. for days she had known that the cave man was on her trail, for once in doubling back upon herself she had passed but a short distance from a ridge she had traversed the preceding day, and had seen the man's squat figure and recognized his awkward, shuffling trot. i the cave girl and hopeless as the brutal flatfoot dragged her far into the tall jungle-grass. presently she noticed that the cave man repeatedly cast glances toward the rear. what could he expect from that direction, or from any direction whatever, so far as that was concerned? were they not days and days from their own people, in a land where there seemed no men at all? flatfoot heard no sign of pursuit. he was grow- ing more confident. the stranger had lost their trail. the cave man moved less rapidly, and as he went he looked now for a burrow into which he might crawl with the maiden. then there would be no further danger whatever. tomorrow flatfoot would come out and find the fellow and kill him, but now he had pleasanter work in view, nor did he wish to be disturbed. and at that very moment he caught a stealthy movement in the grasses a few yards to his right. waldo had come upon the spot at which flatfoot had overtaken nadara but a few moments after the brute had dragged her away, and on the instant had sought a higher piece of ground from which he could overlook the tall grass. nor had he been long in finding a spot that, coupled with his six feet two, brought his eyes above the level of the surrounding jungle. the trail’s end i there he watched for a little until he discerned a movement of the grasstops at a little distance from him. after that it was but a matter of trail- ing. when flatfoot saw what he took to be his enemy he threw nadara across his shoulder and started on a run in the opposite direction—at right angles to the way he had been going. the ruse proved good, for when waldo came to the point at which he had figured his path would cross the cave man's he found no sign of the latter, and in searching about to locate the trail lost many minutes of valuable time. but at last he came upon that which he sought, and with redoubled speed set out at a rapid run through the tall grasses. he had proceeded but a short distance when the trail broke suddenly into the open, close by the base of the cliffs that he had seen from the hill that had given him his fleeting glimpse of nadara. ahead of him he saw the two he sought—na- dara across the burly shoulders of flatfoot—and the cave man was making for the caves that dotted the face of the cliff. were he to reach these he might defend one of them against a single antago- nist indefinitely. chapter xi capture lmost at the moment that waldo emerged from the jungle nadara saw him, and with a lunge threw herself from flatfoot's shoulder. the man turned with a fierce growl of rage, and his eyes fell upon the giant rushing toward them. the girl was now struggling madly to escape or delay her captor. there could be but one outcome, as flatfoot knew. he must fight now, but the girl should never escape him. raising the huge fist that had killed many a full- grown man with a single blow he aimed a wicked one at the side of nadara's head. the first one she dodged, and as the arm went up to strike again, thandar threw his spear-arm far back and with a mighty forward surge drove his light weapon across the hundred feet that sep- arated him from flatfoot. it was an awful risk—there was not a foot to spare between the hairy breast that was his target and the beautiful head of the fair captive. should either move between the time the spear left his hand and the instant that it found its mark it might pierce the one it had been sped to save. flatfoot's fist was crashing down toward that capture lovely face at the instant that the spear found him; but he had moved—just enough to place his arm before his breast—so that it was the falling arm that received the weapon instead of the heart that it had been intended for. but it served its purpose. with a howl of pain and rage, flatfoot, forgetful of the girl in the mad- ness of his anger, dropped her and sprang toward waldo. the latter had drawn his sword—naught but a sharpened stick of hard wood—and stood wait- ing to receive his foe. it was his first attempt to put either sword or shield into practical use, and he was anxious to discover their value. as flatfoot came toward his antagonist he pulled the spear from the muscles of his arm, and, stooping, gathered up one of the many rocks that lay scattered about at the base of the cliff. the cave man was roaring like a mad bull; hate and murder shot from his close-set eyes; his upper lip curled back, showing his fighting fangs, and a light froth flecked his bristling beard. waldo was sure there had never existed a more fearsome creature, and he marveled that he was not afraid. the very thought of what the effect of this terrible monster's mad charge would have been upon him a short while ago brought a smile to his lips. i the cave girl at sight of that taunting smile flatfoot hurled the rock full at the maddening face. with a quick movement of his left arm waldo caught the mis- sile on his buckler, from whence it dropped harm- lessly to the ground. flatfoot did not throw again, and an instant later he was upon the bostonian—the pride and hope of the cultured and aristocratic back bay smith-joneses. when he reached for the agile, blond giant he found a thin sheet of hide-covered twigs in his way, and when he tried to tear down this barrier the point of a sharpened stick was thrust into his ab- domen. this was no way to fight! flatfoot was scandalized. he jumped back a few feet and glared at waldo. then he lowered his head and came at him once more with the very evi- dent intention of rushing him off his feet by the very weight and impetuosity of his charge. this time the sharp stick slipped quickly over the top of the hide-covered atrocity and pierced flat- foot's neck just where it joined his thick skull. burying a foot of its point beneath the muscles of the shoulder, it brought a scream of pain and rage from the hairy beast. before waldo could withdraw his weapon from the tough sinews, flatfoot had straightened up with capture a sudden jerk that snapped the sword short, leav- ing but a short stub in his antagonist's hand. nadara had been watching the battle breathless- ly, ready to flee should it turn against her champion, yet at the same time searching for an opportunity to aid him. like flatfoot, the girl had never before seen spear or sword or shield in use, and while she mar- veled at the advantage which they gave thandar, she became dubious as to the result of the encounter when she saw the sword broken, for the spear had been snapped into kindling-wood by flatfoot when he tore it from his arm. but waldo still had his cudgel, fastened by a thong to his sword-belt, and as the cave man rushed upon him again he swung a mighty blow to the low, brutal forehead. momentarily stunned, the fellow reeled back- ward for a step, and again waldo wielded his new weapon. flatfoot trembled, his knees smote together, he staggered drunkenly, and then, when waldo looked to see him go down, the brute power that was in him, responding to nature's first law, sent him hurtling at the bostonian's throat in the snarling, blind rage of the death-smitten beast. catapulted by all the enormous strength of his mighty muscles, the squat, bearlike animal bore i the cave girl waldo to earth, and at the same instant each found the other's throat with sinewy, viselike fingers. they lay very still now, choking with firm, re- lentless clutch. every ounce of muscle was needed, every grain of endurance. waldo was suffering agonies after a moment of that awful death-grip. he could feel his gasping, pain-racked lungs struggling for air. - he tried to wriggle free from those horrible fingers, but not once did he loosen his own hold upon the throat of flatfoot; instead he tried to close a little tighter each second that he felt his own life ebbing. he became weaker and weaker. the pain was unendurable now. a haze obscured his vision—everything became black—his brain was whizzing about at frightful velocity within the awful darkness of his skull. the girl was bending close above them now, for both were struggling less violently. she had been minded to come to thandar's rescue when sud- denly she recalled his desertion of her, and all the wild hatred of the primitive mind surged through her. let him die, she thought. he had spurned her, cast her off; he looked down upon her. well, let him take care of himself, then, and she turned deliberately away to leave the two men to decide the outcome of their own battle, and the cave girl she sought—a little stream, winding slowly through the valley down toward the ocean. dropping to her knees beside it she filled her mouth with the refreshing water. in an instant she was up again and off in the direction from which she had just come. throwing herself at waldo's side, she wet his face with the water from her mouth. she chafed his hands, shook him, blew upon his face when the water was exhausted, and then, tears streaming from her eyes, she threw herself upon him, cov- ering his face with kisses, and moaning inartic- ulate words of love and endearment that were half stifled by anguished sobs of grief. suddenly her lamentations ceased as quickly as they had begun. she raised her head from where it had been buried beside the man's and looked in- tently into his face. then she placed her ear upon his breast; with a delighted cry she resumed chafing his hands, for she had heard the beating of his heart. presently waldo gasped, and for a moment suf- fered the agonies of returning respiration. when he opened his eyes in consciousness he saw nadara bending over him—a severely disinterested expres- sion upon her beautiful face. he turned his head to one side; there lay flatfoot quite dead. it was several moments before he could speak. capture i then he rose, very unsteadily, to his feet. “nadara,” he said, “korth lies dead beside the three great trees in the glade that is near the vil- lage that was flatfoot's. here is the dead body of flatfoot, and about my loins hangs the pelt of nagoola, taken in fair fight. “i have done all that you desired of me; i have tried to repay you for your kindness to me when i was a stranger in your land. i do not know why you should have tried to kill me while i battled with korth. “no more do i know why you have allowed me to live today when it would have been so easy to have despatched me as i lay unconscious here beside flatfoot. “i read dislike upon your face, and i am sorry, for i would have parted with you in friendship, so that when the time comes that i return to my own land i should be able to carry away with me only the pleasant memory of it. when we have rested and are refreshed i shall take you back to your father.” all that had been surging to the girl's lips of love and gratitude from a heart that was filled with both was congealed by the cold tone which marked this dispassionate recital of the discharge of a moral obligation. possibly waldo's tone was colored by the vivid i the cave girl memory of the look of hate that he had seen in the girl's eyes at the instant that he went down before her missile as he battled with korth, for it was not even tinged with friendliness. and so the girl's manner was equally distant when she replied; in fact, it was even colder, for it was fraught with bitterness. “thandar owed nothing to nadara,” she said, “and though it matters not at all, it is only fair to say that the stone that struck you as you battled in the glade was intended for korth.” waldo's face brightened. a load that he had not realized lay there was lifted from his heart. “you did not want to hurt me, then?” he cried. “why should i want to hurt you?” returned the girl. “i thought” —and here waldo spoiled the fair start they had made at a reconciliation—“i thought,” he said, “that you were angry because i ran away from you after we had come to your village that time, months ago.” nadara's head went high and she laughed aloud. “i angry? i was surprised that you did not come to the village, but after an hour i had for- gotten the matter—it was with difficulty that i rec- ognized you when i next saw you, so utterly had the occurrence departed from my thoughts.” waldo wondered why he should feel such capture i humiliation at this frank avowal. of what moment to him was this girl's estimation of him? why did he feel a flush suffuse his face at the knowledge that he was of so little moment to her that she had entirely forgotten him within a few months? waldo was mortified and angry. he changed the subject brusquely; hereafter he should eschew personalities. “let us find a cave at a distance from the dead man,” he said, “and there we may rest until you are ready to attempt the return journey.” “i am ready now,” replied nadara; “nor do i need or desire your company. i can return alone, as i came.” “no,” remonstrated waldo doggedly; “i shall go with you whether you wish it or not. i shall see you safely with your father. i promised him.” nadara had been delighted with the first clause of his reply, but when it became evident that his only desire to return with her was to fulfil a prom- ise made her father she became furious, though she was careful not to let him see it. “very well,” she replied; “you may come if you wish, though it is neither necessary nor as i would have it. i prefer being alone.” “i shall not force my company upon you,” said waldo haughtily. “i can follow a few paces be- hind you.” i the cave girl there was an injured air in his last words which did not escape the girl. she wondered if he really deserved the harsh attitude she had maintained. they found a cave a half-mile down the valley, where they took up their quarters against the time that waldo should be rested, for the girl insisted that she was fully able to commence the return journey at once. the man knew better, and so he let her have it that the delay was on his account rather than hers, for he doubted her ability to cope with the hard- ships of the long journey without an interval for recuperation. the next morning found them both rested and in better spirits, so that there was no return to their acrimonious encounter of the previous day. as they walked out toward the forest that lay down the valley in the direction of the ocean waldo dropped a few paces behind the girl in polite defer- ence to her expressed wish of the day before. as he walked he watched the graceful movements of her lithe figure and the lines of her clear-cut profile as she turned her head this way and that in search of food. how beautiful she was it was incredible that this wild cave girl should have greater beauty and a more regal carriage than the queens and beauties of civilization, and yet waldo was forced to admit capture i that he had never even dreamed, much less seen, such absolute physical perfection. he wished that he could say as much for her disposition; that was atrocious. it was unbeliev- able that such a wondrous exterior could harbor so much ingratitude and coldness. presently they came among the trees where the ripe fruit hung, and as waldo climbed nimbly among the branches and tossed the most luscious down to her, the girl, in her turn, watched him. she noted more closely the marvelous change that a few months had wrought. she had thought him wonderful before, but now he was a very god. she did not think just this, for she knew nothing of gods—other than the demons that were sup- posed to enter the bodies of the sick; but she thought of him as some superior creature, and then she ceased to feel aggrieved that he should care so little for her. he was not a man—he was something more than a man, and she had been very wicked to have treated him so shamefully. she would make amends. - so she tried to be more kind thereafter, though there still remained a trace of aloofness. together they sat upon the turf and ate their fruit, and as they ate they talked a little, for it is difficult for two young people to harbor animosity the cave girl for a great time, especially when there is none other for them to talk to. “when you have returned with me to my father, thandar,” the girl asked, “where shall you go then?” “i shall return to the sea where i may watch for a ship to take me back to my own land,” he replied. “i have seen but one ship in all my life,” said nadara, “and that was years ago. it was when we lived close by the big water that it stopped a long way from shore and sent many smaller boats to land. - “there were many men in the boats, and when they landed, my father and mother took me far into the forest away from the sea, and there we stayed for many days until the strangers had sailed. they wandered up and down the coast and came back into the forests and the jungles for a few miles. - “my mother said that they were searching for me, and that if they found me they would take me away. i was very much frightened.” at the mention of her mother waldo recalled the little parcel that nadara's father had given into his custody for the girl. he unfastened it from the thong that circled his waist, where it had hung be- neath his panther-skin garment. “here is something your father asked me to capture i bring you,” he said, handing the package to nadara. the girl took it and examined it as though it was entirely unfamiliar. “what is it?” she asked. “your father did not say, other than that it con- tained articles that your mother wore when she died,” he said tenderly, for a great pity had welled up in his heart for this poor, motherless girl. “that my mother wore!” nadara repeated, her brows contracted in a puzzled frown. “when my mother died she wore nothing but a single garment of many small skins—very old and worn—and that was buried with her. i do not understand.” she made no effort to open the package, but sat gazing far off toward the ocean which was just visible through the trees, entirely absorbed in the reverie which waldo's words had engendered. “could the thing that the old woman told me have been true?” the girl mused half aloud. “could it have been because it was true that my mother fell upon her with tooth and nail until she had nearly killed her? i wonder if >> but here she stopped, her eyes riveted in sudden fear and hopelessness upon a thing that she had just espied in the distance. a great lump rose in her throat, tears came to her eyes, and with them the full measure of realization the cave girl of what that thing beyond the forest meant to her. she turned her eyes toward the man. he was sitting with bowed head, playing idly with a large beetle that he had penned within a tiny palisade of small twigs. at length he made an opening in the barrier. “go your way, poor thing,” he murmured. “heaven knows i realize too well the horrors of captivity to keep any other creature from its fel- lows and its home.” a choking sigh that was almost a sob racked the girl. at the sound waldo looked up to see her pathetic, unhappy eyes upon him. of a sudden there enveloped him a great desire to take her in his arms and comfort her. he knew not why she was unhappy, but her sorrow cried aloud to him—as he thought simply to the protective instinct that was merely an attribute of his sex. nadara raised her hand slowly and pointed through the trees. it was as though she had torn her heart from her breast, so harrowing she felt the consequences of her act would be, but it was for his sake—for the sake of the man she loved. as waldo's eyes followed the direction of her pointing finger he came suddenly to his feet with a wild cry of joy; through the trees, out upon the shimmering surface of the placid sea, there lay a graceful, white yacht. capture i “thank god!” cried the man fervently, and sinking to his knees he raised his hands aloft toward the author of joy and sorrow. a moment later he sprang to his feet. “home! nadara. home!” he cried. “can't you realize it? i am going home. i am saved oh, nadara, child, can't you realize what it means to me? home! home! home!” he had been looking toward the yacht as he spoke, but now he turned toward the girl. she was crouching upon the ground, her face in her hands, her slender figure shaken by convulsive tears. he came toward her and, kneeling, laid his hand upon her shoulder. “nadara!” he said gently. “why do you cry, child? what is the matter?” but she only shook her head, moaning. he raised her to her feet, and as he supported her his arm circled her shoulders. “tell me, nadara, why you are unhappy?” he urged. but still she could not speak for sobbing, and only buried her face upon his breast. he was holding her very close now, and with the pressure of her body against his a fire that, un- known, had been smoldering in his heart for months burst into sudden flame, and in the heat of it there were consumed the mists that had been be- i the cave girl fore the eyes of his heart all that time. &g nadara,” he asked in a very low voice, “is it because i am going that you cry?” but at that she pulled away from him, and through her tears her eyes blazed. “no!” she cried. “i shall be glad when you have gone. i wish that you had never come. i—i —hate you!” she turned and fled back up the valley, forgetful of the little packet thandar had brought her, which lay forgotten upon the ground where she had dropped it. without so much as a backward glance toward the yacht waldo was off in pursuit of her; but nadara was as fleet as a hare, so that it was a much winded waldo who finally overhauled her half-way up the face of a cliff two miles from the ocearl. “go away!” cried the girl. “go back with your own kind, to your own home!” waldo did not answer. waldo was no more. it was thandar, the cave man, who took nadara in his strong arms and crushed her to him. “my girl!” he cried. “my girl! i love you! and because i am a fool i did not learn until it was almost too late.” he did not ask if she loved him, for he was thandar, the cave man. nor, a moment later, did capture i i he need to ask, since her strong, brown arms crept up about his neck and drew his lips down to hers. it was quite half an hour later before either thought of the yacht again. from where they stood upon the cliff's face they could see the ocean and the beach. several boats were drawn up and a number of men were coming toward the forest. presently they would discover the two upon the cliff. “we shall go back together now,” said thandar. “i am afraid,” replied nadara. for a time the man stood gazing at the dainty yacht, and far beyond it into the civilization which it represented, and he saw there suave men and sneering women, and among them was a slender brown beauty who shrank from the cruel glances of the women—and waldo writhed at this and at the greedy eyes of the suave men as they appraised the girl—and he, too, was afraid. “come,” he said, taking nadara by the hand, “let us hurry back into the hills before they dis- cover us.” just as the men from the yacht, which mr. john alden smith-jones had despatched to the south seas in search of his missing son, emerged from the forest into a view of the valley and the cliffs a cave man and his mate clambered over the brow of the latter and disappeared toward the hills beyond. i the cave girl it was nearly dusk as the searchers from the yacht were returning toward the beach. they had found no sign of human habitation in the little valley, nor anywhere along the coast that they had so carefully explored. the commander of the expedition, captain cecil burlinghame, a retired naval officer, was in advance. they had penetrated the woods nearly to the beach when his foot struck against a package wrapped in the skin of a small rodent. he stooped and picked it up. “here is the first evidence that another human being than ourselves has ever set foot upon this island,” he said as he cut the gut lacing with his pocket knife. within the first wrapping he found a chamois- bag such as women sometimes use to carry jewels about their persons. from this he emptied into his palm a dozen price- less rings, a few old-fashioned brooches, bracelets, and lockets. in one of the latter he discovered the ivory miniature of a woman—a very beautiful woman. in the other side of the locket was engraved: “to eugénie marie céleste de la valois, countess of crecy, from henri, her husband. th january, — . capture i “gad!” cried the old captain. “now what do you make of that? “the count and countess of crecy were return- ing to paris from their honeymoon trip round the world in the steam yacht dolphin nearly twenty years ago, and after they touched at australia were never heard of again. “what tragedy, what mystery, what romance might not these sparkling gems disclose had they but tongues!” the cave girl part ii , note: part ii of this book appeared serially under the title “the cave man” chapter i king big fist aldo emerson smith-jones, scion of the aristocratic house of the john alden smith-joneses of boston, clambered up the rocky face of the precipitous cliff with the agility of a monkey. his right hand clasped the slim brown fingers of his half-naked mate, assisting her over the more dangerous or difficult stretches. at the summit the two turned their faces back toward the sea. beyond the gently waving forest trees stretched the broad expanse of shimmering ocean. in the foreground, upon the bosom of a tiny harbor, lay a graceful yacht—a beautiful toy it looked from the distance of the cliff top. for the first time the man obtained an unob- structed view of the craft. before, when they first had discovered it, the boles of the forest trees had revealed it but in part. now he saw it fully from stem to stern with all its well-known, graceful lines standing out distinctly against the deep blue of the water. the shock of recognition brought an involun- tary exclamation from his lips. the girl looked quickly up into his face. i the cave girl “what is it, thandar?” she asked. “what do you see?” “the yacht!” he whispered. “it is the pris- cilla—my father's. he is searching for me.” “and you wish to go?” for some time he did not speak—only stood there gazing at the distant yacht. and the young girl at his side remained quite motionless and silent, too, looking up at the man's profile, watching the expression upon his face with a look of dumb misery upon her own. quickly through the man's mind was running the gamut of his past. he recalled his careful and tender upbringing—the time, the money, the fond pride that had been expended upon his education. he thought of the result—the narrow-minded, weakling egoist; the pusillanimous coward that had been washed from the deck of a passing steamer upon the sandy beach of this savage, for- gotten shore. and yet it had been love, solicitous and tender, that had prompted his parents to their misguided efforts. he was their only son. they were doubt- less grieving for him. they were no longer young, and in their declining years it appeared to him a pathetic thing that they should be robbed of the happiness which he might bring them by returning to the old life. king big fist i but could he ever return to the bookish existence that once had seemed so pleasant? had not this brief year into which had been crowded so much of wild, primitive life made im- possible a return to the narrow, self-centered exist- ence? had it not taught him that there was in- finitely more in life than ever had been written into the dry and musty pages of books? it had taught him to want life at first hand— not through the proxy of the printed page. it and —nadara. he glanced toward the girl. could he give her up? no! a thousand times, no! he read in her face the fear that lurked in her heart. no, he could not give her up. he owed to her all that he possessed of which he was most proud—his mighty physique, his new , found courage, his woodcraft, his ability to cope, primi- tively, with the primitive world, her savage world which he had learned to love. no, he could not give her up; but—what? his gaze lingered upon her sweet face. slowly there sank into his understanding something of the reason for his love of this wild, half-savage cave girl other than the primitive passion of the sexes. he saw now not only the physical beauty of her face and figure, but the sweet, pure innocence of her girlishness, and, most of all, the wondrous king big fist nadara walked very close to thandar, her hand snuggled in his and her shoulder pressed tightly against his side, for she was afraid of the new life among the strange creatures of civilization. at the far side of the valley, just before one enters the forest, there grows a thick jungle of bamboo – really but a narrow strip, not more than a hundred feet through at its greatest width; but so dense as to quite shut out from view any creature even a few feet within its narrow, gloomy avenues. into this the two plunged, thandar in the lead, nadara close behind him, stepping exactly in his footprints—an involuntary concession to training, for there was no need here either of deceiving a pursuer, or taking advantage of easier going. the trail was well-marked and smooth-beaten by many a padded paw. it wound erratically, following the line of least resistance—it forked, and there were other trails which entered it from time to time, or crossed it. the hundred feet it traversed seemed much more when measured by the trail. the two had come almost to the forest side of the jungle when a sharp turn in the path brought thandar face to face with a huge, bear-like man. the fellow wore a g-string of soft hide, and over one shoulder dangled an old and filthy leopard skin —otherwise, he was naked. his thick, coarse hair i the cave girl was matted low over his forehead. the balance of his face was covered by a bushy red beard. at sight of thandar his close set, little eyes burned with sudden rage and cunning. from his thick lips burst a savage yell—it was the prelimi- nary challenge. ordinarily a certain amount of vituperation and coarse insults must pass between strangers meet- ing upon this inhospitable isle before they fly at one another's throat. “i am thurg,” bellowed the brute. “i can kill you,” and then followed a volley of vulgar allusions to thandar's possible origin, and the origin of his ancestors. “the bad men,” whispered nadara. with her words there swept into the man's memory the scene upon the face of the cliff that night a year before when, even in the throes of cowardly terror, he had turned to do battle with a huge cave man that the fellow might not prevent the escape of nadara. he glanced at the right forearm of the creature who faced him. a smile touched thandar's lips— the arm was crooked as from the knitting of a broken bone, poorly set. “you would kill thandar—again?” he asked tauntingly, pointing toward the deformed member. then came recognition to the red-rimmed eyes * king big fist i of thurg, as, with another ferocious bellow, he launched himself toward the author of his old hurt. thandar met the charge with his short stick of pointed hard wood—his “sword” he called it. it entered the fleshy part of thurg's breast, calling forth a howl of pain and a trickling stream of crimson. thurg retreated. this was no way to fight. he was scandalized. for several minutes he stood glaring at his foe, screaming hideous threats and insults at him. then once more he charged. again the painful point entered his body, but this time he pressed in clutching madly at the goad and for a hold upon thandar's body. the latter held thurg at arm's length, prodding him with the fire-hardened point of his wooden sword. the cave man's little brain wondered at the skill and prowess of this stranger who had struck him a single blow with a cudgel many moons before and then run like a rabbit to escape his wrath. why was it that he did not run now? what strange change had taken place in him? he had expected an easy victim when he finally had recog- nized his foe; but instead he had met with brawn and ferocity equal to his own and with a strange i the cave girl weapon, the like of which he never before had seen. thandar was puncturing him rapidly now, and thurg was screaming in rage and suffering. pres- ently he could endure it no longer. with a sudden wrench he tore himself loose and ran, bellowing, through the jungle. thandar did not pursue. it was enough that he had rid himself of his enemy. he turned toward nadara, smiling. “it will seem very tame in boston,” he said; but though she gave him an answering smile, she did not understand, for to her boston was but another land of primeval forests, and dense jungles; of hairy, battling men, and fierce beasts. at the edge of the forest they came again upon thurg, but this time he was surrounded by a score of his burly tribesmen. thandar knew better than to pit himself against so many. thurg came rushing down upon them, his fellows at his heels. in loud tones he screamed anew his challenge, and the beasts behind him took it up until the forest echoed to their hideous bellowing. he had seen nadara as he had battled with thandar, and recognized her as the girl he had de- sired a year before—the girl whom this stranger had robbed him of. now he was determined to wreak vengeance on the man and at the same time recapture the girl. king big fist i thandar and nadara turned back into the jungle where but a single enemy could attack them at a time in the narrow trails. here they managed to elude pursuit for several hours, coming again into the forest nearly a mile below the beach where the priscilla had lain at anchor. thurg and his fellows had apparently given up the chase — they had neither seen nor heard aught of them for some time. now the two hastened back through the wood to reach a point on the shore opposite the yacht. at last they came in sight of the harbor. than- dar halted. a look of horror and disappointment supplanted the expression of pleasurable anticipa- tion that had lighted his countenance—the yacht was not there. a mile out they discerned her, steaming rapidly north. thandar ran to the beach. he tore the black panther's hide from his shoulders, waving it fran- tically above his head, the while he shouted in futile endeavor to attract attention from the dwindling craft. then, quite suddenly, he collapsed upon the beach, burying his face in his hands. presently nadara crept close to his side. her soft arms encircled his shoulders as she drew his cheek close to hers in an attempt to comfort him. king big fist i lection of boston as he had known it—boston without nadara; but now that she was to have gone back with him boston seemed the most desir- able spot in the world. as he sat pondering the unfortunate happenings that had so delayed them that the yacht had sailed before they reached the shore, he also cast about for some plan to mitigate their disappointment. to live forever upon this savage island did not seem such an appalling thing as it had a year be- fore—but then he had not realized his love for the wild young creature at his side. ah, if she could but be made his wife then his exile here would be a happy rather than a doleful lot. what if he had been born here too? with the thought came a new idea that seemed to offer an avenue from his dilemma. had he, too, been na- tive born how would he have wed nadara? why through the ceremony of their own people, of course. and if men and women were thus wed here, living together in faithfulness throughout their lives, what more sacred a union could civiliza- tion offer? he sprang to his feet. “come, nadara!” he cried. “we shall return to your people, and there you shall become my wife.” nadara was puzzled, but she made no comment; content simply to leave the future to her lord and the cave girl master; to do whatever would bring thandar the greatest happiness. the return to the dwellings of nadara's people occupied three never-to-be-forgotten days. how different this journey by comparison with that of a year since, when the cave girl had been leading the terror-stricken waldo emerson in flight from the bad men toward, to him, an equally hor- rible fate at the hands of korth and flatfoot! then the forest glades echoed to the pads of fierce beasts and the stealthy passage of naked, human horrors. no twig snapped that did not por- tend instant and terrifying death. now korth and flatfoot were dead at the hands of the metamorphosed waldo. the racking cough was gone. he had encountered the bad men and others like them and come away with honors. even nagoola, the sleek, black devil-cat of the hideous nights, no longer sent the slightest tremor through the rehabilitated nerves. did not thandar wear nagoola's pelt about his shoulder and loins—a pelt that he had taken in hand to hand encounter with the dread beast? slowly they walked beneath the shade of giant trees, beside pleasant streams, or, again, across open valleys where the grass grew knee high and count- less, perfumed wild flowers opened a pathway be- fore their naked feet. king big fist i at night they slept where night found them. sometimes in the deserted lair of a wild beast, or again perched among the branches of a spreading tree where parallel branches permitted the construc- tion of rude platforms. and thandar was always most solicitous to see that nadara's couch was of the softest grasses and that his own lay at a little distance from hers and in a position where he might best protect her from prowling beasts. again was nadara puzzled, but still she made ino comment. finally they came to her village. several of the younger men came forth to meet them; but when they saw that the man was he who had slain korth they bridled their truculence, all but one, big fist, who had assumed the role of king since flatfoot had left. “i can kill you,” he announced by way of greet- ing, “for i am big fist, and until flatfoot returns i am king—and maybe afterward, for some day i shall kill flatfoot.” “i do not wish to fight you,” replied thandar. “already have i killed korth, and flatfoot will return no more, for flatfoot i have killed also. and i can kill big fist, but what is the use? why should we fight? let us be friends, for we must live together, and if we do not kill one another there chapter ii king thandar he first thing that thandar did after he en- tered the village was to seek out nadara's father. they found the old man in the poorest and least protected cave in the cliff side, exposed to the at- tack of the first prowling carnivore, or skulking foeman. he was sick, and there was none to care for him; but he did not complain. that was the way of his people. when a man became too old to be of service to the community it were better that he died, and so they did nothing to delay the inevitable. when one became an absolute burden upon his fellows it was customary to hasten the end—a carefully de- livered blow with a heavy rock was calculated quickly to relieve the burdens of the community and the suffering of the invalid. thandar and nadara came in and sat down be- side him. the old fellow seemed glad to see them. “i am thandar,” said the young man. “i wish to take your daughter as my mate.” the old man looked at him questioningly for a moment. king thandar “in my country we do not take our wives in any such way, nor shall i take you thus. we must be married properly, according to the customs and laws of civilization.” nadara made no reply. to her it seemed that thandar must care very little for her—that was about the only explanation she could put upon his strange behavior. it made her sad. and then the other women would laugh at her—of that she was quite certain, and that, too, made her feel very badly—they would see that thandar did not want her. the old man, lying upon his scant bed of matted, filthy grasses, had heard the conversation. he was as much at sea as nadara. at last he spoke— very feebly now, for rapidly he was nearing dis- solution. “i am a very old man,” he said to thandar. “i have not long to live. before i die i should like to know that nadara has a mate who will protect her. i love her, though—” he hesitated. “though what?” asked thandar. “i have never told,” whispered the old fellow. “my mate would not let me, but now that i am about to die it can do no harm. nadara is not my daughter.” the girl sprang to her feet. “not your daughter?” “then who am i?” the cave girl “i do not know who you are, except that you are not even of my people. all that i know i will tell you now before i die. come close, for my voice is dying faster than my body.” the young man and the girl came nearer to his side, and squatting there leaned close that they might catch each faintly articulated syllable. “my mate and i,” commenced the old man, “were childless, though many moons had passed since i took her to my cave. she wanted a little one, for thus only may women have aught upon which to lavish their love. “we had been hunting together for several days alone and far from the village, for i was a great hunter when i was young—no greater ever lived among our people. “and one day we came down to the great water, and there, a short distance from the shore we saw a strange thing that floated upon the surface of the water, and when it was blown closer to us we saw that it was hollow and that in it were two people—a man and a woman. both appeared to be dead. “finally i waded out to meet the thing, drag- ging it to shore, and there sure enough was a man and a woman, and the man was dead—quite dead. he must have been dead for a long time; but the woman was not dead. ring thandar “she was very fair though her eyes and hair were black. we carried her ashore, and that night a little girl was born to her, but the woman died before morning. “we put her back into the strange thing that had brought her—she and the dead man who had come with her—and shoved them off upon the great water, where the breeze, which had changed over night, together with the water which runs away from the land twice each day carried them out of sight, nor ever did we see them again. “but before we sent them off my mate took from the body of the woman her strange coverings and a little bag of skin which contained many sparkling stones of different colors and metals of yellow and white made into things the purposes of which we could not guess. “it was evident that the woman had come from a strange land, for she and all her belongings were unlike anything that either of us ever had seen before. she herself was different as nadara is dif- ferent—nadara looks as her mother looked, for nadara is the little babe that was born that night. “we brought her back to our people after another moon, saying that she was born to my mate; but there was one woman who knew better, for it seemed that she had seen us when we found the boat, having been running away from a man i the cave girl who wanted her as his mate. “but my mate did not want anyone to say that nadara was not hers, for it is a great disgrace, as you well know, for a woman to be barren, and so she several times nearly killed this woman, who knew the truth, to keep her from telling it to the whole village. “but i love nadara as well as though she had been my own, and so i should like to see her well mated before i die.” s thandar had gone white during the narration of the story of nadara's birth. he could scarce restrain an impulse to go upon his knees and thank his god that he had harked to the call of his civi- lized training rather than have given in to the easier way, the way these primitive, beast-like people offered. providence, he thought, must indeed have sent him here to rescue her. the old man, turning upon his rough pallet, fastened his sunken eyes questioningly upon than- dar. nadara, too, with parted lips waited for him to speak. the old man gasped for breath—there was a strange rattling sound in his throat. thandar leaned above him, raising his head and shoulders slightly. the young man never had heard that sound before, but now that he heard it he needed no iterpreter. the locust, rubbing his legs along his wings, king thandar startles the uninitiated into the belief that a hid- den rattler lurks in the pathway; but when the great diamond back breaks forth in warning none mis- takes him for a locust. and so is it with the death rattle in the human throat. thandar knew that it was the end. he saw the old man's mighty effort to push back the grim reaper that he might speak once more. in the dying eyes were a question and a plea. thandar could not misunderstand. he reached forward and took nadara's hand. “in my own land we shall be mated,” he said. “none other shall wed with nadara, and as proof that she is thandar's she shall wear this always,” and from his finger he slipped a splendid solitaire to the third finger of nadara's left hand. the old man saw. a look of relief and content- ment that was almost a smile settled upon his features, as, with a gasping sigh, he sank limply into thandar's arms, dead. that afternoon several of the younger men car- ried the body of nadara's foster father to the top of the cliff, depositing it about half a mile from the caves. there was no ceremony. in it, though, waldo emerson saw what might have been the first human funeral cortege—simple, sensible and utili- tarian—from which the human race has retro- i the cave girl graded to the ostentatious, ridiculous, pestilent burials of present day civilization. the young men, acting under big fist's orders, carried the worthless husk to a safe distance from the caves, leaving it there to the rapid disintegration provided by the beasts and birds of prey. nadara wept, silently. an elderly lady with a single tooth, espying her, moaned in sympathy. presently other females, attracted by the moaning, joined them, and, becoming affected by the strange hysteria to which womankind is heir, mingled their moans with those of the toothless one. excited by their own noise they soon were shriek- ing and screaming in hideous chorus. then came big fist and others of the men. the din annoyed them. they set upon the mourners with their fists and teeth scattering them in all directions. thus ended the festivities. or would have had not big fist made the fatal mistake of launching a blow at nadara. thandar had been standing nearby looking with wonder upon the strange scene. he had noted the quiet grief of the young girl — real grief; and he had witnessed the hysterical variety of the “mourners”—not sham grief. precisely, because they made no pretense to grief —it was noise to which they aspired. and as the fiendish din had set his own nerves on edge he king thandar wondered not at all that big fist and the other men should take steps to quell the tumult. the female half-brutes were theirs and waldo emerson had reverted sufficiently to the primitive to feel no incentive to interfere. but nadara was not theirs—she was not of them, and even had she not belonged to him the american would have felt bound to stand between her and the savage creatures among whom fate had cast her. that she did belong to him, however, sent him hot with the blood lust of the killer as he sprang to intercept the rush of big fist toward her. waldo emerson smith-jones had learned noth- ing of the manly art of self-defense in that other life that had been so zealously guarded from the rude and vulgar. this was unfortunate since it would have given him a great advantage over the man-brute. a single well-timed swing to that un- guarded chin would have ended hostilities at once; but of hooks and jabs and jolts, scientific, than- dar knew nothing. except for his crude weapons he was as primeval in battle as his original anthropoid progenitor, and quite as often as not he forgot all about his sword, his knife, his bow and arrows and his spear when, half stooped, he crouched to meet the charge of a foeman. now he sprang for big fist's hairy throat. o the cave girl there was a sullen thud as the two bodies met, and then, rolling, biting and tearing, they struggled hither and thither upon the rocky ground at the base of the cliff. - the other men desisted from their attack upon the women. the women ceased their vocal mourn- ing. in a little circle they formed about the con- testants—a circle which moved this way and that as the fighters moved, keeping them always in the center. nadara forced her way through them to the front. she wished to be near thandar. in her hand she carried a jagged bit of granite—one could never tell. big fist was burly—mountainous—but than- dar was muscled like nagoola, the black panther. his movements were all grace and ease, but oh, so irresistible. a sudden and unexpected blow upon the side of big fist's head bent that bullet-shaped thing sidewards with a jerk that almost dislocated the neck. big fist shrieked with the pain of it. thandar, delighted by the result of the accidental blow, re- peated it. big fist bellowed—agonized. he made a last supreme effort to close with his agile foeman, and succeeded. his teeth sought thandar's throat, but the act brought his own jugular close to than- dar's jaws. king thandar the strong white teeth of waldo emerson smith-jones closed upon it as naturally as though no countless ages had rolled their snail-like way be- tween himself and the last of his progenitors to bury bloody fangs in the soft flesh of an antagonist. wasted ages! fleeing from the primitive and the brute toward the neoteric and the human—in a brief instant your labors are undone, the veneer of eons crumbles in the heat of some pristine passion revealing again naked and unashamed, the primi- tive and the brute. big fist, white now from terror at impending death, struggled to be free. thandar buried his teeth more deeply. there was a sudden rush of spurting blood that choked him. big fist relaxed, inert. thandar, drenched crimson, rose to his feet. the huge body on the ground before him floun- dered spasmodically once or twice as the life blood gushed from the severed jugular. the eyes rolled up and set, there was a final twitch and big fist was dead. thandar turned toward the circle of interested spectators. he singled out a burly quartet. “bear big fist to the cliff top,” he commanded. “when you return we shall choose a king.” the men did as they were bid. they did not at all understand what thandar meant by choosing a the cave girl king. having slain big fist, thandar was king, un- less some ambitious one desired to dispute his right to reign. but all had seen him slay big fist, and all knew that he had killed korth and flatfoot, so who was there would dare question his kingship? when they had come back to the village thandar gathered them beneath a great tree that grew close to the base of the cliff. here they squatted upon their haunches in a rough circle. behind them stood the women and children, wide-eyed and curious. “let us choose a king,” said thandar, when all had come. there was a long silence, then one of the older men spoke. “i am an old man. i have seen many kings. they come by killing. they go by killing. than- dar has killed two kings. now he is king. who wishes to kill thandar and become king?” there was no answer. the old man arose. “it was foolish to come here to choose a king,” he said, “when a king we already have.” “wait,” commanded thandar. “let us choose a king properly. because i have killed flatfoot and big fist does not prove that i can make a good king. was flatfoot a good king?” “he was a bad man,” replied the ancient one. king thandar “has a good man ever been king?” asked than- dar. - the old fellow puckered his brow in thought. “not for a long time,” he said. “that is because you always permit a bully and a brute to rule you,” said thandar. “that is not the proper way to choose a king. rather you should come together as we are come, and among you talk over the needs of the tribe and when you are decided as to what measures are best for the welfare of the members of the tribe then should you select the man best fitted to carry out your plans. that is a better way to choose a king.” the old man laughed. “and then,” he said, “would come a big fist or a flatfoot and slay our king that he might be king in his place.” “have you ever seen a man who could slay all the other men of the tribe at the same time?” the old man looked puzzled. “that is my answer to your argument,” said thandar. “those who choose the king can protect him from his enemies. so long as he is a good king they should do so, but when he becomes a bad king they can then select another, and if the bad king refuses to obey the new it would be an easy matter for several men to kill him or drive him away, no matter how mighty a fighter he might be.” i the cave girl several of the men nodded understandingly. “we had not thought of that,” they said. “thandar is indeed wise.” “so now,” continued the american, “let us choose a king whom the majority of us want, and then so long as he is a good king the majority of us must fight for him and protect him. let us choose a man whom we know to be a good man regardless of his ability to kill his fellows, for if he has the majority of the tribe to fight for him what need will he have to fight for himself? what we want is a wise man—one who can lead the tribe to fertile lands and good hunting, and in times of battle direct the fighting intelligently. flatfoot and big fist had not brains enough between them to do aught but steal the mates of other men. such should not be the business of kings. your king should protect your mates from such as flatfoot, and he should punish those who would steal them.” “but how may he do these things?” asked a young man, “if he is not the best fighter in the tribe?” “have i not shown you how?” asked thandar. “we who make him king shall be his fighters—he will not need to fight with his own hands.” again there was a long silence. then the old man spoke again. “there is wisdom in the talk of thandar. let king thandar us choose a king who will have to be good to us if he wishes to remain king. it is very bad for us to have a king whom we fear.” “i, for one,” said the young man who had pre- viously spoken, “do not care to be ruled by a king unless he is able to defeat me in battle. if i can defeat him then i should be king.” and so they took sides, but at last they com- promised by selecting one whom they knew to be wise and a great fighter as well. thus they chose thandar king. “once each week,” said the new king, “we shall gather here and talk among ourselves of the things which are for the best good of the tribe, and what seems best to the majority shall be done. the tribe will tell the king what to do—the king will carry out the work. and all must fight when the king says fight and all must work when the king says work, for we shall all be fighting or working for the whole tribe, and i, thandar, your king, shall fight and work the hardest of you all.” it was a new idea to them and placed the king- ship in a totally different light from any by which they had previously viewed it. that it would take a long time for them to really absorb the idea than- dar knew, and he was glad that in the meantime they had a king who could command their respect according to their former standards. the cave girl and he smiled when he thought of the change that had taken place in him since first he had sat trembling, weeping and coughing upon the lonely shore before the terrifying forest. . chapter iii the great nagoola aldo emerson smith-jones had gladly embraced the opportunity which chance had offered him to assume the kingship of the little tribe of troglodytes. first, because his position would assure nadara greater safety, and, second, because of the opening it would give him for the exercise of his new-found initiative. where before he had shrunk from responsibility he now found himself anxious to assume it. he longed to do, where formerly he had been content to but read of the accomplishments of others. to his chagrin, however, he soon discovered that the classical education to which his earlier life had been devoted under the guidance of a fond and ultra-cultured mother was to prove a most inade- quate foundation upon which to build a practical scheme of life for himself and his people. he wished to teach his tribe to construct perma- nent and comfortable houses, but he could not recol- lect any practical hints on carpentry that he had obtained from ovid. his people lived by hunting small rodents, rob- bing birds' nests, and gathering wild fruit and vege- the cave girl tables. thandar desired to institute a scheme of community farming, but the works of the cyclic poets, with which he was quite familiar, seemed to offer little of value along agricultural lines. he regretted that he had not matriculated at an agricul- tural college west of the alleghanies rather than at harvard. however, he determined to do the best he could with the meager knowledge he possessed of things practical—a knowledge so meager that it con- sisted almost entirely of the bare definition of the word agriculture. it was a germ, however, for it presupposed a knowledge of the results that might be obtained through agriculture. so thandar found himself a step ahead of the earliest of his progenitors who had thought to plant purposely the seeds that nature heretofore had distributed haphazard through the agencies of wind and bird and beast; but only a step ahead. he realized that he occupied a very remarkable position in the march of ages. he had known and seen and benefited by all the accumulated knowl- edge of ages of progression from the stone age to the twentieth century, and now, suddenly, fate had snatched him back into the stone age, or possibly a few eons farther back, only to show him that all that he had from a knowledge of other men's the great nagoola i knowledge was keen dissatisfaction with the stone age. he had lived in houses of wood and brick and looked through windows of glass. he had read in the light of gas and electricity, and he even knew of candles; but he could not fashion the tools to build a house, he could not have made a brick to have saved his life, glass had suddenly become one of the wonders of the world to him, and as for gas and electricity and candles they had become one with the mystery of the sphinx. he could write verse in excellent greek, but he was no longer proud of that fact. he would much rather that he had been able to tan a hide, or make fire without matches. waldo emerson smith-jones had a year ago been exceedingly proud of his intel- lect and his learning, but for a year his ego had been shrinking until now he felt himself the most pitiful ignoramus on earth. “criminally igno- rant,” he said to nadara, “for i have thrown away the opportunities of a lifetime devoted to the ac- cumulation of useless erudition when i might have been profiting by the practical knowledge which has dragged the world from the black bit of barbarism to the light of modern achievement—i might not only have done this but, myself, added something to the glory and welfare of mankind. i am no good, nadara—worse than useless.” o the cave girl the girl touched his strong brown hand caress- ingly, looking proudly into his eyes. “to me you are very wonderful, thandar,” she said. “with your own hands you slew nagoola, the most terrible beast in the world, and korth, and flatfoot, and big fist lie dead beneath the vultures because of your might—single-handed you killed them all; three awesome men. no, my thandar is greater than all other men.” nor could waldo emerson repress the swelling tide of pride that surged through him as the girl he loved recounted his exploits. no longer did he think of his achievements as “vulgar physical prowess.” the old waldo emerson, whose tem- perature had risen regularly at three o'clock each afternoon, whose pitifully skinny body had been racked by coughing continually, whose eyes had been terror filled by day and by night at the rus- tling of dry leaves, was dead. in his place stood a great, full blooded man, brown skinned and steel thewed; fearless, self-re- liant, almost brutal in his pride of power—than- dar, the cave man. the months that passed as thandar led his people from one honeycombed cliff to another as he sought a fitting place for a permanent village were filled with happiness for nadara and the king. the girl's happiness was slightly alloyed by the the great nagoola fact that thandar failed to claim her as his own. she could not yet quite understand the ethics which separated them. thandar tried repeatedly to ex- plain to her that some day they were to return to his own world, and that that world would not ac- cept her unless she had been joined to him accord- ing to the rites and ceremonies which it had origi- nated. “will this marriage ceremony of which you tell me make you love me more?” asked nadara. thandar laughed and took her in his arms. “i could not love you more,” he replied. “then of what good is it?” thandar shook his head. “it is difficult to explain,” he said, “especially to such a lovable little pagan as my nadara. you must be satisfied to know—accept my word for it—that it is because i love you that we must wait.” now it was the girl's turn to shake her head. “i cannot understand,” she said. “my people take their mates as they will and they are satisfied and everybody is satisfied and all is well; but their king, who may mate as he chooses, waits until a man whom he does not know and who lives across the great water where we may never go, gives him permission to mate with one who loves him—with one whom he says he loves.” r& the cave girl thandar noticed the emphasis which nadara put upon the word “says.” “some day,” he said, “when we have reached my world you will know that i was right, and you will thank me. until then, nadara, you must trust me, and,” he added half to himself, “god knows i have earned your trust even if you do not know it.” and so nadara made believe that she was satis- fied but in her heart of hearts she still feared that thandar did not really love her, nor did the half- veiled comments of the women add at all to her peace of mind. during all the time that thandar was with her he had been teaching her his language for he had set his heart upon taking her home, and he wished her to be as well prepared for her introduction to boston and civilization as he could make her. thandar's plan was to find a suitable location within sight of the sea that he might always be upon the lookout for a ship. at last he found such a place—a level meadow land upon a low plateau overlooking the ocean. he had come upon it while he wandered alone several miles from the temporary cliff dwellings the tribe was occupying. the soil, when he dug into it, he found to be rich and black. there was timber upon one side and upon the other overhang- ing cliffs of soft limestone. the great nagoola it was thandar's plan to build a village partly of logs against the face of the cliff, burrowing in- ward behind the dwellings for such additional apartments as each family might require. the caves alone would have proved sufficient shelter, but the man hoped by compelling his people to construct a portion of each dwelling of logs to engender within each family a certain feeling of ownership and pride in personal possession as would make it less easy for them to give up their abodes than in the past, when it had been necessary but to move to another cliff to find caves equally as com- fortable as those which they so easily abandoned. in other words he hoped to give them a word which their vocabulary had never held—home. whether or not he would have succeeded we may never know, for fate stepped in at the last moment to alter with a single stroke his every plan and as- piration. as he returned to his people that afternoon filled with the enthusiasm of his hopes a burly, hairy figure crept warily after him. as thandar emerged from the brush which reaches close to the cliffs where the temporary encampment had been made nadara, watching for him, ran forward to meet him. the creature upon thandar's trail halted at the edge of the bush. as his close-set eyes fell upon the cave girl the girl his flabby lips vibrated to the quick intaking of his breath and his red lids half closed in cunning and desire. - for a few moments he watched the man and the maid as they turned and walked slowly toward the cliffs, the arm of the former about the brown shoulders of the latter. then he too turned and melted into the tangled branches behind him. that evening thandar gathered the members of the tribe about him at the foot of the cliff. they sat around a great fire while thandar, their king, explained to them in minutest detail the future that he had mapped out for them. some of the old men shook their heads, for here was an unheard of thing—a change from the ac- customed ordering of their lives—and they were loath to change regardless of the benefits which might accrue. but for the most part the people welcomed the idea of comfortable and permanent habitations, though their anticipatory joy, thandar reasoned, was due largely to a childish eagerness for some- thing new and different—whether their enthusi- asm would survive the additional labors which the new life was sure to entail was another question. so thandar laid down the new laws that were to guide his people thereafter. the men were to make all implements and weapons, for he had already the cave girl civilization they could make in a few brief years if they could but be made to follow the simple plans he had in mind. “why,” he said, “in ten years they should have bridged a gulf that it must have required ages for our ancestors to span.” “and you are planning ten years ahead, than- dar,” she asked, “when only yesterday you were saying that once beside the sea you hoped it would be but a short time before we might sight a pass- ing vessel that would bear us away to your civiliza- tion? must we wait ten years, thandar?” “i am planning for them,” he replied. “we may not be here to witness the changes; but i wish to start them upon the road, and when we go i shall see to it that a king is chosen in my place who has the courage and the desire to carry out my plans. “yet,” he added, musingly, “it would be splendid could we but return to complete our work. never, nadara, have i performed a single construct- ive act for the benefit of my fellow man, but now i see an opportunity to do something, however small it may seem, to-what was that?” a low rumbling muttered threateningly out of the west. deep and ominous it sounded, yet so low that it failed to awaken any member of the sleeping tribe. before either could again speak there came a the cave girl growling of the great nagoola in his anger, and the earth shakes and trembles as he strives far, far beneath to shake the mountains from him and escape. did you not hear his voice and feel the ground rock?” thandar laughed. “well, we are quite safe then,” he cried, “for with two mountains piled upon him he cannot escape.” “who knows?” asked nadara. “he is huge— as huge, himself, as a small mountain. some day, they say, he will escape, and then naught will pacify his rage until he has destroyed every living creature upon the land.” “do not worry, little one,” said thandar. “the great nagoola will have to grumble louder and struggle more fiercely before ever he may dislodge the two mountains. even now he is quiet again, so run to your cave, sweetheart, nor bother your pretty head with useless worries—it is time that all good people were asleep,” and he stooped and kissed her as she turned to go. for a moment she clung to him. “i am afraid, thandar,” she whispered. “why, i do not know. i only know that i am afraid, with a great fear that will not be quiet.” chapter iv the battle arly the following morning while several of the women and children were at the river drawing water the balance of the tribe of thandar was startled into wakefulness by piercing shrieks from the direction the water carriers had taken. before the great, hairy men, led by the smooth- skinned thandar, had reached the foot of the cliff in their rush to the rescue of the women several of the latter appeared at the edge of the forest, run- ning swiftly toward the caves. mingled with their screams of terror were cries of : “the bad men | the bad men!” but these were not needed to acquaint the rescuers with the cause of the commotion, for at the heels of the women came thurg and a score of his vicious brutes. little better than anthropoid apes were they. long armed, hairy, skulking monsters, whose close-set eyes and retreating foreheads proclaimed more intimate propinquity to the higher orders of brutes than to civilized man. woe betide male or female who fell into their remorseless clutches, since to the base passions, un- restrained, that mark the primordial they were ad- the cave girl dicted to the foulest forms of cannibalism. in the past their raids upon their neighbors for meat and women had met with but slight resist- ance—the terrified cave dwellers scampering to the safety of their dizzy ledges from whence they might hurl stones and roll boulders down to the confusion of any foe however ferocious. always the bad men caught a few unwary vic- tims before the safety of the ledges could be at- tained, but this time there was a difference. thurg was delighted. the men were rushing downward to meet him—great indeed would be the feast which should follow this day's fighting, for with the men disposed of there would be but little diffi- culty in storming the cliff and carrying off all the women and children, and as he thought upon these things there floated in his little brain the image of the beautiful girl he had watched come down the evening before from the caves to meet the smooth- skinned warrior who twice now had bested thurg in battle. that thandar's men might turn the tables upon him never for a moment occurred to thurg. nor was there little wonder, since, mighty as were the muscles of the cave men, they were weaklings by comparison with the half-brutes of thurg—only the smooth-skinned stranger troubled the muddy mind of the near-man. the battle i it puzzled him a little, though, to see the long slim sticks that the enemy carried, and the little slivers in skin bags upon their backs, and the strange curved branches whose ends were connected by slender bits of gut. what were these things for! soon he was to know—this and other things. thandar's warriors did not rush upon thurg and his brutes in a close packed, yelling mob. in- stead they trotted slowly forward in a long thin line that stretched out parallel with the base of the cliff. in the center, directly in front of the charg- ing bad men, was thandar, calling directions to his people, first upon one hand and then upon the other. and in accordance with his commands the ends of the line began to quicken the pace, so that quick- ly thurg saw that there were men before him, and men upon either hand, and now, at fifty feet, while all were advancing cautiously, crouched for the final hand-to-hand encounter, he saw the enemy slip each a sliver into the gut of the bent branches —there was a sudden chorus of twangs, and thurg felt a sharp pain in his neck. involuntarily he clapped his hand to the spot to find one of the slivers sticking there, scarce an inch from his jugu- lar. with a howl of rage he snatched the thing from him, and as he leaped to the charge to punish these audacious mad-men he noted a dozen of his hench- i the cave girl men plucking slivers from various portions of their bodies, while two lay quite still upon the grass with just the ends of slivers protruding from their breasts. the sight brought the beast-man to a momentary halt. he saw his fellows charging in upon the foe —he saw another volley of slivers speed from the bent branches. down went another of his fighters, and then the enemy cast aside their strange weapons at a shouted command from the smooth-skinned one and grasping their long, slim sticks ran forward to meet thurg's people. thurg smiled. it would soon be over now. he turned toward one who was bearing down upon him —it was thandar. thurg crouched to meet the charge. rage, revenge, the lust for blood fired his bestial brain. with his huge paws he would tear the puny stick from this creature's grasp, and this time he would gain his hold upon that smooth throat. he licked his lips. and then out of the corner of his eye he glanced to the right. what strange sight was this! his people flying? it was incredible! and yet it was true. growling and raging in pain and anger they were running a gauntlet of fire-sharpened lances. three lay dead. the others were streaming blood as they fled before the relentless prodding devils at their backs. it was enough for thurg. he did not wait to the battle i close with thandar. a single howl of dismay broke from his flabby lips, and then he wheeled and dashed for the wood. he was the last to pass through the rapidly converging ends of thandar's primitive battle line. he was running so fast that, afterward, nadara who was watching the battle from the cliff-side insisted that his feet flew higher than his head at each frantic leap. thandar and his victorious army pursued the enemy through the wood for a mile or more, then they returned, laughing and shouting, to receive the plaudits of the old men, the women and the children. it was a happy day. there was feasting. and thandar, having in mind things he had read of savage races, improvised a dance in honor of the victory. he knew little more of savage dances than his tribesmen did of the two-step and the waltz; but he knew that dancing and song and play marked in themselves a great step upward in the evolution of man from the lower orders, and so he meant to teach these things to his people. a red flush spread to his temples as he thought of his dignified father and his stately mother and with what horrified emotions they would view him now could they but see him—naked but for a g-string and a panther skin, moving with leaps and i the cave girl bounds, and now stately waltz steps in a great circle, clapping his hands in time to his movements, while behind him strung a score of lusty, naked warriors, mimicking his every antic with the fidelity of apes. about them squatted the balance of the tribe more intensely interested in this, the first ceremonial function of their lives, than with any other occur- rence that had ever befallen them. they, too, now clapped their hands in time with the dancers. nadara stood with parted lips and wide eyes watching the strange scene. within her it seemed that something was struggling for expression— something that she must have known long, long ago —something that she had forgotten but that she presently must recall. with it came an insistent urge—her feet could scarce remain quietly upon the ground, and great waves of melody and song welled into her heart and throat, though what they were and what they meant she did not know. she only knew that she was intensely excited and happy and that her whole being seemed as light and airy as the soft wind that blew across the gently swaying treetops of the forest. now the dance was done. thandar had led the warriors back to the feast. in the center of the circle where the naked bodies of the men had leaped and swirled to the clapping of many hands was an open space, deserted. into it nadara ran, the battle i drawn by some subtile excitement of the soul which she could not have fathomed had she tried—which she did not try to fathom. around her slim, graceful figure was draped the glossy, black pelt of nagoola–another trophy of the prowess of her man. it half concealed but to accentuate the beauties of her form. with eyes half-closed she took a half dozen graceful, tentative steps. now the eyes of than- dar and several others were upon her, but she did not see them. suddenly, with outthrown arms, she commenced to dance, bending her lithe body, sway- ing from side to side as she fell, with graceful abandon, into steps and poses that seemed as nat- ural to her as repose. about the little circle she wove her simple yet intricate way, and now every eye was upon her as every savage heart leaped in unison with her shapely feet, rising and falling in harmony with her lithe, brown limbs. and of all the hearts that leaped, fastest leaped the heart of thandar, for he saw in the poetry of motion of the untutored girl the proof of her birth- right—the truth of all that he had guessed of her origin since her foster father had related the story of her birth upon his death bed. none but a child of an age-old culture could possess this inherent talent. any moment he expected her lips to break the cave girl forth in song, nor was he to be disappointed, for presently, as the circling cave folk commenced to clap their palms in time to her steps, nadara lifted her voice in clear and bird-like notes—a worldless paean of love and life and happiness. at last, exhausted, she paused, and as her eyes fell upon thandar they broke into a merry laugh. “the king is not the only one who can leap and play upon his feet,” she cried. thandar came to the center of the circle and kneeling at her feet took one of her hands in his and kissed it. “the king is only mortal and a man,” he said. “it is no reproach that he cannot equal the divine grace of a goddess. you are very wonderful, my nadara,” he continued, “from loving you i am coming to worship you.” and within the deep and silent wood another was stirred with mighty emotions by the sight of the half-naked, graceful girl. it was thurg, the bad man, who had sneaked back alone to the edge of the forest that he might seek an opportunity to be revenged upon thandar and his people. half formed in his evil brain had been a certain plan, which the sight of nadara, dancing in the firelight, had turned to concrete resolution. with the dancing and the feasting over, the tribe of thandar betook itself by ones and twos to the the battle rocky caves that they expected so soon to desert for the more comfortable village which they were to build under the direction of their king, to the east, beside the great water. at last all was still—the village slept. no sentry guarded their slumbers, for thandar, steeped in book learning, must needs add to his stock of prac- tical knowledge by bitter experience, and never yet had the cause arisen for a night guard about his village. having defeated thurg and his people he thought that they would not return again, and certainly not by night, for the people of this wild island roamed seldom by night, having too much respect for the teeth and talons of nagoola to venture forth after darkness had settled upon the grim forests and the lonely plains. but a tempest of uncontrolled emotions surged through the hairy breast of thurg. he forgot nagoola. he thought only of revenge—revenge and the black haired beauty who had so many times eluded him. and as he saw her dancing in the circle of hand- clapping tribesmen, in the light of the brush wood fire, his desire for her became a veritable frenzy. he could scarce restrain himself from rushing single-handed among his foes and snatching the girl before their faces. however, caution came to his the cave girl rescue, and so he waited, albeit impatiently, until the last of the cave folk had retired to his cavern. he had seen into which nadara had withdrawn —one that lay far up the face of the steep cliff and directly above the cave occupied by thandar. the moon was overcast, the fire at the foot of the cliff ... had died to glowing embers, all was wrapped in darkness and in shadow. far in the depths of the wood nagoola coughed and cried. the weird sound raised the coarse hair at the nape of thurg's bull neck. he cast an apprehensive backward glance, then, crouching low, he moved quickly and silently across the clearing toward the base of the cliff. flattened against a protruding boulder there he waited, listening, for a moment. no sound broke the stillness of the sleeping village. none had seen his approach—of that he was convinced. carefully he began the ascent of the cliff face, made difficult by the removal of the rough ladders that led from ledge to ledge by day, but which were withdrawn with the retiring of the community to their dark holes. but thurg had dragged with him from the forest a slim sapling. this he leaned against the face of the cliff. its uptilted end just topped the lowest ledge. thurg was almost as large and quite as clumsy the battle i in appearance as a gorilla, yet he was not as far removed from his true arboreal ancestors as is the great simian, and so he accomplished in silence and with evident ease what his great bulk might have seemed to have relegated to the impossible. like a huge cat he scrambled up the frail pole until his fingers clutched the ledge edge above him. ape-like he drew himself to a squatting position there. then he groped for the ladder that the cave folk had drawn up from below. this he erected to the next ledge above. there- after the way was easy, for the balance of the ledges were connected by steeply inclined trails cut into the cliff face. this had been an innovation of thandar's who considered the rickety ladders not only a nuisance, but extremely dangerous to life and limb, for scarce a day passed that some child or woman did not receive a bad fall because of them. so thurg, with thandar's unintentional aid, came easily to the mouth of nadara's cave. great had been the temptation as he passed the cave below to enter and slay his enemy. never had thurg so hated any creature as he hated this smooth-skinned interloper—with all the venom of his mean soul he hated him. now he stooped, listening, just beside the en- trance to the cave. he could hear the regular rese oo the cave girl breathing of the girl within. the hot blood surged through his brute veins. his huge paws opened and closed spasmodically. his breath sucked hot be- tween his flabby lips. just beneath him thandar lay dreaming. he saw a wonderful vision of a beautiful nymph dancing in the firelight. in a circle about her sat the smith- joneses, the percy standishes, the livingston- brownes, the quincy adams-cootses, and a hun- dred more equally aristocratic families of boston. it did not seem strange to thandar that there was not enough clothing among the entire assem- blage to have recently draped the laocoön. his father wore a becoming loin cloth, while the stately mrs. john alden smith-jones, his mother, was tastefully arrayed in a scant robe of the skins of small rodents sewn together with bits of gut. as the nymph danced the audience kept time to her steps with loudly clapping palms, and when she was done they approached her one by one, crawl- ing upon their hands and knees, and kissed her hand. suddenly he saw that the nymph was nadara, and as he sprang forward to claim her a large man with a coarse matted beard, a slanted forehead, and close-set eyes, leaped out from among the others, seized nadara and fled with her toward a waiting trolley car. the battle oi he recognized the man as thurg, and even in his dream it seemed rather incongruous that he should be clothed in well-fitting evening clothes. nadara screamed once, and the scream roused thandar from his dream. raising upon one elbow he looked toward the entrance of his cave. the recollection of the dream swept back into his mem- ory. with a little sigh of relief that it had been but a dream, he settled back once more upon his bed of grasses, and soon was wrapped in dreamless slumber. the abduction of nadara about her waist held her as firmly as might iron bands. thurg spoke no word, but as nadara's hands came in contact with his hairy breast and matted beard as she fought for freedom she guessed the identity of her abductor, and shuddered. waiting only to assure himself that his hold upon his prisoner was secure and that no trailing end of her robe might trip him in his flight down the cliff face, thurg commenced the descent. opposite the entrance to thandar's cave nadara redoubled her efforts to free her mouth that she might scream aloud but once. thurg, guessing her desire, pressed his palm the tighter, and in a mo- ment the two had passed unnoticed to the ledge be- low. down the winding trail of the upper ledges thurg's task was comparatively easy—thanks to thandar, but at the second ledge from the bottom of the cliff he was compelled to take to the upper of the two ladders which completed the way to the ground below. and here it was necessary to remove his hand from nadara's mouth. in a low growl he warned her to silence with threats of instant death, then he removed his hand from across her face, grasped the top of the ladder and swung over the dangerous height with his burden under his arm. o the cave girl for an instant nadara was too paralyzed with terror to take advantage of her opportunity, but just as thurg set foot upon the ledge at the bottom of the ladder she screamed aloud once. instantly thurg's hand fell roughly across her lips. brutally he shook her, squeezing her body in his mighty grip until she gasped for breath, and each minute expected to feel her ribs snap to the terrific strain. for a moment thurg stood silently upon the ledge, compressing the tortured body of his victim and listening for signs of pursuit from above. presently the agony of her suffering overcame nadara—she swooned. thurg felt her form re- lax, and his flabby lips twisted to a hideous grin. the cliff was quiet—the girl's scream had not disturbed the slumbers of her tribesmen. thurg swung the ladder he had just descended over the edge of the cliff below, and a moment later he stood at the bottom with his burden. without noise he removed the ladder and the sapling that he had used in his ascent, laying them upon the ground at the foot of the cliff. this would halt, temporarily, any pursuit until the cave men could bring other ladders from the higher lev- els, where they doubtless had them hidden. but no pursuit developed, and thurg disappeared into the dark forest with his prize. o the cave girl he still clutched her shoulder. she saw him stand- ing there before her—his greedy, blood-shot eyes devouring her. his awful lips shook and trembled as his hot breath sucked quickly in and out in ex- cited gasps. she knew that the end was coming. frantically she cast about her for some means of defense or escape. thurg was drawing her toward him. suddenly she drew back her clenched fist and struck him full in the mouth, then, tearing herself from his grasp, she turned and fled. but in a moment he was upon her. seizing her roughly by the shoulders he shook her viciously, hurling her to the ground. the blood from his wounded lips dropped upon her face and throat. from the distance came a deep toned, thunderous rumbling. thurg raised his head and listened. again and again came that awesome sound. “the great nagoola is coming to punish you,” whispered nadara. thurg still remained squatting beside her. she had ceased to fight, for now she felt that a greater power than hers was intervening to save her. the ground beneath them trembled, shook and then tossed frightfully. the rumbling and the roaring became deafening. thurg, his passion frozen in the face of this new terror, rose to his the abduction of nadara feet. for a moment there was a lull, then came another and more terrific shock. the earth rose and fell sickeningly. fissures opened, engulfing trees, and then closed like hungry mouths gulping food long denied. thurg was thrown to the ground. now he was terror stricken. he screamed aloud in his fear. again there came a lull, and this time the beast- man leaped to his feet and dashed away into the forest. nadara was alone. presently the earth commenced to tremble again, and the voice of the great nagoola rumbled across the world. frightened animals scampered past na- dara, fleeing in all directions. little deer, foxes, squirrels and other rodents in countless numbers scurried, terrified, about. a great black panther and his mate trotted shoulder to shoulder into the glade where nadara still stood too bewildered to know which way to fly. they eyed her for a moment, as they paused in the moonlight, then without a second glance they loped away into the brush. directly behind them came three deer. nadara realized that she had felt no fear of the panthers as she would have under ordinary circum- stances. even the little deer ran with their natural enemies. every lesser fear was submerged in the overwhelming terror of the earthquake. the cave girl dawn was breaking in the east. the rumblings were diminishing, the tremors at greater intervals and of lessening violence. nadara started to retrace her steps toward the village. momentarily she looked to see thandar coming in search of her, but she came to the edge of the forest and no sign of thandar or another of her tribesmen had come to cheer her. at last she stepped into the open. before her was the cliff. a cry of anguish broke from her lips at the sight that met her eyes. torn, tortured and crumpled were the lofty crags that had been her home—the home of the tribe of thandar. the overhanging cliff top had broken away and lay piled in a jagged heap at the foot of the cliff. the caves had disappeared. the ledges had crumbled before the titanic struggles of the great nagoola. all was desolation and ruin. she approached more closely. here and there in the awful jumble of shattered rock were wedged the crushed and mangled forms of men, women and children. tears coursed down nadara's cheeks. sobs wracked her slender figure. and thandar! where was he? with utmost difficulty the girl picked her way aloft over the tumbled debris. she could only guess at the former location of thandar's cave, but now the abduction of nadara no sign of cave remained—r only the same blank waste of silent stone. frantically she tugged and tore at massive heaps of sharp edged rock. her fingers were cut and bruised and bleeding. she called aloud the name of her man, but there was no response. it was late in the afternoon before, weak and ex- hausted, she gave up her futile search. that night she slept in a crevice between two broken boulders, and the next morning she set out in search of a cave where she might live out the remainder of her lonely life in what safety and meager comfort a lone girl could wring from this savage world. for a week she wandered hither and thither only to find most of the caves she had known in the past demolished as had been those of her people. at last she stumbled upon the very cliff which thandar had chosen as the permanent home of his people. here the wrath of the earthquake seemed to have been less severe, and nadara found, high in the cliff's face, a safe and comfortable cavern. the last span to it required the use of a slender sapling, which she could draw up after her, effectu- ally barring the approach of nagoola and his peo- ple. to further protect herself against the chance. of wandering men the girl carried a quantity of small bits of rock to the ledge beside the entrance to her cave. io the cave girl fruit and nuts and vegetables she took there too, and a great gourd of water from the spring below. as she completed her last trip, and sat resting upon the ledge, her eyes wandering over the landscape and out across the distant ocean, she thought she saw something move in the shadow of the trees across the open plain beneath her. could it have been a man? nadara drew her sapling ladder to the ledge beside her. thurg, fleeing from the wrath of the great na- goola, had come at daybreak to the spot where his people had been camped, but there he found no sign of them, only the ragged edges of a great fissure, half-closed, that might have swallowed his entire tribe as he had seen the fissures in the forest swallow many, many trees at a single bite. for some time he sought for signs of his tribes- men, but without success. then, his fear of the earthquake allayed, he started back into the forest to find the girl. for days he sought her. he came to the ruins of the cliff that had housed her people, and there he discovered signs that the girl had been there since the demolition.of the cliff. he saw the print of her dainty feet in the soft earth at the base of the rocks—he saw how she had searched the debris for thandar—he saw her bed of grasses in the crevice between the two boul- ders, and then, after diligent search, he found her the abduction of nadara i spoor leading away to the east. for many days he followed her until, at last, close by the sea, he come to a level plain at the edge of a forest. across the narrow plain rose lofty cliffs— and what was that clambering aloft toward the dark mouth of a cave? could it be a woman? thurg's eyes narrowed as he peered intently toward the cliff. yes, it was a woman—it was the woman—it was she he sought, and, she was alone. with a whoop of exultation thurg broke from the forest into the plain, running swiftly toward the cliff where nadara crouched beside her little pile of jagged missiles, prepared to once more battle with this hideous monster for more than life. the search no sign of any of the poor unfortunates was seen. mrs. smith-jones is prostrated immediately john alden smith-jones had fitted out his yacht, priscilla, despatching her under cap- tain burlinghame, a retired naval officer, and an old friend of mr. smith-jones, to the far distant coast in search of the body of his son, which the captain of the steamer was of the opinion might very pos- sibly have been washed upon the beach. and now burlinghame was back to report the failure of his mission. the two men were sitting in the john alden smith-jones library. mrs. smith-jones was with them. “we searched the beach diligently at the point opposite which the tidal wave struck the steamer,” captain burlinghame was saying. “for miles up and down the coast we patrolled every inch of the sand. “we found, at one spot upon the edge of the jungle and above the beach, the body of one of the sailors. it was not and could not have been waldo's. the clothing was that of a seaman, the frame was much shorter and stockier than your son's. there was no sign of any other body along that entire coast. “thinking it possible one of the men might have been washed ashore alive we sent parties into the i the cave girl interior. here we found a wild and savage country, and on two occasions met with fierce, white savages, who hurled rocks at us and fled at the first report of our firearms. “we continued our search all around the island, which is of considerable extent. upon the east coast i found this,” and here the captain handed mr. smith-jones the bag of jewels which nadara had forgotten as she fled from thandar. briefly he narrated what he knew of the history of the poor woman to whom it had belonged. “i recall the incident well,” said mrs. smith- jones, “i had the pleasure of entertaining the count and countess when they stopped here upon their honeymoon. they were lovely people, and to think that they met so tragic an end l’” the three lapsed into silence. burlinghame did not know whether he was glad or sorry that he had not found the bones of waldo emerson—that would have meant the end of hope for his parents. perhaps much the same thoughts were running through the minds of the others. somewhere in the nether regions of the great house an electric bell sounded. still the three sat on in silence. they heard the houseman open the front door. they heard low voices, and presently there came a deferential tap upon the door of the library. mr. smith-jones looked up and nodded. it was the search the houseman. he held a letter in his hand. “what is it krutz?” asked the master in a tired voice. it seemed that nothing ever again would interest him. “a special delivery letter, sir,” replied the serv- ant. “the boy says you must sign for it yourself, sir.” “ah, yes,” replied mr. smith-jones, as he reached for the letter and the receipt blank. he glanced at the post mark—san francisco. idly he cut the envelope. “pardon me?” he glanced first at his wife and then at captain burlinghame. the two nodded. º mr. john alden smith-jones opened the letter. there was a single written sheet and an enclosure in another envelope. he had read but a couple of lines when he came suddenly upright in his chair. captain burlinghame and mrs. smith-jones looked at him in polite and surprised questioning. “my god!” exclaimed mr. smith-jones. “he is alive—waldo is alive!” mrs. smith-jones and captain burlinghame sprang from their chairs and ran toward the speaker. with trembling hands that made it difficult to read the words that his trembling voice could scarce utter john alden smith-jones read aloud: . i the cave girl on board the sally corwith, san francisco, california. mr. john alden smith-jones, bostoh, mass. dear sir: just reached port and hasten to for- ward letter your son gave me for his mother. he wouldn't come with us. we found him on island, lat. io —” south, long. °–" west. he seemed in good health and able to look out for himself. didn't want anything, he said, except a razor, so we gave him that and one of the men gave him a plug of chewing tobacco. urged him to come, but he wouldn't. the enclosed letter will doubtless tell you all about him. yours truly, henry dobbs, master. “ten south, a hundred and fifty west,” mused captain burlinghame. “that's the same island we searched. where could he have been l’’ mrs. smith-jones had opened the letter addressed to her, and was reading it breathlessly. my dear mother: i feel rather selfish in remain- ing and possibly causing you further anariety, but i have certain duties to perform to several of the inhabitants which i feel obligated to fulfill before i depart. the search my treatment here has been all that anyone might desire—even more, i might say. the climate is delightful. my cough has left me, and i am entirely a well man—more robust than i ever recall having been in the past. at present i am sojourning in the mountains, having but run down to the sea shore today, where, happily, i chanced to find the sally corwith in the harbor, and am taking advantage of captain dobbs’ kindness to forward this letter to you. do not worry, dearest mother; my obligations will soon be fulfilled and then i shall hasten to take the first steamer for boston. i have met a number of interesting people here —the most interesting people i have ever met. they quite overwhelm one with their attentions. and now, as captain dobbs is anarious to be away, i will close, with every assurance of my deepest love for you and father. ever affectionately your son, waldo. mrs. smith-jones' eyes were dim with tears— tears of thanksgiving and happiness. “and to think,” she exclaimed, “that after all he is alive and well—quite well. his cough has left him—that is the best part of it, and he is sur- rounded by interesting people—just what waldo the search purposes of commerce with the colonists. “no, my friends,” he continued, “as much as i should like to believe it my judgment will not permit me to place any such translation upon waldo's letter. “that he is safe and happy seems evident, and that is enough for us to know. now it should be a simple matter for us to find him—if it is still your desire to send for him.” “he may already have left for boston,” said mrs. smith-jones; “his letter was written several months ago.” again burlinghame shook his head. “do not bank on that, my dear madam,” he said kindly. “it may be fifty years before another ves- sel touches that forgotten shore—unless it be one which you yourselves send.” john alden smith-jones sprang to his feet, and commenced pacing up and down the library. “how soon can the priscilla be put in shape to make the return voyage to the island?” he asked. “it can be done in a week, if necessary,” replied burlinghame. “and you will accompany her, in command?” “gladly.” “good!” exclaimed mr. smith-jones. “and now, my friend, let us lose no time in starting our preparations. i intend accompanying you.” the search i intelligent and experienced officer. that he was in- clined to taciturnity but enhanced his value in the eyes of burlinghame. stark was inclined to be something of a martinet, so that the crew soon took to hating him cordially, but as his display of this unpleasant trait was confined wholly to trivial acts the men contented themselves with grumbling among themselves, which is the prerogative and pleasure of every good sailorman. their loyalty to the splendid burlinghame, however, was not to be shaken by even a dozen starks. the monotonous and uneventful journey to the vicinity of ten south and a hundred and fifty west was finally terminated. at last land showed on the starboard bow. excitement reigned supreme throughout the trim, white priscilla. mrs. smith- jones peered anxiously and almost constantly through her binoculars, momentarily expecting to see the well-known thin and emaciated figure of her waldo emerson standing upon the beach awaiting them. for two weeks they sailed along the coast, stop- ping here and there for a day while parties tramped inland in search of signs of civilized habitation. they lay two days in the habor where the sally corwith had lain. there they pressed farther in- land than at any other point, but all without avail. it was burlinghame's plan to first make a cursory the cave girl survey of the entire coast, with only short incur- sions toward the center of the island. should this fail to discover the missing waldo the party was then to go over the ground once more, remaining weeks or months as might be required to thor- oughly explore every foot of the island. it was during the pursuit of the initial portion of the program that they dropped anchor in the self- same harbor upon whose waters waldo emerson and nadara had seen the priscilla lying, only to fly from her. burlinghame recalled it as the spot at which the bag of jewels had been picked up. next to the sally corwith harbor, as they had come to call the other anchorage, this seemed most fraught with possibilities of success. they christened it eugenie bay, after that poor, unfortunate lady, eugenie marie celeste de la valois, countess of crecy, whose jewels had been recovered upon its shore. burlinghame and waldo's father with half a dozen officers and men of the priscilla had spent the day searching the woods, the plain and the hills for some slight sign of human habitation. shortly after noon first officer stark stumbled upon the whitened skeleton of a man. in answer to his shouts the other members of the party hastened to his side. they found the grim thing lying in a little barren spot among the tall grasses. about it the search the liquids of decomposition had killed vegetation leaving the thing alone in all its grisly repulsiveness as though shocked, nature had withdrawn in terror. stark stood pointing toward it without a word as the others came up. burlinghame was the first to reach stark's side. he bent low over the bones examining the skull carefully. john alden smith- jones came panting up. instantly he saw what bur- linghame was examining he turned deathly white. burlinghame looked up at him. “it's not,” he said. “look at that skull—either a gorilla or some very low type of man.” mr. smith-jones breathed a sigh of relief. “what an awful creature it must have been,” he said, when he had fully taken in the immense breadth of the squat skeleton. “it cannot be that waldo has survived in a wilderness peopled by such creatures as this. imagine him confronted by such a beast. timid by nature and never robust he would have perished of fright at the very sight of this thing charging down upon him.” captain cecil burlinghame acquiesced with a nod. he knew waldo emerson well, and so he could not even imagine a meeting between the frail and cowardly youth and such a beast as this bleach- ing frame must once have supported. and at their feet the bones of flatfoot lay mute witnesses to the impossible. the search a ladder. they breathed sighs of relief, for it seemed that she was now quite safe—the man was still one ledge below her. but in another moment the watchers were filled with horror. the brute pursuing her had reached forth a giant hand and seized the base of the sap- ling. he was dragging it over the edge of the cliff. in another moment the girl would be pre- cipitated either into his arms or to a horrible death upon the jagged rocks beneath her. burlinghame and stark halted simultaneously. at once two rifles leaped to their shoulders. there ºvere two reports, so close together that they seemed as oile, chapter vii first mate stark pon the day that thurg discovered nadara he had come racing to the foot of the cliff, roaring and bellowing like a mad bull. upward he clambered half the distance to the girl's lofty perch. then a bit of jagged rock, well aimed, had brought him to a sudden halt, spitting blood and teeth from his injured mouth. he looked up at nadara and shrieked out his rage and his threats of vengeance. nadara launched another missile at him that caught him full upon one eye, dropping him like a stone to the narrow ledge upon which he had been standing. quickly the girl started to descend to his side to finish the work she had commenced, for she knew that there could be no peace or safety for her, now that thurg had discovered her hiding place, while the monster lived. but she had scarce more than lowered her sapling to the ledge beneath her when the giant form of the man moved and thurg sat up. quickly nadara clambered back to her ledge, again drawing her sapling after her. she was about to hurl another missile at the man when he spoke to her. “we are alone in the world,” he said. “all first mate stark your people and all my people have been slain by the great nagoola. come down. let us live to- gether in peace. there is no other left in all the world.” nadara laughed at him. “come down to you!” she cried, mockingly. “live with you! i would rather live with the pigs that root in the forest. go away, or i will finish what i have commenced, and kill you. i would not live with you though i knew that you were the last human being on earth.” thurg pleaded and threatened, but all to no avail. again he tried to clamber to her side, but again he was repulsed with well-aimed missiles. at last he withdrew, growling and threatening. for weeks he haunted the vicinity of the cliff. nadara's meager food supply was soon exhausted. she was forced to descend to replenish her larder and fill her gourd, or die of starvation and thirst. she made her trips to the forest at night, though black nagoola prowled and the menace of thurg loomed through the darkness. at last the man discovered her in one of these nocturnal expeditions and almost caught her before she reached her ledge of safety. for three days he kept her a close prisoner. again her stock of provisions was exhausted. she was desperate. twice had nagoola nearly trapped the cave girl her in the forest. she dared not again tempt fate in the gloomy wood by night. there was nothing left but to risk all in one last effort to elude thurg by day and find another asylum in some far distant corner of the island. carefully she watched her opportunity, and while the beast-man was temporarily absent seeking food for himself the girl slid swiftly to the base of the cliff and started through the tall grasses for the opposite side of the valley. upon this day thurg had fallen upon the spoor of deer as he had searched the forest for certain berries that were in season and which he particu- larly enjoyed. the trail led along the edge of the wood to the opposite side of the valley, and over the hills into the region beyond. all day thurg followed the fleet animals, until at last not having come up with them he was forced to give up the pursuit and return to the cliffs, lest his more valu- able quarry should escape. halfway between the hills and the cliff he came suddenly face to face with nadara. not twenty paces separated them. with a howl of satisfaction thurg leaped to seize her, but she turned and fled before he could lay his hand upon her. if thurg had found his other quarry of that day swift, so, too, he now found nadara, for terror gave wings to her flying feet. lumbering after her came the cave girl the ladder ceased to slip. she opened her eyes and glanced downward. far below her lay the body of thurg. she could see that he was quite dead. he lay upon his face and from his back trickled two tiny streams of blood from little holes. nadara clambered upward to her ledge, drawing her sapling after her, and then she looked about for an explanation of the strange noise and the sudden death of thurg, for she could not but connect the one with the other. below, in the valley, she saw a number of men strangely garbed. they were coming toward her cliff. she gathered her missiles closely about her, ready to her hand. now they were below and calling up to her. her eyes dilated in wonder—they spoke the strange tongue that thandar had tried to teach her. she called down to them in her own tongue, but they shook their heads, motioning her to descend. she was afraid. all her life she had been afraid of men, and with reason—of all except her old foster father and thandar. these, evidently, were men. she could only expect from them the same treatment that thurg would have accorded her. one of them had started up the face of the cliff. it was stark. nadara seized a bit of rock and hurled it down upon him. he barely dodged the missile, but he desisted in his attempt to ascend to her. now burlinghame advanced, raising his hand, first mate stark palm toward her in sign that she should not assault him. she recalled some of the language that than- dar had taught her—maybe they would understand t. “go-way!” she cried. “go-way! nadara kill bad-men.” a look of pleasure overspread burlinghame's face—the girl spoke english. “we are not bad men,” he called up to her. “we will not harm you.” “what you want?” asked nadara, still uncon- vinced by mere words. “we want to talk with you,” replied burling- hame. “we are looking for a friend who was ship- wrecked upon this island. come down. we will not harm you. have we not already proved our friendship by killing this fellow who pursued you?” this man spoke precisely the tongue of thandar. nadara could understand every word, for than- dar had talked to her much in english. she could understand it better than she could speak it. if they talked the same tongue as thandar they must be from the same country. maybe they were than- dar's friends. anyway they were like him, and thandar never harmed women, she could trust them. slowly she lowered her sapling and began the descent. several times she hesitated as though minded to return to her ledge, but burlinghame's the cave girl she did not know how to tell him—she shrank from causing another the anguish and misery that she had endured. “did you know of him?” asked burlinghame. nadara nodded her head. “where is he?” cried waldo’s father. “where are the people with whom he lived here?” nadara came close to john alden smith-jones. there was no fear in her innocent young heart for this man who was thandar's father—who loved thandar—only a great compassion for him in the sorrow that she was about to inflict. gently she took his hand in hers, raising her sad eyes to his. “where is he? where is my boy?” whispered mr. smith-jones. “he is with his people, who were my people— the people of whom i have just told you,” replied nadara softly— “he is dead.” and then she dropped her face upon the man's hand and wept. the shock staggered john alden smith-jones. it seemed incredible—impossible—that waldo could have lived through all that he must have lived through to perish at last but a few short weeks be- fore succor reached him. for a moment he forgot the girl. it was her hot tears upon his hand that aroused him to a consciousness of the present. “why do you weep?” he cried almost roughly. “for you,” she replied, “who loved him, too.” the cave girl that she wished to return to shore. “she does not like me,” she said, nodding toward mrs. smith-jones's cabin, “and i will not stay.” it took john alden smith-jones a long time to persuade the girl to change her mind. he pointed out that his wife was greatly overwrought by the shock of the news of waldo's death. he assured nadara that at heart she was a kindly woman, and that eventually she would regret her attitude toward the girl. and at last nadara consented to remain aboard the priscilla. but when marie would have clothed her in the garments of civilization she ab- solutely refused—scorning the hideous and uncom- fortable clothing. it was two days before mrs. smith-jones sent for her. when she entered that lady's cabin the latter exclaimed at once against her barbarous attire. “i gave instructions that marie should dress you properly,” she said. “you are not decently clothed — that bear skin is shocking.” nadara tossed her head, and her eyes flashed fire. “i shall never wear your silly clothes,” she cried. “this, thandar gave me—he slew nagoola, the black panther, with his own hands, and gave the skin to me who was to be his mate—do you think i would exchange it for such foolish garments as those?” and she waved a contemptuous gesture first mate stark toward mrs. smith-jones's expensive morning gown. the elder woman forgot her outraged dignity in the suggestion the girl had given her for an excuse to be rid of her at the first opportunity. she had mentioned a party named thandar. she had brazenly boasted that this thandar had killed the beast whose pelt she wore and given her the thing for a garment. she had admitted that she was to become this person’s “mate.” mrs. smith- jones shuddered at the primitive word. at this moment mr. smith-jones entered the cabin. he smiled pleasantly at nadara, and then, seeing in the attitudes of the two women that he had stepped within a theater of war, he looked questioningly at his wife. “now what, louisa?” he asked, somewhat sharply. - “sufficient, john,” exclaimed that lady, “to bear out my original contention that it was a very unwise move to bring this woman with us—she has just admitted that she was the promised ‘mate’ of a person she calls thandar. she is brazen— i refuse to permit her to enter my home; nor shall she remain upon the priscilla longer than is necessary to land her at the first civilized port.” mr. smith-jones looked questioningly at nadara. the girl had guessed the erroneous reasoning that first mate stark i he was very brave,” she cried. “he was not ‘timid,’ and he was only ‘gentle” with women and children.” mrs. smith-jones had never been so shocked in all her life. she sprang to her feet. “leave my cabinl” she cried. “i see through your shallow deception. you thoughtlessly be- trayed yourself and your vulgar immoralities, and now you try to hide behind a base calumny that pic- tures my dear, dead boy as one with your hideous, brutal chief. you shall not deceive me longer. leave my cabin, please!” mr. smith-jones stood as one paralyzed. he could not believe in the perfidy of the girl—it seemed impossible that she could have so deceived him—nor yet could he question the integrity of his own ears. it was, of course, too far beyond the pale of reason to attempt to believe that waldo emerson and the terrible thandar were one and the same. the girl had gone too far, and yet he could not believe that she was bad. there must be some explanation. in the meantime nadara had left the room, her little chin high in air. never again, she determined, would she subject herself to the insults of than- dar's mother. she went on deck. she had found it difficult to remain below during the day. she craved the fresh air, and the excitement to be found first mate stark force. that was the only way she would have been taken had she been left upon her own island. that was the only kind of betrothal she knew. it was what she expected. he had been a fool to ap- proach her with the soft words of civilization. they had made her despise him. she would have understood force, and loved him for it. well, he would show her that he could be as primitive as any of her savage lovers. the storm broke. the wind became a hurricane. the priscilla was forced to turn and flee before the anger of the elements, so that she retraced her course of the past two days and then was blown to the north. stark saw nothing of nadara during this period. at the end of thirty-six hours the wind had died and the sea was settling to its normal quiet. it was the first evening after the storm. the deck of the priscilla was almost deserted. the yacht was moving slowly along not far off the shore of one of the many islands that dot that part of the south seas. nadara came on deck for a walk before retiring. stark and two sailors were on watch. at sight of the girl the first officer approached her. he spoke pleasantly as though nothing had occurred to mar their friendly relations. he talked of the storm and pointed out the black outlines of the nearby chapter viii the wild men adara did not regain consciousness until stark had reached shore and was dragging her out upon the beach above the surf. for sev- eral minutes after she had opened her eyes she had difficulty in recalling the events that had imme- diately preceded stark's attack upon her. she felt the life belt still about her, and as stark stooped above her to remove it she knew that it was he though she could not distinguish his features. what had happened? slowly a realization of the man's bold act forced itself upon her—he had leaped overboard from the priscilla and swam ashore with her rather than face the consequences of his brutal conduct toward her. to a girl reared within the protective influences of civilization nadara's position would have seemed hopeless; but nadara knew naught of other protection than that afforded by her own quick wits and the agility of her swift young muscles. to her it would have seemed infinitely more appalling to have been confined within the narrow limits of the yacht with this man, for there all was strange and new. she still had half feared and mistrusted the wild men all aboard the priscilla except thandar's father and captain burlinghame; but would they have pro- tected her from stark? she did not know. among her own people only a father, brother, or mate protected a woman from one who sought her against her will, and of these she had none upon the little vessel. but now it was different. intuitively she knew that upon a savage shore, however strange and un- familiar it might be, she would have every advan- tage over the first officer of the priscilla. his life had been spent close to the haunts of civilization; he knew nothing of the woodcraft that was second nature to her; he might perish in a land of plenty through ignorance of where to search for food, and of what was edible and what was not. this much her early experience with waldo emerson had taught her. when their paths first had crossed waldo had been as ignorant as a new-born babe in the craft of life primeval—nadara had had to teach him everything. behind them nadara heard the gentle soughing of trees—the myriad noises of the teeming jungle night—and she smiled. it was inky black about them. stark had removed the life belt and placed it beneath the girl's head. he thought her still un- conscious—perhaps dead. now he was wringing the water from his clothes; his back toward her. the cave girl and keep her. together they would make a home upon this tropical shore. he would get everything out of life that there was to get. he had taken but a few steps before he discov- ered, plain in the damp sand before him, the prints of nadara's naked feet in a well defined trail lead- ing toward the wood. with a smile of satisfaction and victory the man followed it into the maze of vegetation, dank and gloomy even beneath the warm light of the morning sun. by chance he stumbled directly upon nadara. she had descended from her tree to search for water. they saw each other simultaneously. the girl turned and fled farther into the forest. close behind her came the man. for several hundred yards the chase led through the thick jungle which terminated abruptly at the edge of a narrow, rock- covered clearing beyond which loomed sheer, pre- cipitous cliffs, raising their lofty heads three hun- dred feet above the forest. a half smile touched stark's lips as he saw the barrier that nature had placed in the path of his quarry; but almost instantly it froze into an expres- sion of horror as a slight noise to his right at- tracted his attention from the girl fleeing before him. for an instant he stood bewildered, then a quick glance toward the girl revealed her scaling the steep cliff with the agility of a monkey, and the wild men with a cry to attract her attention he leaped after her once more, but this time himself the quarry— the hunter become the hunted, for after him raced a score of painted savages, brandishing long, slim spears, or waving keen edged parangs. nadara had not needed stark's warning cry to apprise her of the proximity of the wild men. she had seen them the instant that she cleared the jungle, and with the sight of them she knew that she need no longer harbor fear of the white man. in them, though, she saw a graver danger for her- self, since they, doubtless, would have little diffi- culty in overhauling her in their own haunts, while she had not had much cause for worry as to her ability to elude the white man indefinitely. part way up the cliffs she paused to look back. stark had reached the foot of the lowering escarp- ment a short distance ahead of his pursuers. he had chosen this route because of the ease with which the girl had clambered up the rocky bar- rier, but he had reckoned without taking into con- sideration the lifetime of practice which lay back of nadara's agility. from earliest infancy she had lived upon the face and within the caves of steep cliffs. her first toddling, baby footsteps had been along the edge of narrow shelving ledges. when the man reached the cliff, however, he found confronting him an apparently unscalable the cave girl wall. he cast a frightened, appealing glance at the girl far above him. twice he essayed to scramble out of reach of the advancing savages, whose tat- tooed faces, pendulous slit ears, and sharp filed, blackened teeth lent to them a more horrid aspect than even that imparted by their murderous weap- ons or warlike whoops and actions. each time he slipped back, clutching frantically at rocky projec- tions and such hardy vegetation as had found foot- hold in the crevices of the granite. his hands were torn and bleeding, his face scratched and his cloth- ing rent. and now the savages were upon him. they had seen that he was unarmed. no need as yet for spear or parang—they would take him alive. and the girl. they had watched her in amaze- ment as she clambered swiftly up the steep ascent. with all their primitive accomplishments this was beyond even them. they were a forest people and a river people. they dwelt in thatched houses raised high upon long piles. they knew little or nothing of the arts of the cliff dwellers. to them the feat of this strange, white girl was little short of miraculous. nadara saw them seize roughly upon the terror- stricken stark. she saw them bind his hands be- hind his back, and then she saw them turn their at- tention once more toward herself. the wild men three of the warriors attempted to scale the cliff after her. slowly they ascended. she smiled at their manifest fear and their awkwardness— she need have no fear of these, they never could reach her. she permitted them to approach within a dozen feet of her and then, loosening a bit of the crumbling granite, she hurled it full at the head of the foremost. with a yell of pain and terror he toppled backward upon those below him, the three tumbling, screaming and pawing to the rocks at the base of the cliff. none of them was killed, though all were badly bruised, and he who had received her missile bled profusely from a wound upon his forehead. their fellows laughed at them—it was scant comfort they received for being bested by a girl. then they withdrew a short distance, and squatting in a circle commenced a lengthy palaver. their re- peated gestures in her direction convinced nadara that she was the subject of their debate. presently one of their number arose and ap- proached the foot of the cliff. there he harangued the girl for several minutes. when he was done he awaited, evidently for a reply from her; but as nadara had not been able to understand a word of the fellow's language she could but shake her head. the spokesman returned to his fellows and the cave girl once again a lengthy council was held. during it nadara climbed farther aloft, that she might be out of range of the slender spears. upon a narrow ledge she halted, gathering about her such loose bits of rock as she could dislodge from the face of the cliff—she would be prepared for a sudden onslaught, nor for a moment did she doubt the outcome of the battle. she felt that but for the lack of food and water she could hold this cliff face forever against innumerable savages—could they climb no better than these. but the wild men did not again attempt to storm her citadel. instead they leaped suddenly from their council, and without a glance toward her dis- appeared in the forest, taking their prisoner with them. out of sight of the girl, they stationed two of their number just within the screening verdure to capture the girl should she descend. the others hastened parallel with the cliff until a sudden turn inland took them to a point from which they could again emerge into the clearing out of the sight of nadara. here they took immediately to a well-worn path that led back and forth upward across the face of the cliff. stark was dragged and prodded forward with them in their ascent. sharp spears and the points of keen parangs, urged him to haste. by the time the party reached the summit the white man the cave girl doubted, for she had seen that they were compara- tively unaccustomed to this sort of going, and so she guessed that if they followed her upward at all it would be by means of some beaten trail of which they had knowledge. and so nadara scaled the heights, passing over and around obstacles that would have blanched the cheek of the hardiest mountain climber, with the ease and speed of the chamois. at the summit she found an open, park-like forest, and into this she plunged, running forward in quest of food and drink. a few familiar fruits and nuts as- suaged the keenest pangs of hunger, but nowhere could she find water or signs of water. she had traveled for almost a mile, directly in- land from the coast, when she stumbled, purely by chance, upon a little spring hidden in a leafy bower. the cool, clear water refreshed her, im- parting to her new life and energy. after drink- ing her fill she sought some means of carrying a little supply of the priceless liquid back to her cliff side refuge, but though she searched diligently she could discover no growing thing which might be transformed into a vessel. there was nothing for it then other than to return without the water, trusting to her wits to find the means of eluding the savages from time to time as it became necessary for her to quench her thirst the wild men later, she was sure, she should discover some form of gourd, or the bladder of an animal in which she could hoard a few precious drops. her woodcraft, combined with her almost un- canny sense of direction, led her directly back to the spot at which she had topped the cliff. there was no sign of the savages. she breathed a sigh of relief as she stepped to the edge of the forest, and then, all about her, from behind trees and bushes, rose the main body of the wild men. with shouts of savage glee they leaped upon her. there was no chance for flight—in every direction brutal faces and murderous weapons barred her way. with greater consideration than she had looked forward to they signaled her to accompany them. stark was with them. to him slight humanity was shown. if he lagged, a spear point, already red with his blood, urged him to greater speed; but to the girl no cruelty nor indignity was shown. in single file, the prisoners in the center of the column, the party made its way inland. all day. they marched, until stark, unused to this form of exertion, staggered and fell a dozen times in each mile. nadara could almost have found it in her heart to be sorry for him, had it not been for the fact that she realized all too keenly that but for his own bestial brutality neither of them need have been chapter ix building the boat wo days after the earthquake that had saved nadara from thurg and wiped out the people of the girl's tribe, a man moved feebly beneath the tumbled debris from the roof top of his clogged cavern. it was thandar. the tons of rock that had toppled from above and buried the entrance to his cave had passed him by unscathed, while the few pounds shaken from the ceiling had stunned him into a long enduring insensibility. slowly he regained consciousness, but it was a long time before he could marshal his faculties to even a slight appreciation of the catastrophe that had overwhelmed him. then his first thought was of nadara. he crawled to what had once been the entrance of his cave. he had not as yet linked the darkness to its real cause—he thought it night. it had been night when he closed his eyes. how could he guess that that had been three nights be- fore, or all the cruel blows that fate had struck him since he slept! - at the opening from the cave he met his first surprise and setback—the way was blocked! what was the meaning of it? he tugged and building the boat i pushed weakly upon the mass that barred him from escape. who had imprisoned him? he recalled the vivid dream in which he had seen nadara stolen away by thurg. the recollection sent him franti- cally at the pile of shattered rock and loose debris which choked the doorway. to his chagrin he found himself too weak to direct any long sustained effort against the obstacle. it occurred to him that he must have been injured. whoever imprisoned him must first have beaten him. he felt of his head. yes, there was a great gash, but his touch told him that it was not a new one. how long, then, had he been imprisoned? as he sat pondering this thing he became aware of the gnawing of hunger and the craving of thirst within inis slowly awakening body. the sensations were almost painful. so much so that they forced him to a realization of the fact that he must have been without food or water for a considerable time. again he assailed the mass that held him pris- oner, and as he burrowed slowly into it the truth dawned upon him. he recalled the rumblings of the great nagoola that had frightened nadara the night of the council. a terrific quake had done this thing. thandar shuddered as he thought of na- dara. was she, too, imprisoned in her cave, or had the worst happened her? frantically, now, he tore at the close-packed rubble. but he soon discov- the cave girl ered that not in ill-directed haste lay his means of escape. slowly and carefully, piece by piece he must remove the broken rock until he had tun- nelled through to the outer world. reason told him that he was not deeply buried, for the fact that he lived and could breathe was sufficient proof that fresh air was finding its way through the debris, which it could not have done did the stuff lie before the cave in any considerable thickness. weak as he was he could work but slowly, so that it was several hours later before he caught the first glimpse of daylight beyond the obstacle. after that he progressed more rapidly, and pres- ently he crawled through a small opening to view the wreckage of the shattered cliff. a flock of vultures rose from their hideous feast as the sight of thandar disturbed them. the man shuddered as he looked down upon the grisly things from which they had risen. forgetting his hunger and his thirst he scrambled up over the tortured cliff face to where nadara's cave had been. its mouth was buried as his had been. again he set to work, but this time it was easier. when at last he had opened a way within he hesitated for fear of the blighting sorrow that awaited him. at last, nerving himself to the ordeal, he crawled within the cave that had been nadara's. groping the cave girl the thought of living on through a long life without her cast him into the blackest pit of despair. he reproached heaven for not having taken him as well, for without nadara life was not worth the living. with the passage of time his grief grew more rather than less acute. as it increased so too increased the horror of his loneliness. the island became a hated thing—life a mockery. the chances that a vessel would touch the shore again during his lifetime seemed remote indeed, unless his father sent out a relief party, but in his despair he did not even hope for such a contingency. he would not take his own life, though the temptation was great, but he courted death in every form that the savage island owned. he slept out upon the ground at night. he sought nagoola in his lair, and armed only with his light lance he leaped to close quarters with every one of the great cats he could find. the wild boars, often as formidable as nagoola himself, were hunted now as they never had been hunted before. thandar lived high those days, and many were the panther pelts that lined his new- found cave in the cliff beside the sea—the same cliff in which nadara had found shelter, and from whence she had gone away with the search party from the priscilla. one day as thandar was returning from the the cave girl “let us not fight,” continued thandar. “we are alone upon the island. i have seen no other than you since the great nagoola came forth and destroyed the people. let us be friends, hunting together in peace. otherwise one of us must kill the other and thereafter live always alone until death releases him from his terrible solitude.” roof peered over thandar's shoulder toward the wood behind him. “are you alone?” he asked. “yes—have i not told you that all were killed but you and i?” “all were not killed,” replied roof. “but i will be friends with thandar. we will hunt to- gether and cave together. roof and thandar are brothers.” he stooped, and gathering a handful of grass advanced toward the american. thandar did like- wise, and when each had taken the peace offering of the other and rubbed it upon his forehead the ceremony of friendship was complete—simple but none the less effectual, for each knew that the other would rather die than disregard the primitive pact. “you said that all were not killed, roof,” said thandar, the ceremony over. “what do you mean?” “all were not killed by the great nagoola,” re- plied the bad man. “thurg was not killed, nor building the boat was she who was thandar's mate—she whom thurg would have stolen.” “what?” thandar almost screamed the ques- tion. “nadara not dead?” “look,” said roof, and he led the way to the foot of the cliff. “seel” “yes,” replied thandar, “i had noticed that body, but what of it?” “it was thurg,” explained roof. “he sought to reach your mate, who had taken refuge in that cave far above us. then came some strange men who made a great noise with sticks and thurg fell dead—the loud noise had killed him from a great distance. then came the strange men and she whom you call nadara went away with them.” “in which direction?” cried thandar. “where did they take her?” “they took her to the strange cliff in which they dwelt—the one in which they came. never saw man such a thing as this cliff. it floated upon the face of the water. about its face were many tiny caves, but the people did not come out of these they came from the top of the cliff, and clamber- ing down the sides floated ashore in hollow things of wood. on top of the cliff were two trees with- out leaves, and only very short, straight branches. when the cliff went away black smoke came out of it from a short black stump of a tree between the the cave girl two trees. it was a very wonderful thing to see; but the most wonderful of all were the noise-sticks that killed thurg and nagoola a long way off.” not half of roof’s narrative did thandar hear. through his brain roared and thundered a single mighty thought: nadara lives! nadara lives! life took on a new meaning to him now. he trembled at the thought of the chances he had been taking. now, indeed, must he live. he leaped up and down, laughing and shouting. he threw his arms about the astonished roof, whirling the troglodyte about in a mad waltz. nadara lives! nadara lives! once again the sun shone, the birds sang, nature was her old, happy, carefree self. nadara was alive and among civilized men. but then came a doubt. “did nadara go willingly with these strangers,” he asked roof, “ or did they take her by force?” “they did not take her by force,” replied roof. “they talked with her for a time, and then she took the hand of one of the men in hers, stroking it, and he placed his arm about her. afterward they walked slowly to the edge of the great water where they got into the strange things that had brought them to the land, and returned to their floating cliff. presently the smoke came out, as i have told you, and the cliff went away toward the edge of the world. but they are all dead now.” the cave girl from the side of the tree to the gourd. roof helped him. in an hour the gourd was filled. then they returned to the skiff. leaving the gourd there thandar and roof walked to a clump of heavy jungle grasses not far from the cliff where their cave lay. here thandar gathered a great armful of the yellow, ripened grass, telling roof to do likewise. this they took back to the skiff, where, by rolling it assiduously between their hands and pounding it with stones they reduced it to a mass of soft, tough fiber. now thandar showed roof how to twist this fiber into a loose, fluffy rope, and when he had him well started he daubed the rope with the rubbery fluid he had filched from the tree, and with a sharp stick tucked it in every seam and crevice of the skiff. it took the better part of two days to accomplish this, and when it was done and the gourd empty, the two men returned to the tree and refilled it. this time they built a fire upon their return to the skiff, roof spinning a hard wood splinter rapidly between toes and fingers in a little mass of tinder that lay in a hollowed piece of wood. presently a thin spiral of smoke arose from the tinder, grow- ing denser for a moment until of a sudden it broke into flame. the men piled twigs and branches upon the blaze until the fire was well started. then thandar tak- building the boat ing a ball of the viscous matter from the gourd heated it in the flames, immediately daubing the melting mass upon the outside of the skiff. in this way, slowly and with infinite patience, the two at last succeeded in coating the entire outer surface of the canoe with a waterproof substance that might defy the action of water almost indefinitely. , for three days thandar let the coating dry, and then the craft was given another trial. the man's heart was in his throat as the canoe floated upon the crest of a great wave and he leaped into it. but a moment later he shouted in relief and de- light—the thing floated like a cork, nor was there the slightest leak discernible. for half an hour thandar paddled about the harbor, and then he re- turned for the sail. this too, though rather heavy and awkward, worked admirably, and the balance of the day he spent in sailing, even venturing out into the ocean. much of the time he paddled, for waldo emer- son knew more of the galleys of ancient greece than he did of sails or sailing, so that for the most part he sailed with the wind, paddling when he wished to travel in another direction. but, withal, his at- tempt filled him with delight, and he could scarce wait to be off toward civilization and nadara. the next two days were spent in collecting food and water, which thandar packed in numerous chapter x the head-hunters ature so far, had been kind to waldo emer- son smith-jones. no high winds or heavy seas had assailed him, and he had been upon the water for three days now. the wind had held steadily out of the south, varying but a few points during this time but even so waldo emerson was commencing to doubt and to worry. his supply of water was running dangerously low, his food supply would last but a few days longer; and as yet he had sighted no sail, nor seen any land. furthermore, he had not the remotest conception of how he might retrace his way to the island he had just quitted. he could only sail before the wind. should the wind veer around into the north he might, by chance, be blown back to the island. otherwise he never could reach it. and he was beginning to wonder if he had not been a trifle to precipitate in his abandonment of land. in common with most other landsmen, waldo emerson had little conception of the vastness of the broad reaches of unbroken water wildernesses that roll in desolate immensity over three quarters of the globe. his recollection of maps pictured the the head-hunters less sun beating down upon him increased his agony. he stretched his panther skin across the stern and hid beneath it from the torrid rays. and there he lay until darkness brought relief. during the night the wind sprang up again, but this time from the west. it rose and with it rose the sea. the man, clinging to his crude steering blade, struggled to keep the light craft straight be- fore the wind which was now howling fearfully while great waves, hungry and wide jawed, raced after him like a pack of ravenous wolves. thandar knew that the unequal struggle against the mighty forces of the elements could not endure for long. it seemed that each fierce gust of brutal wind must tear his frail boat to shreds, and yet it was the very lightness of the thing that saved it, for it rode upon the crests of waves, blown forward at terrific velocity like a feather before the hurri- cane. in thandar's heart was no terror—only regret that he might never again see his mother, his father, or his nadara. yet the night wore on and still he fled before the storm. the sky was overcast— the darkness was impenetrable. he imagined all about him still the same wide, tenantless circle of water, only now storm torn and perpendicular and black, instead of peacefully horizontal, and sooth- ingly blue-green. and then, even as he was think- the cave girl ing this there rose before him a thunderous boom- ing loud above the frenzied bedlam of the storm, his boat was lifted high in air to dive headforemost into what might be a bottomless abyss for all than- dar knew. but it was not bottomless. the canoe struck something and stopped suddenly, pitching thandar out into a boiling maelstrom. a great wave picked him up, carrying him with race-horse velocity within its crest. he felt himself hurled pitilessly upon smooth, hard sand. the water tried to drag him back, but he fought with toes and fingers, clutching at the surface of the stuff upon which he had been dropped. then the wave aban- doned him and raced swiftly back into the sea. thandar was exhausted, but he knew that he must crawl up out of the way of the surf, or be dragged back by the next roller. what he had searched for in vain through six long days he had run down in the midst of a stygian night. he had found land or, to be more explicit, land had got in front of him and he had run into it. he had commenced to wonder if some terrible convulsion of nature had not swallowed up all the land in the world, leaving only a waste of desolate water. he forgot his hunger and his thirst in the happiness of the knowledge that once more he was upon land. he wondered a little what land it might be. he hoped that dawn would reveal the chimneys and the cave girl left shoulder blade, and behind it were the weight and sinews of the cave man. with a shriek the savage lunged forward, clutching at the cruel point that now protruded from his breast. when he touched the earth he was dead. thandar drew his sword from the body of the head-hunter, and turned toward the man he had rescued. the latter was approaching, talking ex- citedly. it was evident that he was thanking thandar, but no word of his strange tongue could the american understand. thandar shook his head to indicate that he was unfamiliar with the other's language, and then the latter dropped into pidgin english, which, while almost as unintelligible to the cultured bostonian, still contained the battered remnants of some few words with which he was familiar. thandar depreciated his act by means of gestures, immediately following these with signs to indicate that he was hungry and thirsty. the stranger evi- dently understood him, for he motioned him to fol- low, leading the way back along the beach in the direction from which he had come. before starting, however, he had pointed toward the wreck of thandar's canoe and then toward thandar, nodding his head questioningly as to ask if the boat belonged to the cave man. around the end of a promontory they came upon the head-hunters a little cove beside the beach of which thandar saw a camp of nearly a score of men similar in appear- ance to his guide. these were preparing breakfast beside the partially completed hull of a rather large boat they seemed to have been building. at sight of thandar they looked their astonish- ment, but after hearing the story of their fellow they greeted the cave man warmly, furnishing him with food and water in abundance. for three days thandar worked with these men upon their craft, picking up their story slowly with a slow acquirement of a bowing acquaintance with the bastard tongue they used when speaking with him. he soon became aware of the fact that fate had thrown him among a band of pirates. there were chinese, japanese and malays among them— the off-scourings of the south seas; men who had become discredited even among the villainous pirates of their own lands, and had been forced to join their lots in this remoter and less lucrative field, under an unhung ruffian, tsao ming, the chinaman whose life thandar had saved. he also learned that the storm that had cast them upon this shore nearly a month before had de- molished their prahu, and what with the build- ing of another and numerous skirmishes with the savages they had had a busy time of it. only yesterday while a party of them had been the cave girl hunting a mile or two inland they had been at- tacked by savages who had killed two and captured one of their number. they told thandar that these savages were the most ferocious of head-hunters, but like the major- ity of their kind preferred ambushing an unwary victim to meeting him in fair fight in the open. thandar did not doubt but that the latter mode of warfare would have been entirely to the liking of his piratical friends, for never in his life had he dreamed, even, of so ferocious and warlike a band as was comprised in this villainous and bloodthirsty aggregation. but the constant nervous tension under which they had worked, never knowing at what instant an arrow or a lance would leap from the shades of the jungle to pierce them in the back, had reduced them to a state of fear that only a speedy departure from the island could conquer. their boat was almost completed, two more days would see them safely launched upon the ocean, and tsao ming had promised thandar that he would carry him to a civilized port from which he could take a steaner on his return to america. late in the afternoon of the third day since his arrival among the pirates the men were suddenly startled by the appearance of an exhausted and blood smeared apparition amongst them. from the nearby jungle the man had staggered to fall when the head-hunters halfway across the clearing, spent. it was boloon—he who had been captured by the head-hunters the day before thandar had been cast upon the shore. revived with food and water the fellow told a most extraordinary tale. from the meager scraps that were afterward translated into pidgin english for thandar the bostonian learned that boloon had been dragged far inland to a village of considerable size. here he had been placed in a room of one of the long houses to await the pleasure of the chief. it was hinted that he was to be tortured before his head was removed to grace the rafters of the chief's palace. the remarkable portion of his tale related to a strange temple to which he had been dragged and thrown at the feet of a white goddess. tsao ming and the other pirates were much mystified by this part of the story, for boloon insisted that the god- dess was white with a mass of black hair, and that her body was covered by the pelt of a magnificent black panther. though tsao ming pointed out that there were no panthers upon this island boloon could not be shaken. he had seen with his own eyes, and he knew. furthermore, he argued, there were no white goddesses upon the island, and yet the woman he had seen was white. the cave girl when this strange tale was retold to thandar he could not but recall that nadara had worn a black panther skin, but of course it could not be nadara —that was impossible. but yet he asked for a further description of the goddess—the color of her eyes and hair—the proportions of her body— her height. to all these questions boloon gave replies that but caused thandar's excitement to wax stronger. and then came the final statement that set him in a frenzy of hope and apprehension. “upon her left hand was a great diamond,” said boloon. thandar turned toward tsao ming. “i go inland to the temple,” he said, “to see who this white goddess may be. if you wait two days for me and i return you shall have as much gold as you ask in payment. if you do not wait repair my canoe and hide it in the bushes where the man hid who would have killed you but for thandar.” “i shall wait three days,” replied tsao ming. “nor will i take a single fun in pay. you saved the life of tsao ming—that is not soon to be for- gotten. i would send men with you, but they would not go. they are afraid of the head-hunt- ers. too, will i repair your canoe against your coming after the third day; but,” and he shrugged, “you will not come upon the third day, nor upon chapter xi the rescue t was dusk of the second day when thandar, following the directions given him by boloon, came to the edge of the little clearing within which rose the dingy outlines of many long houses raised upon piles. before the village ran a river. many times had thandar crossed and recrossed this stream, for he had become lost twice upon the way and had to return part way each time to pick up his trail. in the center of the village the man could see the outlines of a loftier structure rearing its head above those of the others. as darkness fell thandar crept closer toward his goal—the large building which boloon had described as the temple. beneath the high raised houses the cave man crept, disturbing pigs and chickens as he went, but their noise was no uncommon thing, and rather than being a menace to his safety it safeguarded him, for it hid the noise of his own advance. at last he came beneath a house nearest the temple. the moon was full and high. her bril- liant light flooded the open spaces between the build- ings, casting into black darkness the shadows be- the rescue neath. in one of these thandar lurked. he saw that the temple was guarded. before its only en- trance squatted two warriors. how was he to pass them? he moved to the end of the shadow of the house beneath which he spied as far from the guards as possible; but still discovery seemed certain were he to attempt to rush across the intervening space. he was at a loss as to what next to do. it seemed foolish to risk all now upon a bold advance—the time for such a risk would be when he had found the goddess and learned if she were nadara, or another; but how might he cross that strip of moon- light and enter the temple past the two guards, with- out risk? he moved silently to the far end of the building, in the shadows of which he watched. for some time he stood looking across at his goal, so near, and yet seemingly infinitely farther from attain- ment than the day he had left the coast in search of it. he noted the long poles stuck into the ground at irregular intervals about the structure. he wondered at the significance of the rude carving upon them, of the barbaric capitals sometimes topped by the headdress of a savage warrior, again by a dried and grinning skull, or perhaps the rudely chiseled likeness of a hideous human face. upon many of the poles were hung shields, the cave girl weapons, clothing and earthenware vessels. one especially was so weighted down by its heterogene- ous burden that it leaned drunkenly against the eaves of the temple. thandar's eye followed it upward to where it touched the crudely shingled roof. the suggestion was sufficient—where his eye had climbed he would climb. there was only the moonlight to make the attempt perilous. if the clouds would but come! but there was no indica- tion of clouds in the star shot sky. he looked toward the guards. they lolled at the opposite end of the temple, only one of them being visible. the other was hidden by the angle of the building. the back of the fellow whom thandar could see was turned toward the cave man. if they remained thus for a moment he could reach the roof unnoticed. but then there was the danger of dis- covery from one of the other buildings. an occa- sional whiff of tobacco smoke told him that some of the men were still awake upon the verandahs where most of the youths and bachelors slept. thandar crawled to where he could see the only verandah which directly faced the portion of the temple he had chosen for his attempted entrance. for an hour he watched the rising and falling glow of the cigarettes of two of the native men, and listened to the low hum of their conversation. the hour seemed to drag into an eternity, but at last the rescue i the glowing butt of first one cigarette and then an- other was flicked over into the grass and silence reigned upon the verandah. for half an hour longer thandar waited. the guards before the temple still squatted as before. the one thandar could see seemed to have fallen asleep, for his head drooped forward upon his breast. the time had come. there was no need of further delay or reconnaisance—if he was to be discovered that would be the end of it, and it would not profit him one iota to know a second or so in advance of the alarm that he had been detected. so he did not waste time in stealthy advance, or in much looking this way and that. instead he moved swiftly, though silently, directly across the open, moonlit space to the foot of the leaning pole. he did not cast a glance behind nor to the right nor left. his whole attention was riveted upon the thing in hand. thandar had scaled the rickety, toppling sap- lings of the cliff dwellers for so long that this pole offered no greater difficulties to him than would an ordinary staircase to you or me. first he tested it with eyes and hands to know that it rested securely at the top and that beneath his weight it would not move noisily out of its present position. assured that it seemed secure, thandar ran up it the cave girl wealth of thick, black hair, fine as silk, upon the third finger of the left hand blazed a large solitaire. the woman's face was turned toward the wall— but thandar knew that he could not be mistaken— it was nadara. from the rafter upon which he squatted to the floor below was not over twelve or fifteen feet. thandar swung downward, clinging to the rafter with his hands, and dropped, cat-like, upon his naked feet to the floor below. the almost noiseless descent was sufficient, how- ever, to awaken the sleeper. with the quickness of a panther she swung around and was upon her feet facing the man almost at the instant he alighted. the moonlight was now full upon her face. than- dar rushed forward to take her in his arms. “nadara!” he whispered. “thank god!” the girl shrank back. she recognized the voice and the figure; but—her thandar was dead! how could it be that he had returned from death? she was frightened. the man saw the evident terror of her action, and paused. “what is the matter, nadara?” he asked. “don’t you know me? don't you know than- dar?” “thandar is dead,” she whispered. the man laughed. in a few words he explained the cave girl reached the jungle a screaming horde of warriors was upon their heels. thandar was confused. he had lost his bearings since entering the village and the temple. he turned toward nadara. “i do not know the way to the coast,” he cried. the girl took his hand. “follow me,” she said, and to the memories of each leaped the recollection of the night she had led him through the forest from the cliffs of the bad men. once again was waldo emerson smith- jones, the learned, indebted to the greater wisdom of the unlettered cave girl for his salvation. unerringly nadara ran through the tangled jungle in the direction of the coast. though she had been but once over the way she followed the direct line as unerringly as though each tree was blazed and sign posts marked each turn. behind them came the noise of the pursuit, but always nadara and thandar fled ahead of it, not once did it gain upon them during the long hours of flight. it was noon before they reached the coast. they came out at the camp of the pirates, but to than- dar's dismay it was deserted. tsao ming had waited the allotted time and gone. if thandar had but known it, the picturesque cut-throat had overstayed the promised period, and had but scarce left when the rescue oi the fugitives emerged from the jungle beside the beach. in fact his rude craft was but out of sight beyond the northern promontory. a pistol shot would have recalled him; but thandar did not know it, and so he turned dejectedly to search for the hid- den canoe. it lay behind the little clump of bushes that had hidden thandar the morning that he had saved tsao ming's life, several hundred yards to the south. all signs of pursuit had now ceased, and so the two walked slowly in the direction of the craft. they found it just where tsao ming had promised that it would be. it was well and staunchly re- paired, and in addition contained a goodly supply of food and water. thandar blessed tsao ming, the unhung murderer. together they dragged the frail thing to the water's edge, and were about to shove it out when, with a chorus of savage yells, a score or more of the head-hunters leaped from the jungle and bore down upon them. thandar turned to meet them with drawn pistol. - “get the canoe into the water, nadara,” he called to the girl. “i will hold them off until it is launched, then we may be able to reach deep water before they can overtake us.” nadara struggled with the unwieldy boat which the rescue caught them all, pursuers and pursued, sweeping them out into deep water. thandar and nadara clung to the canoe, but the head-hunters were dragged down by the undertow. upon the beach, yelling, threatening and gesticu- lating, danced thirty or forty baffled savages; but now thandar and nadara had crawled into the craft, which the outgoing tide was carrying rapidly from shore, and with the aid of the paddle were soon safely out upon the bosom of the pacific. safely? pirates ever from their sight than dead ahead another shore line showed. thandar could scarce believe his eyes. he rubbed them and looked again. then he asked nadara to look. “what is that ahead?” he asked. the girl half rose with an exclamation of joy. “land!” she cried. and land it was. the wind, driving them madly, carried them toward the north end of what ap- peared to be a large island. angry breakers pounded a rocky coast line. to strike there would mean instant death to them both. but would they strike? as they neared the point of the island it became evident to thandar that they would be borne past it. could he hope to stem the speed of the little craft and turn it back into the sheltered water in the lee of the land? the chances were more than even that the canoe would capsize the instant he cut away the sail and attempted to paddle across the wind, as would be necessary to come about the end of the island. but there seemed no other way. he handed his parang to nadara, telling her to be ready to cut the rawhide strips that supported the sail the instant that he gave the word. with his paddle clutched tightly in his hands he knelt in the stern, watching the progress of the canoe past the rocky point. the cave girl at this extremity of the island a narrow tongue of land ran far out into the sea. it was past the outer point of this tongue that the canoe was rac- ing. when they had passed thandar realized the rashness of attempting to turn the canoe into the trough of the sea even for the little distance that would have been necessary to make the shelter of the point, where, almost within reach, he could see the peaceful bosom of unruffled water lying safely behind the island. and yet as he looked ahead upon the limitless waste of ocean before them he knew that one risk was no greater than the other, and then an alter- native plan occurred to him. he would run a short distance past the point and then turn almost directly back and attempt to paddle the canoe in the calm water, running nearly into the face of the wind, thus avoiding the dangers of the trough. there was but a single drawback to this plan— the question of his ability to drive the canoe against the gale. at least it was worth trying. he gave nadara the word to cut down the sail, and at the same instant, the canoe being upon the crest of a wave, he bent to the paddle. as the panther skin tumbled at the foot of the rough mast the nose of the craft swung around in reply to thandar's vig- orous strokes. so intent were both upon the life and death io the cave girl ment. the black rose with clenched fists as though prepared to strike him. “priscilla ahoy!” shrieked waldo emerson. “help! help!” the negro grinned. there was no response from the white yacht. then the men told thandar that they had captured the vessel several weeks before, and were holding her crew prisoners upon land awaiting the return of the chief who had been un- accountably absent for a long time. when waldo emerson told them that the yacht belonged to his father the black was glad that he had not killed him, for he should bring a fat ransom. it was dark when they landed, and thandar and nadara were forced into squalid huts that lay side by side with several others just above the beach. for a long time the man could not sleep. his mind was occupied with doubts as to the fate of his father and mother. nadara had told him that both had been aboard the priscilla. she had said noth- ing of the treatment accorded her by mrs. smith- jones, but waldo had guessed near the truth, and he had seen that the sight of the priscilla had awakened no enthusiasm or happiness in the girl. after a while he dozed only to be awakened by the sound of movement outside his hut. there was something sinister in the stealthiness of the sound. silently thandar rose and crept to the door. the the cave girl though she could not see him. at last, with a superhuman effort, the night prowler broke away from thandar. for a moment silence reigned in the hut. none of the three could see the other. from beneath his panther skin thandar drew the long pistol that tsao ming had given him, but he dared not fire for fear of hitting nadara, nor dared he ask her to speak that he might know her position, for then would he have divulged his own to his antagonist. for minutes that seemed hours the three stood in utter silence, endeavoring to stifle their breathing. then thandar heard a cautious movement upon the opposite side of the room. was it his foe, or nadara. he raised his pistol level with a man's breast, and then very cautiously he too moved to one side. at the slight sound of his movement there came a sudden flash and deafening roar from across the hut—the enemy had fired, and in the flash of his gun all within the interior was lighted for an instant, and thandar saw the giant black not two paces from him, and to the man's left stood nadara, safe from a shot from thandar's pistol. the black, not knowing that thandar was armed, had not guessed that his chance shot was to prove his own death messenger. the instant that the flash of the other's gun revealed his whereabouts thandar's pistol gave an answering roar, and simul pirates i taneously thandar leaped to one side, running swiftly to grapple with the black from the side; but when he came to him, instead of meeting with ferocious resistance as he had expected, he stumbled over his dead body. but now the whole camp was awake. the pirates were running hither and thither shouting questions and orders in their many tongues. confusion reigned supreme, and in the midst of it thandar grasped nadara's hand and ran from the hut. back of the other huts he ran until he had passed the end of the camp. then he turned down toward the water. it was his intention to reach a boat and make his way to the priscilla. behind them the confusion of the camp grew as the pirates searched the huts for an explanation of the two shots—there could have been no better opportunity for escape. drawn up on the beach was one of the priscilla's own boats. together thandar and nadara pushed it off, and a moment later were rowing rapidly toward the yacht. it was with a feeling of unbounded security and elation that waldo emerson clambered over the side and drew nadara after him; but his elation was short lived for scarcely had he set foot upon the deck than he was seized from behind by half a dozen brawny villains who had been upon guard on board the priscilla and had seen the two put off i the cave girl from shore, watched their flight toward the yacht and lain in wait for them as they clambered over the side. the balance of the night they were kept prison- ers upon the priscilla; but early the next morning they were taken ashore. there they found all the pirates congregated outside one of the huts. within were the passengers and crew of the priscilla. as thandar and nadara approached they were seized and hustled toward the doorway—with an ac- companiment of oriental oaths they were pushed into the interior. standing about in disconsolate and unhappy groups were the crew of the priscilla, captain burlinghame and mr. and mrs. smith-jones. as his eyes fell upon the last, waldo emerson ran to- ward her with outstretched arms. with a horrified shriek mrs. smith-jones dodged behind her husband and the captain. waldo came to a sudden halt. the two men eyed him threaten- ingly. he looked straight into his father's face. “don’t you know me, father,” he asked. john alden smith-jones' jaw dropped. “waldo emerson,” he cried. “it cannot be possible!” mrs. smith-jones emerged from retreat. “waldo emerson l’” she echoed. “it cannot bel ” the cave girl “i cannot tell you just what they are—only i cannot blame my son for loving you. only you must discard that horrible garment for something presentable.” “mother!” shouted waldo emerson, as he threw his arms about her. “i knew that you would love her, too, if you ever knew her.” just then the door opened and one of the pirates entered. “come,” he said. they filed out past him. from those outside they learned that it had been decided to kill them all and after looting the priscilla, sink her, as a man-of-war had been sighted cruising off the coast early in the morning. in their terror they had decided to wait no longer for the absent chief, and all thoughts of ransom were forgotten in the mad desire to erase every vestige of their piracy. the victims looked at one another in horror. they were entirely surrounded by the pirates, and one by one were securely bound that there might be no chance of any escaping. the plan was to lead them inland to the densest part of the jungle and there to cut their throats and leave their corpses to the vultures. the pirates appeared to derive much pleasure in recounting their plan to the pris- oners. at last all were bound and the death march com- the cave girl the flats of murderous parangs. at last the pirates halted in a tangled mass of vegetation. “here,” said one; but another thought they should proceed a little further. for a few minutes the two men argued, then the first drew his parang and advanced upon thandar. “here!” he insisted and swung the blade about his head. a sudden crashing of the underbrush and loud and angry shouts caused him to turn his eyes in the direction of the interruption. the prisoners, too, looked. what they saw was not particularly reas- suring—only another very ferocious appearing and exceeding wrathful pirate followed by a half dozen other villains. he rushed into the midst of the group, knocking men to right and left. the wicked looking fellows who had bullied and cowed the frightened prisoners but a few moments before now looked the picture of abject terror. the chief came to a halt before the man with the bared parang. his face was livid, and work- ing spasmodically with rage and excitement. he tried to speak, and then he turned his eyes upon thandar, standing there bound ready for decapita- tion. as his gaze fell upon this prisoner his eyes went wide, and then he turned upon the would-be executioner, and with a mighty blow felled him. the cave girl chance, i picked them up close by the sea. the poor lady to whom they once belonged you never knew—it is quite possible that she never was upon your savage coast—and how her jewels came there must always remain a mystery. but two things you hold in common with her, for she was a lady and she was very beautiful.” he held toward nadara in his open palm a little worn bag of the skins of small rodents, sewn to- gether with bits of gut. at sight of it both the girl and waldo emerson exclaimed in astonishment. nadara took the bag wonderingly in her hands and dumped the contents into her palm. waldo pressed forward. “did you know to whom those belonged?” he asked burlinghame. “to eugenie marie celeste de la valois, countess of crecy,” replied the captain. “they belonged to nadara's mother,” returned waldo. “her foster parents were present at her birth and took these jewels from the poor woman's body after she had passed away. she was washed ashore in a boat in which there was only a dead man beside herself—nadara was born that night.” and so, when the clergyman had performed the marriage ceremony he entered upon the certificate in the space provided there for the name of the woman: nadara de la valois. homeward bound and they are living in boston now in a wonder- ful home that you have seen if you ever have been to boston and been driven about in one of those great sight-seeing motor busses, for the place is pointed out to all visitors because of the beauty of its architecture and the fame that attaches to the historic and aristocratic name of its owner, which, as it happens, is not smith-jones at all. t h e n ovels of edgar rice burrough s may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset and dunlap's list tarzan, lord of the jungle tarzan of the apes tarzan and the jewels of opar tarzan and the ant men tarzan and the golden lion tarzan the terrible tarzan the untamed the beasts of tarzan the return of tarzan the son of tarzan jungle tales of tarzan the master mind of mars the princess of mars the warlord of mars the gods of mars thuvia, maid of mars the chessman of mars the monster men the war chief the outlaw of torn the mad king the moon maid the eternal lover the cave girl the bandit of hell’s bend the land that time forgot at the earth's core pellucidar the mucker grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york a a ,,saja valley beyond time by the same author and so - victoria seven tempest being met together once upon a time: an adventure the city of frozen fire crown without sceptre a king reluctant fanfare for a witch history endless prelude: an historical anthology sidelights on industrial evolution for the younger after bath: or, the remarkable case of the flying hat edited hermsprong, by robert bage valley beyond time dv vaughan wilkins st martin's press new york · copyright, , in all countries signatory to the berne convention w ra printed in great britain millurgo . contents part one i the house that was not there chart of dreams the vision of olwen peculiar affair of father bosworth v wood beyond the world vi the third adventurer part two ioi iii problem without shadows midge at the house of opal problem with shadows iv the seven thousandth candle v the timeless vi benaiah finds a contemporary vii back to the night part three i a kiss for a crossword maker ii 'mirror, mirror on the wall land of clocks iv 'the most important thing in the world' - v 'the most important thing in the world' – ii vi the other wood vii full moon at saul viii the ride of the naked horsemen the personages in this story are wholly fourth- dimensional, living only in the imagination of the author. any coincidence of name is purely fortuitous. for g. wren howard publisher and friend for many years part one chapter i the house that was not there as naked as a pebble!"' repeated senator purvis thought- fully. 'it would seem to imply a considerable degree t of familiarity to visit at a house completely in the nude, sir henry!' 'exactly so,' agreed the judge in precise speech which not merely gave its full value to each syllable of each word, but also meticulously punctuated and paragraphed whatever he said. 'exactly so. it was that singularity, coupled with the rather unusual simile, which first aroused my full attention. ‘until then, i will confess to you, i had been listening to the evidence almost mechanically. until then it had appeared to be a very ordinary lawsuit. it was undefended; and, furthermore, i have always disliked hearing matri- monial cases. so, whilst i could probably have repeated the witness's statement verbatim, up to that moment the impli- cations had not penetrated to my inner consciousness. then quite suddenly i realized that he was talking about a house and a wood on caldy island, which i myself knew could not exist.' 'ah-h! sighed the senator with such immense satisfaction that sir henry standish brought back his regard from the bay window and the glassy, sunshine-powdered sea to study his new american acquaintance's huge bronzed face, which was dominated by a great beak of a nose and crowned by a shock of white hair. ‘more than that! continued sir henry, still watching from under his lashes the big figure lounging in an elbow-chair, legs outstretched and crossed at the ankles, a glass of whisky and soda encircled in an enormous hand. 'more than that! i knew there was no moon that night in spite of what the valley beyond time witness declared. i checked the fact by the calendar on my desk although i really had no need to. it is one of my-er- my foibles to be acquainted with the phases of the moon. i prefer not to see a new moon through glass or trees, etcetera, etcetera. superstition if you like – omnium pestium pesti- lentissima!' the senator nodded gravely, as though in approval of the latin tag. he manoeuvred an unlit cigar from one side of his mouth to the other. without removing it he said: 'so your witness saw a house and a wood that didn't exist, by the light of a moon that wasn't there! and you, yourself, know this as a matter of absolute, incontrovertible fact?' 'i know every inch of the island. in fact, although of course i heard nothing about the business until three years later, i was actually staying there at the time.' ‘ah-h! sighed purvis again. he took the cigar from the corner of his lips. he sat straight up in his chair, a vast and vigorous elderly man in a double-breasted blue serge coat with a cream nylon shirt and a rather lurid bow-tie of yellow spotted with red. "that's what i have been waiting to hear from your own lips, sir henry. that's what i have travelled nearly five thousand miles from goliad county, texas, to pembrokeshire, wales, to hear. tell me more, sir! pray tell me everything! and what next! there was silence for a little whilst sir henry appeared to be marshalling his recollections of the case of lambard o. lambard, which he had heard as a judge of the high court during the hilary term sittings four years before. in fact, however, his mind had strayed to phrases in the letter of introduction from his nephew by marriage, that lay upon the book-crowded table of black oak behind him. you will find, my dear uncle [the earl of morfa had written in his own peculiar calligraphy, peppering the sheet with stray capital letters in seventeenth-century fashion), that benaiah a. purvis is rather larger than the house that was not there life in more than body. he's got a terrific brain and a memory as long as your own. his wealth is simply fabulous, and his hospitality princely-even for a texan. i know all about it, because i've experienced it. although he loves all the good things of life, and has a well-known partiality for platinum blondes - silver, of course, comes into a different category – he's quite a religious sort of fellow. when i say religious, i mean it. he isn't of the sort that ease up their trousers, lean forward, and prop their elbows on their knees in church. hassock, or not, he goes right down. do what you can for him. i don't understand his theories, but you can take it from me that he's thoroughly sound. i would not mind betting that you'll get to like him very much, although he's the absolute opposite of yourself. no greater contrast, indeed, could be imagined than that provided by the two silent men sitting in the big bay window of the book-lined study, which was filled with the golden light of a september afternoon and the salt tang of the sea. from without came the sound of the slow wash of the turning tide, the distant cries of children sporting upon the narrow strip of sand at the cliff-foot far below, and the melancholy clamour of sea-gulls. if senator benaiah purvis, looking with hooded eyes at the glittering water and the smoke-blue arms of the great bay, was a perfect exemplar of the lightly stepping elderly giant who is almost exclusively an american product, then sir henry, sitting near him in his revolving chair at the end of the table, typified most exactly the common conception of an english judge. he was a smallish man in a cream linen coat with a severe and clean-cut face tanned to a light gold. he had almost startlingly black eyes under level iron- grey eye-brows, and his white hair, as soft as thistledown, was as smooth as though it had been permanently flattened valley beyond time by the wearing of a judicial wig for nearly a quarter of a century. 'what occurred then?' persisted the senator in his slow south-western drawl. 'what occurred when you discovered that the witness appeared to be lying?” 'the situation,' answered sir henry, 'was tricky in the extreme. it was quite unthinkable that he should be com- mitting deliberate perjury. he was — and is - not only a scientist of world-wide repute, but also well known to be a man of very high principles. his debate with the bishop of bangor - 'pardon me! pardon me a moment!' interrupted the sena- tor, disposing of his tormented cigar in sir henry's brimming waste-paper basket. 'perhaps i had better recapitulate, sir, what you've told me so far of this man's evidence. to make sure i've gotten the yarn straight and missed nothing! standish's neat white head gave a neat small bow of assent. “this witness -' 'professor ivell.' 'ivell — trailed lambard at his sister's request. she and her husband occupied separate rooms at the hotel, and she found that he had been slipping out secretly every night for nearly a week, and not returning till daybreak. ivell succeeded in following his brother-in-law unnoticed to the island. he arrived there just in time to see him disappear up a path leading directly inland from the beach. hey?' neat small nod of concurrence. 'it was a pitch-black night, and ivell was able to keep unobserved almost at his heels through a small hamlet and up a narrow lane. half a mile from the shore the fellow turned right-handed through a farmyard –' 'westwards, past the old priory. it is a fourteenth-century benedictine building with a crooked spire.' 'is that so? ... well, the two of them walked across the fields for a matter of a quarter of a mile. it was pretty misty, the house that was not there and at one place the path ran along a cliff-top. the sea sounded directly below them ... but, say, how did he know he was following lambard and not some other man?' “by his nose, i understand. it was windless, and the heavy reek of lambard's pipe was unmistakable. apparently he used to smoke some very scented tobacco. 'is that so? i did hear that he was a bit of a "fancy-pants”. well, a little further on ivell stumbled on the slippery turf and fell, breaking one of the earpieces of his glasses at the joint. without them he was as blind as a bat. hey?' neat nod. 'he picked himself up, balanced the wreckage of the spectacles on his nose, and hurried after his brother-in-law. he pulled up a minute later just in time to avoid bumping right into him as he stood tearing his clothes off. ivell took cover behind a bush and waited. the other was knocking out his pipe when the glasses fell off once more. it took him some time to find them again. when at last he got them and looked up, he saw that the mist had cleared, or the moon had come out, and that lambard was walking stark, staring naked towards a low white house standing a little way off in the lee of some tallish trees.' 'he told me later,' supplemented sir henry, slowly filling a briar pipe in an almost ritual manner, 'that the house had a long colonnade or portico of slender columns before it.' senator purvis paused for a split second whilst he obviously docketed this new fact in his mind. then he went on with his recapitulation of the professor's evidence: ‘as he watched, a woman came out of the house. the moonlight was very bright and she was barely twenty yards away. he gathered the impression that she was of extra- ordinary beauty, tall, and wearing some sort of silvery night attire. at any rate she greeted lambard very, very affectionately; threw a bath robe over his shoulders, and disappeared with him into the house. hey?' 'that was his story,' agreed sir henry, adjusting the . valley beyond time tobacco in the bowl of his pipe with the little finger of his right hand. 'at that point ivell thought he'd seen enough. so he turned tail and made his way back to his boat and the main- land. now, sir, after hearing that evidence, you suddenly adjourned the case and called mrs. lambard's counsel to your private room.' 'you knew that then?' 'i did. i met the counsel, mr. pitchley, who was visiting in texas, at a dinner of the city attorneys' association in austin five weeks ago. he told me about the case. i mis- remember what brought it up. the upshot was, of course, that i've had my spies and lines out everywhere ever since trying to contact ivell. but there i came up against a stone wall. he's way in the back-blocks of australia fixing some atomic experiment. no one knows where, or when, or how, or what. or, if they do, they won't say.' sir henry expressed his sympathy in a grave nod. “so then i set out to look for you. ‘and find me within a mile or two of the scene of the drama! may i now ask, senator purvis, why you are so interested in this case? 'you shall hear everything in a little, sir henry, even if you rate me as crazed as a march hare.' he suddenly lowered his voice to a thunderous growl for a parenthetical — ‘but i'm not!' — and then went on in his normal tone: “but first of all, sir, will you wind up for me this case of lambard v. lambard? no word of what you have told me, or will tell me, shall ever pass my lips. i give you my solemn oath — my very solemn oath.' 'there is not much more to tell you, my dear senator,' said the judge with a secret side-glance of assessment and the faintest flicker of an almost secret smile. 'i called mr. pitchley to my private room - as you are already aware – and i expounded the situation to him. 'it was as i thought. he had never been within fifty miles the house that was not there of caldy in his life. he had been briefed by a london firm of solicitors who had probably never even heard of the island. it had not occurred to them to question ivell's topography. there was no reason why it should. furthermore, it turned out that the professor's one and only visit to caldy was on this particular occasion. on his return to tenby he told his sister exactly what he thought he had seen, and the pair of them left by car for london that very night. so far as i know neither ever came back here again. if it had not been that i personally knew the place so well, the professor's delusions might have been accepted as pretty conclusive evidence.' ‘delusions! quoted senator purvis with a curious, almost ironical intonation that perplexed his host. 'well,' said he in his driest tones. ‘among the peculiar things that ivell said when i saw him with pitchley in private was this: that the house stood high on the shelf of a hill at the head of a long, steep, and wooded valley, at the distant end of which he could just see the glitter of the sea. now not only is there no house, and no wood at the western end of the island, but there is certainly no "long, steep" valley — or a valley of any sort. caldy in all is only a mile and three- quarters long and three-quarters of a mile wide. the spot where ivell stood — and i know it perfectly from his descrip- tion - is not twenty yards from the edge of the cliffs over- hanging sand top bay and the sea. the senator appeared to listen to this fresh revelation of professor ivell's delusions with deep satisfaction. he leaned over the side of his chair and heaved up an expensive pigskin brief-case which he set on his knees. all that he said, how- ever, was: ‘after the incident on the island did they hear from, or see lambard again?' 'not to my knowledge. at any rate that is what his wife stated in court. at the end of a month the hotel sent her his bill — which she paid — and inquired her pleasure about his valley beyond time baggage — to the fate of which she was indifferent. i gained the impression that she was a rather icy young woman. perhaps she had cause to be. it would seem not unlikely that her husband was what jorrocks described as a “lusus naturae, or loose ’un by nature". at any rate by slightly shifting his ground pitchley was able to get her a divorce, which was all she cared about. the so-called evidence from caldy was pure embroidery on a straightforward case. ivell's hallucina- tions could not alter the fact that lambard had deserted his wife and remained absent for three years — which entitled her to a decree.' he struck a match and lighted his pipe, and looked expectantly at purvis. but the other merely echoed the word 'hallucinations with the same ironical intonation as before. sir henry knitted his brows: he said in a manner that was slightly nettled: 'well, sir, what else can you call them? what else can anybody call them? what is more, despite everything i could say, ivell stoutly and indignantly stuck to his statement. he even remarked to me, during our private conference, that he had sworn by almighty god to give true evidence; that if i thought his evidence was false, then i knew quite well what remedy i had. i felt that examination by a mental specialist rather than a charge of perjury was indicated. a man who sees phantom women and phantom houses in phantom val- leys definitely, my dear senator, needs attention. because of that i let the matter drop. 'with all due respect to you, judge,' said the american impressively, opening his brief-case as he spoke, 'there may have been a woman and a house and a valley at that particu- lar spot, and at that particular time seven years ago.' sir henry's dark eyes remained fixed upon him. the expression of his clear-cut face did not alter from one of polite attention. the merest suggestion of a question was propounded in the upward quiver of his level brows, in the the house that was not there sudden gentle tapping of his finger-tips upon his knees. he made no comment. 'i don't believe in phantoms, sir! rumbled purvis. he extracted a document from his case which he let drop to the floor, and suddenly surged to his feet. he towered over the judge, transforming the low-ceilinged, book-lined room from the quiet library of a scholar into a council chamber for gigantic conspiracy or enormous adventure. 'i am, sir, a plain, honest-to-god presbyterian - not a spiritualist, or a ghost-hunter, or a faker of that sort, i assure you.' his voice had risen as he made this profession of his faith, and its resonance filled the room. sir henry felt that one of the old teutonic gods might have been incarnated in him. it would be rather a relief when his housekeeper arrived with the tea and hot buttered buns wherewith he invariably regaled himself of an afternoon, winter and summer alike. he said in his quiet, precise manner: 'well, i can positively guarantee, my dear senator, that house, wood, and valley do not exist in this material world. when i retired from the bench last year and came here to settle down, one of the first things i did was to go over to caldy and reassure myself that it was ivell who had been dreaming and not i. i knew perfectly well that i was right, of course, but still — ! just one of those tiny nagging phobias that send people back to see if they really did lock the front door a second before, or really did turn the gas fire off and not on, or that the letter actually did fall in the post-box and not outside.' purvis, looking down on him from his great height, shook his big head, as though mourning over a wilful blindness. 'if only you —' he began; broke off; concluded, 'well, see here! as the judge swung his revolving chair round to the table behind him, the other proceeded to unfold the paper in his hand and to spread it wide open on top of an untidy litter of valley beyond time books, letters, ash-trays, ink-pots, and exquisitely neat manu- script. 'see here! repeated the senator, and his manner was that of a man proffering the complete answer to everything. sir henry realized that he was being instructed to examine a map showing ireland and the western coasts of britain. a line was dotted on it in red ink, curving from some point in county donegal right round to the shores of wales and the mouth of the bristol channel. here and there place-names were underlined and what appeared to be reference num- bers written against them with a mapping-pen. poring over it, he took note of the fact that the red line ended on the speck off the pembrokeshire coast which re- presented gresholm island, westernmost point of wales. thence faint pencillings led to caldy – that island known in ancient days as ynys-y-pyr, with its bee-haunted hedges of fuchsia and its ancient priory, and its six saints, and its legends of buried treasure and pirates. whilst he studied the chart, the senator had prowled, light-footed as any cat for all his size and weight, between book-crowded shelves and book-crowded table to the empty fireplace at the further end of the room. there he stood apparently lost in contemplation of a model in a glass case of a schooner-rigged paddle-steamer labelled “the falmouth packet royal tar, tons. .' this served as a base for a tall wig-stand presided over in grave dignity by the full- bottomed wig of an english judge. it was flanked on either side by pewter tankards bristling - porcupine-like — with quill pens. 'i see,' said the owner of ship, wig, and pens, at length looking up and surveying the broad back, 'that a question mark has been pencilled against the word caldy on your map?' the senator swung round, came back, re-seated himself in one easy, continuous flow of movement such as that of a young and vigorous animal of prey. he was quite six foot the house that was not there two or three inches tall; he had a fifty-inch chest, and his weight must have been a matter of two hundred and eighty pounds: but for all that he did not bump into his chair but, rather, settled as lightly on the padded seat as a toy balloon might have done. sir henry had an odd feeling that he ought to have bounced a little once or twice after he had sat down. 'we-ell,' said purvis in apparent digression, 'i guess you never saw lambard, sir?' 'i did not.' 'did you ever hear a description of him?' 'no.' 'it will be news to you, then, that he was a tall, slim man with kinky red hair. an unmistakable sort of fellow.' ‘was he? 'pitchley, who had met him once or twice, told me so.' the judge accepted this trifle of information with a nod. it seemed to him to be immaterial. 'i am rubbing out that question mark on the map, sir henry! i am rubbing it out?' his voice rose. 'for why? because, sir, a tall, slim man with kinky red hair reappeared on caldy last week — "as naked as a pebble!" ! 'how do you know that?' asked standish sharply. 'by investigation. you were not at home when i called on you this morning. so i went across to caldy to pick up what information i could. i inquired about a poor friend of mine who was liable to fits of loss of memory. a red-headed friend! i struck lucky almost at once. dollars are useful, even on caldy! my poor, red-headed friend had been seen. by two men. he had pounced on them in a field out of a dense sea fog, shortly after dawn last friday. four days ago! he was stark naked, ramping and roaring, and frightened 'em into fits. he accused them of pinching his clothes, and pinching his money – clothes and money which he said had been left there the night before! a night before which was seven years ago!' valley beyond time ‘by jupiter ammon!' exclaimed the judge, and swung round in his swivel-chair so that he might more easily keep watch on the narrator's face. his fingers were pressed tip to tip before him as though he were about to embark on prayer. 'what then? "the two fellows, when they saw they'd not got to deal with a spook or a lunatic, swore they'd not seen any clothes or money lying around. i don't see any reason to doubt 'em. i guess whoever found the goods seven years ago kept mighty quiet about it. they'd pacified him a bit - one of them said he could find him a pair of pants and a few shillings, and the other promised the loan of a shirt and some boots — when a noise like a fog-horn came out of the mist from which lam- bard had emerged. and then a dog came bounding and baying towards them - big as a donkey, they said it was. a sort they'd never seen before. a white dog with red ears. curious isn't it? a - white — dog — with — red — ears!' the senator drawled the repetition of the description of the dog at his slowest. he had been reciting his story with his eyes fixed upon the sky and seascape framed by the open window. now, however, he swung his gaze round directly upon the listener, watching intently to see if the implications were lost upon him. they were not. 'good god! exclaimed sir henry, thoroughly startled. 'red ears? like the hounds of annwn? ‘as you say. like the hounds of annwn in celtic legend. i've never heard tell of any other red-eared dogs. well, these fellows — they'd been going after driftwood in one of the bays — swore that it was the biggest and whitest dog they'd ever seen, and that its ears were as bright red as freshly spilled blood. 'dyed doubtless. just as the manes and the tails of the horses were dyed purple.' 'i guess so, for when they rowed him across to the mainland a little later, lambard occupied himself in washing the stain off the brute.' the house that was not there 'it accompanied him, then?' 'sure. it made a mighty fuss of him - and he seemed glad to see it, too.' 'what was his story, senator? 'pretty thin. he'd gone for a midnight dip, and then fallen asleep beside the dog in a warm hollow in the sands. just that. in the end they went off to fetch him some clothes, and left him under a bush with a newspaper to keep him amused. i reckon that he spotted the date, and realized then for the first time what had happened. anyway he was noth- ing like so rumbustious after they came back – didn't curse, didn't even seem surprised when his boat couldn't be found. one of them said he looked like a man in a daze. as i said, they rowed him ashore — to the beach south of the town. the last they saw of him, he was striding inland as fast as he could go, followed by the dog.' 'it was lambard,' said the judge, not so much doubtfully in question as endeavouring to accustom himself to the idea that the missing man had reappeared, in ignorance of the passage of time, at the very spot from which he had vanished seven years before. 'lambard,' asserted the senator. 'it was lambard, sure enough! he returned his gaze to the sea. he fumbled in a bulging side-pocket, and produced the largest gold snuff-box that standish had ever seen. he helped himself to the largest prise of coal-black snuff that the englishman had ever seen. he took it from the back of the left hand, and absorbed it all in two mighty sniffs, flicking away the loose grains with a purple silk handkerchief, and remaining completely un- moved by a dose that would have been atomic to an ordinary man. 'it was lambard, sure enough, sir henry,' he repeated. “there is also another bit of supporting evidence i forgot to mention. pitchley described him as having a deep cleft in the chin - awkward for shaving, i should opine! — and both valley beyond time those folks on caldy particularly noticed it. oh, and incidentally, yesterday morning, the elder received ten one- pound notes in a registered letter, to be shared with his companion. the signature was just a scrawl, and he threw away the envelope without noticing the post-mark. but i'll find lambard. i'll find him, even if it costs me a fortune.' 'dare i ask again,' suggested sir henry after a consider- able silence, 'what is the nature of your interest in the peculiar adventure of mr. lambard? there was no hesitancy about the reply. ‘lambard knows the secret that i've been seeking for a large part of my life — just as my father did. lambard is the answer to a prayer!' here purvis paused; trumpeted into the purple handkerchief, and then proceeded: 'he is the living proof of our belief in the falsity of the so-called axiom which states — "two bodies cannot occupy the same lodge- ment in space." i know they can.' sir henry could turn a latin lyric into impeccable english verse, or discuss the hogarthian aspects of juvenal, or revel in the intricacies of the law, but this sort of problem was well out of his range. only after considerable thought did he comment: ‘length. breadth. depth. the three dimensions of this material world. so you believe in a fourth dimension, do you? i begin to understand. i think i do, at least.' he rose from his chair without waiting for an answer; walked to the nearest bookcase, and extracted a large volume which he spread open on the table. he sought among the pages; found what he wanted; and, still standing, read aloud, running his right fore-finger down the column: 'chambers's encyclopædia says, “.... hence space is tri- dimensional. the possibility of space of higher dimensions has been much discussed. since points, lines, and surfaces in general generate by their motion lines, surfaces, and solids respectively, so it is held that some analogous generation of a fourth dimensional figure by one of three dimensions is the house that was not there conceivable”. so you believe in the existence of a fourth- dimensional universe, do you?' the senator nodded. 'i do indeed, sir. i know for a fact that there are other planes of existence — more, or less, plastic than our own — crowding about us here and now, infinitely nearer yet in- finitely more remote than the planets which rocketeers talk of colonizing within a generation or so. 'i'm no would-be traveller through space, sir henry. i'm a would-be traveller into the fourth dimension. for forty years and more i have hunted it up and down the face of this globe. like a sleuth, like a scientist, like an explorer, like a lover! i've studied every branch of knowledge that can have any bearing on the business, from physics to mythology. i know that a fourth-dimensional world exists. i have seen it. others have visited it. lambard has. i am going to.' he did not raise his voice as he spoke, but made the state- ment in a most matter-of-fact manner, just as he might have remarked that he had booked his passage to new york in the liner queen elizabeth. chapter ii chart of dreams t he senator had turned in his chair beside the table to see what effect this declaration would have upon the i judge, when a neat, small tap on the door announced that someone on the three-dimensional plane requested admission to the study. sir henry's housekeeper, the personable embodiment of discretion, opened the door just sufficiently to admit herself, and retained her grasp on the handle, as though to oppose her substantial and shapely body to any undesired visitor. 'there is a young lady, sir,' said she, 'that is wishful to see senator purvis.' standish flashed a wordless question at the big man. 'it will be silver, my aide,' the other explained. 'i told her to let loose the sleuths on lambard's trail. she will have come to report progress. if you'll permit a moment's inter- ruption? ... sir henry, meet miss honeyhill! silver, this is sir henry standish, who is being very helpful, indeed.' if by the word 'aide' purvis meant a personal secretary, then, except on his highly infrequent visits to the cinema, standish had never seen such a one as miss honeyhill proved to be. he had never even imagined that such a secretary could have existence away from the screen. silver's platinum hair, her thin slanting eyebrows and enormous lashes, her huge grey eyes, complexion of peaches and cream, pouting scarlet mouth and pearly teeth, elegant small nose, slender neck encircled by a collar of pearls, and the slim and seductive lines of a figure ornamented by a frock of some spotted powder-blue material — all were of the glossiest perfection that beauty parlour, coiffeur, dressmaker and jeweller could devise. it was an almost inhuman per- chart of dreams fection that made the englishman think of coppelius's mechanical doll, olympia, in offenbach's opera, the tales of hoffman. the girl acknowledged the introduction by the very slightest of bows, and briefly refused the offer of a seat. 'what luck, silver?' asked the senator, eyeing her a little doubtfully. 'luck! repeated miss honeyhill in an accent of disdain, raising her improbable eyebrows. she paused for a second or two, and then, without further preamble, made her report to her employer, standing stiffly by the table, and speaking in a staccato and rather hostile manner. 'in the end,' said she, 'i ran a firm in cardiff to earth. they are sending two men down here immediately by fast car. 'in the end i succeeded in contacting mr. pitchley. he says that lambard's younger brother has a place somewhere in sussex. he recommended a firm called secrex for investigation in that quarter. 'in the bitter end i got hold of them. they are taking up the line at once. is there anything else?' 'good, honey! mighty good!' said the senator, nodding approval with what standish thought to be a rather uneasy smile. 'you've been very active, i note.' his smile was not returned. ‘active!' commented miss honeyhill bitterly. ‘active! do you realize, bennie, that i have spent the best part of three hours in an hotel call-box which would be a disgrace as a dog-kennel — and talking to morons at that? three hours! 'bennie!' reflected the judge, somewhat surprised by both familiarity and tone. he recalled the curious phrase in morfa's letter — 'silver, of course, comes into a different category – which had only been made comprehensible by miss honeyhill's arrival. he permitted himself to speculate for a split instant on the senator's partiality for platinum valley beyond time blondes, and whether his nephew had been correct in his assumption. the girl picked up her hand-bag, cast an indifferent glance at the map spread upon the table, gave a curt little nod to the two men, and departed with the air of an indig- nant martyr. purvis may have divined what was in his host's mind, for, as he sank back in his chair, he said in a slightly embarrassed manner: 'silver's prone to be a bit abrupt, sir henry, when she's given chores of that sort, but i didn't bring the usual string of hangers-on when i crossed this time, and the jobs have got to be done. you'd never imagine, i guess, that that girl has a degree in science and is a brilliant mathematician. i couldn't do without her. she's a genius! if she set her mind to it, i reckon she could prove euler's biquadrate theorem. i've seen her factorize at sight — at sight - a num- ber running into six figures! she's absolutely essential to me.' the judge heard this revelation with an expression of astonishment which he was quite unable to hide. he would never have dreamed that mathematicians could not merely be female and young, but also of a super-glossy, film-star lusciousness. he listened wide-eyed, with his finger-tips pressed together. ‘she is also a relative of my late wife,' added the senator, thus satisfactorily rounding off his explanation of miss honeyhill from the social as well as the professional angle. he shifted his regard from his host to the sea: he helped him- self to a second pinch of snuff even larger than the first, and went on: 'when silver came i was just about to tell you what first set me off on my life's work. it was like this: 'it all started when i was little more than a boy, rising nineteen. my father took me to winter with him in the canary islands after my mother died. we didn't stay in las palmas, but at valverde in hierro, the westernmost island. i used to spend most of the time fishing with an old fellow chart of dreams named négrel – josé négrel — and his sons. there was nothing else to do anyway. i talked spanish, of course, be- cause we had a bunch of mexican cowhands down on the broken spur ranch in kenedy county. 'well, i went to the quay one morning to fix a trip. the boat was there, but they weren't. there seemed to be a lot of excitement among the fisher-folk, but i couldn't make anything out of it. so off i went to josé's shack. . 'i found them there right enough, josé and his old woman and the three boys, all down on their hunkers, praying to a small plaster image of the virgin in the kitchen. they had half a dozen candles burning before it, and a bunch of flowers in a vase, and paper garlands hung on it - pink ones. they were all hallelujahing and such-like. 'it was a mighty long while before i could get any sense out of them, but, when i did, it came to this. 'they'd been out all night, to the westward, caught in a dense sea fog. then, just after sun-up, the mist suddenly cleared and they found themselves bows on to an island less than half a mile away. it was a big island with great moun- tains, and there was a white city with many towers lying on the shore about a harbour. it was all bathed in sunshine. they could see people in bright clothes walking on the quay- side, and gay banners fluttering in a light breeze from the south. but how that breeze managed to blow they couldn't guess, because, although they were due south of the place, there wasn't a breath of wind to ruffle the surface of the sea where they were. so they started to row towards the harbour. 'hard though they rowed, the island never got any nearer, and by and by it began to sink slowly into the sea. very slowly. until at last the mountain peaks vanished beneath the atlantic without a bubble. 'it wasn't just one man, but four who saw the place. they told me it was known as the island of the seven cities, and had been sighted time and time again westwards of the chart of dreams legends of the other-world - of st. brendan's island, of hy brasail, of tir-nan-og, the land of the ever-young, of avilion, the island-valley where falls not hail, nor rain, or any snow, nor ever wind blows loudly, but it lies deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard-lawns and bowery hollows crown'd with summer sea. then i know, too' — he paused for an appreciable moment – ‘of the green meadows of enchantment!' once more he looked to the map. the long, narrow hand with the cornelian signet-ring crept up the sheet and came to a pause where the dotted red line ended its curve from the western coast of ireland to the welsh shore. senator benaiah purvis had turned his head. he followed with his eyes the movement of the narrow fingers. he said nothing. he waited. 'gresholm island, i believe?' said standish. ‘gresholm island,' agreed purvis. the judge rose again from his chair; again he went to his crowded book-shelves with the air of one who knows exactly where every work of reference dwells; again extracted a volume, and opened it forthwith without search-it appeared to the senator - at the required place. when he had sat down again, he read in his meticulously punctuative manner: (“the green meadows of enchantment are still an article of faith among pembrokeshire and carmarthenshire sailors, and evidently not without some reason. in a corre- spondent of the pembroke county guardian sent in a report made to him by a certain captain john evans to the effect that, one summer morning, while trending up the channel, and passing gresholm island, in what he had always known as deep water, he was surprised to see to windward of him a large tract of land covered with a beautiful green meadow. it was not, however, above water, but two or three feet below it, so that the grass waved or swam about as the ripple valley beyond time floated over it, in a way that made one who watched it feel drowsy." ‘squire's mythology of the british isles,' said purvis, instantly recognizing the source of the quotation. 'it is. does the passage explain the red line to gresholm on your chart? 'you've said it, sir. there were a good many people besides cap'n evans who saw the green meadows early that summer morning long ago. there were some who saw the island well above water, and some who saw it anchored, as it were, off st. david's head. i've got a note of a dozen names and more. all reputable witnesses.' ‘and so?? ‘half the united states”, said purvis in a tone of vast con- tempt, 'is mad about the navigation of space-ships to mars or venus. the other half is madder about “flying saucers" propelling themselves over our inviolable territory! they see a big disc in the sky a million miles away, or a little disc careering overhead, and get all worked up about them. they turn all their science and imagination loose on the business, and ignore phenomena that have been patent and within arm's reach for a hundred generations. 'for every one that's seen a "flying saucer”, there have been a dozen who have glimpsed another world, in another space than our own, tracing its orbit in that other dimension – making regular and visible contact with this earth along a regular and definite track.' "that is surely rather a large order, senator, isn't it?' sug- gested the judge deprecatorily. purvis bounced to his feet as if the immense frame covered by double-breasted blue coat with brass buttons — by nylon shirt with its lurid tie — by cream-coloured trousering - was compact of springs cushioned in rubber. so swift and violent was the movement that for a second sir henry thought that physical assault was on the way. the senator, however, had no aggressive intentions. his chart of dreams purpose was purely educational as he bowed over the spread map, and proceeded to trace the dotted red line with a finger as big as a candle. ‘donegal,' he rumbled, jabbing the chart towards the upper western corner. 'see glencolumbkille marked? see that headland two miles north of it? glen head. seven hundred feet sheer drop into the water. i've seen with my own eyes great mountains out to sea, where there aren't any mountains in this three-dimensional world. with my own eyes! and half a dozen others saw them, too, at the same time. i've their affidavits. i couldn't get anyone to take me there. twenty years before a local fisherman had rowed out. he never came back, although his boat was found in good order drifting on a sea like a mill-pond the next day. 'see erris head, further south? see slyne head? see the aran islands at the mouth of galway bay? every one of those places, chapter and verse. great cities — fields — har- bours with shipping. from dun aengus on inishmore i've seen the city myself. we've checked the thing there. once in seven years it turns up. he cascaded upon standish a stream of authorities, ancient and modern, from o'flaherty to dr. j. p. w. joyce, as though he were counsel pleading a cause before a tribunal. he quoted from recent newspaper reports and from the pro- ceedings of the royal irish academy. he cited the evidence of engineers, clergymen, mathematicians, fishermen, mytho- logists, and strangely deserted wives. ‘kilkee!' said purvis. 'westropp, the antiquarian, saw it from there with several other persons more than once. he ... from the diamond rocks, kilkee, i saw more than once, between and , the phantom island to which, from the influence of the medi- aeval maps from downwards, the name of brazil, or hy-breasail, was attached. it appeared immediately after sunset, like a dark island far out to sea, but not on the horizon. on the last occasion i made a rough, coloured sketch next day which shows the appearance as having two mountains, one wooded, in the low central tract; between rose buildings, towers and curls of smoke, rising against the golden sky westward.' -- t.j. westropp, member of the royal irish academy, quoted by dr. george little in brendan the navigator. valley beyond time even made a picture of it, showing two mountains with a city lying between he moved the vast finger to the middle of tralee bay. ‘here again. seen at high noon. watched for an hour. city. fields. witness immediately reported to his parson, a scholar and historian, who recognized the particulars as identical with those which had been previously chronicled as seen two hundred miles and more away. now - and here the senator proceeded to stun the dazed judge with incomprehensible formulae relating to units of time, velocity, density, mass and magnetic pull. he hammered at him with quite preposterous calculations, which appeared to include all the letters of the alphabet squared, bracketed, and divided or multiplied by all the cardinal numbers in turn. he drew diagrams on the backs of envelopes and scraps of paper with a fountain pen that seemed to standish as thick as a walking stick. however much time the englishman might devote to the subject, he well knew that he had as little chance of grasping what it was all about as he had of translating a hittite inscription. nevertheless he nodded his white head in a gratified manner, and uttered the one non-committal word: 'quite.' then in a suddenly quiet voice, and with a complete change of manner, purvis said: ‘and so you see modern science is beginning to admit the probability of the existence of other-dimensional universes than our own in space and time. yet our remote ancestors accepted that existence as a matter of fact. they knew that some other world, more magical than our own, lurked near at hand, in the hollow hills, hidden by fog, or floating just beneath the surface of the sea. not always invisible, not always unattainable! 'greek legend tells of the garden of the hesperides in the west. the welsh have their avilion, where arthur went to chart of dreams be healed of his wounds. the irish have a hundred tales to tell of magh mell, the sinless land of pleasure with its wells of wine and trees of crimson crystal.' ‘crimson crystal!' echoed standish, fascinated by the picture evoked. 'i did not know that particular.' 'i maintain,' said the senator, raising his voice again, that those so-called myths are actually based on historical fact — that they are records from the long-distant past of contacts with a fourth-dimensional universe that are continuing to this very day. a universe with a kind of time and space and matter differing from ours.' ‘lambard's seven years? "the years which he had thought to be merely a few hours!' 'seven years that pass in a night; trees of crimson crystal! ogier the dane and graelent! the “ettrick shepherd's" kilmeny in the "land of thought”! is such your conception of a fourth-dimensional world, senator?' 'it may be,' said purvis very gravely. 'have you ever read any of professor barrett's books?' 'barrett?' queried standish. ‘sir w. f. barrett. he was professor of experimental physics in the royal college of science for ireland. there's a sentence in a little thing he wrote, called creative thought, which has always stuck in my memory. it's this: ""if the laws of nature, if the wonderful diversity and mystery of life, if infinite electrons and molecules, suns and stars and the great galaxy of heaven, be the channels cut in our present material world by the creative thought of god, what limitless wonders, what new forms of life and intelli- gence, may we not expect to find, when we can apprehend the operation of the divine impulse on the more plastic material of an unseen universe?". listening to him and watching him as he spoke, the judge arrived at the complete conviction that, despite his large flamboyance and platinum blonde ‘aide', the american was valley beyond time in every way utterly genuine, and that his quest was no mere 'stunt' but a serious and scientific undertaking. 'what relation has time to the problem of the other dimen- sions?' standish began just as a single untidy thump on the study door announced the arrival of another visitor. a small bare-legged boy, dressed in a stained white pull- over and patched and faded blue shorts, materialized in the doorway. he was tanned, snub-nosed, grey-eyed and hat- less, with a shock of golden-brown hair that looked as if he had been out in a high wind. 'hya, uncle minos!' said the small boy, using the family pet name for the judge. 'how's tricks?' ‘hya, midge!' said sir henry. 'i thought you were back at school.' 'they've got g.p. or t.v. or something in the place, so i can't go, dad says,' explained midge with obvious pleasure. 'not for weeks! do you know your front door was open? i just walked in.' he turned, as he spoke, to close the study door behind him, and suddenly became aware of an alien presence, for the senator had ceased his pacing and was standing monu- mentally beside the fireplace with its ornaments of ship, wig and quills. midge's eyes opened very wide at the imposing spectacle. he grinned disarmingly at the large figure. 'senator,' said sir henry, 'let me introduce to you my late niece's son, godfrey. in full, godfrey charles hurrell, viscount tyron, but generally known as midge. so-called because at one time in his life he gave every promise of being not only small but a serious pest! – 'uncle!' protested the boy. — “midge, this is senator benaiah purvis, from texas!' 'are you really a senator — like the romans, sir?' inquired midge with much interest. 'sure,' said the senator with a vast smile. “so you'll be lord morfa's twelve-year-old, will you? 'i say, sir,' exclaimed midge, greatly impressed by the chart of dreams general overwhelmingness of this new acquaintance, 'you'd look stupendous, ab-so-lutely terrific in a roman toga! do you wear a toga nowadays in the senate?' 'i guess not,' said the senator, much gratified by this un- solicited tribute. 'i guess not. bath robes are no longer de rigueur at the capitol! he extended an enormous hand, and the pair of them shook hands with astonishing energy. ‘and why are you in tenby today?' demanded sir henry. 'i thought the family were at morfa. does your father want me to give you some grounding in latin while you are on holiday, or what? 'ugh! i hate latin!' shuddered midge. 'no, dad thought it would be better for us to come back to saul and knock about on the river and the lake. i've come to tenby to see about a boat. oh, and i've got a letter for you somewhere – from dad! after a good deal of searching, the missive was retrieved, in a rather crumpled condition, from a hip-pocket that also held a lethal-seeming jack-knife, a yard or so of twine, some pecan toffee, and a torch battery. with an apology to senator purvis, sir henry opened the envelope and cast a quick eye over his nephew's note; re- flected with a puzzled expression for a moment; and then re-read it slowly and intently. "this, i think, concerns you, senator,' he remarked at length, extending the sheet towards the other. ‘pardon me!' said purvis, stalking down the room and taking the letter. he stood in the bay window and read: house of saul tuesday morning my dear uncle minos, something extremely odd seems to have been hap- pening in the district. mysterious naked foot-prints and mysterious naked visitors! i have a notion that if valley beyond time benaiah purvis has already contacted you — and he left morfa hot-foot on your trail — he might - repeat, might — find the business up his street. i only say 'might because i really got rather gravelled when he started expounding his theories to me. algebra, euclid, and arithmetic are as much a closed book to me now as they were twenty years ago, and as they will doubtless be to midge, if he takes after his father. i know you abominate stepping out of your routine, but i fancy you might be interested in a queer little story i heard from mary bosworth's daughter last night - perhaps very interested. i'd like you to cross-examine the witness. dare i suggest that you get in touch with purvis - i don't know where he's staying — and that the pair of you pack your bedsocks and nightcaps and come over to saul this evening? i can find you a couple of prime lobsters straight out of the sea and two brace of wild duck for dinner. tell benaiah he shall have an orange salad made as he likes it - with brandy. tell him that in return i insist on him bringing silver with him. the car will be in tenby, so there's no problem of transport. call me up and say you're coming. your affectionate nephew, tony p.s. dear, dear uncle minos, why the hell don't you have the 'phone laid on? the fact that horace, virgil and ovid went without, is no reason why you should imitate them. senator purvis handed the letter back to his host with shining eyes. 'glory be!' said he reverently. 'it looks as if the scent is still fresh! ... i hope you won't pass up this chance, sir henry! he rightly construed standish's faintly quizzical expression into an acceptance of adventure – or of dinner chart of dreams of wild duck with orange salad. 'that's magnificent! i always keep a grip packed for emergencies. so while you're folding the pajamas, i'll go call morfa from silver's "dog- kennel”, and tell him that we're on for the party 'you realize, i suppose,' sir henry reminded the enthusiast, 'that saul is in carmarthenshire, many miles east of caldy, and, i should judge, quite thirty from the sea?' 'even if it were three hundred, i'd still go,' affirmed purvis, and gathered up his chart ready for flight. 'attaboy!' commented midge with the most respectful air, in what he took to be the american dialect. chapter iii the vision of olwen it was really the death of balaninus larva which began the clouding of father bosworth's placid afternoon in the idim little parlour behind his sister-in-law's dim little shop in the remote valley of the river saul. the young priest sat in a battered armchair with his slippered feet on the fender, garbed in the shabby cassock that he invariably wore as a sort of négligé in private life, reading one of miss agatha christie's admirable detective novels. his bishop, in peremptorily ordering him to take an immediate holiday, had for the good of his soul banned all literature except the works of that author and the 'father brown' stories of g. k. chesterton. on the edge of the red plush table-cloth, at his elbow, stood a white kitchen plate piled up with filberts freshly gathered from the tree in the garden. at least it had been originally piled up, but was so no longer. for father bos- worth, although he knew very well that they by no means agreed with his digestion, had continued to eat nuts at the rate of three to the page of his book throughout the after- noon; cracking them with his strong yellow teeth, throwing the broken shell into the fire, and finally dipping the kernel into the saucer of salt on his lap. filberts at one shilling and ninepence the pound were a luxury he could not afford to buy at home in his bleak, small presbytery in the back-streets of a midland colliery town. occasionally he would look up from nuts and novel, and cast an almost apprehensive glance at the window of the door opening on the deserted shop; for he felt strongly that the dignity of the roman church demanded that the slippered ease of a priest, even when on holiday, should not be made manifest to the lay world. the vision of olwen but the bell on the outer door of the shop remained silent, and his sister-in-law continued invisibly busy in the wash- house, her activities accompanied by a loud humming of methodist hymns as though in defiance of any papist who might assail her personal faith. so it came about that only heaven witnessed the encounter between father bosworth and balaninus larva. he had just cracked the shell of an exceptionally large filbert when some instinct warned him that all was not well with it. surely enough, when he regarded the fragments of woody pericarp in the palm of his large, blunt-fingered hand, the ivory of the split kernel was blemished by a fat, whitish, juicy, wriggling abomination — the grub of a nut weevil. 'faugh! he exclaimed out loud with an expression of dis- gust, and hurled the débris of the nut and its tenant into the fire. a moment later his conscience misgave him, and he pro- jected himself out of the armchair to the rescue. the saucer clattered to the floor from his knees, strewing salt over the rag rug in front of the grate. with his bare hand he endeavoured to retrieve the wreckage with his victim from where it rested momentarily in a narrow black rift between two coals above the red heart of the fire. he was too late. even as he stooped, the gap widened and the sacrifice dropped on to the glowing bed. in an instant it was gone. father bosworth was an ungainly young man with a raw- beef coloured face and strongly marked features, and dark eyes that were too bright, and black hair as stiff and wiry as the black hair with which japanese geisha dolls were wont to be crowned. he gave an impression of sadly needing to be planed, and filed, and sand-papered, and generally toned down; even his voice required oiling. his bishop, while deprecating his awkwardly fitting body, was however far more concerned about his estimable but equally ill-fitting soul. • valley beyond time that worldly wise old prelate had repeated to himself, at the conclusion of the latest interview, an unkindly little jingle about the celebrated irish seminary where father bosworth had been trained: they are always uncouth when they come from maynooth. he had added 'poor lambs! and had meditated for a full minute, with a worried expression, on his subordinate's irritable conscience which was as sensitive as an inflamed boil. and now, as he lumped himself back in the chair, father bosworth's knobbly soul proceeded to give him a very bad time indeed over the passing of balaninus larva. peccavi! peccavi! he had sinned. he had deliberately given one of god's creatures to an agonizing death in a moment of shameful disgust. with hideous cruelty he had burned it alive for the mere crime of fulfilling its destiny. if really necessary it could have been given a swift and merciful end – but not pitched to such a doom as awaited sinners in the furnaces of hell. the barren fruit trees of the scriptures might be hewn down and cast into the fire, but not a living sentient thing. the creature was as much entitled to the nut as he was; nay, more so, for that was its only form of susten- ance while for him it was but an unnecessary dainty - a gluttony. for a moment or so his unhappy mind made play with the fate of that tiny fragment of insect life, swelling and roasting in a second's intolerable pain over the red-hot coals. if he could do that, what might he not do next? what might he not do next? there had been years ago — he now recalled — the little bitch, grizzle, whom he had once beaten for being dirty about the house. and she had had a litter and miscarried all of them, and developed a tumour, and so had died. be- cause of him! valley beyond time of pawnbrokers, just as 'aunt reminded one of lavatories. perhaps she recollected his protest, because this third time she summoned his wits with: ‘uncle gregory! 'well, olwen? what is all the flurry about?' he managed to say at last, in the uneasy semi-avuncular, semi-clerical manner that he always assumed as a shield against her pre- cocity. 'uncle greg! olwen began again; and then paused as if either she did not know how to go on, or else desired to make certain that she had aroused his fullest attention to what she was about to say. 'well? you've said that three or four times before! 'i know. but – suddenly to his embarrassment she fell on her knees beside his chair, her hands clutching at the folds of his threadbare cassock. her voice sank to little more than a whisper. 'but you see, uncle greg, i – have — seen - a - vision! 'a what!' he exclaimed, jerking himself upright and into rigidity. 'what on earth are you talking about?' “the vision i've just seen. the — “what do you be meaning by the word “vision”? a vision of what, now? where? when?' 'it was a vision, uncle greg. i saw them with my own eyes. i, by myself. saints they were, or holy angels! so bright! so beautiful! i did. i did. i swear i did. you must believe me! they came suddenly on me out of nowhere.' she paused as though rapt away by the mere recollection of the splendour. in that briefest instant father bosworth's hot brown eyes left his niece's entranced face, and surveyed all the small, crowded, shabby room - the aspidistra on the table, the shiny linoleum, the leatherette and yellow-varnished chairs, the huge victorian sideboard (surmounted by a fly-blown mirror) which his sister-in-law used as a sort of office and so was prickly with an array of documents impaled on the vision of olwen spikes; the hundred-year-old engraving of whiskery troops embarking for the crimean war over the mantelpiece; the portraits of queen elizabeth and the duke of edinburgh and president eisenhower from some coloured magazine supple- ment, tacked up over stains on the faded wallpaper. it was the sort of room that he had known all his life. his eyes went back to his niece. he did not believe for a second that holy visions were vouchsafed to such a girl — with lips stained to the red of the english pillar-box — to be recounted in such a room. 'olwen,' he said harshly, 'let you be very careful that you utter no blasphemy! she rose quickly and lightly to her feet, and confronted him from the worn rug before the fire. 'it is not i who shall be blaspheming, uncle greg!' she said, and he had to admit to himself that there was both earnestness and indignation in her tones. 'i tell you that i saw them by the standing stones on carn meurig as i came along the track from capel issells. the man was leaning on a long, long spear. i was absolutely thunderstruck. then he smiled at me, and i wasn't ... he — he looked like — like laurence olivier! the simile meant nothing to father bosworth, and he made no comment on it, but asked with knitted brows: 'you said, “they came suddenly out of nowhere.” what do you mean by that? and who else was there beside the man? tell me everything! his niece kept her violet eyes fixed on him in level regard. she told her story with her slim hands clasping one another loosely before her, in a low, almost devout voice, such as he had never heard her use before. 'it all happened three-quarters of an hour ago. it can't be more, because it's only a quarter to five now. i'd been to the farm to get some butter and bacon for mum. it was rather misty and i wasn't noticing anything particular – i mean i wasn't looking about me – till i got near the top of the hill valley beyond time where the stones are. and there was a wood by them! a long dark wood! he did not make any comment, although he knew quite well that the cromlech - already old when stonehenge was young - stood, solitary and exposed to every wind, on those barren slopes in the uplands lying in disorder above the valley. 'i was terribly frightened. i thought that i was “seeing things", you know. the wood was very close. it wasn't there when i went by before. i could have thrown a stone into it. i was still staring at it, and saying my prayers, when he was suddenly there, leaning on his spear and smiling at me. just at the edge of the wood. then i wasn't frightened any more. not a bit! so when he called to me, i went towards him at once. of course i put my basket down first.' “what words did he use? 'i don't know, uncle greg. i only know that he called me and i understood him. he didn't say my name. he didn't know it, because afterwards the other one asked what it was.' "and what sort of speech was he talking.' 'i don't know.' ‘but you must know whether it was english or welsh that he spoke.' 'i don't. i didn't seem to hear with my ears, but in my mind. well, when i went towards him, he came to meet me. and when he got level with the stones something seemed to flash about him for a second, and there was a tinkle like the noise of breaking glass. it was just as if he had walked through a big shop window. and there he was, no further from me than that door is! almost automatically father bosworth's eyes travelled to the door with its small square-paned window keeping watch over the jumbled treasures of mrs. bosworth's shop. olwen's regard followed his. she went on: 'then he said to me - and he was still smiling, as though the vision of olwen telling me all the time not to be afraid: “this is a desolate place, child! by what name do you call it?” so i told him that it was carn meurig. and then he asked me in which direction caldy lay. but i didn't know.' 'the holy saints do not be just appearing to ask for the name of a hill and such,' announced father bosworth austerely. 'do the saints and the angels know everything — like god?' he would not commit himself on the point, and nodded to her to go on. 'perhaps they don't care to bother god about little things like that. don't you think it is possible? ... well, after i'd thought a bit, i said that it would be best to look at a map, and that lord morfa would be able to show him because he's got all the atlases and directories and guide-books in the world up at house of saul. it took a little while for him to understand what i meant. but when he did, i showed him where the house is. it's a long way off, of course, but from the top of carn meurig you can just see the statue on the roof among the trees where the valley bends. 'so the saint nodded, and then suddenly disappeared. he re-appeared just as quickly again. only this time he wasn't alone. there was a lady saint with him — ' 'a lady saint!' echoed her uncle, utterly revolted by the expression. 'well, anyone could see she wasn't a man, and she had the most wonderful red hair and green eyes.' had anyone ever heard of a saint with wonderful red hair and green eyes? — inquired father bosworth of himself in a mental fret. could even angels have red hair and green eyes? were there lady angels in any case? ‘she had narrow, pointed feet,' continued olwen, 'the most beautiful feet i've ever seen in all my life. and her hands! long and white, too. oh, so long and white, with tapering fingers! “yes, yes! but what happened then?' valley beyond time scrubbed i had to y unabash 'he said something to her in a language which i couldn't understand, and raised his arm and pointed out to her where house of saul was in the distance. then she asked me my name, and, when i told her, said: “a pretty name for a pretty girl!” after that she kissed me. so did he.' 'he did?' said father bosworth dumbfounded. 'well, you kiss me, uncle greg. if you do, why shouldn't a saint? well, after that they both looked at one another and burst into roars of laughter.' “why now? ‘because,' said olwen, entirely unabashed, 'my lipstick came off on their faces. i had to lend them my handkerchief. when she had scrubbed her lips, she looked at the stain and said to me with a smile: “we only put that sort of paint on the ears of our hounds”. ‘on the ears of their dogs!' echoed father bosworth in utter confusion of mind. 'for what should holy saints and angels want with dogs, at all? and dogs with red ears at that? you have been dreaming, woman! or you have been having hallucinations! would a holy saint be kissing the likes of you, and having his holy face messed up with that muck you cover yourself with? and then be laughing about it? would a holy saint go a-hunting with red-eared dogs? would a holy saint come asking a postal direction of an ignorant girl, instead of the priest? is this one of your pranks you would be playing on me? would — ' the tears welled up in olwen's eyes. she protested fiercely: 'i am telling you the truth, and nothing but the truth. everything was exactly as i've said. and if you go up to the stones, you can see for yourself the footprints on the damp earth where they stood. the marks are quite different to what you and me would make. they hadn't any shoes on, of course — or anything else.' 'what do you be telling me?' exploded father bosworth. he leaped to his feet, and seized his niece by the elbows, the vision of olwen towering over her like some black bird of prey about to stoop to his victim. 'what is this you dare to say?' olwen tore herself from his clutch and moved a pace back. 'neither of them wore any clothes at all, though they both had a sort of greenish silver cloak hanging over their arms. he was a sort of pale gold all over, and she had a skin like white satin. no male saint (he knew) would ever appear before a young virgin without, at least, a loin-cloth. no female saint would ever be seen in mixed company in the nude. no saint that he could recollect had ever been portrayed completely unclad, even though a bosom might sometimes be bare. here were no saints, no seraphs of the hosts of heaven! he sought within the folds of his cassock, and suddenly produced to her view an ebony cross bearing a silver image of the crucified. “will you swear upon the cross that all that you have told me is true? 'i swear upon the cross that it is truth.' ‘then it is a vision out of hell that you have had! it is a vision of the tempter and his demon succuba! it is a mortal peril to your soul! down on your knees, girl, and pray that you may be delivered from the wrath of god! down on your knees and confess your sins and the vanity of your imaginings of the lusts of the flesh! 'no, i will not!' she said in a determined voice. "they were good, and i know it. it is only your own mind that imagines horrible things and beastliness. until you said it, i never thought for an instant about them being naked. until i saw them i never knew how beautiful and holy people could look. i will thank god that i saw them! once again he took her by the elbows. 'wretched girl!' he said, shaking her in his urgency. 'will you commit blasphemy? will you thank god for a vision out of hell? do you not realize that this is only an hallucination the vision of olwen now and again, why shouldn't she? you can be young but once! she listened with a judicial air to the welter of cross-pur- pose explanations that followed, without any expression of astonishment. then she said in a most matter-of-fact tone: 'nonsense! it's them nudists! 'what nudists?' asked father bosworth. during the summer i did hear that there was a camp of them up on the moors, lying about and going on something disgraceful. but the idea of them walking about without a stitch on, and showing themselves off like that in front of a stitch on irl! dirty sclwen loudly huvu_s "no! exclaimed olwen loudly. “no! ‘and i say “yes”,' said her mother firmly. and the wood, then, mum? the wood that isn't there, what about that? a bit of scenery they've put up to hide their dirty goings- on, of course. them prancing about in their birthday suits in public! that's a matter for the police. i've a mind - 'i tell you – ‘but – began her brother-in-law. 'i'm telling you, my lass! ... i'm talking, gregory! ... you're going to bed, olwen, right away! and i'll bring you up a nice cup of tea in a bit, and three aspirins. you've had a shock, my lady, and bed's the best place for you. and hark-ee, ducks, not a squeak out of you to anyone! i'm not going to have it said that a daughter of mine was out on the moors, kissing naked men and naked women! they are easy enough about inventing lies round about saul — and do you want everybody whispering together about you, and sniggering and pointing at you when you go by? shame upon you to be letting a naked man kiss you! ‘and you, gregory, you will remain mum, too, or i'll know the reason why. i don't want to seem unfriendly-like, but i'm not going to have the child's reputation blown on. nor am i going to have it said that she moons about seeing valley beyond time people and things that aren't there as if she were touched on top. no, inteed, inteed!...' after a rebellious olwen had been bustled to bed, and her mother had returned to wash-house or kitchen, father bos- worth remained in tormented thought standing over the small fire that had been the funeral pyre of balaninus larva so short a time before. he was completely unconvinced by his sister-in-law's theory of nudism. he saw satanic influ- ences being brought to bear upon an hysterical young woman. there was no fellow priest of his own faith with whom he could consult within thirty miles, and he had no means of transport; but the longer he meditated the more convinced he became of what was his duty. it was already growing dusk when he went heavily up- stairs to his small bedroom. the finger-post at the cross- roads in front of the shop was almost invisible against the shadowy grey of the highway, and, to the right, the huge yew trees at the entrance to the graveyard of the parish church of st. illtyd were inky smudges against the darkening sky. it was a remote, un-neighboured spot, with no other dwelling house in sight. he prayed beside his narrow bed for a little, and then stripped off his cassock and put on a jacket and a well-worn raincoat. afterwards he scrawled a note on the back of an old envelope, which he placed on the parlour table before he let himself out and set off through the twilight, with a torch in his pocket, for the standing stones. he had been gone barely five minutes when his sister-in- law went into the sitting-room with an oil lamp in her hand. by its light she read the three or four lines that he had written: 'dear mary – i may be a little late, but i shan't want anything to eat. — g. b. she divined his intention at once — with a certain amount of contempt. as if he could do any good! he'd be reading mumbo-jumbo prayers, when what was wanted was the police! the vision of olwen the police? no. she could do better than that. lord morfa had suddenly arrived at house of saul that morning, she knew, because the station-wagon had called to collect supplies. he was the man to consult! he was the man to make the fat superintendent, the cadaverous inspector, and lazy police- constable jones come running, if he thought fit. lord morfa would do a good deal for her – although nobody but he and she knew why. she shut herself in the little shop, locking inner and outer doors, and took up the telephone receiver with a small — and very un-methodistical — smile. a few seconds later she heard a well-remembered voice saying: 'well, mary-me- dear?' after she had told all she had heard and all she speculated, there was a short reflective silence, and then the voice said: 'not a word about it to anyone, mary, and make certain that olwen keeps mum! you don't want this sort of tale to get public. i'll try and bring some friends of mine over from tenby tomorrow, who'll see what they can sort out. i had better have a talk with you first, though. i'll come now. tumble olwen out of bed because i'll have to have a word with her. it doesn't matter if her hair is out of curl. oh, and keep that appalling brother-in-law of yours out of the way! 'he's out, my lord, and won't be back till late.' 'good. in half an hour's time, then.' and at the end of that half an hour, as lord morfa's big daimler drew up outside the lonely shop on the cross-roads in the valley, father bosworth, by the light of his torch, was surveying with a puzzled expression the prints of naked feet on the damp earth by the cromlech — the prints of very narrow and strangely pointed feet. he had seen feet that could have made such an impress only once in his life; on the statue of an egyptian queen, many thousands of years old, at the british museum. chapter iv peculiar affair of father bosworth t hey left tenby rather later than had been arranged. lord morfa's roomy car loaded up the baggage - i including a small barrel of oysters, a virginia peach- fed ham, and two gallon jars of the best draught bitter beer, thus assuring to the senator his never-varying breakfast menu — and then waited, for what seemed to sir henry and his impatient young companion an incredible time, before the texan appeared with his glamorous companion, and followed by two porters staggering under the burden of further impedimenta of travel. the senator, crowned by a grey stetson hat with a magni- ficently wide brim, conducted a considerable argument with silver to the very door of the automobile. he was holding open in his hand a large-scale map of carmarthenshire, which persisted in flapping against his legs as though it were an apron of which he had just divested himself. 'there's no good being stubborn about it,' said silver getting into the blue-and-ivory nest. 'i tell you that you've made a mistake. i tell you that there's an error in your cal- culation of the s* and v arcs. but there's no sense in talking about it now. i'll do it when we get to saul. i guess i know where and how you've slipped up! purvis apologized to the judge for the delay, inserted his vast form into the car in the manner of a man wriggling into an over-tight vest, and sat down beside him in the back in a rather subdued manner. 'i reckon she may be right, but i'm not going to admit it yet awhile!' he confided in a rumbling whisper. the big car oozed off through the narrow streets of the affair of father bosworth town to the open country, ate up the miles of road with a silent, effortless rush on its journey into the back of beyond. an hour or so later, they slid into the valley of the river saul. they entered it at the cross-roads where mrs. bos- worth's shop and the yew-sentinelled church formed a focal point for the life of the scattered farms and isolated cottages of the remoteness. they surged with increasing speed along the valley between the dimpling, wooded hills - a valley that appeared to lie under some enchantment, without inhabi- tants to use the road, or the shop, or the quiet church, or the hump-backed bridge across the unhurrying river. once again standish felt, as he had done in the past, quite certain that the nearer hills — those which rose steeply on their left from the highway — were a battlemented rampart shielding the fairy loveliness of the valley from the sinister threat of the desolate uplands that stretched from the further slopes for haunted miles in a tumble of hummocks and dark coombs. house of saul had been so transformed in the time of george the fourth - of first-gentlemanly memory — that nothing of the ancient stronghold was visible from the road, but only an edifice which might have been either a museum or a masonic temple deported for its architectural failings to the isolation of remote wales. a colossal statue of the roman goddess minerva, panoplied with helmet, shield, and spear, was stationed atop the corin- thian portico. two small cupolas had erupted at either end of a long stucco frontage, in which were punched scores of geometrical windows that stared with bland indifference across the winding valley from the shelf in the hills where the house was set. 'i call her minnie,' confided midge, pointing out the goddess to silver with whom he sat on the front seat. 'i hate her!' ‘and why?' asked the senator's blonde 'aide', who, to valley beyond time standish's secret astonishment, now proved not merely to be a mathematician of the first order, but capable of arousing the most obvious and intense admiration in the breast of his hard-boiled great-nephew. 'she's latin,' said midge grimly, ‘and i hate latin. i'm a bit of an egg-head at it, of course, but it's muck all the same - worse than maths! i'd like to pull her down. cripes, wouldn't she make a smash on the terrace! co-o-oh! do you know, dad doesn't like her either! once when he was a boy, a bit older than me, years and years ago, he climbed up after a party, and put — put something rude on the top of her helmet! granddad gave him beans! 'something rude?' questioned silver with less than her usual caution. he lowered his voice so that he should be only audible to her: 'well, you know, it was — er — something you – er — keep under the bed, you know!' he surveyed her rather anxiously lest her modesty should have been shaken by the mention of such a utensil. instead, however, she went into peals of laughter. 'when silver laughs like that, there's sure to be something dirty in the wind! commented the senator tolerantly to sir henry, interrupting an intense debate on the subject of euhemerism. 'for crying out loud!' said silver. 'i do not keep anything under the bed, midge. still i guess i know what you mean ... now, tell me, i thought it was an old, old house, but this establishment looks as if it had just come out of a jelly mould.' 'the old part, ma-a-a-am,' said midge with his best southern drawl, 'is all at the back, facing the garden. that part's tops. there's a banqueting hall with a music gallery, and beams, and things, where king henry the seventh had supper. you know — the father of henry, the tough guy who had all those wives. there's a secret room, too. then there's an old keep. frightfully old! it's got a dungeon, and valley beyond time 'welcome to the "picknickery”?!' said he. it was a gay, low-ceilinged, panelled room, with bright brocade curtains, a bright fire, and bright lights twinkling in the silver and crystal of the round table laid for dinner, and in the decanters and so forth set out on a smaller table by the hearth. 'sherry?' he inquired hospitably. 'gin? whiskey with the "e" or without? or vegetarian whiskies like corn or rye? brandy, perhaps? traipsing through this damned house is like perambulating a crevasse in a glacier!... midge, make yourself scarce whilst your betters drink deep! you'll have to sup with anne tonight. you can come down for the half glass of port when pogram's put her to bed. and not before, mark you! midge accordingly vanished, after casting desperate sheep's eyes at silver. 'and now, tony,' said the senator, watching corn whisky, ice cubes, and ginger ale being assembled for his refreshment in a goblet proportionable to his size, ‘and now, tony, let's hear what it's all about!' whilst he dealt with decanters and glasses, morfa pro- ceeded to retail the strange story that he had heard from olwen bosworth on the previous evening. 'i went up to the standing stones this morning,' he con- cluded, 'for the girl isn't by any means the hysterical type, and i've never heard a word said against her. but there wasn't a thing to be seen. and the mud patch, where she said the queer footprints were, was all trampled over. it looked to me as though it had been done deliberately to obliterate them. i think mary bosworth's brother-in-law did it. she swears he's cracked.' 'why should he do that?' asked standish. 'he seems to have got the idea that whatever it was olwen saw, or thought she saw, was sent there straight from hell. anyhow he spent the best part of last night up in the hills, mary says. and as i came back from the stones today, i affair of father bosworth saw him where the track starts, going in that direction again. he was stalking along muttering to himself. he paid no attention to the car at all. it was rather uncanny. i told mary when i got to the shop. he's an r.c. parson and brother to mary's dead husband, and supposed to be staying on holiday with her. mary said she couldn't stand him any longer, and was going to give him his marching orders when he returned. he'll unsettle the girl and may make talk. 'we're not going to say a word about the affair to a soul. it wouldn't do the girl any good if it got about that she had delusions, or had been knocking about with gentlemen in the buff. of course mary's notion that there was a nudist camp or something won't hold water for a minute. i had a good ferret round.' 'what time of day was it when you investigated?' asked the senator, accepting the unspoken offer of a replenishment of his glass. 'i was up there before ten in the morning, and round and about till getting on for half-past eleven.' ‘and when did the girl have her adventure?' 'i imagine it must have been somewhere in the region of four o'clock in the afternoon.' ‘she said that the pair vanished after they'd kissed her. did the wood vanish as well? 'i don't think i ever raised the point.' 'it's important,' said purvis. 'it's vital ... the se factor, silver! the sa factor begins to arrange ... do you think, tony, that you could take me to see the girl, olwen, tonight after dinner? there's a whole lot of information i'd like to extract from her. why, i'd marry her if there was no other way of getting it! i would, indeed! ...! senator purvis fidgeted all through the superfine dinner like a small boy on hot bricks to get off to the circus. he fidgeted through the bortsch — through the dish of hot lobsters — the wild duck with orange salad — the zabaione - valley beyond time and the pineapple. he dropped a specially imported egyp- tian cigarette into the goblet from which he was sampling a rare and precious whisky from the isle of islay that is known only to the connoisseur. he repeatedly looked at his watch or at the buhl clock upon the mantelpiece. 'say, let's — ' he was beginning, and checked himself as a discreet, pale servant in dark blue livery made his appear- ance, swam silently and apologetically up the room, and bent over his master's shoulder. 'what is it, houston?' 'it is inspector lewis, my lord. he wishes to know if he may have a word with you, my lord. 'i don't suppose it is anything very private,' reflected morfa. 'bring him in!... i dare say he won't say “no” to a whisky and soda. the old ruffian probably wants a sub- scription to the police football club, or suspects one of my tenants of sheep-stealing.' inspector lewis was accordingly ushered into the 'pick- nickery' – a tall man in blue uniform with greying hair, a large roman nose, and the general appearance of a well- meaning vulture. he bowed individually to peerage, beauty, bench and senate, before taking the chair offered him at the table, putting his cap and woollen gloves on the floor beside him, and accepting a glass most gratifyingly full of amber fluid. “and what can i do for you, lewis?' asked morfa. 'found an illicit still? 'no, my lord. it's only a little matter of times. i'm really ashamed, inteed i am, to trouble you, my lord, over the supper table with your friends. sir henry may remember that it's fussy i am about accuracy. i gave evidence before you, sir henry — it's a good few years now — in a small bigamy case when you took the winter assizes at carmarthen. perhaps your lordship recalls the occasion? sir henry did not recall the occasion, but permitted him- self to suggest that he did so by smile and nod. valley beyond time 'no, m'lud — sir henry, i mean. in confidence, of course.' “of course,' agreed standish, mutely collecting up the concurrence of his companions. the inspector raised his glass respectfully and gratefully to morfa. 'a wonderful whisky, if i may venture a comment, my lord! ... well, dai found the deceased at approximately four thirty p.m., because his call came through to the station at five fifteen p.m. exactly. it would have taken him forty minutes or so at least to get from the standing stones to the shop on foot.' morfa nodded agreement. 'he just made certain that the reverend bosworth was dead, but did not move or disturb the body in any way. he's an oldish man with a very steady character. i proceeded at once to carn meurig with dr. roberts and a police-ser- geant and a constable. it was dark, of course, when i arrived, but we'd got good torches, and we found the deceased lying exactly as dai had described. on his back, in his cassock — ' *. 'cassock! exclaimed morfa. 'i'll swear i saw his trouser- legs as he passed us this morning. "there was an old rain-coat folded by the stones. he might have hitched the cassock up underneath, my lord. but this is one of the odd things: he had only one shoe on! what is more, most of the sock was gone, too. there was just the top of it remaining above the ankle. grey wool it was. on the left leg. the sole of his foot was quite clean, so he couldn't have been walking about in that condition, my lord. his cassock — very threadbare it was, very thread- bare! - had a sort of wedge-shaped piece right out of it on the same side.' 'burned?' asked the senator, who had been listening with the closest attention, whilst an out-size in cigars had travelled from corner to corner of his mouth. 'no, your honour,' replied lewis, satisfied that such was the correct form of address for a member of the upper house of affair of father bosworth congress. “there was no trace of charring that we could see. the sock and the cassock both looked as if they had been cut with a very sharp pair of scissors. there wasn't a frayed edge anywhere. dr. roberts said on first examination, how- ever, that there wasn't a sign of a wound on him, or any sort of mark. but here's a still queerer thing - he refreshed himself with a little whisky, and then brought from a side-pocket of his immaculate tunic a small package wrapped in a piece of newspaper, and spilled the contents upon one of the fine lace table mats. the senator put on a pair of tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses almost as big as motor- car side-lights; the judge donned spectacles of more modest dimensions; silver and morfa leaned forward. a black something resembling a miniature t-square lay upon the intricate pattern of silk thread. with a sense of shock standish realized that it was the remains of an ebony crucifix of which the top part was entirely missing together with the head of the ivory figure suspended upon it. 'permit me!' he said, and drew the mat and its burden delicately towards him, and bent over it in close examination. 'i found that lying on the grass a little way from the deceased,' said the inspector. 'near his feet.' the judge pushed the exhibit along the table for purvis's inspection. from some cranny of his coat the senator produced a pocket magnifying glass and intently studied the mutilated crucifix through it. then he grunted. 'whatever cut that must have been mighty sharp,” he commented at length. 'it went through ebony and ivory like a knife going through butter. there's no burr, or splinter, or nick. the cut is as smooth as glass. you noted, mr. inspector, i opine, that the cutting agent was at a slightly oblique angle? the top of the cross has been removed at a fractional slant.' 'i had not remarked that, your honour,' said the inspector. 'it isn't how, but why it was done is interesting me. i'd also valley beyond time like to find his shoe. we looked for it as best we could. he could never have got where he did without it - unless he hopped. morfa said in the most casual voice he could command: ‘did mary bosworth give any reason why he should have gone for a second time in twenty-four hours to the standing stones? ‘mrs. bosworth thought he was going mad. she told me so. he said devils were loose on carn meurig. he was going to say prayers over them! ‘and the devils got him, instead!' lewis rubbed his beaky nose; ruffled his thin grey hair; finished his whisky; said in a discontented fashion: 'there's a lot of old wives' tales about the stones and carn meurig. you won't get the locals going that way after dark ... if mr. bosworth was mad, he might have got rid of his shoe, and cut his cassock, and spoiled his crucifix. but that don't explain why he died, unless he took poison. and mrs. bosworth says there isn't a thing in the shop to kill anything except moths. i can't see a man killing himself with moth balls, can you, my lord?” ‘god forbid! he was getting up to go when the telephone on a small side-table by the fire started to ring. with an apology to his guests, morfa rose and took up the receiver. 'hullo! yes? good evening, roberts! lewis is here, right enough. want to speak to him? i hear you've been spending a happy evening. what do you say? oh, heart was it, after all? we'd been imagining all sorts of horrors. here's lewis! g’night.' they sat in silence whilst the inspector took copious note of the police surgeon's report. when he put the receiver down eventually, his countenance was a battlefield of emotions — satisfaction, puzzlement, and disappointment all contending with one another. affair of father bosworth he came back to the table, re-wrapped the desecrated crucifix, picked up his hat and gloves. 'well, my lord, that's that! as you just said — heart! dr. roberts says there isn't a shadow of doubt about it being natural death. long-standing disease of the heart, says he. acute something-or-other endocarditis. i've got it down. anyhow, i'm not sorry. the police have enough on their plate as it is, my lord, without getting tied up in what the sunday papers would call “death mystery of a priest”. i suppose he cut off his sock and so on himself. though i don't see how he could have done. perhaps going mad is one of the symptoms of endocard — and whatever it was.' 'guess it's quite probable,' averred the senator. ‘wilson and i both remarked that he looked a bit odd this morning,' added morfa. 'he was muttering to himself. the car was stationary, so we could hear him.' “so you'll call off your bloodhounds, then, mr. inspector?' suggested the senator. 'well, your honour, it would be only gratifying an idle curiosity to continue the search. dr. roberts is a very sound man. i've got to think of my expenses sheets. ...' 'thank goodness for that!' said senator purvis, breathing a huge sigh of relief when the door had finally closed upon the inspector. he took a pinch of snuff with the air of presenting his nose with a burnt offering in thanksgiving. silver regarded him with a lifted eyebrow. 'why all this gratitude, bennie?' she asked. 'i didn't want policemen getting in my hair if i had to conduct investigations on the spot. i didn't want mrs. who's- it's store over-run with detectives sorting out a whodunit when i was trying to talk to the girl. do you think, tony, that place is going to be too much of a house of mourning for us to pay a call tonight?' ‘mary won't be weeping,' said morfa. 'the only reason she stood for the man at all was the small spot of social valley beyond time prestige from having a dog-collar in the family. i know that because she told me so. i'll call her up. 'i guess, bennie,' said silver thoughtfully, 'that you won't want me butting in on this party. i might spoil your approach to the girl. she turned her eyes to the door where midge had suddenly appeared, and smiled. 'i reckon that i'll stay at home while you investigate, and play poker patience with midge, or teach him the american language, till it's his bed-time. after that i'll turn my attention to the problem of st and so forth.' 'i'd like to see the cromlech tonight, too,' remarked pur- vis, lighting a cigar, and paying no attention to silver. 'it's hellishly difficult country, benaiah,' said morfa. ‘you'd better wait till daylight and take a preliminary dekko, before indulging in any night expeditions. honestly! it would be the easiest thing in the world to get lost with what- ever sort of torch you've got. and there are some ugly places, i can tell you! i wouldn't go off the track at night for a very considerable packet. tell you what, we'll get wilson to take you out just before sunrise for a first look round, if you really must. he's a bachelor, and won't mind. you can be back for a latish breakfast, and then, if you like, i'll join you. but nothing will get me out of bed at six in the morning. 'nor me,' agreed standish, who normally retired at nine- thirty at night and rose exactly twelve hours afterwards. ‘can i come with you, sir?' asked midge, who had approached during the discussion and placed himself beside the fascinating miss honeyhill's chair. 'i'm always awake at sunrise.' his father made no comment on this preposterous state- ment, except by a profound wrinkling of his brow. 'i reckon, son,' said the senator decisively, 'that that early trip just won't be worth your while. i'll have to do some dullish calculations on the spot. that's all. if your dad doesn't mind, you could come with us when we all go later.' affair of father bosworth morfa nodded consent as he rose from the table. 'you'll have to give your word, midge,' he said, 'that you'll stay put wherever you're told to ... i'll phone mary bosworth now and see if olwen's ready to receive us. i'll get them to turn out the second chauffeur tonight, to save wilson for his early call.' standish realized that silver had been watching purvis very intently since he broached his plan for a preliminary visit. now she intervened: 'if you really mean to go and have a look-see at that foul hour of the morning, bennie, i think you and i had better have a quick check at our figures right away. come and do it now, like a good boy!... i won't be long, midge. a quick glance under his neat grey eyebrows at her as she spoke conveyed to standish the curious impression that she attached an importance that was neither mathematical nor sentimental to this private conference. chapter v wood beyond the world that midge is uncommon late,' commented mrs. pogram, looking up from her darning to the clock on the schoolroom mantelshelf. “james says he's playing cards with the american lady in the “picknickery",' said the head housemaid, who was sitting on the other side of the fireplace repairing a suspender-belt. 'he says they were carrying on like a pair of comics, as good as a play, when he looked in.' 'the boy'll be just such another as his dad when he's a bit older,' prophesied mrs. pogram almost approvingly. 'the lord was always a lad among the girls — and i'm not saying that they didn't ask for it, either. take mary bos- worth, who we were just speaking about, when she was own maid to his mother! ... but i'm asking myself what lady kat will make of that american girl! she looks to me what poor pogram would have called “a bit of all right”!! she dropped a small mended vest on the pile beside her, and took up a sock that had seen better days. she surveyed it automatically whilst she speculated on the possible reac- tions of the lady katharine hurrell, morfa's aunt, a vigorous spinster — now on holiday — who had presided over his establishment ever since the death of his wife in child-bed seven years before. 'james says she's got everything these film actresses have got - and then some,' said the head housemaid, who was plain though young, with a small sigh. 'i wish we were back at morfa, that i do. fifteen miles to the nearest flick. i ask you! and no t.v.! one might just as well be in one's coffin! 'you girls! commented mrs. pogram – but tolerantly, as though she, too, had known what it was to be young. wood beyond the world nobody, however, could remember mrs. pogram being young. she had looked the same in morfa's schoolroom days; stout and motherly, dressed in black with a small check apron and a black straw hat ornamented by a bunch of red cherries – which for some occult reason she wore indoors and out at all times and all seasons — firmly settled upon her abundant grey hair. she frequently quoted remarks made on some un- specified occasion by 'poor pogram', but direct questions about the gentleman were always neatly evaded. accordingly no one knew whether he were alive or dead, and there was even a school of thought that classed him as imaginary as mrs. gamp's 'mrs. harris'. ‘james says she's got —'. " "she's" the cat,' intervened mrs. pogram in old- fashioned reproof. '- miss honeyhill's got a necklace on that's just nobody's business. and he says he knows a necklace when he sees one. one of his guy'nors was in the business. ‘james still acts sometimes as if he was in service with stockbrokers, and jewellers, and suchlike,' said mrs. pogram severely. the head housemaid, who was getting a little light relief out of james, ventured no reply. noises off now warned the gossips of the approach of godfrey charles hurrell, by courtesy viscount tyron. he was saying, with a hand rattling the door latch: 'golly, that'll be swell! you do mean it, don't you? oh, silver, you're sure quite a dish! i'll say you are!... oh, poggie, i've come up to bed – ‘and time, too, my lord! 'don't be a hoggie, poggie! and here's silver come up to have a look at the drawings in my room! there's nothing to see here. come on, silver!' he cast a depreciatory glance round the bare and rather battered room with the minimum of furniture and the maxi- mum of cupboards. valley beyond time silver smiled brightly at the two ladies of the household. 'it's my fault if midge is late, mrs. pogram,' she apolo- gized. “but the gentlemen have gone off on some expedition, and so he has been keeping me company. i am very, very sorry if we've made you wait ... let's see these pictures quickly, midge! they disappeared through one of the few doors in the room which did not open into a closet for clothes, or toys, or boots, or sports equipment. mrs. pogram and the head housemaid resumed their seats. through a chink in the door they could hear midge saying: 'it'll be absolutely wizard, silver! abso-bally-lutely!' 'well, i guess i've got to keep an eye on my baby.' – the ladies by the fire exchanged glances with lifted eyebrows — 'he's a big boy, but he can be a very bad one. mother's got to see what he's up to — without him knowing beforehand. i'll be glad of your company. and you know all the answers to the geography, too. which is important.' ‘and, of course, dad did say —'. 'ssh! an outbreak of whispering ensued, which ended in silver saying: ‘now i'll go and call up r. r.' 'who's r. r.? 'rosemary rachel rose. she's my maid-chauffeuse. she was an officer in your wrens. she's been a policewoman, too. she's some girl! she's dynamite! she'll have to bring my own little auto over. she can do my hair, and fly a 'plane, and drive a car, and type faster than i can, and knock back a scotch and soda! you'll like her! ... good night, midge! oh, midge, do you by any chance — ?' by some chance midge did. the sound of his hearty embrace left the matter beyond doubt. ‘bless his heart!' said mrs. pogram in a low voice, with as much pleasure as if she had herself been the recipient of the noisy kiss that he had bestowed. wood beyond the world mearl she's a crails, she's dynamo't be woolwoche'd for a few moments after she had left the boy to his bed- going, silver stood by the high nursery fireguard before the hearth exchanging affable nothings with the two women, and then went off to summon rosemary rachel rose to her presence. you mark my words, foley!' said mrs. pogram after the door had closed behind her. “that young lady means to be as sweet as pie to everybody. she's got her hooks out for my lord. when she was at morfa a week or two back with that uncle of hers — or whatever he is – i said to myself, “she means to nobble him by foul or fair”. you'll see if i'm not right! she's a crafty one, she is! * "she's some girl! she's dynamite!” ' quoted the head housemaid. “that rope of pearls might be woolworth's for all i know, but did you see, mrs. pogram, the bracelet she'd got on? that didn't cost eighteen pence, not half it didn't!' they were still discussing her chances of success, personal appearance, attire, jewellery, and manners, when silver at length succeeded in tracing an elusive satellite. 'where'd they find you, r. r.?' she asked. 'in the bar, did they? why in blazes didn't they look there first? we've been in the place thirty-six hours, and i guess they ought to know your habits by now! listen! you've got to get that car of mine here, to house of saul, an hour before sun up. catch on? one hour before sunrise. this is what you'll have to do-' ſe, to how! listes, and i midge's diamond-latticed window was wide open to the mist of the early morning. from it he surveyed abstractedly the ancient stone walls, the oriels, the battlements, the arched doorways, and the buttresses of the three-sided courtyard of the ancient house which lay behind all the preposterous stucco classicism of the frontage on the valley, like the cake behind the icing. the stones of the wide flagged court were shining with wet, and mist hanging motionless, embayed between the two wings of the building, blurred all the outlines. the terrace and the valley beyond time gardens beyond were invisible behind the dense grey curtain, as invisible as the steep wooded hills which walled them in. midge had gone to bed practically fully dressed – just in case the summons should be peremptory. all he had had to do, when he got up, was put on his gum-boots, and shrug himself into a rain-proof lumber-jacket. on second thoughts, however, he sponged his face and cleaned his teeth as well, in the hope that silver might think a 'do-you-by-any-chance' was indicated as correct prelude to high adventure. from five o'clock onwards he had sat at the small table in the window writing a poem - or attempting to write a poem, for he could find no possible rhyme to the name “silver' – in an exercise book which was kept under lock and key, being sacred to his inmost thoughts. the first lines ran: silver honeyhill looks like a daffodil, speaks like a mountain rill i don't think she's ever ill. but after that it was the very devil! ‘bilver -- cilver – dilver ... milver – nilver - pilver -! rilver? he stopped the recitation to look in his well-thumbed pocket dictionary. surely there was such a word as “rilver?! but there was not. 'tilver,' said midge, losing hope. he took a large mouth- ful of currant loaf spread with bloater paste as mental stimu- lant, and continued on his quest — 'vilver — ' 'what's a “vilver”?' said a low voice. the lady whose name rhymed with that word stood sur- veying him with twinkling eyes from the door which he had put ajar so that he might have early warning of her arrival. she was dressed in green corduroy slacks and a wide-collared black pullover; and the glory of her shining hair was almost hidden, but not quite, by a piratical stocking-cap with a pale gold tassel. wood beyond the world he did not answer her question: he was too full of naive admiration for her to be able to say anything except - 'i say, silver, you do look top-hole! you look like peter pan, you know! 'you don't think i'll ever grow up any more, midge?' 'i do wish you hadn't grown up so much already,' said midge regretfully, and in rather a flurry crammed the exer- cise book away in a drawer of the little table lest it might arouse awkward interest. they slid cautiously out of the school-room, as seven-year- old anne was already awake and conducting war-like operations - 'bang-bang! bang-bang!...z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z- bang!' — in the loudest possible fashion. silver's ‘own little auto' was waiting for them by the entrance to the stableyard. it proved to be a squat monster of the most modern design, with a silver-greenish complexion. it looked horrifically like something between a dragon and a toad, an impression heightened by its radiator and front bumper, which suggested that the creature had opened wide jaws full of unnaturally shining teeth in an anticipatory grin. r. r. considerably impressed midge. she was a good- looking, lean, tanned young woman, with a high-nosed ad- venturous face that was a little bitter, and a brusque manner. although she was hatless, she wore a dark navy-blue coat and skirt, as severely cut as a uniform, and he could quite well visualize her pacing the quarter-deck and ordering sailor-girls aloft, or gripping the ship's wheel with her strong brown hands. r. r. said: 'it's damned raw, madam. i've brought a couple of thermoses with hot coffee from the hotel and a bottle of rum in case of accidents. 'rum?' questioned silver. 'the only thing to drink with coffee early in the morning, madam. i do not recommend brandy first thing.' 'have it your own way, r. r.' valley beyond time ""yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum”,' said midge, making the only quotation that he could ever remember. 'i've never tasted it. me for rum by and by — if i may, silver!' "this is lord tyron, r. r., mostly known to his friends as midge! r. r. gave a perfunctory nod, which midge thought might have been more friendly. 'r. r. is a bit of a communist, explained silver getting into the car. 'she doesn't approve of lords, millionaires, or the idle rich, though she's got a duke somewhere or other in the family. still we won't talk about it, because it hurts her feelings.' ‘the only duke i ever saw was rather a scruffy one,' said midge plumping himself beside her on the back seat. 'he had to skedaddle to mexico or somewhere. dad says he's a crook, and diddled thousands of people.' “that's my relation, curse the brute!' said r. r. in an unimpassioned voice over her shoulder. 'wilson, the head chauffeur, used to be with him till he came to us,' midge informed her. 'wilson!' said r. r. thoughtfully, and let the clutch in. the car squelched down the beech avenue through the mist, and swung into the road. it gathered speed and hurled itself forward between the hedges, as though r. r. had eyes that were capable of penetrating the white woolly cloud in which the valley was submerged, or as if she followed un- erringly a radar direction beam. midge found a spine- chilling pleasure in what seemed to him to be a blindfold race through an extinguished and silent world. he cast a sidelong, cautious glance at his companion; but she appeared to take the adventure as a matter of course, and was sitting back in her corner, idly smoking a cigarette in a long jade holder. there was the hump-backed bridge; then the right-angle turn to the left, the dip by the chapel, miles of corkscrew road, a wobbly bicyclist, and the long badly banked curve wood beyond the world ted in a metimes id, but the faint before the cross-roads — but r. r. appeared to have fore- knowledge of all these things, and to have planned long in advance for them. 'i say,' he confided to silver in a whisper, 'she is a wizard driver! absolutely wizzo!' silver nodded; looked for a second at the back of the dark, immaculate head of the girl at the wheel with a half-smile; expatiated in a low voice: ‘of course sometimes she acts as if she were flying a 'plane through an empty cloud, but this is one of her good days.' in a long swoop they passed the faint blur of light that be- tokened mrs. bosworth's shop, the blackness that represented the great yews about the church; swung right and changed gear without jar or sound, and started to climb the steep ascent into the lost uplands that fringed the valley. after a while r. r. said, without turning her head: “there's a dip half a mile on, which is as far as the car can go, madam. beyond that you will have to walk.' 'do your telescope eyes already tell you that?' inquired silver. 'i have been here before, madam.' 'okay. you'll wait with the car, then, till we come back ... you know the way on, midge? absolutely certain?' midge was about to say that he could have found his way blindfold, when it struck him that the journey would in any case be practically blindfold, for the mist was even denser here, indeed, than down in the valley. it would be like boring one's way through a bed of cotton-wool. he patted the pockets of his startlingly blue lumber-jacket. 'honour bright! i practised for my scout tests up here several nights when there was no moon. i've got my com- pass, a map, my big torch, a candle and a box of matches, some chocolate, a pocketful of oatmeal biscuits and my water-bottle. oh, and i've got my ground-sheet, too.' although he could not see her doing so, r. r. smiled a small, secret smile. she looked surprisingly human for a second. valley beyond time a moment later she had swung the car neatly over to the right, and was braking gently on a smooth, level, invisible surface in some invisible haven, in which a faint phosphor- escence glowed ahead. r. r. leaped from the driving-seat, and was raising a hand to the rear door, when from out of the fog a man's muffled voice exclaimed, 'hullo!' a dim square figure materialized almost immediately near the off side of the car. then the voice said in a tone of respectful astonishment: ‘oh! good 'eavens! oh, excuse me indeed, my lady!' ‘shut up, wilson!' said r. r. in a low s’sshing tone, moving away from the car as though to get out of ear-shot of the occupants. ‘but i'd no idea you were here, my lady! 'wilson!' 'i thought your ladyship was — ? 'i'm not anywhere!' said r. r. 'i'm not here, anyhow. shut up and remain quiet, you old fathead! i'll tell you all about it later.' silver and midge, still ensconced in their warm up- holstered nest, exchanged glances. 'we didn't hear a thing, did we?' said silver. 'not a thing,' agreed midge. “but who's r. r. really?' ‘you can search me!' said silver. she got out of the car, and addressed the square, stocky figure in livery, who saluted with a hand to his peaked cap. ‘how long has the senator been gone?' she asked. wilson looked at his wrist-watch. 'an hour to the tick, madam,' he answered. 'i wanted to go up to the stones with him so he shouldn't lose his way. i've never known the fog so thick here. but he said — and very firm indeed he was, madam! — that he wasn't an old woman, nor yet a h’infant in arms, and he didn't want a nurse! 'i'll bet a dollar he put it much more strongly than that! didn't he? wood beyond the world the man grinned, and ventured no denial. 'did he give you any instructions? 'he just said to wait, madam, and that you'd tell me what to do.' that was rather odd, thought midge, as the senator wasn't supposed to know that they were coming! silver did not make any comment, however, or show any surprise. she merely said: 'well, r. r., you'd better just keep wilson company till we come back.' they were all standing so close together that midge was able to remark that wilson began to turn his head with an almost horrified expression towards r. r., but checked the movement. 'i should prefer to stay, madam,' said that composed young woman. 'i have brought breakfast in a vacuum container as well as extra coffee in case it should be required.' ‘midge and i will set off now on a preliminary scout. we'll take one of the flasks with a couple of tots of rum in it ... i guess wilson won't mind helping you with an odd spot or two out of the bottle; but leave us a little!' the prospect of company and the golden warmth of rum presumably spurred wilson to further revelation. ‘the gentleman,' said he, 'has took a bivouac tent up and a flea - a sleeping-bag with him. he's got a whole stack of other stuff - instruments and things. he said as he was going to do astroscopical – i think it was — observations. it ’ull have to be a great deal clearer there nor than it is 'ere! he was very loaded, madam! but he wouldn't let me bear a hand with the things. he said, “just you sit down and do your football pools!" but i don't do the pools. i always keep a dickens in the car. i know some of his books pretty well by ’eart. don't i - ? he came to an abrupt halt. ... they reached the upper slopes of the hill at last, by a valley beyond time steep, fawn-coloured track, sunk a little between low banks covered with coarse grass that was cobwebbed and grey with the mist, and deeply rutted in the middle where the rains gushed down towards the valley in the winter storms. 'here we are!' announced midge in a low, triumphant whisper. 'the stones are over there! he pointed, and silver could just make out, dimly at first through the grey veils of the mist, a blotch of darker greyness looming up not thirty feet away, rather like the rear view of an immense stray elephant. then, as they got nearer, she saw that it was an apparently purposeless doorway made of three cyclopean boulders, and that the mist was drifting to and fro about the opening in it as though smoke from a railway tunnel. ‘can you hear anything at all?' she asked. the pair of them listened intently, but not a sound penetrated the cloud blanket about them. the world was not merely invisible, but inaudible. so great seemed their isolation that it was as though they had reached the end of space and time and stood together — young woman and small boy – on the very verge of nothingness, or, per- haps, eternity. and then the frightening enchantment was suddenly broken. only a short distance away a great voice rose in triumphant recital of the lines from the poem, kilmeny: ... and a land of light withouten sun, or moon, or night; where the river swa'd a living stream, and the light a pure celestial beam; the land – silver's expression changed. it was much more tense even than it had been during the climb. midge thought that from the moment they left the car she had become quite different from the girl of yesterday. now, however, she looked almost as though she were frightened - or, disappointed? wood beyond the world silver,' he said, much concerned. 'what's the matter? why do you look like that? it is him — the senator, isn't it? he sounds frightfully bucked with life.' 'he is,' she answered shortly. purvis's memory failed him, and he broke off abruptly. in the sudden silence he became aware of their approach, and, moving as silently as a cat, pounced on them without warn- ing from the mystery and secret of the fog. in the dim twi- light he seemed even bigger than ordinarily - perhaps because of the shapelessness given to his figure by the equipment that he bore in the knapsack upon his back, or suspended from his webbing belt, or bulging the multi- tudinous pockets of a suit that might have been designed for an everest expedition. a pistol holster snuggled against him under the left arm. 'you're late!' was his greeting ... so once again it appeared that, far from being a secret expedition, they had actually been expected! midge found it very singular . . . ‘the zero hour i fixed is in six minutes time, and i meant to stick to it whether you were here or not.' silver's upward slanting eyebrows rose at the tips. she made no comment. 'it is there — the wood the girl spoke about! his voice rose in triumph. ‘larger than life! larger than life! i startled a rabbit, and it ran in. it played about – didn't seem to cotton to the vegetables — ran out again. unhurt! does that mean anything to you? she said with an air of i-told-you-so: 'it means that you, too, can pass in and out safely – as i said. it means that that parson's death was nothing to do with the fourth dimension – as i said. it means that i was right and you were wrong. i really believe that last night you thought i was trying to persuade you to risk your life unnecessarily! ‘listen, honey – but what's the boy doing here? hello, midge! valley beyond time 'h'ya, sir! ‘two witnesses are better than one, bennie. you didn't want any sherpas on your everest, but at any rate this on- looker i can keep under control. as we agreed last night, heaven alone knows what anybody else might do — specially tony! 'save your breath, honey!... listen! you'll see about that base camp being fixed at once — just in case! i've no fancy for being evicted on a bare mountain-side, miles from anywhere without a stitch to my back, like lambard. everything else, i guess, we sorted out to the nth last night, from your power of attorney in sam dawson's safe to the dictaphone in the base camp. so it's up to you! now, swear that you'll remain put where i tell you!' ‘oh, god!' said silver, 'i'm not going to butt in on your show. i've got no love for woods, and you well know it! there's probably a million miles of them there!... but sam dawson now - “there's no good going into all that again. come on, but stop when i tell you! he was already moving away as he threw the words at her, and, after lighting a cigarette, she followed with midge close at his heels in silence across the tussocky grass. the mist was getting lighter, much lighter, and full of a pale radiance. they emerged on the hill-top. it was isolated like an islet in a sea of unstirring, billowy cloud, and bright in the silver light that streamed to it from out of a wood of tall dark trees exactly opposite them. the stems of the trees were spaced well apart and as lofty as the pillars of a cathedral. the sky that showed through the high arches of the cloister was of a luminous pale jade green. ‘oh, god!' said silver, and stopped dead. midge said nothing. he took her hand, and stared at the wood, quivering, not with alarm, but with the passionate joy of one who has seen all his dreams come true. wood beyond the world purvis, who was a few paces ahead, halted. he faced about. 'it has finished its eastward swing and is now retreating to the west,' he said. “there's also a very slight movement south — an almost imperceptible one. the wood was twenty paces from where you are standing when i went back to get my kit. i should say that now it must be more like fifty yards distant. all the same don't come any nearer! he stood motionless for a couple of heart-beats, a huge, imposing, arrogant figure, his great head thrown back, a small smile twinkling in his eyes and on his lips. 'i'm going now to check the distance again,' he said after that moment's silence. 'i'll call it out to you before i finally depart. note the exact time!... goodbye!' 'so long, bennie! that was all the leave-taking. he might have been merely setting out to visit a friend in the next county. then he turned his face to the unknown, and proceeded to walk towards the silent and unstirring wood, reckoning the paces out loud. ‘goodbye and good luck, sir! cried midge. purvis did not check his slow march forward, but raised an arm in acknowledgment of the farewell. a frigid voice spoke to silver - 'i thought, madam – fell silent; exclaimed, 'god al- mighty! — said, after another pause, almost frantically, ‘but there isn't a wood there! i know there isn't! there never has been. it can't have grown since last may. where's the senator – ?' but silver was no more aware of the unexpected presence of the tall, tanned girl with the rather bitter face, than was midge. their whole attention was concentrated on the big figure that was advancing towards the wood in the other world. purvis came to a sudden halt - in the middle of his stride, it seemed. valley beyond time 'fifty-four! check your time!' he cried loudly over his shoulder; then turned and confronted the unguessable with a bowed head. he remained without stirring for an appreciable while, and it was manifest to the observers that he was praying for god's blessing upon his journey. silver made a small impatient sound. at that moment, with a slight wave of the hand in final farewell, he pulled at the pack he was carrying, and stepped forward across the invisible frontier. for an instant the scene before them quivered and rippled just as the surface of a still pool is ruffled by a sudden wind or by a cast pebble. the outlines of the giant trees with their blue-black foliage were blurred, and then fine lines of silver lightning flashed in forked tongues across the picture as though glass protecting it had been shattered ... yet the next instant the wood once again dreamed untroubled before their eyes. for a moment or so purvis remained invisible. then some- thing pink picked itself up from the silver green herbage — it looked like moss — at the foot of a tree; stood erect, and contemplated itself with an expression in which dismay and a rather wry amusement were visible even at that distance. senator purvis was as bare as the palm of his hand. his tent, his camera, his field-glasses, his pistol had equally vanished into space with every stitch of clothing that he had had on. 'what is he doing? where is he? and where is he going?' said r. r. even though her long, strong fingers gripped hard upon midge's shoulder, the boy made no reply, but continued to watch, as one mesmerized, the huge naked figure, which, after only a few seconds' hesitation, set its face resolutely away from the world that it knew, and set off into the heart of the other-world forest. the ground obviously sloped down- wards, and in less than a minute purvis was lost to sight. wood beyond the world r. r. loosed her grip on midge. she interposed herself directly between silver and the wood. with eyes blazing with excitement, she seized silver's hands, and shook them violently: "tell me — you must tell me: what is that wood? where is it? what has the senator done with his clothes? where has he gone? 'don't stand in front of me — i want to see! let go my hands! let them go! i don't know where that wood is. it's in an other-dimensional world. the senator has gone to explore it.' ‘an other-dimensional world! an other-dimensional world! he's gone to explore it! then, by god, i'm going to explore it, too! ‘you may never come back! 'what the hell's that matter?' 'you saw what happened to him?' 'i won't care a curse! if i can find a pencil there, i can take shorthand notes for him of his discoveries, if there is any paper. i can mend his clothes for him, if he can get any to mend, or make 'em out of leaves. i can be useful i dare say. but i'm going whether i can or not! ... after all you can drive your own car back! give my love to wilson! good- bye! i'll have to be quick to catch him up.' she threw off her coat, and ran like a hare across the grass towards the stately cathedral of the great wood, as though she were running to catch a railway train. such was her urgency that she appeared to dive through whatever invisible barrier there was lying between the two worlds. when the consequent commotion had subsided, the watchers saw her standing upright, triumphant, under the archway of the giant trees, her naked boyish body shining as though it were of silver in the light that poured upward from the other-world. she flung up an arm in salute, and, turning, plunged downwards into the unknown. chapter vi the third adventurer tave you any theory, miss honeyhill, about this peculiar denudative phenomenon?' the lawyer looked up at her over the top of his immense horn-rimmed glasses as he put the question, his fountain-pen held poised to set down the reply. he was a strange-looking little man with a triangular face that was pinkish and very wrinkled, a long, crooked nose, and a bald patch on the top of his head surrounded by a fringe of thistle- down hair. his name was furrow. silver felt as if she had been sitting opposite him in the 'picknickery' for an eternity answering questions. it had been daylight when they started, but now there were lights in the branched silver candlestick set between them, and many more on the mantelpiece where morfa leaned, listening to the progress of her affidavit with a drawn face. ‘my own opinion is that only living cells can pass from the magnetic field of one world to that of another. everything else disintegrates into less than dust. the coincidence of the death of mr. bosberry -' ‘bosworth.' ' – got me worried though, and i tried to persuade the senator not to make the attempt without cautious experiment.' ‘and this second disappearance occurred — when?' 'it was a minute or so after seven, i should say, when r. r. went into the forest.' the fountain-pen pounced to its work. 'what did you do then?' ‘after watching for a long time to see if she returned, i valley beyond time round where r. r. stood! it's looking that way! it's looking this way!" i hadn't the heart to ask for the glasses back. i could just see something small and greyish moving about on the ground, but couldn't make out what it was.' 'a moment if you please!' begged mr. furrow. "to enable me to overtake you ... yes?' “the next minute he yelled at the top of his voice, "it's coming out! it's just smoking along!" ‘and something did come out. it came across the tussocks towards us faster than anything i've ever seen. it was just a flash; and then there it was, rubbing up against midge's legs with its tail in the air and squeaking.' — squeaking.” yes? 'it was the ugliest creature i have ever seen in my life. it was more like a toad than anything else, but its legs were all the same size, and it ran on all fours like a cat. its body and its long, long tail were a shining mackerel silver grey. its mouth was full of little white triangular teeth, and it didn't seem to have any ears. it was about the size of a three-months kitten. 'it got up on its hind legs and clawed at midge with little scaly paws, and squeaked at him. then it coiled its tail about his ankle, and squeaked at him again. midge wasn't a mite afraid. he said, “silver, i guess it wants me to take it up! and when he put down his hand, it ran up his arm, and sat on his shoulder. it actually smiled, like a dog does some- times, and rubbed its head against midge's cheek. 'he was fascinated by it. he scratched its throat, and the creature seized his finger in its paws in a sort of ecstasy, and licked it. its tongue was purple and forked and very long. ‘presently midge put his hand in one of his pockets and brought out some candy - pecan candy it was — and offered it to the thing. it looked at it with its queer silver eyes — i couldn't see any irises or pupils — and appeared to smell it. then it looked round at him in the most extraordinarily human way, and seemed to be asking him a question. the third adventurer ‘midge put the toffee in his mouth and sucked it for a moment. then he offered it to the thing, which had been watching him all the time. immediately it licked the sweet cautiously with its purple tongue, with the air — it did have that air! – of doing the polite. the taste seemed to surprise it a great deal, because it gave a sort of start, and then it looked at midge as though it wanted to be reassured. after that i touched it, myself. its skin wasn't damp or cold, but warm. it felt like the smooth side of a kid glove. she stopped. she turned her very lovely head towards morfa. the little lawyer did not look up from paper and hurrying pen. standish regarded her with dark, expression- less eyes. 'tony,' said silver, 'there must be very nice folk there. folk just like ourselves! that thing wasn't one bit afraid of us. it was glad to see us. it was used to being made much of. it was somebody's pet. it looked as if it had been lost and got found - got lost - got lost - her eyes filled with tears. there was a quiver in her voice. 'it found friends very quickly,' said morfa, 'even in another world. don't go on tonight, silver, dear! finish tomorrow! 'no. i will — i must get it over . . . well, midge was say- ing that he would make it his one and only pet. would he be able to take it to school? it had just got to have a name right-away. he was wondering what it ate, and i was still looking at the thing - once you had looked at it, you had to go on doing so! — when i sensed that something was happen- ing ... how far have you got, mr. furrow? do you want me to stop for a minute?' sir henry reached out a tweed-coated arm to the decanter at his side. he filled a glass brimming with wine, and pushed it towards her. she shook her head with a faint smile of thanks. 'i'm not asking you to take it,' said sir henry. 'i'm instructing you to. it is an order of the court! you need it.' valley beyond time obviously confident that his command to her would be obeyed, he then replenished furrow's glass. she sipped the wine without further protest; cast a quick glance at the silent man by the fireplace, who returned it with the shadow of a smile. ‘yes?' said furrow. 'well, i looked up. and i saw that the wood was – well! – was tilting! i mean that the trees weren't straight upright any longer. they were leaning at an angle, and a sort of film was coming over the scene. it was like a picture that hadn't been hung straight. it was all going grey, too, and quivery. 'the creature on midge's shoulder stopped squeaking. it sat up on its hind legs — its stomach was of an apricot yellow - and watched for a moment. it shot out its purple tongue and flicked a sort of kiss at him. it made a strange little bell-like noise, and then it suddenly streaked down him and made for the wood. ‘before i could stop him, before i could say anything or do anything at all, midge was after it, shouting as he went. immediately i called to him and ran, too. and then suddenly the wood was gone, and i was standing alone by myself on the bare hill-top with the mist lying round about it like a lake. “there was nothing — nothing - nothing, tony, that i could do! there wasn't anything that i could have done! there wasn't! it all happened in a few seconds. it ... i guess you blame me! she rose swiftly from the table as she spoke, stood for a second, endeavouring to recover a fast vanishing self-control; turned with a despairing gesture, and made for the door. morfa started from his station by the fire, with a look of concern. he was across the room in a few long strides, and took her by the arm. 'silver," he said, 'how could you think that i should be such a damned fool, my dear?' the third adventurer she turned at his words quickly, and buried her face against his shoulder, and wept as though her heart would break. 'how could anyone possibly blame you, silver dearest? it would be an imbecility,' he said gently. 'midge 'ull be all right. he will fall on his feet. he's a tough 'un and will stand up to emergencies. and then those other two are there – he'll have plenty of company ... something tells me that he's coming through. what a story he'll have to tell!... silver! silver! don't cry! look, i'll take you upstairs for poggie to look after! she's the most consoling creature in the world, darling! come along!'... the judge and the solicitor were left to themselves. 'you can tidy it all up tomorrow,' said sir henry. 'miss honeyhill is overwrought — and i'm not surprised. anyhow you've got the dossier practically complete now except for statements from those witnesses in caldy about the return of lambard.' “there will be no difficulty about getting them, i think. i'm sending my managing clerk over tomorrow,' said furrow, flexing the fingers of his right hand as a precaution against writer's cramp. ‘with regard to my own affidavit, so far as it concerns the lambard case, i am still a little uncertain whether, ethically, i should have made such a statement about a case which i had been called upon to try,' reflected the judge, turning to and fro the great cornelian ring on his little finger. "judex non potest esse testis in propria causa. you will recall coke's maxim, doubtless! its meaning has been much debated. i am, however, disposed to run the risk. i hope and pray that these affidavits may never be required for any legal purpose, but only as prefatory matter etcetera, etcetera to the account that the senator will give us on his return.' ("on his return”!' echoed mr. furrow, surveying the wine in his glass with a very wrinkled brow. the third adventurer found themselves naked' – he recollected professor ivell's rather peculiar simile; re-employed it – ‘as naked as a pebble, though both had been fully clad the instant before. lambard, who obviously had had previous experience, learned his lesson and took off his clothes before entering the valley from caldy. 'it is a strange coincidence, to say the least of it, that bos- worth goes up to carn meurig to investigate and is found – that he was dead is neither here nor there — minus a shoe and a sock and a large piece of his cassock. the top of his crucifix has also vanished. he presumably went too close to the invisible barrier, probably holding the emblem out before him in the act of exorcism. i think we ought to have that on record.' 'quite. dr. roberts, of tyron, is a good man and tight- mouthed. there is, however, another matter upon which i should like your opinion. 'the position, it appears to me, is this: at seven o'clock this morning three people disappeared into space off the top of carn meurig. lord morfa, as father and guardian of his son, professes to be satisfied that lord tyron has merely gone adventuring into another plane of existence and will return. miss honeyhill, the donee of a power of attorney from senator purvis (i understand) and principal legatee of his thirty million dollar estate in the event of his death, is equally satisfied that her — shall we say? – uncle will return. ‘but what about the parents or relations of the girl — he fluttered his papers - 'the girl, miss rosemary rachel rose? if they start asking questions? do you think it possible that if they were told what you and lord morfa believe, they would credit it, too? at the present stage revelations of what you do believe would be most untimely, most embarrassing, and even open to misinterpretation. i see the most alarming possibilities. forgive me for speaking so plainly, sir henry! henry standish rose from his chair. he ambled quietly to valley beyond time the fireplace, and reflectively polished the bowl of an ancient and well-loved briar pipe upon his nose. he surveyed the snug comfort, the ancient dignity of the candle-lit room – the linenfold panelling, the persian car- pets, the brocade curtains of old rose, the winged grandfather chair — his by prescriptive right on the occasion of his visits. it would have been easier – he thought — to believe in the existence of a fourth dimension in one of those loathsome modern rooms, all plastic, and tubular steel, and plate glass, and distorted ornaments, and queer angles, full of radio- grams and television sets and cocktail cabinets. he said at length: 'you need not to worry, mr. furrow. miss rose does not exist! 'what!' exclaimed furrow, with dropped jaw, although he had thought that his capacity for astonishment had been taxed to its fullest extent. 'she does not exist as miss rose, i mean,' the judge reassured him. “make no mistake about it! lord morfa, i - none of us — have any desire to be held up before the world as hoaxers, as lunatics, or as a kidnapping or murder syndi- cate. so far as the senator and midge are concerned, i think we have already settled upon a suitable story. as for the girl, no one will make any inquiries. until wilson told us, we ourselves didn't know who she was. he has been sworn to secrecy.' it was difficult to resist the inquiring cock of the triangular head with its fringe of white down, and the arching eyebrows of mr. furrow. 'you know almost enough to send us to the lunatic asylum, mr. furrow,' said sir henry, ‘so you may as well know that miss honeyhill's chauffeuse is in reality lady diana bel- combe, eldest daughter of the duke of cumber. she is the only child of his first marriage. 'good god!' exclaimed mr. furrow, obviously more shaken by this revelation than by any fourth-dimensional adventures. the third adventurer standish showed no sign of his inward appreciation of this attitude. he continued rather drily: 'my ducal acquaintanceship is not extensive. morfa tells me, however, that cumber is a drunken, immoral, and bankrupt scoundrel who is always in trouble and has had to fly the country. his present wife is slowly drinking herself to death, and the children of the second marriage are practically all morons. 'four years ago, it seems, the young lady in question rose from the dinner-table one evening and struck her father across the face for making some foul jest about her dead mother. before their guests! before the servants! she then walked out of the house just as she was, swearing that she would never enter it again, or have dealings with any of the family. wilson, the chauffeur here, was employed by the duke at the time. he states that he knows for a fact that she kept her word, and that her family have never heard of her, or from her, to this day. a girl of grit, mr. furrow!' ‘a girl of grit, sir henry! agreed mr. furrow. both the elderly gentlemen used the word 'griť almost apologetically, as though it savoured slightly of slang, but was preferable to 'guts'. 'without knowing anything of her antecedents, miss honeyhill wanted to treat her as an equal, but miss — er — rose firmly refused any special privileges, and insisted on having her meals with the rest of the domestic staff, etcetera, etcetera. 'a young lady of great strength of mind,' commented mr. furrow, feeling that perhaps it had been in slightly bad taste to refer to a young woman of ducal antecedents in such terms as the judge and he had done before. sir henry inclined his head. from the slight twitch of his lips an acute observer might have concluded that he had read mr. furrow's mind. 'having heard of her various activities,' he remarked, 'i think that the senator is to be congratulated on his surprise valley beyond time companion. she may be of great assistance to him, although a woman.' 'i think,' said furrow, gathering his papers together, that if i were to find myself completely unclad in a wood, i should prefer not to be companioned by a young woman in a similar condition, whether she were a duke's daughter or one of the household staff.' personally standish was in entire agreement with him, but purvis, he reflected, had a different outlook on life. as the door closed behind the little lawyer and his 'good nights', the buhl clock on the mantelpiece struck the hour of ten. he realized that at precisely this time on the previous night the big texan had been sitting in the back parlour of the saul shop listening with frantic interest to the story told by olwen bosworth; had been expounding and expounding again his theories of the course followed by that other world across and through our own; had been deeply engaged in plans that were to end not only in his own and r. r.'s dis- appearance but also that of midge. he gave himself over then to meditation - and with anxiety – on the subject of silver, that young woman who combined the brain of a mathematician with the glossy physical perfections displayed on the covers of luxury maga- zines and in cinematograph ‘stills'. had she been mathematical when she laid herself out to attract midge? was she being mathematical in the distress she evinced during her narrative of the events on carn meurig? if so, upon what calculation was she engaged? that last question had suddenly propounded itself to his mind at the very instant when he raised the decanter to pour her out wine. an answer had come to him in the self-same moment, even before the dark red fluid had time to flow into the glass. it was an answer for which he found undesired confirmation in morfa's attitude to her. what had been her relations to that large and likeable ex- plorer of the dimensions — that remote connection by the third adventurer marriage whom, on occasion, she treated so cavalierly? he thought of his own much-loved niece, and did not care to believe that her successor might be someone with the shiny hard loveliness of hollywood manufacture and the shiny hard mind of an accounting machine, even though she were principal legatee in a ten million pound will. he knocked out the ashes in his pipe so fiercely against the grate that the stem snapped, and he was left regarding the vulcanite mouthpiece. he was still staring at it when morfa reappeared. the younger man looked very worn as he helped himself to an unusually large whisky and soda, and told him: "silver's all in. 'i am not surprised,' he commented in a deliberately un- inflected tone. i've sent to roberts for some sleeping tablets for her. when the car comes back, i'll go to carn meurig and relieve wilson. he's a good fellow, that man! 'i'll do the night turn tomorrow.' ‘silver wants to do the day watch. i refused point-blank.' 'you're quite wrong, tony. i think she should, for the sake of her own morale. take my word for it! 'if nothing happens tonight – morfa broke off for an instant; resumed: 'according to purvis's calculation, nothing will. here is the absolute end of the beat, and the pendulum swings away — god knows where, and god knows when it will return.' 'we ought to have two more days on watch at least,' suggested standish, 'in case there is an error in his figures.' 'two days — and then what?' the judge said nothing. he tossed the broken pipe stem into the fire, and watched it flare amid the blazing logs. morfa took up a small ancient pocket-pistol which always lay in the same place on the mantelpiece. he unscrewed the barrel — screwed it on again – cocked the little weapon – let the hammer drop. it had fascinated midge ever since he valley beyond time was tall enough to reach it, and strong enough to cock and fire it – ‘bang-bang! morfa said, turning the deadly little thing over and over in his hands: 'if midge were lost in the ordinary way - ! but he's lost in another world! part two chapter i problem without shadows enaiah purvis went striding down the hillside over the almond-green moss under the iridescence of the midnight-blue vaulting of the great trees. the air was delicately warm and scented although he could not put a name to the perfume. between the shafts of the trees on the opposite side of the dingle, a pale, milky sky shone with the gleams of mother-of-pearl. it did not matter to him that he was naked in an unknown world; it did not matter to him that all his elaborate equip- ment – his camera, his mathematical instruments, his note- books, his bivouac tent, his whisky flask, his pistol — had as utterly vanished as his clothing. he was a thousand years young. his quest had succeeded. he had mated science and legend. he had penetrated the unknowable. he was the more-than-columbus, the more-than-cortez, the conquista- dor of a new world of another dimension. the question of shelter, food, clothing did not enter his mind. the one thing to do was to press on down into the dell, and follow its course — whither? anywhere! the silence of the wood was enormous. the foliage high overhead was unstirring; nothing fluttered amid the boughs; nothing rustled, or chirped, or buzzed about the velvet car- pet of the moss. it did not oppress him. he was filled with wonder and reverence for this other creation of almighty god, and knew well that the silence was only as the silence of a cathedral awaiting the clangour of its bells, the thunder of an organ, or the murmurous prayer of a con- gregation. suddenly he lifted up his tremendous voice in the bene- dicite: valley beyond time the cool mockery of her reply, the fantastic over-assess- ment of his age, ravaged purvis. he simmered with indigna- tion, but said nothing. after waiting on him for a moment, she continued: 'well, am i to adventure on my own, or are we to join forces? for i'm not going back — and that's flat! i can be quite useful. i can cook — after a fashion - if we find any- thing to cook. i could even plait petticoats for us — if there were any rushes or grasses, and you think you would feel more comfortable or respectable! 'have we travelled into another world in another universe,' questioned purvis coldly, 'to bother about the conventions, or talk dress-making? the fact is that i just did not calculate on bringing an eve with me to this particular garden of eden.' 'if you fancy,' retorted r. r. with equal iciness, 'that i was proposing to play eve to your adam, then you had better think again! the senator exploded: 'you unconscionable little devil, can't you understand that, so far as i am concerned, this is a serious expedition, an effort to increase the sum of human knowledge — to dis- cover and reveal some at least of the secrets of another universe than our own? you pollute the atmosphere of this new and lovely world — this other creation of god — with kinsey report talk, like a tourist scattering old newspaper about a park. this is not a necking party! his indignation was obviously so genuine that r. r. burst into peals of laughter. confronting him thus, with her hands on her hips, tall and slim, needing but a wreath of leaves in the dark tangle of her hair to be the very embodiment of a woodland spirit, purvis suddenly realized her intrinsic honesty and toughness. her laughter was infectious. his anger left him. he grinned back at her, although he could not forbear a jibe on her own level: 'anyhow, as you yourself said, it is well known that i take no interest in brunettes. so you are safe.' problem without shadows “that's settled, then,' she said, ignoring the thrust. 'i'm accepted. from being silver's maid-of-all-work or something like, i have become her rich relative's general factotum. his woman friday! i think you might call me that.' with sudden seriousness she added: 'i should like to shed all my old self — including my real names and my aliases — with my clothes! she extended her hand, and they exchanged a claspin silence. ‘and now — forward!' said benaiah. 'why this way? why downhill?' 'shelter and water,' he explained. 'i thought of going up the other side of the dell for a look-see, but i don't know when darkness may fall and these trees are absolutely un- climbable. in the lower ground we may find bushes, and undergrowth, water, and perhaps fruit of some sort. side by side they went down into the bottom of the glen, which sloped gently away before them, widening as it went. their naked feet made no sound upon the carpet of the moss, and the silence was intense — not the expectant hush of the wood at the edge of the world, awaiting worship; nor yet the hush of an earthly wood that attends the lisp of a breeze in the trees, or the scurry of something in the undergrowth. it was an utter silence that seemed to be very part of the nature of the place. a clear silver light pervaded all the wood, although the blue-black canopy overhead held in its depths quick surges of translucent green, of pale gold, or orange. the girl suddenly halted. purvis stopped, too, with inquiry in his eyes. she stopped and plucked a handful of the moss, and held it up to his view. the stuff grew in tiny stems of about an inch and a half long, winding spirally like a coiled spring, green but having a silver sheen, and attached to the tapering roots of pale blue was a damp, sweet-scented soil like powdered silver. 'it's been like walking on an interior-spring mattress,' she commented. 'now one knows why! valley beyond time again she bent down, and this time brought up a handful of the shining silver earth, from which a little moisture trickled between her fingers. 'it's the earth that smells, or else the water in it. it's the scent of orange-blossom, though even sweeter.' she held it to his nose. ‘oh, god! he said, 'do you know what is our greatest loss, girl? it's not clothes or camera. it's paper and pencils. how the devil am i going to keep any record of what we've seen and done? 'if we are by ourselves in an empty land,' she answered, pressing back the little divot where it had come from, 'we'll have to make clay bricks and inscribe your notes on them, and bake them in the sun. or make ink from the juice of berries, and tattoo one another with information.' they went on. purvis said presently: 'how long do you suppose it is since we started walking? together, i mean?' ‘an hour?' 'perhaps. are you tired?' 'i am not tired. it would take a great deal more to tire me. neither am i hungry or thirsty. i could go on inde- finitely.' he nodded. 'i feel that way myself.' they continued the journey in silence until she said suddenly: 'sssh! and came to a standstill, listening intently with her head a little bent. 'what is it?' 'i can hear water.' he listened, too. it was true enough: from somewhere ahead of them came the silvery chuckle of water, of bubbling, hurrying water. as the valley had widened, its walls had become much steeper and higher, but there was no diminu- problem without shadows tion in the silver radiance that filled the wood of shadowless trees: and, as they advanced, they could see at a considerable distance off the rainbow spray of a small waterfall pouring over a ledge of the hill-side. they found that it fell into a small round pool in which it bubbled and effervesced with a thousand bright sparkles over a bottom strewn with pebbles of every bright hue, before it hastened on down the valley in a shallow stream. she cupped her long brown hands, and held them into the torrent. the liquid was of the palest straw colour, and tiny bubbles broke on the surface as though it were aerated. 'it tingles,' she said, as she bent her lips to the water. a moment later she had lifted her head, and, with an expression in which surprise and gratification were mingled, extended the cup of her hands to purvis. she made no com- ment, and after an endeavour to fathom the flicker on her features, he rather reluctantly raised her hands in his own, and sipped cautiously. the liquid was ice cold. it was sweetish. it was exhilarat- ing. it definitely was not water. 'i shouldn't care to have to quench my thirst — if i had one — at that spring!' he declared. 'i reckon it might be quite risky to one's sobriety. let's hope the real stuff is to be found when we need it. on the occasions when i require it, i like water to be water ... let's press on! as they moved on down the narrow valley, they became aware of a rapid change in the quality of the light. the sky, that had showed as a milky opal through the occasional gaps overhead in the foliage of the great trees, had become blue — the faint sparkling blue of a northern sky shortly after dawn. there were, however, still no shadows in the wood, which seemed to be lighted from some invisible source within itself. and then, quite suddenly, they came out of the valley and the wood, on to a crescent-shaped lawn that slanted down to a sea of molten silver. on either hand the cove was closed by valley beyond time high, pinnacled rocks of an almost translucent jade. before them the sea stretched, empty, waveless, utterly motionless, to a far horizon. neither of them spoke a word until they had reached the lip of the shore. then r. r. said, surveying the prospect: 'so now we've reached the end of our new world! ... what next? almost absent-mindedly she dipped her toes into the water; brought them out coated and dripping as though with quick- silver; regarded the result with suspicion. ‘look!' she exclaimed. but purvis was paying no heed to that phenomenon. his frowning regard went from the ground at their feet to the great rocks, to the stately cloister of the forest, to the sky, and then back again to themselves. he said slowly in a rather shocked voice: 'where's my shadow? ... where's yours? for in all that morning brightness there were no shadows — no shadows at all. the wood cast no shadows. the cliffs cast no shadows. he cast no shadow. he felt as though he had lost something that was more than an heirloom, was very personal, was actually part of himself. if there were no shadows! — the implications were enormous; for was not even the human assessment of time based on the movement of a shadow? r. r. took cognizance of the situation without undue emotion. 'perhaps,' she suggested after a moment's thought, “it's high noon - wherever we are, and we are standing on the equator - of wherever we are. but, no — the sun is not visible yet over the hill! she did not seem (purvis thought) to be in the least per- turbed, or even more than a little intrigued, by the dis- appearance of that companion who had been born when she had been born; had followed the movements of her tiny limbs in the cot; had played with her in sunlight and in problem without shadows lamplight; had walked with her, before – behind – beside; had veiled her face; and should have, in the end, only vanished with her in the greater shadow of the grave. he made no answer. r. r. must have divined what was in his mind, for she suddenly remarked: 'when you've lost all your clothes, it doesn't seem to matter very much if you lose your shadow as well. ought i to be shocked?' she surveyed, as she spoke, the luminous enchantment of their surroundings. suddenly her eyes narrowed. he had just begun to speak: 'shadows! time!' he said. 'don't you realize – 'look! she interrupted sharply. 'look at that rock on the right! i'll swear there's a carving of some sort on it.' his mind returned at once from an abysm of speculation, and he gazed in the direction of her pointing finger. his sight was good enough in the general way, but he could see nothing. he would not admit this, however, and agreed: 'it may be.' together they walked towards it. there was in fact a figure, carved life-size in bas-relief on the smooth base of the rock, which glowed throughout its length and breadth with something of the inner fire of a giant emerald. even when they stood directly before the carving, however, it was impossible to declare whether the battered image was intended to be that of a man or a woman. it wore a sort of nondescript garment which descended almost to the ankles, and upon its head was set a peculiar pointed helmet, or per- haps a crown, surmounted by a crescent. in one hand it held across its chest something that might either have been a short sceptre or a horse goad, and on the face of the flat pilasters carved on either side were what seemed to be in- scriptions incised in oblique and upright lines of various length. valley beyond time ‘do you know, r. r.,' said purvis in some excitement, after a long scrutiny, 'that that's an ogham inscription! i'll swear it is. i'll lay a thousand dollars to a peanut that it is! i've seen carvings of this type on gaulish altars in france and in switzerland.' ‘and what does that prove?" he did not answer. he could not answer; for at the very moment when she turned in question to him, something struck him on the temple, and, with a grunt, he toppled to the ground at full length. r. r. heard the crack of the blow. she did not scream, but swung about to face whatever danger might be on the way. two men stood, watching, at the edge of the wood not fifty yards off, and a third came leaping towards her, the sling with which he had struck purvis down still in his hand. he had a shock of black hair and a pale, eager face. he wore a knee-length green tunic, and carried a short sword hung from a broad silver belt. she awaited his coming without a tremor, even with a small smile. she had no doubt but that she could deal with him. in any case purvis was already stirring, was already propped upon an elbow. she glimpsed on his big, bronzed face an expression of immense astonishment tautening into an expression of immense anger. in another moment - with a shout of triumph the man in green was on her: his arms were about her: his fierce white face with hot black eyes was thrust into hers: his lips were about to ravage hers: his silver-studded sandals tramped on her feet: he felt her body relax within his grip. and then with a scream of pain he hurled face forwards to the ground, his right arm bent at an unnatural and horrible angle. the naked girl stood over him, aloof and disdainful, dusting her hands together as though to flick off the contamination of his abominable touch. purvis staggered uncertainly to his feet. he shook his head as though to clear his brain. iio problem without shadows 'what the hell — ?! he began: realized the wreckage was floundering at her feet; changed the subject of his inquiry - ‘and what the hell hit him? 'i did,' said r. r. modestly. 'we girls have to learn to protect ourselves.' ‘and you surely know how!' 'that's what his friends are thinking,' said r. r. 'pre- sumably jiu-jitsu is quite new to them.' purvis swung his regard from the unruffled girl standing above the writhing man to those other two, waiting at the edge of the wood, dressed like him in pale green and silver. even at that distance their expressions of consternation and awe were unmistakable. 'dear god!' said purvis violently, “i'll teach these devils to attack a woman and an unarmed man! i'll —' he tore the injured man's sword out of its scabbard, and, brandishing it, ran roaring threats towards the wood. they did not await his coming, but fled with the speed of hares into the vast cathedral of the trees. she called after him: 'bennie! bennie! — without avail. · he was already about to plunge after the fugitives into the recesses of the wood, when she screamed. he halted as though he had been shot, and looked back. she beckoned to him fiercely to return. 'what now?' he asked when he had reached her side. ‘you,' she answered tersely. “why do you want to go chasing after those brutes? you'd only get ambushed in the wood. don't you realize that now we have not only got clothes but weapons? you've got a sword, and i'll bet i can use a sling. i used to when i was a small girl ... let's strip this devil, and see what clothes he's got on! if he has a shirt, i'll have it, and you can have his tunic! if he's only got the one, i reckon i shall have to have it. i should prefer not to excite such violent interest if it is humanly possible. do you concur?' 'quite!' said purvis, thoroughly approving. 'i reckon iii valley beyond time swords, with bows, wearing strange conical helmets and garbed in pleated tunics of blue and saffron and scarlet and gold. they were a well-built people but not tall, with pale skins. they formed up in two glittering ranks before the grey- green-silver cloister of the trees; high above, the violet-black foliage with all its secret lights rose in a frozen billow against the vault of the pale sky. they waited in silence – but a silence that was expectant and not menacing — whilst an old man with a long silver beard, clad in a white mantle, came from their midst, and walked slowly towards the motionless group by the rock of jade. he bore a small harp against his breast, and was followed by a youth leading a white horse with trappings of scarlet and its mane and tail dyed purple. some ten feet from them he halted, and swept his fingers across the strings of his harp so that it sang for a moment in a strange heart-pulling cry that had the resonance of many bells. then he spoke four or five words in a loud and musical voice. the lad kneeling before the girl raised his hand, and once again pressed her narrow foot against his head, and, so clasping it, answered loudly by a single word. the old man said nothing, but turned and faced towards the waiting host. once more he swept the strings of the harp, but in a yet louder cry than before. it was answered by a silver fanfare of trumpets, which was echoed and re-doubled in the high vaulting of the wood. chapter ii midge at the house of opal idge was not conscious of breaking through any barrier when he passed from the hill-top of carn tv imeurig into the wood a world away. there had been but the sensation of a damp fluttering kiss, such as that of a bursting bubble. that was all. for a moment — one breathless moment - he stood searching with his eyes the endless arcades of the wood for the strange small creature that had so taken his fancy. then, without warning, the forest began to recede before him as though a picture on a cinematograph screen; the ground moved from under his feet, and he was wrapped in an opalescent mist that was impenetrable to the sight. he was carried, unstruggling, through space on some warm swift current. or did a world travel past him, whilst he hung motionless in space and conscious only of some vast move- ment below? he did not question the pattern of the pheno- menon; was aware of no fear or hurt, but only of intense surprise. ... suddenly he found himself on his back on a soft sward, staring up into the deep sapphire blue of a starless heaven. he gathered himself together. he rose. he shook himself. 'that was some hoo-ha!' said the philologian out loud, and fell to examining the landscape; for though the firmament was so darkly blue, yet it was no night sky and was brightly luminous; and though there was no moon apparent, yet from some invisible source a silver radiance filled the valley that widened before him and far below him to what, from its glitter, he judged to be the sea. the wooded hills sloped gently to the wide bed of the valley valley beyond time through which a river curved amongst pastures. here and there were white buildings set about with tall trees, amidst whose intensely green foliage there was a constant movement of subdued colour. nearest of all to him, as he stood on the smooth hill-side, was a long white colonnaded house upon a wide green shelf overhanging the valley. behind it was a small wood. it was sentinelled by trees like poplars and by lawns. its pale roof shone with multitudinous fires as though it were of opal, and the pillars held the sheen of silver. no thought that he was lost in a world of a new dimension so much as entered his mind. the pet-that-might-have-been passed from his memory. he was filled with the onward urge of the explorer. 'i guess i'll go smoking along,' he announced to himself, and set off towards the house, naked and barefoot, accom- panied by a small, warm, scented breeze. he halted but once upon his downward journey, at the edge of a copse. the slim trunks of the trees were as bright as those of birches, but amid the quivering, almost trans- parent leaves swayed enormous flowers of a quenched yellow, and a round fruit that had the luminosity of pink jade. they gave out a scent that was the ghost of a perfume which might have been sweet and heady. he stopped for several moments by the trees, meditating whether or no to pick one of the fruit; remembered the ever- reiterated warning against sampling the unknown, and one occasion when the devouring of some luscious scarlet berries had ended in the hideous indignity of the stomach-pump. he would not eat them; he would just feel them! he raised himself on tip-toe and reached up to one of the enticing things which hung just above his head. it was icy cold to the touch. he thought of all the delicious confections that come out of the refrigerator, and grasped it - grasped nothing. beneath his urgent fingers the fruit burst as might a soap-bubble, and completely vanished, midge at the house of opal leaving a little moisture in the palm of his small hand. 'what a swizz!' said midge. he looked narrowly at the spoonful of palely golden juice which was all that remained of something that had been the size of a tangerine orange. it smelled most exquisitely of a flower-garden, of honey, of tonka beans. without a second's hesitation he raised his hand to his mouth and drank the nectar. it tasted even more delicious than it had smelled. midge was a ginger-beer man; he did not approve of pineapple juice or grape-fruit squash or coca-cola and the like, which he called 'sissy' drinks; but this was something completely beyond the range of his experience - a revelation, chill, sweet, exhilarating. he went round the tree systematically pillaging it wher- ever he could reach the fruit. after he had consumed at least a dozen, he succeeded in picking one whole with its pale green stalk and three long, narrow and translucent leaves. holding it carefully by the stem, he continued his journey downwards. all his faculties seemed to have become more alert. he saw further: he heard more clearly the tiny stirrings in the trees: he smelled the ghosts of a dozen new scents: his pace was faster, and he thought that he could feel beneath his feet each tiny individual plant of the moss-like carpet on which he trod. he hummed loudly to himself some small trium- phant song. even so the house was a great deal further away than he had imagined, and he found himself not weary but incredibly sleepy when, through an archway in a tall hedge, he reached the broad green lawn before it. the pillars of the colonnade, he saw now, were of crystal with silver capitals and bases. in the milk-coloured wall beyond – which glowed with a subdued light — were tall arched windows and a doorway without a door. he listened for some time but heard no sound at all. perhaps the inhabi- elled therd more to have valley beyond time tants were asleep! he felt that, in such case, the time was hardly opportune for a naked visitor to present himself. the mists of slumber were clouding his brain. it was of no avail to remind himself that it could not be more than three or four hours since he and silver had started their journey from house of saul through the fog. he would drop asleep where he stood, unless he could find somewhere to curl up. it was as warm as a morning in early summer: there could be no hardship in staying out-of-doors. he looked around. the hedge that walled the garden glimmered with some golden fruit and was recessed into alcoves, each set with a wide semi-circular bench that looked to be of white marble. the very thing! he walked to the nearest bench, and saw that some gar- ment had been left lying over the elaborately carved back. he picked it up and eyed it drowsily. it was made of a creamy, soft material that glinted with golden threads, and looked uncommonly like a rather long shirt with very short sleeves for somebody of about his own size. he felt convinced that, in the circumstances, its owner would not object to him borrowing it just for the time being. without more ado he put it on - over his head as there were no buttons to it - and found that it fell to his knees; which was highly satisfactory. he was not hungry; he was not thirsty; he was not tired; he was not frightened. he merely wanted to go to sleep. so he climbed on to the bench, put the fruit that he had plucked beside him, and forthwith his desire was fulfilled. ... he thought that somebody spoke to him. he slowly opened his eyes. he was lying on his back, looking up into a pale sky of cloudless blue. the morning - if it were morning – shone with the gold light as of a newly risen sun, and was full of the song of birds. one as brilliantly coloured as a tanager flew just above his head out of the high sea-green hedge behind the bench. he wondered whether midge at the house of opal the golden fruit that shimmered within the depths could compare with that which he had eaten before he went to sleep. somebody spoke to him again. he slowly turned his head. a girl of his own age, with black hair as lustrous as ebony and dark blue eyes, stood a couple of feet away, looking down on him with a small, grave, friendly smile. the long braids of her hair fell to the very hem of her sleeveless tunic of shot green, something below her knees. midge was rather taken by her appearance; he was inclined to approve of her. then she said, presumably for the third time: 'how many did you eat?' it was only after he had answered, 'how many what?' that he realized that she had spoken to him in english, and very clearly, without moving her lips. this time she did not say anything, but pointed to the pink jade fruit lying on the marble seat near his head. midge sat up and swung his feet to the ground. he said: ‘oh, about a dozen, i think. there's very little in them, you know. nobody minds me picking them, do they?' 'a dozen!' said the girl with the black hair. 'a dozen!' her smile widened, and she burst into a silvery peal of laughter. the great braids of her hair danced to her mirth. 'what are you laughing about?' asked midge very seri- ously, standing up. 'no wonder i couldn't wake you,' she answered. 'i have tried several times. nobody ever eats more than two of them. you were as greedy as the people of cernunnos!' this appeared to be the equivalent of calling him a pig. midge was a little discomposed at making so unfavourable an impression on such a girl. he changed a distasteful sub- ject without further ado. ‘how long have i been asleep here, then?' he asked. she regarded him with considerable surprise: 'why, practically ever since you came, of course.' valley beyond time “yes, but i don't know when i came, or what the time is now. you see, i've lost my watch somehow with all my other things. her expression of intrigue deepened. ‘what is a watch?' ‘don't you have them?' demanded midge, much taken aback. 'i don't understand what they are for.' just to tell the time — the hours and the minutes and the seconds.' ‘hours and minutes and seconds? hours and minutes and seconds to tell the time! what are they? how do they do it? the words don't mean anything to me at all. why should you need them? the question utterly confounded him. ‘but you can't have time without hours and things,' he said perplexedly; and then evaded the issue – ‘anyhow, even if you don't know what hours are, you speak english awfully well. where did you learn it? 'i am not speaking to you with my tongue,' she said. 'i can't speak english. i am thinking to you. you are hearing me with your mind and not with your ears. my mind is listening to yours, too. the words you speak with your mouth are just gibberish to my ears.' this explanation of telepathic communication rather gravelled midge. he sought further information: ‘but don't you use your voices to speak with?' 'of course we do. we sing songs, and recite poetry, and tell great tales. but we of cibola do not scream and shout at one another like those wild ones of cernunnos.' obviously the people of cernunnos were not rated very highly by the girl with the black hair; midge accordingly hastened to disclaim any connection: 'i've got nothing to do with them,' he said with a show of indignation. 'honest, cross my heart, i haven't! i never even heard of them before.' midge at the house of opal 'i know that,' she answered. “the gate has been open for a little while, and you have come down from the wood of the threshold. sometimes people stray here from your world, but not very often. i've never seen anyone from it before. so you'll have to tell me all about it! 'good-oh!' said midge. 'i'd love to. and you'll tell me all about here, too? a strange, eerie notion struck him. 'i say, we aren't dead or anything, are we? 'dead! exclaimed the girl with black hair indignantly. ‘of course i am not.' without warning she extended her hand and seized the flesh of his forearm, and tweaked it un- mercifully. 'and neither are you! 'o-oh! he exclaimed; and then: 'of course i can't be!' 'we aren't ghosts, you know, although the cernunnos seem to think we must be — we who live in cibola, the island of the valley of the ever-young, as they call it. they are very afraid of us. they don't understand why we don't die or grow old like they do. but then, for one thing, they are always killing one another, or having what they call “dis- eases” from eating and drinking too much, or losing their hair and their teeth and their sight, until one day they don't breathe any more.' 'you don't die!' echoed midge, open-mouthed. 'not in the way they do, affirmed the girl. “and we don't grow old in their way. we grow up, i shall grow up. i don't want to.' her face clouded at the prospect. midge would have liked to ask the reason. he said after a moment's reflection: 'do you — do you think your people would mind me stay- ing here a little before i go back?' ‘of course they will let you. you see, you are not a grown-up. if grown-ups come they have to go to one of the four kingdoms in cernunnos ... would you like to stay with us?" 'wouldn't i just! you bet your sweet life! i'd love to.' this enthusiasm was apparently very acceptable, for the valley beyond time girl with black hair gave him a most encouraging smile and nod. "that's settled,' she said. 'do you know that you are wearing one of my tunics? would you like to see my animals? ‘of course i should. i say, what's your name?' 'ethne,' said the girl. "what's yours?' ‘midge,' he told her. with a smile she advanced her lips to his and kissed him in a ritual manner. then she swung round towards the house and whistled shrilly and very sweetly in a fashion that aroused midge's envy, for one of the fine arts in which he frankly admitted failure was that of the siffleur. as though that call had been long and eagerly awaited, a huge white hound promptly appeared in the arched doorway of the house, and stood there at gaze with wrinkled brow and head cocked a little to one side. something small and silvery also arrived, and sat up on its hind legs in survey, revealing the apricot-coloured belly of midge's earlier acquaintance. ‘oh, there's the wunk! he cried, remembering such a creature being mentioned in a. a.'s story of 'the prince's birthday present.' 'it's the togmall!' ethne corrected him. "that whistle said, “where is everybody?” this one will say, “come as fast as you can!”, she whistled a tiny chirrup of a call. if the hound came towards her like a cavalry charge, the togmall travelled with the speed of a flash of silver lightning. it was sitting on her shoulder, licking her cheek with its forked purple tongue, before the dog had hurled itself at her feet. 'caibell!' said ethne, pointing to the hound in introduc- tion. 'and this is togga! caibell — who was larger than any great dane, and had flapping ears stained bright red — turned the courteous valley beyond time 'of course. i built it.' ‘you did?' he said, flabbergasted; and in that second of amazement recollected his own poor efforts at hut-building – the shaky walls of stakes and rough basket-work of twigs, the thatch of leafy boughs that never withstood the wind or the rain. 'but — 'come and see! come on! she took him by the sleeve to urge him, and then still carrying the load of fruit in her dress, ran like the wind to- wards her temple, the hound loping on one side of her and the togmall on the other. midge had won both the junior school hundred yards and two hundred and twenty yards races at the sports that summer. he had even set up a record for the hundred, but he could not catch ethne. she was already there and had turned towards him, unflurried and unflushed, when he arrived panting. but she proclaimed no victory. she said: 'if you hadn't eaten the slumber-fruit, midge, i am sure you would have passed me!' he knew quite well that he would not have done so, but that she had found an excuse for him, of which he would never have thought. it made him even more certain than before that he was going to like ethne very much indeed. 'i don't think so,' he told her out of his intrinsic honesty, but she merely took his hand and led him up the three steps into this belvedere which she herself had raised. it was open in front like the summer-house at morfa, and the wall at the back, which rose to the silver roof, was as lustrous as mother-of-pearl and divided into long panels, one of which was already carved in bas-relief, whilst another had the design plotted out upon the surface. there was a bench of the same strange material beneath them, covered with cushions of every hue, and, he noticed, a small collection of tools in one corner. he drew a great breath. midge at the house of opal heads right. besides i've only once seen my father wearing his coronet. he was having his portrait painted by an artist. he didn't like the picture when it was finished — not one bit. he said that it was a waste of time and a waste of good money and that he had been made to look like a tailor's dummy and a she-man! it was doubtful whether ethne understood all this state- ment; but she nodded as if she did, and said: 'we'll do it together, midge. you'll describe everything to me, and i'll draw it, and then you can correct it. that will be the best way. let's go and fetch the stone! they went out of the belvedere. togga was sitting on one of the steps, a grey-green shimmer of light, cracking a nut which he held in his front paws like a squirrel. the hound caibell was lying on the moss carpet, gnawing at something that resembled an extraordinarily large coconut in shape and colour. he looked up from his meal for a second with a desultory wag of a flail-like tail. 'he's dug up a - 'midge failed to understand the word '- root. it's very good for his teeth.' she gave incomprehensible approval to the gratified caibell. against the back of ethne's house half a dozen panels were propped, awaiting her attention — slightly curved, six foot long and an inch thick, and holding the rainbow light and colours of mother-of-pearl. "you take one, and i'll take one,' she said. midge advanced a little uncertainly. he doubted very much indeed if he could budge a thing twice as big as a tombstone, but he put his arms round the slab all the same and heaved. but no effort at all was required. for all its size it was lighter by far than if it had been made of aluminium — as light as a folded newspaper. it might have been compact of a frozen mist, though its surface was as hard as marble. 'it's easiest to carry it on your head,' advised ethne. chapter iii problem with shadows n or a moment it seemed that ethne had actually not kremarked what had occurred, although midge saw the slender, bright shaft of the implement rising out of the flesh of her foot a little behind the great toe. she appeared, indeed, to be thus impaled upon the greensward. he felt as though the exquisite agony that she must be experiencing were also his. then she stooped down without any display at all of pain, or even of emotion, and casually pulled the thing out of her foot. the blade emerged stainless, and the white skin was un- marked by the blemish of any wound. there was, in fact, no single drop of blood to tell of what had happened. he set the panel he was carrying down upon the moss. he looked at her very strangely. he said: 'ethne, didn't - didn't that hurt you at all?' ‘of course it couldn't. why should it?' ‘but you didn't bleed! 'what – like the cernunnos? why ever should i? would you?' 'i am not like one of the cernunnos,' he insisted, 'but i know i'd bleed like a stuck pig!' he was very gravely con- cerned, and felt that the matter was of intense personal importance — although at the moment he did not quite know why – and persisted: ‘but, ethne, haven't you got any blood? then suddenly, even as he spoke, he realized why it was so important. for much as he already liked her, there would be something basically wrong in keeping company with a creature without blood - a phantom. he recollected once valley beyond time listening, unobserved, to some grown-up talk which had started about a man who had seen pink elephants and spotted snakes that were not real. it had gone on to discussion of another man who had made friends with an enormous rabbit which nobody could see except himself. then the talk had diverged into discussion of vampires and other most horrible creatures that only retained their hold upon existence by borrowing other people's blood. he had gathered the impression that the whole matter indeed hinged upon that question of the possession of blood. it seemed to him, then, that ethne must have read every thought in his mind; for in answer to him she seized both his hands. 'you don't believe i'm one of those imagined things that frighten the cernunnos so?' she demanded. 'i am not a ghost! she flung both her arms about his neck; held herself to him, and kissed him on the mouth. her body was warm; her lips fluttered against him; her breath was very sweet. ‘am i a ghost, midge?' she asked. 'look!' she loosed a hand and turned it so that the blue lines of the veins showed at the wrists on their journey up the slim forearm. with the other she seized his fingers and pressed them against the beating of her heart. ‘am i a ghost, now, midge?' she asked yet again. 'no, ethne! no!' he declared, and was conscious that tears of relief were standing in his eyes. with that she kissed him once again. 'you see, midge, we must be made a little differently from you. that's all! we don't get hurt in our bodies. we don't go about losing our blood. but we can get hurt right within us, you know. in our minds and our souls, just like you! she drew his arm within hers. 'oh, ethne,' he said, 'i am so glad that you are real! for just a horrible moment i thought you were going to be - to be – like a – sort of dream, and i wanted you to be real! problem with shadows 'well, now you know! i'm as real as you. no, midge, i am more real, because i know what things aren't really real, and you do not ... let's go and eat our fruit, and talk in my house! ... it was the first thing manannan taught me. the only things that are all real are things that live and think. everything else is only partly real. some things of course are more real than others. i mean, for instance, that the tree over there is much more real than my pavilion. the tree is living, so i couldn't-'. she stopped very abruptly; looked at him with a roguish twinkle; said very earnestly: 'you believe i'm real now, don't you? on your word of honour! ‘on my word of honour!' 'well, then i'll show you some of the things i can do. but you must promise not to tell anyone, because they would only laugh at me for being babyish. and i don't like being laughed at. and it isn't being babyish. it's for your educa- tion, midge! ‘of course,' he loyally agreed. they had halted at the cliff edge of the secret dell by a low white balustrade, which gave the place something of a resemblance to a box high up in a theatre, with the wide plain below for auditorium, and the purple and black and violet mountains in the far distance for a stage setting. ‘stay where you are! commanded ethne. 'i want a little room to do this. she walked a dozen or so paces away, and then turned and came rather quickly towards him, the folds of her filmy tunic pressing against her body as though she breasted some small wind. the tunic was no longer pressing against her — was vanishing — and her body was actually coming towards him through the green mesh of it — her knees – her shoulders — her hips — all the slender whiteness of her! she passed through the garment as though through water. valley beyond time it fluttered out behind her, free; billowed out a little, and then fell in a silken tangle upon the moss! ethne stood before him, naked and unconcerned. at the mingled expression of amazement and consterna- tion in his face, she went into peals of laughter, and, arms akimbo, actually swayed with her mirth. 'however did you do that?' he stammered, a little embar- rassed at her nudity. ‘oh, i just walked through my tunic. you see it is only partly real and i am all real: so it can't stop me passing through. it isn't torn anywhere as if it had caught upon a bough or anything. you can look in a minute! now i'll show you something else! come on! as they went towards the pavilion, he picked up her tunic. it was not unlike that which he was wearing; a girdle of silver fabric was still buckled about it, and there was no sign of injury to it whatever. he held the garment out to ethne. she shook her head. 'i don't want it now. in fact i hate wearing clothes. i don't see any use in them. do you? why don't you take off yours? he ignored the suggestion. already he felt sufficiently inferior to her in every way. complete nakedness would merely add to that sensation. ‘but when it's cold, ethne?' 'it isn't ever cold.' ‘but at night? ‘night? manannan told me once that quite often your world is completely dark. how horrible! ours isn't, ever.' as he slung the rejected apparel over his shoulder he remarked upon his forefinger the inkstain that a leaky fountain-pen had made when he had written the poem about silver. he saw the stain, but it meant nothing to him now: life had begun when he had been awakened - how long ago? – to a new world under a pale blue, shining sky, and the flight of a scarlet bird, and ethne looking at him.... problem with shadows they were under the silver cupola again, on the amber and ivory floor, facing the tall panels that had the lustre of moonstone and mother-of-pearl. 'now watch very carefully, and then perhaps you will be able to do what i am going to,' said ethne. she was just about to mount the semi-circular bench against the wall, when a musical and beautiful voice spoke. 'i fancy,' it said, 'that ethne is showing off for your benefit!' midge swung round. a tall man with black hair and brightly blue eyes stood behind him. he was young, with a noble face and the bear- ing of the very great, and he was smiling. a close tunic of pale green, belted and fringed with silver, fell to his knees, and his feet were shod with sandals of silver. his hair was a little long and set about with a silver circlet in which was a great pale, cloudy stone. ‘midge!' said ethne, looking somewhat abashed, “this is my father, manannan, the king.' midge was a little uncertain of the procedure to be followed at presentation to a king. he bowed very respectfully. manannan seated himself upon the bench beneath the blank panel, drew the boy down beside him and said: “run and meet your mother, ethne, whilst i talk for a little to your new friend! when she had gone midge protested rather anxiously – 'she wasn't really showing off, sir. she's just doing things to help me get used to - to your country.' 'i am glad that you defend your friend,' said the king, regarding him kindly. "to be honest,' continued midge, ‘i'm sure that she walked through her clothes, not to show off at all, but because she saw that i was - he hesitated, and the king supplied the word: ‘concerned?' but the truth had always been of vast importance to midge; at times he could be devastatingly frank. valley beyond time ‘no, sir,' he confessed. 'i was frightened – very frightened. a knife or something fell on her foot, and went through it. and it didn't hurt her, and there was no blood. i thought she must be a ghost. i didn't want her to be a ghost.' ‘ah!' said the man in the shining tunic. “so you were frightened because you couldn't see any blood. now do you know that i, too, was very frightened once, like you, but because i saw blood and i had never seen it before. it was very long ago when i was young, too, and the people of cernunnos first came to this world ... has ethne told you about the cernunnos? 'yes, sir. a bit.' 'well, they first came here after they had been beaten in a great battle in the country in your world that you now call ireland. the entrance to our world lay open, and they fled here from their enemies. many of them were wounded by swords, and spears, and arrows, and maces, and axes, and sling-stones. there was hardly a man among them who had no hurt — and the women, too! some of them died as soon as they got here. i had never seen dead people either. my father took me to see these refugees, and i daresay that i was even more horrified than you have been.' 'i saw a dead man once, sir,' said midge. 'it was after a road accident. it made me very sick. but i didn't feel sick about ethne. i was frightened, i think, because i knew that i should go on liking her even if she were a ghost! 'you would, would you?' said the man with the shimmer- ing tunic. 'except that she can pass through things that look solid and so on, you think now she's like the girls you know in your own world? 'well, of course, she can run faster than anybody i know. i'm supposed to be quite good. i did the hundred yards in thirteen and a fifth seconds before i was twelve, but she'd beat me every time. but i do like her better than anyone i've ever met, honour bright! 'good!' said the king, looking down into the candid grey problem with shadows eyes. “very good! and i'll wager ethne said that you would be able to stay here with her in our valley. didn't she?' 'yes, sir. do you think i can? i hope you'll let me.' 'i am sure that you can — for a while. i think that you should be able in a way to help her prepare for the destiny before her. midge wondered whether it would be in order to inquire into the destiny that would confront ethne, but manannan went on: 'so you found the tunic where we put it for you? “you knew i was coming, then?' said midge in astonish- ment. 'the watchers saw you enter this world from carn meurig. unseen, they brought you to this valley before you got lost in the great forest in the land of the dergans, where your friends have gone.' already the senator and r. r. had faded from his mind. there was about the memory of them something of the un- reality of a dream. his father, silver, uncle minos — even they were less real than manannan smiling down at him with bright eyes. 'they didn't come here then, sir?' 'no,' said manannan. 'only the young or the very inno- cent can stay with us. the others go into the lands we allotted to the cernunnos, where they feast and fight among themselves, and make love all day long. among the people of whom i told you.' said midge with a wrinkled brow: 'it must have been a very long time ago, sir, that those people came here. for i've never read in history of the defeated army that ran away to another world. of course i've only done english and a little american history.' 'you will find it all the same,' said manannan, 'in the books of irish history, how the people of danu were beaten by the milesians and disappeared from the face of the earth ... i am not a ghost any more than ethne, am i, midge?' – problem with shadows she hurled their king to the ground, breaking his arm, with- out an effort, although he was a young man and very strong! 'is she young? is she beautiful? may i go and see her one day?' ethne had reappeared. she stood silhouetted between the pillars of the entrance against the background of violet-hued mountains and glittering golden-blue sky. at her side was a very lovely woman with a pale skin and dark red hair. she was more beautiful than helen of troy, of more enchantment than sea-born aphrodite. ‘come and kiss me, midge!' said branwen the queen, and opened her arms to him. in the too brief instant in which he was enfolded in the embrace of ethne's mother, any last lingering fears he might have had left were kissed away; the memory of his home, his country, his world receded still further into the past; the consciousness of the beauty and the love, and the scents and sounds and colours of this other world in other time and other space poured into his mind and all his senses. 'so you have come for a while to keep ethne company,' said branwen when she had released him. “that will be very good for both of you. it is long, long since anyone came from your universe to the island of the valley.' ‘and still longer since any came to one of the kingdoms of the cernunnos of the quality of these other two,' added manannan, watching the swift flight of a golden bird along the valley. 'it has been a fisherman sometimes, or else a shepherd, or perhaps a drunken man who has lost himself in the hills. i wonder —. but now we will go and celebrate midge's arrival by a feast.' ‘and afterwards,' urged ethne, clutching her father's tunic, 'we will all go a-hunting?' 'we will go hunting,' he assured her. she clapped her hands. 'i will give midge my horse arianrhod!' she said. the great hound caibell rose to his feet as though he had valley beyond time understood. he whimpered and thrust a wet nose into ethne's hand. 'what do you hunt, sir?' asked the boy, who had been out with hounds at home on several occasions. 'we do not hunt for the sake of killing,' said the king. 'i don't think you could possibly guess what it is we chase. in your world you sometimes tell the time by them; but here we don't think of time in the same way, and they would be useless anyhow. we hunt - shadows! ‘shadows!' he was open-mouthed in his astonishment. in the next instant he thought of important and dignified shadows that he had known: the long ones cast in the quad- rangle at school by the early morning sun, and the creeping sharp-edged shadow thrown by the gnomon onto the brass face of the sun-dial in the courtyard at saul, where the words were engraved, 'the houres pass by and are putt to our accompt.' he thought, too, of those rather fearsome dark- nesses that lurked in the passage by the secret room at night. here, instead of being venerated as time-tellers, or feared for their menace, they were contemptuously hunted! 'here,' explained manannan, 'nobody and nothing have shadows of their own. even you haven't brought yours with you! midge looked quickly behind him to verify the statement. it was quite true! but he was not, however, unduly con- cerned, and ethne commented: 'i don't think i should like to have one dogging me all the time. i would never feel private ... oh, look, midge! quickly! there's a shadow! on the mountains across the green meadows! he followed her pointing finger. upon the purple hills on the other side of the valley a darker purple shadow drifted, as though cast by a lazing summer cloud. but there was no cloud in a sky that was now the gold of a daffodil; nor was there any sun. problem with shadows soon he was to get used to the fact — which, on this first discovery, he found rather odd — that shadows were not attached to anything visible. soon he was to get used to shadows — of what? — seeping up from within the ground and lying like a stain upon the surface, resting motionless perhaps as though asleep about a tree or house, fluttering (it seemed) like butterflies, or darting purposefully across the uplands faster than sound. now he watched, mesmerized, as the purple shadow on the further hills suddenly ceased its idling, and flowed down into the valley like an avalanche, and disappeared within a wood. 'i hope we find one like that!' declared ethne. ... presently midge found himself astride a great white horse, part of a cavalcade that streamed in furious flight across a billowy plain, past orchards and woods of every conceivable hue, past pillared houses that might have been built out of rainbows, past gardens glowing with strange flowers. spur- less and stirrupless, the hunters rode on steeds with purple manes and tails over a flower-gemmed turf ... in so very little they were on the mountain ridges, above the world, a white city with towers shimmering far away against a silver sea laced with slow-running sapphire billows. ethne was at his right hand and singing as she rode. he had never imagined such speed or such exquisite pleasure. chapter iv the seven thousandth candle orrigan, the queen, who so short a while before had been r. r., and 'woman friday' to senator benaiah purvis, sat in the high place of the hall of the kings of derga. she was robed in shimmering green and cloaked in a mantle of dark blue, and on her head shone a diadem studded with dragon-stones. she sat in a carved chair before a small table set with silver dishes, upon a dais whence she surveyed two or three hundred of her chief sub- jects banqueting with the abandon of savages, in a riot of colour and noise. immediately behind her was a lighted candle, ice-white, as thick as a man and thrice as tall, burning with a lemon- coloured flame as long and narrow as a sword. on her left a tall old man held stiffly in his hand a long white rod capped by a silver hammer-head. on her right, at a table lower than her own, sat purvis with a tightly withdrawn expression on his face, but splendid in a mantle of purple and a tunic of scarlet. a low rail hung with a crimson and silver cloth made an enclosure about them, made the slim woman sitting beneath the gigantic white column of the candle a goddess presiding at her own shrine. she was conscious of a certain amount of sympathy with purvis in his manifest discontent at comparative relegation to the background, although she did not show it. she guessed how much it must rankle with him that she had stolen all the limelight ever since the time — was it but a few hours ago? - when the king of derga had lain prostrate at her feet in abject surrender and obeisance. the fanfares had been for her! all the mad, swift sequence of events that had followed had been for her! the seven thousandth candle the pageant of the procession across the high uplands, under the bright blue vaulting of a sky that had shown no sun, had been for her! in this shield-hung, torch-lit hall of a huge hill-top strong- hold she had been acclaimed by a tumultuous throng, had been robed, had been lifted into the chair upon which she now was seated, had been crowned with the diadem which she now wore. at some time during the incomprehensible confusion and the uproar a small man, with wispy grey hair and a battered elfish face the colour of a blighted raspberry, had materialized at her side. "be easy, lady!' he had said — and in his voice was the lilt of irish speech. 'it's queen of derga that they're making you.' 'if they think i'm going to marry that dirty piece of work - 'och, him! king tuathal! he's cut his throat, ma'am - or someone's done it for him! he's offended their gods. for they're thinking that you're one of their lady gods – morri- gan, queen of battle! they say you struck the king down by her image in the sacred valley with one touch of your hand upon his oxter. taran, the harper, saw it from the wood. he heard the king's arm-bone snap like a faggot.' so now she sat at this feast in her honour in the great hall of the royal rath, which, with its lofty pillars — carved and painted and gilded — soaring up into the murk of the high roof, was (she thought) like the nave of a desecrated cathe- dral. facing her, at the far end, was an immense doorway through which white-clad servitors poured to and fro with gargantuan dishes. its pointed arch was filled with the luminosity of a sky that was no longer blue, but a glittering pale green. meanwhile purvis regarded the scene with intense curi- osity and interest, but also with chagrin and disappointment. whatever he had anticipated for himself in the fourth valley beyond time dimension, it certainly had not been a relegation to playing second fiddle to r. r. furthermore, whatever civilization he had expected to encounter in the other world in the other universe, it had not been a barbaric civilization of un- questionably celtic origin. so he was a little curt on occasion when morrigan ad- dressed him. once or twice he even pretended not to hear her owing to his preoccupation in every detail of the wild, bright, uproarious spectacle before him. she thought that he was being rather childish, and began to resent his attitude. presently, after watching one of the feasters toy with a marrow-bone, he broke out: ‘by god, these people need civilizing! ‘and senator purvis rather thinks he's the man to do it! commented morrigan acidly. 'knives, forks, spoons, and parlour manners as a start! after that, canned meat and comics — automobiles and t.v.! preach the gospel of the glorious culture of the west!' he was a trifle taken aback by her sarcasm, and protested: 'well, who on earth would have expected to find the fourth-dimensional world still in the bronze age? 'his honour is right, ma'am,' interrupted the wizened little interpreter, leaning confidentially over her chair. 'it's civilized, indeed, that these people need to be. they're pagans, and murderers, and thieves. i was fair martyred with the drink when i lay down to sleep it off on the hill-side above ballynagall. when i woke up the thieving spalpeens had brought me to this place and plucked me as naked as an old hen – clothes, pipe, boots, 'bacca and all! purvis's bright blue eyes surveyed the queer little creature for an instant. 'what's your name?' he rumbled. ‘malachi, your honour. malachi-the-tongue is what they are calling me here.' 'been here long? jd still in the terrupted the air. 'it's valley beyond time young. they are a strange people, proud and beautiful, and they don't grow old at all, at all!' benaiah swung his whole body round upon his stool, the more easily to observe the intent face of the girl enthroned above him. the movement was made as quickly and as lightly as if his great body had no weight. "they don't grow old at all!' he repeated slowly, savouring the sound and the full meaning of the phrase. "they don't grow old at all! do you realize, r. r., that if lambard merely came to such a place as this and yet returned to caldy quite unaware of the passage of seven years, how much more strange the time-factor must be on the island malachi is talking about? ... they don't grow old! now - i wonder! ... i guess that's the place for you and me! 'i don't have to consider the problem of old age with quite such personal interest as you do, mr. purvis,' said r. r. rather unpleasantly; for she had not forgiven him for his sulkiness. 'in any case i propose to see this adventure through first, before making any further plans.' 'i ' he was about to embark upon argument with her, despite a sudden vast increase in the uproar in the hall, when his attention was distracted, and he fell silent. the white-robed old man with the long wand, who stood on the further side of the dais, had swung about and was facing inwards as though a priest before an altar. he raised the staff topped with a silver hammer ... out of the corner of an eye benaiah observed that one of the three lovely girls in attendance upon morrigan had covered her ears with her hands ... the next instant the man struck lightly at what appeared to be a festoon of apple-blossom which hung down, out of the dimness of the high arch above, to within a foot or so of his head. immediately the whole place was filled with the song of bells — of small silver bells, whose piercing, mournful sweet- ness grew to such an intensity that the mind was emptied of valley beyond time and flung off his purple mantle, and seized the long spear of one of the motionless soldiers near him. ‘this kind of nonsense must be put a stop to,' said he in a casual voice, and stepped from the dais and proceeded to stalk down the great nave, enormous and menacing as a scandinavian god, carrying the spear point downwards in the fashion of a staff. and as he stalked, so silence amongst the feasters followed after him. morrigan watched him, an elbow resting upon the carved arm of her chair, her pointed chin propped in a cupped hand, an enigmatical smile shadowy on her lips. benaiah had at length taken the centre of the stage! she was glad that he should do so. she permitted no sign of anxiety or doubt to appear upon the inscrutable face that she turned towards the great door. now that the rest of the hall was silent, the violence and the anger of the snarling battle became apparent. at least a dozen men were engaged in close conflict, and two or three more lay motionless among the scented rushes with which the floor was strewn. she saw purvis pause for a single moment on the outskirts of the struggle, to make swift decision on his tactics. he dropped the spear. then without word or warning he literally flung his great body into the mêlée, almost as though he were diving. he uprose the next second, towering above the throng, holding in his two hands the body of a struggling man, which he raised above his head and hurled with great violence from him as a large dog might fling away con- temptuously some broken and worthless prey. with sprawl- ing limbs it struck the floor and lay still. in the dark, swirling chaos of the fight, she caught the glint of knives. the changing pattern of the outline against the backcloth of the strange green sky had a sort of mad rhythm: the tempo of the movement became one of almost inconceivable rapidity, the tall figure with the white mane being the pivot about which everything revolved. then the seven thousandth candle 'i wish we were out of this fug!' she said at length. 'i'd like to walk now in the moonlight.' 'moonlight, is it, lady?' said malachi. "there's no moon to be walking by in these parts, though you could see to read at any time. likewise there's sunshine without you seeing any sun. there's no night, and no rain, and no snow, and no cold, and no storm, and the trees fruit and flower ever and always. you could live here without doing a hand's turn all the days of your life. 'and does anyone do a hand's turn?' asked benaiah. “they mostly spend their time fighting and love-making, hunting and horse-racing, and singing and dancing and feasting! - morrigan said, still harping upon her original complaint: ‘but why do we have to feast indoors here in the dark if there's never any darkness or cold? why do you need houses at all?' 'lady,' protested malachi, 'isn't it snugger here under a roof than under the naked sky with the holy angels watching out of it everything that you might be doing? wouldn't you choose, too, to sleep in the dark?' 'what happens here next?' asked morrigan, endeavouring to suppress a yawn. ‘the harpers will play and sing, and they'll all go on eating and drinking till they fall asleep in their places.' 'i have had enough,' said r. r. 'tell the priest that i'm going to commune with the high gods! i shall walk in the moonlight that isn't moonlight for a little and go to bed. i do not feel like making a night of it. i was up earlier than you this morning, benaiah - or was it yesterday, or last week, or the year before? when was it that i drove the car with silver and the boy from house of saul to carn meurig? when was it that i saw you walk into the wood like an elderly apollo?' purvis checked his resentment of the small insolence. he divined that behind her almost arrogant composure her mind valley beyond time d slippede said mink it's ne was troubled, that the rudeness was part of her defences against this unknown world, against the unknown quantity that was himself. he answered her: 'i have no idea. at one and the same time it seems to me a very, very long while ago, and also quite recently that we crossed the dimensions. real time, against mechanical time, is extensible, you know. even if it is always day — always today! — they still must have some method here of marking off time intervals by a motion of a periodic character. i don't see how the ordinary activities of life could be carried on without.' he turned as he spoke to make inquiry of malachi, but the little man had slipped away. 'i am sorry i was rude,' said morrigan, looking straight before her. “to be honest, i think it's nerves. i'm not physically frightened you know – but frightened in my soul. it's always day! it's always day!... bennie - do you suppose that this is eternity?' she shot a quick look at him as she spoke; but he did not smile; he said very quietly: “think a minute, r. r.! think a minute! in the last quarter of an hour two or three men have died. would that happen in eternity? in our own world we are always a little amused by the idea that it can be monday night in the states when it's already tuesday morning in england — that christmas with us is mid-winter, and in australia mid- summer. i guess it's nothing to be surprised about, that the concept of time is vastly different in a world of another dimension.' she nodded her head slowly in agreement, her eyes still fixed upon the strange green sky showing in the great arch- way at the far end of the smoky, flare-lit hall — a sky in which no luminary was visible. presently she turned again to him: 'don't laugh at what i'm going to say!' ‘of course i shan't.' . the seven thousandth candle 'it's this. i hope you'll be within call tonight. do i mean tonight? or what should i say? anyhow i find it a rather terrifying thought, going to bed a whole universe away from the old shake-down in – so to speak — the purvis attic.' 'i'll be within hail,' benaiah assured her, 'even if i have to sleep across your doorway with a naked sword beside me.' after that they sat in a companionable silence amidst the incredible din of the feast, remote observers, as was befitting visitants from another world. when malachi reappeared, morrigan asked him: 'who is the lad with dark red hair who wanted to go to mr. purvis's help? 'etar, commander of the golden battalion, ma'am. they say his mother's mother was one of the ever-young. he's as brave as a lion, lady, and a proper gentleman!' 'tell him, then, that his battalion shall provide my guard from now on.' the young man was standing on the bottom step of the dais, and obviously heard the mention of his name, for he flashed a quick inquiring glance at the queen, and then, as quickly, looked away. 'that lad's too good-looking by far!' said benaiah with a leathery smile and a knowing shake of his big head. 'never mind! she retorted. 'i haven't forgotten your pre- dilections. my maids of honour are going to be blondes — every one! thank me nicely! when, a little later, she retired to a bedchamber as big as a church, and a tester-bed with peacock-embroidered hang- ings, in the company of her ladies, benaiah had a feather-bed brought to the windowless ante-room, which was bare of everything except a great chest of some dark green wood, a cathedral-size candlestick, and a round mirror of polished metal. he started to make ready for bed. he flung off his mantle, and then automatically – as he the seven thousandth candle 'yes, yes! but what do you use here instead of them? 'well, there are watches, your honour. and then there are sleeps. “how many watches to a sleep?' ‘three.' "and then? ‘and then there are candles, your honour.' ‘candles! “the great candle under which the queen sat in the hall of the candle is the candle of time. when it burns down to a certain mark, one of the priests strikes the bells, and time is sent out to all the world — to derga, and falias, and dara, and morien, and danu. across the mountains and the forests and the plains. had not alfred the great of england measured time by candles? — the senator reflected. he asked: 'well then, how many sleeps go to a candle?' malachi grinned again. he appeared to find the question ridiculous, although he answered politely enough: 'sure, your honour, that ’ull depend on the candle! some burn quicker nor others. some are shorter nor others. some are thinner nor others. the king of morien – bad cess to him! - always sends small candles, and the king of danu big ones. there's no saying. but what does it matter?' 'good god!' said purvis in a shocked voice. as if it did not matter! after a long pause he recovered himself suffi- ciently to ask: 'what's the date, then?” the question involved much explanation on his part and profound private meditation on malachi's part, before the little interpreter arrived at an answer. purvis resumed the purple mantle that he had doffed. he struck a resounding blow upon the heavy door of morri- gan's chamber, calling out his name. in a moment or so there was a sound of bolts being with- drawn, and then morrigan, herself, appeared in the arch- valley beyond time way. she was still robed in shimmering tissue. there was a quizzical expression on her face, and her raised left eyebrow questioned him. benaiah hastened to give the reason for his summons before she could come out with some ribaldry: 'i have just learned something that i guessed you'd like to know before you went to bed ... we left wales, as you know, at hours on september the twenty-second, in the year of our lord, nineteen hundred and so on. we arrived here in the second watch of the twenty-ninth sleep of the seven thousandth candle.' 'near enough!' interjected malachi. 'it's as near as anyone can get by means of the local system of time measurement ... good night, r. r.' perhaps to measure time by candles was as good as any other way – he told himself, as once again he started bed- wards. after all, the reality of time did not consist in the ticks of a clock or the silent burning of a small flame, but in how one used one's own bit of eternity. nevertheless he had been bereft of his conception of time, just as he had been bereft of his shadow. he had been rendered physically naked when he entered this new uni- verse. now suddenly, and rather frighteningly, he felt him- self spiritually naked. at his age, he considered, it was only natural to wish to know with some definiteness how fast or how slowly one was travelling towards the grave. he dismissed malachi and sought consolation in prayer.... in the days – which were not days — that followed, benaiah became increasingly obsessed by the problem of time. for here it was no longer the frank enemy which, in that other world, announced the progress of its attack in the dial of every clock, and in the rapid circling of the second- hand of a watch. here it lurked hideously in ambush, so the seven thousandth candle that only the bells of time in the hall at derga gave occa- sional warning of its conspiracy, at intervals that would have been untranslatable into earthly measurements even if they had been constant. the song of the bells passed swiftly through the air over all the land, like a flight of unseen birds. there was no escaping from it. even when hunting elk with etar in a river-threaded valley a hundred miles — so he reckoned – from derga, he heard the plaintive music approach rapidly from the distance, hover high in the sky overhead, and then sweep on, sighing and crying, above the furthest range of mountains. etar said that the bitter-sweet sound was carried in that manner to the remotest realms of the cernunnos, although he did not know what property there was in bells or atmo- sphere which should make it possible. intelligent though he was, he gave, through malachi-the- tongue, an account of the origin of bells and candle that was plainly fabulous. “there are no other bells such as these in the world, and no one has ever been able to make any like them,' he added. ‘the secret has been lost ... the king of morien is very envious of our bells. they tell me he has sworn they shall hang within his royal rath, so that he shall make the time for the world. soon he will come with his armies and try to take them from us. of that i am convinced.' he turned a little in the saddle whilst malachi translated, and studied the purposeful bronzed face of the big man at whose side he rode. he was satisfied that he had aroused his serious attention, and so embarked upon an exposition of the gravity of the international situation. benaiah, listening intently, realized of a sudden that there were many words which the young man used in his native speech that he already understood. how had he learned them so quickly, in, perhaps, a dozen 'sleeps' – he who had no gift for languages – even though luan, the most exquisite valley beyond time of the queen's ladies, at morrigan's behest had devoted her- self almost too wholeheartedly to his instruction? later on when he lay down to rest, wrapped in his cloak, beneath the canopy of purple and silver foliage spread high aloft by tall forest trees, he meditated uneasily upon the problem: what was the relationship between a fourth- dimensional 'sleep' and an earthly day? sir walter raleigh's famous lines passed through his mind: even such is time, that takes in trust our youth, our joys, our all we have, and pays us but with earth and dust. ... he had been but a lad when first he read the poem; afterwards he had taken out his watch and marked the seconds hand ticking off a minute, and then another one, and then another. three whole minutes of his life had been expended thus! supposing he lived to be eighty - he had thought - how many minutes more remained to him? he had taken pencil and paper and made the calculation on the spot. now, older by more years than he cared to think about, and distant by a whole universe, he recalled the total at which he had arrived. he had got something over thirty million minutes left — thirty million minutes then! how many had he now? it was frittering away the poor balance that remained to him to go hunting the elk and the boar, to attend races and hurley matches and other sports, or to linger in the company of green-eyed luan, of the slim hands and mysterious smile, longer than was strictly needful for the acquirement of a knowledge of dergan. in fact he knew quite well that he always sought the girl's company whenever r. r. appeared to be devoting herself to the handsome etar, which was not infrequently. how many minutes had he left? chapter v the timeless t thad seemed a little odd to midge at first, although only of minor importance, that there should be no such thing tas time in the valley. when he came to think about the matter — which was but rarely – he realized, however, that as there was never any darkness one could not even divide day from night, if one wanted to. it was true that the cloudless sky slowly changed from the pale, glittering blue of an early morning in the summer of the world that he once had known — and now had near forgotten — to a milky opal shot with half-secret fires of every hue; to the luminous green that may sometimes streak an earthly sunset; to a pale rose; to the gold of a ripening apricot. on the other hand no one could prophesy the order in which the colours would rise — gradually, along the whole horizon, as though a succession of veils were being withdrawn from about this other world. although no luminary was visible, the light that irradiated the land was constantly changing, and the mysterious shadows, which seemed to well up through the ground, travelled their erratic course at an unpredictable speed. nobody ever said, 'lunch is at half past one', or, ‘meet you this afternoon! or, 'the big race is on tuesday week', or, ‘last year we did this or thať. people journeyed through time needing landmarks in it no more than do migratory birds seeking their old quarters in night flight across a track- less ocean. he mentioned this to ethne once as they lay stretched upon the scented turf, wearied for the moment after some strenuous game. she sat up at his questioning, and took his out-flung hand the timeless in her own in such fashion that she could tap with her fore- finger rhythmically upon his wrist. 'why should we trouble to divide our life, midge, into little taps like these? or into the longer taps that you once told me were called minutes? even caibell and togga know when their dinner is ready, and are waiting for it, just like the horses when they are due for a gallop, without being able to count taps, or minutes, or anything else. when manannan promised that we should go to cibola, he did not have to tell us that it would be in so many taps! we shan't say to one another, “it's ten thousand taps since manannan told us, so the time has come at last!” we shall know when it's come, just as you know that it's dinner-time now as well as i do!' it was true. he knew that dinner-time was now without knowing how he knew -- as if some soundless dinner-gong in the mind had summoned him. somewhere in the hinterland of his consciousness there was already developing an acute awareness of appointment, such as, in a far less degree, an earth-dweller can cultivate to arouse him for duty even from the deepest sleep without the aid of timepiece or knocker-up. ‘but - 'he began, raising his head a little and looking up at her. into his open mouth she dropped a handful of flower petals, and was away at full speed, laughing and shedding her only garment, before he could rise. he was up and after her in an instant ... how long was it since he had won the junior school two hundred and twenty yards race? by what fraction of a second had he set up a record? he no longer knew - or cared ... but he caught her now, as he had not been able to do before, just as she reached the colonnade of the house of moonstone and opal, and they fell together, struggling and laughing, upon the flagstones. reclining on crystal couches at a long low table in the portico, they fed on fruit and honey and drank a thin sweet juice in company with branwen, the queen, and their friends. valley beyond time every dish and every goblet was a work of supreme art. harpists played soft music whilst they ate and talked; the air was full of the echoing song of birds; under the pale blue sky the rustling trees were hung with fruits as bright as though they were illuminated from within. afterwards, they went — as always — in laughing parties to bathe, to hunt, to race, to play any of a dozen games, to inspect whatever of the beautiful one or the other was engaged in making. they were never wet or cold, or thirsty or hungry, or without occupation, or in bodily pain — these people. they wedded with exquisite ceremonies, and passed with a gay informality into another universe when their allotted span had been reached. 'but where is she going?' midge had once asked branwen, when a very lovely woman had come to bid cheerful farewell. “there are many other universes as well as ours and yours,' explained the queen. 'just as we make contact with your world in our course, midge, so also do we touch others. ...' in due time they rode to cibola, the chief of the seven cities of the land, in manannan's shining chariot, drawn by four horses at the gallop, along the trackless mountains at the head of a widespread host. they stood to one side of the king as he drove, his silver mantle streaming in the wind of their passage, and eber, the charioteer, stood on the other, singing some loud song in praise of horses and of speed. they swooped into valleys and surged up the hill-sides with — it seemed — no abatement of swiftness, like a flock of birds navigating the hidden currents of the air. for a bare moment there came to midge a sub-conscious memory of his father's great car gathering speed and hurling itself down the long straight miles of the road to morfa. but it was merely a recalled sensation from the past that had no other associations for him. valley beyond time ‘but what were their ships made of before, manannan?' ‘of wicker covered with the hides of cattle. they were small and could carry but little cargo and few men, perhaps twenty at the most.' upon the misted screen of distant memory the boy seemed to perceive fragmentary pictures of other ships moving even as this one did without oars and without spread sails. manannan answered the question before ever it was formu- lated in his mind. 'the currents of these tideless seas will carry a ship such as this to and from every shore. they need but get out the great sweeps to row themselves from one current to the other ... on! they poured down the steep hill-side with the speed and the joyous rush of a torrent. they came to a halt under spreading trees covered with great purple flowers before a triple-arched gateway in the high milk-white walls of the town. long, long afterwards when midge came to try to describe the city of cibola to uncle minos, he found that there was so much to remember that he could recall but little — small details only, such as the outline of a hanging turret against the sky; the tiny courtyard that seemed to have been built just as a setting for an urn of scarlet flowers; the twisted pillars of green glass in some dim palace hall; the sudden glimpse of an exquisite laughing face against the carved frieze of a belvedere. 'it was like a city in a dream,' he said. "even the widest street would suddenly become narrow and full of corkscrew twists so that you might see some new and lovely vista, or some other aspect of a building that you had already seen. at one spot in an alley, i recall, a post was placed in the middle so that ethne and i had to loose hands and pass, one on either side. i'm certain that it was set up so that people walking there, as she and i were, should see one another differently for just a quick moment. it might be a moment the timeless that you would remember for ever and always. i shall.' and so midge and ethne walked with manannan, the king, through the streets of cibola, down to the harbour where the ship from derga was being warped to her berth alongside the quay. they looked down from the high wall into the swarming midship. the noise was as ugly as that of a monkey-house and a parrot-cage. the smell was such as not even the scented breezes of the valley could disguise. the scene was one of tattered splendour and dirty magnificence. midge regarded the array of shaggy, swarthy men in stained cloaks and tunics of every colour, armed with spears and axes and swords, fierce-eyed under strange helmets like inverted goblets: regarded them with a horror and disgust at least equal to ethne's. he said to her: 'what do these horrible people want?' it was manannan who answered him: “they have come here, midge, on a peaceful errand. there have been none dare to lift a hand against us since the days of my father, when they learned a lesson that they never will forget. this is an embassy to me from the queen of derga, whom once you knew. it would be as well if you stayed and spoke for just a little with her ambassador.' it did not occur to midge for an instant to protest. ethne squeezed his hand and dropped it. she turned to the bright-eyed throng that attended a few paces behind. ‘céthlionn,' she said to a girl in a daffodil robe, 'we will go and bathe this smell from us!... midge, come to us when you have done!' she went just as the trumpets in the ship sounded a harsh, uneven fanfare - as a man with silver hair came, bare- headed, from out the great cabin in the poop, and stalked down the deck, splendid in a garment of scarlet fringed with gold, a great sword buckled to him. as he set foot on the water-stairs the bells of the city gave valley beyond time answer to the heralding of the trumpets, and welcome to the envoy. he came to the top of the steps, and paused there for an instant, a man taller and broader than manannan, with a bronzed face and a great beak of a nose. then he approached the waiting group with a long easy stride and a confident bearing. manannan stepped forward to welcome him. 'i am benaiah purvis, counsellor of the queen, and presi- dent of her senate,' said the man with silver hair in the speech of derga. 'i bring you her greetings.' after they had ex- changed a formal salutation, he added, as though to disso- ciate himself from the shipboard herd, ‘like her, i am not a native of the country.' the king permitted himself to smile. 'or, indeed, of this universe at all!' he answered in english. 'you see, i too have stood upon the top of carn meurig, and viewed the distant roof-tops of house of saul! i have even talked with a young girl by the standing stones! 'olwen!' exclaimed purvis, smiting himself upon the thigh as he recalled every detail of his momentous interview with mrs. bosworth's daughter in the small sitting-room behind the shop at saul. in the excitement of the discovery he did not even remark that he had been addressed in his mother tongue, or that he replied in the same language. 'so it was you, then, whom olwen saw and left her imprint on! his heart warmed at once to this man who was acquainted, however slightly, with a person and a place that he too knew, a whole universe away. it was much as if he had met an acquaintance from his texan home town in the middle of the sahara. both of them laughed. benaiah added as footnote: 'she told me that she was going to keep to her dying day the handkerchief with which she wiped the lipstick from off your face! the timeless 'so it was she presumably who was responsible for your travel across the dimensions? 'ultimately, yes. but i have been trying to make the crossing, sir, for more than forty years. he paused slightly after he had pronounced the fateful word 'years'; for how many years might it not be now? 'i have sought for the passage ever since i first saw cibola when i was little more than a boy... my only regret is that i didn't find it sooner - much, much sooner! he surveyed in a momentary silence the whole marvellous panorama of the city which he had first beheld out in the atlantic on that early morning so long ago. so very long ago! with a light and friendly touch the king drew his attention to the fair-haired boy in a pale blue tunic and silver sandals standing beside him. ‘and here is midge!' he said. benaiah surveyed the lad for an instant with a slightly puzzled air. “there was a boy of that name i knew, and not unlike in some ways; but — he began. 'your son, sir?' 'this is the boy you knew.' 'hiya, midge!' said purvis according to the old formula of greeting, and thrust out his hand. 'i declare that you've grown out of all recognition! he checked himself abruptly. the midge that he had known had surely been very much smaller, and there was no hint of recognition in the face turned up to his. yet morrigan and he had decided that it could be no more than three months since they had plunged into the depths of the shadowless wood. benaiah shelved the problem temporarily. he asked: 'how's silver?' midge found the question a complex one. the words in- quired about someone named silver, but the tone asked if he had forgotten who silver was and, if he had, why. did he remember about silver? there had been someone valley beyond time who had kissed him when he wasn't used to being kissed. it had been very dark at the time. was that silver? this big man with white hair - his brows knitted in the effort of recollection. 'too long ago to remember, isn't it, midge?' said manan- nan. 'never mind! run away now and bathe with ethne and céthlionn! perhaps senator purvis will ask us to visit derga, and then we will go together, you and i.. 'senator purvis!' said midge slowly before he took flight. 'i do remember once saying that someone looked like a roman. was that senator purvis? ... what was a roman? ... why did i say it? i think he had white hair, too. i know i've seen white hair before. i am sorry, but i really can't recollect. as manannan says, it must have been a very long while ago. goodbye! a faint flush tinged the deep tan of the big face that was turned to follow the departing midge. then purvis asked: 'how did that boy lose his memory? why, he stood with silver watching when i crossed the frontier between the universes. did he follow me and get hurt? 'he followed, but did not get hurt. he has been here with us ever since. as for the phrase "long ago”, it is a comparative one. the “long ago” of a child is but as a little while to that of a grown man of your old world; the “long ago” of that man as but a short while in the land where now you live, as almost less than a moment past to us of cibola. yet in real time there is no difference. for after all a butterfly in your world, for instance, is relatively as long-lived as a tortoise! 'the “long ago” that is "less than a moment” past! repeated benaiah. the words of a favourite hymn came to his mind. he quoted almost to himself: ‘a thousand ages in thy sight are like an evening gone.' 'well,' said manannan, watching a flock of birds, like swans with plumage of peacock blue and green, rise in swift the timeless flight from a colonnaded garden and fly seaward. 'well, that is true of god, but we are not eternal even here, you know! i do not think that years had been invented in those lands of yours which we occasionally touch when my father was born. but at a rough calculation i myself came on the scene approximately four thousand earth-years ago.' 'do you die, then?' asked benaiah in a rather shocked manner. the other laughed: 'not as they think about it in that other world - or, at least, not as some people there appear to think about it. we just aren't here any longer. that is all. it's really very simple. it's only the body ... let us go now, and we will eat together, and talk gerontology, and about your problems in derga, and about god — if you like!' 'god!' exclaimed purvis, and then exploded, 'i wish there was some way of getting rid of that disgusting thing these people of mine worship! 'cernunnos, the horned one, after whom we call all those outer lands! it will be interesting to see whether your queen, the reincarnation of the goddess morrigan, can supplant him.' 'r. r., having now become a goddess, is beginning to find that there are strings attached to the position ... so am i! the king made no immediate comment upon this state- ment, but proceeded to lead his guest into the city with the informality of an old inhabitant showing a newcomer round the sights. they went unaccompanied through streets of fantastic buildings of every shape and colour, along terraced walks looking down upon a kaleidoscopic pattern of roofs and spires and towers and pinnacles, in avenues lined with trees and soaring palaces and temples. benaiah was as one thunderstruck when first he met the full impact of the city's beauty. then he rhapsodized with ever mounting enthusiasm upon the architecture of the the timeless they entered a small pavilion with a balcony overhanging the city and the sea. there were seats in it of crystal, and a table on which were set a flagon and goblets, and a dish of purple fruit. manannan indicated the repast with a slight smile. 'i think you will find your hunger satisfied,' he said, ‘although if you prefer i can provide you with a banquet such as your men are now enjoying. they will swear that they have eaten all manner of dead creatures roast, and boiled, and grilled, and have drunk scalteen of a potency unparal- leled. in fact they will have had nothing of the sort. it will all have been an illusion.' 'an illusion!' exclaimed purvis, taken aback. 'it sounds to me like black magic. 'it is only what you call, in your world, hypnotism – suggestion. it is not so great an illusion as the time that you have created with your clocks and watches, and sun-dials and hour-glasses and candles. for how can the same con- ception of time apply to a man who crosses a continent by aeroplane and a man who crosses it afoot? do the artificial subdivisions of mechanical time mean the same thing to a man in physical agony and a man within the arms of his mistress? with you only the very young and the very old know the time that has reality. that is why they alone may stay in this land of mine. time is the greatest illusion of all! benaiah seated himself, leaned back, stretched out his long legs, and slowly surveyed the calm, strong face of the king; then he turned his regard upon the great garland that was the city of cibola. 'is that an illusion?' he asked at length, nodding towards the prospect. 'it is as real as reality can be. it's as real as the fortress of derga, as real as the ship you have had constructed from trees, as real in this world as anything in yours - as the standing stones on the top of carn meurig! valley beyond time ‘forgive me, but you, then, and all these people are real, too, and in the same way?' 'quite real.' 'even when you appeared in the hall of the king of falias' - he quoted words malachi had once used in describing the scene – 'with your "body clear like sea water, and veins as green as seaweed”? when you paid a call on mr. lam- bard!' the king turned his long-lashed, grey eyes upon his guest; he answered him slowly: 'i was then as i am here now sitting before you. it was an illusion – like the roast pig your men are eating. i can create illusions in the mind, but i can no more create a reality of any sort, except by the labour of my body, than you can. god alone can create by thought. he thought, and your universe and mine came out of nothingness. he thought, and you and i and our like were given life. 'the creative thought of god! i was talking about that to a friend on the afternoon of the very day before i started on this venture.' how well he remembered quoting from barrett's work on the subject to sir henry standish, on that golden september day, in the judge's book-lined study filled with the sound of the grave, slow wash of the tide upon tenby beach. he explained this and quoted once again: " "what limitless wonders, what new forms of life and intelligence, may we not expect to find, when we can appre- hend the operation of the divine impulse on the more plastic material of an unseen universe." .. ‘and does the reality approximate to your imaginings?' 'here — yes; but my own kind have made a slum in what should be paradise - a hell in what might be heaven.' ‘and now that you have learned that, what next?' purvis paused for a considerable time. he sniffed the bouquet of the amber liquor which manannan had poured into his goblet; he sipped a little and rolled it in his mouth valley beyond time benaiand helpino i am ‘and so?' queried the king, seeking the end of the explana- tion, after benaiah had remained for some little while with- drawn into deep meditation. 'well, sir, how can i leave her by herself in such a country, let alone in another world in another universe?' manannan nodded a sympathetic head. 'i have heard how much she relies upon you.' 'i'm her secretary of state and her commander-in- chief,' said benaiah, extracting a small carved box from his leather pouch, and helping himself to a pinch of what appeared to be dark snuff. 'i am also in her eyes, it would seem, an elderly don juan. i've got to admit that even in the not so distant past — or perhaps it's very distant now! - there've been incidents in my career that i should prefer to forget. discreditable and regrettable they appear to me now, though at the time i fancied them romantic. but still i cannot help resenting it that r. r. should think it incumbent on her to collect a bevy of lovely blondes as an inducement to me to remain in derga!' a slight and whimsical smile flitted over the king's intent face. 'she appears to be a very intelligent young woman, benaiah,' he commented. 'nevertheless,' said purvis, closely scrutinizing the pattern on the snuff-box, 'her scheme is based on an incorrect assumption ... i am no longer interested in blonde ladies. sometimes, indeed, i am inclined to wonder if she guesses that. sometimes, when she is with etar, and i am relegated to the company of her yellow-haired ladies, i see her cast a side-long glance at me from under her lashes - see her lips twitch in the merest beginnings of a smile. it's then i feel that she has guessed what a ludicrous fool i am making of . myself. at my age!' the king nodded again. ‘shall i give you an illusion to wear, benaiah?' he asked in his soft, friendly voice. 'because i will if you desire. an the timeless illusion of youth which will last your life long and never leave you. it is yours for the asking.' was it just in the mirror of his mind, or did he really see a younger self coming through the doorway of the pavilion, a younger self with a mane of yellow hair, an un- lined face, and all the confidence and gaiety of untainted youth? ‘no, manannan, no!' he exclaimed in a loud voice that was not merely addressed to the king, but summoned his inmost soul to resist temptation. 'i do not want your gift. it would be wrong for me to take it. time is against me. i was born too soon. or she was born too late. there is no remedy. i should never forgive myself for such a de- ception. 'youth is comparative, even as age is,' the king answered. 'with regard to the gift, you have chosen right, my friend. all things lie in the thoughts of god, and in but a little we shall see what is to be.' he stretched a long, ringless hand across the table between them and they clasped hands. 'i shall not go whatever happens,' said benaiah. 'i guess i am of use, and may be of more, for though she has great courage — his mind switched suddenly to another track. 'courage! real courage = not just the desperate animal reaction - is not that another very beautiful thing, such as those you spoke of? is not courage as beautiful as a song? is not courage a song itself? "that is true — very true,' said the king. 'and since here in this land, although almost immortal, we are not divine, we cannot realize perfection except by contrast with the imperfect, or realize courage unless we understand the viol- ence and agony that will cause it to flower. it is for this reason, among others, that our young are always sent away from the valley for a while. sometimes, but not often, the system is not a success.' there he broke off rather abruptly, and something told valley beyond time benaiah that he was thinking of the queen of falias who had loved lambard too well. then the king added: ‘ethne, my daughter, will go in her turn, too, to the lands of cernunnos when she grows up. she will marry the son of the king of morien.' 'great god! benaiah pulled himself upright in his seat and gazed almost incredulously at manannan's face, but the other merely gave a small nod of confirmation. his eyes left the king and sought the prospect of cibola spread before him, bathed in a clear silver light beneath a sky that was of the palest gold of prim- roses, exquisite even as the city told of in revelations, that was 'pure gold, like unto clear glass'. how was it possible that the daughter of such a ruler of such a city should con- descend to a barbarism similar to that from which he had but now emerged? 'it is the law,' said manannan, answering his unspoken commentary. 'she will not be away for long, since time for us can be contractile as well as extensible. a pleasure can be long and a pain short! 'i know nothing against the tanist of morien,' said purvis, 'but his father, the king, is a deadly scoundrel. even now, as you probably know, he is getting ready to invade us. among other things he claims to be the rightful guardian of the bells of time. but any excuse would serve, for he means to wipe us out if he can. he's got twice our man-power at the least, and at this crisis our frontier clans have started a civil war among themselves! 'hence your new ship, i suppose!' ‘ships!' said purvis, stressing the plural. 'i have five more on the stocks. the moment morien makes a move against us, i'll put four or five battalions on shipboard and deliver a counter-attack from the sea upon his capital. that should discourage him, i guess. and if only i can get the experi- ments completed in time, there will be a new and deadly the timeless weapon in my hands that will discourage him still more.' ‘time! time!' said manannan. 'in almost one and the same breath you desire to be taken back through time to your youth, and swiftly forward through time to the com- pletion of an experiment. yet ever in your mind is the urgent desire that time, for you, shall almost stand still.' valley beyond time whereat she sat, and seated himself in the chair she indicated on her right hand with the effortless grace that was peculiarly his own. she always felt - as standish once had done — that benaiah in movement gave such an impression of weightless- ness that one almost expected him to bounce like a balloon when settling on a seat. 'well, bennie,' she said, with the shadow of a smile, 'you'll have to drop the handkerchief pretty soon, at the rate you are going on! ‘eh? “those girls, i mean. they'll expect you to, you know! which is to be the lucky one? 'good god!' exclaimed purvis. “why, they're children, r. r. that's all! 'well, in your world and mine at any rate we should consider them fully grown. luan and maeve must be about twenty, and airmed perhaps a little younger 'i reckon,' averred benaiah, 'that they look upon me as a harmless old fossil, whom it's rather fun to have about the house. 'do they indeed? then let me tell you this — that luan's mother is most anxious that she should make a favourable impression on you.' she paused; asked herself why she was telling him this; admitted the reason without shame, and continued — what is more, you may be interested to know, the good lady is by no means fussy about marriage! ‘good god!' exclaimed benaiah again. from his tone of horror and the appalled expression on his face, it was perfectly clear that the seduction of luan had never even entered his mind. satisfied on this score, morrigan turned to other matters of urgency that were less personal. 'what happened at your headquarters conference?' she asked. ‘they were dead against the use of power-seeds, he answered in a voice of exasperation. 'all except etar.' 'he'll back you, of course.' valley beyond time 'once you've found a way to handle it, then — ? 'once we can find a way to handle it! if we can find a way to handle it! it's like atomic energy, with unlimited poten- tialities for peace or war. but time is against us. time is on the side of the enemy. the sands are running out. 'everything else is cut and dried. the moment we hear that morien is on the march, etar will lead the raid by sea upon their city, and return immediately to attack the inva- sion force from the rear. but-' he pursed his lips doubtfully and took a large pinch of snuff. both of them remained silent for quite a considerable while; then morrigan said rather wearily: 'i must have a break now. i am tired of playing the goddess-queen today. i am tired of planning great things for a peaceful nation when war may throw everything into the melting-pot. i wanted to do so much for these people, and i am consumed by an agony of frustration. let us go riding together, benaiah! just you and i!... do you know, some- times i almost wish that we had stayed in that violet-black wood, and never clapped eyes upon the wretched king tuathal, or the rock carving of my namesake, the goddess morrigan! 'i've thought the same thing time and time again,' declared benaiah, rising to his feet. 'i wonder what the up- shot would have been! ... i'd like to come riding with you, r. r. i am not due at the hurley match between the eagle battalion and the lions until the third watch. we could go and look at the ships, and then into the forest.' in another quick glance of assessment at him, as he stood upright at her side, she knew with absolute certainty that, so far as she was concerned, the upshot would have been inevitably the same. .... they rode together in silence, unescorted, out of the enclosure that was the heart of the stronghold of the kings of derga. benaiah finds a contemporary the huddle of peak-roofed halls and palaces and store- houses upon the hill-top was set about with a high wall of undressed stone. without the immense gates lay the chaos of a town in which there seemed no purpose or design, except for the broad, paved waggon road that sloped steeply from the palace down to a silver river. above the patternless patchwork of clay-and-wattle huts, turf-roofed, rose an occasional larger and more ornate house of carved timber, sometimes of two storeys and covered by golden thatch or bright-hued shingles. the smoke of cooking-fires drifted from holes in the chimney-less roofs, or oozed from doorway and window. the ground between the shacks was littered with garbage and ordure of all sorts, and not a tree was to be seen. the whole vast slum had the negligent appearance of a mud-bank left by a receding tide. a sour, stale smell per- vaded the place like an invisible fog. the shouting crowds that streamed out of the tenements to greet their queen were, for the most part, incredibly dirty and ragged. benaiah thought of cibola and what he had seen of the valley of the ever-young. he said somewhat despondingly: ‘even if we escape destruction, r. r., it will take a life- time — more than a life-time! — of planning and hard work to make these people and this place what they could be and ought to be. 'a life-time!' she echoed, and reined her horse in as they reached the river bank, and turned and gazed at the appall- ing squalor of her capital city. 'have you any idea how long we have been here already — seriously, benaiah?' he reflected – 'when i first came i started making a notch on a stick for every time i went to bed. then i forgot once or twice. then i gave it up. i suppose five or six months. perhaps a bit longer. why do you ask?' 'have you realized that you and i can speak and under- valley beyond time stand dergan perfectly — as if we had been born to it? i don't know anything about you, but i have never been a linguist. my forte was in an entirely different direction. i was hopeless at languages. now i can listen to a legal argu- ment, full of technicalities, and grasp it. i can tell from a speaker's accent even what province he comes from. we've been here much, much longer than we imagine. years! 'years! he exclaimed. 'i can't believe it! 'could even you, bennie - superman though you are! - go down to the armourers after just a few months and talk technicalities to them, or give carpenters elaborate instruc- tions about ship-building in their own language? you'd still be talking pidgin english, and so should i.' that aspect had not occurred to him. ‘years!' he echoed again in an accent of consternation. for years were very precious at his time of life ... but what was that time of life at this moment, anyway? ... years were to be fully savoured, and employed, and clung to, every second of them being let go most grudgingly! they rode on, away from the town, along the river across a wide plain spangled with small white flowers. before them loomed a forest as grey-blue as the bloom on damsons. above its dense foliage the fantastic towers and peaks and spires of a mountain range rose abruptly into a pale green sky - a sky that glowed as though it were a dome of stained glass illumined by invisible light rays from the world it roofed. on the shelving banks of the river, a little before it entered the woods, the ribs of a half-built shirt were being clothed with planking. another big hull was being caulked on the stocks. the place swarmed with workmen. the air was full of the noise of hammers, of loud cheerful voices, of the scent of tar. they halted for a little whilst he pointed out to her improvements upon the original design. 'we shall be able to get five hundred men on board the benaiah finds a contemporary royal morrigan,' he said as they rode on into the arcade of the forest. 'this is where the timber for her came from.' 'there isn't much sign of felling,' she commented, steady- ing her horse as a small wild pig bolted squealing before them. 'there isn't any at all,' said benaiah, drawing an imagin- ary bead upon the pig, using his horse-rod as a gun. “as soon as a tree was cut, another started to thrust up through the earth, looking just like an enormous head of asparagus. i sat and watched one come up, and grow and grow till it was fifty or sixty feet high, and then push out branches and leaves. it ' he was a trifle taken aback by the flash of horror in her eyes: 'you saw a tree grow to its full height?' ‘as sure as i'm sitting here.' 'how long did it take? 'what's the use of asking that?' he demanded. she answered, almost as though to herself: 'sixty seconds — sixty minutes ... sixty – years! sixty years? ... did the tree grow at its ordinary rate whilst you aged fast, or did it grow fast whilst you lived at the ordinary rate? 'say, what is the "ordinary rate"?! “this time business frightens me,' she admitted, dropping the scarlet reins and staring at the trees that had grown more quickly than the mushrooms she used to gather as a child. 'time isn't fixed and stable here. there isn't anything to measure it br: at all except a candle! a candle! no sun. no moon. no star. no tides, and shadows that flit across the earth unpredictably!' 'in manannan's country,' interjected benaiah, 'they even hunt them! 'i've tried,' she continued, 'to find some basis for the cal- culation of time in the colour changes of the sky. i made some experiments when you were away in cibola. i had valley beyond time a thing like an hour-glass made, with sand in it, as big as i could, to measure the duration of the changes. but it didn't work.' 'why?' he asked, deeply interested. ‘because one day – i will call it a day! - a green period, for instance, would last twice as long as it did the day before, and the next day perhaps only a third as long. it varied all the while. so far as i can make out there is simply no regular rhythm to the movement at all. it seems to me that from some inward source in this world there is just a steady pulsation of light, which is reflected in a sky whose colours may change just as an earthly wind may veer to every point in the compass. to measure time in such a way would be as nonsensical as using a bit of elastic for a foot- rule.' 'let it be!' said benaiah. ‘of us two it is only i who have to worry about the passage of time.' 'but it makes me feel lost, bennie. because one doesn't know how fast one is travelling into the future, there doesn't seem to be any present. it's like going into a shop and buying recklessly without knowing at all how much money is in one's purse. it's like being a blindfold passenger in a car travelling at an unknown speed to an unknown destination. i should like to have a milestone on my journey through eternity. are we lost in eternity? 'i thought of an hour-glass, too,' said benaiah, surrepti- tiously watching her thoughtful face. “then one day i counted steadily up to sixty and told myself, “there, at any rate, you've got approximately a minute of earthly time!” but when i came to think about it, i realized that it wouldn't necessarily be a minute. if one lives faster or slower here than one does on earth, then one must necessarily count sixty faster or slower, too. they rode on in silence over the floweret-studded moss be- neath the vaulting of the forest. somewhere near at hand a bird sang most exquisitely. a pale golden radiance filled the benaiah finds a contemporary sweet-scented labyrinth of the trees. the luminous green foliage high overhead was patterned with great blossoms of silver and dark blue. 'that's another reason for me to go back to the three- dimensional,' he said at length. for a long moment she was mute. then she said in a controlled voice: 'go back! why? i thought that you had decided to stay here.' 'oh, i don't mean for good,' he hastened to assure her. ‘but, for one thing i think it would be quite a plan for us to have some check upon the passage of time. we might be able to work out the ratio between candle-time and sun- time. for our own satisfaction. the other thing is that a recruiting expedition is definitely indicated. .. ‘what do you mean by a recruiting expedition?' ‘collecting a group of experts of all sorts — chemists, physicists, metallurgists, doctors, and so forth. ‘but they couldn't bring any equipment with them.' "they'd bring their brains. 'no!' she exclaimed almost violently. 'and again, no! this place has got to work out the pattern of its own salva- tion. you'll never go "recruiting” with my consent.' 'i never guessed that you'd feel like that about it,' said benaiah, considerably taken aback by her vehemence. 'to be honest, too, i thought one might be able to persuade -' "no!' repeated r. r. with emphasis. sudden suspicion flooded her mind and chilled her heart. she added bitterly, 'if the truth were known, i suppose you really mean that you've had enough of derga and of me! you think it's time to go back to your silver and the flesh-pots! only you didn't like to put it so bluntly.' 'you're being unfair,' he retorted indignantly. 'it's not true, and you know it isn't. manannan told me that the two universes would be meeting very soon, and i immediately thought - benaiah finds a contemporary 'what's that mountain called?' asked r. r., pulling up. ask me another,' said benaiah. “i've never been this way before. i have no clue. every place seems to have got four or five different names. there isn't such a thing as a map in cernunnos. when you measure distances by spear casts, and have no compass points, what can you expect? i had a cartographer and surveyor marked down on my list of requirements! forget it!' said r. r., her eyes upon the mountain; suddenly changed her mind: 'no, bennie, go, if you must! i won't try and persuade you. but i'm so horribly afraid that you will never come back! a quiet voice said from close at hand: 'it might be better if both of you were to go back to your own world and your own universe, morrigan! he came towards them out of the mystery of the wood, a tall man in a green tunic and a silver mantle, wearing a diadem. r. r. had no need to be told that this was manan- nan, king of cibola. she knew it was impossible that there should be another man in any world whose face could remain unlined and young and yet tell of such vast knowledge, power, and tolerance. such as he might prester john have been, that priest-king to whom two-and-seventy kings were tributary. benaiah leaped from his horse, with a shout of greeting as though to an old friend, and went forward with outstretched hand. they stood for a moment together, long enough for the girl to have the picture imposed for ever on her memory - the two big men clasping hands and smiling at each other against the background of the grey-blue shafts of the tall trees with their violet foliage. then the king came to her side. he took her narrow, tanned hand in his own, and spoke to her holding it all the while. 'you were not in the palace when we came, morrigan,' he valley beyond time said, “and so i followed you here. my companion, midge – you remember him? she well remembered him. 'a nice child,' she added. he smiled a little enigmatically as he nodded agreement, and went on: 'he thought he had seen enough after riding through the city and so i let him return to cibola and ethne. he had no memory of benaiah when he saw him, and he remembered nothing about you. so there was no purpose in keeping him against his wish.' 'i am not surprised that he wasn't impressed. neither benaiah nor i are proud of the town, but we're doing the best we can. 'i know you are. that is why i am here. i told benaiah that i would give him warning when the gates of your world were opening. they are about to. i have come to give you a warning, too.' 'why me? didn't benaiah tell you — ? 'he did. but nevertheless i have come to advise you to go as well. for though i cannot look into the mind of god, i have watched the patterning of history for more than a hundred of your generations. the forefathers of your people prepared this tragedy for their descendants when they attacked morien, which was in the throes of civil war, and despoiled them of the bells of time. frankly, i cannot see now how utter disaster for derga can be averted. but neither do i see why either of you should be involved. the sensible course would be to go at once, and return later god willing! — and build up an entirely new country on the ruins of the old.' she would not — she would not look to benaiah standing at her saddle-bow, combing the purple-dyed mane of her horse with his big fingers. she must not appeal to him. she looked down into the bright eyes of the king, and said quietly: 'it's my duty to remain.' 'i came to you with this warning,' said manannan, benaiah finds a contemporary 'because few of the grown men and women who have crossed the frontier within my memory have desired anything but love-making, feasting, idleness, or slaughter. you two have been different. if you save yourselves now, it will in the end be to the advantage of the country, i assure you.' morrigan shook her head. 'i can't and won't be a deserter! i'd rather share my people's fate, whatever it may be.' for a moment a strange confusion filled her mind, so that her wide-open eyes saw nothing. and then she saw benaiah looking up at her. 'he has gone,' she said. it was not a question, but a state- ment of fact. she did not even glance to where the king had stood at her left hand. 'he kissed me before he went, though i did not see him do it. it was a kiss and a blessing.' 'he kissed me, too,' said benaiah. ‘neither did i see him.' he mounted his horse. in wordless agreement they turned their beasts and started back on the way by which they had come. they had ridden for a considerable distance without speaking, when at length across the withdrawn mind of r. r. there came an awareness of strange sounds from her com- panion. without moving her head at all she glanced sidelong at him. he rode with a loose rein, purple mantle tossed back from silver tunic, his right hand resting on his hip. his head was held high, his face smiling, and his mien that of a king about to ‘ride in triumph through persepolis'. a tune rumbled from him as from the bourdon of an organ. she recognized the air: she even recalled the words: down by the sea where the water melons grow back to my home i dare not go - she was not a sentimental young woman, but now, to her horror, she found her eyes suddenly wet with tears. the humming grew louder; became a rumbling song. valley beyond time she turned her head towards him, and broke in on his ditty: 'bennie! he stopped singing. 'sorry, my dear.' 'you see, i did take the job on! 'exactly. i took one on, too, for that matter ... i was thinking it might be a good plan to send malachi across the border to do one or two errands for us — just in case! — and perhaps pick up a budget of news. it appears he's already made several such expeditions. perhaps he was very young when he came here. anyhow he has not fallen into a heap of dust! ... you weren't reckoning on me quitting, were you by any chance? you'd have to think again.' 'you're staying because of me?' 'we-e-ell — !' he said non-committally. she continued to regard him intently. when she spoke it was with great deliberation: ‘after our exchange of heroics, benaiah, i should like to ask you three rather personal questions. in view of the situation that confronts us, you know! may i?' 'carry on, r. r.' 'why benaiah? 'why what?' ‘why — benaiah? i've always wanted to know why you were called by that name ... you see i'm starting with the easiest! he rumbled with laughter 'i'm only surprised that you have never asked before. a lot of people have wanted to know. did you never read in the old testament about benaiah, the son of jehoiada, who "went down and slew a lion in a pit in a snowy day"? he was very much of a battling warrior altogether, but my father always held him in particular respect over the lion business. “some warrior!' said r. r. lightly, although in her heart benaiah finds a contemporary she was recalling how the man at her side — that other benaiah — had flung himself, single-handed, into the battle in the hall when first they came to derga. ‘and the next?' 'it's a bit nearer the knuckle, benaiah. but in view of what's ahead of us together, i think i can ask it ... after all the time that's gone by, what, on looking back, do you think — of silver?' ‘ah! he reflected; cast a cautious glance at her; reflected again. 'well, r. r., i guess — to be quite straight with you - she got a great deal more than she ever gave. i realize that her mind was so mathematical and financial that you could almost hear the dollars ticking in her brain. i'll get malachi to find out about her, naturally, but — well, she was just — one of my mistakes! 'oh!' said r. r., 'i thought it was perhaps because of her that you did not succumb to the blandishments of luan.' 'it was nothing of the sort ... as i grow old –' ""as i grow up — " 'as i grow up,' he amended, 'my tastes are changing. that's all.' ‘oh!' said r. r. again; and such a long silence on her part then ensued that he was impelled to ask: 'what is the third question?' 'it's a favour rather than a question, bennie.' a suspicion that she was about to try and wheedle him into departure entered his mind, and he looked a little doubt- fully at her and without reply. 'it's just this — and i bring myself to say it because we may have very little time left together ... since you find luan and her companions too young and too childish to - to – deserve your — serious attentions — do you consider that someone – slightly more mature — practically your contemporary – might — perhaps — be worthy of them?' valley beyond time 'you were starting to carve one of those tiny opening buds at the bottom.' 'well, i've just finished it. i've been here ever since you left, busy doing it.' he looked at her with perplexity and dismay patent in his face as he protested: ‘but ethne — such a tiny flower, and you so quick! you don't mean it really? why i have been to cibola, and across the sea, and across a strange land with high mountains, and through an immense forest, and seen the city of derga and many other towns and castles while i've been away! you're joking! say that you are joking! 'but i'm not, midge. you and i hadn't got the same kind of time just then. people don't always have the same kind of time, especially when they are away from one another. perhaps your kind was fast and mine was slow if you were to measure them by taps and bells. don't you know how one can dream an entire life story between the sound that rouses one and the opening of one's eyelids? that's the sort of thing.' 'still i wasn't dreaming.' 'of course you weren't.' the journey to derga now took on for midge a still more nightmarish aspect. somewhere in the hinterland of his mind the vague notion began to form that it might even have been possible for him to have returned to ethne before he had actually left her. he was, however, distracted from this insoluble problem by a sudden realization that she had not merely been speaking to him with her voice, but that she had done so in the english language. 'i say!' he exclaimed in intense admiration. 'how did you manage that? you might always have been talking english.' 'it wasn't difficult,' said ethne, ‘after listening to you.' 'still you've kept very quiet about it,' he commented, throwing a small red ball for togga to chase. but what did you want to learn it for?' back to the night just for fun,' ethne replied in a rather unsatisfactory manner. 'but it's time for supper.' more silently than was usual, they went together to the pillared house in the gardens on the hill. ... thoughts of time, old age, and derga were still haunting his mind when he set off to bed. during the meal, and after- wards, ethne had done nothing to lift the clouds of his de- pression. she had said very little, and then had suddenly disappeared from his side in the middle of a song contest to which harpists had come from every part of cibola. where had she gone, and why? he pondered the matter as he went down the glowing, translucent corridor to the bedroom that he shared with her. it was a huge bare room with a great bed with deep blue hangings on either hand of the arched and doorless entrance. one side was wide open to the colonnade that surrounded the house, and to the silver light that was so much brighter than any moonshine. he went quietly to ethne's bed, and listened for a moment before he lifted the curtain. she lay upon the coverings, naked and apparently fast asleep. he looked down on her for just an instant, and puzzled why she should have deserted him thus early and sought her bed. she had never done so before. he was hurt that she should not have wished him ‘happy sleep!' she had never failed before. they had always said their prayers together, and, because he had forgotten what he used to say on earth so very long ago, he had borrowed hers. 'it must be the same god!' ethne had said. he had put the matter to manannan. “there is only one true god,' had said the king, 'and though he has many names he is always the same, whatever you call him.' and now ethne had gone to bed and forsaken him! he went to bed himself - disconsolately. valley beyond time much later he awoke. his sleep had been disturbed by insistent visions of the blind, blank face of the woman of derga. across the tangle of his dreams he had even thought to hear the mournful music of the death-song of the bells of time. suddenly he knew why he had awakened. he slipped from his bed on to the blue and yellow chess- board pattern of the floor, and crossed to ethne's bed, and held back the curtains and looked within. 'ethne, why are you crying?' he demanded. she turned over and buried her face in the pillow, her long hair spread about her. she said nothing, but was shaken by the violence of her sobs. he took her hand in his. 'what's the matter, ethne? oh, what's the matter? can i do anything?' she returned his clasp with a clutch as though she would never let him go. she still said nothing. 'ethne! she quietened after a little, and then suddenly sat up, though clinging to his hand. she tossed back her hair. 'i listened to the mind of manannan while he was speaking to branwen,' she said. “i've never done such a thing before. i would never have done it now, but i was so very afraid.' he sat down beside her. “why?' 'he didn't know i was listening to his mind, so he didn't close it. i was ashamed, but still i listened!' 'but what did you do it for, ethne?' 'i've always been afraid about that visit to derga, midge, and i was right!... they — they're going to send you back to your own world! his heart felt as though it turned over within him. for a moment he could say nothing but repeat her words in horri- fied astonishment: 'send me back to my own world!' back to the night then the full implications of the statement penetrated his dazed mind. 'they can't!' he said. “why should they? i haven't done anything. you can't mean it, ethne! it simply can't be true!' 'it is true. manannan took you to derga to make you realize that there is another way of living than ours. to see something which is a little like what you're going back to — something ruled by time.' he was sitting at her side in the shadow of the curtains, half turned from her, his eyes fixed on the blue and silver magic that stooped over the smooth green lawns, the white balustrades, the tall hedges set with fruit that shone like fairy lights. his lips quivered, and now he, in his turn, clung tightly to her hand. 'why have i got to go?' he asked, struggling to keep con- trol of himself, and blinking away the tears that began to blur his vision. 'all i know,' said ethne, 'is that while the young are allowed to come here, yet they can't stay for ever.' 'when can i come back, then?' 'you can't. not ever.' 'so i'll never see you again!' ‘never see me again,' she echoed. he was well aware that the tears now were running down his face. he kept it turned away, although he knew she must divine the panic that had seized his mind. 'i won't go,' he declared desperately. 'i'll hide until the gates are closed.' 'you can't hide from manannan. or i should.' "i'll never see you again!' then even in that moment of supreme desolation the import of her last sentence came to him. “why should you hide?' he asked. ‘after you've gone, midge, and i'm grown up, i'm to go among the cernunnos and marry the son of the king of morien.' back to the night a world as this. i can't remember much about it, but i know it wasn't anything like derga. come with me!' she drew him to her by the hands and kissed him on the mouth. he was conscious that in some incomprehensible way the kiss was not such as those that they had exchanged before. she said: 'i've always meant to come with you, midge. but we must go now whilst i am not afraid ... the gate is open, now!... naked as they were, they went out into the night that was not night and the light that was not moonshine. they went up into the mountains through the rustling groves of trees that bore both flowers and fruit, pausing where midge had found himself so very long ago, to look back on the valley. the long white house with its colonnades, dreamed amid its lawns. the mountains rose into the sky like polished ebony on either hand, and in the furthest distance the city lay stretched between the two guardian peaks against the silver shield of the sea. a small warm wind was their com- panion. fearful lest she should have regrets, he urged her on. but she turned at once and went with him up the steep hillside without hesitation. a thought occurred to him. 'i suppose we are going right?' he said. 'i thought-'. of course we are. you came into the wood, looking for togga - don't you remember? sometimes the wood is very far away, but now it is here.' 'but how do you know all this?' 'because i was here with manannan when you came. togga was exploring when he saw you through the veil — and you know how inquisitive he is! 'you saw me, too?' ‘manannan and i followed you back to the house. i saw valley beyond time you eat of the slumber-fruit, although i pretended to you that i didn't know ... there's the wood!' shadowless, and glowing with a pale light that seemed to originate within itself, the wood lay before them, the blue- black foliage stirring slightly so that rainbow coruscations shivered within its depths, the tall silver-grey shafts of the trees offering vistas as of endless cloisters. they entered one of the great aisles hand-in-hand and walked up a gentle slope until: ‘do you see?' immediately before them, a hundred paces away, the tree-trunks were silhouetted against a jetty blackness un- illumined by any radiance, and even reflecting nothing of the light that pervaded the wood. an icy panic seized him. the blackness seemed to him to be that of an eternal nullity. even as he paused, ethne tugged at his hand. 'run! she commanded. 'let us run quickly — let us run together - into this other world before we are too afraid! they felt nothing as they passed between the dimensions, but a tingling of the body. then they were seized by a tremendous wind and pro- pelled downwards over rough, uneven ground through the blindness of an earthly night, lashed by a driving, furious rain. part three chapter i a kiss for a crossword maker m nent are r. adam dent-raleigh, probably the most emi- nent architect of crosswords in the english-speaking i world, was hard at work in what he called his 'studio' on the composition of a new masterpiece. it would eventually appear over his signature of daedalus in the columns of a very serious newspaper, disturb the peace of a good many intelligent minds, and cause as much hard lying wherever addicts met as is prevalent when anglers foregather. dent-raleigh was in appearance, however, a most harm- less little creature as he sat with his back to the fire, heedless of the furious storm without, contemplating the mad chess- board design on a square of paper before him, his little grey head to one side, and a large fountain-pen poised ready to dart in his little bony hand. he wore the sort of drooping grey moustache, hair parting, thin blue serge suit, and palisade of a collar that are asso- ciated with the early days of the century. he was even smoking a calabash pipe. he might have been either a junior classical master at a minor public school in kipling's day or the manager of a drapery store in a novel by h. g. wells. he was, however, in point of fact, a very senior official of the british treasury living in retirement on a hand- some pension. 'blanki-blanko-blanki-blanken,' said mr. dent-raleigh, reading aloud in emphatic rhythm the gaps and letters of the word to be completed. then he closed his faded china blue eyes and sought inspiration, pulling gently at his pipe. the low walls of the room were shelved to the ceiling with books, most of them shabby, and the table was strewn with valley beyond time tattered volumes – bristling with bits of torn paper for markers — amidst which a cup of cocoa grew chill. there were a couple of threadbare persian rugs and a dingy sheepskin on the floor, and three or four padded elbow-chairs, highly dilapidated, which might have been originally bought for the writing-room of a mid-victorian club. on the other hand everything would have merely represented time-worn comfort if it had not been that the electric lights flickered occasionally in a rather alarming manner and smoke belched inwards at intervals from the grate. in the darkness without the wind howled incessantly about the house on carn meurig, and rattled the fastenings of every shutter and door. the rain drove in fierce gusts against the roof with the noise of spray upon a sea-wall. 'eureka! exclaimed mr. dent-raleigh, opening his eyes in triumph. his rosy face creased in a smile that transformed him at once from a draper-pedagogue into a goblin-schoolboy who has just placed a chinese cracker in his form-master's key- hole. ""tironian" is the ticket! aha!' said he to himself. 'by george, that will get the enemy on the hop when i've dressed it up for 'em! knowing well by long experience the work-shy habits of his fountain-pen, he shook it into activity as usual with a violent jerk that spattered ink on the old red table-cloth and the wood block floor. the passage of the years had left an indelible semicircle of ink stains about him. 'tironian! aha!' he repeated, and set down the word, contemplated it, and then rubbed his little dry hands to- gether with a small cackle of laughter. there were lots of ways in which, for the confusion of 'the enemy', you could shape the clues to a reference to the roman inventor of shorthand! he was sipping the rather nauseous mauve liquid in his a kiss for a crossword maker cup and still gloating, when suddenly the front door in the passage outside opened with a crash, and all the house was full of the roaring night. he glanced automatically at a cheap pocket watch which was attached to his waistcoat by what appeared to be a boot- lace. it was not like his unsteady henchman, sam, to return from his pay-day visit to the nearest ale-house before closing time. but it was not sam who opened the study door without fumbling at the handle, and, smiling, crossed the threshold. it was a tall young man, mother naked, his body glistening from the rain, with a tangle of wet yellow hair and shining eyes, completely unembarrassed. he spoke at once rather slowly as though he had grown a trifle unused to the english language, or — was it — even to speech. 'do you know,' he said, 'i had really forgotten about the winds and the' – there quite obviously he had to remind himself of the word — 'the rain!' he laughed as though chiding himself, and yet amused by such a foolish lapse of memory. mr. dent-raleigh had already risen from his chair: he greeted the long-expected visitor with the air of an old- fashioned house-master welcoming back a promising lad. 'lord tyron?" he suggested. ‘am i?' asked the stranger. 'is that my name? it seems such a long time since anybody called me anything except midge.' 'you have been expected for a very, very long while. i have always understood lord tyron used to be known as midge, so you must be he! your father built this house, where i live, so that watch might be kept for your return. it is never left empty -'. dent-raleigh became aware that the naked lad was not attending to him, but listening - it seemed to him - to a voice that he alone could hear. 'it is ethne!' said his visitor as though that one word were valley beyond time . a sufficient explanation; and as he spoke she came to his side from out the little front hall in which dent-raleigh's dilapidated waterproofs and overcoats drooped from their pegs like long dead bodies from a gallows — a hall covered with cheap linoleum and furnished with a painted drain-pipe for umbrella-stand. the small man, their host, remained silent for only an instant looking upon her. in that instant, however, he knew that he regarded a naked loveliness which was not the earthy beauty of a mere goddess, but the beauty of a dream – of a legend — of the innocence of a fairy-tale. 'so that was . . . wind!' said ethne, shaking her long wet hair, and smiling at him as though she had known him all her life. 'so that was . . . rain! is that why i have an odd feeling in my body? i have never had such a feeling before! she looked down upon her slim body as though to ascertain that to outward appearances all was well: exclaimed with almost proud excitement: ‘oh, midge! look! there's red stuff coming out of me, like it comes out of you! look at my leg!' 'dear me!' said mr. dent-raleigh, much disturbed, you have scratched yourself badly on some thorn-bush. now sit down by the fire and get warm, because you must be cold! and then i'll find you something hot to drink and some stick- ing-plaster and the clothes that have been waiting for you for – oh, so long! he pushed chairs towards them by the fireside, and bustled out into the hall. 'is the strange feeling i've got all over my body what you call “cold”?' asked ethne, eyeing the ink-stained chair, whose stuffing protruded through various cracks in the leather, as though a little uncertain what it could be. 'it must be,' said midge, 'but honestly i'd forgotten what it was like. i can't say i care for it very much.' 'neither do i.'. a kiss for a crossword maker dent-raleigh reappeared with an armful of overcoats from the pegs in the hall. 'i think you'd better put these on whilst i find the clothes,' he instructed them, and dumped the bundle upon the table regardless of books, papers and crossword chart. there was a hideous woollen scarf of black and red in- cluded in the pile. midge seized on it, and proceeded to do his best to dry ethne's arms and body. 'towels! ah, towels!' said mr. dent-raleigh in hurried self-accusation. 'bathroom! ah, bathroom!' but he was not very anxious to reveal the horrors of that apartment to his visitors, for he realized that the unreliable sam was at his most unreliable when it came to keeping a place of ablution even moderately clean. he disappeared once more and popped back in a moment with a still unopened package of bath towels that a much- exercised niece, named emily, had sent him as a christmas present; watched like a benevolent gnome the brisk massag- ing that followed to an accompaniment of laughter; shot out once more, and could be heard at a distance, opening and shutting doors amidst other bustling noises. ethne tied a large apple-green towel about her waist, and threw another over her shoulders like a shawl. she tossed back her blue-black hair. she stretched out her feet towards the fire which now burned bright and clear. the noise of the storm without had died away into an utter silence. 'you know, midge,' she said reflectively, 'the water falling from the sky was funny, and it was funny having to walk bent double against the wind; but i don't think the darkness is funny at all, or the roughness of the ground. why do i bleed now, too? does it mean that things can hurt my body?' "they used to hurt mine, even in the valley!' remarked midge, who was also draped in towels. 'do you remember how i showed you on purpose once what happened when i cut myself with a sharp knife? that was after the thing fell on your foot! valley beyond time yes. she remembered. so now i am like you! i am so glad. i always felt that it was unfair that things could happen to you that couldn't happen to me. i can be hurt just like you! i suppose that is “hurting” what i feel in my foot. it is an odd feeling. do you find "hurting" an odd feeling? 'a horrid feeling,' he answered, and rose from his chair, and went down on his knees beside her to examine the wound. the blood was dripping from a deep cut just above the instep of the long, narrow foot in dark red globules on to the ink-spotted sheepskin rug. he surveyed the damage with but little concern. 'do you remember, ethne, how frightened i was once very long ago, because you didn't bleed, and i thought you must be dead or a ghost? you don't mind if i'm glad now that you're bleeding, although i'm sorry that it hurts? you know what i mean, don't you? it's rather difficult to explain.' he proceeded to tear a strip off one of niece emily's brand new towels and bind up the wound, whilst ethne, quickly losing interest in the operation, inspected the studio of the architect of crosswords with an expression of puzzled inquiry. the small glass globes hanging from the ceiling full of harsh yellow light intrigued her. the crowded book-shelves she dismissed, however, as some sort of wall-decoration. the many papers and the open volumes on the writing-table, covered with little black symbols, were merely dull — like the incomprehensible typewriter on a smaller table that was propped level by a coverless book. a cheap alarm clock with a loud and vulgar tick, standing by the machine, how- ever, excited her interest. 'what's that small noisy thing, midge?' she asked, nodding in its direction. “that's a clock to show you the time,' he answered, looking up from his task. 'just as i told you.' 'how does it do that?' a kiss for a crossword maker "by the black things on its front.' 'well, what does it show now?' but he had completely forgotten the art of time-telling; and after contemplating it for a little with a frowning brow, she dismissed it from her attention: 'i don't see why anyone should always want to know the time like that! she rose when he had completed the bandage, and thanked him, and proceeded to explore the shabby room, touching the things that she saw as though she would assure herself of their reality. a dish of oranges had a familiar air; so, too, the scent of a large bowlful of roses. 'it is a funny world,' she announced. 'it has very strange smells! she wrinkled her nose in attempted analysis of the mingled odours of pipe tobacco and smoky fire imposed upon the smell of dust and lack of ventilation. 'you'll get used to it, ethne,' midge assured her anxiously. 'i'm sure we aren't going to stay here. i'm beginning to remember. i'm sure i — we — used to live near here. do you remember i said i was certain that i'd seen those three big stones before? and we're expected, too! he said some- thing about clothes for us - 'what sort of clothes?' asked ethne. 'not like those very queer garments he wears round each leg? or the stiff white thing round his neck with the little bit of spotted ribbon? i shouldn't care for them at all! midge was quite certain that she would not have to wear anything of that sort. *but i shouldn't like you to wear them, either! 'well, i won't wear them then.' at this juncture in sartorial discussion mr. dent-raleigh reappeared, carrying a handsome suitcase in each hand, with the victorious expression of a shop-walker who has discovered that he can actually provide his customers with what they have demanded. a kiss for a crossword maker one of the cases on his writing-table. 'don't i speak good english? mayn't i have forgotten just like midge?' all the dreams of youth, all the raptures of the might- have-been, all the glories that lie beyond the horizon's rim passed through his mind as he looked up at her. ‘oh, i can tell,' he answered simply. 'you see, yours is a different kind of beauty. it's the beauty of some other world.' ‘and i'm beautiful in this world, too?' asked ethne in an almost breathless excitement. 'i shan't look strange, or odd?' 'the only reason for you to look strange is that you will be more beautiful than all those others you will meet.' ‘oh, midge, did you hear that? he says i'll be more beautiful than anybody in your world.' even midge's loyalty to her was not strong enough to withstand the suspicion that it would not be well for her to be given too high an opinion of herself thus early. he said, whilst he struggled with the incomprehensible lock of the case that had been handed to him: ‘he is just being polite.' ‘are you?' 'i am being truthful,' said dent-raleigh, 'because i know that the truth can't hurt such as you.' to avoid the embarrassment of further truth-telling, he opened the suitcase. it contained a trousseau complete to the minutest particu- lar - orange pullover, jade green slacks, stout shoes, stock- ings, all sorts of underwear in apricot-coloured silk, an almost transparent nightdress in chiffon of midnight-blue, a windproof jacket in claret suède, a golden plastic waterproof with a hood, and every conceivable necessity for an emer- gency toilette. ethne dived into the case, strewing the contents every- where upon the sacred table with the vital excitement of a child opening its christmas presents. at last she came to an end. ii valley beyond time 'do your women,' she asked, turning from one to the other of the two faces that regarded the spoil, ‘really wear all these things? why?' she extracted a suspender belt, and held it up to their particular view. 'where do they wear that? and what are all those funny little straps for?' midge had no conception. dent-raleigh suggested: 'i think it's meant to hold stockings up, but i don't know how. ‘oh, stockings!' said midge. 'look, these are stockings, ethne! i thought that's what they must be. you put them on your legs, with your feet through the holes at the top. i had some once upon a time. you put them on before anything else,' said dent-raleigh: then qualified the statement: ‘at least i do.' ethne shed her towels. “let's make a start! none of them knew then, or afterwards, who was princi- pally responsible for getting those stockings on. it was a remarkable joint effort — and most disruptive to the stock- ings. a very brief garment, indeed, then greatly intrigued her; still more so when she gathered that dent-raleigh wore “something of the sort' — as he cautiously expressed it – under his trousers. "why?' “to keep warm.' ‘well i'm not going to wear two of them,' she declared, 'but -' she donned the garment, with the result that midge burst into roars of laughter, though he did not quite know why. she tore it off immediately, and flung it at his head. she flatly declined to wear the slacks, though she was interested in the difference of construction between those provided for her use and the grey flannels packed for midge. a kiss for a crossword maker in the end her host succeeded in persuading her that the midnight-blue nightdress by itself would be insufficient pro- tection against the climate of a three-dimensional world, so she put on beneath it some exiguous garment of whose name her mentor was entirely ignorant. she stood now with her back to the fire, combing and braiding the long black tresses that fell past her knees, and smiling the while upon the architect of crosswords, who remained spellbound and forgetful of his hostly duties, watching her with all the wonderment of a child, his inky hands clenched before him — so tightly that the knuckles yellowed – as though to assure himself that he was awake. she was very young, he told himself. she was immortal — for only an immortal could be so young. she was deirdre, 'a woman putting out the glory of the moon's rising and the sun's going down', in the days before she brought death to the sons of usna and ruin to conchobar, king of ulster. she was etain, whom midir stole from the high king of ireland . . . he was proud to be among the least of her servants. ethne stopped braiding her hair. 'those are very beautiful things you say of me,' she said. even in his confusion, he knew that he had spoken no word out loud. midge had been prowling about the room, examining everything with the avid curiosity of a child. at this moment he set his hand upon the telephone. 'what's this?' he asked. “i'm sure i ought to know.' ‘a telephone — for speaking to people a long way off. we must call up your father. i'd better do it now!' midge had already raised the receiver from the rest. some long latent memory told him to lift it to his ear. 'nobody is speaking. there is no sound,' he said with an expression of disappointment. t'cht-t'cht! the thing is always going wrong, like the lights, specially after a storm. let me try! valley beyond time but no amount of juggling with the instrument would bring it to life. it remained more mute than a tombstone. 'i shall have to get abishag out and drive you down to saul,' said dent-raleigh. 'i'm afraid it won't be very com- fortable, but we shall get there all right unless the floods are out in the valley. keep yourselves warm over the fire whilst i go round to the garage. would you like – there he came to an abrupt halt. gravely concerned as he was on the question of hospitality, yet he felt that tea, cocoa and bottled beer were no refreshment to offer the princess of another dimension. once again ethne spoke in reply to things that had not been said: 'we are neither hungry nor thirsty, thank you. we will wait here whilst you do what you must ... what is your name? it was impossible for him to answer that he was mr. adam montague dent-raleigh. 'i'm adam,' he said as though he were a very new boy at his very first preparatory school. 'i was the first person midge saw when he came to our world,' said ethne, ‘and he liked me. you are the first person, adam, that i've seen when i come to yours, and i like you. she put her hands on his shoulders and stooped a little – for she was very tall — and kissed him on both cheeks. how very long ago, indeed, it was since he had been last kissed? a little withered kiss from the little withered lips of the little withered aunt who had brought him up, just one at the beginning and the end of holidays — a kiss that had a dry, morocco-leather touch to it, and a dry and dusty scent of parma violet face-powder. he had been a boy then. he was a boy now!... ‘do you like it when i kiss you, midge?' asked ethne after adam had gone, watching him twiddle half-reminiscently a kiss for a crossword maker and fro upon the floor with threshing limbs. a chair was overset and broken, and a cascade of books was volleyed from a tottering bookcase upon the combatants. midge realized at length that his only safety lay in near- ness to his opponent rather than in endeavouring to keep him at a distance. accordingly he hugged him with such desperation that the hideous red face was pressed, slavering, against his own. a moment later with a twist and a wrench he succeeded in reversing their respective positions, tore himself from the other's grasp and began battering clumsy and ill-directed blows upon the ugly face beneath him. at this juncture fate took a hand in the proceedings. ‘good old' sam heaved his body like an earthquake to escape - once — twice. at the second thrust the two men collided violently with the flimsy table on which adam dent- raleigh's prehistoric typewriter sat looking something like an ancient british war chariot. one of the slender table-legs snapped in half, and the machine toppled to the floor. the clock fell, too, and its alarm was set off in an outburst of hideous clangour. their stable-mate, a large pewter ink- stand, plunged downwards straight on to the drunkard's head, drenching it and his face with red ink. for a second midge stared in consternation at the dreadful mask looking up at him. in the second of truce the bewildered sam perceived him- self- as he thought - to be wallowing in the gore of some mortal wound. he wrenched himself from his murderer; leaped to his feet as though he had never looked upon the contents of fourteen pint tankards; and with a despairing yell made for the doorway and fled, pursued by midge. by some chance the fellow escaped the tangle of fallen coats and other wreckage in the darkness of the hall. not so midge, who went headlong over the drain-pipe umbrella- stand. when he had picked himself up and reached the outer door, he saw that 'good old' sam was flying down the rough road as though the devil were after him. valley beyond time even when the noise of feet had died away and no sound disturbed the silence but an occasional broken-winded gasp from adam's refractory car in the garage behind the house, midge did not return immediately to the study. he remained staring into the night, his mind disturbed by conflicting emotions. there was still anger; there was a certain sense of satisfaction because he had had in the end the better of the argument; but, above all, there was a growing sense of horror at the revelation that he could be guilty of rejoicing as his fists beat hammer-like against the bloody pulp of that abominable face. profoundly perturbed he went back to ethne. she had not stirred from before the fire. she stood there regarding the chaos of the room with the air of one who has been shaken to the roots of her being, in whom disillusion- ment has already begun. but when she turned her grave regard upon midge, her expression showed only anxiety on his behalf. ‘did he hurt you?' she asked breathlessly. 'why is your eye like that — and blood on your cheek? are you hurt, midge? ‘only in my mind. i have been acting like a dergan.' 'you have not. what else was there for you to do? were you going to let him kiss me? were you going to lie down and let him strike you?' 'you don't understand. every time i hit him i was glad and wanted to hit again and harder. i began to understand why the people of cernunnos love battle.' 'the fighting was horrible,' said ethne, 'but it was not due to you. that man was more horrible than any of the men in the ship we saw come into harbour at cibola. the smell of him was like the smell of that ship. his mind was all muddled. i could see into it, and it was full of filthy thoughts that i don't quite understand. i feel unclean where he touched me. i hope that you hurt him, midge. i hope you hurt him very much, for he was an abomination.' a kiss for a crossword maker 'i think he was mostly frightened.' 'i hope he was hurt as well ... do you think that there are many others like him in this world of yours?' he protested at the responsibility for this world being thrust upon him. 'it isn't mine, ethne. it isn't mine. i hate it as much as you do.' 'i unsay it, midge. she was looking at him as she spoke, mournfully – he thought - as though with some mental reservation. the room in which they stood had changed its character, it seemed to him it was no longer a grotesque ante-chamber to adventure; it had become a sordid shambles. was this whole world, which he had all but forgotten, to prove just such another nightmare as the fetid slums that sprawled about the stronghold and the hall of the kings of derga? then he suddenly recalled something very important, which in the past confusion he had seen without taking in. “there's something i must show you, ethne,' he said. 'something outside the house.' she went with him to the door. he raised his hand and pointed upwards to the firmament pin-pricked with a myriad stars and commanded by a round and silver moon. together in silence they marvelled at the miracle of the heavens. after a long while he turned abruptly to her, and said in a voice that held surprise tinged with consternation: 'do you remember saying to me that you thought you were growing up?' ‘yes, midge.' 'do you know, ethne, i am grown up! in the bright moonlight they exchanged a long glance. then they were in one another's arms, together in the lone- liness of the night and a strange universe. 'mirror, mirror on the wall' only a calculating machine, and the body only a work of art. he sometimes wondered if she possessed such a normal piece of human equipment as a heart. the lad beside her was merely one of the herd of youthful devotees who danced constant attendance upon her - an officer from one of the army or air force camps in the district, indistinguishable, in standish's eyes, from his fellows. silver appeared, indeed, to be incapable of going anywhere, or doing anything, or not doing anything, without a retinue of young men! morfa was drinking far too much — had been doing so for a good many years. he was putting on weight; his mind was no longer alert; his face had coarsened, his eyes grown blear. standish was definitely worried about him. so was his spinster aunt, lady katharine, now paying one of her very infrequent visits to house of saul. “that bitch of a wife of his would drive stronger characters than poor tony to drink,' she had remarked to him that very morning in extenuation. mrs. van veen now lit a cigarette - standish objected to smoking until dessert was done — and leaned across to him to renew the attack, with menace in her cold grey eyes. she opened her mouth to speak . . . it remained open without uttering a single word, and the focusing of her eyes shifted from him to a more distant object. her expression altogether was so intrigued that he was impelled to glance over his shoulder and see what was exciting her whole attention. a woman had just come through the archway in the elaborately carved oak screen at the further end of the hall, and was standing in the soft radiance under the musicians' gallery. she was young and tall, and dark-haired, and robed in a gown of midnight-blue. her feet were bare, and her carriage was as superb as a princess's. in the instant in which he turned to pick up his spectacles from the table he remarked that silver's cavalier was staring valley beyond time commanded lady kat. “the switch is under the table-edge on your left.' standish sought and found the control, and silver's sub- stitute for an orchestra in the musicians' gallery went silent with a click at the very moment when mrs. van veen fired another burst of questions like a human machine gun. 'who is she? tell me! it smells like a first-class story.' she yapped her demands at standish insistently, leaning across the table and tugging at his cuff like a dog worrying a bone. "why has she got bare feet? see, there's blood on them! who's the boy in the dressing-gown? why has he been fighting? standish thought - if somebody doesn't hustle this pest off quickly and diplomatically, there will be hell to pay! if the damned woman gets an inkling of the truth, this house will be besieged by reporters, photographers, spiritualists, news-reel men, coach-loads of the inquisitive — but whilst silver was staging a highly finished performance of the act of welcome, somebody went into action. it was that tough sportswoman, lady katharine hurrell. with the tact of a battle-axe she drove her nephew's two guests from the room, shepherding them with brazen lies and insincere apologies to their coats and cars. ... midge had not even any remembrance of the 'picknickery', that long, low room of linen-fold panelling and old rose brocade, where they talked round the fire. 'we must kill the fatted calf tomorrow,' declared morfa, propped against the mantelpiece with a whisky and soda in his hand. 'why?' asked ethne in surprise. 'as a sacrifice of thanks- giving to your god? 'good lord! no, my dear! it's just a way of saying that we'll have a festivity tomorrow in honour of your arrival.' 'a feast on a dead calf? i didn't know you ate dead things here. you never told me that, midge! ‘mirror, mirror on the wall' 'i didn't know we did. i'd forgotten ... you see, father, ethne and i don't eat things that have died or been killed. they do among the cernunnos, but not with us.' there was almost an inflection of disgust in his voice; there was a slight widening of the girl's very lovely eyes. morfa remarked both; and thought for an instant with some amusement of the consternation that a vegetarian diet might occasion in his kitchens. 'don't be afraid; we can manage it,' he said. "we'll throw the sort of feast that you can enjoy! 'if you're a wise man, tony,' said lady kat, setting down her drink and bringing out a battered silver cigarette case, 'you'll cut out feasts and get out of here tomorrow. as soon after dawn as you can.' ‘but — ' began silver. 'there's no “but” about it, my good girl. we've got to go to earth while we sort ourselves out. we've got to find a lot of explanations to hand round. otherwise life here will be sheer hell. do you think that the return of the heir — she paused on the word, but so little that only standish appre- ciated the cut at the mother of a second son — 'after ten years is going to pass without the briskest comment?' 'i definitely concur,' said the judge sitting back in his chair and tapping his finger-tips against one another before him in the manner that is the prerogative of the church, the bench and the scholastic profession. 'you'll have all the servant's hall gossip here gushing out on the countryside tomorrow. whether adam dent-raleigh's man will be in a condition to add anything to the tale is doubtful, but it's a risk. in any case the little man tells me that jones, the policeman, stopped to help when the car broke down near the bridge. he's a notorious tattle-monger. 'of course it might have been worse. it is only by chance that there was anyone in the house on the hill tonight. sup- pose they had turned up in the main road naked and half perished with cold, or walked into the bog! you know, silver, valley beyond time there must have been some serious error in your calculations! adam tells me that this is not marked down as one of the periods of watch on the schedule you gave him.' his bright dark eyes under their rather heavy eyebrows thoughtfully inspected the composed woman sitting in a high-backed chair on the other side of the fire, idly toying with the pearls of a long necklace. 'benaiah prepared the calculations for the schedule,' she asserted indifferently. ethne said abruptly to her: 'we saw benaiah once — midge and i. it was when he came to cibola as ambassador for the queen of derga. he was a big man with white hair. he spoke about you.' was a sudden alarm shadowed in silver's large grey eyes? - standish asked himself. she made no comment, however, but said after a brief reflection: 'bennie must be getting pretty old by now. he never would say exactly what his age was, and always kept it out of books of reference; but he must have been well over sixty when he went away. he'll never see seventy again, anyhow.' the judge thought that there was an almost ghoulish satisfaction in the tone in which she said this. 'he did not seem old to me,' said ethne. 'nor does he seem old to the queen of derga, who has fallen in love with him — and is much younger than you are. he has fallen in love with her, too! 'i'm quite certain,' remarked silver caustically, 'that bennie is capable of being a most amorous septuagenarian.' 'i heard manannan tell my mother that benaiah was send- ing a messenger to you soon! this time standish knew for a certainty that silver was badly shaken, even although she said lightly after a very short pause: 'to announce his engagement, i suppose?' as his regard left her face standish's eyes encountered those of lady kat, and in their depths saw an ironical com- 'mirror, mirror on the wall' prehension of some situation of which he knew less than nothing. the older woman now intervened briskly: 'that is very interesting indeed about senator purvis, but i think we had better get back to ourselves, and what we are going to do tomorrow, before packing these children off to bed with an urgent prayer that they won't wake up with feverish colds, or pneumonia, after wandering about on the hills in the nude on a night like this.' 'i'm full up with engagements,' objected silver. 'aunt kat's right, though,' said morfa. 'you'll have to give them a miss, darling.' 'i know i'm right,' continued his aunt, pulling at one of the cheapest cigarettes on the market with manifest enjoy- ment. 'you see that, before we face anyone, among other things, we've got to sort out a girl with no known country, and with no available parents, relatives, or guardian. by the way, ethne, how old are you? 'we do not measure time as you do,' said ethne. 'i know how old i am, and so does everybody amongst us, but there is no way in which i could explain it to you. my father, manannan, once told me that he was four thousand earth- years old! do you think i could be a thousand?' a thousand years old! god almighty!' exclaimed morfa, surveying her loveliness with the most mixed sensations – in which there was even a little horror. he restored himself with whisky. 'could i be a hundred, then?" she asked, realizing the consternation that she had caused. 'how old is midge?' “twenty-three.' 'i'm older than midge, i think. perhaps i am as old as silver. how old are you, silver?' she read what was in midge's step-mother's mind before she spoke, and went on: *forty! well, suppose i am forty! 'i am not forty,' affirmed silver. 'i am not forty! what makes you say that? i never said so.' valley beyond time ‘but you - lady katharine, who had much appreciated silver's pre- dicament, thought better to intervene again. 'how old am i, do you suppose, ethne?' 'i have never seen anyone with white hair or grey hair before, except benaiah and adam,' answered ethne, after studying her for a moment. 'are you very old?' 'i don't think so. i am sixty-three earth-years, as you call 'em, old.' ethne studied her again for a moment with the slightest of smiles. she divined the sterling honesty and kindness of her. she said bluntly: 'i like you very much. couldn't i be old enough to be your daughter. if i'm supposed to have a mother — and i don't see why – would you mind pretending? standish gave a small and rather secret smile. morfa roared with laughter, spilling his drink over his trousers. lady kat smiled, too. 'that, my dear, is the nicest thing that has ever been said to me ... stop guffawing like a baboon, tony! ... i dare say we could arrange something on those lines, ethne. although i'm a maiden lady, i'd willingly give my virtue and reputation to have a daughter with your looks. i'd be quite prepared to admit that i threw my cap over the wind- mill in my middle-age ... damn it, morfa, do stop snigger- ing! now you see at any rate the sort of problems that we are up against! 'we don't have to provide midge with a father fortunately,' meditated standish. 'but on the other hand he left us a boy still at his prep school, and he comes back a man of twenty- three. it is a matter of considerable question whether a fourth-dimensional education, etcetera, etcetera, will be of much use to him in a three-dimensional world. the geo- graphy of cibola and the history of derga will be no substi- tute for those of england and america.' another, and even more alarming, thought occurred to ‘mirror, mirror on the wall' him. he retrieved from beside the chair in which he sat a book that he had been reading earlier in the evening. he opened it, and handed it to midge - who was sitting on the arm of the settee – pointing with his finger to the big type of a chapter heading. 'can you read that, midge?' he demanded. the lad regarded the file of inky symbols with a completely blank expression. then ethne pulled at his sleeve, and examined the page over his arm. 'it is an ugly pattern. does it mean anything at all?' she commented. 'i've forgotten,' he confessed. 'what does it say?" standish read whatever the headline said in his neat slow voice: then peered at the two of them over the top of the book. neither appeared in the least impressed by the art of reading. 'that must be a very slow way of having to hear a story,' said ethne. she took the book from midge's hand and examined its binding, its pages, and its printing with a criti- cal air. “we have just a little ball, and all the story is thought into it. we hold it in our hands for a while, and then we know the story, or the music, or the pictures. we see or hear them in our thoughts.' standish would have gladly inquired further into this fascinating subject, but lady kat, always more interested in people than books, brought the discussion back to the immediate problem with a jerk: ‘so now you see, silver, another very good reason why we should shift before that damn news-hound of yours gets crack- ing! i don't mind betting she's on the 'phone at this moment. tony, we've got to bolt! my god, i can see the headlines that might be! no! a thousand times no! car to cardiff to- morrow, tony. directly after breakfast. first express to london. leaving no address behind us. agatha wickell has lent me her flat while she's in the states. we'll go to earth there till we have cut and dried long-term plans. valley beyond time 'i oughtn't to leave young anthony,' objected silver. ‘faddle! you've left the child often enough before. heavens above, you aren't still nursing him! he's eight.' midge thought: 'when i woke up in the valley, ethne welcomed me and we went away and played, and her mother kissed me, and her father took me out hunting. when ethne comes to my world in the rain and the dark and the wind, my father and my uncle and my aunt and my father's wife talk, and talk, and talk about us. they talk about hiding us as though they were ashamed. when she comes, too, i fight like a dergan-' ethne rose from the settee; with a hand resting upon his shoulder, she faced his father. beneath the thin folds of the midnight-blue gown the whiteness of her body was as the whiteness of a naked swimmer under water in a summer sea. standish, admiring her beauty with the dispassionate admira- tion of an artist, was grateful that it would not fall to him to explain to her the most peculiar conventions of western civilization regarding the display of the female form. again, in a sudden turning of her dark head towards him and a fleeting examination by her sapphire eyes, he was told that she knew what was in his thoughts and was puzzled, though not embarrassed. hers was another problem entirely; for she asked: 'is there always fighting here, anthony? will people always attack me? will midge always have to defend me?' 'heavens, no, my dear! the man was drunk. that's all there was to it, though it was bad enough. anyhow midge taught him a lesson.' do people often get drunk here?' 'we-e-ell — ‘and when they are drunk, then they fight?' 'not always. sometimes.' it was perhaps the slightest increase of the pressure upon his shoulder that made midge look up. ethne was looking down at him. there was no concern for valley beyond time 'to shoot people with if you are attacked.' 'like a bow and arrow?' 'it throws a lead ball.' ‘and that would kill people?' ‘most certainly.' ‘and i used to play with it as a child?' 'i can remember you standing on tip-toe to reach it on the mantelpiece. you always used to make for it when you were a kid. the trigger was too stiff for you for a long time, but you used to point it and say “bang-bang!" it was a favourite toy of yours! ‘a favourite toy!' no word, no slightest movement in the tiny scene had escaped standish's ears and eyes. now he saw the boy raise his ruffled head from contemplation of the small deadly thing in his hand, and cast a quick look of agonized appeal to ethne. a sense of brooding tragedy tugged suddenly at the jurist's heart. he rose quickly to his small, neat feet. 'it's long past my bed-time,' he declared, 'and i'll swear it's absolute murder to keep these youngsters up any longer, tony!...' in the end, he was the last to leave the room. silver had followed the others, as a sort of afterthought. she had paused on the way out, by the door, by a floren- tine mirror in a heavy silver frame hanging against the panelling. forgetful of his presence, she had stopped and looked closely in assessment of herself in those chill depths. she had turned away frowning. he fancied that, like the queen in the story of 'snow-white' she had put to the mirror the fatal question: mirror, mirror on the wall who's the fairest of us all? and the answer had come back: ‘mirror, mirror on the wall' fair and lovely thou may'st be, ethne's fairer still, i see! he suddenly became acutely anxious about silver, the de- throned beauty, the mother of a son who had been relegated into the background by the return of the heir to the earldom and the estates of morfa. valley beyond time ethina for bad attempt to answer ethne's questions on the subject. it was as puzzling to him as to her. aunt kat said doubtfully: ‘have you had enough to eat? really enough?' 'yes, thank you,' ethne answered. even if his father had forgotten, somebody had remem- bered their tastes. there had been a cereal and cream, stewed fruit, and various other sorts of fruit whose names he had forgotten as well as toast and honey. but it had all tasted dry, and flavourless, and stale. he was humiliated by the diet that had been set before manannan's daughter, even though she assured him in his dejection that all was well. his father bustled off on some small urgent business. aunt kat disappeared to instruct uncle minos in the latest details of their plans. they were left by themselves in that chilly, pale blue room, with the frozen masks on the black pedestals staring, eyeless, at them, and the two long windows framing a grey sky, grey mists, grey woodlands. in the valley now — ethne came to his side, as he stood looking out upon that deplorable view. she put her hand upon his arm. 's-sh! listen!' she said. in the silence there was but one sound — a small, but almost inexorable sound. 'tick ... tock! tick ... tock! tick ... tock! listening to it, he thought that, whatever noise there might be thereafter in this room, he would always hear, through it, beneath it, or above it, the small, solemn reminder that they had come to a universe where time was the most impor- tant thing of all. she made him turn round to face the grandfather clock standing in an arched recess at the far end of the room - a grave, sleek time-keeper in mahogany and brass and gilt, with the sun and moon and stars painted upon its dial, and the second-hand flitting on, and on, and on. she set her fingers about his wrist. land of clocks ‘do you remember when we talked about the way you cut up time in your world? how long ago was it when we counted the taps? how long ago?' it was very long ago, indeed, since he had lain beside her on the flower-spangled lawn of the house of opal over- hanging the valley; and she had tapped out heart-beats upon his wrist. it was a universe ago and a universe away. 'i don't like that way of telling time,' said ethne. 'i think it is rather frightening.' she raised his hand in hers, and pressed it against the curve of her left breast. 'do you feel, midge, that my heart is beating more slowly than the clock? i don't want your clock to race me and beat me. if it does, will it matter? there was a clock in my bedroom. it chat- tered very quickly of time all night long. why do i have to be told about your time even when i lie in bed?' he had no answer and no consolation ready. could one stop the clock for her? — for himself? even in derga the melancholy music of the bells only reminded one at intervals of the fateful passage of time; but here without intermission one was made aware of its light, swift footfall. because he and she were so conscious now of this, did it mean that they were on the way together to old age - to the blind, deaf, toothless, skeleton old age of the woman in the hut? manannan had said that when you thought of old age, old age thought of you. but if here you were never allowed to forget the enemy, then how could that enemy ever fail to remember you? how very quickly one must get old! he suddenly set his arms about ethne, and they clung to one another. once again since they left the valley beyond time, they kissed, not as children, but as lovers. ... the great car rushed through the misty morning along the drab, shining road between the vague and secret woodlands, over the hump-backed bridge spanning a leaden and insigni- valley beyond time ficant river. it seemed to midge — the windscreen wipers squeaking and squeezing on their monotonous journey across the glass before him — that the speed was no greater than that of the chariots of manannan, and with none of the exhilara- tion and the glory. the dashboard was spattered with instru- ments that recorded minute divisions of time and speed and other things which might or might not be more truly measurable. ethne had looked at that array of clock-like things: she had said to his mind: 'is life so short here, then, that everything has to be weighed, and measured, and counted?' again he had known of no answer that he could make. they stopped at mrs. bosworth's shop for his father, who was driving, to buy cigarettes. 'you'd better stay where you are,' he said to midge. we should never get away if mary saw you. but i think ethne might like to see her first shop. would you, ethne?' so wrapped in the high-collared, blue tweed coat, she accompanied him into that dark emporium through a glass- paned door with a jangling bell. in the distance, someone was singing loudly and shrilly a melancholy dirge about securing salvation through the blood of a lamb. why did they even have to sing in praise of carnage? — she asked herself as the vocalist abruptly stopped. the gloom was full of strange and ugly smells — paraffin, soap, onions; full of strange and ugly colours – cloudy jars of boiled sweets, stacks of canned goods with gaudy labels. a buxom and still handsome woman appeared from a dim inner room and beamed at my lord across a crumby counter on which were displayed, amongst other commodities, a sallow bunch of bananas like a many-fingered hand and a box of hideously dead and odorous bloaters. ‘mornin', mary,' said my lord. 'lousy sort of day, my dear! has olwen heard from her husband yet? fifty of the usual, and a half-flask of the usual, too.' land of clocks morfa did not attempt to explain his companion to mrs. bosworth; but ethne knew that for some obscure reason of his own he had wanted to show her off before the mistress of the shop; knew, too, that there had been some strange re- lationship once upon a time between midge's father and the woman. she was suddenly ashamed for him, without know- ing why. with the comment, 'getting old! feel the chill!' morfa took a long pull at the flask before putting it in a side-pocket of his big overcoat. he went out, whistling, with the cigarettes in his hand. ethne knew that in that short visit to the shop there was not merely a clue to some past history but perhaps even one to the future. the mist only began to clear a long time after they had set out. even then it appeared still to lurk in the lowering clouds, in the grey oiliness of the sea, in the scarred, shabby hills rising above the string of small industrial towns through which they passed. it lurked, too, in the side-turnings of the interminable streets of small houses of dingy stone, of dingier roughcast, of dirty red brick. here was a grim bethel, there a sordid public-house: here a derelict factory, there a yard stacked with rusting junk; and, high above the wet, slate roofs, vast chimneys spired over the desecration they had brought about. midge heard no word from ethne and, looking over his shoulder to the back of the car, he saw that she had closed her eyes. was she asleep? — he asked himself — or was she just refusing to see the drab pageant of the day? as they were about to enter the market-square of one of the towns - a market-square ornamented by a memorial clock- tower set between two underground public lavatories – morfa braked the car fiercely to a standstill. ethne opened her eyes. a funeral procession was dragging its sombre length across the road before them. above the shuffle of feet a single melancholy bell tolled in a nearby place of worship. an valley beyond time 'it's are they doing?, , black armband.mportant gar? ancient motor-hearse creaked slowly with its cargo of newly varnished coffin and moribund flowers to the resting-place of death. a crocodile of mourners followed at an uneasy pace, conscious of being a show and of their stiff, important gar- ments, their bowler hats and black armbands. 'what are they doing?' said ethne out loud. 'it's a funeral, my dear,' explained aunt kat. 'what is a funeral? “they are going to bury somebody who's dead.' 'you mean they are going to put somebody in the earth, who's going to another world.' 'has gone.' ‘but if she's already gone - she decided to leave that very peculiar problem and asked instead, 'why do they look so solemn? aren't they glad she's gone? it must be more beautiful where she is now.' for midge's sake she was glad that she stopped herself from adding, 'it couldn't be uglier than it is here.' lady kat was spared the difficulty of finding a reply by her nephew putting in his clutch with a jerk, and in a breath- taking manner swinging into a side-street along which he hurled the car at an entirely illegal speed. when she had restored herself to her corner and smoothed her rufflings, ethne had been distracted by the gruesome display of a butcher's shop. everything sordid and hideous that he saw upon that dreary journey had a treble impact upon midge's mind. it was terrible enough, as a start, to find so much that was sor- did and hideous; it was more terrible to contemplate that once it should have all seemed commonplace to him; it was yet worse to think of the effect upon ethne. even in the dirt and disenchantment of the kingdom of derga, that other world had yet retained the magic of its colour and its light. derga was to this, as the valley was to that land among the people of cernunnos. and then ethne began talking to him silently — comforting land of clocks him for his inability to comfort her. he wished he could sit beside her and watch her. soon they were running into cardiff - a kaleidoscope of people, cars, torn paper, shops, clocks, trolley-buses and advertisement hoardings — as drab and bustling in the heavy drizzle as an ant-hill. he hated it all, and, most of all, the ugly station, whistling with draughts, thunderous with trains, and clotted with screeching travellers. he tried to keep his feelings from ethne, but without success, as they waited with lady kat on a damp platform beside a crate of dead rabbits, and beneath a white-faced clock with a jerking minute-hand. morfa had disappeared. 'i'll get some papers, and see where silver has got to,' he said as he disappeared. 'not more than one large scotch,' his aunt warned him, though not very hopefully. she realized at once, though as yet neither of the others did, the immense interest that the appearance of her pro- tégée aroused. she caught all the covert side-long glances thrown by man and woman at the tall girl standing beside her with the good-looking yellow-haired lad. she watched with sardonic amusement the gradual thickening of the throng in their neighbourhood, and found much pleasure in catching a pseudo-innocent glance into space at the exact moment it was re-focusing upon ethne, and in returning it with the iciest of contemptuous stares. none of the gimcrack hollywood stars would have a look in with that girl! there were birth and breeding in her — even if the breeding were one which did not include a know- ledge of the alphabet as used by the western civilization of a three-dimensional world! one of these days they would have to do what had been done for the lovely maria gunning in the time of george the second — give her an escort of the guards to save her from being mobbed! basking in this prospective reflection of coming glory, she valley beyond time . even forgave morfa for a probable excess in his whisky ration when he reappeared just as the express came grinding its cacaphony into the station. he hung out of the window of their compartment, anxiously speculating on possible reasons for his wife's non-appearance until, amid a shrilling of whistles and hissing of steam, the train began to grumble on its way again without her. 'where the devil can silver be?” he said, bringing his head in. ‘she's old enough to look after herself,' answered his aunt tartly, and started work on the times crossword puzzle. she despised people who required more to amuse them on a journey of any length than a respectable paper, the scenery and their thoughts. morfa settled down in the corner opposite her, by the corridor door, to fidget irritably among a mass of expensive magazines until such time as lunch should be served. it did not appear to ethne that there could be much pleasure in travel caged in a rather large box upholstered in dusty blue cloth, its carpet littered with match stalks, and reeking of tobacco. a heavy rain beat dismally against windows opaque with steam, and the wheels of the train rumbled a discordant song of speed. she knew that midge, who sat opposite her, was saying soundlessly: ‘don't you wish we were in manannan's chariot driving across the uplands to cibola? 'this is an adventure, too,' she answered him. "when i came back from derga, eber let me take the reins. i drove from the hill above the city until we were almost in sight of home. i wish — she devoted herself to quelling his nostalgia until morfa went to the dining-car, and lady kat started to unfurl nap- kins and grease-proof paper from the luncheon basket which they had brought with them from saul. the crisp pale biscuits which they ate with butter and cheese and salad greatly intrigued ethne. she liked them. " valley beyond time 'for instance we really can't have them going to bed together.' 'what!' he exclaimed loudly, letting the cigarette fall from his lips. 'it is a fact. i went along to cast an eye on them a little while ago, in a motherly sort of way. ethne was in midge's bed. they were fast asleep, locked in one another's arms!' 'good god! i would never have thought it of her. how long do you suppose this has been going on? 'there isn't anything wrong to think of her. that i do know with absolute certainty. or of him, either. they both awoke before i could make up my mind what to do, and lay there, looking up at me and smiling in complete innocence for a moment or so. then ethne suddenly said to me, “why are you so shocked? why don't you like to see us here together?” so i said, “my dear child, i know it may seem odd to you, but in this country it is absolutely forbidden for young women and young men to sleep together in the same bed.” i really could not go into the various qualifying clauses of this pro- hibition at the time. as an expert you can explain them to midge some day. anyhow he sat up in bed, and said in a most indignant manner: ““but that is a frightfully silly law. why?” 'ethne lay looking at me in silence. i know she can read one's mind. not just guess from one's expression, but actually see one's thoughts as words. and then she said, but not with her voice, for her lips never moved, although i could hear her quite clearly: "“i think i understand. there was something in the mind of that drunken man at adam's house about that sort of thing. don't say anything to midge! it is very ugly.' 'midge obviously didn't hear what she said to me, for he broke out: ""but ethne and i always shared a room at home.” – that “at home" rather saddened me, tony! that "at land of clocks home" in another world! – "if we felt lonely during the sleep we always got into one another's beds!” 'he ran on for a bit, and then he fell silent, and from the way he looked at ethne i knew she was talking to him, and also that he was not accepting what she said without argu- ment. presently, however, she kissed him and then gave me a tiny wisp of a smile. he turned with a rather sulky ex- pression and buried his face in the pillows. he was very put out! 'she got out of bed at once and came to me. my dear, she hadn't got a stitch on!... she is the most exquisite creature that i've ever seen or imagined ... she kissed me then and said in her silent voice, “we've got to keep your laws, though we think them silly, haven't we?” i felt a perfect brute, but, my god! think what would have happened in the morning if that ancient maid of agatha's had brought the early tea and found them stark naked in the one bed! you know what agatha's tongue can be like! 'i suppose the best thing to do would be to marry them out of hand?' said morfa thoughtfully. lady katharine shook her head. she shuffled and re- shuffled the patience cards and then spread them out in little fan-shaped heaps. 'eventually, yes. but they have got to be acclimatized first. they'll have to be separated for a while - a short while. you'll have to deal with midge. i'll make myself responsible for the girl. tuition will take three times as long if they are together. they'll learn quickly enough, i'll guarantee. the civilization they come from is far greater than ours, though utterly different. i hate to say so, but i'm sure that's true. i shall take her abroad at once.' 'abroad! what'll you do for a passport? 'i've still got anne's from the time i took her to paris.' morfa surveyed his lawless aunt with respect, for whilst his seventeen-year-old daughter had black hair and blue eyes, she had little else in common with ethne. valley beyond time dorley — old ‘dollars', who had been his own house-master at school, and was now midge's resident instructor. at this stage in his meditations, however, the gentleman in question stamped in, unannounced and in a flaming temper, a charred cigarette stump projecting beneath his heavy white moustache like a stick of charcoal. he was wearing baggy plus-fours — as he always did by day — so that he looked as though he had set out to play golf in the nineteen-twenties and had never changed since. as an etymologist of world-wide repute, he was an exponent of simple and direct speech. he spoke now to his former pupil without mincing matters. 'if you think that because i'm a schoolmaster and can't swear, i'm not going to call you a bloody fool, morfa, you are mistaken,' said he, regarding with distaste the figure sunk in the chintz-covered armchair. 'because i am! why did you give that boy of yours hell last night, you iniquitous ass? it's lucky for you that i wasn't there.' morfa set down his teacup and started to bleat in protest – ‘but my dear dollars — ' “the boy's got twice your brains,' said dorley, surveying the mirrors, wardrobes, shoe-racks and other fitments of the room with an air of disparagement. 'he gets them from his mother, of course. but if you think that any human mind, however bright, can assimilate in one year — even under my tuition – what it takes the normal intelligence ten years to absorb, then you're an even bigger idiot than i suspected!' 'my dear dollars —' 'i'm not your "dear dollars”!... there's more to it than i have said. don't you realize that not merely have the lost ten years to be made up for, but all the buried memories of the previous thirteen have to be revived or replaced as well?' ‘but -' began morfa. dorley was brooking no interruption, however; he threw his cigarette end into the hearth, and continued: ‘the most important thing'-i 'what i came to say is this: if you don't like my educational methods, say so! if you don't like paying my salary — you know what you can do with it! if i hear again of you blasting the boy in public for his ignorance, i'll throw the job in your teeth and my books at your head! incidentally, i should be glad if you will ask your wife not to call unnecessary attention to any slips he chances to make — as she did last night! midge has recently been developing an inferiority complex like a malignant cancer!' the violence of the simile startled morfa. 'why?' he asked. “and why recently?' ‘dunno,' said dorley. 'it's been going on now for three or four months, perhaps a bit longer, and it's getting worse all the time. when he started with me he was full of con- fidence and took everything in his stride. he made astonish- ing progress in the first six months or so. really astonishing! but now — well, he just seems to have lost heart. it isn't that he doesn't work. if anything he is working harder and longer - but the results simply aren't there to the same degree.' 'think he's getting stale, dollars?' suggested morfa, full of penitence. 'does he need a break — a good break?' 'i doubt if one would get him to take it,' said dorley, rolling himself a cigarette with nicotine-stained fingers, 'he's pathetically anxious to get on. at one time i got the idea that he was becoming a “clock-watcher”. he is for ever looking at his wrist-watch – half a dozen times in the course of an hour when we are working. after a while, however, i realized that it wasn't because he was eager to be through; that he was worried, not about the time passing too slowly, but about it passing too fast for all that he had to do.' ‘now you mention it,' said morfa, venturing to pour some more whisky into his tea out of the hot-water jug, and hoping that dorley would not observe the contents, 'i've myself noticed that he's developed the trick of looking at his watch without rhyme or reason at all sorts of times and places, as if he were bothering about an appointment. it's odd, you valley beyond time know, because when he first had it, it was quite a consider- able while before he got into the way of wearing it.' morfa had, indeed, been rather nettled when silver drew his attention to the fact that midge never by any chance wore the extremely expensive gold watch which he had given him as a birthday present. they had agreed that she should mention the matter tactfully to the lad: ‘your father's a little hurt - looks like a lack of appreciation - of course i know it isn't so — and so forth. the upshot was that midge never afterwards appeared without it. dorley reflected: 'i almost wish that he didn't wear the thing. i have a feeling in my bones that somehow or other it is a clue — or a clue to a clue - to his present mental outlook. he has lost ten years. time has overtaken him. i believe that he's worrying all the while, consciously or subconsciously, lest he should fall still further back in the race. in that case his watch must be a perfect old man of the sea to him! morfa ventured on no comment, and the ex-schoolmaster added as a rider to his remarks: 'it may, or may not have any bearing on the subject, but the other day i found him studying the expectation of life tables in whitaker's almanack! rather an odd subject for a youngster to concern himself with, i thought! 'good god! dorley looked at the gilt clock on the mantelpiece, flanked by photographs of silver. 'time for midge and me to be off for our walk,' he declared, and let a hint of menace enter his voice. 'now mind you, i am having no nonsense from you! you are leaving that boy of yours alone, if you can't play the loving papa! i suppose the fact of the matter is that you drank more than was good for you last night. that would also explain why you are taking whisky in your morning tea! good day to you! with that he departed as abruptly as he came, leaving morfa with a schoolboy impression of swishing canes, ‘the most important thing'- i rustling gowns, and the convulsive tassels of mortar-boards. 'oh, god!' said he and helped himself to more whisky. uncle minos had been present during the contretemps at dinner. it was a dead certainty that he would retail the incident to aunt kat, who was due to arrive that morning to spend christmas. ‘oh, hell!' said morfa. he would get some pheno-barbitone tablets out of his medicine-chest and retire to bed for the day! ... "to tell you the truth, minos,' said lady katharine, after she had heard his story, 'i am most unhappy about the whole business.' 'so am i,' agreed standish, and shook his head to the offer of another of the tea-cakes keeping warm before the fire in the 'picknickery', where, morfa being abed and every- body else out, they were having their first real talk since they had parted the year before. "that damned woman, silver, makes things infinitely worse,' said lady kat, inserting one of her appalling cigarettes into a short amber holder. 'she might be the wicked stepmother of a fairy-tale. she obviously loathes ethne because of her looks. she obviously loathes midge because she thinks he's supplanted her own boy. she knows quite well that besotted ass, tony, will never believe any- thing against her! i swear she encourages him to drink, just to keep him under her thumb. she's as clever as hell! 'i am firmly of the opinion,' commented standish in his rather prim utterance, 'that she is doing her best to drive those young people back where they came from.' lady kat expelled a small jet of smoke from her lips as though she were blowing out a candle. 'did tony ever tell you what she suggested to him long before midge returned?' she asked. 'he's been very chary of discussing silver with me.' 'well, she suggested to him that, as soon as seven years had valley beyond time gone by, he should apply to the courts for leave to presume death! ‘by jupiter ammon! lady kat nodded her grey head. “that was shortly after young anthony was born. the fact that he even brought himself to discuss the business with her shows the hold she has over him. for once, how- ever, he stood firm. would it be possible to get leave, do you imagine, without bringing in details that would make the whole affair look like an opium-smoker's dream? he reflected, rubbing his nose with the bowl of his un- lighted pipe. 'i don't think it would be impossible,' he adjudged, 'with a reasonably intelligent legal adviser.' 'i wonder,' she said thoughtfully after a moment or two of silence. 'i wonder very much!' 'what? 'i wonder if – minos, have you any notion what the american law is on the subject?' he gave a neat small shake of the head. 'i have no idea at all.' 'well, i'll tell you this. i'm convinced that she was planning to get leave to presume benaiah's death — it would make a big difference to her financially, you know — at the very time when midge and ethne came back and mentioned seeing him. i remember her baffled expression when that item of news was thrown out. and the next morning she went off to the cardiff solicitors who've always handled the english end of the purvis estate business for her. i conclude she became nervous and put a stop to proceedings. it was the day we left for london a year ago.' 'that's all pure assumption, katharine.' 'no. it's pure intuition. however, it's up to benaiah to defend his own interests. he can hardly be unaware what sort of tiger-cat silver is. i suppose she was his mistress. i can't imagine him being particularly platonic with that sort ‘the most important thing'- i of late wife's previous husband's cousin - or whatever the relationship was! ‘my dear katharine! 'anyhow, i don't care an iota what happens to her or benaiah. but i do care what happens to midge. he hasn't been able to accommodate himself to this world in the way that ethne has — or seems to have done.' 'accommodate herself to the world!' exclaimed sir henry, pressing tobacco into his pipe with his little finger. 'that is a considerable under-statement. why, she has virtually annexed it, to judge from the press! hardly a day goes by but there's a picture or a paragraph or a reference of some sort. she has the publicity of a film star - or a queen. i could hardly credit it when you wrote to me from rome that people waited in the street just to see her go in and out of the hotel. now i know that i, myself, might quite easily have made one of the crowd . . : ethne hasn't been very informative on the subject of her ten months with you. won't you fill in some of the gaps for me, please? lady kat preened herself. 'it began, minos, as i prophesied it would, on the very first day – on our arrival in rome. the taxi-driver who took us to the hotel absolutely refused to accept a solitary lira by way of fare or tip! standish raised grey eyebrows in mute astonishment. 'he got down from his seat and said, with large gestures, that the honour of having carried the most beautiful woman in the world left him eternally her debtor. nothing would induce him to change his mind. he stood in the porte-cochère, exclaiming at the top of his voice: "“bellissima! bellissima! bellissima!” ‘the hotel porters talked, i suppose, about the incident. anyhow next morning press photographers were lurking everywhere. four or five snapped her coming out of the hotel. at lunch-time a dozen must have been lying in wait, and by the afternoon we were literally in a state of siege. the racket had begun! valley beyond time and still continues! 'i had to get a secretary to deal with the correspondence. by every post there was an avalanche of letters - from editors, film companies, artists, dress-makers, broadcasting people, beauty preparation firms, beggars. the invitations, the love-letters that poured in!... a disgusting hollywood tycoon tried to abduct her, and an abdicated balkan monarch offered her his dilapidated crown in the foyer of the opera on their second meeting. it was verdi's falstaf, i remember. but practically every man she comes across proposes to her sooner or later.' 'have you any idea of her inner reaction to these — er — attentions? 'she's been completely unmoved, so far as i can tell. the one and only occasion i've seen her really taken aback was when she saw a set of false teeth for the first time in her life! on our first night in rome. i gave mine an airing as i went to bed. i forgot to cover them. she wanted to know if every- body else had “detachable” teeth!' the pair of them meditated for a moment on the com- plexity of a civilization that produced both dentures and the need for them. then lady kat went on: 'i don't think she's had a second thought for anyone except midge. the only people she's been at all interested in have been artists and sculptors. for the rest she says and does the right thing at the right moment in the right way. she has the beauty and the bearing of a virgin goddess. she has, too, minos, i think, inwardly all the scorn that such a goddess might have for the clods that mostly inhabit this world. there are a thousand things in our way of life that horrify and shock her.' ‘one can hardly be surprised.' 'her ability to read the minds of people makes it worse. she not merely sees dirty actions, hears dirty words, but reads dirty thoughts. ‘much as i admire ethne,' considered standish, 'i am not 'the most important thing'- i sur sure that i care for the idea of her always seeing into my mind.' 'she doesn't. with you and me, she deliberately does not. she likes us too well, and believes in us. otherwise it's her defence. in her own world, she told me once, you don't pry into others' minds without their knowledge. it would be like listening at the keyhole or reading somebody's letter with us. i fancy, however, that she keeps a pretty constant watch over silver. you can't think how i hated bringing her back to that creature's mercies.' 'i can. tony told me the other day that he couldn't imagine why silver was so against giving the usual christmas dance. i could have told him!' ‘dislike of being outshone at her own “do” in her own house.' 'quite.' 'i wouldn't put murder past the bitch!' lady kat asserted venomously. 'wouldn't you?' said ethne. she had entered very silently, and stood by the door, regarding them with an air that was almost mournful. she was in a smoke-blue dress, and great opal ear-rings shone against the whiteness of her neck and the darkness of her hair. her sapphire eyes were almost veiled by the long- lashed lids. it seemed to sir henry standish that her narrow eyebrows were more oblique than he had ever realized. he thought again, as he often did, that anyone looking at her must realize that she was born of no mortal mother and father; that she was of the quality of the fairy ladies — 'her face bright as the day of union; her hair dark as the night of separation; and her mouth magical as solomon's seal. she closed the door, pulled forward a chair and sat down, facing them across the fire. 'i could hardly help hearing what you said. but it is quite true about silver,' she said quietly. 'you know that?' asked the judge, rubbing his chin with a valley beyond time well-kept hand, and turning a witness-assessing gaze upon her. 'quite well. you remember last night somebody started talking about the priest who was found dead on carn meurig?' ‘bosworth, who's supposed to haunt the place. yes.' 'that wakened all sorts of pictures in her mind. at the time she had thought that the passage of the threshold might be dangerous there for some reason or other, and that the man had died in trying to cross. so she went out of her way to encourage benaiah to make the attempt, hoping the same thing would happen. isn't that murder?' 'not legally, but morally, my dear,' said standish, still watching her. ‘and then there was another thing she did ... i know! i was watching her mind last night all the time . . . she had always meant to marry tony, and so she deliberately tried to get rid of midge. she was looking well ahead, you see!' 'get rid of midge!' exclaimed lady kat. 'good god, what do you mean, ethne? 'it's very simple. she took him with her when she went to see benaiah set off on his expedition. when togga appeared she saw a grand opportunity. she told midge to run into the wood of the threshold and bring him back for her. midge said something like, “but i promised daddy i wouldn't — " she said: “daddy won't say anything when he knows i gave you leave. off you go! you needn't be a minute!” of course he was aching to go, so off he went! she thought - and prayed — that he would never come back.' 'by jupiter,' said standish, 'that's a very different tale from the one which she told tony and me and old furrow, the lawyer! ‘midge told me long ago - at the time — what had actually happened. but it didn't mean anything particular then to either of us. now i understand. he's forgotten it all, of course, but silver is always wondering if one day he mayn't ‘the most important thing'-i brooded for a litsaid lady kat where there to rub suddenly recollect, and come out with something that will show her up.' 'i wish to heaven he would, and that i were there to rub it in — with red pepper!' said lady kat with vehemence. ethne brooded for a little while, holding her knees, and looking into the fire. 'you know that she hates me,' she finally volunteered. it was an assertion and not a question; and it would have been absurd for either of them to have made any protest. 'she wants to get rid of me – to drive me away! it does not matter where or how – whether i go back where i came from, or anywhere else — so long as i'm removed. her mind is always full of plans to make me unhappy through midge. she puts ideas into his head about me. she has made him wonder, for instance, if i am capable of earthly love! ... have you ever wondered? she gravely turned her lovely head and gravely questioned sir henry. 'i never once thought about it,' he asserted truthfully. 'well, i went specially to the doctor the other day. aunt kat knows. my body is the same as that of any other woman. he said so.' r chapter v 'the most important thing in the world'- ii servant came in to remove the tea things, and they talked of indifferent matters until he had made up the t fire with old apple tree logs and finally left the room. then ethne leaned forward in her chair, her fingers inter- locked upon a knee. in a tense voice she said: 'but it is midge i am so afraid about. i am terribly afraid for him. i don't know what he may do. i hate to think what he may do! to start with, he is ashamed of being so back- ward — as if that were his fault! — that even his father makes mock of him in public.' 'i shall have something to say about it,' interposed lady kat. 'he has begun,' continued ethne, 'to look back on the years that he spent with us not as to a memory of great beauty and happiness that should remain an enduring inspiration. no. he has begun to feel that those years have been wasted in a dream, leaving him handicapped for ever. then, as though that weren't enough, now he's ashamed of himself, too, for accepting as a matter of course the uglinesses of this world which horrified him when he first returned! he's ashamed of himself for smoking and drinking, and eat- ing dead things and shooting live things, and for making grubby love -'. ‘love!' echoed her audience in unison. ‘silver made certain i heard about it,' said ethne. 'it is a stupid story. he isn't used to wine, and he had had too much. “that's morfa, i know!' exclaimed lady kat. 'he won't let me help him and comfort him. he thinks i ‘the most important thing'- ii despise him, and i don't! he avoids me whenever he can. do you know, i believe that my mere presence makes him unhappy! that i can only make him unhappy! perhaps it would have been better for both of us if i had gone to the cernunnos! the tears began to chase down her cheeks. ‘my darling!' said lady kat. ‘and i'm homesick, too, for my own country and people. i'm not sure of anybody here now but you and minos. if only midge – she rose from the chair, and, kneeling, laid her dark head on the older woman's knees. the diamonds on lady katharine's be-ringed fingers sparkled and flashed against the blue-black coils of the girl's hair as slowly and rhyth- mically she smoothed it. standish was easing himself forward in his chair, prepara- tory to discreet departure, when ethne raised her head and looked up into the kind old face bent over her, and cast him, too, a glance of appeal for understanding. 'the most important thing in this world is — listen!' in the silence that ensued the two of them became very aware of the sombre, remorseless ticking of the clock above the hearth: 'tick ... tock – tick ... tock – tick ... tock! 'everywhere and always those little machines are chuckling away as if they'd conquered the world, and wanted to remind it of death and darkness, bare trees and withered flowers, and winter and old age! “night's near!” they say. “night's near! night's near! ... night's here! night's here!” with you time seems to be more than god! she suddenly sprang to her feet, and stood looking down upon them for a moment in silence. then she said: 'when midge first came to the country of the ever-young, he was, for a little, very afraid of me indeed. it was when he saw that i couldn't be hurt by things in the way which he could, and that i could do things that he and his like valley beyond time couldn't. he felt that i was not of his own kind or nature - that i was not real, that i was a phantom of some sort. after a while he forgot all about that fear. 'when we first came here together, he was very afraid again - for me. but now he is afraid — of me. just as he forgot you and this house when he came to us, so now is he forgetting the me that played with him in the valley, and rode with him across the mountains, and bathed with him in the sea at cibola, and watched with him the sky changes from the portico of the house of opal, and saw the great ship of derga come to her moorings, and ran with him through the wood of the threshold. 'he sees all these fools who trail after me; who – she paused for a heart-beat – ‘are encouraged to come to this house, and he thinks that there must be a magic about me, something supernatural. apart from all his humility he is afraid to be in love with me, though i don't know what he fears. it's many, many beats of that dreadful clock ago since he said to me at my pavilion above the green meadows: “for just a horrible moment i thought you were going to be like a sort of dream, and i wanted you to be real.” now he's gone back to that horrible moment and belief that i'm some sort of mirage, unsubstantial and unreal! she spoke in a very low voice, and suddenly picked up the ancient pocket pistol lying upon the carved mantelpiece next to the buhl clock. she displayed it on the spread palm of her hand in all its aspishness to those two silent people sitting one on either side of the fire. 'that was his toy when he was little,' she said. "he played with it while the clock went "tick-tock”. everything with him is limited by the consciousness of death and time. it is becoming an increasing obsession. i know it for certain. ‘after he had been with us for a little while in cibola, because he was young he soon began to acquire something of our sense of true time — a sense that can make a rapture last an age, and an evil endure like a dream only for the 'the most important thing’– ii moment before awakening – a sense, too, that warns us for the fulfilment of a duty or a pleasure without the aid of watch or calendar. ‘even in savage derga they can find their way through time without all the perpetual ticking and chiming that go on here so that you shall keep your appointments with dinner and death. how much happier your country must have been when all the time you had was night and day, sunrise, noon and sunset! 'everywhere midge looks — i know it – he sees in the house, in the street, on the church-tower, and on his wrist man-made minutes sliding away to build up calendar years! his ten years have become eleven — are becoming twelve - thirteen - ! he's lost our sense of time, and can't grasp yours. ‘once - it is the only occasion on which he has ever talked to me about such things — he said: “you know it's rather dreadful to think that there isn't such a time as the present!" 'i said, “what do you mean?” 'he answered: “well, even as i start saying the word 'now', it isn't any longer ‘now' but has already become 'then'! ‘now' doesn't exist. it is just the future becoming the past faster than the speed of light!” then he looked at his wrist- watch as though to see how much time had gone by whilst he said that! 'it gave me the impression that he felt he was standing still whilst the future rushed on him and beyond him into the past exactly as though he had no present at all — and that the very words which he used were blown into the past as he spoke them! with that she was gone. a moment later the clock on the mantelpiece sardonically struck the hour. after a long silence the judge said: 'you know, katharine, that in a way — the non-material way, at any rate – ethne is right. in that way the mechani- cal conception of time is as useless a guide as the mercator's ‘the most important thing'- ii europe, was particularly suitable for ethne, since to simple- minded english and americans it conveyed the impression of royalty. it had not been difficult to arrange the business with the connivance of one or two officials and the purchase of a tumbledown castle from a tumbledown grandissimo.... 'who wants her, houston? “the duke of limburg is on the telephone, my lady. from brussels.' 'tell him that the princess is out — that everybody is out, it seems,' she instructed him consciencelessly, 'last minute shopping for christmas.' when the man had gone she said to standish, helping herself to another cigarette from her battered case: 'do you remember what ethne said? — "fools who are encouraged to come to this house". i'll bet silver has been roping them all in for christmas and the dance. ethne has got to be got rid of — got to be removed, as far away as possible, from putting queen silver in the shade.' said standish, remembering the incident of a year ago, and turning his head so that he might question the florentine mirror hanging by the door: ‘mirror, mirror, on the wall who's the fairest of them all?' ‘and the mirror answers,' said lady kat: fair and lovely though all be, ethne's fairest still, i see! ‘marrying her to midge wouldn't suit silver's book at all. she would always be getting in her step-mamma-in-law's light.' the door of what always had been called 'the secret room' was open — left ajar presumably by the cleaners. as a child on his way to bed midge had hurried past that masked entrance in the dark panelling for fear of whatever ghost or valley beyond time goblin might be lurking behind it in wait for him. he had not been inside the room since those days: had not thought of it: now he pushed the door open and walked in. it was small, square, dim, furnished with a single straight- backed chair, and lighted by a series of lancet windows which were invisible from without. opposite him they commanded all the banqueting hall, and were illumined by the lights suspended from the lofty vaulting of its roof. from below came the happy babble of the house-party which had as- sembled since lady katharine's arrival a few days earlier. on his right the lancets peered out upon the musicians' gallery; and there he saw ethne sitting, intent on a book propped on the ledge of the carved balustrade. upon the bench beside her were several other volumes. he stood silently in the secret room watching her with something of the devotion and awe of a humble worshipper regarding the picture of a very lovely saint. he realized at length that she could not be reading, for she was turning the leaves over much too fast. the book rested upon the wide top of the rail, and was held open by the tips of her left thumb and forefinger, whilst her right hand slid up and down across the spread face of the volume, like a shuttle, turning the leaves. down went a page. up went the hand. down went another page. it fascinated and puzzled him to guess what she could be doing. presently she appeared to have finished with the book, for she closed it, and, without looking up, put another in its place. the same process began again. its rhythm was of a mechanical regularity. he raised his left wrist, pushed back the cuff of his shirt, and looked at the second-hand of his watch. he began to time her. she turned over twenty-five leaves in sixty seconds. she turned over thirty. she turned over twenty-four - no, he'd got it wrong. he waited till the sixty-seconds mark was reached and then started again. "the most important thing'- ii “what are you looking for, ethne?' he asked a minute or so later, when he had made his way to the gallery. she looked up from her preoccupation with so palpable a start that he felt impelled to apologize: 'i wasn't spying on you, you know. i was admiring you – onstra a. i inds? ‘thank you, midge! ' - and wondering at you! ‘wondering at me?' she echoed in obvious surprise. "why?' 'well, what on earth are you doing? reading, of course!' she answered before she had time for thought. 'you couldn't have been! he remonstrated. “why, you were turning the leaves as fast as you could. i counted as many as thirty leaves in sixty seconds.' - 'seconds! com- mented ethne in a low voice and in a tone that puzzled him — 'that's sixty pages of reading. i thought that perhaps you were looking for some name or quotation, and being very spry about it, indeed!' she knew that it was useless to shirk the issue. 'i've been reading dickens's martin chuzzlewit,' she said in the most matter-of-fact tone of voice. 'i don't like it so much as nicholas nickleby, and i don't think either of them are a patch on david copperfield. i'm now starting oliver twist. i fancy i'm not going to care for it at all. 'you seriously mean to tell me,' questioned midge, twist- ing the watch-bracelet on his left wrist to and fro, 'that you have just read right through a whole dickens book in about ten minutes? why, at that rate you must have finished pick- wick in a quarter of an hour, or very little longer! 'a quarter of an hour! commented ethne beneath her breath, and said no more. in the ensuing silence midge reflected on the length of that masterpiece, which had been one of the twelve books laid down as essential in the scheme of high-pressure education he had not even yet completed. how long had it taken him 'the most important thing'- ii his puzzled frown told her that he had failed to under- stand. she repeated her statement in other words. 'for you time may be like that, perhaps, but not for me,' he said. “you see, i know now.' although that portion of her mind to which no barriers or frontiers existed was already aware of his thoughts, she asked: 'what do you know?' 'when we were children in the valley so very long ago,' he began, frowning in the effort of arranging his ideas, ‘i lost the feeling that you were strange and magical and lovely and different just because everything was strange and magi- cal and lovely and different - not equally so, of course,' he emended. “the only thing that wasn't strange and magical and lovely at all in fact was me!' someone had turned on the radio in the banqueting hall. the chatter and the laughter from below was woven into a pattern against the background of dvorak's humoresque. ethne studied for an instant the big young man in a dinner- jacket standing so close to her — the big young man with a shock of yellow hair, a tanned face with irregular features, and long-lashed grey eyes bent upon the wrist-watch that he was twisting to and fro. the shadow of a smile brushed her lips. 'go on!' she urged. 'i thought it would be all quite different when we came here. i thought i would be able to do for you what you did for me. but i haven't been able to. you have done every- thing for yourself. you are even more strange and lovely and different in this world than your own. you are the “bellissi- ma”, and i am even more ordinary now than i was then. in fact i am less than ordinary, for i have lost ten years com- pared with other men. i have a long, long way to go, and i don't think i shall ever catch up! ever!! ‘years!' echoed ethne, and again, ‘years!' she repeated the word with such an intensity of disdain chapter vi the other wood ylory be to god!' said malachi-the-tongue, 'it was the greatest battle in the world entirely. the bards will be singing of it for a hundred generations to come! there's no man that died fighting in it who did not go to his grave shouting with joy!' the ancient wisp of a man crouching over adam dent- raleigh's fire, draped in a shabby waterproof, raised the glass of steaming whisky and hot water in his hand, and drank to those happy warriors. 'his captains made a sofy of headless corpses for the king of morien in the royal rath of derga, they did and all,' he continued. 'and there he sat at his ease and in his glory. i saw him with my own eyes — his long moustaches hanging on his breast, drinking mead out of a horn, and using the bloody head of a prince for his footstool. his shield-bearers stood about him, and his fancy woman sat beside him with red jewels round her neck, kicking the head from underneath his feet for the fun of it!... and now where will the king of morien be?' the question was purely rhetorical, but the crossword maker did not recognize it as such, and repeated it almost mechani- cally, as though hypnotized by that epic of bloodshed: 'where? 'in the lowest depths of the bottomest hell! that's where he'll be, frizzling like a sausage and squealing like a bag-full of tom-cats in a briar bush! he chuckled as he spoke. he guffawed. he roared with laughter at the doom of the king. then he swallowed the remainder of his whisky and water, and tentatively held out the glass towards his host. the other wood line at once. i'm not even sure that it wouldn't be wiser to withdraw to the inmost defences straight away! ‘and then?' he shrugged his shoulders. at that very moment the time-bells gave out their haunting music for the second watch. high overhead the plaintive melody sped through the air on its way to the uttermost ends of the continent; it swept over the distant hills, and was gone with its message. “there's the answer!' said benaiah. 'in one word – time! if etar gets back soon, then you and i'll possibly occupy our- selves in rebuilding derga. but it will have to be very, very soon, and so far there has been no word or sign from him. the chances are small. but he may still be in time for an ultimate victory, even if he is too late for us! 'i'm not in the least afraid, bennie,' said morrigan, the queen, thrusting her hand into his. 'i'll face what is to be quite serenely. i've only got one grudge against fate.' he cocked an eyebrow at her as she stood at his side, silhouetted against the curtain of black smoke rising from the devastated city. her robe was of the blue of the bloom on damsons, and the dragon-stone in her diadem glowed upon her brow more brightly than any ruby. the expression of her dark and aquiline face was that of a young and amused witch, of a child anticipant of adventure, of a tolerant old woman. 'what's the grudge, r. r.?' he rumbled. 'i wish that i had cut you out for myself under the very nose of silver, long ago! that's all!' he looked down on her in silence for a moment or so. then he remarked in an almost off-hand way: 'we had to travel from one universe to another to get to know one another. i guess nothing in any universe or time is going to separate us now, whatever happens.' 'nothing!' said r. r., and her grip tightened on his hand. a small wind stirred from beyond the river so that the the other wood as the man spoke, he made the head of his formidable weapon ring against the stones at his feet as though it were a hound baying for blood. when the bells sounded for a second time — benaiah reflected as he turned to eochaid, the priest-judge - events far stranger than the death of the king of morien would come to pass. time itself would die; at least such conception of time as these nations of cernunnos possessed! would they come together to evolve some new standard, some new measure- ment? or would they in the end find the needlessness of me- chanical time even as had the people of the island of the valley? . . . it was an intriguing, but unprofitable speculation. 'you know what to do, eochaid,' he asked, 'when the word is given? the fog of smoke, which had momentarily lifted, bent over once again and enveloped all the citadel. even so benaiah was able to remark the expression of almost furious joy that lightened the other's parchment countenance. 'i have been into the vaults,' said eochaid quietly. 'i understand. you can rely on me, lord.' 'all i pray is that afterwards etar is not too late.' and so eventually it came to the last desperate stand in the hall of the candle, with the survivors of the garrison opposing with shield, spear and axe the assault of the enemy through the gaping timbers of the main door; defending the high-set unglazed windows with spears and bows and arrows; hurling down great stones and boiling water from the parapet of the roof. without, the air was brown with the smoke of destruction and the sky completely veiled from view. the clashing of weapons was not audible above the other noises of the con- flict — the shouting, the screeching, and the screaming. the bodies of the dead and wounded lay thickly without the hall like a shoal of seaweed cast up by a tide of death. within the great building wisps of smoke swirled to and fro and mounted to a haze in the dark vaulting of the lofty roof. the other wood battle. the enemy withdrew a few paces, and benaiah from his position on the dais could see that not merely was some sort of order being re-imposed, but that the king and the captains of morien were gathering in the forefront for the kill. he looked quickly to the giant candle set in a candlestick of carved jade as big as a font. the swordlike flame of gold far above his head was unwavering. the rim of the pool of molten wax wherefrom it rose, glowed in a honey-coloured translucency, against which was visible the scarlet mark be- tokening a new period of time. so the battle in the stronghold had endured for all a watch; and now the last moments of it had come! he set his great hand over the hand of the queen as it lay upon the arm of her chair, and covered it, almost crushing it with a fierce pressure ... it seemed to her that there was a greater ecstasy of love in that handclasp than if they were held in one another's arms, face to face and lips to lips ... he spoke over her head to eochaid. ‘strike!' he commanded. the priest-judge raised his hammer-headed staff. he struck the festoon of white blossom that hung from the pointed arch high above his head. instantly the place was filled with the piercing, sweet, ecstatic music of the silver bells. it was a music that quenched all other sound; a music whose melancholy rapture filled the body and the soul and the mind of those who heard it, whose harmony even seemed to dissipate the very smoke haze of destruction that oozed in, through the glass-less windows and the shattered doorways, from blazing stronghold and smouldering city. even when the song was no longer to be heard with the ears, the air remained full of its vibrations and the mind retained the echo although the lofty vaulting of the roof no longer gave it back. in the strange silence that followed, the sonorous voice of eochaid spoke: valley beyond time 'you have heard the last watch sounded! ... the last watch for you! the last watch for the world! in the self-same instant that eochaid fell silent, and turned to go about his errand, benaiah leaned down and kissed his wife's upturned mouth. he straightened up. he raised his voice in an enormous cry: 'i, benaiah, come down into the pit to slay my lion!' as he cried out, he bounded, helmetless, into the hall; his ranks opened for him, and he flung himself upon the king of morien in the midst of all his men. the surge of battle followed him. morrigan, sitting chin on hand in the great chair upon the dais, could see little but the confusion of men: she could not see the king of morien go down with a cloven skull at the moment of first onslaught — but she knew it; she could see an axe rise in a suddenly cleared space, though not what was struck — but she knew that luga had slain the tanist of morien as he had vowed; she could not see the knife thrust deep into benaiah's side, but she knew of it before ever luga extracted him from the press and bore him bleeding to the throne. he could not stand, but knelt before her, leaning against her knees. the blood poured from his mouth upon the folds of her pale green gown; he could not speak, but only smile at her. she leaned forward and took that snow-crowned, bloody head between her hands and pressed it against her breast in a passionate embrace. 'in a moment, bennie, there'll be new explorations in another kind of time for you and me! perhaps another blue- black wood, bennie!... luga, take up your axe and give the signal!' the square man raised his axe. he struck the blossom- decked festoon with the back of it a heavy blow so that the music of the bells was piercing beyond belief, was of such vibration and such pitch that the very reason of the hearers was shaken. the other wood 'it is another wood! bennie, it is!' with the roar of a breaking sea, a solid column of white fire rushed up throughout the entire length of the hall, rushed up a mile into the copper-green heaven. its light was blinding, and there was no smoke with it; only its head was crowned with fronds of dark green flame drooping like the leaves of a palm tree. there was a hissing as of escaping steam for a moment or so, and then the whole pillar rose in the air with inconceiv- able rapidity and travelled upwards like an enormous spear and vanished in the depths of the sky. it vanished as utterly as had the hall of the candle. not one stone remained to show where that had been; not one vestige of humanity to show who had been within its walls; nothing. ... from a hill-top in the forest some six miles away the vic- torious etar, resting his men for a short space, saw that monstrous pillar of flame. in a frenzy he harnessed up and hastened ahead of the main body with his chariots and his cavalry. he stopped but once on the way to derga — when his scouts brought to him malachi, á grey, dejected lepre- chaun of a man. 'here are the queen's orders,' said malachi, producing a packet from the folds of his tattered tunic. you must swear by everything that is holy to fulfil them to the letter!' “to the letter! to every loop in every letter! swore etar. 'but where is she? tell me where she is! quickly!' the old interpreter answered slowly: 'she and benaiah have gone beyond time, in great glory! they will have been in the candle hall when eochaid set fire to the seeds. they have gone with the bells and the candle! there is no longer any time in the world! cursing and weeping, etar furiously continued his march, to encounter fugitives babbling of the wrath of the gods, to find the enemy a leaderless rabble at his mercy in the smoking ruins of the city. chapter vii full moon at saul t h ere's been a fancy dress ball at house of saul on the night of the first full moon after christmas for i over a century. for much longer. i'm glad tony dug his toes in about it,' said lady kat, who had been surveying the fantastic medley of costumes on the dance floor through an almost prehistoric lorgnette. 'what's the superstition about the full moon?' asked sir henry, pricking up his ears at once, and removing his scrutiny from a counterfeit judge who went cavorting past with a swirl of red robes, a joggle of wig, and a parisian soubrette of the eighteen-forties clasped to him. 'no superstition at all, but merely common sense — as even you ought to know, minos! replied lady kat, lighting one of her abominable cigarettes. “when you and i were young, people wouldn't risk valuable horses and expensive carriages on bad roads on moonless nights. not if they could help it. that's all. why, i well remember when i was seventeen that there were more than a hundred carriages at the door. to say nothing of a panhard-levassor car which afterwards broke down in the avenue, and completely blocked it.' the pair of them were silent for a little while, their memories nostalgically reverting to statelier functions when the century was young, when dance-programmes were still de rigueur in the country, before afro-american noises had supplanted the waltzes of waldteufel and strauss, or dr. kinsey had concerned himself with the behaviour of the sex then still ceremoniously known as 'fair'. they were seated in the comparative comfort of gilt rout- seats, with other non-combatants, on the scarlet-carpeted dais at the top end of the hall where once king henry the full moon at saul seventh had feasted — lady kat distinguished in black moiré, standish in a dress suit that had been new a generation earlier. the music, played by a london dance band resenting its relegation to the gallery, wailed and bumped and crashed; was interwoven with the shuffle of innumerable feet — with the murmur of a hundred conversations — with the susurra- tion of dresses of silk and satin and brocade. the usual tudor princess had been cut, shuffled, and finally paired with the usual roman centurion, the usual nun with the regency buck, crinolined lady with mediaeval lordling, and directory incroyable with ringleted cavalier. the carved and gilded angels on the hammer-beams supporting the lofty roof looked complacently down upon a scene as gay as a harlequin flower garden in a breeze. “there's a queer fatality about our christmas dances,' said lady kat, continuing her reminiscences. 'you'd be surprised at how frequently something happens.' “the usual full moon lunacy?' 'no, i mean potential newspaper sensations. i often wonder when one of the sunday “dreadfuls” will realize it, and come out with a screaming article.' in answer to his lifted grey eyebrows, she expounded: ‘at the very first christmas dance here after my coming- out, elizabeth viquars, my cousin, bolted with a man in the guards. in her ball dress! in a snowstorm! leaving a dis- consolate husband, two babies, and a thousand pounds' worth of dressmakers' bills behind her. she was never men- tioned by the family afterwards. 'then came the great “snout” scandal a few years later, just on the eve of the first world war. do you remember? a belligerent young irishman hit one of the kaiser's sons on the nose in the library. “i didn't like his manners, so i poked him on the snout!” is what the hero is reported to have said. they made a music-hall song about it.' 'i recollect, commented standish. 'it was a good song. the chorus went – he hummed discreetly low: valley beyond time 'i didn't like his manners so i poked him on the snout, and tapped the royal claret before they threw me out! i've forgotten who sang it.' 'the german embassy tried to get it banned. father - poor father! - was foreign under-secretary at the time, and there was a démarche by berlin about the incident ... well, between the wars our first sensation was the disappear- ance of mrs. venner's diamond necklace off her skinny old neck while she was dancing. with a rather shady-looking foreigner she had brought with her. lady saguenay says he was a gigolo she'd picked up in nice, but you know what a gossip she is! however, the necklace was never recovered, and ran the insurance people in for a cool three thousand pounds. 'the next thing, of course, was the affair of the american typewriter king's daughter. she was eighteen years old, and eloped to scotland in her father's car with her father's venezuelan chauffeur. she was the complete bitch - oh, and also, incidentally, the mother by a later husband of that little blonde piece of goods, electro — pamela honeyhill!' 'do i gather from this lurid chronicle, katharine,' in- quired standish, 'that you anticipate some equivalent sensa- tion for tonight? is there by any chance some notion in your mind that your electro is likely to -'. he broke off as the music stopped with a final crash, and the dancers began to weave their ways towards the seats and to the more secluded sitting-out places. a gay jane austen girl accompanied by a troubadour scurried, careless of dignity, to an arched recess, partially shrouded by curtains, just behind him. 'good show, it's empty!' said the lad. silver, a very hollywood version of catherine the great, decked with every family heirloom, swept past, escorted by a valley beyond time the young duke dressed as one of his own eighteenth-century ancestors. 'damn the boy!' said lady kat, gathering her chattels about her, preparatory to making an early foray upon the supper-room. 'do you know what, minos? i'll swear that the little electro person hasn't been visible for — well about the same time as midge! 'suggesting that she's succeeded in doing what her mother did? 'certainly not! her people would give a million dollars for a son-in-law who's heir to a really good-class peerage. tony wouldn't raise any fuss, either, although he likes ethne. it would be quite unnecessary to elope. she's probably got him in a dark corner and putting the 'fluence on him! it was at this precise juncture that both of them became conscious of the conversation in the alcove at their back. a clear young voice was declaring in staccato, overbred accents: 'of course, darling, everybody knows that midge is what they call "retarded”, but i didn't mean him to hear me say so. i blushed right down to my suspender-belt when i found he was practically next door to me! 'listeners hear no good of themselves,' said a male voice tritely. 'well, darling, i wouldn't have hurt his feelings for the world. he didn't say a thing. he just got up and walked away, leaving his partner flat. his face was as white as a sheet.' ... standish realized that his companion was listening as intently as himself. ... 'you could have gone after him, prissy, and explained that you knew he was there, and were just pulling his leg!' 'don't be a fool! of course i couldn't,' said prissy. “besides i had said that all that blah about lost memory, and so forth, and so forth, was the purest bunk. it's just not natural what he doesn't know! i asked herbert iſ he'd ever seen midge's writing. well i have! it's got to be seen to be believed! full moon at saul 'he's a first chop horseman, all the same. he's as strong as a lion, and he's got the eye of a hawk. you should see him shoot! and he's a really damned good fellow, too, even if he is so quiet! 'that's what herbert said — exactly. but the days of cavalry charges are over. a girl likes a little brain now- adays.' 'but she hasn't always got it herself!' intervened lady kat, turning her head and speaking over her shoulder to the alcove in a bitter and authoritative voice. in the horror-stricken silence that ensued, she rose and drew back the blue and silver brocade curtain that largely shielded the occupants of the alcove from public view. 'well, prissy whatever-your-name-is,' said lady kat in the tone and manner of a frost-breathing dragon, 'it is per- fectly obvious that your parents ought to send you to a psychiatrist or, perhaps, an alienist! nobody but a born imbecile would discuss someone else at the top of her voice, running on, like an escalator or a teetotum, with a libel in every other word' – 'slander,' corrected the jurist, but not very loudly — ‘libel is a very serious matter! libel is actionable! 'slander,' again corrected sir henry, and again below his breath. ‘oh, i say! bleated prissy's escort in protest. 'you may well do so,' said lady kat, and withdrew from the stricken field escorted by standish. 'you'll have to find out what's happened to the boy at once,' she commanded when they had at last edged their way to a door. 'ask the servants! ask everybody! say there's been an urgent message for him! she paused, and added, 'i'd feel a good deal happier if i knew where the electro girl had got to.' but henry standish found that blonde little lady, dressed as a dresden shepherdess with a good deal of bosom showing, in the later stages of a fruitless search. she was ensconced in valley beyond time a discreet and snug petting corner with a large young hussar, and had not seen midge for — oh, for a helluva time! 'i guess he's got a grouch against the world tonight,' she opined. ‘about what?' he queried, poised for departure to midge's private quarters. 'search me!' declared electro in a tone which showed that she still bore resentment against the absentee. 'he was as mute as a clam when i danced with him last.' yet once again he damned the incautious prissy to himself as he mounted the stairs. midge's bedroom and his sitting-room - once the nursery where the late mrs. pogram had presided for so many years, complete with check apron and black straw hat — revealed nothing, however, except evidence of the haste in which he had got ready for the ball. with a feeling of considerable concern, standish paused at the point of departure, his hand on the latch, and took a last look back, as though fearing he had missed some vital clue at that instant the handle turned suddenly beneath the light grasp of his fingers. the door opened, and ethne stood before him. her eyes explored the room and then turned a questioning regard upon him. she said not a word. 'he isn't here,' said standish, stating the obvious. 'i wasn't looking for him,' she replied; paused; went on in explanation: 'i came here because — well, because it was here that everything started for him. he told me, when first he came to us, how he had sat at that little table writing a poem about silver. it was while he waited for her to fetch him to see benaiah cross the threshold of the universes ... even in this world, minos, the mind need not be subject to the limitations of space and time. take my hand now, and look back with me! he had turned out the lights as he was about to depart, but the lattice window looking upon the ancient courtyard full moon at saul was full of moonshine, which lay in a stream of silver across the black shadows of the small room. as he stood holding ethne's hand, it appeared to him that the light grew paler, greyer, and more diffused — was the light of very early morning. then, without astonishment, he realized that a small boy in a blue lumber-jacket was sitting at the table in the window laboriously writing in an exercise book, occasionally consult- ing some work of reference, and frequently ruffling a tor- mented head of yellow hair. he heard the small boy speak – recite appreciatively to himself in a low voice the verse that he had succeeded in composing: silver honeyhill looks like a daffodil, speaks like a mountain rill. i don't think she's ever ill. he knew it was midge — the happy midge! - of many years ago. 'he's been lost in time, your horrible, horrible time! said ethne. 'i am to blame. i wanted a playmate, and so he's lost ten of his years! so he's lost a whole seventh of his earthly life! i can't — can't — help him! i have only made things worse for him! i can only make them worse for him! the hush that had prevailed whilst the violins were play- ing endured for a moment or so after the rhapsody was finished before being shattered by loud applause. at the first notes all the lights had been extinguished, but the great arched window above the dais was luminous with moonshine whose radiance slanted across the hall to the carved oak screen beneath the musicians' gallery at the far end. ethne stood with limburg at the edge of the dais, awaiting the recommencement of dancing after the supper interval. valley beyond time 'what was that air, bellissima?' said sep. 'i have never come across it before. it is one of the loveliest things i have ever heard.' 'it is called the "song of recall”,' she answered him in a voice which she controlled with difficulty. 'who's it by?' she mentioned a name, without averting her eyes from the doorway in the screen under the gallery. it conveyed nothing to him, and he said with a puzzled expression: 'i thought i knew the names of most of the composers. that fellow must be in the very top flight. yet he can't be one of the moderns. when did he live? of what use was it to tell sep that the song was already old when manannan, her father, was born? or that the magic of its music had filled her with a passionate regret for her own world of light and beauty, for her companions of the enchanted valley and the flower-carpeted mountains, for the house of opal set amidst its magic groves and terraced gar- dens, for her secret belvedere with its silver cupola and rose-tinted columns above the valley, for cibola, the un- imaginably lovely city where once she had wandered hand- in-hand with midge? ... with midge — ! through the archway at the further end of the hall came a tall man in a shimmering dress, as she had feared or — was it? — had hoped that he would come. he stepped out into the pathway of the moonlight. he had taken but one pace, however, when the blaze of lights sprang up, and he pursued his journey towards her across the empty dance floor, the cynosure of all eyes. his sandals were silver, and his long tunic was of saffron embroidered with silver thread. a crimson cloak was thrown back upon his shoulders, and a helmet of strange shape, encircled by a crown set with red stones, was on his head. a great jewelled sword hung from his baldric. ... a most striking man in a most striking costume,' said full moon at saul carn meurig - might be crossing the threshold of the uni- verses into the violet-black wood with foliage that glowed like fire opal; might even now be walking in the green meadows of enchantment, or looking down upon cibola and the valley of the ever-young where he could never dwell again. he stood before the secret window, lost and a stranger in his own world, with the tears streaming down his cheeks ... it was well — he thought — that they had parted without a physical farewell. he heard in his mind the echo of prissy johns's high- pitched chatter: 'he is what they call retarded! — 'lost memory, darling? much more likely a school for mental deficients! — 'it's just incredible, but he'd never heard of — ' prissy was right in a way; but he had been too heavily handicapped by the lost years, and by his constant awareness of an unresting enemy. ethne - everything was lost. it seemed to him now that his mind and his body must be divorced and subject to two different tides of time. the present streaming into the future swept his body with it towards the goal of old age and extinction. the future streaming into the past bore his mind irresistibly backwards with it to some more dreadful fate. he could no longer struggle against those opposing currents. he sat down and buried his face in his hands. the illumination from the hall, filtering through the narrow slits of the windows, filled the little cupboard of a room with an eerie twilight. the swooning melody of the old-time waltz might have been the ghost of dance music played half a century before. presently he aroused himself, pulled more closely about him the black cloak that hid his preposterous attire, and went out into the corridor. so changed was he in appearance that a maid who passed him did not recognize his face. he visited his father's dressing-room unobserved, and valley beyond time thence retreated to the security of his own quarters and locked himself in. he poured himself out a glass of water, and seated himself at the small table in the moonlight where he had sat to compose a poem so very, very, very long ago. this time it was no poem but a letter with which he began laboriously to occupy himself: my dear uncle minos and aunt kat, i don't know whether you'll think me justafied — there he stopped, and, after a moment of uncertainty, endeavoured to alter the letter 'a' in the last word that he had written to an 'i'. he surveyed the result. the sight of the correction in those few lines of unformed, boyish round-hand seemed to bring final conviction to him that what he was proposing to do was right and just and needed no apology. he crumpled up the paper with an ejaculation and threw it on the floor. without any further pause for thought he emptied into the palm of his hand the full contents of the box of pheno-barbitone tablets that were always kept in his father's medicine-chest, and swallowed them, and washed them down with a draught of water. then he sat back and looked out upon the darkly wooded hills silhouetted against the moonlit sky, waiting to cross some other threshold than that which rested secret amid the mists on carn meurig. chapter viii the ride of the naked horsemen ii tith her husband away at sea and her mother safely disposed of at house of saul, olwen felt warranted in entertaining a very particular friend until a late hour in the back parlour of the shop — that same parlour wherein her uncle many years before had tor- mented himself about the death of balaninus larva. it was, actually, not until long past one o'clock in the morning that she prepared to let the visitor out. in the interests of discretion, however, she detained him in the darkness of the shop for a moment or so before opening the outer door, whilst a car travelling at high speed down the valley whined past, the glare of its headlights flashing across the windows. its song of power altered a little as the gear was changed just beyond the church for the steep climb that could take it nowhere at all except to the wilderness about carn meurig. 'mr. dent-raleigh going home from saul,' she commented. 'most uncommon fast for the old gent!' suggested her guest, preparing to slip regretfully out into the night. "there's no one else it could be ... don't act the fool, dai! no, not here! supposing – when olwen climbed the steep stairs to her bedroom a few minutes later she was already ashamed of her easy response to his advances. for it she held heredity to blame – as she had done in the case of other lapses ever since her mother, in a moment of expansive confidence, had revealed the secret of her fathering. yet, even if lord morfa had been easy-going and mary bosworth still more so, it did not altogether satisfactorily excuse their daughter's conduct to her own conscience. valley beyond time she drew back the curtains of her window, and stood, in rather unhappy self-examination, looking out upon the moonlit cross-roads before the shop, and the sign-post with its sharp black shadow slanting across the grey, frosty surface. if things were to continue with dai as they were going on now — ! suddenly a man on horseback came out of the little copse at the fork, and rode silently and quickly past the shop - a naked man mounted upon a magnificent white stallion whose coat shone like silver. naked in the small hours of a bitter january morning! her heart missed a beat. then with relief she recalled how fantastical could be the pranks which were often performed during the christmas festivities at saul. in the very same instant, however, she realized that the horse was treading upon the frozen road without a sound — without the hammer clink of iron-shod hoofs. even the beast's gait was strange, and she could see no bridle. her heart missed another beat. in terrified fascination she followed the rider with her eyes as far as she could, until he disappeared among the shadows cast by the enormous yew trees brooding over st. illtyd's lych-gate. had he gone back into the churchyard amidst that darkness to stable his horse within a tomb and betake himself to his grave? was he a horseman of the apocalypse? was he a final warning to a sinner? those others who had appeared to her on carn meurig years ago, when she was a young girl, had been friendly and beautiful, but this figure seemed to her to be one of menace and of death. in a paroxysm of fear she dropped on her knees before the window. with tightly shut eyes she confessed her every sin of deed and word and thought, and pleaded most passion- ately for forgiveness and another chance. only a few minutes had passed, however, before she valley beyond time that phantom horses could ever leave such material tokens of their passing. ... amidst a rattling spray of gravel against its mudguards the car that had disturbed olwen's farewells came to a standstill before the whitewashed cottage on carn meurig. sir henry, wrapped in a vast coat of a dressing-gown aspect, cautiously emerged from the front seat beside lady katharine who had been driving. he walked up the path to the front door and knocked, once, twice; then called dent- raleigh's name aloud; finally turned the handle and entered. he was absent for several minutes, and returned to find his companion awaiting him beside the car with evident impatience. 'he is not there,' he told her. 'he had not even started to dress to come to saul, for his evening kit is laid out on his bed. he has had a visitor, because there are two dirty glasses in his study. there is a three-quarters finished “dae- dalus” on the table i suppose it would really be rather like cribbing to have a peep!' *for god's sake don't ramble into a crossword dotage, henry! what else? 'his car is gone from the garage. we did not pass him on the road, or anyone, for that matter. so where in jupiter's name can he have gone, and why, after that urgent telephone call to saul asking us to come at once? 'perhaps it wasn't he who 'phoned. houston said the voice was very faint. perhaps - there lady kat broke off, and said no more but turned her regard from him and the small, silent house. he followed the direction of her gaze. here, near the standing stones, was now no sign of mist, but less than half a mile away the flat summit of carn meurig was hidden by dense, billowy cloud, white as snow in the moonshine. both of them knew that behind its guardian vapours the gateway of another universe lay open. ride of the naked horsemen 'when did you last see ethne?' she suddenly asked. 'just before we went to the card-room after supper. he looked at his watch. 'perhaps an hour or so ago — half an hour before the telephone call came. why? 'hurry! she said. 'i know we've got to hurry! impressed by her urgency he set forth with her, un- questioning, on the journey over the tussocky and boulder- strewn heath towards the hill-top. neither of them spoke, although standish's lips moved a little as he sought to recall and shape the homeric phrase describing ulysses' journey to 'the frontiers of the world'. just as they were about to plunge into the bank of mist, a pack of scurrying clouds closed in upon the moon, so that they entered a darkness which seemed almost solid. 't'cht-t’cht!' said standish in reproof of nature; but they emerged within a moment or so from complete obscurity into an arena faintly lighted from another universe. a bare thirty yards away towered the trees of the other- world wood. the tall, straight stems were smooth and shining grey in all their endless arcades. in the depths of the dense blue-black foliage were continuous flashes of brilliant colour as if a rainbow had been shattered and were falling in flakes among the branches. a pearly silver light permeated all the scene so that there were no shadows. no sound came from beyond the invisible frontier. the forest was as silent, standish thought, as if it were the repre- sentation of an enchanted wood, and not the wood itself. he knew, however, that it was not merely a real wood, but a wood so live that it was conscious of its own haunting loveliness. it was silent only to the outward hearing, but he knew that it sang, in his mind and in his heart, a syren song. his companion had not stirred from the spot upon the fringe of the mist where they had stopped to gaze, as at an illumined stage from the darkened auditorium of a theatre. he turned to her, and was about to speak, when a horseman appeared at the point of the arena furthest from them. ride of the naked horsemen had she not divined what he would do, and where; had she not found etar at the threshold impatiently awaiting his coming with dent-raleigh, and planned the swift abduction raid upon house of saul, then indeed would midge have been dead before then. all she said was: 'what a very stupid dream! an appalling thought occurred to him. 'so i still have to leave the valley! and you — ? ‘actually, midge, you and i have run away to our fate and not from it! 'i will never let you go! never! never!' 'you don't have do, midge dearest!' she answered. at that he took her in his arms, and they clung together for a while. presently she drew back a little, and put her hands upon his shoulders, and spoke to him very earnestly. 'you see, midge, i think i know why manannan took you among the cernunnos. i think, too, that he may have even known that you would have such a nightmare vision of your own world. 'i still can hardly believe that i only dreamed it. in my head i still seem to hear clocks and watches ticking all the while, reminding me that i had lost – oh, such a long time, and that i could never make it up! never!' 'i think,' said ethne, 'that he wants us to fulfil a destiny together – here! ‘but how? why?' 'he thinks that you and i might succeed in founding a new nation on the ruin of old ones. when benaiah and morrigan realized that they might not survive the war with morien, even if derga won in the end – as it has — they planned that you and i should succeed them. benaiah talked about it to manannan. both of them died when the bells of time were destroyed and all the leaders of their enemies perished with them. so now etar, their general, is here to do homage for the two kingdoms in accordance with their orders . . . even tif this tibiftett i tims university of michigan - buhr caliban by the yellow sands shakespeare tercentenary masqve by tib mais insulius artes scientia i veritas library veritas of the iniversity of michi of michigan f.pluribus-ui n odr pavia ciquaeris peninsulam'amoename circumspice c olowallojasooooooo innoittuntuditontothoitotumiznim minuman wiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii - - - titattit u itititnim w ww.duniwwwwuwmute mite ii .mackaite o a comedy. . ! the ludicrous armance of the orient. caliban works by percy mackaye. dramas the canterbury pilgrims. a comedy. jeanne d'arc. a tragedy. sappho and phaon. a tragedy. fenris the wolf. a tragedy. a garland to sylvia. a dramatic reverie. the scarecrow. a tragedy of the ludicrous. yankee fantasies. five one-act plays. mater. an american study in comedy. anti-matrimony. a satirical comedy. to-morrow. a play in three acts. a thousand years ago. a romance of the orient. the immigrants. a lyric drama. masques caliban. a shakespeare masque. saint louis. a civic masque. sanctuary. a bird masque. the new citizenship. a civic ritual. poems the sistine eve, and other poems. uriel, and other poems. lincoln. a centenary ode. the present hour. poems and plays. in two volumes. essays the playhouse and the play. the civic theatre. a substitute for war. at all booksellers uniform with this volume saint louis: a civic masque as enacted by , citizens of saint louis caliban في زفين في نه تي في في فيلم از setebos preliminary sketch of setebos, by joseph urban caliban by the yellow sands by percy mackaye garden city new york doubleday, page & company dl ny tg “come unto these yellow sands, and then take hands /" the tempest. caliban by the yellow sands a community masque of the art of the theatre devised and written to commemorate the tercentenary of the death of shakespeare illustrations by joseph urban & robert edmond jones to . the . onlie begetter . of . the . best in . these . insuing scenes master . w.s list of illustrations and charts cover design: “when the kings of earth clasp · hands” (act ii, second inner scene). by robert edmond jones. preliminary sketch of setebos. by joseph urban frontispiece facing page ground plan for auditorium (with stages of masque proper and interludes). by joseph urban · · · · · · · · · · · xxx design of stage for masque proper. by joseph urban . . . . . . . . . . . xxxii preliminary sketch for seventh inner scene. by robert edmond jones. . . . . . . preliminary sketch for tenth inner scene. by robert edmond jones. . . . . . . appendix inner structure of masque (chart). by percy mackaye · · · · · · · a community masque audience (photograph). by e. o. thalinger . . . . . . . community masque organization plan (chart). by hazel mackaye . . . . . . . preface three hundred years alive on the rd of april, , the memory of shakespeare calls creatively upon a self-destroying world to do him honor by honoring that world-constructive art of which he is a master architect. over seas, the choral hymns of cannon acclaim his death; in battle-trenches artists are turned subtly in- genious to inter his art; war, lust, and death are risen in power to restore the primeval reign of setebos. here in america, where the neighboring waters of his "vexed bermoothes” lie more calm than those about his own native isle, here only is given some practical opportunity for his uninterable spirit to create new splendid symbols for peace through harmonious inter- national expression. as one means of serving such expression, and so, if possible, of paying tribute to that creative spirit in forms of his own art, i have devised and written this masque, at the invitation of the shakespeare celebration com- mittee of new york city. the dramatic-symbolic motive of the masque i have taken from shakespeare's own play “the tempest,” xiii xiv preface act i, scene . there, speaking to ariel, prospero says: “hast thou forgot the foul witch sycorax, who with age and envy was grown into a hoop? . this damn'd witch sycorax, for mischiefs manifold and sorceries terrible to enter human hearing . was hither brought with child and there was left by the sailors. thou .. wast then her servant; and, for thou wast a spirit too delicate to act her earthly and abhorred commands, refusing her grand hests, she did confine thee, by help of her most potent ministers and in her most unmitigable rage, into a cloven pine, within which rift imprisoned thou didst painfully remain .. then was this island- save for the son that she did litter here, a freckled whelp hag-born-not honor'd with a human shape ... that caliban whom now i keep in service. thou best know'st what torment i did find thee in, . . it was a tormentasi to lay upon the damn'd . . it was mine art, when i arrived and heard thee, that made gape the pine and let thee out.” "it was mine art” . . there--in prospero's words [and shakespeare's]-is the text of this masque. preface xv the art of prospero i have conceived as the art of shakespeare in its universal scope: that many-visioned art of the theatre which, age after age, has come to liber- ate the imprisoned imagination of mankind from the fetters of brute force and ignorance; that same art which, being usurped or stifled by groping part-knowledge, prudery, or lust, has been botched in its ideal aims and like fire ill-handled or ill-hidden by a passionate child- has wrought havoc, hypocrisy, and decadence. caliban, then, in this masque, is that passionate child-curious part of us all (whether as individuals or as races), grovelling close to his aboriginal origins, yet groping up and staggering with almost rhythmic falls and back-slidings—toward that serener plane of pity and love, reason and disciplined will, where miranda and prospero commune with ariel and his spirits. in deference to the master-originator of these charac- ters and their names, it is, i think, incumbent on me to point out that these four characters, derived—but re- imagined from shakespeare's “the tempest,” be- come, for the purposes of my masque, the presiding symbolic dramatis persona of a plot and conflict which are my own conception. they are thus no longer shake- speare's characters of “the tempest,” though born of them and bearing their names. their words (save for a very few song-snatches and sentences) and their actions are those which i have given xvi preface them; the development of their characters accords with the theme--not of shakespeare's play but of this masque, in which caliban's nature is developed to become the protagonist of aspiring humanity, not simply its butt of shame and ridicule. my conception and treatment also of setebos (whose name is but a passing reference in shakespeare's play], the fanged idol (substituted by me for the "cloven pine”]; of sycorax, as setebos' mate (in form a super-puppet, an earth-spirit rather than "witch”), from both of whom caliban has sprung; of the shakespearian inner scenes, as brief-flashing visions in the mind of prospero; of the “yellow sands” as his magic isle, the world; these are not liberties taken with text or characters of shakespeare; they are simply the means of dramatic license whereby my masque aims to accord its theme with the art and spirit of shakespeare. shakespeare's own characters, that use his words? in scenes of his plays, have then no part in my masque, except in the inner scenes,” where they are conceived as being conjured by prospero and enacted by the spirits of ariel. the words of shakespeare used in this masque, are quoted from the tudor edition of shakespeare's works, edited by neilson and thorn- dike (macmillan). the stage directions and cuts, however, are not taken from any edition, but have been made by me for purposes of the inner scenes. in this book these inner scenes are printed in black-faced type. preface xvii the theme of the masque-caliban seeking to learn the art of prospero-is, of course, the slow education of mankind through the influences of coöperative art, that is, of the art of the theatre in its full social scope. this theme of coöperation is expressed earliest in the masque through the lyric of ariel's spirits taken from “the tempest”; it is sounded, with central stress, in the chorus of peace when the kings clasp hands on the field of the cloth of gold; and, with final emphasis, in the gathering together of the creative forces of dramatic art in the epilogue. thus its motto is the one printed on the title page, in shakespeare's words: “come unto these yellow sands and then take hands.” so much for my masque in its relationship to shake- speare's work and his art. its contribution to the modern development of a form of dramatic art unprac- tised by him requires some brief comment. this work is not a pageant, in the sense that the festivals excellently devised by mr. louis n. parker in england, mr. lascelles in canada, or mr. thomas wood stevens in america have been called pageants. though of necessity it involves aspects of pageantry, its form is more closely related to the forms of greek drama this is the motive of mr. robert edmond jones' cover design for this volume. xviii preface and of opera. yet it is neither of these. it is a new form to meet new needs. i have called this work a masque, because like other works so named in the past—it is a dramatic work of symbolism involving, in its structure, pageantry, poetry, and the dance. yet i have by no means sought to relate its structure to an historic form; i have simply sought by its structure to solve a modern (and a future) problem of the art of the theatre. “that problem is the new one of creating a focussed dramatic technique for the growing but groping movement vaguely called "pageantry,” which is itself a vital sign of social evolution—the half- desire of the people not merely to remain receptive to a popular art created by specialists, but to take part themselves in creating it; the desire, that is, of democracy consistently to seek expression through a drama of and by the people, not merely for the people. for some ten years that potential drama of democracy has interested me as a fascinating goal for both dramatist and citizen, in seeking solution for the vast problem of leisure. two years ago at saint louis i had my first technical opportunity, on a large scale, to experiment in devising a dramatic structure for its many-sided require- an outline of suggestions on this subject i published in a volume, “the civic theatre, in relation to the redemption of leisure" ( ). further ideas and their applications are contained in the prefaces and dramatic texts of my bird masque “sanctuary,” “saint louis: a civic masque,” and “the new citizenship,” a civic ritual. preface xix ments. there, during five performances, witnessed by half a million people, about seven thousand citizens of saint louis took part in my masque (in association with the pageant by thomas wood stevens). in the appen- dix of this volume a photograph gives a suggestion of one of those audiences, gathered in their public park (in seats half of which were free, half pay-seats] to witness the production. that production was truly a drama of, for, and by the people-a true community masque; and it was largely with the thought of that successful civic precedent that the shakespeare celebration first looked to central park as the appropriate site to produce their community festival, the present masque, as the central popular expression of some hundreds of supplementary shake- spearean celebrations. . in so doing, they conceived the function of a public park-as it is conceived almost universally west of the eastern states, and almost everywhere in europe—to be that of providing outdoor space for the people's expression in civic art-forms. the sincere opposition of a portion of the community to this use of central park would never, i think, have arisen, if new york could have taken counsel with saint the outgoing cost of the saint louis production was $ , ; the income $ , . the balance of $ , has been devoted to a fund for civic art. the cost of producing a single play by sophocles at athens was $ , . xx preface louis's experience, and its wonderfully happy civic and social reactions. the opposition, however, was strong and conscientious; so that, on the same principle of community solidarity which was the raison d'etre for their informal application to use central park, the shakespeare celebration withdrew their wish to use it. to split community feeling by acrimonious discussion was contrary to the basic idea and function of the cele- bration, which are to help unite all classes and all beliefs in a great coöperative movement for civic expression through dramatic art. one very important public service, however, was per- formed by this central park discussion; it served clearly to point out a colossal lack in the democratic equipment of the largest and richest metropolis of the western hemisphere: namely, the total lack of any public place of meeting, where representative numbers of new york citizens can unite in seeing, hearing, and taking part in a festival or civic communion of their own. new york, a city of five million inhabitants, possesses no public stadium or community theatre. little athens, a mere village in comparison, had for its heart such a community theatre, which became the heart of civilization. without such an instrument, our own democracy cannot hope to develop that coöperative art which is the expression of true civilization in all ages. happily for the shakespeare celebration and its aims, preface xxi a large measure of solution has, at the date of this preface, been attained by the gracious offer of the new york city college authorities, through president mezes, to permit the use of the lewisohn stadium and athletic field, temporarily to be converted into a sort of miniature yale bowl, for the production of the shakespeare masque on the night of may rd and the following four nights. by the brilliant conception and technical plans of mr. joseph urban for joining to the present concrete stadium of mr. arnold brunner its duplicate in wood, on the east side of the field, and so placing the stage on its narrower width to the north, there will be created a practical out- door theatre, remarkable in acoustics, qualified to accom- modate in excellent seats about twenty thousand spec- tators, and some two or three thousand participants in the festival. if such a consummation shall eventually become per- manent there, it will complete the realization of a prac- ticable dream already rendered partly complete by mr. adolf lewisohn's public-spirited donation of the present concrete structure. referring to that practicable dream, i wrote four years ago in my volume “the civic thea- tre”: “one day last spring, traversing with president john finley the grounds lately appropriated, through his fine efforts, by the city of new york for a great stadium at page , on constructive leisure (mitchell kennerley, ). xxii preface the city college, i discussed with him the splendid op- portunity there presented for focussing the popular en- thusiasm toward athletic games in an art dramatic and nobly spectacular." this new dramatic art-form, then-a technique of the theatre adapted to democratic expression and dedicated to public service i have called by the name community masque, and have sought to exemplify it on a large scale in two instances, at saint louis and at new york. the occasion of this preface is not one to discuss the details of that new technique further than to suggest to the public, and to those critics who might be interested to makeits implications clearer than the author and direc- tor of a production has time or opportunity to do, that the exacting time limits of presenting dramatically a theme involving many dissociated ages, through many hundreds of symbolic participants and leaders, are con- ditions which themselves impel the imagination toward creating a technique as architectural as music, as color- ful as the pageant, as dramatic as the play, as plastic as the dance. that my own work has attained to such a technique i am very far from supposing. i have, however, clearly seen the need for attaining to it, whatever the difficulties, if a great opportunity for democracy is not to be lost. to see that much, at a time when the vagueness of ama- teurs, however idealistic in desire, is obscuring the aus- xxiv preface moving picture, though with a different appeal to the imagination. because of this only relative value of the spoken word, there are many producers (theoretical and practical] who believe that the spoken word should be eliminated en- tirely from this special art of the theatre. artists as eminent and constructive in ideas as gordon craig, and many whom his genius has inspired, advocate indeed this total elimination of speech from the theatre's art as a whole. for them that art ideally is the com- pound of only light and music and movement. the reason for this, i think, is because the sensibility of those artists is preëminently visual. moreover, they are rela- tively inexpert, as artists, in the knowledge of the technique and values of the spoken word. being visu- ally expert and creative, they have, by their practical genius, established a world-wide school of independent visual art (assisted only by mass sounds of music). for them this art has well nigh become the art of the theatre. yet it is not so, i think, and can never be so, to that watching and listening sensibility for which all dramatic art is created—the soul of the audience. that soul, our soul, is a composite flowering of all the senses, and the life-long record of the spoken word (reiterated from childhood) is an integral, yes, the most intimate, element of our consciousness. the association of ideas and emotions which only the preface xxv spoken word can evoke is, therefore, a dramatic value which the art of the theatre cannot consistently ignore. it is chiefly because those artist-experts in word values, the poets, who might contribute their special technique to the theatre's art, turn elsewhere creatively, that the field is left unchallenged and open to the gifted school of the visualists. the true dramatic art—which involves ideally a total coöperation does not, and cannot, ex- clude the poet-dramatist. shakespeare and sophocles lived before electric light; if they had lived after, they would have set a different pace for bakst and reinhardt, and established a creative school more nobly poised in technique, more deeply human in appeal. now, therefore, when the poets are awaking to a new power and control of expression, here especially in our own country, if they will both learn and teach in this larger school, there rises before us the promise of an art more sensuous, sane, and communal than the theatre has ever known. so, in the pioneering adventure of this masque, which seeks by experiment to relate the spoken word to its larger coöperation with the visual arts, i have devised a structure in which the english language, spoken by actors, is an essential dramatic value. why, then, take pains (as i have done] to make it rela- tively non-essential in case it should not be heard? for this reason: that now-at the present temporary xxvi preface and still groping stage of development of community masque organization and production—there can be, in the nature of the case, no complete assurance beforehand of adequate acoustics in setting, or of voices trained to large-scale outdoor speech. but, if this be so, would it not be the wiser part of creative valor to adapt my structure wholly to these ele- mentary conditions, risk nothing, and devise simply panto- mime? no, for by that principle no forward step for the spoken word could ever be taken. if we are to progress in this new art, we must seek to make producing conditions con- form to the spoken play, even more than the play to those conditions. and this can be done; it has been done. at saint louis the vast amphitheatre for my masque was at first considered, by nearly all who saw it, to be utterly unsuited to the spoken word; yet, after careful study, experiment and technical provision for its use, the speech of actors was heard each night by at least two- . mne thirds of the hundred and fifty thousand listeners. of the d whoseven thousand actors only about fifteen spoke, but these conveyed the spoken symbolism and drama of the action. in the present masque i have focussed the spoken word on the raised constructed stage of wood (a. and b. in the chart], confined it to the speech of eight principal acting parts, and about twenty other subordinate parts, some ke old he hea. coor preface xxvii whose speaking lines [from shakespeare's plays) are still further focussed at the narrower inner stage (a. in the chart), provided with special sounding boards. on the other hand, for the ground-circle of the “yellow sands” [c. in the chart], where the thousands of partici- pants in the interludes take part under an open sky, i have provided no spoken words, but only pantomime, mass movements, dances and choruses. to the reader, then, i would repeat, that the words of this printed masque are an essential, though not an ex- clusive, part of its structure, and are meant primarily to be spoken, not primarily to be read. as in the case of my civic ritual “the new citizen- ship"l this masque can only have its completely ade- quate production on a large and elaborate scale. like the civic ritual, however, which-originally designed for the new york stadium-is being performed on an .. adapted scale in many parts of the country, in schools and elsewhere, this masque may perhaps serve some good purpose in being made available for performance in a smaller, simpler manner, adapted to the purposes of festivals during this year of shakespeare's tercentenary. at the invitation, therefore, of mr. percival chubb, president of the drama league of america, who first suggested to me the writing of a memorial masque to shakespeare, the publishers have made arrangements 'new york, , macmillan. e rr xxviii preface with officers of the drama league for making known its availability as stated in their announcement printed at the back of this volume. the accompanying stage-designs are the work of mr. joseph urban, the eminent viennese artist and producer (who has recently become an american), and of mr. robert edmond jones, designer of the scenes and cos- tumes for mr. granville barker's production of “the man who married a dumb wife.” at the date of this preface, mr. arthur farwell has near- ly completed his compositions for the lyric choruses and incidental music of the masque. the choruses will shortly be made available, published by g. schirmer, new york. with all three of these artists i am fortunate in being associated in preparations for the masque's new york production next may. these preparations have met with many complex difficulties of launching and organization; the time re- maining is very brief to accomplish the many-sided community task for which the masque is designed; only the merest beginnings of so vast a movement can be at- tempted; but, with coöperation and support from those who believe in that task, the producers look forward hopefully to serving, in some pioneering degree, the great cause of community expression through the art of the theatre. percy mackaye. new york, february , . dod mm masque structure the action the action takes place, symbolically, on three planes: ( ) in the cave of sebetos [before and after its transformation into the theatre of pros- pero); [ ] in the mind of prospero [behind the cloudy curtains of the inner stage); and ( ] on the ground-circle of “the yellow sands” (the place of historic time). the time the masque proper is concerned, symbolically, with no literal period of time, but with the waxing and waning of the life of dramatic art (and its concomitant, civilization) from primitive barbaric times to the verge of the living present. the interludes are concerned with ritualistic glimpses of the art of the theatre (in its widest, communal scope) during three historical periods: ( ) antiquity, ( ) the middle ages, and ( ) elizabethan england. the epilogue is concerned with the creative forces of dramatic art from antiquity to the present, and-by suggestion-with the future of those forces. the setting the setting of the entire masque is architectural and scenic, not a background of natural landscape as in the case of most outdoor pageants. being constructed technically for performance, on a large scale, by night only, its basic appeals are to the eye, through expert illusions of light and darkness, architectural and plastic line, the dance, color, and pag- eantry of group movements; to the ear, through invisible choirs and xxix xxx masque structure orchestra, stage instrumental music and voices of visible mass-choruses (in the interludes only). as indicated by the accompanying diagram (time chart]* of its inner structure, the masque proper is enacted by a comparatively few (about thirty) professional actors, who use the spoken word to motivate the large- scale pantomime of their action; the interludes (which use no spoken word, but only dance, pageantry, miming, and choruses) are performed by community participants (to the number of thousands); the epilogue utilizes both kinds of performers. corresponding to this inner structure, the outer structure consists of three architectural planes or acting stages (all interdependent): ( ) a modified form of elizabethan stage, (here called “the middle stage b”) consisting of a raised platform (to which steps lead up from a ground- circle, eight feet below] provided with a smaller, curtained inner stage (a—under a balcony, on which the upper visions appear, and above which the concealed orchestra and choirs are located). this inner stage is two feet higher than the middle stage, from which ramps lead up to it. shutting it off from the other, its “cloudy curtains," when closed, meet at the centre; when they are open, the inner shakespearean scenes (visions in the mind of prospero) are then revealed within. between the raised middle stage and the audience lies the ground- circle-in form like the “orchestra” of a greek theatre. here the com- munity interludes take place around a low central altar, from which rises a great hour-glass, flowing with luminous sands. this ground- circle is the place of the yellow sands, the outer wave-lines of which are bordered by the deep blue of the space beyond. the circle itself, repre- senting the magic isle of prospero (the temporal place of his art), is mottled with shadowy contours of the continents of the world. beneath the middle stage, and between the broad spaces of the steps which lead up to it from the ground-circle, is situated, at centre, the mouth of caliban's cell, which thus opens directly upon the yellow sands. all of these features of the setting, however, are invisible when the masque begins, and are only revealed as the lightings of the action dis- close them. *see appendix, page . m szaws y w n ty com via mtv it iva vaya o w vitta mil ima lv le ಪರಿಗmmmmm weet innkarikas werde tinti ground.plan for auditorium and stage of shakespeare: masque a innerstage pmiddle stage c. outer stage. ion-the-yellow sands) shakespeare-scenes daction of masque proper action of interludes. persons and presences i. of the masque proper speaking persons ariel sycorax caliban prospero miranda lust death war caligula (impersonated by lust] one in gray (impersonated by death] another in gray (impersonated by caliban) mute presences setebos choral presences spirits of ariel powers of setebos pantomime groups lust group death group war group impersonated by the powers of setebos roman group the ones in gray transformation choir gregorian choir impersonated by the spirits of ariel the ones in green the nine muses renaissance fauns "the masque proper consists of the prologue and three acts, without the inner scenes and the epilogue and interludes. visualized by a super-puppet. * visualized by an idol. xxxi xxxii persons and presences ii. of the ten inner-stage scenes . (enacted by the spirits of ariel.] see appendix: pages - . of these scenes eight are spoken scenes taken from plays of shakespeare; one (the sixth) is a pantomime devised from a descriptive speech in "henry the eighth,” act i, scene i; one (the fourth) is a tableau scene symbolic of the early christian church. those taken from shakespeare are printed in black-faced type. iii. of the interludes see appendix: pages , , , , , , . iv. of the epilogue speaking persons the spirit of time shakespeare (as prospero] pantomime groups* theatres (with musicians, dancers, designers, producers, inventors etc.: creators of the art of the theatre] actors dramatists spirit trumpeters (announcers of the groups] *see appendix: pages - . stage for shakespearemasque newyor behind the cloudy curtains is stage a of inner scenes (see ground plan) in front of the curtains is stage b of masque proper (see ground plan) at centre, caliban's cell opens upon stage c of interludes (see ground plan) caccco cere ز في نيل caliban caliban prologue the action begins in semi-darkness, out of which sound invisible choirs. the scene is the cave of setebos, whose stark- colored idol-half tiger and half toad-colossal and primitive-rises at centre above a stone altar. on the right, the cave leads inward to the abode of sycorax; on the left, it leads outward to the sea, a blue-green glimpse of which is vaguely visible. high in the tiger-jaws of the idol, ariel-a slim, winged figure, half nude-is held fettered. in the dimness, he listens to deep-bеllowing choirs from below, answered by a chorus of sweet shrill voices from within. the voices from below [sing.) setebos! setebos! the voices from within (sing.) ariel! caliban ariel [calls aloud.] o, my brave spirits! the voices from below setebos ! Şetebos ! over us which art, and under: fang of fire from mouth of thunder ! hungering goad from belly of mire! tiger and toad- setebos! blood which art on the jungle bloom, sloth and slumber and seed in the womb: which art wondrous over and under us, setebos ! setebos! thou art setebos ! the voices from within sealed in a starless cell, we are shut from dawn and sky. ariel !-ariel ! why? ariel setebos knows, but his jaws fetter me fast: he is dumb- answering never. caliban the voices from within we, who parch for dew and star- ariel !-ariel !- must we perish where we are? tell ! ariel sycorax knows, but she sits there in the cave with her son- mocking us ever. the voices from within ariel ! ariel call me no more, lest they torment us. i hear them coming now. the voice of sycorax caliban! ariel hush! (gigantic, the twisted form of sycorax looms from within the rock.] sycorax (calling toward the sea.] come, fish-fowl! leave thy flapping in the mud caliban and keep thy father's temple. call his priests. thy father toad's a god, hath double teeth in his two heads. the tiger loins of him begot thee in my belly for a cub to lick his paws and purr, else he may pinch thee behind an eye-tooth, like yon flitter mouse that hangs there wriggling. the voice of caliban so, so sycorax!-- coming! sycorax aye, so so: crawling still! [malformed and hissing, caliban enters on his belly and arms.] caliban syc-syco- sycorax! see! sycorax what hast thou got thee? . caliban (laughs, half rising, and holds up a wriggling crea- ture.] got a little god—a little caliban. caliban m ha!-make him out of mud. see: squeezed it round and slipped him through my fist-hole. am a god: [rising.) see sycorax-her grandchild! sycorax 'tis an eel-worm. fling him to the white bat yonder. [her form vanishes in the rock.] caliban [approaching the idol.] ariel, here's food for thee: a wormling for thy beak. so, my trapped bird:—how sayst, ha? ariel (sings.] “where the bee sucks there suck .". caliban (laughing.) bee, sayst thou? still buzzest of thy wings, and eatest-air! ariel [sings.] “in a cowslip's bell i lie." caliban caliban my father's gullet is no cowslip's bell. shalt lie in the belly of setebos. [tossing away the eel.] -what waitest for? ariel i am waiting for one who will come. caliban aye? who will come? ariel one from the heart of the world, and he shall rise on tempest of music and in thunder of song. caliban [gaping.) thunder and tempest-so! ariel (with ecstasy.] i see him now. caliban [crouching back.] see him! where, now? caliban ariel in my dream:—he bears a star-wrought staff and hooded cloak of blue, and on his right hand burns the sun, and on his left, the moon; and these he makes his masks of joy and sorrow. caliban where? mine eye seeth naught. ariel before him comes a maid—a child, all wonder- and leads him to this blighted isle. caliban what for, here? ariel to set me free, and all my air-born spirits whom setebos holds prisoned in this earth. caliban free? what's that-free? ariel what thou canst never be who never shalt dance with us by yellow sands. caliban ii ho, caliban can squash their music. free? aren't i a god, bitch-born, the son of setebos can howl all hell up? worship me, thou wings! praise my toad-father in his temple! id ariel the priests of setebos are lust and death and war. not ariel-nor ariel's spirits ever- shall do them honor. one shall come hereafter whom we now worship, waiting. caliban (roaring.) . sycorax! sycorax [reappearing.) swallow thy croakings, bullfrog. call the priests, and fill this spirit's nostrils with the reek of setebos, his blood-rites. the spirits of ariel [cry out piercingly.] ariel! ariel peace, my brave hearts! be dumb—but still be dreaming! caliban caliban powers of setebos!—lust, death, war,-ho, now! hither, and do my father worship! ariel [stifling a cry.] ah! [enter lust, death, and war, arrayed as priests of setebos.] sycorax [to caliban.] come, toad-boy: watch with me, within. caliban [going within the cave, as sycorax disappears.] free, saith? will dance by yellow sands?—now, spirit, dance! (as caliban goes within the powers of setebos come forth. at the altar beneath ariel, the three priests lead them in ceremonial rites of primeval pageantry and dance—the sacrificial worship of setebos. above them ariel suffers, with closed eyes. in their rites, lust pours his libation, and lights the altar fire, which—when war has made there his living sacrifice-death extinguishes in darkness. through the dark, which gradually changes to a glowing dusk, ariel speaks aloud.] caliban ariel o spirits, i have dreamed, but death has closed my sight in darkness. spirits, i have begotten sweet joy, but lust hath drowned her in his wine. yea, i have wove love wings, but war hath robbed them and riven his lovely body all alive to feed the hungering flames of setebos. my spirits, i your master am unmastered. speak to me! comfort me! is there no joy, no love, no dream, that shall survive this dark? hath this our isle no king but caliban? are there no yellow sands where we shall dance to greet the master of a timeless dawn? or must there break no morning?—ah, you are dumb still to my doubtings. yet the dark grows pale, and, paling, pulses now with rosier shadows; and now the shadows tremble, and draw back their trailing glories: hark! all little birds wake in the gloaming: look! what young aurora walks in the dusk below, and like a child turns her quick face to listen?—ah! (below, against the light from the sea, has entered the dim figure he descries.] the figure who calls? caliban ariel spirits, 'tis she! o, we have dreamed her true at last-miranda! spirits of ariel [call, in echoing song.] miranda ! miranda [searching with her eyes.] earth and air echo my name. who calls me? ariel ariel. spirits of ariel (as before.] ariel! miranda light and dark spin webs around me. what art thou, voice and where? ariel here--and your servant. miranda [beholding him.] o me!-poor spirit !-what mouth so terrible utters a voice so tender? caliban ariel setebos, god of this isle, holds me in 's fangs. miranda but why? ariel i will not serve him. miranda [naïvely, drawing nearer to the huge idol.] setebos, be kind. release this spirit. ariel he hath nor ears, nor eyes, nor any sense to know thee by, but only these tusks and claws and his toad-belly. miranda dost thou suffer, so? ariel not now. miranda and hath he held thee long captive? ro caliban ariel since old ocean's slime first spawned under the moon, i have awaited thee and him thou bringest here. miranda you mean my father, prospero. ariel [exultingly.] hail him, spirits! spirits of ariel [sing.) prospero ! miranda yea, many a starry journey we have made searching this isle. at last to-day, at dawn, i saw its yellow sands, and heard thy voice calling for pity. now my father is come and shall release thee. ariel where? where is he? miranda here: his cloak is round us now: he holds us now tx caliban caliban hurt? who hurteth god? am seed of setebos: am caliban: the world is all mine isle: kill what i please, and play with what i please; so, yonder, play with him: pull out his wings and put 'em back to grow.—where be thy wings, spring-i-the-air? miranda o ariel, is this sight a true thing, and speaks truly? ariel what you hear and see-'tis my master. miranda 'tis so wonderful i know not how to be sad. caliban [in puzzled fascination, staring at miranda.] the moon hath a face and smileth on the lily pools, but hath no lily body withal: thy body is all lilies and the smell of lily buds, and thy round face a pool of moonbeams! caliban miranda (with smile and laughter.] nay, then look not in, lest thou eclipse the moon. caliban syc-sycorax hath no such laughing: soundeth. like little leaves i' the rain! hath no such mouth bright-lipp'd with berries ripe to suck i' the sun- sycorax. miranda who is sycorax? ariel ah, pain! caliban ho, she that hath calved caliban to the bull setebos, my blood-sire. [pauses at a glowing thought, then cries with sudden exultance:) so shall us twain caliban all this world! (he crouches, then rolls over at her feet.] -laugh, spring-i'-the-air! lift so thy lily-pad foot and rub his ear where the fur tickleth, and let thy caliban tongue-lick its palm. (he lies, dog-like, on his back, and laughs loud.] caliban miranda this wonder grows too wild. ariel go, go! o flee away! caliban [leaping up.] away?-aye, so! (he approaches miranda, who recoils, half fearful.] wist where salt water lappeth warm i' the noon and shore-fish breed i' the shoals.-wist where the sea-bull flap-flappeth his fin and walloweth there his cow and snoreth the rainbow from his nostrils. (he begins to dance grotesquely about her.] ho, spring-i'-the-air! shalt leap, shalt roll in the sun, shalt dance with lily-warm limbs, shalt race wi' the gulls! shalt laugh, and call–come, come! come, come, caliban! catcheth who catcheth can! mateth mew, mateth man: catch, come, caliban! ariel o setebos, let me go free! caliban miranda [to caliban.] peace! dance no more. go hence, and leave me. caliban (staring.] hence? aye, both-us twain. miranda [with simple command.] nay, thou alone. caliban [with narrowing eyes, draws nearer.] saith what? miranda [unafraid.] go from me. caliban [stops, with a hissing growl.] syc- syc-sycorax! sycorax! sycorax (reappearing.] mole in the mire, wilt squeak when thou art trod on?-bite! bite, setebos' son! let the brave wonder breed of thee. tax caliban caliban aye, mother. [with rising passion—to miranda.] a child! shalt bear me such as thou, with head of caliban: no eel-worm, nay—a wonder, with lily feet, that walk. ho, setebos! sycorax setebos! mate them at thine altar. miranda [fleeing from caliban, pauses in terror of sycorax.] save me! powers of setebos (sing within.] setebos! setebos! caliban [rushing toward miranda.] mine! miranda save me, father! ariel [calling shrilly.] prospero! caliban spirits of ariel [sing within.] prospero! hail! [a clap of thunder strikes, rolling, in sudden dark- ness. lightnings burst from the idol of setebos. from the flashing gloom, choruses of contending spirits commingle the roar of their deep bass and high-pitched choirs.] spirits of ariel prospero! prospero! out of our earth-pain raise and array us in splendor of order! pour on our chaos- prospero! prospero ! - peace to our earth-pain! powers of setebos setebos! setebos ! lord of our earth-bane, loose on his wrath way the beast of thy jungle! pour on our pathway-. setebos! setebos ! blood for thine earth-bane ! (amid the tempestuous song, darkness, and thunder, appears on the left a glowing, winged throne. on caliban ariel o set me free to be thy servant ever. master, i promise! prospero fly! run free!-unfang him, setebos! [prospero raises his staff. slowly the tiger-jaws of the idol open their fangs. ariel, with a joyous cry, slips into the air, and as he floats fluttering to the earth—his unseen choir of spirits sing with shrilly gladness:] spirits of ariel prospero! prospero! hail ! ariel [dancing on the earth.] free! free! miranda [eagerly.] o, now his fettered spirits: free them too! prospero well urged, my own miranda. setebos, disgorge these long-embowelled choirs!—spirits, come forth! [again prospero raises his staff. yawning enormous, the toad-mouth of the idol, filled with green and blue light, widens to a lurid aperture caliban out of which come forth-dancing—the star-bright spirits of ariel. as they come, ariel-springing toward caliban-cries exultingly:] ariel now, caliban, we dance by yellow sands! [singing as they rush forth, the spirits dart with ariel swiftly about the grovelling caliban and chase him, dodging and whining, down the steps to the ground- circle, mottled with its shadowy continents of the world, and rimmed with its long, yellow wave-lines.] spirits of ariel “come unto these yellow sands, and then take hands: courtsied when you have and kiss'd the wild waves whist. foot it featly here and there and, sweet sprites, the burthen bear: hark, hark! bow-wow ! the watch-dogs bark: bow-wow ! hark, hark! i hear the strain of strutting chanticleer cry: cock-a-diddle-dow!"! [encircling caliban in their dance, and pelting him with bright handfuls of the yellow sands, they tease and caliban drive him howling into his cave cell, where his dark, monstrous shape silhouettes for a moment on the orange-red glow, then vanishes within. as he disappears, to their last “bow-wow!" and “cock-a-diddle-dow !”, they hasten back above to ariel, who leads them before prospero.] ariel the beast is routed, master. was 't well done? prospero the routed beast-returns. i charge thee, spirit, not to torment, but teach him-for which task thou wilt require mine art. so by its power we will transform this cave of setebos to be a temple to miranda. now let these thy spirits lead her to her shrine yonder, where all her maiden muses wait to make her welcome. (prospero points to where, on the right, appears mi- randa's shrine. from its portals come forth the nine muses, bearing lutes and pipes. prospero, turning to miranda, rises and gives her into ariel's care.] child, go with them now and tarry till i summon. caliban miranda sir, i will. i thank you and these spirits, and may we all be saved from setebos. ariel sweet mistress, follow! [to a melodious luting and piping played by the muses, ariel and his spirits escort miranda to the centre, where the muses meet and conduct her into the shrine, while ariel's spirits—at a gesture from him-dart through the centre of the cloudy cur- tains and disappear.] prospero (calling.] now hither, bird, and perch! ariel [running to him, on the throne.] beside you, master! prospero [pointing to the ground-circle.] seest yonder yellow sands? there sleep the shores, the cloudy capes and continents of time; there wane and wax eternal tides, that mark the ebb and flow of empires with their foam. there shalt thou see the million-colored skein' caliban whereof i weave mine art. look well and learn! for this my art is of no only land or age, but born of all-itself a world snatched from the womb of history, to survive its mortal mother in imagination.- dost thou attend me? ariel word and will, dear master! [at the mouth of caliban's cell are now visible lust, death, and war, who in pantomime indicate to caliban their conspiracy against prospero and ariel.] prospero 'tis well, for thou must prove my pupil. look! even now the priests of setebos conspire with caliban against us. they will compass my fall, miranda's ruin, and thy bondage unless mine art can foil them. therefore, now thou shalt behold the pageant of mine art pace from antiquity. first, while yon glass lets flow its yellow sands, behold appear my rites of ancient egypt, greece, and rome, and, while they pass, i will instruct thee how to use them.-pageant, appear! [a deep gong sounds.] , lo, egypt comes! first interlude* now in succession through the great gates of the ground-circle, in colorful incursions of costume and music, appear three main pageant groups, that perform -with distinctive artistry of dance, pantomime, mass movement, and choral song—three ritual episodes of the dramatic art of antiquity. the nature of each, by a few brief sentences, prospero expounds to ariel, and so to the audience. concluding, each group of the first two departs from the circle. the first action—a symbolic ritual of egypt-enters in seven separate processions, which converge at the centre in worship of the golden god osiris. the second group-expressing the noble zenith of greek dramatic art—chants, with aspiring, athletic dance, the second chorus of the antigone of sophocles, celebrating the splendor of man. this action is per- formed by the altar. with the third enters a contrasted decadence of the theatre's art with the roman mimes, who enact a farcica!! *the more detailed description of this interlude is given in the ap- pendix, pages to . . caliban comedy in masks, in presence of the emperor caligula and the roman populace. concluding, this roman group does not depart, but retiring into partial shadow on the right, awaits there its later summons. act i [as the roman interlude closes, the light passes from the ground-circle to the middle stage, where pros- pero-descending his throne with ariel-moves toward the centre. while they speak together there, caliban—coming from his cave—crawls part way up the steps and lies flat, occasionally lifting his head to listen.] prospero so, ariel, i have harvested for thee these orchards of mine art, and let thee taste their varied fruitages, some that have ripened in climes auspicious, some that are part decayed. now from three vineyards–egypt, greece, and rome - i will distill a varicolored wine for caliban to drink. so, steeped in spirit, haply he also shall see visions. hast thou learned by heart all that i whispered to thee? ariel all, master. caliban prospero tell me part. ariel you will create out of this world of art three scenes of vision. prospero and who shall act them—say! ariel my spirits shall; and i will be their prologue. prospero for what purpose? ariel to tutor this beast. prospero and why? ariel that he may grow to reverence miranda, and forswear setebos. caliban prospero tush, fool: wilt thou obey? caliban obeyeth both of you. prospero that's well. sit here and watch. now, ariel, thy prologue: then reveal what lies behind. [prospero mounts his throne, on the steps of which caliban squats below him, watching and listening with growing curiosity. at the centre, before the cloudy curtains, ariel speaks.] ariel from egypt, by our master's art, behold now, when these curtains part, a scene of fleeting pageantry: behold where pale mark antony hath fled his sore defeated ships in quest of cleopatra's lips, and turned the tides of war amiss to pawn a kingdom for a kiss.- so, by my spirits' acting, see of what strange stuff these humans be! (ariel retires within through the curtains, which then- to the melodic dirge of flutes within-draw apart, caliban disclosing the inner stage, which depicts a scene of vivid egyptian coloring.) first inner scene against a background of deep blue sky, the barge* of cleopatra lies moored at an ancient wharf: *“the barge she sat in, like a burnish'd throne, burn'd on the water: the poop was beaten gold; purple the sails, and so perfumed that the winds were love-sick with them. the oars were silver, which to the tune of flutes kept stroke. . for her own person, it beggar'd all description: she did lie in her pavilion-cloth-of-gold of tissue o'er-picturing that venus where we see the fancy out-work nature. on each side her stood pretty dimpled boys, like smiling cupids, with diverse-color'd fans, whose wind did seem to glow the delicate cheeks which they did cool.... her gentlewomen, like the nereides, so many mermaids, tended her i’ the eyes, and made their bends adornings. at the helm a seeming mermaid steers; the silken tackle swell with the touches of those flower-soft hands, that yarely frame the office. from the barge a strange invisible perfume hits the sense of the adjacent wharfs.”—(antony and cleopatra: ii, . shakespeare.] the charm and splendor of this description applies here only to the beauty of the barge and those it bears: otherwise cleopatra and her at- tendants are, in their appearance, distraught and fearful, and the barge shows signs of recent perilous escape from the scene of antony's sea- battle with octavius cæsar. being here conceived as a plastic vision in the mind of prospero, this inner scene-an excerpt from act iii, scene xi, of shakespeare's play—has, by dramatic license appropriate to this masque, been laid in a scene suggested by the above description of the barge. caliban from the left, along the wharf, enters mark antony, attended by soldiers and populace in roman and egyptian garb.] antony hark! the land bids me tread no more upon 't; it is ashamed to bear me! friends, come hither. i am so hated in the world, that i have lost my way forever. i have a ship laden with gold; take that, divide it; fly, and make your peace with cæsar. all fly! not we. antony i have fled myself; and have instructed cowards to run and show their shoulders. friends, be gone; i have myself resolv'd upon a course which has no need of you; be gone... nay, do so; for, indeed, i have lost command... [his followers depart, and antony throws himself down on a buttress of the wharf. meantime from the barge, cleopatra-who has looked on and listened—is led down to the landing by charmian and her attendants, behind whom eros (a friend of antony) follows. they approach antony, who-absorbed in his grief-does not see them.] caliban eros nay, gentle madam, to him, comfort him. . . charmian do! why, what else? cleopatra let me sit down. o juno! (as cleopatra sinks down near him, antony- now beholding her-starts up with a cry of surprise and passionate pain.] antony no, no, no; no, no! eros [pointing to cleopatra's piteous aspect.] see you here, sir? antony [hiding his face.] o fie, fie, fie! charmian (bending over her.] madam! eros [appealing to antony.] sir, sir,- caliban antony yes, my lord, yes; he at philippi kept his sword e'en like a dancer, while i struck the lean and wrinkled cassius; and 'twas i that the mad brutus ended ... yet now-no matter. (he sinks down again.] cleopatra [rising, to her attendants.] ah, stand by ... sustain me! o! eros most noble sir, arise; the queen approaches. her head's declin'd, and death will seize her, but your comfort makes the rescue. antony [drawing still away, despairfully.] i have offended reputation, a most unnoble swerving. eros sir, the queen! [cleopatra and antony face each other-gazing into each other's eyes.] caliban antony [suddenly crying out.] o, whither hast thou led me, egypt? see, how i convey my shame out of thine eyes by looking back what i have left behind 'stroy'd in dishonor. cleopatra o my lord, my lord, forgive my fearful sails! i little thought you would have follow'd. antony egypt, thou knew'st too well my heart was to thy rudder tied by the strings, and thou shouldst tow me after. o'er my spirit thy full supremacy thou knew'st, and that thy beck might from the bidding of the gods command me. cleopatra o my pardon! antony now i must to the young man send humble treaties, dodge and palter in the shifts of lowness; who with half the bulk o' the world play'd as i pleased, caliban an instant, bewildered. then, with a cry, he leaps forward in the dim-lit space and gropes along the curtains with arms wide.] caliban ho, light! all's smother: 'tis gone! yo-yo, all gone cloud-swallowed, all! ah, woman, snake-bright queen, thou wonder-thing, come back! ah, where—where- where? prospero so, so! canst thou, then, taste my vision, slave? [he descends the throne toward caliban.] caliban [staring about him.] o dazzle-blue, gold-shine, hot lotus smell! blood-root in bloom, and scarlet water-weed! o silver sight and tinkle-tickling sound! spurteth my body with joy-burst in my brain enormous moons of wonder!—float, still float, you purpling sails! blaze, thou flame-woman! speak sparkles of kissing fire! * caliban prospero [approaching him.] nay, art thou touched beyond thy tiger cravings? caliban ho, lord master, lord chanticleer, unswallow from thy gorge the world thou hast devoured! prospero [pointing toward ariel, who comes forth again as prologus through the curtains.] ask of thy tutor; he hath revealed that world to thy brute ken.- ariel, this lump of earth hath dreams within 't, that now begin to sprout. send it more sun and watering. ariel sir, your art is rain and sun: i am but air, to carry its wet or warmth whereso you list. prospero so let it fall on him till he shall wax to a more worthy plant for miranda's temple-garden.—here is my staff: caliban this wields my power. here keep it in thy charge till i return. so, use it as a rod to instruct this bungling cub of setebos. ariel [as prospero goes.] i will, sir.—go you far? prospero no farther than the frontiers of mine art. farewell a while! [prospero passés within through the curtains. half confiding, half suspicious, caliban comes near to ariel and questions him.] caliban art, saith! what's that-his art? ariel 'tis that which burns now in thy blood: the same which conjured hither bright egypt and the kiss of antony. caliban the woman and the kiss! nay, saidest now 'tis rain and sun! ariel 'tis so. caliban caliban where falleth his rain? where shineth his sun? ariel yonder on the yellow sands. caliban nay, show me this art! is 't hidden in thy hand? here, let me hold the staff. [caliban reaches for the staff; ariel raises it warningly.] ariel stay! touch it not lest it shall scorch thy fingers and set fire to the building world. the staff of prospero is for his servants, not for slaves, to wield. caliban [drawing back from it, in fear.] scorcheth my fingers, ah?—so wield it, thou! show me once more the snake-bright queen. ariel nay, egypt no more! but come with me to prosper's throne where i play master now. here thou shalt sit and watch the battlements of eternal troy where troilus woos inconstant cressida. caliban caliban showest me once more-woman? ariel even so; for many kinds of woman make mankind. [rising, ariel points toward the inner stage and speaks chantingly.] now, from out time's storied sphere, homer's troy i summon here, on a dawn when hector seeks battle with the besieging greeks: there, while heroes throng the gates, cressida her lover 'waits, casting from a height apart tangling hooks for troilus' heart.- behold her now, by prosper's art! [ariel raises his staff.] second inner scene* the cloudy curtains draw back, revealing the battle- ments of troy. above, on a rampart, in the first rays of morning, cressida appears, with a maiden attendant. *during this scene, caliban-watching intently-slides from the steps of the throne and crawls slowly forward on his stomach to the centre, where he lies prone, with head lifted his body pointed toward the inner stage--kicking at times his lower legs (from the knees) in the air. caliban below, murmuring crowds are looking toward the outer gates. among them pass the aged trojan queen, and the greek helen, in her younger beauty. cressida [peering below.] who were those went by? attendant queen hecuba and helen. cressida and whither go they? attendant up to the eastern tower to see the battle—hector, before the sun uprose, was harnessed light and to the field goes he. enter behind them pandarus.) cressida hector's a gallant man.- [turning to greet him.] good morrow, uncle pandarus. pandarus [smiling.] good morrow, cousin cressid. [trumpets are sounded, off left.] caliban hark! they are coming from the field. shall we stand up here and see them as they pass toward ilium? cressida at your pleasure. [they move to a better vantage. at a gesture from cressida the attendant departs.] pandarus here, here's an excellent place. i'll tell you them all by their names, as they pass by; but mark troilus above the rest. cressida [with a reproving laugh.] speak not so loud. [below, from the left, trojan warriors, in battle gear, begin to pass by, through the admiring populace who cheer them occasionally. among them Æneas passes pandarus that's Æneas: is not that a brave man? he's one of the flowers of troy, i can tell you. but mark troilus; you shall see anon. antenor passes caliban cressida who's that? pandarus that's antenor: he's one o' the soundest judgments in troy. but when comes troilus? i'll show you troilus anon. if he sees me, you shall see him nod at me. cressida [archly.] will he give you the nod? pandarus you shall see. cressida if he do, the rich shall have more. hector passes pandarus that's hector: that, that, look you, that; there's a fellow! go thy way, hector! there's a brave man, niece. cressida , a brave man! pandarus swords! anything, he cares not; an the devil comes to him, it's all one. yonder comes paris—paris! paris passes caliban who said he came hurt home to-day? he's not hurt. why, this will do helen's heart good now, ha! would i could see troilus now! you shall see troilus anon. helenus passes cressida who's that? pandarus [searching with his eyes, grows impatiently expect- ant.] that's helenus.-i marvel where troilus is.—that's helenus—i think he went not forth to-day. that's helenus. cressida can helenus fight, uncle? pandarus helenus? no. yes, he'll fight indifferent well.-i marvel where troilus is. hark! do you hear the people cry “troilus?” troilus passes (as he approaches, the populace cheer him. his eyes, however, search about till they rest on the battlement, where cressida, returning his look, starts back, trembling. noting both their actions, pandarus continues flauntingly to point out the young hero.) caliban 'tis troilus! there's a man, niece. hem! brave troilus! cressida peace! for shame, peace! pandarus mark him: note him. o brave troilus! look well upon him, niece; look you how his sword is blood- ied, and his helm more hacked than hector's. o admirable youth! go thy way, troilus, go thy way! had i a sister were a grace, or a daughter a goddess, he should take his choice. o admirable man! paris? paris is dirt to him. (while he is speaking, cressida has taken from her hair a flower, knotted its stem to an arrow, and dropped the arrow beneath the rampart, where troilus lifts it with a smile and happy gesture, bearing it away with him, right. as pandarus now turns to her, cressida looks away left and points to others below.] cressida here comes more. more forces pass pandarus asses, fools, dolts! chaff and bran! porridge after meat! i could live and die i’ the eyes of troilus. ne'er look, ne'er look! the eagles are gone; crows caliban and daws, crows and daws! i had rather be such a man as troilus than agamemnon and all greece. [enter, above, troilus' boy, who speaks to pandarus.] the boy sir, my lord troilus would instantly speak with you. pandarus where? the boy at your own house; there he unarms him. pandarus good boy, tell him i come. [exit boy.] fare ye well, good niece. (he goes off, above.] cressida adieu, uncle ! [below, the last of the soldiers and populace have passed off, right, where cressida gazes after them, speaking aloud to herself:] o more in troilus thousandfold i see than in the glass of pandar's praise may be; yet hold i off. women are angels, wooing. things won are done; joy's soul lies in the doing. (below, from the right, troilus hastens back, alone. the arrow with the flower he has thrust through the caliban links in his chain armor on his left side. to it, he calls up toward the battlement.] pointing troilus cressida! cressida [with a glad cry.] troilus! (unwinding her long wine-red scarf, she ties it to the battlement, whence it flutters down to troilus. seizing it, he mounts by its aid toward the rampart, where the face of cressida peers luringly above him.] troilus [calling upward as he mounts.] cressida! [just as he is about to reach cressida, the cloudy curtains close. [at the centre caliban now leaps up in loud, excited laughter. clapping his hands in the air, he strides toward ariel on the throne.] caliban aha! troy, troy! lips of troyland and egypt! lovers in links of gold! ho, wine of woman bubbling in vats of war!-drinketh you all caliban, caliban, son of setebos.-ariel, caliban learnest me art? lo, now: i am his artist! tell him, lord prospero, caliban createth glories more 'stounding still. art? ho, 'tis god's play! but me? am god i' the mire: can make me troy and purple egypt out of the mud i' my palm; giveth me only that—his little play stick [pointing to the staff in ariel's hand.] to stir in the mud withal. ariel not yet!—this staff is wrought to stir the spirits of the air, not dabble i' the slime. caliban why so? from bog-slime bloometh the lotus, and the sea-lark feedeth her young along the salt flats.- [with childish wheedling.] prithee—the staff? ariel [descending the throne.] 't'would burn thee. touch not till thou art free. yet patience, monster, caliban caliban [with confiding assurance.] liketh well thy father's art, spring-i’-the-air. miranda god speed thy learning, monster! i am more fain to help thee in that task than all else in the world. caliban (astonished and eager.] wouldst help me—thou? miranda how happy, if i could! caliban yea, canst thou!-hark: (glancing from his garb to ariel's.] let me wear glory, too! what booteth me to be his artist, if i wear no cloth to show my glory? he there talketh no prologue without his toga. tog me, too, in brave colors! caliban miranda well thought on. [to one of the muses.] quick, euterpe: fetch bright vesture forth. ariel for caliban? miranda for whom so fit? the need of beauty lies most near to them who lack it. [euterpe returns, bringing bright garments, which she and the other maidens help now to put upon cali- ban.) so, dear muses: lay on! caliban [delightedly tries to survey himself.] ha, sycorax, an thou wert here now to look on this thy son! [he parades, with swelling pleasure, before the muses.] gaze well, good spirits! now, ariel, thy pupil soon shall teach thee caliban what thing this art is: yea, teach prospero a lesson in 's own lore. miranda [to ariel, who is about to protest.] pray, let him tarry this time with us. he is too full of dreams to act us harm. speak on thy prologue. caliban (still parading.) prologue! aye, good: my prologue shall come after. ariel mistress, keep here, this staff for your protection. [accepting the staff from ariel, miranda takes seat on the shrine, where the muses range themselves about her.] miranda so! be near us, caliban. caliban [moving to the shrine steps, speaks to ariel.] what showest now? caliban ariel [at centre, before the curtains.] now, in time's emblazoned tome egypt, greece, turn page for rome. caliban [mutters aloud.] rome, ha! i'll show you rome! ariel rocked by mighty cæsar's fall glooms the world in battle pall, where by midnight, worn and spent, weary brutus, in his tent, watches ’mid the roman host. there the pallid cæsar's ghost rises from his candle-flame accusing.–who shall bear that blame? can brutus wake a world from shame? [ariel disappears through the curtains. miranda raises the staff.] third inner scene the cloudy curtains part, disclosing the tent of brutus, by moonlight. brutus—his outer armor laid aside—sits on a couch: near him lucius, a boy, nods drowsily over a stringed instrument. after a brief pause, brutus—gazing at him-speaks wistfully: caliban brutus bear with me, good boy: canst thou hold up thy heavy eyes awhile and touch thy instrument a strain or two? lucius aye, my lord, an't please you. brutus it does, my boy: i should not urge thy duty past thy might; i know young bloods look for a time of rest. lucius i have slept, my lord, already. brutus it was well done; and thou shalt sleep again; i will not hold thee long. if i do live i will be good to thee. lucius [tuning his instrument, sings dreamily:] fear no more the frown o' the great; thou art past the tyrant's stroke. care no more to clothe and eat; toʻthee the seed is as the oak. the sceptre, learning, physic, must all follow this and come to dust. [lucius falls asleep.] caliban brutus this is a sleepy tune. o murderous slumber, lay'st thou thy leaden mace upon my boy that plays thee music? gentle knave, good-night; i will not do thee so much wrong to wake thee.- let me see, let me see; is not the leaf turned down where i left reading? here it is, i think. [the ghost of cæsar appears.] how ill this taper burns !-ha! who comes here? i think it is the weakness of mine eyes that shapes this monstrous apparition. it comes upon me. art thou anything? art thou some god, some angel, or some devil, that makest my blood cold and my hair to stare? speak to me what thou art. [in the darkness, dark ghostly shapes, hardly visible, appear to urge forward the dead cæsar, who alone is luminous.] the ghost thy evil spirit, brutus. brutus why comest thou? the ghost to tell thee thou shalt see me at philippi. caliban brutus well; then i shall see thee again? the ghost aye, at philippi. brutus why, i will see thee at philippi, then. [the ghost and the dim shapes disappear. brutus rises.] now i have taken heart, thou vanishest: ill spirit, i would hold more talk with thee.- (calling aloud.] boy, lucius! romans, romans! awake-awake! the cloudy curtains close [instantly, in the semi-darkness without, caliban-with a great cry—springs among the muses, snatches from miranda the staff, and rushes with it to the centre of the middle stage, shouting aloud:] caliban awake, romans, awake! (low thunders growl, and sharp flashes glimmer about him.] caliban miranda [cries out, appalled.] the staff! his staff! touch not its power, lest thou lay waste the world! caliban (grasping the staff, staggers and sways wildly with it, as though being shocked by an invisible force.] rome! now do i hold the roof-beam o' the world. now am i lord of lightnings: lo, mine art shaketh the throne of prospero. [he strides upon the throne, raising the staff.] awake, imperial rome! return, ye snake-bright women of troy and egypt! stain these yellow sands wine-red with spillings of your wreathèd bowls, and let the orgied priests of revel reign.- caligula, be crowned by setebos! caligula! caligula! caligula! (while he cries aloud, the powers of setebos come forth from the cell beneath, clad as roman men, women, and slaves and, joined by the roman interlude pageant on the ground-circle, raise the emperor on a palanquin upon their shoulders, and bear him up the steps to the middle stage, shouting“caligula!” here a scene of mingled riot and orgy follows: caliban women dancers with golden bowls, slaves shackled and driven with whips, rabble groups scrambling for bread loaves flung them by heralds, armed soldiery, and gorgeous patrician lords: these swarm in a sor- did saturnalia, from the midst of which the masked form of caligula rises dominant in splendor. at his gesture, slaves tear the muses from their shrine, and give them over to the revellers. high above all, clutching the staff, his huge limbs rioting grotesque from his silken garments, caliban dances on the throne of prospero. below, bass voices of invisible choirs chant through the din : “setebos ! setebos ! thou art setebos !” seized from the throne with the muses, miranda—at the centre—is borne in faint dread to the reaching arms of caligula, who is about to place upon her his crown, when a sudden pealing of silvery trumpets strikes silence over all. in awe the revellers gaze upward, and turn toward the background, listening. above them there, from the darkness, appears a colossal cross, burning with white fire. caligula drops his crown. shadow falls on the colorful pageantry, and all sink slowly to their knees, as the spirits of ariel appear again above—their luminous wings outspread like seraphim. caliban at either end one blows a slim tapering trumpet. high and clear, then, their choirs chant in gregorian unison : spirits of ariel vexilla regis pródeunt; fulget crucis mystérium, quo carne carnis cónditor suspensus est patíbulo. quo vulneratis ínsuper mucróne diro lanceæ, ut nos laváret crimine, manavit unda et sánguine. o crux, ave, spes, unica: hoc passiónis témpore, auge piis justítiam reisque dona veniam. te summa deus trínitas, collaudet omnis spiritus: quos per crucis mystérium salvas, rege per sæcula. during this chant, the dim revellers beneath bow their bodies more low. caliban and now, to faint organ music, the cloudy curtains, parting, reveal the inner stage hung like an early christian shrine in a catacomb—with prin- itive tapestries of dusky blue and gold. against these in the glow of candles, an image of haloed saint agnes holds a white lamb, which silent shep- herds are adoring. this group remains motionless as a tableau. then silently from either side two priests come forth with swinging censers. passing forward and down the steps to the ground-circle, they are fol- lowed in the dim light by the roman revellers, who rise and pass off through the interlude gates. · last of all rises caligula, who pauses hesitant, looking back where miranda still kneels, now grouped about by her muses. as he stoops to lift his crown from the earth, two figures in the inner scene-a shepherd boy, and a shepherd wrapt in a hide mantle—stir from the still picture and come forward in a circle of light, while the cloudy curtains close behind them, and above the white cross vanishes. speaking from the place of light to the emperor's form in shadow, the shepherd calls to him:] the shepherd caligula! caliban : miranda [rising, goes to prospero's arms.] father! [from the outer dimness, caliban—who, since the ap- pearance of the burning cross, has lain flat on the throne steps—now grovels forward (trailing his silken garment by one sleeve) and flings the staff of prospero into the light space.] caliban no more! will never touch it more! prospero [staring at the staff.] a thousand years to build, and build for beauty, yet in one flare of riot lust, a lubber idiot confounds time and my toil.—ah, daughter, daughter! how shall mine art reclaim this lapsing ape from his own bondage? miranda sir, my heart is shaken; yet the sweet sight of agnes and her lamb hath shown new comfort. [stooping, she lifts the staff and holds it toward him.] caliban therefore, even as a shepherd, take up thy staff in patience, and urge still onward this poor sloughed sheep. prospero yea, patience! sun, moon, stars, and all that waxes hath its waning-hour; ' but patience is the night behind the stars, steadfast through all eclipse. [with his staff, he touches caliban where he lies cringed.] stir, thou thick clot of clay and god-spittle! let thine atoms thaw to mud, where prosper may imprint once more his blurred seal. caliban [hoarsely, half rising.) mud: yea, methought to be his artist, and make dream-things of mine own like ariel his spirits, yet now-am mud. miranda [pitifully.] nay, star-dust! caliban ariel [returning.) master, from those far frontiers you visited, have you not brought us back more pageants of your art? prospero yes, ariel: back from the dim bourns of the middle age of germany, france, spain, and italy. and now, for this slave's tutelage, i'll show you their quaint moralities and mad-cap mirth. come hither, and watch: lo, olden germany! pageant of the north, appear. second Ínterlude* once more, through the community gates of the ground- circle, appear, in contrasted ritual, successive folk- groups, that perform now episodic phases of the dramatic art of europe in the middle ages. concluding, each group departs. first comes the germanic, in part grimly austere, in part naïvely grotesque. on a portable, three-tiered stage this group enacts both audience and players of a popular morality play: a pantomime scene depicting-in heaven, earth, and hell—the tragic, romantic history of doctor faustus. this action is followed by the contrasted splendor of a mediæval french scene. here, in presence of the kings of france and england, on the field of the cloth of gold, is performed a colorful tournament on horseback. last follows a fusion of the spanish and italian groups in the third action: a light-hearted dramatic scherzo, full of laughter, knavery, and romantic love, nai * for fuller description of this interlude, see appendix, pages - . caliban performed-in the midst of a festa—by the pied actors of the commedia dell'arte. during this last action, prospero and ariel (above] have withdrawn through the cloudy curtains, leaving caliban alone, staring spellbound at the many-hued festival below him. act ii [now, when the italian interlude is concluded, thelight- passing to the middle stage—illumines at centre the lone figure of caliban, where he squats above his cell. gazing out over the ground-circle, he calls aloud his yearning thoughts:] caliban o sands—yellow sands! falleth on you his rain, shineth his sun! yea, there his breeding dews quicken your blind rock-seeds, till wondrous live things burst 'em with flame-bright petals; and where his light falls you blossom with stars and flowers: but me-me saith, am mud! calleth me a bubble of black ooze can breed but only mine own belly-kind- bog-fish and moles.—lieth! [rising with a great gesture.] he lieth! 'tis lies! sands!—you wild, yellow sands! i too, i, too, am born to dance by your eternal waves som caliban and build brave temples there. i, too, shall bring you shoutings of life-song, like those spirits.—lo, i come to you—i come now! [running down the steps, he rushes out upon the ground- circle, where he stoops on bent knees and kisses the shining earth. behind him, at the entrance of the cell, death appears, holding a great gray cloak. he comes forward, speaking in a thin monotone.] death caliban! caliban [raising his head.] what calleth me there? death death: priest of setebos. caliban his temple is fallen: will build no more like his. death thou shalt restore his temple, caliban. caliban [rising.) nay, will not! caliban death none can say me nay. i am the will to not be which denies all wills. [through the cloudy curtains—slowly-prospero en- ters, in troubled meditation.] caliban and i am caliban: [pointing toward prospero.] will be his servant. death caliban, thou shalt fail. thyself art failure, setebos' son. caliban myself am done with setebos: · wear now miranda's cloth. death thou shalt wear mine. behold! caliban [looking at the gray cloak.] what's that? caliban death my cloak, where thou shalt hide to snare miranda unto bondage. hark! [far, cold, and thin a dirgeful choir sounds from the cell behind the figure of death.] the dirge gray-gray-gray: joy be unholy and hidden; wan be the rainbow of wonder, frozen the tide! blind-blind—blind: passion be pale and forbidden; dumb be the lips of the soul to beauty denied ! prospero [speaks to ariel, who comes running from behind the cloudy curtains.] blithe bird of mine, my heart is boding ill. hast thou heard? ariel nay, master, what? prospero . his dirges. ariel whose? prospero setebos'. ha, 'tis not his lust i dread, nay, nor his tiger tooth, nor belly on fire: caliban death [disappearing within the cell.] thou shalt fail. caliban (bowing before prospero.] master, raise up thy servant. prospero raise thyself. caliban [slowly rising.) so—while thou lookest on me, i can rise. prospero nay, look once more on what i now create for thee to rise by. 'tis mine art, not me, reigns as thy master. master it, and go free. [the three move toward the throne, where they soon group themselves on the steps.] caliban what wilt thou show me now? prospero a mind distraught- grasping at realms invisible—like thine, poor groping dreamer. ariel, from the scroll caliban of mine old gothic meditations, bid thy spirits blazon now a glimpse of hamlet. (he hands to ariel his scroll.] ariel your will, great master, we revere it.- lo where, to meet his father's spirit, pale hamlet watches now, before the parapets of elsinore! (ariel raises the scroll; then, unrolling it, bends his looks upon it, while the cloudy curtains part, revealing the fifth inner scene. on a platform at elsinore, by blazing starlight, three figures are seen pacing the cold. hamlet the air bites shrewdly; it is very cold. horatio it is a nipping and an eager air. hamlet what hour now? - horatio i think it lacks of twelve. caliban marcellus no, it is struck. horatio indeed? i heard it not: then it draws near the season wherein the spirit held its wont to walk. [a flourish of trumpets, and ordnance shot off within.] what does this mean, my lord? hamlet the king doth wake to-night and takes his rouse, keeps wassail, and the swaggering up-start reels; and, as he drains his draughts of rhenish down, the kettle-drum and trumpet thus bray out the triumph of his pledge. · · · horatio (pointing.) my lord, it comes ! [enter ghost.] hamlet angels and ministers of grace defend us - be thou a spirit of health or goblin damn’d, bring with thee airs from heaven or blasts from hell, thou comest in such a questionable shape that i will speak to thee: i'll call thee hamlet, caliban king, father, royal dane: answer me!... what may this mean, that thou, dead corse, again in complete steel revisit'st thus the glimpses of the moon, making night hideous, and we fools of nature so horridly to shake our disposition with thoughts beyond the reaches of our souls? say, why is this? wherefore? what should we do? (the ghost beckons hamlet.] horatio it beckons you to go away with it, as if it some impartment did desire to you alone. marcellus look with what courteous action it waves you to a more removed ground: but do not go with it. horatio no; by no means. hamlet it will not speak; then i will follow it. horatio do not, my lord. caliban hamlet why, what should be the fear? i do not set my life at a pin's fee; and for my soul, what can it do to that, being a thing immortal as itself?— it waves me forth again:i'll follow it. marcellus you shall not go, my lord. hamlet hold off your hands. horatio be ruled; you shall not go. hamlet my fate cries out, and makes each petty artery in this body as hardy as the nemean lion's nerve. still am i call'd. unhand me, gentlemen. by heaven, i'll make a ghost of him that lets me! i say, away!—go on; i'll follow thee! [as hamlet, impetuous, makes after the departing ghost, the cloudy curtains close caliban caliban (springing up.] no, no! follow not! let him not follow! 'tis a spirit lureth to setebos and death. he knoweth him not, what ʼtis;—but, master, i know. me, me too hath he beckoned with blind eyes and offered his gray cloth. prospero thee? death hath beckoned and yet thou didst not follow? caliban hither i fled to serve thee, but he said that i should fail; yet-yet, and thou wilt help, i will not fail! prospero and what wouldst have of me? caliban [pointing to ariel.] thy wonder scroll: nay, not thy staff again! will never more botch with thy lightnings. nay, but this littler thing lend me, and let me bear it against death caliban to free my father's spirit from his gray pall. lettest ariel: let now thy caliban conspire to serve thee. [he reaches for the scroll.] prospero why, thou wheedlest well, and i must hope in thy self-weening. yet beware lest thou thyself shalt wear the drab thou takest from him: gray hath arsenic more keen than scarlet or the corroding blood that sered the flesh of hercules. caliban [eagerly.] wilt lend me the scroll? prospero (with a gesture to ariel.] here! [ariel hands the scroll, which prospero then gives to caliban.] use this token of mine art less blindfold than the last. [caliban bounds away with the scroll.] caliban ariel (half protesting.] will trust him, master? prospero yea, though he fail me yet again, for only trust can create its object. caliban [joyfully kissing the scroll and raising it.] now, now, setebos, thy son shall wean thy powers from death, thy priest! (descending the steps, caliban hastens to the mouth of the cell, where—as he is about to enter-death re- appears and hails him.) death welcome, caliban! [death beckons within. pausing momentarily, caliban seems about to draw back, but recovering his pur- pose cries out hoarsely:) caliban go on; i'll follow thee. (he follows within and disappears. caliban miranda what kings were they, and where? prospero england and france: “they met in the vale of andren, 'twixt guynes and arde; i was then present, saw them salute on horseback; beheld them, when they lighted, how they clung in their embracement, as they grew together.'—* but tell us, ariel, what i told thee remember, how peace was crowned on the field of the cloth of gold. miranda how brave a name! would i had been there! ariel [bowing, as prologue.] 'you lost the view of earthly glory: men might say till this time pomp was single, but now married to one above itself. each following day became the next day's master, till the last made former wonders its. to-day, the french, all clinquant, all in gold, like heathen gods, *from shakespeare's "king henry the eighth,” act i, scene . caliban shone down the english; and to-morrow, they made britain india: every man that stood show'd like a mine. their dwarfish pages were as cherubins, all gilt: the madams too, not used to toil, did almost sweat to bear the pride upon them, that their very labor was to them as a painting: now this masque was cried incomparable, and the ensuing night made it a fool and beggar. the two kings, equal in lustre, were now best, now worst, as presence did present them.'*—lo, now, see how first they met, and clasped their hands in peace! (lifting prospero's staff, ariel makes a gesture toward the cloudy curtains, which part, discovering the sixth inner scene here, to an opening fanfare of golden trumpets, takes place a pantomime, all of gold, depicting to the eye, as in a glowing fantasy, the meeting of the kings and their retinues: the alighting of the kings from horseback, their embracement and their clasping of hands. during this enactment of the pantomime, the choirs of ariel's spirits sing, unseen:] *from shakespeare's “ king henry the eighth,” act i, scene . caliban methinks my soul is a flake o' the sun, for where things golden shine, i spangle, too; yea, burn to be aurora, and trail cloth of gold around the world. prospero unless my will miscarry, thou shalt be such a morning messenger and wake the world with beauty. now my plans wait on a vast result, for caliban himself hath gone to deal with setebos his gray priest, death. miranda what, caliban! o glad hope for us all! your art begins to triumph, and ariel's spirits to conquer. prospero that still waits: meanwhile mine art drinks from this renaissance deep draughts against a dark to-morrow.-hither, you fauns! come, bear my gold-emblazoned scrolls and silver-clasped books before me! (lifting the scrolls and volumes from their pile by the shrine, the fauns come forward with them to pros- pero, who turns affectionately to miranda.] caliban [accompanied by the bright-clothed fauns, bearing the great books and scrolls in quaint procession, pros- pero departs through the throne-entrance. meantime, the muses and miranda gather at the shrine, where ariel approaches miranda.] ariel mistress- miranda hark, muses! ariel, speak on! ariel ear and eye, now, list and lo: mirth of mad mercutio, juliet's sigh for romeo; dim lorenzo's murmur'd “ah!” for moon-dreaming jessica; dance of flower-soul'd perdita wafted to her florizel like a wave o' the sea: list well; lo, their night renews its spell! [at ariel's last word and gesture, the cloudy curtains part, disclosing the seventh inner scene in the glow and gloom of italian night, as high clouds intermittently obscure the moon, a palace garden lies in deep shadow. emerging only partly into preliminary sketch for seventh inner scene: jones caliban view, where soft light-floodings fall on moss-stained statue, marble bench, and balcony, there is revealed at first (on the left] nothing but a glimpse of garden wall, before which flash in the dimness two pied figures (benvolio and mercutio). calling shrilly, their young voices rain showers of fluting laughter. benvolio romeo! my cousin romeo! . . he ran this way, and leap'd this orchard wall: call, good mercutio. mercutio nay, i'll conjure, too: romeo! humors! madman! passion! lover!- i conjure thee by thy true love's bright eyes, by her high forehead and her scarlet lip, by her fine foot, straight leg, and quivering thigh and the demesnes that there adjacent lie, that in thy likeness thou appear to us! he heareth not, he stirreth not, he moveth not. benvolio come, he hath hid himself among these trees, to be consorted with the humorous night: blind is his love and best befits the dark. mercutio if love be blind, love cannot hit the mark .. romeo, good-night: i'll to my truckle-bed; too caliban this field-bed is too cold for me to sleep: come, shall we go? (they disappear, swallowed up in black shadow. and now the shadow, shifting, leaves bare in mellow moonshine a glimpse of the garden and the balcony, where juliet, bending forward, calls mysteriously into the dark below:] juliet hist! romeo! hist! o for a falconer's voice, to lure this tassel-gentle back again! bondage is hoarse, and may not speak aloud; else would i tear the cave where echo lies, and make her airy tongue more hoarse than mine with repetition of my romeo's name. romeo (emerging, below, from the shadow.] it is my soul that calls upon my name: how silver-sweet sound lovers' tongues by night, like softest music to attending ears! juliet romeo! romeo my dear? juliet at what o'clock to-morrow shall i send to thee? caliban i'd have you do it ever. when you do dance, i wish you a wave o' the sea, that you might ever do nothing but that; move still, still so, and own no other function: each your doing so singular in each particular, crowns what you are doing in the present deed, that all your acts are queens. . . perdita o doricles, your praises are too large: but that your youth, and the true blood which peepeth fairly through 't, do plainly give you an unstained shepherd, with wisdom i might fear, my doricles, you woo'd me the false way. florizel i think you have as little skill to fear as i have purpose to put you to 't. but come; our dance, i pray: your hand, my perdita! perdita [giving her hand confidingly.] my florizel ! [together they dance away into the dark and the luring music, as the cloudy curtains close caliban miranda nay, darling muses! do not leave me, too. what, must you all go hence? still i must tarry to greet my father. friends, good-bye! [they depart.] ah me! what voices make their dirge within my heart? [while she has spoken, the mouth of caliban's cell, emitting a ghastly glow, fills with dim shapes, which pour outward, and swarm slowly upward over the steps, covering the stage with a moving, hud- dled grayness, out of which two cloaked figures rise distinct in the dusk. as they come forth and hover nearer to miranda, a cold dirge issues with them from below.) la the dirge [as before.] gray-gray-gray: joy be unholy and hidden; wan be the rainbow of wonder, frozen the tide ! blind-blind—blind: passion be pale and forbidden; dumb be the lips of the soul to beauty denied ! [slowly the gray hosts surround miranda, who stares at them, only half believing their presence, till the dusk, growing lighter, reveals their long puritan cloaks and peaked hats, and the two muffled caliban view, where soft light-floodings fall on moss-stained statue, marble bench, and balcony, there is revealed at first (on the left] nothing but a glimpse of garden wall, before which flash in the dimness two pied figures [benvolio and mercutio). calling shrilly, their young voices rain showers of fluting laughter. benvolio romeo! my cousin romeo! .. he ran this way, and leap'd this orchard wall: call, good mercutio. mercutio nay, i'll conjure, too: romeo! humors! madman! passion! lover! - i conjure thee by thy true love's bright eyes, by her high forehead and her scarlet lip, by her fine foot, straight leg, and quivering thigh and the demesnes that there adjacent lie, that in thy likeness thou appear to us! he heareth not, he stirreth not, he moveth not. benvolio come, he hath hid himself among these trees, to be consorted with the humorous night: blind is his love and best befits the dark. mercutio if love be blind, love cannot hit the mark . . . romeo, good-night: i'll to my truckle-bed; caliban the dirge gray-gray-gray: love, be sin-born of misgiving! life, be a garment of dullness, drab from the loom! bleak—bleak—bleak: death, death is lord of the living: not in the clay but the heart of man lies the tomb. [disappearing in the cell below, their chant dies away. above them, from the left, ariel returns, alone. searching in the dusk, half fearfully, he calls:] ariel miranda-mistress: he hath vanished. nowhere can i find trace of him. yea, and my spirits they, too,they, too, are gone, lost in the grayness: all have deserted us! miranda-mistress! where art thou? gone, thyself?—and i alone! o gray, that hast engulfed a world of beauty, where shall i find them ever more my master, my star-bright mistress? hear me, yellow sands! if you have beheld them, answer now my prayer! [outstretching his arms toward the sands.] prospero! prospero!—master! [from far across the sands bursts a mellow radiance, and the rich voice of prospero calling in answer:] prospero ariel! ariel! ho, bird! caliban prospero welcome our may-pole back!—where is thy mis- tress? ariel (startled.] alas! you know not? prospero [reassuringly.] nay, i know. but cheerly, my birdlings! now that ye are flocked once more round this enchanted tree, i'll conjure you out of mine art such joyous rites, that they shall draw your mistress even from the tomb to join our revels. come now, gather round and watch my antic rites of merry england! act iii (at the conclusion now of the english interlude, out of the shadow a roseate glow suffuses the cell of cali- ban, from which the green-clad spirits of ariel come running forth, bringing in their midst miranda. leading her in daisy chains, they mount with her the steps toward prospero, singing in glad chorus:] the spirits of ariel “spring, the sweet spring, is the year's pleasant king; then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring, cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing, cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo ! “the palm and may make country houses gay, lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day, and we hear aye birds tune this merry lay: cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo ! “the fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet, young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit, in every street these tunes our ears do greet: cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo ! spring! the sweet spring !” iii caliban caliban with thee—with thee . would i lie even with death. but when thou leav- est, thy life-song prickleth his sod, and maketh my sap to leap, and lick the sun again. [kneeling before her.] , whither : thou goest, let caliban go, and wear thy cloth whatso its colors be! prospero [darkly.] keep from her, slave! touch not her hem. her muses garbed thee once gay in her colors. thou soiled'st them with shame. next time thou worest drab, and lured'st thy mis- tress deathward in gray. now-now thou darest crave once more to wear her cloth? caliban yea, do i! see: this cloak—so i forswear it! (he puts off the gray cloak, tears it, and tramples upon it; then turns to miranda.] give me now thy green to wear! i caliban prospero insolence infinite! ariel, my staff! miranda stay!—what to do? prospero [about to raise the staff.] to teach this unwhipt hound—to howl. caliban [starting back.] great master! miranda grace, dear father! patience needs no quick compulsion. thine art is wondrous patient, and this poor slow climber needs thine art. prospero why, once again thou art my wiser self. [to caliban.] go, lick her hand, and feed from it. caliban caliban (laying his cheek on miranda's hand weeps, with great sobs.] spring-spring-i'-the-air, thy dew dabbleth my face. o wonder, what art thou that fillest so mine eyes with rain-shine? miranda april, not i, can conjure spring i' the air, and april plies rarest art in england.–ariel, fetch us, from out my father's dreamery, nature's spring-charm and echo of english song! [to the spirits of ariel.] our greenwood cloth! come, busk him, merry men all: aye, both of us! caliban [rapturously.] this time i will not fail thee. miranda [to prospero, indicating caliban.] have faith in this fellow-creature, and let these spirits clothe him anew. caliban prospero as you like it, dear, be it so! [the spirits clothe caliban and miranda in green, while from within the cloudy curtains an unseen chorus sings:] the chorus “under the greenwood tree who loves to lie with me, and tune his merry note unto the sweet bird's throat, come hither, come hither, come hither: here shall he see no enemy but winter and rough weather.” ariel spirits within, ho! [the spirits run through the curtains, at centre, and disappear within.] prosper's hood broods now a dream of arden wood, where young orlando, daring fight for succor of old adam's plight, defies the greenwood company- but meets there with no enemy. i caliban orlando i thank ye; and be blest for your good comfort! [exit orlando.] the duke thou seest we are not all alone unhappy: this wide and universal theatre presents more woeful pageants than the scene wherein we play in. jacques all the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players! [re-enter orlando with adam, whom he helps to support.] the duke welcome! set down your venerable burden and let him feed. orlando i thank you most for him. adam so had you need: i scarce can speak to thank you for myself. caliban miranda i want no bonds 'twixt me and any friend. nay, we are friends and free to serve each other. caliban yet i yearn for more:i know not what. miranda what more could be more happy? caliban here i crawled upon my belly brute-stuttering for you, where now i stand and pray-with prosper's tongue. his art hath bred within my blood a kinship with your kindness that cries: “miranda, thou and i are one!”— i know not how i know not how. miranda you love me. 'tis simple, then: i love you, caliban. caliban [in a splendor of amazement.] lovest me—thou? thou!—wilt be mine? i caliban miranda nay, truly you know not how. love knows not mine and thine, but only ours; and all the world is ours to serve love in. i am not thine, good friend. [she goes within.] caliban stay yet!—she loveth me! yet love, she saith, love knows not mine and thine. a voice from beneath [calls deeply.] she shall be thine, caliban! caliban [starting.) mine! who saith that word? the voice she shall be thine! caliban how mine?—say! the voice thou shalt fight for her. caliban caliban [pointing toward the cloudy curtains.] shall fight? nay, there—the youth put by his sword, for the other said: “your gentleness shall force more than your force move us to gentleness.” the voice yet thou shalt fight! caliban [springing forward above his cell.] what art thou? [from the mouth of the cell a flame-colored figure strides forth and replies:] the figure war: thy father's priest.–caliban, remember setebos! caliban ha, setebos! com’st thou once more with priest- craft to lure me back to him?—begone! war yet not without me shalt thou win miranda. caliban caliban (fiercely.) go! war [returning within the cell, disappears as his voice dies away.] remember war! miranda shall be thine! caliban (hoarsely.) miranda-mine! ariel [comes running from the throne entrance.] ho, pupil, now be merry! great prosper sleeps, and from his slumber sends thee a dream of fairy laughter. caliban [darkly, amazed.] laughter! ariel aye, an english make-believe of antic elves and merry wives, to douse the lustful fire caliban of old john falstaff, lured to windsor forest.- our master deems thou hast learned art enough to laugh at apings of it. caliban (still amazed, but curious.] laugh? ariel aye, list! (caliban stands on one side, with arms folded and listens.] to windsor's magic oak now turn: there his fatty bulk in guise of the hornèd hunter herne- big sir john in ambush lies where the counterfeited fays troop along the forest ways: . how his lust will cease to burn for the merry wives—now gaze yonder by the oak, and learn! (ariel raises his staff. parting, the cloudy curtains disclose the ninth inner scene the gigantic trunk of an oak rises in moonlight, sur- rounded by the glimmering purple of the obscure forest. caliban trooping from the left, enter the disguised fairies, follow- ing their leader sir hugh evans.] evans trib, trib, fairies; come; and remember your parts: be pold, i pray you; follow me into the pit; and when i give the watch 'ords, do as i pid you: come, come; trib, trib. [they conceal themselves. a distant chiming sounds as falstaff enters, dis- guised as herne, wearing a stag's head with great horns.] falstaff the windsor bell hath struck twelve; the minute draws on. now, the hot-blooded gods assist me! remember, jove, thou wast a bull for thy europa; love set on thy horns. o powerful love! that, in some respects, makes a beast a man, in some other a man a beast. caliban [listening intently near the edge of the scene.] a man a beast! falstaff think on 't, jove: where gods have hot backs, what shall poor men do? for me, i am here a windsor stag; and the fattest, i think, i' the forest. send me a cool rut-time, jove! who comes here? my doe? [enter mistress ford and mistress page.] caliban mrs. ford sir john! art thou there, my deer? my male deer? falstaff my doe with the black scut! let the sky rain potatoes, let it thunder to the tune of green sleeves; i will shelter me here. mrs. ford mistress page is come with me, sweetheart. falstaff divide me like a bribe buck, each a haunch: am i a woodman, ha? speak i like herne the hunter? as i am a true spirit, welcome! [noise within.] mrs. page alas, what noise? mrs. ford heaven forgive our sins! falstaff what should this be? mrs. page and mrs. ford away! away! [they run off.] caliban falstaff i think the devil will not have me damned, lest the oil that's in me should set hell on fire; he would never else cross me thus. [enter sir hugh evans, disguised as before; pistol, as hobgoblin; mistress quickly, anne page, and others as fairies, with tapers.] mrs. quickly fairies, black, gray, green, and white, you moonshine revellers, and shades of night, you orphan heirs of fixed destiny, attend your office and your quality. crier hobgoblin, make the fairy oyes. pistol elves, list your names; silence, you airy toys! falstaff they are fairies; he that speaks to them shall die: i'll wink and couch: no man their works must eye. [he lies upon his face.] evans where's bede? go you, and where you find a maid that, ere she sleeps, has thrice her prayers said, raise up the organs of her fantasy; caliban sleep she as sound as careless infancy! but those as sleep and think not on their sins pinch them, arms, legs, backs, shoulders, sides, and shins! caliban [growing excitedly absorbed.] ha, pinch them, saith! mrs. quickly away; disperse: but till 'tis one o'clock, our dance of custom round about the oak of herne the hunter, let us not forget. evans pray you, lock hand in hand; yourselves in order set; and twenty glow-worms shall our lanterns be to guide our measure round about the tree. but, stay; i smell a man of middle-earth. falstaff heaven defend me from that welsh fairy, lest he transform me to a piece of cheese! pistol vile worm, thou wast o’erlook'd even in thy birth. caliban mrs. quickly with trial-fire touch me his finger-end: if he be chaste, the flame will back descend and turn him to no pain; but if he start, it is the flesh of a corrupted heart. pistol a trial, come. evans come, will this wood take fire? [they burn him with their tapers.] falstaff oh! oh! oh! caliban [crying out.] ah, ah! they plague him, too! mrs. quickly corrupt, corrupt, and tainted in desire! about him, fairies; sing a scornful rhyme; and, as you trip, still pinch him to your time. all [as they dance about him, pinch, burn him, and sing:] fie on sinful fantasy! fie on lust and luxury! caliban the voice miranda shall be thine! caliban mine!-yea, now i am mocked to know myself what rutting stag i am! and her, the doe i mate, my horns shall battle for, and be mine own-mine, mine! miranda! miranda coming from within, right, raises her hand in gentle warning.) hush thy tone; my father slumbers yet. [showing prospero's hood, which she carries.] he hath put by this hood, wherein he sends thee here another visioning. caliban (stares at her, breathing hard.] so: what now? ariel [to miranda.] he rages, mistress. beware! he babbleth of war. caliban miranda why, then he conjures the dream my father sends: another picture, painted in gules on england's ancient shield: king harry, by the high walls of harfleur. (to caliban.) so you may learn, good friend, how noblest natures are moved to tiger passions—by a painting called honor, dearer than their brothers' lives. caliban why will he show me this? miranda perchance that you, born of a tiger's loins, seeing that picture, may recognize an image of yourself and so recoil to reason and to love. caliban so, mocketh me once more? miranda nay, never that. but let us look thereon, and learn together. caliban [starts toward her, but curbs himself, trembling.] together! caliban miranda [to ariel.] hold his magic hood and conjure. ariel [taking the hood of prospero.] image of strife, may never more your like draw near! pageant of long-forgotten war, appear! harry of england, lo, is here! (as ariel lifts prospero's hood on the staff, the cloudy curtains part, and discover the tenth inner scene before high mediæval walls, partly shattered, to pealing of trumpets, appear in their armor, king henry the fifth, and his nobles, surrounded by soldiers, with cross-bows and scaling-ladders. standing above on a parapet, the king is exhorting them with vehement ardor. king henry once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more, or close the wall up with the english dead! in peace there's nothing so becomes a man as modest stillness and humility: caliban but when the blast of war blows in our ears, then imitate the action of the tiger; stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, disguise fair nature with hard-favor'd rage; then lend the eye a terrible aspect. . . . hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit to his full height. on, on, you noble english, whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof! ... be copy now to men of grosser blood, and teach them how to war. and you, good yeomen, whose limbs were made in england, show us here the mettle of your pasture; let us swear that you are worth your breeding, which i doubt not. . . . i see you stand like greyhounds in the slips, straining upon the start. the game's afoot. follow your spirit, and upon this charge cry, “god for harry, england, and saint george!” the soldiers [with a great shout.] ho, god for harry, england, and saint george! (as they leap forward, to the blare of trumpets, and begin to scale the ladders, the cloudy curtains close [instantly caliban, seizing from the staff the hood of prospero, shakes it aloft and shouts:] preliminary sketch for tenth inner scene: jones caliban habiliments, followed by the groups of lust and death. bearing lighted torches, amid the roaring of setebos choruses, flashing fireworks and bombs, they swarm upon the half-obscure stage. led by war, the flame-colored hordes clash with the spirits of ariel, overcome them, and take captive miranda, prospero, and ariel. as war holds miranda in his power, prospero con- fronts caliban who-wearing his hood and raising his staf-exults before him:] hail, prospero! who now is master-artist! who wieldeth now the world? prospero hail, caliban! slumb'ring, from me thou robb'st my hood and staff which wield my power; yet not mine art they wield without my will: my will thou canst not rob nor ravish. caliban [with eyes gleaming.) but miranda! prospero nay, nor her: for she is charmed against thy body's rape caliban by chastity of soul. thy will and war may break, but cannot build the world: and one, who bore us all within her womb, still lives to stanch our wounds with her immortal healing. caliban where? prospero [pointing.] yonder, on the yellow sands! she rises now and calls across the tides of fleeting change her deathless artists of the plastic mind- my art that builds the beauty of the world. epilogue where prospero points, the light passes from the pageant of war to the centre of the yellow sands. there, in mellow splendor, a serene female figure, rising majestic from the altar, calls to the thronging shadows. the spirit of time children of men, my passionate children, hark! to-day and yesterday i am to-morrow: out of my primal dark you dawn-my joy, my sorrow. lovers of life, you rapturous lovers, lo the lives you clutch are by my lightnings riven: yea, on my flux and flow, like sea-birds tempest-driven. yet from my founts of life, fecund, divine, still dauntless lovers dare my dark tribunal, building a common shrine to hold their love communal. caliban producers, musicians, directors, and inventors of its art. first come the great actors, in the guise of their great- est rôles—from thespis and roscius of old to irving, salvini, coquelin, booth, of modern times, the comic actors tumbling forth from the mask of comedy, the tragic from the tragic mask. they are followed by national groups of the great dramatists from Æschylus to ibsen, who pass in review before prospero. among these, with the elizabethan dramatists, grouped with marlowe, green, jonson, beaumont, and fletcher, and others, appears the modest figure of shakespeare, at first unemphasized. for one moment, however, as shakespeare himself approaches prospero, he pauses, prospero rises, and the two figures-strangely counterparts to their beholders- look in each other's eyes: a moment only. for prospero, slipping off his cloak, lays it on the shoulders of shake- speare, who sits in prospero's place, while prospero moves silently off with the group of dramatists. finally, when these pageants of time have passed, and the stately spirit of time vanished in dark on the yellow sands, the only light remains on the figure of shakespeare—and the two with him: ariel tiptoe be- hind him, peering over his shoulder; miranda beside him, leaning forward, with lips parted to speak. caliban then to these, out of the dimness, comes forth caliban. groping, dazed, he reaches his arms toward the dark circle, where the stately spirit has vanished. in a voice hoarse with feeling, he speaks aloud. caliban lady of the yellow sands! o life! o time! thy tempest blindeth me: thy beauty baffleth. a little have i crawled, a little only out of mine ancient cave. all that i build i botch; all that i do destroyeth my dream. yet—yet i yearn to build, to be thine artist and stablish this thine earth among the stars- beautiful! [turning to the light, where the three are grouped.] - bright beings, help me still! more visions-visions, master! [with gesture of longing, he crouches at shakespeare's feet, gazing up in his face, which looks on him with tenderness. with caliban, miranda too ap- peals to the cloaked figure.] miranda (wistfully.] -master? [to her raised eyes, he returns a pensive smile.] caliban shakespeare [as prospero] “child, our revels now are ended. these our actors, as i foretold you, were all spirits and are melted into air, into thin air: and, like the baseless fabric of this vision, the cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces, the solemn temples, the great globe itself, yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve, and, like this unsubstantial pageant faded, leave not a rack behind. we are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with a sleep.” [then, while the light focusses and fades in darkness on the pensive form of shakespeare, the choirs of ariel's spirits repeat, unseen, in song:] the spirits of ariel “we are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with a sleep." finis contents of appendix i. foreword his . persons and presences (of the ten inner scenes) . interludes i, ii, iii . epilogue . announcements foreword the actors of a community masque being mem- bers of the community, it becomes the function of the masque-director to reverse the traditional order of theatrical procedure and so far as possible—to take the public, as participants, into the confidence of “behind the scenes” beforehand. if this were a play only (in the broadway sense), i should gather together my staff and company for a preliminary reading, assign parts, devise plans of rehearsal, and get personally in touch with the com- paratively few persons involved in its production. being, however, a new kind of drama, involving some thousands of persons as actors, and some scores of leaders as a projected staff, it becomes practically necessary to print and publish, before production, not only the foregoing spoken and sung masque- proper, but the sketched-in outlines of the non- speaking interludes which follow. in the nature of the case, these outlines are pre- liminary and (though necessarily printed here] are still plastic and susceptible to various modifications. thus publication at the moment in new york is ol appendix peixotto, and members of the spanish-speaking com- munity,for the spanish-italian;the new york branch of the english folk-dance society, under direction of mr. cecil sharp, for the interlude of elizabethan england; the american academy and national insti- tute of arts and letters (chairman, mr. william dean howells), for the epilogue. as indicated in the inner structure chart, an ac- tion of ancient india* was originally planned for the beginning of interlude i. this was chiefly devised, in conference with the author and director, by the director of the community interludes, mr. garnet holme, who has brought to this new york production his very valuable experience in directing outdoor festivals in california and england. owing, how- ever, to brevity of time and the pressure of organiza- tion details, this action has been omitted from the production in may. of the other members of the producing staff of the interludes, mrs. robert anderson contributes to her direction of the community dances her admi- rable knowledge of the subject, and mrs. john w. *the plan for this india episode is based on a ritual scene of the ancient hindu drama “shakuntala,” by kalidasa, translated by garnet holme and arthur w. ryder, and recently produced by the authors in california. the translation is published by university of california press, berkeley, . those communities that may desire to include this action in their local festivals should communicate with mr. garnet holme, care of the shakespeare celebration, east rd street, new york city. community masque « caliban" inner structure, prologue ejebis si coraxcaliban-ariel: miranda prospÉrole ist interlude w india egypt greece rome act i groilus) srutus) n interlude l germanic french spanish italian no minutes minutes minutes minutes minutes minutes minutes minutes (hamlety e pinterlude rlude retettel actie (cloth of goldi glorenzo-r elizabethan england acti. (falstaffl enry v. epilogue theatres actors dramatists shakespeare hrs., minutes. shaded: masque proper: speaking actors (about ) mute figurants (about ) invisible choirs action on stages a & b of ground plan white: interludes & epilogue: non-speaking participants (about , ) visible choruses community dances pantomime acting mass movements action on stage c of ground plan appendix ance on so large a scale is a special technique, only recently in process of development. as a contribu- tion to this technique, the appended community organization chart has been drawn up by my sister, hazel mackaye, who has brought to it her experi- ence, of several years, in organizing and directing community pageants and masques, some of them of her own authorship. space and time do not permit of further comment in this foreword on many important social relation- ships and reactions involved in this new community art. the accompanying photograph, however, of a community masque audience- , citizens of saint louis gathered in may, , to witness the pageant and masque of saint louis, in which over , of their fellow-citizens took part-may be sug- gestive to the imagination of the reader. on the background may be seen, at centre, the thousand- foot stage, and, at left and right, the tents of the community actors, men and women. space and time also do not permit of any adequate emphasis upon the enormous importance, and con- tribution to this growing art-form, of music in its community, aspects. in this respect, the splendid pioneering work of mr. harry h. barnhart in cre- ating community choruses in rochester and new york city is fundamentally significant. in the a community masque audience copyright, , by e. . thalinger, st. louis , spectators of the pageant and masque of saint louis, in which , citizens took part, may, (in background, centre, the stage; right and left, tents of actors] г. - - - - - - appendix creative field of composition, rich in its manifold promise, mr. arthur farwell, director of the new york music school settlement, and composer of the music of this masque, has devoted probably more attention than any other american composer to this community type of musical art. to the shakespeare celebration of new york, since its origin last year in activities of the drama league, miss mary porter beegle, of barnard college, has contributed her unflagging zest and enthusiasm, mr. howard kyle his disinterested, manifold services, miss kate oglebay her remarkable thoroughness in organ- izing the supplementary celebrations. in his original and deeply based work of experiment, through channels of the people's institute and the school for community centre workers, mr. john collier has shown fundamental leadership in a field all-important to the community purposes of this masque: the modern economics and organization of coöperative art. as this foreword goes to press, prof. richard or- dynski has joined mr. urban in the work of the masque's new york production. to mr. everard thompson, producers and com- mittees alike are indebted for his unfailing, friendly resourcefulness. as references to the reader curious to study the art the masque celebration organization-plan executive.com business.com staff director community.com office. force cast.com costumes: proper music-commitee publicity.com. indexing-of-cast organizers-ot episodes producer maning recruiting posters chaperons represhments participants interivous-mer scenes stage-mamager renting leaders printing'or caros amd notices sending oppost cards notices press rest-rooms amo -first-aid - leaders-of-episo assistent stage manager storage rehearsals- odge lectures mass-mrotinos sanitation correspomoence rehearsals music director distributione transporter tickets costume-dir policing property-dİr ushers light director publications -programm bulletins datkce-director - t recruiting-dir rnmouncemens masque rehearsals dress-rehears of whole masque performance appendix pantomime groups trojan warriors trojan populace third inner scene speaking persons brutus lucius, a boy ghost of cæsar mute presences shapes in the darkness fourth inner scene speaking persons saint agnes (an image) a shepherd (impersonated by prospero) a shepherd boy (impersonated by ariel] other shepherds fifth inner scene speaking persons hamlet horatio marcellus mute persons the ghost of hamlet's father sixth inner scene [derivative from shakespeare] pantomime persons and groups king henry the eighth, of england king francis the first, of france their soldiers and followers appendix his body into seven parts and finally the joy of his resurrection.* in rhythm to the primitive music, the priests re- volve the disk to the dancing movement of the god. in this revolving movement his worshippers below join in à dance on the ground (expressive of the blending of the seven parts of his body), where one by one successively the seven processions encircle the altar and the dancing osiris. as they do so, they slough off their dark garments, weaving thus a whirling movement in which the proportion of black ever diminishes while the golden yellow increases, until finally-in a blaze only of gold-yellow radiance —the priests raise aloft on its pedestal the disk, still spinning, while the flame-red god, still dancing, is borne away in procession by his joyous worshippers, shouting aloud their shrill cries of “osiris!” when all have disappeared through the south gate of the circle, prospero on his throne speaks to ariel,† announcing the second action of the inter- lude his art of the drama in greece. * see “kings and gods of egypt,” alexandre moret; pp. - . similarly before each of the actions of each interlude, prospero makes a brief explanatory comment to ariel (and thus to the audience). appendix - interlude i second action: greek community actors [ ] comprise participants ( ] individuals [ ] actors [ ] sophocles antigone the choregus* ismene friends of sophocles [ ] creon aristophanes haemon socrates eurydice anaxagoras teiresias alcibiades a watchman euripides a messenger fifteen others a second messenger chorus [ ] trainers and stage choreutai (in four bands, leaders [ ] fifteen in each band.] chorodidaskalos [chorus master] musicians [ ] orchestrodidaskalos four flute-players [dancing master] choryphaios [stage cho- rus leader] two parastatai [his as- sistant leaders] *the choregus was the producer, usually a man of great wealth. appendix figurants [ ] athenian audience [ ] pericles aspasia seventy-three others. tus theme sophocles rehearses the second chorus of his drama “antigone” in the theatre of dionysus, at athens, b. c. . action at the sounding of interlude trumpets, the light passes to the great gates of the ground-circle, from which simultaneously two main groups enter. from the right enter athenian citizens, accom- panying pericles and aspasia. these move forward to the north portion of the yellow sands [between the centre of stage b and the altar) and there form the semicircle of an antique audience, which faces the altar and the modern audience. among these, two seats are placed for aspasia and pericles. from the left gate, meanwhile, has entered the choregus (producer of the play], in conversation with sophocles, followed closely by a group of twenty friends, among whom are socrates, aristophanes, anaxagoras, alcibiades, and euripides. these move appendix toward the centre. there sophocles summons the chorodidaskalos (chorus master), and the orches- trodidaskalos (dancing master) to confer with him and the choregus. returning part way toward the left gate, the chorus master calls aloud “antigone!” enter, then (left), the actor of the part of anti- gone, followed by a group of actors comprising the impersonators of ismene, creon, haemon, eurydice, teiresias, a watchman, and two messengers. with these, who carry their classic masks in their hands, the choregus confers in pantomime, directs them to join sophocles at the altar, and then calls aloud: “choreutai!” thereupon enter the choreutai members of the chorus), sixty in number, in four bands, fifteen in each band. preceded by the choryphaios [stage chorus leader) and four flute-players (one for each band), escorted by two parastatai (assistant leaders), the chorus march in military order first south (each band in three ranks of five men] till they are opposite the altar, then east (each band in five files of three men), till they halt near the altar. here, after sophocles has greeted pericles and aspasia nearby in the impromptu audience (which his group of friends have now joined], after he has chatted with socrates, and been chaffed by aris- appendix tophanes and alcibiades, he turns with the choregus to conduct the rehearsal. after giving directions to antigone and ismene, who rehearse in pantomime a snatch of their first scene together, and after a few instructions to hae- mon, euripides, and teiresias, sophocles now bids the choregus direct the last few passages between creon and the messenger, just before the second chorus in the play. they do so in pantomime; creon, with final threat- ening gesture to the messenger, makes his exit, and the messenger—thanking the gods for his escape from creon's anger—also departs. and now, by direction of sophocles, the chorus master and the master of dance make signal to the chorus and the flute-players; sophocles steps back near pericles and his other friends: the flutists begin playing and, under leadership of the two masters of choral song and of dance, the chorus—with vigor- ous, rhythmic cadence of their athletic bodies—per- form an austere dance about the altar, raising to its measure their choral song: appendix chorus the words of this chorus are translated here by the author from the second chorus of sophocles' play "antigone." many are the wonders of time, but the mightiest wonder is man; man ! for he maketh his path with the south wind, over the surges down where the storm-white billows loom to devour him: yea, and earth, the immortal, the oldest of gods, the untoilsome, he tameth with toiling horses dark where his turning ploughshare plougheth from age unto age. birds, o the wild-hearted birds, and the breeds of the savage wood deep in his woven nets he hath snared, and the broods of the bright sea leadeth he likewise captive- master of masters, man! and high on the hills he hath tracked to her wild the shaggy-maned horse and yoked her in harness; tireless, too, hath his spirit tamed the wild mountain bull. appendix words, and the wind of great thought, and the mood that mouldeth a state, these hath he mastered, and knoweth to parry the white frost arrow's pitiless barb, and the pouring arrows of purple rain. all, all hath he mastered, and all that may come he meeteth with cunning and power; but only death hath he failed to master: death is the master of man. as they conclude, a runner comes hastening from the right gate, calling “pericles!”. pericles rises, receives in pantomime the message of the runner, and indicates to sophocles that he must return to the city. he and aspasia and their followers depart (right gate). with a gesture, then, to the choregus, so- phocles dismisses the rehearsal; he and his friends follow the others; the chorus forms again in files and ranks, moving off with the playing flute-players to the right interlude gate, where all disappear. appendix omphale, a nymph (afterward disguised as the sphinx] mimes and dancers [ ] boy-mimes, as fauns girl-mimes, as nymphs theme the emperor caligula witnesses a farcical comedy in pantomime, enacted in a street of rome, a. d. . action as the last of the greeks disappear right, the inter- lude trumpets sound at the left gate. there immedi- ately resounds a great shout and clamor of voices, crying aloud: “caligula! salve, imperator!” the gate is thrown open, and the roman populace throng in, accompanying-in varied groups of squalor and poverty—the gorgeous patricians that escort the emperor caligula, borne in a chariot, behind which follow a troupe of roman pantomime actors and mimes who carry a light platform with cur- tain, which they set up (centre, north), facing the altar. the curtain is painted to represent the street ex- terior of a house, in the pompeian-roman style. in the centre, set in a lintel frame, is depicted a wide appendix particolored figure, garbed antiquely as a harlequin, wreathed and masked.* behind pantomimus, enter (on either side of him] two little pantomimi, half his height, exactly resem- bling him in every particular. these, as with skip- ping step and motion pantomimus makes his intro- duction, imitate his every movement of wand and gesture. by his action, which is accompanied by flute, cymbal, and scabilla players, pantomimus describes very briefly the plot of the comedy which is to follow, viz: the sphinx and hercules theme hercules, lured by the nymph omphale to live with her a woman's way of life, becomes terribly bored, rebels, and vows to a statue of the sphinx to resume his manly exploits. by the help of the satyr silenus, however, who makes hercules drunk, omphale—in guise of the sphinx-wins hercules back and marries him. *in one hand pantomimus carries a wand resembling a caduceus, but differing from that of mercury in that the heads of the twining snakes are carved as little masks of comedy, and the tip of the wand, to which the flying wings are affixed, is the shining disk of a mirror, into which at times pantomimus peers quaintly at his reflection. the pantomime is adapted from a roman interlude by the author in his drama “sappho and phaon." appendix tiful and amorous nymph. over her shoulders she wears his lion's skin; in one hand she holds his massive club; with the other she caresses him. with coquetting wiles, the nymphs in their danc- ing draw the two toward the centre, where they sit beside the wool-hercules, with heavy sighs, begin- ning to spin, while omphale, posing in the lion's skin, approves his labor. here the nymphs, re- clined about them on the platform and the ground, execute a rhythmic dance with their arms and dis- taffs, singing to their movement: angustam amice pauperiem pati robustus acri militia puer condiscat et parthos feroces vexet eques metuendus hasta vitamque sub divo et trepides agat in rebus. illum ex moenibus hosticis matrona bellanti tyranni prospiciens et adulta virgo suspiret, eheu, ne rudis agminum sponsus lacessat regius asperum tactu leonem, quem cruenta per medias rapit ira caedes. at the culmination of this, hercules, who has been · repelling the attentions of omphale, at first with a p pendix · leading a goat, astride of which sits silenus, an old grotesque satyr, in mask. omphale greets him joyfully and helps him down from the goat. she then describes to him in panto- mime the late outburst of hercules—his breaking the spindle, his enamoration for the sphinx, etc., and prays his aid and advice. silenus pauses an instant in philosophical absorp- tion, then gives a leap and skip. omphale, seeing that he has hit on some plan, expresses her pleasure and inquires what his plan may be. silenus bids her call a slave. omphale claps her hands toward the left entrance. servus enters. silenus signs to him. servus goes back and returns immediately, rolling in a wine-cask, from which he fills an antique beaker. from this silenus sips and approves. he then points to the sphinx and asks if be that of which hercules is enamored. omphale assents. silenus then di- rects servus to lift the sphinx down from the pillar. servus does so, revealing its hollow interior as he carries it. silenus, drawing omphale's attention to this fact of its hollowness, opens the door in the cur- tain, and commands servus to bear the sphinx within. servus does so. silenus, then, pointing to the window above the door, whispers in the ear of omphale, who, delighted, enters the door after ser- vus. silenus closes the door as hercules reënters, left. appendix the hero has discarded his woman's garb, and comes forward now dressed as a man, with lion's skin and club—his mask changed to one of an exultant and martial expression. silenus greets him with obsequious and cunning servility and offers him wine. hercules, with good- natured hauteur, condescends to accept the cup which he offers. while he is drinking, the window above in the curtain opens, and omphale thrusts her head out, revealing (within] beside her own, the sphinx's head. silenus secretively motions her to be cautious. seeing his gesture, hercules looks up, but not swiftly enough to detect omphale, who with- draws. again looking forth, as he turns to drink again, omphale mocks hercules below, dropping wisps of wool on his head, the source of which, how- ever, hercules fails to detect. silenus explains that the wool is really feathers, which fell from a bird flying overhead. hercules now, under the sly persuasions of the old satyr, grows more pleased with the wine, and becomes drunk-as he becomes so, expressing to silenus, with increasing familiarity and descriptive force, all the mighty exploits he intends to accomplish in the service of the incomparable sphinx, whose living prototype he declares he will immediately set forth in search of. appendix starting now, humorously drunk, to depart [right] he is detained by silenus, who points upward to the window, where now the blank, immovable face of the sphinx looks forth at the sky. hercules, bewildered, asks silenus if it is really the sphinx herself and alive? silenus assents and proves his assertion by pointing to the deserted pedestal. at this, hercules addresses the sphinx, with impassioned gestures. the sphinx remains immovable. hercules becomes discour- aged. silenus then puts a pipe in his hand, and tells him to play it. he does so, and is rewarded by a slow, preternatural look from the sphinx. at this he plays more vociferously and, surrounded by the little piping fauns, performs a serenade beneath the casement, while silenus, looking on from a distance, rubs his hands with sly delight. the serenade ends by hercules, on his knees, im- ploring the sphinx to come down. the sphinx at length consents and the casement closes. silenus calls his fauns away to the edge of the foliage, and hercules goes to the door. for a moment nothing happens and hercules knocks on the steps impatiently with his club. then the door opens and enter the sphinx-dressed below in the greek garments of omphale, but from the waist upward consisting of the sitting image of the sphinx, beneath whose closed wings the arms of appendix an omphale are thrust through and have place for motion. the sphinx, its tail swinging behind, descends the steps, reticent and impassive, attended by hercules, drunk and enamored. then at the foot of the steps, to the accompani- ment from the foliage of the piping fauns, who play softly a variation of the serenade theme, hercules woos the sphinx, who, at the proper moment, suc- cumbs to his entreaties. after embracing him amorously, she extends her hand to him. he seizes it to kiss; she withdraws it and signifies that he must put a ring on the ring-finger. hercules hunts about him in vain for the ring. calling then to silenus and the fauns, he explains to them the situation. silenus, producing a ring, hands it to hercules, who puts it on the finger of the sphinx. instantly a clash of cymbals is heard from the left, and a clapping of palms from the right, and re- enter the dancing nymphs, who encircle the scene just as servus removes from the bride the great mask of the sphinx, thereby revealing her to the astounded hercules—as omphale, who embraces him, exulting in her ring. just as she is embracing and kissing him, the scene is interrupted by a cry of jealous rage from appendix caligula who springs from his chariot, calling: “hercules!” at his gesture slaves run before him, seize hercules, and hale him toward caligula, who bids them whip him. frightened, for an instant, omphale (the mime naevoleia] then hastens as if to intercede, but, seeing caligula's expression, taunts him with toying bravado, and finally as he kisses her makes him burst with her into laughter, as hercules is dragged off through the hooting crowd, flogged by · caligula's slaves. (during the latter part of this roman action, lust has appeared at the mouth of caliban's cell and looked on. his voice now joins the loud laughter of caligula.] dispersing in confusion, the pantomime actors remove their curtain and platform [right] into the darkness, which now envelops also caligula and the roman populace. .] end of interlude i appendix a pantomime scene from an early version of “doctor faustus.” time: sixteenth century. action at prospero's final words in act i, the playing of pipes is heard at the right interlude gates, where enter a band of apprentices, accompanying a wheeled street-stage, drawn by donkeys with bells and set with a three-fold scene of earth, heaven, and hell. some of the apprentices are masked, some disguised as fools. they enter, singing an old german folk song, and march to the centre of the ground-circle (between the altar and the south entrance), where the stage pauses. before them has hastened a forerun- ner (einschreier), blowing a horn and shouting: “schauspieler! doctor faustus!” along with them, pipers accompany their singing. behind them follow folk of nüremberg, gaping peas- ants and merry-making young people. from the left gate, meanwhile [in obscurer light], enters a graver group, clad symbolically as doctors of learning, priests, and artists, accompanying another wheeled vehicle, the stage of which is wholly curtained from view. these stop at some distance from the former group, and look on from a place of shadow. and now, where the first stage has paused in a appendix piace of brighter glow, the actors appear and begin their pantomime. doctor faustus appears on the middle stage, earth. there, amid his astronomical instruments, he greets the gaping crowd and points a telescope toward the place of heaven. suddenly a comet flashes above the stage. an apprentice inquires the reason. doctor faustus explains it by revealing its two fathers—the sun and the moon, which now appear shining simultaneously in heaven. at this sorcery, lucifer comes from hell, signifies to faustus that his hour has come, and that he must follow him. faustus begs a last wish, which lucifer reluctantly grants. he begs to see once more his beloved helena of troy. then in heaven appears helena, who comes to faustus on earth and embraces him. but now lucifer-summoning two tailed devils with pitch- forks—bids them drag faustus from the arms of helena, who flees back to heaven, disappearing there, as faustus is prodded and haled to the up- bursting flames of hell, amid the exultant laughter of lucifer. at this finale, the stage and its audience moves off through the left gate, while the graver symbolic group—crossing right in deep shadow-pauses at the centre. appen dix the servants set up at centre (just south of cali- ban's cell] a gorgeous canopy with two thrones, in which the two kings, dismounting, take their seats, the french followers grouped on the left, the english on the right. then to the royal presence, a herald summons, by trumpet call, two tourney-riders (french and eng- lish), who come riding in armor, from the south gate, on horses caparisoned with their national colors and symbols. taking their places, at signal again of the herald, to shouts of the spectators, they ride at each other with set lances, in a mock battle—which comprises two actions. in the first action, the french rider is unhorsed, in the second, the english rider. during both actions, the english cry “st. george for england!” the french “vive la france!” between the two actions, the french king rises and toasts the english king, to acclamations of the french. after the second action, king henry compliments king francis, to acclamations of the english. then, as the two kings clasp hands, both sides shout aloud: “god save the king!” and “vive le roi!” raising aloft their banners and emblems. at the climax of this demonstration, the invisible appendix spanish ambassador, amid the populace, during a festa, a pantomime scene depicting an adventure of don giovanni. action when the last of the gold-clad french and english have departed through the south gate, a chiming of church-bells from the gates of the north (right and left] gives signal for the entrance there of an italian festa. from the right, enters the doge with his venetian nobles, accompanied by the italian populace; from the left, the spanish ambassador and his suite, ac- companied by a troop of improvised comedy actors, who set up a platform on wooden horses before the doge and the ambassador where they meet and greet each other, at right of centre (north). here six actors mount the platform, at the back of which is a curtain, divided in the middle. these are il capitano (the captain), arlecchino (harlequin), il commandatore (the commander), pantalone [pantaloon), brighella, and columbina [columbine]. they all pass behind the curtain, through the folds in the middle. after a moment's prelude of stringed instruments, then, the pantomime begins. first, in semi-darkness, harlequin appears, carry- appendix ing a lighted lantern on the end of a sword. at a noise of laughter from behind the curtain he stops and trembles. the laughter sounds again, deep and harsh; harlequin trembles so violently that the lan- tern falls and goes out. in the dimness, enter il capitano in the part of don giovanni, muffled in an immense cloak. harlequin falls on his back, feigning death, but keep- ing his sword pointing upward. stumbling against him, don giovanni draws his sword and strikes the sword of harlequin, who leaps up. they begin a duel, in the midst of which they suddenly recognize each other as friends and embrace. enter now bringing lanterns, which illumine the stage more brightly] pantaloon and brighella. both are wrapped in cloaks. greeting don giovanni, who returns the greeting, pantaloon explains that he has a rendezvous with a beautiful young lady (the head of columbine having peered momentarily through the curtain); that he will make a certain sign to call her; that he must be cautious, as she has a fierce and suspicious father. don giovanni becomes very interested, and confides that he, too, must attend a rendezvous, for which he needs a disguise. for this, he persuades pantaloon to change cloaks with him. they do so, their serv- ants also exchanging cloaks. appendix exeunt then pantaloon and brighella. don giovanni now, approaching the curtain, makes the aforesaid sign described by pantaloon. at this, enter columbine, who mistakes him for panta- loon and approaches him lovingly. he allows her to do so, but soon-opening his cloak—he terrifies her by his wrong identity. however, he is handsomer than pantaloon, and quickly wins her for himself. in this harlequin delightedly assists him. finally, just as columbine succumbs and goes to his arms, her father, the commander, enters. seeing her in don giovanni's arms, he bursts into terrible anger, draws his sword, and attacks the lover. harlequin tries to prevent him but fails. putting the frightened columbine behind him, don giovanni returns the attack with his sword, fights and suddenly kills the commander, who falls motionless. in terror, columbine and harlequin scream and run out (through the curtain), leaving don giovanni standing with one foot and his sword-point prodding the dead body. to screams and shudderings also from the horrified onlookers of the populace, darkness falls on the stage. then, as suddenly—in a burst of light—the ac- tors come trooping forth all together in laughter, appendix interlude iii theme celebration of an elizabethan may day festival on the outskirts of an english town. action : contest between spring and winter a group of young men, representing winter, all dressed in close-fitting black garments, enter from caliban's cell. they carry a ball and, com- manded by one of their number—frost-advance slowly and dejectedly and lie down near the centre of the ground guarding the ball. a group of young men, dressed in tight-fitting green garments, representing spring, enter through the right inter- lude gate. headed by one of their number-sun- they come forward running and shouting. winter* rise and stand in defence of the ball. a scuffle ensues and the ball is released from the scrimmage. it is then kicked about by both sides, spring trying to force it toward the water,† winter repelling it therefrom. sun and frost encourage their respec- *the words winter and spring refer to the respective groups. the water is represented by the blue ground, beyond the verge of the yellow sands. appendix tive supporters but do not touch the ball. groups of villagers come in, by twos and threes [ to in number], and join the ranks of spring, who are thus enabled to overpower winter. eventually, one of the spring group secures the ball, holds it aloft and, surrounded by his followers, runs toward the water. winter follow, fatigued and languid. as the spring man approaches the water, maidens, or in number, enter from various quarters and swell the group. the ball is then raised and ceremonially thrown into the water; whereupon, the girls join spring in hunting winter back again into their cave. : processional dance through village while winter is being driven off the arena, a pro- cession of villagers, comprising couples [i. e., part- ners), enter through south interlude gate and dance the tideswell processional morris. the dancers include men, women, and children of all classes and are dressed in their holiday clothes, plentifully be- decked with flowers and ribbons. each carries two handkerchiefs, one in each hand, or, if preferred, boughs of may blossom. they dance round the arena in a spiral until the front couple reach the cen- tre; whereupon, all raise their arms and shout on the last chord of the tune. spring and all the actors appendix already on the ground join in the procession at the rear, or wherever they can squeeze in. : revels and amusements upon the completion of the dance, the dancers disperse noisily all over the ground. the children play singing games, e. g., “oats and beans,” “here we come gathering nuts (i. e. knots) in may,'' “old sir roger,” etc., in different parts of the ground --not too close together. booths and stalls are brought in, a rustic stage* is set up, tumblers and jugglers, surrounded by groups of spectators, give their performances, and all unite in a scene of general merriment. couples, each consisting of a boy and a girl, carry may garlands, sing may day songs, and solicit offerings. the young men chase the girls and kiss them “under the green,” i. e., while raising the boughs of green over their heads. : may pole procession the following procession enters from south inter- lude gate. [ ] two jack-o’-greens [ ] plough-boys with plough. [ ] sowers. [ ] reapers. *here the play-actors enact a scene from the old play of “noah's flood.” appendix [ ] wagon, drawn by several yoke of oxen, car- rying the tree. [ ] milkmaids. [ ] blacksmiths. [ ] wheelwrights. [ ] carpenters. ( ] butchers. [ ] shoemakers. [ ] hidden in bushes of green, surmounted by a may garland. [ ] white smocks, patched with pictures, in red and black cloth, representing farm-animals. hats covered with flowers, their plough smothered with ribbons and flowers. [ ] carrying baskets of grain, pretending to sow. [ ] with reaping hooks or sickles. [ ] wagon and oxen decorated with greenery and ribbons, the horns of the oxen with flowers. the carters, who walk on either side of the wagon, wear broad-brimmed hats, short smocks, breeches, all covered with ribbons and flowers, and carry whips or goads similarly decorated, with which they urge on the oxen. [ ] carrying pails and dishes; wearing short . dresses, and sun-hats or bonnets, all covered with flowers and ribbons. appendix [ ] with bare heads, leathern aprons, carrying implements of trade-hammers, anvils, tongs. [ ] carrying or rolling wheels. [ ] with saws, planes, tools, etc. ( ] wearing blue blouses, carrying marrow bones and cleavers, and clashing them as they march. when the wagon reaches the may-pit, the proces- sion halts. the tree is ceremonially removed, ivy, laurels, and other greenery wound round it spirally, a large bunch of flowers placed at the top, and then, in dead silence, solemnly raised to position. di- rectly this is accomplished, the spectators raise a great shout and repeat it three times: “the pole is up." : election of may queen, and may pole dance the men disperse in groups and, after some dis- cussion and altercation, proceed in a body to the woman of their choice, present her with a wreath of may blossom, with ribbon streamers and rosettes for her dress, and escort her to a raised mound of grass where every one may see her. she is kissed “under the green” by the men, amid much laughter and merriment. the woman chosen is a regular "man's girl," jolly and of a romping kind, quite different from the conventional may queen. a large group is formed round the may pole in appendix a ring, alternately men and women, and all take hands. the may pole dance is then performed “sellenger's round” and “gathering peascods.” : hobby horse and padstow may song the hobby horse is made in the following way: a wooden hoop, about feet in diameter, is covered with black canvas with a hole in the centre, about the size of a man's head. the canvas is edged with red and white ribbon round the circumference, and depends from the edges about feet like a curtain. the hoop is then placed on a man's shoulders, his head, hidden in a tall conical mask of many colors, passing through a hole in the centre of the canvas, the curtain hiding his body and legs. in the front of the hoop is a long, slender horse's head, made of wood, and at the back of the hoop is attached a curly horse's tail about inches long. the horse is accompanied by the “club-man" who is dressed in black, covered with rosettes and bows of colored ribbon, and wears a grotesque mask similar to that of the hobby horse. throughout the proceedings, he faces the horse and dances backward, holding in his right hand a stout, nobbed club, about to inches in length, colored like the mask. the hobby horse enters from the left interlude gate, escorted by six or eight couples of men, gaily appendix his sword. the hobby horses prance round and aid the witch and fool in clearing a passage. the dancers move forward, dancing the “winster pro- cessional dance.” when the procession has reached a good position in the centre, the tune changes and without pause the dancers perform the “winster morris reel," "the old woman tossed up in a blanket.” for the dresses of the dancers see photographs in the morris book [parts ii and iii). the witch is a man dressed in bedraggled woman's clothes, with face blackened, and carries a short besom. the fool has a pork-pie hat covered with flowers and feathers, tunic, to the hips, of bright multi-colored stuff edged with silver fringe, buckskin breeches, stockings of odd colors, and bells round the ankles. he carries a stick with a fox's tail at one end and a bladder at the other. sometimes he has a dinner- bell attached to the middle of his back. the king and queen are serious characters, the latter being represented by a man dressed in woman's clothes. the king carries a sword and should be dressed in the military dress of the period: the queen is grandly dressed, with a touch of comic extravagance, in the garb of a court lady of the period. the hobby horses—say half a dozen in number—are of the “tournament” variety, and carry sticks and bladders. · appendix will be selected. the lists, as here given, are merely preliminary, and have been sketched in, during the printing of this appendix, so as not to be wholly omitted from the publication of this edition. as far as they concern the new york production of the masque, they are not to be construed as anything more than suggestive material for the necessarily impression- istic pageant-groups of the epilogue. theatres ancient greece theatre of dionysus at athens, epidaurus, ephesus, sicyon. ancient rome theatre of pompey, scarrus, balbus cornelius, marcellus. provincial theatres antioch, lyons, herculaneum, orange. constantinople hippodrome, of emperor septimius severus. italy florence . . . . . . della pergola venice . . . . . . fenice a p pendix philadelphia arch street, walnut street, chestnut street. chicago mcvicker's. san francisco california. washington ford's. new orleans st. charles. england globe, bankside, bear garden, hope, swan, drury lane, haymarket, covent garden. dublin smock alley. actors greece thespis, polus (of aegina], aristodemus, neop- tolemus, thessalus, athenodorus, cleander, myn- niscus (of chalcis), callipides, timotheus. rome esopus, roscius, c. publilius, ambivius turpio, haitilius praenestinus, bathyllus, pylades, publilius syrus. appendix italy [actors] domenico biancolelli, luigi riccoboni, nicola barbieri, francesco andreini, fiorelli, tom- masino, salvini, madena, rossi. (actresses) sedowsky, isabella andreini, ristori. spain [actors] lope de rueda, navarro of toledo, alonso de olmedo, sebastian de prado, isidoro maiquez, josé valero, julián romea, rafael calvo, antonio vico. (actresses) la baltasara, la calderona, la pach- eca, la tirana, rita luna, matilde diez. france [actors] jodelet, harduin, rodogune, talma, got, lekain, molé, fréville, baron, montfleury, lemaitre, coquelin, mounet sulley. (actresses] dangville, rachel, george, mars, des oeillets, bejart, champmeslé, lecouvreur, dumes- nil, clairon, david. holland (actors louis bouwmeister, willem haverkorn, johannes haverkamp, andries snoek. (actresses] mme. wattier. appendix italy [tragedy) ariosto, manzoni, alfieri, nicolini, tasso. [comedy] metastasio, martelli, maffei, gozzi, pindemonti, monti, flavio, goldoni. spain and portugal [spain) cervantes, lope de vega, calderon, alar- con, gongora, argensola, moreto, de hoz, cani- zarez, luzan, huerta. [portugal] saa de miranda, gil vincente, ferreira, garcao. france etienne jodelle, garnier, larivey, montcrétien, hardi, viaud, scudéri, corneille, boisrobert, chev- reau, scarron, de bergerac, quinault, molière, boursault, racine, voltaire, l'hermite, rotrou, crébillon, le sage, beaumarchais, longpierre, fon- tenelli, la motte, legrand, destouches, marivaux, sardou, hugo, dumas, scribe, zola, legouvé, augier, halévy, le maitre, de vigny. holland hooft, brederoo, vondel, vos, goes, pels, asselijn, van focquenbroch, bilderdijk. appendix germany hans sachs, gryphius, gottshed, klopstock, wieland, herder, kozebue, hafner, goethe, schiller, lessing, novalis, arnim, hoffmann, hrotsvitha of gandersheim, kleist, grillparzer, schlegel, freytag, heyse, gutzkow, wagner, werner, körner, klinge- mann, uhland, chamisso, arndt, heine, grabbe, immermann, weise, grinunelohausen, klinger, lud- wig, laube, holm, giebel, wildenbruch, angen- gruber, nestroy, raimund. scandinavia holberg, oehlenschläger, j. l. heiberg, bjorn- son, wessel, ewald, hauch, hostrup, hertz, palu- dan-müller, overskou, ibsen, lidner, tegner, rune- berg, blanche, strindberg, kielland, lie. russia sumarokoff, catherine ii, von viezin, krilov, astrovski, pushkin, gogol, tolstoi, tchekhof, grib- oyedov. america royal tyler, john howard payne, boker, long- fellow, wm. young, n. p. willis, dion boucicault, john brougham, augustin daly, steele mackaye, appendix available in two editions: paper at cents and cloth at $ . or thereabouts. the drama league hopes to establish in the near future a pageant series, similar to the play series, of which “caliban” by mr. mackaye would be the first volume. remember these points “caliban: by the yellow sands” by percy mackaye. a national tribute to shakespeare for . endorsed by the drama league of america. first performance new york, may d, by citizens and notable group of professional actors. released for general use june ist. acting rights may be secured as indi- cated below:- performances by communities or clubs with professional company full particulars may be had by addressing miss alice m. houston, chairman circuit committee, drama league of america, forest ave., evanston, ill. the shakespeare celebration will present in the lewisohn stadium of the college of the city of new york on the nights of may , , , , , , at eight o'clock the community masque caliban by the yellow sands production staff author and director percy mackaye composer and director of music arthur farwell producers joseph urban richard ordynski designer of inner scenes robert edmond jones director of interludes garnet holme director of costumes mrs. john w. alexander director of dances mrs. robert anderson staff assistant hazel mackaye office of the director: marbridge bldg. ( th st. & th ave.); telephone, greeley . for particulars regarding tickets, etc., communication should be made with the office of the shakespeare celebration, east d st., new york. telephones, murray hill and . , اه ااا the country life press garden city, n. y. . m. .i.. .n .. + .~&.w\ . \ ¢ , \ , .— vac-. ..~zw . ‘ . wv.lp< ~§q.. / v . - f n n w w .,_ *» i‘ v \ . i . i . \ . , if.n v. .._ vi_,x. racketty- packetty h us€ as told by queen crosspatch by frances khodgson eurnett author of “ little lord f auntleioy " with illustrations by harrison cady the century co. new york [avenile collecliov vi’. l '? l ’ j k q’ copyright, , by the century c . published, nam’mber, printed in the u. s. a. now this is the story aooat the doll family i liked and the doll family i didn’t. when you read it you are to remember something am going to tell you. this is it: if you think dolls never do anything you don’t see them do, you are very much mistaken. when feople are not looking at them they can do anything they choose. they can dance and sing and flay on the piano and have all sorts of but they can only move about and talk when people turn their backs n racketty-packetty house racketty-packetty house was in a corner of cynthia’s nursery. and it was not in the best corner either. it was in the corner behind the door, and that was not at all a fashionable neigh- borhood. racketty-packetty house had been pushed there to be out of the way when tidy castle was brought in, on cynthia’s birthday. as soon as she saw tidy castle cynthia did not care for racketty- ||l|| ‘i'll-.ll i: ‘i iii '\ _i iii! bl-m wi .ixi i i i racketty-packetty house house now? it is too shabby and old-fashioned to stand near it.” in fact, that was the way in which the old dolls’ house got its name. it had always been called, “the dolls’ house,” before, but after that it was pushed into the unfashionable neighborhood behind the door and ever afterwards— when it was spoken of at all—it was just called racketty-packetty, house, and nothing else. of course tidy castle was grand, and tidy castle was new and had all the modern improvements in it, and racketty-packetty house was as old-fashioned as it could be. it had belonged to cynthia’s grand- racketty-packetty house mamma and had been made in the days when queen victoria was a lit- tle girl, and when there were noelec- tric lights even in princesses’ dolls’ houses. cynthia’s grandmamma had kept it very neat because she had been a good housekeeper even when she was seven years old. but cynthia was not a good house- keeper and she did not re-cover the furniture when it got dingy, or v re-paper the walls, or mend the carpets and bedclothes, and she never thought of such a thing as making new clothes for the doll family, so that of course their early victorian frocks and capes and bon- nets grew in time to be too shabby racketty-packetty house . for words. you see, when queen victoria was a little girl, dolls wore queer frocks and long pantalets and boy dolls wore funny frilled trousers and coats which it would almost make you laugh to look at. but the racketty-packetty house family had known better days. i and my fairies had known them when they were quite new and had been a birthday present just as tidy castle was when cynthia turned eight years old, and there was as much fuss about them when their house arrived as cynthia made when she saw tidy castle. cynthia’s grandmamma had danced about and clapped her hands l racketty-packetty house with delight, and she had scrambled down upon her knees and taken the dolls out one by one and thought \ their clothes beautiful. and she had given each one of them a grand name. “this one shall be amelia,” she said. “and this one is charlotte, and this is victoria leopoldina, and this one aurelia matilda, and this one leontine, and this one clotilda, and these boys shall be augustus and rowland and vincent and charles edward stuart.” for a long time they led a very gay and fashionable life. they had parties and balls and were present- ed at court and went to royal racketty-packetty house aturned up nose and round saucer blue eyes and a comical mouth. he and cynthia had called her, “ rid- iklis ” instead of leontine, and she had been called that ever since. all the dolls were jointed dutch dolls, so it was easy to paint any kind of features on them and stick out their arms and legs in any way you liked, and leontine did look funny after cynthia’s cousin had finished. she certainly was not a beauty but her turned up nose and her round eyes and funny mouth always seemed to be laughing so she really was the most good-na- tured-looking creature you ever saw. racketty-packetty house charlotte and amelia, cynthia had called meg and peg, and cl - tilda she called kilmanskeg, and augustus she called gustibus, and charles edward stuart was nothing but peter piper. so that was the end of their grand names. the truth was, they went through all sorts of things, and if they had not been such a jolly lot of dolls they might have had fits and ap- pendicitis and died of grief. but not a bit of it. if you will believe it, they got fun out of everything. they used to just scream with laughter over the new names, and they laughed so much over them that they got quite fond of them. racketty-packetty house when meg’s pink silk flounces were torn she pinned them up and did n’t mind in the least, and when peg’s lace mantilla -was played with by a kitten and brought back to her in rags and tags, she just put afew stitches in it and put it on again; and when peter piper lost almost the whole leg of one of his trousers he just laughed and said it made it easier for him to kick about and turn somersaults and he wished the other leg would tear off too. you never saw a family have such fun. they could make up stories and pretend things and in- vent games out of nothing. and my fairies were so fond of them racketty-packetty house that i could n’t keep them away from the dolls’ house. they would go and have fun with meg and peg and kilmanskeg and gustibus and peter piper, even when i had work for them to do in fairyland. but there, i was so fond of that shabby disrespectable family myself that i never would scold much about them, and i often went to see them. that is how i know so much about them. they were so fond of each other and so good-natured and al- ways in such spirits that everybody who knew them was fond of them. and it was really only cynthia who did n’t know them and thought them only a lot of old disreputable look- racketty-packetty house became the useful one, and did all the kitchen work, and sat up and made poultices and beef tea when any of the rest were ill. and the newfoundland puppy saw she was right, for the whole family simply adored ridiklis and could not pos- sibly have done without her. meg and peg and kilmanskeg could have married any minute if they had liked. there were two cock sparrows and a gentleman mouse, who proposed. to them over and over again. they all three said they did not want fashionable wives but cheerful dispositions and a happy home. but meg and peg were like ridiklis and. could not bear to leave their families—be- racketty-packetty house sides not wanting to live in nests, and hatch eggs—and kilmanskeg said she would die of a broken heart if she could.not be with ri- diklis, and ridiklis did not like cheese and crumbs and mousy things, so they could never live together in a mouse hole. but neither the gentleman mouse nor the sparrows were offended because the news was broken to them so sweetly and they went on visiting just as before. everything was as shabby and disrespectable and as gay and happy as it could be until tidy castle was brought into the nursery and then the whole family had rather a fright. it happened in this way: racketty-packetty house when the dolls’ house was lifted by the nurse and carried into the corner behind the door, of course it was rather an exciting and shaky thing for meg and peg and kil- manskeg and gustibus and peter piper (ridiklis was out shopping). the furniture tumbled about and everybody had to hold on to any- thing they could catch hold of. as it was, kilmanskeg slid under a table and peter piper sat down in the coal-box ; but notwithstanding all this, they did not lose their tempers and when the nurse sat their house down on the floor with v a bump, they all got up and began to laugh. then they ran and "they did not want fashionable wives, but cheerful dispositions.” racketty-packetty house peeped out of the windows and then they ran back and laughed again. “well,” said peter piper, “we have been called meg and peg and kilmanskeg and gustibus and peter piper instead of our grand names, and now we live in a place called racketty-packetty house. who cares ! let ’s join hands and have a dance.” and they joined hands and danced round and round and kicked up their heels, and their rags and tatters flew about and they laughed until they fell down, one on top of the other. it was just at this minute that racketty-packetty house “we ’ve had such fun here,” said peg. and kilmanskeg shook her head from side to side and wiped her eyes on her ragged pocket-handkerchief. there is no knowing what would have hap- pened to them if peter piper had n’t cheered up as he always did. “i say,” he said, "do you hear that noise?” they all listened and heard a rumbling. peter piper ran to the window and looked out and then ran back grinning. “it ’s the nurse rolling up the arm-chair before the house to hide it, so that it won’t disgrace the castle. hooray! hooray! if they don’t see us they will forget all racketty-packetty house of another, and ridiklis could scarcely get her dishes washed and her potatoes pared because she could see the castle kitchen from her scullery window. it was so exciting! the castle dolls were grand be- yond words, and they were all lords and ladies. these were their names. there was lady gwen- dolen vere de vere. she was haughty and had dark eyes and hair and carried her head thrown back and her nose in the air. there was lady muriel vere de vere, and she was cold and lovely and indifferent and looked down the bridge of her delicate nose. .and ridiklis does the cooking. racketty-packetty house there was lady doris, who had fluffy golden hair and laughed mockingly at everybody. and there was lord hubert and lord rupert and lord francis, who were all handsome enough to make you feel as if you could faint. and there was their mother, the . duchess of tidyshire; and of course there were all sorts of maids and footmen and cooks and scullery maids and even gardeners. “we never thought of living to see such grand society,” said peter piper to his brother and sisters. “it’s quite a kind of blessing.” “ it ‘s almost like being grand ourselves, just to be able to watch racketty-packetty house them,” said meg and peg and kilmanskeg, squeezing together and flattening their noses against the attic windows. they could see bits of the sump- tuous white and gold drawing-room with the duchess sitting reading near the fire, her golden glasses upon her nose, and lady gwen- dolen playing haughtily upon the harp, and lady muriel coldly listen- ing to her. lady doris was having her golden hair dressed by her maid in her bed-room and lord hubert was reading the newspai per with a high-bred air, while lord francis was writing letters to noblemen of his acquaintance, ire. \the duchess of tidysh racketty-packetty house “they are going to have a din- ner of ten courses,” sighed ridik- lis, “i can see them cooking it from my scullery window. and i have nothing but turnips to give you.” “who cares !” said peter piper, “ let ’s have ten courses of turnips and pretend each course is exactly like the one they are having at the castle.” “ i like turnips almost better than anything — almost — perhaps not quite,” said gustibus. “ i can eat ten courses of turnips like a shot.” "let ’s go and find out what their courses are,” said meg and peg and kilmanskeg, “and then racketty-packetty house the door and watch the tidy castle people than be the tidy castle people themselves. and then of course they all joined hands and danced round and round and kicked up their heels for joy, because they always 'did that whenever there was the least excuse for it—and quite often when there was n’t any at all, just because it was such good exercise and worked off their high spirits so that they could settle down for a while. this was the way things went on day after day. they almost lived at their windows. they watched the tidy castle family get up and be dressed by their maids and peter piper announcing the names of the dishes. racketty-packetty house room of their own, and they made tissue paper trains and glass bead crowns for diamond tiaras, and sometimes gustibus pretended to be the royal family, and the others were presented to him and kissed his hand, and then the others took turns and he was presented. and suddenly the most delightful thing occurred to peter piper. he thought it would be rather nice to make them all into lords and ladies and he did it by touching them on the shoulder with the drawing-room poker which he straightened be- cause it was so crooked that it was almost bent double. it is not ex- _actly the way such things are done racketty-packetty house the shoulder with the poker, be- cause it took more thumps to make a duke than a common or garden lord. the day after this another much more exciting thing took place. the nurse was in a bad temper and when she was tidying the nursery she pushed the easy chair aside and saw racketty-packetty house. “oh!” she said, “there is that racketty-packetty old thing still. i had forgotten it. it must be carried down-stairs and burned. i will go and tell one of the footmen to come for it.” meg and peg and kilmanskeg racketty-packetty house said ridiklis, wiping her eyes with her kitchen duster. peter piper was rather pale, but he was extremely brave and re- membered that he was the head of the family. “now, lady meg and lady peg and lady kilmanskeg,” he said, “let us all keep cool.” “we shan’t keep cool when they set our house on fire,” said gusti- bus. peter piper just snapped his fingers. “pooh!” he said. “we are only made of wood and it won’t vhurt a bit. we shall just snap and crackle and go off almost like fire- works and then we shall be ashes racketty-packetty house and fly away into the air and see all sorts of things. perhaps it may be more fun than anything we have done yet.” “but our nice old house! our nice old racketty-packetty house,” said ridiklis. “i do so love it. the kitchen is so convenient— even though the oven won’t bake any more.” and things looked most serious because the nurse really was be- ginning to push the arm-chair away. but it would not move and i will tell you why. one of my fairies, who had come down the chimney when they were talking, had called me and i had come in a second \u l unny.‘ . .i.l .. queen crosspatch makes the footman remember cynthia’s box. r ‘ "! :n she“ l“ ;_ - racketty—packetty house. racketty-packetty house a soft chair by the window and there she used to sit and look out; and the racketty-packetty house dolls crowded round their window and adored her. after a few days, they noticed that peter piper was often missing and one morning ridiklis went up into the attic and found him sitting at a window all by himself and staring and staring. “ oh! duke,” she said (you see they always tried to remember each other’s titles). “ dear me, duke, what are you doing here p ” “i am looking at her,” he an- swered. “i ’m in love. i fell in love with her the minute cynthia racketty-packetty house took her out of her box. i am going to marry her.” “but she ’s a lady of high de- gree,” said ridiklis quite alarmed. “that ’s why she ’ll have me,” said peter piper in his most cheer- ful manner. “ ladies of high de- gree always marry the good look- ing ones in rags and tatters. if i had a whole suit of clothes on, she would n’t look at me. i’m very good-looking, you know,” and he turned round and winked at ridik- lis in such a delightful saucy way that she suddenly felt as if he was very good-looking, though she had not thought of it before. “ hello,” .he said all at once. i “ they all crowded round their window and chuckled and chuckled as they watched him.” racketty-packetty house made a cheerful bow. the rack- etty-packettys saw lady patsy be- gin to giggle that minute. then he took an antimacassar out of his pocket and fastened it round the edge of his torn trousers leg, as if it were lace trimming and began to walk about like a duke—with his arms folded on his chest and his ragged old hat cocked on one side over his ear. then the racketty- packettys saw lady patsy begin . to laugh. then peter piper stood on his head and kissed his hand and lady patsy covered her face and rocked backwards and forwards in her chair laughing and laughing. then he struck an attitude with racketty-packetty house his tattered leg put forward grace- fully and he pretended he had a guitar and he sang—right up'at her window. “ from racketty-packetty house i come, it stands, dear lady, in a slum, a low, low slum behind the door the stout arm-chair is placed before, (just take a look at it, my lady). “ the house itself is a perfect sight, and everybody ’s dressed like a perfect fright, but no one cares a single jot and each one giggles over his lot, (and as for me, i ’m in love with you). “i can’t make up another verse, and if i did it would be worse, racketty-packetty house dainfully and scornfully and scath- ingly: - “if you sit there so much, those low racketty-packetty house peo- ple will think you are looking at them.” “i am,” said lady patsy, show- ing all her dimples at once. “ they are such fun.” and lady gwendolen swooned haughtily away, and the trained nurse could scarcely restore her. when the castle dolls drove out or walked in their garden, the in- stant they caught sight of one of the racketty-packettys they turned up their noses and sniffed aloud, and several times the duchess said racketty-packetty house she would remove because the neighborhood was absolutely low. they all scorned the racketty- packettys—they just scorned them. one moonlight night lady patsy was sitting at her window and she heard a whistle in the garden. when she peeped out carefully, there stood peter piper waving his ragged cap at her, and he had his rope ladder under his arm. “ hello,” he whispered as loud as he could. “could you catch a bit of rope if i threw it up to you?” “yes,” she whispered back. “ then catch this,” he whispered again and he threw up the end of racketty-packetty .house a string and she caught it the first throw. it was fastened to the rope ladder. “now pull,” he said. she pulled and pulled until the rope ladder reached her window and then she fastened that to a hook under the sill and the first thing that happened—just like lightning -was that peter piper ran up the ladder and leaned over her window ledge. “will you marry me,” he said. “i have n’t anything to give you to eat and i am as ragged as a scarecrow, but will you p ” she clapped her little hands. “i eat very little,” she said. racketty-packetty house “and i would do without anything at all, if i could live in your funny old shabby house.” “ it is a ridiculous, tumbled-down old barn, is n’t it?" he said. “but every one of us is as nice as we can be. we are perfect turkish delights. it ’s laughing that does it. would you like to come down the ladder and - see what a jolly, shabby old hole the place is ? ” “oh! do take me,” said lady ' patsy. , so he helped her down the lad- der and took her under the arm- chair and into racketty-packetty house and meg and peg and kil- manskeg and ridiklis and gustibus racketty-packetty house all crowded round her and gave little screams of joy at the sight of her. they were afraid to kiss her at first, even though she was engaged to peter piper. she was so pretty and her frock had so much lace on it that they were afraid their old rags might spoil her. but she did not care about her lace and flew at them and kissed and hugged them every one. “i have so wanted to come here,” she said. “ it ’s so dull at the castle i had to break my leg just to get a change. the duchess sits reading near the fire with her gold eye-glasses on her nose and racketty-packetty house lady gwendolen plays haughtily on the harp and lady muriel coldly listens to her, and lady doris is always laughing mockingly, and lord hubert reads the news- paper with a high-bred air, and lord francis writes letters to noblemen of his acquaintance, and lord rupert glances over his love letters from ladies of title, in an aristocratic manner—until i could scream. just to see you dears dancing about in your rags. and tags and laughing and inventing games as if you did n’t mind any- thing, is such a relief.” she nearly laughed her little curly head off when they all went racketty-packetty house new games and stories and they really never wentto bed until day- light. but the castle dolls grew more and more scornful every day, and tossed their heads higher and higher and sniffed louder and louder until it sounded as if they all had influenza. they never lost an opportunity of saying disdainful things and once the duchess wrote a letter to cynthia, saying that she insisted on removing to a decent neighborhood. she laid the letter in her desk but the gentleman mouse came in the night and carried it away. so cynthia never saw it and i don’t believe she could have read it if she had seen it be- .§a:":‘ \ n v . ‘, .a... - v. . i a . . . “ the gentleman mouse brought the shavings from , his nest.” racketty-packetty house cause the duchess wrote very badly—even for a (l ll. and then what do you suppose happened? one morning cynthia began to play that all the tidy castle dolls had scarlet fever. she said it had broken out in the night and she undressed them all and put them into bed and gave them medi- cine. she could not find lady patsy, so she escaped the contagion. the truth was that lady patsy had stayed all night at racketty-pack- etty house, where they were giving an imitation court ball with peter piper in a tin crown, and shavings for supper—because they had noth- ing else, and in fact the gentleman racketty-packetty house mouse had brought the shavings from his nest as a present. cynthia played nearly all day and the duchess and lady gwendolen and lady muriel and lady doris and lord hubert and lord fran- cis and lord rupert got worse and worse. by evening they were all rag- ing in delirium and lord francis and lady gwendolen had strong mustard plasters on their chests. and right in the middle of their agony cynthia suddenly got up and went away and left them to their fate—just as if it did n’t matter in the least. well in the middle of the night meg and peg and lady patsy wakened all at once. racketty-packetty house v peter piper,”they said, and they rushed to the staircase and met kilmanskeg and ridiklis and gus- tibus and peter piper coming scrambling up panting because the noise had wakened them as well. they were all over at tidy castle in a minute. they just tumbled over each other to get there -- the kind-hearted things. the servants were every one fast asleep, though the noise was awful. the loudest groans came from lady gwendolen and lord francis because their mustard plasters were blistering them fright- fully. ridiklis took charge, because she racketty-packetty house g‘. —just like lightning—and stood on his head and wiggled his ragged legs at them until suddenly they heard a snort from one of the beds and it was lord hubert beginning to laugh and then lord francis laughed and then lord hubert shouted, and then lady doris squealed, and lady muriel screamed, and lady gwen- dolen and the duchess rolled over and over in their beds, laughing as if they would have fits. “ oh ! you delightful, funny, shabby old loves!” lady gwen- dolen kept saying. “ to think that we scorned you.” “ they ’ll be all right after this,” said peter piper. “there ’s nothing racketty-packetty house cures scarlet fever like cheering up. let’s all join hands and dance round and round once for them before we go back to bed. it’ll throw them into a nice light perspiration and they ’ drop off and sleep like tops.” and they did it, and before they had finished, the whole lot of them were perspiring gently and snoring as softly as lambs. . when they went back to rack- etty-packetty house they talked a good deal about cynthia and won- dered and wondered why she had left her scarlet fever so suddenly. and at last ridiklis made up her mind to tell them something she had heard. “the duchess told me,” she h she put her ragged old apron over her face and cried.” racketty-packetty house all over the house together and looked at every hole in the carpet and every piece of stuffing sticking out of the dear old shabby sofas, and every broken window and chair- leg and table and ragged blanket —and the tears ran down their faces for the first time in their lives. about six o’clock in the morning peter piper made a last effort. “ let’s all join hands in a circle,” he said quite faintly, “and dance round and round once more.” but it was no use. when they joined hands they could not dance, and when they found they could not dance they all tumbled down in a heap and cried instead of racketty-packetty house “ no, it is n’t ! ” i said. “you leave this to me. itold the prin- cess to come here, though she does n’t know it in the least.” a whole army of my working fairies began to swarm 'in at the nursery window. the nurse was working very hard to put things in order and she had not sense enough to see fairies at all. so she did not see mine, though there were hundreds of them. as soon as she made one corner tidy, they ran after her and made it untidy. they held her back by her dress and hung and swung on her apron until she could scarcely move and kept wondering why she was so ill-‘i'l l " they went all over the house together.” racketty-packetty house fairies to stand ready to obey me the instant i spoke. the princess was a nice child and was very polite to cynthia when she showed her all her dolls, and last but not least, tidy castle itself. she looked at all the rooms and the furniture and said polite and admiring things about each of them. but cynthia realized that she was not so much interested in it as she had thought she would be. the fact was that the princess had so many grand dolls’ houses in her palace that tidy castle did not sur- prise her at all. it was just when cynthia was finding this out that i gave the. order to my working fairies. racketty-packetty house house, your highness,” cynthia stammered out. “ it belonged to my grandmamma, and it ought not to be in the nursery. i thought you had had it burned, nurse!” “ burned! ” the little girl princess cried out in the most shocked way. “why if it was mine, i would n’t have it burned for worlds! oh! please push the chair away and let me look at it. there are no doll’s houses like it anywhere in these days.” and when the arm-chair was pushed aside she scrambled down on to her knees just as if she was not a little girl princess at ' all. “oh! oh! oh!" she said. racketty-packetty house the other dolls’ houses used to make deep curtsies when a rack- etty-packetty house doll passed them, and peter piper could scarcely stand itibecause it always made him want to stand on his head and laugh—and so when they were curtsied at—because they were related to the royal dolls house—they used to run into their drawing-room and fall into fits of giggles and they could only stop them by all joining hands together in a ring and dancing round and round and round and kicking up their heels and laughing until they tumbled down in a heap. ' racketty-packetty house and what do you think of that for a story. and does n’t it prove to you what a valuable friend a fairy is—particularly a queen one? library science . .r b , bookmark the library elf a book about the library for young boys and girls written and illustrated by margaret selman riddle librarian, sanger avenue elementary school, waco, texas - to the primary boys and girls, their teacher, and their librarian this workbook is designed for pleasant learn- ing about your school library. to color the pictures and to talk about them will help you learn more about what your school library can do for you. library is fun! story of bookmark bookmark says "hello" to you, he's a gay little library elf; please come quietly into the room. he may be hiding on a shelf. bookmark knows just how to act, he's gentle and courteous, too; you may not always see him there, but he's somewhere watching you. where bookmark may hide behind a picture cure / seo யாயாயாயாயா on a book shelf on the top of a table have you seen bookmark's suit ? he wears a green cap. his cap has a black feather. his jacket is red. his pants are yellow. he wears brown velvet shoes. bookmark walks very. very quietly. bookmark's picture is on the cover of this book. color this picture. do you remember the color of: his cap? his feather? his jacket? his pants ? his velvet shoes? our library time this clock is made of card board. we made this clock. the clock is colored. the clock is in our · schoolroom. the clock tells our library time. do you know why he is called bookmark ? he lives in the library. he likes books very much. he likes to stay between the pages of a book. he marks the last page a boy or girl has read. he named himself bookmark our library time noo this clock is made of cardboard. we made this clock. the clock is colored. the clock is in our schoolroom. the clock tells our library time. a chair in our library . this is a library chair. this is a pretty chair. we have good posture in the pretty chair. we like the pretty chair. books for us in our library :;" ...:: : * . : . hittitut mig ". th our library books are marked with an e. e stands for easy. we read the easy books. we like the easy books. the easy books have pictures. the easy books are pretty. how our books are shelved in our library d (۱۱۱، ط ام۱۱ - i our books are shelved by subjects. the subjects tell what the books are about. there are books about birds. there are books about airplanes. story hour story hour is such fun, when books seem to take wingi almost before you know it you're a rabbit, or a king, or, you may be a pirate. who sails the white sea foami or, maybe you're an indian brave with a forest dell to roam. perhaps you will go skating down a silky rainbow trail; or, maybe you'll go up the hill to help jill fill her pail. no matter what the story is, there is magic in the land; come quietly to the library, story hour is at hand. o me yay university of michigan - buhr mubbottis .in tuinulihtumine artes scientia huu hdonline library veritas of the mersity of michigan e puerimismu tniversity medlemmurni himuimieninini sr-quaeris-peninsulam amoena ciroumspice cot silvezaoroloocoooo.ooorge h munturi t hashhuincun lutelul tum . r . . goblin market the prince's progress and other poems by christina g: rossetti with four designs by d. g. rossetti new edition london macmillan and co. the right of translation and reproduction is reserped. goblin market the prince's progress and other poems . . meb atea contents page i narket * goblin market the prince's progress . maiden-song dream land - at home the poor ghost . grown and flown - a farm walk · a portrait · by the sea gone for ever . - love from the north maggie a lady . from sunset to star rise spring quiet vinter rain wanity of vanities days of vanity . "the ghost's petition once for all enrica, a chill . ob to my mother, in all reverence and love, i inscribe this book. line da ruhan mmf & co ? "buy from us with @golden cur goblin market. morning and evening v maids heard the goblins cry: “come buy our orchard fruits, come buy, come buy : apples and quinces, lemons and oranges, plump'unpecked cherries, melons-vil raspberries, bloom-dest, n-cheeked peaches, swart-headed mulberries, wild free-born cranberries, crab-apples, dewberries, pine-apples, blackberries, apricots, strawberries ;- all ripe together in summer weather,- morns that pass by, fair eves that fly; come buy; come buý: our grapes fresh from the vine, pomegranates full and fine, goblin market. dates and sharp bullaces, rare pears and greengages, damsons and bilberries, taste them and try: currants and gooseberries, bright-fire-like barberries, figs to fill your mouth, citrons from the south, sweet to tongue and sound to eye ; come buy, come buy.” ļ evening by evening among the brookside rushes, laura bowed her head to hear, lizzie veiled her blushes : crouching close together in the cooling weather, with clasping arms and ioning lips, with tingling cheeks and finger tips. “ lie close,” laura said, pricking up her golden head : “we must not look at goblin men, we must not buy their fruits : who knows upon what soil they fed their hungry thirsty roots ?”. “come buy,” call the goblins hobbling down the glen. “oh,” cried lizzie, “ laura, laura, you should not peep at goblin men.” lizzie covered up her eyes, goblin market. covered close lest they should look ; laura reared her glossy head, and whispered like the restless brook : “look, lizzie, look, lizzie, down the glen tramp little men. one hauls a basket, one bears a plate, one lugs a golden dish of many pounds weight. fow fair the vine must grow whose grapes are so luscious; how warm the wind must blow through those fruit bushes.” - “no," said lizzie: “no, no, no ; their offers should not charm us, , their evil gifts would harm us.” she thrust a dimpled finger in each ear, shut eyes and ran : curious laura chose to linger wondering at each merchant man. one had a cat's face, one whisked a tail, one tramped at a rat's pace, one crawled like a snail, one like a wombat prowled obtuse and furry, one like a ratel tumbled hurry skurry. she heard a voice like voice of doves cooing all together : they sounded kind and full of loves in the pleasant weather. goblin market. laura stretched her gleaming neck like a rush-imbedded swan, like a lily from the beck, like a moonlit poplar branch, like a vessel at the launch when its last restraint is gone. backwards up the mossy glen turned and trooped the goblin men, with their shrill repeated cry, “come buy, come buy.” when they reached where laura was they stood stock still upon the moss, leering at each other, brother with queer brother; signalling each other, brother with sly brother. one set his basket down, one reared his plate ; one began to weave a crown of tendrils, leaves, and rough nuts brown (men sell not such in any town); one heaved the golden weight of dish and fruit to offer her: “come buy, come buy,” was still their cry. laura stared but did not stir, longed but had no money : the whisk-tailed merchant bade her taste in tones as smooth as honey, the cat-faced purr'd, goblin market. . the rat-paced spoke a word of welcome, and the snail-paced even was heard ; une parrot-voiced and jolly cried "pretty goblin” still for “pretty polly;"— * one whistled like a bird. but sweet-tooth laura spoke in haste: “good folk, i have no coin ; to take were to purloin : : i have no copper in my purse, i have no silver either, and all my gold is on the furze“. that shakes in windy weather above the rusty heather.” “you have much gold upon your head,” they answered all together : * buy from us with a golden curl.” she clipped a precious golden lock, she dropped a tear more rare than pearl, then sucked their fruit globes fair or red : · sweeter than honey from the rock, stronger than man-rejoicing wine, clearer than water flowed that juice; she never tasted such before, how should it cloy with length of use ? she sucked and sucked and sucked the more fruits which that unknown orchard bore; she sucked until her lips were sore ; then flung the emptied rinds away but gathered up one kernel stone, goblin market. and knew not was it night or day as she turned home alone. lizzie met her at the gate full of wise upbraidings: “dear, you should not stay so late, twilight is not good for maidens; should not loiter in the glen in the haunts of goblin men. do you not remember jeanie, how she met them in the moonlight, took tntii sifts both choice and many, ate their fruits and wore their flowers plucked from bowers where summer ripens at all hours ? but ever in the noonlight she pined and pined away; sought them by night and day, found them no more, but dwindled and grew grey ; then fell with the first snow, while to this day no grass will grow where she lies low • i planted daisies there a year ago that never blow. you should not loiter so." “nay, hush,” said laura : “nay, hush, my sister : i ate and ate my fill, yet my mouth waters still; to-morrow night i will goblin market. buy more;” and kissed her: “ have done with sorrow; i'll bring you plums to-morrow fresh on their mother twigs, cherries worth getting ; you cannot think what figs my teeth have met in, what melons icy-cold piled on a dish of gold too huge for me to hold, what peaches with a velvet nap, pellucid grapes without one seed : odorous indeed must be the mead whereon they grow, and pure the wave they drink with lilies at the brink, and sugar-sweet their sap.” golden head by golden head, like two pigeons in one nest folded in each other's wings, they lay down in their curtained bed : like two blossoms on one stem, like two flakes of new-fall’n snow, like two wands of ivory tipped with gold for awful kings. moon and stars gazed in at them, wind sang to them lullaby, lumbering owls forebore to fly, not a bat flapped to and fro round their rest : goblin market. cheek to cheek and breast to breast locked together in one nest. early in the morning when the first cock crowed his warning, neat like bees, as sweet and busy, laura rose with lizzie : fetched in honey, milked the cows, aired and set to rights the house, kneaded cakes of whitest wheat, cakes for dainty mouths to eat, next churned butter, whipped up cream, fed their poultry, sat and sewed ; talked as modest maidens should : lizzie with an open heart, laura in an absent dream, one content, one sick in part; one warbling for the mere bright day's delight, | one longing for the night. at length slow evening came: they went with pitchers to the reedy brook ; lizzie most placid in her look, laura most like a leaping flame. they drew the gurgling water from its deep; lizzie plucked purple and rich golden flags, then turning homeward said: “the sunset flushes those furthest loftiest crags; come, laura, not another maiden lags. no wilful squirrel wags, goblin market. the beasts and birds are fast asleep." but laura loitered still among the rushes and said the bank was steep. and said the hour was early still, the dew not fall'n, the wind not chill ; listening ever, but not catching the customary cry, “come buy, come buy," with its iterated jingle of sugar-baited words : not for all her watching once discerning even one goblin racing, whisking, tumbling, hobbling; let alone the herds that used to tramp along the glen, in groups or single, of brisk fruit-merchant men. till lizzie urged, “o laura, come; i hear the fruit-call, but i dare not look : you should not loiter longer at this brook : come with me home. .the stars rise, the moon bends her arc, each glowworm winks her spark, let us get home before the night grows dark : for clouds may gather though this is summer weather, put out the lights and drench us through ; then if we lost our way what should we do?” . goblin market. laura turned cold as stone to find her sister heard that cry alone, that goblin cry, “ come buy our fruits, come buy." must she then buy no more such dainty fruit ? must she no more such succous pasture find, gone deaf and blind? her tree of life drooped from the root : she said not one word in her heart's sore ache; but peering thro' the dimness, nought discerning, trudged home, her pitcher dripping all the way; so crept to bed, and lay silent till lizzie slept ; then sat up in a passionate yearning, and gnashed her teeth for baulked desire, and wept as if her heart would break. day after day, night after night, laura kept watch in vain in sullen silence of exceeding pain. she never caught again the goblin cry : “come buy, come buy;"— she never spied the goblin men hawking their fruits along the glen : but when the noon waxed bright her hair grew thin and grey ; she dwindled, as the fair full moon doth turn to swift decay and burn her fire away. goblin market. ii one day remembering her kernel-stone she set it by a wall that faced the south ; dewed it with tears, hoped for a root, watched for a waxing shoot, but there came none; it never saw the sun, it never felt the trickling moisture run : while with sunk eyes and faded mouth she dreamed of melons, as a traveller sees false waves in desert drouth with shade of leaf-crowned trees, - and burns the thirstier in the sandful breeze. she no more swept the house, tended the fowls or cows, fetched honey, kneaded cakes of wheat, brought water from the brook : but sat down listless in the chimney-nook and would not eat. tender lizzie could not bear to watch her sister's cankerous care yet not to share. she night and morning caught the goblins' cry: “come buy our orchard fruits, . come buy, come buy :"- beside the brook, along the glen, she heard the tramp of goblin men, the voice and stir ( goblin market. poor laura could not hear; longed to buy fruit to comfort her, but feared to pay too dear. she thought of jeanie in her grave, who should have been a bride; but who for joys brides hope to have fell sick and died in her gay prime, in earliest winter time, with the first glazing rime, with the first snow-fall of crisp winter time. till laura dwindling seemed knocking at death's door : , then lizzie weighed no more better and worse; but put a silver penny in her purse, kissed laura, crossed the heath with clumps of furze at twilight, halted by the brook : and for the first time in her life began to listen and look. laughed every goblin when they spied her peeping : came towards her hobbling, flying, running, leaping, puffing and blowing, chuckling, clapping, crowing, clucking and gobbling, mopping and mowing, w ho golden head by golden head goblin market. held out her apron, tossed them her penny. v “nay, take a seat with us, honour and eat with us," they answered grinning : “our feast is but beginning. night yet is early, warm and dew-pearly, wakeful and starry : such fruits as these no man can carry; half their bloom would fly, half their dew would dry, half their flavour would pass by. sit down and feast with us, be welcome guest with us, cheer you and rest with us.”— “ thank you,” said lizzie : “but one waits at home alone for me : so without further parleying, if you will not sell me any of your fruits though much and many, give me back my silver penny i tossed you for a fee.”— they began to scratch their pates, no longer wagging, purring, but visibly demurring, grunting and snarling. one called her proud, cross-grained, uncivil ; goblin market. their tones waxed loud, their looks were evil. lashing their tails they trod and hustled her, elbowed and jostled her, clawed with their nails, barking, mewing, hissing, mocking, tore her gown and soiled, her stocking, twitched her hair out by the roots, stamped upon her tender feet, held her hands and squeezed their fruits against her mouth to make her eat. white and golden lizzie stood, like a lily in a flood,— like a rock of blue-veined stone lashed by tides obstreperously,– like a beacon left alone in a hoary roaring sea, sending up a golden fire,- like a fruit-crowned orange-tree white with blossoms honey-sweet sore beset by wasp and bee, like a royal virgin town topped with gilded dome and spire close beleaguered by a fleet v mad to tug her standard down. • one may lead a horse to water, twenty cannot make him drink. goblin market. though the goblins cuffed and caught her, coaxed and fought her, bullied and besought her, scratched her, pinched her black as ink, . kicked and knocked her, mauled and mocked her, lizzie uttered not a word; would not open lip from lip lest they should cram a mouthful in : but laughed in heart to feel the drip of juice that syrupped all her face, and lodged in dimples of her chin, and streaked her neck which quaked like curd. at last the evil people, worn out by her resistance, flung back her penny, kicked their fruit along whichever road they took, not leaving root or stone or shoot; some writhed into the ground, some dived into the brook with ring and ripple, some scudded on the gale without a sound, some vanished in the distance. in a smart, ache, tingle, lizzie went her way; knew not was it night or day; sprang up the bank, tore thro’ the furze, threaded copse and dingle, and heard her penny jingle goblin market. bouncing in her purse, its bounce was music to her ear. she ran and ran as if she feared some goblin man dogged her with gibe or curse or something worse : but not one goblin skurried after, nor was she pricked by fear ; the kind heart made her windy-paced that urged her home quite out of breath with haste and inward laughter. she cried, “ laura,” up the garden, “ did you miss me ? come and kiss me. never mind my bruises, hug me, kiss me, suck my juices squeezed from goblin fruits for you, goblin pulp and goblin dew. eat me, drink me, love me; laura, make much of me; for your sake i have braved the glen and had to do with goblin merchant men.” laura started from her chair, flung her arms up in the air, clutched her hair : “ lizzie, lizzie, have you tasted for my sake the fruit forbidden ? must your light like mine be hidden, goblin market. your young life like mine be wasted, undone in mine undoing, and ruined in my ruin, thirsty, cankered, goblin-ridden ?”— she clung about her sister, kissed and kissed and kissed her: tears once again refreshed her shrunken eyes, dropping like rain after long sultry drouth ; shaking with aguish fear, and pain, she kissed and kissed her with a hungry mouth. her lips began to scorch, that juice was wormwood to her tongue, she loathed the feast : writhing as one possessed she leaped and sung, rent all her robe, and wrung her hands in lamentable haste, and beat her breast. her locks streamed like the torch borne by a racer at full speed, or like the mane of horses in their flight, or like an eagle when she stems the light straight toward the sun, or like a caged thing freed, or like a flying flag when armies run. swift fire spread through her veins, knocked at her heart, goblin market. met the fire smouldering there and overbore its lesser flame; she gorged on bitterness without a name : ah! fool, to choose such part of soul-consuming care. sense failed in the mortal strife : like the watch-tower of a town which an earthquake shatters down, like a lightning-stricken mast, like a wind-uprooted tree spun about, like a foam-topped waterspout cast down headlong in the sea, she fell at last; pleasure past and anguish past, | is it death or is it life ? no life out of death. that night long lizzie watched by her, counted her pulse's flagging stir, felt for her breath, held water to her lips, and cooled her face with tears and fanning leaves : but when the first birds chirped about their eaves, and early reapers plodded to the place of golden sheaves, and dew-wet grass bowed in the morning winds so brisk to pass, and new buds with new day opened of cup-like lilies on the stream, laura awoke as from a dream, ** goblin market. laughed in the innocent old way, hugged lizzie but not twice or thrice ; her gleaming locks showed not one thread of grey, her breath was sweet as may and light danced in her eyes. days, weeks, months, years afterwards, when both were wives with children of their own; their mother-hearts beset with fears, their lives bound up in tender lives; laura would call the little ones and tell them of her early prime, those pleasant days long gone of not-returning time: would talk about the haunted glen, the wicked, quaint fruit-merchant men, their fruits like honey to the throat but poison in the blood; (men sell not such in any town): | would tell them how her sister stood in deadly peril to do her good, and win the fiery antidote : then joining hands to little hands would bid them cling together, “for there is no friend like a sister 'in calm or stormy weather ; to cheer one on the tedious way, to fetch one if one goes astray, to lift one if one totters down, to strengthen whilst one stands." the long hours go and come and go the prince's progress. the prince's progress. till all sweet gums and juices flow, + till the blossom of blossoms blow, the long hours go and come and go, the bride she sleepeth, waketh, sleepeth, waiting for one whose coming is slow :- hark! the bride weepeth. “how long shall i wait, come heat come rime ?”— “ till the strong prince comes, who must come in time" (her women say), “ there's a mountain to climb, a river to ford, sleep, dream and sleep; sleep” (they say) : “we've muffled the chime, better dream than weep." in his world-end palace the strong prince sat, taking his ease on cushion and mat, close at hand lay his staff and his hat. “when wilt thou start ? the bride waits, o youth.” “now the moon's at full; i tarried for that, now i start in truth. " but tell me first, true voice of my doom, of my veiled bride in her maiden bloom; keeps she watch through glare and through gloom, the prince's progress. “i will give you a jewel of gold.”— “not so; gold is heavy and cold.”— “i will give you a velvet fold of foreign work your beauty to deck.”— “better i like my kerchief rolled light and white round my neck.”— “nay,” cried he, “but fix your own fee.”— she laughed, “ you may give the full moon to me; or else sit under this apple-tree here for one idle day by my side ; after that i'll let you go free, and the world is wide." loth to stay, yet to leave her slack, he half turned away, then he quite turned back : for courtesy's sake he could not lack to redeem his own royal pledge; ahead too the windy heaven lowered black with a fire-cloven edge. so he stretched his length in the apple-tree shade, lay and laughed and talked to the maid, who twisted her hair in a cunning braid and writhed it in shining serpent-coils, and held him a day and night fast laid in her subtle toils. at the death of night and the birth of day, when the owl left off his sober play, and the bat hung himself out of the way, the prince's progress. a land of chasm and rent, a land of rugged blackness on either hand : if water trickled its track was tanned with an edge of rust to the chink; if one stamped on stone or on sand it returned a clink. a lifeless land, a loveless land, without lair or nest on either hand : only scorpions jerked in the sand, black as black iron, or dusty pale ; from point to point sheer rock was manned by scorpions in mail. a land of neither life nor death, where no man buildeth or fashioneth, where none draws living or dying breath ; no man cometh or goeth there, no man doeth, seeketh, saith, in the stagnant air. some old volcanic upset must have rent the crust and blackened the crust; wrenched and ribbed it beneath its dust, above earth's molten centre at seethe, heaved and heaped it by huge upthrust of fire beneath. untrodden before, untrodden since : tedious land for a social prince ; halting, he scanned the outs and ins, the prince's progress. endless, labyrinthine, grim,' of the solitude that made him wince, laying wait for him. by bulging rock and gaping cleft, even of half mere daylight reft, rueful he peered to right and left, muttering in his altered mood : “the fate is hard that weaves my weft, though my lot be good.” dim the changes of day to night, of night scarce dark to day not bright. still his road wound towards the right, still he went, and still he went, till one night he spied a light, in his discontent. out it flashed from a yawn-mouthed cave, like a red-hot eye from a grave. no man stood there of whom to crave rest for wayfarer plodding by : though the tenant were churl or knave the prince might try. in he passed and tarried not, groping his way from spot to spot, towards where the cavern flare glowed hot: an old, old mortal, cramped and double, was peering into a seething-pot, in a world of trouble. the prince's progress. the veriest atomy he looked, with grimy fingers clutching and crooked, tight skin, a nose all bony and hooked, and a shaking, sharp, suspicious way; blinking, his eyes had scarcely brooked the light of day. stared the prince, for the sight was new; stared, but asked without more ado : “may a weary traveller lodge with you, old father, here in your lair ? in your country the inns seem few, and scanty the fare.” the head turned not to hear him speak; the old voice whistled as through a leak (out it came in a quavering squeak) : “work for wage is a bargain fit : if there's aught of mine that you seek you must work for it. “buried alive from light and air this year is the hundredth year, i feed my fire with a sleepless care, watching my potion wane or wax: elixir of life is simmering there, and but one thing lacks. “ if you're fain to lodge here with me, take that pair of bellows you see- too heavy for my old hands they bem the prince's progress. take the bellows and puff and puff: when the steam curls rosy and free the broth's boiled enough. “ then take your choice of all i have ; i will give you life if you crave. already i'm mildewed for the grave, so first myself i must drink my fill : but all the rest may be yours, to save whomever you will." “done," quoth the prince, and the bargain stood. first he piled on resinous wood, next plied the bellows in hopeful mood; thinking, “my love and i will live. if i tarry, why life is good, and she may forgive.” the pot began to bubble and boil ; the old man cast in essence and oil, he stirred all up with a triple coil of gold and silver and iron wire dredged in a pinch of virgin soil, and fed the fire. but still the steam curled watery white; night turned to day and day to night; one thing lacked, by his feeble sight unseen, unguessed by his feeble mind : life might miss him, but death the blight was sure to find. the prince's progress. so when the hundredth year was full the thread was cut and finished the school. death snapped the old worn-out tool, snapped him short while he stood and stirred (though stiff he stood as a stiff-necked mule) with never a word. thus at length the old crab was nipped. the dead hand slipped, the dead finger dipped in the broth as the dead man slipped, that same instant, a rosy red flushed the steam, and quivered and clipped round the dead old head. the last ingredient was supplied (unless the dead man mistook or lied). up started the prince, he cast aside the bellows plied through the tedious trial, made sure that his host had died, and filled a phial. “one night's rest,” thought the prince: "this done, forth i speed with the rising sun : with the morrow i rise and run, come what will of wind or of weather. this draught of life when my bride is won we'll drink together.” thus the dead man stayed in his grave, self-chosen, the dead man in his cave; there he stayed, were he fool or knave, the prince's progress. - or honest seeker who had not found : while the prince outside was prompt to crave sleep on the ground. “ if she watches, go bid her sleep ; bid her sleep, for the road is steep : he can sleep who holdeth her cheap, sleep and wake and sleep again. let him sow, one day he shall reap, let him sow the grain. " when there blows a sweet garden rose, let it bloom and wither if no man knows : but if one knows when the sweet thing blows, knows, and lets it open and drop, if but a nettle his garden grows he hath earned the crop.” through his sleep the summons rang, into his ears it sobbed and it sang. slow he woke with a drowsy pang, shook himself without much debate, turned where he saw green branches hang, started though late. for the black land was travelled o'er, he should see the grim land no more. a flowering country stretched before his face when the lovely day came back : he hugged the phial of life he bore, and resumed his track. the prince's progress. by willow courses he took his path, spied what a nest the kingfisher hath, marked the fields green to aftermath, marked where the red-brown field-mouse ran, loitered a while for a deep stream bath, yawned for a fellow-man. up on the hills not a soul in view, in the vale not many nor few; leaves, still leaves and nothing new. it's oh for a second maiden, at least, to bear the flagon, and taste it too, and flavour the feast. lagging he moved, and apt to swerve; lazy of limb, but quick of nerve. at length the water-bed took a curve, the deep river swept its bankside bare ; waters streamed from the hill-reserve- waters here, waters there. high above, and deep below, bursting, bubbling, swelling the flow, like hill torrents after the snow,— bubbling, gurgling, in whirling strife, swaying, sweeping to and fro,— he must swim for his life. which way ?—which way ?his eyes grew dim with the dizzying whirl—which way to swim ? the thunderous downshoot deafened him; the prince's progress. half he choked in the lashing spray : life is sweet, and the grave is grim- which way ?—which way? a flash of light, a shout from the strand : “ this way—this way; here lies the land!” his phial clutched in one drowning hand; he catches—misses—catches a rope; his feet slip on the slipping sand : is there life?—is there hope ? just saved, without pulse or breath- scarcely saved from the gulp of death ; laid where a willow shadoweth- laid where a swelling turf is smooth. (o bride ! but the bridegroom lingereth for all thy sweet youth.) kind hands do and undo, kind voices whisper and coo: “i will chafe his hands"_“and i”—“and you raise his head, put his hair aside." (if many laugh, one well may rue : sleep on, thou bride.) so the prince was tended with care : one wrung foul ooze from his clustered hair ; two chafed his hands, and did not spare; but one propped his head that drooped awry : till his eyes oped, and at unaware they met eye to eye. d the prince's progress. oh, a moon face in a shadowy place, and a light touch and a winsome grace, and a thrilling tender voice which says: “safe from waters that seek the sea- cold waters by rugged ways- safe with me.” while overhead bird whistles to bird, and round about plays a gamesome herd : “safe with us”—some take up the word- “safe with us, dear lord and friend : all the sweeter if long deferred is rest in the end." had he stayed to weigh and to scan, he had been more or less than a man : he did what a young man can, spoke of toil and an arduous way— toil to-morrow, while golden ran the sands of to-day. slip past, slip fast, uncounted hours from first to last, many hours till the last is past, many hours dwindling to one- one hour whose die is cast, one last hour gone. come, gone-gone for ever- gone as an unreturning river- gone as to death the merriest liver- the prince's progress. . gone as the year at the dying fall- tomorrow, to-day, yesterday, never- gone once for all. came at length the starting-day, with last words, and last, last words to say, with bodiless cries from far away, chiding wailing voices that rang like a trumpet-call to the tug and fray ; and thus they sang : “is there life ?—the lamp burns low; is there hope ?—the coming is slow : the promise promised so long ago, the long promise, has not been kept. does she live !-does she die she slumbers so who so oft has wept. “does she live ?-does she die ?—she languisheth as a lily drooping to death, as a drought-worn bird with failing breath, as a lovely vine without a stay, as a tree whereof the owner saith, “hew it down to-day.'” stung by that word the prince was fain to start on his tedious road again. he crossed the stream where a ford was plain, he clomb the opposite bank though steep, and swore to himself to strain and attain ere he tasted sleep. the prince's progress. huge before him a mountain frowned with foot of rock on the valley ground, and head with snows incessant crowned, and a cloud mantle about its strength, and a path which the wild goat hath not found in its breadth and length. but he was strong to do and dare : if a host had withstood him there, he had braved a host with little care in his lusty youth and his pride, tough to grapple though weak to snare. he comes, o bride. up he went where the goat scarce clings, up where the eagle folds her wings, past the green line of living things, where the sun cannot warm the cold, — up he went as a flame enrings where there seems no hold. up a fissure barren and black, till the eagles tired upon his track, and the clouds were left behind his back, up till the utmost peak was past, then he gasped for breath and his strength fell slack he paused at last. before his face a valley spread where fatness laughed, wine, oil, and bread, where all fruit-trees their sweetness shed, the prince's progress. where all birds made love to their kind, where jewels twinkled, and gold lay red and not hard to find. midway down the mountain side (on its green slope the path was wide) stood a house for a royal bride, built all of changing opal stone, the royal palace, till now descried in his dreams alone. less bold than in days of yore, doubting now though never before, doubting he goes and lags the more : is the time late ? does the day grow dim ? rose, will she open the crimson core of her heart to him ? above his head a tangle glows of wine-red roses, blushes, snows, closed buds and buds that unclose, leaves, and moss, and prickles too ; his hand shook as he plucked a rose, and the rose dropped dew. take heart of grace ! the potion of life may go far to woo him a wife : _ if she frown, yet a lover's strife lightly raised can be laid again : a hasty word is never the knife to cut love in twain. the prince's progress. far away stretched the royal land, fed by dew, by a spice-wind fanned : light labour more, and his foot would stand on the threshold, all labour done; easy pleasure laid at his hand, and the dear bride won. his slackening steps pause at the gate- does she wake or sleep?—the time is late- does she sleep now, or watch and wait? she has watched, she has waited long, watching athwart the golden grate with a patient song. fling the golden portals wide, the bridegroom comes to his promised bride ; draw the gold-stiff curtains aside, let them look on each other's face, she in her meekness, he in his pride- day wears apace. day is over, the day that worë. what is this that comes through the door, the face covered, the feet before ? this that coming takes his breath; this bride not seen, to be seen no more save of bridegroom death ? veiled figures carrying her sweep by yet make no stir ; there is a smell of spice and myrrh, the prince's progress. a bride-chant burdened with one name; the bride-song rises steadier than the torches flame: “too late for love, too late for joy, too late, too late ! you loitered on the road too long, you trifled at the gate : the enchanted dove upon her branch died without a mate; the enchanted princess in her tower slept, died, behind the grate; her heart was starving all this while you made it wait “ten years ago, five years ago, one year ago, even then you had arrived in time, though somewhat slow; then you had known her living face which now you cannot know : the frozen fountain would have leaped, the buds gone on to blow, the warm south wind would have awaked to melt the snow. “ is she fair now as she lies ? once she was fair; meet queen for any kingly king, with gold-dust on her hair. the prince's progress. now these are poppies in her locks, white poppies she must wear; must wear a veil to shroud her face and the want graven there : or is the hunger fed at length, cast off the care ? “we never saw her with a smile or with a frown; her bed seemed never soft to her, though tossed of down; she little heeded what she wore, kirtle, or wreath, or gown; we think her white brows often ached beneath her crown, till silvery hairs showed in her locks that used to be so brown. “we never heard her speak in haste : her tones were sweet, and modulated just so much as it was meet : her heart sat silent through the noise and concourse of the street. there was no hurry in her hands, no hurry in her feet; there was no bliss drew nigh to her, that she might run to greet. feet: maiden-song. half the fishes of the streams would dart up to admire : but when margaret plucked a flag-flower, or poppy hot aflame, all the beasts and all the birds and all the fishes came to her hand more soft than snow. strawberry leaves and may-dew in brisk morning air, strawberry leaves and may-dew make maidens fair. “i go for strawberry leaves," meggan said one day : “fair margaret can bide at home, but you come with me, may ; up the hill and down the hill, along the winding way you and i are used to go." so these two fair sisters went with innocent will up the hill and down again, and round the homestead hill : while the fairest sat at home, margaret like a queen, like a blush-rose, like the moon in her heavenly sheen, . fragrant-breathed as milky cow or field of blossoming bean, maiden-song. graceful as an ivy bough born to cling and lean ; thus she sat to sing and sew. when she raised her lustrous eyes a beast peeped at the door ; when she downward cast her eyes a fish gasped on the floor ; when she turned away her eyes a bird perched on the sill, warbling out its heart of love, warbling warbling still, with pathetic pleadings low. light-foot may with meggan sought the choicest spot, clothed with thyme-alternate grass : then, while day waxed hot, sat at ease to play and rest, a gracious rest and play ; the loveliest maidens near or far, when margaret was away, who sat at home to sing and sew. sun-glow flushed their comely cheeks, wind-play tossed their hair, creeping things among the grass stroked them here and there ; meggan piped a merry note, a fitful wayward lay, maiden-song. while shrill as bird on topmost twig piped merry may; honey-smooth the double flow. sped a herdsman from the vale, mounting like a flame, all on fire to hear and see, with floating locks he came. looked neither north nor south, neither east nor west, but sat him down at meggan's feet as love-bird on his nest, and wooed her with a silent awe, with trouble not expressed; she sang the tears into his eyes, the heart out of his breast : so he loved her, listening so. she sang the heart out of his breast, the words out of his tongue ; hand and foot and pulse he paused till her song was sung. then he spoke up from his place simple words and true : “scanty goods have i to give, scanty skill to woo ; but i have a will to work, and a heart for you : bid me stay or bid me go.” · maiden-song. then meggan mused within herself : “better be first with him, than dwell where fairer margaret sits, who shines my brightness dim, for ever second where she sits, however fair i be: i will be lady of his love, and he shall worship me; i will be lady of his herds and stoop to his degree, at home where kids and fatlings grow.” sped a shepherd from the height headlong down to look, (white lambs followed, lured by love of their shepherd's crook) : he turned neither east nor west, neither north nor south, but knelt right down to may, for love of her sweet-singing mouth ; forgot his flocks, his panting flocks in parching hill-side drouth ; forgot himself for weal or woe. trilled her song and swelled her song with maiden coy caprice in a labyrinth of throbs, pauses, cadences ; clear-noted as a dropping brook, soft-noted like the bees, maiden-song. wild-noted as the shivering wind forlorn through forest trees : love-noted like the wood-pigeon who hides herself for love, yet cannot keep her secret safe, but coos and coos thereof: thus the notes rang loud of low. he hung breathless on her breath ; speechless, who listened well; could not speak or think or wish till silence broke the spell. then he spoke, and spread his hands, pointing here and there : “see my sheep and see the lambs, twin lambs which they bare. all myself i offer you, all my flocks and care, your sweet song hath moved me so.” in her fluttered heart young may mused a dubious while : “ if he loves me as he says”— her lips curved with a smile : “where margaret shines like the sun i shine but like a moon; if sister meggan makes her choice i can make mine as soon ; at cockcrow we were sister-maids, we may be brides at noon." said meggan, “ yes ;” may said not “ no." maiden-song. fair margaret stayed alone at home, awhile she sang her song, awhile sat silent, then she thought : “my sisters loiter long." that sultry noon had waned away, shadows had waxen great : "surely," she thought within herself, “my sisters loiter late.” she rose, and peered out at the door, with patient heart to wait, and heard a distant nightingale complaining of its mate; then down the garden slope she walked, down to the garden gate, leaned on the rail and waited so. the slope was lightened by her eyes like summer lightning fair, like rising of the haloed moon lightened her glimmering hair, while her face lightened like the sun whose dawn is rosy white. thus crowned with maiden majesty she peered into the night, looked up the hill and down the hill, to left hand and to right, flashing like fire-flies to and fro. waiting thus in weariness she marked the nightingale maiden-song. telling, if any one would heed, . its old complaining tale. then lifted she her voice and sang, answering the bird : then lifted she her voice and sang, such notes were never heard from any bird when spring's in blow. the king of all that country coursing far, coursing near, curbed his amber-bitted steed, coursed amain to hear; all his princes in his train, squire, and knight, and peer, with his crown upon his head, his sceptre in his hand, down he fell at margaret's knees lord king of all that land, to her highness bending low. every beast and bird and fish, came mustering to the sound, every man and every maid from miles of country round: meggan on her herdsman's arm, with her shepherd may, flocks and herds trooped at their heels along the hill-side way; no foot too feeble for the ascent, not any head too grey; some were swift and none were slow.' maiden-song. so margaret sang her sisters home in their marriage mirth ; sang free birds out of the sky, beasts along the earth, sang up fishes of the deep- all breathing things that move sang from far and sang from near to her lovely love; sang together friend and foe; sang a golden-bearded king straightway to her feet, sang him silent where he knelt in eager anguish sweet. but when the clear voice died away, when longest echoes died, he stood up like a royal man and claimed her for his bride. so three maids were wooed and won in a brief may-tide, long ago and long ago. o "su dream land.. dream land. there sunless rivers weep " their waves into the deep, she sleeps a charmed sleep: awake her not. led by a single star, she came from very far to seek where shadows are her pleasant lot. she left the rosy morn, she left the fields of corn, for twilight cold and lorn and water springs. through sleep, as through a veil, she sees the sky look pale, and hears the nightingale that sadly sings. rest, rest, a perfect rest shed over brow and breast; her face is toward the west the purple land. she cannot see the grain ripening on hill and plain ; she cannot feel the rain upon her hand. at home. rest, rest, for evermore upon a mossy shore; rest, rest at the heart's core till time shall cease : sleep that no pain shall wake ; night that no morn shall break till joy shall overtake her perfect peace. at home. vhen i was dead, my spirit turned to seek the much-frequented house : i passed the door, and saw my friends feasting beneath green orange boughs; from hand to hand they pushed the wine, they sucked the pulp of plum and peach ; they sang, they jested, and they laughed, for each was loved of each. i listened to their honest chat : said one: “ to-morrow we shall be plod plod along the featureless sands, and coasting miles and miles of sea.” said one: “before the turn of tide we will achieve the eyrie-seat.” said one: “to-morrow shall be like to-day, but much more sweet.” the poor ghost. “ to-morrow," said they, strong with hope, and dwelt upon the pleasant way : “ to-morrow,” cried they one and all, while no one spoke of yesterday. their life stood full at blessed noon ; i, only i, had passed away : “ to-morrow and to-day,” they cried ; i was of yesterday. i shivered comfortless, but cast no chill across the tablecloth ; i all-forgotten shivered, sad to stay and yet to part how loth : i passed from the familiar room, i who from love had passed away, like the remembrance of a guest that tarrieth but a day. the poor ghost. “oh whence do you come, my dear friend, to me, v with your golden hair all fallen below your knee, and your face as white as snowdrops on the lea, and your voice as hollow as the hollow sea ?” “ from the other world i come back to you, my locks are uncurled with dripping drenching dew. you know the old, whilst i know the new : but tomorrow you shall know this too." the poor ghost. “oh not to-morrow into the dark, i pray ; oh not to-morrow, too soon to go away : here i feel warm and well-content and gay : give me another year, another day.” “ am i so changed in a day and a night that mine own only love shrinks from me with fright, is fain to turn away to left or right and cover up his eyes from the sight?” “indeed i loved you, my chosen friend, i loved you for life, but life has an end ; through sickness i was ready to tend : but death mars all, which we cannot mend. “indeed i loved you ; i love you yet, if you will stay where your bed is set, where i have planted a violet which the wind waves, which the dew makes wet.” “life is gone, then love too is gone, it was a reed that i leant upon : never doubt i will leave you alone and not wake you rattling bone with bone. “i go home alone to my bed, dug deep at the foot and deep at the head, roofed in with a load of lead, warm enough for the forgotten dead. grown and flown. “but why did your tears soak through the clay, and why did your sobs wake me where i lay? i was away, far enough away : let me sleep now till the judgment day.” grown and flown. i loved my love from green of spring until sere autumn's fall; but now that leaves are withering how should one love at all ? one heart's too small for hunger, cold, love, everything. i loved my love on sunny days until late summer's wane ; but now that frost begins to glaze how should one love again ? nay, love and pain walk wide apart in diverse ways. i loved my love—alas to see . that this should be, alas ! i thought that this could scarcely be, yet has it come to pass : sweet sweet love was, now bitter bitter grown to me. a farm walk. a farm walk. the year stood at its equinox and bluff the north was blowing, a bleat of lambs came from the flocks, green hardy things were growing ; i met a maid with shining locks where milky kine were lowing. she wore a kerchief on her neck, her bare arm showed its dimple, her apron spread without a speck, her air was frank and simple. she milked into a wooden pail and sang a country ditty, an innocent fond lovers' tale, that was not wise nor witty, pathetically rustical, too pointless for the city. she kept in time without a beat as true as church-bell ringers, unless she tapped time with her feet, or squeezed it with her fingers ; her clear unstudied notes were sweet as many a practised singer's. a farm walk. i stood a minute out of sight, stood silent for a minute to eye the pail, and creamy white the frothing milk within it; to eye the comely milking maid herself so fresh and creamy: “good day to you,” at last i said; she turned her head to see me: “good day,” she said with lifted head; her eyes looked soft and dreamy, and all the while she milked and milked the grave cow heavy-laden : i've seen grand ladies plumed and silked, but not a sweeter maiden ; but not a sweeter fresher maid than this in homely cotton, whose pleasant face and silky braid i have not yet forgotten. seven springs have passed since then, as i count with a sober sorrow; seven springs have come and passed me by, and spring sets in to-morrow. i've half a mind to shake myself free just for once from london, to set my work upon the shelf and leave it done or undone ; a farm walk. to run down by the early train, whirl down with shriek and whistle, and feel the bluff north blow again, and mark the sprouting thistle set up on waste patch of the lane its green and tender bristle, and spy the scarce-blown violet banks, crisp primrose leaves and others, and watch the lambs leap at their pranks and butt their patient mothers. alas, one point in all my plan my serious thoughts demur to : seven years have passed for maid and man, seven years have passed for her too; perhaps my rose is overblown, not rosy or too rosy ; perhaps in farmhouse of her own some husband keeps her cosy, where i should show a face unknown.' good-bye, my wayside posy. a portrait. a portrait. che gave up beauty in her tender youth, w gave all her hope and joy and pleasant ways; she covered up her eyes lest they should gaze on vanity, and chose the bitter truth. harsh towards herself, towards others full of ruth, servant of servants, little known to praise, long prayers and fasts trenched on her nights and days : she schooled herself to sights and sounds uncouth that with the poor and stricken she might make a home, until the least of all sufficed her wants ; her own self learned she to forsake, counting all earthly gain but hurt and loss. so with calm will she chose and bore the cross and hated all for love of jesus christ. ii. they knelt in silent anguish by her bed, and could not weep; but calmly there she lay, all pain had left her; and the sun's last ray shone through upon her, warming into red the shady curtains. in her heart she said : “heaven opens; i leave these and go away ; the bridegroom calls,—shall the bride seek to stay?" then low upon her breast she bowed her head. by the sea. o lily flower, o gem of priceless worth, o dove with patient voice and patient eyes, o fruitful vine amid a land of dearth, o maid replete with loving purities, thou bowedst down thy head with friends on earth to raise it with the saints in paradise. by the sea. w hy does the sea moan evermore? shut out from heaven it makes its moan, it frets against the boundary shore ; all earth’s full rivers cannot fill the sea, that drinking thirsteth still. sheer miracles of loveliness lie hid in its unlooked-on bed : anemones, salt, passionless, blow flower-like; just enough alive to blow and multiply and thrive. shells quaint with curve, or spot, or spike, encrusted live things argus-eyed, all fair alike, yet all unlike, are born without a pang, and die without a pang, and so pass by. gone for ever. gone for ever. happy rosebud blooming upon thy parent tree, nay, thou art too presuming ; for soon the earth entombing thy faded charms shall be, and the chill damp consuming. o happy skylark springing up to the broad blue sky, too fearless in thy winging, too gladsome in thy singing, thou also soon shalt lie where no sweet notes are ringing. and through life's shine and shower we shall have joy and pain ; but in the summer bower, and at the morning hour, we still shall look in vain for the same bird and flower. love from the north. t had a love in soft south land, beloved through april far in may ; he waited on my lightest breath, and never dared to say me nay. love from the north. he saddened if my cheer was sad, but gay he grew if i was gay; we never differed on a hair, my yes his yes, my nay his nay. the wedding hour was come, the aisles were flushed with sun and flowers that day; i pacing balanced in my thoughts : “it's quite too late to think of nay.”— my bridegroom answered in his turn, myself had almost answered “yea :" when through the flashing nave i heard a struggle and resounding “nay.” bridemaids and bridegroom shrank in fear, but i stood high who stood at bay: “and if i answer yea, fair sir, what man art thou to bar with nay?" he was a strong man from the north, light-locked, with eyes of dangerous grey : “put yea by for another time in which i will not say thee nay." he took me in his strong white arms, he bore me on his horse away q’er crag, morass, and hairbreadth pass, but never asked me yea or nay. maggie a lady. - they said i looked so pale—some say so fair- my lord stopped in passing to soothe me back to life: i know i missed a ringlet from my hair · next morning; and now i am his wife. look at my gown, philip, and look at my ring, i'm all crimson and gold from top to toe : all day long i sit in the sun and sing, where in the sun red roses blush and blow. and i'm the rose of roses, says my lord ; and to him i'm more than the sun in the sky, while i hold him fast with the golden cord of a curl, with the eyelash of an eye. his mother said “fie," and his sisters cried “ shame,” his highborn ladies cried “shame "from their place : they said “fie” when they only heard my name, but fell silent when they saw my face. am i so fair, philip? philip, did you think i was so fair when we played boy and girl where blue forget-me-nots bloomed on the brink of our stream which the mill-wheel sent awhirl ? if i was fair then sure i'm fairer now, sitting where a score of servants stand, with a coronet on high days for my brow and almost a sceptre for my hand. from sunset to star rise. you're but a sailor, philip, weatherbeaten brown, a stranger on land and at home on the sea, coasting as best you may from town to town : coasting along do you often think of me? i'm a great lady in a sheltered bower, with hands grown white through having nought to do: yet sometimes i think of you hour after hour till i nigh wish myself a child with you. from sunset to star rise. co from me, summer friends, and tarry not : i am no summer friend, but wintry cold, a silly sheep benighted from the fold, a sluggard with a thorn-choked garden plot. take counsel, sever from my lot your lot, dwell in your pleasant places, hoard your gold; lest you with me should shiver on the wold, athirst and hungering on a barren spot. for i have hedged me with a thorny hedge, i live alone, i look to die alone: yet sometimes when a wind sighs through the sedge ghosts of my buried years and friends come back, my heart goes sighing after swallows flown on sometime summer's unreturning track. spring quiet. spring quiet. cone were but the winter, come were but the spring, i would go to a covert where the birds sing. where in the whitethorn singeth a thrush, and a robin sings in the holly-bush. full of fresh scents are the budding boughs arching high over a cool green house : . full of sweet scents, and whispering air which sayeth softly : “we spread no snare; “here dwell in safety, here dwell alone, with a clear stream and a mossy stone. “ here the sun shineth most shadily; here is heard an echo of the far sea, though far off it be." winter rain. winter rain. every valley drinks, every dell and hollow; where the kind rain sinks and sinks, green of spring will follow. yet a lapse of weeks buds will burst their edges, strip their wool-coats, gļue-coats, streaks, in the woods and hedges.'s d vi. weave a bower of love for birds to meet each other, weave a canopy above nest and egg and mother. but for fattening rain we should have no flowers, never a bud or leaf again but for soaking showers ; never a mated bird in the rocking tree-tops, never indeed a flock or herd to graze upon the lea-crops. lambs so woolly white, sheep the sun-bright leas on, vanity of vanities. they could have no grass to bite but for rain in season. we should find no moss in the shadiest places, find no waving meadow grass pied with broad-eyed daisies : but miles of barren sand, with never a son or daughter, not a lily on the land, or lily on the water. vanity of vanities. sonnet. ah, h, woe is me for pleasure that is vain, ah, woe is me for glory that is past ; pleasure that bringeth sorrow at the last, glory that at the last bringeth no gain ! so saith the sinking heart; and so again it shall say till the mighty angel-blast is blown, making the sun and moon aghast, and showering down the stars like sudden rain. and evermore men shall go fearfully bending beneath their weight of heaviness; and ancient men shall lie down wearily, and strong men shall rise up in weariness ; yea, even the young shall answer sighingly, . saying one to another : how vain it is ! days of vanity. days of vanity. a dream that waketh, bubble that breaketh, song whose burden sigheth, a passing breath, smoke that vanisheth,— such is life that dieth. a flower that fadeth, fruit the tree sheddeth, trackless bird that fieth, summer time brief, falling of the leaf,- such is life that dieth. a scent exhaling, snow waters failing, morning dew that drieth, a windy blast, lengthening shadows cast,- such is life that dieth. a scanty measure, rust-eaten treasure, spending that nought buyeth, moth on the wing, toil unprofiting, — such is life that dieth. the ghost's petition. morrow by morrow sorrow breeds sorrow, for this my song sigheth ; from day to night we lapse out of sight - such is life that dieth. the ghost's petition. “there's a footstep coming; look out and see.”— “the leaves are falling, the wind is calling ; no one cometh across the lea.”— “there's a footstep coming ; o sister, look.”— “the ripple flashes, the white foam dashes; no one cometh across the brook.”— “but he promised that he would come : to-night, to-morrow, in joy or sorrow, he must keep his word, and must come home. “for he promised that he would come : his word was given ; from earth or heaven, he must keep his word, and must come home. “go to sleep, my sweet sister jane; you can slumber, who need not number hour after hour, in doubt and pain. “i shall sit here awhile, and watch ; listening, hoping, for one hand groping in deep shadow to find the latch.” the ghost's petition. after the dark, and before the light, one lay sleeping; and one sat weeping, who had watched and wept the weary night. after the night, and before the day, one lay sleeping; and one sat weeping- watching, weeping for one away. there came a footstep climbing the stair ; some one standing out on the landing shook the door like a puff of air- shook the door and in he passed. did he enter? in the room centre stood her husband : the door shut fast. “o robin, but you are cold- chilled with the night-dew : so lily-white you look like a stray lamb from our fold. “o robin, but you are late : come and sit near me—sit here and cheer me.”— (blue the flame burnt in the grate.) “ lay not down your head on my breast : i cannot hold you, kind wife, nor fold you in the shelter that you love best. “feel not after my clasping hand : i am but a shadow, come from the meadow where many lie, but no tree can stand. the ghost's petition. “we are trees which have shed their leaves : our heads lie low there, but no tears flow there ; only i grieve for my wife who grieves. “i could rest if you would not moan hour after hour; i have no power to shut my ears where i lie alone. “i could rest if you would not cry; but there's no sleeping while you sit weeping- watching, weeping so bitterly.”— “woe's me! woe's me! for this i have heard. oh, night of sorrow !oh, black to-morrow! is it thus that you keep your word ? “o you who used so to shelter me warm from the least wind—why, now the east wind is warmer than you, whom i quake to see. “o my husband of flesh and blood, for whom my mother i left, and brother, and all i had, accounting it good, “what do you do there, underground, in the dark hollow? i'm fain to follow. what do you do there ?—what have you found ?”— “what i do there i must not tell : but i have plenty: kind wife, content ye: it is well with us—it is well. once for all. “tender hand hath made our nest ; our fear is ended, our hope is blended with present pleasure, and we have rest.”- “oh, but robin, i'm fain to come if your present days are so pleasant, for my days are so wearisome. “yet i'll dry my tears for your sake : why should i tease you, who cannot please you any more with the pains i take?” once for all. (margaret.) i said: this is a beautiful fresh rose. i said : i will delight me with its scent; will watch its lovely curve of languishment, will watch its leaves unclose, its heart unclose. i said : old earth has put away her snows, all living things make merry to their bent, a flower is come for every flower that went in autumn, the sun glows, the south wind blows. so walking in a garden of delight i came upon one sheltered shadowed nook where broad leaf shadows veiled the day with night, and there lay snow unmelted by the sun :- i answered : take who will the path i took, winter nips once for all ; love is but one. enrica. enrica, . che came among us from the south and made the north her home awhile ; our dimness brightened in her smile, our tongue grew sweeter in her mouth. we chilled beside her liberal glow, she dwarfed us by her ampler scale, her full-blown blossom made us pale, she summer-like and we like snow. we englishwomen, trim, correct, all minted in the self-same mould, warm-hearted but of semblance cold, all-courteous out of self-respect. she woman in her natural grace, less trammelled she by lore of school, courteous by nature not by rule, warm-hearted and of cordial face. so for awhile she made her home among us in the rigid north, she who from italy came forth and scaled the alps and crossed the foam. but if she found us like our sea, of aspect colourless and chill, rock-girt; like it she found us still deep at our deepest, strong and free. a chill. a chill. nhat can lambkins do all the keen night through? nestle by their woolly mother the careful ewe. what can nestlings do in the nightly dew? sleep beneath their mother's wing tin day breaks anew. if in field or tree there might only be such a warm soft sleeping-place found for me! somewhere or other. comewhere or other there must surely be w the face not seen, the voice not heard, the heart that not yet—never yet-ah me! made answer to my word. somewhere or other, may be near or far ; past land and sea, clean out of sight; beyond the wandering moon, beyond the star that tracks her night by night. noble sisters. somewhere or other, may be far or near; with just a wall, a hedge, between ; with just the last leaves of the dying year fallen on a turf grown green. noble sisters. “now did you mark a falcon, " sister dear, sister dear, flying toward my window in the morning cool and clear? with jingling bells about her neck, but what beneath her wing? it may have been a ribbon, or it may have been a ring.”— “i marked a falcon swooping at the break of day : and for your love, my sister dove, i 'frayed the thief away.”— “or did you spy a ruddy hound, sister fair and tall, went snuffing round my garden bound, or crouched by my bower wall ? with a silken leash about his neck; but in his mouth may be a chain of gold and silver links, or a letter writ to me.”— noble sisters. “i heard a hound, highborn sister, stood baying at the moon : i rose and drove him from your wall lest you should wake too soon.”— “or did you meet a pretty page sat swinging on the gate ; sat whistling whistling like a bird, or may be slept too late : with eaglets broidered on his cap, and eaglets on his glove ? if you had turned his pockets out, you had found some pledge of love.”— “i met him at this daybreak, scarce the east was red : lest the creaking gate should anger you, i packed him home to bed.”— “oh patience, sister. did you see a young man tall and strong, swift-footed to uphold the right and to uproot the wrong, come home across the desolate sea to woo me for his wife? and in his heart my heart is locked, and in his life my life.”— “i met a nameless man, sister, who loitered round our door : i said : her husband loves her much. and yet she loves him more.”— jessie cameron. “fie, sister, fie, a wicked lie, a lie, a wicked lie, i have none other love but him, nor will have till i die. and you have turned him from our door, and stabbed him with a lie : i will go seek him thro' the world in sorrow till i die.”— “go seek in sorrow, sister, and find in sorrow too: if thus you shame our father's name my curse go forth with you." jessie cameron. “ jessie, jessie cameron, . j hear me but this once,” quoth he. “good luck go with you, neighbour's son, but i'm no mate for you,” quoth she. day was verging toward the night there beside the moaning sea, dimness overtook the light there where the breakers be. “o jessie, jessie cameron, i have loved you long and true.”— “good luck go with you, neighbour's son, but i'm no mate for you." jessie cameron. she was a careless, fearless girl, and made her answer plain,, outspoken she to earl or churl, kindhearted in the main, but somewhat heedless with her tongue and apt at causing pain ; a mirthful maiden she and young, most fair for bliss or bane. “oh, long ago i told you so, i tell you so to-day : go you your way, and let me go just my own free way.” the sea swept in with moan and foam quickening the stretch of sand ; they stood almost in sight of home; he strove to take her hand. “oh, can't you take your answer then, and won't you understand ? for me you're not the man of men, i've other plans are planned. you're good for madge, or good for cis, or good for kate, may be : but what's to me the good of this while you're not good for me?” they stood together on the beach, they two alone, and louder waxed his urgent speech, his patience almost gone : jessie cameron. ** oh, say but one kind word to me, jessie, jessie cameron.”— “i'd be too proud to beg," quoth she, and pride was in her tone. and pride was in her lifted head, and in her angry eye, and in her foot, which might have fled, but would not fly. some say that he had gipsy blood, that in his heart was guile : yet he had gone through fire and flood only to win her smile. some say his grandam was a witch, a black witch from beyond the nile, who kept an image in a niche and talked with it the while. and by her hut far down the lane some say they would not pass at night, lest they should hear an unked strain or see an unked sight. alas, for jessie cameron ! the sea crept moaning, moaning nigher : she should have hastened to begone, the sea swept higher, breaking by her: she should have hastened to her home • while yet the west was flushed with fire, but now her feet are in the foam, the sea-foam sweeping higher. summer. before the daisy grows a common flower, before the sun has power to scorch the world up in his noontide hour. there is no time like spring, like spring that passes by; there is no life like spring-life born to die, piercing the sod, . clothing the uncouth clod, hatched in the nest, fledged on the windy bough, strong on the wing : there is no time like spring that passes by, now newly born, and now hastening to die. summer. w inter is cold-hearted, spring is yea and nay, autumn is a weather-cock blown every way : summer days for me when every leaf is on its tree; when robin's not a beggar, and jenny wren's a bride, and larks hang singing, singing, singing, autumn. over the wheat-fields wide, and anchored lilies ride, and the pendulum spider swings from side to side, and blue-black beetles transact business, and gnats fly in a host, and furry caterpillars hasten that no time be lost, and moths grow fat and thrive, and ladybirds arrive. before green apples blush, before green nuts embrown, why, one day in the country is worth a month in town; is worth a day and a year of the dusty, musty, lag-last fashion that days drone elsewhere. autumn. dwell alone—i dwell alone, alone, whilst full my river flows down to the sea, gilded with flashing boats that bring no friend to me: o love-songs, gurgling from a hundred throats, . o love-pangs, let me be. autumn. fair fall the freighted boats which gold and stone and spices bear to sea : slim, gleaming maidens swell their mellow notes, love-promising, entreating- ah ! sweet, but fleeting — beneath the shivering, snow-white sails. hush ! the wind flags and fails— . hush! they will lie becalmed in sight of strand- sight of my strand, where i do dwell alone ; their songs wake singing echoes in my land- they cannot hear me moan. one latest, solitary swallow flies across the sea, rough autumn-tempest tost, poor bird, shall it be lost ? dropped down into this uncongenial sea, with no kind eyes to watch it while it dies, unguessed, uncared for, free : set free at last, the short pang past, in sleep, in death, in dreamless sleep locked fast. mine avenue is all a growth of oaks, some rent by thunder strokes, some rustling leaves and acorns in the breeze; fair fall my fertile trees, that rear their goodly heads, and live at ease. a spider's web blocks all mine avenue ; he catches down and foolish painted flies that spider wary and wise. autumn. each morn it hangs a rainbow strung with dew betwixt boughs green with sap, so fair, few creatưres guess it is a trap : i will not mar the web, though sad i am to see the small lives ebb. it shakes—my trees shake-for a wind is roused in cavern where it housed : each white and quivering sail, of boats among the water leaves hollows and strains in the full-throated gale: each maiden sings again- each languid maiden, whom the calm had lulled to sleep with rest and spice and balm. miles down my river to the sea they float and wane, long miles away from me. perhaps they say: “she grieves, uplifted, like a beacon, on her tower.” perhaps they say: “one hour more, and we dance among the golden sheaves.” . perhaps they say: “one hour more, and we stand, face to face, hand in hand ; make haste, o slack gale, to the looked-for land !” my trees are not in flower, i have no bower, and gusty creaks my tower, and lonesome, very lonesome, is my strand. winter: my secret. winter: my secret. t tell my secret? no indeed, not i: perhaps some day, who knows? but not to-day; it froze, and blows, and snows, and you're too curious : fie! you want to hear it? well : only, my secret's mine, and i won't tell. or, after all, perhaps there's none : suppose there is no secret after all, but only just my fun. to-day's a nipping day, a biting day; in which one wants a shawl, a veil, a cloak, and other wraps : i cannot ope to every one who taps, and let the draughts come whistling through my hall; come bounding and surrounding me, come buffeting, astounding me, nipping and clipping through my wraps and all. i wear my mask for warmth : who ever shows his nose to russian snows to be pecked at by every wind that blows? you would not peck? i thank you for good will, believe, but leave that truth untested still. spring's an expansive time : yet i don't trust march with its peck of dust, autumn violets. nor april with its rainbow-crowned brief showers, nor even may, whose flowers one frost may wither through the sunless hours. perhaps some languid summer day, when drowsy birds sing less and less, and golden fruit is ripening to excess, if there's not too much sun nor too much cloud, and the warm wind is neither still nor loud, perhaps my secret i may say, or you may guess. autumn violets. k eep love for youth, and violets for the spring : or if these bloom when worn-out autumn grieves, let them lie hid in double shade of leaves, their own, and others dropped down withering ; for violets suit when home birds build and sing, not when the outbound bird a passage cleaves ; not with dry stubble of mown harvest sheaves, but when the green world buds to blossoming. keep violets for the spring, and love for youth, love that should dwell with beauty, mirth, and hope: or if a later sadder love be born, let this not look for grace beyond its scope, but give itself, nor plead for answering truth- a grateful ruth tho' gleaning scanty corn. a bird's-eye view. a dirge. w hy were you born when the snow was falling ? " you should have come to the cuckoo's calling, or when grapes are green in the cluster, or, at least, when, lithe swallows muster for their far off flying from summer dying. why did you die when the lambs were cropping? you should have died at the apples' dropping, when the grasshopper comes to trouble, and the wheat-fields are sodden stubble, and all winds go sighing for sweet things dying. a bird's-eye view. “ croak, croak, croak," thus the raven spoke, perched on his crooked tree as hoarse as hoarse could be. shun him and fear him, lest the bridegroom hear him; scout him and rout him with his ominous eye about him. a bird's-eye view. yet, “ croak, croak, croak," still tolled from the oak; from that fatal black bird, whether heard or unheard : “o ship upon the high seas, freighted with lives and spices, sink, o ship,” croaked the raven : “let the bride mount to heaven.” in a far foreign land upon the wave-edged sand, some friends gaze wistfully across the glittering sea. “if we could clasp our sister," three say, “ now we have missed her !” “if we could kiss our daughter !” two sigh across the water. oh, the ship sails fast with silken flags at the mast, and the home-wind blows soft; but a raven sits aloft, chuckling and choking, croaking, croaking, croaking : let the beacon-fire blaze higher ; bridegroom, watch ; the bride draws nigher. on a sloped sandy beach, which the spring-tide billows reach, stand a watchful throng who have hoped and waited long : a bird's-eye view. . “fie on this ship, that tarries with the priceless freight it carries. the time seems long and longer : o languid wind, wax stronger ;"— whilst the raven perched at ease still croaks and does not cease, one monotonous note tolled from his iron throat : “no father, no mother, but i have a sable brother : he sees where ocean flows to, and he knows what he knows too." a day and a night they kept watch worn and white; a night and a day for the swift ship on its way : for the bride and her maidens -clear chimes the bridal cadence- for the tall ship that never hove in sight for ever. on either shore, some stand in grief loud or dumb as the dreadful dread grows certain though unsaid. for laughter there is weeping, and waking instead of sleeping, and a desperate sorrow morrow after morrow. memory. i took the perfect balances and weighed ; no shaking of my hand disturbed the poise ; weighed, found it wanting : not a word i said, but silent made my choice. none know the choice i made; i make it still. none know the choice i made and broke my heart, breaking mine idol : i have braced my will once, chosen for once my part. i broke it at a blow, i laid it cold, crushed in my deep heart where it used to live. my heart dies inch by inch ; the time grows old, grows old in which i grieve. ii. i have a room whereinto no one enters save i myself alone : there sits a blessed memory on a throne, . there my life centres. while winter comes and goes—oh tedious comer ! and while its nip-wind blows; while bloom the bloodless lily and warm rose of lavish summer. if any should force entrance he might see there one buried yet not dead, before whose face i no more bow my head or bend my knee there; “ they desire a better country. whilst day and night i carry in my hand the golden key to ope the golden door of golden home; yet mine eye weepeth sore, for long the journey is that makes no stand. and who is this that veiled doth walk with thee? lo, this is love that walketh at my right; one exile holds us both, and we are bound to selfsame home-joys in the land of light. weeping thou walkest with him ; weepeth he ? some sobbing weep, some weep and make no sound. iii. a dimness of a glory glimmers here thro' veils and distance from the space remote, a faintest far vibration of a note reaches to us and seems to bring us near ; causing our face to glow with braver cheer, making the serried mist to stand afloat, subduing languor with an antidote, and strengthening love almost to cast out fear : till for one moment golden city walls rise looming on us, golden walls of home,' light of our eyes until the darkness falls; then thro' the outer darkness burdensome i hear again the tender voice that calls, - “follow me hither, follow, rise, and come.” a green cornfield. a green cornfield. “and singing still dost soar and soaring ever singest.” the earth was green, the sky was blue : i saw and heard one sunny morn a skylark hang between the two, a singing speck above the corn; a stage below, in gay accord, white butterflies danced on the wing, and still the singing skylark soared and silent sank and soared to sing. the cornfield stretched a tender green to right and left beside my walks ; i knew he had a nest unseen somewhere among the million stalks : and as i paused to hear his song while swift the sunny moments slid, perhaps his mate sat listening long, and listened longer than i did. the lambs of grasmere. the lambs of grasmere, . the upland flocks grew starved and thinned : their shepherds scarce could feed the lambs whose milkless mothers butted them, or who were orphaned of their dams. the lambs athirst for mother's milk filled all the place with piteous sounds : their mothers' bones made white for miles the pastureless wet pasture grounds. day after day, night after night, from lamb to lamb the shepherds went, with teapots for the bleating mouths, instead of nature's nourishment. the little shivering gaping things soon knew the step that brought them aid, and fondled the protecting hand, and rubbed it with a woolly head. then, as the days waxed on to weeks, it was a pretty sight to see these lambs with frisky heads and tails skipping and leaping on the lea, bleating in tender trustful tones, resting on rocky crag or mound, and following the beloved feet that once had sought for them and found. a bride song. a bride song. through the vales to my love ! to the happy small nest of home green from basement to roof; where the honey-bees come to the window-sill flowers, and dive from above, safe from the spider that weaves her warp and her woof in some outermost leaves. through the vales to my love ! in sweet april hours all rainbows and showers, while dove answers dove, in beautiful may, when the orchards are tender and frothing with flowers, in opulent june, when the wheat stands up slender by sweet-smelling hay, and half the sun's splendour descends to the moon. through the vales to my love ! where the turf is so soft to the feet and the thyme makes it sweet, and the stately foxglove confluents. hangs silent its exquisite bells ; and where water wells the greenness grows greener, and bulrushes stand round a lily to screen her. nevertheless, if this land, like a garden to smell and to sight, were turned to a desert of sand; stripped bare of delight, all its best gone to worst, for my feet no repose, no water to comfort my thirst, and heaven like a furnace above,- the desert would be as gushing of waters to me, the wilderness be as a rose, if it led me to thee, o my love. confluents. a s rivers seek the sea, much more deep than they, so my soul seeks thee far away : as running rivers moan on their course alone, so i moan left alone. remember remember. sonnet. demember me when i am gone away, gone far away into the silent land ; when you can no more hold me by the hand, nor i half turn to go yet turning stay. remember me when no more day by day you tell me of our future that you planned : only remember me; you understand it will be late to counsel then or pray. yet if you should forget me for a while and afterwards remember, do not grieve : for if the darkness and corruption leave a vestige of the thoughts that once i had, better by far you should forget and smile than that you should remember and be sad. after death. after death. sonnet. the curtains were half drawn, the floor was swept and strewn with rushes, rosemary and may lay thick upon the bed on which i lay, where through the lattice ivy-shadows crept. he leaned above me, thinking that i slept and could not hear him ; but i heard him say: “poor child, poor child :” and as he turned away came a deep silence, and i knew he wept. he did not touch the shroud, or raise the fold that hid my face, or take my hand in his, or ruffle the smooth pillows for my head : he did not love me living ; but once dead he pitied me; and very sweet it is to know he still is warm though i am cold. the lowest room. the lowest room. in ike flowers sequestered from the sun and wind of summer, day by day i dwindled paler, whilst my hair showed the first tinge of grey. “ oh what is life, that we should live ? or what is death, that we must die? a bursting bubble is our life : i also, what am i ?” “what is your grief? now tell me, sweet, that i may grieve,” my sister said ; and stayed a white embroidering hand and raised a golden head : her tresses showed a richer mass, her eyes looked softer than my own, her figure had a statelier height, her voice a tenderer tone. “some must be second and not first; all cannot be the first of all : is not this, too, but vanity? i stumble like to fall. the lowest room. “ so yesterday i read the acts of hector and each clangorous king with wrathful great Æacides :- old homer leaves a sting.” the comely face looked up again, the deft hand lingered on the thread : “sweet, tell me what is homer's sting, old homer's sting?” she said. “he stirs my sluggish pulse like wine, he melts me like the wind of spice, strong as strong ajax' red right hand, and grand like juno's eyes. “ i cannot melt the sons of men, i cannot fire and tempest-toss :- besides, those days were golden days, whilst these are days of dross.” she laughed a feminine low laugh, yet did not stay her dexterous hand : “ now tell me of those days,” she said, “when time' ran golden sand.” “ then men were men of might and right, sheer might, at least, and weighty swords ; then men in open blood and fire bore witness to their words, the lowest room. “ crest-rearing kings with whistling spears ; but if these shivered in the shock they wrenched up hundred-rooted trees, or hurled the effacing rock. “ then hand to hand, then foot to foot, stern to the death-grip grappling then, who ever thought of gunpowder amongst these men of men ? “they knew whose hand struck home the death, they knew who broke but would not bend, could venerate an equal foe and scorn a laggard friend. “ calm in the utmost stress of doom, devout toward adverse powers above, they hated with intenser hate and loved with fuller love. “ then heavenly beauty could allay as heavenly beauty stirred the strife : by them a slave was worshipped more than is by us a wife.” she laughed again, my sister laughed; made answer o'er the laboured cloth : “i rather would be one of us than wife, or slave, or both.” iio the lowest room. “oh better then be slave or wife than fritter now blank life away : then night had holiness of night, and day was sacred day. “ the princess laboured at her loom, mistress and handmaiden alike; beneath their needles grew the field with warriors armed to strike. “ or, look again, dim dian's face gleamed perfect through the attendant night; were such not better than those holes amid that waste of white? “ a shame it is, our aimless life; i rather from my heart would feed from silver dish in gilded stall with wheat and wine the steed- “ the faithful steed that bore my lord in safety through the hostile land, the faithful steed that arched his neck to fondle with my hand.” her needle erred; a moment's pause, a moment's patience, all was well. then she : “ but just suppose the horse, suppose the rider fell? the lowest room. ini iii “ then captive in an alien house, hungering on exile's bitter bread, they happy, they who won the lot of sacrifice,” she said. speaking she faltered, while her look showed forth her passion like a glass : with hand suspended, kindling eye, flushed cheek, how fair she was ! “ah well, be those the days of dross; this, if you will, the age of gold : yet had those days a spark of warmth, while these are somewhat cold- “ are somewhat mean and cold and slow, are stunted from heroic growth : we gain but little when we prove the worthlessness of both.” “but life is in our hands," she said : “in our own hands for gain or loss : shall not the sevenfold sacred fire suffice to purge our dross ? “too short a century of dreams, one day of work sufficient length : why should not you, why should not i attain heroic strength ? ii the lowest room. “our life is given us as a blank ; ourselves must make it blest or curst : who dooms me i shall only be the second, not the first ? “ learn from old homer, if you will, such wisdom as his books have said : in one the acts of ajax shine, in one of diomed. “ honoured all heroes whose high deeds through life, through death, enlarge their span: only achilles in his rage and sloth is less than man.” * “ achilles only less than man? he less than man who, half a god, discomfited all greece with rest, cowed ilion with a nod ? “ he offered vengeance, lifelong grief to one dear ghost, uncounted price : beasts, trojans, adverse gods, himself, heaped up the sacrifice. “ self-immolated to his friend, shrined in world's wonder, homer's page, is this the man, the less than men of this degenerate age?” the lowest room. “ gross from his acorns, tusky boar does memorable acts like his ; so for her snared offended young bleeds the swart lioness.” but here she paused; our eyes had met, and i was whitening with the jeer; she rose; “i went too far,” she said ; spoke low ; “ forgive me, dear. “ to me our days seem pleasant days, our home a haven of pure content ; forgive me if i said too much, so much more than i meant. “ homer, though greater than his gods, with rough-hewn virtues was sufficed and rough-hewn men : but what are such to us who learn of christ ?" the much-moved pathos of her voice, her almost tearful, eyes, her cheek grown pale, confessed the strength of love which only made her speak : for mild she was, of few soft words, most gentle, easy to be led, content to listen when i spoke and reverence what i said ; the lowest room. “ this homer felt, who gave his men with glory but a transient state : his very jove could not reverse irrevocable fate. “uncertain all their lot save this— who wins must lose, who lives must die : all trodden out into the dark alike, all vanity.” she scarcely answered when i paused but rather to herself said : “one is here,” low-voiced and loving, “ yea, greater than solomon.” so both were silent, she and i: she laid her work aside, and went into the garden-walks, like spring, all gracious with content; a little graver than her wont, because her words had fretted me; not warbling quite her merriest tune bird-like from tree to tree. i chose a book to read and dream : yet half the while with furtive eyes marked how she made her choice of flowers intuitively wise, the lowest room. and ranged them with instinctive taste which all my books had failed to teach ; fresh rose herself, and daintier than blossom of the peach. by birthright higher than myself, though nestling of the self-same nest : no fault of hers, no fault of mine, but stubborn to digest. i watched her, till my book unmarked slid noiseless to the velvet floor ; till all the opulent summer-world looked poorer than before. just then her busy fingers ceased, her fluttered colour went and came : i knew whose step was on the walk, whose voice would name her name. * * * * * ' well, twenty years have passed since then : my sister now, a stately wife still fair, looks back in peace and sees the longer half of life- the longer half of prosperous life, with little grief, or fear, or fret : she, loved and loving long ago, is loved and loving yet. the lowest room. while i ? i sat alone and watched ; my lot in life, to live alone in mine own world of interests, much felt but little shown. not to be first : how hard to learn that lifelong lesson of the past; line graven on line and stroke on stroke; but, thank god, learned at last. so now in patience i possess my soul year after tedious year, content to take the lowest place, the place assigned me here. yet sometimes, when i feel my strength most weak, and life most burdensome, i lift mine eyes up to the hills from whence my help shall come : yea, sometimes still i lift my heart to the archangelic trumpet-burst, when all deep secrets shall be shown, and many last be first. dream-love. dream-love. voung love lies sleeping in may-time of the year, among the lilies, lapped in the tender light : white lambs come grazing, white doves come building there ; and round about him the may-bushes are white. soft moss the pillow for oh, a softer cheek ; broad leaves cast shadow upon the heavy eyes : there winds and waters grow lulled and scarcely speak; there twilight lingers the longest in the skies. young love lies dreaming ; but who shall tell the dream ? a perfect sunlight on rustling forest tips ; or perfect moonlight upon a rippling stream; or perfect silence, or song of cherished lips. dream-love. burn odours round him to fill the drowsy air ; weave silent dances around him to and fro; for oh, in waking the sights are not so fair, and song and silence are not like these below. young love lies dreaming till summer days are gone, dreaming and drowsing, away to perfect sleep: he sees the beauty sun hath not looked upon, and tastes the fountain unutterably deep. him perfect music doth hush unto his rest, and through the pauses the perfect silence calms : oh, poor the voices of earth from east to west, and poor earth's stillness between her stately palms. young love lies drowsing away to poppied death; cool shadows deepen across the sleeping face: dead hope. for autumn twilight cold and grey. sit we by his grave, and sing he is gone away. to few chords and sad and low sing we so: be our eyes fixed on the grass shadow-veiled as the years pass, while we think of all that was in the long ago. dead hope. hope new born one pleasant morn died at even; hope dead lives nevermore, no, not in heaven. if his shroud were but a cloud to weep itself away ; or were he buried underground to sprout some day! but dead and gone is dead and gone vainly wept upon. nought we place above his face : to mark the spot, but it shows a barren place in our lot. twice hope has birth no more on earth morn or even ; hope dead lives nevermore, no, not in heaven. twice i took my heart in my hand (o my love, o my love), i said : let me fall or stand, let me live or die, but this once hear me speak— (o my love, o my love) yet a woman's words are weak; you should speak, not i. you took my heart in your hand with a friendly smile, with a critical eye you scanned, then set it down, and said : it is still unripe, better wait awhile ; wait while the skylarks pipe, till the corn grows brown. as you set it down it broke- broke, but i did not wince; i smiled at the speech you spoke, at your judgment that i heard : twice. but i have not often smiled since then, nor questioned since, nor cared for corn-flowers wild, nor sung with the singing bird. i take my heart in my hand, o my god, o my god, my broken heart in my hand : thou hast seen, judge thou. my hope was written on sand, o my god, o my god : now let thy judgment stand- yea, judge me now. this contemned of a man, this marred one heedless day, this heart take thou to scan both within and without : refine with fire its gold, purge thou its dross away- yea, hold it in thy hold, whence none can pluck it out. i take my heart in my hand- i shall not die, but live- before thy face i stand; i, for thou callest such : all that i have i bring, all that i am i give, smile thou and i shall sing, but shall not question much. my dream. so he grew lord and master of his kin: but who shall tell the tale of all their woes? an execrable appetite arose, he battened on them, crunched, and sucked them in. he knew no law, he feared no binding law, but ground them with inexorable jaw : the luscious fat distilled upon his chin, exuded from his nostrils and his eyes, while still like hungry death he fed his maw; till every minor crocodile being dead and buried too, himself gorged to the full, he slept with breath oppressed and unstrung claw. oh marvel passing strange which next i saw : in sleep he dwindled to the common size, and all the empire faded from his coat. then from far off a winged vessel came, swift as a swallow, subtle as a flame : i know not what it bore of freight or host, but white it was as an avenging ghost. it levelled strong euphrates in its course; supreme yet weightless as an idle mote it seemed to tame the waters without force till not a murmur swelled or billow beat : lo, as the purple shadow swept the sands, the prudent crocodile rose on his feet and shed appropriate tears and wrung his hands. what can it mean? you ask. i answer not for meaning, but myself must echo, what? and tell it as i saw it on the spot. songs in a cornfield. songs in a cornfield. song in a cornfield where corn begins to fall, where reapers are reaping, reaping one, reaping all. sing pretty lettice, sing rachel, sing may; only marian cannot sing while her sweetheart's away. where is he gone to and why does he stay? he came across the green sea but for a day, across the deep green sea to help with the hay. his hair was curly yellow and his eyes were grey, he laughed a merry laugh and said a sweet say. where is he gone to that he comes not home? to-day or to-morrow he surely will come. let him haste to joy lest he lag for sorrow for one weeps to-day who'll not weep to-morrow : songs in a cornfield. to-day she must weep for gnawing sorrow, to-night she may sleep and not wake to-morrow. may sang with rachel in the waxing warm weather, . lettice sang with them, they sang all together :- “take the wheat in your arm whilst day is broad above, take the wheat to your bosom, but not a false false love out in the fields summer heat gloweth, out in the fields summer wind bloweth, out in the fields summer friend showeth, out in the fields summer wheat groweth ; but in the winter when summer heat is dead and summer wind has veered and summer friend has filed, only summer wheat remaineth, white cakes and bread. take the wheat, clasp the wheat that's food for maid and dove; take the wheat to your bosom, but not a false false love." songs in a cornfield. a silence of full noontide heat grew on them at their toil: the farmer's dog woke up from sleep, the green snake hid her coil where grass stood thickest; bird and beast sought shadows as they could, the reaping men and women paused and sat down where they stood ; they ate and drank and were refreshed, for rest from toil is good. while the reapers took their ease, their sickles lying by, rachel sang a second strain, and singing seemed to sigh :- “ there goes the swallow— could we but follow ! hasty swallow stay, point us out the way; look back swallow, turn back swallow, stop swallow. “ there went the swallow- too late to follow : lost our note of way, lost our chance to-day; good bye swallow, sunny swallow, wise - “ after the swallow all sweet things songs in a cornfield. all things go their way, only we must stay, must not follow ; good bye swallow, good swallow.” then listless marian raised her head among the nodding sheaves; her voice was sweeter than that voice; she sang like one who grieves : her voice was sweeter than its wont among the nodding sheaves ; all wondered while they heard her sing like one who hopes and grieves :- “ deeper than the hail can smite, deeper than the frost can bite, deep asleep through day and night, our delight. “ now thy sleep no pang can break, no to-morrow bid thee wake, not our sobs who sit and ache for thy sake. “ is it dark or light below? oh, but is it cold like snow? dost thou feel the green things grow fast or slow? “ is it warm or cold beneath, oh, but it is cold like death ? on the wing. cold like death, without a breath, cold like death ?” if he comes to-day he will find her weeping ; if he comes to-morrow he will find her sleeping ; if he comes the next day, he'll not find her at all, he may tear his curling hair, beat his breast and call. on the wing. sonnet. once in a dream (for once i dreamed of you) we stood together in an open field; above our heads two swift-winged pigeons wheeled, sporting at ease and courting full in view. when loftier still a broadening darkness flew, down-swooping, and a ravenous hawk revealed ; too weak to fight, too fond to fly, they yield; so farewell life and love and pleasures new. then as their plumes fell fluttering to the ground, their snow-white plumageflecked with crimson drops, iwept, and thought i turned towards you to weep: but you were gone; while rustling hedgerow tops bent in a wind which bore to me a sound of far-off piteous bleat of lambs and sheep. l. e. l. l. e. l. “whose heart was breaking for a little love." downstairs i laugh, i sport and jest with all: but in my solitary room above i turn my face in silence to the wall ; my heart is breaking for a little love. though winter frosts are done, and birds pair every one, and leaves peep out, for springtide is begun. i feel no spring, while spring is well-nigh blown, i find no nest, while nests are in the grove : woe's me for mine own heart that dwells alone, my heart that breaketh for a little love. while golden in the sun rivulets rise and run, while lilies bud, for springtide is begun. all love, are loved, save only i ; their hearts beat warm with love and joy, beat full thereof : they cannot guess, who play the pleasant parts, my heart is breaking for a little love. while bee-hives "wake and whirr, and rabbit thins his fur, in living spring that sets the world astir. l. e. l. i deck myself with silks and jewelry, i plume myself like any mated dove : they praise my rustling show, and never see my heart is breaking for a little love. while sprouts green lavender with rosemary and myrrh, for in quick spring the sap is all astir. perhaps some saints in glory guess the truth, perhaps some angels read it as they move, and cry one to another full of ruth, “her heart is breaking for a little love." though other things have birth, and leap and sing for mirth, when spring-time wakes and clothes and feeds the earth. yet saith a saint: “take patience for thy scathe;"> yet saith an angel: “wait, for thou shalt prove true best is last, true life is born of death, o thou, heart-broken for a little love. then love shall fill thy girth, and love make fat thy dearth, when new spring builds new heaven and clean new earth.” the hour and the ghost. ah, sure bed and house, for better and worse, for life and death : . goal won with shortened breath : come, crown our vows. bride. one moment, one more word, while my heart beats still, while my breath is stirred by my fainting will. o friend forsake me not, forget not as i forgot : but keep thy heart for me, keep thy faith true and bright; through the lone cold winter night perhaps i may come to thee. bridegroom. nay peace, my darling, peace : let these dreams and terrors cease : who spoke of death or change or aught but ease ? ghost. o fair frail sin, o poor harvest gathered in ! thou shalt visit him again to watch his heart grow cold; to know the gnawing pain i knew of old; shall i forget? to see one much more fair fill up the vacant chair, fill his heart, his children bear : while thou and i together, in the outcast weather, toss and howl and spin. shall i forget ? shall i forget on this side of the grave ? i promise nothing : you must wait and see patient and brave. (o my soul, watch with him and he with me.) shall i forget in peace of paradise ? i promise nothing : follow, friend, and see faithful and wise. (o my soul, lead the way he walks with me.) life and death. life is not sweet. one day it will be sweet to shut our eyes and die : nor feel the wild flowers blow, nor birds dart by with flitting butterfly, nor grass grow long above our heads and feet, nor hear the happy lark that soars sky high, life and death. nor sigh that spring is fleet and summer fleet, nor mark the waxing wheat, nor know who sits in our accustomed seat. life is not good. one day it will be good to die, then live again ; to sleep meanwhile : so not to feel the wane of shrunk leaves dropping in the wood, nor hear the foamy lashing of the main, nor mark the blackened bean-fields, nor where stood rich ranks of golden grain only dead refuse stubble clothe the plain : asleep from risk, asleep from pain. a summer wish. ive all thy sweet life through, - sweet rose, dew-sprent, drop down thine evening dew to gather it anew when day is bright: i fancy thou wast meant chiefly to give delight. sing in the silent sky, glad soaring bird ; a summer wish. sing out thy notes on high to sunbeam straying by or passing cloud ; heedless if thou art heard sing thy full song aloud. oh that it were with me as with the flower; blooming on its own tree for butterfly and bee its summer morns : that i might bloom mine hour a rose in spite of thorns. oh that my work were done as birds' that soar rejoicing in the sun : that when my time is run and daylight too, i so might rest once more cool with refreshing dew. a year's windfalls. a year's windfalls. on the wind of january down flits the snow, travelling from the frozen north as cold as it can blow. poor robin redbreast, look where he comes; let him in to feel your fire, and toss him of your crumbs. on the wind in february snowflakes float still, half inclined to turn to rain, nipping, dripping, chill. then the thaws swell the streams, and swollen rivers swell the sea :- if the winter ever ends how pleasant it will be. in the wind of windy march the catkins drop down, curly, caterpillar-like, curious green and brown. with concourse of nest-building birds and leaf-buds by the way, we begin to think of flowers and life and nuts some day. a year's windfalls. with the gusts of april rich fruit-tree blossoms fall, on the hedged-in orchard-green, from the southern wall. apple-trees and pear-trees shed petals white or pink, plum-trees and peach-trees; while sharp showers sink and sink. little brings the may breeze beside pure scent of flowers, while all things wax and nothing wanes in lengthening daylight hours. across the hyacinth beds the wind lags warm and sweet, across the hawthorn tops, across the blades of wheat. in the wind of sunny june thrives the red rose crop, every day fresh blossoms blow while the first leaves drop; white rose and yellow rose and moss rose choice to find, and the cottage cabbage-rose not one whit behind. on the blast of scorched july drives the pelting hail, from thunderous lightning-clouds, that blot blue heaven grown lurid-pale. a year's windfalls. weedy waves are tossed ashore, sea-things strange to sight gasp upon the barren shore and fade away in light. in the parching august wind corn-fields bow the head, sheltered in round valley depths, on low hills outspread. early leaves drop loitering down weightless on the breeze, first fruits of the year's decay from the withering trees. in brisk wind of september the heavy-headed fruits shake upon their bending boughs and drop from the shoots ; some glow golden in the sun, some show green and streaked, some set forth a purple bloom, some blush rosy-cheeked. in strong blast of october at the equinox, stirred up in his hollow bed broad ocean rocks ; plunge the ships on his bosom, leaps and plunges the foam,- it's oh! for mothers' sons at sea, that they were safe at home. an apple gathering. - in slack wind of november the fog forms and shifts ; all the world comes out again when the fog lifts. loosened from their sapless twigs leaves drop with every gust; drifting, rustling, out of sight in the damp or dust. last of all, december, the year's sands nearly run, speeds on the shortest day, curtails the sun; with its bleak raw wind lays the last leaves low, brings back the nightly frosts, brings back the snow. an apple gathering. i plucked pink blossoms from mine apple-tree and wore them all that evening in my hair : then in due season when i went to see i found no apples there. with dangling basket all along the grass as i had come i went the selfsame track : my neighbours mocked me while they saw me pass so empty-handed back. an apple gathering. lilian and lilias smiled in trudging by, their heaped-up basket teazed me like a jeer sweet-voiced they sang beneath the sunset sky, their mother's home was near. plump gertrude passed me with her basket full, a stronger hand than hers helped it along; a voice talked with her through the shadows cool more sweet to me than song. ah willie, willie, was my love less worth than apples with their green leaves piled above ? i counted rosiest apples on the earth of far less worth than love. so once it was with me you stooped to talk laughing and listening in this very lane; to think that by this way we used to walk we shall not walk again ! i let my neighbours pass me, ones and twos and groups; the latest said the night grew chill, and hastened: but i loitered, while the dews, fell fast i loitered still. song-maude clare. song. two doves upon the selfsame branch, two lilies on a single stem, two butterflies upon one flower :- oh happy they who look on them. who look upon them hand in hand flushed in the rosy summer light; who look upon them hand in hand and never give a thought to night. maude clare. ut of the church she followed them with a lofty step and mien : his bride was like a village maid, maude clare was like a queen. “son thomas,” his lady mother said, with smiles, almost with tears : “ may nell and you but live as true as we have done for years; “ your father thirty years ago had just your tale to tell ; but he was not so pale as you, nor i so pale as nell.” echo. “ take my share of a fickle heart, mine of a paltry love : take it or leave it as you will, i wash my hands thereof.” ** and what you leave,” said nell, “i'll take, and what you spurn, i'll wear ; for he's my lord for better and worse, and him i love, maude clare. “ yea, though you're taller by the head, more wise, and much more fair ; i'll love him till he loves me best, me best of all, maude clare." echo. come to me in the silence of the night; come in the speaking silence of a dream; come with soft rounded cheeks and eyes as bright as sunlight on a stream; come back in tears, o memory, hope, love of finished years. o dream how sweet, too sweet, too bitter sweet, whose wakening should have been in paradise, where souls brimfull of love abide and meet ; where thirsting longing eyes watch the slow door that opening, letting in, lets out no more. another spring. yet come to me in dreams, that i may live my very life again though cold in death : come back to me in dreams, that i may give pulse for pulse, breath for breath : speak low, lean low, as long ago, my love, how long ago. another spring. tf i might see another spring i'd not plant summer flowers and wait : i'd have my crocuses at once, my leafless pink mezereons, my chill-veined snow-drops, choicer yet my white or azure violet, leaf-nested primrose ; anything to blow at once, not late. if i might see another spring i'd listen to the daylight birds that build their nests and pair and sing, nor wait for mateless nightingale ; i'd listen to the lusty herds, the ewes with lambs as white as snow, i'd find out music in the hail and all the winds that blow. bird or beast ? if i might see another spring— oh stinging comment on my past that all my past results in “if”— if i might see another spring i'd laugh to-day, to-day is brief; i would not wait for anything : i'd use to-day that cannot last, be glad to-day and sing. bird or beast ? d id any bird come flying after adam and eve, when the door was shut against them and they sat down to grieve ? i think not eve's peacock splendid to see, and i think not adam's eagle ; but a dove may be. did any beast come pushing through the thorny hedge into the thorny thistly world, out from eden's edge ? i think not a lion, though his strength is such ; but an innocent loving lamb may have done as much. eve. if the dove preached from her bough, and the lamb from his sod; the lamb and the dove were preachers sent from god. eve. *w “ w hile i sit at the door, sick to gaze within, mine eye weepeth sore for sorrow and sin : as a tree my sin stands to darken all lands; death is the fruit it bore. “how have eden bowers grown without adam to bend them! how have eden flowers blown, squandering their sweet breath, without me to tend them ! the tree of life was ours, tree twelvefold-fruited, most lofty tree that flowers, most deeply rooted : i chose the tree of death. “hadst thou but said me nay, adam, my brother, i might have pined away ; i, but none other : eve. god might have let thee stay safe in our garden, by putting me away beyond all pardon. “i, eve, sad mother of all who must live, i, not another, plucked bitterest fruit to give my friend, husband, lover. o wanton eyes run over; who but i should grieve?- cain hath slain his brother : of all who must die mother, miserable eve !" thus she sat weeping, thus eve our mother, where one lay sleeping slain by his brother. greatest and least each piteous beast to hear her voice forgot his joys and set aside his feast. the mouse paused in his walk and dropped his wheaten stalk ; grave cattle wagged their heads in rumination; eve. the eagle gave a cry from his cloud station : larks on thyme beds forbore to mount or sing; bees drooped upon the wing ; the raven perched on high forgot his ration; the conies in their rock, a feeble nation, quaked sympathetical ; the mocking-bird left off to mock; huge camels knelt as if in deprecation; the kind hart's tears were falling ; chattered the wistful stork ; dove-voices with a dying fall cooed desolation answering grief by grief. only the serpent in the dust, wriggling and crawling, grinned an evil grin and thrust his tongue out with its fork. a daughter of eve. a daughter of eve. a fool i was to sleep at noon, and wake when night is chilly beneath the comfortless cold moon; a fool to pluck my rose too soon, a fool to snap my lily. my garden-plot i have not kept; faded and all-forsaken, i weep as i have never wept : oh it was summer when i slept, it's winter now i waken. talk what you please of future spring and sun-warmed sweet to-morrow :- stripped bare of hope and everything, no more to laugh, no more to sing, i sit alone with sorrow. a peal of bells. strike the bells wantonly, tinkle tinkle well; bring me wine, bring me flowers, ring the silver bell. a peal of bells. all my lamps burn scented oil, hung on laden orange-trees, whose shadowed foliage is the foil to golden lamps and oranges. heap my golden plates with fruit, golden fruit, fresh-plucked and ripe; strike the bells and breathe the pipe; shut out showers from summer hours silence that complaining lute- shut out thinking, shut out pain, from hours that cannot come again. strike the bells solemnly, ding dong deep : my friend is passing to his bed, fast asleep; there's plaited linen round his head, while foremost go his feet- his feet that cannot carry him. my feast's a show, my lights are dim ; be still, your music is not sweet,- there is no music more for him : his lights are out, his feast is done : his bowl that sparkled to the brim is drained, is broken, cannot hold; my blood is chill, his blood is cold; his death is full, and mine begun. the bourne-song. the bourne. underneath the growing grass, underneath the living flowers, deeper than the sound of showers : there we shall not count the hours by the shadows as they pass. youth and health will be but vain, beauty reckoned of no worth : there a very little girth can hold round what once the earth seemed too narrow to contain. song. oh what comes over the sea, shoals and quicksands past; and what comes home to me, sailing slow, sailing fast ? a wind comes over the sea with a moan in its blast ; but nothing comes home to me, sailing slow, sailing fast. let me be, let me be, for my lot is cast : land or sea all's one to me, and sail it slow or fast. love lies bleeding. venus's looking-glass. marked where lovely venus and her court with song and dance and merry laugh went by; weightless, their wingless feet seemed made to fly, bound from the ground and in mid air to sport. left far behind i heard the dolphins snort, tracking their goddess with a wistful eye, around whose head white doves rose, wheeling high or low, and cooed after their tender sort. all this i saw in spring. through summer heat i saw the lovely queen of love no more. but when flushed autumn through the woodlands went i spied sweet venus walk amid the wheat : whom seeing, every harvester gave o’er his toil, and laughed and hoped and was content. love lies bleeding. i ove that is dead and buried, yesterday - out of his grave rose up before my face; no recognition in his look, no trace of memory in his eyes dust-dimmed and grey. while i, remembering, found no word to say, but felt my quickened heart leap in its place ; caught afterglow thrown back from long set days, bird raptures. caught echoes of all music passed away. was this indeed to meet ?-i mind me yet in youth we met when hope and love were quick, we parted with hope dead, but love alive : i mind me how we parted then heart sick, remembering, loving, hopeless, weak to strive:- was this to meet? not so, we have not met. bird raptures. the sunrise wakes the lark to sing, the moonrise wakes the nightingale. come darkness, moonrise, everything that is so silent, sweet, and pale, come, so ye wake the nightingale. make haste to mount, thou wistful moon, make haste to wake the nightingale : let silence set the world in tune to hearken to that wordless tale which warbles from the nightingale. o herald skylark, stay thy flight one moment, for a nightingale floods us with sorrow and delight. to-morrow thou shalt hoist the sail ; leave us to-night the nightingale. the queen of hearts. : the queen of hearts. tow comes it, flora, that, whenever we play cards together, you invariably, however the pack parts, still hold the queen of hearts ? i've scanned you with a scrutinising gaze, resolved to fathom these your secret ways: but, sift them as i will, your ways are secret still. i cut and shuffle ; shuffle, cut, again ; but all my cutting, shuffling, proves in vain : vain hope, vain forethought too ; that queen still falls to you. i dropped her once, prepense; but, ere the deal was dealt, your instinct seemed her loss to feel : “there should be one card more,” you said, and searched the floor. i cheated once; i made a private notch in heart-queen's back, and kept a lynx-eyed watch; yet such another back deceived me in the pack : the queen of clubs assumed by arts unknown an imitative dint that seemed my own ; beauty is vain. let bygones be bygones : don't call me false, who owed not to be true : i'd rather answer “no," to fifty johns than answer “ yes,” to you. let's mar our pleasant days no more, song-birds of passage, days of youth : catch at to-day, forget the days before : i'll wink at your untruth. let us strike hands as hearty friends; no more, no less; and friendship's good : only don't keep in view ulterior ends, and points not understood in open treaty. rise above quibbles and shuffling off and on : here's friendship for you if you like ; but love,- no, thank you, john. beauty is vain. hile roses are so red, while lilies are so white, shall a woman exalt her face because it gives delight? she's not so sweet as a rose, a lily's straighter than she, and if she were as red or white she'd be but one of three. may. whether she flush in love's summer or in its winter grow pale, whether she flaunt her beauty or hide it away in a veil, be she red or white, and stand she erect or bowed, time will win the race he runs with her and hide her away in a shroud. may. t cannot tell you how it was ; but this i know: it came to pass upon a bright and breezy day when may was young; ah, pleasant may ! as yet the poppies were not born between the blades of tender corn; the last eggs had not hatched as yet, nor any bird forgone its mate. i cannot tell you what it was; but this i know: it did but pass. it passed away with sunny may, with all sweet things it passed away, and left me old, and cold, and grey. a pause of thought. a pause of thought. i looked for that which is not, nor can be, and hope deferred made my heart sick in truth : but years must pass before a hope of youth is resigned utterly. i watched and waited with a steadfast will : and though the object seemed to flee away that i so longed for, ever day by day i watched and waited still. sometimes i said : this thing shall be no more ; my expectation wearies and shall cease ; i will resign it now and be at peace : yet never gave it o'er. sometimes i said : it is an empty name i long for ; to a name why should i give the peace of all the days i have to live ? — yet gave it all the same. alas, thou foolish one! alike unfit for healthy joy and salutary pain : thou knowest the chase useless, and again turnest to follow it. twilight calm. twilight calm. o h, pleasant eventide ! clouds on the western side grow grey and greyer, hiding the warm sun: the bees and birds, their happy labours done, seek their close nests and bide. screened in the leafy wood the stock-doves sit and brood : the very squirrel leaps from bough to bough but lazily ; pauses ; and settles now where once he stored his food. one by one the flowers close, lily and dewy rose shutting their tender petals from the moon : the grasshoppers are still ; but not so soon are still the noisy crows. the dormouse squats and eats choice little dainty bits beneath the spreading roots of a broad lime; nibbling his fill he stops from time to time and listens where he sits. from far the lowings come of cattle driven home : twilight calm. from farther still the wind brings fitfully the vast continual murmur of the sea, now loud, now almost dumb. the gnats whirl in the air, the evening gnats; and there the owl opes broad his eyes and wings to sail for prey; the bat wakes; and the shell-less snail comes forth, clammy and bare. hark! that's the nightingale, telling the self-same tale her song told when this ancient earth was young: so echoes answered when her song was sung in the first wooded vale. we call it love and pain the passion of her strain ; and yet we little understand or know : why should it not be rather joy that so throbs in each throbbing vein ? in separate herds the deer lie; here the bucks, and here the does, and by its mother sleeps the fawn : through all the hours of night until the dawn they sleep, forgetting fear. the hare sleeps where it lies, with wary half-closed eyes; wife to husband. the cock has ceased to crow, the hen to cluck : only the fox is out, some heedless duck or chicken to surprise. remote, each single star comes out, till there they are all shining brightly : how the dews fall damp! while close at hand the glow-worm lights her lamp, or twinkles from afar. but evening now is done as much as if the sun day-giving had arisen in the east : for night has come; and the great calm has ceased, the quiet sands have run. wife to husband. dardon the faults in me, for the love of years ago : good-bye. i must drift across the sea, i must sink into the snow, i must die. you can bask in this sun, you can drink wine, and eat: good-bye. wife to husband. i must gird myself and run, . though with unready feet : i must die. blank sea to sail upon, cold bed to sleep in: good-bye. while you clasp, i must be gone for all your weeping: i must die. a kiss for one friend, and a word for two, good-bye :- a lock that you must send, a kindness you must do : . i must die. not a word for you, not a lock or kiss, good-bye. we, one, must part in two; verily death is this : i must die. three seasons-mirage. three seasons. “ a cup for hope !” she said, - in springtime ere the bloom was old : the crimson wine was poor and cold by her mouth's richer red. “a cup for love !” how low, how soft the words; and all the while her blush was rippling with a smile like summer after snow. “a cup for memory!” cold cup that one must drain alone : while autumn winds are up and moan across the barren sea. hope, memory, love : , hope for fair morn, and love for day, and memory for the evening grey and solitary dove. mirage. the hope i dreamed of was a dream, was but a dream; and now i wake exceeding comfortless, and worn, and old, for a dream's sake. a royal princess. i hang my harp upon a tree, a weeping willow in a lake; i hang my silenced harp there, wrung and snapt for a dream's sake. lie still, lie still, my breaking heart; my silent heart, lie still and break : life, and the world, and mine own self, are changed for a dream's sake. a royal princess. la princess, king-descended, decked with - jewels, gilded, drest, would rather be a peasant with her baby at her breast, for all i shine so like the sun, and am purple like the west. two and two my guards behind, two and two before, two and two on either hand, they guard me evermore; me, poor dove that must not coo-eagle that must not soar. all my fountains cast up perfumes, all my gardens grow scented woods and foreign spices, with all flowers in blow that are costly, out of season as the seasons go. a royal princess. all my walls are lost in mirrors, whereupon i trace self to right hand, self to left hand, self in every place, self-same solitary figure, self-same seeking face. then i have an ivory chair high to sit upon, almost like my father's chair, which is an ivory throne; there i sit uplift and upright, there i sit alone. alone by day, alone by night, alone days without end; my father and my mother give me treasures, search and spend, o my father ! o my mother ! have you ne'er a friend? as i am a lofty princess, so my father is a lofty king, accomplished in all kingly subtilties, holding in his strong right hand world-kingdoms' balances. he has quarrelled with his neighbours, he has scourged his foes ; vassal counts and princes follow where his pennon goes, long-descended valiant lords whom the vulture knows, on whose track the vulture swoops, when they ride in state to break the strength of armies and topple down the great: each of these my courteous servant, none of these my mate. a royal princess. it showed me that my ladies all are fair to gaze upon, plump, plenteous-haired, to every one love's secret lore is known, they laugh by day, they sleep by night; ah me, what is a throne ? the singing men and women sang that night as usual, the dancers danced in pairs and sets, but music had a fall, · a melancholy windy fall as at a funeral. amid the toss of torches to my chamber back we swept; my ladies loosed my golden chain; meantime i could have wept to think of some in galling chains whether they waked or slept i took my bath of scented milk, delicately waited on, they burned sweet things for my delight, cedar and cinnamon, they lit my shaded silver lamp, and left me there alone. a day went by, a week went by. one day i heard it said : “men are clamouring, women, children, clamouring to be fed ; men like famished dogs are howling in the streets for bread.” a royal princess. so two whispered by my door, not thinking i could hear, vulgar naked truth, ungarnished for a royal ear; fit for cooping in the background, not to stalk so near. but i strained my utmost sense to catch this truth, and mark: “there are families out grazing, like cattle in the park.” “a pair of peasants must be saved, even if we build an ark.” a merry jest, a merry laugh, each strolled upon his way; one was my page, a lad i reared and bore with day by day; one was my youngest maid, as sweet and white as . cream in may. other footsteps followed softly with a weightier tramp; voices said : “picked soldiers have been summoned from the camp, to quell these base-born ruffians who make free to howl and stamp." “howl and stamp?" one answered : “ they made free to hurl a stone at the minister's state coach, well aimed and stoutly thrown.” “ there's work then for the soldiers, for this rank crop must be mown.” a royal princess. “one i saw, a poor old fool with ashes on his head, whimpering because a girl had snatched his crust of bread : then he dropped; when some one raised him, it turned out he was dead.” “ after us the deluge,” was retorted with a laugh: “if bread's the staff of life they must walk without a staff.” “while i've a loaf they're welcome to my blessing and the chaff.” these passed. “the king :” stand up. said my father with a smile : “ daughter mine, your mother comes to sit with you awhile, she's sad to-day, and who but you her sadness can beguile ? " he too left me. shall i touch my harp now while i wait,- (i hear them doubling guard below before our palace gate) or shall i work the last gold stitch into my veil of state; or shall my woman stand and read some unimpas- sioned scene, there's music of a lulling sort in words that pause between ; or shall she merely fan me while i wait here for the queen? a royal princess. again i caught my father's voice in sharp word of command : “ charge” a clash of steel: “charge again, the rebels stand. smite and spare not, hand to hand ; smite and spare not, hand to hand.” there swelled a tumult at the gate, high voices wax- ing higher ; a flash of red reflected light lit the cathedral spire; i heard a cry for faggots, then i heard a yell for fire. “sit and roast there with your meat, sit and bake there with your bread, you who sat to see us starve," one shrieking woman said : “sit on your throne and roast with your crown upon your head.” nay, this thing will i do, while my mother tarrieth, i will take my fine spun gold, but not to sew there- with, i will take my gold and gems, and rainbow fan and wreath ; with a ransom in my lap, a king's ransom in my hand, i will go down to this people, will stand face to face, will stand where they curse king, queen, and princess of this cursed land. my friend. they shall take all to buy them bread, take all i have to give; i, if i perish, perish ; they to-day shall eat and live; · i, if i perish, perish ; that's the goal i half conceive : once to speak before the world, rend bare my heart and show the lesson i have learned, which is death, is life, to know. i, if i perish, perish ; in the name of god i go. my friend. two days ago with dancing glancing hair, with living lips and eyes; now pale, dumb, blind, she lies; so pale, yet still so fair. we have not left her yet, not yet alone; but soon must leave her where she will not miss our care, bone of our bone. weep not; o friends, we should not weep : our friend of friends lies full of rest; no sorrow rankles in her breast, fallen fast asleep. shut out. she sleeps below, she wakes and laughs above; to-day, as she walked, let us walk in love ; to-morrow follow so. shut out. the door was shut. i looked between its iron bars; and saw it lie, my garden, mine, beneath the sky, pied with all flowers bedewed and green : from bough to bough the song-birds crossed, from flower to flower the moths and bees; with all its nests and stately trees it had been mine, and it was lost. a shadowless spirit kept the gate, blank and unchanging like the grave. i, peering through, said ; “let me have some buds to cheer my outcast state.” he answered not. “or give me, then, but one small twig from shrub or tree; and bid my home remember me until i come to it again.” sound sleep. the spirit was silent; but he took mortar and stone to build a wall ; he left no loophole great or small through which my straining eyes might look: so now i sit here quite alone blinded with tears; nor grieve for that, for nought is left worth looking at since my delightful land is gone. a violet bed is budding near, wherein a lark has made her nest : and good they are, but not the best ; and dear they are, but not so dear. sound sleep. some are laughing, some are weeping ; ~ she is sleeping, only sleeping. round her rest wild flowers are creeping; there the wind is heaping, heaping sweetest sweets of summer's keeping, by the corn-fields ripe for reaping. there are lilies, and there blushes the deep rose, and there the thrushes sing till latest sunlight flushes in the west ; a fresh wind brushes through the leaves while evening hushes. song. there by day the lark is singing and the grass and weeds are springing ; there by night the bat is winging; there for ever winds are bringing far-off chimes of church-bells ringing. night and morning, noon and even, their sound fills her dreams with heaven : the long strife at length is striven : till her grave-bands shall be riven, such is the good portion given to her soul at rest and shriven. song. che sat and sang alway . by the green margin of a stream, watching the fishes leap and play beneath the glad sunbeam. i sat and wept alway beneath the moon's most shadowy beam, watching the blossoms of the may weep leaves into the stream. i wept for memory; she sang for hope that is so fair ; my tears were swallowed by the sea ; her songs died on the air. songsong . . song. w hen i am dead, my dearest, sing no sad songs for me; plant thou no roses at my head, nor shady cypress tree : be the green grass above me with showers and dewdrops wet; and if thou wilt, remember, and if thou wilt, forget. i shall not see the shadows, i shall not feel the rain ; i shall not hear the nightingale sing on, as if in pain : and dreaming through the twilight that doth not rise nor set, haply i may remember, and haply may forget. dead before death, dead before death. sonnet. ah! changed and cold, how changed and very cold! with stiffened smiling lips and cold calm eyes : changed, yet the same; much knowing, little wise ; this was the promise of the days of old ! grown hard and stubborn in the ancient mould, grown rigid in the sham of lifelong lies : we hoped for better things as years would rise, but it is over as a tale once told. all fallen the blossom that no fruitage bore, all lost the present and the future time, all lost, all lost, the lapse that went before : so lost till death shut to the opened door, so lost from chime to everlasting chime, so cold and lost for ever evermore. twilight night. i. w e met, hand to hand, we clasped hands close and fast, as close as oak and ivy stand; but it is past : come day, come night, day comes at last. we loosed hand from hand, we parted face from face; twilight night. each went his way to his own land at his own pace, each went to fill his separate place. if we should meet one day, if both should not forget, we shall clasp hands the accustomed way, as when we met, so long ago, as i remember yet. ii. where my heart is (wherever that may be) might i but follow ! if you fly thither over heath and lea, o honey-seeking bee, o careless swallow, bid some for whom i watch keep watch for me.. alas! that we must dwell, my heart and i, so far asunder. hours wax to days, and days and days creep by; i watch with wistful eye, i wait and wonder : when will that day draw nigh—that hour draw nigh? not yesterday, and not i think to-day; perhaps to-morrow. day after day “to-morrow,” thus i say: i watched so yesterday in hope and sorrow, again to-day i watch the accustomed way. what would i give ? bitter for sweet. summer is gone with all its roses, its sun and perfumes and sweet flowers, its warm air and refreshing showers : and even autumn closes. yea, autumn's chilly self is going, and winter comes which is yet colder ; each day the hoar-frost waxes bolder, and the last buds cease blowing. what would i give? w hat would i give for a heart of flesh to warm me through, instead of this heart of stone ice-cold whatever i do ; hard and cold and small, of all hearts the worst of all. what would i give for words, if only words would come; but now in its misery my spirit has fallen dumb: oh, merry friends, go your way, i have never a word to say. what would i give for tears, not smiles but scalding tears, to wash the black mark clean, and to thaw the frost of years, to wash the stain ingrain, and to make me clean again. the first spring day. the first spring day. i wonder if the sap is stirring yet, if wintry birds are dreaming of a mate, if frozen snowdrops feel as yet the sun and crocus fires are kindling one by one: sing, robin, sing ; i still am sore in doubt concerning spring. i wonder if the springtide of this year will bring another spring both lost and dear; if heart and spirit will find out their spring, or if the world alone will bud and sing : sing, hope, to me; sweet notes, my hope, soft notes for memory. the sap will surely quicken soon or late, the tardiest bird will twitter to a mate; so spring must dawn again with warmth and bloom, or in this world, or in the world to come : sing, voice of spring, till i too blossom and rejoice and sing. · a smile and a sigh. a bird song. t t's a year almost that i have not seen her: oh last summer green things were greener, brambles fewer, the blue sky bluer. it's surely summer, for there's a swallow : come one swallow, his mate will follow, the bird race quicken and wheel and thicken. oh happy swallow whose mate will follow o’er height, o'er hollow ! i'd be a swallow, to build this weather one nest together. a smile and a sigh. a smile because the nights are short ! and every morning brings such pleasure of sweet love-making, harmless sport : love that makes and finds its treasure ; love, treasure without measure. a sigh because the days are long ! long long these days that pass in sighing, a burden saddens every song : while time lags which should be flying, we live who would be dying. one day. one day. i will tell you when they met: in the limpid days of spring ; elder boughs were budding yet, oaken boughs looked wintry still, but primrose and veined violet in the mossful turf were set, while meeting birds made haste to sing and build with right good will. i will tell you when they parted : when plenteous autumn sheaves were brown, then they parted heavy-hearted ; the full rejoicing sun looked down as grand as in the days before ; only they had lost a crown; only to them those days of yore could come back nevermore. when shall they meet? i cannot tell, indeed, when they shall meet again, except some day in paradise : for this they wait, one waits in pain. beyond the sea of death love lies for ever, yesterday, to-day ; angels shall ask them, “is it well ? ” and they shall answer “yea.” the convent threshold. blooming as peaches pearled with dew, their golden windy hair afloat, love-music warbling in their throat, young men and women come and go. you linger, yet the time is short : flee for your life, gird up your strength to flee; the shadows stretched at length show that day wanes, that night draws nigh ; flee to the mountain, tarry not. is this a time for smile and sigh, for songs among the secret trees where sudden blue birds nest and sport? the time is short and yet you stay : today, while it is called to-day, kneel, wrestle, knock, do violence, pray ; to-day is short, to-morrow nigh : why will you die? why will you die? you sinned with me a pleasant sin : repent with me, for i repent. woe's me the lore i must unlearn ! woe's me that easy way we went, so rugged when i would return ! how long until my sleep begin, how long shall stretch these nights and days ? surely, clean angels cry, she prays ; she laves her soul with tedious tears : how long must stretch these years and years ? the convent threshold, i turn from you my cheeks and eyes, my hair which you shall see no more- alas for joy that went before, for joy that dies, for love that dies. only my lips still turn to you, my livid lips that cry, repent. o weary life, o weary lent, o weary time whose stars are few. how should i rest in paradise, or sit on steps of heaven alone if saints and angels spoke of love should i not answer from my throne : have pity upon me, ye my friends, for i have heard the sound thereof : should i not turn with yearning eyes, turn earthwards with a pitiful pang? oh save me from a pang in heaven. by all the gifts we took and gave, repent, repent, and be forgiven : this life is long, but yet it ends; repent and purge your soul and save : no gladder song the morning stars upon their birthday morning sang than angels sing when one repents. i tell you what i dreamed last night : a spirit with transfigured face fire-footed clomb an infinite space. the invent threshold. i heard his dred pinions clang, heaven-bells rejoicing rang and rang, heaven-air was thrilled with subtle scents, worlds spun upon their rushing cars : he mounted shrieking: “give me light.” still light was poured on him, more light; angels, archangels he outstripped exultant in exceeding might, and trod the skirts of cherubim. still “give me light,” he shrieked; and dipped his thirsty face, and drank a sea, athirst with thirst it could not slake. i saw him, drunk with knowledge, take from aching brows the aureole crown- his locks writhed like a cloven snake- he left his throne to grovel down and lick the dust of seraphs' feet : for what is knowledge duly weighed ? knowledge is strong, but love is sweet; yea all the progress he had made was but to learn that all is small save love, for love is all in all. i tell you what i dreamed last night: it was not dark, it was not light, cold dews had drenched my plenteous hair through clay; you came to seek me there. and “do you dream of me?” you said. my heart was dust that used to leap the convent thresh . to you ; i answered half asle “my pillow is damp, my sheets are red, there's a leaden tester to my bed : find you a warmer playfellow, a warmer pillow for your head, a kinder love to love than mine." you wrung your hands; while i, like lead, crushed downwards through the sodden earth : you smote your hands but not in mirth, and reeled but were not drunk with wine. for all night long i dreamed of you : i woke and prayed against my will, then slept to dream of you again. at length i rose and knelt and prayed : i cannot write the words i said, my words were slow, my tears were few; but through the dark my silence spoke like thunder. when this morning broke, my face was pinched, my hair was grey, and frozen blood was on the sill where stilling in my struggle i lay. if now you saw me you would say: where is the face i used to love ? and i would answer : gone before ; it tarries veiled in paradise. when once the morning star shall rise, when earth with shadow flees away up-hill. up-hill. does the road wind up-hill all the way? yes, to the very end. will the day's journey take the whole long day? from morn to night, my friend. but is there for the night a resting-place ? a roof for when the slow dark hours begin. may not the darkness hide it from my face? you cannot miss that inn. shall i meet other wayfarers at night? those who have gone before. then must i knock, or call when just in sight? they will not keep you standing at that door. shall i find comfort, travel-sore and weak? of labour you shall find the sum. will there be beds for me and all who seek ? yea, beds for all who come. “ the iniquity of the fathers.” “ the iniquity of the fathers upon the children.” o h the rose of keenest thorn ! one hidden summer morn under the rose i was born. i do not guess his name who wrought my mother's shame, and gave me life forlorn, but my mother, mother, mother, i know her from all other. my mother pale and mild, fair as ever was seen, she was but scarce sixteen, little more than a child, when i was born to work her scorn. with secret bitter throes, in a passion of secret woes, she bore me under the rose. one who my mother nursed took me from the first :- “o nurse, let me look upon this babe that costs so dear; to-morrow she will be gone : “the iniquity of the fathers other mothers may keep their babes awake and asleep, but i must not keep her here." — whether i know or guess, i know this not the less. so i was sent away that none might spy the truth : and my childhood waxed to youth and i left off childish play. i never cared to play with the village boys and girls; and i think they thought me proud, i found so little to say and kept so from the crowd : but i had the longest curls and i had the largest eyes, and my teeth were small like pearls : the girls might flout and scout me, but the boys would hang about me, in sheepish mooning wise. our one-street village stood a long mile from the town, a mile of windy down and bleak one-sided wood, with not a single house. our town itself was small, with just the common shops, and throve in its small way. upon the children." my lady in her veil so seldom put aside, my lady grave and pale. i often sat to wonder who might my parents be, for i knew of something under my simple-seeming state. nurse never talked to me of mother or of father, but watched me early and late with kind suspicious cares : or not suspicious, rather anxious, as if she knew some secret i might gather and smart for unawares. thus i grew. but nurse waxed old and grey, bent and weak with years. there came a certain day that she lay upon her bed shaking her palsied head, with words she gasped to say which had to stay unsaid. then with a jerking hand held out so piteously she gave a ring to me of gold wrought curiously, “the iniquity of the fathers a ring which she had worn since the day that i was born, she once had said to me : i slipped it on my finger ; her eyes were keen to linger on my hand that slipped it on; then she sighed one rattling sigh and stared on with sightless eye :- the one who loved me was gone. how long i stayed alone with the corpse i never knew, for i fainted dead as stone: when i came to life once more i was down upon the floor, with neighbours making ado to bring me back to life. i heard the sexton's wife say: “up, my lad, and run to tell it at the hall; she was my lady's nurse, and done can't be undone. i'll watch by this poor lamb. i guess my lady's purse is always open to such : i'd run up on my crutch a cripple as i am," (for cramps had vexed her much) “rather than this dear heart lack one to take her part.” upon the children.” for days day after day on my weary bed i lay wishing the time would pass ; oh, so wishing that i was likely to pass away : for the one friend whom i knew was dead, i knew no other, neither father nor mother; and i, what should i do? one day the sexton's wife said : “rouse yourself, my dear : my lady has driven down from the hall into the town, and we think she's coming here. cheer up, for life is life.” but i would not look or speak, would not cheer up at all. my tears were like to fall, so i turned round to the wall and hid my hollow cheek making as if i slept, as silent as a stone, and no one knew i wept. what was my lady to me, the grand lady from the hall ? she might come, or stay away, i was sick at heart that day : the whole world seemed to be “the iniquity of the fathers nothing, just nothing to me, for aught that i could see. yet i listened where i lay : a bustle came below, a clear voice said: “i know; i will see her first alone, it may be less of a shock if she's so weak to-day :”— a light hand turned the lock, a light step crossed the floor, one sat beside my bed : but never a word she said. for me, my shyness grew each moment more and more : so i said never a word and neither looked nor stirred; i think she must have heard my heart go pit-a-pat : thus i lay, my lady sat, more than a mortal hour- (i counted one and two by the house-clock while i lay) : i seemed to have no power to think of a thing to say, or do what i ought to do, or rouse myself to a choice. at last she said : "margaret, won't you even look at me?” upon the children.” a something in her voice forced my tears to fall at last, forced sobs from me thick and fast; something not of the past, yet stirring memory; a something new, and yet not new, too sweet to last, which i never can forget. i turned and stared at her : her cheek showed hollow-pale ; her hair like mine was fair, a wonderful fall of hair that screened her like a veil ; but her height was statelier, her eyes had depth more deep: i think they must have had always a something sad, unless they were asleep. while i stared, my lady took my hand in her spare hand jewelled and soft and grand, and looked with a long long look of hunger in my face ; as if she tried to trace features she ought to know, and half hoped, half feared, to find. whatever was in her mind she heaved a sigh at last, and began to talk to me. “the iniquity of the fathers “ your nurse was my dear nurse, and her nursling's dear,” said she : “no one told me a word of her getting worse and worse, till her poor life was past” (here my lady's tears dropped fast); “i might have been with her, i might have promised and heard, but she had no comforter. she might have told me much which now i shall never know, never never shall know.” she sat by me sobbing so, and seemed so woe-begone, that i laid one hand upon hers with a timid touch, scarce thinking what i did, not knowing what to say : that moment her face was hid in the pillow close by mine, her arm was flung over me, she hugged me, sobbing so as if her heart would break, and kissed me where i lay. after this she often came to bring me fruit or wine, or sometimes hothouse flowers. and at nights i lay awake often and often thinking what to do for her sake. “the iniquity of the fathers friend, servant, child : just this my standing at the hall; the other servants call me “miss," my lady calls me “ margaret," with her clear voice musical. she never chides when i forget this or that; she never chides. except when people come to stay (and that's not often) at the hall, i sit with her all day and ride out when she rides. she sings to me and makes me sing ; sometimes i read to her, sometimes we merely sit and talk. she noticed once my ring and made me tell its history: that evening in our garden walk she said she should infer the ring had been my father's first, then my mother's, given for me to the nurse who nursed my mother in her misery, that so quite certainly some one might know me, who ... then she was silent, and i too. i hate when people come: the women speak and stare and mean to be so civil. this one will stroke my hair, upon the children.” that one will pat my cheek and praise my lady's kindness, expecting me to speak; i like the proud ones best who sit as struck with blindness, as if i wasn't there. but if any gentleman is staying at the hall (though few come prying here), my lady seems to fear some downright dreadful evil, and makes me keep my room as closely as she can : so i hate when people come, it is so troublesome. in spite of all her care, sometimes to keep alive i sometimes do contrive to get out in the grounds for a whiff of wholesome air, under the rose you know : it's charming to break bounds, stolen waters are sweet, and what's the good of feet if for days they mustn't go ? give me a longer tether, or i may break from it. now i have eyes and ears, and just some little wit: “the iniquity of the fathers “ almost my lady's child ;” i recollect she smiled, sighed and blushed together ; then her story of the ring sounds not improbable, she told it me so well it seemed the actual thing :- oh, keep your counsel close, but i guess under the rose, in long past summer weather when the world was blossoming, and the rose upon its thorn : i guess not who he was flawed honour like a glass, and made my life forlorn, but my mother, mother, mother, oh, i know her from all other. my lady, you might trust your daughter with your fame. trust me, i would not shame our honourable name, for i have noble blood though i was bred in dust and brought up in the mud. i will not press my claim, just leave me where you will : but you might trust your daughter, for blood is thicker than water and you're my mother still. upon the children.” now sometimes in a dream my heart goes out of me to build and scheme, till i sob after things that seem so pleasant in a dream : a home such as i see my blessed neighbours live in with father and with mother, all proud of one another, named by one common name from baby in the bud to full-blown workman father ; it's little short of heaven. i'd give my gentle blood to wash my special shame and drown my private grudge ; i'd toil and moil much rather the dingiest cottage drudge whose mother need not blush, than live here like a lady and see my mother flush and hear her voice unsteady sometimes, yet never dare ask to share her care. of course the servants snr r behind my back at me; of course the village girls, who envy me my curls “the iniquity of the fathers and gowns and idleness, take comfort in a jeer; of course the ladies guess just so much of my history as points the emphatic stress with which they laud my lady ; the gentlemen who catch a casual glimpse of me and turn again to see, their valets on the watch to speak a word with me, all know and sting me wild ; till i am almost ready to wish that i were dead, no faces more to see, no more words to be said, my mother safe at last disburdened of her child, and the past past “ all equal before god”— our rector has it so, and sundry sleepers nod: it may be so; i know all are not equal here, and when the sleepers wake they make a difference, “all equal in the grave”- that shows an obvious sense : “ thy brother’s blood crieth.” “will it hurt much?”—“no, mine own: i wish i could bear the pang for both." “i wish i could bear the pang alone : courage, dear, i am not loth.” kiss and kiss : “it is not pain thus to kiss and die. one kiss more.”—“and yet one again.”— “good-bye.”—“good-bye.” *** i retain this little poem, not as historically accurate, but as written and published before i heard the supposed facts of its first verse contradicted. the german-french campaign. - . these two pieces, written during the suspense of a great nation's agony, aim at expressing human sympathy, not political bias. i. “ thy brother's blood crieth.” all her corn-fields rippled in the sunshine, all her lovely vines, sweets-laden, bowed ; yet some weeks to harvest and to vintage : when, as one man's hand, a cloud rose and spread, and, blackening, burst asunder in rain and fire and thunder. “ to-day for me.” he that planted the ear shall he not hear, nor he smite who formed the hand ? “ vengeance is mine, is mine,” thus saith the lord :- o man, put up thy sword. “to-day for me.” che sitteth still who used to dance, she weepeth sore and more and more :- let us sit with thee weeping sore, o fair france. she trembleth as the days advance who used to be so light of heart :- we in thy trembling bear a part, sister france. her eyes shine tearful as they glance: “who shall give back my slaughtered sons ? “ bind up,” she saith, “my wounded ones.”— alas, france ! she struggles in a deathly trance, as in a dream her pulses stir, she hears the nations calling her, “france, france, france." “ to-day for me.” thou people of the lifted lance, forbear her tears, forbear her blood : roll back, roll back, thy whelming flood, back from france. eye not her loveliness askance, forge not for her a galling chain ; leave her at peace to bloom again, vine-clad france. a time there is for change and chance, a time for passing of the cup : and one abides can yet bind up broken france. a time there is for change and chance : who next shall drink the trembling cup, wring out its dregs and suck them up after france ? devotional pieces. “the love of christ angels and archangels may have gathered there, cherubim and seraphim throng'd the air, but only his mother in her maiden bliss worshipped the beloved with a kiss. what can i give him, poor as i am ? if i were a shepherd i would bring a lamb, if i were a wise man i would do my part, yet what i can i give him, give my heart “the love of christ which passeth knowledge.” t bore with thee long weary days and nights, through many pangs of heart, through many tears; i bore with thee, thy hardness, coldness, slights, for three-and-thirty years. who else had dared for thee what i have dared ? i plunged the depth most deep from bliss above; * i not my flesh, i not my spirit spared : give thou me love for love. which passeth knowledge.” for thee i thirsted in the daily drouth, for thee i trembled in the nightly frost : much sweeter thou than honey to my mouth : why wilt thou still be lost ? i bore thee on my shoulders and rejoiced : men only marked upon my shoulders borne the branding cross; and shouted hungry-voiced, or wagged their heads in scorn. thee did nails grave upon my hands, thy name did thorns for frontlets stamp between mine eyes : , holy one, put on thy guilt and shame; i, god, priest, sacrifice. a thief upon my right hand and my left ; six hours alone, athirst, in misery : at length in death one smote my heart and cleft a hiding-place for thee. nailed to the racking cross, than bed of down more dear, whereon to stretch myself and sleep : so did i win a kingdom-share my crown; a harvest,—come and reap. “ a bruised reed." “a bruised reed shall he not break.” i will accept thy will to do and be, thy hatred and intolerance of sin, thy will at least to love, that burns within and thirsteth after me: so will i render fruitful, blessing still, the germs and small beginnings in thy heart, because thy will cleaves to the better part. — alas, i cannot will. dost not thou will, poor soul? yet i receive the inner unseen longings of the soul, i guide them turning towards me; i control and charm hearts till they grieve : if thou desire, it yet shall come to pass, though thou but wish indeed to choose my love; for i have power in earth and heaven above.— i cannot wish, alas! what, neither choose nor wish to choose ? and yet i still must strive to win thee and constrain : for thee i hung upon the cross in pain, how then can i forget ? if thou as yet dost neither love, nor hate, nor choose, nor wish,-resign thyself, be still till i infuse love, hatred, longing, will. — i do not deprecate. despised and rejected. despised and rejected. m y sun has set, i dwell v? in darkness as a dead man out of sight; and none remains, not one, that i should tell to him mine evil plight this bitter night. i will make fast my door that hollow friends may trouble me no more. “ friend, open to me.”—who is this that calls ? nay, i am deaf as are my walls : cease crying, for i will not hear thy cry of hope or fear. others were dear, others forsook me : what art thou indeed that i should heed thy lamentable need ? hungry should feed, or stranger lodge thee here? “friend, my feet bleed. open thy door to me and comfort me.” i will not open, trouble me no more. go on thy way footsore, i will not rise and open unto thee. despised and rejected. “ then is it nothing to thee? open, see who stands to plead with thee. open, lest i should pass thee by, and thou one day entreat my face and howl for grace, and i be deaf as thou art now. open to me." then i cried out upon him: cease, leave me in peace : fear not that i should crave aught thou mayst have. leave me in peace, yea trouble me no more, lest i arise and chase thee from my door. what, shall i not be let alone, that thou dost vex me yet? but all night long that voice spake urgently : “open to me." still harping in mine ears : “ rise, let me in.” pleading with tears : “open to me, that i may come to thee." while the dew dropped, while the dark hours were cold : “my feet bleed, see my face, see my hands bleed that bring thee grace, my heart doth bleed for thee, open to me.” a better resurrection. so till the break of day : then died away that voice, in silence as of sorrow; then footsteps echoing like a sigh passed me by, lingering footsteps slow to pass. on the morrow i saw upon the grass each footprint marked in blood, and on my door the mark of blood for evermore. a better resurrection. | have no wit, no words, no tears ; my heart within me like a stone is numbed too much for hopes or fears ; look right, look left, i dwell alone; i lift mine eyes, but dimned with grief no everlasting hills i see; my life is in the falling leaf : o jesus, quicken me. my life is like a faded leaf, my harvest dwindled to a husk : truly my life is void and brief and tedious in the barren dusk ; my life is like a frozen thing, no bud nor greenness can i see: yet rise it shall—the sap of spring; o jesus, rise in me. if only. my life is like a broken bowl, a broken bowl that cannot hold one drop of water for my soul or cordial in the searching cold; cast in the fire the perished thing ; melt and remould it, till it be a royal cup for him, my king : o jesus, drink of me. if only. if only i might love my god and die ! but now he bids me love him and live on, now when the bloom of all my life is gone, the pleasant half of life has quite gone by. my tree of hope is lopped that spread so high ; and i forget how summer glowed and shone, while autumn grips me with its fingers wan and frets me with its fitful windy sigh. when autumn passes then must winter numb, and winter may not pass a weary while, but when it passes spring shall flower again : and in that spring who weepeth now shall smile, yea, they shall wax who now are on the wane, yea, they shall sing for love when christ shall come. the three enemies. till daybreak smite our wearied sight and summer smite the snow : then figs shall bud, and dove with dove shall coo the livelong day; then he shall say, “arise, my love, my fair one, come away.” the three enemies. the flesh. “ cweet, thou art pale.” . “ more pale to see, christ hung upon the cruel tree and bore his father's wrath for me.” “ sweet, thou art sad.” “beneath a rod more heavy, christ for my sake trod the winepress of the wrath of god.” “ sweet, thou art weary.” “not so christ : whose mighty love of me sufficed for strength, salvation, eucharist.” “sweet, thou art footsore.” “if i bleed, his feet have bled; yea in my need. his heart once bled for mine indeed.” the three enemies. the world. “sweet, thou art young." “so he was young who for my sake in silence hung upon the cross with passion wrung.” look, thou art fair.” “he was more fair than men, who deigned for me to wear a visage marred beyond compare.” " and thou hast riches.” “ daily bread : all else is his : who, living, dead, for me lacked where to lay his head.” “and life is sweet." “ it was not so to him, whose cup did overflow with mine unutterable woe.” the devil. “ thou drinkest deep.”. “when christ would sup he drained the dregs from out my cup : so how should i be lifted up?" consider. “ thou shalt win glory.” “in the skies, lord jesus, cover up mine eyes lest they should look on vanities.” “thou shalt have knowledge.” “helpless dust! in thee, o lord, i put my trust : answer thou for me, wise and just.” “ and might.”— “get thee behind me. lord, who hast redeemed and not abhorred my soul, oh keep it by thy word.” consider. consider the lilies of the field whose bloom is brief ;- we are as they ; like them we fade away, as doth a leaf. consider the sparrows of the air of small account: our god doth view whether they fall or mount,- he guards us too. dost thou not care ? consider the lilies that do neither spin nor toil, yet are most fair :- what profits all this care and all this coil ? consider the birds that have no barn nor harvest-weeks ; god gives them food :- much more our father seeks to do us good. dost thou not care ? i love and love not: lord, it breaks my heart to love and not to love. thou veiled within thy glory, gone apart into thy shrine, which is above, dost thou not love me, lord, or care for this mine ill ? i love thee here or there, i will accept thy broken heart, lie still. lord, it was well with me in time gone by that cometh not again, when i was fresh and cheerful, who but i ? i fresh, i cheerful : worn with pain one certainty. i go, lord, where thou sendest me; day after day i plod and moil : but, christ my god, when will it be that i may let alone my toil and rest with thee? one certainty. sonnet. vanity of vanities, the preacher saith, all things are vanity. the eye and ear cannot be filled with what they see and hear. like early dew, or like the sudden breath of wind, or like the grass that withereth, is man, tossed to and fro by hope and fear : so little joy hath he, so little cheer, till all things end in the long dust of death. to-day is still the same as yesterday, to-morrow also even as one of them ; and there is nothing new under the sun : until the ancient race of time be run, the old thorns shall grow out of the old stem, and morning shall be cold and twilight grey, by the waters of babylon. by the waters of babylon. b.c. . h ere, where i dwell, i waste to skin and bone; the curse is come upon me, and i waste in penal torment powerless to atone. the curse is come on me, which makes no haste and doth not tarry, crushing both the proud hard man and him the sinner double-faced. look not upon me, for my soul is bowed within me, as my body in this mire ; my soul crawls dumb-struck, sore bestead and cowed. as sodom and gomorrah scourged by fire, as jericho before god's trumpet-peal, so we the elect ones perish in his ire. vainly we gird on sackcloth, vainly kneel with famished faces toward jerusalem : his heart is shut against us not to feel, his ears against our cry he shutteth them, his hand he shorteneth that he will not save, his law is loud against us to condemn : and we, as unclean bodies in the grave inheriting corruption and the dark, are outcast from his presence which we crave. our mercy hath departed from his ark, our glory hath departed from his rest, our shield hath left us naked as a mark unto all pitiless eyes made manifest. by the waters of babylon. our very father hath forsaken us, our god hath cast us from him: we oppress'd unto our foes are even marvellous, a hissing and a butt for pointing hands, whilst god almighty hunts and grinds us thus ; for he hath scattered us in alien lands, our priests, our princes, our anointed king, and bound us hand and foot with brazen bands. here while i sit my painful heart takes wing home to the home-land i may see no more, where milk and honey flow, where waters spring and fail not, where i dwelt in days of yore under my fig-tree and my fruitful vine, there where my parents dwelt at ease before : now strangers press the olives that are mine, reap all the corners of my harvest-field, and make their fat hearts wanton with my wine; to them my trees, to them my gardens yield their sweets and spices and their tender green, o’er them in noontide heat outspread their shield. yet these are they whose fathers had not been housed with my dogs, whom hip and thigh we smote and with their blood washed their pollutions clean, purging the land which spewed them from its throat; their daughters took we for a pleasant prey, choice tender ones on whom the fathers doat. now they in turn have led our own away; our daughters and our sisters and our wives sore weeping as they weep who curse the day, to live, remote from help, dishonoured lives, by the waters of babylon. soothing their drunken masters with a song, or dancing in their golden tinkling gyves : accurst if they remember through the long estrangement of their exile, twice accursed if they forget and join the accursèd throng. how doth my heart that is so wrung not burst when i remember that my way was plain, and that god's candle lit me at the first, whilst now i grope in darkness, grope in vain, desiring but to find him who is lost, to find him once again, but once again ! his wrath came on us to the uttermost, his covenanted and most righteous wrath : yet this is he of whom we made our boast, who lit the fiery pillar in our path, who swept the red sea dry before our feet, who in his jealousy smote kings, and hath sworn once to david : one shall fill thy seat born of thy body, as the sun and moon 'stablished for aye in sovereignty complete. o lord, remember david, and that soon. the glory hath departed, ichabod ! yet now, before our sun grow dark at noon, before we come to nought beneath thy rod, before we go down quick into the pit, remember us for good, o god, our god : thy name will i remember, praising it, though thou forget me, though thou hide thy face, and blot me from the book which thou hast writ; christian and jew. “ angels, archangels cry one to other ceaselessly (i hear them sing) one ‘holy, holy, holy' to their king.”— "i do not hear them, i.”— “joy to thee, paradise,— garden and goal and nest ! made green for wearied eyes; much softer than the breast of mother-dove clad in a rainbow's dyes. “ all precious souls are there most safe, elect by grace, all tears are wiped for ever from their face : untired in prayer they wait and praise hidden for a little space. “boughs of the living vine they spread in summer shine green leaf with leaf : sap of the royal vine it stirs like wine in all both less and chief. “sing to the lord, all spirits of all flesh, sing; for he hath not abhorred our low estate nor scorn'd our offering : shout to our king.”— christian and jew. “ but zion said : my lord forgetteth me. lo, she hath made her bed in dust; forsaken weepeth she where alien rivers swell the sea. “she laid her body as the ground, her tender body as the ground to those who passed; her harpstrings cannot sound in a strange land ; discrowned she sits, and drunk with woes.”_ “o drunken not with wine, whose sins and sorrows have fulfilled the sum,- be not afraid, arise, be no more dumb; arise, shine, for thy light is come.”— “can these bones live?”— "god knows: the prophet saw such clothed with flesh and skin; a wind blew on them, and life entered in ; they shook and rose. hasten the time, o lord, blot out their sin, let life begin.” good friday. good friday. am i a stone, and not a sheep, that i can stand, o christ, beneath thy cross, to number drop by drop thy blood's slow loss, and yet not weep? not so those women loved who with exceeding grief lamented thee; not so fallen peter weeping bitterly ; not so the thief was moved ; not so the sun and moon which hid their faces in a starless sky, a horror of great darkness at broad noon- i, only i. yet give not o'er, but seek thy sheep, true shepherd of the flock; greater than moses, turn and look once more and smite a rock. sweet death. sweet death. the sweetest blossoms die. and so it was that, going day by day unto the church to praise and pray, and crossing the green churchyard thoughtfully, i saw how on the graves the flowers shed their fresh leaves in showers, and how their perfume rose up to the sky before it passed away. the youngest blossoms die. they die and fall and nourish the rich earth from which they lately had their birth; sweet life, but sweeter death that passeth by and is as though it had not been :- all colours turn to green; the bright hues vanish, and the odours fly, the grass hath lasting worth. and youth and beauty die. so be it, o my god, thou god of truth: better than beauty and than youth are saints and angels, a glad company; and thou, o lord, our rest and ease, art better far than these. why should we shrink from our full harvest? why prefer to glean with ruth? symbols. symbols. t watched a rosebud very long brought on by dew and sun and shower, waiting to see the perfect flower : then, when i thought it should be strong, it opened at the matin hour and fell at evensong. i watched a nest from day to day, a green nest full of pleasant shade, wherein three speckled eggs were laid : but when they should have hatched in may, the two old birds had grown afraid or tired, and flew away. then in my wrath i broke the bough that i had tended so with care, hoping its scent should fill the air ; i crushed the eggs, not heeding how their ancient promise had been fair : i would have vengeance now. but the dead branch spoke from the sod, and the eggs answered me again : because we failed dost thou complain ? is thy wrath just? and what if god, who waiteth for thy fruits in vain, should also take the rod ? the world-a testimony. the world. sonnet. by day she woos me, soft, exceeding fair : but all night as the moon so changeth she; loathsome and foul with hideous leprosy and subtle serpents gliding in her hair. by day she woos me to the outer air, ripe fruits, sweet flowers, and full satiety : but through the night a beast she grins at me, a very monster void of love and prayer. by day she stands a lie : by night she stands in all the naked horror of the truth with pushing horns and clawed and clutching hands. is this a friend indeed; that i should sell my soul to her, give her my life and youth, till my feet, cloven too, take hold on hell? a testimony. said of laughter : it is vain. of mirth i said : what profits it? therefore i found a book, and writ therein how ease and also pain, how health and sickness, every one is vanity beneath the sun. a testimony. and there the weary be at rest; there all the wisdom of the wise is vanity of vanities. man flourishes as a green leaf, and as a leaf doth pass away; or as a shade that cannot stay and leaves no track, his course is brief : yet man doth hope and fear and plan till he is dead :-oh foolish man ! our eyes cannot be satisfied with seeing, nor our ears be filled with hearing : yet we plant and build and buy and make our borders wide ; we gather wealth, we gather care, but know not who shall be our heir. why should we hasten to arise so early, and so late take rest? our labour is not good ; our best hopes fade; our heart is stayed on lies : verily, we sow wind; and we shall reap the whirlwind, verily. he who hath little shall not lack; he who hath plenty shall decay : our fathers went; we pass away; our children follow on our track : so generations fail, and so they are renewed and come and go. a testimony. the earth is fattened with our dead; she swallows more and doth not cease : therefore her wine and oil increase and her sheaves are not numbered ; therefore her plants are green, and all her pleasant trees lusty and tall. therefore the maidens cease to sing, and the young men are very sad; therefore the sowing is not glad, and mournful is the harvesting. of high and low, of great and small, vanity is the lot of all. a king dwelt in jerusalem ; he was the wisest man on earth; he had all riches from his birth, and pleasures till he tired of them ; then, having tested all things, he witnessed that all are vanity. sleep at sea. so dream the sleepers, each man in his place; the lightning shows the smile upon each face : the ship is driving,—driving, - it drives apace: and sleepers smile, and spirits bewail their case. the lightning glares and reddens across the skies; it seems but sunset to those sleeping eyes. when did the sun go down on such a wise ? from such a sunset when shall day arise ? " wake," call the spirits : but to heedless ears : they have forgotten sorrows and hopes and fears ; they have forgotten perils and smiles and tears ; their dream has held them long, long years and years. • wake,” call the "spirits again : but it would take a louder summons to bid them awake. sleep at sea. some dream of pleasure for another's sake; some dream, forgetful of a lifelong ache. one by one slowly, ah, how sad and slow ! wailing and praying the spirits rise and go : clear stainless spirits white, as white as snow; pale spirits, wailing for an overthrow. one by one flitting, like a mournful bird whose song is tired at last for no mate heard. the loving voice is silent, the useless word ; one by one flitting sick with hope deferred. driving and driving, the ship drives amain : while swift from mast to mast shapes flit again, flit silent as the silence where men lie slain ; their shadow cast upon the sails is like a stain. mother country. no voice to call the sleepers, no hand to raise : they sleep to death in dreaming of length of days. vanity of vanities, the preacher says: vanity is the end of all their ways. mother country. oh what is that country and where can it be, not mine own country, but dearer far to me? yet mine own country, if i one day may see its spices and cedars, its gold and ivory. · as i lie dreaming it rises, that land; there rises before me its green golden strand, with the bowing cedars and the shining sand; it sparkles and flashes like a shaken brand. mother country. do angels lean nearer while i lie and long? i see their soft plumage and catch their windy song, like the rise of a high tide sweeping full and strong; i mark the outskirts of their reverend throng. oh what is a king here, or what is a boor ? : here all starve together, all dwarfed and poor ; here death's hand knocketh at door after door, he thins the dancers from the festal floor. oh what is a handmaid, or what is a queen? all must lie down together where the turf is green, the foulest face hidden, the fairest not seen; gone as if never, they had breathed or been. gone from sweet sunshine underneath the sod, turned from warm flesh and blood to senseless clod, mother country. gone as if never they had toiled or trod, gone out of sight of all except our god. shut into silence from the accustomed song, shut into solitude from all earth’s throng, run down though swift of foot, thrust down though strong : life made an end of, seemed it short or long. life made an end of, life but just begun ; life finished yesterday, its last sand run; life new-born with the morrow, fresh as the sun : while done is done for ever; undone, undone. and if that life is life, this is but a breath, the passage of a dream and the shadow of death ; but a vain shadow if one considereth; vanity of vanities, as the preacher saith. “i will lift up mine eyes “i will lift up mine eyes unto the hills.” i am pale with sick desire, for my heart is far away from this world's fitful fire and this world's waning day ; in a dream it overleaps a world of tedious ills to where the sunshine sleeps on the everlasting hills.- say the saints: there angels ease us glorified and white. they say : we rest in jesus, where is not day or night. my soul saith : i have sought for a home that is not gained, i have spent yet nothing bought, have laboured but not attained ; my pride strove to mount and grow, and hath but dwindled down ; my love sought love, and lo! hath not attained its crown.— say the saints : fresh souls increase us, none languish or recede. they say : we love our jesus, and he loves us indeed. unto the hills.” i cannot rise above, i cannot rest beneath, i cannot find out love, or escape from death ; dear hopes and joys gone by still mock me with a name; my best beloved die, and i cannot die with them.- say the saints: no deaths decrease us, where our rest is glorious. they say: we live in jesus, who once died for us. o my soul, she beats her wings and pants to fly away up to immortal things in the heavenly day: yet she flags and almost faints ; can such be meant for me?- come and see, say the saints. saith jesus : come and see. say the saints : his pleasures please us before god and the lamb. come and taste my sweets, saith jesus : be with me where i am. “ the master is come.” “the master is come, and calleth for thee.” w ho calleth ?—thy father calleth, run, o daughter, to wait on him : he who chasteneth but for a season trims thy lamp that it burn not dim. who calleth ?—thy master calleth, sit, disciple, and learn of him : he who teacheth wisdom of angels makes thee wise as the cherubim. who calleth ?—thy monarch calleth, rise, o subject, and follow him : he is stronger than death or devil, fear not thou if the foe be grim. who calleth ?_thy lord god calleth, fall, o creature, adoring him : he is jealous, thy god almighty, count not dear to thee life or limb. who calleth ?—thy bridegroom calleth, soar, o bride, with the seraphim : he who loves thee as no man loveth, bids thee give up thy heart to him. who shall deliver me? who shall deliver me? cod strengthen me to bear myself; that heaviest weight of all to bear, inalienable weight of care. all others are outside myself; i lock my door and bar them out, the turmoil, tedium, gad-about. i lock my door upon myself, and bar them out; but who shall wall self from myself, most loathed of all ? if i could once lay down myself, and start self-purged upon the race that all must run ! death runs apace. if i could set aside myself, and start with lightened heart upon the road by all men overgone ! god harden me against myself, this coward with pathetic voice who craves for ease, and rest, and joys : . “when my heart is vexed, myself, arch-traitor to myself; my hollowest friend, my deadliest foe, my clog whatever road i go. yet one there is can curb myself, can roll the strangling load from me, break off the yoke and set me free. “when my heart is vexed, i will complain.” “ o lord, how canst thou say thou lovest me? me whom thou settest in a barren land, hungry and thirsty on the burning sand, hungry and thirsty where no waters be nor shadows of date-bearing tree :- o lord, how canst thou say thou lovest me?" “ i came from edom by as parched a track, as rough a track beneath my bleeding feet. i came from edom seeking thee, and sweet i counted bitterness; i turned not back but counted life as death, and trod the winepress all alone: and i am god.” i will complain.” “ yet, lord, how canst thou say thou lovest me? for thou art strong to comfort: and could i but comfort one i love, who, like to die, lifts feeble hands and eyes that fail to see in one last prayer for comfort—nay, i could not stand aside or turn away." “ alas ! thou knowest that for thee i died, for thee i thirsted with the dying thirst; i, blessed, for thy sake was counted cursed, in sight of men and angels crucified : all this and more i bore to prove my love, and wilt thou yet mistrust my love ?” “lord, i am fain to think thou lovest me, for thou art all in all and i am thine, and lo! thy love is better than new wine, and i am sick of love in loving thee. but dost thou love me? speak and save, for jealousy is cruel as the grave.” “nay, if thy love is not an empty breath my love is as thine own, deep answers deep. peace, peace : i give to my beloved sleep, not death but sleep, for love is strong as death : take patience; sweet thy sleep shall be, yea, thou shalt wake in paradise with me." after this the judgment. after this the judgment. as eager homebound traveller to the goal, · or steadfast seeker on an unsearched main, or martyr panting for an aureole, my fellow-pilgrims pass me, and attain that hidden mansion of perpetual peace where keen desire and hope dwell free from pain : that gate stands open of perennial ease; i view the glory till i partly long, yet lack the fire of love which quickens these. o passing angel, speed me with a song, a melody of heaven to reach my heart and rouse me to the race and make me strong ; till in such music i take up my part swelling those hallelujahs full of rest, one, tenfold, hundredfold, with heavenly art, fulfilling north and south and east and west, thousand, ten thousandfold, innumerable, all blent in one yet each one manifest; each one distinguished and beloved as well as if no second voice in earth or heaven were lifted up the love of god to tell. ah, love of god, which thine own self hast given to me most poor, and made me rich in love, love that dost pass the tenfold seven times seven, draw thou mine eyes, draw thou my heart above, my treasure and my heart store thou in thee, after this the judgment. brood over me with yearnings of a dove; be husband, brother, closest friend to me; love me as very mother loves her son, her sucking firstborn fondled on her knee: yea, more than mother loves her little one ; for, earthly, even a mother may forget and feel no pity for its piteous moan; but thou, o love of god, remember yet, through the dry desert, through the waterflood (life, death), until the great white throne is set. if now i am sick in chewing the bitter cud of sweet past sin, though solaced by thy grace and ofttimes strengthened by thy flesh and blood, how shall i then stand up before thy face when from thine eyes repentance shall be hid and utmost justice stand in mercy's place : when every sin i thought or spoke or did shall meet me at the inexorable bar, and there be no man standing in the mid to plead for me; while star fallen after star with heaven and earth are like a ripened shock, and all time's mighty works and wonders are consumed as in a moment; when no rock remains to fall on me, no tree to hide, but i stand all creation's gazing-stock exposed and comfortless on every side, placed trembling in the final balances whose poise this hour, this moment, must be tried? — ah love of god, if greater love than this hath no man, that a man die for his friend, saints and angels. and if such love of love thine own love is, plead with thyself, with me, before the end ; redeem me from the irrevocable past; pitch thou thy presence round me to defend ; yea seek with piercèd feet, yea hold me fast with piercèd hands whose wounds were made by love; not what i am, remember what thou wast when darkness hid from thee thy heavens above, and sin thy father's face, while thou didst drink the bitter cup of death, didst taste thereof for every man ; while thou wast nigh to sink beneath the intense intolerable rod, grown sick of love; not what i am, but think thy life then ransomed mine, my god, my god! saints and angels. it's oh in paradise that i fain would be, away from earth and weariness and all beside : earth is too full of loss with its dividing sea, but paradise upbuilds the bower for the bride. where flowers are yet in bud while the boughs are green, i would get quit of earth and get robed for heaven; putting on my raiment white within the screen, putting on my crown of gold whose gems are seven. saints and angels. . fair is the fourfold river that maketh no moan, fair are the trees fruit-bearing of the wood, fair are the gold and bdellium and the onyx stone, and i know the gold of that land is good. o my love, my dove, lift up your eyes toward the eastern gate like an opening rose ; you and i who parted will meet in paradise, pass within and sing when the gates unclose. this life is but the passage of a day, this life is but a pang and all is over, but in the life to come which fades not away every love shall abide and every lover. he who wore out pleasure and mastered all lore, solomon wrote “ vanity of vanities :" down to death, of all that went before in his mighty long life, the record is this. with loves by the hundred, wealth beyond measure, is this he who wrote “ vanity of vanities ” ? yea, “ vanity of vanities” he saith of pleasure, and of all he learned set his seal to this. yet we love and faint not, for our love is one, and we hope and flag not, for our hope is sure, although there be nothing new beneath the sun and no help for life and for death no cure. from house to hỌme. safe in his excavated gallery the burrowing mole groped on from year to year; no harmless hedgehog curled because of me his prickly back for fear. ofttimes one like an angel walked with me, with spirit-discerning eyes like flames of fire, but deep as the unfathomed endless sea fulfilling my desire : and sometimes like a snowdrift he was fair, and sometimes like a sunset glorious red, and sometimes he had wings to scale the air with aureole round his head. we sang our songs together by the way, calls and recalls and echoes of delight; so communed we together all the day, and so in dreams by night. i have no words to tell what way we walked, what unforgotten path now closed and sealed; i have no words to tell all things we talked, all things that he revealed : this only can i tell : that hour by hour i waxed more feastful, lifted up and glad; i felt no thorn-prick when i plucked a flower, felt not my friend was sad. from house to home. “ to-morrow," once i said to him with smiles : “ to-night,” he answered gravely and was dumb, but pointed out the stones that numbered miles and miles and miles to come. “ not so," i said : “to-morrow shall be sweet: to-night is not so sweet as coming days.” then first i saw that he had turned his feet, had turned from me his face: running and aying miles and miles he went, but once looked back to beckon with his hand and cry : “ come home, o love, from banishment : come to the distant land.” that night destroyed me like an avalanche; one night turned all my summer back to snow : next morning not a bird upon my branch, not a lamb woke below,- no bird, no lamb, no living breathing thing ; no squirrel scampered on my breezy lawn, no mouse lodged by his hoard : all joys took wing and fled before that dawn. azure and sun were starved from heaven above, no dew had fallen, but biting frost lay hoar : o love, i knew that i should meet my love, should find my love no more. from house to home. “ my love no more," i muttered, stunned with pain : i shed no tear, i wrung no passionate hand, till something whispered : “ you shall meet again, meet in a distant land.” then with a cry like famine i arose, i lit my candle, searched from room to room, searched up and down ; a war of winds that froze swept through the blank of gloom. i searched day after day, night after night; scant change there came to me of night or day : “no more,” i wailed, “no more :” and trimmed my light, and gnashed but did not pray, until my heart broke and my spirit broke: upon the frost-bound floor i stumbled, fell, and moaned: “it is enough : withhold the stroke. farewell, o love, farewell.” then life swooned from me. and i heard the song of spheres and spirits rejoicing over me: one cried : “our sister, she hath suffered long.”— one answered : “make her see.”— one cried : “oh blessed she who no more pain, who no more disappointment shall receive.” — one answered : “not so: she must live again ; strengthen thou her to live.” from house to home. then earth and heaven were rolled up like a scroll ; time and space, change and death, had passed away; weight, number, measure, each had reached its whole; the day had come, that day. multitudes multitudes--stood up in bliss, made equal to the angels, glorious, fair ; with harps, palms, wedding-garments, kiss of peace, and crowned and haloed hair. they sang a song, a new song in the height, harping with harps to him who is strong and true : they drank new wine, their eyes saw with new light, lo, all things were made new. tier beyond tier they rose and rose and rose so high that it was dreadful, flames with flames : no man could number them, no tongue disclose their secret sacred names. as though one pulse stirred all, one rush of blood fed all, one breath swept through them myriad- voiced, [stood they struck their harps, cast down their crowns, they and worshipped and rejoiced. each face looked one way like a moon new-lit, each face looked one way towards its sun of love; drank love and bathed in love and mirrored it and knew no end thereof. from house to home. these thorns are sharp, yet i can tread on them; this cup is loathsome, yet he makes it sweet : my face is steadfast toward jerusalem, my heart remembers it. i lift the hanging hands, the feeble knees- i, precious more than seven times molten gold- until the day when from his storehouses god shall bring new and old; beauty for ashes, oil of joy for grief, garment of praise for spirit of heaviness : although to-day i fade as doth a leaf, i languish and grow less. although to-day he prunes my twigs with pain, yet doth his blood nourish and warm my root: to-morrow i shall put forth buds again and clothe myself with fruit. although to-day i walk in tedious ways, to-day his staff is turned into a rod, yet will i wait for him the appointed days and stay upon my god. old and new year ditties. old and new year ditties. i. new year met me somewhat sad : old year leaves me tired, stripped of favourite things i had, baulked of much desired : yet farther on my road to-day god willing, farther on my way. new year coming on apace what have you to give me? bring you scathe, or bring you grace, face me with an honest face; you shall not deceive me : be it good or ill, be it what you will, it needs shall help me on my road, my rugged way to heaven, please god. . watch with me, men, women, and children dear, you whom i love, for whom i hope and fear, watch with me this last vigil of the year. some hug their business, some their pleasure scheme; some seize the vacant hour to sleep or dream; heart locked in heart some kneel and watch apart. watch with me, blessed spirits, who delight all through the holy night to walk in white, or take your ease after the long-drawn fight. old and new year ditties. i know not if they watch with me: i know they count this eve of resurrection slow, and cry, " how long ?” with urgent utterance strong. watch with me, jesus, in my loneliness : : though others say me nay, yet say thou yes; though others pass me by, stop thou to bless. yea, thou dost stop with me this vigil night; to-night of pain, to-morrow of delight : i, love, am thine; thou, lord my god, art mine. . passing away, saith the world, passing away : chances, beauty and youth sapped day by day : thy life never continueth in one stay. is the eye waxen dim, is the dark hair changing to grey that hath won neither laurel nor bay? i shall clothe myself in spring and bud in may: thou, root-stricken, shalt not rebuild thy decay on my bosom for aye. then i answered : yea. passing away, saith my soul, passing away : with its burden of fear and hope, of labour and play; hearken what the past doth witness and say : rust in thy gold, a moth is in thine array, a canker is in thy bud, thy leaf must decay. at midnight, at cockcrow, at morning, one certain day lo, the bridegroom shall come and shall not delay : watch thou and pray. then i answered : yea. amen. passing away, saith my god, passing away : winter passeth after the long delay: new grapes on the vine, new figs on the tender spray, turtle calleth turtle in heaven's may. though i tarry, wait for me, trust me, watch and pray. arise, come away, night is past and lo it is day, my love, my sister, my spouse, thou shalt hear me say. then i answered : yea. amen. tt is over. what is over ? nay, now much is over truly ! harvest days we toiled to sow for; now the sheaves are gathered newly, now the wheat is garnered duly, it is finished. what is finished ? much is finished known or unknown : lives are finished ; time diminished ; was the fallow field left unsown? will these buds be always unblown? it suffices. what suffices ? all suffices reckoned rightly : spring shall bloom where now the ice is, roses make the bramble sightly, and the quickening sun shine brightly, and the latter wind blow lightly, and my garden teem with spices. the lowest place. the lowest place. cive me the lowest place : not that i dare ask for that lowest place, but thou hast died that i might live and share thy glory by thy side. give me the lowest place : or if for me that lowest place too high, make one more low where i may sit and see my god and love thee so. the end, printed by r. & r. clark, edinburgh. juvenile collection tºz. © sę - -º- - º == tvºſţă hº! - - º º #immigºſº wº º eº e sº - - h h. - - e - he º --ſº e := ſ: e he - | :e be - ne e: e º e. f. re ee := ÉÉ # ed e º - tº- e e e e: e º: et, e - e fºr e re --- e e he ‘e hºt e º * - -- e | e; trebor dº º: t - º - e -- - re - h. #f º:e zºſº -º-º-º: fºe - [; s e - º º º º º mttttttitiiihiſ: - - fº º-------rº-º-º-º-º-c----------> e eliºtºnºmºmºmmiſ: h the gift of ruth cattermale - • • …|- · · |- •---- ：|-* , * → . •· **|- |-• • • |- |-·^ •·*|- · *· |---！• ſ|- *** •· *~ ,· ·• • | _ ' '， ！ » *· •·*， ！ *· · · · · · · · · ··* , ' ' +|- →··*· · ， ae· • ×|- ·· * * *• -** ** |-：* ·{！： *|- ·*.*... • *|×* • º* ！： ae* •|- *|-• ！ *** •|-* • • •*·|- |-· * -•|- ！ |-· ·|- ae ！ ---- • ·� |-* |-•---- *ae · * |-ae|-** →· |-： ae , sº º - stories, not for good children, nor bad children, º - ruºr f r re, al children. --~~~~~--- the moss cup. : - “the child is father of the man; and i would wish my days to be bound each to each by natural piety.” wordsworth * , - - to the ſilothers of our (ſpuntry, - - who are willing that - nature should develop her sweet work - inher own sweetway, without forcing it into precocious development, t h e s e pages are affectionately inscribed, by a - * . t h e a u thor, * p. r. e. f. a. c. e. a solitary man, travelling amid the a sands and dryness of africa, .#. at one time, naked, hungry, and athirst, the night coming on, and he alone, afar from any human aid. overcome with the wretch- edness of his state, he cast himself upon the ground, thinking he must assuredly die. all at once, his eye fell upon a tuft of moss, with the pretty cups ready to be filled with dew. he burst into tears, for the moss cup had brought him a great thought. it was this. * if god, in this wilderness, careth for a useless thing, like a moss cup, to adorn it with freshness and beauty, he will not let me perish for want of succor. thus he grew strong and hopeful, and lived to tell how this least of god's beauti- ful children may bring a great truth to the friends, the little folks. : t i pr e fa c e . heart. hence our book shall be the moss cup, humble in itself, but able to touch the springs of fresh, and generous, and cheer- ing thought. - the writer wishes hereafter to do some- thing more for her little friends, some- thing which may bring her still nearer to their dear hearts. she keeps a child-heart herself, and writes for them out of the love she holds there; she does not feel that any thing, and all things, will do for a child; but she does feel that whatever she may say to such from a pure and loving spirit, cannot fail at some time to please them. she is therefore the more earnest to write out some of the many pleasant fancies which grow upon her mind, whenever she thinks of her c o n t e n t s. - • page. christmas day, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . gems and reptiles, ... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . the charm of hom e, ............... the little witch, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . the child and the flow ers, ..... ... homesicrness, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . inadizzie, or the wanderer, . iretta, the fairy that would be immortal, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . sarah's home, ..................... dog hood, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . the child eva, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . a chapter about being rich, ... . . . t h e m o s s c u p. of all kinds’”. of course he meant, in part, such bondage as having to serve little, ugly, black-looking sol- diers, called letters.” “how you do stare, eva! and those tears are drying upon your cheeks a little saltish. well, eva, ’tis a pity you were not just a little wicked,— not much, you know, but so you would need to cry about your own naughti- ness, just as i do; and then you would let other folks alone. but i do like . a good hearty fellow, that does some- times dash into a scrape, but is man enough to know what is bad, and to repent in earnest when he does it.” eva tucked both little hands under her armpits, as small girls do of a cold morning, and sidled down upon a bench to listen ; for clarence was a terrible boy for making speeches. at this moment, grandmamma laid aside - a - e º .** - º º *. t h e m o s s c u p. the picture and her spectacles, say- ing, with a sigh, “that boy has been treated wrong some way, i’m sure.” “eva, put that picture so that i can see it,” said clarence. “i won’t read about it; i won't break my word of honor this day, nor any day.” eva put her arm over the reading part, and clarence gave one glance at the picture of distress and fury pre- sented. “george wanderlyn !” he exclaimed; and away he burst into one of his most energetic speeches. clarence never feels nor talks by halves. when excited, all the strong words, not bad words, (for clarence is a boy of conscience, and a gentle- man,) in the language leap to his tongue; and then he seems to feel as if these were flat. he rises from his seat at these times, and stands or steps about very firmly. * t h e m o s s c u p. . eva listens to his speeches in silence, and then, when she begins to “preach,” as he calls it, he kneels down beside her, and takes her pret- ty little reproofs as meekly as a boy twice as patient might do, for he loves her very tenderly, and clarence has a fine generous heart. “treated wrong ! so poor george wanderlyn has fallen into the hands of the philistines | poor george he had a heart — was wide awake; no sneaking about him.” eva drew a trifle nearer to her cousin clarence, and looked in his face with such sweet credulity, that it made her look a creature that had been sent by mistake to the wrong world. eva hadn’t learned the fun- ning way to talk, which some chil- dren learn, and by which they first begin to grow false. she took every - - . t h e m o s s cup. - sure enough, it was a portrait of george wanderlyn; and i had often heard, the year before, his aunt tell the terrible story of the destruction of the christmas gifts, which she told every where as a proof of the badness of poor george, who was more honest than most boys, but not bad. he was only too ready to act just as he felt at the time, without stopping to think; and i must confess that new england children are taught to think so much, that they begin to think it is wrong to feel at all. it is better to feel warmly and rightly, than merely to think rightly, i think. chapter ii. george was no prodigy, nor ideal of a boy. he was generous, affec- º sº t h e m o s s c u p. tionate, well-disposed, and impulsive. he had a boy's devotion to play, and a boy’s aversion to books. after the death of his mother, he had been sent to an aunt's, who lived in a pleasant new england village, with its inva- riable spired church, white acad- emy with a little belfry at one end, and a snug, wood-colored school- house. then there was the circu- lating library, and the lyceum, and the “apprentice association,” the “mechanic * ditto, besides “encour- agement societies,” “improvement” ditto, all going to show that every part of the moral and intellectual nature of all kinds of people was well cared for in the place. • . george hated humbug in every shape. he hated to be thought bet- ter than he was ; hence he was apt to make himself appear a little worse t h e m q s s c u p. º than the reality. he would seat him- self manfully to the mastery of his lesson, because it was his duty to study; but if told to study because “other good little boys” did the same, he became nauseated, and flung down the book with contempt. he used to say he hated “good little boys. a fellow couldn't help going wrong sometimes, but he needn't go twice in the same way. he wouldn't be good because other boys were good, but he would do what was right be- cause he ought to do right.” the ranges of little boys with scanty pantaloons, hands coming a little too far from their jacket sleeves, white collars, and high foreheads, the hair of each brushed from one side to show a large “widower's peak,” and all studying away for dear life, had a gro- tesque aspect to him. he knew the t h e m o s s c u p. pented heartily of all his mischievous pranks, wondering to himself that, when he had resolved never to com- mit any offence twice, he was so ready to fly off in a tangent, and commit an- other quite as bad. he began to wish he was like other boys about, who seemed to keep so easily to the re- spectabilities; who, if they never did any thing especially good, and gener- ous, and hearty, never did any thing very bad, and always did it with a wry face, as if conscience were hold- ing up a whip, which they feared, as cowards do, and yet dared to do what their conscience told them was wrong, which george never did ; for his mis- chief was done in a flash, as it were, and he was sorry for it a long time afterwards. well, george thought these things over, till he grew perplexed and weary, t h e mo s s cu p. and then he wished his mother was only near, to talk to him of the right and the wrong in this world; and then he wept long over the memory of her sweet teachings, and the pleasant christmas mornings, when she used to help him unload the stocking filled by santa claus; and then the child dreamed of being restored once more to the severed circle of home, and sitting by his mother's knee. early in the morning george rushed down stairs to examine the stocking. it had been taken from the wainscot, where he had fastened it as in by-gone days. he looked round aghast. at length he approached the table, on which he espied a variety of beautiful pens, pencils, and papers, and a pile of books. mechanically he opened one. his own name was written therein —“presented by his affection- t h e m os.s c u p. ate aunt, in the hope he will be more dutiful and studious.” instantly the leaf was torn from the cover. another and another followed, and poor little george's rage grew in the ratio of indulgence. “i won't be wheedled into goodness; i won't be cheated into knowledge,” he cried, tearing the books in a man- ner that showed he was in no danger of being deluded in that way. “tear away, my fine lad,” cried clarence, looking at the picture after i told the story. “i like your spirit. if a body takes medicine, let him do it honestly, and not humbug himself with a lozenge. preach or play, one or the other; no sneaking about, and mixing things up.” “but think of the nice books, dear clarence, and the kind aunt,” said little eva, taking things in detail. t h e m oss c u p. “but think of the cheat about santa claus, eva, and having a reproach written out in a christmas gift. think of having a book which would be always reminding you of the mis- chief you had done, and telling you that people think you bad. it's enough to make a fellow bad.” “true, clarence, you are right,” i said; “i never blamed george vander- lyn much in this matter. children are half the time taught evil by having it so often forced upon them in the way of reproach and counsel. it is better to trust something to impulsive good- ness of nature. foster the good, and the evil will die out.” • ** george felt himself aggrieved. he was too young to respect the pious scruples of his aunt, who saw a relic of popery in this homage to saint nich- olas. suspecting everything not graced t h e m o s s c u p. with the palpable odor of morality, rev- erencing intellect as all new england- ers do, she was apt to question the most harmless geniality, and to con- sider all time as lost, that did not, directly or indirectly, minister to the growth of knowledge. hence she could have no perception of the mysterious visit of santa claus, the genial friend of children — the stocking crammed with nuts, and can- dies, and toys, and knick-knackeries in every shape; the well-dissembled sur- prise of the household, the merriment, the noise; the universal hurry and good-will; the cracking of candy, and firing of pea-nuts; the squeaking of tin trumpets, and the beating of drums. “great, glorious !” cried clarence, discharging a volley of nuts, kissing eva, and striking up a march all in a breath. “santa claus doesn't come t h e m o s s c u p. to preach sermons, but to impart hap- piness. he is a big boy himself, ready for a freak when it will harm nobody, and a downright lover of fun and ge- niality;” in confirmation of which faith he gave eva another kiss, pinched carlo's ears for the sake of caressing him afterward, and in a fever of good- will looked out of the window, where, seeing a half-frozen girl creeping by, with a dirty basket upon her arm, he raised the window by stealth, and tossed in a handful of crollers, dodg- ing his head so quickly that the child never knew whence they came. chapter iii. when clarence thought the girl must have gone by, he lifted himself up, and looked out of the window, and t h e moss c u p. * º eva came and stood beside him. they both had their eyes fixed upon the windows of a house opposite, where a very pale lady was leaning just inside of the curtains; and once or twice she put a handkerchief to her face, and they knew she was weeping. at last she saw clarence and eva, and she kissed her fingers to them, and moved away. clarence's heart beat quick; he breathed heavily ; and then, seeing eva with her eyes full of tears, he dashed one from his, and tried to whistle. it would not do, and he ran out of the room. there was a grief even in such a christmas, bright as was the sun, and joyful as every thing looked, and plentiful as were the presents and the kind wishes. the lady in the house upon the t h e moss cup. opposite side of broadway, was mrs. clide, a widow, with but one child in this world, her oldest, a fine, frank boy, having died, since the last christmas, of a brain fever. clarence and henry clide had been congenial friends; and many were the country tramps they had had together, in the vacations and holydays, and many the boy-secrets imparted by each, and the generous sacrifices for each other. they were rarely apart. with them joy could not be joy unless both shared it. they read, studied, and played, together. either would have suffered any thing to ward suffer- ing from the other. the three days that henry was ill, clarence never left him; and when he died, poor clarence came near dying from grief. i dare not tell how henry t h e m o s s c u p. \ : º tº poor sam, i'm sure, was never known to get in any sort of scrape; the good with him is always done, and mischief spurned in every shape: he never has a heart for fun. well, somehow, i can't hardly tell why every pale-faced, moping boy, , ready at stroke of school-house bell, who never whistles down his joy, is always liked so very well, - and lads like harry clide and me are told to be like sammy grey, who sits about with book on knee, and yawns and mopes the blessed day, as crooked, too, as he can be : a boy has much to learn, i think, that is not found in any book, from mountain breeze and water brink, from forest way and running brook, and music of the bob-o-link: it makes him feel so stout and strong, so full of life and all good-will, t h e moss cup. º º º - to leap the rocks, the sea along, and climb the rocky, steep-side hill, up where the wild bird weaves his song ! i’m graver than i used to be, dear harry clide : another lad i'll never love as i loved thee, fºr things that once looked bright and glad, now thou art gone, are changed to me. - - t h e mo s s cup. gems mmd reptiles, a n o l d s t o r y to l d w. f. r. *- chapter i. was the child evil o dear what a naughty girl i am l. i must be naughty, for nobody loves me, and nobody speaks kindly to me. my aunt and cousin tell me, every day i live, i am the worst girl in the world. it must be true, they say it so much; and yet i don't know what it is that i do so very bad.” little blanch looked round, for she thought somebody said, close to her ear, “nothing, nothing.” but she must have been mistaken. . there was no one in sight, and she could t h e m o s s c u p. --- pebbles, eddying around the roots of the old trees, and slipping over the spotted backs of the trout as they hur- ried with them, and then hid under the shelf of an overarching rock. blanch began to feel quite happy, though she couldn't tell why; and then she looked down into the foun- tain, and saw her own eyes peeping up, and she laughed; and the girl in the water laughed; and both laughed together, till the old woods took up the chorus, and the hills and rocks sent it back again. “o dear! what a noise i am making! and my aunt will be angry with me for staying so long.” blanch looked once more into the water, but the little girl from beneath did not laugh this time; on the con- trary, her face was quite pale and sad, and blanch looked into her melancholy the m o s s c u p. eyes till the tears gushed to her own, and fell into the water. the drops circled away in dimpling lines, grow- ing larger and larger, and completely hiding the face of the little girl in the water. blanch rubbed her eyes, and looked again, for she saw something exceed- ingly beautiful, stirring the pebbles at the bottom of the fountain. she held back her hair with both hands, and looked down close and still ; for there, right beside her own face, she saw a most lovely being, smiling, and hold- ing up its small, pale hands. blanch let her hair fall, till it almost blinded her eyes, and even dipped into the fountain, while she held out both hands to the little lady of the water. “thank you,” said the beautiful creature, springing lightly on the bank, t h e m o s s c u p. ful creature beside her could not be one of these. - the lady's cheek and neck were of the pure color of the inner lip of the ocean shell, growing of a brighter and brighter hue, till, just below the eye, it became of that rich beautiful tint we find upon the shell as we look in, in, to its very heart. then her hair was soft and bright, like long threads of amber, waving and glitter- ing in the light. her eyes were of the deep, deep blue, seen upon the surface of the muscle-shell, but so soft, so liquid in their lovingness and beauty, that blanch thought she could never tire in looking at them. her voice was like breathed melody; soft and murmuring, like the sound of the shell when held to a human ear. she had a coronal of pearls about her head, and bracelets of the same t h e m oss c u p. º º “would you like some of these pearls and diamonds, blanch " “o, they are very beautiful,” said the child ; “but i should have no time to play with them. dear, dear! how long i have staid o, my aunt will scold.” she took up the pitcher, and was hurrying away in great trouble; but fontana stopped her. “you must not go yet, blanch. i will see that your aunt doesn't scold you ; so sit down, and let us talk a while.” - blanch was very loath to stay; but fontana was so gentle, and promised so earnestly that all should be well, that at last she sat down again by the fountain. - “if you don't want pearls and dia- monds, blanch, what do you wish for what shall i do for you ? shall i t h e m o s s c u p. punish your aunt and cousin for treat- ing you so ill ?” - “o, no, no,” said the little girl, very earnestly; “they treat me so be- cause i am so very naughty. how could you think of such a thing? i'm sure i never did.” * fontana smiled, and kissed the cheeks, and eyes, and lips, of the child. “i love you dearly, blanch, and do wish you could think of something i can do for you.” blanch dropped her eyes, as if thinking earnestly; and then her face dimpled all over with smiles as she said, - “i wish you would help me to be good, so that my aunt and cousin, and every body, will love me. i should be quite happy then.” “what, don't you want to be rich - t h e m o s s c u p. and ride in a coach, and have servants, and dress grandly; and then let your aunt and cousin be poor, and go with bare feet, just as you do?” “o dear, no,” said blanch, turning quite pale: “how could you think of such a thing ° “well, let your aunt and cousin be rich, too, - then wouldn't you like to dress grandly, blanch ” “o dear! i only want to be good, and be loved,” said the poor girl, turn- ing her head away quite sorrowfully. fontana took her in her arms, and kissed her many times, and blanch felt the tears upon her cheek; she heard sweet, far-off melody; the sky seemed brighter than ever, and she thought she must be dreaming, she felt so happy. then the lady placed her upon the green bank; and when the child looked around, there was nothing t h e m oss , gup. blanch did tell every word; for there was something within, that told her she ought to tell the truth, and the whole truth. sometimes her aunt laughed, and sometimes she frowned ; but when she came to that part where the lady would have given her fine clothes, and a coach to ride in, her cousin called her “a poor, mean-spir- ited fool. so then you only asked to be good, you precious little fool, did you ?” she said, scornfully. the tears came into blanch's eyes, and fell upon her lap. “what is that rolling about in your lap ” said adeline. “i never saw such tears before; they don't soak in.” and the heartless girl shook them upon the floor. sure enough, they rolled away, clear, brilliant dia- monds, large as peas. adeline laughed, and scrabbled after t h e m o s s c u p. them, and told blanch to “cry away;” she liked such tears. but the little girl laughed as well as her cousin, and scrabbled too for the diamonds, it made her feel so happy to see smiling faces. “i will go down to the well, too.” said adeline, “and see if i cannot get something handsome.” she soon came back, flushed and angry; she declared there was nobody t h e m o s s c u p. the wants of her aunt and cousin, that she seemed to know what was desired even before they spoke. she wished, in the guilelessness of her young heart, that she only had a whole mine of gems to give them, so thankful did she feel for gentle words and kind looks. it was, soon found that jewels came from the mouth of blanch only when she returned a gentle reply to the harshness of others ; her tears were gems only when they were tears of compassion or of sorrow. adeline was making a lily, all of pearls; she hadn't quite enough to finish it. half in earnest, half in sport, she gave blanch a blow, say- ing, “cry, child; i want some more pearls.” blanch had never felt just so before : her face reddened, and she was about - t h e m oss c u p. to make an angry reply, when she felt a dash of water all over her face. she stopped short, and looked about, but no one was near but adeline. then she thought of the sinful feeling within, and knew it must have been fontana, that sprinkled the drops in her face blanch knew she had felt wrong, and she shed tears of penitence: they were pearls. chapter iii. - .never despise the aged. “come, blanch,” said adeline, “take the pitcher, and i will go down to the well with you; — i like the lady's gifts vastly, and shall know better what to ask for than you did.” the child did as she was bid, step- ping, with her little bare feet, lightly |||}| º -- | | || | ſº t h e m o s s c u p. said the old woman, in a low, trembling voice. little blanch descended the bank in- stantly, to do as she was desired; but adeline cruelly spurned her with her foot, saying, “get up, you old hag ; i wouldn’t give you a drink — not i.” the old woman glanced at the hard- hearted girl with a severe and searching look, and slowly rose from the ground. * t h e moss c up. “she could only frown upon me.” . she stopped short, for just then a small green lizard hopped from her mouth, and the terrified girls ran home as fast as they could go, adeline struck blanch, and said she had bewitched her; and every time she spoke, small snakes and toads darted from her mouth. then she would cry with horror and vexation, when bugs and spiders fell from her eyes. poor blanch stood by, weeping and wringing her hands; and the pearls and precious stones rolled all about the room, for no one heeded them. she thought of a thousand things, but not one that had any prospect of relieving her cousin. “o dear, dear! i wish fontana were only here !” cried blanch. she felt a slight sprinkle upon her face, and she knew the lady must be near. then * t h e m o s s c u p. en. she was still gentle and loving, like a little child, with a smile always ready for a cheerful look, and a tear for a sad one. some thought it good- ness alone that made her so beautiful ; others thought it the kisses of the lady of the fountain; for she sometimes ap- peared, when blanch was sad or un- happy, and spoke words of hope and love. a&line, too, had grown a tall, proud girl, with large black eyes of glittering brightness, and a step like a queen. there were yet times when the reptiles sprang from the mouth of the violent girl, in her moments of pride or anger. sometimes, amidst the splendor and tri- umph of a ball, she would be obliged to go out in the greatest confusion; for pride, and envy, and malice, would bring the reptiles to her throat. blanch still wept her pearls, and spoke . t h e m o s s c u p. º adeline said she was no judge, and many other things, such as foolish, vain girls say, who are in love. chapter iv. the good sometimes made happy in this world. poor blanch was greatly distressed at all this art in her aunt and cousin, and grew every day more pale and gen tle, and a great deal more beautiful too; for love always softens, as well as exalts, the style of beauty. she sometimes wished she had never seen the stranger, for she couldn't help looking through the lattice where the vines grew thickly, to see him at his work among the flowers; and he would some- times look up, too, and she was certain he was becoming pale and melancholy, * * t h e m o s s c u p. ] º and she thought it not unlikely that he might be in love with her cousin ade- line, and growing sad because there could be no hope for him. and blanch wept in holy compassion for the poor young servant. so she took her pitcher in her hand, and went down to the fountain. she wept a long time, she could hardly tell why. fontana came and kissed her cheek, and wiped her tears with gossa- mer muslin. blanch saw that she smiled faintly, and looked quite sad; so she tried to talk of pleasant things. “how ilove you, blanch!” said fon- tana. “you must have all you de- sire. what shall i do for you?” “smile upon me, dear fontana; there is no one else to love me; and when you smile, i am quite happy.” there was a rustling in the bushes. blanch looked up. fontana was the moss c u p. the stranger, and poor blanch grew quite pale and dispirited. adeline was in high spirits; she teased and scolded blanch all in a breath, and then, when she wept, she laughed, and said she should have the more jewels for her bridal. blanch disliked adeline's lover more and more every day; for, though she thought he might be rich, he seemed low-bred and as ignorant as any dolt could be. and then he was so loaded with finery, he must, at the very best, be a conceited coxcomb. but as long as her cousin was pleased, she had no right to say a word. the day for adeline's marriage came ; and after blanch had dressed her cousin, and done all the work she could do before the arrival of the guests, her aunt took her and thrust her down into an old cellar, half filled with mire and t h e m o s s c u p. water, that she might not be seen by any of the company. adeline looked splendidly, with her proud beauty and magnificent dress. the ceremony was just over, when they all heard the sound of carriage wheels and the trampling of horses. the bridegroom looked from the window, and was the first to go out and kneel to the stranger. all was awe and amaze- ment. the people had just time to observe the splendor of the carriage, and the rich livery of the servants, and the six snow-white horses, when a gen- tleman dressed in velvet and cloth of gold entered the room. “where is blanch?” he inquired, looking sternly round. “blanch is dead,” replied the aunt, solemnly. “dead?” repeated the stranger, turn- t h e mos s cup. º º ing pale, while the bridegroom stared with astonishment. “dead?” he again repeated: “it cannot be. ho, here, search the house !” he cried to his servants. the bridegroom would have gone out to obey the order, but the aunt rose in great rage. “i demand, sir, by what right you order my house to be searched.” “the right that the king has over the lives and property of his subjects,” answered the stranger with great ma- jesty. then taking off the plumed cap and velvet cloak, the young servant of the new cottage stood before them. every head was uncovered, and every knee bent. it was the king. adeline and her mother turned pale. the king went on. “the fame of the goodness and beauty of blanch had reached even to t h e m o s s cu p. our palace, and i came here disguised as a servant, that i might learn the truth. i find the half has not been told me, and i have now come to claim her for my bride.” at this moment the door opened, and fontana led blanch, pale and trem- bling, but more lovely than ever, into the room. she was dressed in white, with a girdle of pearls, and her eyes were bent meekly downward. fontana laid the hand of blanch within that of the king, who knelt to receive it, while the fair girl blushed and cast down her eyes. “thus,” said the lady, “are the good sometimes rewarded even in this life.” then, turning to adeline and her mother, she said, “i leave you to the punishment prepared in your own - t h e m o s s c u p. that the king banished them to the cot- tage he had built beside their old dwell- ing. blanch often wept for them, and sent them many proofs of her kindness and remembrance. the mo s s c u p. º for affections always grow stronger round the lowly hearth. fondly still we backward turn, while in life's long path we go; and that home, through dim, cold years, fresh in beauty seems to glow. - clinging to its love we turn, when the storm grows fierce and cold, as the ivy closer clings - round the fabric worn and old. t h e m o s s c u p. r her mother seemed more pale and sor- rowful than she had ever before been; and after they were in bed, she raised her head from the pillow at the least sound, and trembled violently. the wind was cold and gusty; and as it whirled down the great stone chimney, it sent the ashes about the hearth, and blew the embers up almost to a blaze. sarah was lying with her eyes half open, and she could see, as the back- log lighted occasionally under the heap of ashes, the bible, where it always lay, upon the little pine table; the old eng- lish chest of drawers reaching to the top of theroom, and standing upon small round legs, high enough for a large trunk to stand beneath. a tall, straight- backed arm-chair, in which her grand- father had died some years before, was in the corner, with her mother's serge dress lying across it; and sarah raised t h e m s s c u p. --sº- ºr minutes, and then, in a low voice, “your grandfather was a deadly enemy to king charles. i can tell you no more; but that is why he staid here, and why i would be near him, and leave home and country to comfort him. but, dear sarah, since you cannot sleep, i will tell you that we have greater perils in the future.” little sarah was ill; she felt as if she could bear nothing more, and she clung to her mother's neck, crying, “o dear, dear! what shall we do? let us get up now, in the night, and go away, and live in a cave in the woods, where no bad people can find us.” “ah, my poor, dear child, this can- . not be done; people will take us away to a prison, and god only knows what they will do with us.” sarah saw that her mother was very pale, and her voice low, and she felt – º –- ––– t h e moss cup. true, and i will tell them so; and then it will be all over, and they will be sorry for grieving us, dear mother. how the wind roars and how terrible peo- ple make themselves but we will try to be happy, dear mother.” sarah put her cheek close to her mother's, and while she prayed inwardly that god would deliver them from evil, she fell asleep. chapter ii. early the next morning, while sarah and her mother were at breakfast, some rude-looking men came in and took them away to prison. mrs. benson was ordered to remain at home; but she would not leave sarah. in the middle of the day, there was a great meeting of all the people in the . t h e m o s s c u p. that that dear good mother had suf. fered, and made her inwardly deter- mine to do all in her power to comfort her. “i dare say,” said cotton mather, who was present, and a stern man, who believed in witchcraft, and did not believe what people said, unless he wished to believe it, —“i dare say that the devil has helped you to a good story; but he must help you to a better before we believe it.” “i have told the truth, and only the truth,” said mrs. benson. “did you write your name in the book of the old man ” asked cotton mather. “yes, often,” said sarah: “it was the copy.” “pretty good, pretty good,” cried mather; “ you see the art of the devil in this. in faith, i pity you, child, and t h e m o s s cup. jane cried that sarah had stuck the blade into her. “is this blade yours?” asked one of the judges, holding it up. “it looks like one that i lost many weeks ago,” answered the child. “i have not had it for a long time.” “but it was yours?” said mather. “i think it was,” she answered. jane now screamed and cried so bitterly, that nothing could be heard in the room, and all the people gath- ered to see her. she was indeed very pale and thin, and her eyes were wild, as if from pain, while she seemed suf- fering from terrible fits. it was at length ordered that sarah should be carried back to prison; for there could be no doubt of her being a witch. jane declared she could feel her bite her arms, whenever the poor child, in the distress of her heart, held t h e m o s s c u p. her teeth together, lest she should say what were best left unsaid. if her fingers moved, in her nervousness and grief, jane said she felt her pinch her. all this, to the people, was proof that she was a witch ; and she was sent back to the prison till they determined what to do with her. chapter iii. when sarah was put into the pris- on, she gave one look at the rough, dreary place; and, seeing some straw in the corner, she laid herself down, for she was very faint. she lay a long time with her eyes shut, and feeling very miserable, but dull, so that she could not weep. she was glad her mother could not see how wretched she was ; and while t h e moss c u p. she thought of her poor mother, so lonely in her grief, the tears gushed into her eyes, and she prayed god to comfort her. never before had sarah felt such need of prayer. her whole little heart was on her lips, beseeching the great and holy father in heaven to forgive those who caused them such sorrow, and to deliver them from evil. in this way she passed the whole night, alone in the dark, and in prayer; for she could not sleep, as soon as it was light, she heard her mother urging the keeper to let her come and see her child. but he would not. he had no orders from the court. this was the worst case of witchcraft, he said, that had ever been known in the colony; and he dared not act in any way without or- ders from the court. mrs. benson put her lips to the lock, , t h e moss cup. and cried, “sarah, sarah, speak, and tell me how it fares with you.” the child crawled to the door, and tried to speak in a brisk voice, as if doing very well; but her mother saw she was sick at heart. about ten o’clock, the door was opened, and the keeper came in with her mother, who brought her some food. she had expected to see sarah nearly dead with fear and grief. on the contrary, although quite pale and feeble, she was wonderfully cheerful, and said many things to strengthen her mother. when they had knelt together and prayed, sarah took some food, -for she would not eat till they had done so, - and then they talked long together. “they have accused me of being a witch, too, sarah; and that is why i am here.” * t h e m o s s cup. “let us trust in god,” said the child. both were silent for a while. “will they take away our lives, do you think, mother ?” at length sarah asked. “i do not know. many have died in england, germany, and other coun- tries, under charges of this kind; and it may be that we shall die here. ah! dear sarah, we must suffer our- selves, deeply suffer, sometimes, before we are able to perceive what is in itself right and true; before we are ready to judge rightly of the actions of our neighbors. we must not judge them according to the appearances of things about them, which may be caused by circumstances concealed, in justice to others, as was the case in regard to your grandfather. suddenly sarah 'sprang from her t h e m o s s c u p. seat. “mother, mother, to be hung, to be burned, to go out strong and well, and have life forced from us! — i cannot bear it, i cannot.” she fell fainting upon her mother's lap. mrs. benson almost hoped, in her heart, that sarah would never again open her eyes, – for she, too, felt as if the trial were too great for human strength to contemplate, – and she held the pale child in her arms, and prayed aloud, “o god, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me.” “nevertheless, not my will, but thine, be done,” whispered poor sa- -rah. she now grew quite calm, and talked over the prospect of death, in this terrible manner, without any more emotion. “there is one way in which you t t h e m o s s c u p. mother, life would be a terrible life, if purchased by a lie.” the mother and child both dropped upon their knees and prayed together. they even sung a hymn, so peaceful did they feel, now that all was clear to their minds. n - º a “though evil men may me despise, and fill my soul with dread, lord, thou wilt in thy strength arise, and guard my fainting head. t h e m o s s c u p. can't be trusted— can't be trusted. he's got no marcy. he'll make a great palaver, and then take out your life. but an injin does it short off, and doesn’t give you time to dread it.” then, raising his voice, he spelled three or four long words, so that the keeper might hear him outside. “don’t you go to sleep to-night. i'll have you out. the injins re- member the old man; they'll help his child. keep awake, and don't be afraid of the injins.” with that zenas got up, and pound- ed with both fists upon the door, and screamed, “let me out—let me out, i say ! i shall choke to death, shut in here. let me out, i say! what pos- sessed a man to invent locks | he ought to be hung up without marcy. let me out, i s—a—y !” the keeper was a stout, dark man, rºy . t h e m o s s c u p. who enjoyed the terror of poor zenas; and he was in no hurry to unfasten the bolt. while he delayed, zenas saw that the oaken door opened into a small entry, and that the keeper, in reaching it, had to open a gate in the rear of the building, there being an opening both front and back. he saw that, by securing the door in the back of the house, he might prevent any aid from that quarter. “i hope you won't hang the witches yet a while,” said zenas, “i haven't got near through with my reading yet.” the man, thus reminded of his duty, put on a very solemn face, and said he thought the court would hang them very soon, for mistress goodhue's ser- want had cried out upon mistress benson, and jane could have no rest for the torments of sarah. **-º t h e m o s s c u p. -------------- zenas opened his mouth wide, and asked if they could bewitch him by teaching him to read. - the man shook his head, and re- plied, “why, zenas, many's the time you've been seen with the black dog, º that came to the women; and it may be that is the cause of your foolish- ness, for in truth, zenas, you are not over wise.” zenas gave a great leap into the air; and then he set up an indian cry, - and laughing as loud as he could laugh, * :- went off. | chapter iv. s * mistress benson did not fail to remember what zenas had said ; and she sat in the dark, hour after hour, hearing no sound but the breathing of sarah, who had fallen asleep upon t h e m o s s : c u p. - - --— - - ------ -----— inadizzie cleared away the ground, and planted corn and beans; and at night and at morning he sang songs. the magic tongue still hung about his neck. thus he sang— s on g f o r t h e c o r n . i have worked, o earth, with thee; given seed unto thy breast; waited when the time should be it should leave its place of rest. ask imploring for the light, call the sunbeams all around, drink the dewdrops all the night. *- lo! two fingers from the ground - slow and timidly, corn cometh - folded in his leaf of green; - all the day the insect hummeth, near his heart, the leaves between. ſ now embattled from the plain stoutly stands the full-grown corn; on him sounds the falling rain, on him gleams the dew of morn. t h e m os s c u p. flauntingly, the stout corn standeth with his plume upon his head, and his joints with strength he bandeth, like a chief with planted tread. 'tis thy work, o earth, and mine: gladly i the seed imparted: thine the rain, the sunshine thine, i have helped thee thankful-hearted. thus inadizzie sang the delights of labor. but he was alone. the corn grew, and the blossom came forth at his feet. the birds sang in concert with him. but yet he was alone. he remembered that he had been commanded to go onward. he was told that joy awaited him in the di- rection of the setting sun. yet he did not go. he planted corn, and ate honey, and placed his feet to the fire which he had made, but did not go onward. t h e m o s s c u p. inadizzie could not bear this; and he opened his hand, and let the white dove depart, which instantly joined its mate, and flew over the hill. when they were gone, inadizzie found him- self singing, — mated browse the nimble deer; mated doth the panther prowl; gentle ones, or savage, here mated gambol, mated howl. alone, all alone, weary me ! weary me ! he listened, and was convinced that the song was repeated from the other side of the hill. inadizzie now went forth. he did not stop for any thing in the lodge. he left the corn, and the honey, and all things whatsoever had pleased him, to go in the direction of the voice which echoed his own. he travelled many days; for the hill, the moss cup. seemed to sleep, as it were, in the midst of the great lonely hills. the trees were down to the water's marge. beautiful islands were in it, and birds of all kinds were sporting upon the waters, or singing amid the branches. the gull plunged its white breast into the wave, and came up with its fel- lows full of activity. the cry of the loon was heard quivering and solitary, dying away in the glens, as if silence sought to hush the sound. the duck stretched forth its neck, and paddled onward with its feet, diving and plun- ging in its joy. the heron looked sol- emnly down into the lake; the fish leaped upward, scattering a shower of light. inadizzie felt himself awed while looking upon this great sheet of wa- ter set apart in the wilderness, and hemmed in upon every side by moun- the moss cup. tains. he felt as if he could go no farther. a strange, solemn dread grew upon him, and he wept. he lifted up his eyes, and saw one solitary peak” rising, like a white cone, in the distance. although in the midst of mountains, it yet held itself apart and aloft. inadizzie grew joyful to see there was yet something beyond — a country yet to be learned. looking intently upon all sides, he saw a narrow opening between the hills; and he rejoiced greatly, for he saw that even the lake had found an outlet, and was not doomed to perpetual isolation from its kind. - * katahdin. t h e m o s s cup. chapter iii. inadizzie finds the maiden with the white pearl. how she loves her own image, and loves inadizzie only when she forgets herself. inadizzie followed the outlet of the lake, going westward. as he came near one of the mountains, which seems to step its feet, as it were, into the lake, he beheld a little sunny dell, in the midst of which was a lodge covered with vines." in the front of the lodge was a clear stream of water flowing. inadizzie was faint and weary. he approached the lodge, thinking of the old chief's beautiful daughter, who had cut the tongue from his head, when she found him crawling upon the floor in the shape of a turtle. as he drew near, he saw a young the moss cup. the foliage, with her hand pressed upon the pearl, which gave such grace to her person. seeing no one, she stepped down to the stream, where she stood as before, looking into the water. a sweet smile was upon her lips; and, though she did not move nor speak, she seemed quite joyful. then ina- dizzie saw that she looked at her own image in the waves. a long time she stood in this wise; then she dipped up some of the water in a gourd, and went her way. many days inadizzie staid in the dell, thinking of the maiden with the white pearl, but not daring to approach her, although every day he saw her stand beholding herself in the stream. he bethought himself of a thousand modes of diverting her attention from herself; but nothing would do; for at the moss cup. the least sound she started, filled the gourd, and was gone. he built himself a bower near by ; ; he sang; but she did not lift her eyes from her own image, although she stood with a smile upon her lips, as if pleased with the song. at length, inadizzie determined to drain off the water in which she be- held herself, and see how it would effect her. for this purpose, he dug a new channel for the stream, so that it turned aside, instead of flowing in front of the lodge. he did this at night, and waited impatiently for the time when she should come forth with the gourd in her hand, as she always did early in the day. at length, she lifted the vines, and came forth, going, as usual, where the stream had before flowed. inadizzie waited to see her stop, surprised to t h e m o s s cty p, find no water, as she had expected; but she went onward, never once lift- ing her eyes; she went on, on, through the forest, in a straight line. inadizzie was amazed, and knew not what to do. he followed in her path till noonday, and she did not stop nor look around. at length, he ran along, and placed himself in the pathway before her. she stopped; she looked intently in his face, and then burst into tears. inadizzie took her hand in his, and she became his wife. she confessed that she was well content, so long as she should be kept from beholding herself. “never let me see my own image,” she said, “and all will be well.” inadizzie was careful to remember what she said. in passing a stream, he placed her head in his bosom, or bound her long hair about her eyes, t h e m os s c u p. --- other brooks, to other eyes, may as bright and sparkling fall; but the one by which we played hath the sweetest sound of all. all is dear—the zigzag fence, with the hazels growing near; and the stile, o'er which we climbed, winneth now a mournful tear. childhood's days are thronging back; childhood's perils suffered o'er ; and we see with our young eyes, feel with our hearts once more. - , t h e m o s s c u p, left his palace to herself and court, while he went, in solitary grief, to the frozen regions of iceland. iretta belonged to that class of little spirits, whose duty it is, as the shadows of evening creep over the earth, to fold up the delicate petals of the young blossoms, lest the midnight airs should rest too coldly upon them, or brush away the flour, and thus rob the bee of her breakfast. the young fairy moved about, carefully folding the leaves together, or enclosing them in their green calyx. after each plant was put to sleep, she kissed the sealed- up altar, and then went to rest in the folds of the feathery mimosa,” the fa- vorite haunt of the fairies; and this is why it shrinks from the touch of mortals. sometimes the fairies became indo- * the sensitive plant. t h e m o s s c u p. good thought is upward; and god gives - a creature no desire without something to meet that desire. a bright spirit stood beside the gen- tle fairy. “remember, iretta, the child must die ere its spiritual life begins. i may not tell thee aught of death; but the purest soul, in its highest thoughts, shrinks therefrom.” “true ! but to live forever; to dwell with such as thou; to visit other worlds; to know something of the most high; i would suffer, ay, more even than mortals, and then die, could i but live again.” a company of spirits softly raised the sleeping child, and, amidst the hymning of far-off melody, bore it away upon their wings. # $ # # # # iretta soon felt that, in taking the lot of mortals, she must become subject t h e m o s s c u p. to many disquiets, and to many a pang of agony. but the certainty of her immortality filled her with happiness, and nothing seemed too much for her to endure in view of such a gift. still many, many were her joys. in her slumbers, she saw beings of loveliness and purity, who taught her sweet things of heaven and its blessed chil- dren. the sight of a flower, too, re- called all her former tenderness for these fair proofs of our creator's love, and she often wondered how her friends could so long debar her from the sun- shine and the flowers, when they so largely added to her enjoyment. she understood, too, the language of every bird and insect, as it lifted its voice in the summer air. if her thoughts went back to her sis- ter fairies, sporting in perpetual youth and health, she did not repine, for she i t h e m o s s c u p. .* she was willing to endure so much, was of little value in the eyes of those whose inheritance it of right was. it was bartered for the dust of the mine, the gems of the mountain, and the pearls of the deep. daily did she behold beings, meant for the eternal, lost in the pomp, the turmoil, and cares of life; and the sunlight came, and the shadows gathered upon the earth, and scarcely one knelt to bless his creator for the gift of reason and the hopes of immortality. alas! none on earth felt, as did the gentle fairies, that to be happy is to ful- fil one's destiny cheerfully, and always to add something to the great stock of happiness. :* # # # again the angel stood beside her. iretta eagerly stretched up her dimpled hands. “blessed spirit, let me die; let me dwell forever with those who love t h e m o s s c u p. -— to worship our good creator. why should i stay till age and weariness come upon me? let me go ere my spirit shall be clouded by the shadow of a sin.” .# # # # beneath a snowy shroud lay a beau- tiful babe, its clear brow untouched by sorrow, and its young cheek unfaded by suffering. pale cheeks and tearful eyes bent over its marble beauty, and fresh flowers are strown over the early dead. a little hillock, almost lost amidst tangled blossoms, tells that the young and innocent sleep beneath. a babe has passed from earth, soon to be no more remembered; but an immortal spirit has gone to the eternal city. weep not for the early dead! t h e m s s cup. d ſ;h i), - * mark what a generosity and courage a dog will put on when he finds himself maintained by a man, who to him is instead of a god, or ‘melior natura,’ which courage is manifestly such as that creature, without that confidence of a better nature than his own, could never, attain.”—bacon. i was walking, one day, in the out- skirts of brooklyn, where i saw two children sitting by the way-side, with a pretty dog between them. the chil- dren were rosy and full of health, yet certainly might never have tempted the most inveterate lover of childhood to give them a kiss, for their faces were guiltless of the croton, (which, unhap- pily, is not yet conveyed under the sound, the projectors not having deci- ded upon the best place to sink the w t h e m o s s c u p. tunnel,) their curly locks were burned in the sun, and their very scanty gar- ments told of nothing but robust pov- * erty. a painter would have denied himself a good dinner and a night's rest for the group as i beheld it. it was the dog season; and the dog man and the dog cart were slowly re- ceding in the distance. the child, most fortunate in length of garment, had spread a portion of it over the dog, from which it was just emerging, tied by a hempen string ; while both urchins were straining their eyes after the dog man, half doubting they had really es- caped him. i walked slowly to see the eager ca- ressings of the children, and hear how many pretty endearments they uttered, and how the dog barked in his wonder- ment, and the children forgot the dog man, and laughed and capered, and the moss cup. little fellows, grown valiant, and indig- nant at the contemplated wrong, arose, and threw himself into an attitude, and, doubling up a round, harmless lit- tle fist, shook it in the wake of the cart, i confess i could not help sending a spiteful look to go with the fist, and worry the heart of the dog man. every moment augmented my sense of his enormities. he grew to be a murderer in my eyes. i thought upon the attri- butes of doghood till his guilt grew momentarily blacker. i wondered how, in a christian com- munity, such an official could be toler- ated. i thought how the dog had been reclaimed from the savage state, or rather, how every where, as man had advanced in civilization, the dog had kept even pace with him, so that, in going into a new country, you may infer the degree of refinement there by the t h e m o s s c u p. is content to serve, and feasts upon the fragments left by him in his waste places. in like manner, there is a small fish which follows the whale ; but in neither of these cases do we find these superior animals making war upon their humble and admiring compan- ions. it is left for man alone to change the nature of an animal, to infuse into him qualities peculiar to himself, and then yield him up to dangers rendered ten- fold more terrible from his educated instincts. i remember hearing a gen- tleman tell how his dog (he would never indulge himself with but one of the species) was pursued by the dog- killers, and how a host of boys joined in the pursuit. the creature fled and doubled, and sought coverts with pain- ful sagacity, and more than once as- cended the house steps; but there was t h e m o s s → c u p. º there is a moral wrong in leaving a dog to a hap-hazard development. he is capable of qualities positively good, – i mean good in doghood, – and these should not be suffered to lie dormant, nor be left to die out from want of exercise. it is a well-known fact that a dog assimilates to the habits of his master. james hogg says his dog grew to be so like him, that he used sometimes to send him to kirk, where he sat upon the seat in his mas- ter's place, and looked so steadily up at the pulpit, that the good minister “never kenned the difference.” now, this language may be slightly extravagant; but we all know that it has its foundation in truth; that the dog of an alderman never affects any an- tics; and that the little wiry, hard-faced ragadoon, dodging around corners, hit- ting the boys a clip, and getting into a ºr h e m o s s : c up. they taught her infant lips to sing with them a hymn of praise — the song that in the woods is heard, through the long summer days. and every where the child was traced by snatches of wild song, that marked her feet along the vale, or hill-side, fleet and strong. she knew the haunts of every bird, where bloomed the sheltered flower, so sheltered, that the searching frost might scarcely find its bower. t h e m oss c u p. a chapter about being rich, in this world people are often poor, “ . . very poor; sometimes rich; but hav- ' , ing much or little gold should make no difference with our true selves. we can grow rich if we choose, just as we can grow wise or learned, by laboring to be so. if you wish to be rich, or to be * , comfortable, in food, clothes, houses, * * and such things, you have only to work steadily so many hours through the day. never buy what your situa- tion does not require, keep actively to one kind of business, and forbear to change it, and you will not fail to grow rich. you may do all this, and if you have a strong, manly heart, a cheerful temper, a healthful and active º t h e m o s s c u p. . º * with us, and be made miserable through our evil deeds. this is another rea- , son why we should avoid a wrong, and strive for a high and true life. in our country, all must labor in some way or another — the rich in look- ing after their money, and the poor to earn it. this is a nobler life than one of idleness. god has so made us that labor is needful to the exercise of the faculties he has given, and we are hap- * piest when we so exercise them. i would have you feel this, that you may know the delight there is in a free and health- ful body, with the red blood coursing the veins, giving joy to the heart, which in turn gives back joy at beholding the beauty of this most beautiful earth. i would say, then, aim, if not to be rich, at least to be far above want. you can be so by proper and steady effort. in this way, you can most t h e m o s s c up. º deadening effects of poverty, who else ... might have been worthy and beloved. again, then, i would say, choose some regular employment, and keep to it; insure yourself the comforts and the respect which should belong to age, by early and systematic labor. your taste, or that of your friends, must decide what this labor shall be; but it must rest with you to make it honorable. if you are bred a lawyer, a doctor, a preacher, keep aloof from the tricks, the quackery, and the cant of these things, and seek for the true and the good in each. º if you are a baker, a blacksmith, a shoeblack, be perfect in your trade; make it respectable; be so much the man, that your trade shall become en- - nobled through you. have no squeam- ishness about your trade or your pov- erty, if you do not at any time prosper º - - - º s .* - the moss cup. a * * well; but dare to act out the truth; feel that “none of these things move you; ” that you have enough in you to command respect, in spite of all the petty ills that may beset you. feel your own truth, your own manhood, and you will find things will brighten before you, and you will at least feel that “a man's a man for a’ that." - * ••• - - - ae ae |- |- *|- ！ |-ae• ·|- ·* ！· |-|- ！* * |- |- · ---- ·|-|- ·|- · ·.ae · ！-|- *|-* •|-· ！ ±|-！** |- |- •|-* |-|- |- ** + ！ *|- „ ， ！ · ·*|-！ *·！ ae · |-|-|-|-|- · |----+-----…-_-） •••-------- * - - - - º - - - - - * * - -- - – “… -- - - - i l * . . . * | - - . . - - - a - º * * * - * - - º - - - - - s - - * - - - * -- * º - * * * • * * | - º * - * - * º º - - * s 's - - - - º *- - - * * d - * - - * - - - - -- * - º - - * - ... - - - - f - - - * - - - - º º - * - - - ** º - | * * - * . - - - - ** * - * - - - - º - * - * º º * * * - historical grad r. p.? the english and scottish popular ballads edited by francis james child part i. the english and scottish populak ballads the english and scottish populak ballads edited by francis james child in five volumes volume i boston and new york houghton, mifflin and company london: henry stevens, son and stiles on* (jtbottfanft copw printrt jvb copyright, , , by f. j. child copyright, , by elizabeth sedgwick child all rights reserved to » frederick j. furnivall, esq. of london my dear furnivall-. without the percy ms. no one would pretend to make a collection of the english ballads, and but for you that manuscript would still, i think, be beyond reach of man, yet exposed to destructive chances. through your exertions and personal sacrifices, directly, the famous and precious folio has been printed; and, indirectly, in consequence of the same, it has been transferred to a place where it is safe, and open to inspection. this is only one of a hundred reasons which i have for asking you to accept the dedica- tion of this book from your grateful friend and fellow-student, f j. child. cambridge, mass., december i, . >w-^ ft ft x , <<io > advertisement to part i numbers - it was my wish not to begin to print the english and scottish popular ballads until this unrestricted title should be justified by my having at command every valuable copy of every known ballad. a continuous effort to accomplish this object has been making for some nine or ten years, and many have joined in it. by correspondence, and by an extensive diffusion of printed circulars, i have tried to stimulate collection from tradition in scotland, canada, and the united states, and no becoming means has been left unemployed to obtain possession of unsunned treasures locked up in writing. the gathering from tradition has been, as ought perhaps to have been foreseen at this late day, meagre, and generally of indifferent quality. materials in the hands of former editors have, in some cases, been lost beyond recovery, and very probably have lighted fires, like that large cantle of the percy manuscript, maxime deflendus! access to several manuscript collections has not yet been secured. but what is still lacking is believed to bear no great proportion to what is in hand, and may soon come in, besides: meanwhile, the uncertainties of the world forbid a longer' delay to publish so much as has been got together. of hitherto unused materials, much the most important is a large collection of ballads made by motherwell. for leave to take a copy of this i am deeply indebted to the present possessor, mr malcolm colquhoun thomson, of glasgow, who even allowed the manuscript to be sent to london, and to be retained several months, for my accommodation. mr j. wylie guild, of glasgow, also permitted the use of a note-book of motherwell's which supplements the great manuscript, and this my unwearied friend, mr james barclay murdoch, to whose solicitation i owe both, himself transcribed with the most scrupulous accuracy. no other good office, asked or unasked, has mr murdoch spared. next in extent to the motherwell collections come those of the late mr kinloch. these he freely placed at my disposal, and mr william macmath, of edinburgh, made during mr kinloch's life an exquisite copy of the larger part of them, enriched with notes from mr kinloch's papers, and sent it to me across the water. after mr kinloch's death his collections were acquired by harvard college library, still through the agency of mr macmath, who has from the beginning rendered a highly valued assistance, not less by his suggestions and communications than by his zealous mediation. no scottish ballads are superior in kind to those recited in the last century by mrs brown, of falkland. of these there are, or were, three sets. one formerly owned by robert jamieson, the fullest of the three, was lent me, to keep as long as i required, by my honored friend the late mr david laing, who also secured for me copies of several ballads of mrs brown which are found in an abbotsford manuscript, and gave me a transcript of the glenriddell manuscript. the two others were written down for william tytler and viii advertisement to part i alexander fraser tytler respectively, the former of these consisting of a portion of the jamieson texts revised. these having for some time been lost sight of, miss mary fraser tytler, with a graciousness which i have reason to believe hereditary in the name, made search for them, recovered the one which had been obtained by lord woodhouselee, and copied it for me with her own hand. the same lady furnished me with another collection which had been made by a member of the family. for later transcriptions from scottish tradition i am indebted to mr j. f. campbell of islay, whose edition and rendering of the racy west highland tales is marked by the rarest appreciation of the popular genius; to mrs a. f. murison, formerly of old deer, who undertook a quest for ballads in her native place on my behalf; to mr alexander laing, of newburgh-upon-tay; to mr james gibb, of joppa, who has given me a full score; to mr david louden, of morham, haddington; to the late dr john hill burton and miss ella burton; to dr thomas davidson. the late mr robert white, of newcastle-upon-tyne, allowed me to look through his collections in , and subsequently made me a copy of such things as i needed, and his ready kindness has been continued by mrs andrews, his sister, and by miss andrews, his niece, who has taken a great deal of trouble on my account. in the south of the mother-island my reliance has, of necessity, been chiefly upon libraries. the british museum possesses, besides early copies of some of the older ballads, the percy ms., herd's mss and buchan's, and the roxburgh broadsides. the library of the university of cambridge affords one or two things of first-rate importance, and for these i am beholden to the accomplished librarian, mr henry bradshaw, and to professor skeat. i have also to thank the rev. f. gunton, dean, and the other authorities of magdalen college, cambridge, for permitting collations of pepys ballads, most obligingly made for me by mr arthur s. b. miller. many things were required from the bodleian library, and these were looked out for me, and scrupulously copied or collated, by mr george parker. texts of traditional ballads have been communicated to me in america by mr w. w. newell, of new york, who is soon to give us an interesting collection of children's games traditional in america; by dr huntington, bishop of central new york; mr g. c. mahon, of ann arbor, michigan; miss margaret reburn, of new albion, iowa; miss perine, of baltimore; mrs augustus lowell, mrs l. f. wesselhoeft, mrs. edward atkinson, of boston; mrs cushing, of cambridge; miss ellen marston, of new bedford; mrs moncrieff, of london, ontario. acknowledgments not well despatched in a phrase are due to many others who have promoted my objects: to mr furnivall, for doing for me everything which i could have done for myself had i lived in england; to that master of old songs and music, mr william chappell, very specially; to mr j. payne collier; mr norval clyne, of aberdeen; mr alexander young, of glasgow; mr arthur laurenson, of lerwick, shetland; mr j. burrell curtis, of edinburgh; dr vigfusson, of oxford; professor edward arber, of birmingham; the rev. j. percival, mr francis fry, mr j. f. nicholls, of bristol; professor george stephens, of copenhagen; mr r. bergstrom, of the royal library, stockholm; mr w. r. s. ralston, mr william henry husk, miss lucy toulmin smith, mr a. f. murison, of london: professor sophocles; mr w. g. medlicott, of longmeadow; to mr m. heilprin, of new york, mme de maltchyce\ of boston, and rabbi dr cohn, for indispensable translations from polish and hungarian; to mr james russell lowell, minister of the united states at london; to professor charles eliot norton, for such "pains and benefits" as i could ask only of a life-long friend. advertisement to part i ix in the editing of these ballads i have closely followed the plan of grundtvig's old popular ballads of denmark, a work which will be prized highest by those who have used it most, and which leaves nothing to be desired but its completion. the author is as much at home in english as in danish tradition, and whenever he takes up a ballad which is common to both nations nothing remains to be done but to supply what has come to light since the time of his writing. but besides the assistance which i have derived from his book, i have enjoyed the advantage of professor grundtvig's criticism and advice, and have received from him unprinted danish texts, and other aid in many ways. such further explanations as to the plan and conduct of the work as may be desirable can be more conveniently given by and by. i may say here that textual points which may seem to be neglected will be considered in an intended glossary, with which will be given a full account of sources, and such indexes of titles and matters as will make it easy to find everything that the book may contain. with renewed thanks to all helpers, and helpers' helpers, i would invoke the largest cooperation for the correction of errors and the supplying of deficiencies. to forestall a misunderstanding which has often occurred, i beg to say that every traditional version of a popular ballad is desired, no matter how many texts of the same may have been printed already. f. j. child. [decembeb, .] advertisement to part ii numbers - i have again to express my obligations and my gratitude to many who have aided in the collecting and editing of these ballads. to sir hugh hume campbell, for the use of two considerable manuscript volumes of scottish ballads. to mr allardyce, of edinburgh, for a copy of the skene ballads, and for a generous permission to print such as i required, in advance of a possible publication on his part. to mr mansfield, of edinburgh, for the use of the pitcairn manuscripts. to mrs robertson, for the use of note-books of the late dr joseph robertson, and to mr murdoch, of glasgow, mr lugton, of kelso, mrs alexander forbes, of edinburgh, and messrs g. l. kittredge and g. m. richardson, former students of harvard college, for various communications. to dr reinhold kohler's unrivalled knowledge of popular fiction, and his equal liberality, i am indebted for valuable notes, which will be found in the additions at the end of this volume. the help of my friend dr theodor vetter has enabled me to explore portions of the slavic ballad-field which otherwise must have been neglected. professors d. silvan evans, john rhys, paul meyer, and t. frederick crane have lent me a ready assistance in literary emergencies. the interest and cooperation of mr furnivall and mr macmath have been continued to me without stint or weariness. it is impossible, while recalling and acknowledging acts of courtesy, good will, and friendship, not to allude, with one word of deep personal grief, to the irreparable loss which all who are concerned with the study of popular tradition have experienced in the death of svend grundtvig. f. j. c. jukb, contents volume i una paqb biographical sketch of professor child xvii . riddles wisely expounded (additions and corrections: i, ; h, j lu, ; iv, ; v, , .) . the elfin knight (additions and corrections: i, ; h, ; ht, ; iv, ; v, , .) . the fause knight upon the road (additions and corrections: i, ; h, ; hi, ; iv, .) . lady isabel and the elf-knight . (additions and corrections: i, ; ii, ; iii, ; iv, ; v, , .) . gil beenton (additions and corrections: i, ; ii, ; iii, ; iv, ; v, , .) . willie's lady (additions and corrections: ii, ; lu, ; v, , .) . eabl brand (additions and corrections: i, ; h, ; lu, ; iv, ; v, , .) . erlinton * (additions and corrections: lu, ; iv, .) . the fair flower of northumberland ill (additions and corrections: i, ; ii, ; lu, ; v, .) . the twa sisters (additions and corrections: i, ; h, ; hi, ; iv, ; v, , .) . the cruel brother (additions and corrections: i, ; h, ; lu, ; iv, ; v, , .) . lord randal (additions and corrections: i, ; h, ; lu, ; tv, ; v, , .) . edward (additions and corrections: i, ; n, ; hi, ; v, , .) . babylon; or, the bonnie banks o fordie (additions and corrections: i, , ; h, ; lu, ; iv, ; v, , .) . leesome brand (additions and corrections: i, ; h, ; lu, ; iv, ; v, , .) . sheath and kndje (additions and corrections: h, ; lu, ; iv, ; v, .) . hind horn (additions and corrections: i, ; h, ; lu, ; iv, ; v, , .) . sir lionel (additions and corrections: h, ; iv, .) . king orfeo (additions and corrections: h, ; lu, ; iv, ; v, .) . the cruel mother (additions and corrections: i, ; h, ; lu, ; tv, ; v, , .) * xu contents . the maid and the palmer (the samaritan woman) (additions and corrections: ii, ; iii, ; iv, ; v, , .) . st. stephen and herod (additions and corrections: i, ; ii, ; in, ; iv, ; v, , .) . judas (additions and corrections: v, .) . bonnie annie (additions and corrections: iv, .) . willie's lyke-wake (additions and corrections: i, ; h, ; id, ; iv, ; v, , .) . the three ravens (additions and corrections: iv, ; v, .) . the whummil bore (additions and corrections: v, .) . burd ellen and young tamlane (additions and corrections: i, ; iii, .) . the boy and the mantle (additions and corrections: i, ; h, ; lu, ; iv, ; v, , .) . king arthur and king cornwall (additions and corrections: i, ; ii, ; iii, ; v, .) . the marriage of sir gawain (additions and corrections: l ; ii, ; iv, ; v, , .) . king henry (additions and corrections: h, ; iv, ; v, .) . kempy kay (additions and corrections: v, , .) . kemp owynb (additions and corrections: ii, ; iii, ; iv, ; v, , .) . allison gross (additions and corrections: iii, ; v, .) . the laily worm and the machrel of the sea (additions and corrections: v, , .) . thomas rymer (additions and corrections: ii, ; iii, ; iv, , .) . the wee wee man . tam lin (additions and corrections: i, ; ii, ; m, ; iv, ; v, , .) . the queen of elfan's nourice (additions and corrections: ii, ; iii, ; iv, ; v, , .) . hind etin (additions and corrections: i, ; h, ; lu, ; iv, ; v, .) . clerk colvill (additions and corrections: ii, ; hi, ; iv, ; v, , .) . the broomfield hill (additions and corrections: i, ; h, ; ih, ; iv, , .) . the twa magicians (additions and corrections: ii, ; iii, ; iv, ; v, , .) . king john and the bishop (additions and corrections: i, ; h, ; iv, ; v, , .) contents xlli . captain wedderburn's courtship (additions and corrections: ii, ; iii, ; iv, ; v, , .) . proud lady margaret (additions and corrections: iv, ; v, .) . young andrew . the twa brothers (additions and corrections: ii, ; iii, ; iv, j v, , .) . the bonny hind (additions and corrections: v, .) . lizie wan . the king's dochter lady jean . young beichan (additions and corrections: ii, ; to, ; iv, ; v, , .) additions and corrections volume ii . the cherry-tree carol (additions and corrections: ii, ; v, .) . the carnal and the crane (additions and corrections: ii, ; iii, ; iv. ; v, .) . dives and lazarus (additions and corrections: ii, ; iii, ; iv, ; v, , .) . brown robyn's confession (additions and corrections: it, ; hi, ; iv, ; v, , .) . sir patrick spens (additions and corrections: h, ; v, .) . sir aldingar (additions and corrections: h, ; lu, ; iv, ; v, .) . king estmere (additions and corrections: h, ; hi, ; iv, .) . sir cawline (additions and corrections: ii, ; hl, ; iv, .) . fair annie (additions and corrections: h, ; iv, ; v, .) . child waters (additions and corrections: ii, ; ih, ; iv, ; v, .) . fair janet (additions and corrections: iii, ; iv, ; v, , .) . lady maisry (additions and corrections: ih, ; iv, ; v, , .) . lord ingram and chiel wyet (additions and corrections: h, ; hi, ; v, , .) . gla gerion (additions and corrections: h, ; ih, ; iv, ; v, .) . young hunting (additions and corrections: h, ; ih, ; iv, ; v, .) . clerk saunders (additions and corrections: h, ; hi, ; iv, ; v, , .) . willie and lady maisry xiv contents . the bent sae brown (additions and corrections: m, ; iv, ; v, .) . the clerk's twa sons o owsenford (additions and corrections: h, ; iii, ; iv, ; v, .) . lord thomas and fair annet (additions and corrections: ii, ; hi, ; iv, ; v, , .) . fair margaret and sweet william (additions and corrections: v, , .) . lord lovel (additions and corrections: ii, ; hi, ; iv, ; v, , .) . the lass of roch royal (additions and corrections: ih, ; iv, ; v, , .) . sweet william's ghost (additions and corrections: ii, ; iv, ; v, , .) . the unquiet grave (additions and corrections: ii, ; lu, ; iv, ; v, , .) . the wife of usher's well (additions and corrections: iii, ; v, .) . old robin of portingale (additions and corrections: ii, ; iii, ; iv, ; v, , .) . little musgrave and lady barnard (additions and corrections: ii, ; iv, ; v, .) . the bonny birdy . child maurice (additions and corrections: lu, ; iv, .) . bonny barbara allan (additions and corrections: iii, .) . lady alice (additions and corrections: lu, ; v, .) . young benjie (additions and corrections: iv, .) . prince robert (additions and corrections: v, .) . young johnstone . fause foodrage (additions and corrections: h, ; lu, ; iv, .) . jellon grame (additions and corrections: h, ; ih, ; iv, ; v, , .) . fair mary of wallington (additions and corrections: h, ; lu, ; tv, ; v, .) . bonny bee hom (additions and corrections: v, .) . lamkln (additions and corrections: h, ; lu, ; iv, ; v, , .) . young waters (additions and corrections: hi, .) . the maid freed from the gallows (additions and corrections: h, ; lu, ; iv, ; v, , .) . the gay goshawk (additions and corrections: hi, ; iv, ; v, , .) contents xv . brown robin . brown adam . johnik scot (additions and corrections: iv, ; v, .) . willie o winsbury (additions and corrections: h, j ih, ; iv, ; v, .) . willie o douglas dale (additions and corrections: iii, ; v, .) . willie and earl richabd's daughter (additions and corrections: iii, .) . rose the red and white lily . prince heathen (additions and corrections: v, .) . the bailiff's daughter of islington (additions and corrections: iii, ; v, .) . the famous flower of serving-men (additions and corrections: iii, ; iv, .) . will stewart and john (additions and corrections: v, .) . christopher white . tom potts (additions and corrections: iii, .) . the knight and shepherd's daughter (additions and corrections: iv, ,, v, .) . crow and pie . the baffled knight (additions and corrections: m, ; iv, ; v, , .) . the great silkie of sule skerry (additions and corrections: iii, ; iv, .) additions and corrections volume hi . johnie cock (additions and corrections: iv, .) . robyn and gandeleyn . adam bell, cllm of the clough, and william of cloudesly .... (additions and corrections: hi, ; iv, ; v, .) . a gest of robyn hode (additions and corrections: ht, ; iv, ; v, , .) . robin hood and guy of gisbobne . robin hood and the monk . robin hood's death (additions and corrections: v, , .) . robin hood and the potter (additions and corrections: iv, .) . robin hood and the butcher . robin hood and the curtal friar (additions and corrections: v, -) xvi contents . the jolly ptnder of wakefield . robin hood and little john (additions and corrections: v, .) . robin hood and the tanner . robin hood and the tinker . robin hood newly revived . robin hood and the prince of aragon . robin hood and the scotchman . robin hood and the ranger . the bold pedlar and robin hood (additions and corrections: v, .) . robin hood and the beggar, i . robin hood and the beggar, ii . robin hood and the shepherd . robin hood's delight . robin hood and the pedlars . robin hood and allen a dale . robin hood's progress to nottingham . robin hood rescuing three squires . robin hood rescuing will stutly (additions and corrections: iv, .) . little john a begging . robin hood and the bishop . robin hood and the bishop of hereford . robin hood and queen katherine . robin hood's chase . robin hood's golden prize (additions and corrections: iii, .) . the noble fisherman, or, robin hood's preferment . robin hood's birth, breeding, valor and marriage . robin hood and maid marian (additions and corrections: iii, .) . the king's disguise, and friendship with robin hood . robin hood and the golden arrow (additions and corrections: v, .) . robin hood and the valiant knight . a true tale of robin hood . sir hugh, or, the jew's daughter (additions and corrections: iii, ; iv, ; v, , .) . queen eleanor's confession (additions and corrections: iv, ; v, , .) . gude wallace (additions and corrections: v, .) . hugh spencer's feats in france (additions and corrections: iv, ; v, .) . durham field (additions and corrections: v, .) contents xvii . the knight of liddesdalk . the battle of otterburn (additions and corrections: iii, ; iv, ; v, , .) . the hunting of the cheviot (additions and corrections: iv, ; v, , .) . the battle of harlaw (additions and corrections: v, .) . king henry fifth's conquest of france (additions and corrections: v, .) . sir john butler . the rose of england . sir andrew barton (additions and corrections: iv, ; v, .) . flodden field (additions and corrections: iv, ; v, .) . johnie armstrong (additions and corrections: hi, ; iv, j v, .) . the death of queen jane (additions and corrections: v, , .) . thomas cromwell . musselburgh field . . (additions and corrections: iv, .) . mary hamilton (additions and corrections: iv, ; v, , .) . earl bothwell (additions and corrections: v, .) . the rising in the north . northumberland betrayed by douglas (additions and corrections: v, .) . the earl of westmoreland (additions and corrections: v, .) . captain car, or, edom o gordon (additions and corrections: iii, ; iv, ; v, , .) . rookhope ryde . king james and brown . the bonny earl of murray (additions and corrections: iv, .) . the laird o logie (additions and corrections: m, ; iv, ; v, .) . willre macintosh (additions and corrections: tv, .) . the lads of wamphray (additions and corrections: iii, .) . dick o the cow . kinmont willie (additions and corrections: iv, .) . jock o the side . archie o cawfield (additions and corrections: iv, .) additions and corrections vol. l o xviii contents volume iv . hobie noble . jamie telfer of the fair dodhead (additions and corrections: iv, ; v, , .) . hughie gkame (additions and corrections: iv, ; v, .) . the lochmaben hakper (additions and corrections: v, .) . the death of parcy reed (additions and corrections: iv, .) . the laird of wariston . lord maxwell's last goodnight (additions and corrections: v, .) . the fire of frendraught (additions and corrections: iv, ; v, , .) . james grant (additions and corrections: v, .) . bonny john seton (additions and corrections: v, .) . the bonnie house o airlie (additions and corrections: v, .) . the gypsy laddie (additions and corrections: iv, ; v, , .) . bessy bell and mary gray (additions and corrections: iv, ; v, .) . the battle of philiphaugh . the baron of brackley (additions and corrections: iv, ; v, .) . jamie douglas . loudon hill, or, drumclog . bothwell bridge . lord delamere . lord derwentwater (additions and corrections: iv, ; v, .) . geordie . bonnie james campbell . bewick and graham . . . . . . (additions and corrections: iv, .) . the duke of athole's nurse . sir james the rose . the braes o yarrow (additions and corrections: iv, ; v, .) . rare willie drowned in yarrow, or, the water o gamrie .... (additions and corrections: v, .) . the mother's malison, or, clyde's water (additions and corrections: v, , .) . the broom of cowdenknows (additions and corrections: iv, ; v, .) . the false lover won back contents xix . the gabdeneb (additions and corrections: v, .) . the bonny lass of anglesey . kathabine jaffray (additions and corrections: iv, ; v, .) . bonny baby livingston (additions and corrections: iv, ; v, .) . eppie mokbie (additions and corrections: v, .) . the lady of abngosk . rob roy (additions and corrections: iv, ; v, .) . lizie lindsay (additions and corrections: iv, ; v, .) . bonny lizie baillee (additions and corrections: v, .) . glasgow peggie (additions and corrections: v, .) . earl crawford (additions and corrections: v, .) . the slaughter of the laird of mellerstain . the earl of errol (additions and corrections: v, .) . richie story (additions and corrections: v, .) . andrew lammie . charlie macphebson (additions and corrections: v, .) . the eabl of aboyne (additions and corrections: v, , .) . the laird o drum (additions and corrections: v, .) . the duke of gordon's daughter (additions and corrections: v, .) . glenlogie, or, jean o bethelnte (additions and corrections: v, , .) . lord saltoun and auchanachce (additions and corrections: v, .) . the rantin laddie (additions and corrections : v, .) . the baron o leys (additions and corrections: v, .) . the coble o cabgill . james habris (the d^imon loveb) (additions and corrections: iv, .) . james hatley . young allan (additions and corrections: v, .) . redesdale and wise william (additions and corrections: v, .) xx contents . lady elspat . the grey cock, ok, saw you my father? (additions and corrections: v, .) . auld matrons . henry martyn (additions and corrections: v, .) . lang johnny more (additions and corrections: iv, .) . the kitchie-boy (additions and corrections: v, .) . thomas o yonderdale . lord william, or, lord lundy . willie's fatal visit . alison and willie . burd isabel and earl patrick (additions and corrections: v, .) . brought? wa's . lord thomas stuart (additions and corrections: v, .) . lord thomas and lady margaret . lady isabel . lord livingston . the new-slain knight (additions and corrections: v, .) . the white fisher .... . the knight's ghost additions and corrections volume v . john thomson and the turk (additions and corrections: v, .) . the heir of linne . the twa knights . lady diamond (additions and corrections: v, .) . the earl of mar's daughter . the lord of lorn and the false steward (additions and corrections: v, .) . the suffolk mntacle (additions and corrections: v, .) . king edward the fourth and a tanner of tamworth (additions and corrections: v, .) . our goodman (additions and corrections: v, , .) . get up and bar the door (additions and corrections: v, , .) . the friar in the well contents xxi . the wife wrapt in wether's skin (additions and corrections: v, .) . the farmer's curst wife (additions and corrections: v, .) . the jolly beggar . the beggar-laddie (additions and corrections: v, .) . the keach i the creel . jock the leg and the merry merchant . the crafty farmer . john dory . the george aloe and the sweepstake . the sweet trinity (the golden vanity) (additions and corrections: v, .) . captain ward and the rainbow (additions and corrections: v, .) . the young earl of essex's victory oyer the emperor of germany . . . . the mermaid . the wylie wife of the hie toun hie . child owlet (additions and corrections: v, .) . the west-country damosel's complaint . john of hazelgreen . dugall quin (additions and corrections: v, .) . the brown girl . walter lesly . earl rothes . young peggy . trooper and maid (additions and corrections: v, .) . blancheflour and jellyflorice . the queen of scotland • . young bearwell . the holy nunnery . young ronald . the outlaw murray (additions and corrections: v, .) fragments (additions and corrections: v, .) additions and corrections , glossary sources of the texts index of published airs ballad airs from manuscript: . the fause knight upon the road . the fair flower of northumberland . the twa sisters xxii contents . the cruel brother . lord randal . hind horn . the cruel mother . the queen of elian's nourice . clerk colvill . captain wedderburn's courtship . proud lady margaret . young beichan . sir patrick spens . sir colin . child waters . young hunting . lordlovel . sweet william's ghost . bonny barbara allan . fause foodrage . the maid freed from the gallows . brown robin . brown adam . johnie scot . willie o winsbury . the famous flower of serving-men . johnie cock . gude wallace . the battle of otterburn . the battle of harlaw . king henry fifth's conquest of france . johnie armstrong . mary hamilton . the laird o logie . bonny baby livingston . lizie lindsay . glasgow peggie . the earl of aboyne . ladyelspat . andrew bartin . alison and willie . broughty wa's . the farmer's curst wife . the keach i the creel . . . the sweet trinity . trooper and maid index of ballad titles ^ titles of collections of ballads, ob books containing ballads, which abe vert bbiefly cited in this wobk acq index of mattebs and litebatube blbliogeaphy' cobbections to be made in the pbint • ^ i francis james child fkancis james child was born in boston on the first day of february, . he was the third in a family of eight children. his father was a sailmaker, "one of that class of intelligent and independent mechanics," writes professor norton, "which has had a large share in determining the character of our democratic community, as of old the same class had in athens and in florence." the boy attended the public schools, as a matter of course; and, his parents having no thought of sending him to college, he went, in due time, not to the latin school, but to the english high school of his native town. at that time the head master of the boston latin school was mr epes sargent dixwell, who is still living, at a ripe old age, one of the most respected citizens of cambridge. mr dix- well had a keen eye for scholarly possibilities in boys, and, falling in with young francis child, was immediately struck with his ex- traordinary mental ability. at his sugges- tion, the boy was transferred to the latin school, where he entered upon the regular preparation for admission to harvard col- lege. his delight in his new studies was un- bounded, and the freshness of it never faded from his memory. "he speedily caught up with the boys who had already made consid- erable progress in greek and latin, and soon took the first place here, as he had done in the schools which he had previously attended." mr dixwell strongly advised his father to permit him to continue his studies, and made arrangements by which his college expenses should be provided for. the money profes- sor child repaid, with interest, as soon as his means allowed. his gratitude to mr. dix- well and the friendship between them lasted through his life. in mr child entered harvard college. the intellectual condition of the college at that time and the undergraduate career of mr child have been admirably described by his classmate and lifelong friend, professor norton, in a passage which must be quoted in full : — "harvard was then still a comparatively small institution, with no claims to the title of university; but she had her traditions of good learning as an inspiration for the studious youth, and still better she had teachers who were examples of devotion to intellectual pur- suits, and who cared for those ends the at- tainment of which makes life worth living. josiah quincy was approaching the close of his term of service as president of the col- lege, and stood before the eyes of the students as the type of a great public servant, embody- ing the spirit of patriotism, of integrity, and of fidelity in the discharge of whatever duty he might be called to perform. among the professors were walker, felton, peirce, chan- ning, beck, and longfellow, men of utmost variety of temperament, but each an instructor who secured the respect no less than the grati- tude of his pupils. "the class to which child belonged num- bered hardly over sixty. the prescribed course of study which was then the rule brought all the members of the class together in recitations and lectures, and every man soon knew the relative standing of each of his fellows. child at once took the lead and kept it. his excellence was not confined to any c. e. norton,'francis james child,' in the proceedings of the american academy of arts and sciences, xxxii, , ; reprinted, with some additions, in the harvard graduates'magazine, vi, - (boston, ). i have used this biographical sketch freely in my brief account of professor child's boyhood. * francis james child one special branch of study; he was equally superior in all. he was the best in the clas- sics, he was peirce's favorite in mathematics, he wrote better english than any of his class- mates. his intellectual interests were wider than theirs, he was a great reader, and his tastes in reading were mature. he read for amusement as well as for learning, but he did not waste his time or dissipate his mental energies over worthless or pernicious books. he made good use of the social no less than of the intellectual opportunities which college life affords, and became as great a favorite with his classmates as he had been with his schoolfellows. "the close of his college course was marked by the exceptional distinction of his being chosen by his classmates as their orator, and by his having the first part at commencement as the highest scholar in the class. his class oration was remarkable for its maturity of thought and of style. its manliness of spirit, its simple directness of presentation of the true objects of life, and of the motives by which the educated man, whatever might be his chosen career, should be inspired, together with the serious and eloquent earnestness with which it was delivered, gave to his discourse peculiar impressiveness and effect." graduating with the degree of bachelor of arts in , mr child immediately entered the service of the college, in which he con- tinued till the day of his death. from to he was tutor in mathematics. in he was transferred, at his own request, to a tutorship in history and political eco- nomy, to which were annexed certain duties of instruction in english. in he ob- tained leave of absence for travel and study in europe. he remained in europe for about two years, returning, late in , to receive an appointment to the boylston professorship of rhetoric and oratory, then falling vacant by the resignation of professor edward t. channing. the tutorships which mr child had held were not entirely in accordance with his tastes, which had always led him in the direc- tion of literary and linguistic study. the faculty of the college was small, however, and it was not always possible to assign an instructor to the department that would have been most to his mind. but the governors of the institution were glad to secure the services of so promising a scholar; and mr child, whose preference for an academic ca- reer was decided, had felt that it was wise to accept such positions as the college could offer, leaving exacter adjustments to time and circumstances. meantime he had devoted his whole leisure to the pursuit of his favorite studies. his first fruits were a volume en- titled four old plays, published in , when he was but twenty-three years old. this was a remarkably competent perform- ance. the texts are edited with judgment and accuracy; the introduction shows literary discrimination as well as sound scholarship, and the glossary and brief notes are thor- oughly good. there are no signs of imma- turity in the book, and it is still valued by students of our early drama. the leave of absence granted to mr child in came at a most favorable moment. his health had suffered from close application to work, and a change of climate had been advised by his physicians. his intellectual and scholarly development, too, had reached that stage in which foreign study and travel were certain to be most stimulating and fruit- ful. he was amazingly apt, and two years of opportunity meant much more to him than to most men. he returned to take up the duties of his new office a trained and mature scholar, at home in the best methods and tra- ditions of german universities, yet with no sacrifice of his individuality and intellectual independence. while in germany mr child studied at berlin and gottingen, giving his time mostly four old plays | three interludes: thersytes jack jugler | and heywoods pardoner and frere: | and jocasta a tragedy | by gascoigne and | kinwelmarsh | with an | introduction and notes | cambridge | george nichols | mdcccxlviii. the editor's name does not appear in the title-page, but the preface is signed with the initials f. j. c. jocasta was printed from steeyens's copy of the first edition of gascoigne's posies, which had come into mr child's possession. francis james chili* xxv to germanic philology, then cultivated with extraordinary vigor and success. the hour was singularly propitious. in the three or four decades preceding mr child's residence in europe, germanic philology (in the wider sense) had passed from the stage of "ro- mantic" dilettantism into the condition of a well-organized and strenuous scientific disci- pline, but the freshness and vivacity of the first half of the century had not vanished. scholars, however severe, looked through the form and strove to comprehend the spirit. the ideals of erudition and of a large hu- manity were not even suspected of incompati- bility. the imagination was still invoked as the guide and illuminator of learning. the bond between antiquity and medievalism and between the middle ages and our own century was never lost from sight. it was certainly fortunate for american scholarship that at precisely this juncture a young man of mr child's ardent love of learning, strong individ- uality, and broad intellectual sympathies was brought into close contact with all that was most quickening in german university life. he attended lectures on classical antiquity and philosophy, as well as on germanic phi- lology; but it was not so much by direct in- struction that he profited as by the inspiration which he derived from the spirit and the ideals of foreign scholars, young and old. his own greatest contribution to learning, the eng- lish and scottish popular ballads, may even, in a very real sense, be regarded as the fruit of these years in germany. throughout his life he kept a picture of william and james grimm on the mantel over his study fire- place. mr child wrote no "dissertation," and returned to cambridge without having at- tempted to secure a doctor's degree. never eager for such distinctions, he had been un- willing to subject himself to the restrictions on his plan of study which candidacy for the doctorate would have imposed. three years after, however, in , he was surprised and gratified to receive from the university of gottingen the degree of doctor of philosophy, accompanied by a special tribute of respect vol. l d from that institution. subsequently he re- ceived the degree of ll. d. from harvard (in ) and that of l. h. d. from columbia (in ) ; but the gottingen ph. d., coming as it did at the outset of his career, was in a high degree auspicious. the boylston professorship of rhetoric and oratory, to which, as has been already men- tioned, mr child succeeded on his return to america toward the end of , was no sine- cure. in addition to academic instruction of the ordinary kind, the duties of the chair in- cluded the superintendence and criticism of a great quantity of written work, in the nature of essays and set compositions prepared by students of all degrees of ability. for twenty- five years mr child performed these duties with characteristic punctuality and devotion, though with increasing distaste for the drudgery which they involved. meantime a great change had come over harvard: it had developed from a provincial college into a national seminary of learning, and the intro- duction of the "elective system " — corre- sponding to the " lernfreiheit" of germany — had enabled it to become a university in the proper sense of the word. one result of the important reform just referred to was the establishment of a professorship of eng- lish, entirely distinct from the old chair of rhetoric. this took place on may , , and on the th of the next month mr child was transferred to the new professorship. his duties as an instructor were now thoroughly congenial, and he continued to perform them with unabated vigor to the end. in the oner- ous details of administrative and advisory work, inseparable, according to our exacting american system, from the position of a uni- versity professor, he was equally faithful and untiring. for thirty years he acted as secre- tary of the library council, and in all that time he was absent from but three meetings. as chairman of the department of english and of the division of modern languages, and as a member of many important committees, he was ever prodigal of time and effort. how steadily he attended to the regular duties of the class-room, his pupils, for fifty years, are francis james child the best witnesses. they, too, will best un- derstand the satisfaction he felt, that, in the fiftieth year of his teaching, he was not ab- sent from a single lecture. no man was ever less a formalist; yet the most formal of na- tures could not, in the strictest observance of punctilio, have surpassed the regularity with which he discharged, as it were spontaneously, the multifarious duties of his position. throughout his service as professor of rhe- toric, mr child, hampered though he was by the requirements of his laborious office, had pursued with unquenchable ardor the study of the english language and literature, particu- larly in their older forms, and in these sub- jects he had become an authority of the first rank long before the establishment of the english chair enabled him to arrange his uni- versity teaching in accordance with his tastes. soon after he returned from germany he un- dertook the general editorial supervision of a series of the « british poets,' published at boston in and several following years, and extending to some hundred and fifty vol- umes. out of this grew, in one way or an- other, his three most important contributions to learning: his edition of spenser, his ob- servations on the language of chaucer and gower, and his english and scottish popular ballads. mr child's spenser appeared in . originally intended, as he says in the pre- face, as little more than a reprint of the edition published in under the superin- tendence of mr george hillard, the book grew upon his hands until it had become something quite different from its predecessor. securing access to old copies of most of spenser's poems, mr child subjected the text to a careful re- vision, which left little to be done in this regard. his life of spenser was far better than any previous biography, and his notes, though brief, were marked by a philological exactness to which former editions could not pretend. altogether, though meant for the the poetical works of edmund spenser. the text carefully revised, and illustrated with notes, original and selected, by francis j. child. boston: little, brown, and company. . vols. general reader and therefore sparingly an- notated, mr child's volumes remain, after forty years, the best edition of spenser in existence. the plan of the 'british poets' originally contemplated an edition of chaucer, which mr child was to prepare. becoming con- vinced, however, that the time was not ripe for such a work, he abandoned this project, and to the end of his life he never found time to resume it. thomas wright's print of the canterbury tales from the harleian ms. had, however, put into his hands a reasonably faithful reproduction of an old text, and he turned his attention to a minute study of chaucer's language. the outcome was the publication, in the me- moirs of the american academy of arts and sciences for , of the great treatise to which mr child gave the modest title of observations on the language of chaucer's canterbury tales. it is difficult, at the pre- sent day, to imagine the state of chaucer philology at the moment when this paper ap- peared. scarcely anything, we may say, was known of chaucer's grammar and metre in a sure and scientific way. indeed, the difficul- ties to be solved had not even been clearly formulated. further, the accessible mass of evidence on anglo-saxon and middle english was, in comparison with the stores now at the easy command of every tyro, almost in- significant. yet, in this brief treatise, mr child not only defined the problems, but provided for most of them a solution which the researches of younger scholars have only served to substantiate. he also gave a perfect model of the method proper to such inquiries — a method simple, laborious, and exact. the observations were subsequently rearranged and condensed, with professor child's permission, by mr a. j. ellis for his work on early english pronunciation; but only those who have studied them in their original form can appreciate their merit fully. "it ought never to be forgotten," writes pro- the canterbury tales of geoffrey chaucer. a new text, with illustrative notes. edited by thomas wright. london, printed for the percy society, - . vols. francis james child xxvii feasor skeat, "that the only full and almost complete solution of the question of the right scansion of chaucer's canterbury tales is due to what mr ellis rightly terms 'the wonder- ful industry, acuteness, and accuracy of pro- fessor child.'" had he produced nothing else, this work, with its pendant, the observa- tions on gower, would have assured him a high place among those very few scholars who have permanently settled important problems of linguistic science. mr child's crowning work, however, was the edition of the english and scottish popu- lar ballads, which the reader now has before him. the history of this is the history of more than half a lifetime. the idea of the present work grew out of mr child's editorial labors on the series of the 'british poets,' already referred to. for this he prepared a collection in eight small volumes ( - ) called english and scot- tish ballads. this was marked by the be- ginnings of that method of comparative study which is carried out to its ultimate issues in the volumes of the present collection. the book circulated widely, and was at once ad- mitted to supersede all previous attempts in the same field. to mr child, however, it was but the starting-point for further researches. he soon formed the plan of a much more ex- tensive collection on an altogether different model. this was to include every obtainable version of every extant english or scottish ballad, with the fullest possible discussion of related songs or stories in the "popular" lit- erature of all nations. to this enterprise he resolved, if need were, to devote the rest of the paper entitled observations on the language of chancer was laid before the american academy of arts and sciences on jnne , , and was published in the memoirs of the academy, vol. viii, pt. ii, - (boston, ). the second paper, entitled observations on the language of gower* confessio amantis, was laid before the acad- emy on january , , and appeared in memoirs, ix, ii, - (boston, ). a few copies of each paper were struck off separately, but these are now very hard to find. mr ellis's rearrangement and amalgamation of the two papers, which is by no means a good substitute for the papers themselves, may be found in part i of his early english pronunciation, london, , pp. - . english and scottish ballads. selected and edited by francis james child. boston, - . his life. his first care was to secure trust- worthy texts. in his earlier collection he had been forced to depend almost entirely on printed books. no progress, he was con- vinced, could be made till recourse could be had to manuscripts, and in particular to the percy ms. accordingly he directed his most earnest efforts to securing the publication of the entire contents of the famous folio. the percy ms. was at ecton hall, in the posses- sion of the bishop's descendants, who would permit no one even to examine it. two at- tempts were made by dr furnivall, at mr child's instance, to induce the owners to al- low the manuscript to be printed,—one as early as or , the other in , — but without avail. a third attempt was more successful, and in - the long- secluded folio was made the common property of scholars in an edition prepared by profes- sor hales and dr furnivall. the publication of the percy ms. not only put a large amount of trustworthy material at the disposal of mr child; it exposed the full enormity of bishop percy's sins against popular tradition. some shadow of suspicion inevitably fell on all other ballad collections. it was more than ever clear to mr child that he could not safely take anything at second hand, and he determined not to print a line of his projected work till he had exhausted every effort to get hold of whatever manuscript material might be in existence. his efforts in this direction continued through many years. a number of manuscripts were in private hands; of some the whereabouts was not known; of others the existence was not suspected. but mr child was untiring. he was cordially assisted by various scholars, an- tiquaries, and private gentlemen, to whose cooperation ample testimony is borne in the advertisements prefixed to the volumes in the present work. some manuscripts were secured * how inseparable were the services of dr furnivall and those of professor child in securing this devoutly wished consummation may be seen by comparing dr furnivall's forewords (i, ix, x), in which he gives much of the credit to mr child, with mr child's dedication (in vol. i of the present collection), in which he gives the credit to dr fur- nivall. xxviii francis jambs child for the library of harvard university — no- tably bishop percy's papers, the kinloch mss, and the harris ms., — and of others careful copies were made, which became the property of the same library. in all these operations the indispensable good offices of mr william macmath, of edinburgh, deserve particular mention. for a long series of years his services were always at mr child's dis- posal. his self-sacrifice and generosity appear to have been equalled only by his persever- ance and wonderful accuracy. but for him the manuscript basis of the english and scottish popular ballads would have been far less strong than it is. gradually, then, the manuscript materials came in, until at last, in , mr child felt justified in beginning to print. other impor- tant documents were, however, discovered or made accessible as time went on. especially noteworthy was the great find at abbotsford (see the advertisement to part viii). in dr david laing procured, "not without difficulty," leave to prepare for mr child a copy of the single manuscript of ballads then known to remain in the library at abbotsford. this ms., entitled "scottish songs," was so inconsiderable, in proportion to the accumu- lations which sir walter scott had made in preparing his border minstrelsy, that further search seemed to be imperatively necessary. in permission to make such a search, and to use the results, was given by the honorable mrs maxwell-scott. the investigation, made by mr macmath, yielded a rich harvest of ballads, which were utilized in parts vii-ix. to dwell upon the details would be endless. the reader may see a list of the manuscript sources at pp. ff. of the fifth volume; and, if he will observe how scattered they were, he will have no difficulty in believing that it re- quired years, labor, and much delicate nego- tiation to bring them all together. one manuscript remained undiscoverable, wil- liam tytler's brown ms., but there is no since mr child's death the important "buchan original ms" has been secured for the child memorial library of the university, — a collection endowed by friends and pupils of the dead master. reason to believe that this contained anything of consequence that is not otherwise known. meanwhile, concurrently with the toil of amassing, collating, and arranging texts, went on the far more arduous labor of com- parative study of the ballads of all nations; for, in accordance with mr child's plan it was requisite to determine, in the fullest manner, the history and foreign relations of every piece included in his collection. to this end he devoted much time and unwearied dili- gence to forming, in the library of the uni- versity, a special collection of "folk-lore," par- ticularly of ballads, romances, and marchen. this priceless collection, the formation of which must be looked on as one of mr child's most striking services to the univer- sity, numbers some volumes. but these figures by no means represent the richness of the library in the departments concerned, or the services of mr child in this particular. mediaeval literature in all its phases was his province, and thousands of volumes classified in other departments of the university li- brary bear testimony to his vigilance in order- ing books, and his astonishing bibliographical knowledge. very few books are cited in the present collection which are not to be found on the shelves of this library. in addition, mr child made an effort to stimulate the collection of such remains of the traditional ballad as still live on the lips of the people in this country and in the british islands. the harvest was, in his opinion, rather scanty; yet, if all the versions thus re- covered from tradition were enumerated, the number would not be found inconsiderable. enough was done, at all events, to make it clear that little or nothing of value remains to be recovered in this way. to readers familiar with such studies, no comment is necessary, and to those who are unfamiliar with them, no form of statement can convey even a faint impression of the industry, the learning, the acumen, and the literary skill which these processes required. in writing the history of a single ballad, mr child was sometimes forced to examine s see v, b. francis jambs child hundreds of books in perhaps a dozen different languages. but his industry was unflagging, his sagacity was scarcely ever at fault, and his linguistic and literary knowledge seemed to have no bounds. he spared no pains to per- fect his work in every detail, and his success was commensurate with his efforts. in the advertisement to the ninth part ( ), he was able to report that the three hundred and five numbers of his collection comprised the whole extant mass of this traditional material, with the possible exception of a single ballad. in june, , mr child concluded his fiftieth year of service as a teacher in harvard college. he was at this time hard at work on the tenth and final part, which was to contain a glossary, various indexes, a biblio- graphy, and an elaborate introduction on the general subject. for years he had allowed himself scarcely any respite from work, and, in spite of the uncertain condition of his health, — or perhaps in consequence of it, — he continued to work at high pressure through- out the summer. at the end of august he discovered that he was seriously ill. he died at boston on the th day of september. he had finished his great work except for the introduction and the general bibliography. the bibliography was in preparation by an- other hand and has since been completed. the introduction, however, no other scholar had the hardihood to undertake. a few pages of manuscript, — the last thing writ- ten by his pen, — almost illegible, were found among his papers to show that he had actually begun the composition of this essay, and many sheets of excerpts testified to the time he had spent in refreshing his memory as to the opin- ions of his predecessors, but he had left no collectanea that could be utilized in supplying the introduction itself. he was accustomed to carry much of his material in his memory till the moment of composition arrived, and this habit accounts for the fact that there are no jottings of opinions and no sketch of pre- i this is * young betrice,' no in william tytler's lost brown ms. (v, ), which "may possibly be a version of 'hugh spencer's feats in france'" (see ii, ; hi, ). cisely what line of argument he intended to take. mr child's sudden death was felt as a bit- ter personal loss, not only by an unusually large circle of attached friends in both hemi- spheres, but by very many scholars who knew him through his works alone. he was one of the few learned men to whom the old title of "master" was justly due and freely accorded. with astonishing erudition, which nothing seemed to have escaped, he united an infec- tious enthusiasm and a power of lucid and fruitful exposition that made him one of the greatest of teachers, and a warmth and open- ness of heart that won the affection of all who knew him. in most men, however complex their characters, one can distinguish the quali- ties of the heart, in some degree, from the qualities of the head. in professor child no such distinction was possible, for all the ele- ments of his many-sided nature were fused in his marked and powerful individuality. in his case, the scholar and the man cannot be separated. his life and his learning were one; his work was the expression of himself. as an investigator professor child was at once the inspiration and the despair of his dis- ciples. nothing could surpass the scientific exactness of his methods and the unwearied diligence with which he conducted his re- searches. no possible source of information conld elude him; no book or manuscript was too voluminous or too unpromising for him to examine on the chance of its containing some fact that might correct or supplement his material, even in the minutest point. yet these qualities of enthusiastic accuracy and thoroughness, admirable as they undoubtedly were, by no means dominated him. they were always at the command of the higher qualities of his genius, — sagacity, acumen, and a kind of sympathetic and imaginative power in which he stood almost alone among recent scholars. no detail of language or tradition or archaeology was to him a mere lifeless fact; it was transmuted into something vital, and became a part of that universal hu- manity which always moved him wherever he found it, whether in the pages of a mediaeval francis james child chronicle, or in the stammering accents of a late and vulgarly distorted ballad, or in the faces of the street boys who begged roses from his garden. no man ever felt a keener inter- est in his kind, and no scholar ever brought this interest into more vivifying contact with the technicalities of his special studies. the exuberance of this large humanity pervades his edition of the english and scottish bal- lads. even in his last years, when the lan- guor of uncertain health sometimes got the better, for a season, of the spirit with which he commonly worked, some fresh bit of genu- ine poetry in a ballad, some fine trait of pure nature in a stray folk-tale, would, in an in- stant, bring back the full flush of that enthu- siasm which he must have felt when the possibilities of his achievement first presented themselves to his mind in early manhood. for such a nature there was no old age. from this ready sympathy came that rare faculty — seldom possessed by scholars — which made professor child peculiarly fit for his greatest task. few persons understand the difficulties of ballad investigation. in no field of literature have the forger and the ma- nipulator worked with greater vigor and suc- cess. from percy's day to our own it has been thought an innocent device to publish a bit of one's own versifying, now and then, as an "old ballad" or an "ancient song." often, too, a late stall-copy of a ballad, getting into oral circulation, has been innocently furnished to collectors as traditional matter. mere learning will not guide an editor through these perplexities. what is needed is, in ad- dition, a complete understanding of the " popu- lar" genius, a sympathetic recognition of the traits that characterize oral literature wher- ever and in whatever degree they exist. this faculty, which even the folk has not retained, and which collectors living in ballad-singing and tale-telling times have often failed to ac- quire, was vouchsafed by nature herself to this sedentary scholar. in reality a kind of instinct, it had been so cultivated by long and loving study of the traditional literature of all nations that it had become wonderfully swift in its operations and almost infallible. a forged or retouched piece could not deceive him for a moment; he detected the slightest jar in the genuine ballad tone. he speaks in one place of certain writers " who would have been all the better historians for a little read- ing of romances." he was himself the better interpreter of the poetry of art for this keen sympathy with the poetry of nature. constant association with the spirit of the folk did its part in maintaining, under the stress of unremitting study and research, that freshness and buoyancy of mind which was the wonder of all who met professor child for the first time, and the perpetual delight of his friends and associates. it is impossible to de- scribe the charm of his familiar conversation. there was endless variety without effort. his peculiar humor, taking shape in a thou- sand felicities of thought and phrase that fell casually and as it were inevitably from his lips, exhilarated without reaction or fatigue. his lightest words were full of fruitful sug- gestion. sudden strains of melancholy or high seriousness were followed, in a moment, by flashes of gaiety almost boyish. and per- vading it all one felt the attraction of his per- sonality and the goodness of his heart. professor child's humor was not only one of his most striking characteristics as a man; it was of constant service to his scholarly re- searches. keenly alive to any incongruity in thought or fact, and the least self-conscious of men, he scrutinized his own nascent theories with the same humorous shrewdness with which he looked at the ideas of others. it is impossible to think of him as the sponsor of some hypotheses which men of equal eminence have advanced and defended with passion; and, even if his goodness of nature had not prevented it, his sense of the ridiculous would not have suffered him to engage in the ab- surdities of philological polemics. in the in- terpretation of literature, his humor stood him in good stead, keeping his native sensi- bility under due control, so that it never de- generated into sentimentalism. it made him a marvelous interpreter of chaucer, whose spirit he had caught to a degree attained by no other scholar or critic. francis james child to younger scholars professor child was an influence at once stimulating and benignant. to confer with him was always to be stirred to greater effort, bat, at the same time, the serenity of his devotion to learning chastened the petulance of immature ambition in others. the talk might be quite concrete, even definite- ly practical,—it might deal with indifferent matters; but, in some way, there was an irra- diation of the master's nature that dispelled all unworthy feelings. in the presence of his noble modesty the bustle of self-assertion was quieted and the petty spirit of pedantic wran- gling could not assert itself. however severe his criticism, there were no personalities in it. he could not be other than outspoken, — con- cealment and shuffling were abhorrent to him, — yet such was his kindliness that his frank- est judgments never wounded; even his re- proofs left no sting. with his large charity was associated, as its necessary complement in a strong character, a capacity for righteous indignation. "he is almost the only man i know," said one in his lifetime, " who thinks no evil." there could be no truer word. yet when he was confronted with injury or op- pression, none could stand against the anger of this just man. his unselfishness did not suffer him to see offences against himself, but wrong done to another roused him in an in- stant to protesting action. professor child's publications, despite their magnitude and importance, are no adequate measure either of his acquirements or of his influence. he printed nothing about shak- spere, for example, yet he was the peer of any shaksperian, past or present, in know- ledge and interpretative power. as a chaucer scholar he had no superior, in this country or in europe: his published work was confined, as we have seen, to questions of language, but no one had a wider or closer acquaintance with the whole subject. an edition of chaucer from his hand would have been priceless. his acquaintance with letters was not confined to special authors or centuries. he was at home in modern european literature and profoundly versed in that of the middle ages. in his immediate territory, — english, — his know- ledge, linguistic and literary, covered all pe- riods, and was alike exact and thorough. his taste and judgment were exquisite, and he enlightened every subject which he touched. as a writer, he was master of a singularly fe- licitous style, full of individuality and charm. had his time not been occupied in other ways, he would have made the most delight- ful of essayists. fortunately, professor child's courses of instruction in the university — particularly those on chaucer and shakspere — gave him an opportunity to impart to a constantly in- creasing circle of pupils the choicest fruits of his life of thought and study. in his later years he had the satisfaction to see grow up about him a school of young specialists who can have no higher ambition than to be worthy of their master. but his teaching was not limited to these, — it included all sorts and conditions of college students; and none, not even the idle and incompetent, could fail to catch something of his spirit. one thing may be safely asserted: no university teacher was ever more beloved. and with this may fitly close too slight a tribute to the memory of a great scholar and a good man. many things remain unsaid. his gracious family life, his civic virtues, his patriotism, his bounty to the poor, — all must be passed by with a bare mention, which yet will signify much to those who knew him. in all ways he lived worthily, and he died having attained worthy ends. g. l. kitteedge. i the english and scottish popular ballads edited by francis james child part i boston houghton, mifflin and company new york: east seventeenth street wsp kibcrfitoe press, cambridge london: henry stevens, trafalgar square one ftfunijtfartfi <£topic? jsrinteb. no. :l:..... copyright, , by f. j. chiid. all rights reserved. the riverside press, cambridge: printed by h. . houghton and company. to frederick % furnivall, esq., of london. my dear furnivall: without the percy ms. no one would pretend to make a collection of the english ballads, and but for you that manuscript would still, i think, be beyond reach of man, yet exposed to destructive chances. through your exertions and personal sacrifices, directly, the famous and precious folio has been printed; and, indirectly, in consequence of the same, it has been transferred to a place where it is safe, and open to inspection. this is only one of a hundred reasons which . i have for asking you to accept the dedication of this book from your grateful friend and fellow-student, f. j. child. cambridge, mass., december i, . advertisement it was my wish not to begin to print the eng- lish and scottish popular ballads until this unre- stricted title should be justified by my having at command every valuable copy of every known bal- lad. a continuous effort to accomplish this object has been making for some nine or ten years, and many have joined in it. by correspondence, and by an extensive diffusion of printed circulars, i have tried to stimulate collection from tradition in scot- land, canada, and the united states, and no becom- ing means has been left unemployed to obtain pos- session of unsunned treasures locked up in writing. the gathering from tradition has been, as ought perhaps to have been foreseen at this late day, meagre, and generally of indifferent quality. ma- terials in the hands of former editors have, in some cases, been lost beyond recovery, and very probably have lighted fires, like that large cantle of the percy manuscript, maxime deflendits i access to several manuscript collections has not yet been secured. but what is still lacking is believed to bear no great proportion to what is in hand, and may soon come in, besides: meanwhile, the uncertainties of the world forbid a longer delay to publish so much as has been got together. of hitherto unused materials, much the most im- portant is a large collection of ballads made by motherwell. for leave to take a copy of this i am deeply indebted to the present possessor, mr mal- colm colquhoun thomson, of glasgow, who even allowed the manuscript to be sent to london, and to be retained several months, for my accommoda- tion. mr j. wylie guild, of glasgow, also per- mitted the use of a note-book of motherwell's which supplements the great manuscript, and this my un- wearied friend, mr james barclay murdoch, to whose solicitation i owe both, himself transcribed with the most scrupulous accuracy. no other good office, asked or unasked, has mr. murdoch spared. next in extent to the motherwell collections come those of the late mr kinloch. these he freely placed at my disposal, and mr william mac- math, of edinburgh, made during mr kinloch's life an exquisite copy of the larger part of them, en- riched with notes from mr kinloch's papers, and sent it to me across the water. after mr kinloch's death his collections were acquired by harvard col- lege library, still through the agency of mr mac- math, who has from the beginning rendered a highly valued assistance, not less by his suggestions and communications than by his zealous mediation. no scottish ballads' are superior in kind to those recited in the last century by mrs brown, of falk- land. of these there are, or were, three sets. one formerly owned by robert jamieson, the fullest of the three, was lent me, to keep as long as i re- quired, by my honored friend the late mr david laing, who also secured for me copies of several ballads of mrs brown which are found in an ab- botsford manuscript, and gave me a transcript of the glenriddell manuscript. the two others were written down for william tytler and alexander fraser tytler respectively, the former of these con- sisting of a portion of the jamieson texts revised. these having for some time been lost sight of, miss mary fraser tytler, with a graciousness which i have reason to believe hereditary in the name, made search for them, recovered the one which had been obtained by lord woodhouselee, and copied it for me with her own hand. the same lady furnished me with another collection which had been made by a member of the family. for later transcriptions from scottish tradition i am indebted to mr j. f. campbell of islay, whose edition and rendering of the racy west highland tales is marked by the rarest appreciation of the popular genius; to mrs a. f. murison, formerly of old deer, who undertook a quest for ballads in her native place on my behalf; to mr alexander laing, of newburgh-upon-tay; to mr james gibb, of joppa, who has given me a full score; to mr david louden, of morham, haddington; to the vi advertisement late dr john hill burton and miss ella burton; to dr thomas davidson. the late mr robert white, of newcastle-upon- tyne, allowed me to look through his collections in , and subsequently made me a copy of such things as i needed, and his ready kindness has been continued by mrs andrews, his sister, and by miss andrews, his niece, who has taken a great deal of trouble on my account. in the south of the mother-island my reliance has, of necessity, been chiefly upon libraries. the british museum possesses, besides early copies of some of the older ballads, the percy ms., herd's mss and buchan's, and the roxburgh broadsides. the library of the university of cambridge affords one or two things of first-rate importance, and for these i am beholden to the accomplished librarian, mr henry bradshaw, and to professor skeat i have also to thank the rev. f. gunton, dean, and the other authorities of magdalene college, cam- bridge, for permitting collations of pepys ballads, most obligingly made for me by mr arthur s. b. miller. many things were required from the bod- leian library, and these were looked out for me, and scrupulously copied or collated, by mr george parker. texts of traditional ballads have been communi- cated to me in america by mr w. "vv. newell, of new york, who is soon to give us an interesting collection of children's games traditional in amer- ica; by dr huntington, bishop of central new york; mr g. c. mahon, of ann arbor, michigan; miss margaret reburn, of new albion, iowa; miss perine, of baltimore; mrs augustus lowell, mrs l. f. wesselhoeft, mrs edward atkinson, of bos- ton; mrs cushing, of cambridge; miss ellen mars- ton, of new bedford; mrs moncrieff, of london, ontario. acknowledgments not well despatched in a phrase are due to many others who have promoted my ob- jects : to mr furnivall, for doing for me everything which i could have done for myself had i lived in england; to that master of old songs and music, mr william chappell, very specially; to mr j. payne collier; mr norval clyne, of aberdeen; mr alexander young, of glasgow ; mr arthur lauren- son, of lerwick, shetland; mr j. burrell curtis, of edinburgh; dr vigfusson, of oxford; professor edward arber, of birmingham; the rev. j. per- cival, mr francis fry, mr j. f. nicholls, of bris- tol; professor george stephens, of copenhagen; mr r. bergstrom, of the royal library, stock- holm; mr w. r. s. ralston, mr william henry husk, miss lucy toulmin smith, mr a. f. muri- son, of london; professor sophocles; mr w. g. medlicott, of longmeadow; to mr m. heilprin, of new york, mme de maltchyce, of boston, and rabbi dr cohn, for indispensable translations from polish and hungarian; to mr james russell low- ell, minister of the united states at london; to professor charles eliot norton, for such " pains and benefits" as i could ask only of a life-long friend. in the editing of these ballads i have closely fol- lowed the plan of grundtvig's old popular ballads of denmark, a work which will be prized highest by those who have used it most, and which leaves nothing to be desired but its completion. the author is as much at home in english as in danish tra- dition, and whenever he takes up a ballad which is common to both nations nothing remains to be done but to supply what has come to light since the time of his writing. but besides the assistance which i have derived from his book, i have enjoyed the advantage of professor grundtvig's criticism and advice, and have received from him unprinted dan- ish texts, and other aid in many ways. such further explanations as to the plan and con- duct of the work as may be desirable can be more conveniently given by and by. i may say here that textual points which may seem to be neglected will be considered in an intended glossary, with which will be given a full account of sources, and such indexes of titles and matters as will make it easy to find everything that the book may contain. with renewed thanks to all helpers, and helpers' helpers, i would invoke the largest cooperation for the correction of errors and the supplying of de- ficiencies. to forestall a misunderstanding which has often occurred, i beg to say that every tra- ditional version of a popular ballad is desired, no matter how many texts of the same may have been printed already. f. j. child. contents paoi . riddles wisely expounded . the elfin knight . the fause knight upon the road . lady isabel and the elf-knight . gil bbenton • . willie's lady . earl brand '. . erlinton . the fair flower of northumberland ill . the twa sisters . the cruel brother . lord randal . edward . babylon ; or, the bonnie banks o fordie . leesome brand . sheath and knife . hind horn . sir lionel . king orfeo . the cruel mother . the maid and the palmer (the samaritan woman) . st. stephen and herod . judas . bonnie annie . willie's lyke-wake . the three ravens . the whummil bore • . burd ellen and young tamlane riddles wisely expounded a. a. 'a noble riddle wisely expounded; or, the maid's answer to the knight's three questions,' to, rawlinson, s , fol , bodleian library; wood, e. , fol. , bod. lib. b. pepys, m, , no , magdalen college, cambridge, c. douce, ii, fol. b, bod. lib. d. 'a riddle wittily ex- pounded,' pills to purge melancholy, iv, , ed. . "ii, , ed. ." b. 'the three sisters.' some ancient christmas carols . . . together with two ancient ballads, etc. by davies gilbert, d ed., p. . c. 'the unco knicht's wowing,' motherwell's ms., p. . d. motherwell's ms., p. . the four copies of a differ but very slight- ly: a, b, o are broadsides, and d is evidently of that derivation, a and b are of the th century. there is another broadside in the euing collection, formerly halliwell's, no . the version in the borderer's table book, vii, , was compounded by dixon from others previously printed. riddles, as is well known, play an impor- tant part in popular story, and that from very remote times. no one needs to be reminded of samson, cedipus, apollonius of tyre. rid- dle-tales, which, if not so old as the oldest of these, may be carried in all likelihood some centuries beyond our era, still live in asiatic and european tradition, and have their repre- sentatives in popular ballads. the largest class of these tales is that in which one party has to guess another's riddles, or two rivals compete in giving or guessing, under penalty in either instance of forfeiting life or some other heavy wager; an example of which is the english ballad, modern in form, of 'king john and the abbot of canterbury.' in a second class, a suitor can win a lady's hand only by guessing riddles, as in our 'captain wedderburn's courtship' and 'proud lady margaret.' there is sometimes a penalty of loss of life for the unsuccessful, but not in these ballads. thirdly, there is the tale (per- haps an offshoot of an early form of the first) of the clever lass, who wins a husband, and sometimes a crown, by guessing riddles, solv- ing difficult but practicable problems, or match- ing and evading impossibilities; and of this class versions a and b of the present ballad and a-h of the following are specimens. ballads like our , a, b, , a-h, are very common in german. of the former variety are the following: a. 'rathsellied,' biisching, wochentliche nachrichten, i, , from the neighborhood of stuttgart. the same, erlach, m, ; wun- derhorn, rv, ; liederhort, p. , no ; erk u. irmer, h. , p. , no ; mittler, no (omits the last stanza); zuccalmaglio, n, , no [with change in st. ]. a knight meets a maid on the road, dismounts, and says, " i will ask you a riddle; if you guess it, you shall be my wife." she answers, " your riddle shall soon be guessed; i will do my best to be your wife ;" guesses eight pairs of rid- dles, is taken up behind him, and they ride off. b. 'rathsel um riithsel,' wunderhorn, n, [ , ] = erlach, i, . zuccal- maglio, n, , no , rearranges, but adds nothing. mittler, no , inserts three stanzas ( , , ). this version begins: "maid, i will give you some riddles, and if you guess them will marry you." there are seven pairs, and, these guessed, the man says, "i can't give you riddles: let's marry;" to i. riddles wisely expounded which she gives no coy assent: but this con- clusion is said not to be genuine (liederhort, p. , note). . 'rathsellied,' erk, neue sammlung, heft , p. , no , and lieder- hort, , no ", two brandenburg ver- sions, nearly agreeing, one with six, the other with five, pairs of riddles. a proper conclu- sion not having been obtained, the former was completed by the two last stanzas of b, which are suspicious. c begins like b. d. 'rath- selfragen,' peter, volksthiimliches ans oster- reichisch-schlesien, i, , no . a knight rides by where two maids are sitting, one of whom salutes him, the other not. he says to the former, "i will put you three questions, and if you can answer them will marry you." pie asks three, then six more, then three, and then two, and, all being answered, bids her, since she is so witty, build a house on a needle's point, and put in as many windows as there are stars in the sky; which she par- ries with, " when all streams flow together, and all trees shall fruit, and all thorns bear roses, then come for your answer." e. 'rath- sellied,' tschischka u. schottky, oesterreich- ische volkslieder, d ed., p. , begins like b, c, has only three pairs of riddles, and ends with the same task of building a house on a needle's point. . f. 'rathsellied,' hocker, volkslieder von der mosel, in wolf's zeits. fur deutsche myth., i, , from trier, begins with the usual promise, has five pairs of riddles, and no conclusion. g. 'rathsel,' ditfurth, frank- ische v. l., n, , no , has the same be- ginning, six pairs of riddles, and no conclusion. * d , what is green as clover * what is white as milk? comes near to english a , c , d , what is greener than grass? c , d , what is whiter than milk? we have again, what is greener than grass f in ' capt. wedder- bnrn's courtship,' a ; what is whiter than snow what is greener than clover? in ' riithselfragen,' firmenich, ger- maniens volkerstimmen, m, ; in 'kranzsingen,' erk's liederhort, p. , ; 'traugemundslied,' ;' ein spiel von den freibeit,' fastnachtspiele aus dem i'm jahrhun- dert, n, ; altdeutsche wilder, in, . so, what is whiter than a'swan? in many of the versions of svend vonved, grnndtvig, in, " ; iv, - - - ; afzelius, n, , etc.; and sin is blacker than a sloe, or coal (cf. c , sin is heavier nor the lead), grundtvig, i, , ; iv, , ; afzelins, n, . the road without dust and the tree without leaves are in ' ein spiel von den freiheit,' p. ; and in meier, deutsche kinderreime, p. , no doubt some of the riddles occur in nearly all the versions, some in only one or two, and there is now and then a variation also in the an- swers. those which are most frequent are: which is the maid without a tress? a-d, q. and which is the tower without a crest? a-d, f, g. (maid-child in the cradle; tower of bahel.) which is the water without any sand ? a, b, c, f, g. and which is the king without any land? a, b, c, f, g. (water in the eyes; king in cards.) where is no dust in all the road? a-g. where is no leaf in all the wood? a-g. (the milky way, or a river; a fir-wood.) which is the fire that never burnt? a, c-g. and which is the sword without a point? c-g. (a painted fire; a broken sword.) which is the house without a mouse? c-g. which is the beggar without a louse? c-g. (a snail's house; a painted beggar.)* a ballad translated in ralston's songs of the russian people, p. , from buslaef's historical sketches of national literature and art, i, , resembles very closely german a. a merchant's son drives by a garden where a girl is gathering flowers. he salutes her; she returns her thanks. then the ballad pro- ceeds: 'shall i ask thee riddles, beauteous maiden? six wise riddles shall i ask thee?' 'ask them, ask them, merchant's son, prithee ask the six wise riddles.' 'well then, maiden, what is higher than the for- est? also, what is brighter than the light? a fragment of a ballad, as also the verses in firmenich. the question in german, a , welches ist das trefflichste holz? (die rebe) is in the anglo-saxon prose salomon and saturn: kemble, sal. and sat. , no ; ; see also , . riddle verses with little or no story (sometimes fragments of ballads like d) are frequent. the trauge- mundslied, uhland, i, , and the spiel von den freiheit, fastnachtspiele, n, , have only as much story as will serve as an excuse for long strings of riddles. shorter pieces of the kind are (italian) kaden, italiens wunderhern, p. ; (servian) 'the maid and the fish,' vuk, i, , no , talvj, n, , goetze, serbische v. l., p. , bowring, ser- vian popular poetry, p. ; (polish) wojcicki, i, ; (wendish) haupt and schmaler, i, , no , n, , no ; (russian) wenzig, bibliothek slav. poesie, p. ; (es- thonian) neus, ehstnische v. l., ft, and fosterlandskt album, i, , prior, ancient danish ballads, n, . . riddles wisely expounded also, maiden, what is thicker than the forest? also, maiden, what is there that's rootless? also, maiden, what is never silent? also, what is there past finding out?' 'i will answer, merchant's son, will answer, all the six wise riddles will i answer. higher than the forest is the moon; brighter than the light the ruddy sun; thicker than the forest are the stars; bootless is, o merchant's son, a stone; never silent, merchant's son, the sea; and god's will is past all finding out.' 'thou hast guessed, o maiden fair, guessed rightly, all the six wise riddles hast thou answered; therefore now to me shalt thou be wedded, therefore, maiden, shalt thou be the merchant's wife.' * among the gaels, both scotch and irish, a ballad of the same description is extremely well known. apparently only the questions are preserved in verse, and the connection with the story made by a prose comment. of tiiese questions there is an irish form, dated , which purports to be copied from a manuscript of the twelfth century. fionn would marry no lady whom he could pose. graidhne, "daughter of the king of the fifth of ullin," answered everything he asked, and became his wife. altogether there are thirty-two questions in the several versions. among them are: what is blacker than the raven? (there is death.) what is whiter than the snow? (there is the truth.) 'fionn's questions,' campbell's popular tales of the west highlands, m, ; 'fionn's con- versation with ailbhe,' heroic gaelic ballads, by the same, pp. , . the familiar ballad-knight of a, b is con- verted in c into an " unco knicht," who is the devil, a departure from the proper story which is found also in j. the conclusion of c, as soon as she the fiend did name, he flew awa in a blazing flame, reminds us of the behavior of trolls and nixes under like circumstances, but here the naming amounts to a detection of the unco knicht's quiddity, acts as an exorcism, and simply obliges the fiend to go off in his real charac- ter. d belongs with c: it was given by the reciter as a colloquy between the devil and a maiden. the earlier affinities of this ballad can be better shown in connection with no . translated, after b and a, in grundtvig's engelske og skotske folkeviser, p. : her- der, volkslieder, i, , after a d. a a. broadside in the rawlinson collection, to, , fol. , wood, e. , fol. . b. pepys, in, , no . c. donee, n, fol. b. d. pills to purge melancholy, iv, , ed. . there was a lady of the north country, lay the bent to the bonny broom and she had lovely daughters three. fa la la la, fa la la la ra re there was a knight of noble worth which also lived in the north. the knight, of courage stout and brave, a wife he did desire to have. • 'capt. wedderburn's courtship,' : what's higher than the tree? (heaven). wojcicki, piesni, i, , l. , , . ; what grows without a root? (a stone). he knocked at the ladie's gate one evening when it was late. the eldest sister let him in, and pin'd the door with a silver pin. the second sister she made his bed, and laid soft pillows under his head. the youngest daughter that same night, she went to bed to this young knight. and in the morning, when it was day, these words unto him she did say: 'now you have had your will,' quoth she, 'i pray, sir knight, will you marry me?' the young brave knight to her replyed, 'thy suit, fair maid, shall not be deny'd. . riddles wisely expounded 'if thou canst answer me questions three, this very day will i marry thee.' 'and thunder is louder than the horn, and hunger is sharper than a thorn. b gilbert's christmas carols, d ed., p. , from the editor's recollection. west of england. theke were three sisters fair and bright, jennifer gentle and rosemaree and they three loved one valiant knight. as the dew flies over the mulberry tree the eldest sister let him in, and barred the door with a silver pin. the second sister made his bed, and placed soft pillows under his head. the youngest sister, fair and bright, was resolved for to wed with this valiant knight. motherwell's ms., p. . from the recitation of mrs storie. there was a knicht riding frae the east, sing the cather banks, the bonnie brume wha had been wooing at monie a place. and ye may beguile a young thing sune 'and poyson is greener than the grass, and the devil is worse than woman was.' 'and if you can answer questions three, o then, fair maid, i will marry with thee. 'what is louder than an horn, and what is sharper than a thorn? 'thunder is louder than an horn, and hunger is sharper than a thorn.' 'what is broader than the way, and what is deeper than the sea?' 'love is broader than the way, and hell is deeper than the sea.' ***** 'and now, fair maid, i will marry with thee.' he came unto a widow's door, and speird whare her three dochters were. the auldest ane's to a washing gane, the second's to a baking gane. the youngest ane's to a wedding gane, and it will be nicht or she be hame. 'kind sir, in love, then,' quoth she, 'tell me what your [three] questions be.' ' what is longer than the way, or what is deeper than the sea? 'or what is louder than the horn, or what is sharper than a thorn? 'or what is greener than the grass, or what is worse then a woman was?' 'o love is longer than the way, and hell is deeper than the sea. when she these questions answered had, the knight became exceeding glad. and having [truly] try'd her wit, he much commended her for it. and after, as it is verifi'd, he made of her his lovely bride. so now, fair maidens all, adieu, this song i dedicate to you. i wish that you may constant prove vnto the man that you do love. . riddles wisely expounded he sat him doun upon a stane, till thir three lasses came tripping hame. the auldest ane '■ to the bed making, and the second ane's to the sheet spreading. the youngest ane was bauld and bricht, and she was to lye with this unco knicht. 'gin ye will answer me questions ten, the morn ye sall be made my ain. 'o what is heigher nor the tree? and what is deeper nor the sea? 'or what is heavier nor the lead? and what is better nor the breid? 'o what is whiter nor the milk? or what is safter nor the silk? 'or what is sharper nor a thorn? or what is louder nor a horn? 'or what is greener nor the grass? or what is waur nor a woman was?' 'o heaven is higher nor the tree, and hell is deeper nor the sea. 'o sin is heavier nor the lead, the blessing's better nor the bread. 'the snaw is whiter nor the milk, and the down is safter nor the silk. 'hunger is sharper nor a thorn, and shame is louder nor a horn. 'the pies are greener nor the grass, and clootie's waur nor a woman was.' as sune as she the fiend did name, he flew awa in a blazing flame. d motherwell's ms., p. . * o what is higher than the trees? gar lay the bent to the bonny broom and what is deeper than the seas? and you may beguile a fair maid soon 'o what is whiter than the milk? or what is softer than the silk? 'o what is sharper than the thorn? o what is louder than the horn? 'o what is longer than the way? and what is colder than the clay? 'o what is greener than the grass? and what is worse than woman was?' 'o heaven's higher than the trees, and hell is deeper than the seas. 'and snow is whiter than the milk, and love is softer than the silk. 'o hunger's sharper than the thorn, and thunder's louder than the horn. 'o wind is longer than the way, and death is colder than the clay. 'o poison's greener than the grass, and the devil's worse than eer woman was.' a. a. title. a noble riddle wisely expounded: or, the maids answer to the knights three questions. she with her excellent wit and civil carriage, won a young knight to joyn with him in mar- riage; this gallant couple now is man and wife, c. knights questions. wed a knight . . . and she with him doth lead a pleasant life. with her in marriage. tune of lay the bent to the bonny broom. woodcut of the knight. woodcut of the maid. . the elfin knight a. printed for f. coles, t. vere, l wright, and i. clarke. b. printed for w. thackeray, e. m. and a. m. o. licens'd according to order. london. printed hy tho. norris, at the l[o]oking glass on london-bridge. and sold by j. walter, in high holborn. in rawlinson and wood the first seven lines are in roman and italic type; the remain- der being in black letter and roman. the pepys copy has one line of the ballad in black letter and one line in roman type. the douce edition is in roman and italic. a. i . o, i' th' north: d, in the. . o, this knight. . a, b, o, d, the youngest sister. \ b, d, the youngest that same, c, that very same. . a, with this young knight. s. d, sir knight, you marry me. after , there is a wood-cut of the knight and the maid in a; in b two cuts of the knight. ". o, l marry, d, i will. . o omits in love. . b, c, d, three questions. . d, a horn. . after : a, here follows the damosels an- swer to the knight's three questions: o, the damsel's answers to the knight's questions: d, the damsel's answer to the three questions. , . b, c, d, thunder's, hunger's, poy- son's, devil's. . d, the woman. . c, those. . a, b omit truly. . b, o, d, as't is. b. the burden is printed by gilbert, in the text, "jennifer gentle and rosemaree." he ap- pears to take jennifer and rosemaree to be names of the sisters. as printed under the music, the burden runs, juniper, gentle and rosemary. no doubt, juniper and rosemary, simply, are meant; gentle might possibly be for gentian. in h. the burden is, parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme: curiously varied in i thus: every rose grows merry wi thyme: and in g, sober and grave grows merry in time. c. . "vergris in another set." m. d. ms. before st. , "the devil speaks ;" before st. , "the maiden speaks." the elfin knight a. 'a proper new ballad entituled the wind hath blown my plaid away, or, a discourse betwixt a young [wo]man and the elphin knight;' a broad- side in black letter in the pepysian library, bound up at the end of a copy of blind harry's ' wallace,' edin. . b. 'a proper new ballad entitled the wind hath blawn my plaid awa,' etc. webster, a collection of curious old ballads, p. . c. 'the elfin knicht,' kinloch's anc. scott. ballads, p. . d. 'the fairy knight,' buchan, u, . e. motherwell's ms., p. . f. 'lord john,' kinloch mss, i, . q-. 'the cambrick shirt,' gammer gurton's garland, p. , ed. . h. 'the deil's courtship,' motherwell's ms., p. . i. 'the deil's courting,' motherwell's ms., p. . j. communicated by rev. dr huntington, bishop of western new york, as sung at hadley, mass. k. halliwell's nursery rhymes of england, p. , no , th ed. l. notes and queries, st s., vn, . . the elfin knight plnkeeton gave the first information con- cerning a, in ancient scotish poems . . . from the ms. collections of sir richard mait- land, etc., n, , and he there printed the first and last stanzas of the broadside. moth- erwell printed the whole in the appendix to his minstrelsy, no i. what stands as the last stanza in the broadside is now prefixed to the ballad, as having been the original burden. it is the only example, so far as i remember, which our ballads afford of a burden of this kind, one that is of greater extent than the stanza with which it was sung, though this kind of burden seems to have been common enough with old songs and carols.* the " old copy in black letter" used for b was close to a, if not identical, and has the burden-stem at the end like a. 'the jock- ey's lamentation,' pills to purge melancholy, v, , has the burden, 't is oer the hills and far away [thrice], the wind hath blown my plaid away. the 'bridal sark,' cromek's remains of nithsdale and galloway song, p. , and 'the bridegroom darg,' p. , are of mod- ern manufacture and impostures; at least, they seem to have imposed upon cromek. a like ballad is very common in german. a man would take, or keep, a woman for his love or his wife [servant, in one case], if she would spin brown silk from oaten straw. she will do this if he will make clothes for her of the linden-leaf. then she must bring him shears from the middle of the rhine. but • all that was required of the burden, mr chappell kindly writes me, was to support the voice by harmonious notes under the melody; it was not sung after each half of the stanza, or after the stanza, and it was heard separately only when the voices singing the air stopped. even the danish ballads exhibit but a few cases of these "burden-stems," as grundtvig calls them: see danmarks gamle folkeviser, n, , b ; , b ; , a : ni, , d; , a. such burden-stems are, however, very common in icelandic ballads. they are, for the most part, of a different metre from the ballad, and very often not of the same .number of lines as the ballad stanza. a part of the burden stem would seem to be taken for the refrain; as fslenzk fornkvaesi, i, , of four verses, , , ; , of two, the last half of the first and all the second; , of four, the last; , of five, the last two; n, , of five, the second and last two. in later times the danish stev-stamme was made to con- first he must build her a bridge from a single twig, etc., etc. to this effect, with some va- riations in the tasks set, in a, 'eitle dinge,' rhaw, bicinia ( ), uhland, i, , no a, bohme, p. , no . b. 'van ideln unmoglichen dingen,' neocorus (f c. ), chronik des landes ditmarschen, ed. dahl- mann, p. = uhland, p. , no b, miil- lenhof, p. , bbhme, p. - , no . c. wunderhorn, n, [ ] = erlach, i, , slightly altered in kretzschmer [zuccalma- glio], ii, . d.' unmoglichkeiten,' sehmel- ler, die mundarten bayerns, p. . e. schle- sische volkslieder, p. , no . f. 'liebes- neckerei,' meier, schwabische v. l., p. , no . g. 'liebesspielereien,' ditfurth, frankische v. l., n, , no . h. 'von eitel unmoglichen dingen,' erk's liederhort, p. , no ". i. 'unmogliches begehr- en,' v. l. aus oesterreich, deutsches mu- seum, , ii, , no . j. • unmog- liche dinge,' peter, volksthiimliches aus osterreichisch-schlesien, i, , no . in k, 'wettgesang,' meinert, p. , and l, liederhort, p. , no , there is a simple contest of wits between a youth and a maid, and in m, erk, neue sammlung, h. , no , p. , and n, 'wunderbare aufgaben,' prohle, weltliche u. geistliche volkslieder, p. , no b, the wit-contest is added to the very insipid ballad of ' gemalte rosen.' 'store fordringar,' kristensen, jydske folkeviser, i, , no , and 'opsang,' lindeman, norske fjeldmelodier, no (text bilag, p. ), closely resemble german form to the metre of the ballad, and sung as the first stanza, the last line perhaps forming the burden. compare the stev- stamme, grundtvig, in, , with the first stanza of the bal- lad at p. . if not so changed, says grundtvig, it dropped away. lyngbye, at the end of his fssroiske qvaeder, gives the music of a ballad which he had heard sung. the whole stem is sung first, and then repeated as a burden at the end of every verse. the modern way, judging by berggreen, folke-sange og melodier, d ed., i, , , is simply to sing the whole stem after each verse, and so says grundtvig, m, , d. the whole stem is appended to the last stanza (where, as usual, the burden, which had been omitted after stanza , is again expressed) in the ficroe ballad in grundt- vig, m, , exactly as in our broadside, or in motherwell's minstrelsy, appendix, p. iii. i must avow myself to be very much in the dark as to the exact relation of stem and bur- den. . the elfin knight m, n. in the stev, or alternate song, in landstad, p. , two singers vie one with an- other in propounding impossible tasks. a wendish ballad, haupt and schmaler, i, , no , and a slovak, celakowsky, n, , no (the latter translated by wenzig, slawische volkslieder, p. , westslaviseher marchenschatz, p. , and bibliothek sla- vischer poesien, p. ), have lost nearly all their story, and, like german k, l, may be called mere wit-contests. the graidhne whom we have seen winning fionn for husband by guessing his riddles, p. , afterwards became enamored of diarmaid, fionn's nephew, in consequence of her acci- dentally seeing a beauty spot on diarmaid's forehead. this had the power of infecting with love any woman whose eye should light upon it: wherefore diarmaid used to wear his cap well down. graidhne tried to make diar- maid run away with her. but he said," i will not go with thee. i will not take thee in soft- ness, and i will not take thee in hardness; i will not take thee without, and i will not take thee within ; i will not take thee on horseback, and i will not take thee on foot." then he went and built himself a house where he thought he should be out of her way. but graidhne found him out. she took up a posi- tion between the two sides of the door, on a buck goat, and called to him to go with her. for, said she, "i am not without, i am not within; i am not on foot, and i am not on a horse; and thou must go with me." after this diarmaid had no choice. 'diarmaid and grainne,' tales of the west highlands, m, - ; 'how fingal got graine to be his wife, and she went away with diarmaid,' heroic gaelic ballads, p. ; 'the death of diarmaid,' ib., p. . the last two were written down c. . in all stories of the kind, the person upon whom a task is imposed stands acquitted, if another of no less difficulty is devised which must be performed first. this preliminary may be something that is essential for the ex- * urundtvig has noticed the resemblance of . b. and the ballad. — mnch of what follows is derived from the ad- mirable benfey's papers, ' die kluge dirne, die indischen ecution of the other, as in the german bal- lads, or equally well something that has no kind of relation to the original requisition, as in the english ballads. an early form of such a story is preserved in gesta romanorum, c. , oesterley, p. . it were much to be wished that search were made for a better copy, for, as it stands, this tale is to be interpreted only by the english ballad. the old english version, madden, xxni, p. , is even worse mutilated than the latin. a king, who was stronger, wiser, and handsomer than any man, delayed, like the marquis of saluzzo, to take a wife. his friends urged him to marry, and he replied to their expostulations, " you know i am rich enough and powerful enough; find me a maid who is good looking and sensible, and i will take her to wife, though she be poor." a maid • was found who was eminently good looking and sensible, and of royal blood besides. the king wished to make trial of her sagacity, and sent her a bit of linen three inches square, with a promise to marry her if she would make him a shirt of this, of proper length and width. the lady stipulated that the king should send her " a vessel in which she could work," and she would make the shirt: "inichi vas concedat in quo operari potero, et camisiam satis longam ei promitto." so the king sent "vas debitum et preciosum," the shirt was made, and the king married her.* it may be doubted whether the sagacious maid did not, in the unmutilated story, deal with the prob- lem as is done in a transylvanian tale, halt- rich, deutsche volksmiirchen, u. s. w., no , p. , where the king requires the maid to make a shirt and drawers of two threads. the maid, in this instance, sends the king a couple of broomsticks, requiring that he should first make her a loom and bobbin-wheel out of them. the tale just cited, 'der burghiiter und seine kluge tochter,' is one of several which have been obtained from tradition in this century, that link the ballads of the clever lass with oriental stories of great age. the marchenvon den klugen rathsellosern, und ihre verbreitung iiber asien nnd europa,' ausland, , p. , , , , , in nos , , , , . . the elfin knight material points are these. a king requires the people of a parish to answer three ques- tions, or he will be the destruction of them all: what is the finest sound, the finest song, the finest stone? a poor warder is instructed by his daughter to reply, the ring of bells, the song of the angels, the philosopher's stone. "right," says the king, " but that never came out of your head. confess who told you, or a dungeon is your doom." the man owns that he has a clever daughter, who had told him what to say. the king, to prove her sa- gacity further, requires her to make a shirt and drawers of two threads, and she responds in the manner just indicated. he next sends her by her father an earthen pot with the bottom out, and tells her to sew in a bottom so that no seam or stitch can be seen. she sends her father back with a request that the king should first turn the pot inside out, for cob- blers always sew on the inside, not on the out. the king next demanded that the girl should come to him, neither driving, nor walking, nor riding; neither dressed nor naked; neither out of the road,nor in the road; and bring him something that was a gift and no gift. she put two wasps between two plates, stripped, enveloped herself in a fishing-net, put her goat into the rut in the road, and, with one foot on the goat's back, the other stepping along the rut, made her way to the king. there she lifted' up one of the plates, and the wasps flew away: so she had brought the king a present and yet no present. the king thought he could never find a shrewder woman, and married her. of the same tenor are a tale in zingerle's tyrolese kinder u. hausmarchen, 'was ist das schb'nste, stiirkste und reichste?' no , p. , and another in the colshorns' hanoverian marchen u. sagen, 'die kluge dime,' no , p. . here a rich and a poor peasant [a farmer and his bailiff] have a case in court, and wrangle till the magistrate, in his weariness, says he will give them three • ragnar losbrdk (saga, c. , rafn, fornaldar sogur, i, ), as pointed oat by the grimms, notes to no , re- quires kraka (aslaug) to come to him clothed and not clothed, fasting and not" fasting, alone and not without a questions, and whichever answers right shall win. the questions in the former tale are: what is the most beautiful, what the strong- est, what the richest thing in the world? in the other, what is fatter than fat? how heavy is the moon? how far is it to heaven? the answers suggested by the poor peasant's daughter are: spring is the most beautiful of things, the ground the strongest, autumn the richest. and the bailiff's daughter answers: the ground is fatter than fat, for out of it comes all that's fat, and this all goes back again; the moon has four quarters, and four quarters make a pound; heaven is only one day's journey, for we read in the bible, " to- day shalt thou be with me in paradise." the judge sees that these replies are beyond the wit of the respondents, and they own to hav- ing been prompted by a daughter at home. the judge then says that if the girl will come to him neither dressed nor naked, etc., he will marry her; and so the shrewd wench becomes a magistrate's wife. 'die kluge bauerntochter,' in the grimms' k. u. h. marchen, no , and 'die kluge hirtentochter,' in prohle's marchen fur die jugend, no , p. , afford another variety of these tales. a peasant, against the advice of his daughter, carries the king a golden mor- tar, as he had found it, without any pestle. the king shuts him up in prison till he shall produce the pestle [grimms]. the man does nothing but cry, "oh, that i had listened to my daughter!" the king sends for him, and, learning what the girl's counsel had been, says he will give her a riddle, and if she can make it out will marry her. she must come to him neither clothed nor naked, neither riding nor driving, etc. the girl wraps herself in a fish- ing-net [grimms, in bark, prohle], satisfies the other stipulations also, and becomes a queen.* another story of the kind, and very well preserved, is no of vuk's volksmarchen der serben, ' von dem madchen das an weis- heit den kaiser iibertraf,' p. . a poor companion. she puts on a fishing-net, bites a leek, and takes her dog with her. references for the very frequent oc- currence of this feature may be found in oesterley's note to gesta romanorum, no , at p. . . the elfin knight man had a wise daughter. an emperor gave him thirty eggs, and said his daughter must hatch chickens from these, or it would go hard with her. the girl perceived that the eggs had been boiled. she boiled some beans, and told her father to be ploughing along the road, and when the emperor came in sight, to sow them and cry, "god grant my boiled beans may come up!" the emperor, hearing these ejaculations, stopped, and said, "my poor fellow, how can boiled beans grow?" the father answered, according to instructions, "as well as chickens can hatch from boiled eggs." then the" emperor gave the old man a bundle of linen, and bade him make of it, on pain of death, sails and everything else requisite for a ship. the girl gave her father a piece of wood, and sent him back to the emperor with the message that she would per- form what he had ordered, if he would first make her a distaff, spindle, and loom out of the wood. the emperor was astonished at the girl's readiness, and gave the old man a glass, with which she was to drain the sea. the girl dispatched her father to the emperor again with a pound of tow, and asked him to stop the mouths of all the rivers that flow into the sea; then she would drain it dry. here- upon the emperor ordered the girl herself be- fore him, and put her the question, "what is heard furthest?" "please your majesty," she answered, "thunder and lies." the em- peror then, clutching his beard, turned to his assembled counsellors, and said, "guess how much my beard is worth." one said so much, another so much. but the girl said, "nay, the emperor's beard is worth three rains in summer." the emperor took her to wife. with these traditional tales we may put the story of wise petronelle and alphonso, king of spain, told after a chronicle, with his usual prolixity, by gower, confessio amantis, pauli, i, ff. -the king valued himself highly for his wit, and was envious of a knighj who hither- to had answered all his questions. determined to confound his humbler rival, he devised three which he thought unanswerable, sent for the knight, and gave him a fortnight to consider his replies, which failing, he would lose his goods and head. the knight can make nothing of these questions, which are, what is that which needs help least and gets most? what is worth most and costs least? what costs most and is worth least? the girl, who is but fourteen years old, observing her father's heavy cheer, asks him the reason, and obtains his permission to go to court with him and answer the questions. he was to say to the king ftiat he had deputed her to an- swer, to make trial of her wits. the answer to the first question is the earth, and agrees in the details with the solution of the query, what is fatter than fat? in the tyrolese and the hanoverian tale. humility is the answer to the second, and pride the third answer. the king admires the young maid, and says he would marry her if her father were noble; but she may ask a boon. she begs for her father an earldom which had lately escheated; and, this granted, she reminds the king of what he had said; her father is now noble. the king marries her. in all these seven tales a daughter gets her father out of trouble by the exercise of a su- perior understanding, and marries an emperor, a king, or at least far above her station. the grimms' story has the feature, not found in the others, that the father had been thrown into prison. still another variety of these stories, inferior, but preserving essential traits, is given by schleicher, litauische marchen, p. , ' vom schlauen madchen.' a turkish tale from south siberia will take us a step further, ' die beiden fiirsten,' radloff, proben der volkslitteratur der tiirk- ischen stamme siid-sibiriens, i, . a prince had a feeble-minded son, for whom he wished to get a wife. he found a girl gath- ering fire-wood with others, and, on asking her questions, had reason to be pleased with her superior discretion. he sent an ox to the girl's father, with a message that on the third day he would pay him a visit, and if by that time he had not made the ox drop a calf and give milk^ he would lose his head. the old man and his wife fell to weeping. the daugh- ter bade them be of good cheer, killed the ox, and gave it to her parents to eat. on the . the elfin knight third day she stationed herself on the road by which the prince would come, and was gath- ering herbs. the prince asked what this was for. the girl said, " because my father is in the pangs of child-birth, and i am going to spread these herbs under him." "why," said the prince, " it is not the way, that men should bear children." "but if a man can't bear children," answered the girl, "how can an ox have a calf?" the prince was pleased, but said nothing. he went away, and sent his messenger again with three stones in a bag. he would come on the third day, and if the stones were not then made into boots, the old man would lose his head. on the third day the prince came, with all his grandees. the girl was by the roadside, collecting sand in a bag. "what are you going to do with that sand?" asked the prince. "make thread," said she. "but who ever made thread out of sand?" "and who ever made boots out of stones?" she rejoined. the prince laughed in his sleeve, prepared a great wedding, and married the girl to his son. soon after, an- other prince wrote him a letter, saying, " do not let us be fighting and killing, but let us guess riddles. if you guess all mine, i will be your subject; if you fail, i will take all your having." they were a whole year at the riddles. the other prince "knew three words more," and threw ours into a deep dun- geon. from the depths of this dungeon he contrived to send a profoundly enigmatic dis- patch to his daughter-in-law, who understood everything, disguised herself as one of his friends, and proposed to the victor to guess riddles again. the clever daughter-in-law * benfey, das ansland, , p. . the versions re- ferred to are: shukasaptati (seventy tales of a parrot), th and th night; the buddhist kanjur, vinaya, in, fol. - , and dsanglnn, oder der weise u. der thor, also from the kanjur, translated by i. j. schmidt, c. ; the mongol translation of dsanglnn [see popow, mongolische chres- tomaihie, p. , schiefner's preface to radloff, i, xi, xii]; an imperfect singhalese version in spence hardy's manual of bnddhism, p. ,' the history of wisashi;'' geschichte dea weisen heykar,' nacht, habicht, v. d. hagen u. schall, xm, , ed. ; 'histoire de sinkarib et de ses denx visirs,' cabinet des feea, xxxix, (persian); two old russian translations of greek tales derived from arabic, pypin,'in the papers of the second division of the im- "knew seven words move" than he, took her father-in-law out of the dungeon, threw his rival in, and had all the people and property of the vanquished prince for her own. this siberian tale links securely those which precede it with a remarkable group of stories, covering by representatives still extant, or which may be shown to have existed, a large part of asia and of europe. this group in- cludes, besides a wallachian and a magyar tale from recent popular tradition, one sanskrit form; two tibetan, derived from sanskrit; if one mongol, from tibetan; three arabic and one persian, which also had their source in sanskrit; two middle-greek, derived from arabic, one of which is lost; and two old rus- sian, from lost middle-greek versions.* the gist of these narratives is that one king propounds tasks to another; in the earlier ones, with the intent to discover whether his brother monarch enjoys the aid of such counsellors as will make an attack on him dangerous; in the later, with a demand that he shall acquit himself satisfactorily, or suffer a forfeit: and the king is delivered from a serious strait by the sagacity either of a minister (whom he had ordered to be put to death, but who was still living in prison, or at least seclusion) or of the daughter of his minister, who came to her father's assistance. which is the prior of these two last inventions it would not be easy to say. these tasks are always such as re- quire ingenuity of one kind or another, whether in devising practical experiments, in contriv- ing subterfuges, in solving riddles, or even in constructing compliments.f one of the tibetan tales, which, though pcrial acad, of sciences, st petersburg, , iv, - ;' planudes, life of jesop; a. and a. schott, walachische msehrchen, p. , no , 'vom weissen und vom rothen kaiser;' erdelyi, nepdalok e's mondak, in, , no ,' the little boy with the secret and his little sword.' to these is to be added,' l'histoire de moradbak,' caylus, nouveaux contes orientaux, ceuvres badines, vn, fi, cabinet des fe'es, xxv, - (from the turkish ?). in the opinion of benfey, it is in the highest degree likely, though not demon- strable, that the indian tale antedates our era by several centuries. ausland, p. ; see also pp. , . t ingenuity is one of the six transcendental virtues of mahayana buddhism. schlagintweit, buddhism in tibet, p. . . the elfin knight dating from the beginning of our era, will very easily be recognized in the siberian tra- dition of this century, is to this effect. king rabssaldschal had a rich minister, who de- sired a suitable wife for his youngest son. a brahman, his trusty friend, undertook to find one. in the course of his search, which ex- tended through many countries, the brah- man saw one day a company of five hundred maidens, who were making garlands to offer to buddha. one of these attracted his notice by her behavior, and impressed him favorably by replies to questions which he put.* the brahman made proposals to her father in behalf of the minister's son. these were ac- cepted, and the minister went with a great train to fetch home the bride. on the way back his life was twice saved by taking her advice, and when she was domiciliated, she so surpassed her sisters-in-law in housekeeping talents and vir- tues that everything was put under her direc- tion. discord arose between the king of the country she had left and rabssaldschal, under whom she was now living. the former wished to make trial whether the latter had an able and keen-witted minister or not, and sent him two mares, dam and filly, exactly alike in ap- pearance, with the demand that he should dis- tinguish them. neither king nor counsellor could discern any difference; but when the minister's daughter heard of their difficulty, she said, " nothing is easier. tie the two to- gether and put grass before them ; the mother will push the best before the foal." this was done; the king decided accordingly, and the hostile ambassador owned that he was right. soon after, the foreign prince sent two snakes, of the same size and form, and demanded which was male, which female. the king and his advisers were again in a quandary. the min- ister resorted to his daughter-in-law. she said, "lay them both on cotton-wool: the female will lie quiet, the male not; for it is of the feminine nature to love the soft and the com- fortable, which the masculine cannot tolerate." * the resemblance to the siberian tale is here especially striking. t the shukasaptati, in the form in which we have them, are supposed to date from about the th century, and are they followed these directions; the king gave his verdict, the ambassador acquiesced, the minister received splendid presents. for a final trial the unfriendly king sent a long stick of wood, of equal thickness, with no knots or marks, and asked which was the under and which the upper end. no one could say. the minister referred the question to his daughter. she answered, "put the stick into water: the root end will sink a little, the upper end float." the experiment was tried; the king said to the ambassador, "this is the upper end, this the root end," to which he assented, and great presents were again given to the minister. the adverse monarch was convinced that his only safe course was peace and con- ciliation, and sent his ambassador back once more with an offering of precious jewels and of amity for the future. this termination was highly gratifying to rabssaldschal, who said to his minister, how could you see through all these things? the minister said, it was not i, but my clever daughter-in-law. when the king learned this, he raised the young woman to the rank of his younger sister. the wise daughter is not found in the san- skrit tale,f which also differs from the bud- dhist versions in this: that in the sanskrit the minister had become an object of displeasure to the king, and in consequence had long been lying in prison when the crisis occurred which rendered him indispensable, a circumstance which is repeated in,the tale of the wise hey- kar (arabian nights, breslau transl., xiii, ff, cabinet des fees, xxxix, ff) and in the life of ^esop. but the clever wench reappears in another *tale in the same sanskrit collection (with that express title), and gives her aid to her father, a priest, who has been threatened with banishment by his king if he does not clear up a dark matter within five days. she may also be recognized in morad- bak, in von der hagen's tag, vni, ff, and even in the minister's wife in the story of the wise heykar. regarded as abridgments of longer tales. the yinaya prob- ably took a permanent shape as early as the beginning of the christian era. as already remarked, there is scarcely a doubt that the indian story is some centuries older still. . the elfin knight the tasks of discriminating dam and filly and the root end from the tip end of a stick, ,which occur both in the tibetan tales and the shukasaptati, are found again, with un- important changes, in the wallachian popular story, and the hungarian, ,which in general resemble the arabic. some of those in the arabian tale and in the life of -*esop are of the same nature as the wit-trials in the servian and german popular tales, the story in the gesta romanorum, and the german and eng- lish ballads. the wise heykar, e. g., is re- quired to sew together a burst mill-stone. he hands the king a pebble, requesting him first to make an awl, a file, and scissors out of that. the king of egypt tells jssop, the king of babylon's champion sage, that when his mares hear the stallions neigh in babylon, they cast their foal. jesop's slaves are told to catch a cat, and are set to scourging it before the egyptian public. great offense is given, on account of the sacred character of the animal, and complaint is made to the king, who sends for .^isop in a rage, . sop says his king has suffered an injury from this cat, for the night before the cat had killed a fine fighting-cock of his. "fie, - £sop!" says the king of egypt; "how could the cat go from egypt to babylon in one night?" "why not," replies iesop, "as well as mares in egypt hear the stallions neigh in babylon and cast their foal?" the tales in the shukasaptati and in the dsanglun represent the object of the sending of the tasks to be to ascertain whether the king retains the capable minister through whom he has acquired supremacy. according to the arabian tale, and those derived from it, tribute is to be paid by the king whose rid- dles are guessed, or by him who fails to guess. • amasis in return ( ) puts some of the questions which we are apt to think of as peculiarly mediaeval: what is old- est what is most beautiful, biggest, wisest, strongest? etc. two of these we have had in zingerle's story. they are an- swered in a commonplace way by the iethiop, with more re- finement by thales. seven similar questions were propounded by david to his sons, to determine who was worthiest to succeed bim, and answered by solomon, according to an arabian writer of the th century: kosenol, i, . ama- sis also sent a victim to bias ( ), and asked him to cut out the best and worst of the flesh. bias cut out the tongue. here the two anticipate the anglo-saxon salomon and sat- this form of story, though it is a secondary one, is yet by no means late, as is shown by the anecdote in plutarch, septem sapientum convivium ( ), itself probably a fragment of such a story, in which the king of the jethiops gives a task to amasis, king of egypt, with a stake of many towns and cities. this task is the favorite one of draining [drinking] all the water in the sea, which we have had in the servian tale (it also is in the life of ./esop), and bias gives the customary advice for deal- ing with it.* from the number of these wise virgins should not be excluded the king's daughter in the gesta romanorum who guesses rightly among the riddles of the three caskets and marries the emperor's son, though bassanio has extinguished her just fame: madden's old english versions, p. , no ; collier, shakspere's library, n, . the first three or four stanzas of a-e form the beginning of 'lady isabel and the elf- knight,' and are especially appropriate to that ballad, but not to this. the two last stanzas of a, b, make no kind of sense here, and these at least, probably the opening verses as well, must belong to some other and lost ballad. an elf setting tasks, or even giving riddles, is unknown, i believe, in northern tradition, and in no form of this story, except the eng- lish, is a preternatural personage of any kind the hero. still it is better to urge nothing more than that the elf is an intruder in this par- ticular ballad, for riddle-craft is practised by a variety of preternatural beings: notoriously by odin, thor, the giant vafprusnir, and the dwarf alwfss in the edda, and again by a german "berggeist" (ey, harzmarchenbuch, p. ,'die verwiinschte prinzessin'), a greek urn : "tell me what is best and worst among men." "i tell thee word is best and worst:" kemble, p. , no ; adrian and ritheus, p. , no ; and bedse collectanea, p. . this is made into a very long story in the life of .<esop, . see other examples in knust, mittheilungen aus dem eskurial, p. f, note b, and nachlrag, p. ; oesterley's kirchhof, v, , note to , ; and lands- berger, die fabeln des sophos, cx, ff. we may add that plutarch's question, which was first, the bird or the egg? (quaest. conviv. l. , q. ), comes up again in the de- maundes joyous, no , eemble's salomon and saturn, p. . . the elfin knight dragon (hahn, griechiscbe u. albanesische marchen, n, ), the russian rusalka, the servian vila,* the indian rakshas. for exam- ple: a rusalka (water-nymph) pursues a pretty girl, and says, i will give you three riddles: if you guess them, i will let you go home to your father; if you do not, i shall take you with me. what grows without a root? what runs without any object? what blooms without any flower? she answers, stones grow with- out a root; water runs without any object; the fern blooms without any flower. these an- swers seem satisfactory, as riddles go, but the ballad concludes (with an injustice due to cor- ruption?), "the girl did not guess the rid- dles: the rusalka tickled her to death." (woj- cicki, piesni, i, .) a rakshas (ogre) says he will spare a man's life if he can answer four questions, and shall devour him if he cannot. what is cruel? what is most to the advan- tage of a householder? what is love? what best accomplishes difficult things? these ques- tions the man answers, and confirms his an- swers by tales, and gains the rakshas' good will. (jacob, hindoo tales, or the adven- tures of ten princes, a translation of the san- skrit dasakumaracharitam, p. ff.) the auld man in j is simply the "unco knicht" of , d, over again. he has clearly displaced the elf-knight, for the elf's attributes of hill-haunting and magical music remain, only they have been transferred to the lady. that the devil should supplant the knight, unco or familiar, is natural enough. he may come in as the substitute of the elfin knight because the devil is the regular successor to any heathen sprite, or as the embodiment of craft * afanasief, poetic views of the slavonians about na- ture, i, . the poludnitsa seems to belong to the same class: afanasief, m, ; ralston, songs of the russian people, p. . t the legend of st andrew in legends aurea, grasse, cap. n, , p. ff; also in the fornsvenskt legendarium, i, ff; zambrini, leggende inedite, n, ff; pitre', canti pop. siciliani, n, ff: that of st bartholomew, grasse, p. , cap. ozxm, , and in a german passional, and duplicity, and to giv.e us the pleasure of seeing him outwitted. we find the devil giv- ing riddles, as they are called (tasks), in the grimms' k. u. h. marchen, no (see also the note in vol. m); prohle's k. u. v. mar- chen, no ; vernaleken, oesterreichische k. u. h. marchen, no . he also appears as a riddle-monger in one of the best stories in the golden legend. a bishop, who was es- pecially devoted to st andrew, was tempted by satan under the semblance of a beautiful woman, and was all but lost, when a loud knocking was heard at the door. a pilgrim demanded admittance. the lady, being asked her pleasure about this, recommended that three questions should be put to the stranger, to show whether he were fit to appear in such presence. two questions having been an- swered unexceptionably, the fiend proposed a third, which was meant to be a clincher: how far is it from earth to heaven?" go back to him that sent you," said the pilgrim (none oth- er than st andrew) to the messenger, "and say that he himself knows best, for he meas- ured the distance when he fell." antiquum hos- tis de medio evanv.it. much the same is re- lated in the legend of st bartholomew, and, in a slovenian ballad, of st ulrich, who inter- poses to save the pope from espousing satan in disguise.f j, k, l, have completely lost sight of the original story. translated, after a, c, and d, in grundfc- vig's engelske og skotske folkeviser, p. ; r. warrens, schottische lieder der vorzeit, p. ; knortz, lieder u. romanzen alt-englands, no . mone's anzeiger, , vm, col. f: that of st tjlrich in achazel and korytko, i, , ' svett ureh,* translated by a. grtin, volkslieder aus krain, p. ff. the third question and answer are in all the same. st serf also has the credit of having baffled the devil by answering occult questions in divinity: wintown's scottish chronicle, i, , v, ff, first pointed out by motherwell, minstrelsy, p. lxxiv, who besides cites the legend of st andrew. . the elfin knight a broadside in black letter, "printed, i suppose," says pinkerton, " about ," bound up with five other pieces at the end of a copy of blind harry's ' wallace,' edin. , in the pepysian library. my plaid awa, my plaid awa, and ore the hill and far awa, and far awa to norrowa, my plaid shall not be blown awa. the elphin knight sits on yon hill, ba, ba, ba, lilli ba he blaws his horn both lowd and shril. the wind hath blown my plaid awa he blowes it east, he blowes it west, he blowes it where he lyketh best. 'thou must shape it knife-and-sheerlesse, and also sue it needle-threedlesse.' 'if that piece of courtesie i do to thee, another thou must do to me. 'i have an aiker of good ley-land, which lyeth low by yon sea-strand. 'for thou must eare it with thy horn, so thou must sow it with thy corn. 'and bigg a cart of stone and lyme, robin redbreast he must trail it hame. 'thou must barn it in a mouse-holl, and thrash it into thy shoes soli. 'i wish that horn were in my kist, tea, and the knight in my amies two.' she had no sooner these words said, when that the knight came to her bed. 'thou art over young a maid,' quoth he, 'married with me thou il wouldst be.' 'i have a sister younger than i, and she was married yesterday.' 'married with me if thou wouldst be, a courtesie thou must do to me. 'for thou must shape a sark to me, without any cut or heme,' quoth he. 'and thou must winnow it in thy looff, and also seek it in thy glove. 'for thou must bring it over the sea, and thou must bring it dry home to me. 'when thou hast gotten thy turns well done, then come to me and get thy sark then.' 'i 'l not quite my plaid for my life; it haps my seven bairns and my wife.' the wind shall not blow my plaid awa . 'my maidenhead i 'l then keep still, let the elphin knight do what he will.' the wind's not blown my plaid awa b a collection of curious old ballads, etc., p. . partly from an old copy in black letter, and partly from the recita- tion of an old lady. my plaid awa, my plaid awa, and owre the hills and far awa, and far awa to norrowa, my plaid shall not be blawn awa. the elphin knight sits on yon hill, ba, ba, ba, lillie ba he blaws his horn baith loud and shrill. the wind hath blawn my plaid awa he blaws it east, he blaws it west, he blaws it where he liketh best 'i wish that horn were in my kist, yea, and the knight in my arms niest.' she had no sooner these words said, than the knight came to her bed. 'thou art oer young a maid,' quoth he, 'married with me that thou wouldst be.' 'i have a sister, younger than i, and she was married yesterday.' . the elfin knight 'married with me if thou wouldst be, a curtisie thou must do to me. 'it's ye maun mak a sark to me, without any cut or seam,' quoth he. 'and ye maun shape it, knife-, sheerless, and also sew it needle-, threedless.' 'if that piece of courtisie i do to thee, another thou must do to me. 'i have an aiker of good ley land, which lyeth low by yon sea strand. 'it's ye maun till't wi your touting horn, and ye maun saw't wi the pepper corn. 'and ye maun harrow't wi a thorn, and hae your wark done ere the morn. 'and ye maun shear it wi your knife, and no lose a stack o't for your life. 'and ye maun stack it in a mouse hole, and ye maun thrash it in your shoe sole. 'and ye maun dight it in your loof, and also sack it in your glove. 'and thou must bring it over the sea, fair and clean and dry to me. 'and when that ye have done your wark, come back to me, and ye 'll get your sark.' 'i 'll not quite my plaid for my life; it haps my seven bairns and my wife.' 'my maidenhead i 'll then keep still, let the elphin knight do what he will. kinloch's a. s. ballads, p. . from the recitation of m. kinnear, a native of mearnsshire, aug., . there stands a knicht at the tap o yon hill, oure the hills and far awa he has blawn his horn loud and shill. the cauld wind 's blawn my plaid awa 'if i had the horn that i hear blawn, and the knicht that blaws that horn!' she had na sooner thae words said, than the elfin knicht cam to her side. 'are na ye oure young a may wi onie young man doun to he?' 'i have a sister younger than i, and she was married yesterday.' 'married wi me ye sall neer be nane till ye mak to me a sark but a seam. 'and ye maun shape it knife-, sheer-less, and ye maun sew it needle-, threed-less. 'and ye maun wash it in yon cistran, whare water never stood nor ran. 'and ye maun dry it on yon hawthorn, whare the sun neer shon sin man was born.' 'gin that courtesie i do for thee, ye maun do this for me. 'te 'll get an acre o gude red-land atween the saut sea and the sand. 'i want that land for to be corn, and ye maun aer it wi your horn. 'and ye maun saw it without a seed, and ye maun harrow it wi a threed. 'and ye maun shear it wi your knife, and na tyne a pickle o't for your life. 'and ye maun moue it in yon mouse-hole and ye maun thrash it in your shoe-sole. 'and ye maun fan it wi your luves, and ye maun sack it in your gloves. 'and ye maun bring it oure the sea, fair and clean and dry to me. 'and whan that your wark is weill deen, yese get your sark without a seam.' . the elfin knight d buchan's ballads of the north of scotland, n, . the elfin knight stands on yon hill, blaw, blaw, hlaw winds, blaw blawing his horn loud and shrill. and the wind has blawin- my plaid awa 'if i had yon horn in my kist, and the bonny laddie here that i hive best! 'i hae a sister eleven years auld, and she to the young men's bed has made bauld. 'and i mysell am only nine, and oh! sae fain, luve, as i woud be thine.' 'ye maun make me a fine holland sark, without ony stitching or needle wark. 'and ye maun wash it in yonder well, "where the dew never wat, nor the rain ever fell. 'and ye maun dry it upon a thorn that never budded sin adam was born.' 'now sin ye've askd some things o me, it's right i ask as mony o thee. 'my father he askd me an acre o land, between the saut sea and the strand. 'and ye maun plow't wi your blawing horn, and ye maun saw't wi pepper corn. 'and ye maun harrow't wi a single tyne, and ye maun shear't wi a sheep's shank bane. 'and ye maun big it in the sea, and bring the stathle dry to me. 'and ye maun barn't in yon mouse hole, and ye maun thrash't in your shee sole. 'and ye maun sack it in your gluve, and ye maun winno't in your leuve. 'and ye maun dry't without candle or coal, and grind it without quirn or mill. 'ye 'll big a cart o stane and lime, gar robin redbreast trail it syne. 'when ye've dune, and flnishd your wark, ye 'll come to me, luve, and get your sark.' e motherwell's ms., p. . the elfin knight sits on yon hill, ba ba lilly ba blowing his horn loud and shill. and the wind has blawn my plaid awa 'i love to hear that horn blaw; i wish him [here] owns it and a'.' that word it was no sooner spoken, than elfin knight in her arms was gotten. 'you must mak to me a sark, without threed, sheers or needle wark.' f kinloch mss, i, . from mary barr. 'did ye ever travel twixt berwick and lyne? sober and grave grows merry in time there ye 'll meet wi a handsome young dame, ance she was a true love o mine. 'tell her to sew me a holland sark, and sew it all without needle-wark: and syne we h be true lovers again. 'tell her to wash it at yon spring-well, where neer wind blew, nor yet rain fell. 'tell her to dry it on yon hawthorn, that neer sprang up sin adam was born. 'tell her to iron it wi a hot iron, and plait it a' in ae plait round.' 'did ye ever travel twixt berwick and lyne? there ye 'll meet wi a handsome young man, ance he was a true lover o mine. . the elfin knight 'tell him to plough me an acre o land betwixt the sea-side bot and the sea-sand, and syne we 'll be true lovers again. 'tell him to saw it wi ae peck o corn, and harrow it a' wi ae harrow tine. 'tell him to shear it wi ae hook-tooth, aid carry it hame just into his loof. q gammer garten's garland, p. , ed. . 'can you make me a cambrick shirt, parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme without any seam or needle work ?, and you shall be a true lover of mine 'can you wash it in yonder well, where never sprung water nor rain ever fell? 'can you dry it on yonder thorn, which never bore blossom since adam was born? h motherwell's ms., p. . 'come, pretty nelly, and sit thee down by me, every rose grows merry wi thyme and i will ask thee questions three, and then thou wilt be a true lover of mine. 'thou must buy me a cambrick smock without any stitch of needlework. 'thou must wash it in yonder strand, where wood never grew and water neer ran. 'thou must dry it on yonder thorn, where the sun never shined on since adam was formed.' i motherwell's ms., p. . from the recitation of john mcwhinnie, collier, newtown green, ayr. a lady wonned on yonder hill, hee ba and balou ba 'tell him to stack it in yon mouse-hole, and thrash it a' just wi his shoe-sole. 'tell him to dry it on yon ribless kiln, and grind it a' in yon waterless miln. tell this young man, whan he's finished his wark, he may come to me, and hese get his sark.' 'now you have askd me questions three, i hope you 'll answer as many for me. 'can you find me an acre of land between the salt water and the sea sand? 'can you plow it with a ram's horn, and sow it all over with one pepper corn? 'can you reap it with a sickle of leather, and bind it up with a peacock's feather? 'when you have done, and finishd your work, then come to me for your cambrick shirt.' 'thou hast asked me questions three; sit down till i ask as many of thee. 'thou must buy me an acre of land betwixt the salt water, love, and the sea-sand. 'thou must plow it wi a ram's horn, and sow it all over wi one pile o corn. 'thou must shear it wi a strap o leather, and tie it all up in a peacock feather. 'thou must stack it in the sea, and bring the stale o't hame dry to me. 'when my love's done, and finished his work, let him come to me for his cambric smock.' and she had musick at her will. and the wind has blown my plaid awa up and cam an auld, auld man, wi his blue bonnet in his han. . the elfin knight 'i will ask ye questions three; resolve them, or ye 'll gang wi me. 'ye maun mak to me a sark, it maun be free o woman's wark. 'te maun shape it knife- sheerless, and ye maun sew it needle- threedless. 'ye maun wash it in yonder well, "whare rain nor dew has ever fell. 'ye maun dry it on yonder thorn, where leaf neer grew since man was born.' 'i will ask ye questions three; resolve them, or ye 'll neer get me. 'i hae a rig o bonnie land atween the saut sea and the sand. 'ye maun plow it wi ae horse bane, and harrow it wi ae harrow pin. 'ye maun shear't wi a whang o leather, and ye maun bind't bot strap or tether. 'ye maun stack it in the sea, and bring the stale hame dry to me. 'ye maun mak a cart o stane, and yoke the wren and bring it hame. 'ye maun thresh't atween your lufes, and ye maun sack't atween your thies.' 'my curse on those wha learned thee; this night i weend ye'd gane wi me.' communicated by eev. f. d. huntington, bishop of western new york, as sung to him by his father in , at hadley, mass.; derived from a rough, roystering "character" in the town. now you are a-going to cape ann, fo omingkathellomeday remember me to the self-same man. ummatiddle, ummatiddle, ummatallyho, tal- lyho, follomingkathellomeday tell him to buy me an acre of land between the salt-water and the sea-sand. tell him to plough it with a ram's horn, tell him to sow it with one peppercorn. tell him to reap it with a penknife, and tell him to cart it with two mice. tell him to cart it to yonder new barn that never was built since adam was born. tell him to thrash it with a goose quill, tell him to fan it with an egg-shell. tell the fool, when he's done his work, to come to me, and he shall have his shirt. halliwell's nursery rhymes of england, th ed., p. , no . my father left me three acres of land, sing ivy, sing ivy my father left me three acres of land. sing holly, go whistle and ivy i ploughed it with a ram's horn, and sowed it all over with one pepper corn. i harrowed it with a bramble bush, and reaped it with my little penknife. i got the mice to carry it to the barn, and thrashed it with a goose's quill. i got the cat to carry it to the mill; the miller he swore he would have her paw, and the cat she swore she would scratch his face. . the fause knight upon the road notes and queries, st s., vn, . signed d. my father gave me an acre of land, sing ivy, sing ivy my father gave me an acre of land. sing green bush, holly and ivy i ploughd it with a ram's horn. i harrowd it with a bramble. i sowd it with a pepper corn. i reapd it with my penknife. i carried it to the mill upon the cat's back. * * * * * i made a cake for all the king's men. the verses here prefixed to the ballad are ap- pended to the last stanza in the broadside. for norrowa, v. , pinkerton has to-morrow. , needle and sheerlesse. 'a proper new ballad entitled the wind hath blawn my plaid awa, or a discourse between a young woman and the elphin knight. to be sung with its own proper tune.' "this ballad is printed partly from an old copy in black letter, and partly from the recitation of an old lady, which appears to be the scot- tish version, and is here chiefly adhered to." . hae made. . askd should perhaps be left, or gave, as in k , ia e. burden , in ms., , blown her; , , blawn her; , blawn my. , blow; , and a. h. i . he speaks, in the margin of ms. burden , time in margin. . maid speaks, in margin. i. not divided regularly into stanzas in tfie ms. . needlewark in margin. . shin? in margin. l. after : "then follows some more which i forget, but i think it ends thus." the fause knight upon the road a. • the fause knight upon the road,' motherwell's b. 'the false knight,' motherwell's minstrelsy, ap- minstrelsy, introduction, p. lxxiv. pendix, musick, p. xxiv. this singular ballad is known only through motherwell. the opening stanza of a second version is given by the editor of the music, mr. blaikie, in the appendix to the minstrelsy. the idea at the bottom of the piece is that the devil will carry off the wee boy if he can non- plus him. so, in certain humorous stories, a fool wins a princess by dumfounding her: e. g., halliwell's popular rhymes and nursery tales, p. ; von der hagen's gesammtaben- teuer, no , m, ; asbjarnsen og moe, norske folkeeventyr, no . but here the boy always gets the last word. (see further on, under' captain wedderburn's courtship.') an extremely curious swedish ballad of the same description, from the lappfiord, finland, with the substitution of an old crone, possibly a witch, and clearly no better than one of the wicked, for the false knight, is given by oskar rancken in nagra prof af folksang och saga i det svenska osterbotten, p. , no . it is a point in both that the replicant is a wee boy (gossen, som liten var). . the pause knight upon the road 'why are you driving over my field?' said the carlin: 'because the way lies over it,' answered the boy, who was a little fellow. 'i will cut [hew] your traces,' said etc.: 'yes, you hew, and i 'll build,' answered etc. 'i wish you were in the wild wood :' 'yes, you in, and i outside.' 'i wish you were in the highest tree-top :' 'yes, you up in the top, and i at the roots.' 'i wish you were in the wild sea:' 'yes, you in the sea, and i in a boat.' 'i 'll bore a hole in your boat:' 'yes, you bore, and i 'll plug.' 'i wish you were in hell:' 'yes, you in, and i outside.' 'i wish you were in heaven :' 'yes, i in, and you outside.' chambers, in his popular rhymes of scot- land, p. of the new edition, gives, without a word of explanation, a piece, 'harpkin,' which seems to have been of the same char- acter, but now sounds only like a " flyting." * the first stanza would lead us to expect that harpkin is to be a form of the elfin knight of the preceding ballad, but fin is seen to be the uncanny one of the two by the light of the other ballads. finn (fin) is an ancestor of woden, a dwarf in vb'luspa ( ), and also a trold (otherwise a giant), who is induced by a saint to build a church: thiele, danske folkesagn, i, , grimm, mythologie, p. . the name is therefore diabolic by many ante- cedents. harpkin. hakpkin gaed up to the hill, and blew his horn loud and shrill, and by came fin. 'what for stand you there ?' quo fin: 'spying the weather,' quo harpkin. 'what for had you your staff on your shou- ther?' quo fin: ■ 'to haud the cauld frae me,' quo harpkin. 'little cauld will that haud frae you,' quo fin: 'as little will it win through me,' quo harp- kin. 'i came by your door,' quo fin: 'it lay in your road,' quo harpkin. 'your dog barkit at me,' quo fin: 'it's his use and custom,' quo harpkin. 'i flang a stane at him,' quo fin: 'i'd rather it had been a bane,' quo harpkin. 'your wife's lichter,' quo fin: 'she ' clim the brae the brichter,' quo harp- kin. 'of a braw lad bairn,' quo fin: 'there 'll be the mair men for the king's wars,' quo harpkin. 'there's a strae at your beard,' quo fin: 'i'd rather it had been a thrave,' quo harp- kin. 'the ox is eating at it,' quo fin: 'if the ox were i the water,' quo harpkin. 'and the water were frozen,' quo fin: 'and the smith and his fore-hammer at it,' quo harpkin. 'and the smith were dead,' quo fin: 'and another in his stead,' quo harpkin. 'giff, gaff,' quo fin: 'your mou's fou o draff,' quo harpkin. the peit (peat) in st. , below, as i am in- formed by dr davidson, is the wee boy's con- tribution to the school firing. * at the last moment i come upon this: "the only safe- , p. .) this view, which has apparently affected guard against the malice of witches is 'to flight wi dem,' 'harpkin,' is clearly a modern misunderstanding. let no that is, draw them into a controversy and scold them round- one trust to scolding for foiling a witch, unless he " knows ly:" (mrs saxby, in an interesting contribution of folk-lore more words." from unst, shetland, in the leisure hour, for march , . lady isabel and the elf-knight motherwell's minstrelsy, introduction, p. lxxiv. from galloway. 'o whabe are ye gaun?' quo the fause knicht upon the road: 'i'm gaun to the scule,' quo the wee boy, and still he etude. 'what is that upon your back ?' quo etc. 'atweel it is my bukes,' quo etc. 'what's that ye've got in your arm?' 'atweel it is my peit.' 'wha's aucht they sheep?' 'they are mine and my mither's.' how monie o them are mine?' a' they that hae blue tails.' i wiss ye were on yon tree :' and a gude ladder under me.' and the ladder for to break :' and you for to fa down.' i wiss ye were in yon sie :' and a gude bottom under me.' and the bottom for to break :' and ye to be drowned.' b motherwell's minstrelsy, appendix, p. xxiv, no xxxii. 'o whabe are ye gaun ?' quo the false knight, and false, false was his rede: 'i'm gaun to the scule,' says the pretty little boy, and still, still he stude. lady isabel and the elf-knight a. a. 'the gowans sae gay,' buchan's ballads of the north of scotland, i, . b. 'aye as the gowans grow gay,' motherwell's ms., p. . b. 'the water o wearie's well.' a. buchan's mss, ii, fol. . b. buchan's b. n. s., n, . o. moth- erwell's ms., p. . d. ' wearie's wells,' harris ms., no . c. a. 'may colven,' herd's mss, i, . b. 'may colvin,' herd's scottish songs, , i, . o. 'may colvin, or, false sir john,' motherwell's minstrelsy, p. . d. a. 'may collin,' sharpe's ballad book, no , p. . b. 'fause sir john and may colvin,' buchan, b. n. s., n, . c. 'may collean,' motherwell's minstrelsy, appendix, p. xxi. e. 'the outlandish knight,' dixon, ancient poems, ballads, etc., p. = bell, ancient poems, ballads, etc., p. . f. 'the false knight outwitted,' roxburgh ballads, british museum, m, . of all ballads this las perhaps obtained the widest circulation. it is nearly as well known to the southern as to the northern nations of europe. it has an extraordinary currency in poland. the germans, low and high, and the scandinavians, preserve it, in a full and evi- dently ancient form, even in the tradition of this generation. among the latin nations it has, indeed, shrunk to very meagre proportions, and though the best english forms are not . lady isabel and the elf-knight •without ancient and distinctive marks, most of these have been eliminated, and the better ballads are very brief. a has but thirteen two-line stanzas. an elf-knight, by blowing his horn, inspires lady isabel with love-longing. he appears on her first breathing a wish for him, and induces her to ride with him to the greenwood.* ar- rived at the wood, he bids her alight, for she is come to the place where she is to die. he had slain seven kings' daughters there, and she should be the eighth. she persuades him to sit down, with his head on her knee, lulls him asleep with a charm, binds him with his own sword-belt, and stabs him with his own dagger, saying, if seven kings' daugh- ters you have slain, lie here a husband to them all. b, in fourteen four-line stanzas, begins unin- telligibly with a bird coming out of a bush for water, and a king's daughter sighing, "wae's this heart o mine." a personage not charac- terized, but evidently of the same nature as the elf-knight in a, lulls everybody but this king's daughter asleep with his harp,f then mounts her behind him, and rides to a piece of water called wearie's well. he makes her wade in up to her chin; then tells her that he has drowned seven kings' daughters here, and she * 'the elfin knight' begins very much like a, but per- haps has borrowed its opening stanzas from this ballad. see page . t the second stanza, which describes the harping, occurs again in ' glenkindie' (st. ). } perhaps the change from wood, a, to water, b-f, was made under the influence of some merman ballad, or by ad- mixture with such a ballad; e. g., 'nakkens svig,' grnndt- vig, no . in this (a) the nix entices a king's daughter away from a dance, sets her on bis horse, and rides with her over the heath to a wild water, into which she sinks. it is also qnite among possibilities that there was originally an english nix ballad, in which the king's daughter saved her- self by some artifice, not, of course, such as is employed in b- f, but like that in a, or otherwise. maid heiemo, in land- stad, no , kills a nix with " one of her small knives." had she put him to sleep with a charm, and killed him with his own knife, as lady isabel does, there would have been noth- ing to shock credibility in the story. aytoun, ballads of scotland, i, , d ed., hastily pro- nounces buchan's ballad not authentic, " being made up of stanzas borrowed from versions of 'burd helen' [' child waters']." there are, indeed, three successive steps into the water in both ballads, but aytoun should have bethought himself how natural and how common it is for a passage to is to be the eighth. she asks him for one kiss before she dies, and, as he bends over to give it, pitches him from his saddle into the water, with the words, since ye have drowned seven here, i 'll make you bridegroom to them all. j c was first published by david herd, in the second edition of his scottish songs, , and afterwards by motherwell, " collated" with a copy obtained from recitation. d,§ e, f are all broadside or stall copies, and in broadside style. c, d, e, f have nearly the same story. false sir john, a knight from the south coun- try [west country, north lands], entices may colven, c, d [a king's daughter, c , e ; a knight's daughter, polly, f , ], to ride off with him, employing, in d, a charm which he has stuck in her sleeve. at the knight's sug- gestion, e, f, she takes a good sum of money with her, d, e, f. they come to a lonely rocky place by the sea [river-side, f], and the knight bids her alight: he has drowned seven ladies here [eight d, six e, f], and she shall be the next. but first she is to strip off her rich clothes, as being too good to rot in the sea. she begs him to avert his eyes, for de- cency's sake, and, getting behind him, throws him into the water. in f he is absurdly sent for a sickle, to crop the nettles on the river brim, and is pushed in while thus occupied. slip from one ballad into another, when the circumstances of the story are the same; and in some such cases no one can say where the verses that are common originally belonged. here, indeed, as grundtvig remarks, iv, , note *, it may well be that the verses in question belonged originally to 'burd helen,' and were adopted (but in the processes of tra- dition) into ' the water of wearie's well;' for it must be admitted that the transaction in the water is not a happy conception in the latter, since it shocks probability that the woman should be able to swim ashore, and the man not. § "this ballad appears modern, from a great many ex- pressions, but yet i am certain that it is old: the present copy came from the housekeeper at methven." note by sharpe, in laiug's ed. of the ballad book, , p. , xvii. motherwell, in his minstrelsy, p. lxx, n. , says that he had seen a stall ballad as early as , entitled 'the western tragedy,' which perfectly agreed with sharpe's copy. but in his note-book, p. (about - ), mother- well says, "the best copy of may colean with which i have met occurs in a stall copy printed about thirty years ago [should we then read instead of ?], under the title of' the western tragedy.' i have subsequently seen a posterior reprint of this stall copy under this title, ' the historical ballad of may collean.' in mr. sharpe's ballad book, the same copy, wanting only one stanza, is given." . lady isabel and the elf-knight he cries for help, and makes fair promises, c, e, but the maid rides away, with a bitter jest [on his steed, d, leading his steed, e, f], and reaches her father's house before daybreak. the groom inquires in d about the strange horse, and is told that it is a found one. the parrot asks what she has been doing, and is silenced with a bribe; and when the father demands why he 'was chatting so early, says he was calling to his mistress to take away the cat. here c, e, f stop, but d goes on to relate that the maid at once tells her parents what has happened, and that the father rides off at dawn, under her conduct, to find sir john. they carry off the corpse, which lay on the sands below the rocks, and bury it, for fear of discovery. there is in hone's table book, ih, , ed. , a rifacimento by dixon of the com- mon english broadside in what passes for old- ballad style. this has been repeated in rich- ardson's borderer's table book, vi, ; in dixon's scottish traditional versions of an- cient ballads, p. ; and, with alterations, additions, and omissions, in sheldon's min- strelsy of the english border, p. . jamieson ( ) had never met with this ballad in scotland, at least in anything like a perfect state; but he says that a tale to the same effect, intermixed with scraps of verse, was familiar to him when a boy, and that he afterwards found it, "in much the same state, in the highlands, in lochaber and ardna- murchan." according to the tradition re- ported by jamieson, the murderer had seduced the younger sister of his wife, and was seeking to prevent discovery, a difference in the story which might lead us to doubt the accuracy of jamieson's recollection. (illustrations of north- ern antiquities, p. .) stories like that of this ballad will inevi- tably be attached, and perhaps more or less adapted, to localities where they become known. may collean, says chambers, scot- tish ballads, p. , note, "finds locality in that wild portion of the coast of carrick (ayr- shire) which intervenes betwixt girvan and ballantrae. carlton castle, about two miles to the south of girvan (a tall old ruin, situ- ated on the brink of a bank which overhangs the sea, and which gives title to sir john cathcart, bart, of carlton), is affirmed by the country people, who still remember the story with great freshness, to have been the resi- dence of 'the fause sir john;' while a tall rocky eminence called gamesloup, overhang- ing the sea about two miles still further south, and over which the road passes in a style ter- rible to all travellers, is pointed out as the place where he was in the habit of drowning his wives, and where he was finally drowned himself. the people, who look upon the bal- lad as a regular and proper record of an un- questionable fact, farther affirm that may col- lean was a daughter of the family of kennedy of colzean," etc. binyan's (bunion) bay, in d, is, according to buchan, the old name of the mouth of the river ugie. far better preserved than the english, and marked with very ancient and impressive traits, is the dutch ballad 'halevvijn,' which, not many years ago, was extensively sung in bra- bant and flanders, and is still popular as a broadside, both oral tradition and printed cop- ies exhibiting manifold variations. a version of this ballad (a) was communicated by wil- lems to mone's anzeiger in , col. ff, thirty-eight two-line stanzas, and afterwards appeared in willems's oude vlaemsche lie- deren ( ), no , p. , with some changes in the text and some various readings. uh- land, i, , d, gave the anzeiger text, with one correction. so hoffmann, nieder- liindische volkslieder, d ed., no , p. , but substituting for stanzas , four stanzas from the margin of o. v. l., and making other slighter changes. baecker, chants historiques de la flandre, no , p. , repeats willems's second text, with one careless omission and one transposition. coussemaker, chants pop- ulates des flamands de france, no , p. , professes to give the text of oude vlaemsche liederen, and does so nearly. snellaert, oude en nieuwe liedjes, d ed., , no , p. , inserts seven stanzas in the place of , of o. v. l., and two after , making forty-five two- (or three-) line stanzas instead of thirty- eight. these additions are also found in an . lady isabel and the elf-knight excessively corrupt form of the ballad (b), hoffmann, no , p. , in which the stanzas have been uniformly extended to three verses, to suit the air, which required the repetition of the second line of the original stanza. heer halewijn (a), like the english elf- knight, sang such a song that those who heard it longed to be with him. a king's daughter asked her father if she might go to halewijn. no, he said; those who go that way never come back [sixteen have lost their lives, b]. so said mother and sister, but her brother's answer was, i care not where you go, so long as you keep your honor. she dressed herself splendidly, took the best horse from her fa- ther's stable, and rode to the wood, where she found halewijn waiting for her.* they then rode on further, till they came to a gallows, on which many women were hanging. hale- wijn says, since you are the fairest maid, choose your death [b offers the choice be- tween hanging and the sword]. she calmly chooses the sword. "only take off your coat first, for a maid's blood spirts a great way, and it would be a pity to spatter you." his head was off before his coat, but the tongue still spake. this dialogue ensues: 'go yonder into the corn, and blow upon my horn, that all my friends you may warn.' 'into the corn i will not go, and on your horn i will not blow: a murderer's bidding j will not do.' 'go yonder under the gallows-tree, and fetch a pot of salve for me, and rub my red neck lustily.' * according to the variation given by willems, and adopted by hoffmann, halewijn's son came to meet her, tied her horse to a tree, and bade her to sit down by him and loose her hair. for every hair she undid she dropped a tear. bnt it will presently be seen not only that the time has not come for them to sit down, but that halewyn's bid- ding her undo her hair (to no purpose) is a perversion of her offering to " red " his, to get him into her power, an offer which she makes in the german and scandinavian ballads, where also there is good reason for her tears, but none as yet here. t j. w. wolf, deutsche marchen u. sagen, no , p. , gives the story according to b, apparently from a ballad like 'under the gallows i will not go, nor will i rub your red neck, no, a murderer's bidding i will not do.' she takes the head by the hair and washes it in a spring, and rides back through the wood. half-way through she meets hale- wijn's mother, who asks after her son; and she tells her that he is gone hunting, that he will never be seen again, that he is dead, and she has his head in her lap. when she came to her father's gate, she blew the horn like any man. and when the father heard the strain, he was glad she had come back again. thereupon they held a feast, the head was on the table placed. snellaert's copy and the modern three-line ballad have a meeting with father, brother, sister, and mother successively. the maid's answer to each of the first three is that hale- wijn is amusing himself with sixteen maids, or to that effect, but to the mother that he is dead, and she has his head in her lap. the mother angrily replies, in b, that if she had given this information earlier she would not have got so far on her way home. the maid retorts, wicked woman, you are lucky not to have been served as your son; then rides, "like judith wise," straight to her father's palace, where she blows the horn blithely, and is received with honor and love by the whole court.f another flemish version (c) has been late- ly published under the title, 'roland,' by which only, we are informed, is this particular form known in bruges and many parts of snellaert's. so luise v. ploennies, reiseerinnerungen ans belgien, p. . halewyn makes his appearance again in the flemish bal- lad, ' halewyn en het kleyne kind,' coussemaker, no , p. ; poesies populaires de la france, vol. i. a boy of seven years has shot one of halewyn's rabbits, and is for this condemned to be hanged on the highest tree in the park. the father makes great offers for his ransom, but in vain. on the first step of the ladder the child looks back for bis mother, on the second for his father, on the third for his brother, on the fourth for his sister, each of whom succes- sively arrives and is told that delay would have cost him his life. it will presently be seen that there is a resemblance here to german ballads (g-x, z). , . lady isabel and the elf-knight flanders : * chants populaires recueillis a bruges par adolphe lootens et j. m. e. feys, no , p. , vv, in sixty-three stanzas, of two, three, four, or five lines. this text dates from the last century, and is given with the most exact fidelity to tradition. it agrees with a as to some main points, but differs not a little as to others. the story sets out thus: it was a bold roland, he loved a lass from england; he wist not how to get her, with reading or with writing, with brawling or with fighting. roland has lost halewyn's art of singing. louise asks her father if she may go to roland, to the fair, as all her friends do. her father refuses: roland is " een stoute kalant," a bad fellow that betrays pretty maids; he stands with a drawn sword in his hand, and all his soldiers in armor. the daughter says she has seen roland more than once, and that the tale about the drawn sword and soldiers is not true. this scene is exactly repeated with mother and brother. louise then tries her shrift-father. he is easier, and does not care where she goes, provided she keeps her honor and does not shame her parents. she tells father, mother, and brother that she has leave from her con- fessor, makes her toilet as in a, takes the finest horse in the stable, and rides to the wood. there she successively meets roland's father, mother, and brother, each of whom asks her where she is going, and whether she has any right to the crown she wears. to all she re- plies, whether i have or not, be off; i know you not. she does not encounter roland in the wood, they do not ride together, and there is no gallows-field. she enters roland's house, where he is lying abed. he bids her gather * "la chanson de halewyn, telle a pen pres que la donnent willems, snellaert et de coussemaker, se vend encore sur le marche de bruges. quoiqu'elle porte pour titre haleicyn, jamais notre piece n'a eks connne ici sous ce nom. le nom de halewijn, alewijn ou alwin ... est reserve' au he'ros de la piece suivante" [mi add en hir alewijn]. lootens et feys, p. . "ii est a regretter que willems et de cous- semaker n'aient pas juge' a propos de donner cette piece telle que le peuple l'a conserve'e; on serait sans aucun doute en possession de variantes remarquables, et les lacunes qui ex- three rose-wreaths " at his hands " and three at his feet; but when she approaches the foot of the bed he rises, and offers her the choice to lose her honor or kneel before the sword. she chooses the sword, advises him to spare his coat, and, while he is taking it off, strikes off his head, all as in a. the head speaks: go under the gallows (of which we have heard nothing hitherto), fetch a pot of salve, rub it on my wounds, and they shall straight be well. she declines to follow a murderer's rede, or to learn magic. the head bids her go under the blue stone and fetch a pot of maidens-grease, which also wilf heal the wounds. this again she refuses to do, in the same terms; then seizes the head by the hair, washes it in a spring, and rides off with it through the wood, duly meeting roland's fa- ther, mother, and brother once more, all of whom challenge her, and to all of whom she answers, roland your son is long ago dead; god has his soul and i his head; for in my lap here i have his head, and with the blood my apron is red. when she came back to the city the drums and the trumpets struck up.f she stuck the head out of the window, and cried, " now i am roland's bride!" she drew it in, and cried, " now i am a heroine!" danish. eleven versions of this ballad are known in danish, seven of which are given in danmarks gamle folkeviser, no , ' kvin- demorderen,' a-g-. four more, h-l, are fur- nished by kristensen, jydske folkeviser, i, nos , , ; n, no . . a, in forty-one two-line stanzas (previously printed in grundt- vig's engelske og skotske folkeviser, p. ), is from a th century ms.; b, thirty stanzas, istent dans notre version n'eussent pas manque' d'etre com blees. ii est bon d'insister sur la remarque faite a la suite de la chanson, qu'a bruges et dans beaucoup de locality's de la flandre, elle n'est connue que sous le titre de roland. ajoutons que notre texte appartient au dernier siecle." l. et f., . t so in 'liebe ohne stand,' one of the mixed forms of the german ballad, wunderhorn, erk i, , crecelius, i, , und als es nun kam an den dritten tag, da gingen die pfeiffen und trommeln an. . lady isabel and the elf-knight c, twenty-four, d, thirty-seven, from mss of the th century; e, fifty-seven, from a broad- side of the end of the th; f, thirty, from one of the beginning of the th; and g-l, thirty-five, twenty-three, thirty-one, twenty-six, thirty-eight stanzas, from recent oral tradition. the four older versions, and also e, open with some lines that occur at the beginning of other ballads.* in a and e, and, we may add, g, the maid is allured by the promise of being taken to a paradise exempt from death and sorrow; c, d, f promise a train of handmaids and splendid presents. all the versions agree very well as to the kernel of the story. a false knight prevails upon a lady to elope with him, and they ride to a wood [they sim- ply meet in a wood, h, k]. he sets to work digging a grave, which she says is too long for his [her] dog and too narrow for his [her] horse [all but f, h]. she is told that the grave is for her. he has taken away the life [and honor, b, c, i] of eight maids, and she shall be the ninth. the eight maids become nine kings' daughters in e, ten in f, nineteen in g, and in e and f the hard choice is of- fered of death by sword, tree, or stream. in a, e, i, l the knight bids the lady get her gold together before she sets out with him, and in d, h, k, l he points out a little knoll under which he keeps the gold of his previous victims. the maid now induces the knight to lie down with his head in her lap, profess- ing a fond desire to render him the most homely of services f [not in c, g, i, k]. he makes an express condition in e, f, g, h, l that she shall not betray him in his sleep, and she calls heaven to witness that she will not. in g she sings him to sleep. he slept a sleep that was not sweet. she binds him hand and foot, then cries, wake up! i will not betray you in sleep. j eight you have • e. g., the wonderland in a - , and the strict watch kept over the lady in - are repeated in ' kibold og gnld- borg, ' grundtvig, , b - , - , and in *den trofaste jom- fru,' ib. , a - , - . the watching in a, b, c and the proffered gifts of c, d, p are found in 'nakkens svig,' grundtvig, , a, b, - . the disguise in a - , the rest in the wood with the knight's head in the lady's lap, a , , b , , d , , b , , etc., recur in ribold, killed; yourself shall be the ninth. en- treaties and fair promises and pretences that he had been in jest, and desire for shrift, are in vain. woman-fashion she drew his sword, but man-fashion she cut him down. she went home a maid. e, f, g, however, do not end so simply. on her way home through the wood [e], she comes upon a maid who is working gold, and who says, the last time i saw that horse my brother rode it. she answers, your brother is dead, and will do no more murdering for gold; then turns her horse, and sets the sister's bower on fire. next she encounters seven robbers on the heath, who recognize the horse as their master's, and are informed of his death and of the end of his crimes. they ask about the fire. she says it is an old pig-sty. she rides on, and they call to her that she is losing her horse's gold shoe. but nothing can stop her; she bids them pick it up and drink it in wine; and so comes home to her father's. f has nothing of the sister; in place of seven rob- bers there are nine of the robber's brothers, and the maid sets their house on fire. g in- dulges in absurd extravagances: the heroine meets the robber's sister with twelve fierce dogs, and then his twelve swains, and cuts down both dogs and swains. the names in the danish ballads are, a, ulver and vaenelil; b, olmor, or oldemor, and vindelraad; c, hollemen and vendel- raad; d, romor, reimord, or reimvord, and the maid unnamed; f, herr peder and liden kirsten; h-l, ribold, rigbold [i, rimmelil] and guldborg. four swedish versions are known, all from tradition of this century. a, 'den falske riddaren,' twenty-three two-line stanzas, ar- widsson, b, i, . b, 'rbfvaren brun,' fifteen stanzas, afzelius, , m, . c, twen- b - , l , , m , , n , , p , . these re- semblances, naturally, are not limited to the danish copies. t so the princess in asbjornsen og moe, n. folkecventyr, p. . cf. campbell's tales of the west highlands, in, ; iv, , . } the binding and waking, with these words, are found also in a made-up text of 'fraendehasvn,' grundtvig, no , c - , but certainly borrowed from some copy of' kvinde- morderen.' . lady isabel and the elf-knight ty-seven stanzas, arwidsson, a, i, . d, 'rbfvaren rymer,' sixteen stanzas, afzelius, , m, . a, b, d have resemblances, at the beginning, to the ribold ballads, like the danish a, b, e, g, while the beginning of c is like the danish c, d, f. a has the grave- digging; there have been eight maids before; the knight lays his head in the lady's lap for the same reason as in most of the danish ballads, and under the same assurance that he shall not be betrayed in sleep; he is bound, and conscientiously waked before his head is struck off; and the lady rides home to her fa- ther's. there have been eight previous victims in c, and they king's daughters; in b, eleven (maids); d says not how many, but, accord- ing to an explanation of the woman that sang it, there were seven princesses. c, d, like danish e, f, g, make the maid encounter some of the robber's family on the way home. by a misconception, as we perceive by the dutch ballad, she is represented as blowing the robber's horn. seven sisters come at the familiar sound to bury the murdered girl and share the booty, but find that they have their brother to bury. the woman has no name in any of the swe- dish ballads. a calls the robber " an outland- ish man" (en man ifran fremmande land), b, simple brun, c, a knight, and d, riddaren rymer, or herr rymer. of norwegian versions, but two have been printed: a, 'svein norsmann,' twenty two- line stanzas, landstad, , p. ; b, 'rulle- mann og hildeborg,' thirty stanzas, landstad, , p. , both from recent recitation. bugge has communicated eight others to grundtvig. both a and b have the paradise at the be- ginning, which is found in danish a, e, g, and swedish d. in both the lady gets her gold together while the swain is saddling his horse. they come to a grave already dug, which in b is said to be made so very wide because rulleman has already laid nine maid- ens in it. the stanza in a which should give the number is lost, but the reciter or singer put it at seven or nine. the maid gets the robber into her power by the usual arti- fice, with a slight variation in b. according to a, she rides straight home to her father. b, like danish f, has an encounter with her false lover's [five] brothers. they ask, where is rullemann, thy truelove? she answers, he is lying down, in the green mead, and bloody is his bridal bed. of the unprinted versions obtained by pro- fessor bugge, two indicate that the murderer's sleep was induced by a spell, as in english a. f has, long time stood gullbjor; to herself she thought, may none of my runes avail me ought? and h , as also a variant to b , says it was a rune-slumber that came over him. only g, h, i, k give the number of the murdered women: in g, h, eight, in i, nine, in k, five. the names are, in a, svein norsmann and gusbjorg; b, rulleman and hildeborg [or signe] ; c, d, e, f, svein n rmann and gull- bjor [gunnbjbr] ; g, rullemann and kjersti; h, rullball and signelill; i, alemarken and valeros; k, rulemann and a fair maid. such information as has transpired concern- ing icelandic versions of this ballad is fur- nished by grundtvig, rv, . the icelandic form, though curtailed and much injured, has shown tenacity enough to preserve itself in a series of closely agreeing copies from the th century down. the eldest, from a manuscript of , runs thus: asa tvent along the street, she heard a sweet sound. asa went into the house, she saw the villain bound. 'little asa, loose me! i will not beguile thee.' 'i dare not loose thee, i know not whether thou 'it beguile me.' 'god almighty take note who deceives the other!' she loosed the bands from his hand, the fetter from his foot. 'nine lands have i visited, ten women i've beguiled; . lady isabel and the elf-knight 'thou art now the eleventh, i 'll not let thee slip.' a copy, from the beginning of the th century, has, in stanza , "asa went into the wood," a recent copy, "over the fields ;" and stanza , in the former, with but slight dif- ferences in all the modern copies, reads, 'welcome art thou, asa maid! thou wilt mean to loose me.' some recent copies (there is one in berggreen, danske folkesange, d ed., i, ) allow the maid to escape, adding, 'wait for me a little space, whilst i go into the green wood.' he waited for her a long time, but she never came back to him. asa took her white steed, of all women she rode most. asa went into a holy cell, never did she harm to man. , this is certainly one of the most important of the german ballads, and additions are con- stantly making to a large number of known versions. excepting two broadsides of about , and two copies from recitation printed in , all these, twenty-six in number, have been obtained from tradition since .* they are as follows: a a, ' gert olbert,'' die morners sang,' in low german, as written down by william grimm, in the early years of this century, vv, reifferscheid, p. , n. a b, "from the miinster region," communi- cated to uhland by the baroness annette von droste-hiillshof, vv, uhland, i, , no c; repeated in mittler, no . a c, a fragment from the same source as the preced- ing, and written down at the beginning of this century, vv, reifferscheid, p. , i. b, 'es wollt sich ein markgraf ausreiten,' from bok- endorf, westphalia, as taken down by w. grimm, in , vv, reifferscheid, p. . c a,' die gerettete,' " from the lower rhine," twenty-six two-line stanzas, zuccalmaglio, no * all the german versions appear to have been originally in the two-line stanza. , p. ; mittler, no . c b, eleven two- line stanzas, montanus (= zuccalmaglio) die deutschen volksfeste, p. . d, 'von einem wackern magdlein, odiliageheissen,' etc., from the rhine, vv [longard], no , p. . e, 'schondilie,' menzenberg and breitbach, vv, simrock, no , p. ; mittler, no . f, * jungfrau linnich,' communicated by zuc- calmaglio as from the rhine region, berg and mark, fourteen two-line stanzas, erlach, rv, , and kretzschmer (nearly), no , p. ; mittler, no . g a, ' ulinger,' vv, nu- remberg broadside " of about " (bbhme) in wunderhorn, ed. , rv, , bohme, no a, p. . g b c, basel broadsides, "of about " (bohme), and of , in uh- land, no a, i, ; mittler, no . h, • adelger,' vv, an augsburg broadside, " of about " (bohme), uhland, no b, i, ; bohme, no ", p. ; mittler, no . i, * der brautmb'rder,' in the dialect of the kuhliindchen (northeast moravia and aus- trian silesia), vv, meinert, p. ; mittler, no . j, 'annele,' swabian, from hirrlin- gen and obernau, vv, meier, schwabische v. l., no , p. . k, another swabian version, from hirrlingen, immenried, and many other localities, vv, scherer, jungbrunnen, no b, p. . l a, from the swabian-wiir- temberg border, vv, birlinger, schwabisch- augsburgisches wb'rterbuch, p. . l b, [birlinger], schwabische v. l., p. , from immenried, nearly word for word the same. m,' der falsche sanger,' vv, meier, no , p. . n, ' es reitets ein ritter durch haber und klee,' vv, a fifth swabian version, from hirrlingen, meier, p. . o, 'alte ballade die in entlebuch noch gesungen wird,' twenty- three double stanzas, in the local dialeot, schweizerblatter von henne und reithard, , nr jahrgang, - . p, 'das gug- gibader-lied,' twenty-one treble stanzas ( ?), in the aargan dialect, rochholz, schweizer- sagen aus dem aargau, i, . q, 'es sitzt gut ritter auf und ritt,' a copy taken down in by j. grimm, from the recitation of a lady who had heard it as a child in german bohemia, vv, reifferscheid, p. . r, ' bie wriie ist auv der rittersman,' in the dialect of . lady isabel and the elf-knight gottschee, carniola, vv, schroer, sitzungs- berichte der wiener ak., phil-hist. ci, lx, . s, 'das lied von dem falschen rittersmann,' vv, from styria, rosegger and heuberger, volkslieder aus steiermark, no , p. . t, 'ulrich und annchen,' * vv, herder's volks- lieder, ,i, ; mittler, no . u,'schon ulrich und roth-aennchen,' vv, in tasch- enbuch fiir dichter und dichterfreunde, abth. viii, , , from upper lusatia (slightly altered by the contributor, meissner) ; mittler, no . a copy from kapsdorf, in hoffmann and richter's schlesische v. l., no , p. , is the same, differing by only three words. v, 'schon-aennelein,' vv, from the eastern part of brandenburg, erk u. irmer, th heft, p. , no (stanzas - from the preceding). w, 'schon ullerich und hanselein,' twenty- nine two-line stanzas, from the neighborhood of breslau, in grater's idunna und hermode, no , aug. , , following p. . the same in schlesische v. l., no , p. ,' schon ulrich u. rautendelein,' with a stanza ( ) inserted; and mittler, no . x, 'der al- brecht u. der hanselein,' vv, from natan- gen, east prussia, in neue preussische pro- vinzial-blatter, d series, m, , no . y, 'ulrich u. annle,' nineteen two-line stanzas, a second kuhlandchen version, meinert, p. ; mittler, no . z a, 'von einem frechen rauber, herr ulrich geheissen,' nineteen two- line stanzas, from the rhine [longard], no , p. . z b, 'ulrich,' as sung on the lower rhine, the same ballad, with unimportant ver- bal differences, and the insertion of one stanza ( , the editor's ?), zuccalmaglio, no , p. ; mittler, no . the german ballads, as grundtvig has pointed out, divide into three well-marked classes. the first class, embracing the ver- sions a-f ( ), and coming nearest to english and dutch tradition, has been found along the lower half of the rhine and in westpha- lia, or in northwest germany; the second, including g-s ( ), is met with• in swabia, switzerland, bohemia, moravia, styria, car- * the copies with this title in simrock, no , p. , and in scherer's jungbrunnen, no a, and his deutsche v. l., , p. , are compounded from various texts. niola, or in south germany; the third, t-z ( ), in east prussia, the eastern part of bran- denburg and of saxony, silesia, and, again, moravia, or, roughly speaking, in north and east germany; but, besides the moravian, there is also of this third class one version, in two copies, from the rhine. (i.) a runs thus. she that would ride out with gert olbert must dress in silk and gold. when fair helena had so attired herself, she called from her window, gert olbert, come and fetch the bride. he took her by her silken gown and swung her on behind him, and they rode three days and nights. helena then said, we must eat and drink; but gert olbert said, we must go on further. they rode over the green heath, and helena once more tenderly asked for refreshment. under yon fir [linden], said gert olbert, and kept on till they came to a green spot, where nine maids were hanging. then it was, wilt thou choose the fir-tree, the running stream, or the naked sword? she chose the sword, but begged him to take off his silken coat, "for a maid's blood spirts far, and i should be sorry to spatter it." while he was engaged in drawing off his coat, she cut off his head. but still the false tongue spoke. it bade, her blow in his horn ; then she would have com- pany enough. she was not so simple as to do this. she rode three days and nights, and blew the horn when she reached her father's castle. then all the murderers came running, like hounds after a hare. frau clara [jutte] called out, where is my son? under the fir- tree, sporting with nine maids; he meant me to be the tenth, said helena. b is the same story told of a margrave and fair annie, but some important early stanzas are lost, and the final ones have suffered in- jury; for the ballad ends with this conceit, "she put the horn to her mouth, and blew the margrave quite out of her heart." here, by a transference exceedingly common in tradition, it is the man, and not the maid, that " would ride in velvet and silk and red gold." c a has the names odilia and hilsinger, a trooper (reiter). odilia was early left an orphan, and as she grew up "she grew into . lady isabel and the elf-knight the trooper's bosom." he offered her seven pounds of gold to be his, and " she thought seven pounds of gold a good thing." we now fall into the track of a. odilia dresses her- self like a bride, and calls to the trooper to come and get her. they ride first to a high hill, where she asks to eat and drink, and then go on to a linden-tree, on which seven maids are hanging. the choice of three deaths is offered, the sword chosen, he is entreated to spare his coat, she seizes his sword and hews off his head. the false tongue suggests blow- ing the horn. odilia thinks "much biding or blowing is not good." she rides away, and presently meets the trooper's " little foot-page" (bot), who fancies she has hilsinger's horse and sword. "he sleeps," she says, "with seven maids, and thought i was to be the eighth." this copy concludes with a mani- festly spurious stanza. c b agrees with c a for ten stanzas, as to the matter, and so far seems to be c a improved by zuccalmaglio, with such substitutions as a princely castle for " seven pounds of gold." the last stanza ( ), und als die sternlein am himmel klar, ottilia die achte der todten war, was, no doubt, suggested by the last of f, an- other of zuccalmaglio's versions, and, if genu- ine, would belong to a ballad of the third class. d has the name odilia for the maid, but the knight, or trooper, has become expressly a robber (ritter, reiter, rauber). they ride to a green heath, where there is a cool spring. odilia asks for and gets a draught of water, and is told that at the linden-tree there will be eating and drinking for them. and when they come to the linden, there hang six, seven maids! all proceeds as before. the talking head is lost. odilia meets the robber's mother, and makes the usual reply.* * both d and e have attached to them this final stanza: 'odilia, why are thy shoes bo red?' 'it is three doves that i shot dead.' this is a well-known commonplace in tragic ballads; and grundtvig suggests that this stanza was the occasion of the story taking the turn which we find in ballads of the third class. e resembles closely. odilia becomes schondilg (schon odilie), rauber returns to ritter, or reiter, and the servant-maid bribe of seven pounds of gold rises to ten tons.f schondilg's toilet, preparatory to going off ( - ), is described with a minuteness that we find only in the dutch ballad ( - ). after this, there is no important variation. she meets the trooper's three brothers, and makes the same replies to them as to the mother in d. f. the personages here are linnich (i. e., nellie) and a knight from england. the first twelve stanzas do not diverge from c, d, e. in stanza we find the knight directing the lady to strip off her silk gown and gold neck- lace, as in the english c, d, e ; but certainly this inversion of the procedure which obtains in german c, d, e is an accident arising from confused recollection. the th and last stanza similarly misunderstands the maid's feigned anxiety about the knight's fine coat, and brings the ballad to a false close, resem- bling the termination of those of the third class, still more those of certain mixed forms to be spoken of presently. (ii.) the second series, g-s, has three or four traits that are not found in the foregoing ballads. g, which, as well as h, was in print more than two hundred years before any other copy is known to have been taken down, be- gins, like the dutch halewijn, with a knight (ulinger) singing so sweetly that a maid (fridburg) is filled with desire to go off with him. he promises to teach her his art. this magical song is wanting only in r, of class ii, and the promise to teach it only in q, r. she attires herself splendidly; he swings her on to his horse behind him, and they ride to a wood. when they came to the wood there was no one there but a white dove on a hazel- bush, that sang, listen, fridburg: ulinger t one scarcely knows whether this bribe is an imperfect reminiscence of splendid promises which the knight makes, e. g., in the danish ballads, or a shifting from the maid to the knight of the gold which the elsewhere opulent or well- to-do maid gets together while the knight is preparing to set forth; or simply one of those extravagances which so often make their appearance in later versions of ballads. . lady isabel and the elf-knight has hanged eleven * maids; the twelfth is in his clutches. fridburg asked what the dove was saying. ulinger replied, it takes me for another; it lies in its red bill; and rode on till it suited him to alight. he spread his cloak on the grass, and asked her to sit down: er sprach sie solt ihm lausen, sein gelbes haar zerzausen.f looking up into her eyes, he saw tears, and asked why she was weeping. was it for her sorry husband? not for her sorry husband, she said. but here some stanzas, which be- long to another ballad, j have crept in, and she is, with no reason, made to ride further on. she comes to a lofty fir, and eleven maids hanging on it. she wrings her hands and tears her hair, and implores ulinger to let her be hanged in her clothes as she is. 'ask me not that, fridburg,' he said; 'ask me not that, thou good young maid; thy scarlet mantle and kirtle black will well become my young sister's back.' then she begs to be allowed three cries. 'so much i may allow thee well, thou art so deep within the dell; so deep within the dell we lie, no man can ever hear thy cry.' she cries, "help, jesu!" "help, mary!" "help, dear brother i" 'for if thou come not straight, for my life't will be too late!' her brother seems to hear his sister's voice "in every sense." he let his falcon fly, rode off with hounds in full cry; with all the haste he could he sped to the dusky wood. * the number eleven is remarkably constant in the ger- man ballads, being found in o, h, j-l, n-w; it is also the number in swedish b. eight is the favorite number in the north, and occurs in danish a-d, h-l, swedish a, c, norwegian g, h; again in german i. german m, x, dan- ish f, have ten; germau a, b, danish e, norwegian i, have nine; german c, d, seven; danish g has nineteen. 'what dost thou here, my ulinger? what dost thou here, my master dear?' 'twisting a withe, and that is all, to make a halter for my foal.' 'twisting a withe, and that is all, to make a halter for thy foal! i swear by my troth thus shall it be, thyself shalt be the foal for me.' • then this i beg, my fridburger, then this i "beg, my master dear, that thou wilt let me hang in my clothes as now i stand.' 'ask me not that, thou ulinger, ask me not that, false perjurer; thy scarlet mantle and jerkin black will well become my scullion's back.' his shield before his breast he slung, behind him his fair sister swung, and so he hied away where his father's kingdom lay. h, the nearly contemporaneous augsburg broadside, differs from g in only one impor- tant particular. the "reuter" is adelger, the lady unnamed. a stanza is lost between and , which should contain the warning of the dove, and so is adelger's version of what the bird had said. the important fea- ture in h, not present in g, is that the halt is made near a spring, about which blood is streaming, "der war mit blut umbrunnenn." this adds a horror to this powerful scene which well suits with it. when the maid be- gins to weep, adelger asks whether her tears are for her father's land, or because she dis- likes him so much. it is for neither reason, but because on yon fir she sees eleven maids hanging. he confirms her fears: 'ah, thou fair young lady fine, o palsgravine, o empress mine, french a, b have fourteen, fifteen, italian ballads still higher numbers: a, b, c, thirty-six, d, fifty-two, e, thirty- three, f, three hundred and three. t this stroke of realism fails only in m, n, r, of this second class. } apparently to a ribold ballad, of which no other trace has been found in german. see further on in this volume. . lady isabel and the elf-knight adelger's killed his eleven before, thou 'it be the twelfth, of that be sure.' * the last two lines seem, by their form, to be the dove's warning that has dropped out between stanzas and . the maid's clothes in h are destined to be the perquisite of adel- ger's mother, and the brother says that adel- ger's are to go to his shield-bearer. the un- happy maid cries but twice, to the virgin and to her brother. when surprised by the broth- er, adelger feigns to be twisting a withe for his falcon. i begins, like g, h, with the knight's se- ductive song. instead of the dove directly warning the maid, it upbraids the man: "whither now, thou ollegehr ? f eight hast thou murdered already; and now for the ninth!" the maid asks what the dove means, and is told to ride on, and not mind the dove, who takes him for another man. there are eight maids in the fir. the cries are to jesus, mary, and her brothers, one of whom hastens to the rescue. he is struck with the beauty of his sister's attire, — her velvet dress, her virginal crown, " which you shall wear many a year yet." so saying, he draws his sword, and whips off his "brother-in-law's" head, with this epicedium: 'lie there, thou head, and bleed,' thou never didst good deed. 'lie there, thou head, and rot, no man shall mourn thy lot. 'no one shall ever be sorry for thee but the small birds on the greenwood tree.' t in j, again, the knight comes riding through * 'ach du schone junkfraw fein, da pfalzgravin, du kaiserin! der adelger hat sich vor|ailf getodt, du wirst die zwolft, das sei dir gsait. 'so bitt mich nit, du junkfraw fein, so bitt mich nit, du herzigs ein!' the liebkosung of this murder-reeking adelger, o'ersized with coagulate gore, is admirably horrible. t nimmersatt (all-begehrend) as interpreted by meinert, not adelger. } verses which recur, nearly, not only in y - , w , , but elsewhere, as in a copy of ' graf friedrich,' erk'a liederhort, p. , no , st. . the reeds, and sings such a song that brown annele, lying under the casement, exclaims, "could i but sing like him, i would give my troth and my honor!" there are, by mistake, two § doves in stanza , that warn annele not to be beguiled, but this error is set right in the next stanza. when she asks what the dove is cooing, the answer is, " it is cooing about its red foot; it went barefoot all winter." we have here again, as in h, the spring in the wood, "mit blute umrunnen," and the lady asks again the meaning of the bloody spring. the knight replies, in a stanza which seems both corrupted and out of place, "this is where the eleven pure virgins perished." then follow the same incidents as in g-i. he says she must hang with the eleven in the fir, and be queen over all. her cries are for her fa- ther, for our lady, and for her brother, who is a hunter in the forest. the hunter makes all haste to his sister, twists a withe, and hangs the knight without a word between them, then takes his sister by the hand and conducts her home, with the advice never more to trust a knight: for all which she re- turns her devout thanks. || k and l are of the same length and the same tenor as j. there are no names in l; in k both annele and ulrich, but the latter is very likely to have been inserted by the editor. k, l have only one dove, and in neither does the lady ask the meaning of the dove's song. the knight simply says, "be still; thou liest in thy throat!" both have the bloody spring, but out of place, for it is very improperly spoken of by the knight as the spot he is making for: § there is no sense in two doves. the single dove one may suppose to be the spirit of the last victim. we shall find the eleven appearing as doves in q. there is no occa- sion to regard the dove here as a waldminne (vilmar, hand- biichleiu fur freunde des deutschen volkslieds, p. ). cf. the nightingale (and two nightingales) in the danish ' eed- selille og medelvold :' see 'leesome brand,' further on in this volume. || this ballad has become, in tubingen, a children's game, called 'bertha im wald.' the three cries are preserved in verse, and very nearly as in j, m. the game concludes by the robber smothering bertha. meier, deutsche kinder- reime, no . * . lady isabel and the elf-knight 'wlr wollen ein wenig weiter vorwarts faren, bis zu einem kiihlen waldbrunnen, der ist mit blut iiberronnen.' * l - , - . the three cries are for father, mother, brother. in k the brother fights with " ul- rich " two hours and a half before he can mas- ter him, then despatches him with his two- edged sword, and hangs him in a withe. he fires his rifle in l, to announce his coming, and hears his sister's laugh; then stabs the knight through the heart. the moral of j is repeated in both: stay at home, and trust no knight. m smacks decidedly of the bankelsanger, and has an appropriate moral at the tail: animi index cauda! the characters are a cavalier and a girl, both nameless, and a brother. the girl, hearing the knight sing "ein liedchen von dreierlei stimmen," which should seem to signify a three-part song, says, "ah, could i sing like him, i would straight- way give him my honor." they ride to the wood, and come upon a hazel-bush with three doves, one of which informs the maid that she will be betrayed, the second that she will die that day, and the third that she will be buried in the wood. the second and third doves, as being false prophets, and for other reasons, may safely be pronounced intruders. all is now lost till we come to the cries, which are addressed to father, mother, and brother. the brother stabs the traitor to the heart, f n is as short as m, and, like it, has no names, but has all the principal points: the * k, or the editor, seeks to avoid the difficulty by taking the last line from the knight, and reading, " mit blut war er umronnen," an emendation not according with the sim- plicity of ballads. another swabian copy, meier, p. , note, strophe , has: 'wir mtissen zu selbigem bronnen wo wasser und blut heraus ronnen.' t the last verses are these, and not very much worse than the rest: mein bruder ist ein jiigersmann, der alle thierlein schiessen kann; er hatt' ein zweiscbneidiges schwerte, und stach es dem falschen ins hone. ihr madchen alle insgemein, lasst each doch diess zur warnung sein, und geht doch mit keinem so falschen in einen so finsteren walde. fascinating song, the dove on the bush, eleven maids in the fir, the three cries, and the res- cue by the huntsman-brother, who cocks his gun and shoots the knight. the reciter of this ballad gave the editor to understand that if the robber had succeeded in his twelfth murder, he would have attained such powers that nobody after that could harm him.j o is a fairly well-preserved ballad, resem- bling g-j as to the course of the story. an- neli, lying under the casement, hears the knight singing as he rides through the reeds. the elaborate toilet is omitted, as in i, j. the knight makes haste to the dark wood. they come to a cold spring, " mit bluot war er iiberrunnen;" then to a hazel, behind which a dove coos ominously. anneh s»ys, listen. the dove coos you are a false man, that will not spare my life. no, says the knight, that is not it; the dove is cooing about its blue foot, for its fate is to freeze in winter. the cloak is thrown on the grass, the eleven maids in the fir are descried, and anneli is told she must hang highest, and be empress over all. he concedes her as many cries as she likes, for only the wood-birds will hear. she calls on god, the virgin, and her brother. the brother thinks he hears his sister's voice, calls to his groom to saddle, comes upon the knight while he is twisting a withe for his horse, as he says, ties him to the end of the withe, and makes him pay for all he has perpetrated in the wood. he then swings anneli behind him, and rides home with her. p, the other swiss ballad, has been re- my brother is a hunting man, and all the small game shoot he can; he had a sword with edges two, and ran the heart of the false man through ye maidens now in general, let this be warning to you all; with man so false you never should go to so very dark a wood. } so in bochholz, schweizer sagen, no , i, , a man who had killed eleven maids would, if he could have made np the number twelve, have been able to pass through walls and mouseholes. again, a certain robber in jutland, who had devoured eight children's hearts, would have acquired the power of flying could he but have secured one more. grundtvig, d. g. f. iv, , note. . lady isabel and the elf-knight touched, and more than retouched in places, by a modern pen. still the substance of the story, and, on the whole, the popular tone, is preserved. fair anneli, in the miller's house, hears the knight singing as he rides through the rushes, and runs down-stairs and calls to him: she would go off with him if she could sing like that, and her clothes are fit for any young lady. the knight promises that he will teach her his song if she will go with him, and bids her put these fine clothes on. they ride to the wood. a dove calls from the hazel, "he will betray thee." anneli asks what the dove is saying, and is answered much as in j and o, that it is talking about its frost-bitten feet and claws. the knight tears through the wood, to the great peril of anneli's gown and limbs, and when he has come to the right place, spreads his cloak on the grass, and makes the usual request. she weeps when she sees eleven maids in the fir- tree, and receives the customary consolation: 'weep not too sore, my anneli, t is true thou art doomed the twelfth to be; up to the highest tip must thou go, and a margravine be to all below; must be an empress over the rest, and hang the highest of all as the best.' the request to be allowed three cries is lost. the knight tells her to cry as much as she pleases, he knows no one will come; the wild birds will not hear, and the doves ape hushed. she cries to father, mother, and brother. the brother, who is sitting over his wine at the inn, hears, saddles his best horse, rides furious- ly, and comes first to a spring filled with locks of maid's hair and red with maid's blood; then to a bush, where the knight (riideli, rudolph) is twisting his withe. he bids his sister be silent, for the withe is not for her; the villain is twisting it for his own neck, and shall be dragged at the tail of his horse. q resembles the swabian ballads, and pre- sents only these variations from the regular story. the dove adds to the warning "fair maid, be not beguiled," what we find nowhere else, "yonder i see a cool spring, around which blood is running." the knight, to re- move the maid's anxiety, says, " let it talk; it does not know me; i am no such murder- er." the end is excessively feeble. when the brother, a hunter as before, reaches his sister, "a robber runs away," and then the brother takes her by the hand, conducts her to her fa- ther's land, and enjoins her to stay at home and spin silk. there are no names. there is one feature entirely peculiar to r. the knight carries off the maid, as before, but when they come to the hazel bush there are eleven doves that sing this "new song:" 'be not beguiled, maiden, the knight is beguiling thee: 'we are eleven already, thou shalt be the twelfth.' the eleven doves are of course the spirits of the eleven preceding victims. the maid's inquiry as to what they mean is lost. the knight's evasion is not ingenious, but more likely to allay suspicion than simply saying, "i am no such murderer." he says, "fear not: the doves are singing a song that is com- mon in these parts." when they come to the spring " where blood and water are running," and the maid asks what strange spring is this, the knight answers in the same way, and per- haps could not do better: "fear not: there is in these parts a spring that runs blood and water." this spring is misplaced, for it oc- curs before they enter the wood. the last scene in the ballad is incomplete, and goes no further than the brother's exclamation when he comes in upon the knight: "stop, young knight! spare my sister's life." the parties in r are nameless. so again in s, which also has neither the knight's enchanting song nor the bloody spring. there are two doves, as in j, stanza . the cries are addressed to mother, father, brother, as in n, and, as in n, again, the brother cocks his gun, and shoots the knight down ;* then calmly leads his sister home, with the warning against knights. * what will those who are, so troubled about cork-heeled shoon in 'sir patrick spens' say to the fire-arms in l, n, s? . lady isabel and the elf-knight (iii.) t, the first of the third series, has marked signs of deterioration. ulrich does not enchant annchen by his song, and prom- ise to teach it to her; he offers to teach her "bird-song." they walk out together, appar- ently, and come to a hazel, with no dove; neither is there any spring. annie sits down on the grass; ulrich lays his head in her lap; she weeps, and he asks why. it is for eleven maids in the fir-tree, as so often before. ul- rich's style has become much tamer: 'ah, annie, annie, dear to me, how soon shalt thou the twelfth one be!' she begs for three cries, and calls to her fa- ther, to god, to her youngest brother. the last is sitting over the wine and hears. he demands of ulrich where she is, and is told, upon yon linden, spinning silk. then ensues this dialogue: why are your shoes blood-red? why not? i have shot a dove. that dove my mother bare under her breast. annie is laid in the grave, and angels sing over her; ulrich is broken on the wheel, and round him the ravens cry. there is no remnant or reminiscence of the magical singing in u. scbon ulrich and roth annchen go on a walk, and come first to a fir-tree, then a green mead. the next scene is exactly as in t. ulrich says the eleven maids were his wives, and that he had thrust his sword through their hearts. annie asks for three sighs, and directs them to god, to jesus, and to her youngest brother. he is sitting over his wine, when the sigh comes into the window, and ulrich simultaneously in at the door. the remainder is very much as in t. v differs from u only in the names, which are schon-heinrich and schbn-annelein, and in the "sighs" returning to cries, which in- voke god, father, and brother. w begins with a rivalry between ulrich * a variety of w, cited in schlesische volkslieder, p. , has, 'ach ulbrich, dlbrich, halsemann, halsemann, lass du mich nur drei gale schrei'n!' qrundtvig, assuming that the name is ulbrich halsemann, would account for the second and superfluous character here and hanselein * for the hand of rautendelein (rautendchen). ulrich is successful. she packs up her jewels, and he takes her to a wood, where she sees eleven maids hanging. he assures her she shall presently be the twelfth. it is then they sit down, and she leans her head on his breast and weeps, "be- cause," as she says, "i must die." his re- mark upon this, if there was any, is lost. hoff- mann inserts a stanza from another silesian copy, in which ulrich says, rather than spare thy life, i will run an iron stake through thee. she asks for three cries, and he says, four, if you want. she prefers four, and calls to her father, mother, sister, brother. the brother, as he sits over the wine, hears the cry, and almost instantly ulrich comes in at the door. he pretends to have killed a dove; the brother knows what dove, and hews off ulrich's head, with a speech like that in i. still, as rautendchen is brought to the grave, with toll of bells, so ulrich is mounted on the wheel, where ravens shriek over him. x. albrecht and hanselein woo alalein. she is promised to albrecht, but hansel gets her. he takes her to a green mead, spreads his mantle on the grass, and she sits down. his lying in her lap and her discovery of the awful tree are lost. she weeps, and he tells her she shall be "his eleventh." her cries are condensed into one stanza: 'gott vater, sohn, herr jesu christ, meih jiingster bruder, wo du bist!/ her brother rides in the direction of the voice, and meets hilnselein in the wood, who says alalein is sitting with princes and counts. the conclusion is as in t, u, v. y has ansar uleraich wooing a king's daughter, annle, to the eighth year. he takes her to a fir-wood, then to a fir, a stump of a tree, a spring; in each case bidding her sit down. at the spring he asks her if she [found also in w] by a divarication of ulrich halsemann into ulrich and halsemann (hanslein). ansar, "bisher unverstandlicher vorname des hitters uleraich" in y (mei- nert), would equally well yield hanslein. might not halse- mann possibly be an equivalent of halsherr t . lady isabel and the elf-knight wishes to be drowned, and, upon her saying no, cuts off her head. he has not walked half a mile before he meets her brother. the brother inquires where ulrich has left his sister, and the reply is, "by the green rhine." the conclusion is as in w. ulrich loses his head, and the brother pronounces the imprecation which is found there and in i* z, which takes ns back from eastern ger- many to the rhine, combines features from all the three groups. ulrich fascinates a king's daughter by his song. she collects her gold and jewels, as in w, and goes to a wood, where a dove warns her that she will be betrayed. ulrich appropriates her valua- bles, and they wander about till they come to the rhine. there he takes her into a wood, and gives her a choice between hanging and drowning, and, she declining both, says she shall die by his sword. but first she is al- lowed three cries, — to god, her parents, her youngest brother. the youngest brother de- mands of ulrich where he has left his sister. "look in my pocket, and you shall find four- teen tongues, and the last cut [reddest] of all is your sister's." the words were scarcely out of his mouth before ulrich's sword had taken off his head. • the three classes of the german ballad, it will be observed, have for their principal dis- tinction that in i the maid saves her own life by an artifice, and takes the life of her treacherous suitor; in ii, she is rescued by her brother, who also kills the traitor; in iii, she dies by the villain's hand, and he by her brother's, or by a public execution. there are certain subordinate traits which are con- stant, or nearly so, in each class. in i, a-f, a choice of deaths is invariably offered; the maid gets the advantage of the murderer by persuading him to take off his coat [distorted in f, which has lost its conclusion]; and, on her way home, she falls in with one or more of the robber's family, mother, brothers, ser- vant, who interrogate her [except f, which, as just said, is a fragment]. class ii has sev- * and in 'der mutter finch,' meinert, p. , a ballad with which y agrees in the first two and last four stanzas. eral marks of its own. all the thirteen bal- lads [cm ], except the last, represent the knight as fascinating the maid by his singing; in all but q she is warned of her danger by a dove,f or more than one; in all but the much-abridged m, n, the knight spreads his cloak on the grass, they sit down, and, ex- cepting m, n, r, the unromantic service is repeated which she undertakes in danish a, b, d, e, f, h, l, swedish a, norwegian a, b. the bloody spring occurs in some form, though often not quite intelligible, in h, j, k, l, o, p, q. b (also in d, y). all but the much-abridged m, n have the question, what are you weeping for? your father's land, humbled pride, lost honor? etc.; but this question recurs in t, u, v, w. the cries for help are a feature of both the second and the third class, and are wanting only in y. class iii differs from i, and resembles ii, in having the cries for help, and, in the less impaired forms, t-w, the knight spreads his cloak, lies down with his head in the lady's lap, and asks the cause of her tears. beyond this, and the changed catastrophe, the ballads of class iii are distinguished by what they have lost. forms in which the story of this is mixed with that of some other german ballad remain to be noticed. a. a ballad first published in nicolai's almanach, n, , no ( ), and since reprinted, under the titles, ' liebe ohne stand,' 'der ritter und die kbnigstochter,' etc., but never with absolute fidelity, in wunderhorn ( ), i, (= erlach, n, ), kretzsch- mer, no , i, ; mittler, no ; erk, neue sammlung, iii, , no ; also, with a few changes, by zuccalmaglio, no. , p. , as ' aus schwaben ;' by erk, liederhort, no , p. , as " corrected from oral tradition ;" and as " from oral tradition," in erk's wun- derhorn ( ), i, . independent versions are given by mittler, no , p. , from ober- hessen; prohle, weltliche u. geistliche volks- lieder, no , p. , from the harz; reiffer- scheid, no , p. , from bokendorf. erk refers to still another copy, five stanzas longer t there is a dove in z, but z, as has been said, presents traits of all three classes. . lady isabel and the elf-knight than nicolai's, from hesse-darmstadt, neue sammlung, iii, , note. what other ballad is here combined with ulinger, it is impossible to make out. the substance of the narrative is that a knight rides singing through the reeds, and is heard by a king's daughter, who forthwith desires to go with him. they ride till the horse is hungry [tired]; he spreads his cloak on the grass, and makes, sans fapon, his usual re- quest. the king's daughter sheds many tears, and he asks why. "had i followed my fa- ther's counsel, i might have been empress." the knight cuts off her head at the word, and says, had you held your tongue, you would have kept your head. he throws the body behind a tree, with lie there and rot; my young heart must mourn [no knight, a knight, shall mourn over thee]. another stanza or two, found in some versions, need not be par- ticularly noticed. 'stolz sieburg,' simrock, no , p. , from the rhine, mittler, no , is another and some- what more rational form of the same story. to the question whether she is weeping for gut, muth, ehre, the king's daughter answers: 'ich wein um meine ehre, ich wollt gem wieder umkehren.' for this stolz sieburg strikes off her head, with a speech like that which we have just had, and throws it into a spring; then re- solves to hang himself.* a dutch version of this ballad, le jeune, no , p. ; willems, no , p. ; hoff- mann, no , p. , has less of the halewyn in it, and more motive than the german, though less romance. "if you might have been an empress," says the knight, "i, a margrave's • 'da yge, feyns lybchen, unndt fawle, meyn jungk herze muss trawren.' nicolai, vv , , 'da liege, du hauptchen, und faule, kein reuter wild dir nachtrauern.' simrock, w , , are evidently derived from the apostrophe to the murder- er's head in i, w, y. stolz syburg is the hero of a very different ballad, from the miinster region, keifferscheid, no , p. (also no , and simrock, no , p. , 'stolz heinrich'). and from this the name, in consequence of a remote resemblance in the son, will marry you to-morrow." "i would rather lose my head than be your wife," re- plies the lady; upon which he cuts off her head and throws it into a fountain, saying, lie there, smiling mouth! many a thousand pound have you cost me, and many pence of red gold. your head is clean cut off. b. the ulinger story is also found com- bined with that of the beautiful ballad,' was- sermanns braut.' f ( .) in a transylvanian ballad, 'brautmorder,' schuster, siebenbiir- gisch-siichsische volkslieder, p. , no a, vv, with variations, and p. , b, a fragment of vv; (a in a translation, bbhme, no , p. .) a king from the rhine sues seven years for a king's daughter, and does not prevail till the eighth. she begs her mother not to consent, for she has seen it in the sun that she shall not long be her daughter, in the moon that she shall drown before the year is out, in the bright stars that her blood shall be dispersed far and wide. he takes her by the hand, and leads her through a green wood, at the end of which a grave is already made. he pushes her into the grave, and drives a stake through her heart. the princess' brother asks what has become of his sister. "i left her on the rhine, drinking mead and wine." "why are your skirts so bloody?" "i have shot a turtle-dove." "that turtle-dove was, mayhap, my sister." they spit him on a red- hot stake, and roast him like a fish. lines - of this ballad correspond to - of y (which last agree with - of meinert's ' was- sermanns braut') ; , , to y , ; - to - ; and we find in verse the stake through the heart which hoffmann has inter- polated in w, stanza . ( .) a silesian copy of 'wassermanns story, may have been taken up by the rhine ballad, though it has contributed nothing more. margaret, a king's daugh- ter, is wiled away by a splendid description of stolz syburg's opulence. when they have gone a long way, he tells her that he has nothing but a barren heath. she stabs herself at his feet. t 'wassermans braut,' meinert, p. ; 'die ungliickliche braut,' hoffmann u. rich'ter, schlesische v. l., p. , no. ; 'kiinigs tochterlcin,' erk u. irmer, vi, , no ; 'der was- sermann,' erk's liederhort, p. , no . (' die nixen- braut,' "norddeutschland," zuccalmaglio, p. , no , seems to be meinert's copy written over.) . lady isabel and the elf-knight braut,' cod by ffman contributed to deutsches museum, , n, , represents the bride, after she has fallen into the water and has been recovered by the nix, as asking for three cries, and goes on from this point like the ul- rich ballad w, the conclusion being that the sister is drowned before the brother comes to her aid.* 'nun schiirz dich, gredlein,' "forster's frische liedlein, no ," bohme, no , uh- land, no a, which is of the date , and therefore older than the nuremberg and augs- burg broadsides, has derived stanzas - from an ulinger ballad, unless this passage is to be regarded as common property. some copies of the ballad commonly called ' miillertucke' have also adopted verses from ulinger, es- pecially that in meier's schwabische volks- lieder, no , p. . a form of ballad resembling english c-f, but with some important differences, is ex- traordinarily diffused in poland. there is also a single version of the general type of english a, or, better, of the first class of the german ballads. this version, a, pauli, piesni ludu polskiego w galicyi, p. , no , and kolberg, piesni ludu polskiego, no , bbb, p. , runs thus. there was a man who went about the world wiling away young girls from father and mother. he had already done this with eight; he was now carrying off the ninth. he took her to a frightful wood; then bade her look in the direction of her house. she asked, " what is that white thing that i see on yon fir?" "there are already eight of them," he said, " and you shall be the ninth; never shall you go back to your father and mother. take off that gown, maria." maria was looking at his sword. "don't touch, maria, for you will wound your pretty little * the remarkable norwegian ballad of the' wassermanns braut' group, the nix and heiemo, landstad, no , p. , has not been unaffected by the one we are now occupied with. there is even a verbal contact between stanza , 'heiemo tenkte mes sjave seg: tro mine sma inivar 'ki hjelper meg?' and norwegian p, stanza , cited by grundtvig, iv, , lengji sto gullbjor, ho tenkte mse seg: 'kann inkje mi' runinne hjelpe meg?' t eolberg's b, h, k, v, x, bb, cc, hh, kk, , nn, zz, hands." "don't mind my hands, john," she replied, " but rather see what a bold heart i have;" and instantly john's head flew off. then follows a single stanza, which seems to be addressed to john's mother, after the man- ner of the german a, etc.: " see, dear mother! i am thy daughter-in-law, who have just put that traitor out of the world." there is a moral for conclusion, which is certainly a later addition. the other ballads may be arranged as fol- lows, having regard chiefly to tbe catastrophe. b, kolberg, no , oo: c, rr: d, ccc : e, dd: f, uu: g, ww: h, t: i, u: j, gg: k, mm: l, waclaw z oleska, p. , , kolberg, p: l*. kozlowski, lud, p. , no iv: m, woj- cicki, i, , kolberg, r: n, wojcicki, i, , kolberg, s: o, kolberg, d: p, ib. f: q, pp: r, wojcicki, i, , kolberg, e: s, kolberg, l: t, ib. n: u, pauli, pjes'ni ludu polskiego w galicyi, p. , no , kolberg, q: v, kol- berg, y: w, wojcicki, n, , "j. lipinski, piesni ludu wielkopolskiego, p. ," kol- berg, ee; x, kolberg, a: t, ib. z: z, aa: aa, qq: bb, w; cc, ddd: dd, m: ee, o: ff, o: gg, : hh, ss: ii, ii: jj, ff: kk, tt: ll, i: mm, g*. in b-k the woman comes off alive from her adventure: in o-cc, she loses her life: in l-n there is a jumble of both conclusions: dd-mm are incomplete.f the story of the larger part of these bal- lads, conveyed as briefly as possible, is this: john, who is watering horses, urges cather- ine, j who is drawing water, to elope with him. he bids her take silver and gold enough, that the horse may have something to carry. cath- erine says her mother will not allow her to enter the new chamber. tell her that you have a headache, says john, and she will con- sent. catherine feigns a headache, is put into yy, zz, consist of only one or two initial stanzas, containing no important variation. his aaa, a fragment of six stanzas, pauli, p. , no , wojcicki, n, , though it begins like the rest, sounds like a different ballad. the ballad in wojcicki, i, , is allied with the one we are engaged with, and the two fragments on p. , p. with both this and that. { anne in r, ll, and eolberg's b: mary in i, u, ii: ursula, n: both catherine and alice, aa. john is found in all but n, where there is a nameless seigneur. . lady isabel and the elf-knight the new chamber, and absconds with john while her mother is asleep.* at a certain stage, more commonly at successive stages, — on the high road, k, p, s, dd, ii, ll, in a dark wood, d, p, t, x, z, dd, ee, at a spring, d, k, s, t, v, w, x, y, z, ee, ii, ll, etc., — he bids her take off, or himself takes from her, her "rich attire," d, p, t, v, w, x, y, z, dd, ee, her satin gown, d, t, x, dd, ee, her french or turkish costume, k, p, ii, robes of silver, k, shoes, z, cc, ff, silk stock- ings, t, corals, d, x, cc, ee, pearls, t, rings, k, o-t, x, z, cc-ff, ii, ll. in many of the ballads he tells her to go back to her mother, b-g, k, l", m, n, q, s, u, x, y, ee, hh-ll, sometimes after pillaging her, sometimes without mention of this. cather- ine generally replies that she did not come away to have to go back, b, c, d, g, l*, m, s, u, x, y, ee, hh, jj, kk, ll. john seizes her by the hands and sides and throws her into a deep river [pool, water, sea]. her apron [tress, aa, ii, both apron and tress, o, petticoat, kk] is caught on a stake or stump of a tree, b, c, g, h, i, o, p, r, t, u, v, "w, y, bb, dd, ee, ii, jj, kk [in a bush d]. john cuts it away with axe or sword, g, i, o, r, t, bb, n, jj. she cries to him for help. he replies, " i did not throw you in to help you out," f b, c, f, p, u, v, w, x, z, ee, ii. catherine is drawn ashore in a fish- erman's net [swims ashore i, j, ggj. catherine comes out from the water alive in b-n. the brother who plays so important a part in the second class of german ballads, appears also in a few of the polish versions, b, c, d, and l*, o, p, q, x, but is a mere shadow. in b , , and , , the brother, who is "on the mountain," and may be supposed to hear the girl's cry, slides down • they are expressly said to go off in a carriage in i, o, q, t, bb, dd, ff. still, in i, john says, "let the black horse have something to carry under us." in o, t, ff, the horses have a presentiment of evil to their mistress, and re- fuse to stir. t one version of 'the two sisters,' q, has the same answer: 'i did not put you in with the design just for to pull you out again.' st. . this might be called a formula in polish ballads : something a silken cord, which proves too short, and the girl " adds her tress "! he asks the fishermen to throw their nets for her. she is rescued, goes to church, takes an humble place behind the door, and, when her eyes fall on the young girls, melts into tears. her apron catches in a bush in d: she plucks a leaf, and sends it down the stream to her mother's house. the mother says to the father, " do you not see how catherine is perishing?" the leaf is next sent down stream to her sister's house, who says to her brother, "do you not see how catherine is perishing?" he rides up a high mountain, and slides down his silken cord. though one or two stanzas are lost, or not given, the termination was probably the same as in b, c. in l* , o , the brother, on a high mountain, hears the cry for help, and slides down to his sister on a silken cord, but does nothing. x does not account for the brother's appearance: he informs the fisher- men of what has happened, and they draw catherine out, evidently dead. the brother hears the cry from the top of a wall in p , ; slides down his cord; the sister adds her tress; he directs the fishermen to draw her out; she is dead. instead of the brother on the wall, we have a mason in q [perhaps "the brother on the wall" in p is a mason]. it is simply said that " he added" a silken cord: the fishermen drew out catherine dead. the conclusion is equally, or more, impotent in all the versions in which the girl escapes from drowning. in g, i, j, she seats herself on a stone, and apostrophizes her hair, saying [in g, i], " dry, my locks, dry, for you have had much pleasure in the river!" she goes to church, takes an humble place, and weeps, in e, f, g, as in b, c, d. john goes scot-free in all these. :£ not so in the more vigorous of the kind occurs three times in x, four times in b, five times in p; in other ballads also. in q , catherine clutches the river bank, and john pushes away her hands. compare 'the two sisters,' f , further on in this volume. { l, l*, m, n, as already said, confuse the two catas- trophes. john says, in n, " do you see that broad river' i will measure its depth by throwing you in." we may as- sume that he was as good as his word. but ursula made her way home through woods and forests, weeping her eyes out on the way. kind souls dug a grave for her. the con- clusion of m is absurd, but need not be particularized. o . lady isabel and the elf-knight ballads of tragic termination. fierce pursuit is made for him. he is cut to pieces, or torn to pieces, o, p, s, t, y; broken on the wheel, l, u, v, w; cleft in two, bb; broken small as barley-corns, or quartered, by horses, lt, z; committed to a dungeon, to await, as we,may hope, one of these penalties, q, r. the bells toll for catherine [the organs play for her], and she is laid in the grave, o-w, y, z, l, l*. there are, besides, in various ballads of this second class, special resemblances to other european forms. the man (to whom rank of any sort is assigned only in n *) comes from a distant country, or from over the bor- der, in o, q, r, t, dd, gg, as in english d, e. the maid is at a window in m, "w, as in german g, j, m, o, p, q, etc. in q , john, who has come from over the border, persuades the maid to go with him by telling her that in his country "the mountains are golden, the mountains are of gold, the ways of silk," re- minding us of the wonderland in danish a, e, etc. after the pair have stolen away, they go one hundred and thirty miles, o, dd, ff; thrice nine miles, q; nine and a half miles, t; cross one field and another, m, r; travel all night, gg; and neither says a word to the other. we shall find this trait further on in french b, d, italian b, c, d, f, g. the choice of deaths which we find in german a- f appears in j. here, after passing through a silent wood, they arrive at the border of the (red) sea. she sits down on a stone, he on a rotten tree. he asks, by which death will you die: by my right hand, or by drowning in this river f they come to a dark wood in a a; he seats himself on a beech-trunk, she near a stream. he asks, will you throw your- self into the river, or go home to your mother? so h, and r nearly.f she prefers death to returning. previous victims are mentioned in has a passage of the sternest theology. while catherine is struggling in the water, her father comes by. she cries to him to sate her. he says, " my dear catherine, yon have loved pleasure too much. lord jesus grant you drown!" her mother appears, and makes the same reply to her danghter's appeal. there are stall-copy terminal morals to many of the ballads. * w , " a lord came riding from his estate to a neigh- bor." t, dd, hh. when she calls from the river for help, he answers, t , you fancy you are the only one there; six have gone before, and you are the seventh: hh , swim the river; go down to the bottom; six maids are there already, and you shall be the seventh [four, fifth] : dd , swim, swim away,to the other side; there you will see my seventh wife. j other slavic forms of this ballad resem- ble more or less the third german class. a wendish version from upper lusatia, haupt and schmaler, part i, no , p. , makes hil- zicka (lizzie) go out before dawn to cut grass. holdrask suddenly appears, and says she must pay him some forfeit for trespassing in his wood. she has nothing but her sickle, her silver finger-ring, and, when these are rejected, her wreath, and that, she says, he shall not have if she dies for it. holdrask, who avows that he has had a fancy for her seven years (cf. german y, and the transylvanian mixed form b), gives her her choice, to be cut to pieces by his sword, or trampled to death by his horse. which way pleases him, she says, only she begs for three cries. all three are for her brothers. they ride round the wood twice, seeing nobody; the third time hol- drask comes up to them. then follows the dialogue about the bloody sword and the dove. when asked where he has left hilzicka, hol- drask is silent. the elder brother seizes him, the younger dispatches him with his sword. very similar is a bohemian ballad, trans- lated in waldau's bohmische granaten, n, .§ while katie is cutting grass, early in the morning, indriasch presents himself, and demands some for his horse. she says, you must dismount, if your horse is to have grass. "if i do, i will take away your wreath." "then god will not grant you his blessing." he springs from his horse, and while he gives t the place is high above the water in r , , as in english d , , c . i bb , " my mother said that i had seen you; she will watch me closely," may be an accidental coincidence with danish a - , b - , etc. § the second, and more valuable, volume of waldau's b. g. i have found it impossible to obtain. keifferscheid cites the ballad at p. . . lady isabel and the elf-knight it grass -with one hand snatches at the wreath ,with the other. "will you die, or surrender your wreath?" take my life, she says, but allow me three cries. two cries reached no human ear, but the third cry her mother heard, and called to her sons to saddle, for katie was calling in the wood, and was in trouble. they rode over stock and stone, and came to a brook where indriasch was washing his hands. the same dialogue ensues as in the wendish bal- lad. the brothers hewed the murderer into fragments. a servian ballad has fainter but unmistak- able traces of the same tradition : vuk, srpske narodne pjesme, i, , no , ed. ; translated by goetze, serbische v. l., p. , by talvj, v. l. der serben, d ed., u, , by kapper, gesange der serben, n, . mara is warned by her mother not to dance with thomas. she disobeys. thomas, while danc- ing, gives a sign to his servants to bring horses. the two ride off, and when they come to the end of a field thomas says, seest thou yon withered maple? there thou shalt hang, ravens eat out thine eyes, eagles beat thee with their wings. mara shrieks, ah me! so be it with every girl that does not take her mother's advice.* french. this ballad is well known in france, and is generally found in a form re- sembling the english ; that is to say, the scene of the attempted murder is the sea or a river (as in no other but the polish), and the lady delivers herself by an artifice. one french version nearly approaches polish o-cc. a. 'renauld et ses quatorze femmes,' vv, paymaigre, chants populaires recueillis dans le pays messin, no , i, . renauld carried off the king's daughter. when they were gone half-way, she called to him that she was dying of hunger (cf. german a-f). eat your hand, he answered, for you will never eat bread again. when they had come to the middle of the wood, she called out that • a few silly verses follow in the original, in which thomas treats what he had said as a jest. these are prop- erly rejected hy talvj as a spurious appendage, t 'de achte de soil helena sin, de aohte de most he solwer sin.' german a b . she was dying of thirst. drink your blood, he said, for you will never drink wine again. when they came to the edge of the wood, he said, do you see that river? fourteen dames have been drowned there, and you shall be the fifteenth. when they came to the river- bank, he bade her put off her cloak, her shift. it is not for knights, she said, to see ladies in such plight; they should bandage their eyes with a handkerchief. this renauld did, and the fair one threw him into the river. he laid hold of a branch; she cut it off with « his sword (cf. the polish ballad, where the catastrophe, and consequently this act, is re- versed). "what will they say if you go back without your lover?" "i will tell them that i did for you what you meant to do for me." f "reach me your hand; i will marry you sun- day." "marry, marry a fish, renauld, the fourteen women down below." b. 'de dion et de la fille du roi,' from auvergne, ampere, instructions, etc., vv, p. , stanzas - , the first fourteen consti- tuting another ballad.j the pair went five or six leagues without exchanging a word ; only the fair one said, i am so hungry i could eat my fist. eat it, replied dion, for you never again will eat bread. then they went five or six leagues in silence, save• that she said, i am so thirsty i could drink my blood. "drink it, for you never will drink wine. over there is a pond in which fifteen ladies have had a bath, have drowned themselves, and you will make sixteen." arrived at the pond, he orders her to take off her clothes. she tells him to put his sword under his feet, his cloak before his face, and turn to the pond; and, when he has done so, pushes him in. here are my keys! he cries. "i don't want them; i will find locksmiths." "what will your friends say?" "i will tell them i did by you as you would have done by me." c. 'veux-tu venir, bell' jeanneton,' vv, } another version of this double ballad, but much cor- rupted in the second part, was known to gerard de nerval. see les filles du feu, gsuvres completes, v, . . lady isabel and the elf-knight from poitou and aunis, bujeaud, n, . when they reach the water, the fair one asks for a drink. the man says, incoherently enough, before drinking of this white wine i mean to drink your blood. the stanza that should tell how many have been drowned be- fore is lost. jeanneton, having been ordered to strip, pushes the "beau galant" into the sea, while, at her request, he is pulling off her stockings. he catches at a branch; she cuts it off, and will not hear to his entreaties. d. ' en revenant de la jolie rochelle,' twelve two-line stanzas, gagnon, chansons populaires du canada, p. . a cavalier meets three fair maids, mounts the fairest behind him, and rides a hundred leagues without speaking to her, at the end of which she asks to drink. he takes her to a spring, but when there she does not care to drink. the rest of the bal- lad is pointless, and shows that the original story has been completely forgotten. e. 'belle, allons nous epromener,' from the lyonnais, vv, chatnpfleury, chansons des provinces, p. , is like c, but still more de- fective. the pair go to walk by "la mer courante." there is no order for the lady to strip: on the contrary, she cries, d sha- billez-moi, dechaussez-moi! and, while the man is drawing off her shoe, " la belle avance un coup de pied, le beau galant tombe dans l'eau." f. 'allons, mie, nous promener,' vv, poesies populaires de la france, ms., m, fol. , no , is like c. the lady asks the man to pull off her shoes before he kills her. the man clutches a branch; the woman cuts it away. g. 'le traftre noyd,' chants pop. du ve- lay et du forez, romania, x, , is like e, f. h. 'la fillette et le chevalier,' victor smith, chants pop. du velay et du forez, romania, x, , resembles the common pol- ish ballad. pierre rouses his love early in the morning, to take a ride with him. he mounts heron his horse, and when they come to a lone- some wood bids her alight, for it is the last of her days. he plunges his sword into her heart, and throws her into a river. her father and mother come searching for her, and are in- formed of her fate by a shepherdess, who had witnessed the murder. the youngest of her three brothers plunges into the water, ex- claiming, who threw you in? an angel de- scends, and tells him it was her lover. a less romantic version, described in a note, treats of a valet who is tired of an amour with a ser- vant-girl. he is judicially condemned to be hanged or burned. 'la fille de saint-martin de l'lle,' bujeaud, h, , has the conclusion of the third class of german ballads. a mother incites her son to make away with his wife. he carries her off on his horse to a wheat-field [wood], and kills her with sword and dagger. returning, he meets his wife's brother, who asks why his shoes are covered with blood. he says he has been killing rabbits. the brother replies, i see by your paleness that you have been kill- ing my sister. so ge*rard de nerval, les filles du feu, gsuvres com., v, , and la boheme galante ( ), p. : 'rosine,' chants pop. du velay, etc., romania, x, . the ballad is known over all north italy, and always nearly in one shape. a. ' monchisa,' sixty-four short verses, ber- noni, canti popolari veneziani, puntata v, no . a count's son asks monchesa, a knight's daughter, in marriage in the evening, espouses her in the morning, and immediately carries her off. when they are "half-way," she heaves a sigh, which she says is for father and mother, whom she shall no more see. the count points out his castle; he has taken thirty- six maids there, robbed them of their honor, and cut off their heads. "so will i do with you when we are there." the lady says no word till she is asked why she is silent; then re- quests the count to lend her his sword; she wishes to cut a branch to shade her horse. the moment she gets the sword in her hand, she plunges it into his heart; then throws the body into a ditch. on her way back, she meets her brother, whom she tells that she is looking after the assassins who have killed her husband. he fears it was she; this she de- nies, but afterwards says she must go to rome to confess a great sin. there she obtains prompt absolution. . lady isabel and the elf-knight b. 'la figlia del conte,' adolf wolf, volks- lieder aus venetien, no , a, vv, b, vv. here it is the daughter of a count that marries malpreso, the son of a knight. he takes her to france immediately. she goes sixty miles (b) without speaking. she con- fesses to her brother what she has done. c. righi, canti popolari veronesi, vv, no ", p. . the count's son marries mam- presa, a knight's daughter. for thirty-six miles she does not speak; after five more she sighs. she denies to her brother having killed her husband, but still says she must go to the pope to confess an old sin; then owns what she has done. d. 'la monferrina,' vv, nigra, canzoni popolari del piemonte, in rivista contempo- ranea, xxiv, . the lady is a monferrina, daughter of a knight. after the marriage they travel fifty miles without speaking to one another. fifty-two monferrine have lost their heads; the bridegroom does not say why. she goes to the pope to confess. e. 'la vendicatrice,' an incomplete copy from alexandria, v v only, marcoaldi, canti popolari, no , p. , like d, as far as it goes. thirty-three have been beheaded before. f. 'la inglese,' vv, ferraro, canti po- polari di ferrara, cento e pontelagoscuro, no , p. . the count's son marries an english girl, daughter of a knight. she never speaks for more than three hundred miles; after two hundred more she sighs. she denies having killed her husband; has not a heart of that kind. g-. 'la liberatrice,' vv, ferraro, canti popolari monferrini, no , p. . gianfleisa is the lady's name. when invited to go off, she says, if you wish me to go, lend me a horse. not a word is spoken for five hundred miles. the man (gilardu) points out his castle, and says that no one he has taken there has ever come back. gianfleisa goes home without meeting anybody. 'laura,' ferraro, c. p. di pontelagoscuro, rivista di filologia romanza, n, , and c. p. di ferrara, etc., p. , is a mixture of this ballad with another. cf.' la maledetta,' fer- raro, c. p. monferrini, no , p. . several other french and italian ballads have common points with renauld, monchisa, etc., and for this have sometimes been improp- erly grouped with them: e. g., ' la fille des sables,' bujeaud, n, ff. a girl sitting by the water-side hears a sailor sing, and asks him to teach her the song. he says, come aboard, and i will. he pushes off, and by and by she begins to weep.* she says, my father is calling me to supper. "you will sup with me." "my mother is calling me to bed." "you will sleep with me." they go a hundred leagues, and not a word said, and at last reach his father's castle. when she is undressing, her lace gets into a knot. he sug- gests that his sword would cut it. she plunges the sword into her heart. so ' du beau ma- rinier,' beaurepaire, p. f, and podsies pop- ulates de la france, ms., m, fol. , no ; 'l'epe'e libdratrice,' v. smith, chansons du velay, etc., romania, vn, , nearly; also 'ii corsaro,' nigra, rivista conteinpo- ranea, xxiv, p. ff. in ' la monferrina in- contaminata,' ferraro, c. p. m., no , p. , a french knight invites a girl to go off with him, and mounts her behind him. they ride five hundred miles without speaking, then reach an inn, after which the story is the same. so bernoni, puntata rx, no . 'la fille du patissier,' paymaigre, no , p. , has the same conclusion. all these, except 'la fille des sables,' make the girl ask for the sword herself, and in all it is herself that she kills. the spanish preserves this ballad in a sin- gle form, the earliest printed in any language, preceding, by a few years, even the german broadsides g, h. 'romance de rico franco,' vv, " cancio- nero de romances, s. a., fol. : cane, de rom., ed. de , fol. : ed. de , fol. ;" wolf and hofmann, primavera, no , n, : duran, no ,i, : grimm, p. : depping and galiano, , n, : ochoa, p. . the king's huntsmen got no game, and lost the falcons. they betook them- • so far there is agreement in 'la fille du prince,' pay- maigre, no , p. ; poe'sies pop. de la france, ms., ill, fol. . . lady isabel and the elf-knight selves to the castle of maynes, where was a beautiful damsel, sought by seven counts and three kings. rico franco of aragon carried her off by force. nothing is said of a rest in a wood, or elsewhere; but that something has dropped out here is shown by the correspond- ing portuguese ballad. the lady wept. rico franco comforted her thus: if you are weep- ing for father and mother, you shall never see them more; and if for your brothers, i have killed them all three. i am not weeping for them, she said, but because i know not what my fate is to be. lend me your knife to cut the fringes from my mantle, for they are no longer fit to wear. this rico franco did, and the damsel thrust the knife into his breast. thus she avenged father, mother, and broth- ers. a portuguese ballad has recently been ob- tained from tradition in the island of st. george, azores, which resembles the spanish closely, but is even curter: a, 'romance de dom franco,' vv; b, 'dona inez,' a frag- ment of vv; braga, cantos populares do archipelago acoriano, no , p. , no , p. : hartung's romanceiro, n, , . dona inez was so precious in the eyes of her parents that they gave her neither to duke nor marquis. a knight who was passing [the duke of turkey, b] took a fancy to her, and stole her away. when they came to the mid- dle of the mountain ridge on which dona inez lived, the knight stopped to rest, and she be- gan to weep. from this point portuguese a, and b so far as it is preserved, agree very nearly with the spanish.* certain breton ballads have points of con- tact with the halewyn-ulinger class, but, like the french and italian ballads mentioned on the preceding page, have more important di- vergences, and especially the characteristic dis- tinction that the woman kills herself to pre- serve her honor. . 'jeanne le roux,' luzel, • the astarian romance communicated in two copies by amador de los rios to jahrbuch fur rom. u. eng. literatur, in, , no , and the portuguese 'romance de romei- rinha,' braga, romanceiro, no , p. , 'a romeira,' al- meida-garrett, in, , axe not parallels, though they have been cited as such. t magyar ne'pkoltesi gyujtemeny. uj folyam, sierkesz- i, ff, in two versions; podsies pop. de la france, ms., ni, fol. . the sieur la tremblaie attempts the abduction of jeanne from the church immediately after her mar- riage ceremony. as he is about to compel her to get up on the crupper of his horse, she asks for a knife to cut her bridal girdle, which had been drawn too tight. he gives her the choice of three, and she stabs herself in the heart. la tremblaie remarks, i have car- ried off eighteen young brides, and jeanne is the nineteenth, words evidently taken from the mouth of a halewyn, and not belonging here. . le marquis de coatredrez, luzel, i, ff, meets a young girl on the road, going to the pardon of gudodet, and forces her on to his horse. on the way and at his house she vainly implores help. he takes her to the garden to gather flowers. she asks for his knife to shorten the stems, and kills herself. early in the morning the door of the ch&teau is broken in by kerninon, foster-brother of the victim, who forces coatredrez to fight, and runs him through. . 'rozmelchon,' lu- zel, i, ff, in three versions, and, , 'la fil- leule de du guesclin,' villemarqud, barzaz- breiz, th ed., ff, are very like . the wicked rozmelchon is burned in his ch&teau in luzel's first copy; the other two do not bring him to punishment. villemarque's vil- lain is an englishman, and has his head cloven by du guesclin. . 'marivonnic,' luzel, i, ff, a pretty young girl, is carried off by an english vessel, the captain of which shows himself not a whit behind the feudal seign- eurs in ferocity. the young girl throws her- self into the water. magyar. five versions from recent tradi- tions, all of them interesting, are given in arany and gyulai's collection of hungarian popular poetry, 'molnar anna,' i, ff, nos l- .f — a, p. , no . a man, name- less here, but called in the other versions tik es kiadjiik arany laszlo es gyulai pal. collection of magyar popular poetry, new series, pest, , vols. aigner, has blended nos and (c, a) in 'martin und aennchen,' ungarische volksdichtungen, p. , and has translated no (is), at p. , ' molnar anna,' in each case obscuring or omitting one or two traits which are impor- tant for a comparative view. . lady isabel and the elf-knight martin ajg , or martin sajgo, invites anna miller to go off with him. she refuses; she has a young child and a kind husband. "come," he says; "i have six palaces, and will put you in the seventh," and persists so long that he prevails at last. they went a long way, till they came to the middle of a green wood. he asked her to sit down in the shade of a branchy tree (so all); he would lie in her lap, and she was to look into his head (a point found in all the copies). but look not up into the tree, he said. he went to sleep (so b, d); she looked up into the tree, and saw six fair maids hanging there (so all but e). she thought to herself, he will make me the seventh! (also b, d). a tear fell on the face of the " brave sir," and waked him. you have looked up into the tree, he said. "no, but three orphans passed, and i thought of my child." he bade her go up into the tree. she was not used to go first, she said. he led the way. she seized the opportunity, tore his sword from its sheath (so c), and hewed off his head. she then wrapped herself in his cloak, sprang upon his horse, and returned home, where (in all the copies, as in this) she effected a reconcilement with her husband. b, p. , no , agrees closely with the foregoing. martin ajg calls to anna miller to come with him a long wa)' into the wilderness (so d, e). he boasts of no palaces in this version. he calls anna a long time, tempts her a long time, drags her on to his horse, and carries her off. the scene under the tree is repeated. anna pretends (so d, e) that the tear which drops on mar- tin's face is dew from the tree, and he retorts, how can it be dew from the tree, when the time is high noon? his sword falls out of its sheath as he is mounting the tree, and he asks her to hand it to him. she throws it up (so e), and it cuts his throat in two. rightly served, martin ajg , she says: why did you lure me from home? c, p. , no . martin sajg tells anna miller that he has six stone castles, and is building a seventh. it is not said that he goes to sleep. as in a, anna pulls his sword from the scab- bard. d, p. , no . here reappears the very important feature of the wonderland: "come, let us go, anna miller, a long jour- ney into the wilderness, to a place that flows with milk and honey." anna insists, as be- fore, that martin shall go up the tree first. he puts down his sword; she seizes it, and strikes off his head with one blow. e, p. , no , is somewhat defective, but agrees essen- tially with the others. martin ajg calls anna; she will not come; he carries her off. he lets his sword fall as he is climbing, and asks anna to hand it up to him. she throws it up, as in b, and it cuts his back in two. neus, in his ehstnische volkslieder, main- tains the affinity of ' kallewisohnes tod,' no , p. , with the ulinger ballads, and even of his holepi with the dutch halewyn. the resemblance is of the most distant, and what there is must be regarded as casual. the same of the finnish 'kojoins sohn,' schroter, fin- nische runen, p. , ; 'kojosen poika,' lonnrot, kanteletar, p. . in places where a ballad has once been known, the story will often be remembered after the verses have been wholly or partly forgotten, and the ballad will be resolved into a prose tale, retaining, perhaps, some scraps of verse, and not infrequently taking up new matter, or blending with other traditions. nat- urally enough, a ballad and an equivalent tale sometimes exist side by side. it has already been mentioned that jamieson, who had not found this ballad in scotland, had often come upon the story in the form of a tale inter- spersed with verse. birlinger at one time ( ) had not been able to obtain the ballad in the swabian oberland (where it has since been found in several forms), but only a story agreeing essentially with the second class of german ballads. according to this tradition, a robber, who was at the same time a porten- tous magician, enticed the twelve daughters of a miller, one after another, into a wood, and hanged eleven of them on a tree, but was arrested by a hunter, the brother of the twelve, before he could dispatch the last, and was handed over to justice. the object of the murders was to obtain blood for magical purposes. this story had, so to speak, natu- . lady isabel and the elf-knight ralized itself in the locality, and the place ,where the robber's house had been and that where the tree had stood were pointed out. the hunter-brother was by some conceived of as the wild huntsman, and came to the rescue through the air with a fearful baying of dogs. (birlinger in volksthiimliches aus schwaben, i, , no , and germania, st ser., v, .) the story of the german ballad p has at- tached itself to localities in the neighborhood of weissenbach, aargau, and is told with mod- ifications that connect it with the history of the guggi-, or schongauer-, bad. a rich man by lewd living had become a leper. the devil put it into his head that he could be cured by bathing in the blood of twelve [seven] pure maidens. he seized eleven at a swoop, while they were on their way to church, and hanged them, and the next day enticed away a miller's daughter, who was delivered from death as in the ballad. a medicinal spring rose near the fatal tree. (rochholz, i, .) no pure version of this ballad has been obtained in the harz region, though a mixed form has already been spoken of; but' der reiter in seiden,' prohle, marchen fur die jugend, no , p. , which comes from the western harz, or from some place further north, on the line between kyff- hatiser and hamburg, is, roughly speaking, only 'gert olbert' turned into prose, with a verse or two remaining. 'der betrogene be- triiger,' from miihlbach, miiller's siebenbiirg- ische sagen, no , p. , has for its hero a handsome young man, addicted to women, who obtains from the devil the power of mak- ing them follow his piping, on the terms that every twelfth soul is to be the devil's share. he had taken eleven to a wood, and hanged them on a tree after he had satisfied his de- sire. the brother of a twelfth substituted himself for his sister, dressed in her clothes, snatched the rope from the miscreant, and ran him up on the nearest bough; upon which a voice was heard in the wind, that cried the twelfth soul is mine. grundtvig, in his en- gelske og skotske folkeviser, p. , gives his recollections of a story that he had heard in his youth which has a catastrophe resembling that of english c-f. a charcoal burner had a way of taking up women beside him on his wagon, and driving them into a wood, where he forced them to take off their clothes, then' killed them, and sunk them with heavy stones in a deep moss. at last a girl whom he had carried off in this way got the advantage of him by inducing him to turn away while she was undressing, and then pushing him into the moss. something similar is found in the conclusion of a robber story in grundtvig's danske folkeminder, , no , p. , and in a modern danish ballad cited in dan- marks gamle folkeviser, iv, , note.** another transylvanian tale, schuster, p. , has a fountain, a thirsty bride, and doves (two or three) that sing to her, traits which have perhaps been derived from some ulinger ballad; but the fountain is of an entirely dif- ferent character, and the doves serve a differ- ent purpose. the tale is a variety of 'fitch- ers vogel,' grimms, no , and belongs to the class of stories to which ' bluebeard,' from its extensive popularity, has given name. the magician of 'fitcher's vogel' and of 'blue- beard' becomes, or remains, a preternatural being (a hill-man) further north, as in grundt- vig's gamle danske minder, , no , p. . there is a manifest affinity between these three species of tales and our ballad (also between the german and danish tales and the scandinavian ballad of 'rosmer'), but the precise nature of this affinity it is im- possible to expound. 'bluebeard,' 'la barbe bleue,' perrault, histoires ou contes du temps passd, , p. (lefsvre), has a special re- semblance to the german ballads of the second class in the four calls to sister anne, which represent the cries to father, mother, and broth- er, and agrees with these ballads as to the means by which the death of the malefactor is brought about. looking back now over the whole field cov- ered by this ballad, we observe that the frame- work of the story is essentially the same in english, dutch, danish, swedish, norwegian; in the first class of the german ballads; in polish a; in french, italian, spanish, por- tuguese, and magyar. the woman delivers . lady isabel and the elf-knight the compact is an after-thought, and was in- serted to qualify the improbability. but the lady's equivocation is quite of a piece with memering's oath in 'ravengaard and memer- ing,' grundtvig, no , and king dietrich's in the dietrichsaga, unger, c. , p. .* english a and all the danish, swedish, and norwegian ballads employ the stratagem of lulling the man to sleep, but these are not the only ballads in which the man lays his head in the woman's lap. this trait is observed in nearly all german ballads of the second and third class, in all the well-preserved ones, and also in the magyar ballad. with regard to the german ballads, however, it is purpose- less (for it does not advance the action of the drama in the least), and must be regarded as a relic of an earlier form.f english b-f and all the french ballads dispose of the traitor by a watery death. the scene is shifted from a wood to a sea-coast, pool, or river bank, per- haps to suit the locality to which the ballad had wandered. in english b, where, appar- ently under the influence of other ballads, j the lady is forced to wade into water up to her chin, the knight is pushed off his horse when bending over to give a last kiss for which he had been asked; in english c-f and french a, b, the man is induced to turn his face to save the woman's modesty; in french c-e he is made to pull off her stockings or shoes, and then, while off his guard, pitched into a sea or river. this expedient is sufficiently trivial; but still more so, and grazing on the farcical, is that which is made use of in the dutch bal- lad and those of the german first class, the woman's persuading the man to take off his fine coat lest it should be spattered with her blood, and cutting off his head with his own sword while he is thus, occupied. the span- ish and portuguese ballads make the lady bor- * memering was required by his adversary to swear that he knew not of the sword adelring, and took his oath that he knew of nothing but the hilt being above ground, which was accepted as satisfactory. presently he pulls adelring out of the ground, into which he had thrust the blade, and, being accused of perjury, triumphantly rejoins that he had ■worn that he knew of nothing but the hilt being above ground. dietrich does the same in his duel with sigurd swain. t magyar a is entirely peculiar. apparently the man row the knight's knife to remove some of the trimming of her dress, and in the italian she borrows his sword to cut a bough to shade her horse; for in italian the halt in the wood is completely forgotten, and the last half of the action takes place on horseback. all these contrivances plainly have less claim to be re- garded as primary than that of binding the murderer after he has been put to sleep. the knight in english a is called an elf, and as sueh is furnished with an enchanting horn, which is replaced by a harp of similar properties in b, where, however, the male personage has neither name nor any kind of designation. the elf-horn of english a is again represented by the seductive song of the dutch ballad and of german g-r and z. though the lady is not lured away in the scandinavian ballads by irresistible music,§ danish a, e, norwegian a, b, and swedish d present to her the prospect of being taken to an elf-land, or elysium, and there are traces of this in danish g and d also, and in pol- ish q. the tongue that talks after the head is off, in the dutch ballad and in german a, b, c, e, is another mark of an unearthly being. halewyn, ulver, gert olbert, like the english knight, are clearly supernatural, though of a nondescript type. the elf in english a is not to be interpreted too strictly, for the specific elf is not of a sanguinary turn, as these so conspicuously are. he is compar- atively innocuous, like the hill-man young akin, in another english ballad, who likewise entices away a woman by magical music, but only to make her his wife. but the elf-knight and the rest seem to delight in bloodshed for its own sake; for, as grundtvig has pointed out, there is no other apparent motive for murder in english a, b, the norwegian bal- lads, danish a, swedish a, b, or german lays his head in the woman's lap that he may know, by the falling of her tears, when she has disobeyed his command not to look into the tree. this is like 'bluebeard,' and rather subtle for a balkd. } 'child waters,' * the fair flower of northumberland.' § the murderer has a horn in swedish c, d, as also in the dutch halewyn and the german a, b, c, b, and the horn may be of magical power, but it is not distinctly de- scribed as such. . lady isabel and the elf-knight a-e.* this is true again, for one reason or another, of others of the german ballads, of the french, of most of the italian, and of the hungarian ballads. the nearest approach to the elf-knight, halewyn, etc., is perhaps quintalin, in the saga of samson the fair. he was son of the miller galin. nobody knew who his mother was, but many were of the mind that galin might have had him of a "goddess," an elf or troll woman, who lived under the mill force. he was a thief, and lay in the woods; was versed in many knave's tricks, and had also acquired agreeable arts. he was a great mas- ter of the harp, and would decoy women into the wo ds with his playing, keep them as long as he liked, and send them home preg- nant to their fathers or husbands. a king's daughter, valentina, is drawn on by his music deep into the woods, but is rescued by a friendly power. some parts of her dress and ornaments, which she had laid off in her rapid following up of the harping, are afterwards found, with a great quantity of precious things, in the subaqueous cave of quintalin's mother, who is a complete counterpart to grendel's, and was probably borrowed from be wulf.f this demi-elf quintalin is a tame personage by the side of grendel or of halewyn. hale- wyn does not devour his victims, like grendel: quintalin does not even murder his. he al- lures women with his music to make them serve his lust. we may infer that he would plun- der them, for he is a notorious thief. even two of the oldest danish ballads, b, c, and again danish i and swedish c, make the • the scenery of the halting-place in the wood — the bloody streams in danish a, b, d, h, l, k, the blood-girt spring in german h, j, k, l, o, p, q — is also, to say the least, suggestive of something horribly uncanny. these are undoubtedly ancient features, though the spring, as the dan- ish editor observes, has no longer any signiticancy in the ger- man ballads, because in all of them the previous victims are said to have been hanged. t the saga in bjiirner's nordiska kampadater, c. - . x danish e, i, l, and even a, make the kuight suggest to the lady that she should get her gold together while he is saddling his horse ; but this is a commonplace found in other cases of elopement, and by itself warrants no conclusion as to the knight's rapacity. see 'samson,' grnndtvig, no , c ; 'ribold og guldborg,' no , c , e , etc.; 'r«dse- treacherous knight as lecherous as bloody, and so with german j, k, l, o, p, q, r, s, and italian a, b, c, e, f. this trait is wanting in danish d, where, though traces of the originally demonic nature of the knight re- main, the muckle gold of the maids already appears as the motive for the murders. in the later danish e-h, k, l, and swedish c, d, the original elf or demon has sunk to a re- morseless robber, generally with brothers, sis- ters, or underlings for accomplices. j this is preeminently his character in english c- f, in nearly all the forty polish ballads, and in the two principal ballads of the german second class, g, h, though english d, ger- man h, and polish q retain a trace of the supernatural: the first in the charm by means of which the knight compels the maid to quit her parents, the second in the bloody spring, and the last in the golden mountains. there is nothing that unequivocally marks the rob- ber in the other german ballads of the second class and in those of the third. the question 'weinst du um deines vaters gut?' in i-l, o-s, t-w, is hardly decisive, and only in w and z is it expressly said that the maid had taken valuable things with her (as in swed- ish d, norwegian a, b, english d-f). j-l, o-s, give us to understand that the lady had lost her honor,§ but in all the rest, except the anomalous z, the motive for murder is insuffi- cient. || the woman in these ballads is for the most part nameless, or bears a stock name to which no importance can be attached. not so with the names of the knight. most of these are lille og medelvold,' no , a , b ; , bilag , st. ; , , etc. § so perhaps a polish ballad in wojcicki, i, , akin to the other john and katie ballads. |[ it is well known that in the middle ages the blood of children or of virgins was reputed a specific for leprosy (see, e. g., cassel in the weimar jahrbiicher, i, .) some have thought to find in this fact an explanation of the murders in these ballads and in the bluebeard stories, and, according to kochholz, this theory has been adopted into popular tra- dition in the aargau. so far as this cycle of ballads is con- cerned, there is as much ground for holding that the blood was wanted to cure leprosy as for believing that the gold was wanted for aurum potabile. . lady isabel and the elf-knight peculiar, and the northern ones, though su- perficially of some variety, have yet likeness enough to tempt one to seek for a common original. grundtvig, with considerable diffi- dence, suggests oldemor as a possible ground- form. he conceives that the r of some of the scandinavian names may be a relic of a fore- going herr. the initial h would easily come or go. given such a name as hollemen (dan- ish ), we might expect it .to give place to halewyn, which is both a family and a local name in flanders, if the ballad should pass into the low countries from denmark, a der- ivation that grundtvig is far from asserting. so ulinger, a local appellation, might be sub- stituted for the ulver of danish a. grundt- vig, it must be borne in mind, declines to be responsible for the historical correctness of this genealogy, and would be still less willing to undertake an explanation of the name ol- demor. in place of oldemor, professor sophus bugge, in a recent article, marked by his char- acteristic sharp-sightedness and ingenuity, has proposed hollevern, holevern, or olevern as the base-form of all the northern names for the bloody knight, and he finds in this name a main support for the entirely novel and somewhat startling hypothesis that the ballad we are dealing with is a wild shoot from the story of judith and holofernes.* his argu- ment, given as briefly as possible, is as follows. that the bible story was generally known in the middle ages no one would question. it was treated in a literary way by an anglo- saxon poet, who was acquainted with the scriptural narrative, and in a popular way by poets who had no direct acquaintance with the original.f the source of the story in the ballad must in any case be a tradition many • det philologisk-historiske samfunds mindeskrift i air ledning af dets femogtyveaarige virksomhed, - , bi- drag til den nordiske balladedigtnings historic, p. fe. t bugge cites the old-german judith, mullenhoff u. scherer, denkmauer, d ed., no , p. , to show how the bible story became modified under a popular treatment. , holefern might doubtless pass into halewyn, but there is not the slightest need of holefern to account for halewyn. halewyn, besides being a well-known local and family ap- pellation, is found in two other dutch ballads, one of which times removed from the biblical story; that much should be changed, much dropped, and much added is only what would be expected. beginning the comparison with 'judith' with this caution, it is first submitted that holofernes can be recognized in most of the scandinavian and german names of the knight. the v of the proposed base-form is preserved in ulver, halewyn, and probably in the english elf-knight. it is easy to explain a v's passing over to g, as in ulinger, adelger, and especially under the influence of the very common names in -ger. again, v might easily become b, as in olbert, or m, as in hollemen, olmor; and the initial r of rulleman, ro- mor, etc., may have been carried over from a prefixed herr. j the original name of the heroine has been lost, and yet it is to be noticed that gert ol- bert's mother, in german a, is called fru jutte. the heroine in this same ballad is named helena (linnich in f); in others (german c, d, e), odilia. these are names of saints, and this circumstance may tend to show that the woman in the ballad was originally con- ceived of as rather a saint than a secular char- acter, though in the course of time the story has so changed that the devout widow who sought out her country's enemy in his own camp has been transformed into a young maid who is enticed from home by a treacherous suitor. it is an original trait in the ballad that the murderer, as is expressly said in many copies, is from a foreign land. according to an eng- lish version (e), he comes from the north, as holofernes does, "venit assur ex montibus ab aquilone" (jud. xvi, ). the germ of this outlandish knight's blood- (looters and feys, p. , no ; hoffmann, p. , no ) has no kind of connection with the present, and is no more likely to have derived the name from this than this from that. it shall not be denied that adelger, hilsinger, rulle- mann, reimvord might have sprung from or have been sug- gested by holofern, under the influence of familiar termina- tions, but it may be remarked that hildebrand, ravengaard, valdemar, rosmer, if they had occurred in any version, would have occasioned no greater difficulty. . lady isabel and the elf-knight thirstiness is found in tbe truculent part that holofernes plays in the bible, his threats and devastations. that the false suitor appears without companions is in keeping with the ballad style of representation; yet we might find suggestions of the assyrian's army in the swains, the brothers, the stable-boy, whom the maid falls in with on her way home. the splendid promises made in many of the ballads might have been developed from the passage where holofernes, whose bed is de- scribed as wrought with purple, gold, and precious stones, says to judith, thou shalt be great in the house of nebuchadnezzar, and thy name shall be named in all the earth (xi, ). in many forms of the ballad, especially the dutch and the german, the maid adorns her- self splendidly, as judith does: she even wears some sort of crown in dutch a , german d , as judith does in x, , xvi, (mit- ram). in the english d, e, f, the oldest danish, a, and the polish versions, the maid, like judith, leaves her home in the night. the piedmontese castd, italian e [there is a castle in nearly all the italian ballads, and also in dutch b], may remind us of holo- fernes' castra. the knight's carrying off the maid, lifting her on to his horse in many copies, may well come from a misunderstanding of elevaverunt in judith x, : et cum in faciem ejus inten- disset, adoravit eum, prosternens se super ter- ram. et elevaverunt eam servi holofernis, jubente domino suo.* in german a gert olbert and helena are said to ride three days and nights, and in danish d the ride is for three days; and we may remember that judith killed holofernes the fourth day after her arrival in his camp. the place in which the pair alight is, ac- cording to german g , a deep dale, and this agrees with the site of holofernes' camp in the valley of bethulia. there is a spring or stream in many of the ballads, and also a • the old german poem makes holofernes kindle with desire for judith the moment he sees her, and he bids his men bring her to his tent. they lift her up and bring her in. spring in the camp, in which judith bathes (xii, ). most forms of the ballad make the knight, after the halt, inform the maid that she is to die, as many maids have before her in the same place; e. g., german g : 'der ulinger hat eylff jungfrawen gehangen, die zwolfft hat er gefangen.' f this corresponds with the passage in judith's song (xvi, ), dixit se . . . infantes meos dare in praedam etvirgenes incaptiv- i t a t e m: but it is reasonable to suppose that the ballad follows some version of the bible words that varied much from the original. the incident of the maid's lousing and tous- ing her betrayer's hair, while he lies with his head in her lap, may have come from judith seizing holofernes by the hair before she kills him, but the story of samson and delilah may have had influence here. according to many german versions, the murderer grants the maid three cries before she dies. she invokes jesus, mary, and her brother. or she utters three sighs, the first to god the father, the second to jesus, the third to her brother. these cries or sighs seem to take the place of judith's prayer, confirma me, domine deus israel (xiii, ), and it may also be well to remember that holofernes granted judith, on her request, permission to go out in the night to pray. the dutch, low-german, scandinavian, and other versions agree in making the woman kill the knight with his own sword, as in judith. the dutch and low-german [also danish f, swedish a] have preserved an original trait in making the maid hew off the murderer's head. english and french versions dispose of the knight differently: the maid pushes him into sea or river. perhaps, in some older form of the story, after the head was cut off, the trunk was pushed into the water: cf. ju- dith xiii, : abscidit caput ejus et . . . evol- vit corpus ejus truncum. the words appre- hendit comam capitis ejus (xiii, ) have their t it should be observed that these words are from the dove's warning. . lady isabel and the elf-knight parallel in dutch a, : "zy nam bet hoofd al by het haer." the dutch ballad makes the maid carry the head with her. "singing and ringing" she rode through the wood: judith sings a song of praise to the lord after her return home. in english c-f, may colven comes home before dawn, as judith does. the dutch a says, when to her father's gate she came, she blew the horn like a man. compare judith xiii, : et dixit judith a longe custodibus murorum, aperite portas! the dutch text goes on to say that when the father heard the horn he was delighted at his daughter's return: and judith v, , et factum est, cum audissent viri vocem ejus, vo- caverunt presbyteros civitatis. the conclusion of dutch a is that there was a banquet held, and the head was set on the table. so judith causes holofernes' head to be hung up on the city wall, and after the enemy have been driven off, the jews hold a feast. the icelandic version, though elsewhere much mutilated, has a concluding stanza which certainly belongs to the ballad: asa went into a holy cell, never did she harm to man. this agrees with the view taken of the hero- ine of the ballad as a saint, and with the bible account that judith lived a chaste widow after her husband's demise. danish d is unique in one point. the rob- ber has shown the maid a little knoll, in which the "much gold" of the women he has mur- dered lies. when she has killed him, the maid says," i shall have the much gold," and takes as much as she can carry off. compare with this holofernes putting judith into his treasury (xii, ),* her carrying off the cono- poeum (xiii, ), and her receiving from the people all holofernes' gold, silver, clothes, jewels, and furniture, as her share of the plun- der of the assyrian camp (xv, ). it is, * simply because he had no other apartment at his dis- position. shall we add, the polish mother putting her perhaps, a perversion of this circumstance that the robber in german g, h, is refused per- mission to keep his costly clothes. english d seems also to have preserved a portion of the primitive story, when it makes the maid tell her parents in the morning all that has happened, whereupon they go with her to the sea-shore to find the robber's body. the foundation for this is surely the bible account that judith makes known her act to the elders of the city, and that the jews go out in the morning and fall on the enemy's camp, in which holofernes' body is lying. in swedish c the robber's sisters mourn over his body, and in judith xiv, the assyrians break out into loud cries when they learn of holofernes' death. in all this it is simply contended that the story of judith is the remote source of the ballad, and it is conceded that many of the correspondences which have been cited may be accidental. neither the latin text of ju- dith nor any other written treatment of the story of judith is supposed to have been known to the author of the ballad. the knowledge of its biblical origin being lost, the story would develop itself in its own way, ac- cording to the fashion of oral tradition. and so the pious widow into whose hands god gave over his enemies is converted into a fair maid who is enticed by a false knight into a wood, and who kills him in defence of her own life. a similar transformation can be shown else- where in popular poetry. the little katie of certain northern ballads (see grundtvig, no ) is a maid among other maids who pre- fers death to dishonor; but was originally saint catherine, daughter of the king of egypt, who suffered martyrdom for the faith under the emperor maxentius. all the ver- sions of the halewyn ballad which we possess, even the purest, may be far removed from the primitive, both as to story and as to met- rical form. new features would be taken up, and old ones would disappear. one copy has daughter into the "new room," in which she kept her valu- ables . lady isabel and the elf-knight preserved genuine particulars, which another has lost, but dutch tradition has kept the capital features best of all.* professor bugge's argument has been given with an approach to fulness out of a desire to do entire justice to the distinguished au- thor's case, though most of the correspondences adduced by him fail to produce any effect upon my mind. the case is materially strengthened by the dutch text c (' roland'), which was not ac- cessible at the time bugge's paper was writ- ten. the name roland is not so close to hol- ofern as halewyn, but is still within the range of conceivable metamorphosis. the points of coincidence between dutch c and the story of judith are these: the woman, first making an elaborate toilet,f goes out to seek the man, who is spoken of as surrounded with soldiers; she is challenged on the way; finds roland lying on his bed, which he proposes she shall share (or lose her life) ; j she cuts off his head, which, after her return home, she exposes from her window.§ if this was the original form of the dutch ballad, and the dutch ballad is the source from which all the other ballads have come, by processes of dropping, taking up, and trans- forming, then we may feel compelled to admit that this ballad might be a wild shoot from the story of judith. any one who bears in mind the strange changes which stories un- dergo will hesitate to pronounce this impossi- * bugge holds that the ballad was derived by the scandi- navians from the germans, more precisely by the danes from a low german form. this, he says, would follow from what he has maintained above, and he finds support for his view in many particular traits of norse copies. thus, one of the norwegian names for the murderer is alemarken. the first three syllables are very near to the danish oldemor; but -ken seems to be the german diminutive suffix, and can only be explained by the ballad having come from germany. t this toilet derives importance solely from the agreement with judith x, : for the rest it is entirely in the ballad style. compare the toilets in ' hafsfrun,' afzelius, no , in, , arwidsson, no , n, , wigstriim, folkdiktniug, no , p. , landstad, no , p. : 'guldsmedens dat- ter,' grundtvig, no. , iv, ff, wigstriim, ib., no , p. , landstad, no , p. : torkilds riim, lyngbye, far- eiske qvseder, , , afzelius, in, : * stolts karin,' arwidsson, no , i, : 'liti kerstis hevn,' landstad, no , p. = 'lord thomas and fair annet': in many of which there is a gold crown. there is a man's toilet in grundtvig, no , iv, . ble. what poor ophelia says of us human creatures is even truer of ballads: "we know what we are, but know not what we may be." but when we consider how much would have to be dropped, how much to be taken up, and how much to be transformed, before the he- brew "gest" could be converted into the european ballad, we naturally look for a less difficult hypothesis. it is a supposition at- tended with less difficulty that an indepen- dent european tradition existed of a half- human, half-demonic being, who possessed an irresistible power of decoying away young maids, and was wont to kill them after he got them into his hands, but who at last found one who was more than his match, and lost his own life through her craft and courage. a modification of this story is afforded by the large class of bluebeard tales. the quin- talin story seems to be another variety, with a substitution of lust for bloodthirst. the dutch ballad may have been affected by some lost ballad of holofern, and may have taken up some of its features, at least that of carry- ing home halewyn's [roland's] head, which is found in no other version. || a a is translated by grundtvig in engelske og skotske folkeviser, no , p. : b b in the same, no , p. : c a, b, d a, b, blended, no , p. . a, by rosa warrens, schottische v. l. der vorzeit, no , p. : gerhard, p. . c b, by rosa warrens, no } bugge would naturally have seen the assyrian scouts that judith falls in with (x, ) in roland's father, mother, and brother, all of whom hail the maid as she is making for roland's quarters (c - ); still more " holofernes ja- cebat in lecto" (xiii, ), in " roland die op zijn bedde log," c . § judith xiv, : "suspendite caput hoc super muros nostros." the cutting off and bringing home of the head, as need hardly be said, is not of itself remarkable, being found everywhere from david to beowulf, and from beowulf to 'sir andrew barton.' || dutch b, which, as before said, has been completely re- written, makes the comparison with holofernes: 'ik heb van't leven hem beroofd, in mynen schoot heb ik zyn hoofd, hy is als holofernes gelooft.' zy reed dan voort als judith wys, zoo regt nae haer vaders paleis, daer zy wierd ingehaeld met eer en prys. . lady isabel and the elf-knight , p. : wolf, halle der volker, i, , ham, p. , by knortz, lied. u. rom. alt- hausschatz, . c, d, etc., as in alling- englands, no , p. . a a. buchan's ballads of the north of scotland, i, . b. motherwell's ms., p. . fair lady isabel sits in her bower sewing, aye as the gowans grow gay there she heard an elf-knight blawing his horn. the first morning in may 'if i had yon horn that i hear blawing, and yon elf-knight to sleep in my bosom.' this maiden had scarcely these words spoken, till in at her window the elf-knight has luppen. 'it's a very strange matter, fair maiden,' said he, 'i canna blaw my horn but ye call on me. 'but will ye go to yon greenwood side? if ye canna gang, i will cause you to ride.' he leapt on a horse, and she on another, and they rode on to the greenwood together. 'light down, light down, lady isabel,' said he, 'we are come to the place where ye are to die.' 'hae mercy, hae mercy, kind sir, on me, till ance my dear father and mother i see.' 'seven king's-daughters here hae i slain, and ye shall be the eight o them.' 'o sit down a while, lay your head on my knee, that we may hae some rest before that i die.' she stroakd him sae fast, the nearer he did creep, wi a sma charm she lulld him fast asleep. wi his ain sword-belt sae fast as she ban him, wi his ain dag-durk sae sair as she dang him. 'if seven king's-daughters here ye hae slain, lye ye here, a husband to them a'.' b a. buchan's mss, ir, fol. . b. buchan's ballads of the north of scotland, n, . c. motherwell's ms., p. . d. harris ms., no . theke came a bird out o a bush, on water for to dine, an sighing sair, says the king's daughter, 'o wae's this heart o mine!' he's taen a harp into his hand, he's harped them all asleep, except it was the king's daughter, who one wink couldna get. he's luppen on his berry-brown steed, taen 'er on behind himsell, then baith rede down to that water that they ca wearie's well. 'wide in, wide in, my lady fair, no harm shall thee befall; oft times i've watered my steed wi the waters o wearie's well.' the first step that she stepped in, she stepped to the knee; and sighend says this lady fair, 'this water's nae for me.' 'wide in, wide in, my lady fair, no harm shall thee befall; oft times i've watered my steed wi the water o wearie's well.' the next step that she stepped in, she stepped to the middle; 'o,' sighend says this lady fair, i've wat my gowden girdle.' . lady isabel and the elf-knight 'wide in, wide in, my lady fair, no harm shall thee befall; oft times have i watered my steed wi the water o wearie's well.' the next step that she stepped in, she stepped to the chin; 'o,' sighend says this lady fair, 'they sud gar twa loves twin.' 'seven king's-daughters i've drownd there, in the water o wearie's well, and i 'll make you the eight o them, and ring the common bell.' 'since i am standing here,' she says, 'this dowie death to die, one kiss o your comely mouth i'm sure wad comfort me.' he louted him oer his saddle bow, to kiss her cheek and chin; she's taen him in her arms twa, an thrown him headlong in. 'since seven king's daughters ye've drowned there, in the water o wearie's well, i'll make you bridegroom to them a', an ring the bell mysell.' and aye she warsled, and aye she swam, and she swam to dry lan; she thanked god most cheerfully the dangers she oercame. o a. herd's mss, i, . b. herd's ancient and modern scottish songs, , i, . c. motherwell's minstrelsy, p. , =b "collated with a copy obtained from recitation." false sir john a wooing came to a maid of beauty fair; may colven was this lady's name, her father's only heir. he wood her butt, he wood her ben, he wood her in the ha, until he got this lady's consent to mount and ride awa. he went down to her father's bower, where all the steeds did stand, and he's taken one of the best steeds that was in her father's land. he's got on and she's got on, and fast as they could flee, until they came to a lonesome part, a rock by the side of the sea. 'loup off the steed,' says false sir john, 'your bridal bed you see; for i have drowned seven young ladies, the eight one you shall be. 'cast off, cast off, my may colven, all and your silken gown, for it's oer good and oer costly to rot in the salt sea foam. 'cast off, cast off, my may colven, all and your embroiderd shoen, for they 're oer good and oer costly to rot in the salt sea foam.' 'o turn you about, o false sir john, and look to the leaf of the tree, for it never became a gentleman a naked woman to see.' he turnd himself straight round about, to look to the leaf of the tree; so swift as may colven was to throw him in the sea. 'o help, o help, my may colven, o help, or else i 'll drowji; i 'll take you home to your father's bower, and set you down safe and sound.' 'no help, no help, o false sir john, no help, nor pity thee; tho seven king's-daughters you have drownd, but the eight shall not be me.' so she went on her father's steed, as swift as she could flee, and she came home to her father's bower before it was break of day. . lady isabel and the elf-knight up then and spoke the pretty parrot: 'may colven, where have you been? what has become of false sir john, that woo'd you so late the streen? 'he woo'd you butt, he woo'd you ben, he woo'd you in the ha, until he got your own consent for to mount and gang awa.' 'o hold your tongue, my pretty parrot, lay not the blame upon me; your cup shall be of the flowered gold, your cage of the root of the tree.' up then spake the king himself, in the bed-chamber where he lay: 'what ails the pretty parrot, that prattles so long or day?' 'there came a cat to my cage door, it almost a worried me, and i was calling on may colven to take the cat from me.' a. sharpe's ballad book ( ), no , p. . b. bu- chan's ballads of the north of scotland, n, . c. mother- well's minstrelsy, appendix, p. , no. xxiv, one stanza. o heard ye of a bloody knight, lived in the south country? for he has betrayed eight ladies fair and drowned them in the sea. then next he went to may collin, she was her father's heir, the greatest beauty in the land, i solemnly declare. 'i am a knight of wealth and might, of townlands twenty-three; and you 'll be lady of them all, if you will go with me.' 'excuse me, then, sir john,' she says; 'to wed i am too young; without i have my parents' leave, with you i darena gang.' 'your parents' leave you soon shall have, in that they will agree; for i have made a solemn vow this night you'll go with me.' from below his arm he pulled a charm, and stuck it in her sleeve, and he has made her go with him, without her parents' leave. of gold and silver she has got with her twelve hundred pound, and the swiftest steed her father had she has taen to ride upon. so privily they went along, they made no stop or stay, till they came to the fatal place that they call bunion bay. it being in a lonely place, and no house there was nigh, the fatal rocks were long and steep, and none could hear her cry. 'light down,' he said, 'fair may collin, light down and speak with me, for here i've drowned eight ladies fair, and the ninth one you shall be.' 'is this your bowers and lofty towers, so beautiful and gay? or is it for my gold,' she said, 'you take my life away?' 'strip off,' he says, ' thy jewels fine, so costly and so brave, for they are too costly and too fine to throw in the sea wave.' 'take all i have my life to save, o good sir john, i pray; let it neer be said you killed a maid upon her wedding day.' 'strip off,' he says, ' thy holland smock, that's bordered with the lawn, for it's too costly and too fine to rot in the sea sand.' . lady isabel and the elf-knight 'o turn about, sir john,' she said, 'your back about to me, for it never was comely for a man a naked woman to see.' but as he turned him round about, she threw him in the sea, saying, ' lie you there, you false sir john, where you thought to lay me. 'o lie you there, you traitor false, where you thought to lay me, for though you stripped me to the skin, your clothes you've got with thee.' her jewels fine she did put on, so costly, rich and brave, and then with speed she mounts his steed, so well she did behave. that lady fair being void of fear, her steed being swift and free, and she has reached her father's gate before the clock struck three. then first she called the stable groom, he was her waiting man; soon as he heard his lady's voice he stood with cap in hand. 'where have you been, fair may collin? who owns this dapple grey?' 'it is a found one,' she replied, 'that i got on the way.' then out bespoke the wily parrot unto fair may collin: 'what have you done with false sir john, that went with you yestreen?' 'o hold your tongue, my pretty parrot, and talk no more to me, and where you had a meal a day o now you shall have three.' then up bespoke her father dear, from his chamber where he lay: 'what aileth thee, my pretty poll, that you chat so long or day?' 'the cat she came to my cage-door, the thief i could not see, and i called to fair may collin, to take the cat from me.' then first she told her father dear the deed that she had done, and next she told her mother dear concerning false sir john. 'if this be true, fair may collin, that you have told to me, before i either eat or drink this false sir john i 'll see.' away they went with one consent, at dawning of the day, until they came to carline sands, and there his body lay. his body tall, by that great fall, by the waves tossed to and fro, the diamond ring that he had on was broke in pieces two. and they have taken up his corpse to yonder pleasant green, and there they have buried false sir john, for fear he should be seen. e j. h. dixon, ancient poems, ballads, and songs of the peasantry of england, p. . an outlandish knight came from the north lands, and he came a-wooing to me; he told me he'd take me unto the north lands, and there he would marry me. 'come, fetch me some of your father's gold, and some of your mother's fee, and two of the best nags out of the stable, where they stand thirty and three.' she fetched him some of her father's gold, and some of her mother's fee, and two of the best nags out of the stable, where they stood thirty and three. . lady isabel and the elf-knight she mounted her on her milk-white steed, he on the dapple grey; they rode till they came unto the sea-side, three hours before it was day. 'light off, light off thy milk-white steed, and deliver it unto me; six pretty maids have i drowned here, and thou the seventh shalt be. 'pull off, pull off thy silken gown, and deliver it unto me; methinks it looks too rich and too gay to rot in the salt sea. 'pull off, pull off thy silken stays, and deliver them unto me; methinks they are too fine and gay to rot in the salt sea. 'pull off, pull off thy holland smock, and deliver it unto me; methinks it looks too rich and gay to rot in the salt sea.' 'if i must pull off my holland smock, pray turn thy back unto me; for it is not fitting that such a ruffian a naked woman should see.' he turned his back towards her and viewed the leaves so green; she catched him round the middle so small, and tumbled him into the stream. he dropped high and he dropped low, until he came to the side; 'catch hold of my hand, my pretty maiden, and i will make you my bride.' 'lie there, lie there, you false-hearted man, lie there instead of me; six pretty maids have you drowned here, and the seventh has drowned thee.' she mounted on her milk-white steed, and led the dapple grey; she rode till she came to her own father's hall, three hours before it was day. the parrot being in the window so high, hearing the lady, did say, 'i'm afraid that some ruffian has led you astray, that you have tarried so long away.' 'don't prittle nor prattle, my pretty parrot, nor tell no tales of me; thy cage shall be made of the glittering gold, although it is made of a tree.' the king being in the chamber so high, and hearing the parrot, did say, 'what ails you, what ails you, my pretty parrot, that you prattle so long before day?' 'it's no laughing matter,' the parrot did say, 'that so loudly i call unto thee, for the cats have got into the window so high, and i'm afraid they will have me.' 'well turned, well turned, my pretty parrot, well turned, well turned for me; thy cage shall be made of the glittering gold, and the door of the best ivory.' p roxburghe ballads, m, . 'go fetch me some of your father's gold, and some of your mother's fee, and i 'll carry you into the north land, and there i 'll marry thee.' she fetchd him some of her father's gold, and some of her mother's fee; she carried him into the stable, where horses stood thirty and three. she leapd on a milk-white steed, and he on a dapple-grey; they rode til they came to a fair river's side, three hours before it was day. 'o light, o light, you lady gay, o light with speed, i say, for six knight's daughters have i drowned here, and you the seventh must be.' . lady isabel and the elf-knight 'go fetch the sickle, to crop the nettle that grows so near the brim, for fear it should tangle my golden locks, or freckle my milk-white skin.' he fetchd the sickle, to crop the nettle that grows so near the brim, and with all the strength that pretty polly had she pushd the false knight in. 'swim on, swim on, thou false knight, and there bewail thy doom, for i don't think thy cloathing too good to lie in a watry tomb.' she leaped on her milk-white steed, she led the dapple grey; she rid till she came to her father's house, three hours before it was day. a. burden. song xix of forbes's ' cantus,' aber- deen, , d ed., has, as pointed out by motherwell, minstrelsy, p. ix, nearly the same burden: the gowans are gay, the first morn- ing of may. and again, a song in the tea table miscellany, as remarked by buchan, there gowans are gay, the first morning of may: p. of the th ed., london, . b. no doubt furnished to motlierwell by buchan, as a considerable number of ballads in this part of his ms. seem to ha ve been. . then in. . kind sir, said she. . that we may some rest before i die. ii . the near. . to them ilk ane. is given by motherwell, minstrelsy, p. ix, but apparently to improve metre and secure rhyme, thus: lady isabel sits in her bouir sewing, she heard an elf-knight his horn blowing. b b. buchan's printed copy differs from the man- uscript very slightly, except in spelling. ", '. aft times hae i. '. and sighing sair says. *, s. and sigh- ing says. . till she swam. *. then thanked. . she'd. 'who knocked so loudly at the ring?' the parrot he did say; 'o where have you been, my pretty polly, all this long summer's day?' 'o hold your tongue, parrot, tell you no tales of me; your cage shall be made of beaten gold, which is now made of a tree.' o then bespoke her father dear, as he on his bed did lay: 'o what is the matter, my parrot, that you speak before it is day?' 'the cat's at my cage, master, and sorely frighted me, and i calld down my polly to take the cat away.' c. like a b, derived by motherwell from buchan. , , . wade in, wade in. *. and thanked. dixon, scottish traditional versions of an- cient ballads, p. , printing b from the man- uscript, makes one or two trivial changes. d is only this fragment. * mony a time i rade wi my brown foal the water o wearie's wells. 'leave aff, leave aff your gey mantle, it's a' gowd but the hem; leave aff, leave [aff], it's far owre gude to weet i the saut see faem.' she wade in, an he rade in, till it took her to the knee; wi sighin said that lady gay 'sic wadin's no for me.' # # * * he rade in, and she wade in, till it took her to the chin; wi sighin said that ladie gay 'i 'll wade nae farer in.' * 'sax king's dochters i hae drowned, an the seventh you sall be.' # * * * . lady isabel and the elf-knight 'lie you there, you fause young man, where you thought to lay me.' b. the printed copy follows the manuscript with only very trifling variations: colvin for col- yen; , up then spak; , ere day; , al- most worried. , . he's courted. s. till once he got. between and is inserted: she's gane to her father's coffers, where all his money lay, and she's taken the red, and she's left the white, and so lightly as she tripped away. she's gane down to her father's stable, * and she's taken the best, and she's left the warst. he rode on, and she rode on, they rode a long summer's day, until they came to a broad river, an arm of a lonesome sea. ** 'for it's seven king's daughters i have drowned here, and the eighth i 'll out make with thee.' ** 'cast off, cast off your silks so fine, and lay them on a stone.' a' 'cast off, cast off your holland smock, and lay it on this stone, for it 's too fine.' . . w she's twined her arms about his waist, and thrown him into , 'o hold a grip of me, may colvin, for fear that i should' * father's gates and safely i 'll set you down. 'o lie you there, thou false sir john, o lie you there,' said she, 'for you lie not in a caulder bed than the ane you intended for me.' s. father's gates. *. at the breaking of the day. *. yestreen. between and is inserted: up then spake the pretty parrot, in the bonnie cage where it lay: 'o what hae ye done with the false sir john, that he behind you does stay?' .' 'your cage will be made of the beaten gold, and the spakes of ivorie.' . 'it was a cat cam . . . i thought't would have' . . . d a. . colin. b. buchan's copy makes many slight changes which are not noticed here. i . west countrie. after is inserted: all ladies of a gude account as ever yet were known; this traitor was a baron knight, they calld him fause sir john. after : 'thou art'the darling of my heart, i say, fair may colvin, so far excells thy beauties great that ever i hae seen.' . hae towers, towns twenty three. . five hunder. s. the best an steed. *. fatal end. *. binyan's bay. . rich and rare. *. sea ware. after : then aff she's taen her jewels fine, and thus she made her moan: 'hae mercy on a virgin young, i pray you, gude sir john.' 'cast aff, cast aff, fair may colvin, your gown and petticoat, for they 're too costly and too fine to rot by the sea rock.' . before her. . to toss. s. her steed. *. what hast thou made o fause. s. charlestown sands. sharpe thinks car- . gil brenton line sands means carlinseugh sands on the coast of forfarshire. after : ye ladies a', wherever you be. that read this mournful song, i pray you mind on may colvin, and think on fause sir john. aff they've taen his jewels fine, to keep in memory; and sae i end my mournful sang and fatal tragedy. o. motherwell's one stanza is: o heard ye eer o a bloody knight that livd in the west countrie? for he has stown seven ladies fair, and drownd them a' in the sea. e. s. of the. s. but so. gil brenton a. a. 'gil brenton,' jamieson brown ms., fol. . b. ' chil brenton,' william tytler brown ms., no . b. 'cospatrick,' scott's minstrelsy, n, ( ). c. 'we were sisters, we were seven,' cromek's re- mains of nithsdale and galloway song, p. . d. 'lord dingwall,' buchan's ballads of the north of scotland, i, . e. elizabeth cochrane's song-book, no . f. a. 'lord brangwill,' motherwell's mss, p. . b. 'lord bengwill,' motherwell's minstrelsy, ap- pendix, p. xvi. g. 'bothwcll,' herd's ancient and modern scots songs, p. . h. kinloch mss, v, . eight copies of this ballad are extant, four of them hitherto unpublished. a a, no in the jamieson-brown ms., is one of twenty bal- lads written down from the recitation of mrs brown of falkland, by her nephew, robert scott, in , or shortly before. from these twenty thirteen were selected, and, having first been revised by mrs. brown, were sent, with two others, to william tytler in the year just mentioned. william tytler's ms. has disappeared, but a list of the ballads which it contained, with the first stanza of each, is given by dr anderson, in nichols's illustrations of the literary history of the eighteenth cent- ury, vn, . b is the 'cospatrick' of the border minstrelsy, described by scott as taken down from the recitation of a lady (known to be miss christian rutherford, his mother's sister) "with some stanzas transferred from herd's copy, and some readings adopted from a copy in mrs brown's manuscript under the title of child brenton," that is, from a b. c purports to be one of a considerable num- ber of pieces, "copied from the recital of a peasant-woman of galloway, upwards of ninety years of age." though overlaid with verses of cunningham's making (of which forty or fifty may be excided in one mass) and though re- touched almost everywhere, both the ground- work of the story and some genuine lines remain unimpaired. the omission of most of the passage referred to, and the restoration of. the stanza form, will give us, perhaps, a tiling of shreds and patches, but still a ballad as near to genuine as some in percy's reliques or even scott's minstrelsy. d and f are (the former presumably, the second certainly) from recitation of the first quarter of this . gil brenton century. e is one of the few ballads in eliz- abeth cochrane's song-book, and probably of the first half of the last century. g, the ear- liest printed form of the ballad, appeared in herd's first collection, in the year . h was taken down from recitation by the late dr hill burton in his youth. a, b, and c agree in these points: a bride, not being a maid, looks forward with alarm to her wedding night, and induces her bower- woman to take her place for the nonce. the imposture is detected by the bridegroom, through the agency of magical blankets, sheets, and pillows, a; or of blankets, bed, sheet, and sword, b; or simply of the billie blin, c. (the sword is probably an edi- torial insertion; and jamieson, illustrations of northern antiquities, p. , doubts, but without sufficient reason, the billie blin.) the bridegroom has recourse to his mother, who demands an explanation of the bride, and elicits a confession that she had once upon a time encountered a young man in a wood, who subjected her to violence. before they parted, he gave her certain tokens, which he enjoined her to be very careful of, a lock of his hair, a string of beads, a gold ring, and a knife. b omits the knife, and c the beads. the mother goes back to her son, and asks what he bad done with the tokens she had charged him never to part with. he owns that he had presented them to a lady, one whom he would now give all his possessions to have for his wife. the lady of the greenwood is identified by the tokens. a, c, and d make the mother set a golden chair for the bride, in which none but a maid can sit, d [no leal maid will sit till bidden, c]. in d the chair is declined; in c, taken without bidding; in a the'significance of the • in his note-book, p. , motherwell writes, with less than .his usual discretion : " the ballad of bothwell, cospatric, or gil brenton, appears to be copied from an account of the birth of makbcth given by wintown." the substance of this account is, that macbeth's mother had a habit of re- pairing to the woods for wholesome air, and that, during one of her rambles, she fell in with a fair man, really the devil, who passed the day with her, and got on her a son. "and of that dede in taknyng he gave his lemman thare a rvng, chair has been lost. e, f, g employ no kind of test of maidenhood, — the bride frankly avows that she is with child to another man; and d, as well as e, f, g, omits the substitution of the chambermaid. the tokens in d are a chain, a ring, and three locks of hair; in e, gloves and a ring; in f, g, green gloves, a ring, and three locks [plaits] of hair. only the ring remains in h. "this ballad," says motherwell ( ), " is very popular, and is known to reciters under a variety of names. i have heard it called lord bangwell, bengwill, dingwall, brengwill, etc., and the seven sisters, or the leaves of liud." he adds: "there is an unedited ballad in scotland, which is a nearer approximation to the danish song, inasmuch as the substitu- tion of the maiden sister for the real bride constitutes a prominent feature of the tale." * (minstrelsy, introduction, lxix and xc.) scott remarks that cospatrickf "was the designation of the earl of dunbar, in the days of wallace and bruce." mr mac math informs me that it is in use at the present day in the families of the earl of home and of dunbar of mochrum, bart, who, among others, claim descent from the ancient earls of dunbar and march. the story of the ballad might, of course, attach itself to any person prominent in the region where the ballad was known. swedish. three swedish versions of this ballad were given by afzelius: a, 'riddar olle' in two-line stanzas, n, ; b, two-line stanzas, n, ; c, two-line stan- zas, n, : no , i, - of bergstrom's edition. besides these, there are two frag- ments in cavallius and stephens's unprinted collection: d, stanzas; e, stanzas, the latter printed in grundtvig, v, .j all and bad hyr that scho suld kepe that wele, and bald for hys luve that jwele." cronykil, book vi, ch. xviii, - . t scott says: "cospatrick, comes patricius;" but cos- (gos-)patrick is apparently servant of patrick, like gil-pat- rick (kil-patrick). mr macmath suggests to me that gil brenton may have originally been gil-brandon, which seems very likely. see notes and queries, th s., x, . } a fragment in rancken's 'nagra prof af folksang,' p. f, belongs not to 'riddar olle, ' as there said, but to . gil brenton these were obtained from recitation in the present century. a comes nearest to our a, b. like scottish b, it seems to have been compounded from several copies. sir olof betrothed ingalilla, and carried her home for the spousal, wearing a red gold crown and a wan cheek. ingalilla gave birth to twin-boys. olof had a maid who resembled ingalilla com- pletely, and who, upon ingalilla's entreaty, consented to play the part of bride on the morrow. dressed in ingalilla's clothes, blue kirtle, green jacket, etc., and wearing five gold rings and a gold crown, the maid rode to church, with ingalilla at her back, and her beauty was admired by all as she came and went. but outside of the church were a good many musicians; and one of these piped out, "god-a-mercy, ingalilla, no maid art thou!" ingalilla threw into the piper's hand some- thing which made him change his tune. he was an old drunken fellow, and no one need mind what he sang. after five days of drink- ing, they took the bride to her chamber, not without force. ingalilla bore the light before her, and helped put her to bed ; then lay down herself. olof had over him a fur rug, which could talk as well as he, and it called out, 'hear me, sir olof, hear what i say; thou hast taken a strumpet, and missed a may.' and olof, 'hear, little inga, sweetheart,' he said; 'what didst thou get for thy maidenhead ?' * inga explained. her father was a strange sort of man, and built her bower by the sea- strand, where all the king's courtiers took ship. nine had broken in, and one had robbed her of her honor. he had given her an em- broidered sark, a blue kirtle, green jacket, black mantle, gloves, five gold rings, a red gold crown, a golden harp, and a silver-mounted knife, which she now wishes in the youngster's 'herr aster och froken sissa,' though the burden is ' rid- dar olof.' other verses, at p. , might belong to either. 'riddar ola,' e. wigstrom's folkdiktning, p. , no , belongs with the danish ' guldsmedens datter,' grundtvig, no . * the inquiry seems to refer to the morning gift. "die body. the conclusion is abruptly told in two stanzas. olof bids inga not to talk so, for he is father of her children. he embraces her and gives her a queen's crown and name. b has the same story, omitting the incident of the musician. c has preserved this circum- stance, but has lost both the substitution of the waiting-woman for the bride and the mag- ical coverlet. d has also lost these important features of the original story; e has retained them. danish. 'brud ikke ma,' grundtvig, no , v, . there are two old versions (more properly only one, so close is the agree- ment), and a third from recent tradition. this last, grundtvig's c, from jutland, , seems to be of swedish origin, and, like swedish c, d, wants the talking coverlet, though it has kept the other material feature, that of the substitution. a is found in two manuscripts, one of the sixteenth and the other of the sev- enteenth century. b is the well-known 'in- gefred og gudrune,' or 'herr samsings nat- tergale,' syv, rv, no , danske viser, no , translated in jamieson's illustrations, p. , and by prior, in, . a later form of b, from recent recitation, , is given in kristensen's jydske folkeviser, i, no . the story in a runs thus: salverlad and vendelrod [ingefred and gudrune] were sit- ting together, and vendelrod wept sorely. sai- verlad asked her sister the reason, and was told there was cause. would she be bride one night? vendelrod would give her wedding clothes and all her outfit. but salverlad asked for bridegroom too, and vendelrod would not give up her bridegroom, happen what might. she went to church and was married to samsing. on the way from church they met a spaeman [b, shepherd], who warned vendelrod that samsing had some nightin- gales that could tell him whether he had mar- ried a maid or no. the sisters turned aside morgengabe ist ein geschenk des mannes als zeichen der liebe (in signum amoris), fur die uebergabe der vollen schonheit (in honore pulchritudinis) und der jungfriiulich- keit (pretium virginitatis)." weinhold, die deutschen frauen in dem mittelalter, s. . . gil brenton and changed clothes, but could not change cheeks! salverlad was conducted to sam- sing's house and placed on the bride bench. an unlucky jester called out, "methinks this is not vendelrod!" but a gold ring adroitly thrown into his bosom opened his eyes still wider, and made him pretend he had meant nothing. the supposed bride is put to bed. samsing invokes his nightingales: "have i a maid or no?" they reply, it is a maid that lies in the bed, but vendelrod stands on the floor. samsing asks vendelrod why she avoided her bed, and she answers: her father lived on the strand; her bower was broken into by a large company of men, and one of them robbed her of her honor. in this case there are no tokens for evidence. sam- sing owns immediately that he and his men had broken into the bower, and vendelrod's agony is over. some of the usual tokens, gold harp, sark, shoes, and silver-mounted knife, are found in the later c. danish d is but a single initial stanza. besides salverlad and vendelrod, there is a considerable number of danish ballads char- acterized by the feature that a bride is not a maid, and most or all of these have similari- ties to ' gil brenton.' 'hr. find og vendel- rod,' grundtvig, no , has even the talking blanket (sometimes misunderstood to be a hed-board). in this piece there is no substi- tution. vendelrod gives birth to children, and the news makes find jump over the table. still he puts the question mildly, who is the father, and recognizes that he is the man, upon hearing the story of the bower on the strand, and seeing half a gold ring which vendelrod had received " for her honor." in 'ingelilles bryllup,' grundtvig, no , blidelild is induced to take ingelild's place by the promise that she shall marry ingelild's brother. hr. magnus asks her why she is so sad, and says he knows she is not a maid. blidelild says, "since you know so much, i will tell you more," and relates ingelild's ad- venture,— how she had gone out to the river, and nine knights came riding by, etc. [so a; in b and c we have the bower on the strand, as before]. hr. magnus avows that he was the ninth, who stayed when eight rode away. blidelild begs that he will allow her to go and look for some lost rings, and uses the opportunity to send back ingelild in her stead. various other scandinavian ballads have more or less of the story of those which have been mentioned. in the danish 'brud i vaande,' grundtvig, no , a bride is taken with untimely pains while being "brought home." the question asked in several of the scottish ballads, whether the saddle is uncom- fortable, occurs in a, b; the bower that was forced by eight swains and a knight in a, c, d, f; the gifts in a, b, f; and an express acknowledgment of the act of violence by the bridegroom in a, b, d. we find all of these traits except the first in the corresponding swedish ballad ' herr aster och froken sissa,' afzelius, no , new ed., no , ; the saddle and broken bower in swedish d, grundtvig, no , bilag ; only the saddle in swedish f, grundtvig, no. , bilag , and , ar- widsson, no ; the saddle and gifts in ice- landic a, b, c, d, e, grundtvig, no , bilag , , , . 'peder og malfred,' grundtvig, no , in four versions, the oldest from a manuscript of , represents sir peter as riding away from home about a month after his marriage, and meeting a woman who informs him that there is a birth in his house. he returns, and asks who is the' father. sir peter satisfies himself that he is the man by identifying the gifts, in a, b, c, d; and in a, b we have also the bower by the strand. in 'oluf og ellinsborg,' grundtvig, no , a, b, c, one of the queen's ladies is ha- bitually sad, and is pressed by her lover to ac- count for this. she endeavors to put him off with fictitious reasons, but finally nerves her- self to tell the truth : she was walking by her- self in her orchard, when five knights came riding by, and one was the cause of her grief. oluf owns it was all his doing. a swedish ballad, remarkably close to the danish, from a manuscript of the date (the oldest danish version is also from a manuscript of . gil beenton the th century), is 'riddar lage och stolts elensborg,' arwidsson, no . 'iver hr. jonsan,' grundtvig, no , in five versions, the oldest of the th century, exhibits a lady as fearing the arrival of her lover's ship, and sending her mother to meet him, while she takes to her bed. immediately upon her betrothed's entering her chamber, she abruptly discloses the cause of her trou- ble. eight men had broken into her bower on the strand, and the ninth deprived her of her honor. iver hr. jonsan, with as little delay, confesses that he was the culprit, and makes prompt arrangements for the wedding. there is another series of ballads, repre- sented by 'leesome brand' in english, and by ' redselille og medelvold ' in danish, which describe a young woman, who is on the point of becoming a mother, as compelled to go off on horseback with her lover, and suffering from the ride. we find the question, whether the saddle is too narrow or the way too long, in the danish ' bolde hr. nilaus' lan,' grundt- vig, , 'redselille og medelvold,' grundt- vig, c, d, e, i, k, l, m, p, q, v, y, and the norwegian versions, a, d, e, f, of ' san- nens sorg,' grundtvig, , bilag , , , * the gifts also occur in grundtvig's a, z, and norwegian d, bilag . perhaps no set of incidents is repeated so often in northern ballads as the forcing of the bower on the strand, the giving of keepsakes, the self-identification of the ravisher through these, and his full and hearty reparation. all or some of these traits are found in many bal- lads besides those belonging to the groups here spoken of: as ' hildebrand og hilde,' e, i, grundtvig, no , and norwegian a, m, ; 'guldsmedens datter,' grundtvig, , and its swedish counterpart at p. of the pref- ace to the- same, and in eva wigstrom's folk- diktning, p. , no ; 'liden kirstins dans,' grundtvig, (translated by prior, ), and norwegian b, c, bilag , ; 'jomfruens harpesleet,' grundtvig, (translated by jamieson, 'illustrations,' p. , prior, , buchanan, p. ), and swedish d, bilag , • and again, " is it the saddle, your horse, or your true- love "" almost exactly as in our b, b, f, grundtvig, c, swedish a, afzelius, . so landstad, , ; arwidsson, ; grundtvig, g; a, d; kristensen, i, no , n, no a, c. a very pretty norwegian tale has for the talisman a stepping-stone at the side of the bed : asbjarnsen og moe, no , 'vesle aase gaasepige,' dasent, d ed., p. . an eng- lish prince had pictures taken of all the hand- somest princesses, to pick his bride by. when the chosen one arrived, aase the goose-girl informed her that the stone at the bedside knew everything and told the prince; so if she felt uneasy on any account, she must not step on it. the princess begged aase to take her place till the prince was fast asleep, and then they would change. when aase came and put her foot on the stone, the prince asked, "who is it that is stepping into my bed?" "a maid clean and pure," answered the stone. by and by the princess came and took aase's place. when they were getting up in the morning, the prince asked again, " who is it stepping out of my bed?" "one that has had three children," said the stone. the prince sent his first choice away, and tried a second. aase faithfully warned her, and she had cause for heeding the advice. when aase stepped in, the stone said it was a maid clean and pure; when* the princess stepped out, the stone said it was one that had had six children. the prince was longer in hitting on a third choice. aase took the bride's place once more, but this time the prince put a ring on her fin- ger, which was so tight that she could not get it off, for he saw that all was not right. in the morning, when he asked, " who is stepping out of my bed?" the stone answered, " one that has had nine children." then the prince asked the stone to clear up the mystery, and it revealed how the princesses had put little aase in their place. the prince went straight to aase to see if she had the ring. she had tied a rag over her finger, pretending she had cut it; but the prince soon had the rag off, recognized his ring, and aase got the prince, for the good reason that so it was to be. the arti ce of substituting waiting-woman e, f, afzelius, , landstad, , . so the scottish ballsfd, 'the cruel brother,'b f. . gil brenton for bride has been thought to be derived from the romance of tristan, in which brangwain [brengain, brangaene] sacrifices herself for isold : scott's ' sir tristrem,' ii, ; gottfried v. strassburg, xviii, ed. bechstein. grundt- vig truly remarks that a borrowing by the ro- mance from the popular ballad is as probable a supposition as the converse; and that, even should we grant the name of the hero of the ballad to be a reminiscence of that of isold's attendant (e. g. brangwill of brangwain), nothing follows as to the priority of the ro- mance in respect to this passage. a similar artifice is employed in the ballad of 'torkild trundeson,' danske viser, (translated by prior, ); afzelius, n, , from the danish; arwidsson, . the resemblance is close to 'ingelilles bryllup,' c, grundtvig, . see also, further on, ' the twa knights.' the billie blin presents himself in at least four scottish ballads: ' gil brenton,' c; 'wil- lie's lady;' one version of 'young beichan;' two of 'the knight and shepherd's daugh- ter ;' and also in the english ballad of ' king arthur and the king of cornwall,' here under the slightly disfigured name of barlow beanie.* in all he is a serviceable household demon; of a decidedly benignant disposition in the first four, and, though a loathly fiend with seven heads in the last, very obedient and useful when once thoroughly subdued. he is clearly of the same nature as the dutch belewitte and german bilwiz, characterized by grimm as a friendly domestic genius, penas, ffuote holde; and the names are actually asso- ciated in a passage cited by grimm from voet: " de illis quos nostrates appellant beeld- wit et blinde belien, a quibus nocturna visa videri atque ex iis arcana revelari putant." f though the etymology of these words is not unencumbered with difficulty, bil seems to • the auld belly-blind man in 'earl ricbard,' , , kin loch's a. s. ballads, p. , retains the bare name; and belly blind, or billie blin, is the scotch name for the game of blindman's-buff. t gisbertns voetius, de miraculis, disput., n, . cited point to a just and kindly-tempered being. bilvis, in the seventh book of saxo grammat- icus, is an aged counsellor whose bent is to make pence, while his brother bolvfs, a blind man, is a strife-breeder and mischief-maker.j the same opposition of bil and bol apparently occurs in the edda, grfmnismal, *, where bil-eygr and bol-eygr (bal-eygr) are. appel- latives of odin, which may signify mild-eyed and evil-eyed. bolvfs is found again in the hrqmund's saga, under the description of 'blind the bad,' and 'the carl blind whose name was bavfs.' but much of this saga is taken from the story of helgi hundingslayer; and blind the bad in the saga is only sae- mund's blindr inn bolvfsi, — the blind man whose baleful wit sees through the disguise of helgi, and all but betrays the rash hero to his enemies; that is, odin in his malicious mood (bblverkr), who will presently be seen in the ballad of 'earl brand' masking as old carl hood, "aye for ill and never for good." orig- inally and properly, perhaps, only the bad member of this mythical pair is blind; but it would not be at all strange that later tradi- tion, which confuses and degrades so much in the old mythology, should transfer blindness to the good-natured one, and give rise to the anomalous billie blind. see grimm, deutsche mythologie, ,i, ff; uhland, zur ge- schichte der dichtung u. sage, m, ff, vn, ; schmeller, bayerisches worterbuch, n, ff, ed. ; van den bergh, woorden- boek der nederlandsche mythologie, . it has been suggested to me that "the haleigh throw " in e is a corruption of the high leith row, a street in edinburgh. i have not as yet been able to obtain informa- tion of such a street. d is translated by grundtvig, engelske og skotske folkeviser, no , p. . also by schmeller, bayerisches worterbnch, from j. prav torius's alectryomantia, p. . x merlin, in layamon, v. ff (as pointed ont by grundtvig, i, ), says that his mind is balewiae, " mi gnat is bseliwis," and that be is not disposed to gladness, mirth, or good words. . gil brenton a a. jamieson-brown ms., no , fol. . b. william tyt- ler's brown ms., no . from the recitation of mrs brown of falkland, , aberdeenshire. gil brenton has sent oer the fame, he's woo'd a wife an brought her hame. full sevenscore o ships came her wi, the lady by the greenwood tree. there was twal an twal wi beer an wine, an twal an twal wi muskadine: an twall an twall wi bouted flowr, an twall an twall wi paramour: an twall an twall wi baken bread, an twall an twall wi the goud sae red. sweet willy was a widow's son, an at her stirrup-foot he did run. an she was dressd i the finest pa, but ay she loot the tears down fa. an she was deckd wi the fairest flowrs, but ay she loot the tears down pour. 'o is there water i your shee? or does the win blaw i your glee? 'or are you mourning i your meed that eer you left your mither gueede? 'or are ye mourning i your tide that ever ye was gil brenton's bride?' 'the[re] is nae water i my shee, nor does the win blaw i my glee: 'nor am i mourning i my tide that eer i was gil brenton's bride: 'but i am mourning i my meed that ever i left my mither gueede. 'but, bonny boy, tell to me what is the customs o your country.' 'the customs o't, my dame,' he says, 'will ill a gentle lady please. 'seven king's daughters has our king wedded, an seven king's daughters has our king bedded. 'but he's cutted the paps frae their breast-bane, an sent them mourning hame again. 'but whan you come to the palace yate, his mither a golden chair will set. 'an be you maid or be you nane, o sit you there till the day be dane. 'an gin you 're sure that you are a maid, ye may gang safely to his bed. 'but gin o that you be na sure, then hire some woman o youre bowr.' o whan she came to the palace yate, his mither a golden chair did set. an was she maid or was she nane, she sat in it till the day was dane. an she's calld on her bowr woman, that waiting was her bowr within. 'five hundred pound, maid, i 'll gi to the, an sleep this night wi the king for me.' whan bells was rung, an mass was sung, an a' man unto bed was gone, gil brenton an the bonny maid intill ae chamber they were laid. 'o speak to me, blankets, an speak to me, sheets, an speak to me, cods, that under me sleeps; 'is this a maid that i ha wedded? is this a maid that i ha bedded?' 'it's nae a maid that you ha wedded, but it's a maid that you ha bedded. 'your lady's in her bigly bowr, an for you she drees mony sharp showr.' o he has taen him thro the ha, and on his mither he did ca. 'i am the most unhappy man that ever was in christend lan. . gil beenton 'i woo'd a maiden meek an mild, an i've marryed a woman great wi child.' 'o stay, my son, intill this ha, an sport you wi your merry men a'. 'an i 'll gang to yon painted howr, an see how't fares wi yon base whore.' the auld queen she was stark an strang; she gard the door flee aff the ban. the auld queen she was stark an steer; she gard the door lye i the fleer. 'o is your bairn to laird or loon? or is it to your father's groom?' 'my bairn's na to laird or loon, nor is it to my father's groom. 'but hear me, mither, on my knee, an my hard wierd i 'll tell to thee. 'o we were sisters, sisters seven, we was the fairest under heaven. 'we had nae mair for our seven years wark but to shape an sue the king's son a sark. 'o it fell on a saturday's afternoon, whan a' our langsome wark was dane, 'we keist the cavils us amang, to see which shoud to the greenwood gang. 'ohone, alas! for i was youngest, an ay my wierd it was the hardest. 'the cavil it did on me fa, which was the cause of a' my wae. 'for to the greenwood i must gae, to pu the nut but an the slae; 'to pu the red rose an the thyme, to strew my mother's bowr and mine. 'i had na pu'd a flowr but ane, • till by there came a jelly hind greeme, 'wi high-colld hose an laigh-colld shoone, an he 'peard to be some kingis son. 'an be i maid or be i nane, he kept me there till the day was dane. 'an be i maid or be i nae, he kept me there till the close of day. 'he gae me a lock of yallow hair, an bade me keep it for ever mair. 'he gae me a carket o gude black beads, an bade me keep them against my needs. 'he gae to me a gay gold ring, an bade me ke[e]p it aboon a' thing. 'he gae to me a little pen-kniffe, an bade me keep it as my life.' 'what did you wi these tokens rare that ye got frae that young man there?' 'o bring that coffer hear to me, and a' the tokens ye sal see.' an ay she ranked, an ay she flang, till a' the tokens came till her han. 'o stay here, daughter, your bowr within, till i gae parley wi my son.' o she has taen her thro the ha, an on her son began to ca. 'what did you wi that gay gold ring i bade you keep aboon a' thing? 'what did you wi that little pen-kniffe i bade you keep while you had life? 'what did you wi that yallow hair i bade you keep for ever mair? 'what did you wi that good black beeds i bade you keep against your needs?' 'i gae them to a lady gay i met i the greenwood on a day. 'an i would gi a' my father's lan, i had that lady my yates within. 'i would gi a' my ha's an towrs, i had that bright burd i my bowrs.' . gil brenton 'i am the most unhappy man that ever was in christen land! 'i courted a maiden meik and mild, and i hae gotten naething hut a woman wi child.' 'o stay, my son, into this ha, and sport ye wi your merrymen a'; 'and i will to the secret hour, to see how it fares wi your paramour.' the carline she was stark and sture; she aff the hinges dang the dure. 'o is your bairn to laird or loun? or is it to your father's groom?' 'o hear me, mother, on my knee, till my sad story i tell to thee. 'o we were sisters, sisters seven, we were the fairest under heaven. 'it fell on a summer's afternoon, when a' our toilsome task was done, 'we cast the kavils us amang, to see which suld to the grene-wood gang. 'o hon, alas! for i was youngest, and aye my wierd it was the hardest. 'the kavil it on me did fa, whilk was the cause of a' my woe. 'for to the grene-wood i maun gae, to pu the red rose and the slae; 'to pu the red rose and the thyme, to deck my mother's hour and mine. 'i hadna pu'd a flower but ane, when by there came a gallant hende, 'wi high-colld hose and laigh-colld shoon, and he seemd to be sum king's son. 'and be i maid or be i nae, he kept me there till the close o day. 'and be i maid or be i nane, he kept me there till the day was done. 'he gae me a lock o his yellow hair, and bade me keep it ever mair. 'he gae me a carknet o bonny beads, and bade me keep it against my needs. 'he gae to me a gay gold ring, and bade me keep it abune a' thing.' 'what did ye wi the tokens rare that ye gat frae that gallant there?' 'o bring that coffer unto me, and a' the tokens ye sall see.' 'now stay, daughter, your hour within, while i gae parley wi my son.' o she has taen her thro the ha, and on her son began to ca. 'what did you wi the bonny beads i bade ye keep against your needs? 'what did you wi the gay gowd ring i bade ye keep abune a' thing?' 'i gae them a' to a ladye gay i met in grene-wood on a day. 'but i wad gie a' my halls and tours, i had that ladye within my hours. 'but i wad gie my very life, i had that ladye to my wife.' 'now keep, my son, your ha's and tours; ye have that bright burd in your hours. 'and keep, my son, your very life; ye have that ladye to your wife.' now or a month was cum and gane, the ladye bore a bonny son. and't was weel written on his breast-bane, 'cospatrick is my father's name.' 'o rowe my ladye in satin and silk, and wash my son in the morning milk.' . gil beenton cromek'a remains of nithsdale and galloway song, p. . "from the recital of a peasant-woman of galloway, upwards of ninety years of age." we were sisters, we were seven, we were the fairest under heaven. and it was a' our seven years wark to sew our father's seven sarks. and whan our seven years wark was done, we laid it out upo the green. we coost the lotties us amang, wha wad to the greenwood gang, to pu the lily hut and the rose, to strew witha' our sisters' bowers. i was youngest, my weer was hardest. and to the greenwood i bud gae, there i met a handsome childe, high-coled stockings and laigh-coled shoon, he bore him like a king's son. an was i weel, or was i wae, he keepit me a' the simmer day. an though i for my hame-gaun sich[t], he keepit me a' the simmer night. he gae to me a gay gold ring, and bade me keep it aboon a' thing. he gae to me a cuttie knife, and bade me keep it as my life: three lauchters o his yellow hair, for fear we wad neer meet mair. * * # # next there came shippes three, to carry a' my bridal fee. gowd were the beaks, the sails were silk, wrought wi maids' hands like milk. they came toom and light to me, but heavie went they waie frae me. they were fu o baken bread, they were fu of wine sae red. my dowry went a' by the sea, but i gaed by the grenewode tree. an i sighed and made great mane, as thro the grenewode we rade our lane. an i ay siched an wiped my ee, that eer the grenewode i did see. 'is there water in your glove, or win into your shoe? o[r] am i oer low a foot-page to rin by you, ladie?' 'o there's nae water in my glove, nor win into my shoe; but i am maning for my mither wha's far awa frae me.' * * * » * 'gin ye be a maiden fair, meikle gude ye will get there. 'if ye be a maiden but, meikle sorrow will ye get. 'for seven king's daughters he hath wedded, but never wi ane o them has bedded. 'he cuts the breasts frae their breast-bane, an sends them back unto their dame. 'he sets their backs unto the saddle, an sends them back unto their father. 'but be ye maiden or be ye nane, to the gowden chair ye draw right soon. 'but be ye leman or be ye maiden, sit nae down till ye be bidden.' was she maiden or was she nane, to the gowden chair she drew right soon. was she leman or was she maiden, she sat down ere she was bidden. . gil beenton out then spake the lord's mother; says, 'this is not a maiden fair. 'in that chair nae leal maiden eer sits down till they be bidden.' the billie blin then outspake he, as he stood by the fair ladie. 'the bonnie may is tired wi riding, gaurd her sit down ere she was bidden.' * * # # # but on her waiting-maid she ca'd: 'fair ladie, what's your will wi me?' ' ye maun gie yere maidenheid this night to an unco lord for me.' 'i hae been east, i hae been west, i hae been far beyond the sea, but ay, by grenewode or by bower, i hae keepit my virginitie. 'but will it for my ladie plead, i 'll gie't this night to an unco lord.' * # # # # when bells were rung an vespers sung, an men in sleep were locked soun, childe branton and the waiting-maid into the bridal bed were laid. 'o lie thee down, my fair ladie, here are a' things meet for thee; 'here's a bolster for yere head, here is sheets an comelie weids.' * # * * 'now tell to me, ye billie blin, if this fair dame be a leal maiden.' 'i wat she is as leal a wight as the moon shines on in a simmer night. 'i wat she is as leal a may as the sun shines on in a simmer day. 'but your bonnie bride's in her bower, dreeing the mither's trying hour.' then out o his bridal bed he sprang, an into his mither's bower he ran. 'o mither kind, o mither dear, this is nae a maiden fair. 'the maiden i took to my bride has a bairn atween her sides. 'the maiden i took to my bower is dreeing the mither's trying hour.' then to the chamber his mother flew, and to the wa the door she threw. she stapt at neither bolt nor ban, till to that ladie's bed she wan. says, ' ladie fair, sae meek an mild, wha is the father o yere child?' 'o mither dear,' said that ladie, 'i canna tell gif i sud die. 'we were sisters, we were seven, we were the fairest under heaven. 'and it was a' our seven years wark to sew our father's seven sarks. 'and whan our seven years wark was done, we laid it out upon the green. 'we coost the lotties us amang, wha wad to the greenwode gang; 'to pu the lily but an the rose, to strew witha' our sisters' bowers. 'i was youngest, my weer was hardest. 'and to the greenwode i bu[d] gae. 'there i met a handsome childe, 'wi laigh-coled stockings and high-coled shoon, he seemed to be some king's son. 'and was i weel or was i wae, he keepit me a' the simmer day. 'though for my hame-gaun i oft sicht, he keepit me a' the simmer night. . gil brenton 'he gae to me a gay gold ring, an bade me keep it aboon a' thing; 'three lauchters o his yellow hair, for fear that we suld neer meet mair. 'o mither, if ye 'll believe nae me, break up the coffer, an there ye 'll see.' an ay she coost, an ay she flang, till her ain gowd ring came in her hand. and scarce aught i the coffer she left, till she gat the knife wi the siller heft, three lauchters o his yellow hair, knotted wi ribbons dink and rare. 'i wad gie a' my lands and rents, i had that ladie within my brents. 'i wad gie a' my lands an towers, i had that ladie within my bowers.' 'keep still yere lands, keep still yere rents; ye hae that ladie within yere brents. 'keep still yere lands, keep still yere towers; ye hae that lady within your bowers.' then to his ladie fast ran he, an low he kneeled on his knee. 'o tauk ye up my son,' said he, 'an, mither, tent my fair ladie. she cried to her son, 'where is the ring your father gave me at our wooing, an i gae you at your hunting? 'what did ye wi the cuttie knife, i bade ye keep it as yere life?' 'o haud yere tongue, my mither dear; i gae them to a lady fair. 'o wash him purely i the milk, and lay him saftly in the silk. 'an ye maun bed her very soft, for i maun kiss her wondrous oft.' it was weel written on his breast-bane childe branton was the father's name. it was weel written on his right hand he was the heir o his daddie's land. buchan's ancient ballads and songs of the north of scot- land, i, . we were sisters, sisters seven, bowing down, bowing down the fairest women under heaven. and aye the birks a-bowing , they kiest kevels them amang, wha woud to the grenewood gang. the kevels they gied thro the ha, and on the youngest it did fa. now she must to the grenewood gang, to pu the nuts in grenewood hang. she hadna tarried an hour but ane till she met wi a highlan groom. he keeped her sae late and lang till the evening set and birds they sang. he gae to her at their parting a chain o gold and gay gold ring; and three locks o his yellow hair; bade her keep them for evermair. when six lang months were come and gane. a courtier to this lady came. lord dingwall courted this lady gay, and so he set their wedding-day. a little boy to the ha was sent, to bring her horse was his intent. as she was riding the way along, she began to make a heavy moan. . gil brenton 'what ails you, lady,' the boy said, 'that ye seem sae dissatisfied? 'are the bridle reins for you too strong? or the stirrups for you too long?' 'but, little boy, will ye tell me the fashions that are in your countrie?' 'the fashions in our ha i ' tell, and o them a' i 'll warn you well. 'when ye come in upon the floor, his mither will meet you wi a golden chair. 'but be ye maid or be ye nane, unto the high seat make ye boun. 'lord dingwall aft has been beguild by girls whom young men hae defiled. 'he's cutted the paps f rae their breast-bane, and sent them back to their am hame.' when she came in upon the floor, his mother met her wi a golden chair. but to the high seat she made her boun: she knew that maiden she was nane. when night was come, they went to bed, and ower her breast his arm he laid. he quickly jumped upon the floor, and said, ' i've got a vile rank whore.' unto his mother he made his moan, says, 'mother dear, i am undone. 'ye've aft tald, when i brought them hame, whether they were maid or nane. 'i thought i'd gotten a maiden bright; i've gotten but a waefu wight. 'i thought i'd gotten a maiden clear, but gotten but a vile rank whore.' 'when she came in upon the floor, i met her wi a gofden chair. 'but to the high seat she made her boun, because a maiden she was nane.' 'i wonder wha's tauld that gay ladie the fashion into our countrie.' 'it is your little boy i blame, whom ye did send to bring her hame.' then to the lady she did go, and said, 'o lady, let me know 'who has defiled your fair bodie: ye 're the first that has beguiled me.' 'o we were sisters, sisters seven, the fairest women under heaven. 'and we kiest kevels us amang, wha woud to the grenewood gang; 'for to pu the finest flowers, to put around our summer bowers. 'i was the youngest o them a'; the hardest fortune did me befa. 'unto the grenewood i did gang, and pu'd the nuts as they down hang. 'i hadna stayd an hour but ane till i met wi a highlan groom. 'he keeped me sae late and lang till the evening set and birds they sang. 'he gae to me at our parting a chain of gold and gay gold ring; 'and three locks o his yellow hair; bade me keep them for evermair. » then for to show i make nae lie, look ye my trunk, and ye will see.' unto the trunk then she did go, to see if that were true or no. and aye she sought, and aye she flang, till these four things came to her hand. then she did to her ain son go, and said, ' my son, ye 'll let me know, 'ye will tell to me this thing: what did you wi my wedding-ring?' . oil bkenton 'mother dear, i 'll tell nae lie: now when nine months were come and gane, i gave it to a gay ladie. the lady she drought hame a son. 'i would gie a' my ha's and towers, it was written on his breast-bane i had this bird within my bowers.' lord dingwall was his father's name. 'keep well, keep well your lands and strands; he's taen his young son in his arms, ye hae that bird within your hands. and aye he praisd his lovely charms. 'now, my son, to your bower ye 'll go: and he has gien him kisses three, comfort your ladie, she's full o woe.' and doubled them ower to his ladie. e elizabeth cochrane's song-book, p. , no . lord benwall he's a hunting gone; hey down, etc. he's taken with him all his merry men. hey, etc. as he was walking late alone, he spyed a lady both brisk and young. he keeped her so long and long, from the evening late till the morning came. all that he gave her at their parting was a pair of gloves and a gay gold ring. lord benwall he's a wooing gone, and he's taken with him all his merry men. as he was walking the haleigh throw, he spy'd seven ladyes all in a row. he cast a lot among them all; upon the youngest the lot did fall. he wedded her and brought her home, and by the way she made great moan. 'what aileth my dearest and dayly flower? what ails my dear, to make such moan? 'does the steed carry you too high? or does thy pillow sit awry? 'or does the wind blow in thy glove? or is thy heart after another love?' 'the steed does not cany me too high, nor does.my pillow sit awry. 'nor does the wind blow in my glove, nor is my heart after another love.' when they were doun to supper set, the weary pain took her by the back. 'what ails my dearest and dayly flower? what ails my dearest, to make such moan?' 'i am with child, and it's not to thee, and oh and alas, what shall i doe!' 'i thought i had got a maid so mild; but i have got a woman big with child. 'i thought i bad got a dayly flower; i have gotten but a common whore.' * # * * # 'rise up, lord benwall, go to your hall, and cherrish up your merry men all.' * * # # * 'as i was walking once late alone, i spy'd a lord, both brisk and young. 'he keeped me so long and long. from the evening late till the morning came. 'all that he gave me at our parting was a pair of gloves and a gay gold ring. 'if you will not believe what i tell to thee, there's the key of my ?offer, you may go and see.' . gil beenton his mother went, and threw and flang, till to her hand the ring it came. « lord benwall, wilt thou tell to me where is the ring i gave to thee?' 'now i would give all my lands and tower, to have that lady in my bower. 'i would give all my lands and rents, to have that lady in my tents.' 'you need not give all your lands and tower, for you have that lady in your power. 'you need not give all your lands and rents, for you have that lady in your tents.' now it was written on the child's breast-bone lord benwall's sirname and his name. it was written on the child's right hand that he should be heir of lord benwall's land. 'canst cloath my lady in the silk, and feed my young son with the milk.' p a. motherwell's ms., p. . from the recitation of mrs thomson, february, . b. motherwell's minstrelsy, ap- pendix, p. xvi, the first stanza only. there were three sisters in a bouir, eh down and oh down and the youngest o them was the fairest flour. eh down and o down and we began our seven years wark, to sew our brither john a sark. when seven years was come and gane, there was nae a sleeve in it but ane. but we coost kevils us amang wha wud td the green-wood gang. but tho we had coosten neer sae lang, the lot it fell on me aye to gang. i was the youngest, and i was the fairest, and alace! my wierd it was aye the sairest. till i had to the woods to gae. to pull the cherrie and the slae, and to seek our ae brither, we had nae mae. but as i was walking the leas o lyne, i met a youth gallant and fine; wi milk white stockings and coal black shoon; he seemed to be some gay lord's son. but he keepit me there sae lang, sae lang, till the maids in the morning were singing their sang. would i wee or would i way, he keepit me the lang simmer day. would i way or would i wight. he keepit me the simmer night. but guess what was at our parting? a pair o grass green gloves and a gay gold ring. he gave me three plaits o his yellow hair, in token that we might meet mair. but when nine months were come and gane, this gallant lord cam back again. he's wed this lady, and taen her wi him; but as they were riding the leas o lyne, this lady was not able to ride, 'o does thy saddle set thee aside? or does thy steed ony wrang way ride? 'or thinkst thou me too low a groom? 'or hast thou musing in thy mind for the leaving of thy mother kind?' . gil brenton 'my saddle it sets not me aside, nor does my steed ony wrang way ride. 'nor think i thee too low a groom 'but i hae musing in my mind for the leaving of my mother kind.' 'i 'll bring thee to a mother of mine, as good a mother as eer was thine.' 'a better mother she may be, but an unco woman she 'll prove to me.' but when lords and ladies at supper sat, her pains they struck her in the back. when lords and ladies were laid in bed, her pains they struck her in the side. 'rise up, rise up, now, lord brangwill, for i'mwi child and you do not know v he took up his foot and gave her sic a bang till owre the bed the red blood sprang. he is up to his mother's ha, calling her as hard as he could ca. 'with milk-white stockings and coal-black shoon; he seemd to be sum gay lord's son. , 'he keepit me sae lang, sae lang, till the maids in the morning were singing their sang. 'would i wee or would i way, he keepit me the lang simmer day. 'would i way or would i wight, he keepit me the simmer night. 'but guess ye what was at our parting? a pair of grass green gloves and a gay gold ring. 'he gave me three plaits o his yellow hair, in token that we might meet mair.' 'o dochter dear, will ye show me these tokens that he gave to thee?' 'altho my back should break in three, unto my coffer i must be.' 'thy back it shall not break in three, for i 'll bring thy coffer to thy knee.' 'i went through moss and i went through aye she coost, and aye she hang, thinking to get some lily flouir. 'but to my house i have brocht a hure. 'i thocht to have got a lady baith meek and mild, but i've got a woman that's big wi child.' t 'o rest you here, lord brangwill,' she said, 'till i relieve your lady that lyes so low.' 'o daughter dear, will you tell to me who is the father of your babie?' * yes, mother dear, i will tell thee who is the father of my babie. 'as i was walking the leas o lyne, i met a youth gallant and fine; till these three tokens came to her hand. then she is up to her son's ha, calling him hard as she could ca. ' son, o son, will you tell me 'what ye did wi the grass green gloves and gay gold ring that ye gat at your own birth-een?' 'i gave them to as pretty a may as ever i saw in a simmer day. 'i wud rather than a' my lands sae broad that i had her as sure as eer i had. 'i would rather than a' my lands sae free i had her here this night wi me.' . gil brenton 'i wish you good o your lands sae broad, 'gar wash my auld son in the milk, for ye have her as sure as eer ye had. gar deck my lady's bed wi silk.' 'i wish ye good o your lands sae free, he gave his auld son kisses three, for ye have her here this night wi thee.' but he doubled them a' to his gay ladye. q herd's ancient and modern scots songs, , p. ; ed. , i, . as bothwell was walking in the lowlands alane, hey down and a down he met six ladies sae gallant and fine. hey down and a down he cast his lot amang them a', and on the youngest his lot did fa. he 'a brought her frae her mother's bower, unto his strongest castle and tower. but ay she cried and made great moan, and ay the tear came trickling down. 'come up, come up,' said the foremost man, 'i think our bride comes slowly on.' 'o lady, sits your saddle awry, or is your steed for you owre high?' 'my saddle is not set awry, nor carries me my steed owre high; 'but i am weary of my life, since i maun be lord bothwell's wife.' • he's blawn his horn sae sharp and shrill, up start the deer on evry hill. he's blawn his horn sae lang and loud, up start the deer in gude green-wood. his lady mother lookit owre the castle wa, and she saw them riding ane and a'. she's calld upon her maids by seven, to mak his bed baith saft and even. she's calld upon her cooks by nine, to make their dinner fair and fine. when day was gane, and night was come, 'what ails my love on me to frown? 'or does the wind blow in your glove? or runs your mind on another love?' 'nor blows the wind within my glove, nor runs my mind on another love; 'but i nor maid nor maiden am, for i'm wi bairn to another man.' 'i thought i'd a maiden sae meek and sae mild, but i've nought but a woman wi child.' his mother's taen her up to a tower, and lockit her in her secret bower. 'now, doughter mine, come tell to me, wha's bairn this is that you are wi.' "' o mother dear, i canna learn wha is the faither of my bairn, i 'but as i walkd in the lowlands my lane, i met a gentleman gallant and fine. 'he keepit me there sae late and sae lang, frae the evning late till the morning dawn. 'and a' that he gied me to my propine was a pair of green gloves and a gay gold ring; 'three lauchters of his yellow hair, in case that we shoud meet nae mair.' his lady mother went down the stair: 'now son, now son, come tell to me, where's the green gloves i gave to thee?' . gil brenton 'i gied to a lady sae fair and so fine the green gloves and a gay gold ring. 'but i wad gie my castles and towers, i had that lady within my bowers. 'but i wad gie my very life, i had that lady to be my wife.' 'now keep, now keep your castles and towers, you have that lady within your bowers. 'now keep, now keep your very life, you have that lady to be your wife.' 'o row my lady in sattin and silk, and wash my son in the morning milk.' kinloch mss, v, , in the handwriting of dr john hill burton. we were seven sisters in a bower, adown adown, and adown and adown the flower of a' fair scotland ower. adown adown, and adown and adown we were sisters, sisters seven, the fairest women under heaven. there fell a dispute us amang, wha would to the greenwood gang. they kiest the kevels them amang, o wha would to the greenwood gang. the kevels they gied thro the ha, and on the youngest it did fa. the kevel fell into her hand, to greenwood she was forced to gang. she hedna pued a flower but ane, when by there came an earl's son. 'and was he well or was he wae, he keepet me that summer's day.' and was he weel or was he weight, he keepet her that summer's night. and he gave her a gay goud ring his mother got at her wedding. • • # * * 'oh is yer stirrup set too high? or is your saddle set awry? 'oh is yer stirrup set too side? or what's the reason ye canna ride?' * * * * when all were at the table set, then not a bit could this lady eat. when all made merry at the feast. this lady wished she were at her rest. ***** a. a. in the ms. two lines are written contin- uously, and two of these double lines numbered as one stanza. , , , , perhaps gate, gates in ms. , ms. be a nae. .' casket in ms.? b. . chil brenton has sent oer the faem, chil brenton's brought his lady hame. b. printed by scott in four-line stanzas. , , , , , seem to be the stanza* trans- ferred from herd, but only the last without change. c. tjie stanzas are not divided in cromek. be- tween and the following nineteen couplets ha ve been omitted. first blew the sweet, the simmer wind, then autumn wi her breath sae kind, before that eer the guid knight came the tokens of his luve to claim. then fell the brown an yellow leaf afore the knight o luve thawed prief; three morns the winter's rime did fa, when loud at our yett my luve did ca. 'ye hae daughters, ye hae seven, ye hae the fairest under heaven. . willie's lady i am the lord o lands wide, ane o them maun be my bride. i am lord of a baronie, ane o them maun lie wi me. cherry lips are sweet to pree, a rosie cheek's meet for the ee; lang brown locks a heart can bind, bonny black een in lure are kind; sma white arms for clasping's meet, whan laid atween the bridal-sheets; a kindlie heart is best of a', an debonnairest in the ha. ane by ane thae things are sweet, ane by ane in luve they 're meet; but when they a' in ae maid bide, she is fittest for a bride. sae be it weel or be it wae, the youngest maun be my ladie; sae be it gude, sae be it meet, she maun warm my bridal-sheet. little kend he, whan aff he rode, was his tokend luve in the wood; or when he gied me the wedding-token, he was sealing the vows he thought were broken. first came a page on a milk-white steed, wi golden trappings on his head: a' gowden was the saddle lap, and gowden was the page's cap. - have been allowed to stand principally on account of . there is small risk in pronouncing , , , , , spurious, and cunningham sur- passes his usual mawkishness in . , e is written in four-line stanzas. . mother, in the margin. . lady, in the margin. f. a. . ms. till [still?]. v and , and , l and , and , and , and , are respectively written as a stanza in the ms. , . motherwell conjectures would i wait, or would i away. , . motherwell conjectures would i away, or would i wait. , . ms. green sleeves: but see , and also e , g ", . s, above you do not know't is written know not who till, apparently a conjecture of moth- erwell's. , sometimes recited till owre the bed this lady he flang. . ms. abroad. b. . seven ladies livd in a bower, hey down and ho down and aye the youngest was the flower. hey down and ho down g. the stanzas are not divided in herd. h. is crossed through in the ms., but no reason given. willie's lady a. • willie's lady,' fraser-tytler ms. b. 'sweet willy,' jamieson-brown ms., no , fol. . a, ' willie's lady,' was no in the manu- script of fifteen ballads furnished william tyt- ler by mrs brown in , and having been written down a little later than b may be re- garded as a revised copy. this manuscript, as remarked under no , is not now in the u possession of the fraser-tytler family, having often been most liberally lent,' and, probably, at last not returned. but a transcript had been made by the grandfather of the present family of two of the pieces contained in it, and ' willie's lady' is one of these two. . willie's lady lewis had access to william tytler's copy, and, having regulated the rhymes, filled out a gap, dropped the passage about the girdle, and made other changes to his taste, printed the ballad in as no of his tales of wonder. the next year scott gave the " an- cient copy, never before published," " in its native simplicity, as taken from mrs brown of falkland's ms.," — william tytler's,—in minstrelsy of the scottish border, n, , but not with literal accuracy. jamieson, in , gave ' sweet willy,' almost exactly according to the text of his brown manuscript, in an appendix to the second volume of his collec- tion, p. , and at p. of the same volume, a reconstruction of the ballad which might have been spared. b lacks altogether the passage which makes proffer of the cup, a, stanzas - , and substi- tutes at that place the girdle of a - . the woodbine in a , , is also wanting, and the concluding stanza. a deficiency both in mat- ter and rhyme at a is supplied by b , , but not happily: 'an do you to your mither then, an bid her come to your boy's christnen; 'for dear's the boy he's been to you: then notice well what she shall do.' again, the transition in a, from st. to st. , is abrupt even for a ballad, and b in- troduces h.ere four stanzas narrating the ex- ecution of the billy blind's injunctions, and ending, and notic'd well what she did say, whereby we are prepared for the witch's ex- clamations.* danish versions of this ballad are numerous: a-i,'hustru og mands moder' [' fostermoder,' 'stif moder'], grundtvig, no , n, ff: j-t, 'hustru og mands moder,' kristensen, ii, ff, no : u-x,'barselkvinden,' kris- * the jamieson-brown copy contains seventy-eight verses; scott's and the tytler copy, eighty-eight. dr an- derson's, nichols's illustrations, vn, , counts seventy-six instead of eighty-eight; but, judging by the description which anderson has given of the alexander-fraser-tytler-brown tensen, i, ff, no : y, ' hustru og sleg- fred,' grundtvig, no , n, ff: in all twenty-five, but many of kristensen's copies are fragments. grundtvig's a, b, and a are from manuscripts of the sixteenth century. f-i and several repetitions of are of the seventeenth. grundtvig's c, d, e, and all kristensen's versions, are from recent oral tra- dition. some of these, though taken down since , are wonderfully well preserved. the danish ballads divide into two classes, principally distinguished by their employing or not employing of the artifice of wax chil- dren. (there is but one of these in n, r, kristensen's e, i, n, , , and in the oldest swedish ballad, as in the scottish: but chil- dren in scandinavian ballads are mostly born in pairs.) of the former class, to which our only known copy belongs, are f-i, n-t, x (grundtvig, f-i, kristensen, n, no , e- l, i, no d). n and i furnish, perhaps, the most consistent story, which, in the former, runs thus: sir peter married ellen (else- where mettelille, kirstin, tidelil, ingerlil), and gave her in charge to his mother, a for- midable witch, and, as appears from f, vio- lently opposed to the match. the first night of her marriage ellen conceived twins. she wrapped up her head in her cloak and paid a visit to her mother-in-law, to ask how long women go with child. the answer was, 'forty weeks went mary with christ, and so each danish woman must. 'forty weeks i went with mine, but eight years shalt thou go with thine.' the forty weeks had passed, and ellen be- gan to long for relief. sir peter besought aid of his sister ingerlin. if i help your young bride, she said, i must be traitor to my mother. sir peter insisted, and ingerlin moulded a fine child of wax,f wrapped it in linen, and exhib- ited it to her mother, who, supposing that her ms., at p. , he is not exact. still, so large a discrepancy is hard to explain. t the sister does this in p-i and s : in o, p, the husband "has " it done. . willie's lady arts had been baffled, burst out into exclama- tions of astonishment. she had thought she could twist a rope out of flying sand, lay sun and moon flat on the earth with a single word, turn the whole world round about! she had thought all the house was spell-bound, except the spot where the young wife's chest stood, the chest of red rowan, which nothing can be- witch! the chest was instantly taken away, and ellen's bed moved to the place it had occupied; and no sooner was this done than ellen gave birth to two children. in the ballads of the other class, the young wife, grown desperate after eight years of suf- fering, asks to be taken back to her maiden home. her husband's mother raises objec- tions: the horses are in the meadow, the coachman is in bed. then, she says, i will go on my bare feet. the moment her husband learns her wish, the carriage is at the door, but by the arts of the mother it goes to pieces on the way, and the journey has to be finished on horseback. the joy of her parents at seeing their daughter approaching was quenched on a nearer view: she looked more dead than quick. she called her family about her and distributed her effects. a great wail went up in the house when two sons were cut from the mother's side. (c, j, k, l, w: grundtvig, c; kristensen, n, no a, b, c; i, no c.) the first son stood up and brushed his hair: 'most surely am i in my ninth year.' the second stood up both fair and red: 'most sure we 'll avenge our dear mother dead.' * several of the most important ballads of the first class have taken up a part of the story of those of the second class, to the detriment of consistency. f, g, h, o, p (grundtvig, f, g, h, kristensen, n, no f, g), make the wife quit her husband's house for her fa- ther's, not only without reason, but against reason. if the woman is to die, it is natural enough that she should wish to die with the friends of her early days, and away from her • grundtvig, d, b; kristensen, i, no a, b, c; n, no a, b, c. uncongenial mother-in-law; but there is no kind of occasion for transferring the scene of the trick with the wax children to her father's house; and, on the other hand, it is altogether strange that her husband's mother and the rowan-tree chest (which sometimes appears to be the property of the mother, sometimes that of the wife) should go with her. y, 'hustru og slegfred,^ grundtvig, , agrees with the second class up to the point when the wife is put to bed at her mother's house, but with the important variation that the spell is the work of a former mistress of the husband ; instead of his mother, as in most of the ballads, or of the wife's foster-mother, as in c, d, j, k, m (grundtvig, c, d, kris- tensen, ii, no a, b, d), or of the wife's step-mother as in a only. the conclusion of 'hustru og slegfred' is rather flat. the wife, as she lies in bed, bids all her household hold up their hands and pray for her relief, which occurs on the same day. the news is sent to her husband, who rejoins his wife, is shown his children, praises god, and burns his mistress. burning is also the fate of the mother-in-law in b, i, o, p, whereas in f she dies of chagrin, and in g bursts into a hun- dred flinders (flentsteene). this ballad, in the mixed form of o, p (kristensen, n, f, g), has been resolved into a tale in denmark, a few lines of verse being retained. recourse is had by the spell- bound wife to a cunning woman in the vil- lage, who informs her that in her house there is a place in which a rowan-tree chest has stood, and that she can get relief there. the cunning woman subsequently pointing out the exact spot, two boys are born, who are seven years old, and can both walk and talk. word is sent the witch that her son's wife has been delivered of two sons, and that she herself shall be burned the day following. the witch says, " i have been able to twine a string out of running water. if i have not succeeded in bewitching the woman, she must have found the place where the damned rowan chest stood." (grundtvig, m, , no b.) three swedish versions of the ballad have been printed. a, b, from tradition of this . willie's lady century, are given by arwidsson, n, ff, 'liten keratins fortrollning,' no . these resemble the danish ballads of the second class closely. liten keratin goes to her moth- er's house, gives birth to two children, and dies. in a the children are a son and daughter. the son stands up, combs his hair, and says, "i am forty weeks on in my ninth year." he can run errands in the village, and the daughter sew red silk. in b both children are boys. one combs his hair, andaays, " our grandmother shall be put on two wheels." the other draws his sword, and says, " our mother is dead, our grandmother to blame. i hope our mother is with god. our grand- mother shall be laid on seven wheels." the other copy, c, mentioned by grundtvig as being in cavallius and stephens' manuscript collection, has been printed in the svenska fornminneaforeningens tidskrift, vol. ii, p. ff, - . it dates from the close of the sixteenth century, and resembles the mixed ballads of the danish first class, combining the flitting to the father's house with the ar- tifice of the wax children. the conclusion of this ballad has suffered greatly. after the two sons are born, we are told that kirstin, before unmentioned, goes to the chest and makes a wax child. if the chest were moved, elin would be free of her child. and then the boy stands up and brushes his hair, and says he has come to his eighth year. three stanzas and some of the incidents of a norwegian version of this ballad have been communicated to grundtvig, ni, f, no o, by professor sophus bugge. the only place which was unaffected by a spell was where signelfti's bride-chest stood, and the chest being removed, the birth took place. the witch was a step-mother, as in danish a. there are two familiar cases of malicious arrest of childbirth in classic mythology, — those of latona and alcmene. the wrath of juno was the cause in both, and perhaps the myth of alcmene is only a repetition of an older story, with change of name. the pangs * eadem amatoris sui axorem, quod in earn dicacule pro- brum dixerat, jam in sarcina praegnationis, obssepto utero et repigrato fetu, perpetna praegnatione damnatit,_et, ut of latona were prolonged through nine days and nights, at the end of which time ilithyia came to her relief, induced by a bribe. (hymn to the delian apollo, ff.) homer, ii. xix, , says only that hera stopped the delivery of alcmene and kept back ilithyia. anto- ninus liberalis, in the second century of our era, in one of his abstracts from the meta- morphoses of nicander, a poem of the second century b. c, or earlier, has this account: that when alcmene was going with hercules, the fates and ilithyia, to please juno, kept her in her pains by sitting down and folding their hands; and that galinthias, a playmate and companion of alcmene, fearing that the suffering would drive her mad, ran out and announced the birth of a boy, upon which the fates were seized with such consternation that they let go their hands, and hercules imme- diately came into the world. (antoninus lib., metam. c. xxix.) ovid, metamorphoses, ix, - , is more circumstantial. after seven days and nights of torture, lucina came, but, being bribed by juno, instead of giving the aid for which she was invoked, sat down on the al- tar before alcmene's door, with the right knee crossed over the left, and fingers interlocked, mumbling charms which checked the processes of birth. galanthis, a servant girl media de plebe, was shrewd enough to suspect that juno had some part in this mischief; and besides, as she went in and out of the house, she always saw lucina sitting on the altar, with her hands clasped over her knees. at last, by a happy thought, she called out, " whoever you are, wish my mistress joy; she is lighter, and has her wish." lucina jumped up and unclasped her hands, and the birth followed instantly. pausanias, ix, , tells a similar but briefer story, in which historis, daughter of tiresias, takes the place of galanthis. see, for the whole matter, 'ilithyia oder die hexe,' in c. a. bottiger's kleine schriften, i, ff. apuleius, in his metamorphoses, mentions a case of suspended childbirth, which, curiously enough, had lasted eight years,* as in the dan- cnncti numerant, jam octo annorum onere misella ilia velut elephantum paritura distenditur. i, . . willie's lady ish and swedish ballads. the witch is a mis- tress of her victim's husband, as in grundtvig, , and as in a story cited by scott from hey- wood's 'hierarchy of the blessed angels,' p. . "there is a curious tale about a count of westeravia [vestravia, in diocesi argentora- tensi], whom a deserted concubine bewitched upon his marriage, so as to preclude all hopes of his becoming a father. the spell continued to operate for three years, till one day, the count happening to meet with his former mis- tress, she maliciously asked him about the in- crease of his family. the count, conceiving some suspicion from her manner, craftily an- swered that god had blessed him with three fine children; on which she exclaimed, like willie's mother in the ballad, ' may heaven confound the old hag by whose counsel i threw an enchanted pitcher into the draw-well of your palace!' the spell being found and destroyed, the count became the father of a numerous family." a story like that of the ballad is told as a fact that took place in arran within this cent- ury. a young man forsook his sweetheart and married another girl. when the wife's time came, she suffered excessively. a pack- man who was passing suspected the cause, went straight to the old love, and told her that a fine child was born; when up she sprang, and pulled out a large nail from the beam of the roof, calling out to her mother, "muckle good your craft has done!" the wife was forthwith delivered. (napier, in the folklore record, n, .) in the sicilian tales, collected by laura gonzenbach, nos and , we have the spell of folded hands placed between the knees to prevent birth, and in no hands raised to the head.* in all these examples the spell is finally broken by telling the witch a piece of false news, which causes her to forget herself * we may suppose with dosed fingers, or clasping the head, though this is not said. antique vases depict one or two dithyias as standing by with hands elevated and open, and take away her hands. (sicilianische mar- chen aua dem volksmund gesammelt, leip- rig, .) we find in a roumanian tale, contributed to das ausland for , p. , by f. obert, and epitomized by grundtvig, m, , no d, a wife condemned by her offended hus- band to go with child till he lays his hand upon her. it is twenty years before she ob- tains grace, and the son whom she then bears immediately slays his father. a wallachian form of thia story (walachische marchen von arthur u. albert schott, no ) omits the re- venge by the new-born child, and ends hap- with respect to the knots in st. , it is to be observed that the tying of knots (as also the fastening of locks), either during the mar- riage ceremony or at the approach of partu- rition was, and is still, believed to be effectual for preventing conception or childbirth. the minister of logierait, perthshire, testifies, about the year , that immediately be- fore the celebration of a marriage it is the custom to loosen carefully every knot about bride and bridegroom, — garters, shoe-strings, etc. the knots are tied again before they leave the church. (statistical account of scot- land, v, .) so among the laps and nor- wegians, when a child is to be born, all the knots in the woman's clothes, or even all the knots in the house, must be untied, because of their impeding delivery. (liebrecht, zur volkskunde, p. , who also cites the statis- tical account of scotland.) willie's lady is translated by schubart, p. , talvj, p. , and by gerhard, p. . grundtvig, h (= syv, , danske viser, ), is translated by jamieson, illustrations of northern antiquities, p. , and by prior, no . during the birth of athene from the head of zeus. welcker, kleine schriften, m, , note . . willie's lady a a. a copy, by miss mary fraser tytler, of a transcript made by her grandfather from william tytler"s manuscript, b. jamieson-brown ms., no , fol. . willie has taen him oer the fame, he's woo'd a wife and brought her hame. he's woo'd her for her yellow hair, but his mother wrought her mickle care. and mickle dolour gard her dree, for lighter she can never be. but in her bower she sits wi pain, and willie mourns oer her in vain. and to his mother he has gone, that vile rank witch of vilest kind. he says: 'my ladie has a cup, wi gowd and silver set about. 'this goodlie gift shall be your ain, and let her be lighter o her young bairn.' 'of her young bairn she 'll neer be lighter, nor in her bower to shine the brighter. 'but she shall die and turn to clay, and you shall wed another may.' 'another may i 'll never wed, another may i 'll neer bring home.' but sighing says that weary wight, 'i wish my life were at an end.' 'ye doe [ye] unto your mother again, that vile rank witch of vilest kind. 'and say your ladie has a steed, the like o'm's no in the lands of leed. 'for he [i]s golden shod before, and he [i]s golden shod behind. 'and at ilka tet of that horse's main, there's a golden chess and a bell ringing. 'this goodlie gift shall be your ain, and let me be lighter of my young bairn.' 'o her young bairn she 'll neer be lighter, nor in her bower to shine the brighter. 'but she shall die and turn to clay, and ye shall wed another may.' 'another may i ['ll] never wed, another may i ['ll] neer bring hame.' but sighing said that weary wight, 'i wish my life were at an end.' 'ye doe [ye] unto your mother again, that vile rank witch of vilest kind. 'and say your ladie has a girdle, it's red gowd unto the middle. 'and ay at every silver hem, hangs fifty silver bells and ten. 'that goodlie gift has be her ain, and let me be lighter of my young bairn.' 'o her young bairn she's neer be lighter, nor in her bower to shine the brighter. 'but she shall die and turn to clay, and you shall wed another may.' 'another may i 'll never wed, another may i 'll neer bring hame.' but sighing says that weary wight, 'i wish my life were at an end.' then out and spake the belly blind; he spake aye in good time. 'ye doe ye to the market place, and there ye buy a loaf o wax. 'ye shape it bairn and bairnly like, and in twa glassen een ye pit; 'and bid her come to your boy's christening; then notice weel what she shall do. 'and do you stand a little fore bye, and listen weel what she shall say-' . willie's lady 'oh wha has loosed the nine witch knots that was amo that ladie's locks? 'and wha has taen out the kaims of care that hangs amo that ladie's hair? 'and wha's taen down the bush o woodbine that hang atween her bower and mine? 'and wha has killd the master kid that ran beneath that ladie's bed? 'and wha has loosed her left-foot shee, and lotten that ladie lighter be?' o willie has loosed the nine witch knots 'that was amo that ladie's locks. and willie's taen out the kaims o care that hang amo that ladie's hair. and willie's taen down the bush o woodbine that hang atween her bower and thine. and willie has killed the master kid that ran beneath that ladie's bed. and willie has loosed her left-foot shee, and letten his ladie lighter be. and now he's gotten a bonny young son, and mickle grace be him upon. a. the stanzas are not regularly divided in the ms., nor were they so divided by scott. . hung (?) beneath: but see . scott's principal variations are: . yetgaeye. . for he is silver shod. . at every tuft of that horse main there's a golden chess and a bell to ring. . yet gae ye. . o rankest kind. . it's a' red gowd to. . this gudely gift sall be. . for she. . my days. . yet gae ye. . there do buy. . do shape. . you 'll put. l. and bid her your boy's christening to. . a little away. . to notice weel what she may saye. . that were amang. . and let . syne willie. . that were into. \ , . and he. . hung atween her bour and the witch car- line. . a bonny son. b. divided in jamieson's ms. into stanzas of four verses, two verses being written in one line: but jamieson's = a - . i . sweet willy's taen. - , wanting. instead of the cup, the girdle occurs here: — a - . \ he did him till. . wilest kin. . an said, my lady. , . he is. . an lat her be lighter o her young bairn. . go to clay. a = b . now to his mither he has gane. . kin. a = b . he say[s] my lady. it's a' red. a = b ,. at ilka. . hings. a = b . gift sall be your ain. . lat her . . . o her. a = b . then out it spake the belly blin; she spake ay in a good time, a = b , . an do you to your mither then, an bid her come to your boy's christnen; for dear's the boy he's been to you : then no- tice well what she shall do. between a and a occurs in b ( - ): he did him" to the market place, an there he bought a loaf o wax. he shap'd it bairn and bairnly like, an in't twa glazen een he pat he did him till his mither then, an bade him (sic) to his boy's christnen. an he did stan a little forebye, an notic'd well what she did say. . earl brand a = b . hang amo. . wanting in b. . aneath. = b . hang amo his. . kemb o care. . his lady's. . wanting in b. = b . ran aneath his. . wanting in b. b makes the billy blind feminine. this is not so in a, or in any other ballad, and may be only an error of the transcriber, who has not always written carefully. earl brand a. a. b. 'earl bran,' mr robert white's papers, o.' the brave earl brand and the king of england's daughter,' bell, ancient poems, etc., p. . d. fragmentary verses remembered by mr r. white's sister. b. 'the douglas tragedy,' scott's minstrelsy, in, , ed. . c. 'lord douglas,' motherwell's ms., p. . d. 'lady margaret,' kinloch mss, r, . e. 'the douglas tragedy,' motherwell's minstrelsy, p. . p. 'the child of el!,'percy ms., p. ; hales and furnivall, i, . 'earl brand,' first given to the world by mr robert bell in , has preserved most of the incidents of a very ancient story with a faithfulness unequalled by any ballad that has been recovered from english oral tradition. before the publication of ' earl brand,' a o, our known inheritance in this particular was limited to the beautiful but very imperfect fragment called by scott' the douglas trag- edy,' b; half a dozen stanzas of another ver- sion of the same in motherwell's minstrelsy, e ; so much of percy's ' child of elle' as was genuine, which, upon the printing of his man- uscript, turned out to be one fifth, f; and two versions of erlinton, a, c* what now can be added is but little: two tran- scripts of 'earl brand,' one of which, a a, has suffered less from literary revision than the only copy hitherto printed, a c; a third version of 'the douglas tragedy,' from moth- erwell's manuscript, c; a fourth from kin- loch's manuscripts, d; and another of 'er- * 'erlinton,' though not existing in a two-line stanza, follows immediately after ' earl brand.' the copy of 'the douglas tragedy' in smith's scottish minstrel, in, , is merely scott's, with changes to facilitate singing. linton,' b. even • earl brand' has lost a circumstance that forms the turning-point in scandinavian ballads, and this capital defect attends all our other versions, though traces which remain in 'erlinton' make it nearly certain that our ballads originally agreed in all important particulars with those which are to this day recited in the north of europe. the corresponding scandinavian ballad is 'ribold and guldborg,' and it is a jewel that any clime might envy. up to the time of grundtvig's edition, in danmarks gamle folkeviser, no , though four versions had been printed, the only current copy for a hun- dred and fifty years had been syv's no , based on a broadside of the date , but compounded from several sources; and it was in this form that the ballad became known to the english through jamieson's translation. grundtvig has now published twenty-seven versions of 'ribold og guldborg' (n, ff, nineteen; ff, four; m, ff, four:f t b*, in, , a fragment of five stanzas, has been dropped by grundtvig from no , and assigned to no . see d. g. f. iv, . . earl brand of all which only two are fragments), and nine of 'hildebrand og hilde,' no , which is the same story set in a dramatic frame-work (n, ff, seven; f, one; m, , one, a fragment). three more danish versions of « ribold og guldborg' are furnished by kris- tensen, gamle jydske folkeviser, i, no , n, no a, b (c, d*, e*). to these we may add the last half, sts - , of 'den farlige jomfru,' grundtvig, g. of grundtvig's texts, a is of the sixteenth century; b-h are of the seventeenth; the remainder and kristensen's three from recent tradition.. six versions of 'hildebrand og hilde,' a-f, are of the seventeenth century; one is of the eighteenth, g; and the remaining two are from oral tradition of our day. the first six of grundtvig's versions of ' ri- bold and guldborg,' a-f, are all from manu- scripts, and all of a pure traditional char- acter, untampered with by " collators." g and h are mixed texts: they have f for their basis, but have admitted stanzas from other sources. most of the versions from recitation are wonderful examples and proofs of the fidelity with which simple people " report and hold" old tales: for, as the editor has shown, verses which never had been printed, but which are found in old manuscripts, are now met with in recited copies; and these recited copies, again, have verses that occur in no dan- ish print or manuscript, but which neverthe- less are found in norwegian and swedish reci- tations, and, what is more striking, in ice- landic tradition of two hundred years' stand- ing. the story in the older danish ballads runs thus. ribold, a king's son, sought guldborg's love in secret. he said he would carry her to a land where death and sorrow came not; where all the birds were cuckoos, and all the grass was leeks, and all the streams ran wine. guldborg, not indisposed, asked how she should evade the watch kept over her by all her family and by her betrothed. ribold dis- guised her in his cloak and armor, b, e, f, and rode off, with guldborg behind him. on the heath they meet a rich earl [a crafty man, c; her betrothed, dj, who asks, whither away, with your stolen maid? [little page, b, f.] ribold replies that it is his youngest sister, whom he has taken from a cloister, a, e [sick sister, c; brother, b, f ; page, d]. this shift avails nothing; no more does a bribe which he offers for keeping his secret. report is at once made to her father that guldborg has eloped with ribold. guldborg perceives that they are pursued, and is alarmed. ribold re- assures her, and prepares to meet his foes. he bids guldborg hold his horse, b, c, e, and, whatever may happen, not to call him by name: "though thou see me bleed, name me not to death; though thou see me fall, name me not at all!" ribold cuts down six or seven of her brothers and her father, besides others of her kin; the youngest brother only is left, and guldborg in an agony calls upon ribold to spare him, to carry tidings to her mother. no sooner was his name pronounced than ribold received a mortal wound. he sheathed his sword, and said, come, wilt thou ride with me? wilt thou go home to thy mother again, or wilt thou follow so sad a swain? and she answered, i will not go home to my mother again; i will follow thee, my heart's dearest man. they rode through the wood, and not a word came from the mouth of either. guldborg asked, why art thou not as glad as before? and ribold answered, thy brother's sword has been in my heart. they reached his house. he called to one to take his horse, to another to bring a priest, and said his brother should have guldborg. but she would not give her faith to two brothers. ribold died that night, c. three dead came from ribold's bower: ribold and his lief, and his mother, who died of grief! in a guldborg slays herself, and dies in her lover's arms. 'hildebrand and hilde,' a, b, c, d, opens with the heroine in a queen's service, sewing her seam wildly, putting silk for gold and gold for silk. the queen calls her to account. hilde begs her mistress to listen to her tale of sorrow. she was a king's daughter. twelve knights had been appointed to be her guard, and one had beguiled her, hildebrand, son of the king of england. they went off together, . earl brand and were surprised by her brothers [father, b, c, d]. hildebrand bade her be of good cheer; but she must not call him by name if she saw him bleed or fall, a, b, d. a heap of knights soon lay at his feet. hilde forgot herself, and called out, hildebrand, spare my youngest brother! hildebrand that in- stant received a mortal wound, and fell. the younger brother tied her to his horse, and dragged her home. they shut her up at first in a strong tower, built for the purpose, a, b [swedish a, a dark house], and afterwards sold her into servitude for a church bell. her mother's heart broke at the bell's first stroke, and hilde, with the last word of her tale, fell dead in the queen's arms. the most important deviation of the later versions from the old is exhibited by s and t, and would probably be observed in q, r, as well, were these complete. s, t are either a mixture of ' ribold and guldborg ' with 'hil- debrand and hilde,' or forms transitional be- tween the two. in these ribold does not live to reach his home, and guldborg, unable to return to hers, offers herself to a queen, to spin silk and weave gold [braid hair and work gold]. but she cannot sew for grief. the queen smacks her on the cheek for neglecting her needle. poor guldborg utters a protest, but gives no explanation, and the next morn- ing is found dead. singularly enough, the name of the hero in q, r, s, t, is also an in- termediate form. ribold is the name in all the old danish copies except c, and that has ride-bolt. danish i, k, x, z, all the ice- landic copies, and swedish d, have either ri- bold or some unimportant variation. q, r, s, have ride-brand-[t, rederbrand]. all copies of grundtvig , except danish g, swedish c, which do not give the hero's name, have hilde-brand; so also n, o, p, v, and kris- tensen, i, no . the name of the woman is nearly constant both in and . the paradise promised guldborg in all the old versions of * disappears from the re- * though the paradise has not been transmitted in any known copy of 'earl brand,' it appears very distinctly in the opening stanza of ' lcesome brand ' a. this last has several stanzas towards the close ( - ) which seem to be- cited copies, except k, m. it certainly did not originally belong to 'ribold and guld- borg,' or to another danish ballad in which it occurs (' den trofaste jomfru,' grundtvig, a), but rather to ballads like ' kvindemorde- ren,' grundtvig, a, or ' lfti kersti,' land- stad, , where a supernatural being, a demon or a hillman, seeks to entice away a mor- tal maid. see no , p. . in l, n, u, v, y, je, , and kristensen's copies, the lov- ers are not encountered by anybody who re- ports their flight. most of the later versions, k, iv, m, n, p, u, v, y, m, , and kris- tensen's three, make them halt in a wood, where ribold goes to sleep in guldborg's lap, and is roused by her when she perceives that they are pursued. so norwegian b, swed- ish a, b, c, and 'hildebraud and hilde' b. m, q, r, s, t, z, have not a specific prohi- bition of dead-naming, but even these enjoin silence. c is the only ballad in which there is a fight and no prohibition of either kind, but it is clear from the course of the story that the stanza containing the usual in- junction has simply dropped out. p is distin- guished from all other forms of the story by the heroine's killing herself before her dying lover reaches his house. the four first copies of • hildebrand and hilde,' as has been seen, have the story of ribold and guldborg with some slight dif- ferences and some abridgment. there is no elopement in b: the lovers are surprised in the princess' bower. when hilde has fin- ished her tale, in a, the queen declares that hildebrand was her son. in b she interrupts the narrative by announcing her discovery that hildebrand was her brother. c and d have nothing of the sort. there is no fight in e-h. e has taken up the commonplace of the bower on the strand which was forced by nine men.f hildebrand is again the son of the queen, and, coming in just as hilde has expired, exclaims that he will have no other love, sets his sword against a stone, and runs long to ' karl brand,' and perhaps derived these, the " unco land," and even its name, by the familiar process of iu;er- mixture of traditions. t see no , pp. , , . . earl brand upon it. h has the same catastrophe. f represents the father as simply showing great indignation and cruelty on finding out that one of the guardian knights had beguiled his daughter, and presently selling her for a new church bell. the knight turns out here again to be the queen's son; the queen says he shall betroth hille, and hille faints for joy. g agrees with b as to the surprise in the bower. the knight's head is hewn off on the spot. the queen gives hilde her youngest son for a husband, and hilde avows that she is consoled. i agrees with e so far as it goes, but is a short fragment. there are three icelandic versions of this ballad, ' ribbalds kvaesi,' fslenzk fornkvaeoi, no , all of the seventeenth century. they all come reasonably close to the danish as to the story, and particularly a. ribbald, with no prologue, invites gullbrun " to ride." he sets her on a white horse; of all women she rode best. they have gone but a little way, when they see a pilgrim riding towards them, who hails ribbald with, welcome, with thy stolen maid! ribbald pretends that the maid is his sister, but the pilgrim knows very well it is gullbrun." she offers her cloak to him not to tell her father, but the pilgrim goes straight to the king, and says, thy daugh- ter is off! the king orders his harp to be brought, for no purpose but to dash it on the floor once and twice, and break out the strings. he then orders his horse. gullbrun sees her father come riding under a hill-side, then her eleven brothers, then seven brothers-in-law. she begs ribbald to spare her youngest broth- er's life, that he may carry the news to her mother. he replies, i will tie my horse by the reins; you take up your sewing! then three times forbids her to name him during the fight. he slew her father first, next the eleven brothers, then the other seven, all which filled her with compunction, and she cried out, ribbald, still thy brand! on the in- stant ribbald received many wounds. he wiped his bloody sword, saying, this is what you deserve, gullbrun, but love is your shield; then set her on her horse, and rode to his brother's door. he called out, here is a wife for you! but gullbrun said, never will i be given to two brothers. soon after ribbald gave up the ghost. there was more mourn- ing than mirth; three bodies went to the grave in one coffin, ribbald, his lady, and his mother, who died of grief. b and c have lost something at the begin- ning, c starting at the same point as our 'douglas tragedy.' the king pursues rib- bald by water. gullbrun (b) stands in a tower and sees him land. ribbald gives gull- brun to his brother, as in a: she lives in sor- row, and dies a maid. norwegian. (' ribold and guldborg.') a, 'rikeball og stolt gusbjorg,' landstad, ; b, ' veneros og stolt olleber,' landstad, ; c, d, e, f, in part described and cited, with six other copies, grundtvig, m, p. f. the last half of landstad no , stanzas - , and stanzas - of landstad b, also belong here. a agrees with the older danish ver- sions, even to the extent of the paradise. b has been greatly injured. upon the lady's warning veneros of the approach of her fa- ther, he puts her up in an oak-tree for safety. he warns her not to call him by name, and she says she will rather die first; but her firm- ness is not put to the test in this ballad, some verses having dropped out just at this point. veneros is advised to surrender, but dispatches his assailants by eighteen thousands (like lil- le br r, in landstad, ), and by way of con- clusion hews the false pal greive, who had re- ported his elopement to olleber's father, into as many pieces. he then takes olleber on his horse, they ride away and are married. such peculiarities in the other copies as are important to us will be noticed further on. (' hildebrand and hilde.') a, one of two norwegian copies communicated by professor bugge to grundtvig, ni, f, agrees well with danish e, but has the happy conclusion of danish f, g, i. the heroine is sold for nine bells. b, the other, omits the bower- breaking of a and danish e, and ends with marriage. the swedish forms of 'ribold and guld- borg' are: a, ' hillebrand,' afzelius, no ; b, ' herr redebold,' and c, ' kung vallemo,' . earl brand afzelius, no ; new ed., no , l, , ; d, 'ribbolt,' arwidsson, no ; e, ' herr rede- bold' f, 'herting liljebrand,' and g, 'herr balder,' in cavallius and stephens' manu- script collection; h, 'kung walmon,' e. wigstrom's folkdiktning, no , p. . a, b, c, h, are not markedly different from the ordinary danish ballad, and this is true also, says grundtvig, ol the unprinted versions, e, f, g. d and g are of the seventeenth cent- ury, the others from recent tradition. ribold is pictured in d as a bold prince, equally versed in runes and arts as in manly exercises. he visits giotha by night: they slumber sweet, but wake in blood. she binds up his wounds with rich kerchiefs. he rides home to his fa- ther's, and sits down on a bench. the king bids his servants see what is the matter, and adds, be he sick or be he hurt, he got it at gib'tha-lilla's. they report the prince stabbed with sharp pikes within, and bound with silk kerchiefs without. ribold bids them bury him in the mould, and not blame giotha-lilla; "for my horse was fleet, and i was late, and he hurtled me 'gainst an apple-tree" (so hillebrand in a). e represents the heroine as surviving her lover, and united to a young king, but always grieving for redebold. 'hildebrand and hilde' exists in swedish in three versions : a, a broadside of the last part of the seventeenth century, now printed in the new edition of afzelius, p. ff of the notes (the last nine stanzas before, in danske viser, in, f) ; b, afzelius, no , new ed. no , c, arwidsson, no , both taken down in this century. in a and b hillebrand, son of the king of england, carries off hilla; they halt in a grove; she wakes him from his sleep when she hears her father and seven brothers coming; he enjoins her not to call him by name, which still she does upon her father's being slain [or when only her youngest brother is left], and hillebrand thereupon receives mortal wounds. he wipes his sword, saying, this is what you would deserve, were you not hilla. the youngest brother ties hilla to his horse, drags her home, and confines her in a dark house, which swarms with snakes and dragons (a only). they sell her for a new church bell, and her mother's heart breaks at the first sound. hilla falls dead at the queen's knee. c has lost the dead-naming, and ends with the queen's promising to be hilla's best friend. a detailed comparison of the english bal- lads, and especially of ' earl brand,' with the scandinavian (such as grundtvig has made, m, f) shows an unusual and very inter- esting agreement. the name earl brand, to begin with, is in all probability a modification of the hildebrand found in danish n, o, p, v, c*, in all versions of danish , and in the corresponding swedish a. ell, too, in percy's fragment, which may have been elle earlier, points to hilde, or something like it, and erl-inton might easily be corrupted from such a form as the alibrand of norwegian b (grundtvig, m, ). hildebrand is the son of the king of england in danish a-e, and the lady in ' earl brand' is the same king's daughter, an interchange such as is constantly occurring in tradition. stanza can hardly be the rightful property of ' earl brand.' some- thing very similar is met with in 'leesome brand,' and is not much in place there. for 'old carl hood,' of whom more presently, danish x and norwegian a, c have an old man, danish c a crafty man, t a false younker, and norwegian b and three others "false pal greive." the lady's urging earl brand to slay the old carl, and the answer, that it would be sair to kill a gray-haired man, sts , , are almost literally repeated in nor- wegian a, landstad, no . the knight does slay the old man in danish x and norwegian c, and slays the court page in danish z, and false pal greive in norwegian b, — in this last after the battle. the question," where have ye stolen this lady away?" in st. , occurs in danish a, d, e, k, p, r, s, t, z, in norwegian b and icelandic b, and something very similar in many other copies. the re- ply, "she is my sick sister, whom i have brought from winchester" [nunnery], is found almost literally in danish c, x, z : "it is my sick sister; i took her yesterday from the cloister." [danish e, it is my youngest sister from the cloister; she is sick: danish a, - earl brand youngest sister from cloister: danish r and norwegian b, sister from cloister: danish s, t, sister's daughter from cloister: norwegian f, sister from holstein: danish p, icelandic a, norwegian a, sister.] the old man, crafty man, rich earl, in the scandinavian ballads, commonly answers that he knows guldborg very well; but in danish d, where ribold says it is a court page he has hired, we have some- thing like sts , : "why has he such silk- braided hair?" on finding themselves dis- covered, the lovers, in the scandinavian bal- lad, attempt to purchase silence with a bribe: danish a-i, m, icelandic and norwegian a, b. this is not expressly done in 'earl brand,' but the same seems to be meant in st. by "i 'll gie him a pound." st. is fairly par- alleled by danish s, , : ""where is guld- borg, thy daughter? walking in the garden, gathering roses ;" and st. , by norwegian b, : " you may search without and search within, and see whether olleber you can find." the announcement in st. is made in al- most all the scandinavian ballads, in words equivalent to "ribold is off with thy daugh- ter," and then follows the arming for the pur- suit. the lady looks over her shoulder and sees her father coming, as in st. , in danish a, f, h, l, q, r, t, x, z, and norwe- gian a. the scene of the fight is better preserved in the scottish ballads than in 'earl brand,' though none of these have the cardinal inci- dent of the death-naming. all the scottish versions, b-f, and also ' erlinton,' a, b, make j;he lady hold the knight's horse: so danish b, c, e, i, m, d\ icelandic c, norwegian and swedish a, and danish d. of the knight's injunction, " name me not to death, though thou see me bleed," which, as has been noted, is kept by nearly every danish ballad (and by the icelandic, the norwegian, and by swedish 'ribold and guldborg,' a, b, c, h, swedish ' hildebrand and hilde,' a, b), there is left in english only this faint trace, in 'erlinton,' a, b: "see ye dinna change your cheer until ye see my body bleed." it is the wish to save the life of her youngest brother that causes the lady to call her lover by name in the larger number of scandinavian ballads, and she adds, "that he may carry the tidings to my mother," in danish a, b, c, e, f, g, h, m, x, b, c, d. grief for her fa- ther's death is the impulse in danish i, n, o, q, r, s, y, z, m, , a*, c*, d', e\ swed- ish a, b, c, h. english a says nothing of father or brother; but in b, c, d, e, it is the father's death that causes the exclama- tion. all the assailants are slain in * erlinton' a, b, except an aged knight [the auldest man], and he is spared to carry the tidings home. 'erlinton ' c, however, agrees with the oldest danish copies in making the youngest brother the motive of the lady's intervention. it is the fifteenth, and last, of the assailants that gives earl brand his death-wound; in danish h, the youngest brother, whom he has been entreated to spare; and so, apparently, in danish c and norwegian a. the question, "will you go with me or re- turn to your mother?" which we find in eng- lish b, c, d, is met with also in many dan- ish versions, b, h, k, l, m, n, p, u, z, tt, , c*, and swedish a, b, c. the dying man asks to have his bed made in english b,' c, as in danish b, c, k, l, n, u, x, tt, , c*, d', norwegian a, swedish a, b, c, h, and desires that the lady may marry his brother in english a, as in nearly all the danish ver- sions, icelandic a, b, c, norwegian c, d, e, swedish c. he declares her a maiden true in • earl brand,' a o , and affirms the same with more particularity in danish b, c, e, f, g, m, , icelandic b, c, norwegian a, c, e, swedish c. the growth of the rose and brier [bush and brier] from the lovers' grave in english b, c, is not met with in any version of 'ribold and guldborg' proper, but 'den farlige jomfru ' g, grundtvig, , the last half of which, as already remarked, is a fragment of a ribold ballad, has a linden in place of the rose and brier. no complete ballad of the ribold class is known to have survived in german, but a few verses have been interpolated by tradition in the earliest copy of the ulinger ballad (vv. - ), which may almost with certainty be assigned to one of the other description. . earl brand they disturb the narrative where they are, and a ready occasion for their slipping in was afforded by the scene being exactly the same in both ballads: a knight and a lady, with whom he had eloped, resting in a wood.* see no , p. of this volume. we find in a pretty neapolitan-albanian ballad, which, with others, is regarded by the editors as a fragment of a connected poem, several of the features of these northern ones. a youth asks a damsel in marriage, but is not favored by her mother, father, or brother. he wins over first the mother and then the father by handsome presents, but his gifts, though accepted, do not conciliate the brother. he carries off the lady on horseback, and is attacked by the brother, four uncles, and seven cousins. he is killed and falls from his horse; with him the lady falls dead also, and both are covered up with stones. in the spring the youth comes up a cypress, the damsel comes up a vine, and encloses the cypress in her arms. (rapsodie d'un poema albanese raccolte nelle colonie del napoletano, de rada and de' co- ronei, florence, , lib. ii., canto viii.) these ballads would seem to belong among the numerous ramifications of the hilde saga. of these, the second lay of helgi hunding- slayer, in saemund's edda, and 'waltharius,' the beautiful poem of ekkehard, are most like the ballads.f leaving 'waltharius' till we come to 'erlinton,' we may notice that sigriin, in the helgi lay, though promised by her father * compare vv - , " wilt thou ride to them, or wilt thou fight with them, or wilt thou stand by thy love, sword in hand?" "i will not ride to them, i will not fight with them [i. e., begin the fight], but i will stand by my love, sword in hand," with norwegian a, , : "shall we ride to the wood, or shall we bide like men " "we will not ride to the wood, but we will bide like men." and also with danish je, sts , . t the chief branches, besides the helgi lay and walter, are the saga in snorri's edda, skaldskaparmal, § j that in saxo grammaticus, stephanius, ed. , pp. - ; sorla pattr, in fornaldar sogur, i, ff; the shetland ballad printed in low's tour through the islands of orkney and shetland, ff, and in barry's history of the orkney islands, d ed., ff, and paraphrased in hibbert's descrip- tion of the shetland islands, ff; the thidrik saga, §§ - , unger; gudrun, v-viii. the names of father, daughter, and lover in these are : ( ) hogni, —, hogni, hogin-, hogni, —, [artus], hagen ; ( ) [sigrun], hilde-gunde, hildr, hilda, hildr, hildina, hildr, hilde; ( ) helgi, [walter], hedin, hithin-, hedin, —, [herburt], hetel. hagan, in ' waltha. to another man, hodbrodd, son of granmar, preferred helgi. she sought him out, and told him frankly her predicament: she feared, she said, the wrath of her friends, for breaking her father's promise. helgi accepted her affec- tion, and bade her not care for the displeasure of her relatives. a great battle ensued be- tween helgi and the sons of granmar, who were aided by sigrun's father and brothers. all her kinsmen were slain except one brother, dag. he bound himself to peace with helgi, but, notwithstanding, made sacrifices to odin to obtain the loan of his spear, and with it slew helgi. we have, therefore, in so much of the lay of helgi hundingslayer, the ground- work of the story of the ballads: a woman, who, as in many of the ribold ballads, has been betrothed to a man she does not care for, gives herself to another; there is a fight, in which a great number of her kinsmen fall; one brother survives, who is the death of the man she loves. the lay of helgi hiorvard's son, whose story has much in common with that of his namesake, affords two resemblances of detail not found in the lay of the hun- dingslayer. helgi hiorvard's son, while his life-blood is ebbing, expresses himself in al- most the words of the dying ribold: "the sword has come very near my heart." he then, like ribold and earl brand, declares his wish that his wife should marry his brother, and she, like guldborg, declines a second union. j rius,' may be said to take the place of the rather, who is want- ing; and this is in a measure true also of hedin, helgi's half- brother, in the lay of helgi hiorvard's son. see the excellent- discussion of the saga by klee, zur hildesage, leipzig, . the swedish ballad,' hcrr hjelmer,' a, arwidsson, i, , no ; b, c, afzelius, n, , , no (helmer); d, e. wigstriim, folkdiktning, p. , no (hjelman), has several points of agreement with ribold and the hilde saga. the hero kills six of seven brothers [also the father, in a], spares the seventh on oath of fidelity, and is treacherously slain by him. the youngest brother carries her lover's head to his sister, is invited to drink by her (in three of the four copies), and slain while so engaged; reminding us of hil- dina in the shetland ballad. danish ' herr hjselm,' grundt- vig, danskc folkeminder, , p. , agrees with the swed- ish, except that there are only three brothers. } helgakvisa hjorvarsssonar, ed. grundtvig, - , ribold og guldborg, a , , b , d , , e , q . the observation is professor bugge's. . earl brand there is also a passage in the earlier his- tory of helgi hundingslayer of which traces appear to be preserved in ballads, and be- fore all in the english ballad 'earl brand,' a. hunding and helgi's family were at feud. helgi introduced himself into hunding's court as a spy, and when he was retiring sent word to hunding's son that he had been there dis- guised as a son of hagal, helgi's foster-father. hunding sent men to take him, and helgi, to escape them, was forced to assume woman's clothes and grind at the mill. while hun- ding's men are making search, a mysterious blind man, surnamed the bale-wise, or evil- witted (blindr inn bolvfsi), calls out, sharp are the eyes of hagal's maid; it is no churl's blood that stands at the mill; the stones are riving, the meal-trough is springing; a hard lot has befallen a war-king when a chieftain must grind strange barley ; fitter for that hand is the sword-hilt than the mill-handle. ha- gal pretends that the fierce-eyed maid is a virago whom helgi had taken captive, and in the end helgi escapes. this malicious person- age reappears in the hrsmund saga as " blind the bad " and " the carl blind, surnamed ba- vfs," and is found elsewhere. his likeness to "old carl hood," who "comes for ill, but never for good," and who gives information of earl brand's flight with the king's daugh- ter, does not require to be insisted on. both are identical, we can scarcely doubt, with the blind [one-eyed] old man of many tales, who goes about in various disguises, sometimes as beggar, with his hood or hat slouched over his face, — that is odin, the sfshottr or deep- hood of sfemund, who in the saga of half and his champions is called simple hood, as here, and expressly said to be odin.* odin, though • hottr, er osinn tar reyndar, hood, who was odin really, fornaldar sogur, n, p. . klee observes, p. f, that hogni [hagen] is the evil genius of the hildesage. some- times he is the heroine's father; in ' waltharius,' strangely enough, the hero's old friend (and even there a one-eyed man.) klee treats the introdnction of a rival lover (as in the shetland ballad and gudrun) as a departure from the older story. but we have the rival in helgi hundingslayer. the proper marplot in this lay is blind the ill-witted (odin), whose part is sustained in ' earl brand' by the malicious hood, in several norwegian ballads by a very enigmatical "false pal greive," in two other norwegian ballads and one not a thoroughly malignant divinity, had his dark side, and one of his titles in saemund's edda is bolverkr, maleficus. he first caused war by casting his spear among men, and dag, after he has killed helgi, says odin was the author of all the mischief, for he brought strife among kinsmen.f the disastrous effects of "naming" in a great emergency appear in other northern tra- ditions, though not so frequently as one would expect. a diverting swedish saga, which has been much quoted, relates how st. olof bar- gained with a troll for the building of a huge church, the pay to be the sun and moon, or st. olof himself. the holy man was equally amazed and embarrassed at seeing the build- ing run up by the troll with great rapidity, but during a ramble among the hills had the good luck to discover that the troll's name was wind and weather, after which all was easy. for while the troll was on the roof of the church, olof called out to him, 'wind and weather, hi! tou've set the spire awry ;' and the troll, thus called by his name, lost his strength, fell off, and was dashed into a hun- dred pieces, all flint stones. (iduna, part , p. f, note. other forms of the same story in afzelius, sago-hafder, m, f; faye, norske folke-sagn, p. , d ed.; hofberg, nerikes gamla minnen, p. .) it is a norwegian belief that when a nix assumes the human shape in order to carry some one off, it will be his death if the se- lected victim recognizes him and names him, and in this way a woman escaped in a ballad. she called out, so you are the nix, that pes- tilent beast, and the nix " disappeared in red danish by an old man, and, what is most remarkable, in the shetland ballad by the rejected lover of hildina (the sir nilaus of danish d, hertug nilssdn of some norwegian copies), who bears the name hilnge, interpreted with great probability by conrad hofmann (munich sitzungsberichte, , ii, , note), ulhugi, der bossinnige, evil-minded (icelandic fllhugaor, flhisigr.) t inimicitias othinus serit, saxo, p. , ed. . see grimm, deutsche mythologie, i, , note , in, , new ed., for odin's bad points, though some of grimm's interpreta- tions might now be objected to. . earl brand blood." (faye, as above, p. , note.) a nix is baffled in the same way in a faeroe and an icelandic ballad cited by grundtvig, n, . the marvellous horse blak agrees to carry waldemar [hildebrand] over a great piece of water for the rescue of his daughter [sister], stipulating, however, that his name shall not be uttered. the rider forgets himself in a panic, calls to the horse by his name, and is thrown off into the water. the horse, whose powers had been supernatural, and who had been running over the water as if it were land, has now only ordinary strength, and is forced to swim. he brings the lady back on the same terms, which she keeps, but when he reaches the land he is bleeding at every hair, and falls dead. (landstad, ; grundtvig, ; afzelius, , preface; kristensen, i, no .) klaufi, a berserker, while under the opera- tion of his peculiar fury, loses his strength, and can no longer wield the weapon he was fighting with, upon grfss's crying out," klaufi, klaufi, be not so mad!" (svarfdaela saga, p. , and again p. f.) so the blood-thirst of the avenger's sword in the magnificent danish ballad 'haevnersvasrdet' is restrained by naming. (grundtvig, no , st. .) again, men engaged in hamfarir, that is in roving about in the shape of beasts, their proper bodies remaining lifeless the while, must not be called by name, for this might compel them to return at once to their own shape, or pos- sibly prevent their ever doing so. (kristni saga, ed. , p. . r. t. king, in notes and queries, d ser., n, .) grundtvig re- marks that this belief is akin to what is re- lated in fafnismal (prose interpolation after st. ), that sigurd concealed his name by rea- son of a belief in old times that a dying man's word had great power, if he cursed his foe by name. (d. g. f., n, .) the beautiful fancy of plants springing from the graves of star-crossed lovers, and signify- ing by the intertwining of stems or leaves, or in other analogous ways, that an earthly passion has not been extinguished by death, presents itself, as is well known, very fre- quently in popular poetry. though the graves be made far apart, even on opposite sides of the church, or one to the north and one to the south outside of the church, or one with- out kirk wall and one in the choir, however separated, the vines or trees seek one another out, and mingle their branches or their fo- liage: "even from the tomb the voice of nature cries, even in our ashes live their wonted fires!" the principal ballads which exhibit this conception in one or another form are the fol- lowing: in english, ' the douglas tragedy,' 'fair margaret and sweet william,'' lord thomas and fair annet,'' fair janet,'' prince robert,' 'lord lovel.' the plants in all these are either a brier and a rose, or a brier and a birk. swedish. arwidsson, no : the graves are made east and west of the church, a lin- den grows from each, the trees meet over the church roof. so e. wigstrom, folkdiktning, no , p. . arwidsson a: rosea lilla and the duke are buried south and north in the church-yard. a rose from her grave cov- ers his with its leaves. the duke is then laid in her grave, from which a linden springs. b: the rose as before, and a linden from the duke's grave. arwidsson, , , afzelius, no (new ed., ), (new ed., , l, ): a common grave, with a linden, two trees, or lilies, and, in the last, roses also growing from the mouths of both lovers. in one version the linden leaves bear the inscription, my father shall answer to me at doomsday. norwegian. landstad, : the lovers are laid north and south of the church ; lilies grow over the church roof. danish. danske viser, , , two roses. kristensen, n, no , two lilies, interlocking over church wall and ridge. b, c (= af- zelius, ), separate graves; b, a lily from each grave; c, a flower from each breast. grundtvig, g, n, a linden; danske folkeminder, , p. , two lilies. german. 'der ritter u. die maid,' ( ) nicolai, i, no , = kretzschmer, i, ; ( ) uhland, a, simrock, ; ( ) erk's lied- erhort, ; hoffmann u. richter, : the lov- ers are buried together, and there grow from . eabl beand their grave ( ) three pinks, ( ) three lilies, ( ) two lilies. wunderhorn, ,i, , mit- tler, no : the maid is buried in the church- yard, the knight under the gallows. a lily grows from his grave, with an inscription, beid waren beisammen im himmel. ditfurth, n, : two lilies spring from her (or their) grave, bearing a similar inscription. in haupt and schmaler, volkslieder der wenden, i, , from the german, rue is planted on the maid's grave, in accordance with the last words of the knight, and the same inscription appears on one of the leaves. 'graf friedrich,' uhland, , wunder- horn, n, , mittler, , erk's lieder- hort, a: graf friedrich's bride is by ac- cident mortally wounded while he is bring- ing her home. her father kills him, and he is dragged at a horse's heels. three lilies spring from his grave, with an inscription, er war bei gott geblieben. he is then buried with his bride, the transfer being at- tended with other miraculous manifestations. other versions, hoffmann u. richter, , = mittler, , = liederhort, ; mittler, , ; also meinert, , = mittler, , etc.: the lilies in most of these growing from the bride''s grave, with words attesting the knight's innocence. lilies with inscriptions also in wunder- horn, n, p. , = mittler, , 'alle bei gott die sich lieben;' mittler, ; ditfurth, ii, , ; scherer, jungbrunnen, a, ; po- gatschnigg und hermann, . three lilies from a maid's grave: 'die schwazbraune hexe' (' es blies ein jager'), nicolai, i, ; wunderhorn, i, ; grater's bragur, i, ; uhland, ; liederhort, ; simrock, ; fiedler, p. ; ditfurth, n, , ; reiffer- scheid, , etc. three roses, hoffmann u. richter, , p. ; three pinks, ib,, ; rose, pink, lily, alemannia, rv, . three lilies from a man's grave: 'der todwunde :' schade, bergreien, , = uhland, a, = liederhort, g, = mittler, , etc. portuguese. 'conde nillo,' ' conde nino,' almeida-garrett, m, no , at p. ; braga, rom. geral, no , at p. , = hartung, i, : the infanta is buried at the foot of the high altar, conde nillo near the church door; a cypress and an orange [pines]. almeida- garrett, ni, no , at p. : a sombre clump of pines over the knight, reeds from the prin- cess's grave, which, though cut down, shoot again, and are heard sighing in the night. braga, archip. a§or., 'filha maria,' 'dom doardos,' ' a ermida no mar,' nos , , , hartung, i, - ; estacio da veiga, 'dom diniz,' p. - , = hartung, i, , : tree and pines, olive and pines, clove-tree and pine, roses and canes: in all, new miracles fol- low the cutting down. so also almeida-gar- rett, no , i, . roumanian. alecsandri, , stanley, p. , 'ring and handkerchief,' translated by stan- ley, p. , murray, p. : a fir and a vine, which meet over the church. french. beaurepaire, podsie pop. en nor- mandie, p. : a thorn and an olive are planted over the graves ; the thorn embraces the olive. romaic. passow, nos , , , ; zambelios, p. , no ; tommaseo, canti popolari, m, ; chasiotis, p. , no : a cypress from the man's grave, a reed from the maid's (or from a common tomb); re- versed in passow, nos , , and schmidt, griechische marchen, u. s. w., no , p. . sakellarios, p. , no , cypress and apple- tree; p. , no , cypress and lemon-tree. (f. liebrecht, zur volkskunde, pp. , , , .) servian. talvj, v. l. der serben, n, p. : a fir and a rose; the rose twines round the fir. wend. haupt and schmaler, v. l. der wenden, n, no : a maid, who kills her- self on account of the death of her lover, or- ders two grape vines to be planted over their graves: the vines intertwine. breton. luzel, i, p. : a fleur-de-lis springs from a common tomb, and is always in flower, however often it is plucked. italo-albanian. de rada, rapsodie d'un poema albanese, etc., p. : the youth comes up (nacque) a cypress; the maid a white vine, which clings around the tree. camarda, ap- pendice al saggio di grammatologia comparata, 'angelina,' p. , the same; but inappropri- . earl brand ately, as liebrecht has remarked, fidelity in love being wanting in this case. magyar. the lovers are buried before and behind the altar; white and red lilies spring from the tombs; mother or father destroys or attempts to destroy the plants: aigner, ungarische volksdichtungen, d ed., at p. , p. , f. again, at p: , of the ' two princes' (hero and leander): here a white and a red tulip are planted over the graves, in a garden, and it is expressly said that the souls of the enamored pair passed into the tulips. in the first piece the miracle occurs twice. the lovers had thrown themselves into a deep lake; plants rose above the surface of the water and intertwined (p. ); the bodies were brought up by divers and buried in the church, where the marvel was repeated. afghan. audam and doorkhaunee, a poem "read, repeated, and sung, through all parts of the country," elphinstone's account of the kingdom of caubul, , p. f: two trees spring from their remains, and the branches mingle over their tomb. first cited by talvj, versuch, p. . kurd. mem and zin, a poem of ahmdd xani, died - : two rose bushes spring from their graves and interlock. bulletin de la classe des sciences historiques, etc., de l'acad. impdr. des sciences de st. pdt., tome xv, no , p. . the idea of the love-animated plants has been thought to be derived from the romance of tristan, where it also occurs; agreeably to a general principle, somewhat hastily assumed, that when romances and popular ballads have anything in common, priority belongs to the romances. the question as to precedence in this instance is an open one, for the fundamen- tal conception is not less a favorite with an- cient greek than with mediaeval imagination. tristan and isolde had unwittingly drunk of a magical potion which had the power to induce an indestructible and ever-increasing love. tristan died of a wound received in one * et de la tombe de monseigneur tristan yssoit une ronce belle et verte et bien feuillene, qui alloit par desstis la cha- pelle, et descendoit le bout de la ronce sur la tombe de la royne yseult, et entroit dedans. la virent les gens du pays of his adventures, and isolde of a broken heart, because, though summoned to his aid, she arrived too late for him to profit by her medical skill. they were buried in the same church. according to the french prose ro- mance, a green brier issued from tristan's tomb, mounted to the roof, and, descending to isolde's tomb, made its way within. king marc caused the brier to be cut down three several times, but the morning after it was as flourishing as before.* eilhart von oberge, vv. - (ed. lich- tenstein, quellen u. forschungen, xix, ) and the german prose romance (busching u. von der hagen, buch der liebe, c. ), ul- rich von thurheim, vv. - , and heinrich von freiberg, vv. - (in von der hagen's ed. of g. v. strassburg's tristan) make king marc plant, the first two a grape-vine over tristan and a rose over isolde, the others, wrongly, the rose over tristan and the vine over isolde. these plants, according to hein- rich, struck their roots into the hearts of the lovers below, while their branches embraced above. icelandic ballads and an icelandic saga represent tristan's wife as forbidding the lov- ers to be buried in the same grave, and order- ing them to be buried on opposite sides of the church. trees spring from their bodies and meet over the church roof, (fslenzk forn- kvaesi, a, b, c, d; saga af tristram ok isond, brynjulfson, p. ; tristrams saga ok fsondar, kolbing, p. ). the later titurel imitates the conclusion of tristan. (der jiin- gere titurel, ed. hahn, sts , .) among the miracles of the virgin there are several which are closely akin to the prodigies already noted. a lily is found growing from the mouth of a clerk, who, though not leading an exemplary life, had every day said his ave before the image of mary: unger, mariu saga, no ; berceo, no ; miracles de n.-d. de chartres, p. lxiii, no , and p. ; ma- rien-legenden (stuttgart, ), no xi and p. . a rose springs from the grave and et la compterent au roy marc. le roy la fist couper par troys foys, et quant il l'avoit le jour fait couper, le lendeinain estoit aussi belle comme avoit aultre fois este. fol. cxxiv, as cited by braga, rom. ger., p. . . earl brand roots in the heart of a knight who had spared the honor of a maid because her name was mary: unger, no clvi, hagen's gesammt- abenteuer, lxxiii. roses inscribed maria grow from the mouth, eyes, and ears of a monk: unger, cxxxvii; and a lily grows over a monk's grave, springing from his mouth, every leaf of which bears ave maria in golden letters: unger, cxxxviii; gesammtabenteuer, lxxxviii; libro de exenplos, romania, , p. , , ; etc., etc. no one can fail to be reminded of the pur- ple, lily-shaped flower, inscribed with the mournful ai a i, that rose from the blood of hyacinthus, and of the other from the blood of ajax, with the same letters, " his name and eke his plaint," haec nominis, illa querellae. (ovid, met. x, ff; xiii, ff.) the northern lindens have their counterpart in the elms from the grave of protesilaus, and in the trees into which philemon and baucis were transformed. see, upon the whole subject, the essay of koberstein in the weimar jahrbuch, i, ff, with kohler's supplement, p. ff; grimm, deutsche mythologie, n, f, and m, . « the ballad of the 'douglas tragedy,'" says scott, " is one of the few to which pop- ular tradition has ascribed complete locality. the farm of blackhouse, in selkirkshire, is said to have been the scene of this melancholy event. there are the remains of a very an- a a, b, from the papers of the late robert white, esq., of newcastle-on-tyne: o, r. bell, ancient poems, ballads, etc. ( ), p. : d, fragmentary lines as remembered by mrs andrews, mr white's sister, from her mother's singing. oh did ye ever hear o brave earl bran? ay lally, o lilly lally he courted the king's daughter of fair eng- land. all i the night sae early she was scarcely fifteen years of age till sae boldly she came to his bedside. cient tower, adjacent to the farm-house, in a wild and solitary glen, upon a torrent named douglas burn, which joins the yarrow after passing a craggy rock called the douglas craig. . . . from this ancient tower lady margaret is said to have been carried by her lover. seven large stones, erected upon the neighboring heights of blackhouse, are shown, as marking the spot where the seven brethren were slain; and the douglas burn is averred to have been the stream at which the lovers stopped to drink: so minute is tradition in ascertaining the scene of a tragical tale, which, considering the rude state of former times, had probably foundation in some real event." the localities of the danish story were as- certained, to her entire satisfaction, by anne krabbe in - , and are given again in re- sen's atlas danicus, . see grundtvig, n, f. b, scott's 'douglas tragedy,' is translated by grundtvig, engelske og skotske folke- viser, no ; afzelius, m, ; schubart, p. ; talvj, p. ; wolff, halle, i, , haus- schatz, p. ; rosa warrens, no ; ger- hard, p. ; loeve veimars, p. . 'ribold og guldborg,' danish b, is translated by buchanan, p. (loosely); g by jamie- son, illustrations, p. , and prior, n, ; t by prior, n, ; swedish a, for. quart. rev., xxv, . 'hildebrand og hilde,' dan- ish a, b, f, h, by prior, n, - . 'o earl bran, fain wad i see a pack of hounds let loose on the lea.' 'o lady, i have no steeds but one, and thou shalt ride, and i will run.' 'o earl bran, my father has two, and thou shall have the best o them a.' they have ridden oer moss and moor, and they met neither rich nor poor. until they met with old carl hood; he comes for ill, but never for good. . earl brand 'earl bran, if ye love me, seize this old carl, and gar him die.' 'o lady fair, it wad be sair, to slay an old man that has grey hair. 'o lady fair, i 'll no do sae; i 'll gie him a pound, and let him gae.' 'o where hae ye ridden this lee lang day? or where hae ye stolen this lady away?' 'i have not ridden this lee lang day, nor yet have i stolen this lady away. 'she is my only, my sick sister, whom i have brought from winchester.' 'if she be sick, and like to dead, why wears she the ribbon sae red? 'if she be sick, and like to die, then why wears she the gold on high?' when he came to this lady's gate, sae rudely as he rapped at it. 'o where's the lady o this ha?' 'she's out with her maids to play at the ba.' the father armed fifteen of his best men, to bring his daughter back again. b scott's minstrelsy, in, , ed. ; nl, , ed. : the copy principally used supplied by mr sharpe, the three last stanzas from a penny pamphlet and from tradition. 'rise up, rise up, now, lord douglas,' she says, 'and put on your armour so bright; let it never be said that a daughter of thine was married to a lord under night. 'rise up, rise up, my seven bold sons, and put on your armour so bright, oer her left shoulder the lady looked then: 'o earl bran, we both are tane.' 'if they come on me ane by ane, te may stand by and see them slain. 'but if they come on me one and all, ye may stand by and see me fall.' they have come on him ane by ane, and he has killed them all but ane. and that ane came behind his back, and he's gien him a deadly whack. but for a' sae wounded as earl bran was, he has set his lady on her horse. they rode till they came to the water o doune, and then he alighted to wash his wounds. 'o earl bran, i see your heart's blood!' 't is but the gleat o my scarlet hood.' they rode till they came to his mother's gate, and sae rudely as he rapped at it. 'o my son's slain, my son's put down, and a' for the sake of an english loun.' 'o say not sae, my dear mother, but marry her to my youngest brother. ***** 'this has not been the death o ane, but it's been that of fair seventeen.' ***** ! and take better care of your youngest sister, for your eldest's awa the last night.' he's mounted her on a milk-white steed, and himself on a dapple grey, with a bugelet horn hung down by his side, and lightly they rode away. lord william lookit oer his left shoulder, to see what he could see, and there he spy'd her seven brethren bold, come riding over the lee. 'ha, ha, ha! ye are a' mistaen: gae count your maidens oer again. 'i saw her far beyond the moor, away to be the earl o bran's whore.' . earl brand till i fight your father and seven brethren, in yonder pleasant mead?' she stood and held his milk-white steed, she stood trembling with fear, until she saw her seven brethren fall, and her father that loved her dear. 'hold your hand, earl douglas,' she says, 'your strokes are wonderous sair; i may get sweethearts again enew, but a father i 'll ne'er get mair.' she took out a handkerchief was made o' the cambrick fine, and aye she wiped her father's bloody wounds, and the blood sprung up like wine. 'will ye go, fair margaret ?' he said, 'will ye now go, or bide?' 'yes, i 'll go, sweet william,' she said, 'for ye've left me never a guide. 'if i were to go to my mother's house, a welcome guest i would be; but for the bloody deed that's done this day i 'll rather go with thee.' he lifted her on a milk-white steed and himself on a dapple gray; they drew their hats out over their face, and they both went weeping away. they rode, they rode, and they better rode, till they came to yon water wan; they lighted down to gie their horse a drink out of the running stream. 'i am afraid, earl douglas.' she said, 'i am afraid ye are slain ;' d kinloch mss, i, . 'sleepst thou or wakst thou, lord montgom- erie, sleepst thou or wakst thou, i say? rise up, make a match for your eldest daugh- ter, for the youngest i carry away.' 'rise up, rise up, my seven bold sons, dress yourselves in the armour sae fine; i think i see your bonny heart's blood running down the water wan.' 'oh no, oh no, fair margaret,' he said, 'oh no, i am not slain; it is but the scad of my scarlet cloak runs down the water wan.' he mounted her on a milk-white steed and himself on a dapple gray, and they have reached earl douglas' gates before the break of day. 'o rise, dear mother, and make my bed, and make it braid and wide, and lay me down to take my rest, and at my back my bride.' she has risen and made his bed, she made it brajd and wide; she laid him down to take his rest, and at his back his bride. lord william died ere it was day, lady margaret on the morrow; lord william died through loss of blood and wounds, fair margaret died with sorrow. the one was buried in mary's kirk, the other in mary's quire; the one sprung up a bonnie bush, and the other a bonny brier. these twa grew, and these twa threw, till they came to the top, and when they could na farther gae, they coost the lovers' knot. for it ne'er shall be said that a churlish knight eer married a daughter of mine.' ***** 'loup aff, loup aff, lady margaret,' he said, 'and hold my steed in your hand, and i will go fight your seven brethren, and your father, where they stand.' sometimes she gaed, sometimes she stood, but never dropt a tear, until she saw her brethren all slain, and her father who lovd her so dear. . earl brand 'hold thy hand, sweet william,' she says, 'thy hlows are wondrous sore; sweethearts i may have many a one, but a father i 'll never have more.' o she's taken her napkin frae her pocket, was made o the holland fine, and ay as she dichted her father's hloody wounds, they sprang as red as the wine. 'two chooses, two chooses, lady margret,' he says, 'two chooses i 'll make thee; whether to go hack to your mother again, or go along with me.' 'for to go home to my mother again, an unwelcome guest i'd be; but since my fate has ordered it so, i 'll go along with thee.' he has mounted her on a milk-white steed, himself on the dapple gray, and blawn his horn baith loud and shill, and it sounded far on their way. they rode oer hill, they rode oer dale, they rode oer mountains so high, until they came to that beautiful place where sir william's mother did lie. 'rise up, rise up, lady mother,' he said, 'rise up, and make much o your own; rise up, rise up, lady mother,' he said, 'for his bride's just new come home.' sir william he died in the middle o the night, lady margaret died on the morrow; sir william he died of pure pure love, lady margaret of grief and sorrow. e motherwell's minstrelsy, p. . from recitation. he has lookit over his left shoulder, and through his bonnie bridle rein, and he spy'd her father and her seven bold brethren, come riding down the glen. 'o hold my horse, lady margret,' he said, o hold my horse by the bonnie bridle rein, till i fight your father and seven bold breth- ren, as they come riding down the glen.' some time she rade, and some time she gaed, till she that place did near, and there she spy'd her seven bold brethren slain, and her father who loved her so dear. 'o hold your hand, sweet william,' she said, 'your bull baits are wondrous sair; sweet-hearts i may get many a one, but a father i will never get mair.' she has taken a napkin from off her neck, that was of the cambrick so fine, and aye as she wiped her father's bloody wounds, the blood ran red as the wine. # # * # * he set her upon the milk-white steed, himself upon the brown; he took a horn out of his pocket, and they both went weeping along. p percy ms., p. ; ed. hales and furnivall, i, . sayes ' christ thee sane, good child of ell! christ saue thee and thy steede! 'my father sayes he will [eat] noe meate, nor his drinke shall doe him noe good, till he haue slaine the child of ell, and haue seene his harts blood.' 'i wold i were in my sadle sett, and a mile out of the towne; . earl brand i did not care fop yowr father and all his merry men! 'i wold i were in my sadle sett, and a little space him froe; i did not care for yowr father and all that long him to!' he leaned ore his saddle bow to kisse this lady good; the teares that went thein two betweene were blend water and blood. he sett himselfe on one good steed, this lady on a palfray, and sett his litle home to his mouth, and roundlie he rode away. he had not ridden past a mile, a mile out of the towne, her father was readye with her seuen brether, he said, 'sett thou my daughter downe! for it ill beseemes thee, thou false churles sonne, to carry her forth of this towne!' 'but lowd thou lyest, sir iohn the knight, thou now doest lye of me; a knight me gott, and a lady me bore; soe neuer did none by thee. 'but light now downe, my lady gay, light downe and hold my horsse, whilest i and yowr father and yowr brether doe play vs at this crosse. 'but light now downe, my owne trew loue, and meeklye hold my steede, whilest yowr father [and your seuen brether] bold # # * * * a. a, b. obtained from recitation "many years ago," wrote mr white in , by james tel- fer, of laughtree liddesdale, in some part of the neighboring country: the copy has the date . o is said by the editor to have been taken down from the recitation of an old fiddler in northumberland, but when and by whom he does not tell us. the three are clearly more or less "corrected" copies of the same original, c having suffered most from arbitrary changes. alterations for rhyme's sake, or for propriety's, that are written above the lines or in the mar- gin o/ a , , , , are adopted in o without advertisement. burden, b. i the brave night sae early: c. i the brave nights so early: d. i (or ) the life o the one, the randy. i . c. brand, and always in c. is. a. daugh- ters, b. he's courted. . c. years that tide; that tide is written over of age in a. . c. when sae. . o. but thou. . b. best o these, c. best of tho. of tho is written over o them a in a. *. b, o. have met. . o. till at last they met. . c. he's aye for ill and never. . b. o earl bran. c. now earl brand. now in the margin of a. . b, c. slay this. . b. man that wears, o. carl that wears, carl . . wears written over man . . has in a. . b. o lady fair, i 'll no do that, i 'll pay him penny, let him be jobbing at. o. my own lady fair, i 'll not do that, i 'll pay him his fee ll . b. where have stoln this fair. o. and where have ye stown this fair. . b. she is my sick sister, which i newly brought from winches- ter. c. for she is, i trow, my sick sister, whom i have been bringing fra win- chester. . o. nigh to dead. . b, c. what makes her wear. is , c. if she's been. s. b, o. what makes her wear the gold sae high. . c. when came the carl to the lady's yett. . b. rapped at. c. he rudely, rudely rapped thereat. s. b. maids playen. c. a playing, d. she's out with the fair maids playing at the ball. . earl brand . b. mistkane ( ?): . b, c. ye may count. b . young earl. . o. i met her far beyond the lea with the young earl brand, his leman to be: in a lea is written over moor, and "with the young, etc., stands as a "correction." . b. her father, etc., and they have riden after them, o. her father of his best men armed fif- teen, and they 're ridden after them bi- dene. . b, c. the lady looket [looked] over [owre] her left shoulder then. . b, c. if they come on me one by one, b. te may stand by and see them fall, o. you may stand by till the fights be done. d. then i will slay them every one. . b. all in all. d. all and all. . d. then you will see me the sooner fall. s. b. has slain. . c. they came upon him one by one, till fourteen battles he has won. and fourteen men he has them slain, each after each upon the plain. . c. but the fifteenth man behind stole round, and dealt him a deep and a deadly wound. . o. though he was wounded to the deid, he set his lady on her steed. . o. river doune: . b. and he lighted down. c. and there they lighted to wash his wound. . b. it's but the glent. c. it's nothing but the glent and my scar- let hood. . c. yett. . b. sae ruddly as he rappet at. c. so faint and feebly he rapped thereat. . b. o my son's slain and cut down. c. o my son's slain, he is falling to swoon. u . b. . . . death of only one, but it's been the death of fair seventeen. instead of , c has: to a maiden true he 'll give his hand, to the king's daughter o fair england, to a prize that was won by a slain brother's brand. b. . a stanza resembling this is found in beau- mont and fletcher's 'knight of the burning pestle' ( ), dyce, n, , but mag belong to some other ballad, as ' the knight and shep- herd's daughter:' he set her on a milk-white steed, and himself upon a grey; he never turned his face again, but he bore her quite away. . ware. . marie. . flang'd. c. s. ms. scad. d. . the following stanza, superscribed "mrs lindores, kelso," was found among mr kin- lock's papers, and was inserted at i, , of the kinlock mss. it may be a first recollec- tion of d , but is more likely to be anotlter version: 'we raid over hill and we raid over dale, and we raid over mountains sae high, until we cam in sicht o yon bonnie castle bowr whare sir william arthur did lie.' e. - . "two stanzas are here omitted, in which lord william offers her the choice of return- ing to her mother, or of accompanying him; and the ballad concludes with this [the &th"] stanza, which is twice repeated in singing." motherwell's preface. f. *. ms. merrymen. s. of one palfray. , are written in one stanza. half a page, or about nine stanzas, is gone after st. . . erlinton erlinton a. 'erlinton,' scott's minstrelsy, in, , ed. . c. 'robin hood and the tanner's daughter,' gutch's robin hood, n, . b. 'true tammas,' mr r. white's papers. 'erlinton ' (a) first appeared in the min- strelsy of the scottish border, the text formed "from the collation of two copies obtained from recitation." b is a manuscript copy, furnished by the late mr robert white of newcastle, and was probably taken down from recitation by mr james telfer early in the century. c, in which robin hood has taken the place of a hero who had at least connec- tions out of great britain, was first printed in gutch's robin hood, from a manuscript of mr payne collier, supposed to have been written about . this ballad has only with much hesitation been separated from the foregoing. in this as in that, a man induces a maid to go off with him; he is set upon by a party of fifteen in a, b, as in a; and he spares the life of one of his assailants [an old man, a, b, the younger brother, c]. some agreements as to details with scandinavian ribold ballads have already been noticed, and it has been observed that while there is no vestige of the dead-naming in 'earl brand,' there is an obvious trace of it in 'erlinton ' a, b. 'erlinton' a, b has also one other correspondence not found in 'earl brand,' — the strict watch kept over the lady (st. ). even the bigly bower, ex- pressly built to confine her in, is very likely a reminiscence or a displacement of the tower in which hilde is shut up, after her elope- ment, in some of the scandinavian ballads (danish a, b; swedish a, dark house). but notwithstanding these resemblances to the ribold story, there is a difference in the larger part of the details, and all the 'erlin- ton ' ballads have a fortunate conclusion, which also does not seem forced, as it does in arwids- son, , the only instance, perhaps, in which a fortunate conclusion in a ribold ballad is of the least account; for grundtvig's f, g are manifestly copies that have been tampered with, and landstad is greatly confused at the close. it may be an absolute accident, but' erlinton' a, b has at least one point of contact with the story of walter of aqui- tania which is not found in 'earl brand.' this story requires to be given in brief on ac- count of its kinship to both. walter, with his betrothed hildegunde, fly from the court of attila, at which they have both lived as hostages since their childhood, taking with them two boxes of jewels. gun- ther, king of worms, learns that a knight and lady, with a richly-laden horse, have passed the rhine, and sets out in pursuit, with twelve of his best fighting men, resolved to capture the treasure. the fugitives, after a very long ride, make a halt in a forest, and walter goes to sleep with his head on hildegunde's knees. the lady meanwhile keeps watch, and rouses her lover when she perceives by the dust they raise that horsemen are approach- ing. gunther sends one of his knights with a message demanding the surrender of the treas- ure. walter scornfully refuses, but expresses a willingness to m;tke the king a present of a hundred bracelets, or rings, of red gold, in token of his respect. the messenger is sent back with directions to take the treasure by force, if it should be refused again. walter, having vainly offered a present of two hundred bracelets to avoid a conflict, is attacked by the knight, whom he slays. ten others go the way of this first, and only the king and one of his troop, hagen, a very distinguished knight and an old comrade of walter, remain. these now attack walter; the combat is long . erlinton and fierce; all three are seriously wounded, and finally so exhausted as to be forced to cease fighting. walter and hagen enter into a friendly talk 'while refreshing themselves with wine, and in the end gunther * is put on a horse and conducted home by hagen, while walter and hildegunde continue their jour- ney to aquitania. there they were married and ruled thirty happy years. (' waltharius,' ed. r. peiper, .) the particular resemblances of 'erlinton' a, b to 'walter' are that the assailants are "bold knights," or " bravest outlaws," not the lady's kinsmen; that there are two parleys before the fight; and that the hero survives the fight and goes off with his love. the ut- most that could be insisted oh is that some features of the story of walter have been blended in the course of tradition with the kindred story of ribold. 'erlinton' c is much less like ' walter,' and more like ' ribold.' the 'sultan's fair daughter,' translated by aigner, ungarische volksdichtungen, p. , d ed., has perhaps derived something from the walter story. two magyars escape from the sultan's prison by the aid of his daughter, under promise of taking her to hun- gary. she often looks backwards, fearing pur- suit. at last a large band overtake them. one of the magyars guards the lady; the other assaults the turks, of whom he leaves only one alive, to carry back information. one of the two has a love at home; the other takes the sultan's daughter. 'erlinton ' is translated by rosa warrens, schottische volkslieder, no , and by karl knortz, schottische balladen, no . a scott's minstrelsy, in, , ed. ; ed. , n, . made up from two copies obtained from recitation. erlinton had a fair daughter; i wat he weird her in a great sin; for he has built a bigly bower, an a' to put that lady in. an he has warnd her sisters six, an sae has he her brethren se'en, outher to watch her a' the night, or else to seek her morn an een. she hadna been i that bigly bower na not a night but barely ane, till there was willie, her ain true love, chappd at the door, cryin ' peace within!' 'o whae is this at my bower door, that chaps sae late, nor kens the gin?' 'o it is willie, your ain true love, i pray you rise an let me in!' 'but in my bower there is a wake, an at the wake there is a wane; but i 'll come to the green-wood the morn, whar blooms the brier, by mornin dawn.' then she's gane to her bed again, where she has layen till the cock crew thrice, then she said to her sisters a', 'maidens, 't is time for us to rise.' she pat on her back her silken gown, an on her breast a siller pin, an she 'a tane a sister in ilka hand, an to the green-wood she is gane. she hadna walkd in the green-wood na not a mile but barely ane, till there was willie, her ain true love, whae frae her sisters has her taen. he took her sisters by the hand, he kissd them baith, an sent them hame, * gunther, as well remarked by klee, 'zur hildesage,' p. arinoldus, whom walter slays. rischkn, verhaltuiss dcr , cannot have belonged originally to the hildegunde saga, polnischen sage von walgicrz wdaly zu den deutschen no sufficient motive is furnished for introducing him. in sagen von w. v. aqnitanien, p. ff. the polish version of the story there is only one pursuer, . erlinton an he's taen his true love him behind, and through the green-wood they are gane. they hadna ridden in the bonnie green-wood na not a mile but barely ane, when there came fifteen o the boldest knights that ever bare flesh, blood, or bane. the foremost was an aged knight, he wore the grey hair on his chin: says, 'yield to me thy lady bright, an thou shalt walk the woods within.' 'for me to yield my lady bright to such an aged knight as thee, people wad think i war gane mad, or a' the courage flown frae me.' but up then spake the second knight, i wat he spake right boustouslie: 'yield me thy life, or thy lady bright, or here the tane of us shall die.' 'my lady is my warld's meed; my life i winna yield to nane; but if ye be men of your manhead, ye 'll only fight me ane by ane.' he lighted aff his milk-white steed, an gae his lady him by the head, sayn, ' see ye dinna change your cheer, untill ye see my body bleed.' he set his back unto an aik, he set his feet against a stane, an he has fought these fifteen men, an killd them a' but barely ane. for he has left that aged knight, an a' to carry the tidings hame. when he gaed to his lady fair, i wat he kissd her tenderlie: 'thou art mine ain love, i have thee bought; now we shall walk the green-wood free.' b ms. of robert white, esq., of newcastle, from james telfer's collection. there was a knight, an he had a daughter, an he wad wed her, wi muckle sin; sae he has biggit a bonnie bower, love, an a' to keep his fair daughter in. but she hadna been in the bonnie bower, love, and no twa hours but barely ane, till up started tammas, her ain true lover, and o sae fain as he wad been in. 'for a' sae weel as i like ye, tammas, an for a' sae weel as i like the gin, i wadna for ten thousand pounds, love, na no this night wad i let thee in. 'but yonder is a bonnie greenwud, an in the greenwud there is a wauk, an i 'll be there an sune the morn, love, it's a' for my true love's sake. 'on my right hand i 'll have a glove, love, an on my left ane i 'll have nane; i 'll have wi' me my sisters six, love, an we will wauk the wuds our lane.' they hadna waukd in the bonnie greenwud, • na no an hour but barely ane, till up start tammas, her ain true lover, he's taen her sisters her frae mang. an he has kissed her sisters six, love, an he has sent them hame again, but he has keepit his ain true lover, saying, ' we will wauk the wuds our lane.' they hadna waukd in the bonnie greenwud na no an hour but barely ane, till up start fifteen o the bravest outlaws that ever bure either breath or bane. an up.bespake the foremost man, love, an o but he spake angrily: 'either your life — or your lady fair, sir, this night shall wauk the wuds wi me.' . erlinton 'my lady fair, o i like her weel, sir, an o my life, but it lies me near! but before i lose my lady fair, sir, i 'll rather lose my life sae dear.' then up bespak the second man, love, an aye he spake mair angrily, saying, 'baith your life, and your lady fair, sir, this night shall wauk the wuds wi me.' 'my lady fair, o i like her weel, sir, an my life, but it lies me near! but before i lose my lady fair, sir, i 'll rather lose my life sae dear. 'but if ye 'll be men to your manhood, as that i will be unto mine, i 'll fight ye every ane man by man, till the last drop's blude i hae be slain. 'o sit ye down, my dearest dearie, sit down and hold my noble steed, and see that ye never change your cheer until ye see my body bleed.' he's feughten a' the fifteen outlaws, the fifteen outlaws every ane, he's left naething but the auldest man to go and carry the tidings hame. an he has gane to his dearest dear, an he has kissed her, cheek and chin, saying, 'thou art mine ain, i have bought thee dear, • an we will wauk the wuds our lane.' gatch's kobin hood, n, , from a ms. of mr. payne collier's, supposed to have been written about . as robin hood sat by a tree, he espied a prettie may, and when she chanced him to see, she turnd her head away. 'o feare me not, thou prettie mayde, and doe not flie from mee; i am the kindest man,' he said, 'that ever eye did see.' then to her he did doffe his cap, and to her lowted low; 'to meete with thee i hold it good hap, if thou wilt not say noe.' then he put his hand around her waste, soe small, so tight, and trim, and after sought her lip to taste, and she to kissed him. 'where dost thou dwell, my prettie maide? i prithee tell to me ;' 'i am a tanner's daughter,' she said, 'john hobbes of barneslee.' 'and whither goest thou, pretty maide? shall i be thy true love?' 'if thou art not afeard,' she said, 'my true love thou s ialt prove.' 'what should i feare ?' then he replied; 'i am thy true love now ;' 'i have two brethren, and their pride would scorn such one as thou.' 'that will we try,' quoth robin hood; 'i was not made their scorne; jqe shed my blood to doe the[e] good, as sure as they were borne.' 'my brothers are proude and fierce and strong;' 'i am,' said he, 'the same, and if they offer thee to wrong, theyle finde he play their game. 'through the free forrest i can run, the king may not controll; they are but barking tanners' sons, to me they shall pay toll. 'and if not mine be sheepe and kine, i have cattle on my land; on venison eche day i may dine, whiles they have none in hand.' these wordes had robin hood scarce spoke, when they two men did see, come riding till their horses smoke: 'my brothers both,' cried shee. . elllinton each had a good sword hy his side, and furiouslie they rode to where they robin hood espied, that with the maiden stood. 'flee hence, flee hence, away with speede!' cried she to robin hood, 'for if thou stay, thoult surely bleede; i could not see thy blood.' 'with us, false maiden, come away, and leave that outlawe bolde; why fledst thou from thy home this day, and left thy father olde?' robin stept backe but paces five, unto a sturdie tree; 'he fight whiles i am left alive; stay thou, sweete maide, with mee.' he stood before, she stoode behinde, the brothers two drewe nie; 'our sister now to us resign, or thou full sure shalt die.' then cried the maide, ' my brethren deare, with ye he freely wend, but harm not this young forrester, noe ill doth he pretend.' 'stande up, sweete maide, i plight my troth; fall thou not on thy knee; he force thy cruell brothers both to bend the knee to thee. 'stand thou behinde this sturdie oke, i soone will quell their pride; thoult see my sword with furie smoke, and in their hearts' blood died.' he set his backe against a tree, his f oote against a stone; the first blow that he gave so free cleft one man to the bone. the tanners bold they fought right well, and it was one to two; but robin did them both retell, all in the damsell's viewe. the red blood ran from robins brow, all downe unto his knee; 'o holde your handes, my brethren now, i will goe backe with yee.' 'stand backe, stand backe, my pretty maide, stand backe and let me fight; by sweete st. james be no[t] afraide but i will it requite.' then robin did his sword uplift, and let it fall againe; the oldest brothers head it cleft, right through unto his braine. 'o hold thy hand, bolde forrester, or ill may thee betide; slay not my youngest brother here, he is my father's pride.' 'away, for i would scorne to owe, my life to the[e], false maide!' the youngest cried, and aimd a blow that lit on robin's head. then robin leand against the tree, his life nie gone did seeme; his eyes did swim, he could not see the maiden start betweene. it was not long ere robin hood could welde his sword so bright; upon his feete he firmly stood, and did renew the fight. untill the tanner scarce could heave his weapon in the aire; but robin would not him bereave of life, and left him there. then to the greenewood did he fly, and with him went the maide; for him she vowd that she would dye, he'd live for her, he said. a. s. ed. has or kens. wad wed her. one of the two is a singular b. i . if a l be right, gross injustice is done the corruption. father by changing i wat he weird her into he there is another copy of b among mr white's . the fair flower of northumberland papers, with the title 'sir thamas,' which i have no doubt has been " revised," whether by telfer, or by mr white himself, it is im- possible to say. thex principal variations are here given, that others may be satisfied. i . wed her mang his ain kin. i . this fair. *. till up cam thamas her only true love. *. o tirl nae langer at the pin. *. i wadna for a hundred pounds, love. *. can i. *. fu soon. . and by oursels we twa can talk. , . i 'll hae a glove on my right hand, love, and on my left i shall hae nane. *"*. beyond an hour, or scarcely twa, when up rode thamas, her only true love, and he has tane her frae mang them a'. . he kissed her sisters, a' the six, love. s. his winsome true love. . that they might walk. . didna walk. ". beyond two hours, or barely three, till up cam seven * stalwart outlaws, the bauldest fellows that ane could see. * "the original ballad had fifteen. seven would do as well, and the latter number would seem more nearly to re- semble the truth." s. we 'll take your life, for this lady fair, sir. . my lady's fair, i like her weel, sir. ii ,*. and he spak still mair furiously; 'flee, or we 'll kill ye, because your lady. . 'my lady fair, i shall part ha frae thee, and for my life, i did never fear; sae before i lose my winsome lady, my life i 'll venture for ane sae dear. . ' but if ye 're a' true to your manhood, as i shall try to be true to mine, i 'll fight ye a', come man by man then, till the last drop o my bloud i tine.' . my bridled steed. *. and mind ye never change your colour. . he fought against the seven outlaws, and he has beat them a' himsel; but he left the auldest man amang them that he might gae and the tidings tell. . then he has gane to his dearest dearie, and he has kissed her oer and oer; 'though thou art mine, i hae bought thee dearly, now we shall sunder never more.' c. i . robinhood, and so always. . after this: finis, t. fleming. the fair flower of northumberland a. a. deloney's ' jack of newbury,' reprint of , p. . b. 'the ungrateful knight and the fair flower of northumberland,' ritson's ancient songs, , p: . b. a. kinloch mss, v, . b. 'the provost's doeh- ter,' kinloch's ancient scottish ballads, p. . c. 'the betrayed lady.' a. buchan's mss, n, . b. buchan's ballads of the north of scotland, n, . d. motherwell's ms., p. . e. 'the flower of northumberland,' mr robert white's papers. the earliest copy of this ballad is intro- duced as ' the maidens' song,' f in deloney's pleasant history of john winchcomb, in his younger yeares called jacke of newberie, a book written as early as . mr halliwell reprinted the " th " edition, of the date , j t "two of them singing the dittie," says deloney, "and all the rest bearing the burden." in , and the ballad is found at p. of the reprint (a). the copy in ritson's ancient songs, , p. , has a few variations, which are probably to be explained by rit- son having used some other edition of de- loney. ritson's text is used in the border- j the earliest edition now known to exist is of . . the fair flower of northumberland er's table book, vi, , and was taken thence into sheldon's minstrelsy of the english bor- der, with some arbitrary alterations. the ballad was formerly popular in scotland. kin- loch and buchan printed b and c with some slight changes; the texts are now given as they stand in the manuscripts. e, a traditional version from the english border, has unfortu- nately been improved by some literary pen. an english lady is prevailed upon to release a scot from prison, and to fly with him, on the promise of being made his wife, and (a) lady of castles and towers. she takes much gold with her (a), and a swift steed (two, a). according to a they come to a rough river; the lady is alarmed, but swims it, and is wet from top to toe. on coming within sight of edinburgh, the faithless knight bids her choose whether she will be his paramour or go back: he has wife and children. she begs him to draw his sword and end her shame: he takes her horse away, and leaves her. two english knights come by, who restore her to her fa- ther. the dismissal takes place at the scottish cross and moor in b ; at a moor and a moss, c; at scotland bridge, d ; at a fair scottish cross, e. she offers to be servant in his kitchen rather than go back, b, c, e; begs him to throw her into the water, d; from his castle wall, e. he fees an old man to take her home on an old horse, b, e. we do not find the whole of this story re- peated among other european nations, but there are interesting agreements in parts with scandinavian, polish, and german ballads. there is some resemblance in the first half to a pretty ballad of the northern nations which treats in a brief way the theme of our exquisite romance of 'the nutbrown maid:' danish, 'den trofaste jomfru,' grundtvig, no , iv, , nine copies, a-i, the first three from th or th century manuscripts, the others from tradition of this century, as are * some of these ballads begin with stanzas which are found also in kvindemorderen and ribold ballads (our no , no ), where also a young woman is carried off furtively by a man. this is only what is to be expected. t by mistake, most probably. but in one of the polish ballads, cited a little further on, q (kolbcrg, p. l pol- also the following : k-m,' den fredlase,' kris- tensen, n, , no : swedish,' de sju gull- bergen,' a, afzelius, no , m, , new ed., no , i, ; b, c, grundtvig, iv, f: norwegian a, 'herre per og stolt margit,' landstad, no , p. ; b, 'herr' nikelus,' landstad, no , p. .* all tell very much the same tale. a knight carries off a maid on his horse, making her magnificent promises, among which are eight gold castles, dan. c, d, e, h, i; one, k, l, m; eight, norw. a ; nine, norw. b; seven, swed. b; seven gold moun- tains, swed. a, perhaps, by mistake of ber^ren for bor^ar.f she gets her gold together while he is saddling his horse, dan. a, c, d, f, h, m; swed. a; norw. a, b. they come to a sea-strand or other water, it is many miles to the nearest land, dan. b, d, swed. a, c; the lady wishes she were at home, dan. e, f, swed. b, c. he swims the horse across, dan. a, b, d, e, f, h, k, l, m; swed. a, b, c [part of the way, having started in a boat, norw. a, b]. the maid wrings her clothes, dan. a, d, k, l; swed. a; norw. a, b. she asks, where are the gold castles which you promised? dan. c , d , k , l , m ; norw. a , b .j he tells her that he has no gold castle but this green turf, dan. c ; he needs none but the black ground and thick wood, dan. k : he is a penni- less, banished man. she offers him her gold to buy him a charter of peace. in all, except dan. a, b, c, and the incomplete dan. i, norw. b, he goes on to say that he has plighted faith to another woman, and she meekly re- plies, then i will be your servant. he con- tinues the trial no further, reveals himself as of wealth and rank, says that she shall have ladies to wait on her, and makes her his queen. the knight is king of england in dan. b, h, king henry, simply, in dan. f. the gold castles prove to be realities: there is in dan. e even one more than was promised. § skiego, pp), the maid is told, "in my country the moun- tains are golden, the mountains are of gold." so 'lady isabel and the elf-knight,' d : 'is this your bowers and lofty towers?' § there is a similarity, which is perhaps not accidental, between these scandinavian ballads and 'child waters.' . the fair flower of northumberland the polish ballads of the class of 'lady isabel and the elf knight' (see p. f) have thus much in common with ' the fair flower of northumberland :' a maid is induced to go off with a man on horseback, and takes gold with her; after going a certain distance, he bids her return home; in aa, h, r, he gives her her choice whether to return or to jump into the river; she prefers death (cf. d , , p. ) ; in all they finally come to a river, or other water, into which he throws her.* there is a german ballad which has some slight connection with all the foregoing, and a very slight story it is altogether: 'stolz heinrich,' simrock, no , p. , 'stolz sy- burg,' reiffenberg, no , p. , no , p. , from the lower rhine and miinster; made over, in kretzschmer, i, , no . hein- rich, or syburg, wooes a king's daughter in a distant land. he asks her to go with him, and says he has seven mills in his country. "tell me what they grind," says margaret, "and i will go with you." the mills grind sugar and cinnamon, mace and cloves. they come to a green heath. margaret thinks she sees the mills gleaming: he tells her that a green heath is all he has. "then god have mercy that i have come so far," she says; draws a sword, kneels before him, and stabs herself. the ballad of 'young andrew,' further on, has points in common with • the fair flower of northumberland.' c is translated by rosa warrens, schot- tische lieder der vorzeit, no , p. . a a. deloney's pleasant history of john wincheomb, th ed., london, , reprinted by halliwell, p. . b. bitson'i ancient songs, , p. . it was a knight in scotland borne follow, my love, come over the strand was taken prisoner, and left forlorne, even by the good earle of northumber- land. then was he cast in prison strong, where he could not walke nor lie along, even by the goode earle of northumber- land. and as in sorrow thus he lay, the earle's sweete daughter walkt that way, and she the faire flower of northumber- land. and passing by, like an angell bright, the prisoner had of her a sight, and she the faire flower of northumber- land. and loud to her this knight did crie, the salt teares standing in his eye, and she the faire flower of northumberland. 'faire lady,' he said, 'take pity on me, and let me not in prison dye, and you the faire flower of northumber- land.' 'faire sir, how should i take pity on thee, thou being a foe to our countrey, and i the faire flower of northumberland.' 'faire lady, i am no foe,' he said, 'through thy sweet love heere was i stayd, for thee, the faire flower of northumber- land.' 'why shouldst thou come heere for love of me, having wife and children in thy countrie? and i the faire flower of northumberland.' 'i sweare by the blessed trinitie, i have no wife nor children, i, nor dwelling at home in merrie scotland. child waters makes ellen swim a piece of water, shows her she is thrown in from a bridge in v, w, the bridge of cra- his hall — " of red gold shines the tower " — where the fair- cow in c: cf. scotland bridge, d of this ballad. by a est lady is his paramour, subjects her to menial services, and curious accident, it is at a wayside crucifix that the man be- finally, her patience withstanding all trials, marries her. gins his change of demeanor in polish cc (kolberg, • they pass the water in q only, and that in a boat. ddd), as in b , e , of this ballad, it is at a scottish cross. . the fair flower of northumberland 'if curteously you will set me free, i vow that i will marrie thee, so soone as i come in faire scotland. 'thou shalt be a lady of castles and towers, and sit like a queene in princely bowers, when i am at home in faire scotland.' then parted hence this lady gay, and got her father's ring away, to helpe this sad knight into faire scot- land. likewise much gold she got by sleight, and all to helpe this forlorne knight to wend from her father to faire scotland. two gallant steedes, both good and able, she likewise tooke out of the stable. to ride with this knight into faire scotland. and to the jaylor she sent this ring, the knight from prison forth to bring, to wend with her into faire scotland. this token set the prisoner free, who straight went to this faire lady, to wend with her into faire scotland. a gallant steede he did bestride, and with the lady away did ride, and she the faire flower of northumber- land. they rode till they came to a water cleare: 'good sir, how should i follow you heere, and i the faire flower of northumberland? 'the water is rough and wonderfull deepe, an[d] on my saddle i shall not keepe, and i the faire flower of northumberland.' 'feare not the foord, faire lady,' quoth he, 'for long i cannot stay for thee, and thou the faire flower of northumber- land.' the lady prickt her wanton steed, and over the river sworn with speede, and she the faire flower of northumber- land. from top to toe all wet was shee: 'this have i done for love of thee, and i the faire flower of northumberland.' thus rode she all one winter's night, till edenborow they saw in sight, the chiefest towne in all scotland. 'now chuse,' quoth he, ' thou wanton flower, whe'r thou wilt be my paramour, or get thee home to northumberland. 'for i have wife, and children five, in edenborow they be alive; then get thee home to faire england. 'this favour shalt thou have to boote, he have thy horse, go thou on foote, go, get thee home to northumberland.' 'o false and faithlesse knight,' quoth shee, 'and canst thou deale so bad with me, and i the faire flower of northumberland? 'dishonour not a ladie's name, but draw thy sword and end my shame, and i the faire flower of northumberland.' he tooke her from her stately steed, and left her there in extreme need, and she the faire flower of northumberland. then sate she downe full heavily; at length two knights came riding by, two gallant knights of faire england. she fell downe humbly on her knee. saying, 'courteous knights, take pittie on me, and i the faire flower of northumberland. 'i have offended my father deere, and by a false knight that brought me heere, from the good earle of northumberland.' they tooke her up behind them then, and brought her to her father's againe, and he the good earle of northumberland. all you faire maidens be warned by me, scots were never true, nor never will be, to lord, nor lady, nor faire england. . the fair flower of northumberland. b a. kinloch mss, v, , in the handwriting of j. beattie. b. kinloch's ancient scottish ballads, p. , from the reci- tation of miss e. beattie. the provost's daughter went out a walking, a may's love whiles is easy won she heard a poor prisoner making his moan, and she was the fair flower of northumber- land. 'if any lady would borrow me out into the prison strong, i would make her a lady of high degree, for i am a great lord in fair scotland.' she's done her to her father's bed-stock, a may's love whiles is easy won she's stolen the keys o many braw lock, and she's loosd him out o the prison strong. she's done her to her father's stable, a may's love whiles is easy won she's taen out a steed that was both swift and able, to carry them both to fair scotland. o when they came to the scottish cross, a may's love whiles is easy won 'ye brazen-faced whore, light off o my horse, and go get you back to northumberland ' o when they came to the scottish moor, a may's love whiles is easy won 'get off o my horse, you 're a brazen-faced whore, so go get you back to northumberland!' 'o pity on me, o pity,' said she, 'o that my love was so easy won! have pity on me as i had upon thee, when i loosd you out of the prison strong.' 'o how can i have pity on thee? o why was your love so easy won! when i have a wife and children three more worthy than a' northumberland.' 'cook in your kitchen i will be, o that my love was so easy won! and serve your lady most reverently, for i darena go back to northumberland.' 'cook in my kitchen you shall not be, why was your love so easy won! for i will have no such servants as thee, so get you back to northumberland.' but laith was he the lassie to tyne, a may's love whiles is easy won he's hired an old horse and feed an old man, to carry her back to northumberland. o when she came her father before, a may's love whiles is easy won she fell down on her knees so low for she was the fair flower of northumber- land. 'o daughter, o daughter, why was ye so bold, or why was your love so easy won, to be a scottish whore in your fifteen year old? and you the fair flower of northumberland!' her- mother she gently on her did smile, that her love was so easy won! 'she is not the first that the scotts have beguild, but she's still the fair flower of northum- berland. 'she shanna want gold, she shanna want fee, altho that her love was so easy won, she shanna want gold to gain a man wi, and she's still the fair flower of northum- berland.' a. buchan's mss, n, . north of scotland, n, . b. buchan's ballads of the as i went by a jail-house door, maid's love whiles is easy won i saw a prisoner standing there, 'i wish i were home in fair scotland. 'fair maid, will you pity me? ye 'll steal the keys, let me gae free: i 'll make you my lady in fair scotland. 'i'm sure you have no need of me, for ye have a wife and bairns three, that lives at home in fair scotland.' . the fair flower of northumberland he swore by him that was crownd with thorn, that he never had a wife since the day he was born, but livd a free lord in fair scotland. she went unto her father's bed-head, she 's stown the key o mony a lock, she's let him out o prison strong. she's went to her father's stable, she's stown a steed baith wight and able, to carry them oh to fair scotland. they rode till they came to a muir, he bade her light aff, they'd call her a whore, if she didna return to northumberland. they rode till they came to a moss, he bade her light aff her father's best horse, and return her again to northumberland. 'i'm sure i have no need of thee. when i have a wife and bairns three, that lives at home in fair scotland.' 'i 'll be cook in your kitehen, and serve your lady handsomelie, for i darena gae back to northumberland.' 'ye cannot be cook in my kitchen, my lady cannot fa sic servants as thee, so ye 'll return again to northumberland.' "when she went thro her father's ha, she looted her low amongst them a', she was the fair flower o northumberland. out spake her father, he spake bold, 'how could ye be a whore in fifteen years old, and you the flower of northumberland?' out spake her mother, she spake wi a smile, 'she's nae the first his coat did beguile, ye 're welcome again to northumberland.' d motherwell's ms., p. j . she's gane down to her father's stable, o my dear, and my love that she wan she's taen out a black steed baith sturdy and able, and she's away to fair scotland. when they came to scotland bridge, 'light off, you whore, from my black steed, and go your ways back to northumber- land.' 'o take me by the body so meek, and throw me in the water so deep, for i daurna gae back to northumberland.' 'i 'll no take thee by the body so meek, 'nor throw thee in the water so deep; thou may go thy ways back to northumber- land.' 'take me by the body so small, and throw me in yon bonny mill-dam, for i daurna gae back to northumberland.' e "written down from memory by robert hutton, shep- herd, peel, liddesdale." mr r. white's papers. a bailiff's fair daughter, she lived by the aln, a young maid's love is easily won she heard a poor prisoner making his moan, and she was the flower of northumberland. 'if ye could love me, as i do love thee, a young maid's love is hard to win i 'll make you a lady of high degree, when once we go down to fair scotland.' to think of the prisoner her heart was sore, a young maid's love is easily won her love it was much, but her pity was more, and she, etc. she stole from her father's pillow the key, and out of the dungeon she soon set him free, and she, etc. . the fair flower of northumberland she led him into her father's stable, and they've taken a steed both gallant and able, to carry them down to fair scotland. when they first took the way, it was darling and dear; as forward they fared, all changed was his cheer, and she, etc. they rode till they came to a fair scottish corse; says he, ' now, pray madam, dismount from my horse, and go get you back to northumberland. 'it befits not to ride with a leman light, when awaits my returning my own lady bright, my own wedded wife in fair scotland.' the words that he said on her fond heart smote, she knew not in sooth if she lived or not, and she, etc. she looked to his face, and it kythed so unkind that her fast coming tears soon rendered her blind, and she, etc. 'have pity on me as i had it on thee, o why was my love so easily won! a slave in your kitchen i'm willing to be, but i may not go back to northumberland. 'or carry me up by the middle sae sma, o why was my love so easily won! and fling me headlong from your high castle wa, for i dare not go back to northumberland.' her wailing, her woe, for nothing they went, a young maid's love is easily won his bosom was stone and he would not relent, and she, etc. he turned him around and he thought of a plan, he bought an old horse and he hired an old man, to carry her back to northumberland. a heavy heart makes a weary way, she reached her home in the evening gray,, and she, etc. and all as she stood at her father's tower-gate, more loud beat her heart than her knock thereat, and she, etc. down came her step-dame, so rugged and doure, o why was your love so easily won! 'in scotland go back to your false paramour, for you shall not stay here in northumber- land.' down came her father, he saw her and smiled, a young maid's love is easily won 'you are not the first that false scots have be- guiled, and ye 're aye welcome back to northum- berland. 'you shall not want houses, you shall not want land, you shall not want gold for to gain a husband, and ye 're aye welcome back to northum- berland.' a. a. . hauiwews deloney, in the first line of the burden, has leape over, but not elsewhere. . in the. . where, b. *. walks. . she is. . aloud. *. omits sad. s. the knight. '. forth did. *. the fairest. . thou shalt. . knight. . never were. b. b. . this prison. *. omits that was. s. ye brazen-fac'd. *. he hired. s. fell at his feet. . omits so. l. mother on her sae gentlie smild, etc. c. a. , . her bade. *. return him. b. . into. . at fifteen. t . the twa sisters d. . thus in motherwell's minstrelsy, appen- dix, p. xv: when they came to scotland brig, my dear, my love that she wan! 'light off, ye hure, from my black steed, and hie ye awa to northumberland.' e. "the flower of northumberland. written down from memory by robert hutton, shep- perd, peel, liddesdale, and sent by james telfor to his friend robert white, newcastle on tyne. copies printed." mr white's note. the twa sisters a. a. 'the miller and the king's daughter,' broadside of , notes and queries, st s., v, . b. wit restor'd, ," p. ," in the reprint of , p. . c. 'the miller and the king's daughters,' wit and drollery, ed. , p. . d. 'the miller and the king's daughter,' jamieson's popular ballads, i, . b. a. 'the twa sisters,' jamieson-brown ms., fol. . b. 'the cruel sister,' win. tytler's brown ms., no . o. 'the cruel sister,'abbotsford ms., "scottish songs," fol. . .d. 'the twa sisters,' jamieson's popular ballads, i, . c. 'the cruel sister,' scott's minstrelsy, n, ( ). d. 'the bonnie milldams of binnorie,' kinloch mss, n, . e. 'the twa sisters,' sharpe's ballad book, no x, p. . p. 'the bonny bows o london,' motherwell's ms., p. . g. motherwell's ms., p. . h. motherwell's ms., p. . i. 'bonnie milldams o binnorie,' kinloch mss, v, . j. 'the miller's melody,' notes and queries, th s., v, . k. 'binnorie,' kinloch's papers. l. a. 'the miller's melody,' notes and queries, st s., v, . b. 'the drowned lady,' the scouring of the white horse, p. . m. 'binorie, o an binorie,' murison ms., p. . n. 'binnorie,' [pinkerton's] scottish tragic ballads, p. . o. 'the bonny bows o london.' a. buchan's ballads of the north of scotland, n, . b. christie's tra- ditional ballad airs, i, . p. a. 'the twa sisters,' motherwell's ms., p. . b. 'the swan swims bonnie o,' motherwell's minstrel- sy, appendix, p. xx. q. ' the twa sisters,' communicated by j. f. camp- bell, esq. r. a. 'the three sisters,' notes and q., st s., vi, . b. 'bodown,' communicated by j. f. camp- bell, esq. c. 'the barkshire tragedy,' the scour- ing of the white horse, p. . s. kinloch mss, vi, . t. ' sister, dear sister,' allingham's ballad book, p. xxxiii. tj. from long island, n. y., communicated by mr w. w. newell. this is one of the very few old ballads which are not extinct as tradition in the brit- ish isles. even drawing-room versions are spoken of as current, "generally traced to some old nurse, who sang them to the young ladies." * it has been found in england, scot- • campbell's popular tales of the west highlands, iv, , . . the twa sisters land, wales, and ireland, and was very early in print. dr rimbault possessed and pub- lished a broadside of the date * (a a), and the same copy is included in the miscel- lany called wit restor'd, . both of these name " mr smith " as the author; that is, dr james smith, a well-known writer of humorous verses, to whom the larger part of the pieces in wit restor'd has been attrib- uted. if the ballad were ever in smith's hands, he might possibly have inserted the three bur- lesque stanzas, - ; but similar verses are found in another copy (l a), and might easily be extemporized by any singer of sufficiently bad taste. wit and drollery, the edition of , has an almost identical copy of the bal- lad, and this is repeated in dryden's miscel- lany, edition of , part m, p. . in pinkerton inserted in his tragic ballads one with the title 'binnorie,' purporting to be from scottish tradition. of twenty-eight coup- lets, barely seven are genuine. scott printed in a copy (c) compounded from one " in mrs brown's ms." (b b) and a fragment of fourteen stanzas which had been transcribed from recitation by miss charlotte brooke, adopting a burden found in neither.^ jamie- son followed, four years after, with a tolera- bly faithful, though not, as he says, verbatim, publication of his copy of mrs brown's ballad, somewhat marred, too, by acknowledged in- terpolations. this text of mrs brown's is now correctly given, with the whole or frag- ments of eleven others, hitherto unpublished. the ballad is as popular with the scandi- navians as with their saxon cousins. grundt- vig, 'den talende strengeleg,' no , gives nine danish versions and one stanza of a tenth; seven, a-e, in n, ff, the remainder, h-k, * jamieson, in his popular ballads, n, , prints the bal- lad, with five inconsiderable variations from the broadside, as from musarum deliciae, d edition, . the careful re'print of this book, and of the same edition, in "facetia?," etc., , does not contain this piece, and the first edition, of , differed in no respect as to contents, according to the editor of "facetiae." still it is hardly credible that jamieson has blundered, and we may suppose that copies, ostensibly of the same edition, varied as to contents, a thing common enough with old books. t cunningham has re-written scott's version, songs of scotland, n, , * the two fair sisters.' lie says, "i in m, ff. one more, l, is added by kris- tensen, no , i, . of these, only e had been previously printed. all are from tra- dition of this century. there are two icelandic versions, a from the th, b from the th, century, printed in*tslenzk fornkvaesi, no , ' hb'rpu kvaesi.' of twelve norwegian versions, a, by moe, "is printed in norske universitets og skole- annaler for , p. ," and in moe's sam- lede skrifter, n, , ' dae bur ein mann hter utmaa aa ;' b, by lindeman, annaler, as be- fore, "p. ," and in his norske fjeldmelodier, vol. i, tekst-bilag, p. , no , 'dei tvae sys- ta;' c, by landstad, ' dei tvo systar,' no , p. ; d-l are described by professor bugge in grundtvig, m, f; m " is printed in il- lustreret nyhedsblads nytaarsgave for , p. , christiania." four faroe versions are known : a,' hb'rpu- rima,' "in svabo's ms., no , i, ," incor- rectly printed by afzelius, i, , and accu- rately, from a copy furnished by grundtvig, in bergstrom's edition of afzelius, n, ; b, a compound of two versions taken down by pastor lyngbye and by pastor schroter, in nyeste skilderie af kjabenhavn, , col. ff ; c, a transcript from recitation by ham- mershaimb (grundtvig); d, "in fugloyjar- b k, no ." swedish versions are: a, ' den underbara harpan,' afzelius, no , i, , new ed., no , l, i, : b, ' de tva systrarne,' afzelius, no , m, , new ed., no , , i, : c, d, e, imprinted copies in cavallius and ste- phens's collection: f,' de tva systrarne,' ar- widsson, no , n, : g, 'systermordet,' e. wigstrb'm, skanska visor, p. , and the same, folkdiktning, etc., no , p. : h, was once deeply touched with the singing of this romantic and mournful song. ... i have ventured to print it in the manner i heard it sung." there is, to be sure, no reason why he should not have heard his own song sung, once, and still less why he should not have been deeply touched with his own pathos. cunningham adds one genuine stanza, resembling the first of g, j, p: two fair sisters lived in a bower, hey ho my nonnie o there came a knight to be their wooer. while the swan swims bonnie o . the twa sisters rancken, nagra prof af folksang, no , p. . afzelius, moreover, gives variations from four other copies which he had collected, iii, ff, new ed., n, ft'; and rancken from three others. both of the editors of the new afzelius have recently obtained excellent copies from singers. the ballad has also been found in finnish, bergstrom's afzelius, ii, . there is a remarkable agreement between the norse and english ballads till we ap- proach the conclusion of the story, with a natural diversity as to some of the minuter details. the sisters are king's daughters in english a, b, c, h, o (?), p, q, r a, and in swed- ish b and two others of afzelius's versions. they are an earl's daughters in swedish f, and sink to farmer's daughters in english r b, c,* swedish a, g, norwegian c. it is a thing made much of in most of the norse ballads that the younger sister is fair and the older dark; the younger is bright as the sun, as white as ermine or as milk, the elder black as soot, black as the earth, icelandic a, swedish a, b, g, danish a, d, etc.; and this difference is often made the ground for very unhandsome taunts, which qualify our compassion for the younger; such as wash all day, and you will be no whiter than god made you, wash a white as you please, you will never get a lover, faroe a, b, nor- wegian a, c, etc. this contrast may possibly be implied in "the youngest was the fairest flower," english f, g, q [" sweetest," d], but is expressed only in m, " ye was fair and i was din" (dun), and in p a, " the old was black and the young ane fair." the scene of action is a seashore in ice- landic and fiiroe a, b, norwegian a, swedish a, b, g, h, and in all the danish complete copies: a seashore, or a place where ships come in, in english a, b a, d-i, q, r a, t, but in all save the last of these (the last is only one stanza) we have the absurdity of a body * english m is confused on this point. the sisters live in a hall. the burden in st. makes them love a miller-lad; but in , , calls the drowned girl " the bonnie miller's-lass o binorie." t the sisters, d, i, walk by, up, a linn; g, go to a sand [strand] ; q, go to the stream; r a, walk on the bryn. drowned in navigable water being discovered floating down a mill-stream.f b c has "the deep mill-dam ;" c "the river-strand," per- haps one of scott's changes ; m, "the dams ;" l, o, p, r b c, a river, tweed mill-dam, or the water of tweed. norwegian b has a river. the pretence for the older sister's taking the younger down to the water is in eng- lish a-e, g, h, i, o, q, to see their father's ships come in; in icelandic b to wash their silks ; j in most of the norse ballads to wash themselves, so that, as the elder says, *' we may be alike white," danish c-h, norwegian a, c, swedish f, g, faroe a, b. malice pre- pense is attributed to the elder in swedish b, f, norwegian c, danish e, f, g: but in fa- roe a, b, norwegian a, b, and perhaps some other cases, a previous evil intent is not cer- tain, and the provocations of the younger sister may excuse the elder so far. the younger is pushed from a stone upon which she sits, stands, or steps, in english b, c, e-h, m, o, q, icelandic a, b, faroe a , b, norwegian a, b, c, danish a-e, h, l, swedish g, h, and rancken's other copies. the drowning scene is the same in all the ballads, except as to one point. the younger sister, to save her life, offers or consents to renounce her lover in the larger number, as english b-e, g, h, i, m, p, q, danish a-d, f, g, i, swedish a-d, g, h ; and in icelandic b and "all the faroe" ballads she finally yields, after first saying that her lover must dispose of himself. but swedish f, with more spirit, makes the girl, after promising everything else, reply: 'help then who can, help god above! but ne'er shalt thou get my dear true-love.' in this refusal concur icelandic a, danish e, h, l, and all the norwegian versions ex- cept l. t swedish a, g, and rancken's versions (or } swedish h begins, " dear sister, come follow me to the clappingxstone :" "nay, i have no foul clothes." so f , , g , , faroe a , nearly; and then follows the suggestion that they should wash themselves. another of rancken's copies begins, " two sisters went to the bucking-stone, to back their clothes snow-white," h; and so rancken's s nearly. . the twa sisters two of them) make the younger sister, when she sees that she must drown, send greetings to her father, mother, true-love [also brother, sister, rancken], and add in each case that she is drinking, or dancing, her bridal in the flood, that her bridal-bed is made on the white- sand, etc. the body of the drowned girl is discovered, in nearly all the english ballads, by some member of the miller's household, and ia taken out of the water by the miller. in l b, which, however, is imperfect at the beginning, a harper finds the body. in the icelandic bal- lads it is found on the seashore by the lover; in all the norwegian but m by two fishermen, as also in swedish d [fishermen in swedish b]; in all the faroe versions and norwegian m by two "pilgrims ;" * in danish a-f, l, and swedish c by two musicians, danish h, swedish a, g, one. danish g, which is cor- rupted at the close, has three musicians, but these simply witness and report the drowning. according to all complete and uncorrupted forms of the ballad, either some part of the body of the drowned girl is taken to furnish a musical instrument, a harp or a viol,f or the instrument is wholly made from the body. this is done in the norse ballads by those who first find the body, save in swedish b, where fishermen draw the body ashore, and a passing "speleman" makes the instrument. in eng- lish it is done by the miller, a; by a harper, b, c, g, l b (the king's harper in b); by a fiddler, d, e, i, l a (?), o, p (the king's fiddler, o (?), p) ; by both a fiddler and the king's harper, h; in f by the father's herds- man, who happens to be a fiddler. perhaps the original conception was the simple and beautiful one which we find in english b and both the icelandic ballads, that * there are, besides the two fishermen, in norwegian a, two " twaddere," i. e., landloupers, possibly (bugge) a cor- ruption of the word rendered pilgrims, faroe vallarar, swed- ish vallare. the vallarar in these ballads are perhaps more respectable than those whose acquaintance we shall make through the norse versions of 'babylon,' and may be al- lowed to be harmless vagrants, but scarcely better, seeing that they are ranked with "staff-carls" in norges gamle love, cited by cleasby and vigf usson at'vallari.' t a harp in the icelandic and norwegian ballads, faroe a, b, c, swedish a, b, d, g, h; a harp in english b, the king's harper, or the girl's lover, takes three locks of her yellow hair to string his harp with. so we find three tets of hair in d, e, i, and three links in f, p, used, or directed to be used, to string the fiddle or the fiddle- bow, and the same, apparently, with danish a. infelicitous additions were, perhaps, succes- sively made; as a harp-frame from the breast- bone in english c, and fiddle-pins formed of the finger-joints, english f, o, danish b, c, e, f, l. then we have all three: the frame of the instrument formed from the breast (or trunk), the screws from the finger-joints, the strings from the hair, swedish a, b, g, nor- wegian a, c, m. and so one thing and another is added, or substituted, as fiddle-bows of the arms or legs, swedish c, d, danish h, eng- lish j-j ft £ ft harp-frame from the arms, nor- wegian b, faroe a; a fiddle-frame from the skull, swedish c, or from the back-bone, eng- lish l b; a plectrum from the arm, faroe b; strings from the veins, english a; a bridge from the nose, english a, l a ; "harpanota" from the teeth, norwegian b; till we end with the buffoonery of english a and l a. swedish h has nothing about the finding of the body. music is wanted for the bri- dal, and a man from another village, who un- dertakes to furnish it, looks three days for a proper tree to make a harp of. the singer of this version supplied the information, lost from the ballad, that the drowned sister had floated ashore and grown up into a linden, and that this was the very tree which was chosen for the harp. (see, further on, a lithuanian, a slovak, and an esthonian ballad.) all the norse ballads make the harp or fid- dle to be taken to a wedding, which chances to be that of the elder sister with the drowned girl's betrothed.}: unfortunately, many of the c, or, j. a harp is not named in any of the danish ver- sions, but a fiddle is mentioned in c, e, h, is plainly meant in a, and may always be intended; or perhaps two fiddles in all but h (which has only one fiddler), and the corrupted g-. d begins with two fiddlers, but concludes with only one. we have a fiddle in swedish c, and in english a, d, e, f, i, j, k, l, o, p; both harp and fiddle in h. } some of the unprinted norwegian ballads are not com- pletely described, but a departure from the rule of the major part would probably have been alluded to. . the twa sisters english versions are so injured towards the close that the full story cannot be made out. there is no wedding-feast preserved in any of them. the instrument, in a, b, c, h, is taken into the king's presence. the viol in a and the harp in h are expressly said to speak. the harp is laid upon a stone in c, j, and plays "its lone;" the fiddle plays of itself in l b.* b makes the harper play, and d, f, k, o, which say the fiddle played, probably mean that there was a fiddler, and so perhaps with all the norse versions; but this is not very material, since in either case the instrument speaks " with most miraculous organ." there are three strings made from the girl's hair in icelandic a, b, english b [veins, english a], and the three tets or links in english d, e, f, i, p were no doubt taken to make three strings originally. correspond- ing to this are three enunciations of the in- strument in english a, b, c, icelandic a, faroe a,f b, swedish a, b, c, e, g, h, danish a, d, f, i. these are reduced to two in icelandic b, danish b, c, h, l, swed- ish d, and even to one in english d, f, i, k, o, but some of these have suffered injury towards the conclusion. the number is in- creased to four in norwegian b, to five in norwegian a, d, and even to six in norwegian c, k, m. the increase is, of course, a later exaggeration, and very detrimental to the effect. in those english copies in which the instrument speaks but once, j d, f, k, o, and we may add p, it expresses a desire for ven- geance: hang my sister, d, f, k; ye 'll drown my sister, as she's dune me, o ; tell him to burn my sister, p. this is found in no norse ballad, neither is it found in the earliest english versions. these, and the bet- ter forms of the norse, reveal the awful se- cret, directly or indirectly, and, in the latter case, sometimes note the effect on the bride. thus, in icelandic b, the first string sounds, * the stanza, , in which this is said is no doubt as to its form entirely modern, but not so the idea. i has " the first spring that he playd, it said," etc. t the fourth string is said to speak in faroe a , but no utterance is recorded, and this is likely to be a mistake. the bride is our sister; the second, the bride is our murderer. in danish b the first fiddle plays, the bride is my sister ; the second, the bridegroom is my true-love; in c, h, the first strain is, the bride has drowned her sister, the second, thy sister is driven [blown] to land. faroe a, b, have: ( ) the bride was my sister; ( ) the bride was my murderer; ( ) the bridegroom was my true-love. the bride then says that the harp disturbs her much, and that she lists to hear it no more. most impressive of all, with its terse, short lines, is icelandic a: the first string made response: 'the bride was my sister once.' the bride on the bench, she spake: 'the harp much trouble doth make.' the second string answered the other: 'she is parting me and my lover.' answered the bride, red as gore: 'the harp is vexing us sore.' the canny third string replied: 'i owe my death to the bride.' he made all the harp-strings clang; the bride's heart burst with the pang. this is the wicked sister's end in both of the icelandic ballads and in faroe a, b. in swedish a, g, at the first stroke on the harp she laughs; at the second she grows pale [has to be undressed] ; upon the third she lay dead in her bed [falls dead on the floor]. she is burned in danish a, b, c, f, g, swedish b, norwegian a, b, c, i, m. in norwegian k, l, the younger sister (who is restored to life) begs that the elder may not be burned, but sent out of the country (cf. english r b c); nevertheless, she is buried alive in l, which is her fate also in e, and in other imprinted versions. a prose comment upon danish i has her stabbed by the bridegroom. in many of the versions, and in this, after the strings have spoken individually, they unite in a powerful but inarticu- late concord. j i has lost the terminal stanzas. . the twa sisters norwegian b makes the bride, in her confusion at the revelations of the harp, ask the bridegroom to drive the fiddler out of the house. so far from complying, the bride- groom orders him mead and wine, and the bride to the pile. in norwegian c the bride treads on the harper's foot, then orders the playing to stop; but the bridegroom springs from the table, and cries, let the harp have its song out, pays no regard to the lady's alleging that she has so bad a head that she cannot bear it, and finally sends her to the pile. so, near- ly, norwegian a. in danish a, c, d, h, l, vainly in the first two, the bride tries to hush the fiddler with a bribe. he endeavors to take back what he has said in d, l, declaring him- self a drunken fool (the passage is borrowed from another ballad): still in l, though suc- cessful for the nonce, she comes to the stake and wheel some months after. in h the fid- dler dashes the instrument against a stone, seemingly to earn his bribe, but this trait be- longs to versions which take the turn of the norwegian. in c the bride springs from the table, and says, give the fiddlers a trifle, and let them go. this explains the last stanza of english a (cf., norwegian b ): now pay the miller for his payne, and let him bee gone in the divel's name. swedish f has an entirely perverted and feeble conclusion. "a good man " takes the younger sister from the water, carries her to his house, revives her, and nurses her till the morrow, and then restores her to her father, who asks why she is so pale, and why she had not come back with her sister. she ex- plains that she had been pushed into the wa- ter, "and we may thank this good man that i came home at all." the father tells the elder that she is a disgrace to her country, and condemns her to the " blue tower." but her sister intercedes, and a cheerful and hand- some wedding follows. swedish c and nearly all the norwegian • not m, and apparently not d, which ends: when he kissed the harp upon the mouth, his heart broke. t so the traitor john pushes away catherine's hands in ballads* restore the drowned girl to life, but not by those processes of the humane society which are successfully adopted by the "arlig man" in swedish f. the harp is dashed against a stone, or upon the floor, and the girl stands forth "as good as ever." as landstad conceives the matter ( , note ), the elder sister is a witch, and is in the end burned as such. the white body of the younger is made to take on the appearance of a crooked log, which the fishermen (who, by the way, are angels in c, e) innocently shape into a harp, and the music, vibrating from her hair "through all her limbs, marrow and bone," acts as a disenchantment. however this may be, the restoration of the younger sister, like all good endings foisted on tragedies, emas- culates the story. english f has the peculiarity, not noticed elsewhere, that the drowning girl catches at a broom-root, and the elder sister forces her to let go her hold.f in swedish g she is simply said to swim to an alder-root. in english g the elder drives the younger from the land with a switch, in i pushes her off with a sil- ver wand. english o introduces the ghost of the drowned sister as instructing her father's fiddler to make a string of her hair and a peg of her little finger bone, which done, the first spring the fiddle plays, it says, 'ye 'll drown my sister as she's dune me.' p, which is disordered at the end, seems to have agreed with o. in q the ghost sends, by the medium of the miller and his daugh- ter, respects to father, mother, and true-love, adding a lock of yellow hair for the last. the ghost is found in n, pinkerton's copy, as well, but there appears to the lover at dead of night, two days after the drowning. it in- forms him of the murder, and he makes search for the body. this is a wide departure from the original story, and plainly a modern per- version. another variation, entirely wanting •lady isabel and the elfxknight,' polish q (see p. ). in the french versions a, c, e of the same, the knight catches at a branch to save himself, and the lady cuts it off with his sword. . the twa sisters in ancient authority, appears in r, s. the girl is not dead when she has floated down to the mill-dam, and, being drawn out of the water by the miller, offers him a handsome reward to take her back to her father [s, to throw her in again!]. the miller takes the reward, and pushes the girl in again, for which he is hanged.* q has a burden partly gaelic, .... ohone and aree (alack and o lord), on the banks of the banna (white river), ohone and aree, which may raise a question whether the scotch burden binnorie (pronounced binnorie, as well as binnorie) is corrupted from it, or the cor- ruption is on the other side. mr campbell notices as quaint the reply in stanza : 'i did not put you in with the design just for to pull you out again.' we have had a similar reply, made under like circumstances, in polish versions of no : see p. , note. all the norse versions of this ballad are in two-line stanzas, and all the english, except l b and in part l a. some of the traits of the english and norse story are presented by an esthonian ballad, 'the harp,' neus, ehstnische volkslieder, no , p. . another version is given in ro- senplanter's beitrage zur genauern kenntniss der ehstnischen sprache, heft , , and a third, says neus, in ch. h. j. schlegel's reisen in mehrere russische gouvernements, v, . a young woman, who tells her own story, is murdered by her sisters-in-law and buried in a moor. she comes up as a birch, from which, with the jaw-bone of a salmon, the teeth of a pike, and her own hair (the account is some- what confused) a harp is made. the harp is taken to the hall by the murdered girl's broth- er% and responds to his playing with tones of sorrow like those of the bride who leaves fa- ther and mother for the house of a husband.f * the miller begins to lose character in h: he dragged her ont unto the shore, and stripped her of all she wore, t neus also refers to an esthonian saga of rogutaja's a slovak ballad often translated (talvj, historical view, etc., p. ; wenzig's sla- wische volkslieder, p. , westslawischer marchenschatz, , and bibliothek slavischer poesien, p. ; lewestam, polnische volk- sagen und marchen, p. ) comes nearer in some respects. a daughter is cursed by her mother for not succeeding in drawing water in frosty weather. her bucket turns to stone, but she to a maple. two fiddlers come by, and, seeing a remarkably fine tree, propose to make of it fiddles and fiddle-sticks. when they cut into the tree, blood spirts out. the tree bids them go on, and when they have done, play before the mother's door, and sing, here is your daughter, that you cursed to stone. at the first notes the mother runs to the window, and begs them to desist, for she has suffered much since she lost her daughter. the soul of a dead girl speaks through a tree, again, in a lithuanian ballad, nesselmann, littauische volkslieder, no , p. . the girl is drowned while attempting to cross a stream, carried down to the sea, and finally thrown ashore, where she grows up a linden. her brother makes a pipe from a branch, and the pipe gives out sweet, sad tones. the mother says, that tone comes not from the linden; it is thy sister's soul, that hovers over the water. a like idea is met with in another lithuanian ballad, rhesa, dainos, ed. kur- schat, no , p. . a sister plucks a bud from a rose-bush growing over the grave of her brother, who had died from disappointed love. how fragrant! she exclaims. but her mother answers, with tears, it is not the rose- bud, but the soul of the youth that died of grief. though the range of the ballad proper is somewhat limited, popular tales equivalent as to the characteristic circumstances are very widely diffused. a polish popular tale, which is, indeed, half song, wojcicki, klechdy, ed. , n, (lewestam, p. ), kolberg, piesni ludu wife, and to 'die pfeiferin,' a tale, in das inland, , no ,beilage, col. ff, , no , col. ff; and to a slovenian ballad in tielemann, livona, ein historisch-po- etisches taschenbuch, , p. . . the twa sisters polskiego, p. , no a, b, o, approaches very close to the english-norse ballad. there were three sisters, all pretty, but the youngest far surpassing the others. a young man from the far-off ukraine fell in with them while they were making garlands. the youngest pleased him best, and he chose her for his wife. this excited the jealousy of the eldest, and a few days after, when they were gather- ing berries in a wood, she killed the youngest, notwithstanding the resistance of the second sister, buried her, and gave out that she had been torn to pieces by wolves. when the youth came to ask after his love, the mur- deress told him this tale, and so won him by her devoted consolations that he offered her his hand. a willow grew out of the grave of the youngest, and a herdsman made a pipe from one of its boughs. blow as he would, he could get no sound from the pipe but this: 'blow on, herdsman, blow! god shall bless thee s . the eldest was my slayer, the second tried to stay her.' the herdsman took the pipe to the house of the murdered girl. the mother, the father, and the second sister successively tried it, and the pipe always sang a like song, blow, mother, blow, etc. the father then put the pipe into the eldest sister's hands. she had hardly touched it, when blood spattered her cheeks, and the pipe sang: 'blow on, sister, blow: god shall wreak me now. thou, sister, 't was didst slay me, the younger tried to stay thee,' etc. the murderess was torn by wild horses. professor bugge reports a norwegian tale, grundtvig, m, , which resembles the bal- lad at the beginning. there were in a fam- ily two daughters and a son. one sister was wasteful, the other saving. the second com- plained of the first to her parents, and was killed and buried by the other. foliage cov- ered the grave, so that it could not be seen, but on the trees under which the body lay, there grew " strings." these the brother cut off and adapted to his fiddle, and when he played, the fiddle said, my sister is killed. the father, having heard the fiddle's revela- tion, brought his daughter to confess her act. there is a series of tales which represent a king, or other personage, as being afflicted with a severe malady, and as promising that whichever of his children, commonly three sons, should bring him something necessary for his cure or comfort should be his heir: ( ) 'la flor del lilila,' fernan caballero, lagrimas, cap. ; ( ) 'la cafia del riu de arenas,' mila, observaciones sobre la poesia popular, p. , no ; ( ) 'es kommt doch einmal an den tag,' miillenhof, sagen, u. s. w., p. , no ; ( ) 'vom singenden du- delsack,' gonzenbach, sicilianische marchen, i, , no . or the inheritance is promised to whichever of the children finds something lost, or rich and rare, a griffin's feather, a golden branch, a flower: ( ) 'die greifen- feder,' schneller, marchen und sagen aus walschtirol, p. , no ; ( ) 'la flauuto,' bladd, contes et proverbes populaires re- cueillis en armagnac, p. , no ; ( ) wack- ernagel, in haupt's zeitschrift, in, , no , = ' das todtebeindli,' colshorn, c. u. th., marchen u. sagen, p. , no ,= su- termeister, kinder-u.-hausmarchen aus der schweiz, p. , no . or a king promises his daughter to the man who shall capture a dangerous wild beast, and the exploit is un- dertaken by three brothers [or two]: ( ) 'der singende knochen,' grimms, k. u. h. marchen, i, , no ( ); ( ) 'die drei briider,' curtze, volksiiberlieferungen aus dem furstenthum waldeck, p. , no ; ( ) 'der rohrstengel,' haltrich, deutsche volksmarchen aus dem sachsenlande, u. s. w., p. , no . with these we may group, though divergent in some respects, ( ) 'der goldene apfel,' toeppen, aberglauben aus masuren, p. .* in all these tales the young- est child is successful, and is killed, out of envy, by the eldest or by the two elder. [there are only two children in ( ), ( ), ( ); in ( ) the second is innocent, as in the polish tale.j reeds grow over the spot where the body is buried ( ), ( ), ( ), ( ), or an * all these are cited in kohler's note, gonzenbach, n, . . the twa sisters elder bush ( ), out of which a herdsman makes a pipe or flute; or a white bone is found by a herdsman, and he makes a pipe or horn of it ( - ) ; or a bag-pipe is made of the bones and skin of the murdered youth ( ). the instru- ment, whenever it is played, attests the mur- der. among the tales of the south african bech- uana, there is one of a younger brother, who has been killed by an older, immediately ap- pearing as a bird, and announcing what has oc- curred. the bird is twice killed, and the last time burnt and its ashes scattered to the winds, but still reappears, and proclaims that his body lies by a spring in the desert. grimms, k. u. h. in. ni, . liebrecht has noted that the fundamental idea is found in a chinese drama, ' the talking dish,' said to be based on a popular tale. an innkeeper and his wife kill one of their guests for his money, and burn the body. the innkeeper collects the ashes and pounds the bones, and makes a sort of mortar and a dish. this dish speaks very distinctly, and denounces the murderers. jour- nal asiatique, , th series, vol. , p. . danish a, e are translated by prior, i, , . english b, with use of c, is translated by grundtvig, engelske og skotske folkeviser, p. , no ; c, by afzelius, m, . c, by talvj, versuch, u. s. w., p. ; by schubart, p. ; by gerhard, p. ; by doenniges, p. ; arndt, p. . c, with use of ay- toun's compounded version, by r. warrens, schottische v. l. der vorzeit, p. ; alling- ham's version by knortz, lieder u. romanzen alt-englands, p. . a a. a. broadside "printed for francis grove, ," re- printed in notes and queries, st s., v, . b. wit re- stor'd, , "p. ," p. of the reprint of . c. wit and drollery, ed. , p. , = dryden's miscellany, part , p. , ed. . d. jamieson's popular ballads, i, . there were two sisters, they went playing, with a hie downe downe a downe-a to see their father's ships come sayling in. with a hy downe downe a downe-a and when they came unto the sea-brym, the elder did push the younger in. 'o sister, o sister, take me by the gowne, and drawe me up upon the dry ground.' 'o sister, o sister, that may not bee, till salt and oatmeale grow both of a tree.' somtymes she sanke, somtymes she swam, until she came unto the mill-dam. the miller runne hastily downe the cliffe, and up he betook her withouten her life. what did he doe with her brest-bone? he made him a violl to play thereupon. what did he doe with her fingers so small? he made him peggs to his violl withall. what did he doe with her nose-ridge? unto his violl he made him a bridge. what did he doe with her veynes so blew? he made him strings to his violl thereto. what did he doe with her eyes so bright? upon his violl he played at first sight. what did he doe with her tongue so rough? unto the violl it spake enough. what did he doe with her two shinnes? unto the violl they dane'd moll syms. then bespake the treble string, 'o yonder is my father the king.' then bespake the second string, 'o yonder sitts my mother the queen.' and then bespake the strings all three, 'o yonder is my sister that drowned mee.' 'now pay the miller for his payne, and let him bee gone in the divel's name.' . the twa sisters scott's minstrelsy, , n, . compounded from b b and a fragment of fourteen stanzas transcribed from the recitation of an old woman by miss charlotte brooke. theke were two sisters sat in a bour; binnorie, binnorie there came a knight to be their wooer. by the bonny mill-dams of binnorie 'your cherry cheeks and your yellow hair garrd me gang maiden evermair.' sometimes she sunk, and sometimes she swam, until she came to the miller's dam. 'o father, father, draw your dam, there's either a mermaid or a milk-white he courted the eldest with glove and ring, but he loed the youngest aboon a' thing. he courted the eldest with broach and knife, but he loed the youngest aboon his life. the eldest she was vexed sair, and sore envied her sister fair. the miller hasted and drew his dam, and there he found a drowned woman. you could not see her yellow hair, for gowd and pearls that were sae rare. you could na see her middle sma, her gowden girdle was sae bra. the eldest said to the youngest ane, 'will ye go and see our father's ships come in?' she's taen her by the lilly hand, and led her down to the river strand. the youngest stude upon a stane, the eldest came and pushed her in. she took her by the middle sma, and dashed her bonnie back to the jaw. 'o sister, sister, reach your hand, and ye shall be heir of half my land.' 'o sister, i 'll not reach my hand, and i 'll be heir of all your land. 'shame fa the hand that i should take, it's twin'd me and my world's make.' 'o sister, reach me but your glove, and sweet william shall be your love.' 'sink on, nor hope for hand or glove, and sweet william shall better be my love. a famous harper passing by, the sweet pale face he chanced to spy. and when he looked that ladye on, he sighed and made a heavy moan. he made a harp of her breast-bone, whose sounds would melt a heart of stone. the strings he framed of her yellow hair, whose notes made sad the listening ear. he brought it to her father's hall, and there was the court assembled all. he laid this harp upon a stone, and straight it began to play alone. 'o yonder sits my father, the king, and yonder sits my mother, the queen. 'and yonder stands my brother hugh, and by him my william, sweet and true.' but the last tune that the harp playd then, was ' woe to my sister, false helen!' . the twa sisters d kinloch's mss, n, . from the recitation of mrsjohn- ston, a north-country lady. there lived three sisters in a bouer, edinbruch, edinbruch there lived three sisters in a bouer, stirling for aye there lived three sisters in a bouer, the youngest was the sweetest flowr. bonnie st johnston stands upon tay there cam a knicht to see them a', and on the youngest his love did fa. he brought the eldest ring and glove, but the youngest was his ain true-love. he brought the second sheath and knife, but the youngest was to be his wife. the eldest sister said to the youngest ane, 'will ye go and see our father's ships come in?' and as they walked by the linn, the eldest dang the youngest in. 'o sister, sister, tak my hand, and ye 'll be heir to a' my land.' 'foul fa the hand that i wad take, to twin me o my warld's make.' 'o sister, sister, tak my glove, and yese get willie, my true-love.' 'sister, sister, i 'll na tak your glove, for i 'll get willie, your true-love.' aye she swittert, and aye she swam, till she cam to yon bonnie mill-dam. the miller's dochter cam out wi speed, it was for water, to bake her bread. 'o father, father, gae slack your dam; there's in't a lady or a milk-white swan.' ***** they could na see her coal-black eyes for her yellow locks hang oure her brees. they could na see her weel-made middle for her braid gowden girdle. ***** and by there cam an auld blind fiddler, and took three tets o her bonnie yellow hair. ***** the first spring that the bonnie fiddle playd, 'hang my cruel sister, alison,' it said. e sharpe's ballad book, no , p. . there livd twa sisters in a bower, hey edinbruch, how edinbruch! there lived twa sisters in a bower, stirling for aye! the youngest o them o she was a flower! bonny sanct johnstoune that stands upon tay! there cam a squire frae the west, he loed them baith, but the youngest best. he gied the eldest a gay gold ring, but he loed the youngest aboon a' thing. 'o sister, sister, will ye go to the sea? our father's ships sail bonnilie.' the youngest sat down upon a stane; the eldest shot the youngest in. 'o sister, sister, lend me your hand, and you shall hae my gouden fan. 'o sister, sister, save my life, and ye shall be the squire's wife.' first she sank, and then she swam, untill she cam to tweed mill-dam. the millar's daughter was baking bread, she went for water, as she had need. 'o father, father, in our mill-dam there's either a lady, or a milk-white swan.' . the twa sistelis they could nae see her fingers small, they could nae see her filly feet, wi diamond rings they were coverd all. her gowden fringes war sae deep. they could nae see her yellow hair, bye there cam a fiddler fair, sae mony knots and platts were there. and he's taen three taite o her yellow hair. p motherwell's ms., p. . from the recitation of agnes lyle, kilbarehan, th july, . there was two ladies livd in a bower, hey with a gay and a grinding o the youngest o them was the fairest flower about a' the bonny bows o london. there was two ladies livd in a bower, an wooer unto the youngest did go. the oldest one to the youngest did say, 'will ye take a walk with me today, and we 'll view the bonny bows o lon- don. 'thou 'll set thy foot whare i set mine, thou 'll set thy foot upon this stane.' 'i 'll set my foot where thou sets thine :' the old sister dang the youngest in, at, etc. 'o sister dear, come tak my hand, take my life safe to dry land,' at, etc. 'it's neer by my hand thy hand sall come in, it's neer by my hand thy hand sall come in, at, etc. 'it's thy cherry cheeks and thy white briest bane gars me set a maid owre lang at hame.' she clasped her hand[s] about a brume rute, but her cruel sister she lowsed them out. sometimes she sank, and sometimes she swam, till she cam to the miller's dam. the miller's bairns has muckle need, they were bearing in water to bake some breid. says, 'father, dear father, in our mill-dam, it 'a either a fair maid or a milk-white swan.' the miller he's spared nae his hose nor his shoon till he brocht this lady till dry land. i wad he saw na a bit o her feet, her silver slippers were made so neat. i wad he saw na a bit o her skin, for ribbons there was mony a ane. he laid her on a brume buss to dry, to see wha was the first wad pass her by. her ain father's herd was the first man that by this lady gay did gang. he's taen three links of her yellow hair, and made it a string to his fiddle there. he's cut her fingers long and small to be fiddle-pins that neer might fail. the very first spring that the fiddle did play, 'hang my auld sister,' i wad it did say. 'for she drowned me in yonder sea, god neer let her rest till she shall die,' at the bonny bows o london. . the twa sisters g motherwell's ms., p. . from mrs king, kilbarchan. there were three sisters lived in a bouir, hech, hey, my nannie o and the youngest was the fairest flouir. and the swan swims bonnie o 'o sister, sister, gang down to yon sand, and see your father's ships coming to dry land.' o they have gane down to yonder sand, to see their father's ships coming to dry land. 'gae set your fit on yonder stane, till i tye up your silken goun.' she set her fit on yonder stane, and the auldest drave the youngest in. 'o sister, sister, tak me by the hand, and ye 'll get a' my father's land. 'o sister, sister, tak me by the gluve, an ye 'll get willy, my true luve.' she had a switch into her hand. and ay she drave her frae the land. o whiles she sunk, and whiles she swam, until she swam to the miller's dam. the miller's daughter gade doun to tweed, to carry water to bake her bread. 'o father, o father, what's yon in the dam? it "s either a maid or a milk-white swan.' they have tane her out till yonder thorn, and she has lain till monday morn. she hadna, hadna twa days lain, till by there came a harper fine. he made a harp o her breast-bane, that he might play forever thereon. h motherwell's ms., p. . from l goldic, march, . there were three sisters lived in a hall, hey with the gay and the grandeur o and there came a lord to court them all. at the bonnie bows o london town he courted the eldest with a penknife, and he vowed that he would take her life. he courted the youngest with a glove, and he said that he'd be her true love. 'o sister, o sister, will you go and take a walk, and see our father's ships how they float i 'o lean your foot upon the stone, and wash your hand in that sea-foam.' she leaned her foot upon the stone, but her eldest sister has tumbled her down. 'o sister, sister, give me your hand, and i 'll make you lady of all my land.' 'o i 'll not lend to you my hand, but i 'll be lady of your land.' 'o sister, sister, give me your glove, and i 'll make you lady of my true love.' 'it's i ' not lend to you my glove, but i 'll be lady of your true love.' sometimes she sank, and sometimes she swam, until she came to a miller's dam. the miller's daughter was coming out wi speed, for water for to bake some bread. 'o father, father, stop the dam, for it's either a lady or a milk-white swan.' he dragged her out unto the shore, and stripped her of all she wore. by cam a fiddler, and he was fair, and he buskit his bow in her bonnie yellow hair. . the twa sisters by cam her father's harper, and he was fine, 'o god bless my father the king, and he made a harp o her bonny breast-bone. and i wish the same to my mother the queen. when they came to her father's court, 'my sister jane she tumbled me in, the harp [and fiddle these words] spoke: ..... i kinloch mss, v, . from the recitation of m. kin- near, d august, . there war twa sisters lived in a bouer, binnorie and binnorie there cam a squire to court them baith. at the bonnie mill-streams o binnorie he courted the eldest with jewels and rings, but he lovd the youngest the best of all things. he courted the eldest with a penknife, he lovd the youngest as dear as his life. it fell ance upon a day that these twa sisters hae gane astray. it was for to meet their father's ships that had come in. as they walked up the linn, the eldest dang the youngest in. 'o sister, sister, tak my hand, and ye 'll hae lud john and aw his land.' with a silver wand she pushd her in, 'o sister, sister, tak my glove, and ye sall hae my ain true love.' the miller's dochter cam out wi speed. it was for a water to bake her bread. 'o father, father, gae slack your dam; there's either a white fish or a swan.' ***** bye cam a blind fiddler that way, • and he took three tets o her bonnie yellow hair. and the first spring that he playd, it said, ' it was my sister threw me in.' j notes and queries, th s., v, , from the north of ire- land. there were two ladies playing ball, hey, ho, my nannie o a great lord came to court them all. the swan she does swim bonnie o he gave to the first a golden ring, he gave to the second a far better thing. ***** he made a harp of her breast-bone he set it down upon a stone, and it began to "play its lone. mr g. r. kinloch's papers, kinloch mss, n, . from mrs lindores. 'o sister, sister, gie me your hand, binnorie and binnorie and i 'll give the half of my fallow-land, by the bonnie mill-dams of binnorie.' ***** the first time the bonnie fiddle played, 'hang my sister, alison,' it said, 'at the bonnie mill-dams of binnorie.' . the twa sisters l a. from oral tradition, notes and queries, st s., v, . b. the scouring of the white horse, p. . from north wales. o was it eke a pheasant cock, or eke a pheasant hen, or was it the bodye of a fair ladye, come swimming down the stream? o it was not a pheasant cock, nor eke a pheasant hen. but it was the bodye of a fair ladye came swimming down the stream. ***** and what did he do with her fair bodye? fal the lal the lal laral lody he made it a case for bis melodye. fal, etc. m taken down from recitation at old deir, , by mrs a. f. murison. ms., p. . there lived twa sisters in yonder ha, bin rie o an bin rie they hadna but ae lad atween them twa, he's the bonnie miller lad o bintfrie. it fell oot upon a day, the auldest ane to the youngest did say, at the bonnie mill-dams o bindrie, 'o sister, o sister, will ye go to the dams, to hear the "blackbird thrashin oer his songs? at the,' etc. 'o sister, sister, will ye go to the dams, to see oor father's fish-boats come safe to dry lan? an the bonnie miller lad o binorie.' they hadna been an oor at the dams, till they heard the blackbird thrashin oer his tune, at the, etc. they hadna been an oor at the dams till they saw their father's fish-boats come safe to dry lan, bat they sawna the bonnie miller laddie. and what did he do with her legs so strong? he made them a stand for his violon. and what did he do with her hair so fine? he made of it strings for his violine. and what did he do with her arms so long? he made them bows for his violon. and what did he do with her nose so thin? he made it a bridge for his violin. and what did he do with her eyes so bright? he made them spectacles to put to his sight. and what did he do with her petty toes? he made them a nosegay to put to his nose. they stood baith up upon a stane, an the eldest ane dang the youngest in, i the, etc. she swam up, an she swam doon, an she swam back to her sister again, i the, etc. 'o sister, o sister, len me your han, an yes be heir to my true love, he's the bonnie miller lad o binorie.' 'it was not for that love at i dang you in, but ye was fair and i was din, and yes droon i the dams o binorie.' the miller's daughter she cam oot, for water to wash her father's hans, frae the, etc. 'o father, o father, ye will fish your dams, an ye 'll get a white fish or a swan, i the,' etc. they fished up and they fished doon, but they got nothing but a droonet woman, i the, etc. some o them kent by her skin sae fair, but weel kent he by her bonnie yallow hair she's the bonnie miller's lass o binorie. . the twa sisters some o them kent by her goons o silk, mony ane was at her oot-takin, but weel kent he by her middle sae jimp, but mony ane mair at her green grave makin, she's the bonnie miller's lass o binorie. at the bonny mill-dams o binorie. n [pinkcrton's] scottish tragic ballads, p. . there were twa sisters livd in a bouir, binnorie, o binnorie their father was a baron of pouir. by the bonnie mildams of binnorie the youngest was meek, and fair as the may whan she springs in the east wi the gowden day. the eldest aasterne as the winter cauld, ferce was her saul, and her seiming was bauld. a gallant squire cam sweet isabel to wooe; her sister had naething to luve i trow. but filld was she wi dolour and ire, to see that to her the combe squire preferd the debonair isabel: their hevin of luve of spyte was her hell. till ae ein she to her sister can say, 'sweit sister, cum let us wauk and play.' they wanked up, and they wauked down, sweit sang the birdis in the vallie loun. whan they cam to the roaring lin, she drave unweiting isabel in. 'o sister, sister, tak my hand, and ye sall hae my silver fan. 'o sister, sister, tak my middle, and ye sail hae my gowden girdle.' sumtimes she sank, sumtimes she swam, till she cam to the miller's dam. the miller's dochtor was out that ein, and saw her rowing down the streim. 'o father deir, in your mil-dam there is either a lady or a milk-white swan!' twa days were gane, whan to her deir her wraith at deid of nicht cold appeir. 'my luve, my deir, how can ye sleip, whan your isabel lyes in the deip! 'my deir, how can ye sleip bot pain whan she by her cruel sister is slain!' up raise he sunc, in frichtfu mude: 'busk ye, my mciny, and seik the flude.' they socht her up and they socht her doun, and spyd at last her glistcrin gown. they raisd her wi richt meikle care; pale was her cheik and grein was her hair. a. buchan's ballads of the north of scotland, n, . b. traditional ballad airs, edited by w. christie, i, . there were twa sisters in a bower, hey wi the gay and the grinding and ae king's son has courted them baith. at the bonny bonny bows o london he courted the youngest wi broach and ring, he courted the eldest wi some other thing. 'will ye gae to yon tweed mill-dam, and see our father's ships come to land?' they baith stood up upon a stane, the eldest dang the youngest in. she swimmed up, sae did she down, till she came to the tweed mill-dam. the miller's servant he came out, and saw the lady floating about it fell ance upon a day the eldest to the youngest did say, 'o master, master, set your mill, there is a fish, or a milk-white swan." . the twa sisters they could not ken her yellow hair, [for] the scales o gowd that were laid there. they could not ken her fingers sae white, the rings o gowd they were sae bright. they could not ken her middle sae jimp, the stays o gowd were so well laced. they could not ken her foot sae fair, the shoes o gowd they were so rare. her father's fiddler he came by, upstarted her ghaist before his eye. 'ye 'll take a lock o my yellow hair, ye 'll make a string to your fiddle there. 'ye 'll take a lith o my little finger bane, and ye 'll make a pin to your fiddle then.' he 's taen a lock o her yellow hair, and made a string to his fiddle there. he's taen a lith o her little finger bane, and he's made a pin to his fiddle then. the firstand spring the fiddle did play, said, 'ye 'll drown my sister, as she's dune me.' p a. motherwell's ms., p. . b. motherwell's minstrelsy appendix, p. xx, xx. there were twa ladies in a bower, hey my bonnie nannie o the old was black and the young ane fair. and the swan swims bonnie o once it happened on a day the auld ane to the young did say, the auld ane to the young did say, 'will you gae to the green and play?' 'o sister, sister, i daurna gang, for fear i file my silver shoon.' it was not to the green they gaed, but it was to the water of tweed. she bowed her back and she's taen her on, and she's tumbled her in tweed mill-dam. 'o sister, o sister, o tak my hand, and i 'll mak you heir of a' my land.' 'o sister, o sister, i 'll no take your hand, and i 'll be heir of a' your land.' 'o sister, o sister, o tak my thumb, and i 'll give you my true-love john.' 'o sister, o sister, i 'll no tak your thumb, and i will get your true-love john.' aye she swattered and aye she swam, until she came to the mouth of the dam. the miller's daughter went out to tweed, to get some water to bake her bread. in again she quickly ran: 'here's a lady or a swan in our mill-dam.' out went the miller and his man and took the lady out of the dam. they laid her on the brae to dry; her father's fiddler then rode by. when he this lady did come near, her ghost to him then did appear. 'when you go to my father the king, you 'll tell him to burn my sister jean. 'when you go to my father's gate, you 'll play a spring for fair ellen's sake. 'you 'll tak three links of my yellow hair, and play a spring for evermair.' . the twa sisters q copied oct. , , by j. f. campbell, esq., from a col- lection made by lady caroline murray ; traced by her to an old nurse, and beyond the beginning of this century. theke dwelt twa sisters in a bower, •oh and ohone, and ohone and aree! and the youngest she was the fairest flower. on the banks of the banna, ohone and aree! there cam a knight to court the twa, but on the youngest his love did fa. he courted the eldest with ring and wi glove, but he gave the youngest all his love. he courted the eldest with brooch and wi knife, but he loved the youngest as his life. 'o sister, o sister, will ye come to the stream, to see our father's ships come in?' the youngest stood upon a stane, her sister came and pusht her in. ' sister, o sister, come reach me your hand, and ye shall hae all our father's land. 'o sister, o sister, come reach me your glove, and you shall hae william to be your true love.' 'i did not put you in with the design just for to pull you out again.' some time she sank, some time she swam, until she came to a miller's dam. the miller's daughter dwelt on the tweed, she went for water to bake her bread. 'o faither, faither, come drag me your dam, for there's aither a lady in't, or a milk-white swan.' the miller went, and he dragd his dam, and he brought her fair body to lan. they couldna see her waist sae sma for the goud and silk about it a'. they couldna see her yallow hair for the pearls and jewels that were there. then up and spak her ghaist sae green, 'do ye no ken the king's dochter jean? 'tak my respects to my father the king, and likewise to my mother the queen. 'tak my respects to my true love william, tell him i deid for the love of him. 'carry him a lock of my yallow hair, to bind his heart for evermair.' r a. notes and queries, st s., vi, , from lancashire, b. written down for j. f. campbell, esq., nov. , , at wishaw house, lancashire, by lady louisa primrose, o. 'the scouring of the white horse, ' p. , from berk- shire, as heard by mr hughes from his father. there was a king of the north countree, bow down, bow down, bow down there was a king of the north countree, and he had daughters one, two, three. i 'll be true to my love, and my love 'll be true to me to the eldest he gave a beaver hat, and the youngest she thought much of that. to the youngest he gave a gay gold chain, and the eldest she thought much of the same. these sisters were walking on the bryn, and the elder pushed the younger in. 'oh sister, oh sister, oh lend me your hand, and i will give you both houses and land.' 'i 'll neither give you my hand nor glove, unless you give me your true love.' away she sank, away she swam, until she came to a miller's dam. the miller and daughter stood at the door, and watched her floating down the shore. . the twa sisters 'oh father, oh father, i see a white swan, or else it is a fair woman.' the miller he took up his long crook, and the maiden up from the stream he took. 'i 'll give to thee this gay gold chain, if you 'll take me back to my father again.' the miller he took the gay gold chain, and he pushed her into the water again. the miller was hanged on his high gate for drowning our poor sister kate. the cat's behind the buttery shelf, if you want any more, you may sing it your- self. e s kinloch mss, ti, , in kinloch's hand. * * # # * 'o father, father, swims a swan,' this story i 'll vent to thee 'o father, father, swims a swan, unless it be some dead woman.' i 'll prove true to my true love, if my love prove true to me the miller he held out his long fish hook, and hooked this fair maid from the brook. she offered the miller a gold ring stane to throw her into the river again. down she sunk, and away she swam, until she came to her father's brook. the miller was hung at his mill-gate, for drowning of my sister kate. t cold blows the wind, and the wind blows low allingham's ballad book, p. xxxiii. from ireland. 'w(j shar gq ^ ^ ^ sea>s brim-. 'sister, dear sister, where shall we go play?' and the wmd blows cheerily around us, high ho communicated by mr w. w. newell, as repeated by an ignorant woman in her dotage, who learned it at hunting- ton, long island, n. y. there was a man lived in the mist, bow down, bow down he loved his youngest daughter best. the bow is bent to me, so you be true to your own true love, and i 'll be true to thee. these two sisters went out to swim; the oldest pushed the youngest in. first she sank and then she swam, first she sank and then she swam. the miller, with his rake and hook, he caught her by the petticoat. a. b. i . went a-playing. . till oat-meal and salt grow both on a burden , a downe-o. tree. o. i . went a-playing. . ran hastily down the clift. burden . with a hey down, down, a down, . and up he took her without any life, down-a. . moll symns. . the twa sisters l, . then he bespake. . and let him go i the devil's name, d. i . went a-playing. l . ships sailing in. . into. '. me up on. s. withouten life. a. , , . an it has been written in as a conjectural emendation by jamieson, he did it play, f playd; and it is adopted by jamie- he ) son in his printed copy: see below, d , , . b. the first stanza only, agreeing with a , is given by anderson, nichols's illustrations, vn, . o. evidently a copy of mrs brown's version, and in scotfs ms. it has the air, as all the tytler-brown ballads had. still it has but twenty-three stanzas, whereas dr anderson gives fifty-eight lines as the extent of the tyt- ler-brown copy of lthe cruel sister' (nichols, iuus. lit. hist., vn, ). this, counting the first stanza, with the burden, as four lines, according to the arrangement in scott's ms., would tally exactly with the jamieson-brown ms., b a. it would seem that b c had been altered by somebody in order to remove the absurd com- bination of sea and mill-dam; the invitation to go see the ships come to land., b a , is omitted, and " the deep mill-dam " substituted, in , for "yon sea-stran." stanza of o, "they raisd her," etc., cited below, occurs in pinkerton, n , and is more likely to be his than anybody's. . brooch and ring. s. abune a' thing. . wooed . . . with glove and knife. *. looed the second. . she well nigh brist. . wanting. . led her to the deep mill-dam. . her cruel sister pushd her in. s. and ise mak ye. . wanting. . shame fa the hand that i shall tak. . gowden hair. *. gar . . . maiden ever mair. . wanting. . then out and cam. s. swimming down. . o father, haste and draw. . his dam. . and then. (?) instead of - : they raisd her wi meikle dule and care, pale was her cheek and green was her hair. . that corpse upon. . he's strung. \ , , for tune, line, if the copy be right. . the next. . the last. . fause ellen. "note by ritson. 'the fragment of a very different copy of this ballad has been com- municated to j. r. by a friend at dub- lin.'" {j. c. walker, no doubt.] d. jamieson, popular ballads and songs, i, , says that he gives his text verbatim as it was taken from the recitation of the lady in fifeshire (mrs brown), to whom both he and scott were so much indebted. that this is not to be understood with absolute strictness will appear from the variations which are sub- joined. jamieson adds that he had received another copy from mrsarrott of aberbrothiek, "but as it furnished no readings by which the text could have been materially improved," it was not used. both jamieson and scott sub- stitute the "binnorie" burden, "the most com- mon and popular," says scott, for the one given by mrs brown, with which mrs arrott's agreed. it may be added that jamieson's in- terpolations are stanzas , , , etc., and not, as he says (i, ), , , , etc. these interpolations also occur as such in the manu- script. i . sisters livd. . aboon. . he loved. . and sair envied. l. intill her bower she coudna. . maistly brast. ll . mak ye. . me o. . omits an. . came to the mouth o yon mill-dam. . there's. s. that was. . that were. . it did. . it playd seen. . thirden tune that it. a copy in motherwell's ms., p. , is de- rived from jamieson's printed edition. it omits the interpolated stanzas, and makes a few very slight changes. . the twa sisters c. scott's account of his edition is as follows (//, , later ed., in, ): "it is compiled from a copy in mrs brown's ms., intermixed with a beautiful fragment, of fourteen verses, transmitted to the editor by j. c. walker, esq., the ingenious his- torian of the irish bards. mr walker, at the same time, favored the editor with the following note: 'i am indebted to my de- parted friend, miss brooke, for the foregoing pathetic fragment. her account of it was as follows: this song was transcribed, several years ago, from the memory of an old woman, who had no recollection of the concluding verses; probably the beginning may also be lost, as it seems to commence abruptly.' the first verse and burden of the fragment run thus: "' o sister, sister, reach thy hand! hey ho, my nanny, o and you shall be heir of all my land. while the swan swims bonny, o '" out of this stanza, or the corresponding one in mrs brown's copy, scott seems to have made his , . e. "my mother used to sing this song." sharpe's ballad book, ed. of , note, p. . f. s. an wooer. g. . strand, with sand written above: sand in . i. is. var. in ms. there was a knicht and he loved them bath. . the following stanza was subsequently writ- ten on an opposite blank page, —perhaps de- rived from d : foul fa the hand that i wad take, to twin me and my warld's make. . a was, perhaps, meant to be expunged, but is only a little blotted. s. var. a lady or a milk-white swan. , were written in later than the rest; at the same time, apparently, as the stanza above ( ). k. found among mr kinloch's papers by mr macmath, and inserted by him as a note on p. , vol. u, of kinloch's mss. the order of the stanzas is there, wrongly, inverted. l . var. i wad give you. l. a. these fragments were communicated to notes and queries, april , , by "g. a. c.," who had heard 'the miller's melody' sung by an old lady in his childhood, and who represents himself as probably the last sur- vivor of those who had enjoyed the privilege of listening to her ballads. we may, there- fore, assign this version to the latter part of the <a century. the two four-line stanzas were sung to "a slow, quaint strain." two others which followed were not remembered, "but their purport was that the body ' stopped hard by a miller's mill,' and that this 'mil- ler chanced to come by,' and took it out of the water 'to make a melodye.'" g. a. c. goes on to say: "my venerable friend's tune here became a more lively one, and the time quicker; but i can only recollect a few of the couplets, and these not correctly nor in order of sequence, in which the transformation of the lady into a viol is described." b. some stanzas of this four-line version, with a ludicrous modern supplement, are given in 'the scouring of the white horse,' p. , as from the welsh marshes. five out of the first six verses are there said to be very old indeed, "the rest all patchwork by different hands." mr hughes has kindly informed me that he derived the ballad from his father, who had originally learned it, at ruthyn when a boy. what is material here follows: o it was not a pheasant cock, nor yet a pheasant hen, but o it was a lady fair came swimming down the stream. an ancient harper passing by found this poor lady's body, to which his pains he did apply to make a sweet melddy. to cat-gut dried he her inside, he drew out her back-bone, and made thereof a fiddle sweet all for to play upon. and all her hair, so long and fair, that down her back did flow, o he did lay it up with care, to string his fiddle bow. and what did he with her fingers, which were so straight and small? . the twa sisters o he did cut them into pegs, down says she had heard another way of it, quite to screw up his fiddoll. local, whose burden runs thus: then forth went he, as it might be, upon a summer's day, and met a goodly company, who asked him in to play. then from her bones he drew such tones as made their bones to ache, they sounded so like human groans their hearts began to quake. they ordered him in ale to swim, — for sorrow's mighty dry, — and he to share their wassail fare essayd right willingly. he laid his fiddle on a shelf in that old manor-hall, it played and sung all by itself, and thus sung this fiddoll: 'there sits the squire, my worthy sire, a-drinking hisself drunk, ' etc., etc. n. pinkerton tells us, in the preface to his an- cient scottish poems, p. cxxxi, tlmt " binnorie is one half from tradition, one half by the ed- itor." one fourth and three fourths would have been a more exact apportionment. the remainder of his text, which is wholly of his invention, is as follows: 'gae saddle to me my swiftest steid; her fere, by my fae, for her dethe sail bleid.' a page cam rinning out owr the lie: 'o heavie tydings i bring,' quoth he. 'my luvely lady is far awa gane; we weit the fairy hae her tane. her sister gaed wood wi dule and rage; nocht cold we do her mind to suage. • "o isabel, my sister," she wold cry, "for thee will i weip, for thee will i die." till late yestrene, in an elric hour, she lap frae aft the hichest louir.' 'now sleip she in peace,' quoth the gallant squire; 'her dethe was the maist that i cold require. but i 'll main for the, my isabel deir, full mony a dreiry day, bot weir.' . this stanza occurs also in b c ( ), and was perhaps borrowed from pinkerton by the reviser of that copy. o. a. buchan's note, ri, : "i have seen four or five different versions of this ballad, but none in this dress, nor with the same chorus. . . . the old woman from whose recitation i took it 'ever into buchanshire, vari vari o.'" l . hae courted. b. mr christie has "epitomized" buchan's copy {omitting stanzas - ), with these few slight alterations from the singing of a banff- shire woman, who died in , at the age of nearly eighty: burden: it's hey, etc. . and he courted the eldest wi mony other thing. . but it fell. . and the eldest. p. b. this stanza only: there livd twa sisters in a bower, hey my bonnie annie o there cam a lover them to woo. and the swan swims bonnie o, and the swan swims bonnie o q. the burden is given thus in pop. tales of the west highlands, rv, : oh ochone, ochone a rie, on the banks of the banna, ochone a rie. r. a. the title ' the three sisters,' and perhaps the first stanza, belongs rather to no a, b, p. f. b. . a farmer there lived in the north coun- tree, bo down and he had daughters one, two, three. and i 'll be true unto my love, if he 'll be true unto me {the burden is given as bo down, bo down, etc., in popular tales of the west high- lands, iv, .) between and b has: the eldest she had a lover come, and he fell in love with the younger one. he bought the younger a . . . the elder she thought . . . . wanting. . the sisters they walkt by the river brim. . my true love. . the cruel brother . the miller's daughter was at the door, as sweet as any gillyflower. . o father, o father, there swims a swain, and he looks like a gentleman. . the miller he feteht his line and hook, and he fisht the fair maiden out of the brook. ii . o miller, i'll give you guineas ten, . the miller he took her guineas ten, and then he popt her in again. .. . . behind his back gate, . the farmer's daughter kate. instead of : the sister she sailed over the sea, and died an old maid of a hundred and three. the lover became a beggar man, and he drank out of a rusty tin can. b , , , , are cited in popular tales of the west highlands, iv, . o. . a varmer he lived in the west countree, hey-down, bow-down a varmer he lived in the west countree, and he had daughters one, two, and dree. and i 'll be true to my love, if my love h be true to me. , . wanting. . as thay wur walking by the river's brim. . pray gee me thy hand. . so down she sank and away she swam. . the miller's daughter stood by the door, as fair as any gilly-flower. . here swims a swan, very much like a drownded gentlewoman. . the miller he fot his pole and hook, and he fished the fair maid out of the brook. ii . o miller, i 'll gee thee guineas ten. . pushed the fair maid in again. between and c has, but the crowner he cum and the justice too, with a hue and a cry and a hullaballoo. they hanged the miller beside his own gate for drowning the varmer's daughter, kate. instead of : the sister she fled beyond the seas, and died an old maid among black savagees. so i've ended my tale of the west coun- tree, and they calls it the barkshire tragedee. s. v. ms. or less (?). t. "sung to a peculiar and beautiful air." al- lingham, p. xxxiii. the cruel brother a. '[the] cruel brother, or the bride's testament.' t. 'the three knights,' gilbert's ancient christmas a. alex. fraser tytler's brown ms. b. jamieson's carols, d ed., p. . popular ballads, i, . b. the kinloch mss, i, . c. 'ther waur three ladies,' harris ms., p. b. o. 'fine flowers of the valley.' a. herd's mss, i, . b. herd's scottish songs, , i, . h. fragment appended to o. d. a. notes and queries, st s., vi, . b. d s.. v, i. the kinloch mss, i, . . e. notes and queries, th s., v, . j. as current in county meath, ireland, about . k. notes and queries, th s., iv, . . the cruel brother a a was obtained directly from mrs brown of falkland, in , by alexander fraser tytler. jamieson says that he gives b ver- batim from the recitation of mrs arrott; but it would seem that this must have been a slip of memory, for the two agree except in half a dozen words. b, c, i, j are now for the first time printed. g only was taken down earlier than the present century. aytoun remarks ( ): "this is, per- haps, the most popular of all the scottish bal- lads, being commonly recited and sung even at the present da^." the copy which he gives, i, , was "taken down fiom recitation," but is nevertheless a compound of g and a b, with a few unimportant variations, proceed- ing, no doubt, from imperfect recollection.* the copy in dixon's ancient poems, ballads, and songs, p. , repeated in bell's volume of the same title, p. , is gilbert's f. dixon informs us that the ballad was (in ) still popular amongst the peasantry in the west of england. cunningham gives us a piece called 'the three ladies of leithan ha,' songs of scotland, n, , which he would fain have us believe that he did not know he had written himself. "the common copies of this tragic lyric," he truly says, "differ very much from this; not so much in the story itself as in the way it is told." all versions but k, which has pretty nearly lost all point, agree after the opening stanzas. a-e have three ladies and only one knight; f has three knights and one lady; g, i, j, k have three ladies and three knights [lords in g, "bonny boys" in i, the first line being caught from ' sir hugh.'] three knights are to no purpose; only one knight has anything to do. the reason for three ladies is, of course, that the youngest may be preferred to the others, — an intention somewhat obscured in b. the ladies are in colors in b, c, i, j, and this seems to be the better interpretation in the case of g, though a strict construction of the language would rather point to the other. the colors are transferred to the * aytoun, l- =herd, , - : - = jamieson, il- ls: , = herd, , : , = jamieson, , : , = herd, , : - = jamieson, - . knights in f because there is only one lady. in k this is a part of the general depravation of the ballad. 'rizzardo bello,' wolf, volkslieder aus ve- netien, no , seems to be the same story, with a change of relations such as we often find in ballad poetry. rizzardo is conducting his bride home, and on the way embraces and kisses her. her brother witnesses "questo onore," and thrusts his sword into the happy bridegroom's heart. rizzardo tells his bride to come on slowly; he will go before to make preparation. he begs his mother to open the doors, for his bride is without, and he is wounded to death. they try to make the bride eat. she says she can neither eat nor drink: she must put her husband to bed. he gives her a ring, saying, your brother has been the death of me; then another ring, in sign that she is to be wife of two brothers. she answers him as guldborg answers ribold, that she would die rather: "rather die be- tween two knives than be wife of two broth- ers." this ballad was obtained from a peas- ant woman of castagnero. another version, which unfortunately is not printed, was sung by a woman at ostiglia on the po. dr prior remarks that the offence given by not asking a brother's assent to his sister's marriage was in ballad-times regarded as un- pardonable. other cases which show the im- portance of this preliminary, and the some- times fatal consequences of omitting it, are: 'hr. peder og mettelille,' grundtvig, no , n, , sts , ; 'jomfruen i skoven,' danske viser, m, , st. ; 'jomfru ellensborg og hr. olof,' ib., in, , st. ; 'iver lang og hans saster,' ib., iv, , st. ; ' herr helmer blaa,' ib., iv, , st. ; 'jomfru.giselmaar,' ib., rv, , st. . see prior's ancient dan- ish ballads, ni, , f, . there is a very common german ballad, 'graf friedrich,' in which a bride receives a mortal wound during the bringing-home, but accidentally, and from the bridegroom's hand. the marriage train is going up a hill; the way is narrow ; they are crowded; graf friedrich's sword shoots from its sheath and wounds the bride. the bridegroom is exceedingly dis- . the cruel brother tressed; he tries to stop the bleeding with his shirt; «he begs that they may ride slowly. when they reach the house there is a splendid feast, and everything is set before the bride; but she can neither eat nor drink, and only wishes to lie down. she dies in the night. her father comes in the morning, and, learn- ing what has happened, runs graf friedrich through, then drags his body at a horse's heels, and buries it in a bog. three lilies sprang from the spot, with an inscription announcing that graf friedrich was in heaven, and a voice came from the sky commanding that the body should be disinterred. the bridegroom was then buried with his bride, and this act of reparation was attended with other miracu- lous manifestations. as the ballads stand now, the kinship of 'graf friedrich' with 'the cruel brother' is not close and cannot be insisted on; still an early connection is not improbable. the versions of 'graf friedrich' are some- what numerous, and there is a general agree- ment as to all essentials. they are: a, a nuremberg broadside " of about ," which has not been made accessible by a reprint. b, a swiss broadside of , without place, "printed in seckendorf's musenalmanach fiir , p. ;" uhland, no , p. ; mit- tler, no ; wunderhorn, n, ( ); erk's liederhort, no a, p. ; bohnie, no , p. : also, in wunderhorn, , n, , with omission of five stanzas and with many changes; simrock, no , p. , omit- ting four stanzas and with changes; as writ- ten down by goethe for herder, diintzer u. herder, briefe goethes, u. s. w., aus herder's nachlass, i, , with the omission of eight stanzas and with some variations. c, wun- derhorn ( ), n, , from the schwarz- wald, = erlach, iv, , mittler, no . d, taschenbuch fiir dichter, u. fc. w., theil vm, , from upper lusatia, = erlach, m, , talvj, charakteristik, p. . e, from the kuhlandchen, meinert, p. , = mittler, no . f, hoffmann u. richter, schlesische v. l., no , p. , = mittler, no , erk's liederhort, no , p. . g, zingerle, in wolf's zeitschrift fur deutsche mythologie, i, , from meran. h, from uckermark, brandenburg, mittler, no . i, hesse, from oral tradition, mittler, no . j, erk u. irmer, n, , no , from the neighborhood of halle, = mittler, no . k, from estedt, district of magdeburg, parisius, p. , no . a danish ballad, 'den saarede jomfru,' grundtvig, no , iv, , has this slight resemblance with 'graf friedrich:' while a knight is dancing with a princess, his sword glides from the scabbard and cuts her hand. to save her partner from blame, she repre- sents to her father that she had cut herself with her brother's sword. this considerate- ness so touches the knight (who is, of course, her equal in rank) that he offers her his hand. the danish story is found also in norwegian and in faroe ballads. the peculiar testament made by the bride in 'the cruel brother,' by which she be- queaths good things to her friends, but ill things to the author of her death, is highly characteristic of ballad poetry. it will be found again in ' lord ronald,' ' edward,' and their analogues. still other ballads with this kind of testament are: 'frillens haevn,' grundtvig, no c, - , rv, ; a young man, stabbed by his leman, whom he was about to give up in order to marry, leaves his lands to his father, his bride-bed to his sister, his gilded couch to his mother, and his knife to his leman, wishing it in her body. 'maen paa baalet,' grundtvig, no a, - , n, ; ole, falsely accused by her brother, and condemned to be burned, gives her mother her silken sark, her sister her shoes, her father her horse, and her brother her knife, with the same wish. 'kong valdemar og hans sas- ter,' grundtvig, no , ni, , has a testa- ment in a-e and i; in i, - (ni, ), liden kirsten bequeaths her knife, with the same imprecation, to the queen, who, in the other copies, is her unrelenting foe: so lil- lelin to herr adelbrand, danske viser, m, , no , - , kristensen, i, , no , a - , having been dragged at a horse's heels in resentment of a taunt. 'hustru og mands moder,' grundtvig, no. , n, , has a testament in a, b, d, h, and in the last h. the cruel brother three a bequest of shoes or sark to a cruel mother-in-law or foster-mother, with the wish that she may have no peace or much pain in the wearing. 'catarina de li ,' briz y candi, cansons de la terra, i, , has been beaten by her mother-in-law while in a deli- cate state. when she is at the point of death, the mother-in-law asks what doctor she will have and what will she will make. "my will," says catherine, "will not please you much. send back my velvet dress to my fa- ther's; my gala dress give my sister; give my working dress to the maid, my jewels to the virgin." "and what will you leave to me?" "what i leave you will not please you much: my husband to be hanged, my mother-in-law to be quartered, and my sister-in-law to be burned." 'le testament de marion,' another version of this story from the south of france, uchaud, gard, podsies pop. de la france, ms., rv, fol. , bequeaths " my laces to my sister marioun, my prettiest gowns to my sister jeanneton; to my rascal of a husband three fine cords, and, if that is not enough (to hang him), the hem of his shirt." the portuguese ballad of 'dona helena ' rather implies than expresses the imprecation: braga, c. p. do archipelago ac,oriano, p. , no , p. , no ; almeida-garrett, m, ; hartung, i, - , no . helena leaves her husband's house when near childbirth, out of fear of his mother. her husband, who does not know her reason, goes after her, and compels her to re- turn on horseback, though she has just borne a son. the consequences are what might be ex- pected, and helena desires to make her shrift and her will. she leaves one thing to her oldest sister, another to her youngest. "and your boy?" "to your bitch of a mother, cause of my woes." "rather to yours," says the husband, " for i shall have to kill mine" (so braga ; garrett differs somewhat). 'die frau zur weissenburg' (a), uhland, p. , no b, scherer's jungbrunnen, p. , no ; 'das lied von der lowenburg' (b), simrock, p. , no ; 'hans steutlinger' (c), wun- derhorn, n, ( ), all one story, have a bitterly sarcastic testament. a lady insti- gates her paramour to kill her husband. the betrayed man is asked to whom he will leave his children [commit, a, bequeath, b, c]. "to god almighty, for he knows who they are." "your property?" "to the poor, for the rich have enough." "your wife?" "to young count frederic, whom she always liked more than me (a)." "your castle?" "to the flames." in some cases there is no trace of animosity towards the person who has caused the tes- tator's death ; as in ' el testamento de amelia' (who has been poisoned by her mother), mila, observaciones, p. , no , briz y salt , can- sons de la terra, n, (two copies); 'her- ren bald,' afzelius, i, , no (new ed. i, , no ); a swedish form of 'frillens haevn,' grundtvig, iv, ; ' renee le glaz ' and ' er- voanik le lintier,' luzel, c. p. de la basse bretagne, i, , , . there are also simple testaments where there is no occasion for an ill remembrance, as in 'ribold og guldborg,' grundtvig, no , i, k, l, u, x, tt, kristensen, n, no b; 'pontplancoat,' luzel, i, , . and, again, there are par- odies of these wills. thus the fox makes his will: grundtvig, gamle danske minder, , 'mikkels arvegods,' p. , and p. a copy from a manuscript three hundred years old; kristensen, jyske folkeviser, n, , no ; 'reven og bjonnen,' ' reven og nils fiskar,' landstad, nos , , p. , : and the rob- in, ' robin's tesment,' buchan, i, , herd's mss, i, , and scottish songs ( ), n, , chambers' popular rhymes, p. , "new edition." translated in grundtvig's engelske og skotske folkeviser, no , p. , f, with use of a and g b; aytoun's copy, with omis- sions, by rosa warrens, schottische volks- lieder der vorzeit, no , p. ; after al- lingham and others, by knortz, lieder und romanzen alt-englands, no , p. . . the cruel brother a a. alex. fraser tytler's brown ms. b. jamieson's popular ballads, i, , purporting to be from the recitation of mrs arret of aberbrothick. there was three ladies playd at the ba, with a hey ho and a lillie gay there came a knight and played oer them a'. as the primrose spreads so sweetly the eldest was baith tall and fair. but the youngest was beyond compare. the midmost had a graceful mien, but the youngest lookd like beautie's queen. the knight bowd low to a' the three, but to the youngest he bent his knee. the ladie turned her head aside, the knight he woo'd her to be his bride. the ladie blushd a rosy red, and sayd, 'sir knight, i'm too young to wed.' 'o ladie fair, give me your hand, and i 'll make you ladie of a' my land.' 'sir knight, ere ye my favor win, you maun get consent frae a' my kin.' he's got consent frae her parents dear, and likewise frae her sisters fair. he's got consent frae her kin each one, but forgot to spiek to her brother john. now, when the wedding day was come, the knight would take his bonny bride home. and many a lord and many a knight came to behold that ladie bright. and there was nae man that did her see, but wishd himself bridegroom to be. • her father dear led her down the stair, and her sisters twain they kissd her there. her mother dear led her thro the closs, and her brother john set her on her horse. she leand her oer the saddle-bow, to give him a kiss ere she did go. he has taen a knife, baith lang and sharp, and stabbd that bonny bride to the heart. she hadno ridden half thro the town, until her heart's blude staind her gown. 'ride softly on,' says the best young man, 'for i think our bonny bride looks pale and wan.' 'o lead me gently up yon hill, and i ' there sit down, and make my will.' 'o what will you leave to your father dear?' 'the silver-shod steed that brought me here.' 'what will you leave to your mother dear?' 'my velvet pall and my silken gear.' 'what will you leave to your sister anne?' 'my silken scarf and my gowden fan.' 'what will you leave to your sister grace?' 'my bloody cloaths to wash and dress.' 'what will you leave to your brother john?' 'the gallows-tree to hang him on.' 'what will you leave to your brother john's wife?' 'the wilderness to end her life.' this ladie fair in her grave was laid, and many a mass was oer her said. but it would have made your heart right sair, to see the bridegroom rive his haire. h. the cruel brother b kinloch's mss, i, , from mary barr, may, , clydes- dale. a gentleman cam oure the sea, fine flowers in the valley and he has courted ladies three. with the light green and the yellow one o them was clad in red: he asked if she wad be his bride. one o them was clad in green: he asked if she wad be his queen. the last o them was clad in white: he asked if she wad be his heart's delight. 'ye may ga ask my father, the king: sae maun ye ask my mither, the queen. 'sae maun ye ask my sister anne: and dinna forget my brither john.' he has asked her father, the king: and sae did he her mither, the queen. and he has asked her sister anne: but he has forgot her brother john. her father led her through the ha, her mither danced afore them a'. her sister anne led her through the closs, her brither john set her on her horse. it's then he drew a little penknife, and he reft the fair maid o her life. 'ride up, ride up,' said the foremost man; 'i think our bride comes hooly on.' 'ride up, ride up,' said the second man; 'i think our bride looks pale and wan.' up than cam the gay bridegroom, and straucht unto the bride he cam. 'does your side-saddle sit awry? or does your steed . . . 'or does the rain run in your glove? or wad ye chuse anither love?' 'the rain runs not in my glove, nor will i e'er chuse anither love. 'but o an i war at saint evron's well, there i wad licht, and drink my fill! 'oh an i war at saint evron's closs, there i wad licht, and bait my horse!' whan she cam to saint evron's well, she dought na licht to drink her fill. whan she cam to saint evron's closs, the bonny bride fell aff her horse. 'what will ye leave to your father, the king? 'the milk-white steed that i ride on.' 'what will ye leave to your mother, th queen?' 'the bluidy robes that i have on.' 'what will ye leave to your sister anne?' 'my gude lord, to be wedded on.' 'what will ye leave to your brither john?' 'the gallows pin to hang him on.' 'what will ye leave to your brither's wife?' 'grief and sorrow a' the days o her life.' 'what will ye leave to your brither's bairns? 'the meal-pock to hang oure the arms.' now does she neither sigh nor groan: she lies aneath yon marble stone. . the cruel brother harris ms., p. b, no . there waur three ladies in a ha, hech hey an the lily gey by cam a knicht, an he wooed them a'. an the rose is aye the redder aye the first ane she was cled in green; 'will you fancy me, an be my queen?' 'you may seek me frae my father dear, an frae my mither, wha did me bear. 'you may seek me frae my sister anne, but no, no, no frae my brither john.' the niest ane she was cled in yellow; 'will you fancy me, an be my marrow?' 'ye may seek me frae my father dear, an frae my mither, wha did me bear. 'ye may seek me frae my sister anne, but no, no, no frae my brither john.' the niest ane she was cled in red: 'will ye fancy me, an be my bride?' 'ye may seek me frae my father dear, an frae my mither wha did me bear. 'ye may seek me frae my sister anne, an dinna forget my brither john.' he socht her frae her father, the king, an he socht her frae her mither, the queen. he socht her frae her sister anne, but he forgot her brither john. her mither she put on her goun, an her sister anne preened the ribbons doun. her father led her doon the close, an her brither john set her on her horse. ***** up an spak our foremost man: 'i think our bonnie bride's pale an wan.' ***** 'what will ye leave to your father dear?' 'my an my chair.' 'what will ye leave to your mither dear?' 'my silken screen i was wont to wear.' 'what will ye leave to your sister anne?' 'my silken snood an my golden fan.' 'what will you leave to your brither john?' 'the gallows tree to hang him on.' notes and queries, st s., vi, , d s., v, . as sung by a lady who was a native of county kerry, ireland. there were three ladies playing at ball, farin-dan-dan and farm-dan-dee there came a white knight, and he wooed them all. with adieu, sweet honey, wherever you be he courted the eldest with golden rings, and the others with many fine things. and adieu, etc. ,pi . there cam a knicht an lookt ower the wa\ notes and queries, th s, v, . from forfarshire, w. f. *he primr se springs sae sweetly. sing annet, an marret, an fair maisrie, there were three sisters playin at the ba, an the dew hangs i the wood, gay ladie. wi a hech hey an a lillie gay . the cruel brother p gilbert's ancient christmas carols, d ed., p. , as re- membered by the editor. west of england. there did three knights come from the west, with the high and the lily oh and these three knights courted one lady. as the rose was so sweetly blown the first knight came was all in white, and asked of her, if she'd be his delight. the next knight came was all in green, and asked of her, if she 'd be his queen. the third knight came was all in red, and asked of her, if she would wed. 'then have you asked of my father dear, likewise of her who did me bear? 'and have you asked of my brother john? and also of my sister anne?' 'yes, i have asked of your father dear. likewise of her who did you bear. 'and i have asked of your sister anne, but i've not asked of your brother john.' far on the road as they rode along, there did they meet with her brother john. she stooped low to kiss him sweet, he to her heart did a dagger meet. 'ride on, ride on,' cried the serving man, 'methinks your bride she looks wondrous wan.' 'i wish i were on yonder stile, for there i would sit and bleed awhile. 'i wish i were on yonder hill, there i'd alight and make my will.' 'what would you give to your father dear?' 'the gallant steed which doth me bear.' 'what would you give to your mother dear?' 'my wedding shif t which i do wear. 'but she must wash it very clean, for my heart's blood sticks in evry seam.' 'what would you give to your sister anne?' 'my gay gold ring and my feathered fan.' 'what would you give to your brother john?' 'a rope and gallows to hang him on.' 'what would you give to your brother john's wif e?' 'a widow's weeds, and a quiet life.' g a. herd's mss, i, . b. herd's scottish songs, i, . there was three ladys in a ha, fine flowers i the valley there came three lords amang them a', wi the red, green, and the yellow the first of them was clad in red: 'o lady fair, will you be my bride?' the second of them was clad in green: 'o lady fair, will you be my queen?' the third of them was clad in yellow: 'o lady fair, will you be my marrow?' 'you must ask my father dear, likewise the mother that did me bear.' 'you must ask my sister ann, and not forget my brother john." 'i have askt thy father dear, likewise thy mother that did thee bear. 'i have askt thy sister ann, but i forgot thy brother john.' her father led her through the ha. her mother dancd before them a". her sister ann led her through the closs, her brother john put her on her horse. . the cruel brother 'you are high and i am low; let me have a kiss before you go.' she was louting down to kiss him sweet, wi his penknife he wounded her deep. # * * ♦ * 'o lead me over into yon stile, that i may stop and breath a while. 'o lead me over to yon stair, for there i 'll ly and bleed ne mair.' 'o what will you leave your father dear?' 'that milk-white steed that brought me here.' 'o what will you leave your mother dear?' 'the silken gown that i did wear.' 'what will you leave your sister ann?' 'my silken snood and golden fan.' 'what will you leave your brother john?' 'the highest gallows to hang him on.' 'what will you leave your brother john's wife?' 'grief and sorrow to end her life.' 'what will ye leave your brother john's bairns?' 'the world wide for them to range.' h he stuck his penknife in her hass. . . „ and the rose it smells so sweetly herd's mss, i, , n, ; scottish songs, , i, ; j appended to g. 'ride up, ride up,' cry'd the foremost man; she louted down to gie a kiss, 'i think our bride looks pale and wan.' with a hey and a lilly gay i kinloch's mss, i, . from mrs bouchart, an old lady native of forfarshire. there war three bonnie boys playing at the ba, hech hey and a lily gay there cam three ladies to view them a'. and the rose it smells sae sweetlie the first ane was clad in red: 'o,' says he, 'ye maun be my bride.' the next o them was clad in green: 'o,' says he, 'ye maun be my queen.' the tither o them was clad in yellow: 'o,' says he, 'ye maun be my marrow.' 'ye maun gang to my father's bouer, to see gin your bride he 'll let me be.' her father led her doun the stair, her mither at her back did bear. her sister jess led her out the closs, her brother john set her on the horse. she loutit doun to gie him a kiss; he struck his penknife thro her breist. 'ride on, ride on,' says the foremaist man; 'i think our bride looks pale and wan.' 'ride on, ride on,' says the merry bride- groom; 'i think my bride's blude is rinnin doun.' 'o gin i war at yon bonnie hill, i wad lie doun and bleed my fill! 'o gin i war at yon bonnie kirk-yard, i wad mak my testament there!' 'what will ye leave to your father dear?' 'the milk-white steed that brocht me here.' 'what will ye leave to your mother dear?' 'the bluidy robes that i do wear.' 'what will ye leave to your sister ann?' 'my silken snood and gowden fan.' 'what will ye leave to your sister jess?' 'the bonnie lad that i loe best.' . the cruel brother 'what will ye leave to your brother john?' 'what will ye leave to your brother's bairns?' 'the gallows pin to hang him on.' 'the warld's wide, and let them beg.' 'what will ye leave to your brother john's wife?' 'sorrow and trouble a' her life.' j from miss margaret reburn, as current in county meath, ireland, about . there were three sisters playing ball, with the high and the lily o and there came three knights to court them all. with the rosey sweet, heigh ho the eldest of them was drest in green: 'i wish i had you to be my queen.' the second of them was drest in red: 'i wish i had you to grace my bed.' the youngest of them was drest in white: 'i wish i had you to be my wife.' 'or did ye ask my brother john? for without his will i dare not move on.' 'i did ask your parents dear. but i did not see your brother john.' ***** 'ride on, ride on,' said the first man, 'for i fear the bride comes slowly on.' 'ride on, ride on,' said the next man, 'for lo! the bride she comes bleeding on.' ***** 'what will you leave your mother dear?' 'my heart's best love for ever and aye.' 'what will ye leave your sister anne?' 'this wedding garment that i have on.' 'what will ye leave your brother john's wife?' 'grief and sorrow all the days of her life.' 'what will ye leave your brother john's son?' 'the grace of god to make him a man.' 'did ye ask my father brave? 'what will ye leave your brother john?' or did ye ask my mother fair ?' the highest gallows to hang him on.' k notes and queries, th s., iv, , as "sung in cheshire amongst the people" in the last century. t. w. there were three ladies playing at ball, gilliver, gentle, and rosemary there came three knights and looked over the wall. sing o the red rose and the white lilly the first young knight, he was clothed in red, and he said, ' gentle lady, with me will you wed?' the second young knight, he was clothed in blue, and he said, 'to my love i shall ever be true.' the third young knight, he was clothed in green, and he said, ' fairest maiden, will you be my queen?' the lady thus spoke to the knight in red, 'with you, sir knight, i never can wed.' the lady then spoke to the knight in blue, and she said, 'little faith i can have in you.' the lady then spoke to the knight in green, and she said, ' 't is at court you must seek for a queen.' the three young knights then rode away, and the ladies they laughed, and went back to their play. singing, etc. . lord randal a. b. . oer young. *. spear at. . the bonny. . said. . and what will ye. . this fair lady. . and a mass. variations of aytoun's copy, sts. - , , , - : ll omits and; \ l omit dear; s omits and; , through half for half thro ; omits for, bonny ; , pearlin for silken; omits and; , my silken gown that stands its lane; , shirt for cloaths; , and what; , the gates o hell to let him in. b. "i have seen a fragment of another copy in which [the burden is] the red rose and the lily and the roses spring fu sweetly." kinloch, p. . f. . for on the road. g. a. . burden*. the red, green, etc.: after- wards, wi the red, etc. . ms. also, he askt of me if i'd be his bride. . ms. also, he askt of me if i'd be his queen. . ms. also, he askt me if i'd be his mar- row. . ms. also, the gold and silver that i have here. . ms. also, the silken garment. . ms. also, my satine hat , ms. also, the world wide, let them go beg. b. '. the mother, b. . into yon stair. variations of aytoun's copy, sts. - , , , , from herd, : l , three sisters; , , omit fair; , ye maun ; , and ye ; , o i have ; l, and i have ask'd your sister; , your brother; , give me a kiss; , when wi his knife. h. "i have heard this song, to a very good tune not in any collection, with the above varia- tions — the chorus, of the whole as in the above two verses." herd's note in his mss. lord randal a. from a manuscript copy, probably of the beginning of this century. b. 'lord donald,' einloch's ancient scottish ballads, p. . c. motherwell's ms., p. . d. minstrelsy of the scottish border, , m, . e. halliwell's popular rhymes and nursery tales, p. . p. 'lord ronald, my son,' johnson's museum, no , p. . g. illustrations of northern antiquities, p. . h. from recitation, . l 'tiranti, my son.' a. communicated by a lady of boston, b. by an aunt of the same. c. by a lady of new bedford, d. by a lady of cambridge, e, f, g. by ladies of boston. j. 'the bonnie wee croodlin dow,' motherwell's ms., p. . k. a. 'the croodlin doo,' chambers, scottish bal- lads, p. . b. 'the wee croodlen doo,' cham- bers, popular rhymes, , p. . o. johnson's museum, by stenhouse and laing, iv, *. l. 'willie doo,' buchan's mss, ii, , and ballads, ii, . m. 'the croodin doo,' chambers, popular rhymes, , p. . n. kinloch mss, v, . o. 'the croodlin doo.' from a manuscript belong- ing to the fraser-tytler family. . lord randal the title ' lord randal' is selected for this ballad because that name occurs in one of the better versions, and because it has become fa- miliar through scott's minstrelsy. scott says that the hero was more generally termed lord ronald: but in the versions that have come down to us this is not so. none of these can be traced back further than a century. f and d were the earliest published. jamieson remarks with respect to g ( ): "an english gentleman, who had never paid any attention to ballads, nor ever read a collection of such things, told me that when a child he learnt from a playmate of his own age, the daughter of a clergyman in suffolk, the fol- lowing imperfect ditty." i, a version current in eastern massachusetts, may be carried as far back as any. a, b derive from elizabeth foster, whose parents, both natives of eastern massachusetts, settled, after their marriage, in maine, where she was born in . eliza- beth foster's mother is remembered to have sung the ballad, and i am informed that the daughter must have learned it not long after , since she was removed in her childhood from maine to massachusetts, and continued there till her death. 'tiranti' [' taranti'] may not improbably be a corruption of lord randal. the copy in smith's scottish minstrel, ni, , is scott's altered. the first four stanzas are from the border minstrelsy, except the last line of the fourth, which is from johnson's museum. the last two stanzas are a poor modern invention. three stanzas which are found in a. cun- ningham's scottish songs, i, f, may be given for what they are worth. 'the house of marr,' in the first, is not to be accepted on the simple ground of its appearance in his pages. the second is inserted in his beauti- fied edition of scott's ballad, and has its bur- den accordingly; but there is, besides this, no internal evidence against the second, and none against the third. * opera nnova, nella quale si contiene una incatenatura di piii villanelle cd altre cose ridiculose. . . . data in luce per me camillo, detto il bianchino, cieco fiorentino. flie- 'o where have you been, lord ronald, my son? where have you been, my handsome young man?' 'at the house of marr, mother, so make my bed soon, for i'm wearied with hunting, and fain would lie down.' 'o where did she find them, lord randal, my son? o where did she catch them, my handsome young man?' 'neath the bush of brown bracken, so make my bed soon, for i'm wae and i'm weary, and fain would lie down.' 'o what got your bloodhounds, lord ronald, my son? o what got your bloodhounds, my handsome young man?' 'they lapt the broo, mother, so make my bed soon, am wearied with hunting, and fain would lie down.' a pot-pourri or quodlibet, reprinted in wolff's egeria, p. , from a veronese broad- side of the date , shows that this ballad was popular in italy more than years ago; for the last but one of the fragments which make up the medley happens to be the first three lines of ' l'avvelenato,' very nearly as they are sung at the present day, and these are introduced by a summary of the story: "io vo' finire con questa d'un amante tradito dalv amata. oh che ye si garbata a cantarla in isehiera: 'dov' aiidastu iersfra, figliuol mio ricco, savio e gentile? dov' andastu iersera ' ?" * the ballad was first recovered in , by dr g. b. bolza, who took it down from the singing of very young girls at loveno. since then good copies have been found at venice. a, 'l'avvelenato,' bolza, canzoni popolari comasche, no , sitzungsberichte of the vienna academy (philos. histor. class), lin, gendes blatt von verona, . egeria, p. ; p. , note . — with the ahove (egeria, p. ) compare especially the beginning of italian b, further on. [to 'lord randal,' p. f.] i have unaccountably failed to mention (though i had made note of them) three ver- sions of 'l'avvelenato' which are cited by professor d'ancona in his poesia popolare italiana, p. ff. d. the canon lorenzo panciatichi refers to the ballad in a 'cicalata in lode della pa- della e della frittura,' recited at the crusca, september , , and in such manner as shows that it was well known. he quotes the first question of the mother, 'dove an- dastu a cena,' etc. to this the son answered, he says, that he had been poisoned with a roast eel; and the mother asking what the lady had cooked it in, the reply was, in the oil pot. e. a version obtained by d'ancona from the singing of a young fellow from near pisa, of which the first four stanzas are given. some verses after these are lost, for the testa- ment is said to supervene immediately. f. a version from lecco, which has the title, derived from its burden,' de lu cavalieri e figliu de re,' a. trifone nutricati briganti, intorno ai canti e raceonti popolari del lec- cese, p. . the first four stanzas are cited, and it appears from these that the prince had cooked the eel himself, and, appropriately, in a gold pan. [to 'the cruel brother,' p. .] i will take the opportunity to remark that nigra has just republished in romania xi, , 'luggieri,' a version, from arezzo, of 'rizzardo bello,' previously printed by giulio salvatori in the rassegna settimanale, no. , rome, june , . nigra treats 'lug- gieri' as a variety of 'jean renaud.' to me it seems an independent ballad. . lord randal , is of seventeen stanzas, of seven short lines, all of which repeat but two: the th and th stanzas are imperfect.* a mother inquires of her son where he has been. he has been at his mistress's, where he has eaten part of an eel; the rest was given to a dog, that died in the street. the mother declares that he has been poisoned. he bids her send for the doctor to see him, for the curate to shrive him, for the notary to make his will. he leaves his mother his palace, his brothers his carriage and horses, his sisters a dowry, his servants a free passage to mass (" la strada d'anda a messa" = nothing), a hundred and fifty masses for his soul; for his mistress the gallows to hang her. b, c, 'l'avvelenato,' bernoni, nuovi canti popolari veneziani, , no , p. , p. , have twelve and eighteen four-line stanzas, the questions and answers in successive stanzas, and the last three lines of the first pair repeated respectively through- out.f b, which is given as a variant of c, agrees with a as to the agent in the young man's death. it is his mistress in b, but in c it is his mother. in both, as in a, he has eaten of an eel. the head he gave to the dogs, the tail to the cats (c). he leaves to his stewards (castaldi) his carriages and horses (c); to his herdsmen his cows and fields; to the maids his chamber furnishings; to his sister the bare privilege of going to mass (c, as in a); to his mother [wife, c] the keys of his treasure. "la forca per picarla " is in b as in a the bequest to his false love, in- stead of whom we have his mother in c. the corresponding german ballad has been known to the english for two generations through jamieson's translation. the several versions, all from oral tradition of this century, * it begins: "dove si sta jersira, figliuol mio caro,jiorito e gentu t dove si sta jersira t" "sun sta dalla mia dama; signora mama, mio core sta mat! son sta dalla mia dama; ohime ! ch'io moro, ohime!" t e. g. (b): "e dove xestu sta gieri sera, figlio mio rico, sapio e gcntil? show the same resemblances and differences as the english. a, b, 'schlangenkbchin,' eight stanzas of six lines, four of which are burden, a, lieder- hort, p. , no », from the neighborhood of wilsnack, brandenburg, b, peter, i, , no , from weidenau, austrian silesia, run thus: henry tells his mother that he has been at his sweetheart's (but not a-hunting); has had a speckled fish to eat, part of which was given to the dog [cat, b], which burst. henry wishes his father and mother all blessings, and hell-pains to his love, a - . his mother, b , asks where she shall make his bed: he replies, in the church-yard. c,'grossmutter schlang- enkochin,' first published in , in maria's (clemens brentano's) romance godwi, n, , afterward in the wunderhorn, i, (ed. , i, , ed. ), has fourteen two-line stanzas, or seven of four lines, one half burden. the copy in zuccalmaglio, p. , no , "from hesse and north germany," is the same thing with another line of burden intercalated and two or three slight changes. maria has been at her grandmother's, who gave her a fish to eat which she had caught in her kitchen gar- den; the dog ate the leavings, and his belly burst. the conclusion agrees with b, neither having the testament. d,' stiefmutter,' seven stanzas of four short lines, two being burden, uhland, no , p. ; excepting one slight variation, the same as liederhort, p. , no , from the vicinity of biickeburg, lippe-schaum- burg. a child has been at her mother's sis- ter's house, where she has had a well-peppered broth and a glass of red wine. the dogs [and cats] had some broth too, and died on the spot. the child wishes its father a seat in heaven, for its mother one in hell. b, e dove xestu sta gieri sera, gentil mio cavalier?" "e mi so' stato da la mia bela; signora madre, el mio cuor sta mal! e mi so' stato da la mia bela; oh dio, cbe moro, ohime!" "e cossa t'ala dato da cena, figlio mio? " etc. "e la m'a dato 'n'anguila rostita; signora madre," etc. . lobd randal * kind, wo bist du denn henne west?' reiffen- berg, p. , no , from bokendorf, westphalia, four stanzas of six lines, combining question and answer, two of the six burden. a child has been at its step-aunt's, and has had a bit of a fish caught in the nettles along the wall. the child gives all its goods to its brother, its clothes to its sister, but three devils to its [step-]mother. f, 'das vergiftete kind,' seven four-line stanzas, two burden, schuster, siebenburgisch-sachsische v. l., p. , no , from miihlbach. a child tells its father that its heart is bursting; it has eaten of a fish, given it by its mother, which the father declares to be an adder. the child wishes its father a seat in heaven, its mother one in hell. a, b are nearer to ' lord randal,' and have even the name henry which we find in eng- lish c. c-f are like j-o,'the croodlin doo.' dutch. 'isabelle,' snellaert, p. , no , seven four-line stanzas, the first and fourth lines repeated in each. isabel has been sew- ing at her aunt's, and has eaten of a fish with yellow stripes that had been caught with tongs in the cellar. the broth, poured into the street, caused the dogs to burst. she wishes her aunt a red-hot furnace, herself a spade to bury her, her brother a wife like his mother. swedish. a, ' den lillas testamente,' ten five-line stanzas, three lines burden, afzelius, m, , no ; ed. bergstrom, i, , no . a girl, interrogated by her step-mother, says she has been at her aunt's, and has eaten two wee striped fishes. the bones she gave the dog; the stanza which should describe the effect is wanting. she wishes heaven for her father and mother, a ship for her brother, a jewel-box and chests for her sister, and hell for her step-mother and her nurse. b, ar- widsson, n, , no , nine five-line stanzas, two lines burden. in the first stanza, evidently corrupt, the girl says she has been at her broth- er's. 'she has had eels cooked with pepper, and the bones, given to the dogs, made them burst. she gives her father good corn in his barns, her brother and sister a ship, etc., hell to her step-mother and nurse. danish. communicated by prof. grundt- vig, as obtained for the first time from tra- dition in ; five stanzas of five lines, three lines repeating. elselille, in answer to her mother, says she has been in the meadow, where she got twelve small snakes. she wishes heavenly joy to her father, a grave to her brother, hell torment to her sister. magyar. 'der vergiftete knabe,' aigner, ungarische volksdichtungen, e auflage, p. , in nine six-line stanzas, four being a bur- den. johnnie, in answer to his mother, says he has been at his sister-in-law's, and has eaten a speckled toad, served on her handsomest plate, of which he is dying. he bequeaths to his father his best carriage, to his brothers his finest horses, to his sister his house fur- niture, to his sister-in-law everlasting damna- tion, to his mother pain and sorrow. wendish. 'der vergiftete knabe,' haupt u. schmaler, i, , no , twelve four-line stanzas, combining question and answer, the first and last line repeating. henry has been at the neighbor's, has eaten part of a fish caught in the stable with a dung-fork; his dog ate the rest, and burst. there is no tes- tament. his mother asks him where she shall make his bed; he replies, in the churchyard; turn my head westward, and cover me with green turf. the numerous forms of this story show a general agreement, with but little difference except as to the persons who are the object and the agent of the crime. these are, ac- cording to the italian tradition, — which is years old, while no other goes back more than a hundred years, and far the larger part have been obtained in recent years, — a young man and his true-love; and in this account unite two of the three modern italian versions, english a-g, german a, b. scott suggests that the handsome young sportsman (whom we find in english a, c, d, e, f, h) may have been exchanged for a little child poisoned by a step-mother, to excite greater interest in the nursery. this seems very reasonable. what girl with a lover, singing the ballad, would not be tempted to put off the treacherous act on so popular, though most unjustly popular, an object of aversion? a mother, again, is. lord randal would scarcely allow "mother" to stand, as is the case in italian c and german f, and a singer who considered that all blood relations should be treated as sacred would ascribe the wickedness to somebody beyond that pale, say a neighbor, as the wendish ballad does, and zuccalmaglio's reading of german c. the step-mother is expressly named only in eng- lish j, k o, l, m, n, o, and in four of these, j, k c, m, o, the child has a mammie,* which certainly proves an alibi for the step-mother, and confirms what scott says. there is a step-aunt in german e and swedish a, and the aunt in german d and the dutch ballad, and the grandmother in english i, k a, b, german c, are perhaps meant (as the brother in swedish b certainly is) to be step-relations and accommodating instruments. the poisoning is shifted to a wife in english h, to an uncle in english i d, and to a sister- in-law in the magyar version. there is all but universal consent that the poisoning was done by serving up snakes for fish. the magyar says a toad, english m a four-footed fish,f german d a well-peppered broth and a glass of red wine. english l adds a drink of hemlock stocks to the speckled trout; f, h have simply poison. the fish are distinctively eels in the italian versions, and in english a, d, e, g, i, swedish b. english a, j, e, m, n, o, german a-d, the italian, swedish, dutch, wendish versions, and by implication english c, d, e also, con- cur in saying that a part of the fish was given to a dog [dogs, cat, cats], and that death was the consequence. bursting or swelling is char- acteristic of'this kind of poisoning: german a, b, c, f, english d, e, and the dutch and wendish versions. the dying youth or child in many cases makes a nuncupative will, or declares his last wishes, upon a suggestion proceeding from the person who is by him, commonly from the mother: english a, b, c, h, i: german a, * grundtvig notices this absurdity, eng. og skotske f. v, p. , note **. t "the nurse or nursery maid who sung these verses (to a very plaintive air) always informed the juvenile audience d, e, f: the italian, dutch, swedish, danish, magyar versions. the bequest to the poisoner is the gallows in english b, c, h, i, italian a, b, c; hell, english a, german a, d, f, swedish a, b, danish; and an equivalent in german e, the dutch and the magyar copy. 'the cruel brother,' no , and 'edward,' no , have a will of this same fashion. in all the english versions the burden has the entreaty " make my bed," and this is ad- dressed to the mother in all but l, n. in h, an irish copy, and i, an american one, the mother asks where the bed shall be made; and the answer is, "in the churchyard. this feature is found again in german b, c and in the wendish version. the resemblance in the form of the stanza in all'the versions deserves a word of remark. for the most part, the narrative proceeds in sections of two short lines, or rather half lines, which are a question and an answer, the rest of the stanza being regularly repeated. eng- lish l, n, as written (l not always), separate the question and answer; this is done, too, in italian b, c. german e, on the contrary, has two questions and the answers in each stanza, and is altogether peculiar. swedish b varies the burden in part, imagining father, brother, sister, etc., to ask what the little girl will give to each, and adapting the reply accord- ingly, "faderen min," " broderen min." a bohemian and a catalan ballad which have ttto of the three principal traits of the foregoing, the poisoning and the testament, do not exhibit, perhaps have lost, the third, the employment of snakes. the story of the first is that a mother who dislikes the wife her son has chosen attempts to poison her at the wedding feast. she sets a glass of honey before the son, a glass of poison before the bride. they exchange cups. the poison is swift. the young man leaves four horses to his brother, eight cows to his sister, his fine house to his wife. "and that the step-mother was a rank witch, and that the fish was an ask (newt), which was in scotland formerly deemed a most poisonous reptile." c. k. sharpe, in the musical mu- seum, laing-stenhouse, iv, *. . lord eakdal what to me, my son?" asks the mother. a broad mill-stone and the deep moldau is the bequest to her. waldau, bohmische granaten, n, , cited by reifferscheid, p. f. the catalan ballad seems to have been sof- tened at the end. here again a mother hates her daughter-in-law. she comes to the sick woman, "com qui no 'n sabds res," and asks what is the matter? the daughter says, you have poisoned me. the mother exhorts her to confess and receive the sacrament, and then make her will. she gives her castles in france to the poor and the pilgrims [and the friars], and to her brother don carlos [who in one version is her husband]. two of the versions remember the virgin. "and to me?" "to you, my husband [my cloak, rosary], that when you go to mass you may remember me." in one version the mother asks the dying woman where she will be buried. she says at saint mary's. mila, observaciones, p. f, no , two versions: briz y salt , n, f, two also, the first nearly the same as mila's first. poisoning by giving a snake as food, or by infusing the venom in drink, is an incident in several other popular ballads. donna lombarda attempts, at the instiga- tion of a lover, to rid herself of her husband by pounding a serpent, or its head, in a mor- tar, and mixing the juice with his wine [in one version simply killing the snake and put- ting it in a cask]: nigra, canzoni del pie- monti, in rivista contemporanea, xn, ff, four versions ; marcoaldi, p. , no ; wolf, volkslieder aus venetien, p. , no ; righi, canti popolari veronesi, p. , no *; fer- raro, c. p. monferrini, p. , no ; bernoni, c. p. veneziani, puntata v, no . in three of ni- gra's versions and in ferraro's the drink is of- fered when the husband returns from hunting. the husband, rendered suspicious by the look of the wine, or warned of his danger, forces his wife to drink first. so in a northern bal- lad, a mother who attempts to destroy her sons [step-sons] with a brewage of this descrip- tion is obliged to drink first, and bursts with the poison: 'eiturbyrlunar kvaesi,' islenzk fornkv., n, , no . a; 'fru gundela,' arwidsson, n, , no ;' signelill aa hennes synir,' bugge, p. , no xx, the last half. in one of the commonest slavic ballads, a girl, who finds her brother an obstacle to her desires, poisons him, at the instigation and under the instruction of the man she fancies, or of her own motion, by giving him a snake to eat, or the virus in drink. the object of her passion, on being informed of what she has done, casts her off, for fear of her doing the like to him. bohemian: 'sestra traviiska,' erben, r. n. w cechach, ,i, , no , prostona- rodni ceskd p., , p. , no ; swoboda, sbirka c. n. p., p. ; german translations by swoboda, by wenzig, w. s. marchenschatz, p. , i. v. diiringsfeld, bohmische rosen, p. , etc. moravian: susil, p. , no . slovak, elakowsky, slowanskd n. p., m, . polish: kolberg, p. l. p., i, , no , some twenty versions; wojcicki, p. l. bialo- chrobatow, etc., i, , , , ; pauli, p. l. polskiego, p. , : konopka, p. l. kra- kowskiego, p. . servian: vuk, i, , no , translated by talvj, n, , and by kapper, gesiinge der serben, n, . rus- sian: celakowsky, as above, m, . etc. the attempt is made, but unsuccessfully, in sacharof, p. russkago n., iv, . a version given by de rada, rapsodie d'un poema albanese, p. , canto x, resembles the slavic, with a touch of the italian. a man incites a girl to poison her brother by pound- ing the poison out of a serpent's head and tail and mixing it with wine. in a widely spread romaic ballad, a mother poisons the bride whom her son has just brought home, — an orphan girl in some ver- sions, but in one a king's daughter wedding a king's son. the cooks who are preparing the feast are made to cook for the bride the heads of three snakes [nine snakes' heads, a three- headed snake, winged snakes and two-headed adders]. in two epirote versions the poisoned girl bursts with the effects. "to. nana irtotpuia.," passow, p. , no , nearly = zambelios, p. , no ; passow, p. , no ; tom- maseo, canti popolari, m, ; jeannaraki, :, . lord randal p. , no *; chasiotis (epirote), p. , no , "'h fiovpyapowovxa. kol fj naid] irtotpa;" p. , no , ""o alovvs koll ] kolkt] tttdipd." (liebrecht, volkskunde, p. .) an italian mother-in-law undertakes to poi- son her son's wife with a snake-potion. the wife, on her husband's return from the chase, innocently proposes to share the drink with him. her husband no sooner has tasted than he falls dead. (kaden, italien's wunderhorn, p. ). scott cites in his preface to 'lord randal' a passage from a ms. chronicle of england, in which the death of king john is described as being brought about by administering to him the venom of a toad (cf. the magyar ballad). the symptoms — swelling and rup- ture— are found in the scandinavian and epirote ballads referred to above, besides those previously noticed (p. ). king john had asked a monk at the abbey of swinshed how much a loaf on the table was worth. the monk answered a half-penny. the king said that if he could bring it about, such a loaf should be worth twenty pence ere half a year. the monk thought he would rather die than that this should come to pass. "and anon the monk went unto his abbot and was shrived of him, and told the abbot all that the king said, and prayed his abbot to assoil him, for he would give the king such a wassail that all england should be glad and joyful thereof. then went the monk into a garden, and found a toad therein, and took her up, and put her in a cup, and filled it with good ale, and pricked her in every place, in the cup, till the venom came out in every place, and brought it before the king, and kneeled, and said: 'sir, wassail: for never in your life drank ye of such a cup.' • begin, monk,' said the king: and the monk drank a great draught, and took the king the cup, and the king also drank a great draught, and set down the cup. the monk anon went to the firmary, and there died anon, on whose soul god have mercy, amen. and five monks sing for his soul es- pecially, and shall while the abbey standeth. the king was anon full evil at ease, and com- manded to remove the table, and asked after the monk; and men told him that he was dead, for his womb was broke in sunder. when the king heard this tiding, he com- manded for to truss: but all it was for nought, for his belly began to swell from the drink that he drank, that he died within two days, the morrow after saint luke's day." min- strelsy, m, f. the same story in eulo- gium historiarum, ed. haydon, m, f. b and k o are translated by grundtvig, engelske og skotske folkeviser, p. , . d, by w. grimm, altschottische lieder, p. ; by schubart, p. ; arndt, p. ; doen- niges, p. ; gerhardt, p. ; knortz, l. u. r. alt-englands, p. . k a by fiedler, geschichte der volksthiimlichen schottischen liederdichtung, n, . german c is trans- lated by jamieson, illustrations, p. : swed- ish a by w. and m. howitt, literature and romance of northern europe, i, . a from a small manuscript volume lent me by mr william macmath, of edinburgh, containing four pieces written in or about , and this ballad in a later hand. charles mackie, august, , is scratched upon the binding. 'o where ha you been, lord randal, my son? and where ha you been, my handsome young man?' * a golden bird, sitting on the bride's hand, sings, " you had better not go there; you will have a bad mother-in-law 'i ha been at the greenwood; mother, mak my bed soon, for i'm wearied wi hunting, and fain wad lie down.' 'an wha met ye there, lord randal, my son? an wha met you there, my handsome young man?' and a bad father-in-law." there are ill omens also in fas- sow, no . . lord randal 'o i met wi my true-love; mother, mak my bed soon, for i'm wearied wi huntin, an fain wad lie down.' 'and what did she give you, lord randal, my son? and what did she give you, my handsome young man?' 'eels fried in a pan; mother, mak my bed soon, for i'm wearied wi huntin, and fain wad lie down.' 'and wha gat your leavins, lord randal, my son? and wha gat your leavins, my handsom young man?' 'my hawks and my hounds; mother, mak my bed soon, for i'm wearied wi hunting, and fain wad lie down.' 'and what becam of them, lord randal, my son? and what becam of them, my handsome young man?' 'they stretched their legs out an died; mother, mak my bed soon, for i'm wearied wi huntin, and fain wad lie down.' 'o i fear you are poisoned, lord randal, my son! i fear you are poisoned, my handsome young man!' 'o yes, i am poisoned; mother, mak my bed soon, for i'm sick at the heart, and i fain wad he down.' 'what d' ye leave to your mother, lord ran- dal, my son? what d' ye leave to your mother, my handsome young man?' 'four and twenty milk kye; mother, mak my bed soon, » for i'm sick at the heart, and i fain wad lie down.' 'what d' ye leave to your sister, lord ran- dal, my son? what d' ye leave to your sister, my handsome young man?' 'my gold and my silver; mother, mak my bed soon, for i'm sick at the heart, an i fain wad lie down.' 'what d' ye leave to your brother, lord ran- dal, my son? what d' ye leave to your brother, my hand- some young man?' 'my houses and my lands; mother, mak my bed soon, for i'm sick at the heart, and i fain wad lie down.' 'what d' ye leave to your true-love, lord ran- dal, my son? what d' ye leave to your true-love, my hand- some young man?' 'i leave her hell and fire; mother, mak my bed soon, for i'm sick at the heart, and i fain wad lie down.' b kinloch's ancient scottish ballads, p. . from mrs comie, aberdeen. 'o whabe hae ye been a' day, lord donald, my son? o whare hae ye been a' day, my jollie young man?' 'i've been awa courtin; mither, mak my bed sune, for i'm sick at the heart, and i fain wad he doun.' 'what wad ye hae for your supper, lord don- ald, my son? what wad ye hae for your supper, my jollie young man?' . lord randal 'i've gotten my supper; mither, mak my bed sune, for i'm sick at the heart, and i fain wad lie doun.' 'what did ye, get for your supper, lord don- ald, my son? what did ye get for your supper, my jollie young man?' 'a dish of sma fishes; mither mak my bed sune, for i'm sick at the heart, and i fain wad lie doun.' 'whare gat ye the fishes, lord donald, my son? whare gat ye the fishes, my jollie young man?' 'in my father's black ditches; mither, mak my bed sune, for i'm sick at the heart, and i fain wad lie doun.' 'what like were your fishes, lord donald, my son? what like were your fishes, my jollie young man?' 'black backs and spreckld bellies; mither, mak my bed sune, for i'm sick at the heart, and i fain wad he doun.' 'o i fear ye are poisond, lord donald, my son! o i fear ye are poisond, my jollie young man!' 'o yes! i am poisond; mither mak my bed sune, for i'm sick at the heart, and i fain wad he doun.' 'what will ye leave to your father, lord don- ald my son? what will ye leave to your father, my jollie young man?' 'baith my houses and land; mither, mak my bed sune, for i'm sick at the heart, and i fain wad he doun.' 'what will ye leave to your brither, lord donald, my son? what will ye leave to your brither, my jollie young man?' 'my horse and the saddle; mither, mak my bed sune, for i'm sick at the heart, and i fain wad he doun.' 'what will ye leave to your sister, lord donald, my son? what will ye leave to your sister, my jollie young man?' 'baith my gold box and rings; mither, mak my bed sune, for i'm sick at the heart, and i fain wad he doun.' 'what will ye leave to your true-love, lord donald, my son? what will ye leave to your true-love, my jollie young man?' 'the tow and the halter, for to hang on yon tree, and lat her hang there for the poysoning o me.' o motherwell's ms., p. . from the recitation of marga- ret bain, in the parish of blackford, perthshire. 'what's become of your hounds, king hen- rie, my son? what's become of your hounds, my pretty lit- tle one?' 'they all died on the way; mother, make my bed soon, for i'm sick to the heart, and i fain wald lie down.' 'what gat ye to your supper, king henry, my son? what gat ye to your supper, my pretty little one?' . lord randal 'i gat fish boiled in broo ; mother, mak my bed soon, for i'm sick to the heart, and i fain wald lie down.' 'what like were the fish, king henry, my son? what like were the fish, my pretty little one?' 'they were spreckled on the back and white on the belly ; mother, make my bed soon, for i'm sick to the heart, and i fain wald lie down.' 'what leave ye to your father, king hepry, my son? what leave ye to your father, my pretty little one?' 'the keys of old ireland, and all that's there- in ; mother, make my bed soon, for i'm sick to the heart, and i fain wald lie down.' 'what leave ye to your brother, king henry, my son? what leave ye to your brother, my pretty little one?' d minstrelsy of the scottish border, , m, . 'o where hae ye been, lord randal, my son? o where hae ye been, my handsome young man?' 'i hae been to the wild wood; mother, make my bed soon, for i'm weary wi hunting, and fain wald lie down.' 'where gat ye your dinner, lord randal, my son? where gat ye your dinner, my handsome young man?' 'i din'd wi my true-love; mother, make my bed soon, for i'm weary wi hunting, and fain wald lie down.' 'what gat ye to your dinner, lord randal, my son? what gat ye to your dinner, my handsome young man?' 'the keys of my coffers and all that's therein; mother, mak my bed soon, for i'm sick to the heart, and i fain wald lie down.' 'what leave ye to your sister, king henry, my son? what leave ye to your sister, my pretty little one?' 'the world's wide, she may go beg; mother, mak my bed soon, for i'm sick to the heart, and i fain wald lie down.' 'what leave ye to your trew-love, king henry, my son? what leave ye to your trew-love, my pretty little one?' 'the highest hill to hang her on, for she's poi- soned me and my hounds all; mother, make my bed soon, oh i'm sick to the heart, and i fain wald lie down.' 'i gat eels boild in broo; mother, make my bed soon, for i'm weary wi hunting, and fain wald he down.' 'what became of your bloodhounds, lord ran- dal, my son? what became of your bloodhounds, my hand- some young man?' ' they swelld and they died; mother, make my bed soon, for i'm weary wi hunting, and fain wald he down.' ' i fear ye are poisond, lord randal, my son! o i fear ye are poisond, my handsome young man!' 'o yes! i am poisond; mother, make my bed soon, for i'm sick at the heart, and i fain wald he down.' . lord randal b halliwell's popular rhymes and nnrsery tales, p. . "a version still popular in scotland," . 'ah where have you been, lairde rowlande, my son? ah where have you been, lairde rowlande, my son?' 'i've been in the wild woods ; mither, mak my bed soon, for i'm weary wi hunting, and faine would lie down.' 'oh you've been at your true love's, lairde rowlande, my son! oh you've been at your true-love's, lairde rowlande, my son!' 'i've been at my true-love's; mither, mak my bed soon, for i'm weary wi hunting, and faine would lie down.' 'what got you to dinner, lairde rowlande, my son? ^what got you to dinner, lairde rowlande, my son?' 'i got eels boild in brue ; mither, mak my bed soon, for i'm weary wi hunting, and faine would lie down.' 'what's become of your warden, lairde row- lande, my son? what's become of your warden, lairde row- lande, my son?' 'he died in the muirlands; mither, mak my bed soon, for i'm weary wi hunting, and faine would lie down.' 'what's become of your stag-hounds, lairde rowlande, my son? what's become of your stag-hounds, lairde rowlande, my son?' 'they swelled and they died ; mither, mak my bed soon, for i'm weary wi hunting, and faine would lie down.' johnson's hiuseum, no , p. . communicated by burns. 'o where hae ye been, lord ronald, my son? o where hae ye been, lord ronald, my son?' 'i hae been wi my sweetheart; mother, make my bed soon, for i'm weary wi the hunting, and fain wad lie down.' 'what got ye frae your sweetheart, lord ron- ald, my son? what got ye frae your sweetheart, lord ron- ald, my son?' 'i hae got deadly poison; mother, make my bed soon, for life is a burden that soon i 'll lay down.' a illustrations of northern antiquities, p. . originally from a clergyman's daughter, in suffolk. 'where have you been today, billy, my son? where have you been today, my only man?' 'i've been a wooing; mother, make my bed soon, for i'm sick at heart, and fain would lay down.' 'what have you ate today, billy, my son? what have you ate today, my only man?' 'i've ate eel-pie; mother, make my bed soon, for i'm sick at heart, and shall die before noon.' . lord randal h taken down by me, february, , from the recitation of ellen healy, as repeated to her by a young girl at " lacka- bairn," kerry, ireland, about . 'where was you all day, my own pretty boy? where was you all day, my comfort and joy?' 'i was fishing and fowling; mother, make my bed soon, there's a pain in my heart, and i mean to lie down.' 'what did you have for your breakfast, my own pretty boy? what did you have for your breakfast, my com- fort and joy?' 'a cup of strong poison; mother, make my bed soon, there's a pain in my heart, and i mean to lie down.' 'i fear you are poisoned, my own pretty boy, i fear you are poisoned, my comfort and joy!' 'o yes, i am poisoned; mother, make my bed soon, there's a pain in my heart, and i mean to lie down.' 'what will you leave to your father, my own pretty boy? what will you leave to your father, my com- fort and joy?' 'i 'll leave him my house and my property; mother, make my bed soon, there's a pain in my heart, and i mean to lie down.' 'what will you leave to your mother, my own pretty boy? what will you leave to your mother, my com- fort and joy?' 'i 'll leave her my coach and four horses; mother, make my bed soon, there's a pain in my heart, and i mean to lie down.' 'what will you leave to your brother, my own pretty boy? what will you leave to your brother, my com- fort and joy?' 'i 'll leave him my bow and my fiddle; mother, make my bed soon. there's a pain in my heart, and i mean to lie down.' 'what will you leave to your sister, my own pretty boy? what will you leave to your sister, my comfort and joy?' 'i 'll leave her my gold and my silver; mother, make my bed soon, there's a pain in my heart, and i mean to lie down.' 'what will you leave to your servant, my own pretty boy? what will you leave to your servant, my com- fort and joy?' 'i 'll leave him the key of my small silver box; mother, make my bed soon, there's a pain in my heart, and i mean to lie down.' 'what will you leave to your children, my own pretty boy? what will you leave to your children, my com- fort and joy?' 'the world is wide all round for to beg; mother, make my bed soon, there's a pain in my heart, and i mean to lie down.' 'what will you leave to your wife, my own pretty boy? what will you leave to your wife, my comfort and joy?' 'i 'll leave' her the gallows, and plenty to hang her; mother, make my bed soon, there's a pain in my heart, and i mean to lie down.' 'where shall i make it, my own pretty boy? where shall i make it, my comfort and joy?' 'above in the churchyard, and dig it down deep, put a stone to my head and a flag to my feet, and leave me down easy until i 'll take a long sleep.' . loed randal i a. communicated by mrs l. f. wesselhoeft, of boston, as sung to her when a child by her grandmother, elizabeth foster, born in maine, who appears to have learned the bal- lad of her mother about . b. by a daughter of eliza- beth foster, as learned about . c. by miss ellen mars- ton, of new bedford, as learned from her mother, born . d. by mrs cushing, of cambridge, mass., as learned in from a schoolmate, who is thought to have derived it from an old nurse, e. by mrs augustus lowell, of bos- ton, f. by mrs edward atkinson, of boston, learned of mrs a. lowell, in girlhood, g. by mrs a. lowell, as de- rived from a friend. 'o where have you been, tiranti, my son? o where have you been, my sweet little one?' 'i have been to my grandmother's; mother, make my bed soon, for i'm sick to my heart, and i'm faint to lie down.' 'what did you have for your supper, tiranti, my son? what did you have for your supper, my sweet little one?' 'i had eels fried in butter; mother, make my bed soon, for i'm sick to my heart, and i'm faint to he down.' 'where did the eels come from, tiranti, my son? where did the eels come from, my sweet little one?' 'from the corner of the haystack; mother, make my bed soon, for i'm sick to my heart, and i'm faint to lie down.' 'what color were the eels, tiranti, my son? what color were the eels, my sweet little one?' , 'they were streaked and striped; mother, make my bed soon, for i 'in sick to my heart, and i'm faint to lie down.' 'what 'll you give to your father, tiranti, my son? what 'll you give to your father, my sweet lit- tle one?' 'all my gold and my silver; mother, make my bed soon, for i'm sick to my heart, and i'm faint to lie down.' 'what 'll you give to your mother, tiranti, my son? what 'll you give to your mother, my sweet little one?' . 'a coach and six horses; mother, make my bed soon, for i'm sick to my heart, and i'm faint to lie down.' 'what 'll you give to your grandmother, ti- ranti, my son? what'll you give to your grandmother, my sweet little one?' 'a halter to hang her; mother, make my bed soon, for i'm sick to my heart, and i'm faint to lie • down.' 'where 'll you have your bed made, tiranti, my son? where 'll you have your bed made, my sweet little one?' 'in the corner of the churchyard; mother, make my bed soon, for i'm sick to my heart, and i'm faint to lie down.' j motherwell's ms., p. . from the recitation of miss maxwell, of brediland. 'o whare hae ye been a' day, my bonnie wee croodlin dow? o whare hae ye been a' day, my bonnie wee croodlin dow?' 'i've been at my step-mother's; oh mak my bed, mammie, now! i've been at my step-mother's; oh mak my bed, mammie, now!' 'o what did ye get at your step-mother's, my bonnie wee croodlin dow?' [twice.] 'i gat a wee wee fishie ; oh mak my bed. mam- mie, now!' [twice.] . lord randal 'o whare gat she the wee fishie, my bonnie wee croodlin dow?' 'in a dub before the door; oh mak my bed, mammie, now!' 'what did ye wi the wee fishie, my bonnie wee croodlin dow?' 'i boild it in a wee pannie; oh mak my bed, mammy, now!' 'wha gied ye the banes o the fishie till, my bonnie wee croodlin dow?' ri gied them till a wee doggie; oh mak my bed, mammie, now!' 'o whare is the little wee doggie, my bonnie wee croodlin dow? o whare is the little wee doggie, my bonnie wee croodlin doo?' 'it shot out its fit and died, and sae maun i do too; oh mak my bed, mammy, now, now, oh mak my bed, mammy, now!' k a. chambers' scottish ballads, p. . b. chambers' popular rhymes of scotland, , p. . o. the sten- house-laing ed. of johnson's museum, lv, *, communi- cated by charles kirkpatrick sharpe. 'o whaur hae ye been a' the day, my little wee croodlin doo?' 'o i've been at my grandmother's; mak my bed, mammie, now!' 'o what gat ye at your grandmother's, my lit- tle wee croodlin doo?' 'i got a bonnie wee fishie; mak my bed, mam- mie, now!' 'o whaur did she catch the fishie, my bonnie wee croodlin doo?' 'she catchd it in the gutter hole; mak my bed, mammie, now!' 'and what did she do wi the fish, my little wee croodlin doo?' 'she boiled it in a brass pan; o mak my bed, mammie, now!' 'and what did ye do wi the banes o't, my bonnie wee croodlin doo?' 'i gied them to my little dog; mak my bed, mammie, now!' 'and what did your little doggie do, my bonnie wee croodlin doo?' 'he stretched out his head, his feet, and deed; and so will i, mammie, now!' l buchan'a mss, n, ; ballads of the north of scotland, n, . 'whar hae ye been a' the day, willie doo, willie doo? whar hae ye been a' the day, willie, my doo?' 'i've been to see my step-mother; make my bed, lay me down; make my bed, lay me down, die shall i now!' 'what got ye frae your step-mother, willie doo, willie doo? what got ye frae your step-mother, willie, my doo?' 'she gae me a speckled trout; make my bed, lay me down; she gae me a speckled trout, die shall i now!' 'whar got she the speckled trout, willie doo, willie doo?' 'she got it amang the heather hills; die shall i now.' 'what did she boil it in, willie doo, willie doo?' 'she boild it in the billy-pot; die shall i now!' 'what gaed she you for to drink, willie doo, willie doo? what gaed she you for to drink, willie, my doo?' . lord randal c. . your father, king henry, my son. i. a. i . faint to, an obvious corruption of fain to, is found also in b, o; d has fain wad; e, faint or fain; f, fain; g, i faint to. n. b. stands in the ms. copy, but is the last stanza in all others which have it. b. . for your dinner. after follows: who cooked you the eels, tiranti, my son? etc. o't was my grandmother; mother, make my bed soon, etc. b = a : where did she get the eels? etc. *. by the side of the haystack, etc. b = a : = a : = a . . and die to lie down, a is wanting in b. o. i . at my heart {and always). . o what did she give you ? etc. '. striped eels fried, etc. = a . l. o how did they look? etc. s. ringed, streaked, and speckled, etc. = a . l. o where did they come from? . o what will you give your father, my son? . o what will you give him? *. a coach and six horses. . o what will you give your mother, my son ? as in . '. all my gold and my silver. . o what will you give your granny? as in . . o where h, etc. c adds, as : so this is the end of tiranti my son, so this is the end of my sweet little one: his grandmother poisoned him with an old dead snake, and he left her a halter to hang by the neck. d. \ etc. tyrante. '. 've been to my uncle's, etc. . and fain wad lie doun. s. eels and fresh butter. = a . '. black striped with yellow. = a . l. what 'll ye will to your mither? 's. my gold and my silver. = a . l. what 'll ye will to your father? *. my coach and my horses. = a . \ what 'll you will to your uncle? , of a are want ing. e. i . for i'm sick at heart, and faint [fain] to lie down. = a . l. what will you leave your moth- er?' s. a box full of jewels. . what will you leave your sister? *. a box of fine clothing. — a . *.a rope to hang her with. = a . \ where shall make it? , of a are wanting. f. this copy was derived from the singing of the lady who communicated e, and they naturally agree closely. v. fain to lie down. f = e :f = e . g. i . for i'm sick at the heart, and i faint to lie down. . what did you get at your grandmoth- er's? *. i got eels stewed in butter. = a . . what will you leave .... . what will you leave to your brother? *. a full suit of mourning. = a . l. leave to your mother. *. a carriage and fine horses. = a . , of a are wanting. k. a, b, c are printed, in the publications in which they occur, in four-line stanzas. b. omits . . the little doggie. . as i do, mammie, noo. c. i . my bonnie wee crooden doo: and al- ways. . at my step-mither's. . and what did scho gie you to eat. . . scho gied to me a wee fishie .... l. an what did she catch the fishie in . . . is wanting. li. written in the ms., and printed by buchan, in stanzas of lines. m. printed by chambers in stanzas of lines, the last repeated. n. the second line of each stanza is written as two in tlte ms. o. the stanza, being written with short lines in the manuscript, is of seven lines, including the repetitions. . edward edward k.. a. motherwell's ms., p. . b. motherwell's min- b. percy's reliques, g , i, . communicated by strelsy, p. . from recitation. sir david dalrymple. c. ms. of a. laing, one stanza. a b, " given from the recitation of an old woman," is evidently a a slightly regulated by motherwell. b, we are informed in the th edition of the reliques, p. , was sent percy by sir david dalrymple, lord hailes. motherwell thought there was reason to be- lieve " that his lordship made a few slight ver- bal improvements on the copy he transmitted, and altered the hero's name to edward, — a name which, by the bye, never occurs in a scottish ballad, except where allusion is made to an english king." * dalrymple, at least, would not be likely to change a scotch for an english name. the bishop might doubtless prefer edward to wat, or jock, or even da- vie. but as there is no evidence that any change of name was made, the point need not be discussed. as for other changes, the word " brand," in the first stanza, is possibly more literary than popular; further than this the language is entirely fit. the affectedly an- tique spelling f in percy's copy has given rise to vague suspicions concerning the authen- ticity of the ballad, or of the language: but as spelling will not make an old ballad, so it will not unmake one. we have, but do not need, • an eager "englishman" might turn motherwell's ob- jection to the name into an argument for ' edward ' being an "english" ballad. t that is to say, initial guh and z for modern wh and y, for nothing else would have excited attention. perhaps a transcriber thought he ought to give the language a look at least as old as gavin douglas, who spells quhy, dois, lour. the quh would serve a purpose, if understood as in- dicating that the aspirate was not to be dropped, as it often is in english why. the z is the successor of j, and was the later traditional copy to prove the other genuine. 'edward' is not only unimpeach- able, but has ever been regarded as one of the noblest and most sterling specimens of the popular ballad. motherwell seems to incline to regard ' ed- ward ' rather as a detached portion of a ballad than as complete in itself. "the verses of which it consists," he says, "generally con- clude the ballad of 'the twa brothers,' and also some versions of 'lizie wan:'" min- strelsy, lxvii, . the finnish parallel which motherwell refers to, might have con- vinced him that the ballad is complete as it is; and he knew as well as anybody that one ballad is often appended to another by reciters, to lengthen the story or improve the conclu- sion. j more or less of ' edward ' will be found in four versions of 'the twa brothers' and two of 'lizie wan,' further on in this vol- ume. this ballad has been familiarly known to have an exact counterpart in swedish. there are four versions, differing only as to length: 'sven i rosengard,' a, afzelius, no , in, , eleven two-line stanzas, with three more meant to be pronounced y, as z is, or was, pronounced in gaberlunzie and other scottish words. see dr j. a. h. mur- ray's dialect of the southern counties of scotland, pp. , . since quh and z serve rather as rocks of offence than landmarks, i have thought it best to use wh and y. } motherwell also speaks of a ballad of the same nature as quoted in werner's ' twenty-fourth of february.' the stanza cited (in act i, scene ) seems to be herder's trans- lation of edward ' given from memory. . edward lines of burden; b, ni, , six stanzas (berg- strbm's ed., no , , ); c, arwidsson, no a, n, , eighteen stanzas; d, no b, n, , sixteen stanzas. the same in danish: a, grundtvig, engelske og skotske folke- viser, p. , nine stanzas; b, boisen, nye og gamle viser, th ed., no , p. , 'brodermordet.' and in finnish, probably derived from the swedish, but with traits of its own: a, schroter's finnische runen, p. , ' werinen pojka,' the bloodstained son, fifteen two-line stanzas, with two lines of re- frain; b, 'velisurmaaja,' brother-murderer, kanteletar, p. x, twenty stanzas. all these are a dialogue between mother and son, with a question and answer in each stanza. the mother asks, where have you been? the son replies that he has been in the stable [danish, grove, fields; finnish a, on the sea-strand]. "how is it that your foot is bloody ?" * [clothes, shirt; finnish, " how came your jerkin muddy?" etc.] a horse has kicked or trod on him. "how came your sword so bloody?" he then confesses that he has killed his brother. [swedish d and the danish copies have no question about the foot, etc.] then follows a series of questions as to what the son will do with himself, and what shall become of his wife, children, etc., which are answered much as in the english ballad. finally, in all, the rnother asks when he will come back, and he replies (with some varia- tions), when crows are white. and that will be? when swans are black. and that? when stones float. and that? when feath- ers sink, etc. this last feature, stupidly ex- aggerated in some copies, and even approach- ing burlesque, is one of the commonplaces of ballad poetry, and may or may not have been, • we have a similar passage in most of the copies of the third class of the german ballads corresponding to no . a brother asks the man who has killed his sister why his shoes [sword, hands] are bloody. see p. , p. . so in 'herr axel,' arwidsson, no , , . t these have perhaps been adapted to the stanza of ' the from the beginning, a part of the ballads in which it occurs. such a conclusion could not be made to adhere to ' edward,' the last stanza of which is peculiar in implicating the mother in the guilt of the murder. several versions of ' the twa brothers' preserve this trait, and 'lizie wan' also. the stanza of this ballad was originally, in all probability, one of two lines — a question and an answer — with refrains, as we find it in a , , , and the corresponding swed- ish and finnish ballad ; and in ' lord randal,' j, k, etc., and also the corresponding swedish and german ballad. a , , , , , , are now essentially stanzas of one line, with re- frains; that is, the story advances in these at that rate. a , (= c) are entirely irregu- lar, substituting narrative or descriptive cir- cumstances for the last line of the refrain, and so far forth departing from primitive sim- plicity, t the stanza in b embraces always a question and a reply, but for what is re- frain in other forms of the ballad we have epical matter in many cases. a , , sub- stantially, = b ; a , = b ; a , = b ; a , = b ; a = ; a = . testaments such as this ballad ends with have been spoken of under no . a is translated by grundtvig, engelske og skotske folkeviser, no , p. ; by rosa warrens, schottische v. l., no , p. ; by wolff, halle des volker, i, , and haus- schatz, p. . b, in afzelius, ni, ; "often in danish," grundtvig; by herder, volkslie- der, n, ; by diiring, p. ; gerhard, p. ; knortz, schottische balladen, no . swedish a, by w. and m. howitt, literature and romance of northern europe, i, .j twa brothers,' with some versions of which, as already re- marked, the present ballad is blended. } with regard to translations, i may say now, what i might well have said earlier, that i do not aim at making a complete list, but give such as have fallen under my notice. . edward a a. motherwell's ms., p. . from mrs king, kilbar- chan. b. motherwell's minstrelsy, p. . 'what bluid's that on thy coat lap, son davie, son davie? what bluid's that on thy coat lap? and the truth come tell to me.' 'it is the bluid of my great hawk, mother lady, mother lady: it is the bluid of my great hawk, and the truth i have told to thee.' 'hawk's bluid was neer sae red, son davie, son davie: hawk's bluid was neer sae red, and the truth come tell to me.' 'it is the bluid of my greyhound, mother lady, mother lady: it is the bluid of my greyhound, and it wadna rin for me.' 'hound's bluid was neer sae red, son davie, son davie: hound's bluid was neer sae red, and the truth come tell to me.' 'it is the bluid o my brither john, mother lady, mother lady: it is the bluid o my brither john, and the truth i have told to thee.' 'what about did the plea begin, son davie, son davie?' 'it began about the cutting of a willow wand that would never been a tree.' 'what death dost thou desire to die, son davie, son davie? what death dost thou desire to die? and the truth come tell to me.' 'i 'll set my foot in a bottomless ship, mother lady, mother lady: i 'll set my foot in a bottomless ship, and ye 'll never see mair o me.' 'what wilt thou leave to thy poor wife, son davie, son davie?' 'grief and sorrow all her life, and she 'll never see mair o me.' 'what wilt thou leave to thy old son, son davie, son davie?' 'i 'll leave him the weary world to wander up and down, and he 'll never get mair o me.' 'what wilt thou leave to thy mother dear, son davie, son davie?' 'a fire o coals to burn her, wi hearty cheer, and she 'll never get mair o me.' b percy's reliqnes, , i, . communicated by sir david dalrymple. 'why dois your brand sae drap wi bluid, edward, edward, why dob your brand sae drap wi bluid, and why sae sad gang yee o?' 'o i hae killed my hauke sae guid, mither, mither, o i hae killed my hauke sae guid, and i had nae mair bot hee o-' 'your haukis bluid was nevir sae reid, edward, edward, your haukis bluid was nevir sae reid, my deir son i tell thee o.' 'o i hae killed my reid-roan steid, mither, mither, o i hae killed my reid-roan steid, that erst was sae fair and frie o.' 'your steid was auld, and ye hae gat mair, edward, edward, • your steid was auld, and ye hae gat mair, sum other dule ye drie o.' 'o i hae killed my fadir deir, mither, mither, o i hae killed my fadir deir, alas, and wae is mee o!' 'and whatten penance wul ye drie, for that, edward, edward? . babylon; or, the nie banks o fordie and whatten penance will ye drie for that? my deir son, now tell me o.' 'he set my feit in yonder boat, mither, mither, he set my feit in yonder boat, and he fare ovir the sea o.' 'and what wul ye doe wi your towirs and your ha, edward, edward? and what wul ye doe wi your towirs and your ha, that were sae fair to see o?' 'he let thame stand tul they doun fa, mither, mither, he let thame stand tul they doun fa, for here nevir mair maun i bee .' 'and what wul ye leive to your bairns and your wife, edward, edward? and what wul ye leive to your bairns and your wife, whan ye gang ovir the sea o?' 'the warldis room, late them beg thrae life, mither, mither, the warldis room, late them beg thrae life, for thame nevir mair wul i see o.' 'and what wul ye leive to your ain mither deir, edward, edward? and what wul ye leive to your ain mither deir? my deir son, now tell me o.' 'the curse of hell frae me sall ye beir, mither, mither, the curse of hell frae me sall ye beir, sic counseils ye gave to me .' ^ 'it began about the breaking o the bonny hazel ms. of alexander laing, , p. . wand, and a penny wad hae bought the tree.' .' o what did the fray begin about? my son, come tell to me :' a. b. *. tell to me o. and so every fourth line. b. *. that would never hae been a tree o. . and she h never get mair frae me o. s. the weary warld to wander up and down. initial qu for w and z for y have been changed throughout to w and y. . let. babylon; or, the bonnie banks fordie a. a, b. 'babylon; or, the bonnie banks o fordie,' motherwell's minstrelsy, p. . c. the same, ap- pendix, p. xxii, no xxvi. b. a. herd's mss, i, , n, . b. 'the banishd man,' the scots magazine, october, , p. , evidently derived from herd. c. motherwell's ms., p. . d. motherwell's ms., p. . b. 'duke of perth's three daughters,' kinloch's an- cient scottish ballads, p. . . babylon; or, the bonnie banks o fordie b a ia from tradition of the latter half of the eighteenth century; the other copies from the earlier part of this. three sisters go out (together, a, b, c, suc- cessively, d, e) to gather flowers (a, b, e). a banished man (outlyer bold, d, loudon lord, e) starts up from a hiding-place, and offers them one after the other the choice of being his wife or dying by his hand. (a.) 'it 's whether will ye be a rank robber's wife, or will ye die by my wee penknife?' (d.) 'wiltow twinn with thy maidenhead, or thy sweet life?' the first and the second express a simple preference for death, and are killed and laid by, "to bear the red rose company" (a). the youngest, in a, says she has a brother in the wood, who will kill him if he kills her. the outlaw asks the brother's name, finds that he himself is the man, and takes his own life with the same weapon that had shed the blood of his sisters. b, c, d have three brothers, the youngest of whom is the banished lord (c), the outlyer bold (d). the story is de- fective in b, c. in d the outlaw, on finding what he has done, takes a long race, and falls on his knife. the conclusion of e is not so finely tragic. a brother john comes riding by just as the robber is about to kill the third sister, apprehends him by the agency of his three pages, and reserves him to be hanged on a tree, or thrown into the poisond lake, to feed the toads and rattle-snake. according to the account given by herd, and repeated by jamieson, the story of the lost conclusion of b made the banished man discover that he had killed his two brothers as well as his two sisters. this ballad, with additional circumstances, is familiar to all branches of the scandinavian race. danish. there are many versions from oral tradition, as yet unprinted, besides these two: a, 'hr. truels's dattre,' danske viser, iii, , no , there reprinted from sand- vig, beskrivelse over en maen, : b, 'herr thors barn,' from recent tradition of north sleswig, berggreen, danske folke- sange, d ed., p. , no . a. herr truels' three daughters oversleep their matins one morning, and are roused by their mother. if we have overslept our mat- ins, they say, we will make up at high mass. they set out for church, and in a wood fall in with three robbers, who say: 'whether will ye be three robbers' wives, or will ye rather lose your lives?' much rather death, say they. the two elder sisters submitted to their fate without a word; the third made a hard resistance. with her last breath she adjured the robbers to seek a lodging at herr truels' that night. this they did. they drank so long that they drank herr truels to bed. then they asked his wife to promise herself to all three. first, she said, she must look into their bags. in their bags she saw her daughters' trinkets. she excused herself for a moment, barred the door strongly, roused her husband, and made it known to him that these guests had killed his three daughters. herr truels called on all his men to arm. he asked the robbers who was their father. they said that they had been stolen by robbers, on their way to school, one day; had had a hard life for four- teen years; and the first crime they had com- mitted was killing three maids yesterday. herr truels revealed to them that they had murdered their sisters, and offered them new clothes, in which they might go away. "nay," they said, "not so; life for life is meet." they were taken out of the town, and their heads struck off. b differs from a in only a few points. the robbers ask lodging at herr thor's, as being pilgrims. when he discovers their true character, he threatens them with the wheel. they say, shall we come to the wheel? our father drinks yule with the king. they tell him their story, and their father offers them saddle and horse to make their best way off. they reply, "we will . babylon; or, the bonnie banks o fordie give blood for blood," spread their cloaks on the floor, and let their blood run. swedish. 'pehr tyrsons dottrar i wange.' a, arwidsson, n, , no . b, afzelius, m, , no : ed. bergstrbm, i, , no , i. c, afzelius, in, : ed. berg- strb'm, i, , no , , as old as the last half of the seventeenth century. d, afzelius, m, : ed. bergstrbm, i, , no , . e, "c. j. wesson, de paroecia kama (an academical dissertation), upsala, ," arwidsson, as above, who mentions another imprinted copy in the royal library. a. herr tores' daughters overslept matins, dressed themselves handsomely, and set off for mass. all on the heath they were met by three wood-robbers, who demanded, will ye be our wives, or lose your lives? the first answered: god save us from trying either! the second, rather let us range the world! the third, better death with honor! but first were they the three wood-robbers' wives, and after that they lost their young lives. the robbers strip them; then go and ask to be taken in by herr tores. he serves them with mead and wine, but presently begins to wish his daughters were at home. his wife sees him to bed; then returns to her guests, who offer her a silken sark to pass the night with them. "give me a sight of the silken sark," she cries, with prophetic soul: "god have mercy on my daughters!" she rouses her husband, and tells him that the robbers have slain his bairns. he puts on his armor and kills two of them: the third begs to be spared till he can say who were his kin; his father's name is tores! father and mother resolve to build a church for penance, and it shall be called kerna. b, c, d. the girls meet three "vallare," strolling men, and none of them good (c). the robbers cut off the girls' heads on the trunk of a birch (cf. english c : "it's lean your head upon my staff," and with his pen-knife he has cutted it aff): three springs * lyngbye insists on translating vadlarar pilgrims, though his people understood the word to mean robbers. he refers to the icelandic vallari, which, originally a pilgrim, came to mean a tramp. no one can fail to recognize the character burst forth immediately. they go to the house, and ask the mother if she will buy silken sarks that nine maids have stitched (b). she says: 'open your sacks, and let me see: mayhap i shall know them all three.' the father, in b, when he discovers that he has slain his own sons, goes to the smith, and has an iron band fastened round his middle. the parents vow to build a church as an ex- piation, and it shall be called kerna (b, c). faroe. 'torkilds riim, eller st. catha- rinae vise,' lyngbye, faeraiske qvasder, in this form of the story, as in the icelandic versions which follow, the robbers are not the brothers of the maids. torkild's two daugh- ters sleep till the sun shines on their beds. their father wakens them, and tells katrine she is waited for at church. katrine dresses herself splendidly, but does not disdain to sad- dle her own horse. and since no knave was ready to help, katrine bridled the horse herself. and since no knave was standing about, herself put the bit in her horse's mouth. first she came upon three strollers (vadla- rar *), then two, then one, and the last asked her whether she would pass the night with him (vera qvoldar vujv) or die. he cut off her head, and wherever her blood ran a light kindled; where her head fell a spring welled forth: where her body lay a church was [af- terwards] built. the rover came to torkild's house, and the father asked if he had seen katrine. he said she had been at mary kirk the day before, and asked for a lodging, feigning to be sick. this was readily granted. he went to bed, and aasa, the other sister, waited upon him. he offered her a silken sark to sleep with him. aasa asked to see the sark first, and found on it her sister's mark. who has become the terror of our rural districts, and to whom, in our preposterous regard for the rights of "man," we sacrifice the peace, and often the lives, of women. . babylon; or, the bonnie banks o fordie the fellow went on to offer her a blue cloak and gold crown successively, and on both of these she saw her sister's mark. aasa bade him good-night, went to her father, and told him that the man they had housed had killed his daughter. torkild ordered his swains to light a pile in the wood: early the next morning they burned the murderer on it. icelandic. five icelandic versions, and the first stanza of two more, are given in islenzk fornkvseoi, i, ff, no , • vallara kvaesi.' the story is nearly the same as in the fiirde ballad. two of thorkell's daughters sleep till after the sun is up (b, c). they wash and dress; they set out for church (c). on the heath they encounter a strolling man, a; a tall, large man, c, e; a horseman or knight, d. he greets them: "why will ye not speak? are ye come of elves, or of kings them- selves?" a [are ye come of earls, or of beggar-churls? b]. they answer, we are not come of elves, nor of kings themselves; we are thorkell's daughters, and serve mary kirk. he asks, will ye choose to lose your life, or shall i rather take you to wife? the choice, they say, is hard: they would rather die. he kills them and buries them. at night he goes to thorkell's house, where asa is alone. he knocks to be let in; asa refuses; he draws the latch with his deft fingers (a, c, d). he offers asa a silken sark to sleep with him [and a blue cloak to say nothing, a]. she asked to see the sark, and knew her sisters' work, begged him to wait a moment, went to her father, and told him that the murderer of his daughters was there. thorkell dashed his harp to the floor [and kicked over the table, d, e], the mur- derer in the morning was hanged like a dog, a, b. [thorkell tore at his hair and cut him down with an elder-stock, c; they fought three days, and on the fourth the villain was hanged in a strap, e, the knight was hang- ing like a dog, d]. a miraculous light burned over the place where the maids had been buried, a , c , d , e . when their bodies were taken into the church, the bells rang of themselves, d. norwegian versions of this ballad have been obtained from tradition, but none as yet have been published. "the mains and burn of fordie, the banks of which are very beautiful," says aytoun (i, ), "lie about six miles to the east of dun- keld." tradition has connected the story with half a dozen localities in sweden, and, as professor grundtvig informs me, with at least eight places in the different provinces of denmark. the kerna church of the swedish ballads, not far from linkoping (afzelius), has been popularly supposed to derive its name from a catharina, karin, or karna, killed by her own brother, a wood-robber, near its site. see afzelius, ed. bergstrom, n, ff: danske viser, m, f. a is translated by grundtvig, engelske _og skotske folkeviser, no , p. , and, with some slight use of aytoun, i, , by rosa warrens, schottische volkslieder der vorzeit, no , p. . danish a, by prior, ni, . a a. motherwell's minstrelsy, p. . b. the same. c. the same, appendix, p. xxii, no xxvi, apparently from south perthshire. there were three ladies lived in a bower, eh vow bonnie and they went out to pull a flower. on the bonnie banks o fordie they hadna pu'ed a flower but ane, when up started to them a banisht man. he's taen the first sister by her hand, and he's turned her round and made her stand. 'it's whether will ye be a rank robber's wife, or will ye die by my wee pen-knife?' 'it's i 'll not be a rank robber's wife, but i 'll rather die by your wee pen-knife.' he's killed this may, and he's laid her by, for to bear the red rose company. . babylon; ob, the bonnie banks o fobdie he's taken the second ane by the hand, and he's turned her round and made her stand. 'it's whether will ye be a rank robber's wife, or will ye die by my wee pen-knife?' 'i 'll not be a rank robber's wife, but i 'll rather die by your wee pen-knife.' he's killed this may, and he's laid her by, for to bear the red rose company. he's taken the youngest ane by the hand, and he's turned her round and made her stand. says, 'will ye be a rank robber's wife, or will ye die by my wee pen-knife?' 'i 'll not be a rank robber's wife, nor will i die by your wee pen-knife. 'for i hae a brother in this wood. and gin ye kill me, it's he 'll kill thee.' 'what's thy brother's name? come tell to me.' 'my brother's name is baby lon.' 'o sister, sister, what have i done! o have i done this ill to thee! ' since i've done this evil deed, good sall never be seen o me.' he's taken out his wee pen-knife, and he's twyned hirnsel o his ain sweet life. b a. herd's mss, i, , n, . b. the scots magazine, oct., , p. , communicated by jamieson, and evidently from herd's copy. there wond three ladies in a bower, annet and margret and marjorie and they have gane out to pu a flower. and the dew it lyes on the wood, gay ladie they had nae pu'd a flower but ane, when up has started a banished man. he has taen the eldest by the hand, he has turned her about and bade her stand. 'now whether will ye be a banisht man's wife, or will ye be sticked wi my pen-knife?' 'i will na be ca'd a banished man's wife, i 'll rather be sticked wi your pen-knife.' and he has taen out his little pen-knife, and frae this lady he has taen the life. he has taen the second by the hand, he has turned her about and he bad her stand. 'now whether will ye be a banisht man's wife, or will ye be sticked wi my pen-knife?' 'i will na be ca'd a banished man's wife; i 'll rather be sticked wi your pen-knife.' and he has taen out his little pen-knife, and frae this lady he has taen the life. he has taen the youngest by the hand, he has turned her about and he bad her stand. 'now whether will ye be a banished man's wife, or will ye be sticked wi my pen-knife?' 'i winnae be called a banished man's wife, nor yet will i be sticked wi your pen-knife. 'but gin my three brethren had been here, ye had nae slain my sisters dear.' ***** . babylon; ob, the bonnie banks o foedie motherwell's ms., p. . from j. goldie, march, . there were three sisters on a road, gilly flower gentle rosemary and there they met a banished lord. and the dew it hings over the mulberry tree the eldest sister was on the road, and there she met with the banished lord. 'o will ye consent to lose your life, or will ye be a banished lord's wife?' 'ih rather consent to lose my life before i 'll be a banished lord's wife.' 'it's lean your head upon my staff,' and with his pen-knife he has cutted it aff. he flang her in amang the broom, saying, ' lye ye there till another ane come.' the second sister was on the road, and there she met with the banished lord. 'o will ye consent to lose your life, or will ye be a banished lord's wife?' * i 'll rather consent to lose my life before i 'll be a banished lord's wife.' 'it's lean your head upon my staff,' and with his pen-knife he has cutted it aff. he flang her in amang the broom, saying, ''lie ye there till another ane come.' the youngest sister was on the road, and there she met with the banished lord. 'o will ye consent to lose your life, or will ye be a banished lord's wife?' 'o if my three brothers were here, ye durstna put me in such a fear.' 'what are your three brothers, altho they were here, that i durstna put you in such a fear?' 'my eldest brother's a belted knight, the second, he's a . . . 'my youngest brother's a banished lord, and oftentimes he walks on this road.' ***** d motherwell's ms., p. . from the recitation of agnes lyle, kilbarchan, july , ., there were three sisters, they lived in a bower, sing anna, sing margaret, sing marjorie the youngest o them was the fairest flower. and the dew goes thro the wood, gay ladie the oldest of them she's to the wood gane, to seek a braw leaf and to bring it hame. there she met with an outlyer bold, lies many long nights in the woods so cold. 'istow a maid, or istow a wife? wiltow twinn with thy maidenhead, or thy sweet life?' 'o kind sir, if i hae't at my will, ih twinn with my life, keep my maidenhead still.' he's taen out his we pen-knife, he's twinned this young lady of her sweet life he wiped his knife along the dew; but the more he wiped, the redder it grew. the second of them she's to the wood gane, to seek her old sister, and to bring her hame. there she met with an outlyer bold, lies many long nights in the woods so cold. 'istow a maid, or istow a wife? wiltow twinn with thy maidenhead, or thy sweet life?' 'o kind sir, if i hae't at my will, i 'll twinn with my life, keep my maidenhead still.' he's taen out his we pen-knife, he's twinned this young lady of her sweet life. . babylon; or, the bonnie banks o fordie he wiped his knife along the dew; but the more he wiped, the redder it grew. the youngest of them she's to the wood gane, to seek her two sisters, and to bring them hame. there she mei with an outlyer bold, lies many long nights in the woods so cold. 'istow a maid, or istow a wife? wiltow twinn with thy maidenhead, or thy sweet life?' 'if my three brethren they were here, such questions as these thou durst nae speer.' 'pray, what may thy three brethren be, that i durst na mak so bold with thee?' 'the eldest o them is a minister bred, he teaches the people from evil to good. 'the second o them is a ploughman good, he ploughs the land for his livelihood. 'the youngest of them is an outlyer bold, lies many a long night in the woods cold.' he stuck his knife then into the ground, he took a long race, let himself fall on. e kinlocb's ancient scottish ballads, p. . from m> shire. the duke o perth had three daughters, elizabeth, margaret, and fair marie; and elizabeth's to the greenwud gane, to pu the rose and the fair lilie. but she hadna pu'd a rose, a rose, a double rose, but barely three, whan up and started a loudon lord, wi loudon hose, and loudon sheen. 'will ye be called a robber's wife? or will ye be stickit wi my bloody knife? for pu'in the rose and the fair lilie, for pu'in them sae fair and free.' 'before i 'll be called a robber's wife, i 'll rather be stickit wi your bloody knife, for pu'in,' etc. then out he's tane his little pen-knife, and he's parted her and her sweet life, and thrown her oer a bank o brume, there never more for to be found. the duke o perth had three daughters, elizabeth, margaret, and fair marie; and margaret's to the greenwud gane, to pu the rose and the fair lilie. she hadna pu'd a rose, a rose, a double rose, but barely three, when up and started a loudon lord, wi loudon hose, and loudon sheen. 'will ye be called a robber's wife? or will ye be stickit wi my bloody knife? for pu'in,' etc. 'before i 'll be called a robber's wife, i 'll rather be stickit wi your bloody knife, for pu'in,' etc. then out he's tane his little pen-knife, and he's parted her and her sweet life, for pu'in, etc. the duke o perth had three daughters, elizabeth, margaret, and fair marie; and mary's to the greenwud gane, to pu the rose and the fair lilie. she hadna pu'd a rose, a rose, a double rose, but barely three, when up and started a loudon lord, wi loudon hose, and loudon sheen. 'o will ye be called a robber's wife? or will ye be stickit wi my bloody knife? for pu'in,' etc. 'before i 'll be called a robber's wife, i 'll rather be stickit wi your bloody knife, for pu'in,' etc. . leesome brand but just as he took out his knife, to tak frae her her ain sweet life, her brother john cam ryding bye, and this bloody robber he did espy. but when he saw his sister fair, he kennd her by her yellow hair; he calld upon his pages three, to find this robber speedilie. 'my sisters twa that are dead and gane, for whom we made a heavy maene, it's you that's twinnd them o their life, and wi your cruel bloody knife. 'then for their life ye sair shall dree; ye sall be hangit on a tree, or thrown into the poisond lake, to feed the toads and rattle-snake.' a. a. "given from two copies obtained from reci- tation, which differ but little from each other. indeed, the only variation is in the verse where the outlawed brother unweetingly slays his sister." [ .] motherwell. b. . he's taken out his wee penknife, hey how bonnie and he's twined her o her ain sweet life. on the, etc. o. the first stanza only: there were three sisters livd in a bower, fair annet and margaret and marjorie and they went out to pu a flower. and the dew draps off the hyndberry tree b. a. "to a wild melancholy old tune not in any collection." "n. b. there are a great many other verses which i could not recover. upon describing her brothers, the banished man finds that he has killed his two brothers and two sisters, — upon which he kills himself." herd. *. ms. quhen. , , ", l, , , s. ye, your, yet, ms. ze, zour, zet. , , are not written out. b. "of this i have got only stanzas, but there are many more. it is a horrid story. the banished man discovers that he has killed two of his brothers and his three (?) sisters, upon which he kills himself." jamieson. the first two stanzas only are cited by jimieson. i . three sisters. . up there started. c. - and are not written out in the ms. "repeat as to the second sister, mutatis mu- tandis." motherwell. d. - are not written out in the ms. "same as st sister." motherwell. . bring her. , are not written out. "same as st and d sisters, but this additional, viz'." m. . longe, or large? leesome brand l 'leesome brand.' a. buchan's ballads of the north b. 'the broom blooms bonnie,' etc., motherwell's ms., of scotland, i, . b. motherwell's ms., p. . p. . this is one of the cases in which a remark- ably fine ballad has been worse preserved in scotland than anywhere else. without light from abroad we cannot fully understand even so much as we have saved, and with this light comes a keen regret for what we have lost. a, from buchan's ballads of the north of scotland, is found also in motherwell's ms., but without doubt was derived from buchan. though injured by the commixture of foreign elements, a has still much of the original story. b has, on the contrary, so little that . leesome brand distinctively and exclusively belongs to this story that it might almost as well have been put with the following ballad, 'sheath and knife,' as here. a third ballad, 'the birth of robin hood,' preserves as much of the story as a, but in an utterly incongruous and very modern setting, being, like 'erlinton,' c, forced into an absurd robin hood frame- work. the mixture of four-line with two-line stanzas in a of course comes from different ballads having been blended, but for all that, these ballads might have had the same theme. stanzas - , however, are such as we meet with in ballads of the ' earl brand' class, but not in those of the class to which • leesome brand' belongs. in the english ballads, and nearly all the danish, of the former class, there is at least a conversation between son and mother [father], whereas in the other the catastrophe excludes such a possibility. again, the "unco land" in the first stanza, "where winds never blew nor cocks ever crew," is at least a reminiscence of the paradise depicted in the beginning of many of the versions of 'ribold and guldborg,' and stanza of 'lee- some brand' closely resembles stanza of 'earl brand,' a.* still, the first and fourth stanzas suit one ballad as well as the other, which is not true of - . the name leesome brand may possibly be a corruption of hildebrand, as earl brand almost certainly is; but a more likely origin is the gysellannd of one of the kindred dan- ish ballads. the white hind, stanzas , , is met with in no other ballad of this class, and, besides this, the last four stanzas are in no kind of keeping with what goes before, for the " young son " is spoken of as having been first brought home at some previous period. grundtvig has suggested that the hind and the blood came from a lost scottish ballad resembling ' the maid transformed into a hind,' d. g. f, no . in this ballad a girl begs her brother, who is going hunting, to spare the little hind that "plays before his foot." the brother • and also stanza of buchan' 'fairy knight,' ' the elfin knight,' d, p. of this volume, which runs: nevertheless shoots the hind, though not mor- tally, and sets to work to flay it, in which process he discovers his sister under the hind's hide. his sister tells him that she had been successively changed into a pair of scissors, a sword, a hare, a hind, by her step-mother, and that she was not to be free of the spell until she had drunk of her brother's blood. her brother at once cuts his fingers, gives her some of his blood, and the girl is permanently re- stored to her natural shape, and afterwards is happily married. stanzas similar to - of a and - of b will be found in the ballad which follows this, to which they are especially well suited by their riddling character; and i believe that they belong there, and not here. it is worthy of remark, too, that there is a hind in another ballad, closely related to no (' the bonny hind'), and that the hind in « leesome brand' may, in some way not now explicable, have come from this. the confounding of ' leesome brand' with a bal- lad of the ' bonny hind' class would be par- alleled in danish, for in 'redselille og me- delvold' t (and perhaps i, see grundtvig's note, v, ), the knight is the lady's brother. the " auld son" in b, like the first bring- ing home of the young son in a , , shows how completely the proper story has been lost sight of. there should be no son of any de- scription at the point at which this stanza comes in, and auld son should everywhere be young son. the best we can do, to make sense of stanza , is to put it after , with the understanding that woman and child are carried off for burial; though really there is no need to move them on that account. the shooting of the child is unintelligible in the mutilated state of the ballad. it is apparently meant to be an accident. nothing of the kind occurs in other ballads of the class, and the divergence is probably a simple corrup- tion. the ballad which 'leesome brand' repre- sents is preserved among the scandinavian races under four forms. danish. i. 'bolde hr. nilaus' lon,' a i hae a sister eleven years auld, and she to the young men's bed has made kauld. . leesome brand' single copy from a manuscript of the begin- ning of the th century: grundtvig, v, , no . ii. 'redselille og medelvold,' in an all but unexampled number of versions, of ,which some sixty are collated, and some twen- ty-five printed, by grundtvig, most of them recently obtained from tradition, and the old- est a broadside of about the year : grundtvig, v, , no . iii. 'sonnens sorg,' grundtvig, v, , no , two ver- sions only: a from the middle of the th century; b three hundred years later, pre- viously printed in berggreen's danske folke- sange, i, no ( d ed.). iv. 'stalbroders kvide,' grundtvig, v, , no , two ver- sions: a from the beginning of the th cen- tury, b from about . swedish. ii. a, broadside of , re- printed in grundtvig, no , v, , bilag , and in jamieson's illustrations, p. ff, with a translation. b, 'herr redevall,' af- zelius, n, , no , new ed. no . c, 'krist' lilla och herr tideman,' arwidsson, i, , no a. d, e, f, g, from caval- lius and stephens' manuscript collection, first printed by grundtvig, no , v, ff, bilag - . h, 'rosa lilla,' eva wigstrom, folk- visor fran skane, in ur de nordiska folkens lif, af artur hazelius, p. , no . iii. a single version, of date about , 'moder och son,' arwidsson, n, , no . norwegian. ii. six versions and a frag- ment, from recent tradition: a-e, g, first printed by grundtvig, no , v, ff, .bilag - ; f, 'grivilja,' in lindeman's norske fjeldmelodier, no . iii. six versions from recent tradition, a-f, first printed by grundt- vig, no , v, ff, bilag - . icelandic. iii. 'sonar harmur,' islenzk fornkvaetsi, i, ff, no , three versions, a, b, c, the last, which is the oldest, being from late in the th century; also the first stanza of a fourth, d. all the scandinavian versions are in two- line stanzas save danish b, and a in part, and icelandic c, which are in four; the last, however, in stanzas of two couplets. it will be most convenient to give first a summary of the story of 'redselille og me- delvold,' and to notice the chief divergences of the other ballads afterwards. a mother and her daughter are engaged in weaving gold tissue. the mother sees milk running from the girl's breasts, and asks an explana- tion. after a slight attempt at evasion, the daughter confesses that she has been beguiled by a knight. the mother threatens both with . punishment: he shall be hanged [burned, broken on the wheel, sent out of the country, i. e., sold into servitude], and she sent away [broiled on a gridiron, burned, drowned]. some copies begin further back, with a stanza or two in which we are told that the knight has served in the king's court, and gained the favor of the king's daughter. alarmed by her mother's threats, the maid goes to her lov- er's house at night, and after some difficulty in effecting an entrance (a commonplace, like the ill-boding milk above) informs him of the fate that awaits them. the knight is sufficiently prompt now, and bids her get her gold to- gether while he saddles his horse. they ride away, with [or without] precautions against discovery, and come to a wood. four nor- wegian versions, a, b, c, g, and also two ice- landic versions, a, b, of 'sannens sorg,' in- terpose a piece of water, and a difficulty in crossing, owing to the ferryman's refusing help or the want of oars; but this passage is clearly an infiltration from a different story. arriving at the wood, the maid desires to rest a while. the customary interrogation does not fail, — whether the way is too long or the saddle too small. the knight lifts her off the horse, spreads his cloak for her on the grass, and she gives way to her anguish in such ex- clamations as " my mother had nine women: would that i had the worst of them!" "my mother would never have been so angry with me but she would have helped me in this strait!" most of the danish versions make the knight offer to bandage his eyes and ren- der such service as a man may; but she re- plies that she would rather die than that man should know of woman's pangs. so swedish h, nearly. partly to secure privacy, and partly from thirst, she expresses a wish for water, and her lover goes in search of some. . leesome brand (this in nearly all the danish ballads, and many of the others. but in four of the nor- wegian versions of 'sannens sorg ' the lover is told to go and amuse himself, much as in our ballads.) when he comes to the spring or the brook, there sits a nightingale and sings. two nightingales, a small bird, a voice from heaven, a small dwarf, an old man, re- place the nightingale in certain copies, and in others there is nothing at all; but the great majority has a single nightingale, and, as grundtvig points out, the single bird is right, for the bird is really a vehicle for the soul of the dead redselille. the nightingale sings, "redselille lies dead in the wood, with two sons [son and daughter] in her bosom." all that the nightingale has said is found to be true. according to danish o and swedish c, the knight finds the lady and a child, ac- cording to swedish b and norwegian a, b, c, the lady and two sons, dead. in danish b, l (as also the icelandic 'sonar harmur,' a, b, and danish 'stalbroders kvide,' a) the knight digs a grave, and lays mother and chil- dren in it; he lays himself with them in a and m. it is not said whether the children are dead or living, and the point would hardly be raised but for what follows. in danish d, p and swedish f, it is expressly mentioned that the children are alive, and in q, r, s, t, u, six copies of v, and y, and also in ' bolde hr. nilaus' lan,' and in 'sannens sorg,' dan- ish a, norwegian a, c, d, e, the children are heard, or seem to be heard, shrieking from under the ground. nearly all the versions make the knight run himself through with his sword, either immediately after the others are laid in the grave, or after he has ridden far and wide, because he cannot endure the cries of the children from under the earth. this would seem to be the original conclusion of the story; the horrible circumstance of the children being buried alive is much more likely to be slurred over or omitted at a later day than to be added. we may pass over in silence the less im- portant variations in the very numerous ver- sions of ' redselille and medelvold,' nor need we be detained long by the other three scan- dinavian forms of the ballad. 'sannens sorg' stands in the same relation to ' redselille and medelvold ' as ' hildebrand and hilde,' does to 'ribold and guldborg' (see p. of this volume); that is, the story is told in the first person instead of the third. a father asks his son why he is so sad, norwegian a, b, c, d, icelandic a, b, c, d. five years has he sat at his father's board, and never uttered a merry word. the son relates the tragedy of his life. he had lived in his early youth at the house of a nobleman, who had three daughters. he was on very familiar terms with all of them, and the youngest loved him. when the time came for him to leave the family, she proposed that he should take her with him, danish b, icelandic a, b, c [he makes the proposal in norwegian c]. from this point the narrative is much the same as in ' redselille and medel- vold,' and at the conclusion he falls dead in his father's arms [at the table], norwegian a, b, d, icelandic a. the mother takes the place of the father in danish b and swedish, and perhaps it is the mother who tells the story in english a, but the bad condition of the text scarcely enables us to say. danish b and the swedish copy have lost the middle and end of the proper story: there is no wood, no childbirth, no burial. the superfluous boat of some norwegian versions of ' redselille' re- appears in these, and also in icelandic a, b; it is overturned in a storm, and the lady is drowned. 'stalbroders kvide' differs from ' sannens sorg' only in this: that the story is related to a comrade instead of father or mother. 'bolde hr. nilaus' lan,' which exists but in a single copy, has a peculiar beginning. sir nilaus has served eight years in the king's court without recompense. he has, however, gained the favor of the king's daughter, who tells him that she is suffering much on his ac- count. if this be so, says nilaus, i will quit the land with speed. he is told to wait till she has spoken to her mother. she goes to her mother and says: sir nilaus has served eight years, and had no reward; he desires the best that it is in your power to give. the queen exclaims, he shall never have my only . leesome brand daughter's hand! the young lady immediately bids nilaus saddle his horse while she collects her gold, and from this point we have the story of redselille. dutch. willems, oude vlaemsche lieder- en, p. , no ,' de ruiter en mooi elsje;' hoffmann v. fallersleben, niederlandische volkslieder, d ed., p. , no : broadside of the date . a mother inquires into her daughter's con- dition, and learns that she is going with child by a trooper (he is called both 'ruiter' and 'landsknecht'). the conversation is overheard by the other party, who asks the girl whether she will ride with him or bide with her mother. she chooses to go with him, and as they ride is overtaken with pains. she asks whether there is not a house where she can rest. the soldier builds her a hut of thistles, thorns, and high stakes, and hangs his cloak over the aperture. she asks him to go away, and to come back when he hears a cry : but the maid was dead ere she cried. the trooper laid his head on a stone, and his heart brake with grief. german. a, simrock, no , p. , 'von farbe so bleich,' from bonn and rheindorf, repeated in mittler, no . the mother, on learning her daughter's plight, imprecates a curse on her. the maid betakes herself to her lover, a trooper, who rides off with her. they come to a cool spring, and she begs for a fresh drink, but, feeling very ill, asks if there is no hamlet near, from which she could have woman's help. the aid of the trooper is re- jected in the usual phrase, and he is asked to go aside, and answer when called. if there should be no call, she will be dead. there was no call, and she was found to be dead, with two sons in her bosom. the trooper wrapped the children in her apron, and dug her grave with his sword. b, reifferscheid, westfalische volkslieder, p. , ' ach wun- der iiber wunder,' from bokendorf: much the same as to the story. c, mittler, no , p. , 'von farbe so bleich,' a fragment of a copy from hesse; zuccalmaglio, p. , no , 'die waisen,' an entire copy, ostensibly from the lower rhine, but clearly owing its last fourteen stanzas to the editor. the trooper, in this supplement, leaves the boys with his mother, and goes over seas. the boys grow up, and set out to find their father. in the course of their quest, they pass a night in a hut in a wood, and are overheard saying a prayer for their father and dead mother, by a person who announces herself as their mater- nal grandmother! after this it is not sur- prising that the father himself should turn up early the next morning. the same editor, under the name of montanus, gives in die deutschen volksfeste, p. f, a part of this ballad again, with variations which show his hand beyond a doubt. we are here informed that the ballad has above a hundred stanzas, and that the conclusion is that the grand- mother repents her curse, makes her peace with the boys, and builds a convent. french. bujeaud, chants et chansons pop- ulates des provinces de l'ouest, a, i, , b, i, ,' j'entends le rossignolet.' a. this ballad has suffered injury at the beginning and the end, but still preserves very well the chief points of the story. a lover has promised his mistress that after returning from a long ab- sence he would take her to see his country. while traversing a wood she is seized with her pains. the aid of her companion is declined: "cela n'est point votre mdtier." she begs for water. the lover goes for some, and meets a lark, who tells him that he will find his love dead, with a child in her arms. two stanzas follow which are to no purpose. b. the other copy of this ballad has a perverted instead of a meaningless conclusion, but this keeps some traits that are wanting in a. it is a two- line ballad, with the nightingale in the re- frain: "j'entends le rossignolet." a fair maid, walking with her lover, falls ill, and lies down under a thorn. the lover asks if he shall go for her mother. "she would not come: she has a cruel heart." shall i go for mine ?" go, like the swallow!" he comes back and finds his love dead, and says he will die with his mistress. the absurd conclusion follows that she was feigning death to test his love. the names in the scandinavian ballads, it . leesome brand is remarked by grundtvig, v, , , are not norse, but probably of german derivation, and, if such, would indicate a like origin for the story. the man's name, for instance, in the danish 'sannens sorg,' a, gysellannd, seems to point to gisal brand or gisalbald, german names of the th or th century. there is some doubt whether this gysellannd is not due to a corruption arising in the course of tradition (see grundtvig, v, ); but if the name may stand, it will account for our leesome brand almost as satisfactorily as hildebrand does for earl brand in no . the passage in which the lady refuses male assistance during her travail — found as well in almost all the danish versions of ' redselille and medelvold,' in the german and french, and imperfectly in swedish d — occurs in several other english ballads, viz.,' the birth of robin hood,' 'rose the red and white lily,'' sweet willie,' of finlay's scottish bal- lads, n, , 'burd helen,' of buchan, n, , 'bonnie annie,' no . nearly the whole of the scene in the wood is in 'wolfdietrich.' wolfdietrich finds a dead man and a woman naked to the girdle, who is clasping the stem of a tree. the man, who was her husband, was taking her to her mother's house, where her first child was to be born, when he was at- tacked by the dragon schadesam. she was now in the third day of her travail. wolfdietrich, having first wrapped her in his cloak, offers his help, requesting her to tear a strip from her shift and bind it round his eyes. she rejects his assistance in this form, but sends him for water, which he brings in his helmet, but only to find the woman dead, with a lifeless child at her breast. he wraps mother and child in his mantle, carries them to a chapel, and lays them on the altar; then digs a grave with his sword, goes for the body of the man, and buries all three in the grave he has made. grimm, alt- danische heldenlieder, p. ; holtzmann, der grosse wolfdietrich, st. - ; ame- lung u. janicke,* ortnit u. die wolfdietriche, n, , d, st. - ; with differences, i, , b, st. - ; mother and child surviving, i, , a st. - ; weber's abstract of the heldenbuch, in illustrations of northern antiquities, p. , . 'herr medelvold,' a mixed text of danish ii, danske viser, no , is translated by jamieson, illustrations, p. ; by borrow, romantic ballads, p. (very ill); and by prior, no . swedish, ii, a, is translated by jamieson, ib., p. . a a. bnchan's ballads of tbe north of scotland, i, . b. motherwell's ms., p. . my boy was scarcely ten years auld, whan he went to an unco land, where wind never blew, nor cocks ever crew, ohon for my son, leesome brand! awa to that king's court he went, it was to serve for meat an fee; gude red gowd it was his hire, and lang in that king's court stayd he. he hadna been in that unco land but only twallmonths twa or three, till by the glancing o his ee, he gaind the love o a gay ladye. this ladye was scarce eleven years auld, when on her love she was right bauld; she was scarce up to my right knee, when oft in bed wi men i'm tauld. but when nine months were come and gane, this ladye's face turnd pale and wane. to leesome brand she then did say, 'in this place i can nae inair stay. 'ye do you to my father's stable, where steeds do stand baith wight and able. 'strike ane o them upo the back, the swiftest will gie his head a wap. • who suggests, ii, xlv, somewhat oddly, that the pas- sage may have been taken from revelation, xii, f, f. . leesome brand 'ye take him out upo the green, and get him saddled and bridled seen. 'get ane for you, anither for me, and lat us ride out ower the lee. 'te do you to my mother's coffer, and out of it ye 'll take my tocher. 'therein are sixty thousand pounds, which all to me by right belongs.' he's done him to her father's stable, where steeds stood baith wicht and able. then he strake ane upon the back, the swiftest gae his head a wap. he's taen him out upo the green, and got him saddled and bridled seen. ane for him, and another for her, to carry them baith wi might and virr. he's done him to her mother's coffer, and there he's taen his lover's tocher; wherein were sixty thousand pound, which all to her by right belongd. when they had ridden about six mile, his true love then began to fail. 'o wae's me,' said that gay ladye, 'i fear my back will gang in three! 'o gin i had but a gude midwife, here this day to save my life, 'and ease me o my misery, dear, how happy i woud be!' 'my love, we 're far frae ony town, there is nae midwife to be foun. 'but if ye 'll be content wi me, 'll do for you what man can dee.' 'for no, for no, this maunna be,' wi a sigh, replied this gay ladye. 'when i endure my grief and pain, my companie ye maun refrain. 'ye ' take your arrow and your bow, and ye will hunt the deer and roe. 'be sure ye touch not the white hynde, for she is o the woman kind.' he took sic pleasure in deer and roe, till he forgot his gay ladye. • till by it came that milk-white hynde, and then he mind on his ladye syne. he hasted him to yon greenwood tree, for to relieve his gay ladye; but found his ladye lying dead, likeways her young son at her head. his mother lay ower her castle wa, and she beheld baith dale and down; and she beheld young leesome brand, as he came riding to the town. 'get minstrels for to play,' she said, 'and dancers to dance in my room; for here comes my son, leesome brand, and he comes merrilie to the town.' 'seek nae minstrels to play, mother, nor dancers to dance in your room; but tho your son comes, leesome brand, yet he comes sorry to the town. 'o i hae lost my gowden knife; i rather had lost my ain sweet life! 'and i hae lost a better thing, the gilded sheath that it was in.' 'are there nae gowdsmiths here in fife, can make to you anither knife? 'are there nae sheath-makers in the land, can make a sheath to leesome brand?' 'there are nae gowdsmiths here in fife, can make me sic a gowden knife; 'nor nae sheath-makers in the land, can make to me a sheath again. 'there ne'er was man in scotland born, ordaind to be so much forlorn. . leesome brand 'i've lost my ladye i lovd sae dear, likeways the son she did me bear.' 'put in your hand at my bed head, there ye 'll find a gude grey horn; in it three draps o' saint paul's ain blude, that hae been there sin he was born. 'drap twa o them o your ladye, and ane upo your little young son; then as lively they will be as the first night ye brought them hame.' he put his hand at her bed head, and there he found a gude grey horn, "wi three draps o' saint paul's ain blude, that had been there sin he was born. then he drappd twa on his ladye, and ane o them on his young son, and now they do as lively be, as the first day he brought them hame. b motherwell's ms., p. . from the recitation of agnes lylc, kilbarchan. 'there is a feast in your father's house, the broom blooms bonnie and so is it fair it becomes you and me to be very douce. and we 'll never gang up to the broom nae mair 'you will go to yon hill so hie; take your bow and your arrow wi thee.' he's tane his lady on his back, and his auld son in his coat lap. 'when ye hear me give a cry, ye 'll shoot your bow and let me lye. 'when ye see me lying still, throw away your bow and come running me till.' when he heard her gie the cry, he shot his bow and he let her lye. when he saw she was lying still, he threw away his bow and came running her till. it was nae wonder his heart was sad when he shot his auld son at her head. he houkit a grave, long, large and wide, he buried his auld son doun by her side. it was nae wonder his heart was sair when he shooled the mools on her yellow hair. 'oh,' said his father, ' son, but thou 'rt sad! at our braw meeting you micht be glad.' 'oh,' said he, ' father, i've lost my knife i loved as dear almost as my own life. 'but i have lost a far better thing, i lost the sheath that the knife was in.' 'hold thy tongue, and mak nae din; i 'll buy thee a sheath and a knife therein.' 'a' the ships eer sailed the sea neer 'll bring such a sheath and a knife to me. 'a' the smiths that lives on land will neer bring such a sheath and knife to my hand.' a. b. l . he came to. for wind .... and l. to greenwood tree. cock never. . the castle wa. . bed wi him. . go, minstrels. . his lady's. . lady i've loved. *. would i be. '. draps saint paul's. *. that has. . deer and doe. . little wee son. ". and then on his lady he did mind. b. . will you. « . sheath and knife 'o willie, o willie, what makes thee in pain?' 'i have lost a sheath and knife that i 'll never see again.' for we 'll never, etc. 'there is ships o your father's sailing on the sea that will bring as good a sheath and a knife unto thee.' 'there is ships o my father's sailing on the sea, but sic a sheath and a knife they can never bring to me.' now we 'll never, etc. b sharpe's ballad book, ed. by d. laing, p. : sir walter scott, from his recollection of a nursery-maid's singing. ae lady has whispered the other, the broom grows bonnie, the broom grows fair lady margaret's wi bairn to sir richard, her brother. and we daur na gae doun to the broom nae mair ***** 'and when ye hear me loud, loud cry, bend your bow, let your arrow fly. and i daur na, etc. 'but when ye see me lying still, o then you may come and greet your fill.' ***** 'it's i hae broken my little pen-knife that i loed dearer than my life.' and i daur na, etc. ***** 'it's no for the knife that my tears doun run, but it's a' for the case that my knife was kept in.' johnson's museum, no . it's whispered in parlour, it's whispered in ha, the broom blooms bonie, the broom blooms fair lady marget 's wi child amang our ladies a'. and she dare na gae down to the broom nae mair one lady whisperd unto another lady marget's wi child to sir richard, her brother. ***** 'o when that you hear my loud loud cry, then bend your bow and let your arrows fly. for i dare na,' etc. d we 'll gae ride like sister and brither. „ , jr>,,i.o- ..jt but we'll never gae down to the broom nae notes and queries, st series, v, , communicated by , e. f. rimbault. "mair ae king's dochter said to anither, broom blooms bonnie an grows sae fair a. b. motherwell's printed copy has these varia- tions: l . it is talked, it is talked; a variation found in the ms. . o when . . . loud, loud cry. . an arrow frae thy bow. . cauld and dead. . loud, loud cry. . has houkit . babie. . came hame. . dancing mang them a': this variation also in the ms. \ l. there are. b. "i have heard the ' broom blooms bonnie' sung by our poor old nursery-maid as often as i have . hind horn teeth in my head, but after cudgelling my memory i can make no more than the follow- ing stanzas." scott, sharpe's ballad book, , p. . scott makes effie deans, in the heart of mid-lothian, vol. i, ch. , sing this stanza, probably of his own making: the elfin knight sat on the brae, the broom grows bonny, the broom grows fair and by there came lilting a lady so gay. and we daurna gang down to the broom nae mair hind horn a. 'hindhorn,' motherwell's ms., p. . b. 'young hyndhorn,' motherwell's ms., p. . c. a. 'young hyn horn,' motherwell's note-book, p. . b. motherwell's ms., p. . d. 'young hynhorn,' cromek's select scotish songs, ii, . b. 'hynd horn,' motherwell's ms., p. . f. lowran castle, or the wild boar of curridoo: with other tales. by b. trotter, dumfries, . g. 'hynde horn,' kinloch's ancient scottish ballads, p. . h. 'hynd horn,' buchan's ballads of the north of scotland, u, . a defective copy of this ballad was printed in cromek's select scottish songs, ancient and modern, (d). a fragment, comprising the first half of the story, was in- serted in "lowran castle, or the wild boar of curridoo: with other tales," etc., by rob- ert trotter, dumfries, * (f). a com- plete copy was first given in kinloch's ancient scottish ballads, (g) ; another, described by the editor as made up from cromek's frag- ment and two copies from recitation, in moth- erwell's minstrelsy, p. ,f later in the same year; and a third, closely resembling kin- loch's, in buchan's ballads of the north of scotland, in (h). three versions com- plete, or nearly so, and a fragment of a fourth are now printed for the first time, all from motherwell's manuscripts (a, b, c, e). the stanza about the auger bore [wimble * this i should have missed bat for the kindness of mr w. macmath. t motherwell's printed copy, minstrelsy, p. , is thus made up: stanzas , , , , , from cromek (d); - , , , , , , , , - , - , from b; , , from bore], b , f , h , is manifestly out of place. it is found in 'the whummil bore' (see further on), and may have slipped into 'hind horn' by reason of its following, in its proper place, a stanza beginning, " seven lang years i hae served the king : " cf. f , h . g , , , , which are not intelligible in their present connection, are perhaps, as well as g , h - , borrowed from some robin hood ballad, in which a change is made with a beggar. the noteworthy points in the story of hind horn are these. hind horn has served the king seven years (d, f), and has fallen in love with his daughter. she gives hind horn a jewelled ring: as long as the stone keeps its color, he may know that she is faithful; but if it changes hue, he may ken she loves another man. the king is angry (d), and hind horn e. = a . , , , , have not been found in his manuscripts. the first line of the burden is from b, the second from b. motherwell alters his texts slightly, now and then. i . hind horn goes to sea [is sent, d]. he has been gone seven years, e, f [seven years and a day, b], when, looking on his ring, he sees that the stone is pale and wan, a-h. he makes for the land at once, and, meeting an old beggar, asks him for news. no news but the king's daughter's wedding: it has lasted nine days [two and forty, a], and she will not go into the bride-bed till she hears of hind horn, e. hind horn changed cloaks and other gear with the beggar, and when he came to the king's gate asked for a drink in horn's name,* a, b, d. the bride herself came down, and gave him a drink out of her own hand, a, b, c, g, h. he drank out the drink and dropped in the ring. 'o gat ye't by sea, or gat ye't by lan, or gat ye't aff a dead man's han?' so she asked; and he answered: 'i gat na't by sea, i gat na't by lan, but i gat it out of your own ban.' d . 'i got na't by sea, i got na't by land, nor got i it aff a drownd man's hand; 'but i got it at my wooing, and i 'll gie it at your wedding.' g , . the bride, who had said, 'i 'll go through nine fires so hot, but i 'll give him a drink for young hyn- horn's sake,' b , is no less ready now: 'i 'll tak the red gowd frae my head, and follow you and beg my bread. 'i 'll tak the red gowd frae my hair, and follow you for evermair.' h , . but hind horn let his cloutie cloak fall, g, h, and told her, * c , are corrupted, and also p , , ; all three in a way which allows of easy emendation. hymen [high, man] in c should of course be hyn horn. the injunction 'ye need na leave your bridal gown, for i 'll make ye ladie o many a town.' the story of horn, of which this ballad gives little more than the catastrophe, is related at full in i. 'king horn,' a gest in about short verses, preserved in three manuscripts: the oldest regarded as of the second half of the th century, or older; the others put at and a little later. all three have been printed: ( .) by michel horn et rimenhild, p. ff, bannatyne club, ; j. r. lum- by, early english text society, ; and in editions founded on lumby's text, by matz- ner, altenglische sprachproben, p. ff, and later by wissmann, quellen u. forsch- ungen, no . ( .) by horstmann, archiv fur das studium der neueren sprachen, , l, ff. ( .) by ritson, a. e. metrical ro- mancee's, ii, ff. ii. 'horn et rymenhild,' a romance in about heroic verses, preserved likewise in three manuscripts; the best in the public library of the university of cambridge, and of the th century. iii. 'horn childe and maiden rimnild,' from a manuscript of the th century, in not quite twelve-line stanzas: ritson, metrical romancees, m, ff; michel, p. ff. horn, in the old english gest, is son of murry [allof], king of suddenne. he is a youth of extraordinary beauty, and has twelve comrades, of whom athulf and fikenild are his favorites. one day, as murry was out rid- ing, he came upon fifteen ships of saracens, just arrived. the pagans slew the king, and insured themselves, as they thought, against horn's future revenge by putting him and his twelve aboard a vessel without sail or rudder; but " the children " drove to shore, unhurt, on the coast of westerness. the king, ailmar, gave them a kind reception, and committed them to athelbrus, his steward, to be properly brought up. rymenhild, the king's daughter, in or, h should be to ask nothing for peter or paul's sake, but all for horn's. . hind horn fell in love with horn, and having, with some difficulty, prevailed upon athelbrus to bring him to her bower, offered herself to him as his wife. it were no fair wedding, horn told her, between a thrall and a king, — a speech which hurt rymenhild greatly ; and horn was so moved by her grief that he promised to do all she required, if she would induce the king to knight him. this was done the next day, and horn at once knighted all his comrades. rymenhild again sent for horn, and urged him now to make her his wife. but horn said he must first prove his knighthood: if he came back alive, he would then marry her. upon this rymenhild gave him a ring, set with stones of such virtue that he could never be slain if he looked on it and thought of his leman. the young knight had the good for- tune to fall in immediately with a ship full of heathen hounds, and by the aid of his ring killed a hundred of the best of them. the next day he paid rymenhild a visit, and found her drowned in grief on account of a bad dream. she had cast her net in the sea, and a great fish had broken it: she weened she should lose the fish that she would choose. horn strove to comfort her, but could not con- ceal his apprehension that trouble was brew- ing. the fish proved to be fikenild, horn's much cherished friend. he told ailmar of the intimacy with rymenhild, and asserted that horn meant to kill the king as well as marry the princess. ailmar was very angry (v. , wissmann), and much grieved, too. he found the youth in his daughter's bower, and ordered him to quit the land anon. horn saddled his horse and armed himself, then went back to rymenhild, and told her that he was going to a strange land for seven years: if, after that, he neither came nor sent word, she might take a husband. he sailed a good way eastward (v. ) to ireland, and, land- ing, met two princes, who invited him to take service with their father. the king, thurs- ton, welcomed him, and had soon occasion to employ him; for at christmas came into court a giant, with a message from pagans newly arrived. they proposed that one of them should fight three christians: 'if your three slay our one, let all this land be your own; if our one oercomes your three, all this land then ours shall be.' horn scorned to fight on such terms; he alone would undertake three of the hounds; and so he did. in the course of a hard fight it came out that these were the very heathen that had slain king murry. horn looked on his ring and thought on rymenhild, then fell on his foes. not a man of them escaped; but king thurston lost many men in the fight, among them his two sons. having now no heir, he offered horn his daughter reynild and the succession. horn replied that he had not earned such a reward yet. he would serve the king further; and when he asked for his daughter, he hoped the king would not refuse her. seven years horn stayed with king thurs- ton, and to rymenhild neither sent nor went. a sorry time it was for her, and worst at the end, for king modi of reynis asked her in marriage, and her father consented. the wed- ding was to be in a few days. rymenhild despatched messengers to every land, but horn heard nothing, till one day, when he was going out to shoot, he encountered one of these, and learned how things stood. he sent word to his love not to be troubled; he would be there betimes. but, alas, the messenger was drowned on his way back, and rymenhild, peering out of her door for a ray of hope, saw his body washed up by the waves. horn now made a clean breast to thurston, and asked for help. this was generously accorded, and horn set sail for westerness. he arrived not too early on the day of the wedding, — " ne might he come no later!" — left his men in a wood, and set off for ailmar's court alone. he met a palmer, and asked his news. the palmer had come from a bridal; a wedding of maid rymenhild, who wept and would not be mar- ried, because she had a husband, though he was out of the land. horn changed clothes with the palmer, put on the sclavin, took scrip and staff, blackened his skin and twisted his lip, and presented himself at the king's gate. the porter would not let him in ; horn kicked . hind horn open the wicket, threw the porter over the bridge, made his way into the hall, and sat down in the beggars' row. rymenhild was weeping as if she were out of her wits, but after meat she rose to give all the knights and squires drink from a horn which she bare: such was the custom. horn called to her: 'skink us with the first, the beggars ben a thirst.' she laid down her horn and filled him a gallon bowl; but horn would not drink of that. he said, mysteriously, "thou thinkest i am a beggar, but i am a fisher, come far from the east, to fish at thy feast. my net lies near at hand, and hath full seven year. i am come to see if it has taken any fish. 'i am come to fish; drink to me from thy dish, drink to horn from horn !'" rymenhild looked at him, a chill creeping over her heart. what he meant by his fish- ing she did not see. she filled her horn and drank to him, handed it to the pilgrim, and said, " drink thy fill, and tell me if ever thou saw horn." horn drank, and threw the ring into the vessel. when the princess went to bower, she found the ring she had given horn. she feared he was dead, and sent for the palmer. the palmer said horn had died on the voyage to westerness, and had begged him to go with the ring to rymenhild. ry- menhild could bear no more. she threw her- self on her bed, where she had hid a knife, to kill both king modi and herself if horn should not come; she set the knife to her heart, and there horn stopped her. he wiped off the black, and cried, " i am horn!" great was their bliss, but it was not a time to in- dulge themselves fully. horn sprang out of hall, and let his sclavin fall, ( ) and went to summon his knights. rymen- hild sent after him the faithful athulf, who all the while had been watching for horn in the tower. they slew all that were in the castle, except king ailmar and horn's old comrades. horn spared even fikenild, taking an oath of fidelity from him and the rest. then he made himself known to ailmar, de- nied what he had been charged with, and would not marry rymenhild even now, not till he had won back suddenne. this he went immediately about; but while he was engaged in clearing the land of saracens and rebuilding churches, the false fikenild bribed young and old to side with him, built a strong castle, " married" rymenhild, carried her into his fortress, and began a feast. horn, warned in a dream, again set sail for westerness, and came in by fikenild's new castle. athulf's cousin was on the shore, to tell him what had happened; how fikenild had wedded rymen- hild that very day; he had beguiled horn twice. force would not avail now. horn disguised himself and some of his knights as harpers and fiddlers, and their music gained them admittance. horn began a lay which threw rymenhild into a swoon. this smote him to the heart; he looked on his ring and thought of her. fikenhild and his men were soon disposed of. horn was in a condition to reward all his faithful adherents. he mar- ried athulf to thurston's daughter, and made rymenhild queen of suddenne. the french romance contains very nearly the same story, extended, by expansions of various sorts, to about six times the length of king horn. it would be out of place to no- tice other variations than those which relate to the story preserved in the ballads. rimild offers horn a ring when she first avows her love. he will not take it then, but accepts a second tender, after his first fight. when he is accused to the king, he offers to clear him- self by combat with heavy odds, but will not submit, king's son as he is, to purgation by oath. the king says, then he may quit the land and go — to norway, if he will. horn begs rimild to maintain her love for him seven years. if he does not come then, he will send her word to act thereafter at her pleasure. rimild exchanges the ring she had previously given him for one set with a sap- . hind horn phire, wearing which faithfully he need not fear death by water nor fire, battle nor tour- ney (vv - ). he looks at this ring when he fights with the pagan that had killed his father, and it fires his heart to extraordinary exploits ( ff). having learned through a friend, who had long been seeking him, that rimild's father is about to marry her to a young king (modun), horn returns to brit- tany with a large force. he leaves his men in a woody place, and goes out alone on horse- back for news ; meets a palmer, who tells him that the marriage is to take place that very day; gives the palmer his fine clothes in ex- change for sclavin, staff and scrip, forces his way into the city, and is admitted to the ban- quet hall with the beggars. after the guests had eaten ( ff), rimild filled a splendid cup with piment, presented it first a sun dru, and then, with her maids, served the whole company. as she was making her fifth round, horn pulled her by the sleeve, and reproached her with attending only to the rich. "your credit would be greater should you serve « ." she set a handsome cup before him, but he would not drink. "corn apelent horn k' engleis," he said. "if, for the love of him who bore that name, you would give me the same horn that you offered your ami, i would share it with you." all but fainting, rimild gave him the horn. he threw in his ring, even that which she had given him at part- ing, drank out half, and begged her to drink * when horn was near the city, he stopped to see how things would go. king modun passed, with wikel, in gay discourse of the charms of rimild. horn called out to them insultingly, and modun asked who he was. horn said he had formerly served a man of consequence as his fisherman: he had thrown a net almost seven years ago, and had now come to give it a look. if it had taken any fish, he would love it no more; if it should still be as he left it, he would carry it away. modun thinks him a fool. ( ^ , and nearly the same in 'horn childe and maiden ri- mild,' - ). this is part of a story in the gesta roma- norum, of a soldier who loved the emperor's daughter, and went to the holy land for seven years, after a mutual ex- change of fidelity for that time. a king comes to woo the princess, but is put off for seven years, upon her alleging that she has made a vow of virginity for so long. at the expiration of this term, the king and the soldier meet as they are on the way to the princess. the king, from cer- tain passages between them, thinks the soldier a fool. the by the love of him whom he had named. in drinking, she sipped the ring into her mouth, and she saw at once what it was ( ). "i have found a ring," said she. "if it is yours, take it. blest be he to whom i gave it: if you know aught of him, conceal it not. if you are horn, it were a great sin not to reveal yourself." horn owned that the ring was his, but denied knowledge of the man she spake of. for himself, he had been reared in that land, and by service had come into possession of a hawk, which, before taming it, he had put in a cage: that was nigh seven years since: he had come now to see what it amounted to. if it should prove to be as good as when he left it, he would carry it away with him ; but if its feathers were ruffled and broken, he would have nothing to do with it. at this, rimild broke into a laugh, and cried, "horn, 't is you, and your hawk has been safely kept!" * she would go with him or kill herself. horn saw that she had spoken truth, but, to try her yet further, said he was indeed horn, whom she had loved, but he had come back with nothing: why should she follow a poor wretch who could not give her a gown to her back ?" little do you know me," was her reply. "i can bear what you bear, and there is no king in the east for whom i would quit you." 'horn childe and maiden rimnild,' with many diversities of its own as to details, is more like the french than the english ro- soldier takes leave of the king under pretence of looking after a net which he had laid in a certain place seven years before, rides on ahead, and slips away with the princess. gest. rom., oesterley, p. , no ; grasse, n, ; madden, p. ; swan, i, p. lxv. a similar story in camp- hell's tales of the west highlands, i, ,' baillie lun- nain.' (simrock, deutsche marchen, no , is apparently a translation from the gesta.) the riddle of the hawk, slightly varied, is met with in the romance of blonde of oxford and jehan of dammartin, v. ff, ff, ff (ed. le roux de lincy, pp. , , ), and, still further modified, in le romant de jehan de paris, ed. montaiglon, pp. , , . (le roux de lincy, kshler, mussafia, g. paris). 'horn et rimenhild,' it will be observed, has both riddles, and that of the net is introduced under circumstances en- tirely like those in the gesta romanorum. the french romance is certainly independent of the english in this pas- sage. . hind horn mance as to the story, and, on the other hand, has one or two resemblances to the ballads which they both lack. rimnild's father, mad- dened by the traitor wikel's false information, beats her till she bleeds, and threatens to slay horn. rimnild, expecting her lover to be at least exiled, assures horn that she will marry no other man for seven years. the king, who had shut himself up till his first wrath was past, tells horn, when he next comes into his presence, that if he is found in the land on the morrow, he shall be drawn with horses and hanged. rimnild, at parting, gives him a ring, with these words: 'loke thou forsake it for no thing, it schal ben our tokening; the ston it is wele trewe. when the ston wexeth wan, than chaungeth the thoujt of thi leman, take than a newe; when the ston wexeth rede, than have y lorn mi maidenhed, ojaines the untrewe.' (michel, st» .) horn, for his part, bids her every day look into a spring in her arbor: should she see his shadow, then he is about to marry another; till then his thought will not have changed (sts , ). though loved, as before, by an- other princess, horn kept his faith; but when seven years were gone, on looking at the stone he saw that its hue was changed (st. ). he immediately gathered a force, and set sail for rimnild. on landing he saw a beggar, who turned out to be one of his old friends, and had been looking for him a long time. that day moging the king was to marry rim- nild. they changed weeds ( ) ; horn forced his way into the castle. while rimnild was serving the guests, horn, who had tried to pass for a fool, called to her to attend to god's men. she fetched him drink, and he said, "for horn's love, if ever he was dear to thee, go not ere this be drunk." he threw the ring into the cup: she brought him an- other drink (something is wrong here, for noth- ing is said of her seeing and recognizing the ring), and asked if horn were there. she fainted when she learned that he was, but on recovering sent hatherof (= athulf) to bid the king make merry, and then to gather per- iwinkle and ivy, "grasses that ben of main" (to stain her face with, no doubt), and then to tell horn to wait for her under a wood- side. 'when al this folk is gon to play, he and y schal steal oway, bituene the day and the nijt.' ( ) hatherof did his message. of true love horn was sure. he said he would come into the field with a hundred knights. a tournament follows, as in the french romance; the royal bridegroom is unhorsed, but spared; treachery is punished and forced to confession. now is rimnild tuiis wedde, horn broujt hir to his bedde. ( ) that the lay or gest of king horn is a far more primitive poem than the french ro- mance, and could not possibly be derived from it, will probably be plain to any one who will make even a hasty comparison of the two ; and that the contrary opinion should have been held by such men as warton and tyrwhitt must have been the result of a general theory, not of a particular examination.* there is, on the other hand, no sufficient reason for sup- posing that the english lay is the source of the other two poems. nor do the special ap- proximations of the ballads to the romance of horn child oblige us to conclude that these, or any of them, are derived from that poem. the particular resemblances are the discolora- tion of the ring, the elopement with the bride, in c, g, h (which is only prepared for, but not carried out, in horn child), and the agreement between the couplet just cited from horn child, now is rimnild tuiis wedde, horn broujt hir to his bedde, and the last stanza of a, b, c: the bridegroom he had wedded the bride, but young hind horn he took her to bed. (a) * see the excellent studies of king horn by wissmann, in quellen und forschungen, no , and anglia, iv, ft. . hind horn the bridegroom thought he had the bonnie bride wed, but young hyn horn took the bride to bed. (b) her ain bridegroom had her first wed, but young hyn horn had her first to bed. ( ) the likeness evinces a closer affinity of the oral traditions with the later english romance than with the earlier english or the french, but no filiation. and were filiation to be ac- cepted, there would remain the question of priority. it is often assumed, without a mis- giving, that oral tradition must needs be younger than anything that was committed to writing some centuries ago; but this re- quires in each case to be made out; there is certainly no antecedent probability of that kind.* two scandinavian ballads, as dr prior has remarked, seem to have been at least suggested by the romances of horn. ( .) 'unge hr. tor og jomfru tore,' grundtvig, no , n, , translated by prior, m, . of this there are two traditional versions: a from a manuscript of the six- teenth century, b from one of the seventeenth. they agree in story. in a, tor asks sel- ffuermord how long she will wait for him. nine years, she answers, if she can do so with- out angering her friends. he will be satisfied with eight. eight have passed : a family coun- cil is held, and it is decided that she shall not have young tor, but a certain rich count. her father "gives her away" that same day. the lady goes up to a balcony and looks sea- ward. everybody seems to be coming home but her lover. she begs her brother to ride down to the shore for her. tor is just coming in, hails the horseman, and eagerly asks how are the maids in the isle. the brother tells him that his maid has waited eight years, and is even now drinking her bridal, but with tears. tor takes his harp and chess-board, and * a, b, and e, which had not been printed at the time of his wri ting, will convince professor stimming, whose valua- ble review in englische stadien, , ff, supplements, and in the matter of derivation, i think, rectifies, wissmann's un- tereuchungen, that the king's daughter in the ballads was faithful to horn, and that they were marrying her against plays outside the bridal hall till the bride hears and knows him. he then enters the hall, and asks if there is anybody that can win a game of chess. the father replies, no- body but salffuermord, and she sits a bride at the board. the mother indulgently suggests that the midsummer day is long, and the bride might well try a game. the bride seeks an express sanction of her father, who lessons her the livelong day, being suspicious of tor, but towards evening consents to her playing a little while, — not long. tor wins the first game, and must needs unpack his heart in a gibing parable, ending 'full hard is gold to win, and so is a trothless quean.' she wins the next game, takes up the parable, and says 'many were glad their faith to hold, were their lot to be controlled.' they are soon at one, and resolve to fly. they slip away, go aboard tor's ship, and put off. the bride's parents get information, and the mother, who is a professor of the black art, raises a storm which she means shall sink them both. no one can steer the ship but the bride. she stands at the helm, with her gold crown on, while her lover is lying seasick on the deck, and she brings the craft safe into norway, where a second wedding is cele- brated. ( .) tha other ballad is 'herr lovmand og herr thor,' syv, iv, no , danske viser, rv, , no , translated by prior, n, . lovmand, having betrothed ingelil, asks how long she will be his maid. "eight years, if i may," she says. this term has elapsed; her brothers consult, and give her to rich herr thor. they drink the bridal for five days; for nine days; she will not go to bed. on the evening of the tenth they begin to use her will, as in the romances. this contingency seems not to have been foreseen when the ring was given: but it must be admitted that it was better for the ring to change, to the temporary clouding of the lady's character, than to have horn stay away and the forced marriage go on. . hind horn force. she begs that she may first go to the look-out up-stairs. from there she sees ships, great and small, and the sails which her own hands have made for her lover. her brother goes down to the sea, as in the other ballad, and has a similar interview. lovmand has the excuse of having been sick seven years. he borrows the brother's horse, flies faster than a bird, and the torch is burning at the door of the bride's house when he arrives. thor is reasonable enough to give up the bride, and to accept lovmand's sister. the ballad is extremely common in sweden, and at least six versions have been published. a, 'herr lagman och herr thor,' from a manuscript of the end of the sixteenth cen- tury, arwidsson, i, , no ; b, from a manuscript, ib., p. ; c, from oral tra- dition, p. ; d, ' lageman och hans brud,' eva wigstrom, folkdiktning samlad och upptecknad i skane, p. , no ; e,'stolt ingrid,'. folkvisor fran skane, upptecknade af e. wigstrom, in hazelius, ur de nordiska folkens lif, p. , no ; f, 'deielill och lageman,' fagerlund, anteckningar om korpo och houtskars socknar, p. , no . in a, d the bride goes off in her lover's ship; in c he carries her off on his horse, when the dancing is at its best, and subsequently, upon the king's requisition, settles matters with his rival by killing him in single fight. the stolid bridegroom, in the others, consents to a peace- able arrangement. certain points in the story of horn — the long absence, the sudden return, the appear- ance under disguise at the wedding feast, and the dropping of the ring into a cup of wine obtained from the bride — repeat themselves in a great number of romantic tales. more commonly it is a husband who leaves his wife for seven years, is miraculously informed on the last day that she is to be remarried on the morrow, and is restored to his home in * see the ample introduction to 'henrik af brunsvig,' in grundtvig, no , n, ff. t it appears that these half rings are often dng up. "neuere ausgrabungen haben vielfach anf solche ring- btiicke gef iihrt, die, als zeichen unverbriichlicher treue, einst the nick of time, also by superhuman means. horn is warned to go back, in the ballads and in horn child, by the discoloration of his ring, but gets home as he can; this part of the story is slurred over in a way that indicates a purpose to avoid a supernatural expedient. very prominent among the stories referred to is that of henry of brunswick [henry the lion, reinfrid of brunswick], and this may well be put first, because it is preserved in scandinavian popular ballads.* ( .) the latest of these, a swedish bal- lad, from a collection made at the end of the last century, 'hertig henrik,' arwidsson, no , n, , represents duke henry as telling his wife that he is minded to go off for seven years (he says not whither, but it is of course to the east) ; should he stay eight or nine, she may marry the man she fancies. he cuts a ring in two; gives her one half and keeps the other. he is made captive, and serves a heathen lord and lady seven years, drawing half the plough, "like another horse." his liberation is not accounted for, but he was probably set free by his mistress, as in the ballad which follows. he gets possession of an excellent sword, and uses it on an elephant who is fighting with a lion. the grateful lion transports the duke to his own country while he is asleep. a herdsman, of whom he asks food, recommends him to go to the brunswick mansion, where there is a wedding, and duke henry's former spouse is the bride. when henry comes to the house, his daughter is standing without; he asks food for a poor pil- grim. she replies that she has never heard of a pilgrim taking a lion about with him. but they give him drink, and the bride, pro more, drinks out of the same bowl, and finds the half ring in the bottom. the bride feels in her pocket and finds her half,f and the two, when thrown upon a table, run together and make one ring. mit dem geliebten gebrochen, ja wie der augenschein be- weist, entzwei geschnitten, nnd so ins grab mitgenommen wnrden, zam zeichen dass die liebe iiber den tod hinaus daure." rochholz, schweizersagen aus dem aargau, n, . i . hind horn ( .) the danish ballad* (grundtvig, no , b, from a th century manuscript), re- lates that duke henry, in consequence of a dream, took leave of his wife, enjoining her to wait to the eighth year, and, if then he did not return, marry whom she liked. in the course of his fights with the heathen, henry was made captive, and had to draw the harrow and plough, like a beast. one day (during his lord's absence, as we learn from a) the heathen lady whom he served set him free. he had many adventures, and in one of them killed a panther who was pressing a lion hard, for which service the lion followed him like a dog. the duke then happened upon a her- mit, who told him that his wife was to be mar- ried the next day, but he was to go to sleep, and not be concerned. he laid his head on a stone in the heathen land, and woke in a trice to hear german speech from a herdsman's mouth. the herdsman confirmed what the hermit had said: the duchess was to be mar- ried on the morrow. the duke went to the kitchen as a pilgrim, and sent word to the lady that he wished to drink to her. the duchess, surprised at this freedom, summoned him into her presence. the verses are lost in which the cup should be given the pilgrim and returned to the lady. when she drank off the wine that was left, a half ring lay in the glass. danish a, though of the th century, does not mention the ring. ( .) a flemish broadside, which may orig- inally have been of the th century, relates the adventures of the duke of brunswick in sixty-five stanzas of four long lines : reprinted in von der hagen's germania, viii, , and hoffmann's niederlandische volkslieder, no , p. ; coussemaker, no , p. ; abridged and made over, in willems, o. v. l., p. , no . the duke, going to war, tells his wife to marry again if he stays away seven years. she gives him half of her ring. seven years pass, and the duke, being then in des- perate plight in a wilderness, is taken off by a ship; by providential direction, no doubt, * translated, with introduction of verses from a, by prior, ancient danish ballads, n, . though at first it does not so appear. for the fiend is aboard, who tells him that his wife is to be married to-morrow, and offers, for his soul, to carry him to his palace in his sleep before day. the duke, relying on heaven and his lion, professes to accept the terms: he is to be taken to his palace in ms sleep. the lion rouses his master at the right time, and the fiend is baffled. the duke goes to the marriage feast, and sends a message to the bride that he desires a drink from her in memory of her lord. they take him for a beggar, but the lady orders him wine in a gold cup. the cup goes back to her with the duke's half ring in it. she cries, " it is my husband!" joins her half to the one in the cup, and the two adhere firmly. ( .) a german poem of the th century, by michel wyssenhere, in ninety-eight stanzas of seven lines, first printed by massmann, denkmaeler deutscher sprache und literatur, p. , and afterwards by erlach, n, , and elsewhere. the lord of brunswick receives an impression in a dream that he ought to go to the holy sepulchre. he cuts a ring in two, and gives his wife one half for a souvenir, but fixes no time for his absence, and so nat- urally says nothing about her taking another husband. he has the adventures which are usual in other versions of the story, and at last finds himself among the wild hunt (das wbden her), and obliges one of the company, by conjurations, to tell him how it is with his wife and children. the spirit informs him that his wife is about to marry another man. he then constrains the spirit to transport him and his lion to his castle. this is done on the same terms as in the flemish poem, and the lion wakes his master. his wife offers him drink ; he lets his half ring drop in the glass, and, upon the glass being returned to the lady, she takes out the token, finds it like her half, and cries out that she has recovered her dear husband and lord. ( .) henry the lion, a chap-book printed in the th century, in one hundred and four stanzas of eight short verses; reprinted in biisching's volkssagen, marchen und le- genden, p. ff, and (modernized) by sim- i . hind horn rock in the first volume of die deutschen volksbiicher. the hero goes out simply in quest of adventures, and, having lost his ship and all his companions, is floating on a raft with his lion, when the devil comes to him and tells him that his wife is to remarry. a compact is made, and the devil balked, as be- fore. though we were not so informed at the beginning, it now turns out that the duke had given a half ring to the duchess seven years before, and had bidden her take a second hus- band if he did not come back in that time. the duke sends a servant to beg a drink of wine of his wife, and returns the cup, as in ( ), ( ). ( .) a ballad in nine seven-line stanzas, supposed to be by a meistersinger, preserved in broadsides of about and , bohme, no , p. , erk's wunderhorn, rv, . ( .) hans sachs's 'historia,' , in two hundred and four verses, works, ed. , buch iv, theil ii, blatt lviimviii".* ( .) a meister- singerlied of the end of the th century, in three twenty-line stanzas, printed in idunna u. hermode for march , (appended to p. ), and after this, with changes, in kretzschmer, n, , no . — these three agree with the foregoing as to the ring. ( .) reinfrid von braunschweig, c. , ed. bartsch, . reinfrid is promised by the virgin, who appears to him thrice in vision, that he shall have issue if he will go over sea to fight the heathen. he breaks a ring which his wife had given him, and gives her one half, vv. , - . if he dies, she is to marry, for public reasons, vv. , - ; but she is not to believe a report of his death unless she receives his half of the ring back, vv. , - , , - . the latter part of the ro- mance not being extant, we do not know the conclusion, but a variation as to the use made of the ring is probable.f the story of reinfrit is also preserved in * i have not seen this, and depend upon others here. t godeke, ' reinfrit von braunschweig,' p. , conjectures that the half ring was, or would have been, employed in the sequel by some impostor (the story may never have been fin- ished) as evidence of brunswick's death. a ring is so used in a silesian tradition, of the general character of that of a bohemian prose chap-book printed before . this prose is clearly a poem broken up, and it is believed that the original should be placed in the first half of the th century, or possibly at the end of the th. the hero returns, in pilgrim's garb, after seven years' absence, to find his wife about to be handed over by her father to another prince. he lets his ring fall into a cup, and goes away; his wife recognizes the ring, and is reunited to him. the story has passed from the bohemian into russian and magyar. feifalik, sitzungsbe- richte der phil.-bist. classe der wiener akad- emie, xxix, ff, the ring at p. ; xxxn, ff. similar use is made of the ring in other german romances. ( .) 'der edle moringer' (ms. of th century) asks his wife to wait seven years for him, while he visits the land of st thomas. he is warned by an angel, at the expiration of that period, that he will lose her if he does not go back, bewails himself to his patron, and is conveyed home in a sleep. he begs an alms at his castle-gate in the name of god, st thomas, and the noble moringer; is admitted to his wife's presence; sings a lay describing his own case, which moves the lady much; throws into a beaker of wine, which she sets before him, the ring by which she was married to him, sends the cup back to her, and is recognized. bohme, no , p. ; uhland, no , p. . ( .) in the older hildebrandslied, which is of the th century, or earlier, the hero, returning after an absence of thirty-two years, drops his ring into a cup of wine presented to him by his wife. bohme, no , p. ; uhland, no , p. . ( .) wolfdietrich drops ortnit's ring into a cup of wine sent him by liebgart, who has been ad- judged to the graf von biterne in considera- tion of his having, as he pretended, slain the dragon. the cup is returned to the empress, the ring identified, the pretension refuted, and henry the lion, with the difference that the knight is awak- ened by a cock's crowing: 'die hahnkrahe bei breslau,' in kern's schlesische sagen-chronik, p. . there is a varia- tion of this last, without the deception by means of the ring, in goedsche's schlesischer sagenschatz, p. , no . i . hind horn liebgart given to ortnit's avenger. wolf- dietrich b, ed. janicke, i, ff, stanzas - . ( .) king rother (whose history has passages of the strongest resemblance to horn's), coming to retrieve his wife, who has been kidnapped and carried back to her fa- ther, lands below constantinople, at a woody and hilly place, and assumes a pilgrim's dis- guise. on his way to the city he meets a man who tells him that ymelot of babylon has invaded greece, and taken constantin, his wife's father, prisoner; and that constantin, to save his life, has consented to give his daughter to the heathen king's son. rother steals into the hall, and even under the table at which the royal party are sitting, and con- trives to slip his ring into the hand of his distressed young queen, who, thus assured of his presence, immediately recovers her spirits. massmann, deutsche gedichte des zwcelften jahrhunderts, theil ii, p. , vv. - . one of the best and oldest stories of the kind we are engaged with is transmitted by caesarius of heisterbach in his dialogus miraculorum, of the first quarter of the th century. gerard, a soldier living in holen- bach (" his grandchildren are still alive, and there is hardly a man in the town who does not know about this"), being, like moringer, devoted to st thomas of india, was impelled to visit his shrine. he broke a ring and gave one half to his wife, saying, expect me back in five years, and marry whom you wish if i do not come then. the journey, which would be long enough any way, was providentially pro- tracted. he reached the shrine at last, and said his prayers, and then remembered that that was the last day of his fifth year. alas, my wife will marry again, he thought; and quite right he was, for the wedding was even then preparing. a devil, acting under the orders of st thomas, set gerard down at his own door. he found his wife supping with her second partner, and dropped his half ring into her cup. she took it out, fitted it to the half which had been given her, rushed into his * there are marked correspondences between boccaccio's story and the veritable history of henry the lion as given by bartsch, herzog ernst, cxxvi f: e. g., the presents of arms, and bade good-by to the new bride- groom. ed. strange, n, . a tradition closely resembling this has been found in switzerland, gerard and st thomas being exchanged for wernhart von strattlin- gen and st michael. menzel's odin, p. . another of the most remarkable tales of this class is exquisitely told by boccaccio in the decamerone, g. x, n. ix. messer torello, going to the crusade, begs his wife to wait a year, a month, and a day before she marries again. the lady assures him that she will never be another man's wife; but he replies that a woman young, beautiful, and of high family, as she is, will not be allowed to have her way. with her parting embrace she gives him a ring from her finger, saying, if i die before i see you again, remember me when you look on this. the christians were wasted by an excessive mortality, and those who es- caped the ravages of disease fell into the hands of saladin, and were imprisoned by him in various cities, torello in alexandria. here he was recognized by saladin, whom he had entertained with the most delicate and splen- did hospitality a few months before, when the soldan was travelling through italy in dis- guise. saladin's return for this courtesy was so magnificent as almost to put lombardy out of torello's head,* and besides he trusted that his wife had been informed of his safety by a letter which he had sent. this was not so, how- ever, and the death of another torello was re- ported in italy as his, in consequence of which his supposed widow was solicited in marriage, and was obliged to consent to take another husband after the time should have expired which she had promised to wait. a week before the last day, torello learned that the ship which carried his letter had been wrecked, and the thought that his wife would now marry again drove him almost mad. saladin extracted from him the cause of his distress, and promised that he should yet be at home before the time was out, which torello, who had heard that such things had often been clothes by the empress (transferred to torello's wife), and the handsome behavior of two soldans, here attributed to saladin. . hind horn done, was ready to believe. and in fact, by means of one of his necromancers, saladin caused torello to be transported to pavia in one night — the night before the new nuptials. torello appeared at the banquet the next day in the guise of a saracen, under the escort of an uncle of his, a churchman, and at the right moment sent word to the lady that it was a custom in his country for a bride to send her cup filled with wine to any stranger who might be present, and for him to drink half and cover the cup, and for her to drink the rest. to this the lady graciously assented. torello drank out most of the wine, dropped in the ring which his wife had given him when they parted, and covered the cup. the lady, upon lifting the cover, saw the ring, knew her hus- band, and, upsetting the table in her ecstasy, threw herself into torello's arms. tales of this description still maintain them- selves in popular tradition. 'der ring ehe- licher treue,' gottschalk, deutsche volksmar- chen, n, , relates how kuno von falken- stein, going on a crusade, breaks his ring and gives one half to his wife, begging her to wait seven years before she marries again. he has the adventures of henry of brunswick, with differences, and, like moringer, sings a lay describing his own case. the new bride- groom hands him a cup; he drops in his half ring, and passes the cup to the bride. the two halves join of themselves.* other exam- ples, not without variations and deficiencies, in details, are afforded by 'der getheilte trau- ring,' schmitz, sagen u. legenden des eifler volkes, p. ; 'bodman,' uhland, in pfeif- fer's germania, iv, - ; 'graf hubert von kalw,' meier, deutsche sagen, u. s. w., aus schwaben, p. , no , grimms, deutsche sagen, no ; 'der barenhauter,' grimms, k. u. h. marchen, no ; 'berthold von neuhaus,' in kern's schlesische sagen-chro- nik, p. . * without the conclusion, also in binder's schwabische volkssagen, n, . these volksmarchen, by the way, are "erzahlt" by gottschalk. it is not made quite so clear as could be wished, whether they are merely re-told. t germaine's husband, after an absence of seven years, overcomes his wife's doubts of his identity by exhibiting half of her ring, which happened to break the day of their wed- a story of the same kind is interwoven with an exceedingly impressive adventure re- lated of richard sans-peur in les chroniques de normandie, rouen, , chap. ivii, cited in michel, chronique des dues de normandie par benoit, n, ff. a second is told of guillaume martel, seigneur de bacqueville; still others of a seigneur gilbert de lomblon, a comrade of st. louis in his first crusade. amdlie de bosquet, la normandie romanesque et merveilleuse, pp. - , . a picard ballad, existing in two versions, partly cited by rathery in the moniteur uni- versel for august , , tells of a sire de crequi, who, going beyond seas with his sov- ereign, breaks his ring and gives half to his young wife; is gone ten years, and made cap- tive by the turks, who condemn him to death on account of his adhesion to christ; and is transported to his cmteau on the eve of the day of his doom. this very day his wife is to take another husband, sorely against her will. crequi appears in the rags of a beggar, and legitimates himself by producing his half of the ring (which, in a way not explained by rathery, has been brought back by a swan). 'le retour du mari,' puymaigre, chants populaires messins, p. , has also some traits of ballads of this class. a bridegroom has to go on a campaign the very day of his nup- tials. the campaign lasts seven years, and the day of his return his wife is about to re- marry. he is invited to the wedding supper, and towards the close of it proposes to play cards to see who shall have the bride. the guests are surprised. the soldier says he will have the bride without winning her at cards or dice, and, turning to the lady, asks, where are the rings i gave you at your wedding seven years ago? she will go for them; and here the story breaks off.t the same hard fortune is that of costan- tino, a young albanian, who is called to the ding, or the day after: puymaigre, p. , champfleury, chansons des provinces, p. . the conclusion to sir tris- trem, which scott supplied, " abridged from the french met- rical romance, in the style of tomas of erceldoune," makes ganhardin lay a ring in a cup which brengwain hands ysonde, who recognizes the ring as tristrem's token. the cup was one of the presents made to king mark by tris- . hind horn service of his king three days after his mar- riage. he gives back her ring to his wife, and tells her he must go to the wars for nine years. should he not return in nine years and nine days, he bids her marry. the young wife says nothing, waits her nine years and nine days, and then, since she is much sought for, her father wishes her to marry. she says nothing, again, and they prepare for the bridal. costantino, sleeping in the king's palace, has a bad dream, which makes him heave a sigh that comes to his sovereign's ear. the king summons all his soldiers, and inquires who heaved that sigh. costantino confesses it was he, and says it was because his wife was mar- rying. the king orders him to take the swift- est horse and make for his home. costantino meets his father, and learns that his dream is true, presses on to the church, arrives at the door at the same time as the bridal procession, and offers himself for a bride's-man. when they come to the exchange of rings, costantino contrives that his ring shall remain on the bride's finger. she knows the ring; her tears burst forth. costantino declares himself as having been already crowned with the lady.* camarda, appendice al saggio di grammato- logia, etc., - , a calabrian-albanese copy. there is a sicilian, but incomplete, in vigo, canti popolari siciliani, p. ff, ed. , p. ff, ed. - . with this belongs a ballad, very common in greece, which, however, has for the most part lost even more of what was in all prob- ability the original catastrophe. ''kvayvwpur- ftos,' chasiotis, popular songs of epirus, p. , no , comes nearer the common story than other versions.f a man who had been twelve years a slave after being a bridegroom of three days, dreams that his wife is marrying, trem's envoy, and is transferred to ysonde by scott the passage has been cited as ancient and genuine. * in the greek rite, rings are nsed in the betrothal, which as a rule immediately precedes the marriage. the rings are exchanged by the priest and sponsors (camarda says three times). crowns, of vine twigs, etc., are the emblems in the nuptial ceremony, and these are also changed from one head to the other. t i was guided to nearly all these greek ballads by pro- fessor liebrecht's notes, zur volkskunde, p. . runs to the cellar, and begins to sing dirges. the king hears, and is moved. "if it is one of the servants, increase his pay; if a slave, set him free." the slave tells his story (in three lines); the king bids him take a swift gray. the slave asks the horses, which is a swift gray. only one answers, an old steed with forty wounds. "i am a swift gray; tie two or three handkerchiefs around your head, and tie yourself to my back!" j he comes upon his father pruning the vineyard. "whose sheep are those feeding in the meadows?" "my lost son's." he comes to his mother. "what bride are they marrying?" "my lost son's." "shall i get to them in church while they are crowning?" "if you have a fast horse, you will find them crowning; if you have a bad horse, you will find them at ta- ble." he finds them at church, and calls out, a bad way ye have: why do ye not bring out the bride, so that strangers may give her the cup? a good way we have, they answer, we who bring out the bride, and strangers give her the cup. then he takes out his ring, while he is about to present the cup to the bride. the bride can read; she stands and reads (his name), and bids the company be- gone, for her mate has come, the first crowned. in other cases we find the hero in prison. he was put in for thirty days; the keys are lost, and he stays thirty years. legrand, p. , no ; h(oe\vvika 'avaxtkra, i, , no . more frequently he is a galley slave: zam- belios, p. , no = passow, no ; tommaseo, iil, = passow, no ; sa- kellarios, ku rpiakd, m, , no : neotaai/kita 'avaaekta, i, , no ; jeannaraki, "ao-^ara kprjtika, p. , no . his bad dream [a letter from home] makes him heave a* sigh which shakes the prison, or stops [splits] the t this high-mettled horse is a capital figure in most ot the versions. in one of them the caution is given, " do not feel safe in spurring him: he will scatter thy brains ten ells below the ground." the gray (otherwise the black) is of the same breed as the russian dobrynya's, a little way on; or the foal that took charles the great, under similar circum- stances, from passau t» aachen between morn and eve, ('karl der grosse,' from enenkels weltbuch, c. , in von der hagen's gesammtabenteuer, n, ff); or the black in the poem and tale of thedel von walmoden. . hind horn galley.* in tommaseo, m, , on reaching the church, he cries," stand aside, gentlemen, stand aside, my masters; let the bride pour for me." she pours him one cup and two, and exclaims (the ring which was dropped into the cup having dropped out of the story), my john has come back! then they both " go out like candles." in sakellarios they embrace and fall dead, and when laid in the grave come up as a cypress and a citron tree. in the cretan ballad john does not dismount, but takes the bride on to the horse and is off with her; so in the beautiful ballad in fauriel, ii, , no ,''h 'hpvayrj,' " peut-e"tre la plus distingude de ce recueil," which belongs with this group, but seems to be later at the beginning and the end. even here the bride takes a cup to pour a draught for the horseman. in russia the ring story is told of dobrynya and nastasya. dobrynya, sent out shortly after his marriage to collect tribute for vladi- mir, requests nastasya to wait for him twelve years: then she may wed again, so it be not with alesha. twelve years pass. alesha avows that he has seen dobrynya's corpse lying on the steppe, and sues for her hand. vladimir supports the suit, and nastasya is constrained to accept this prohibited husband. dobrynya's horse [two doves, a pilgrim] re- veals to his master what is going on, and car- ries him home with marvellous speed. do- brynya gains admittance to the wedding-feast in the guise of a merry-maker, and so pleases vladimir with his singing that he is allowed to sit where he likes. he places himself op- posite nastasya, drops his ring in a cup, and asks her to drink to him. she finds the ring in * in jeannaraki the bey says, " my slave, give us a song, and i will free yon." john sings of his love, whom he was to lose that day. so zambelios, as above, tommaseo, p. s , and neo. 'kvix. no. . compare brunswick, in wyssenhere, and moringer. t otherwise : nastasya waits six years, as desired; is told that dobrynya is dead and is urged to marry alesha; will not hear of marriage for six years more; vladimir then inter- poses. dobrynya is furious, as these absentees are sometimes pleased to be. he complains that women have long hair and short wits, and so does brunswick in wyssenbere's poem, st. . numerous as are the instances of these long absences, the woman is rarely, if ever, represented as in the least to blame. the behavior of the man, on the other hand, the bottom, falls at his feet and implores par- don, f wollner, volksepik der grossrussen, p. f; rambaud, la russie ]£pique, p. f. we have the ring employed somewhat after the fashion of these western tales in soma- deva's story of vidushaka. the vidyudharl bhadra, having to part for a while with vi- dushaka, for whom she had conceived a pas- sion, gives him her ring. subsequently, vi- dushaka obliges a rakshas whom he has subdued to convey him to the foot of a mountain on which bhadra had taken refuge. many beau- tiful girls come to fetch water in golden pitch- ers from a lake, and, on inquiring, vidushaka finds that the water is for bhadra. one of the girls asks him to lift her pitcher on to her shoulder, and while doing this he drops into the pitcher bhadra's ring. when the water is poured on bhadra's hands, the ring falls out. bhadra asks her maids if they have seen a stranger. they say they have seen a mor- tal, and that he had helped one of them with her pitcher. they are ordered to go for the youth at once, for he is bhadra's consort.^ according to the letter of the ballads, should the ring given horn by his lady turn wan or blue, this would signify that she loved another man: but though accuracy would be very de- sirable in such a case, these words are rather loose, since she never faltered in her love, and submitted to marry another, so far as she sub- mitted, only under constraint. 'horn child,' sts , , agrees with the ballads as to this point. we meet a ring of similar virtue in 'bonny bee-hom,' jamieson's popular bal- lads, i, , and buchan's ballads of the north of scotland, i, . is in some cases trying. thus, the conde dirlos tells his young wife to wait for him seven years, and if he does not come in eight to marry the ninth. he accomplishes the ob- ject of his expedition in three years, but stays fifteen, never writes, — he had taken an unnecessary oath not to do that before he started, — and forbids anybody else to write, on pain of death. such is hisx hnmor; but he is very much pro- voked at being reported dead. wolf and hofmann, pri- m aver a y flor de romances, n, , no . } kathi sarit sagara (of the early part of the th cen- tury), tawney's translation, i, ff. the story is cited by bajna, in romania, vi, . herr v. bodman leaves his marriage ring in a wash-bowl! meier, deutsche v. m. aus schwaben, f. i . hind horn 'but gin this ring should fade or fail, or the stone should change its hue, be sure your love is dead and gone, or she has proved untrue.' jamieson, p. . in the roumanian ballad,' ring and hand- kerchief,' a prince going to war gives his wife a ring: if it should rust, he is dead. she gives him a gold-embroidered handkerchief: if the gold melts, she is dead. alecsandri, poesii pop. ale romanilor, p. , no ; stanley, rouman anthology, p. , p. . in gon- zenbach's sicilianische marchen, i, , no , a prince, on parting with his sister, gives her a ring, saying, so long as the stone is clear, i am well: if it is dimmed, that is a sign that i am dead. so no , at p. . a young man, in a silesian story, receives a ring from his sweetheart, with the assurance that he can count upon her faith as long as the ring holds; and after twenty years' detention in the mines of siberia, is warned of trouble by the ring's breaking: goedsche, schlesischer sagen- his- torien- u. legendenschatz, i, , no . so in some copies of 'lamkin,' the lord has a fore- boding that some ill has happened to his lady from the rings on his fingers bursting in twain: motherwell, p. , st. ; finlay, n, , st. * hind horn is translated by grundtvig, eng. og sk. folkeviser, p. , no , mainly after the copy in motherwell's minstrelsy ; by rosa warrens, schottische v. l. der vorzeit, p. , no , after buchan (h); by knortz, l. u. r. alt-englands, p. , no , after alling- ham. a motherwell's ms., p. . from mrs king, kilbarchan. in scotland there was a babie born, lill lal, etc. and his name it was called young hind horn. "with a fal lal, etc. he sent a letter to our king that he was in love with his daughter jean. he's gien to her a silver wand, with seven living lavrocks sitting thereon. she's gien to him a diamond ring, with seven bright diamonds set therein. * the ring given horn by rymenhild, in 'king horn,' ff (wissmann), and in the french romance, ff, pro- tects him against material harm or mishap, or assures him superiority in fight, as long as he is faithful. so in buchan's version of' bonny bee-ho'm,' st. : 'as lang 's this ring's your body on, your blood shall neer be drawn.' "the king's daughter of linnc " gives her champion two rings, one of which renders him invulnerable, and the other will staunch the blood of any of his men who may be wounded: motherwell's minstrelsy, introduction, p. lvii. eglamore's ring, percy ms., n, , st. , will preserve his life on water or land. a ring given wolfdietrich by the 'when this ring grows pale and wan, you may know by it my love is gane.' one day as he looked his ring upon, he saw the diamonds pale and wan. he left the sea and came to land, and the first that he met was an old beggar man. 'what news, what news?' said young hind horn; 'no news, no news,' said the old beggar man. 'no news,' said the beggar, 'no news at a', but there is a wedding in the king's ha. empress, d vim, st. , ed. janicke, doubles his strength and makes him fire-proof in his fight with the dragon. the ring lent ywaine by his lady will keep him from prison, sickness, loss of blood, or being made captive in battle, and give him superiority to all antagonists, so long as he is true in love: ritson, met rom. i, , w ff. but an in- dian ring which reinfrit receives from his wife before he de- parts for the crusade, , ff, has no equal, after all; for, besides doing as much as the best of these, it imparts per- petual good spirits. it is interesting to know that this matchless jewel had once been the property of a scottish king, and was given by him to his daughter when she was sent to norway to be married: under convoy of sir patrick spens? . hind horn 'but there is a wedding in the king's ha, that has halden these forty days and twa.' 'will ye lend me your begging coat? and i 'll lend you my scarlet cloak. 'will you lend me your beggar's rung? and i 'll gie you my steed to ride upon. 'will you lend me your wig o hair, to cover mine, because it is fair?' the auld beggar man was bound for the mill, but young hind horn for the king's hall. the auld beggar man was bound for to ride, but young hind horn was bound for the bride. when he came to the king's gate, he sought a drink for hind horn's sake. the bride came down with a glass of wine, when he drank out the glass, and dropt in the ring. b motherwell's ms., p. . from the singing of a servant- girl at halkhead. i never saw my love before, with a hey lillelu and a ho lo lan till i saw her thro an oger bore. with a hey down and a hey diddle downie and i gave to her a silver wand, with three singing lavrocks set thereon. 'what if these diamonds lose their hue, just when your love begins for to rew?' he's left the land, and he's gone to sea, and he's stayd there seven years and a day. but when he looked this ring upon, the shining diamonds were both pale and wan. 'o got ye this by sea or land? or got ye it off a dead man's hand?' 'i got not it by sea, i got it by land, and i got it, madam, out of your own hand.' 'o i 'll cast off my gowns of brown, and beg wi you frae town to town. 'o i 'll cast off my gowns of red, and i 'll beg wi you to win my bread.' 'ye needna cast off your gowns of brown, for i 'll make you lady o many a town. 'te needna cast off your gowns of red, it's only a sham, the begging o my bread.' the bridegroom he had wedded the bride, but young hind horn he took her to bed. he's left the seas and he's come to the land, and there he met with an auld beggar man. 'what news, what news, thou auld beggar man for it is seven years sin i've seen lan.' 'no news,' said the old beggar man, ' at all, but there is a wedding in the king's hall.' 'wilt thou give to me thy begging staff? and i 'll give to thee my good gray steed.' the old beggar man was bound for to ride, but young hynd horn was bound for the bride. when he came to the king's gate, he asked a drink for young hynd horn's sake. the news unto the bonnie bride came that at the yett there stands an auld man. she gave to me a gay gold ring, 'wilt thou give to me thy begging coat? with three shining diamonds set therein. and i 'll give to thee my scarlet cloak. . hind horn 'there stands an auld man at the king's gate; he asketh a drink for young hyn horn's sake.' ' go thro nine fires so hot, but i 'll give him a drink for young hyn horn's sake.' she gave him a drink out of her own hand; he drank out the drink and he dropt in the ring. 'got thou't by sea, or got thou't by land? or got thou't out of any dead man's hand?' 'i got it not by sea, but i got it by land, for i got it out of thine own hand.' 'i 'll cast off my gowns of brown, and i 'll follow thee from town to town. 'i 'll cast off my gowns of red, and along with thee i 'll beg my bread.' 'thou need not cast off thy gowns of brown, for i can make thee lady of many a town. 'thou need not cast off thy gowns of red, for i can maintain thee with both wine and bread.' the bridegroom thought he had the bonnie bride wed, but young hyn horn took the bride to bed. o a. motherwell's note-book, p. : from agnes lyle. b. motherwell's ms., p. : from the singing of agnes lyle, kilbarchan, august , . yotjng hyn horn's to the king's court gone, hoch hey and an ney o he's fallen in love with his little daughter jean. let my love alone, i pray you he's bocht to her a little gown, with seven broad flowers spread it along. she's given to him a gay gold ring. the posie upon it was richt plain. 'when you see it losing its comely hue, so will i my love to you.' then within a little wee, hyn horn left land and went to sea. when he lookt his ring upon, he saw it growing pale and wan. then within a little [wee] again, hyn horn left sea and came to the land. as he was riding along the way, there he met with a jovial beggar. 'what news, what news, old man?' he did say: 'this is the king's young dochter's wedding day.' 'h this be true you tell to me, you must niffer clothes with me. 'you 'll gie me your cloutit coat, i 'll gie you my fine velvet coat 'you ' gie me your cloutit pock, i 'll gie you my purse; it 'll be no joke.' 'perhaps there['s] nothing in it, not one baw- bee ;' 'yes, there's gold and silver both,' said he. 'you h gie me your bags of bread, and i h gie you my milk-white steed.' when they had niffered all, he said, 'you maun learn me how i 'll beg.' 'when you come before the gate, you ' ask for a drink for the highman's sake.' when that he came before the gate, he calld for a drink for the highman's sake. the bride cam tripping down the stair, to see whaten a bold beggar was there. i . hind horn she gave him a drink with her own hand; he loot the ring drop in the can. 'got ye this by sea or land? or took ye't aff a dead man's hand?' 'i got na it by sea nor land, but i got it aff your own hand.' the bridegroom cam tripping down the stair, but there was neither bride nor beggar there. her ain bridegroom had her first wed, but young hyn horn had her first to bed. d cromek's select scotish songs, n, . near edinburgh was a young son born, hey lilelu an a how low lan an his name it was called young hyn horn. an it's hey down down deedle airo seven long years he served the king, an it's a' for the sake of his daughter jean. the king an angry man was he; he send young hyn horn to the sea. * » # * * an on his finger she put a ring. ***** 'when your ring turns pale and wan, then i'm in love wi another man.' ***** upon a day he lookd at his ring, it was as pale as anything. he's left the sea, an he's come to the lan, an there he met an auld beggar man. 'what news, what news, my auld beggar man? what news, what news, by sea or by lan?' 'nae news, nae news,' the auld beggar said, 'but the king's dochter jean is going to be wed.' 'cast off, cast off thy auld beggar-weed, an i 'll gie thee my gude gray steed.' ***** when he cam to our guid king's yet, he sought a glass o wine for young hyn horn's sake. he drank out the wine, an he put in the ring, an he bade them carry't to the king's dochter jean. ***** 'o gat ye't by sea, or gat ye't by lan? or gat ye't aff a dead man's han?' 'i gat na't by sea, i gat na't by lan, but i gat it out of your own han.' ***** 'go take away my bridal gown, for i 'll follow him frae town to town.' 'te need na leave your bridal gown, for i 'll make ye ladie o' mony a town.' e motherwell's ms., p. . from the recitation of mrs wilson. ***** hvxi) horn he has lookt on his ring, hey ninny ninny, how ninny nanny and it was baith black and blue, and she is either dead or she's married. and the barck and the broom blooms bon- nie hynd horn he has shuped to land, and the first he met was an auld beggar man. 'what news, what news, my silly auld man? for it is seven years syne i have seen land 'what news, what news, my auld beggar man? what news, what news, by sea or by land?' 'there is a king's dochter in the east, and she has been marryed these nine nights past. . hind horn 'intil the bride's bed she winna gang till she hears tell of her hynd horn.' 'cast aff, cast aft thy anld beggar weed, and i will gie thee my glide gray steed.' ldwran castle, or the wild boar of cnrridoo: with other tales. by robert trotter, dumfries, , p. . from the recitation of a young friend. in newport town this knight was born, hey lily loo, hey loo lan and they've called him young hynd horn. fal lal la, fal the dal the dady seven long years he served the king, for the love of his daughter jean. he courted her through a wimble bore, the way never woman was courted before. he gave her through a silver wand, with three singing laverocks there upon. she gave him back a gay gold ring, with three bright diamonds glittering. 'when this ring grows pale and blue, fair jeanie's love is lost to you.' young hynd horn is gone to sea, and there seven long years staid he. when he lookd his ring upon, it grew pale and it grew wan. young hynd horn is come to land, when he met an old beggar man. 'what news, what news doth thee betide?' 'no news, but princess jeanie's a bride.' 'will ye give me your old brown cap? and i 'll give you my gold-laced hat. 'will ye give me your begging weed? and ih give you my good grey steed.' the beggar has got on to ride, but young hynd horn's bound for the bride. ***** o einloch's ancient scottish ballads, p. . "from the recitation of my niece, m. kinnear, aug', :" the north of scotland. 'hynde horn 'a bound love, and hynde horn's free, whare was ye born, or in what countrie?' 'in gude greenwud whare i was born, and all my friends left me forlorn. 'i gave my love a silver wand; that was to rule oure all scotland. .' my love gave me a gay gowd ring; that was to rule abune a' thing.' 'as lang as that ring keeps new in hue, ye may ken that your love loves you. 'but whan that ring turns pale and wan, ye may ken that your love loves anither man.' he hoisted up his sails, and away sailed he, till that he cam to a foreign countrie. he looked at his ring; it was turnd pale and wan; he said, 'i wish i war at hame again.' he hoisted up his sails, and hame sailed he, until that he came to his ain countrie. the first ane that he met wi was wi a puir auld beggar man. 'what news, what newb, my silly old man? what news hae ye got to tell to me?' 'na news, na news,' the puir man did say, 'but this is our queen's wedding day.' 'ye h lend me your begging weed, and i 'll gie you my riding steed.' . hind hoen and when he lookd upon his ring, he knew she loved another man. he hoist up sails and home came he, home unto his ain countrie. the first he met on his own land, it chancd to he a heggar man. 'what news, what news, my gude auld man? what news, what news, hae ye to me?' 'nae news, nae news,' said the auld man, 'the morn's our queen's wedding day.' 'will ye lend me your begging weed? and i 'll lend you my riding steed.' 'my begging weed will ill suit thee, and your riding steed will ill suit me.' but part be right, and part be wrang, frae the beggar man the cloak he wan. 'auld man, come tell to me your leed; what news ye gie when ye beg your bread.' 'as ye walk up unto the hill, your pike staff ye lend ye till. 'but whan ye come near by the yett, straight to them ye will upstep. 'take nane frae peter, nor frae paul, nane frae high or low o them all. 'and frae them all ye will take nane, until it comes frae the bride's ain hand.' he took nane frae peter nor frae paul, nane frae the high nor low o them all. and frae them all he would take nane, until it came frae the bride's ain hand. the bride came tripping down the stair, the combs o red gowd in her hair. a cup o red wine in her hand, and that she gae to the beggar man. out o the cup he drank the wine, and into the cup he dropt the ring. 'o got ye't by sea, or got ye't by land, or got ye't on a drownd man's hand?' 'i got it not by sea, nor got it by land, nor got i it on a drownd man's hand. 'but i got it at my wooing gay, and i h gie't you on your wedding day.' 'i 'll take the red gowd frae my head, and follow you, and beg my bread. 'i 'll take the red gowd frae my hair, and follow you for evennair.' atween the kitchen and the ha, he loot his cloutie cloak down fa. and wi red gowd shone ower them a', and frae the bridegroom the bride he sta. a. l , , , , , . hindhorn. b. the burden is given in motherwell, appendix, p. xviii, thus: with a hey lilloo and a how lo lan and the birk and the brume blooms bonnie. , . hyndhorn. , , . hynhorn. a. s. to see. , . hynhorn. . h. horn. ii . clouted. , . give. . white milk. b. milk-white. . hymen's, b. highman's. . can. b. , s, s. hynhorn. . little wee. . there's. d. ls, , ll . hynhorn. e. the second line of the burden stands after st. in ms. . the ms reading may be sheeped. , s. hyndhorn. . sir lionel g. after my niece, m. kinnear, etc., stands in pen- cil christy smith. . on the opposite page, over against this stanza, is written: but part by richt, or part be wrang, the auldman's duddie cloak he 's on. g and h are printed by kinloch and by buchan in four-line stanzas. the stanzas printed by motherwell, which have not been found in his manuscripts, are: seven lang years he has been on the sea, and hynd horn has looked how his ring may be. the auld beggar man cast off his coat, and he 'a taen up the scarlet cloak. the auld beggar man threw down his staff, and he has mounted the good gray steed. she went to the gate where the auld man did stand, and she gave him a drink out of her own hand. sir lionel. a. 'sir lionell,' percy ms., p. , hales and furni- vall, i, . b. 'isaac-a-bell and hugh the graeme,' christie, tra- ditional ballad airs, i, . c. a. 'the jovial hunter of brom grove,' allies, the british, roman and saxon antiquities and folk-lore of worcestershire, d ed., p. . b. bell's ancient poems, ballads and songs of the peasantry of eng- land, p. . d. allies, as above, p. . e. a. 'the old man and his three sons,' bell, as above, p. . b. mr robert white's papers. f. allies, as above, p. . b can be traced in banffshire, according to christie, for more than a hundred years, through the old woman that sang it, and her forbears. c a, d were originally published by allies in the year , in a pamphlet bearing the title the jovial hunter of broms- grove, home the hunter, and robin hood. no intimation as to the source of his copy, c b, is given by bell, i. e., dixon. appar- ently all the variations from allies, c a, are of the nature of editorial improvements. e a is said ( ) to be current in the north of england as a nursery song. one half of a, the oldest and fullest copy of this ballad (the second and fourth quar- ters), is wanting in the percy ms. what we can gather of the story is this. a knight finds a lady sitting in a tree, a, c, d [under a tree, e], who tells him that a wild boar has slain sir broning, a [killed her lord and thirty of his men, c; worried her lord and wounded thirty, e]. the knight kills the boar, b-d, and seems to have received bad wounds in the process, a, b; the boar belonged to a giant, b; or a wild woman, c, d. the knight is required to forfeit his hawks and leash, and the little finger of his right hand, a [his horse, his hound, and his lady, c]. he re- fuses to submit to such disgrace, though in no condition to resist, a; the giant allows him time to heal his wounds, forty days, a; thirty- three, b; and he is to leave his lady as se- curity for his return, a. at the end of this time the knight comes back sound and well, . sir lionel a, b, and kills the giant as he had killed the boar, b. c and d say nothing of the knight having been wounded. the wild woman, to re- venge her " pretty spotted pig," flies fiercely at him, and he cleaves her in two. the last quarter of the percy copy would, no doubt, reveal what became of the lady who was sit- ting in the tree, as to which the traditional copies give no light. our ballad has much in common with the romance of 'sir eglamour of artois,' percy ms., hales and furnlvall, n, ; thornton romances, camden society, ed. halliwell, p. ; ellis, metrical romances, from an early printed copy, bonn's ed., p. . eglamour, simple knight, loving christabel, an earl's daughter, is required by the father, who does not wish him well, to do three deeds of arms, the second being to kill a boar in the kingdom of sattin or sydon, which had been known to slay forty armed knights in one day (percy, st. ). this eglamour does, after a very se- vere fight. the boar belonged to a giant, who had kept him fifteen years to slay christian men (thornton, st. , percy, ). this giant had demanded the king of sydon's daughter's hand, and comes to carry her off, by force, if necessary, the day following the boar-fight. eglamour, who had been found by the king in the forest, in a state of exhaustion, after a contest which had lasted to the third or fourth day, and had been taken home by him and kindly cared for, is now ready for action again. he goes to the castle walls with a squire, who carries the boar's head on a spear. the giant, seeing the head, exclaims, 'alas, art thou dead! my trust was all in thee! now by the law that i lieve in, my little speckled hoglin, dear bought shall thy death be.' percy, st. . eglamour kills the giant, and returns to ar- tois with both heads. the earl has another adventure ready for him, and hopes the third chance may quit all. eglamour asks for twelve weeks to rest his weary body. b comes nearest the romance, and possibly even the wood of tore is a reminiscence of ar- tois. the colloquy with the giant in b is also, perhaps, suggested by one which had previous- ly taken place between eglamour and another giant, brother of this, after the knight had killed one of his harts (percy, st. ). c , d strikingly resemble the passage of the ro- mance cited above (percy, , thornton, ). the ballad has also taken up something from the romance of ' eger and grime,' percy ms., hales and furnivall, i, ; laing, early' metrical tales, p. ; ' sir eger, sir grahame, and sir gray-steel,' ellis's specimens, p. . sir egrabell (rackabello, isaac-a-bell), lio- nel's father, recalls sir eger, and hugh the grasme in b is of course the grahame or grime of the romance, the hugh being de- rived from a later ballad. gray-steel, a man of proof, although not quite a giant, cuts off the little finger of eger's right hand, as the giant proposes to do to lionel in a . the friar in e l , , may be a corruption of ryalas, or some like name, as the first line of the burden of e, 'wind well, lion, good hunter,' seems to be a perversion of 'wind well thy horn, good hunter,' in c, d.* this part of the burden, especially as it occurs in a, is found, nearly, in a fragment of a song of the time of henry viii, given by mr chappell in his popular music of the olden time, i, , as copied from '' mss reg., ap- pend. ." 'blow thy horne, hunter, cum, blow thy horne on hye! in yonder wode there lyeth a doo, in fayth she woll not dye. cum, blow thy horne, hunter, cum, blow thy horne, joly hunter!' a terrible swine is a somewhat favorite fig- ure in romantic tales. a worthy peer of the boar of sydon is killed by king arthur in 'the avowynge of king arthur,' etc., rob- son, three early english metrical romances (see st. xii). but both of these, and even the erymanthian, must lower their bristles before * the friar might also be borrowed from 'the felon sow and the friars of richmond,' but this piece does not appear to have been extensively known. . sir lionel the boar in 'kilhwch and olwen,' mabino- gion, part iv, pp. - . compared with any of these, the "felon sow " presented by ralph rokeby to the friars of richmond (evans, old ballads, n, , ed. , scott, appendix to rokeby, note m) is a tame vil- latic pig: the old mettle is bred out. professor grundtvig has communicated to me a curious danish ballad of this class,' lim- grises vise,' from a manuscript of the latter part of the th century. a very intractable damsel, after rejecting a multitude of aspi- rants, at last marries, with the boast that her progeny shall be fairer than christ in heaven. she has a litter of nine pups, a pig, and a boy. the pig grows to be a monster, and a scourge to the whole region. he drank up the water from dike and from dam, and ate up, besides, both goose, gris and lamb. the beast is at last disposed of by baiting him with the nine congenerate dogs, who jump down his throat, rend liver and lights, and find their death there, too. this ballad smacks of the broadside, and is assigned to the th century. a fragment of a swedish swine-ballad, in the popular tone, is given by dybeck, runa, , p. ; another, very sim- ilar, in axelson's vesterdalarne, p. , ' kol- oregris,' and professor sophus bugge has re- covered some norwegian verses. the danish story of the monstrous birth of the pig has become localized: the liimfiord is related to have been made by the grubbing of the lim- gris: thiele, danmarks folkesagn, n. , two forms. there can hardly be anything but the name in common between the lionel of this ballad and lancelot's cousin-german. a percy ms., p. , hales and furnivall, i, . sir egrabell had sonnes three, blow thy home, good hunter sir lyonell was one of these. as i am a gentle hunter sir lyonell wold on hunting ryde, vntill the forrest him beside. and as he rode thorrow the wood, where trees and harts and all were good, and as he rode over the plaine, there he saw a knight lay slaine. and as he rode still on the plaine, he saw a lady sitt in a graine. 'say thou, lady, and tell thou me, what blood shedd heere has bee.' 'of this blood shedd we may all rew, both wife and childe and man alsoe. 'for it is not past days right since sir broninge was mad a knight. 'nor it is not more than dayes agoe since the wild bore did him sloe.' 'say thou, lady, and tell thou mee, how long thou wilt sitt in that tree.' she said, ' i will sitt in this tree till my friends doe feitch me.' 'tell me, lady, and doe not misse, where that yowr friends dwellings is.' 'downe,' shee said, 'in yonder towne, there dwells my freinds of great renowne.' says, ' lady, ile ryde into yonder towne and see wether yowr friends beene bowne. 'i my self wilbe the formost man that shall come, lady, to feitch you home.' but as he rode then by the way, he thought it shame to goe away; and vmbethought him of a wile, how he might that wilde bore beguile. 'sir egrabell,' he said, 'my father was; he neuer left lady in such a case; . sir lionel 'noe more will i' . . . ***** 'and a[fter] that thou shalt doe mee thy hawkes and thy lease alsoe. 'soe shalt thou doe at my command the litle fingar on thy right hand.' 'ere i wold leaue all this with thee, vpoon this ground i rather dyee.' the gyant gaue sir lyonefl such a blow, the fyer out of his eyen did throw. he said then, ' if i were saffe and sound, • as with-in this hower i was in this ground, 'it shold be in the next towne told how deare thy buffett it was sold; 'and it shold haue beene in the next towne said how well thy buffett it were paid.' 'take daies into spite, to heale thy wounds that beene soe wide. 'when dayes beene at an end, heere meete thou me both safe and sound. 'and till thou come to me againe, with me thoust leaue thy lady alone.' when dayes was at an end, sir lyonell of his wounds was healed sound. he tooke with him a litle page, he gaue to him good yeomans wage. and as he rode by one hawthorne, even there did hang his hunting home. he sett his bugle to his mouth, and blew his bugle still full south. he blew his bugle lowde and shrill; the lady heard, and came him till. sayes, 'the gyant lyes vnder yond low, and well he heares yowr bugle blow. 'and bidds me of good cheere be, this night heele supp with you and me.' hee sett that lady vppon a steede, and a litle boy before her yeede. and said, 'lady, if you see that i must dye, as euer you loued me, from me flye. 'but, lady, if you see that i must liue,' ***** b christie, traditional ballad airs, i, . from the sing- ing of an old woman in buckie, enzie, banffshire. a knicht had two sons o sma fame, hey nien nanny isaac-a-bell and hugh the graeme. and the norlan flowers spring bonny and to the youngest he did say, 'what occupation will you hae? when the, etc. 'will you gae fee to pick a mill? or will you keep hogs on yon hill?' while the, etc. 'i winna fee to pick a mill, nor will i keep hogs on yon hill. while the, etc. 'but it is said, as i do hear, that war will last for seven year, and the, etc. 'with a giant and a boar that range into the wood o tore. and the, etc. 'tou 'll horse and armour to me provide, that through tore wood i may safely ride.' when the, etc. . sir lionel the knicht did horse and armour provide, that through tore wood graeme micht safely ride. when the, etc. then he rode through the wood o tore, and up it started the grisly boar. when the, etc. the firsten bout that he did ride, the boar he wounded in the left side. when the, etc. the nexten bout at the boar he gaed, he from the boar took aff his head. and the, etc. as he rode back through the wood o tore, up started the giant him before. and the, etc. 'o cam you through the wood o tore, or did you see my good wild boar?' and the, etc. 'the firsten bout that i did ride, i wounded your wild boar in the side. and the, etc. 'the nexten bout at him i gaed, from your wild boar i took aff his head.' and the, etc. 'gin you have cut aff the head o my boar, it 'a your head shall be taen therfore. and the, etc. 'i 'll gie you thirty days and three, to heal your wounds, then come to me.' while the, etc. 'it's after thirty days and three, when my wounds heal, i'll come to thee.' when the, etc. so graeme is back to the wood o tore, and he's killd the giant, as he killd the boar. and the, etc. 'i cam now through the wood o tore, but woe be to your grisly boar. and the, etc. a. allies, the british, roman, and saxon antiquities and folk-lore of worcestershire, d ed., p. . from the recitation of benjamin brown, of upper wick, about . b. ancient poems, ballads and songs of the peasantry of england, edited by robert bell, p. . sm robert bolton had three sons, wind well thy horn, good hunter and one of them was called sir ryalas. for he was" a jovial hunter he rang'd all round down by the woodside, till up in the top of a tree a gay lady he spy'd. for he was, etc. 'o what dost thou mean, fair lady ?' said he; 'o the wild boar has killed my lord and his men thirty.' as thou beest, etc. 'o what shall i do this wild boar to see?' 'o thee blow a blast, and he 'll come unto thee.' as thou beest, etc. [then he put his horn unto his mouth], then he blowd a blast full north, east, west and south. as he was, etc. and the wild boar heard him full into his den; then he made the best of his speed unto him. to sir ryalas, etc. then the wild boar, being so stout and so strong, he thrashd down the trees as he came along. to sir ryalas, etc. « . sir lionel 'o what dost thou want of me ?' the wild boar said he; ' i think in my heart i can do enough for thee.' for i am, etc. then they fought four hours in a long sum- mer's day, till the wild boar fain would have gotten away. from sir ryalas, etc. then sir ryalas drawd his broad sword with might, and he fairly cut his head off quite. for he was, etc. then out of the wood the wild woman flew: 'oh thou hast killed my pretty spotted pig! as thou beest, etc. d allies, antiquities and folk-lore of worcestershire, p. . from the recitation of oseman, hartlebury. as i went up one brook, one brook, well wind the horn, good hunter i saw a fair maiden sit on a tree top. as thou art the jovial hunter i said, 'fair maiden, what brings you here?' 'it is the wild boar that has drove me here.' as thou art, etc. 'i wish i could that wild boar see ;' well wind the horn, good hunter, and the wild boar soon will come to thee.' as thou art, etc. then he put his horn unto his mouth, and he blowd both east, west, north and south. as he was, etc. the wild boar hearing it into his den, [then he made the best of his speed unto him]. 'there are three things i do demand of thee, it 's thy horn, and thy hound, and thy gay lady.' as thou beest, etc. 'if these three things thou dost demand of me, it's just as my sword and thy neck can agree.' for i am, etc. then into his locks the wild woman flew, till she thought in her heart she had torn him through. as he was, etc. then sir ryalas drawd his broad sword again, and he fairly split her head in twain. for he was, etc. in bromsgrove church they both do lie; there the wild boar's head is picturd by sir ryalas, etc. he whetted his tusks for to make them strong, and he cut down the oak and the ash as he came along. for to meet with, etc. they fought five hours one long summer's day, till the wild boar he yelld, and he'd fain run away. and away from, etc. o then he cut his head clean off, then there came an old lady running out of the wood, saying, 'you have killed my pretty, my pretty spotted pig.' as thou art, etc. then at him this old lady she did go, and he clove her from the top of her head to her toe. as he was, etc. in bromsgrove churchyard this old lady lies, and the face of the boar's head there is drawn by, that was killed by, etc. . sir lionel e a. ancient poems, ballads and songs of the peasantry of england, edited by robert bell, p. . b. mr robert white's papers. there was an old man and sons he had three; wind well, lion, good hunter a friar he heing one of the three, with pleasure he ranged the north country. for he was a jovial hunter as he went to the woods some pastime to see, he spied a fair lady under a tree, sighing and moaning mournfully. he was, etc. 'what are you doing, my fair lady?' 'i'm frightened the wild boar he will kill me; he has worried my lord and wounded thirty.' as thou art, etc. then the friar he put his horn to his mouth, and he blew a blast, east, west, north and south, and the wild boar from his den he came forth. unto the, etc. ***** f sir ryalash was one of these. ,,,, ...... .tit . ,„„ and be was a jovial hunter allies, antiquities of worcestershire, p. . j sib rackabello had three sons, wind well your horn, brave hunter a. . ms. and as the\ . ms. had bee. ii . ms. i wilt l. ms. miste. . ms. awaw. l. ms. vnbethought . . . while. . between and half a page of the ms. is wanting. . a[fter]: ms. blotted. . ms. bidds eue. . half a page of the ms. is wanting. b. the stanzas are doubled in christie, to suit the air. c. a. , , v. d. , , . john cole, who had heard an old man sing the ballad fifty years before (allies, p. ), could recollect only so much: 'oh! lady, oh! lady, what bringst thou here?' wind went his horn, as a hunter 'thee blow another blast, and he 'll soon come to thee.' as thou art a jovial hunter he whetted his tusks as he came along, wind went his horn, as a hunter a , stand thus in allies: v then he blowd a blast full north, east, west and south, for he was, etc. and the wild boar heard him full into his den, as he was, etc. vi then he made the best of his speed unto him. (two lines wrongly supplied from another source.) to sir ryalas, etc. has been completed from the corresponding stanza in d, and the two verses of , sep- arated above, are put together. b. i . old sir robert. is. was sir ryalas. *. till in a tree-top. . dost thee. . the wild boar's killed my lord and has thirty men gored. burden . and thou beest. . for to see. l. as in allies (see above), except full in his den. '. then heard him full in his den. . king orfeo l. as in allies (see above), but supplied by bell. . thrashed down the trees as he ramped him along. l. 'oh, what dost thee want of me, wild boar.' burden , the jovial. . summer. . have got him. s. cut the boar's head off quite. s. oh, my pretty spotted pig thou hast slew. burden , for thou beest. . i demand them of thee. . dost ask. . long locks. . to tear him through. burden . though he was. . into twain. . the knight he doth lie. s. and the wild boar's head is pictured thereby. d. , . in allies thus: v the wild boar hearing it into his den, well wind, etc. he whetted his tusks, for to make them strong, and he cut down the oak and the ash as he came along. for to meet with, etc. stanza has been completed from stanza vi of allies' other ballad, and duly sepa- rated from the first line of . s, . in allies' copy thus: vn oh! then he cut his head clean off! well wind, etc. then there came an old lady running out of the wood saying, 'you have killed my pretty, my pretty spotted pig.' as thou art, etc. what stanza should be is easily seen from c . c , d . as imperfectly remembered by auies (p. ): in bromsgrove church his corpse doth he, why winded his horn the hunter? because there was a wild boar nigh, and as he was a jovial hunter. e. b. "fragment found on the fly-leaf of an old book." mr r. white's papers. i . one of these three. s. wide countrie. burden . he was. . was in woods. *. with a bloody river running near she. . he said, ' fair lady what are you doing there?' s. killed my lord. . wanting. king orfeo the leisure hour, february , , no : folk-lore from unst, shetland, by mrs saxby, p. . me edmondston, from whose memory this ballad was derived, notes that though stanzas are probably lost after the first which would give some account of the king in the east wooing the lady in the west, no such verses were sung to him. he had forgotten some stanzas after the fourth, of which the sub- stance was that the lady was carried off by fairies; that the king went in quest of her, and one day saw a company passing along a hill- side, among whom he recognized his lost wife. the troop went to what seemed a great "ha- house," or castle, on the hillside. stanzas after the eighth were also forgotten, the purport being that a messenger from behind the grey stane appeared and invited the king in. . king orfeo we have here in traditional song the story of the justly admired mediaeval romance of orpheus, in which fairy-land supplants tar- tarus, faithful love is rewarded, and eury- dice (heurodis, erodys, eroudys) is retrieved. this tale has come down to us in three ver- sions: a, in the auchinleck ms., dating from the beginning of the fourteenth century, ad- vocates library, edinburgh, printed in laing's select remains of the ancient popular poe- try of scotland, 'orfeo and heurodis,' no ; b, ashmole ms., , bodleian library, of the first half of the fifteenth century, printed in halliwell's illustrations of fairy mythology, 'kyng orfew,' p. ; c, harleian ms., , british museum, printed by ritson, metrical romancees, n, ,' sir orpheo.' at the end of the auchinleck copy we are told that harp- ers in britain heard this marvel, and made a lay thereof, which they called, after the king, 'lay orfeo.' the other two copies also, but in verses which are a repetition of the intro- duction to 'lay le freine',' call this a breton lay. the story is this (a). orfeo was a king [and so good a harper never none was, b]. one day in may his queen went out to a garden with two maidens, and fell asleep un- der an "ympe" tree. when she waked she shrieked, tore her clothes, and acted very wildly. her maidens ran to the palace and called for help, for the queen would go mad. knights and ladies went to the queen, took her away, and put her to bed; but still the excitement continued. the king, in great affliction, besought her to tell him what was the matter, and what he could do. alas! she said, i have loved thee as my life, and thou me, but now we must part. as she slept knights had come to her and had bidden her come speak with their king. upon her re- fusal, the king himself came, with a company of knights and damsels, all on snow-white steeds, and made her ride on a palfrey by his side, and, after he had shown her his palace, brought her back and said: look thou be under this ympe tree tomorrow, to go with us; and if thou makest us any let, we will take thee by force, wherever thou be. the next day orfeo took the queen to the tree under guard of a thousand knights, all resolved to die before they would give her up: but she was spirited away right from the midst of £hem, no one knew whither. the king all but died of grief, but it was no boot. he gave his kingdom in charge to his high steward, told his barons to choose a new king when they should learn that he was dead, put on a sclavin and nothing else, took his harp, and went barefoot out at the gate. ten years he lived in the woods and on the heath; his body wasted away, his beard grew to 'his girdle. his only solace was in his harp, and, when the weather was bright, he would play, and all the beasts and birds would flock to him. often at hot noon-day he would see the king of fairy hunting with his rout, or an armed host would go by him with banners displayed, or knights and ladies would come dancing; but whither they went he could not tell. one day he descried sixty ladies who were hawking. he went towards them and saw that one of them was heurodis. he looked at her wistfully, and she at him; neither spoke a word, but tears fell from her eyes, and the ladies hurried her away. he followed, and spared neither stub nor stem. they went in at a rock, and he after. they alighted at a superb castle; he knocked at the gate, told the porter he was a minstrel, and was let in. there he saw heurodis, sleeping under an ympe tree. orfeo went into the hall, and saw a king and queen, sitting in a tabernacle. he kneeled down before the king. what man art thou? said the king. i never sent for thee, and never found i man so bold as to come here unbidden. lord, quoth orfeo, i am but a poor minstrel, and it is a way of ours to seek many a lord's house, though we be not welcome. without more words he took his harp and began to play. all the palace came to listen, and lay down at his feet. the king sat still and was glad to hear, and, when the harping was done, said, minstrel, ask of me whatever it be ; i will pay thee largely. "sir," said orfeo, "i be- seech thee give me the lady that sleepeth un- der the ympe tree." "nay," quoth the king, . king orfeo "ye were a sorry couple; for thou art lean and rough and black, and she is lovely and has no lack. a lothly thing were it to see her in thy company." "gentle king," replied the harper, it were a fouler thing to hear a lie from thy mouth." "take her, then, and be blithe of her," said the king. orfeo now turned homewards, but first pre- sented himself to the steward alone, and in beggar's clothes, as a harper from heathen- dom, to see if he were a true man. the loyal steward was ready to welcome every good harper for love of his lord. king orfeo made himself known; the steward threw over the table, and fell down at his feet, and so did all a the leisure hour, february , , no , p. . obtained from the singing of andrew coutts, an old man in unst, shetland, by mr biot edmondston. der lived a king inta da aste, scowan -iirla griin der lived a lady in da wast. whar giorten han griin oarlac 'for da king o ferrie we his daert, has pierced your lady to da hert.' * * # * # and aifter dem da king has gaen, but whan he cam it was a grey stane. dan he took oot his pipes ta play, bit sair his hert wi dbl an wae. the lords. they brought the queen to the town. orfeo and heurodis were crowned anew, and lived l°ng afterward. the scandinavian burden was, perhaps, no more intelligible to the singer than " hey non nonny" is to us. the first line seems to be unst for danish skoven axle gron (early green's the wood). the sense of the other line is not so obvious. professor grundtvig has suggested to me, hvor hjorten han gar arlig (where the hart goes yearly). * * * * * 'noo come ye in inta wir ha, an come ye in among wis a'.' now he's gaen in inta der ha, an he's gaen in among dem a'. dan he took out his pipes to play, bit sair his hert wi dbl an wae. 'noo tell to us what ye will hae: what sall we gie you for your play? 'what i will hae i will you tell, an dat's me lady isabel.' 'yees tak your lady, an yees gaeng home, an yees be king ower a' your ain.' dis king he has a huntin gaen, he's left his lady isabel alaue. . 'oh i wis ye'd never gaen away, for at your hame is dbl an wae. an first he played da notes o noy, an dan he played da notes o joy. an dan he played da god gabber reel, dat meicht ha made a sick hert hale. and first he played da notes o* noy, he's taen his lady, an he's gaen hame, an dan he played da notes o joy. an noo he's king ower a' his ain. an dan he played da god gabber reel, dat meicht ha made a sick hert hale. . the cruel mother the cruel mother. a. herd's mss, i, , ir, . herd's ancient and modern scottish songs, , n, . b. a. 'fine flowers in the valley,' johnson's mu- seum, p. . b. scott's minstrelsy, in, ( ). c. 'the cruel mother,' motherwell's minstrelsy, p. . d. a. kinloch mss, v, . b. 'the cruel mother,' kinloch, ancient scottish ballads, p. . e. 'the cruel mother.' a. motherwell's ms., p. . b. motherwell's note-book, p. . b. 'the cruel mother.' a. buchan's mss, n, . b. buchan's ballads of the north of scotland, n, . g. notes and queries, st s., vm, . h. 'the cruel mother,' motherwell's ms., p. . x. 'the minister's daughter of new york.' a. bu- chan's mss, n, . b. buchan's ballads of the north of scotland, n, . o. 'hey wi the rose and the lindie <),' christie, traditional ballad airs, i, . j. a. ' the rose o malindie o,' harris ms., f. . b. fragment communicated by dr t. davidson. k. motherwell's ms., p. . l. 'fine flowers in the valley,' smith's scottish min- strel, iv, . m. from miss m. reburn, as learned in county meath, ireland, one stanza. two fragments of this ballad, a, b, were printed in the last quarter of the eighteenth century ; c-l were committed to writing after ; and, of these, e, h, j, k are now printed for the first time. a-h differ only slightly, but several of these versions are very imperfect. a young woman, who passes for a leal maiden, gives birth to two babes [a, b, one, h, three], puts them to death with a penknife, b-f, and buries them, or, h, ties them hand and feet and buries them alive. she afterwards sees two pretty boys, and exclaims that if they were hers she would treat them most tenderly. they make answer that when they were hers they were very differently treated, rehearse what she had done, and inform or threaten her that hell shall be her portion, c, d, e, f, h. in i the children are buried alive, as * all the genuine ones. 'lady anne,' in scott's min- strelsy, in, , , is on the face of it a modern composi- tion, with extensive variations, on the theme of the popular in h, in j a strangled, in j b and l killed with the penknife, but the story is the same down to the termination, where, instead of simple hell-fire, there are various seven-year penances, properly belonging to the ballad of 'the maid and the palmer,' which follows this. all the english ballads are in two-line stanzas.* until no corresponding ballad had been found in denmark, though none was more likely to occur in danish. that year kristensen, in the course of his very remarka- ble ballad-quest in jutland, recovered two ver- sions which approach surprisingly near to scottish tradition, and especially to e : jydske folkeviser, i, , no a, b, ' barnemor- dersken.' two other danish versions have been obtained since then, but have not been published. a and b are much the same, and ballad. it is here given in an appendix, with a companion piece from cromek's remains of nithsdale and galloway song. . the cruel mother a close translation of a will not take much more space than would be required for a suffi- cient abstract. little kirsten took with her the bower-women five, and with them she went to the wood belive. she spread her cloak down on the earth, and on it to two little twins gave birth. she laid them under a turf so green, nor suffered for them a sorrow unseen. she laid them under so broad a stone, suffered sorrow nor harm for what she had done. eight years it was, and the children twain would fain go home to their mother again. they went and before our lord they stood: 'might we go home to our mother, we would.' 'te may go to your mother, if ye will, but ye may not contrive any ill.' they knocked at the door, they made no din: 'rise up, our mother, and let us in.' by life and by death hath she cursed and sworn, that never a child in the world had she borne. 'stop, stop, dear mother, and swear not so fast, we shall recount to you what has passed. 'you took with you the bower-women five, and with them went to the wood belive. 'you spread your cloak down on the earth, and on it to two little twins gave birth. 'you laid us under a turf so green, nor suffered for us a sorrow unseen. 'you laid us under so broad a stone, suffered sorrow nor harm for what you had done.' 'nay my dear bairns, but stay with me; and four barrels of gold shall be your fee.' 'you may give us four, or five, if you choose, but not for all that, heaven will we lose. 'you may give^us eight, you may give us nine, but not for all these, heaven will we tine. 'our seat is made ready in heavenly light, but for you a seat in hell is dight.' a ballad is spread all over germany which is probably a variation of ' the cruel mother,' though the resemblance is rather in the gen- eral character than in the details. a, ' hpl- lisches recht,' wunderhorn, n, , ed. of , n, , ed. . mittler, no , p. , seems to be this regulated and filled out. b, erlach, 'die rabenmutter,' rv, ; re- peated, with the addition of one stanza, by zuccalmaglio, p. , no . c, ' die kinds- morderinn,' meinert, p. , from the kuh- landchen; turned into current german, erk's liederhort, p. , no °. d, simrock, p. , no % from the aargau. e,' das falsche mutterherz,' erk u. irmer, heft , no , and 'die kindesmorderin,' erk's liederhort, p. , no , brandenburg. f, liederhort, p. , no % silesia. g, liederhort, p. , % from the rhein, very near to b. h, hoff- mann u. richter, no , p. , and i, no , p. , silesia. j, ditfurth, frankische v. i., n, , no . k, ' die rabenmutter,' peter, volksthiimliches aus osterreichisch-schlesien, i, , no . l, 'der teufel u. die miil- lerstocbter,' prohle, weltliche u. geistliche v. l, p. , no , hanoverian harz. repeti- tions and compounded copies are not noticed. the story is nearly this in all. a herds- man, passing through a wood, hears the cry of a child, but cannot make out whence the sound comes. the child announces that it is hidden in a hollow tree, and asks to be taken to the house where its mother is to be married that day. there arrived, the child proclaims before all the company that the bride is its mother. the bride, or some one of the party, calls attention to the fact that she is still wear- ing her maiden-wreath. nevertheless, says the child, she has had three children : one she drowned, one she buried in a dung-heap [the sand], and one she hid in a hollow tree. the bride wishes that the devil may come for her . the cetjel mother if this is true, and, upon the word, satan ap- pears and takes her off; in b, g, j, with words like these: 'komm her, komm her, meine schonste braut, dein sessel ist dir in der holle gebaut.' j . a wendish version, 'der hollentanz,' in haupt and schmaler, i, , no , differs from the german ballads only in this, that the bride has already borne nine children, and is going with the tenth. a combination of b, c, d, f is translated by grundtvig, engelske og skotske folkeviser, no , p. , and i, from the eighth stanza on, p. . c is translated by wolff, halle der volker, i, , and hauschatz, p. ; al- lingham's version (nearly b a) by knortz, l. u. r. alt-englands, p. , no . a herd's mss/i, , n, : ancient and modern scot- tish songs, , n, . ***** and there she's leand her back to a thorn, oh and alelladay, oh and alelladay and there she has her baby born. ten thousand times good night and be wi thee she has houked a grave ayont the sun, and there she has buried the sweet babe in. and she's gane back to her father's ha, she's counted the leelest maid o them a'. ***** 'o look not sae sweet, my bonie babe, gin ye smyle sae, ye 'll smyle me dead.' ***** b a. johnson's museum, p. . b. scott's minstrelsy, , in, , preface. she sat down below a thorn, fine flowers in the valley and there she has her sweet babe born. and the green leaves they grow rarely 'smile na sae sweet, my bonie babe, and ye smile sae sweet, ye 'll smile me dead.' she 's taen out her little pen-knife, and twinnd the sweet babe o its life. she's howket a grave by the light o the moon, and there she's buried her sweet babe in. as she was going to the church, she saw a sweet babe in the porch. 'o sweet babe, and thou were mine, i wad deed thee in the silk so fine.' 'o mother dear, when i was thine, you did na prove to me sae kind.' motherwell's minstrelsy, p. . she leaned her back unto a thorn, three, three, and three by three and there she has her two babes born. three, three, and thirty-three she took frae 'bout her ribbon-belt, and there she bound them hand and foot. she has taen out her wee pen-knife, and there she ended baith their life. she has howked a hole baith deep and wide, she has put them in baith side by side. . the cruel mother she has covered them oer wi a marble stane, thinking she would gang maiden hame. as she was walking by her father's castle wa, she saw twa pretty babes playing at the ba. 'o bonnie babes, gin ye were mine, i would dress you up in satin fine. 'o i would dress you in the silk, and wash you ay in morning milk.' 'o cruel mother, we were thine, and thou made us to wear the twine. 'o cursed mother, heaven's high, and that's where thou will neer win nigh. 'o cursed mother, hell is deep, and there thou 'll enter step by step.' a. kinloch's mss, v, , in the handwriting of james beattie. b. kinloch's ancient scottish ballads, p. : from the recitation of miss c. beattie. there lives a lady in london, all alone and alone ee she's gane wi bairn to the clerk's son. down by the green wood sae bonnie she's taen her mantle her about, she's gane aff to the gude green wood. she's set her back untill an oak, first it bowed and then it broke. she's set her back untill a tree, bonny were the twa boys she did bear. but'she took out a little pen-knife, and she parted them and their sweet life. she's aff untill her father's ha; she was the lealest maiden that was amang them a'. as she lookit oure the castle wa, she spied twa bonnie boys playing at the ba. 'o if these two babes were mine, they should wear the silk and the sabel- line!* 'o mother dear, when we were thine, "we neither wore the silks nor the sabel- line. 'but out ye took a little pen-knife, and ye parted us and our sweet life. 'but now we 're in the heavens hie, and ye've the pains o hell to drie.' e a. motherwell's ms., p. . b. motherwell's note- book, p. . from the recitation of agnes lyle, kilbar- cban, august , . thebe was a lady, she lived in lurk, sing hey alone and alonie o she fell in love with her father's clerk. down by yon greenwood sidie o she loved him seven years and a day, till her big belly did her betray. she leaned her back unto a tree, and there began her sad misery. she set her foot unto a thorn, and there she got her two babes born. she took out her wee pen-knife, she twind them both of their sweet life. she took the sattins was on her head, she rolled them in both when they were dead. she howkit a grave forenent the sun, and there she buried her twa babes in. as she was walking thro her father's ha, she spied twa boys playing at the ba. . the cruel mother 'o pretty boys, if ye were mine, i would dress ye both in the silks so fine.' 'o mother dear, when we were thine, thou neer dressed us in silks so fine. 'for thou was a lady, thou livd in lurk, and thou fell in love with thy father's clerk. 'thou loved him seven years and a day, till thy big belly did thee betray. 'thou leaned thy back unto a tree, and there began thy sad misery. 'thou set thy foot unto a thorn, and there thou got thy two babes born. 'thou took out thy wee pen-knife, and twind us both of our sweet hie. 'thou took the sattins was on thy head, thou rolled us both in when we were dead. 'thou howkit a grave forenent the sun, and there thou buried thy twa babes in. 'but now we 're both in [the] heavens hie, there is pardon for us, but none for thee.' 'my pretty boys, beg pardon for me!' 'there is pardon for us, but none for thee.' f a. buchan's mss, ii, . b. buchan's ballads of the north of scotland, n, . it fell ance upon a day, edinburgh, edinburgh it fell ance upon a day, stirling for aye it fell ance upon a day the clerk and lady went to play. so proper saint johnston stands fair upon tay 'if my baby be a son, i 'll make him a lord of high renown.' she's leand her back to the wa, prayd that her pains might fa. she's leand her back to the thorn, there was her baby born. 'o bonny baby, if ye suck sair, you 'll never suck by my side mair.' she's riven the muslin frae her head, tied the baby hand and feet. out she took her little pen-knife, twind the young thing o its sweet life. she's howked a hole anent the meen, there laid her sweet baby in. she had her to her father's ha, she was the meekest maid amang them a'. it fell ance upon a day, she saw twa babies at their play. 'o bonny babies, gin ye were mine, i'd cleathe you in the silks sae fine.' 'o wild mother, when we were thine, you cleathd us not in silks so fine. 'but now we 're in the heavens high, and you've the pains o hell to try.' she threw hersell oer the castle-wa, there i wat she got a fa. . the cruel mother notes and queries, st s., tnl, . from warwick- shire, communicated by c. clifton barry. there was a lady lived on [a] lea, all alone, alone o down by the greenwood side went she. down the greenwood side o she set her foot all on a thorn, there she had two babies born. o she had nothing to lap them in, but a white appurn, and that was thin. h motherwell's ms., p. . from agnes laird, kilbar- chan, august , . there was a lady brisk and smart, all in a lone and a lonie o and she goes with child to her father's clark. down by the greenwood sidie o big, big oh she went away, and then she set her foot to a tree. big she set her foot to a stone, till her three bonnie babes were borne. she took the ribbons off her head, she tied the little babes hand and feet. she howkit a hole before the sun, she's laid these three bonnie babes in. she covered them over with marble stone, for dukes and lords to walk upon. she lookit over her father's castle wa, she saw three bonnie boys playing at the ba. the first o them was clad in red, to shew the innocence of their blood. the neist o them was clad in green, to shew that death they had been in. the next was naked to the skin, to shew they were murderd when they were born. 'o bonnie babes, an ye were mine, i wad dress you in the satins so fine.' 'o mother dear, when we were thine, thou did not use us half so kind.' 'o bonnie babes, an ye be mine, whare hae ye been a' this time?' 'we were at our father's house, preparing a place for thee and us.' 'whaten a place hae ye prepar'd for me?' 'heaven's for us, but hell's for thee. 'o mother dear, but heaven's high; that is the place thou 'll ne'er come nigh. 'o mother dear, but hell is deep; 't will cause thee bitterlie to weep.' i a. buchan's ms., n, . b. buchan's ballads of the north of scotland, n, . c. christie, traditional ballad airs, i, . the minister's daughter of new york, hey wi the rose and the lindie, o has faen in love wi her father's clerk. alone by the green burn sidie, o she courted him six years and a day, at length her belly did her betray. she did her down to the greenwood gang, to spend awa a while o her time. she lent her back unto a thorn, and she's got her twa bonny boys born. . the cruel mother she's taen the ribbons frae her hair, bound their bodyes fast and sair. she's put them aneath a marble stane, thinking a maiden to gae hame. looking oer her castle wa, she spied her bonny boys at the ba. 'o bonny babies, if ye were mine, i woud feed you with the white bread and wine. 'i woud feed you wi the ferra cow's milk, and dress you in the finest silk.' 'o cruel mother, when we were thine, we saw none of your bread and wine. 'we saw none of your ferra cow's milk, nor wore we of your finest silk.' 'o bonny babies, can ye tell me, what sort of death for you i must die?' 'yes, cruel mother, we 'll tell to thee, what sort of death for us you must die. 'seven years a fowl in the woods, seven years a fish in the floods. 'seven years to be a church bell, seven years a porter in hell.' 'welcome, welcome, fowl in the wood[s], welcome, welcome, fish in the flood[s]. 'welcome, welcome, to be a church bell, but heavens keep me out of hell.' a. harris ms., fol. , " mrs harris and others." b. frag- ment communicated by dr t. davidson. she leant her back against a thorn, hey for the rose o' malindie o and there she has twa bonnie babes born. adoon by the green wood sidie o she's taen the ribbon frae her head, an hankit their necks till they waur dead. she luikit outowre her castle wa, an saw twa nakit boys, playin at the ba. 'o bonnie boys, waur ye but mine, i wald feed ye wi flour-bread an wine.' 'o fause mother, whan we waur thine, te didna feed us wi flour-bread an wine.' 'o bonnie boys, gif ye waur mine, i wald clied ye wi silk sae fine.' 'o fause mother, whan we waur thine, you didna clied us in silk sae fine. 'ye tuik the ribbon aft your head, an' hankit our necks till we waur dead. * * * ♦ » 'ye sall be seven years bird on the tree, ye sall be seven years fish i the sea. 'ye sall be seven years eel i the pule, an ye sall be seven years doon into hell.' 'welcome, welcome, bird on the tree, welcome, welcome, fish i the i 'welcome, welcome, eel i the pule, but oh for gudesake, keep me frae hell!' motherwell's ms., p. . lady margaret looked oer the castle wa, hey and a lo and a lilly o and she saw twa bonnie babes playing at the ba. down by the green wood sidy o 'o pretty babes, an ye were mine, i would dress you in the silks so fine.' . the cruel mother 'o false mother, when we were thine, * * * * ye did not dress us in silks so fine.' 'seven years a fish in the sea, and seven years a bird in the tree. 'o bonnie babes, an ye were mine, i would feed you on the bread and wine.' 'seven years to ring a bell, and seven years porter in hell.' 'o false mother, when we were thine, te did not feed us on the bread and the wine.' l smith's scottish minstrel, iv, , d ed. a lady lookd out at a castle wa, fine flowers in the valley she saw twa bonnie babes playing at the ba. and the green leaves they grow rarely ' my bonnie babes, an ye were mine, i would cleed ye i the scarlet sae fine. 'i'd lay ye saft in beds o down, and watch ye morning, night and noon.' 'o mither dear, when we were thine, ye didna cleed us i the scarlet sae fine. 'but ye took out yere little pen-knife, and parted us frae our sweet life. 'ye howkit a hole aneath the moon, and there ye laid our bodies down. 'ye happit the hole wi mossy stanes, and there ye left our wee bit banes. 'but ye ken weel, mither dear, ye never cam that gate for fear.' * # * # 'seven lang years ye 'll ring the bell, and see sic sights as ye darna tell.' x m you neither dressed us in coarse or fine.' down by the greenwood sidy communicated by miss margaret reburn, as learned in county meath, ireland, about . . 'o mother dear, when we were thine, all a lee and aloney o a. superscribed, "fragment to its own tune. melancholy." against the first line of the burden is written in the margin, "perhaps alas-a-day," and this change is adopted in herd's printed copy. scott suggested well-a- day. . mss and ed. have ze . . . ze tl b. b. "a fragment [of stanzas] containing the following verses, which i have often heard sung in my childhood." scott, in. . no burden is given. i . she set her back against. i . young son born. . smile nae sae. , , wanting. . an when that lady went. *. she spied a naked boy. . o bonnie boy, an ye. . i'd cleed ye in the silks. . to me ye were na half. cunningham, songs of scotland, i, , says: "i remember a verse, and but a verse, of an old ballad which records a horrible instance of barbarity," and quotes the first two stanzas of scott's fragment literally ; from which we may infer that it was scott's fragment that he partly remembered. but he goes on: "at this moment a hunter came — one whose . the cruel mother suit the lady had long rejected with scorn — the brother of her lover: he took the babe on his spear point, and threw it upon a thorn: 'let the wind blow east, the wind blow west, the cradle will rock alone.' cunningham's recollection was evidently much confused. this last stanza, which is not in the metre of the others, is perhaps from some copy of' edom o gordon.' d. a. . i was. b. kinloch makes slight changes in his printed copy, as usual. . until a brier. . out she's tane. . she seemd the lealest maiden amang. . o an thae. e. i , ll . lurk may be a corruption of york, which is written in pencil (by way of sugges- tion?) in the mss. a. . on your. b. , . upon a thorn. . twind wanting. . sattins wanting. , , , , are not written out in the note-book. . the heavens. s. but there is none. f. a. stands last but one in the ms. . here, b. *. has her. . sweet is omitted. printed as from the ms. in dixon's scottish traditional versions, etc., p. . dixon has changed baby to babies in , , , , and indulges in other variations. h. the ballad had been heard with two differ- ent burdens; besides the one given in the text, this: three and three, and three by three ah me, some forty three 'lady mary ann,' johnson's museum, no , begins: o lady mary ann looks oer the castle wa, she saw three bonie boys playing at the ba. i. a, b. , l. fool, i. e. fowl spelt phonetically. a. . greenwoods b. . it did. . with white. ii . wear'd. . maun die. o. "epitomized" from buchan, n, , "and somewhat changed for this work, some of the changes being made according to the way the editor has heard it sung." note by chris- tie, p. . burden, it's hey with the rose, etc. . as a lady was looking. . she spied twa. ii . nor wore we a. , . what sort of pain for you i must drie. . what sort of pain for us you must drie. . and seven. printed as from the ms. in dixon's scottish traditional versions of ancient ballads, p. , ' the minister's dochter o newarke,' with a few arbitrary changes. j. a. l. you. b has stanzas corresponding to a , , , , and, in place of , she 's taen oot a little pen-knife, and she's robbit them o their sweet life. burden . hey i the rose o mylindsay o. i . until a thorn. i . an syne her twa bon- nie boys was born. . as she leukit oer her father's. . bonnie boys. . an ye were mine. . bread. . claithe ye in. l. looks like an interpolation, and very probably the ballad was docked at the beginning in or- der to suit the parlor better. . the cruel mother appendix lady anne "this ballad was communicated to me by mr kirkpatrick sharpe of hoddom, who mentions hav- ing copied it from an old magazine. although it has probably received some modern corrections, the general turn seems to be ancient, and corresponds with that of a fragment [b b], which i have often heard sung in my* childhood." minstrelsy of the scottish border, in, , ed. . buchan, gleanings, p. , has an additional stanza between and of scott's, whether from the old magazine or not, it would not be worth the while to ascertain. cunningham, songs of scotland, i, , has re- written even ' lady anne.' translated by schubart, p. , and by gerhard, p. . fair lady anne sate in her bower, down by the greenwood side, and the flowers did spring, and the birds did sing, 't was the pleasant may-day tide. but fair lady anne on sir william calld, with the tear grit in her ee, 'o though thou be fause, may heaven thee guard, in the wars ayont the sea!' out of the wood came three bonnie boys, upon the simmer's morn, and they did sing and play at the ba', as naked as they were born. 'o seven lang years wad i sit here, amang the frost and snaw, a' to hae but ane o these bonnie boys, a playing at the ba.' then up and spake the eldest boy, 'now listen, thou fair ladie, and ponder well the rede that i tell, then make ye a choice of the three. "t is i am peter, and this is paul, and that ane, sae fair to see, but a twelve-month sinsyne to paradise came, to join with our companie.' 'o i will hae the snaw-white boy, the bonniest of the three :' 'and if i were thine, and in thy propine, o what wad ye do to me?' "t is i wad clead thee in silk and gowd, and nourice thee on my knee:' 'o mither, mither, when i was thine, sic kindness i couldna see. 'beneath the turf, where now i stand, the fause nurse buried me; the cruel pen-knife sticks still in my heart, and i come not back to thee.' "there are many variations of this affecting tale. one of them appears in the musical museum, and is there called ' fine flowers of the valley,' of which the present is either the original or a parallel song. i am inclined to think it is the original." cromek's remains of nithsdale and galloway song, p. . this is translated by talvj, versuch, p. . there sat 'mang the flowers a fair ladie, sing ohon, ohon, and ohon o and there she has born a sweet babie. adown by the greenwode side an strait she rowed its swaddling band, an o! nae mother grips took her hand. o twice it lifted its bonnie wee ee: 'thae looks gae through the saul o me ' she buried the bonnie babe neath the brier, and washed her hands wi mony a tear. and as she kneelt to her god in prayer, the sweet wee babe was smiling there. 'o ay, my god, as i look to thee, my babe 's atween my god and me. 'ay, ay, it lifts its bonnie wee ee: '" sic kindness get as ye shawed me."' 'an o its smiles wad win me in, but i'm borne down by deadly sin. . the maid and the palmer the maid and the palmer a. percy ms., p. . 'lillumwham,' hales and fur- b. sharpe's ballad book, ed. laing, p. . nivall, iv, . the only english copy of this ballad that approaches completeness is furnished by the percy manuscript, a. sir walter scott re- membered, and communicated to kirkpatrick sharpe, three stanzas, and half of the burden, of another version, b. there are three versions in danish, no one of them very well preserved. a,' maria mag- dalena,' is a broadside of about , existing in two identical editions: grundtvig, no , n, ; b, ib., was written down in the faroe isles in , by hammershaimb; c was ob- tained from recitation by kristensen in jut- land in , jydske folkeviser, i, , no , ' synderinden.' a faroe version, from the end of the last century or the beginning of this, is given in grundtvig's notes, p. ff. versions recently obtained from recitation in norway are: 'maria,' bugge's gamle norske folkeviser, no ; a, p. ; b, p. , a fragment, which has since been com- pleted, but only two more stanzas printed, grundtvig, in, ; c, bugge, p. . d, e are reported, but only a stanza or two printed, grundtvig, hi, f; f, printed f, and g, as obtained by lindeman, : all these, d-g, communicated by bugge. c, and one or two others, are rather danish than nor- wegian. this is, according to afzelius, one of the commonest of swedish ballads. these ver- sions are known: a, "a broadside of and ," grundtvig, n, , bergstrom's afzelius, i, ; b,' magdalena,' atterbom's poetisk kalender for , p. ; c, afze- lius, h, ; d, arwidsson, i, , no ; e, dybeck's svenska visor, hafte , no , only two stanzas; f, g, "in wiede's collection, in the swedish historical and antiquarian acad- emy ;" h, "in cavallius and stephens' col- lection, where also a, f, g are found;" i, maximilian axelson's vesterdalarne, p. ; j, 'jungfru adelin,' e. wigstrom's folkdikt- ning, no , p. ; k, 'jungfru maja,' al- bum utgifvet af nylandingar, vl, . a-f are printed in grundtvig's notes, n, ff, and also some verses of g, h. the ballad is known to have existed in icelandic from a minute of arne magnusson, who cites the line, "swear not, swear not, wretched woman," but it has not been recov- ered (grundtvig, ni, , note d). finnish, ' mataleenan vesimatka,' kantele- tar, ed. , p. . the story of the woman of samaria, john, iv, is in all these blended with mediaeval tradi- tions concerning mary magdalen, who is as- sumed to be the same with the woman "which was a sinner," in luke, vii, , and also with mary, sister of lazarus. this is the view of the larger part of the latin ecclesiastical writ- ers, while most of the greeks distinguish the three (butler, ' lives of the saints,' vn, , note). it was reserved for ballads, as grundt- vig remarks, to confound the magdalen with the samaritan woman. the traditional mary magdalen was a beau- tiful woman of royal descent, who derived her surname from magdalum, her portion of the great family estate. for some of her earlier years entirely given over to carnal delights, "unde jam, proprio nomine perdito, peccatrix consueverat appellari," she was, by the preach- ing of jesus, converted to a passionate re- pentance and devotedness. in the course of the persecution of the church at jerusalem, when stephen was slain and the christians . the maid and the palmer widely dispersed, mary, with lazarus, her brother, martha, and many more, were set afloat on the mediterranean in a rudderless ship, with the expectation that they would find a watery grave. but the malice of the unbelieving was overruled, and the vessel came safe into port at marseilles. having labored some time for the christianizing of the people, and founded churches and bishop- rics, mary retired to a solitude where there was neither water, tree, nor plant, and passed the last thirty years of her life in heavenly contemplation. the cave in which she se- cluded herself is still shown at la sainte baume. the absence of material comforts was, in her case, not so great a deprivation, since every day at the canonical hours she was carried by angels to the skies, and heard, with ears of the flesh, the performances of the heavenly choirs, whereby she was so thoroughly refected that when the angels restored her to her cave she was in need of no bodily aliment. (golden legend, grasse, c. .) it is the practical martha that performs real austeri- ties, and those which are ascribed to her cor- respond too closely with the penance in the scandinavian ballads not to be the original of it: "nam in primis septem annis, glandibus et radicibus herbisque crudis et pomis * silves- tribus corpusculum sustentans potius quam re- ficiens, victitavit .... extensis solo ramis arboreis aut viteis, lapide pro cervicali capiti superposito subjecto, .... incumbebat." (vin- cent of beauvais, spec. hist., ix, .) the best-preserved scandinavian ballads concur nearly in this account. a woman at a well, or a stream, is approached by jesus, who asks for drink. she says she has no ves- sel to serve him with. he replies that if she were pure, he would drink from her hands. she protests innocence with oaths, but is si- • the magdalen's food is to be dry apple in danish b . t swedish p: 'and tell me how has it been with thy meat?' ' i have eaten of almonds sweet.' 'and tell me how it has been with thy drink?' ' have drunk both mead and wine, i think.' is 'and tell me how was that bed of thine?' 'ob i have rested on ermeline-' lenced by his telling her that she has had three children, one with her father, one with her brother, one with her parish priest: danish a, b, c; faroe; swedish c, d, f, i, j, k; norwegian a, c, f, g. she falls at his feet, and begs him to shrive her. jesus appoints her a seven years' penance in the wood. her food shall be the buds or the leaves of the tree [grass, worts, berries, bark], her drink the dew [brook, juice of plants], her bed the hard ground [linden-roots, thorns and prickles, rocks, straw and sticks]; all the while she shall be harassed by bears and lions [wolves], or snakes and drakes (this last in swedish b, c, d, i, k, norwegian a). the time ex- pired, jesus returns and asks how she has liked her penance. she answers, as if she had eaten daintily, drunk wine, slept on silk or swan's-down, and had angelic company [had been listening to music] .f jesus then tells her that a place is ready for her in heaven. the penance lasts eight years in swedish c, f, j, norwegian a; nine in the faroe ballad; fifteen in danish b; and six weeks in danish c, it is to range the field in danish a, swed- ish f ; to walk the snows barefoot in the faroe ballad and norwegian b; in norwegian d to stand nine years in a rough stream and eight years naked in the church-paths. the names maria, or magdalena, jesus, or christ, are found in most of the scandinavian ballads. swedish e has 'lena (lilla lena); swedish h he-lena; j, adelin; k, maja. norwegian a gives no name to the woman, and danish a a name only in the burden; norwegian b has, corruptly, margjit. in dan- ish c, norwegian b, g, jesus is called an old man, correspondingly with the "old palmer" of english a, but the old man is afterwards called jesus in norwegian g (b is not printed in full), and in the burden of danish . the norwegian q: 'i hare fed as well on herbage wild as others have fed on roast and broiled. 'i have rested as well on the hard, hard stone as others have rested on beds of down. 'i have drunk as well from the rippling rill as others that drank both wine and ale.' . the maid and the palmer son is exchanged for the father in swed- ish d. stanzas , of swedish a, g, approach sin- gularly near to english a , : swedish a: 'would thy leman now but come, thou wouldst give him to drink out of thy hand.' by all the worlds magdalen swore, that leman she never had. swedish g: 'yes, but if i thy leman were, i should get drink from thy snow-white hand.' maria swore by the holy ghost, she neer had to do with any man. the woman is said to have taken the lives of her three children in danish a, b, c, and of two in swedish c, d, f, i, j, k (b also, where there are but two in all), a trait prob- ably borrowed from 'the cruel mother.' the seven years' penance of the scandina- vian ballads is multiplied three times in eng- lish a, and four times in b and in those ver- sions of ' the cruel mother' which have been affected by the present ballad ( , i, j, k; l is defective). what is more important, the penance in the english ballads is completely different in kind, consisting not in exagger- ated austerities, but partly, at least, in trans- migration or metensomatosis: seven years to be a fish, , i, j, k; seven years a bird, , i, j, k; seven years a stone, , a, b; seven years an eel, , j; seven years a bell, or bell- clapper, , i, , a (to ring a bell, , k, l). seven years in hell seems to have been part of the penance or penalty in every case: seven years a porter in hell, , b, , i, k; seven years down in hell, , j; seven years to "ring the bell and see sic sights as ye darna tell, , li;" "other seven to lead an ape in hell," a, a burlesque variation of the por- tership. the finnish mataleena, going to the well for water, sees the reflection of her face, and bewails her lost charms. jesus begs a drink: she says she has no can, no glass. he bids her confess. "where are your three boys? one you threw into the fire, one into the water, and one you buried in the wilderness." she fills a pail with her tears, washes his feet, and wipes them with her hair: then asks for penance. "put me, lord jesus, where you will. make me a ladder-bridge over the sea, a brand in the fire, a coal in the furnace." there are several slavic ballads which blend the story of the samaritan woman and that of 'the cruel mother,' without admixture of the magdalen. wendish a, 'aria' (m-aria?), haupt and schmaler, i, , no , has a maid who goes for water on sunday morning, and is joined by an old man who asks for a drink. she says the water is not clean; it is dusty and covered with leaves. he says, the water is clean, but you are unclean. she de- mands proof, and he bids her go to church in her maiden wreath. this she does. the grass withers before her, a track of blood follows her, and in the churchyard there come to her nine headless boys, who say, nine sons hast thou killed, chopt off their heads, and mean- est to do the same for a tenth. she entreats their forgiveness, enters the church, sprinkles herself with holy water, kneels at the altar and crosses herself, then suddenly sinks into the ground, so that nothing is to be seen but her yellow hair. b, 'die kindesmorderin,' ib., n, , no , begins like a. as the maid proceeds to the church, nine graves open before her, and nine souls follow her into the church. the oldest of her children springs upon her and breaks her neck, saying," mother, here is thy reward. nine of us didst thou kill." there are two moravian ballads of the same tenor: a, deutsches museum, , i, , translated by m. klapp: b, communi- cated to the zeitschrift des bohmischen mu- seums, , p. , by a. w. sembera, as sung by the " mahrisch sprechenden slawen" in prussian silesia; the first seven stanzas translated in haupt u. schmaler, n, , note to no . the lord god goes out one sun- day morning, and meets a maid, whom he asks for water. she says the water is not clean. he replies that it is cleaner than she: for (a) . the maid and the palmer she has seduced fifteen men and had children with all of them, has filled hell with the men and the sea with the children. he sends her to church; but, as she enters the church-yard, the bells begin to ring (of themselves), and when she enters the church, all the images turn their backs. as she falls on her knees, she is changed into a pillar of salt. the popular ballads of some of the southern nations give us the legend of the magdalen without mixture. french. a, podsies populaires de la france, i (not paged), from sermoyer, ain, thirty lines, made stanzas by repetition. mary goes from door to door seeking jesus. he asks what she wants: she answers, to be shriven. her sins have been such, she says, that the earth ought not to bear her up, the trees that see her can but tremble. for penance she is to stay seven years in the woods of baume, eat the roots of the trees, drink the dew, and sleep under a juniper. jesus comes to inquire about her when this space has expired. she says she is well, but her hands, once white as flower-de-luce, are now black as leather. for this jesus requires her to stay seven years longer, and then, being thoroughly cured of her old vanities, she is told, 'marie magdeleine, allez au paradis; la porte en est ouverte depuis hier a midi.' b is nearly the same legend in provencal: damase arbaud, i, . the penance is seven years in a cave, at the end of which jesus passes, and asks mary what she has had to eat and drink. "wild roots, and not always them; muddy water, and not always that." the conclusion is peculiar. mary expresses a wish to wash her hands. jesus pricks the rock, and water gushes out. she bewails the lost beauty of her hands, and is remanded to the cavern for another seven years. upon her exclaiming at the hardship, jesus tells her that martha shall come to console her, the wood-dove fetch her food, the birds drink. but mary is not reconciled: 'lord god, my good father, make me not go back again! with the tears from my eyes i will wash my hands clean. 'with the tears from my eyes i will wash your feet, and then i will dry them with the hair of my head.' c, poesies populaires de la gascogne, bladd, , p. , 'la pauvre madeleine,' seven- teen stanzas of four short lines, resembles b till the close. when jesus comes back after the second penance, and mary says, as she had before, that she has lived like the beasts, only she has lacked water, jesus again causes water to spring from the rock. but mary says, i want no water. i should have to go back to the cave for another seven years. she is conducted straightway to paradise. d, bladd, as before, p. ,'marie-made- leine,' six stanzas of five short lines. mary is sent to the mountains for seven years' pen- ance; at the end of that time washes her hands in a brook, and is guilty of admiring them ; is sent back to the mountains for seven years, and is then taken to heaven. a catalan ballad combines the legend of the magdalen's penance with that of her con- version: mila, observaciones, p. , no , 'santa magdalena,' and briz y salt , can- sons de la terra, n, . martha, returning from church, asks magdalen, who is combing her hair with a gold comb, if she has been at mass. magdalen says no, nor had she thought of going. martha advises her to go, for she certainly will fall in love with the preacher, a young man; pity that he ever was a friar. magdalen attires herself with the utmost splendor, and, to hear the sermon better, takes a place immediately under the pulpit. the first word of the sermon touched her; at the middle she fainted. she stripped off all her ornaments, and laid them at the preacher's feet. at the door of the church she inquired of a penitent where jesus was to be found. she sought him out at the house of simon, washed his feet with her tears, and wiped them with her hair, picked up from the floor the bones which he had thrown away. jesus at last noticed her, and asked what she wished. . the maid and the palmer she wished to confess. he imposed the pen- ance of seven years on a mountain, "eating herbs and fennels, eating bitter herbs." mag- dalen turned homewards after the seven years, and found on the way a spring, where she washed her hands, with a sigh over their dis- figurement. she heard a voice that said, mag- dalen, thou hast sinned. she asked for new penance, and was sent back to the mountain for seven years more. at the end of this sec- ond term she died, and was borne to the skies with every honor from the virgin, saints, and angels. danish a is translated by prior, n, , no : swedish c by william and mary howitt, literature and romance of northern europe, i, . a percy ms., p. . furnivall, iv, . the maid shee went to the well to washe, lillumwham, lillumwham! the mayd shee went to the well to washe, whatt then? what then? the maid shee went to the well to washe, dew ffell of her lilly white fleshe. grandam hoy, grandam hoy, heye! leg a deny, leg a merry, mett, mer, whoope, whir! driuance, larumben, grandam boy, heye! while shee washte and while shee ronge, while shee hangd o the hazle wand. there came an old palmer by the way, sais, ' god speed thee well, thou faire maid!' 'hast either cupp or can, to giue an old palmer drinke therin?' sayes, 'i have neither cupp nor cann, to giue an old palmer drinke therin.' 'but an thy lemwtan came from roome, cupps and canns thou wold ffind soone.' shee sware by god & good st. john, lemman had shee neuer none. saies, ' peace, ffaire mayd, you are fporsworne! nine children you haue borne. 'three were buryed vnder thy bed's head, other three vnder thy brewing leade. 'other three on yon play greene; count, maid, and there be .' 'but i hope you are the good old man that all the world beleeues vpon. 'old palmer, i pray thee, pennaunce that thou wilt giue to me.' 'penance i can giue thee none, but yeere to be a stepping-stone. 'other seaven a clapper in a bell, other to lead an ape in hell. 'when thou hast thy penance done, then thoust come a mayden home.' 'seven years ye 'll be porter of hell, and then i 'll take you to mysell.' * * * ♦ * 'weel may i be a' the other three, 'seven years ye shall be a stone, but porter of hell i never will be.' a ballad book, by charles kirkpatrick sharpe, edited by david laing, p. f, vn ; from sir w. scott's recollection. and i, etc. for many a poor palmer to rest him upon. and you the fair maiden of gowden-gane . st stephen and herod a. . white shee washee & white. *. white. . they were. . on won. . maids. b. note by scott: "there is or was a curious song with this burthen to the verse, 'and i the fair maiden of gowden-gane.' said maiden is, i think, courted by the devil in human shape, but i only recollect imper- fectly the concluding stanzas [ , ]: 'seven years ye shall be a stone,' (here a chorus line which i have forgot), etc. the lady answers, in allusion to a former word which i have forgotten, weel may i be [etc., st. ]." st stephen and herod sloane ms., , fol b; british museum. the manuscript "which preserves this de- lightful little legend has been judged by the handwriting to be of the age of henry vi. it was printed entire by mr t. wright, in , for the warton club, under the title, songs and carols, from a manuscript in the british museum of the fifteenth century, the ballad at p. . ritson gave the piece as 'a carol for st stephen's day,' in ancient songs, , p. , and it has often been re- peated; e. g., in sandys' christmas carols, p. , sylvester's, p. . the story, with the wise men replacing stephen, is also found in the carol, still cur- rent, of 'the carnal and the crane,' sandys, p. , in conjunction with other legends and in this order: the nativity, the wise men's passage with herod, the massacre of the in- nocents, the flight into egypt, herod and the sower. the legend of stephen and herod occurs, and is even still living, in scandinavian tradi- tion, combined, as in english, with others re- lating to the infancy of jesus. danish. 'jesusbarnet, stefan og herodes:' a, grundtvig, no , n, . first printed * everriculum fermenti veteris, sen residua in danico orbe cum paganismi turn papismi reliquiae in apricum pro- latse. "rogata anus num vera esse crederet quae canebat, in erik pontoppidan's little book on the rel- iques of paganism and papistry among the danish people, , p. , as taken down from the singing of an old beggar-woman be- fore the author's door.* syv alludes to the ballad in , and cites one stanza. the first five of eleven stanzas are devoted to the beauty of the virgin, the annunciation, and the birth of the saviour. the song then goes on thus: saint stephen leads the foals to water, all by the star so gleaming: 'of a truth the prophet now is born that all the world shall ransom.' king herod answered thus to him: 'i 'll not believe this story, till the roasted cock that is on the board claps his wings and crows before me.' the cock he clapped his wings and crew, 'our lord, this is his birthday!' herod fell off from his kingly seat, for grief he fell a swooning. king herod bade saddle his courser gray, he listed to ride to bethlem; respondit: me il a in dubium vocaturam averruncet deus i" grundtvig, u, . . st stephen and heeod- fain would he slay the little child that to cope with him pretended. mary took the child in her arms, and joseph the ass took also, so they traversed the jewish land, to egypt, as god them guided. the little children whose blood was shed, they were full fourteen thousand, but jesus was thirty miles away before the sun was setting. b. a broadside of fourteen four-line stanzas, in two copies, a of the middle, b from the lat- ter part, of the last century, b was printed "in the dansk kirketidende for ,no ," by professor george stephens: a is given by grundtvig, m, . the first three stanzas correspond to a - , the next three to a - : the visit of the wise men to herod is then intercalated, - , and the story concludes as in a - . c. 'sankt steffan,' kristensen, n, , no , from recitation about , eight four-line stanzas, - agreeing with a - , - with a - , , with a , . the verbal re- semblance with the copy sung by the old beg- gar-woman more than a hundred and thirty years before is often close. a faroe version, ' rudisar vfsa,' was com- municated to the dansk kirketidende for , p. , by hammershaimb, twenty-six two-line stanzas (grundtvig, n, ). stephen is in herod's service. he goes out and sees the star in the east, whereby he knows that the saviour of the world, "the great king," is born. he comes in and makes this announce- ment. herod orders his eyes to be put out: • " staffans-skede, iubus, vel, nt recti us dicam, licentia puerorum agrestium, qui in festo s. stephani, equis vecti per villas discurrunt, et cerevisiam in lagenis, ad hoc ipsum praeparatis, mendicando osiiatim colliguut:" a dissertation, upsala, , cited by bergstrom in his edition of afzelius, li, , note . skede is gallop, or run, icelandic skcis (bergstrom), norwegian skeid, skjei. many copies of the staffansvisa have been collected: see bergstriim's afzelius, ii, : and for a description of the custom as practised among swedes in finland, with links and lanterns, but no foals, fagerlund, anteckningar om korpo och houtskars socknar, p. ft. something very similar was known in holstein: see schiitze, holsteinsches idioticon, in, , as so, he says, it will appear whether this "king" will help him. they put out stephen's eyes, but now he sees as well by night as before by day. at this moment a cock, roast and carved, is put on the board before herod, who cries out: 'if this cock would stand up and crow, then in stephen's tale should i trow.' herod he stood, and herod did wait, the cock came together that lay in the plate. the cock flew up on the red gold chair, he clapped his wings, and he crew so fair. herod orders his horse and rides to bethle- hem, to find the new-born king. as he comes in, mary greets him, and tells him there is still mead and wine. he answers that she need not be so mild with him: he will have her son and nail him on the cross. "then you must go to heaven for him," says mary. herod makes an attempt on jesus, but is seized by twelve angels and thrown into the jordan, where the evil one takes charge of him. swedish. a single stanza, corresponding to danish a , b , c , is preserved in a carol, ' staffans visa,' which was wont to be sung all over sweden on st stephen's day, in the christmas sport, not yet given up, called staffansskede ; which consisted in young fellows riding about from house to house early in the morning of the second day of yule, and levying refreshments.* one of the party carried at the end of a pole a lighted lantern, made of hoops and oiled paper, which was sometimes in the shape of a six-comered star. much of the chant was improvised, and both quoted by grundtvig, n, , note **. from chambers' book of days, it, f, it appears that a custom, called a stephen- ing, was still existing at the beginning of this century, of the inhabitants of the parish of drayton beauchamp, bucks, paying a visit to the rector on december , and lightening his stores of all the bread, cheese and ale they wanted. chambers, again, in his popular rhymes of scotland, p. f, gives a song closely resembling the staffansvisa, which was sung before every house on new year's eve, in deer- ness, orkney, with the same object of stimulating hospital- ity. similar practices are known in the scottish highlands: see campbell, tales of the west highlands, m, , and chambers, at p. of the popular rhymes. . st stephen and heeod the good wishes and the suggestions as to the expected treat would naturally be suited to particular cases ; but the first stanza, with but slight variations, was (afzelius, in, , ): stephen was a stable-groom, we thank you now so kindly! he watered the five foals all and some, ere the morning star was shining. no daylight's to be seen, the stars in the sky are gleaming. or, stephen was a stable-groom, bear thee well my foal! he watered the five foals all and some, god help us and saint stephen! the sun is not a-shining, but the stars in the sky are gleaming. there is also a swedish ballad which has the substance of the story of danish a - , but without any allusion to stephen. it oc- curs as a broadside, in two copies, dated , , and was communicated by professor stephens to the dansk kirketidende, , nos , , and is reprinted by grundtvig, iii, f, and in bergstrom's afzelius, n, f. there are eleven four-line stanzas, of which the last six relate how mary was saved from herod by the miracle of the sower (see ' the carnal and the crane,' stanzas - ). the first five cover the matter of our ballad. the first runs: in bethlem of judah a star there rose, at the time of the birth of christ jesus: 'now a child is born into the world that shall suffer for us death and torment.' herod then calls his court and council, and * stephen in all the ballads can be none other than the first martyr, though ihre, and other swedes since his day, choose, for their part, to understand a " stephanum primum hclsingorum apostolum," who certainly did not see the star in the east. the peasantry in helsingland, we are told, make their saints' day december , too, and their st ste- phen is a great patron of horses. the misappropriation of the glories of the protomartyr is somewhat transparent. t grundtvig, whom i chiefly follow here, n, - . in says to them, as he says to stephen in the danish ballad, "i cannot believe your story unless the cock on this table claps his wings and crows." this comes to pass, and herod exclaims that he can never thrive till he has made that child feel the effects of his wrath. he then steeps his hands in the blood of the innocents, and falls off his throne in a marvel- lous swoon. mary is warned to fly to egypt. it is altogether likely that the person who speaks in the first stanza was originally the same as the one who says nearly the same thing in the three danish ballads, that is, stephen, and altogether unlikely that herod's words, which are addressed to stephen in the danish ballads, were addressed to his court and council rather than to stephen here. norwegian. two stanzas, much corrupted, of what may have been a ballad like the fore- going, have been recovered by professor bugge, and are given by grundtvig, m, . st stephen's appearance as a stable-groom, expressly in the swedish carol and by impli- cation in the danish ballads, is to be ex- plained by his being the patron of horses among the northern nations.* on his day, december , which is even called in germany the great horse day, it was the custom for horses to be let blood to keep them well dur- ing the year following, or raced to protect them from witches. in sweden they were watered "ad alienos fontes" (which, perhaps, is what stephen is engaged in in the carol), and treated to the ale which had been left in the cups on st stephen's eve; etc., etc.f this way of observing st stephen's day is presumed to be confined to the north of europe, or at least to be derived from that quarter. other saints are patrons of horses in the south, as st eloi, st antony, and we must seek the explanation of st stephen's having that office a note on page , supplemented at m, e, grundtvig has collected much interesting evidence of december being the great horse day. j. w. wolf, cited by grundtvig, n, , had said previously: "nichts im leben des ersten christlichen blutzeugen erinnert auch nur fern an pferde; trotzdem machte das volk ihn zum patron der pferde, und setzte ihn also an die stelle des fro, dem im norden, und nicht weniger bei uns, die pferde heilig waren." beitrage zur deutschen mythologie, i, . . st stephen and herod in scandinavia, germany, and england in the earlier history of these regions. it was sug- gested as long ago as the middle of the six- teenth century by the archbishop olaus mag- nus, that the horseracing, which was universal in sweden on december , was a remnant of heathen customs. the horse was sacred to frey, and yule was frey's festival. there can hardly be a doubt that the customs con- nected with st stephen's day are a continua- tion, under christian auspices, of old rites aiid habits which, as in so many other cases, the church found it easier to consecrate than to abolish.* the miracle of the cock is met with in other ballads, which, for the most part, relate the wide-spread legend of the pilgrims of st james. , french. in three versions, chants de pau- vres en forez et en velay, collected by m. victor smith, romania, n, ff. three pil- grims, father, mother, and son, on their way to st james, stop at an inn, at st dominic. a maid-servant, enamored of the youth (qui ressemble une image, que semblavo-z-un ange) is repelled by hitn, and in revenge puts a sil- ver cup [cups] belonging to the house into his knapsack. the party is pursued and brought back, and the young pilgrim is hanged. he exhorts his father to accomplish his vow, and to come that way when he returns. when the father returns, after three [six] months, the boy is found to be alive; his feet have been supported, and he has been nourished, by god and the saints. the father tells the judge that his son is alive; the judge replies, i will believe that when this roast fowl crows. the bird crows: a, le poulet se mit a chanter sur la table; b, le poulet vole au ciel, trois fois n'a battu l'aile; c, trois fois il a chante-, trois fois l'a battu l'aile. the boy is taken down and the maid hanged. spanish. a, mila, observaciones sobre la poesia popular, p. , no , ' el romero;' * jean baptiste thiers, traite' des superstitions, etc., d ed., paris, , as cited by liebrecht, gervasiusvon tilbury, otia impcrialia, p. , no , condemns the belief, "qu'il vnut bien mieax .... saigner des chevaux le jour de la tete de s. ebtienne qu'a tout autre jour." this may be one b, briz, cansons de la terra, i, ,' s. jaume de galicia,' two copies essentially agreeing. the course of the story is nearly as in the french. the son does not ask his father to come back. it is a touch of nature that the mother cannot be prevented from going back by all that her husband can say. the boy is more than well. st james has been sustain- ing his feet, the virgin his head. he directs his mother to go to the alcalde (mila), who will be dining on a cock and a hen, and to request him politely to release her son, who is still alive. the alcalde replies: "off with you! your son is as much alive as this cock and hen." the cock began to crow, the hen laid an egg in the dish! dutch. 'een liedeken van sint jacob,' antwerpener liederbuch, , no , hoff- mann, p. ; uhland, p. , no ; wil- lems, p. , no . the pilgrims here are only father and son. the host's daughter avows her love to her father, and desires to detain the young pilgrim. the older pilgrim, hearing of this, says, my son with me and i with him. we will seek st james, as pil- grims good and true. the girl puts the cup in the father's sack. the son offers himself in his father's place, and is hanged. the fa- ther finds that st james and the virgin have not been unmindful of the pious, and tells the host that his son is alive. the host, in a rage, exclaims, " that's as true as that these roast fowls shall fly out at the door!" but ere the host could utter the words, one by one from the spit brake the birds, and into the street went flitting; they flew on the roof of st dominic's house, where all the brothers were sitting. the brothers resolve unanimously to go to the judicial authority in procession; the innocent youth is taken down, the host hanged, and his daughter buried alive. wendish. haupt und schmaler, i, , no of the practices which thiers had learned of from his read- ing (see liebrecht's preface, p. xvii f), but might also have migrated from the east or north into france. superstitions, like new fashions, are always sure of a hospitable reception, even though they impose a servitude. . st stephen and herod , 'der gehenkte schenkwirth.' there are two pilgrims, father and son. the host him- self puts his gold key into the boy's basket. the boy is hanged: the father bids him hang a year and a day, till he returns. the virgin has put a stool under the boy's feet, and the angels have fed him. the father announces to the host that his son is living. the host will not believe this till three dry staves which he has in the house shall put out green shoots. this comes to pass. the host will not believe till three fowls that are roasting shall recover their feathers and fly out of the window. this also comes to pass. the host is hanged. a breton ballad,'marguerite laurent,' lu- zel, i, a, p. , b, p. , inverts a principal circumstance in the story of the pilgrims: a maid is hanged on a false accusation of hav- ing stolen a piece of plate. this may be an independent tradition or a corrupt form of the other. marguerite has, by the grace of st anne and of the virgin, suffered no harm. a young clerk, her lover, having ascertained this, reports the case to the seneschal, who will not believe till the roasted capon on the dish crows. the capon crows. marguerite goes on her bare knees to st anne and to notre-dame du folgoat, and dies in the church of the latter (first version). 'notre-dame du folgoat,' villemarqud, barzaz breiz, p. , no , th ed., is of a different tenor. marie fanchonik, wrongly condemned to be executed for child murder, though hanged, does not die. the execu- • from a copy of this collection the story is given in acta sanctorum, vi jnlii, p. , § ff. t vincent, as pointed out by professor george stephens, knew of the miracle of the cock, and tells it at l. , c. , on the authority of pietro damiani. two bolognese dining together, one of them carved a cock and dressed it with pep- per and sauce. "gossip," says the other, "you have ' fixed' that cock so that peter himself could not put him on his legs again." "peter ? no, not christ himself." at this the cock jumped up, in all his feathers, clapped his wings, crew, and threw the sauce all over the blasphemous pair, whereby they were smitten with leprosy. } so, naturally, the fornsvenskt legendarium, i, , and the catalan recull de eximplis e miracles, etc., barce- lona, , i, . § opus de tholosanorum gestis, fol. verso, according to acta s., p. , of the volume last cited. toulouse rivalled with compostella in the possession of relies of st james, and tioner reports to the seneschal. "burn her," says the seneschal. "though in fire up to her breast," says the executioner, "she is laugh- ing heartily." "sooner shall this capon crow than i will believe you." the capon crows: a roast capon on the dish, all eaten but the feet. religious writers of the th century have their version of the story of the pilgrims, but without the prodigy of the cock. vincent of beauvais, speculum historiale, l. , c. , who bases his narrative on a collection of the miracles of st james incorrectly attributed to pope callixtus ii,* has but two pilgrims, ger- mans, father and son. on their way to com- postella they pass a night in an inn at tou- louse. the host, having an eye to the forfeit- ure of their effects, makes them drunk and hides a silver cup in their wallet. son wishes to die for father, and father for son. the son is hanged, and st james interposes to preserve his life.f with vincent agree the author of the golden legend, following cal- lixtus, graesse, d ed., p. , c. ( ), § , j and caesarius heisterbacensis, dialogus miraculorum, c. , ii, , ed. strange, who, however, does not profess to remember every particular, and omits to specify toulouse as the place. nicolas bertrand, who published in a history of toulouse, places the mira- cle there.§ he has three pilgrims, like the french and spanish ballads, and the roast fowl flying from the spit to convince a doubt- ing official, like the dutch and wendish bal- lads. was amply entitled to the honor of the miracle. dr andrew borde, in his first book of the introduction of knowledge, says that an ancient doctor of divinity at compostella told him, "we have not one hair nor bone of st. james; for st james the more and st james the less, st bartholomew and st philip, st simon and jude, st bernard and st george, with divers other saints, carolus magnus brought them to toulouse." ed. furnivall, p. f. i do not know where the splenetic old divine got his information, but cer- tainly from no source so trustworthy as the chronicle of tur- pin. besides other places in france, the body, or at least the head, of st james was claimed by churches in italy, germany, and the low countries. but the author of an old itinerary of the pilgrims to compostella asserts that james the greater is one of four saints who never changed his burial-place. see victor le clerc in hist. litt de la france, xxi, . . st stephen and herod but, much earlier than the last date, this miracle of st james had become connected with the town of san domingo de la calzada, one of the stations on the way to compostella,* some hours east of burgos. roig, the valen- cian poet, on arriving there in the course of his pilgrimage, tells the tale briefly, with two roasted fowls, cock and hen: lo libre de les dones e de coneells, , as printed by briz from the edition of , p. , book , vv. - . lucio marineo, whose work, de las cosas memorables de espana, appeared in , had been at san domingo, and is able to make some addition to the miracle of the cock. up to the revivification, his account agrees very well with the spanish ballad. a roast cock and hen are lying before the mayor, and when he expresses his incredulity, they jump from the dish on to the table, in feathers whiter than snow. after the pilgrims had set out a second time on their way to com- postella, to return thanks to st james, the mayor returned to his house with the priests and all the people, and took the cock and hen to the church, where they lived seven years, and then died, leaving behind them a pair of the same snowy whiteness, who in turn, after seven years, left their successors, and so on to marineo's day; and though of the infinite number of pilgrims who resorted to the tomb each took away a feather, the plumage was al- ways full, and marineo speaks as an eye-wit- ness. (edition of , fol. xliii.) dr andrew borde gives nearly the same account as ma- rineo, in the first book of the introduction of knowledge, , p. ff, ed. furnivallf early in the sixteenth century the subject was treated in at least two miracle-plays, for which it is very well adapted: un miracolo * see ' la grande chanson des pterins de saint-jacques,' in socard, noels et cnntiques, etc., p. , last stanza, p. , third stanza, p. , fifth stanza; the last = romanccro de champagne, i, , stanza . t southey follows marineo in his christmas tale ot " the pilgrim to compostella." t "auch eino deutsche jesuitenkomodie, peregrinns com- postellanus, innsbrnck, , behandelt diesen stuff. f. lie- brecht, in serapeum, , s. ." § vasari, v, , milan, ; crowe and cavalcaselle, nl, , n, ff, ed. ; mrs jameson's sacred and legendary art, i, , ed. . professor n. heyen indi- di tre pellegrini, printed at florence early in the sixteenth century, d'ancona, sacre rap- presentazioni, m, ; ludus sancti jacobi, fragment de mystsre provencale, camille ar- naud, . j nicolas bertrand, before referred to, speaks of the miracle as depicted in churches and chapels of st james. it was, for example, painted by pietro antonio of foligno, in the fifteenth century, in ss. antonio e jacopo at assisi, and by pisanello in the old church of the tempio at florence, and, in the next cen- tury, by palmezzano in s. biagio di s. giro- lamo at forli, and by lo spagna in a small chapel or tribune dedicated to st james, about four miles from spoleto, on the way to foligno. the same legend is painted on one of the lower windows of st ouen, and again on a window of st vincent, at rouen. many more cases might, no doubt, be easily collected.§ it is not at all surprising that a miracle performed at san domingo de la calzada should, in the course of time, be at that place attributed to the patron of the locality; and we actually find luis de la vega, in a life of this san domingo published at burgos in , repeating marineo's story, very nearly, with a substitution of dominic for james. || more 'than this, this author claims for this saint, who, saving reverence, is decidedly mi- norum gentium, the merit and glory of deliv- ering a captive from the moors, wherein he, or tradition, makes free again with st james's rightful honors. the moor, when told that the captive will some day be missing, rejoins, if you keep him as close as when i last saw him, he will as soon escape as this roast cock will fly and crow. it is obvious that this anecdote is a simple jumble of two miracles of st james, cated to grundtvig the picture of pietro antonio, and d'an- cona refers to pisanello's. || he denies the perpetual multiplication of the feathers, and adds that the very gallows on which the pilgrim was hanged is erected in the upper part of the church, where everybody can see it. it is diverting to find grossenhain, in saxony, claiming the miracle on the ground of a big cock in an altar picture in a chapel of st james: grassc, sagen- schatz des kiinigreichs sachsen, d ed., i, , no , from chladenius, materialien zu grossenhayner stadtchronik, i, , pirna, ; in verse by ziehnert, volkssagen, p. , no , ed. . . st stephen and herod the freeing of the captives, recounted in acta sanctorum, vi julii, p. , § f, and the saving the life of the young pilgrim.* the restoration of a roasted fowl to life is also narrated in acta sanctorum, i septem- bris, p. , § , as occurring early in the eleventh century (the date assigned to the story of the pilgrims), at the table of st ste- phen, the first king of hungary. st gunther was sitting with the king while he was dining. the king pressed gunther to partake of a roast peacock, but gunther, as he was bound by his rule to do, declined. the king then ordered him to eat. gunther bent his head and implored the divine mercy; the bird flew up from the dish; the king no longer per- sisted. the author of the article, without questioning the reality of the miracle, well remarks that there seems to be something wrong in the story, since it is impossible that the holy king should have commanded the saint to break his vow. but the prime circumstances in the legend, the resuscitation of the cock, does not belong • for luis de la vega, see acta sanctorum, ni maii, p. f, §§ , , , vi julii, p. , § . the spanish and the dutch ballad give due glory to st james and the virgin; french c to god and st james. the wendish ballad can hardly be expected to celebrate st james, and refers the jus- tification and saving of the boy to the virgin and the saints. french a has st michas; b, god and the virgin. luis de la vega, with what seems an excess of caution, says, p. , as above, § : appositique erant ad comedendum gallus et gallina, assati nescio an elixi. of boiled fowl we have not heard so far. but we find in a song in fletcher's play of 'the spanish curate,' this stanza: the stewd cock shall crow, cock-a-loodle-loo, a loud cock-a-loodle shall he crow; the duck and the drake shall swim in a lake of onions and claret below. act iii, sc. ; dyce, viii, . in father merolla's voyage to congo, , a reference to which i owe to liebrecht, there is a story of a stewed cock, which, on the whole, justifies luis de la vega's scruple. this must have been introduced into africa by some mis- sioner, and, when so introduced, the miracle must have had an object, which it had lost before the tale came to father merolla. one of two parties at feud having marched upon the chief city of his antagonist, and found all the inhabitants fled, the soldiers fell to rifling the houses and killing all the living creatures they met, to satisfy their hunger. "amongst the rest they found a cock of a larger size than ordinary, with a great ring of iron about one of his legs, which occasioned in the eleventh century, where vincent and others have put it, but in the first, where it is put by the english and scandinavian bal- lads. a french romance somewhat older than vincent, ogier le danois, agrees with the later english ballad in making the occasion to be the visit of the wise men to herod. herod will not believe what they say, 'se cis capon que ci m'est en presant n'en est plumeus corn il estoit devant, et se redrece a la perche en cantant.' w li - . and what he exacts is performed for his con- viction .f nevertheless, as we shall now see, the true epoch of the event is not the na- tivity, but the passion. the ultimate source of the miracle of the reanimated cock is an interpolation in two late greek manuscripts of the so-called gos- pel of nicodemus: thilo, codex apocryphus novi testamenti, p. cxxix f; tischendorf, evangelia apocrypha, p. , note . after judas had tried to induce the jews to take one of the wisest among them to cry out, surely this cock must be bewitched, and it is not at all proper for us to med- dle with. to which the rest answered, be it what it will, we are resolved to cat it. for this end they immediately killed and tore it to pieces after the manner of the negroes, and afterwards put it into a pot to boil. when it was enough, they took it ont into a platter, and two, according to the custom, having said grace, ave of them sat down to it with great greediness. but before they had touched a bit, to their great wonder and amazement, the boiled pieces of the cock, though sodden, and near dissolved, began to move about and unite into the form they were in before, and, being so united, the restored cock immediately raised himself up, and jumped out of the platter upon the ground, where he walked about as well as when he was first taken. after- wards he leaped upon an adjoining wall, where he became new feathered all of a sudden, and then took his flight to a tree bard by, where fixing himself, he, after three claps of his wings, made a most hideous noise, and then disappeared. every one may easily imagine what a terrible fright the spectators were in at this sight, who, leaping with a thousand ave marias in their mouths from the place where this had happened, were contented to observe most of the particulars at a distance." it appears that the brother of one of the two contending parties was said to have had a very large cock, from whose crowing he took auguries, but whether this was the same as the one restored to life is not known. church- ill's collection of voyages and travels, , , , pinker- ton's collection, xvi, . t la chevalerie ogier de danemarche, par raimbert de paris, poeme du xii siecle, etc., n, , w - . . st stephen and herod back the thirty pieces, he went to his house to hang himself, and found his wife sitting there, and a cock roasting on a spit before the coals. he said to his wife, get me a rope, for i mean to hang myself, as i deserve. his wife said to him, why do you say such things? and judas said to her, know in truth that i have betrayed my master jesus to evil-doers, who will put him to death. but he will rise on the third day, and woe to us. his wife said, do not talk so nor believe it; for this cock that is roasting before the coals will as soon crow as jesus rise again as you say. and even while she was speaking the words, the cock flapped his wings and crew thrice. then judas was still more persuaded, and straight- way made a noose of the rope and hanged himself.* the cursor mundi gives its own turn to this relation, with the intent to blacken judas a little more.f when judas had betrayed jesus, he went to his mother with his pence, boasting of the act. "hast thou sold thy master?" said she. "shame shall be thy lot, for they will put him to death; but he shall rise again." "rise, mother?" said ju- das, "sooner shall this cock rise up that was scalded yesternight." hardly had he said the word, the cock leapt up and flew, feathered fairer than before, and by god's grace he crew; the traitor false began to fear, his peril well he knew. this cock it was the self-same cock which peter made to rue, when he had thrice denied his lord and proved to him untrue. a still different version existed among the copts, who had their copies of the apocryphal * the gospel of nicodemus was introduced into the french and the italian romance of perceforest, but unfortu- nately this "narratio ab inepto grseculo pessime interpo- lata " (thilo) seems to be lacking. t cursor mundi, a northumbrian poem of the th cen- tury, in four versions, ed. by k. morris, p. f, vv - . this passage was kindly pointed out to me by profes- sor george stephens. ( relation d'un voyage fait au levant par monsieur de writings, and among them the gospel of nico- demus. the copts say, according to thevenot, "that on the day of the supper a roasted cock was served to our lord, and that when judas went out to sell jesus to the jews, the saviour commanded the cock to get up and follow him; which the cock did, and brought back his report to our lord that judas had sold him, for which service this cock shall be admitted to paradise." j the herald of the morn is described in other carols as making known the birth of the saviour to the animal creation, or the more familiar members of it. "there is a sheet of carols headed thus: 'christus nattts est, christ is born,' with a wood-cut ten inches high by eight and one half inches wide, representing the stable at bethlehem; christ in. the crib, watched by the virgin and joseph; shepherds kneeling; angels attending; a man playing on the bag- pipes ; a woman with a basket of fruit on her head; a sheep bleating and an ox lowing on the ground; a raven croaking and a crow cawing on the hay-rack; a cock crowing above them; and angels singing in the sky. the animals have labels from their mouths, bearing latin inscriptions. down the side of the wood- cut is the following account and explanation: 'a religious man, inventing the conceits of both birds and beasts, drawn in the picture of our saviour's birth, doth thus express them. the cock croweth christus natus est, christ is born. the raven asked quando, when? the crow replied, hac node, this night. the ox cryeth out, ubi, ubi? where, where? the sheep bleated out, bethlehem, bethlehem. a voice from heaven sounded, gloria in excelsis, glory be on high !'" london, . hone's every-day book, i, col. f. thevenot, paris, , i, . cited by thilo, p. xxxvii, and by victor smith, romania, n, , who adds: "parmi les manuscrits rapportes d'ethiopie par m. d'abbadie, il se trouve un volume dont le titre a pour e'quivalent, actes dela passion. un chapitre de ce volume, intitule' le livre ducoq, developpe la legende indique'e par the'venot. catalogue raisonne' des manuscrits e'thiopiens, appartenant a m. a. t. d'abbadie, in °, imp. impe'riale, paris, ." . st stephen and herod so in vieux noels francais, in les noe bressans, etc., par philibert le due, p. . joie des bestes a la nouvelle de la naissance du sauveur. comme les bestes autrefois parloient mieux latin que francois, le coq, de loin voyant le faict, s'ecria: christus natus est; le bceuf, d'un air tout ebaubi, demande: ubi, ubi, vbi? la chevre, se torchant le gtoin, respond que e'est a bethleem; maistre baudet, curiosus de taller voir, dit: eamus; et, droit sur ses pattes, le veau beugle deux fois: volo, volo.* and again, in italian, bolza, canzoni popo- lari comasche, p. , no : h gallo. e nato gesii! h bue. in dova? la pecora. betlem! betlem! l'asino. andem! andem! andem! * a little greek ballad, ' the taking of con- stantinople,' only seven lines long, relates a miracle entirely like that of the cock, which was operated for the conviction of incredulity. a nun, frying fish, hears a voice from above, saying, cease your frying, the city will fall into the hands of the turks. "when the fish fly out of the pan alive," she says, "then shall the turks take the city." the fish fly out of the pan alive, and the turkish admiraud comes riding into the city. zambelios, p. , no ; passow, p. , no . (liebrecht, volks- kunde, p. .) with herod's questions and stephen's an- swers in stanzas - , we may compare a pas- sage in some of the greek ballads cited under • no , p. . *xa/?e, mzyps; (ncaa/sc, sut'js; fisf to i/ruyu <ro xci'ttci; —k// e, iravat; o-kxa/ e, ii//as; cr/ow/je, kpauriy <rov -w-a; lakkyt pe eyper mete or drynk? m?/re ir€ivu>, i*.r[tt suj/lo, p-rfrt ij/iapl [(cpoerlvj /ioc xcivtc lakit me neyper mete ne drynk. jeannaraki, p. , no : sakellarios, p. , no . sfcxayse, n-civps; axxtlfie, ii//as; crxxa/je, poya cov xci r«; «xd/ e, ireivqs; o-*aa/ e, suf/as; <tkkaf e pov pov)(a otktis; lakkyt pe eyper gold or fe, or ony ryche wede? ovrt trctrui, oute ovri poya pov xctirei. mljt< eucll, /j.)/t£ sllf/o), p.tjtt kcu l')<jv dfxllh lakyt me neyper gold ne fe, ne non ryche wede. tommaseo, m, ; passow, p. , no : tommaseo, m, ; zambelios, p. , no ; passow, no . a danish translation of the english bal- lad is printed in dansk kirketidende for , p. (grundtvig). danish a is translated by dr prior, i, . sloane ms., , fol. b, british museum/' seyjvt steuene was a clerk in. kyreg herowdes halle, and seruyd hiwi of bred and clop, as euery kywg befalle. ' steuyn out of kechone cam, wyth boris hed o» honde; he saw a sterre was fayr and hryfi ouer bed- lewi stonde. * "ce couplet se debite en imitant successivenient le chant du coq, le mugisscmem du bceuf, le cri de la chevre, le he kyst adoun pe boris hed and went in to pe halle: 'i forsak pe, kyng herowdes, and pi werkes alle. 'i forsak pe, kyng herowdes, and pi werkes alle; per is a chyld in bedlem born is beter pan we alle.' 'qiiat eylyt pe, steuene? quat is pe befalle? braiment de l'ane, et le benglement du veau." bolza makes a similar explanation with regard to the italian colloquy. . lakkyt pe eyper mete or drynk in kyng her- owdes halle?' 'lakit me neyper mete ne drynk in. kyng her- owdes halle; per is a chyld in bedlem born is beter pan we alle.' quat eylyt pe, steuyn? art pu wod, or pu gynnyst to brede? lakkyt pe eyper gold or fe, or ony ryche • wede?' 'lakyt me neyper gold ne fe, ne now ryche wede; per is a chyld in bedlem born xal helpyn vs at our nede.' 'pat is al so so]>, steuyn, al so so}), iwys, as pis capoun crowe xal pat lyp here in myn dysh.' bat word was not so sone seyd, pat word in pat halle, be capoura crew crises natws est! among pe lordes alle. rysyt vp, myn turmentowres, be to and al be on, and ledyt steuyn out of pis town, and stonyt hym wyta ston!' tokyn he steuene, and stonyd hywi in the way, and perfore is his euyn on crystes owyn day. , . be falle. . also ... also ... i wys. . dych. . a doun. , . for sak. s. a mong. . there is room only for the h at the end of the line. judas ms. b. , , of the thirteenth century, library of trinity college, cambridge, as printed in wright & har- well's reliquiae antique, i, . this legend, which has not been heretofore recognized as a ballad, is, so far as is known, unique in several particulars. the common tradition gives judas an extraordinary domes- tic history,* but does not endow him with a sister as perfidious as himself. neither is his selling his master for thirty pieces accounted for elsewhere as it is here, if it may be strictly said to be accounted for here. a popular explanation, founded upon john xii, - , and current for six centuries and * legenda aurea, grasse, d ed., p. ff; mone's an- zeiger, vn, col. f, and du meril, poesies populaires lat- ines du moyen age, p. ff; furnivall, early english more, is that judas, bearing the bag, was ac- customed to take tithes of all moneys that came into his hands, and that he considered he had lost thirty pence on the precious oint- ment which had not been sold for three hun- dred pence, and took this way of indemnify- ing himself. a wendish ballad, haupt und schmaler, i, , no , has the following story. jesus besought hospitality for himself and his disci- ples of a poor widow. she could give a lodg- poems and lives of saints, p. ff; douhet, dictionnaire des legendea, col. ff; das alte passional, ed. k. a. hahn, p. ff; backstrom, svenska folkbocker, n, ff; etc . . judas ing, but had no bread. jesus said he would care for that, and asked which of his disciples would go and buy bread for thirty pieces of silver. judas offered himself eagerly, and went to the jews' street to do his errand. jews were gaming, under a tub, and they chal- lenged judas to p}ay. the first time he won the stake, and the second. the third time he lost everything. "why so sad, judas?" they say: "go sell your master for thirty pieces." we are to suppose judas to have rejoined his company. jesus then asks who has sold him. john says, is it i? and peter, and then judas, to whom jesus replies, thou knowest best. judas, in remorse, runs to hang himself. the lord bids him turn, for his sin is forgiven. but judas keeps on till he comes to a fir: "soft wood, thou fir, thou wilt not bear me." further on, till he comes to an aspen. "hard wood, thou aspen, thou wilt bear me." so he hanged himself on the aspen; and still the aspen shakes and trembles for fear of the judgment day. according to the ballads, then, judas lost the thirty pieces at play, or was robbed of them, with collusion of his sister. but his passionate behavior in the english ballad, st. , goes beyond all apparent occasion. surely it was not for his tithe of the thirty pieces. and why does he insist to pilate on the very thirty pieces he had lost, rejecting every other form of payment? the ballad-singer might answer, so it was, and rest contented. or perhaps he might have heard, and might tell us by way of comment, that these pieces had for long ages been destined to be "the price of him that was valued, whom they of the chil- dren of israel did value;" had been coined by abraham's father for ninus, and been given by terah to his son; had passed through va- rious hands to the ishmaelites, had been paid by them as the price of joseph, and been re- paid to joseph by his brethren for corn in egypt; thence were transferred to sheba, and in the course of events were brought by the queen of the south as an offering to solo- mon's temple; when the temple was despoiled by nebuchadnezzar, were given by him to the king of godolia, and after the kingdom of godolia had been fused in that of nubia, were brought as his tribute to the infant jesus by melchior, king of the same, etc.* it is much to be regretted that the manu- script from which this piece was taken has been for some years lost from trinity college library, so that a collation of wright's text has not been possible. hit wes upon a scere-thorsday that ure loverd aros; ful milde were the wordes he spec to judas. 'judas, thou most to jurselem, oure mete for tobngge; thritti platen of selver thou bere up othi rugge. 'thou contest fer ithe brode stret, fer ithe brode strete; summe of thine tunesmen ther thou meiht imete.' imette wid is roster, the swikele wimon. * see fabricius, codex pseudepigraphus veterib testa- menti, n, ; godfrey of viterbo (who derives his informa- tion from a lost writing of the apostle bartholomew) in his 'judas, thou were wrthe me stende the wid s ton, for the false prophete that tou bile vest upon.' 'be stille, leve soster, thin herte the tobreke! wiste min loverd crist, ful wel he wolde be wreke.' 'judas, go thou on the roc, heie upon the s ton; lei thin heved imy barm, slep thou the anon.' sone so judas of slepe was awake, thritti platen of selver from hym weren itake. pantheon, pistoriris, german. script., ed. strove, u, , or e. du kierfl, poesies pop. ]mines du moyen age, p. ; genesi de scriptura, biblioteca catalans, p. , etc. . bonnie annie he drou hymselve bi the cop, that al it lavede a blode; the jewes out of jurselem awenden he were wode. foret hym com the riche jeu that heihte pi- latus: 'wolte sulle thi loverd, that hette jesus?' 'i mil sulle my loverd [for] nones cunnes eihte, bote hit be for the thritti platen that he me bitaihte.' 'wolte sulle thi lord crist for enes cunnes golde?' 'nay, bote hit he for the platen that he habben wolde.' in him com ur lord crist gon, as is postles seten at mete: 'wou sitte ye, postles, ant wi nule ye ete? [' wou sitte ye, postles, ant wi nule ye ete ?] ic am ibouht ant isold today for oure mete.' up stod him judas: 'lord, am i that . . .? 'i nas never othe stude ther me the evel spec' up him stod peter, and spec wid al is mihte, 'thau pilatus him come wid ten hundred cnihtes, yet ic wolde, loverd, for thi love fihte.' 'still thou be, peter, wel i the icnowe; thou wolt fursake me thrien ar the coc him crowe.' not divided into stanza* in reliquiae antiquce. s. meist. l. heiste. ii . eiste. *. bitaiste. . i-boust. . miste. . cnistes. s. fiste. in the absence of the original manuscript, i have thought it better to change wright's s in the above instances ( - ) to h. in this substitu- tion i follow mdtzner's altenglische sprachpro- ben, i, . bonnie annie a. 'bonnie annie,' kinloch's ancient scottish bal- b. < the high banks o yarrow,' motherwell's ms., lads, p. . p. . had an old copy of thia still pretty and touching, but much disordered, ballad been saved, we should perhaps have had a story like this. bonnie annie, having stolen her father's gold and her mother's fee, and fled with her paramour (like the maid in no ), the ship in which she is sailing encounters a storm and cannot get on. annie is seized with the pangs of travail, and deplores the ab- sence of women (b , , a , ; compare no , - ). the sailors say there is some- body on board who is marked for death, or fly- ing from a just doom. they cast lots, and the lot falls on annie, — a result which strikes us as having more semblance of the "corrupted currents of this world" than of a pure judg- ment of god. annie, conscious only of her own guilt, asks to be thrown overboard. her . bonnie annie paramour offers great sums to the crew to save her, but their efforts prove useless, and annie again begs, or they now insist, that she shall be cast into the sea with her babe. this done, the ship is able to sail on; annie floats to shore and is buried there. the captain of the ship is the guilty man in a, in b a rich squire. a may exhibit the original plot, but it is just as likely that the captain was substituted for a passenger, un- der the influence of another ballad, in which there is no annie, but a ship-master stained with many crimes, whom the lot points out as endangering or obstructing the vessel. see 'brown robyn's confession,' further on. if the narrative in jonah, i, is the ultimate source of this and similar stories, it must be owned that the tradition has maintained its principal traits in this ballad remarkably well. jonah flies from the presence of the lord in a ship; the ship is overtaken by a tempest; * the sailors cast lots to know who is the guilty cause, and the lot falls on jonah; he bids the sailors take him up and cast him into the sea; nevertheless the men row hard to bring the ship to land, but cannot succeed; they throw jonah into the water, and the storm ceases.f translated in grundtvig's engelske og skotske folkeviser, p. , no . a kinloch's ancient scottish ballads, p. . there was a rich lord, and he lived in forfar, he had a fair lady, and one only dochter. o she was fair, o dear, she was bonnie! a ship's captain courted her to be his honey. there cam a ship's captain out owre the sea sailing, he courted this young thing till he got her wi bairn. 'te h steal ydur father's gowd, and your mother's money, and i 'll mak ye a lady in ireland bonnie.' she's stown her father's gowd, and her moth- er's money, but she was never a lady in ireland bonnie. ***** 'there's fey fowk in our ship, she winna sail for me, there's fey fowk in our ship, she winna sail for me.' * jonah is asleep below. this trait we find in several norse ballads: see 'brown robyn's confession.' t a singular episode in the life of saint mary magdalen in the golden legend, grasse, c. xcvi, , p. (v, indicates a belief that even a dead body might prejudice the safety of a ship. the princess of marseilles, in the course of a storm, has given birth to a boy and expired. the sailors demand that the body shall be thrown into the sea (and apparently they've casten black bullets twice six and forty, and ae the black bullet fell on bonnie an- nie. 'ye 'll tak me in your arms twa, lo, lift me cannie, throw me out owre board, your ain dear an- nie.' he has tane her in his arms twa, lo, lifted her cannie, he has laid her on a bed of down, his ain dear annie. 'what can a woman do, love, i 'll do for ye; 'muckle can a woman do, ye canna do for me.' 'lay about, steer about, lay our ship cannie, do all ye can to save my dear annie.' 'i've laid about, steerd about, laid about can- nie, but all i can do, she winna sail for me. the boy, too), for, they say, as long as it shall be with us, this thumping will not cease. they presently see a hill, and think it better to put off the corpse, and the boy, there, than that these should be devoured by sea-monsters. fear will fasten upon anything in such a case. the digby mystery of mary magdalene has this scene, at p. of the new shakspere society edition, cd. furni- rall. . bonnie annie 'ye 'll tak her in your arms twa, lo, lift her cannie, and throw her out owre hoard, your ain dear annie.' he has tane her in his arms twa, lo, lifted her cannie, he has thrown her out owre hoard, his ain dear annie. as the ship sailed, honnie annie she swam, and she was at ireland as soon as them. he made his love a coffin of the gowd sae yel- low, and buried his bonnie love doun in a sea val- ley. b motherwell's ms., p. . from the singing of a boy, henry french, ayr. down in dumbarton there wonnd a rich mer- chant, down in dumbarton there wond a rich mer- chant, and he had nae family but ae only dochter. sing fal lal de deedle, fal lal de deedle lair, o a day there cam a rich squire, intending to woo her, he wooed her until he had got her wi babie. 'oh what shall i do! oh what shall come o me! baith father and mither will think naething o me.' 'gae up to your father, bring down gowd and money, and i 'll take ye ower to a braw irish la- die.' she gade to her father, brought down gowd and money, and she's awa ower to a braw irish ladie. she hadna sailed far till the young thing cried 'women!' 'what women can do, my dear, i 'll do for . you.' 'o haud your tongue, foolish man, dinna talk vainly, for ye never kent what a woman driet for you. 'gae wash your hands in the cauld spring water, and dry them on a towel a' giltit wi silver. 'and tak me by the middle, and lift me up saftlie, and throw me ower shipboard, baith me and my babie.' he took her by the middle, and lifted her saftly, and threw her ower shipboard, baith her and her babie. , sometimes she did sink, sometimes she did float it, until that she cam to the high banks o yarrow. 'o captain tak gowd, o sailors tak money, and launch out your sma boat till i sail for my honey.' 'how can i tak gowd, how can i tak money? my ship's on a sand bank, she winna sail for me.' the captain took gowd, the sailors took money, and they launchd out their sma boat till he sailed for his honey. 'mak my love a coffin o the gowd sae yellow, whar the wood it is dear, and the planks they are narrow, and bury my love on the high banks o yar- row.' they made her a coffin o the gowd sae yellow, and buried her deep on the high banks o yar- row. . willie's lyke-wake printed by kinloch in four-line stanzas. they made his love a coffin of the gowd . coffin off the goats of yerrow. sae yellow, . motherwell, minstrelsy, p. xcix, , gives and they buried her deep on the high the stanza thus: banks of yarrow. sing fal lal, de deedle, fal lal, de deedle they made his love a coffin of the gowd sae lair, oh a day! yellow, willie's lyke-wake a. 'willie, willie,' kinloch's mss, i, . c. motherwell's ms., p. . b. a. 'blue flowers and yellow,' buchan's ballads of d. 'amang the blue flowers and yellow,' motherwell's the north of scotland, i, . b. 'the blue flow- minstrelsy, appendix, p. xix, no xvn, one stanza, ers and the yellow,' christie, traditional ballad airs, i, . this piece was first printed by buchan, in , and all the copies which have been re- covered are of about that date. the device of a lover's feigning death as a means of win- ning a shy mistress enjoys a considerable pop- ularity in european ballads. even more fa- vorite is a ballad in which the woman adopts this expedient, in order to escape from the con- trol of her relations : see 'the gay goshawk,' with which will be given another form of the present story. a danish ballad answering to our feigned lyke-wake is preserved, as i am informed by professor grundtvig, in no less than four- teen manuscripts, some of them of the th century, and is still living in tradition. five versions, as yet unprinted, a-e, have been furnished me by the editor of the ballads of denmark. a, from a manuscript of the sixteenth cen- tury. young herre karl asks his mother's rede how he may get the maid his heart is set upon. she advises him to feign sickness, and be laid on his bier, no one to know his counsel but the page who is to do his errands. the page bids the lady to the wake that night. little kirstin asks her mother's leave to keep wake over karl. the wake is to be in the upper room of karl's house. the mother says, be on your guard; he means to cheat you; but kirstin, neither listening to her mother nor asking her father, goes to keep wake in the upper room. when she went in she could not see the lights for her tears. she begged all the good people to pray for karl's soul, sat down by his head and made her own prayer, and murmured, while thou livedst i loved thee. she lifted the cloths, and there lay karl wide awake and laughing. "all the devils in hell receive thy soul!" she cried. "if thou livedst a hundred years, thou shouldst never have my good will!" karl proposed that she should pass the night with him. "why would you deceive me!" kirstin exclaimed. "why did you not go to my father and betroth me honorably?" karl immediately rode to her father's to do this, and they were married. b. a, from mss of and later, almost . willie's lyke-wake identical with b, 'den forstilte vaagestue,' levninger, part n, , p. , no .* this version gives us some rather unnecessary pre- vious history. karl has sued for ingerlille three years, and had an ill answer. he fol- lows her to church one fine day, and, after mass, squeezes her fingers and asks, will you take pity on me? she replies, you must ask my father and friends; and he, i have, and can get no good answer. if you will give me your troth, we can see to that best our- selves. "never," she says. "farewell, then; but christ may change your mind." karl meets his mother on his way from church, who asks why he is so pale. he tells her his plight, and is advised, as before, to use craft. the wake is held on karl's premises.f ingerlille, in scarlet mantle, goes with her maids. she avows her love, but adds that it was a fixed idea in her mind that he would deceive her. she lifts up the white cloth that covers the face. karl laughs, and says, we were good friends before, so are we still. bear out the bier, and follow me to bed with the fair maid. she hopes he will have respect for her honor. karl reassures her, leaves her with his mother, rides to ingerlille's house, obtains her parents' approbation, and buys wine for his wedding. c, from manuscripts of the sixteenth cen- tury. karl is given out for dead, and his pages ride to the convent to ask that his body may be laid in the cloister. the bier is borne in; the prioress comes to meet it, with much respect. the pages go about bidding maids to the wake. ellin asks her mother if she may go. (this looks as if there had origi- nally been no convent in the ballad.) her mother tells her to put on red gold and be wary of karl, he is so very tricky. when ellin owns her attachment, karl whispers softly, do not weep, but follow me. horses were ready at the portal — black horses all! * bat a has two stanzas more: the first a stev-stamme, or lyrical introduction (see p. ), the other, , nearly a rep- etition of sandvig's . t after the page has bidden ingerlille to the wake, we are told, a , , b , : all the convent bells were going, karl sprang from the bier, took ellin, and made for the door. the nuns, who stood read- ing in the choir, thought it was an angel that had translated her, and wished one would come for them. karl, with fifteen men who were in waiting, carried ellin home, and drank his bridal with her. d, from recent oral tradition. as karl lay in his bed, he said, how shall i get the fair maid out of the convent? his foster-mother heard him, and recommended him to feign death and bid the fair maid to his wake. the maid asked her father's leave to go, but he said, nay, the moment you are inside the door he will seize you by the foot. but when the page, who had first come in blue, comes back in scarlet, she goes. she stands at karl's head and says, i never shall forget thee; at his feet, "i wished thee well;" at his side, "thou wast my dearest." then she turns and bids everybody good-night, but karl seizes her, and calls to his friends to come drink his bridal. we hear nothing of the convent after the first stanza. e, from oral tradition of another quarter. karl consults his mother how he shall get lit- tle kirstin out of the convent, and receives the same counsel. a page is sent to the con- vent, and asks who will come to the wake now herr karl is dead? little kirstin, with- out application to the prioress, goes to her mother, who does not forbid her, but warns her that karl will capture her as sure as she goes into the room. the maid has the door by the handle, and is wishing them all good-night; young karl, that lay a corpse on the bier, sprang up and held her tight. 'why here's a board and benches, and there's no dead body here; this eve i 'll drink my mead and wine, all with my kirstin dear. and the tidings spreading that the knight was dead; all the ladies of the convent sat sewing, except ingerlille, who wept. but ingerlille, in the next stanza, puts on her scarlet cloak and goes to the hojeloft to see her father and mother. the two stanzas quoted signify nothing in this version. . willie's lyke-wake 'why here's a board and beds too, and here there 'a nobody dead; to-morrow will i go to the priest, all with my plighted maid.' f, another copy from recent tradition, was published in , in kristensen's jyske folkeviser, n, , no , 'vaagestuen.' there is no word of a convent here. the story is made very short. kirsten's mother says she will be fooled if she goes to the wake. the last stanza, departing from all other copies, says that when kirsten woke in the morning karl was off. g. 'klosterranet,' levninger, i, , no ( ), danske viser, rv, , no , a very second-rate ballad, may have the praise of preserving consistency and conventual dis- cipline. the young lady does not slip out to see her mother without leave asked and had. it is my persuasion that the convent, with its little jest about the poor nuns, is a later in- vention, and that c is a blending of two dif- ferent stories. in g, herr morten betroths proud adeluds, who is more virtuous than rich. his friends object; her friends do not want spirit, and swear that she shall never be his. morten's father sends him out of the country, and adeluds is put into a convent. after nine years morten returns, and, having rejected an advantageous match proposed by his father, advises with his brother, herr ni- laus, how to get his true love out of the clois- ter. the brother's plan is that of the mother and foster-mother in the other versions. herr nilaus promises a rich gift if morten's body may be buried within the cloister. from this point the story is materially the same as in c. h. a copy, which i have not yet seen, in rahbek's laesning i blandede iemner (or hesperus), m, , (bergstrom). 'hertugen af skage,' danske viser, n, , no , has this slight agreement with the fore- going ballads. voldemar, the king's youngest son, hearing that the duke has a daughter, hildegerd, that surpasses all maids, seeks her out in a convent in which she has taken refuge, and gets a cold reception. he feigns death, desiring that his bones may repose in the cloister. his bier is carried into the convent church. hildegerd lights nine candles for him, and expresses compassion for his early death. while she is standing before the altar of the virgin, voldemar carries her out of the church by force. this, says afzelius, , is one of the com- monest ballads in sweden, and is often rep- resented as a drama by young people in coun- try places. a a, ' herr carl, eller klosterrof- vet,' afzelius, i, , no , new ed. no ; b, afzelius, sago-haider, ed. , iv, . b. atterbom, poetisk kalender for , p. , 'det lefvande liket.' c. rancken, nagra prof af folksang, o. s. v., p. , no . these differ but slightly from danish d, e. all three conclude with the humorous verses about the nuns, which in rancken's copy take this rollicking turn: and all the nuns in the convent they all danced in a ring; 'christ send another such angel, to take us all under his wing!' and all the nuns in the convent, they all danced each her lone; 'christ send another such angel, to take us off every one!' bergstrom, new afzelius, ii, , refers to another version in gyllenmars' visbok, p. , and to a good copy obtained by himself. an icelandic version for the th century, which is after the fashion of danish c, g, is given in tslenzk fornkvaesi, h, , no , 'marteins kvisa.' the lover has in all three a troop of armed men in waiting outside of the convent. professor bugge has obtained a version in norway, which, however, is as to language essentially danish. (bergstrom, as above.) there is a very gay and pretty south-eu- ropean ballad, in which the artifice of feigning death is successfully tried by a lover after the failure of other measures. a. magyar. arany and gyulai, i, , no , 'palbeli szep antal;' translated by . willie's lyee-wake aigner, ungarische volksdichtungen, p. , 'schon anton.' handsome tony tells his mother that he shall die for helen. the mother says, not yet. i will build a mar- vellous mill. the first wheel shall grind out pearls, the middle stone discharge kisses, the third wheel distribute small change. the pretty maids will come to see, and helen among them. helen asks her mother's leave to see the mill. "go not," the mother replies. "they are throwing the net, and a fox will be caught." tony again says he must die. his mother says, not yet; for she will build an iron bridge; the girls will come to see it, and helen among them. helen asks to see the bridge; her mother answers as before. tony says once more that he shall die for helen. his mother again rejoins, not yet. make believe to be dead; the girls will come to see you, and helen among them. helen entreats to be allowed to go to see the hand- some young man that has died. her mother tells her she will never come back. tony's mother calls to him to get up; the girl he was dying for is even now before the gate, in the court, standing at his feet. "never," says helen, "saw i so handsome a dead man, — eyes smiling, mouth tempting kisses, and his feet all ready for a spring." up he jumped and embraced her. b. italian. ferraro, canti popolari mon- ferrini, p. , no , * ii genovese.' the genoese, not obtaining the beautiful daughter of a rich merchant on demand, plants a gar- den. all the girls come for flowers, except the one desired. he then gives a ball, with thirty-two musicians. all the girls are there, but not the merchant's daughter. he then builds a church, very richly adorned. all the girls come to mass, all but one. next he sets the bells a ringing, in token of his death. the fair one goes to the window to ask who is dead. the good people (" ra bun-ha gent," in the danish ballad "det gode folk ") tell her that it is her first love, and suggest that she should attend the funeral. she asks her father, who consents if she will not cry. as she was leaving the church, the lover came to life, and called to the priests and friars to stop singing. they went to the high altar to be married. c. slovenian. vraz, narodne pesni ilirske, p. ,' cudna bolezen' (' strange sickness'); translated by anastasius griin, volkslieder aus krain, p. , ' der scheintodte.' "build a church, mother," cries the love-sick youth, "that all who will may hear mass; perhaps my love among them." the mother built a church, one and another came, but not his love. "dig a well, mother, that those who will may fetch water; perhaps my love among them." the well was dug, one and another came for water, but not his love. "say i am dead, mother, that those who will may come to pray." those who wished came, his love first of all. the youth was peeping through the window. "what kind of dead man is this, that stretches his arms for an embrace, and puts out his mouth for a kiss?" danish g translated by the rev. j. john- stone, 'the robbery of the nunnery, or, the abbess outwitted,' copenhagen, (danske viser, iv, ); by prior, m, . swedish a, by g. stephens, for. quar. rev., , xxvi, , and by the howitts, lit. and rom. of northern europe, i, . english c, by rosa warrens, schottische v. l., p. , no . einloch's mss, i, , from the recitation of mary barr, lesmahagow, aged upwards of seventy. may, . 'willie, willie, i 'll learn you a wile,' and the sun shines over the valleys and a' 'how this pretty fair maid ye may beguile.' among the blue flowrs and the yellow and a' 'ye maun lie doun just as ye were dead, and tak your winding-sheet around your head. . willie's lyke-wake 'ye maun gie the bellman his bell-groat, to ring your dead-bell at your lover's yett.' he lay doun just as he war dead, and took his winding-sheet round his head. he gied the bellman his bell-groat, to ring his dead-bell at his lover's yett. 'o wha is this that is dead, i hear?' 'o wha but willie that loed ye sae dear.' she is to her father's chamber gone, and on her knees she's fallen down. 'o father, o father, ye maun grant me this; i hope that ye will na tak it amiss. 'that i to willie's burial should go; for he is dead, full well i do know.' 'ye 'll tak your seven bauld brethren wi thee, and to willie's burial straucht go ye.' it's whan she cam to the outmost yett, she made the silver fly round for his sake. it's whan she cam to the inmost yett, she made the red gowd fly round for his sake. as she walked frae the court to the parlour there, the pretty corpse syne began for to steer. he took her by the waist sae neat and sae sma, and threw her atween him and the wa. 'o willie, willie, let me alane this nicht, o let me alane till we're wedded richt' 'ye cam unto me baith sae meek and mild, but i 'll mak ye gae hame a wedded wife wi child.' b a. buchan's ballads of the north of scotland, i, . b. christie, traditional ballad airs, i, . 'o willie my son, what makes you sae sad?' as the sun shines over the valley 'i lye sarely sick for the love of a maid.' amang the blue flowers and the yellow 'were she an heiress or lady sae free, that she will take no pity on thee? 'o willie, my son, i 'll learn you a wile, how this fair maid ye may beguile. 'ye 'll gie the principal bellman a groat, and ye 'll gar him cry your dead lyke-wake.' then he gae the principal bellman a groat, he bade him cry his dead lyke-wake. this maiden she stood till she heard it a', and down frae her cheeks the tears did fa. she is hame to her father's ain bower: 'i 'll gang to yon lyke-wake ae single hour.' 'ye must take with you your ain brither john; it's not meet for maidens to venture alone.' 'i 'll not take with me my brither john, but i 'll gang along, myself all alone.' when she came to young willie's yate, his seven brithers were standing thereat. then they did conduct her into the ha, amang the weepers and merry mourners a'. when she lifted up the covering sae red, with melancholy countenance to look on the dead, he's taen her in his arms, laid her gainst the wa, says, ' lye ye here, fair maid, till day.' 'o spare me, o spare me, but this single night, and let me gang hame a maiden sae bright.' 'tho all your kin were about your bower, ye shall not be a maiden ae single hour. . willie's lyke-wakb 'fair maid, ye came here without a convoy, 'ye came here a maiden sae mild, but ye shall return wi a horse and a boy. but ye shall gae hame a wedded wife with child.' motherwell's ms., p. . 'o willie, willie, what makes thee so sad?' and the sun shines over the valley 'i have loved a lady these seven years and mair.' down amang the blue flowers and the yel- low 'o willie, lie down as thou were dead, and lay thy winding-sheet down at thy head. 'and gie to the bellman a belling-great, to ring the dead-bell at thy love's bower-yett.' he laid him down as he were dead, and he drew the winding-sheet oer his head. he gied to the bellman a belling-great, to ring the dead-bell at his love's bower-yett. ***** when that she came to her true lover's gate, she dealt the red gold and all for his sake. and when that she came to her true lover's bower, she had not been there for the space of half an hour, till that she cam to her true lover's bed, and she lifted the winding-sheet to look at the dead. he took her by the hand so meek and sma, and he cast her over between him and the wa. 'tho all your friends were in the bower, would not let you go for the space of half an hour. 'you came to me without either horse or boy, but i will send you home with a merry con- voy.' d 'i think nae music will mak ye glad.' amang the blue flowers and the yellow motherwell's minstrelsy, appendix, p. xix, noivn. 'o johnee, dear johnie, what makes ye sae sad?' as the sun shines ower the valley b. b is a with stanzas , - omitted, and "a few alterations, some of them given from the recitation of an old woman." "buchan's version differs little from the way the old woman sang the ballad." the old woman's variations, so far as adopted, are certainly of the most trifling. i . i am. . is she. . and she. . ye've come. . and ye. . evidently by christie: 'fair maid, i love thee as my life, but ye shall gae hame a lovd wedded wife.' c. burden. the lines are transposed in the sec- ond stanza, but are given in the third in the order of the first. \ . ms. belling great. ii . you come. . the three ravens the three ravens a. melismata. musicall fhansies. fitting the court, b. 'the three ravens,' motherwell's minstrelsy, cittie, and countrey humours. london, , no appendix, p. xviii, no xii. * [t. ravenscroft.] a was printed from melismata, by ritson, in his ancient songs, , p. . mr. chap- pell remarked, about , popular music of the olden time, i, , that this ballad was still so popular in some parts of the country that he had "been favored with a variety of copies of it, written down from memory, and all differing in some respects, both as to words and tune, but with sufficient resemblance to prove a similar origin." motherwell, min- strelsy, introduction, p. lxxvii, note , says he had met with several copies almost the same as a. b is the first stanza of one of these (traditional) versions, " very popular in scot- land." the following verses, first printed in the minstrelsy of the scottish border, and known in several versions in scotland, are treated by motherwell and others as a traditionary form of 'the three ravens.' they are, however, as scott says, "rather a counterpart than a copy of the other," and sound something like a cynical variation of the tender little english ballad. dr rimbault (notes and queries, ser. v, m, ) speaks of unprinted copies taken down by mr blaikie and by mr thomas lyle of airth. the twa corbies. a. minstrelsy of the scottish border, m, , ed. , communicated by c. k. sharpe, as written down from tra- dition by a lady. b. albyn's anthology, n, , , " from the singing of mr thomas shortreed, of jedburgh, as sung and recited by his mother." c. chambers's scottish bal- lads, p. , partly from recitation and partly from the bor- der minstrelsy, d. fraser-tytler ms., p. . * misprinted . as i was walking all alane, i heard twa corbies making a mane; the tane unto the t'other say, 'where sall we gang and dine to-day?' 'in behint yon auld fail dyke, i wot there lies a new slain knight; and naebody kens that he lies there, but his hawk, his hound, and lady fair. 'his hound is to the hunting gane, his hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame, his lady's ta'en another mate, so we may mak our dinner sweet. 'te 'll sit on his white hause-bane, and i 'll pike out his bonny blue een; wi ae lock o his gowden hair we 'll theek our nest when it grows bare. 'mony a one for him makes mane, but nane sail ken where he is gane; oer his white banes, when they are bare, the wind sall blaw for evermair.' 'the three ravens' is translated by grundtvig, engelske og skotske folkeviser, p. , no ; by henrietta schubart, p. ; gerhard, p. ; rosa warrens, schottische v. l. der vorzeit, p. ; wolff, halle der volker, i, , hausschatz, p. . 'the twa corbies' (scott), by grundtvig, p. , no ; arndt, p. ; gerhard, p. ; schubart, p. ; knortz, l. u. r. alt- englands, p. ; rosa warrens, p. . the three first stanzas, a little freely rendered into four, pass for pushkin's: works, , n, , xxiv. . the three ravens there were three rauens sat on a tree, downe a downe, hay down, hay downe there were three rauens sat on a tree, with a downe there were three rauens sat on a tree, they were as blacke as they might be. with a downe derrie, derrie, derrie, downe, downe 'his hankes they flie so eagerly, there's no fowle dare him come nie.' downe there comes a fallow doe, as great with yong as she might goe. she lift vp his bloudy hed, and kist his wounds that were so red. the one of them said to his mate, 'where shall we our breakefast take?' she got him vp vpon her backe, and carried him to earthen lake. 'downe in yonder greene field, there lies a knight slain vnder his shield. 'his hounds they lie downe at his feete, so well they can their master keepe. she buried him before the prime, she was dead herselfe ere euen-song time. god send euery gentleman, such haukes, such hounds, and such a leman. b. thbee ravens sat upon a tree, hey down, hey derry day three ravens sat upon a tree, hey down three ravens sat upon a tree, and they were black as black could be. and sing lay doo and la doo and day variations of the twa corbies. b. . as i cam by yon auld house end, i saw twa corbies sittin thereon. . whare but by yon new fa'en birk. . we 'll sit upon his bonny breast-bane, and we'll pick out his bonny gray een; we 'll set our claws intil his yallow hair, and big our bowr, it's a' blawn bare. . my mother clekit me o an egg, and brought me up i the feathers gray, and bade me flee whereer i wad, for winter wad be my dying day. . now winter it is come and past. and a' the birds are biggin their nests, but i 'll flee high aboon them a', and sing a sang for summer's sake. o. . as i gaed doun by yon hous-en, twa corbies there were sittand their lane. . o down beside yon new-faun birk. . his horse. . his hounds to bring the wild deer hame. . o we 'll sit on his bonaie breist-bane, and we'll pyke out his bonnie grey een. d. i . walking forth. i . the ither. s. we twa dine. . wild bird. . naebody kens. s. when we've laid them bare. . win may blaw. t . the whummil boke. the whummil bore a. motherwell's ms., p. . b. motherwell's minstrelsy, appendix, p. xvi, no in. this ballad, if it ever were one, seems not to have been met with, or at least to have been thought worth notice, by anybody but motherwell. as already observed in the preface to 'hind horn,' stanza seems to have slipped into that ballad, in consequence of the resemblance of stanza to f , h of 'hind horn.' this first stanza is, however, a commonplace in english and elsewhere: e. g., 'the squire of low degree :' he served the kyng, her father dere, fully the tyme of seven yere. w , . he loved her more then seven yere, yet was he of her love never the nere. w , . ritson, met. bom. in, f. seven lang years i hae served the king, fa fa fa fa lilly and i never got a sight of his daughter but ane. with my glimpy, glimpy, glimpy eedle, lillum too tee a ta too a tee a ta a tally i saw her thro a whummil bore, and i neer got a sight of her no more. twa was putting on her gown, and ten was putting pins therein. twa was putting on her shoon, and twa was buckling them again. five was combing down her hair, and i never got a sight of her nae mair. her neck and breast was like the snow, then from the bore i was forced to go. . variation: and she was washing in a pond. b. burden: fa, fa, falilly s. variation: ye might have tied me with a with my glimpy, glimpy, glimpy strae. eedle> lillum too a tee too a tally. . bttrd ellen and yotjng tamlane burd ellen and young tamlane maidment's north countrie garland, , p. . com- hpr childhood," about sixty years before the above municated by r. pitcairn, "from the recitation of a date, female relative, who had heard it frequently sung in motherwell informs us, minstrelsy, p. xciv of introduction, note to , that 'burd helen and young tamlene' is very popular, and that various sets of it are to be found tra- ditionally current ( ). still have not found it, out of maidment's little book; not even in motherwell's large folio. i cannot connect this fragment with what is elsewhere handed down concerning tam- lane, or with the story of any other ballad. bubd ellen sits in her bower windowe, with a double laddy double, and for the double dow twisting the red silk and the blue. with the double rose and the may-hay and whiles she twisted, and whiles she twan, and whiles the tears fell down amang. till once there by cam young tamlane: 'come light, oh light, and rock your young son.' 'if you winna rock him, you may let him rair, for i hae rockit my share and mair.' ***** young tamlane to the seas he's gane, and a' women's curse in his company's gane. the english and scottish popular ballads edited by francis james child part ii. the english and scottish popular ballads edited by francis james child part ii boston houghton, mifflin and company new york: east seventeenth street sltje iltoc rstoc press, cambridge london: henry stevens, trafalgar square one (c&mtfanb €.agkt pritittd. copyright, , by f. j. child. the riverside press, cambridge: printed by h. . honghton and company. advertisement i have again to express my obligations and my gratitude to many who have aided in the collecting and editing of these ballads. to sir hugh hume campbell, for the use of two considerable manuscript volumes of scottish ballads. to mr. allakdtce, of edinburgh, for a copy of the skene ballads, and for a generous permission to print such as i required, in advance of a possible publication on his part. to mr. mansfield, of edinburgh, for the use of the pitcairn manuscripts. to mrs. robertson, for the use of note-books of the late dr. joseph robertson, and to mr. murdoch, of glasgow, mr. lugton, of kelso, mrs. alexander forbes, of edin- burgh, and messrs. g. l. kittredge and g. m. richardson, former students of harvard college, for various communications. to dr. reinhold kohler's unrivalled knowledge of popular fiction, and his equal liber- ality, i am indebted for valuable notes, which will be found in the additions at the end of this volume. the help of my friend dr. theodor vetter has enabled me to explore portions of the slavic ballad-field which otherwise must have been neglected. professors d. silvan evans, john rhys, paul meyer, and t. frederick crane have lent me a ready assistance in literary emergencies. the interest and cooperation of mr. furnivall and mr. macmath have been continued to me without stint or weariness. it is impossible, while recalling and acknowledging acts of courtesy, good will, and friend- ship, not to allude, with one word of deep personal grief, to the irreparable loss, which all who are concerned with the study of popular tradition have experienced in the death of svend grundtvig. f. j. c. june, contents pmi . the boy and the mantle . king arthur and king cornwall . the marriage of sir gawain . king henry . kempy kay . kemp owyne . allison gross . the laily worm and the machrel of the sea . thomas rymer . the wee wee man . tam lin . the queen of elfan's nourice . hind ettn . clerk colvtll . the broomtteld hill . the twa magicians . king john and the bishop • . captain wedderburn's courtship . proud lady margaret .... . young andrew • . the twa brothers . the bonny hind . lizte wan . the king's dochter lady jean . young beichan .' additions and corrections ....... 'the boy and the mantle percy ms., p. . hales & furnivall, ii, . this ballad and the two which follow it are clearly not of the same rise, and not meant for the same ears, as those which go before. they would come down by professional rather than by domestic tradition, through minstrels rather than knitters and weavers. they suit the hall better than the bower, the tavern or public square better than the cottage, and would not go to the spinning-wheel at all. an exceedingly good piece of minstrelsy 'the boy and the mantle' is, too; much livelier than most of the numerous variations on the somewhat overhandled theme.* of these, as nearest related, the fabliau or "romance" of le mantel mautaillid, 'cort mantel,' must be put first: montaiglon et raynaud, recueil gdndral des fabliaux, iii, , from four manuscripts, three of the thirteenth century, one of the fourteenth ; and previously by michel, from the three older manuscripts, * after i bad finished what i had to say in the way of introduction to this ballad, there appeared the study of the trinkhorn- and mantelsage, by otto warnatsch: der man- tel, bruchstiick eines lanzeletromans, etc., breslau, . to this very thorough piece of work, in which the rela- tions of the multiform versions of the double-branched story are investigated with a care that had never before been at- tempted, i naturally have frequent occasion to refer, and by its help i have supplied some of my deficiencies, indicating always the place by the author's name. t the bibliothequc des romans, , fe'vricr, pp. - , gives an abstract of a small printed piece in prose, there assigned to the beginning of the sixteenth century, which, as warnatsch observes, p. , must have been a different thing from the tale given by legrand, inasmuch as it brings in lancelot and gawain as suppressing the jests of kay and dinadam. x the custom of arthur not to eat till he had heard of some adventnre or strange news was confined to those days when he held full court, according to perceval le gallois, ii, , , - , and the roman de perceval, fol. lxxviii. it is mentioned, with the same limitations, i suppose, in the roman de lancelot, iii, fol. lxxxii, and we learn from this in wolf, ueber die lais, p. . a rendering of the fabliau in prose, existing in a single manuscript, was several times printed in the sixteenth century: given in legrand, ed. re- nouard, i, , and before, somewhat modern- ized, by caylus, 'les manteaux,' ceuvres ba- dines, vi, .f the story in ' cort mantel' goes thus. ar- thur was holding full court at pentecost, never more splendidly. not only kings, dukes, and counts were there, but the attendance of all young bachelors had been commanded, and he that had a bele amie was to bring her. the court assembled on saturday, and on sunday all the world went to church. after service the queen took the ladies to her apartments, till dinner should be ready. but it was ar- thur's wont not to dine that day until he had had or heard-of some adventure ; j dinner was kept waiting; and it was therefore with great last romance, i, fol. xxxvi, that arthur was accustomed to hold a court and wear his crown five times in the year, at easter, ascension-day, pentecost, all saints, and christmas. the roman de merlin, ii, lvib, or, as cited by southey, ii, , , says that "king arthur, after his first dinner at logres, when he brought home his bride, made a vow that while he wore a crown he never would seat himself at table till some adventure had occurred." in malory's king ar- thur, kay reminds the king that this had been the old cus- tom of his court at pentecost. arthur is said to observe this custom on christmas, "vpon such a dere day," in sir ga- wayn and the green knight, madden, p. , vv - . mes- sire gauvain says " a feste ne mangast, devant," etc., p. , vv - . wolfram von eschenbach's parzival does not limit the custom to high holidays, ed. bartsch, i, , vv - ; and see riddarasogur, parcevals saga, etc., ed. kolbing, p. . neither does wigalois, vv - , or a fragment of daniel von bluhenthal, symbolae ad literaturam teutonicam, p. , cited by benecke, wigalois, p. f, or the faroe galians kvrcsi, kolbing, in germania, xx, . see mad- den's syr gawayne, which has furnished much of this note, pp - ; southey's king arthur, ii, , . robin hood imitates arthur: see the beginning of the little gest. . the boy and the mantle satisfaction that the knights saw a handsome and courteous varlet arrive, who must certainly bring news; news that was not to be good to all, though some would be pleased (cf. stanza of the ballad). a maid had sent him from a very distant country to ask a boon of the king. he was not to name the boon or the lady till he had the king's promise; but what he asked was no harm. the king having said that he would grant what was asked, the varlet took from a bag a beautiful mantle, of fairy workmanship. this mantle would fit no dame or damsel who had in any way mis- behaved towards husband or lover; it would be too short or too long; and the boon was that the king should require all the ladies of the court to put it on. the ladies were still waiting dinner, un- conscious of what was coming. gawain was sent to require their presence, and he simply told them that the magnificent mantle was to be given to the one it best fitted. the king repeated the assurance, and the queen, who wished much to win the mantle, was the first to try it on. it proved too short. ywain sug- gested that a young lady who stood near the queen should try. this she readily did, and what was short before was shorter still. kay, who had been making his comments unguard- edly, now divulged the secret, and after that nobody cared to have to do with the mantle. the king said, we may as well give it back; but the varlet insisted on having the king's promise. there was general consternation and bad humor. kay called his mistress, and very confi- dently urged her to put on the mantle. she demurred, on the ground that she might give offence by forwardness; but this roused sus- picion in kay, and she had no resource but to go on. the mantle was again lamentably short. bruns and ydier let loose some gibes. kay bade them wait; he had hopes for them. gawain's amie next underwent the test, then ywain's, then perceval's. still a sad disap- * 'quar je vous aim tant bonement, que je ne vondroie savoir vostre mesfet por nul avoir. micx en veuil je estre en doutance. pointment. many were the curses on the man- tle that would fit nobody, and on him that brought it. kay takes the unlucky ladies, one after the other, to sit with his mistress. at this juncture kay proposes that they shall have dinner, and continue the experi- ment by and by. the varlet is relentless; but kay has the pleasure of seeing ydier dis- comfited. and so they go on through the whole court, till the varlet says that he fears he shall be obliged to carry his mantle away with him. but first let the chambers be searched; some one may be in hiding who may save the credit of the court. the king orders a search, and they find one lady, not in hiding, but in her bed, because she is not well. being told that she must come, she presents herself as soon as she can dress, greatly to the vexation of her lover, whose name is carados briebras. the varlet ex- plains to her the quality of the mantle, and carados, in verses very honorable to his heart, begs that she will not put it on if she has any misgivings.* the lady says very meekly that she dare not boast being better than other people, but, if it so please her lord, she will willingly don the mantle. this she does, and in sight of all the barons it is neither too short nor too long. "it was well we sent for her," says the varlet. "lady, your lover ought to be delighted. i have carried this mantle to many courts, and of more than a thousand who have put it on you are the only one that has escaped disgrace. i give it to you, and well you deserve it." the king confirms the gift, and no one can gainsay. a norse prose translation of the french fabliau was executed by order of the nor- wegian king, hakon hakonarson, whose reign covers the years - . of this translation, 'mottuls saga,' a fragment has come down which is as old as ; there are also por- tions of a manuscript which is assigned to about , and two transcripts of this latter, made when it was complete, besides other less por tot le royaume de france, n'en voudroie je estre cert; quar qui sa bone amie pert molt a perdu, ce ni'est avis.' - . . the boy and the mantle important copies. this translation, which is reasonably close and was made from a good exemplar, has been most excellently edited by messrs cederschiold and wulff, versions nor- diques du fabliau le mantel mautaillid, lund, , p. .* it presents no divergences from the story as just given which are material here. not so with the 'skikkju rfmur,' or man- tle rhymes, an icelandic composition of the fifteenth century, in three parts, embracing in all one hundred and eighty-five four-line stanzas: cederschiold and wulff, p. . in these the story is told with additions, which occur partially in our ballad. the mantle is of white velvet. three elf-women had been not less than fifteen years in weaving it, and it seemed both yellow and gray, green and black, red and blue: n, , , . our eng- lish minstrel describes these variations of color as occurring after guenever had put the man- tle on: stanzas , . again, there are among the pentecostal guests a king and queen of dwarf land; a beardless king of small-maids land, with a queen eight years old; and a king felix, three hundred years old, with a beard to the crotch, and a wife, tall and fat, to whom he has been two centuries married, — all these severally attended by generous retinues of pigmies, juveniles, and seniors: i, - ; m, . felix is of course the prototype of the old knight pattering over a creed in stanzas - of the ballad, and he will have his representative in several other pieces presently to be spoken of. in the end arthur sends all the ladies from his court in * see also brynjiilfsson, saga af tristram ok isond, samt mottuls saga, udtog, pp - , copenhagen, . there is a general presumption that the larger part of the works translated for king hakon were derived from england. c. & w., p. . t that is, the current one. the samson saga professes to supply the earlier history. samson's father is another arthur, king of england. an abstract of so much of the saga as pertains to the mantle is given by cederschiold and wulff, p. f. wamatsch, p. f, shows that the ri'mur and samson had probably a common source, independent of the mottulssaga. j by warnatsch, who gives the text with the correspond- ing passages of the fabliau in a parallel column, pp - : the argument for heinrich's authorship, pp - . 'der mantel* had been previously printed in haupt and hoff- disgrace, and his knights to the wars; we will get better wives, he says: m, , . the land of small-maids and the long-lived race are mentioned in a brief geographical chapter (the thirteenth) of that singular gal- limaufry the saga of samson the fair, but not in connection with a probation by the mantle, though this saga has appropriated portions of the story. here the mantle is one which four fairies have worked at for eighteen years, as a penalty for stealing from the fleece of a very remarkable ram ; and it is of this same fleece, described as being of all hues, gold, silk, oh kolors, that the mantle is woven. it would hold off from an unchaste woman and fall off from a thief. quintalin, to ransom his life, undertakes to get the mantle for samson. its virtue is tried at two weddings, the second being samson's; and on this last occasion val- entina, samson's bride, is the only woman who can put it on. the mantle is given to valen- tina, as in the fabliau to carados's wife, but nevertheless we ,hear later of its being pre- sented by samson to another lady, who, a good while after, was robbed of the same by a pirate, and the mantle carried to africa. from africa it was sent to our arthur by a lady named elida, " and hence the saga of the mantle." f bjorner, nordiska kampa dater, cc , , , , , . there is also an incomplete german ver- sion of the fabliau, now credibly shown to be the work of heinrich von dem tiirlin, dating from the earliest years of the thirteenth cen- tury. j though the author has dealt freely •with his original, there are indications that mann's altdeutsche blatter, ii, , and by miillenhoff in his altdeutsche sprachproben, p. . of this poem, which warnatsch, pp - , holds to be a fragment of a lost romance of lanzelet, written before the 'crone,' only verses are left. deducting about a hundred of introduction, there are some german against some french verses, an excess which is owing, no doubt, largely to insertions and expansions on the part of heinrich, but in some measure to the existing texts of the fabliau having suffered abridg- ment. the whole matter of the church service, with the going and coming, is dispatched in less than a dozen verses in the'french, but occupies more than seventy in german, and just here we read in the french: ci ne vueil je plus demorer, ni de noient fere lone conte, si con l'estoire le raceme. . the boy and the mantle carados vrindinne, in the other l'amie car- aduel briefbras. the scalachronica, by sir thomas gray of heton, a chronicle of england and scotland, - , begun in , gives the analysis of many romances, and that of the adventure of the mantle in this form. there was sent to arthur's court the mantle of karodes, which was of such virtue that it would fit no woman who was not willing that her husband should know both her act and her thought.* this was the occasion of much mirth, for the mantle was either too short, or too long, or too tight, for all the ladies except karodes' wife. and it was said that this mantle was sent by the father of karodes, a magician, to prove the goodness of his son's wife.j" two fifteenth-century german versions of the mantle story give it a shape of their own. in fastnachtspiele aus dem fiinfzehnten jahr- hundert, ii, , no , ' der luneten man- tel,' the amiable lunet, so well and favorably known in romances, takes the place of the english boy and french varlet. the story has the usual course. the mantle is unsuc- cessfully tried by arthur's queen, by the wife of the greek emperor, and by the queen of lorraine. the king of spain, who announces himself as the oldest man present, is willing to excuse his wife, who is the youngest of the royal ladies. she says, if we lack lands and gold, " so sei wir doch an eren reich," offers herself to the test with the fearlessness of in- nocence, and comes off clear, to the delight of her aged spouse. a meistergesang, bruns, * nul femme que [ne] vouloit lesser sauoir a soun marry soun fet et pense'. t. wright, in archaeologia cambrensis, january, , p. . mr wright gives one of the texts of cort mantel, with an english translation. we are further told, in scalachronica, that this mantle was afterwards made into a chasuble, and that it is "to this day" preserved at glastonbury. three versions of the fabliau testify that carados and his amie deposited the mantle in a welsh ab- bey. the skikkju ri'mur say that the lady presented it to the cloister of cologne; the mottulssaga has simply a mon- astery (and, indeed, the mantle, as described by some, must have had a vocation that way from the beginning). "item, in the castel of douer ye may see gauwayn's skull and cra- dok's mantel:" caxton, in his preface to kyng arthur, , i, ii, in southey's ed.; cited by michel, tristan, ii, , and from him by warnatsch. t for this enchanter see le livre de karados in perceval beitrage zur kritischen bearbeitung alter handschriften, p. ,j 'lanethen mantel,' again awards the prize to the young wife of a very old knight. laneth, a clean maid, who is arthur's niece, having made herself poor by her bounty, is cast off by her uncle's wife and accused of loose behavior. she makes her trouble known to a dwarf, a good friend of her father's, and receives from him a mantle to take to arthur's court: if anybody huffs her, she is to put it to use. the queen opens upon laneth, as soon as she appears, with language not unlike that which she em- ploys of cradock's wife in stanzas , of the ballad. the mantle is offered to any lady that it will fit. in front it comes to the queen's knee, and it drags on the ground be- hind. three hundred and fifty knights' la- dies fare as ill as the sovereign.§ the dean of lismore's collection of gaelic poetry, made in the early part of the sixteenth century, contains a ballad, obscure in places, but clearly presenting the outlines of the eng- lish ballad or french fabliau.|| finn, diar- maid, and four other heroes are drinking, with their six wives. the women take too much, and fall to boasting of their chastity. while they are so engaged, a maid approaches who is clad in a seamless robe of pure white. she sits down by finn, and he asks her what is the virtue of the garment. she replies that her seamless robe will completely cover none but the spotless wife. conan, a sort of kay, says, give it to my wife at once, that we may learn the truth of what they have been saying. le gallois, ed. potvin, ii, ff. it is not said in the printed copy that he sent the mantle [horn]. t another copy, assigned to the end of the th century, from the kolmar ms., bartsch, p. , no lxix (war- natsch). § warnatsch shows, p. f, that the fastnachtspiel must have been made up in part from some version of the mantle story which was also the source of the meisterlicd, and in part from a meisterlied of the horn, which will be men- tioned further on. || the dean of lismore's book, edited by rev. thomas m'lauchlan, p. of the translation, | j of the original. re- peated in campbell's heroic gaelic ballads, p. f, 'the maid of the white mantle' mr campbell remarks: "this ballad, or the story of it, is known in irish writings. it is not remembered in scotland now." mr wright cites this poem, archaeologia cambrensis, p. f, f. . the boy and the mantle the robe shrinks into folds, and conan is so angry that he seizes his spear and kills his wife.* diarrnaid's wife tries, and the robe clings about her hair; oscar's, and it does not reach to her middle; maighinis, finn's wife, and it folds around her ears. macrea's wife only is completely covered. the 'daughter of deirg,' certainly a wife of finn, and here seemingly to be identified with maighinis, claims the robe: she has done nothing to be ashamed of; she has erred only with finn. finn curses her and womankind, "because of her who came that day." the probation by the horn runs parallel with that by the mantle, with which it is combined in the english ballad. whether this or that is the anterior creation it is not possible to say, though the ' lai du corn ' is, beyond question, as ferdinand wolf held, of a more original stamp, fresher and more in the popular vein than the fabliau of the mantle, as we have it.f the ' lai du corn,' preserved in a single not very early manuscript (digby , bodleian library, " of the second half of the thirteenth or beginning of the fourteenth cen- tury "), may well belong, where wolf puts it, in the middle of the twelfth. robert bikez, the jongleur who composed it, attributes the first authorship to " garadue," the hero, and says that he himself derived the story from the oral communication of an abbd. arthur has assembled thirty thousand knights at a feast at pentecost, and each of them is paired with a lady. before dinner there arrives a don- zel, with an ivory horn adorned with four gold bands and rich jewels. this horn has been sent arthur by mangounz, king of moraine. the youth is told to take his place before the king, who promises to knight him after din- ner and give him a handsome present the next * cf. arthur in the lai du corn and fraw triaterat horn, a little further on. t wolf at first speaks of the lai as being made over into the fabliau, in regular court style, ganz nach hiilischer weise, about the middle of the th century; then goes on to say that even if the author of the fabliau followed another ver- sion of the story, he must have known the jongleur's poem, because he has repeated some of the introductory lines of the lai. this excellent scholar happened, for once, not to observe that the first fourteen lines of the lai, excepting the day; but he laughingly excuses himself, on the ground that it is not proper for a squire to eat at a knight's table, and retires. arthur sees that there is an inscription on the horn, and desires that his "chapelein" may read it. everybody is eager to hear, but some repent afterwards. the horn was made by a fairy, who endued it with this quality, that no man should drink of it without spilling, if his wife had not been true in act and thought. even the queen hung her head, and so did all the barons that had wives. the maids jested, and looked at their lovers with "now we shall see." arthur was offended, but ordered kay to fill. the king drank and spilled; seized a knife, and was about to strike the queen, but was withheld by his knights. gawain gal- lantly came to the queen's vindication. "be not such a churl," he said, "for there is no married woman but has her foolish thought." the queen demanded an ordeal by fire: if a hair of her were burned, she would be torn by horses. she confessed that the horn was in so far right that she had once given a ring to a youth who had killed a giant that had accused gawain of treason, etc. she thought this youth would be a desirable addition to the court. arthur was not convinced: he would make everybody try the horn now, king, duke, and count, for he would not be the only one to be shamed. eleven kings, thirty counts, all who essay, spill: they are very angry, and bid the devil take him who brought and him who sent the horn. when arthur saw this, he be- gan to laugh: he regarded the horn as a great present, he said, and he would part with it to nobody except the man that could drink out of it. the queen blushed so prettily that he kissed her three times, and asked her pardon for his bad humor. the queen said, let everybody fourth, which is questionable, are in a longer metre than the rest of the poem, in eights and sevens, not sixes, and the first three of the lai, which agree with the first three of the fabliau, in the eight-syllable verse of the latter; so that it was not the author of the fabliau that borrowed. warnatsch (who has also made this last remark) has noted other agree- ments between lai and fabliau, p. . both of these ac- knowledge their derivation from an earlier dit, estoire, not having which we shall find it hard to determine by which and from what the borrowing was done. . the boy and the mantle take the horn, small and great. there was a knight who was the happiest man in all the court, the least a braggart, the most mannerly, and the most redoubtable after gawain. his name was garadue, and he had a wife, mout leal, who was a fairy for beauty, and surpassed by none but the queen. garadue looked at her. she did not change color. "drink," she said; "indeed, you are at fault to hesitate." she would never have husband but him: for a woman should be a dove, and accept no sec- ond mate. garadue was naturally very much pleased: he sprang to his feet, took the horm and, crying wassail! to the king, drank out every drop. arthur presented him with ciren- cester, and, for his wife's sake, with the horn, which was exhibited there on great days. the romance of perceval le gallois, by chrestien de troyes and others (second half of the twelfth century), describes arthur, like the fabliau, as putting off dinner till he should hear of some strange news or adven- ture. a knight rides into the hall) with an ivory horn, gold-banded and richly jewelled, hanging from his neck, and presents it to the king. have it filled with pure water, says the bearer, and the water will turn to the best wine in the world, enough for all who are present. "a rich present!" exclaims kay. but no knight whose wife or love has be- trayed him shall drink without spilling. "or empire vostre presens," says kay. the king has the horn filled, and does not heed guen- ever, who begs him not to drink, for it is some enchantment, to shame honest folk. "then i pray god," says the queen, "that if you try to drink you may be wet." the king essays to drink, and guenever has her prayer, kay has the same luck, and all the knights,* till the horn comes to carados (brisid-bras). carados, as in the lai, hesitates; his wife (guinon, guimer) looks at him, and says, drink! he spills not a drop. guenever and * montpellier ms. t perceval exhibits agreements, both as to phrase and matter, now with the lai, now with the fabliau, and this phenomenon will occur again and again. this suggests the likelihood of a source which combined traits of both lai and fabliau: warnatsch, pp - . } so amended by zingerle from syrneyer lant. a third many a dame hate nothing so much as her. perceval le gallois, ed. potvin, ii, ff, v v , - . t the story of ' le livre de carados,' in per- ceval, is given in abridgment by the author of le roman du renard contrefait, writing in the second half of the fourteenth century: tarbe\ pontes de champagne antevieurs au siecle de francois ier, histoire de quarados brun-bras, p. ff. the horn here becomes a cup. a meistergesang, entitled 'dis ist frauw tristerat horn von saphoien,' and found in the same fifteenth-century manuscript as der lanethen mantel, brans, as before, p. , preserves many features of the lai. while arthur is at table with seven other kings and their wives, a damsel comes, bringing an ivory horn, with gold letters about the rim, a pres- ent from frau tristerat of savoy. the king sends for a clerk-to read the inscription, and declares he will begin the experiment. the damsel prudently retires. arthur is thoroughly wet, and on the point of striking the queen, but is prevented by a knight. the seven kings then take the horn, one after the other. six of them fare like arthur. the king of spain looks at his wife, fearing shame. she encourages him to drink, saying, as in the other meistergesang, if we are poor in goods, we are rich in honor. arthur presents him with the horn, and adds cities and lands. an- other copy of this piece was printed by zin- gerle, in germania, v, , 'das goldene horn.' the queen is aus der syrenen lant.j a fastnachtspiel gives substantially the same form to the story: keller, nachlese, no , p. . arthur invites seven kings and queens to his court. his wife wishes him to ask his sister, the queen of cyprus, also; but she has offended him, and he cannot be pre- vailed upon to do it. the queen of cyprus sends the horn to arthur by her maid as a gift copy is cited as in the kolmar ms., no , bartsch, meisterlieder der kolmarer handschrift, p. (warnatsch). a remarkable agreement between the french lai, , , - , and wigamur - convinces warnatsch that the source of this meisterlied must have been a middle high german rendering of some form of the drinking-horn test closely resembling the lai. see warnatsch, p. . . the boy and the mantle from a queen who is to be nameless, and in ful- filling her charge the messenger describes her lady simply as a sea princess. the inscrip- tion is read aloud by one of arthur's knights. the king of spain carries off the honors, and receives in gift, besides the horn, a ducal crown, and gold to boot. arthur resolves that the horn shall be forgotten, and no grudge borne against the women, and proposes a dance, which he leads off with his wife.* we have arthur joining in a dance under nearly the same circumstances in an english "bowrd" found in a ms. of about the middle of the fifteenth century (ashmolean museum, no ) .the king has a bugle horn, which al- ways stands before him, and often amuses him- self by experimenting with it. those who can- not drink without spilling are set at a table by themselves, with willow garlands on their heads, and served with the best. upon the oc- casion of a visit from the duke of gloucester, the king, wishing to entertain his guest with an exhibition of the property of the horn, says he will try all who are present. he be- gins himself, as he was wont to do, but this time spills. he takes the mishap merrily, and says he may now join in a dance which the "freyry" were to have after meat. 'the cokwolds daunce,' hartshorne's ancient met- rical tales, p. ; karajan, friihlingsgabe [schatzgraber], p. ; hazlitt, remains of early popular poetry, i, .f heinrich von dem tiirlin narrates the epi- * the king of spain, who is again the poorest of all the kings, p. , line , p. , line , is addressed by arthur as his nephew, p. , line , and p. , line . carados is called arthur's nephew in perceval (he is son of arthur's niece), e. g. , , and carados, his father, is cnrados de vaigne, ii, . it is said of kalcgras's amie in the ' man- tle rhymes,' in, , that many a lady looked down upon her. this may be a chance expression, or possibly point to the poverty which is attributed to the royal pair of spain in fastnachtspiele, nos , , and in ftau tiisterat horn. in der lancthen mantel, laneth is arthur's niece, and poor: see p. . the fastnachtspiel has points in common with the fabliau, and the assumption of a source which combined features of both lai and fabliau is warrantable: warnatsch, pp - . t this is a thoroughly dissolute piece, but not ambiguous. it is also the most humorous of the whole series. j warnatsch shows that heinrich cannot have derived any part of his trinkhornprobe from the perceval of chres- sode of the probation by the horn with many variations of his own, among them the im- portant one of subjecting the women to the test as well as the men. j in his cr ne, put at - , a misshapen, dwarfish knight, whose skin is overgrown with scales, riding on a monster who is fish before and dolphin behind, with wings on its legs, presents him- self to arthur on christmas day as an envoy from a sea king, who offers the british mon- arch a gift on condition of his first granting a boon. the gift is a cup, made by a necro- mancer of toledo, of which no man or woman can drink who has been false to love, and it is to be the king's if there shall be anybody at the court who can stand the test. the ladies are sent for, and the messenger gives the cup first to them. they all spill. the knights follow, arthur first; and he, to the general astonishment, bears the proof, which no one else does except the sea king's messen- ger. caraduz § von caz fails with the rest. diu cr ne, ed. scholl, vv - . the prose tristan confines the proof to the women, and transfers the scene to king mark's court. morgan the fay having sent the en- chanted horn to arthur's court by the hands of a damsel, to avenge herself on guenever, two knights who had a spite against mark and tristan intercept it, and cause the horn to be taken to king mark, who is in- formed that no lady that has been false to her lord can drink of it without spilling. yseult tien, characteristic agreements with perceval being entirely wanting. there are agreements with the lai, many more with the fabliau; and heinrich's poem, so far as it is not of his own invention, he believes to be compounded from his own version of the fabliau and some lost version of the horn- test : pp - . § the principal variations of this name, of which the welsh caradoc is assumed to be the original, are: crad- docke (english ballad) ; carados, caradox (cort mantel); karodes (scnlacbronica) ; caraduz (crone, , elsewhere) karadas; carigras, kaligras (rfmur); karodeus, cara- duel (perceval, , , , , , , but generally), cara- dos, -ot, or; caraduel (messire gauvain, ); garadue (lai du corn); karadin (mottuls saga). garadue probably = caraduel, which, in percival twice, and once in messire gauvain, is used for carados, through confusion with ar- thur's residence, carduel, cardoil. so karadas is twice put in the crone, , , , , for karidol = cardoil. might not karadin have been written for karadiu? . the boy and the mantle spills, and the king says she deserves to die. but, fortunately or unfortunately, all the rest of the ladies save four are found to be in the same plight as the queen. the courtiers, resolved to make the best of a bad matter, declare that they have no confidence in the probation, and the king consents to treat the horn as a deception, and acquits his wife.* ariosto has introduced the magical vessel made by morgan the fay for arthur's be- hoof f into orlando furioso. a gentleman tries it on his guests for ten years, and they all spill but rinaldo, who declines il periglioso saggio: canto xlh, - , - ; xlhi, - . upon ariosto's narrative la fontaine founded the tale and the comedy of 'la coupe enchantee,' works ed. moland, iv, , v, . in a piece in the wunderhorn, i, , ed. , called 'die ausgleichung,' and purport- ing to be from oral tradition, but reading like an imitation, or at most a reconstruction, of a meistergesang, the cup and mantle are made to operate conjointly: the former to convict a king and his knights, the other a queen and her ladies, of unfaithfulness in love. only the youngest of the ladies can wear the man- tle, and only the oldest of the knights, to whom she is espoused, can drink from the cup. this knight, on being presented with the cup, turns into a dwarf; the lady, on receiving the gift of the mantle, into a fay. * tristan of hclie de borron, i, verso, in rajna, fonti dell' orlando furioso, p. ff. so in malory's king ar- thur, southey, i, , wright, ii, . the italian tristan, la tavola ritonda, ed. polidori, xlin, pp - , makes try, of whom only prove to be innocent, and those in spite of themselves. another account exempts out of : nannucci, manuale, ii, - . t un vasello fatto da ber, qual gia, per fare accorto il suo fratello del fallo di ginevra, fe morgana : xlin, ; un bel nappo d'or, di fuor di gemme, xlii, . the orlando con- curs with the prose tristan as to the malice of morgan, but does not, with the tristan, depart from prescription in mak- ing the women drink. warnatsch observes that the orlando agrees with the horn fastnachtspicl, and may with it follow some lost version of the story: p. . before leaving these drinking tests, mention may be made of oberon's gold cup, which, upon his passing his right hand three times round it and making the sign of the cross, fills with wine enough for all the living and the dead ; but no one can drink s'il n'est preudom, et nes et purs et sans pecie they pour a drop of wine from the cup upon the mantle, and give the mantle to the queen, and the cup, empty, to the king. after this, the king and all the world can drink with- out inconvenience, and the mantle fits every woman. but the stain on the mantle grows bigger every year, and the cup gives out a hollow sound like tin an allegory, we may suppose, and, so far as it is intelligible, of the weakest sort. tegau eurvron is spoken of in welsh triads as one of the three chaste ladies, and again as one of the three fair ladies, of arthur's court.j she is called the wife of caradawc vreichvras by various welsh writers, and by her surname of "gold-breasted " she should be so.§ if we may trust the author of the welsh bards, tegau was the possessor of three treas- ures or rarities " which befitted none but her- self," a mantle, a goblet, and a knife. the mantle is mentioned in a triad,|| and is re- ferred to as having the variable hue attributed to it in our ballad and elsewhere. there are three things, says the triad, of which no man knows the color; the peacock's expanded tail, the mantle of tegau eurvron, and the miser's pence. of this mantle, jones, in whose list of "thirteen rarities of kingly regalia" of the island of britain it stands eleventh, says, no one could put it on who had dishonored mar- riage, nor a young damsel who had committed incontinence; but it would cover a chaste mortel: huon de bordeaux, ed. guessard et grandmaison, p. f, vv - . } the myvyrian archeology of wales, n, , triad = triad , p. ; p. , triad = triad , p. . § see the story in le livre de carados, ferceval le gal- lob, fotvin, especially h, - , w , - . "the rev. evan evans," says percy, reliqnes, ih, , ed. , "affirmed that the story of the boy and the mantle is taken from what is related in some of the old welsh mss of te- gan earfron, one of king arthur's mistresses." this asper- sion, which is even absurd, must have arisen from a misun- derstanding on the part of the bishop: no welshman could so err. || myvyrian archaeology, ih, », no , pointed out to me by professor evans. the story of the 'boy and the mantle,' says warton, "is recorded in many manuscript welsh chronicles, as i learn from original letters of llwyd, in the ashmolean museum:" history of english foetry, ed. , i, , note . . the boy and the mantle woman from top to toe: welsh bards, ii, . the mantle certainly seems to be identified by what is said of its color in the (not very ancient) triad, and so must have the property attributed to it by jones, but one would be glad to have had jones cite chapter and verse for his description. there is a drinking-horn among the thir- teen precious things of the island of britain, which, like the conjurer's bottle of our day, will furnish any liquor that is called for, and a knife which will serve four-and-twenty men at meat " all at once." how this horn and this knife should befit none but the chaste and love- ly tegau, it is not easy to comprehend. mean- while the horn and the knife are not the prop- erty of cradock's wife, in the english ballad: the horn falls to cradock of right, and the knife was his from the beginning. instead of tegau's mantle we have in another account a mantle of arthur, which is the familiar cloak that allows the wearer to see everything without himself being seen. not much light, therefore, but rather considerable mist, comes from these welsh traditions, of very uncertain date and significance. it may be that some- body who had heard of the three welsh rari- ties, and of the mantle and horn as being two of them, supposed that the knife must have similar virtues with the horn and mantle, whence its appearance in our ballad; but no proof has yet been given that the welsh horn and knife had ever a power of testing chas- tity.* heinrich von dem tiirlin, not satisfied with * the horn is no in jones's list, and no in a manu- script of justice bosanquet; the knife is th in jones and . th in the other; the mantle of invisibility is th in the bo- sanquet series, and, under the title of arthur's veil or mask, st in jones. the mantle of tegau eurvron does not occur in the bosanquet ms. jones says, "the original welsh account of the above regalia was transcribed from a tran- script of mr edward llwyd, the antiquary, who informs me that he copied it from an old parchment ms. i have col- lated this with two other mss." not a word of dates. jones's welsh bnrds, ii, ^ ; lady charlotte guest's mabinogion, ii, - . lady charlotte guest remarks that a boar's head in some form appears as the armorial bearing of all of caradawc's name. though must anxious to believe all that is said of caradawc, am compelled to doubt whether this goes far to prove that he owned the knife celebrated in the ballad. testing arthur's court first with the mantle, and again with the horn, renews the experi- ment with a glove, in a couple of thousand lines more of tedious imitation of ' cort man- tel,' f cr ne, , - , . this glove ren- ders the right side of the body invisible, when put on by man or woman free of blame, but leaves in the other case some portion of that side visible .and bare. a great many ladies and knights don the glove, and all have rea- son to regret the trial except arthur and ga- wain.j there is another german imitation of the fabliau of the mantle, in the form ( ) of a farce of the fifteenth century and ( ) of a meistergesang printed in the sixteenth. in these there is substituted for the mantle a crown that exposes the infidelity of husbands. . "das vasnachtspil mit der kron." § a "master" has been sent to arthur's court with a rich crown, which the king of abian wishes to present to whichever king or lord it shall fit, and it will fit only those who have not " lost their honor." the king of orient begins the trial, very much against his will: the crown turns to ram's horns. the king of cyprus is obliged to follow, though he says the devil is in the crown: the crown hangs about his neck. appeals are made to arthur that the trial may now stop, so that the knights may devote themselves to the object for which they had come together, the service and honor of the ladies. but here lanet, arthur's sister (so she is styled), interposes, and expresses a hope that no honors are intended the queen, t heinrich seeks to put his wearisome invention off on chrestien de troyes. warnatsch argues with force against any authorship but heinrich's, pp ff. } gawain had failed in the earlier trial, though he had no fault in mind or body, except that he rated his favor with women too high: - . in the first two probations a false heart is the corpus de- licti; something is said of carnal offences, but not very dis- tinctly. the scope of the glove is of the widest. it takes cogniz- ance of rede und gedanc in maids, were und gedanc in wives, iugent und manheit, unzitht und zaqeheit, in men. one must have known as little what one was convicted of as if one had been in the hands of the holy office. § fastnachtspiele aus dem funfzehnten jahrhundert, zweiter theil, p. , no . . the boy and the mantle for she is not worthy of them, having broken her faith. arthur is very angry, and says that lanet has by her injurious language forfeited all her lands, and shall be expelled from court. (cf. der lanethen mantel, p. .) a knight begs the king to desist, for he who heeds every tale that is told of his wife shall never be easy. . the meistergesang 'die krone der koni- gin von afion.' * while his majesty of afion is holding a great feast, a youth enters the hall bearing a splendid crown, which has such chaste things in it that no king can wear it who haunts false love. the crown had been secretly made by order of the queen. the king wishes to buy the crown at any price, but the youth informs him that it is to be given free to the man who can wear it. the king asks the favor of being the first to try the crown: when put on his head it falls down to his back. the king of portugal is eager to be next: the crown falls upon his shoulder. the king of holland at first refuses to put on the crown, for there was magic in it, and it was only meant to shame them: but he is obliged to yield, and the crown goes to his girdle. the king of cyprus offers himself to the adventure: the crown falls to his loins. and so with eleven. but there was a " young philips," king of england, who thought he might carry off the prize. his wife was gray and old and ugly, and quite willing, on this account, to overlook e bisserle falschheit, and told him that he might spare himself. but he would not be prevented; so they put the crown on him, and it fitted to a hair. this makes an edifying pendant to 'der luneten mantel,' p. . still another imitation is the magical bridge * from vulpius's curiositaten, ii, , in erlach, i, , after a primed copy of the beginning of the th century: wolff, halle der vslker, ii, , from a fliegendes blatt of the th century. two copies are cited by title in mone's anzeiger, viii, b, no ; , no . wolff prints asion. t a man must be " clear as beryl." one of the knights is tumbled into the water for having kissed a lady; but this is according to the code, for he had done it without leave. we learn from perceval that kissing is permissible; marry, not without the lady be willing. 'die bruck zu karidol' is in the younger titurel which klingsor throws over the sibra. knights and ladies assembled at arthur's court, if less than perfect,f on at- tempting to ride over it are thrown off into the water, or stumble and fall on the bridge: ed. hahn, p. ff, st. ff. hans sachs has told this story twice, with virgil for the magician: ed. keller, historia, konig artus mit der ehbrecher-brugk, ii, ; goedeke, dichtungen von hans sachs, , . kirchhof follows hans sachs in a story in wendun- muth, ed. osterley, ii, . florimel's girdle, in the fourth book of the 'fairy queen,' canto v, once more, is formed on the same pattern.j there might be further included in imita- tions of the horn or mantle test several other inventions which are clearly, as to form, mod- elled on this original, but which have a dif- ferent object: the valley from which no false lover could escape till it had been entered by one "qui de nulle chose auroit vers s'amie fausd ne mespris, ns d'euvre ne de pensee ns de talent," the prose lancelot in jonckbloet, ii, lxix (warnatsch), ferrario, storia ed analisi, lancilotto del lago, iii, , le- grand, fabliaux, i, ; the arch in amadis, which no man or woman can pass who has been unfaithful to a first love, and again, the sword which only the knight who loves his lady best can draw, and the partly withered garland which becomes completely fresh on the head of the lady who best loves her hus- band or lover, amadfs de gaula, l. ii, intro- duccion, c. , c. , and ballad in duran, ii, ; the cup of congealed tears in palmerin of england, which liquefies in the hand of the best knight and faithfulest lover, chapters - , ii, ff, ed. of london, . alluded to in 'der spiegel,' meister alswert, ed. holland u. keller, p. , vv - . (goedeke.) a man who has trans- ferred his devotion from an earlier love to the image of a lady shown him in a mirror says the bridge would have thrown him over. } florimel's girdle is a poor contrivance every way, and most of all for practical purposes; for we are told in stanza that it glees the virtue of chaste love to all who wear it, and then that whosoever contrary doth prove cannot keep it on. but what could one expect from a cast-off girdle of venus t . the boy and the mantle besides those which have been spoken of, not a few other criterions of chastity occur in romantic tales. bed clothes and bed. 'gil brenton,' a, b; the corresponding swedish ballad, a, b, e; danish, grundtvig, no : * see pp , , of this volume. a stepping-stone by the bed-side. 'vesle aase gaasepige,' asbjarnsen og moe, no : see p. . a chair in which no leal maiden can sit, or will sit till bidden (?). 'gil brenton,' d, c. flowers [foliage]. . in the sanskrit story of guhasena, the merchant's son, and deva- smita, this married pair, who are to be sepa- rated for a time, receive from shfva each a red lotus: if either should be unfaithful, the lotus in the hand of the other would fade, but not otherwise: katha sarit sagara, ch. , tawney, i, , brockhaus, i, . . in the tales of a parrot, a soldier, going into ser- vice, receives from his wife a rose [flower, nosegay], which will keep fresh as long as she remains true: rosen, tuti-nameh, from the turkish version, i, ; wickerhauser, also from the turkish, p. ; iken, p. ,f . from the persian of kadiri. . so the knight margon in the french romance of perceforest, vol. iv, ch. and . . in a turkish tale found in a manuscript collection called 'joy after sorrow,' an architect or housewright, having to leave home for want of employment, is presented by his wife with a bunch of ever- green of the same property. . an english story of a wright reverts to the rose. a widow, having nothing else to give with her daughter, presents the bridegroom with a rose-garland, which will hold its hue while his wife is " sta- ble :" 'the wright's chaste wife,' by adam of cobsam, from a manuscript of about , ed. furnivall.j * nightingales in grundtvig, no , a, b: see p. . see, also, uhland, zur geschichte der dichtung, hi, f. t neither the sanskrit shukasaptati nor nakshabi's per- sian version, made early in the fourteenth century, has been published. the turkish version is said to have been made in the second half of tho next century, for bajazet ii. ka- diri's is probably of the seventeenth century. an english and persian version (kadiri's), , has the tale at p. ; a shirt [mantle]. . in connection with the same incidents there is substituted for the unfading flower, in gesta romanorum, , a shirt. this a knight's wife gives to a car- penter or housewright who has married her daughter, and it will not need washing, will not tear, wear, or change color, as long as both husband and wife are faithful, but will lose all its virtues if either is untrue. the shirt is given by a wife to a husband in several ver- sions of an otherwise different story. . in the german meistergesang and the flemish tale alexander of metz: korner, historische volkslieder, p. , no ; goedeke, deutsche dichtung im mittelalter, d ed., p. ff; 'de historia van florentina,' etc., van den bergh, de nederlandsche volksromans, p. f. . in the story 'von dem kbnig von spa- nien § und seiner frau,' miillenhoff, sagen, u. s. w., p. , no , a wife gives the shirt to her husband the morning after the wedding: it will always be white until she dies, when it will turn black, or unless she misbehaves, in which case it will be spotted. . 'die getreue frau,' plonnies, in wolf's zeitschrift fiir deutsche mythologie,' ii, . an english princess gives her consort, a spanish prince, at parting, a white shirt which will not spot as long as she is faithful. . 'die treue frau,' curtze, volksiiberlieferungen aus wal- deck, p. . a merchant's son, married to a princess, goes away for a voyage; they change rings and shirts, and neither shirt will soil until one of the two shall be untrue. . 'die getreue frau,' j. w. wolf, deutsche haus- marchen, at p. . a prince, going on a voyage, gives his sword to his wife; as long as the blade is not spotted, he is faithful. he receives from the princess a mantle; as long as it is white, her faith is inviolate. a picture. for the rose, as in perceforest, small's english, from a hindustani version of kadiri, , at p. . } in the contes a rire, p. , a sylph who loves a prince gives him a flower and a vase which will blacken upon his wife's proving unfaithful: legrand, , i, . i have not seen this edition of the book, but presume that this tale is entirely akin with the above. § cf. the king of spain, at pp. , . the agreement may, or may not, be accidental. . the boy and the mantle there is substituted, in a story otherwise es- sentially the same, a picture. a knight, com- pelled to leave his wife, receives from a ma- gician a picture of her, small enough to carry in a box about his person, which will turn yellow if she is tempted, pale if she wavers, black if she yields, but will otherwise pre- serve its fresh hues: bandello, part i, nov. . this tale, translated in painter's pal- ace of pleasure, (ed. haslewood, ii, , nov. ), furnished the plot for massinger's 'picture,' . the miniature will keep its color as long as the woman is innocent and unattempted, will grow yellow if she is solic- ited but unconquered, and black if she sur- renders: act i, scene . bandello's story is also the foundation of seneca's tale, ' filer le parfait amour,' with a wax image taking the place of the picture: ceuvres choisies, ed. charles et cap, p. .* a ring. the picture is exchanged for a ring in a french tale derived, and in parts almost translated, from bandello's : the sixth in 'les faveurs et les disgraces de l'amour,' etc., said to have appeared in .f a white stone set in the ring may become yellow or black 'under circumstances. such a ring rimnild gave horn child: when the stone should grow •wan, her thoughts would have changed; should it grow red, she is no more a maid: see p. . a father, being required to leave three daugh- ters, gives them each such a ring in basile, pentamerone, m, . the rings are changed into glass distaffs in 'l'adroite princesse,' an imitation of this story by mlle. lhdritier de villaudon, which has sometimes been printed with perrault's tales: perrault, contes des fees, ed. giraud, p. ; dunlop, ch. . a mirror, in the history of prince zeyn alasnam, reflecting the image of a chaste maid, will remain unblurred: arabian nights, * all these examples of the probation by flowers, shirt, or picture are noticed in loiseleur deslongchamps, essai sur les fables indiennes, p. ff; or in von der hagen's ge- sammtabenteuer, iii, lxxxivff; or in an article by rein- hold kohler, of his usual excellence, in jahrbuch fur roman- ische und englische literatur, viii, ff. t kohler, as above, p. f. { there ia a stone in the danish vigoleis with the gold wheel which no one could approach " who was not as clean scott, iv, , ; nacht, habicht, vi, , ; etc. virgil made a mirror of like property; it exposed the woman that was "new-fangle," wandelmiietic, by the ignition of a "worm " in the glass: meisterlieder der kolmarer handschrift, bartsch, p. (war- natsch). there is also one of these mirrors in primaleon, l. ii, cap. ; rajna, le fonti dell' orlando furioso, p. , note . alfred de musset, in ' barberine,' substitutes a pocket- mirror for the picture in bandello, part i, nov. : ceuvres completes, iii, ff. a harp, in the hands of an image, upon the approach of a despucellse, plays out of tune and breaks a string: perceval le gallois, ii, , vv , - (rajna, as above). a crystal brook, in the amiral's garden in flor and blancheflor, when crossed by a vir- gin remains pellucid, but in the other case be- comes red, or turbid: ed. du mdril, p. , vv - ; bekker, berlin academy, xltv, , vv - ; fleck, ed. sommer, p. , vv - ; swedish, ed. klemming, p. , - ; lower rhine, haupt's zeitschrift, xxi, , vv - ; middle greek, bekker, berlin academy, , p. , wagner, me- diaeval greek texts, p. f, vv - ; etc. in the english poem, hartshorne's ancient metrical tales, p. , if a clean maid wash her hands in the water, it remains quiet and clear; but if one who has lost her purity do this, the water will yell like mad and become red as blood. the stone aptor, in wigamur, vv - , is red to the sight of clean man or woman, but misty to others: von der hagen und biisching, deutsche gedichte des mittelalters, p. (warnatsch) a statue, in an italian ballad, moved its eyes when young women who had sacrificed their honor were presented to it: ferraro, as when he came from his mother's body." gawain could touch it with his hand, arthur often sat upon it, and vigo- leis was found sitting on it. nyerup, almindelig morskabs- lsesning i danmark og norge, p. , a chap-book of . the stone is not quite so strict in the german volksbuch, marbach, no , p. f, simrock, iii, f. in the ger- man romance no man less than immaculate in all respects can touch it: wigalois, ed. benecke, p. , vv - . . the boy and the mantle canti popolari di ferrara, cento e pontela- goscuro, p. , 'ii conte cagnolino.' there was said to be a statue of venus in constan- tinople which could not be approached by an incontinent woman without a very shameful exposure; and again, a pillar surmounted by four horns, which turned round three times if any keparas came up to it.* virgil, 'filius,' made a brass statue which no misbehaving woman might touch, and a vicious one re- ceived violent blows from it: meisterlieder der kolmarer handschrift, bartsch, p. , th century. this statue would bite off the fingers of an adulteress if they were put in its mouth, according to a poem of the same cen- tury published by bartsch in germania, iv, ; and a third version makes the statue do this to all perjurers, agreeing in other respects with the second: kolmarer meisterlieder, as before, p. . in the two last the offence of the wife causes a horn to grow out of the hus- band's forehead. much of the story in these poems is derived from the fifteenth tale of the shukasaptati, where a woman offers to pass between the legs of a statue of a yaksha, which only an innocent one can do: benfey, pantschatantra, i, .f according to a popular belief in austria, says j. grimm, you may know a clean maid by her being able to blow out a candle with one puff and to light it again with another. the phrase was known in spain: "matar un candil con un soplo y encenderlo con otro." * georgii codini excerpta de antiimitatibus constantino- politanis, in corpus scriptorum historian byzantine, xlv, f, cited by liebrecht, germania, i, ; de originibus constantinopolitanis, cited by lutcke, von der hagen's ger- mania, i, , referred to by liebrecht: both anecdotes in banduri, imperium orientale, anonymus de ant. const, p. , , p. , . the statue again in a note of nic. ale- mannus to procopius, arcana, , p. : cited by mr wright, archieologia cambrensis, as above, p. ". mr wright also makes mention, p. , of the blind dog that quidam andreas (evidently a merry one) was exhibiting in the seventeenth year of justinian, which, among other clever performances, ostendebat in utcro habentes et fornicarios et adulteros et avaros et magnanimos — omnes cum-veritate: historia miscclla, eyssenhardt, p. f, l. , c. ; cedre- nus, in the byzantine corpus, xxxiii, , theophanes, in xxxviii, f. t the meisterlieder and the indian tale are cited by war- natsch. virgil's statue was circumvented by an artifice grimm adds that it is an article of popular faith in india that a virgin can make a ball of water, or carry water in a sieve : rechtsal- terthiimer, p. .j an ordeal for chastity is a feature in several of the greek romances. in heliodorus's ^ethi- opica, x, , , victims to be offered to the sun and moon, who must be pure, are obliged to mount a brazier covered with a golden grat- ing. the soles of those who are less than perfect are burned. theagenes and chariclea experience no inconvenience. the clitophon and leucippe of achilles tatius, vm, , , , has a cave in the grove of diana of ephe- sus, in which they shut up a woman. if it is a virgin, a delicious melody is presently heard from a syrinx, the doors open of themselves, and the woman comes out crowned with pine leaves; if not a virgin, a wail is heard, and the woman is never seen again. there is also a not perfectly convincing trial, by the stygian water, in § , which seems to be imitated in the hysmine and hysminias of eustathius [eumathius], vm, , xi, . in the temple of diana, at artycomis, stands a statue of the goddess, with bow in hand, and from about her feet flows water like a roaring river. a woman, crowned with laurel, being put in, she will float quietly, if all is right; but should- she not have kept her allegiance to dian, the goddess bends her bow as if to shoot at her head, which causes the culprit to duck, and the water carries off her wreath.§ which is employed in this tale of the shukasaptati, and in other oriental stories presumably derived from it; and so was the well-known bocca della verita, kaiserchronik, mass- mann, pp f. the bocca della verita bit off the fingers of perjurers, but took no particular cognizance of the un- chaste. a barley-corn [grain of wheat], again, which stood on end when any false oath was sworn over it, julg, mon- golische marcheusammlung, die geschichte des ardschi- bordschi chan, pp - , cited by benfey, pantschatantra, i, , and referred to by warnatsch, does not belong with special tests of chastity. } the phrase looks more malicious than naif, whether austrian or spanish, and implies, i fear, an exsulhicate and blown surmise about female virtue; and so of the indian 'volksglaube.' the candle-test is said to bo in use for men in silesia: warnatsch, citing weiuhold, p. . § these are all noted in liebrecht's dunlop, pp , , . the spring, says the author of hysmine, served as good a purpose for artycomis as the hhine did for the celts ; refer- . the boy and the mantle it is prescribed in numbers v, - , that any man jealous of his wife may bring her to the priest, who shall, with and after various ceremonies, give her a bitter drink of holy water in which dust from the floor of the tab- ernacle has been infused. if she have tres- passed, her body shall swell and rot. in the pseudo-matthew's gospel, ch. xii, joseph and mary successively take this aquam potationis domini. no pretender to innocence could taste this and then make seven turns round the al- tar, without some sign of sin appearing in the face. the experiment shows both to be fault- less. so, with some variation, the sixteenth chapter of the protevangelium of james. this trial is the subject of one of the coventry mys- teries, no , p. ff, ed. halliwell, and no doubt of other scripture plays. it is naturally introduced into wernher's maria, hoffmann, fundgruben, ii, , line ff, and probably into other lives of the virgin. herodotus relates, n, , that pheron, son of sesostris, after a blindness of ten years' du- ration, received an intimation from an oracle that he would recover his sight upon following a certain prescription, such as we are assured is still thought well of in egypt in cases of ophthalmia. for this the cooperation of a chaste woman was indispensable. repeatedly balked, the king finally regained his vision, and collecting in a town many women of whom he had vainly hoped aid, in which number his queen was included, he set fire to the place and burned both it and them, and then mar- ried the woman to whom he was so much in- debted. (first cited in the gentleman's mag- azine, , vol. , i, .) the coincidence with foregoing tales is certainly curious, but to all appearance accidental.* the 'boy and the mantle' was printed "verbatim" from his manuscript by percy in the reliques, iii, , ed. . the copy at p. is of course the same "revised and al- tered" by percy, but has been sometimes mis- taken for an independent one. translated by herder, i, ; bodmer, i, ; bothe, p. . percy ms., p. : hales and furnivall, ii, . in the third day of may to carleile did come a kind curteous child, that cold much of wisdome. a kirtle and a mantle this child had vppon, with brauches and ringes full richelye bedone. he had a sute of silke, about his middle drawne; without he cold of curtesye, he thought itt much shame. 'god speed thee, "king arthur, sitting att thy meate! and the goodly queene gueneuer! i canott her fforgett 'i tell you lords in this hall, i hett you all heede, except you be the more surer, is you for to dread.' he plucked out of his potewer, and longer wold not dwell, he pulled forth a pretty mantle, • betweene two nut-shells. . 'haue thou here, king arthure, haue thou heere of mee; ring to a test of the legitimacy of children by swinging or dip- ping them in the rhine, which the "celts " practiced, accord- ing to a poem in the anthology: jacobs, ii, f, no ; grimm, deutsche rechtsalterthumer, p. (warnatsch). * besides sources specially referred to, there may be men- tioned, as particularly useful for the history of these tests. legrand, fabliaux, , i, , - ; dunlop's history of fiction, , in many places, with liebrecht's notes, ; grasse, sagenkreise, , pp - ; von der hagen's gesammtabenteuer, , iii, ixxxiv-xc, cxxxvf. . the boy and the mantle giue itt to thy comely queene, shapen as itt is alreadye. 'itt shall neuer become that wiffe that hath once done amisse:' then euery knight in the kings court began to care for his. forth came dame gueneuer, to the mantle shee her bed; the ladye shee was new-fangle, but yett shee was affrayd. when shee had taken the mantle, shee stoode as she had beene madd; it was from the top to the toe as sheeres had itt shread. one while was itt gaule, another while was itt greene; another while was itt wadded; ill itt did her beseeme. another while was it blacke, and bore the worst hue; 'by my troth,' quoth king arthur, 'i thinke thou be not true.' shee threw downe the mantle, that bright was of blee, fast with a rudd redd to her chamber can shee flee. shee curst the weauer and the walker that clothe tjiat had wrought, and bade a vengeance on his crowne that hither hath itt brought. 'i had rather be in a wood, vnder a greene tree, then in king arthurs court shamed for to bee.' kay called forth his ladye, and bade her come neere; saies, ' madam, and thou be guiltye, i pray thee hold thee there.' forth came his ladye shortlye and anon, boldlye to the mantle then is shee gone. when she had tane the mantle, and cast it her about, then was shee bare all aboue the buttocckes. then euery knight that was in the kings court talked, laughed, and showted, full oft att that sport. shee threw downe the mantle, that bright was of blee, ffast with a red rudd to her chamber can shee flee. forth came an old 'knight, pattering ore a creede, and he preferred to this little boy twenty markes to his meede, and all the time of the christmasse willinglye to ffeede; for why, this mantle might doe his wiffe some need. when shee had tane the mantle, of cloth that was made, shee had no more left on her but a tassell and a threed: then euery knight in the kings court bade euill might shee speed. shee threw downe the mantle, that bright was of blee, and fast with a redd rudd to her chamber can shee flee. craddocke called forth his ladye, and bade her come in; saith, 'winne this mantle, ladye, with a litle dinne. 'winne this mantle, ladye, and it shalbe thine if thou neuer did amisse since thou wast mine.' forth came craddockes ladye shortlye and anon, but boldlye to the mantle then is shee gone. . the boy 'the mantle when shee had tane the mantle, and cast itt her about, vpp att her great toe itt began to crinkle and crowt; shee said, ' bowe downe, mantle, and shame me not for nought. 'once i did amisse, i tell you certainlye, when i kist craddockes mouth vnder a greene tree, when i kist craddockes mouth before he marryed mee.' when shee had her shreeuen, and her sines shee had tolde, the mantle stoode about her right as shee wold; seemelye of coulour, glittering like gold; then euery knight in arthurs court did her behold. then spake dame gueneuer to arthur our king: ; she hath tane yonder mantle, not with wright but with wronge! 'see you not yonder woman that maketh her selfe soe clene? i haue seene tane out of her bedd of men fiueteene; 'preists, clarkes, and wedded men, from her by-deene; yett shee taketh the mantle, and maketh her-selfe cleane!' then spake the litle boy that kept the mantle in hold; sayes ' king, chasten thy wiffe; of her words shee is to bold. 'shee is a bitch and a witch, and a whore bold; king, in thine owne hall thou art a cuchold.' the litle boy stoode looking ouer a dore; he was ware of a wyld bore, wold haue werryed a man. he pulld forth a wood kniffe, fast thither that he ran; he brought in the bores head, and quitted him like a man. he brought in the bores head, and was wonderous bold; he said there was neuer a cucholds kniffe carue itt that cold. some rubbed their kniues vppon a whetstone; some threw them vnder the table, and said they had none. king arthur and the child stood looking them vpon; all their kniues edges turned backe againe. craddoccke had a litle kniue of iron and of steele; he birtled the bores head wonderous weele, that euery knight in the kingb court had a morssell. the litle boy had a home, of red gold that ronge; he said, 'there was noe cuckolde shall drinke of my home, but he shold itt sheede, either behind or beforne.' some shedd on their shoulder, and some on their knee; he that cold not hitt his mouth put it in his eye; and he that was a cuckold, euery man might him see. craddoccke wan the home and the bores head; his ladye wan the mantle vnto her meede; euerye such a louely ladye, god send her well to speede! . king arthur and king cornwall & is printed and, wherever it occurs. '. ms. might be read branches. . all heate. . nut-shells. . his wiffe. . biled. "query the le in the ms." furnivall. *. perhaps the last word was originally tout, as mr t. wright has suggested. ". lauged. *. markes. . willignglye. . ms. perhaps has cleare altered to clene. . fiueteeene. . a litle. . perhaps, as percy suggested, two lines have dropped out after this, and the two which follow belong with the next stanza. . ls. kiues. . arthus. . sone on. king arthur and king cornwall percy ms., p. . hales & furnivall, i, ; madden's syr gawayne, p. . the mutilation of the earlier pages of the percy manuscript leaves us in possession of only one half of this ballad, and that half in eight fragments, so that even the outline of the story cannot be fully made out.* we have, to be sure, the whole of a french poem which must be regarded as the probable source of the ballad, and, in view of the recklessness of the destroyer time, may take comfort; for there are few things in this kind that the middle ages have bequeathed which we could not better spare. but the losses from the eng- lish ballad are still very regrettable, since from what is in our hands we can see that the story was treated in an original way, and so much so that comparison does not stead us ma- terially. 'king arthur and king cornwall' is appar- ently an imitation, or a traditional variation, * half a page is pone in the manuscript between ' robin hood's death ' and the beginning of this ballad, and again between the end of this ballad and the beginning of 'sir lionel.' 'robin hood's death,'judging by another copy, is complete within two or three stanzas, and ' sir lionel' ap- pears to lack nothing. we may suppose that quito half a dozen stanzas are lost from both the beginning and the end of king arthur and king cornwall.' t british museum (but now missing), king's library, , e, vm, fol. , recto: "ci comence le liucre cumment rharels de fraunce voiet in icrhusa/em et pur parols sa feme a constantinnoble pur verc roy hugon." first published by of charlemagne's journey to jerusalem and constantinople, a chanson de geste of complete individuality and of remarkable interest. this all but incomparable relic exists in only a single manuscript,f and that ill written and not older than the end of the thirteenth cen- tury, while the poem itself may be assigned to the beginning of the twelfth, if not to the lat- ter part of the eleventh.j subsequently, the story, with modifications, was introduced into the romance of galien, and in this setting it occurs in three forms, two manuscript of the fif- teenth century, and the third a printed edition of the date . these are all in prose, but betray by metrical remains imbedded in them their descent from a romance in verse, which there are reasons for putting at least as early as the beginning of the fourteenth century.§ a very little of the story, and this little michel, london, , and lately rce'dited, with due care, by koschwitz: karls des grossen reise nach jerusalem und constantinopel, heilbronn, ; d ed., . x see the argument of gaston paris, romania, xi, ff; and of koschwitz, karl des grossen reise, te auflage, einlcitung, pp. xiv-xxxii. § printed by koschwitz in sechs bearbeitungen von karls des grossen reise, the last from a somewhat later edition, pp. - . the recovery of a metrical form of galien is looked for. in the view of gaston paris, the pilgrimage was made over (renouvele) at the end of the twelfth or the beginning of the thirteenth century, and this ri/acimenlo . king arthur and king cornwall much changed, is found in italian romances of charles's journey to spain and of ogier the dane. the derivation from galien is patent.* the journey of charlemagne achieved great popularity, as it needs must. it forms a sec- tion of the karlamagnus saga, a prose trans- lation into norse of gestes of charles and his peers, made in the thirteenth century, and probably for king hakon the old, though this is not expressly said, as in the case of the 'mantle.' through the norwegian version the story of charles's journey passed into the other scandinavian dialects. there is a swed- ish version, slightly defective, existing in a manuscript earlier than , and known to be older than the manuscript, and a danish abridgment, thought to have been made from the swedish version, is preserved in a manu- script dated , which again is probably de- rived from an elder. like the ' mantle,' the journey of charlemagne is treated in icelandic rfmur, the oldest manuscript being put at about . these rhymes (geiplur, gabs, japes), though their basis is the norwegian saga, present variations from the existing man- uscripts of this saga. there is also a faroe traditional ballad upon this theme,' geipa-tat- tur.' this ballad has much that is peculiar to itself.f charlemagne's journey was also turned intercalated in galien by some rhymer of the fourteenth. see his 'galien,' in hist. litt. de la france, xxviii, - , for all that concerns the subject. * ii viaggio di carlo magno in ispagna, pubblicato per enre di antonio ceruti, c u, ii, : rajna, tjggeri il danese nella letteratura romanzesca degl' ituliani, roma- nia iv, ff. a king of portugal, of the faith of apollo and mahound, takes the place of the king of constantinople in the former, and one saracen or another in the several versions of the second. g. paris, in romania, ix, , , notes. t the norwegian version in karlamagnus saga ok kappa hans, ed. unger, p. , the seventh part. boih the swed- ish and danish are given in storm's sagnkredsene om karl den store, etc., kristiania, , pp. - . for the sources, see p. if. the whole of the danish chronicle of charlemagne is printed in brandt's romantisk digtning fra middelalderen, copenhagen, , the journey to the holy land, p. ff. brandt does not admit that the dan- ish chronicle was translated from swedish: p. . the 'geiplur,' vv, and one version of ' geipa-tiittur,' vv, are included in koschwitz's sechs bearbeitungen, p. ff, into welsh in the thirteenth century. three versions are known, of which the best is in the red book of hergest.j let us now see what is narrated in the french poem. one day when charlemagne was at st denis he had put on his crown and sword, and his wife had on a most beautiful crown, too. charles took her by the hand, under an olive-tree, and asked her if she had ever seen a king to whom crown and sword were so be- coming. the empress was so unwise as to reply that possibly he thought too well of himself: she knew of a king who appeared to even better advantage when he wore his crown. charles angrily demanded where this king was to be found: they would wear their crowns together, and if the french sided with her, well; but if she had not spoken truth, he would cut off her head. the empress en- deavored to explain away what she had said: the other king was simply richer, but not so good a knight, etc. charles bade her name him, on her head. there being no escape, the empress said she had heard much of hugo, the emperor of greece and constantinople. "by my faith," said charles, " you have made me angry and lost my love, and are in a fair way to lose your head, too. i will never rest till i have seen this king." p. ff. for a discussion of them see kslbing in germania, xx, - , and as to the relations of the several versions, etc., koschwitz, in romanische studien, ii, ff, his ueber- lieferung und sprache der chanson du voyage de charle- magne, and sechs bearbeitungen, einleitung. the faroe ballad is though t to show traces in some places of christiern pedersen's edition of the danish chronicle, (kolbing, as above, , ), or of stall prints founded on that. this does not, however, necessarily put the ballad into the six- teenth century. might not pedersen have had ballad au- thority for such changes and additions as he made f it may well be supposed that he had, and if what is peculiar to pedersen may have come from ballads, we must hesitate to derive the ballads from pedersen. it is, moreover, neither strange nor unexampled that popular ballads should be af- fected by tradition committed to print as well as by tradition still floating in memory. the faroe eppies of 'greve gen- selin,' for example, as grundtvig remarks, i, , note, though undoubtedly original and independent of danish, evince acquaintance with vedel's printed text. j given, with an english translation by professor rhys, in sechs bearbeitungen, p. , p. . . king arthur and king cornwall the emperor, having made his offering at st denis, returned to paris, taking with him his twelve peers and some thousand of knights. to these he announced that they were to ac- company him to jerusalem, to adore the cross and the sepulchre, and that he would inciden- tally look up a king that he had heard of. they were to take with them seven hundred camels, laden with gold and silver, and be pre- pared for an absence of seven years. charlemagne gave his people a handsome equipment, but not of arms. they left be- hind them their lances and swords, and took the pilgrim's staff and scrip. when they came to a great plain it appeared that the number was not less than eighty thousand: but we do not have to drag this host through the story, which concerns itself only with charles and his peers. they arrived at jeru- salem one fine day, selected their inns, and went to the minster. here jesus and his apostles had sung mass, and the chairs which they had occupied were still there. charles seated himself in the middle one, his peers on either side. a jew came in, and, seeing charles, fell to trembling; so fierce was the countenance of the emperor that he dared not look at it, but fled from the church to the patriarch, and begged to be baptized, for god himself and the twelve apostles were come. the patriarch went to the church, in procession, with his clergy. charles rose and made a profound salutation, the priest and the monarch embraced, and the patriarch in- quired who it was that had assumed to enter that church as he had done. "charles is my name," was the answer. "twelve kings have i conquered, and i am seeking a thirteenth whom i have heard of. i have come to jeru- salem to adore the cross and the sepulchre." the patriarch proving gracious, charles went on to ask for relics to take home with him. "a plentet en avrez," says the patriarch ; "st * there arc some variations in the list of relies in the other versions. the rfmur say " many," without specify- ing. t on the way from jerusalem to constantinople the french, according to galien, were waylaid by several thou- sand saracens. three or four of the peers prepared for a simeon's arm, st lazarus's head, st ste- phen's—" "thanks!" "the sndarium, one of the nails, the crown of thorns, the cup, the dish, the knife, some of st peter's beard, some hairs from his head —" "thanks!" "some of mary's milk, of the holy shift —" and all these charles received.* he stayed four months in jerusalem, and began the church of st mary. he presented the pa- triarch with a hundred mule-loads of gold and silver, and asked "his leave and pardon " to return to france: but first he would find out the king whom his wife had praised. they take the way through jericho to gather palms. the relics are so strong that every stream they come to divides before them, every blind man receives sight, the crooked are made straight, and the dumb speak.f on reaching constantinople they have ample reason to be impressed with the magnificence of the place. passing twenty thousand knights, who are playing at chess and tables, dressed in pall and ermine, with fur cloaks training at their feet, and three thousand damsels in equally sumptuous attire, who are disporting with their lovers, they come to the king, who is at that moment taking his day at the plough, not on foot, goad in hand, but seated most splendidly in a chair drawn by mules, and holding a gold wand, the plough all gold, too; none of this elegance, however, impjiiring the straightness of his majesty's furrow. the kings exchange greetings. charles tells hugo that he is last from jerusalem, and should be glad to see him and his knights. hugo makes him free to stay a year, if he likes, unyokes the oxen, and conducts his guests to the palace. the palace is gorgeous in the extreme, and, omitting other architectural details, it is cir- cular, and so constructed as to turn like a wheel when the wind strikes it from the west. charles thinks his own wealth not worth a glove in comparison, and remembers how he fight, though armed only with swords (" which they never or only most reluctantly put off," arsenal ms.), but charles and the rest felt a better confidence in the relies, and through the prayers of the more prudent and pious of the company their foes were turned into rocks and stones. . king arthur and king cornwall had threatened his wife. "lordings," he says, "many a palace have i seen, but none like this had even alexander, constantine, or caesar." at that moment a strong wind arose which set the palace in lively motion; the emperor was fain to sit down on the floor; the twelve peers were all upset, and as they lay on their backs, with faces covered, said one to the other, " this is a bad business: the doors are open, and yet we can't get out!" but as evening approached the wind subsided; the franks recovered their legs, and went to sup- per. at the table they saw the queen and the princess, a beautiful blonde, of whom ol- iver became at once enamored. after a most royal repast, the king conducted charles and the twelve to a bed-chamber, in which there were thirteen beds. it is doubtful whether modern luxury can vie with the appointments in any respect, and certain that we are hope- lessly behind in one, for this room was lighted by a carbuncle. but, again, there was one luxury which hugo did not allow them, and tlns was privacy, even so much privacy as thirteen can have. he had put a man in a hollow place under a marble stair, to watch them through a little hole. the franks, as it appears later, had drunk heavily at supper, and this must be their ex- cuse for giving themselves over, when in a foreign country, to a usage or propensity which they had no doubt indulged in at home, and which is familiar in northern poetry and saga, that of making brags (gabs, anglo-saxon be t, gilp*). charles began: let hugo arm his best man in two hauberks and two helms, and set him on a charger: then, if he will lend me his sword, i will with a blow cut through helms, hauberks, and saddle, and if i let it have its course, the blade shall never be recov- * the heir of a scandinavian king, or earl, at the feast which solemnized his accession, drank a bragur-fuli, a chief's cup or kind's toast, to the memory of his father, and then made some important vow. this he did before he took his father's seat. the quests then made vows. the custom seems not to have been confined to these funeral banquets. see vigfusson, at the word b ragr. charles and his peers show their blood. t excepting the welsh translation, which conforms to the original, all other versions give bernard's gab to tur- ered but by digging a spear's depth in the ground. "perdy," says the man in hiding, "what a fool king hugo was when he gave you lodging!" roland followed: tell hugo to lend me his horn, and i will go into yon plain and blow such a blast that not a gate or a door in all the city shall be left standing, and a good man hugo will be, if he faces me, not to have his beard burned from his face and his fur robe carried away. again said the man under the stair, " what a fool was king hugo!" the emperor next called upon oliver, whose gab was: 'frenget li reis sa fille qui tant at bloi le peil, en sa chambre nos metet en un lit en requeit; se jo n'ai testimoigne de li anuit cent feiz, demain perde la teste, par covent li otrei.' "you will stop before that," said the spy; "great shame have you spoken." archbishop turpin's brag was next in order: it would have been more in keeping for tur- pin of hounslow heath, and we have all seen it performed in the travelling circus. while three of the king's best horses are running at full speed on the plain, he will overtake and mount the foremost, passing the others, and will keep four big apples in constant motion from one hand to the other; if he lets one fall, put out his eyes.f "a good brag this," is the comment of the simple scout (vescolte'), "and no shame to my lord." william of orange will take in one hand a metal ball which thirty men have never been able to stir, and will hurl it at the palace wall and bring down more than forty toises of it. "the king is a knave if he does not make you try," says vescolte. the other eight gabs may be passed over, pin, and most others turpin's to bernard. the danish chronicle assigns the "grand three-horse act" to gerard; the faroe ballad omits it; the two manuscript galiens at- tribute it to bernard [berart] de mondidicr, the printed ga- lien to berenger. in these last the feat is, though enor- mously weighted with armor, to leap over two horses and come down on the back of the third so heavily as to break his bones. there are, in one version or another, other dif- ferences as to the feats. * . king arthur and king cornwall save one. bernard de brusban says, "you see that roaring stream? to-morrow i will make it leave its bed, cover the fields, fill the cellars of the city, drench the people, and drive king hugo into his highest tower, from which he shall never come down without my leave." "the man is mad," says the spy. "what a fool king hugo was! as soon as morning dawns they shall all pack." the-spy carries his report to his master without a moment's delay. hugo swears that if the brags are not accomplished as made, his guests shall lose their heads, and orders out a hundred thousand men-at-arms to enforce his resolution. when the devout emperor of the west came from mass the next morning (hugo was evi- dently not in a state of mind to go), he ad- vanced to meet his brother of constantinople, olive branch in hand; but hugo called out from far off, "charles, why did you make me the butt of your brags and your scorns ?" and repeated that all must be done, or thirteen heads would fall. charles replied that they had drunk a good deal of wine the night be- fore, and that it was the custom for the french when they had gone to bed to allow them- selves in jesting. he desired to speak with his knights. when they were together, the emperor said that they had drunk too much, and had uttered what they ought not. he caused the relics to be brought, and they all fell to praying and beating their breasts, that they might be saved from hugo's wrath, when lo, an angel appeared, who bade them not be afraid ; they had committed a great folly yes- terday, and must never brag again, but for this time, " go, begin, not one of them shall fail." * charles returned to hugo master of the sit- uation. he repeated that they had drunk too much wine the night before, and went on to say that it was an outrage on hugo's part to set a spy in the room, and that they knew a * in galien, hugo is exceedingly frightened by charle- magne's fierce demeanor and by what he is told by a recreant frenchman who is living in exile at his court, and rouses the city for an assault on his guests, in which he loses two thou- sand of his people. a parley ensues. hugo will hear of no land where such an act would be accounted villainy: "but all shall be carried out; choose who shall begin." hugo said, oliver; and let him not fall short of his boast, or i will cut off his head, and the other twelve shall share his fate. the next morning, in pursuance of an arrangement made between oliver and the princess, the king was informed that what had been undertaken had been precisely dis- charged. "the first has saved himself," says hugo; "by magic, i believe; now i wish to know about the rest." "what next ?" says charlemagne. william of orange was called for, threw off his furs, lifted the huge ball with one hand, hurled it at the wall, and threw down more than forty toises. "they are enchanters," said the king to his men. "now i should like to see if the rest will do as much. if one of them fails, i will hang them all to-morrow." "do you want any more of the gabs?" asked charles. hugo called upon bernard to do what he had threat- ened. bernard asked the prayers of the em- peror, ran down to the water, and made the sign of the cross. all the water left its bed, spread over the fields, came into the city, filled the cellars, drenched the people, and drove king hugo into his highest tower; charles and the peers being the while ensconced in an old pine-tree, all praying for god's pity. charles in the tree heard hugo in the tower making his moan: he would give the emperor all his treasure, would become his man and hold his kingdom of him. the emperor was moved, and prayed that the flood might stop, and at once the water began to ebb. hugo was able to descend from his tower, and he came to charles, under an "ympe tree," and repeated what he had uttered in the moment of extremity. "do you want the rest of the gabs?" asked charles. "ne de ceste se- maine," replied hugo. "then, since you are my man," said the emperor, "we will make a holiday and wear our crowns together." accommodation unless the gabs are performed. "content," says charles, angrily, " they shall be, if you wish ;" but he feels how great the peril is, and goes to church to invoke the aid of heaven, which is vouchsafed. . king arthur and king cornwall when the french saw the two monarchs walk- ing together, and charles overtopping hugo by fifteen inches, they said the queen was a fool to compare anybody with him. after this promenade there was mass, at which turpin officiated, and then a grand dinner. hugo once more proffered all his treasures to charles, but charles would not take a denier. "we must be going," he said. the french mounted their mules, and went off in high spirits. very happy was charles to have conquered such a king without a bat- tle. charles went directly to st denis, and performed his devotions. the nail and the crown he deposited on the altar, distributed the other relics over the kingdom, and for the love of the sepulchre he gave up his anger against the queen. the story in the english ballad, so far as it is to be collected from our eight fragments, is that arthur, represented as king of lit- tle britain, while boasting to gawain of his round table, is told by guenever that she knows of one immeasurably finer; the very trestle is worth his halls and his gold, and the palace it stands in is worth all little britain besides; but not a word will she say as to where this table and this goodly building may be. arthur makes a vow never to sleep two nights in one place till he sees that round table; and, taking for companions gawain, tristram, sir bredbeddle, and an otherwise un- known sir marramiles, sets out on the quest. * arthur is said to have " socht to the ciete of criste," in 'golagros and gawaue,' madden's 'syr gawayne,' p. , v. . the author probably followed the so-called nen- nius, c. . t cf. ' young beichan,' where the porter has also served thirty years and three; 'the greno knight,' percy ms., hales and furnivall, ii, ; the porter in kilhwch and olwen, mabinogion, ii, f. } in heinrich vom tiirlin's crone we have the following passage, vv - , very possibly to be found in some french predecessor, which recalls the relations of cornwall king and guenever. the queen's demeanor may be an imi- tation of charlemagne's (arthur's) wife's bluntness, but the liaison of which cornwall boasts appears to bo vouched by no other tradition, and must be regarded as the invention of the author of this ballad. arthur and three comrades return half frozen from a hunt. arthur sits down at the fire to warm himself. the queen taunts him : she knows a knight who rides, winter and sum- the pilgrimage which, to save his dignity, charles makes a cover for his visit to the rival king forms no part of arthur's pro- gramme.* the five assume a palmer's weed simply for disguise, and travel east and west, in many a strange country, only to arrive at cornwall, so very little a way from home. the proud porter of cornwall's gate, a min- ion swain, befittingly clad in a suit of gold, for his master is the richest king in chris- tendom, or yet in heathenness, is evidently impressed with arthur's bearing, as is quite the rule in such cases : f he has been porter thirty years and three, but [has never seen the like]. cornwall would naturally ask the pilgrims some questions. from their mention- ing some shrine of our lady he infers that they have been in britain, — little britain we must suppose to be meant. cornwall asks if they ever knew king arthur, and boasts that he had lived seven years in little britain, and had had a daughter by arthur's wife, now a lady of radiant beauty, and arthur has none such.j he then sends for his steed, which he can ride three times as far in a day as arthur can any of his, and we may suppose that he also exhibits to his guests a horn and a sword of remarkable properties, and a bur- low-beanie, or billy-blin, a seven-headed, fire-breathing fiend whom he has in his ser- vice. arthur is then conducted to bed, and the billy-blin, shut up, as far as we can make out, in some sort of barrel, or other vessel,§ mer alike, in a simple shirt, chanting love-songs the while. arthur resolves to go out with the three the next night to overhaul this hardy chevalier. the three attendants of the king have an encounter with him and tare hard at his hands, but arthur has the advantage of the stranger, who reveals himself to the king as guenevcr's first love, by name gaso- zein, and shows a token which he had received from her. § under tbrub chadler closed was hee. s. the bunge of the trubchandler he burst in three. . being unable to make anything of thrub, trub, i am com- pelled to conjecture the rub-chadler, that rub-chandler. the fiend is certainly closed under a barrel or tub, and i suppose a rubbish barrel or tub. rubb, however derived, occurs in icelandic in the sense of rubbish, and chalder, however de- rived, is a scottish form of the familiar chaldron. professor skeat, with great probability, suggests that chadler = chau- deler, chaudiere. caldaria lignea arc cited by ducange. cad or kad is well known in the sense barrel, and cadiolus, . king arthur and king cornwall is set by arthur's bed-side to hear and report the talk of the pilgrims. now, it would seem, the knights make each their vow or brag. arthur's is that he will be the death of corn- wall king before he sees little britain. ga- wain, who represents oliver, will have corn- wall's daughter home with him. here there is an unlucky gap. tristram should undertake to carry off the horn, marramiles the steed, and sir bredbeddle the sword. but first it would be necessary to subdue the loathly fiend. bredbeddle goes to work without dallying, bursts open the rub-chadler with his sword, and fights the fire-breathing monster in a style that is a joy to see; but sword, knife, and axe all break, and he is left without a weapon. yet he had something better to fall back on, and that was a little book which he had found by the seaside, no doubt in the course of those long travels which conducted the pilgrims from little britain to cornwall. it was probably a book of evangiles; our lord had written it with his hands and sealed it with his blood. with this little book, which in a manner takes the place of the relics in the french tale, for the safety of the pilgrims and the accom- plishment of their vows are secured through it, bredbeddle conjures the burlow-beanie, and shuts him up till wanted in a " wall of stone," which reminds us of the place in which hugo's spy is concealed. he then reports to arthur, who has a great desire to see the fiend in all his terrors, and, upon the king's promising to stand firm, bredbeddle makes the fiend start out again, with his seven heads and the fire flying out of his mouth. the billy- blin is now entirely amenable to command: bredbeddle has only to " conjure " him to do a thing, and it is done. first he fetches down the steed. marramiles, who perhaps had vowed to bring off the horse, considers that he is the man to ride him, but finds he can do cadulus, are found in ducange. cadler, chadler, however, cannot be called a likely derivative from cad. in stanza the fiend, after he has been ousted from the " trubchandler," is told to " lie still in that wall of stone," which is perhaps his ordinary lair. the spy is concealed under a flight of stone steps in the french poem; in "a large hollow stone in the door outside" in the welsh story; in a hollow pillar in galien and the ri'mur; in a stone vault in nothing with him, and has to call on bredbed- dle for help. the billy-blin is required to tell how the steed is to be ridden, and reveals that three strokes of a gold wand which stands in cornwall's study-window will make him spring like spark from brand. and so it comes out that cornwall is a magician. next the horn has to be fetched, but, when brought, it. can- not be sounded. for this a certain powder is required. this the fiend procures, and tristram blows a blast which rends the horn up to the midst.* finally the billy-blin is conjured to fetch the sword, and with this sword arthur goes and strikes off cornwall's head. so arthur keeps his vow, and, so far as we can see, all the rest are in a condition to keep theirs. the english ballad retains too little of the french story to enable us to say what form of it this little was derived from. the poem of galien would cover all that is borrowed as well as the journey of charlemagne. it may be regarded as an indication of late origin that in this ballad arthur is king of little britain, that bredbeddle and marramiles are made the fellows of gawain and tristram, bredbeddle carrying off all the honors, and that cornwall has had an intrigue with ar- thur's queen. the name bredbeddle is found elsewhere only in the late percy version of the romance of the green knight, hales and furnivall, ii, , which version alludes to a custom of the knights of the bath, an order said to have been instituted by henry iv at his coronation, in . the faroe ballad, ' geipa-tattur,' exists in four versions: a, svabo's manuscript collec- tion, , iii, , stanzas; b, sandabog, , p. , stanzas; c, fuglabog, c. , p. , stanzas; d, sydera version, ob- tained by hammershaimb, , stanzas, f it repeats the story of the norse saga, with a the faroe ballad: koschwitz, karls reise, p. ; sechs bearbeitungen, pp , , , , , . * roland's last blast splits his horn. see the citations by g. paris, in romania, xi, f. t the first has been printed by kolbing in koschwitz's sechs bearbeitungen, as already said. the four texts were most kindly communicated to me by professor grnndtvig, a short time before his lamentable death, copied by his own . king arthur and king cornwall moderate number of traditional accretions and changes. the emperor, from his throne, asks his champions where is his superior [equal]. they all drop their heads; no one ventures to answer but the queen, who better had been silent. "the emperor of constantinople" (hakin, d), she says, "is thy superior." "if he is not," answers karl, "thou shalt burn on bale." in b, when they have already started for constantinople, turpin persuades them to go rather to jerusalem: in the other versions it must be assumed that the holy city was on the route. as karl enters the church the bells ring and the candles light of themselves, c, d. there are thirteen seats in the choir: karl takes the one that jesus had occupied, and the peers those of the apostles. a heathen tells the patriarch * that the lord is come down from heaven, c, d. the patriarch pro- ceeds to the church, with no attendance but his altar-book [singing from his altar-book]; he asks karl what he has come for, and karl replies, to see the halidoms, a, c, d. in b the patriarch presents himself to the emperor at his lodging, and inquires his purpose; and, learning that he is on his way to constanti- nople, for glory, advises him first to go to the church, where the ways and means of success are to be found. the patriarch gives karl some of the relics: the napkin on which jesus had wiped his hands, cups from which he had drunk, etc. karl, in a, c, now announces that he is on his way to constantinople; the patriarch begs him not to go, for he will have much to suffer. at the exterior gate of the palace will be twelve white bears, ready to go at him; the sight of his sword [of the holy napkin, b] will cause them to fall stone-dead, or at least harmless, b. at the gate next within there will be twelve wolf-dogs f [and further on twelve toads, b], which must be hand in parallel columns, with a restoration of the order of the stanzas, which is considerably disturbed in all, and a few necessary emendations. * pol, a, c, kortunatus, b, i. e. koronatus (grundtvig). coronatus = clericus, tonsura scu corona clericali donatus: ducange. t the white bears and the wolf-dogs are found in another faroe ballad, as yet unprinted, 'asmundar skeinkjari,' disposed of in like wise: etc. the castle stands on a hundred pillars, a, and is full of ingenious contrivances: the floor goes up to the sky, and the roof comes down to the ground, b. karl now sets out, with the pa- triarch's blessing and escort. before they reach the palace they come upon three hun- dred knights and ladies dancing, which also had been foretold, and at the portals of the palace they find and vanquish the formidable beasts. the palace is to the full as splendid and as artfully constructed as they had been informed: the floor goes up and the roof comes down, b; there are monstrous figures (?), with horns at their mouths, and upon a wind rising the horns all sound, the building begins to revolve, and the frenchmen jump up, each clinging to the other, b, c, d. karl remem- bers what his wife had said, a, d. of the reception by the monarch of con- stantinople nothing further is said. we are immediately taken to the bedroom, in which there are twelve beds, with a thirteenth in the middle, and also a stone arch, or vault, in- side of which is a man with a candle. karl proposes that they shall choose feats, make boasts, rouses [skemtar, jests, c]. these would inevitably be more or less deranged and corrupted in the course of tradition. a and c have lost many. karl's boast, dropped in b, c, is that he will smite king hakin, so that the sword's point shall stick in the ground, d; hit the emperor on the neck and knock him off his horse, a. roland, in all, will blow the emperor's hair off his head with the blast of his horn. oliver's remains as in the french poem. william of orange's ball is changed to a bolt. the exploit with the horses and apples is assigned to bernard in d, the only version which preserves it, as in the norse saga; and, as in the saga again, it is turpin, where they are subdued by an arm-ring and "runc-gold :" the white bears in a kindred ballad, grundtvig, no , a , , , , c , , , quelled with a lily-twig; e , , with runes; and in no , a , b , . the source of this ballad is fjolsvinnsmal, which has two watch-dogs in , . 'kilhwch and olwen,' mabiuogion, ii, has a similar story, and there are nine watch-dogs, at p. . (grundtvig.) . king arthur and king cornwall and not bernard, who brings in the river upon the town, and forces the king to take refuge in the tower. early in the morning the spy reports in writ- ing, and king hakin, d, says that karl and his twelve peers shall burn on the bale, a, c, d, if they cannot make good their boasts, b. karl's queen appears to him in his sleep, a, and bids him think of last night's words. it is the queen of constantinople in b, c, d who rouses karl to a sense of his plight; in b she tells him that the brags have been reported, and that burning will be the penalty unless they be achieved. karl then sees that his wife knew what she was saying, and vows to give her hildarheim and a scarlet cloak if he gets home alive. he hastens to church; a dove descends from heaven and sits on his arm [in b a voice comes from heaven]; he is assured that the boasts shall all be performed, but never let such a thing be done again. in a three of the feats are executed, in d four, in c seven, oliver's in each case strictly, and turpin's, naturally, last. the king in c does the feat which is proposed by eimer in the saga. a and c end abruptly with turpin's exploit. in d karl falls on his knees and prays, and the water retires; karl rides out of constantinople, followed three days on the road by koronatus, as hakin is now called, stanza : it is karlamagnus that wears his crown higher. b takes a turn of its own. roland, olger and oliver are called upon to do their brags. roland blows so that nobody in constantinople can keep his legs, and the emperor falls into the mud, but he blows not a hair off the emperor's head; olger slings the gold-bolt over the wall, but breaks off none; oliver gives a hundred kisses, as in the saga. the emperor remarks each time, i hold him no champion that performs his rouse that * romania, ix, ff. the english ballad has also com- bined two stories: that of the gabs with another in which a magical horse, horn, and sword are made prize of by a favored hero. t the particular for which superiority is claimed will nat- urally vary. the author of charlemagne's journey has the good taste not to give prominence to simple riches, but in galien riches is from the beginning the point. so none hath so much gold as cornwall king. solomon's fame is to way. but turpin's brag is thoroughly done; the emperor is driven to the tower, and begs karl to turn off the water; no more feats shall be exacted. now the two kaisers walk in the hall, conferring about tribute, which karl takes and rides away. when he reaches home his queen welcomes him, and asks what happened at constantinople: "hvat gekk af?" "this," says karl; " i know the truth now; you shall be queen as before, and shall have a voice in the rule." it is manifest that charlemagne's pilgrim- age to jerusalem and the visit to the king of constantinople, though somewhat intimately combined in the old french geste, were origi- nally distinct narratives. as far as we can judge, nothing of the pilgrimage was retained by the english ballad. we are not certain, even, that it is charlemagne's visit to hugo upon which the ballad was formed, though the great popularity of the french poem makes this altogether likely. as m. gaston paris has said and shown,* the visit to hugo is one of a cycle of tale of which the framework is this: that a king who regards himself as the richest or most magnificent in the world is told that there is somebody that outstrips him, and undertakes a visit to his rival to de- termine which surpasses the other, threaten- ing death to the person who has disturbed his self-complacency, in case the rival should turn out to be his inferior. a familiar example is afforded by the tale of aboulcassem, the first of the mille et un jours. haroun alras- chid was incessantly boasting that no prince in the world was so generous as he.f the vizier giafar humbly exhorted the caliph not to praise himself, but to leave that to others. the caliph, much piqued, demanded, do you then know anybody who compares with me? giafar felt compelled to reply that there was exceed all the kings of the earth " for riches and for wis- dom ; " and although the queen of sheba came to prove him with hard questions, she must have had the other matter also in view, for she says. the half was not told me ; thy wisdom and prosperity exceedeth the fame which i heard: kings, x. coming down to very late times, we observe that it is the wealih of the abbot of canterbury which exposes him to a visit from the king. . king arthur and king cornwall a young man at basra, who, though in a pri- vate station, was not inferior even to the caliph in point of generosity. haroun was very angry, and, on giafar's persisting in what he had said, had the vizier arrested, and finally resolved to go to basra to see with his own eyes: if giafar should have spoken the truth, he should be rewarded, but in the other event he should forfeit his life.* this story, it is true, shows no trace of the gabs which charlemagne and the peers make, and which hugo requires to be accomplished on pain of death. the gabs are a well-known north-european custom, and need not be sought for further; but the requiring by one king of certain feats to be executed by an- other under a heavy penalty is a feature of a large class of eastern tales of which there has already been occasion to speak: see 'the el- fin knight,' p. . the demand in these, how- ever, is made not in person, but through an ambassador. the combination of a personal visit with a task to be performed under pen- alty of death is seen in the vafprusnismal, where odin, disguised as a traveller, seeks a contest in knowledge with the wisest of the giants. f the story of the gabs has been retold in two modern imitations: very indifferently by nivelle de la chaussee, 'le roi hugon,' geuvres, t. v, supplement, p. , ed. , and well by m. j. chenier, 'les miracles,' iii, , ed. . j uhland treated the sub- ject dramatically in a composition which has not been published: keller, altfranzosische sagen, , inhalt (koschwitz). percy ms., p. . hales and furnivall, i, ; madden's syr gawayne, p. . ***** [saies, 'come here, cuzen gawaine so gay,] my sisters sonne be yee; ffor you shall see one of the fairest round ta- bles that euer you see with your eye.' then bespake lady queen. gueneuer, and these were the words said shee: * the tale in the mille et un jours is directly from the persian, but the persian is in the preface said to be a ver- sion from indian, that is, sanskrit. there are two tatar traditional versions in radloff, iv, , , which are cited by g. paris. t cited by g. paris, who refers also to king gylfi's expe- dition to asgard (an imitation of odin's to vaffrusnir), and sees some resemblance to the revolving palace of king hugo in the vanishing mansion in which gylfi is received in gylfa- ginning; and again to thor's visit to the giant geirrosr, skildskaparmal, , which terminates by the giant's flinging a red-hot iron bar at thor, who catches it and sends it back through an iron pillar, through geirrosr skulking behind the pillar, through the wall of the house, and into the ground, a fair matching of charlemagne's gab. (the giant geirrosr, like cornwall king, is skilled in magic.) the be- ginning of biterolf and dietleib also recalls that of charle- magne's journey. biterolf, a spanish king, hears from an old palmer, who has seen many a hero among christians ' know where a round table is, thou noble \dng, is worth thy round table and other such three. 'the trestie that stands vnder this round ta- ble,' she said, 'lowe downe to the mould, it is worth thy round table, thou worthy ktngr, thy halls, and all thy gold. 'the place where this round table stands in, and heathens, that none is the equal of attila. biterolf had thought that he himself had no superior, and sets out with eleven chosen knights to see etzel's court with his own eyes. romania, ix, f. jatmundr [hlobver], a haughty emperor in saxon-land, sitting on his throne one day, in the best humor with him- self, asks siguror, his prime minister, where is the monarch that is his match. sigursr demurs a little; the emperor specifies his hawk, horse, and sword as quite incomparable. that may be, says the counsellor, but his master's glory, to be complete, requires a queen that is his peer. the sugges- tion of a possible equal rouses the emperor's ire. "but since you talk such folly, name one," he says. sigursr names the daughter of hrdlfr [hugo] of constantinople, and is sent to demand her in marriage. magus saga jarls, ed. cederschiold, c. i: wulff, recherches sur les sagas de magus et de geirard, p. f. \ g. paris, histoire foe'tique de charlemagne, p. . . king arthur and king cornwall it is worth thy castle, thy gold, thy fee, and all good litle britaine.' 'where may that table be, lady?' qwoth hee, 'or where may all that goodly building be?' 'you shall it seeke,' shee says, 'till you it find, for you shall neuer gett more of me.' then bespake him noble king arthur, these were the words said hee: 'he make mine avow to god, and alsoe to the trinity, 'he never sleepe one night there as i doe an- other, till that round table i see: sir marramiles and sir tristeram, fellowes that ye shall bee. 'weele be clad in palmers weede, fiue palmers we will bee; 'there is noe outlandish man will vs abide, nor will vs come nye.' then they riued east and the" riued west, in many a strange country. then they tranckled a litle further, they saw a battle new sett: 'now, by my faith,' saies noble king arthur, well . * * * # * but when he cam to this . . c . . and to the palace gate, soe ready was ther a proud porter, and met him soone therat. shooes of gold the porter had on, and all his other rayment was vnto the same: 'now, by my faith,' saies noble king arthur, 'yonder is a minion swaine.' then bespake noble "king arthur, these were the words says hee: 'come hither, thou proud porter, i pray thee come hither to me. 'i haue two poore rings of my finger, the better of them he giue to thee; tell who may be lord of this castle,' he sayes, 'or who is lord in this cuntry?' 'cornewall king,' the porter sayes, 'there is none soe rich as hee; neither in christendome, nor yet in heathen- nest, none hath soe much gold as he.' and then bespake him noble king arthur, these were the words sayes hee: 'i haue two poore rings of my finger, the better of them he giue thee, if thou wilt greete him well, cornewall king, and greete him well from me. 'pray him for one nights lodging and two meales meate, for his love that dyed vppon a tree; of one ghesting and two meales meate, for his loue that dyed vppon a tree. 'of one ghesting, of two meales meate, for his love that was of virgin borne, and in the morning that we may scape away, either without scath or scorne.' then forth is gone this proud porter, as fast as he cold hye, and when he came befor cornewall king, he kneeled downe on his knee. sayes, ' i haue beene porter-man, at thy gate, this thirty winter and three • • • • • ***** our lady was borne; then thought cornewall king these palmers had beene in brittaiwe. then bespake him cornwall king, these were the words he said there: 'did you euer know a comely king, his name was king arthur?' . king arthur and king cornwall and then bespake him noble king arthur, these were the words said hee: 'i doe not know that comly king, but once my selfe i did him see.' then bespake cornwall king againe, these were the words said he: sayes, ' seuen yeere i was clad and fed, in litle brittaine, in a bower; i had a daughter by king arthurs wife, that now is called my flower; for king arthur, that kindly cockward, hath none such in his bower. 'for i durst sweare, and saue my othe, that same lady soe bright, that a man that were laid on his death bed wold open his eyes on her to haue sight.' 'now, by my faith,' sayes noble king arthur, 'and that's a full faire wight!' and then bespake cornewall [king] againe, and these were the words he said: 'come hither, flue or three of my knights, and feitch me downe my steed; king arthur, that foule cockeward, hath none such, if he had need. 'for i can ryde him as far on a day as king arthur can doe any of his on three; and is it not a pleasure for a king when he shall ryde forth on his iourney? 'for the eyes that beene in his head, th glister as doth the gleed.' 'now, by my faith,' says noble king arthur, 'that is a well faire steed.' • # * • • 'nobody say .... but one that's learned to speake.' then king arthur to his bed was brought, a greeiued man was hee; and soe were all his fellowes with him, from him the thought neuer to flee. then take they did that lodly groome, and under the rub-chadler closed was hee, and he was set by king arthurs bed-side, to heere theire talke and theire comuwye; that he might come forth, and make procla- mation, long before it was day; it was more for king cornwalls pleasure, then it was for king arthurs pay. and when king arthur in his bed was laid, these were the words said hee: 'ile make mine avow to god, and alsoe to the trinity, that he be the bane of cornwall kinge, litle brittaine or euer i see!' 'it is an vnaduised vow,' saies gawaine the gay. 'as ever king hard make i; but wee that beene flue christian men, of the christen faith are wee, and we shall fight against anoynted king and all his armorie.' and then bespake him noble arthur, and these were the words said he: 'why, if thou be afraid, sir gawaine the gay. goe home, and drinke wine in thine owne country.' and then bespake sir gawaine the gay, and these were the words said hee: 'nay, seeing you have made such a hearty vow, heere another vow make will i. 'ile make mine avow to god, and alsoe to the trinity, that i will haue yonder faire lady to litle brittaine with mee. 'he hose her hourly to my heart, and with her he worke my will;' # # # * # these were the words sayd hee: 'befor i wold wrestle with yonder feend, it is better be drowned in the sea.' . king arthur and king cornwall and then bespoke sir bredbeddle, and these were the words said he: 'why, i will wrestle with yon lodly feend, god, my gouernor thou wilt bee!' then bespake him noble arthur, and these were the words said he: 'what weapons wilt thou haue, thou gentle knight? i pray thee tell to me.' he sayes, ' collen brand he haue in my hand, and a millaine knife fast by me knee, and a danish axe fast in my hands, that a sure weapon i thinke wilbe.' then with his collen brand that he had in his hand the bunge of that rub-chandler he burst in three; with that start out a lodly feend, with seuen heads, and one body. the fyer towards the element flew, out of his mouth, where was great plentie; the knight stoode in the middle and fought, that it was great ioy to see. till his collaine brand brake in his hand, and his millaine knife burst on his knee, and then the danish axe burst in his hand first, that a sur weapon he thought shold be. but now is the knight left without any weap- ons, and alacke! it was the more pitty; but a surer weapon then he had one, had neuer lord in christentye; and all was but one litle booke, he found it by the side of the sea. he found it at the sea-side, wrucked upp in a floode; our "lord had written it with his hands, and sealed it with his bloode. ***** and when he came to the \ings chamber, he cold of his curtesie: says, ' sleepe you, wake you, noble king ar- thur? and euer iesus waken yee!' 'nay, i am not sleeping, i am waking,' these were the words said hee; 'ffor thee i haue card; how hast thou fared? o gentle knight, let me see.' the knight wrought the kin.gr his booke, bad him behold, reede and see; and euer he found it on the backside of the leafe as noble arthur wold wish it to be. and then bespake him king arthur, 'alas! thow gentle knight, how may this be, that i might see him in the same licknesse that he stood vnto thee?' and then bespake him the greene knight, these were the words said hee: 'if youle stand stifly in the battell stronge. for i haue won all the victory.' then bespake him the king againe, and these were the words said hee: 'if wee stand not stifly in this battell strong, wee are worthy to be hanged all on a tree.' then bespake him the greene knight, these were the words said he: saies, ' i doe coniure thee, thou fowle feend. in the .same licknesse thou stood vnto me.' with that start out a lodly feend, with seuen heads, and one body; the fier towards the element flaugh, out of his mouth, where was great plenty. ' the knight stood in the middle p . . . 'that thou doe not s but ly still in that wall of stone, . till i haue beene with noble king arthur, . and told him what i haue done.' . the marriage op sir gawain then forth is gone noble king arthur, he put the head vpon a swords point, as fast as he cold hye, ..... and strucken he hath off king cornwalls ..... head, ..... and came againe by and by. i . the tops of the letters of this line were cut off in binding. percy thought it had stood previously, «ome here cuze/i gawaine so gay. furnivau says " the bottoms of the letters left suit better those in the text" as given. and , and , are joined in the ms. . half a page is gone from the ms., or about or lines; and so after «, , , , , , . . they better. s, . the first two words are hard to make out, and look like a vne. . boirne. . his gone. . the lower half of the letters is gone. . inms.: our lady was borne then thought cornewall king these palmers had beene in brittanie. *. ?ms. only the upper part of the letters is left. . under thrub cbadler. . after this stanza is written, in the left margin of the ms., the d part. . homly to my hurt. madden read hourly. . the to]) line is pared away. s. they words. . of the trubchandler. '. then had he. . p', i. e. pro or per, me. madden. . attached to in ms. *. ?ms. , . joined with in ms. & and arabic numerals have been frequently written out. the marriage of sir gawain percy ms., p. . hales & furnivall, i, ; madden's syr gawayne, p. ; percy's reliques, ed. , iii, . we have here again half a ballad, in seven fragments, but the essentials of the story, which is well known from other versions, hap- pen to be preserved, or may be inferred arthur, apparently some day after christ- mas, had been encountered at tarn wadling,* in the forest of inglewood, by a bold baron * still so called: near aiketgate, hesket. lysons, cum- berland, p. . armed with a club, who offered him the choice of fighting, or ransoming himself by coming back on new year's day and bringing word what women most desire. arthur puts this question in all quarters, and having collected many answers, in which, possibly, he had little confidence, he rides to keep his day. on the way he meets a frightfully ugly woman; she intimates that she could help him. arthur promises her gawain in marriage, if she will, . the marriage of sir gawain and she imparts to him the right answer. ar- thur finds the baron waiting for him at the tarn, and presents first the answers which he had collected and written down. these are contemptuously rejected. arthur then says that he had met a lady on a moor,* who had told him that a woman would have her will. the baron says that the misshapen lady on the moor was his sister, and he will burn her if he can get hold of her. upon arthur's re- turn he tells his knights that he has a wife for one of them, and they ride with the king to see her, or perhaps for her to make her choice. when they see the bride, they decline the match in vehement terms, all but gawain, who is somehow led to waive "a little foul sight and misliking." she is bedded in all her repulsiveness, and turns to a beautiful young woman. to try gawain's compliance further, she asks him whether he will have her in this likeness by night only or only by day. putting aside his own preference, gawain leaves the choice to her, and this is all that is needed to keep her perpetually beautiful. for a step- mother had witched her to go on the wild moor in that fiendly shape until she should meet some knight who would let her have all her will. her brother, under a like spell, was to challenge men either to fight with him at odds or to answer his hard question. these incidents, with the variation that ar- thur (who does not show all his customary chivalry in this ballad) waits for gawain's consent before he promises him in marriage, are found in a romance, probably of the fif- teenth century, printed in madden's syr ga- wayne, and somewhat hastily pronounced by the editor to be "unquestionably the original of the mutilated poem in the percy folio." * arthur, while hunting in ingleswood, stalked and finally shot a great hart, which fell in a fern-brake. while the king, alone and far from his men, was engaged in making the * 'the weddynge of s' gawen and dame ragnell,' rawlinson ms., c , bodleian library, the portion con- taining the poem being paper, and indicating the close of henry vii's reign. the poem is in six-line stanzas, and, with a leaf that is wanting, would amount to about lines. madden's syr gawayne, lxiv, ixvii, , *- y. assay, there appeared a groom, bearing the quaint name of gromer somer joure,"}" who grimly told him that he meant now to requite him for having taken away his lands. arthur represented that it would be a shame to knight- hood for an armed man to kill a man in green, and offered him any satisfaction. the only terms gromer would grant were that arthur should come back alone to that place that day twelvemonth, and then tell him what women love best; not bringing the right answer, he was to lose his head. the king gave his oath, and they parted. the knights, summoned by the king's bugle, found him in heavy cheer, and the reason he would at first tell no man, but after a while took gawain into confidence. gawain advised that they two should ride into strange country in different directions, put the question to every man and woman they met, and write the answers in a book. this they did, and each made a large collec- tion. gawain thought they could not fail, but the king was anxious, and considered that it would be prudent to spend the only month that was left in prosecuting the inquiry in the region of ingleswood. gawain agreed that it was good to be speering, and bade the king doubt not that some of his saws should help at need. arthur rode to ingleswood, and met a lady, riding on a richly-caparisoned palfrey, but herself of a hideousness which beggars words; nevertheless the items are not spared. she came up to arthur and told him that she knew his counsel; none of his answers would help. if he would grant her one thing, she would warrant his life; otherwise, he must lose his head. this one thing was that she should be gawain's wife. the king said this lay with gawain; he would do what he could, but it were a pity to make gawain wed so foul a lady. "no matter," she rejoined, " though i be foul: choice for a mate hath an owl. when thou t sir gromer occurs in "the turke and gowin," percy ms., hales and furnivall, i, ; sir grummore grum- morsum, "a good knight of scotland," in morte d'arthur; ed. wright, i, and elsewhere (madden). . the marriage of sir gawain comest to thine answer, i shall meet thee; else art thou lost." the king returned to carlisle with a heart no lighter, and the first man he saw was ga- wain, who asked how he had sped. never so ill: he had met a lady who had offered to save his life, but she was the foulest he had ever seen, and the condition was that gawain should be her husband. "is that all?" said gawain. "i will wed her once and again, though she were the devil; else were i no friend." well might the king exclaim, "of all knights thou bearest the flower!" after five or six days more the time came for the answer. the king had hardly ridden a mile into the forest when he met the lady, by name dame ragnell. he told her gawain should wed her, and demanded her answer. "some say this and some say that, but above all things women desire to have the sover- eignty ; tell this to the knight; he will curse her that told thee, for his labor is lost." ar- thur, thus equipped, rode on as fast as he could go, through mire and fen. groruer was wait- ing, and sternly demanded the answer. ar- thur offered his two books, for dame ragnell had told him to save himself by any of those answers if he could. "nay, nay, king," said gromer, " thou art but a dead man." "abide, sir gromer, i have an answer shall make all sure. women desire sovereignty." "she that told thee that was my sister, dame rag- nell; i pray i may see her burn on a fire." and so they parted. dame ragnell was waiting for arthur, too, and would hear of nothing but immediate ful- • see 'king henry,' the next ballad. t the gaelic tale of ' the hoodie ' offers a similar choice. the hoodie, a species of crow, having married the youngest of a farmer's three daughters, says to her, "whether wouldst thou rather that i should be a hoodie by day and a man at night, or be a hoodie at night and a man by day?" the woman maintains her proper sovereignty, and does not leave the decision to him : " ' i would rather that thou wert a man by day and a hoodie at night,' says she. after this he was a splendid fellow by day, and a hoodie at night." camp- bell, popular tales of the west highlands, i, . the having one shape by day and another by night is a common feature in popular tales: as, to be a bear by day and a man by night, hrdlfr kraki's saga, c. , asbjernsen og moe, norske folkeeventyr, no ; a lion by day and a man fillment of her bargain. she followed the king to his court, and required him to produce ga- wain instantly, who came and plighted his troth. the queen begged her to be married privately, and early in the morning. dame ragnell would consent to no such arrange- ment. she would not go to church till high- mass time, and she would dine in the open hall. at her wedding she was dressed more splen- didly than the queen, and she sat at the head of the table at the dinner afterwards. there her appetite was all but as horrible as her person: she ate three capons, three curlews, and great bake meats, all that was set before her, less and more.* a leaf is wanting now, but what followed is easily imagined. she chided gawain for his offishness, and begged him to kiss her, at least. "i will do more," said gawain, and, turning, beheld the fairest creature he ever saw. but the transformed lady told him that her beauty would not hold: he must choose whether she should be fair by night and foul by day, or fair by day and foul by night.f gawain said the choice was hard, and left all to her. "gramercy," said the lady, "thou shalt have me fair both day and night." then she told him that her step-dame had turned her into that monstrous shape by necromancy, not to recover her own till the best knight in england had wedded her and given her sovereignty in all points.j a charming little scene follows, vv - , in which arthur visits gawain in the morning, fearing lest the fiend may have slain him. something of this may very likely have been in that by night, grimms, k. u. h. m., no ; a crab by day and a man by night, b. schmidt, griechische miirchen, u. s. w., no ; a snake by day and a man by night, karadshitch, volksmarchen der scrben, nos , ; a pumpkin by day and a man by night, a. & a. schott, walachische marchen, no ; a ring by day, a man by night, mullenhoff, no , p. b , karadshitch, no , afanasief, vi, . three princes in ' kung lindorm,' nicolovius, folklifwet, p. ft, are cranes by day and men by night, the king himself being man by day and worm by night. the double shape is some- times implied though not mentioned. } the brother, gromer somer joure, was a victim of the same necromancy; so the carl of carlile, percy ms., hales & furnivall, iii, . . the mabriage of sir gawain j half page of the ballad which is lost after stanza . gower and chaucer both have this tale, though with a different setting, and with the variation, beyond doubt original in the story, that the man whose life is saved by rightly answering the question has himself to marry the monstrous woman in return for her prompting him. gower relates, confessio amantis, book first, , - , ed. pauli, that florent, nephew of the emperor, as gawain is of arthur, slew branchus, a man of high rank. branchus's kin refrained from vengeance, out of fear of the emperor; but a shrewd lady, grand- mother to branchus, undertook to compass florent's death in a way that should bring blame upon nobody. she sent for florent, and told him that she would engage that he should not be molested by the family of branchus if he could answer a question she would ask. he was to have a proper allow- ance of time to find the answer, but he was also to agree that his life should be forfeited unless his answer were right. florent made oath to this agreement, and sought the opin- ions of the wisest people upon the subject, but their opinions were in no accord. consider- ing, therefore, that he must default, he took leave of the emperor, adjuring him to allow no revenge to be taken if he lost his life, and went to meet his fate. but on his way through a forest he saw an ugly old woman, who called to him to stop. this woman told him that he was going to certain death, and asked what he would give her to save him. he said, any- thing she should ask, and she required of him a promise of marriage. that he would not give. "ride on to your death, then," said she. florent began to reflect that the woman was very old, and might be hidden away some- where till she died, and that there was no other chance of deliverance, and at last pledged his word that he would marry her if it should turn out that his life could be saved only through * and whan that this matrone herde the maner how this knight answerde, she saide, ha, treson, wo the be! that hast thus told the privete the answer that she should teach him. she was perfectly willing that he should try all other shifts first, but if they failed, then let him say that women cared most to be sov- ereign in love. florent kept back this answer as long as he could. none of his own replies availed, and the lady who presided in judg- ment at last told him that he could be allowed but one more. then he gave the old woman's answer, and was discharged, with a curse on her that told.* the old woman was waiting for florent, and he now had full leisure to inspect all her points; but he was a knight, and would hold his troth. he set her on his horse before him, rode by night and lay close by day, till he came to his castle. there the ladies made an attempt to attire her for the wedding, and she was the fouler for their pains. they were married that night. he turned away from the bride; she prayed him not to be so discour- teous. he turned toward her, with a great moral effort, and saw (for the chamber was full of light) a lady of eighteen, of unequalled beauty. as he would have drawn her to him she forbade, and said he must make his choice, to have her such by day or by night. "choose for us both," was his reply. "thanks," quoth she, " for since you have made me sov- ereign, i shall be both night and day as i am now." she explained that, having been daugh- ter of the king of sicily, her stepmother had forshapen her, the spell to hold till she had won the love and the sovei'eignty of what knight passed all others in good name. the scene of chaucer's tale, the wife of bath, returns to arthur's court. one of the bachelors of the household, when returning from hawking, commits a rape, for which he is condemned to death. but the queen and other ladies intercede for him, and the king leaves his life at the disposal of the queen. the queen, like the shrewd lady in gower, but with no intent to trapan the young man, says that his life shall depend upon his being able which alle women most desire: i wolde that thou were a-fire! so sir gawen and dame ragnell, vv f, and onr bal- lad, stanzas , . . the marriage of sir gawain to tell her what women most desire, and gives him a year and a day to seek an answer. he makes extensive inquiries, but there is no re- gion in which two creatures can be found to be of the same mind, and he turns homeward very downcast. on his way through a wood he saw a com- pany of ladies dancing, and moved towards them, in the hope that he might learn some- thing. but ere he came the dancers had van- ished, and all he found was the ugliest woman conceivable sitting on the green. she asked the knight what he wanted, and he told her it was to know what women most desire. "plight me thy troth to do the next thing i ask of thee, and i will tell thee." he gave his word, and she whispered the secret in his ear. the court assembled, the queen herself sit- ting as justice, and the knight was commanded to say what thing women love best. he made his response triumphantly; there was no dis- senting voice. but as soon as he was declared to have ransomed his life, up sprang the old woman he had met in the wood. she had taught the man his answer, he had plighted his word to do the first thing she asked of him, and now she asked him to make her his wife. the promise was not disputed, but the poor youth begged her to make some other request; to take all he had in the world, and let him go. she would not yield, and they were married the next day. when they have gone to bed, the old wife, "smiling ever mo," rallies her husband for his indifference, and lectures him for objecting to ugliness, age, and vulgar birth, which things, she says, are a great security for him, and then gives him his election, to have her ugly and old as she is, but true, or young and fair, with the possible contingencies. the knight has the grace to leave the decision to her. "then i have the sovereignty," she says, "and i will be both fair and good; throw up the curtain and see." * this was a melodrama by favart, in four acts: reduced in to one act, at the gymnase. t chaucer's tale is commonly said to be derived from gower's, but without sufficient reason. vv - , ed. tyrwhitt, are close to dame ragncll, - . gower may have got his from some example-book. i have not fair and young she was, and they lived to their lives' end in perfect joy. chaucer has left out the step-mother and her bewitchment, and saves, humbles, and re- wards the young knight by the agency of a good fairy; for the ugly old woman is evi- dently such by her own will and for her own purposes. she is " smiling ever mo," and has the power, as she says, to set all right when- ever she pleases. her fate is not dependent on the knight's compliance, though his is. the wife of bath's tale is made into a ballad, or what is called a sonnet,' of a knight and a fair virgin,' in the crown garland of golden roses, compiled by richard johnson, not far from : see the percy society re- print, edited by w. chappell, vol. vi of the se- ries, p. . upon chaucer's story is founded voltaire's tale, admirable in its way, of ce qui plait aux dames, ; of which the author writes, , november , that it had had great success at fontainebleau in the form of a comic opera, entitled la fee urgele.* the amusing ballad of the knight and shep- herd's daughter has much in common with the wife of bath's tale, and might, if we could trace its pedigree, go back to a common origin al.f tales resembling the marriage of gawain must have been widely spread during the middle ages. the ballad of 'king henry' has much in common with the one now under consideration, and norse .and gaelic connec- tions, and is probably much earlier. at pres- ent i can add only one parallel out of eng- lish, and that from an icelandic saga. grfinr was on the verge of marriage with lopthaena, but a week before the appointed day the bride was gone, and nobody knew what had become of her. her father had given her a step-mother five years before, and the step-mother had been far from kind; but what then? grfmr was restless and unhappy, seen it remarked, and therefore will note, that example- books may have been known in england as early as , for aelfric seems to speak slightingly of them in his treaiise on the old testament. the proverbs, he says, is a "big- spellbdc, nd swilce g€ secga.%, ac wi'sdomes bigspell aud war- nung wi dysig," etc. . the maeriage op sir gawain and got no tidings. a year of scarcity com- ing, he left home with two of his people. after an adventure with four trolls, he had a fight with twelve men, in which, though they were all slain, he lost his comrades and was very badly wounded. as he lay on the ground, looking only for death, a woman passed, if so she might be called; for she was not taller than a child of seven years, so stout that grfmr's arms would not go round her, mis- shapen, bald, black, ugly, and disgusting in every particular. she came up to grfmr, and asked him if he would accept his life from her. "hardly," said he, "you are so loath- some." but life was precious, and he pres- ently consented. she took him up and ran with him, as if he were a babe, till she came to a large cave; there she set him down, and it seemed to grfmr that she was uglier than before. "now pay me for saving your life," she said, "and kiss me." "i cannot," said grimr, "you look so diabolical." "expect no help, then, from me," said she, "and i see that it will soon be all over with you." "since it must be, loath as i am," said grfmr, and went and kissed her; she seemed not so bad to kiss as to look at. when night came she made up a bed, and asked grfmr whether he would lie alone or with her. "alone," he answered. "then," said she, "i shall take no pains about healing your wounds." grfmr said he would rather lie with her, if he had no other chance, and she bound up his wounds, so that he seemed to feel no more of them. no sooner was grfmr abed than he fell asleep, and when he woke, he saw lying by him almost the fairest woman he had ever laid eyes on, and marvellously like his true-love, lopthaena. at the bedside he saw lying the troll-casing which she had worn; he jumped up and burned this. the woman was very faint; he sprin- kled her with water, and she came to, and said, it is well for both of us; i saved thy life first, and thou hast freed me from bon- dage. it was indeed lopthaena, whom the step-mother had transformed into a horrible shape, odious to men and trolls, which she should never come out of till a man should consent to three things, — which no man ever would, — to accept his life at her hands, to kiss her, and to share her bed. grfms saga losinkinna, rain, fornaldar sogur, ii, - . sir frederic madden, in his annotations upon this ballad, ' syr gawayne,' p. , re- marks that sir steven, stanza , does not occur in the round table romances; that sir banier, , is probably a mistake for beduer, the king's constable; and that sir bore and sir garrett, in the same stanza, are sir bors de gauves, brother of lionel, and gareth, or gaheriet, the younger brother of gawain. 'the marriage of sir gawaine,' as filled out by percy from the fragments in his man- uscript, reliques, , iii, , is translated by bodmer, i, ; by bothe, p. ; by knortz, lieder u. romanzen alt-englands, p. . kinge arthur hues in merry carleile, and seemely is to see, and there he hath with him queene gene- r, that bride soe bright of blee. and there he hath with [him] queene gene- ver, that bride soe bright in bower, and all his barons about him stoode, that were both stifee and stowre. the king kept a royall christmasse, of mirth and great honor, and when ***** 'and bring me word what thing it is that a woman [will] most desire; this shalbe thy ransome, arthur,' he sayes, 'for ile haue noe other hier.' . the marriage of sir gawain and he sayd, i have thee and thy land, ar- thur, to doe as it pleaseth me, for this is not thy ransome sure, therfore yeeld thee to me. and then hespoke him nohle arthur, and bad him hold his hand: 'and giue me leaue to speake my mind in defence of all my land.' he said, as i came over a more, i see a lady where shee sate betweene an oke and a green hollen; shee was clad in red scarlett. and she says a woman will haue her will, and this is all her cheef desire: doe me right, as thou art a baron of sckill, this is thy ransome and all thy hyer. he sayes, an early vengeance light on her! she walkes on yonder more; it was my sister that told thee this, and she is a misshappen hore. but heer he make mine avow to god to doe her an euill turne, for an euer i may thate fowle theefe get, in a fyer i will her burne. ***** sir lancelott and sir steven bold, they rode with them that day, and the formost of the company there rode the steward kay. soe did sir banier and sir bore, sir garrett with them soe gay, soe did sir tristeram that gentle knight, to the forrest fresh and gay. and when he came to the greene forrest, vnderneath a greene holly tree, their sate that lady in red scarlet that vnseemly was to see. sir kay beheld this ladys face, and looked vppon her swire; 'whosoeuer kisses this lady,' he sayes, 'of his kisse he stands in feare.' sir kay beheld the lady againe, and looked vpon her snout; 'whosoeuer kisses this lady,' he saies, 'of his kisse he stands in doubt.' 'peace, cozere kay,' then said sir gawaine, 'amend thee of thy life; for there is a knight amongst vs all that must marry her to his wife.' 'what! wedd her to wiffe!' then said sir kay, 'in the diuells name anon! gett me a wiffe where-ere i may, for i had rather be slaine!' then some tooke vp their hawkes in hast, and some tooke vp their hounds, and some sware they wold not marry her for citty nor for towne. and then be-spake him noble king arthur, and sware there by this day, 'for a litle foule sight and misliking ***** then shee said, choose thee, gentle gawaine, truth as i doe say, wether thou wilt haue me in this liknesse in the night or else in the day. and then bespake him gentle gawaine, was one soe mild of moode, sayes, well i know what i wold say, god grant it may be good! to haue thee fowle in the night when i with thee shold play — yet i had rather, if i might, haue thee fowle in the day. 'what! when lords goe with ther feires,' shee said, 'both to the ale and wine, alas! then i must hyde my selfe, i must not goe withinne.' and then bespake him gentle gawaine, said, lady, that's but skill; and because thou art my owne lady, thou shalt haue all thy will. . the marriage of sir gawain then she said, blesed be thou, gentle gawain, this day that i thee see, for as thou seest me att this time, from hencforth i wilbe. my father was an old knight, and yett it chanced soe that he marryed a younge lady that brought me tc this woe. shee witched me, being a faire young lady, to the greene forrest to dwell, and there i must walke in womans liknesse, most like a feend of hell. she witched my brother to a carlish b . . . ***** 'that looked soe foule, and that was wont on the wild more to goe.' 'come kisse her, brother kay,' then said sir gawaine, 'and amend the of thy liffe; i sweare this is the same lady that i marryed to my wiffe.' sir kay kissed that lady bright, standing vpon his ffeete; he swore, as he was trew knight, the spice was neuer soe sweete. 'well, cozen gawaine,' sayes sir kay, 'thy chance is fallen arright, for thou hast gotten one of the fairest maids i euer saw with my sight.' 'it is my fortune,' said sir gawaine; 'for my vnckle arthurs sake i am glad as grasse wold be of raine, great ioy that i may take.' sir gawaine tooke the lady by the one arme, sir kay tooke her by the tother, they led her straight to khig arthur, as they were brother and brother. king arthur welcomed them there all, and soe did lady geneuer his queene, with all the knights of the round table, most seemly to be seene. kin^ arthur beheld that lady faire that was soe faire and bright, he thanked christ in trinity for sir gawaine that gentle knight. soe did the knights, both more and lesse, reioyced all that day for the good chance that hapened was to sir gawaine and his lady gay. is. qqueene. s. half a parje ffons from the ms., about stanzas; and so after , s, *, *, l. . perhaps sayes. ". he fimde. perhaps sayes. . perhaps hands. . he altered from the in ms. . "the d part" is written here in the left margin of the ms. furnivall. . her sniire. *. shaine. . with one. seires. . a skill. *. thou see . carlist b . . . & is printed and. . king henry went away, with a scream, and the whole scene was repeated with oisean. then she came to diarmaid. "thou art hideous," he said, "and thy hair is down to thy heels, but come in." when she had come in, she told diarmaid that she had been travelling over ocean and sea for seven years, without being housed, till he had admitted her. she asked that she might come near the fire. "come," said diarmaid; but when she approached everybody retreated, because she was so hide- ous. she had not been long at the fire, when she wished to be under diarmaid's blanket. "thou art growing too bold," said he, " but come." she came under the blanket, and he turned a fold of it between them. "she was not long thus, when he gave a start, and he gazed at her, and he saw the finest drop of blood that ever was, from the beginning of the universe till the end of the world, at his side." mr campbell has a fragment of a gaelic ballad upon this story, vol. xvii., p. of his manuscript collection, 'collun gun cheann,' or 'the headless trunk,' twenty-two lines. in this case, as the title imports, a body without a head replaces the hideous, dirty, and un- kempt draggle-tail who begs shelter of the finn successively and obtains her boon only from diarmaid. see campbell's gaelic bal- lads, p. ix. the monstrous deformity of the woman is a trait in the ballad of 'the marriage of sir gawain,' and related stories, and is described in these with revolting details. her exagger- ated appetite also is found in the romance of the wedding of sir gawen and dame rag- nell, see p. . the occasion on which she exhibits it is there the wedding feast, and the scene consequently resembles, even more close- ly there than here, what we meet with in the danish ballads of 'greve genselin,' grundt- vig, no , i, , and ' tord af havsgaard,' grundtvig, no , i, , iv, (== kristensen, 'thors hammer,' i, , no ) the latter founded on the jjrymskvisa, or hamarsheimt, of the older edda. in a norwegian version of 'greve genselin,' grundtvig, iv, , the feats of eating and drinking are performed not by the bride, but by an old woman who acts as bridesmaid, brurekvinne.* a maid who submits, at a linden-worm's en- treaty, to lie in the same bed with him, finds a king's son by her side in the morning: grundtvig, ' lindormen,' no , b, c, ii, , iii, ; kristensen, i, , no ; afzelius, iii, , no ; arwidsson, ii, , no ; hazelius, ur de nordiska folkens lif, p. , and p. . in ' ode und de slang',' miillen- hoff, sagen u. s. w., p. , a maid, without much reluctance, lets a snake successively come into the house, into her chamber, and finally into her bed, upon which the snake changes immediately into a prince. scott's copy is translated by schubart, p. , and by gerhard, p. ; jamieson's, with- out the interpolations, after aytoun, ii, , by knortz, schottische balladen, no . lat never a man a wooing wend that lacketh thingis three; a routh o gold, an open heart, ay fu o charity. as this i speak of king henry, for he lay burd-alone; an he's doen him to a jelly hunt's ha, was seven miles frae a town. * the like by a carl in at a birth-feast, ' kaellingen til bar- sel,' kristensen, ii, , no , landstad, p. , no ; known also in sweden. again, by a fighting friar, 'den stridbare munken,'arwidsson, i, . 'greve genselin' is he chas'd the deer now him before, an the roe down by the den, till the fattest buck in a' the flock king henry he has slain. o he has doen him to his ha, to make him beerly cheer; an in it came a griesly ghost, steed stappin i the fleer. translated by prior, i, , and by jamieson, illustrations of northern antiquities, p. ; 'tord af havsgaard' by prior, i, . . king henry her head hat the reef-tree o the house, her middle ye mot wel span; he's thrown to her his gay mantle, says,' lady, hap your lingcan.' her teeth was a' like teather stakes, her nose like club or rnell; an ken naething she 'peard to be, but the fiend that wons in hell. 'some meat, some meat, ye king henry, some meat ye gie to me!' 'an what meat's in this house, lady, an what ha i to gie?' 'o ye do kill your berry-brown steed, an you bring him here to me.' o whan he slew his berry-brown steed, wow but his heart was sair! shee eat him [a'] up, skin an bane, left naething but hide an hair. 'mair meat, mair meat, ye king henry, mair meat ye gi to me!' 'an what meat's in this house, lady, an what ha i to gi?' 'o ye do kill your good gray-hounds, an ye bring them a' to me.' o whan he slew his good gray-hounds, wow but his heart was sair! she eat them a' up, skin an bane, left naething but hide an hair. 'mair meat, mair meat, ye king henry, mair meat ye gi to me!' 'an what meat's i this house, lady, an what ha i to gi?' 'o ye do kill your gay gos-hawks, an ye bring them here to me.' o whan he slew his gay gos-hawks, wow but his heart was sair! she eat them a' up, skin an bane, left naething but feathers bare. a. . shew. . will. b. . the first stanza of the original of this copy, as cited by anderson, is: let never a man a wooing wend that lacketh things three. 'some drink, some drink, now, king henry, some drink ye bring to me!' 'o what drink's i this house, lady. that you 're nae welcome ti?' 'o ye sew up your horse's hide, an bring in a drink to me.' and he's sewd up the bloody hide, a puncheon o wine put in; she drank it a' up at a waught, left na ae drap ahin. 'a bed, a bed, now, king henry, a bed you mak to me! for ye maun pu the heather green, an mak a bed to me.' o pu'd has he the heather green, an made to her a bed, an up has he taen his gay mantle, an oer it has he spread. 'tak aff your claiths, now, king henry, an lye down by my side!' 'o god forbid,' says king henry, 'that ever the like betide; that ever the fiend that wons in hell shoud streak down by my side.' ***** whan night was gane, and day was come, an the sun shone throw the ha, the fairest lady that ever was seen lay atween him an the wa. 'o well is me !' says king henry, 'how lang 'll this last wi me?' then out it spake that fair lady, 'even till the day you dee. 'for i've met wi mony a gentle knight that's gien me sic a fill, but never before wi a courteous knight that ga me a' my will.' a routh of gold, and open heart, an fu o charity. i . and fu o courtesey. . and this was seen o. s. and he has taen him to a haunted hunt's ha. . kbmpy kay spectively. some verses from this ballad have been adopted into one form of a still more unpleasant piece in the campbell collection, concerning a wife who was " the queen of all sluts." * sharpe remarks: "this song my learned readers will perceive to be of scandinavian origin, and that the wooer's name was probably suggested by sir kaye's of the round table. . . . the description of bengoleer's daugh- ter resembles that of the enchanted damsel who appeared to courteous king henrie." it is among possibilities that the ballad was an outgrowth from some form of the story of the marriage of sir gawain, in the percy version of which the "unseemly" lady is so rudely commented on and rejected by kay. this unseemly lady, in the wedding of gawen and dame ragnell, and her counter- part in 'king henry,' who is of superhu- man height, show an extravagant voracity which recalls the giantess in • greve gense- lin.' in 'greve genselin,' a burlesque form of an heroic ballad which is preserved in a pure shape in three faroe versions (grundt- vig, iv, - ), there are many kemps in- vited to the wedding, and in a little dance which is had the smallest kemp is fifteen ells to [below] the knee, grundtvig, no , a , b , c . kempy kay has gigantic dimen- sions in a , c , e : teeth like tether- stakes, a nose three [nine, five] feet long, three ells [nine yards] between his shoulders, a span between his eyne.f of the bride it is said in a that her finger nails were like the teeth of a rake and her teeth like tether- stakes. this is not decisive; it is her ugli- ness, filthiness, and laziness that are made most of. we may assume that she would be in dimension and the shape of nature a match for the kemp, but she does not comport herself especially like a giantess. if kempy kay be the original name of the wooer, knapperty and chickmakin might easily be derived from corrupt pronunciations like kampeky, kimpaky. a pitcairn's mss, ii, , as taken down by mr pitcairn from the singing of his aunt, mrs gammell, who had learned it in the neighborhood of kincaid, stirlingshire, when a child, or about . scotish ballads and songs [james maidment], edinburgh, , p. ; sharpe's ballad book, p. . kempy kaye's a wooing gane, far, far ayont the sea, and he has met with an auld, auld man, his gudefaythir to be. 'it's i'm coming to court your daughter dear, and some part of your gear :' 'and by my sooth,' quoth bengoleer, 'she 'll sare a man a wear. * mss, ii, , " what a bad luck had i" = the queen of all sluts, the same, p. . stanzas , , , of the former are: then een in her head are like two rotten plumbs; turn her about and see how she glooms. the teeth in her head were like harrow-pins; turn her about, and see how she girns. 'my dochter she's a thrifty lass, she span seven year to me, and if it were weel counted up, full three heire it would be. 'what's the matter wi you, my fair creature, you look so pale and wan? i'm sure you was once the fairest creature that ever the sun shined on. 'gae scrape yoursel, and gae scart yoursel, and mak your bracket face clean, for the wooers are to be here to nighte, and your body's to be seen.' sae they scrapit her, and they scartit her, like the face of an aussy pan; the hair in her head was like heathercrows, the ... s were in't thick as linseed bows. a comparatively inoffensive version,' the queen of sluts,' in chambers' scottish songs, p. . t the carl of carlile has the space of a large span be- tween his brows, three yards over his shoulders, fingers like tether-stakes, and fifty cubits of height. percy ms., hales & furnivall, iii, f, vv - . . kempy kay syne in cam kempy kay himself, a clever and tall young man. his teeth they were like tether-sticks, his nose was three fit lang, between his shouthers was ells three, and tween his eyne a span. he led his dochter by the hand, his dochter ben brought he: • o is she not the fairest lass that's in great christendye?' uka hair intil her head was like a heather-cowe, and ilka louse anunder it was like a bruckit ewe. she had tauchy teeth and kaily lips, and wide lugs, fou o hair; b a. kinloch mss, i, . b. kitiloch's ballad book, p. . from the recitation of mary barr. kempy kaye is a wooing gane, far ayont the sea, and there he met wi auld goling, his gudefather to be, be, his gudefather to be. 'whar are ye gaun, o kempy kaye, whar are ye gaun sae sune?' 'o i am gaun to court a wife, and think na ye that's weel dune?' 'an ye be gaun to court a wife, as ye do tell to me, 't is ye sall hae my fusome fug, your ae wife for to be.' whan auld goling cam to the house, he lookit thro a hole, and there he saw the dirty drab just whisking oure the coal. 'rise up, rise up my fusome fug, and mak your foul face clean, for the brawest wooer that ere ye saw is come develling doun the green.' up then rose the fusome fug, to mak her foul face clean; her pouches fou o peasemeal-daighe a' hinging down her spare. ilka eye intil her head was like a rotten plumbe, and down browed was the queyne, and sairly did she gloom. uka nail upon her hand was like an iron rake, and ilka tooth intil her head was like a tether-stake. * * * * * she gied to him a gravat, o the auld horse's sheet, and he gied her a gay gold ring, the auld couple-root. and aye she cursed her mither she had na water in. she rampit out, and she rampit in, she rampit but and ben; the tittles and tattles that hang frae her tail wad muck an acre o land. she had a neis upon her face was like an auld pat-fit; atween her neis bot an her mou was inch thick deep wi dirt. she had twa een intil her head war like twa rotten plums; the heavy brows hung doun her face, and o i vow she glooms! he gied to her a braw silk napkin, was made o' an auld horse-brat: 'i ne'er wore a silk napkin a' my life, but weel i wat ise wear that' he gied to her a braw gowd ring, was made frae an auld brass pan: 'i neer wore a gowd ring in a' my life, but now i wat ise wear ane.' whan thir twa lovers had met thegither, o kissing to get their fill, the slaver that hang atween their twa gabs wad hae tetherd a ten year auld bill. . kbmpy kay motherwell's ms., p. . motherwell's minstrelsy, ap- pendix, p. xxiv, no xxx, the first stanza. kempy kaye's a wooing gane. and far beyond the sea, a wee and there he met wi drearylane, his gay gudefather to be. a wee 'gude een, gude een,' quo drearylane, 'gude een, gude een,' quo he, a wee 'i've come your dochter's love to win, i kenna how it will do.' a wee 'my dochter she's a thrifty lass, she's spun this gay seven year, and if it come to gude guiding, it will be half a heer.' 'rise up, rise up, ye dirty slut, and wash your foul face clean; the wooers will be here the night that suld been here yestreen.' they took him ben to the fire en, and set him on a chair; d the father came unto the door, and keeked thro the key-hole, a wee and there he saw his dochter jean, sitting on a coal. a wee they scartit her, and scrapit her, wi the hand o a rusty pan, a wee her father he did all his best for to get her a man. a wee she is to the stoups gane, there is nae water in; e campbell mss, ii, . 'gut> een, gud een,' says chickmakin, 'ye 're welcome here,' says drowsy lane; he looked on the lass that he loved best, and thought she was wondrous fair. the een that was in our bride's head was like twa rotten plooms; she was a chaunler-chaftit quean, and o but she did gloom! the skin that was on our bride's breast was like a saffron bag, and aye her hand was at her neek, and riving up the scabs. the hair that was on our bride's head was like a heather-cow, and every louse that lookit out was like a brockit ewe. betwixd kempy's shouthers was three ells, his nose was nine feet lang, his teeth they were like tether sticks, between his eyne a span. so aye they kissed, and aye they clapped, i wat they kissed weel; the slaver that hang between their mouths wad hae tethered a twa year auld bill. she's cursed the hands and ban'd the feet that did na bring it in. out then spak her auld mither, in her bed whare she lay: 'if there is nae water in the house, gae harl her thro the lin.' o she is to the taipy tapples gane, that stood for seven year, and there she washed her foul face clean, and dried it wi a huggar. he's gien her a gay gold ring, just like a cable-rope, and she's gien him a gay gravat, made out o the tail o a sark. 'i'm comd to court your daughter jean, and marry her wi yer will, a wee.' 'my daughter j ean's a thrifty lass, she's spun these seven lang years to me, motherwell's ms., p. . ***** . kempy kay and gin she spin another seven, she 'll munt a half an heir, a wee.' drowsy lane, it's he's gane hame, and keekit through the hole, a wee and there he saw his daughter jean a reeking oer the coal. a wee 'get up, get up, ye dirty bitch, and wash yer foul face clean, for they are to be here the night that should hae been here yestreen.' up she rose, pat on her clothes, she's washen her foul face clean; she cursd the hands, she ban'd the feet, that wadna bring the water in. she rubbit hersel, she scrubbit hersel, wi the side of a rustit pan, a wee, and in a little came chickmakin, a braw young lad indeed was he. his teeth they were like tether-steeks, his nose was five feet lang; between his shoulders was nine yards broad, and between his een a span. ilka hair into his head was like a heather-cowe, and ilka louse that lookit out was like a brookit ewe. thae twa kissd and thae twa clapt, and thae twa kissd their fill, and aye the slaver between them hang wad tetherd a ten-pund bull. they twa kissd and they twa clapt, and they gaed to their bed, a wee, and at their head a knocking stane and at their feet a m ell, a wee. the auld wife she lay in her bed: 'and gin ye 'll do my bidding a wee, and gin ye 'll do my bidding,' quoth she, 'yees whirl her oer the lea, a wee.' f campbell mss, ii, . as i cam oer yon misty muir, and oer yon grass-green hill, there i saw a campy carle going to the mill. and bar aye yer bower door weel weel, and bar aye yer bower door weel. i lookit in at her window, and in at her hove hole, and there i saw a fousome fag, cowering oer a coal. 'get up, get up, ye fousome fag, and make yer face fou clean; for the wooers will be here the night, and your body will be seen.' he gave her a gay cravat, 't was of an auld horse-sheet; he gave her a gay goud ring, 't was of an auld tree root. he laid his arms about her neck, they were like kipple-roots; and aye he kissd her wi his lips, they were like meller's hoops. when they were laid in marriage bed, and covered oer wi fail, the knocking lnell below their heads did serve them wondrous weel. ilka pap into her breasts was like a saffron bag, and aye his hand at her a. . e was tearing up the scabs. ilka hair into her head was like a heather-cow, and ilka louse that lookit out was like a brookit ewe. . kemp owyne after follows: ilka hair that -was on her head was like a heather cow, and ilka louse that lookit out "was like a lintseed bow. a succeeds, with kempy kaye for auld goling, and is necessarily transferred if the reading kempy kaye is retained. c. the order of the first five stanzas in the ms is , , , , . a wee is the burden after every second and fourth verse, and so with d. i \ in motherwell's minstrelsy, appendix, p. xxiv, no xxx, kempy kane's a wooin gane, and far ayont the sea awee. s. years. . on a stool. d. the first stanza is numbered in the ms., the second , and there is space left, as if for another, between and . e. a wee, originally a burden at tlie middle and the end of the stanza, as in c, d, has been adopted into the verse in , , , (?), , in which stanzas the even lines are of four accents instead of three. , can be easily restored, on the model «/c , a . *. in the water. g. , , lis added as burden to every second and fourth line; except l , which adds high, high, and , oidy i, i. kemp owyne a. 'kemp owyne.' buchan's ballads of the north b. 'kempion.' a. jamieson-brown ms., fol. . of scotland, ii, ; motherwell's minstrelsy, p. ; b. scott's minstrelsy, , ii, , from william tyt- 'kemp owayne,'motherwell's ms., p. . ler's brown ms., no , "with corrections from a recited fragment." it is not, perhaps, material to explain how owain, "the king's son urien," happens to be awarded the adventure which here follows. it is enough that his right is as good as that of other knights to whom the same achievement has been assigned, though the romance, or, as the phrase used to be, " the book," says noth- ing upon the subject. owain's slaying the fire-drake who was getting the better of the lion may have led to his name becoming as- sociated with the still more gallant exploit of thrice kissing a fire-drake to effect a disen- chantment. the ring in a might more plausibly be regarded as being a repetition of that which owain's lady gave him on leaving her for a twelvemonth's outing, a ring which would keep him from loss of blood, and also from prison, sickness, and defeat in battle — in short, preserve him against all the accidents which the knight suggested might prevent his holding his day — provided that he had it by him and thought on her. ritson, ywaine and gawin, vv - . but an icelandic saga comes near enough to the story of the ballad as given in a to show where its connections lie. alsol and a brother and sister are all transformed by a stepmother, a handsome woman, much younger than her husband. als l's heavy weird is to be a nondescript monster with a horse's tail, hoofs, and mane, white eyes, big mouth, and huge hands, and never to be released from the spell till a king's son shall consent to kiss her. one night when hjalmter had landed on a woody island, and it had fallen to him to keep watch, he heard a great din and crashing in the woods, so that the oaks trembled. pres- ently this monster came out of the thicket . kemp owyne with a fine sword in her hand, such as he had not seen the like of. they had a colloquy, and he asked her to let him have the sword. she said he should not have it unless he would kiss her. "i will not kiss thy snout," said hjalmtfir, "for mayhap i should stick to it." but something came into his mind which made him think better of her offer, and he said he was ready. "you must leap upon my neck, then," she said, "when i throw up the sword, and if you then hesitate, it will be your death." she threw up the sword, he leaped on her neck and kissed her, and she gave him the sword, with an augury of victory and good luck for him all his days. the retransforma- tion does not occur on the spot, but further on hjalmt&r meets als l as a young lady at the court of her brother, who has also been re- stored to his proper form and station; every- thing is explained; hjalmter marries her, and his foster-brother her sister. hjalmters ok olvers saga, cc , , rafn, fornaldar sogur, iii, ff, ff. in many tales of the sort a single kiss suffices to undo the spell and reverse the transforma- tion; in others, as in the ballad, three are required. the triplication of the kiss has led in a to a triplication of the talisman against wounds. the popular genius was inventive enough to vary the properties of the several gifts, and we may believe that belt, ring, and sword had originally each its peculiar quality. the peril of touching fin or tail in a seems to correspond to that in the saga of hesitating when the sword is thrown up. the danish ballad, 'jomfruen i ornie- ham,' from mss of the sixteenth and the sev- enteenth century, grundtvig, no , ii, , resembles both the first version of the scottish ballad and the icelandic saga in the points that the maid offers gifts and is rehabilitated by a kiss. the maid in her proper shape, which, it appears, she may resume for a por- tion of the day, stands at sir jenus's bedside * the incident of a woman trying to move a man who all the while is in a deep sleep, and of his servant reporting what has been going on, can hardly have belonged to this ballad from the beginning. it is exceedingly common in popular tales: see ' the red bull of norroway,' in cham- and offers him gifts — five silver-bowls, all the gold in her kist, twelve foals, twelve boats — and ends with saying, " were i a swain, as you are, i would betroth a maid." it is now close upon midnight, and she hints that he must be quick. but jenus is fast asleep the while; twelve strikes, and the maid instantly turns into a little snake. the page, however, has been awake, and he repeats to his master all that has occurred.* sir jenus orders his horse, rides along a hillside, and sees the lit- tle snake in the grass. he bends over and kisses it, and it turns to a courteous maid, who thanks him, and offers him any boon he may ask. he asks her to be his, and as she has loved him before this, she has no difficulty in plighting him her troth. a maid transformed by a step-mother into a tree is freed by being kissed by a man, in 'jomfruen i linden,' grundtvig, ii, , no , kristensen, ii, , no ; 'linden,' afze- lius, iii, , , no . in 'linden,' kristensen, i, , no , a combination of two ballads, a prince cuts down the linden, which changes to a linden-worm ; he kisses the worm, and a young maid stands before him. a knight bewitched into the shape of a troll is restored by being kissed by a peasant's wife thrice [once], ' trolden og bondens hustru,' grundtvig, ii, , no , a, b; a prince by a kiss from a maid, ' lindormen,' grundtvig, d. g. f., ii, , no a, 'slangen og den lille pige,' danske folkeminder, , p. . the removal of a spell which compels man or woman to appear continuously or al- ternately as a monster, commonly a snake, by three kisses or by one, is a regular feature in the numerous german tales of schlangenjung- frauen, weissefrauen. often the man is afraid to venture the third kiss, or even a single one. see grimm, deutsche sagen, no , no ; dobeneck, des deutschen mittelalters volksglauben, , = grimm, no ; mone's anzeiger, iii, , vii, ; panzer, bayer- bers's popular rhymes of scotland, d ed., p. ; grimms, 'das singende springende ixiweneckerchen,' no , 'der eisenhofen,' no , and the notes in vol. iii; leakien u. brugman, litauische v. l. u. marchen, 'vom weissen wolf,' no , p. , and wollner's note, p. . . kemp owyne ische sagen u. brauche, i, , no ; schonhuth, die burgen u. s. w. badens u. der pfalz, i, ; stober, die sagen des elsasses, p. , no , p. , no ; curtze, volks- iiberlieferungen aus waldeck, p. ; som- mer, sagen, marchen u. gebriiuche aus sach- sen u. thuringen, p. , no ; schambach u. miiller, p. , no ; mullenhoff, p. , no ; wolf, hessische sagen, no ; etc., etc.: also, kreutzwald, ebstniscbe marchen, by lowe, no , p. f. so in some forms of 'beauty and the beast:' toppen, aber- glauben aus masuren, p. ; mikulieic, nar- odne pripovietke, p. , no ; afanasief, vii, , no ; coelho, contos populares portu- guezes, p. , no .* rivals or peers of owain among romantic knights are, first, lanzelet, in ulrich von zat- zikhoven's poem, who kisses a serpent on the mouth once, which, after bathing in a spring (see ' tam lin '), becomes the finest woman ever seen : vv - . brandimarte, again, in orlando innamorato, lib. n., c. xxvi, stanzas - ; and carduino, i cantari di car- duino, rajna, stanzas , f, - , pp - . le bel inconnu is an involuntary in- strument in such a disenchantment, for the snake fascinates him first and kisses him with- out his knowledge; he afterwards goes to sleep, and finds a beautiful woman standing at his head when he wakes: ed. hippeau, p. ff, v. ff. the english libius dis- conius is kist or he it wist, and the dragon at once turns to a beautiful woman: percy ms., hales & fumivall, ii, f; ritson, romances, ii, f. espertius, in tiran le blanc, is so overcome with fear that he cannot kiss the dragon, — a daughter of hippocrates, transformed by diana, in the island of lango, — but espertius not running away, as two men before him had done, the dragon kisses him with equally good effect: caylus, tiran * but not in mme villeneuvo's or in mme de beaumont's 'la belle et la bete.' t lanzelet is cilcd by j. grimm; brandimarte by walter scott; carduino by g. paris; espertius by dunlop; ama- dis d'astra by valentin schmidt. dunlop refers to a simi- lar story in the sixth tale of the contcs amoureux de jean flore, written towards the end of the fifteenth century. le blanc, ii, - . this particular disen- chantment had not been accomplished down to sir john mandeville's time, for he mentions only the failures: voyage and travel, c. iv, pp - , ed. . amadis d'astra touches two dragons on the face and breast, and re- stores them to young-ladyhood: historia del principe sferamundi, the th book of amadis of gaul, p. ii, c. xcvii, pp - , venice, . this feat is shown by the details to be only a variation of the story in tiran le blancf the rev. mr lamb, of norham, communi- cated to hutchinson, author of 'a view of northumberland,' a ballad entitled ' the laid- ley worm of spindleston heughs,' with this harmless preamble: "a song years old, made by the old mountain bard, duncan fra- sier, living on cheviot, a. d. . from an ancient manuscript." this composition of mr lamb's— for nearly every line of it is his — is not only based on popular tradition, but evidently preserves some small fragments of a popular ballad, and for this reason is given in an appendix. there is a copy deviating but very little from the print in kinloch's mss, i, . it was obtained from the recitation of an old woman in berwickshire. j in this re- cited version the child of wynd, or childy wynd (child o-wyne), has become child o wane (child o-wayn). mr r. h. evans, in his preface to this bal- lad, old ballads, , iv, , says that mr turner had informed him "that a lady up- wards of seventy had heard her mother repeat an older and nearly similar ballad." a is translated by rosa warrens, schot- tische volkslieder, p. ; b b by gerhard, p. , by schubart, p. , by knortz, lieder u. romanzen alt-englands, p. . 'jom- fruen i ormeham' by prior, iii, . j "the childe of wane, as a protector of disconsolate damsels, is still remembered by young girls at school in the neighborhood of bnmborough, who apply the title to any boy who protects them from the assaults of their school-fel- lows." (kinlocb.) . kemp owyne o meickle dollour did she dree, an ay the sat seas oer she swam; an far mair dollour did she dree on eastmuir craigs, or them she clam; an ay she cried for kempion, gin he would come till her han. now word has gane to kempion that sich a beast was in his lan, an ay be sure she would gae mad gin she gat nae help frae his han. 'now by my sooth,' says kempion, 'this fiery beast i ['ll] gang to see ;' 'an by my sooth,' says segramour, 'my ae brother, i 'll gang you wi.' o biggit ha they a bonny boat, an they hae set her to the sea, an kempion an segramour the fiery beast ha gane to see: a mile afore they reachd the shore, i wot she gard the red fire flee. 'o segramour, keep my boat afloat, an lat her no the lan so near; for the wicked beast she 'll sure gae mad, an set fire to the land an mair.' 'o out o my stye i winna rise — an it is na for the fear o thee — till kempion, the kingis son, come to the craig an thrice kiss me.' he's louted him oer the eastmuir craig, an he has gien her kisses ane; awa she gid, an again she came, the fieryest beast that ever was seen. 'o out o my stye i winna rise — an it is na for fear o thee — till kempion, the kingis son, come to the craig an thrice kiss me.' he louted him oer the eastmuir craig, an he has gien her kisses twa; awa she gid, an again she came, the fieryest beast that ever you saw. 'o out o my stye i winna rise — an it is na for fear o ye — till kempion, the kingis son, come to the craig an thrice kiss me.' he's louted him oer the eastmuir craig, an he has gien her kisses three; awa she gid, an again she came, the fairest lady that ever coud be. 'an by my sooth,' say[s] kempion, 'my ain true love — for this is she — o was it wolf into the wood, or was it fish intill the sea, or was it man, or wile woman, my true love, that misshapit thee?' 'it was na wolf into the wood, nor was it fish into the sea, but it was my stepmother, an wae an weary mot she be. 'o a heavier weird light her upon than ever fell on wile woman; her hair's grow rough, an her teeth's grow lang, an on her four feet sal she gang. 'nane sall tack pitty her upon, but in wormie's wood she sall ay won. an relieved sall she never be. till st mungo come oer the sea.' a. buchan gives - in two six-line stanzas. there are a few trivial diversities between motlierwelvs manuscript, or my copy of it, and his printed text, xohich conforms to buchan's. b. a. written in long or double lines in the man- uscript. s, . or. s. a besure. *. landy mair ll . twice. s. wicked is inserted before stepmother, seemingly by javdeson. b. the first stanza, as given by anderson, nichols, literary illustrations, vn, , is: 'come here, come here, ye freely feed, and lay your head low on my knee; the heaviest weird i will you read that ever was read till a lady.' . kemp owyne s. heaviest. i . gaye ladye. . ye'se. . when ye. . i weird ye to a fiery beast. = a ,-f a l*: a s, omitted: and aye she cried for kempion, gin he would but cum to her hand; now word has gane to kempion that sicken a beast was in his land. . wi thee. omits a* . . but a mile before. . around them she. . oer near. s. will sure. . to a' the land and mair. after is inserted: syne has he bent an arblast bow, and aimd an arrow at her head, and swore if she didna quit the land, wi that same shaft to shoot her dead. . stythe. . awe o thee. . dizzy crag. . gien the monster. ii . stythe. ii . and not for a' thy bow nor thee. . estmere craigs. . my den. . nor flee it for the feir o thee. s. kempion, that courteous knight. . lofty craig. . loveliest lady eer. ' . after this is inserted: they surely had a heart o stane, could put thee to such misery. *"° make a separate stanza. s, . warwolf in the wood. , . mermaid in the sea. . my ain true. \ weird shall light her on. *. her hair shall grow . . . teeth grow. . in wormeswood she aye shall won. , . and sighing said that weary wight, i doubt that day i 'll never see. appendix the laidley worm of spindleston heughs. a view of northumberland, by w. hutchinson, anno , newcastle, , ii, - . communicated by the liev. mr lamb, of norham. kinloch's account of the tradition in relation to the queen, as it maintains itself in berwickshire, is quite in accord with german sagen about enchanted ladies, innocent or guilty, and as such may be worth giving: kinloch mss, i, . "though the ballad mentions that the queen was transformed into 'a spiteful toad of monstrous size,' and was doomed in that form to wend on the earth until the end of the world, yet the tradition of the country gives another account of the endur- ance of her enchantment. it is said that in form of a toad as big as a 'clockin hen' she is doomed to expiate her guilt by confinement in a cavern in bamborough castle, in which she is to remain in her enchanted shape until some one shall have the har- dihood to break the spell by penetrating the cavern, whose ' invisible' door only opens every seven years, on christmas eve. the adventurer, after entering the cavern, must take the sword and horn of the childe of wane, which hang on the wall, and hav- ing unsheathed and resheathed the sword thrice, and wound three blasts on the horn, he must kiss the toad three times; upon which the enchantment will be dissolved, and the queen will recover her human form. "many adventurers, it is said, have attempted to disenchant the queen, but have all failed, having immediately fallen into a trance, something similar to the princes in the arabian tale who went in search of the talking bird, singing tree, and yel- low water. the last one, it is said, who made the attempt was a countryman, about sixty years ago, who, having watched on christmas eve the opening of the door, entered the cavern, took the sword and horn from the wall, unsheathed and resheathed the sword thrice, blew three blasts on the horn, and was proceeding to the final disenchantment by kissing the toad, which he had saluted twice, when, perceiving the various strange sleepers to arise from the floor, his courage failed, and he fled from the cavern, hav- ing just attained the outside of the door when it suddenly shut with a loud clap, catching hold of the skirt of his coat, which was torn off and left in the door. and none since that time to enter the cavern presume." . kemp owyne the king is gone from bambrough castle, long may the princess mourn; long may she stand on the castle wall, looking for his return. she has knotted the keys upon a string, and with her she has them taen, she has cast them oer her left shoulder, and to the gate she is gane. she tripped out, she tripped in, she tript into the yard; but it was more for the king's sake, than for the queen's regard. it fell out on a day the king brought the queen with him home, and all the lords in our country to welcome them did come. 'o welcome, father,' the lady cries, 'unto your halls and bowers; and so are you, my stepmother, for all that is here is yours.' a lord said, wondering while she spake, this princess of the north surpasses all of female kind in beauty and in worth. the envious queen replied: at least, you might have excepted me; in a few hours i will her bring down to a low degree. i will her liken to a laidley worm, that warps about the stone, and not till childy wynd comes back shall she again be won. the princess stood at the bower door, laughing, who could her blame? but eer the next day's sun went down, a long worm she became. for seven miles east, and seven miles west, and seven miles north and south, no blade of grass or corn could grow, so venomous was her mouth. the milk of seven stately cows — it was costly her to keep — was brought her daily, which she drank before she went to sleep. at this day may be seen the cave which held her folded up, and the stone trough, the very same out of which she did sup. word went east, and word went west, and word is gone over the sea, that a laidley worm in spindleston heughs would ruin the north country. word went east, and word went west, and over the sea did go; the child of wynd got wit of it, which filled his heart with woe. he called straight his merry men all, they thirty were and three: 'i wish i were at spindleston, this desperate worm to see. 'we have no time now here to waste, hence quickly let us sail; my only sister margaret, something, i fear, doth ail.' they built a ship without delay, with masts of the rown tree, with fluttering sails of silk so fine, and set her on the sea. they went aboard; the wind with speed blew them along the deep; at length they spied an huge square tower, on a rock high and steep. the sea was smooth, the weather clear; when they approached nigher, king ida's castle they well knew, and the banks of bambroughshire. the queen looked out at her bower-window, to see what she could see; there she espied a gallant ship, sailing upon the sea. when she beheld the silken sails, full glancing in the sun, to sink the ship she sent away her witch-wives every one. their spells were vain; the hags returned to the queen in sorrowful mood, crying that witches have no power where there is rown-tree wood. her last effort, she sent a boat, which in the haven lay, avitb armed men to board the ship, but they were driven away. the worm leapt up, the worm leapt down, she plaited round the stane; and ay as the ship came to the land she banged it off again. . allison gross the child then ran out of her reach the ship on budle sand, and jumping into the shallow sea, securely got to land. and now he drew his berry-brown sword, and laid it on her head, and swore, if she did harm to him, that he would strike her dead. 'o quit thy sword, and bend thy bow, and give me kisses three; for though i am a poisonous worm, no hurt i will do to thee. 'o quit thy sword, and bend thy bow, and give me kisses three; if i am not won eer the sun go down, won i shall never be.' he quitted his sword, he bent his bow, he gave her kisses three; she crept into a hole a worm, but stept out a lady. no cloathing had this lady fine, to keep her from the cold; he took his mantle from him about, and round her did it fold. he has taken his mantle from him about, and it he wrapt her in, and they are up to bambrough castle, as fast as they can win. his absence and her serpent shape the king had long deplored; he now rejoiced to see them both again to him restored. the queen they wanted, whom they found all pale, and sore afraid, because she knew her power must yield to childy wynd's, who said: 'woe be to thee, thou wicked witch, an ill death mayest thou dee; as thou my sister hast likened, so likened shalt thou be. 'i will turn you into a toad, that on the ground doth wend, and won, won shalt thou never be, till this world hath an end.' now on the sand near ida's tower, she crawls a loathsome toad, and venom spits on every maid she meets upon her road. the virgins all of bambrough town will swear that they have seen this spiteful toad, of monstrous size, whilst walking they have been. all folks believe within the shire this story to be true, and they all run to spindleston, the cave and trough to view. this fact now duncan frasier, of cheviot, sings in rhime, lest bambroughshire men should forget some part of it in time. *. son. allison gross 'allison gross,' jamieson-brown ms., fol. . 'allison gross' was printed by jamie- son, popular ballads, ii, , without devia- tion from the manuscript save in spelling. in a greek tale, a nereid, that is elf or fairy, turns a youth who had refused to espouse her into a snake, the curse to continue till he finds another love who is as fair as she: 'die schonste,' b. schmidt, griechische marchen, etc., no . this tale is a variety of ' beauty and the beast,' one of the numerous wild . allison geoss growths from that ever charming french story.* an elf, a hill-troll, a mermaid, make a young man offers of splendid gifts, to obtain his love or the promise of his faith, in 'elveskud,' grundtvig, no , many of the danish and two of the norwegian copies; 'hertig magnus och elfvorna,' afzelius, iii, ; 'hr. mag- nus og bjairgtrolden,' grundtvig, no , ar- widsson, no b; 'herr magnus och hafs- trollet,' afzelius, no , bugge, no ; a lind-worm, similarly, to a young woman,' lin- dormen,' grundtvig, no . magnus answers the hill-troll that he should be glad to plight faith with her were she like other women, but she is the ugliest troll that could be found: grundtvig, ii, , a , b ; arwidsson, ii, , b ; afzelius, iii, , st. , , st. . this is like what we read in stanza of our ballad, but the answer is inevitable in any such case. magnus comes off scot-free. the queen of the fairies undoing the spell of the witch is a remarkable feature, not par- alleled, so far as i know, in english or north- ern tradition. the greek nereids, however, who do pretty much everything, good or bad, that is ascribed to northern elves or fairies, and even bear an appellation resembling that by which fairies are spoken of in scotland and ireland, "the good damsels," "the good la- dies," have a queen who is described as taking no part in the unfriendly acts of her subjects, but as being kindly disposed towards mankind, and even as repairing the mischief which sub- ordinate sprites have done against her will. if now the fairy queen might interpose in be- half of men against her own kith and kin, much more likely would she be to exert her- self to thwart the malignity of a witch.f the object of the witch's blowing thrice on a grass-green horn in is not clear, for noth- ing comes of it. in the closely related ballad which follows this, a witch uses a horn to summon the sea-fishes, among whom there is one who has been the victim of her spells. the horn is appropriate. witches were sup- posed to blow horns when they joined the wild hunt, and horn-blower, "hornblase," is twice cited by grimm as an equivalent to witch: deutsche mythologie, p. . translated by grundtvig, engelske og skotske folkeviser, no ; by rosa warrens, schottische volkslieder, no ; knortz, lieder und romanzen alt-englands, no ; loeve- veimars, ballades de l'augleterre, p. . o allison gross, that lives in yon towr, the ugliest witch i the north country, has trysted me ae day up till her bowr, an monny fair speech she made to me. she stroaked my head, an she kembed my hair, an she set me down saftly on her knee; says, gin ye will be my lemman so true, sae monny braw things as i woud you gi. she showd me a mantle o red scarlet, wi gouden flowrs an fringes fine; says, gin ye will be my lemman so true, this goodly gift it sal be thine. 'awa, awa, ye ugly witch, haud far awa, an lat me be; i never will be your lemman sae true. an i wish i were out o your company.' she neist brought a sark o the saftest silk, well wrought wi pearles about the ban; says, gin you will be my ain true love, this goodly gift you sal cornman. she showd me a cup of the good red gold, well set wi jewls sae fair to see; says, gin you will be my lemman sae true, this goodly gift i will you gi. * of these dr reinhold kohler has given me a note of more than twenty. the french tale itself had, in all likeli- hood, a popular foundation. t b. schmidt, das volksleben der nengriechen, pp f, , . euphemistically the nereids are called jj xais hpx vturaau, ?j kaaolt kvpiia, j) ka\ icap ais, j) kok tuxw, their sovereign is fi fuyd
i kupi, ij -*p«l>n), etc . . the laily worm and the machrel of the sea sister are transformed in the danish 'natter- galen,' grundtvig, no . it is an aggrava- tion of stepmother malice that the victim of enchantment, however amiable and inoffen- sive before, should become truculent and de- structive; so with the brother of gawain's bride, and with the carl of carlile. the step- mother is satisfactorily disposed of, as she is in ' kemp owyne,' b, and the ' laidly worm of spindleston heughs.' 'i was but seven year auld when my mither she did die; my father married the ae warst woman the warld did ever see. 'for she has made me the laily worm, that lies at the fit o the tree, an my sister masery she's made the machrel of the sea. 'an every saturday at noon the machrel comes to me, an she takes my laily head an lays it on her knee, she kaims it wi a siller kaim, an washes't in the sea. 'seven knights hae i slain, sin i lay at the fit of the tree, an ye war na my ain father, the eight ane ye should be.' 'sing on your song, ye laily worm, that ye did sing to me :' 'i never sung that song but what i would it sing to thee. 'i was but seven year auld, when my mither she did die; my father married the ae warst woman the warld did ever see. 'for she changed me to the laily worm, that lies at the fit o the tree, and my sister masery to the machrel of the sea. 'and every saturday at noon the machrel comes to me, an she takes my laily head an lays it on her knee, an kames it wi a siller kame, an washes it i the sea. 'seven knights hae i slain, sin i lay at the fit o the tree, an ye war na my ain father, the eighth ane ye shoud be.' he sent for his lady, as fast as send could he: 'whar is my son that ye sent frae me, and my daughter, lady masery?' 'your son is at our king's court, serving for meat an fee, an your daughter's at our queen's court, f 'ye lie, ye ill woman, sae loud as i hear ye lie; my son's the laily worm, that lies at the fit o the tree, and my daughter, lady masery, is the machrel of the sea!' she has tane a siller wan, an gien him strokes three, and he has started up the bravest knight that ever your eyes did see. she has taen a small horn, an loud an shrill blew she, an a' the fish came her untill but the proud machrel of the sea: 'ye shapeit me ance an unseemly shape, an ye's never mare shape me.' he has sent to the wood for whins and for hawthorn, an he has taen that gay lady, an there he did her burn. , ". lays: but lies, *. *. ducks, but compare . . thomas rymer thomas rymer a. 'thomas rymer and queen of elfland,' alexander fraser ty tier's brown ms., no . b. 'thomas the rhymer,' camphell mss, ii, . c. 'thomas the rhymer,' minstrelsy of the scottish border, ii, , , "from a copy obtained from a lady residing not far from erceldoune, corrected and enlarged by one in mrs brown's ms." a is one of the nine ballads transmitted to alexander fraser tytler by mrs brown in april, , as written down from her recol- lection.* this copy was printed by jamie- son, ii, , in his preface to ' true thomas and the queen of elfland.' b, never published as yet, has been corrupted here and there, but only by tradition. c being compounded of a and another version, that portion which is found in a is put in smaller type. thomas of erceldoune, otherwise thomas the rhymer, and in the popular style true thomas, has had a fame as a seer, which, though progressively narrowed, is, after the lapse of nearly or quite six centuries, far from being extinguished. the common people throughout the whole of scotland, according to mr robert chambers ( ), continue to regard him with veneration, and to preserve a great number of his prophetic sayings, which they habitually seek to connect with "dear years " and other notable public events.f a prediction of thomas of erceldoune's is re- corded in a manuscript which is put at a date before , and he is referred to with other soothsayers in the scalacronica, a french chronicle of english history begun in . erceldoune is spoken of as a poet in robert mannyng's translation of langtoft's chronicle, finished in ; and in the auchinleck copy of 'sir tristrem,' said to have been made about , a thomas is said to have been consulted at erpeldoun touching the history * sec the letter of dr anderson to bishop percy, decem- ber , , in nichols's illustrations of the literary his- tory of the eighteenth century, vii, f. t chambers' popular rhymes of scotland, , pp. - of tristrem. so that we seem safe in holding that thomas of erceldoune had a reputation both as prophet and poet in the earlier part of the fourteenth century. the vaticinations of thomas are cited by various later chroniclers, and had as much credit in england as in scot- land. "during the fourteenth, fifteenth, and sixteenth centuries," says chambers, "to fab- ricate a prophecy in the name of thomas the rhymer appears to have been found a good stroke of policy on many occasions. thus was his authority employed to countenance the views of edward iii against scottish inde- pendence, to favor the ambitious views of the duke of albany in the minority of james v, and to sustain the spirits of the nation under the harassing invasions of henry viii." dur- ing the jacobite rising of the accom- plishment of thomas's as then unfulfilled pre- dictions was looked for by many. his prophe- cies, and those of other scotch soothsayers, were consulted, says lord hailes, "with a weak if not criminal curiosity." even as late as the french revolutionary war a rhyme of thomas's caused much distress and consterna- tion in the border counties of scotland, where people were fearing an invasion. the ' whole prophecie' of merlin, thomas rymour, and others, collected and issued as early as , continued to be printed as a chap-book down to the beginning of this century, when, says dr murray, few farm-houses in scotland were without a copy of it. . see, also, scott's minstrelsy, iv, - , - , ed. . but, above all, dr j. a. h. murray's introduc- tion to the romance and prophecies of thomas of ercel- doune, . . thomas rymer all this might have been if thomas of er- celdoune had been not more historical than merlin. but the name is known to have belonged to a real person. thomas ryinor de ercildune is witness to a deed whereby one petrus de haga obliges himself to make a certain payment to the abbey of melrose. petrus de haga is, in turn, witness to a char- ter made by richard de moreville. unluckily, neither of these deeds is dated. but moreville was constable of scotland from to . if we suppose moreville's charter to have been given towards , and haga to have been then about twenty years old, and so born about , and further suppose haga to have made his grant to melrose towards the end of a life of threescore, or three score and ten, the time of thomas rymer's signature would be about or . if thomas rymer was then twenty years of age, his birth would have been at or . in the year thomas de ercildoun, son and heir of thomas rymour de ercildoun, conveyed to a religious house his inheritance of lands in ercildoun. with thomas rhymer in mind, one naturally interprets thomas rymour as the prophet and thomas de ercildoun as his son. if rymour was the surname of this fam- ily,* it would have been better, for us at least, if the surname had been subjoined to the first thomas also. as the language stands, we are left to choose among several possibil- ities. thomas the rhymer may have been dead in ; thomas rymour, meaning the same person, may have made this cession of lands in , and have survived still some years. thomas, the father, may, as dr mur- ray suggests, have retired from the world, but still be living, and it may be his son who re- signs the lands. blind harry's life of wal- lace makes thomas rimour to be alive down to g or . a story reported by bower in his continuation of fordun, c. , makes thomas to have predicted the death of alex- ander iii in , when, according to the pre- * hector booco ( ) says the surname was lcirmont, but there is no evidence for this thut is of value. see mur- ray, p. xiii. t the five copies have been edited by dr j. a. h. mur- vious (necessarily very loose) calculation, the seer would have been between sixty-six and seventy-six. neither of these last dates is es- tablished by the strongest evidence, but there is no reason for refusing to admit, at least, that thomas of erceldoune may have been alive at the latter epoch. thomas of erceldoune's prophetic power was a gift of the queen of the elves; the mod- ern elves, equally those of northern europe and of greece, resembling in respect to this attribute the nymphs of the ancient hellenic mythology. how thomas attained this grace is set forth in the first of three fits of a poem which bears his name. this poem has come down in four somewhat defective copies : the earliest written a little before the middle of the fifteenth century, two others about , the fourth later. there is a still later manu script copy of the second and third fits.f all the manuscripts are english, but it is manifest from the nature of the topics that the original poem was the work of a scotsman. all four of the complete versions speak of an older story: "gyff it be als the storye sayes, v. , ' als the storye tellis full ryghte,' v. . the older story, if any, must be the work of thomas. the circumstance that the poem, as we have it, begins in the first person, and after a long passage returns for a moment to the first per- son, though most of the tale is told in the third, is of no importance; nor would it have been important if the whole narrative had been put into thomas's mouth, since that is the simplest of literary artifices. thomas, having found favor with the queen of elfland, was taken with her to that country, and there he remained more than three [seven] years. then the time came round when a trib- ute had to be paid to hell, and as thomas was too likely to be chosen by the fiend, the elf queen conducted him back to the world of men. at the moment of parting thomas de- sires some token which may authenticate his having spoken with her. she gives him the ray, and printed by the early english text society. a re- constructed text by dr alois brandl makes the second vol- ume of a sammlung englischer denkmaler in kritischen ausgaben, berlin, s . . thomas rymer gift of soothsaying. he presses her to stay and tell him some ferly. upon this she be- gins a train of predictions, which thomas more than once importunes her to continue. the first two of these, the failure of baliol's party and the battle of halidon hill, , stand by themselves, but they are followed by a series in chronological order, extending from the battle of falkirk to the battle of otterbourn, - . the third fit, ex- cepting, perhaps, a reference to henry iv's invasion of scotland in , seems to consist, not of predictions made after the event, but of "adaptations of legendary prophecies, tradi- tionally preserved from far earlier times, and furbished up anew at each period of national trouble and distress, in expectation of their fulfilment being at length at hand."* the older " story," which is twice referred to in the prologue to the prophecies of thomas of erceldoune, was undoubtedly a romance which narrated the adventure of thomas with the elf queen simply, without specification of his prophecies. in all probability it concluded, in accordance with the ordinary popular tradi- tion, with thomas's return to fairy-land after a certain time passed in this world.f for the story of thomas and the elf-queen is but an- other version of what is related of ogier le danois and morgan the fay. six fairies made gifts to ogier at his birth. by the favor of five he was to be the strongest, the bravest, the most successful, the handsomest, the most susceptible, of knights: morgan's gift was that, after a long and fatiguing career of glory, he should live with her at her castle of avalon, * murray, pp xxiv-xxvii. as might be expected, the latin texts corrupt the names of persons and of places, and alter the results of battles. dr murray remarks : " the old- est text makes the scots win halidon hill, with the slaughter of six thousand englishmen, while the other texts, wise nf ter the fact, makes the scots lose, as they actually did." this, and the consideration that a question about the conflict be- tween the families of bruce and baliol would not be put after , when the baliol line was extinct, disposes dr murray to think that verses - of the second fit, with perhaps the first fit, the conclusion of the poem, and an indefinite portion of fit third, may have been written on the eve of halidon hill, with a view to encourage tho scots. t the poem, vv - , says only that thomas and the in the enjoyment of a still longer youth and never wearying pleasures. when ogier had passed his hundredth year, morgan took meas- ures to carry out her promise. she had him wrecked, while he was on a voyage to france, on a loadstone rock conveniently near to ava- lon, which avalon is a little way this side of the terrestrial paradise. in due course he comes to an orchard, and there he eats an apple, which affects him so peculiarly that he looks for noth- ing but death. he turns to the east, and sees a beautiful lady, magnificently attired. he takes her for the virgin; she corrects his error, and announces herself as morgan the fay. she puts a ring on his finger which restores his youth, and then places a crown on his head which makes him forget all the past. for two hundred years ogier lived in such de- lights as no worldly being can imagine, and the two hundred years seemed to him but twenty. christendom was then in danger, and even morgan thought his presence was required in the world. the crown being taken from his head, the memory of the past revived, and with it the desire to return to france. he was sent back by the fairy, properly provided, vanquished the foes of christianity in a short space, and after a time was brought back by morgan the fay to avalon. j the fairy adventures of thomas and of ogier have the essential points in common, and even the particular trait that the fairy is taken to be the virgin. the occurrence of this trait again in the ballad, viewed in connection with the general similarity of the two, will leave no doubt that the ballad had its source in the lady did not part for ever and aye, but that she was to visit him at huntley banks. x the relations of thomas rhymer and ogier might, per- haps, be cleared up by the poem of the visions of ogier in fairy land. the book is thus described by brnnct, ed. , iv, : le premier (second et troisil'me) livro des visions d'oger le dannoys au royaulme de fairic, paris, , pet. in- , de ff. brunct adds: a la suite de ce poiime, dans l'excmplaire de la bibliothcqnc impe'riale, so trouve, leliure des visions fantastiques, paris, , pet. in- , de ff. the national library is not now in possession of the volume; nor have all the inquiries i have been able to make, though most courteously aided in france, resulted, as i hoped, in the finding of a copy. . thomas rymer romance. yet it is an entirely popular ballad as to style,* and must be of considerable age, though the earliest version (a) can be traced at furthest only into the first half of the last century. the scene of the meeting of thomas with the elf queen is huntly banks and the eildon tree in versions b, c of the ballad, as in the romance.f neither of these is mentioned in a, the reciter of which was an aberdeen woman. the elf-lady's costume and equip- ment, minutely given in the romance (hence- forth referred to as r), are reduced in the ballad to a skirt of grass-green silk and a vel- vet mantle, a, and a dapple-gray horse, b (r ), with nine and fifty bells on each tett of its mane, a (three bells on either side of the bridle, r ). j thomas salutes the fairy as queen of heaven, a , r . b has suffered a protestant alteration which makes nonsense of the following stanza. she corrects his mis- take in all, and in b tells him she is out hunting, as in r . as c stands, she chal- lenges thomas to kiss her, warning him at the * excepting the two satirical stanzas with which scott's version (c) concludes. "the repugnance of thomas to be debarred the use of falsehood when he should find it conve- nient," may have, as scott says, " a comic effect," but is, for a ballad, a miserable conceit. both ballad and romance are serious. t eildon tree, the site of which is supposed now to be marked by the eildon tree stone, stood, or should have stood, on the slope of the eastern of the three eildon hills. huntly banks are about half a mile to the west of the eil- don stone, on the same hill-slope. erceldoun, a village on the leader, two miles above its junction with the tweed, is all but visible from the eildon stone. murray, pp l-lii. } in b , absurdly, the lady holds nine bells in her hand. ringing or jingling bridles are ascribed to fairies, tain lin, a , cromek's iicmains of nithsdiile and galloway song, p. (" manes hung wi whustles that the win played on," p. ). the fairy's saddle has a bordure of bells in the eng- lish launfol, hnlliweu's illustrations of fairy mythology, p. , but not in marie's lai. the dwarf-king antiloie, in ulrich von eschenbach's alexander, has bells on his bridle: grimm, deutsche mythologie, i, . these bells, how- ever, are not at all distinctive of fairies, but are the ordinary decoration of elegant "outriders" in the middle ages, es- pecially of women. in the romance of richard ccuur de lion, a messenger's trappings ring with five hundred bells. besides the bridle, bells were sometimes uttnched to the horse's breastplate, to the saddle-bow, crupper, and stir- rups. conde claros's steed has three hundred around his breastplate. see weber's metrical homanees, r. c. de lion, vv - , - , cited by t. wright, history of same time, unnaturally, and of course in con- sequence of a corrupt reading, of the danger; which thomas defies, c . these two stanzas in c represent the passage in the romance, - , in which thomas embraces the fairy queen, and are wanting in a, b, though not to be spared. it is contact with the fairy that gives her the power to carry her paramour off; for carry him off she does, and he is in great fright at having to go. the ballad is no worse, and the romance would have been much better, for the omission of another passage, impressive in itself, but incompatible with the proper and original story. the elf-queen had told thomas that he would ruin her beauty, if he had his will, and so it came to pass: her eyes seemed out, her rich clothing was away, her body was like the lead; and it is while thus disfigured that she bids thomas take leave of sun and moon, so that his alarm is not without reason.§ he must go with her for seven years, a, b; only for a twelvemonth, r. she takes him up behind her, a; she rides and he runs, b; she leads him in at eldon hill, r; domestic manners in england, f; liebrecht, gervasius, p. ; kiilbing, englische studien, iii, ; zupitza and varnhagen, anglia, iii, , iv, ; and particularly a. schultz, das hiifische leben zur zeit der minnesinger, x, , - . § the original i suppose to be the very cheerful tale of ogier, with which the author of thomas of erceldoune has blended a very serious one, without any regard to the irrec- oncilableness of the two. he is presently forced to undo this melancholy transformation of the fairy, as we shall see. brandl, ' thomas of erceldoune,' p. , cites from giraldus cambrensis, iiinerarium cambrise, i, , a story about one meilyr, a welshman, the like of which our poet had in mind. this meilyr was a great soothsayer, and " owed his skill to the following adventure :" being in company one evening with a girl for whom he had long had a passion, desidcratis amplexibus atque deliciis cum indulsisset, staiim loco puellae formosae formam quamdam villosam, hispidam et hirautam, adcoque enormiter deformem invenit, quod in ipso ejusdem aspectu dementire ccepit et insanire. meilyr recovered his reason after several years, through the merits of the saints, but always kept up an intimacy with unclean spirits, and by their help foretold the future. it is not said that they gave him the tongue that never could lie, but no other tongue could lie successfully in his presence: he al- ways saw a little devil capering on it. he was able, by sim- ilar indications, to point out the lies and errors of books. the experiment being once tried of laying the gospel of john in his lap, every devil instantly decamped. geoffrey of monmouth's history was substituted, and imps swarmed all over the book and him, too. . thomas rymer they cross a water, he wading up to the knee, b, r. the water is subterranean in r, and for three days naught is heard but the sough- ing of the flood. then they come to an or- chard, a, b, r, and thomas, like to tyne for lack of food, is about to pull fruit, but is told that the fruit is cursed, a , b ; * if he plucks it, his soul goes to the fire of hell, r . the fairy has made a provision of safe bread and wine for him in the ballad, a , b , but he has still to fast a while in the ro- mance. c, which lacks this passage, makes them ride till they reach a wide desert, and leave living land behind, ; and here (but in a, b, and r in the vicinity of the orchard) the fairy bids thomas lay his head on her knee, and she will show him rare sights. these are the way to heaven, a , b , r ; the way to hell, a , b , r ; the road to elfland, whither they are going, a . r does not point out the road to elfland, but the elf- queen's castle on a high hill; and there are two additional ferlies, the way to paradise and the way to purgatory,f , . thomas, in a , is now admonished that he must hold his tongue, for if he speaks a word he will never get back to his own country; in b he is told to answer none but the elf-queen, whatever may be said to him, and this course he takes in b . but before they proceed to the castle the lady resumes all the beauty and splendor which she had lost, and no explana- tion is offered save the naive one in the lans- downe copy, that if she had not, the king, her consort, would have known that she had been in fault. now follows in a (as recited, here ), c , , the passage through the subterranean water, which should come before they reach the orchard, as in b , r , . there is much exaggeration in the ballad: * bb ! "it was a' that cureed fruit o thine beggared man and woman in yourcountrie :" the fruit of the forbid- den tree. t purgatory is omitted in the cotton ms. of the romance, as in the ballad. } ogier le danois hardly exceeded the proportion of the ordinary hyperbole of lovers: two hundred years seemed but twenty. the british king herla lived with the king of the dwarfs more than two hundred years, and thought the time but three days: walter mapes, nugse curialium, ed. wright, they wade through rivers in darkness and hear the sea roaring, , a , as in r, but they also wade through red blood to the knee, a , , and the crossing occupies not three days, as in r , but forty days, a . in c they now come to the garden. stanzas , are out of place in , as just remarked, and is entirely perverted. the cursed fruit which thomas is not to touch in a , b , r , is offered him by the elf-queen as his wages, and will give him the tongue that can never lie, — a gift which is made him in the romance at the beginning of the second fit, when the fairy is preparing to part with him. stanzas , of c are certainly a modern, and as certainly an ill-devised, interpolation. b has lost the conclusion. in a, c, thomas gets a fairy cos- tume, and is not seen on earth again for seven years. the romance, after some description of the life at the elf-castle, informs us that thomas lived there more than three years [cambridge ms., seven], and thought the time but a space of three days, an almost moderate illusion compared with the experience of other mor- tals under analogous circumstances.j the fairy queen then hurried him away, on the eve of the day when the foul fiend was to come to fetch his tribute. he was a mickle man and hend, and there was every reason to fear that he would be chosen. she brought him again to eldon tree, and was bidding him farewell. thomas begged of her a token of his conversation with her, and she gave him the gift of true speaking. he urged her fur- ther to tell him some ferly, and she made him several predictions, but he would not let her go without more and more. finally, with a promise to meet him on huntly banks when she might, she left him under the tree. p. f (liebrecht). the strongest case, i believe, is the ex- quisite legend, versified by trench, of the monk, with whom three hundred years passed, while he was listening to a bird's song — as he thought, less than three hours. for some of the countless repetitions of the idea, see pauli's schimpf und ernst, ed. oesterley, no , and notes, p. ; liebrecht's gervasius, p. ; w. hertz, deutsche sage im elsass, pp - , ; a. graf, la leggenda del paradiso terrestre, pp - , - , and notes; j. koch, die siebenschlaferle- gende, kap. ii. . thomas rymer popular tradition, as sir walter scott rep- resents, held that, though thomas was allowed to revisit the earth after a seven years' so- journ in fairy-land, he was under an obliga- tion to go back to the elf-queen whenever she should summon him. one day while he "was making merry with his friends in the town of erceldoune, a person came running in, and told, with marks of fear and astonishment, that a hart and hind had left the neighbor- ing forest, and were composedly and slowly parading the street of the village. the pro- phet instantly arose, left his habitation, and followed the wonderful animals to the forest, whence he was never seen to return." he is, however, expected to come back again at some future time. what we learn from the adventures of thomas concerning the perils of dealing with fairies, and the precautions to be observed, agrees with the general teaching of tradition upon the subject. in this matter there is pretty much one rule for all "unco" folk, be they fairies, dwarfs, water-sprites, devils, or departed spirits, and, in a limited way, for witches, too. thomas, having kissed the elf- queen's lips, must go with her. when the dead willy comes to ask back his faith and troth of margaret, and she says he must first kiss her, cheek and chin, he replies, "if i should kiss your red, red lips, your days would not be long." * when thomas is about to * in an exquisite little ballad obtained by tommaseo from a peasant-girl of kmpoli, i, , a lover who had visited hell, and there met and kissed his mistress, is told by her that he must not hope ever to go thence. how the lover escaped in this instance is not explained. such things happen sometimes, but not often enough to encourage one to take the risk. sono stato all' inferno, e son tornato: misericordia, la gente che c'era! vera una stanza tutta illuminata, e dentro v'era la speranza mia. quando mi vedde, gran festa mi fece, e poi mi disse: dolce aninia mia, non ti arricordi del tempo passato, quando tu mi dicevi, " annua mia?" ora, mio caro ben, baciami in bocca, liaciami tanto ch'io contenta sia. tanto saporita la tua bocca! di grazia saporisci anco la mia. ora, mio caro ben, che m'hai baciato, di qui non isperar d'andarne via. t a , , r , . it was not that thomas was about pull fruit in the subterranean garden, or par- adise, the elf bids him let be: all the plagues of hell light on the fruit of this country; "if thou pluck it, thy soul goes to the fire of hell." f the queen had taken the precaution of bringing some honest bread and wine with her for thomas's behoof. so when burd el- len's brother sets out to rescue his sister, who had been carried off by the king of elfiand, his sage adviser enjoins him to eat and drink nothing in fairy-land, whatever his hunger or thirst; "for if he tasted or touched in elfiand, he must remain in the power of the elves, and never see middle-eard again." j ab- stinence from speech is equally advisable, ac- cording to our ballad and to other authority: gin ae word you should chance to speak, you will neer get back to your ain countrie, a . they've asked him questions, one and all, but he answered none but that fair ladie, b . what so any man to thee say, look thou an- swer none but me, r . that eating and drinking, personal contact, exchange of speech, receiving of gifts, in any abode of unearthly beings, including the dead, will reduce a man to their fellowship and con- dition might be enforced by a great number of examples, and has already been abundantly shown by professor wilhelm miiller in his beautiful essay, zur symbolik der deutschen volkssage.§ the popular belief of the north- ern nations in this matter is more completely to pluck fruit from the forbidden tree, though b under- stands it so: cf. r , . the curse of this tree seem?, however, to have affected all paradise. in modern greek popular poetry paradise occurs sometimes entirely in the sense of hades. see b. schmidt, volksleben der neugrie- chen, p. . t jamieson, in illustrations of northern antiquities, p. : 'child rowland and burd ellen.' § niedersachsische sagen und marchen, schambach und muller, p. . shakspere has this: "they are fairies; he that speaks to them shall die ; " falstaff, in merry wives of windsor, v, . ancient greek tradition is not without traces of the same ideas. it was persephone's eating of the pomegranate kernel that consigned her to the lower world, in spite of zeus and demeter's opposition. the drinking of circe's brewago and the eating of lotus had an effect on the companions of ulysses such as is sometimes ascribed to the food and drink of fairies, or other demons, that of producing forgetfulness of home: odyssey, x, , ix, . but it would not be safe to build much on this. a hebrew tale makes the human wife of a demon charge a man who has come to . thomas rymer shown than anywhere else in saxo's account of king gormo's visit to guthmund, and it will be enough to cite that. the danish king gormo, having heard extraordinary things of the riches of geruth (the giant geirrosr), de- termines to verify the reports with his own eyes, under the guidance of thorkill, from whom he has received them. the land of geruth is far to the northeast, beyond the sun and stars, and within the realm of chaos and old night. it is, in fact, a very dismal and terrific sort of hades. the way to it lies through the dominion of guthmund, geruth's brother, which is described as a paradise, but a paradise of the same dubious attractions as that in thomas of erceldoune. guthmund, himself a giant, receives the travellers, a band of about three hundred, very graciously, and conducts them to his palace. thorkill takes his comrades apart, and puts them on their guard: they must eat and drink nothing that is offered them, but live on the provisions which they have brought, must keep off from the people of the place and not touch them; if they partake of any of the food, they will forget everything, and have to pass their lives in this foul society. guthmund complains that they slight his hospitality, but thorkill, now and always, has an excuse ready. the genial monarch offers gormo one of his twelve beautiful daughters in marriage, and their choice of wives to all the rest of the train. most of the danes like the proposition, but thorkill renews his warnings. four take the bait, and lose all recollection of the past. guthmund now commends the delicious fruits of his garden, and tries every art to make the king taste them. but he is again foiled by thorkill, and clearly perceiving that he has met his match, transports the travellers over the river which separates him and his brother, and allows them to continue their journey.* c is translated by talvj, versuch, etc., p. ; by doenniges, p. ; by arndt, bliiten- lese, p. ; by rosa warrens, schottische volkslieder, p. ; by knortz, lieder u. ro- manzen, p. ; by edward barry, cycle popu- laire de robin hood, p. ; and by f. h. bothe, janus, p. , after barry. a alexander fraser tytler's brown ms., no : jamieson's popular ballads, ii, . true thomas lay oer yond grassy bank, and he beheld a ladie gay, a ladie that was brisk and bold, come riding oer the fernie brae. her skirt was of the grass-green silk, her mantel of the velvet fine, at ilka tett of her horse's mane hung fifty silver bells and nine. true thomas he took off his hat, and bowed him low down till his knee: perform a certain service for the family not to eat or drink in the house, or to take any present of her husband, exactly re- peating the precautions observed in grimm, deutsche sagen, nos , : tendlau, das buch der sagen und legenden jiidischer vorzeit, p. . the children of shem may prob- ably have derived this trait in the story from the children 'all hail, thou mighty queen of heaven! for your peer on earth i never did see.' 'o no, o no, true thomas,' she says, 'that name does not belong to me; i am but the queen of fair elfland, and i'm come here for to visit thee. * * * * * 'but ye maun go wi me now, thomas, true thomas, ye maun go wi me, for ye maun serve me seven years, thro weel or wae as may chance to be.' she turned about her milk-white steed, and took true thomas up behind, of japhet. aladdin, in the arabian nights, in to have a care, above all things, that he does not touch the walls of the subterranean chamber so much as with his clothes, or he will die instantly. this again, by itself, is not very con- clusive. • historia danica, l. viii: miiller et velschow, i, - . . thomas rymer and aye wheneer her bridle rang, the steed flew swifter than the wind. for forty days and forty nights he wade thro red blude to the knee, and he saw neither sun nor moon, but heard the roaring of the sea. o they rade on, and further on, until they came to a garden green: 'light down, light down, ye ladie free, some of that fruit let me pull to thee.' 'o no, o no, true thomas,' she says, 'that fruit maun not be touched by thee, for a' the plagues that are in hell light on the fruit of this countrie. 'but i have a loaf here in my lap, likewise a bottle of claret wine, and now ere we go farther on, we 'll rest a while, and ye may dine.' when he had eaten and drunk his fill, 'lay down your head upon my knee,' the lady sayd, ' ere we climb yon hill, and i will show you fairlies three. 'o see not ye yon narrow road, so thick beset wi thorns and briers? that is the path of righteousness, tho after it but few enquires. 'and see not ye that braid braid road, that lies across yon lillie leven? that is the path of wickedness, tho some call it the road to heaven. 'and see not ye that bonny road, which winds about the fernie brae? that is the road to fair elfland, whe[re] you and i this night maun gae. 'but thomas, ye maun hold your tongue, whatever you may hear or see, for gin ae word you should chance to speak. you will neer get back to your ain coun- trie.' he has gotten a coat of the even cloth, and a pair of shoes of velvet green, and till seven years were past and gone true thomas on earth was never seen. b campbell mss, ii, . as thomas lay on huntlie banks — a wat a weel bred man was he — and there he spied a lady fair, coming riding down by the eildon tree. the horse she rode on was dapple gray, and in her hand she held bells nine; i thought i heard this fair lady say these fair siller bells they should a' be mine. it's thomas even forward went, and lootit low down on his knee: 'weel met thee save, my lady fair. for thou 'rt the flower o this countrie.' 'o no, o no, thomas,' she says, 'o no, o no, that can never be, for i'm but a lady of an unco land, comd out a hunting, as ye may see. 'o harp and carp, thomas,' she says, 'o harp and carp, and go wi me; it's be seven years, thomas, and a day, or you see man or woman in your ain coun- trie.' it's she has rode, and thomas ran, until they cam to yon water clear; he's coosten off his hose and shon, and he's wooden the water up to the knee. it's she has rode, and thomas ran, until they cam to yon garden green; he's put up his hand for to pull down ane, for the lack o food he was like to tyne. 'hold your hand, thomas,' she says, 'hold your hand, that must not be; it was a' that cursed fruit o thine beggared man and woman in your countrie. 'but i have a loaf and a soup o wine, and ye shall go and dine wi me; . thomas rymer and lay yer head down in my lap, and i will tell ye farlies three. 'it's dont ye see yon hroad broad way. that leadeth down by yon skerry fell? it's ill's the man that dothe thereon gang, for it leadeth him straight to the gates o hell. 'it's dont ye see yon narrow way, that leadeth down by yon lillie lea? it's weel's the man that doth therein gang, for it leads him straight to the heaven hie.' minstrelsy of the scottish border, ii, , ed. . true thomas lay on huntlie bank, a ferlie he spied wi' his ee, and there be saw a lady bright, come riding down by the eildon tree. her shirt was o the grass-green silk, her mantle o the velvet fyne, at ilka tett of her horse's mane hang fifty siller bells and nine. true thomas, he pulld aff his cap, and louted low down to his knee: 'all hail, thou mighty queen of heaven! for thy peer on earth i never did see.' 'o no, o no, thomas,' she said, 'that name does not belang to me; i am but the queen of fair ellland, that am hither come to visit thee. 'harp and carp, thomas,' she said, 'harp and carp along wi me, and if ye dare to kiss my lips, sure of your bodie i will be.' 'betide me weal, betide me woe, that weird shall never daunton me ;' syne he has kissed her rosy lips, all underneath the eildon tree. 'now, ye maun go wi me,' she said, 'true thomas, ye maun go wi me, and ye maun serve me seven years, thro weal or woe, as may chance to be.' ***** it's when she cam into the hall — i wat a weel bred man was he — they 've asked him question[s], one and all, but he answered none but that fair ladie. o they speerd at her where she did him get, and she told them at the eildon tree; she mounted on her milk-white steed, she's taen true thomas up behind, and aye wheneer her bridle rung, the steed flew swifter than the wind. they rade on, and farther on — the steed gaed swifter than the wind — untill they reached a desart wide, and living land was left behind. 'light down, light down, now, true thomas, and lean your head upon my knee; abide and rest a little space, and i will shew you ferlies three. 'o see ye not yon narrow road, so thick beset with thorns and briers? that is the path of righteousness, tho after it but few enquires. 'and see not ye that braid braid road, that lies across that lily leven? that is the path of wickedness, tho some call it the road to heaven. 'and see not ye that bonny road, that winds about the fernie brae v that is the road to fair elfland, where thou and i this night maun gae. 'but, thomas, ye maun hold your tongue, whatever ye may hear or see, for, if you speak word in elflyn land, ye 'll neer get back to your ain countrie.' o they rade on, and farther on, and they waded thro rivers aboon the knee, . thomas rymer and they saw neither sun nor moon, but they heard the roaring of the sea. it was mirk mirk night, and there was nae stern light, and they waded thro red blude to the knee; for a' the blude that's shed on earth rins thro the springs o that countrie. syne they came on to a garden green, and she pu'd an apple f rae a tree: 'take this for thy wages, true thomas, it will give the tongue that can never lie.' a. stands in the ms. . golden green, if my copy is right. ii , * are ll , in the ms.: the order of words is still not simple enough for a ballad. *. goe. jamieson has a few variations, which i suppose to be his own. i . oer yonder bank. . your like. . and i am come here to. . her steed. . thornton ms., leaf , back, as printed by dr. j. a. h. murray. [a prologue of six stanzas, found only in the thornton ms., is omitted, as being, even if genuine, not to the present purpose.] al i me wente pis endres daye, ffull faste in mynd makand my mone, 'my tongue is mine ain,' true thomas said; 'a gudely gift ye wad gie to me! i neither dought to buy nor sell, at fair or tryst where i may be. 'i dought neither speak to prince or peer, nor ask of grace from fair ladye :' 'now hold thy peace,' the lady said, 'for as i say, so must it be.' he has gotten a coat of the even cloth, and a pair of shoes of velvet green, and till seven years were gane and past true thomas on earth was never seen. garden, rightly. . clarry. ii . lay your head. . see you not , *. there's few. . see ye not yon. . see ye not. . which winds. b. . her knee. *. thou save. ms. perhaps unto. , follow st. without separation. c. . a cloth. if i solde sytt to domesdaye, with my tonge to wrobbe and wrye, certanely pat lady gaye neuer bese scho askryede for mee. hir palfraye was a dappill graye, swylke one ne saghe i neuer none; als dose pe sonne on someres daye, pat faire lady hir selfe scho schone. hir selle it was of roelle bone, ffull semely was pat syghte to see; stefly sett wt'ta precyous stones, and compaste all with crapotee; stones of oryente, grete plente. hir hare abowte hir hede it hange; scho rade ouer pat lange lee; a whylle scho blewe, a-noper scho sange. hir garthes of nobyll sylke pay were, the bukylls were of berelle stone, hir steraps were of crystalle clere, and all with perelle ouer-by-gone. hir payetrelle was of irale fyne, hir cropoure was of orphare, in a mery mornynge of maye, by huntle bankkes my selfe allone, i herde pe jaye and pe throstelle, the mawys menyde of hir songe, pe wodewale beryde als a belle, that alle pe wodc a-bowte me ronge. allonne in longynge thus als i lave, vndyre-nethe a semely tre, [saw] i whare a lady gaye [came ridand] ouer a longe lee. appendix. thomas off ersseldoune. . thomas rymer and als clere golde hir brydill it scheme; one aythir syde hange bellys three. [scho led three grehoundis in a leesshe,] and seuene raches by hir fay rone; scho bare an home abowte hir haise, and vndir hir belte full many a flone. thomas laye and sawe fat syghte, vndir-nethe ane semly tree; he sayd, $one es marye, moste of myghte, fiat bare pat childe fat dyede for mee. bot if i speke with jone lady bryghte, i hope myne herte will bryste in three; now sail i go with all my myghte, hir for to mete at eldoune tree. thomas rathely vpe he rase, and he rane ouer fat mountayne hye; gyff it be als the storye sayes, he hir mette at eldone tree. and, als the storye tellis full ryghte, seuene sythis by hir he laye. scho sayd, mane, the lykes thy playe: whate byrde in boure maye delle with the? thou merrys me all fis longe daye; i pray the, thomas, late me bee. thomas stode vpe in fat stede, and he by-helde fat lady gave; hir hare it hange all ouer hir hede, hir eghne semede owte, fat are were graye. and alle fe riche clothynge was a-waye, pat be by-fore sawe in fat stede; hir a schanke blake, hir of er graye, and all hir body lyke the lede. thomas laye, and sawe fat syghte, vndir-nethe fat grenewod tree. he knelyde downe appone his knee, vndir-nethe fat grenwode spraye, and sayd, lufly ladye, rewe one mee, qwene of heuene, als fou wele maye then spake fat lady milde of thoghte: thomas, late swylke wordes bee; qwene of heuene ne am i noghte, ffor i tuke neuer so heghe degre. bote i ame of ane of er countree, if i be payrelde moste of pryse; i ryde aftyre this wylde fee; my raches rynnys at my devyse.' 'if fou be parelde moste of pryse, and here rydis thus in thy folye, of lufe, lady, als fou erte wyse, fou gyffe me leue to lye the bye.' scho sayde, )>ou mane, fat ware folye; i praye fe, thomas, fou late me bee; ffor i saye fe full sekirlye, j)at synne will for-doo all my beaute. 'now, lufly ladye, rewe one mee, and i will euer more wtta the duelle; here my trouthe i will the plyghte, whethir fou will in heuene or helle.' 'mane of molde, fou will me marre, but jitt fou sall hafe all thy will; and trowe it wele, fou chewys fe werre, ffor alle my beaute will fou spylle.' jjan said thomas, alias! alias! in fay the fis es a dullfull syghte; how arte fou fadyde fus in fe face, j>at schane by-fore als f e sonne so bryght[e]! scho sayd, thomas, take leue at sone and mon[e], and als at lefe fat grewes on tree; this twelmoneth sail fou wita me gone, and medill-erthe sall fou none see.' he knelyd downe appone his knee, vndir-nethe pat grenewod spraye, and sayd, lufly lady, rewe on mee, mylde qwene of heuene, als fou beste maye 'alias ' he sayd, 'and wa es mee i trowe my dedis wyll wirke me care; my saulle, jhesu, by-teche i the, whedir-some fat euer my banes sall fare.' scho ledde hym in at eldone hill, vndir-nethe a derne lee, whare it was dirke as mydnyght myrke, and euer fe water till his knee. the montenans of dayes three, he herd bot swoghynge of fe flode; at fe laste he sayde, full wa es mee! almaste i dye, for fawte of f[ode.] scho lede hym in-till a faire herbere, whare frwte was g[ro]wan[d gret plentee]; pere and appill, bothe ryppe fay were, the date, and als the damasee. downe fane lyghte fat lady bryghte, vndir-nethe fat grenewode spraye; j>e fygge, and alsso fe wyneberye, the nyghtgales byggande on fair neste; . the wee wee man and pou arte mekill mane and hende; i trowe full wele he wolde chese the. 'ffor alle pe gold fat euer may bee, ffro hethyne vn-to fe worldis ende, bou bese neuer be-trayede for mee; )>erefore with me i rede thou wende.' scho broghte hym agayne to eldone tree, vndir-nethe pat grenewode spraye; in huntlee bannkes es mery to bee, whare fowles synges bothe nyght and daye. 'fferre owtt in jone mountane graye, thomas, my fawkone bygges a neste; a fawconne es an erlis praye; ffor-thi in na place may he reste. 'ffare well, thomas, i wend my waye, ffor me by-houys ouer thir benttis browne:' loo here a fytt: more es to saye, all of thomas of erselldowne. fytt ii. 'fare wele, thomas, i wend my waye, i may no lengare stande wita the:' 'gyff me a tokynynge, lady gaye, that i may saye i spake with the.' 'to harpe or carpe, whare-so fou gose, thomas, )>ou sail hafe )>e chose sothely :' and he saide, harpynge kepe i none, ffor tonge es chefe of mynstralsye. 'if pou will spelle, or tales telle, thomas, )>ou sail neuer lesynge lye; whare euer pou fare, by frythe or felle, i praye the speke none euyll of me. 'ffare wele, thomas, wita-owttyne gyle, i may no lengare duelle with the:' 'lufly lady, habyde a while, and telle pou me of some ferly.' 'thomas, herkyne what i the saye :' etc. here begin the prophecies. & and j are replaced by and and i. . throstyll cokke: throstell, cambridge ms. s. menyde hir. . wanting. she led, etc., cambridge. , *. lansdowne, elden; cambridge, eldryn, el- dryne. . prysse. . prysee. *. wysse. . me by. cambridge, be me. . also. fytt . . pou gose. cambridge, je gon. the wee wee man a. a. 'the wee wee man,' herd's mss, i, ; herd's scottish songs, , i, . b. caw's poetical museum, p. . c. 'the wee wee man,' scott's minstrelsy, ii, , ed. . d. 'the wee wee man,' kinloch mss, vii, . e. a. 'the wee wee man,' motherwell's note-book, fol. ; motherwell's ms., p. . b. motherwell's minstrelsy, p. . f. 'the wee wee man,' motherwell's ms., p. . g. 'the little man,' buchan's ballads of the north of scotland, i, . this extremely airy and sparkling little scotish songs, ii, , are reprinted from ballad varies but slightly in the half dozen herd. known copies. the one in the musical mu- singularly enough, there is a poem in eight- seum, no , p. , and that in ritson's line stanzas, in a fourteenth-century manu- . the wee wee man script, which stands in somewhat the same relation to this ballad as the poem of thomas of erceldoune does to the ballad of thomas rymer, but with the important difference that there is no reason for deriving the ballad from the poem in this instance. there seems to have been an intention to make it, like thomas of erceldoune, an introduction to a a herd's mss, , , herd's ancient and modern scottish songs, , i, . as i was wa'king all alone, between a water and a wa, and there i spy'd a wee wee man, and he was the least that ere i saw. his legs were scarce a shathmont's length, and thick and thimher was his thigh; between his brows there was a span, and between his shoulders there was three. he took up a meikle stane, and he flang't as far as i could see; though i had been a wallace wight, i couldna liften't to my knee. 'o wee wee man, but thou be strang! o tell me where thy dwelling be?' b caw's poetical museum, p. . as i was walking by my lane, atween a water and a wa, there sune i spied a wee wee man, he was the least that eir i saw. his legs were scant a shathmont's length, and sma and limber was his thie; atween his shoulders was ae span, about his middle war but three. he has tane up a meikle stane, and flang't as far as i cold see; ein thouch i had been wallace wicht, i dought na lift it to my knie. string of prophecies which follows, but no junction has been effected. this poem is given in an appendix. a is translated by arndt, bliitenlese, p. ; b, with a few improvements from e b, by rosa warrens, schottische volkslieder, p. . 'my dwelling's down at yon bonny bower; o will you go with me and see?' on we lap, and awa we rade, till we came to yon bonny green; • we lighted down for to bait our horse, and out there came a lady fine. four and twenty at her back, and they were a' clad out in green; though the king of scotland had been there, the warst o them might hae been bis queen. on we lap, and awa we rade, till we came to yon bonny ha, whare the roof was o the beaten gould, and the floor was o the crista! a'. when we came to the stair-foot, ladies were dancing, jimp and sma, but in the twinkling of an eye, my wee wee man was clean awa. 'o wee wee man, but ye be strang! tell me whar may thy dwelling be? 'i dwell beneth that bonnie bouir; o will ye gae wi me and see?' on we lap, and awa we rade, till we cam to a bonny green; we lichted fyne to bait our steid, and out there cam a lady sheen. wi four and twentie at her back, a' comely cled in glistering green; thouch there the king of scots had stude, the warst micht weil hae been his queen. on syne we past wi wondering cheir, till we cam to a bonny ha; . the wee wee man the roof was o the beaten gowd, the flure was o the crystal a'. when we cam there, wi wee wee knichts war ladies dancing, jimp and sma, but in the twinkling of an eie, fiaith green and ha war clein awa. c scott's minstrelsy, ii, , ed. , incorporated wi! 'the young tamlane.' from recitation. 't was down by carterhaugh, father, i walked beside the wa, and there i saw a wee wee man, the least that eer i saw. his legs were skant a shathmont lang, yet umber was his thie; between his brows there was ae span, and between his shoulders three. he's taen and flung a meikle stane, as far as i could see; i could na, had i been wallace wight, hae lifted it to my knee. 'o wee wee man, but ye be strang! where may thy dwelling be?' 'it's down beside yon bonny bower; fair lady, come and see.' on we lap, and away we rade, down to a bonny green; we lighted down to bait our steed, and we saw the fairy queen. with four and twenty at her back, of ladies clad in green; tho the king of scotland had been there, the worst might hae been his queen. on we lap, and away we rade, down to a bonny ha; the roof was o the beaten goud, the floor was of chrystal a'. and there were dancing on the floor, fair ladies jimp and sma; but in the twinkling o an eye, they sainted clean awa. d kinloch mss, vii, . from mrs elder. as i gaed out to tak a walk, atween the water and the wa, there i met wi a wee wee man, the weest man that ere i saw. thick and short was his legs, and sma and thin was his thie, and atween his een a flee might gae, and atween his shouthers were inches three. and he has tunc up a muckle stane, and thrown it farther than i cowd see; if i had been as strong as ere wallace was, i cozfd na lift it to my knie. 'o,' quo i, 'but ye be strong! and o where may your dwelling be?' 'it's down in to yon bonnie glen; gin ye dinna believe, ye can come and see.' and we rade on, and we sped on, till we cam to yon bonny glen, and there we lichted and louted in, and there we saw a dainty dame. there was four and twenty wating on her, and ilka ane was clad in green, and he had been the king of fair scotland, the warst o them micht hae been his queen. there war pipers playing on ilka stair, and ladies dancing in ilka ha, but before ye cowd hae sadd what was that, the house and wee manie was awa. . the wee wee man e a. motherwell's note-book, fol. , " from agnes lyle ;" motherwell's ms., p. , "from the recitation of agnes laird, kilbarchan." b. motherwell's minstrelsy, p. . as i was walking mine alone, betwext the water and the wa, there i spied a wee wee man, he was the least ane that eer i saw. his leg was scarse a shaftmont lang, both thick and nimble was his knee; between his eyes there was a span, betwixt his shoulders were ells three. this wee wee man pulled up a stone, he flang't as far as i could see; tho i had been like wallace strong, i wadna gotn't up to my knee. f motherwell's ms., p. , "from the recitation of mrs wil- son, of the renfrewshire tontine; now of the caledonian hotel, inverness." as i was walking mine alane, between the water and the wa, and oh there i spy'd a wee wee mannie, the weeest mannie that ere i saw. his legs they were na a gude inch lang, and thick and nimble was his thie; between his een there was a span, and between his shouthers there were ells three. i asked at this wee wee mannie whare his dwelling place might be; the answer that he gied to me was, cum alang, and ye shall see. g buchan's ballads of the north of scotland, i, . as i gaed out to tak the air, between midmar and bonny craigha, there i met a little wee man, the less o him i never saw. i said, wee man, oh, but you 're strong! where is your dwelling, or where may't be? 'my dwelling's at yon bonnie green; fair lady, will ye go and see?' on we lap, and awa we rade, until we came to yonder green; we lichtit down to rest our steed, and there cam out a lady soon. four and twenty at her back, and every one of them was clad in green; altho he had been the king of scotland, the warst o them a' micht hae been his queen. there were pipers playing in every neuk, and ladies dancing, jimp and sma, and aye the owre-turn o their tune was 'our wee wee man has been lang awa.' so we 'll awa, and on we rade, till we cam to yon bonnie green; we lichted down to bait our horse, and up and started a lady syne. wi four and twenty at her back, and they were a' weell clad in green; tho i had been a crowned king, the warst o them might ha been my queen. so we 'll awa, and on we rade, till we cam to yon bonnie hall; the rafters were o the beaten gold, and silver wire were the kebars all. and there was mirth in every end, and ladies dancing, ane and a, and aye the owre-turn o their sang was 'the wee wee mannie's been lang awa.' his legs were but a finger lang, and thick and nimle was his knee; between his brows there was a span, between his shoulders ells three. he lifted a stane sax feet in hight, he lifted it up till his right knee, and fifty yards and mair, i'm sure, i wyte he made the stane to flee. . the wee wee man 'o little wee man, but ye be wight! tell me whar your dwelling be ;' 'i hae a bower, compactly built, madam, gin ye 'll cum and see.' sae on we lap, and awa we rade, till we come to yon little ha; the kipples ware o the gude red gowd, the reef was o the proseyla. pipers were playing, ladies dancing, the ladies dancing, jimp and sma; at ilka turning o the spring, the little man was wearin's wa. out gat the lights, on cam the mist, ladies nor mannie mair coud see i turnd about, and gae a look, just at the foot o' benachie. a. s. the printed copy has thighs. !. dwelling down. there is a copy of this ballad in cunning- ham's songs of scotland, , . though no confidence can be felt in the genuine- ness of the "several variations from re- citation and singing," with which cun- ningham says he sought to improve herd's version, the more considerable ones are here noted. *. o there i met. . a shathmont lang. s. been a giant born. . ye 're wonder strong. . o ladie, gang wi me. . away we flew. s. to a valley green. s. down and he stamped his foot. *. and up there rose. . wi four. . the glossy green. v. stately ha. . and there were harpings loud and sweet, and ladies dancing, jimp and sma; he clapped his hands, and ere i wist, he sank and saunted clean awa. e. a. . your. motherwell has made one or two slight changes in copying from his note-book into his ms. b. besides some alterations of his own, moth- erwell has introduced readings from f. *. there were. s. as wallace. *. lady sheen. l. wi four. . and they were a' weel clad. after is inserted f , with the first line changed to so on we lap, and awa we rade. appendix. this piece is found in cotton ms., julius, a, v, the ninth article in the manuscript, fol. , r°, (otherwise , r°). it is here given nearly as printed by mr thomas wright in his edition of the chronicle of pierre de langtoft, h, . it had been previously printed in ritson's ancient songs, ed. , l ; finlay's scottish ballads, ii, ; the retrospective review, second series, ii, . the prophecies, omitted here, are given by all the above. als y yod on ay mounday bytwene wyltinden and walle, me ane aftere brade waye, ay litel man y mette withalle; the leste that ever i sathe, [sothe] to say, oithere in boure, oithere in halle; his robe was noithere grene na gray, bot alle yt was of riche palle. on me he cald, and bad me bide; well stille y stode ay litel space; fra lanchestre the parke syde yeen he come, wel fair his pase. he hailsed me with mikel pride; ic haved wel mykel ferly wat he was; i saide, wel mote the bityde! that litel man with large face. i biheld that litel man bi the stretes als we gon gae; his berd was eyde ay large span, and glided als the fethere of pae; his heved was wyte als any swan, his hegehen ware gret and grai alsso; . the wee wee man brues lange, wel i the can merke it to five inches and mae. armes scort, for sothe i saye, ay span seemed thaem to bee; handes brade, vytouten nay, and fingeres lange, he scheued me. ay stan he toke op thare it lay, and castid forth that i mothe see; ay merke-soote of large way bifor me strides he castid three. wel stille i stod als did the stane, to loke him on thouth me nouthe lange; his robe was alle golde bigane, wel craftlike maked, i underestande; botones asurd, everlke ane, fra his elbouthe on til his hande; eldelike man was he nane, that in myn herte icke onderestande. til him i sayde ful sone on ane, for forthirmare i wald him fraine, glalli wild wit thi name, and i wist wat me mouthe gaine; thou ert so litel of flesse and bane, and so mikel of mithe and mayne; ware vones thou, litel man, at hame? wit of the i walde ful faine. 'thoth i be litel and lith, am y nothe wytouten wane; fferli trained thou wat i hith, yat thou salt noth with my name. my wonige stede ful wel es dyth, nou sone thou salt se at hame.' til him i sayde, for godes mith, lat me forth myn erand gane. 'the thar noth of thin errand lette, thouth thou come ay stonde wit me; forthere salt thou noth bisette bi miles twa noythere bi three.' na linger durste i for him lette, but forth ij fundid wyt that free; stintid vs broke no becke; ferlicke me thouth hu so mouth bee. he vent forth, als ij you say, in at ay yate, ij underestande; intil ay yate, wundouten nay; it to se thouth me nouth lange. the bankers on the binkes lay, and fair lordes sette ij fonde; in ilka ay him ij herd ay lay, and levedys south meloude sange. the meeting with the little man was on monday. we are now invited to listen to a tale told on wednesday by "a moody barn," who is presently addressed, in language which, to be sure, fits the elf well enough, as "merry man, that is so wight:" but things do not fay at all here. lithe, bothe yonge and aide: of ay worde ij will you saye, a litel tale that me was tald erli on ay wedenesdaye. a mody barn, that was ful bald, my frend that ij trained aye, al my yerning he me tald, and yatid me als we went bi waye. 'miri man, that es so wythe, of ay thinge gif me answere: for him that mensked man wyt mith, wat sal worth of this were?' &c. the orthography of this piece, if rightly rendered, is peculiar, and it is certainly not consistent. *. saith for saw occurs in s. wright, y cen: retrosp. rev., yeen. w., merkes: r. r., merke. fize. w., everlkes: r. r., euerelke. w., of their: r. r., of ye ()>e). i. wald. w., that thou: r.r., yat. dygh. . south me. me loude. w., thering: r. r., yering. w., y atid: r. r., yatid. «. s. ». >. < ». *. t. s. . tam lin a copy printed in aberdeen, , and said to have been edited by the rev. john bur- nett pratt, of cruden, aberdeenshire, is made up from aytoun and scott, with a number of slight changes.* 'the tayl of the jong tamlene' is spoken of as told among a company of shepherds, in vedderburn's complaint of scotland, , p. of dr james a. h. murray's edition for the early english text society. 'thorn of lyn' is mentioned as a dance of the same party, a little further on, murray, p. , and 'young thomlin' is the name of an air in a medley in " wood's ms.," inserted, as david laing thought, between and , and printed in forbes's cantus, : stenhouse's ed. of the scots musical museum, , iv, . "a ballett of thomalyn" is licensed to master john wallye and mistress toye in : arber, transcript of the registers of the company of stationers, i, ; cited by furnivall, captain cox, &c, ballad society, p. clxiv. sir walter scott relates a tradition of an attempt to rescue a woman from fairydom which recalls the ill success of many of the ef- forts to disenchant white ladies in germany: "the wife of a farmer in lothian had been carried off by the fairies, and, during the year of probation, repeatedly appeared on sunday, in the midst of her children, combing their hair. on one of these occasions she was ac- costed by her husband; when she related to him the unfortunate event which had sepa- rated them, instructed him by what means he might win her, and exhorted him to exert all his courage, since her temporal and eternal happiness depended on the success of his at- tempt. the farmer, who ardently loved his wife, set out at halloween, and, in the midst of a plot of furze, waited impatiently for the four an twenty gentlemen cam by on steeds o brown; in his hand ilk bore a siller wand, on his head a siller crown. four an twenty beltit knichts on daiplit greys cam by; gowden their wands an crowns, whilk scanct like streamers in the sky. procession of the fairies. at the ringing of the fairy bridles, and the wild, unearthly sound which accompanied the cavalcade, his heart failed him, and he suffered the ghostly train to pass by without interruption. when the last had rode past, the whole troop van- ished, with loud shouts of laughter and exul- tation, among which he plainly discovered the voice of his wife, lamenting that he had lost her forever." the same author proceeds to recount a real incident, which took place at the town of north berwick, within memory, of a man who was prevented from undertaking, or at least meditating, a similar rescue only by shrewd and prompt practical measures on the part of his minister.f this fine ballad stands by itself, and is not, as might have been expected, found in posses- sion of any people but the scottish. yet it has connections, through the principal feature in the story, the retransformation of tam lin, with greek popular tradition older than homer. something of the successive changes of shape is met with in a scandinavian ballad: 'nat- tergalen,' grundtvig, ii, , no ; 'den fortrollade prinsessan,' afzelius, ii, , no , atterbom, poetisk kalender, , p. ; dy- beck, runa, , p. , no ; axelson, van- dring i w ermlands elfdal, p. , no ; linde- man, norske fjeldmelodier, tekstbilag til lste bind, p. , no . though many copies of this ballad have been obtained from the mouth of the people, all that are known are derived from flying sheets, of which there is a danish one dated and a swedish of the year . what is of more account, the style of the piece, as we have it, is not quite popular. nevertheless, the story is entirely of the popular stamp, and so is the feature in it, which alone concerns us materially. a nightingale relates to a knigbt four an twenty noble kings cam by on steeds o snaw, but true thomas, the gude rhymer, was king outower them a'. * "tamlane: an old scottish border ballad. aberdeen, lewis and james smith, ." i am indebted for a sight of this copy, and for the information as to the editor, to mr macmath. t minstrelsy of the scottish border, ii, - , ed. . . tam lin how she had once had a lover, but a step- mother soon upset all that, and turned her into a bird and her brother into a wolf. the curse was not to be taken off the brother till he drank of his step-dame's blood, and after seven years he caught her, when she was tak- ing a walk in a wood, tore out her heart, and regained his human shape. the knight pro- poses to the bird that she shall come and pass the winter in his bower, and go back to the wood in the summer: this, the nightingale says, the step-mother had forbidden, as long as she wore feathers. the knight seizes the bird by the foot, takes her home to his bower, and fastens the windows and doors. she turns to all the marvellous beasts one ever heard of, — to a lion, a bear, a variety of small snakes, and at last to a loathsome lind-worm. the knight makes a sufficient incision for blood to come, and a maid stands on the floor as fair as a flower. he now asks after her origin, and she answers, egypt's king was my fa- ther, and its queen my mother; my brother was doomed to rove the woods as a wolf. "if egypt's king," he rejoins, " was your father, and its queen your mother, then for sure you are my sister's daughter, who was doomed to be a nightingale." * we come much nearer, and indeed sur- prisingly near, to the principal event of the scottish ballad in a cretan fairy-tale, cited from chourmouzis by bernhard schmidt, f a young peasant of the village sgourokephali, who was a good player on the rote, used to be taken by the nereids into their grotto for the sake of his music. he fell in love with one of them, and, not knowing how to help him- self, had recourse to an old woman of his vil- lage. she gave him this advice: that just before cock-crow he should seize his beloved by the hair, and hold on, unterrified, till the cock crew, whatever forms she should assume. the peasant gave good heed, and the next time he was taken into the cave fell to play- ing, as usual, and the nereids to dancing. but * restoration from enchantment is effected by drinking blood, in other ballads, as grundtvig, no , ii, , no , ii, ; in no , ii, , by a maid in falcon shape eating of a bit of flesh which her lover had cm from his breast. as cock-crow drew nigh, he put down his in- strument, sprang upon the object of his pas- sion, and grasped her by her locks. she in- stantly changed shape; became a dog, a snake, a camel, fire. but he kept his courage and held on, and presently the cock crew, and the nereids vanished all but one. his love re- turned to her proper beauty, and went with him to his home. after the lapse of a year she bore a son, but in all this time never ut- tered a word. the young husband was fain to ask counsel of the old woman again, who told him to heat the oven hot, and say to his wife that if she would not speak he would throw the boy into the oven. he acted upon this prescription; the nereid cried out, let go my child, dog! tore the infant from his arms, and vanished. this cretan tale, recovered from tradition even later than our ballad, repeats all the im- portant circumstances of the forced marriage of thetis with peleus. chiron, like the old woman, suggested to his protegd that he should lay hands on the nereid, and keep his hold through whatever metamorphosis she might make. he looked out for his oppor- tunity and seized her; she turned to fire, water, and a wild beast, but he did not let go till she resumed her primitive shape. thetis, having borne a son, wished to make him im- mortal ; to which end she buried him in fire by night, to burn out his human elements, and anointed him with ambrosia by day. peleus was not taken into counsel, but watched her, and saw the boy gasping in the fire, which made him call out; and thetis, thus thwarted, abandoned the child and went back to the nereids. apollodorus, bibliotheca, iii, , , . the cretan tale does not differ from the one repeated by apollodorus from earlier writ- ers a couple of thousand years ago more than two versions of a story gathered from oral tradition in these days are apt to do. whether it has come down to our time from mouth to t volksleben der neugriechen, pp - , "from chour- mouzis, kpirruca, p. f, athens, ." chourmouzis heard this story, about or , from an old cretan peasant, who had heard it from his grandfather. . tam lin mouth through twenty-five centuries or more, or whether, having died out of the popular memory, it was reintroduced through litera- ture, is a question that cannot be decided with certainty; but there will be nothing unlikely in the former supposition to those who bear in mind the tenacity of tradition among peo- ple who have never known books.* b , first dip me in a stand of milk, and then in a stand of water; haud me fast, let me na gae, i 'll be your bairnie's father, has an occult and very important significance which has only very lately been pointed out, and which modern reciters had completely lost knowledge of, as appears by the disorder into which the stanzas have fallen.f immersion in a liquid, generally water, but sometimes milk, is a process requisite for passing from a non-human shape, produced by enchantment, back into the human, and also for returning from the human to a non-human state, whether produced by enchantment or original. we have seen that the serpent which lanzelet kisses, in ulrich's romance, is not by that sim- ple though essential act instantly turned into a woman. it is still necessary that she should bathe in a spring (p. ). in an albanian tale, ' taubenliebe,' hahn, no , ii, , a dove flies into a princess's window, and, re- ceiving her caresses, asks, do you love me? the princess answering yes, the dove says, then have a dish of milk ready to-morrow, and you shall see what a handsome man i am. * the silence of the cretan fairy, as b. schmidt has re- marked, even seems to explain sophocles calling the nuptials of pelens and thetis " speechless," &$ yyovs ydfious- soph- ocles gives the transformations as being lion, snake, fire, water: scholia in pindari nemea, , ; schmidt, as be- fore, p. , note. that a firm grip and a fearless one would make any sea-god do your will would appear from the ad- ditional instances of menelaus and proteus, in odyssey, iv, and of hercules and nereus, apollodorus, ii, , , , scho- lia in apollonii argonaut., iv, . proteus masks as lion, snake, panther, boar, running water, tree; nereus as water, fire, or, as apollodorus says, in all sorts of shapes. bacchus was accustomed to transform himself when violence was done him, but it is not recorded that he was ever brought to terms like the watery divinities. see mannhardt, wald-und feldkulte, ii, - , who also well remarks that the tales a dish of milk is ready the next morning; the dove flies into the window, dips himself in the milk, drops his feathers, and steps out a beau- tiful youth. when it is time to go, the youth dips in the milk, and flies off a dove. this goes on every day for two years. a greek tale, 'goldgerte,' hahn, no , i, , has the same transformation, with water for milk. our b has well-water only.| perhaps the bath of milk occurred in one earlier version of our ballad, the water-bath in another, and the two accounts became blended in time. the end of the mutations, in f , gr , is a naked man, and a mother-naked man iu b , under the presumed right arrangement; meaning by right arrangement, however, not the original arrangement, but the most consis- tent one for the actual form of the tradition. judging by analogy, the naked man should issue from the bath of milk or of water; into which he should have gone in one of his non- human shapes, a dove, swan, or snake (for which, too, a " stand " of milk or of water is a more practicable bath than for a man). the fragment c adds some slight probability to this supposition. the last change there is into " a dove but and a swan;" then tam lin bids the maiden to let go, for he 'll "be a perfect man :" this, nevertheless, he could not well become without some further cere- mony. a is the only version which has pre- served an essentially correct process: tam lin, when a burning gleed, is to be thrown into well-water, from which he will step forth a naked knight.§ at stated periods, which the ballads make of the white ladies, who, to be released from a ban, must be kissed three times in various shapes, as toad, wolf, snake, etc., have relation to these greek traditions. t the significance of the immersion in water is shown by mannhardt, wald- u. feldkulte, ii, ff. the disorder in the stanzas of a at this place has of course been rectified. in scott's version, i, transformations are added at random from c, after the dipping in milk and in water, which seems indeed to have been regarded by the reciters only as a meas- ure for cooling red-hot iron or the burning gleed, and not as the act essential for restoration to the human nature. } possibly the holy water in d , q , is a relic of the water-bath. § in the ms. of b also the transformation into a het gad of iron comes just before the direction to dip the object into a stand of milk; but we have the turning into a mother. . tam lin to be seven years, the fiend of hell is entitled to take his teind, tithe, or kane from the peo- ple of fairy-land : a , b , c , d , g , h . the fiend prefers those that are fair and fu o flesh, according to a, g; ane o flesh and blood, d. h makes the queen fear for herself ; "the koors they hae gane round about, and i fear it will be mysel." h is not discord- ant with popular tradition elsewhere, which attributes to fairies the practice of abstracting young children to serve as substitutes for themselves in this tribute: scott's minstrelsy, ii, , . d says "the last here goes to hell," which would certainly not be equita- ble, and c "we're a' dung down to hell," where "all" must be meant only of the nat- uralized members of the community. poor alison pearson, who lost her life in for believing these things, testified that the tribute was annual. mr william sympson, who had been taken away by the fairies," bidd her sign herself that she be not taken away, for the teind of them are tane to hell everie year:" scott, as above, p. . the kindly queen of the fairies * will not allow thomas of er- celdoune to be exposed to this peril, and hur- ries him back to earth the day before the fiend comes for his due. thomas is in pe- culiar danger, for the reason given in a, g, r. to morne of helle )>e foulle fende amange this folke will feche his fee; and jxra art mekill man and hende; i trowe full wele he wolde chese the. naked man several stanzas earlier. by reading, in , i 'll turn, and putting after , we should have the order of events which we find in a. that tam lin should go into water or milk as a dove or snake, or in some other of his temporary forms, and come out a man, is the only disposition which is consistent with the order of the world to which he belongs. mannhardt gives us a most curious and interesting insight into some of the laws of that world in wald- u. feldkulte, ii, - . the wife of a cashmere king, in a story there cited from benfey's pantschatantra, i, , § , is delivered of a serpent, but is reported to have borne a son. another king offers his daughter in marriage, and the cashmere king, to keep his secret, accepts the proposal. in due time the princess claims her bridegroom, and they give her the snake. though greatly distressed, she accepts her lot, and takes the snake about to the holy places, at the last of which she receives a command to put the snake into the water-tank. as soon as this is done the snake takes the form of a man. a woman's giving birth to a snake was by no means a rare thing in the elf-queen, a , b , would have taken out tam's twa gray een, had she known he was to be borrowed, and have put in twa een of tree, b , d , e , h ; she would have taken out his heart of flesh, and have put in, b, d, e, a heart of stane, h of tree. the taking out of the eyes would probably be to deprive tam of the faculty of recognizing fairy folk thereafter. mortals whose eves have been touched with fairies' salve can see them when they are to others invisible, and such persons, upon distinguishing and saluting fairies, have often had not simply this power but their ordinary eyesight taken away: see cromek's remains of nithsdale and galloway song, p. , thiele, danmarks folkesagn, , ii, , rv, etc. grimm has given in- stances of witches, slavic, german, norse and italian, taking out the heart of man (which they are wont to devour), and replacing it in some instances with straw, wood, or something of the kind ; nor do the roman witches appear to have been behind later ones in this dealing: deutsche mythologie, f, and the note iii, . the fairy in the lai de lauval, v. , rides on a white palfrey, and also two dam- sels, her harbingers, v. ; so the fairy prin- cess in the english launfal, halliwell, fairy mythology, p. . the fairy king and all his knights and ladies ride on white steeds in king orfeo, halliwell, as above, p. . the queen of elfland rides a milk-white steed in thomas karat in the seventeenth centnry, and it was the rule in one noble family that all the offspring should be in serpent form, or at least have a serpent's head; but a bath in water turned them into human shape. for elves and water nymphs who have entered into connections with men in the form of women, bathing in water is equally necessary for resuming their previous shape, as appears from an ancient version of the story of melusina: gervasius, ed. liebrecht, p. f, and vin- centius bellovacensis, speculum naturale, , (from he- linandus), cited by liebrecht, at p. . a lad who had been changed into an ass by a couple of witches recovers his shape merely by jumping into water and rolling about in it: william of malmesbury's kings of england, c. , cited by vincent of beauvais, speculum naturale, iii, ; duntzcr, liebrecht's dunlop, p. . sim- ple illusions of magic, such as clods and wisps made to appear swine to our eyes, are inevitably dissolved when the unrealities touch water. liebrecht's gervasius, p. . • cf. 'allison gross.' . tam lin rymer, a, c; in b, and all copies of thomas of erceldoune, her palfrey is dapple gray. tam lin, a , b , etc., is distinguished from all the rest of his " court" by being thus mounted; all the other horses are black or brown. tam lane was taken by the fairies, accord- ing to g , , while sleeping under an apple- tree. in sir orfeo (ed. zielke, v. ) it was the queen's sleeping under an ympe-tree that led to her being carried off by the fairy king, and the ympe-tree we may suppose to be some kind of fruit tree, if not exclusively the apple. thomas of erceldoune is lying under a semely [derne, cumly] tree, when he sees the fairy queen. the derivation of that poem from ogier le danois shows that this must have been an apple-tree. special trees are consid- ered in greece dangerous to lie under in sum- mer and at noon, as exposing one to be taken by the nereids or fairies, especially plane, poplar, fig, nut, and st john's bread: schmidt, volksleben der neugriechen, p. . the elder and the linden are favorites of the elves in denmark. the rencounter at the beginning between tam lin and janet (in the wood, d, f, g) is repeated between hind etin [young akin] and margaret in 'hind etin,' further on. some slavic ballads open in a similar way, but there is nothing noteworthy in that: see p. . "first they did call me jack," etc., d , is a commonplace of frequent occur- rence: see, e. g.,' the knight and shepherd's daughter.' some humorous verses, excellent in their way, about one tam o lin are very well known: as tam o the linn, chambers, scot- tish songs, p. , popular rhymes of scot- land, p. , ed. ; sharpe's ballads, new ed., p. , p. , no xvi; tommy linn, north country chorister, ed. ritson, p. ; halliwell's popular rhymes and nursery tales, p. , ed. ; thomas o linn, kin- loch mss, iii, , v, ; tam o lin, camp- bell mss., ii, . (miss joanna baillie tried her hand at an imitation, but the jocosity of the real thing is not feminine.) a fool sings this stanza from such a song in wager's com- edy, 'the longer thou livest, the more fool thou art,' put at about ; see furnivall, captain cox, his ballads and books, p. cxxvii: tom a lin and his wife, and his wiues mother, they went ouer a bridge all three together; the bridge was broken, and they fell in: 'the deuil go with all!' quoth tom a lin. mr halliwell-phillips (as above) says that "an immense variety of songs and catches re- lating to tommy linn are known throughout the country." brian o lynn seems to be pop- ular in ireland: lover's legends and stories of ireland, p. f. there is no connection between the song and the ballad beyond the name: the song is no parody, no burlesque, of the ballad, as it has been called. "carterhaugh is a plain at the confluence of the ettrick with the yarrow, scarcely an eng- lish mile above the town of selkirk, and on this plain they show two or three rings on the ground, where, they say, the stands of milk and water stood, and upon which grass never grows." glenriddell ms. translated, after scott, by schubart, p. , and biisching's wochentliche nachrichten, i, ; by arndt, bliitenlese, p. ; after ay- toun, i, , by rosa warrens, schottische volkslieder, no ; by knortz, schottische balladen, no , apparently after aytoun and allingham. the danish 'nattergalen' is translated by prior, iii, , no . johnson's museum, p. , no . communicated by robert burns. forbid you, maidens a', that wear gowd on your hair, to come or gae by carterhaugh, for young tam lin is there. there's nane that gaes by carterhaugh but they leave him a wad, either their rings, or green mantles, or else their maidenhead. . tam lin janet has kilted her green kirtle a little aboon her knee, and she has broded her yellow hair a little aboon her bree, and she's awa to carterhaugh, as fast as she can hie. when she came to carterhaugh tam lin was at the well, and there she fand his steed standing, but away was himsel. she had na pu'd a double rose, a rose but only twa, till up then started young tam lin, says, lady, thou's pu nae mae. why pu's thou the rose, janet, and why breaks thou the wand? or why comes thou to carterhaugh withoutten my command? 'carterhaugh, it is my ain, my daddie gave it me; i 'll come and gang by carterhaugh, and ask nae leave at thee.' ***** janet has kilted her green kirtle a little aboon her knee, and she has snooded her yellow hair a little aboon her bree, and she is to her father's ha, as fast as she can hie. four and twenty ladies fair were playing at the ba, and out then cam the fair janet, ance the flower amang them a'. four and twenty ladies fair were playing at the chess, and out then cam the fair janet, as green as onie glass. out then spak an auld grey knight, lay oer the castle wa, and says, alas, fair janet, for thee but we 'll be blamed a'. 'haud your tongue, ye auld fac'd knight, some ill death may ye die! father my bairn on whom i will, i 'll father nane on thee.' out then spak her father dear, and he spak meek and mild; 'and ever alas, sweet janet,' he says, 'i think thou gaes wi child.' 'if that i gae wi child, father, mysel maun bear the blame; there's neer a laird about your ha shall get the bairn's name. 'if my love were an earthly knight, as he's an elfin grey, i wad na gie my ain true-love for nae lord that ye hae. 'the steed that my true-love rides on is lighter than the wind; wi siller he is shod before, wi burning gowd behind.' janet has kilted her green kirtle a little aboon her knee, and she has snooded her yellow hair a little aboon her bree, and she's awa to carterhaugh, as fast as she can hie. when she cam to carterhaugh, tam lin was at the well, and there she fand his steed standing, but away was himsel. she had na pu'd a double rose, a rose but only twa, till up then started young tam lin, says lady, thou pu's nae mae. why pu's thou the rose, janet, amang the groves sae green, and a' to kill the bonie babe that we gat us between? 'o tell me, tell me, tam lin,' she says, 'for's sake that died on tree, if eer ye was in holy chapel, or christendom did see?' 'roxbrugh he was my grandfather, took me with him to bide, . tam lin and ance it fell upon a day that wae did me betide. 'and ance it fell upon a day, a cauld day and a snell, when we were frae the hunting come, that frae my horse i fell; the queen o fairies she caught me, in yon green hill to dwell. 'and pleasant is the fairy land, but, an eerie tale to tell, ay at the end of seven years we pay a tiend to hell; i am sae fair and fu o flesh, i'm feard it be mysel. 'but the night is halloween, lady, the morn is hallowday; then win me, win me, an ye will, for weel i wat ye may. 'just at the mirk and midnight hour the fairy folk will ride, and they that wad their true-love win, at miles cross they maun bide.' 'but how shall i thee ken, tam lin, or how my true-love know, amang sae mony unco knights the like i never saw?' 'o first let pass the black, lady, and syne let pass the brown, but quickly run to the milk-white steed, pu ye his rider down. 'for i 'll ride on the milk-white steed, and ay nearest the town; because i was an earthly knight they gie me that renown. 'my right hand will be glovd, lady, my left hand will be bare, cockt up shall my bonnet be, and kaimd down shall my hair, and thae's the takens i gie thee, nae doubt i will be there. 'they 'll turn me in your arms, lady, into an esk and adder; but hold me fast, and fear me not, i am your bairn's father. 'they 'll turn me to a bear sae grim, and then a lion bold; but hold me fast, and fear me not, as ye shall love your child. 'again they 'll turn me in your arms to a red het gaud of airn; but hold me fast, and fear me not, i 'll do to you nae harm. 'and last they 'll turn me in your arms into the burning gleed; then throw me into well water, throw me in wi speed. 'and then i 'll be your ain true-love, 'll turn a naked knight; then cover me wi your green mantle, and cover me out o sight.' gloomy, gloomy was the night, and eerie was the way, as fair jenny in her green mantle to miles cross she did gae. about the middle o the night she heard the bridles ring; this lady was as glad at that as any earthly thing. first she let the black pass by, and syne she let the brown; but quickly she ran to the milk-white steed, and pu'd the rider down. sae weel she minded whae he did say, and young tam lin did win; syne coverd him wi her green mantle, as blythe's a bird in spring. out then spak the queen o fairies, out of a bush o broom: 'them that has gotten young tam lin has gotten a stately groom.' out then spak the queen o fairies, and an angry woman was she: 'shame betide her ill-far'd face, and an ill death may she die, for she's taen awa the boniest knight in a' my companie. tam lin 'but had i kend, tam lin,' she says, 'what now this night i see, b glenriddell's mss, vol. xi, no . i forbid ye, maidens a', that wear goud on your gear, to come and gae by carterhaugh, for young tom line is there. there's nane that gaes by carterhaugh but they leave him a wad. either their things or green mantles, or else their maidenhead. but janet has kilted her green kirtle a little above her knee, and she has broded her yellow hair a little above her bree, and she has gaen for carterhaugh, as fast as she can hie. when she came to carterhaugh tom line was at the well, and there she fand his steed standing, but away was himsell. she hadna pu'd a double rose, a rose but only twae, till up then started young tom line, says, lady, thou's pu nae mae. why pu's thou the rose, janet? why breaks thou the wand? why comest thou to carterhaugh withouthen my command? 'fair carterhaugh it is my ain, my daddy gave it me; i 'll come and gae by carterhaugh, and ask nae leave at thee.' ***** janet has kilted her green kirtle a little aboon her knee, and she has snooded her yellow hair a little aboon her bree, and she is on to her father's ha, as fast as she can hie. i wad hae taen out thy twa grey een, and put in twa een o tree.' four and twenty ladies fair were playing at the ba, and out then came fair janet, the flowr amang them a'. four and twenty ladies fair were playing at the chess, out then came fair janet, as green as ony glass. out spak an auld grey-headed knight, lay owre the castle wa, and says, alas, fair janet, for thee we 'll be blam'd a'. 'had your tongue, you auld grey knight, some ill dead may ye die! father my bairn on whom i will, i 'll father nane on thee.' out then spak her father dear, he spak baith thick and milde; 'and ever alas, sweet janet,' he says, 'i think ye gae wi childe.' 'li that i gae wi child, father, mysell bears a' the blame; there's not a laird about your ha shall get the bairnie's name. 'h my lord were an earthly knight, as he's an elfish grey, i wad na gie my ain true-love for nae lord that ye hae.' janet has kilted her green kirtle a little aboon her knee, and she has snooded her yellow hair a little aboon her bree, and she's away to carterhaugh, as fast as she can hie. when she came to carterhaugh, tom line was at the well, and there she faund his steed standing, but away was himsell. she hadna pu'd a double rose, a rose but only twae, . tam lin then she did all was orderd her, and sae recoverd him. then out then spak the queen o fairies, out o a bush o broom: 'they that hae gotten young tom line hae got a stately groom.' out than spak the queen o fairies, out o a bush of rye: 'them that has gotten young tom line has the best knight in my company. 'had i kend, thomas,' she says, 'a lady wad hae borrowd thee, i wad hae taen out thy twa grey een, put in twa een o tree. 'had i but kend, thomas,' she says, 'before i came frae hame, i had taen out that heart o flesh, put in a heart o stane.' o herd, the ancient and modern scots songs, , p. ***** she's prickt hersell and prind hersell, by the ae light o the moon, and she's awa to kertonha, as fast as she can gang. 'what gars ye pu the rose, jennet? what gars ye break the tree? what gars you gang to kertonha without the leave of me?' 'yes, i will pu the rose, thomas, and i will break the tree; for kertonha shoud be my ain, nor ask i leave of thee.' 'full pleasant is the fairy land, and happy there to dwell; i am a fairy, lyth and limb, fair maiden, view me well. 'o pleasant is the fairy land, how happy there to dwell! but ay at every seven years end we 're a' dung down to hell. 'the morn is good halloween, and our court a' will ride; if ony maiden wins her man, then she may be his bride. 'but first ye 'll let the black gae by, and then ye'll let the brown; then i 'll ride on a milk-white steed, you 'll pu me to the ground. 'and first, i h grow into your arms an esk but and an edder; had me fast, let me not gang, i 'll be your bairn's father. 'next, i 'll grow into your arms a toad but and an eel; had me fast, let me not gang, if you do love me leel. 'last, i 'll grow into your arms a dove but and a swan; then, maiden fair, you 'll let me go, i 'll be a perfect man.' * * * * * a. motherwell's ms., p. , a north country version, b. maidment's new book of old ballads, , p. , from the recitation of an old woman, o. pitcairn's mss, - , iii, p. : "procured by david webster, bookseller, from tradition." o all you ladies young and gay, who are so sweet and fair, do not go into chaster's wood, for tomlin will be there. fair margret sat in her bonny bower, sewing her silken seam, and wished to be in chaster's wood, among the leaves so green. . tam lin she let her seam fall to her foot, the needle to her toe, and she has gone to chaster's wood, as fast as she could go. when she began to pull the flowers, she pulld both red and green; then by did come, and by did go, said, fair maid, let aleene. 'o why pluck you the flowers, lady, or why climb you the tree? or why come ye to chaster's wood without the leave of me?' 'o i will pull the flowers,' she said, 'or i will break the tree, for chaster's wood it is my own, i 'll no ask leave at thee.' he took her by the milk-white hand, and by the grass green sleeve, and laid her low down on the flowers, at her he asked no leave. the lady blushed, and sourly frowned, and she did think great shame; says, ' if you are a gentleman, you will tell me your name.' 'first they did call me jack,' he said, 'and then they called me john, but since i lived in the fairy court tomlin has always been my name. 'so do not pluck that flower, lady, that has these pimples gray; they would destroy the bonny babe that we've got in our play.' 'o tell me, tomlin,' she said, 'and tell it to me soon, was you ever at good church-door, or got you christendoom?' 'o i have been at good church-door, and aff her yetts within; i was the laird of foulis's son, the heir of all this land. 'but it fell once upon a day, as hunting i did ride, as i rode east and west yon hill there woe did me betide. 'o drowsy, drowsy as i was! dead sleep upon me fell; the queen of fairies she was there, and took me to hersell. 'the elfins is a pretty place, in which i love to dwell, but yet at every seven years' end the last here goes to hell; and as i am ane o flesh and blood, i fear the next be mysell. 'the morn at even is halloween; our fairy court will ride, throw england and scotland both, throw al the world wide; and if ye would me borrow, at rides cross ye may bide. 'you may go into the miles moss, between twelve hours and one; take holy water in your hand, and cast a compass round. 'the first court that comes along, you 'll let them all pass by; the next court that comes along, salute them reverently. 'the next court that comes along is clad in robes of green, and it's the head court of them all, for in it rides the queen. 'and i upon a milk-white steed, with a gold star in my crown; because i am an earthly man i'm next to the queen in renown. 'then seize upon me with a spring, then to the ground i 'll fa, and then you 'll hear a rueful cry that tomlin is awa. 'then i 'll grow in your arms two • like to a savage wild; but hold me fast, let me not go, 'm father of your child. . tam lin 'ih grow into your arms two like an adder or a snake; but hold me fast, let me not go, i 'll be your earthly maick. 'i 'll grow into your arms two like iron in strong fire; but hold me fast, let me not go, then you 'll have your desire.' she rid down to miles cross, between twelve hours and one, took holy water in her hand, and cast a compass round. the first court that came along, she let them all pass by; the next court that came along saluted reverently. the next court that came along were clad in robes of green, when tomlin, on a milk-white steed, she saw ride with the queen. she seized him in her arms two, he to the ground did fa, and then she heard a ruefull cry 'tomlin is now awa.' he grew into her arms two like to a savage wild; she held him fast, let him not go, the father of her child. he grew into her arms two like an adder or a snake; she held him fast, let him not go, he was her earthly maick. he grew into her arms two like iron in hot fire; she held him fast, let him not go, he was her heart's desire. then sounded out throw elphin court, with a loud shout and a cry, that the pretty maid of chaster's wood that day had caught her prey. 'o stay, tomlin,' cried elphin queen, 'till i pay you your fee ;' 'his father has lands and rents enough, he wants no fee from thee.' 'o had i known at early morn tomlin would from me gone, i would have taken out his heart of flesh put in a heart of stone.' e motherwell's note-book, p. . lady margabet is over gravel green, and over gravel grey, and she's awa to charteris ha, lang lang three hour or day. she hadna pu'd a flower, a flower, a flower but only ane, till up and started young tamlin, says, lady, let alane. she hadna pu'd a flower, a flower, a flower but only twa, till up and started young tamlene, atween her and the wa. 'how daur you pu my flower, madam? how daur ye break my tree? how daur ye come to charter's ha, without the leave of me?' 'weel i may pu the rose,' she said, 'but i daurna break the tree; and charter's ha is my father's, and i'm his heir to be.' 'ji charteris ha be thy father's, i was ance as gude mysell; but as i came in by lady kirk, and in by lady well, 'deep and drowsy was the sleep on my poor body fell; by came the queen of faery, made me with her to dwell. 'but the morn at een is halloween, our fairy foks a' do ride; and she that will her true-love win, at blackstock she must bide. 'first let by the black,' he said, 'and syne let by the brown; . tam lin but when you see the milk-white steed, you 'll pull his rider down. 'you h pull him into j,hy arms, let his bricht bridle fa, and he 'll fa low into your arms like stone in castle's wa. 'they 'll first shape him into your arms an adder or a snake; but hold him fast, let him not go, he 'll be your world's make. 'they 'll next shape him into your arms like a wood black dog to bite; hold him fast, let him not go, for he 'll be your heart's delight. 'they 'll next shape [him] into your arms like a red-het gaud o airn; but hold him fast, let him not go, he's the father o your bairn. 'they 'll next shape him into your arms like the laidliest worm of ind; but hold him fast, let him not go, and cry aye "young tamlin."' • • * • • lady margaret first let by the black, and syne let by the brown, but when she saw the milk-white steed she pulled the rider down. she pulled him into her arms, let his bright bridle fa', and he fell low into her arms, like stone in castle's wa, they first shaped him into arms an adder or a snake; but she held him fast, let him not go, for he'd be her warld's make. they next shaped him into her arms like a wood black dog to bite; but she held him fast, let him not go, for he'd be her heart's delight they next shaped him into her arms like a red-het gaud o airn; but she held him fast, let him not go, he'd be father o her bairn. they next shaped him into her arms like the laidliest worm of ind; but she held him fast, let him not go, and cried aye ' young tamlin.' the queen of faery turned her horse about, says, adieu to thee, tamlene! for if i had kent what i ken this night, if i had kent it yestreen, i wad hae taen out thy heart o flesh, and put in a heart o stane. p motherwell's ms., p. , from the recitation of widow mccormick, february, . ***** she's taen her petticoat by the band, her mantle owre her arm, and she's awa to chester wood, as fast as she could run. she's taen her petticoat by the band, her mantle owre her aim, and lady margaret's gane hame agen, as fast as she could run. up starts lady margaret's sister, an angry woman was she: 'if there ever was a woman wi child, margaret, you are wi!' up starts lady margaret's mother, she scarsely pulled a rose, a rose, an angry woman was she: she scarse pulled two or three, 'there grows ane herb in yon kirk-yard till up there starts thomas that will scathe the babe away.' on the lady margaret's knee. . tim lin i she took her petticoats by the band, her mantle owre her arm, and she's gane to yon kirk-yard as fast as she could run. she scarcely pulled an herb, an herb, she scarse pulled two or three, till up starts there thomas upon this lady margret's knee. 'how dare ye pull a rose?' he says, 'how dare ye break the tree? how dare ye pull this herb,' he says, 'to scathe my babe away? 'this night is halloweve,' he said, 'out court is going to waste, and them that loves their true-love best at chester bridge they 'll meet. 'first let pass the black,' he says, 'and then let pass the brown, but when ye meet the milk-white steed, pull ye the rider down. 'they 'll turn me to an eagle,' he says, 'and then into an ass; come, hold me fast, and fear me not, the man that you love best. 'they 'll turn me to a flash of fire, and then to a naked man; come, wrap you your mantle me about, and then you 'll .have me won.' she took her petticoats by the band, her mantle owre her arm, and she's awa to chester bridge, as fast as she could run. and first she did let pass the black, and then let pass the brown, but when she met the milk-white steed, she pulled the rider down. they turned him in her arms an eagle, and then into an ass; but she held him fast, and feared him not, the man that she loved best. they turned him into a flash of fire, and then into a naked man; but she wrapped her mantle him about, and then she had him won. 'o wae be to ye, lady margaret, and an ill death may you die, for you've robbed me of the bravest knight that eer rode in our company.' g bnchan's mss, i, ; motherwell's ms., p. . take warning, a' ye ladies fair, that wear gowd on your hair, come never unto charter's woods, for tam-a-line he's there. even about that knight's middle o' siller bells are nine; nae ane comes to charter wood, and a maid returns again. lady margaret sits in her bower door, sewing at her silken seam; aid she langd to gang to charter woods, to pou the roses green. she hadna poud a rose, a rose, nor broken a branch but ane, till by it came him true tam-a-line, says, ladye, lat alane. o why pou ye the rose, the rose? or why brake ye the tree? or why come ye to charter woods, without leave askd of me? 'i will pou the rose, the rose, and i will brake the tree; charter woods are a' my ain, i 'll ask nae leave o thee.' he's taen her by the milk-white hand, and by the grass-green sleeve, and laid her low on gude green wood, at her he spierd nae leave. when he had got his wills of her, his wills as he had taen, he's taen her by the middle sma, set her to feet again, she turnd her right and round about, to spier her true-love's name, . tam lin but naething heard she, nor naething saw, as a' the woods grew dim. seven days she tarried there, saw neither sun nor meen; at length, hy a sma glimmering light, came thro the wood her lane. when she came to her father's court, as fine as ony queen; but when eight months were past and gane, got on the gown o' green. then out it speaks an eldren knight, as he stood at the yett: 'our king's daughter, she gaes wi bairn, and we 'll get a' the wyte.' 'o had your tongue, ye eldren man, and bring me not to shame; although that i do gang wi bairn, yese naeways get the blame. 'were my love but an earthly man, as he's an elfin knight, i woudna gie my ain true love for a' that's in my sight.' then out it speaks her brither dear, he meant to do her harm: 'there is an herb in charter wood will twine you an the bairn.' she's taen her mantle her about, her coffer by the band, and she is on to charter wood, as fast as she coud gang. she hadna poud a rose, a rose, nor braken a branch but ane, till by it came him tam-a-line, says, ladye, lat alane. o why pou ye the pile, margaret, the pile o the gravil green, for to destroy the bonny bairn that we got us between? o why pou ye the pile, margaret, the pile o the gravil gray, for to destroy the bonny bairn that we got in our play? for if it be a knave-bairn. he's heir o a' my land; but if it be a lass-bairn, in red gowd she shall gang. 'if my luve were an earthly man, as he's an elfin rae, i coud gang bound, love, for your sake, a twalmonth and a day.' 'indeed your love's an earthly man, the same as well as thee, and lang i've haunted charter woods, a' for your fair bodie.' 'o tell me, tell me, tam-a-line, o tell, an tell me true, tell me this night, an mak nae lie, what pedigree are you?' 'o i hae been at gude church-door, an i've got christendom; i'm the earl o' forbes' eldest son, an heir ower a' his land. 'when i was young, o three years old, muckle was made o me; my step-mother put on my claithes, an ill, ill sained she me. 'ae fatal morning i went out, dreading nae injury, and thinking lang, fell soun asleep, beneath an apple tree. 'then by it came the elfin queen, and laid her hand on me; and from that time since ever i mind, i've been in her companie. 'o elfin it's a bonny place, in it fain woud i dwell; but ay at ilka seven years' end they pay a tiend to hell, and i'm sae fou o flesh an blude, i'm sair feard for mysell.' 'o tell me, tell me, tam-a-line, o tell, an tell me true; tell me this night, an mak nae lie, what way i 'll borrow you?' . tam lin 'the morn is halloweven night, the elfin court will ride, through england, and thro a' scotland, and through the world wide. 'o they begin at sky setting, rides a' the evening tide; and she that will her true-love borrow, [at] miles-corse will him bide. 'ye 'll do you down to miles-corse, between twall hours and ane, and full your hands o holy water, and cast your compass roun. 'then the lirst.au court that comes you till is published king and queen; the next an court that comes you till, it is maidens mony ane. 'the next an court that comes you till is footmen, grooms and squires; the next an court that comes you till is knights, and i 'll be there. 'i tam-a-line, on milk-white steed, a goud star on my crown; because i was an earthly knight, got that for a renown. 'and out at my steed's right nostril, he 'll breathe a fiery flame; ye 'll loot you low, and sain yoursel, and ye 'll be busy then. 'ye 'll take my horse then by the head, and lat the bridal fa; the queen o' elfin she 'll cry out, true tam-a-line's awa. 'then i 'll appear in your arms like the wolf that neer woud tame; ye 'll had me fast, lat me not go, case we neer meet again. 'then i 'll appear in your arms like the fire that burns sae bauld; ye 'll had me fast, lat me not go, i 'll be as iron cauld. 'then i 'll appear in your arms like the adder an the snake; ye 'll had me fast, lat me not go, i am your warld's make. 'then i 'll appear in your arms like to the deer sae wild; ye 'll had me fast, lat me not go, and i 'll father your child. 'and i 'll appear in your arms like to a silken string; ye 'll had me fast, lat me not go, till ye see the fair morning. 'and i 'll appear in your arms like to a naked man; ye 'll had me fast, lat me not go, and wi you ' l gae hame.' then she has done her to miles-corse, between twall hours an ane, and filled her hands o holy water, and kiest her compass roun. the first an court that came her till was published king and queen; the niest an court that came her till was maidens mony ane. the niest an court that came her till was footmen, grooms and squires; the niest an court that came her till was knights, and he was there. true tam-a-line, on milk-white steed, a gowd star on his crown; because he was an earthly man, got that for a renown. and out at the steed's right nostril, he breathd a fiery flame; she loots her low, an sains hersell, and she was busy then. she's taen the horse then by the head, and loot the bridle fa; the queen o elfin she cried out, 'true tam-a-line's awa.' 'stay still, true tam-a-line,' she says, 'till i pay you your fee :' 'his father wants not lands nor rents, he 'll ask nae fee frae thee.' . tam lin but when ye see the milk-white stead, grip fast and pull me down. 'take me in yer arms, janet, an ask, an adder lang; the grip ye get ye maun haud fast, i 'll be father to your bairn. 'take me in your arms, janet, an adder and a snake; the grip ye get ye maun haud fast, i 'll be your warld's make.' up bespak the queen of fairies, she spak baith loud and high: 'had i kend the day at noon tarn lane had been won from me, 'i wad hae taen out his heart o flesh, put in a heart o tree, that a' the maids o middle middle mist should neer hae taen tarn lane frae me.' up bespaek the queen of fairies, and she spak wi a loud yell: 'aye at every seven year's end we pay the kane to hell. and the koors they hae gane round about, and i fear it will be mysel.' i a. minstrelsy of the scottish border, ii, , ed. . b. ii, , ed. . 'o i forbid ye, maidens a', that wear gowd on your hair, to come or gae by carterhaugh, for young tamlane is there. 'there's nane that gaes by carterhaugh but maun leave him a wad, either gowd rings, or green mantles, or else their maidenheid. 'now gowd rings ye may buy, maidens, green mantles ye may spin, but, gin ye lose your maidenheid, ye 'll neer get that agen.' but up then spak her, fair janet, the fairest o a' her kin: 'i 'll cum and gang to carterhaugh, and ask nae leave o him.' janet has kilted her green kirtle a little abune her knee, and she has braided her yellow hair a little abune her bree. and when she came to carterhaugh, she gaed beside the well, and there she fand his steed standing, but away was himsell. she hadna pu'd a red red rose, a rose but barely three, till up and starts a wee wee man, at lady janet's knee. says, why pu ye the rose, janet? what gars ye break the tree or why come ye to carterhaugh, withouten leave o me? says, carterhaugh it is mine ain, my daddie gave it me; i 'll come and gang to carterhaugh, and ask nae leave o thee. he's taen her by the milk-white hand, among the leaves sae green, and what they did i cannot tell, the green leaves were between. he's taen her by the milk-white hand, among the roses red, and what they did i cannot say, she neer returnd a maid. when she cam to her father's ha, she looked pale and wan; they thought she'd dreed some sair sickness, or been with some leman. she didna comb her yellow hair nor make meikle o her head, and ilka thing that lady took was like to be her deid. . tam lin it's four and twenty ladies fair were playing at the ba; janet, the wightest of them anes, was faintest o them a'. four and twenty ladies fair were playing at the chess; and out there came the fair janet, as green as any grass. out and spak an auld grey-headed knight, lay oer the castle wa: 'and ever, alas for thee, janet, but we 'll be blamed a'!' 'now haud your tongue, ye auld grey knight, and an ill deid may ye die! father my bairn on whom i will, i ml father nane on thee.' out then spak her father dear, and be spak meik and mild: 'and ever, alas! my sweet janet, i fear ye gae with child.' 'and if i be with child, father, mysell maun bear the blame; there's neer a knight about your ha shall hue the bairnie's name. 'and if i be with child, father, 't will prove a wondrous birth, for weel i swear i'm not wi bairn to any man on earth. 'if my love were an earthly knight, as he's an elfin grey, i wadna gie my ain true love for nae lord that ye hae.' she prinkd hersell and prinnd hersell, by the ae light of the moon, and she's away to carterhaugh, to speak wi young tamlane. and when she cam to carterhaugh, she gaed beside the well, and there she saw the steed standing, but away was himsell. she hadna pu'd a double rose, a rose but only twae, when up and started young tamlane, says, lady, thou pu's nae mae. why pu ye the rose, janet, within this garden grene, and a' to kill the bonny babe that we got us between? 'the truth ye 'll tell to me, tamlane, a word ye mauna lie; gin eer ye was in haly chapel, or sained in christentie?' 'the truth i 'll tell to thee, janet, a word i winna lie; a knight me got, and a lady me bore, as well as they did thee. 'randolph, earl murray, was my sire, dunbar, earl march, is thine; we loved when we were children small, which yet you well may mind. 'when i was a boy just turnd of nine, my uncle sent for me, to hunt and hawk, and ride with him, and keep him companie. 'there came a wind out of the north, a sharp wind and a snell, and a deep sleep came over me, and frae my horse i fell. 'the queen of fairies keppit me in yon green hill to dwell, and 'm a fairy, lyth and limb, fair ladye, view me well. 'then would i never tire, janet, in elfish land to dwell, but aye, at every seven years, they pay the teind to hell; and i am sae fat and fair of flesh, i fear't will be my sell. 'this night is halloween, janet, the morn is hallowday, and gin ye dare your true love win, ye hae nae time to stay. 'the night it is good halloween, when fairy folk will ride, . tam lin and they that wad their true-love win, at miles cross they maun bide.' 'but how shall i thee ken, tamlane? or how shall i thee knaw, amang so many unearthly knights, the like i never saw?' 'the first company that passes by, say na, and let them gae; the next company that passes by, say na, and do right sae; the third company that passes by, then i 'll be ane o thae. 'first let pass the black, janet, and syne let pass the brown, but grip ye to the milk-white steed, and pu the rider down. 'for i ride on the milk-white steed, and aye nearest the town; because i was a christend knight, they gave me that renown. 'my right hand will be gloved, janet, my left hand will be bare; and these the tokens i gie thee, nae doubt i will be there. 'they h turn me in your arms, janet, an adder and a snake; but had me fast, let me not pass, gin ye wad be my maik. 'they 'll turn me in your arms, janet, an adder and an ask; they ' turn me in your arms, janet, a bale that burns fast. 'they 'll turn me in your arms, janet, a red-hot gad o aim; but haud me fast, let me not pass, for i 'll do you no harm. 'first dip me in a stand o milk, and then in a stand o water; but had me fast, let me not pass, i 'll be your bairn's father. 'and next they 'll shape me in your arms a tod but and an eel; but had me fast, nor let me gang, as you do love me weel. 'they 'll shape me in your arms, janet, a dove but and a swan, and last they 'll shape me in your arms a mother-naked man; cast your green mantle over me, i 'll be myself again.' gloomy, gloomy, was the night, and eiry was the way, as fair janet, in her green mantle, to miles cross she did gae. about the dead hour o the night she heard the bridles ring, and janet was as glad o that as any earthly thing. and first gaed by the black black steed, and then gaed by the brown; bat fast she gript the milk-white steed, and pu'd the rider down. she pu'd him frae the milk-white steed, and loot the bridle fa, and up there raise an erlish cry, 'he's won amang us a'!' they shaped him in fair janet's arms an esk but and an adder; she held him fast in every shape, to be her bairn's father. they shaped him in her arms at last a mother-naked man, she wrapt him in her green mantle, and sae her true love wan. up then spake the queen o fairies, out o a bush o broom: 'she that has borrowd young tamlane has gotten a stately groom.' up then spake the queen o fairies, out o a bush o rye: 'she 's taen awa the bonniest knight in a' my cumpanie. 'but had i kennd, tamlane,' she says, 'a lady wad borrowd thee . tam lin i wad taen out thy twa grey een, 'had i but had the wit yestreen put in twa een o tree. that i hae coft the day, i'd paid my kane seven times to hell 'had i but kennd, tamlane,' she says, ere you'd been won away.' 'before ye came frae hame, i wad taen out your heart o flesh, put in a heart o stane. a. divided in the museum into ^ four-line stanzas, without heed to rhyme or reason, , making a stanza with , , etc. . has belted. . tom, elsewhere tam. *. brie. . burning lead. b. "an old song called young tom line." written in twenty-six stanzas of four {three, two~\ long, or double, lines. s. yon bonny babes. ' . and do right sae. . and let them gae. see . , , , , , , , stand in ms. , , , , , , , . d. b has stanzas, c has . the first stanzas of a and b and the of c, and again the first stanzas of a and b, are almost verbally the same, and a =: b . b has but stanzas. a. stands in ms. . miles cross: b, moss. s. the holy. ". so (?) clad: b, is clad. . twa. . ride. b. . let abeene. *. i 'll ask no. *. her down. . gotten in. ii . to me. s. at a. . his land. s. and through. . if that. ". rides cross, as in a. s. take holy. . next the. after : 'i 'll grow into your arms two like ice on frozen lake; but hold me fast, let me not go, or from your goupen break.' . and it's next night into miles moss fair margaret has gone, when lo she stands beside rides cross, between twelve hours and one. . there's holy water in her hand, she casts a compass round, and presently a fairy band comes riding oer the mound. c. *, and always, chester's wood. . the seam. *. let alane. . will pluck. . ask no. . has been. ii . me, tom o lin. . his land. e. , , are not written out. we are di- rected to understand them to be "as in pre- ceding stanzas, making the necessary gram- matical changes." f. ii , . ass, somebody's blunder for ask. g. ". elfin gray, motherwell, but see h, *. . ay. . began. . motherwell: far's the river tay. . motherwell: she gained. motherwell, as usual, seems to have mads some slight changes in copying. i. scott's copy having been " prepared from a col- lation of the printed copies," namely, those in johnson's museum and herd's scottish songs, "with a very accurate one in glen- riddell's ms., and with several recitals from tradition," what was not derived from tra- dition, but from the museum, glenriddeu, and herd, is printed in smaller type. a. , , not in b. after are omitted five stanzas of the copy obtained by scott " from a gentleman re- siding near langholni," and otliers, of the same origin, after and . 'but we that live in fairy-land no sickness know nor pain; i quit my body when i will, and take to it again. 'i quit my body when i please, or unto it repair; we can inhabit at our ease in either earth or air. . the queen of elfan's nourice sometimes restore such a woman, with pay for her services, after she has nursed their wretched fry seven years. he had himself seen a woman who had been abducted for this purpose, while washing clothes on the bank of the rhone. she had to nurse the nix's son under the water for that term, and then was sent back unhurt. otia imperialia, iii, , liebrecht, p. . choice is naturally made of the healthiest and handsomest mothers for this office. "a fine young woman of nithsdale, when first made a mother, was sitting singing and rocking her child, when a pretty lady came into her cot- tage, covered with a fairy mantle. she car- ried a beautiful child in her arms, swaddled in green silk. 'gie my bonnie thing a suck,' said the fairy. the young woman, conscious to whom the child belonged, took it kindly in her arms, and laid it to her breast. the lady instantly disappeared, saying, 'nurse kin', an ne'er want.' the young mother nurtured the two babes, and was astonished, whenever she awoke, at finding the richest suits of apparel for both children, with meat of most delicious flavor. this food tasted, says tradition, like loaf mixed with wine and honey," etc. cro- mek, remains of nithsdale and galloway song, p. . i heard a cow low, a'bonnie cow low, an a cow low down in yon glen; lang, lang will my young son greet or his mither bid him come ben. i heard a cow low, a bonnie cow low, an a cow low down in yon fauld; lang, lang will my young son greet or his mither take him frae cauld. ***** waken, queen of elfan, an hear your nourice moan.' ' moan ye for your meat, or moan ye for your fee, or moan ye for the ither bounties that ladies are wont to gie?' 'i moan na for my meat, nor moan i for my fee, nor moan i for the ither bounties that ladies are wont to gie. but i moan for my young son i left in four nights auld. 'i moan na for my meat, nor yet for my fee, but i mourn for christen land, it's there i fain would be.' 'o nurse my bairn, nourice,' she says, 'till he stan at your knee, an ye's win hame to christen land, whar fain it's ye wad be. 'o keep my bairn, nourice, till he gang by the hauld, an ye's win hame to your young son ye left in four nights auld.' ***** 'o nourice lay your head upo my knee: see ye na that narrow road up by yon tree? that's the road the righteous goes, and that's the road to heaven. 'an see na ye that braid road, down by yon sunny fell? yon's the road the wicked gae, an that's the road to hell.' * * * # # . hind etin l . an a bonnie cow low, with an crossed out. s. christend. . yon fall: fauld in margin. . she says is probably the comment of the singer *. auld not in ms., supplied from . or reciter. hind etin a. 'young akin,'buchan's ballads of the north of c. 'young hastings,' buchan, ballads of the north of scotland, i, . motherwell's ms., p. . scotland, ll, g . 'young hastings the groom,' motherwell's ms., p. ; motherwell's minstrelsy, b. 'hynde etin,' kinloch's ancient scottish ballads, p. . p. . it is scarcely necessary to remark that this ballad, like too many others, has suffered se- verely by the accidents of tradition. a has been not simply damaged by passing through low mouths, but has been worked over by low hands. something considerable has been lost from the story, and fine romantic features, preserved in norse and german ballads, have been quite effaced. margaret, a king's daughter, a, an earl's daughter, b, a lady of noble birth, c, as she sits sewing in her bower door, hears a note in elmond's wood and wishes herself there, a. the wood is amon-shaw in c, mulberry in b: the elmond (ainond, elfman ?) is proba- bly significant. so far the heroine resembles lady isabel in no , who, sewing in her bower, hears an elf-horn, and cannot resist the en- chanted tone. margaret makes for the wood as fast as she can go. the note that is heard in a is mistaken in b for nuts: margaret, as she stands in her bower door, spies some nuts growing in the wood, and wishes her- self there. arrived at the wood, margaret, in a as well as b, immediately takes to pulling nuts.* the lady is carried off in c under * this reading, nuts, may huvc subsequently made its way into a iustead of rose, which it would he more ballad-like for margaret to be plucking, as the maid does in ' tarn lin,' where also the passage a - , b - occurs. grimm sug- gests a parallel to tam liu in the dwarf laurin, who does not allow trespassing in his rose-garden : deutsche mytholo- cover of a magical mist, and the hero in all is no ordinary hind. margaret has hardly pulled a nut, when she is confronted by young akin, a, otherwise, and correctly, called etin in b, a hind of giant strength in both, who accuses her of trespass- ing, and stops her. akin pulls up the highest tree in the wood and builds a bower, invisible to passers-by, for their habitation. b, which recognizes no influence of enchantment upon the lady's will, as found in a, and no prepos- session on her part, as in c, makes hind etin pull up the biggest tree in the forest as well, but it is to scoop out a cave many fathoms deep, in which he confines margaret till she comes to terms, and consents to go home with him, wherever that may be. hastings, an- other corruption of etin, carries off the lady on his horse to the wood, " where again their loves are sworn," and there they take up their abode in a cave of stone, c . lady margaret lives with the etin seven years, and bears him seven sons, a ; many years, and bears seven sons, b; ten years, and bears seven bairns, c , , .f once upon a time the etin goes hunting! gie, iii, . but the resemblance seems not material, there being no woman in the case. the pretence of trespass in tam lin and hind etin is a simple commonplace, and we have it in some slavic forms of no , as at p. . t b is defective in the middle and the end. "the re- citer, unfortunately, could not remember more of the ballad, . hind etin , i, xxxi, ii, ; u, a short fragment, danske viser, v, x, xi. swedish. 'den bergtagna,' a, b, afze- lius, i, , no , ii, . c, 'bergkonun- gen,' afzelius, ii, , no . d, e, ' hen- elver, bergakonungen,' arwidsson, ii, , no b, ii, , no a. f, 'jungfrun och bergakonungen,' arwidsson, ii, , no . g, 'agneta och berganaannen,' wig- strom, folkdiktning, p. . h, 'jungfrun och bergamannen,' the same, p. . i, k, l, in cavallius and stephens' manuscript collection (k, l, fragments), given by grundtvig, iv, . m, p. l. borgstroms folkvisor, no , described by grundtvig, iv, . n, wer- ner's westergotlands fornminnen, p. f, two stanzas. norwegian. a, b,* c, 'liti kersti, som vart inkvervd,' landstad, p. , no , p. , no , p. , no . d, 'mar- git hjuxe, som vart inkvervd,' the same, p. , no . e, f, 'malfri,' 'antonetta,' grundtvig, iv, f, the last evidently de- rived from denmark. g-p, nine versions com- municated to grundtvig by professor sophus bugge, and partially described in danmarks gamle folkeviser, iii, - . lindeman gives the first stanza of a with airs no , no of his fjeldmelodier, and perhaps had different copies. nos , may also have been versions of this ballad. c, rewrit- ten, occurs in j. m. moe og ivar morten- sen's norske fornkvaede og folkevisur, p. . mixed forms, in which the ballad proper is blended with another, landstad, no = swedish, arwidsson, no ; eight, commu- nicated by bugge, grundtvig, iii, - ; two others, iv, f.f faroe. a, b, grundtvig, iv, f. icelandic. 'rika alfs kvaefti,' islenzk fornkvaesi, no . danish a, one of the three sixteenth-cen- tury versions, tells how a knight, expressing a * b, landstad (which has only this in common with the scottish ballad, that a hill-man carries a maid to his cave), has much resemblance at the beginning to 'kvindemorde- ren,' grundtvig, no , our no . see grundtvig's note ** at iii, . this is only what might be looked for, since both ballads deal with abductions. strong desire to obtain a king's daughter, is overheard by a dwarf, who says this shall never be. the dwarf pretends to bargain with the knight for his services in forward- ing the knight's object, but consults mean- while with his mother how he may get the lady for himself.j the mother tells him that the princess will go to even-song, and the dwarf writes runes on the way she must go by, which compel her to come to the hill. the dwarf holds out his hand and asks, how came ye to this strange land? to which the lady answers mournfully, i wot never how. the dwarf says, you have pledged yourself to a knight, and he has betrayed you with runes: this eve you shall be the dwarf's guest. she stayed there the night, and was taken back to her mother in the morning. eight years went by; her hand was sought by five kings, nine counts, but no one of them could get a good answer. one day her mother asked, why are thy cheeks so faded? why can no one get thee? she then revealed that she had been beguiled by the dwarf, and had seven sons and a daughter in the hill, none of whom she ever saw. she thought she was alone, but the dwarf-king was listening. he strikes her with an elf-rod, and bids her hie to the hill after him. late in the evening the poor thing dons her cloak, knocks at her fa- ther's door, and says good-night to the friends that never will see her again, then sadly turns to the hill. her seven sons advance to meet her, and ask why she told of their father. her tears run sore; she gives no answer; she is dead ere midnight. with a agrees another of the three old danish copies, b, and three modern ones, d, m, n, have something of the opening scene which characterizes a. so also swedish c, l, and the icelandic ballad. in swedish c, proud margaret, who is daughter of a king of seven kingdoms, will have none of her suitors (this t it is not necessary, for purposes of the english ballad, to notice these mixed forms. } in 'nakkens svig,' c, grundtvig, no , the merman consults with his mother, and then, as also in oiher copies of the ballad, transforms himself into a knight. see the trans- lation by prior, iii, ; jaiuieson, popular ballads, i, ; lewis, tales of wonder, i, . . hind etin circumstance comes too soon). a hill-king asks his mother how he may get her. she asks in return, what will you give me to make her come of herself to the hill? he promises red gold and chestf ills of pence; and one sunday morning margaret, who has set out to go to church, is made — by magical operations, of course — to take the way to the hill. a second form begins a stage later: danish c, g, k, swedish d, e, k, norwegian a, c, e, g, h, i (?), k, l, m (?) n (?), faroe a, b. we learn nothing of the device by which the maid has been entrapped. mother and daughter are sitting in their bower, and the mother asks her child why her cheeks are pale, why milk is running from her breasts. she answers that she has been working too hard; that what is taken for milk is mead. the mother retorts that other women do not suffer from their industry; that mead is brown, and milk is white. hereupon the daughter re- veals that she has been beguiled by an elf, and, though living under her mother's roof, has had eight or nine children (seven or eight sons and a daughter; fifteen children, faroe a, b), none of whom she ever saw, since after birth they were always transferred to the hill (see, especially, danish c, g, also a; nor- wegian h, i; faroe a, b). the mother (who disowns her, danish c, g, swedish d, e, nor- wegian k), in several versions, asks what gifts she got for her honor. among these was a harp [horn, norwegian l], which she was to play when she was unhappy. the mother asks for a piece, and the first tones bring the elf, who reproaches the daughter for betraying him: had she concealed their connection she might still have lived at home, c; but now she must go with him. she is kindly received by her children. they give her a drink which * the beauty of the norse ballads should make an eng- lishman's heart wring for his loss. they aro. particularly pretty here, where the forgetful draught is administered; as norwegian c, a: forth came her daughter, as jimp as a wand, she dances a dance, with silver can in hand. ' where wast thou bred, and where wast thou born? and where were thy maiden-garments shorn?' makes her forget father and mother, heaven and earth, moon and sun, and even makes her think she was born in the hill, danish c, g, swedish d, norwegian a, c* danish g, k, faroe a, b, take a tragic turn: the woman dies in the first two the night she comes to the hill. danish , one of the sixteenth-century versions, goes as far as possible in the other direction. the elf- king pats maldf red's cheek, takes her in his arms, gives her a queen's crown and name. and this he did for the lily-wand, he had himself christened and all his land! a third series of versions offers the probable type of the much-corrupted scottish ballads, and under this head come danish e, f, h, i, l-r, t; swedish a, b, f-i, and also c, after an introduction which belongs to the first class; norwegian d, f. the characteristic feature is that the woman has been living eight or nine years in the hill, and has there borne her children, commonly seven sons and a daughter. she sets out to go to matins, and whether under the influence of runes, or accidentally, or purposely, takes the way to the hill. in a few cases it is clear that she does not seek the hill-man or put herself in his way, e. g., danish n, swedish g, but swed- ish a, h, n make her apply for admission at the hill-door. in danish i, n-r, t, norwe- gian f, it is not said that she was on her way to church; she is in a field or in the hill. in swedish f she has been two years in the cave, and it seems to her as if she had come yester- day. after her eight or nine years with the hill-man the woman longs to go home, danish e, f, i, swedish a, f, i, norwegian d; to go to church, danish l, m, n, p, t, norwegian f; for she had heard denmark's bells, church bells, danish l-p, t, swedish g, norwegian 'in norway was i bred, in norway was i born, and in norway were my maiden-garments shorn.' the ae first drink from the silver can she drank, what stock she was come of she clean forgat. ' where wast thou bred, and where wast thou born? and where were thy maiden-garments shorn?' 'in the hill was i bred, and there was i born, in the hill were my maiden-garments shorn.' . hind etin d, f. she had heard these bells as she watched the cradle, danish t, p, swedish g; sat by the cradle and sang, t ; compare english c . she asks the hill-man's per- mission, and it is granted on certain terms: she is not to talk of him and her life in the hill, danish e, i, swedish a, f, i, is to come back, danish f, must not stay longer than an hour or two, norwegian d ; she is not to wear her gold, her best clothes, not to let out her hair, not to go into her mother's pew at the church, not to bow when the priest pronounces the holy name, or make an offering, or go home after service, etc., danish i, l-p, t, norwegian f. all these last conditions she violates, nor does she in the least heed the injunction not to speak of the hill-man. the consequence is that he summarily presents himself, whether at the church or the paternal mansion, and or- ders her back to the hill, sometimes striking her on the ear or cheek so that blood runs, or beating her with a rod, danish e, i, l, m, s, t, swedish a, b, c, h, i, norwegian f. in a few versions, the hill-man tells her that her children are crying for her, and she replies, let them cry; i will never go back to the hill; danish m, n, o, norwegian f. in dan- ish e, swedish g, a gold apple thrown into her lap seems to compel her to return; more commonly main force is used. she is carried dead into the hill, or dies immediately on her arrival, in norwegian f, danish t; she dies of grief, according to traditional comment, in norwegian d. they give her a drink, and her heart breaks, swedish a, g, h, m; but elsewhere the drink only induces forgetfulness, danish l, m, swedish b, c, f. much of the story of 'jomfruen og dvaer- gekongen ' recurs in the ballad of 'agnete og havmanden,' which, for our purposes, may be treated as a simple variation of the other. the norse forms are again numerous, but all from broadsides dating, at most, a century back, or from recent tradition. danish. 'agnete og havmanden,' grundt- • for reasons, doubtless sufficient, but to me unknown, grundtvig has not noticed two copies in boisen's nye og gamle viser, th edition, p. , p. . the former of these is like a, with more resemblance here and there to vig, no , a-d, ii, ff, ff, iii, ff. copies of a are numerous, and two had been previously printed; in danske viser, i, , no , and "in barfod's brage og idun, ii, ." e, rask's morskabslassning, iii, , grundtvig, ii, . f, one stanza, grundtvig, p. . g, h, the same, iii, . i, kris- tensen, ii, , no c, grundtvig, iv, . k, grundtvig, iv, * swedish. a, b, c, in cavallius and stephens' imprinted collection, described by grundtvig, ii, . d,' agneta och hafsman- nen,' eva vvigstrom's folkdiktning, p. . e, bergstrom's afzelius, ii, . f, 'skon anna och hafskungen,' aminson, bidrag till sddermanlands aldre kulturhistoria, in, . g, ' helena och hafsmannen,' the same, p. . norwegian. a, grundtvig, iii, , prop- erly danish rather than norwegian. b, a ver- sion partly described at p. . c, grundt- vig, iv, , also more danish than norwe- gian. all these communicated by bugge. danish c, g, norwegian a, have a hill- man instead of a merman, and might as well have been put with the other ballad. on the other hand, the danish versions m, n, o of 'the maid and the dwarf-king' call the maid agenet, and give the hill-man a name, nek, netmand, mekmand, which implies a watery origin for him, and the fragments p, q, r have similar names, nekmand, negen, laskkemand, as also agenete, and might as well have been ranked with ' agnes and the merman.' in 'the maid and the dwarf-king,' swedish l (one stanza) the maid is taken by "pel elf- ven " to the sea. agnes goes willingly with the merman to the sea-bottom, danish a, d, e, k, swedish a , d, e, norwegian a, c. she lives there, according to many versions, eight years, and has seven children. as she is sitting and sing- ing by the cradle one day, she hears the bells of england, danish a, c, d, e, h, i, k swedish d [church bells, bells, f, g], nor- wegian a, c. she asks if she may go to other versions, and may be a made-up copy; the other,' afr- nete og bjsergmauden, f ra sauderjylland,' consists of stanzas - of c. . hind etin church, go home, and receives permission on the same terms as in the other ballad. her mother asks her what gifts she had received, danish a, d, e, h, i, swedish e, f, nor- wegian c. when the merman comes into the church all the images turn their backs, dan- ish a, d, k, swedish d, f, g, norwegian a, c; and, in some cases, for agnes, too. he tells her that the children are crying for her; she refuses to go back, danish a, c, d, i, k, swedish d, f, g (and apparently a. b, c), norwegian c. in norwegian a the merman strikes her on the cheek, and she returns; in danish i she is taken back quietly ; in danish c he gives her so sore an ail that she dies presently; in danish h she is taken away by force, and poisoned by her children ; in danish k the merman says that if she stays with her mother they must divide the children (five). he takes two, she two, and each has to take half of the odd one. the norse forms of 'agnes and the mer- man' are conceded to have been derived from germany: see grundtvig, iv, . of the german ballad, which is somewhat nearer to the english, the following versions have been noted: a. 'die schone agniese,' fiedler, volks- reime und volkslieder in anhalt-dessau, p. , no = mittler, no . b. ' die schone agnese,' parisius, deutsche volkslieder in der altmark und im magdeburgischen gesammelt, p. , no b, from nearly the same region as a. c. parisius, p. , no a, pechau on the elbe. d. 'die schone angnina,' erk's neue sammlung, ii, , no = mittler, no , from the neighborhood of magdeburg. e. 'die schone agnete,' erk's liederhort, no % p. , erk's wunderhom, iv, , from the neighborhood of guben. f. 'die schone dorothea,' liederhort, no b, p. , gramzow in der ukermark. g. 'die schone hannale,' liederhort, no , p. , erk's wunderhorn, iv, , silesia. h. ' die schone hannele,' hoffmann u. richter, schlesische volkslieder, p. , no = mittler, no , bohme, no a, breslau. 'der wasser- mann,' simrock, no , is a compounded copy. a wild merman has become enamored of the king of england's daughter, a, b, c, d. he plates a bridge with gold ; she often walks over the bridge; it sinks with her into the water [the merman drags her down into the water, h]. she stays below seven years, and bears seven sons. one day [by the cradle, c, g] she hears the bells of england, a , b, c, d, f [bells, e, g, h], and longs to go to church. she expresses this wish to the mer- man, c, d, g, h. the merman says she must take her seven sons with her, b, c, d; she must come back, g, h. she takes her seven sons by the hand, and goes with them to eng- land, a , b ; cf. scottish c , , a , . when she enters the church everything in it bows, a, b, f. her parents are there, c, d; her father opens the pew, her mother lays a cushion for her, g, h. as she goes out of the church, there stands the merman, a, b, e, f. her parents take her home in d, g, h. they seat her at the table, and while she is eating, a gold apple falls into her lap (cf.' the maid and the dwarf-king,' dan. ish e, swedish g), which she begs her mother to throw into the fire; the merman appears, and asks if she wishes him burnt, g, h. the merman, when he presents himself at the church, asks whether the woman will go back with him, or die where she is, and she prefers death on the spot, a, b, e. in the other case, he says that if she will not return, the children must be divided, — three and three, and half of the seventh to each; the mother prefers the water to this. d has a peculiar and not very happy trait. the merman fas- tens a chain to his wife's foot before she goes up, and, having been kept long waiting, draws it in. but the people at the church have taken off the chain, and he finds nothing at the end of it. he asks whether she does not wish to live with him; she replies, i will no longer torment you, or fret myself to death. the story of agnes and the merman occurs in a vvendish ballad, with an introductory scene found in the beautiful german ballad, 'wassermanns brant:' * haupt und schma- • see five versions in mittler, nos - . as grundt- vig remarks, what is one ballad in wendiih is two in ger- man and three in norse: d. g. f., iv, . . hind etin ler, i, , no . a maid begs that she may be left to herself for a year, but her father says it is time for her to be married. she goes to her chamber, weeps and wrings her hands. the merman comes and asks, where is my bride? they tell him that she is in her chamber, weeping and wringing her hands. the merman asks her the reason, and she an- swers, they all say that you are the mer- woman's son. he says he will build her a bridge of pure silver and gold, and have her driven over it with thirty carriages and forty horses ; but ere she has half passed the bridge it goes down to the bottom. she is seven years below, has seven sons in as many years, and is going with the eighth. she implores her husband to permit her to go to church in the upper world, and he consents, with the proviso that she shall not stay for the bene- diction. at church she sees her brother and sister, who receive her kindly. she tells them that she cannot stay till the benediction; * they beg her to come home to dine with them. she does wait till the benediction; the merman rushes frantically about. as she leaves the church and is saying good-by to her sister, she meets the merman, who snatches the youngest child from her (she appears to have all seven with her), tears it in pieces, strangles the rest, scatters their limbs on the road, and hangs himself, asking, does not your heart grieve for your children? she answers, i grieve for none but the youngest, f a slovenian ballad has the story with mod- ifications, achacel and korytko, slovdnake pesmi krajnskiga naroda, i, ,j 'povodnji m sh;' given in abstract by haupt and schma- ler, i, , note to no. . mizika goes to a dance, in spite of her mother's forbidding. her mother, in a rage, wishes that the mer- man may fetch her. a young man who dances with her whirls her round so furiously that she complains, but he becomes still more vio- * this trait, corresponding to the prohibition in the norse ballads of bowing when the holy name is pronounced, occurs frequently in tradition, as might be expected. in a swedish merman-ballad, ' necken,' afzclius, iii, , the nix, who has attended to church the lady whom he is about to kidnap, makes off with his best speed when the priest reads the ben- ediction. see, further, arnason's islenzkar bjdssogur, i, lent. mizika sees how it is, and exclaims, the merman has come for me! the mer- man flies out of the window with her, and plunges into the water. she bears a son, and asks leave to pay a visit to her mother; and this is allowed on conditions, one of which is that she shall not expose herself to a bene- diction. she does not conform, and the mer- man comes and says that her son is crying for her. she refuses to go with him, and he tears the boy in two, that each may have a half. two or three of the minuter correspond- ences between the scottish and the norse or german ballads, which have not been referred to, may be indicated in conclusion. the hill- man, in several norwegian copies, as b, m, carries off the lady on horseback, and so has- tings in c. in a - , the returned sister, being invited to dine, cannot eat a bit or drink a drop. so, in 'the maid and the dwarf- king,' swedish g , , they set before agnes dishes four and five, dishes eight and nine, but she can take nothing: agneta ej smakte en endaste bit. young akin, in a , is found in the wood, "tearing his yellow hair." the merman has golden hair in danish a , swedish d , , norwegian a (nothing very remarkable, certainly), and in danish d wrings his hands and is very unhappy, because agnes re- fuses to return. it is much more important that in one of the swedish copies of the mer- man ballad, grundtvig, ii, a, we find a trace of the 'christendom' which is made such an object in the scottish ballads: 'nay,' said the mother, 'now thou art mine,' and christened her with water and with wine. 'the maid and the dwarf-king,' danish e, is translated by prior, iii, ; swedish a by stephens, foreign quarterly review, xxv, ; swedish c by keightley, fairy f; maurer's islandische volksagen, f; liebrecht, ger- vasius, p. , lvii, and p. , note (grundtvig). t the merfolk are apt to be ferocious, as compared with hill-people, elves, etc. see grimm, deutsche mythologie, i, f. } i , of a second edition, which, says vraz, has an ob- jectionable fantastic spelling due to the publisher. i. htnd etin it fell upo another day, this guid lord he thought lang, and he is to the hunting gane, took wi him his dog and gun. wi how and arrow hy his side, he's aff, single, alane, and left his seven children to stay wi their mither at hame. 'o i will tell to you, mither, gin ye wadna angry be :' 'speak on, speak on, my little wee boy, ye'se nae be quarrelld by me.' 'as we came frae the hynd-hunting, we heard fine music ring :' 'my blessings on you, my bonny boy, i wish i'd been there my lane.' he's taen his mither by the hand, his six brithers also, and they are on thro elmond's wood, as fast as they coud go. they wistna weel where they were gaen, wi the stratlins o their feet; they wistna weel where they were gaen, till at her father's yate. 'i hae nae money in my pocket, but royal rings hae three; i 'll gie them you, my little young son. and ye 'll walk there for me. • ye 'll gie the first to the proud porter, and he will lat you in; ye 'll gie the next to the butler-boy, and he will show you ben; 'ye 'll gie the third to the minstrel that plays before the king; he 'll play success to the bonny boy came thro the wood him lane.' he gae the first to the proud porter, and he opend an let him in; he gae the next to the butler-boy, and he has shown him ben; he gae the third to the minstrel that playd before the king; and he playd success to the bonny boy came thro the wood him lane. now when he came before the king, fell low down on his knee; the king he turned round about, and the saut tear blinded his ee. 'win up, win up, my bonny boy, gang frae my companie; ye look sae like my dear daughter, my heart will birst in three.' 'if i look like your dear daughter, a wonder it is none; if i look like your dear daughter, i am her eldest son.' 'will ye tell me, ye little wee boy, where may my margaret be?' 'she's just now standing at your yates, and my six brithers her wi.' 'o where are all my porter-boys that i pay meat and fee. to open my yates baith wide and braid? let her come in to me.' when she came in before the king, fell low down on her knee; 'win up, win up, my daughter dear, this day ye 'll dine wi me.' 'ae bit i canno eat, father, nor ae drop can i drink, till i see my mither and sister dear, for lang for them i think.' when she came before the queen, fell low down on her knee; 'win up, win up, my daughter dear this day ye 'se dine wi me.' 'ae bit i canno eat, mither, nor ae drop can i drink, until i see my dear sister, for lang for her i think.' when that these two sisters met, she haild her courteouslie; 'come ben, come ben, my sister dear, this day ye 'se dine wi me.' . hind btin 'ae bit i canno eat, sister, nor ae drop can i drink, until i see my dear husband, for lang for him i think.' 'o where are all my rangers bold that i pay meat and fee, to search the forest far an wide, and bring akin to me?' out it speaks the little wee boy: na, na, this maunna be; without ye grant a free pardon, i hope ye 'll nae him see. 'o here i grant a free pardon, well seald by my own han; ye may make search for young akin, as soon as ever you can.' they searchd the country wide and braid, the forests far and near, and found him into elmond's wood, tearing his yellow hair. 'win up, win up now, young akin, win up, and boun wi me; we 're messengers come from the court, the king wants you to see.' 'o lat him take frae me my head, or hang me on a tree; for since i've lost my dear lady, life's no pleasure to me.' 'your head will nae be touchd, akin, nor hangd upon a tree; your lady's in her father's court, and all he wants is thee.' when he came in before the king, fell low down on his knee; 'win up, win up now, young akin, this day ye 'se dine wi me.' but as they were at dinner set, the boy asked a boun: 'i wish we were in the good church, for to get christendoun. 'we hae lived in guid green wood this seven years and ane; but a' this time, since eer i mind, was never a church within.' 'your asking's nae sae great, my boy, but granted it shall be; this day to guid church ye shall gang, and your mither shall gang you wi.' when unto the guid church she came, she at the door did stan; she was sae sair sunk down wi shame, she coudna come farer ben. then out it speaks the parish priest, and a sweet smile gae he: 'come ben, come ben, my lily flower, present your babes to me.' charles, vincent, sam and dick, and likewise james and john; they calld the eldest young akin, which was his father's name. then they staid in the royal court, and livd wi mirth and glee, and when her father was deceasd, heir of the crown was she. b kinloch's ancient scottish ballads, p. . may margbet stood in her bouer door, kaiming doun her yellow hair; she spied some nuts growin in the wud, and wishd that she was there. she has plaited her yellow locks a little abune her bree, and she has kilted her petticoats a little below her knee, and she's aff to mulberry wud, as fast as she could gae. she had na pu'd a nut, a nut, a nut but barely ane, till up started the hynde etin, says, lady, let thae alane! . hind etin 'mulberry wuds are a' my ain; my father gied them me, to sport and play when i thought lang; and they sall na be tane by thee.' and ae she pu'd the tither berrie, na thinking o' the skaith, and said, to wrang ye, hynde etin, i wad be unco laith. but he has tane her by the yellow locks, and tied her till a tree, and said, for slichting my commands, an ill death sall ye dree. he pu'd a tree out o the wud, the biggest that was there, and he howkit a cave monie fathoms deep, and put may margret there. 'now rest ye there, ye saucie may; my wuds are free for thee; and gif i tak ye to mysell, the better ye 'll like me.' na rest, na rest may margret took, sleep she got never nane; her back lay on the cauld, cauld floor, her head upon a stane. 'o tak me out,' may margret cried, 'o tak me hame to thee, and i sall be your bounden page until the day i dee.' he took her out o the dungeon deep, and awa wi him she's gane; but sad was the day an earl's dochter gaed hame wi hynde etin. ***** it fell out ance upon a day hynde etin's to the hunting gane, and he has tane wi him his eldest son, for to carry his game. 'o i wad ask ye something, father, an ye wadna angry be ;' 'ask on, ask on, my eldest son, ask onie thing at me.' 'my mother's cheeks are aft times weet, alas! they are seldom dry ;' 'na wonder, na wonder, my eldest son, tho she should brast and die. 'for your mother was an earl's dochter, of noble birth and fame, and now she's wife o hynde etin, wha neer got christendame. 'but we 'll shoot the laverock in the lift, the buntlin on the tree, and ye 'll tak them hame to your mother, and see if she 'll comforted be.' ***** 'i wad ask ye something, mother, an ye wadna angry be ;' 'ask on, ask on, my eldest son, ask onie thing at me.' 'your cheeks they are aft times weet, alas! they 're seldom dry ;' 'na wonder, na wonder, my eldest son, tho i should brast and die. 'for i was ance an earl's dochter, of noble birth and fame, and now i am the wife of hynde etin, wha neer got christendame.' ***** buchan's ballads of the north of scotland, ii, , com- municated by mr james nicol, of strichen; motherwell's minstrelsy, p. ; motherwell's ms., p. . 'o well like i to ride in a mist, and shoot in a northern win, and far better a lady to steal, that's come of a noble kin.' four an twenty fair ladies put on this lady's sheen, and as mony young gentlemen did lead her ower the green. . clerk colvill and 'clerk colvill,' a (' clark colven ') is it, and, as she then exultingly tells him, sure one of the two.* this ballad is not in jamie- to grow worse until he is dead. he draws son's brown manuscript. rewritten by lewis, his sword on her, but she merrily springs into a was published in tales of wonder, , the water. he mounts his horse, rides home ii, , no . b, , is the earliest printed tristful, alights heavily, and bids his mother english copy, but a corresponding danish bal- make his bed, for all is over with him. lad antedates its publication by seventy-five c is at the beginning blended with verses years. of c, w. f., who communicated it to which belong to ' willie and may margaret,' notes and queries, says: "i have reason to jamieson, i, (from mrs brown's recita- believe that it is originally from the same tion), or 'the drowned lovers,' buchan, i, source as that from which scott, and es- . in this ballad a mother adjures her son pecially jamieson, derived many of their best not to go wooing, under pain of her curse. he ballads." this source should be no other than goes, nevertheless, and is drowned. it is obvi- mrs brown, who certainly may have known ous, without remark, that the band and belt in two versions of clerk colvill; but c is mark- c do not suit the mother; neither does the edly different from a. an abbotsford man- phrase ' love colin ' in the second stanza, f uscript, entitled "scottish songs," has, at fol. - afford an important variation from the , a version which appears to have been made other versions. the mermaid appears at the up from lewis's copy, its original, a, and foot of the young man's bed, and offers him herd's, b. a choice between dying then and living with all the english versions are deplorably im- her in the water. (see the norwegian bal- perfect, and c is corrupted, besides. the story lads at p. .) which they afford is this. clerk colvill, newly clerk colvill is not, as his representative married as we may infer, is solemnly entreated is or may be in other ballads, the guiltless and by his gay lady never to go near a well-fared guileless object of the love or envy of a water- may who haunts a certain spring or water, sprite or elf. his relations with the mermaid it is clear that before his marriage he had began before his marriage with his gay lady, been in the habit of resorting to this mer- and his death is the natural penalty of his maid, as she is afterwards called, and equally desertion of the water-nymph ; for no point is clear, from the impatient answer which he ren- better established than the fatal consequences ders his dame, that he means to visit her again, of inconstancy in such connections. j his his- his coming is hailed with pleasure by the tory, were it fully told, would closely resemble mermaid, who, in the course of their interview, that of the knight of staufenberg, as narrated does something which gives him a strange in a german poem of about the year .§ pain in the head, — a pain only increased by the already very distinguished chevalier, a prescription which she pretends will cure peter diemringer, of staufenberg (in the or- • "from a ms. in my grandfather's writing, with the following note: copied from an old ms. in the possession of alexander fraser tytler." note of miss mary fraser tyt- ler. the first stanza agrees with that which is cited from the original by dr anderson in nichols's illustrations, vii, , and the number of stanzas is the same. colvill, which has become familiar from herd's copy, is the correct form, and colven, colvin, a vulgarized one, which in c lapses into colin. t still, though these particular verses appear to have come from 'the drowned lovers,' they may represent other original ones which were to the same effect. see, further on, the beginning of some faroe versions. } hoc equidem a viris omni exceptione majoribus quotidie scimus probatum, quod quosdam hujusmodi larvarum quas fadas nominant amatores audivimus, et cum ad aliarum foe- minarum matrimonia se transtulerunt, ante mortuos qnam cum superinduciis carnali se copula immiscuerunt. des gervasius von tilbury otia imperialia (of about ), lieb- recht, p. . § der bitter von stauffenberg, from a ms. of perhaps , c. m. engelhardt, strassburg, . edited by oskar janicke, in altdeutsche studien von o. janicke, e. stein- meyer, w. wilmanns, berlin, . die legende vom kil- ter herrn peter diemringer von staufenberg in der ortenau, reprint by f. culemann of the strassburg edition of mar- tin schott, - . the old printed copy was made over by fischart in (jobin, strassburg, in that year), and this 'ernewerte beschreibung der alten geschicht' is re- hashed in seven ' romanzen ' in wunderhorn, i, - , ed. , - , ed. . simrock, die deutschen volks- biicher, hi, - . . clerk oolvill tenau, baden, four leagues from strassburg), when riding to mass one whitsunday, saw a lady of surpassing beauty, dressed with equal magnificence, sitting on a rock by the wayside. he became instantaneously enamored, and, greeting the lady in terms expressive of his admiration, received no discouraging reply. the lady rose; the knight sprang from his horse, took a hand which she offered, helped her from the rock, and they sat down on the grass. the knight asked how she came to be there alone. the lady replied that she had been waiting for him: ever since he could be- stride a horse she had been devoted to him; she had been his help and protection in tour- neys and fights, in all climes and regions, though he had never seen her. the knight wished he might ever be hers. he could have his wish, she said, and never know trouble or sickness, on one condition, and that was that he never should marry: if he did this, he would die in three days. he vowed to be hers as long as he lived; they exchanged kisses, and then she bade him mount his horse and go to mass. after the benediction he was to return home, and when he was alone in his chamber, and wished for her, she would come, and so always; that privilege god had given her: "swa ich wil, da" bin ich." they had their meeting when he returned from church: he redoubled his vows, she promised him all good things, and the bounties which he received from her overflowed upon all his friends and comrades. the knight now undertook a chivalrous tour, to see such parts of the world as he had not visited before. wherever he went, the fair lady had only to be wished for and she was by him: there was no bound to her love or her gifts. upon his return he was beset by rela- tives and friends, and urged to marry. he put them off with excuses: he was too young to sacrifice his freedom, and what not. they returned to the charge before long, and set a wise man of his kindred at him to beg a boon of him. "anything," he said, "but mar- rying: rather cut me into strips than that." having silenced his advisers by this reply, he went to his closet and wished for his lady. she was full of sympathy, and thought it might make his position a little easier if he should tell his officious friends something of the real case, how he had a wife who attended him wherever he went and was the source of all his prosperity; but he must not let them persuade him, or what she had predicted would surely come to pass. at this time a king was to be chosen at frankfurt, and all the nobility flocked thither, and among them staufenberg, with a splendid train. he, as usual, was first in all tourneys, and made himself remarked for his liberal gifts and his generous consideration of youth- ful antagonists: his praise was in everybody's mouth. the king sent for him, and offered him an orphan niece of eighteen, with a rich dowry. the knight excused himself as un- worthy of such a match. the king said his niece must accept such a husband as he pleased to give, and many swore that staufenberg was a fool. bishops, who were there in plenty, asked him if he had a wife already. staufen- berg availed himself of the leave which had been given him, and told his whole story, not omitting that he was sure to die in three days if he married. "let me see the woman," said one of the bishops. "she lets nobody see her but me," answered staufenberg. "then it is a devil," said another of the clergy, "and your soul is lost forever." staufenberg yielded, and said he would do the king's will. he was betrothed that very hour, and set out for or- tenau, where he had appointed the celebration of the nuptials. when night came he wished for the invisible lady. she appeared, and told him with all gentleness that he must prepare for the fate of which she had forewarned him, a fate seemingly inevitable, and not the con- sequence of her resentment. at the wedding feast she would display her foot in sight of all the guests: when he saw that, let him send for the priest. the knight thought of what the clergy had said, and that this might be a che<it of the devil. the bride was brought to staufenberg, the feast was held, but at the very beginning of it a foot whiter than ivory was seen through the ceiling. staufenberg tore his hair and cried, friends, ye have ruined . clerk colvill yourselves and me! he begged his bride and all who had come with her to the wedding to stay for his funeral, ordered a bed to be pre- pared for him and a priest to be sent for. he asked his brothers to give his bride all that he had promised her. but she said no; his friends should rather have all that she had brought; she would have no other husband, and since she had been the cause of his death she would go into a cloister, where no eye should see her: which she did after she had returned to her own country. a superscription to the old poem denomi- nates staufenberg's amphibious consort a mer- fey, sea-fairy; but that description is not to be strictly interpreted, no more than mer-fey, or fata morgana, is in some other romantic tales. there is nothing of the water-sprite in her, nor is she spoken of by any such name in the poem itself. the local legends of sixty years ago,* and perhaps still, make her to have been a proper water-nymph. she is first met with by the young knight near a spring or a brook, and it is in a piece of water that he finds his death, and that on the evening of his wedding day. clerk colvill and the mermaid are repre- sented by sir oluf and an elf in scandinavian ballads to the number of about seventy. the oldest of these is derived from a danish man- uscript of , two centuries and a half later than the staufenberg poem, but two earlier than clerk colvill, the oldest ballad outside of the scandinavian series. five other ver- sions are of the date , or earlier, the rest from tradition of this century. no ballad has received more attention from the heroic danish editor, whose study of 'elveskud' presents an admirably ordered synoptic view of all the versions known up to : grundt- vig, no , ii, - , - ; iii, - ; iv, - -t the scandinavian versions are: faroe, four: a, sts, b, sts, c, sts, d, sts, grundtvig, iv, - . * engelhardt, pp , f: sagen aus baden and der um- gegend, carlsruhe, , pp - . t separately printed, under the title, elveskud, dansk, svensk, norsk, faeresk, islandsk, skotsk, vendiak, bemisk, icelandic, twelve, differing slightly except at the very end: a,' kvaesi af olafi liljuros,' sts, ms. of ; b, c, ms. of about , sts, st.; d, sts ; e, sts; f, g, sts; h, 'dlafs kvaesi,' sts; i a, sts; i b, sts; k, sts; l, sts; m, sts. these in islenzk fornkvaesi, pp - , a a in full, but only the variations of the other versions. i b, previously, 'olafur og alfa- maer,' berggreen, danske folke-sange og me- lodier, d ed., pp , , no d; and m, "sn t, p. ." danish, twenty-six: 'elveskud' a, sts, ms. of , grundtvig, ii, ; b, sts, syv no ( ), danske viser, i, , grundtvig, ii, ; c, sts, the same, ii, ; d a, d b, , sts, ii, , ; e-g, , , sts, ii, - ; h, i, , sts, ii, - ; k, sts, l, sts, m, sts, n, sts, o, sts, p, sts, q, sts, r, sts, s, sts, t, sts, u, sts, v, sts, x, sts, y, sts, z, sts, j!, sta, iv, - ; , sts, boisen, nye og gamle viser, , p. , no . swedish, eight: a, sts,' elf-qvinnan och herr olof,' ms. of seventeenth century, af- zelius, iii, ; b, sts, ' herr olof i elf- vornas dans,' afzelius, iii, ; c, sts, afzelius, iii, ; d, sts, ' herr olof och elfvorna,' arwidsson, ii, ; e, sts, ar- widsson, ii, ; f, sts, grundtvig, iv, ; g, sts, 'herr olof och elffrun,' djurklou, p. ; h, sts, afzelius, sago-hai- der, ed. , ii, . norwegian, eighteen: a, sts, 'olaf liljukrans,' landstad, p. ; b, sts, landstad, p. ; c-s, collections of professor bugge, used in manuscript by grundtvig; c, sts, partly printed in grundtvig, iii, ; d, sts, grundtvig, iii, - , partly; e, sts; f, sts; g, sts; h, sts; i, sts; k, sts, two printed, ib., p. .$ of these the faroe versions are nearest to the english. olaf's mother asks him whither he means to ride; his corselet is hanging in tysk, fransk, italiensk, katalonsk, spansk, bretonsk folke- vise, i overblik ved svend grundtvig. kjabenhavn, . } all the norse versions are in two-line stanzas. . cleek colvill the loft; a, c, d. "i am going to the heath, to course the hind," he says. "you are not going to course the hind; you are going to your leman. white is your shirt, well is it washed, but bloody shall it be when it is taken off," a, d. "god grant it be not as she bodes!" exclaims olaf, as he turns from his mother, a. he rides to the hills and comes to an elf- house. an elf comes out, braiding her hair, and invites him to dance. "you need not braid your hair for me; i have not come a-woo- ing," he says. "i must quit the company of elves, for to-morrow is my bridal." "if you will have no more to do with elves, a sick bridegroom shall you be! would you rather lie seven years in a sick-bed, or go to the mould to-morrow?" he would rather go to the mould to-morrow. the elf brought him a drink, with an atter-corn, a poison grain, floating in it: at the first draught his belt burst a, b*. "kiss me," she said, " before you ride." he leaned over and kissed her, though little mind had he to it: she was be- guiling him, him so sick a man. his mother came out to meet him: "why are you so pale, as if you had been in an elf-dance?" "i have been in an elf-dance," he said,* went to bed, turned his face to the wall, and was dead be- fore midnight. his mother and his love (moy, vfv) died thereupon. distinct evidence of previous converse with elves is lacking in the icelandic versions. olaf rides along the cliffs, and comes upon an elf-house. one elf comes out with her hair twined with gold, another with a silver tank- ard, a third in a silver belt, and a fourth wel- comes him by name. "come into the booth and drink with us." "i will not live with elves," says olaf; "rather will i believe in god." the elf answers that he might do both, excuses herself for a moment, and comes back in a cloak, which hides a sword. "you shall not go without giving us a kiss," she * in 'jomfruen og dvaergekongen,' c , , grundt- vig, no , the woman who has been carried off to the hill, wishing to die, asks that atter-corns may be put into her drink. she evidently gets, however, only the villar-konn, elvar-konn, of landstad, nos - , which are of lethean property. but in j. og d. f, we may infer an atter-corn, though none is mentioned, from the effect of the draughts, says. olaf leans over his saddle-bow and kisses her, with but half a heart, and she thrusts the sword under his shoulder-blade into the roots of his heart. he sees his heart's blood under his horse's feet, and spurs home to his mother. "whence comest thou, my son, and why so pale, as if thou hadst been in an elf-dance (leik)?" "it boots not to hide it from thee: an elf has beguiled me. make my bed, mother; bandage my side, sister." he dies presently: there was more mourning than mirth; three were borne to the grave together. nearly all the danish and swedish ver- sions, and a good number of the norwegian, interpose an affecting scene between the death of the hero and that of his bride and his mother. the bride, on her way to olaf's house, and on her arrival, is disconcerted and alarmed by several ominous proceedings or circumstances. she hears bells tolling; sees people weeping; sees men come and go, but not the bridegroom. she is put off for a time with false explanations, but in the end dis- covers the awful fact. such a passage occurs in the oldest danish copy, which is also the oldest known copy of the ballad. the im- portance of this version is such that the story requires to be given with some detail. oluf rode out before dawn, but it seemed to him bright as day.f he rode to a hill where dwarfs were dancing. a maid stepped out from the dance, put her arm round his neck, and asked him whither he would ride. "to talk with my true-love," said he. "but first," said she, " you must dance with us." she then went on to make him great offers if he would plight himself to her: a horse that would go to rome and back in an hour, and a gold saddle for it; a new corselet, having which he never need fly from man; a sword such as never was used in war. such were all her benches as if gold were laid in links, and such which is that belt, stays, and sark successively burst. see p. f. t so, also, swedish a, f, norwegian a, c. this is a cantrip sleight of the elves. the icelandic burden supposes this illumination, "the low was burning red ; " and when olaf seeks to escape, in norwegian a, c, e, g, i, k, he has to make his way through the elf-flame, elvelogi. clerk colvill comte,' luzel, i, f, fifty-seven and fifty- nine two-line stanzas. b, 'ann aotro nann,' 'le seigneur nann,' luzel, i, fifty-seven stanzas.* d, ' aotrou nann hag ar gorrigan,' 'le seigneur nann et la fee,' villemarqud, p. , ed. , thirty-nine stanzas. e,' mon- sieur nann,' podsies populaires de la france, ms., v, fol. , fifty-three verses. f, 'sonen gertrud guet hi vam,' 'chant de gertrude et de sa mere,' l. kerardven [=dufilhol], gui- onvac'h, etudes sur la bretagne, d ed., paris, , p. , p. , eleven four-line stanzas. g, rolland in romania, xii, , a somewhat abridged literal translation, in french. the count [nann] and bis wife were mar- ried at the respective ages of thirteen and twelve. the next year a son was born [a boy and girl, d]. the young husband asked the countess if she had a fancy for anything. she owned that she should like a bit of game, and he took his gun [lance] and went to the wood. at the entrance of the wood he met a fairy [a dwarf, e; a hind, g; saw a white hind, which he pursued hotly till evening, when he dismounted near a grotto to drink, and there was a korrigan, sitting by the spring, combing her hair with a gold comb, d]. the fairy [dwarf, hind] said that she had long been looking for him, a, b, c, e, g. "now that i have met you, you must marry me." f "marry you? not i. i am married already." "choose either to die in three days or to lie sick in bed seven [three] years" [and then die, c]. he would rather die in three days, for his wife is very young, and would suffer greatly [he would rather die that instant than wed a korrigan, d]. on reaching home the young man called to his mother to make his bed; he should * luzel was in possession of other versions, but he assnres us that every detail is contained in one or the other of these three. t b ," you must marry me straightway, or give me my weight in silver;" then, "or die in three days," etc. it is not impossible that this stanza, entirely out of place in this ballad, was derived from ' le comte des chapelles,' luzel, p. , from which certain french versions have taken a part of their story. see luzel, the eighth and ninth stanzas, on p. . } b , "a white gown, or broget, or my violet petti- coat?" luzel says he does not understand broget, and in never get up again. [his mother, in c , says, do not weep so: it is not every sick man that dies, as in danish a .] he re- counted his meeting with the fairy, and begged that his wife might not be informed of his death. the countess asked, what has happened to my husband, that he does not come to see me? she was told that he had gone to the wood to get her something, a [to paris, c ; to the city, d]. why were the men-servants weeping? the best horse had been drowned in bathing him, a, e; had been eaten by the wolves, b; had broken his neck, c; had died, f. they were not to weep ; others should be bought. and why were the maids weeping? linen had been lost in washing, a, c, e, f; the best silver cover had been stolen, f. they must not weep; the loss would be supplied. why were the priests chanting? [the bells tolling, e, f]. a poor person whom they had lodged had died in the night, a-e [a young prince had died, f]. what dress should she wear for her churching, — red or blue? d, f.j the custom had come in of wearing black [she asks for red, they give her black, f]. on arriving at the church, or cemetery, she saw that the earth had been disturbed; her pew was hung with black, b; why was this? "i can no longer conceal it," said her mother-in-law: "your husband is dead." she died upon the spot, a, d. "take my keys, take care of my son; i will stay with his fa- ther," b, c. "your son is dead, your daughter is dead," f. § this ballad has spread, apparently from brittany, over all france. no distinct trace of the fairy remains, however, except in a sin- gle case. the versions that have been made his observations, prefixed to the volume, expresses a conjec- ture that it must have been altered from droged, robe d'en- fant, robe de femme, but we evidently want a color. grundt- vig remarks that broget would make sense in danish, where it means party-colored. scotch broakit is black and white. icelandic brdk, tartan, party-colored cloth, is said to be from gaelic breac, versicolor (vigfusson). this points to a suita- ble meaning for breton broget. § d adds: "it was a marvel to see, the night after hus- band and wife had been buried, two oaks rise from the com- mon tomb, and on their branches two white doves, which sang there at daybreak, and then took flight for the skies." . clerk colvill it is louis in a, i, j, v. he is king, or of the royal family, f, m, n, o, q, w, bb, cc, gg; count, y; renaud le grand, h, z. in a, while he is walking in his meadows, he meets death, who asks him, peremptorily, would you rather die this very night, or languish seven years? and he answers that he prefers to die at once. here there is a very plain trace of the older fairy. he is mortally hurt, •while hunting, by a wolf, b; by a boar, dd. but in more than twenty versions he returns from war, often with a horrible wound, "ap- portant son coeur dans sa main," c; "tenant ses tripes dans ses mains," n; "oque ses tripes on sa main, sen estoumac on sen chapea, sen cur covert de sen mentea," g ; etc. in f, i, j he comes home in a dying state from prison (to which he was consigned, according to i, for robbing a church!). in these ver- sions the story is confused with that of an- other ballad, existing in breton, and very likely in french, 'komt ar chapel,' 'le comte des chapelles,' luzel, i, or 'le page de louis xiii,' villemarqud, barzaz- breiz, p. . a fragment of a corresponding italian ballad is given by nigra, romania, xi, , no . renaud, as it will be convenient to call the hero, coming home triste et chagrin, f, p, u b, o, triste et bien malau, y, receives on his ar- riving felicitations from his mother on account of the birth of a son. he has no heart to respond to these: "ni de ma femme, ni de mon fils, je ne saurais me rdjoui." he asks that his bed may be made, with precautions against his wife's hearing. at midnight he is dead. the wife, hearing the men-servants weep- ing, asks her mother-in-law the cause. the best horse [horses] has been found dead in the stable, has strayed away, etc., b, d-s, gg. "no matter for that," says the wife; "when renaud comes he will bring better," b, d-g, l-q, gg. the maids are heard weeping; why is that? they have lost, or injured, sheets in the washing, b, d, e, g, j. when renaud comes we shall have better, b, d, e, g. or a piece of plate has been lost or broken, a, f, h, l, k, o. [it is children with the tooth- ache, f, u a, b, c, d]. "what is this chant- ing which i hear?" it is a procession, mak- ing the tour of the house: b, d-f, l, p-x, gg. "what gown shall i wear when i go to church?" black is the color for women at their churching, b, f, i, l, m, o, p, v, y; black is more becoming, plus joli, plus con- venant, plus consequent, a, d, h, k, n, r, x, bb, dd, gg; "quittez le ros', quittez le gris, prenez le noir, pour mieux choisir," etc., q, w, u, e, s, t. besides these four questions, all of which occur in breton ballads, there are two which are met with in many versions, always coming before the last. "what is this pounding (frapper, cogner, taper) which i hear?" it is carpenters, or masons, repairing some part of the house, d, e, k, l, n, p-u, w; a, v, x, aa ; gg. "why are the bells ringing?" for a procession, or because a distinguished person- age has come, has died, etc., a, b, f-l, q, r, w, y, aa, dd, gg. on the way to church [or cemetery] herdboys or others say to one an- other, as the lady goes by, that is the wife of the king, the seigneur, that was buried last night, or the like; and the mother-in-law has again to put aside the lady's question as to what they were saying, d, e, g, h, l-p, s, t, x, y, ff, gg. flambeaux or candles are burning at the church, e, v; a taper is presented to the widow, m, or holy water, n, t, z, gg; the church is hung with black, d, o, ff; the funeral is going on, aa, cc. "whose is this new monument?" "what a fine tomb!" m, n, r, t, z, gg. the scene in other cases is transferred to the cemetery. "why has the earth been disturbed?" "what new mon- ument is this?" a, dd; c, f, i, j, p. in b the tomb is in the garden ; in l, s, x, bb the place is not defined. the young wife utters a piercing shriek, c, d, k, l, n. open earth, split tomb, split tiles! a, b, q, r, v, w, x, y; i will stay with my husband, will die with my husband, will not go back, a, c, d, m, n, q, r, s, x, y, z, bb, cc, gg. she bids her mother take her keys, b, c, g, l, m, p, y, bb, cc, gg, and commits her son [children] to her . clerk colvill kinsfolk, to bring up piously, b, g, i, j, l, m, o, z, bb, cc. in h, p, q, w, x, y the earth opens, and in the last four it encloses her. in k heaven is rent by her shriek, and she sees her husband in light (who says, strangely, that his mouth smacks of rot) ; he bids her bring up the children as christians. heaven opens to her prayer in aa, and a voice cries, wife, come up hither! in gg the voice from heaven says, go to your child: i will keep your husband safe. there are other variations.* g, t, i say expressly that renaud's wife died the next day, or after hearing three masses, or soon after. m, o, by a feeble modern perversion, make her go into a con- vent. italian ballads cover very much the same ground as the french. the versions hitherto published are: a. 'la lavandaia,' cento, ferraro, canti popolari di ferrara, cento e pontelagoscuro, p. , verses, romania, xi, , amended. b. 'il cavaliere della bella spada,' pontelago- scuro, ferraro, p. , previously in rivista di filologia romanza, ii, , verses, roma- nia, xi, . . piedmont, communicated by nigra, with other versions, to romania, xi, , no , verses. d. romania, xi, f, no , verses. e. ib. p. , no , verses. f. ib. p. f, no , verses. g. 'conte anzolin,' wolf, volkslieder aus venetien, p. , verses. h. romania, xi, , no , verses. i. ib. p. f, no , verses. j. 'ii re carlino,' ferraro, canti popolari mon- ferrini, p. , verses. k. romania, xi, , no , verses. l. 'il conte angio- lino,' rovigno, ive, canti popolari istriani, p. , verses. m. 'il conte cagnolino,' * in c the mother-in-law tells her daughter, austerely: vous aurez plutot trouvd un mari que moi je n'aurai trouvci un tils. so e, nearly. a mother makes a like remark to the be- trothed of a dead son in the danish ballad of 'ebbe tyge- sen,' grundtvig, danske ksempeviser og folkesange, for- nyede i gammel stil, , p. , st. . f and t conclude with these words of the wife: 'ma mere, dites au fossoyeur qu'il ereuse une fosse pour deux; pontelagoscuro, ferraro, as above, p. , ri- vista di filologia romanza,'ii, , verses. all these are from recent tradition. the name rinaldo, rinald, is found only in i, c, and the latter has also luis. luis is the name in e; carlino, carlin, in j, h; angi- olino, anzolin, l, g; cagnolino, m. the rank is king in c, e, h-k; prince, d; count, q, l, m. a and b, corrupted fragments though they be, retain clear traces of the ancient form of the story, and of the english variety of that form. under the bridge of the rella [dia- mantina] a woman is washing clothes, gh' e 'na lavandera. a knight passes, b, and ap- parently accosts the laundress. she moves into the water, and the knight after her; the knight embraces her, a. dowy rade he hame, el va a ca tiito moja, a. in b (pass- ing over some verses which have intruded) he has many knife-stabs, and his horse many also.f he asks his mother to put him to bed and his horse into the stable, and gives directions about his funeral. all of the story which precedes the hero's return home is either omitted, d, f, j, k, l, or abridged to a single stanza: ven da la cassa lo re rinald, ven da la cassa, i'd tut feri, c; ven da la guerra re rinaldo, ven da la guerra, i'd tut feri, i, e, h; save that g, which like c makes him to have been hunting (and to have been bitten by a mad dog), adds that, while he was hunting, his wife had given birth to a boy. m has an entirely false beginning: count cagnolino was disposed to marry, but wished to be secure about his wife's previous life. he had a marble statue in his garden which moved its eyes when any girl that had gone astray presented herself before it. the 'et que l'espace y soit si grand que l'on y mette aussi l'enfant.' the burial of father, mother, and child in a common grave is found elsewhere in ballads, as in 'redselille og medelvold,' grundtvig, no , a , g , m , x . t shutting our eyes to other romance versions, or, we may say, opening them to scandinavian ones, we might see in these stabs the wounds made by the elf-knives in dan- ish d, g, h, n, o, r, x, swedish g, norwegian h, i. see ' don joan y don ramon,' further on. . clerk colvill daughter of captain tartaglia having been declined, for reason, and another young woman espoused, tartaglia killed the count while they were hunting. the wounded man, already feeling the ap- proach of death, f, g, l, asks that his bed may be made; he shall die before the morrow, d, f, j; let not his wife know, f, g. the wife asks why the men-servants, coachmen, are weeping, and is told that they have drowned [lost] some of the horses, c-j, m [have burned the king's carriage, k]. we will get others when the king comes, she an- swers, c, d, h [when i get up, f, as in bre- ton a]. why are the maids weeping? the maids have lost sheets or towels in washing, f, i, k; have scorched the shirts in ironing, c, d, h. when the king comes, he will buy or bring better, c, d, h [when i get up, f, as in breton a]. why are the priests chant- ing? for a great feast to-morrow, f. why are the carpenters at work? they are mak- ing a cradle for your boy, c-e, h-k. why do the bells ring? a great lord is dead; in honor of somebody or something; c, e-l. why does not anzolin come to see me? he has gone a-hunting, g, l. what dress shall i put on to go to church? [when i get up i shall put on red, f, i.] you in black and i in gray, as in our country is the way, c-f, h, i [h moda a paris, by corruption of del pais] ; i white, you gray, j ; you will look well in black, m; put on red, or put on white, or put on black for custom's sake, g. the children in the street say, that is the wife of the lord who was buried, or the peo- ple look at the lady in a marked way, c, j, g, m; and why is this? for the last time the mother-in-law puts off the question. at the church, under the family bench, there is a grave new made, and now it has to be said that the husband is buried there, c-k, m. a conclusion is wanting in half of the bal- lads, and what there is is corrupted in others. the widow commends her boy to her hus- * the ballad of 'luggieri,' published by salvatori in the rassegna settimanale, rome, june , , and reprinted by nigra in romania, xi, (a variety of 'rizzardo bello,' wolf, volkslieuer aus venetien, p. , no ), appears band's mother, g, m, and says she will die with her dear one, d, e, j, m. in c, as in french v, she wishes to speak to her hus- band. if the dead ever spake to the quick, she would speak once to her dear liiis; if the quick ever spake to the dead, she would speak once to her dear husband. in g she bids the grave unlock, that she may come into the arms of her beloved, and then bids it close, that in his arms she may stay: cf. french y, q, x, r, aa. the story of the italian ballad, under the title of 'ii conte angiolino,' was given in epitome by luigi carrer, in his prose e poe- sie, venice, , iv, f, before any copy had been published (omitted in later editions). according to carrer's version, the lady, hear- ing bells, and seeing from her windows the church lighted up as for some office, extracts the fact from her mother-in-law on the spot, and then, going to the church and seeing her husband's tomb, prays that it would open and receive her. a fragment of an italian ballad given by nigra, romania, xi, , no , describes three card players, quarrelling over their game, as passing from words to knives, and from knives to pistols, and one of the party, the king of spain, as being wounded in the fray. he rides home with a depressed air, and asks his mother to make his bed, for he shall be dead at midnight and his horse at dawn. there is a confusion of two stories here, as will be seen from spanish ballads which are to be spoken of. both stories are mixed with the original adventure of the mermaid in ' ii cavaliere della bella spada,' already referred to as b. in this last the knight has a hundred and fifty stabs, and his horse ninety.* nigra has added to the valuable and beau- tiful ballads furnished to romania, xi, a tale (p. ) from the province of turin, which preserves the earlier portion of the breton story. a hunter comes upon a beautiful woman under a rock. she requires him to to me not to belong with 'renaud,' but with the class of 'the cruel brother,' as already remarked of the venetian ballad at p. . . clerk colvill don joan rides off. don ramon's mother sees her son coming through a field, gathering plants to heal his wounds. "what is the mat- ter?" she asks; "you are pale." "i have been bled, and they made a mistake." "ill luck to the barber!" "curse him not; it is the last time. between me and my horse we have nine and twenty lance thrusts; the horse has nine and i the rest. the horse will die to- night and i in the morning. bury him in the best place in the stable, and me in st eulalia; lay a sword crosswise over my grave, and if it is asked who killed me, let the answer be, don joan de la cassada." there are numerous catalan versions, and most of them add something to this story: mild, d ed., ' el guerrero mal herido,' p. , no , a-f, arg„ a„; briz, iii, f, two copies. these disagree considerably as to the cause of the hero's death, and the names are not constant. in aj of mila, as in the bal- earic ballad, don joan and don ramon are coming from the chase, and have a passage at lances; don joan is left dead, and don ra- mon is little short of it. a, b, of mila, tell us that don pedro died on the field of battle and don joan came home mortally wounded. e says that don joan and don ramon come from the chase, but don joan immediately says that he comes from a great battle. it is battle in f„ in e[ (with gast returning), and in both the catalan copies of briz, the hero being don joan in the first of these last, and in the other nameless. the wounded man says he has been badly bled, mila, a, b, a„ c„ briz ; he and his horse have lance wounds fifty-nine, thirty-nine, twenty-nine, etc., the horse nine and he the rest, mila, a, b, e, aw briz . his mother informs him that his wife has borne a child, "a boy like the morning star," briz , and says that if he will go to the best chamber he will find her surrounded by dames and ladies. this gives him no pleas- ure; he does not care for wife, nor dames, nor ladies, nor boys, nor morning stars: briz , mila, af-qi. he asks to have his bed made, mila, a-d, bw briz , , for he shall die at • i do not entirely understand professor mila's arrange- ment of those texts which he has not printed in full, and it midnight and his horse at dawn, a-d, a[, briz , and gives directions for his burial and that of his horse. let the bells toll when he is dead, and when people ask for whom it is, the answer will be, for don joan, briz , gast , mila, e„ who was killed in battle. let his arms be put over the place where his horse is buried, and when people ask whose arms they are his mother will say, my son's, who died in battle, mila a, b,. let a drawn sword be laid across his grave, and let those that ask who killed him be told, don joan, at the chase, mila, a, * we have, probably, to do with two different ballads here, versions a-f of mila's 'guerrero mal herido,' and briz's second, belonging with 'don joan y don ramon,' while a,^ of mila, and briz's first, represent a ballad of the renaud class. it is, however, possible that the first series may be imperfect copies of the second. 'don joan y don ramon ' has agreements with italian b, a: in b, particularly, we note the hundred and fifty stabs of the knight and the ninety of his horse. portuguese. a good portuguese version, 'd. pedro e d. leonarda,' in fifty short verses, unfortunately lacking the conclusion, has been lately communicated to romania (xi, ) by leite de vasconcellos. dom pedro went hunting, to be gone a year and a day, but was compelled to return home owing to a malady which seized him. his mother greets him with the information that his wife has given birth to a son. "comfort and cheer her," he says, " and for me make a bed, which i shall never rise from." the wife asks, where is my husband, that he does not come to see me ?" he has gone a-hunting for a year and a day," replies the mother. what is this commotion in the house ?" only visitors." but the bells are tolling! could it be for my husband?" no, no; it is for a feast-day." when do women go to mass after child-birth ?" some in three weeks and some in two, but a lady of your rank after a year and a day." and what color do they is very likely that more of his copies than i have cited exhibit some of the traits specified. clerk colvill wear ?" some light blue and some a thou- sand wonders, but you, as a lady of rank, will go in mourning." the ballad stops abruptly with a half-pettish, half-humorous imprecation from the daughter-in-law against the mother for keeping her shut up so long. there is a slavic ballad, which, like the ver- sions that are so popular with the romance nations, abridges the first part of the story, and makes the interest turn upon the gradual discovery of the hero's death, but in other re- spects agrees with northern tradition. bohemian. a a. erben, p. , no , herman a dornieka = waldau, bohmische granaten, i, , no ; b. celakowsky, i, = haupt u. schmaler, i, . b. erben, p. . c. moravian, susil, p. , no a, • nest'astna svatba,' ' the doleful wedding.' d. susil, p. , no b. e. slovak, cela- kowsky, i, . wendish. a. haupt und schmaler, i, , no , 'zrudny kwas,' 'the doleful wed- ding.' b. ii, , no , 'plakajuen new- esta,' 'the weeping bride' (the last eight stanzas, the ten before being in no connec- tion). the hero on his wedding day is making ready his horse to fetch the bride; for he is, as in the scandinavian ballads, not yet a mar- ried man. his mother, bohemian a, ascer- taining his intention, begs him not to go him- self with the bridal escort. obviously she has a premonition of misfortune. herman will never invite guests, and not go for them. the mother, in an access of passion, exclaims, if you go, may you break your neck, and never come back! here we are reminded of the faroe ballad. bohemian c, d make the fore- bodings to rise in herman's mind, not in his mother's. the mother opposes the match in bohemian e, and the sister wishes that he may break his neck. wendish a has nothing of opposition or bodement before the start, but the crows go winging about the young men who are going for the bride, and caw a hor- rible song, how the bridegroom shall fall from his horse and break his neck. the train sets off with a band of trumpets, drums, and stringed instruments, or, bohemian d, with a discharge of a hundred muskets, and when they come to a linden in a meadow herman's horse "breaks his foot," and the rider his neck ; bohemian d, when they come to a copse in a meadow the hundred pieces are again discharged, and herman is mortally wounded. his friends stand debating what they shall do. the dying man bids them keep on : since the bride cannot be his, she shall be his youngest brother's, bohemian a, c; cf. danish l, o, r, norwegian c, f. the train arrives at the bride's house; the bride comes out to greet them, but, not seeing the bridegroom, inquires affrightedly what has become of him. they pretend that he has remained at home to see to the tables. the mother is reluctant to give them the bride, but finally yields. when the train comes again to the linden in the mead, dorothy sees blood. it is herman's! she cries; but they assure her that it is the blood of a deer that herman had killed for the feast. they reach herman's house, where the bride has an appalling reception, which need not be particularized. in bohemian a, while they are at supper (or at half-eve = three in the afternoon), a death-bell is heard. dorothy turns pale. for whom are they tolling? surely it is for herman. they tell her that herman is lying in his room with a bad headache, and that the bell is ringing for a child. but she guesses the truth, sinks down and dies, a. she wears two knives in her hair, and thrusts one of them into her heart, b. the two are buried in one grave. in bohemian b the bell sounds for the first time as the first course is brought on, and a second time when the second course comes. the bride is told in each case that the knell is for a child. upon the third sound- ing, when the third course is brought in, they tell her that it is for herman. she seizes two knives and runs to the graveyard: with one she digs herself a grave, and with the other stabs herself. in the wendish fragment b, at the first and second course (there is no bell) the bride asks where the bridegroom is, and at the third repeats the question with tears. she is told that he is ranging the woods, killing game for his wedding. in- . clerk colvill bohemian c the bell tolls while they are get- ting the table ready. the bride asks if it is for herman, and is told that it is for a child. when they sit down to table, the bells toll again. for whom should this be? for whom but herman? she springs out of the window, and the catastrophe is the same as in bohemian b. in d the bride hears the bell as the train is approaching the house, and they say it is for a child. on entering the court she asks where herman is. he is in the cel- lar drawing wine for his guests. she asks again for herman as the company sits down to table, and the answer is, in the chamber, lying in a coffin. she springs from the table and rushes to the chamber, seizing two golden knives, one of which she plunges into her heart. in bohemian e, when the bride arrives at john the bridegroom's house, and asks where he is, they tell her she had better go to bed till midnight. the moment she touches john she springs out of bed, and cries, dear people, why have ye laid a living woman with a dead man? they stand, saying, what shall we give her, a white cap or a green chaplet? "i have not deserved the white (widow's) cap," she says; "i have deserved a green chaplet." in wendish a, when the bell first knolls, the bride asks, where is the bride- groom? and they answer, in the new cham- ber, putting on his fine clothes. a second toll evokes a second inquiry; and they say he is in the new room, putting on his sword. the third time they conceal nothing: he fell off his horse and broke his neck. "then tear off my fine clothes and dress me in white, that i may mourn a year and a day, and go to church in a green chaplet, and never forget him that loved me!" it will be remembered that the bride takes her own life in norwe- gian a, c, d, and in swedish e, as she does in bohemian a b, b, c, d. b is translated by grundtvig, engelske og skotske folkeviser, p. , no ; by doen- niges, p. . 'der ritter von staufenberg' is translated by jamieson, from the "romanzen" in the wunderhorn,' in illustrations of northern antiquities, p. . danish a by prior, ii, ; b by jamieson, popular ballads, i, , and by prior, ii, , buchanan, p. . 'the erl-king's daughter,' "danish," in lewis's tales of wonder, i, , no , is rendered from herder. swedish a by keightley, fairy mythology, p. ; b by keightley, p. , and by william and mary howitt, literature and romance of northern europe, i, . there is a version from swedish by j. h. dixon, in notes and queries, th series, i, . bre- ton d by keightley, as above, p. , and by tom taylor, ballads and songs of brittany, 'lord nann and the fairy,' p. . bohemian a b by bowring, cheskian anthology, p. . a from a transcript from william tytler's brown ms. clark colven* and his gay ladie. as they walked to yon garden green, a belt about her middle gimp, which cost clark colven crowns fifteen: 'o hearken weel now, my good lord, o hearken weel to what i say; when ye gang to the wall o stream, o gang nae neer the well-fared may.' 'o haud your tongue, my gay ladie, tak nae sic care o me; for i nae saw a fair woman i like so well as thee.' he mounted on his berry-brown steed, and merry, merry rade he on, till he came to the wall o stream, and there he saw the mermaiden. 'te wash, ye wash, ye bonny may, and ay's ye wash your sark o silk :' 'it's a' for you, ye gentle knight, my skin is whiter than the milk.' he's taen her by the milk-white hand, he's taen her by the sleeve sae green, . clerk colvill and he's forgotten his gay ladie, and away with the fair maiden. * * * * * 'ohon, alas !' says clark colven, 'and aye sae sair's i mean my head!' and merrily leugh the mermaiden, 'o win on till you be dead. 'but out ye tak your little pen-knife, and frae my sark ye shear a gare; row that about your lovely head, and the pain ye 'll never feel nae mair.' out he has taen his little pen-knife, and frae her sark he's shorn a gare, rowed that about his lovely head, but the pain increased mair and mair. 'ohon, alas !' says clark colven, 'an aye sae sair's i mean my head!' and merrily laughd the mermaiden, 'it will ay be war till ye be dead.' then out he drew his trusty blade, and thought wi it to be her dead, but she's become a fish again, and merrily sprang into the fleed. he's mounted on his berry-brown steed, and dowy, dowy rade he home, and heavily, heavily lighted down when to his ladie's bower-door he came. 'oh, mither, mither, mak my bed, and, gentle ladie, lay me down; oh, brither, brither, unbend my bow, 't will never be bent by me again.' his mither she has made his bed, his gentle ladie laid him down, his brither he has unbent his bow, 't was never bent by him again. b herd's ancient and modern scots songs, , p. : ed. , i, . clekk colvtll and his lusty dame were walking in the garden green; the belt around her stately waist cost clerk colvill of pounds fifteen. 'o promise me now, clerk colvill, or it will cost ye muckle strife, ride never by the wells of slane, if ye wad live and brook your life.' 'now speak nae mair, my lusty dame, now speak nae mair of that to me; did'i neer see a fair woman, but i wad sin with her body?' he's taen leave o his gay lady, nought minding what his lady said, and he's rode by the wells of slane, where washing was a bonny maid. 'wash on, wash on, my bonny maid, that wash sae clean your sark of silk ;' 'and weel fa you, fair gentleman, your body whiter than the milk.' ***** then loud, loud cry'd the clerk colvill, 'o my head it pains me sair ;' 'then take, then take,' the maiden said, 'and frae my sark you 'll cut a gare.' then she's gied him a little bane-knife, and frae her sark he cut a share; she's ty'd it round his whey-white face, but ay his head it aked mair. then louder cry'd the clerk colvill, 'o sairer, sairer akes my head ;' 'and sairer, sairer ever will,' the maiden crys, 'till you be dead.' out then he drew his shining blade, thinking to stick her where she stood, but she was vanishd to a fish, and swam far off, a fair mermaid. 'o mother, mother, braid my hair; my lusty lady, make my bed; o brother, take my sword and spear, for i have seen the false mermaid.' . clerk colvill notes and queries, th series, viii, , from the recita- tion of a lady in forfarshire. clerk colin and his mother dear were in the garden green; the hand that was about her neck cost colin pounds fifteen; the belt about her middle sae sma cost twice as much again. an when he cam to the clyde's water he lichted lowly down. an there he saw the mennaiden, washin silk upon a stane. 'come down, come down, now, clerk colin, come down an [fish] wi me; i 'll row ye in my arms twa, an a foot i sanna jee.' * * * * # 'forbidden gin ye wad be, love colin, forbidden gin ye wad be, ' mother, mother, mak my bed, and gang nae mair to clyde's water, and> sister> lay me doun, to court yon gay ladie.' ^ brother, tak my bow an shoot, for my shooting is done.' 'forbid me frae your ha, mother, forbid me frae your bour, he wasna weel laid in his bed, but forbid me not frae yon ladie; nor yet weel fa'en asleep, she's fair as ony flour. when up an started the mermaiden, just at clerk colin's feet. 'forbidden i winna be, mother, forbidden i winna be, 'will ye lie there an die, clerk colin, for i maun gang to clyde's water, will ye lie there an die? to court yon gay ladie.' or will ye gang to clyde's water, to fish in flood wi me?' an he is on his saddle set, as fast as he could win, h 'i will lie here an die,' he said, an he is on to clyde's water, 'i will lie here an die; by the lee licht o the moon. in spite o a' the deils in hell i will lie here an die.' a. s. laugh; but we have laughd in s. *. rowed seems to be written round, possibly rowad. s. brother. b. *. the edition of has body's. c. . when they part he returns home, and on the way his head becomes "wondrous sair :" seemingly a comment of the reciter. the abbotsford copy in " scottish songs," fol. , has these readings, not found in lewis, the brown ms., or herd. . and dinna deave me wi your din: lewis, and haud, my lady gay, your din. s. he's laid her on the flowery green. . the broomfield hill the broomfield hill a. 'the broomficld hill.' a. scott's minstrelsy, iii, , . b. the same, ii, , . b. 'i 'll wager, i 'll wager,' etc., herd's ancient and modern scots songs, , p. . c. 'broomfield hills,' buchan's ballads of the north of scotland, ii, . d. 'lord john,' kinloch's ancient scottish ballads, p. . b. joseph robertson's note-book, january, , p. . f. 'the merry broomfield, or the west country wager.' a. douce ballads, iii, fol. b. b. the same, iv, fol. . a song of 'brume, brume on bil' is one of those named in the complaint of scotland, , p. of dr j. a. h. murray's edition. "the foot of the song " is sung, with others, by moros in wager's "very merry and pithy comedy called the longer thou livest the more fool thou art," c. . 'broom, broom on hil' is also one of captain cox's " bunch of ballets and songs, all auncient," no of the collection, .* the lines that moros sings are: brome, brome on hill, the gentle brome on hill, hill, brome, brome on hive hill, the gentle brome on hive hill, the brome stands on hive hill a. "a more sanguine antiquary than the ed- itor," says scott, "might perhaps endeavor to identify this poem, which is of undoubted an- tiquity, with the ' broom, broom on hill' men- tioned ... as forming part of. captain cox's collection." assuredly "broom, broom on hill," if that were all, would justify no such * furnivall, captain cox, his ballads and books, pp cxxviif. uitson cited the comedy in the dissertation prefixed to his ancient songs, , p. lx. t motherwell remarks, at page of his introduction, "the song is popular still, and is often to be met with." it was printed in a cheap american song-book, which i have not been able to recover, under the title of 'the green broomfield,' and with some cis-atlantic variations. graham's illustrated magazine, september, , gives these stanzas: "then when she went to the green broom field, where her love was fast asleep, identification, but the occurrence of hive hill, both in the burden which moros sings and in the eighth stanza of scott's ballad, is a circum- stance that would embolden even a very cau- tious antiquary, if he had received hive hill from tradition, and was therefore unaffected by a suspicion that this locality had been in- troduced by an editor from the old song.f most of the versions give no explicit account of the knight's prolonged sleep. he must needs be asleep when the lady comes to him, else there would be no story; but his heavy slumber, not broken by all the efforts of his horse and his hawk, is as a matter of course not natural; es geht nicht zu mit rechten dingen; the witch-wife of a is at the bot- tom of that. and yet the broom-flowers strewed on his hals-bane in a , b , and the roses in d , are only to be a sign that the maid had been there and was gone. consid- ering the character of many of buchan's ver- sions, we cannot feel sure that c has not bor- rowed the second and third stanzas from b, and the witch-wife, in the sixth, from a; but with a gray jooje-hawk and a green laurel bough, and a green broom under his feet. "and when he awoke from out his sleep, an angry man was he; he looked to the east, and he looked to the west, and he wept for his sweetheart to see. "oh! where was you, my gray joose-hawk, the hawk that i loved so dear, that you did not awake me from out my sleep, when my sweetheart was so near? m . the broomfield hill it would be extravagant to call in question the genuineness of c as a whole. the eighth stanza gives us the light which we require. 'ye 'll pu the bloom frae aff the broom, strew't at his head and feet, and aye the thicker that ye do strew, the sounder he will sleep.' the silver belt about the knight's head in a can hardly have to do with his sleeping, and to me seems meaningless. it is possible that roses are not used at random in d , though, like the posie of pleasant perfume in f , they serve only to prove that the lady had been there. an excrescence on the dog- rose, rosenschwamm, schlafkunz, kunz, schlaf- apfel, it is believed in germany, if laid under a man's pillow, will make him sleep till it is taken away. grimm, deutsche mythologie, p. , and deutsches worterbuch (hilde- brand), v, e. c makes the lady hide in the broom to hear what the knight will say when he wakes, and in this point agrees with the broadside f, as also in the comment made by the men on their master in stanza ; cf. f . mr j. w. dixon has reprinted an alder- mary churchyard copy of the broadside, dif- fering as to four or five words only from f, in ancient poems, ballads, and songs of the peasantry of england, p. , percy society, volume xvii. the editor remarks that a is evidently taken from f; from which it is clear that the pungent buckishness of the broadside does not necessarily make an im- pression. a smells of the broom ; f suggests the groom.* the sleep which is produced in a by strew- ing the flower of the broom on a man's head and feet, according to a witch's advice, is brought about in two norse ballads by means not simply occult, but altogether preternatu- ral; that is, by the power of runes. one of these, 'somn-runorna,' arwidsson, ii, , no , is preserved in a manuscript of the end of the seventeenth, or the beginning of the eighteenth, century. the other, 'sovnerun- * the broadside is also copied into buchan's mss, ii, . erne,' grundtvig, ii, , no , was taken down in from the singing of a woman seventy-five years of age. the swedish ballad runs thus. there is a damsel in our land who every night will sleep with a man, and dance a maid in the morning. the fame of this comes to the ears of the son of the king of england, who orders his horse, thinking to catch this damsel. when he ar- rives at the castle gate, there stands the lady, and asks him what is his haste. he frankly answers that he expects to get a fair maid's honor for his pains, and she bids him follow her to the upper room. she lays sheets on the bed, and writes strong runes on them. the youth sits down on the bed, and is asleep before he can stretch himself out. he sleeps through that day, and the next, and into the third. then the lady rouses him. "wake up; you are sleeping your two eyes out." he is still so heavy that he can hardly stir. he offers her bis horse and saddle to report the matter as he wishes. "keep your horse," she says; "shame fa such liars." the danish story is much the same. one of a king's five sons goes to make trial of the maid. she tells him to fasten his horse while she goes before and unlocks; calls to her maid to bring five feather-beds, feather-beds nine, and write a sleep on each of them. he sleeps through three days, and is roused the fourth, with "wake up, wake up; you have slept away your pluck." he offers her a bribe, as before, which she scornfully rejects, assuring him that he will not be spared when she comes among maids and knights. a sleep produced by runes or gramarye is one of the two main incidents of a tale in the gesta romanorum, better known through the other, which is the forfeit of flesh for money not forthcoming at the day set, as in the mer- chant of venice: latin, oesterley, no , p. ;t english, harleian ms. , no , printed by douce, illustrations of shak- spere, i, , madden, p. , herrtage, p. ; german, no , of the printed edition of (which i have not seen). a knight, t the anglo-latin text in harleian ms. , no . . the broomfield hill who has a passion for an emperor's daughter, engages to give a thousand [hundred] marks for being once admitted to her bed. he in- stantly falls asleep, and has to be roused in the morning. like terms are made for a sec- ond night, and the man's lands have to be pledged to raise the money. he sleeps as be- fore, but stipulates for a third night at the same price. a merchant lends him the thou- sand marks, on condition that, if he breaks his day, his creditor may take the money's weight of flesh from his body. feeling what a risk he is now running, the knight consults a phi- losopher, virgil, in the english version. the philosopher (who in the latin version says he ought to know, for he had helped the lady to her trick) tells the knight that between the sheet and coverlet of the bed there is a letter, which causes the sleep; this he must find, and, when found, cast far from the bed. the knight follows these directions, and gets the better of the lady, who conceives a reciprocal passion for him, and delivers him, in the sequel, from the fearful penalty of his bond by plead- ing that the flesh must be taken without shed- ding of blood. the romance of dolopathos, a variety of the seven wise masters, written about , con- siderably before the earliest date which has hitherto been proposed for the compilation of the gesta, has this story, with variations, of which only these require to be noted. the lady has herself been a student in magic. she is wooed of many; all comers are received, and pay a hundred marks; any one who ac- complishes his will may wed her the next day. an enchanted feather of a screech-owl, laid under the pillow, makes all who enter the bed fall asleep at once, and many have been baf- fled by this charm. at last a youth of high birth, but small means, tries his fortune, and, failing at the first essay, tries once more. thinking that the softness of his couch was the cause of his falling asleep, he puts away • sy . . . bereytte keyn abende das bette met dcr czoberye met der schryft nnd met des wylden mannes veddere, p. , lines , - ; das quam alles von der czoyberye, das die jangfrowe dy knaben alle beczobert hatte met schryft und met bryven, dy sy en under dy hobt lcytc under dy kussen, the pillow, and in this process the feather is thrown out: iohannis de alta silva dolopa- thos, ed. esterley, pp - ; herbers, li romans de dolopathos, brunet et montaiglon, vv - , pp - ; le roux de lincy, in a sequel to loiseleur-deslongchamps's es- sai sur les fables indiennes, pp ff. this form of the tale is found in german, in a fif- teenth-century manuscript, from which it was printed by haupt in altdeutsche blatter, i, - ; but here the sleep is produced by the use of both the means employed in the gesta and in dolopathos, letter (runes) and feather, "the wild man's feather." * magic is dropped, and a sleeping draught administered, just as the man is going to bed, in a version of the story in the pecorone of ser giovanni fiorentino, giornata, ivs, nov. la (last quarter of the fourteenth century). upon the third trial the man, warned by a friendly chambermaid not to drink, pours the medicated wine into his bosom. the account of ser giovanni is adopted in les adventures d'abdalla fils d'hanif, etc., la haye, , bibliotheque de romans, , janvier, i, - , f. ellin writes sleep-runes on the cushions on which her husband is to sleep, in the danish ballad 'fraendehaevn,' grundtvig, no , a [ ]. in icelandic tales a sleep-thorn f is em- ployed, probably a thorn inscribed with runes. the thorn is stuck into the clothes or into the head (the ears, according to the popular notion, vigfusson), and the sleep lasts till the thorn is taken out. odin stuck such a thorn into brynhild's garments: fafnismal, ; sigrdrffumal, ; volsunga saga, fornaldar sogur, i, . the thorn is put into the clothes also in the icelandic fairy-tale, maer- foll, maurer, islandische volkssagen, p. . m, to save herself from helgi's violence, and to punish his insolence, sticks him with a sleep-thorn after he is dead drunk: hrolfs nnd met den veddern von den wylden rnchen liiten, lines - . only one letter and one feather is employed in each case. t svefnforn, danish sevntorn, or savnprcen: blundstalir, sleep-staves, rods (if not letters, runes) in sigrdrffumal, . . the broomfield hill saga kraka, forn. s. i, f, torfams, p. . vilhjalmr sticks a sleep-thorn into hrolfr, and he lies as if dead so long as the thorn is in him: gaungu-hrdlfs saga, forn. s., ill, , . a pillow of soporific quality, which kamele, by isot's direction, puts under kaedin's head, assures her safety though she lies all night by his side: ulrich's continuation of gottfried's tristan, vv - , - ; and heinrich's continuation, omitting the last circumstance, vv - (j. grimm). the witch-woman, in the english ballad, a , represents the philosopher in the gesta, and the wager in the other versions the fee or fine exacted by the lady in the gesta and elsewhere. an italian ballad, a slight and unmeritable thing, follows the story of ser giovanni, or agrees with it, in respect to the sleeping- draught. a man falls in with a girl at a spring, and offers her a hundred ducats, or scudi, per una nottina. the girl says that she must consult her mother. the mother advises her to accept the offer: she will give the man a drug, and the money will serve for a dowry. the man, roused in the morning, counts out the money with one hand and wipes his eyes with the other. when asked why he is crying, he replies that the money is not the loss he weeps for, and makes a sec- ond offer of the same amount. the girl wishes to refer the matter to her mother again, but the gallant says the mother shall not take him in a second time. one version (a) ends somewhat more respectably: the girl de- clares that, having come off with her honor once, she will not again expose herself to shame. a. ferraro, canti popolari monfer- rini, 'la ragazza onesta,' p. , no . b. ferraro, c. p. di ferrara, cento e pontela- goscuro, p. (cento) no , 'la ragazza onesta.' c. the same, p. (pontelagoscuro) no , 'la brunetta,' previously in rivista di filologia romanza, ii, . d. wolf, volks- lieder aus venetien, p. , 'la contadina alla fonte.' e. bernoni, c. p. veneziani, puntata v, no , p. , 'la bella brunetta.' f. bolza, canzoni p. comasche, p. , no ,' l'amante deluso.' g. ive, c. p. istriani, p. , no , 'la contadina alla fonte.' h. ginandrea, c. p. marchigiani, p. , no , 'la madre indegna.' i. ferraro, c. p. della bassa romagna, rivista di letteratura popolare, p. , 'la ragazza onesta.' j. ca- setti e imbriani, c. p. della provincie meridi- onali, p. , no (chieti), the first sixteen verses. k. archivio per tradizioni popolari, i, , no , 'la fandcll e lu cavalere,' the first thirteen lines. 'the sleepy merchant,' a modern ballad, in kinloch's mss, v, , was perhaps fash- ioned on some traditional report of the story in ii pecorone. the girl gives the merchant a drink, and when the sun is up starts to her feet, crying, " i'm a leal maiden yet!" the merchant comes back, and gets another dram, but " tooms it a' between the bolster and the wa," and then sits up and sings. a ballad found everywhere in germany, but always in what appears to be an extremely defective form, must originally, one would think, have had some connection with those which we are considering. a hunter meets a girl on the heath, and takes her with him to his hut, where they pass the night. she rouses him in the morning, and proclaims herself still a maid. the hunter is so chagrined that he is of a mind to kill her, but spares her life. 'der jager,' 'der ernsthafte jager,' 'des jagers verdruss,' 'der jager und die reine jungfrau,' 'der verschlafene jager:' mein- ert, p. ; wunderhorn, , i, , bir- linger u. crecelius, i, ; biisching a. von der hagen, p. , no ; nicolai, alma- nach, i, (fragment); erk u. irmer, ii, , no ; meier, p. , no ; prohle, no , p. ; fiedler, p. ; erk, liederhort, pp f, nos , "; hoffmann u. rich- ter, p. , no ; ditfurth, frankische volkslieder, ii, f, nos , ; norrenberg, des dujkener fiedlers liederbuch, no , p. ; j. a. e. kohler, volksbrauch im voigt- lande, p. ; jeitteles, volkslied in steier- mark, archiv fur lit. gesch., ix, , etc.; uhland, no , niederdeutsches liederbuch, no , 'vermuthlich vom eingang des . . the broomfield hill jhd.' of. die maeget, flemish, biisching u. a a is translated by doenniges, p. ; by von der hagen, p. ; willems, p. , no gerhard, p. ; by arndt, bliitenlese, p. * . a a. scott's minstrelsy, iii, , ed. . b. sts. - ; the same, ii, , ed. . there was a knight and a lady bright, had a true tryste at the broom; the ane gaed early in the morning, the other in the afternoon. and ay she sat in her mother's bower door, and ay she made her mane: 'o whether should i gang to the broomfield hill, or should i stay at hame? 'for if i gang to the broomfield hill, my maidenhead is gone; and if i chance to stay at hame, my love will ca me mansworn.' up then spake a witch-woman, ay from the room aboon: 'o ye may gang to the broomfield hill, and yet come maiden hame. 'for when ye gang to the broomfield hill, ye 'll find your love asleep, with a silver belt about his head, and a broom-cow at his feet. 'take ye the blossom of the broom, the blossom it smells sweet, and strew it at your true-love's head, and likewise at his feet. 'take ye the rings off your fingers, put them on his right hand, b herd, ancient and modern scots songs, , p. . 'i'll wager, i 'll wager, i 'll wager with you five hundred merks and ten, • the first stanza of the german ballad occurs in a music- book of : hoffmann u. richter, p. , who add that the ballad is extant in dutch and flemish. to let him know, when he doth awake, his love was at his command.' she pu'd the broom flower on hive hill, and strewd on's white hals-bane, and that was to be wittering true that maiden she had gane. 'o where were ye, my milk-white steed, that i hae coft sae dear, that wadna watch and waken me when there was maiden here?' 'i stamped wi my foot, master, and gard my bridle ring, but na kin thing wald waken ye, till she was past and gane.' 'and wae betide ye, my gay goss-hawk, that i did love sae dear, that wadna watch and waken me when there was maiden here.' 'i clapped wi my wings, master, and aye my bells i rang, and aye cry'd, waken, waken, master, before the ladye gang.' 'but haste and haste, my gude white steed, to come the maiden till, or a' the birds of gude green wood of your flesh shall have their fill.' 'ye need na burst your gude white steed wi racing oer the howm; nae bird flies faster through the wood, than she fled through the broom.' that a maid shanae go to yon bonny green wood, and a maiden return agen.' 'i 'll wager, i 'll wager, i 'll wager with you five hundred merks and ten, that a maid shall go to yon bonny green wood, and a maiden return agen.' . the broomfield hill ***** she's pu'd the blooms aff the broom-bush, and strewd them on's white hass-bane: 'this is a sign whereby you may know that a maiden was here, but she's gane.' 'o where was you, my good gray steed, that i hae loed sae dear? o why did you not awaken me when my true love was here?' 'i stamped with my foot, master, and gard my bridle ring, but you wadnae waken from your sleep till your love was past and gane.' 'now i may sing as dreary a sang as the bird sung on the brier, for my true love is far removd, and i 'll neer see her mair.' c buchan's ballads of the north of scotland, ii, . there was a knight and lady bright set trysts amo the broom, the one to come at morning ear, the other at afternoon. 'i 'll wager a wager wi you,' he said, 'an hundred merks and ten, that ye shall not go to broomfield hills, return a maiden again.' 'i 'll wager a wager wi you,' she said, 'a hundred pounds and ten, that i will gang to broomfield hills, a maiden return again.' the lady stands in her bower door, and thus she made her mane: 'o shall i gang to broomfield hills, or shall i stay at hame t 'if i do gang to broomfield hills, a maid i 'll not return; but if i stay from broomfield hills, i 'll be a maid mis-sworn.' then out it speaks an auld witch-wife, sat in the bower aboon: 'o ye shall gang to broomfield hills, ye shall not stay at hame. 'but when ye gang to broomfield hills, walk nine times round and round; down below a bonny burn bank, ye 'll find your love sleeping sound. 'ye 'll pu the bloom f rae aff the broom, strew't at his head and feet, and aye the thicker that ye do strew, the sounder he will sleep. 'the broach that is on your napkin, put it on his breast' bane, to let him know, when he does wake, that's true love's come and gane. 'the rings that are on your fingers, lay them down on a stane, to let him know, when he does wake, that's true love's come and gane. 'and when ye hae your work all done, ye 'll gang to a bush o' broom, and then you 'll hear what he will say, when he sees ye are gane.' when she came to broomfield hills, she walkd it nine times round, and down below yon burn bank, she found him sleeping sound. she pu'd the bloom frae aff the broom, strew'd it at's head and feet, and aye the thicker that she strewd, the sounder he did sleep. the broach that was on her napkin, she put on his breast bane, to let him know, when he did wake, his love was come and gane. the rings that were on her fingers, she laid upon a stane, to let him know, when he did wake, his love was come and gane. now when she had her work all dune, she went to a bush o broom, . the broomfield hill that she might hear what he did say, when he saw she was gane. 'o where were ye, my guid grey hound, that i paid for sae dear, ye didna waken me frae my sleep when my time love was sae near?' 'i scraped wi my foot, master, till a' my collars rang, but still the mair that i did scrape, waken woud ye nane.' 'where were ye, my berry-brown steed, that i paid for sae dear, that ye woudna waken me out o my sleep when my love was sae near?' 'i patted wi my foot, master, till a' my bridles rang, 'o where were ye, my merry young men, that i pay meat and fee, ye woudna waken me out o' my sleep when my love ye did see?' 'ye ' sleep mair on the night, master, and wake mair on the day; gae sooner down to broomfield hills when ye've sic pranks to play. 'if i had seen any armed men come riding over the hill — but i saw but a fair lady come quietly you until.' 'o wae mat worth you, my young men, that i pay meat and fee, that ye woudna waken me frae sleep when ye my love did see. but still the mair that i did patt, waken woud ye nane.' 'o where were ye, my gay goss-hawk, that i paid for sae dear, that ye woudna waken me out o my sleep when ye saw my love near?' 'i flapped wi my wings, master, till a' my bells they rang, but still the mair that i did flap, waken woud ye nane.' 'o had i waked when she was nigh, and o her got my will, i shoudna cared upon the morn tho sma birds o her were fill.' when she went out, right bitter wept, but singing came she hame; says, i hae been at broomfield hills, and maid returnd again. d kinloch's ancient scottish ballads, p. . ' 'll wager, i 'll wager,' says lord john, 'a hundred merks and ten, that ye winna gae to the bonnie broom-fields, and a maid return again.' 'but i 'll lay a wager wi you, lord john, a' your merks oure again, that i 'll gae alane to the bonnie broom-fields, and a maid return again.' then lord john mounted his grey steed, and his hound wi his bells sae bricht, and swiftly he rade to the bonny broom- fields, wi his hawks, like a lord or knicht 'now rest, now rest, my bonnie grey steed, my lady will soon be here, and i 'll lay my head aneath this rose sae red, and the bonnie burn sae near.' but sound, sound was the sleep he took, for he slept till it was noon, and his lady cam at day, left a taiken and away, gaed as licht as a glint o the moon. she strawed the roses on the ground, threw her mantle on the brier, and the belt around her middle sae jimp, as a taiken that she'd been there. the rustling leaves flew round his head, and rousd him frae his dream; . the broomfield hill he saw by the roses, and mantle sae green, that his love had been there and was gane. 'o whare was ye, my gude grey steed, that i coft ye sae dear, that ye didna waken your master, whan ye kend that his love was here?' 'i pautit wi my foot, master, garrd a' my bridles ring, and still i cried, waken, gude master, for now is the hour and time.' 'then whare was ye, my bonnie grey hound, that i coft ye sae dear, that ye didna waken your master, whan ye kend that his love was here?' 'i pautit wi my foot, master, garrd a' my bells to ring, e joseph robertson's note-book, january , , p. . 'i'll wager, i 'll wager wi you, fair maid, five hunder punds and ten, that a maid winna gae to the bonnie green bower, an a maid return back agen.' 'i 'll wager, i 'll wager wi you, kin' sir, five hunder punds and ten, that a maid i'll gang to the bonnie green bower, an a maid return again.' but when she cam to the bonnie green bower, her true-love was fast asleep; sumtimes she kist his rosie, rosie lips, an his breath was wondrous sweet. sometimes she went to the crown o his head, sometimes to the soles o his feet, sometimes she kist bis rosie, rosie lips, an his breath was wondrous sweet. she's taen a ring frae ber finger, laid it upon his breast-bane; it was for a token that she had been there, that she had been there, but was gane. and still i cried, waken, gude master, for now is the hour and time.' 'but whare was ye, my hawks, my hawks, that i coft ye sae dear, that ye didna waken your master, whan ye kend that his love was here?' ' wyte na me, now, my master dear, i garrd a' my young hawks sing, and still i cried, waken, gude master, for now is the hour and time.' 'then be it sae, my wager gane, 't will skaith frae meikle ill, for gif i had found her in bonnie broom- fields, o her heart's blude ye'd drunken your fill.' 'where was you, where was ye, my merry- men a', that i do luve sae dear, that ye didna waken me out o my sleep when my true love was here? 'where was ye, where was ye, my gay gos- hawk, that i do luve sae dear, that ye didna waken me out o my sleep whan my true love was here?' 'wi my wings i flaw, kin' sir, an wi my bill i sang, but ye woudna waken out o yer sleep till your true love was gane.' 'where was ye, my bonnie grey steed, that i do luve sae dear, that ye didna waken me out o my sleep when my true love was here?' 'i stampit wi my fit, maister, and made my bridle ring, but ye wadna waken out o yer sleep, till your true love was gane.' . the twa magicians 'be chearful, be chearful, and do not repine, the money, the money, the money is mine, for now't is as clear as the sun, the wager i fairly have won.' a. b. . flower frae the bush. s. a witter true. . i did love. ii . gray goshawk. ii . sae well. s. when my love was here hersell. *. afore your true love gang. s. in good. " . by running oer the howm; nae hare runs swifter oer the lea nor your love ran thro the broom. e concludes with these stanzas, which do not belong to this ballad: 'rise up, rise up, my bonnie grey cock, and craw when it is day, an your neck sall be o the beaten gowd, and your wings o the silver lay.' but the cock provd fauss, and untrue he was, and he crew three hour ower seen, the lassie thocht it day, and sent her love away, an it was but a blink o the meen. 'if i had him but agen,' she says, 'o if i but had him agen, the best grey cock that ever crew at morn should never bereave me o's charms.' f. a. . fingers. ii , . oh. *. i am. b. . i pray you now, what. . said he. . omits that. s. omits pure. *. and the . . . back again. . • ten good. '. he strait. \ omits for. . his servants. . omits made. . his joy. . sleep had fast. . finger. s. in the midst. . what her lover. . awaking he found. . of bearst. s. omits do. s. wake. *. and lover. . i did. s. wake. . here and she. s. why did you not wake. . i barked aloud when. s. that there was my. s. i have. s. when she had been here. . had been surely mine. . omits should. s. to see. . lay. s. so i. . have returnd. b has no imprint. the twa magicians buchan's ballads of the north of scotland, i, ; motherwell's ms., p. . a base-born cousin of a pretty ballad known over all southern europe, and else- where, and in especially graceful forms in france. the french ballad generally begins with a young man's announcing that he has won a mistress, and intends to pay her a visit on sunday, or to give her an aubade. she de- clines his visit, or his music. to avoid him she will turn, e. g., into a rose; then he will turn bee, and kiss her. she will turn quail; he sportsman, and bag her. she will turn carp; he angler, and catch her. she will turn hare ; and he hound. she will turn nun; . the twa magicians water as a fish. he has a net that will take the fish. she will turn to a hare; he to a dog; she cannot escape him. polish. very common. a a. waclaw z oleska, p. , no ; konopka, p. . a young man says, though he should ride night and day for it, ride his horse's eyes out, the maid must be his. she will turn to a bird, and take to the thicket. but carpenters have axes which can fell a wood. then she will be a fish, and take to the water. but fishermen have nets which will find her. then she will become a wild duck, and swim on the lake. sportsmen have rifles to shoot ducks. then she will be a star in the sky, and give light to the people. he has a feeling for the poor, and will bring the star down to the earth by his prayers. "i see," she says, "it's god's ordinance; whithersoever i betake myself, you are up with me; i will be yours after all." nearly the same mutations in other versions, with some variety of introduction and ar- rangement. a b. kolberg, lud, vi, , no . a o. "przyjaciel ludu, , rok , no ;" lipinski, p. ; kolberg, lud xii, , no . b. pauli, piesfii ludu polskiego, i, . c. the same, p. . d. kolberg, lud, xii, , no . e. lud, iv, , no . f. lud, xii, , no . g. lud, ii, , no . h. lud, vi, , no . i. woicicki, i, , waldbriihl, slawische balalaika, p. . j. a, b. roger, p. , no , p. , no . servian. karadshitch, i, , no ; talvj, ii, ; kapper, ii, ; pellegrini, p. . rather than be her lover's, the maid will turn into a gold-jug in a drinking-house; he will be mine host. she will change into a cup in a coffee-house; he will be cafetier. she will become a quail, he a sportsman; a fish, he a net. pellegrini has still another form, ' la fanciulla assediata,' p. . an old man desires a maid. she will rather turn into a lamb; he will turn into a wolf. she will * the schotts are reminded by their story that wade puts his son weland in apprenticeship to mimir smith, and to the dwarfs. they might have noted that the devil, in the wallachian tale, wishes to keep his prentice a second year, as the dwarfs wish to do in the case of weland. that little become a quail ; he a hawk. she will change into a rose; he into a goat, and tear off the rose from the tree. there can be little doubt that these ballads are derived, or take their hint, from popular tales, in which ( ) a youth and maid, pursued by a sorcerer, fiend, giant, ogre, are trans- formed by the magical powers of one or the other into such shapes as enable them to elude, and finally to escape, apprehension; or ( ) a young fellow, who has been appren- ticed to a sorcerer, fiend, etc., and has acquired the black art by surreptitious reading in his master's books, being pursued, as before, as- sumes a variety of forms, and his master others, adapted to the destruction of his in- tended victim, until the tables are turned by the fugitive's taking on the stronger figure and despatching his adversary. specimens of the first kind are afforded by gonzenbach, sicilianische marchen,nos , , , ; grimms, nos , , ; schnel- ler, no ; pitrs, fiabe, novelle e racconti siciliani, no ; imbriani, novellaja mila- nese, no , n. fiorentana, no ; maspons y labr s, rondallayre, i, , ii, ; cosquin, contes lorrains, in romania, v, ; ral- ston's russian folk-tales, p. f, from afa- nasief v, no ; bechstein, marchenbuch, p. , ed. , which combines both. others in kohler's note to gonzenbach, no , at ii, . of the second kind, among very many, are straparola, viii, , see grimms, iii, , lou- veau et larivey, ii, ; grimms, nos , ; miillenhoff, no , p. ; prbhle, miirchen fur die jugend, no ; asbjarnsen og moe, no ; grundtvig, gamle danske minder, , nos , ; hahn, grie- chische marchen, no ; the breton tale koadalan, luzel, in revue celtique, i, |jf; the schotts, walachische maerchen, no ; * woicicki, klechdy, ii, , no ; karad- shitch, no ; afanasief, v, f, no , vi, trait comes, no doubt, from weland's story; but we will not, therefore, conclude that our smith is weland smith, and his adventure with the lady founded upon that of weland with nidung's daughter. . king john and the bishop o bide, lady, bide, and aye he bade her bide; the rusty smith your leman shall be, for a' your muckle pride. then she became a turtle dow, to fly up in the air, and he became another dow, and they flew pair and pair. o bide, lady, bide, &c. she turnd hersell into an eel, to swim into yon burn, and he became a speckled trout, to gie the eel a turn. o bide, lady, bide, &c. then she became a duck, a duck, to puddle in a peel, and he became a rose-kaimd drake, to gie the duck a dreel. o bide, lady, bide, ace. she turnd hersell into a hare, to rin upon yon hill, and he became a gude grey-hound, and boldly he did fill. o bide, lady, bide, &c. then she became a gay grey mare, and stood in yonder slack, and he became a gilt saddle. and sat upon her back. was she wae, he held her sae, and still he bade her bide; the rusty smith her leman was, for a' her muckle pride. then she became a het girdle, and he became a cake, and a' the ways she turnd hersell, the blacksmith was her make. was she wae, &c. she turnd hersell into a ship, to sail out ower the flood; he ca'ed a nail intill her tail, and syne the ship she stood. was she wae, &c. then she became a silken plaid, and stretchd upon a bed, and he became a green covering, and gaind her maidenhead. was she wae, &c. king john and the bishop a. 'kinge john and bishoppe,' percy ms., p. ; b. * king john and the abbot of canterbury,'broad- hales and furnivall, i, . side printed for p. brooksby. the broadside b was printed, with trifling variations, or corrections, in pills to purge melancholy, iv, ( ), and in old bal- lads, ii, ( ). it is found in several of the collections: pepys, ii, , no ; rox- burghe, iii, ; ouvry, no ; the bag- ford; and it was among heber's ballads. brooksby published from to , and * a new ballad of kiii£ john and the abbot of canter- bury. to the tune of the king and the lord abbot. with b was "allowed" by roger l'estrange, who was licenser from to : chappell, the roxburghe ballads, i, xviii, xxiii. the title of b is a new ballad of king john and the abbot of canterbury, to the tune of ' the king and the lord abbot.' * this older bal- lad seems not to have come down. there are at least two other broadsides ex- allowance. ro. l'estrange. printed for p. brooksby at the golden ball in pye-corner. . king john and the bishop tant upon the same subject, both mentioned by percy, and both inferior even to b, and in a far less popular style: 'the king and the bishop,' pepys, i, , no , roxburghe, iii, , douce, fol. ; and ' the old ab- bot and king olfrey,' douce, ii, fol. , pepys, ii, , no , printed in old hal- lads, ii, .* in both of these the shepherd is the bishop's brother, which he is not in b; in a he is half-brother. pepys's penny mer- riments contain, i, , ' the pleasant history of king henry the eighth and the abbot of reading.' f this last may, without rashness, be assumed to be a variation of 'king john and the abbot.' percy admitted 'king john and the ab- bot ' to his reliques, ii, , introducing many lines from a "worth reviving," and many improvements of his own,j and thus making undeniably a very good ballad out of a very poor one. the story of this ballad was told in scot- land, some fifty years ago, of the gudeman of ballengeigh, james the v, the hero of not a few other tales. once on a time, falling in with the priest of markinch (near falkland), and finding him a dullard, he gave the poor man four questions to think of till they next met, with an intimation that his benefice would be lost were they not rightly answered. the questions were those of our ballad, preceded by where is the middle of the earth? the parson could make nothing of them, and was forced to resort to a miller of the neighbor- hood, who was reputed a clever fellow. when called to answer the first question, the miller put out his staff, and said, there, as your * the king and the bishop, or, unlearned men hard matters out can find when learned bishops princes eyes do blind. to the tune of chievy chase. printed for f. coles, t. vere, and j. wright ( - ). printed for j. wright, clarke, w. thackeray, and t. passenver. the old abbot and king olfrey. to the tunc of the shaking of the sheets. printed by and for a. m., and sold by the booksellers of london. j. wright's date is - , t. passinger's, - . chappell. t printed by j. m. for c. d., at the stationers armes within aldgate. c. d.is, no doubt, c. dennison, who pub- majesty will find by measuring. the others were dealt with as in the ballad. the king said that the miller should have the parson's place, but the miller begged off from this in favor of the incumbent. small, interesting roman antiquities recently discovered in fife, p. ff. riddle stories in which a forfeit is to be paid by a vanquished party have incidentally been referred to under no and no . they are a very extensive class. the oldest exam- ple is that of samson's riddle, with a stake of thirty sheets (or shirts) and thirty change of garments: judges, xiv, ff. another from semitic tradition is what is related of solomon and hiram of tyre, in josephus against apion, i, , , and antiquities, viii, . af- ter the manner of amasis and the ^ethio- pian king in plutarch (see p. ), they send one another riddles, with a heavy fine for fail- ure, — in this case a pecuniary one. solomon at first poses hiram; then hiram guesses solomon's riddles, by the aid of abdemon (or the son of abdemon), and in turn poses solo- mon with riddles devised by abdemon.§ 'pa gronalisheisi,' landstad, p. , is a contest in riddles between two brothers (re- freshingly original in some parts^), introduced by three stanzas, in which it is agreed that the defeated party shall forfeit his share of their inheritance: and this the editor seems to take quite seriously. death is the penalty attending defeat in many of these wit-contests. odin (vafprus- nismal), jealous of the giant vafprusnir's wisdom, wishes to put it to test. he enters the giant's hall, assuming the name of gagn- lished - . see chappell, the roxburghe ballads, i, xix. } among these, st bittel for st andrew of a , with the note, "meaning probably st boiolph:" why "proba- bly " 'i § this story serves ns a gloss on chronicles, ii, , , where hiram sends solomon a cunning tyrian, skilful to find out every device which shall be put to him by the cun- ning men of jerusalem. the queen of sheba's hard ques- tions to solomon, not specified in kings, x, - , were, according to tradition, of the same general character as the indian ones spoken of at p. . sec hertz, die kiitsel der kijnigin von saba, zeitschrift fur deutsches altermin, xxvii, i s. . king john and the bishop rasr, and announces the object of his visit. the giant tells him he shall never go out again unless he prove the wiser, asks a few questions to see whether he be worth contend- ing with, and, finding him so, proposes a de- cisive trial, with their heads for the stake. odin now propounds, first, twelve questions, mostly in cosmogony, and then five relating to the future of the universe; and all these the giant is perfectly competent to answer. the very unfair question is then put, what did odin say in his son's ear ere balder mounted the funeral pile? upon this vaf- prusnir owns himself vanquished, and we may be sure he was not spared by his antagonist. the hervarar saga contains a story which, in its outlines, approximates to that of our ballad until we come to the conclusion, where there is no likeness. king heisrekr, after a long career of blood, gave up war and took to law-making. he chose his twelve wisest men for judges, and swore, with one hand on the head and the other on the bristles of a huge hog which he had reared, that no man should do such things that he should not get justice from these twelve, while any one who pre- ferred might clear himself by giving the king riddles which he could not guess. there was a man named gestr, and surnamed the blind, a very bad and troublesome fellow, who had withheld from heisrekr tribute that was due. the king sent him word to come to him and submit to the judgment of the twelve: if he did not, the case would be tried with arms. neither of these courses pleased gestr, who was conscious of being very guilty: he took the resolution of making offerings to odin for help. one night there was a knock. gestr went to the door, and saw a man, who an- nounced his name as gestr. after mutual inquiries about the news, the stranger asked whether gestr the blind was not in trouble about something. gestr the blind explained his plight fully, and the stranger said, "i will go to the king and try what i can effect: we will exchange looks and clothes." the * these are proper riddles, and of a kind still current in popular tradition. see, e. g., svend vonved, grundtvig, i, f. there are thirty-five, before the last, in the oldest stranger, in the guise of gestr, entered the king's hall, and said, sire, i am come to make my peace. "will you abide by the judgment of my men of law ?" asked the king. "are there not other ways?" inquired gestr. "yes : you shall give me riddles which i can- not guess, and so purchase your peace." gestr assented, with feigned hesitation; chairs were brought, and everybody looked to hear some- thing fine. gestr gave, and heisrekr promptly answered, some thirty riddles.* then said gestr: tell thou me this only, since thou thinkest to be wiser than all kings: what said odin in balder's ear before he was borne to the pile ?" shame and cowardice," ex- claimed heisrekr, "and all manner of pol- troonery, jugglery, goblinry! no one knows those words of thine save thou thyself, evil and wretched wight!" so saying, heisrekr drew tyrfing, that never was bared but some- body must fall, to cut down gestr. the dis- guised odin changed to a hawk, and made for the window, but did not escape before hei- srekr's sword had docked the bird's tail. for breaking his own truce odin said heisrekr should die by the hand of a slave, which came to pass. fornaldar scigur, rafn, i, ff. the same story has come down in a faroe ballad, 'gatu rfma,' hammershaimb, faero- iske kvasder, no , p. (and previously pub- lished in the antiquarisk tidsskrift, - , pp - ), translated by dr prior, i, ff. gest promises odin twelve gold marks to take his place. the riddles are an- nounced as thirteen in number, but the ballad is slightly defective, and among others the last question, what were odin's words to balder? is lost. odin flies off in the shape of a falcon; hejdrek and all his men are burned up. a tale presenting the essential traits of our ballad is cited in vincent of beauvais's spec- ulum morale, i, , , at the end. we read, he says, of a king, who, seeking a handle for wrenching money out of a wealthy and wise man, put him three questions, apparently text, given, with a translation, by vigfusson and powell, corpus poeticum boreale, 'king ileidrek's riddles,' i, ff. . king john and the bishop insoluble, intending to make him pay a large sum for not answering them: , where is the middle point of the earth? , how much water is there in the sea? , how great is the mercy of god? on the appointed day, having been brought from prison into the presence to ransom himself if he could, the respondent, by the advice of a certain philos- opher, proceeded thus. he planted his staff where he stood, and said, here is the centre; disprove it if you can. if you wish me to measure the sea, stop the rivers, so that noth- ing may flow in till i have done; then i will give you the contents. to answer your third question, i must borrow your robes and your throne. then mounting the throne, clothed with the royal insignia, "behold," said he, "the height of the mercy of god: but now i was a slave, now i am a king; but now poor, and now rich; but now in prison and in chains, and now at liberty," etc. of the same stamp is a story in the english gesta romanorum, madden, p. , no . a knight was accused to the emperor by his enemies, but not so as to give a plausible ground for steps against him. the emperor could hit upon no way but to put him ques- tions, on pain of life and death. the ques- tions were seven; the third and the sixth will suffice: how many gallons of salt water been in the sea? answer: let all the outpassings of fresh water be stopped, and i shall tell thee. how many days' journey beth in the circle of the world? answer: only the space of one day. much nearer to the ballad, and earlier than either of the preceding, is the strieker's tale of amis and the bishop, in the pfaffe amis, dated at about . amis, a learned and bountiful priest in england, excited the envy of his bishop, who sent for him, told him that he lived in better style than his superior, and demanded a subvention. the priest flatly refused to give the bishop anything but a good dinner. "then you shall lose your church," said the bishop in wrath. but the priest, strong in a good conscience, felt small concern about that: he said the bishop might test his fitness with any examination he pleased. that i will do, said the bishop, and gave him five questions. "how much is there in the sea?" "one tun," answered amis; " and if you think i am not right, stop all the rivers that flow in, and i will measure it and con- vince you." "let the rivers run," said the bishop. "how many days from adam to our time?" "seven," said the parson; "for as soon as seven are gone, they begin again." the bishop, fast losing his temper, next demanded "what is the exact middle of the earth? tell me, or lose your church." "why, my church stands on it," replied amis. "let your men measure, and take the church if it prove not so." the bishop de- clined the task, and asked once more: how far is it from earth to sky? and then: what is the width of the sky? to which amis re- plied after the same fashion. in this tale of the strieker the parson an- swers for himself, and not by deputy, and none of the questions are those of our ballad. but in a tale of franco sacchetti,* given in two forms, novella iva, we have both the abbot and his humble representative, and an agree- ment as to one of the questions. bernabo vis- conti (f ) was offended with a rich abbot, who had neglected some dogs that had been entrusted to his care, and was minded to make the abbot pay him a fine; but so far yielded to the abbot's protest as to promise to release him from all penalties if he could answer four questions : how far is it from here to heaven? how much water is there in the sea? what is going on in hell? what is the value of my person? a day was given to get up the an- swers. the abbot went home, in the depths of melancholy, and met on the way one of his millers, who inquired what was the matter, and, after receiving an explanation, offered to take the abbot's place, disguising himself as well as he could. the answers to the two first questions are not the usual ones: huge numbers are given, and the seigneur is told to measure for himself, if not willing to accept them. the answer to the fourth is twenty- nine deniers; for our lord was sold for thirty, * sacchetti's life extended beyond , or perhaps be yond . . king john and the bishop and you must be worth one less than he. mes- ser bernabd said the miller should be abbot, and the abbot miller, from that time forth. sacchetti says that others tell the story of a pope and an abbot, adding one question. the gardener of the monastery presents the abbot, makes the usual answer to the second ques- tion as to the water in the sea, and prizes christ's vicar at twenty-eight deniers. the excellent old farce, "ein spil von einem kaiser und eim apt," fastnachtspiele aus dem n jahrhundert, , , no , obliges the abbot to answer three questions, or pay for all the damages done in the course of a calam- itous invasion. the abbot has a week's grace allowed him. the questions are three: how much water in the sea? how much is the emperor worth? whose luck came quickest? the miller answers for the abbot: three tubs, if they are big enough; eight and twenty pence; and he is the man whose luck came quickest, for just before he was a miller, now he is an abbot. the emperor says that, since the miller has acted for the abbot, abbot he shall be. very like this, as to the form of the story, is the anecdote in pauli's schimpf und ernst, lv, p. , ed. oesterley (c. ). a noble- man, who is seeking an occasion to quarrel with an abbot, tells him that he must answer these questions in three davs, or be deposed: what do you value me at? where is the middle of the world? how far apart are good and bad luck? a swineherd answers for him: since christ was sold for thirty pence, i rate the emperor at twenty-nine and you at twenty-eight; my church is the mid-point of the world, and, if you will not believe me, measure for yourself; good and bad luck are but one night apart, for yesterday i was a swineherd, to-day i am an abbot. then, says the nobleman, an abbot shall you stay. with this agrees, say the grimms, the tale in eyring's proverbiorum copia ( ), i, - , iii, - . * the form of the third question is slightly varied at first i cual es el error en que yo estoy pensando? but when put to the herdsman the question is simply j en que' estoy yo pensando? i was pointed to this story by seidemann, in waldis, esopus ( ), b. , fabel , kurz, i, , agrees in general with pauli: but in place of the first two questions has these three: how far is to heaven? how deep is the sea? how many tubs will hold all the sea-water? the answers are : a short day's journey, for christ ascended in the morn- ing and was in heaven before night; a stone's cast; one tub, if large enough. teofilo folengo ( - ), as pointed out by kohler, has the story in the th canto of his orlandino; and here we find the third question of our ballad. there are three be- sides: how far from earth to heaven? from the east to the west? — a modification of the second question in the ballad; how many drops of water in the seas about italy? the abbot's cook, marcolf, answers to the first, one leap, as proved by satan's fall; to the second, one day's journey, if the sun is to be trusted; and insists that, for a correct count under the third, all the rivers shall first be stopped. to the fourth he makes the never-stale reply, you think i am the abbot, but i am the cook. rainero says he shall remain abbot, and the abbot the cook. (stanzas , , - , pp f, ff, london edition of .) a capital spanish story,'gramatica parda, trueba, cuentos populares, p. , has all three of the questions asked and answered as in our ballad. there is a curate who sets up to know everything, and the king, "el rey que rabio," has found him out, and gives him a month to make his three answers, with a premium and a penalty. the curate is forced to call in a despised goatherd, who also had all along seen through the shallowness of the priest. the king makes the goatherd " archi- pampano" of seville, and condemns the cu- rate to wear the herdsman's garb and tend his goats for a month.* the first and third questions of the ballad are found in the thirty-eighth tale of le grand parangon des nouvelles nouvelles of nicolas de troyes, (ed. mabille, p. ff); in archiv fiir litteraturgeschichte, ix, . trueba's c. p. forms vol. of brockhaus's coleccion de autores espa- soles. . king john and the bishop the patrabuelo of juan de timoneda, , pat. , novelistas anteriores a cervantes, in the rivadeneyra biblioteca, p. f; and in the herzog heinrich julius von braunschweig's comedy, von einem edelman welcher einem abt drey fragen auffgegeben, , ed. hol- land, p. ff. the other question is as to the centre of the earth, and the usual answers are given by the abbot's miller, cook, servant, except that in timoneda the cook is so rational as to say that the centre must be under the king's feet, seeing that the world is as round as a ball.* the question where is the mid- dle of the earth? is replaced by how many stars are there in the sky? the other two re- maining, in balthasar schupp, schriften, franckfurt, , i, f (kohler), and in gottlieb cober (f ), cabinet>prediger, r theil, no , p. (grater, idunna u. her- mode, , no , p. , and p. ). the abbot's miller gives a nuge number, and bids the king (of france) verify it, if he wishes. this last is no doubt the version of the story referred to by the grimms in their note to k. u. h. marcben, no . we encounter a slight variation, not for the better, in l'filite des contes du sieur d'ouville (t or ), rouen, , i, ; a la haye, , i, ; ed. ristelhuber, , p. (kohler); nouveaux contes a rire, cologne, , p. ; contes a rire, paris, , i, . an ignorant and violent nobleman threatens a parson, who plumes him- self on a little astrology, that he will expose him as an impostor if he does not answer four questions: where is the middle of the world? what am i worth? what am i thinking? what do i believe? the village miller an- * the editor of the grand parangon, at p. xiii, cites from an older source an anecdote of a king insisting upon being told how much he ought to bring if offered for sale. while his courtiers are giving flattering replies, a fool leaps forward and savs, twenty-nine deniers, and no more; for if you were worth thirty, that would be autant que le tout-puissant dicu valut, quant il fut vendu. the king took this answer to heart, and repented of his vanities. so an emperor is con- verted by this reply from a man-at-arms, van den verwen- den keyser, jan van hollant, c. , willems, belgisch museum, x, ; thijm, p. . the like question and an- swer, as a riddle, in a german ms. of the fifteenth century, and in questions enigmatiques, lyon, ; kohler, in weimarisches jahrbuch, v, ff. swers for the curd. the reply to the third question is, you are thinking more of your own interest than of mine; the others as be- fore. this story is retold, after tradition, by c nac moncaut, contes populaires de la gas- cogne, p. , of a marquis, archipnjtre, and miller. the query, what am i thinking of? with the answer, more of your interest than of mine (which is not exactly in the popular manner), is replaced by a logical puzzle, not found elsewhere: quel est le nombre qui se trouve renfermd dans deux oeufs? the king and the abbot is preserved, in modern german tradition, in this form. an emperor, riding by a cloister, reads the in- scription, we are two farthings poorer than the emperor, and live free of cares. wait a bit, says the emperor, and i will give you some cares. he sends for the abbot, and says, answer these three questions in three days, or i will depose you. the questions are, how deep is the sea? how many stars in the sky? how far from good luck to bad? the shepherd of the monastery gives the answers, and is told, as in several cases before, if you are the abbot, abbot you shall be. j. w. wolf, hessische sagen, p. , no , ii. 'gustav adolf und der abt von benedikt- beuern,' in sepp's altbayerischer sagenschatz, p. , no , is another form of the same story, with a substitution of how far is it to heaven? for the first question, and the an- swers are given by a kitchie-boy.f in ' hans ohne sorgen,' meier, deutsche volksmarchen aus schwaben, p. , the questions are, how far is it to heaven? how deep is the sea? how many leaves has a linden? and the shepherd again undertakes the answers.} t in prussia frederick the great plays the part of gus- tavus. sepp, p. . { another swabian story, in meier, no , p. , is a mixed form. the duke of swabia reads " hans sans cares" over a miller's house-door, and says, " bide a wee : if you have no cares, i will give you some." the duke, to give the miller a taste of what care is, says he must solve this riddle or lose his mill: come to me neither by day nor by night, neither naked nor clothed, neither on foot nor on horseback. the miller promises his man his daughter in marriage and the mill in succession, if he will help him out of his dilemma. the man at once says, go on mid-week, for mid-week is no day (mitt-woeh ist ja gar kein tag, wie sonn-tag, mon-tag), neither is it night; and if you are to be neither . king john and the bishop * der miiller ohne sorgen,' miillenhoff, p. , , is a mutilated variation of these. the abbot disappears, and the questions are put to the miller, who answers for himself. the second question is how much does the moon weigh? and the answer, four quarters; if you don't believe it, you must weigh for yourself. we meet the miller sans souci again in a danish tale, which otherwise agrees entirely with our ballad. the questions are answered by the rich miller's herdsman: grundtvig, gamle danske minder, , p. , no . a croatian version of the story is given by valyavets, ' frater i turski car,' p. . the turkish tsar is disposed to expel all monks from his dominions, but determines first to send for an abbot to try his calibre. the abbot is too much frightened to go, and his cook, as in foligno and timoneda, takes his place. the questions are, where is the cen- tre of the world? what is god doing now? what am i thinking? the first and third are disposed of in the usual way. when called to answer the second, the cook said, you can't see through the ceiling: we must go out into the field. when they came to the field, the cook said again, how can i see when i am on such a small ass? let me have your horse. the sultan consented to exchange beasts, and then the cook said, god is won- dering that a sultan should be sitting on an ass and a monk on a horse. the sultan was pleased with the answers, and reasoning, if the cook is so clever, what must the abbot be, decided to let the monks alone. afanasief, who cites this story from valyavets (narod- nuiya russkiya skazki, viii, ), says that he heard in the government of voroneje a story of a soldier who dressed himself as a monk and presented himself before a tsar who was in the habit of puzzling people with rid- dles. the questions are, how many drops in the sea? how many stars in the sky? clothed nor bare, put on a fishing-net; and if yon are to go neither on foot nor on horseback, ride to him on an ass. all but the beginning of this is derived from the cycle of 'the clever wench :' see no . haltrich, deutsche volksmarchen in siebenbiirgen, no , which is also of this cycle, has taken up a little of' hans ohne sorgen.' a church has an iuscrip- what do i think? and the answer to the last is, thou thinkest, gosudar, that i am a monk, but i am merely a soldier.* a few tales, out of many remaining, may be now briefly mentioned, on account of varia- tions in the setting. a prisoner is to be released if he can tell a queen how much she is worth, the centre of the world, and what she thinks. a peasant changes clothes with the prisoner, and answers pro more. kurtzweiliger zeitvertreiber durch c. a. m. von w., , p. f, in kohler, orient u. occident, i, . a scholar has done learning. his master says he must now answer three questions, or have his head taken off. the master's broth- er, a miller, comes to his aid. the questions are, how many ladders would reach to the sky? where is the middle of the world? what is the world worth? or, according to another tradition, the two last are, how long will it take to go round the world? what is my thought? campbell, popular tales of the west highlands, ii, f. eulenspiegel went to prague, and adver- tised himself on the doors of the churches and lecture-rooms as a great master, capable of answering questions that nobody else could solve. to put him down, the rector and his colleagues summoned eulenspiegel to an ex- amination before the university. five ques- tions were given him: how much water is there in the sea? how many days from adam to now? where is the middle of the world? how far from earth to heaven? what is the breadth of the sky? lappenberg, dr thomas murners ulenspiegel, p. , no ; howle- glas, ed. ouvry, p. . a herdboy had a great fame for his shrewd answers. the king did not believe in him, but sent for him, and said, if you can an- swer three questions that i shall put, i will regard you as my own child, and you shall live tion, wir leben ohne sorgen. this vexes the king, who says as before, just wait, and i will give you reason for cares, p. , ed. . * these two stories were communicated to me by mr ralston. . king john and the bishop in my palace. the questions are, how many drops of water are there in the ocean? how many stars in the sky? how many seconds in eternity? the grimms, k. u. h. marchen, no , 'das hirtenbiiblein.' three questions are put to a counsellor of the king's, of which the first two are, where does the sun rise? how far from heaven to earth? the answers, by a shepherd, are ex- traordinarily feeble. jiidisches maasiibuch, cap. , cited from helwigs jiidische his- torien, no , in the grimms' note to das hirtenbiiblein. three monks, who know everything, in the course of their travels come to a sultan's do- minions, and he invites them to turn mussul- mans. this they agree to do if he will an- swer their questions. all the sultan's doctors are convened, but can do nothing with the monks' questions. the hodja (the court-fool) is sent for. the first question, where is the middle of the earth? is answered as usual. the second monk asks, how many stars are there in the sky? the answer is, as many as there are hairs on my ass. have you counted? ask the monks. have you counted? rejoins the fool. answer me this, says the same monk, and we shall see if your number is right: how many hairs are there in my beard ?" as many as in my ass's tail." "prove it." "my dear man, if you don't be- lieve me, count yourself; or we will pull all the hairs out of both, count them, and settle the matter." the monks submit, and become mussulmans. les plaisanteries de nasr-eddin hodja, traduites du turc par j. a. decourde- manche, no , p. ff. the turkish emperor sends word to kaiser leopold that unless the emperor can answer three questions he shall come down upon him with all his turks. the counsellors are sum- moned, but there is no help in them. the court-fool offers to get his master out of the difficulty, if he may have the loan of crown and sceptre. when the fool comes to con- stantinople, there lies the sultan in the win- dow, and calls out, are you the emperor, and will you answer my questions? where does the world end ?" here, where my horse is standing." how far is it to heaven ?" one day's journey, and no inn on the road." what is god thinking of now ?" he is thinking that i am one fool and you another." j. w. wolf, hessische sagen, p. , no * for the literature, see especially the grimms' kinder und hausmiirchen, notes to no ; r. kohler in orient und occident, i, — ; oesterley's note to pauli's schimpf und ernst, no , p. . translated, after percy's reliques, ii, , , by bodmer, ii, ; by doenniges, p. ; by ritter, arehiv fur das studium der neueren sprachen, xxii, . retold by burger, 'der kaiser und der abt,' got- tinger musenalmanach fur , p. . a percy ms., p. . hales and furnivall, i, . off an ancient story he tell you anon, of a notable prince thai was called kirtg iohn, in england was borne, with maine and with might; hee did much wrong and mainteined litle right this noble prince was vexed in veretye, for he was angry with the bishopp of can- terbury; ffor his house-keeping and his good cheere, the rode post for him, as you shall heare. they rode post for him verry hastilye; the ving sayd the bishopp kept a better house then hee: a hundred men euen, as i [have heard] say. the bishopp kept in his house euerye day, and fifty gold chaines, without any doubt, in veluett coates waited the bishopp about. * in the beginning there is a clear trace of the oriental tales of ' the clever lass' cycle. . king john and the bishop the bishopp, he came to the court anon, before his prince that was called king iohn. as soone as the bishopp the "king did see, 'o,' qwoth the king, 'bishopp, thow art wel- come to mee. there is noe man soe welcome to towne as thou that workes treason against my crowne.' 'my leege,' qwoth the bishopp, ' i wold it were knowne i spend, yowr grace, nothing but that that's my owne; i trust yowr grace will doe me noe deare for spending my owne trew gotten geere.' 'yes,' quoth the king, 'bishopp, thou must needs dye, eccept thou can answere mee questions three; thy head shalbe smitten quite from thy bodye, and all thy liuing remayne vnto mee. 'first,' qwoth the king, ' tell me in this steade. with this crowne of gold heere vpon my head, amongst my nobilitye, with ioy and much mirth, lett me know within one pennye what i am worth. 'secondlye, tell me without any dowbt how soone i may goe the whole world about; and thirdly, tell mee or euer i stinte, what is the thing, bishopp, that i doe thinke. twenty dayes pardon thoust haue trulye, and come againe and answere mee.' the bishopp bade the king god night att a word; he rode betwixt cambridge and oxenford, but neuer a doctor there was soe wise cold shew him these questions or enterprise. wherewith the bishopp was nothing gladd, but in his hart was heauy and sadd, and hyed him home to a house in the coun- trye, to ease some part of his melanchollye. his halfe-brother dwelt there, was feirce and fell, noe better but a shepard to the bishoppe him- sell; the shepard came to the bishopp anon, saying, my lord, you are welcome home! 'what ayles you,' qwoth the shepard,' that you are soe sadd, and had wonte to haue beene soe merry and gladd?' 'nothing,' qwoth the bishopp, 'i ayle att this time; will not thee availe to know, brother mine.' 'brother,' q?toth the shepeard, 'you haue heard itt, that a ff oole may teach a wisemane witt; say me therfore whatsoeuer you will, and if i doe you noe good, he doe you noe ill.' q?wth the bishop: i haue beene att the court anon, before my prince is called king iohn, and there he hath charged mee against his crowne with traitorye. if i cannott answer his misterye, three questions hee hath propounded to mee, he will haue my land soe faire and free, and alsoe the head from my bodye. the first question was, to tell him in that stead, with the crowne of gold vpon his head, amongst his nobilitye, with ioy and much mirth, to lett him know within one penye what hee is worth. and secondlye, to tell him with-out any doubt how soone he may goe the whole world about; and thirdlye, to tell him, or ere i stint, what is the thinge that he does thinke. 'brother,' quoth the shepard, 'you are a man of learninge; what neede you stand in doubt of soe small a thinge? lend me,' qwoth the shepard, 'yowr ministers apparrell, he ryde to the court and answere yowr quar- rell. 'lend me yowr serving men, say me not nay, with all yowr best horsses that ryd on the way; . king john and the bishop he to the court, this matter to stay; he speake with king iohn and heare what heele say.' the bishopp with speed prepared then to sett forth the shepard with horsse and man; the shepard was liuely without any doubt; i wott a royall companye came to the court the shepard hee came to the court anon before [his] prince that was called king iohn. as soone as the king the shepard did see, 'o,' quoth the king, 'bishopp, thou art wel- come to me.' the shepard was soe like the bishopp his brother, the king cold not know the one from the other. quoth the kin^, bishopp, thou art welcome to me if thou can answer me my questions three. said the shepeard, if it please yowr grace, show mee what the first quest[i]on was. 'first,' qwoth the king, ' tell mee in this stead, with the crowne of gold vpon my head, amongst my nobilitye, with ioy and much mirth, within one pennye what i am worth.' quoth the shepard, to make yowr grace noe offence, i thinke you are worth nine and twenty pence; for our lord iesus, that bought vs all, for thirty pence was sold into thrall amongst the cursed iewes, as i to you doe showe; but i know christ was one penye better then you. then the king laught, and swore by st an- drew he was not thought to bee of such a small value. 'secondly e, tell mee with-out any doubt how soone i may goe the world round about' saies the shepard, it is noe time with yowr grace to scorne, but rise betime with the sun in the morne, and follow his course till his vprising, and then you may know without any leasing. and this [to] yowr grace shall proue the same, you are come to the same place from whence you came; [in] twenty-four houres, with-out any doubt yowr grace may the world goe round about; the world round about euen as i doe say, if with the sun you can goe the next way.' 'and thirdlye tell me or euer i stint what is the thing, bishoppe, that i doe thinke.' 'that shall i doe,' quoth the shepeard; 'for veretye, you thinke i am the bishopp of canterburye.' 'why, art not thou? the truth tell to me; for i doe thinke soe,' quoth the king, 'by st marye.' 'not soe,' quoth the shepeard; 'the truth shalbe knowne, i am his poore shepeard; my brother is att home.' 'why,' quoth the king, ' if itt soe bee, he make thee bishopp here to mee.' 'noe, sir,' quoth the shepard, 'i pray you be still, for he not bee bishop but against my will; for i am not fitt for any such deede, for i can neither write nor reede.' 'why then,' quoth the king, 'he giue thee cleere a pattent of three hundred pound a yeere; that i will giue thee franke and free; take thee that, shepard, for coming to me. 'free pardon he giue,' the kings grace said, 'to saue the bishopp, his land and his head; with him nor thee he be nothing wrath; here is the pardon for him and thee both.' then the shepard he had noe more to say, but tooke the pardon and rode his way: when he came to the bishopps place, the bishopp asket anon how all things was. 'brother,' quoth the shepard, 'i haue well sped, for i haue saued both yowr land and your head; the king with you is nothing wrath, for heere is the pardon for you and mee both.' . king john and the bishop then the bishopes hart was of a merry cheere: 'brother, thy paines he quitt them cleare; for i will giue thee a patent to thee and to thine of fifty pound a yeere, land good and fine.' r 'i will to thee noe longer croche nor creepe, nor he seme thee noe more to keepe thy sheepe.' whereeuer wist you shepard before, that had in his head witt such store to pleasure a bishopp in such a like case, to answer three questions to the kings grace? whereeuer wist you shepard gett cleare three hundred and fifty pound a yeere? i neuer hard of his fellow before. nor i neuer shall: now i need to say noe more. i neuer knew shepeard that gott such a liuinge but david, the shepeard, that was a king. b broadside, printed for p. brooksby, at the golden ball in pye-corner ( - ). i'll tell you a story, a story anon, of a noble prince, and his name was king john; for he was a prince, and a prince of great might, he held up great wrongs, he put down great right. deny down, down hey, derry down i 'll tell you a story, a story so merry, concerning the abbot of canterbury, and of his house-keeping and high renown, which made him resort to fair london town. 'how now, father abbot? 't is told unto me that thou keepest a far better house than i; and for [thy] house-keeping and high renown, i fear thou has treason against my crown.' 'i hope, my liege, that you owe me no grudge for spending of my true-gotten goods :' 'if thou dost not answer me questions three, thy head shall be taken from thy body. 'when i am set so high on my steed, with my crown of gold upon my head, amongst all my nobility, with joy and much mirth, thou must tell me to one penny what i am worth. 'and the next question you must not flout, how long i shall be riding the world about; and the third question thou must not shrink, but tell to me truly what i do think.' 'o these are hard questions for my shallow wit, for i cannot answer your grace as yet; but if you will give me but three days space, i 'll do my endeavor to answer your grace.' 'o three days space i will thee give, for that is the longest day thou hast to live. and if thou dost not answer these questions right, thy head shall be taken from thy body quite.' and as the shepherd was going to his fold, he spy'd the old abbot come riding along: 'how now, master abbot? you 'r welcome home; what news have you brought from good king john?' 'sad news, sad news i have thee to give, for i have but three days space for to live; if i do not answer him questions three, my head will be taken from my body. 'when he is set so high on his steed, with his crown of gold upon his head, amongst all his nobility, with joy and much mirth, i must tell him to one penny what he is worth. 'and the next question i must not flout, how long he shall be riding the world about; and the third question i must not shrink, but tell him truly what he does think.' 'o master, did you never hear it yet, that a fool may learn a wiseman wit? lend me but your horse and your apparel, i 'll ride to fair london and answer the quar- rel.' . captain wedderburn's courtship that 'captain wedderburn' was equally in vogue in the north and the south of scot- land. jamieson writes to the scots magazine, , p. : "of this ballad i have got one whole copy and part of another, and i re- member a good deal of it as i have heard it sung in morayshire when i was a child." in his popular ballads, ii, , , he says that the copy which he prints was furnished him from mr herd's ms. by the editor of the border minstrelsy, and that he had himself supplied a few readings of small importance from his own recollection. there is some in- accuracy here. the version given by jamie- son is rather b, with readings from a. we have had of the questions six, a , , what is greener than the grass? in no , a , c , d ; what's higher than the tree? in c , d ; what's war than a woman's wiss? (" than a woman was") a , c , d ; what's deeper than the sea? a , b , c , d . of the three dishes, a , , we have the bird without a gall in ein spil von den freiheit, fastnachtspiele aus dem ° jhdt, ii, , v. ,* and the two others in the fol- lowing song, from a manuscript assigned to the fifteenth century, and also preserved in several forms by oral tradition : f sloane ms., no , british museum; wright's songs * followed by virgil's riddle, eel. iii, - , where is he sky but three spans broad? t halliwell's popular rhymes and nursery tales, p. ; halliwell's nursery rhymes, no ; notes and queries, d ser., ix, ; th ser., in, , ; macmillan's maga- zine, v, , by t. hughes. the first of these runs: i have four sisters beyond the sea, fara-mara, dictum, domine and they did send four presents to me. partum, quartum, paradise, tempum, para-mara, dictum, domine the first it was a bird without eer a bone, the second was a cherry without eer a stone. the third it was a blanket without eer a thread, the fourth it was a book wbich no man could read. how can there be a bird without eer a bone? how can there be a cherry without eer a stone? how can there be a blanket without eer a thread? how can there be a book which no man can read? and carols, , no ; as printed for the warton club, no xxix, p. . i have a }ong suster fer bejondyn the se, many be the drowryis that che sente me. che sente me the cherye, withoutyn ony ston, and so che dede [the] dowe, withoutyn ony bon. sche sente me the brere, withoutyn ony rynde, sche bad me love my lemman withoute longgyng. how xuld ony cherye be withoute ston? and how xuld ony dowe ben withoute bon? how xuld any brere ben withoute rynde? how xuld y love myn lemman without longyng? quan the cherye was a flour, than hadde it non ston; quan the dowe was an ey, than hadde it non bon. quan the brere was onbred, than hadde it non rynd; quan the mayden hajt that che lovit, che is without longyng. 'captain wedderburn's courtship,' or 'lord roslin's daughter,' j is a counterpart of the ballad in which a maid wins a husband by guessing riddles. (see nos and , and also the following ballad, for a lady who gives when the bird's in the shell, there is no bone; when the cherry's in the bud, there is no stone. when the blanket's in the fleece, there is no thread; when the book's in the press, no man can read. the minnesinger dames went far beyond our laird's daughter in the way of requiring "ferlies" from their lov- ers. der tanhuser and boppe represent that their ladies would be satisfied with nothing short of their turning the course of rivers; bringing them the salamander, the basilisk, the graal, paris's apple; giving them a sight of enoch and elijah in the body, a hearing of the sirens, etc. von der hagen, minnesinger, ii, f, f. } there were, no doubt, grissels enough in the very dis- tinguished family of the sinclair* of roslin to furnish one for this ballad. i see two mentioned among the sinclair* of herdmanstoun. even a wedderburn connection, as i am informed, is not absolutely lacking. george home of wed- derburn (t ), married the eldest daughter of john sin- clair of herdmanstoun: douglas's peerage of scotland, ed. wood, , ii, . . captain wedderbuen's courtship more deserving of perpetuation is the charm- ing persian story of prince calaf, in pe"tis de la croix's days ( e- e jour), upon which carlo gozzi founded his play of "la turandot," now best known through schiller's translation. tourandocte's riddles are such as we should call legitimate, and are three in number. "what is the being that is found in every land, is dear to all the world, and cannot endure a fellow?" calaf answers, the sun. "what mother swallows the chil- dren she has given birth to, as soon as they have attained their growth?" the sea, says calaf, for the rivers that flow into it all came from it. "what is the tree that has all its leaves white on one side and black on the other?" this tree, calaf answers, is the year, which is made up of days and nights.* a third example of this hazardous wooing is the story of the fair one of the castle, the fourth in the persian poem of the seven figures (or beauties), by nisami of gendsch (f ). a russian princess is shut up in a castle made inaccessible by a talisman, and every suitor must satisfy four conditions: he must be a man of honor, vanquish the en- chanted guards, take away the talisman, and obtain the consent of her father. many had es- sayed their fortune, and their heads were now arrayed on the pinnacles of the castle.f a young prince had fulfilled the first three con- ditions, but the father would not approve his suit until he had solved the princess's riddles. these are expressed symbolically, and an- swered in the same way. the princess sends the prince two pearls from her earring: he at once takes her meaning,—life is like two drops of water, — and returns the pearls with three diamonds, to signify that joy — faith, hope, and love — can prolong life. the prin- cess now sends him three jewels in a box, with sugar. the prince seizes the idea, — life * gozzi retains the first and third riddles, schiller only the third. by a happy idea, new riddles were introduced at the successive performances of schiller's play. turandot ap- pears as a traditional tale in schneller's marchen u. sagen aus walschtirol, no , p. , " i tre indoviuelli." t the castle with walls and gate thus equipped, or a pal- isade of stakes each crowned with a head, is all but a com- monplace in such adventures. this grim stroke of fancy is is blended with sensuous desire, — and pours milk on the sugar, to intimate that as milk dissolves sugar, so sensuous desire is quenched by true love. after four such interchanges, the princess seals her consent with a device not less elegant than the others.}: a popular tale of this class is current in russia, with this variation: that the hard- hearted princess requires her lovers to give her riddles, and those who cannot pose her lose their heads. foolish ivan, the youngest of three brothers, adventures after many have failed. on his way to the trial he sees a horse in a cornfield and drives it out with a whip, and further on kills a snake with a lance, saying in each case, here's a riddle i confronted with the princess, he says to her, as i came to you, i saw by the roadside what was good; and in the good was good; so i set to work, and with what was good i drove the good from the good. the good fled from the good out of the good. the princess pleads a headache, and puts off her answer till the next day, when ivan gives her his second enigma: as i came to you, i saw on the way what was bad, and i struck the bad with a bad thing, and of what was bad the bad died. the princess, unable to solve these puzzles, is obliged to accept foolish ivan. (afanasief, skazki, ii, ff, no , in ralston's songs of the russian people, p. f.) closely related to this tale, and still nearer to one another, are the grimms' no , 'das rath- sel' (see, also, the note in their third vol- ume), and the west highland story, 'the ridere (knight) of riddles,' campbell, no , ii, . in the former, as in the russian tale, it is the princess that must be puzzled before she will yield her hand; in the latter, an unmatchable beauty is to be had by no man who does not put a question which her father cannot solve. best in 'la mule sanz frain,' where there are four hundred stakes, all but one surmounted with a bloody head: me'on, nouveau recueil, i, , w - . for these parlous prin- cesses, of all sorts, see grundtvig, ' den farlige jomfru,' iv, ff, no . } von hammer, geschichte der schonen redekiinste per- siens, p. , previously cited by von der hagen, gesammt- abenleuer, iii, lxii. . captain wedderburn's courtship lner snow." she meets a herdsman, and asks where she can find these. the herdsman offers to teach her these riddles in return for her love, and she complying with these terms, gives her the answers: the evergreen tree is winter may, and sea-foam is summer snow. beitrage znr kunde preussens, i, (rhesa), and ausland, , p. . the european tales, excepting the three drolleries (and even they are perhaps to be re- garded only as parodies of the others), must be of oriental derivation; but the far north presents us with a similar story in the lay of alvfss, in the elder edda. the dwarf alvfss comes to claim freya for his bride by virtue of a promise from the gods. thor * says that the bride is in his charge, and that he was from home when the promise was made: at any rate, alvfss shall not have the maid unless he can answer all the questions that shall be put him. thor then requires alvfss to give him the names of earth, heaven, moon, sun, etc., ending with barley and the poor creature small beer, in all the worlds; that is, in the dialect of the gods, of mankind, giants, elves, dwarfs, etc. alvfss does this with such com- pleteness as to extort thor's admiration, but is craftily detained in so doing till after sun- rise, when thor cries, you are taken in! above ground at dawn! and the dwarf turns to stone. translated, in part, after aytoun, by knortz, schottische balladen, p. . a a. herd's ms., i, . b. the same, h, . the laird of bristoll's daughter was in the woods walking, and by came captain wetherbourn, a servant to the king; and he said to his livery man, wer't not against the law, i would tak her to mine ain bed, and lay her neist the wa. 'i'm into my father's woods, amongst my fa- ther's trees, kind sir, let mee walk alane, o kind sir, if you please; the butler's bell it will be rung, and i 'll be mist awa: 'll lye into mine ain bed, neither at stock nor wa.' 'o my bonny lady, the bed it's not be mine, for i 'll command my servants for to call it thine; the hangings are silk satin, the sheets are hol- land sma. and we's baith lye in ae bed, but you's lye neist the wa. 'and so, my bonny lady, — i do not know your name, — but my name's captain wetherburn, and i'm a man of fame; tho your father and a' his men were here, i would na stand in awe to tak you to mine ain bed, and lay you neist the wa. 'oh my bonny, bonny lady, if you h gie me your hand, you shall hae drums and trumpets to sound at your command; wi fifty men to guard you, sae weel their swords can dra, and wee's baith lye in ae bed, but you's lye neist the wa.' he's mounted her upon a steid, behind his gentleman, and he himself did walk afoot, to had his lady on, with his hand about her midle sae jimp, for fear that she should fa; she man lye in his bed, but she 'll not lye neist the wa. * vigfusson objects to thor being the interlocutor, though be the dwarf first met thor (wmgthor), whereupon woden that is the name in the ms., because cunuing does not suit (wingi) came up." corpus poeticum boreale, i, . thor's blunt character, and proposes odin instead. "may . captain wedderburn's courtship he's taen her into edinburgh, his landlady- cam ben: 'and monny bonny ladys in edinburgh hae i seen, but the like of this fine creature my eyes they never sa;' 'o dame bring ben a down-bed, for she's lye neist the wa.' 'virgus is greener than the grass, heaven's higher than the tree; the deil's war than a woman's wish, hell's deeper than the sea; the cock sings first, on the sugar loaf the dew down first does fa; and ye man lye in my bed, betweest me and the wa.' 'hold your tongue, young man,' she said,' and dinna trouble me, unless you get to my supper, and that is dishes three; dishes three to my supper, tho i eat nane at a', before i lye in your bed, but i winna lye neist the wa. 'hold your tongue, young man,' she said, ' i pray you give it oer, unless you tell me questions, and that is ques- tions four; tell me them as i shall ask them, and that is twa by twa, before i lye in your bed, but i winna lye neist the wa. 'you maun get to my supper a cherry but a stane, and you man get to my supper a capon but a bane, and you man get a gentle bird that flies want- ing the ga, before i lye in your bed, but i 'll not lye neist the wa.' 'you man get to me a plumb that does in win- ter grow; and likewise a silk mantle that never waft gaed thro; a sparrow's horn, a priest unborn, this night to join us twa, before i lye in your bed, but i winna lye neist the wa.' 'a cherry whan in blossom is a cherry but a stane; a capon when he's in the egg canna hae a bane; the dow it is a gentle bird that flies wanting the ga; and ye man lye in my bed, between me and the wa.' 'hold your tongue, young man,' she said,' and dinna me perplex, unless you tell me questions, and that is ques- tions six; tell me them as i shall ask them, and that is twa by twa, before i lye in your bed, but i 'll not lye neist the wa. 'there is a plumb in my father's yeard that does in winter grow; likewise he has a silk mantle that never waft gaed thro; a sparrow's horn, it may be found, there's ane in every tae, there's ane upo the mouth of him, perhaps there may be twa. 'the priest is standing at the door, just ready to come in; nae man could sae that he was born, to lie it is a sin; for a wild boar bored his mother's side, he out of it did fa; and you man lye in my bed, between me and the wa.' 'what is greener than the grass, what's higher than the tree? what's war than a woman's wiss, what's deeper than the sea? what bird sings first, arid whereupon the dew down first does fa? before i lye in your bed, but i 'll not lye neist the wa.' little kent grizey sinclair, that morning when she raise, 't was to be the hindermost of a' her single days; for now she's captain wetherburn's wife, a man she never saw, and she man lye in his bed, but she 'll not lye neist the wa. . captain wedderburn's courtship b a. kinloch mss, i, , from mary barr's recitation, b. lord roslin's daughter's garland, o. buehan's mss, ii, . d. jamieson's popular ballads, ii, . e. harris ms., fol. b, no , from mrs harris's recitation, f. notes and queries, d s., iv, , "as sung among the peas- antry of the mearns," . the lord of rosslyn's daughter gaed through the wud her lane, and there she met captain wedderburn, a ser- vant to the king. he said unto his livery-man, were't na agen the law, i wad tak her to my ain bed, and lay her at the wa. 'i'm walking here my lane,' she says, 'amang my father's trees; and ye may lat me walk my lane, kind sir, now gin ye please. the supper-bell it will be rung, and i 'll be missd awa; sae ' l na lie in your bed, at neither stock nor wa.' he said, my pretty lady, i pray lend me your hand, and ye 'll hae drums and trumpets always at your command; and fifty men to guard ye wi, that weel their swords can draw; sae we 'll baith lie in ae bed, and ye 'll lie at the wa. 'haud awa frae me, kind sir, i pray let go my hand; the supper-bell it will be rung, nae langer maun i stand. my father he 'll na supper tak, gif i be missd awa; sae i 'll na lie in your bed, at neither stock nor wa.' 'o my name is captain wedderburn, my name i 'll neer deny, and i command ten thousand men, upo yon mountains high. tho your father and his men were here, of them i'd stand na awe, but should tak ye to my ain bed, and lay ye neist the wa.' then he lap aff his milk-white steed, and set the lady < n, and a' the way he walkd on foot, he held her by the hand; he held her by the middle jimp, for fear that she should fa; saying, i 'll tak ye to my ain bed, and lay thee at the wa. he took her to his quartering-house, his land- lady looked ben, saying, monie a pretty ladie in edinbruch i've seen; but sic 'na pretty ladie is not into it a': gae, mak for her a fine down-bed, and lay her at the wa. 'o haud awa frae me, kind sir, i pray ye lat me be, for i 'll na lie in your bed till i get dishes three; dishes three maun be dressd for me, gif i should eat them a', before i lie in your bed, at either stock or wa. ''t is i maun hae to my supper a chicken without a bane; and i maun hae to my supper a cherry with- out a stane; and i maun hae to my supper a bird without a gaw, before i lie in your bed, at either stock or wa.' 'whan the chicken's in the shell, i am sure it has na bane; and whan the cherry's in the bloom, i wat it has na stane; the dove she is a genty bird, she flees without a gaw; sae we 'll baith lie in ae bed, and ye 'll be at the wa.' 'o haud awa frae me, kind sir, i pray ye give me owre, for i 'll na lie in your bed, till i get presents four; presents four ye maun gie me, and that is twa and twa, before i lie in your bed, at either stock or wa. . captain wedderburn's courtship . will not go to your bed till you dress me. s. three you must do to me. . o i must have ... a cherry without a stone. . a chicken without a bone. , . when the cherry is into the bloom i am sure it hath no stone, and when the chicken's in the shell i'm sure it hath no bone. *. it is a gentle. ii . i will not go till . . . till you answer me questions. s. questions four you must tell me. . you must get to me. . that the wraft was neer ca'd. s, and *, (and consequently *' , *' ) are wrongly interchanged in b, mixing up ferlies and questions. a s' , *, , , , , s, , , *,* = b *, , s' , , , ' , ', , ' , *' . . the wraft was neer ca'd throw. *' . a sparrow's horn you well may get, there's one on ilka pa. . standing at the door. s. a hole cut in his mother's side, he from the same did fa. . and what . . . women's voice. s. what bird sings best, and wood buds first, that dew does on them fa. . sky is higher. . worse than wo- men's voice. s. the dew does on them fa. . the last night. s. now they both lie in one bed. c closely resembling b, the variations from b are given. c. . came omitted, v. ; unto, v. . . into your bed, v. . . guard you . . . who well, v. ; into . . . thou 'it, v. . ' . then says, v. . . lighted from . . . this lady, v. ; mid- dle jimp, v. . . pretty fair, v. ; as this, v. . . dress me, v. . . unto, vv , ; o must, v. . . in the bloom, v. ; we both shall ly in, v. . . will give oer, v. ; to your . . . you tell me, v. . . you must get to me . . . that waft, v. ; bird sings first ... on them does, v. . . sings first, v. . . in your . . . you tell me, v. ; i 'll ly in, v. . . what is . . . woman's, v. ; i 'll ly in, v. . . death's greener than the grass, hell's deeper than the seas, the devil's worse than woman's voice, sky's higher than the trees, vv , ; every paw, v. ; thou shalt, v. . . the lady . . . rose, v. ; it was to be the very last, v. ; they ly in ae, v. . d. follows the broadside (b, c) through the first nine stanzas, with changes from jamieson's "own recollection," or inven- tion, and one from a. has certainly arbitrary alterations. the remaining eight stanzas are the corresponding ones of a treated freely. the comparison here is with b, readings from a in - not being noticed. s. serving men. s. mist awa, from a; so in *, a stanza not in a. s. i'd have nae awe. . he lighted aff . . . this lady. '. middle jimp. . to tak her to his ain. '. sic a lovely face as thine. . gae mak her down. s. maun dress to me. . it's ye maun get. ^ s. and ye maun get. . it's whan the cherry is in the flirry. . in the egg. s. and sin the flood o noah the dow she had nae ga. a, b d, , , , ,s, , , . - = b b, c, , ' , , , , '*, ,s . and gie your fleechin oer. . unless you 'll find me ferlies, and that is ferlies four. s. ferlies four ye maun find me. ii . or i 'll never lie. . and get to me. s. doth first down. . ye sall tell afore i lay me down be- tween you and the wa. . has an indian gown that waft. s. on cedar top the dew. . that gait me perplex. '. three times twa. . proud lady margaret make the supposition far from incredible that the proud lady margaret of the first part of the ballad may originally have been one of the cruel princesses spoken of in the preface to ' captain wedderburn's courtship,' p. . but the corrupt condition of the texts of a-d forbids any confident opinion. a dead mistress similarly admonishes her lover, in a ballad from brittany, given in ampere, instructions relatives aux poesies populaires de la france, p. . "non, je ne dors ni ne soumeille, je sis dans l'enfer a bruler. "aupres de moi reste une place, c'est pour vous, piar', qu'on l'a gardee." "ha! dites-moi plustot, ma jeanne, comment fair' pour n'y point aller?" "ii faut aller a la grand-messe, et aux vepres, sans y manquer. "faut point aller aux fileries, comm' vous aviez d'accoutume. "ne faut point embrasser les filles sur l ' bout du coffre au pied du lect." so beaurepaire, etude, p. ; puymaigre, 'la damnee,' chants populaires, i, ; v. smith, chants du velay et du forez, romania, iv, f,' la concubine;' and luzel, " celui qui alla voir sa maitresse en enfer," i, , . in this last, a lover, -whose mistress has died, goes into a monastery, where he prays contin- ually that he may see her again. the devil presents himself in the likeness of a young man, and on condition of being something gently considered takes him to hell. he sees his mistress sitting in a fiery chair (cf. b, , ), devoured by serpents night and day, and is informed that fasts and masses on his part will only make things worse. like dives, she sends word to her sister not to do as she has done. some of these traits are found also in one or another of the french versions. translated by doenniges, p. , after scott, and by knortz, schottische balladen, no , after aytoun, ii, . a scott's minstrelsy, iii, , ed. . communicated "by mr hamilton, music-seller, edinburgh, with whose mother it had been a favorite." 't was on a night, an evening bright, when the dew began to fa, lady margaret was walking up and down, looking oer her castle wa. she looked east and she looked west, to see what she could spy, when a gallant knight came in her sight, and to the gate drew nigh. 'you seem to be no gentleman, you wear your boots so wide; but you si'fin to be some cunning hunter, you wear the horn so syde.' 'i am no cunning hunter,' he said, 'nor neer intend to be; but i am come to this castle to seek the love of thee. and if you do not grant me love, this night for thee i 'll die.' 'if you should die for me, sir knight, there's few for you will meane; for mony a better has died for me, whose graves are growing green. [' but ye maun read my riddle,' she said, 'and answer my questions three; and but ye read them right,' she said, 'gae stretch ye out and die.] 'now what is the flower, the ae first flower, springs either on moor or dale? and what is the bird, the bonnie bonnie bird, sings on the evening gale?' 'the primrose is the ae first flower springs either on moor or dale, . proud lady margaret and the thristlecock is the bonniest bird sings on the evening gale.' [' but what's the little coin,' she said, 'wald buy my castle bound? and what's the little boat,' she said, 'can sail the world all round ? '] 'o hey, how mony small pennies make thrice three thousand pound? or hey, how mony salt fishes swim a' the salt sea round?' 'i think you maun be my match,' she said, 'my match and something mair; you are the first eer got the grant of love frae my father's heir. 'my father was lord of nine castles, my mother lady of three; my father was lord of nine castles, and there's nane to heir but me. 'and round about a' thae castles you may baith plow and saw, and on the fifteenth day of may the meadows they will maw.' 'o hald your tongue, lady margaret,' he said, 'for loud i hear you lie; your father was lord of nine castles, your mother was lady of three; your father was lord of nine castles, but ye fa heir to but three. 'and round about a' thae castles you may baith plow and saw, but on the fifteenth day of may the meadows will not maw. 'i am your brother willie,' he said, 'i trow ye ken na me; i came to humble your haughty heart, has gard sae mony die.' 'if ye be my brother willie,' she said, 'as i trow weel ye be, this night i 'll neither eat nor drink, but gae alang wi thee.' 'o hold your tongue, lady margaret,' he said, 'again i hear you lie; for ye've unwashen hands and ye've un- washen feet, to gae to clay wi me. 'for the wee worms are my bedfellows, and cauld clay is my sheets, and when the stormy winds do blow, my body lies and sleeps.' b a. buchau's ballads of the north of scotland, i, motherwell's ms., p. . b. motherwell's minstrelsy, traduction, p. lxxxi. there was a knight, in a summer's night, appeard in a lady's hall, as she was walking up and down, looking oer her castle wall. 'god make you safe and free, fair maid, god make you safe and free!' 'o sae fa you, ye courteous knight, "what are your wills wi me?' 'my wills wi you are not sma, lady, my wills wi you nae sma, and since there's nane your bower within, ye 'se hae my secrets a'. 'for here am i a courtier, a courtier come to thee, and if ye winna grant your love, all for your sake i 'll dee.' 'if that ye dee for me, sir knight, few for you will make meen; for mony gude lord's done the same, their graves are growing green.' 'o winna ye pity me, fair maid, o winna ye pity me? winna ye pity a courteous knight, whose love is laid on thee?' 'ye say ye are a courteous knight, but i think ye are nane; think ye 're but a millar bred, by the colour o your claithing. . proud lady maltgaret 'you seem to be some false young man, you wear your hat sae wide; you seem to be some false young man, you wear your boots sae side.' 'indeed i am a courteous knight, and of great pedigree; nae knight did mair for a lady bright than i will do for thee. 'o i 'll put smiths in your smithy, to shoe for you a steed, and i 'll put tailors in your bower, to make for you a weed. 'i will put cooks in your kitchen, and butlers in your ha, and on the tap o your father's castle i 'll big gude corn and saw.' 'if ye be a courteous knight, as i trust not ye be, ye 'll answer some o the sma questions that i will ask at thee. 'what is the fairest flower, tell me, that grows in mire or dale? likewise, which is the sweetest bird sings next the nightingale? or what's the finest thing,' she says, 'that king or queen can wile?' 'the primrose is the fairest flower that grows in mire or dale; the mavis is the sweetest bird next to the nightingale; and yellow gowd's the finest thing that king or queen can wale. 'ye hae asked many questions, lady, i've you as many told ;' 'but how many pennies round make a hundred pounds in gold? 'how many of the small fishes do swim the salt seas round? or what's the seemliest sight you 'll see into a may morning?' ***** 'berry-brown ale and a birken speal, and wine in a horn green; amilk-white lace in a fair maid's dress looks gay in a may morning.' 'mony's the questions i've askd at thee, and ye've answerd them a'; ye are mine, and i am thine, amo the sheets sae sma. 'you may be my match, kind sir, you may be my match and more; there neer was ane came sic a length wi my father's heir before. 'my father's lord o nine castles, my mother she's lady ower three, and there is nane to heir them all, no never a ane but me; unless it be willie, my ae brother, but he's far ayont the sea.' 'if your father's laird o nine castles, yonr mother lady ower three, i am willie your ae brother, was far beyond the sea.' 'if ye be willie, my ae brother, as i doubt sair ye be, but if it's true ye tell me now, this night i 'll gang wi thee.' 'ye've ower ill washen feet, janet, and ower ill washen hands, and ower coarse robes on your body, alang wi me to gang. 'the worms they are my bed-fellows, and the cauld clay my sheet, and the higher that the wind does blaw, the sounder i do sleep. 'my body's buried in dumfermline, and far beyond the sea, but day nor night nae rest coud get, all for the pride o thee. 'leave aff your pride, jelly janet,' he says, 'use it not ony mair; or when ye come where hae been you will repent it sair. 'cast aff, cast aff, sister,' he says, 'the gowd lace frae your crown; for if ye gang where i hae been, ye 'll wear it laigher down. . proud lady margaret when you 're bracht hame to yon kirkyaird, you 'll gie them a' thier leave. 'ye come in to yonder kirk wi the goud plaits in your hair; when you 're bracht hame to yon kirkyaird, you will them a' forbear.' he got her in her mither's hour, puttin goud plaits in her hair; he left her in her father's gairden, mournin her sins sae sair. e alex. laing, ancient ballads and songs, etc., etc., from the recitation of old people. never published. . p. . fair margret was a young ladye, an come of high degree; fair margret was a young ladye, an proud as proud coud be. fair margret was a rich ladye, the king's cousin was she; fair margaret was a rich ladye, an vain as vain coud be. she war'd her wealth on the gay cleedin that comes frae yont the sea, she spent her time frae morning till night adorning her fair bodye. ae night she sate in her stately ha, kaimin her yellow hair, when in there cum like a gentle knight, an a white scarf he did wear. 'o what's your will wi me, sir knight, o what's your will wi me? you 're the likest to my ae brother that ever i did see. 'you 're the likest to my ae brother that ever i hae seen, but he's buried in dunfermline kirk, a month an mair bygane.' 'i'm the likest to your ae brother that ever ye did see, but i canna get rest into my grave, a' for the pride of thee. 'leave pride, margret, leave pride, margret, leave pride an vanity; ere ye see the sights that i hae seen, sair altered ye maun be. 'o ye come in at the kirk-door wi the gowd plaits in your hair; but wud ye see what i hae seen, ye maun them a' forbear. 'o ye come in at the kirk-door wi the gowd prins i your sleeve; but wad ye see what i hae seen, ye maun gie them a' their leave. 'leave pride, margret, leave pride, margret, leave pride an vanity; ere ye see the sights that i hae seen, sair altered ye maun be.' he got her in her stately ha, kaimin her yellow hair, he left her on her sick sick bed, sheding the saut saut tear. b s, *, , \ c s' , ' are rightly answers, not questions: cf. a , . d furnishes the ques- c. tion answered in b . b. b. motherwell begins at st. . . gowd band. , . kirk. . owergangs. e. . in the. kind squire s. and naething. in the title, and kind in ; i suppose by mistake of my copyist. *. you 're (?). . the clay cold. *, s. e'er. . young andrew young andrew * percy ms., p. . hales and furnivall, ii, . 'young andrew ' is known only from the percy manuscript. the story recalls both 'lady isabel and the elf-knight,' no , and 'the fair flower of northumberland,' no . the lady, helen, s, is bidden to take, and does take, gold with her in stanzas - , as in no , english e , , d , danish a , e , , , l , , and nearly all the polish copies, and again in no , a . she is stripped of her clothes and head-gear in - , as in no , english c-e, german g, h, and many of the polish versions. these are destined by young andrew for his lady (" that dwells so far in a strange country ") in , , , as by ulinger for his sister, and by adelger for his mother, in german g , h . in the lady en- treats young andrew to leave her her smock; so in no , polish l , " you brought me from home in a green gown; take me back in a shift of tow," and r , " you took me away in red satin; let me go back at least in a smock." has the choice between dying and going home again which is presented in 'lady isabel,' polish aa , h , r , and implied in 'the fair flower of northumber- land,' d - ; in a of this last the choice is between dying and being a paramour. in , , the lady says, " if my father ever catches you, you 're sure to flower a gallows-tree," etc.; in no , polish j , "if god would grant me to reach the other bank, you know, wretch, what death you would die." the father is unrelenting in this ballad, v. , and receives his daughter with severity in 'the fair flower of northumberland,' b , c . the conclusion of 'young andrew' is muti- lated and hard to make out. he seems to have been pursued and caught, as john is in the polish ballads, o, p, t, etc., of no . why he was not promptly disposed of, and how the wolf comes into the story, will proba- bly never be known. as i was cast in my ffirst sleepe, a dreadffull draught in my mind i drew, ffor i was dreamed of a yong man, some men called him yonge andrew. the moone shone bright, and itt cast a ffayre light, sayes shee, welcome, my honey, my hart, and my sweete! for i haue loued thee this seuen long yeere, and our chance itt was wee cold neuer meete. saies, now, good sir, you haue had yo?<r will, you can demand no more of mee; good sir, remember what you said before, and goe to the church and marry mee. 'ffaire maid, i cannott doe as i wold; • . • . • goe home and fett thy fathers redd gold, and i'le goe to the church and marry thee. then he tooke her in his armes two, and kissed her both cheeke and chin, and twise or thrise he pleased this may before they tow did part in twinn. this ladye is gone to her (fathers hall, and well she knew where his red gold lay, and counted fforth five hundred pound, besides all other iuells and chaines: . young andrew and brought itt all to younge andrew, itt was well counted vpon his knee; then he tooke her by the lillye white hand, and led her vp to an hill soe hye. shee had vpon a gowne of blacke veluett, (a pittyffull sight after yee shall see:) 'put of thy clothes, bonny wenche,' he sayes, 'for noe ffoote further thoust gang with mee.' but then shee put of her gowne of veluett, with many a salt teare from her eye, and in a kirtle of ffine breaden silke shee stood beffore young andrews eye. sais, o put off thy kirtle of silke, ffor some and all shall goe with mee; and to my owne lady i must itt beare, who i must needs loue better then thee. then shee put of her kirtle of silke, with many a salt teare still ffrom her eye; in a peticoate of scarlett redd shee stood before young andrewes eye. saies, o put of thy peticoate, for some and all of itt shall goe with mee; and to my owne lady i will itt beare, waich dwells soe ffarr in a strange coun- trye but then shee put of her peticoate, with many a salt teare still from her eye, and in a smocke of braue white silke shee stood before young andrews eye. sales, o put of thy smocke of silke, for some and all shall goe with mee; vnto my owne ladye i will itt beare, that dwells soe ffarr in a strange coun- trye. sayes, remember, young andrew, once of a woman you were borne; and ffor tlutx birth that, marye bore, i pray you let my smocke be vpon! 'yes, ffayre ladye, i know itt well, once of a woman i was borne; yett ffor noe birth that mary bore, thy smocke shall not be left here vpon.' but then shee put of her head-geere ffine; shee hadd billaments worth a hundred pound; the hayre that was vpon this bony wench head couered her bodye downe to the ground. then he pulled forth a scottish brand, and held itt there in his owne right hand; saies, whether wilt thou dye vpon my swords point, ladye, or thow wilt goe naked home againe? 'liffe is sweet,' then, ' sir,' said shee, 'therfore i pray you leaue mee with mine; before i wold dye on yowr swords point, i had rather goe naked home againe. 'my ffather,' shee sayes, 'is a right good erle as any remaines in his countrye; if euer he doe yowr body take, yom 'r sure to fflower a gallow tree. 'and i haue seuen brethren,' shee sayes, 'and they are all hardy men and bold; giff euer the doe yowr body take, you must neuer gang quicke ouer the mold.' 'if yowr ffather be a right good erle as any remaines in his owne countrye, tush! he shall neuer my body take, i'le gang soe ffast ouer the sea. 'if you haue seuen brethren,' he sayes, 'if they be neuer soe hardy or bold, tush! they shall neuer my body take, i'le gang soe ffast into the scottish mold.' now this ladye is gone to her fathers hall, when euery body their rest did take; but the erle w/iich was her ffather lay waken for his deere daughters sake. 'but who is that,' her ffather can say, 'that soe priuilye knowes the pinn?' 'it's hellen, yowr owne deere daughter, ffa- ther, i pray you rise and lett me in.' g 'noe, by my hood !' qrwth her ffather then, 'my [house] thoust neuer come within, without i had my red gold againe.' . young andrew 'nay, your gold is gone, ffather !' said shee, 'then naked thou came into this world, and naked thou shalt returne againe.' 'nay! god fforgaue his death, father,' shee sayes, 'and soe i hope you will doe mee :' 'away, away, thou cursed woman, i pray god an ill death thou may dye!' shee stood soe long quacking on the ground till her hart itt burst in three; and then shee ffell dead downe in a swoond, and this was the end of this bonny ladye. ithe morning, when her ffather gott vpp, a pittyffull sight there he might see; his owne deere daughter was dead, without clothes, the teares they trickeled fast ffrom his eye. sais, fye of gold, and ffye of ffee! for i sett soe much by my red gold that now itt hath lost both my daughter and mee!' but after this time he neere dought good day, but as flowers doth fade in the frost, soe he did wast and weare away. but let vs leaue talking of this ladye, and talke some more of young andrew; ffor ffalse he was to this bonny ladye, more pitty that he had not beene true. he was not gone a mile into the wild forrest, or halfe a mile into the hart of wales, but there they cought him by such a braue wyle that hee must come to tell noe more tales. ***** ffull soone a wolfe did of him smell, and shee came roaring like a beare, and gaping like a ffeend of hell. soe they ffought together like two lyons, and fire betweene them two glashet out; the raught eche other such a great rappe, that there young andrew was slaine, well i wott. but now young andrew he is dead, but he was neuer buryed vnder mold, for ther as the wolfe devoured him, there lyes all this great erles gold. s. of one. s. ?, "?. s. anyfollows without, but is crossed out *. to one. ". !'.; . they teares. . itt had. . my liffe. arabic numbers are in several cases ex- . tlmt pinn. pressed in letters. . the twa brothers belios, p. , no , fauriel, i, , passow, p. , no ; and again, zambelios, p. , no , passow, p. , no . in the dan- ish ' elveskud,' grundtvig, ii, , no , b , ole would simply have the tragic truth kept from his bride: 'hearken, sir ole, of mickle pride, how shall i answer thy young bride?' 'you must say i am gone to the wood, to prove horse and hounds, if they be good.' such questions and answers as we have in d , e , f , are of the commonest oc- currence in popular poetry, and not unknown to the poetry of art. ballads of the • ed- ward' class end generally or always in this way: see p. . we have again the partic- ular question and answer which occur here in 'lizie wan' and in one version of 'the trooper and fair maid,' jamieson's popular ballads, ii, . the question may be: when will you come back? when shall you cease to love me? when shall we be married? etc.; and the answer: when apple-trees grow in the seas ; when fishes fly and seas gang dry; when all streams run together; when all swift streams are still; when it snows roses and rains wine; when all grass is rue; when the nightingale sings on the sea and the cuckoo is heard in winter; when poplars bear cherries and oaks roses ; when feathers sink and stones swim; when sand sown on a stone germi- nates, etc., etc. see virgil, eel. i, - ; ovid, met. xiii, - ; wolf, ueber die lais, p. ; 'svend vonved,' grundtvig, i, , no , a, d; buchan's ballads of the north of scotland, 'lord jamie douglas,' i, f, motherwell's minstrelsy, appendix, p. vii, kinloch, finlay, etc.; pills to purge melan- choly, v, ; ' der verwundete knabe,' ' die verwundete dame,' mittler, nos - , erk's liederhort, pp - , wunderhorn, iv, - , longard, p. , no , prohle, welt, u. geist. volkslieder, p. , no ; meinert, pp , , ; uhland, p. , no ; wun- derhorn ( ), ii, , reifferscheid, p. , liederhort, p. , erk, neue sammlung, ii, , kretzschmer, i, ; zuccalmaglio, pp , , ; peter, volksthiimliches aus ost.-schlesien, i, ; ditfurth, ii, , no ; fiedler, p. ; des turcken vassnachtspiel, tieck's deutsches theater, i, ; uhland, zur geschichte der dichtung, iii, ff; tigri, canti popolari toscani (i ), pp - , nos , , , , - , , , , ; visconti, saggio dei canti p. della provincia di marritima e campagna, p. , no ; nino, saggio di canti p. sabinesi, p. f, p. f; pitre, saggi di critica lettera- ria, p. ; braga, cantos p. do archipelago acoriano, p. ; mockesch, romaniscbe dich- tungen, p. f, no ; passow, p. f, nos , ; b. schmidt, griechische marchen, etc., p. , no , and note, p. ; morosi, studi sui dialetti greci della terra d'otranto, p. , lxxv, p. , lxxix; pellegrini, canti p. dei greci di cargese, p. ; de rada, rap- sodie d'un poema albanese, p. ; haupt u. schmaler, volkslieder der wenden, i, , no , , , no , i, , no ; altmann, balalaika, russische volkslieder, p. , no ; golovatsky, narodnyya piesni galitzskoy i ugorskoy rusi, ii, , no , iii, i, , no ; maximovitch, sbornik ukrainskikh pyesen, p. , no , p. , no ; dozon, chansons p. bulgares, p. , no ; bodenstedt, die poetische ukraine, p. , no ; jordan, ueber kleinrussische volkspoesie, blatter fiir lit. unterhaltung, , no , p. (uhland); rhesa, ueber litthauische volks- poesie, in beitrage zur kunde preussens, i, ; aigner, ungarische volksdichtungen, pp , : etc. a is translated by grundtvig, engelske og skotske folkeviser, p. ; afzelius, iii, ; grimm, drei altschottische lieder, p. ; talvi, charakteristik, p. ; rosa warrens, schottische v. l. der vorzeit, p. . knortz, schottische balladen, no , translates ay- toun, i, . . the twa brothers sharpe's ballad book, p. , no . thebe were twa brethren in the north, they went to the school thegither; the one unto the other said, will you try a warsle afore? they warsled up, they warsled down, till sir john fell to the ground, and there was a knife in sir willie's pouch, gied him a deadlie wound. 'oh brither dear, take me on your back, carry me to yon burn clear, and wash the blood from off my wound, and it will bleed nae mair.' he took him up upon his back, carried him to yon burn clear, and washd the blood from off his wound, but aye it bled the mair. 'oh brither dear, take me on your back, carry me to yon kirk-yard, and dig a grave baith wide and deep, and lay my body there.' he's taen him up upon his back, carried him to yon kirk-yard, and dug a grave baith deep and wide, and laid his body there. 'but what will i say to my father dear, gin he chance to say, willie, whar's john?' 'oh say that he 's to england gone, to buy him a cask of wine.' 'and what will i say to my mother dear, gin she chance to say, willie, whar's john ?* 'oh say that he's to england gone, to buy her a new silk gown.' 'and what will i say to my sister dear, gin she chance to say, willie, whar's john?' 'oh say that he's to england gone, to buy her a wedding ring.' 'but what will i say to her you loe dear, gin she cry, why tarries my john?' 'oh tell her i lie in kirk-land fair, and home again will never come.' motherwell's ms., p. . from widow mccormick, january , . there was two little boys going to the school, and twa little boys they be, they met three brothers playing at the ba, and ladies dansing hey. 'it's whether will ye play at the ba, brither, or else throw at the stone?' 'i am too little, i am too young, o brother let me alone.' he pulled out a little penknife, that was baith sharp and sma, he gave his brother a deadly wound that was deep, long and sair. he took the holland sark off his back, he tore it frae breast to gare, he laid it to the bloody wound, that still bled mair and mair. 'it's take me on your back, brother,' he says, 'and carry me to yon kirk-yard, and make me there a very fine grave, that will be long and large. 'lay my bible at my head,' he says, 'my chaunter at my feet, my bow and arrows by my side, and soundly i will sleep. 'when you go home, brother,' he says, 'my father will ask for me; you may tell him i am in saussif town, learning my lesson free. 'when you go home, brother,' he says, 'my mother will ask for me; you may tell her i am in sausaf town, aid i 'll come home merrily. 'when you go home, brother,' he says, 'lady margaret will ask for me; you may tell her i'm dead and in grave laid, and buried in sausaff toun.' . the twa brothers she ran distraught, she wept, she sicht, she wept the sma brids frae the tree, she wept the starns adoun frae the lift, she wept the fish out o the sea. 'o cease your weeping, my ain true-love, ye but disturb my rest;' 'is that my ain true lover john, the man that i loe best?' ''t is naething but my ghaist,' he said, 'that's sent to comfort thee; o cease your weeping, my true-love, and't will gie peace to me.' d jamieson's popular ballads, i, . from the recitation of mrs w. arrott, of aberbrothick. 'o will ye gae to the school, brother? or will ye gae to the ba? or will ye gae to the wood a-warslin, to see whilk o's maun fa?' 'it 's i winna gae to the school, brother, nor will i gae to the ba; but i will gae to the wood a-warslin, and it is you maun fa.' they warstled up, they warstled down, the lee-lang simmer's day; • . . . • . » 'o lift me up upon your back, tak me to yon wall fair; you 'll wash my bluidy wounds oer and oer, and syne they 'll bleed nae mair. 'and ye 'll tak aff my hollin sark, and riv't frae gair to gair; ye 'll stap it in my bluidy wounds, and syne they 'll bleed nae mair.' he's lift.it his brother upon his back, taen mm to yon wall fair; he's washed his bluidy wounds oer and oer, but ay they bled mair and mair. and he's taen aff his hollin sark, and riven't frae gair to gair; he's stappit it in his bluidy wounds, but ay they bled mair and mair. 'ye 'll lift me up upon your back, tak me to kirkland fair; ye 'll mak my greaf baith braid and lang, and lay my body there. 'ye 'll lay my arrows at my head, my bent bow at my feet, my sword and buckler at my side, as i was wont to sleep. 'whan ye gae hame to your father, he 'll speer for his son john: say, ye left him into kirkland fair, learning the school alone. 'when ye gae hame to my sister, she 'll speer for her brother john: ye 'll say, ye left him in kirkland fair, the green grass growin aboon. 'whan ye gae hame to my true-love, she 'll speer for her lord john: ye 'll say, ye left him in kirkland fair, but hame ye fear he 'll never come.' he's gane hame to his father; he speered for his son john: 'it's i left him into kirkland fair, learning the school alone.' and whan he gaed hame to his sister, she speered for her brother john: 'it's i left him into kirkland fair, the green grass growin aboon.' and whan he gaed home to his true-love, she speerd for her lord john: 'it's i left him into kirkland fair, and hame i fear he 'll never come.' 'but whaten bluid's that on your sword, wil- lie? sweet willie, tell to me ;' 'o it is the bluid o my grey hounds, they wadna rin for me.' 'it's nae the bluid o your hounds, willie, their bluid was never so red; . the twa brothers 'o thy hawk's blude was neer sae red, nor eer sae dear to me: o what blude's this upon your dirk? dear willie, tell to me ;' 'it is the blude of my ae brother, o dule and wae is me!' 'o what will ye say to your father? dear willie, tell to me ;' 'i 'll saddle my steed, and awa i 'll ride, to dwell in some far countrie.' 'o when will ye come hame again? dear willie, tell to me ;' 'when sun and mune eap on yon hill, and that will never be.' she turnd hersel right round about, and her heart burst into three: 'my ae best son is deid and gane, and my tother ane i 'll neer see.' f buchan's mss, i, ; motherwell's ms., p. . there were twa brothers in the east, went to the school o ayr; the one unto the other did say, come let us wrestle here. they wrestled up and wrestled down, till john fell to the ground; there being a knife in willie's pocket, gae john his deadly wound. 'o is it for my gold, brother? or for my white monie? or is it for my lands sae braid, that ye hae killed me?' 'it is not for your gold,' he said, 'nor for your white monie; it is by the hand o accident that i hae killed thee.' 'ye 'll take the shirt that's on my back, rive it frae gair to gair, and try to stop my bloody wounds, for they bleed wonderous sair.' he's taen the shirt was on his back, reave it frae gare to gare, and tried to stop his bleeding wounds, but still they bled the mair. 'ye 'll take me up upon your back, carry me to yon water clear, and try to stop my bloody wounds, for they run wonderous sair.' he's taen him up upon his back, carried him to yon water clear, and tried to stop his bleeding wounds, but still they bled the mair. 'ye 'll take me up upon your back, carry me to yon church-yard; ye 'll dig a grave baith wide and deep, and then ye 'll lay me there. 'ye 'll put a head-stane at my head, another at my feet, likewise a sod on my breast-bane, the souner i may sleep. 'whenever my father asks of thee, saying, what's become of john? ye 'll tell frae me, i'm ower the sea, for a cargo of good wine. 'and when my sweetheart asks of thee, saying, what's become of john? ye 'll tell frae me, i'm ower the sea, to buy a wedding gown. 'and when my sister asks of thee, saying, william, where is john? ye 'll tell frae me, i'm ower the sea, to learn some merry sang. 'and when my mother asks of thee, saying, william, where is john? tell her i'm buried in green fordland, the grass growing ower my tomb.' he's taen him up upon his back, carried him to yon church-yard, and dug a grave baith wide and deep, and he was buried there. he laid a head-stane at his head, another at his feet, . the bonny hind begs her to go back to the convent, and say nothing, bearing her sorrow as she may. this she does. but every autumn the king makes a feast, and invites to it all the nuns in the cloister. margaret is missed, and asked for. is she sick or dead? why does she not come to the feast, like other merry dames? the wicked abbess answers, your daughter is neither sick nor dead; she goes with child, like other merry dames. the king rides off to the cloister, encounters his daughter, and demands who is the father of her child. she replies that she will sooner die than tell. the king leaves her in wrath, but returns present- ly, resolved to burn the convent, and margaret in it. olaf comes from the wood, tired and weary, sees the cloister burning, and quenches the flames with his heart's blood. the icelandic ballad, 'margretar kvaesi,' fslenzk fornkvaesi, grundtvig and sigurosson, no , has the same story. it is, however, the man who brings on the discovery by ask- ing the woman's parentage. the editors in- form us that the same subject is treated in an unprinted icelandic ballad, less popular as to style and stanza, in the arne magnussen collection, . the story of kullervo, incorporated in what is called the national epic of the finns, the kalevala, has striking resemblances with the ballads of the bonny hind class. while re- turning home in his sledge from a somewhat distant errand, kullervo met three times a girl who was travelling on snow-shoes, and invited her to get in with him. she rejected his in- vitation with fierceness, and the third time he pulled her into the sledge by force. she angrily bade him let her go, or she would dash the sledge to pieces; but he won her over by showing her rich things. the next morning she asked what was his race and family; for it seemed to her that he must come of a great line. "no," he said, "neither of great nor small. i am kalervo's unhappy son. tell me of what stock art thou." "of neither great nor small," she answered. "i am kal- ervo's unhappy daughter." she was, in fact, a long-lost sister of kullervo's, who, when a child, had gone to the wood for berries, and had never found her way home. she had wept the first day and the second; the third and fourth, the fifth and sixth, she had tried every way to kill herself. she broke out in heart-piercing lamentations: 'o that i had died then, wretched! that i had perished, weak one! had not lived to hear these horrors, had not lived this shame to suffer!' so saying she sprang from the sledge into the river, and found relief under the waters. kullervo, mad with anguish, went home to his mother, and told her what had happened. he asked only how he might die, — by wolf or bear, by whale or sea-pike. his mother vainly sought to soothe him. he consented to live only till the wrongs of his parents had been revenged. his mother tried to dissuade him even from seeking a hero's death in fight. 'if thou die in battle, tell me, what protection shall remain then for the old age of thy father?' 'let him die in any alley, lay his life down in the house-yard.' 'what protection shall remain then for the old age of thy mother?' 'let her die on any straw-truss; let her stifle in the stable.' 'who shall then be left thy brother, who stand by him in mischances?' 'let him pine away in the forest, let him drop down on the common.' 'who shall then be left thy sister, who stand by her in mischances?' 'when she goes to the well for water, or to the washing, let her stumble.' kullervo had his fill of revenge. meanwhile father, brother, sister, and mother died, and he came back to his home to find it empty and cold. a voice from his mother's grave seemed to direct him to go to the woqd for food: obeying it, he came again to the pol- luted spot, where grass or flowers would not grow any more. he asked his sword would it like to feed on guilty flesh and drink wicked blood. the sword said, why should i not like to feed on guilty flesh and drink wicked blood, i that feed on the flesh of the good . lizie wan 'sing o and o for my bonny hind, beneath yon hollin tree!' 'what needs you care for your bonny hyn? for it you needna care; there's aught score hyns in yonder park, and five score hyns to spare. 'four score of them are siller-shod, of thae ye may get three ;' 'but o and o for my bonny hyn, beneath yon hollin tree!' 'what needs you care for your bonny hyn? for it you need na care; 'the bonny heyn,' i, . . should be it's not for you a weed. mother- well. s. the third copy omits when. *. he lifted, he gae her. motherwell. ' . the second copy has they. *. all have courteth. scott prints wi' thee, with thee. take you the best, gi me the warst, since plenty is to spare.' 'i care na for your hyns, my lord, i care na for your fee; but o and o for my bonny hyn, beneath the hollin tree!' 'o were ye at your sister's bower, your sister fair to see, ye 'll think na mair o your bonny hyn beneath the hollin tree.' ***** s. the third copy has tower. s, . she's soakt it in her red heart's blood, and twin'd herself of life. motherwell. , . the first copy omits these stanzas. lizie wan a. a. 'lizie wan,' herd's mss, i, ; ii, . b. b. 'rosie ann,' motherwell's ms., p. . herd's scottish songs, , i, . a, first printed in herd's scottish songs, ed. , is here given from his manuscript copy. b is now printed for the first time. a is translated by grundtvig, engelske og skotske folkeviser, no , who subjoins a danish ballad,' liden ellen og hendes broder,' of similar character. of this the editor had three versions, differing but little, and all of slight poetical value, and he prints one which was committed to writing some sixty or sev- enty years ago, with some readings from the others. liden jensen, having killed liden ellen in a wood, pretends to his mother that she has gone off with some knights. he is betrayed by blood on his clothes, confesses the truth, and is condemned to be burned. 'herr axel,' arwidsson's swedish collection, no , i, , under similar circumstances, kills stolts kirstin's two children, is asked by his mother why his hands are bloody, pretends to have slain a hind in the wood, and has his head struck off by order of his father. 'herr peder og hans soster,' an unpublished danish ballad, of which grundtvig obtained a single traditional version, has also a slight resemblance to 'lizie wan.' kirsten invites . lizie wan 'a deal, a deal, dear mither,' she said, 'great reason hae i to mane, for there lyes a little habe in my side, between me and my brither john.' rosie she sat in her simmer bower, greiting and making great mane, and wha came doun but her sister dear, saying, what ails thee, rosie ann? 'a deal, a deal, dear sister,' she said, 'great reason hae i to mane, for there lyes a little babe in my side, between me and my brither john.' rosie she sat in her simmer bower, weeping and making great mane, and wha cam doun but her fause, fause brither, saying, what ails thee, rosie ann? 'a deal, a deal, dear brither,' she said, 'great reason hae i to cry, for there lyes a little babe in my side, between yoursell and i.' 'weel ye hae tauld father, and ye hae tauld mither, and ye hae tauld sister, a' three ;' syne he pulled out his wee penknife, and he cut her fair bodie in three. 'o what blude is that on the point o your knife, dear son, come tell to me?' 'it is my horse's, that i did kill, dear mother and fair ladie.' 'the blude o your horse was neer sae red, dear son, come tell to me:' 'it is my grandfather's, that i hae killed, dear mother and fair ladie.' 'the blude o your grandfather was neer sae fresh, dear son, come tell to me :' 'it is my sister's, that i did kill, dear mother and fair ladie.' 'what will ye do when your father comes hame, dear son, come tell to me?' 'i 'll set my foot on yon shipboard, and i hope she 'll sail wi me.' 'what will ye do wi your bonny bonny young wife, dear son, come tell to me?' 'i 'll set her foot on some other ship, and i hope she 'll follow me.' 'and what will ye do wi your wee son, dear son, come tell to me?' 'i 'll leave him wi you, my dear mother, to keep in remembrance of me.' 'what will ye do wi your houses and lands, dear son, come tell to me?' 'i 'll leave them wi you, my dear mother, to keep my own babie.' 'and whan will you return again, dear son, come tell to me?' 'when the sun and the mune meet on yon hill, and i hope that 'll neer be.' b. written without division into stanzas. . the king's dochtee lady jean the king's dochter lady jean a. a. 'the king's dochter lady jean,' motherwell's c. 'castle ha's daughter,' buchan's ballads of the ms., p. . b. 'lady jean,' motherwell's min- north of scotland, i, . strelsy, appendix, p. xxi. d. 'bold burnet's daughter.' a. buchan's mss, i, b. motherwell's ms., p. ; the first six lines in . b. the same, ii, . motherwell's minstrelsy, p. f. b is the ballad referred to, and partly cited, in motherwell's preface to ' the broom blooms bonnie and says ib is fair,' minstrelsy, p. . this copy has been extremely injured by tra- dition; so much so as not to be intelligible in places except by comparison with a. the act described in stanza should be done by the king's daughter's own hand; stanza should be addressed by her to her sister; stanza is composed of fragments of two. c and d have suffered worse, for they have been corrupted and vulgarized. at the beginning there is resemblance to 'tam lin' and to ' hind etin.' a a. motherwell's ms., p. . from the recitation of mrs storie, lochwinnich. b. motherwell's minstrelsy, ap- pendix, p. xxi, no xxiii, one stanza. the king's young dochter was sitting in her window, sewing at her silken seam; she lookt out o the bow-window, and she saw the leaves growing green, my luve, and she saw the leaves growing green. she stuck her needle into her sleeve, her seam down by her tae, and she is awa to the merrie green-wood, to pu the nit and slae. she hadna pu't a nit at a', a nit but scarcely three, till out and spak a braw young man, saying, how daur ye bow the tree? 'it's i will pu the nit,' she said, 'and i will bow the tree, and i will come to the merrie green wud, and na ax leive o thee.' he took her by the middle sae snia, and laid her on the gerss sae green, and he has taen his will o her, and he loot her up agen. 'now syn ye hae got your will o me, pray tell to me your name; for i am the king's young dochter,' she said, 'and this nicht i daurna gang hame.' 'gif ye be the king's young dochter,' he said, 'i am his auldest son; i wish i had died on some frem isle, and never had come hame! 'the first time i came hame, jeanie. thou was na here nor born; i wish my pretty ship had sunk, and i had been forlorn! 'the neist time i came hame, jeanie, thou was sittin on the nourice knee; and i wish my pretty ship had sunk, and i had never seen thee! 'and the neist time i came hame, jeanie, i met thee here alane; . the king s dochter lady jean i wish my pretty ship had sunk, . and i had neer come hame!' she put her hand down by her side, and doun into her spare, and she pou't out a wee pen-knife, and she wounded hersell fu sair. hooly, hooly rase she up, and hooly she gade hame, until she came to her father's parlour, and there she did sick and mane. 'o sister, sister, mak my bed, o the clean sheets and strae, o sister, sister, mak my bed, down in the parlour below.' her father he came tripping down the stair, his steps they were fu slow; 'i think, i think, lady jean,' he said, 'te 're lying far ower low.' 'o late yestreen, as i came hame, down by yon castil wa, o heavy, heavy was the stane that on my briest did fa!' her mother she came tripping doun the stair, her steps they were fu slow; 'i think, i think, lady jean,' she said, 'ye 're lying far ower low.' 'o late yestreen, as i cam hame, down by yon castil wa, o heavy, heavy was the stane that on my breast did fa!' her sister came tripping doun the stair, her steps they were fu slow; 'i think, i think, lady jean,' she said, 'ye 're lying far ower low.' 'o late yestreen, as i cam hame, doun by yon castil wa, o heavy, heavy was the stane that on my breast did fa!' her brither he cam trippin doun the stair, his steps they were fu slow; he sank into his sister's arms, and they died as white as snaw. b motherwell's ms., p. ; the first six lines in mother- well's minstrelsy, p. . from margery johnston. lady margaret sits in her bow-window, sewing her silken seam; she's drapt the thimble at her tae, and her scissars at her heel, and she's awa to the merry green-wood, to see the leaves grow green. she had scarsely bowed a branch, or plucked a nut frae the tree, till up and starts a fair young man, and a fair young man was he. 'how dare ye shake the leaves ?' he said, 'how dare ye break the tree? how dare ye pluck the nuts,' he said, 'without the leave of me?' 'oh i know the merry green wood's my ain, and i 'll ask the leave of nane.' he gript her by the middle sae sma, he gently sat her down, while the grass grew up on every side, and the apple trees hang down. she says, young man, what is your name? for ye've brought me to meikle shame; for i am the king's youngest daughter, and how shall i gae hame? 'if you 're the king's youngest daughter, it's i'm his auldest son, and heavy heavy is the deed, sister, that you and i have done.' he had a penknife in his hand, hang low down by his gair, . young beichan she's taen her mantle her middle about, 'win up, win up, my daughter janet, and mourning went she hame, and welcome your brother here.' and a' the way she sighd full sair, crying, am i to blame! up she's taen her milk-white hand, streakd by his yellow hair, ben it came her father dear, then turnd about her bonny face, stout stepping on the flear: and word spake never mair. a. b. i . fine silken. s. she luikit out at her braw bower win- dow. b. i , and are joined in the ms. , joined with . . no leave of thee, an emendation by motherwell, for rhyme. . he struck: an emendation. s' are joined with . *. that bruised by heart. after is written a stanza wanting. d. the first three stanzas are not properly divided in a, and in b the first fourteen lines not divided at all. a. ii . an stepping. . kind squire in both copies. b. . kin's. . heal well, heal well on me, lady janet. ii . stout stepping. *. she turned. young beichan a. 'young bicham,' jamieson-brovvn ms., fol. , c. . b. 'young brechin,' glenriddell mss, xi, , . c. 'young bckie.' a. jamieson-brown ms., fol. , c. . b. jamieson's popular ballads, ii, . d. 'young beachen,' skene mss, p. , - . e. 'young beichan and susie pye,' jamieson's popu- lar ballads, ii, . p. 'susan pye and lord beichan,' pitcairn's mss, iii, . g. communicated by mr alex. laing, of newburgh- on-tay. h. 'lord beichan and susie pye,' kinloch's ancient scottish ballads, p. g . i. communicated by mr david loudon, morham, had- dington. j. dr joseph robertson's note-book, ' adversaria,' p- . k. communicated by mr david loudon. l. the loving ballad of lord bate man. illustrated by george cruikshank, . m. 'young bondwell,' buchan's mss, i, . j. h. dixon, scottish traditional versions of ancient bal- lads, p. . n. 'susan py, or young bichen's garland.' a. fal- kirk, printed by t. johnston, . b. stirling, m. randall. a, b, d, f, and the fragment g now ap- c a is here given according to the manuscript, pear for the first time in print, and the same without jamieson's "collations." of b and is true of i, j, k, which are of less account. c b jamieson says: this ballad and that . youn< beichan which succeeds it are given from copies taken from mrs brown's recitation,* collated with two other copies procured from scotland; one in ms.; another, very good, one printed for the stalls; a third, in the possession of the late reverend jonathan boucher, of epsom, taken from recitation in the north of england; and a fourth, about one third as long as the others, which the editor picked off an old wall in piccadilly. l, the only english copy, was derived from the singing of a london vagrant. it is, says dixon, the common english broad- sheet " turned into the dialect of cockaigne." f m was probably a broadside or stall copy, and is certainly of that quality, but preserves a very ancient traditional feature. d and m, besides the name linne, have in common a repetition of the song, a trait which we also find in one version of 'the heir of linne;' j see dixon's scottish traditional versions of ancient ballads, p. , stanzas - , percy society, vol. xvn. in bell's ancient poems, ballads, and songs of the peasantry of england, p. , it is remarked that l, " the only ancient form in which the ballad has existed in print," is one of the publications mentioned in one of thack- eray's catalogues of broadsides. the 'bate- man,' in thackeray's list, is the title of an entirely different ballad, 'a warning for maidens, or young bateman,' reprinted from the roxburghe collection by w. chappell, iii, . "young beichan " is a favorite ballad, and most deservedly. there are beautiful repeti- tions of the story in the ballads of other na- tions, and it has secondary affinities with the • mr macmath has ascertained that mrs brown was born in . she learned most of her ballads before she was twelve years old, or before . ] , or a little earlier, is the date when these copies were taken down from her sing- ing or recitation. t the borderer's table book, vii, . dixon says, a little before, that the stirling broadside of 'lord bateman' varies but slightly from the english printed by hoggett, durham, and pitts, catnach, and others, london. this is not true of the stirling broadside of 'young bichen :' see n b- i did not notice, until too late, that i had not fur- nished myself with the broadside ' lord bateman,' and have been obliged to turn back the cruikshank copy into ordi- nary orthography. extensive cycle of 'hind horn,' the parts of the principal actors in the one being inverted in the other. the hero's name is mostly beichan, with slight modifications like bekie, c, bicham, a, brechin, b; in l, bateman ; in m, bondwell. the heroine is susan pye in ten of the four- teen versions; label in c; essels, evidently a variety of isbel, in m, which has peculiar relations with c; sophia in k, l. beichan is london born in a, d, [e], h, i, n, english born in b; london city is his own, a , b , f , or he has a hall there, i , n f.; half northumberland belongs to him, l; he is lord of the towers of line, d , c , m , which are in london, d f, but are trans- ferred by reciters to the water of tay, m , . and to glasgow, or the vicinity, h . h, though it starts with calling him london born, speaks of him thereafter as a scottish lord, , , .§ beichan has an englishman's desire strange countries for to see, a, d, [e], i, l, n. in , m he goes abroad, quentin durward fash- ion, not to gratify his taste for travel, but to serve for meat and fee. f makes him go to the holy land, without specifying his motive, but we may fairly suppose it religious. c sends him no further than france, and m to an unnamed foreign land. he becomes the slave of a moor or turk, a, b, d, h, i, l, n, or a "prudent," f, who treats him cruelly. they bore his shoulders and put in a " tree," and make him draw carts, like horse or ox, a, b, d, [e], h; draw plough and harrow, f, plough and cart, n; or tread the wine-press, . this is because he is a staunch christian, } we have this repetition in two other ballads of the skene mss besides d; see p. of this volume, sts - ; also in ' the lord of learne,' percy ms., hales and furni- vall, i, f, vv - . § "an old woman who died in errol, carse of gowrie, about twenty years ago, aged nearly ninety years, was wont invariably to sing this ballad: 'young lundie was in brechin born.' lundie is an estate now belonging to the earl of camperdoun, north from dundee." a. laing, note to q. that is to say, the old woman's world was forfar- shire. mr logan had heard in scotland a version in which the hero was called lord bangol: a pedlar's pack, p. . . young beichan and would never bend a knee to mahound or termagant, e, or onie of their stocks, h, or gods, i. they cast him into a dungeon, where he can neither hear nor see, and he is nigh perishing with hunger. this, also, is done in h , on account of his perseverance in christianity; but in c, m he is imprisoned for falling in love with the king's daughter, or other lovely may. from his prison beichan makes his moan (not to a stock or a stone, but to the queen of heaven, d ). his hounds go masterless, his hawks flee from tree to tree, his younger brother will heir his lands, and he shall never see home again, e, h. if a lady [earl] would borrow him, he would run at her stirrup [foot, bridle]; if a widow [auld wife] would borrow him, he would become her son; and if a maid would borrow him, he would wed her with a ring, c, d, m, b.* the only daughter of the moor, turk, or king (of a 'savoyen,' b , perhaps a corruption of saracen), already in- terested in the captive, or immediately be- coming so upon hearing beichan's song, asks him if he has lands and means at home to maintain a lady that should set him free, and is told that he has ample estates, all of which he would bestow on such a lady, a, b, e, f, h, l, n. she steals the keys and delivers the prisoner, , d, e, i, j, l, m, n; refreshes him with bread and wine [wine], a, d, e, f, j , k , b, h, l; supplies him with money, , h , m , n , and with a ship, f , h , l ; to which c, m add a horse and hounds [and hawks, m]. she bids him mind on the lady's love that freed him out of pine, a , d , [e ], m , n , and in e breaks a ring from her finger, and gives half of it to beichan to assist his memory. there is a solemn vow, or at least a clear understand- ing, that they are to marry within seven years, a , b , e f., h , , l , n [three years, c ]. when seven years are at an end, or even before, susan pye feels a longing, or a mis- • cf.' the fair flower of northumt)erland,' b , e , pp f. t she does not get away without exciting the solicitude giving, which impels her to go in search of the object of her affections, and she sets her foot on good shipboard, and turns her back on her own country, a , b , d , l. , n .f c and m preserve here a highly important fea- ture which is wanting in the other versions. isbel, or essels, is roused from her sleep by the billy blin, c , by a woman in green, a fairy, m , who makes known to her that that very day, or the morn, is bekie's [bond- well's] wedding day. she is directed to attire herself and her maids very splendidly, and go to the strand; a vessel will come sailing to her, and they are to go on board. the billy blin will row her over the sea, c ; she will stroke the ship with a wand, and take god to be her pilot, m . thus, by miraculous in- tervention, she arrives at the nick of time. beichan's fickleness is not accounted for in most of the versions. he soon forgot his de- liverer and courted another, he was young, and thought not upon susan pye, say h, n. c, on the contrary, tells us that beichan had not been a twelvemonth in his own country, when he was forced to marry a duke's daugh- ter or lose all his land. e and k intimate that he acts under constraint; the wedding has lasted three and thirty days, and he will not bed with his bride for love of one beyond the sea, e , k .j on landing, susan pye falls in with a shep- herd feeding his flock, e, k [a boy watering his steeds, m]. she asks, whose are these sheep, these kye, these castles ? and is told they are lord beichan's, g. she asks the news, and is informed that there is a wedding in yonder hall that has lasted thirty days and three, e, k, or that there is to be a wedding on the morn, m; it seems to be a matter gen- erally known, n. in other versions she comes directly to young beichan's hall, and is first informed by the porter, a, b, f, h, l, or the fact is confirmed by the porter, e, m, n; she hears the music within, and divines, c. she bribes the porter to bid the bridegroom come or wrath of her father, f, m, j, n, and in the first two h*j to use artifice. } a point borrowed, it well may be, from ' hind horn, e f, a . . young beichan and speak to her, a, b, c, d, j, n; send her down bread and wine, and not forget the lady who brought him out of prison, b, f, h, j, k, l. in e she sends up her half ring to the bridegroom [a ring in n , but not till beichan has declined to come down]. the porter falls on his knee and informs his master that the fairest and richest lady that eyes ever saw is at the gate [ladies, c, m]. the bride, or the bride's mother more commonly, reproves the porter for his graceless speech; he might have excepted the bride, or her mother, or both: " gin she be braw with- out, we's be as braw within." but the porter is compelled by truth to persist in his alle- gation; fair as they may be, they were never to compare with yon lady, b, d, e, h, m. beichan takes the table with his foot and makes the cups and cans to flee, b , d , f , g , h , j , n ; * he exclaims that it can be none but susie pye, a, b, d, g, h, i [burd isbel, c], and clears the stair, fifteen steps, thirty steps, in three bounds, a , d , n . his old love reproaches him for his forgetfulness, a, c, d, m, n ; f she asks back her faith and troth, b . beichan bids the forenoon bride's mother take back her daughter: he will double her dowry, a , d , e ; she came on horseback, she shall go back in chariots, coaches, three, b , d j [h , in chariot free]. he * so torello's wife upsets the table, in boccaccio's story: see p. . one of her slavic kinswomen jumps over four tables and lights on a fifth. t in c , m , she is recognized by one of the hounds which she had given him. so bos, seigneur de be'nac, who breaks a ring with his wife, goes to the east, and is prisoner among the saracens seven years, on coming back is recog- nized only by his greyhound: magasin pittoresquc, vi, b. it is scarcely necessary to scent the odyssey here. | ridiculously changed in j , k , l , to a coach and three, reminding us of that master-stroke in thackeray's ballad of 'little billec,' "a captain of a seventy-three." 'little billee,' by the way, is really like an old ballad, fallen on evil days and evil tongues; whereas the serious imitations of traditional ballads are not the least like, and yet, in their way, are often not less ludicrous. § in m, to make everything pleasant, bondwell offers the bride five hundred pounds to marry his cousin john. she says, keep your money; john was my first love. so bond- well is married at early morn, nnd john in the afternoon. || harleian ms. , from which the life of beket, in long couplets, was printed by mr w. ii. black for the percy society, in . the story of gilbert beket is con- marries susie pye, having her baptized by the name of lady jean, a, b, d, [e], f, i, j.§ this story of beichan, or bekie, agrees in the general outline, and also in some details, with a well-known legend about gilbert beket, father of st thomas. the earlier and more authentic biographies lack this particular bit of romance, but the legend nevertheless goes back to a date not much later than a century after the death of the saint, being found in a poetical narrative preserved in a manuscript of about .|| we learn from this legend that gilbert beket, in his youth, assumed the cross and went to the holy laud, accompanied only by one richard, his servant. they "did their pil- grimage" in holy places, and at last, with other christians, were made captive by the saracens and put in strong prison. they suffered great hardship and ignominy in the service of the saracen prince admiraud. but gilbert found more grace than the rest; he was promoted to serve the prince at meat (in his chains), and the prince often would ask him about england and the english faith. admiraud's only daugh- ter fell in love with gilbert, and when she saw her time, in turn asked him the like ques- tions. gilbert told her that he was born in london; told her of the belief of christians, and of the endless bliss that should be their meed. the maid asked him if he was ready tained in the first vv. the style of this composition en- tirely resembles that of robert of gloucester, and portions of the life of beket are identical with the chronicle; whence mr black plausibly argues that both are by the same hand. the account of beket's parentage is interpo- lated into edward grim's life, in cotton ms. vitellius, c, xu, from which it is printed by robertson, materials for the history of thomas beckct, ii, ff. it is found in bromton's chronicle, twysden, scriptores x, columns - , and in the first quadrilogus, paris, , from which it is reprinted by migne, patrologite cursus completus, cxc, cols ff. the tale has been accepted by many writ- ers who would have been better historians for a little reading of romances. augustin thierry sees in thomas beket a saxon contending in high place, for the interests and with the natural hatred of his race, against norman henry, just as he finds in the yeoman robin hood a leader of saxon serfs engaged in irregular war with norman richard. but both of st thomas's parents were norman; the father of rouen, the mother of caen. the legend was introduced by lawrence wade, following john of exeter, into a metrical life of beket of about the year : see the poem in eng- lische studien, iii, , edited by horstmann., . young beichan end lacks some of the main points of these stones, and the ballad, in one version or an- other, has them, as will be seen by referring to what has been said under ' hind horn,' pp ff. bekie and beket go to the east, like henry and reinfiit of brunswick, the noble moringer, the good gerhard, messer torello, the sire de crequi, alexander of metz, and others. like the larger part of these, they are made prisoners by the saracens. he will not bow the knee to mahound; neither will the sire de crequi, though he die for it.* beichan is made to draw cart, plough, harrow, like a beast. so henry of brunswick in a swedish and a danish ballad,f and alexander von metz, or the graf von rom, in his most beau- tiful and touching story.j henry of bruns- wick is set free by a "heathen" lady in the danish ballad. in one version of beichan, e, the lady on parting with her love breaks her ring and gives him one half, as henry, or his wife, reinfrit, gerhard, crequi, and others do. at this point in the story the woman pursues the man, and parts are inverted. susan pye is warned that beichan is to be married the next day, in c by a billy-blin, in m by a woman in green, or fairy, and is conveyed to beichan's castle or hall with miraculous despatch, just as henry and others are warned, and are trans- ported to their homes by devil, angel, or nec- romancer. in e and n the old love is identi- fied by a half ring or ring, as in so many of the stories of the class of henry the lion. norse, spanish, and italian ballads preserve a story essentially the same as that of ' young beichan.' scandinavian. danish. 'stolt ellensborg,' grundtvig, iv, herself for his liberation. she promises to effect his free- dom if he will marry her. this he agrees to. she releases him from his chains without her father's knowledge, and flies with him to his native land. * nor guarinos in the spanish ballad, duran, no , i, ; wolf and hofmann, primavera, ii, . guariuos is very cruelly treated, but it ;s his horse, not he, that has to draw carts. for the sire de crequi see also dinaux, trou- veres, iii, ff (holder). t and in 'der herr von falkenstein,' a variety of the story, meier, deutsche sagen aus schwaben, p. , no . a christian undergoes the same hardship in schoppner, sa- genbucb, iii, , no . for other cases of the won- , no , nine versions, a-g, from man- uscripts of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, h, i, from recent tradition. b is previously printed (with alterations) in lev- ninger, 'jomfrue ellensborg,' i, , no , danske viser, iii, , no ; i, ' stalt el- len henter sin faestemand' is in kristensen, i, , no . of the older texts, a, b, c are absolutely pure and true to tradition, d-g re- touched or made over. icelandic, of the seventeenth century, grundtvig, as above, p. , m. swedish, from cavallius and stephens' collection, grundtvig, p. , k. faroe, taken down in , grundtvig, p. , l. norwegian, 'herre per i riki,' landstad, p. , no , n. the variations of these twelve versions are insignificant. the names herr peder den rige and ellensborg [ellen] are found in nearly all. it comes into sir peter's mind that he ought to go to jerusalem to expiate his sins, and he asks his betrothed, ellens- borg, how long she will wait for him. she will wait eight years, and marry no other, though the king should woo her [seven, l; nine, m, " if i do not come then, break the engagement; " eight, and not more, n]. the time passes and peter does not come back. ellensborg goes to the strand. traders come steering in, and she is asked to buy of their ware, — sendal, linen, and silk green as leek. she cares not for these things; have they not seen her sister's son [brother], for whom she is grieving to death? they know nothing of her sister's son, but well they know sir peter the rich: he has betrothed a lady in the s- derful deliverance of captive knights, not previously men- tioned by me, see hocker, in wolf's zeitschrift fur deutsche mythologie, i, . } a meisterlied of alexander von metz, of the second half of the fifteenth century, korner, historische volkslieder, p. ; the ballad ' der graf von rom,' or 'der graf im pfluge,' uhland, p. , no , printed as early as ; de historie van floreniina, huysvrouwe van alexander van mets, , van den bergh, de nederlandsche volksro- mans, p. . and see goedeke, deutsche dichtung im mit- telalter, pp , ; uhland, schriften zur geschichte der dichtung, iv, - ; danske viser, v, . . young beichan ter-king's realm ; * a heathen woman, " and you never came into his mind," e ; he is to be married to-morrow, k . a wee swain tells her, m , , that he sits in austurnki drinking the ale of forgetfulness, and will never come home; he shall not drink long, says she. ellensborg asks her brother to un- dertake a voyage for her; he will go with her if she will wait till summer; rather than "wait till summer she will go alone, a, d, g. she asks fraternal advice about going in search of her lover, a, e, the advice of her uncles, i', asks the loan of a ship, b, c, f, h, n. she is told that such a thing would be a shame; she had better take another lover; the ob- ject is not worth the trouble; the voyage is bad for a man and worse for a woman. her maids give her advice that is more to her mind, e, but are as prudent as the rest in the later i. she attires herself like a knight, clips her maids' hair, b, h, i, l, m, and puts them into men's clothes, d, l; sets herself to steer and the maids to row, a-g, l.f the voyage is less than two months, b, c, e; less than three months, i; quite three months, l. it is the first day of the bridal when she lands, b , e , n ; in b ellensborg learns this from a boy who is walking on the sand. sword at side, she enters the hall where peter is drinking his bridal. peter, can in hand, rises and says, bless your eyes, my sis- ter's son ; welcome to this strange land. in b he asks, how are my father and mother? and she tells him that his father lies dead on his bier, his mother in sick-bed. in l, waiting for no greeting, she says, well you sit at the board with your wife! are all lords wont thus to keep their faith? the bride's mother, d, g, the heathen bride, e, an unnamed person, probably the bride, a, b, f, n, says, that is not your sister's son, but much more like a woman; her hair is like spun gold, and braided up under a silk cap. a tells us, and so f, g, that it was two * ster-kongens rige, sterige, sterland, austmki, un- derstood by grundtvig as garfiari'ki, the scandinavian-rus- sian kingdom of the tenth and eleventh centuries. austmki is used vaguely, but especially of the east of europe, ilussia, austria, sometimes including turkey (vigfusson). months before ellensborg could speak to peter privately. then, on a yule day, when he was going to church, she said, it does not occur to you that you gave me your troth. sir peter stood as if women had shorn his hair, and recollected all as if it had been yesterday. in b-e, h, i, l, m, n, this incident has, perhaps, dropped out. in these immediately, as in a f, g, after this interview, sir peter, recalled to his senses or to his fidelity, conceives the purpose of flying with ellensborg. good peo- ple, he says, knights and swains, ladies and maids, follow my bride to bed, while i take my sister's son over the meads, through the wood, b-e, h, i, n. in a , f, sir peter asks the bride how long she will bide while lie takes his nephew across the kingdom; in g begs the boon that, since his sister's son is going, he may ride with him, just accompany him to the strand and take leave of him; in l, m, hopes she will not be angry if he con- voys his nephew three days on his way. (it is at this point in c, h, i, l, that the bride says it is no sister's son, but a woman.) the bride remarks that there are knights and swains enow to escort his sister's son, and that he might more fitly stay where he is, but sir peter persists that he will see his nephew off in per- son. sir peter and ellensborg go aboard the ship, he crying, you will see me. no more! when they are at sea ellensborg lets out her hair, a, b, c, h; she wishes that the aban- doned bride may now feel the grief which she herself had borne for years. the proceeding is less covert in i, l, m than in the other versions. as ellensborg and peter are making for the ship in d , (and g , , borrowed from d), she says, tell me, sir peter, why would you deceive me so? sir peter answers that he never meant to deceive her; it was the lady of sterland that did it; she had changed his mind. a magical change is meant. this t in swedish k, as she pushes off from land, she ex- claims: 'gud fader i himmelens rike skall vara min styresman!' cf. m : and she's taen god her pilot to be. . young beichan agrees with what is said in a , (also f, g-), that when ellensborg got peter alone to herself, and said, you do not remember that you plighted your troth to me, everything came back to him as if it had happened yes- terday. and again in the faroe copy, l , ellensborg, from the prow, cries to ingibjorg on the strand, farewell to thee with thy elf- ways, vis tftt elvargangi! i have taken to myself my true love that i lent thee so long; implying that sir peter had been detained by circean arts, by a sleepy drench of min- nis ol, or ale of forgetfulness, icelandic m , which, in the light of the other ballads, is to be understood literally, and not figuratively. the feature of a man being made, by magical or other means, to forget a first love who had done and suffered much for him, and being suddenly restored to consciousness and his original predilection, is of the commonest oc- currence in traditional tales.* our english ballad affords no other positive trace of external interference with the hero's will than the far-fetched allegation in c that the choice before him was to accept a duke's daughter or forfeit his lands. the explana- tion of his inconstancy in h, n, that young men ever were fickle found, is vulgar, and also insufficient, for beichan returns to his old love per saltum, like one from whose eyes scales have fallen and from whose back a weight has been taken, not tamely, like a facile youth that has swerved. e and k, as already said, distinctly recognize that beichan was not act- ing with free mind, and, for myself, i have little doubt that, if we could go back far enough, we should find that he had all along been faithful at heart. spanish. a. 'el conde sol,' duran, ro- * see ' the red bull of norroway,' chambers, popular rhymes of scotland, , p. ; 'mesterma,'asbjernsen og moe, no ; 'hass-fru,' cavallius och stephens, no ; powell, icelandic legends, second series, p. ; the grimms, nos , , , ; pentamerone, n, , nl, ; gonzenbach, nos , , , and kohler's note; hahn, grie- chische u. albanesische maichen, no ; carleton, traits and stories of the irish peasantry, th ed., i, ; camp- bell, west highland tales, i, , no , and kohler's notes in orient u. occident, ii, - , etc., etc. t this passage leads the editors of primavera to remark, mancero, i, , no , from tradition in an- dalusia, by the editor; wolf and hofmann, primavera, ii, , no . in this most beau- tiful romance the county sol, named general in great wars between spain and portugal, and leaving a young wife dissolved in tears, tells her that she is free to marry if he does not come back in six years. six pass, and eight, and more than ten, yet the county does not return, nor does there come news of him. his wife implores and obtains leave of her father to go in search of her husband. she traverses france and italy, land and sea, ancl is on the point of giving up hope, when one day she sees a herdsman pasturing cows. whose are these cows? she asks. the county sol's, is the answer. and whose these wheat- fields, these ewes, these gardens, and that pal- ace? whose the horses i hear neigh? the county sol's, is the answer in each cascf and who that lady that a man folds in his arms? the lady is betrothed to him and the county is to marry her. the countess changes her silken robe for the herdsman's sackcloth, and goes to ask an alms at the county's gate. beyond all hope, the county comes out him- self to bring it. "whence comest thou, pil- grim?" he asks. she was born in spain. "how didst thou make thy way hither?" she came to seek her husband, footing the thorns by land, risking the perils of the sea; and when she found him he was about to marry, he had forgotten his faithful wife. "pilgrim, thou art surely the devil, come to try me." "no devil," she said, "but thy wife indeed, and therefore come to seek thee." upon this, without a moment's tarrying, the county ordered his horse, took up his wife, and made his best speed to his native castle. ii, , that' el conde sol' shows distinct traits of ' le chat bottev similar questions are asked in english g, the other spanish versions, and the italian, and in nearly all the greek ballads referred to on pp , ; always under the same circumstances, and to bring about the discovery which gives the turn to the story. the questions in 'le chat botte" are introduced for an entirely different purpose, and cannot rationally suggest a borrowing on either side. the hasty note would certainly have been erased by the very dis- tinguished editors upon a moment's consideration. young beichan more powerful?" she is not fairer, but more powerful: she makes rosemary flower on the edge of her sleeve, changes the sea into wine and fish into flesh. bujeaud, i, . in ' la femme abandonnde,' puymaigre, i, , the lover is married to a fleming: elle fait venir le aoleil a minuit dans sa chambre, elle fait bouiller la marmite sans feu et sans rente. in a canadian version, 'entre paris et saint- denis,' gagnon, p. , the deserted woman is a king's daughter, and the new love, ell' fait neiger, ell' fait greler, ell' fait le vent qui vente. e ' fait reluire le soleil a minuit dans sa chambre. eh' fait pousser le romarin sur le bord de la manche. puymaigre notes that there is a version very near to the canadian in the sixth volume of poesies populaires de la france, cinquieme re- cueil, ardennes, no .* a broadside ballad, 'the turkish lady,' 'the turkish lady and the english slave,' printed in logan's pedlar's pack, p. , chris- tie, i, , from singing, and preserved also in the kinloch mss, v, , i, , from eliza- beth beattie's recitation, simply relates how a turkish pirate's daughter fell in love with an englishman, her slave, offered to release him if he would turn turk, but chose the bet- ter part of flying with him to bristol, and becoming herself a christian brave. a jamieson-brown ms., fol. . in london city was bicham born, he longd strange countries for to see, but he was taen by a savage moor, who handld him right cruely. for thro his shoulder he put a bore, an thro the bore has pitten a tree, * puymaifrre finds also some resemblance in his 'petite rosalie,' i, : see his note. sir william stanley, passing through con- stantinople, is condemned to die for his re- ligion. a lady, walking under the prison walls, hears his lament, and begs his life of the turk. she would make him her husband, and bring him to adore mahomet. she offers to set the prisoner free if he will marry her, but he has a wife and children on english ground. the lady is sorry, but generously gives stanley five hundred pounds to carry him to his own country. sir william stan- ley's garland, halliwell's palatine anthology, pp f. two magyars have been shut up in a dun- geon by the sultan, and have not seen sun, moon, or stars for seven years. the sultan's daughter hears their moan, and offers to free them if they will take her to hungary. this they promise to do. she gets the keys, takes money, opens the doors, and the three make off. they are followed; one of the magyars kills all the pursuers but one, who is left to carry back the news. it is now proposed that there shall be a duel to determine who shall have the lady. she begs them rather to cut off her head than to fight about her. szilagyi niklas says he has a love at home, and leaves the sultan's daughter to his comrade, hagy- masi laszl . aigner, ungarische volksdich- tungen, p. : see p. of this volume. c b is translated by loeve-veimars, p. ; e by cesare cantu, documenti alia storia universale, torino, , tomo v°, parte iip, p. ; e, as retouched by allingham, by knortz, l. u. r. alt-englands, p. . an he's gard bim draw the carts o wine, where horse and oxen had wont to be. he's casten [him] in a dungeon deep, where he coud neither hear nor see; he's shut him up in a prison strong, an he's handld him right cruely. o this moor he had but ae daughter, i wot her name was shusy pye; she's doen her to the prison-house, and she's calld young bicham one word by. . young beichan 'o hae ye ony lands or rents, or citys in your am country, coud free you out of prison strong, an coud mantain a lady free?' 'o london city is my own, an other citys twa or three, coud loose me out o prison strong, an coud mantain a lady free.' o she has bribed her father's men wi meikle goud and white money, she's gotten the key o the prison doors, an she has set young bicham free. she's gi'n him a loaf o good white bread, but an a flask o spanish wine, an she bad him mind on the ladie's love that sae kindly freed him out o pine. 'go set your foot on good ship-board, an haste you back to your ain country, an before that seven years has an end, come back again, love, and marry me.' it was long or seven years had an end she longd fu sair her love to see; she's set her foot on good ship-board, an turnd her back on her ain country. she's saild up, so has she doun, till she came to the other side; she's landed at young bicham's gates, an i hop this day she sal be his bride. 'is this young bicham's gates ?' says she, 'or is that noble prince within?' 'he's up the stairs wi his bonny bride, an monny a lord and lady wi him.' 'o has he taen a bonny bride, an has he clean forgotten me!' an sighing said that gay lady, i wish i were in my ain country! but she's pitten her han in her pocket, an gin the porter guineas three; says, take ye that, ye proud porter, an bid the bridegroom speak to me. o whan the porter came up the stair, he's fa'n low down upon his knee: 'won up, won up, ye proud porter, an what makes a' this courtesy?' 'o i've been porter at your gates this mair nor seven years an three, but there is a lady at them now the like of whom i never did see. 'for on every finger she has a ring, an on the mid-finger she has three, an there's as meikle goud aboon her brow as woud buy an earldome o lan to me.' then up it started young bicham, an sware so loud by our lady, 'it can be nane but shusy pye, that has come oer the sea to me.' o quickly ran he down the stair, o fifteen steps he has made but three; he's tane his bonny love in his arms. an a wot he kissd her tenderly. 'o hae you tane a bonny bride? an hae you quite forsaken me? an hae ye quite forgotten her that gae you life an liberty?' she's lookit oer her left shoulder to hide the tears stood in her ee; 'now fare thee well, young bieham,' she says, ' 'll strive to think nae mair on thee.' 'take back your daughter, madam,' he says, 'an a double dowry i 'll gi her wi; for i maun marry my first true love, that's done and suffered so much for me.' he's take his bonny love by the han, and led her to yon fountain stane; he's changd her name frae shusy pye, an he's cald her his bonny love, lady jane. . young beichan when these lovers two did meet, the tear it blinded baith their ee; 'gie me my faith and troth,' she says, 'for now fain hame wad i be.' 'tak hame your daughter, madam,' he says, 'she's neer a bit the war o me; except a kiss o her bonny lips, of her body i am free; she came to me on a single horse, now i 'll send her hame in chariots three.' he's taen her by the milk-white hand, and he's led her to a yard o stane; he's changed her name frae susan pye, and calld her lusty lady jane. c a. jamieson-brown ms., fol. . b. jamieson's popular ballads, ii, . young bekie was as brave a knight as ever saild the sea; an he's doen him to the court of france, to serve for meat and fee. he had nae been i the court of france a twelvemonth nor sae long, til he fell in love with the king's daughter, an was thrown in prison strong. the king he had but ae daughter, burd isbel was her name; an she has to the prison-house gane, to hear the prisoner's mane. 'o gin a lady woud borrow me, at her stirrup-foot i woud rin; or gin a widow wad borrow me, i woud swear to be her son. 'or gin a virgin woud borrow me, i woud wed her wi a ring; i'd gi her ha's, i'd gie her bowers, the bonny towrs o linne.' o barefoot, barefoot gaed she but, an barefoot came she ben; it was no for want o hose an shoone, nor time to put them on. but a' for fear that her father dear had heard her making din: she's stown the keys o the prison-house dor an latten the prisoner gang. o whan she saw him, young bekie, her heart was wondrous sair! for the mice but an the bold rottons had eaten his yallow hair. she's gien him a shaver for his beard, a comber till his hair, five hunder pound in his pocket, to spen, an nae to spair. she's gien him a steed was good in need, an a saddle o royal bone, a leash o hounds o ae litter, an hector called one. atween this twa a vow was made, 't was made full solemnly, that or three years was come an gane, well married they shoud be. he had nae been in's ain country a twelvemonth till an end, till he's forcd to marry a duke's daughter, or than lose a' his land. 'ohon, alas !' says young beckie, 'i know not what to dee; for i canno win to burd isbel, and she kensnae to come to me.' o it fell once upon a day burd isbel fell asleep, an up it starts the belly blin, an stood at her bed-feet. 'o waken, waken, burd isbel, how [can] you sleep so soun, whan this is bekie's wedding day, an the marriage gain on? . young beichan d skene mss, p. . north of scotland, - . young beachen was born in fair london, and foreign lands he langed to see;' he was taen by the savage moor, an the used liim most cruellie. through his showlder they pat a bore, and through the bore the pat a tree; they made him trail their ousen carts, and they used him most cruellie. the savage moor had ae daughter, i wat her name was susan pay; an she is to the prison house, to hear the prisoner's moan. he made na his moan to a stocke, he made na it to a stone, but it was to the queen of heaven that he made his moan. 'gin a lady wad borrow me, i at her foot wad run; an a widdow wad borrow me, i wad become her son. 'but an a maid wad borrow me, i wad wed her wi a ring; i wad make her lady of haas and bowers, an of the high towers of line.' 'sing oer yer sang, young beachen,' she says, 'sing oer yer sang to me ;' 'i never sang that sang, lady, but i wad sing to thee. 'gin a lady wad borrow me, i at her foot wad run; an a widdow wad borrow me, i wad become her son. 'but an a maid wad borrow me, i wad wed her wi a ring; i wad make her lady of haas and bowers, an of the high towers of line.' saftly, [saftly] gaed she but, an saftlly gaed she ben, it was na for want of hose nor shoon, nor time to pet them on. an she has staen the keys of the prison, an latten young beachen gang. she gae him a leaf of her white bread, an a bottle of her wine, she bad him mind on the lady's love that freed him out of pine. she gae him a steed was guid in need, a saddle of the bane, five hundred pown in his pocket, bad him gae speeding hame. an a leash of guid grayhounds, » whan seven lang years were come and g shusie pay thought lang, an she is on to fair london, as fast as she could gang. whan she cam to young beachen's gate, 'is young beachan at hame, or is he in this countrie?' 'he is at hame, is hear,' they said, an sighan says her susie pay, has he quite forgotten me? on every finger she had a ring, on the middle finger three; she gae the porter ane of them: 'get a word o your lord to me.' he gaed up the stair, fell low down on his knee: 'win up, my proud porter, what is your will wi me?' 'i hae been porter at yer gate this thirty year and three; the fairst lady is at yer gate mine eyes did ever see.' out spak the bride's mither, an a haghty woman was she: . young beichan then out and spak the forenoon bride: 'my lord, your love it changeth soon; this morning i was made your bride, and another chose ere it be noon.' o hold thy tongue, thou forenoon bride, ye're neer a whit the worse for me, and whan ye return to your own countrie, a double dower i 'll send with thee.' he's taen susie pye by the white band, and gently led her up and down, and ay as he kist her red rosy lips, 'ye 're welcome, jewel, to your own.' he '• taen her by the milk-white band, and led her to yon fountain stane; he's changed her name from susie pye, and he 's call'd her his bonny love, lady jane. f pitcairn's mss, iii, , - . from the recitation of widow stevenson, aged seventy-three: "east country." in the lands where lord beichan was born, amang the stately steps of stane, he wore the goud at his left shoulder, but to the holy land he's gane. he was na lang in the holy land, amang the prudents that was black, he was na lang in the holy land, till the prudent did lord beichan tak. the gard him draw baith pleugh and harrow, and horse and oxen twa or three; they cast him in a dark dungeon, whare he coud neither hear nor see. the prudent had a fair daughter, i wot they ca'd her susy pye, and all the keys in that city hang at that lady by and bye. it once fell out upon a day that into the prison she did gae, and whan she cam to the prison door, she kneeled low down on her knee. 'o hae ye ony lands, beichan, or hae ye ony castles hie, whar ye wad tak a young thing to, if out of prison i wad let thee?' 'fair london's mine, dear lady,' he said, 'and other places twa or three, whar i wad tak a young thing to, if out of prison ye wad let me.' o she has opened the prison door, and other places twa or three, and gien him bread, and wine to drink, in her own chamber privately. o then she built a bonny ship, and she has set it on the main, and she has built a bonny ship, it's for to tak lord beichan hame. o she's gaen murning up and down, and she 's gaen murnin to the sea, then to her father she has gane in, wha spak to her right angrily. 'o do ye mourn for the goud, daughter, or do ye mourn for the whyte monie? or do ye mourn for the english squire? i wat i will gar hang him hie.' 'i neither mourn for the goud, father, nor do i for the whyte monie, nor do i for the english squire; and i care na tho ye hang him hie. 'but i hae promised an errand to go, seven lang miles ayont the sea, and blythe and merry i never will be untill that errand you let me.' 'that errand, daughter, you may gang, seven long miles beyond the sea, since blythe and merry you 'll neer be untill that errand i 'll let thee.' o she has built a bonny ship, and she has set it in the sea, and she has built a bonny ship, it's all for to tak her a long journie. and she's sailed a' the summer day, i wat the wind blew wondrous fair; in sight of fair london she has come, and till lord beichan's yett she walked. . young beichan then whan he cam to glasgow town, a happy, happy man was he; the ladies a' around him thrangd, to see him come frae slaverie. his mother she had died o sorrow, and a' his brothers were dead but he; his lands they a' were lying waste, in ruins were his castles free. na porter there stood at his yett, na human creature he could see, except the screeching owls and bats, had he to bear him companie. but gowd will gar the castles grow, and he had gowd and jewels free, and soon the pages around him thrangd, to serve him on their bended knee. his hall was hung wi silk and satin, his table rung wi mirth and glee, he soon forgot the lady fair that lowsd him out o slaverie. lord beichan courted a lady gay, to heir wi him his lands sae free, neer thinking that a lady fair was on her way frae grand turkie. for susie pye could get na rest, nor day nor nicht could happy be, still thinking on the scottish lord, till she was sick and like to dee. but she has builded a bonnie ship, weel mannd wi seamen o hie degree, and secretly she stept on board, and bid adieu to her ain countrie. but whan she cam to the scottish shore, the bells were ringing sae merrilie; it was lord beichan's wedding day, wi a lady fair o hie degree. but sic a vessel was never seen; the very masts were tappd wi gold, her sails were made o the satin fine, maist beautiful for to behold. but whan the lady cam on shore, attended wi her pages three, her shoon were of the beaten gowd, and she a lady of great beautie. then to the skipper she did say, 'can ye this answer gie to me? where are lord beichan's lands sae braid? he surely lives in this countrie.' then up bespak the skipper bold, for he could speak the turkish tongue: 'lord beichan lives not far away; this is the day of his wedding.' 'if ye will guide me to beichan's yetts, i will ye well reward.' said she; then she and all her pages went, a very gallant companie. when she cam to lord beichan's yetts, she tirld gently at the pin; sae ready was the proud porter to let the wedding guests come in. 'is this lord beichan's house,' she says, 'or is that noble lord within?' 'yes, he is gane into the hall, with his brave bride and monie ane.' 'te 'll bid him send me a piece of bread, bot and a cup of his best wine; and bid him mind the lady's love that ance did lowse him out o pyne.' then in and cam the porter bold, i wat he gae three shouts and three: 'the fairest lady stands at your yetts that ever my twa een did see.' then up bespak the bride's mither, i wat an angry woman was she: 'you micht hae excepted our bonnie bride, tho she'd been three times as fair as she.' 'my dame, your daughter's fair enough, and aye the fairer mot she be! but the fairest time that eer she was, she 'll na compare wi this ladie. 'she has a gowd ring on ilka finger, and on her mid-finger she has three; she has as meikle gowd upon her head as wad buy an earldom o land to thee. . young beichan 'my lord, she begs some o your bread, bot and a cup o your best wine, and bids you mind the lady's love that ance did lowse ye out o pyne.' then up and started lord beichan, i wat he made the table flee: 'i wad gie a' my yearlie rent 't were susie pye come owre the sea.' syne up bespak the bride's mother, she was never heard to speak sae free: 'ye 'll no forsake my ae dochter, tho susie pye has crossd the sea?' 'tak hame, tak hame, your dochter, madam, for she is neer the waur o me; she cam to me on horseback riding, and she sall gang hame in chariot free.' he's tane susie pye by the milk-white hand, and led her thro his halls sae hie: 'ye 're now lord beichan's lawful wife, and thrice ye 're welcome unto me.' lord beichan prepard for another wedding, wi baith their hearts sae fu o glee; says, 'i 'll range na mair in foreign lands, sin susie pye has crossd the sea. 'fy! gar a' our cooks mak ready, and fy! gar a' our pipers play, and fy! gar trumpets gae thro the toun, that lord beichan's wedded twice in a day!' i communicated by mr david louden, as recited by mrs podds, morham, haddington, the reciter being above sev- enty in . in london was young bechin born, foreign nations he longed to see; he passed through many kingdoms great, at length he came unto turkie. he viewed the fashions of that land, the ways of worship viewed he, but unto any of their gods he would not so much as bow the knee. on every shoulder they made a bore, in every bore they put a tree, then they made him the winepress tread, and all in spite of his fair bodie. they put him into a deep dungeon, where he could neither hear nor see, and for seven years they kept him there, till for hunger he was like to die. stephen, their king, had a daughter fair, yet never a man to her came nigh; and every day she took the air, near to his prison she passed by. one day she heard young bechin sing a song that pleased her so well, no rest she got till she came to him, all in his lonely prison cell. 'i have a hall in london town, with other buildings two or three, and i 'll give them all to the ladye fair that from this dungeon shall set me free.' she stole the keys from her dad's head, and if she oped one door ay she opened three, till she young bechin could find out, he was locked up so curiouslie. ***** 'i've been a porter at your gate this thirty years now, ay and three; there stands a ladye at your gate, the like of her i neer did see. 'on every finger she has a ring. on the mid-finger she has three; she's as much gold about her brow as would an earldom buy to me.' ***** he's taen her by the milk-white hand, he gently led her through the green; he changed her name from susie pie, an he's called her lovely ladye jean. . young beichan j dr joseph robertson's note-book, " adversaria," p. . from tradition. * # # * * she's taen the keys frae her fadder's coffer, tho he keeps them most sacredlie, and she has opend the prison strong, and set young beichan at libertie. ***** 'gae up the eountrie, my chile,' she says, 'till your fadder's wrath be turned from thee.' ***** she's put her han intill her purse, and gave the porter guineas three; says, 'tak ye that, ye proud porter, and tell your master to speak wi me. 'ye 'll bid him bring a shower o his best love, but and a bottle o his wine, and do to me as i did to him in time past, and brought him out o muckle pine.' he's taen the table wi his foot, and he has keppit it wi his knee: 'i 'll wager my life and a' my lan, it's susan pie come ower the sea. 'rise up, rise up, my bonnie bride, ye 're neither better nor waur for me; ye cam to me on a horse and saddle, but ye may gang back in a coach and three.' k communicated by mr pavid louden, as obtained from mrs dickson, rentonhall. ***** 'there is a marriage in yonder hall, has lasted thirty days and three; the bridegroom winna bed the bride, for the sake of one that's owre the sea.' ***** 'what news, what news, my brave young por- ter? what news, what news have ye for me?' 'as beautiful a ladye stands at your gate as eer my two eyes yet did see.' 'a slice of bread to her get ready, and a bottle of the best of wine; not to forget that fair young ladye who did release thee out of close confine.' lord bechin in a passion flew, and rent himself like a sword in three, saying, 'i would give all my father's riches if my sophia was 'cross the sea.' up spoke the young bride's mother, who never was heard to speak so free, saying, 'i hope you 'll not forget my only daughter, though yotir sophia be 'cross the sea.' 'i own a bride i've wed your daughter, she's nothing else the worse of me; she came to me on a horse and saddle, she may go back in a coach and three.' l the loving ballad of lord bateman. illustrated by george cruikshank. . lord bateman was a noble lord, a noble lord of high degree; he shipped himself all aboard of a ship, some foreign country for to see. he sailed east, he sailed west, until he came to famed turkey, where he was taken and put to prison, until his life was quite weary. all in this prison there grew a tree, there it grew so stout and strong! where he was chained all by the middle, until his life was almost gone. . young beichan m buchan's mss, i, . j. h. dixon, scottish traditional versions of ancient ballads, p. . yocno bonwell was a squire's ae son, and a squire's ae son was he; he went abroad to a foreign land, to serve for meat and fee. he hndna been in that country a twalmonth and a day, till he was cast in prison strong, for the sake of a lovely may. ' if my father get word of this, at hame in his ain country, he 'll send red gowd for my relief, and a bag o white money. 'o gin an earl woud borrow me, at his bridle i woud rin; or gin a widow woud borrow me, i'd swear to be her son. 'or gin a may woud borrow me, i'd wed her wi a ring, iufeft her wi the ha's and bowers the bonny towers o linne.' but it fell ance upon a day dame essels she thought lang, and she is to the jail-house door, to hear young bondwell's sang. 'sing on, sing on, my bonny bondwcll, the sang ye sang just now :' 'i never sang the san;;, lady, but i woud war't on you. 'o gin my father get word o this, at hnme in his ain country, he 'll send red gowd for my relief, and a bag o white money. 'o gin an earl woud borrow me, at his bridle i woud rin; or gin a widow would borrow me, i'd swear to be her son. 'or gin a may woud borrow me, i woud wed her wi a ring, infeft her wi the ha's and bowers the bonny towers o linne.' she's stole the keys o the jail-house door, where under the bed they lay; she's opend to him the jail-houso door, and set young bondwcll free. she gae 'in a steed was swift in need, a saddle o royal ben, a hundcr pund o pennies round, bade him gae roav an spend. a couple o honnds o ae litter, and cain they ca'd the one; twa gay gos-hawks she gae likeways, to keep him onthought lang. when mony days were past and gane, dame essels thought fell lang, and she is to her lonely bower, to shorten her wi a sang. the sang had such a melody, it lulld her fast asleep; up starts a woman, clad in green, and stood at her bed-feet. 'win up, win up, dame essels,' she says, 'this day ye sleep ower lang; the morn is the squire's wedding day, in the bonny towers o linne. 'ye 'll dress yoursell in the robes o green, your maids in robes sae fair, and ye 'll put girdles about their middles, sae costly, rich and rare. 'ye 'll take your maries alang wi you, till ye come to yon strand; there ye 'll see a ship, wi sails all up, come sailing to dry land. 'ye 'l take a wand into your hand, ye 'l stroke her round about, and ye 'll take god your pilot to be, to drown ye ' l take nae doubt.' then up it raise her dame essels, sought water to wash her hands, bnt aye the faster that she washd, the tears they trickling ran. then in it came her father dear, and in the floor steps he: 'what ails dame essels, my daughter dear, ye weeji sae bitterlie? 'want ye a small fish frae the flood, or turtle frae the sea? or is there man in a' my realm this day has offended thee?' 'i want nae small fish frae the flood, nor turtle frae the sea; but young bondwell, your ain prisoner. this day has offended me.' her father turnd him round about, a solemn oath sware he: 'if this be true ye tell mc now high hanged he shall be. 'to-morrow morning he shall bo hung high upon a tree:' dame essels whisperd to hersel, 'father, ye've made a lie.' additions and corkections maids. had you told me this before, i would have laid you in the water, says the mother. the maid rides on till she comes to her father's gate. then she cries to her father to open, for his youngest daughter is with- out. the father not bestirring himself, she swims the moat, and, the door not being open, goes through the glass. the next day she dries her clothes. a, a. there is a low german version of the first class, a-p, in spee, volksthiimliches vom nieder- rhein, kbln, , zweites heft, p. , ' schbndili,' ▼v. (kohler.) aa. schondili's parents died when she was a child. schon-albert, knowing this, rides to her. she attires herself in silk, with a gold crown on her hair, and he swings her on to his horse. they ride three days and nights, with nothing to eat or drink. she asks whether it is not meal-time; he replies that they are coining to a linden, where they will eat and drink. seven women are hanging on the tree. he gives her the wale of tree, river, and sword. she chooses the sword; would lie loath to spot his coat; whips off his head before the coat is half off. the head says there is a pipe in the sad- dle; she thinks no good can come of playing a murder- er's pipe. she meets first the father, then the mother; they think that must be schbn-albert's horse. that may be, she says; i have not seen him since yesterday. she sets the pipe to her mouth, when she reaches her father's gate, and the murderers come like hares on the wind. bb. alfred miiller, volkslieder aus deal erzgebirge, p. , 'schbn ulrich' [und trautendelein], vv. (kohler.) like t, without the song. cc. a. schlosser, deutsche volkslieder aus steier- mark, , p. , no , 'der ritter und die maid.' (kohler: not yet seen by me.) dd. curt miindel, els'assische volkslieder, p. , no , a fragment of fifteen verses. as anna sits by the rhine combing her hair, heinrich comes along on his horse, sees her weep, and asks why. it is not for gold and not for goods, but because she is to die that day. heinrich draws his sword, runs her through, and rides home. he is asked why his sword is red, and says he has killed two doves. they say the dove must be anna. b. h, line . read: umbrunnen. a, line . read: contributed by hoffmann. a, third paragraph. kozlowski, lud, p. , no , furnishes a second and inferior but still important form of a (masovian). a b. ligar (afterwards jasia, golo) bids kasia take all she has. she has already done this, and is ready to range the world with him. suddenly she asks, after they have been some time on their way, what is that yonder so green? jasia replies, our house, to which we are going. they go on further, and kasia again inquires abruptly, what is that yonder so white v "that is my eight wives, and you shall be the ninth: you are to die, and will be the tenth." "where is the gold, the maidens' gold?" "in the linden, ka- sia, in the linden; plenty of it." "let me not die so wretchedly; let me draw your sword for once." she drew the sword, and with one stroke jasia's head was off. b. to the polish versions are further to be added: nn, piosnki wiesniacze znad dzwiny, p. , no ; oo, roger, p. , no ; pp, roger, p. , no ; qq, ib., p. , no ; rr, p. , no ; ss, p. , no . the last three are imperfect, and qq, rr, have a beginning which belongs elsewhere. jasia sug- gests to kasia to get the key of the new room from her mother by pretending headache, and bids her take gold enough, nn, oo. they go off while• her mother thinks that kasia is sleeping, nn, oo, qq. they come to a wood, nn, pp (which is corrupt here), ss; first or last, to a deep stream, nn, oo, qq, ss; it is red sea in rr, as in j. jasia bids kasia return to her mother, nn (twice), rr ; bids her take off her rich clothes, oo, to which she answers that she has not come here for that. john throws her into the water, nn, oo, qq, ss, from a bridge in the second and third. her apron catches on a stake or post; she begs john for help, and gets for answer, " i did not throw you in to help you: you may go to the bottom," oo. she swims to a stake, to which she clings, and john hews her in three, qq. fishermen draw out the body, and carry it to the church, nn, oo. she apostrophizes her hair in qq, ss, as in o, i, j, and in the same absurd terms in qq as in j. john is pursued and cut to pieces in oo, also broken on the wheel. pp closely resembles german ballads of the third class. katie shouts three times: at her first cry the grass curls up ; at the second the river overflows; the third wakes her mother, who rouses her sons, saying, katie is calling in the wood. they find john with a bloody sword; he says he has killed a dove. they answer, no dove, but our sister, and maltreat him till he tells what he has done with his victim: "i have hidden her under the yew-bush; now put me on the wheel." b, line of the middle paragraph. read piosnki for pies'ni, and omit the quotation marks in this and the line before. b, line (the girl's adding her hair to lengthen the cord). in the tale of the sea-horse, schiefner, awa- rische texte, memoirs of the st petersburg academy, vol. xix, no , p. f, a sixty-ell rope being required to rescue a prince from a well into which he had been thrown, and no rope forthcoming, the daughter of a sea- king makes a rope of the required length with her hair, and with this the prince is drawn out. dr reinhold kohler, who pointed out this incident to me, refers in his notes to the texts, at p. vii f, to the song of siidai margin, radloff, ii, - , where siidai margin's wife, having to rescue her husband from a pit, tries first his horse's tail, and finds it too short, then her hair, which proves also a little short. a maid is then found whose hair is a hundred fathoms long, and her hair being tied on to the horse's tail, and horse, wife, and maid pulling together, the hero is drawn out. for climbing up by a additions and corrections grave: wicked mother, thou wouldst not let us live to- gether ; let us rest together. golovatsky, i, , no : a maple from the man's grave, white birch from the woman's, which mingle their leaves. slovenian. stur, o narodnfch pi'sni'ch a povestech piemen slovanskych, p. : the lovers are buried east and west, a rose springs from the man's grave, a lily from the maid's, which mingle their growth. wend. add: haupt and schmaler, ii, , no . breton. add: villemarque', barzaz breiz, 'le seigneur nann et la fee,' see p. , note §, of this volume. a. armenian. the ashes of two lovers who have been literally consumed by a mutual passion are deposited by sympathetic hands in one grave. two rose bushes rise from the grave and seek to intertwine, but a thorn interposes and makes the union forever im- possible. (the thorn is creed. the young man was a tatar, and his religion had been an insuperable obstacle in the eyes of the maid's father.) baron von haxt- hausen, transkaukasia, i, f. (kohler.) a middle high german poem from a ms. of the end of the th century, printed in haupt's zeitschrift, vi, makes a vine rise from the common grave of pyra- mus and thisbe and descend into it again: p. . (kohler.) j. grimm notes several instances of this marvel (not from ballads), ueber frauennamen aus blumen, klei- nere schriften, ii, f, note **. . a the paisley magazine, june , , p. , communi- cated by william motherwell. "sung to a long, drawling, monotonous tune." ***** 'gude earl brand, i long to see faldee faldee fal deediddle a dee all your grey hounds running over the lea.' and the brave knights in the valley 'gude lady fair, i have not a steed but one, but you shall ride and i shall run.' they 're ower moss and they 're ower mure, and they saw neither rich nor pure. until that they came to auld karl hude; he's aye for ill and never for gude. 'gude earl brand, if ye love me, kill auld karl hude, and gar him die.' 'o fair ladie, we 'll do better than sae: gie him a penny, and let him gae.' 'gude earl brand, whare hae ye been, or whare hae ye stown this lady sheen?' 'she's not my lady, but my sick sister, and she's been at the wells of meen.' 'if she was sick, and very sair, she wadna wear the red gold on her hair. 'or if she were sick, and like to be dead, she wadna wear the ribbons red.' he cam till he cam to her father's gate, and he has rappit furious thereat 'where is the lady o this hall?' 'she's out wi her maidens, playing at the ball.* 'if you 'll get me fyfteen wale wight men, sae fast as i 'll fetch her back again.' she's lookit ower her left collar-bane: 'o gude earl brand, we baith are taen.' 'light down, light down, and hold my steed; change never your cheer till ye see me dead. 'if they come on me man by man, i 'll be very laith for to be taen. 'but if they come on me one and all, the sooner you will see me fall.' o he has killd them all but one, and wha was that but auld karl hude. and he has come on him behind, and put in him the deadly wound. o he has set his lady on, and he's come whistling all along. 'gude earl brand, i see blood :' 'it's but the shade o my scarlet robe.' they cam till they cam to the water aflood; he's lighted down and he's wushen aff the blood. his mother walks the floor alone: 'o yonder does come my poor son. additions and corrections 'what will i do wi your lady fair?' 'marry her to my eldest brother.' the brawest knight i airly . to her. l, are written as one stanza. i a stall-copy lent me by mrs alexander forbes, liberton, edinburgh. 'rise up, rise up, lord douglas,' she said, 'and draw to your arms so bright; let it never be said a daughter of yours shall go with a lord or a knight. 'rise up, rise up, my seven bold sons, and draw to your armour so bright; let it never be said a sister of yours shall go with a lord or a knight.' he looked over his left shoulder, to see what he could see, and there he spy'd her seven brethren bold, and her father that lov'd her tenderly. 'light down, light down, lady margret,' he said, 'and hold my steed in thy hand, that i may go fight with your seven brethren bold, and your father who's just at hand.' o there she stood, and bitter she stood, and never did shed a tear, till once she saw her seven brethren slain, and her father she lovd so dear. 'hold, hold your hand, william,' she said, 'for thy strokes are wondrous sore; for sweethearts i may get many a one, but a father i neer will get more.' she took out a handkerchief of holland so fine and wip'd her father's bloody wound, which ran more clear than the red wine, and forked on the cold ground. 'o chuse you, chuse you, margret,' he said, 'whether you will go or bide!' 'i must go with you, lord william,' she said, 'since you 've left me no other guide.' he lifted her on a milk-white steed, and himself on a dapple grey, with a blue gilded horn hanging by his side, and they slowly both rode away. away they rode, and better they rode, till they came to yonder sand, till once they came to yon river side, and there they lighted down. they lighted down to take a drink of the spring that ran so clear, and there she spy'd his bonny heart's blood, a running down the stream. 'hold up, hold up, lord william,' she says, 'for i fear that you are slain ;' ''t is nought but the shade of my scarlet clothes, that is sparkling down the stream.' he lifted her on a milk-white steed, and himself on a dapple grey, with a blue gilded horn hanging by his side, and slowly they rode away. ay they rode, and better they rode, till they came to his mother's bower; till once they came to his mother's bower, and down they lighted there. 'o mother, mother, make my bed, and make it saft and fine, and lay my lady close at my back, that i may sleep most sound.' lord william he died eer middle o the night, lady margret long before the morrow; lord william he died for pure true love, and lady margret died for sorrow. lord william was bury'd in lady mary's kirk, the other in saint mary's quire; out of william's grave sprang a red rose, and out of margret's a briar. and ay they grew, and ay they threw, as they wad fain been near; and by this you may ken right well they were twa lovers dear. b. d. . for kinlock (twice) read kinloch; and read i, . additions and, corrections l . and i 'll gie the hail o my father's land. . the first tune that the bonnie fiddle playd, 'hang my sister alison,' it said. . 'i wad gie you.' a. r b. read: lanarkshire. v campbell ms., ii, . there dwelt twa sisters in a bower, benorie, o benorie the youngest o them was the fairest flower. in the merry milldams o benorie there cam a wooer them to woo, ■ , • • • he's gien the eldest o them a broach and a real, because that she loved her sister weel. at etc. he's gien the eldest a gay penknife, he loved the youngest as dear as his life. at etc. 'o sister, o sister, will ye go oer yon glen, and see my father's ships coming in?' at etc. 'o sister dear, i darena gang, because i'm feard ye throw me in.' the etc. 'o set your foot on yon sea stane, and was yeer hands in the sea foam.' at etc. she set her foot on yon sea stane, to wash her hands in the sea foam. at etc. . but the eldest has thrown the youngest in. the etc. 'o sister, o sister, lend me your hand, and ye 'se get william and a' his land.' at etc. the miller's daughter cam out clad in red, seeking water to bake her bread. at etc. 'o father, o father, gae fish yeer mill-dam, there's either a lady or a milk-[whitej swan.' in etc. the miller cam out wi his lang cleek, and he cleekit the lady out by the feet. from the bonny milldam, etc. ye wadna kend her pretty feet, the american leather was sae neat. in etc. ye wadna kend her pretty legs, the silken stockings were so neat tied. in etc. ye wadna kend her pretty waist, the silken stays were sae neatly laced. in etc. ye wadna kend her pretty face, it was sae prettily preend oer wi lace. in etc. ye wadna kend her yellow hair, it was sae besmeared wi dust and glar. in etc. by cam her father's fiddler fine, and that lady's spirit spake to him. from etc. she bad him take three taits o her hair, and make them three strings to his fiddle sae rare. at etc. 'take two of my fingers, sae lang and sae white, and make them pins to your fiddle sae neat.' at etc. the ae first spring that the fiddle played was, cursed be sir john, my ain true-love. at etc. the next spring that the fiddle playd was, burn burd hellen, she threw me in. the etc. additions and corrections . l campbell mss, ii, . there were three ladies playing at the ba, with a hey and a lilly gay when the king o fairies rode by them a'. and the roses they grow sweetlie, the foremost one was clad in blue; he askd at her if she'd be his doo. the second of them was clad in red; he askd at her if she'd be his bride. the next of them was clad in green; he askd at her if she'd be his qneen. 'go you ask at my father then, and you may ask at my mother then. 'you may ask at my sister ann, and not forget my brother john.' ' i have askd at your father then, and i have askd at your mother then. 'and i have askd at your sister ann, but i've quite forgot your brother john.' her father led her down the stair, her mother combd down her yellow hair. her sister ann led her to the cross, and her brother john set her on her horse. 'now you are high and i am low, give me a kiss before ye go.' she's lootit down to gie him a kiss, he gave her a deep wound and didna miss. and with a penknife as sharp as a dart, and he has stabbit her to the heart. 'ride up, ride up,' says the foremost man, 'i think our bride looks pale an wan.' 'ride up, ride up,' says the middle man, 'i see her heart's blude trinkling down.' 'ride on, ride,' says the fairy king, 'she will be dead lang ere we win hame.' 'o i wish i was at yonder cross, where my brother john put me on my horse. 'i wish i was at yonder thorn, i wad curse the day that ere i was born. 'i wish i was at yon green hill, then i wad sit and bleed my fill.' 'what will you leave your father then?' 'the milk-white steed that i ride on.' 'what will you leave your mother then?' 'my silver bible and my golden fan.' 'what will ye leave your sister ann?' 'my good lord, to be married on.' 'what will ye leave your sister pegg?' 'the world wide to go and beg.' 'what will you leave your brother john?' 'the gallows-tree to hang him on.' 'what will you leave your brother's wife?' 'grief and sorrow to end her life.' burden in all but , , , lilly hey; in , , , spring sweetlie; in , smell sweetlie. m campbell mss, ii, . there was three ladies playing at the ba, with a hay and a lilly gay a gentleman cam amang them a'. and the roses grow sweet aye the first of them was clad in yellow, and he askd at her gin she'd be his marrow. the next o them was clad in green; he askd at her gin she'd be his queen. the last o them [was] clad in red; he askd at her gin she'd be his bride. 'have ye asked at my father dear? or have ye asked my mother dear? 'have ye asked my sister ann? or have ye asked my brother john?' additions and corrections 'i have asked yer father dear, . green cross. and i have asked yer mother dear. it , bleed. 'i have asked yer sister ann, but i've quite forgot your brother john.' her father dear led her thro them a', her mother dear led her thro the ha. her sister ann led her thro the closs, and her brother john stabbed her on her horse. 'ride up, ride up,' says the foremost man, 'i think our bride looks pale and wan.' 'ride up,' cries the bonny bridegroom, ' think the bride be bleeding.' 'this is the bludy month of may, me and my horse bleeds night and day. 'o an i were at yon green hill, i wad ly down and bleed a while. 'o gin i was at yon red cross, i wad light down and corn my horse. g 'o an i were at yon kirk-style, i wad lye down and soon be week' when she cam to yon green hill, then she lay down and bled a while. and when she cam to yon red cross, then she lighted and corned her horse. 'what will ye leave your father dear?' 'my milk-white steed, which cost me dear.' 'what will ye leave your mother dear?' 'the bludy clothes that i do wear.' 'what will ye leave your sister ann?' 'my silver bridle and my golden fan.' 'what will ye leave your brother john?' 'the gallows-tree to hang him on.' 'what will ye leave to your sister pegg?' 'the wide world for to go and beg.' ' when she came to yon kirk-style, then she lay down, and soon was week n dr joseph robertson's note-book, january , , no . then out bespak the foremost priest: wi a heigh ho and a lilly gay i think she's bleedin at the breast. the flowers they spring so sweetly . lord randal. p. . b. add: kinloch mss, vii, . d. read: a. 'lord randal,' minstrelsy, etc. b. 'lord rannal,' campbell mss, ii, g . i. add: h. communicated by mr george m. rich- ardson, i. communicated by mr george l. kittredge. k. b. insert after popular rhymes: , p. . add: d. 'the crowdin dou,' kinloch mss, i, . add: p. 'lord ronald, my son,' communicated by mr macmath, of edinburgh. q. 'lord randal,' pitcairn's mss, iii, . r. 'little wee toorin dow,' pitcairn's mss, iii, , from tradition. a. i failed to mention, though i had duly noted them, three versions of ' l'avvelenato,' which are cited by professor d'ancona in his poesia popolare italians, pp ff. d. the canon lorenzo panciatichi refers to the bal- lad in a ' cicalata in lode della padella e della frit- tura,' recited at the crusca, september , , and in such manner as shows that it was well known. he quotes the first question of the mother, "dove andastii a cena," etc. to this the son answered, he says, that he had been poisoned with a roast eel: and the mother asking what the lady had cooked it in, the reply was, in the oil pot. e. a version obtained by d'ancona from the singing of a young fellow from near pisa, of which the first four stanzas are given. some verses after these are lost, for the testament is said to supervene immediately. f. a version from lecco, which has the title, derived from its burden, ' de lu cavalieri e figliu de re,' a. trifone nutrieati briganti, intorno ai canti e racconti popolari del leccese, p. . the first four stanzas are cited, and it appears from these that the prince had cooked the eel himself, and, appropriately, in a gold pan. a, first paragraph. f is given by meltzl, acta comparationis, , columns f, in another dialect. b. magyar. the original of this ballad, 'a megetett ja,nos,' ' poisoned john' (as would appear, in the szekler idiom), was discovered by the unitarian bishop kriza, of klausenburg, and was published by him in j. arany's ' koszoru,' in . it is more ex- actly translated by meltzl in the acta comparationis additions and corrections s communicated to percy by rev. p. parsons, of wye, near ashford, kent, april , : taken down by a friend of mr parsons " from the spinning-wheel, in suffolk." 'where have yon been today, randall, my son? where have you been today, my only man?' 'i have been a hunting, mother, make my bed soon, for i'm sick at the heart, fain woud lie down. dear sister, hold my head, dear mother, make my bed, i am sick at the heart, fain woud lie down.' 'what have you eat today, randal, my son? what have you eat today, my only man?' 'i have eat an eel; mother, make,' etc. 'what was the colour of it, randal, my son? what was the colour of it, my only man?' 'it was neither green, grey, blue nor black, but speckled on the back; make,' etc. 'who gave you eels today, randal, my son? who gave you eels today, my only man?' 'my own sweetheart; mother, make,' etc. 'where shall i make your bed, randal, my son? where shall i make your bed, my only man?' 'in the churchyard; mother, make,' etc. 'what will you leave her then, randall, my son? what will you leave her then, my only man?' 'a halter to hang herself; make,' etc. a. insert after c: d. b. disordered; b = a ; b = a ; b = a -a -|_a s, ; b = a ; a l , * , are wanting. b. is. been at the hunting. . i fear ye've drunk poison. * = a *. i supd wi my auntie. l s = a l . your supper. this copy may be an imperfect recollection of a. b. i. h. four stanzas only, , , , . i . my own little one. *. at the heart . . . and fain. . will you leave mother. . will you leave grandma. s. a rope, k. seven stanzas. is. to see grandmother. i . sick at heart, and fain. *. striped eels fried. = a , d , h . l . your grandmother has poisoned you. s. i know it, i know it. = a . , . would you leave mother. = a , b , h . , . would you leave sister. *. a box full of jewels. == a ; = a . l *. would you leave grandmother. *. a rope for to hang her. l s. o where shall i make it. k. add after o: d. i . my bonnie wee crowdin, and always. . frae your stepmither. . she gied me a bonnie wee fish, it was baith black and blue. . my ain wee dog. . and whare is your ain wee dog. . it laid down its wee headie and deed, and sae maun i do nou. q. "the second, third, fourth, and fifth stanzas were very much similar to the set lord ronald, in scott's border minstrelsy, and as mr robertson was hurried he did not take down the precise words." ms., p. . ronald is changed to randal in , , but is left in . r. written in four-line stanzas. . edward. p. a, first paragraph. add: swedish e, amin- son, bidrag till sodermanlands kulturhistoria, m, , eight stanzas. nine stanzas of finnish b are trans- lated by schott, acta comparationis, , iv, cols , . the murder here is for wife-seduction, a peculiar and assuredly not original variation. b. b is translated by adolph von mardes, p. ; by graf von platen, ii, , stuttgart, ; after her- der into magyar, by dr karl von szasz. . babylon; or, the bonnie banks o fordie. p. a. swedish. professor george stephens points me to two localized prose outlines of the story, one from sm&land, the other from skane; 'truls och bans barn,' in the svenska fornminnesfbreningens tidskrift, ii, f. . leesome brand. p. a. swedish. ii. add: i, ' risa lill,* wig- strbm, folkdiktning, ii, . additions and corrections marriage, and espouses the right woman. miklosisch, ueber die mundarten der zigeuncr, iv, marchen u. lieder, th tale, pp - , at the end of a story of the class referred to at p. f. (kohler.) a personage appeared at magdeburg in in the disguise of a pilgrim, asked for a cup of wine from the archbishop's table, and, in drinking, dropped into the cup from his mouth the seal ring of the margrave waldemar, supposed to have been long dead, but whom he confessed or avowed himself to be. kloden, dip- iomatische geschichte des fur falsch erkliirten mark- grafen waldemar, p. f. (kohler.) a wife who long pursues her husband, lost to her through spells, drops a ring into his broth at the feast for his second marriage, is recognized, and they are happily reunited: the tale of the hoodie, campbell, west highland tales, i, - . in a pretty portuguese ballad, which has numerous parallels in other languages, a long-absent husband, after tormenting his wife by telling her that she is a widow, legitimates himself by saying, where is your half of the ring which we parted? here is mine: ' bella infanta,' almeida-garrett, ii, , , braga, cantos p. do archipelago acoriano, p. ; 'dona infanta,' 'dona catherina,' braga, komanceiro geral, pp f, . see, further, for ring stories, wesselofsky, neue beitrage zur geschichte der salomonsage, in archiv fur slavische philologie, vi, f; hahn, neugriech- ische m'archen, no . the cases in which a simple ring is the means of recognition or confirmation need, of course, not be mul- tiplied. a, line twenty-four. for alesha read alyosha. . g. in kinloch mss, vii, . after " from the recitation of my niece, m. kinnear, august, ," is written in pencil "christy smith," who may have been the person from whom miss kinnear derived the ballad, or another reciter. changes are made in pencil, some of which are written over in ink, some not. the printed copy, as usual with kinloch, differs in some slight respects from the manuscript. i a. from the recitation of miss jane webster, formerly of airds of kells, now of dairy, both in the stewartry of kirk- cudbright, december , . b. from miss jessie jane macmath and miss agnes macmath, nieces of miss web- ster, december , : originally derived from an old nurse. communicated by mr macmath, of edinburgh. ***** she gave him a gay gold ring, hey lillelu and how lo lan but he gave her a far better thing. with, my hey down and a hey diddle downie he gave her a silver wan, with nine bright laverocks thereupon. ***** young hynd horn is come to the lan, there he met a beggar man. 'what news, what news do ye betide?' 'na news but jeanie's the prince's bride.' 'wilt thou give me thy begging weed? and i 'll give thee my good grey steed. 'wilt thou give me thy auld grey hair? and i 'll give ye mine that is thrice as fair.' the beggar he got on for to ride, but young hynd horn is bound for the bride. first the news came to the ha, then to the room mang the gentles a'. 'there stands a beggar at our gate, asking a drink for young hynd horn's sake.' 'i 'll ga through nine fires hot to give him a drink for young hynd horn's sake.' she gave him the drink, and he dropt in the ring; the lady turned baith pale an wan. 'oh got ye it by sea, or got ye it by lan? or got ye it off some dead man's han?' 'i got it not by sea, nor i got it not by lan, but i got it off thy milk-white han.' 'i 'll cast off my dress of red, and i 'll go with thee and beg my bread. 'i 'll cast off my dress of brown, and follow you from city to town. 'i 'll cast off my dress of green, for i am not ashamed with you to be seen.' 'you need not cast off your dress of red, for i can support thee on both wine and bread. additions and corrections one day she saw jesus pass. she wept a fountain of tears to wash his feet, and dried his feet with her tresses. then she asked for a penance. she wished to go into a cave without door or windows, sleep on the bare ground, eat raw herbs, and drink a little salt water; and this she did. in ' la maddalena,' guerrini, al- cuni c. p. romagnoli, p. , there is no penance. . st stephen and herod. p. a. spanish. mild's new edition, romance- rillo catalan, no , 'el romero acusado de robo,' pp - , adds six copies, not differing in anything important. in c, the youth, un estudiant, n'era ros com un fil d'or, blanch com santa catarina. i may note that thomas becket stands by his vo- taries when brought to the gallows as effectually as st james. see robertson, materials, etc., i, , , , . . note j should have been credited to r. kbh- ler. b, second paragraph. professor george stephens informs me that the miracle of the cock is depicted, among scenes from the life of jesus, on an antependium of an altar, derived from an old church in slesvig, and now in the danish museum. behind a large table sits a crowned woman, and at her left stands a crowned man, who points to a dish from which a cock has started up, with beak wide open. at the queen's right stands an old woman, simply clad and leaning on a staff. this picture comes between the magi announc- ing christ's birth and the massacre of the innocents, and the crowned figures are judged by professor ste- phens to be herod and herodias. who the old woman should be it is not easy to say, but there can be no con- nection with st james. the work is assigned to the last part of the fourteenth century. . most of the literature on the topic of the res- toration of the roasted cock to life is collected by dr r. kbhler and by ferdinand wolf, in jahrbiicher fur romanische u. englische literatur, iii, ff, f. dr kbhler now adds these notes : the miracle of st james, in hermann von fritslar's heiligenleben, pfeiffer's deutsche mystiker des vierzehnten jahrhunderts, i, f; hahn, das alte passional (from the golden le- gend), p. , v. -p. , v. ; liitolf, sagen, briiuche und legenden aus lucern, u. s. w., p. , no ; von alpenburg, deutsche alpensagen, p. , no ; sepp, altbayerischer sagenschatz, pp ff, f. b. three stone partridges on a buttress of a church at miihlhausen are thus accounted for. in the early days of the reformation a couple of orthodox divines, while waiting dinner, were discussing the prospect of the infection spreading to their good city. one of them, growing warm, declared that there was as much chance of that as of the three partridges that were roasting in the kitchen taking flight from the spit. immediately there was heard a fluttering and a cooing in the region of the kitchen, the three birds winged their way from the house, and, lighting on the buttress of mary kirk, were instantly turned to stone, and there they are. thiiringen und der harz, mit ihren merkwiirdigkei- ten, u. s. w., "vi, f. (kbhler.) a. the monk andrius has the scene between judas and his mother as in cursor mundi, and attrib- utes to greek writers the opinion that the roasted cock was the same that caused peter's compunction. mus- safia, sulla legenda del legno della croce, sitz. ber. der phil.-hist. classe der wiener akad., lxiii, , note. (kbhler.) "about the year i was on a visit to the rector of kilmeen, near clonakilty, in the county of cork. my friend brought me to visit the ruins of an old cas- tle. over the open fireplace in the great hall there was a stone, about two or three feet square, carved in the rudest fashion, and evidently representing our lord's sufferings. there were the cross, the nails, the hammer, the scourge; but there was one piece of sculpture which i could not understand. it was a sort of rude semi-circle, the curve below and the diameter above, and at the junction a figure intended to repre- sent a bird. my friend asked me what it meant. i confessed my ignorance. 'that,' said he, 'is the cock. the servants were boiling him for supper, but when the moment came to convict the apostle he started up, perched on the side of the pot, and aston- ished the assembly by his salutation of the morning.'" notes and queries, th series, ix, a. (kbhler.) a heathen in west gothland (vestrogothia) had killed his herdsman, torsten, a christian, and was re- proached for it by torsten's wife. pointing to an ox that had been slaughtered, the heathen answered: tam torstenum tuum, quem sanctum et in coelis vivere ex- istimas, plane ita vivum credo prout hunc bovem quem in frusta caedendum conspicis. mirum dictu, vix verba finiverat, cum e vestigio bos in pedes se crexit vivus, stupore omnibus qui adstabant attonitis. quare sacel- lum in loco eodem erectum, multaque miraeula, praiser- tim in pecorum curatione, patrata. ioannis vastovii vitis aquilonia, sive vita? sanctorum regni svec-goth- ici, emend, et illustr. er. benzelius filius, upsalise, , p. . (kbhler.) b. man begegnet auf alten ilolzschnitten einer abbildung von christi geburt, welche durch die dabei stehenden thiere erklart werden soil. der hahn auf der stange kr'ahet da: christus nalns est! der ochse briillt mit uberschnappender stimme drein: ubi t und das lammlein blaheret die antwort: bethle- hem! rochholz, alemannisches kinderlied und kin- derspiel aus der schweiz, p. f. (kbhler.) a. wer sind die ersten vorbothen gottesv der hahn, weil er kraht, " christ ist geboren." der tau- ber, weil er ruft, " wo?" und der ziegenbock, weil er schreit, "z' bethlehem." pater amaud baumgarten, aus der volksmiissigen ueberlieferung der heimat, i, zur volksthumlichen naturkunde, p. . (kbhler.) hahn : kikeriki gott der herr lebt! t additions and corrections ochs: wo? wo? geiss : mah ! zu bethlehem! simrock, das deutscho kinderbuch, d ed., p. , no ; d ed., p. , no . (kohler.) quando christo nasceu disse o gallo: jesus-christo e nd . . . a . . . a . . . do (niido). j. leite de vas- concellos, tradicdes populares de portugal, p. , no b. . note. add : w. creizenach, judas ischarioth in legende und sage des mittelalters, in paul and braune's beitrage, ii, ff. . willie's lyke-wake. p. b. add: e. 'willie's lyke-wake.' a. bu- chan's ballads of the north of scotland, ii, . b. christie, traditional ballad airs, i, . b. swedish. add: d. aminson, bidrag till siidermanlands kulturhistoria, n, . french. 'le soldat au convent,' victor smith, vielles chansons recueillies en velay et en forez, p. , no , or romania, vii, ; fleury, literature orale de la basse normandie, p. , ' la religieuse ;' poesies populaires de la france, iii, fol. , fol. . a soldier who has been absent some years in the wars returns to find his mistress in a convent; obtains per- mission to see her for a last time, puts a ring on her finger, and then "falls dead." his love insists on con- ducting his funeral; the lover returns to life and car- ries her off. b. a. magyar. the ballad of 'handsome tony' is also translated by g. heinrich, in ungarische revue, , p. . the same story, perverted to tragedy at the end, in golovatsky, ii, , no , a ballad of the carpa- thian russians in hungary. . dr r. kohler points out to me a german copy of a, b, c, which i had overlooked, in schriier, kin ausfiug nach gottschee, p. ff, ' hansel junc.' the mother builds a mill and a church, and then the young man feigns death, as before. but a very cheap tragic turn is given to the conclusion when the young man springs up and kisses his love. she falls dead with fright, and he declares that since she has died for him he will die for her. so they are buried severally at one and the other side of the church, and two lily stocks are planted, which embrace " like two real mar- ried people ; " or, a vine grows from one and a flower from the other. . this is the other form referred to at p. a. e a. buchan's ballads of the north of scotland, ii, . b. christie, traditional ballad airs, i, . 'if my love loves me, she lets me not know, that is a dowie chance; i wish that i the same could do, tho my love were in france, france, tho my love were in france. 'o lang think i, and very lang, and lang think i, i true; but lang and langer will i think or my love o me rue. 'i will write a broad letter, and write it sae perfite, that an she winna o me rue, i 'll bid her come to my lyke.' then he has written a broad letter, and seald it wi his hand, and sent it on to his true love, as fast as boy could gang. when she looked the letter upon, a light laugh then gae she; but ere she read it to an end, the tear blinded her ee. 'o saddle to me a steed, father, o saddle to me a steed; for word is come to me this night, that my true love is dead.' 'the steeds are in the stable, daughter, the keys are casten by; ye cannot won to-night, daughter, to-morrow ye 'se won away.' she has cut aff her yellow locks, a little aboon her ee, and she is on to willie's lyke, as fast as gang could she. as she gaed ower yon high hill head, she saw a dowie light; it was the candles at willie's lyke, and torches burning bright three o willie's eldest brothers were making for him a bier; one half o it was glide red gowd, the other siller clear. three o willie's eldest sisters were making for him a sark; the one half o it wras cambric fine, the other needle wark. additions and corrections out spake the youngest o his sisters, as she stood on the fleer: how happy would our brother been, if ye'd been sooner here! she lifted up the green covering, and gae him kisses three; then he lookd up into her face, the blythe blink in his ee. o then he started to his feet, and thus to her said he: fair annie, since we 're met again, parted nae mair we 'se be. b. "given with some changes from the way the editor has heard it sung." *. i trow. k but l s. that gin. *. the night . burd ellen and young tamlane. p. s . this ballad is in pitcairn's mss, iii, . it was from the tradition of mrs gammel. the last word of the burden is machey, not may-hay, as in maidment. . the boy and the mantle. p. b. if a girl takes a pot of boiling water off the fire, and the pot ceases to boil, this is a sign of lost modesty. lammert, volksmedizin und inedizinischer aberglaube in bayern, u. s. w., p. . . king arthur and king cornwall. p. . a galien in verse has been found in the library of sir thomas piiillipps, at cheltenham. ro- mania, xii, . . the marriage of sir gawain. p. b, last paragraph but one. add: 'gorvomb,' arnason, ii, , powell, icelandic legends, second series, g, 'the paunch.' gorvomb, a monstrous creature, in reward for great services, asks to have the king's brother for husband, and in bed turns into a beautiful princess. she had been suffering under the spells of a step-mother. . tarn lin. p. . add: j. 'young tamlane,' kinloch mss, v, . a. the stanzas introduced into i a were from "mr beattie of meikledale's tamlane," as appears from a letter of scott to laidlaw, january , . (w. macmath.-) b, third paragraph. add: aminson, bidrag, etc., iv, , no . fourth paragraph, line . read: in it which. a. an old woman is rejuvenated by being burnt to bones, and the bones being thrown into a tub of milk: ralston, russian folk-tales, p. , ' the smith and the demon;' afanasief, legendui, no , from dahl's manuscript collection. . the following is perhaps the version referred to by dr joseph robertson : see p. . j "a fragment of young tamlane," kinloch mss, v, . in dr john hill burton's handwriting, and perhaps from the recitation of mrs robertson (christian leslie), mother of dr joseph robertson. ***** 'the night, the night is halloween, tomorrow's hallowday, 'the night, the night is halloween, our seely court maun ride, thro england and thro ireland both, and a' the warld wide. * * * * i * 'the firsten court that comes ye bye, you ' l lout, and let them gae; the seconden court that comes you bye, you 'll hail them reverently. 'the thirden court that comes you by, sae weel's ye will me ken, for some will be on a black, a black, and some will be on a brown, but i will be on a bluid-red steed, and will ride neist the queen. henry young and sons' catalogue of books, ballads.—the english and scottish popular ballads. edited by prof. f. j. child, with notes, glossaries, and indexes:the splendid edition printed by the riverside press, hi their best style on extra laid paper, fine bright set, in tho original parts, as issued to subscribers, rare, £ , i• imperial vo this groat collection is by far the most exhaustive in our language, and it" will remain for all time the final one upon the subject." only , copies were printed, all of which were speedily absorbed, many by pubhc institutions consequently, although a modern book, it is now rare and expensive, and as time lapses it must necessarily become rarer and more expen- sive. the ballads are printed in their entirety and purity from the most authentic sources, no text being taken at second hand, and in the case of ballads extant in a variety of forms, all the more important versions are given. each ballad has a proper preface, there is also an index of liullud titles, an index of matters and literature, a bibhography, and a biography of prof. child with his portrait. see also nog. "> - . dent bks ----- rk . .t forget-me-not maude m. tanner, dmd forget-me-not by maude m. tanner, d.m.d. illustrated by dorothea j. snow follett publishing company chicago, illinois sleep, and maybe it will be all right in the morn- ing. we've lots to do tomorrow." buddy shut his eyes tight; but try as he would, he could not fall off to sleep. there was so much to think about. all of his friends were coming to his birthday party. there would be cake and ice cream-and games—and presents! but, oh, how his gum hurt! what if he couldn't eat the ice cream and cake at his party? “i wish i could go to sleep,” thought buddy. and then he remembered. daddy said he always counted sheep when he couldn't fall asleep. "maybe i can count the bedposts,” buddy whis- pered to himself. “ ... ... ...” he began to count. and then he saw the strangest sight. there, perched on the fourth bedpost, was a little dwarf no bigger than buddy's thumb. he was short and fat, and had the funniest little legs. about his neck he wore a pink collar and on his head a pearl crown. “heigh-ho!” he said, with a merry grin. “oh, i will, mr. ... uh ... uh ... dwarf,” said buddy, who did not know yet what to call his little visitor. “call me billy forget-me-not. that means you must not forget to keep my face clean.” "all right, billy. i'll keep your face clean. but i wish you would tell me who you are.” the little dwarf just laughed and smoothed his pink collar. “some day you will know who i am. now listen to my song, forget me not, and you shall see how bright and clean my face will be.” suddenly, billy stopped singing. he hopped to his toes, waved his crown, and before buddy's very eyes turned a somersault into the air and disappeared. buddy scrambled to the foot of the bed as fast as he could. crash! bang! “ouch!” cried buddy, as he opened his eyes "ouch!" cried buddy, as he rubbed his head 。 yamame and rubbed a sore spot on his head. for a mo- ment he didn't know what had happened. then he remembered the little dwarf. “billy, billy, where are you?” out of bed he jumped and began looking everywhere. he looked under the bed and be- neath the pillows and bedcovers. he even looked in his shoes, and in his box of toys, and in his milk truck and his electric train. "billy forget-me-not!” called buddy. “where are you? why don't you answer me?” where could he be? and who was billy forget-me-not? he didn't look like a fairy, or a brownie either. “he must be a really truly dwarf,” said buddy. just then mother came in. “happy birthday, buddy,” she said. “why, what are you doing on the floor? have you lost something?” “i can't find billy forget-me-not,” said buddy. “billy who?” asked mother. “billy forget-me-not, a little dwarf who came buddy couldn't find the little dwarf anywhere budoy's birthoay party chapter two uddy was so excited that he could hardly eat his breakfast. he had so many things to do before the party! he picked out games and toys for his friends to play with. he hid the peanuts for the treasure hunt. he put some of the peanuts where they would be easy to find. but he grinned to himself as he put one in each of daddy's rubbers. who would ever think of looking there! . . arnavn ir mt. jewett free public library as he turned the crank, little buckets on a chain picked up the sand and dumped it into a red box. soon buddy's head began to nod. but just then he heard mother say, “come, come, buddy. don't go to sleep on the floor. let's hop into bed. here, i'll help you tonight.” buddy was too tired to remember to brush his new tooth. even mother forgot to remind him. buddy was no sooner tucked into bed than who should appear but billy forget-me-not! he was smoothing his pink collar just as he had done before, but looking not quite so merry. “hello,” he said, nodding his head so hard that his pearl crown slipped down over his left eye. “oh, billy forget-me-not!” cried buddy. “why didn't you come to my party? i tried and tried to find you.” “i was there all the time,” said the little dwarf, putting his crown back in place. "where?” asked buddy. “i didn't see you." “you didn't see me, but i was there," answered / billy gets his face washed chapter three ext day when the mail came, there was a letter for buddy-the first letter he had ever received. “oh, look!” he cried proudly. “it's for me. see! this spells my name, buddy sharp.” "well, well!” said mother, almost as excited as buddy. “it's from grandmother sharp down on the farm. i wonder what she can be writing to you about." and that's how buddy came to spend his vacation on grandfather's farm. some days after breakfast he would go out to the meadow or corn- field and help grandfather mow hay or plow corn. or he would help grandmother pick cher- ries or blackberries. every day he went for a long ride on pudge, the little black-and-white pony. how proud he was that he could ride without falling off! one evening, after the day's work was done, buddy coaxed grandfather to let him ride one of the big work-horses. “all right,” said grandfather. "wait until i take old ned's harness off and you can ride him down to the water trough." buddy found old ned's broad back harder to stick to than little pudge's. twice he almost slipped off. then he reached up and caught hold of old ned's mane. by the time they reached the water trough, buddy was out on old ned's neck holding on for dear life. suddenly, old ned low- it was fun to feed the chickens but the more billy shouted and kicked, the harder buddy scrubbed at his face and collar. “now you can't say that i don't try to keep you clean,” laughed buddy. billy was soap-suds from head to foot, and so slippery that buddy had all he could do to keep the little fellow from getting away. “here, behave yourself,” buddy called. “why are you making such a fuss? you asked me to wash your face, didn't you? then why don't you hold still and let me do it?” all billy could answer was, “ug-g... bl-f-f ... aw-w-w... glub... glub.” just as buddy was reaching for the towel, he felt someone shaking him. mother's voice said, “buddy! buddy! what are you doing up at this time of night? why, goodness gracious! you have soap in your mouth!” for a moment buddy couldn't answer; he was still only half awake. then he sputtered, "i...i...i... know it. it tastes awful.” whose blue eyes seemed to twinkle all the time. “hello, buddy,” he called. “i haven't seen you for a long while. what's your trouble?” “i have a sore tooth,” buddy answered. “let me see it,” said the dentist. he took one look at buddy's tooth. then he stopped smiling. “why, buddy, that's your sixth-year molar. don't you ever brush your teeth?” “i forget to,” said buddy, hanging his head. “but you must not forget,” said the dentist, shaking his finger at buddy just the way billy forget-me-not had done so many times. “your teeth chew all your food. think how hard they work for you.” buddy lay back in the big chair and tried to listen to the dentist's voice as he worked on the tooth. but it was a warm day. buddy had been awake so much the night before that now he began to feel very sleepy. “i'm surprised at you, buddy,” said the dentist. "i forget to," said buddy, hanging his head st. nicholas el the gift or mrs. john d. mulhero º º - ׺ º º ſº gº §§ º sºº- º, gº a- -- º |º ' ~~~~） — ， ! * * > i -*. st. nicholas : volume xxiv. part i. six months—november, , to april, . jwevºlc ('eſ, atº elo | , j v, + tov, coll \{+ º: tow w \, \ \ºt ºv s & contents of part i. volume xxiv. pace ah gau’s new year’s celebration. (illustrated by the author)... . . . . . . theodore wores. . . . . . . . . . . alarm of fire by telegraph, an. (illustrated by the author).......... c. . hill . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . all in the winter weather. verse. (illustrated by r. b. birch) . . . . . grace winthrop. . . . . . . . . . . animal tracks in the snow. (illustrated by harry fenn). . . . . . . . . . . . . . barney hoskin standish. ... at home and abroad. pictures, drawn by m. g. hart . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ballad of the parson’s daughter, the. poem. (illustrated by mary aſ hallock foote and w. d. stevens) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . elen gray cone . . . . . . . . . . i bear's story, the little. (illustrated by meredith nugent). . . . . . . . . . . . . c. f. holder . . . . . . . . . . . . . i bertholde. (illustrated by h. a. ogden). . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . mary shears roberts . . . . . . best tree, the. verse. (illustrated by george varian). . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . janet sanderson . . . . . . . . . . . bethlehem, a christmas in. (illustrated by harry fenn from photographs) edwin s. wallace . . . . . . . . . bicycle race, the. (illustrated by c. m. relyea). . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . walter camp . . . . . . . . . . . . . . birthplace of president lincoln, the. (illustrated by harry fenn). . . . george h. penowine . . . . . . . boats: some queer craft. (illustrated by m. j. burns). . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . gustav kobbé. . . . . . . . . . . . . . i bob's way. verse. (illustrated by g. varian) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . tudor jenks. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . book-lover, a. verse. (illustrated by wm. a. mccullough). . . . . . . . . . . . . annie willis mccullough ... “bow-wow, little dog.” jingle. (illustrated and engrossed by albertine - randall wheelan). . . . . . . i * ºn* rººm. : down, g. rice . . . . . . . . . . . boy i knew, a. (illustrated). . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . laurence hutton . . . . . . . . . i , , boy less town, the. verse . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . robert clarkson tongue . . . . buonamico. poem. (illustrated by r. b. birch) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . baith m. thomas . . . . . . . . . century of presidents, a. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . mary seymour. . . . . . . . . . . . . changing days. verse. (illustrated by the author) ........ . . . . . . . . . . . . rudolph f. bunner . . . . . . . . christmas dinner, an old-time. picture, drawn by harriette amsden . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . christmas goblin, a. verse. (illustrated by r. b. birch). . . . . . . . . . . . . . . susan hartley swett . . . . . . . o christmas in bethlehem. (illustrated by harry fenn, from photographs). edwin s. wallace . . . . . . . . . city of stories, the. (illustrated). . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . frank m. bicknell. . . . . . . . . the king's castle in no man's land . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . o the pumpkin dwarf . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . i hop wing and the missing treasure. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . i the tale of the discontented weathercock. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . close of the day, the. verse . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . m. l. v. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . cousin anita's surprise. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . a/inor root . . . . . . . . . . . . . . crewe, master, a portrait of .............. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . danny and the “major.” (illustrated by max f. klepper). . . . . . . . . . . . . . gertrude p. greble . . . . . . . . . vi contents. pace delectable land, a. verse. (illustrated by w. d. stevens). . . . . . . . . . . . . felix leigh . . . . . . . . . . . . . . i tº wºn tº ºr ºn ..… do-as-you-please, the wonderful islax d of. verse. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . mrs. h. d. ross. . . . . . . . . . . pº drummer, the rhyme of the. verse. (illustrated by r. b. ; laura e. k'ichards . . . . . . . . irch). . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . : . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . easter jingle, an. verse . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . harriet brewer sterling . . . . “easter 's coming !” picture, drawn by gustav liebschen . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . - - - - - - - - - elf and the cricket, the. verse. (illustrated by w. d. stevens) . . . . . . aelix leigh . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . family group, a. picture, drawn by rosina emmet sherwood. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . fight, a. verse . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . sydney dayre . . . . . . . . . . . . . fire, an alarm of. (illustrated by the author). . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . c. t. hill . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . five-o'clock tea, a. verse. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . - - - - - - - - - - - - - s. j. brigham............. foot-ball player and the don key, the. picture, drawn by e. w. kemble. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . fortune, a . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . iaura e. richards. . . . . . . . . girl with the muff, to the. poem. (illustrated). . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . beatrice kussell doe. . . . . . . . gobolink land, johnny in. (illustrated) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . } *::::::::: º: . harbor defenses. (illustrated by . w. taber) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . charles rawson thurston... “he may be president yet " picture, drawn by rosina e. sherwood. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . - - - - - - - - - - her papa's name. verse. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . alice may douglas . . . . . . . . historic dwarfs. (illustrated) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . mary shears roberts ....... bertholde . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . hol.mes, dr., a letter from. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . isabella graham murdoch . . hop wing and the missing treasure. (illustrated by r. b. birch).... frank m. bicknell....... . i horseshoe of luck, the. (illustrated by the author) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . a’udolph f. bunner ........ how a president is inaugurated . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . clifford howard . . . . . . . . . . . how plants spread. (illustrated by harry fenn). . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . thomas h. kearney, jr..... how the bad news came to siberia. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . george kennan . . . . . . . . . . . if you 're good. verse . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . james courtney challiss .... inaugurated, how a president is . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . * . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . clifford howard . . . . . . . . . . . intruder, an. picture, from the painting by madame ronner... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . japanese “good-day,” the. verse. (illustrated by c. d. weldon). . . . . . . mae st. john bramhall . . . . . jay, the. verse. . . . . . . . . . . - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -. . . . . . . . . . charles a. keeler. . . . . . . . . . jed's windmill. (illustrated by charles c. curran) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . grace wickham curran .... jingles . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - , , , , john ny in gobolink land. (illustrated). . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . }%;". }. : . . . . june's garden. (illustrated by c. m. relyea) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . marion hill. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . - i i, , , jungfrau tunnel, the. (illustrated from photographs and diagrams) . . . . . f. w. wendt . . . . . . . . . . . . . katie's forest friends. (illustrated by george varian). . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . c. s. a'ice. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . kettle, the. verse. (illustrated by albertine randall wheelan). . . . . . . . . laura e. richards. . . . . . . king's castle in no man's land, the. (illustrated by e. b. bensell)... frank m. bicknell. . . . . . . . . o kittie’s latest. verse. (illustrated by david ericson). . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . f. l. j. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . kitty and polly. verse. (illustrated by c. t. hill).................... delia hart stone . . . . . . . . . . labors of hercules, the. verse. (illustrated by w. h. drake). . . . . . . . j. edmund p. cooke . . . . . . . last three soldiers, the. (illustrated by b. west clinedinst). .......... william henry shelton. . . . . i , , , , leprecawn, the. (illustrated by g. varian). . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . winthrop packard . . . . . . . . . letter from dr. holmes, a. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . isabella graham murdoch ... i lights that guide in the night. (illustrated by i. w. taber) ......... lt. john m. ellicott, u. s. m. lion's tour, the. verse. . (illustrated by the author). . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . oliver herford. . . . . . . . . . . . . lincoln, the birthplace of preside.n.t. (illustrated by harry fenn) ... george h. penowine. . . . . . . . lincoln, willie and tad. (illustrated). . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . julia taft bayne . . . . . . . . . little french poodle, the. verse. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . laura cafe. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . “little miss muffitt.” picture, drawn by albertine randall wheelan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . - - - - - - - - - - little shadow folk, the. poem . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . clinton scollard . . . . . . . . . . . little water-colorist, the. picture, drawn by frederick dielman . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . contents. vii pace lodgers in the nest. poem. (illustrated by harry allchin). . . . . . . . . . . edith m. thomas. . . . . . . . . love song-to john, a. verse . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . maura e. a'ichard's . . . . . . . marco polo, the true story of. (illustrated by w. h. drake) . . . . . . . . . moah brooks . . . . . . . . . . . . . i , , , , master crewe, a portrait of . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . - - - - - - - ... master skylark. (illustrated by r. b. birch) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . john bennett. . . . . . . . . . . . . - , , , , merry christmas. verse. (illustrated and engrossed by george varian) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . minstrel and the maid, the. verse. (illustrated by the author) . . . . . . . frederick b. opper. . . . . . . . . mirrors of air. (illustrated by harry fenn and m. j. burns) . . . . . . . . . . . . udor jenks. . . . . . . . . . . . . , misplaced confidence. verse . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . florence e. pratt . . . . . . . . . miss nina barrow. (illustrated by r. b. birch). . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . frances courtenay baylor... oi, moses: a tame eagle. (illustrated by c. relyea). . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . wolcott le clear beard . . . . nancy. verse. (illustrated by c. m. relyea). . . . . . . . . . . - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - mary bradley . . . . . . . . . . . . . nanny and jack. verse. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . h. c. bunner . . . . . . . . . . . . . new-year’s celebration, ah gau’s. (illustrated by the author) . . . . . . . . . %eodore wores . . . . . . . . . . . . nineteenth century children, the. verse . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . aemilie poulsson. . . . . . . . . . . . noddies, the voyage of the. verse. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . albert bigelow paine. . . . . . . i norse lullaby, a. verse. (illustrated by c. m. relyea). . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . m. l. van vorst. . . . . . . . . . old-time thanksgiving, an. (illustrated by g. varian). . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . m. eloise talbot. . . . . . . . . . on the ferry. verse . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . m. l. van vorst . . . . . . . . . . . . outside and inside weather. verse . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . jessie macmillan anderson . parson's daughter, the ballad of the. poem. (illustrated by mary hallock foote and w. d. stevens). . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . aſelen gray come . . . . . . . . pictures. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . , , , , , , , , , , , , , , picture, the. poem. (illustrated). . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . mary mapes dodge. . . . . . . . . pins. (illustrated). . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . c. a. parker. . . . . . . . . . . . plants: how they spread. (illustrated by harry fenn) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . thomas h. kearney, jr. . . . plimsoll mark, the. (illustrated by harry fenn). . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .w. m. ellicott, u. s. m. . . . . procession of days, a. verse . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . delia hart stone. . . . . . . . . . . professor leo fortissimo at his best. picture, drawn by albertine randall wheelan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . pumpkin dwarf, the. (illustrated by r. b. birch). . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . aºran a. m. bicknel/. . . . . . . . race for a girdle, a . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . jane marsh parker . . . . . . . . report upon “fifty charades ’’ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . rhymes about animals. verse . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . frank valentine. . . . . . . . . . . st. nicholas day in holland. (illustrated by george varian). . . . . . . . . . . annie c. kuiper . . . . . . . . . “st. nicholas will soon be here.” picture, drawn by e. r. smith . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . i st, paul's rocks . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . gustav kobbé . . . . . . . . . . . . . . santaclaus's pony. (illustrated by george varian) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ella f. mosby . . . . . . . . . . . . i santa claus street in jingletown. verse . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . sarah j. burke. . . . . . . . . . seeing and believing. (illustrated by the author) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . harold wilson, m. d. . . . . . . shadow folk, the little. poem . . . . . . . . . . . - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - clinton scollard . . . . . . . . . . siberian scare, a. (illustrated by henry sandham) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . george kennan . . . . . . . . . . . silk and cedars. (illustrated by the author). . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . harry fenn . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . “sing a sono of christmas-time.” verse. (illustrated and engrossed - by albertine randall wheelan). . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . - { dorothy g. rice . . . . . . . . . . . ii snow-bound christmas, a. (illustrated by c. m. relyea). . . . . . . . . . . . . frances cole burr. . . . . . . . . . some queer craft. (illustrated by m. j. burns). . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . gustav kobbé. . . . . . . . . . . . . . i teddy baird’s luck. (illustrated by c. m. relyea) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . kate dickinson sweetser .... teddy's dream. picture, drawn by e. warde blaisdell, jr. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ... tender-hearted monster, a. (illustrated by oliver herford) . . . . . . . . . . . alice calhoun haines .... tº “nº yº gºw ºz. … . thanksgiving, an old-time. (illustrated by g. varian) ................. m. eloise talbot. . . . . - - - - - - thanksgiving-day problem, a. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - mary seymour . . . . . . . . . . tiger tale, a. verse. (illustrated by the author). . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . john bennett. . . . . . . . . . . . . timorous trimble, the. verse. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . felix leigh . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . to “the girl with the muff.” poem. (illustrated). . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . beatrice a'ussell doe. . . . . . . viii contents, pace tracks in the snow, animal. (illustrated by harry fenn). . . . . . . . . . . . barney hoskin standish. . . umbrella, the new. verse. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . agnes lee . . . . . . . . . . . . . voyage of the “northern light,” the. (illustrated by m. j. burns - and warren sheppard) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . j. t. trowbridge . . . . . . . . . i willie and tad lincoln. (illustrated) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . julia taft bayne . . . . . . . . . winter day, a. poem . . . . . . . . . . . . * - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - . . . . . . . . . . m. l. van vorst . . . . . . . . . . winter evening problem, a. (illustrated) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . . . . . stella m. wylie . . . . . . . . . . wizard and the snake, the. picture, drawn by e. w. kemble. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . wonderful island of do-as-you-please, the. verse . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . mrs. h. d. ross . . . . . . . . . wonder-worker, a. (illustrated by jay hambidge). . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . christopher valentine . . . . . . frontispieces. “portrait of miss beatrice goelet,” painted by john s. sargent, page –"as they danced them a measure on christmas night,” from a painting by toudouze, page –"don't you think that winter's pleasanter than all?” by john bolles, page —“the daughters of the artist,” from a painting by cornelis de vos, page —"the girl with the muff,” from the painting by mme. lebrun, page —“chums,” from the painting by j. h. dolph, page . - departments. competitions. a thanksgiving-day problem . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - mary seymour........... . list of prizes. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - ... report upon “fifty charades”. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . a century of presidents . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . mary seymour . . . . . . . . . report upon “a thanksgiving-day problem ". . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . the curiosity-shop. naming nails — a “setting” hen—“setting the river on fire" —an apple problem—eavesdroppers — real giants — barber poles—mustaches, – a horse problem —“uncle sam ”—shaking hands— humble pie – “he’s a brick”—dunce—the dollar mark, . for very little folk. the voyage of the noddies—an easter jingle—the close of the day, . the letter-box. (illustrated). . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . , , , , , the riddle-box. (illustrated). . . . . - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - , , , , , editorial. notes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . st. nicholas. vol. xxiv. master november, . skylark. by john bennett. chapter i. the lord admiral's players. there was an unwonted buzzing in the east end of stratford on that next to the last day of april, . it was as if some one had thrust a stick into a hive of bees and they had come whirling out to see. the low stone guard-wall of old clopton bridge, built a hundred years before by rich sir hugh, sometime mayor of london, was lined with straddling boys like strawberries upon a spear of grass, and along the low causeway from the west across the lowland to the town, brown- faced, barefoot youngsters sat beside the road- way with their chubby legs a-dangle down the mossy stones, staring away into the south across the grassy levels of the valley of the stour. punts were poling slowly up the avon to the bridge; and at the outlets of the town where the streets came down to the waterside among the weeds, little knots of men and serving- maids stood looking into the south and listening. some had waited for an hour; some for two: yet still there was no sound but the piping of the birds in white-thorn hedges, the hollow low- ing of kine knee-deep in grassy meadows, and the long rush of the river through the sedge be- side the pebbly shore; and naught to see but quiet valleys, primrose lanes, and warwick or- chards white with bloom, stretching away to the misty hills. but still they stood and looked and listened. the wind came stealing up out of the south, soft and warm and sweet and still, moving the ripples upon the river with gray gusts; and, scudding free before the wind, a dog came trot- ting up the road with wet pink tongue and side- long gait. at the throat of clopton bridge he stopped and scanned the way with dubious eye; then clapped his tail between his legs and bolted for the town. the laughing shout that followed him into the warwick road seemed not to die away, but to linger in the air like the drowsy hum of bees—a hum that came and went at intervals upon the shifting wind, and grew by littles, taking body till it came un- broken as a long, low, distance-muffled murmur from the south, so faint as scarcely to be heard. nick attwood pricked his keen young ears: “they 're coming, robin — hark 'e to the trampling!” robin getley held his breath and turned his ear toward the south. the far-off murmur was copyright, , by the century co. all rights reserved. . master skylark. [nov. a mutter now, defined and positive, and, as the two friends listened, grew into a drumming roll, and all at once above it came a shrill, high sound like the buzzing of a gnat close by the ear little tom davenant dropped from the finger- post, and came running “punts were poling slowly up the avon to the bridge.” up from the fork of the banbury road, his feet making little white puffs in the dust as he flew. “they are coming—they are coming!” he shrieked as he ran. then up to his feet sprang robin getley, upon the saddle-backed coping-stones, his hand upon nick attwood's head to steady himself, and looked away where the rippling stour ran like a thread of silver beside the dust-buff lon- don road, and the little church of atherstone stood blue against the rolling cotswold hills. “they are coming—they are coming!” shrilled little tom, and scrambled up the coping like a squirrel up a rail. .] master skylark. “little to m davenant dropped from the finger-post, and came running up from the fork of the banbury road.” a stir ran out along the guard-wall; some crying out, some starting up. “sit down, sit down l’ cried others, peering askance at the water gurgling green down below. “sit down, or we shall all be off!” robin held his hand above his eyes. a cloud of dust was rising from the london road and drifting off across the fields like smoke when the old ricks burn in damp weather—a long, broad-sheeted mist; and in it were bits of mov- ing gold, shreds of bright colors vaguely seen, and silvery gleams like the glitter of polished metal in the sun. and as he looked the shifty wind came down out of the west again and whirled the cloud of dust away; and there he saw a long line of men upon horses coming at an easy canter up the highway. just as he had made this out the line came rattling to a stop, the distant drumming of hoofs was still, and as the long file knotted itself into a rosette of ruddy color amid the april green, a clear, shrill trum- pet blew and blew again. “they are coming!” shouted robin,_“they are coming !” and, turning, waved his cap. a shout went up along the bridge. those down below came clambering up, the punts came poling with a rush of foam, and a rip- ple ran along the edge of stratford town like the wind through a field of wheat. windows creaked and doors swung wide, and the work- men stopped in the garden-plots to lean upon their mattocks and to look. “they are coming !” bellowed rafe hicka- thrift, the butcher's boy, standing far out in the street with his red hands to his mouth for a trumpet—“they are coming!” and at that the doors of bridge street grew alive with eager eyes. at early dawn the oxford carrier had brought the news that the players of the lord high admiral were coming up to stratford out of “‘they are coming !” bellowed the butcher's boy.” master skylark. london from the south, to play on may-day there; and this was what had set the town to buzzing like a swarm. for there were in eng- land then but three great companies, the high chamberlain's, the earl of pembroke's men, and the stage-players of my lord charles howard, high admiral of the realm: and the day on which they came into a midland mar- ket-town to play was one to mark with red and gold upon the calendar of the uneventful year. away by the old mill-bridge there were fish- ermen angling for dace and perch; but when the shout came down from the london road they dropped their poles and ran, through the willows and over the gravel, splashing and thrashing among the rushes and sandy shallows not to be last when the players came. and old john carter, coming down the warwick road with a load of hay, laid on the lash until pie- bald dobbin snorted in dismay and broke into a lumbering run to reach the old stone bridge in time. the distant horsemen now were coming on again, riding in double file. they had flung their banners to the breeze, and on the chang- ing wind, with the thumping of horses' hoofs, came by snatches the sound of a kettledrummer drawing his drumhead tight, and beating as he drew, and the muffled blasts of a trumpeter proving his lips. fynes morrison and walter stirley, who had gone to cowslip lane to meet the march, were running on ahead, and shouting as they ran : “there 's forty men, and sumpter mules! and, oh, the bravest banners and attire—and the trumpets are a cloth-yard long ! make room for us, make room for us, and let us up !” a bowshot off, the trumpets blew a blast so high, so clear, so keen, that it seemed a flame of fire in the air, and as the brassy fanfare died away across the roofs of the quiet town, the kettledrums clanged, the cymbals clashed, and all the company began to sing the famous old song of the hunt: the hunt is up, the hunt is up, sing merrily we, the hunt is up ! the wild birds sing, the dun deer fling. the forest aisles with music ring ! tantara, tantara, tantara! then ride along, ride along, stout and strong! farewell to grief and care; with a rollicking cheer for the high dun deer and a life in the open air tantara, the hunt is up, lads! tantara, the bugles bray! tantara, tantara, tantara, hio, harkaway! the first of the riders had reached old clop- ton bridge; and the banners strained upon their staves in the freshening river-wind. the trumpeters and he drummers led, their horses prancing, white plumes waving in the breeze, and the april sunlight dancing on the brazen horns and the silver bellies of the kettledrums. then came the banners of the company, curl- ing down with a silky swish, and unfurling again with a snap like a broad-lashed whip. the greatest one was rosy-red, and on it was a gallant ship upon a flowing sea, bearing upon its mainsail the arms of my lord charles how- ard, high admiral of england. upon its mate was a giant bearded man with a fish's tail, holding a trident in his hand and blowing upon a shell, the triton of the seas which eng- land ruled; this flag was bright sea-blue. the third was white, and on it was a red wild rose with a golden heart, the common standard of the company. after the flags came two-score men, the players of the admiral, the tiring-men, grooms, horse-boys and serving-knaves, well mounted on good horses, and all of them clad in scarlet tabards blazoned with the coat-armor of their master. upon their caps they wore the fa- mous badge of the howards, a rampant silver demi-lion; and beneath their tabards at the side could be seen their jerkins of many-col- ored silk, their silver-buckled belts, and long, thin spanish rapiers, slapping their horses on the flanks at every stride. their legs were cased in high-topped riding-boots of tawny cordovan, with gilt spurs, and the housings of their saddles were of blue with the gilt an- chors of the admiralty upon them. on their bridles were jingling bits of steel, which made a constant tinkling like a thousand little bells very far away. some had faces smooth as boys, and were - - the lord admiral's players. “ the trumpeters and the drummers led, their horses prancing, white plumes waving in the breeze.” master skylark. [nov. quite young; and others wore sharp-pointed beards with stiff waxed mustaches, and were older men with a tinge of iron in their hair, and lines of iron in their faces, hardened by the life they led; and some again were smooth- shaven, so often and so closely that their faces were blue with the beard beneath the skin. but, oh, to nicholas attwood and the rest of stratford boys, they were a dashing, rakish, admirable lot, with the air of something even greater than lords, and a keen knowingness in their sparkling, worldly eyes that made a common wise man seem almost a fool beside them and so they came riding up out of the south : then ride along, ride along, stout and strong! farewell to grief and care; with a rollicking cheer for the high dun deer and a life in the open air! “hurrah, hurrah! god save the queen!” a dropping shout went up the street like an arrow-flight scattering over the throng; and the players, waving their scarlet caps until the long line tossed like a poppy-garden in a summer rain, gave a cheer that fairly set the crockery to dancing upon the shelves of the stalls in middle row. “hurrah!” shouted nicholas attwood, his blue eyes shining with delight. “hurrah, hurrah! for the admiral's men . " and high in the air he threw his cap, as a wild cheer broke from the eddying crowd, and the arches of the long gray bridge rang hollow with the tread of hoofs. whiff, came the wind; down dropped the hat upon the very saddle-peak of one tall fellow riding along among the rest. catching it quickly as it fell, he laughed and tossed it back; and when nick caught it whirl- ing in the air, a shilling jingled from it to the ground. then up fore bridge street they all trooped after, into stratford town. “oh,” cried robin, “it is brave, bravel ” “brave?” cried nick. “it makes my very heart jump. and see, robin, "t is a shilling, a real silver shilling — oh, what fellows they all be! hurrah for the lord high admiral's men!” chapter ii. nicholas attwood's home. nick attwood's father came home that night bitterly wroth. the burgesses of the town council had or- dered him to build a chimney upon his house, or pay ten shillings fine; and shillings were none too plenty with simon attwood, the tan- ner of old town. “soul and body o' man!” said he, “they talk as if they owned the world, and a man could na live upon it save by their leave. i must build my fire in a pipe, or pay ten shillings fine? things ha’ come to a pretty pass—a pretty pass, indeed!” he kicked the rushes that were strewn upon the floor, and ground the clay with his heel. “this litter will ha' to be all took out. atkins will be here at six i' the morning to do the job; and a lovely mess he will make o' the house !” “do na fret thee, simon,” said mistress att- wood gently. “the rushes need a changing, and i ha' pined this long while to lay the floor wi' new clay from shottery common. 't is the sweetest earth ! nick shall take the hangings down, and right things up when the chimley's done.” so at cockcrow next morning nick slipped out of his straw bed, into his clothes, and down the winding stair, while his parents were still asleep in the loft; and, sousing his head in the bucket at the well, began his work before the old town clock in the chapel tower had yet struck four. the rushes had not been changed since easter, and were full of dust and grease from the cooking and the table. even the fresher sprigs of mint among them smelled stale and old. when they were all in the barrow, nick sighed with relief, and wiped his hands upon the dripping grass. it had rained in the night—a soft, warm rain, and the air was full of the smell of the apple-bloom and pear from the little orchard behind the house. the bees were already humming about the straw-bound hives along the garden wall, and a misguided green wood- pecker clung upside down to the eaves, and thumped at the beams of the house. .] master skylark. it was very still there in the gray of the dawn. he could hear the rush of the water through the sedge in the mill-race; and then, all at once, the roll of the wheel, the low rum- ble of the mill-gear, and the cool whisper of the wind in the willows. when he went back into the house again the painted cloths upon the wall seemed dingier than ever compared with the clean, bright world outside. the sky-blue coat of the prod- igal son was brown with the winter's smoke; the red sea towered above pharaoh's ill- starred host like an inky mountain; and the homely maxims on the next breadth —“do no wrong,” “beware of sloth,” “overcome pride,” and “keep an eye on the pence”— could scarcely be read. nick jumped up on the three-legged stool and began to take them down. the nails were crooked and jammed in the wall, and the last came out with an unexpected jerk. losing his balance, nick caught at the table-board which leaned against the wall, but the stool capsized and he came down on the floor with such a flap of tapestry that the ashes flew out all over the room. he sat up dazed, and rubbed his elbows; then looked around, and began to laugh. he could hear heavy footsteps overhead. a door opened, and his father's voice called sternly from the head of the stair: “what madcap folly art thou up to now?” “i be up to no folly at all,” said nick, “but down, sir. i fell from the stool. there 's no harm done.” “then be about thy business,” said attwood, coming slowly down the stairs. he was a gaunt man, smelling of leather and untanned hides. his short iron-gray hair grew low down upon his forehead, and his hooked nose, grim wide mouth, and heavy under jaw gave him a look at once forbidding and severe. his doublet of serge and his fustian hose were stained with liquor from the vats, and his eyes were heavy with sleep. the smile faded from nick's face. throw the rushes into the street, sir?” “nay; take them to the muck-hill. the burgesses ha’ made a great to-do about folk throwing trash into the highways. soul and vol. xxiv.- . “shall i body o' man!” he growled, “a man must ask if he may breathe. and good hides going a-begging, too!” nick hurried away, for he dreaded his father's sullen moods. the swine were squealing in their styes, the cattle bawled about the straw-thatched barns in chapel lane, and long files of gabbling ducks waddled hurriedly down to the river through the primroses under the hedge. he could hear the milkmaids calling in the meadows; and when he trundled slowly home the smoke was creeping up in pale-blue threads from the draught-holes in the wall. the tanner's house stood a little back from the thoroughfare, in that part of stratford-on- avon where the south end of church street turns from bull lane toward the river. it was roughly built of timber and plaster, the black beams showing through the yellow lime in cu- rious squares and triangles. the roof was of red tiles; and where the spreading elms leaned over it the peaked gable was green with moss. at the side of the house was a garden of let- tuce; beyond the garden a rough wall on which the grass was growing. sometimes wild prim- roses grew on top of this wall, and once a yel- low daffodil. beyond the wall were other gar- dens owned by thrifty neighbors, and open lands in common to them all, where foot-paths wan- dered here and there in a free, haphazard way. behind the house was a well and a wood- pile, and along the lane ran a whitewashed paling fence with a little gate, from which the path went up to the door through rows of bright, old-fashioned flowers. nick's mother was getting the breakfast. she was a gentle woman with a sweet, kind face, and a little air of quiet dignity that made her doubly dear to nick by contrast with his father's unkempt ways. he used to think that, in her worsted gown, with its falling collar of antwerp linen, and a soft, silken coif upon her fading hair, she was the most beautiful woman in all the world. she put one arm about his shoulders, brushed back his curly hair, and kissed him on the fore- head. “thou art mine own good little son,” said she tenderly, “and i will bake thee a cake in io [nov. master srylark. the new chimley on the morrow for thy may- day feast.” then she helped him fetch the trestles from the buttery, set the board, spread the cloth, and lay the wooden platters, pewter cups, and old horn spoons in place. breakfast being ready, she then called his father from the yard. nick waited deftly upon them both, so that they were soon done with the simple meal of rye-bread, lettuce, cheese, and milk. as he carried away the empty platters and brought water and a towel for them to wash their hands, he said quietly, although his eyes were bright and eager, “the lord high ad- miral's company is to act a stage-play at the guildhall to-morrow before master davenant the mayor and the town burgesses.” simon attwood said nothing, but his brows drew down. “they came yestreen from london town by oxford way to play in stratford and at coven- try; and are at the swan inn with master geoffrey inchbold—oh, ever so many of them, in scarlet jerkins, and cloth of gold, and doub- lets of silk laced up like any lord ' it is a very good company, they say.” mistress attwood looked quickly at her hus- band. “what will they play ?” she asked. “i can na say, surely, mother—“tambur- lane,' perhaps, or ‘the troublesome reign of old king john.' the play will be free, father— may i go, sir?” “and lose thy time from school?” “there is no school to-morrow, sir.” “then have ye naught to do that ye waste the day in idle folly?” asked the tanner sternly. “i will do my work beforehand, sir,” replied nick quietly, though his hand trembled a little as he brushed up the crumbs. “it is may-day, simon,” interceded mistress attwood, “and a bit of pleasure will na harm the lad.” “pleasure?” said the tanner sharply; “if he does na find pleasure enough in his work, his book, and his home, he shall na seek it of low rogues and strolling scapegraces.” “but, simon,” said mistress attwood, “’t is the lord admiral's own company—surely they are not all graceless and,” she contin- ued with very quiet dignity, “since mine own cousin anne hathaway married will shakspere the play-actor, 't is scarcely kind to call all players rogues and low.” “no more o' this, margaret,” cried attwood, flushing angrily. “thou art ever too ready with the boy's part against me. he shall na go — i'll find a thing or two for him to do among the vats that will take this taste for idle- ness out of his mouth. he shall na go: so that be all there is on it.” rising abruptly, he left the room. nick clenched his hands. “nicholas,” said his mother softly. “yes, mother,” said he; “i know. but he should na flout thee sol and, mother, the queen goes to the play—father himself saw her at coventry ten years ago. is what the queen does idle folly?” his mother took him by the hand and drew him to her side, with a smile that was half a sigh: “art thou the queen " “nay,” said he; “and it's all the better for england, like enough. but surely, mother, it can na be wrong—” “to honor thy father?” said she quickly, laying her finger across his lips. “nay, lad, it is thy bounden duty.” nick turned and looked up at her wonder- ingly. “mother,” said he, “art thou an angel come down out of heaven p’’ “nay,” she answered, patting his flushed cheek. “i be only the every-day mother of a fierce little son who hath many a hard, hard lesson to learn. now eat thy breakfast—thou hast been up a long while.” nick kissed her impetuously and sat down; but his heart still rankled within him. all stratford would go to the play. he could hear the murmur of voices and music, the bursts of laughter and applause, the tramp of happy feet going up the guildhall stairs to the mayor's show. everybody went in free at the mayor's show. the other boys could stand on stools and see it all. they could hold horses at the gate of the inn at the september fair, and so see all the farces. they could see the fa- mous norwich puppet-play. but he – what pleasure did he ever have p a tawdry pageant by a lot of clumsy country bumpkins at whit- suntide or pentecost, or a silly school-boy .] ii master srylark. masque at christmas, with the master scolding like a heathen turk. it was not fair. and now he'd have to work all may-day. may-day out of all the year ! why, there was to be a may-pole and a morris-dance, and a roasted calf, too, in master wainwright's field, since margery was chosen queen of the may. and peter finch was to be robin hood, and nan rogers maid marian, and wear a kirtle of kendal green—and oh, but the may-pole would be brave: high as the ridge of the guild- school roof, and hung with ribbons like a rain- bow ! geoffrey hall was to lead the dance, too, and the other boys and girls would all be there. and where would he be? sousing hides in the tannery vats. truly his father was a hard man he pushed the cheese away. chapter iii. the last straw. little john summer had a new horn-book that cost a silver penny. the handle was car- ven and the horn was clear as honey. the other little boys stood round about in speechless envy, or murmured their a b c's and “ba be bi’s” along the chapel steps. the lower-form boys were playing leap-frog past the alms- house, and geoffrey gosse and the vicar's son were in the public gravel-pit, throwing stones at the robins in the great house elms across the lane. some few dull fellows sat upon the steps behind the school-house, anxiously poring over their books. but the larger boys of the fable class stood in an excited group beneath the shadow of the overhanging second story of the gram- mar-school, talking all at once, each louder than the other, until the noise was deafening. “oh, nick! such goings on " called robin getley, whose father was a burgess, as nick att- wood came slowly up the street, saying his sen- tences for the day over and over to himself, in hopeless desperation, having had no time to learn them at home. “stratford council has had a quarrel, and there's to be no stage-play after all.” “what?” cried nick, in amazement. “no stage-play ? and why not p” “why,” said robin, “it was just this way— my father told me of it. sir thomas lucy, high sheriff of worcester, y'know, rode in from charlcote yesternoon, and with him sir edward greville of milcote. so the burgesses made a feast for them at the swan inn. sir thomas fetched a fine, fat buck, and the town stood good for ninepence wine and twopence bread, and broached a keg of sturgeon. and when they were all met together there, eating, and drinking, and making merry—what? why. in came my lord admiral's players from lon- don town, ruffling it like high dukes, and not caring two pops for sir thomas, or sir edward, or for stratford burgesses all in a heap; but sat them down at the table straightway, and called for ale, as if they owned the place; and not be- ing served as soon as they desired, they laid hands upon sir thomas's server as he came in from the buttery with his tray full, and took both meat and drink.” “what?” cried nick. “as sure as shooting, they did!” said robin; “and when sir thomas's gentry yeomen would have seen to it — what? why, my lord ad- miral's master-player clapped his hand to his poniard-hilt, and dared them come and take it if they could.” “to sir thomas lucy's men p” exclaimed nick, aghast. “ay, to their teeth ! sir edward sprang up then and said it was a shame for players to be- have so outrageously in will shakspere's own home town. and at that sir thomas, who, ye know, has always misliked will, flared up like a bull at a red rag, and swore that all stage- players be runagate rogues, anyway, and will shakspere neither more nor less than a deer- stealing scape-gallows.” “surely he did na say that in stratford coun. cil p” protested nick. “ay, but he did—that very thing,” said rob- in; “and when that was out, the master-player sprang upon the table, overturning half the ale, and cried out that will shakspere was his very own true friend, and the sweetest fellow in all england; and that whosoever gainsaid it was a hemp-cracking rascal, and that he would prove it upon his back with a quarter-staff whenever and wherever he chose, be he sir thomas lucy, i master skylark. [nov. st. george and the dragon, guy of warwick, and the great dun cow, all rolled up in one!” “robin getley, is this the very truth, or art thou cozening me?” “upon my word, it is the truth,” said robin. “and that 's not all. sir edward cried out ‘fie!' upon the player for a saucy varlet; but the fellow only laughed, and bowed quite low, and said that he took no offense from sir edward for saying that, since it could not honestly be de- nied, but that sir thomas did not know the truth from a truckle-bed in broad daylight, and was but the remnant of a gentleman to boot.” “the bold-faced rogue!” “ay, that he is,” added robin; “and for his boldness sir thomas straightway demanded that the high bailiff refuse the company license to play in stratford.” “refuse the lord high admiral's players?” “marry, no one else. and then master john shakspere, wroth at what sir thomas had said of his son will, vowed that he would send a letter down to london town, and lay the whole coil before the lord high admiral himself. for ever since that he was high bailiff, the best com- panies of england had always been bidden to play in stratford, and it would be an ill thing now to refuse the lord admiral's company after granting licenses to both my lord pembroke's and the high chamberlain's.” “and so it would,” spoke up walter roche; “for there are our own townsmen, richard and cuthbert burbage, who are cousins of mine, and john hemynge and thomas greene, be- sides will shakspere and his brother edmund, all playing in the lord chamberlain's company in london before the queen. it would be a black score against them all with the lord ad- miral — i doubt not he would pay them out.” “that he would,” said robin, “and so said my father and alderman henry walker, who, y’ know, is will shakspere's own friend. and some of the burgesses who cared not a rap for that were afeard of offending the lord admiral. but sir thomas vowed that my lord howard was at cadiz with walter raleigh and the young earl of sussex, and would by no means hear of it. so master bailiff stubbes, who, 't is said, doth owe sir thomas forty pound, and is therefore under his thumb, forthwith refused the company license to play in stratford guild- hall, inn-yard, or common. and at that the master-player threw his glove into master stubbes's face, and called sir thomas a stupid old bell-wether, and stratford burgesses silly sheep for following wherever he chose to jump.” “and so they be,” sneered hal saddler. “how p” cried robin hotly. “my father is a burgess. dost thou call him a sheep, hal saddler?” “nay, nay,” stammered hal hastily; “’t was not thy father i meant.” “then hold thy tongue with both hands,” said robin sharply, “ or it will crack thy pate for thee some of these fine days.” “but come, robin,” asked nick eagerly, “what became of the quarrel ?” “well, when the master-player threw his glove into master stubbes's face, the chief constable seized him for contempt of stratford council, and held him for trial. at that some cried “shame !’ and some “hurrah!'— but the rest of the players fled out of town in the night, lest their baggage be taken by the law and they be fined.” “whither did they go?” asked nick, both sorry and glad to hear that they were gone. “to coventry, and left the master-player behind in gaol.” “why, they dare na use him so — the lord admiral's own man l’” “ay, that they don't! why, hark 'e, nick! this morning, since sir thomas has gone home, and the burgesses' heads have all cooled down from the sack and the clary they were in last night, la! but they are in a pretty stew, my father says, for fear that they have given offense to the lord admiral. so they have spoken the master-player softly, and given him his freedom out of hand; and a long gold chain to twine about his cap, to mend the matter with, beside.” “whee-ew l’” whistled nick. “i wish i were a master-playerſ ” “oh, but he will not be pleased, and says he will have his revenge on stratford town if he must needs wait until the end of the world or go to the indies after it. and he has had his breakfast served in master geoffrey inchbold's own room at the swan, and swears .] i master skylark. that he will walk the whole way to coventry sooner than straddle the horse that the bur- gesses have sent him to ride.” “what! is he at the inn p why, let's go down and see him.” “master brunswood says that he will birch whoever cometh late,” objected hal saddler. “birch?” groaned nick. “why, he does nothing but birch a fellow can na say his ‘sum, es, est' without catching it. and as for getting through the ‘genitivo' and ‘vo- cativo' without a downright threshing—” he shrugged his shoulders ruefully as he remem- bered his unlearned lesson. everything had gone wrong with him that morning, and the thought of the birching that he was sure to get was more than he could bear. “i will na stand it any longer — i'll run away !” kit sedgewick laughed ironically. “and when the skies fall we'll catch sparrows, nick attwood,” said he. “whither wilt thou run ?” stung by his tone of ridicule, nick out with the first thing that came into his head: “to coven- try, after the stage-players,” said he defiantly. the whole crowd gave an incredulous hoot. nick's face flushed. to be crossed at home, to be birched at school, to work all may-day in the tannery vats, and to be laughed at – it was too much. “ye think that i will na p. well, i 'll show ye | t is only eight miles to warwick, and hardly more than that beyond — no walk at all — and diccon haggard, my mother's cousin, lives in coventry. so out upon your musty latin—english is good enough for me this day! there's blue-bells blowing in the din- gles, and cuckoo-buds no end. and while ye are all grinding at your old aesop, i shall be roaming over the hills wherever i please.” as he spoke he thought of the dark, wain- scoted walls of the school-room with their narrow little windows overhead, of the foul- smelling floors of the tannery in southam's lane, and his heart gave a great, rebellious leap. “ay,” said he, exultantly, “i shall be out where the birds can sing and the grass is green; and i shall see the stage-play; while ye will be mewed up all day long in school, and have nothing but a beggarly morris and a farthing may-pole on the morrow.” “oh, no doubt, no doubt,” said hal saddler mockingly. “we shall have but bread and milk, and thou shalt have — a most glorious threshing from thy father when thou comest home again!” that was the last straw to nick's unhappy heart. “'t is a threshing either way,” said he, nick attwood's father. squaring his shoulders doggedly. “father will thresh me if i run away; and master bruns- wood will thresh me if i don't. i'll not be birched four times a week for merely tripping on a word, and have nothing to show for it but stripes. if i must take a threshing, i'll have my good day's game out first.” “but wilt thou truly go to coventry, nick?” asked robin getley earnestly, for he liked nick more than all the rest. “ay, truly, robin,_that i will;" and, turn- ing, nick walked swiftly away toward the market-place, never looking back. (to be continued.) sº - - "y º º | pºž zºº º - sºrºr-tºr elº. . %. wdsº---s tº º º: - s §§ s-a- over the hills and far away there are dreadful dragons that knights may slay— great snorting dragons with brazen scales, and wings of leather, and coiling tails. but if you 're the proper kind of knight, with a suit of mail and a sword that 's bright, you may whip those dragons and win the day, over the hills and far away ! over the hills and far away there are ogres living in castles gray, with a horn to blow and the drawbridge down, and the ogres bellow, and stamp, and frown. but it does n’t do to be frightened—no you must face them boldly and strike a blow, and then you marry the princess may, over the hills and far away ! a delectable land. i over the hills and far away there are fairy monarchs in grand array, with gnomes, and pixies, and brownies, too; and my the marvelous things they do but though they startle you just a bit, they will help a lad who is sharp of wit, and it's fun to watch when they dance and play — over the hills and far away ! over the hills and far away you may have an excellent time, i say. there are golden islands and magic springs and jabberwockies — and heaps of things you can't be dull in a land like that, with enchanted boots and a talking cat, so is it a wonder you long to stray over the hills and far away ? the timoro us trimble. by felix leigh. the trimble saw the gillybut “get up,” she cried; “now just suppose careering through the sky: the tangskip were to fall!” “come down,” she called; “there is a wunth - - - which snaps at those who fly!” the trimble spied the gillybut at supper on a bough. the trimble watched the gillybut “jump off,” she screamed; “you're sure to catch sail forth upon the sea. odilopasis now !” “put back,” she wailed; “the east is red— 't will blow a shimmerkeel' the trimble plagued the gillybut in this wise day by day; - the trimble found the gillybut but who they were and what she feared asleep beneath a wall. it's difficult to say. field or lawn, per- haps only one or two plants the first year, and in a season or two has spread everywhere. the dandelion is an old world flower, not native in america, save far to the north and on some of the highest of our western mountains. but somehow it was brought here, perhaps from england in old colonial times. now we see its golden heads and feathery balls at every grassy roadside, the “clocks” the boys and girls blow to tell the hour. a few years ago farmers in the north- west found a new weed, a vile prickly weed, in their wheat-fields. in a very short time this weed, the russian thistle, has spread over wide acres of the best farm-land in that part of the country, and has done great injury to the crops. how do these plants spread so fast and so far? they are not carried about and planted. no one would be so foolish as to sow russian thistles. the mother-plant must have ways of her own for sending her offspring abroad into the world. plants propagate themselves in two ways, from seed or from buds. some- times these buds are borne on slender runners. a strawberry plant, after it has blossomed, be- gins to send out such runners, with buds, un- folding tufts of leaves, along them. these tufts are at first connected with the parent plant, but later the runners between break away, and each tuft becomes a new plant. many grasses, like bermuda grass and the troublesome quick- or couch-grass, have creeping stems, each joint sending out a bunch of roots below and a bud on the upper side. if you try to hoe up such grasses, you only make matters worse, for each joint when cut off is ready to form an indepen- dent plant. such grasses spread very fast, and soon take possession of the land they get into. many plants, like lilies and crocuses, have thick bulbs or corms underground, on which grow the buds that are to make new plants. every year new bulbs grow out of the old one. the little round, dark bulblets between the leaves and stems of our showy garden friend the tiger-lily are buds that fall to the ground and make new plants. but most plants grow from seed, and we are going to see just now how the seed is scattered. it is good for plants to keep as much apart as possible. if the seed fell straight to the ground, and the young plants all grew up to- gether around the parent one, they would starve each other out. for plants are like people, and when crowded too closely together, fall to fighting among themselves. their struggles are very bitter ones, though we do not see or hear them. the plants that are strongest in these silent battles end by getting the light and ir and water and food they need from the soil, while the poor weaklings are left to starve how plant's spread. and die. to prevent 'º. v. too much of this waste- º \ t \ \,- ful crowding and strug- l, gling, old dame na- º / * { ture has invented many \ y , a clever little scheme. *. ; ; sº i when trees or small- \ \, er plants grow on river | * banks, their fruits often º fall into the water, and are carried down stream by the current, sometimes finding landing-places on the banks, and so grow- ing up into new plants. who has not seen sycamore-balls and buckeyes traveling along in this easy fashion ? these are the fruits of the trees they grow on. fruit is º the part * - of the nº. º º ºs-- º plant that | wººl incloses the -º- m. º seed, with the º º º i. seed itself. so tº ſº. the dry pods º that hold the black morning- glory seeds are as truly fruits as are ap- ples or strawberries, though we commonly use the word only for those that are good to eat. it often hap- the thistle's argosy. - wº - - -- º --- º º anº/ º * pens that, on small islands in rivers, trees and flowers are ^{\ſ, º found that do not grow on the neighboring banks. these have º z! ºf come down the river, sometimes from the mountains where it rises, qº) ſº * º in the shape of fruits, and have found lodging on the island, during high water. sometimes fruits are thus borne quite out to sea, and then they may be caught up by ocean currents and carried long dis- tances. it has been said that columbus first formed the notion that there might be land beyond the western ocean on seeing some strange nuts that had been washed to the shores of the azores from far away america. the usual way for seeds to be carried is by the wind. sometimes they are so small and light as to be easily wafted by the breezes. this is the case with the seed of the moccasin-flowers and meadow-pinks, and the other beautiful plants of our woods and bogs called orchids. and the tiny bodies, like atoms of dust, termed “spores,” that answer to seed in ferns and mosses and toadstools, are borne away by the lightest breath of air. but most seeds - are themselves too heavy for this. so they are ofttimes provided with thin, ****:::::: broad wings that carry them before the wind as a sail carries a boat. the " **** pairs of “keys” that hang in clusters from the maple-trees in spring are such vol. xxiv.- . i [nov. how plant's spread. winged fruits. when ripe they float slowly to the ground, or if a high wind is blowing, they are carried farther from the tree. the ash has thick bunches of winged fruits much like these, but single. the elm has a thin, papery border all around its small seeds, which makes them quite conspicuous as they hang on the branch- lets before the leaves have come out. bers of plants have about the seeds delicate hairs or bristles that take the place of wings. a dan- delion “clock,” or a head of thistle-down, is a bunch of seeds, each with a circle of fine bristles on the summit. when the seeds are ripe, along comes a breeze, and puff! away go the seeds, hanging from their tufts of bristles, as the basket hangs from a balloon. the bunches of long silky hairs that come from a bursting pod of milkweed, and fill the air around, have each their precious cargo in the shape of a small, brown seed. the seeds that ripen in heads on the clematis, after the handsome purple flower-leaves have fallen, have long feathered tails, like slender bird-plumes, that do the same work that is given to the silk of milkweed. the “cotton" around the seeds of the willows at the riverside and of the poplars along city streets serves the same useful purpose. cotton itself the winced seeds of the maple. is only a bunch of fine white hair around the seed. ages before men thought of spinning it, and weaving it into cloth, it was making itself useful to the cot- ton-plant by helping to scatter its seeds. tumble-weeds spread themselves in a whole- sale fashion. instead of sending the separate seeds out into the world with wings or hairs to carry them, the whole plant breaks off near the root, when these are ripe, and goes rolling along the ground before the wind. the bare sun-scorched deserts of the great west produce several tumble-weeds, and there are some in the prairie region. it is natural that they should be most abundant where there are no hills nor trees to stop them in their course. but we have one tumble-weed in the east — the old-witch grass, so-called, maybe, because it rides the wind like an old beldame. in sep- tember this grass spreads its head, or panicle, with hair-like, purple branches, in every sandy field. when the seeds are ripe the plants are blown across the field, often piling up in masses along fences and hedgerows. as might be ex- pected, the hair-grass, which has so effective a .] how i plant's spread. way of spreading itself, is found throughout the united states, from ocean to ocean. after a stroll afield, in the fall, one is apt to wonder, as he works away at the burrs that cover his clothes, what use they can possibly be. burrs are a great nuisance to men and animals; but the plants they grow on find them very serviceable, for they are simply fruits cov- ered with spines or prickles; and this is only another way plants have to distribute their seeds. that it is a scheme that works well any one can see who has a hunting-dog, and keeps it in his yard. in the spring fine crops of spanish needles and clot-burrs come up as if by magic, where there were none before. they have grown from the burrs the dog brought home in his coat the autumn before. around woolen mills in new england plants from the west spring up in a mysterious way, and nearly always these have burr-fruits. they have grown from the burrs taken from the fleece of sheep, in cleaning, and thrown out as waste. some troublesome weeds have been introduced in this manner. on the prairies there are many in former days, plants with this kind of fruit. the clot-burr. when great herds of buffalo roamed the plains, their hair caught up these burrs, which thus stole long rides, like the tramps they are. even now, in old buffalo-wallows plants are found that do not grow elsewhere in the country round. some burrs, like the burdock. spanish needles, have only three or four slender spines, or awns, as they are called, at the summit of the fruit. if we look at them through a magnifying-glass, we find them bearing sharp, down- ward-pointing barbs, like that of a fish-hook. the sand-spur, an ill weed that grows on sea-beaches and sandy river-banks, has burrs covered with such spines. the boy who has stepped on sand-spurs with his bare feet knows this to his sor- row. the tiny barbs go in easily, but every attempt to draw them out makes them tear into the flesh. often the spines or bristles are hooked in- stead of being barbed. the clot-burr, or cockle- burr that grows abundantly in waste ground, and the agrimony of our woods, are examples. burdock has such hooked prickles on its fruits, and they stick so fast together, that children make of them neat little baskets, handles and all. the tick-trefoil has jointed pods, covered thickly with small hooked hairs that can hardly be seen without a magnifying-glass. these are the small, flat, brown burrs that cover the clothing after a walk through the woods in september. they are most annoying burrs, worse than clot-burrs, they are so small and stick so fast. the most curious of all the ways of spreading the seeds is that adopted by the jewel-weed. this is a handsome plant, often seen in shady places along brooks. it owes its name to the dew that in early morning hangs in glistening drops, like small round diamonds, along the scal- loped edges of the leaves. late in summer, spanish needles. o how plant's spread. in august and september-the jewel-weed is covered with pretty flowers, something like snapdragon blossoms, orange-red spotted with brown. later on, when the seeds are ripe, the lightest touch will make the pods that hold them burst open suddenly, and scatter them far and wide, like shot from a tiny cannon. for this reason the european jewel-weed is known as moli-me-langere, which is latin for “touch me not.” the garden balsam, or lady's-slipper, a relative of the jewel- weed, has the same sort of elastically-opening pods. another american plant that shoots out its seed in the same fashion is the witch-hazel, a shrub sometimes planted on lawns, and growing wild along brooks and on hill- sides. the witch-hazel blos- soms in october or november, when most other plants are dead. often its own leaves have fallen when it begins to unfold its strap-shaped, crinkled yellow petals. its shining black seeds do not ripen till the next midsum- mer. then they are discharged violently from the pods, and are sometimes thrown ten or twelve feet. the witch-hazel is a sturdy, independent fel- low, and he does not wait for wind or water, or for the clematis. chance wander- seeds with plumes. ing animals to do his work for him. but the most re- markable instance of this method of scat- tering the seeds is afforded by hura crepifans, a hand- some tree, native of the forests of south america. the curious fruit of this tree is a somewhat flat- tened, deeply furrowed or fluted body, made up of a circle of many cells, each con- taining one seed. when the seeds are ripe the cells open, and expel them with a loud report, like the crack of a pistol. hence the fruit is some- times called the “monkeys' dinner-bell.” stories have been told of hura fruits being placed in desks and subsequently opening and discharging their seeds with such violence as to break ink-wells, and even to crack the wood of the desk. many other means employed by plants to disperse themselves could be described were there space for them. those of us who live in the country, or visit it in summer, can discover some of these for ourselves. they are of never- failing interest, for they show how ready plants are to seek out new homes, and fit themselves for more important places in the world. those that can do this are always spreading and wax- ing strong among their fellows, while the weaker ones gradually become rarer, and finally, if completely overcome, may disappear from cer- tain localities. the tick trefoil. bob's way. by tudor jenks. st. nicholas belongs to bob, because our uncle jim when he subscribed, last christmas day, had it addressed to him. but when it comes, why, i can't wait— to read it—till bob 's through; and bob, who 's always good to me, found out a way to do. so, while he 's reading on one page, i 'm reading on another. it 's just like bob.-whatever 's his he shares it with his brother. atter *-*.*.mpton june's garden. by marion hill. chapter i. the plan. “leila, i wish you'd stop reading,” begged june, gloomily. “i have something very im- portant to tell you.” “um,” assented the absorbed reader, turning a page. “besides, it is too twilighty to read,” pur- sued june, relentlessly. “you ought to stop. do you hear me?” “um-um,” murmured leila, buried fathoms deep in the story. “reading is a fearful waste of time,” moral- ized june, who, having come to the end of her book, found that the minutes were hanging heavily — “a — a great waste; because, you see, things in books are never what they are in real life. i have felt it from my babyhood up. even in my school-days i was tormented by the discrepancies. take, now, that story of the boy who broke somebody's window, and nobly went to pay for it with his one and only dollar. if you recollect, the owner of the smashed win- dow put the money back in the youth's hand, and all but wept tears of joy over his honesty. now, if / broke a window, i am sure i would not only lose my dollar, but would get roundly scolded for carelessness into the bargain. don't you think so p” leila cooed again without raising her eyes, but june accepted the sound as an evidence of attention, and proceeded with her reminis- cences: “then the studious youth who wanted some books very badly and went out one frosty new year's morning to buy them, only to stum- ble across a destitute family, to whom the new and shining (as if that made it any more valu- able !) — to whom the new and shining money went as a matter of course. but did the child have to do without his books, as you or i would expect to do? not a bit of it, my young friend. lo and behold ! his father, who in some marvelous manner became informed of the whole transaction, bought him a double quantity of books to reward him for his kind- ness of heart. such tales are a perversion of nature, who contends that you cannot have your cake and eat it. i have communed much with nature, and i know her sentiments. these are her exact words: “you cannot keep your cake, miss june miller, and likewise eat it.’ ” there was a pause, during which some ashes fell into the grate. leila turned another page, and june cast a rapt gaze ceilingward as she gathered material for her next words. “books are the root of all evil — they are a delusion and a snare. have you noticed that no matter how ugly a heroine is to start with, she is always sure to blossom into a beauty be- fore you are done with her? why, if i were to live for a hundred years, do you think any combination on earth could transform me into a beauty p” “i do not.’” announced leila, emphatically, roused at last to articulation. june laughed good-temperedly. she ac- cepted the fact of her plainness without letting it worry her. “to hear you talk, one would think you were a monster of uncharitableness, when the truth is, you give away your clothes, and your books, and your time, and your —” leila went on. “not my money,” said june, dryly. “simply because you never have any money. but you would if you had.” “‘sister, my sweet sister,’ as byron says, you have not grasped the gist of my remarks at all. what i am objecting to is the idea that we get paid right back for everything we do, when we don't. and we ought not to, for it spoils every- thing. why, if i deny myself something to have a little money for charities, and then some june's garden. one makes up that something to me, i feel as if i had been cheated out of half the fun.” “oh, june !” said leila, wincing. often- times june's direct expressions were a trial to her; so she sought to change the trend of thought by asking, “what was the important thing you had to say?” “oh ah! it is hard to start in the right place to make you see its importance as i see it,” confessed june. “but i 'll do my best. we get enough to eat, don't we, leila p” “good gracious, june, what a question " “answer, please,” was the remorseless re- sponse. “yes.” “and we have clothes to cover us, even if they are of the fashion of years gone by.” “yes.” “and we pay our bills—” “with trouble.” “and we live in rather a nice street —” “in a very nice street; too nice, for our house is the only shanty on the block.” “but in spite of these enumerated blessings, has it never occurred to you that we are really very poor?” “have we not always been poor?” sighed leila. “well, we have; but that is no reason why we should be content to remain so. and since poor father died, mother has had to work en- tirely too much for her strength. you and i are willing enough to work, leila, but we cer- tainly are not successes at obtaining employ- ment. and yet it is clear that we must do something to help little mother along !” “we have talked this way so often, and it has never come to anything,” said leila, truly enough. “well, one swallow does not make a sum- mer,” said june, soothingly; she had a way of extracting unusual meanings out of the pro- verbs she used. “i have another plan — a grand one.” “what is it p” “to work in my garden for profit as well as for pleasure; to raise violets for florists, and roses, and chrysanthemums, as the season bids. don't you think the idea is glorious p” “y-y-yes,” was the halting answer. “oh, you don't, eh? well, for myself, i can see only one thing against it.” “what is that p '' “the agony that my commercial proceedings will arouse in both our neighbors,” said june, with an irrepressible burst of laughter as she thought of the situation. “and the haughtiest one on the block, the lame girl, sits where she will be able to watch you gardening. there will be no keeping out of her sight.” “it may cheer her up to have something to look at,” suggested june. “at any rate, i cannot afford to be hindered by fear of what the neighbors may think of me. i am not go- ing to do anything wrong.” “are you really going to do all this that you have said p” asked leila. “yes.” “to ask money for your flowers that you love so, to work in your garden as at a business, to ask florists to buy from you? oh, june, it is hard ' " “yes,” repeated june, rising, and putting her hands sturdily behind her. she looked like one making ready for a dire struggle. “oh, why are we so poor p what wrong have we ever done p” cried leila, breaking into tears. “what right have we ever done that we should be rich p’’ demanded june, grimly, but smoothing her sister's bent head with the ten- derest touches. “oh, june, how strong you are cry.” “tears are not in my line,” said june, wink- ing back, as she spoke, a sympathetic fog. “i only cry when i have done everything else i can think of. and really, with so much to do in the world, there is mighty little time for weeping — that is, for me. as long as i can swing my arms, and take a deep breath, and get at something, i never despair. “up and doing, little christian,’ is my motto; though candor compels me to confess that i am not little, nor am i as good a christian as i could wish, nor is my “doing’ of any vast importance. still, the motto is excellent. now i come to think of it, can there be a nicer occupation you never xx [nov. june's garden. than being ‘up' early in the morning, and “do- ing' in a sweet-smelling garden p answer, “lit- tle christian.’” “so you have made up your mind?” “yes; and made my preparations, too.” “in what way?” “first, i asked mother if i might.” “what does she think?” “she deplores the necessity, but commends the courage of my undertaking,” said june, reveling in her romantic wording. “good; but you ’re not businesslike.” “well, maybe not. but people have their different ways, i suppose. as a worthy woman once remarked, “it takes all sorts of folks to make the world, and, thank fortun', i'm not one of them.’” “june, dear.’” “what's the matter now p’’ “can't you be serious for a moment?” “well, when things come into a person's head, what is that person to do p” and june, º, "º - -- - -- º - - - - - - june begins her garden. perching upon the arm of leila's chair, kissed her sister with a gay penitence. “when are you going to begin your new business?” asked leila, faintly cheered. “as the sages tell us, there is no time like — to-morrow,” quoth june, triumphantly. chapter ii. “miss arctic.” june and leila and a small white kitten sat on the steps of the porch, and surveyed the a- - - -- - long neglected garden. the kitten was quite as interested as anybody, turning her coquettish little head from side to side with the thought- fulness of a professor. “why did we call this kitty “misfit' p” asked leila, after a silent reminiscence. “because her thick fur is a decided misfit for her thin bones, and because her largely active spirit is a misfit for her small body. moreover, if she should be addicted to fits, the name .] june's garden. would be suitable; just as it would be if she missed having fits. do you remember?” “oh, yes; you never forget things, do you?” “oh, never!” said june, derisively. there was another period of silence. really, the garden was in a state of distress. “what are you going to do first p” asked leila. “dig,” responded june, with spartan brevity; and, jumping up, she ran down the steps, seized a spade, and flung herself into the occupation. the morning was one of california's fairest— i did not tell you, did i, that the millers lived in california? well, they did; and in the gar- den city of alameda — a broad and gracious town, where one can call himself in the city or the country, as the whim seizes him. flowers grow with as little effort or care as the birds sing. no wonder that june felt sanguine. “now, according to the best literature,” she puffed, between the digs, “my venture ought to attract the attention of an eccentric millionaire with an appreciation of earnest endeavor, who would buy my flowers at triple their value, as fast as i could raise them, so that eventually i would retire on a fortune sufficient to buy up all europe; or, if the season for millionaires was dull, i might have to content myself with purchasing the united states. or i might as well prepare myself for the worst, and make up my mind to earn no more than would buy us a homestead, and keep us in silk dresses for the rest of our natural lives.” “what would your millionaire buy?” asked leila, looking around at the dearth of blooms. “what's the matter with those hyacinths?” demanded june, loftily. “nothing. they are beautiful,” agreed leila. “i did not notice them before.” “i did. they are my whole stock in trade just at present. just smell them "cried june, ecstatically. “i believe that you like to work out here,” said her sister, skeptically. “glory in it. don't you?” “i would rather be indoors reading,” said leila, proceeding to vanish. left to herself, june worked with a greater will than ever, drinking in the nectar of the morning's freshness, and pouring out the ex- vol. xxiv.- . uberance of her heart either in song or in bits of advice to misfit, who was embarrassingly persistent in her attentions. “i suppose you think i could not get on without you?” exclaimed she reproachfully, as misfit rolled rapturously over a slip just planted. now the kitten ran about chasing a leaf, next sat down to watch it, and finally jumped a foot in the air in a nervous frenzy when the wind moved the leaf unexpectedly. “i declare, plants and kittens do give one the most charming thoughts! i have n't en- joyed myself so much for months. and our high and mighty neighbors have n’t appealed to the police yet. things are not so frigid as i expected. positively, it is quite equatorial while i work here in the center of things; but what will happen if i spade myself down to either fence? something, surely; for there is “miss arctic' at her post, scowling over her crutches (poor thing!); and, as i live, there is old ‘mrs. antarctic’ tottering round her garden.” while june invented these coldly-descriptive names, she worked steadily on, just as if the two curious neighbors were not watching her every movement. she soon forgot them again in the interest of her work. it was so delight- ful to dig up great mounds of rich-smelling earth ! so absorbing to plant out the tiny pansy seedlings! so fascinating to cut chrysan- themum slips and trim the rose-bushes! mis- fit, too, seemed so wildly grateful for the un- usual companionship. not a hole could june dig that misfit did not deem it dug expressly that she might descend into it and chase her tail in those confined quarters. “won't you please go away! you bother me so!” wailed june piteously at last; and to her horror she heard a freezing voice reply: “i quite fail to see how my presence can bother you!” june had insensibly “spaded "herself near to the domain of miss arctic; and that offended young person, fancying herself addressed, was preparing to limp indoors, when june, sitting down in the grass in her great despair, ex- plained: “i was talking to my cat!” at this precise moment, too, misfit hurled herself upon a newly planted pink slip, and, june's garden. dragging it bodily out of the ground, wrapped it in a warm embrace, and rolled from side to side with it. “do you wonder p” implored june. “no,” replied the lame girl, smiling faintly, and looking as if she would like to linger and talk. in spite of the smile, a perpetual frown gloomed upon her face. “i am so glad we are acquainted at last,” announced miss miller, taking it for granted that the ice was broken. “i have always wanted to know you.” “why?" “because you are so pretty, for one thing,” replied truthful june. “me pretty me.” said the lame girl, flush- ing painfully, and glancing at her crutch. “very pretty. look at me, now; i am hopeless. but all the same, i adore pretty people and pretty things.” “and would you adore me?” asked the girl, a trifle bitterly. “if you would let me, miss arc — oh, my!” “what did you call me?” “i don't know your name,” mumbled june. “my name is sarah allison. sarah. beau- tiful, is n’t it?” “don’t you like it?” “i detest it!” “oh, dear!” said her sympathetic listener. “i think sarah is a grand old name. sarah means the princess. it 's so dignified, my name is june. no dignity about that.” “june p because you were born in june?” “exactly. my sister was born in november.” “and her name is — ” “leila,” replied leila's sister, laughing. “i wish i had a sister,” said sarah allison. “but you have the dearest brother! i have seen him.” “dearest.” echoed the girl, with scorn. “gracious! what's the matter with him p” asked june, in consternation. “he is rough. he teases. he is unfeeling. he runs about, while i can only hobble.” june jumped to her feet, with a look of dis- taste on her bright young face. her voice, too, was very clear as she said: “it seems to me that you speak as if you would like him to be lame, too.” for answer the girl burst into tears, crying: “nobody loves me! nobody knows how i suffer " “ugh weeping again! it's a wonder you have any weeps left!” cried a scoffing voice. “i suppose you are roy allison, though i can't see you,” said june, looking around. “a little higher,” said the same jeering voice; and june obediently lifted her eyes until she gazed right into two dancing blue orbs whose owner was perched in a tree nearby. “oh!” said june, amicably, pleased at her penetration. “you don't say so "twittered the boy. june laughed in friendly fashion. being brotherless, her heart went out to boys. “what a grand climber you are " she said. “not a bit afraid.” any one who is familiar with the mysterious ways of boys can guess the effect of these words upon the young gentleman. he gave no evi- dence of having heard, but nevertheless com- menced a series of difficult evolutions, springing from branch to branch, clinging to slender twigs by the skin of his teeth, as it were, and ending by sliding down a treacherously swaying limb, and landing almost at his sister's feet. “good!” commented june, critically. but sarah thought otherwise. “showing off!” she sneered. the boy's handsome face flushed angrily, and he seemed about to make some rude re- joinder; but, having caught june's anxious look, he thought better of it, and walked proudly away. “i would like to be friends with that boy,” announced june, warmly. “and not with me?” cried the lame girl, with jealous suffering. “i am friends with you,” replied june, softly. “he is always as you saw him — insolent and uncompanionable.” “just high animal spirits, i think,” said june, sagely. “he caused my lameness,” whispered sarah. “how p " “i’ll tell you some time,” promised sarah, walking into the house in obedience to a bell. “this bids fair to be a highly exciting ac- quaintance,” confided june to the kitten; and both entered again upon their labors. ( 'o be continued.) a race for a girdle. by jane marsh parker. the race-course was between the old world and the new. the racers were telegraph com- panies. one was called the “russian over- land ”; the other the “atlantic cable.” the track of the “russian" lay between new westminster in british columbia, and moscow in russia. up through the unex- plored fraser river valley it was to run, then on through the untracked wilderness of alaska, across bering strait, over the timberless steppes of arctic siberia, and along the dreary coast of the okhotsk sea to the mouth of the amoor. there the american racers, called “western union,” were to give over the race to the rus- sian telegraph department, which was to make its best time in reaching moscow. western union said it could cover the ground in about two years. the cost would be about five millions of dollars; but what was five mil- lions of dollars if the prize could be won — an electric girdle for the earth the path of the “atlantic” cable was to be on a tableland some two miles deep in the ocean, reaching from ireland to newfoundland. the summer of found the world watch- ing this race with great interest. it opened when the fleet of the russian expedition set sail from san francisco, northward bound. the “atlantic” people at the same time were stowing away gigantic coils of cable into the capacious hold of the “great eastern"— a new cable some miles long. it is hard to believe that only about thirty years ago there was no telegraphing between the old world and the new — no reading at our breakfast-tables of what london, paris, and berlin did the evening before, as well as what took place in china, cape town, or any part of the globe. news from across the atlantic came by ocean steamers. think of having to wait a week before hearing of an earthquake in italy, or an uprising in timbuctoo. in professor morse had convinced the world that the magnetic telegraph could write and send news like the lightning, except across the ocean. he said that could be done, but no one had succeeded in doing it. before there had been three efforts to lay an atlantic cable. each effort had been a stupendous failure, and that at a loss of mil- lions of dollars. some oo miles of cable, made fast at the ireland end, were lying in the atlantic—to say nothing of the total loss of the first cable. in , great had been the public rejoicing over a cable which for a fortnight was believed to be a complete success. then silence and failure followed. it had died in its bed, and unless it had been for cyrus w. field pos- sibly there never had been another attempt to make for the earth a girdle of gutta-percha and wire. - therefore atlantic cables were decidedly un- popular. eminent engineers declared that they had no faith in long-distance submarine ca- bles. the western union, the mighty telegraph company, would not invest in one. true, there were several long cables which were working successfully, but their length was nothing in comparison to that demanded for reaching across the atlantic. there were cables be- tween malta and alexandria, dover and calais, and newfoundland and cape breton. the . red sea cable, however, had failed or “fiz- zled,” to use an expression then popular con- cerning it, and great britain had invested one million pounds sterling in that red sea cable. the western union directors were shrewd business men. five millions of dollars was little in comparison with the benefit they would receive could they get telegraphic communica- tion with europe, and they then believed that the only way was by land. the public agreed with them nearly unanimously. and so the two a race for a girdle. projects — the overland and the submarine— were pitted against each other. a very unequal race it seemed at the outset. the overland was strong and vigorous, the atlantic was broken by former failures. the overland was popular, and had plenty of money back of it; the atlantic was derided, and “only fools,” it was said, “would invest in it.” the fleet of the russian expedition which sailed from san francisco in the summer of was quite a navy. there were ocean steamers, sailing-vessels, coast and river boats, and rus- sian and american ships of the line, with a promise of a vessel from her majesty's navy. the expedition was well officered, and about o men were enlisted — men of superior ability in every department. the supplies embraced everything that could be needed. thousands of tons of wire, some oo miles of cable, insulators, wagons, etc. the expedition was divided into four parties. one sailed for british columbia; another for the yukon; another for siberia; and another for the anadyn region — that desolate tract far north of kamchatka. it was more than two years before some of those “telegraph boys” heard from home. the story of their heroism and endurance in exploring a route for the telegraph, cutting poles on snow-shoes and dragging them across the desolate arctic wastes, is graphically told in the books written by members of the expedition, such as ken- nan’s “tent-life in siberia,” bush’s “rein- deer, dogs, and snow-shoes,” dall's “alaska,” and others. august , , the great eastern landed its cable at trinity bay, and the whole world was electrified by the news that it worked per- fectly—that the victory had been won. more than that. the great eastern not long after- ward picked up the cable lost the year before, and that too was soon in working order. two elec- tric girdles had been clasped around the earth. the success of the “atlantic" was defeat for the “russian.” an overland telegraph- line could never compete with the submarine cables. the first triumphant “click, click!” at trinity bay was therefore the death-blow of the russian scheme, and all work connected with that project was at once abandoned. but the workers—the brave men facing famine among the wild chookchees — buried in their lonely huts waiting for some news from their comrades, or straining every nerve to complete their share of the great work—how pathetic that so many of them did not hear what had happened in some cases for more than a year after the success of the cable ! some of the most terrible experiences of the members of the expedition were endured long after the project had been abandoned by its promoters, and when they were working all in vain — if good, honest work is ever all in vain. not until july, , did the siberian party hear the great news. they boarded a whaler which had put into their port, and read it in an old newspaper. they were not long in starting for home — in leaving their , telegraph-poles for the camp-fires of the wan- dering natives. when the party at nulato bay heard the news, they hung all the black cloth they could spare upon the poles planted in the hard frozen earth, and left them for the birds to roost upon. august, , found some men of the expedition in camp at plover bay, waiting for the ship the western union was to send after them. it seemed a pity that so much of the lives of those men should have been spent in such dreary exile and hard labor, and all for naught. only four members of the expedition had died, terrible as had been the experiences of the majority. the fickle world, which had so loudly cheered the going forth of the expe- dition, had quite forgotten its fate in rejoicing over the atlantic cable. the loss to the western union was about $ , ,ooo-a loss hardly felt in the gain which came to the telegraph company in the success of the cable. when we remember the explorations and scientific gains of the “western union russian overland extension,” we can hardly call it a complete failure. perhaps it is one of those defeated successes whose results we are never to know. it was a fair race, and now that we have nearly a dozen cables crossing the north- ern atlantic, it is doubtful if the idea of an overland will ever be revived. how the bad news came to siberia. by george kennan. in every race somebody must be beaten, and in the telegraphic “race for a girdle,” described by mrs. parker in the present num- ber of st. nicholas, i had the misfortune to be on the losing side. the news of the suc- cess of our trans-atlantic competitor—good news for the world, but bad news for us — did not reach the remote part of arctic asia, where we were at work, until june, , almost a year after submarine telegraphic communica- tion between europe and america had been successfully established. i was at that time superintendent of a division of the overland or russian-american telegraph line, and had my headquarters in the siberian village of gi- zhiga [gee'-zhee-gah'], a small collection of one- story log-houses, situated on a river of the same name about six miles from the coast of the okhotsk sea. my comrades and i had been in siberia two years. we had explored and located the route of the proposed telegraph line from bering strait to the amur [am-moor'] river through nearly miles of trackless wilderness; we had maintained half a dozen strong working-parties in the field, and expected soon to reinforce them with iooo hardy native laborers from yakutsk [yah-kootsk']; we had cut and prepared , or , telegraph- poles, and were bringing oo siberian ponies from the lena river to distribute them; we had all the wire and insulators for the asiatic divi- sion on the ground, as well as an abundant supply of tools and provisions, and we felt more than hopeful that we should be able to put our part of the overland line in working order be- fore the beginning of . so confident, in- deed, were some of our men, that in the pole- cutting camps they were singing in chorus every night to the air of a well-known war-song: in eighteen hundred and sixty-eight— hurrah! hurrah! in eighteen hundred and sixty-eight — hurrah! hurrah! in eighteen hundred and sixty-eight the cable will be in a miserable state, and we'll all feel gay when they use it to fish for whales. in eighteen hundred and sixty-nine— hurrah! hurrah in eighteen hundred and sixty-nine — hurrah! hurrah! in eighteen hundred and sixty-nine we're going to finish this overland line; and we'll all feel gay when it brings us good news from home. but it was fated that our next news from home should not be brought by the overland line, and should not be of such a nature as to make any of us “feel gay.” on the evening of may , , as i sat trying to draw a map in the little one-story log-house which served as the headquarters of the siberian division, i was interrupted by the sudden and hasty entrance of my friend and comrade lewis, who rushed into the room, cry- ing excitedly, “oh, mr. kennan i did you hear the cannon p” i had not heard it, but i understood instantly the significance of the in- quiry. a cannon-shot meant that there was a ship in sight from the beacon-tower at the mouth of the river. we were accustomed every spring to get our earliest news from the civilized world through american whaling- vessels, which resort at that season of the year to the okhotsk sea. about the middle of may, therefore, we generally sent a couple of cossacks to the harbor at the mouth of the river, with instructions to keep a sharp lookout from the log beacon-tower on the bluff, and fire three cannon-shots the moment they should see a whaler or other vessel cruising in the gulf. in less than ten minutes the news that there was a vessel in sight from the beacon-tower had reached every house in the village, and a little o ... [nov. how the bad news came to siberia. group of cossacks gathered at the landing- place where a boat was being prepared to take robinson, lewis, and me to the sea-coast. half an hour later we were gliding swiftly down the river in one of the light skiffs known in that part of siberia as “lodkas.” we had a faint hope that the ship which had been signaled would prove to be one of our own vessels; but even if she should turn out to be a whaler, she would at least bring us late news from the out- side world, and we felt a burning curiosity to know what had been the result of the second attempt to lay an atlantic cable. had our competitors beaten us, or was there still a fight- ing chance that we might beat them p we reached the mouth of the river late in the evening, and were met at the landing by one of the cossacks from the beacon-tower. “what ship is it?” i inquired. “we don't know,” he replied. “we saw dark smoke, like the smoke of a steamer, off matuga [mah'-too-gah] island just before we fired the cannon, but in a little while it blew away and we have seen nothing since.” “if it was a whaler trying-out oil,” said rob- inson, “we’ll find her there in the morning.” leaving the cossack to take our baggage out of the lodka we all climbed up to the bea- con-tower with the hope that, as it was still fairly light, we might be able to see with a glass the vessel that had made the smoke; but from the high, black cliffs of matuga island on one side of the gulf to the steep slope of cape cath- arine on the other, there was nothing to break the level horizon line except here and there a field of drifting ice. returning to the cossack bar- rack, we spread our bearskins and blankets down on the rough plank floor and went dis- consolate to bed. early the next morning i was awakened by one of the cossacks with the welcome news that there was a square-rigged vessel in the offing, five or six miles beyond matuga island. i climbed hastily up the bluff, and had no diffi- culty in making out with a glass the masts and sails of a good-sized bark, evidently a whaler, which, although hull down, was apparently cruising back and forth with a light southerly breeze across the gulf. we ate breakfast has- tily, put on our fur kukhlankas” and caps, and started in a whaleboat under oars for the ship, which was distant about fifteen miles. although the wind was light and the sea comparatively smooth, it was a hard, tedious pull, and we did not get alongside until after ten o'clock. pac- ing the quarterdeck, as we climbed on board, was a good-looking, ruddy-faced, gray-haired man whom i took to be the captain. he evi- dently thought, from our outer fur dress, that we were only a party of natives come off to trade; and he paid no attention whatever to us until i walked aft and said, “are you the cap- tain of this bark p’’ at the first word of english he stopped as if transfixed, stared at me for a moment in si- lence, and then exclaimed in a tone of profound astonishment, “well! has the universal yan- kee got up here?” “yes, captain,” i replied, “he is not only here, but he has been here two years or more. what bark is this p” “the sea breeze,” of new bedford, massa- chusetts,” he replied; “and i am captain hamil- ton. but what are you doing up in this for- saken country? have you been shipwrecked p” “no,” i said; “we 're up here trying to build a telegraph line.” “a telegraph line!” he shouted. “well, if that is n’t the craziest thing i ever heard of] who's going to telegraph from here?” i explained to him that we were trying to establish telegraphic communication be- tween america and europe by way of alaska, bering strait, and siberia, and asked him if he had never heard of the russian american tele- graph company. “never,” he replied. “i did n't know there was such a company; but i've been out two years on a cruise, and i have n't kept up very well with the news.” “how about the atlantic cable p” i in- quired. “do you know anything about that?” “oh, yes,” he replied cheerfully, as if he were giving me the best news in the world, “the cable is laid all right.” “does it work?” i asked with a sinking heart. “works like a snatch-tackle,” he responded "a garment like a blouse, or “sweater,” and made of reindeer skin. .] i how the bad news came to siberia. heartily. “the frisco papers are publishing every morning the london news of the day before. i've got a lot of 'em on board that i'll give you. perhaps you'll find something in them about your company.” i think the captain must have noticed, from the sudden change in the expression of our faces, that his news about the atlantic cable was a staggering blow to us, for he immediately dropped the subject and suggested the pro- priety of going below. we all went down into the cosy, well-fur. nished cabin, where refreshments were set be- fore us by the steward, and where we talked for an hour about the news of the world, from whaling in the south pacific to dog-driving in arctic asia, and from weston's walk across the american continent to karakozef's attempt to assassinate the tzar but it was, on our side at least, a perfunctory conversation. the news of the complete success of the atlantic cable was as unexpected as it was dishearten- ing, and it filled our minds to the exclusion of everything else. we had lost the race, and even if we should go over the course we could hardly expect to get any applause, or attract any attention. the world would have no use for an overland telegraph-line through alaska and siberia if it already possessed a working cable between london and new york. we left the hospitable cabin of the sea breeze about noon, and prepared to return to gizhiga. captain hamilton, with warm- hearted generosity, not only gave us all the newspapers and magazines he had on board, but literally filled our boat with potatoes, pumpkins, bananas, oranges, and yams, which he had brought up from the sandwich islands. i think he saw that we were feeling somewhat disheartened, and wanted to cheer us up in the only way he could—by giving us some of the luxuries of civilized life. we had not seen a potato, nor tasted any other vegetable or fruit, in nearly two years. as we left the ship we gave three hearty cheers and a “tiger” for captain hamilton and the good bark sea breeze. when we had pulled three or four miles away from the bark, lewis suggested that in- stead of returning at once to the mouth of the river we should go ashore at the nearest point on the coast, and look over the newspapers while the cossacks made a fire and roasted some potatoes. this seemed to us all a good plan, and half an hour later we were sitting around a fire of driftwood on the beach, each of us with a newspaper in one hand and a ba- nana or an orange in the other, and all feeding mind and body simultaneously. the papers were of various dates, from september, , to march, , and were so mixed up that it was impossible to follow the course of events chro- nologically or consecutively. we were not long, however, in ascertaining not only that the new atlantic cable had been successfully laid, but that the broken and abandoned cable of had been picked up in mid-ocean, re- paired, and put in perfect working-order. i think this discouraged us more than anything else. if cables could be found in the middle of the atlantic, picked up in ten or twelve thou- sand feet of water, and repaired on the deck of a steamer, the ultimate success of submarine telegraphy was assured, and we might as well pack up our trunks and go home. but there was worse news to come. a few minutes later, lewis, who was reading an old copy of the san francisco “bulletin,” struck his knee violently with his clenched fist and exclaimed, “boys! the jig is up ! listen to this * special despatch to the bulletin. ‘new york, october . “in consequence of the success of the atlantic cable all work on the russian american telegraph line has been stopped, and the enterprise has been abandoned.” “well!” said robinson, after a moment of thoughtful silence, “that seems to settle it. the cable has knocked us out.” late in the afternoon we pulled back with heavy hearts to the beacon-tower at the mouth of the river, and on the following day returned to gizhiga, to await the arrival of a vessel from san francisco with an official notification of the abandonment of our great enterprise. the overland telegraph company had lost the race, and we, its employees, had lost two of the best years of our youth in the snowy wastes of arctic asia. the last three soldiers. by william henry shelton. chapter i. completing the line. if andy zachary, the guide, had not myste- riously disappeared from his home within the month which followed the events of the night of the second of july in the year , sooner or later the postmaster in the cove on one side and the people in the valley on the other must have learned of the presence of the little colony on the summit of the great rock. on that particular night the cavalcade had come silently and secretly over the mountains by an unfrequented trail from the last station on upper bald, which towered above the sandy river country. the troopers had followed the guide in single file along the ridges and down the stony trails, and now, when they emerged on the open cove road for the first time, andy fell back to the captain's side, in his butternut suit and mangy fur cap, with his long rifle slung behind his broad, square shoulders. for that night his will was law above that of the captain; and before the three pack-mules at the end of the train had come out on the road, the head of the column had turned up a washout to the left, which presently brought the whole outfit into the shelter of a grove of pines alongside a deserted log-cabin. it was just a trifle past midnight by the captain's watch, and the full moon which hung above the ridge to the west would light the cove face of old whiteside for yet an hour; and during the dark- ness which must follow in the small hours of the morning there would be ample time to steal through the sleeping settlement and find a lodgment high up on the mountain which was the objective of the expedition. the troopers dismounted, and some lay down on the ground by the horses, while two kindled a fire in the stone chimney of the cabin and made coffee for the others. corporal bromley leaned a bundle of red and white flags against the door-post, and after turning aside with lieu- tenant coleman and philip welton to inspect their supplies on the pack-mules, the three joined the captain and the guide in the shadow of that end of the cabin which looked toward the singular mountain standing boldly between the cove and the valley beyond. that it was a mighty fortress, unscalable on its western side, could be seen at a glance. the broad moon- light fell full on a huge boulder, whose mighty top, a thousand feet above the cove, was fringed with a tall forest growth that looked in the distance like stunted berry bushes, and whose rounded granite side was streaked with black storm-stains where the rains of centuries had coursed down. the moonlight picked out white spots underneath the huge folds which here and there belted the rock and protected its under face from the storms. these were the spots which the rills dribbled over and the tor- rents jumped clear of, to meet their old tracks on the bulging rock below. it looked for all the world as if the smoke from huge fires had been curling against the mountain for ages, so black were the broad upward streaks and so white in the moon's light were the surrounding faces of the rock. phil was the first to speak. “it must have been a giant that rolled it there,” he said with a sigh of relief, and looking up at andy, the guide. “well, now, youngster,” said andy, “you'd 'low so if you was round these parts in the springtime when the sun loosens the big icicles hangin' on them black ledges, an’ leaves 'em fall thunderin’ into the cove bottom.” the cove post-office, whose long white roof crowned a knoll nearly in the center of a small tract within the mountain walls, andy said was at such times a great resort of the moun- taineers, who came that they might watch the movement of the avalanches of snow and ice. the last three soldiers. because of its wonderful formation, this mountain was of abundant interest to all dur- ing their brief halt, but it was examined most carefully by the three young soldiers who were mitted to enlist even as a drummer-boy in the d ohio, or in any capacity in any other com- mand. the lad was of a gentle, affectionate nature, sensitive and refined, but his opportuni- “it was a mighty fortress, unscalable on its western side.” to be stationed on its crest. philip welton was the youngest of the three, only just past seventeen, and it was well known to his officers that if he had not been an orphan, without pa- rents to object, he would never have been per- vol. xxiv.- . ties for education had been limited to the winter schools and the books he had read behind the flour- sacks in his uncle's mill. some said his uncle was glad to be rid of him when he went away to the war. like his friend and protector, bromley, he had served with the colors on many a hard-fought field, and now the two had just been detached from their regiment and assigned to duty under the command of frederick henry coleman, a second lieutenant whose regiment was the th united states cavalry. george bromley, although the oldest of the three, was not yet twenty at the time he had enlisted at the beginning of the war, and he had left col- lege in his junior year to enter the army. lieutenant cole- man had graduated from west point the summer before, the very youngest mem- ber of his class. al- though the three were mere boys at the time of their enlistment, each had entered the service through the strongest motives of pa- triotism, and each followed the fortunes of the national arms with an interest which soldiers. [nov. the last three showed itself in accordance with his personal character. at that time general sherman's army was en- gaged in that series of battles which began at marietta, georgia, and, including the capture of pine and lost mountains, was soon to end in the victory at kenesaw. the army of gen- eral sherman was steadily advancing its lines in spite of the most heroic resistance of general johnston, and every new position gained was fortified by lines of log breastworks, some- times thrown up in an hour after the regiments had stacked arms. these hastily constructed works, extending ten and twelve miles across the thickly wooded country, were nowhere less than four feet high, with an opening under the top log for musketry, and out in front the tree- tops were thrown into a tangled mass, almost impossible for an attacking army to pass. these peculiar and original tactics of general sherman enabled him to hold his front with a thin line of men, while the bulk of his troops were sent around one flank or the other to turn the enemy out of his works, and so gain a new position. this was the sort of service corporal brom- ley and philip welton had been engaged in during the early part of the campaign; and when they remembered the long rains and the deep mud through which the soldiers marched, and the wagon-trains foundered and stuck fast, they were not sorry to be mounted on good horses and riding over hard roads. now that the moon had set, the troopers mounted again and moved quietly along the stony road, andy zachary, the guide, riding with the captain at the head of the column. the deep silence of the forest was on every hand, broken only by the clicking of iron shoes, and the occasional foaming and plunging of a mountain stream down some laurel-choked gorge. the road wound and turned about, fording branches, mounting hills, and dipping down into hollows for an hour, until open fields began to appear bristling with girdled trees, and then the wooded side of the huge granite mountain shot up, towering over the left of the column. soon thereafter the forest gave way to open country, and as the road swept round the base of the mountain it became a broad and sandy highway, so that when the horses trotted out there was only a light jangling of equipments—sabers clicking on spurred heels, and the jingling of steel bits, and when the pace was checked to a walk in passing some dark cabin, only the creaking of the saddles was heard. so it was that the troopers stole silently through the valley of cashiers, with the solemn mountain-peaks standing like blind sentinels above the sparse settlement. occasionally a drowsy house-dog roused himself to bark, and his fellow gave back an answering echo across the bushy fields; but no one of the sleepers awoke under the patchwork quilts of many colors, and the long rifles hung undisturbed over the cabin doors. then the troopers ex- ulted in their cleverness, and laughed softly in their beards, while the night winds blew over the roofs of the dark cabins as they passed. after they were clear of the sandy road in the settlement, it was a long way up the moun- tain-side, and the iron shoes of the scrambling horses clicked on many a rolling stone, and some sleepy heads caught forty winks as they climbed and climbed. the cabins disap- peared, and the fences, and the plow-steers in the hill pastures rattled their copper bells from below as the troop got higher; and so it was lonesome enough on the shaggy mountain, and every trace of the habitation of man had disap- peared long before they reached the rickety old bridge which spanned the deep gorge. andy said that this bridge was the only possible way by which the top of the mountain could be reached, and that it had been built a great many years ago by a crazy old man who once lived on the mountain, but who was long since dead. it was still too dark to examine its condition. it could be seen that the near-by poles of the old railing had rotted away and fallen into the black chasm below. more than half of the bridge was swallowed up in the shadows of the foliage on the other bank. away down in the throat of the gorge, where tall forest-trees grew and stretched their top- most limbs in vain to reach the level of the grass and flowers on the fields above them, a tinkling stream fell over the rocks with a far- away sound, like the chinking of silver coins in .] the last three soldiers. a vault. the silence above and the murmur of the water below in the thick darkness were enough to make the stoutest hearts quail at the thought of crossing over by the best of bridges, so the captain prudently decided to wait for daylight; and as the distance they had gained above the settlement made the spot a safe en- campment for a day, he ordered the troopers to unsaddle. - after feeding the tired horses from the sacks of oats carried in front of the saddles, the men lay down on the ground and were soon sleep- ing soundly under the tall pines which grew above the bridge-head. chapter ii. the old man of the mountain. the captain and andy lingered by the bridge-head, and the three boy-soldiers, who were to be left behind next day, long as the march had been, felt no inclination for sleep. they were too much interested in watching for the first light by which they could examine this important approach to their temporary station. “i should like to know something more of the crazy old man who built this crazy old bridge,” said philip, appealing to lieutenant coleman. “why not ask the guide to tell us?” andy was by no means loath to tell the story so far as he knew it, which was plain enough to be seen by the deliberate way in which he seated himself on a rock. andy's audience reclined about him on the dry pine- needles. mountaineers are not given to wasting their words, and by the extreme deliberation of the guide's preparations it was sufficiently evident that something important was coming. “thirty years back,” said andy, taking off his coonskin cap, and looking into it as if he read there the beginning of his story, “and for that matter down to five year ago, there was a man by the name of jo-siah woodring lived all by himself in a log-cabin about half-way up this mountain, and just out o' sight of the trail we-all come up to-night. he owned right smart of timber-land and clearin', and made a crap o' corn every year, besides raisin' 'taters and cabbage and onions in his garden patch. he had a copper still hid away somewhere among the rocks, where he turned his corn crap into whisky; and when jo-siah needed any thing in the line of store goods he hooked up his steer and went off, sometimes to walhalla and sometimes clean up to asheville. “now about a year after jo-siah settled on his clearin', about the time he might have been twenty or thereabouts, when he come back from one of those same merchandisin' trips, instid of one steer he had a yoke, and along with him there was a little man a good thirty year older 'n jo-siah, an' him walkin' a consid- erable piece behind the cart when they come through the settlement, same as if the two wa’n’t travelin' together. the stranger was a dark-complected man, so the old folks say, and went just a trifle lame as he walked; and as for his clothes, he was a heap smarter dressed than the mountain folks. not that he looked to care for his dress, for he did n't, not he: but through the dust of the road, which was white on him, hit was plain that he wore the best of store cloth. “as the cart was plumb empty, hit would seem that the little man fetched nothing along with him besides the clothes on his back, and such other toggery as he may have stowed away in the cowskin knapsack they do say he staggered under. if he had any treasure, he must 'a' toted hit in his big pockets, which, hit is claimed by some folks now livin', was stuffed out like warts on an apple-tree, and made him look as misshapen as he was small. “now, whether anybody heard the chinkin' o' gold or not, (which i 'm bettin' free they did n’t), hit looked bad for jo-siah that this partic'lar stranger should disappear in his company, for he was never seen ag’in in the settlement, or anywhere else, by any human for a good two year after the night he come trudg- in’ along behind the cart. hit was nat'ral enough that the neighbor folks in time began to suspicion that jo-siah had murdered the man for his money, and all the more when he made bold to show some foreign-lookin' gold pieces of which nobody knowed the vally. “they say how feelin' run consid’ble high [nov. the last three soldiers. in the settlement that year, but hit was only surmisin' like, for there was no evidence that would hold water afore a jury of any crime havin' been committed; and hit all ended in the valley folks avoidin' jo-siah like his other name was cain — and that sort o' treatment 'peared to suit him mighty well. leastways, he went on with his plowin' and sowin' and takin' in his crap, and whistled at the neglect with the disappearance of the other one, who was counted for dead. “now when day comes,” said andy, “you- all will see for yourselves that there is no tim- ber on the other side o' this here gully tall enough to make string-pieces for a bridge of this length; and so the two string-pieces must have been cut on this side so as to fall across the chasm pretty much where they were andy tells the story of the old man of the mountain. of his neighbors, who never came to the clearin' any more, and in that very year he built this bridge, with or without the help of the other one. “when the bridge was first seen, hit was stained by the weather, and moss had come to grow on the poles, and rotten leaves filled the chinks of the slab floor as if hit had never been new, and no one cared to ask any questions of jo-siah, who kept his own counsel, and seemed to live more alone than ever. the bridge was only another mystery connected with the life of this man that everybody shunned, and no- body suspicioned that hit had anything to do wanted. well, that was how it was; and the story goes that the man who first saw the bridge reported, judging by the stumps, that the right-hand timber had been cut six months or more before the other one, which might have been just about the time jo-siah brought the stranger home with him, and would easily ac- count for his disappearance onto the summit of the mountain, for of course you understand he was not dead, and jo-siah the silent had no stain of blood on his conscience. “the mountain folks, however, thought dif. ferent at that time, and looked cross-eyed at the painted cart drawed by the two slick critters on .] the last three soldiers. hits way to the low country. they was quick to take notice, too, when jo-siah come back, that the cart carried more kegs than what hit had taken away, besides some mysterious- lookin' boxes and packages. now this havin' continued endurin' several half-yearly trips, hit was the settled idee in the valley that jo-siah was a-furnishin' of his cabin at a gait clear ahead of the insolence, like, of drivin' two steers to his cart when honest mountain folks could n’t af. ford but one. hit was suspicioned, moreover, that he was a-doin' this with the ill-got gold of the old man he had murdered, and the gals shrugged their shoulders as he passed, for no one of the gals as knew his goin's-on would set a foot in his cabin. it leaked out some way that jo-siah had been investin' in books, which was the amazin' and crownin' extravagance of all, for hit was knowed that he could scarcely read a line of print or much more 'n write his own name. “these unjust suspicions of murder and rob- bery against an innocent man continued to ran- kle in the minds of the valley folks for more than two years, until a most surprisin' event took place on the mountain, to the great disap- pointment and annoyance of those gossips who had been loudest in their charges against jo- siah woodring. hit happened that two bear- hunters from the settlement found themselves belated in the neighborhood of this very bridge one september night, and, bein’ worn out with the chase, they sat down to rest in the shadow of an old chestnut, where they soon fell asleep. they awoke just before midnight, and were about to start on down the mountain when they heard footsteps coming up the trail, and presently, dark as the night was, they saw a man with a keg on his shoulder a-walkin' toward the bridge. the man was jo-siah; and after restin' his burden on a stump and wipin’ the sweat from his forehead, he shouldered hit again and tramped on over the bridge. “the hunters were bold men and well armed, and, having had a good rest, they fol- lowed the man at a safe distance until he came to the ledge of rocks which you-all will view for yourselves by sun-up, and there he was met by a man with a ladder who stood out on the rocks above. the hunters noticed that the stranger was a small man, and just then the moon came out from behind a cloud, and they knew him for the little old man who was sup- posed to have been murdered. “when the hunters told what they'd seen on the mountain, you may believe,” said andy, “there was right smart excitement in cashiers, and some disappointment to find that jo-siah was neither a murderer nor a robber. they went on hating him all the same for driving two steers to his cart and for having deceived them so long about the man on the mountain, and then they started the story that it was only a slow murder after all. after that, one day, when jo-siah had gone away to market, half a dozen of the valley men, with the two hunters to guide them, went up the mountain for the purpose of liberating that poor prisoner o' jo-siah's. they carried a ladder along, and when they had climbed up the ledge they found a little log shelter not fit for a sheep-hovel; and as for the prisoner, he kept out of their way, for it was a pretty big place, with plenty of trees and rocks to hide among. well, as the years went on, jo-siah brought back less and less of suspicious packages in his cart when he came up from the low country; but it was known that he still went up the mountain on certain dark nights with a keg on his shoulder. the strange old man himself was seen at a distance from time to time, but at last his existence on the moun- tain came to be a settled fact and the people ceased to worry about him. “well, five years ago, as i said,” continued andy, “jo-siah took sick with a fever, and come down into the settlement to see the doctor; and he was that bad that the doctor had to go back with him to drive the cattle. he rallied after that so as to be about again, and even out at night; but three months from the time he took the fever he died. the doctor was with him at the time, and the night before he breathed his last he told the doctor that the little man on the mountain was dead. after the funeral another party went up to the top of the mountain, and, sure enough, there was the grave, just outside of the miserable shelter he had lived in so long; there was no sign about the [nov. last three soldiers. the hovel that he ever cooked or ate ordinary food. “the strangest thing about the whole strange business,” said andy, getting on to his feet, “is that there was nothing in jo-siah's poor cabin worth carrying away; and if the old man did n't build this here bridge with his own hands thirty year ago, hit stands to reason that he helped jo-siah.” chapter iii. the mountain of the twentieth red pin. a fortnight before the events described in the opening chapter of this story, the topo- graphical officer attached to general sherman's headquarters might have been seen leaning over a table in his tent, busily engaged in stick- ing red-headed pins into a great map of the cumberland and blue ridge mountains. the pins made an irregular line beginning at chat- tanooga, and extending through tennessee and north carolina at no great distance from the georgia border. altogether there were just twenty of these pins, and each pin pierced the top of a mountain whose position and altitude were laid down on the map. after this officer, who was a lieutenant-colonel, had spent half the night, by the light of guttering candles, in arranging and rearranging his pins, he sent in the morning for the adjutant of a regiment of loyal mountaineers. beginning with the first pin outside of chattanooga, he requested the pres- ence of a mountaineer who lived in the neigh- borhood of that particular peak. when the man reported, the colonel questioned him about the accessibility of the mountain under the first pin, its distance from that under the second pin, and whether each peak was plainly visible from the other. the colonel's questions, which were put to the soldier in the shade of the fly outside the tent where the map lay, brought out much useful information, and much more that was of no use whatever, because half the questions were intended to mislead the soldier and con- ceal the colonel's purpose. sometimes he changed a pin aſter the soldier went away; and at the end of three days of interviewing and shifting the positions of his pins, the twen- tieth red head was firmly fixed above the point laid down on the map as whiteside mountain. still a little further along a blue-headed pin was set up, and then the work of the topo- graphical officer of the rank of lieutenant-col- onel was done. these pins represented a chain of signal-sta- tions, nineteen of which the captain of cavalry, with andy zachary to guide him, had now es- tablished one after the other, with as much se- crecy as the lieutenant-colonel had employed in selecting the positions. and now the gray dawn was coming on the side of the twentieth mountain as andy finished his story. in fact, as the last word fell from his lips, a lusty cock tied on one of the pack-saddles set up a shrill crow to welcome the coming day. although tall pines grew thick about the bridge-head where the troopers were still sleeping, it was light enough to see that only low bushes and gnarled chestnuts grew on the other bank. the noisy branch kept up its ceaseless churn- ing and splashing among the rocks far down in the throat of the black gorge, and the great height and surprising length of its single span made the crazy old bridge look more treacher- ous than ever. it swayed and trembled with the weight of the captain by the time he had advanced three steps from the bank, so that he came back shaking his head in alarm. by this time the men were afoot, and andy asked for an ax, which at the first stroke he buried to its head in the rotten string-piece. “just what i feared,” said the captain. “do you think i am going to trust my men on that rotten structure ?” andy said nothing in reply, as he kicked off with his boot a huge growth of toadstools, to- gether with the bark and six inches of rotten wood from the opposite side of the log. then he struck it again with the head of the ax such a blow that the old sticks of the railing and great sections of bark fell in a shower upon the . tree-tops below. the guide saw only conster- nation in the faces of the men as he looked around; but there was a smile on his own. “hit may be old,” said andy, throwing down the ax, “but there is six inches of tough heart into that log, and i 'd trust hit with a yoke o' cattle.” with that he strode across to the other side, and coming back jounced his .] the last three soldiers. whole weight on the center with only the effect of rattling another shower of bark and dry fungi into the gorge. “bring me one of the pack-mules,” cried andy; and presently, when the poor brute ar- rived at the head of the old causeway, it settled back on its stubborn legs, and refused to ad- vance. at this the guide tied a grain-sack over the animal's eyes, and led him safely across. lieutenant coleman led over the sec- ond mule by the same device, and bromley the third. by this time it was broad daylight, and the captain detailed three men to help in the unpacking. these he sent over one at a time, so that after himself philip was the last to cross. beyond was an open field where blue and yellow flowers grew in the long, wiry grass, which was wet with the dew. this grass grew up through a thick mat of dead stalks, which was the withered growth of many years. un- der the trees and bushes the leaves had rotted in the rain where they had fallen, or in the hollows where they had been tossed by the wandering winds. there was not a sign of a trail, nor a girdled tree, nor a trace of fire, nor any evidence that the foot of man had ever trodden there. the little party seemed to have come into an unknown country, and after crossing the open field they continued climb- ing up a gentle ascent, winding around rocks and scraggly old chestnut-trees, until they ar- rived under the ledge which supported the up- per plateau. this was found to extend from the boulder face on the cove side across to a mass of shelving rocks on the cashier's valley front, and was from thirty to fifty feet in height, of a perpendicular and bulging fold in the smooth granite. after a short exploration, a place was found where the ledge was broken by a shelf or platform twenty feet from the ground; and just here, in the leaves and grass below, lay the rotted fragments of a ladder which had doubtless been used by the old man of the mountain himself. (to be continued.) professor leo fortissimo. at his best. by j. edmund v. cooke. in ancient greece, long time ago, a man was born — or, maybe, i ought to say a god was born — or, better yet, a baby. his father's name was jupiter; alcmena was his mother, who vowed he was “the sweetest pet,” and “never such another ' " but juno, queen of all the gods, pretended not to know it; she did n't like young hercules, and straight- way sought to show it. she sent two horrid, monstrous snakes, to eat him in his cradle, which reptiles found him sitting eating sugar with a ladle. they smiled to see how sweet he 'd be, but lo! the boy gave battle: he killed them both, and used their tails to make a baby-rattle. then juno let him thrive in peace; but, after he was grown, he found that she had kept him from a king- dom and a throne. eurystheus obtained these plums, but night and day was haunted by tales of mighty hercules—the hero and undaunted so, after some deep thinking, eurystheus plan- ned to send him to do a dozen labors, any one of which might end him. labor i. the nemean lion, accustomed to ravage the country around, being voted too savage, our hero was sent to remove him from earth, with no arms save the two that he had at his birth. o the labors of hercules. i brave hercules blocks up one hole of the den - and enters the other. a silence, and then comes a growl, and a roar, and a rush, and a shock— like waves in a tempest they struggle and rock, till hercules wins the renowned “strangle- lock,” and the lion goes down like a log or a post, repents of his sins, and so gives up the ghost. labor ii. there lived at that epoch, according to story, a terrible monster, whose principal glory consisted of heads, which a strict inventory declared to be nine; and one of the same . was as deathless as jove, so authorities claim. nothing daunted, our hercules went forth to fight it; he cut off one head, and two others were sighted. and thus the solution appeared to his view: wol. xxiv.- . “when you take one from one, the result will be two.” rather taken aback, but still thoroughly game, he called his hired help, iolaus by name. then he shaved off the heads as a man would a beard, and the necks (by his servant) were carefully seared, till the deathless head soon was left grinning alone, and that one he buried beneath a big stone. labor iii. the arcadian stag was a curious kind, golden-horned, brazen-hoofed, and could out- run the wind; whoever pursued him was soon left behind. the mandate was given to capture him living, so our hero set out without any misgiving. all over the kingdom he followed the brute, till a year was consumed in the useless pursuit. “confound you!” said hercules, seizing his bow, “i 've got something here which i 'll wager can go as fast as two stags.” and it proved to be so. the arrow succeeded in laying him low. the wound was n’t fatal, so hercules caught him, and into the king's haughty presence he brought him. labor iv. the boar of erymanthus was de trop, which is french for saying how bores are looked on, even now. the labors of hercules. (nov. our hero ran the rascal through the snow, snared him neatly in a net, picked him up, like any pet, and took him to the capital, to add him to the show. labor v. augeas, king of elis, it appears, had several thousand oxen in his stable, but had n't cleaned the place for thirty years. the hard taskmaster heard, pricked up his ears, and cried, “ho, ho! my hercules, you're able labor vi. the stymphalian birds were a horrible lot, and everyone thought that they ought to be shot; yet no one could do it, till hercules brought his little snake-rattle to set them to flying, and then popped them over by only half try- ing. labor vii. to do great things. i give you just one day a * *ent by neptune to die in his honor, for this spring cleaning.” stranger to dismay, not having been killed, was made mad by the our hero sought the stables of augeas, : donor. turned into them the river named alpheus, eurystheus must have been running a “zoo,” and reenforced it with the swift peneus. and having the stag and the boar, wanted, too, - the mad bull of crete; so he ordered “go, these brooms soon swept the dirt away, you get him " have my word. perhaps they swept the stables with it. that i have n’t heard. - º- º ſ− . § § § ſº- ! -§:|| ſº though hercules never so much as had met him. º - but the hero set sail, ===== grabbed the bull by the tail, .] the labors of hercules. and took him to hellas; but not for the the queen was a traitress, and covertly garden, wrought for, having arrived, he then (begging his par- don because he had given his tail such a pull) set him free — and all greece was as mad as the bull. labor viii. diomedes used to feed his mares on human flesh. hercules just cut him up, found the mares inclined to sup, and fed him to them, fresh. 't was a most successful plan, though before they liked a man more than oats or anything, to undo him; so, seizing the girdle he sought, he slew her, and thus was it bloodily bought. which shows that a man may be brave as the best, and yet ungallant when it comes to a test. labor x. geryones had a fine herd of red cattle, with a two-headed dog and a giant, to battle with any who trespassed upon his domain. dog, owner, and keeper, were met and were slain, - - yet hercules still had to fight heavy odds strange to say, this master diet - (a number of men and a parcel of gods); made them docile, kind, and quiet, but in spite of them all, he conducted the to be taken to the king. string labor ix. the amazon queen had a beautiful belt. 't was given by mars; and the queen justly felt quite proud of the trifle; but hercules started to see if the belt and queen could n’t be parted. at first it appeared he had only to ask to receive it; but this was too easy a task to please mrs. juno, who stirred up a bolt in the ranks of the amazons. when the re- volt was reported to hercules, he rather thought the labors of hercules. of handsome red beasts to his brute of a king. labor xi. when juno was married, the goddess of earth presented some apples of excellent worth, made all of fine gold from the smooth, shiny skin to the pips in the core. (alas! i am told such beautiful apples don't grow any more.) but wealth is a worry. nobody need doubt it, unless, like myself, he is always without it. and juno was worried until she grew pale; her nectar was flat, her ambrosia was stale. the fear of a burglar had entered her head, and so every night she looked under the bed. no matter what jupiter argued or said, she 'd wake him at midnight, to vow and declare there must be an apple-thief round about there. at last, growing tired of the worry and wear, she placed them in care of the sisters hesperides, living just where the sun sets at night. our hero met atlas, who held up the height of the heavens in air, and a bargain was struck that the hero should bear the dome for a while, and the action should earn the apples, which atlas brought back in return. though i can't understand why a chap with a chance to steal apples at hand, scot-free of all blame, should so lose his head as to give up his claim and let somebody else do it for him instead. labor xii. pluto, in his world below, had a great three-headed beast called a dog. perhaps 't was so, but i doubt his breed, at least. house-dog? hardly. poison-drops fell from out his gaping chops, and his fangs were sharp as hate, and he guarded pluto's gate. hercules was told to fetch this repulsive, savage wretch. hercules with little fuss seized the snarling cerberus, took him to the earth from hades, scared the king in playful sport, showed him round to all the court, made him bark for all the ladies. then the hero let him go, and he sank to realms below, one head growling, one head howling, one head yowling, as mythology rehearses. and the fun of the labors—all was done. so are these doggerel verses. f you ever walk around the water-front of a large com- mercial city and look closely at the big ocean steamships and sailing n l. ships moored along the wharves, you will notice that many of them have a white circle and a lot of white lines marked on their sides close to the water, almost as if some bad boy had been chalking a picture there of a griddle-cake and a gridiron; but when you find that hundreds of ships are marked just the same way, those painted light colors having the marks in black, you know that those marks really mean something of im- portance in connection with the ships on which you see them. if you should notice more closely you would soon discover that all the ships belonging to great britain, even the mag- nificent passenger-steamers like the “lucania” and “teutonic,” were marked with those queer signs, and that ships of no other nation had them. if you were to ask some sailor what the mark meant he would tell you briefly that it is the “plimsoll mark,” and you would be no wiser than before; in fact, he probably would not know much more than that bare fact himself. that ugly mark, however, is the safeguard to hundreds of vessels on the stormy ocean, and to thousands of lives, and to millions of dollars' worth of freight. it has only been in use about twenty years, only properly used for the last ten years, and is still adopted by only one great seafaring nation in all the world. twenty-five years ago it was no uncommon thing for ships to go out to sea laden with val- uable cargo and hopeful human beings, never to be seen or heard of again. people on shore, even the owners of the cargo and relatives of the passengers, would take it as something they must be prepared to expect on account of the dangers of the ocean. finally, one man deter- mined to make a study of the subject, and see if such terrible tragedies were really unavoid- able. he was an inflexible englishman, named plimsoll, and a member of parliament. he spent day after day along the docks watching ships loading and unloading, coming in and going out; he talked with ship-owners, captains, and sailors. he saw ships sent to sea with leaky bottoms, rotten spars, and worn-out rig- ging, with rusty boilers and rattle-trap engines. he saw them loaded until even in the still waters of the harbor their upper decks were down to the water's edge, and this overloading seemed to be the worst and most frequent fault. then he went back to parliament, and intro- duced a bill to put a mark on the sides of ships to show how deeply they could with safety be loaded. the mark suggested was a circle with a horizontal line through its center. when this horizontal line was down to the water's edge, no more freight was to be put into a vessel; she was to be considered loaded. immediately plimsoll brought down upon himself the wrath of ship-owners, while everybody else laughed at his cranky idea; but he was not going to be silenced. he published a book telling all he had learned about the criminal overloading of vessels, and their wretched condition when sent to sea. at last he got a vague sort of an act [nov. the plimsoll mark, passed, giving the board of trade power to survey ships going to sea, and to stop those which seemed to be unseaworthy. this was in , and during the first nine months of the act vessels were surveyed, and of them found unseaworthy. at least one in every ten was found to be so dangerously overloaded as to be in almost a sinking condition before leaving the dock. of course, this opened the eyes of the board of trade and of parliament, and plimsoll's mark became an established fea- ture on british sea-going ships; but its estab- lishment was fought against by ship-owners, inch by inch. it was nicknamed the “pan- cake,” and ridiculed and treated with contempt in every way. some ship-owners put the mark on their smoke-stacks in defiance and derision. plimsoll held to his idea, however, even get- ting himself suspended from the house of com- mons one day for being too blunt and violent in his plain talk upon the subject. the result was “the merchant-shipping act of ,” making the plimsoll mark compulsory on all british sea-going vessels, and requiring its po- sition to be fixed, not by the ship-owners, but by the board of trade. the fight being over, and the mark estab- lished, it was gradually modified and adapted to suit different seasons and different waters. a “load-line committee,” in , made rules for determining its location, and prepared tables figured out to simplify the application of the rules. another merchant-shipping act was passed in , and under it the regulations in force to-day were made by the board of trade, and went into effect december , . the original plimsoll mark, established by the act of , was the disk with the horizon- tal line through its center, the upper edge of the horizontal line indicating the depth to which a vessel could be loaded for a summer voyage in salt water. it is placed half-way between the bow and stern of a ship, and at a height on her side determined by calculations based upon her length, breadth, depth, and tonnage. the additional lines for different sea- sons and waters came into use gradually after , and are fixed by the regulations of . a vertical line one inch wide is marked twenty-one inches forward of the center of the disk. the load-line for fresh water is marked from the top of this line toward the stern, and the load-lines for different seasons are marked from the vertical line toward the bow. these lines are horizontal, one inch broad and nine inches long, and ships can be loaded until the upper edge of the proper load-line is level with the water; the lines being marked at the same height on both sides of the ship. these lines and marks are shown in the diagram on this page. the marks are not only painted, but cut or scored into the wood or iron of the ship's side, so that if the paint is rubbed off the mark can be found. initial letters are marked at the ends of the lines to tell for what season or condition each line is intended. thus f. w. means fresh water, i. s. means indian summer, s. means summer, w. means winter, and w. n. a. means winter, north atlantic. steamships have all of these marks which are suitable to the nature of their employment, but sailing ships, beside the disk, have only the marks for fresh water and north atlantic winter. ‘for steamer. starboard side. fw is † s & , - . wna § port side. ** is fw f s * w É wna for sailing wessel. starboard side. €-tl -- port side. --_t-e- i i .] the plimsoll mark. when a british merchant ship is completed, or a foreign-built ship is purchased to run under the british flag, her builder or owner makes application to the board of trade for a “cer- tificate of approval” of the position of a load- line disk, and states in his application where the vessel's dimensions are registered, and in what waters she is going to trade. the ship is then visited by an officer of the board of trade, who takes with him copies of the tables for determining the position of the disk. he then makes a little calculation by the official rule. the lines and disk are then marked on the ship's side, and a certificate issued to the owner stating in detail their position. this certificate can be found framed and hung in a conspicu- ous place on all british sea-going vessels. the junction of the upper deck with the ship's side is usually marked on the outside of the ship by a white mark like the load-line marks, and the distance from this junction down to the center of the load-line disk is called the freeboard. by the upper deck is meant the highest deck which extends out to the ship's sides in all directions. the summer load-line can be used in north latitudes from april to september inclusive, and in south latitudes during the other half of the year. the north atlantic winter load-line must be used in that ocean north of the latitude of baltimore, from october to march inclusive. the indian summer load-line refers to summer in the indian ocean. you wonder, no doubt, why no other country has adopted the plimsoll mark. at the inter- national marine conference which sat in wash- ington in , a committee was appointed to consider the feasibility of all countries adopting the mark, but after carefully considering the subject they made a vague report to the effect that “the time is not yet ripe.” in this respect, other nations are at least twenty years behind great britain. samuel plimsoll has dropped out of politics and out of public view, but to him will ever be given the credit and honor of saving countless human lives, and property beyond estimate, year after year till the end of time, and the day will come when his curious and much-ridiculed mark will be stamped like a great seal of safety upon every ship that sails the ocean. a love-song—to john. by laura e. richards. when i think about him, i laugh, and say, “john, dear john " the thought of him sets my heart at play— john, dear john and as i wander along the street, and look at the boys and girls i meet, i see that there 's never a one so sweet as john, dear john. a beauty p hardly his hair is red; his figure is like a feather-bed; when one of his hugs i must endure, i think the bears have got me, sure : and feel to see if my ribs are fewer— john, dear john' his boots are generally out at the toe; where his mittens hide we never know ; his pockets are full of string and crumbs, his fingers are every one of them thumbs, and he likes st. nicholas better than sums— john, dear john but i think 'tis the love that shines in his face— john, dear john that lends it a little of heaven's grace— john, dear john and if i were offered the world, for choice of something to make my heart rejoice, i’d choose the sound of his dear old voice— john, dear john the bicycle race. by walter camp. “why can't i have a bi- cycle, moth- er?” said seven- teen-year-old jack dare to his still pretty but gray-haired mother, as he stood whirling his school-books by the strap threateningly close to the light little sewing-table that stood in the sitting-room. “because your father cannot possibly afford it, jack. you know he was ill so long after that failure five years ago that what little money we had was all used up, and he can hardly af. ford now to keep you in school instead of put- ting you to work,” said his mother. “i wish he would put me to work. i 'm tired of seeing you and him work so hard all the time; and i could earn a good deal, i know.” “but my boy,” and the fond tone grew softer, “you know he wants to have you go to college, and is saving every cent for that.” jack dare was in the junior class at queen's school, and would graduate in a little over a year. the school was one of the best in the country, and although jack lived at home the - * … expense of keeping him at queen's was quite a tax upon the family purse. “what makes you so eager for a bicycle just now, jack p you never seemed to care very much for the one you had two years ago.” “oh but that was a heavy old thing. it weighed over fifty pounds, mother, and nobody could ride that fast.” “but why should you want to ride fast, child p’” “why, you see, mother, we're going to have a meeting — that 's races — with oriel school in three weeks, and i want to try for the bicycle race. when i had that old wheel i used to beat some of the other fellows, and i’ve tried their new wheels sometimes when i had a chance, and i'm pretty sure i could get a place, for we can enter three men for that event.” “so that is what the new demand for a bicy- cle means, is it? well, jack, i wish you had one, but it is out of the question. could n't you get the old one repaired so that it would do p’” “no, mother dear, i could n't. the new wheels racers ride now weigh less than twenty pounds; and what chance do you suppose i'd have against them p’’ “but would n't some one of the boys lend you his, just for the race? they will not want their bicycles while the race is going on, i sup- pose.” “but don't you see, mother, i can't get a chance to make the team — to be chosen — unless i have a wheel to practise on. there are a dozen fellows who can ride as fast as i can now because i have n't had a show to get used to these light wheels, but i know that in a week or two i could.” “there, there, run along, jack, and don't think of it any more—that's the way. you'll study all the more if you don't have any bicy- the bicycle race. cle to think of,” said mrs. dare, and jack walked out without another word. but he could not help thinking about it, and wheels, will you? we 're going to have a trial.” jack jumped over into the track, and as al- in the afternoon he went over to the track where len came up to the line held his wheel for him the boys had begun practising for the coming games. the bicycle men did not practise until the others had gone, so there were only a few left to look on when the wheel. men went on to the course. jack was a very popu- lar boy in the school, even though he was known to be poor. the boys thought none the less of him for that, though most of them were from a class that does not have to study economy. their pa- rents wisely kept down their allow- ances within ordi- nary limits, but they wore better clothes, and had manythings that jack had to go without. among the bi. cyclists was allen thorne, one of the best riders in school; and thorne was looked upon as the only likely match for joe wheeler of oriel, who had a wonderful reputa- tion for spurting, and `slº. whose record was better than thorne's. jack had sometimes ridden with thorne when they were both in the fourth class at queen's; but that was two years ago, when wheels were far heavier and tires poorer. how jack envied allen as he watched him slipping his toes into the clips : “here, jack,” thorne called out, “ come over and hold one of these vol. xxiv.— – . “‘it 's your duty to the school," said wright.” (see page .) iſſº - t ! vºyº - -- preparatory to the start. “all ready, go!” and with a care- ful shove jackstarted him fairly upon his course. around the track they went, first one setting the - pace, then another, but all - perfectly well aware that when thorne let himself out he would leave them all standing. and so he did. on the last lap he swung out wide on the turn, and, passing the rest, went flying up the straight, around to the up-curve, and down toward the finish like the wind, gaining at every second and finishing with a hundred yards be- tween him and haddon, who was the next man. [nov. the bicycle race. how it made jack's heart thump to see thorne come, and how his legs fairly twitched under him as he imagined his own feet on the pedals “the trouble with you, haddon,” wright, a graduate of the school, and one of the riders for yale, was saying by way of coaching when they finished, “is that you know thorne can out-spurt you, and you lose all heart as soon as he lets out. you can learn to go very nearly as fast as he can, if you'd only believe it, and half try. you want some one to pace you every day whom you 're not afraid of— some man who can ride just as fast as thorne, perhaps; but if you don't think he can, you'll keep up with him. now, the rest of this set are all too slow for you, and you're just getting worse and worse; and, first you know, our sec- ond string will not be in it, and both seconds and thirds are going to count, you know.” thorne had dismounted, and had been listen- ing to all this. of course he was pleased at be- ing the best rider in the school, and having it so frankly confessed; but he was also very anxious to have their team beat oriel in the games, and, besides, it looked as if the points in the bicycle race were going to determine the final issue. suddenly a thought struck him. “why don't you have a try at it, jack p you used to ride years ago, i know, for you and i had many brushes when we first came to school.” “oh, i don't ride any more,” stammered jack. “but you ’d soon get into it again,” said thorne. “here, take my wheel, and have a try at it.” jack hesitated; but wright said: “if you can ride at all, it's your duty to the school to do it, young man.” that settled it. he would have just one turn, anyway. so he ran into the dressing- room, stripped to his undershirt, and, slipping on an old pair of running-trunks, came out. “he 's got a good leg,” he heard wright say, as he came across the track. “let's see you ride a bit first,” wright continued, as jack mounted the slender wheel. the thing was so much more sensitive than his old machine, and he had had so few chances to mount a really light wheel, that for some minutes he felt completely at sea. but wright, who had mounted another wheel, and was riding by his side, told him not to be nervous, to take it easy at first, and then fell to coaching him until, after ten minutes, he went better. then wright called out to had- don to come up : “now here, dare, i want to see you ride alongside him once around, and then on the second lap, haddon, you spurt, and come away from him.” and, sure enough, on the second lap haddon spurted, and al- though jack did all he could, haddon came away from him and finished forty yards ahead. jack pounded as hard as he could, but he felt he was not getting nearly as much out of himself as he should, and that he could go much faster when he had become better used to the wheel. “there,” said wright, “don’t you see all you lack is confidence, haddon this fellow rides fast, and will ride faster; and the thing for you both to do is to have one or two brushes every afternoon.” then jack felt called upon to speak up. “i’m sorry, sir, but i can't come out,” said he mournfully. “why not?” said wright. “i have to work at home three afternoons every week,” he said; “and besides i have n't any wheel.” “well, i 'll tell you what i 'll do,” said wright. “i 'll send you down my wheel— the one i rode last season. i’ve a new one, and if you can't get out every day, you come out when you can, and give haddon practice.” jack could hardly believe his ears at this of. fer, for wright was the best rider at yale, and his old wheel was sure to be very nearly as good as any in queen's school. jack fairly walked on air all the way home, and as soon as he opened the door he rushed to his mother with the joyful news. she was as pleased as he over it, but made him promise to be very careful of wright's wheel lest it be broken. “for,” said she, “you know, jack, if you should break it, your father would insist upon replacing it, and i don't see how in the world we could spare the money.” from that time on, three afternoons every week jack was out on the track, for wright's wheel had come down the very next day, and .) i the bicycle race. proved to be the one on which he had won the last harvard-yale race. for the first week haddon could still pull away from jack, but it was harder each day for him, and the gap was not a wide one. in the second week wright came down again, and as he devoted most of his time to haddon, jack felt a little grieved; but just as wright was leaving, he came over to jack and said kindly, “you 're improving, dare, and i want you to take good care of yourself. you may be needed.” how jack's heart thumped at those words! true, the third place was supposed to be green's, but green had been off two weeks, and it was his absence that had made a chance for some one else. that evening thorne came over to jack's house and told him that wright said that jack was to come to training-table on the following wednesday—which was just one week from the day of the games. jack could hardly sleep that night for thinking of it. in two days he was to go to training-table. he had had only a little over a week on the new wheel, and he was just beginning to get the hang of it. it was a pleasure to see him ride, for he was very strong in the legs, and rode more steadily than any of the rest except thorne. the next day, as he went over to the track, he met green, who had just returned. his heart fell a little, but he plucked up his spirits as he thought, “green is only just as good as haddon, and i'm pretty close to haddon now.” as soon as they all came out, wright, who had agreed to see them once more, said, “i am going to send you fellows just as if you were in the race to-day, and i’m going to ride myself, and you can think i 'm oriel's best man – wheeler.” at first jack had visions of his having to give up his wheel to wright, but no–wright had brought down his own; and as he mounted and moved smoothly along down the track he was the envy of every boy there. presently all were ready, and they lined up on the mark, each wheel held by some boy, ready for the start. wright gave them a word or two of instruc- tion. he told haddon that he wanted him to set the pace for thorne, and to keep it hot, too, for the first mile, and then that jack should go up and carry it, if he could, for another lap. “then,” he said, “as soon as thorne goes up, the rest of you all ride it out as hard as you can, and finish as close to him as you know how—if you can beat him out you need n't hesitate about doing it.” so they rode according to instructions; and, of course, when thorne went up, wright went with him, and the rest had no chance with them. but green and haddon and jack had a hot time of it, and as they came down the straight jack pedaled his hardest, and got the place by a yard. it was something of a surprise to green, for he had not been out since jack began riding, but haddon seemed quite de- jected. green rode over to jack, and called out good-naturedly, “congratulate you. looks as though haddon and i would have to fight it out for the third place.” for the next day or two wright gave jack a good deal of coaching, and thorne also helped him. he felt that he was riding better every minute under their hints, and the wheel seemed more a part of him. he told his mother that night of his victory, and that it would probably give him a chance at the team. she was only too ready to rejoice with him, and said he could take all his afternoons until the day of the meeting. jack was rapidly acquiring an ability to spurt, and, with wright and thorne by his side, the three would come down the straight fairly even until wright let himself out. then jack and thorne would have it at a great rate, and the former was very nearly able, at times, to hold thorne. he could not quite get that last pound or two, however, and thorne's wheel would slowly but surely push clear of him. haddon had become quite discouraged after jack had beaten him, and green was chosen as the third man. he was riding well, and could be relied upon to keep very close to jack, although, since jack had learned how to spurt, green could n’t stay up with him long. the great feature of jack's spurting was that, now he had once acquired the hang of it, he could keep up his spurt in a most remarkable way. if they would only ride fast from the [nov. the bicycle race. very start jack always seemed nearly as strong as thorne. so the days slipped by until the afternoon of the meeting. the night before, jack had dreamed of riding a race uphill, and awoke only to find himself nearly out of bed. the games were held on the winsor track, a very good one, and especially good for the bicycle races, because it had been built for that pur- pose. all the townspeople were out, for the rivalry between the two schools was great, and each spectator was an ardent partizan. the orange and white of oriel was matched by the red and gray of queen's, and long before the games began the cheering and waving of flags had become general. presently the hundred- yard dash was called, and jack felt his heart come into his throat as he looked up the track from the piazza of the dressing-room and saw the men get on their marks. he hardly re- membered a thing from that moment on until wright came into the dressing-room and called out, “now, you bicycle fellows, the whole thing hangs on you. five points tie, and six win for us — you 've just got to get it. now re- member all i’ve told you. if they don't get off fast, you, green, go out and set the pace for the first three laps. if wheeler moves up be- fore that, you go up with him, jack. thorne, you keep easy until the next to the last lap. then ride as you never rode before. and, jack and green, you both remember that we need six points to win — that 's first and third places. if thorne can get the first, you certainly between you can get that one for third.” but there was no time for more. the bicy- cle entries were called, and all three boys, with wright, went out with their wheels. wheeler was already there, riding down the track easily and gracefully. the other two of the oriel boys were coming around on the other side. jack thought neither of them looked very strong, but then, you can't tell in a bicycle race, he reflected. soon all were getting lined up. jack's legs shook a little with excitement as he was placing his toes in the clips, but the boy who was holding him whispered, “steady, jack; you 'll be all right.” wright was holding thorne, of course, but he had managed to give jack a pat on the back as he passed that did jack good. now all was ready, and in another instant the pistol cracked and off they went on their two-mile journey. in a few seconds it was evident that the oriel men wanted to have the race a slow one, for none of them went up to set the pace. green, therefore, went to the front and began hitting it up in a pretty lively fashion. wheeler hung on thorne's right. two laps were reeled off in this way, and the pace that green was setting was not a bit to the liking of the oriel men. in fact, jack was the only man whom it really suited, though thorne preferred it to a loafing race. “green 's carrying them along at an awful clip,” said wright. “i did n't expect him to hit it up quite so high. however, it is hurting wheeler just as much as it is thorne, and dare can stand more than anybody else in the lot,” he added reflectively, as they spun around into the third lap. wright called out “good!” as they swung by, and we afterward learned that green thought he said “go it!” and took it as special advice to him to set the pace up higher. he said in his good-natured way later in the evening that he fancied he must have been riding too easy, and as he wanted to oblige wright all he could, he set his teeth and pounded harder. the way they all whirled around this lap was killing, and it effectually disposed of the two tail-enders from oriel, as that group of four distanced them, green lead- ing, thorne and wheeler hanging on to his rear wheel, and jack, with every bit of speed he had in him, sticking to them. thus they entered the fourth lap. now jack, remember- ing his instructions,— namely, that at that point he was to relieve green and set the pace, — began to wonder whether he was likely to catch green at all. he had n't been doing much looking round thus far, for he saw those two rear wheels of thorne and wheeler keeping just about so far ahead of him, no matter how hard he pushed, and he knew green was somewhere up ahead. when, however, they came into the straight on this fourth lap, jack set sail for the lead, and coming up level with wheeler, finally crept up with green, and was passing him when green's wheel began to wabble. before he .] the bicycle race. could steady himself, thorne, who was between green and wheeler, felt his wheel just touch green's, and over he went with a crash. he sprang to his feet, seized his wheel, and tried to mount; but the bicycle was a wreck, and it was useless. a great cry went up from the throats of the queen's boys as they saw jack, wheeler, and green riding on alone, the latter dropping be- hind gradually, while there on the track stood º, ſºlº/” green who had fallen, when, just as he came down the stretch, wright called out: “thorne is gone ! ride it out !” and as jack started in on that sixth lap it gradually dawned upon him that. thorne had fallen, and that he was left alone with wheeler. at first he felt queer in the pit of the stomach, but as he pedaled on he seemed to be getting rested, and he could hear the shouts of the boys as he passed, – “go it, darel darel dare!” — and this dare and wheeler at the finish. their champion thorne, with the wreck of his wheel and the wreck of their hopes. presently came the last two men, who, having been hope- lessly run out of it, now took on new courage at thorne's accident, and pushed along, hoping to see green coming back to them before the finish. jack had heard the crash, but had not dared to look around. he had supposed that it was made him feel that he would never let wheeler pass him. he was just thinking this as they came into the seventh lap; and as they rounded the turn he saw something come like a flash between himself and the pole, and pass him, and then he knew that that streak was wheeler, and he could hear the grand stand—“wheeler! wheeler! oriel !” he put on all his power, . the bicycle race. and went after him. for a minute he did n't raise his head ; then he looked forward, and there was wheeler just rounding the head of the track, but not much farther ahead than the distance he must have picked up just in that moment when he flashed by, and caught jack by surprise. then jack settled down to work again, setting his teeth grimly, as he thought of that last quarter mile yet to go in which he must catch that man ahead. then he heard the bell ring, and knew that wheeler had be- gun the last lap. as he, too, passed the bell, he heard wright call out again: “go in, dare l’” and he gripped his handle-bars, and fairly jumped ahead. then the crowd saw that dare was gaining — “darel dare l’an- swered the “wheeler | wheeler!” half the last lap was over, and dare was almost by the side of the oriel man. now came the question of endurance. both were spurting for all they were worth; but so they had been before. which would hold it out the longest to reach the line p jack was gaining; but he would have a longer sweep to make on the turn, as wheeler had the pole. now they reach the curve, and this tells. jack's wheel falls back a little, but in the next instant, as they come into the straight, he comes level again : and they fly on to the finish. a hundred yards from home there is no choice. then, with a last effort, jack's wheel gives just two or three lit- tle jumps forward, as it were, and he has won by three feet! he can hardly check himself, and almost falls into the arms of his friends at the end of the straight. and, best of all, what is this that comes down the track behind the pair who have just finished p. it is old green, with just enough left in him, after all, to finish third, and get that needed odd point—and queen's has won a wonder-worker. by christopher valentine. i was standing one afternoon on a corner in one of the miserably crowded neighborhoods that are to be found in our large cities, and as i looked along the sidewalk, i pitied the chil- dren. there were throngs of them—poor, list- less, prematurely old-looking little things who had no other place for their play than the few nooks and corners left by their busy, hard-fea- tured elders. the children were sitting on the door-steps, leaning against the railings, crawling over boxes and barrels, hanging to wagons, clinging to hydrants, but in no case did they seem to be having any real playtime. “i wish i could do something to make these children happy — if only for a little while,” i thought; “but that is out of the question.” just then something ran up against me, and a voice said pleasantly, “ma mi perdoni / " turning, i saw a man pushing a piano-organ. it seemed to have been sent by some fairy godmother, in answer to my wish. i drew a little money from my pocket, and said: “play for the children to dance.” a bright smile lighted up the swarthy face, the organ was halted, that mysterious brass peg on the side of the instrument adjusted, the handle was turned, and the notes of a brisk waltz charged like an army of fairies upon the discordant imp noises of the street. and you should have seen the children they sprang to their feet, some alone, some with partners, and whirled, like bright autumn leaves driven by the wind. long faces shortened and broadened into smiles, and bits of song were heard. i left them dancing. and as i went on, i wondered why, in the parks opened for children's playgrounds, it would not be a good plan to hire a few piano-organ men to play, so that the children could dance. “the children took partners and whirled like bright autumn leaves driven by the wind.” “ nancy.” (a true story.) by mary bradley. “‘attention, puss! see here a minute!'” my brother ned, who has a fancy and mother thought it rather risky: for pets of all sorts, brought one day “for cats are fond of fish, my dear, some goldfish to the room where “nancy” and kittens can't help being frisky— with her four kits beside her lay. i would n't put temptation near.” “nancy.” but the glass bowl with water brimming stood all a-sparkle in the light, and round and round the goldfish swimming were really such a pretty sight that ned protested: “i shall teach her they 're not for her to touch,” he said; and lifting up the purring creature, he tapped her smartly on the head. “attention, puss see here a minute,”— as nancy squirmed beneath his thumb, “these fish are mine, and you 're not in it! you 'll catch what paddy gave the drum, and more besides, first time i find you so much as winking at 'em. see? just tuck that in your noddle, mind you, and keep a sharp lookout for me!” he put her down, all rough and fluffy, and nancy gave herself a shake, and marched off, tail up, mighty huffy, but looking very wide awake. “she knows which side her bread is buttered!” laughed ned: “she knows the goose hangs high l’” but mother still her warning uttered, “she’ll eat those goldfish by and by.” “not she l’” and he declared he 'd risk it. “why, nancy was nobody's fool; he 'd bet his head against a biscuit she would n't / " so ran off to school. for some domestic thing or other there came, in bridget's dulcet tone, soon afterward, a call for mother, and then the cat was left alone. straightway, perceiving she was able her little plan to carry out, nancy just leaped upon the table, and took the kittens, turn about. then showing them the fish, precisely as ned had shown them her before, nancy warns her kittens. she boxed each pair of ears quite nicely, and set them back upon the floor. if mother had not seen her do it, (the door was open just a crack, and she could easily peep through it as to the room she hurried back), you might n’t give the story credit; but every word is just as true as if george washington had said it, and done it with his hatchet, too. another thing is true as surely, that, unmolested from that day, the goldfish swim around securely, and not a kit will wink their way. ned laughs when people talk about it, and answers, just as cool as cool, he knew quite well enough, without it, that nancy was nobody's fool. “‘how do, english !’” an old-time thanksgiving. by m. eloise talbot. little prudence stood by the window, with her face pressed hard against it. she was not looking out; she could not do that, for the window-frame, instead of being filled with clear panes of glass, had oiled paper stretched tightly across it. it was a very curious window, indeed, and it transmitted a dull light into a very curious room. the floor was of uncovered boards; the walls were built of logs of wood with the bark still clinging to them in places, and overhead were great rafters from which hung suspended many things— swords and corselets, coats, bundles of dried herbs, pots and pans. the furniture was very simple. in the cen- ter of the room was a wooden table, scoured to whiteness, stiff-backed chairs were ranged against the wall, and a dresser, where pewter cups and platters stood in shining rows, adorned the far- ther corner. in a wide chimney-place a royal fire was blazing, and before it stood prudence's mother, carefully stirring some mixture in an iron pot which hung upon a crane. within the circle of the firelight, which played upon her yellow hair and turned it to ruddy gold, mehitable, prudence's sister, stepped rapidly to and fro, her spinning-wheel making a hum- ming accompaniment to the crackling of the blaze. prudence turned to watch her, pushing far- ther back a little white cap which pressed upon her short curls; for she was a little puritan maiden, living in the town of plymouth, and it was not the present year of our lord, but about two hundred and seventy-five years ago. she was a very different prudence from what she would have been if she had been living now, and it was a very different plymouth from the pleasant town we know to-day, with its many houses climbing up the hill, and the busy peo- ple in its streets. there were only seven houses then, and they stood in one line leading to the water, and there was but one building besides— a square wooden affair with palisades, which served as a church on sundays, a fort when enemies were feared, and a storehouse all the time. beyond these nothing could be seen but woods — trackless, unknown forests — and, away to the east, the ocean, where the waves were booming with a lonesome sound. it was not quite a year before that prudence's father had stood with the other brave colonists on the deck of the “mayflower,” and had looked with eager eyes upon the shore of the an old-time thanksgiving. new world. this first year in massachusetts had on the whole been a happy one for pru- dence. during the cold winter which fol- lowed their landing, she had indeed cast long- ing thoughts toward the home in holland which they had left; and especially did she long for the dutch home when she was hungry, and the provisions which had been brought on the ship were scanty; but she had forgotten all such longings in the bounty given by the summer, and now it seemed to her there was no more beautiful place in the world than this new england. it was prudence's father who opened the door and came in, carrying on his shoulder an ax with which he had been felling trees for the winter's fuel. prudence never could get over the queer feeling it gave her to see her father thus employed. when they lived in holland, he was always writing and studying in books of many languages, but here he did little else than work in the fields, for it was only so that the early settlers obtained their daily bread. he leaned his ax in a corner, and came toward the fire, rubbing his hands to get out the cold. “i have news for you, dear heart, to-night,” he said to his wife. “i have just come from the granary, and, indeed there is goodly store laid up of corn and rye, and game that has been shot in the forest. the children's mouths will not hunger this winter.” “praised be the lord!” replied his wife, fervently. “but what is your news p’’ “the governor hath decided to hold a thanksgiving for the bountiful harvest, and on the appointed day is a great feast to be spread; and he hath sent a messenger to bid massasoit to break bread with us.” - “massasoit the indian p” “ay; but a friendly indian. he will come, and many of his braves with him. you will be kept busy, my heart, with the other housewives to bake sufficient food for this company.” “oh, mother, may i — may i go ° cried prudence, her eyes dancing with excitement, clutching at her mother's skirts; but her father continued: “how now, mehitable p the news of a coming feast does not seem to make you merry as it was wont to do in holland.” mehitable was grave, and there was even a tear in her eye. “i know,” cried joel, who was two years older than prudence; “she is thinking of john andrew, who is across the sea.” but the father frowned, and the mother said, “peace, foolish children : " as she placed the porridge on the table. so prudence and joel drew up their benches, and said no more. chairs and conversation did not belong to children in those days; they sat on little stools and kept silence. that did not keep them from thinking. a thanksgiving feast ! what could it be? the only thanks- giving they knew about meant such long pray- ers in church that the little people grew very tired before the end — but a feast ! — that would be something new and interesting. the feast was to be held on the following thursday; so, during all the days between, the house was full of the stir of brewing and bak- ing. prudence polished the apples, and joel pounded the corn, in eager anticipation; but when the day arrived a cruel disappointment awaited them, for their father decreed that they should remain at home. “you are over young, my little prudence, and joel is over bold; besides which, he must stay and care for you.” “and do neither of you leave the house while your father and i are away,” added the mother. “i shall not have a moment's peace of mind, if i think you are wandering outside alone.” “i will bring you back a dutch cake, my little sister,” whispered mehitable, who looked sweeter than ever in her best attire of black silk and a lace kerchief, which with an unwilling heart she had put on in obedience to her mo- ther's command. but when the elders were gone the disap- pointment and loneliness were too much for the children. prudence, being a girl, sat down in a corner and cried; while joel, being a boy, got angry, and strode up and down the room with his hands in his pockets. “it is too bad!” he burst out suddenly. “the greedy, grown-up people, i believe they want all the food themselves | it 's a down- right shame to keep us at home !” o [nov. an old-time thanksgiving. “joel!” gasped prudence, horrified—“fa- ther and mother l’’ “well, i know,” admitted joel, more mildly; “but at least, they need not have shut us up in the house as if we were babies. prudence, let's go out in the yard and play, if we can't do any- thing else.” “but mother forbade us,” said prudence. “i know. but then, of course, she only meant we must not go into the woods for fear of wild beasts. there is no danger here by the doorsteps, and father won't care; he 's not afraid ' " “i — don't — know,” faltered prudence. “well, / 'm going, any way,” said joel, reso- lutely, taking his hat from the peg. “ah, do come too, prudence " he added persuasively. so prudence, though she knew in her heart it was a naughty thing to do, took off her cap, and tying her little puritan bonnet under her chin, followed joel through the door. once outside, i am afraid their scruples were soon forgotten. all the sunshine of the sum- mer and the sparkling air of the winter were fused together to make a wonderful november day. the children felt like colts just loosed, and ran and shouted together till, if there had not been a good deal of noise also at the stone house where the feast was being spread, their shrill little voices must surely have been heard there. all at once joel caught prudence by the arm. “hush ' " he exclaimed. “look!” a beautiful gray squirrel ran across the grass in front of them. it stopped, poising its little head and intently listening. “i’m going to catch him,” whispered joel excitedly. “father said if i could catch one, he would make me a cage for it. come along.” he tiptoed softly forward, but the squirrel heard and was up and away in an instant. joel pursued, and prudence ran after him. such a chase as the little creature gave them— up on the fence, under the stones, across the fields, and finally straight to the woods, with the children panting and stumbling after, still keeping him in sight. breath and patience gave out at last; but when they stopped, where were they p in the very heart of the forest, where the dead leaves rustled, and the sunlight slanted down upon them, and the squirrel, safe in the top of a tree, chattered angrily. “never saw — anything run — so fast,” panted joel in disgust. “i — give — him up. we had better go back, prudence. why — but — i don't think i know the way!” prudence's lip quivered, and her eyes filled. “that's just like a girl!” said joel, harshly, “to go and cry the first thing.” “i don't care,” cried prudence, indignation burning away her tears; “you brought me into this, anyhow, joel, and now you ought to get me out.” this was so obviously true that joel had no retort at hand. besides, he did not like to see prudence unhappy. so, after a moment, he put his arm around her. “never mind, prue,” he said; “i think if we try together, we can find the way home.” but though they walked until their feet were weary, they could find no familiar spot. when they came out of the woods at last, it was only to find themselves unexpectedly on the sandy beach of the ocean. they sat down on two stones, and looked at each other in silence. joel began to feel even his bravery giving way. all at once they heard a sound of soft feet, and a low, sweet voice said: “how do, english '" a little indian boy stood before them. he wore a garment of skins, and a tiny bow and quiver hung upon his back. his feet were bare, and he walked so lightly that the children could hardly hear his tread. prudence, in fright, shrank close to her brother; but joel had seen many indians during their year in the new world, and the stranger's eyes were so bright and soft that the white boy returned the indian's salutation. then, plunging his hand into his pocket, joel brought forth a handful of nut-meats, and held them out for an offering. the little indian smiled delightedly, and po- litely took a few — not all. having munched the kernels gravely, the new-comer began to dance. it was a most remarkable dance. it was first a stately measure, accompanied by many poisings on his toes, and liftings of his head, from which the wind blew back his straight black hair; but gradually his motions grew .] an i old-time thanksgiving. faster and more furious, his slow steps changed to running, he turned, he twisted his lithe body into all possible contorted shapes, he threw his arms high above his head, waving them wildly, he took great leaps into the air, and finally, when his dance had lasted about fifteen min- utes, several amazing somersaults brought him s. prudence's head drooped upon her brother's shoulder. “i’m rather tired, joel,” she said, wistfully; “don’t you think we could get to plymouth pretty soon p” “i don't know,” said joel, despondently. at the words the indian boy sprang to his “‘thou art come back to me –the warmth of my heart, the sunlight of my wigwam ''exclaimed massasoit." (see page .) breathless, but still smiling, to the children's feet. his spectators had been shouting with de- light during the whole performance, and now asked him eager questions. what was his name p. how did he learn to dance p could he not speak any more english p but to all their inquiries he only shook his head, and at last sat down beside them, motionless now as any little bronze statue, and looked steadily out to sea. feet. he ran toward the woods, then stopped, and beckoned them to follow. “he is going in the wrong direction, i am sure,” said joel, shaking his head. the boy stamped on the ground with im- patience, and, running back, seized prudence's hand, and gently pulled her forward. “plymout’ ” he said, in his strange accent. the children looked at each other. “we might as well try him,” said joel. [nov. an old-time thanksgiving. the boy clapped his hands together, and ran on before them into the forest. it was a weary journey, over bogs and fallen trees, and seemed three times as long as when they had come. a wasp once stung prudence on the cheek, making her cry out with pain; but quick as thought the little indian caught up a pellet of clay, and plastered it upon the wound, and, marvelous to relate, before many minutes the sharp pain had quite gone away. the woods seemed gradually to grow a little more open, and pretty soon they heard the dis- tant tinkle of a cow-bell. at last (prudence held her breath for fear it might not be true) they emerged suddenly into the clearing, and home lay before them. they found they had made a complete cir- cle since they started. their little guide stooped and picked up a gaudy-colored feather from the ground. he examined it closely, and then he shouted aloud, and began to run toward the storehouse as fast as his sturdy legs could carry him. “i want to see mother,” said prudence, half crying with fatigue; so they ran all together across the clearing. all this while the feast had been progressing. about noontime the great massasoit, chief of the indian tribe called the wampanoags, had emerged from the forest with all his tallest braves in single file behind him. they wore their best beaver-skins, and their heads were gay with nodding feathers. they were re- ceived at the door of the storehouse by their english entertainers, who also wore the bravest attire that puritan custom allowed. they gave the braves a hearty welcome. within, the long table fairly groaned with abundance of good cheer; for the housewives had vied with one another to provide the fattest game and the daintiest dishes that dutch or english housewifery had taught them. after asking a blessing, they all sat down, the stalwart colonists and their fair-haired women side by side with the taciturn indians. the white men felt that the best way to thank god for the harvest was to share it with their dark-skinned brethren, who had first taught them to plant and raise the maize which now furnished the table. governor bradford sat at the head of the table. he hoped much from this feast; first, that it might cement the friendship between the colonists and their indian neighbors, the wam- panoags; and, second, that the news of it might induce the neighboring tribes, which were still partly hostile, to live in peace with the settlers. but though food and talk passed blithely round among the other guests, the governor saw, with growing dismay, that the great massasoit sat frowning and depressed. the governor was not long in learning the cause. the interpreter, observing the govern- or's uneasiness, whispered in his ear that in a recent war with the narragansetts, massasoit's only child, a boy, was missed and was thought to have been taken prisoner, and of course put to death, after the cruel savage custom. toward the end of the feast, drink was served to every guest. for the first time massasoit showed animation. he seized his cup, and lifted it in the air, and cried aloud in his native tongue, as he sprang to his feet: “may plague and famine seize the narragan- setts' " at that very moment the house-door opened, and a pretty group appeared upon the threshold. two english children stood there, as fair and rosy as the may-time, and between them a dark, lithe little indian, with sparkling eyes. prudence ran straight to her mother. massasoit paused and trembled; then, as his cup fell and shivered upon the ground, he crossed the room in one stride, and caught the indian boy in his arms, looking at him as if he could never see enough. governor bradford knew in an instant that the lost child had been restored, even without the indian warrior's shout of triumph, and mas- sasoit's passionate exclamation: “light of my eyes — staff of my footsteps — thou art come back to me—the warmth of my heart, the sun- light of my wigwam l’” the rejoicing was so great that no one thought of chiding joel and prudence for their disobedience. the governor himself gave joel a large slice of pudding, and prudence told all her adventures, throned upon her father's knee, wearing around her neck a string of wampum which the grateful massasoit had hung there. .] an old-time thanksgiving. “and, oh!” she exclaimed, “while the in- dian boy was dancing for joel and me, i looked out to sea, and i saw such a wonderful bird— a great white bird, flying along close to the wa- ter, and rising up and down. it was many times greater than the swans in amsterdam . " “was it, my little maid p’’ said the good governor, laying his hand on her head, and then he exchanged a keen look with prudence's father, saying nothing more. but when the guests had departed, bearing home the indian boy in triumph, none was so early as the gover- nor to reach the seashore; and it was his call that brought the colonists to see the good ship “fortune” (prudence’s “great white bird”) al- ready rounding the point, and making ready to cast anchor in plymouth harbor. ah, then indeed the great guns rang out from the shore to hail the ship, and the ship's can- non boomed a quick reply, and the whole little town was full and running over with glad wel- come for the second english vessel to land upon our massachusetts coast. in the evening a happy circle gathered round the fire in the house of prudence's father, and there was eager talk, for all had much to learn and to tell. “i know now,” said joel to prudence, as they sat side by side, “i know now what thanksgiving means. it means plenty to eat.” prudence looked at the dear faces around her, at mehitable's sweet smile, and at the shin- ing eyes of john andrews, for he had been a passenger by the fortune. “perhaps,” she replied; “but i think, joel, that we have thanksgiving because we are so glad to be all together once more.” this first thanksgiving happened long ago, but out of it all our later ones have grown; and when we think of the glad meetings of long- parted parents and sons and daughters, of the merry ſrolics with brothers and sisters and cou- sins, which come upon thanksgiving day, in spite of our bountiful dinner-tables we shall agree with prudence that it is the happy family party which makes the pleasure, after all. ºt ( ) e from my mosler, he calls me cham and oſle from lhe nel º- jºr - ºrdy g. rise. $ow wow, little dog, have you opy name? y. sir, two, but they don't mean the sölne, w) rs. they ºf. samp. ye minstrel and ye mayde. by frederick b. opper. pause a moment, pray, my pretty rustic mayde listen while i sing a ditty – 't is my trade. i will warble for your pleasure, and i'll thrum on my soft guitar a measure — tumty-tum ! what l—you will not hear a sonnet or rondelle p then, since you insist upon it, fare you well! the true story of marco polo. by noah brooks. [begun in the june number.] chapter xiii. how the great emperor went to war. young marco devoted a great deal of his space to accounts of the great khan's wars and fightings, and his hunting. evidently, marco was himself fond of sport, for he de- scribes many kinds of game birds and beasts, and it is easy to see that he must have hunted somewhat himself, although he modestly avoids saying much about his own doings while he was in cathay. his account of one of the great khan's battles is so vivid that we must quote what he has to say of it, as well as what he tells us of the khan's title: of cublay kaan, the great kaan now reigning, and of his great puissance. now am i come to that part of our book in which i shall tell you of the great and wonderful magnificence of the great kaan now reigning, by name cublay kaan; aaan being a title which signifyeth “the great lord of lords,” or emperor. and of a surety he hath good right to such a title, for all men know for a certain truth that he is the most potent man, as regards forces and lands and treasure, that existeth in the world, or ever hath existed from the time of our first father adam until this day. all this i will make clear to you for truth, in this book of ours, so that every one shall be ſain to acknowledge that he is the greatest lord that is now in the world, or ever hath been. concerning the revolt of nayan, who was uncle to the great kaan cubilay. now this cublay kaan is of the right imperial lineage, being descended from chinghis kaan, the first sovereign of all the tartars. and he is the sixth lord in that suc- cession, as i have already told you in this book. he came to the throne in the year , and the empire fell to him because of his ability and valor and great worth, as was right and reason. his brothers, indeed, and other kinsmen disputed his claim, but his it remained, both because maintained by his great valor, and because vol. xxiv.- . it was in law and right his, as being directly sprung of the imperial line. up to the year now running, to wit, , he hath reigned two and forty years, and his age is about eighty- five, so that he must have been about forty-three years of age when he first came to the throne. before that time he had often been to the wars, and had shown himself a gallant soldier and an excellent captain. but after com- ing to the throne he never went to the wars in person save once. this befel in the year , and i will tell you how he went. there was a great tartar chief, whose name was nayan, a young man of thirty, lord over many lands and many provinces, and he was uncle to the emperor cublay kaan of whom we are speaking. and when he found himself in authority this nayan waxed proud in the insolence of his youth and his great power; for in- deed he could bring into the field , horsemen, though all the time he was liegeman to his nephew the great kaan cublay as was right and reason. seeing then what great power he had, he took it into his head that he would be the great kaan's vassal no longer; nay, more, he would fain wrest his empire from him if he could. so this nayan sent envoys to another tartar prince called caidu, also a great and potent lord, who was a kinsman of his, and who was a nephew of the great kaan and his lawful liegeman also, though he was in re- bellion and at bitter enmity with his sovereign lord and uncle. now the message that nayan sent was this: that he himself was making ready to march against the great kaan with all his forces (which were great), and he begged caidu to do likewise from his side, so that by attacking cublay on two sides at once with such great forces they would be able to wrest his dominion from him. and when caidu heard the message of nayan, he was right glad thereat, and thought the time was come at last to gain his object. so he sent back answer that he would do as requested; and got ready his host, which mustered a good hundred thousand horsemen. how the great kaan marched against nayan. when the great kaan heard what was afoot, he made his preparations in right good heart, like one who feared not the issue of an attempt so contrary to justice. con- fident in his own conduct and prowess, he was in no degree disturbed, but vowed that he would never wear crown again if he brought not those two traitorous and disloyal tartar chiefs to an ill end. so swiftly and se- [nov. the true story of marco polo. cretly were his preparations made that no one knew of them but his privy council, and all were completed within ten or twelve days. in that time he had assembled good , horsemen and ioo, footmen,_but a small force indeed for him, and consisting only of those that were in the vicinity. for the rest of his vast and innu- merable forces were too far off to answer so hasty a sum- mons, being engaged under orders from him on distant expeditions to conquer divers countries and provinces. if he had waited to summon all his troops, the multitude assembled would have been beyond all belief, a multi- tude such as never was heard of or told of, past all count- ing! in fact, those , horsemen that he got to- gether consisted merely of the falconers and whippers-in that were about the court and when he had got ready this handful (as it were) of his troops, he ordered his astrologers to declare whe- ther he should gain the battle and get the better of his enemies. after they had made their observations, they told him to go on boldly, for he would conquer and gain a glorious victory: whereat he greatly rejoiced. so he marched with his army, and after advancing for twenty days they arrived at a great plain where nayan lay with all his host, amounting to some , horse. now the great kaan's forces arrived so fast and so sud- denly that the others knew nothing of the matter. for the kaan had caused such strict watch to be made in every direction for scouts that every one that appeared was in- stantly captured. thus nayan had no warning of his coming and was completely taken by surprise; insomuch that when the great kaan's army came up, he was asleep. so thus you see why it was that the emperor equipped his force with such speed and secresy. of the battle that the great kaan fought with nayan. what shall i say about it when day had well broken, there was the kaan with all his host upon a hill overlooking the plain where nayan lay in his tent, in all security, without the slightest thought of any one coming thither to do him hurt. in fact, this confidence of his was such that he kept no vedettes whether in front or in rear; for he knew nothing of the coming of the great kaan, owing to all the approaches having been com- pletely occupied as i told you. moreover the place was in a remote wilderness, more than thirty marches from the court, though the kaan had made the distance in twenty, so eager was he to come to battle with nayan. and what shall i tell you next the kaan was there on the hill, mounted on a great wooden bartizan, which was borne by four well-trained elephants, and over him was hoisted his standard, so high aloft that it could be seen from all sides. his troops were ordered in battles" of , men apiece; and a great part of the horsemen had each a footsoldier armed with a lance set on the crupper behind him (for it was thus that the footmen were disposed of); and the whole plain seemed to be covered with his forces. so it was thus that the great kaan's army was arrayed for battle. when nayan and his people saw what happened, they were sorely confounded, and rushed in haste to arms. nevertheless they made them ready in good style and formed their troops in an orderly manner. and when all were in battle array on both sides as i have told you, and nothing remained but to fall to blows, then might you have heard a sound arise of many instru- ments of various music, and of the voices of the whole of the two hosts loudly singing. for this is a custom of the tartars, that before they join battle they all unite in singing and playing on a certain two-stringed instrument of theirs, a thing right pleasant to hear. and so they continue in their array of battle, singing and playing in this pleasing manner, until the great naccara of the prince is heard to sound. as soon as that begins to sound the fight also begins on both sides; and in no case before the prince's naccara sounds dare any com- mence fighing. so then, as they were thus singing and playing, though * battalions. onawn from a crunese picture. the khan's war-drums, called naccaras. ordered and ready for battle, the great naccara of the great kaan began to sound. and that of nayan also began to sound. and thenceforward the din of battle began to be heard loudly from this side and from that. and they rushed to work so doughtily with their bows and their maces, with their lances and swords, and with the arblasts # of the footmen, that it was a wondrous sight to see. now might you behold such flights of arrows from this side and from that, that the whole heaven was canopied with them and they fell like rain. now might you see on this side and on that full many a cavalier and man-at-arms fall slain, insomuch that the whole field seemed covered with them. for fierce and furious was the battle, and quarter there was none given. but why should i make a long story of it? you must know that it was the most parlous and fierce and fearful battle that ever has been fought in our day. nor have there ever been such forces in the field in actual fight, especially of horsemen, as were then engaged—for, taking both sides, there were not fewer than , f cross-bows. .] the true story of marco polo. wrongdoing; and therefore it was that it aided not nayan, who was guilty of crime and disloyalty, for it would take no part in his evil deeds.” and so thenceforward no more was heard of the flout- ings of the unbelievers against the christians; for they heard very well what the sovereign said to the latter about the cross on nayan's banner, and its giving him no help. marco makes one or two errors in his account of the great khan's warlike doings. this was not the only time that the emperor went to war in person; for the chinese annalists tell of at least one other occasion when he led his army against his brother and rival, arikbuga, in ; and in his old age he took the field against kaidu, a rebel in the north. nayan, whose defeat and tragical death are so vividly de- scribed by marco, was not the uncle of kublai khan; he was no more than a cousin many times removed. a “bartizan’’ was a sort of tower, made of timber, and used for purposes of defense or at- tack. it would appear that the great khan went to war in person, riding in a great wooden tower which was carried on the backs of four elephants. on an elephant was also carried the big war-drum which polo calls a maccara. this was an immense kettle-drum shaped like a brass cauldron, tapering to the bottom and covered with dried buffalo-hide which had been scraped thin and tightly stretched for the drum-head. these were sometimes three or four feet across at the top, and the noise from them when beaten was something terrific. two of these monster drums would be slung on the back of an ele- phant, and the drummer, seated between the two, would beat first one and then another, when the signal was to be given to the fighting men. imagine , soldiers, infantry and cav- alry, marching to battle with the gigantic drums sounding, flags flying, troops shouting, and over all the war-banner of the great emperor, stream- ing from his castle borne on the backs of four elephants. truly that was a “parlous and fierce and fearful battle,” the like of which we have never seen in our day. horsemen, a mighty forceſ and that without reckoning the footmen, who were also very numerous. the battle endured with various fortune on this side and on that from morning till noon. but at the last, by god's pleasure and the right that was on his side, the great kaan had the victory, and nayan lost the battle and was utterly routed. for the army of the great kaan performed such feats of arms that nayan and his host could stand against them no longer, so they turned and fled. but this availed nothing for nayan; for he and all the barons with him were taken prisoners, and had to surrender to the kaan with all their arms. now you must know that nayan was a baptized christian, and bore the cross on his banner; but this naught availed him, seeing how grievously he had done amiss in rebelling against his lord. for he was the great kaan's liegeman, and was bound to hold his lands of him like all his ancestors before him. how the great kaan caused nayan to be put to death. and when the great kaan learned that nayan was taken right glad was he, and commanded that he should be put to death straightway and in secret. and when the great kaan had gained this battle, as you have heard, all the barons and people of nayan's provinces renewed their fealty to the kaan. now these provinces that had been under the lordship of nayan were four in number, to wit: the first called chorch.a; the second cauly; the third barscol; the fourth sikintinju. of all these four great provinces had nayan been lord; it was a very great dominion. and after the great kaan had conquered nayan, as you have heard, it came to pass that the different kinds of people who were present, saracens and idolaters and jews, and many others that believed not in god, did gibe those that were christians because of the cross that nayan had borne on his standard, and that so grievously that there was no bearing it. thus they would say to the christians : “see now what precious help this cross of yours hath rendered nayan, who was a christian and a worshipper thereof.” and such a din arose about the matter that it reached the great kaan's own ears. when it did so, he sharply rebuked those who cast these gibes at the christians; and he also bade the christians be of good heart, “for if the cross had rendered no help to nayan, in that it had done right well; nor could that which was good, as it was, have done otherwise; for nayan was a disloyal and traitorous rebel against his lord, and well deserved that which had befallen him. wherefore the cross of your god did well in that it gave him no help against the right.” and this he said ... so loud that everybody heard him. the christians then replied to the great kaan: “great king, you say the truth indeed, for our cross can render no one help in (to be continued.) j ...,xº~-º. - a- - * -- - - § . *:::: ****** º > --> - a. r § b lé - º -, by oliver herford. is majesty, the king of beasts, tired of fuss and for- mal feasts, once resolved that he would go on a tour incognito. but a suitable disguise was not easy to devise; kingly natures do not care other people's things to wear. the very thought filled him with shame. “no, i will simply change my name,” said he, “and go just as i am, and call myself a woolly lamb.” and so he did, and as you 'll guess, he had a measure of success. disguised in name alone, he yet took in 'most every one he met. the first was mister wolf, who said “your majesty—” “off with his head!” the angry monarch roared. “i am, i 'd have you know, a woolly lamb.” then mistress lamb, who, being near, had heard, addressed him: “brother dear — ” “odds cats!” the lion roared, “my word such insolence i never heard ' " the lion's tour. his rage was a terrific sight (it almost spoiled his appetite). and so it went, until one day he met sir fox, who stopped to say (keeping just far enough away, - yet in a casual, off-hand * * way, as if he did n't care a fig), “good morning to you, thingumjig.” now everybody, small and big, knows what is meant by thingumjig; but what is now a household word in those days never had been heard. sir fox himself invented it this great emergency to fit. the king of beasts, quite unprepared for this reception, simply stared. of course he was not going to show there was a word he did not know. he bowed, and with his haughtiest air resumed his walk; but everywhere he went his subjects, small and big, took up the cry of thingumjig. it followed him where'er he went; he did n't dare his rage to vent. suppose it were a compli- his anger then would only show here was a word he did not know ! the only course for him, 't was clear, was to pretend he did not hear. and this he did until, at length, long fasting so impaired his strength he gave his tour up in despair, mid great rejoicing everywhere. the king's castle (third story of the series entitled “the city of stories.” in no man's land. begun in the september number.) by frank m. bicknell. after reading the “end of week after next,” the princess and her companion walked about the city reading here and there bits of stories, so as to find one that was especially in- teresting. at length they turned into a street that seemed to promise entertaining reading. accordingly they began the perusal of a tale entitled: the king's castle in no man's land. once on a time there lived a man named avaro. he was so mean and miserly that he was heartily despised by all who knew him. none of his calamity had made the miser as cross as two sticks and sourer than last year's cider. when he saw the stranger seated before his house he rushed out of doors in a great rage. “you lazy good-for-nothing!” he cried, “get up and begone ! how dare you sit down in my beautiful shadow p” “in what way am i wronging anyone by sitting here p’’ asked the old man; “is not the shade free p’’ “free!” screamed avaro. shade free “my beautiful don't you suppose this house cost neighbors would even speak to him if they chanced to meet him in the street. he had no family, and he lived quite alone. he never asked peo- ple to visit him, and it is doubtful whether anybody would have conne. one summer day a strange old man with a long beard came trudging down the road. he had journeyed a great distance, and was warm and tired. noticing that avaro's house cast a deep shadow, the wayfarer thought it would harm no one if he were to sit down there on the grass to cool and rest himself a bit. but it chanced that avaro was in an unusually bad temper that day. while counting his money in the morning he had lost a farthing piece. it had slipped between his fingers, and rolled away somewhere into a crack in the floor so that it could not be found. this awful º - º - º º ºw \º ſº- - º . º: º º mº" . . . º º º “‘how dare you sit down. in my beautiful shadow "." money? well, if the house were not here neither would the shade be; therefore the shade also cost money, did n't it? off with you, vagabond, and never let me catch you about here again, using my costly shadow !” “certainly you are the meanest man alive,” remarked the traveler, rising and taking up his staff, “and you have used me shabbily; never- theless i will tell you something that will please you. next week you will be made king.” the miser opened his eyes and his mouth o the king's castle in no man's land. i too, in amazement at this piece of news. but before he could fairly collect his wits to ask any question the old man had gone. a few days after this the reigning king died suddenly, without leaving any children to suc- ceed him. so, as the people must have a king, a council of twenty of the principal men met to see what should be done. and as it costs a great deal to keep up the dignity and state of a sovereign, it was decided that the wealthiest of the late king's subjects should be the one to succeed him on the throne. now it had been supposed that the gold- smith — who was one of the council of twenty — was the richest man in the kingdom, but as it proved, this was not the case. when the decision was made public, avaro came forward and presented his claim. here was a disagree- able surprise to everybody, and particularly to the goldsmith, his wife, and their pretty daugh- ter, who already had begun to look on them- selves as a royal family. up to that time avaro had feigned extreme poverty, and indeed it had cost him a severe pang at last to admit that he possessed so much wealth. but the ad- vantages of being king were too great. so he showed beyond a doubt that his title to sover- eignty was good, and the council of twenty were forced to accept him as their king. from the very first no one liked the new ruler, and as time went by he grew more and more unpopular. on coming into power he cut down expenses in every possible way, and resorted to numberless mean and petty tricks by which money was turned into his own pockets. in a few weeks the court became so poor and shabby from avaro's parsimony that the very rag-pickers were ashamed. finally the discontent grew to be so great and so widespread that the council of twenty held another meeting — this time to try and devise some means of getting rid of the mon- arch with whom they had so unluckily burdened themselves. however, avaro's removal was not to be brought about so easily as had been his elevation to regal power. there was no law against stinginess, and unless he broke some law there could not be found a sufficient excuse for depriving the king of his throne. no one was able to suggest anything, and the council were forced to confess themselves non- plussed. among them all no one had racked his brains harder for some way of getting avaro deposed than the goldsmith, and as nothing had come of it he went home in rather an un- pleasant state of mind. as soon as he got into the house his wife and daughter eagerly began to question him about the result of the meeting. of course he was obliged to tell them that all the deliberation had been to no purpose. he had scarcely made the confession when he was startled by a loud, boisterous laugh. turning quickly about, he strode across the room to- ward the stove, behind which sat an overgrown, out-at-elbows lad. he was still laughing. “bobo, you triple idiot, what are you haw- hawing about? how dare you make fun of your betters, sirrah p” demanded the angry goldsmith, uplifting his cane to chastise him. “ho! hoſ i could n't help it,” cried the youth, nimbly dodging the stick. “don't strike me, master. i laughed to think of twenty wise men wearing out their wits over a matter that any fool could have settled in less than five minutes.” “my faith ! did ever any one hear the like?” exclaimed the goldsmith. “think you, bobo, that you, who are the biggest fool i know, could help us out of our trouble?” “that indeed i could,” replied bobo. “how, good bobo p” the youth shut one eye and looked very sly. “master,” quoth he, “that is a secret which passes not out of my own keeping. but i will bring the thing about on a certain condition.” “pray, what may that certain condition be p” inquired the goldsmith, in growing amazement. “that you give me your daughter to wife,” answered bobo coolly. when she heard these audacious words the goldsmith's pretty daughter, who was as proud as she was pretty, could hardly believe her ears. that this poor fellow, who was looked on as little better than a simpleton, should dare ask her hand seemed preposterous. “upon my word,” she exclaimed with flash- ing eyes, “the booby has gone mad—stark, staring mad—to dream that i would ever wed the king's castle in no man's land. [nov. with such as hel” and with a look of scorn at poor bobo she left the room. but her father took the matter more quietly. he wished very much to sit on the throne, and he was unwilling to let pass any chance. as he reasoned, he would run no risk in promis- ing his daughter to bobo conditionally, for if the youth failed there would be no harm done, and if he succeeded he would have proved himself clever enough to deserve her. “do you mean,” he demanded, “that you can remove king avaro from the throne with- out violence and by lawful methods?” “ay,” replied the youth; “or, rather, i intend that king avaro shall remove himself—that is, if you promise me your daughter,” he added quickly. “very well,” returned the goldsmith, no longer hesitating; “rid us of avaro and the maiden shall be yours.” some weeks after these events it became known that the prince magnifico, who was traveling about the world for his own amuse- ment, had decided to pay king avaro's capital a visit. in fact, his royal highness shortly ap- peared in town and took up his abode in the finest house that money could hire. magnifico was a fine, handsome young man of free and gay manners, and was good-hearted and gener- ous to a fault. naturally he took early occa- sion to pay his respects to the king. the latter received his visitor with seeming graciousness, though all the while he was wishing him at the other end of the earth. he knew that he would be expected to show the prince some attentions during his stay in the city, and he had no mind to pay out good money for what he reckoned as extravagant follies. instead of offering re- freshments to the prince and his attendants, he asked the former to go with him and look at the palace gardens,— which would cost nothing, —and as for the latter (who, he had no doubt, would have “eaten him out of house and home” if he had but given them the chance), he left them to shift for themselves. while they were promenading through the garden the king happened to remark, with en- vious eyes, an unusually large diamond that magnifico wore in his cap. seeing that the gem had attracted avaro's notice, the prince removed it from its place that it might be ex- amined more closely. as he was about to put it in the king's hand, however, a bird suddenly flew down, snatched the glittering stone in its beak, and then disappeared almost in a twink- ling. avaro gave a cry of horror and started forward as if to pursue the thief, but magnifico said, with a light laugh: - “let the bauble go; there are enough more like it to be had from the king's castle in no man's land.” “eh p’’ exclaimed avaro, pricking up his ears, “and do you hold the key to that won- derful castle p” “not i,” returned magnifico, with another laugh. “the door stands wide open to all. when the king of no man's land died, many years ago, he left a castle filled with treasures, and any one may go and help himself.” “know you how the castle is to be reached?” queried avaro, eagerly. “oh, yes; nothing can be easier to find. it lies within three days' journey from the bound- aries of your kingdom. you have only to travel until you come to a strange old man with a long beard, sitting at the entrance to a wood. bestow upon him a suitable alms, and he will direct you to the king's castle.” soon the prince took his leave, much to the satisfaction of avaro, who was in a violent hurry to get hold of the treasures of the king of no man's land. without losing time he gathered a great number of oxen and pack-horses and started out. a three days' march beyond the confines of his own dominions brought the king to the bor- ders of an immense forest where a strange old man with a long beard was sitting. it was the very same person whom he had formerly driven away from the shade of his house, though av- aro did not know that. the miserly monarch fumbled a while in his pockets for a “suitable alms,” and finally, not without much reluctance, he threw a copper toward the old man, and asked to be directed to the king's castle. the old man looked disdainfully at the coin lying on the ground before him. “is that all a rich king can afford to give a poor creature who asks charity ?” he demanded, severely. .* .] the king's castle in no man's land. “i do not say i am rich, nor yet a king,” an- swered avaro, fearing to part with any more of his dearly loved money. “indeed! but it is a great train that follows you?” “the prince magnifico is visiting me,” re- plied avaro, unblushingly. “ah,” said the old man slowly, “you wish “the pavements of the courtyard were nearly a hundred feet below him and were still sinking rapidly.” me to think you are not rich, nor a king, and that this train belongs to prince magnifico. very good! so be it!” and his words were accompanied by a look that make avaro shiver with dread. but avaro repeated his request to be shown the way to the king's castle. whereupon the old man stooped, and, plucking a small plant that grew at his feet, he threw it to avaro, saying: “rub your horse's nose with the juice of that herb; then give him the rein and he will take you where you seek to go. but first let vol. xxiv.- io. (see page .) me offer you a piece of advice that you will do well to follow. in the king's castle in no man's land is a great hall from which open one hun- dred doors. ninety and nine of these you may freely pass through, but beware that you do not so much as lift the latch of the hundredth door, else ill-luck will surely befall you.” º without paying very much heed to the old man's last words ava- ro rubbed the herb upon his steed's nos- trils, and dropping the reins on his neck rode forward at a quicker pace. in about an hour he came to a clearing, in the midst of which he saw the king's castle. it was a grand and stately building, but avaro had no thought of stopping to admire the beauty of its architec- ture. galloping into the courtyard he dis- mounted, and leaving his horse with an at- tendant, he hurried through the lofty por- tals into the great hall. there, as the old man had said, were the hundred doors all alike, save that the last bore a placard: “it is forbidden to enter here.” with hands trembling from excitement avaro pushed open the first of these hundred doors. what a sight then met his gaze he was on the threshold of a large chamber filled with gold coins shining as if fresh from the mint. for some minutes he stood gloating over this mass of wealth; then he carefully shut that door and opened the next one. this time a room full of magnificent pearls was disclosed to view. after he had feasted his eyes upon them for awhile, he passed on to the third door. when he opened this he was nearly blinded by the king's castle in no man's land. [nov. the luster of a great heap of diamonds, not one of which could have been smaller than a robin's egg. he was now almost beside himself for “‘master,” quoth bobo, ‘that is a secret that passes not out of my own keeping !'” (see page .) joy, and without waiting to investigate further, he rushed forth to summon his attendants and set them to work. he was in a feverish hurry to get the treasure into sacks that he might take it away before any one else should come to dispute his right to it. for nearly a week, day and night, he kept his men at their labors. there was neither sleep nor rest for any one until all the ninety- nine doors had been opened, and the mines of riches that were revealed had been carried out of the castle. the amount that avaro thus laid hold of was enormous, but if there had been ten times as much he would not have left a farthing's-worth behind. at last, toward the end of the seventh day, the ninety-nine rooms stood quite empty, and every man and beast was loaded down with as much as he could possibly carry. and now avaro turned his whole attention to the mys- terious hundredth door, for despite the warning of the strange old man — or, rather, because of it—he was irresistibly tempted to penetrate its secret. he suspected that it concealed a treasure far greater than any he had yet seen. the thought of leaving behind anything for others to get was too much for his avaricious soul. he did not long hesitate, but presently raised the latch and pushed open the door. there was nothing alarming to be seen. only a flight of stone steps leading downward. he began slowly to descend, and soon found himself in a well- lighted cellar. he glanced about him. the apartment was bare save for a large stone vase that stood in the center of it. upon the vase was this inscription: “if you would behold a wonder throw a hand- ful of earth into this vase.” avaro was sure that some enormous trea- sure was about to be revealed to him, so he scooped up some mold from the cellar floor and dropped it in upon a tiny brown seed that lay in the bottom of the vase. no sooner had he done so than a little green shoot appeared through the earth, and continued to grow even more rapidly than it had begun. in a very short time it had become a tree and had reached the top of the room. meantime its branches were spreading to such an extent that avaro realized that the place must be soon quite filled with the foliage. in some alarm he turned and hurried back up the stone steps. suddenly there came a report as if a cannon had been fired. the trunk of the tree had burst the vase, and now its roots were strik- ing deep into the ground, while its limbs shot upward with renewed vigor. at the same time a curious trembling and shaking motion made it- self felt throughout the castle. breathless with haste and terror, avaro rushed into the great hall, intending to make his escape to the courtyard, where his followers were awaiting him. but on reaching the portals, what was his horror to find that the pavements of the courtyard were nearly a hundred feet below him, and—apparently — were still sinking rapidly. in fact the castle was being raised into the air by the marvelous growth of the tree in the cellar. in vain that he shrieked frantically for help; he was already. .] the king's castle in no man's land. far beyond the reach of human hands. more- over, while he was thus being borne aloft there suddenly appeared in the midst of his aston- ished attendants the strange old man with the long beard. looking upward, this singular person addressed to avaro these words, every one of which was distinctly audible: “you have brought upon yourself your own punishment. until some one meaner than you are shall come to take your place, you must re- main where you are. now, indeed, you are not rich, neither are you a king, and your great train belongs to the prince magnifico. he will know how to make a proper use of your ill-gotten gains; you will never see them more.” whereupon the unhappy miser, now nearly three hundred feet above the earth, saw him ride away, followed by the entire company of men, horses and oxen. thus was avaro left alone in the empty cas- tle, while the immense treasure of which he had ruthlessly stripped it was carried off before his highness wished to marry and was on the lookout for a suitable bride. then, of course, there was a great stir among the maidens. one evening magnifico gave a great ball, to which all the fairest damsels in the kingdom were bidden. naturally they came, every one, and among them, looking her very prettiest, was the goldsmith's pretty daughter. to her the prince showed marked favor from the first, and danced with her as often as his duties to his other guests would permit. by and by, during a pause in the dancing, magnifico stepped forward and thus addressed the company: “my friends, i have called you together this evening for a particular reason. i desire to take a wife; but in a land where all the maid- ens are so beautiful, how can i decide which to choose p as you see, my position is a deli- cate one. i should like, therefore, to have the matter settled thus: if there be any maiden here who loves me truly, and whose heart tells her “magnifico drew back haughtily.” his very eyes. and as it is not likely that a meaner man than he will ever come into this world, probably avaro remained in the king's castle in no man's land until he died. in the mean time prince magnifico had con- tinued to live at the capital and was becoming very popular there. soon it became known that that i love her, let her come and place her hand in mine.” this was a strange and unusual method of procedure, and it caused some wonderment among those assembled. but all eyes were turned expectantly in one direction — toward the goldsmith's daughter, who, blushing very in no man's land. the king's castle much, now stepped forth, and hesitatingly ap- proached the prince. her embarrassment was great, but it was soon to be far greater, for when she stretched out her hand to lay it in that of magnifico, the latter drew back haughtily and said, with a meaning look: “upon my word, the girl must have gone mad to think a king would condescend to ”— but at that very moment a messenger rushed into the ball-room with the news that a large train of oxen and pack-horses had just arrived, bringing an enormous amount of wealth for prince magnifico. and there also appeared a strange old man with a long beard, whom the prince received with a tender embrace. “good people,” cried this last comer, ad- dressing the astonished assemblage, “in prince magnifico behold your lawful sovereign, the long-lost son of your former king!—now most happily restored to you. as for avaro, he will return no more. greet, therefore, your rightful lord.” at this revelation everybody was wild with delight. the air was filled with the sounds of rejoicing, and the entire country soon was ringing with shouts of “long live king magnifico' " but what about the goldsmith's daughter? well, the young king promptly told her that he loved her very much; they were happily married, and dwelt together in perfect accord to the end of their lives. so, although the goldsmith did not get to be king, he lived to be the father of a queen, which certainly is something of an honor. (to be continued.) º º º - teddy's dream after getting his new camera. changing days. by rudolph. f. bunner. soon the days that hide behind but just now — “betwixt, between,” the little bedroom window-blind, grass grows yellow, grass grows they that come and peep within green; eyes from dreamy sleep to win, days are short, or days are long, soon they'll bear a different face, as the cloud-flocks closer throng; soon they'll wear another grace. or the gray cloud-curtains rise, showing sunsets to our eyes— we shall greet them open-eyed, sunset clouds and lights that lie though behind white hills they hide; trailing in the western sky, we shall find them gone away, while at dusk the wind, grown bold, oh! so early, while we play. plucks the loosened leaves of gold. a thanksgiving-day problem. (a prize puzzle. see aage .) by mary seymour. walter and grace have been making merry, this thanksgiving eve, over my newly acquired title of “colonial dame.” they do not understand why i value it. i wish i could interest them in those old pioneer days to which i now seem to have a closer tie, but how to do it is a problem. if only their curiosity can be aroused in some way, the charm of the subject will surely lead to a deeper interest and more thoughtful study. it is worth trying, at least, and as they both delight in the mystery that at- taches to an unknown quantity, they shall be supplied with something to puzzle them in the quieter hours of their few days' vacation. i will set walter and grace to thinking, with just a hint of their personality, of some of the people who made our country's history in the earlier colonial days. they will learn to reverence the names of such men as the good bishop to whom pope ascribed “every virtue under heaven” ( ), the author of “the freedom of the will” ( ), and the self-denying “apostle of the indians” ( ). their love of adventure will be stirred by the perilous life of the colonist who named new england ( ), and by the strange career of the scotch seaman who, being sent on the ship “adventure” to suppress a crime, committed it himself and became an outlaw ( ). they will trace the long and tedious journeys of the ex- plorer ( ) who claimed louisiana and named it for his sovereign, and of the missionary ( ) who, besides his companion, was the first euro- pean to see the mississippi river after de soto. they will grieve for the fate of the navigator ( ) who, in a ship with a luminous name, sailed up the noble river by which he is best re- membered, and afterward was left by a muti- nous crew to perish in the waters of a great bay also named after him. they will marvel at the strange mixture of austerity and credulity in the divine ( ) who, in reference to the salem witchcraft, declared that “the devils were familiar with latin, greek, and hebrew, but were less skilled in the in- dian languages.” they will wish that more could be learned of the first child of english descent born in america (io) than merely her name and parentage. they will follow with in- terest the stormy paths of the colonial gover- nors, among whom were “ the head- strong” ( ), after whose farm or bouwerij the bowery in new york is named, and the illustrious statesman ( ) to whom milton re- ferred as “young in years, but in sage counsel old.” their admiration will be excited by the generous efforts of the philanthropist ( ) who came to found a colony as a refuge for in- solvent debtors, and they will mark the contrast between him and the “tyrant of new eng- land ” ( ). the marriage of the man ( ) who began the first systematic cultivation of tobacco will engage their attention. they will learn of the captain ( ) who silenced with drums the read- ing of the hated governor's commission and hid a charter in a famous tree, of the eloquent young englishman ( ) who crossed the at- lantic seven times to preach in america, and of the colonist ( ) on the lid of whose chest was signed the political compact of the pil- grims on board the “mayflower.” they will be sorry that the “virginia rebel” ( ) is not remembered by a better title. they will look with horror at the gallows erected on boston common where a woman ( ) was hanged for belonging to a proscribed chris- tian sect. but turning from this, they will be grateful to the governor ( ) who appointed the first thanksgiving day, and sent out four men fowling, “that they might in a more special manner rejoice together.” they will lament the fate of the old man ( ) who was pressed to death under heavy weights for refusing to plead guilty or not guilty to the charge of witchcraft, and will laugh at the bar- gain made by the controversial woman ( ) who, with her adherents, bought the island which l a thanksgiving-day problem. has been called the “eden of america” for forty fathoms of wampum, twenty hoes, and ten coats. then there will be the delightful story of the indian woman who was presented at king james's court as “the lady rebecca" ( ), and the romance of the matrimonial envoy ( ) of the first commissioned military officer in new england ( ). they will be reminded of the marvelous pos- sibilities of small beginnings, as they learn of the young clergyman ( ) who gave half his slender estate and half his library to found the oldest college in america. they will honor the humane and friendly sachem ( ) who made the first treaty with the white men in new england, kept sacred for fifty years, and the brave, high-minded naturalist ( ) who won a victory over the astonished mohawks, when for the first time they saw white men and heard the sound of muskets. they will learn of the lavish way in which royalty bestowed power by the vast domain granted the first lord proprietary ( ) of the state named after the queen of charles i., and the party over the fence: , “wh hair's all right, an by the immense territory controlled by the man ( ) who made what voltaire said was “the only league between the aborigines and the christians which was never sworn to and never broken.” they will accord respect to the con- scientious leader ( ) of a colony who tried to form a state with no laws but those of moses, and therefore would have no trial by jury. they will note the difference between the short-sighted governor ( ) who thanked god there were no free schools nor printing-presses in his colony to breed sedition, and the man ( ) whose epitaph begins with the lines, born in america, in europe bred, in africa traveled, and in asia wed. and surely a glow of noble impulse will be kindled as they mark the single-hearted devo- tion of the “apostle of soul-liberty” ( ), the first person in christendom to establish civil government on the doctrine of the liberty of conscience. so they, not i, shall solve the problem, and so shall they learn something of the time when thanksgiving day was young. don't you let me play on your team? my i'm a first-rate kicker.” ºrgāś, ſº - * zº -- º * 'º' z - :- * - - iº £: - ~ * " - little rabbit, one went out in the field to run , |ift| e rabbits, two said they did rif º know what to do. º liftle rabbits, three said: "let us climb a tree." n () - º-wnº. : sº - º - nº ºw &^ º - . à • */º - º º on the old barn door.” º º o the ten little rabbits. i little rabbifs, º six º 㺠said: "we like to º- pick up sticks' h º – /º - - --- *ººfſº - // liffle rabbits, – a ºs * % --- ſº º: £ . we/ sev en lºgº t º º % º, ſº r \!/? - said: we wish we cººſ ºf ) ºx º ven” ~ * vv ere sº º - sº wa ~ º -- - - º * _ yz a b b if . º - º, s- eight £º - te * said: come let us run :\s ſe rabbits, n | n e º ſ/ let us ºf º - | iff through the gate.” said "then iffle rabbits, ten - all got in line - and then- =- :…º. was nºt it fun to see them run? vol. xxiv.- . the curiosity-shop naming nails. any boy who has been about a carpenter shop, or has handled a saw and hammer himself, knows all about the different kinds of nails, fourpenny, eightpenny, tenpenny, and so on, and perhaps he has sometimes wondered why the different sizes are known as “pennies.” originally, an eightpenny nail, for example, was called an “eight-pound" nail, because a thousand nails of that particular size weighed eight pounds. carpenters were not particular about pronouncing the names very clearly, and in a short time an eight-pound nail was known as an “eight-pun " nail; from that it became changed to “eight-pen; ” and then somebody, thinking “pen" was a con- traction for “penny,” changed it to “eightpenny,” and that's the way it has remained to this day. it is somewhat curious that a pound should have worked its way down to a penny, and that when we say penny we really mean pound. a “setting” hen. is it not a strange thing that so many of us speak of a “setting” hen without realizing that it is not a correct expression ? if we hear a farmer say, “my hen is setting on her eggs,” we think that sounds all right; but should he say, “my boy is setting on the grass,” we would think he was not a very good fnglish scholar, and yet the one is as much of a mistake as the other. a hen does not “set”; she “sits” on her eggs, just as we say a boy “sits” on his chair; but nev- ertheless the mistake has been made so often, and for so long a time, that to very many people it would sound like a mistake to say the right thing —a sitting hen. “setting the river on fire.” sometimes, when a person wants to make an unpleasant remark in a pleasant sort of way about a dull boy, he will say, “that boy will never set the river on fire.” now, that is all very true; for even the smartest man in the world could never set a stream of water on fire, and so perhaps many of you who have heard this expression have won- dered what is meant by setting the river on fire. in england, many, many years ago, before the millers had machinery for sifting flour, each family was obliged to sift its own flour. for doing this, it was necessary to use a sieve, called a temse, which was so fixed that it could be turned round and round in the top of a barrel. if it was turned too fast the friction would sometimes cause it to catch fire; and as it was only the smart, hard-working boys who could make it go so fast as that, people got into the way of pointing out a lazy boy by say- ing that he would never set the temse on fire. after a while these sieves went out of use, but as there were still plenty of stupid boys in the world, people kept on saying that they would never set the temse on fire. now, the name of the river thames is pronounced exactly like the word “temse”; and so, after many years, those persons who had never seen or heard of the old-fashioned sieve thought that “setting the temse on fire” meant setting the river thames on fire. this ex- pression became very popular and traveled far and wide, until the people living near other streams did not see why it was any harder for a slothful boy to set the thames on fire than any other river, and so the name of the river was dropped, and everybody after that simply said “the river,” meaning the river of his particular city or town; and that is how it is that people to-day talk of set- ting the river on fire. an apple problem. once upon a time, there were two old men who sat in the market early every morning and sold apples. each one had thirty apples, and one of the old men sold two for a cent, and the other old man sold three for a cent. in that way the first old man got fifteen cents for his basket of apples, while the second old man received ten cents; so that to- gether they made twenty-five cents each day. but one day the old apple-man who sold three for a cent was too sick to go to the market, and he asked his neighbor to take his apples and sell them for him. this the other old man very kindly consented to do, and when he got to the market with the two baskets of apples, he said to himself, “i will put all the apples into one basket, for it will be easier than picking them out of two baskets.” so he put the sixty apples into one basket, and he said to himself, “now, if i sell two apples for one cent, and my old friend sells three for one cent, that is the same thing as selling five apples for two cents. therefore i will sell five for two cents.” when he had sold the sixty apples he found he had only twenty-four cents, which was right; because there are twelve fives in sixty, and twice twelve are twenty-four. but if the other old man had been there, and each one had sold his apples separately, they would have received twenty-five cents. now, how is that explained eavesdroppers. do you know why a person who listens at a key- hole is called an eavesdropper ? about two hundred years ago, there was a cer- the curiosity-shop. tain very powerful secret society which would allow no outsider to hear or see what went on at its meet- ings. there were some people in those days, just as there are now, who spent much of their time in prying into other persons' affairs, and they tried in all sorts of ways to discover what this society was doing. they kept on trying until several of them were caught and punished, and that put an end to their prowling around and listening at knot-holes or chinks or the wall; for when a man was caught at this trick he was condemned to be suspended for a short time under the eaves of a shed while it was raining hard, until the water ran in under his collar and out at his shoes; and from that day until this a prying person has been called an “eavesdropper.” real giants. we have become so accustomed to looking for giants only in fairy-tales and fables, that we are apt to forget that there have been some real giants in the world, and some of them have been quite big enough to have been characters in a fairy-tale. perhaps one of the best known real giants is goliath. he was nine feet four inches tall, and it is scarcely to be wondered at that he filled his enemies with fear. another giant mentioned in the bible was og, king of bashan. we judge he was a giant from the fact that his bed was thirteen and a half feet long, and unless he slept in a bed entirely too big for him, he must have been much larger and far more imposing than goliath. com- ing down to later times, we hear of gabara, an arabian, who lived in the first century of the christian era. he was a tremendous fellow — nine feet nine inches in height. then there was eleazer, who lived about the same time. he was even bigger than the arabian giant, and more than a foot taller than goliath; in fact, he was ten feet six inches high — probably the biggest man of whom we have any definite record. several centuries later came andronicus ii. he was also a ten-footer, but lacked several inches of being as tall as eleazer. charlemagne was another giant ruler. he was eight feet tall, and was so strong that he could squeeze together three horse-shoes at once with his hands. maximius, one of the roman emperors, was likewise a giant, being six inches taller than charlemagne. but the giants are not all confined to ancient history. in the beginning of the seventeenth century there lived in england a man by the name of john middleton, who was nine feet three inches tall, and his hands were seventeen inches long and eight and a half inches, broad. the present century has produced a number of giants, but none of them have come up to goliath in their height. one of the largest was patrick cotter, who died in . he was eight feet seven and a half inches high. some of the others are chang woo goo, the chinese giant, seven and a half feet tall; captain bates, seven feet eleven inches; gilly, a swede, eight feet in height; and big frank seven feet eight inches. we do not hear much about real giant- esses, but there have been several of them, one of whom is said to have been over nine feet tall. alice gordon, who died in , was seven feet high. barber poles. when a man wants his whiskers trimmed or a boy needs a hair-cut, he looks around for a place that has a red-and-white pole in front of it, and as soon as he sees such a pole he knows he has found a barber shop. but why does a barber always have this kind of a sign in front of his shop? in times gone by, before the world knew as much about medicine as it does now, everybody thought it was the proper thing to get rid of some of his blood now and then, especially in spring- time. this was called blood-letting, and was done by the barbers, who also pulled teeth, and did several other things in those days besides cutting hair. the operation of blood-letting required the use of a small pole or stick, which the patient held in his hand, and two bandages—one to wrap around the arm before the cut was made, and the other to bind the wound after the bleeding was over. two bandages, ready for use, were kept wound around a red pole and displayed in the door or window as a sign to the public. after a time, instead of going to the trouble of winding strips of cloth about the pole, white stripes were painted on the pole to represent the bandages, and from that day until this barbers have always used that kind of a sign. there are very few barbers to-day who know why they use a red-and-white pole, and some of them try to give it a patriotic meaning by painting their signs red, white, and blue. this is all very well, for a man has a right to do what he likes with his sign, but it takes away what little sense still remains in using a blood-let- ting sign for a barber shop. mustaches. talking of barbers very naturally brings to mind the interesting subject of mustaches; for what boy is there who does not look eagerly forward to the proud time when he can raise a mustache? the wearing of mustaches is such a universal custom that we might suppose it never had a special mean- ing or beginning; but the fact is, that it did have a beginning several hundred years ago, and served a very important purpose for a while. you will remember that for several centuries the moors had possession of spain, but were finally conquered or driven out by the christians. the moors were be- lievers in mohammedanism, and having made many converts, it was not always an easy matter to tell a mohammedan from a christian; and as there were constant conflicts between the people of the two religions, the christians decided to adopt some sign by which they could be distinguished from the unbelievers. so they let the hair grow on the upper lip and on the chin, in order to produce, as nearly as possible, the form of a cross, and in that way they were able to recognize one another at all times, and flock together in times of danger. list of prizes offered for answers to “a thanksgiving-day problem.” for the best answers to the thanksgiving-day puzzle on page , according to the conditions of the compe- tition, st. nicholas offers the following prizes: one prize of five dollars. two prizes of four dollars each. five prizes of three dollars each. ten prizes of two dollars each. twelve prizes of one dollar each. these, amounting to sixty dollars, will be given in the form of brand-new one-dollar bills. directions for pre- paring and forwarding answers are given below. the competition is limited to subscribers, or regular readers, of st. nicholas from the age of ten to the age of eighteen years inclusive. the committee of judges in awarding prizes will take into account not only the correctness of the answers, but the age of the sender and the neatness of the manuscript. all answers must be received at the office of st. nich- olas before november , , and no competitor may send more than one copy. do not write letters or notes that require a reply, as the editor cannot undertake to answer questions concern- ing the competition. the conditions are fully stated here. each number represents a question to be answered by the name of a man or woman. arrange the answers in the order of the questions, and number them on the left-hand margin. give your name, age, and address at the top of each page of the answers, leaving space enough above to fasten the pages together. use sheets of note-paper size, and black ink, and write on only one side of the paper. address: office of st. nicholas, union square, new york city; and write in left-hand lower corner of the envelop “prize puzzle.” the letter-box. editorial notes. rotten, and the ship takes in two feet of water per day. i will now close, and remain - we gladly avail ourselves of the permission kindly your interested reader, a. c. langdon. accorded by mr. robert goelet to reprint the famous portrait of his little daughter beatrice, which forms the frontispiece of the present number. the original paint- ing by john s. sargent is one of the masterpieces of american art, and we rejoice in the pleasure which the engraved copy will give to our readers. it is pleasant to think, also, that in days to come many a one, young and old, in turning over the pages of the magazine, will be delighted to come upon this rare picture—a beautiful figure of a sweet little child, marvelously portrayed by this letter will recall to our readers the article about the famous frigate, “constitution,” which was printed in st. nicholas for february, . many readers will remember, also, the incident recorded in that article of a boy's leap from the masthead of the constitution; and in connection with this we gladly print the following letter from mrs. jessie benton frémont. two corre- spondents questioned the truth of the incident, soon after our article was published, and an editorial note relating to the incident was printed in st. nicholas for june, one of the greatest of our american painters. . mrs. frémont's letter seems to confirm the story that a boy did really leap from the masthead of a united portland, me. states frigate, and she states that he was a son of com- dear st. nicholas: i am on a trip around the new modore rodgers. england coast, and a few *: ago, while at portsmouth, los angeles. i crossed the river to the kittery navy yard, where i dear st. nicholas: by chance i read your editorial saw the old frigate “constitution.” note (june number, ) referring to the jump from the the constitution is moored alongside of an old ship- masthead of a boy on the old “constitution.” i do house. she is painted yellow, and is housed over by not know the ballad, nor have i seen the february num- a large roof. on the end of the poop deck, facing the ber to which you refer. but the fact itself i was familiar bow, are printed in raised, gilt letters, “don’t give up with in my early life—told me again and again by a the ship,” which is the watchword of the american young daughter of commodore rodgers. a pet monkey nº; }. snatched off her brother's cap, and run with it up the here is very little left of the original ship; and these mast—i think frederick was the boy's name. he fol- are two posts, called bitts, which were used for hoist- lowed it, º: high, when his father was called. ing the mizzen topsails. the bottom timbers are very coming on deck, he took in the situation, and met it the letter-box. small bands of cretans have been coming to athens lately to stir up the people, and they sit in cafés and tell the crowds that gather about them their troubles. they are tall and broad-chested men, and wear big baggy trousers, like the french zouaves. the cretan women have given these men ear-rings and other valuables to sell and raise money for ammunition. a few days ago, at midnight, five hundred of these insurgents left for crete, armed to the teeth. these men are going back to die rather than stand the turks’ hard measures. there is only one factory in greece for turning out cartridges, and this one can turn out only a day. there was a slight explosion there a few days ago. i am an american boy twelve years old, and have lived in greece four years. always look forward to the end of the month to see you, dear st. nicholas. your interested reader, gardner richardson. saginaw, mich. dear st. nicholas: although we have taken you for more than eight years, i have never before written to you; but do not think that it is because i do not appre- ciate you, for i could not possibly get along if it were not for your coming once a month. i have been sick ever since the first of january, ' , but am now much better, and hope soon to be as well as ever. i have a fine little black french-canadian pony that was given me last fall, which i have already almost learned to ride. his name is “dick.” i wish to tell you about the experience one of my sister's kittens had. when it was quite small, adog—arat-terrier, i believe—pounced suddenly upon it one day, and shook it severely, i. as it #. proved, one of its hind legs. when we first discovered its condition, we thought that perhaps its leg was only out of joint, and not #. to kill it, we took it to a doc- tor, a friend of ours, thinking that if it was so he could pull it into place without any trouble; but be- fore we knew it, he was bringing it up, its leg in a plas- ter cast. he had chloroformed it, fixed its leg, and brought it up to us, and it was still unconscious. well, the cat went around with the cast on for a couple of weeks, and then we soaked it off in warm water, and that cat is as well to-day as any cat. your ever-devoted reader, daniel w. hardin. trinidad, colo. dear st. nicholas: i live three miles from trini- dad. we live in the valley of the las animas river, and can see the sangre de cristo mountains, nearly eighty miles distant. when we climb a hill we can see the spanish peaks. this is more of a mining than a farming country. there are three large coal-mines within a few miles of my home. the people around here are nearly all mexi- cans. on that account, though we live in the country, we drive to town to school. i have been going to school for four years now. i am ten years old, and i have three brothers and two sisters. i am the riddle girl. your faithful reader, freda hill. cohasset, mass. dear st. nicholas: i have taken your magazine for two years, and i like it very much. the other day i went up to boston, and went down on the “chute.” i don't know as you know what it looks like, so i will tell you. it is very much like a to- boggan-slide. half of it has cracks with water running down through them. in the middle of this half there is a track. on the other half there is no water, only a track which cars run up. on the other track a boat goes down. the people get in the cars and ride to the top; there they get into the boat and shoot down into a pond at the bottom. good-by, from dorothy bolles. ipswich, mass. dear st. nicholas: we are two friends of yours who live in the historical old town of ipswich, in essex county, mass. we saw, a few months ago, in your magazine, a poem on ipswich. a few days ago we went to the unveiling of a memorial tablet to some of the well-known men who have lived and worked here, and the orator spoke of the false alarm given, that the british troops had landed on ipswich beach, and were advancing toward the town. when he said this we instantly thought of the poem. we remain your sincere friends, julia h. and elizabeth t–. highland park, ill. dear st. nicholas: we are spending the summer at highland park. our place is right by the lake, on a high bluff. we have a family of cats — the mother and her three kittens. one day a northeasterly storm came, and the. waves were very big. after . papa went out and saw the mother cat down at the beach, right close to the water. every time a wave came in she would spring back and watch her opportunity to catch a fish. . at last she caught one about six inches long. she then brought it up the bluff. when she saw papa she looked as if she had been stealing chickens, and sneaked off with it to her kittens. we thought it very strange that she should take so much pains to catch fish for her family when they are well fed. we never heard of cats going fishing before, and thought you might be interested. is it not an unusual thing for cats to go fishing? esther r. custer. we thank the young friends whose names follow for leasant letters received: edna b. mastick, eleanor all, cynthia arter, cosette minton, j. marion lewis, charlie s. bullon, helen m. s., lydia h. l., winifred mary elwell, f. f., miriam s., alice m. gorham, jessie laura dolland, nellie w. staples, h. l. warner, ger- trude e. h., anna q. c., margaret m. thomessom, {. colby, lily bernard, virginia l. austin, julia and sther b., d. #. cheairs. answers to puzzles in the october number. a budget of boxes. . letter. . coal. . snuff. . pill. º: . kettle. . mandolin. . hatchet. . jug. . knife. . match. . cake. . chatter. . band. . hat. io. spice. scorpion. . powder. . jewel. . music. . cash. zigzag. the colossus of rhodes. cross-words: . timothv. divided cities. . arch-angel. , . liver-pool. ., ham-burg. . thither. . theresa. ; bracket. . teutons. .. whistle. . can-ton. . my-sore. . washing-ton. . mad-rid. . leg- . galileo. . aimless. . prussia..., . refusal. . husband. horn. . mus-cat, o. tehe-ran. . cay-enne. . del-hi. . wonders. ... . francis. , . grecian. , . schemes. . oblique rectangle. i.a. . art. . arrow. . tours. scholar. . holiday. . jupiter. . bishops. wring. . snare. . grand. . ensue. . dunce. . charade. mogul. # . . eaten. . ** . needs. . edict. . scare. central acrostic. armenia. cross-words: . dr.ama. . . tryst. . est. . t. forge. . le mon. . wheel. . funny. . knife. . pl.ate. w uare. i. flame. . lorel. . armil. . meine. . diamonds connected by a square. i. i. o. . aye. . rºº are. i. i*iain c. rel. . armii. . meine. aisle. . oysters. . eleve. , . ere. . s. ii. i. b. . met. several. syllables. . the quality of mercy is not strained. . merry. . berries. . tries. . yes. , . s. iii. i. basil. . better fifty years of europe than a cycle of cathay. ; : *ś: ; ; %'. 'n' & "a". illustrated final acrostic. roentgen. . mortar. . te. . ultra. . attract. . erase. . ace. . t. to our puzzlers: answers, to be acknowledged in the magazine, must be received not later than the th of each month, and should be addressed to st. nicholas “riddle-box,” care of the century co., east seventeenth st., new york city. answers to all the puzzles in the august number were received, before august th, from m. mcg.- : jersey quar- tette”— josephine sherwood — l. o. e. – sigourney fay nininger–nessie and freddie — morton atwater — katharine s. doty — lucy l. atwater. answers to puzzles in the august number were received, before august th, from alma floeckher, — fedora edgar, — ralph garretson, – e. j. hatch and h. p. gill, –louise h. curtis, –paul reese, – helen c. marble, – “may and ' ,” —virginia, bartle, – nannie g. clay, — eunice h. linsly, – g. b. dyer, o — erlmah livermore paulette, –katharine l. baird, — georgianna a. hallock, fy. lizabeth g. roper, – “dondy small,” – florence and edna, –florence winslow, — r. g. and l. s., — sarah l. wadley, – gladys e. wause, –effie k. talboys, io-allie m. davison, –warren b. blake and b. w., –claudice piper, –helen l. enos, – wm. a. lochren, –"jamaica plain trio,” -clara d. lauer co., io-randolph s. bourne, —caroline e. chase, - brynhild,” –betty g., –m., k., and k, –allil and adi, –chiddingstone, -"in the mountains,” –w. y. w., -a. poirier, –marguerite sturdy, —"two little brothers,” to:-jo and i, -marjory gane, —“woodside folks,” -daniel hardinand co., –mamma and jack, –"merry and co.,” –belle a. goldman, –laura m. zin- ser, –a. m. z., — grace edith thallon, – “camp lake,” to—s. stankowitch, – “the butterflies,” –victor j. west, . word-square. . to uncover. . . a breed of dog. . an attempt. - - . a snake-like fish. . in crystal. . part of the face. . a famous city. . lyric iv. lower left-hand díamond: . in crystal. poems. . a point of the compass. . an islet. . a feminine nickname. . baleful. . l. and m. hardenhook. weary. . three-fourths of a word meaning “to guide.” . in crystal. v. lower right-hand diamond: . in crystal. . a cover. . a rocking stone. . a barge. . noted the time of. . a masculine nickname. . in crystal. k. s. d. and w. a. st. andrew’s cross of diamonds. rhymed word-square. a needy rover is my first, * * * my second is in cunning versed; my third, a very common stone; my fourth, more silent, you will own. my fifth are lords of noble line. - - now guess this five-word square of mine. marjorie s. comstock. * - : : : + - now el acrostic. i. upper left-hand diamond: . in crystal. . each of the five words described contains four letters. a globe. . a bay-window. . things of small im- when rightly guessed, and placed one below another, portance. . a feminine name. . a meadow. . in the initial letters will spell a word signifying poets. the crystal. twenty letters which form the five words may be rear- ii. upper right-hand diamond: . in crystal. ranged so as to form the surnames of four famous poets. . to allow. . a morning reception. . divers. . cross-words: . animals that fly by night. . cer- an old word meaning “round.” . to consume. . tain small insects. . to plant and fix deeply in the in crystal. earth. . to refuse. . a tax or fine. iii. central diamond: . in crystal. . ready. nellie r. t. the riddle-box. zigzag. all of the words described contain the same number of letters. when these are rightly guessed, and placed one below another, in the order here given, the º: beginning at the upper left-hand letter, will spell the surname of a famous general. cross-words: . a kitchen utensil. . a field flower. . a proposal. : “the staff of life.” . a arden flower. . a large animal. . a kind of fur. . a book used in studying geography. . a bird. j. l. m. dissected object-spelling. example: dissect a month into a bird, a tree, a meas- ure, and an english river. answer, july. jay, yew, ell, wye. . dissect a cover into a hint, an animal, a facial or- gan, part of a house, and a beverage. . dissect an entanglement into a body of water, an exclamation, a pronoun, and a measure. . dissect an animal into an insect, a tree, part of a house, and a measure. . dissect a guide into a vegetable, part of the face, a measure, an exclamation, and a drink. . dissect what all ought to do into a river, a tree, a chinese plant, and another river. . dissect an offense against right into a command to an animal, a pronoun, a feature, a measure, and a bever- age. l. e. johnson. illustrated diagonal. all the words pictured contain the same number of letters. when rightly guessed and placed one below the other, in the order numbered, the diagonal (from the up- per left-hand letter to the lower right-hand letter) will spell the name of a celebrated english navigator. - subtractions. example: take fifty from a shallow dish and leave the head. answer, p-l-ate, pate. . take five from to justify, and leave to show. . take two fifties from even, and leave nightfall. . take one thousand from a month, and leave to curve. . take one hundred from a movable seat, and leave a kind the de vine press, new york. of brush. . take five hundred from to train, and leave a little brook. . take fifty from a flat stone, and leave to drudge. . take one hundred from to delight, and leave to hurt. . take fifty from heaps, and leave pas- try. . take five from low ground, and leave a bever- age. io. take fifty from a blaze, and leave renown... ii. take fifty from insipid, and leave, plump. . take fifty from fast, and leave parts of a table. a. poir ier. double acrostic. my primals spell the name of a famous poet; my finals spell the name of his most famous hero. cross-words (of equal length): . a perch. . a letter of the greek alphabet. . a fish. . one of the muses. . prices. . worthless matter. . a bev- erage. . a combination. . to pardon. io. a rel- ative. ii. pertaining to the sun. effie k. talboys. charade. when the wild wind, roaring, blows, then the yachtsman always knows that he must try another one if he'd get home by set of sun. when the clock, with sure refrain, speaks its words, again, again, with its monotone so sweet, two your ears will always greet. when the soldiers in a fight are well arranged, to left and right, l ah, the general ’s master then of my whole, in ruling men. elizabeth schwefel. ° diamond. . in animal. . anything woven in meshes. . a fruit. . a weight. . in animal. c. rosamond trowbridge. cross with squared ends. * * * * * * * * * * i. upper square: . four fifths of satin. . square yards. . part of the eye. . a cosy home. ii. left-hand square: . young animals. . a mental image. . half. . four fifths of satin. iii. right-hand square : i. four fifths of lasso. . affection. . to acknowledge frankly. . con- nected by threads. iv. lower square: . a performance by one per- son. . by word of mouth. . a substance emitted by a volcano. . four fifths of lasso. v. central diamond: . in fact. . a lovely lady, the personification of truth, in spencer's “faerie queene.” . five eighths of chanting. . deed. . in truth. from to , and from to , each spell a familiar name. david h. dodge. º, „“jlhoin svinjlsiyi ho no gixh (n sv Ģijn v ingi hjl gigion v gt Å gi hj, sv,, "raenodnou aº ºkullaerwe w wołdae·oo -- woow-nwa ºdossmoa -o worssinae ae st. nicholas. vol. xxiv. december, . no. copyright, , by the century co. all rights reserved. the picture. a little lady, a very young knight, just a girl and a boy in each other's sight, oh, their smiling faces were clear and bright, their velvets and satins with gems bedight! gold and laces and pearls had she, and he was superb as a lad could be. their cheeks were rosy, their hearts were light, as they danced them a measure on christmas night. 't was: “ah, my lady!” and “yea, my lord!” and he touched as lightly his jeweled sword as if 't were a flower; yet he knew with pride the trick of the weapon that decked his side. and she, why, the very sweep of her gown told how, in valor and grand renown from sire to son, through court and crown, the name she bore had been handed down! and what was her name p and who was the boy p – the two who danced in their stately joy. i do not know, and i hardly care — their story is neither here nor there. for girls and boys, young, merry, and fair, gladden our firesides everywhere. they thrive and flourish to-day, as then — the little ladies, the little men and, grand or humble, their hearts are light when they tread them a measure on christmas night. mary mapes dodge. christmas in bethlehem. by edw n s. wallace. during the christmas season, when the thoughts of the civilized world turn to beth- lehem, many will wonder how the people there keep this greatest religious holiday. very few american children can ever visit the little city among the judean hills. yet a number of travelers from america and europe come to the holy land every year, and possibly some st. nicholas readers may be among those who on this christmas day will crowd the streets place of jesus, it is the birthplace of israel's great warrior-king, david. bethlehem to-day has barely eight thousand inhabitants, and in appearance is not attractive. the streets are too narrow for vehicles; in fact, there is but one street in the town wide enough for carriages, and it is so very narrow that they cannot pass each other in it. the streets were made for foot travelers, donkeys, and camels. bethlehem is about five miles south of jeru- view of bethlehem. the building on the left is the church of the nativity. of the little city nestled among its fig-trees and olive-orchards. it is a little city, and it does not take many people to crowd it; but, besides being the birth- salem. leaving the larger city by the jaffa gate, we take a carriage and ride rapidly over the fine road built but a few years ago. the car- riage we are in and those we meet are wretched christmas in bethlehem. a nearer view of the church of the nativity. affairs. the horses are to be pitied, first, be- cause they are not well cared for, and second, because their drivers are regular jehus who drive them “furiously” up hill and down. in less than an hour we are in the marketplace of beth- lehem, in front of the church of the nativity. let us suppose we have arrived on christmas eve, in time to wander about and to become acquainted with the little city. of course it has changed in appearance since the time of the birth of christ. it is larger, and better built. now, as then, the houses are of stone, and, as cities and customs change but little in the east, we may safely infer that modern bethlehem houses are much like those of nine. teen hundred years ago. perhaps some of the old buildings that were in existence so long ago may still be standing. of course the great church of the nativity was not then erected, nor were any of the large religious buildings we see. these are the memorials of a later date, built in honor of him whose earthly life began here. one would have to be unmindful of his surroundings and very unimaginative not to wonder what the place was like on that night the anniversary of which we are celebrating. we know that then, as on this december , it was filled with people. but those people had come for a different purpose. augustus caesar, the master of the then known world, had issued an imperial decree ordering a general registration of all his subjects. this was for the purpose of revising or completing the tax-lists. accord- ing to roman law, people were to register in their own cities—that is, the city in which they lived, or to which their village or town was at- tached. according to jewish methods they would register by tribes, families, and the houses of their fathers. joseph and mary were jews, and conformed to the jewish custom. it christmas in bethle hem. a throng or pilgrims entering bethleheat on christm as day. was well known that he and mary were of the tribe of judah and family of david, and that bethlehem was their ancestral home. accord- ingly, they left the nazareth home, in the ter- ritory of zebulun, and came to david's “own city,” in the territory of judah. they came down the east bank of the jordan, crossed the river at jericho, and came up among the judean hills and valleys till they reached bethlehem. it was a long journey, and a wearisome one; and, on arriving, a place of rest was the first thing sought. evidently they had no friends living in the place; or, if they had, their houses were already filled. it was neces- sary that shelter be had, and immediately. in the khan, or inn, there was no room; so there was nothing to do but occupy a part of the space provided for cattle. it was not an un- usual thing to do, and is often done to-day in these eastern villages. in fact, they were about as comfortable there as in any khan. at a khan one may procure a cup of coffee and a place to lie down on the floor; but each guest provides his own bed and covering. this was all joseph and mary could have obtained in the inn, had there been room for them. and here in beth- lehem, in a stable, or a cave used for stabling animals, jesus was born, and mary “wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger.” there is one short walk we should take be- fore entering the church of the nativity and the cave beneath it. this is to the “field of the shepherds,” about a mile east of the church, and the traditional place where the shepherds were watching their flocks on that momentous night. this may not be the exact place where the angels appeared, but there is no reason why we may not accept the tradition which has placed the event here. it has often been won- dered why the shepherds had their flocks out all night in the winter time; and the wonder is easily satisfied when we know that these were not ordinary flocks of sheep nor ordinary shep- .] christmas in bethle hem. herds. these flocks were those specially se- lected for sacrifice in the temple at jerusa- lem, at the great passover season, and were kept in the fields all the year. the shep- herds were specially appointed. some time during that winter night the shep- herds were dazzled by a light more brilliant than the stars, and roused by voices not of earth. the christ, whose future sacrifice their flocks were to symbolize, was born; and the angels were singing the good tidings. these shepherds were the first to hear and to spread the marvelous news. because of the event the angels were herald- ing, men have built the great church of the na- tivity in bethlehem, and, indeed, all the great christian churches and cathedrals of the world. it is because of this that people from every country in europe and america will join the throng of native christians in the “city of the nativity,” and rejoice in memory of the angels' song. it is because of this that there is to-day so much of “peace on earth” and “good-will toward men.” and now we return in time to see the pro- cession of bishops, priests, and people that is forming in the square in front of the church. each is dressed in his most gorgeous robes. turkish soldiers line both sides of the street to keep the way open for the procession to pass. the latin patriarch of jerusalem has just arrived. the procession of priests, carry- ing banners and immense candles, meets him, then turns, and all go into the latin chapel through the main entrance. following, we are surprised to find the main entrance so small. it can admit but one at a time, and that one must stoop to enter. from the masonry it can be seen that the entrance was once much larger. the reason for the change was that the mo- hammedans at one time did all in their power to injure and annoy the christians, and even interior of the church of the nativity. [dec. christmas in bethlehem. chancel of the church, and entrance to the grotto of the nativity. used to ride on horseback into the very church. the door therefore was made small to protect the church from this sacrilege. once inside, we see we are in a very ancient structure. part of the masonry dates from the time of constantine, who built a magnificent basilica on this site, about the year of our era. all we can see of the oldest work, however, probably dates from not later than justinian's time, about a.d. in any case, the church is a venerable building, and it has witnessed some stirring scenes. in it baldwin the crusader was crowned king of jerusalem. it has been re- paired a number of times; and once, when it needed a new roof, king edward iv. of eng- land gave the lead to make one. this was about the year . the lead roof did good service for about two hundred years, and might have lasted much longer had not the moham- medans melted it up to make bullets. how- ever, another roof was soon provided. inside, the building consists of a nave and double aisles. the aisles are separated by two rows of columns made of red limestone. these columns have plain bases, and are surmounted by corinthian capitals. they are nineteen feet high, and at the top of each a cross is engraved. the church is now owned by the latin, greek, and armenian christians. religious services will be held all night in the latin chapel of st. catherine. at midnight a solemn mass will be said by the patriarch of jerusalem. the chapel is full of people, many of whom are sitting on the floor. before the procession descends into the grotto of the nativity we make our way there, so as to have a better view. originally it was simply a natural cave in .] christmas in bethlehem. the limestone rock. now little of the native rock is seen. marble slabs cover the floor and line the walls. the ceiling, which is about ten feet high, is resplendent with thirty-two brass lamps. their light enables us to examine the many pictures, portraying scenes in the life of jesus, which the devotion of christians has hung about the walls; but these pictures are generally very poor as specimens of art. at the east end of the cave there is a small recess in the rock before which hang fifteen lamps. in the floor of this recess a bright silver star is inlaid; it is nearly all worn away by the con- stant kissing it receives. around the star is an inscription in latin, which tells us that “here, of the virgin mary, jesus christ was born.” turning just a little to the right from this place of the star, and descending a few steps, we are in a small chamber called the grotto of the manger. the original manger is, of course, not here; it probably never was preserved, and many stories about it are inventions of a much later date. here, also, is a little altar on the place where the wise men from the east pros- trated themselves before the infant jesus. these three — the places of the birth, the manger, and the adoration — are all in what is called the chapel of the nativity. passing out of this chapel by the steps lead- ing into the greek church of st. mary, we are again in the streets of bethlehem. it is a relief to get away from the glare of lamps, the smoke of candles, and the heavy odors of burning incense, and to breathe again the fresh air blowing over the judean hills. the streets are very quiet, for all not in the church have retired to their homes. occasionally peo- ple leave the church, and are driven away in their carriages to jerusalem, though most will remain all night. we can wander through the streets and over the neighboring hills, for the clear moon makes it almost as bright as day. in the chapel. of the nativity. christmas in bethle hem. how peaceful it all is indeed, it seems a most suitable place for the coming to the world of “the prince of peace.” the grotto of the manger. faint streaks of the dawn are beginning to show in the sky above the hills of moab. rapidly they grow longer and brighter, and the great days and the small days, they come and go so fast; the spring days and the fall days, the summer days, and all days, they take their turn at last. soon it is daybreak and we know that it is christmas in bethlehem. but we miss much of the accustomed joy of the day. at home there would be good cheer, the companionship of loved ones, and the giving and receiv- ing of gifts. here there is little of this, the home life of the people is so different from ours. christmas day in bethlehem is not the christ- mas day we know; it is full of religious ceremonies, and when these are over young and old go back to their ac- customed life. the faces of the boys and girls i saw in bethlehem last christmas were not such faces as i should have seen in any city or village in america. and i knew the reason. it was because christmas to them was much the same as any other day of the year. and so it requires more than beth- lehem to make christmas what we like to have it. it requires loving home life and the presence of the spirit of the christ child in the heart. and yet, who would not be glad to spend one christmas eve and day where he who made the glad day possible was born ? need winter days be drear days? we laugh at storm and cold, for christmas days are dear days, and full-of-happy-cheer days, for all the young and old. by frances cole burr. most of the occupants of the small room sat gazing out of the windows into the snow-filled air. there were windows enough to go around, though the room was long and narrow, and contained six or eight persons. all day they had spent together in this one room, each sitting quietly in his place. there had been but little conversation. the tall dark man with the white mustache and tired face had slept much, with his head resting on his folded overcoat. a boy opposite, who showed sullen anger and de- fiance in every line of his young face, had watched him, and wondered how a man could sleep in the daytime. the boy did not know that those long, nervous white hands, wielding a surgeon's knife, had saved a life the day before, and the tired eyes had watched for many hours following. an earnest, bright-faced young girl near by had observed him, too, while he slept, as she eyed all her neighbors, with keen interest. there was the old lady in the corner, a man with sample-cases piled at his side, the shabby little woman holding a big baby, and a middle- aged man with stolid, joyless countenance, who had read three newspapers through from beginning to end without a change of expres- sion, and since then had sat staring straight be- fore him. the girl in her active mind had tried to combine these various personages into a story, but she gave it up with a little sigh for their commonplaceness. an ill-assorted company it was. surely they would have chosen to spend the day before christmas together for no other reason than, as it happened, they all wished to travel over this branch road, which ran between the northern line from little falls and the grand central. the day was nearly over, and the journey should have been; but the snow, which had been falling steadily since morning, grew heavier, the speed of the train perceptibly decreased, and the engine groaned and labored. the engineer watched apprehensively as they drew near a certain cut, narrow and deep, through the hills. it was drifted high; and meeting that soft, still, resistless opposition, the great engine slowed and stopped. the drifting snow hid the familiar landmarks, and so it happened that, just as the passengers were anxiously questioning one another as to the cause of the stop in that lonely place, jim case, the fireman, swinging himself off the engine, slipped over a culvert, and in the fall of only a few feet broke his arm with startling ease and completeness. he was lifted back, white and fainting; and, when the brisk conductor hurried into the passenger-coach, he responded to the anxious queries with a brief “snowed up,” and then, addressing the dark man, he said: “i don't suppose you're a doctor, are you?” “yes,” said the man, with an inquiring glance; “ does some one need me?” the conductor looked relieved. “now, ain't that luck!” said he, “surgeon, ioo [dec. a snow-bound christmas. too, i guess?” the doctor nodded assent. in a few words the conductor told of the accident amid exclamations of mingled sympathy and dismay from the listeners. and as the doctor picked up his small black bag and followed him into the forward car, the conductor continued: “not many of you travel on this road, but i thought that was your trade when i took your ticket. i gave a job to a surgeon once when i was hurt in a wreck. that was a good while ago, but i have never forgot the look or the feel of his hand — so steady and strong and white,” he added with an apologe- tic smile. “here we are, jim'." he called out cheer- ily; “here is the doctor and the head nurse. you just break your bones and we will do the rest, you know.” the fireman lay stretched upon the floor, his head resting languidly on a pile of waste, and a pretty five-year-old boy sobbing with fright was kneeling close beside him. “who is this little fellow p” asked dr. carle- ton, after the examination was over, and he was skilfully bandaging the injured arm. “he’s mine, poor little chap!” said the fire- man, with a tender glance, though his lips were white with pain. the boy, who was a sturdy little fellow just out of dresses, stopped his sobs as he heard his father's voice, and looking up at the doctor asked: “now will we go to grandma's, and have a christmas?” º “jamie stopped crying, to taste the broth.” the man winced again, and closed his eyes; and the conductor explained in a kindly aside: “little chap's mother is dead; just buried her a week ago. she had him filled up chock- full of christmas, and seems as if he could n't give it up. they are going on to jim's mother's. she's going to take care of jamie; and i guess the old lady had promised to have a tree.” jamie was listening eagerly, and broke in, forgetting his shyness: “yes; a christ- mas tree and can- dles. for grandma said so.” “seems as if that is all he thinks of,” said the fire- man; “his poor mother — she —” and he stopped, and closed his eyes again. “shall we go now p” insisted jamie. “you said that we’d get there the night be- \ fore christ- mas.” “now, young fel- low,” broke in the con- ductor, “you know this is road luck. you are a railroad man, and must learn to keep a stiff upper lip when things go wrong; brace up, and let that tree wait a day or so.” but jamie's sobs broke out afresh. fireman jim's head turned languidly away. “i should think some of those women might know what to do for the boy,” said the conduc- tor. the doctor nodded. “take him away, and have him amused if you can,” said he. “he troubles his father. he tºº (see page ioz.) .] ioi a snow-bound christmas. ought to have something to eat,”— the doctor hesitated, and then added,—“though i suppose it does no good to say so. have you anything — any way of making a cup of tea, or any beef extract? do you go prepared for these emer- gencies?” the conductor shook his head. “i'm afraid not,” he said, “unless some of the passengers might have something left from lunch. we were due at : , you know, and we get our supper in town.” “well, you might inquire,” said the doctor; “he would feel better after having a bit of something.” so the conductor, carrying the crying ja- mie, went back to the passenger-car. he found the young girl the center of what seemed al- most a social circle. the good - natured baby, who had been drowsily nodding, was sound asleep in one of the farthest seats, as content as a veteran traveler in a pullman state-room, while his mother sat shyly on the outskirts of the little company. the traveling man's sam- ple-cases, covered with a napkin, formed an improvised table; and upon this the stock of eatables was being spread “well, anyhow, we sha’n’t be starved,” the old lady, said; “that there basket”— point- ing to a huge covered wicker — “is full of fixin's i was taking to john's folks. i expect it won't seem so like christmas to the chil- dren if they don't have them leaf-cookies and thought, when i was bakin' 'em, that they would save our lives.” “we'll hope they need not do quite so much for us,” laughed the pretty girl, whose name on the one modest trunk in the rear car was d. m. marsh, “but we will not touch the chil- dren's cookies unless we are starved into such robbery. how glad i am aunt mary made me take this great box of luncheon! i hardly made an impression on it this noon.” and she brought out an unopened jar of pressed chicken. “this will be our christmas turkey. " she announced. “is n’t there some way of melting that down into soup p” asked the conductor, who came in just at this point. “how is the injured man p” inquired the cutting the christmas tree for jamie. the gingerbread animals; and they are good if commercial traveler, while the old lady held i do say it that ought n't; but i'm sure i never out her motherly arms for jamie, as she said: i o [dec. a snow-bound christmas. “you poor lamb! is it his pa that 's killed?” “he 's all right,” said conductor brooks; “only his arm is broken, and he is knocked out and faint. the doctor was asking for some soup, or something to brace him a little. if that was chicken broth, now, it would just fit.” “why, we can make broth in just a few min- utes,” said miss marsh; and in a moment she had brought from her trunk a pretty chafing-dish, and lighted it, the old lady nodding approval. “alcohol, too,” the girl said, laughing; “left over from the last oyster-spread at college.” the lamp was quickly adjusted, and into the bright pan went part of the jellied chicken. “it's a privilege, nowadays, to see a young girl know somethin' about cookin'!” said the old lady, while the stolid-faced man silently proffered a match; and jamie stopped crying to taste the broth, when an appetizing odor began to diffuse through the car. during all that had passed the boy had hardly left his dark corner. he did not wish to talk. it was nobody's business where he was going, and some one would be sure to ask. but he looked on, and thought how bright and quick and pleasant the girl was. when the broth was sent to jim, and the doctor returned, the remainder of aunt mary's bread and butter and pickles was spread, with various additions from the others' lunch-baskets. part was re- served for breakfast, and the little group whose common misfortune had thawed all reserve supped together merrily if not bountifully. the boy declined all but a single sandwich. he was hungry, but the angry, defiant pride which had hardened his face all day melted somewhat, and he felt less like eating. “and to-morrow is christmas!” said the trav- eling man, whose name was osgood. “i 've worked like two men to get through and have the day at home with the wife and babies, and it is hard to be stalled up so near.” “and there 's my son john and milly and the children. i have n’t missed a christmas with them since john was married. they all come to me thanksgivin’,” said the old lady; “but we're all alive, and that's a great mercy.” “never mind,” said miss marsh; “we’ll have the evening at home. but i wish i had n't stayed with aunt mary until the last moment.” “i want a christmas!” sobbed jamie, his ready tears bursting forth again. “mama said i should have a christmas; an' gramma 's got a tree, an' i – want—a—christmas!” again the big conductor told the short sad lit- tle story of the dead mother who had promised a happy day to the boy; and miss marsh looked steadily out of the car window a half-minute, while her eye brightened and a resolve formed. “jamie boy,” said miss marsh, “you shall have your christmas. it 's christmas here just the same as all over the world; and you shall have a real one.” he looked up in joyful trust. “an' a tree ?” “yes, dear; a real tree,” said the girl. the others listened in astonishment. the old lady opened her lips to remonstrate, but shut them again. the traveling man whistled softly and skeptically, and the doctor looked on amused. only jamie and the boy gazed at her with im- plicit confidence. “when shall i have it " asked jamie. “to-morrow—christmas morning,” said the girl, brightly. “now go to papa and go right to sleep, and in the morning—you 'll see " with tears undried, but with a face beaming with happiness, jamie let himself be carried away to his makeshift bed by his father's side. “an' a tree,” he said, as the sleepy eyes closed; “an' candles, an’—” “well?” said mr. osgood, with a quizzical smile of doubt. but before miss marsh could reply the boy said briefly : “i’ll get it. i saw 'em before it got dark.” he had already buttoned his coat, and seiz- ing the red-handled ax that hung near the stove, he bravely leaped out into the drifts. “those little evergreens, you know,” said miss marsh; “they are just a few feet away— he can see them by the light from the windows, i think; and we can make it pretty, somehow,” she continued eagerly; “jamie's such a little lad, and christmas means so much to him.” mr. osgood nodded. “but what's goin' to be on the tree ?” asked the practical old lady. “it 's all foolishness goin' to so much trouble for that one child, and we a-tremblin', you may say, between life and death! but i declare for 't, i hate to have the .] io a snow-bound christmas. day go by and do nothin'; and even if we're rescued to-morrow, as that conductor says he thinks probable, which i don't more 'n half believe— what with gettin' home, and explainin' when you do get there, which please mercy we may!— why, the day's as good as gone. an', anyhow, i've got a pair of red knit mittens for john's alexander, and i’m going to give 'em to that poor motherless lamb, an' you can hang 'em on the tree for one thing, miss marsh.” “splendid!” said miss marsh. “and i have a red skating-cap in my satchel — i believe it will just fit him.” “is he too small for a knife p” asked mr. osgood. “let’s see — about five, is n’t he p my wife makes six the knife-line; i guess i’d better not,” and he returned it to his pocket. “hold on!” said he, with sudden inspiration. “i 've some illustrated catalogues here that could pass for picture-books—yes, and cards too—our new ones”; and, diving into his cases, he brought out a pile of brilliant pictures. “will miss santa claus accept this?” asked dr. carleton, offering a pocket microscope. just then the door opened, and the boy came in, dragging triumphantly a small evergreen. every one laughed excitedly, and it “did be- gin to seem somethin' like,” as the old lady said. then how they worked the tree was braced firmly at the end of the aisle, the lumps of ice and snow shaken off, and a more durable quality of soft cotton flakes from dr. carleton's surgical stores added. leaf-cookies and aston- ishing gingerbread animals dangled from the branches, and alexander's red mittens waved in welcome. even the man of the immovable visage helped, with something like a softening of his hard features; and when he fastened to a branch a red blank-book and pocket pencil, there was an outburst of laughing applause. meanwhile dr. carleton talked quietly with the shabby little woman; he had asked about the baby's teething, and she unconsciously gave him much of her simple story. her husband had lost his place in the little town where they had lived. he had found work in the city, and she was going to meet him. they had no “folks.” she worked in a factory before she was married. no; the baby had n't cut any teeth yet. she hoped she would n't fuss or be sick about it. she did n't know much about babies. the doctor listened with sympathy, and, a little later, wrapping a bright goldpiece in a bit of paper, he marked it, “for baby burns to cut her teeth on,” and it was added to the tree. the boy looked on with a dull ache in his throat. he hoped it was not going to be sore. how sick he had been with those bad throats, and how good mother always was mother was filling the children's stockings at home now. she always managed to have something for them, somehow. poor mother! she would have it all to bear alone now. how could he leave her ? why did n't he think of her part “but i won't go back,” he said to himself. “i can't go back now. i'll come home rich some day, and give mother everything she wants; but i won't sneak back now.” then he did n't care to think more. “i can make a top,” he whispered to miss marsh, “if i have a piece of wood. shall i ?” “he would like it best of all, i know,” said miss marsh heartily; and then she added aloud, “now we must have a star for the top. what can we do about it p” “well, i guess it's good enough,” said the old lady. “i guess he won't miss the star.” but the girl looked from one to another in perplexed appeal. “why must there be a star?” asked the boy shyly. miss marsh hesitated a moment. she did not know much about boys, this brotherless college girl; but she said, almost as shyly as he “don’t you think the christmas star is the most beautiful thing in the world? you know the christ child was born beneath a star; and i think it meant, for one thing, that for every new life there is a star set in heaven that will light the life all the way, if once we catch a glimpse of it, and know it is there for us.” the boy listened breathless. he could not have told just what the girl's words meant; but the moral courage that all day had been strug- gling to live took new strength, and slowly be- gan to shape itself into a resolution. they stood looking at each other, when the traveling man, who was down again in his cases, emerged in triumph, waving some tinfoil. “cut out the star from that pasteboard box,” io a snow-bound christmas. [dec. the christmas tree in the car.—“then they all filed in, jamie in conductor brooks's arms.” (see page ios.) he cried; “and here 's the glory for it. we staring at the sight, when he came in a little can't stop short of perfection in this tree.” later. “where do you folks think you are “well, i'm blessed!” said conductor brooks, at a sunday-school festival?” .] io a snow-bound christmas. “never you mind where we be!” said the old lady. her bonnet was awry, and her spectacles on her forehead. “you just help h'ist up that star, and then we 're all done.” christmas morning, jamie woke round-eyed and expectant. “i want my tree,” he said; “and i want my breakfast.” and as the waiting höhday-makers were impatient as he, the breakfast was hurried through, and then they all filed in, jamie in conductor brooks's arms, his father, who was doing bravely, coming behind, followed by the engineer. jamie gazed at the tree as if dazed by his surprise; but after the first moment, a smile of radiant, ecstatic joy spread over the round, baby face. not a word or sound— only that beaming, blissful smile. it was irre- sistible; and with shouts of laughter the tree was despoiled of its offerings, and jamie's cup of happiness was full. in the midst of the mer- riment miss marsh glanced at the boy. he was gazing at the star with a curious expression, and she thought of their words the night before. in her bodice was thrust a pin whose head was a tiny golden star—the badge of her class so- ciety. she drew it out, and pressing it into one of the leaf-cookies which were being passed about, she handed it to him with a whispered “merry christmas!” he saw it, and there was a quick rush of color to his face, and tears to his eyes—and that little star weighed down the balance of decision on the right side, and made a man of him. but the girl never knew. when the laughing talk had quieted a little, jamie turned confidently to miss marsh. “now the story,” he said. “what story, laddie p’’ she asked. “the christmas story. mama said there is a christmas story, and she saved it up for christmas day. it is the nicest story i ever heard, mama said.” every one was still for a moment. poor jim turned away. “she would have made a good man of him,” was the thought in his heart. the girl felt her own heart beat quickly. could she p before all these strange people? what vol. xxiv.- . would they think! no, she could n't; she would have a chance to talk to jamie alone be- fore the day was over. that would be much better. but the childish eyes gazed expectantly into hers, and with a swift thought of the dead mother she lifted the little boy gently to her knee, and with softly flushing cheeks, and voice that trembled a little, she began: “long ago, in a beautiful country over the sea, there were shepherds in the fields keeping watch over their flocks by night.” the sweet voice grew stronger as the simple words of the wonderful story held the listeners in solemn silence. the little woman's tears dropped on her baby's head as she heard of the mother for whom there was no room in the inn, and a vague, trembling prayer went up from her burdened heart to the christ who was a child. the boy's eyes shone with new light as he thought of the star set in heaven for the christ who was a boy, and with a thrill of newly awakened love and appreciation he placed his own weary, hard-worked mother on her throne in her boy's heart. there were eloquent sermons preached in the churches that christmas day, and wonder- ful music was sung; but, as truly as in his visi- ble temples, christ was preached and worshiped about that little tree, whose balsam breath went up as frankincense and myrrh. a little later in the day, after the relief had come and the train pulled into the city station, the christmas party stopped a moment for the last handshakings and farewells. twen- ty-four hours before they would have parted with scarcely a glance at one another. now they seemed old friends. the busy doctor hurried away first, followed by a long, grateful look from the baby's mother. “i’ll never forget it of him,” she thought. the boy took a step toward miss marsh. one of her hands was tight in jamie's chubby clasp, the other was held in the old lady's. he looked a moment, then turned with a re- solute face, and walked to the ticket-office. “give me a ticket on the first train that goes back to little falls,” he said. master skylark. by john bennett. [begun in the november number.] chapter iv. off for coventry. at the bridge street crossing nick paused irresolute. around the public pump a chattering throng of housewives were washing out their towels, and hanging them upon the market-cross to dry. along the stalls in middle row the grumbling shopmen were casting up their sales from tallies chalked upon their window-ledges, or cuffing their tardy apprentices with no light hand. - john gibson's cart was hauling gravel from the pits in henley street to mend the causeway at the bridge, which had been badly washed by the late spring floods, and the fine sand dribbled from the cart-tail like the sand in an hour-glass. here and there loutish farm hands waited for work; and at the corner two or three stout cudgel-men leaned upon their long staves, al- though the market was two days closed, and there was not a coventry merchant in sight to be driven away from stratford trade. goody baker with her shovel and broom of twigs was sweeping up the market litter in the square. nick wondered if his own mother's back would be so bent when she grew old. “whur be-est going, nick?” roger dawson sat astride a stick of timber in front of master geoffrey thompson's new house, watching tom carpenter, the carver, cut fleurs-de-lis and curling traceries upon the front wall beams. he was a tenant-farmer's son, this roger, and a likely good-for-naught. “to coventry,” said nick, curtly. “wilt take a fellow wi' thee p’” poor company might be better than none. “come on.” roger lumbered to his feet and trotted after. “no school to-day?” he asked. “not for me,” answered nick, shortly, for he did not care to talk about it. “faither wull na have i go to school, since us ha’ comed to town, an' plough-land sold for grazings,” drawled roger; “muster pine o' welford saith that i ha' learned as much as faither ever knowed, an’’t is enow for i. fai- ther saith, it maketh saucy rogues o' sons to know more than they's own dads.” nick wondered if it did. his own father could neither read nor write, while he could do both, and had some latin, too. at the thought of the latin he made a wry face. “joe carter be-eth in the stocks,” said roger, peering through the jeering crowd about the pillory and post; “a broke tom samson's pate wi' 's ale-can yestreen.” but nick pushed on. a few ruddy-faced farmers and drovers from the red horse vale still lingered at the boar inn door and by the tap-room of the crown; and in the middle of the street a crowd of salters, butchers, and deal- ers in hides, with tallow-smeared doublets and doubtful hose, were squabbling loudly about the prices set upon their wares. in the midst of them nick saw his father, and scurried away into back bridge street as fast as he could, feel- ing very near a sneak, but far from altering his purpose. “job hortop,” said simon attwood to his apprentice at his side, looking out suddenly over the crowd, “was that my nick yonder p” “nay, master, could na been,” said job, stol- idly; “nick be-eth in school by now — the clock ha' struck. t was dawson's hodge and some like ne'er-do-well.” of master skylark. io? chapter v. the black man over the pate wi' a bladder full o' peasen — an' angels wi' silver wingses, an' saints wi' goolden hair? or wull it be the land was full of morning sounds as the a giant nine yards high, clad in the beards lads trudged along the warwick road together. an ax rang somewhere deep in the woods of arden; cart-wheels ruttled on the stony road; a blackbird whistled shrilly in the hedge, and they heard the deep-tongued belling of hounds far off in fulbroke park. now and then a heron, rising from the river, trailed its long legs across the sky, or a kingfisher sparkled in his own splash. once a lonely fisherman down by the avon started a wild duck from the sedge, and away it went pattering up- stream with frightened wings and red feet running along the water. and then a river-rat plumped into the stream beneath the willows, and left a long string of bubbles behind him. nick's ill-humor soon wore off as he breathed the fresh air, moist from lush meadows, and sweet from hedges pink and white with hawthorn bloom. the thought of being pent up on such a day grew more and more unbearable, and a blithe sense of freedom from all restraint blunted the prick of conscience. “why art going to coventry, nick?” inquired roger tºº suddenly, startled by a - == thought coming into his zºº - wits like a child by a bat "wºº ~. in the room. “to see the stage-play that the burgesses would na allow in strat- ford.” “wull i see, too?” “if thou hast eyes—the mayor's show is free.” “oh, feckins, wun't it be fine?” gaped hodge. “be it a tailors' show, nick, wi' herod the king, and a rope for to hang judas p an' wull they set the o' murdered kings, like granny saith she used world afire wi' a torch, an’ make the earth to see ?” quake fearful wi' a barrel full o' stones? or “pshaw! no,” said nick; “none of those wull it be sin in a motley gown a-thumping old-fashioned things. these be players from in the warwick road. “‘whur be-est going, nick?' asked roger dawson.” io master skylark. [dec. london town, and i hope they'll play a right good english history-play, like “the famous victories of henry fift,' to turn a fellow's legs all goose-flesh l’” hodge stopped short in the road. “la " said he, “i’ll go no furder if they turn me to a goose. i wunnot be turned goose, nick att- wood—an' a plague on all witches, says il" “oh, pshawl" laughed nick; “come ons no witch in the world could turn thee bigger goose than thou art now. come along wi' thee; there be no witches there at all.” “art sure thou'rt not bedaffing me?” hesi- tated hodge. “good, then; i be na feared. art sure there be no witches p” “why,” said nick, “would master burgess john shakspere leave his son will to do with witches p” “i dunno,” faltered hodge; “a told muster robin bowles it was na right to drownd 'em in the river.” nick hesitated. “maybe it kills the fish,” said he ; “and master will shakspere always liked to fish. but they burn witches in lon- don, hodge, and he has na put a stop to it— and he's a great man in london town.” hodge came on a little way, shaking his head like an old sheep in a corner. “wully shaxper a great man?” said he. “why, a's name be cut on the old beech-tree up snitter- field lane, where 's uncle henry shaxper lives, an’’t is but poorly done. i could do better wi' my own whittle.” “ay, hodge,” cried nick; “and that 's about all thou canst do. dost think that a man's greatness hangs on so little a thing as his sleight-of-hand at cutting his name on a tree?” “wull, maybe; maybe not; but if a be a great man, nick attwood, a might do a little thing passing well—so there now !” nick pondered for a moment. “i do na know,” said he, slowly; “heaps of men can do the little things, but parlous few the big. so some one must be bigging it, or folks would all sing very small. and he doeth the big most beautiful, they say. they call him the swan of avon.” “avon swans be mostly geese,” said hodge, vacantly. “now, look 'e here, hodge dawson, don't thou be calling master will shakspere goose. he married my own mother's cousin, and i will na have it.” . “la, now,” drawled hodge, staring, “’t is nowt to me. thy muster wully shaxper may be all the long-necked fowls in warrickshire for all i care. and, anyway, i'd like to know, nick attwood, since when hath a been ‘muster shaxper’—that ne'er-do-well, play-actoring fel- low p’” “ne'er-do-well? it is na so. when he was here last summer he was bravely dressed, and had a heap of good gold nobles in his purse. and he gave rick hawkins, that 's blind of an eye, a shilling for only holding his horse.” “oh, ay,” drawled hodge; “a fool and a's money be soon parted.” “will shakspere is no fool,” declared nick hotly. “he’s made a peck o' money there in london town, and 's going to buy the great house in chapel lane, and come back here to live.” “then a 's a witless azzy!” blurted hodge. “if a 's so great a man amongst the lords and earlses, a 'd na come back to stratford. an' i say a 's a witless loon—so there !” nick whirled around in the road. “and i say, hodge dawson,” he exclaimed, with flash- ing eyes, “that "t is a shame for a lout like thee to so miscall thy thousand-time betters. and what 's more, thou shalt unsay that, or i will make thee swallow thy words right here and now !” “i'd loike to see thee try,” hodge began; but the words were scarcely out of his mouth when he found himself stretched on the grass, nick attwood bending over him. “there ! thou hast seen it tried. now come, take that back, or i will surely box thine ears for thee.” - hodge blinked and gaped, collecting his wits, which had scattered to the four winds. “whoy,” said he, vaguely, “if 't is all o' that to thee, i take it back.” nick rose, and hodge scrambled clumsily to his feet. “i’ll na go wi'thee,” said he, sulkily; “i will na go whur i be whupped.” nick turned on his heel without a word, and started on. “an' what 's more,” bawled hodge after .] io master skylark. him, “thy muster wully shaxper be-eth an old gray goose, an’ boo to he, says i" as he spoke, he turned, dived through the thin hedge, and galloped across the field as if an army were at his heels. nick started back, but quickly paused. “thou needst na run,” he called; “i’ve not the time to catch thee now. but mind ye this, hodge dawson, when i do come back, i'll teach thee who thy betters be—will shakspere. first of all!” “well crowed, well crowed, my jolly cock- erel!” on a sudden called a keen, high voice beyond the hedge behind him. nick, startled, whirled about just in time to see a stranger leap the hedge, and come striding up the road. chapter vi. the master-player. he had trim, straight legs, this stranger, and a slender, lithe body in a tawny silken jerkin. square-shouldered, too, was he, and over one shoulder hung a plum- colored cloak bordered with gold braid. his long hose were the color of his cloak, and his shoes were russet leather, with rosettes of plum, and such high heels as nick had never seen before. his bonnet was of tawny velvet, with a chain twisted round it, fastened by a jeweled brooch through which was thrust a curly cock- feather. a fine white hol- land-linen shirt peeped through his jerkin at the throat, with a broad lace collar; and his short hair curled crisply all over his head. he had a little pointed beard, and the ends of his mustache were twisted so that they stood up fiercely on either side of his sharp nose. at his side was a long italian poniard, in a sheath of “hodoe found himself stretched on over him.” russet leather and silver filigree, and he had a reckless, high and mighty fling about his stride that strangely took the eye. - nick stood, all taken by surprise, and stared. the stranger seemed to like it, but scowled nevertheless. “what! how now p” he cried, sharply. “dost like or like me not?” “why, sir,” stammered nick, utterly lost for the grass, nick attwood bending anything to say—“why, sir, " and knowing nothing else to do, he took off his cap and bowed. “come, come,” snapped the stranger, stamp- ing his foot, “i am a swashing, ruffling, des- i io (dec. master skylark. perate dick, and not to be made a common jest for stratford dolts to giggle at. what! these legs, that have put on the very gentleman in proud verona's streets, laid in stratford's com- mon stocks, like a silly apprentice's slouching heels p nay, nay; some one should taste old bless-his-heart here first!” and with that he clapped his hand upon the hilt of his poniard, with a wonderful swaggering tilt of his shoulders. “dost take me, boy p” “why, sir,” hesitated nick, no little awed by the stranger's wild words and imperious way, “ye surely are the master-player.” “there!” cried the stranger, whirling about, as if defying some one in the hedge. “who said i could not act? why, see, he took me at a touch! say, boy,” he laughed, and turned to nick, “thou art no fool. why, boy, i say i love thee now for this, since what hath passed in stratford. a murrain on the town | dost hear me, boy?—a black murrain on the town!” and all at once he made such a fierce stride toward nick, gritting his white teeth, and clap- ping his hand upon his poniard, that nick drew back afraid of him. “but nay,” hissed the stranger, and spat with scorn; “a town like that is its own murrain — let it sicken on itself!” he struck an attitude, and waved his hand as if he were talking quite as much to the trees and sky as he was to nick attwood, and looked about him as if waiting for applause. then all at once he laughed—a rollicking, merry laugh, and threw off his furious manner, as one does an old coat. “well, boy,” said he, with a quiet smile, looking kindly at nick, “thou art a right stanch little friend to all of us stage- players. and i thank thee for it in will shak- spere's name; for he is the sweetest fellow of us all.” his voice was simple, frank, and free; so dif- ferent from the mad tone in which he had just been ranting, that nick caught his breath with surprise. “nay, lad, look not so dashed,” said the master-player, merrily; “that was only old jem burbage's mighty tragic style; and i — i am only gaston carew, hail fellow well met with all true hearts. be known to me, lad; what is thy name i like thy open, pretty face.” nick flushed. name, sir.” “nicholas attwood? why, it is a good name. nick attwood, young nick,- i hope old nick will never catch thee—upon my word i do, and on the remnant of mine honour! thou hast taken a player's part like a man; and thou art a good fellow, nicholas attwood, and i love thee. so thou art going to coven- “nicholas attwood is my ...try to see the players act p surely thine is a nimble wit to follow fancy nineteen miles. come. i am going to coventry to join my fellows; wilt thou go with me, nick, and dine with us this night at the best inn in all coven- try—the blue boar? thou hast quite plucked up my downcast heart for me, lad, indeed thou hast; for i was sore of stratford town — and i shall not soon forget thy plucky fending for our own sweet will. come, say thou wilt go with me.” “indeed, sir,” said nick, bowing again, his head all in a whirl of excitement at this won- derful adventure—“indeed i will, and that right gladly, sir.” and with heart beating like a trip-hammer, he walked along, cap in hand, not knowing that his head was bare. the master-player laughed a simple, hearty laugh. “why, nick,” said he, laying his hand caressingly upon the boy's shoulder, “i am no such great to-do as all that. upon my word, i'm not! a man of some few parts, perhaps, not common in the world; but quite a plain fellow, after all. come, put off this high humil- ity, and be just friendly withal. put on thy cap; we are but two good faring-fellows here.” so nick put on his cap, and they went on together, nick in the seventh heaven of delight. about a mile beyond stratford, welcombe wood creeps down along the left. just beyond, the dingles wind irregularly up from the foot- path below to the crest of welcombe hill, through straggling clumps and briery hollows, sweet with nodding bluebells, ash, and haw- thorn. nick and the master-player paused a mo- ment at the top to catch their breath and to look back. stratford and the valley of the avon lay spread before them like a picture of peace, studded with blossoming orchards and girdled .] i i i master skylark. with spring. northward the forest of arden clad the rolling hills. southward the fields of feldon stretched away to the blue knolls be- yond which lay oxford and northamptonshire. the ragged stretches of snitterfield downs scram- bled away to the left; and on the right, beyond bearley, were the wooded uplands where guy of warwick and heraud of arden slew the wild ox and the boar. and down through the midst ran the avon southward, like a silver ribbon slipped through kendal green, to where the stour comes down, past luddington, to bidford, and away to the misty hills. “why,” exclaimed the master-player—“why, upon my word, it is a fair town—as fair a town as the heart of man could wish. wish p i wish ’t were sunken in the sea, with all its pack of fools! why,” said he, turning wrath- fully upon nick, “that old sir thingumbob of thine, down there, called me a caterpillar on the kingdom of england, a vagabond, and a common player of interludes | called me vag- abondſ me! why, i have more good li- censes than he has wits. and as to master bailiff stubbes, i have permits to play from more justices of the peace than he can shake a stick at in a month of sundays!” he shook his fist wrathfully at the distant town, and gnawed his mustache until one side pointed up and the other down. “but, hark 'e, boy, i'll have my vengeance on them all—ay, that will i, upon my word, and on the remnant of mine honour — or else my name 's not gaston carew l’’ “is it true, sir,” asked nick hesitatingly, “that they despitefully handled you?” “with their tongues, ay,” said carew bit- terly; “but not otherwise.” he clapped his hand upon his poniard, and threw back his head defiantly. “they dared not come to blows—they knew my kind! yet john shak- spere is no bad sort — he knoweth what is what. but master bailiff stubbes, i ween, is a long-eared thing that brays for thistles. i'll thistle him! he called will shakspere rogue —hast ever looked through a red glass?” “nay,” said nick. “well, it turns the whole world red. and so it is with master stubbes. he looks through a pair of rogue's eyes and sees the whole world rogue. why, boy,” cried the master-player vehemently, “he thought to buy my tongue! marry, if tongues were troubles he has bought himself a peck! what! buy my silence? nay, he'll see a deadly flash of silence when i come to my lord the admiral again!” chapter vii. “well sung, master skylark " it was past high noon, and they had long since left warwick castle far behind. “nicho- las,” said the master-player in the middle of a stream of amazing stories of life in london town, “there is blacklow knoll.” he pointed to a little hill off to the left. nick stared; he knew the tale: how grim old guy de beauchamp had piers gaveston's head upon that hill for calling him the black hound of arden. “ah!” said carew, “times have changed since then, boy, when thou couldst have a man's head off for calling thee a name — or i would have yon master bailiff stubbes's head off short behind the ears — and sir thomas lucy's too!” he added, with a sudden flash of anger, gritting his teeth and clenching his hand to his poniard. “but, nicholas, hast thou anything to eat?” “nothing at all, sir.” master carew pulled from his pouch some barley cakes and half a small banbury cheese, yellow as gold, and with a keen, sharp savour. “'t is enough for both of us,” said he, as they came to a shady little wood with a clear, mossy- bottomed spring running down into a green meadow with a mild noise, murmuring among the stones. “come along, nicholas; we'll eat it under the trees.” he had a small flask of wine, but nick drank no wine, and went down to the spring instead. there was a wild bird singing in a bush there, and as he trotted down the slope it hushed its wandering tune. nick took the sound up softly, and stood by the wet stones a little while, imitating the bird's trilling note, and laughing to hear it answer timidly, as if it took him for some great new bird without wings. cocking its shy head, and watching him ii master skylark. shrewdly with its beady eye, it sat almost per- suaded that it was only size which made them different, until nick clapped his cap upon his head and strolled back, singing as he went. it was only the thread of an old-fashioned madrigal which he had often heard his mother sing, with quaint words long since gone out of style and hardly to be understood, and be- tween the staves a warbling, wordless refrain which he had learned out on the hills and in the fields, picked up from a bird's glad-throated morning-song. he had always sung the plain-tunes in church without taking any particular thought about it; and he sang easily, with a clear, young voice which had a full, flute-like note in it like the high, sweet song of a thrush singing in deep woods. gaston carew, the master-player, was sitting with his back against an oak, placidly munch- ing the last of the cheese, when nick began to sing. he started, straightening up as if some one had called him suddenly out of a sound sleep, and turning his head, listened eagerly. nick mocked the wild bird, called again with a mellow, warbling trill, and then struck up the quaint old madrigal with the bird's song running through it. carew leaped to his feet, with a flash in his dark eyes. “my soul! my soul!” he exclaimed in an excited undertone. “it is not — nay, it cannot be — why, 'tis — it is the boy! upon my heart, he hath a skylark prisoned in his throat! well sung, well sung, master skylark / " he cried, clapping his hands in real delight, as nick came singing up the bank. “why, lad, i vow i thought thou wert up in the sky somewhere, with wings to thy back! where didst thou learn that wonder- song?” - nick colored up, quite taken aback. “i do na know, sir,” said he; “mother learned me part, and the rest just came, i think, sir.” the master-player, his whole face alive and eager, now stared at nicholas attwood as fixedly as nick had stared at him. it was a hearty little english lad he saw, about eleven years of age, tall, slender, trimly built, and fair. a gray cloth cap clung to the side of his curly yellow head, and he wore a sleeveless jerkin of dark-blue serge, gray home- spun hose, and heelless shoes of russet leather. the white sleeves of his linen shirt were open to the elbow, and his arms were lithe and brown. his eyes were frankly clear and blue, and his red mouth had a trick of smiling that went straight to a body's heart. “why, lad, lad,” cried carew, breathlessly, “thou hast a very fortune in thy throat!” nick looked up in great surprise; and at that the master-player broke off suddenly, and said no more, though such a strange light came creeping into his eyes that nick, after meeting his fixed stare for a moment, asked uneasily if they would not better be going on. without a word the master-player started. something had come into his head which seemed to more than fill his mind; for as he strode along he whistled under his breath, and laughed softly to himself. then again he snapped his fingers, and took a dancing step or two across the road, and at last fell to talking aloud to himself, though nick could not make out a single word he said, for it was in some foreign language. “nicholas,” he said suddenly, as they passed the winding lane that leads away to kenil- worth—“nicholas, dost know any other songs like that p’’ - “not just like that, sir,” answered nick, not knowing what to make of his companion's strange new mood; “but i know master will shakspere's “then nightly sings the staring owl, to-who, to-whit, to-who l’ and “the ousel-cock so black of hue, with orange-tawny bill,’ and then, too, i know the throstle's song that goes with it.” “why, to be sure—to be sure thou knowest old nick bottom's song, for is n't thy name nick p well met, both song and singer— well met, i say! nay,” he said hastily, seeing nick about to speak; “i do not care to hear thee talk. sing me all thy songs. i am hungry as a wolf for songs. why, nicholas, i must have songs | come, lift up that honeyed throat of thine, and sing another song. be not so back- ward; surely i love thee, nick, and thou wilt sing all of thy songs for me.” he laid his hand on nick's shoulder in his kindly way, and kept step with him like a bosom friend, so that nick's heart beat high with pride, *. - * “‘what? how now?' cried the stranger, sharply. “dost like or like me not?’” vol. xxiv.- . ii. master skylark. [dec. and he sang all the songs he knew as they walked along. carew listened intently, and sometimes with a fierce eagerness that almost frightened the boy; and sometimes he frowned, and said under his breath, “tut, tut, that will not do!” – but oftener he laughed without a sound, nodding his head in - time to the lilting tune, and seem- ing vastly will “‘upon my heart, he has a skylark prisoned in his throat ' the master-player exclaimed." pleased with nick, the singing, and last, but not least, with himself. and when nick had ended, the master-player had not a word to say, but for half a mile gnawed his mustache in nervous silence, and looked nick all over with a long and earnest look. then suddenly he slapped his thigh, and tossed his head back boldly. “i’ll do it,” he said; “i’ll do it if i dance on air for it! i'll have it out of master stubbes and canting stratford town, or may i never thrive! my soul! it is the very thing. his eyes are like twin holidays, and he breathes the breath of spring. nicholas, nicholas skylark,+master skylark,+ why, it is a good name, in sooth, a very good name! i'll do it—i will, upon my word, and on the remnant of mine honour!” º “did ye speak to me, sir?” asked nick, timidly. “nay, nicholas; i was talking to the moon.” “why, sir, the moon has not come yet,” said nick, staring into the western sky. “to be sure,” replied master carew, with a queer laugh. “well, the silvery jade has missed the first act.” “oh,” cried nick, reminded of the pur- pose of his long walk; “what will ye play for the mayor's play, sir?” “i don't know,” replied carew, carelessly; “it all be done before i come. they will have had the free play this afternoon, so as to catch the pence of all the may-day crowd to-morrow.” nick stopped in the road, and his eyes filled up with tears, so quick and bitter was the disappointment. “why,” he cried, with a tremble in his tired voice, “i thought the free play would be on the morrow — and now i have not a far- thing to go in " “tut, tut, thou silly lad!” laughed carew, frankly; “am i thy friend for naught p what let thee walk all the way to coven- try, and never see the play ? nay, on my soul! why, nick, i love thee, lad; and i'll do for thee in the twinkling of an eye. canst thou speak lines by heart? well, then, say these few after me, and bear them in thy mind.” and thereupon he hastily repeated some half a dozen disconnected lines, in a high, reciting tone. “why, sir,” cried nick, bewildered, “it is a part!” “to be sure,” said carew, laughing, “it is a part — and a part of a very good whole, too — a comedy by young tom heywood, that would make a graven image split its sides with laugh- ing; and do thou just learn that part, good master skylark, and thou shalt say it in to- morrow's play.” “what, master carew!” gasped nick. “i— truly with the lord admiral's players?” .] ii master skylark. “why, to be sure!” cried the master-player would laugh on the other side of their mouths in great glee, clapping him upon the back. “didst think i meant a parcel of dirty tinkers? nay, lad; thou art just the very fellow for the part—my lady's page should be a pretty lad, and, soul o' me, thou art that same ! and, nick, thou shalt sing tom heywood's newest song—it is a pretty song; it is a lark-song like thine own.” nick could hardly believe his ears. to act with the lord admiral's company to sing with them before all coventry . it passed the wildest dream that he had ever dreamed. what would the boys in stratford say? aha! they now ! “but will they have me, sir?” he asked doubtfully. “have thee ?” said master carew, haught- ily. “if i say go, thou shalt go. i am mas- ter here. and i tell thee, nick, that thou shalt see the play, and be the play, in part, and — well, we shall see what we shall see.” with that he fell to humming and chuckling to himself, as if he had swallowed a water-mill, while nick turned ecstatic cart-wheels along the grass beside the road, until presently coventry came in sight. (to be continued.) . *...*& cº. a new mother (ioose jingle. o, song of christmas-time. isletoe and hyº. impºtent little girls • eve and dolly. - sº -- * \ hen i. door was opened - setºy shouted in their glee, nd wouldn't you have shouled bo tº have so fine a free? / 㺠º” g. kice the last three soldiers. by william henry shelton. [begun in the november number.] chapter iv. a day of discoveries. while andy, with the help of the detail, was cutting and notching the timber for ladders, the captain and the three young soldiers of the station made a breakfast, standing, from their haversacks and canteens, and looked about them over the wild country at their feet, and off at the blue peaks which rose above and around the valley of cashiers, and then at the ridges in the opposite direction, drawn like huge furrows across the western horizon, show- ing fainter and fainter in color until the blue of the land was lost in the blue of the sky. the men worked with a will, so that by ten o'clock the main ladder, which was just a chest- nut stick deeply notched on the outer side, was firmly set in the ground against the face of the cliff. the landing-shelf was found to extend into a natural crevice so that the short upper ladder was set to face the bridge, and so as to be entirely concealed from the view of any one approaching from below. when everything was in readiness, lieuten- ant coleman was the first to ascend, with the powerful telescope of the station strapped on his shoulders; and the others quickly followed, except the three troopers who remained behind to unpack the mules and bring up the rations and outfit for the camp. at the point where they landed there was little to be seen of the top of the mountain be- yond a few stunted chestnuts which clung to the rocks and were dwarfed and twisted by the wind; and nearly as many dead blue limbs lay about in the thin grass as there were live green ones forked against the sky. there was the suggestion of a path bearing away to the left, and following this they came to a series of steps in the rocks, partly natural and partly artificial, which brought them on to a higher level where an extended plateau was spread out before them. on the western border they saw the line of trees overhanging the cove side—the same that had looked like berry-bushes the night before from the cabin where they had halted for the moon to go down. from this point the crest of the upper bald was in plain view across the cove, but anxious as they were to open communication with the other moun- tain, the flags had not yet come up, and there was nothing left for them to do but continue their exploration. it was observed, however, that the trees overhanging the cove would con- ceal the flagging operations from any one who might live on the slopes of the mountains in that direction, and, moreover, that by going a short distance along the ridge to the right a fine backing of dark trees would be behind the signal-men. philip would have scampered off to explore and discover things for himself, but the captain restrained him and directed that the party should keep together. andy car- ried his long rifle, and philip and bromley had brought up their carbines, so that they were prepared for any game they might meet, even though it were to dispute progress with a bear or panther. since they had come up the lad- ders the region was all quite new to andy, and he no longer pretended to guide them. back from the last ridge the ground sloped to a lower level, much of which was bare of trees and so protected from the wind that a rich soil had been made by the accumulation and decay of the leaves. at other points there were waving grass and clumps of trees, which latter shut off the view as they advanced, and opened up new vistas as they passed beyond them. it could be seen in the distance, how- ever, that the southern end of the plateau was closed in by a ledge parallel to fand not unlike - \ | | t f y º º - his shoulders.” with the telescope of the station stra ppel on “lieutenant coleman was the first to ascend, i i [dec. the last three soldiers. that which they had already scaled, except that it was much more formidable in height. there was a stream of clear, cold water that was found to come from a great bub- bling spring. it broke out of the base of this southern ledge, and, after flowing for some dis- tance diagonally across the plateau, tumbled over the rocks on the cashiers valley side and disappeared among the trees. after inspecting this new ledge, which was clearly an impassable barrier in that direction, and as effectually guarded the plateau on that side as the precipices which formed its other boundaries, the captain and his party turned back along the stream of water, for a plenti- ful supply of water was more to be prized than anything they could possibly discover on the mountain. “there is one thing,” said andy, as they walked along the left bank of the stream, “that you-all can depend on. risin' in the spring as hit does, that branch will flow on just the same, summer or winter.” “probably,” said lieutenant coleman; “but then, you know, we are not concerned about next winter.” a little further on a rose-bush overhung the bank, and at the next turn they found a grape- vine trailing its green fruit across a rude trellis which was clearly artificial. a few steps more and they came to a foot-log flattened on the top; and, although it tottered under them, they crossed to the other side, and, coming around a clump of chincapin-bushes, they found them- selves at the door of a poor hut of logs, whose broken roof was open to the rain and sun. the neglected fireplace was choked with leaves, and weeds and bushes grew out of the cracks in the rotting floor; and, surely enough, in one dry cor- ner stood the very brown keg that josiah wood- ring had brought up the mountain. in the midst of the dilapidation and the rotting wood about it, it was rather surprising that the cask should be as sound as if it were new, and the conclusion was that it had been preserved by what it originally contained. just then there was a cry from philip, who had gone to the rear of the hovel; and he was found by the others leaning over the grave of the old man of the mountain, and staring at the thick oak headboard which bore on the side next the cabin these words: one who wishes to be forgotten. the letters were incised deep in the hard wood, and seemed to have been cut with a pocket- knife. it was evident from the amount of pa- tient labor expended on the letters that the work had been done by the unhappy old man himself, perhaps years before he died. of course, it had been set up by josiah, who must have laid him in his last resting-place. “that looks like jo-siah was no liar, any more than he was a murderer and robber,” said andy; “and if the little man could live up here twenty-five years, i reckon you young fellers can get along two months.” a spot for camp was selected a few rods up the stream from the poor old cabin and grave. this was at a considerable distance from the ridge where the station was to be, but it had two advantages to balance that one inconveni- ence. in the first place, it was near the water, and then no smoke from the cook-fire would ever be seen in the valley below. accordingly, the stores were ordered to be brought to this point, and corporal bromley hurried away to the head of the ladders to detain such articles as would be needed at the station on the ridge. below the ledge the mules could be seen quietly browsing the grass, and, to the annoy- ance of lieutenant coleman, a blue haze was softly enveloping the distant mountains, as in a day in indian summer, so that it was no longer possible to think of communicating with the next station, which was ten miles away. that being the case, the afternoon was spent in pitching the tents and making the general arrangements of the camp. owing to the difficulty of transportation, but the barest ne- cessaries of camp-life were provided by the gov- ernment; and, notwithstanding his rank, lieu- tenant coleman had only an “a” tent, and bromley and philip two pieces of shelter-tent and two rubber ponchos. it was quickly de- cided by the two soldiers to use their pieces of tent to mend the roof of the hut of the old man of the mountain, and to store the rations as well as to make their own quarters therein. from the commissary department their sup- .] i the last three soldiers. plies for sixty days consisted, precisely, of four -pound boxes of hard bread, pounds ounces bacon, io pounds salt-beef, pounds white beans, pounds dry peas, pounds rice, pounds roasted and ground coffee, ounces tea, pounds light-brown sugar, quarts vinegar, pounds ounces adamantine candles, pounds ounces bar soap, pounds ounces table-salt, and ounces pepper. the medical chest consisted of quart of com- missary whisky and ounces of quinine. be- sides the flags and telescope for use on the station, their only tools were an ax and a hatchet. on ordinary stations it was the rule to furnish lumber for building platforms or towers, but here they were provided with only a coil of wire and ten pounds of nails, and if platforms were necessary to get above the sur- rounding trees they must rely upon such timber as they could get, and upon the ax to cut away obstructions. fortunately for this particular station they could occupy a commanding ridge, and send their messages from the ground. philip had by some means secured a garrison flag, which was no part of the regular equip- ment; and through andy they had come into possession of a dozen live chickens and a bag of corn to feed them. on the afternoon before the departure of the troopers, the captain, who had now established the last of the line of sta- tions, confided to lieutenant coleman his final directions and cautions. he asked andy to point out chestnut knob, which was the moun- tain of the blue pin, and whose bald top was in full view to the right of rock mountain, and not more than eight miles away in a southeast- erly direction, and, as andy said, just on the border of the low country in south carolina. this was the mountain, the captain informed lieutenant coleman, from which in due time, if everything went well in regard to a certain military movement, he would receive important messages to flag back along the line. what this movement was to be was still an official secret at headquarters, and lieutenant coleman would be informed by flag of the time when he would be required to be on the look- out for a communication from the mountain of the blue pin. at the close of his directions, the captain, standing very stiff on his heels and holding his cap in his hand, made a little speech to lieutenant coleman in which he compli- mented him for his loyalty and patriotic de- votion to the flag, and reminded him that in assigning him to the last station the command- ing general had thereby shown that he reposed especial confidence in the courage, honor and integrity of lieutenant frederick henry cole- man of the th cavalry, and in the intelli- gence and obedience of the young men who were associated with him. this speech, deliv- ered just as the shadows were deepening on the lonely mountain top, touched the hearts of the three boys who were so soon to be left alone, and was not a whit the less impressive because andy plucked off his coonskin cap and cried, in his homely enthusiasm, that “them was his sentiments to the letter!” it was understood that there should be no signaling by night, and no lights had been provided for that purpose; so that, there being nothing to detain them on the plateau, they decided to accompany the captain and andy back to the bridge and see the last of the es- cort, as it went down the mountain. two of the troopers, contrary to orders, had during the day been as far as the deserted cabin of josiah woodring, and one of these beck- oned philip aside and told him where he would find a sack of potatoes some one had hidden away on the other side of the gorge, which, with much disgust, he described as the only booty they had found worth bringing away. so great is the love of adventure among the young that there was not one of the troopers but envied his three comrades who were to be left behind on the mountain; but it was a friendly rivalry, and, in view of the possibilities of wild game, they insisted upon leaving the half of their cartridges, which were gladly ac- cepted by philip and bromley. the moon was obscured by thick clouds, and an hour before midnight the horses were saddled, and with some serious, but more jocu- lar, words of parting, the troopers started on the march down the mountain, most of them hampered by an additional animal to lead. the qaptain remained to press the hand of each & the three young soldiers, and when at last he rode away and they turned to cross the i o [dec. the last three soldiers. frail old bridge, whose unprotected sides could scarcely be distinguished in the darkness, they began to realize that they were indeed left to their own resources, and to feel a trifle lonely, as you may imagine. before leaving that side of the gorge, how- ever, corporal bromley had shouldered their precious cartridges, which had been collected yards behind, philip was stumbling along with the sack of potatoes on his shoulder. they had advanced in this order until the head of the straggling column was scarcely more than a stone's throw from the cliff, when a small brown object, moving in the leaves about the foot of the ladder, uttered a low growl and then dis- appeared into the deeper shadow of the rock. “corporal bromley took position with a red flag having a large white square. in the center.” (see next page.) in a bag, and on the other side philip secured the sack of potatoes; and thus laden they trudged away across the open field and among the rocks and bushes, guided by the occasional glimpses they had of the cliff fringed with trees against the leaden sky. it was of the first importance that the cartridges should be kept dry, and to that end they hurried along at a pace which scattered them among the rocks and left but little opportunity for conversation. lieutenant coleman was in advance, with phil- ip's carbine on his arm; next came corporal bromley, with the cartridges; and, a hundred at the same moment the rain began to fall, and corporal bromley stepped one side to throw his bag of cartridges into the open trunk of a hollow chestnut. while he was thus engaged, with the double purpose of freeing his hands and securing the cartridges from the possibility of getting wet, his carbine lying on the ground where he had hastily thrown it, lieutenant coleman fired at random at the point where he had indistinctly seen the moving object. the darkness had increased with the rain, and, as the report of the carbine broke the quiet of the mountain, a shadowy ball of fur scampered by .] i i the last three soldiers. him, scattering the leaves and gravel in its flight. the mysterious object passed close to bromley as he was groping about for his weapon, and the next moment there was a cry from philip, who had been thrown to the ground, and his potatoes scattered over the hillside. “whatever it was,” said philip, when he presently came up laughing at his mishap, “i don't believe it eats potatoes, and i will gather them up in the morning.” as it was too dark for hunting, and the car- tridges were in a safe place, lieutenant cole- man and corporal bromley slung their carbines and followed philip, who was the first to find the foot of the ladder. it was not so dark but that they made their way safely to the camp, and, weary with the labors of the day, they were soon fast asleep in their blankets, unmindful of the rain which beat on the “a” tent and on the patched roof of the cabin of the old man of the mountain. chapter v. the cipher code. on the morning of july th the sun rose in a cloudless sky above the mountains, and the atmosphere was so clear that the most remote objects were unusually distinct. the condi- tions were so favorable for signaling that, after a hurried breakfast, the three soldiers hastened to the point on the ridge which they had selected for a station. corporal bromley took position with a red flag having a large white square in the center, and this he waved slowly from right to left, while lieutenant cole- man adjusted his spy-glass, resting it upon a crotched limb which he had driven into the ground; and at his left philip sat with a note- book and pencil in hand, ready to take down the letters as lieutenant coleman called them off. there are but three motions used in sig- naling. when the flag from an upright posi- tion is dipped to the right, it signifies ; to the left, .; and forward, . the last motion is used only to indicate that the end of the word is reached. twenty-six combinations of the fig- ures and stand for the letters of the alphabet. vol. xxiv.- . it is not an easy task to learn to send mes- sages by these combinations of the figures and , and it is harder still to read the flags miles away through the telescope. the three soldiers had had much practice, however, and could read the funny wigwag motions like print. if any two boys care to learn the code, they can telegraph to each other from hill to hill, or from farm to farm, as well as george and philip. you will see that the vowels and the letters most used are made with the few- est motions—as, one dip of the flag to the left ( ) for i, and one to the right ( ) for t. z is four motions to the right ( ); and here is the alphabet as used in the signal service: a, ii, o, i , b, , p, , c, , q, , d, iii, r, i , e, i, s, i i, f, iii , t, i, g, , u, i, h, ii, v, , i, , w, , j, ii, x, , k, , y, , l, ii , z, ii, m, , &, , n, , ing, , tion, . when the flag stops at an upright position, it means the end of a letter—as, twice to the right and stop ( ), means a; one dip forward ( ) indicates the end of a word; , the end of a sentence; , the end of a message. thus - - - means “all right; we understand over here; go ahead"; and - - - means “stop signaling.” then - - - means “repeat; we don't understand what you are signaling”; while - - - means “we have made an error, and if you will watch we will give the message to you correctly.” now, if lieutenant coleman wanted to say to another signal-officer “send one man,” the sentence would read, in figures, “ , , , , , , , , , , , , .” but in time of war the signalmen of the enemy could read such messages, and so each party makes a cipher code of its own, more or less difficult; and the code is often changed. so if lieutenant coleman's cipher code was simply i . [dec. the last three soldiers. to use for each letter sent the fourth letter later in the alphabet, his figures would have been quite different, and the letters they stood for would have read: w-i-r-h s-r-i q-e-r. s-e-n-do-n-e m-a-n. so, after fifteen minutes of waiting, during which time the flag in corporal bromley's hand made a great rustling and flapping in the wind, moving from side to side, lieutenant coleman got his glass on the other flag, ten miles away, and found it was waving - - - — “all right.” corporal bromley then sent back the same signal, and sat down on the bank to rest. what lieutenant coleman saw at that distance was a little patch of red dancing about on the object-glass of his telescope; he could not see even the man who waved it, or the trees be- hind him. promptly at bromley's signal “all right,” the little object came to a rest; and when it presently began again, lieutenant cole- man called off the letters, which philip repeated as he entered them in the book. for an hour and a half the messages continued repeating all the mass of figures which had come over the line during the last three days. when the mountain of the nineteenth red pin had said its say as any parrot might have done, for it was absolutely ignorant of the meaning of the figures it received and passed on (for the reason that it had no officer with the cipher), lieutenant coleman took from his pocket a slip of paper on which he had al- ready arranged his return message to chatta- nooga. when this had been despatched, the lieutenant took the note-book from philip, and went away to his tent to cipher out the mean- ing of the still meaningless letters. they were sufficiently eager to get the latest news, for they knew that the army they had just left had been advancing its works and fighting daily since the d day of june for the possession of kenesaw mountain. the de- spatches were translated in the order in which they came, so that it was a good half-hour be- fore lieutenant coleman appeared with a radi- ant face to say that general sherman had taken possession of kenesaw mountain on the day before. “and that is not all,” he cried, holding up his hand to restrain any premature outburst of enthusiasm. “ listen to this! “the “alabama” was sunk by the united states steamer “kearsarge” on the th day of june, three miles outside the harbor of cherbourg, on the coast of france.’” corporal bromley was not a demonstrative man, yet the blood rushed to his face, and there was a glittering light in his eyes which told how deeply the news touched him; but philip, on the contrary, was wild with delight, and danced and cheered and turned somer- saults on the grass. (to be continued.) a letter from dr. holmes. by isabella graham murdoch. a class of young girls sat one afternoon in a class-room of elmira college, talking over the subject for their next composition. as the hour for their literature lesson drew near, one of them said that she wished “there was some- thing new to write about.” the teacher smiled as she came in, for she had heard these last words, and she had a plan that promised something new. before dismiss- ing the literature class the teacher said: “girls, instead of a composition next week, we will begin to have “afternoons with the poets,’ taking first those who are alive, and then going back to those who came earlier. the girls may choose, in turn, some poet to write about, and bring in an essay about him. the .] holmes. i a letter from dr. best essay will be read in class by the writer, and if the plan works well we shall all learn a great deal from it.” the girls were enthusiastic over the new idea, and each had a poet to suggest; but, to begin with, the name of oliver wendell holmes met with general favor. that afternoon the girl who had first proposed the name of dr. holmes went home determined to present the merits of her favorite writer and poet to the very best advantage in her essay. she did little but read his writings for the next few days, and then her thoughts traveled back- ward, and she pictured again, in memory, her first glimpse at the life and letters of the dear “autocrat.” it was when she was a little girl and had gone with an older sister into the country for the summer. there was a professor from yale college, with his family, boarding at the same house, and he always read aloud after breakfast to those of the party who cared to hear. this little girl was always one of his audience, and generally crawled under the piano, where she could listen, or could doze during the difficult parts of the wise professor's reading. but when he brought out first “the poet at the break- fast-table,” and then “the autocrat at the breakfast-table,” her attention never failed, and hers was always the voice that said, “please go on,” when the professor paused in reading from those famous books. all this came back to her mind that night, as she sat reading and writing by turns; and then a bright idea came to her — she would write to dr. oliver wendell holmes, and would ask him for an incident in his early life for her essay ! how pleased the girls would be she never doubted the great man would answer her letter; and he did. here is his letter, and you will find a facsimile of it on the following pages: boston, march th, . my dear miss isabella, here is one little incident of my life which i have never told in print. when i was a little boy i got upon a raft one day, a few boards laid together, which floated about in a pond —a very small pond, but rather bigger round than a dinner-table. it was big enough, anyhow, to drown a little boy, and came pretty near doing it; for, while i was stooping over the edge of the raft, i slipped and went souse into the water. i remember a great sound in my ears —“guggle, guggle,” i said it was, when they asked me about it — and a desperate struggle — and a feeling that i was go- ing to be drowned, just as little sam childs had been; and then—all at once my whole past life seemed to flash before me as a train of cars going a thousand miles an hour, if such a speed were possible, would pass in one long crowded streak before the eyes of a person stand- ing by the railroad. i had never heard that this was a common experience with persons who are near drowning, but i have since heard of many cases where the same flash of their past lives has come before drowning people who have been rescued and have told about it. you may put this story in your essay, if you like. i get a great many letters from young persons, and it takes a great deal of my time to answer them—so i think i am quite good-natured this evening to tell you all this — don't you think so, dear miss isabella p very truly yours, oliver wendell holm es. then came the pleasure of showing the letter to her teacher and best friends, and later of surprising the assembled class with her essay. the girls at first refused to believe the story as told, but the teacher promptly assured them that dr. holmes's letter was genuine. some of his own words that were also quoted in the essay i think fitting to append here, for young folk would do well to bear them in mind. the bit is taken from his “autocrat at the breakfast-table.” “when we are yet small children there comes up to us a youthful angel, holding in his right hand cubes like dice, and in his left hand spheres like marbles. the cubes are of stain- less ivory, and on each is written in letters of gold—“truth.' the spheres are veined and streaked and spotted beneath, with a dark crimson flush above, where the light falls on them, and in a certain aspect you can make out upon every one of them the three letters l., i, e. the child to whom they are offered very probably clutches at both. the spheres are the most convenient things in the world; they roll with the least possible impulse just where the child would have them. the cubes will not roll at all; they have a great talent for standing still, and always keep right side up. but very soon the young philosopher finds that i a letter from dr. holmes. [dec. things which roll so easily are very apt to roll where they are left. thus he learns—thus we into the wrong corner, and to go out of the learn — to drop the streaked and speckled way when he most wants them, while he always globes of falsehood, and to hold fast the white knows where to find the others, which stay angular blocks of truth.” ºz. . × ºn ſº , %. ^*a. * * * * *… ° ′- a % ºze e – a . . . &z= . %-e- *. , . % . – a-ee, ºxaz. - - , %,” a. %:. *ścz- , – %zz a - - . - zºº< . %~ , ** °--> <- ...-a < < * *-e ºrex. &zzea- ºz-azcz, e^*~ - azez- Žz ecºz x-rayzºº % .< . -etc., . & - - e” ºr a . e % ºre… < ”. -ča-z-z , -yaº --~~~ % ~ *, *, arae ». a - - - &_ < . . % a- : - – . ° . . ºz. …~ . fºr ew . . . a.º. zºº< zºº. . . .] a letter from dr. holmes. i %aez /e, a-oº-º- aze az-z-ze , … /*a-a % - . a. %. *** ** a a %az , a, -zº, e- %zzº. . , a - . ~ *.e. a . -e- %- %z, * cº- /* …e. < %. elecºz. … .ºza & t &ze ^* /*a- «ăzzº. º * . - . ** *-*… *z, *… * **** **-a- %. %. . a- ºr ***** & , %. , z*-a”. . a. * * **** . ~ ºr ºpez, . % , . …e º *z, */ a ca , ., -aa… aza- - - %. ~~~~~~~~~~~~ *~~€ z- :... a ºz. – . % -- *~~ a. . %. , *xº~ ! *he end of the story |\ of “the º king's - castle in \ no man's \ } \ land” brought the princess and the third son to the entrance of another street, which bore the curious title of “the pumpkin dwarf street.” so they walked on at a moderate pace that they might read the story of the pumpkin dwarf. there was once a poor laborer who lived in a wretched hut, standing in the midst of a barren field, where nothing green would grow. for feeding his family he depended solely on such paltry earnings as he could pick up by hiring himself out to some of the neighbor- ing farmer folk; and when times were hard even this resource frequently failed him. one winter, when there was a great famine in the country, the poor man was driven to his wit’s end to scrape together enough to keep his little ones from starving. now it chanced that his wife had a cousin, living in a village some miles distant, who was a rich man and could easily have helped them had he been so disposed. but, unhappily, he was as stingy as he was rich, and, moreover, he had taken offense at his kinswoman for having fumphin £ . *---- (fourth story of the series entitled “the city of stories.” ſºularf tº ... y +\º pºzº ğ & º ~ t- | | :- begun in the september number.) by frank m. bicknell. bestowed her hand on a poor laborer. how- ever, when worse came to worst the man was forced to seek the miserly cousin and beg his aid to keep his beloved children from dying of hunger. the rich cousin received him in a surly fashion, and heard his pitiful tale with unsym- pathetic ears. “well,” said he coldly, when the laborer had ended his story, “did i not foretell these miseries? what else could my cousin look for after having cast her lot with such as you—a luckless wight, with whom nothing ever can prosper? ye may blame yourselves. get you hence, and trouble me no more! it is late, and high time that all people were at home and asleep !” these were harsh words, but the poor man was in desperate straits, so he stood his ground yet a little longer, begging and pleading so earnestly that a stone might almost have been melted to pity. and, finally, to get rid of him, the rich cousin went to his cupboard, and tak- ing down a moldy loaf, threw it upon the table with a scowl, saying: “take this; and, since you are so helpless, come here on monday week, and i will try and find work for you.” yet while he was making this offer he thought, within his heart, “in a week hence they all will be dead of hunger, and thus i shall be well rid of them.” but the poor laborer, returning more thanks for the wretched crust and for the grudging the pumpkin idwarf. promise than they deserved, took his leave with a somewhat lightened heart. his homeward way was long, the road rough, and mid- night struck as he passed through village wherein wealthy cousin dwelt though footsore and the hour late. weary, he re- membered the hungry mouths at home, and pushed bravely on until, by and by, he came to the last hill that lay between him and his poor hut. the steep and rug- ged road that he had now to traverse ran on through a thick most its entire length. as he toiled on to- ward the top of the hill, the moon, risen some hours be- fore, began to shine down on his path; and as its cheerful. rays chased away the gloom of the forest a weight sudden- ly seemed to be lifted from his breast, and he was filled with hope, as iſ a piece of good luck were about to befall him. doleful accents: the the * - --~ the poor laborer. becs aid of the rich cousin. -- presently, when he had nearly reached the summit, he heard a small voice crying out in “oh! if i could but get it up! oh! if i could but get it over the top of ; the hill! then it would go of itself.” curious to know whence this voice came, he stepped forward a few paces, when he descried a dwarf, not taller than a man's knee, trying with all his strength to push over the crest of the hill a great yellow pumpkin. the vege- table was so much larger than he was that every time hemov- ed it for- ward an inch it was all he could do to keep it from i [dec. the pumpkin dwarf. rolling back two inches. again and again he had failed, and now was well-nigh exhausted. seeing his plight, the laborer took pity on him, and, springing forward in the nick of time, by a vigorous push he sent it over the crest. without a word of thanks, without even a look at his benefactor, the dwarf gathered his long beard under his arm, and, hopping nimbly on top of the moving pumpkin, he be- gan to bowl merrily down the mountain-side, and soon was lost to view. “so so : " exclaimed the laborer; “there is one who believes that a good action is its own reward. at least he might have left a thank you behind him; that would cost nothing.” but he did the dwarf injustice, for when he reached the foot of the hill the little man was awaiting him, perched upon his pumpkin, and smiling benevolently in the moonlight. “laborer,” said he, “thou hast a kind heart, and the service thou hast done me deserves some return. ask whatsoever thou wilt, and thy wish shall be granted.” now the poor laborer was not versed in the ways of the world, else he might have asked of the generous dwarf almost anything rather than what, in his simple-mindedness, he did ask for. “sir,” said he, “next week i am promised work; give me but enough to keep me and mine from starving till the end of this week, and i shall be content.” “go home,” answered the dwarf, “draw a bucket of water from the well, and there shalt thou find all and more than thou desirest.” having said these words, he struck his foot smartly upon the ground, and the pumpkin suddenly rolled away among the bushes, and, with its rider, disappeared from sight. then the laborer made haste home, and, go- ing straight to the well, he let the bucket down into the water. upon trying to draw it up again, he found it much heavier than it had ever been before; and when at last he succeeded in getting it to the top, what was his amazement to see that it was filled to the brim with shining gold pieces ! he was not long in making known to his wife and children the wonderful news, and they all joined him in thanking heaven for the help that had come to them in their sore need. it was then too late to go to town to buy food, but luckily there was no need of doing so. when the poor man took the moldy loaf from his pocket, behold ! it had become as white, sweet, and fresh as on the day it was baked. moreover, although not a large loaf to look at, it really was quite inexhaustible to cut from, and yielded a hearty supper for the whole family, without diminishing in the least. from that night forth all went well with the laborer — a laborer no longer, for he was as rich now as formerly he had been poor. not only was he able to live in comfort himself, but he also did much good among his poverty- stricken neighbors, and relieved a great deal of suffering by his many gifts of food and fuel. meanwhile, how fared it with the miserly cousin p let us see. on the saturday follow- ing the first visit of the poor man he received a second one from him. “here, cousin,” said the former laborer, lay- ing a gold piece on the table, “this is to pay for your bread, and many thanks to you.” the rich man was too much amazed even to pick up the coin. that a poor wretch who had come to him not seven days before in a starv- ing condition should now be able to repay him for a worthless crust in this princely fashion was quite incomprehensible. he could only stare stupidly until, the other making a move to go, he managed to stammer: “hold, cousin! not so fast. how came you by this money—you who only last week had such ado to keep soul and body together ?” as there seemed to be no good reason for concealment, the man related how he had helped a dwarf roll a pumpkin over the top of a hill, and had received a quantity of gold as a reward for the service. - after his kinsman had gone, the rich man could get no peace for thinking of what he had heard. though already he had wealth enough and to spare, still his miserly soul was not con- tent. all his greed and covetousness had been aroused, and would not let him rest until he had promised himself to set out upon the same road over which the poor man had traveled, in the hope that he, too, might have the luck to meet the pumpkin dwarf. accordingly, at sundown he saddled his horse and rode forth. it had become quite dark .] the pumpkin dwarf. i when he began to ascend the mountain, and ing the summit of the mountain, to behold the as he neared the top, where he expected to see quaint little man who was struggling with the the dwarf, his heart be- pumpkin, just as his gan to beat violently. cousin had described “suppose he should him. whether this not be there!” was the same thought he, di- pumpkin the vided be- laborer had tween hope and fear. seen nobody knows, but certainly it was the very same dwarf. “oh, if i could but get it over!” he was complain- ing. “oh, if i could but get it over the crest of the hill! then it would go of itself.” as he heard these words the rich man quickly dis- mounted from his steed and gave the pump- kin a rude shove with his foot. thereupon it went flying over the crest and down the other side so swiftly that the dwarf had not time to jump on, but was forced to run be- hind his queer vehicle as fast as his short legs but in a few minutes all his doubts were set would carry him. getting upon his horse again, at rest, and great was his satisfaction, on reach- the rich man rode after at full speed. when he vol. xxiv.- . “the little man was awaiting him, perched upon his pumpkin beside the road.” i o the pumpkin dwarf. [dec. came to the foot of the hill the dwarf had just words, for of a truth the adventure had not overtaken his pumpkin, and was sitting upon it, turned out as he had expected. he had panting and breathless after his chase. counted upon being allowed to demand what- ever he liked, and he had promised himself he would not be such a simpleton as the poor laborer had been. but he had no choice; the = = dwarf had rolled himself –-- out of sight the mo- ment he had ceased speaking; and there was nothing for him to do but to make the best of his way back home, consoling him- self as well as he could with the thought that a bucket- ful of gold, and more, was not by any means to be despised. and, too, he thought of a plan present- ly whereby he might get a great deal more out of the dwarf than his stu- pid kinsman had done. he proposed to take the largest cask he could find * , . and hang it from the “thou art little used to aiding * - º chain in lieu of the bucket, others and strangely unskilled ºf . , thus securing a greater quan- from want of practice,” said the "...º.º.º.º.º.” tity of gold. manikin crossly. “however, now, how did this fine none but fools look for down on the back scheme succeed? well, having with much of a hedgehog. thou shalt have thy just trouble attached the cask and dropped it into reward. get thee home, draw from the well a the well, the rich man set to work to draw it up bucket of water, and that for which thy cousin again. this was a hard task, and his back and asked, and more, shall be thine.” arms ached well ere it was accomplished. but the rich man was rather abashed by these he toiled on, encouraged by the thought of the -- - w * º .] dwarf. i i the pumpkin great treasure he was about to possess. at last all of the chain was wound over the wind- lass and the cask-bucket was within his grasp. trembling with eagerness he bent to seize it, when, to his bitter disappointment, he beheld simply a cask full of water — nothing more, nothing less. the unhappy miser turned pale at this dis- covery. at first he was quite overwhelmed at the unexpected turn of affairs, but soon he brightened up a bit, for it occurred to him that he might yet succeed if he were to replace the original bucket. but it was quite the same as before. no matter how many times he lowered it, the bucket always came up holding water. at last, he flew into a rage at the dwarf, whom he called by all manner of abusive names. in the midst of his tirade the little man sud- denly appeared, seated on his pumpkin and rolling along at a furious rate. when he had arrived within a few paces of the spot where the rich man stood, he leaped lightly to the ground. it seemed as if he must have heard what had just been said about him, for his ears were red as if they were tingling smartly and his eyes flashed so fiercely that the miser was quite afraid of him, knee-high though he was. “miserable wormſ ” he cried in a voice shak- ing with passion, “what cause hast thou for complaint? if thou hadst not already enough and more, have i deceived thee ? have i made thee any promise that has not been fulfilled to -- - the very letter? thy cousin º, begged for enough to keep {- = º him and his from **** - - starving until *— the week's end, hast thou not there that for which he asked, and even more ?” the dwarf pointed toward the caskful of water as he spoke, and the miser started as he realized the significance of his words. he could not but admit that he had got exactly what his cousin had asked for. the only differ- ence in the two cases was that the poor man had met the dwarf early on sunday morning, whereas he had met him late on saturday even- ing; and, as he had taken supper before starting out, a glass of water certainly was enough for the brief remainder of the week, scarcely a quarter of an hour of which was yet to pass. “thy cousin served me from goodness of heart,” continued the dwarf, “but thou hast done so from a base desire to increase thine own gains. for thy many iniquities i bestow on thee, from this day forth, the ill-luck that formerly attended thy cousin, while for him shall be the prosperity all and more than that which hitherto has waited undeserved on thee.” having pronounced these fateful words the dwarf vaulted into his seat on the pumpkin and disappeared like a flash, leaving the avaricious cousin in no very pleasant state of mind. both the curse and the blessing of the little man were carried out to the letter, and thence- forth the once wealthy cousin grew poorer and poorer, so that except for the kindness of his cousin, he would have been obliged to beg his bread from door to door. but the other lived a long and happy life, and was always most for- tunate in all that he undertook. by ella. f. mosby. it was a little town in belgium. there were the storks' nests on the high red roofs to which the children pointed, as they pattered by in their little wooden shoes, or sabots, and there were small carts drawn by the strong draught- dogs of flemish breed, looking at their owners with patient, faithful eyes. there were old churches and houses, telling a story in wood or stone to every passer-by. in one of these old houses, built with queer gables and little balconies and with a date and the name of the builder carved over the door, once lived two boys—jan and peter stein. they were sons of a thrifty, honest flemish burgher, who gave with an open hand to “god’s poor,” of whom there were very many after the sad wars of those days. there were so many, indeed, that the good burgher's own household lived very plainly, except at the joyous christmas-time, when all christians keep feast. - the children in belgium have a charming christmas legend about santa claus's pony. they always place their wooden sabots on the window-ledge, stuffed full of oats, hay, and fod- der for the “dear christmas pony.” in the early morning they run on tiptoe to look; and behold ! the hay is all gone, and the shoes are brimming over with toys and sweetmeats! then the children clap their hands with glee, and wish they could only have waked in time to see the pony munching his oats. that would have been such fun christmas week in burgher stein's household was one of great plenty; and not only every friend but every beggar that knocked at the side door had a share. there were black pud- dings and liver puddings, geese stuffed with chestnuts, and more than one noble turkey with truffles; and for at least a week beforehand was the little mother busy in the kitchen, mixing the rich walloon wafers, that made little peter's mouth water even when he happened to be thinking of them on a midsummer day. santa claus's pony. i jan was four years and a half older than peter, and he did not care so much either about the plain living all the year or the stuffed geese and wafers at christmas; he wanted to go to school at the “griffin house,” as he called the old stone building carved with griffins and dragons for water-spouts and gargoyles and ga- ble-ends, where they taught drawing and carv- ing and architecture, as well as other things less delightful. now, he and peter, went to school to captain ja- cobi, who asked very little money, but also taught very little learn- ing. how could he, when he had been tº fighting all the time until he lost his leg p if jan had wanted, indeed, to hear about battles and sieges — but jan's heart was set upon building up in stone and marble some of the fairy dreams he had in his brain. he loved even the queer old stone griffins on the school-house with the quirks in their impossible tails. but the tender-hearted burgher could never keep money enough in his purse to send jan there—certainly not to send both of his boys—and he and peterkin had never been separated in all of peter's short life. no ; jan's heart sank; it was altogether im- possible. “go, boys,” called their mother from the spicy, steaming kitchen, “go quickly and bring home the red cow. she has strayed away to the marsh; but be careful, boys, don't stay out after sunset. it is christmas eve, remember.” as if they had forgotten it for one moment during the day! as if their sunday sabots were not already arranged on the tall window-ledge, and filled with oats and hay and grass for the christmas pony! to peterkin's affectionate heart the christmas pony was a wonderful and glorified creature. on summer holidays when santa claus was busy in his workshop, fashion- ing toys for winter delights, he imagined the white pony with its fiery, shining eyes and long waving mane and tail, as free, like himself, and enjoying many an untrammeled run and caper in a paradise-pasture. having once seen a pict- ure of the greek pegasus, he confessed to his brother that he never thereafter thought of the christmas pony without wings, though hidden, doubtless, to ordinary vision by “a little girl riding a white pony, at the sight of which little peter's breath came quick.” (see next page.) his long, silvery mane. he believed firmly that one night he had actually heard him neigh softly, and paw at the wooden ledge. both the boys were restless—“christmas was in their bones”— and so they ran with i [dec. santa claus's pony. delight along the frozen path to the marshes to find “kneidel,” the strayed red cow. the ground was so level that they could see all around them for a great distance; and there, sure enough, was kneidel, looking disappoint- edly at the withered grasses on the farther edge of the marsh. she seemed redder than ever in the glow of the sky, which was a deep red with a few dark clouds above like smoke. “it looks like a goblin smithy,” said jan. “where they shoe with silver the christmas pony,” added peter, laughing. he put his hands on each side of his mouth to call kneidel home, when a sudden sharp, ringing sound, as of hoofs striking on the frozen ground, made him pause, and around a small body of woods on one side of them came a little girl of thirteen or fourteen years riding a white pony, at the sight of which little peter's breath came quick, and his cheeks flushed; for had it not bright eyes, and long silky mane and tail, and was not the bridle shining with rich metal-work. its rider, the young girl, drew rein, and checked her pony's speed as soon as she saw the boys. her eyes were black and lustrous, and her hair dark. she did not look like the girls of flanders, nor was her dress like theirs; and when she spoke it was with a decidedly foreign accent. “you are flemish boys i see,” she said, ad- dressing jan, and her voice was very sweet. “can you tell me in what direction the castle lies i thought it could be seen anywhere in this flat country.” “it is the old windmill that cuts off the view here,” answered jan, “but after you cross the marsh yonder it is visible again. it is not far away.” - “then i will wait for the others,” said the little lady, for so she seemed to be from her man- ner and look. “i was going to spend christmas eve with my godmother — at the castle — and my father did not return. so, as i wished very much to go, the steward and the governess pre- pared to go with me, and they were so slow — oh, so slow ! — that my pony ran away, and i find myself lost.” but there was a ring of mis- chievous laughter in the last sentence, and jan suspected the pony was not altogether to blame. “is this the christmas pony ?” suddenly asked peterkin, after an absorbed contempla- tion of the pretty white creature. “is it p – oh, yes, it is santa claus's pony!” she answered with a merry glance at jan ; and eyes, lips, and dimples overbrimming with silent laughter. she evidently remembered the flem- ish legend. “come,” she said suddenly to jan, with child- like impulse, “since i have to wait, tell me about yourselves; tell me what you would rather have — oh, of all things in the whole wide world !— for your christmas gift l” - children's hearts fly quickly open, and jan was soon telling her, while she listened with wide, eager eyes, of his dream of going to the “griffin house" and learning to build churches and palaces; and how he could not do it, be- cause he could never have the heart to rob “god’s poor” of his father's aid in charity. nor would he go without little peter. they were talking so eagerly that another rider was with them before they noticed his approach: a tall, dignified, dark-looking gentle- man, wrapped in a long spanish cloak and wearing a plumed hat. at the sight of him, and the sound of the young girl's rapturous cry, “father "jan's lips closed, and a sullen and lowering look came over his frank face. he replied but curtly to their thanks, and turned to his brother. “call kneidel, peter, and let us go home.” “kneidel has gone, brother”; and so she had, like a sensible cow, mindful of supper and shelter; and the sunset fires of the winter sky were burned almost to embers. they had separated, the young rider with a hurt, amazed look on her face, when jan turned back and said to the gentleman, “do not cross the marsh there. the holes are black and deep, and dangerous for horses. take the longer road around. you will be at your goal the sooner — and the safer.” “you do not like to warn us,” said the span- iard, looking curiously at his half-averted, reluc- tant face. “why?” “because you are spanish,” answered the lad, his honest gray eyes suddenly aflame. “who is your father ?” questioned the spaniard. jan's heart filled with dismayed apprehen- .] i santa claus's pony. sion. he remembered that he had told the daughter, already, however. “there is no need to tell,” he answered stur- dily. “i have not been treacherous to you, at least”; and his eyes sought the girl's eyes in warning. she spoke quickly in spite of a frown on her father's brow: “no ; you have been a generous foe. we owe you only thanks.” there was a suspicion of tears about her long lashes, and jan found it hard to listen to little peter as they has- - tened home- % \ ward. ſº “it is strange she should have the christmas pony,” he was saying in a perplexed tone. “strange things always happen at christ- mas,” his brother answered dreamily. next morning a silken purse of gold pieces hung outside the window with a scroll attached: “por jan and peter stein, that they may go to the school of the griffins. prom santa claus's pony.” jan stein's desire was fulfilled. he and peter went to the griffin school and learned all about carving and building in wood and stone. they used to plan together what they would build as soon as they were grown; big churches, perhaps, and stately houses, but certainly a town-hall for their own dear town, for the old one had been quite ruined by spanish shells. jan would have it adorn- ed with pictures from |-| its own history, and f with carvings of fa- ... miliar leaves and blos- | | soms, and of com- º mon animals with. | their homely, every- day ways. <- “the storks on their rough nests, and the big dogs harnessed to the cart—these would i have,” said jan. “and the christmas pony " exclaimed peter, his eyes kindling with the old enthusiasm. “on the central tablet would i carve him, and he should have wings, to show he is of no common stock, but of heavenly breed and nurture, and little panniers on his back out of which crowd all kinds of toys, and in front a child's sabots full of grass and barley. that should be my part, and under it would be only peterkin, for the name of the carver.” “why?” asked jan, wonderingly, for this was only his home-name. “because i shall be always ‘little peter' beside you, brother!” peter took the greatest delight in thinking how great and famous jan would be some day; and then, he thought, jan would meet the little spanish lady, and they would be true friends. peter did not live to see jan's success, for he died while they were students. but i think jan did no work without writing under his own name that of peter stein, since surely it was his brother's thought as well as his, though only jan's hand carved it in stone! - º the true story of marco polo. by noah brooks. [begun in the june number.] chapter xiv. the beautiful palace of kublai khan. the personal appearance of the great khan, as described by marco, was as follows: “he is of good stature, neither tall nor short, but of middle height. he has a becoming amount of flesh, and is very shapely in all his limbs. his complexion is white and red, the eyes black and fine, the nose well formed and well set on.” but the portrait of kublai khan, drawn by a chinese artist, does not exactly correspond with the pen portrait given here by marco. we know also, from marco's own narrative, that the emperor was subject to gout in his later life, and we are led to infer that he was rather corpulent, as he is represented in the drawing given by the chinese artist. after explaining that the family of the great khan are variously named and provided for, marco goes on to tell the palace of the great khan. of the glories of the imperial palace at camba- luc, otherwise known as peking: vol. xxiv.- . . you must know that for three months of the year, to wit, december, january, and february, the great kaan resides in the capital city of cathay, which is called cam- baluc, and which is at the northeastern extremity of the country. in that city stands his great palace, and now i will tell you what it is like. it is enclosed all round by a great wall forming a square, each side of which is a mile in length; that is to say, the whole compass thereof is four miles. it is also very thick and a good ten paces in height, whitewashed and loop-holed all round. at each angle of the wall there is a very fine and rich palace in which the war-harness of the em- peror is kept, such as bows and quivers, saddles and bridles, and bowstrings, and everything needful for an army. also midway between every two of these cor- ner palaces there is another of the like, so that taking the whole compass of the enclosure you find eight vast palaces stored with the great king's harness of war. and you must understand that each palace is assigned to only one kind of article; thus, one is stored with bows, a second with saddles, a third with bridles, and so on in succession right round. the true story of marco polo. [dec. the great wall has five gates on its southern face, the middle one being the great gate which is never opened on any occasion except when the great kaan himself goes forth or enters. close on either side of this great gate is a smaller one by which all other people pass; and then towards each angle is another great gate, also open to people in general; so that on that side there are five gates in all. inside of this wall there is a second, enclosing a space that is somewhat greater in length than in breadth. this enclosure also has eight palaces corresponding to those of the outer wall, and stored like them with the king's harness of war. this wall also hath five gates on the southern face, corresponding to those in the outer wall, and hath one gate on each of the other faces as the outer wall hath also. in the middle of the second enclosure is the king's great palace, and i will tell you what it is like. you must know that it is the greatest palace that ever was. toward the north it is in contact with the outer wall, whilst toward the south there is a vacant space which the barons and the soldiers are constantly tra- versing. the palace itself hath no upper story, but is all on the ground floor, only the basement is raised some ten palms above the surrounding soil, and this elevation is retained by a wall of marble raised to the level of the pavement, two paces in width, and project- ing beyond the base of the palace so as to form a kind of terrace-walk, by which people can pass round the building, and which is exposed to view, whilst on the outer edge of the wall there is a very fine pillared balus- trade; and up to this the people are allowed to come. the roof is very lofty, and the walls of the palace are all cov- ered with gold and silver. they are also adorned with representations of dragons, sculptured and gilt, beasts and birds, knights and idols, and sundry other subjects. and on the ceiling, too, you see nothing but gold and silver and painting. on each of the four sides there is a great marble staircase leading to the top of the marble wall, and forming the approach to the palace. the hall of the palace is so large that it could easily dine , people; and it is quite a marvel to see how many rooms there are besides. the building is alto- gether so vast, so rich, and so beautiful, that no man on earth could design anything superior to it. the out- side of the roof also is all colored with vermilion and yellow and green and blue and other hues, which are fixed with a varnish so fine and exquisite that they shine like crystal, and lend a resplendent lustre to the palace as seen for a great way round. this roof is made, too, with such strength and solidity that it is fit to last for- ever. on the interior side of the palace are large buildings with halls and chambers, where the emperor's private property is placed, such as his treasures of gold, silver, gems, pearls, and gold plate, and in which reside the ladies of the court. between the two walls of the enclosure which i have described, there are fine parks and beautiful trees bear- ing a variety of fruits. there are beasts also of sundry kinds, such as white stags and fallow deer, gazelles and roebucks, and fine squirrels of various sorts, with num- bers also of the animal that gives the musk, and all man- ner of other beautiful creatures, insomuch that the whole place is full of them, and no spot remains void except where there is traffic of people going and coming. the parks are covered with abundant grass; and the roads through them being all paved and raised two cubits above the surface, they never become muddy, nor does the rain lodge on them, but flows off into the meadows, quickening the soil and producing that abundance of herbage. from that corner of the enclosure which is towards the northwest there extends a fine lake, containing fish of different kinds, which the emperor hath caused to be put in there, so that whenever he desires any he can have them at his pleasure. a river enters this lake and issues from it, but there is a grating of iron or brass put up so that the fish cannot escape in that way. moreover, on the north side of the palace, about a bowshot off, there is a hill which has been made by art from the earth dug out of the lake; it is a good hundred paces in height and a mile in compass. this hill is en- tirely covered with trees that never lose their leaves, but remain ever green. and i assure you that wherever a beautiful tree may exist, and the emperor gets news of it, he sends for it and has it transported bodily with ail its roots and the earth attached to them, and planted on that hill of his. no matter how big the tree may be, he gets it carried by his elephants; and in this way he has got together the most beautiful collection of trees in all the world. and he has also caused the whole hill to be cov- ered with the ore of azure, which is very green. and thus not only are the trees all green, but the hill itself is all green likewise; and there is nothing to be seen on it that is not green; and hence it is called the green mount; and in good sooth 't is named well. on the top of the hill again there is a fine big palace which is all green inside and out; and thus the hill, and the trees, and the palace form together a charming spec- tacle; and it is marvelous to see their uniformity of color! everybody who sees them is delighted. and the great kaan has caused this beautiful prospect to be formed for the comfort and solace and delectation of his heart. you must know that beside the palace that we have been describing, i. e., the great palace, the emperor has caused another to be built just like his own in every respect, and this he hath done for his son when he shall reign and be emperor after him. hence it is made just in the same fashion and of the same size, so that every- thing can be carried on in the same manner after his own death. it stands on the other side of the lake from the great kaan’s palace, and there is a bridge crossing the water from one to the other. the prince in ques- tion holds now a seal of empire, but not with such complete authority as the great kaan, who remains su- preme as long as he lives. now i am going to tell you of the chief city of ca- thay, in which these palaces stand; and why it was built, and how. .] the true story of marco polo. i before we take up marco's description of the capital city of cathay, or china, let us look at peking, to call by its modern name kublai khan's city. we shall better under- stand marco's page if we know something of the capital as it exists to-day; and it is worthy of remark that the accuracy of the young ve- netian's account is well established by compar- ing it with what we know of modern peking. the city is one of the oldest in the world; but it was not made a capital until kublai khan, somewhere about , fixed his court there. under the mongols the name of peking was khan-palik, or city of the khan; and this title was easily converted into cambaluc, by which name it is known in the accounts of those times. peking is now divided into two parts; the northern portion is the tartar city, and contains about twelve square miles; in jº º º - kºłº z..º paved on the top with slabs of stone, affording a promenade twelve feet wide. there are six- teen gates in all, and each gateway is fortified with towers of stone; and other towers are fixed at intervals of about sixty yards all around the walls. these towers project fifty feet from the outer side of the walls, and those at the gateways have in front of them a fortification of a semicircular shape, so that the gate must be entered from the side and not from the front. west gate of pekin. - this are the palaces, government buildings, troops, and military barracks. the southern part is the chinese city, and is more populous than the tartar, less of its space being taken up by gardens and public buildings. the pop- ulation is estimated at different figures; but two millions appears to be a fair estimate. a wall separates the tartar from the chinese city, and a wall of varying height surrounds the whole, that of the tartar section being about fifty feet high, and that around the chi- nese section some thirty feet high. these walls are of brick and stone filled in with earth and the tartar city is divided into three inclo- sures, each being surrounded with its own wall, and each inside of another. the innermost of these is the prohibited city, and contains the imperial palaces and offices. its circumference is nearly two miles; the wall is covered with imperial-yellow tiles which look brilliant when seen from a distance. the inclosure next out- side of this is occupied by the government of fices, and by the army appointed to keep guard over the emperor and his family. the next outside of this is the outermost of all, and con- sists of dwelling-houses and shops. (to be continued.) º .* # : § : o june's garden. by marion hill. [begun in the november unmber.] chapter iii. “mrs. antarctic.” another lovely morning, with dew on every blade of grass, with birds chirping on every spray, and with misfit frisking about in antici- pative mischief. “in the vineyard of my father there is work enough to do. scattered gleanings we may gather, though we are but young and few * warbled june, who sang much as she did any- thing else — with a hearty will, and strictly up to time. “do you know, misfit,” she said, lifting the kitten up to her face to chain its wandering attention, “i like to sing hymns that go directly to the point without any beat- ing about the bush the simpler the tune, the more chance one has to think about the words. “little clusters, little clusters, help to fill the garners, too!” she concluded; and her vocalizing embarrassed the kitten frantically. “have you fed the doves p” asked leila, appearing at the doorway. “long ago.” “and misfit p’” “look at the bulginess of her.” “and the canary p” “and the canary; also myself. never feel uneasy about the animals, sister mine; for i cannot swallow a mouthful if i think they are hungry.” “oh, june, are n't your hyacinths lovely this morning p” “yes; i am sure i can sell those ; they are so delicately strong, and are so fragrant how can you stay indoors on such a lovely day ?” “my book is so interesting,” pleaded leila, guiltily holding the volume behind her. “well, i am going to find my reading after this in the story of the growing plants, and to look for my poetry in the changing sky. go in, and poke over your print, beloved; and hurt your eyes, and dim your brain. ta-ta!” leila smiled seraphically, and went. so june put in another morning of hard work alone, and the garden grew orderly under her deft fingers. when the sun gathered strength and made its wooing unpleasantly hot, june wandered to a shady spot near the fence, and busied herself watching the affairs in a nest of crowded young sparrows in a tree near by. they quarreled outrageously, and tried to squeeze each other out of the nest, and snatched greedily at the worms brought by their suffering parents—snatched out of their turn, too, and made vain attempts to pick out each other's eyes, and altogether comported themselves vil- lainously. misfit sat below them in the grass, and, gazing longingly, upward, chattered her teeth together in a futile pretense of eating them. “‘birds in their little nests agree'—what a - what a whopper! if i could n't agree with leila better than that, i should feel disappointed with myself,” mused june, but not aloud; and in the silence she heard a soft voice half whispering: “what lovely, lovely hyacinths!” jumping up and turning round, she found herself face to face with “mrs. antarctic,” a queenly-looking, white-haired old lady, who stood in her own garden of lovely flowers, and looked yearningly over at june's few blossoms. “why, yours are ever so much prettier!” cried june, in her friendly, direct way. “i did not know any one was there,’ mured the old lady, moving away. “ever so much prettier,” repeated june, gazing good-humoredly at the gorgeous blooms. “fifty times prettier.” “but they are not mine,” sighed the old lady. “they belong to my son and daughter.” ' mur- i [dec. june's garden. “that's the same as yours, is n't it?” asked june, puzzled. “no, indeed; my children do not like me to pick them, because they go to great expense to have a gardener look after them, and they give a good many entertainments and dinners, and they need the flowers for decorations. but i do love flowers so, and sometimes i am so hungry for one to lay my face against, to feel the touch of it !” as she finished speaking, she bent down with difficulty and brushed her sweet old face against the vivid whiteness of a waxen hyacinth. her eyes glistened with tears. “do you mean to say,” cried june, feeling the flying blood turn cold in her veins, so great was her indignation—“do you mean to say that your son and daughter do not allow you to pick their flowers ?” the old lady flushed and trembled; then she replied: “you are right, my dear; they do not a//ow me to touch them.” “oh, just wait! just wait a moment!” cried june, dancing around in a frenzied activity. jerking her small gardening implements out of their long box, she half filled the box with earth, and then dug up her cherished row of hya- cinths and transferred them to the new quarters. “here,” she gasped, staggering radiantly down to the fence with the heavy load —“here are some all for yourself to take up in your room, and pick when you want to.” “oh, my dear!” was all the old lady said; but as she grasped the lovely armful her eyes overflowed again with tears. “can you carry it up to your room, do you think?” “oh, yes; and if i cannot, there are servants enough to do it for me. i cannot thank you enough, june. you see i know your name. i hear it so often. when i sit out here to get the sun, i hear them always calling for june to get this and that, or for june to feed the birds, or for june to sew a seam, or to remember a piece of poetry, or to get the dinner, or to run to the store. it seems as if they could not get on without you.” “i declare, i feel angelic,” replied june, mightily pleased. “i suppose it is wrong to like praise, but i just love it. nothing pains me more than to fear that i am being good — for nothing / " “i think i would like you to come to my room and talk to me,” said the old lady, smiling wistfully,– “some day.” “i know i would like it,” assented june, cor- dially. “and i would be very much obliged if you would tell me your name.” “my name is mrs. rouncewell; but i had a little grandson once, who called me grandma bell. he died. there is no one to call me that now, unless perhaps you will.” “of course i will " and to herself june was murmuring, “if you keep on much longer talk- ing to me in that pathetic voice of yours i shall sit down on the grass and howl. i know i shall !” - “and i have trunks full of lovely things. maybe you would like to look at them. old dresses of velvets and satins, laces and fans and trinkets, all having their story of a time that is past and dead, all laid away in lav- ender. will you come " “indeed, yes. there is no more delightſul amusement than poking among the nice things that are somebody else's. that is, if you will let me poke, upon my promise of poking very mildly and respectfully,” june said. “you may poke to your heart's content,” promised the old lady, smiling in her faint, sad manner. “come now.” “beautiful idea!” assented june, quite ex- cited; and looking about her to decide on the nearest gate to use to get into the enchanted garden. but the fates interposed. “mother,” said a cold, cold voice, “you have been in the air long enough. you don't want to be ill again. please come in now.” mrs. rouncewell the younger was speaking from her veranda, and was speaking in firmly polite tones that were chilling to the heart. the younger mrs. rouncewell was so ele- gantly dressed that she seemed to have no hu- man element left about her. “i have asked my little friend to come in with me,” ventured grandma bell. “oh, indeed!”—very superciliously. “some other time. you have talked so much that you will be completely tired out. come along.” grandma bell made one more attempt to .] june's garden. i get june recognized by the fashion-plate. she said: “our little neighbor has been kind enough to give me these lovely flowers.” the younger mrs. rouncewell looked point- edly at her own magnificent array of hyacinths, and then said with an uplifting of one eyebrow: “charmed, i'm sure.” june's serene temper flew to the winds, and so she lifted her eyebrow too, and saying loft- ily, “don’t mention it!” she stalked away. misfit, getting slumberous, lagged lazily after her. the young girl was wildly championing the lonely old lady. she flung herself into a chair on the stoop, and thought matters out. “do you know what i've got to do?” ques- tioned june of her four-footed companion. that companion blinked its eyes. “do you know?” misfit deliberately turned her back. “do you know p” demanded june, fiercely. at the brutal attack the kitten slanted one ear as a signal of pained distress. “well, if you don't know, i 'll tell you,” said june, mollified. “i’ll have to think of a plan to get into that house to cheer that old lady up.” chapter iv. roy. “spading that's no work for a girl.” “come over and do it yourself, then,” said june, promptly and amiably. without waiting for further urging, roy alli- son vaulted clear over. “you are nothing if not athletic, are you?” “what a niggling little lump you dig up at a time! watch me,” said roy, setting to work with a vim that effected wonders. june was a trifle ill at ease; for, seen at close quarters, roy allison seemed quite a young man; and of young men june had a horror, though she idolized boys. “how old are you?” she asked uneasily. “old enough to know better; but still not as old as i look,” he replied. “but you are a fine worker,” said june, ac- cepting the rebuke with meekness. he dug vigorously while she replanted, and together they improved a vast deal of ground. “what are you so attentive to your garden for, all of a sudden p” asked roy. “i am going to raise flowers to sell.” “no " “yes.” “that's funny.” “not at all funny, if you were as hard up for money as we are.” “i am sure i beg your pardon.” “not at all. we have been poor for a very long time; and i, for one, am not going to try to disguise the fact any more.” “you had a number of fine hyacinths a short while ago, and now they are gone. did you get anything for them?” - “i did. i got the sweetest smile on earth.” “you gave them away?” “yes.” the mention of the hyacinths had recalled grandma bell to june's mind; so she resolved to appeal to masculine wisdom for advice. “if you wanted to see a person, and could not get into the house, what would you do?” “stay out,” replied roy, philosophically. not receiving the instant help she had ex- pected, june changed the subject. “i have n’t seen sarah for quite a while. what is the matter with her ?” “she is ill in bed, and there is a little peace in the house,” said roy, spading with unne- cessary vigor. - june put her hand on the shovel, and com- pelled his attention. “i can't stop your speaking like that, i sup- pose; but i can forbid you while you are in my garden. unless you are going to be nice, you can go back home.” “you don't know sarah,” said roy moodily. “i know that she suffers, and i know that you are the last person in the world to be im- patient with her.” “oh, she has told you the story, has she p” “no; but she has promised to.” “i’ll tell you myself. it is n't much to tell; it was all over in one short and terrible min- ute. we were very little children at the time. we were playing train with the nursery chairs. sarah was a passenger, and i was the conduc- tor, and when i made believe to stop the train at the place where she was to get out, she re- º, i june's garden. fused to move. then we squabbled about it, and both lost our tempers. to get the better of her, i pretended to wreck the train, and i threw the chairs over, not even stopping at the one upon which she sat. she fell on her back, somehow — and — and — you know the rest.” roy turned his face away. it had grown white during the telling, and his mouth twitched strangely. june exclaimed: “oh, roy, i am so sorry for you!” “for me?” asked roy, drawing his other hand across his eyes. “and for sarah, of course; but, so sorry for. you! it must be hard for you to forget.” “hard? it is impossible!” “then you care very much?” “care don't you think a fellow would care when he knows that he has crippled his sister for life?” gasped roy, with a sob. “oh, roy, i don't think sarah knows.” “knows what p’’ “how you feel about it. you do not care.” “i cannot tell her.” “but you could show her,” june insisted. “she won't let me show her. she seems not to like me near her.” “you evidently need help,” said june, una- bashed. “don't stand there looking as if you were being drawn and quartered, roy allison! just promise me that you will do as i ask.” “well, make your mind easy; i will.” “good boy!” “thank you. but things are worse between sarah and me than you think,” roy resumed. “oh, you can't expect everything to come straight as if by magic. you will have to do things yourself.” “what sort of things?” asked roy, uncom- fortably. “let me see,” mused june, wrinkling up her forehead. “now, sarah likes flowers, but any- body can go pick them out of the garden, or buy them down-town, no trouble at all,—so i advise you to go on a tramp among the hills, and bring home some of those gorgeous yellow wild poppies. she'll know that they were n't easy to get, and it will please her wonderfully to think that you cared enough for her to spend a few hours to procure her some pleasure.” i fancy she thinks “it will,” agreed roy, moodily digging up earth with the toe of his boot. “but suppose she throws them out of the window p” “that would be—bad,” confessed june, smiling. “but you need not think of it until it happens. then there are other things. you often say to yourself, “poor sarah l’ perhaps?” “indeed, yes!” roy assented warmly. “next time say it out loud, and see what happens. but whatever you do, don't say it just as an experiment. wait until it really fills your heart, and then out with it quick, before you have a chance to think.” “you are really an encouraging young per- son,” said roy, cheering up. “i have never said a word about my quarrel with sarah to a single soul, and yet here you stand talking about it as if it were entirely your business.” “do you mean that as a snub p’’ asked june, turning scarlet. “oh, no, no! you seem to have lifted a load off my mind, and have given me some- thing practical to do.” “because, really, smoothing out troubles is everybody's business,” said miss miller, smiling. “i think i would like you to be my sister. i am going to be a brother to you,” announced the boy, holding out his hand. june whipped both of hers behind her, but her kindly smile robbed the act of its affront. “no, you are not,” she said decidedly. “not until you know how to treat your own better. i think very little of brothers who know how to be nice to every girl on earth except their own sisters.” “that's mean,” complained roy. “very mean; of course you are referring to the actions of brothers. wait till you've made up with sarah.” “all right,” said roy, amiably. “here goes for the poppies!” and he strode away. “oh, roy!” called june; and roy, with one leg over the fence turned to look at her. “i’ve thought of an awfully nice plan for sarah, on my own account.” “what is it?” asked roy. “i can't tell you. it's a secret.” “just like a girl! call me back to tell me something you can't tell,” grumbled roy, mak- ing off in haste. (to be continued.) the voyage of the “northern light.” by j. t. trowbridge. i had just completed my sophomore term [said the harvard man], when i narrowly es- caped having my college course cut short in the middle by the strange thing that happened to me that summer. i passed my vacation chiefly on cape breton and prince edward island; and in the month of august found myself at charlottetown, undecided as to the route by which i should return to the united states. there, one after- noon, as i was sauntering about the harbor, i fell in with the captain of a coasting schooner, the “northern light,” who was getting his craft ready for sea. he was bluff and blunt, but good-natured, and easily drawn into conversation. he told me he was bound for boston; and when i remarked that he could n't have much freight aboard, the schooner's sides rising high out of the water, he answered, with a significant quirk of the mouth which provoked my curi- osity: “she’ll wet 'em 'fore ever she gets out of the strait, if freight is all that's wanted.” vol. xxiv.- – . he went on to say that he was waiting for a wind to run over to a small port on the south shore, where he was to take in building-stone from the nova scotia quarries. he showed me his cabin, which, for the cabin of a coaster, was neat and comfortable; and interested me so much in the life he led, and in his own simple, genial character, that i said impulsively: “if it was by daylight, and you would take a passenger, i might be tempted to try a voy- age with you, as far as the south shore.” “i can give you a bunk, and we've got a decent sort of a cook,” he replied. “you 'll be welcome, if you won't mind roughing it.” i said it would be just what i should like. “then you'd better come aboard this even- ing,” he went on. “we can't beat out into the strait with this light southerly breeze; but if i know the signs, it will shift about and freshen 'fore morning, and the sunrise will see our sheets taut and sails bellying.” there was a touch of poetry in the man's i the voyage of the “northern light.” [dec. nature, in piquant contrast with his weather- roughened visage and chubby form. in the evening i went on board with my valise — a little to his surprise, i thought, for he had evidently expected my heart would fail me at the last moment; and after watching the moonlight on the water, for a while, took pos- session of the berth allotted me in the small cabin. i slept soundly, and did not waken until noises on deck and the harsh creak-creak ballasted hull yielded and careened, and we were off, with the dim shores flitting away from us, and the waves gurgling under our wales. the east brightened behind over the hills, and we had hardly passed the point and entered the open strait when the clouds on the horizon broke into fiery flakes, and the first beams of the sunrise gilded our spars. i had a keen appetite for the cook's good breakfast of fried bacon and potatoes, and en- “the lightly-ballasted hull yielded and careened. of the hoisting-tackle warned me that we were getting under sail. i hurried on my clothing, and putting my head out over the gangway saw that the schooner was spreading her white wings, like some huge croaking crane preparing to take flight. we had already swung off into the stream, heading down the harbor; the wind had freshened, and got into the northwest; the canvas filled, the masts swayed, the lightly- joyed the passage with as fine a zest as i had felt for anything so far in my vacation. it took us about five hours to run over to the landing on the north coast of nova scotia, where our cargo, from a neighboring sandstone quarry, was to be taken aboard. we drifted into a little cove, and the mate stood ready to fling a line to the pier, when my attention was called to a boy who came forward to catch it. he had a singularly solemn countenance for the first beams of the sunrise. gilded our spars." .] the voyage of the “northern light.” i a boy of his age (he could hardly have been more than seventeen), bare feet and legs, and a brown neck, exposed by his coarse woolen shirt wide open at the throat. he had on an old straw hat with a ripped crown, showing the top of his uncombed head through the gap. “wide awake, jake " called out the captain. “jake's wide awake,” the boy answered back, extending his open hands to catch the line. “good for you, jake l’’ cried the captain, as the hawser was hauled in from the schooner. “i know what's good,” said jake, simply. “you know better than some folks that think they know a great deal more. here — ketch that!” cried the captain. then, as the boy stooped to pick up a canadian copper flung to him on the wharf, he added: “jake never 'll dam the st. lawrence, but he 's good as gold all through.” my voyage over had been so delightful that i was much inclined to accept an invitation from the captain to take the trip to boston with him; although he warned me that the northern light would n't sail so dashingly with heavy freight as she did with light ballast. anyhow, i would spend the time on shore, while the schooner was lading, visit the quarries, and ex- plore the country a little. there were a few houses in sight, grouped about the cove. as i stepped to the wharf with my valise, i asked jake to show me a good boarding-place. “want a place to stop p” he said in his sol- emn, earnest way. “ma’ll let you in. i'll tell her. come on ”; and he took my valise. he went on before. i followed amid piles of quarry-stone, and along a path that led over a high bank to a dingy little house on the ter- race of the hills. it commanded a fine view of the coast and the sea, but nothing else could be said in its favor. i shrank back, feeling that i had made an awkward mistake in accepting jake's guidance; but he threw the door open, calling out: “ma, here 's a man come to stop with us ! i said you ’d let him in.” the surprised face of a stooping little gray- haired woman peered out. “why, jakey,” she said, “how could you!” she gave me a kindly but distressed smile. “i’d like to be hospitable, but i hain't a speck of room, nor a spare bed.” “he can sleep with me,” said jake, gener- ously; “ or i'll sleep on the floor.” i relieved her embarrassment by saying, “jake is altogether too kind. if he will show the way to some house you can recommend, i shall be as much obliged to him as if i turned him out of his bed.” “oh, yes,” she exclaimed quickly; “mr. kendall's. jakey will go with you.” her voice softened as she added, with a tearful sort of smile, “jakey is good-hearted as you ever see, but he don't always use good judgment. go along with the gentleman, jakey dear.” jake appeared disappointed that they were not to have me as a guest; he backed up the offer of his bed with a proposal to “ketch a lunker” for my dinner, by which a big fish was meant; then, as even that failed to tempt me, he faced about abruptly, and, with a curt “come on " " he set off to guide me to the nearest farm-house. i saw a good deal of him while i stayed in the neighborhood. i took him with me in my excursions, and enjoyed his quaint and often shrewd sayings, and his simple kind-heartedness. the kendalls, with whom i lodged, gave him credit for the gift of second-sight, inherited from his scotch ancestry; and told a curious story of his having seen a certain coaster go down in the strait three days before it actually did go down, and in the way he described. i con- cluded, however, that he made more misses than hits in his predictions, as forecasters of the future commonly do ; and that the gift had been attributed to him on account of an abrupt and sententious way of saying things. having decided to make the voyage to bos- ton with captain cameron, i wrote to assure my friends at home that they would have no cause for anxiety if they missed my letters for a few days, or failed to see me as soon as they expected. then one afternoon i sat on the wharf, watching the last of the building-blocks as they were lowered by the derrick through the schooner's main hatch into the hold. “we'll be off by sundown, if the wind stays to the west’ard,” said the captain; “just a jolly breeze for running out of the strait!” that was joyful news to me, but not so to jake, who came and sat by my side. the voyage of the “northern light.” [dec. “i shall hate to have you go,” he exclaimed earnestly. and when i asked him why: “‘cause you've been good to me. some folks poke fun at me; but you never do that. i don't like to have fun poked at me, more 'n anybody does, though i know i ain't bright,” he said, with a pathos that was touching, it was so simple and unconscious. i was trying to frame some comforting reply to this affecting speech, when he said, “i 'm going to make you a present,” and handed out to me an old pocket-knife with a much- worn blade and a cracked horn handle. i could n't help smiling as i asked how he could think of parting with such a treasure. “you 've made me presents,” he replied; “you give me this hat, and the shoes i’ve got on ; and you lost your knife when we was out in the boat fishing.” this was true; and he had heard me lament that i could n't buy another good knife at the country store where i had purchased his hat and shoes. “but, you dear fellow,” i exclaimed, “i can't take your knife!” he was evidently hurt, seeming to think i had slighted his humble offering. after a mo- ment's silence he said, still holding the knife in his open palm —and i remember just how it looked, with one end of the whitish horn handle broken away at a rivet, showing the polished iron rim, and how i had to wink the glimmer- ing moisture from my eyes in order to see it at all: “time 'll come, and 't won't be long first,” —he spoke slowly and earnestly,–" when you'll be glad to give a thousand dollars for a jack- knife no better 'n that. then you'll think of what i tell ye.” “i have n't got a thousand dollars in the world,” i said, laughing; “so give it to me.” and i took it to please him. but i knew how much he prized the poor old battered thing, and felt guilty of a heartless robbery when i thought of carrying it offin my pocket. so, as he was accompanying me to the schooner an hour later, i left him to walk on with my valise, while i stopped at his mo- ther's door to bid her good-by. “and here is the knife which your son gave me,” i said. “it was very, very kind in him; but of course i can't keep it.” she said she was “afraid jakey would feel awful bad" if i did n’t, and she took it with reluctance. “hide it away from him awhile,” i said; “then some day put it where he will find it, and perhaps he will have forgotten all about giving it away.” “i’ll do just as you wish,” she replied, tears rising in her eyes as i shook her hand with sincere cordiality. “i know ’t wa'n't no sort of a present for him to make to a person like you; but, as i said to you once before, and as you 've had a chance to find out for yourself, my poor boy don't always use good judgment.” i tried to say something reassuring, but fal- tered, and she went on : “you 've been dread- ful good to him, and i know how he 'll miss you!” i hurried away, and bade jake good-by on board the schooner. “wish i was going with you,” he said. “i would in a minute, if 't wa'n't for ma.” “she needs you,” i answered. “you’re a great comfort to her, jake; and i hope you never will leave her. now go ashore, my good jake, and good-by!” without a word he walked to the wharf and dropped down on a block of stone, where he remained seated, sadly watching us as we made sail and got under way — as pathetic a picture of patience on a monument as you can well imagine. his disconsolate, motionless figure grew indistinct across the tossing waves, until a jutting headland hid him from view. we went out with a good breeze, but the schooner was laden and her progress was pro- saic enough compared with the fine dash she had made in coming over from the island. but i was altogether at my ease on board. the captain was good company; i had in my valise two or three interesting books which, so far on my trip, i had not taken time to read; and i did not easily tire of watching the waves, the gulls, the clouds, and the shores, which were sometimes quite near. we passed through the gulf of canso partly by daylight, and were becamed in chedabucto bay until a strong east wind sprang up, against .] “northern light.” i the voyage of the the collision. which we had a rather dull time beating out into the atlantic. the captain took good for- tune and bad with equal cheerfulness, and when i expressed a wish that the wind would change back again to the westward, he said: “be patient, young man! we can't have everything our own way. let the wind hold, and after we pass cape canso it will give us a straight run to massachusetts bay.” “the schooner made a horrible lurch under the shock.” (see page .) night came on, our second night,- and we were still knocking about inside the cape. the schooner heaved on the long swells that came rolling in from the atlantic; but the evening, though cool, was fine; and i was glad to keep the deck with the captain. he told tales of his seafaring life, one of which i had good reason to remember, from the bearing it had upon my own subsequent i the voyage of the “northern light.” [dec. strange adventure. it was of a brother of his, who sailed with him as his mate a few years before, and was lost overboard and drowned under his very eyes, when he might have been saved if there had been any convenient object at hand to fling after him so as to keep him afloat till a boat could be lowered. “since then,” he said, “i have always kept a life-buoy ready for the man at the wheel to cast overboard, in case of such an acci- dent. we have never had to use it yet, and i hope we never shall; but there it is, and there it will always be found as long as i walk the deck.” i had noticed it, a circular life - pre- “‘a thousand dollars for a jack-knife!'" server, with a sort of line attached, such as one often sees on passenger steamers, but rarely on board of a common sailing-vessel. buoy and line were held together by a smaller cord which a quick pull at a bow-knot would untie, and the whole was hung securely on a cleat under the stern-rail. i was sitting on the box over the steering- gear, and the captain was himself at the wheel; our own green and red lights were in the rigging, when we noticed, off our port bow, the-lights of a steamer coming in sight around the cape. she was evidently entering the bay, and as we were (see page .) directly in her path i expressed some anxiety as to her course. “we have the right of way,” said the cap- tain; “she sees our lights, and she'll pass astern of us. that 's what she 's doing,” he added, after a minute's careful observation. he called the mate to the wheel, while he himself stood watching the stranger. there was some- thing mysterious and awe-inspiring in the gradual approach of her lights, like two great eyes, one green and one red, in the im- mense darkness; and in the slow, far- off, monotonous clank of her machinery, grow- ing upon the silence of the night and of the sea. the ship's bell rang, and a steam-signal re- sponded, booming across the water. soon i could make out a dim object looming on the horizon; at the same time there was a gradual veering of the steamer's lights. “she’s changing her course !” cried the cap- tain. “what does that mean p” it was the first time i had heard him speak in a tone indi- cating any excitement. “she means to cross our bows,” said the mate. es. .] the voyage of the “northern light.” i i “she can't do that!” the captain exclaimed. “she'll be aboard of us, sure as fate l’’ moments of terrible uncertainty ensued. the ship's bell clanged. the sailors in the fore- castle came tumbling up on deck. we were all on our feet, every man getting ready to obey whatever orders were called out to him in the emergency: a never-to-be-forgotten scene of hurry and apprehension, lighted by the lanterns in the shrouds over our heads. on came the great black hull, towering above us, for we were comparatively low in the wa- ter, and rushing down upon our port bow. our captain roared out at her, and there was all at once a wild movement of human figures visible along her rail. she veered again, and the schooner at the same time fell off from her course, both vessels endeavoring to bear away from each other; but it was too late. there was a tremendous crash, and i thought for a moment the steamer was actually walk- ing over us. i could see her prow rise out of the water, as if she had struck a ledge. she recoiled, settled back, and immediately drifted away from us, disappearing in the darkness. the schooner made a horrible lurch under the shock, then rolled back in the other direc- tion, lifting barrels of water on her bow, and spilling it across the deck. i hurried forward with the captain to see what damage had been done. the steamer had cut us down to the top layer of blocks of stone that composed our freight, and the sea was spouting in through the gap. there was but one chance of saving her — to check the incoming torrent by means of ob- jects thrust down over the crushed side, while she was headed for the shore, in the hope of running her aground before she sank. planks, hatch-covers, potato-bags, the cabin door — wrenched off in mad haste, hammer and spikes, a rope to support a sailor, up to his waist in the water, over her side,-every avail- able object was used, and every effort made, but all to no purpose; the flood rushed in be- neath and around and through the obstruc- tions; then a great wave swept by, undoing all that had been done. meanwhile the schooner was steadily settling in that direction, and the farther she went over the faster the sea poured in. “no use!” cried the captain. “we must try to launch the boat.” there was but one, and it had not been hanging from the stern davits at any time dur- ing the voyage; it had been carried lying bottom up on deck, against the bulwarks that were cut down by the collision. the steamer's stem had struck it and shoved it from its posi- tion, giving it a bad wrench, but without crush- ing it; and there was hope that it would still prove seaworthy. but no sooner was it lowered by ropes over the side than it began to fill with water. a sort of panic followed, but the captain did not once lose his head. “don’t pile into her!” he shouted to the sailors scrambling overboard. “keep her afloat! hold on to her rail till she 's bailed out and the leak stanched get her off, so she won't be sucked down ''' i knew what that meant. until then i had hardly realized that the danger was so immi- nent. i had such confidence in the captain that i stood eagerly watching him, and waiting to obey his orders or follow his example. he and i were alone on the deck by this time. we looked down upon a tumultuous scene, half in shadow and half lighted by the ship's lanterns, one man in the boat with a bucket bailing with all his might; another try- ing to stuff burlaps into the opened seams; two or three up to their shoulders in the water, clinging to the gunwales, and endeavoring, by swimming and by pushing with an oar, to get her away from the schooner. but few words were uttered, and those in quick, half-stifled tones, like the voices of men in a death-struggle. “you are doing well, boys!” the captain called out cheerily. “and you!”—he caught me roughly by the arm, and turned my face toward the stern—“the life-buoy for you! and be quickl" i had thought of that, but still had hopes that the boat would be emptied and saved and brought back alongside before the schooner went down. - “and you, captain p” i said; “take the life-buoy yourself!” - “start " he exclaimed. we are sinking?” “don't you see i the voyage of the “northern light.” i lost no more precious moments, but ran for the life-buoy, released it from its fastenings, put my feet through it, and slipped it up under my arms. i gave one glance at the captain as his stumpy form disappeared over the schooner's side, then threw the loosened coils of the buoy- line overboard, and jumped after it. in my excitement i did n't much mind the shock of the immersion, although the water was very cold and i was unaccustomed to sea- bathing. i could swim a little, but i knew well that without some support i could n't have kept my head above the waves many minutes. what did i think about? i can hardly tell. in that frightful crisis i suppose my past life should have flashed before my mind, and i ought to have thought of my friends at home; for i was well aware that, even with my life- preserver on, i might perish before i could be rescued. but, incredible as it may seem, some of my thoughts were facetious, and it is chiefly those that i remember. whether i could read the name on the stern or not (it seems to me now that i could), i looked up to where it was, and said to myself, “the “northern light' will soon be quenched ' " then, “where was moses when the light went out p” it was the jocu- larity of terrible excitement, something like hamlet's after the interview with his father's ghost. it could hardly have lasted half a minute. things were rushing to a climax faster than i can tell them. i had drifted a few yards away from the stern, and was paddling to increase the distance, when i discovered that the line attached to the life-buoy did not come free when i pulled at it. on the contrary, i was pulling myself back to the schooner. in short, the line had caught on something when i flung it over; it was spliced to the buoy, and i was in the buoy. as i continued pulling in one direc- tion, the schooner began pulling in the other— she was making her final, wallowing, gurgling plunge to the bottom drawing me down with her! it was impossible to untie or break the line, though i might have cut it, even while i felt myself hauled rapidly after the wreck. i struggled frantically, and i believe i shrieked out, just as my head was going under: “a thousand dollars for a jack-knife!” how far down i was drawn i have n’t the slightest notion. it seemed to me a long way; and what was probably but a few seconds of agony appeared many minutes. i remember a ringing in my head, and vivid flashes of light; then all at once there was nothing for me to struggle against, and i rose rapidly to the sur- face. i had succeeded in freeing myself from the buoy. something was floating near. i grasped it. it was a ship's fender. then a boat bore down upon me, pulled by plashing oars; if i had n't shrieked out, it might have passed over me. it was a boat from the steamer that had run us down. i was quickly pulled in over the gun- wale; and afterward the captain and all our crew were picked up from the foundering boat and other floating objects. the steamer was also injured by the collision, but not disabled; and we received the kindest treatment on board. the captain had strangely mistaken our distance when he attempted to cross our bows; we were much nearer than he supposed. she was a tramp steamer, but her owners were responsible; and as we were not in any way at fault, they had heavy damages to pay. i was told that if i put in a personal claim, it would be settled; but i never did. and as for jake's prediction, which was so singularly fulfilled i have related the circum- stances as i remember them, and am willing to leave the question of prophecy or coincidence to anybody's unbiased judgment. some very strange things happen in this world of ours— things it is useless to argue much about; and this i regard as one of them. oh!— well, yes; i reached home in time to get ready for the fall term, and completed my college course. i [dec. a boy i knew. was likely to be spoiled; and consequently he was never praised, nor petted, nor coddled. “always in the way.” he was always falling down, or dropping things, he was always getting into the way; and he could not learn to spell correctly nor to cipher at all. he was never in his mother's way, however, and he was never made to feel so. but nobody except the boy knows of the agony which the rest of the family, uncon- sciously and with no thought of hurting his feel- ings, caused him, by the fun they poked at his nose, at his fiery locks, and at his unhandiness. he fancied that passers-by pitied him as he walked or played in the streets; and he sincerely pitied himself as a youth destined to grow up into an awkward, tactless, stupid man at whom the world would laugh so long as his life lasted. the boy's father was a scholar, and a ripe and good one. self-made and self-taught, he began the serious struggle of life when he was merely a boy himself; and reading, and writ- ing, and spelling, and languages, and mathe- matics came to him by nature. he acquired by slow degrees a fine library, and out of it a vast amount of information. he never bought a book that he did not read, and he never read a book unless he considered it worth buy- ing and worth keeping. languages and ma- thematics were his particular delight. when he was tired he rested himself by the solving of a geometrical problem. he studied his bible in latin, in greek, in hebrew; and he had no small smattering of sanskrit. his chief recreation, on sunday afternoon or on a long summer evening, was a walk with the boy among the hudson river docks, when the business of the day or the week was over and the ship was left in charge of some old quartermaster or third mate. to these sailors the father would talk in each sailor's own tongue, whether it were dutch or danish, spanish or swedish, russian or prussian, always to the great wonderment of the boy, who to this day, after many years of foreign travel, knows little more of french than “combien " and little more of italian than “troppo caro.” why none of these qualities of mind came to the boy by direct descent he does not know. he only knows that he did inherit from his parent, in an intellectual way, a sense of humor, a love for books as books, and a certain respect for the men by whom books are written. triº bow in kilts. it seemed to the boy that his father knew everything. any question upon any subject was .] i a boy i knew. sure to bring a prompt, intelligent, and intel- ligible answer; and, usually, an answer fol- lowed by a question, on the father's part, which made the boy think the matter out for himself. the boy was always a little bit afraid of his father, while he loved and respected him. when his father said, “do this,” it was done. when his father told him to go or to come, he went or he came. and yet he never felt the weight of his father's hand, except in the way of kindness; and, as he looks back upon his boyhood and his manhood, he cannot recall an angry or a hasty word or a rebuke that was not merited and kindly be- stowed. his father, like the true scotchman that he was, never praised him; but he never blamed him — except for cause. the boyhas no recollec- tion of his first tooth, but he remembers his first tooth- ache as distinctly as he remembers his latest; and he could not quite under- stand then why, when the boy cried over that raging molar, the father walked the floor, and seemed to suffer from it even more than did the boy; or why, when the boy had a sore throat, the father always had symptoms of bronchitis or quinsy. the father did not live long enough to find out whether the boy was to amount to much or not; and while the boy is proud of the fact that he is his father's son, he would be prouder still if he could think that he had done something to make his father proud of him. the boy was taught, from the earliest awakening of his reasoning powers, that truth was to be told and to be respected, and that nothing was more wicked or more ungentlemanly than a broken promise. he learned very early to do as he was told, and not to do, under any consideration, what he had said he would not do. upon this last point he was strictly conscientious, although once, literally, he “beat about the bush.” his the boy's father. aunt margaret, always devoted to plants and to flowers, had, on the back stoop of his grand- father's house, a little grove of orange and lemon trees in pots. some one of these was usually in fruit or in flower, and the fruit to the boy was a great temptation. he was very fond of oranges, and it seemed to him that a “home- made” orange, which he had never tasted, must be much better than a grocer's orange; as home-made cake was certainly preferable, even i [dec. a boy i knew. to the wonderful cakes made by the professional mrs. milderberger. he watched those little green oranges from day to day, as they grad- ually grew big and yellow in the sun. he promised faithfully that he would not pick any, but he had a notion that some of them might drop off. he never shook the trees, because he said he would not. but he shook the stoop ! and he hung about the bush, which he was too honest to beat. one unusually tempting orange, which he had known from its bud-hood, finally overcame him. he did not pick it off, he did not shake it off; he compromised with his con- science by lying flat on his back and biting off “cried, because he had been kissed.” a piece of it. it was not a very good action, nor was it a good orange, and for that reason, perhaps, he went home immediately and told on himself. he told his mother. he did not tell his aunt margaret. his mother did not seem to be as much shocked at his conduct as he was. but, in her own quaint way, she gave him to understand that promises were not made to be cracked any more than they were made to be broken—that he had been false to himself in heart, if not in deed, and that he must go back and make it “all right” with his aunt margaret. she did not seem to be very much shocked, either; he could not tell why. but they punished the boy. they made him eat the rest of the orange | he lost all subsequent interest in that tropi- cal glade, and he has never cared much for do- mestic oranges since. the boy's first act of self-reliance and of con- scious self-dependence was a very happy mo- ment in his young life; and it consisted in his being able to step over the nursery fender all alone, and to toast his own shins thereby, with- out falling into the fire. his first realization of “getting big” came to him about the same time, and with a mingled shock of pain and pleasure, when he discovered that he could not walk under the high kitchen table without bumping his head. he tried it very often before he learned to go around that article of furniture, on his way from the clothes-rack, which was his tent when he camped out on rainy days, to the sink, which was his oasis in the desert of the basement floor. this kitchen was a favorite playground of the boy, and about that kitchen-table center many of the happiest of his early reminiscences. ann - hughes, the cook, was very good to the boy. she told him stories, and taught him riddles, all about a certain “miss netticoat,” who wore a white petticoat, and who had a red nose, and about whom there still lingers a queer, contra- dictory legend to the effect that “the longer she stands the shorter she grows.” the boy always felt that, on account of her nose, there was a peculiar bond of sympathy between little miss netticoat and himself. as he was all boy in his games, he would never cherish anything but a boy-doll, generally a highlander, in kilts and with a glengarry that came off. although he became foreman of a juvenile hook-and-ladder company before he was five, and would not play with girls at all, he had one peculiar feminine weakness. his grand pas- sion was washing and ironing. and ann hughes used to let him do all the laundry- work connected with the wash-rags and his own pocket-handkerchiefs, into which, regularly every wednesday, he burned little brown holes with the toy flat-iron, which would get too hot. but johnny robertson and joe stuart and the other boys, and even the uncles and the aunts, a boy i knew. i “good morning, boys!” never knew anything about this—unless ann hughes gave it away! the boy seems to have developed, very early in life, a fondness for new clothes—a fondness which his wife sometimes thinks he has quite outgrown. it is recorded that almost his first plainly spoken words were “coat and hat,” uttered upon his promotion into a more boyish apparel than the caps and frocks of his infancy. and he remembers very distinctly his first pair of long trousers, and the impres- sion they made upon him, in more ways than one. they were a black-and-white check, and to them was attached that especially manly article, the suspender. they were originally worn in celebration of the birth of the new year, in or , and the boy went to his father's store in hudson street, new york, to exhibit them on the next business-day there- after. naturally they excited much comment, and were the subject of sincere congratulation. and two young clerks of his father, the boy's uncles, amused themselves, and the boy, by playing with him a then popular game called “squails.” they put the boy, seated, on a long counter, and they slid him, backward and forward between them, with great skill and with no little force. but, before the cham- pionship was decided, the boy's mother broke up the game, boxed the ears of the players, and carried the human disk home in disgrace. he remembers nothing more about the trou- sers, except the fact that for a time he was allowed to appear in them only on sundays and holidays, and that he was deeply chagrined at having to go back to knickerbockers at school and at play. the boy's first boots were of about this same era. they were what were then known as “wellingtons,” and they had legs. the legs had red leather tops, as was the fashion in those days, and the boots were pulled on with straps. they were always taken off with the aid of the boot-jack of the boy's father, although they could have been removed much more easily without the use of that instrument. great was the day when the boy first wore his first boots to school; and great his delight at the sensa- tion he thought they created when they were shown in the primary department. the boy's first school was a dame's school, playing “school." [dec. a boy i knew. kept by a miss or mrs. harrison, in harrison street, near the hudson street house in which he was born. he was the smallest child in the the boy's mother. establishment, and probably a pet of the larger girls, for he remembers going home to his mo- ther in tears once, because one of them had kissed him behind the class-room door. at that school he met his first love, one phoebe hawkins, a very pretty, sweet girl, as he recalls her, and, of course, considerably his senior. how far he had advanced in the spell- ing of proper names at that period is shown by the well-authenticated fact that he put him- self on record once as “loving his love with an f, because she was feeby!” poor phoebe hawkins died before she was out of her teens. the family moved to pough- keepsie when the boy was ten or twelve, and his mother and he went there one day from red hook, which was their own summer home, to call upon his love. when they asked at the railway-station where the hawkinses lived and how they could find the house, they were told that the carriages for the funeral would meet the next train. and, utterly unprepared for such a greeting, for at latest accounts she had been in perfect health, they stood, with her friends, by the side of phoebe's open grave. in his mind's eye the boy, at the end of forty years, can see it all, and his childish grief is still fresh in his memory. in or the boy went to another dame's school. it was kept by miss kilpat- rick, on franklin or north moore street. from this, as he grew in years, he was sent to the primary department of the north moore street public school, at the corner of west broad- way, where he remained three weeks, and where he contracted a whooping-cough which lasted him three months. the other boys used to throw his hat upon an awning in the neighbor- hood, and then throw their own hats up under the awning in order to bounce the boy's hat off—an amusement for which he never much cared. they were not very nice boys anyway, especially when they made fun of his maternal grandfather, who was a trustee of the school and who sometimes noticed the boy after the morn- ing prayers were said. the grandfather was very popular in the school. he came in every day, stepped up on the raised platform at the principal's desk, and said in his broad scotch, “good morning, boys | " to which the entire body of pupils, at the top of their lungs, and with one voice, replied, “g-o-o-d morning, mr. scott / " this was considered a great feature in the school, and strangers used to come from all over the city to witness it. somehow it made the boy a little bit ashamed, he does not know why. he would have liked it well enough, and been touched by it, too, if it had been some other boy's grand- father. the boy's father was present once—the boy's first day; but when he discovered that the president of the board of trustees was going to call on him for a speech he ran away; and the boy would have given all his little possessions to have run after him. the boy knew then as well as he knows now how his father felt, and he thinks of that occasion every time he runs johnny robertson. .] a boy i knew. the house of the boy's grand father – corner of hudson and north moore streets. away from some speech he, himself, is called upon to make. after his north moore street experience the boy was sent to study under men teachers in boys' schools; and he considered then that he was grown up. the boy, as has been said, was born with- out the sense of spell. the rule of three, it puzzled him, and fractions were as bad; and the proper placing of e and i, or i and e, the doubling of letters in the middle of words, and how to treat the addition of a suffix in “y” or “tion” “always drove him mad,” from his childhood up. he hated to go to school, but he loved to play school; and when johnny robertson and he were not con- ducting a pompous, public funeral—a certain oblong hat-brush, with a rosewood back, stud- ded with brass tacks, serving as a coffin, in which lay the body of henry clay, daniel webster, or the duke of wellington, all of whom died when johnny and the boy were about eight years old — they were teaching each other the three immortal and exceedingly trying “r’s”—reading, 'riting, and 'rithme- tic — in a play-school. their favorite spell- ing-book was a certain old cook-book, dis- carded by the head of the kitchen, and con- sidered all that was necessary for their educa- tional purpose. from this, one afternoon, johnnie gave out “doughnut,” with the follow- ing surprising result. conscious of the puz- zling presence of certain silent consonants and vowels, the boy thus set it down: “d-o- dough, n-o-u-g-h-t, nut—doughnut!” and he went up head in a class of one, neither teacher nor pupil perceiving the funny blunder the boy had made. (to be continued.) “and she pulled at the string of the witch-wife's door, and she drew back the bolt below.” o the ballad of the parson's daughter. (a tale of .) by helen gray cone. they had taken away old goodwife crook, though she did whine and cower; they said she had writ in the black man's book, and she wielded a wicked power. they said she had ridden her broom of birch, in the moonlight cold and pale, right over the steeple that crowned the church; so the old wife lay in jail. 't was the parson's daughter, whose name was grace, with a maiden that was her friend, walked forth one day to the lonely place by the wood at the township's end. and they talked in whispers of this and that which of late was come to pass; and there fell a chill, as the shadows flat crept longer across the grass. and now they were nigh to the straw- thatched hut where the witch had lived alone, and above and below the door was shut; but they heard a grievous moan a long, low moan, and a wailing cry; and they paused in the path, aghast— and they looked around with the white of the eye, and they held each other fast. vol. xxiv.- . said the deacon's prue, with a waxen face, “come hence, for i die with fear !” but “alas and alack | " said the parson's grace, “'t was a pitiful sound to hear!” (her ways were not as the parson's ways, and the ways of the parson's flock; she was fair as a single flower that sways from the cleft of the grim gray rock.) “and, indeed,” said she, “whatsoever it be, though an evil thing in pain, i feel in my heart it is laid on me that it shall not cry in vain!” said the deacon's prudence, “oh, touch not pitch, lest you should be defiled ! what should you do in the house of the witch, that are your father's child?” then the parson's grace said no word more; but she went up somewhat slow, and she pulled at the string of the witch- wife's door, and she drew back the bolt below. she heard no longer the doleful cries as she stood in the twilight room; but she was aware of two fiery eyes, green-glaring through the gloom. “heaven help me now at my need ' " said she, and her heart went pit-a-pat; but the strange thing came and rubbed at her knee, and it was but the old wife's cat. the ballad of the parson's daughter. he was scared and starved, he was lean and lone; his coat was a brindled gray; he was lame from a stone that a lad had thrown when they hustled the witch away. at the feet of the maiden he fawned and rolled, and he mewed, and he pulled her gown; and she lapped him about in her apron's fold, and she carried him back to town. “'t is a fiend,” cried prue, with her wax- white face, “that you hold so fast in arm " “'t is a creature of god,” said the parson's grace, “and it shall not come to harm ' " when the people's folly began to fail, and the trials at last were done, old goodwife crook came out of the jail, and blinked in the broad, bright sun. with her stick she hobbled along the street, and again by her hearth she sat; “but where,” she cried, “is my deary sweet— oh, where is my brindled cat? “my good gray dickon, that loved me so, mine only friend ?” she said. she rocked to and fro, and she whimpered low, and she waggled her old gray head. then the parson's grace, with her sun- bright face, came in at the old wife's door; and lo, and behold in her apron's fold the brindled cat she bore (her ways were not as the parson's ways, and the ways of the parson's flock; she was fair as a single flower that sways from the cleft of the grim gray rock: as the harebell blue, that takes its hue from the heart of the heaven above; her eyes were full of the light of her soul, and her soul was full of love!) wººl-º-º-º-ºººººººº-º-º-º-º-ºw-w §. sº º º, sº º [nºs-sºº. the elf and the cricket. by felix leigh. the effin interviewer. if so, kindly state how many, and i 'll feel obliged to you. hope you ’re well, dear mr. cricket. let me say why i have come the field cricket. i 'm the special correspondent of the pixie's morning drum. sir, your singing makes you famous— i've a wife and seven children; and we bring them up on dew. as a vocalist you rank. rezene let 's begin at the beginning. the effin interviewer. were you born upon this bank p upon dew.—there, that is written. now it 's time for you to speak zhe field. crickef. of your private tastes and hobbies. do you football once a week p rumor says that you're athletic. place reserve upon the shelf, the effin interviewer. and i 'll faithfully report you, on the honor of an elf. on that point my recollection is a melancholy blank. 't is a pity! but have patience — please don't stir from where you sit. zhe fie/a/ crickef. we 'll discuss your voice-production for the reader's benefit. piercing notes you ’re heard to utter; it 's the popular surmise that your lungs must be of leather, and of quite abnormal size. well, i certainly love jumping, as you'll notice for yourself! [he escapes further questions by a series of tremendous leaps. the field cricket. a mistake. i do my chirping with my active little thighs. the effin interviewer. thanks; i've taken down your answer, which surprises me, i own, though the drum is used to marvels. tell me, do you live alone? or is there a mrs. cricket? are there baby crickets, too |arl lay on the floor by the firelight bright thinking about the trees. “i love them all,” he said to himself, as he named them over with ease; “the chestnut, ash, and oak so high, the pine with its needle leaves, the spruce, and cedar, and hemlock green, and the maple with its keys. “the dainty willow with pussies gray, the birch with bark so white, the apple-tree with its blossoms sweet, and the fruit so red and bright. - - but the one i love the best of all blooms and bears fruit together; it is sure to be filled at this time of the year, --- whatever may be uv. º - the weather. … º. “its blossoms are blue and yellow and red, - all shining with silvery hue. - there are stems of golden and sil- .ver thread, and candles that glisten like dew. with such wonderful fruit there's none can compare; from lowest to topmost bough every sort of a toy is swinging in air– jumping frogs, and cats that “me-ow.’ the best tree. “there are trumpets, and balls, and dolls that talk, and drums, and whistles that blow, and guns, and whips, and horses that walk, and books; and wagons that go. there are musical tops, and boats that sail, and puzzles, and knives, and games; there are noah's arks, and also a whale, and boxes, and ribbons, and reins. “there's candy and oranges, skates and sleds, and mugs for good little girls, and cradles, and clothes for dollies' beds, and dolls with hair in curls. _ - - - there are fans for girls and tools for boys, and handkerchiefs, rattles, and ties, and horns, and bells, and such-like toys, and tea-sets and candy pies. “oh! what a sight is this wonderful tree, with its gifts that sparkle and hide other trees may be good, but there's none for me like the beautiful merry christmas tree with its branches spreading wide,- the merry, beautiful, sparkling tree that blossoms at christmas-tide.” the little bear's story. by c. f. holder. “yes,” the little bear cub would say, “that is my picture. i am a native of the state of california. i don't remember distinctly where i was born, but it was up in the sierras, where the snow lies in great banks, and the giant trees stand like sentinels, and where you might travel for days and weeks and meet no one but bears. “the first thing i recollect was finding my- self in a big burrow covered with snow; then my mother broke the way out and led us (i had a brother) down the mountain. we soon left the snow; and i remember one day, at sun- set, we stood on an overhanging rock, and my mother showed us the green valleys and nice dark forests where we could hide, and far off was the gleaming sea. mother did not care very much for the water, i think. “my mother was hungry, after the long winter fast, and every day took us lower and lower, until one night she led us into a sheep ranch. then our troubles began, for she left us to catch a lamb, and never came back. we heard all about it afterward. some ranchers had seen her, and rode out on horseback to enjoy the cruel sport of “roping a bear.” as they rode around her, one threw his lariat about her neck; another caught her forefoot as she stood up, another her hind leg; and then they dragged her away to the ranch-house— and so we became orphans. “it was not long before the dogs found us, and a man carried me home in a basket to his wife, who treated me very kindly. i did not like it, but pretended i did, and ate all i could, always watching and hoping for a chance to run away to my mountain home. my mis- tress, however, soon thought i was too know- ing, and put a chain about my neck. finally, when i was about four months old, they sent me to a friend in san francisco. i shall never forget how people looked at me and laughed when i stood on my hind legs, as if there was anything laughable in that but they gave me sugar and other good things, and i fared well. “my new master was a butcher, and most of the time i stayed in his shop. but some days, when i was very homesick, and longed for my mother, and the little cub who had been carried off i did not know where, the butcher's wife would take me into her room back of the shop, and then i would go to sleep, cuddled up close upon a rug, with my paws on her hand, and dream that i was back in my mountain home. “one day i heard my master say i was to be pho-to-graphed, and i thought my time had come. you see, i had never heard the word before. there was no escape, as i was kept tied; and the next morning my master took me under his big coat in the cable-cars. i could just peep through one of the button-holes, and all at once i uttered a loud whine. you should have seen how the passengers stared at my master, who i knew looked embarrassed, as he gave me a tremendous squeeze. we soon got out, and i was carried up a flight of stairs, and placed on a table in a room, the walls of which were covered with pictures of people's faces, all of which seemed to keep their eyes fixed on me. “my master petted me and gave me some sugar, and i began to think that being pho- tographed was possibly not so bad, after all. presently a man came in. he looked very much astonished, and said, “why, i thought you engaged a sitting for “a descendant of one of the early settlers”?’ “so i did, replied my master; ‘there it is'; pointing to where i stood up, blinking with all my might. “why, it's a cub bear!’ exclaimed the man. “‘well, it is a relative of some early settlers, all the same,’ my master answered. “at this the man smiled good-humoredly, the little bear’s story. then he went into another room, while my mas- ter petted me and gave me so much sugar that i had the toothache from it. after a while the man came back and said he was ready, and i was taken into a room where there was a big thing like a gun on three legs, with a cloth over it. my master sat down in a chair and held me in his lap while the man pointed the gun at us. “i thought i was to be shot, and tried to get away, and this made the man so cross that he came out from under the cloth and said he could n't do it. then my master put me up in a child's chair and propped something tight against my head, at which they both laughed so loud you could have heard them in the street, and i jumped down. “finally, the man tapped his forehead and he put a screen before the said “i have it.’ gun and my master set me on top of it, holding my chain while the man crept under the cloth. i did not dare move, as i was astride of the screen, my hind feet hanging in the air. i prepared for the worst. then the man came out again, looked at me sharply, and turned my head a little, telling me to smile; at which my master laughed. the man next shook a tambourine at me, and as i turned to see what the noise meant, i heard a click/ and just then my master took me down and carried me home, much to my relief. “i wondered what it was all about until one day my master took me on his knee, and, hold- ing up a card, said, “well, here you are l’ — and what do you suppose it was p. nothing more or less than my picture; just as i was perched astride the screen the day when i thought i was going to be killed. here it is:” a book-lover. “i do love books' " said marjorie, one morning as she played. and so she did, as you can see— this literary maid! the dictionary was her chair; the atlas big, her table; the dolls sat up on other books as straight as they were able. and then they all partook of tea, and did as they were bid. “i do love books!” said marjorie. now, don't you think she did? annie willis mccullough. if you ’re good. - by james courtney challiss. santa claus 'll come to-night, if you 're good, and do what you know is right, as you should; down the chimney he will creep, bringing you a woolly sheep, and a doll that goes to sleep; — if you 're good. santa claus will drive his sleigh thro' the wood, but he'll come around this way if you're good, with a wind-up bird that sings, and a puzzle made of rings — jumping-jacks and funny things— if you're good. he will bring you cars that “go,” if you ’re good, and a rocking-horsey — oh / - if he would ! and a dolly, if you please, that says “mama!” when you squeeze it — he'll bring you one of these, if you're good. santa grieves when you are bad, as he should; but it makes him very glad when you 're good. he is wise, and he 's a dear; just do right and never fear; he ‘ll remember you each year, if you're good. º a family group. our boy, our girl, our baby, and our cat. vol. xxiv.- . there was a funny goblin who lived in the wood lane. he goggles wore, and, though three-score, quite bald and sadly plain, - and not as nimble in his mind as many a goblin one might find. much pleased with his own person and his own wit was he ; and so he said, with lofty head: “it would not christmas be without me in the town to-night to make the merry hours more bright! ‘and though at home they'll miss me, unto the squire's i'll speed, to fill folk's dreams with magic gleams, and in the dance to lead. my presence always lends a grace to holidays, in any place.” he rode a lop-eared rabbit; he wore a coat of red; his peaked hat this way and that bobbed when he moved his head. by susan hartley swett. - the calm moon smiled—he looked so weird; - the old pine wagged its frosty beard. | he reached the squire's at midnight, and gaily entered in. before the fire a cricket choir sang to the violin; but when they saw the goblin, they all dropped their bows and swooned away! jack frost, who stood there sketching upon the window-pane some pictures white for day's delight, became as limp as rain; and all his drawings looked like o's, or like the goblin's funny nose! while santa claus, who entered. just then the chimney way, spilled half his pack, and cried, “alack " and three small mice in gray, who danced a measure on the floor, fled, squeaking, by a private door! the maid woke screaming from her sleep— such frightful dreams had she ; the watch-dogs howled, the poodle growled, the parrot croaked “dear me!” o a christmas goblin. the elves all up the chimney fled; a spider, spinning, dropped her thread! the noise awoke grimalkin, so wise and fierce and black, who, with a cry both loud and high, sprang at the goblin's back! home for his life the goblin flew; puss following — the watch-dog, too. | | “i did my duty nobly,” | | | | || next morn the goblin said. | | “i made a great sensation, and every rival fled! ~º- you should have heard the wild applause ! why, no one thought of santa claus!” | then an old crow, who calmly -- -- home for his life the goblin flew. was practising a caw to aid the christmas music, the more conceited people grow, blinked twice, and said, “haw-haw! the less they please—the less they know!” “he rode a lop-eared rabbit.” the letter-box. stanstead, province of quebec. dear st. nicholas: i thought that the readers of our magazine would be interested in hearing that we }. had a visit from the wonderful dog “owney,” whom you have told about several times. our mail- clerk, mr. channell, went down to newport; and when he was ready to come back he found owney in his mail- car, intending to come up to stanstead; so mr. chan- nell took charge of him. one evening papa had him brought over to our house. owney is a very intelligent- looking dog, though not a handsome one, mr. channell is having a tag made for him to show that he has been here. he had several inscriptions on his collar, one being, “there is only one bar harbor. j: g. blaine.” this visitor created quite a stir in the village, and we were all so glad of an opportunity to see the dog we had read so mºś about. i remain your constant reader, ruth stevens. sewanee, tenn. dear st. nicholas: you have been coming to me since i was six years old. and now that i am old enough to write some, i want to thank you for lots of pleasant hours you have brought. father and all of us are much interested in the story of the travels of “owney,” the dog of the mail-bags; and father says your readers might be pleased with a short sketch of a famous “town dog” we met last winter. - e spent the season in san diego, cal., that town where #. flowers and the sunshine and the sparkling sea run a race for brightness. and there soon we met , the “town dog,” the pet of all san diego and of many tourists from the east. he is a large st. bernard with a fine head, and his voice is splendid. during his early ears he traveled some with the train men, till he lost a eg under the wheels and had to “lay off,” as they say. he has never been known to miss a fire; and, with the first stroke of the alarm bells, his bark rings out clear and deep. he has had many narrow escapes from death, and in some one of these accidents he lost an eye. he is now very old and fat, but even so, with only three good legs and one good eye, he still loves excitement of any kind; and the people still love him. father saw a . crowd of men almost crazy with anger because they could not kill an ugly bulldog that had their “town dog” by the throat. they say that in his young days he could hold his own in any º ; but those days are over, and now, as one sees him hobbling along, far in the rear of the fire-engine or the band, #. his mournful voice, one feels very sorry for him, and wants to help him along. Łº y yours, carl judd. wellington, new zealand. dear st. nichol.as: i suppose the little american children will think it very funny when i tell you that we never have snow here at christmas time. tº:- are a great many maoris about wellington, especially dur- ing the time that our parliament is sitting; and it is great fun on the arrival of a steamer to see the maoris meeting their friends. as soon as ever one maori meets another, instead of shaking hands, as we do, the maoris rub their two noses together, which corresponds to our kissing. a few moments afterward you will see the same maori passenger squat – that is, sit—down, and out comes the pipe. the maoris are very fond of bright colors, and wear the brightest colored shawls they can get; and you can imagine a “belle” coming down the street with a beautiful bright shawl of all the “colors of the rainbow.” the maoris call their babies “piccanin- nies,” and them about in their shawls. with best wishes, from your interested reader, netta griffin. delhi, ohio. dear st. nicholas: i have a new play-house. it is built in the apple-orchard back of the house. it has three rooms: one is the parlor, the other the dining-room, and the other the kitchen. the parlor is x , the dining-room x , the kitchen x . it has three porches, one in front, the other in back, and the other on *. left side. the one on the side is a lat- tice which opens out from the kitchen. the parlor wall is pink. it is very rosy pink, and it looks very sweet. †. carpet has a green ground with pink roses in it; it matches the wall nicely. there is a mantel in the parlor, and a grate, which is finished with cream-colored tiling. it has little curtains up at the windows. first there are little green shades, and then the lace curtains. i have a little lounge and a bookcase and a table and chairs in the parlor. in the dining-room is a mantel, and a grate which is fin- ished with the same cream-colored tiling. everything in the dining-room,is blue; it has a blue rug on the floor, a sideboard and four chairs, and that is all there is in the dining-room. the kitchen has a stove and a cupboard, and a little cupboard to put my cooking utensils in. on the side tº. is my little ice-chest, and a bench to set my water- ucket on. i am a little girl eight years old, and i have written this all by myself. "your little reader, lulah belden. armidale, new south wales. my dear st. nicholas: i am a little australian girl, and like reading st. nicholas very much. i am living in armidale, up in the north of new south wales. about sixteen miles away from here there is a gold-mining town called hillgrove. it is one of the most important mining places in new south wales. i spent my christ- mas holidays in sydney, and enjoyed them very much. i learned to swim while i was there, and am very fond of bathing. i have read “teddy and carrots: two merchants of newspaper row,” and “sindbad, smith and co.” i was very interested in both of them. i am very fond of reading, and have read a good many books. last year we went for a !". to the dangor falls. they are so beautiful, and there was a great deal of water there when we went. my sister, my brother, and i went right down to the bottom of the falls. it is iooo feet down, and very steep; but there is a rough kind of path cut in the rock. armidale is a very cold place, be: ing more than oo feet above the level of the sea. i never saw snow until i came up here, as it does not the letter-box. snow in most parts of new south wales. . i think it is very pretty, and we have great fun playing in it. with much love, i remain your interested reader, beatrice mcd—. wilkesbarre, pa. dear st. nicholas: i am only ten years old. my mother has a school, and i am in the highest class. i am very fond of you, and i enjoyed the “lost prin- cess" very much. sometimes in the summer i go to a farm called “bush farm.” i have very much fun; they have an old bull, who is very fierce, and a number of cats. i have hardly any one to play with, for most of my friends have gone away, and my sister, who is fifteen, goes with other girls. i have a brother, but he is a big man. in a battle between the indians and the settlers was fought in wyoming. the indians won, and nearly all the settlers were killed. a high monument is erected in memory of those who were killed. yours truly, marjorie des. hanson. - hatley, quebec, canada. dear st. nicholas : hatley is a very pretty place in summer. all through the ºil. the streets are bor- dered with maple-trees; and in front of the church and school-house is a large playground having one row of maples on two sides, and on the side next the street three rows. they were planted there by the soldiers in – . a great deal .#. sugar is made by the farmers, or which they get a very good price. we have a senior and a junior football club here. this summer the junior club played two matches, and won both times io to . basil stevens. dubuque, iowa. dear st. nicholas : i am almost fourteen years old, and i have taken you for about two years. i enjoy you very much. can see the mississippi river very º rom where i live, as we live on one of the high ills over the city. i wonder how many of the boys and girls who read the “letter-box” have seen the river. i have a dog named “skip,” and a black pony named “daisy” that i drive over the country. i also have a bicycle and a gun. i have seen the torpedo-boat “erics- son,” and have been through it. . it was a dingy red color then. i have just received the last number of st. nicholas, and enjoyed it very much. i remain, yours truly, harvey f. robison. jessamine bank, georgia. dear st. nicholas: our plantation is five miles from milville, which is a very little town in northern georgia, so tiny that it could not be found on any except a very large map. i have two cats, whom i love dearly, a dog, and my pony “boris,” who, i think, is my favorite — if i have one. he is black, with a white star in his forehead. i ride him every day, unless it is stormy. i have two brothers, but no sisters. my youngest brother is at a military academy, and when he comes home for vacation we have great fun; especially if he brings some of the cadets iš him, as he often does. i read all your magazine with great pleasure, but es- pecially those stories or articles which have something to do with the civil war, in which i am greatly interested. i expect to go to a boarding-school in kentucky next winter, where my mother graduated. i don't know whether i shall like it or not; i hope so. i have traveled quite a little bit, and spent last sum- mer in europe. i am a great reader, and shall remain your devoted admirer, elinor l - lake tallapuna, auckland, new zealand. dear st. nicholas : in the january, , number of your splendid magazine, i read an interesting article on stamp-collecting, by crawford capen. i am a collector, but have not been one for very long, and have only about one thousand stamps in my collec- tion. it may interest many collectors to know that there will very soon be a completely new set of new zealand stamps in use. they are being prepared now. the designs of these stamps, i believe, will be very pretty, as well as in- “º the five-cent stamp is to have a representation of the “rotomahana terraces” destroyed by the tarawera eruption; another stamp will have a view of the sound on it. milford sound and mount earnshaw are to be given on the two-and-one-half and three-cent stamps; and others will have views of gold mines, falls, or mountains. your constant reader, douglas h. morrison. corfu, ion ian islands. dear st. nichol.as : i am in corfu now and like it very much. you can see turkey from here, and if you go up a mountain when it is a very bright day you can see italy. there was a procession to-day, because it was st. spi- ridion's day. ever so many peasants came to see it, and some were dressed in ribbons, and in silk skirts and vel- vet waists, and wore long ear-rings. i went out walk- ing and saw flowers on the ground that the procession had walked over. they carried the body of st. spiri- dion through the street, and priests followed dressed in red, blue, yellow, and other colors. when §: mothers have any sick children they put their clothing in the road for the procession to pass over, and they think the children will get well then. i am nine years old, and it is three years since i was in america. i want to go back very much, and i often ask mama how soon we shall go. my brother gardner takes you, and we both like you very much indeed. your loving friend, dorothy h. richardson. shanghai, china. dear st. nicholas : i wonder if any of your read- i. have been to china. it is an interesting country, but irty. here is one road in the foreign settlement that is nothing but chinese shops. you can purchase almost anything, from pigs already cooked to a foreign clock. the chinese are advanced on the clock question. i once saw one in the temple of a shrine. funerals are very odd things here. if the person who has died is wealthy, his funeral is sure to be very mag- nificent. the coffin is piled high with various colored papers and is carried by men. then there will be perhaps two dozen men each carrying a signboard on which is a character, or two, stating his different titles... then fol- low sedan-chairs, and people inside are wailing so that it really seems as though they must be putting it all on for show. white is the mourning color, and when a per- son has died his relatives braid white threads of silk into their queues. then they wear blue after about a month, and then go back to the usual color—black. at funerals they have paper clothes, and a paper trunk made, and then when they get to the grave these are burned, so his spirit will have plenty of clothing in the other world. really, if a man was as stupid as the chinese think the spirits are he would be good for nothing. little i the letter-box. children wear bands across their foreheads, oftentimes, with pieces of mirrors, glued on, for it is thought the spirits are afraid of nothing so much as their likeness in a mirror, and so will not trouble these children. foreigners who come to china for business purposes do not learn chinese, but what is called pidgin english. here is an instance: a chinaman once said to his mas- ter, “a piecee man down-side b'long missus,” meaning a lady was down-stairs. they don’t honor ladies much, do they now i will close. your friend and reader, amy w. quackenbush. northampton, mass. dear st. nicholas : i am a little girl thirteen years old. my father is george w. cable. he wrote a story about new orleans for st. nicholas once. it was two or three years ago, though. i was born in new orleans; but we came north when i was only a year old, so i don’t remember much about it. we live now in northampton. we live right on the edge of the woods. i was very much interested in “the prize cup.” i have five sisters and one brother. one of my sisters is married; and i have a little nephew; he is four months old. your interested reader, isabel cable. colegio norte-americano, no. avenida de la libertad san sebastian, spain. dear st. nicholas: i have lived all my life here in san sebastian, except two years that i spent in amer- ica. you have been coming to our home here in spain for a long time; but i have never read any of your beautiful stories until i went to america three or four years ago, and learned to read english. i was introduced to you in grandmama's home. though i was born in spain. i love america very much. i was born in guipúzcua, san sebastian. the stories about pets have ...} interested me, as i am very fond of animals; and one o ". favorites is the cat. i have a beautiful angora cat. e measures from the tip end of his nose to the tip end of his tail thirty-five inches; and when he stands on the floor he is ten inches tall. his hair is very long, and he has beau- tiful large green eyes. they look just like moonstones, be- cause they have lights and shades like those handsome stones. must comb him every day, because, if not, as his hair is so long it gets in a tangle. he is a very dig- nified cat, and his name is “duque de madrid.” my room is full of cats — photographs, calendars, pic- tures, little cat figures, and all sorts of things in the shape of cats. the ink with which i am writing this letter comes out of a cat ink-stand. the wall of my room is a real cat picture-gallery. hoping you will live a thousand years (as the spani- ards say), i am your interested reader, grace gordon gulick. menlo park, cal. dear st. nicholas: we live on a ranch thirty miles south of san francisco. our ranch is in the counties of santa clara and san mateo. a creek separates the two counties. our house is situated on the side of a hill — al- most at the bottom. at the back of the house there is an orchard; and almost every morning before we go to school we go and eat a few plums and peaches. we are taught at home, and our school-house is about a hundred yards from the house. we have three ponies, a riding-horse, and two bicycles. our two driving po- nies are red, and they look exactly like little horses; but the other pony is a shetland; and as she has been foun- dered we can use her only for riding, for all our carts are too heavy for her. “nancy lee,” the riding-horse, is chestnut, with a white nose; her hind feet also are white. we have two dogs—one is white and the other is black. the black one’s name is “towzer,” and the white one's name is “cap.” there are about fifteen cats at the barn; and my aunt has a big black and white cat that lives in the house. his name is “pinky,” and he is very fussy. when he is fed on raw meat, he will not eat it as any other cat does, but will take it in his claws, and feeds himself that way. he is very timid, and when he is let out of doors he has to be watched, for fear he will run away and get lost. he does not like men or boys; and i think papa is the only man he will not run away from. good-by, from your faithful reader, harriet e. allen. - mohonk lake, ulster co., n. y. dear st. nicholas : i am a little girl, nearly eleven years old. we stayed last summer at lake mohonk, which is a very beautiful place. once we climbed up to sky top to see the view. łł. ake from there looks like a fairy picture. at the top is a crevice in the rock where people can climb up. it is about one hundred feet deep. the rocks look as if they were going to fall on you. . at one end of the lake is an echo ; it is really wonderful because it is so plain. the lake is about feet deep. papa said if you once fell in you would never get out again. there is a labyrinth that winds between stones or rocks and comes out by the crevice, i think. i am your loving reader, katharine h-. burlington, iowa. dear st. nicholas : you come to the “hawkeye.” office every month, and as i am the only little girl that belongs there papa brings you up to me. i have a canary bird, nine dolls and eleven paper dolls, and per- haps i am going to get a kitty. i have n’t any brothers or sisters, but there are a great many children on our street to play with. one summer i went up to st. paul on the steamer “st. paul,” and i also went to washington, iowa, to visit my aunt. very sincerely yours, glenn southwell. we thank the young friends whose names follow for pleasant letters received from them : charles scott ris- tine, j. a. st.g. r., marion burdett, estill stephens, t. arthur davis, effie i. h., william k. dart, eleanor f. tracy, frances t. h., lily d., daisy h. groesbeck, sterling morton, blanche g. allen, beatrice morgan, coe thompson, frida sember, taylor jones, elsie s., frankie clark, louise housman, mollie baldwin, ed- ward s. and margery e., wm. j. m., maude e. wal- lace, marjorie g. j., erlene r. baker, anna l. dan- forth, warren s. carter, “emerald,” leila e., doro- . s., madge s., richard b. duane, mary g. and eliz- abeth s. i answers to puzzles in the november number. diamond. i. m. . net. . melon. . ton. . n. cross, with squared ends. i. . sain. . acre. . iris. . nest. ii. . kids. . idea. . demi. . sain. iii. . olas. . love.” § avow. . sewn. iv. . solo. . oral. . lava. . olas. . . t. . una. . tnich. . act. . h. from to , and from to , saint nicholas. dissected object-spelling. . quilt. . coil. . bull. . pilot. . duty. . guilt. illustrated diagonal. cook. . crab. . boat. . shoe. . duck. subtractions. . v-indicate. . l-eve-l. . m-arch. . c-hair. . d-rill. . f-l-ag. . c-harm. . pi-l-es. . v-ale. o. f-l-ame. . f-l-at. . f-ſee. double acrostic. robert burns, tam o'shanter. cross- words: . roost. . omega. . bream. . erato. . rates. . trash. . broma. . union. . remit. io. niece. . solar. “buffalo quartette." – josephine rothers" — marguerite sturdy, – katharine s. doty, – eager, –" camp lake,” —bealjah and charade. tactics. word-square. . brow. . rome. . odes. . west. st. andrew's cross of diamonds: i. i. t. . orb. . oriel. . trifles. . bella. . lea. . s. ii. i. s. . let. . levee. . several. . teret. . eat. . l. iii. i. s. . apt. . abare. . spaniel. . trial. . eel. . l. iv. . s. . ait. . addie. . sideral. . tired. . (l)ead. . l. v. . l. . iii. . logan. . lighter. . dated. . ned. . r. rhymed word-square: . tramp. . rogue. . agate. . muter. . peers. novel. acrostic. primals, bards. cross-words: . bats. . ants. . root. . deny. . scot. transposed, scott, byron, dante, tasso. zigzag. lafayette. cross-words: . ladle. . daisy. . §: . bread. . pansy. . camel. . otter. . atlas. . gie. to our puzzlers: answers, to be acknowledged in the magazine, must be received not later than the th of each month, and should be addressed to st. nicholas “riddle box,” care of the century co., east seventeenth st., new york city. answers to all the puzzles in the september number were received, before september th, from paul reese – charlotte e. coit – “dond sherwood — “ hubert l. bungay. small ”—“jersey quartette” – m. mcg.-helen c. mccleary-l. o. e oodside folks”— grace edith thallon — morton atwater— truda g. vroom – e. and a – “two little answers to puzzles in the september number were received, before september th, from katharine minor, —"brynhild,” – #. cady, — ma na, –effie k. talboys, — leonar flip, — "embla,” –s. d. t., –g. isabell ice £iper, –“ merry and co.,” . e. conant, — angela herrera, –“ puzzled puzzler,” – g. b. dyer, –mollie baldwin, — florence and hodgson, –" the butterflies,” “chiddingstone,” —“gobolinks,” – §§ i. nininger, –frederica s – n. t. well, –paul rowley, –franklyn farnsworth, –mabel m. Čarey, — claud- word-square. . custody. . the agave. . a flower. . a wild animal. m. l. r. illustrated zigzag. all the words ºil. contain the same number of letters. when rightly guessed and placed one below the other, in the order numbered, the zigzag (beginning at the upper left-hand letter) will spell a name famous in political and dramatic circles. charade. my first and second both mean the same yet my whole a curious bird will name. l. e. johnson. privial acrostic. all of the words described contain the same number of letters. when rightly guessed, and placed one below another, in the order here given, the first row of letters will spell the name of one of the united states. cross-words: i. a valuable wood. . a mineral which is not affected by fire. . a system of faith and worship. . in the form of the letter y. . diction. . a greek hero. . the subject of a beautiful poem by oliver wendell holmes. . a false belief. l. h. kirk. connected squares. : : : : i. upper left-hand square: . a thin piece of anything. . a narrow street. . a feminine name. . an animal. ii. upper right-hand square: . decrees. . at the top. . interlaced. . made haste. iii. central square: i. small animals. . in addition. . a european ruler. . painful. iv. lower left-hand square : . conflicts. . a plant. . a flower. . observes. v. lower right-hand square: . the orient. . a musical term. . gait. . summits. “jersey quartette.” the riddle-box. riddle. i 'm only a fish, to be taken and eaten; or else i'm a rod with which none have been beaten; i’m often a rest; so have weary ones found, who, when i’m at hand, will not sleep on the ground. e. r. b. geographical diagonal. when the words have been rightly guessed, and writ- ten one below the other, the diagonal (beginning at the upper left-hand letter and ending with the lower right- hand letter) will spell the name of a country of especial interest of late. cross-words: . the capital of a southern state. . a river of south america. . one of the islands of the malay archipelago. . a river in western new york. . a city of arizona. . an african republic. . an island belonging to china. g. b. fernald. illustrated final acrostic. when the six objects in the above illustration have been . guessed, and the names (which are of un- equal length) written one below the other, the final let- ters will spell the name of a famous american painter. double acrostic. all of the words described contain the same number of letters. when rightly guessed and placed one below another, the initials will name a fruit; when transposed they will name another fruit. the finals will spell a word meaning runs with a long stride; when transposed they will .#. incline, and a second transposition will make long, slender sticks. . subtract fifty from a product of barley, and leave a rug. . subtract one thousand from something always served at dinner, and leave to corrode. . subtract fifty from a handle, and leave to strike. . subtract five from to exist, and leave a false state- ment. . subtract fifty from a peculiarity of speech, and leave to drag. . subtract one hundred from a vehicle, and leave dex- terity. mary francis s. historical acrostic. transpose the words printed in italics, and their ini- tials will then spell a famous event in history. years ago in a land where confusion was riſe, and calamity dire threatened every man's life, pile demagogues ruled, and they tore off the crown from the brow of their king, and his rights would not own,' sought his race to destroy, and blot out for all time, and the earth stood aghast at the horrible crime. º though they called themselves “brethren,” no life they held dear. but the end of this wild reign of terror drew near. the nations arose, this fair country to save, and the monsters are now where no laws they can brave. then the law could in quiet deal justice again, and none, for redress, need to sue now in vain. the great wounded state rises as from the dead, no longer lies bleeding, she lifts her fair head. and from her low station to empire doth rise, to hold her own place 'neath her tº. sunny skies. f. a - º diamonds. cross-words: . defensive covering. . a rever- beration. . something we make light of. . a musical instrument. . snares. “puzzled puzzler.” rthoniboid. reading across: i. a |. of the compass. . . fle rustic. . purport. xible wood worked into the top of hedge stakes to bind them together. . a kind of chair. downward: . a letter from england. . a con- junction. . a groove. . a woody plant. . parts of the body. , . a metallic vein. . a color. . a prefix. . a letter from england. j. h. c., j.r. subtractions. example: take fifty from a girdle, and leave a wa- ger. answer, be-l-t, bet. the subtracted letter is not always in the middle of a word. . subtract five hundred from to pull, and leave un- cooked. i. i. in stead. . rested. . narratives. chinese shrub. . in stead. ii. i. in stead. . an assent. . moderately warm. . help. . in stead. helen murphy. . a oblique rectangle, . in lasso. . fortune. a royal family. , . planted. udes from certain trees. . a feminine name. . a wading bird. io. a certain number. erage. . a country of africa. . because. . bitter. . a diseased condition of grain. . a pu- gilist. . one of the united states. . a quadru- ped. . in lasso. g. b. dyer. . a famous flower. . . a substance which ex- . bare. ii. a bev- the de vine press, new york. * **... • ----‘… --） *（）—•—•— “don't you think that winter 's pleasanter than allp" st. nicholas. vol. xxiv. january, . no. . danny and the • major." by gertrude p. greble. “papa! papa!" the shrill, childish voice echoed sharply through the quiet house, and a small figure appeared upon the threshold of the door which led to captain kent's office, as if suddenly blown there by the march gale which at the same moment invaded the apartment. “my son,” said the officer in a tone of mild exasperation, laying a restraining hand upon his fluttering papers, “will you be kind enough first of all to shut the front door p and now” — when he had been obeyed with an energy which shook the house to its foundations — “take off your hat, like a gentleman.” the child snatched it off, and advanced to lay an appealing hand upon his father's arm. “don’t make me wait for anything more, papa,” he pleaded. “it is important! it is, in- deed. mackenzie begs you to come to the cor- ral right away. the ‘major' has come back!” “the major! what major p " “why, our major—captain egerton's major.” “impossible!” “but he has indeed, papal '' exclaimed the eager boy. “the herders found him up in a ravine, and he followed the horses home, and he is so lame he can hardly walk, and the corral-master says he has enough worthless brutes about now, so he is going to shoot him; and mackenzie said to tell you to come at once, because if you did n’t it might be too late—” two great tears overflowed from the violet eyes and rolled down the lad's cheeks, but little dan had small reason to fear lack of attention now ! almost before his hasty explanation was completed, the cavalryman had thrown his cape about his shoulders and started for the corral at a pace satisfying even to his impatient son. to make you understand what he found there, and what it meant, i must go back to the begin- ning and tell about danny; and then — because this story is quite as much, and perhaps a little more, the major's— about the major too. danny could not remember his introduction to the frontier garrison which constituted his world, but he was never tired of hearing about it. and during the long winter evenings, when “retreat” had sounded and the soldiers had dispersed to their log barracks, the captain would seat himself beside the big stove, with his pipe between his teeth; and danny, his sled put away, his gaiters and mittens hung up to dry by the hall fire, and his buffalo overcoat — an exact imitation of his father's big one — safe on its peg, would crawl into his father's arms and nestle close to his heart. and after a silence copyright, , by the century co. all rights reserved. i o [jan. danny and the “major." of greater or less length, the officer would be- gin and go over the details so well known to them both : of his astonishment when, on coming from “stables” one bitter winter after- noon, he had stamped the snow from his shoes and thrown aside his overcoat, to behold a stout woman with a white bundle in her arms, saying, “will ye look at the recruit i've brought ye, captain?”— and of how, when he had re- covered from his surprise, he had examined her offering and found beneath a lot of wrappings two tiny hands, a small face with blinking eyes, and plentiful black hair. this last never failed to impress danny, for by the time he was old enough to notice things his hair was as yellow as the indian maize which ripened by the river. the years had sped swiftly after that winter evening; and if, as his father said, he had come into the world to the sound of a trumpet, he grew up to the rattle of drums and the patter of musketry in the days when custer lived and a soldier's work was full of activity and danger. his ears became accustomed to the thrumming of the “long roll”; his odd hours were full of the excitement caused by the bustle of incoming and outgoing scouting-parties, and, at times, of watching, with far more interest than fear, those tiny specks he could just discern skirting the horizon, which he was told were “hostiles.” it was small wonder that in such an atmo- sphere he should develop rapidly, that he should become healthy, as a child must who spends ten hours of the twenty-four with the winds of the prairie filling his strong young lungs; that he should become honest and truth- telling as a soldier's son should be ; gentle to the weaker sex, as represented by his mother and the tiny sister who bore her name; and full of an affectionate kindliness which won him the most loyal devotion from the rough troopers who shared his outdoor life. at the time our story opens he was seven — a tall lad, whose muscles were already like fine steel threads, whose skin had tanned to a beau- tiful golden brown, with violet eyes, and hair which fell in tangles about his shoulders. those curls, heavy and girlish, had been a constant source of woe to the boy, till one never-to-be-forgotten day, when he had stood at the gate of the stockade to see the famous “seventh" sweep by, on its way to some dis- tant trouble. the scene had been one to re- member — the smooth action of the seasoned horses, the careless swing of their riders, to whom excitement had become as the air they breathed . but of it all little dan retained one impression only—that of the adored custer at the column's head, his face thin, eager, reso- lute, and with curls, as yellow as danny's own, falling over his shoulders from that hour the boy's ringlets became his most cherished possession—a connecting-link between the idolized leader of those toughened indian-fighters and his small personality. and now for the major! with regard to . him i confess my courage fails; for what wo- man's feeble pen can hope to do justice to the splendid piece of horse-flesh which answered to that name p two years before the march afternoon on which our story opens, an additional troop had been ordered to fort b to reinforce the hard-worked garrison. the officer in com- mand was an old friend of captain kent; and on the day of its arrival, shortly before sunset, danny started off to inspect the new horses and make the acquaintance of their riders. his intention was not carried out. as he reached the path which led to the spot where the detachment had gone into camp for the night, he met a trooper leading a horse by the bridle, and carrying a blanket and halter over the other arm. the man's campaign dress proclaimed him a new-comer. he was tall and thin, and covered with dust from his recent ride. but neither the dust, nor the ragged stub- ble upon his unshaven face, could conceal the kindliness of his expression. danny stepped aside to let him pass. “good evening, corporal,” he said politely, after a brief glance at the soldier's chevrons. the trooper halted. “gude evenin't' yir- sel', laddie,” he answered in a voice whose deep tones instantly made their way to the boy's friendly heart. “i'm after a bed for the ma- jor; can ye show me the way tae the corral p” dan regarded him gravely. “i’ll show you the way to the corral with pleasure,” he replied; “but you must be mistaken about a major. papa said captain egerton was in command of .] danny and the “major." i i this troop, and he is going to stay with us; so his companion regarded him with approval. he has a bed.” “now thet 's richt!” he said. “there ain't for a minute the soldier looked puzzled, then many little chaps 't wºu'd think o' the horse he laughed. when they hed a chance tae ride. i like ye “hoot, laddie!” he exclaimed good-na- for it, lad! as for tirin' him — i wºu'dna ride turedly; “it 's no for anny two-legged major him mesel', but ye ’re no gret weight, an' i'm i'm workin'. it's for this vera beastie ye see thinkin' it'll get him his supper the quicker.” at t' back, mon! and it's a bad day he's hed of it, and hungry an' tired he is; so stir yirsel' an’ lead the way, for i heve n't a knowledge o' these pairts as yet.” dan examined the animal criti- cally. “he seems to be a fine horse,” he remarked in the judi- cial tone he had heard from the officers. the soldier smiled. “ay,” he answered briefly; “he is.” “has he come far to-day?” “the neighborhood o' seventy miles, aboot.” the man resumed his progress in the direction of the stables, and the little boy trotted by his side, every energy absorbed in the endeavor to keep up with his long strides. after an interval the child observed: “i don't see why you did n't put him on the picket-line with the other horses. was n’t there room for him p” “room for him p” repeated the trooper, disgustedly; “ay, there'd be room and tae spare gin he wanted it, which he 'll no do while he has old john tae find him shelter. ye 're a bit blowed, ain't ye, laddie p” he added kindly; for the first time noticing the child's breathless condition. “i’m forgettin't' dif. ference in the length o' t' laigs. we'll get over the groun’ feyster gin i make the major carry ye.” danny looked doubtfully at a moment later the radiant child was seated astride the great bronze “‘good evening, corporal,” danny - said politely.” beast, and the trio pursued its way to the corral in a the horse's dusty sides and drooping head. silence which the soldier was too weary—and “is n't he too tired p” he asked, divided danny too happy—to break. between his desire for the offered ride and when dan went home after seeing mac- compassion for the evidently weary animal. kenzie feed and groom his charge, he was con- i danny and the “major." [jan. scious of having found a new interest in life, and of having made a new friend; and his sat- isfaction was complete when, on recounting his experiences at the dinner-table that evening, he was informed that the horse belonged to -- tering-trough; he perched himself on the cross- bar of the major's box-stall to superintend his toilet; and he spent long hours scrubbing away with a bit of rag upon the brass mountings of the horse's saddle and bridle, on those days when the trooper was obliged to prepare for inspection—betaking himself afterward to the drill-ground to revel in the result of his labors. and had you seen the beautiful beast as he appeared at inspec- tion,-the brass trimmings upon which so much loving care had been expended flashing in the sun- light, his bronze coat like finest satin, his powerful limbs motionless, and with only the fire in the deep eyes and the quiver of the wide nostrils to tell how strong was the sense of duty which controlled his impatience for the command which should put in motion the troop he led,—you would not have wondered at danny's enthusiasm—an enthu- siasm which gradually increased into a great and real love, which it was easy to see the major reciprocated in his dumb fashion. so the weeks passed, and the long hot days grew short, and winter came and went — and with the re- turn of summer little dan experi- ** he perched himself on the cross-bar of the major's box-stall, enced his first sorrow to superintend his toilet. captain egerton, and that henceforth he might see him as often as he liked. the summer days which followed were full of joy. dan passed them for the most part in mackenzie's company, and a very real friend- ship sprang up between the veteran and his small companion — a friendship that found a cementing bond in their affection for the major. nothing so perfect of its kind as that splendid animal had ever before come in the boy's way. had he been asked, it might have been dif- ficult for him to tell which of his new friends— the human or the equine—he loved the better. but there was no question which was the more important. he trotted at mackenzie's heels when he took his charge to and from the wa- captain egerton's troop was or- dered out on a difficult and dangerous scout; there was a battle,_ a thing only too common in those wild days, and at the end of it the gallant captain lay crippled by a gunshot wound, and major, swept away by the savages, had vanished as if swallowed by the treacherous quicksands which lined the river-bank. for days after the first shock of his grief was over, the child continued to hope for the horse's return. for days he mounted to the highest point of the block-house to search the furthest reaches of the empty prairie, confident that if the sagacious animal was alive he would find his way back. but months passed, and another winter dragged itself away, and little by little the boy abandoned hope, and settled down to s .] danny and the “major.” º the sorrowful conviction that the horse, too, had fallen a victim to the indians. and now he had returned! and what a home- coming! mackenzie and he had often talked of such a possibility — mackenzie, who, with his be- loved horse gone, and his master in the east on leave, had been even more disconsolate than danny; together, the pair had pictured it in divers ways. sometimes it was one of them who was to find him, sometimes the other; but in every case they had thought of it as a sort of triumphal progress, the coming of a hero who returned to claim his own. never like this — pitiful, starved, unknown, and despised, in the very place where he had been so easily supreme! “oh!” thought danny, “if only the old troop had been here! some one who loved him! some one to remember besides mackenzie there was a great sob in his throat --> and me! º º - scene which met their gaze was so remarkable that even the officer paused in breathless amazement. prostrate on the earth, covered with dirt, his surly face purple, his feet kicking aimlessly in the air, lay the corral-master—a government rifle, which had evidently slipped from his grasp, on the ground beside him. and upon his chest, holding him in a grip of iron, his face white with an anger too deep for words, sat the scotch corporal at the left—a rusty and apparently lifeless mass—lay the major's prostrate form. and about the group stood the employees of the stockyard. the sounds which issued from the corral- master's throat made danny think of the bellow- ing of those bulls which were sometimes confined in that part of the inclosure; he crept to his father's side and laid hold of his cape. the overseer's face was rapidly assuming a still deeper tint, and the captain went forward: - ºs tns nº. kº- “‘what is the meaning of this performance ' inquired the officer.” as he ran by his father's side in the direction of the corral— he was half afraid of what he might find by the time that he reached it. and when the two finally did reach it, the “you are choking that man, mackenzie,” he said sharply; “let him up at once!” the corporal glanced up at him with an ex- pression of relief, gave his victim a final squeeze danny and the “major.” [jan. which set him fairly gasping, and rose. “chokin' 'u'd be tae gude for him, capt'in,” he said, as the corral-master struggled to his feet. “what is the meaning of this performance?” inquired the officer. the trooper made no re- ply, and o'reilly, emboldened, began a halting explanation. “wait till you are spoken to,” commanded captain kent, sternly. he knew that mac- kenzie was upon ordinary occasions the mild- est and least aggressive of men. the group about them began insensibly to melt away, excepting a few whose curiosity was sufficient to overcome their prudence. mackenzie pointed from the gun to the major, with a gesture more eloquent than words. “he tried tae steal a march on me, capt'in,” he said huskily. “i telt him tae wait till the laddie fetched ye, and i went for water for the puir beast; and when i coom back — weel, if shootin' hadna been altegither tae gude for him, he wºu'dna be here noo ! thet's ae!” “what have you to say to this, o'reilly p” “sure i thought it would be a mercy to the poor beast to put him out of his misery,” an- swered the man, in an injured tone. “i tried to do it unbeknownst to the corporal, knowin' how fond of him he used to be — and it 's small thanks i got for me pains! next time i'll leave him to settle his affairs himself. look at the brute, captain,” he added; “it 's only a fool that would care to prolong his sufferin’.” he was evidently sincere, and there seemed to be some truth in what he said. " “i 'm afraid he is right, mackenzie,” said the officer, sadly, as he followed the two men to the side of the panting animal. mackenzie broke down. “ah ! don't ye turn against him, too, capt'in,” he faltered. “think o' the time he 's had gettin' here, and gi'e him a chance. he sha'n't trouble no one, and i'll work it square. if he don't show some sort o' improvement by this time to-morrow, i gi'e ye ma word i 'll make na trouble. it 's starved he is, and winded ; but he 's nae deid yet, and while there 's life there 's hope " the captain turned away — the horse was a painful spectacle. “very well,” he said; “you may have your way for the present; but i think your labor will be wasted. i agree with o'reilly: the most merciful thing would be to end his suffering at once.” mackenzie moved to his side. “i’ll no for- get what ye’ve done for me this day,” he said gratefully. “there 's ane more thing ye can do, if ye will, tae complete the gude wark. it is against orders to sell us whusky at the can- teen, and whusky is what the puir beastie wants just noo. would ye mind givin' me an order for a gallon o' the same?” - captain kent hesitated. “i can trust you perfectly, mackenzie,” he said (the corporal was invariably steady); “but a gallon of whisky might cause a lot of mischief.” “it’ll no,” was the earnest response. “it’ll be doon the major's throat before it hes time tae make any trouble.” the corporal's tone was a sufficient guaran- tee of the safety of the venture. the officer tore off the corner of an envelope, and scribbled the necessary order. “i shall hold you responsible,” he said. mackenzie nodded. “yes, sir—thank ye, sir,” he murmured, saluting hastily, as he started from the inclosure upon a run; and by the time captain kent had once more regained the garrison, he was on his way back to the corral from the trader's where the necessary liquor was kept. no especial arguments were needed by mac- kenzie to enlist the sympathies of his comrades in behalf of his fallen favorite: soldiers, as a rule, are warm-hearted men, and in the cavalry their calling fosters a love for horses. when little dan went home at sunset, kindly hands had laid the old horse in the one box-stall the troop-stable afforded, and liberal doses of whisky and water had stayed his failing strength. through the long night the trooper tended him faithfully, watching his heaving sides by the light of a solitary lantern, and plying him, as occasion demanded, with additional draughts of the stimulant; and when morning came the change for the better was so pronounced that even o'reilly was forced into the admission that hope was once more possible. after the first few days the animal gained steadily. at the end of a month he was able to hobble out with the herd, the shadow of his old self. more than that he seemed likely never to s .] danny and the “major.” become. his hoofs were cracked and torn from his long wandering over the alkali plains, his breath came rumblingly from his deep chest, and his eyes had a look of patient submission in their soft depths, which seemed to say that he understood fully the kindness which had been shown him, and would repay it to the best of his ability. the old ambition, the old fire, were things of the past. he was quite content now to browse along in rear of the herd, or to stand for hours beside little dan perched upon a wood-pile, nudging him for the sugar which was always forthcoming, nipping lov- ingly at the buttons on his small trousers, or — immovable as a statue—bowing his beautiful head when the boy frolicked at his feet. and though, as time went on and the summer drills began, he would prick up his ears at the sound of the well-remembered calls, and follow the battalion with his eyes as it swept by the spot where he was picketed, it was only with a passing interest, and he would return to his grazing in placid content. danny never abandoned the hope of seeing him in his old place at the head of a troop. he spent hours feeding, grooming, and watering him, and when there was nothing else to be done he was quite content to perch be- side him in the sunshine, and dream of the wonderful things he should do when he was once more well. if he had admired him before, he adored him now; and still the wildest flight of his imagination was not sufficient to suggest the heroic feat which this dumb friend was actually to accomplish for his sake, the great and final proof of his affection for the child who loved him, and which was to make not only the major, but danny too, famous ! to tell you about it, we must pass over the weeks which witnessed the horse's gradual re- covery to the scorching afternoon that found him, almost his old self, saddled with dan's own small saddle, and pawing the ground im- patiently in front of captain kent's quarters. the loving care of the past few months had been amply rewarded. some time before he had been pronounced fit for light work, and that afternoon dan was to have his first ride upon the major's back. mackenzie had been for several weeks suf- fering from a sprained wrist which prevented his doing the usual guard-duty, and in order to give him some occupation he had been detailed to superintend the herding of the quartermas- ter's horses — going with them to the grazing- ground in the morning, and then returning to the post until the afternoon, when he went out to assist in bringing them home. on the present occasion, as a special favor and to celebrate the major's recovery, mac- kenzie begged that dan might go with him. and when the child came out and prepared to mount, it would be hard to say which was “through the long night the trooper tended him faithfully.” the happier, he or the trooper who swung him so proudly to his place. “you are sure it is safe, mackenzie p” said mrs. kent, a little anxiously, as from the porch she watched the start for the grazing-ground. i danny and the “major." [jan. “sure, ma'am,” answered the soldier, em- phatically, as he made a final examination of the girths, little dreaming how much was to depend upon his care in the course of that eventful afternoon; “the beastie knows him as well as ye do yirsel'. it's no for naething the lad has spent his time. he 'll no hurt him ' " he gathered up the reins and put them into danny's hands as he spoke, swung himself upon his own bony gray, and they started. in those days the summer months were al- ways full of uneasiness and dread: the indians were especially restless at that time of year, and precautions were doubled; but the weeks which had gone had sped swiftly and quietly in little dan's home. rumors of approaching trouble had reached it from time to time; occasional false alarms had sounded, and hurried scouts had been made — only to prove the absence of any foe; and gradually the command had settled down to the conviction that for once they were to be left in peace. on the afternoon in question nothing could have seemed more tranquil than the scene which unfolded itself before mackenzie and his charge when, having passed through the gate of the stockade, they turned their horses' heads in the direction of the herd, which they could just discern in the distance as so many specks against the sky. on the right the missouri river wound like a great yellow snake from the far northern horizon; on every other side lay the rolling prairie, with only that thread of green along the river-bottom to break its level expanse. dan had heard of the grandeur of the sea, but he sometimes wondered if anything could seem more imposing than those wide reaches of tree- less, turf-covered plain. the animals were restless and uneasy in spite of the heat, and after a short interval mackenzie turned from the “trail" and started across the open country. “dinna ye go tae fast, lad,” he said as the major stretched his neck with an evident in- clination to outstrip his companion. “there 's gopher-holes in plenty hereaboots, and gin ye strike one o' them our ride's up! ye sit yir horse like a sodger,” he added admiringly; “i 'll hef ye made assistant herder yet!” danny smiled broadly at the joke, sitting very square in his saddle, in perfect enjoyment of his new accomplishment. after a canter of some twenty minutes the corporal reined in his horse. “i can't think what's happened tae o'far- rell tae let the beasties get sae far away,” he muttered discontentedly. “there 's nae grass to speak of over there. i told him aboot it this mornin'. look out, lad!”— for the major had thrown up his head suddenly and come to a standstill, snorting, and nearly unseating his small rider. “why did he do that?” asked the boy in wonder, as he settled himself once more in the saddle, and got a fresh hold on the reins. “there was n’t any hole there, was there p” for a minute the corporal made no reply. his own horse was snuffing the air uneasily, and the trooper's keen glance traveled slowly along the horizon and over the herded cattle before it came back to the small figure at his side. “maybe there 's grass burnin’,” he said, finally. “the smell o' thet always makes 'em fretty.” he put his animal to a gallop as he spoke, and the distance to the herd began to diminish rapidly. “see how uneasy the other horses are,” said danny, as they neared the grazing-ground. “whatever the trouble is, they know it too.” there could be no doubt of that fact. o’far- rell's apparent carelessness was explained. the animals were in almost constant motion, mov- ing from side to side, browsing for a moment, only to pause and snuff the air in the same alarmed fashion which danny and mackenzie had noticed in their own horses a few minutes before. the men in charge were riding to and fro, heading off the refractory leaders, and do- ing their best to turn them toward the post, but without avail. slowly but surely the herd was edging in the opposite direction along the bluff. o'farrell came to meet them. he was a young irish lad who had been in the service only a short time, and gave promise of making a most excellent soldier. on the present occa- sion his round, jolly face wore a troubled look. -- .] danny and the “major." “it 's welcome ye are, corporal, sure!” he exclaimed, mopping his hot face. “if i 'd had any way of gettin' word to ye, ye 'd have been here long ago; but it took the two of us to kape the bastes together, and, faith, ten men could n’t have done more. i can't think what 's got into them " he turned his horse and reined it in beside mackenzie's gray, surveying the increasing rest- lessness of the animals in despair, yet conscious of inexpressible relief at the presence of a more experienced pair of shoulders on which to shift the responsibility. “how long hef they been like this p” asked the corporal, after a silence in which his face became more and more grave. “for the betther part of the afternoon.” mackenzie's eyes wandered once again over the empty hills. “ye 've got a good nose, larry,” he said finally; “hef ye smelt anything in the way o' a prairie fire?” the other shook his head. “nothin’,” he replied; “that is, nothin' to spake of. there was some smoke up there to the north this fore- noon; but i have n’t seen it since.” the corporal's face changed suddenly. “steady, was it?” he queried, “ or puffy, like p’” “a bit puffy. nothin' to spake of—it died out right away.” the veteran groaned. “and ye should hef made for hame gin ye saw thet first puff!” he muttered, adding something under his breath about “the silliness o' sending babes and inno- cents tae do this kind o' work ' " “what 's up ” asked the young soldier, anxiously. “you don't think it's – ?” the elder man made an imperceptible ges- ture toward the child. “there 's mischief of some sort brewin’,” he said gravely. “and we'd better get out o' this, gin we want tae carry a whole skin with us. head off those mules—they'll stampede the lot! laddie, coom with me!” he turned his horse in the direction of the river as he spoke, taking out his revolver and carefully examining it while he rode. “mackenzie,” said the little boy, softly, draw- ing nearer to his friend's side, “do you think it is indians?” he was not particularly alarmed at the unexpected danger which threatened them — he had the greatest faith in the corporal's ability to protect him from harm. but the face which the soldier turned slowly toward him in answer to his question was grim and set with a fear such as he had never known — nor could know—for himself! he would have given his life gladly, in the face of that deadly and too well understood peril, to have felt that little dan was within the friendly shelter of the fort! “i’m no sayin' it 's indians, lad,” he said at length; “but when ye don't like the look o' things it's better tae be prepared for the worst. there's twa possibilities ahead o' us. one's the stampedeo'the herd,which would be badenough; the other's that which is behind the fright o' the animals, which is far worse! whatever happens, naething i can do will save ye, gin ye don't act like yir feyther's son and try tae help yirsel'.” he paused. while speaking he had worked his way steadily across the front of the herd, driving back such animals as he could without waste of time, but continually increasing the distance between himself and the main body of the drove. his duty as a soldier was simply to save his captain's child | by the time he had reached a point to the left of the center of the herd, experience told him that the dis- aster which he dreaded was not long to be delayed. he took the last moment for a few final warning words. “mind one thing, laddie! whatever comes, gie the major his head and hold on! he 'll carry ye safe, and he can show a clean pair o' heels tae the fastest o' them! eh! i thought as much! get yir horse's head round, lad! be ready!” the avalanche was upon them! some seconds earlier the lead-mules of an ambulance-team on the farther side of the graz- ing-ground had thrown up their heads in sudden fright and caromed into the horses feeding near them, and those in turn had plunged against their neighbors, and then the whole herd, catch- ing the infection of their terror, had bunched itself and started — a maddened, flying mass! it seemed years to dan, giddy and breathless from terror, before it reached him. for a brief instant he thought he saw o'farrell and some i [jan. danny and the “major." unknown mounted figures behind it; then the air about him grew thick with dust, the noise of the beating hoofs increased to a deafening roar, and every faculty became absorbed in the effort to obey mackenzie's instructions and to keep him in sight; for the corporal's gray, nerv- ous and fidgety at best, had no sooner caught sight of the oncoming body than it bolted, speeding along the edge of the bluff, uncon- trollable and unguidable, to plunge after a few seconds into a sandy ravine which ran up into the plain from the river-bottom — disappearing before the lad's straining gaze as completely as if swallowed by the friendly earth! aside the bushes, and stared, transfixed, at the spectacle before him. above his head, a broad swath of broken branches and uprooted reeds showed where horse and rider had crashed through the bushes to their fate. at his feet, a huddled, shape- less mass, was the runaway! and beyond lay the corporal, his blouse torn to ribbons and gray with dust, his upturned face drawn and still — a red stream trickling slowly down from a gaping wound in his forehead, to form an ever-growing stain in the sand beside him little by little dan crept to the trooper's side and gazed with wide eyes into the quiet fº a - in the path of the stampede – “the whole herd had started — a maddened, flying mass!” a minute or two later the major, following almost in the footprints of his stable-mate, paused on the brink of the little gully, and then carefully, and without harm to his clinging bur- den, slid and floundered down its shelving sides, and stopped, quivering, at the bottom. there was something disconcerting in the change from the recent rush and turmoil of the upper world to the gloom and stillness of the leafy covert. danny caught his breath and peered half timidly through the underbrush. “mackenzie,” he called softly; “oh, macken- ziel" and then with a sudden low, horrified cry he slipped from the major's back, thrust face. some vaguely formed protest against the injustice of fate crept through the child-mind. the peril from which he had just escaped— the possible peril even now lurking in the woods about him — was as nothing compared with this terrible stillness and helplessness of his friend danny began to cry, not loudly, but with deep-drawn, shivering breaths, while the major, with hanging, loosened reins, sniffed protest- ingly at the motionless body of his late com- rade. there was a silence, broken only by the chirping of the sparrows in the thicket and the rustle of the leaves overhead. .] danny and the “major." suddenly dan looked up, and drew his sleeve across his eyes. a deep sigh had escaped from the blue lips, and with a frown of pain mackenzie stirred un- easily and turned his face toward the boy. dan's first wild thrill of joy vanished at the sight of the blood which welled up afresh from the wound with the movement. instinct told him that the flickering life could not long sus- tain such a loss. the winter before he had been present while the hospital steward bound up a wound for one of the soldiers, and the attention with which he had followed the operation did him good service now. he took out his handkerchief and measured its small length against the trooper's forehead. then he looked about him for a more effectual bandage, and his eye fell upon the narrow leather cinch at his waist, a recent and much- prized gift from the mexican saddler in his father's troop. it was the work of only a few seconds to unfasten it, and to make a pad of the bit of linen, after which, with much diffi- culty, he adjusted the strap about the corporal's head, and pulled it tight. and terrified as the child was, and tender and feeble and fluttering as his small fingers were, they did their work thoroughly, and the fatal tide at first slowly ebbed, and at length ceased. when the task was accomplished, danny looked about him helplessly. “what shall we do now, major p” he said, addressing himself to his only companion. the corporal stirred. “and ye 'll keep his head straight, lad,” he murmured feebly, his half-conscious mind taking up the counsel to his charge where it had been interrupted by the stampede; “and ye 'll steer him for hame —for hame!” he repeated once again in stronger tones. the child bent over him. “am i to go for help, mackenzie p” he said eagerly. “do you mean i am to go for help ?” he waited a moment in expectant silence; but the trooper had drifted off into unconscious- ness, and there was no reply. then he rose to his feet. there seemed nothing left but to obey. “come, major,” he said tremulously. he made his way slowly to the horse's side, climbed up on the stump of a fallen oak, and from that to the animal's back, and with one wistful backward glance at the grimly quiet ob- jects at his feet bent his head over the major's neck and wound both hands in his mane, while the sagacious beast clambered up the side of the ravine, to emerge a minute later upon the open prairie. away to the north a cloud of dust marked the recent passage of the herd. on every other side swept the tableland, empty and placid and smiling. and beyond, to the south, stood the fort and home. danny took heart, settled himself in the saddle, and put the major into a smart canter, holding the reins firmly, and try- ing to recall the corporal's instructions while he rode, thinking with an ever-recurring pang of his friend's condition, happy that the distance to the necessary succor was diminishing so rap- idly, and totally forgetful of the anxiety which had agitated the veteran before the accident that had separated them. suddenly, at the end of some fifteen minutes of tranquil riding, as the major galloped along the edge of the timber which fringed the bluff, there was a loud crackling and crashing in the bushes, and a gaily decorated war-pony scram- bled through them, his rider grunting in surly surprise; while at the same moment, from the thicket beyond, three other half-naked mounted figures appeared and lined up in the path which led to safety. the child's heart stopped beating. his fron- . tier training told him that all that had gone be-- / fore, even the tragedy which had darkened the ...’ afternoon, was as nothing compared with this new and awful danger. in a paroxysm of ter- ror he tried to stop major — tried with all his small strength to turn him aside toward the open plain, to check his mad plunge into the very arms of the enemy. but for the first time the horse paid attention neither to the beloved voice nor to the tiny hands pulling so desperately upon the reins. whether it was the sight of an old and hated foe, or whether the wise, kind heart of the ani- mal realized the full extent of a peril of which the child was as yet only half aware, it would be hard to say. but little dan found himself going faster than he had thought possible— i danny and the “major." [jan. and faster—and faster—till the tawny, sun- burned plain, and the pitiless smiling sky, and the nearer, greener foliage of the willows, and even the outlines of the dreaded savages them- selves became as so many parts of a great rush- ing, whirling whole, and all his strength was absorbed in the effort to retain his seat upon the bounding horse. and so, like some vision from their own weird legends, straight down upon the aston- ished indians swept the great bronze beast with its golden-haired burden | down upon them, and through them, and away — till by the time they had recovered from their amaze- ment there was a good fifty yards between them and their flying prey ! and that dis- tance, hard as they might ride, was not easily to be overcome ! after that first wild rush the major settled into a steadier pace — a smooth, even run, so easy to sit that the lad relaxed his clutch upon the animal's mane and turned his eyes to the horizon, where gathering swarms of savages showed like clusters of ants against the slope of the hillside. in his track, with shrill, singing cries, like hounds upon a trail, came his pur- suers. and far to the south there was a puff of white smoke from the walls of the fort, and a moment later the first heavy, echoing boom of the alarm-gun thundered across the plains ! within the stockaded inclosure the sunny hours wore tranquilly away. mrs. kent's pass- ing uneasiness about the major subsided, and she returned placidly to her domestic duties. late in the afternoon, when the baby had been bathed and freshly dressed and the nurse had taken her to play in the shade of the band- stand, mrs. kent came out to join her husband and a group of ladies and gentlemen on the piazza. “there must be a prairie fire somewhere,” she remarked as she seated herself; “i have been smelling smoke all the afternoon.” “we were just talking about it,” answered mrs. lane, the doctor's wife; “i am certain i saw smoke to the northward before luncheon. there is no sign of it now, but the odor is distinct ' " at that moment one of the younger lieuten- ants approached from the gate which led to- ward the corral. “danny has gone riding, has he not, kent p” he asked. “yes,” replied the officer; “he went with mackenzie.” “have you confidence in the corporal's dis- cretion ?” “absolute " was the emphatic answer. “why do you ask?” “because there is some trouble with the herd. the animals are unaccountably restless, and the officer of the day has asked for a detail to go out and assist in bringing them in.” he spoke in an undertone, but the captain laid a hand upon his arm and drew him away from the piazza. “are there signs of any other trouble p” he asked gravely. the young fellow shook his head. “not as yet,” he replied; “but they seem to think it bet- ter to be on the safe side.” he went on to his own quarters, and the captain thoughtfully retraced his steps in the direction of the piazza. as he regained it a shot rang out—a shot that brought officers and men all over the garrison to their feet, that blanched the faces of the women, and called forth a cry of agony from mrs kent. “indians!” she moaned. “indians! oh, george' — and danny!” her husband caught her in his arms and carried her indoors. “courage, dearest, cour- age ' " he whispered, as he snatched up saber and pistols, and with a hasty farewell he left her. what he had to do must be done quickly! the first report had been followed by an- other, and another, as each sentinel in turn took up and echoed the alarm. after those came the crashing bang and roar of the six-pounder, the sinister humming of the “long roll,” and the shrill notes of the bugles as they sounded “boots and saddles.” to an inexperienced eye the scene which resulted would have seemed like hopeless confusion. the barracks swarmed with hastily armed men, the air was filled with the clatter of sabers and the rattle of carbines, with hurriedly shouted orders, calls, questions, till the “assem- bly” put a temporary check upon the uproar and the troopers departed for the stables. .] i i danny and the “major.” there saddles were flung across the horses' backs, girths were jerked tight, and, in less time than it has taken to describe the formation, the infantrymen detailed to protect the garrison were at their posts behind the stockade, and the troops of cavalry were mounted and ready for their work. “for’rd, trot, march ” the bugles repeated the command with blatant clamor, and the troops swept through the gate of the corral and halted by one of the bastions for their orders — grimly silent, compact bodies of men, trained by fort; k forming a skirmish-line at the foot of the slope some hundreds of yards to the west; and b, under dan's own father, starting at a brisk trot along the western face of the stock- ade. the men were unusually grave as they rounded its last corner. there was not one among them who did not feel a pang at the thought of the tiny child practically alone and unprotected on those desolate prairies; they were full of mute sympathy for the soldier who rode with white, stern face at their head. as they paused for a final momentary halt, *x f. wº-y “on — on — and up into the air ' " long, hard years of such service as the soldiers of to-day can never know. to have seen them once in battle array is to have seen that which one can never forget ! there was a quiet satis- faction on the face of the garrison commander as he regarded them, field-glass in hand, from his post of observation on top of the block- house. his wishes were briefly expressed: “b, to the north after the herd; k, to the west; l., in reserve until needed.” once again the bugles sounded, and the troops separated to their respective duties—l waiting at “place rest” on the plain beside the the sergeant of the troop moved to the side of his commander. “there are some animals run- ning by the timber to the left, captain,” he ob- served hurriedly. the officer regarded the moving figures intently, then he turned his face for a brief instant full upon his followers. “those are mounted horsemen, lads!” he ex- claimed; “and they are coming this way! col- umn right, gallop, march ” and the troopers, catching the subtle excitement in his tone, set- tled themselves in their saddles, and with a rousing cheer thundered across the plain in the direction indicated. i danny and the “major.” to danny, as he swept along on the road to safety, the minutes which succeeded the report of the alarm-gun were full of anguish. he grew sick and giddy with the rush of his pas- sage. the rhythmic beat of the horse's feet upon the turf mingled in a dull monotone with the roar of the wind in his ears. the fort grew steadily nearer. in spite of his terror he began to distinguish the figures of the soldiers as they swarmed about its walls in response to the call to arms, the hurry and confusion of the preparations, and finally even the color of the black horses in his father's troop as they started across the plain in his direction. with a little moan of appeal, he turned the major toward them. the friction of the reins had fretted the sweat upon the horse's neck into a heavy lather, he threw up his head uneasily from time to time in the effort for more air, and at length, with a spasm of dread, the child felt his smooth run slacken to a pounding gallop, while in the rear, with sinister insistence, the shrill, crooning cries of the indians grew perceptibly louder. danny glanced over his shoulder. his pursuers were close at his heels, riding low down on their unkempt ponies, their lithe, half-naked bodies gleaming like bronze statues, the red and yellow of their war-paint showing up sharply in the strong light of the afternoon. the boy grew sick at heart, turned once more to the plains in front of him, and uttered a wail- ing cry of terror. before him, almost at his feet, lay a yawning gulf— one of those steep-sided arroyos which begin in a tiny crack, and increase with the storms and frosts of succeeding winters till they form impassable chasms. the one in ques- tion was fully fifteen feet in width, and the lad clutched the animal's mane, and waited, numb with horror, for the end. the savages, seeing the unexpected peril which confronted him, broke into a series of triumphant yells. at the same moment, clear and distinct in the still air, came the bugle-notes of the “charge.” the major threw up his head at the sound; it was the well-remembered war-cry of his young, strong days; it woke an answering echo in his faithful heart, and, with a supreme and final effort of his failing strength, he responded to its command. the muscles on his extended neck grew stiff and tense with energy; his nostrils widened; he laid his small ears back, and gathered his mighty limbs under him. on — on — and up into the air! the lad closed his eyes. there was a crashing, stumbling jar, and then the horse recovered himself and galloped jerkily forward to meet his oncoming mates. danny was only vaguely conscious of the singing of the bullets above his head and of the cries of his baffled pursuers as they re- treated before the fire of the troopers. he saw his father's face through a mist of long-delayed tears, and a significant silence fell upon the men as they closed about the staggering horse, and their leader lifted his son from the saddle and held him for a brief space against his heart. half an hour later, when the rattle of mus- ketry and the crash of the gatling guns in the sand-bag battery beside the fort had died away, the herd had been recovered, and the indians had retreated to the shadows of the hills, a small procession wound along the edge of the timber. in the midst of it was a canvas-cov- -ered wagon with a red cross on its white sides. about that, armed and watchful, rode the sol- diers of l troop. under its shelter sat the surgeon, and at his feet lay mackenzie, ban- daged and cared for. as the sunlight faded and the evening gun sounded over the plains the little train reached the stockade, the gates opened, and the last of our heroes gained the friendly shelter of the walls. so ends the story, and it has no moral. only, if you had seen danny's mother that eve- ning, as, clinging to the major's neck, she wept for very joy, you never could doubt the value of fidelity and courage—even in a horse. rend. - a. º // n {{ fs &º º wº º º * {/\ nºr the ausic, merry and clear: | // eſſor the eye,the crown of the year. // - rfor the romping of bright girls and boys;| // // º rfor the reindeer that bring them the tºys! tº | yfor theºſile-log softly aglow. \ wººyºnº Å. % // º - º cfor the cold of the sky and the snow; s'. d hiſor the hearth where they hang up the hose!". * \ - º fjor the reel which the old folks propose. tº | lifor the ſcicles seen through the pane; - | & sfor the sleigh-bells,with linkling refrain. -i. tjºr the tree with gifts all obloom; | nfor the astletoe hung in the room; . a for the anthems we all love to hear; g-: sfor stshe solºs -joy of the year: º vol. xxiv.- . fligsing ׺- * > treasure (fifth story of the series entitled “the city of stories.” begun in the september number.) by frank m. bicknell. the princess and the younger son now were not far from the city gate. so they walked to the gate to see whether the tower clock was in sight. the princess looked one way, and the younger son looked the other. at last they saw him striding along. “ready to go home?” said the tower clock. “no, indeed,” the princess replied, “we’re going back to read another story.” “that 's right,” said the clock; “and i’d advise you to try the chinese quarter.” “do they have a chinese quarter here?” asked the younger son, in surprise. “certainly,” said the tower clock, pointing. the princess and the younger son looked toward the quarter to which the clock pointed, and saw quaint bamboo roofs, dragon-flags fly- ing, and great paper lanterns. without an- other word they turned their steps that way, and soon found beneath their feet the story of hop wing and the missing treasure. during a certain reign in the shin dynasty, a governor named queng-te ruled over one of the eastern provinces. governor queng-te was a very clever fellow, and what is more, he knew it, and what is more yet, he wanted ev- ery one else to know it. one morning he felt so especially well pleased with himself that he issued a proclamation to this effect: to any person who should ask him a question that he could not answer correctly, he promised that hop wing and the missing treasure. i there should be paid a reward of a hundred strings of cash. this offer remained in force a whole year; but as queng-te never had the least trouble in replying to the questions put to him, the money remained in his treasury. at the beginning of the second year he increased the amount of. fered to one thousand taels; and it seemed as if he might have promised a great deal more than that with perfect safety, for another twelvemonth went by, and still no one was sharp enough to win the reward. at this period there lived in one of the dis- tricts of the province a worthy scholar whose name was hop wing. he was a youth of good sense and great promise, having already passed his first examination with honor, and received his bachelor's degree. but, unfortu- nately, he was very poor, and was forced to eke out a living by acting as secretary to the magistrate of the district—a man by the name of how-fu. this official was far from being a kind master; and mr. wing was obliged to work hard for miserably small pay. moreover, although how-fu was niggardly enough with his money, he was quite the reverse with his fault-finding and abuse. whenever he had a chance he would berate his poor secretary roundly, often for the most trifling cause, and sometimes for no cause whatever. the truth is that only by the merest good luck had how-fu passed through his examination and secured his present position, for which in real- ity he was not at all a fit person; and, knowing that mr. wing was a young man of merit and well liked in the district, he was jealous of him, and wanted to keep him crowded back in ob- scurity. in fact, he would not have been sorry for a chance to put him out of the way alto- gether. one day how-fu came to his secretary in a towering rage. he declared he had just missed from his treasury a bag containing the sum of one thousand taels. it had been in a certain place the night before, and now it was gone. no one but mr. wing knew where it had been put, consequently, it being no longer there, he must have stolen it. on hearing this charge the poor secretary was thunderstruck; but as soon as he could find his voice he protested his innocence vehe- mently. to what purpose p. his words were merely wasted breath. the magistrate would not listen, and would hardly allow him an op- portunity to speak at all. “you thieving rascal!” he cried; “restore the treasure you have stolen, or you shall lose your head. i give you twenty-four hours to decide whether you will surrender the one or the other.” “alas! how am i to restore that which i have not p " exclaimed the unfortunate mr. wing. “i know no more where your money is than does a child just born.” “oh! then since you have forgotten where you have hidden it,” sneered his master, “why do you not go and ask our wise governor about it? no doubt his excellency will tell you at once where it is; or even should he be unable to do so, he will present you, according to his promise, with the sum of one thousand taels. so in either case you will be in a position to make good what you have taken from me.” although it grieved him sorely to be charged with a crime he had not committed, neverthe- less, seeing that he could not prove his inno- cence, mr. wing found some comfort in these last words of his cruel master. there seemed to lie a way out of the difficulty that was well worth considering. “grant me the time to go to the capital and see the governor, and i will do what i can to save my head,” said he. - “i give you a week's grace,” replied the magistrate. “at the end of that time i must have either my taels or your worthless head. so remember,” he added grimly, “it is head or taels with you.” the wicked how-fu could afford to joke, for he was very well aware—none better—where the missing bag lay; and as he was quite sure governor queng-te could not know anything about the matter, he confidently expected hop wing to bring back a thousand taels, which he would then add to his already large hoard. the next day, accompanied by a guard im- posed upon him by how-fu, the unhappy secre- tary started on his journey up to the capital city of the province. after three days he ar. rived there safely, and was hastening to present [jan. hop wing and the missing treasure. - himself before the wise queng-te, when a start- ling piece of news came to his ears. it seemed that on that very morning the governor, who now began to look on himself as the cleverest person in the empire, had again amended his proclamation so as to make it stand in effect as follows: “whoever shall ask his excellency a ques- tion to which he cannot at once give the correct answer, shall be made a magistrate when thenext vacancy shall occur in the province; but whoever shall try to do this, and shall fail, shall lose his head.” certainly here was a great change in the state of affairs. as the case now rested, ſº unhappy mr. tº wing's life was worth little indeed. suppose he should ask queng-te about -- the lost treasure, what would be the result p. either the governor could tell him where it was, and he must lose his head because his question would have º been answered, or he º could not tell him, *: ... yº and he must lose ºrº. º his head because he ** would have failed to '-º', ; restore the one thousand taels to his master. thus, in either event, his head would shortly be where the treasure seemed to be — that is to say, missing. is it strange, under the circumstances, that the luckless mr. wing knew not what to do? what could he do? fate had put before him a puzzle that he could not solve to save his life. one thing, however, was certain: he was no longer in a hurry to call on governor queng-te, for now nothing was to be gained by such a step, and everything was to be lost. filled with despondency, he betook himself to an inn, where he hoped to get a much needed night's rest, for his long journey had greatly fatigued him. but his mind was too full of his troubles to permit of his sleeping, and so, after tossing restlessly for some hours, he resolved to go out and get a breath of fresh air. accordingly, he stepped carefully over his guard, who lay soundly sleeping by the door, and presently found his way to the street. then he began to walk, and he walked so far that finally he came into a new part of the city, where he saw a number of people en- tering a gateway that led into a large pri- vate garden. as he stood looking on, he heard that it was a wedding - party, and among the guests he recognized his pretty cousin whose name º was ning woo. she - asked him if he would º, like to attend the wedding. on his ac- nº. " cepting her invitation, º she conducted him º º through this gateway *… and into the house. after having passed * through several fine * rooms, they came into a lº *" one that was larger and more magnificent than any mr. wing _ , had seen hitherto. --- y here was gathered * ... "...º. _ _*: a numerous coin- “. . ººzºº - "...º.º. ºº, pany of ladies and ºf gentlemen, all of whom appeared to be persons of con- sequence. pres- n . . . • *, *- y ** she conducted him. through this gateway and into the house.” .] hop wing and the missing treasure. ently the bride entered the apartment, attended by a dozen or more young girls, among whom was miss ning woo. the groom being al- ready there, the party now sat down to the wedding-feast, at which the most exquisite meats and wines were served. the guests were in the liveliest spirits, as was quite natural, and merry jests and ripples of laughter were frequently heard, though all the while perfect good-breeding and decorum were maintained. by and by boiling water was brought in, and fragrant tea was handed about in cups of finest porcelain. then a number of the young men and young girls arose, and, taking position on the floor, entertained the company by dancing several pleasing figures to the music of flageo- lets. each dancer carried a gauze lantern in the shape of a water-lily or some other beauti- ful flower, and at the close of their dance each in a graceful manner offered a pretty little gift to some one of the spectators. nobody was for- gotten in the distribution: mr. wing received a piece of sky-blue silk of fine texture, on which a picture had been painted. this was pre- sented to him by his cousin, miss ning. “i beg you will do me the honor to accept this,” said she, with a charming smile. “it is of my own handiwork. if you will hang it on the wall in your room to-night, i hope it may bring you good luck.” in due time, all the festivities being over, the assemblage broke up, and mr. wing was shown to the room where he was to pass the re- mainder of the night. there, recalling the ad- vice of miss ning, he hung the little painting on the wall. then he lay down upon a sleep- ing-mat, and, forgetting all his tribulations, at once fell into a sound slumber. after a while he suddenly awoke, and at the same instant his eyes fixed themselves on miss ning's gift. strange to relate, the picture was growing larger. indeed, it grew so rapidly that in a few moments it covered entirely the wall where it had been hung. in it were sev- eral human figures, now of life-size. one of them—that of an old priest—presently stepped out from its place, and thus addressed the as- tonished mr. wing: “my son, i come to you in this manner that i may do you a service. i know of your diffi- ** with his magic sword he hewed and hacked at the dragon's claws.” culties, and i can put you in a way to extricate yourself from them. i have a brother who is far wiser and more powerful than i, and it is to him that i shall send you for aid. you cannot reach him without some peril, for there are always wicked demons abroad who try to prevent good actions from being done. however, if you will follow my instructions, you will escape with nothing worse than a bad fright. take this wooden sword, and use it freely in defending yourself. if you should be too sorely pressed, call upon my brother, ten shun by name, and he will send you relief.” having spoken these words, the aged priest returned to the wall, and became again a part of the painting, which then quickly shrank to its original size. while mr. wing was regretting that he had not asked the old gentleman how he was to find his brother, he heard the watchman in the street beating midnight on his wooden gong. missing treasure. [jan. hop wing and the this sound had hardly died away when there came a crashing of glass, and then a small bird, looking much like a bat, flew into the room, and settled down to the floor. it had no sooner alighted than it began to increase in size until, much to mr. wing's alarm, it had become a full-fledged dragon, and began to vomit forth flame and smoke in a frightful manner. the fierce creature rushed upon the young man as if bent on his destruction, but the latter in- stinctively raised his wooden sword and warded off the attack. finding itself thus baffled, the dragon retreated for a moment, then suddenly dashed down, and seizing mr. wing in its claws, flew away, carrying off a part of the house-roof on its back as it did so. although considerably frightened, the young man did not lose all his courage. with his magic sword he hewed and hacked at the drag- on's claws so vigorously that the creature shortly was forced to drop him to the ground. as soon as he touched earth he put his legs to good use by running away with all his might. thereupon his enemy changed itself into a huge demon with four heads and eight legs, and started in hot pursuit. by dint of great exertion mr. wing succeeded in keeping the lead until he came to a river, which he was much puzzled to know how to cross. as the demon was close upon him, he had no other resort than to pronounce the name of ten shun, which he did in a loud voice. imme- diately he was changed into a stone, and at the same moment his own shadow appeared on the opposite bank of the river. the demon, arriv- ing on the spot, saw the shadow and stupidly mistook it for the reality. uttering a howl of rage, he caught up the stone that was hop wing and cast it across the river after the shadow that was not hop wing. thus did the young man reach the other bank, and once there, he was restored to his natural form. but the demon was not easily baffled. when he saw his intended victim making off, he changed himself into a dry leaf and was blown over the river after him. alighting, he turned back into a demon and continued the chase. mr. wing now plunged into a dense wood, but ere long, being hard pressed, he again called upon ten shun for assistance. his call was answered, and he became a thick mist which so obscured everything in the forest that for a few moments the demon was quite nonplussed to think where his prey could have escaped to. but he was by no means at the end of his resources yet. he changed himself into a roaring fire, and soon entirely dried up the mist. as mr. wing, in the form of vapor, rose toward the clouds he was transformed into a kite shaped like a dragon and really quite horrible to look upon. his enemy was nothing daunted, however, for he quickly grasped the string and pulled it in until he had the kite fast in his clutches. when mr. wing came back to his natural form, what was his alarm to find that the demon had hung him from the bough of a tree by a stout cord which was tied securely about his ** the old man took from his girdle a small bamboo pipe, and blew into it gently.” neck! yet, strange to say, although he was dangling helplessly with his feet at some dis- tance from the ground, the knot did not choke .] hop wing and the missing treasure. i him or cause him any serious discomfort. still the position was far from being pleasant, and so now for the third time he pronounced the name of ten shun. no immediate response came, but as soon as the demon — who evidently thought he had made an end of hop wing— had disappeared among the trees, the rope be- gan of itself to lengthen, so that in a few mo- ments the young man was standing on firm earth once more. a touch of the wooden sword released him from his hempen necktie, and he was again free. just then he suddenly became aware that a venerable man stood be- fore him. “hop wing,” said this person, “you have called me, and i am here. you are in trouble, and as i think you deserving of aid, i shall help you.” whereupon the old man, who was no other than ten shun, took from his girdle a small bamboo pipe and blew into it gently. in a moment a pill not much larger than a grain of rice dropped out. this he presented to hop wing, saying: “swallow this, and by its virtue knowledge shall be yours that will take you safely through all difficulties and dangers.” mr. wing put the pill into his mouth, when straightway it seemed to slip down his throat of its own accord. immediately all his cares and perplexities vanished; and when he turned to thank the old priest he had vanished also. nor were these the only strange things that came to pass; for all of a sudden mr. wing seemed to awake as if from a dream, and on rubbing his eyes he perceived that he had been lying upon the hard ground on a hillside near a large fox-hole. then he knew he had fallen in with some fox-people, one of whom had as- sumed the form of his cousin, and that they had befriended him.* thanks to the priest's pill, mr. wing now could see his course laid out before him plainly. with a light heart he made his way back to the inn, where he found his guard in a sad fright over his supposed escape. having refreshed himself with some breakfast, he confidently set out to seek an audience with the governor, who received him without too much delay. to him he made known the story of the missing treasure, and having done so, he concluded his address in these words: “your excellency will realize therefore that i am in a most awkward dilemma. what i desire to ask is this — and i doubt not your excellency will be able to give me a correct an- swer to my question: how am i to get out of my difficulty and yet save my life?” for the first time since issuing his famous proclamation queng-te hesitated to reply to a questioner. in truth he was as much puzzled to save his credit as had been hop wing the day before to save his life. according to the terms of the proclamation, every questioner whom he answered correctly must forfeit his head; but in this case if the questioner lost his head, then his question would not have been correctly answered. here was a state of things which, with all his cleverness, the governor had not foreseen. what reply should he make to mr. wing's query? the more he cogitated over this matter the more bewildering did it be- come. finally, quite at a loss what else to do, he took refuge in an evasion. assuming an air of great dignity and unutterable wisdom, he said: “young man, your undeserved misfortunes touch me deeply; and as i should be loath to add to them by depriving you of your life, i shall consider your question as not asked. i strongly suspect that magistrate how-fu has treated you with unmerited rigor, and i shall have his affairs looked into at once. mean- while, you will remain under my especial pro- tection.” on investigation it was proved not only that how-fu had hidden away the bag of one thou- sand taels which he had accused his secretary of stealing, but that he had embezzled funds to a large amount. accordingly he was put to death as a punishment for his wrong-doings; and mr. wing, who was quite worthy of the honor, was appointed to the vacant place. and thus was kept governor's queng-te's promise that whoever succeeded in puzzling him should be made a magistrate to fill the first vacancy. * there is a superstition among the chinese that foxes have the power of taking human shape at will, and are supernaturally gifted to work enchantments for the good or evil of ordinary mortals, as may suit their purposes. º %n % v he makers of ancient maps were accustomed to introduce pictures freely. in deserts there would be drawings of lions, and along rivers they made “river-horses,” — which is the meaning of the greek words that were put together to make up “hippopo- tamus.” as for the oceans, they were filled up with any queer monsters that came to hand. of course these pictures helped to hide great spaces that would otherwise have been staring blanks. besides, men understood very little about the strange happenings in the world around them, and invented fairy-tales to explain these mysteries. it is not remarkable, then, that so late as columbus's time his sailors did not at all like to think of sailing westward into the unknown ocean full of such fabulous creatures and magic happenings. even with all that wise and studious men have learned since, there is enough to be met with in a long ocean voyage to excite wonder and alarm. sailors may see auroras, the strange “north- ern lights,” the cause of which is even now little more than guessed at; they may be sur- rounded by water-spouts, which are not en- tirely explained as yet; they may meet “tidal” (that is, earthquake) waves, that rise from thirty to sixty feet, or even more, above the surface; they may be amazed by “st. elmo's fire,” the sparkling flames that play about masts and rig- tºdor jenks - . ging; they may behold lightning in globe-form, sheet flashes, or forked bolts; they are sure to sail through the phosphorescence that has but lately been traced to animal life. then, too, storms and calms, fogs and moonlight, bring strange sights. altogether, the ocean is a wonderland that has new marvels every day; the very color of the sea is hardly twice the same. yet, amid all these wonders, to one sight es- pecially is the name “wonderful” applied in many languages—for mirage, coming from the latin through the french, means simply “the wonderful.” nor is it strange that the mirage should have won this name. imagine that you are with the two fishermen in the pic- ture on the next page. it is a hot, hazy day, and you are drifting lazily along over a quiet sea, when suddenly you hear an exclamation from one of the sailors. looking up, you see him pointing above the horizon. following the gesture, you are amazed at the sight that has made him cry out. in the sky you see a bark with sails set, while, upside-down, floats its image just below. at times, it is said, the upper rigging also ap- pears in a third image just above the horizon. that is the wonderful sight—the mirage. books of adventure have made us all familiar with another form of the mirage. travelers in the desert are often deceived by the appearance of a lake, upon the borders of which are seen trees oo mirrors of air. o i reflected in the glassy surface; but on attempt- ing to approach the water, the thirsty travelers find themselves no nearer to the lake — it seems to tantalize them by keeping just out of reach. layers of air differently heated. when these rays are so bent as to be almost level with a layer of air, they do not enter it at all, but (so to speak) glance off, and are reflected as if a mirage, at sea. the cause of the mirage is now well under- stood—so well understood, that there are ways of making small mirages for experiment. the simplest explanation that i can give is to say that the rays of light coming from the thing that is seen are bent in going through vol. xxiv.- . from a mirror. then the air reflects just as a glass mirror or a body of water would, if it lay between the eye and the trees or ship. this explanation will give you a general idea of the cause of the mirage. in the case of the desert the reflecting air-mirror is believed by o mirrors of air. [jan. the observer to be water, and the image changes its place as you go forward just as a reflection would move as you advanced on a glass mirror. the “fata morgana" is a form or modifica- tion of mirage often seen in the straits that separate the toe of the “boot” of italy and the island of sicily, just oppo- site. when the sun is just at the right position, and sea and air are also ready to help, strange views of objects upon the opposite coast are seen from calabria—sometimes magni- fied, and set against a back- ground of colored mists. “fata morgana” means the fairy of a diagram showing the real course of the rays of light (curved lines), the sea. and their apparent course (straight lines). in the case of the ship, the air-mirror seems to be above you, and reflects the ship which is really out of sight over the horizon. but i do not pretend to explain all about the different images that may possibly be formed under different conditions of the atmosphere — that is a school-room task, and a hard one. it is said that sometimes, during a hot and still summer day, by placing the eye close to the surface of a dry road, a mirage can be seen; but i have never tried it. before these and other strange sights were understood and explained, we need not wonder that sailors and travelers held many strange beliefs in regard to them. master skylark, by john bennett. [begun in the november number.] chapter viii. /* the admiral's company. he ancient city of cov- entry stands upon a little hill, with old st. michael's steeple and the spire of holy trin- \; ity church rising above it against the sky; and, as the master-player and the boy came climbing upward from the south, walls, tow- ers, chimneys, and red-tiled roofs were turned to gold by the glow of the setting sun. to nick it seemed as if a halo overhung the town — a ruddy glory and a wonder bright; for here the grey friars of the great monastery had played their holy mysteries and miracle- plays for over a hundred years; here the trade- guilds had held their pageants when the friars' day was done; here were all the wonders that old men told by winter fires. people were coming and going through the gates like bees about a hive; and in the distance nick could hear the sound of many voices, the rush of feet, wheels, and hoofs, and the shrill pipe of music. here and there were little knots of country folk making holiday — a fa- ther and mother with a group of rosy children; a lad and his lass, spruce in new finery, and gay with bits of ribbon, merry groups that were .] o master skylark. ever changing. gay banners flapped on tall ash staves. the suburb fields were filled with booths and tents and stalls and butts for arch- ery. the very air seemed eager with the eve of holiday. but what to nick was breathless wonder was to carew only a twice-told tale; so he pushed through the crowded thoroughfares, amid a throng that made nick's head spin round, and came quickly to the blue boar inn. the court was crowd- ed to the gates with - - - horses, travelers, and º || || serving-men; and here | º - and there and every- | ! º - º; l .." “the court of the blue boar where rushed the busy innkeeper, with a linen napkin fluttering on his arm, his cap half off, and in his hot hand a pewter flagon, from which the brown ale dripped in spatters on his fat legs as he flew. “they 're here,” said carew, looking shrewdly about; “for there is gregory goole, my groom, and stephen magelt, the tire-man. in with thee, nich- olas.” he put nick before him with a little air of patronage, and pushed him into the room. - it was a large, low chamber, with heavy beams overhead, hung with leather jacks and pewter tank- ards. around the walls stood nº | rough tables, at which a medley - - º º - inn was crowded to the gates.” o [jan. master seq ylark. of guests sat eating, drinking, dicing, playing at cards, and talking loudly all at once, while the tapster and the cook's knave sped wildly about. at a great table in the midst of the riot sat the lord high admiral's players—a score or “‘master nicholas skylark, the sweetest more loud-swashing gallants, richly clad in ruffs and bands, embroidered shirts, italian doublets slashed and laced, venetian hose, gay velvet caps with jeweled bands, and every man a po- niard or a rapier at his hip. nick felt very much like a little brown sparrow in a flock of gaudy indian birds. the board was loaded down with meat and drink; and some of the players were eating with forks, a new trick from the london court, which nick had never seen before. but all the diners looked up when carew's face was recognized, and welcomed him with a deafening shout. he waved his hand for silence. “thanks for these kind plaudits, gentle singer in all the kingdom of england !’” friends,” said he, with a mocking air; “i have returned.” “yes; we see that ye have, gaston,” they all shouted, and laughed again. “ay,” said he, thrusting his hand into his pouch, “ye fled, and left me to be spoiled by the spoiler, but ye see i have left the spoiler spoiled.” lifting his hand triumphantly, he shook in their faces the golden chain that the burgesses .] o master skylark. of stratford had given him, and then, laying his hand upon nick's shoulder, bowed to them all, and to him with courtly grace, and said: “be known, be known all ! gentlemen, my lord admiral's players, master nicholas skylark, the sweetest singer in all the kingdom of eng- land ’’ nick's cheeks flushed hotly, and his eyes fell; for they all stared curiously, first at him, and then at carew standing up behind him, and several grinned mockingly, and winked in a knowing way. he stole a look at carew; but the master-player's face was frank and quite unmoved, so that nick felt reassured. “why, sirs,” said carew, as some began to laugh and to speak to one another covertly, “it is no jest. he hath a sweeter voice than cyril davy's, the best woman's-voice in all london town. upon my word, it is the sweet- est voice a body ever heard — outside of heaven and the holy angels!”—he lowered his tone, and bowed his head a little – “i’ll stake mine honour on it!” “hast any, gaston p” called a jeering voice, whereat the whole room roared. but carew cried again in a high voice that would be heard above the noise: “now, hark 'e; what i say is so. it is, upon my word, and on the remnant of mine honour! and to-mor- row ye shall see; for master skylark is to sing and play with us.” when he had said that, nothing would do but nick must sit down and eat with them; so they made a place for him and for master carew. nick bent his head and said a grace, at which some of them laughed, until carew shook his head with a stern frown; and before he ate he bowed politely to them all, as his mother had taught him to do. they all bowed mock- ingly, and hilariously offered him wine, which, when he refused, they pressed upon him, until carew stopped them, saying that he would have no more of that. as he spoke he clapped his hand upon his poniard, and scowled blackly. they all laughed, but offered nick no more wine; instead, they picked him choice morsels, and made a great deal of him, until his silly young head was quite turned, and he sat up and gave himself a few airs—not many, for stratford was no great place in which to pick up airs. when they had eaten they wanted nick to sing; but again carew interposed. “nay,” said he ; “he hath just eaten his fill, so he can- not sing. moreover, he is no jackdaw to screech in such a cage as this. he shall not sing until to-morrow, in the play.” at this some of the leading players who held shares in the venture demurred, doubting if nick could sing at all; but—“hark 'e,” said master carew shortly, clapping his hand upon his poniard, “i say that he can. do ye take me?” so they said no more; and shortly after he took nick away, and left them over their tan- kards, singing uproariously. the blue boar inn had not a bed to spare, nor had the players kept a place for carew; at which he smiled grimly, said he 'd not forget it, and took lodgings for himself and nick at the three tuns in the next street. nick spoke indeed of his mother's cousin, with whom he had meant to stay, but the mas- ter-player protested warmly; so, little loath, and much flattered by the attentions of so great a man, nick gave over the idea and said no more about it. when the chamberlain had shown them to their room and they were both undressed, nick knelt beside the bed and said a prayer, as he always did at home. carew watched him curi- ously. it was quiet there, and the light dim; nick was young, and his yellow hair was very curly. carew could hear the faint breath mur- muring through the boy's lips as he prayed, and while he stared at the little white figure his mouth twitched in a queer way. but he tossed his head, and muttered to himself, “what, gaston carew, turning soft p nay, nay. i'll do it, on my soul i will l’ rolled into bed and was soon fast asleep. as for nick, what with the excitement of the day, the dazzling fancies in his brain, his tired legs, the weird night noises in the town, and strange, tremendous dreams, he scarce could get to sleep at all; but toward morning he fell into a refreshing doze, and did not wake until the town was loud with may. o [jan. master skylark. chapter ix. the may-day play. it was soon afternoon. all coventry was thronged with people keeping holiday, and at the blue boar a scene of wild confusion reigned. tap-room and hall were crowded with guests; and in the cobbled court horses innumerable stamped and whinnied. the players, with knitted brows, stalked about the quieter nooks, going over their several parts, and looking to their costumes, which were for the most part upon their backs; while the thumping and pounding of the carpenters at work upon the stage in the inn-yard was enough to drive a quiet-loving person wild. nick scarcely knew whether he were on his head or on his heels. the master-player would not let him eat at all, after once breaking his fast, for fear it might affect his voice, and had him say his lines a hundred times until he had them pat. then he was off, directing here, there, and everywhere, until the court was cleared of all that had no business there, and the last sur- reptitious small boy had been duly projected from the gates by peter hostler's hobnailed boot. “now, nick,” said carew, coming up all in a gale, and throwing a sky-blue silken cloak about nick's shoulders, “thou 'lt enter here”; and he led him to a hallway door just opposite the gates. “when master whitelaw, as the duke, calls out, ‘how now, who comes? — i'll match him for the ale!’ be quickly in and an- swer to thy part; and, marry, boy, don't miss thy cues, or—tsst, thy head 's not worth a peascod' " with that he clapped his hand upon his poniard and glared into nick's eyes, as if to look clear through to the back of the boy's wits. nick heard his white teeth grind, and was all at once very much afraid of him, for he did indeed look dreadful. so nicholas attwood stood by the entry door, with his heart in his throat, waiting his turn. he could hear the pages in the courtyard outside shouting for stools for their masters, and squabbling over the best places upon the stage. then the gates creaked and there came a wild rush of feet and a great crying out as the 'prentices and burghers trooped into the inn-yard, pushing and crowding for places near the stage. those who had the money bawled aloud for farthing stools. the rest stood jos- tling in a wrangling crowd upon the ground, while up and down a girl's shrill voice went all the time, crying high, “cherry ripe, cherry ripeſ who'll buy my sweet may cherries?” then there was another shout and a rattling tread of feet along the wooden balconies that ran around the walls of the inn-yard, and cries from the apprentices below: “good-day, fair master harrington | good-day, sir thomas parkes! good-day, sweet mistress nettleby and master nettleby good-day, good-day, good-day !” for the richer folk were coming in at twopence each, and all the galleries were full. and then he heard the baker's boy with sugared cakes and ginger-nuts go stamping up the stairs. the musicians in the balcony overhead were tuning up. there was a flute, a viol, a gittern, a fiddle, and a drum; and behind the curtain, just outside the door, nick could hear the mas- ter-player's low voice giving hasty orders to the others. so he said his lines all over to himself, and cleared his throat. then on a sudden a shutter opened high above the orchestra, a trumpet blared, the kettledrum crashed, and he heard a loud voice shout: “good citizens of coventry, and high-born gentles all: know ye now that we, the players of the company of his grace, charles, lord howard, high admiral of england, ireland, wales, calais, and boulogne, the marches of normandy, gascony, and aquitaine, captain- general of the navy and the seas of her gracious majesty the queen—” at that the crowd in the courtyard cheered and cheered again. “— will, with your kind permission, play forthwith the laughable comedy of ‘the three grey gowns,’ by master thomas heywood, in which will be spoken many good things, old and new, and a brand-new song will be sung. now, hearken all—the play begins !” the trumpet blared, the kettledrum crashed again, and as a sudden hush fell over the throng .] o master skylark. without, nick heard the voices of the players going on. it was a broad farce, full of loud jests and nonsense, a great thwacking of sticks and tum- bling about; and nick, with his eye to the crack of the door, listened with all his ears for his cue, far too excited even to think of laughing at the rough jokes, though the crowd in the inn-yard roared till they held their sides. carew came hurrying up with an anxious look in his restless eyes. “ready, nicholas !” said he sharply, taking nick by the arm and lifting the latch. “go straight down front now, as i told thee — mind thy cues — speak boldly—sing as thou didst sing for me—and if thou wouldst not break mine heart, do not fail me now ! i have staked it all upon thee here — and we must win!” “how now, who comes p” nick heard a loud voice call outside — the door-latch clicked behind him — he was out in the open air and down the stage before he quite knew where he was. the stage was built against the wall just op- posite the gates. it was but a temporary plat- form of planks laid upon trestles. one side of it was against the wall, and around the three other sides the crowd was packed close to the platform rail. at the ends, upon the boards, several wealthy gallants sat on high three-legged stools, within arm's reach of the players acting there. the courtyard was a sea of heads, and the bal- conies were filled with gentlefolk in holiday attire, eating cakes and chaffing gaily at the play. all was one bewildered cloud of staring eyes to nick, and the only thing which he was sure he saw was the painted sign that hung upon the curtain at the rear, which in the lack of other scenery announced in large red print: “this is a room in master jonah jackdawe's house.” and then he heard the last quick words, “i’ll match him for the ale !” and started on his lines. it was not that he said so ill what little he had to say, but that his voice was homelike and familiar in its sound, one of their own, with no amazing london accent to the words —just the speech of every-day, the sort that they all knew. first, some one in the yard laughed out—a shock-headed ironmonger's apprentice, “whoy, bullies, there be hayseed in his hair. 't is took off pasture over-soon. i fecks! they've plucked him green . " there was a hoarse, exasperating laugh. nick hesitated in his lines. the player at his back tried to prompt him, but only made the matter worse, and behind the green curtain at the door a hand went “clap" upon a dagger- hilt. the play lagged, and the crowd began to jeer. nick's heart was full of fear and of angry shame that he had dared to try. then all at once there came a brief pause, in which he vaguely realized that no one spoke. the man behind him thrust him forward, and whispering wrathfully, “quick, quick — sing up, thou little fool!” stepped back and left him there alone. a viol overhead took up the time, the gittern struck a few sharp notes. this unexpected mu- sic stopped the noise, and all was still. nick thought of his mother's voice singing on a sum- mer's evening among the hollyhocks, and as the viol's droning died away he drew a deep breath and began to sing the words of “hey- wood's newest song”: pack, clouds, away, and welcome, day; with night we banish sorrow; sweet air, blow soft; mount, lark, aloft, to give my love good-morrow ! it was only a part of a madrigal, the air to which they had fitted the words—the same air that nick had sung in the woods — a thing scarce meant ever to be sung alone, a simple strain, a few plain notes, and at the close one brief, queer, warbling trill like a bird's wild song, that rose and fell and rose again like a silver ripple. the instruments were still; the fresh young voice came out alone, and it was done so soon that nick hardly knew that he had sung at all. for a moment no one seemed to breathe. then there was a very great noise, and all the court seemed hurling at him. a man upon the stage sprang to his feet. what they were going to do to him nick did not know. he o master sry lark. |jan. gave a frightened cry, and ran past the green curtain, through the open door, and into the master-player's excited arms. “quick, quick!” cried carew. “go back, go back there, hark – dost not hear them call ? quick, out again — they call thee back!” with that he thrust nick through the door. the man upon the stage came up, slipped something into his hand—nick, all bewildered, knew not what; and there he stood, quite stu- pefied, not knowing what to do. then carew came out hastily and led him down the stage, bowing, and pressing his hand to his heart, and smiling like a summer sunrise; so that nick, seeing this, did the same, and bowed as neatly as he could; though, to be sure, his was only a simple country-bred bow, and no such ceremo- nious to-do as master carew's courtly london obeisance. every one was standing up and shouting so that not a soul could hear his ears, until the iron- monger's apprentice bellowed above the rest; “whoy, bullies!” he shouted, amid a chorus of cheers and laughter, “did n't i say 't was catched out in the fields—it be a skylark, sure enough come, muster skylark, sing that song again, an' thou shalt ha’ my brand-new cap !” then many voices cried out together, “sing it again! the skylark — the skylark " nick looked up, startled. “why, master ca- rew,” said he, with a tremble in his voice, “do they mean me?” carew put one hand beneath nick's chin and turned his face up, smiling. the mas- ter-player's cheeks were flushed with triumph, and his dark eyes danced with pride: “ay, nicholas skylark; ’tis thou they mean.” the viol and the music came again from overhead, and when they ceased nick sang the little song once more. and when the mas- ter-player had taken him outside, and the play was over, some fine ladies came and kissed him, to his great confusion; for no one but his mother or his kin had ever done so before, and these had much perfume about them, musk and rose-attar, so that they smelled like rose-mal- lows in july. the players of the lord ad- miral's company were going about shaking hands with carew and with each other as if they had not met for years, and slapping one another upon the back; and one came over, a tall, solemn, black-haired man, he who had written the song, and stood with his feet apart and stared at nick, but spoke never a word, which nick thought was very singular. but as he turned away he said, with a world of pity in his voice, “and i have writ two hundred plays, yet never saw thy like. lad, lad, thou art a jewel in a wild swine's snout !” which nick did not understand at all; nor why master carew said so sharply, “come, heywood, hold thy blabbing tongue; we are all in the same sty.” “speak for thyself, gat carew l’” answered master heywood firmly. “i’ll have no hand in this affair, i tell thee once for all !” master carew flushed queerly and bit his lip, and, turning hastily away, took nick to walk about the town. nick then, for the first time, looked into his hand to see what the man upon the stage had given him. it was a gold rose-noble. chapter x. after the play. through the high streets of the third city of the realm master gaston carew strode as if he were a very king, and coventry his kingdom. there was music everywhere, of pipers and fiddlers, drums, tabrets, flutes, and horns,— and there were dancing bears upon the corners, with minstrels, jugglers, chapmen crying their singsong wares, and such a mighty hurly-burly as nick had never seen before. and wherever there was a wonder to be seen, carew had nick see it, though it cost a penny a peep, and lifted him to watch the fencing and quarter- staff play in the market-place. and at one of the gay booths he bought gilt ginger-nuts and caraway cakes with currants on the top, and gave them all to nick, who thanked him kindly, but said, if master carew pleased, he 'd rather have his supper, for he was very hungry. “why, to be sure,” said carew, and tossed a silver penny for a scramble to the crowd; “thou shalt have the finest supper in the town.” whereupon, bowing to all the great folk they .] master skylark. met, and being bowed to most politely in re- to think that there was not in all the world turn, they came to the three tuns. another gentleman so grand as master gaston jacºef ºil. - tººthin ti hill |tººn"trimºil | "ºn. “nick thought of his mother's singing on a summer's evening — drew a deep breath and began to sing.” stared at by a hundred curious eyes, made carew, and also to have a pleasant notion way for everywhere, and followed by wonder- that nicholas attwood was no bad fellow ing exclamations of envy, it was little wonder himself. * - that nick, a simple country lad, at last began the lordly innkeeper came smirking and vol. xxiv.- . io - master skylark. [jan. bobbing obsequiously about, with his freshest towel on his arm, and took the master-player's order as a dog would take a bone. “here, sirrah,” said carew haughtily; “fetch us some repast, i care not what, so it be whole- some food—a green banbury cheese, some simnel bread and oat-cakes; a pudding, hark 'e, sweet and full of plums, with honey and a pasty — a meat pasty, marry, a pasty made of fat and toothsome eels; and moreover, fellow, ale to wash it down—none of thy penny ale, mind ye, too weak to run out of the spigot, but snapping good brew — dost take me?—with beef and mustard, tripe, herring, and a good fat capon broiled to a turn l’” the innkeeper gaped like a fish. “how now, sirrah p dost think i cannot pay thy score?” quoth carew sharply. “nay, nay,” stammered the host; “but, sir, where — where will ye put it all without burst- ing into bits?” “be off with thee!” cried carew sharply. “that is my affair. nay, nick,” said he, laughing at the boy's astonished look; “we shall not burst. what we do not have to-night, we'll have in the morning. 't is the way with these inns — to feed the early birds with scraps —so the more we leave from supper the more we 'll have for breakfast. and thou wilt need a good breakfast to ride on all day long.” “ride?” exclaimed nick. “why, sir, i was minded to walk back to stratford, and keep my gold rose-noble whole.” “walk?” cried the master-player scornfully. “thou, with thy golden throat? nay, nicho- las, thou shalt ride to-morrow like a very king, if i have to pay for the horse myself, twelve pence the day!” and with that he began chuckling, as if it were a joke. but nick stood up, and bowing, thanked him gratefully; at which the master-player went from chuckling to laughing, and leered at nick so oddly that the boy would have thought him tipsy, save that there had been nothing yet to drink. and a queer sense of uneasiness came creeping over him as he watched the master-player's eyes opening and shutting, opening and shutting, so that one moment he seemed to be staring and the next almost asleep; though all the while his keen dark eyes peered out from between the lids like old dog-foxes from their holes, looking nick over from head to foot, and from foot to head again, as if measuring him with an ell- wand. when the supper came, filling the whole table and the sideboard too, nick arose to serve the meat as he was used at home; but, “nay, nicholas skylark, my honey-throat,” cried carew, “sit thee down! thou wait on me — thou songster of the silver tongue nay, nay, sweetheart, the knave shall wait on thee, or i'll wait on thee myself—i will, upon my word ' why, nick, i tell thee i love thee, and dost think i'd let thee wait or walk—nay, nay, thou 'lt ride to-morrow like a king, and have all stratford wait for thee!” at this he chuckled so that he almost choked upon a mouthful of bread and meat. “canst ride, nicholas p” “fairly, sir.” “fairly p fie, modesty! i warrant thou canst ride like a very centaur. what sayest— i 'll ride a ten-mile race with thee to-morrow as we go?” “why,” cried nick, “are ye going back to stratford to play, after all?” - “to stratford? nay; not for a bushel of good gold harry shovel-boards! bah! that town is ratsbane and nightshade in my mouth ! nay, we'll not go back to stratford town; but we shall ride a piece with thee, nicholas, we shall ride a piece with thee.” chuckling again to himself, he fell to upon the pasty and said no more. nick held his peace, as he was taught to do unless first spoken to; but he could not help thinking that stage-players, and master-players in particular, were very queer folk. chapter xi. disowned. night came down on stratford town that last sweet april day, and the pastured kine came lowing home. supper-time passed, and the cool stars came twinkling out; but still nick attwood did not come. “he hath stayed to sleep with robin, mas- .] master skylark. ii ſ º % | “some fine lad es came and kissed him, to his great confusion.” ter burgess getley's son,” said mistress att- “he should ha’ telled thee on it, then,” said wood, standing in the door, and staring out simon attwood. “this be no way to do. into the dusk; “he is often lonely here.” i've a mind to put him to a trade.” i [jan. master skylark. “nay, simon,” protested his wife; “he may be careless —he is young yet—but nicholas is a good lad. let him have his schooling out—he 'll be the better for it.” “‘how now, sirrah ! dost think i cannot pay the score?’” “then let him show it as he goes along,” said attwood, grimly, as he blew the candle out. but may-day dawned; mid-morning came, mid-afternoon, then supper-time again; and supper-time crept into dusk—and still no nich- olas attwood. his mother grew uneasy; but his father only growled: “we'll reckon up when he cometh home. master brunswood tells me he was na at the school the whole day yesterday—and he be feared to show his face. i'll fear him with a bit of birch ” - “do na be too hard with the lad, simon,” pleaded mistress attwood. “who knows what hath happened to him p. he must be hurt, or he 'd 'a' come home to his mother”— and she began to wring her hands. “he may ha' fallen from a tree, and lieth º * all alone out on the hill — or, simon, the avon | thou dost na think our lad be drowned p’’ “fudge!” said si- mon attwood. “born to hang 'll never drown . " when, however, the next day crept around and still his son did not come home, a doubt stole into the tanner's own heart. yet when his wife was for starting out to seek some tidings of the boy, he stopped her wrathfully. “nay, margaret,” said he ; “thou shalt na go traipsing around the town like a hen wi' but one chick. i wull na ha’ thee made a laughing-stock by all the fools in stratford.” but as the third day rolled around, about the middle of the after- noon the tanner himself sneaked out at the back door of his tannery in southam's lane, and went up into the town. “robin getley,” he asked at the guild- school door, “was my son wi' thee overnight?” “nay, master attwood. has he not come back p’’ “come back p. from where p" robin hung his head. “from where?” demanded the “come, boy!” “from coventry,” said robin, knowing that the truth would out at last, anyway. “he went to see the players, sir,” spoke tanner. .] i master skylark. up hal saddler briskly, not heeding robin's stealthy kick. “he said he'd bide wi' diccon haggard overnight; an' he said he wished he were a master-player himself, sir, too.” simon attwood, frowning blackly, hurried on. it was nick, then, whom he had seen crossing the market-square. wat raven, who swept clopton bridge, had seen two boys go up the warwick road. “one were thy nick, muster attwood,” said he, thumping the dirt from his broom across the coping-stone; “and the other were dawson's hodge.” the angry tanner turned again into the mar- ket-place. his brows were knit, and his eyes were hot, yet his step was heavy and slow. above all things, he hated disobedience, yet in his surly way he loved his only son; and far worse than disobedience, he hated that his son should disobey. astride a beam . . - in front of master thompson's house sat roger dawson. simon attwood took him by the collar none too gently. “here, leave be!” choked roger, wrig- gling hard; but the tanner's grip was like iron. “wert thou in coventry may- day?” he asked sternly. “nay, that i was na,” sputtered hodge. “a plague on coventry!” “do na lie to me — thou wert there wi' my son nicholas.” “i was na,” snarled hodge, angered by the accusation. “nick attwood threshed me in the warrick road; an' i be no dawg to follow at the heels o' folks as threshes me.” “where be he, then p” demanded attwood, with a sudden sinking at heart in spite of his wrath. “how should i know? a went away wi' a play-actoring fellow in a plum-colored cloak; and play-actoring fellow said a loved him like a's own, and patted a's back, and flung me hard names, like stones at a lost dawg. now le" me go, muster attwood — cross my heart, "t is all i know !” “is 't nicholas ye seek, master attwood p” asked tom carpenter, turning from his fleurs- de-lis. “why, sir, he 's gone got famous, sir. i was in coventry mysel’ may-day; and—why, sir, nick was all the talk! he sang there at “‘one were thy nick, muster artwood," said h.e.” the blue boar inn-yard with the lord high admiral's players, and took a part in the play; and, sir, ye 'd scarce believe me, but the peo- ple went just daft to hear him sing, sir.” simon attwood heard no more. he walked i master skylark. [jan. down high street in a daze. with hard men bitter blows strike doubly deep. he stopped before the guildhall school. the clock struck five; each iron clang seemed beating upon his heart. he raised his hand as if to shut the clangor out, and then his face grew stern and hard. “he hath gone his own wilful way,” said he bitterly. “let him follow it to the end.” mistress attwood came to meet him, running in the garden-path. “nicholas?” was all that she could say. “never speak to me of him again,” he said, and passed her by into the house. “he hath gone away with a pack of stage-playing rascals and vagabonds, whither no man knoweth.” taking the heavy bible down from the shelf, he lit a rushlight at the fire, although it was still broad daylight, and sat there with the great book open in his lap until the sun went down and the chill night wind crept in along the floor, yet he could not read a single word and never turned a page. ( 'o be continued.) “run down to the store, susie dear, and get me two dozen clothes-pins, please,” said mrs. wynn, one morn- ing. “go just as quickly as you can. i am in a great hurry.” susie put down her doll, and rose rather unwillingly. “oh, dear!” she said to herself. “i wish i did n't have to go! it's so far, and dorothea needs her new dress this very afternoon!” but just then she caught sight of lou ar- nold going by. lou lived near the store. susie seized her hat, and rushed out of the door. “lou, w-a-i-t!” she screamed; and in a few moments the two little girls were hurrying along together, chattering like a pair of magpies. the way did n't seem at all long; but when susie had bidden lou good-by and stepped into the store, and mr. carr inquired what she wanted, she did n't know. “it was some sort of pins,” she said; “but i don't think it was just the common kind. they had a first name, i’m sure.” “hair-pins p” suggested mr. carr. “oh, yes; i guess it was. no ; i don't b'lieve it was hair-pins, either.” - — pins. * by c. a. parker. “clothes-pins?” was mr. carr's next inquiry. “let me see. maybe that was what mama said. i don't quite think it was, though.” “can't you remember whether she said a box, or a paper, or so many dozen p” he asked. “no ; i can't remember anything but just pins,” she replied, mournfully. “well, then, i 'm afraid you will have to go home and find out what is wanted, won't you?” said mr. carr. “i spose so,” sighed the little girl; “but mama is in a norful hurry. i think prob'ly she'll scold. she says i’m dre'ful careless.” mr. carr thought a minute. he and susie were great friends, and he did n't wish her to be scolded — even if she was rather careless. he was sorry to have mrs. wynn annoyed by the delay, too; so, as susie started dejectedly for the door, he called her back. “wait,” he said; “we’ll try to manage this affair.” he put some clothes-pins into a bag, then he took a paper of common pins, and one of safety-pins, two hat-pins, and a box of hair- pins, and wrapped them up. .] — pins. i then he wrote a little note, which ran: my dear mrs. wynn: susie says you are “in a nor- ful hurry” for some kind of pins, but she has forgotten just what kind; so, to save time, i send you a variety to choose from, hoping the right sort may be among them. i do not have ten-pins or linch-pins, and will not send a breast-pin or rolling-pin, as susie is sure of just one thing, and that is that you said “pins.” yours very respectfully, j. f. carr. “and here, miss,” he said, severely, “take this to help your memory”; and he handed her a stick of candy. susie's face beamed with joy and she thanked him heartily as she ran off with her parcels. “what in the world — ” exclaimed mrs. wynn when she unrolled the paper. “here's a letter that tells about it,” said susie hastily, handing her mother the note. mrs. wynn laughed as she read it, at which the little girl looked greatly –fs relieved. - “i’ll remember next time, mama,” she said, nodding her head wisely; “truly i will.” cousin anita's surprise. by eleanor root. dona sofia laura micaela silva de peralta de la cordoba de sanchez # ybarra de escobeda had never seen any snow before. in the sunny land where she was born, the roses bloomed their sweetest in mid- winter, and the nearest approach to a snow- bank had been the hedge of great, white callas in the back-yard. therefore when she saw myriads of downy flakes fluttering from the sky in the new, strange land which she now called home, her wonder and delight knew no bounds. “oh, mama,” she cried, running to the win- dow, “i want to get some!” but her mama only shook her head, and said it was too cold to go outdoors. the little girl stood contentedly a long, long time watching the fairy, winged things. she did not notice when her mama left the room; but, at last, turning to speak to her, found her- self alone. presently a thought struck her. yes, she would do it! she glanced around. there was no one in sight. seizing her pail, which she had so often filled with sand on the shores of the far-away pacific, she opened the door and ran out. scurrying across the yard to where a drift gleamed white and cold in the morning sun, she scooped up a bucketful of the shining crystals and hurried back into the house. the journey was repeated again and again. her dolls had all been dressed and redressed, and the box of pretty bits of ribbons and laces, which grandma had given her for the numerous family, had been looked over again and again, but still she was not happy. her throat felt queer, and her heart, too, when she thought of how she had disobeyed her mama—her good, kind mama oh, why had she not waited p after dinner, she crept softly upstairs. her mama stood in the south room, motionless, her looks betokening the utmost amazement. on the pretty, light carpet, all around, were stains as of a recent flood; and from some limp, dejected-looking pasteboard boxes on the dresser drops of grayish water were oozing. the little girl stood breathless for a moment; then she ran across the room to a trunk which stood in the corner. it was empty. “mama, mama ' " she cried in dismay, the tears starting to her eyes as she gazed from the empty trunk to the scene of desolation about her. “it was to be a lovely birthday surprise for cousin anita — and now it 's all gone!” and little doña sofia laura micaela silva de peralta de la cordoba de sanchez é ybarra de escobeda sobbed afresh. a boy i knew. by laurence hutton. [begun in the december number.] ii. the boy's earliest attempts at versification were found, the other day, in an old desk, and at the end of almost half a century. the copy is in his own boyish, ill-spelled print; and it bears no date. the present owner, his aunt henrietta, well remembers the circumstances and the occasion, however, having been an active agent in the acts the poem describes, although she avers that she had no hand in its composition the original, it seems, was tran- scribed by the boy upon the cover of a soap- box, which served as a headstone to one of the graves in his pets burying-ground, situated in the back-yard of the hudson street house, from which he was taken before he was nine years of age. the monument stood against the fence, and this is the legend it bore — rhyme, rhythm, meter, and orthography being carefully preserved: three little kitens of our old cat were berrid this day in this grassplat. they came to there deth in an old water pale, and after loosing their breth they were pulled out by the tale. these three little kitins have returned to their maker, and were put in the grave by the boy, undertaker. at about this period the boy officiated at the funeral of another cat, but in a somewhat more exalted capacity. it was the cranes' cat, at red hook, a maltese who always had yellow kittens. the boy does not remember the cause of the cat's death, but he thinks that uncle an- drew knox ran over her, with the “dyspepsia- wagon,”—so called because it had no springs. anyway, the cat died, and had to be buried. the grave was dug in the garden of the tavern, near the swinging-gate to the stable, and the whole family attended the services. jane purdy, in a deep crape veil, was the chief mourner, the boy's aunts were pall-bearers, in white scarves, the boy was the clergyman, while the kittens—who did not look at all like the mother — were on hand in a funeral basket, with black shoestrings tied around their necks. the ceremony was most impres- sive; the bereaved kittens were loud in their grief; when, suddenly, the village bell tolled for the death of an old gentleman whom every- body loved, and the comedy became a tragedy. the older children were conscience-stricken at the mummery, and they ran, demoralized and shocked, into the house, leaving the boy and the kittens behind them. jane purdy tripped over her veil, and one of the kittens was step- ped on in the crush. but the boy proceeded with the funeral. among the many bumps which are still con- spicuously absent in the boy's phrenological development are the bumps of music and lo- cality. he whistled as soon as he acquired front teeth; and he has been singing “god save the queen" at the st. andrew's society dinners, on november the th, ever since he came of age. but that is as far as his sense of harmony goes. he took music-lessons for three quarters, and then his mother gave it up in despair. the instrument was a piano. the boy could not stretch an octave with his right hand, the little finger of which had been broken by a shinny-stick; and he could not do anything whatever with his left hand. he was constantly dropping his bass-notes, which, he said, were “understood.” and even miss ferguson — most patient of teachers— declared that it was of no use. the piano to the boy has been the most of fensive of instruments ever since. and when a boy i knew. his mother's old piano, graceful in form, and with curved legs that are still greatly admired, lost its tone, and was transform- ed into a sideboard, music - lessons. he felt, for the first time, that music had charms. he had to practise half an hour a day, by a thirty-minute sand-glass that could not be set ahead; and he shed tears enough over “the carnival of venice” to have raised the tide in the grand canal. they blurred the sharps and the flats on the music-books — those tears; they ran the crotchets and the quavers to- gether, and, rolling down his cheeks, they even splashed upon his not very clean little hands. another serious trial to the boy was danc- ing-school. in the first place, he could not turn round without becoming dizzy; in the sec- ond place, he could not learn the steps to turn round with ; and in the third place, when he did dance, he had to dance with a girl! there was not a boy in all charraud's, or in all dod- worth's, who could escort a girl back to her vol. xxiv.- . seat, after the dance was over, in better time, or make his “thank-you” bow with less delay. his only voluntary terpsichorean effort at a party was the march to supper; and the only steps he ever took with anything like success were during the promenade in the lancers. . in “hands-all-round” he invariably started with the wrong hand; and if in the set there were girls big enough to wear long dresses, he never failed to tear such out at the gathers. if anybody fell down, it was always the boy; and if anybody bumped into anybody else, the boy was always the bumper, unless his partner could hold him up and steer him straight. games, at parties, he enjoyed more than dancing, although he did not care very much for “pillows and keys,” until he became cour- ageous enough to kneel before somebody be- sides his maiden aunts. “porter” was less embarrassing, because, when the door was shut, nobody but the little girl who called him out could tell whether he kissed her or not. all this happened a long time ago! the only social function in which the boy took any interest whatever was the making of new year's calls. not that he cared to make new year's calls in them- selves, but because he wanted to make a new year's call. i a boy i knew. [jan. more new year's calls than were made by any other boy. his “list,” based upon last year's list, was commenced about february ; and it contained the names of every per- son whom the boy knew or thought he knew, whether that person knew the boy or not, from mrs. penrice, who boarded opposite the bowling green, to the leggats and the faures, who lived near washington parade ground, the extreme social limit of his city in those days. he usually began by making a for- mal call upon his own mother, who allowed him to taste the pickled oysters as early as ten in the morning; and he invariably wound up by call- ing upon ann hughes in the kitchen, where he met the soap-fat man, who was above his pro- fession, and likewise the sexton of ann hughes's church, who generally came with billy, the bar- ber on the corner of franklin street. there were certain calls the boy always made with his father, during which he did not partake of pickled oysters; but he had pickled oysters everywhere else; and they never seemed to do him any serious harm. the boy, if possible, kept his new overcoat until new year's day — º ºyſºsºvº ready for a new year’s call. and he never left it in the hall when he called ! he always wore new green kid gloves — why green p – fastened at the wrist with a single hook and eye; and he never took off his kid gloves when he called, except on that particu- lar new year's day when his aunt charlotte gave him the bloodstone seal-ring, which, at first, was too big for his little finger,-the only finger on which a seal-ring could be worn,-and had to be made temporarily smaller with a piece of string. when he received, the next new year, new studs and a scarf-pin, all bloodstones, to match the ring, he exhibited no little ingenu- ity of toilet in displaying them both, because studs are hardly visible when one wears a scarf, unless the scarf is kept out of the perpendicular by stuffing one end of it into the sleeve of a jacket, which requires constant attention and a good deal of bodily contortion. when the boy met johnny robertson or joe stuart making calls, they never recognized each other, except when they were calling to- gether, which did not often occur. it was an important rule in their code to appear as stran- gers indoors, although they would wait for each other outside, and compare lists. when they did present themselves collectively in any drawing-room, one boy—usually the boy's cousin lew—was detailed to whisper “t. t." when he considered that the proper limit of the call was reached. “t. t.” stood for “time to travel”; and at the signal all conversation was abruptly interrupted, and the party trooped out in single file. the idea was not original with the boys. it was borrowed from the hook and ladder company, which made all its calls in a body, and in two of kipp and brown's stages, hired for the entire day. the boys always walked. - the very first time the boy went out alone he got lost! told not to go off the block, he walked as far as the corner of leonard street, put his arm around the lamp-post, swung him- self in a circle, had his head turned the wrong way, and marched off, at a right angle, along the side street, with no home visible anywhere, and not a familiar sign in sight. a ship at sea without a rudder, a solitary wanderer in the great american desert without a compass, could not have been more utterly astray. the boy was so demoralized that he forgot his name and address; and when a kindly policeman picked him up, and carried him over the way to the leonard street station-house for iden- tification, he felt as if the end of everything had .] a boy i knew. i come. it was bad enough to be arrested, but how was he to satisfy his own conscience, and explain matters to his mother, when it was dis- covered that he had broken his solemn promise, and crossed the street! he had no pocket-hand- kerchief; and he remembers that he spoiled the long silk streamers of his glengarry bonnet by wiping his eyes upon them. he was recog- nized by his forty-second-plaid gingham frock, a familiar object in the neighborhood, and he was carried back to his parents, who had not had time to miss him, and who, consequently, were not distracted. he lost nothing by the adventure but himself, his self-respect, a pint of tears — and one shoe. - he was afterwards lost in greenwich street, having gone there on the step of an ice-cart; and once he was conveyed as far as the hud- son river railroad depot, at chambers street, on his sled, which he had hitched to the milk- man's wagon, and could not untie. this was very serious indeed, for the boy realized that he had not only lost himself, but his sleigh too. aunt henrietta found the boy sitting discon- solately in front of wall's bake-shop; but the sleigh did not turn up for several days. it was finally discovered, badly scratched, in the pos- session of “the head of the rovers.” “the hounds" and “the rovers ” were rival bands of boys, not in the boy's set, who for many years made outdoor life miserable to the boy and his friends. they threw stones and mud at each other, and at everybody else; and the boy was not infrequently blamed for the windows they broke. they punched all the little boys who were better dressed than they were, and they were depraved enough and mean enough to tell the driver every time the boy or johnny robertson attempted to “cut behind.” there was also a band of unattached guer- rillas who aspired to be, and often pretended to be, either “hounds” or “rovers"—they did not care which. they always hunted in couples, and if they met the boy alone, they asked him to which of the organizations he himself belonged. if he said he was a “ro- ver,” they claimed to be “hounds,” and pounded him. if he declared himself in sym- pathy with the “hounds,” they hoisted the * xx “rovers” colors, and punched him again. if he disclaimed both associations, they punched him anyway, on general principles. “the head of the rovers” was subsequently killed, in front of tom riley's liberty-pole in franklin street, in a firemen's riot, and “the chief of the hounds,” who had a club-foot, became a re- spectable egg-merchant, with a stand in wash- ington market, near the root-beer woman's place of business, on the south side. the boy met two of the gang near the desbrosses street ferry only the other day; but they did not recognize the boy. the only spot where the boy felt really safe from the interference of these clans was in st. john's square, that delightful oasis in the desert of brick and mortar and cobblestones which was known as the fifth ward. it was a pri- vate inclosure, bounded on the north by laight street, on the south by beach street, on the east by varick street, and on the west by hud- son street; and its site is now occupied by the great freight-warehouses of the new york cen- tral and hudson river railroad company. in the “fifties,” and long before, it was a pri- vate park, to which only the property-owners in its immediate neighborhood had access. it possessed fine old trees, winding gravel walks, and meadows of grass. in the center was a fountain, whereupon, in the proper season, the children were allowed to skate on both feet, which was a great improvement over the one- foot gutter-slides outside. the park was sur- rounded by a high iron railing, broken here and there by massive gates, to which the boy had a key. but he always climbed over. it was a point of etiquette, in the boy's set, to climb over on all occasions, whether the gates were unlocked or not. and the boy, many a time, has been known to climb over a gate, although it stood wide open he not infrequently tore his clothes on the sharp spikes by which the gates were surmounted; but that made no difference to the boy — until he went home ! the boy once had a fight in the park, with bill rice, about a certain lignum-vitae peg-top, of which the boy was very fond, and which bill rice kicked into the fountain. the boy got mad, which was wrong and foolish of the boy; and the boy, also, got licked. and the boy o [jan. a boy i knew. never could make his mother understand why he was silly and careless enough to cut his un- der lip by knocking it against bill rice's knuckles. bill subsequently apologized by say- ing that he did not mean to kick the top into the fountain. he merely meant to kick the top. and it was all made up. the boy did not fight much. his nose was too long. it seemed that he could not reach the end of it with his fists when he fought; and that the other fellows could always reach it with theirs, no matter how far out or how st. john's church and park. scientifically his left arm was extended. it was “one, two, three — and recover"— on the boy's nose! the boy was a good runner. his legs were the only part of his anatomy which seemed to him as long as his nose. and his legs saved his nose in many a fierce encounter. the boy first had daily admission to st. john's park after the family moved to hubert street, and the boy was about ten years old; and for half a decade or more it was his happy hunting-ground—when he was not kept in school! it was a particularly pleasant place in the autumn and winter months; for he could then gather “smoking-beans” and horse-chest- nuts; and he could roam at will all over the grounds without any hateful warning to “keep off the grass.” the old gardener, generally a savage de- fender of the place, who had no sense of humor as it was exhibited in boy nature, sometimes let the boys rake the dead leaves into great heaps and make bonfires of them, if the wind happened to be in the right direction. and then what larks! the bonfire was a house on fire, and the great garden- roller, a very heavy affair, was “engine no. ,” with which the boys ran to put the fire out. they all shouted as loudly and as unnecessarily as real firemen did; the fore- man gave his orders through a real trumpet, and one boy had a real fireman's hat with “engine no. " on it. he was chief engineer, but he did not run with the machine: not because he was chief engineer, but because while in active motion he could not keep his hat on. it was his father's hat, and its extraordinary weight was considerably increased by the wads of newspaper packed in the lining to make it fit. the chief engineer held the position for life, on the strength of the hat, which he would not lend to anybody else. the rest of the company were elected, viva voce, every time there was a fire. this enter- tainment came to an end, like everything else, when the gardener chained the roller to the .] i a boy i knew. tool-house, after bob stuart fell under the ma- the boy was put out once by a crack on the chine and was rolled so flat that he had to be ear, which put the boy out very much. carried home on a stretcher made of over- coats tied toge- ther by the sleeves. climbed that is the only re- corded instance in “the boy always over.” which the boys, particularly bob, left the park . and the bells sounded : without climbing over. a “general alarm.” the dent made in the path by bob's body was on exhibition until the next snow-storm. the favorite amusements in the park were shinny, base-ball, one-old-cat, and fires. the columbia base-ball club was organized in or . it had nineteen members, and the boy was secretary and treasurer. the uniform consisted chiefly of a black leather belt with the initials c. b. b. c. in white letters, hand painted, and generally turned the wrong way. the first base was an ailantus tree; the sec- ond base was another ailantus tree; the third base was a buttonball tree; the home base was a marble headstone, brought for that purpose from an old burying-ground not far away; and “over the fence” was a home run. a player was caught out on the second bounce, and he was “out” if hit by a thrown ball as he ran. “the hounds” and “the rovers” chal- lenged “the columbias” repeatedly. but that was looked upon simply as an excuse to get into the park, and the challenges were never accepted. the challengers were forced to content them- selves with running off with the balls which went over the fence: which made home runs through that medium very unpopular and very expensive. in the whole history of “the hounds” and “the rovers” nothing that they pirated was ever returned but the boy's sled. contemporary with the columbia base-ball club was the phrenoskian society, a “mind- cultivating” association, organized by the un- dergraduates of mcelligott's school, in greene street. the boy, as usual, was secretary when he was not treasurer. the object was “de- bates,” but all the debating was done at the business meetings, and no mind ever became sufficiently cultivated to master the intricacies of parliamentary law. the members called it a secret society, and on their jackets they wore, as conspicuously as possible, a badge- pin consisting of a - blue enameled cir- clet containing greek letters in gold. in a very short time the badge the chief engineer of “engine no. .” was all that was left of the society; but to this day the secret of the society has never been disclosed. no one ever knew, or will ever know, what the greek letters stood for— not even the members themselves. (to be continued.) june's garden. by marion hill. [begun ºn the november number.] chapter v. the telling of the secret. the next morning, when all june's manifold duties in the house were over and done, she raced out as usual into the garden. a patch of color on the grass near the allisons' side took her eye, and she went to investigate. a group of magnificent wild poppies lay straggling there, just as if they had been flung from a height. “good gracious! she's done it!” ejaculated june, clasping her hands tragically. “guess again,” said roy, bobbing into sight from behind the fence. “did n't she p” “ no.” “what did she do p” “took them rather ill-temperedly, and —” “and what?” “and said that it was late in the day for me to be troubling myself about anything for her.” “and what did you say to that ?” “after boiling over, inwardly, i put on the voice of a lamb, and said: “you are perfectly right, sarah; i have been a brute, but i am going to try to mend.” then i closed her hand over the flowers, and slipped out of the room.” “oh, you nice boy!” “i rather think so myself,” said roy com- placently, jumping into june's garden. “come right in,” said she, ironically. “thanks; i will.” “but what flowers are these ?” “those i brought for you. want them?” “indeed i do,” she said, vastly pleased, as he gathered them up and handed them to her. “how 's sister leila, sister june " “aeila / oh, zeila / " shrieked june, like a musical calliope. “do you want me?” asked the owner of the name, appearing at the distant door, with the inevitable book in her hand. “come and see what i 've found,” urged june. thus invited, leila came out and joined the group, sitting down on the grass with a hope of being able to go on with her story when direct attention was not required. “what have you found?” asked she. “a brother | a beauty " breathed june, with fervor. that beauty, serenely enjoying the friendli- ness of the two girls, filled his hands with small pebbles, and began to flick them at the aston- ished misfit, who sought for the perpetrator of the outrage in the gentle sky above her. “stop that!” commanded misfit's mistress. “my intentions are very kind. it does not hurt her.” “you can't tell whether it does or not.” june insisted. “besides, it's a brutal instinct. and, anyway, you might pelt her with some- thing soft.” “can't aim straight with a soft missile,” argued roy. “moreover, it 's not a brutal instinct at all. it 's just the sportsman's in- stinct, to see if i can hit what i aim at.” “in that case,” declared june, with decision, “you can aim at something without any feel- ings; and when you must bestow your attention upon misfit, do it with these "—and she stuffed into his hand a number of white daisies. “right you are ' " said roy, accepting the weapons. “i will adopt your advice; but if once in a while i were to waft a daisy at that oak, and hurl a rock at misfit, you must prom- ise to overlook it.” “i will not,” said june, firmly. then they all burst out laughing, and with the sound of the lazy hilarity sarah appeared. she limped down to the fence, and stood lean- ing upon her crutch, looking over at them. “you all seem so happy,” she said fretfully. june's garden. : she wore a wild poppy in her dress, to june's intense delight. - “it 's such a nice morning !” said leila, squirming amiably in the warm sunshine. “i’m coming to the fence to talk to you,” said june, scrambling to her feet. “and i have a secret to tell you.” “let’s go hear,” suggested roy to leila. “let’s do nothing of the kind,” commanded june. “leila, you tell him about mrs. ant- arctic while i tell sarah my secret.” “you are always laughing and bright and active,” murmured sarah, as june approached. “how do you manage to keep so happy? have n't you any troubles?” “lots of them,” exclaimed june; “but i have an idea that unhappiness is very much of a disease, and must be treated like one.” “i don't understand what you mean.” “well, i'll tell you,” beamed june, resting on the fence, and fanning her flushed face with a calla-lily leaf; “every time i am near getting unhappy or in a bad temper (which is what unhappiness generally is), i take a dose of medicine for it — not out of a bottle. now, if i have been working very tiresomely, and feel my angry passions bid fair to rise, i grab a hat, and take a long, long walk by myself, and come back angelic / or, if i have been lazy, and envies and jealousies have crept into my mind and threaten to come out in my speech, why, i get madly to work upon some- thing that tires me so that i become as mild as a lamb.” “but suppose that you could not move about briskly, like me,” faltered sarah. “that brings me to my secret,” cried june, dropping rake and leaf, and leaning both arms upon the fence. “it is not a secret exactly; it is something i have been thinking about you.” “about me?” “it began this way: i kept wondering what you did with your time.” “nothing,” said the lame girl, bitterly. “what is there that one like me can do?” “you never seemed to sew — ” “all our things are bought,” interposed sarah. “we are rich, so far as money goes.” “nor read —” pursued june. “reading makes me unhappier than ever.” “nor play the piano —” “it tires me to sit on the piano-stool.” “and in my fancy i keep seeing you lonely, miserable, unhappy —” sarah bent her head in assent, and tears gath- ered in her eyes. “i could fancy you thinking that your — your — misfortune unfitted you for society, that you were not wanted by others—” “yes, i have thought all this!” said sarah, with her hands before her face. “and i wondered,” said june, reaching across the fence and taking the bent head in her trembling arms—“i wondered if you could not, perhaps, put your lonely sweet thoughts, and your brighter fancies, and your sad dreams, “june sang with a will.” (see page .) into writing, that other people might be made better by them, and more patient. why should you not be a writer? do you ever write things?” [jan. june's garden. fashioned airs. if you don't know the songs to my accompaniments, and i don't know the accompaniments to your songs, what are we to do for our concert p.” - “how about hymns p” asked june. “they are neither old nor new fashioned.” “a very sweet idea! do you know this p” and the old lady began upon “old hundred.” “oh, yes!” said june; and she sang with a will. then “greenland's icy mountains” and “sweet the moments” and “watchman, tell us of the night,” and a score of others, until june felt quite like a prima donna, and grandma bell was flushed pink with the plea- sure of playing for some one, and of hearing a fresh young voice echoing around her shad- owy room. “that has done me a world of good,” said the happy organist. “and me too,” declared june, throwing her- self in a chair and looking radiantly round. “just peep out of the window over your head. stand upon the chest.” june did so, and uttered a cry of delight. she was gazing down, down into her own gar- den, where leila sat reading, looking as little as if june were viewing her through the small end of an opera-glass. “i never saw our roof before,” she an- nounced. “my does n't our house appear tiny compared with the two big ones along- side it! just like a puppy-dog between two elephants. i can hear misfit yowling. wicked little creaturel she is trying to get a dove. but she need n’t deceive herself with the be- lief that she will succeed. i can hardly tear myself away.” she jumped down, blinking. “don’t sit on the chest, dear; it is the one we are going to open, and in which you are going to ‘poke.’” “oh, is n't that lovely . " exclaimed june, snuggling down on the floor in anticipative rapture. when the box was opened a faint odor stole out, like a magic powder, which car- ried the mind back for years and years; not exactly the smell of lavender, but the unfamil- iar ghost of lavender clinging to the meshes of old lace. “peppermint, too,” said june, sniffing. the peppermint proved to be in a black satin bag which hung on the back of grandma bell's rocking-chair, and june got some peppermint drops as a reward for her extraordinary powers of penetration. lying on the top tray of the chest were a pair of baby slippers, a curl of yellow hair, and a tiny tucked dress. grandma bell took them lovingly in her hands. “my baby's,” she murmured. “the little child who died?” was june's tender question. “oh, no; my boy's — mr. rouncewell's,” was the reply. “good gracious !” june called the pom- pous man to memory, and imagined him petri- fied with astonishment if she told him she had seen his baby slippers. “he was learning to walk when he wore these; many 's the time i have held his little hand and guided his unsteady feet. but i did not mind the trouble; i thought that his hand would bear me up, perhaps, when i was feeble and needed help. but it seems as if old people were in everybody's way. we linger when we are not wanted. we outlive love, as we out- live strength; for our children do not remember the time when they, too, were a trouble and helpless, and in the way.” she put back the tiny articles with care, kissing them for the sake of the child that used to be, kissing them in spite of the man that was. june dived among the things, more to hide her feelings of disapproval of the man who was so careful of his flowers, than from any motive of curiosity. but she came upon a treasure. it was a turquoise bracelet in the form of a snake. “oh, how heavenly " cried june, slipping it over her wrist, and getting the effect of differ- ent lights upon it. “it is rather odd you should have happened upon that,” said grandma bell; “for all along i intended it for you. keep it on.” “you don't mean to say you give it to me!” said june. “yes, dear; you may have it for your own.” june burst into a rapture of thanks, and then grew oddly preoccupied. she turned the jew- els over and over, and kept silence. finally she drew off the bracelet and put it back in the " .] june's garden. trunk. then she turned a glowing face to her generous hostess, and explained her action. “please don't feel offended,” she said eagerly, “but really i can't take the lovely thing, and i 'll tell you why.” “why, dear?” “because i want to go into ecstasies over the things i see, and if i think that you may give me some of them, it will take away all the fun. for i would like to be able to say, ‘oh, how i would like to have that!'—feeling all the time that you knew i was n't hinting. do you see p’’ “yes, dear, i see; and it shall be as you wish.” “‘then on we goes again, gaily. “try on this dress,” said grandma bell, taking out a fairy costume of pink crape trimmed with wild roses. the roses were flatter than nature's, but their color was exquisite, and the robe suited june to a charm. “i wore it at a fancy-dress ball. let your * * * quoted june, hair down, dear; that 's it. and here are the flowers to carry in your hands. now go down- stairs and have a look at yourself in the big glass in the parlor.” nothing loath, june sped downstairs, and breathlessly entered the drawing-room. as she danced in, she all but bumped into the portly , frame of the owner of the house. “heaven bless my soul!—what 's this?” he demanded. “i 'm june,” stammered that unfortunate damsel, turning as pink as her finery, and drop- ping her roses. “you look it!” he said, with a merry laugh; and june, swooping up her fallen tributes, sped upstairs like the wind. when she reached the attic room again, her ear was assailed with a startling sound, far off, but piercing. “what 's that ?” she asked, turning pale. the sound came again. it was leila's voice; and she had given two frightened, ter- rible screams. (to be continued.) the jay. by charles a. keeler. the jay is a jovial bird–heigh-ho! he chatters all day in a frolicsome way with the murmuring breezes that blow, heigh-hol hear him noisily call from the red-wood tree tall to his mate in the opposite tree, heigh-hol saying: “how do you do?” as his topknot of blue is raised as polite as can be —heigh-hol oh, impudent jay, with your plumage so gay, and your manners so jaunty and free,_heigh-hol how little you guessed, when you robbed the wren's nest, that any stray fellow would see! heigh-hol by mary shears roberts. w. bertholde. long, long ago, in the barbarous days of the dark ages, there lived in the small italian village bertaguona the ugliest little dwarf you can possibly imagine. his name was bertholde, and he is described as having a large head, round as a football, eye-brows resembling bristles, while his eyes beneath them glowed like two torches. his hair was as red as carrots, his nose was flat. he had a wide mouth, and a short neck—in fact, it would be almost impossible to fancy the hideousness of this small but clever little rustic. his parents had a large family, and very few of this world's goods. there were so many children to be clothed and fed that scarcely any attention was paid to their education. in- deed, in those days learning was so little thought of that it did not count for much, and bertholde's sound judgment, ready wit, and clever speeches amply made up for his rough exterior and lack of culture and refine- ment. next to the priest he was the most popular man in the village. on festival days and sundays the peasants for miles around would flock into bertaguona to listen to the witty sallies, pithy remarks, and entertaining stories of this truly remarkable dwarf. he became such a favorite that when he spoke of going out into the world to seek his fortune, his neighbors offered to contribute to his support in order to keep him amongst them. bertholde, however, did not choose to be a burden upon his friends, and he persisted in his resolve to make a living elsewhere. it took him some time to decide which way to go on this his first journey into the great wide world, so full of strife and adversity. across the lofty alps in the frankish do- minions the wicked and cruel frédégonde and the merovingian kings were committing all kinds of atrocities, and our little friend wisely concluded to turn his steps toward the more peaceful verona, where alboin, king of the lombards, had recently set up his court. some four years previous, this mighty chief with a huge mixed army had swept down from germany into italy, had conquered the latter country and established his kingdom there; and one fine day in the year of our lord , the small traveler found himself before the splendid palace of this first of the lombard kings. ber- tholde stood for a time lost in wonder at the beauty of the building, the like of which he had never seen, and then he resolved to pay a visit to the proprietor of the wonderful mansion. in those days the gates of the palaces were not defended by soldiers and guards. the people came and went as they pleased, and were free to lay their complaints and troubles before the throne. bertholde had always considered and be. - bertholde. lieved that all men were born free and equal; and he never dreamed there was a person on earth with whom he might not converse quite freely. he, therefore, fearlessly approached the royal residence, ascended the broad stairs, trav- ersed several lofty apartments, and astonished the court by suddenly appearing in the great hall where sat the king in all his glory. with- out removing his shabby hat, the dwarf marched up to the throne, and, saying never, a word, took possession of an empty chair by the side of his august sovereign. the courtiers were as much surprised at his audacity as they were amazed at his gro- tesque appearance; but the lombard chieftain smiled grimly upon the intruder, and inquired of him “what he was, when he was born, and in what country?” “i am a man,” re- plied the dwarf, where- upon the attendants went off into fits of laughter. “i was born when i came into the world, and the world itself is my country.” king and courtiers now began to realize that they had a shrewd little imp before them, and they commenced to ply him with ques- tions of all kinds. the asking of conundrums was a sort of trial of wit to which sovereigns were much given at this period of history. “what thing is that which flies the swift- est?” asked one. “thought,” replied bertholde promptly. “what is the gulf that is never filled?” “the avarice of the miser,” was the ready laugh. answer of the quick-witted dwarf. “what trait is the most hateful in young people p” “self-conceit, because it makes them un- teachable.” “how will you catch a hare running?” inquired the king. “i’ll stay till i find her on the spit.” “how would you bring water in a sieve p” “i’d wait till it was frozen,” answered the dwarf, readily. the king was delighted. “for so clever a rejoinder,” he said, “you shall have from me anything you may desire.” “‘ find, as i suspected, answered the dwarf, ‘that sovereign's are honored more than they deserve.’” “oh, no!" cried bertholde, with a mocking “i shall have nothing of the sort. you cannot give me what you do not possess. o bertholde. [jan. i am in search of happiness, of which you have not a particle. so how can you give me any ?” “how !” exclaimed the king. “am i not happy on so elevated a throne p” “yes, you are, if the happiness of a man consists in the height of his seat.” then alboin referred to his kingly power and dignity, and the dwarf retorted with another mocking laugh; and when the king called at- tention to the nobles and courtiers about him, bertholde with a sneer remarked: “oh, yes, they cluster round your throne; so do hungry ants round a crab-apple, and with the same purpose — to devour it.” “well said,” spake the king, keeping his temper;“but all this does not prevent me from shining among them, as the sun among the stars.” “true, but tell me, shining sun, how many eclipses you are obliged to suffer in a year? for the continual flattering of these men must now and then darken your understanding.” “for this reason you would not be a cour- tier?” inquired his majesty, whose fingers began to play upon his sword in a threatening manner. “miserable as i am, i should be sorry to be placed in the rank of slaves,” replied the dwarf. “besides, i have not the necessary qualities to succeed in this fine employment.” “what then do you seek at my court?” asked the king in an angry tone. “something i have not been able to find there,” answered bertholde. “i was told that a king was as much above common men as a tower is above common houses; i find, as i suspected, that sovereigns are honored more than they deserve.” this was a little too much. the king lost his patience, and commanded the dwarf jester to leave the palace immediately or he would have him whipped out of court. just as he was leaving the room, however, two angry women entered, each anxious to lay her grievance before the king. the matter in dispute was a crystal mirror which was claimed by both, but which had been stolen by one from the other. i am sure i do not know whether alboin was a religious king; but it is quite evident he knew the story. of the famous decision of solomon, and meant to profit by it. he immediately ordered the mirror to be broken into bits and to be equally divided between the two. one of the women said, “it is a pity so beautiful a mirror should be destroyed.” indeed, she was so quick to express her opinion that i am inclined to believe she, too, was acquainted with the judgment of the wisest of kings. alboin immediately com- manded the mirror to be delivered to her, and the entire court appeared to be delighted at this wonderful exhibition of wisdom. alboin was so pleased with himself that he forgot his displeasure with bertholde, and looked for ap- proval at the dwarf, who had lingered to witness the result of the quarrel. the ugly little face betrayed no emotion whatever, and alboin was finally forced to ask the small man's opinion. “am i not an ex- ceedingly clever sovereign p" he inquired. “your excellent mightiness can only be said to be an ass,” replied bertholde, preparing to make a hasty retreat. history does not say whether alboin considered this an answer to his query or otherwise, but he had the dwarf recalled, and bertholde repaid him by soon playing a very shrewd and bold trick upon the court, as usual coming out victor. from this time on the king began to take pleasure in the society of his ugly little friend. bertholde showed such sound judgment that alboin was wont to consult him in all grave and important affairs, and the poor misshapen peas- ant became a regular attendant at court, and was usually to be found at the king's side. the queen, rosamond, however, disliked him thoroughly, and was jealous of his influence with her husband, and the women-in-waiting hated the sight of the little monster, as they called him. certain ladies of the court were eager to take a more active part in the government; and, being encouraged by the queen, at length became bold enough to ask that some of them should be made members of the king's council. alboin was annoyed by the request; for, as he explained to bertholde, in seeking the clever little man's advice, the husbands of these am- bitious women were the generals who com- manded his armies. to refuse, without good reason, might even cause a revolution. bertholde devised a plan by which the king escaped from the difficulty. .] i bertholde. he bought a live bird in the market-place, and, in the king's presence, imprisoned the lit- tle captive in a rich casket. this casket, by bertholde's advice, the king delivered into the keeping of the court ladies who wished to be councilors, telling them that it was not to be opened until the next day. “what it contains,” said the king, “is a secret. if it should by any means be let out, you would see that the best interests of the kingdom required me to refuse your request.” the women were greatly impressed by these words; so greatly impressed that they at once began to wonder what the secret could be, and at last their curiosity became so great that the one who had the box in her keeping thought she would just look in for a minute — when, whirl—out came the bird, and away he flew through the window. the next day the fair petitioners did not come to court to press their claim. for they saw that the king had made them show them- selves unable to keep a secret. for this crafty ruse, alboin commanded his treasurer to give the dwarf a thousand crowns. “i hope your majesty will not be displeased if i refuse to accept your gifts,” replied ber- tholde. “he who desires nothing, and has nothing, has nothing to fear. nature made me free, and i wish to remain so; but i cannot if i accept your presents, for the proverb says ‘he who takes, sells himself.’” “how then,” asked the king, “am i to show my gratitude p” “i have heard that it is more glorious to deserve the favors of a prince and to refuse them, than it is to receive without deserving them,” was the answer. “your good will is more agreeable to me than all the gifts in the world.” while alboin and his dwarf were thus talk- ing there came a message from the angry queen, who was determined to be revenged on bertholde for his mocking and too presump- tuous pranks. the unfortunate little peasant had to contrive many artifices to escape the effect of her ill-will, for she too could invent schemes, and had courtiers and soldiers ready to obey her commands. the message was to summon the dwarf to her presence, and she had four large, ferocious dogs placed in the court through which he had to pass. they were fierce beasts, ready to attack any one, but bertholde, finding out what was in store for him, managed to procure a pair of live hares. these he threw to the dogs, and while they pursued the prey the dwarf escaped, and to the queen's surprise appeared before her, with his usual sarcastic smile. she finally appealed to the king, and he, in order to keep the domestic peace and escape her importunities, forgot all his fine promises, and consented to have the poor little man hanged to a tree. the ready wit of the dwarf did not desert him even in this extremity. he besought the king to take care of the bertholde family, and to allow him the choice of the tree on which to die. alboin readily agreed to the request and ordered a guard to accompany the executioner to see that bertholde made his own choice. the trees of every wood for miles around were carefully examined, but our wise little friend ob- jected to all that were proposed. the execu- tioner and the guards became so weary of the fruitless search, that a message for relief was sent to the king. by this time another question of importance had come before the throne, and the envoy found the great chief lamenting the loss of his able little counselor. alboin was so delighted when he heard that bertholde was still alive that he earnestly inquired the place of his re- treat, and went in person to persuade him to return to court. back in triumph came the dwarf amid the shouts of the populace. his brusque humor and good sense had made him popular with the people of verona. he soon became the king's confidential adviser, and fi- nally was raised to the position of prime minister. after the king's death, bertholde lived on to a good old age. when he was seventy years old he made his will, a document full of dry wit and sage max- ims. he had always said he preferred being poor in order that he might live in peace and tranquillity. a few fine speeches constitute his chief bequests to his two heirs, his wife mar- colfa and a son, who was under twenty-five when the celebrated dwarf breathed his last. st. paul’s rocks. by gustav kobbé. almost at the very center of the atlantic ocean—only a trifle north of the equator and about half-way between south america and af- rica—is a submarine mountain, so high that, in spite of the immense depth of the sea, it thrusts its peak seventy feet above the waves. this peak, startling from its position, forms a laby- rinth of islets, the whole not over half a mile in circumference, known as st. paul's rocks. so steep is the mountain of which this lonely resting-place of sea-birds is the summit, that one mile from these rocks a five-hundred fathom line with which soundings were attempted by ross on his voyage to the antarctic failed to touch bottom. were the bed of the sea to be suddenly ele- vated to a level with the dry land, st. paul's rocks would be the cloud-capped peak of a mountain rising in sheer ascent in the midst of a broad plain. they are supposed to have been formed by the same disturbance of nature which separated the cape verde islands from africa. treacherous currents make navigation in the vicinity of these rocks dangerous. a brazilian naval officer, who passed them on an english steamer, tells me that the evening before they expected to sight them he was told by the cap- tain that at five o'clock in the morning they would appear about five miles west. at that hour the officer went on deck and looked to the westward — nothing but an expanse of heaving sea. he chanced to turn, and there, five miles to the eastward were — the rocks. the cur- rents had, in less than twelve hours, carried a full-powered steamer ten miles out of her course. you could count on your fingers the number of human beings who are known to have visited these rocks, but doubtless many a poor cast- away has sought refuge there, only to be swept by the first storm into the pitiless sea. this mountain peak almost at the center of the at- lantic has long been of great interest to scien- tists. darwin landed on the rocks on his voy- age around the world in the “beagle.” he found much amusement in watching the crabs, which were very numerous, dart out from the crevices and steal the small fish which the nod- dies or terns had caught and placed beside their nests. he also says that the sharks and seamen had a struggle over every fish which the latter hooked. ross's party remained long enough on the rocks for mccormick, the surgeon and scientist of the expedition, to make a map and sketch of them. the sea set in among them with a heavy swell, and the rebound of the surf made the waters in the channels fairly seethe. the terns and gannets hovering over the billows were the first evidence the expedition had that they were approaching these lonely islets. then two specks upon the horizon were sighted. gradually one was seen to be dark, the other white, the dark one being the higher. it was found to be about seventy feet high, and the white peak, on which the gannets had their nests, sixty-one feet. scant seaweed was the only vegetation on the rocks. a wisp of this and a feather or two were the few and simple materials of which the birds built their nests. he observed that while there were from two to three eggs to a nest, there was not more than one young bird to a pair, and concluded that the crabs, which acted defiantly even toward him, in spite of his rank in the british navy, destroyed most of the eggs. sir w. symonds, another scientist who visited the rocks, relates that he saw the crabs attack nests and capture young birds. i know of but one man who has been ashore here of recent years. he was an american sea captain who, being becalmed off the rocks, made use of this opportunity to see them. he found the birds, the crabs, and the swarming sharks; and he found also –a human skele- ton, the relic of an ocean tragedy, the fitting companion of this desolate mountain peak ris- ing out of the center of the atlantic ocean. ; by m. l. van worst. over the crust of the hard white snow the little feet of the reindeer go (hush, hush, the winds are low), and the fine little bells are ringing! nothing can reach thee of woe or harm— safe is the shelter of mother's arm (hush, hush, the wind 's a charm), and mother's voice is singing. father is coming—he rides apace; fleet are the steeds with the winds that race (hush, hush, for a little space); the snow to his mantle's clinging. º vol. xxiv.- o. his flying steed with the wind 's abreast— here by the fire are warmth and rest (hush, hush, in your little nest), and mother's voice is singing. over the crust of the snow, hard by, the little feet of the reindeer fly (hush, hush, the wind is high), and the fine little bells are ringing! nothing can reach us of woe or harm — safe is the shelter of father's arm (hush, hush, the wind 's a charm), and mother's voice is singing. buonamico iii. a legend ºf florence f.ſº by edith m. thomas. hen monte morello is capped with snow, and the wind from the north comes whistling down, it is chill to rise with the morning-star, in the “city of flowers”—in flor- ence town. ii. light is the sleep of the old, for they know how brief are their few remaining days; but when hearts are young, sleep lingers long, and too sweet to leave are the dream ways. so, tafi, the master, awoke with the light, but the prentice lad, buonamico, was young, and his dreaming ears were loath to hear the daybreak bell's awakening tongue. - iv. for it seemed to speak with old tafi's voice, “colors to grind, and the shop to be swept!” then, out of his bed, on the bare stone floor, poor buonamico, shivering, crept. v. busy all day with his quick young hands,- busy his thoughts with a project bold. “the master will find,” he said to himself, “'t is not well to work in the dark and the cold !” wi. but the master, unheeding the prentice lad, matched the mosaics fine and quaint; till his tablets of stone revealed the forms of mother and child, of cherub and saint. vii. * buonamico, meanwhile, forsook his tasks, and, prying in crevice of wall or ground, with a patience and skill boys only know, thirty great beetles the truant found. buonamico : a legend of florence. viii. xiv. as many wax tapers, then, he took — “ay, that they are,” said the master, “no thirty small tapers (nor less, nor more), doubt .. " and presto! each beetle, clumsy and slow, said the prentice-boy, “their time is on its broad black back a candle bore. night; ix. and it may be they like not this wondrous next morning, ere dawn, when tafi awoke, work, ere his lips could frame their usual call, which thou risest to do ere peep of light!” a sight he beheld that froze his veins— xv. an impish procession of tapers small ! “well hast thou counseled,” the master re- x. plied, “so young of years—so sage in thy thought; i will rise no more ere the day hath dawned— a work of light should in light be wrought!” slowly they came, and slowly went (and they seemed to pass through a crack 'neath the door): so slowly they moved, he counted them all, - %. thirty they numbered, nor … ºº less, nor more l xi. “surely, some evil these hands have wrought, that the powers of darkness in- vade my cell!” and many an ave the master said, to reverse and undo the un- holy spell. xii. // º ||||||| % % - ! ſº - when daylight was ---------- - - come, buon- amico he told : “a good lad ever ſº thou wert, and indeed, wise for thy years; - and, therefore, º zzº º speak out, º/ º and, as best thou canst, this mys- tery read.” xiii. “may it not be,” buonamico said, “the powers of darkness that good men hate, are vexed with my master, who falters not in faithful service, early and late p” “a sight he beheld that froze his veins— an impish procession of tapers small!” xvi. thus runs the legend, which also saith spite of his pranks buonamico became, when the years were fled, and tafi was gone, a painter who rivaled his master's fame. a-tenderhearte monster. by alice calhoun haines. “now, see here,” said the dragon, “are you going to betray me?” “i — i don't know,” faltered molly, clutch- ing her dolly nervously. “i — i don't think mama 'd like it if she knew you were here.” “that 's just the point,” the dragon an- swered; “of course she would n't. no lady would ; and yet, what harm have i done or what harm do i do? it's the only home i've got.” “but it 's our garden,” molly said; “and we like to walk in it.” “well,” answered the dragon, “i don't mind. you may walk in it all you please, and i 'll never say a word. i 've been here a month already, and nobody's ever guessed it. you would n't know it now, but that i told you; and i would n't have told you only that i hated to see you crying so hard about your doll “‘i 've got a tender heart, grumbled the dragon." a tender-hearted monster. “what an adventure when i could give it back to you just as easy sure. i thought the dragons were all dead, as not.” too.” “yes,” said molly, “it was very good of “i believe they are—all but me. and if it you.” she hugged arabella, her favorite wax beauty, closer to her heart. “oh, bella,” she whispered, you’ve had! tumb- ling into the dried-up well, and spending all this time with a dragon! goodness, child, i don't see how you ever lived through it! but it was good of him to give you back.” “you know,” the dragon continued, “if the prince should find out my hiding- place it would settle things pretty thoroughly had n't been for the old fairy merenthusa i for me. i 've almost forgotten how to fight. should n't be here either. it's a queer story—” anyhow, dragons never do beat the princes; he shook his head sadly. you must know that, if you know anything.” “oh, tell it,” cried molly—she was a little “but there is n't any prince,” said molly. girl who dearly loved to listen to stories. “you don't say!”—the dra- gon raised himself high on his hind legs and peered out at her— “you don't say sol” his head was thrust far out of the well now, and molly drew back in terror. he was a very dread- ful-looking beast; but there was also something quite familiar about his appearance. for a moment this puzzled her; but then she saw it was his likeness to a picture in her new fairy- book that caused the feeling. “don’t be afraid,” he said, when he saw her shrink away; “i won't hurt you. but do you really mean to tell me that there is n't any prince at all?” “why, yes,” molly answered faintly; “they all died long ago. at least, “now, see here,” said the dragon, “i 'll there are n't any in this country, i 'm quite tell you the story, if you will promise not to a needless alarm. “‘we had a private tutor, and that was fun, too.’” a tender–hearted monster. ijan. tell your folks about my being here. come, would n't like to eat you a bit, but it would now — is it a bargain p” be my duty, you know, if you were a princess.” molly considered for a few moments. “would it? how dreadful!” molly's little “i’d love to hear the story,” she said, “but face grew quite white with horror. just think how dreadful it would be if mama or “you need n't think i'd enjoy it,” said the papa were walking alone in the garden, and dragon, “for i never did one bit. i want to you should snap off one of their feet.” whisper to you. it's a terrible thing i have to “i would n't,” the dragon answered; “i say, and i'd rather not speak it aloud.” “‘a sight that would make most dragons leap for joy would just make me cry.’” “there 's nobody near,” molly object- ed; “there is n’t a soul in the garden but just you and me. i — i 'd rather not put my ear down. can't you say it with- out that?” “well, if i must, i must,” grumbled the dragon. “i did not think you were so suspicious; but no- body trusts me. i'm beginning to get used to it; and yet all the time, you know, i've got a tender heart.” he patted his chest with his paw as he spoke. “yes; i 've got a tender heart.” “i’m very glad to hear it,” said molly, cheerfully. “it’s a nice thing to have.” “not for a dra- gon, my dear,” the monster answered ; “you're all off there. on the contrary, it's a drawback, a most terrible drawback!” “why, i don't see that,” molly cried. “my mama says that never eat anybody but just princesses. i say, there is nothing so bad as a hard heart. you you are n't a princess, are you?” can cure other things, you know, but you can't “oh, no!" cried molly, hastily, “indeed, i'm cure that. if you are really hard-hearted you not. i'm just a little girl — molly forster.” have just got to stay so. why, i believe it's “i 'm glad of that,” he assured her; “i the very worst fault there is.” .] a tender-hearted monster. “for a little girl, i'll admit, or for a prin- cess; but not for us. it 's what we all aspire after, and most of us have it. i never did.” he sighed deeply. “that's one of the particular features of my story. shall i tell it to you?” “yes, indeed,” cried molly. “well,” said the dragon, “there were seven of us, and we lived in a cave in the mountains. it was a big cave with lots of cracks and crevices and crannies to play hide-and- seek in, and my!—but we had a good time! our fa- ther died when we were babies, and our mother let us do just whatever we chose. she was the most indulgent parent that dragon ever had; and yet she did n’t have a tender heart. she could eat a princess wit all the gusto in the world; and that is the thing i never did manage. oh! h-m-m! it has embittered my whole life; however, i 'm not up to that yet. “as i said, we had a glorious time up there in our old cave in the mountains. we never went away to school — our mother could n’t part with us — so we had a private tutor, and that was fun, too. my – we led him a life! the jokes we played on that poor old fellow would make you split your sides laughing; but i have n't time to tell about them now. i re- 'member one morning in particular—but never mind; i guess i won't tell you that.” “oh, please do,” cried molly; “i love to near about naughtinesses.” “no,” said the dragon, “i don't think it would be strictly honorable. you see i 'm hºre in your mother's garden, enjoying her hos- p*ality,+her guest you might almost say,+so i must be doubly careful, and tell you only those $ories that she would care for you to hear— itories that have a moral.” “i don't like that kind,” poured molly. well, you ought to,” said the dragon; “tha's all that concerns me. shall i go on ?” m ly thought a moment. “what is the moral of this one?” she asked. '. | | -- “never be tender-hearted,” the dragon an- swered. “it’s the best one i know.” “oh,” cried molly, “why, that's not a moral at all !” “you wait and see if it 's not,” said the - “‘she raised her wand and that is all i can remember.’” dragon, with much confidence. “i think i am the best judge of that.” “go on,” molly whispered. she felt that she was a very naughty little girl, but she had not time to grieve over the matter just then. “well,” said the dragon, “one by one my brothers left the old cave, till at last i alone was left. i had always been delicate, and then, too, i was the baby, so my mother naturally hated to part with me. but when i was about five years old i grew impatient of that quiet life, and determined that it was time for me also to go forth to seek my fortune. “my mother felt very sad when i told her what was in my mind. “my dear child,’ she said, “it is what i have been dreading for a long time, but if you feel that you cannot be happy here any longer, why, of course, i can't keep you. nothing would induce me to make one of my children unhappy for a single mo-- ment.' now was n't she a good . ature?"... - … indegi she was,” said menº - -- o a tender-hear “next morning i started upon my travels. i shall never forget how strange everything seemed to me, secluded as i had always been in my happy home among the rocks. i remem- ber well seeing my first man — my heart leaped within me, for i had never seen anything like ted monster. [jan. poor fellow's face and heard his breath coming in quick, panting gasps, it gave me such a queer, sick sort of feeling that i stopped run- ning and the man got away. “at first i could not imagine what was the cause of my weakness, but the meaning flashed : “‘i was tender-hearted ! i stopped running and the man got away.’” \ him before, and 't was only by hearsay that i knew what he was. of course, the cor- rect thing was to chase him; all my bro- thers had told me that, so i began at once. i never thought that i should mind. my bro- thers all ºnjoyed it, and i expected to also ; -- the horror depicted upon the - d : upon me all of a sudden. i was º, the conviction forced itself upon me and nearl drove me mad.’ she “poor dragon!" said molly; and ther a thought, “oh, what a bad, bad little girlin i to be sorry because he did not eat the m did n’t think i could be so wicked!” the true story of marco polo. by noah brooks. [begun in the june number.] chapter xv. the khan as a hunter. we have already seen that marco had a keen taste for sport, and it is noticeable that he de- scribes the hunting-scenes of the khan with great gusto, as if he had been present at some of these, and had a good time in the field with the imperial sportsman. here is what he has to say about the animals trained to hunt for the great khan: the emperor hath numbers of leopards trained to the chase, and hath also a great many lynxes taught in like manner to catch game, and which afford excellent sport. he hath also several great lions, bigger than those of babylonia, beasts whose skins are colored in the most beautiful way, being striped all along the sides with black, red, and white. these are trained to catch boars and wild cattle, bears, wild asses, stags, and other great or fierce beasts. and 't is a rare sight, i can tell you, to see those lions giving chase to such beasts as i have mentioned when they are to be so employed the lions are taken out in a covered cart, and every lion has a little doggie with him. they are obliged to approach the game against the wind, otherwise the ani- mals would scent the approach of the lion and be off. there are also a great number of eagles, all broken to catch wolves, foxes, deer, and wild-goats, and they do catch them in great numbers. but those especially that are trained to wolf-catching are very large and powerful birds, and no wolf is able to get away from them. this is an accurate description of the man- ner of hunting still in vogue in some parts of india among the native princes. the “lion ” to which marco refers as being trained to hunt is the cheetah, a species of leopard, which is carried to the hunting-field in a box, with its eyes covered by a hood. when loosed in the field, the cheetah will bound off in pursuit of any game that may be in sight; and it seldom fails to bring it down. hawking was a fashion- able diversion in europe during marco's time, as well as in cathay. kublai khan had hawks of various kinds taught to fly at feathered game; and his trained eagles pursued larger game, as wolves and foxes. here is a detailed account of the great khan's hunting expeditions: the emperor hath two barons who are own brothers, one called baian, and the other mingan; and these two are styled chinuchi (or cunichi), which is as much as to say, “the keepers of the mastiff dogs.” each of these brothers hath io, men under his orders; each body of , being dressed alike, the one in red and the other in blue, and whenever they accompany the khan to the chase, they wear this livery, in order to be recognized. out of each body of , there are men who are each in charge of one or more great mas- tiffs, so that the whole number of these is very large. and when the prince goes a-hunting, one of those barons, with his io, men and something like oo dogs, goes towards the right, whilst the other goes to- wards the left with his party in like manner. they move along, all abreast of one another, so that the whole line extends over a full day's journey, and no animal can escape them. truly it is a glorious sight to see the working of the dogs and the huntsmen on such an occa- sion and as the khan rides a-fowling across the plains, you will see these big hounds coming tearing up, one pack after a bear, another pack after a stag, or some other beast, as it may hap, and running the game down now on this side and now on that, so that it is really a most delightful sport and spectacle. the two brothers i have mentioned are bound by the tenure of their office to supply the khan's court from october to the end of march with iooo head of game daily, whether of beasts or birds, and not counting quails; and also with fish to the best of their ability, al- lowing fish enough for three persons to reckon as equal to one head of game. now i have told you of the masters of the hounds and all about them, and next will i tell you how the khan goes off on an expedition for the space of three months. after he has stopped at his capital city those three months that i mentioned, to wit, december, january, february, he starts off on the st day of march, and travels southward toward the ocean sea, a journey of two days. he takes with him full loooo falconers, and some oo gerfalcons, besidesperegrines, sakers,and otherhawks in great numbers; and goshawks also to fly at the water- fowl. but do not suppose that he keeps all these together the true story of marco polo. part of the khan's encampment. it likewise! so it is not without reason i tell you that i do not believe there ever existed in the world, or ever will exist, a man with such sport and enjoyment as he has, or with such rare opportunities. and when he has traveled till he reaches a place called cachar modun, there he finds his tents pitched, with the tents of his sons, and his barons, and those of his ladies and theirs, so that there shall be full io,ooo tents in all, and all fine and rich ones. and i will tell you how his own quarters are disposed. the tent in which he holds his courts is large enough to give cover easily to a thousand souls. it is pitched with its door to the south, and the barons and knights remain in waiting in it, whilst the khan abides in another close to it on the west side. when he wishes to speak with any one he causes the person to be summoned to that other tent. imme- diately behind the great tent there is a fine large cham- ber where the khan sleeps; and there are also many other tents and chambers, but they are not in contact with the great tent as these are. the two audience- tents and the sleeping-chamber are constructed in this way. each of the audience-tents has three poles, which are of spice-wood, and are most artfully covered with lions' skins, striped with black and white and red, so that they do not suffer from any weather. all three apartments are also covered outside with similar skins of striped lions, a substance that lasts for ever. and inside they are all lined with ermine and sable, these two being the finest and most costly furs in existence. for a robe of sable, large enough to line a mantle, is worth bezants of gold, or at least, and this kind of skin is called by the tartars “the king of furs.” the beast itself is about the size of a marten. these two furs of which i speak are applied and inlaid so exquisitely, that it is really something worth seeing. all the tent-ropes are of silk. and, in short, i may say that those tents, to wit the two audience-halls and the sleeping-chamber, are so costly that it is not every king could pay for them. round about these tents are others, also fine ones and beautifully pitched, in which are the emperor's ladies, and the ladies of the other princes and officers. and then there are the tents for the hawks and their keepers, so that altogether the number of tents there on the plain is something wonderful. to see the many people that are thronging to and fro on every side and every day there, you would take the camp for a good big city. for you must reckon the leeches [doctors], and the astrol- ogers, and the falconers, and all the other attendants on so great a company; and add that everybody there has his whole family with him, for such is their custom. the khan remains encamped there until the spring, and all that time he does nothing but go hawking round about among the canebrakes along the lakes and rivers that abound in that region, and across fine plains on which are plenty of cranes and swans, and all sorts of other fowl. the other gentry of the camp also are never done with hunting and hawking, and every day they bring home great store of venison and feathered game of all sorts. indeed, without having witnessed it, you would never believe what quantities of game are taken, and what marvelous sport and diversion they all have whilst they are in camp there. there is another thing i should mention; to wit, that for twenty days’ journey round the spot nobody is al- lowed, be he who he may, to keep hawks or hounds, though anywhere else whosoever list may keep them. and furthermore, throughout all the emperor's territo- ries, nobody, however audacious, dares to hunt any of these four animals, to wit, hare, stag, buck, and roe, from the month of march to the month of october. any- body who should do so would rue it bitterly. but those people are so obedient to the khan's commands, that even if a man were to find one of those animals asleep .] the true story of marco polo. by the roadside he would not touch it for the world! and thus the game multiplies at such a rate that the whole country swarms with it, and the emperor gets as much as he could desire. beyond the term i have men- tioned, however, to wit, that from march to october, ev- erybody may take these animals as he lists. after the emperor has tarried in that place, enjoying his sport as i have related, from march to the middle of may, he moves with all his people, and returns straight to his capital city of cambaluc (which is also the capital of cathay, as you have been told), but all the while con- tinuing to take his diversion in hunting and hawking as he goes along. - in those days hunting with hawks and fal- cons was called a royal sport, although we should consider it rather cruel to chase the birds of the air with fierce birds of prey which are the natural enemies of the game birds. but that was certainly a royal manner of hunting in which kublai khan went to the field. carried in a fine chamber lined with gold and covered with choice skins, and borne by a double team of elephants, kublai khan had only to sit and view the scenery until called by his barons to look out for the game that had been scared up for him. no wonder that marco exclaims in his enthusiasm that he does not believe that any other man in the world has such rare opportunities for sport! but the great emperor had one drawback, which must have reminded him that he was, after all, only a common mortal. with all his magnificence, riches, and opportunities for enjoyment, this gorgeous monarch had the gout ! (to be continued.) santa claus street in jingletown. by sarah j. burke. every night when the lamps are lit, and the stars through the curtain begin to peep — when pussy has grown too tired to play, and has laid herself down on the rug to sleep — when the spoon drops into the empty bowl (for baby has eaten her bread and milk), and bright eyes hide behind drooping lids, fringed with lashes as soft as silk — when i lift my baby and fold her bib, and carry her off to her little crib, she whispers: “before we cuddle down let us take a journey to jingletown.” oh, jingletown is a wonderful town! mother goose lives on its finest square, and little jack horner bought his pie at one of the bakers' shops there. the house that jack built stands near the church where they sounded cock robin's knell, and little bo peep there lost her sheep, when she took them to town to sell. but the funniest thing of all is this — you must stop at the toll-gate and pay a kiss! for the tiniest tear or the slightest frown will keep a child out of jingletown. when we go, i follow my baby's lead, but, oh!, she never wants to rest, and i walk the streets of the queer old town in a never-ending quest. but the street that my darling loves the most is bordered with trees of evergreen, whose branches droop to the ground, and show the twinkling lights between. there the merriest children swarm, and my darling lingers, wrapped up warm in her traveling robe of eider-down — santa claus street, in jingletown the last three soldiers. by william henry shelton. [begun in the november number.] chapter vi. messages of dire disasters. “what a pity,” he cried, “that the boys on the next mountain should be left in ignorance of these victories when we could so easily send them the news without using the cipher — and this the fourth of july, too!” that form of communication, however, was strictly forbidden by the severe rules of the service, and it was the fate of number to remain in the dark, like all the other stations on the line, except the first and tenth and their own, which alone were in charge of commis- sioned officers who held the secret of the cipher. the news of the destruction of the “ala- bama,” which had been the terror of the na- tional merchant-vessels for two years, was of the highest importance, and would cause great rejoicing throughout the north. although the battle with the “kearsarge” had taken place on june th, it must be borne in mind that this period was before the permanent laying of the atlantic cable, and european news was seven and eight days in crossing the ocean by the foreign steamers, and might be three days late before it started for this side, in case of an event which had happened three days before the sailing of the steamer. after several unsuccessful at- tempts, a cable had been laid between europe and america in , three years before the beginning of the great war, and had broken a few weeks after some words of congratulation had passed between queen victoria and presi- dent buchanan. some people even believed that the messages had been invented by the cable company, and that telegraphic communi- cation had never been established at all along the bed of the ocean. at all events, news came by steamer in war-times, and so it happened that these soldiers, who had been three days in the wilderness, heard with great joy, on july , of the sinking of the “alabama,” which happened on the coast of france on june . the garrison flag was raised on a pole over the “a” tent, and the day was given up to en- joyment, which ended in supping on a roast fowl, with such garnishings as their limited larder would furnish. on this occasion lieu- tenant coleman waived his rank so far as to preside at the head of the table — which was a cracker-box — and after the feast they walked together to the station, and sat on the rocks in the moonlight to discuss the military situation. if general grant had met with some rebuffs in his recent operations against petersburg, in virginia, he was steadily closing his iron grasp on that city and richmond; and not one of these intensely patriotic young men for a mo- ment doubted the final outcome. philip and lieutenant coleman had been much depressed by the recent disaster, and the news of the morning greatly raised their spirits. if bromley was less excitable than his companions, the im- pressions he received were more enduring; but, on the other hand, he would be slower to re- cover from a great disappointment. “the reins are in a firm hand at last,” said lieutenant coleman, referring to the control then recently assumed by general grant, “and now everything is bound to go forward. with grant and sheridan at richmond; farragut thundering on the coast; the “alabama” at the bottom of the sea, and uncle billy forc- ing his lines nearer and nearer to atlanta, we are making brave progress. i believe, boys, the end is in sight.” “amen]" said corporal bromley. “hurrah!" cried philip. “you, boys,” continued lieutenant cole- man, “have enlisted for three years, while i have been educated to the profession of arms; the last three soldiers. but if this rebellion is not soon put down i shall be ashamed of my profession, and leave it for some more respectable calling.” so they continued to talk until late into the night, cheered by the good news they had heard, and very hopeful of the future. the following day was foggy, and philip went down the ladder to bring up the potatoes, which he had quite forgotten in the excitement of the day before. bromley, too, paid a visit to the tree where he had thrown in the car- tridges; but the opening where he had cast in the sack was so far from the ground that it would be necessary to use the ax to recover it, and as he could find no drier or safer store- house for the extra ammunition, he was content to leave it there for the present. lieutenant coleman busied himself in writing up the sta- tion journal in a blank-book provided for that purpose. when philip found his potatoes, which had been scattered on the ground where he had been thrown down in the darkness by the mys- terious little animal, he was at first disposed to leave them, for they were so old and shrunken and small that he began to think the troopers had been playing a joke on him. but when he looked again, and saw the small sprouts peeping out of the eyes, a new idea came to him, and he gathered them carefully up in the sack. he bethought himself of the rich earth in the warm hollow of the plateau, where the sun lay all day, and where vegetation was only smothered by the coating of dead leaves; and he saw the delightful possibility of having new potatoes, of his own raising, before they were relieved from duty on the mountain. what better amuse- ment could they find in the long summer days, after the morning messages were exchanged on the station, than to cultivate a small garden p if he had had the seeds of flowers, he might have thrown away the wilted potatoes; but next to the cultivation of flowers came the fruits of the earth, and if his plantation never yielded anything, it would be a pleasure to watch the vines grow. lieutenant coleman readily gave his consent; and, after raking off the carpet of leaves with a forked stick, the soft, rich soil lay exposed to the sun, so deep and mellow that a piece of green wood, flat- tened at the end like a wedge, was sufficient to stir the earth and make it ready for planting. philip cut the potatoes into small pieces, as he had seen the farmers do, and with the help of the others, who became quite interested in the work, the last piece was buried in the ground before sundown. on the following morning the flags an- nounced that, in a cavalry raid around peters- burg, general wilson had destroyed sixty miles of railroad, and that forty days would be re- quired to repair the damage done to the dan- ville and richmond road. during the next three days there was no news worth recording, and the fever of gardening having taken pos- session of philip, he planted some of the corn they had brought up for the chickens, and a row each of the peas and beans from their army rations. the tenth of july was sunday, the first since they had been left alone on the mountain; and lieutenant coleman required his subordinates to clean up about the camp, and at nine o'clock he put on his sword and inspected quarters like any company commander. after this cere- mony, philip read a psalm or two from his prayer-book, and corporal bromley turned over the pages of the blue book, which was the re- vised army regulations of . these two works constituted their limited library. there was a dearth of news in the week that followed, and what little came was depressing to these enthusiastic young men, to whom the temporary inactivity of the army which they had just left was insupportable. on monday morning, however, came the cheering news that general sherman's army was again in motion, and had completed the crossing of the chattahoochee river the even- ing before. - on the th, they learned that general sher- man had established his lines within five miles of atlanta, and that the confederate general johnston had been relieved by general hood. the messages by flag were received every day, when the weather was favorable, between the hours of nine and ten in the morning; and now that the campaign had reopened with such promise of continued activity, the days, and even the nights, dragged, so feverish was the [jan. the last three soldiers. desire of the soldiers to hear more. they wan- dered about the mountain-top and discussed the military situation; but, if anything more than another tended to soothe their nerves, it was the sight of their garden, in which the corn and potatoes were so far advanced that each day seemed to add visibly to their growth. on the morning of the st, they learned that hood had assaulted that flank of the in- trenched line which was commanded by gen- eral hooker, and that in so doing the enemy had been three times gallantly repulsed. the new confederate general was less prudent than the old one, and they chuckled to think of the miles of log breastworks they knew so well, at which he was hurling his troops. general sher- man was their military idol, and they knew how well satisfied he would be with this change in the tactics of the enemy. by this time it had become their habit to re- main near the station while lieutenant cole- man figured out the messages, each of which he read aloud as soon as he comprehended its meaning. - on saturday morning, july , while corpo- ral bromley leaned stolidly on his flagstaff, and philip walked about impatiently, lieutenant coleman jumped up and read from the paper he held in his hand: “hood attacked again yesterday. repulsed with a loss of ooo killed and wounded.” with no thought of the horrible meaning of these formidable figures to the widows and or- phans of the men who had fallen in this gallant charge, philip and bromley cheered and cheered again, while the lieutenant sat down to deci- pher the next message. when he had mas- tered it, the paper fell from his hands. he was speechless for the moment, “what is it?” said philip, turning pale with the certainty of bad news. “general mcpherson is killed,” said lieu- tenant coleman. now, so strangely are the passions of men wrought up in the time of war that these three hot-headed young partizans were quick to shed tears over the death of one man, though the destruction of a great host of their enemies had filled their hearts only with a fierce delight. during the sunday which followed, there was a feeling of gloomy foreboding on the mountain, and under it a fierce desire to hear what should come next. on monday morning, july , the sun rose in a cloudless sky, bathing the trees and all the distant peaks with cheerful light, while at the altitude of the station his almost vertical rays were comfortable to feel in the cool breeze which blew across the plateau. lieutenant coleman glanced frequently at the face of his watch, and the instant the hands stood at nine philip began waving the flag. there was no response from the other mountain for so long a time that corporal bromley came to his relief, and the red flag with a white center continued to beat the air with a rushing and fluttering sound which was painful in the silence and sus- pense of waiting. when at last the little flag appeared on the object-glass of the telescope, it spelled but seven words and then disappeared. philip ut- tered an exclamation of surprise at the brevity of the message, while bromley wiped the per- spiration from his forehead and waited where he stood. in another minute lieutenant coleman had translated the seven words, but even in that brief time, corporal bromley, whose eyes were fixed on his face, detected the deathly pallor which spread over his features. the young officer looked with a hopeless stare at his cor- poral, and without uttering a word extended his hand with the scrap of paper on which he had written the seven words of the message. bromley took it, while philip ran eagerly for- ward and looked tremblingly over his comrade's shoulder. the seven words of the message read: “general sherman was killed yesterday be- fore atlanta.” chapter vii. in which the three soldiers make a. remarkable resolution. lieutenant coleman, although stunned by the news conveyed by the seven words of the message, as soon as he could reopen communi- cation with the other mountain, telegraphed .] the last three soldiers. back to lieutenant swann, in command of the tenth station: “is there no mistake in flagging general sherman's death p. " it was late in the afternoon when the return message came, which read as follows: “none. i have taken the same precaution to telegraph back to the station at chattanooga. “lieut. james swan n, u. s. a.” after this, and the terrible strain of waiting, lieutenant coleman and corporal bromley walked away in different directions on the mountain-top; and poor philip, left alone, sat down on the ground and burst into tears over the death of his favorite general. he saw nothing but gloom and disaster in the future. what would the old army do without its bril- liant leader p and, sure enough, on the following morning came the news that the heretofore victorious army was falling back across the chattahoo- chee; and another despatch confirmed the death of general sherman, who had been rid- ing along his lines with a single orderly when he was shot through the heart by a sharp- shooter of the enemy. every morning after that the three soldiers went up to the station at the appointed hour, expecting only bad news, and, without fail, only bad news came. they learned that the baffled army in and about marietta was being reorganized by general thomas; but the ray of hope was quenched in their hearts a few days later, when the news came that general grant had met with overwhelming disaster be- fore richmond, and, like mcclellan before him, was fighting his way back to his base of sup- plies at city point. one day —it was august —there came a message from the chief signal-office at chatta- nooga directing them to remain at their posts, at all hazards, until further orders; and, close upon this, a report that general grant's army was rapidly concentrating on washington by way of the potomac river. they had no doubt that the swift columns of lee were already in motion overland toward the national capital, and they were not likely to be many days behind the federal army in con- centrating at that point. rumors of foreign vol. xxiv.- . intervention followed quick on the heels of this disheartening news, and on august o came a despatch which, being interpreted, read: “yes- terday, after a forced march of incredible rapid- ity, longstreet's corps crossed the upper poto- mac near the chain bridge, and captured two forts to the north of rock creek church. at daylight on august , after tearing up a sec- burst into tears.” “poor philip, left alone, tion of the baltimore and ohio's tracks, a col- umn of cavalry under fitzhugh lee captured a train-load of the government archives, bound for philadelphia.” thus on the very day when general sherman was bombarding the city of atlanta, and when everything was going well with the national cause elsewhere, these misguided young men were brought to the verge of despair by some mysterious agency which was cunningly falsify- ing the daily despatches. nothing more mel- ancholy can be conceived than the entries made at this time by lieutenant coleman in the sta- tion diary. returning to the entry of july , which was the day following that on which they had re- o [jan. the last three soldiers. ceived information of the death of general sherman, the unhappy officer writes: my men are intensely patriotic, and the despatch came to each of us like a personal blow. its effect on my two men was an interesting study of character. corporal bromley is a harvard man, having executive ability as well as education far above his humble rank, who en- tered the service of his country at the first call to arms without a thought for his personal advantage. he is a man of high courage; and if he has a fault it is a too outspoken intolerance of the failures of his superiors. private welton is of a naturally refined and sensitive na- ture, and at first he seemed wholly cowed and broken in spirit. bromley, on the other hand, as he strode away from the station, showed a countenance livid with rage. after supper, for we take our meals apart, i invited the men to my tent and we sat out in the moonlight to discuss the probable situation. we talked of the over- whelming news until late in the evening, and then sat for a time in silence in the shadow of the chestnut trees looking out at the dazzling whiteness of the mountain top before retiring, each to his individual sorrow. in the entry for august , after comment- ing somewhat bitterly on the report of the de- feat of the army of the potomac, lieutenant coleman says, with reference to the despatch from the chief signal-officer of the same date: the situation at this station is such, owing to our ig- norance of the sentiment of the mountaineers and the hazard of visiting them in uniform, that i find a grave difficulty confronting me, which must be provided for at once. our guide to this point has returned to tennes- see with the cavalry escort, and i have now reason deeply to regret that he was not required to put us in com- munication with some trustworthy union men. the issue of commissary stores is reduced from this date to half rations, and we shall begin at once to eke out our daily portion by such edibles as we can find on the mountain. huckleberries are abundant in the field above the bridge, and the men are already counting on the wild mandrakes. august . nothing cheering to brighten the gloom of continued defeat and disaster. the necessity of pro- curing everything edible within our reach keeps my men busy and affords them something to think of be- sides the disasters to the national armies. welton dis- covered to-day four fresh-laid eggs, smugly hidden in a nest of leaves under a clump of chestnut sprouts inter- woven with dry grasses, three of which he brought in. these entries referring to trivial things are interesting as showing the temper of the men, and how they employed their time at this crit- ical period. on august came a despatch that the army of northern virginia was entering wash- ington without material opposition. lieuten- ant coleman, in a portion of his diary for this date, says: after a prolonged state of anger during which he has commented bitterly on the conduct of affairs at wash- ington, corporal bromley has settled into a morose and irritable mood, in which no additional disaster disturbs him in the slightest degree. with his fine perceptions and well-trained mind, the natural result of a liberal edu- cation, i have found him heretofore a most interesting companion in hours off duty. my situation is made doubly intolerable by his present condition. at . a.m. of august , , came the last despatches that were received by the three soldiers on whiteside mountain. hold on for immediate relief. peace declared. con- federate states are to retain washington. the effect of this last message upon the young men who received it is fully set forth in the diary of the following day, and no later ac- count could afford so vivid a picture of the re- markable events recorded by lieutenant cole- in an : august , . the messages of yesterday were flagged with the usual precision, and we have no reason to doubt their accuracy. indeed, what has happened was expected by us so confidently that the despatches as translated by me were received in silence by my men and without any evidence of excitement or surprise. i myself felt a sense of relief that the inevitable and dis- graceful end had come. # + * + # last evening was a memorable occasion to the three men on this mountain. we are no longer separated by any difference in rank, having mutually agreed to waive all such conditions. in presence of such agreement, i, frederick henry coleman, second lieutenant in the th regiment of cavalry of the military forces of the united states (formerly so called), have this day, august , , written my resignation and sealed and ad- dressed it to the adjutant-general, wherever he may be. i am fully aware that, until the document is forwarded to its destination, only some power outside myself can terminate my official connection with the army, and that my personal act operates only to divest me of rank in the estimation of my companions in exile. after our supper last night we walked across the field in front of our quarters and around to the point where the northern end of the plateau joins the rocky face of the mountain. the sun had already set behind the op- posite ridge, and the gathering shadows among the rocks and under the trees added a further color of melancholy to our gloomy and foreboding thoughts. .] i the last three soldiers. i am forced to admit that i have not been the domi- nant spirit in the resolution at which we have arrived. george bromley had several times asserted that he would never return to a disgraced and divided country. at the time i had regarded his words as only the irre- sponsible expression of excitement and passion. as we stood together on the hill last night, bromley reverted to this subject, speaking with unusual calmness and deliberation. “for my part,” said he, pausing to give force to his decision, “i never desire to set foot in the united states again. i suppose i am as well equipped for the life of a hermit as any other man; and i am sure that my temper is not favorable to meeting my countrymen, who are my countrymen no longer, and facing the hu- miliation and disgrace of this defeat. i have no near relatives and no personal attachments to compensate for what i regard as the sacrifice of a return and a tacit ac- ceptance of the new order of things. i came into the army fresh from a college course which marked the close of my youth; and shall i return in disgrace, without a profession or ambition to begin a new career in the sha- dow of this overwhelming disaster i bind no one to my resolution,” he continued, in clear, cold tones; “all i ask is that you leave me the old flag, and i will set up a country of my own on this mountain-top, whose natural defenses will enable me to keep away all disturbers of my isolation.” i was deeply impressed with his words, and the more so because of the absence of all passion in his manner. i had respected him for his attainments; i now felt that i loved the man for his unselfish, consuming love of country. strange to say, i, too, was without ties of kin- dred. my best friends in the old army had fallen in battle for the cause that was lost. on the night when we sat together exulting over the double victory of the capture of kenesaw mountain and the sinking of the “alabama,” i had expressed a determination to renounce my chosen profession in a certain event. that event had taken place. under the magnetic influence of brom- ley, what had only been a threat before became a bitter impulse and then a fierce resolve. taking his hand, and looking steadily into his calm eyes, i said: “i am an officer of the united states army, but i will promise you this; until i am ordered to do so, i will never leave this place.” philip welton had been a silent listener to this strange conversation. his more sentimental nature was melted to tears, and in a few words he signified his resolution to join his fate with ours. we walked back across the mountain-top in the white light of the full moon, silently as we had come. after the resolve we had made, i began already to experience a sense of relief from the shame i felt at the failure of our numerous armies. the old government had fallen from its proud position among the nations of the earth. the flag we loved had been trampled under foot and de- spoiled of its stars—of how many we knew not. our path lay through the plantation of young corn whose broad glistening leaves brushed our faces and filled the air with the sweet fragrance of the juicy stalks. the planting seemed to have been an inspiration which alone would make it possible for us to survive the first winter. (to be continued.) st. nicholas day in holland. by annie. c. kuiper. have you ever been in holland i don't mean to ask whether you have passed through it on your way to germany or switzerland; but have you really seen the country and its peculiar beauties? if you have, you must have admired the pretty walks along the canals in amsterdam, and the fine old houses and high bridges in the ancient part of the town, the beautiful scenery of the hague and scheve- ningue, the splendid picture-galleries, the lovely woods near arnheim and the surrounding vil- lages, the green meadows with their famous cattle in the northern part of the country, and —ever so many things more, which you should some day visit if you have not yet seen them. holland naturally looks its prettiest in spring and in summer, though it is a fine sight to see the skating on the canals and on the ponds in the parks upon a bright winter day. but not all days in winter are bright in holland. we have no london fogs; but we, as well as the in- habitants of the english metropolis, have our share of rain and mud. if you could see am- sterdam during the dark days of november and december, you would not be much charmed with it, i fear. and yet there are days in those months when, notwithstanding the bad temper of the weather and the muddy slipperiness of the streets, all the large and small towns in hol- land, and the villages and hamlets as well, wear a look of importance, of something unusual go- ing on, and something well worth seeing. this is on the days preceding december , and on that day itself, when old and young remember and praise st. nicholas, the dear old saint of long ago. there is a pleasant, bright, festive look about the shops, a gay bustle among the customers, a cheerful good-nature shown by people meeting on the streets, which reminds one of the famous description of an english christmas in dickens's “christmas carol.” the city of amsterdam claims st. nicholas as its patron saint, and during the first week of december confectioners' shops throughout the city display one special delicacy called “st. nicholas cake,” of which large quantities are sold at this season. “men " and “women” made of this crisp, brown cake, or gingerbread, can be bought in different sizes and at all prices. these sweet creatures are often called “sweet- hearts” (“vrijers” we say in dutch), and the girls receive a “man,” the boys a “woman.” i remember quite well what fun it used to be to hear the servant come in with: “if you please, ma'am, here is miss annie's sweetheart”—and see her hand a gingerbread man to my mother. most of the confectioners—indeed, nearly all shopkeepers—give up one of their private rooms for the purpose of showing off their christmas wares to the best advantage. at the confectioners' happy children gaze upon little candy tables, chairs, mice, cats, dogs, funny little clowns and babies, dolls' houses, whistles, fishes, cigars, - the whole al- phabet in pretty letters; in fact, everything, in sugar and chocolate. i have often seen little children, allowed to choose one or two of these precious dainties, take in all the splen- dor of a confectioner's shop with glistening eyes, and stand hesitating, hesitating, unable to decide what they would like to possess most. naturally proud is the happy confectioner of his lovely “hearts,” the large pieces of deli- cious marchpane which his energy molds into heart shape. a very frequent joke is the send- ing of such a heart to an intimate friend. it sometimes means something, but as a rule is nothing but a joke. of course most girls like having such an innocent heart sent to them; and it is funny to see the mysterious look with which one tells another: “i had a large heart sent to me last night. i cannot possibly think who sent it!” holland. [jan. st. nicholas day in one kind of gingerbread is very popular at the feast of st. nicholas. from its toughness it is called “tough-tough” (dutch, taai-ſaai). one needs very good, sound teeth to eat this hard, brown delicacy, which, however, becomes st. nicholas in the window. mellow with age if patiently kept for some time in a tin box. it is a treat to go through the streets of am- sterdam in this first week of december, and to walk leisurely past the shops, which all look their best and brightest, often in pleasant contrast to the gloomy and dirty weather. the jewelers' shops, with their splendid show of glistening rings and necklaces, diamonds of all sizes, brooches and bracelets, little knick- knacks and costly trifles, attract a great deal of attention. so do the fruit-shops, with their red-cheeked apples and fine hothouse grapes and pears; the flower-shops, with their delicate ferns and roses, looking the prettier because of their rarity at this time of the year; the fancy-shops, with their beautiful vases and brackets, tiny lamps, blue-and-white jugs, and tiles, which are the delight of all foreigners; and the toy-shops, which seem to rival each other in an endless variety of dolls and dolls' houses, rocking-horses, whips, balls, tram-cars, and carriages. some of the linen-drapers' shops have a grand representation of st. nicholas in the window. he is mounted on a fiery horse, wears his miter and bright red robe, and has a kind face with a long, white beard, and his black servant jan (john) stands be- hind him. one can always see groups of little ones admiring the figures. many of the other shops are made specially attractive by the so-called “surprises” in the windows. some- times they consist of artificial apples made of soap, with a myste- - rious opening some- where, in which the present has to be concealed. we also see beautifully imi- tated pieces of meat, loaves, old hats, funny little chinese figures, grim chimney-sweeps, big carrots, and so on. but the nicest and most intricate sur- prises are those made by the giver himself or herself. of these more hereafter. the greatest fun, after all, goes on in the houses, not outside. in some families with many little children the night preceding de- cember shows a worthy preparation of the famous things which are to follow. santa claus (or sint-nicolaas, also sinterklaas, as he is called in holland) mounts his fiery steed and rides over the roofs of the houses. he often puts his hand into his capacious pocket, and out comes an abundance of sweets, which he throws through the chimneys into the rooms where the glad children, who have been sing- ing the saint's praises ever since dinner-time, .] holland. st. nicholas day in rush at the rain of goodies and gather as much as they possibly can. sometimes a brave little mite of four or five years goes as near as possible to the chimney, and cries out in a loud, clear voice: “dankje wel, sinterklaas " " (“thank you very much, santa claus !”) the next evening the same brave child may have to recite a piece of poetry when st. nicholas stands before her in all his glory of miter, white beard, and red robe trimmed with gold and soft white fur. his black servant stands grinning behind, and the little child feels so much awed by the presence of the two visitors that the poem is recited in an extremely low voice. needless to say that there is always an uncle or a friend of the fam- ily willing to represent st. nicholas. the saint himself hands round the presents, which his black servant has been carrying in a large bag, and afterward disappears—not up the chimney, but, like an ordinary mortal, through the door. in some houses the little children who go to bed early put out their shoes and stockings and find them crammed with presents in the morn- ing. others have to play a game of hide-and- seek for their presents, which the father and mother have hidden in the most mysterious manner and in out-of-the-way places. in a great many families, however, december is celebrated by sending and receiving parcels in the evening of that day. “parcels” must be taken here in a very broad sense. the ser- vant who has to answer the bell is obliged to bring in whatever is put into her hands or before her, and consequently is often heard to giggle behind the door of the room in which the whole family is assembled. then in walks—nay, is put—a most extraordinary-looking gentle- man or old lady, or a queer animal, consisting chiefly of wood or of linen filled with sawdust, in which the present, sometimes one of very small dimensions, lies concealed. funny little rhymes often accompany the parcels; and gen- erally much good-natured teasing is contained in the poetical lines. the patience of some people is often sorely tried by a parcel consist- ing of a big ball of very fine cotton, which has to be unwound to get at the present. the day after st. nicholas there is such a lot of talking and laughing going on in the school-room, such a buzz, such exclamations of joy and admiration, and, among the girls, such kissing and warm thanksgivings, and so very little inclination for the every-day duties of life, that the teacher's patience may be tried; but he or she also has had a bright st. nicholas eve, and has enjoyed it so thoroughly that for once work and learning get less attention than they deserve, and are neglected for a nice, bright talk which takes up the first half hour of the day. - -->. |} --> o ar | # * fººls | |-> º . ==} -- º º ** ºlº =º e º *a. º |-l. ޺ -- ~~~~ ºr ºr º an ol-d-time christmas dinner. it 's a serious thing to walk abroad dressed up in finest style; about our work within the house we 're merry all the while. report upon the prize puzzle “fifty charades.” the correct and complete list of answers is as follows: answers to the fifty charades. . crabbed (crab, bed). . notice (not, knot; ice). . arcady, or arcadie (ark; a. d. for anno domini). . capsize (caps, eyes; or caps, sighs; or cap, sighs). . eye-glass (i, glass). . mortgage (moore, gage). . pleasure (plea, sure). . mandolin (man, dole, inn, in). . mermaid (myrrh, made). . urchin (ur, chin). . cat-tail, or cat's-tails (cat, tail; or cats, tails). . august (awe, gust). . helpmeet (help, meat). . windfall (wind, fall). . escape (s, cape). . sideboard (sighed, bored). . nosegay (nose, gay). . seaweed, or seaweeds (sea, c, si, weed or weeds). io. crosswise (cross, wise). . snowdrop (snow, drop). ii. kindred (kind, red). . bootjack (boot, jack). . couplet (cup, let). . sealskin (seal, skin). . lamp-post (lamp, post). . corn-cob (corn, cob). . jason (jay, j, jay; sun). . beanstalk (beans, talk). . heathen (heat, hen). . tartan (tar, tan). . maiden (may, den). . failure (fail, your). . sidewalk (side, walk). . hubbard (“hub,” bard). . portent, or portents (pour; tent or tents). . student (stew, dent). . shirt-waist, or shirt-waists (shirt; waistor waists). . ink-well (ink, well). . apron (ape, run). . brownie (brow, knee). . decade (deck, aid). . sparrow (spar, row). . threshold (thresh, old). . lesson (less, son). . spendthrift (spend, thrift). . carmine (car, mine). . cowslip (cow, slip). . firedog, or firedogs (fire; dog or dogs). . motor (moat, mote; or, ore). . snowball (snow, ball). under the conditions, as stated in the october number, the committee of judges in awarding the prizes took into consideration the ages of the senders and the neatness of the manuscripts. out of sixteen hundred answers received fifty-eight were found correct; and among these the standard of excel- lence was so high that it was difficult to decide upon the thirty to whom prizes were due. but after a careful weighing of merits, the committee has awarded the promised prizes as follows: list of prize-winners. (the figures after the names are the ages of the winners. where no figures are given, the age is over .) first prize, ten dollars: may d. bevier. two second prizes, of eight dollars each: marian jackson homans, ; katharine mcdowell rice. five prizes, of six dollars each : etta s. guild; clara l. nasmith; mary f. sanford, ; amelia burr, ; roger w. tuttle. ten prizes, of four dollars each: stoddard s. more, ; john c. more, ; ellen c. goodwin; margaret webb; katharine s. frost, ; mary n. maccracken; sophie s. lanneau, ; j. barton townsend; charles ewan merritt; julia townsend coit. twelve prizes, of two dollars each : abbie s. kingman; clara l. king; anne huene; lilian lehman schindel, ; robert dunlap, ; eleanor spangler kieffer; earle g. heyl, ; ralph w. deacon, ; mar- jorie cole, ; norma rose waterbury, ; elisabeth quincy sewall, ; helen c. mccleary. but there still remained twenty-eight competitors whose answers, though not equal (under the conditions of the competition) to those of these prize-winners, were yet correct in giving the list of fifty words upon which the charades were made. thirteen of these clever solvers are entitled to especial consideration because under eighteen years of age, and the committee has decided to award thirteen extra prizes of one dollar each to these younger contestants, vol. xxiv.- . [jan. report upon the prize puzzle “fifty charades.” and to put upon a brief roll of honor the names of the fifteen successful solvers who were over eighteen. the roll of honor is, therefore, a mark of especial distinction, since all whose names are there presented handed in a correct list of the answers. thirteen extra prizes of one dollar each : r. charlotte moffitt, ; morton atwater, ; elsie mulligan, ; joseph b. eastman, ; stillman dexter, ; george howard white, jr., ; jean richardson, io; elsie goddard, ; evelyn l. swain, ; william h. geisler, ; ben f. carpenter, ; grace wiele, ; harold c. dodge, . roll of honor. zella cronyn, john j. moffitt, mary stephens, harriet i. meakin, sue b. lowrie, grace van glahn, marion fraser crane, lucretia pope, janet emerson, mabelle jacquette hunter, mrs. charles f. lilly, cordelia b. browne, d. g. fisken, almira c. twining, mary evelyn thomas. this competition has been a sort of “st. nicholas family” affair. so many kind and charming letters were received with the solutions, written in a spirit of delightful friendliness, that the editor has decided to allow all of the competitors to share some of these letters. here are quotations from some of the many letters received: “i am over eighteen, twice over, in fact, but i was beginning to wonder even if at that i was old enough to guess those charades. however, i aged a good deal while at work on them, and succeeded in solving forty-nine by last saturday, but number two baffled me until to-day.” “even though i fail to win a prize, i want to thank you for the pleasure that this and the other prize puz- zles have given us. * * * we have been taking st. nicholas for three years, and have enjoyed every num- ber. we all thank you most heartily for many pleasant ºna we hope you may live always to delight young olks. “i must confess to having stayed awake nights over some of the answers to these charades.” “it is very fascinating and tantalizing, the work of solving these charades; and the ones that seem simplest are usually the most baffling.” “the following solutions are sent by one to whom st. nicholas has been for years a very dear friend, bringing often, in hours of pain and weariness, the rest and recreation which other—though dear—book-friends had failed to bring.” “i am confined to my bed with a lame knee, and it is in a plaster cast. mother and i began to work at the charades for my amusement. we were so interested we could not stop. thank you for the pleasure you have given me.” “the prize puzzle in st. nicholas has given much pleasure in our family, and we consider it most ingenious and interesting.” “we have taken you for seven years, but the answer to the prize puzzle, forwarded to-day, is the first time we have attempted any communication but a business one. * * * we have enjoyed the charades so much, and are already rewarded by our pleasure for the effort. your magazine is highly prized, even in this far-off ca- nadian town.” “although it was not ‘so nominated in the bond,' helen desires me to say that she had assistance from mama in finding her answers. it is with deep regret, mingled with disgust, that she finally consents to forego all hope of the first prize, because of number two's cim- merian darkness; and she expects a double measure of disgust when time shall reveal the simple answer. helen does not remember the time when st. nicholas was not her own familiar friend, and she wishes you to know that it was because of her delight in “marjorie and her papa' that her little sister was named marjorie five years ago.” “i want very much to get one of the prizes. i tried so hard to make my answers look nice that the back of my neck aches yet.” “the puzzle has afforded me several dollars' worth of fun, whether my answers merit a prize or not.” “my people have taken “dear st. nicholas' ever since the first number was issued; we have been ‘brought up' on it. the youngest member of our household is now thirteen, but none of our family (and it is a large one) can ever grow too old to read you.” “i candidly confess that i do not expect a prize, but i have been richly repaid by the satisfaction derived from a partial solution of your ingenious brain-twisters.” “when i tell you that i have been your constant and enthusiastic reader since the year , i need hardly add that i am over eighteen. every month for twenty- two years your familiar presence has come to gladden our household. * * * i have read the conditions for former prize puzzles with an unconquerable sense of disappoint- ment that i could not try too, and you can imagine my delight when i discovered that this time there was ‘a chance for young and old.” i am sure there is no one who takes more pleasure in submitting a list of answers than myself.” “for many years i have been your interested reader and devoted admirer. therefore i was much pleased to see your contest thrown open to your grown-up children.” “i am so glad you have allowed older readers to guess your charades. my sister and i began to take your magazine in , so of late years i have been counted out in the competitions.” “you are an old and dear friend of our family, as we have a complete set of bound volumes. i have never tried for any of the prize puzzles before this.” .] “in sending my set of answers to the charades, let me send you my thanks for extending the age limit.” “i have been deeply interested in these charades, and think them wonderfully good.” “i have been a reader, for a .# time, of your good pages, but i have not enjoyed anything more than these capital charades.” “it has been a great pleasure to solve this puzzle, as the charades are so ingeniously written.” “we did not guess quite all of the charades. i could not tell you the age, because all of our family guessed them —my mother, father, grandfather, aunt, and uncle.” “i am sure it must be a pleasure to know so witty and charming a woman as the author of these charades — with the exquisite variety of their verse and their in- genious and accurate, yet puzzling, clues—must be. i humbly offer her my compliments on her achievement.” “i am sorry that i must acknowledge eighteen and over; but two facts, at least, compel me. one is, that in your very earliest years you were my childhood's fre- quent visitor, and several of your first volumes are still treasured in my library, and are often referred to for instruction or amusement. and the second is a small daughter who, though too young to solve puzzles, has for the last three years delighted monthly in the bright and merry pages of st. nicholas. i wish to express the pleasure i have taken, these past few days, in at- tempting to solve these extremely clever charades.” “m– has solved these charades unaided; and she has been a regular reader of st. nicholas ever since she could read. . i consider a course in your magazine quite as essential in my children's education as one in mathematics.” “it seems as if i really ought to thank you for all the fº you have given me during the many years that have read your pages. you seem even more of a com- panion to me now than in my younger days, though you were then the only magazine i cared to read. in es- pecial, i owe you thanks for the many pleasant hours spent over these charades. this is the most enjoyable uzzle i ever encountered; and i have always been very ond of puzzles.” - “i inclose a list of answers to the prize charades, and i wish to add my appreciation of their cleverness. one had only to guess one answer when the fascination im- mediately began to work; and if the demand for extra numbers has been as universal as in this town, i am sure you will think the charades have received the attention they deserve.” “for fifteen years your magazine has been a regular visitor at our home, and next to ‘the girls,” their father has been its most devoted reader. using two evenings, he made satisfactory answers to all but two of the fifty charades. these he carried with him mentally through several days’ journeys, and finally submits them to your gentle criticism, with only a veryºslight qualm on one single point.” “i send you herewith my solutions to the best lot of charades ever published. they are not only good, § are exceedingly clever. * * * i hope you will publis more charades soon, either with or without a prize at- tachment.” report upon the prize puzzle “fifty charades.” “before me, drawn up in long array, are the red backs of st. nicholas, from the first number ever pub- lished. they are by no means in a bright, new condi- tion, though they have been bound and rebound; for they have been constantly used ever since my oldest brother was old enough to enjoy them. how many times we have read the old stories : * * * may there never be a year when a new st. nicholas is not added to our long line !” “i send you herewith my answers to all but two of the charades, which, of course, we think deserve a prize– indeed, if they may be valued by the amount of midnight oil and much wrinkling of brows expended on them, are entitled to all the prizes . however, i shall be satisfied with one, or even with none, if there be as many bet- ter answers as will absorb all the prizes. but please don't give us any more charades, at least not for some time, until we have rested and got back to our nor- mal condition. for these charades have risen up with us and sat down with us for two whole weeks. they have cooled our porridge in the morning and our soup at dinner; and as for lunch, smith’s “ ğ. dictionary’ with ‘worcester’ for sauce, was more than enough. at first the children complained of having charades served up three times a day, and between meals as well; and my amiable better-half has gone about her duties with the same “prize-puzzle expression' as was worn by the rest of us. now, however, that the agony is over, we join in exclaiming, ‘oh, joy!' “but, ºf apart, we º ask you to thank miss caro- lyn wells for her beautiful charades, and for the fun she has afforded us.” “st. nicholas came in my mail when i was ill at a hospital. the charades have made easier for me many hours of pain. i think, although i never tried a charade before, that i could have puzzled them all out if i had had time and strength, but i could look at the book only a few minutes at a time; sometimes i could only have a stanza read to me by one of the nurses, and sometimes i could not even think of them for days. it has been good exercise to sharpen the wits, even if i do leave many blanks. i can hardly wait to see the correct answers.” “your magazine has been familiar to us—a part of our pleasure — nearly all the years of its existence; and i think the younger readers hardly find it more interest- ing, or give it a more cordial welcome, than does one, at least, of the older children.” “in submitting the inclosed list of answers, i would say that the charades have helped me to pass away many tedious and painful hours.” “i inclose the combined effort of our family, even the father at times coming to our relief. the children have been warned that, so far as a prize is concerned, they must be willing to be disappointed. still, they have ha eat pleasure in the work, and we thank you for the pleasure you are always giving us.” “helen sends you the solution of thirty-seven cha- rades; she has done her very best without any assis- tance, excepting her dictionary. * * * she can repeat every charade, without reference to the book, from con- stantly studying them.” “this is the first time i have ever tried to solve cha- rades, and they have nearly driven me distracted. i am over eighteen years old, and perhaps it may interest }. to know that i have been stone-deaf and nearly blind since a little boy, and besides that, i lost all the fingers o report upon the prize puzzle “fifty charades.” of my right hand about eight years ago. yet, as you see, i have learned to write. it was hard work learning, but now, by practice, i can do anything except clim a rope. as you will imagine, it is no small thing for a deaf person to solve such play on words as charades; and º few years of my life in which i could hear were passed among the kaffirs, and fingo tribes in south africa. i have been a delighted reader of st. nicho- las for several years. it is always a welcome guest to me.” one list, prefaced by a brief note saying that the writer was totally blind, was written beautifully, but in pencil. besides the list of answers, she inclosed the fol- lowing original prose charade: “my first is one of the great ruling powers on the earth; my second is used many times in the construction of a house; my whole is often used instead of my first.” the word which forms the answer will be found in this paragraph. two or three competitors sent answers in rhyme; and the winner of the first prize, may d. bevier, not only had every answer correct, but put each answer into the form of a verse that was almost, if not quite, equal in merit to the charade itself. a few of her clever verses are here appended. . pleasure (plea, sure). maid of athens, hear my plea / i have given my heart to thee. thou art tender, true, and pure— let me of thy love be sure. speak thy pleasure, quickly speak! alas! to me 't will all be greek. . kindred (kind, red). columbus sailed before the wind, leaving his kindred all behind; they said that, though the world was wide, he 'd tumble off on the other side: but he was bold to risk mishap, in order to complete the map; and so at last he found his way to land he took to be cathay. he found the natives dressed for bed, kind to be sure, but very red. . motor (moat, mote; or, ore). i trow a bridge may span a moat, e’en though the moat be dry; but i’d suggest, perhaps the mote was in your brother's eye. i grant you or is difficult exactly to explain; but whether ore is hard to mine depends upon the vein. we have the motor now, and soon, i think, gold will be plentiful as lead or zinc. . capsize (caps, eyes). a yacht upon a stormy day, when caps are white on sailor and on sea, is watched by anxious eyes alway, lest she capsize and founder suddenly. . urchin (ur, chin). *t was ur that removed to canaan's fair land; it's the chin you can't see, but can hold in your hand; an urchin 's a radiate, also a boy— a professor's delight, and a fond mother's joy. . seaweeds (sea, c, si, weeds). the sea 's red, yellow, black, blue, white, and gray, restless, or dead; c high or low, they say, and c, or si, is writ to read, or sing, or play. and weeds are various; some are good, some bad. a widow’s weed's demonstrate she is sad. a school-girl, finding seaweeds on the sand, is glad. . corn-cob (corn, cob), hear the legend of mundamin, how he wrestled with my hero— wrestled till his ears were torn off, till his riches golden all were stol'n by rusticus, my hero, who then harnessed up his courser— his stout cob, houyhnhnm, his plow-horse. said he: “faithful friend, come with me; drag mundamin to the miller's : he will grind him fine as powder.” home at evening came my hero, sat beside the kitchen fire, stripped the corn all off the white cob, made himself a corn-cob peace-pipe, smoked his peace-pipe, smoked mundamin. . tartan (tar, tan). a soldier and a sailorman, well met, well matched, and fitly clad: a jolly tar with a coat of tan, and a warlike scot in tartan plaid. . hubbard (hub, bard). boston ’s the hub of the universe, and milton's the bard that 's most sublime; but never a dog was treated worse than mother hubbard's of olden time. . lesson (less, son). though horses be my hobby, dogs my fad, still triumph the emotions of a dad: i love my darling son, not less, but more, e’en though he find his lesson but a bore. the letter-box. we regret to say that an error crept into the prize puzzle, “a boston tea-party.” the question was asked, “who first copyrighted a book under a united states law?” it was believed by the author of the puzzle that noah webster was the first, and a large majority of the puzzle-solvers gave that answer. the records of the librarian of congress prove, how- ever, that a “philadelphia spelling-book” was the first recorded for copyright, by john barry, june , . we are indebted to two friendly and scholarly corre- spondents for calling attention to this error. durran hill house, carlisle. dear st. nicholas: my two sisters and i have taken you for more than a year, and we like you very much. my twin-sister is very fond of drawing, and is always copying your pretty pictures. last christmas holidays we got up some tableaux vivants. we took advertise- ments from the “illustrated london news.” one of them was a soap advertisement; perhaps you know the icture, a little white girl standing on the seashore of. ering a piece of soap to a little colored boy. i was the boy, with my face and neck blackened, and black stock- ings on my arms and legs. my twin-sister was the little girl. there was no mistaking us that time; sometimes people make mistakes between us. wishing you . life and success, your interested reader, dorothy c. butler. kingston, n. y. dear st. nicholas: i have taken you a number of years, and think your magazine very interesting. the “old senate house,” the only house .# standin after the burning of kingston in , stands here |; and is a low stone building. it is filled with relics. one is a little shoe .# to be over years old; it does not look much like the shoes we now wear. it also contains a very old piano (i forget how old), and it looks something like a writing-desk. i tried to play on it, but it sounded like pounding an old tin pan. i am getting a collection of pennies, and have some * old ones. oping you will print this letter, i remain yours, ulu r. bennington, vt. dear st. nicholas; i am a boy of eleven, and i thought the readers of the st. nicholas would be in- terested to hear about the bennington battle monument, which was finished august , . it marks the site of the old store-houses where the green mountain boys who fought at the battle of bennington under general stark kept their supplies and ammunition. the monu- ment is three hundred feet high, and has a large star on top. during the battle there stood an old and historic tavern where general stark stayed the night before the battle. the tavern was called the catamount tavern. it was burned in . they have erected on the site of the old tavern a life-size bronzed catamount on a pol- ished pedestal of granite. we live quite near the monu- ment, and i have been up in it several times. the battle was fought near a little place called white creek, in new york state. the day that the monument was finished there was a lively time. west point cadets and old veteran soldiers came marching up and around the monument. in the carriages which followed the procession i saw ex-presi- dent harrison, who was then president, and also the late ex-governor russell of massachusetts. in the winter we live in troy, n. y., and in the summer here. we have spent our summers here for eight years, and we like it very much. i must now close, and remain your steady reader, barry wellington. lincoln, ill. dear st. nicholas: although many of my friends take you, i believe i have never seen a letter from this place. i am very fond of you, and my ten-year-old bro- ther is also very interested in you. i have a pug dog and a cat who are the best of friends. my pug has a pedigree, but my cat is very humble, as we found her on the doorstep. i am very fond of poetry and music. i composed a study in music, which the music p. at the college here said was very good. i will inclose a little rhyme that i composed when i was eleven: the sad november wind. i. poet. “pray tell thy mournful secret, ºhou drear november wind: why dost thou moan and mutter? what is weighing on thy mind? ii. “why do the trees stand leafless, and quiver in thy power? why does the sun hide from thee, and clouds about thee lower?” iii. wind. “oh, hast thou seen my maiden, the maiden of my heart— fair summer ? she has wandered, and we are far apart. iv. “i 've lost her, my own lady, with blossoms in her hair; of all the fairest maidens, to me she was most fair. v. “she’s a sister to sweet spring-time, and she, also, has fled.” * + + poet. “how could i tell the mournful wind his summer-love was dead?” . a |a . answers to puzzles in the december number. word-square. . ward. . aloe. . rose. . deer. illustrated zigzag. jefferson. . j"; . heart. . cuffs. . ife. . bugle. . sword. . bison. . money. . noose. charade. dodo. primal acrostic. , maryland. . mahogany. . asbestos., . religion. . ypsiloid. . language. . achilles. . nautilus. . delusion. connected squares. i. . slab. . lane. . anna. . ar. ii. i. laws. . atop. . wove. . sped. iii. i. rats. . also. . tsar. . re. . . wars. . aloe. . rose. . sees. v. . east. . alto. . step. . tops. riddle. perch. geographical diagonal. armenia. cross-words: . at- lanta. . orinoco. . sumatra. . genesee. . phoenix. . liberia. . formosa. illustrated final acrostic. stuart. (gilbert.) . cutlass. . locust. . zebu. . umbrella. . guitar. . epaulet. to our puzzlers: answers, to be acknowledged in the magazine, must be received not later than the th of each month, and should be addressed to st. nicholas “riddle-box, answers to all the puzzles in the october numeer b. dyer–m. mcg.- “m. k.”—“tod and yam ”—“four weeks in kane”—mabel and henri–paul r care of the century co., east seventeenth st., new york city. richard h. weld, jr.— l. o. e. –“jersey quartette”—“edgewater two.” answers to puzzles in the october number were received, before october th, from julia callender, – “the four g.'s,” — lulu c. shearman, — fedora º: —marjorie watmough, –" two allegheny girls,” – margaret ladley, –florence kipp, –"we two,” – sarah otis fred haskell, – marie a. and º lemcke, – wm. a. lochren, e, – a. woodhull, – david r. alma l. knapp, – mabel m. carey and georgia curtiss, –chiddingstone, – “two nininger, –effie k uer co., –orson moote, -jo and i, –grace edith thallon, –j. k., florence and edna, –lucille byron – franklyn a. farnsworth, -sigourney fa “embla,” —"woodside. folks," –clara d. rnst, — virginia and ruth battle, –gertrude teschan, — claudice piper, –clair, – and co., –edward, will and i, –esther park, – harold beecher, – nicholas nolan, jr., –edith m. a., . diagonal. when the words have been rightly guessed, and writ- ten one below the other, the diagonal (beginning at the upper left-hand letter and ending with the lower right- hand letter) will spell the name .#. american general. cross-words: . an orthodox mohammedan. . a sea. . brave. . lamenting audibly. . a plain in western palestine celebrated for its fertility. . to gain possession of. r. d. b. st. andrew’s cross or diamonds. : : : : i. upper left-hand diamond: . in scanty. . a covering for the head. . a famous conqueror of an- cient times. . a lake in new york state. . pertain- ing to the ancient carthaginians. . a little cavity. . in scanty. ii. upper right-hand diamond: . in scanty. double, acrostic. primals, melon (lemon); finals, lopes, (slope, poles). cross-words: . mail. . echo. . mp. . boe. . nets. rhomboid. reading across: . north. . rural. . tenor. . edder. . an. subtractions. . d-raw. . ma-l-t. . m-eat. . hi-l-t. . li-v-e. . draw-l. . c-art. historical acrostic. french revolution. . fire. . ride. § evil. . now. . care. . heart. . read. . earn. . ase. . own. . lead. . use. . taste. . isle. . owl. . now. diamonds. i. i. t. . sat. . tales. . tea. . s. ii. . t. . yea. . tepid. . aid. . d. oblique rectangle. i. l. . lot. . lotus. . tudor. . sowed. . resin. . dinah. . naked. . heron. io. ozen. . negus. . nubia. '# since. . acerb. . ergot. . boxer. . texas. . rat. . s. were received, before october th, from josephine. sherwood-g. eese– “dondy small”— – eloise f. purdy, – daniel hardin and co., – ratt, – “me and co.,” –hallock and co., – ittle brothers," g—laura m. zinser, . talboys, –helen garrison, -marguerite sturdy, – t., . a rug. . a piece of metal in the form of a coin, which serves as a reward. . certain things used for both tea and golf. . to infect. . to allow. . in scanty. iii. central diamond : . in scanty. . an ani- mal. . a wº useful animal. . . beloved of photog- raphers. . the surname of a famous english actress. . a song. . in scanty. iv. lower left-hand diamond : . in scanty. . timely. . a scholar. . hooded cloaks. . a des- ignation. . the surname of a famous general. . in scanty. v. lower right-hand diamond: . in scanty. an affirmation. . alſº . a dis. . tottering. . to test. . in scanty. a. m. ston e. . senter. rhymed transpositions. each blank is to be filled by a word of five letters. no two words are alike, though the same five letters, pro- perly arranged, may be used to make the seven missing words. with careless laugh he s = * * * the fruit, when hark! a step—a tall - - - * * man, of aspect dark, has barred his way: “my s = * * * ! then you shall know my wrath—these * * * * * of late too frequent grow— i wield no • * * * *, yet you, rash youth, shall see how all transgression * * * * * its penalty! for i adjudge ("t is obsolete, you'll say) that you shall . . * * * what you have done to-day!” e. t. corbett. white beaches, and d. hot irº tºº summer. yº have ovely ells can always bº foun we often rhear nassau- there and cart, anº also a wheel. i - * variety ºf f cocoa-nut trees.” and wº always ink of the milk: has a pony bis pony,so tarive our largº sur $ºn brother anº another little boy are *: rally a lot º' muner. º, were “ poking" about in wºrn oc down the nuts, and have a dº "...u stood behinº. § empty hº &: isrººt". ... dip in thº, “... #"... get yeº: 'queer old germº snuff-box.’ side lay and tired- ºbody can s.” ºut there- the water a bills and twº five-dollar \s. " wa is so ºvarrº ". ...a stay in hours at a time: - ...taman whº tº there hº buried rºe carns.". .."fast may, aſſº have bee". spendiº ... he and his wife had beº ead many the surrºº on a ranch. tºe house º on the side o is my cousin owned the property, we gave §eº". and we have * ovely viº of the . . boys for their ow" prairie: º to pass through ſº ºrie-dog tº interested reader clare h-. when we drive into the springs- the dogs are such - quaint *tie animal.: they are so fat ºiler, they have toe- gun to get their winter coat- going . to the spring: for the winter. - * and ice- we had a we are forward to seeing snow ... i have see” - samoron- bulgaº!”. t. nicholas...}_*, *. tute ameº girl am lookin is old. my fathe. is alºnary-º" and light ºil ºf snº last week ; it is the fir aws lived in bulgaria- ***ink it...” very lovely. fºr the other girls who read the “lettº i remain your devoted reader- marion sawyer- la like to hear abºut a holiday. wave just is observed in nº.s: two º inew havrº conn y years agº, ril and ethodias- ey e - - r - , conn- ** *ś tºle to º people. idear sºfººtº: family has takº." for over then at that time, and gave tº the written a decº nº. en you exº since . i think ... every year, . tº of may services * that thº...ose many of is the best magaziº published; he church, ana after that teachers. * scholars and sug ew #º, ...” lº. hink the same; i º, a pleasant p. cºiàe the ºl ... pend º. in... there was not an ~ely shady street: five of the day in erry-making: ºthere are ºº years *gºlad to say, th n electric *. in this city.” and ry schools herº and we gº º' every year, º. now- º: the łºść *. is not a horse-º: §§dy place anº tº our dinne" tºe’and play we...slike to he r tº: every surº' and, as nd have a very nice time- your reade.” “for º at out old relics. i will tell yºu your faithful reader: `ut soº t naorris . we have spent three weeks massas ºr * kingsbury: jºurnme. rºš nº stayed at the morris house- which nes wºu about the year °. in the - tºyarº there is,* grapevine over a centur old, and new or leassº. it is neº y a foot in circumference- appearing * al sm the house are old-fashioned. three-sided chairs, house is very large, rious portraits. the in the revolution*: war. of mosquitos- that you sº a tree. ht i would . many.” - ed by the british st. nichol-as. it is so seldom sº that i thoug injur on the -- crescent city you to shº that st- nicholas” not for- and wº - . it is very nice there, with the exception ich consti- i remain * constant reader, has. p. tuttle tº this delightful city. tews that ºf of the several_pº. which jetties at the mouth of the mississippi river has sse several thousand fee # e in it, was... sad - - - - - as iscioest o ith of the river a be practº . aiting in the s fire largº. as i wº. e syracuse pe oti ould be able to en- for pap.” who haº gone out for a **** º man cºmingº ºne who looked yery much º: ter and leave this large pºrt y. ch n orleans. ev an me hat, clothes- ºn a said head; but - --- f the summer- mustache- could nºt believe mouth of the river, and re- sº taising you since ºf ... and, unlike other hº av. he had t. nic hoi-as: * it jº-s oldeſ: seems to gº strangº to º ** i did * ***.*eofile * *jasyapº: id nºt see wº - tº to be smiling at me as if º * - --- º: sº. in new- other *** - ntione ing places of = tºnte as plaº in a very awkward positio - - - --- - a rak, on the corne- * of custom address º º: as papa, and yet **** *: º roch's wº papa.” * * rºt recºgnize him. . º: -at if it mercitully- as ºne paused in front ºf º i liked ** toinette's phili p- rleans, many of the union jºets: ºi the old st. ...” ºs-int which all vis- =tors generally visit most “º ; :- ====<ere fri gan to laugh, or cry, i don’t know which friend. w. b. gui- ºr anº. witu º º turned- ana walked s do sº. l-as ransº: co = -oº. springs- or— *-in- i have new-tºr seen a leº" from ºne- ly º or my ol home in the west ºriº lat- ty, but wº have al- sºme of your -ielightful magazine aig- nºrcº -* nºt" - * = ~- - gs a few months, - ºr h º, in nassau- # =ahº. it seen. eaves turnin == an s o h = --- -- =s e any frosts ºr ºr -now- e- > - little island ** p =b lovely trees and -- _º poncian.” cr _ºcoa-nut palms, or e a lot of ~~ild r= owers- and we get - - winter, as ** so f--- el - el-n-fiewers in th the riddle-box. conundrum charade. why is something to the purpose like a gentle hit in my first you’ll find the answer if you think a bit. why is the part played by an actor like a breakfast dish? in my second lies the answer. find it if you wish. why 's an irishman's fall downstairs like a soldier's watch? in my whole the answer's waiting for your eye to catch. l. e. johnson. a new year verse • the letters in each circle, in the order in which they stand, form a word. when these words are rightly laced they will form a four-line verse suitable for r. year's eve. hidden letters. ten letters in four syllables compose my well-known name, three vowels and seven consonants, and only two the same. in russia you can find my first, in italy my second, m; third in #: land oft is seen, my fourth in spain is reckoned, my fifth is found in congo state, y sixth appears in chili, my seventh in holland, and my eighth in switzerland so hilly; my last two are found in siam ; §. who first can tell what i am f. g. nelson. word-squares. i. i. often on a tea-table. . method. . to wor- ship. . to work for. . large plants. ii. i. confuses. . brisk. . an animal. . a mistake. . to gaze rudely. helen murphy. two zoölogical acrostics. i. the words described are of equal length. when rightly guessed, and placed one below another, in the order here given, the first row of letters will spell a name familiar to every reader of st. nicholas. cross-words: . a water-fowl. . deer. . a wild goat. an asiatic . an aquatic insect. . a the de vinne press, new york. batrachian. . a pg"; deer found in java. . a large, wading bird. . a fresh-water fish. . a bird of prey. io. an african antelope. . the “king of beasts.” . arctic sea-birds. . an aquatic animal valued for its skin, fur, and oil. ii. the final letters of the name of each animal will spell an animal dear to st. nicholas. cross-words (of unequal ...) : i. a kind of field spaniel. . a large egyptian antelope. . an animal of tropical america, allied to the racoon. . a large carnivorous animal. . a south african antelope. . a mouse-like rodent. . a small rodent. . a large ungulate. g. b. dyer. divided cities. example: divide a city of ireland into a metallic in- strument and quick. answer, bel-fast. all of the cit- ies are in the united states. - . divide a city into a boy's name and a planet. . divide a city into an organ and a shallow place in a river. . divide a city into a masculine name and a weight. . divide a city into a foreman and a weight. §. divide a city into a prohibition and blood. . divide a city into a masculine name and a place of security. § divide a city into a season and a poet. . divide a city into angry, a pronoun, and a planet. . divide a city into a small stream and another city. io. divide a city into adhere and to draw from the water. . divide a city into uncooked and a sheltered place. . divide a city into novel and a place of safety. two cousins. rhymed numerical enigma. i am composed of one hundred and eight letters, and form one verse of a well-known poem. her - - - it was belinda, and his - - - it was - - - - ; they loved each other - - - - - and they said that they would ios- - - - . said - , on their - - - - - wedding-day, “i’m happy as a - - - o; ” and - - , with equal happiness, did - - with joy and º: “the violet's blue; the - - - is red as - - - - - - holly-berry; my own big - - - are ::::::::::: and i am - - - - - than a - - - - . my wedding-ring has - - - - - - – bright, and if they’re not too - - - , i'll get a ring and - - - - - - - or on my birthday every - - - .” they - . - - - - on their wedding - - - , the wide - - - - for to see; they thought they'd take a º and - - across the “ - - - - - sea; ” a – - - - - - - - - did - - - - that boat, and - - - - - her in a los- - § . . : ; - and ere our pair could - - - their §§ - - , they found they were “ - - . - io'ſ- .” they could not - - - , they could not - - - - ; he - - - her - her - - - ; she - - - - to him; some voyagers soon found them struggling there. they in a - - - - were helped aboard a ship so grand and - - - - : - , they said though their first voyage had - - - - - , their second pleased them greatly. and so they got back - - - with care, a - - - - - and a - - - - pair. lucille byron lee. st. nicholas. vol. xxiv. february, . no. . a siberian scare. by george kennan. i wonder if any one has ever heard of an arctic ghost. is there on record any well authenticated case of supernatural apparition in spitzbergen, for example, or greenland, or novaya zemlya, or in the midst of the great polar ice-pack p. has any arctic explorer ever seen a ghost or heard of one, north of latitude ° p ghosts seem to be plentiful enough in the north temperate zone and in the tropics, but, so far as i know, i am the only person who has ever encountered one in the far north. - i first heard of my ghost in the winter of – , when i was exploring a route for a telegraph line through northeastern siberia, and was living temporarily in a small russian village called anadyrsk (an-ad’-eersk), about four hundred miles west of bering strait. i had rented from one of the natives in this vil- lage a one-story log house of the usual siberian type, with a living-room and a small bedroom in one end, a kitchen in the other, and an out- side door opening into a square entry between them. over the living-room there was a rough, unfurnished garret or attic, which could be copyright, , by the century co. reached by climbing a notched log set up ladder- wise in the entry, but which during my occu- pancy of the house was never used, and was empty. it had a floor of rough spruce boards laid loosely across the joists, and it received a little light from the door in the entry below; but it was never warmed, and in winter its floor was generally covered with snow which sifted in through chinks and cracks in the neglected roof. i was alone in this house, with the ex- ception of a native boy sixteen or seventeen years of age, named yegor (yeh-gor'), who cooked and kept house for me, and who slept on the floor in the kitchen. our outside door was never locked at night, and indeed i don't think there was such a thing as a lock in the whole settlement. theft, burglary, and assault were crimes almost unknown to the quiet, up- right people of anadyrsk; and as they left their doors unlocked and unbolted from one year's end to another, i naturally followed their ex- ample. one dark still night in february, between ten and eleven o'clock, as i lay in bed reading, i was startled by the quick and violent throw- all rights reserved. a siberian scare. [feb. ing open of the entry door, and a swift rush of somebody into the adjacent sitting-room. “who 's that ?” i demanded. there was no reply, but as i sprang out of bed to investi- gate, i was met at the sitting-room door by what looked like the wraith of yegor. his long, dark hair was disheveled, his eyes were dilated, his face was as pale as ashes, and as he stood there, trembling violently and looking apprehensively toward the door through which he had just come, he seemed the very embodi- ment of horror and fear. “why, yegor : " i exclaimed, “what 's the matter p’’ * for a moment he seemed unable to speak, but with an effort he controlled himself, and said in a low, excited tone, “there's something walking in the kitchen.” “nonsense!” i replied. “you’ve had the nightmare, and you ’re not more than half awake yet. nobody would come into the kitchen at this time of night. what did you think you heard?” “it was n’t a nightmare, barin,” ” he pro- tested. “i had n’t been asleep at all. there was nobody in the room; but the minute i blew out the candle something walked across the floor in heavy boots. f* the idea of a siberian ghost pacing the floor of yegor's kitchen at night in american boots was so ludicrous and incongruous that i burst into a fit of laughter. “where did the ‘something’ get its boots, yegor?” i said jeeringly. “mine are there in the bedroom, and there is n't another pair in the settlement.” but yegor evidently thought the matter too serious for joking, and merely replied that he was “unable to know.” “well, come along,” i said finally. “let's go to the kitchen and take a look.” putting on a fur “kukhlanka, f" for the night was cold, i stepped out into the entry, threw open the kitchen door, held a light, and listened. the only “things” that seemed to be “walking” in yegor's department were the cockroaches, some of which were quite big enough to wear the boots of lilliput, if not the boots of america. “you see, yegor,” i said, “there's nothing and nobody there. after you blew out your candle you probably dropped asleep without knowing it, and had a bad dream.” but yegor was not to be thus reassured; and when we went back he begged so hard to be allowed to stay in my end of the house that i told him he might sleep on the floor beside the oven. after i had blown out my light he stole noiselessly into my room, and crawled under my bed, where, soon afterward, i heard him draw a long, deep breath of relief, as if for the first time he felt himself safe. several days passed without any further alarm. yegor went back to the kitchen to sleep, and i had forgotten all about the ghost in boots, when, between eleven and twelve o'clock one night, after i had gone to bed, my attention was attracted by the sound of light, stealthy footsteps crossing the floor of the gar- ret over my head in the direction of the sitting- room. my first thought was that yegor had gone up there to get something; but when i remembered his fear of ghosts and recalled the fact that the garret was absolutely empty, i dis- missed this explanation as altogether improb- able, and decided that the footsteps were those of some poor wandering korak Ś from a neigh- boring encampment, who had been detained in the village overnight, and who had stolen up into our garret to sleep because it was a little warmer there than out of doors. i once thought of shouting to him that he might come down and sleep in the kitchen; but i was not sure that he would understand russian. i knew that the koraks were accustomed to sleep out on the snow in all kinds of weather, and i said to myself, “what's the use of wor- rying about him p. he 'll be comfortable enough up there; and if he is n't, he can knock at the kitchen door and wake yegor.” i heard * “master” or “seigneur”— a title given by a russian peasant to his superior in rank or position. t the russian word is “sapaghee’”—that is, boots with hard soles and heels, which are known to the siberian natives as “american boots.” their own footgear is made of soft skins, and their footsteps are almost noiseless. # a garment like a blouse or sweater, made of reindeer skin. § a nomadic tribe of siberian natives. .] a siberian scare. him lie down in one corner of the garret, over the sitting-room ikon”, and then, several times afterward, i heard him turn over or move un- easily, as if he found the floor of the garret a hard bed. when yegor brought me my coffee on the following morning, i said to him, “who slept up in the garret last night " the ghost-startled expression instantly re- turned to his face as he replied, “nobody.” “but somebody certainly did,” i insisted; “i heard a man walk softly on tiptoe across the garret floor about eleven o'clock, and lie down in the corner over the ikon. i thought at first it was you, but i suppose it must have been some korak. were any of them in the village yesterday ?” yegor declared that there had not been a korak in the village for a week, and that the sounds in the garret were undoubtedly made by the same evil spirit that had frightened him. “the house is haunted, barin,” he said, “and we ought to have the priest come here and drive away the spirits.” “what stuff!” i exclaimed. “there 's no such thing as an evil spirit, and you ought to be ashamed, at your age, to believe old gos- sips' stories about haunted houses and ghosts. the footsteps in the garret were the footsteps of a man; and if you'll make inquiries in the village, you'll probably find out that it was some korak who did n't want to go back to his encampment, and had no other place in which to sleep.” “if there was a man there,” said yegor, “he must have left tracks in the snow on the floor. shall i go and look p” “of course he left tracks,” i assented. “go and look, if you want to. you 'll find that the footprints are those of a korak's tor'basses. f* the boy went out, but before he had had time, it seemed to me, to climb the notched log to the garret, he came rushing back and de- clared breathlessly, “there are no tracks at all !” inasmuch as i felt absolutely certain that some human being had slept in that garret and had walked across that garret floor, this unexpected announcement was something of a “facer”; and, not knowing exactly what to say, i went out myself, climbed the log ladder in the entry, and from the top of it peered into the recesses of the dimly lighted garret. yegor's statement was true. the floor was covered with half an inch or more of light snow, which had evidently lain there for weeks; but as for tracks, there were none. not even a mouse had crossed that floor since the last snow-storm. surprised and perplexed, i returned to the sit- ting-room and tried to think out the puzzle. that there had been somebody or something in that garret the night before, i felt positively certain; but where were the tracks p. how could footsteps that made a distinct sound fail to leave an impression on light, feathery snow p yegor lingered about the door to see what i would say, but as i said nothing he finally in- quired timidly what i thought. “i don't know what to think, yegor,” i re- plied; “but if that ghost of yours in boots walks across the garret floor again, i shall try to get a sight at him, even if i can't see his tracks.” for two or three days after this yegor took refuge at night in the house of a neighboring friend, and left me to tackle the ghost alone; but neither in the garret nor in the kitchen did i hear the faintest sound to indicate that the mysterious somebody who walked in dark- ness and left no tracks was abroad. meantime, however, the news that a ghost had appeared to yegor in the barin's kitchen, and that even the skeptical barin himself had heard the “un- clean spirit" pacing the floor of the garret at midnight, spread to every house in the village; and the next sunday afternoon who should ap- pear at my door but a russian priest, dressed in all his robes and followed by one of the church choir-boys with a basin of water and a small bundle of long, flexible twigs. the reverend father came in swinging a smoking * in one corner of every siberian house there is a smoky, gilt-incrusted portrait of some old russian saint, called an ikon (ee-kon'), before which all members of the orthodox greek church are accustomed to cross them- selves upon entering the room, and to say their prayers at night and in the morning. t the wandering natives of siberia wear boots called “tor’basses -> a .x. or “torbassa’,” made, somewhat after the fashion of moccasins, out of soft reindeer skin sewed with thread of dried sinews. o [fes. a siberian scare. censer and reciting sonorously a selection from the old slavonic psalter. he marched sol- emnly around the entry, the kitchen, and the sitting-room, fumigating every nook and corner where a ghost might lurk, and then took the basin and the brush of twigs and sprinkled the whole house with water after the manner of the greek church. having thus performed his official duty, he greeted me courteously, apologized for the intrusion, and said that it was his custom to conduct a ceremony of that kind once a year in every house in the village. i was not, of course, a member of his church; but he had taken the liberty, he said, of coming to my house, because there were re- ports in circulation that mysterious noises had been heard in it, and the minds of his parish- ioners were disturbed. after this visit of the russian priest yegor re- covered his courage, and began again to sleep in the kitchen. he evidently thought that no “unclean spirit” would dare to reënter a house whose floor had just been sprinkled, and whose atmosphere was still pervaded by the odor of incense. but he underestimated the audacity of ghosts in american boots. at about eleven o'clock upon the very next night i distinctly heard again those soft, 'stealthy footsteps in the garret. they seemed to proceed diag- onally from the top of the log ladder to the corner over the ikon, and as the night was in- tensely cold and very still, i could distinctly hear the faint squeaking of the frosty snow on the garret floor under the pressure of the mys- terious intruder's feet. i sprang out of bed in my night-shirt, rushed to the entry, climbed the notched log, and with the words, “what are you doing here?” on my lips, held the candle over my head and looked into the garret, expecting to see a man. but there was not a living thing there ! i was so astonished and dumfounded that i could only stare into the empty room, while a chill, due partly to cold and partly to a sense of mys- tery, crinkled down my back. less than thirty seconds before, somebody had certainly walked on tiptoe across that garret floor; and yet not only was the garret untenanted, but the snow on the floor was as smooth and undisturbed as it had been when yegor and i looked at it the week before. after listening intently for two or three minutes without hearing the faintest sound, i returned to my room, dressed myself, and sat down to await further developments. i was determined to solve the mystery of those ghostly footsteps, even if i had to go up into the garret to sleep. in the course of twenty minutes i heard distinctly a noise as if some person were turning over or moving about on the floor of the garret just above the ikon. i crept to the door between the sitting-room and the entry, opened it softly, and listened. the noise had ceased. apparently the person who made it had heard me open the door and had also stopped to listen. i climbed up into the garret, and found it dark, still, and empty as it had been before. by this time i had begun to feel very un- comfortable and very much exasperated. that something walked and moved about in that gar- ret was absolutely certain; but how it crossed the floor without disturbing the snow, and how it noiselessly and mysteriously escaped every time i went to look for it, were questions that baffled me. the next time i heard the stealthy, creaking footsteps overhead i put on a fur hood and a kukhlanka, and climbed up into the garret, prepared to stay there, if necessary, until morning. the place was empty and still, of course, as before; but i took my stand near the chimney, with a candle in my hand, and waited patiently to see whether the noises would begin again in my presence. for twenty min- utes or more there was not a sound. then, suddenly, i heard the footsteps again, louder than ever, but instead of being on the floor of the garret they were directly over my head. i climbed hastily down the notched log, rushed out of doors, and looked up on the roof. the night was moonless, but the stars furnished light enough to enable one to see the outline of any dark object against the white background of snow; and, so far as i could discover, there was nothing on the house or near it. i then went into the kitchen and, with some trouble, waked the boy. “yegor,” i said, “i have just chased your ghost out of the garret, and he has gone up on the roof. i want you to come outdoors and stay on one side of the house, while i go around .] a siberian scare. the other, and perhaps we'll be able to get a line of the western chimney. it looked lumpy sight of him.” on one side, as if a man's figure were crouch- as soon as yegor waked up sufficiently to ing close against it in the black shadow. i realize the nature of the service required of changed my point of view a little, and became him, he was simply paralyzed with fear. he refused absolutely at first to go out of doors at all, even with me; but when i told him that the ghost had apparently left the garret through the roof, and so might possibly come down the chimney into the kitchen as soon as i should begin the at- tack outside, poor yegor decided to take his chances in the open; but incessant- ly he muttered low prayers for protec- tion from spirits, at short intervals, and trembled so with cold and terror that his teeth chattered. i walked around the front of the house, with yegor at my el- bow, and examined the roof carefully on both sides. it was cov- ered with old, hard- ened snow, which in places was somewhat drifted; but there was not a sign on it of any living thing, and i did not see how anybody or anything could get access to it without a ladder. i was just about to abandon the search outside and return to º … “picking up a stick of firewood, i hurled it with all my strength at the chimney.” (see next page.) the garret, when it suddenly struck me that satisfied that the queer object was a man dressed there was something peculiar in the dark out- in a dark fur kukhlanka. a siberian scare. “who 's that ?” i shouted in russian. “i see you there in the shadow of the chimney ! come down out of that l” there was no reply, and the figure did not move. picking up a stick of firewood from a little pile near the entry door, i hurled it with all my strength at the chimney. just as it struck the bricks, out leaped the “ghost”—a huge, shaggy siberian sledge-dog, who ran swiftly along the ridge-pole of the roof to the kitchen end of the house, sprang off into the darkness, and disappeared. “well, yegor,” i said, “there 's your ghost at last, and it's nothing but a dog!” upon making an examination, i discovered that in the shelter of the eastern or kitchen end of the house the prevailing northwesterly gales had formed a huge snowdrift, which rose to within about a foot of the eaves. this sloping drift, under the influence of wind and frost, had slowly hardened until it would support the weight of a man; and one or more of the vil- lage dogs had formed the habit of climbing up kitties latest. by f.l.j. our oljn little tabithy cat our dear little #abthycat * sat dºn on fly fafer and cut such a caper she became a corp te acrobat sº it to the roof at night, walking about on the housetop, and perhaps lying down to sleep against the warm side of the chimney. in the dead stillness of an arctic winter night their footsteps on the roof sounded to a person in the house below exactly as if they were in the garret; and i found afterward, by experiment, that if a man walked across the roof at night on tiptoe, it was almost impossible for a listener in the sitting-room to decide whether he was in the garret or on the housetop. it is hardly necessary to say that neither yegor nor his superstitious village friends ever accepted my common-sense explanation of the mysterious footsteps. the story which was current the next winter was that after the priest drove the “unclean spirit” out of the house with incense and holy water, it took refuge on the roof; and that when the barin found it there, and began to pelt it with chunks of wood, the spirit suddenly took the form of an immense dog, snarled fiercely, and immediately vanished in a thick cloud. the birthplace of president lincoln. º by george h. yenow.ine. abraham lincoln, our great war president, was born in larue county, kentucky, in a rude little log-cabin. this cabin has recently been restored, and, so far as possible, made exactly as it was eighty-eight years ago, when a little, baby boy was born to thomas and nancy lincoln, or “linkhorn,” as the name was then spelled — humble “settlers,” who had moved to the neighborhood from washington county, four years before. the few living people who remember thomas lincoln, the father, say that he was a rather, improvident man, not working long at any one thing. he was a hard worker, but was a poor manager; and the little family was often with- out more than the simplest necessaries of life. thomas lincoln cleared a few acres around his cabin, and raised a small crop of corn and grain. then he became a carpenter and tinker, working at such odd jobs as he could find among the pioneer neighbors. he was away at work at the time abraham was born. the neighbors heard that mrs. lincoln was in the cabin all alone with the little baby, and had little to eat except corn and potatoes. they at once visited the lincoln cabin, taking such delicacies as their houses afforded. the father returned in a few days; and the baby was named abraham lincoln, after his grand- father, who had been killed by the indians when thomas lincoln was a little boy. when this country boy had become presi- dent, he often spoke of the trials and struggles of his early days as “simple annals of privation and of poverty.” the child's life during the time the family lived in kentucky appears to have been en- tirely uneventful. he helped his mother — after he was three years old—in the simple household duties, went to the district-school, and played with the children of the neighbor- hood. the only one of young lincoln's play- mates now living is an old man nearly a hun- dred years old, named austin gollaher, whose mind is bright and clear, and who never tires of telling of the days lincoln and he “were little tikes, and played together.” this old man, who yet lives in the log-house in which he has always lived, a few miles from the old lincoln place, tells entertaining stories about the president's boyhood. mr. gollaher says that they were together more than the other boys in school, that he became fond of his little friend, and he believed that abe thought a great deal of him. in speaking of various events of minor im- portance in their boyhood days, mr. gollaher remarked: “i once saved lincoln's life.” upon being urged to tell of the occurrence, he thus related it: “we had been going to school together one year; but the next year we had no school because there were so few scholars to attend, there being only about twenty in the school the year before. conse- quently, abe and i had not much to do; but, as we did not go to school, and our mothers were strict with us, we did not get to see each other very often. one sunday morning my mo- ther waked me up early, saying she was going to see mrs. lincoln, and that i could go along. glad of the chance, i was soon dressed and ready to go. after my mother and i got there, abe and i played all through the day. while we were wandering up and down the little stream called knob creek, abe said: “right up there’— pointing to the east—‘we saw a covey of par- tridges yesterday. let's go over and get some of them.” the stream was swollen, and was too wide for us to jump across. finally, we saw a narrow foot-log, and we concluded to try it. it was narrow, but abe said, ‘let's coon it.' i went first, and reached the other side all right. abe went about half-way across, when he got scared and began trembling. i hollered to the birthplace of president lincoln. [feb. him, “don’t look down, nor up, t nor sideways, but look right at me, and hold on tight!' but he fell off into the creek, and as the water was about seven or eight feet deep, and i could not swim, and neither could abe, i knew it would do no good for me to go in after him. so i got a stick—a long water-sprout– and held it out to him. he came up, grabbing with both hands, view of thomas lincoln's farm, where abraham lincoln was born. and i put the stick into his hands. he clung to it, and i pulled him out on the bank, almost dead. i got him by the arms and shook him well, and then rolled him on the ground, when the water poured out of his mouth. he was all right very soon. we promised each other that we would never tell anybody about it, and never did for years. i never told anyone of it until after lincoln was killed.” “was he a bright boy at school, and did he learn rapidly?” “oh, yes,” he replied; “lincoln was an un- usually bright boy, and he made good progress in his books, better than almost any one else a nearer view of the exact place where the log house stood. the house stood back of the distant, group of trees to the right of the center of the picture. the rock spring was at the end of the path under the group of trees at the left. in school; and he studied very hard, although he was young. he would get spice-wood bushes and hack them up on a log, and put a few of them in the fire at a time to make a light for him to read his books by. it did not make the log-cabin in which abraham lincoln was born. from a photograph by the evans art co., elizabethtown, kentucky. a very good light, but it was all he had at night. young lincoln was never good-looking. he was angular and awkward. his mother was * .] the birthplace of president lincoln. a rather slim woman of medium height. tom lincoln, his father, was tall. abe was not very much like him, for tom lincoln had a fuller face, and was of a heavier build.” in answer to a question as to lincoln's bro- thers or sisters, the old man brightened up and said, “oh, yes, he had a sister. her name was sally, and she was about my age. that was one reason why i thought so much of abe. but when the lincolns moved to indiana, i did not say good-by to either of them. “i next heard of lincoln several years after- ward. it was said that he would make rails during the summer, and thus earn money to go to school. then i heard no more of lincoln, until he was nominated for president. i told the boys that no matter what happened, i was going to vote for abe. i said i was going to vote for him if it was the last act of my life, because i had played with him when a boy, and i was glad he had gone up in the world; and i did vote for him " " said the old man. little abe was nearly nine years old when thomas lin- coln left kentucky to find a home in the wilderness of in- diana. twelve years ago, the cabin in which lincoln was born was torn down, and the logs were hauled to an adjoining farm, and used in the construction of another house. the old farm had practically been abandoned, and nearly all the people in the neighborhood had quite forgotten, a second time within a decade since the death of lincoln, that he was born on the “lincoln spring farm,” as the place has always been called. the lincoln birthplace is fifty-four miles southeast of louis- ville. it can be reached from louisville by going to elizabethtown, in hardin county, a distance of forty-two miles, and then taking an- other road from elizabethtown to hodgensville, a ride of twelve miles. the lincoln spring farm is three miles from this quaint old town, on nolin's creek, directly on the public road leading from hodgensville to buffalo, a village six miles to the east. it is a pleasant twenty- minutes' drive over a good dirt road, through a poor, but interesting, country. the original lincoln cabin had been torn down and the materials had been moved away, as stated, by a man named tom davenport, who used the logs in his own house. mr. a. w. dennett, a new york gentleman, not long ago bought the davenport house, recovered the logs, and, after much difficulty, restored the cabin exactly as it was originally, using the very same timbers, door, window, and frames. it occupies the former site, and is in much the same condition as it was in when the “ the lincoln spring.” from a photograph by the evans art co., elizabethtown, kentucky. lincolns left it. the cabin is eighteen feet long, sixteen feet wide, and about twelve feet high, counting from the floor to the ridge pole. there is only one door and one window — the latter an opening twenty inches square. a large open fireplace built in the most primitive way occupies nearly the whole of one end of the cabin. the chimney is made of small logs, placed together just as log-houses are built. inside of it, flat stones placed on the ground made the hearth, and wide flat stones placed against the logs kept the fire within bounds and protected the wooden chimney. the in- side, from the hearthstones to the top of the chimney, was thickly daubed with clay. the the birthplace of president lin coln. chimney reaches only half-way to the roof of the house, and is rounded off with small sticks. this simple fireplace furnished most of the light, all of the heat, and the sole means for cook- ing the meals for the family. the cabin did not have even a loft, or second story, as have most cabins. it was built by thomas lincoln, father of the president, some time about or , and was entirely constructed with an ax and saw, the simple tools of the pioneers. the clapboard roof was anchored down by small logs, laid lengthwise on top of the rows of oak boards. there were no nails or hardware. the door-hinges were of wood, and the pane- less windows had an inside board-shutter, held in place by raw-hide thongs. there were chinks and mud between the logs, and the pun- cheon floor was pegged down. it is probable that after abraham lincoln's grandfather was killed by the indians at long run meeting- house, in jefferson county, ky., the family went further into the forest, and took up a section of land in la rue, then part of hardin county. later, to better his fortune, thomas lincoln left this farm on nolin's creek, and settled on knob creek, a dozen miles from hodgensville, and from there he went to in- diana, and later to illinois. the lincoln spring farm takes its name from a magnificent spring at the foot of the hill, on the crest of which the cabin stands. it is about one hundred and fifty feet from the house, and this beautiful spring undoubtedly attracted the attention of thomas lincoln. under a cluster of large oak-trees there is a circular de- pression in the ground, fifty feet in diameter, and about fifteen feet deep. one side of this is solid limestone, an overhanging ledge forming the covering for a spring of clear, cool water that issues from a cleft in the rocks, falling a distance of four or five feet. the water gurgles and sputters as it falls from one ledge of the rock to another, and makes its way down into the earth through a natural cavern, or “sink- hole,” as the natives call it. the country is hilly, and there are many caves, and this over- flow that so mysteriously disappears probably escapes through some underground passage, like the rivers that flow through the mammoth cave in edmonson county, forty miles away. there are also disappearing rivers, or creeks, in this section of kentucky. streams sometimes end abruptly, disappearing in the ground with- out any visible outlet, and reappearing miles away in a like mysterious manner. the oldest inhabitants agree that the place has always been called “the lincoln spring,” and it is more than likely that the future president played, until four or five years of age, under the shade-trees around this beautiful natural fountain. the new owner of the place wishes to convert it into a national park, a sort of patriotic mecca, as has been done at mount vernon. the property has been surrounded by a good substantial fence, the old, sterile hillsides have been plowed up, and the slopes are cov- ered with grass. most of the young trees have been trimmed and left standing, and in a few years the old farm will become a spot of great beauty. the revival of interest in the early career of the great war president has caused many people to make pilgrimages to the primitive city of hodgensville, a place of about , inhabi- tants. many people come in search of lincoln relics. very recently a queerly-made iron can- dle-stick was plowed up near the cabin, and it is the general belief that it was made by the president's father, who had a small black- smith's forge in his yard. the family having moved to indiana, when abraham was about nine years old, and very soon thereafter to illinois, the serious part of young lincoln's life began. he worked day and night, and read borrowed books until he had gained a fair education, and was finally en- abled to begin the practice of law. the life of lincoln after his thirtieth year is familiar to almost every boy and girl in the wide land. there was not a year's difference between the ages of abraham lincoln and jefferson davis; and it is an interesting fact that the president of the confederacy also was born in kentucky, and within a hundred miles of the log-cabin that was the birthplace of president lincoln. willie and tad lincoln. by julia taft bayne. willie lincoln. spring in washington was never more beau- tiful than in april, , when my two bro- thers and i crossed lafayette square on our way to the white house. my mother had sent us “to play with the lincoln boys.” mrs. lincoln had told how lonely her sons were, and asked to have my brothers come and play with willie and tad. i was sent with them to see the acquaintance properly begun. we had been to the white house often before; for mr. watt, who had charge of the conservatory and grounds, was our very good friend, and showed us the rare flowers, and talked about them, and often gave us bouquets, which we thought marvelously beautiful, made up by the “bouquet man” on a fixed plan—the short-stemmed flowers tied on broom-straws and built into solid oval struc- tures surrounded by a fringe of green. we lingered in the square, which was filled with nursemaids and children, many of whom we knew; for to-day we felt a strange reluc- tance and hesitation. instead of going to the entrance and asking for the boys, as our mother had suggested, we skirted the treasury building, and went in at the little gate back of it to the grounds. assuring ourselves that things were outwardly the same under the new administra- tion, we entered mr. watt's office under the conservatory, and he called up the stairs: tad lincoln, in his zouave uniform. “here!—willie! tad | –are some boys come to see you.” no answer was returned, and we went up, and there stood the boys by the water- [feb. willie and tad lincoln. lily tank, where they had been watching the goldfish. such quiet, shy, nice boys, i thought. in five minutes the four boys had disap- peared, and i saw them no more till dark, when my brothers returned home, looking—as lar- ney, our mulatto girl, declared – “like they done bin huntin' coons in de bresh"; but they had had “the best time they ever had "; they had been “everywhere,” and mrs. lincoln said they “must come every day,” and “mr. lin- coln, i mean, the president—she called him mr. lincoln, anyway—took us all on his lap, and told us a story.” early next morning willie and tad appeared at our house, brought by one of the gardeners, and remained all day, being sent for at night. thus began an intimacy which continued till willie's death. i think there was hardly a day in that time when the four were not together. willie lincoln was the most lovable boy i ever knew—sensible, sweet-tempered, and gen- tle-mannered. he was rather fair, with blue- gray eyes, while tad had quick, dark eyes, and a fiery temper. though very affectionate when he chose, tad was unyielding in his dislikes. his peculiar defect of speech made it difficult for strangers to understand him; but those who saw him every day had no difficulty. the two lincoln boys were then a little over ten and eight years of age, my two bro- thers being a year or two older. the elder, horatio, or “budd’’ as he was always called, was fair, like willie lincoln, while hally was dark. this resemblance of the two pairs of boys was often remarked upon. willie and tad were two healthy, rollicking western boys who had never been accustomed to restraint. the notice which their father's exalted station brought upon them was at times distasteful. willie once said: “was n’t there ever a president who had children before ? i wish they would n't stare at us sol” the first time they went to church with us, willie said: “will he pray for us, do you think? preachers always pray so long for pa.” dr. smith did pray for them, as he recognized them in our pew. willie's cheeks grew very red, but tad was sitting on the floor of the pew, and heeded not. he was so uneasy that he always sat on the floor a good part of the ser- vice, drawing pictures, and amusing himself with whatever he could find in his pockets. on another sunday, when he was unusually restless, a young officer friend of ours gave him a knife, which he thought tad could not open; but he did, and cut his finger, and i had to do it up in my best embroidered handkerchief. on this occasion i was goaded to say, “i’ll never take you to church again, thomas lin- coln'ſ "--he hated of all things to be called thomas, “i just suffer agonies all the time !” “well,” said tad, “was n't willie sitting up there, good as pie, and you poked me with your toe p.” one evening, late in may, the lincoln boys came with one of the men from the white house, saying they had tickets for a noted minstrel show then in the city. all four boys went to see the performance, and from that evening each one longed to be a minstrel! they talked incessantly about it, and, in order to make a theater, even suggested taking out some partitions in our attic, which was cut up into small bedrooms. but fortune favored them. a verbal message came from mrs. lincoln: “the madam's compliments, and as the wea- ther was very rainy and willie and tad had bad colds, might budd and hally stay at the white house till she returned from new york?” this was rather alarming. who knew what might happen in a week mrs. lincoln was to be absent at least a week. not long before this a messenger had ap- peared at dinner-time, asking whether willie and tad were with us, and saying that they had not been seen since breakfast. - they had “lost themselves” in the capitol, after listening in the gallery of the house of representatives as long as tad would let them. some gentleman had given them lunch at the restaurant of congress, and they had played marbles with some of the pages. tad, at least, had played with success, for marbles were fairly bursting from his pockets. after some consultation our boys were al- lowed to accept mrs. lincoln's invitation. as they were putting their clothes into a small valise, willie and tad arrived under a large and dilapidated umbrella which tad said they had “borrowed from the cook.” all four soon .] willie and tad lincoln. º - pºll, sºnder, ** * *::: . . joe corkhe.º.º. i lºſ Áine. a -- }, … j.c., ſºlº. . - ... sº bilyº. * , º, . tº º , ; ; ; ; **** --> º Á' * | jo ºrk/./ */º - pſ, i. t- - ye - *...*.*. - x ~~~ waa’, Ž. º fac-simile of the program printed by wil-lie lincoln. left, with whoops of joy from tad, and the fer- ther, and had a distant view of the boys, in the vent assertion, “youbet we’ll have a good time!” president's carriage, behaving with perfect pro- next day i attended a review with my fa- priety. the day after, a relative was brought o [feb. willie and tad lincoln. from camp very ill, and for a time no one thought of the boys; but the following morn- ing, as i returned from an errand, the servant, as she opened the door, said: “ole miss done gwine to de horspital, and she say, ‘arsk miss julie, when she come, ter *. was intensified on the countenance of a negro coming down the walk; and this wild grin rippled and spread like a wave as i went on— orderlies, soldiers, doorkeepers, all wore that peculiar smile. i asked where the boys were. “upstairs, miss,” the man said; and i heard president lincoln. and go see 'f dem chillun doan pull down the white house yit.” i went to the white house. as i ap- proached, i saw that it was standing indeed, but i noticed a strange grin on the face of an orderly holding some horses. some soldiers lounging near also wore the same grin, which tad. him chuckle as he turned away. as i came along the upper corridor tad appeared. “oh, julia, come and see our circus!” he cried when he saw me. “we’ve got a circus in the attic. we 're minstrels. i 've got to be blacked up, and willie can't get his dress on; it's too big. pin it up, will you? hurry!” .] i willie and tad lin coln. i took a horrified survey and said, “a cir- cus! does the president know it?” “oh, yes, he knows it,” said tad. “he does n’t care; he 's got some general or other in there. come on—hurry!” willie was struggling with the full, long skirt and flounces of a lilac silk i had seen mrs. lincoln wear at an afternoon reception, while budd wore a ruffled morning-wrapper which he was pinning up in billowy festoons. when the boys were nearly ready to go be- fore their “audience,” tad began singing at the top of his voice, “old abe lincoln came out of the wilderness.” “hush ' " said budd; “the president will hear you.” “i don't care if pa does hear, and he don't care either,” said tad. “we 've got to sing that in the show.” and i think he did but, some time after, as tad was singing a campaign song at our house about “old abe splitting rails,” willie asked my mother, “mrs. taft, ought tad to sing that song p is n't it disrespectful to pa p” tad kicked the chair, as he always did when displeased, and said, “everybody in this world knows pa used to split rails.” mama explained why she thought it in bad taste, and tad said: “well, i 'll sing about ‘john brown's body,' then.” he always obeyed my mother, though generally so headstrong. i was at their “circus” only a short time. a curtain of sheets pinned together was stretched across one side of the attic. their extensive “repertoire” was somewhat mixed; and they did not keep very closely to the programme reproduced here, which willie brought to our house next day, asking me to “correct” it. i put in the second m (then considered necessary), and the real names of the actors. - willie and budd both made a copy of this, and the original was left in my portfolio, to- gether with a copy tad began to make; but after drawing a picture of general scott on the paper, he gave up the task. tad as the “black statue” was a great success. every one who paid one cent went in, i think, though it said “five cents” on the bill. servants, orderlies, soldiers, strangers, came and went all day. i found a book in mrs. lincoln's sitting- vol. xxiv.- . room (there were many new books sent to her, and she told me to take any i chose), and went to one of the windows to read. by and by, i was aware of something large and dark looming over me, and the president —for it was he – said, “why, it 's budd's sister. having great times up there, hey?” i jumped up, with my finger in the book, l for mama told us always to rise when the pre- sident spoke to us, answering, “yes, sir.” he looked kindly at me for a moment, glanced at the title of the book, and passed on. he seemed tired, and i thought perhaps his visitor, the general, had “bothered” him. budd often carried messages from the pri- vate apartments to the office. one day willie asked, “why do you always call pa ‘mr. presi- dent'? is it more polite?” “oh,” said budd, “it is n't proper to call presidents by their names.” “well, why don't you call ma ‘mrs. presi- dent’ p” “why, she 's just mrs. lincoln, only the servants call her ‘the madam.’” “hul” said tad; “i shall call pa, pat” and he sang, “i don't care for the corporal, i don't care for the guard,” or something like that. one day the boys would be making a “sur- vey” of the grounds, under the guidance of some good-natured engineer, while the next, perhaps, would be spent in the patent office with my father. the models of locomotives and steam- boats in his room were very interesting. they spent a great deal of time at general mcclellan's headquarters. he was very kind to them, and so was mrs. mcclellan. they often went to the mcclellans' house to play with the baby. budd was very fond of her. of course the boys attended every review. once they rode in the staff. willie's bridle was held by the duc de chartres, and budd's by the comte de paris, while the aides took the smaller boys in front of them. on another occasion,-a very hot day,+ as tad had been indisposed the day before, his mother was unwilling he should go to see the troops. the review took place across the long bridge, and as the president's carriage passed down the line, a cart came clattering after, drawn by a rickety horse driven by a willie and tad lincoln. grinning negro boy. in it were the boys in new zouave uniforms, their swords at a salute i think many old soldiers must remember that sight. willie said the boys paid the darky a quarter from their “circus money.” about this time they formed a military com- pany called “mrs. lincoln's zouaves.” she gave them a flag, and they were reviewed by the president from the portico. the secretary of war promised to furnish light (condemned) rifles, but i do not remember whether they were ever armed or not, for the company dwindled until it was like artemus ward's— “all officers.” willie was colonel, budd major, and hally captain, while tad refused every rank but that of drum-major. the officers had old-fashioned swords, given them either by the secretary of war or by general mcclellan. they spent a great deal of time on the flat copper roof of the white house. it was sur- rounded by a stone balustrade, and here they built a cabin. the roof was by turns a “fort” and a “quarter-deck.” they used to raise and lower the flag with due ceremony, and look for “strange sail” through a spy-glass. i remember once, when “budd's sister” ascended to the stronghold with a stern de- mand for the scissors, she was received at the “side” with naval etiquette. they showed me a confederate flag at munson's hill, i think, and tad said some boats on the river were “pirates.” in september mrs. lincoln secured a tutor for the boys, and asked to have my brothers come regularly to lessons there, thinking their presence would be an incentive to willie and tad. but, not long before, my father lost his government office. after a while my father received another of. fice, and the boys began school with willie and tad. the tutor had no easy post with the two younger boys, though willie and budd studied well, and made rapid progress. the boys had another “show” early in jan- uary, . among their christmas presents was a magic lantern; and for a week they gave exhibitions every evening, i think in the pri- vate dining-room. they sent the president and messrs. hay and nicolay free tickets, and the president came in once. i notice in my father's journal that willie and tad dined with us every day for a week, and then took budd and hally back for their “show.” my two brothers were often urged to stay to dinner by the president and mrs. lincoln; and if it was stormy she would send us word that she would keep the boys over night. mrs. lincoln in those days was always kind— anxious to “let the children have a good time.” she gave me pieces of music which had been sent to her, and urged me to practise and play them to her when i came again. i never did, because i never practised, if i could help it. she often said: “get a bouquet for your mother before you go.” indeed, mr. watt al- ways gave me flowers when i came into the conservatory. tad was rather destructive there. he would pick the choicest blossoms, and once ate all the strawberries mr. watt was forcing! the boys received a present of a pony at this time, and spent most of their waking hours riding it by turns, and petting and feed- ing it. twice in january, willie and tad at- tended church and sunday-school with us at dr. smith's. the last time willie came to our house my mother noticed that his feet were wet. she made both the boys dry their feet; and as a surgeon (i think it was dr. barnes, of the th new york) was calling at the time, she asked him to take the boys home in his ambulance, which pleased them. on february budd had a severe cold and was kept in for a few days, and tad reported that “willie had a cold, too.” when budd re- turned from a visit, he said, “willie is dreadfully sick; he talks about me and the pony all the time.” my mother went to inquire, and mrs. lincoln told her they feared typhoid fever. sometimes the president would come in, stand a while at the foot of the bed, and go out without speaking. once he laid his arm on budd's neck as he sat at the bedside, and lean- ing over, smoothed willie's hair. although on february , at noon, my mo- ther brought news from the white house that willie was better, saying that he had held budd's hand and knew him, willie died at five o'clock of that day. tad was overcome with grief, and was ill for some time after. we removed north in ' , and the friend- ship with the lincoln boys became only a pleasant memory. master skylark. by john bennett. [begun in the november number.] chapter xii. a strang e ride. rat-a-tat-tat at the first dim hint of dawn went the chamberlain's knuckles upon the door. to nick it seemed scarce midnight yet, so sound had been his sleep. z master carew having gotten into his high- topped riding-boots with a great puffing and tugging, they washed their faces at the inn- yard pump by the smoky light of the hostler's lantern, and then in a subdued, half-wakened way made a hearty breakfast off the fragments of the last night's feast. part of the remaining cold meat, cheese, and cakes carew stowed in his leather pouch. the rest he left in the lap of a beggar sleeping beside the door. the street was dim with a chilly fog, through which a few pale stars still struggled overhead. the houses were all shut and barred; nobody was abroad, and the night-watch slept in com- fortable doorways here and there, with lolling heads and lanterns long gone out. as they came along the crooked street, a stray cat scur- ried away with scared green eyes, and a ken- neled hound set up a lonesome howl. but the blue boar inn was stirring like an ant-hill, with firefly lanterns flitting up and down, and a cheery glow about the open door. the horses of the company, scrubbed unreason- ably clean, snorted and stamped in little bridled clumps about the court-yard, and the stable- boys, not scrubbed at all, clanked at the pump or shook out wrinkled saddle-cloths with most prodigious yawns. the grooms were buckling up the packs; the chamberlain and sleepy-lid- ded maids stood at the door, waiting their fare- well farthings. some of the company yawned in the tap- room; some yawned out of doors with steam- ing stirrup-cup in hand; and some came yawn- ing down the stairways pulling on their riding- cloaks, booted, spurred, and ready for a long day's ride. “good-morrow, sirs,” said carew heartily. “good-morrow, sir, to you,” said they, and all came over to speak to nicholas in a very kindly way: and one or two patted him on the cheek and walked away speaking in undertones among themselves, keeping one eye on carew all the while. and master tom heywood, the play-writer, came out with a great slice of fresh wheat bread, thick with butter and dripping with yellow honey, and gave it to nick; and stood there silently with a very queer expres- sion watching him eat it, until carew's groom led up a stout hackney and a small roan palfrey to the block, and the master-player, crying impa- tiently “up with thee, nick, we must be am- bling!” sprang into the saddle of the gray. the sleepy inn-folk roused a bit to send a cheery volley of, “fare ye well, sirs, come again,” after the departing players, and the long cavalcade cantered briskly out of the inn- yard, in double rank, with a great clinking of bridle-chains and a drifting odor of wet leather and heavy perfume. nick sat very erect and rode his best, feeling like some errant knight of the great round ta- ble, ready to right the whole world's wrongs. “but what about the horse p” said he. “we can na keep him in stratford, sir.” “oh, that 's all seen to,” said the master- player. “'t is to be sent back by the weekly carrier.” “and where do i turn into the stratford road, sir?” asked nick, as the players clattered down the cobbled street in a cloud of mist that steamed up so thickly from the stones that the horses seemed to have no legs, but to float like boats. “some distance further on,” replied carew [feb. master srylark. carelessly. “”t is not the way we came that thou shalt ride to-day; that is tº other end of town, and the gate not open yet. but the longest way round is the shortest way home, so let's be spurring on.” at the corner of the street a cross and sleepy cobbler was strapping a dirty urchin, who bel- lowed lustily. nick winced. “hollo!” cried carew. “what's to do?” “why, sir,” said nick, ruefully, “father will thresh me well this night.” “nay,” said carew, in a quite decided tone; “that he 'll not, i promise thee!”— and as he spoke he chuckled softly to himself. the man before them turned suddenly around, and grinned queerly; but, catching the master- player's eye, whipped his head about like a weather-vane in a gale, and cantered on. as they came down the narrow street the watchmen were just swinging wide the city gates, and gave a cheer to speed the parting guests, who gave a rouse in turn, and were soon lost to sight in the mist which hid the valley in a great gray sea. “how shall i know where to turn off, sir?” asked nick, a little anxiously. “'t is all alike.” “i 'll tell thee,” said the master-player; “rest thee easy on that score. i know the road thou art to ride much better than thou dost thyself.” he smiled quite frankly as he spoke, and nick could not help wondering why the man before them again turned around and eyed him with that sneaking grin. - he did not like the fellow's looks. he had scowling black brows, hair cut as close as if the rats had gnawed it off, a pair of ill-shaped bandy-legs, a wide, unwholesome slit of a mouth, and a nose like a raspberry tart. his whole appearance was servile and mean, and there was a sly malice in his furtive eyes. be- sides that, and a thing which strangely fasci- nated nick's gaze, there was a hole through the gristle of his right ear, scarred about as if it had been burned, and through this hole the fellow had tied a bow of crimson ribbon, like a butterfly alighted upon his ear. “a pretty fellow !” said carew, with a shrug. “he ‘ll be hard-put to dodge the hangman of the sort.” yet; but he 's a right good fellow in his way, and he has served me — he has served me.” the first loud burst of talk had ceased, and all rode silently along. the air was chill, and nick was grateful for the cloak that carew threw around him. there was no sound but the beat of many hoofs in the dust-padded road, and now and then the crowing of a cock some- where within the cloaking fog. the stars were gone, and the sky was lighting up; and all at once as they rode, the clouds ahead, low down and to the right, broke raggedly away and let a red sun-gleam shoot through across the mist, bathing the riders in dazzling rosy light. “why, master carew,” cried nick, no little startled, “there comes the sun, almost ahead we're riding eastward, sir. we've missed the road l’” “oh, no, we've not,” said carew; “nothing his tone was so peremptory and sharp that nick said nothing more, but rode along, vaguely wishing that he was already clattering down stratford high street. the clouds scattered as the sun came up, and the morning haze drifted away into cool dales, and floated off upon the breeze. and as the world woke up the players wakened, too, and rode gaily along, laughing, singing, and chattering together, until nick thought he had never in all his life before seen such a jolly fel- lowship. his heart was blithe as he reined his curveting palfrey by the master-player's side, and watched the sunlight dance and sparkle along the dashing line from dagger-hilts and jeweled clasps, and the mist-lank plumes curl crisp again in the warmth of the rising sun. the master-player, too, had a graceful, tak- ing way of being half-familiar with the lad; he was besides a marvelous teller of wonderful tales, and whiled away the time with jests and quips, mile after mile, till nick forgot both road and time, and laughed until his sides were sore. yet slowly, as they rode along, it came home to him with the passing of the land that this was country new and strange. so he began to take notice of this and that beside the way; and as he noticed he began to grow uneasy. thrice had he come to coventry, but surely never by a road like this. yet still the master-player joked and laughed .] master skylark. and pleased the boy with little things—until nick laughed, too, and let the matter go. at last, however, when they had ridden fully an hour, they passed a moss-grown abbey on the left-hand side of the road, a strange old place that nick could not recall. “are ye sure, master carew,” he ventured dost come without fail to the very place that thou art going. i will, upon my word, and on the remnant of mine honour!” but in spite of this assurance, and in spite of the master-player's ceaseless stream of gaiety and marvels, nick became more and more un- easy. the road was certainly growing stranger “they overtook him as he topped the hill, and, leaning over, carew snatched the bridle from his hand.” (see next page.) timidly, “are ye sure we be na going wrong, sir p’” at that the master-player took on so offended an air that nick was sorry he had spoken. “why, now,” said carew, haughtily, “if thou dost know the roads of england better than i, who have trudged and ridden them all these years, i'll sit me down and learn of thee how to follow mine own nose. i tell thee i know the road thou art to ride this day better than thou dost thyself; and i'll see to it that thou and stranger as they passed. the company, too, instead of ambling leisurely along, as they had done at first, were now spurring ahead at a good round gallop, in answer to a shrill whistle from the master-player; and the horses were wet with sweat. they passed a country village, too, that was quite unknown to nick, and a great highway running to the north that he had never seen before; and when they had ridden for about two hours, the road swerved southward to a .] master skylark. be seen was a butcher's boy carting garbage out of the town and whistling to keep his courage up. the watch had long since gone to sleep about the silent streets, but a dim light burned in the tap-room of the old brown cow; and there the players rested for the night. chapter xiii. a dash for freedom. nick awoke from a heavy, burning sleep, aching from head to foot. the master-player, up and dressed, stood by the window, scowl- ing grimly out into the ashy dawn. nick made haste to rise, but could not stifle a sharp cry of pain as he staggered to his feet, he was so racked and sore with riding. at the boy's smothered cry carew turned, and his dark face softened with a sudden look of pity and concern. “why, nick, my lad,” he cried, and hurried to his side, “this is too bad, indeed!” and without more words took him gently in his arms and carried him down to the courtyard well, where he bathed him softly from neck to heel in the cold, refreshing water, and wiped him with a soft, clean towel as tenderly as if he had been the lad's own mo- ther. and having dried him thoroughly, he rubbed him with a waxy ointment that smelled of henbane and poppies, until the aching was almost gone. so soft and so kind was he withal that nick took heart after a little and asked timidly, “and ye will let me go home to-day, sir, will ye not?” the master-player frowned. “please, master carew, let me go.” “come, come,” said carew impatiently, “enough of this!”— and stamped his foot. “but, oh, master carew,” plead nick, with a sob in his throat, “my mother's heart will surely break if i do na come home!” carew started, and his mouth twitched queerly. “enough, i say — enough ” he cried. “i will not hear; i'll have no more. i tell thee hold thy tongue—be dumb i 'll not have ears—thou shalt not speak! dost hear?” he dashed the towel to the ground. “i bid thee hold thy tongue.” nick hid his face between his hands, and leaned against the rough stone wall, a naked, shivering, wretched little chap indeed, “oh, mother, mother, mother!” he sobbed pitifully. a singular expression came over the master- player's face. “i will not hear—i tell thee i will not hear!” he choked; and, turning sud- denly away, he fell upon the sleepy hostler, who was drawing water at the well, and rated him outrageously, to that astounded worthy's great amazement. nick crept into his clothes, and stole away to the kitchen-door. there was a red-faced wo- man there who bade him not to cry —’t would soon be breakfast-time. nick thought he could not eat at all; but when the savory smell crept out and filled the chilly air, his poor little empty stomach would not be denied, and he ate heartily. master heywood sat beside him and gave him the choicest bits from his own trencher; and carew himself, seeing that he ate, looked strangely pleased, and ordered him a tiny mut- ton-pie, well spiced. nick pushed it back in- dignantly; but heywood took the pie and cut it open, saying quietly: “come, lad, the good god made the sheep that is in this pie, not gaston carew. eat it — come, ’t will do thee good!” and saw him finish the last crumb. from towcester south through northamp- tonshire is a pretty country of rolling hills and undulating hollows, ribboned with pebbly rivers, and dotted with fair parks and tofts of ash and elm and oak. straggling villages now and then were threaded on the road like beads upon a string, and here and there the air was damp and misty from the grassy fens along some winding stream. it was against nature that a healthy, grow- ing lad should be so much cast down as not to see and be interested in the strange, new, pass- ing world of things about him; and little by little nick roused from his wretchedness and began to look about him. and a wonder grew within his brain: why had they stolen him?— where were they taking him p – what would they do with him there – or would they soon let him go again? every yellow cloud of dust arising far ahead along the road wrought up his hopes to a blue- beard pitch, as regularly to fall. first came a cast-off soldier from the war in the netherlands, rakishly forlorn, his breastplate full of rusty [fee. master skylark. dents, his wild hair worn by his steel cap, swaggering along on a sorry hack with an old “a peddling chapman limped by, sulkily doffing his hat." belt full of pistolets, and his long sword thump- ing rösinante's ribs. then a peddling chap- man, with a dust-white pack and a cunning hebrew look, limped by, sulkily doffing his greasy hat. two sturdy midland journeymen in search of southern handicraft, trudged down with tool-bags over their shoulders and stout oak staves in hand. of wretched beggars and tattered rogues there was an endless string. but of any help no sign. here and there, like a moving dot, a plough- man turned a belated furrow; or a sweating ditcher leaned upon his reluctant spade and longed for night; or a shepherd, quite as silly as his sheep, gawked up the morning hills. but not a sign of help for nick. once, passing through a little town, he raised a sudden cry of “help! help —they be steal- ing me away!” but at that the master-player and the bandy-legged man waved their hands and set up such a shout that his shrill outcry was not even heard. and the simple country bumpkins, standing in a grinning row like so many old aunt sallys at a fair, pulled off their caps and bowed, thinking it some company of great lords, and fetched a clownish cheer as the players galloped by. then the hot dust got into nick's throat and he began to cough. carew started with a look of alarm. “come, come, nicholas, this will never do—never do in the world; thou 'lt spoil thy voice.” “i do na care,” said nick. “but i do,” said carew, sharply. “so we'll have no more of it!” and he clapped his hand upon his poniard. “but, nay—nay, lad, i did not mean to threaten thee —'t is but a jest. come, smooth thy throat, and do not shriek no more. we play in old st. albans town to-night, and thou art to sing thy song for us again.” nick pressed his lips tight shut and shook his head. he would not sing for them again. “come, nick, i've promised tom heywood that thou shouldst sing his song; and, lad, there 's no one left in all the land to sing it if thou 'lt not. tom doth dearly love thee, lad — why, sure, thou hast seen that! and, nick, i've promised all the company that thou wouldst sing tom's song with us to-night. 't will break their hearts if thou wilt not. • *- “two sturdy midland journeymen, with stout oak staves in hand.” come, nick, thou 'lt sing it for us all, and set old albans town afire l’” said carew, pleadingly. .] master skylark. nick shook his head. “come, nick,” said carew coaxingly, “we must hear that sweet voice of thine in albans town to-night. come, there 's a dear good lad, and give us just one little song! come, act the man and sing, as thou alone in all the world can sing, in albans town this night; and on my word, and on the remnant of mine hon- our, i'll leave thee go back to stratford town to-morrow morning !” “to stratford — to-morrow p” stammered nick with a glad, incredulous cry, while his heart leaped up within him. “ay, verily; upon my faith as the fine fag- end of a very proper gentleman—thoushalt go back to stratford town to-morrow if thou wilt but do thy turn with us to-night.” nick caught the master-player's arm as they rode along, al- most crying for very joy: “oh, that i will, sir—and do my very best. and, oh, mas- ter carew, i ha' thought so ill o' thee! forgive me, sir, i did na know thee well.” carew winced. has- tily throwing the rein to nick, he left him to master his own array. as for nick, as hap- py as a lark he learned his new lines as he rode along, master carew saying them over to him from the manu- script and over again until he made not a single mistake; and was at great pains to teach him the latest fashionable london way of pronounc- ing all the words, and of emphasizing his set phrases. “nay, nay,” he would cry, laugh- ingly, “not that way, lad; but this: “good my lord, i bring a letter from the duke’— as if thou hadst indeed a letter, see, and not an empty fist. and when thou dost hand it to him, do it thus—and not as if thou wert about vol. xxiv.- . to stab him in the paunch with a cheese-knife!” and at the end he clapped him upon the back and said again and again that he loved him, that he was a dear, sweet figure of a lad, and that his voice, among the rest of england's singers, was like clear honey dropping into a pot of grease. but it is a long ride from towcester to st. albans town in herts, though the road runs through a pleasant billowy land of oak-walled lanes, wide pastures, and quiet parks; and the steady jog, jog of the little roan began to rack nick's tired bones before the day was done. yet when they marched into the quaint old town to the blare of trumpets and the crash of the kettledrums, all the long line gaudy with the coat-armour of the lord high ad- miral beneath their flaunting banners, and “of wretched beggars and tattered rogues there was an endless string.” the horses pricked up their ears and arched their necks and pranced along the crowded streets, nick, stared at by all the good towns- folk, could not help feeling a thrill of pride that he was one of the great company of players, and sat up very straight and held his head up haughtily as master carew did, and bore him- self with as lordly an air as he knew how. # # # # + # but when morning came, and he danced blithely back from washing himself at the horse- o [feb. master skylark. trough, all ready to start for home, he found the little roan cross-bridled as before between the master-player's gray and the bandy-legged fellow's sorrel mare. “what, there, cast him loose,” said he to the horse-boy who held the three. “i am not go- ing on with the players — i’m to go back to stratford.” “then ye go afoot,” coolly rejoined the other, grinning, “for the hoss goeth on wi' the rest.” “what is this, master carew p” cried nick, indignantly, bursting into the tap-room, where the players were at ale. “they will na let me have the horse, sir. am i to walk the whole way back to stratford town p” “to stratford p” asked master carew, star- ing with an expression of most innocent sur- prise, as he set his ale-can down, and turned around. “why, thou art not going to strat- ford.” “not going to stratford ' " gasped nick, catching at the table with a sinking heart. “why, sir, ye promised that i should to-day.” “nay, now, that i did not, nicholas. i promised thee that thou shouldst go back to- morrow — were not those my very words?” “ay, that they were,” cried nick; “and why will ye na leave me go?” “why, this is not to-morrow, nick. why, see, i cannot leave thee go to-day. thou knowest that i said to-morrow; and this is not to-morrow — on thine honour, is it now p” “how can i tell?” cried nick, despairingly. “yesterday ye said it would be, and now ye say that it is na. ye’ve twisted it all up so that a body can na tell at all. but there is a falsehood — a wicked, black falsehood — some- where betwixt you and me, sir; and ye know that i have na lied to you, master carew!” through the tap-room door he saw the open street and the hills beyond the town. catching his breath, he sprang across the sill, and ran for the free fields at the top of his speed. chapter xiv. at bay. “after him! — stop him –catch the - p rogue!” cried carew, running out on the cob- bles with his ale-can in his hand. “a shilling to the man that brings him back unharmed ! no blows, nor clubs, nor stabbing, hark 'e, but catch me the knave straightway; he hath snatched a fortune from my hands!” at that the hostler, whip in hand, and the tapster with his bit, were off as fast as their legs could carry them, bawling “stop, thief, stop " at the top of their lungs; and at their backs every idle varlet about the inn, grooms, stable-boys, and hangers-on, ran whooping, howling, and hallooing like wild huntsmen. nick's frightened heart was in his mouth, and his breath came quick and sharp. tap-a-tap, tap-a-tap went his feet on the cobblestones as down the long street he flew, running as he had never run before. it seemed as if the whole town bellowed at his back; for windows creaked above his head, and doors banged wildly after him; curs from every alley-way came yelping at his heels; ap- prentices let go the shutter-bars, and joined in the chase; and near and nearer came the cry of “stop, thief, stop !” and the kloppety-klop of hob-nailed shoes in wild pursuit. the rabble filled the dark old street from wall to wall, as if a cloud of good-for-naughts had burst above the town; and far in front sped one small, curly-headed lad, running like a frightened fawn. he had lost his cap, and his breath came short, half-sobbing in his throat as the sound of footfalls gained upon his ear; but even yet he might have beaten them all and reached the open fields but for the dirt and garbage in the street. three times he slipped upon a rancid bacon-rind and almost fell; and the third time, as he plunged across the oozing drain, a dog dashed right between his feet. he staggered, nearly fell, threw out his hand against the house and saved himself; but as he started on again he saw the town-watch, wak- ened by the uproar, standing with their long staves at the end of the street, barring the way. the door of a smithy stood open just ahead, with forge-fires glowing and the hammer ring- ing on the anvil. nick darted in, past the horses, hostlers, and blacksmith's boys, and caught at the leather apron of the sturdy smith himself. “hoo, man, what a dickens!” snorted he, dropping the red-hot shoe on which he was at .] i master skylark. work, and staring like a startled ox at the pant- ing little fugitive. “do na leave them take me!” panted nick. “they ha' stolen me away from stratford town and will na leave me go!” at that will hostler bolted in, red-faced and scant of wind. “thou young rascal,” quoth he, “i have thee now ! come out o' that!” and he tried to take nick by the collar. “‘nobody breaks nobody's hearts n old jo-ohn smithses sho-op,” drawled the smith in his deep voice; steals nobody, “so-oftly, so-oftly " rumbled the smith, tweaking up the glowing shoe in his great pin- cers, and sweeping a sputtering half-circle in front of the cowering lad. “droive slow through the cro-owd ' what hath youngster here did no-ow p” “he hath stolen a fortune from his master at the three lions—and the shilling for him 's mine!” “hath stealed a fortune? whoy, huttlety- tut!” roared the burly smith, turning ponder- ously upon nick, who was dodging around him like a boy at tag around a tree. “whoy, lad,” said he, scratching his puzzled head with his great, grimy fingers, “where hast putten it?” all the rout and the riot now came plung- ing into the smithy, breathless with the chase. master carew himself, his ale-can still clutched in his hand, and bearing himself with a high air of dignity, followed after them, frowning. * nor nother. “what?” said he, angrily, “have ye earthed the cub and cannot dig him out? hast caught him there, fellow p” “ay, master, that i have " shouted will hostler. “shilling's mine, sir.” “then fetch him out of this hole!” cried carew, sniffing disdainfully at the low, smoky door. “but he will na be fetched, master,” stam- mered the doughty will, keeping a most re- spectful distance from the long black pincers master skylark. and the sputtering shoe with which the farrier stolidly mowed the air around about nick att- wood and himself. at that the crowd set up a shout. carew thrust fiercely into the press, the louts and loafers giving way. “what, here, nicholas attwood,” said he, harshly, “come hither.” “do na leave him take me,” begged nick. “he is not my master; i am not bound out ap- prentice—they are stealing me away from my own home and it will break my mother's heart.” “nobody breaks nobody's hearts in old jo-ohn smithses sho-op,” drawled the smith in his deep voice; “nor steals nobody, nother. we be honest-dealing folk in albans town, an’ makes as good horse-shoes as be forged in all england"—and he went placidly on mowing the air with the glimmering shoe. “here, fellow, stand aside,” commanded master carew haughtily. “stand aside and let me pass!” as he spoke he clapped his hand upon his poniard with a fierce snarl, show- ing his white teeth like a wolf-hound. the men about him fell back with unani- mous alacrity, making out each to put himself behind the other. but the huge smith only puffed out his sooty cheeks as if to blow a fly off the next bite of cheese: “so-oftly, so-oftly, muster,” drawled he ; “do na go to ruffling it here. this shop be mine, and i be free-born englishman. i 'll stand aside for no swash- buckling rogue on my own ground. come, now, what wilt thou o' the lad?—and speak thee fair, good muster, or thou 'lt get a dab o' the red-hot shoe.” as he spoke he gave the black tongs an extra whirl. (to be continued.) the little water-colorist. ah gau’s new-year's celebration. by theodore wores. chinatown of san francisco was keeping holiday, and all was gaiety and bustle. the narrow, picturesque streets were deco- rated with brightly-colored lanterns, while over- head, above the roof-tops, the yellow dragon- flags floated against a blue california sky. it was a sunny-day in february; and the streets were swarming with a multitude of chi- nese—men, women, and children—all arrayed in their richest holiday attire. the children especially, with their bright faces and black eyes, and in their pretty costumes, formed a most pleasing and interesting feature of this living oriental picture. -- everybody seemed to be happy and good- natured; and ever and anon, as a group of friends met, they stopped and amid much ceremonious bowing exchanged the compli- ments of the season; for this festive occasion was nothing more nor less than the celebration of the chinese new year. the idea of celebrating new year's day in february may strike some of my readers as odd. but, since this has been the chinese cus- tom from time immemorial, and is older, by several thousands of years, than our acceptance of the first of january as the proper time, the chinese, perhaps, are not far wrong in suppos- ing themselves to be at least as much in the right as ourselves. this question, however, was of no concern to this merry holiday throng. they were quite satisfied with the arrangement; and, with the utmost belief in their own superiority, they felt at heart an inborn contempt—com- mon to all chinese—for “outside barbarians.” (this term embraces all nations not living within the sacred boundaries of “the flowery kingdom,” and includes the inhabitants of all the world; and these unfortunate outsiders are broadly divided into two classes—eastern and western barbarians.) this feeling was, no doubt, shared by ah gau, a very tiny chinese boy, the subject of this sketch,--who, with his friend ah sing, was proudly strutting through one of the crowded thoroughfares of chinatown. ah gau was five years of age and his friend was seven. this was one of the most eventful days of the little man's short life; and the purpose of this story is to relate some of his doings on this chinese new year's day. these two little boys were dressed in the height of fashion. ah gau wore a pale blue quilted blouse reaching to his knees, and his sleeves were so long that his hands were rarely to be seen. he had on red silk trousers, loose above, but tightly wound around the ankles, while his richly embroidered shoes were pro- vided with white-painted soles nearly two inches thick. a round skull-cap, surmounted by a red button, completed this most elegant cos- tume. no wonder he was pleased with him- self, and proud of his dazzling appearance. but, for all this, his mind was not at ease and his face wore a troubled look. this was owing to the annoyance to which he had just been subjected by a group of city boys who had passed by. they had stopped and stared most rudely at him, and then had burst out into loud laughter when one of them had cried out, “see de blooming little chinese dude l’’ though ah gau had paid no attention to this insult, and had scornfully passed them by, his dignity had been ruffled; not so much by the rude remark as by the laughter that had fol- lowed. the fact was that, while he was an american born, ah gau understood next to nothing of the english language; and what little education he had acquired was received in a chinese school—where only chinese was taught. he had rarely been outside of chinatown, and his knowledge of the american boy was limited to a very low class—mainly those street [feb. ah gau’s new-year's celebration. arabs and ragamuffins who live in the slums in and about the chinese quarter. he had but few opportunities of seeing a higher type of the american boy; consequently, a little chinese girl with lilies. it can hardly be wondered at that ah gau re- garded them as little barbarians. ever since he could remember these little hoodlums had tormented him — even taking the liberty, at times, of tugging at his pigtail. he had been annoyed and abused in every possible way. only a few days before he had been held up in regular highwayman fashion, and robbed of a stick of sugar-cane which he had just purchased. no wonder that he had come to look upon these white boys as his natural enemies. after this latest proof of their rudeness, he remarked to ah sing: “what ill-bred boys! they are so wild and rude!” he added reflectively, “but i suppose that not one of them has ever learned any of the wise sayings of the great and good confucius !” it must not be supposed that this little pagan of five years always talked in so grown-up a manner as this. there were times when he romped and played like other boys. but this was a great occasion that called forth all his pride and dignity. it was, in fact, the first time that he was enjoying the proud privilege of being allowed to make new year's calls. he had already made three: but his list was a long one; and he and his friend were now on their way to pay their respects to his uncle, wang tai, a wealthy and respected merchant who kept a chinese drug-store. now and then, as they went through the streets, they met boys of their acquaintance, quite as finely attired as themselves. then they always stopped, and after a series of low and dignified bows exchanged new year's greetings — each, in the meanwhile, shaking hands with himself. it is not the custom, nor is it considered good form, for the chinese to shake hands with one another. their idea seems a good one, and would, no doubt, be favored by such unfortunates as presidents and other public men who at times are obliged to stand for hours and shake hands with thousands of all sorts and conditions of men. when ah gau and ah sing met any of their elders they were not in the least shy, and the same exchange of salutations took place. at all such times they behaved with great deco- rum, quite like little old men. chinese chil- dren, from their earliest childhood, are treated by their parents more or less as if grown up. that, in a measure, is why chinese children, such as our little friends ah gau and ah sing, affect that oldish manner which marks the chief difference between chinese and american children. as ah gau swaggered along his mind was hard at work. much had been accomplished; but still more was to be done before this day, so crowded with great events, would end. sev- eral days already had been spent in making suitable preparations for this holiday; and the day before, as early as six o'clock, he had been up, and, in company with the entire family, had paid a visit to the neighboring joss-house. .] ah gau’s new-year's celebration. the procession — for some queer reason the chinese always seem to walk in single file — was headed by his father, carrying the baby brother proudly in his arms. the mother and sister carried baskets, filled with offerings to the gods; while ah gau had contented himself with pa- rading his finery only. the interior of the joss-house was but dimly lighted; and when the eyes once became used to the mysterious and smoky atmosphere that filled the place, strange and weird faces of gods and demons showed through the darkness and gazed solemnly down from rich altars upon the visitors. a priest, seated at the entrance, had a supply of painted candles, sticks of incense made of sandalwood, and packets of papers containing printed prayers. having bought a supply of these helps to worship, ah gau and his family had entered the inner room of the pagan gods. in the presence of these images, with hideous, painted faces, dimly looming out of the darkness and mystery of the incense-laden atmosphere, most american boys of ah gau's age would have been terror-stricken. he, on the contrary, seemed to be quite at ease among these strange things and went near to the uncanny idols with quite an air of familiarity. he boldly walked up to a large drum standing in one corner and, seizing a drumstick, pounded on it with all his might, for the purpose of drawing the attention of the gods to the worshipers. he then had joined with the family in placing a large number of lighted candles and smoking incense-sticks upon the altar; after which they had bent themselves in prayer before the prin- cipal image of the temple. a number of offer- ings—cakes, fruits, and various articles of food, as well as rice-wine—were next piled up before this deity. their devotions ended with the burning of a lot of printed prayers in a little brick furnace erected in a corner of the joss- house for that purpose. as they left, a pack of fire-crackers was set off; and then, thor- oughly satisfied with themselves, and with minds at rest, they had gone homeward. on the way they had stopped to buy some lily bulbs at the flower-market, which was a row of booths erected along both sides of the street, and forming a most picturesque sight. these lily bulbs, narcissuses, are quite a fea- ture of the new year's decorations, and are imported from china in great quantities for this occasion. ah gau's mother, after carefully examining a number, had bought about a half-dozen, which ah gau's little sister carefully had carried home. they then were placed each one in a shallow, crab-shaped dish filled with pebbles and water under these conditions, the bulbs continue to sprout freely, producing, in a short time, a fine cluster of lilies. it is believed by the chinese that the greater the number of flowers, the better will be their luck during the ensuing year. every chinese household, even the poorest, is brightened by at least one of these plants during the new year's season. in addition to the lily- “a wealthy and respected chinese merchant." booths are many others, devoted to the sale of goldfish, birds, fruits, confectionery, and every- thing necessary for the proper observance and enjoyment of the new year's festivities. ah gau and his friend now arrived at his uncle's house and entered the drug-store. - new-year’s day in chinatown. buying narcissus bulbs. tººwº . ah gau’s new-year's celebration. the interior of this shop presented a strange and oriental aspect. one corner was occupied by the household shrine, the chief feature of which was a highly colored picture of some fa- vorite god. the smoke of burning incense, issuing from a brightly polished brazen vessel, rose from the altar before this deity and filled the air with its mysterious fragrance. beside the shrine, on a table, was an abundant sup- ply of refreshment, consisting of cakes, both red and yellow ; of lichi nuts, oranges, candied ginger, a number of boxes of cigars; and last, but not least, of bottles containing sam-sheu, the favorite beverage of the chinese. ah gau's uncle, dressed in a long yellow silk blouse, was standing near this table, busily en- gaged in doing the honors to his numerous callers. he greeted his nephew and his friend with great cordiality, and invited them to par- take of refreshments; but ah gau modestly contented himself with a handful of dried water-melon seeds, which he dropped into his capacious inside pocket. one side of the shop was taken up by a long counter; and shelves and drawers extended all around the room. these were covered and filled with a great and miscellaneous collection of strange and rare herbs and roots. deer- horns, in their velvet stage, were suspended from the ceiling. these, after being sliced as thin as wafers, are boiled, and produce what is supposed to be a valuable medicine. dried lizards, neatly spread on thin bamboo sticks, occupied a basket at one end of the counter. dried toads, shark's tails, and many other cu- rious objects used in the preparation of chi- nese medicines, littered the shop from end to end; and a richly carved and gilded open-work screen, with two dragons in the center, extended across the middle of the ceiling. the chinese are very much behindhand in their knowledge of medicine. their methods, which are based on ignorance and superstition, are quite as absurd and primitive as were those of the europeans of the middle ages. during ah gau's visit, a white man, very tramp-like in appearance, entered, and begged for alms. the uncle cheerfully handed him some money, and he departed. he was fol- lowed, shortly afterward, by two rather rough- vol. xxiv.- . looking young men, who wished the host a happy new year. these were promptly re- warded with a handful of cigars, which they stowed away in their pockets; then they, too, departed, presumably to continue their new year's calls indefinitely, as long as the supply of hospitable chinese lasted. beggars of all kinds reap a rich harvest on this holiday, as they have discovered that the chinese are then very liberal. the fact is, the chinese is superstitious, and he avoids any kind of unpleasantness on new year's day, for fear that ill-luck may pursue him during the ensuing year. an evil wish or a suggestion of bad luck is most unfortunate; and any allusion to death is received with su- perstitious dread, as portending some terrible misfortune. he takes every precaution against anything of a disagreeable nature, and, rather than incur ill-will, extends hospitality to every tramp and beggar who appears at his door. our little friends found the constant coming and going of visitors to their uncle's shop so interesting that thay continued to linger, quite forgetful of the long list of calls still to be made, until the afternoon was well advanced. they became deeply fascinated with the preparations being made by some of the servants for the closing ceremony of the day, the purpose of which was to “drive away evil spirits;” and as this consists of firing off great quantities of fire- crackers, it was naturally regarded by chinese, as well as by american boys, as the most im- portant and exciting event of the day. the servants were engaged in fastening bunch after bunch of fire-crackers, varied by an occa- sional bomb or giant fire-cracker, to a long rope. at sundown this was to be taken up on the roof, and suspended from a projecting pole, the end of this monster tail of fire-crackers reach- ing to the ground. ah gau knew that similar preparations were being made at all the other houses along the street, and he could hardly restrain his impatience and wait until this terri- ble racket was to break loose. but several hours still must pass before sunset; so he had to subdue his impatience as best he could. it ended by his crawling into a large teak- wood armchair in a corner. he gazed about, for a time, at the surrounding objects that filled ah gau’s new-year's celebration. the shop; then his eyelids grew heavy; his head nodded, and, before he was aware of it, he was sound asleep. ah gau no sooner had fallen asleep than he had a dream. he saw, to his utter amazement, the dried lizards suddenly become alive; and one by one they slowly crawled out of their boxes toward him. the nearer they approached, the larger they seemed to grow — until they were trans- formed into huge alligators! as they stood there, ranged before him, the largest remarked, in very good chinese: “did you ever see such a sleepy-head p” “his mother really should have put him to bed!” remarked the second. “ha, ha!” laughed the third. “he thinks him- self grown-up—look at that absurd little pig- tail l’” ah gau was so indignant at these insulting comments, that his anger overcame his fear. “you hold your tongues and mind your own business!” he loudly shouted at them. “you think yourselves very big; but you are, after all, only a pack of dried lizards; and if you don't crawl back into your box, where you belong, i will let my uncle know about this, and he will make short work of you. then you will be ground up into powder and made into pills. that's what you were made for — not to go swaggering about, insulting your betters!” the alligators fairly gasped, for a moment; then they exclaimed, in tones of indignation: “did you ever ?” “what impudence!” re- marked the gilded dragon, from overhead. “i’d like to blow him up for his impudence!” said a giant fire-cracker. “let's "squeaked the little ones. “yes!” they all shouted in chorus; “that 's what he deserves. blow him up, and let us make him burn and sizzle!” the place was now in an uproar; and ah gau's little pigtail stood on end as myriads of little fire-crackers formed into companies, and, led by the giants, charged down upon him. he fought desperately, and tried to beat them off. without avail! like a flight of lo- custs, they all surrounded him in an instant. his pigtail was transformed into a rope of fire- crackers. and now the stick of smoking incense volunteered his aid. he turned a double somer- sault, and touched his fiery head to a fire-cracker attached to ah gau's pigtail. as the wick hissed and sizzled a momentary hush succeeded the turmoil. then followed a most infernal din of exploding fire-crackers. it gave ah gau such a start that he awoke. he sat on the floor, rubbing his eyes for a moment, before he realized where he was. it puzzled and alarmed him when he discovered that he was all alone; while the terrible din of his dream continued and increased. then all at once it dawned upon him that the ceremony of “frightening away the evil spirits” was in prog- ress. realizing that his friends had adjourned to the street to witness this interesting, if noisy, process, he hurried to the door. ah gau had a good view of the scene, now enveloped in an atmosphere of smoke. flashes of fire darted in red tongues all along the street, and the long rope of fire-crackers exploded with a noise and rattle that could be heard miles away. the din was deafening. no wonder the evil spirits were fleeing in dismay ! such was not the effect produced, however, on the small american boys who had gathered together in hundreds from all directions. com- bined assaults were made by them on the fiery, sputtering mass; and though they were driven back repeatedly by the suffocating smoke, that only seemed to strengthen their determination to stamp upon and rescue a few of the unex- ploded fire-crackers. ah gau gazed scornfully upon the scene, as these demon-like figures danced in and out of the smoke and fire. “look at those red- headed demons! they seem to be fire-proof.” he remarked to his uncle. after pondering a while, he continued: “i have been told that all this noise and fire and smoke is to drive away evil spirits; but it seems to bring them, like flies around a sugar-bowl.” the seeming failure of this noisy method of combatting the bad spirits set his young mind to thinking. doubts entered his little pagan brain; and i hope that these increased and mul- tiplied until at last they stormed that fortress of darkness and superstition, and admitted clear light of truth. one day while yolette and the yellow-haired youth were hunting about for an interesting story, they saw coming toward them a man with such a very doleful face that it made one quite sad to look at him. “poor fellow! how melancholy he seems!” whispered the third son, pityingly. “yes, he does, indeed. perhaps that is be- cause he has been reading some sorrowful story,” suggested the princess. at this moment the stranger spoke to them. “excuse me,” said he, “but i see you are tourists. have you met any one who looked as if he had been kidnapped?” “no, we have not,” replied the third son. “why do you ask such a singular question?” “alas!” the other returned, with a deep sigh, and gazing earnestly at the third son, “it is because i am very anxious to find a missing person and undo the mischief i once did him. a certain wicked nobleman, to serve his own bad ends, came to me one day and in- duced me to kidnap the little prince zeramo, (sixth story of the series entitled “the city of stories.” begun in the september number.) by frank m. bicknell. only son of the king of the cloud-capped mountains. much against my will, i stole into the royal palace one night and brought away the child, whom i carried into a dark wood and placed in the top of a tall tree. the wicked nobleman, who had taken this heartless means of gratifying some spite against the king, expected that the child would soon become food for the eagles—” “dear me!” exclaimed the third son, very much shocked; “and was such the case ?” “that i know not,” replied the conscience- stricken kidnapper, wiping his eyes with his sleeve; “ for all the while my poor conscience troubled me so much that i scarcely knew what i was doing. then, soon after the dreadful deed, i wandered away from home in a fit of depression, and i have been going about a prey to remorse ever since. well, i suppose you are very sorry for me, you look so, at least,--but that alone will do me no good; so if you cannot inform me of the whereabouts of prince zeramo i will go my way. may you .] oi the tale of the discontented weathercock. great traveler like yourself ought to have much of interest to relate, surely.” “yes, i have seen some strange things in my day,” the shadow admitted; “but i cannot talk about them very much now, for i must soon be off and away. i am very restless.” “it seems to me you are always in a hurry,” complained the weathercock; “but at least tell me, what land did you visit last?” “the land where fire is hot, where cows walk on all fours, and where the houses are built out of doors. the king of that country has been away to be married. i will relate an incident of his wedding journey. when the king's return home with his bride was expected, everybody and everything in the kingdom wanted to look as well as possible. now, there was a certain little drop of oil which said to itself: “‘alas! what can such an ugly thing as i, who dwell beside a slimy pool in a bog, do to make myself beautiful? when the king brings home his new queen, and everything else in the the queen stops the carriage to look at the drop of oil on the water. country is looking its prettiest, i shall feel very gloomy to think that among them all i alone remain as ugly as before. and it hurts me to be gloomy; i would rather die than do it. i think i will drown myself in the slimy pool.” o [feb. the tale of the discontented weathercock. “so the little drop of oil slid despairingly down a bulrush-stock, and tried to drown it- self in the dirty water. but instead of sinking to the bottom, as it had thought to do, it spread itself out very thin –oh! very thin indeed— over the surface of the slimy pool. and when the king rode by with his queen, the sun shone upon the oil as it lay in a film on top of the water, so that it reflected all the colors of the rainbow. when the young queen saw this she clapped her hands in delight, and declared it was the most beautiful thing in the entire king- dom — ” here the shadow interrupted itself, and, as yolette and the third son emerged from the street of the discontented weathercock they came upon the tower clock sitting on a ledge with his back against a wall, swinging his long legs to and fro. “i hope, princess,” the tower clock said to yolette, as they approached, “that you are now fully satisfied, and that it would be just as well to move on toward home.” “i am quite ready,” replied yolette, “for i do want to see my father; and, besides, i ought to go back—i mean forward—and finish the letter i began to dear grandmama. i am sure i shall have enough to write about now.” exclaiming that it must go, it edged off the roof and disappeared. the weathercock was much vexed at having its conversation with the shadow thus broken into; and from that hour it grew even more anxious than before to get away from its church spire and out into the world, where it could see something for itself. in fact, it became so restless and fidgeted about so busily that it got very rickety, and one day when a hurricane arose it was wrenched from its place and blown far, far out to sea, where it was drowned. and the shadow that had traveled never was seen afterward. º: x- §. sº the tower clock immediately raised her to his shoulder, and started off at a rapid pace. “stop!” cried yolette, suddenly bethinking herself of her comrade; “we must n’t leave the third son behind us.” “we can't, for he is before us,” retorted the tower clock. “i see him just ahead, and i will pick him up presently.” as soon as the third son had been lifted to his former place on the tower clock's left shoulder, the tower clock advanced with rapid strides, as if anxious to make up for lost time. soon he came to a gate in the outer walls of .] o the tale of the discontented weathercock. the city, whereon hung a placard on which was to be read the word “finis.” a few moments later yolette, turning her head, took her last look at the famous city of stories. during the homeward journey, which did not take very long-for the tower clock's steps were enormous, and he rested neither day nor night, it was noticeable that the third son was melancholy. at last yolette asked him to tell her what made him so sad. “alas!” he replied, “i am the most un- happy youth alive i, who am a third son, and who ere this should have done many great and glorious deeds, have been wandering about for more than five years to no purpose whatever. i have not so much as heard of a giant, or a dragon, or a sea-monster, or an enchanted castle — except in made-up stories; i have met with no perils, i have undergone no misfortune, ex- cept, indeed, that of having none to undergo. i might as well not be a third son.” “perhaps when we get home my father may be able to give you some great deed to do,” suggested the princess by way of consolation. “to be sure, giants and dragons do not grow in our kingdom, but one might stray over the borders. and then there is always a chance of war, you know.” and so they journeyed on, and by and by they reached yolette's father's kingdom, and soon afterward entered the capital. of course the king was overjoyed at the sight of his daughter, whom he had long given up for lost; and he resolved to give a brilliant fête. accordingly, he sent ont invitations at once. kings and princes and nobles, besides a host of common people, crowded into the city to enjoy the royal hospitality. among other guests was the king of the cloud-capped moun- tains. there also came to the festivities the conscience-stricken kidnapper. yolette was astonished that this man should have been able to travel so long a distance in so short a time. “oh, that is easily explained,” he replied, when she questioned him about it. “you see, i made a short cut. just after we parted, in the city of stories, i heard that the person i am looking for could be found here to-day.” here the conscience-stricken kidnapper in- terrupted his story with a loud sob. on being asked the cause of his emotion, he said in a tearful voice: “pardon me for having disturbed your ma- jesty, but i was suddenly seized by a sharp and cruel pang. they proceed from remorse— remorse that has been with me these many long years. it was i who stole the little prince zeramo, only son of the king of the cloud-capped mountains, and this youth is no other than he – the formerly lost prince zeramol” “prince zeramo!” echoed the king of the cloud-capped mountains, in great agitation. “prince zeramo, you say?” then, after ear- nestly regarding the yellow-haired youth a few moments, he cried joyfully: “yes; it is he, in- deed! my son, my son " “ah, what a load is liſted from my mind!” exclaimed the newly found prince, when he had embraced his royal parent with much fervor. “now i know why i never could succeed in doing anything heroic. it is because i am not really a third son, after all!” as may be supposed, the joyous event of zeramo's recovery caused the festivities to go on even more gaily than before. as a fitting close for the fête, which lasted three weeks instead of one, it was arranged to give up the last three days to a wedding; and whose wedding should it be if not that of the prince zeramo and the princess yolette p the happy pair were united with all pomp and splendor, and after the other ceremonies were concluded there was a magnificent ball. the tower clock did not appear at the revels, for he had mounted straightway to his old place on the tower, and settled down to his regular work. the end. the wonderful island of do-as-you-please. by mrs. h. . d. ross. oh, that was a wonderful journey i had to the far-away island, across the dream seas | - there were all sorts of things there to make the heart glad, and little to fret you, in do-as-you-please. i 'll tell you about it; and why should you doubt it? this wonderful island of do-as-you-please. there were cookies and gingersnaps, dough- nuts and cakes; all sweet as the honey that's made by the bees. there were candies and sugarplums, nuts, figs, and dates all over the island of do-as-you-please. there was no one to say, “you can't eat them to-day.” but you had all you wanted in do-as- you-please. there were apples and oranges, peaches and pears, and apricots growing on all of the trees. you could eat all you wanted, for nobody cares in the wonderful island of do-as-you- please. oh, 't was pleasant to be, across the dream sea, on the wonderful island of do-as-you- please ! no doctor-men lived on this mystical ground, one never was troubled with pain or disease. and a medicine bottle has never been found on this magical island of do-as-you-please. no nurse holds your nose, your hands, or your toes, while they dose you with mixtures in do- as-you-please. there were not any mamas or papas to bother, and no older brothers, or sisters to tease. there was no one to say: “now be good to each other,” in the far-away island of do-as-you-please. when you knew you were right, and felt you must fight — there was no one to stop you in do-as- you-please. there were horns, drums, and whistles, and hoops to be rolled, and toys that would squeak when you gave them a squeeze. oh, the noise you could make there ! nobody 'd scold on the mystical island of do-as-you-please. and santa claus, gay, comes around every day on the wonderful island of do-as-you- please. for and the boys and girls living in these mys- tic lands, which one visits only by crossing dream seas, were never annoyed by scrubbing of hands or washing of faces in do-as-you-please. and there, i declare, was no combing of hair, in the far-away island of do-as-you-please. i was told by the natives i met on the isle that night never fell, in this country of ease, and you stayed up till morning, and played all the while, never stopping for bedtime, in do-as-you- please. no one ever said, “you must be off to bed ' " in the wonderful island of do-as-you- please. now this is the tale of the wonderful trip i made to the island of do-as-you-please. and my little white bed was the magical ship that bore me in safety across the dream seas. but when i awoke, i found ’t was a joke, that wonderful island of do-as-you-please. o - - % y z , / / - * , , , , , º º. // * / º z - %. - - - - / - - - - zº º -º-º- a portrait of master crewe, in the costume of king henry viii. from the painting by sir jos hua reynolds. (see page .) vol. xxiv.- . the last three soldiers. by william henry shelton. [begun in the november number.] chapter viii. which ends in a battle. the morning after the three soldiers had pledged themselves to a life of exile, like the (otherwise) practical young persons they were, they proceeded resolutely to take stock of the provisions they had on hand and to consider the means of adding to their food-supply. they had already been nearly two months in camp, which was the period for which their rations had been issued; but what with the generous measure of the government and the small game they had brought down with their carbines, nearly half of the original supply remained on storage in the hut of the old man of the mountain. it is true that there was but one box left of the hard bread; but the salt beef, which had been covered with brine in the cask found in the corner of the cabin, had scarcely been touched. a few strips of the bacon still hung from the rafters. of the peas and beans, only a few scattering seeds lay here and there on the floor. the precious salt formed but a small pile by itself, but there was still a brave supply of coffee and sugar, and the best part of the original package of rice. in another month they would have green corn and pota- toes of their own growing, and they already had eggs—fortunately they had killed none of their hens. the tract of ground on the mountain was a half-hundred acres in extent, with an abundance of wood and water, protected on the borders by trees and bushes, and accessible only by the wooden ladder by which they themselves had come up the ledge. their camp was in the center of the tract, where the smoke of their fires would never be seen from the valleys. overhanging the boulder face of the mountain, just back of the ridge they had used for a sig- nal-station, was a clump of black oaks, through which something like an old trail led down to a narrow tongue of land caught on a shelf of granite, which was dark with a tall growth of pines, and the earth beneath was covered with a thick gray carpet of needles, clean and springy to the feet. along the southern cliff, and to the west of the spring which welled out from under the rock, was a curtain of dogwoods and birches, and elsewhere the timber was chestnut. at some points the trees of the latter variety were old and gnarled, and clung to the rocks by fantastic twisted roots like the claws of great birds, and at others they grew in thrifty young groves, three and four lusty trunks springing from the sides of a decayed stump. . they were certainly in the heart of the con- federacy, but the plateau was theirs by the right of possession, and over this, come what might, they were determined that the old flag with its thirty-five stars should continue to float. they, at least, would stubbornly refuse to acknowledge that there had been any change in the number of states. owing to the danger of being seen, they agreed together that no one should go down the ladder during the day. they were satisfied that they had not been seen since they had occupied the mountain. they had no reason to believe that any human being had crossed the bridge since the night the captain and his troopers had ridden away into the darkness; but still the bridge remained, the only menace to their safety, and with the military instinct of a small army retreating in an enemy's country, they determined to destroy that means of reach- ing them. accordingly, when night came, lieutenant coleman and george bromley, leaving philip asleep in the hut, armed themselves with the ax and the two carbines, and took their way across the last three soldiers. o the lower field to the deep gorge. they had not been there since the night they parted with the captain and andy, the guide. it was very still in this secluded place — even stiller, they thought, for the ceaseless tinkling of the branch in the bottom of the gorge. they had grown quite used to the stillness and solitude of nature in that upper wilderness. enough of moonlight fell through the branches overhead so that they could see the forms of the trees that grew in the gorge; and the moon itself was so low in the west that its rays slanted under the bridge and touched with a ghostly light the dead top of a great basswood which forked its giant limbs upward like beckoning arms. then there was one ray of light that lanced its way to the very heart of the gorge, and touched a tiny patch of sparkling water alongside a shin- ing rock. they had the smallest ends of the string- pieces to deal with, as the trees had fallen from the other side. bromley wielded the ax, which fell at first with a muffled sound in the rotten log, and then, as he reached the tougher heart, rang out clear and sharp, and echoed back from down the gorge. presently he felt a weakening in the old stick, and, stepping back, he wiped his forehead on the sleeve of his jacket. the stillness which followed the blows of the ax was almost startling; and the night wind which was rising on the mountain sounded like the rushing of wings in the tops of the pines on the opposite bank. after another moment's rest, corporal brom- ley laid his ax to the other string-piece. lieu- tenant coleman had taken position a few yards below the bridge, with his arm around a young chestnut, where he could detect the first move- ment of the swaying timbers. fragments of bark and rotten wood were shaken from the crazy structure at every stroke of the ax, and a tiny chipmunk sprang out of his home in the stones, frightened at the chopping, and fled with light leaps across the doomed causeway. now the blows fall more slowly, and after each stroke the ax-man steps back to listen. at last he hears a measured crackling in the resin- ous heart of the old log. he hears earth and small stones dropping from the abutment into the branches of the trees below. the struc- ture lurches to one side; there is a sound like a dull explosion; a few loose sticks dance in the yellow cloud of dust that rises thick and stifling from the broken banks, and the toil- some work of thirty years before is undone in as many minutes. when the dust-cloud had drifted off, our two heroes, who had retreated for safety, came cau- tiously back and looked over into the gorge. they were startled at what they saw ; for the frame of the old bridge was poised in the moon- light like mohammed's coffin, and swaying mockingly, as if the soul of the old man of the mountain had taken refuge in its timbers. its slivered planks stood up like the fins of some sea monster, crisscrossed and trembling, and spread out like the broken sticks of a fan. “good ' " said lieutenant coleman; “it has lodged in the forked arms of the dead bass- wood; and the mountain people will attach some mystery to its going, as they did to its coming.” he said “good!” because the more mystery there was between their retreat and the enemy. outside, the better. it would be many a long year now before anybody would be likely to come to disturb them; and with this thought in their hearts, they slung their carbines and took the way back. when they had come as far as the hollow tree into which the cartridges had been thrown on the first night to keep them from the rain, they halted; and george bromley felt of the edge of the ax as he measured the height of the opening above the ground with his eye. he was not quite satisfied with this kind of measurement, and so, leaning against the old trunk, he thrust his right arm to its full length into the broad, black cavity. he was about to touch with his fingers the spot outside, opposite to which his right hand reached, when some- thing like an exclamation of anger fell from his lips, and he lifted out of the opening a bear cub as large as a woodchuck. bromley's bare hand had landed unexpectedly in the soft fur of the animal, and with an absence of fear pe- culiar to himself, he had closed his powerful grip on the unknown object, and lifted out the young bear by the nape of its neck. strong as he was, he was unable to hold the squirming o [feb. the last three soldiers. cub until he had turned it over on its back and planted his knee on its chest. behind the tree there was a great dark hole among the rocks, which was the real entrance to the bears' den; and expecting an attack from that quarter, lieutenant coleman stood quietly in the moonlight, with his thumb on the lock of his carbine. as there was no movement any- where, he presently returned to the hole in the tree, and pru- dently thrust in his short gun, which he worked about until the broad flat end of the hinged ramrod was entangled in the coarse meshes of the sack. the cartridges were bone-dry after seven weeks in the bears' den, and the young cub was thrust into the bag, where he growled low and struggled against the un- known power that was bearing him off. they had nei- ther chains nor cage nor strong boxes, and when they had come safely back to the cabin with their prize they were greatly puzzled as to how they should se- cure it for the night. philip was sleeping soundly on a bed of boughs in one corner, and show- ed no disposition to wake. they were careful not to disturb him, wishing to prepare a pleasant surprise for him when he should wake in the morning and find the captured cub. “i have it,” said bromley, when his eyes had traveled around the room to the fireplace; “the cub can't climb up the smooth stones of the mother bear comes for her cub. the chimney, and we will find a way to shut it in by blocking up the fireplace.” they unslung the door of the cabin from its wooden hinges, and, after slipping the young bear from the mouth of the sack into the soft ashes, they quickly closed the opening, and se- cured the door in place, putting the meat-cask against one end and a heavy stone against the other. after a little disturbance in the ashes all was quiet in the fireplace. lieu- tenant coleman went away to his tent, and in five minutes after he lay down george bromley was fast asleep be- side philip. at this time the moon was shining in at the open door; but shortly af. terward it set be- hind the western ridges, and in the hour before daybreak it was unusually dark on the mountain. bromley was sleeping more lightly than usual, and, following his experience of the night, he was dreaming of desperate encounters with bears; or this may have happened because the cub in the chimney from time to time put his small nose to a hole in the door and whined, and then growled as he fell back into the ashes. one of the light cracker-boxes stood on end just inside the door, and it was the noise of this object thrown over on the floor that startled bromley in the midst of his dream, just at the point where he saw the bear approach- ing. he was awake in an instant, but the spell of the dream was still on him, and he .] o the last three soldiers. wondered that instead of the huge form of the bear of his sleep, he saw only two glittering eyes in the doorway. for an instant he was at a loss to tell where he was. he saw the gray- ish opening of the window in the surrounding blackness, and a peculiar hole in the roof not quite covered by the pieces of shelter-tent; and just as he came to himself the cub in the chimney, smelling its mother, whined joy- fully at the hole in the door. with a deep growl the old bear scrambled over the creaking floor to her young one. instinctively bromley put out his hand for his carbine, and then he remembered that both guns had been left lying on the stone hearth. at the same time philip awoke with a start, and the she-bear, scenting her natural enemies, uttered a growl which was half a snarl, and was about to charge into the corner where they lay, when bromley snatched the blankets and threw them so dex- terously over the gleaming eyes that in the momentary confusion of the brute he had time to drag and push philip through the open door and out of the cabin. furious as the beast was, she had no dis- position to follow the boys into the open air. her natural instinct kept her in the neighbor- hood of her imprisoned offspring, where she sat heavily on the two carbines and growled fiercely. the bear now had full and undis- puted possession of the cabin, as well as of the entire stock of fire-arms, which absurd advan- tage she held until daylight, while bromley and philip sat impatiently in the lower limbs of an old chestnut where they had promptly taken refuge. bromley had secured the ax in his retreat, and while philip sat securely above him, he guarded the approach along the sloping trunk, and would have welcomed the bear right gladly. they were near enough to throw sticks upon the “a” tent, and before daylight lieutenant coleman was awakened and was lodged in the branches with them. “how very fortunate " said philip from the top of the tree. “we shall have a supply of jerked bear's-meat for the winter.” “not so long as the bear sits on the car- bines,” said bromley, with a grim smile. “if we could get that young cub out of the chimney —” said lieutenant coleman. “or the old bear into it,” suggested philip. “either way,” said the lieutenant, “would put us in possession of the guns, and decide the battle in our favor.” by the time they had, in their imaginations, dressed the bear and tanned her skin, it began to be light enough to enter upon a more vigor- ous and offensive campaign. this idea seemed to strike the bear at the same time, for she came out of the door, and, after sniffing the morning air, shambled three times around the cabin, smelling and clawing at the base of the chimney in each passage. having made this survey of her surroundings, she returned to her post and lay down on the carbines. these carbines were old smooth-bore mus- kets cut down for cavalry arms and fitted with a short bar and sliding ring over the lock- plate, which was stamped “tower—london, .” they carried a ball fixed in front of a paper cartridge, and were fired by means of a percussion-cap. the pieces were loaded where they lay, with caps under the locks. there was a crevice between the logs at that side of the chimney where the door was held in position by the stone, and the wooden spade which philip had used in his planting could be seen from where the three soldiers sat in the tree, lying across the grave of the old man of the mountain. lieutenant cole- man and bromley slipped down to the ground and ran around to the back of the hut. the end of the door could be seen against the crev- ice, which was just above the level of the floor. the men took care to keep close to the chim- ney, so as to be out of sight of the bear, and when they had fixed their lever under the edge of the door they easily raised it high enough to let out the cub. when this was done they mounted to the roof of the cabin, coleman armed with the wooden spade and bromley with the ax. the bear came out presently, with the cub at her side, its thick fur gray with ashes. the two were headed to pass between the tent and the chestnut-tree, and when the old bear stopped at the foot of the trunk and raised her head with a threatening growl, bromley stood up on the roof and hurled the ax, which slightly wounded the bear in the flank and caused her to charge back to- io the last three soldiers. [feb. ward the cabin, while the bewildered cub scram- bled up the tree in which philip sat. philip only laughed, and called loudly to his comrades to get the guns. at the sound of his voice the she-bear turned about, and seeing her cub in the tree, began scrambling up after it. at this quite unexpected turn in affairs philip began to climb higher, no longer disposed to laugh, while bromley jumped down on the opposite side of the cabin and secured the carbines, one of which he passed up to lieu- tenant coleman on the roof. now cole- man had a clear eye and a steady hand with a gun, and would have hit the heart of the bear with his bul- let like the handiest old sport of the woods, but as the animal crouched in the crotch of the tree a great limb covered her side and head. by this time philip was as high as he dared to climb. the cub from the ashes was hugging the same slender limb, breathing on his naked feet, and the old bear, with bristling hair and erect ears, was growling where she lay, and putting out her great claws to go aloft after philip. this was the critical moment, when bromley ran under the tree and shot the bear. his ball went crashing into her shoulder instead of between the ribs behind, as he had meant it should. it was just as well, he thought, when he saw her come rolling along the trunk to the ground as if she were thrice dead. if he had only known bears a little better, he would probably - - - º º - º º - - - º - - have exchanged carbines and kept a safe dis- tance from the animal; and even then, in the end, it might have been worse for him. he had only broken her big, shaggy shoulder, and as he came near to the wounded brute she rose suddenly on her hind feet and dealt him . ºº º º **** ** she rose suddenly on her hind feet and dealt him such a whack. as nearly broke his ribs.” such a whack with her sound paw as nearly broke his ribs and sent him rolling over and over on the ground. bear and man were so .] ii the last three soldiers. mixed in the air that even coleman feared to risk a shot. poor bromley, crippled and bleed- ing at the nose, lay almost helpless on his back under the tree, and in this state the maddened bear charged furiously on him, her foaming and bloody jaws extended. half stunned and more than half beaten, he had retained his cool nerve and a firm grip on his empty carbine; and as the bear came over him, with all his remaining strength he crushed the clumsy weapon into her open mouth like a huge bit. she was so near that he felt her hot breath on his face, and saw her flaming eyes through the blood which nearly blinded his own. bromley felt his strength going. the breath was nearly crushed out of his body by the weight of the bear, baffled for an instant by the mass of iron between her jaws. philip, drawing up his toes from the cub, forgot his own peril as he gazed down in terror at the struggle below. at the moment which he be- lieved was bromley's last, a quick report rang out from the roof, and the great bear rolled heavily to one side, with lieutenant coleman's bullet in her heart. it is not to be supposed that in the excite- ment of destroying bridges and killing bears lieutenant coleman neglected the signal-sta- tion. morning after morning they waved their flag, and watched the summit of upper bald through the glass. no one could be more eager than were the three soldiers without a country to hear some further news of the old government they had loved and lost. they even turned their attention to chestnut knob. the entries in the diary show that this duty was continued hopelessly through september with no reply to their signals from either moun- tain. that disaster had overtaken the armies of the united states they accepted as a fact, and busied themselves about their domestic affairs that they might, being occupied, the more easily forget their great disappointment. the flesh of the bear was cured in long strips by the cool air and hot sun. to protect themselves from another unwelcome surprise, they removed the short upper ladder from the ledge in the cliff, and the bear cub, which had become a great pet under the name of “ tumbler,” was allowed the range of the plateau. in this month of september the soldier exiles built a comfortable new house on ground a little in front of the old hut. its walls were constructed of chestnut logs, cut from the grove to the west, where they could be easily rolled down the hill, affer which they were scored with the ax on the inner side, and notched so as to fit quite closely together. the roof was made of rafters and flattened string-pieces, and covered with shingles which they split from short sections of oak, and which were held in place with the nails that had been provided for the station. the floor was of pounded clay, raised a foot above the ground outside. it was a prodigious labor to bring down on rollers the great flat stone which they dug out of the hillside for the fireplace. after this was laid firmly for a hearth, they built the chimney out- side, laying the stones in a mortar of clay until the throat was sufficiently narrow; and after that they carried the flue above the ridge-pole with sticks thickly plastered with mud. the house had two windows under the eaves oppo- site to each other; and the doorway, which was in the gable end facing the fireplace, was fitted with the door from the old cabin, which they had no doubt had been framed down the moun- tain, and brought up by josiah after midnight, and most likely it had been paid for with some of the strange goldpieces which had excited the suspicions of the gossips in the valley. it was a wonderfully comfortable house to look at, and almost made them long for the fall rain to beat on the roof, and for the cold nights when they could build a fire in the great chimney. (to be continued.) june's garden. by marion hill. [begun ºn the november number.] chapter vii. “poor leila' " june hardly knew how she ever got down- stairs and into her own garden, it was all done so quickly and in such agony of mind. roy had gone home, and leila was alone, moving about strangely, with her arms stretched out. “oh, why does n't some one come " she cried in a sobbing way. “what is the matter? what has happened?” “oh, june, where are you? where are you?” “darling, i am standing right beside you!” cried june, in terror, taking her sister's arm. “oh, where is mother p go and tell mo- ther " begged leila, her blue eyes opened to their widest extent. “yes, of course i'll tell her, dearest; but tell her what p " “that i can't see anything; not you, nor the sky, nor the sunlight—nothing!—i'm blind!” “my darling!” june clasped her hands in despair. leila's eyes were wide open, as clear, as blue, as beautiful as the sky, and as unsee- ing. for one hopeless, horrible moment, june stood as if turned to stone, and then her capa- bility for prompt action came back to her. that terrible, blind staring into the glowing sky must be stopped. something must be done. she caught her sister in her arms, and all but carried her into the house, leila moaning all the while, “where is mother ? hasn't anybody sent for mother ? why does n't mother come? oh, june, i 'll never see her again!” - her cries filled june's heart with anguish, but she hardened herself against breaking down, and mechanically did what her common-sense prompted. she laid leila on her bed, and dark- ened the room, and placed cooling bandages against the poor eyes which were weeping themselves out in futile tears. she shut out every straggling beam of light, using shawls, blankets — anything that came to hand. “is that any better, dear?” she asked. “is what any better? what have you done? oh, why does n't mother come p” not to know whether the room was shrouded, or whether the fiery sun was beating in oh, poor leila june seized a hat, and kneeling by the bed, told the despairing child that she was only going for a doctor, and then for mother, and that she must try not to mind being left alone for a while, that she would soon be back. but leila caught her by the wrists, and implored june not to leave her. “as i am blind —blind — what can a doctor do? if you leave me, june, i shall die! sit here with me till mother comes home !” “that would be madness,” thought june; and covering her ears with her hands to shut out leila's sobs and entreaties, she sped into the street. the sunlight cut into her eyes, and as she thought of the wild little figure waiting in the darkened room, a suffocating feeling pressed upon her heart like a weight. as she passed the allisons' house, an idea came to her, and she ran swiftly up the steps and rang the bell. a slow, slow footman came to the door, and gazed at her sleepily. pushing him gently aside, she ran past him and stood desolately in the dim and spacious hall. then she wrung her hands together and called: “roy dear roy if you are in the house, come to me quickly, for i need help!” she heard an astonished murmur from the floor above, and then roy came flying down the stairs. he led her into the drawing-room, and she hurriedly told him her story. “and i can't wait a minute, you see, roy; but you must go in and sit with leila, for she is almost insane with grief and fright.” june's garden. i “of course i'll go. you run on to the doc- tor's, and i'll stay with the poor, dear little girl.” june scrambled to her feet and seized roy's hands, not only to thank him, but also to pull him out of the house. so she was soon speed- ing on her way again, and feeling that leila was at least not facing her terrible affliction in utter loneliness. their family physician was very much dis- tressed at june's story, but he said that the case needed a specialist's skill, and he sent the pale little messenger to an oculist. then june had to take an electric car to oakland, where her mother had a secretary's position. that weary ride! and how was she to break the news? but her mother guessed half of her errand at the first sight of her face. “there is something terrible the matter,” said mrs. miller, gathering up her things like one in a dream,-"something the matter with leila.” “she wants to see you,” said june, throwing herself into her mother's arms. “that is, she wants to feel you near her, for she cannot see you any more. she is blind!” “now tell me all,” said the poor mother, when their journey back home was begun. what little there was to tell was soon over; and the rest of the trip was made in silence. when they reached their house, the oculist was just entering, and they all went in together. they found that roy had taken the afflicted child in his arms, and was trying to cheer her; but although she had stopped crying, she was talking restlessly in a plaintive, impassioned way. “they used to tell me not to, roy; but i would do it. i used to read by the firelight, and in the sunlight, and by no light at all. and when they would say, ‘leila, put that book down; don't sit reading, reading all the time,’ i used to think it was rather unkind of them, and i would creep away somewhere else, that they might not see me, and on i would go again. oh, if i only, only had done as they told me!” hearing the sound of footsteps, she slipped from roy's lap, and stood swaying uncertainly in the middle of the room. then, with a cry, she ran as straight into her mother's arms as if her eyes had been of the keenest. “dear mother!” she cried. “how terrible it vol. xxiv.- . would be if i forgot how your face looks!” and then the bitter weeping came on again. “now, if these young people will leave us,” said the oculist, looking kindly at roy and june, “we will see if there is anything to be done.” “i shall be where i can hear you call, if you want me,” said june, heroically obedient. it was terrible downstairs. to hear the foot- steps above; to hear murmurs, quick footsteps, deep questions and plaintive little replies, chairs scraping, once a faint cry from leila—to hear all this, and to do nothing, was almost more than june could bear. roy, more fortunate, was sent on an errand, and could expend some of his energy in move- ment. june could do nothing but wait. finally there was a lull in the proceedings up stairs, and then the oculist's kindly voice was heard to say: “don’t trouble yourself to come down, mrs. miller; your little girl needs you more than i do. i can find my way out very well.” then he came downstairs. june crept to the door and opened it for him. his face was grave, and a trifle sad. “tell me one thing,” said june, imploringly. “will she ever see again?” chapter viii. a neglected garden. “will she ever see again?” repeated june, in misery. “we must always hope for the best,” an- swered the oculist, evasively. “that means that she will be blind for life!” cried the girl. “no," said the oculist, kindly; “and yet your. sister's trouble is a very complicated one.” “her eyes look all right.” “yes; the disease has been defined as “a dis- ease in which the patient sees nothing; neither does the doctor.’” june flashed a piteous look at him. funny to us,” she whispered. “my dear girl,” interposed the doctor, gravely, “it is not funny to me, either. the definition i gave you merely states the case as it is: there is nothing to see on either side, and so the trou- ble is the most difficult to deal with.” “is it curable?” insisted june. “it is not .] i june's garden. a moment before she remembered to what roy was referring. the time since their talk had seemed so long; but her interest reawakened. “oh, yes, i know. do tell me what she said.” “said nothing,” volunteered roy, rubbing suggestively at his ear. “oh, you don't mean to say — “yes, i do; she boxed it. but i really think it was more in embarrassment than anger.” “how nice . " , “that's one way of looking at it,” agreed roy, dubiously. of sarah herself june saw very little; but the lame girl seemed to take a new interest in life. june sometimes caught a glimpse of her on the porch, and each time she was writing, writing, with the scowl smoothed away, and a cheery light on her face. she seemed to long, too, for june's companionship, but that busy young person could give very little of it. “i’d come over every day if i could, sarah; but you know i can't. still,” said june, with a lucky inspiration, taking a blue scarf from her neck, “if ever you want me very badly indeed, just tie this scarf to your shutter, and i'll come as soon as i see it.” “that is quite a romantic idea,” said sarah, approvingly. “for i hardly ever catch sight of you in your garden now.” and indeed she was right. it went to poor june's heart to watch the tender buds all friz- zling up on the trees for want of attention. it seemed as if dollars were dropping away un- der her very eyes, even though she had not realized a cent as yet. but one slow clump of st. joseph lilies gave her a fund of satisfac- tion. that particular flower was always sala- ble, and, moreover, brought the highest price in the business; so, eventually, june withdrew her care from the many ungrateful freaks in her garden, and confined herself to tending the lily-bed. the tardy buds appeared in great profusion — tiny little things that would take weeks and weeks to mature. and oh, how busy the weeks were ! it is strange, but of busy times there is very little to write. all i can ! ” say is that the spring months glided into sum- mer months, and the roses which glowed in other gardens came most sparsely to june, and came most grotesquely stunted; that summer glided into autumn, and that every minute of the lagging time had its imperative duty. leila twined herself around june as a frail vine around a sturdy tree; she looked to her for everything, and it is but fair to say that she got it. “go to the window, june, and tell me all you can see,” was her usual request at evening. “i can see the grave of my past, and the glory of my future,” announced june, dramati- cally, one dull november twilight. “what is it p” asked leila, snuggling against the tragic speaker, and gazing out into the blankness with steady, unseeing eyes. “the grave of my past is a gruesome col- lection of lop-sided chrysanthemums. if i were to offer them for sale, i should be taken before the lunacy commissioners. the hours of labor they represent!” “and the glory of the future?” asked leila, with another comfortable snuggle. “a bed of st. joseph lilies as is lilies!” re- sponded june, unctuously. “what else do you see p” “misfit; she 's at her old occupation of chat- tering her teeth at a bird out of her reach. i should think the occupation would be worn threadbare.” “dear little misfit!” “dear, if you like; but scarcely little. now she is the lankiest cat in the county.” “i know; i have felt her.” “must feel like an eel; does n't she p” asked june, interested. “not exactly,” said leila, with a thankful shudder; “what else do you see?” “much dull sky, a suspicion of fog, a few dusty little swirls of wind, two dogs in the street dying to become acquainted, but turning their heads indifferently aside; and—good gra- cious !” for as june spoke she saw the blue scarf flut- tering wildly from sarah's window. by (to be continued.) est friends o katie lived in “we’ll swim up the river and through the dark wood, the forest. when for there lives the tiger, so gentle and good. died he'll give us some cake and he'll make us some tea; her father you know he is always good-natured to me. her uncle sent her for i hi d i it ll girl “for i met him one day,+ i was quite a small girl, - there. hethought and his poor coat and whiskers were all out of curl; the animals would so i combed him and brushed him as fine as a prince, kill her, but they and he's always been so much obliged to me since. did n't. in fact, “he is very old now, dear, but once he was young, . they took great and fought with a lion, and climbed trees and sung; care of her. there was john, the ele- phant; james, the crocodile; the tiger who had no name, and the monkey who had a great many; and they all were very kind, and helped her build her house and cook her breakfast. there was the alligator, george, who was sulky; but the crocodile was a dear. one day katie said to him: “crocodile, crocodile, give me a ride, and the elephant johnny will run by our side; we'll swim up the river together, and then you 'll turn your long tail, dear, and swim down again. n. katie's for est friends. he can sing a bit still, and his tea is so nice, and perhaps he will give us a strawberry ice. “so stand still, my jimmy, and let me get on, for the day is so fine and my lessons are done. we 'll swim up the river together, and then you 'll turn your long tail, dear, and swim down - -> again. one day katie was walking by the water- side, and there she saw a water-wagtail. he looked so happy that she thought he must have had something very good to eat; and so she asked him : “little water-wagtail, running by the lake, for your little tea and dinner, oh! tell me what you take?” to which the water-wagtail answered (for he was a truthful bird): “a little lady beetle in a little purple gown, and a little drop of water to wash the beetle down.” one day when the elephant came out of the woods his behavior was very strange indeed,— so strange that katie said: “who 's that by the banyan tree, humming like a bumblebee, jumping like a dancing bear, liſting up his trunk in air; and his howdah all aslant why, it 's john, the elephant!” but the most dreadful thing happened when katie and john and james all came back from a journey together and katie made the tea. james, the crocodile, never talked much; he thought a great deal—at least, so katie said to herself, and it is certain he was always eating. he liked all sorts of things, from pork to straw- berries. he liked pork best, but when katie offered them he never refused strawberries. but that day he would n't touch them nor any- thing else, and so katie said: “crocodile, what is the matter, my dear? please tell me what is it about. do you hear? i’ve offered you strawberries, treacle, and cake; oh, crocodile dear, is there nothing you'll take? “what can be the matter, oh, what can it be? oh, is n’t he sad and pathetic to see? he looks just as if he were going to cry, and i really believe there 's a tear in his eye. “his mouth is turned down and his eyes are turned up— john, reach me your trunk dear, and hand him the cup. what, no! won't he take it? oh, dear, what a bore! he never refused tea and sugar before. “come here by my side, jim, and tell me your woes. i'll stroke your old paws and i'll tickle your nose. he 's looking quite cross, and he always has been the best-natured crocodile ever was seen. “perhaps it is temper, perhaps it is pride, perhaps it's a pain in his little inside. never mind, jim, i know that one always is sad— why, every one is – when his stomach is bad. “perhaps that old turtle was hard to digest if you swallow them whole they are gritty at best; and pelican meat is delicious, they say, but you should n’t eat more than a dozen a day. “or, perhaps, by mistake you have swallowed a stone instead of a toad; that 's provoking, i own. or perhaps you’re in love—but you're gouty and fat, and i’m sure that you can't be as foolish as that. “what is it, my darling? i wish you’d explain. has the old alligator been teasing again? i know that his language is often provoking, but then it’s his way to be laughing and joking. “come here! can't you move, dear? what makes you keep still? i'm afraid you must really be dreadfully ill. why i what is the monkey there laughing at so? i must really myself go and look at you—oh “oh, john, you old booby, what are you about? do look where you're sitting, you clumsy old lout; no wonder poor jimmy looks sorry and pale— you've been sitting an hour on the crocodile's tail!” . [feb. katie's for est friends. it was quite true that the alligator made himself very unpleasant by teasing, and no one disliked him more than jim, the crocodile. “said george, the alligator, to james, the crocodile, “i really don’t believe, jim, i ever saw you smile. they say it is their conscience which makes some people sad, but i really can't believe, jim, you are so very bad.’” “‘oh, gallop, my johnny, the forest 's afire i ! ” but that same evening a parrot came and settled on katie's shoulder and talked in her ear. she said to james, “hide yourself in the mud, james, there's danger”; and then she said to john : “elephant, elephant, reach me your trunk, you have eaten two trees, you have washed, you have drunk; and i know when you 've started you never will tire— and you 'll need all your strength, for the forest 's afire! “the north wind is blowing, and high overhead the smoke cloud is rising, a column of red. the parrots are shrieking—the parrots can see; and you know how they tell all their secrets to me. “oh, gallop, my johnny, there 's no time to think, there's no time for stopping to eat or to drink; through thicket and jungle, through cactus and mire, oh, gallop, my johnny, the forest's afire! “it’s coming, it 's coming, there's red in the sky! the silly birds chatter and ..scream as they fly. the monkeys are shrieking —i know what they say— “our favorite tree will be ashes to-day!” “the forest is falling. oh, hark! what a crash! you can see the flames now—how they flicker and flash! the sparks are ah over your beautiful back. oh, gallop, my johnny, there 's death on our track “oh, look | there 's the tiger! oh, tiger, come here! we both are delighted to see you, my dear!” how he bounded and leapt how he roared as he came! — and his yellow coat shone like a garment of flame! “we’ve come to the river— the river at last. just one effort more, and the danger is passed. my johnny is clever, my johnny can swim. the brown rushing water is nothing to him. “and now we’ve touched ground—we are climbing the bank. oh, whom should i praise, john, and whom should i thank? and whom should i kiss if i should n’t kiss you, my swift-footed johnny, the strong and the true? “and i’ll never forget how the forest took fire, and how nothing could stop you and nothing could tire — and how fresh you looked, too, when the journey was done, and how katie was saved by the elephant john.” .] katie's forest friends. iq but katie's wicked uncle heard she was alive, now they look about ; - and sent to fetch her; and this is what hap- now they’re talking—they're in doubt. ened to his messengers: they wonder where i'm gone. p gers: but where are jim and john p “one, two, three—one, two, three, they have left me all alone. the wicked men creep silently— crawling, creeping, “nearer, nearer, climbing, leaping plainer, clearer, over rock and fallen tree. grows each face and cruel eye. the wicked king across the sea oh, jim and john, has sent them here for me. where are you gone? come at least to say good-by! “all alone, all alone,— they have left me all alone. “what 's that yellow streak - jim, the crocodile, has gone, i dare not breathe or speak. so has naughty john; there 's the tiger—there he lies, and through the thicket, up the brook, waiting with his quiet eyes, and past my garden—look! hidden in the thicket near. the wicked men come on. how i love you, tiger dear! “nearer, nearer i can see each cruel, ugly face. here's a hollow tree, here's a hiding-placeſ will they see me? will they find me? i look before me and behind me. oh, what shall i do? oh, if johnny only knew and what will jimmy say when he finds me stolen away? “with a roar, with a bound, like lightning through the air, while the woods echo round, he leaps from his lair. oh, who can stay the path of my tiger in his wrath? oh, who can stand before his rage, when his roar shakes the ground? “one, two, three; one, two, three; the wicked men they turn and flee— they run with might and main, and they 'll not come here again. “nearer, nearer, nearer yet! how their cruel brows are set! now they 've gone inside my house. i 'll lie as quiet as a mouse. now they're coming “oh, tiger, tiger, is that you? — my tiger brave and strong and true— and did you leave your quiet cave, and lose your sleep to come and save your poor deserted little friend? oh, give your paw to me, and bend your head that i may stroke your ear. i am so glad to see you, dear! i'll come and brush you every week, and make your coat so nice and sleek. i'll make you fine as fine can be, and feed you well, and make your tea, and you 'll repeat those funny rhymes and tell me stories of old times— about the lion whom you beat— while i am sitting at your feet; and john and i will work for hours, and gather moss and leaves and flowers to make you up the finest bed, and heap a pillow for your head; and you will teach me how to climb, and we shall have the finest time ! my tiger, brave and strong and true- oh, tiger, i am proud of you!” an i alarm of fire by telegraph. of one another. as practically every city or town of any size in the united states has the same sort of boxes, the readers of st. nicholas are probably well acquainted with them, so we will examine only the “keyless box,” that is used extensively in new york city. this box forms part of a lamp-post, the post being so constructed that the box is inserted in the middle. the box is painted a bright red, and the lamp at night shows a red light, thus making it easily discernible either by day or night. the wires from the box are conveyed down through the center of the post to conduits buried in the street, and thence on to fire headquarters, white letters on a red pane of glass, in the lamp over the box, give directions how to send an alarm, the same direc- tions in raised letters are found on the face of the box. if we turn the large brass handle on the outside as far as it will go, a loud gong will ring inside. this is not the alarm, but simp- ly a warning bell to notify the policeman on the beat that the box is being opened and to prevent the sending in of mali- cious or false alarms of fire, an offense that is punishable in new york state by a fine of $ oo and one year's imprisonment. turning this handle as far as it will go opens the outer door, and we find inside another door, with a slot at the left- hand side, and at the top of this slot a hook projecting. by pulling down this hook once and releasing it, we set at work certain clockwork mechanism inside, and this sends in the alarm. when the first officer arriving at a fire dis- covers that it is of enough importance to war- rant his sending for reinforcements, he opens this inner door and with the “morse key” sends in a second, third, fourth, fifth, or sixth alarm, as the case may be, or a call for any spe- vol. xxiv.— . keyless box, outside. showing the directions for opening º outer door and for sending an artil. i- cial apparatus that he may --- need. the inspectors of boxes can also carry on --~ a conversation in the & morse alphabet with § the operator at head- quarters on thiskeyand sounder. let us ex- amine the causes that led to the sending in of an alarm from box , and also what follows the pulling of the hook in one of these lamp-post boxes. keyless box, opened. a pan of grease frying on the kitchen range in the basement of a house in west sixteenth street boils over and sets fire to the floor. the ser- vants, discovering the kitchen in flames, run screaming from the house. the owner, who happens to be up- stairs at the time, runs down, and seeing the light of fire reflected on the basement stairs, dashes for the near- est fire- * alarm box to send in ſº a an alarm. this box happens to be on the corner of sixteenth street and seven th a venue, halfablock away. turning the handle around, he opens the outer door, the warning bell rings, he pulls down the hook on the inside door once, and releasing it, lis- tens. what does he hear? the buzzing of --------- showing the inner door, and hook keyless box, inside. the inner door opened, showing the cam or lever that operates the clockwork, and the morse key and sounder for sending telegraph messages to headquarters. [feb. an alarm of fire by telegraph. | " machinery at first, and then “ting, ting, ting on a little bell inside. a pause, and “ting, ting, ting, ting, ting !” another pause, and then “ting, ting, ting, ting, ting, ting, ting!"— , the number of the box. this is repeated five times in quick succes- sion, and then the buzzing stops. the alarm has been sent. it may seem like an age to “a fire-engine appears, drawn. by three plunging gray horses.” the owner as he stands waiting for the firemen to appear, but it is a matter of only a few seconds; for within twenty seconds this station number is ringing in a score or more of engine-houses, and within one minute and a half six companies of apparatus are on their way to this box. he looks up and down the avenue, and what does he see ? turning into seventh avenue at the inter- section of greenwich avenue, five blocks to the south of where he stands, a fire-engine appears, drawn by three plunging gray horses. as it straightens out in the broad avenue, they dash madly toward where he stands. a hose- wagon follows, filled with sturdy men donning rubber coats and fire-hats. the bells of both engine and wagon are ringing furiously, and the whistle of the former keeps up a series of short shrieks. it is truly an inspiring sight, and he almost forgets the destruction that threatens his home. as he looks up the avenue he sees approach- ing from twentieth street, four blocks to the north, another piece of apparatus—a heavy affair that sways from side to side as it swings from one car-track to another. this is a “truck” or hook-and-ladder company, and it is preceded by a light wagon containing two men, one driving, while the other looks eagerly ahead for the appear- ance of fire. this is the chief of the th battalion, who after- ward has charge of the fire. whistles and bells in the two ad- joining streets to the north of him tell of the approach of more engines. one is com- ing from the east, the other from the west. the engine approach- ing from the east turns the corner of eigh- teenth street, two blocks above, just as the one coming from the south is over a block away. it is now a mad race between the two to see which will first reach the box. the one approaching from the south has the advantage of a clear run up the avenue, how- ever, and arrives at the corner before the other. the man at the box indicates by pointing to his home the location of the fire, and the driver of this engine, who knows the hydrants in his district as well as he knows the stations, turns the corner on a run and pulls his horses up beside a hydrant nearly opposite the fire. another truck company has followed this first appearing engine, also coming from the south. another battalion chief has turned the corner of fourteenth street, coming from the east, and following him a strange-looking ap- paratus—a four-wheeled wagon, carrying what one might almost call an enormous cannon with an inverted muzzle—this is a “water- tower.” still another detachment dashes to- ward the box from the north. this is a big red wagon drawn by two noble animals that .] an alarm of fire by telegraph. are covering the ground with great leaps. it is filled with men wearing white rubber coats and red fire hats. this is a section of the fire-insur- ance patrol, and they come to protect prop- erty from damage by water, and to save what they can. the third engine coming from the west, follows and pulls up at a hydrant on the corner, and “awaits orders.” the first company to arrive have rushed into the basement with their hose. the engine is at work in an instant, and a few dashes of water extinguish the fire. the fire-insurance patrolmen go through the building, opening windows to let the smoke escape, and ascer- tain the amount of damage done. members of the first truck company to arrive assist the men from the engine company in putting out any remaining traces of fire, by pulling down wood- work, plaster, etc., in the kitchen. the other companies stand ready to get to work until ordered “to quarters” by the battalion chief; and soon there is little evidence of a fire beyond a wet pavement and a badly wrecked kitchen. - s - cº- - $º “the engine approaching from the east turns the corner.” in reviewing the events that have followed the pulling of the hook in this box, we find that within three minutes from the time the alarm was sent in, an engine and a truck company were on hand. in two minutes more three other companies had arrived, and in exactly seven minutes from the instant the hook was pulled down, three engine companies, two hook- and-ladder companies, a water-tower, and a sec- tion of the fire patrol, with two battalion chiefs, were on the spot, and ready to go to work. in all, about fifty-five men, with ten pieces of apparatus—a small fire department in itself. tº **tº it =#eeelliſº º tºº - a hook-and-l-aloden company. an [feb. alarm of fire by telegraph. m lulùùùù in general view of the fire-alarm telegraph headquarters. this is not remarkable; for if we consider that there are, on an average, from ten to fifteen alarms of fire a day in new york city, we can realize what an ordinary event this be- comes. it is partly due to the efficiency of the fire-alarm telegraph system that this rapid con- centration of fire forces is possible. let us visit fire headquarters in east sixty-seventh street, and see how the alarms are received and sent out. we find the telegraph bureau a large, well- lighted room on the sixth floor of the building. in the middle of this room is a raised platform, perhaps a foot in height; and this platform is surrounded on three sides by cabinet-work, almost like immense bookcases, and reaching nearly to the ceiling. a passageway on both sides of this cabinet-work makes the back easily accessible; and an entrance through the middle leads to the battery-room in the rear of the bureau. there is a post in the center of this passageway studded with “push-buttons,” and within this three-sided inclosure are the various delicate and intricate machines for receiving and recording the alarms, most of the instru- ments being protected from injury or dust by cases of glass. the face of the cabinet-work on both sides is filled with keys, sounders, switches, and all manner of electrical devices for receiving and transmitting alarms of fire, and all the private telegraph signals used in the work of the fire department. an operator comes forward, and under his guidance we will look into the methods of at- tending to a most important branch of the fire service — that of receiving and recording an alarm of fire from a street box, and transmitting the same to the engine companies nearest to the fire, in the shortest possible time. we are first to see the “register,” or machine that records the alarm as it comes in from the street box. this machine not only indicates the pulling of a fire-alarm box by clicking off the number of the station, but prints it upon an endless tape of paper about a foot wide. we find a station recorded thus: - - - - - - - - - - - - station i . i if we examine this machine closely we shall find five oblong vulcanite (or hard-rubber) cases back of that part that does the printing. each of these little cases contains ten sounders, and each sounder represents a circuit. there are from ten to fifty boxes on each circuit, so that this machine records the alarms from over .] telegraph. an alarm of fire by a thousand boxes | a delicate steel rod con- nects each sounder with a little brass elbow- joint that does the printing, somewhat like the key of a type-writing machine. as each click or pulsation of electricity comes through a sounder, this little rod is pulled back. it de- presses the elbow-joint, and this prints a dash upon the paper. there are fifty of these little elbow-joints all in a line, one for each circuit, so that boxes on different circuits print upon different parts of the paper. we can better understand a “circuit” if we imagine a long wire reaching, say, to the bat- tery — five miles away—and returning to head- quarters. branch wires running from this main line connect with boxes at different places along the way. no two adjacent boxes are put on the same circuit. thus we find a circuit con- nected with a box at fifty-eighth street and broadway, and the next box on the same line is at forty-sixth street and eighth avenue, twelve blocks away. this is to prevent the possibility of two boxes on the same circuit, or wire, being pulled at once for the same fire. this delicate and ingenious instrument pre- vents the possibility of confusion of this kind oc- curring, for even if two stations were to “click” off at the same time, although it might not be possible to count the clicks, the numbers of the boxes, being on different circuits, will be found printed clear and distinct on different parts of the paper. the operator, divining that both have been pulled for the same fire, sends out only one on the combination key. in every engine-house there is a small bell that begins to ring off the alarm as it comes in. this is called the “combina- tion,” because it not only tells the num- ber of the box, but it allows a weight to fall that springs a “trip,” or lever, that in turn releases the horses. shortly after this begins, a very large gong rings out in loud strokes. should the firemen fail to count the strokes of the small bell, they cannot fail to count those of the big gong. we will now go back to the telegraph bu- reau and see how these strokes are sent to the engine-houses. we will first look at another instrument or two before we imagine an alarm to come in, that we may better understand what is being done. all along the side where the register stands are a number of telegraph keys, one for every circuit—sixty in all, there being ten extra cir- cuits, besides those connected with the reg- ister. they are similar to the keys in every telegraph office. in the corner, on the same side, there are eight extra keys. these operate the “combination circuits,” the engine-houses being on circuits just as the boxes are. with these the operator rings the combination bell that i have just described. above each there is a large push-button not unlike a stop in an organ. a number is on the face of each, and they represent the circuits controlled by the keys. a large hand-lever is also here, which throws on an extra-heavy current of electricity whenever it is necessary to use these circuits, a light current only being kept on them at all other times. toward the front of the platform, and near the right-hand side of the inclosure, stands an- other machine, a most important one. it stands upon a cabinet or pedestal of its own, and this machine, called “the repeater,” controls the ringing of the big gongs in the engine-houses. the register. it is carefully inclosed in a glass-case on all sides except that facing the register. here there is a small round opening near the bot- tom, through which projects the shaft of one of the larger wheels of the machine. a brass [feb. an alarm of fire by telegraph. disk, or “button,” is pushed on this shaft when an alarm is being sent out, and controls the number of strokes that this instrument rings upon the big gongs. in the center of the platform, and directly at the front, stands another machine that is really a wonderful piece of mechanism, a tall, up- right instrument, also inclosed in a glass-case. there are four disks or circles to be seen on the front of it, three in a row and one direct- ly in the middle, over the three. each circle consists of four wheels, one on top of the other. these wheels are so numbered on their rims that by moving them around any combination of a set of wheels from the special. figures can be made. for example, by moving the first three wheels around until shows on the fourth or last; the second wheel around until shows on the third, and the first around until shows on the second wheel, we get , the wheels moving from left to right, and the last, or bottom, wheel showing the first number. beside the upper or top circle, there is a pointer resting upon a dial numbered from to . this pointer controls the num- ber of rounds sent out by this machine. by setting it at fig- ure upon the dial, and pres- sing it down, after we have set the combination of num- bers, this instrument will send out two rounds of “ ” to all the engine-houses. this instrument is called the “special,” and is used for sending out the second, third, fourth, fifth, and sixth alarms, and all the special calls used in the service, and can be used for transmitting all regular alarms in case the other instrument breaks down. it is connected by the “big gong” circuit with all the companies in the department, and any combination of strokes on the large gongs can be rung with this instrument. it is entirely au- tomatic, and, after the numbers are properly set on the wheels, never makes any mistakes, r : l and is really the most important and ingenious machine in the bureau. having thus seen all the principal instru- ments, and understanding their uses, we will now see what happens when an alarm comes in. an operator sits at a desk in the middle of the platform, answering and attending to the telephone calls coming from the different engine- houses, for this desk is the “central office” of the department. another operator moves about in front of the “switchboard ” on the other side of the platform, testing the strength of currents on the different circuits, etc. there are always two operators on duty, sometimes three, night and day. they work in shifts, or “tours,” as they are called, of eight hours each, three tours making up the day. suddenly there comes a buzzing of machin- ery in the direction of the register, followed by a loud “click,” — a pause and four more clicks—another pause and seven more clicks, — , the station i have already mentioned. the repeater. this is repeated five times, the number of rounds the box sends in, but before the first round has clicked off, the operator at the desk has stepped quickly to the register, and glances at the tape. he turns as quickly from this to a cabinet in the center of the platform and at the back of the telephone desk, and opens a drawer. this cabinet is made up of wide, shallow drawers, and as he opens this one we see that it is full of rows of little brass disks about two inches in diameter and a quarter of an inch .] an alarm of fire by telegraph. thick, each resting over a wooden peg that is fastened to the bottom of the drawer. these are the disks, or “buttons,” that operate the re- peater, or big-gong instru- ment. there is one for every station, or box, each one cut differently; and as there are ten or ele- ven hundred boxes, it can be seen how many there must be. - he takes out the one bearing the number of the station that has just come in— —and passes it to the other operator, who by this time stands beside the repeater. with this disk there are two others, made of cardboard, also bearing the number of the station and hav- ing beneath two rows of figures. these figures are the numbers of the circuits or wires over which this alarm has not to be sent. he passes one to the operator beside the repeater, and, retaining the other, he steps quickly over to the “combination keys,” and pushing down the lever that throws on an extra-heavy current of electricity, with a firm, quick touch he sends in the alarm to the companies nearest the fire. when he has sent in two rounds, or the num- ber of the box twice, his fellow operator at the repeater pushes the little brass disk that he holds in his hand on the shaft that projects through the round opening in the glass case of the latter instrument, and pressing a push-but- ton, it begins to revolve. as we watch it re- volving we see the first little projection on the rim of the disk press against a steel spring be- side the shaft, long enough to let one pulsation of electricity pass through the machine. this allows some small cylinders at the top to revolve once. this means one stroke on the big gongs in the engine-houses. when the second pro- jection reaches this spring it keeps it back long enough for four revolutions of the cylinders, that means four strokes on the big gongs, and the last and largest projection allows the cylin- ders to revolve seven times, meaning seven strokes, thus completing the number. this button, or disk, revolves twice, sending out two rounds of the signal. in the mean- time, the other operator has sent out two more rounds on the combination key, so that the zz s ." \ tº-cº a repeater button. * s firemen responding to this box receive the num- ber of the station six different times and on two instruments, leaving little chance for mistakes. in sending out an alarm in this manner, every- thing is done very quickly — more quickly than it can be described. not a word is spoken. conversation of any kind might cause a mis- take that would result in the possible loss of valuable property and many lives. each op- erator knows exactly what he has to do, and does it silently and quickly. even in the case of a large fire, when one alarm follows the other in the most rapid man- ner, there is little confusion, if any at all. a visitor to the bureau would scarcely realize that an alarm had been received and sent out until it was all over, so systematically is everything done. when the operator at the combination has finished his task, he turns to a large book beside him, and ascertains the numbers of the com- the “special.” panies who respond to that box. this book is called the “assignment book,” and is issued for the benefit of the different companies of the department; for it tells the number of each box, and its location, and the companies that o miss [feb. nina barrow. i've told him what to bring. and don't you be all day, charles, or we'll have john for our table.” mrs. andrews ate almost no breakfast. nina dipped into everything that was before her, talked a great deal in her high sharp voice, lec- tured charles at her pleasure; and then, with- out making any excuse or asking permission, left the table, and went off to a vacant one and began piling the napkins up into a pyramid. a servant entered presently, followed by a h h h º º - “‘i won’t wear t, i say !" said nina.” lady in deep black, who kissed mrs. andrews, saying, “excuse my coming right in, cousin elizabeth. they told me you were in here.” mrs. andrews welcomed her kindly and bade her take a seat; ordered fresh tea, asked all about her journey, and called to nina to “come and see cousin marian.” that well- bred young person, however, refused to come. a little later, however, she drew near, out of curiosity, and her grandmother introduced her to the visitor. “cousin marian, this is nina.” “give me a kiss, dear,” said the young lady, who had a sweet, sad face, clear eyes, and the pleasantest voice possible. nina stared at her for a moment, and then, graciously allowing herself to be kissed, resumed her seat and began eating again. the meal proceeded, and mrs. andrews was quite enjoy- ing the meeting with her young relative when, looking up, she perceived that nina was wrig- gling and fuming in her seat, and evidently in the worst possible humor. “eat something, darling. what is the mat- ter? was n’t there anything you liked p ask charles to get you some stewed mushrooms. you can always eat them, you know, dear.” nina, who liked to be the central feature of every gathering, was glad to have gained her grandmother's attention, but showed it only by tossing and bridling and wriggling more than ever, until at last her secret vexation found vent in words. “i’m going,” she said. “you’ve gone and given my breakfast to her.” “dear me! cousin elizabeth, i had no idea that i was depriving nina of her break- fast,” said miss brewster. “that was my beefsteak,” said nina pout- ingly. “i ordered it just as i wanted it. you had no business to give it away, grandy.” “hush, nina! what will cousin marian think? i did n't know you wanted it,” said mrs. andrews, in humble apology. what miss brewster thought was, fortunately. not written in the middle of her forehead. her face expressed only a vivid surprise. she made one more attempt to appease nina. “i am sorry, dear, but surely you can take something else.” “i don't want anything else. own beefsteak,” insisted nina. “oh!” remarked miss brewster, and it was a voluminous speech, heard aright. “and as i can't get anything to eat, i'm going,” added nina, and she left the room. “poor child! she was disappointed about her breakfast. dear nina has so much charac- ter, marian,” remarked mrs. andrews placidly. “i should judge she has her share of will and —” “temper” was on the tip of miss brewster's tongue. she stopped and blushed. “oh, she is wilful, very wilful sometimes' " i want my .] i miss nina barrow. replied mrs. andrews. “i hope you will be able to manage her, marian.” “i hope so, cousin elizabeth, " echoed miss brewster; and at this moment in marched nina, who interrupted the speaker without the least hesitation, saying imperiously, “i want my box of grapes; it is under your chair.” miss brewster rose, tall and slender, gentle and graceful in her black draperies. without any apology or word of thanks, nina picked up her box and left the room. claudine, still tearful and depressed, was sew- ing at the window. nina ran up to her. “oh, you old poky-poky | here! take this. here 's a whole box of grapes. i got a box 'cause i wanted you to eat all you could.” she ran off again as she spoke. “oh the good little — imp!” commented claudine, in french, as she lifted out a splendid bunch of malagas and began eating them. when they were ready to leave the dining- room miss brewster offered mrs. andrews her arm. “thank you, my dear,” said the old lady; “i’m not very steady nowadays on my feet.” as they passed through the office, mrs. andrews asked, “what is the clerk standing there for p” the clerk was waiting to speak to mrs. an- drews, it seemed. he was very quiet, very polite, very respectful, but the gist of his re- marks was that the proprietor felt obliged to insist upon mrs. andrews keeping one and the same table while she was at the columbia; three changes having already been made to suit her grandchild's convenience. much mortified, the old lady went to her room, where she heaped reproaches upon nina's head. “oh, i don't care what the clerk says,” said that young lady. “it’s none of his business, and i’m going to tell him he'd better come off his perch, that's all.” “nina, how often am i to tell you about talking slang?” “oh, i, pshaw —! i'm not the only one; everybody talks it. i guess you do, don't you?” nina asked, turning suddenly to miss brewster. “it is nothing to do it, is it?” “it is n't a sin, if that is what you mean, except against good taste; but i would advise you not to do it, dear,” said miss brewster. xx “why not?” asked nina sharply. “well, in the first place, if you really want to know what i think about it, slang is stupid, generally. it has little or no point or wit, and by a little thought and care you can say what you have to say in good, clear, pure english. in the next place, it is apt to be vulgar, coined by vulgar people, and used by vulgar people to express petty ideas. i would n't use it at all, dear, if i were you. i used to, a little, at one time; i caught it from people about me. but fortunately i gave it up before it became a fixed habit,” said miss brewster. she spoke very simply and kindly. she was not lecturing nina, who looked at her sharply and was about to speak, when unfortunately mrs. andrews broke in with “cousin marian is a lady. she would n't do anything vulgar.” nina's hot temper flamed into her face. “neither would nina, i am sure,” hastily put in miss brewster; but she was too late, for nina burst out into such a speech, so rude, so disrespectful, so full of anger and all im- pertinence, that i should be quite ashamed to write it down. the scene i have described took place in a handsome suite of rooms at a fashionable family hotel, where mrs. andrews had been for years spending her winters, and where, consequently, scarcely anything that nina did excited much surprise. nina barrow was only twelve years old, and she was not an infant phenomenon, nor one of the poor little creatures who wander about the world in this or that circus, riding bare-backed horses, or jumping through paper hoops. she was not in public life at all,—at least not nomi- nally. but if she had been one, or all, of these things, she could not have been better known at certain watering-places and hotels from maine to florida. indeed, i am afraid she would not have been flattered if she could have known how generally she was disliked. of how well- bred people called her “a terror of a child,” and “completely spoiled”; and servants “a limb" and “a piece.” of how foreigners, tak- ing her behavior and manners for a text, wrote home the most unflattering accounts of “these american children.” of how some mothers used her as a dreadful example of all that a miss nina barrow. [feb. child ought not to be, and would not allow their little ones to be with her. of how old ladies and old gentlemen shook their heads over her, and recklessly declared that “young america” had no training, no courtesy, no respect for anything or anybody, and that it was so different when they were children. of how people predicted the most tragical things for her when she should be grown, and should have come into the large fortune that they knew would be hers some day; and of how few, very few, pleasant or kind things were ever said about her by anybody. nina was the only child of mrs. andrews's only daughter. her parents had been lost at sea when she was three years old, and her grandmother, in whose care she had been left while they were abroad, had been at first almost prostrated by this terrible blow. as soon as she had recovered sufficient interest in life to care for anything, she conceived a most passionate affection for her orphaned grandchild, as was only natural ; and from that moment she showed it by the most excessive indulgence of her charge. this was natural, too, but it was a great mistake. for nina was a child for whom nothing more injurious could have been devised. she was high-tempered, she had a strong will, she had a quick intelligence, a most generous and affectionate heart. more than most children, she needed wise, firm, lov- ing control, guidance, teaching; but the poor child never had learned the very first lesson of wholesome, happy childhood, obedience. from the first nina had gone her own wil- ful way, and had done daily a great number of the most foolish things possible, and many that were wrong, as well as foolish, and had given trouble and annoyance to every one about her, and had been a constant source of perplexity and anxiety to the “grandy,” whom she really at heart loved. at first it was enough for her to regulate her own life, and habits, and movements—if her very irregular and eccentric conduct in all these matters can be said to have been “regulated” at all. the poor child was allowed to eat when and what she chose. she wore what she liked. she did precisely as she pleased, and she pleased to do a great many unpleasant and foolish things. as time went on, it would be hard to name anything that had not been given to nina. from babyhood, everything that she could want, did want, did n't want, had been lavished upon her with the most reckless, senseless profusion. at clovermeadow, a beautiful country place in new jersey, where mrs. andrews spent a part of each year, there was a large room lined with cupboards and filled with toys alone. she had every sort of doll that the wit of man has in- vented, or the taste of woman clothed. dolls as big as herself, dolls not an inch long. dolls that were wound up and walked; dolls that were wound up and talked. she had farm- yards, trains of cars, swiss villages, theaters, dancing-girls, puppet-shows, games of all kinds, puzzles. and yet, with all this elaborate ma- chinery for amusement, she was not half so happy as the little street-boy that hood speaks of, whose cherished toys were “two bricks, an old shoe, and nine oyster-shells.” the trouble was that she was perfectly sur- feited with fine things, and on rainy days would play for five minutes with some toy, declare herself “sick” of them all, complain of its being “so dull,” mope, whine, get into mischief, and give trouble without end. she cared nothing for her possessions after the first flush of curi- osity was over. it never occurred to her, of course, to think that there were sick and poor children in the world to whom her discarded toys would have given delight. often, when younger, she had envied poor children, while looking out of the window and seeing them dancing merrily about a hand- organ, or playing on the pavement, and would wish that she could take part in these interest- ing amusements, she was so tired of all those provided for her. even to take her grand- mother's expensive copy of some beautiful book and smear the pictures, according to her fancy, with red, yellow, and brown patches of paint, palled upon her before she was half through the volume. what wonder that at ten years of age she often complained that there was “nothing to do,” and felt that there was nothing worth doing; and had an air of general discontent, looking ever to her own amusement —never to the pleasure or comfort of others. yet, if having her own way could have con- .] miss nina barrow. tented her, nina certainly would have been happy. the curious thing, though, about al- ways having one's own way is that it is pre- cisely the thing that makes both children and grown people most miserable. chapter ii. nina and miss brewster. when miss brewster, on the day of her ar- rival, went to her room to unpack her things she was not in a cheerful mood. she had had a long and fatiguing journey; she was entering upon a perfectly untried field of duty; and she was very homesick. the prospect of being com- panion to a kind old lady, and governess to one child, had been welcomed by her, for she was a poor girl and had to make her own way in the world, and to help her family. she had grate- fully accepted mrs. andrews's offer, and had hurried on to new york lest something should jeopardize her brilliant prospects. but now she could not help feeling disheartened, and she was thinking most disapprovingly of nina as “a child sure to be a torment,” when, without a knock or an apology, nina came in, closed the door, and took a seat. she did not understand marian's look of surprise at the intrusion. “i am going to see you unpack your trunk,” she said as she settled herself comfortably, and began rocking backward and forward “oh! you are, are you?” said miss brew- ster. “well, dear, if you are very good and quiet, you may.” nina, surprised to have accorded as a favor what she had taken for granted, went on to say, “it’s great fun watching people pack and unpack when they 've got lots of things, and their bonnets are all squashed, and you don't know what is coming out next. mrs. jones, in , had seven of the biggest trunks you ever saw, just stuffed, and the lady in , she's got fifteen just crammed and rammed, 'cause she's just come back from europe. is that all the trunk you've got? why it ain't much bigger than my doll's what did you get a zinc trunk for p miss thompson, in , would n't let her maid get one, 'cause she says they 're vulgar, and she would n't have it going round with her to the watering-places.” “oh, nina, ninal" exclaimed marian, and then stopped. to find fault with any part of this speech was to find fault with it all, and while she quite longed to tell the child that she ought not to go into private rooms unless invited, or to gossip, and that there were more vulgar things than even zinc trunks, she wisely held her tongue “for the present.” meanwhile nina was examining the labels on the objectionable trunk and the contents; also the initials “r. b. b.” painted on one end. “that's not your name, is it?” she asked. “no,” replied marian, “the trunk is n’t mine. i had to borrow rob's—rob is my brother.” “goodness! well, you did n't have much to put in it, to be sure. are these all the dresses you've got? let me see this one,”—tugging at one half hidden. “what's that? what's this?” picking up various articles. “go back to your chair, nina,” said miss brewster quietly. “i can unpack without your assistance”; and nina, encountering her calm glance did as she was bid, very much to her own surprise and dawning chagrin. she had thought to go through and look over miss brewster's possessions as she did claudine's. “i don't at all mind your looking on, though there is very little to see,” said miss brewster, moving about the room as she spoke, arrang- ing and putting away her clothes. “let me see; my best dress shall hang there, my morn- ing one here on the next peg; this is just the place for my dressing-gown and slippers, and here are brass pegs already in the door for my shoe-bag. now my work-basket and books and desk you can put over there, if you would really like to help, dear.” nina did n't move. she had not been ac- customed to do anything for others, or to un- selfish actions and thoughtful attentions. she was there simply to gratify her own curiosity; so she only colored and looked resentful, and began chattering again: “claudine 's got a cashmere dressing-gown all embroidered down the front, and her best dress is a great deal bet- ter than yours — it's heavy, heavy black silk, not thin and shiny like this, and it is all trimmed up. but you should see miss mil- ler's, in ! she 's the best-dressed woman in the hotel. she changes her dress sometimes [feb. miss nina barrow. five times a day, and she's got just stacks of 'em. she's got millions upon millions, bridget says, and never gives anything to the servants.” “see here, nina, here 's a book that i brought you,” interjected miss brewster, anx- ious to stem this torrent of gossip. “it is the “wonder book,' and you and i will read it aloud together. we shall have some nice after- noons, i hope. and, dear, you mean kindly, i am sure, but you should not comment upon anything that i have. as to dresses, i have all that i require or can afford, and i can pro- vide myself with all that i need. miss miller is rich and i am poor. i cannot dress as she does if i would, and i would not if i could. nor does a great variety of costly and beautiful clothing add to the happiness of any one, or the esteem in which they are held by people whose good opinion is worth having. people should dress and live in accordance with their means and position in the world. but rich or poor, the only real test of the true lady lies in things quite independent of these: in intelligence, gentleness, courtesy, good-breeding, personal refinement. you will understand all this as you grow older. and i must tell you this, nina,— for you are put in my charge now, a lady does not discuss her equals, be they friends or strangers, with servants. so do not talk of any one in the hotel with waiters or maids, dear child, or listen while they talk, or repeat what you hear. just run away to me when they begin, and we will find something pleasanter and more profitable to do. what are you going to do this afternoon p” “oh, i'm going to the matinée with sadie turnbull and bessie simpson. i've been to the theater times and times this winter, and to lots of other things, more than sadie turnbull and bessie put together. i wanted to take louise compton with us to-day, but her mother would n't let her. she 's got the kind of mo- ther that won't let her do a thing. she is just as strict as anything, and louise does n’t have a good time at all. and she 's always got something to do — to study, or to walk, or to hear her mother read. her mother 's always reading some book to her when me and sa- die — ” “sadie and i | " corrected marian, hastily. “— when we go around there to get her to go down town to get ice-cream and candy. she sends her to the park with the governess, where she can't have a bit of fun. and she would n't let her go to sadie's yellow lumch. i'm awful sorry”—“very sorry,” interjected marian — “for sadie. and you never knew such a lot of lessons as she has to learn. she won't let her wear a single speck, or grain, or mite of jewelry — not even a ring ! i've never seen her in what i should call a stylish dress since she's been coming to school. but i like to make the girls stare and keep them down, and it spites belle dixon beautifully. we don't speak. she wants to be the most popular girl in the school, and it 's such fun, 'cause she 's too mean to get nice things for the other girls; and she buys them stale old candies, about twenty-five cents a pound, and cheap flowers, and the girls laugh at her so behind her back, and she buys marrons for herself and keeps them in her desk, and big bunches of jack roses. her father is in the legislature, and she's just as mean as she can be to may briggs, and says her father is nothing but a newspaper reporter, and has to sit up in a cage and write down every word that her father says, for his living. and she makes her cry like anything. and i gave may my best sash and my canary to stop crying, poor little thing! and i’d like to pound belle. she can't do a thing to me; she's weak in the wrists.” marian listened aghast at the account the child was unconsciously giving of herself— her life, habits, tastes, standards of action, thoughts, character, and training, or, rather, lack of training. she literally did not know what to say, where to begin to reform evils that cried aloud in this little christian heathen, this civilized savage, this white topsy who had simply “growed.” for marian had, herself, known the great advantage of being reared by refined, intelligent, loving parents, who still had a share in her every thought, word, and deed, so deeply had they influenced her. “how shall i reach or teach this child?” she thought. “how till this garden of weeds in which the lovely flowers of pity, justice, affec- tion are so rapidly being choked oh! how careful i shall have to be if i am to succeed! a boy i knew. by laurence hutton. [begun in the december number.] iii. all the boy's religious training was received at home; and almost his first text-book was “the shorter catechism,” which, he confesses, he hated with all his little might. he had to learn and recite the answers to those long questions as soon as he could recite at all; and, for years, without the slightest knowledge as to what it was all about. even to this day he cannot tell just what “effectual calling,” or “justification,” is; and i am sure that he shed more tears over “effectual calling” than would blot out the record of any number of infantile sins. he made up his youthful mind that if he could not be saved without “effec- tual calling”—whatever that was — he did not want to be saved at all. but he has thought better of it since. his earliest visit to scotland was made when he was but four or five years of age, and long before he had assumed the dignity of trousers, or had been sent to school. his father had gone to the old home at st. andrews hurriedly, upon the receipt of the news of the serious illness of the boy's grandmother, who died before they reached her. naturally, the boy has little recollection of that sad month of december, spent in his grandfather's house, except that it was sad. the weather was cold and wet ; the house, even under ordinary circumstances, could not have been a very cheerful one for a young- ster who had no companions of his own age. it looked out upon the german ocean — which at that time of the year was always in a rage, or in the sulks, and the house was called “peep o' day,” because it received the very first rays of the sun as he rose upon the british isles. the boy's chief amusement was the feeding of “flour-scones” and oat-cakes to an old goat vol. xxiv.- . that lived in the neighborhood, and the daily walks with his grandfather, who seemed to find some little comfort and entertainment in his grandson's childish prattle. he was then al- most the only grandchild, and the old man was very proud of his manner and appearance, and particularly amused at certain gigantic efforts on the boy's part to adapt his own short legs to the strides of his senior's long ones. after they had interviewed the goat, and had watched the wrecks with which the wild shore was strewn, and had inspected the castle in ruins, and the ruins of the cathedral, the boy would gaze upon his grandmother's new-made grave, and his own name in full — a common name in the family — upon the family tomb in the old kirkyard; all of which must have been very cheering to the boy, although he could not read it for himself. and then, which was bet- ter, they would stand hand in hand for a long time in front of a candy-shop window, in which was displayed a little regiment of lead soldiers, marching in double file toward an imposing and unconquerable lead fortress on the heights of barley-sugar. of this spectacle they never tired; and they used to discuss how the boy would arrange them if they belonged to him, with a sneaking hope on the boy's part that, some day, they were to be his very own. at the urgent request of the grandfather, the american contingent remained in st. andrews until the end of the year; and the boy still re- members vividly, and he will never forget, the dismal failure of “auld lang syne" as sung by the family with clasped hands as the clock struck and the new year began. he sat up for the occasion — or, rather, was waked up for the occasion; and of all that family group he has been, for a decade or more, the only survivor. the mother of the house was but lately dead, the eldest son and his son were going the next day to the other side of the world; and every [feb. a boy i knew. voice broke before the familiar verse came to an end. as the boy went off to his bed he was told that his grandfather had something for him, and he stood at his knee to receive — a bible ! that it was to be the lead soldiers and the lead the boy's scotch grandfather. citadel he never for a moment doubted ; and the surprise and disappointment were very great. he seems to have had presence of mind enough to conceal his feelings, and to kiss and thank the dear old man for his gift. but, as he climbed slowly up the stairs, in front of his mother, and with his bible under his arm, she overheard him sob to himself and murmur, in his great disgust: “well, he has given me a book. and i wonder how he thinks i am going to read his confounded scotch ' " this outburst upon the part of a child who could not read at all, gave unqualified pleasure to the grandfather, and he never tired of telling the story as long as he lived. the boy was never a regular member of any fire-company, but almost as long as the old volunteer fire depart- ment existed, he was what was known as a “runner.” he was attached, in a sort of brevet way, to “pearl hose no. ,” and later to “eleven hook and ladder.” he knew all the fire districts into which the city was then divided; his ear was always alert, even in the st. john's park days, for the sound of the alarm bell, and he ran to every fire, at any hour of the day or night, up to ten o'clock p. m. he did not do much when he got to the fire but stand around and “holler.” but once— a proud moment—he helped , steer the hook-and-laddertruck to a false alarm in macdougal street; and once — a very proud moment indeed — he went into a tenement house, near dr. thompson's church, in grand street, and carried two negro babies downstairs in his arms. there was no earthly reason why the babies should not have been left in their beds, and the colored family did not like it, because the babies caught cold ! but the boy, for once in his life, tasted the de- lights of self-conscious heroism. when the boy, as a bigger boy, was not running to fires he was going to theaters, the greater part of his allowance being spent in the box-offices of burton's chambers street house, of brougham's lyceum, corner of broome street and broadway, of niblo's, and of castle garden. there were no afternoon perform- ances in those days, except now and then when the “ravels” were at castle garden; and .] a boy i knew. the admission to pit and galleries was usually two shillings — otherwise, twenty-five cents. his first play, so far as he remembers, was “the stranger,” a play dismal enough to de- stroy any taste for the drama, one would sup- pose, in any juvenile mind. he never cared very much to see “the stranger” again, but nothing that was a play was too deep or too heavy for him. he never saw the end of any of the more elaborate productions, unless his father took him to the theater (as once in a while he did), for it was a strict rule of the house, until the boy was well up in his teens, that he must be in by ten o'clock. his father did not ask him where he was going, or where he had been; but the curfew in hubert street tolled at ten. the boy calculated carefully and exactly how many minutes it took him to run to hubert street from brougham's or from burton's; and by the middle of the second act his watch—a small silver affair with a hunt- ing-case, in which he could not keep an un- cracked crystal—was always in his hand. he never disobeyed his father, and for years he never knew what became of claude melnotte after he went to the wars, or if damon got back in time to save pythias before the curtain fell. the boy, naturally, had a most meager notion as to what all these plays were about, but he enjoyed his fragments of them as he rarely enjoys plays now. sometimes, in these days, when the air is bad, and plays are worse, and big hats are worse than either, he wishes that he were forced to leave the modern play-house at nine-forty-five on pain of no supper that night, or of twenty lines of “virgil" the next day. on very stormy afternoons the boys played theater in the large garret of the boy's hubert street house; a convenient closet, with a door and a window, serving for the castle of elsi- nore in “hamlet,” for the gun-room of the ship in “black-eyed susan,” or for the studio of phidias in “the marble heart,” as the case might be. “the brazilian ape,” as requiring more action than words, was a favorite enter- tainment, only they all wanted to play jocko the ape; and they would have made no little success out of the “lady of lyons” if any of them had been willing to play pauline. their costumes and properties were slight and not al- ways accurate, but they could “launch the curse of rome,” and describe “two hearts beating as one,” in a manner rarely equaled on the regular stage. the only thing they really lacked was an audience, neither lizzie gustin nor ann hughes ever being willing to sit through more than one act at a time. when the boy, as virginius, stabbed all the feathers out of the pillow which represented the martyred vir- ginia; and, when joe stuart, as falstaff, broke the bottom out of ann hughes's clothes-basket, the license was revoked, and the season came to an untimely end. until the beginning of the weekly, or the fortnightly, sailings of the collins line of steam- ers from the foot of canal street (a spectacle which they never missed in any weather), joe stuart, johnny robertson, and the boy played “deerslayer” every saturday in the back-yard of the boy's house. the area-way was glim- mer-glass, in which they fished, and on which they canoed; the back-stoop was muskrat castle; the rabbits were all the wild beasts of the forest; johnny was hawk-eye, the boy joe stuart. was harry hurry, and joe stuart was chingach- gook. they talked what they fondly believed was the dialect of the delaware tribe, and they were constantly on the lookout for the ap- o a boy i knew. proaches of rivenoak, or the panther, who were represented by any member of the family who chanced to stray into the inclosure. they the boy as virginius. carefully turned their toes in when they walked, making so much effort in this matter that it took a great deal of dancing-school to get their feet back to the “first position” again, and they even painted their faces when they were on the war-path. the rabbits had the worst of it! the campaign came to a sudden and disas- trous conclusion when the hostile tribes, headed by mrs. robertson, descended in force upon the devoted band, because chingachgook broke one of hawk-eye's front teeth with an arrow, aimed at the biggest of the rabbits, which was crouching by the side of the roots of the grape-vine, and playing that he was a panther of enormous size. johnny robertson and the boy had one great superstition — to wit, cracks! for some now inexplicable reason they thought it un- lucky to step on cracks; and they made daily and hourly spectacles of themselves in the streets by the eccentric irregularity of their gait. now they would take long strides, like a pair of ostriches, and now short, quick steps, like a couple of robins; now they would hop on both feet, like a brace of sparrows; now they would walk on their heels, now on their toes; now with their toes turned in, now with their toes turned out—at right angles, in a splay-footed way; now they would walk with their feet crossed, after the manner of the hands of very fancy, old-fashioned piano-players, skipping from base to treble — over cracks. the whole performance would have driven a sensitive drill-sergeant or ballet-master to dis- traction. and when they came to a brick side- walk they would go all around the block to avoid it. they could cross hudson street on the cobblestones with great effort, and in great danger of being run over; but they could not possibly travel upon a brick pavement and avoid the cracks. what would have happened to them if they did step on a crack they did not exactly know. but, for all that, they never stepped on cracks—of their own free will. ** mrs. robertson descended in force upon the devoted band.” (to be continued.) the true story of marco polo. by noah brooks. [begun in the june number.] chapter xvi. some of the wonders of yunnan. marco, having told his readers many won- derful things about kublai khan and his court and people, then addressed himself to some narration of his adventures in traveling about the great mongolian empire. this part of his book he begins by saying: now you must know that the emperor sent the afore- said marco polo, who is the author of this whole story, on business of his into the western provinces. on that occasion he traveled from cambaluc a good four months’ journey toward the west. and so now i will tell you all that he saw on his travels as he went and returned. the journey which marco took was along the boundary of cathay, or china, nearest to the indian empire; the provinces of the mon- golian empire through which he passed are now known as shansi, szechwan, and tibet. we are not able to find on a modern map all the exact places of which marco makes men- tion in his account of his journey through the western provinces. but some of the names of cities are found easily enough. for example, pianfu, one of the cities first mentioned in marco's journal, was undoubtedly ping-yang- fu, as the city is now called. we are not so certain about chaicu, which lies two days' ride farther west. when marco goes on to speak of the great river caramoran, it is easy to identify that water- course with one of the famous rivers of china. he says: when you leave chaicu, and travel about twenty miles westward, you come to a river called caramoran, so big that no bridge can be thrown across it; for it is of immense width and depth, and reaches to the great ocean that encircles the universe — i mean the whole earth. on this river there are many cities and walled towns, and many merchants too therein, for much traffic takes place upon the river, there being a great deal of ginger and a great deal of silk produced in the country. this could be none other than the hoang- ho, or yellow river, sometimes called “the sorrow of china,” on account of the great de- struction of life and property it brings by its floods. we must bear in mind that when marco wrote, nobody actually knew what water, or land, lay to the eastward of china; therefore he speaks of the “great ocean that encircles the universe”; and this was usually known as the “ocean sea.” as the amazon and the mis- sissippi rivers were unknown then, the yellow river of china was the largest known, and marco was the first to bring back to europe any detailed account of that stream. after crossing the yellow river and travel- ing two days westward, marco reached the city of chacanſu, and then eight days westward brought him to kenjanfu, of which he makes mention after this manner: and when you have traveled those eight days’ jour- ney, you come to that great city which i mentioned, called kenjanfu, which in old times was a noble, rich, and powerful realm, and had many great and wealthy and puissant kings. but now the king thereof is a prince called mangalai, the son of the great khan, who hath given him this realm, and crowned him king thereof. it is a city of great trade and industry. they have great abundance of silk, from which they weave cloths of silk and gold, of divers kinds, and they also manufacture all sorts of equipments for an army. they have every necessary of man's life very cheap. the city lies towards the west; and outside the city is the palace of the prince mangalai, crowned king, and son of the great khan, as i told you before. this is a fine palace and a great, as i will tell you. it stands in a great plain abounding in lakes and streams and springs of water. round about it is a massive and lofty wall, five miles in compass, well built, and all gar- nished with battlements. and within this wall is the king's palace, so great and fine that no one could ima- gine a finer. there are in it many great and splendid halls, and many chambers, all painted and embellished the true story of marco polo. [feb. with work in beaten gold. this mangalai rules his realm right and well with justice and equity, and is much beloved by his people. the troops are quartered round about the palace, and enjoy the sport that the royal demesne affords. kenjanfu we know to be singanfu — one of the ancient and historic cities of china. it was once the residence of the chinese emperor, and is now the capital of the province of shansi. it is renowned as the seat of a christian colony, of which a remarkable memorial remains. the christian missionaries who penetrated this re- mote region long before the coming of marco polo were nestorians from persia, or from constantinople, it is not certain which. they were asiatics, and took their name from nesto- rius, one of the early christian bishops, who flourished in the fifth century of the christian era, and whose seat was in constantinople. a tablet has been found in a ruined temple near singanfu, on which are inscribed in chinese and syriac characters a full statement of the sum of the christian doctrine, an account of the arrival of a christian missionary with books, the emperor's approval of the doctrines, and his order for the erection of a church. this tablet, which is seven feet high and three feet wide, and is surmounted by a carved likeness of a cross, is the oldest christian monument in asia. reaching the southern part of shansi, marco approaches manzi, or that part of the empire which lies south of the yellow river. the capital of the province, he says, is called “ac- balec manzi, which signifies “the white city of the manzi frontier.’” in these later days, we americans have had a white city; it was built for the columbian fair, in chicago. passing through tibet, marco's next advance was into the province of yunnan, in the ex- treme southwestern corner of china, north of siam, and east of burmah. even in these modern times very little is known of yunnan, the best account of the country having been written by mr. t. t. cooper, an english trav- eler, who was killed by one of his own native guard, in burmah, in . it is not likely that kublai khan knew much about that most remote of his conquered provinces, and so young marco was sent to bring to the khan whatever information he could pick up concern- ing the country and its resources. here is part of his report. marco polo's report upon the province of yunnan. in this country gold-dust is found in great quantities; that is to say, in the rivers and lakes, while in the mountains gold is also found in pieces of larger size. gold is indeed so abundant that they give one saggio of gold for only six of the same weight in silver. and for small change they use the porcelain shells, as i men- tioned before. these are not found in the country, however, but are brought from india. in this province are found snakes and great serpents of such vast size as to strike fear into those who see them, and so hideous that the very account of them must excite the wonder of those who hear it. i will tell you how long and big they are. you may be assured that some of them are ten paces in length; some are more and some less. and in bulk they are equal to a great cask, for the bigger ones are about ten palms in girth. the head is very big. the mouth is large enough to swallow a man whole, and is garnished with great pointed teeth. and in short they are so fierce-looking and so hideously ugly, that every man and beast must stand in fear and trembling of them. there are also smaller ones, such as of eight paces long, and of five, and of one pace only. the way in which they are caught is this. you must know that by day they live underground because of the great heat, and in the night they go out to feed, and de- vour every animal they can catch. they go also to drink at the rivers and lakes and springs. and their weight is so great that when they travel in search of food or drink, as they do by night, the tail makes a great furrow in the soil as if a full tun of liquor had been dragged along. now the huntsmen who go after them take them by a certain gin [trap.] which they set in the track over which the serpent has passed, knowing that the beast will come back the same way. they plant a stake deep in the ground and fix on the head of this a sharp blade of steel made like a razor or a lance-point, and then they cover the whole with sand so that the serpent cannot see it. indeed the huntsman plants sev- eral such stakes and blades on the track. on coming to the spot the beast strikes against the iron blade with such force that it enters his breast and rives [cuts] him so that he dies on the spot, and the crows on seeing the brute dead begin to caw, and then the huntsmen know that the serpent is dead and come in search of him. this then is the way these beasts are taken. those who take them proceed to extract the gall from the in- side, and this sells at a great price; for you must know it furnishes the material for a most precious medicine. thus if a person is bitten by a mad dog, and they give him but a small pennyweight of this medicine to drink, he is .] of marco polo. the true story cured in a moment. again if one has any disease of the skin and applies a small quantity of this gall he shall speedily be cured. so you see why it sells at such a high price. they also sell the flesh of this serpent, for it is excel- lent eating, and the people are very fond of it. and when these serpents are very hungry, sometimes they will seek out the lairs of lions or bears or other large wild beasts, and devour their cubs, without the sire and dam being able to prevent it. indeed, if they catch the big ones themselves they devour them too; they can make no resistance. this was marco's first view, we must sup- pose, of alligators or crocodiles. no wonder he gazed upon these horrid “serpents” with so much amazement. but, if we leave out his ig- norance of the name, we shall find that his ac- count of the alligator, as he is now known, is accurate enough. the creatures are caught and killed now precisely as he narrates; and their habits are the same as he describes them. but we can well imagine that the incredulous venetians, to whom these traveler's tales were told, winked to each other and smiled “in their sleeves” to hear such marvelous accounts of strange beasts. concerning the use of shells as money, it is hardly necessary to tell the bright youngsters who read these chapters that shells of the variety known as cowrie are still used in some parts of india and in the islands of the south pacific for money. marco found many people in tibet and other indo-chinese provinces who used cakes of salt for small change. salt is costly; everybody must have it, and, in default of small money, it was and is used in making change. a saggio, of which marco makes mention, is one-sixth of an ounce; so that one- sixth of an ounce of gold would be exchanged for one ounce of silver; nowadays one gets a larger proportion of silver for gold than that. (to be continued.) the kettle. by laura e. richard . *wheel.” oh, i am a kettle ! a kettle am i? i never shall strive to deny it. there's nothing about me that's sneaking or sly: deception, i never shall try it. bubble, i say! and hubble, i say! some folks may not like it, but that is my way. i mind my own business, and give no trouble; bubble, hub-bubble, hub-bubble, hub-bubble ! they say i am black; i admit it is true: a respectable tint, and i love it. i never, no, never set out to be blue ; as for yellow or red, i'm above it. bubble, i say! and hubble, i say! i'm ready to talk any time of the day. heap on the coals, and my song i will double; bub-bub-bub-bubble, bub-bubble, bub-bubble ! lodgers in the nest. by edith m. thomas. no birds, they say, in last year's nests! what, ho! but there are other guests no songs they sing, no wings have they, these quiet people dressed in gray. º - - - | - -- my lady bird her nest did line with down of silkweed soft and fine; and here and there with dainty skill she trimmed it with a lichen frill. a rose-bush blossom- ed at her door, and dropped pink petals on her floor; but months ago away she flew, and all her well- fledged nestlings, too. and much surprised to-day she 'd be, could she the present lodgers see; i know she'd never bid them stay— these humble people dressed in gray. yet ’t is not strange that mistress mouse should choose this nest for her own house. “the ground is cold, the grass is dead; up there 't would warmer be,” she said. “besides, a few dry leaves i'll get, and make them in a coverlet.” so there she lives this very day, with all her children, dressed in gray. and, when the winter sun peeps out, all wrapped in furs they run about; and up and down they gaily go, | and leave their footprints in the snow. who owns the nest, i have not heard. i'd like to know what lady bird to mistress mouse, next spring, will say, if they should chance to meet some day ! a winter evening problem. by stella. m. wylie. it was about half-past nine one winter even- ing. the family were all gathered in the “cosy,” as the upstairs sitting-room was called, whiling away the few remaining minutes before bed-time. the school-boy had long ago laid aside his books, with a feeling of thank- fulness that to-morrow's lessons were well pre- pared, and he and paterfamilias were just finishing up a domino tournament that had been running for a number of evenings. grandma, at her corner of the table, was deeply absorbed in a book; mother and sister were embroidering; brother max was looking over his day's accounts; and the school-teacher had just ceased work for that night, and helped her- self to a reserved seat on the hall stairs to join in the talk and fun. “dominoedl " calls out the school-boy with glee, as he clicks down his last domino. “beaten again! we’ve had three tournaments, and i've beaten father in every one.” “that means i sha'n't play with you again for one while,” says paterfamilias, with the rue- ful expression appropriate to the occasion. then, feeling that it is necessary to explain his misfortunes to the assembled multitude – “i could n't draw a thing that would fit in, and he dominoed me four times running before i could get rid of the double-six. did you ever hear of such luck! no, don't ask me to play again. i've had enough for one night.” exultant over his success, and eager to score new triumphs, the school-boy now turns to the teacher. “here 's a question for you, miss russell. a boy walks around a pole, and there 's a monkey on top of the pole; the monkey turns so as to face the boy all the way around. does the boy walk around the monkey or does n’t he p’” now the teacher has had some experience with the school-boy's puzzling questions before; vol. xxiv.- . and expecting some catch, tries to look at it from all points of view, much as a dog walks around and around some strange object, gin- gerly sniffing and putting out a paw now and then before he ventures upon finalities. “well, that depends,” she begins cautiously. “how high is your pole?” “i did n't say. that does n’t have anything to do with it, anyway.” “i 've heard that before,” remarks mother; “but i can't seem to remember just what the answer was.” “well, i should think the height of the pole would make considerable difference. if the monkey is above the boy's head, i don't very well see how he could walk around him,” an- swers the teacher. “is the pole any taller than the boy?” “yes; the pole is taller than the boy” — and the school-boy nods reassuringly. but alas, and alas!—there is a twinkle in the school- boy's eye that indicates fun ahead. “and the monkey stays on top of the pole?” “the monkey stays on top of the pole.” “of course he does n’t walk around the monkey. how can he p” the teacher says with conviction. “no; of course he does n't!” the mother. - “but he does,” puts in paterfamilias. he has been through the mill, and is now enjoying the troubles of the novices. “walk around the monkey, when the mon- key's above his head? why, that's absurd,” protests the teacher. “he does—absurd or not.” “well, i'd like to know how. i don't see how he can walk around anything that's higher than his head.” “nor i.” everybody is in a proper frame of mind now, and the school-boy begins to relish the fun. this from [feb. a winter evening problem. “well,” he begins, “the monkey's on the pole, is n't he?” “yes.” “and the boy walks around the pole?” “ye-es.” - “well, then, if the monkey's on the pole, and the boy walks around the pole, he walks around whatever is on the pole, too. see?” the teacher looks rather puzzled, but not wholly convinced yet. “no, sir; he does n't walk around the whole pole; only that part of it that is as high as his head,” she argued. “is that the answer? — that the boy does walk around the monkey p” asks mother. a / “yes, around anything that's on the pole.” “i don't believe that,” says the teacher, a little rebelliously. “you can't walk around what 's above your head.” “did n't you ever walk around a house p” brother max has laid aside his accounts, and asks this question in the most innocent manner possible. “why, why, but—” “or around a square with lots of houses, and maybe a church or two in it?” feeling very much as if what had looked so the teacher's diagram. inoffensive had turned out to be an active little torpedo, the teacher wilts and beats a hasty retreat amid general laughter. but it is n't a second before she is back again: “but, still, i don't believe yet that the boy walks around that monkey. now just listen to me. here's a geometrical proof: if you move a point around so that its distance is always the same from a center, you make a circle, don't you?” after a little study and the drawing of a fig- ure on paper, the family assents. “well, now, which occupies the most space, a point or a line?” they are cautious now about answering, but it is finally decided that the line may take up more space in a given direction. “now, suppose we take this lead pencil for the line, set it up on end, and move it around as we did the point. the point described a circle; the line describes a cylinder—like a stovepipe.” this takes more studying, but assent is at length given. “the boy is a sort of a straight line; and the cylinder he describes in his walk around the pole incloses only the part of the pole as high as he is. the boy does n't walk around all the pole or around the monkey, which is on that part of the pole above his head. q. e. d.” but victory does n't perch on the teacher's banner yet. “you walk around the house, and you walk around the monkey,” persists the school-boy. “but you don't really walk around the whole house. that's only a figure of speech in which you transfer the meaning of a part to the whole. besides, just how far does the inclosed space, that the boy is supposed to walk around, ex- tend in an upward direction ? if it extends above his head at all, there is no reason why it should ever stop. if the boy walks around the whole house, then he walks around the star just above that house. to ‘walk around a house’ is only a figure of speech in which you transfer the meaning to the whole, simply be- cause there is no need of a more detailed expla- nation.” the school-boy has n’t studied geometry, and wonders what all this puzzling talk is about. the letter-box. cornelis de wos the elder, the flemish artist whose painting of his daughters is the frontispiece of this num- ber of st. nicholas, was born over three hundred years ago in the town of hulst, but passed much of his artistic life in antwerp, where he died in . he was a friend of the great van dyck, and a pupil of remeeus. apparently, he had two very charming little daughters. perhaps no portrait of a royal personage has been more frequently copied in books of history and biog- raphy, than holbein's famous picture of king henry viii. of england. most of our readers are no doubt familiar with it, and so they will enjoy the interesting picture on page of this number, a copy of a paint- ing by sir joshua reynolds, in which the famous artist has shown an english boy in a costume copied after that of bluff king hal. the garb and the pose are alike in the two pictures; but it is a pleasant surprise to find, in place of the stern and rather forbidding features of king henry, the cheery, smiling face of a sturdy little lad. readers of this magazine will remember the accounts of helen keller's life which were printed in st. nicho- las for september, , and june, , and also the remarkable letter from helen herself, describing her visit to the world's fair at chicago. her many friends among our readers will be glad to know that this doubly-afflicted yet happy girl is now studying with the regular classes at the gilman preparatory school in cambridge, massachusetts, and that she has already successfully passed examinations in several stud- ies, for radcliffe college. it is a pleasure to quote here a few extracts from letters written on her type- writer, during the past summer, by this gifted and sweet- souled blind girl. brewster, mass., july , . my dear friend: after leaving new york, we spent three very . weeks in boston, visiting friends and arranging everything for next year. we visited the school at cambridge where i am to continue my educa- tion, and saw mr. gilman, the principal. he is a very kind gentleman, and teacher thinks his school an ideal one; so i am looking forward with eager delight to pur- suing my studies there, though it seems sometimes as if i could never accomplish all that i wish to. but i am going to think i cam; for i know patience and perse- verance always conquer in the end. you know the old adage about a faint heart and a fair lady. well, i think it is equally true of a college degree. a faint heart never succeeds in anything, does it? at any rate, i am deter- mined to do my best, and i do not believe that any effort we make to attain something beautiful is ever lost. somehow, somewhere, sometime we shall realize our ideal. + * * + * + from boston we went to wrentham to visit some friends who have a lovely farm in the country. there is a charming lake near their house where we went boat- ing and canoeing every pleasant day. we also slept in a tent several times, and it was lovely to feel that we were sleeping where the beautiful moon and stars could keep their benign watch over us. helen keller heartily enjoyed her school-life of many months at the wright-humason school in new york, where she was taught articulate speech. we per- sonally have heard her repeat the whole of longfellow's “psalm of life,” clearly and with admirable expression and feeling. from wrentham we went to philadelphia to attend a convention of teachers of the deaf. e stayed at the pennsylvania institution at mount airy, a pleasant coun- try-place outside of the city. i am sure i need not tell you we had a busy time. we attended the meetings and receptions, and talked with hundreds of people, in- cluding monsieur magnat, of paris, a distinguished edu- cator, who has done a great deal for the deaf in france, and mr. banerji, of calcutta, who is endeavoring to es- tablish a school for the deaf in his native city. i made a little “speech” one day, telling the members of the association what a great blessing speech has been to me, and urging them to give every deaf child an opportunity to learn to express his thoughts in living words. after- ward we attended a reception, and shook hands with about six hundred people. i must confess i do not like such large receptions; the people crowd so, and almost overwhelm us with questions and personal remarks which are not always pleasant to hear. and yet it is at receptions like the one at philadelphia that we often meet friends whom we learn to love and honor afterward. but we were more than glad when the convention was over, and we could turn our faces brewster-ward. now we are settled down in this quiet little town—as the old stories have it. we are well, and having a happy, rest- ful time; but my summer is not a vacation in the usual sense; for i study a good deal with teacher's assistance. i study arithmetic, german, french, and history every day. we are now puzzling ourselves over fontaine's fables in french, ºf i am reading and rereading “wil- helm tell” in german. but you must not think i am working too hard. i am enjoying myself greatly, and besides, you know, if i do not have something to take up my mind, i am apt to get restless. you see, i am very ambitious to start well next year. metimes we take long, delightful drives in the woods, which are always full .# treasures—wild roses, ferns, huckle- and blueberries, and in places the softest, sweet- est carpet of pine-needles, you ever saw. then, too, we have the ocean, with all its mystery and beauty, only a mile distant, and numerous lakes and ponds filled with frogs and pond-lilies. so you can easily understand how much we enjoy the rest. in an accompanying letter her devoted teacher, her second self, miss anne m. sullivan, writes as follows: now that a definite plan for helen's future has been decided upon, people are more than ever interested in her. it seems to me the sweetest and greatest moment in helen's life thus far. she is just sixteen. certainly up to the present time her abounding heart of love and her spontaneous enthusiasm for all that is good have drawn º le to her in a wonderful way, and it now re- mains for her to show the world what more may be ac- complished under the greatest misfortunes. the letter-box. higham hall, rochester, england. dear st. nicholas: i have taken you for a year and six months, and i loved the “prize cup” and “marco polo.” i live in a little village called higham, about a mile from gadshill place, of which you printed an account two or three months ago. it is a lovely old house with two of the largest cedars i have ever seen in the garden, which is on the other side of the road. there is a very pretty old church near us, which was built in the reign of henry i., and where king stephen's daughter mary is buried; and they have put a stone on the top of her grave. you can just read “mary” on it. our house is said to have an underground passage; but we have never found it. i remain your loving reader, dorothy de michele. port jervis, n. y. dear st. nicholas: there is avery pretty story con- nected with one of the “historic military powder-horns,” the picture of which was given in an interesting article on #. subject from the pen of j. l. sticht, of the united states navy, which appeared in the october number of st. nicholas. it is of a sixteen-year-old connecticut lad, who, at a tender age, was serving his country in the ranks of the continental army under general washing- ton, and endured the rigors and privations which the troops underwent during the terrible winter of – at valley forge. while the army was encamped at that lace, about thirty of the soldiers, among whom was young }. rockwell, the boy referred to above, had lost their ºrhorns, and there seemed to be no way to replace them. the camp butchers who supplied the troops with meat had saved ten horns from the cattle killed by them, and they proposed to give them to the men who had lost powder-horns. as there were three times as many appli- cants as there were horns, the butchers were at a loss how to divide them so as not to incur the displeasure of the disappointed ones. the soldiers finally agreed to leave the distribution to the commander-in-chief. one day general w. was riding through camp, when they appealed to him to make the division. he readily consented to do so, and hit upon this novel fº : taking from his pocket paper and a pencil, he said e would write a number which would be between oo and , and the ten soldiers who should guess the nearest to this number should receive the horns. he wrote , the year of the declaration of independence. but one man guessed this number. four others of the successful ones guessed half-way between these points, choosing the number . jabez rockwell was one of these four. the possession of the horn brought happi- ness to the young soldier, and it was not long before }. had it scraped and polished and prepared to hold its al- lotment of powder. it was first called into action at the battle of monmouth on the following june, and was car- ried by its owner through the war to its close, and was last used at yorktown in . this record is inscribed on the horn, as shown in the picture in st. nicholas: ºabez rockwell of ridgebury, conn. his horn made in º at valley forge, first used at monmouth, º , & last at yorktown, .” below this is grandson has caused to be written: “may it be sa- credly kept is the wish of his grandson, charles f. rockwell.” a few words about this youthful hero and one or two incidents of his after-life may be of interest in this con- nection. jabez rockwell was born near ridgebury, connecticut, october , , and was hardly fifteen years of age when the declaration of independence was declared. he enlisted before he was sixteen in the con- tinental army, in a regiment recruited by benedict ar- nold, and fought in his division, and was wounded at the battle of .# in . he was next transferred to the army under washington, and then lafayette. he was in nine battles, including saratoga, monmouth, and yorktown, where he witnessed the surrender of lord cornwallis, at the close of the war he returned to connecticut, where he married in , and afterward removed to the wilds of pennsylvania, locating near milford, the present county seat of pike. he died in , near honesdale, pa., and was buried with masonic and military honors. jabez rockwell venerated washington above every other man, and next to him his last commander, the gallant frenchman, general lafayette. when the lat- ter visited the united states for the last time, in , rockwell, who was then sixty-eight years old, and three other revolutionary soldiers—joshua hutchins, thomas gay, and samuel whittaker—walked all the way from yº. to new york city, a distance of seventy-two miles, to see their old commander. they arrived the second day, weary, footsore, and with clothing travel- soiled by the long march, and proceeded to the hotel where the general was quartered. the clerk looked at them in astonishment when they asked to see lafayette, and in a haughty tone he told them they would not be permitted to do so. they pleaded that they had walked a long way from the mountains of pennsylvania for no other purpose than this; but the clerk could not be moved. e ordered them away, saying their appear- ance was sufficient to indicate that the general would not care to see them. this answer kindled anew the warlike fire which lay dormant in the breast of the old revolutionary hero, and jabez rockwell said in tones that would brook no opposition: “young man, we have traveled on foot two days to see general lafayette. we fought under him before ou were born; we are now under the same roof with im, and if it is necessary to have another fight to see him, we are ready.” these words had the desired effect. the clerk said he would send up their names, but as the mayor of the city and the congressional committee, of which henry clay was a member, were in the parlor with general iº, arranging for his welcome, their request would probably be refused. when the cards bearing the names and regiment to which the old soldiers belonged reached lafayette, he requested henry clay to bring the men in; and the cor- . welcome they met with from their old commander repaid them for the toilsome journey they had under- gone, and the tramp homeward. jabez rockwell was a life-long democrat, but at the age of iº. when henry clay ran for president, in , he deviated from his principles and voted for him, because of his courteous treatment to him and his three comrades on the occasion of their visit to lafayette. for the foregoing facts the writer is indebted to mr. charles f. rockwell, of honesdale, pa., the grandson of the subject of this sketch, a “chip of the old block,” and the last owner of the historic powder-horn, until his recent gift of the treasure to a society, where it will be secure #. all time. w. h. nearpass. the following very creditable little ſºme are by george macaulay stevenson, ten years old. golden days. summer comes along the hedges, dancing down from rocky ledges, fair and sweet. and where'er she puts her foot springs a flower, rowing fairer every hour. the letter-box. what's better than an english day spent in the old-fashioned way? what's better than the fields in may, or the curds, the cream, the whey, or the brown bee’s sleepy lay, stealing all the flowerlets' honey, which to them is golden money? sing the praises of our june when fairies dance “au clair de lune”; think not of the gloomy past, ne'er think misfortunes ever last. the fays and the elves. far down the road, beneath the tall trees swaying, far down the road into the wood of green, there's where the ſays are ever, ever playing, cushioned on downy moss with velvet sheen. down to the shore the elves go singing, singing, down to the moonbeam-silvered lake, down to the lake, where bells are ringing, ringing, dancing till you and i awake. then when the dawn comes they go flying homeward back to their homes beneath the toadstool’s shade. bed-time. when in the firelight's glow we sit, and shadows along the crossbeams flit, then granny tells us awful tales of how the elves of long ago— stole the milk from out the pails, and robbed the oxen of their tails, and scampered over hills and dales, working mischief on their way until the dawn of each new day put an end to all their pranks, and quick they hid in woods and banks. and in a corner we shiver in fear, and then we get a terrible fright, for terror has sharpened up our ear— a rat is scraping behind the bed! o fire! throw far your beams of red. when the last glow fades from the sky, then we must say our sad good-by to stories, till to-morrow night when fires leap up in waning light. lausanne, switzerland. dear st. nicholas: i thought i would write to you and tell you how much i like you. we have taken you in for over a dozen years, and still continue to do so. i live in london; but at present i am in a school at lau- sanne, in switzerland, with two of my sisters; and we are going to stay here one or two years. lausanne is a lovely spot, as it is situated nearly on the borders of the lake of geneva, and is closed in with mountains, which look especially lovely at this time of the year, as they are covered with snow. last august we went on a beautiful excursion in the mountains, and we saw the glacier du rhône. it did seem so funny, as it was in the middle of summer, and the glacier was one mass of snow and ice. my sister and i have got two little tortoises, which we brought with us from london; they are wonderful little things, as they are only the size of a shilling, and can swim beautifully. we call them “adam ” and “eve.” we have also got two baby *...*. i and my sisters all ride bicycles, and when i am at home i do a great deal of bicycling; but now being at school i naturally do not have much chance of riding a bicycle. i remain your devoted reader, georgiana q–. san josé, cal. dear st. nicholas : i am twelve years old. we have taken the st. nicholas for many years, and have always enjoyed it very much. we came to san josé from new york about a year and a half ago, and i like it ever so much. the famous almaden quicksilver mines are only ten miles away, and lick observatory only twenty-eight. we are situated in the santa clara valley, which is noted for its green and dried fruit. papa has a ten-acre prune and cherry orchard, the former of which (five acres) bore seventy tons of green prunes last year. i enjoy your “letter-box” ever so much, and hope we may always be able to take your magazine. our little friend, grace holt. nairn, scotland. dear st. nicholas: i am an american girl; but i am spending a part of my vacation in the pretty little town of nairn on moray firth. this firth is beautiful. on clear days one can see every crack and cranny in the cliffs opposite, as well as the different colors of the fields. several mountains form a background to the view. the firth is about five miles wide opposite nairn. most of the dwelling-houses here have pretty flower- gardens, and some of them are covered with roses. they had some highland dances here a few weeks ago. there were sword-dances and reels, both very graceful and pretty. the sword-dance is done between and around crossed swords. the dancers must not step on the blades, but they may on the hilts. the highlanders wear a kilt and plaid of the tartan of their clan. the plaid is a long, wide scarf, thrown over the shoulder and fastened with a silver brooch, which sometimes holds a giant topaz. the kilt stops at the knee, and their stockings are turned down. the knees are bare. in one of their stockings they have a dirk— a kind of dagger. cawdor castle is near nairn. it is one of the seats of the earl of cawdor, and is three or four hundred years old. its grounds are perfectly lovely. in them are great trees, ferns, mosses, winding streams, hills, and ravines. there are many deer and rabbits in the park. when we were there the men were shooting. i await you with impatience every month. your interested reader, coralie howard haman. we thank the young friends whose names follow for leasant letters received from them : minda gottleib, }. church, francis mcmeehan, mary b. cooke, kath- arine m. le boutillier, alice jones, virginia w., gilbert maurice congdon, d. courthope, emilie cooke burns, mildred c. #. ruth parmelee, walter l. s., chauncey s. de witt, elsie doolittle, lewis c., harry caperton, jr., george buxton, sadie b. turner, alice k. potter, islay m. mccoll, e. w. scudder, hender schuy- ler, alice pearson, marjorie hoysrodt, ruth stetson, mary s. stranahan, gertrude cannon, morris ashley, daisy ullmann, elsie dinsmore, gertrude helene heydt- mann, a. s., george v. n. | | | | || || }) º º nº. |||||| | | º: | | |º answers to puzzles in the january number. diagonal, marion, . moslem. . baltic. . heroic. . crying. . sharon. . obtain. st. andrew's cross of diamonps. i. i. s. . cap. . cyrus. . saranac. . punic. . sac. . c. ii. . c. . º . medal. . caddies. . taint. . let. . s. iii. i. c. . cat. . camel. : cameras. . terry. . lay. . s. iy. . c. . pat. - . pupil. . capotes. . title. . lee. . s. v. i. s. . vº. . yacht. . sectary. . shaky. . ry. . y. rhymed transpositions. pares, spare, pears, rapes, spear, reaps, parse. - conundrum charade. pat-rol. a new year verse. the wave is breaking on the shore, the echo fading from the chime, again the shadow moveth o'er the dial-plate of time! j. g. whittier. hidden letters. word-squares. i. st. nicholas. . toast. . order. . adore. . serve. . trees. ii. i. dazes. . . zebra. . error. tare. two zoological acrostics. i. saint nicholas. . swan. . axis. : ibex. . nepa. . toad. . napu. . ibis. . , hawk. to oryx. ., lion. ; auks, . seal. ii. reindeer. . clumber . bubale. . coati. . lion. . eland. . vole. . mouse. . tapir. divided cities. . jackson. . hartford. . charleston. . boston. . . . bangor. . frankfort. .. springfield. . madison, . brooklyn. io. cleveland. . raleigh. . newport. rhymed numerical enigma. riº out, wild bells, to the wild sky, the flying cloud, the frosty light; the year is dying in the night; ring out, wild bells, and let him die. tennyson. to our puzzle rs: answers, to be acknowledged in the magazine, must be received not later than the th of each month, and should be addressed to st. nicholas “riddle box,” care of the century co., east seventeenth st., new york city. answers to all the puzzles in the november number were received, before november th, from m. mcg. – w. j. fabian – “jersey quartette”—josephine sherwood — grace edith thallon—“dondy small”—“buffalo quartette” – “four kane.”—sigourney fay nininger—katharine s. doty. eeks in answers to puzzles in the november number were received, before november th, from *g c. beecroft, – marion a. c barker, – g. b. dyer, – “hickory nut,” – ma m. eckfeld, — claudice piper, –geo little brothers,” –effie k. talbo k. rake, – albert l. vencill, — charlotte rge barnes, - j. k. and co., –jo and i, — mamma and will, , –achille poirier, io- l. o hram, — “alsie,” –l. – “naomi,” — “two e., – “sand crabs,” –“daniel hardin and co.,” –jessie and ralph sharot, – no name, pelham manor, – marguerite sturdy, — “little pilgrim,” –clara d. lauer and co., —john p. reynolds, d, — paul reese, io-helen lorraine enos, . geographical primal acrostic. when the following names have been rightly guessed aud written one below another, their initials will spell a º. of land first rounded by lemaire and schouten in idio. cross-words: . a mountain system in russia. . a mountain system in south america. . an island in the aegean sea. . a lake of north america. . a city of france. . a river of south america. . a city of italy. . a famous river of africa. l. housman. cross-world enigma. my first is in apple, but not in pear; my second in hole, but not in tear; my third is in knot, but not in bow; my fourth is in finger, but not in toe; my fifth is in frightened, but not in bold; my sixth is in silver, but not in gold; my seventh is in long, but not in short; my eighth is in vessel, but not in port; my ninth is in borrow but not in lend; my tenth is in winter, and that is the end. my whole is the name of a poet. dorothy c. butler. novel zigzag. all of the words described contain the same number of letters. when these are rightly guessed and placed one below another, in the order here given, the zigzag, be- inning at the upper left-hand letter, will spell a union. #. initial letters are the same as the zigzag. cross-words: . to wince. . a kind of tea. §: minority in age. . a jolting motion. . unequalled. . a small mug or cup. . a monk's hood. . gos- sip. . a pendant mass of ice. io. a long, broad boat used by the eskimos. ii. sprightly. “the h. twins.” pi. het clod swind vare no eht yei revir, eht slafeles charnbes pamlicon nad viresh, teh wons culsod sewep no, ot a rayder nute,_ nac sheet eb eht thare nad het henvase fo nuje? curious zoological changes. . behead and curtail a nocturnal animal allied to the monkeys, and leave an australian bird. . behead twice and curtail twice the european bison, and leave a monstrous bird of arabian mythology. . behead twice an animal of peru, and leave a south american rodent. . behead a small hound, and leave a large bird. . behead a domestic bird, and leave a wild one. . syncopate a bird, and leave a useful animal. §. syncopate a bird, and leave a domestic animal. . behead one fish, and leave another. . curtail a wild swan, and leave a large deer. . curtail twice a curious animal of india, allied to the weasel, and leave a rodent. l. e. johnson. the riddle-box, . diamond. . in the united states. . a beast of burden. . a place of public contest. . of no value. . to act in a cowardly manner. . to demand. . in the united states. d. h. d. illustrated dlagonal. (~i=\/s – %. - º * - & fº < ) º º º-cº - kºsºsº. i * !--- ºf j > ===eº) yºğ * * *. --- *~º -z__ strº-º- ºr--- º r-sº º---- ºtsº iii º k * tº w sºº ( \|_ \ iv º ca- } w slº fº: i- - / wº | ºº---t ºr / ſ sºº- * qººn *tnsº º o )*q ºf ’s *º ~~ all the words pictured contain the same number of letters. when rightly guessed and placed one below the other, in the order numbered, the diagonal (from the upper left-hand letter to the lower right-hand letter) will spell the name of an english poet and essayist. double acrostic. my primals name the christian name, and my finals the surname of a famous englishman. cross-words (of equal length): . covered with a layer of any substance. . one of the sandwich islands. . pertaining to northern regions. . comment. . small. . an original form. . bends downward. willy and may. connected squares. : : i. upper left-hand square: . harvest. . a cable. . public. . inclosures. ii. upper right-hand square: . a celtic min- strel. . a city of china. . an assumed character. . colors. iii. central square: . transferred to another for an equivalent. . above. . a masculine name. . to fall in drops. iv. lower left-hand square: . with shoes. . a small animal. . minerals. furnished . a pºp! . lower right-hand square: . a division. . mimics. . low. . to discover. l’h. charade. the traveler in darksome ways, astray beneath a stormy sky, may well my first, unless his gaze my ...} somewhere can espy. my second, if no traveler find with those its fortunes who control, must sink beneath a fate unkind;— he only can expect my whole. edward b. hill. transposed thees. the letters in each of the words printed in italics may be transposed so as to form the name of a tree. in a cabin a mile north, on the river w , lives old lem with his pet lamb. clouts of old crape fill the place of window-panes and door panel. possessed of ample means, he has not cared to wear other covering than a ragged dolman, nor to drink from any but a cheap blue mug. at night, he goes to reap the harvest of his melon patch. he will take a lamp in one hand to allure in- sects; and a tile or lump of rock in the other, with which to slay a possible weasel. l. e. j. riddle. a man came running down the street; he ran, and never tarried; you'd think that he could hardly walk with all the things he carried. . some instruments of music, first; . some parts of noble ships; . a wooden box; ( and ) two kinds of fish; . and several ends of whips; . he tightly held a noble stag; he weapons also bore; . two tops of trunks were on his head; . and yet two caps he wore; . he carried children going to school; . two quadrupeds, not small; . and weathercocks,— some blue, some red; these were by no means all! the steps of a hotel; ( ) some flowers; two buildings; ( ) lofty trees; a noble monument, erect. all these he bore with ease ! and yet, to all appearances, he empty-handed ran, and looked as if he carried naught— that over-burdened man' frances amory. word-square. cowardly. . those who fix . to read. . to close ella. w. foote. . to abrade. . values. . a broad street. the eyes of a hawk. numerical enigma. iam composed of twenty letters; and my whole is a distinguished singer. my - is a preposition. my - - - is an º: tian goddess. my - - - is to emit. my - - - is to color slightly. my - - - - is to protect. florence elsie. t. the de winne press, new york. st. nicholas. vol. xxiv. march, . no. . copyright, , by the century co. all rights reserved. to “the girl with the muff.” (in the painting by madame zebrun.) by beatrice russell doe. little maid of olden france, truly, dear, i know thou art something in thy countenance sunny, blithe, and true of heart; sweetly girlish, dainty, fair, this doth make thee seem so fair – tender, mirthful, debonair, lights thy face with sweetness rare. makes me love thee, dear, although thou wert painted long ago. standing thus and smiling so 'neath thy wide and quaint chapeau tell me where thy charm doth lie. decked with plume and ribbon bow, is it in the merry eye thou wert pictured long ago, whose light joyousness of glance with thy neckerchief and muff; sets this heart o' mine a-dance not a trinket nor a ruff, or within those parted lips dear, to mar thy perfect grace, from whose mirthfulness there slips thy rare innocence of face. such a wondrous witchery — little mistress sans souci ? gazing on thy features, sweet, we but hope each season fleet is it wholly in the face p brought no sigh nor sorry tear — dwells it in that artless grace, only smiles and joy, my dear. modesty and ease of pose bless thee for thy merry glance, pr'ythee tell me. ah! who knows? dainty maid of olden france! * , . teddy baird’s luck. by kate dickinson sweets er. - º “as quick as a flash he was on the old wheel and away, scorching with main force down the carriage-road.” (see page .) on commencement day at harvey acad- emy, after all the exercises were over and the diplomas had been awarded, mr. shedd, the professor of literature, announced that at the be- ginning of the fall term he would give a prize to the member of his advanced class bringing in the best account of an adventure which had happened to him during the summer. the adventure described must be a genuine occur- rence, and the story must be written in a clear, but picturesque style. “the prize,” he added, “will be a member- ship ticket in the acorn athletic club. this is a rare chance for some one, and i hope you will all try for it.” while he spoke the boys had been exchang- ing eager glances, and then they broke into hearty applause, and nodded to each other, as much as to say, “indeed we will!” the acorn club was one which offered su- perior advantages in its gymnasium and bowl- ing-alleys, and which admitted only a limited number of junior members through the influence of senior members. as professor shedd had been one of the charter members of the club, he was able to offer this prize to his boys, and a thrill of delight shot through each boy at the possibility ahead. teddy baird was one of the most enthusias- tic athletes in the school, and had long wanted to be one of the a. a. c.'s. at once he began to make plans for having an adventure, and by the time he reached home his eyes were shining with excitement, and his round freckled face was beaming with anticipation. “i can get it, and i will !” he announced to his father in a most decisive manner. “good!” said mr. baird, heartily. “that is the right spirit, my son; but how about the adventure ?” teddy baird's luck. - “oh, that 's easy enough,” answered teddy, happily, and went off whistling. from that time on through the three months of his vacation the prize was always the upper- most thought in teddy's mind; but it did not take him long to discover that finding a subject for his story was not so easy a matter, after all. “it's the funniest thing,” he observed sadly one day when he felt particularly discouraged; “i am so lucky that i am unlucky, and that's the truth. nothing ever happens to me; even the birds go to sleep when i come around.” at this mrs. baird smiled, for it seemed so utterly impossible to conceive of anything sleep- ing when teddy was near; but he did not notice the smile, and continued soberly: “it’s funny; honest injun, it is if there 's a runaway, it stops quicker 'n a wink when i come in sight; or if there's a fire, it goes out when i turn the corner. there is n’t so much as a hot-box on a train, if i’m in it.” “i should think you would be in great de- mand as an accident-preventer,” said grandma in her soft, low voice; but teddy only groaned in reply, and drawing himself up in a dignified manner, declared firmly: “i won't be balked; i just won’t, so there !” shortly after the first of july the family went to the seashore, and for a month teddy pa- tiently held himself in readiness for an adven- ture. he rowed and sailed, fished and swam, and sat on the beach for hours at a time, watching the bathers, in hopes of an adventure; but he caught no wonderfully large fish, no boat in which he embarked showed even the slightest inclination to capsize, and an unsym- pathetic public refused to drown for his benefit. “talk about the perils of the sea!” he said scornfully, on the day when he took his last look at the beach from the stage window; “it 's a million times safer 'n land ”; but he added with a show of cheerfulness, “well, now, let 's see what the mountains can do for a fel- low. i am going to try getting eaten by bears, or shot instead of a deer.” “do,” said mrs. baird, calmly. teddy's statements never ruffled her in the least. “do, dear; it would be so pleasant for me! and in that case you could so easily write up the story of your exciting adventure.” they both laughed, but teddy added soberly: “honestly, mother, i'm afraid you don't real- ize how serious this is getting to be. i have got to get that prize.” but mrs. baird's answer was so hopeful and comforting that his spirits revived somewhat, and he decided that if there was an adventure to be found anywhere, it would come to light in the woods; consequently he was in a more cheerful frame of mind during the remainder of their trip to the adirondacks, where they were to stay until the last of august. mrs. baird stopped at the blue mountain lake hotel, while teddy joined a party of boys and went further into the woods to camp out. it was an entirely new experience to him, and he enjoyed it hugely. from daybreak often until late at night they were off tramping, hunting, or fishing; and in the evenings, when they sat around their camp-fire, the guides would tell such marvelous tales of blood-curdling adven- tures that the boys felt they had strayed into the country of the “arabian nights.” to teddy the stories, told in the rough language of the natives, offered a great temptation. “if i only could tell some of them, i'd be sure to get the prize,” he sighed. “those things might have happened to us, only they did n't; that 's all the difference. my what a show they'd make on paper!!” but his conscience was much too honest to allow of his using the coveted material so near at hand, and he was still at a loss for the subject of his prize story. one of the boys had shot a deer, two had a narrow escape from drowning, and another had been lost in the woods for half a day; but as none of these were his own experiences, teddy did not feel justified in using them, and not a single thing worth writing about happened to him personally. he had some amusing episodes, of course, during the three weeks; but as adventures, none of them seemed to be thrilling enough. “some fellows can work on their imagina- tions and get all sorts of fine things out of nothing,” he observed sadly; “but ’t ain't so with t. b. give me facts, or i 'm a gone goose!” but then he added, with his usual philosophy: “pr'aps something 'll turn up yet; 't won't come any quicker for worrying, i [mar. teddy baird's luck. s'pose”; and he dismissed the matter from his mind for the few remaining days of their stay in camp, and simply enjoyed himself. he was as brown as an indian when his mother saw him again, and she was well sat- isfied that the change had benefited him; but she did not question him about the essay, feel- ing sure that if he had had an adventure she would hear about it at once. he did not men- tion the subject for some time; then he said abruptly, as if he did not care to dwell on the matter: “say, where do you suppose that luck of mine you used to talk about so much has gone to, mother ? it seems to have shied clear of massachusetts and new york state, not to mention new jersey! if you could sug- gest where i might meet it, i 'd take the next train, for my time 's 'most up, you know.” “my dear,” said mrs. baird, soothingly, “don’t give up quite yet. there are still three weeks of vacation, and that is time for all sorts of strange things to happen. you were lucky from the minute you were born, and i am not willing to believe yet that you have lost the prize. are you sure you can't take some little incident, even if it does seem small to you, and make it into an amusing story p i am sure there must be something you could use if you only thought so.”. but teddy shook his head. “can't be done by t. b., ma'am,” he said. “you should have had a more brilliant son. i mooned around up in camp with a ream of paper in my lap, a pen- cil in my hand, and a far-off gaze in my eyes, waiting for an idea to flood my intellect, till the fellows guyed me so i had to quit. hon- est, mother, there was n't a thing but happens to other people every day in the week.” mrs. baird looked thoughtful for a moment, then she said eagerly: “i have it ! why not write an account of what did not happen? tell all about the thrilling things that might have occurred, and the funny way in which they seemed to avoid you. i am sure no one else will think of that!” teddy beamed, and grasped her arm in an ecstatic squeeze. “you’re a brick ' " he exclaimed, “i guess you 've hit it, and we'll get that ticket yet! you are some good, mother, after all!” this was said with a comical twinkle of his blue eyes, and mrs. baird made him a little bow. “thank you, my son!” she said laughingly. “‘praise from sir hubert stanley is praise in- deed l’” the new idea pleased teddy more and more as he thought about it. sentences and pages began to form themselves in his brain, and it seemed as if he could not wait to put them on paper. “i 'll begin the minute we get to aunt sa- rah's,” he said; and his mother was delighted that she had been able to help him, for she knew how persistently he had tried to help himself. they reached the home of mrs. baird's sister in tarrytown the next day, and settled down for the visit which was to end up their summer outing. aunt sarah's boys, tom and herbert, were teddy's greatest chums, so the meeting was an enthusiastic one on both sides, and it seemed as if the boys could never finish tell- ing each other of all their doings since they last met. of course it was not long before teddy had told about the prize and his strug- gles for it, and then he spoke of his mother's new idea, and every one thought it a fine one. “you are sure to get the ticket, teddy,” said aunt sarah; “you are always so lucky.” “so i 've heard,” said teddy, dryly. “i wish you 'd introduce me to that luck, aunt sarah; i don't happen to have seen it myself.” on each day, as it came, he meant to begin his writing; but there were so many delightful plans to be carried out that he never could find time, and whenever he suggested taking an hour for writing, the boys always refused to let him, and suggested a bicycle-ride, or a swim, or a ball-game, and teddy weakly yielded, until the edge was off his enthusiasm and five days of the visit were gone. on the sixth day it rained hard, and as soon as breakfast was over teddy announced his determination of going to his room to write, and threatened all sorts of dire possibilities to the person who should dare disturb him. so away he went; but before he had even finished his elaborate process of pencil-sharpening, there was a smothered shout at the door, and in burst herbert and tom, took the room by storm, .] teddy baird's luck. confiscated the pencils, and made so much noise that connected thinking was impossible. mrs. baird, sitting in an opposite room, heard the chorus of groans, whistles, and laughter that followed the onslaught; and finally, after the mail came, she put down her work and went to see what was going on. on the threshold she stopped with an exclamation of dismay. “why, boys,” she said, gazing about, “ you look as if a cyclone had struck you! what are you doing?” in one corner of the room tom and her- bert were fencing with the gravity of profes- sionals, while teddy lay on the floor, heels in the air, evidently in a state of exhaustion, watching the contest. the floor and bed and chairs were strewn with clothes, bicycle-tools, books, paper, a camera outfit, dumb-bells, in- dian clubs, and every other article that could add to the general disorder. on a chair re- posed a large bowl of black fluid, evidently ink; a tripod stood in the corner, and ted's bicycle leaned against the wall. small wonder that mrs. baird gasped, and repeated, “what are you doing?” at the sound of her voice teddy slowly rose from his position on the floor, and a comical smile broke over his face. “we’re having a last try at making things happen,” he said. “you 're right about the gale; it struck us more 'n an hour ago, and blew all these things around. we put up danger-signals to warn relatives off the coast; but now you ’re here, won't you have a seat p” this civility was offered with a wave of the hand toward the room in general, and mrs. baird acknowledged the courtesy by taking the only vacant seat in sight, which was on the extreme edge of the bed; and then she asked her question for the third time, adding: “i thought you were going to write your essay.” “was,”—teddy was evidently too weary to amplify his sentence – “was, but i could n’t make the thing hang together. i could n’t write a word. the wheels of my brain would not go round, then the boys came up, and we thought we 'd make another try at having things happen. that 's why all these duds are around. we took the clock to pieces to see if we could n't make it go without so many wheels,” explained herbert. “and cannot get it together again?” mrs. baird was looking at the machinery with which the mantel was covered, but none answered her question, and herbert went on: “we’ve tried all sorts of strange stunts with clubs and dumb-bells and fencing, to see if we could n't get some bone out of joint and in again, in a queer way; then we tried putting some of your lithia tablets — the fizzing ones that you use for your rheumatism, you know — in the ink. tom was sure it would make an elegant spouting geyser and a chemical rain- bow; but it only —” “spilled the ink all over the floor,” mrs. baird finished up the sentence, adding quickly: “i think you have acted very much like silly little boys of about ten years old, and i am morti- fied that my son should show so little common sense.” “well, anyway, nothing 's any good,” said teddy, mournfully. “don't hit a fellow, mo- ther, when he 's down. i'm clean discouraged. what shall i do p” “do p” mrs. baird's voice had a cheerful ring. “why, clear up this mess, of course, or aunt sarah will think you never learned to be - neat.” here tom hastily interposed. “we’ll help. we made as much of it as he did.” mrs. baird nodded and smiled at him, and went on: “put your paper away now, teddy, and try again to-morrow and every day until you accomplish your task. but here is a letter from cousin ellie holcombe. she wants you to ride over on your wheel to-morrow, and spend the night. cousin frank is away, and she says you can protect them.” “good!” teddy jumped up, and smiled with importance. “i 'd like nothing better. i'm all twisted up in the old essay. i'll put it away till i come back, and then i 'll work like a trooper till it 's done, see if i don't! will you mind if i go, boys it's a year since i've been over to sunnybrook.” as it seemed to be the only thing to do, both boys nodded agreement; but they looked very mournful until teddy suggested that they ride over with him as far as the turnpike, a distance [mar. teddy baird's luck. of ten miles; and then, after the room was re- soon as he had said a few words to mrs. hol- stored to order, they all went down into the combe, who was not going with them, they cellar to clean their wheels for the trip. the sun shone its brightest the next morn- “‘hold on off, and give an account of verself, ridin’ at this time o' night widour a light!’” (see page .) ing, and the roads were fairly dry; so they made an early start, and by eleven o'clock teddy was in sight of the big, old stone house where his cousins lived. he found a party of twenty waiting for him, ready to start for a day at some falls, about three miles away; and as set out. it was a perfect day; the sky was a deep, cloudless blue, and the air was so crisp and clear that it put them all in their highest spirits, and teddy forgot in ten minutes that there was such a thing as a prize to compete for and lose. a wagon had gone ahead with the luncheon, which was all spread out in tempting array when they reached the falls, and there was very little looking at the beauties of na- ture until most of the sand- wiches and dainties had dis- appeared. then they lounged by the falls, told stories, wan- dered off in the woods, and did all sorts of pleasant things, until the sun warned them of the lateness of the hour, and with reluctance they started homeward, leaving one after another of the party on the way, so that at last there were only the girls and teddy to ride up the sunnybrook lane. any one who did not know the truth would have thought they had eaten nothing for days, as they rushed into the house with a chorus of: “oh, mother, we 're starved alive l’’ “got any bread for some famished tramps?” “where is supper ? we are nearly famished . " and mrs. holcombe with quiet amusement watched her bountiful supper disappear. there was a big wood-fire crackling merrily in the hall, and, when there was no more supper to dispose of they gathered around it, the girls in easy-chairs and teddy on the rug. then a sudden quietness fell on them all. the effect of having been out in the crisp air all day and coming into the warmth made their cheeks glow, and gave them a comfortable feeling of . i i teddy baird's luck. drowsiness. there was absolute stillness, until mrs. holcombe came and sat down near them. “now, teddy,” she said, “wake up. you must talk to me for a while. the others have had you all day. i want to hear all that you and your mother have been doing.” teddy smiled, roused himself, and gave an account of their journeyings in a drowsy voice; and then he told of the prize story, and how he had been trying to write one. “but you see,” he said, “whenever i write down on paper what i’ve done, all the ‘go’ is out of it. the things don't fit together in any kind of shape. there is n't really enough to make a good story, and that 's the truth.” “i’ll tell you what,” said helen; “tell it all over just as you did to mama, and don't think about writing it, and i’ll put it down as you tell it. then you can polish it up afterward.” “all right. now?”. teddy jumped up, his drowsiness gone, and was starting off in search of a pencil, but mrs. holcombe said firmly, “no, indeed; not now. just see the time ! we must be shutting up for the night.” while they were locking doors and windows, the girls teased teddy mirthfully about being protector of three helpless wom- en; then the lights were put out and the house was still. teddy, who was very sleepy, was in bed in less time than it takes to tell about it, and fast asleep; and it seemed only a minute later when he woke with a start, and heard a queer noise outside his window. for a moment he lay still, scarcely breathing, listening to the sounds; then, as he became wider awake, he decided that some one was certainly try- ing to enter the house. there were surely men talking in low tones beneath his window. he stole over, peered through the blinds, and could see two figures below. the men were evidently going to enter by the butler's pantry teddy spends the night in the police-station. the family, or could he frighten off the burglars alone p in a moment he had decided. from his earliest childhood teddy had been abso- lutely fearless, and now he made up his mind that he could protect the house without even awaking his cousins. turning up the gas, he hastily threw on his bath-robe, unbolted his door and stole softly out into the dark, still hall, lighting the gas there. then he crept noiselessly downstairs and lighted up the parlor and sitting-room, hearing all the time the low murmur of the voices out- side. then he went into the dining-room; but there he stood aghast, for the light revealed that he was too late! both of the windows were (see page .) wide open, remnants of a feast were scattered window, and in a few seconds would be in the over the table and floor, and the sideboard was house. what was it best to do p should he rouse bare of silver. he gave one gasp, stood for a [mar. teddy baird's luck. second paralyzed with astonishment, and then rushed out into the hall, for no particular rea- son, really too much excited to know what he was doing. in his rush he upset a chair, which fell against the fire-irons with a crash, and al- most instantly a white-gowned figure appeared at the head of the stairs, and a sleepy voice said: “why, child, what are you doing down there at this time of night? what was that noise p” teddy lifted his round, excited face, and held up a warning finger. “sh-sh-sh!” he said in a whisper; “it 's burglars! they 've taken the silver and made a mess of things down here. i thought i could scare them off without waking you up, but i got here too late. they're going off now, i guess. i'll go and see.” cousin ellie walked down to the first stair- landing, and spoke sternly. “come up here this minute,” she commanded; and teddy could not help smiling at the contrast of her extreme dignity with her airy costume. “come up now, teddy, please,” she pleaded; “they may come back any minute and shoot you. oh, dear, if john were only home ! what shall we do p’” teddy was about to speak reassuringly of his powers as a watch-dog, but at that minute his eyes, which had been uneasily watching the doors and windows, caught sight of something in the back hall that made him take one jump toward it; then he gave a groan, and his ex- citement made him forget to lower his voice. “they 've taken mabel's bicycle !” he said —“her brand-new birthday present, and left an old rattle-trap of a man's wheel ! the scoun- drels . the sneaks! i'll be even with them i'll get that back, i will, if i go to land's end to catch 'em they sha’n’t have that wheel— no, they sha'n't!” while he talked teddy was examining the substituted wheel, and pushing it toward the door; and finally cousin ellie realized what he was going to do. forgetting her fear, she fairly ran downstairs to catch the youth and drag him captive up to safety; but she was not quick enough. he had darted into the dining-room and back. “they 've gone!” he called out. “they won't have ten seconds' headway ! i'll get ’em and their booty —see if i don't!” he seemed to be almost beside himself with ex- citement, and was outside the door and lost in the shadow of the elms before his cousin could reach him. as quick as a flash he was on the old wheel and away, scorching with main force down the carriage-road, and then out into the quiet street. ahead of him, to the right, he saw, or thought he saw, two men on bicycles, and his excited fancy could almost see the gleam of silver in the bundles strapped to their wheels. on he went, faster and faster, with no thought of fear, his anger giving him double strength as he bent over the handle-bars and saw that he was gaining on the shapes ahead. the trees and buildings cast strange shadows across the road, and several times he was deceived by them into the thought that he was within arm's length of the thieves. along the main street they went, and along went teddy. he gave a furious spurt, coasted down the hill like a will-o'-the-wisp, came nearer and nearer to them; he could hear the whir of their machines, and felt waves of hot exultation flash over him as he planned what to say when he should rush across their path and stop them. a dozen more revolutions would do it; then, with the suddenness of an earthquake, a great form loomed up beside teddy, a hand grasped his flying coat, a club was brandished in the air, and a rough voice called out: “hold on hold on off, and give an ac- count of yerself, ridin' at this time o’ night widout a light!” teddy made a wild struggle to free himself and go on, but the grasp of his coat was too firm to admit of a single motion, so he tumbled off his wheel and confronted the policeman, re- membering then for the first time that he had no lantern. “let me go, i say! you must—you shall.’” he exclaimed hastily. “any law in the land will protect me! there were thieves in our house that took my cousin's wheel, and i'm going to catch them and get it. hang a light! let me go, or i'll lose 'em!” teddy was preparing to remount, but the policeman held his ground firmly. “awo, sir.’” he said; “not yet. oi 'm sorry, sir; indade .) teddy baird's luck. oi be, but law 's law, and oi 'm here to ketch those that goes ag'in' it.” “but i don't go against it!” teddy was in a frenzy now, for the shadows ahead had dis- appeared around the bend of the road. “i’d have lighted my lamp if i’d had time. i ain't a sneak, and my father 's one of the common council. i know as much about law as you do, and i say you have a right to let me go. how much is the fine for riding without a light? can't you pay it for me in the morn- ing, and let me go now p” he put his hand in his pocket, not noticing that the man was watching him with grim amusement depicted on every feature of his face; and in a moment he realized that he was airily dressed in white, with a bath-wrapper as overcoat, and not a cent nor a pocket had he it was too much even for an excited person to see without a smile, and all at once the hu- mor of the situation came over teddy, and he burst out in a hearty laugh, in which the police- man joined him. “i say,” said teddy finally, “you must believe me, or else you ’d take me two-forty to the insane-asylum, for being out in this rig' " and then he said ruefully: “what- ever can i do? i have n't got a cent, as you can see. you’d better let me go. you've done enough mischief for one night's work — spoiled my fun, and made my cousin lose her new wheel. i’ll send you the five dollars to-mor- row.” teddy was supporting himself against his wheel and looking up anxiously at his burly companion; but as he did not answer instantly, teddy went on: “well, old cerberus, what 'll you do? think quick, for this is rather a breezy out-of-door costume !” and then, with a spasm of regret, he groaned: “oh, i say, this is hard luck! what are you going to do about it?” “there 's but one thing to do, sir” — the policeman, for all his amusement and interest in this strange case, was still firm—“ye'll have to come wid me.” “where?” teddy's voice was eager, and the policeman answered, with a grin: “oh, just beyant the corner. they 'll put you up in foine shape till morning.” “you mean—in jail?” teddy gasped it out as though the end of all things had come, and the policeman laughed once more. “call it a hotel,” he said; “an' it'll be more fit fer the likes o' youse, but i guess ye’ve got about the shape uv it!” at last the truth, the whole, bare, absolute truth, dawned on teddy, and he was silent, dazed by the proportions which his expedition had assumed. as meekly as possible he fol- lowed his guide until they came in sight of the police station. then he stopped short. “oh, i say,” he said, “it 's a fake. you would n't lodge me there? let me go, i say! why, man, i went off like a crazy creature, and left my poor cousin to worry. let me go!” but even as he spoke, they were ascending the stairs and passing through the long, silent hall. “it’s no good frettin’,” remarked the police- man, cheerfully; “law's law. the loidy'll not have to be scairt long.” and teddy, really frightened now, and resist- ing at every step, was marshaled into an apart- ment to serve out his first term as a prisoner. he was surprised to find that the room was not half so bad as he had feared. it was clean, as was the cot-bed, and there was no evidence that he was a prisoner except that when he was left alone he heard the key turn in the lock from the outside. for a time he just walked up and down, too much excited to attempt to sleep. he was calm enough to think, and he realized what a senseless thing he had under- taken, and how selfish he had been to leave the house with so little thought of his cousin's fright. his remorse was keen, for teddy's heart was in the right place, and he conjured up all sorts of dreadful things that might have happened through his thoughtlessness. for an hour he paced the room, ashamed and penitent; then he began to feel utterly tired out, and, throwing himself on the bed, knew nothing more until it was broad daylight. it took some time for him to come to him- self, and become conscious of where he was and of what had happened; then, at the sight of his clothes, the truth came over him, and his one thought was to get away — to get some word to the holcombes. at once he made inquiries as to how long he would be imprisoned; and |mar. teddy baird's luck. when he found that it was only a matter of depositing the required fine, he immediately despatched a small boy to sunnybrook with a “‘i say, do you want to see the latest thing in clothes?” teddy asked.” note. that somewhat quieted the alarm there, but added to the curiosity about the runaway; for the note simply said: dear cousin ellie : i am a jail-bird, and for the honor of the family please send five dollars by bearer to get me out. instead of catching the thieves, i got caught myself; that’s all the difference. next time i'll take a light. no ; next time i won't go at all. police-station. penitently, treddy. it had been a weary, dreadful night at sun- nybrook. when mrs. holcombe had seen teddy disappear through the door, and had not dared to go after him, she had awakened the girls, and they had all waited and watched through the remainder of the night, hoping each moment that he would come in. though knowing his fearless impulsive- ness, they could not believe that he would do so reckless a thing as to try to pursue the thieves. it was soon evident that the burglars had gone at once, after they had secured their booty; for not a sound broke the stillness in the house. the silver which had been taken from the sideboard was not especially valuable, and the wheel could be replaced; so it was only teddy about whom they worried. “crazy boy! how could he be so foolish p what could i say to his mother if anything should happen to him ' what shall we do p” moaned mrs. holcombe over and over, as the hours wore on and still teddy did not come. at last morning came, and with it the note, which was an unspeakable relief, but at the same time made the affair as- sume a most mysterious aspect. in jail?—for what? while they were busily discussing the matter, and at the same time clearing up the demolished din- ing-room, there was a whistle at the door, and in walked teddy, wrapped in a huge ulster! “jail-birds allowed here p” he queried. “i say, do you want to see the latest thing in clothes p” and, throwing back the ulster, he stood before the astonished girls in his costume of the night before. it was very comical, his story of his flight; .] teddy baird's luck. and his ridiculous costume gave such an air of reality to the whole that his listeners were con- vulsed with laughter. now that it was over, teddy saw the funny side of it all, and brought it out very vividly. even mrs. holcombe could not help laughing, but at the end of the story she spoke very severely. however, teddy was so honestly penitent that she could not remain angry after his manly apology for the anxiety he had caused her. “you see, i did n't think about another thing but how broken up helen would be about her wheel, and that 's the truth!” he said; and he added: “perhaps it might be a good thing if i got some clothes on that would n't scare the natives, and then i don't think i would ob- ject to breakfast, cousin ellie, now that you mention it!” “it will be ready as soon as you are, dear boy,” she said; “we had no thought of eating before.” and as he went out of the door she ex- claimed, “you certainly have had a real adventure at last !” at the word teddy turned, gave one big bound out into the room, and then stoodstar- ing at her un- til she said, “why, what fs the matter? i did not mean —” with that he made a rush, and hug- ged her until she cried out - º “‘hoorray! hoorray! i 'll have that prize now, and no mistake ''” for release; then, the bath-wrapper floating in the breeze, he danced a war-dance which made everything in the room shake, and finally stopped breathless in front of helen, flapping his arms and crying excitedly: “where 's a paper and pencil tell me quick! hoorray! hoorray! i 'll have that prize now, and no mistake – and i never thought about it until this very minute change my clothes and eat breakfast first p indeed i won't! here! give me the pencil and i 'll go up- stairs and do it by myself. an adventure? well, i should think . " with half a dozen strides he cleared the stairs, and was about to vanish from sight when helen called up: “teddy! teddy! wait a minute! how about your luck now p” “oh,” answered teddy, smiling over the banisters, “it’s all right! the bother was, i did n’t know it wore policeman's clothes, or i'd have caught it long ago!”— and he added, with a chuckle: “wait till i hear mother say, ‘my son, i told you so i’” and he was not disappointed. mrs. baird did say it, not only when she heard the marvelous tale, but also on the opening day of school, when teddy, junior member of the acorn athletic club, after receiving the congratulations of the boys, walked proudly home by her side. and helen's bicycle? why, thepoliceforce, ashamed of having halted teddy, made up for it by soon capturing the thieves and by recov- ering the bi- cycle and most of the silver. - the last three soldiers. by william henry shelton. [begun in the november number.] chapter ix. the plateau receives a name. t was now october, and time to be- gin harvesting the crop on the little plantation, which some- thing very like an inspiration had prompted philip to plant. while lieutenant coleman continued work on the house, stopping the chinks between the logs with clay, and repair- ing the roof of the hut with spare shingles, bromley and philip “topped” the corn, cutting off the stalks above the ripened ears. then the potatoes were thrown out of the mellow soil with a wooden shovel, and left to dry in the sun, while a level place was prepared in the center of the plot, and thickly spread with a carpet of dry stalks. upon this surface, after re- moving a few bushels to the hut, the crop was gathered into a conical heap, and thatched over with stalks, and then the whole was thickly covered with earth and trenched about to turn off the water. it was estimated that this cache contained thirty bushels, which, according to the table in the blue book (revised army regulations), would exceed the potato ration necessary for the maintenance of three men for a period of five years. from the day of their arrival on the moun- tain, lieutenant coleman had never failed to make a daily entry in the station journal; and now that they had set up a country for them- selves, he foresaw that the continuance of this practice would be necessary if they were not to lose the record of weeks and months. his entry was always brief. often it was no more than the date, and even the more important events were set down with the utmost brevity and precision. - as the commissary supply of yellow bars di- minished, it was evident that the time would soon come when they should be obliged to make their own soap. back of the chestnut tree in which they had taken refuge from the bear was a peculiar hollowed rock, and above it a flat shelf of stone, on which philip erected a hollow log for leaching ashes. a little patient chip- ping of the upper stone with the ax-head made a shallow furrow along which the lye would trickle from the leach, and fall into the natural basin in the rock below, which was large enough to hold a half barrel. this was a happy device, as the strong liquid would have eaten its way through any vessel other than an iron pot or an earthen jar, of which unfortunately they possessed neither. they had but a limited supply of hard corn, from which they selected the best ears for the next year's planting. these they braided to- gether by the husks, and hung up in yellow festoons from the rafters of the hut, which they continued to use as a storehouse. much of what remained of their small crop would be needed by the fowls in the winter, and up to this time they had made no use of it for their own food. meal was out of the question, and to break the flinty kernels between stones was a tedious process to which they had not yet been forced to resort. the presence of the lye, however, suggested to bromley the hulled corn of his new england grandmother, which he had seen her prepare by soaking and boiling the kernels in a thin solution of lye. by this means the hulls or skins were removed, and after cleansing from potash, and boiling all day, the unbroken ker- nels became as white and tender as rice. the last three soldiers. this satisfied the three soldiers for a time, and made an agreeable addition to their diet of bear steak and potatoes. in the mountains of tennessee lieutenant coleman had once seen a rude hydraulic contrivance called a slow-john, which was a sort of lazy man's mill. to construct this affair it was necessary to have a bucket, which bromley set about making by the slow process of burning out a section of chestnut log with the red-hot ramrod of a carbine. at a short distance above the house the branch which flowed from the spring, after making its refreshing way between grassy banks, tumbled over a succession of ledges which ended in a small cascade, and twelve feet below this waterfall there was a broad flat rock which laved its mossy sides in the branch, and showed a clean flat surface above the level of the water. below this rock they built a dam of stones, by means of which they could flood its surface. four feet upstream from the rock a log was fixed from bank to bank for a fulcrum, and upon this rested a movable lever, the short arm of which terminated above the submerged rock, while the long arm just touched the water of the cascade. a wooden pin set in the under log passed through a slot in the lever so as to hold it in position, and at the same time give it free play. another flat stone of about thirty pounds weight, which was the pestle of the mortar, was lashed with grape-vine thongs to the short arm of the lever directly over the submerged stone. to the long arm was at- tached bromley's bucket, bailed with a strong wire, and so hung as to catch the water of the cascade. as the bucket filled and sank, its weight raised the flat stone higher and higher above the submerged rock until the bucket met a bar fixed to tilt its contents into the stream, when the upper millstone came down upon its fellow with a fine splash and thud. after a wall of clay had been built about the surface where the two stones met, to keep the corn in place, the slow-john was ready for work. it was slow, but it was sure, and after that, when any of the three soldiers awoke in the night, it was cheerful to hear the regular splash and crash of the slow-john, like the ticking of a huge clock, lazy enough to tick once a min- ute, and patient enough to keep on ticking for two days and nights to pulverize as many quarts of corn. and now, for three young men who had sol- emnly renounced their country and cut them- selves off voluntarily from all intercourse with their kind, they were about as cheerful and con- tented as could be expected. in spite of the great disaster which they believed had befallen the national cause, their lungs expanded in the rare mountain air and the good red blood danced in their veins, and with youth and health of body it was impossible to take an altogether gloomy view of life. they had at first tried hard to be miserable, but nature was against them and the effort had been a failure. in their free life they could no more resist the infection of happiness than the birds in the trees could refrain from singing, and so it came to pass that in view of the bountiful harvest they had gathered, and the comfortable house they had built, and all the domestic conveniences they had contrived, lieutenant coleman came out boldly in favor of setting apart thursday, the th day of november, as a day of thanks- giving, and quite forgot to name it as a day of humiliation as well. to this the others joyfully agreed, and agreed, moreover, that from that day forward the plateau should be called sher- man territory in memory of the general they most admired. when this first holiday dawned on the moun- tain, the three soldiers arrayed themselves in full uniform for the ceremony of naming their possessions. bromley and philip buckled on their cavalry swords and slung their carbines at their backs, and lieutenant coleman, for the last time, assumed his discarded rank, to take command. the arms had been polished the day before until they gleamed and flashed in the morning light, and the little army of two was dressed and faced and inspected, and then left at parade rest while lieutenant coleman brought out the flag, how their honest hearts swelled with pride to think that here, alone, in all the world, that flag would continue to float with an undiminished field of stars! little did they dream that on that very morning hundreds like it were waving in the heart of georgia over the last three soldiers. [mar. sherman's legions on their march to the sea. this was to be their last military ceremony, when at last it blew out from the staff they and having no further use for their swords they gathered under its folds, and sang the “star arranged them with belts and scabbards into a spangled banner” with tears in their eyes; and handsome decoration against the chimney-piece, and crossed above them the three red and white flags of the station. the “re- vised army regula- tions” and philip's prayer-book stood on the mantelpiece alongside the spy- glass in its leathern case. the few ar- ticles of extra cloth- ing hung in a line on the wall just op- posite to the three bunks, whose under layer of pine boughs gave an aromatic perfume to the room. after the ceremony of naming the pla- teau, and having fixed the trophies to their satisfaction, the three exiles took down their sky-blue overcoats from the line, for the novem- ber air was nipping cold, and set out with the two carbines and an empty sack to keep thanksgiv- ing in the good old country way. they were still rather sad after what had hap- pened in the morn- ing; but by the time they were back, all the gloom had worn as the last words of the good old song rang out off, for they brought with them two rabbits and over the mountain top, philip and bromley dis- a bag of chestnuts, and appetites sharpened charged their carbines, as a salute, at the order by exercise in the keen air. of lieutenant coleman, and all three cheered philip made the stew and bromley fried two lustily for the old flag and sherman territory. chickens of their own raising, one after the christening “sherman territory.” .] the last three soldiers. other, on a half canteen, and the potatoes left to themselves burst their jackets in the ashes with impatience to be eaten. each man made his own coffee in his own blackened tin cup, and drank it with a keener relish because it was near the last of their commissary stock. while they were eating and drinking within, the sky without had become thick with clouds blown up on the east wind, so that when they looked out at the door, they saw tumbler, the bear, who also had been stuffing himself with acorns and ants which he had pawed out of a rotten log, rolling home for shelter. there was yet time before the storm broke, and away they went up the hill as happy as lords, to load themselves with dead chestnut limbs and a few resinous sticks of fat pine; and when night came, and with it the rain, there was a warm fire in the new chimney, and a stick of light-wood thrust behind the back log lighted the interior of the house with a good forty-ada- mantine-candle power. tumbler lay rolled up in his favorite corner, blinking his small eyes at the unusual light, and from time to time he passed his furry paw over his sharp nose, and gave forth a low grunt of satisfaction. philip sat against the chimney opposite tumbler, stirring chestnuts in the ashes with a ramrod, while bromley put away the last of the supper things, and lieutenant coleman gazed out of the open window into the slanting rain, which beat a merry tattoo on the shingles, and tossed at intervals a sturdy drop on the hissing fire. it was certainly not the cheerful interior beaming with light and heat that turned lieu- tenant coleman's thoughts back to the dark cloud of disasters which had overwhelmed the national arms; it might have been the dismal outlook from the square window into the dark- ness and the storm. at all events, he turned abruptly about as if a new idea had struck him. “george,” he exclaimed, with conviction, “it all began with the death of uncle billy.” “so it did,” said bromley; “and after sher- man's army was out of the way, johnston probably joined his forces with hood, defeated thomas, and re-took chattanooga. he could hardly have accomplished all that by august , but his cavalry must have struck our line of stations on that date.” “exactly so, george,” lieutenant coleman responded. “if they had captured the tenth station alone, with captain swann, the line would have been useless, and no further mes- sages could have reached us. if swann had found the line broken behind him, he would certainly have flagged that news to me without delay.” “well, what's the odds?” said philip, draw- ing his chestnuts out upon the hearthstone. “the jig was up and captain swann knew it. if they had taken any station this side of the tenth mountain, the effect to us would have been the same.” - “so it would,” said lieutenant coleman sadly, turning again to look out into the storm —“so it would.” “it is a blessing that we are ignorant of some things that have happened,” said bromley, who was disposed to look on the dark side. “well,” he continued, “if the rebs conquer everything they can turn the northern states back into territories, and carry slavery into massa- chusetts.” “bah!” exclaimed philip. “to think of the territory of ohio. the territory of penn- sylvania! the territory of new york!” “don’t, philip, don't; i can't bear it!” said lieutenant coleman; “it is all too humiliating to think of imagine it! the emancipation proclamation is not worth the paper it is written on " . “we made a wise choice when we deter- mined to stay on this mountain and form a new nation,” bromley declared. and they all cried “three cheers for sher- man territory.” (to be continued.) wel. xxiv.- . master skylark. by john bennett. [begun in the november number.] chapter xv. london town. “come,” growled the blacksmith, gripping his tongs, “what wilt thou have o' the lad?” “what will i have o' the lad p” said master carew, mimicking the blacksmith in a most comical way, with a wink at the crowd, as if he had never been angry at all, so quickly could he change his face—“what will i have o' the lad p” and all the crowd laughed. “why, bless thy gentle heart, good man, i want to turn his farthings into round gold crowns —if thou and thine infernal hot shoe do not make zanies of us all ! why, master smith, "t is to london town i 'd take him, and fill his hands with more silver shillings than there be cast-off shoes in thy whole shop.” “la, now, harken till him!” gaped the smith, staring in amazement. “and here thou needs must up and spoil it all, because, forsooth, the silly child goes a trifle sick for home and whimpers for his minnie l’” “but the lad saith thou hast stealed him awa-ay from 's ho-ome,” rumbled the smith, like a doubtful earthquake; “and we'll ha' no steal- ing o' lads awa-ay from ho-ome in county herts '.' “nay, that we won't!” cried one. “hur. rah, john smith — fair play, fair play!” and there came an ugly, threatening murmur from the crowd. “what! fair play ?” cried master carew, turning so sharply about, with his hand upon his poniard, that each made as if it were not he but his neighbor had growled. “why, sirs, what if i took any one of ye out of your poverty and common clothes down into london town, horseback like a king, and had ye sing before the queen, and play for earls, and talk with the highest dames in all the land; and fed ye well, and spoke ye fair, and lodged ye soft, and clad ye fine, and wrought the whole town on to cheer ye, and to fill your purses full of gold p what, sir,” said he, turning to the gaping far- rier—“what if i promised thee to turn thine every word to a silver sixpence, and thy smutty grins to golden angels — what wouldst thou? knock me in the head with thy dirty sledge, and bawl foul play ?” “nay, that i’d not,” roared the burly smith, with a stupid, ox-like grin, scratching his tousled head; “i’d say, “go it, bully, and a plague on him that said thee nay i’” “and yet when i would fill this silly fellow's jerkin full of good gold harry shovel-boards for the simple drawing of his breath, ye bawl • foul play!'” “what, here ! come out, lad,” roared the smith, with a great horse-laugh, swinging nick forward and thwacking him jovially between the shoulders with his brawny hand; “come out, and go along o' the master here, ’t is for thy good, and ho-ome wull keep, i trow, till thou dost come again.” but nick hung back, and clung to the black- smith's grimy arm, crying in despair: “i will na — oh, i will na " “tut, tut!” cried master carew. “come, nicholas; i mean thee well, i 'll speak thee fair, and i 'll treat thee true”— and he smiled so frankly that even nick's doubts al- most wavered. “come, i'll swear it on my hilt,” said he. the smith's brow clouded. “nay,” said he; “we’ll no swearing by hilts or by holies here; the bailiff will na have it, sir.” “good! then upon mine honour as an englishman " cried carew. “what, how, bullies p. upon mine honour as an english- man!—how is it? here we be, all english- men together l’’- and he clapped his hand to will hostler's shoulder, whereat will stood up o master skylark. i very straight and looked around, as if all at once he were somebody, instead of somewhat less than nobody at all of any consequence; “what!—ye are all for fair play ?—and i am for fair play, and good master smith, with his beautiful shoe, here, is for fair play! why, sirs, my bullies, we are all for fair play; and what more can a man ask than good, down- right english fair play ? nothing, say i. fair play first, last, and all the time !”— and he waved his hand. “hurrah for downright eng- lish fair play!” “hurrah, hurrah!” bellowed the crowd, swept along like bubbles in a flood. “fair play, says we — english fair play — hurrah!” and those inside waved their hands, and those that were outside tossed up their caps, in sheer delight of good fair play. “hurrah, my bullies! that 's the cry!” said carew, in his hail-fellow-well-met, royal way. “why, we 're the very best of fellows, and the very fastest friends ! come, all to the old three lions inn, and douse a can of brown march brew at my expense. to the queen, to good fair play, and to all the fine fellows in albans town' " and what did the crowd do but raise a shout, like a parcel of school-boys loosed for a holiday, and troop off to the three lions inn at master carew's heels, will hostler and the brawny smith bringing up the rear with nick between them, hand to collar, half forgotten by the rest, and his heart too low for further grief. and while the crowd were still roaring over their tankards and cheering good fair play, master gaston carew up with his prisoner into the saddle, and, mounting himself, with the bandy-legged man grinning opposite, shook the dust of old st. albans from his horse's heels. “now, nicholas attwood,” said he, grimly, as they galloped away, “hark 'e well to what i have to say, and do not let it slip thy mind. i am willed to take thee to london town— dost mark me? — and to london town thou shalt go, warm or cold. by the whistle of the lord high admiral, i mean just what i say! so thou mayst take thy choice.” he griped nick's shoulder as they rode, and glared into his eyes as if to sear them with his own. nick heard his poniard grating in its sheath, and shut his eyes so that he might not see the master-player's horrid stare; for the opening and shutting, opening and shutting, of the blue lids made him shudder. “and what's more,” said carew, sternly, “i shall call thee master skylark from this time forth — dost hear? and when i bid thee go, thou 'lt go; and when i bid thee come, thou’lt come; and when i say, ‘here, follow me!' thou’lt follow like a dog to heel !” he drew up his lip until his white teeth showed, and nick, hearing them gritting together, shrank back dismayed. “there!” laughed carew, scornfully. “he that knows better how to tame a vixen or to cozen a pack of gulls, now let him speak!” and said no more until they passed by chipping barnet. then, “nick,” said he, in a quiet, kindly tone, as if they had been friends for years, “this is the place where warwick fell”; and pointed down the field. “there in the corner of that croft they piled the noble dead like corn upon a threshing-floor. since then,” said he, with quiet irony, “men have stopped making english kings as the dutch make dolls, of a stick and a poll thereon.” pleased with hearing his own voice, he would have gone on with many another thing; but seeing that nick listened not at all to what he said, he ceased, and rode on silently or chatting with the others. the country through middlesex was in most part flat, and heavy forests overhung the road from time to time. there the players slipped their poniards, and rode with rapier in hand; for many a dark deed and cruel robbery had been done along this stretch of watling street. and as they passed, more than one dark-visaged rogue with branded hand and a price upon his head peered at them from the copses by the way. in places where the woods crept very near they pressed closer together and rode rapidly; and the horse-boy and the grooms lit up the matches of their pistolets, and laid their har- quebuses ready in rest, and blew the creeping sparkle snapping red at every turn; not so much really fearing an attack upon so stout a party of reckless, dashing blades, as being over- [mar. master skylark. the spirit of adventure that had roused him for a time welled up a great heart-sickness for his mother and his home. out of a bewildered daze he came at last to realize this much : that the master-player's house was very tall and very dark, standing in a dismal, dirty street, and that it had a gloomy hallway full of shadows that crept and wavered along the wall in the dim light of the late after- in oon. then the master-player pushed him up a narrow staircase and along a black corridor to a door at the end of the passage, through which he thrust him into a darkness like night, and slammed the door behind him. nick heard the bolts shoot heavily, and master carew call through the heavy panels: “now, jackanapes, sit down and chew the cud of solitude awhile. it may cool thy silly pate for thee, since nothing else will serve. when thou hast found thy common sense, perchance thou’lt find thy freedom, not before.” then his step went down the corridor, down the stair, through the long hall— a door banged with a hollow sound that echoed through the house, and all was still. at first, in the utter darkness, nick could not see at all, and did not move for fear of falling down some awful hole; but as his eyes grew used to the gloom he saw that he was in a little room. the only window was boarded up, but a dim light crept in through narrow cracks and made faint bars across the air. little motes floated up and down these thin blue bars, wa- vering in the uncertain light and then lost in the darkness. upon the floor was a pallet of straw, covered with a coarse sheet, and having a rough coverlet of sheepskin. a round log was the only pillow. something moved. nick, startled, peered into the shadows: it was a strip of ragged tapestry which fluttered on the wall. as he watched it flapping fitfully there came a hollow rattle in the wainscot, and an uncanny sound like the moaning of wind in the chimney. “let me out!” he cried, beating upon the door. “let me out, i say!” a stealthy footstep seemed to go away outside. “mother, mother!” he cried shrilly, now quite unstrung by fright, and beat frantically upon the door until his hands ached; but no one answered. the window was beyond his reach. throwing himself upon the hard pallet, he hid his eyes in the coverlet, and cried as if his heart would break. chapter xvi. ma'm'selle cicely carew. how long he lay there in a stupor of despair nick attwood never knew. it might have been days, or weeks, for all that he took heed; for he was thinking of his mother, and there was no room for more. the night passed by. then the day came, by the lines of light that crept across the floor. the door was opened, at his back, and a trencher of bread and meat thrust in. he did not touch it, and the rats came out of the wall and pulled the meat about, and gnawed holes in the bread, and squeaked, and ran along the wainscot; but he did not care. the afternoon dragged slowly by, and the creeping light went up the wall until the roofs across the street shut out the sunset. some- times nick waked and sometimes he slept, he scarce knew which nor cared; nor did he hear the bolts grate cautiously, or see the yellow candle-light steal in across the gloom. “boy!” said a soft little voice. he started up and looked around. for an instant he thought that he was dream- ing, and was glad to think that he would waken by and by from what had been so sad a dream, and find himself safe in his own little bed in stratford town. for the little maid who stood in the doorway was such a one as his eyes had never looked upon before. she was slight and graceful as a lily of the field, and her skin was white as the purest wax, save where a damask rose-leaf red glowed through her cheeks. her black hair curled about her slender neck. her gown was crim- son, slashed with gold, cut square across the breast and simply made, with sleeves just el- bow-long, wide-mouthed, and lined with creamy silk. her slippers, too, were of crimson silk, high-heeled, jaunty bits of things; her silken stockings black. in one hand she held a tall brass candlestick, and through the fingers of .] - master skylark. the other the candle-flame made a ruddy glow like the sun in the heart of a hollyhock. and in the shadow of her hand her eyes looked out, as nick said long afterward, like stars in a summer night. thinking it was all a dream, he sat and stared at her. “boy!” she said again, quite gently, but with a quaint little air of reproof, “where are thy manners?” nick got up quickly and bowed as best he knew how. if not a dream, this was certainly a princess — and perchance — his heart leaped up — perchance she came to set him free! he wondered who had told her of him p diccon field, perhaps, whose father had been simon attwood's partner till he died, last michaelmas. diccon was in london now, printing books, he had heard. or maybe it was john, hal sad- dler's older brother. no, it could not be john, for john was with a carrier; and nick had doubts if carriers were much acquainted at court. wondering, he stared, and bowed again. “why, boy,” said she, with a quaint air of surprise, “thou art a very pretty fellow ! why, indeed, thou lookest like a good boy | why wilt thou be so bad and break my father's heart?” “breakthy father's heart?” stammered nick. “pr'ythee, who is thy father, mistress prin- cess p” “nay,” said the little maid simply; “i am no princess. i am cicely carew.” “cicely carew p” cried nick, clenching his fists. “art thou the daughter of that wicked man, gaston carew p” “my father is not wicked!” said she, pas- sionately, drawing back from the threshold with her hand trembling upon the latch. “thou shalt not say that — i will not speak with thee at all !” “i do na care! if master gaston carew is thy father, he is the wickedest man in the world!” “why, fie, for shame!” she cried, and stamped her little foot. “how darest thou say such a thing?” “he hath stolen me from home,” exclaimed nick indignantly; “and i shall never see my mother any more!” with that he choked, and hid his face in his arm against the wall. the little maid looked at him with an air of troubled surprise, and coming into the room, touched him on the arm. “there,” she said soothingly; “don’t cry!” and stroked him gently as one would a little dog that was hurt. “my father will send thee home to thy mother, i know; for he is very kind and good. some one hath lied to thee about him.” nick wiped his swollen eyes dubiously upon his sleeve; yet the little maid seemed positive. perhaps, after all, there was a mistake some- where. “art hungry, boy?” she asked suddenly, spying the empty trencher on the floor. “there is a pasty and a cake in the buttery, and thou shalt have some of it if thou wilt not cry any more. come, i cannot bear to see thee cry— it makes me weep myself; and that will blear mine eyes, and father will feel bad.” “if he but felt as bad as he hath made me feel —” began nick wrathfully; but she laid her little hand across his mouth. it was a very white, soft, sweet little hand. “come,” said she; “thou art hungry, and it hath made thee cross!”— and with no more ado, took him by the hand and led him down the corridor into a large room where the last daylight shone with a smoky glow. the walls were wainscoted with many panels, dark, old, and mysterious; and in a burnished copper brazier at the end of the room cinna- mon, rosemary, and bay were burning with a pleasant smell. along the walls were joined- work chests for linen and napery, of brass- bound oak — one a black, old, tragic sea-chest, carved with grim faces and weird griffins, that had been cast up by the north sea from the wreck of a spanish galleon of war. the floor was waxed in the french fashion, and was so smooth that nick could scarcely keep his feet. the windows were high up in the wall, with their heads among the black roof-beams, which with their grotesquely carven brackets were half lost in the dusk. through the windows nick could see nothing but a world of chim- ney-pots. “is london town all smoke-pipes?” he asked confusedly. [mar. master skylark. “nay,” replied the little maid; “there are people.” pushing a chair up to the table, she bade him sit down. then pulling a tall, curiously-made stool to the other side of the board, she perched herself upon it like a fairy upon a blade of grass. “greg!” she called imperiously, “gregſ what, how ! gregory goole, i say!” “yes, ma'm'selle,” replied a hoarse voice without; and through a door at the further end of the room came the bandy-legged man with the bow of crimson ribbon in his ear. nick turned a little pale; and when the fel- low saw him sitting there, he came up hastily, with a look like a crock of sour milk. “tut, tut! ma'm'selle,” said he ; “master carew will not like this.” she turned upon him with an air of dainty scorn. “since when hath father left his wits to thee, gregory goole p i know his likes as well as thou — and it likes him not to let this poor boy starve, i'll warrant. go, fetch the pasty and the cake that are in the buttery, with a glass of cordial,—the certosa cordial,—and that in the shaking of a black sheep's tail, or i will tell my father what thou wottest of.” and she looked the very picture of diminutive se- verity. “very good, ma'm'selle; just as ye say,” said gregory, fawning, with very poor grace, how- ever. “but, knave,” he snarled, as he turned away, with a black scowl at nick, “if thou dost venture on any of thy scurvy pranks while i be gone, i'll break thy pate.” cicely carew knitted her brows. “that is a saucy rogue,” said she ; “but he hath served my father well. and, what is much in lon- don town, he is an honest man withal, though i have caught him at the spanish wine behind my father's back; so he doth butter his tongue with smooth words when he hath speech with me, for i am the lady of the house.” she held up her head with a very pretty pride. “my mother — ” nick caught his breath and his eyes filled. “nay, boy,” said she, gently; “’t is i should weep, not thou; for my mother is dead. i do not think i ever saw her that i know,” she went on musingly; “but she was a french- woman who served a murdered queen, and she was the loveliest woman that ever lived.” cicely clasped her hands and moved her lips. nick saw that she was praying, and bent his head. “thou art a good boy,” she said softly; “my father will like that”; and then went quietly on : “that is why gregory goole doth call me ‘ma'm'selle' — because my mother was a frenchwoman. but i am a right english girl for all that ; and when they shout, “god save the queen!’ at the play, why, i do, too! and oh, boy,” she cried, “it is a brave thing to hear!” and she clapped her hands with spark- ling eyes. “it drove the spaniards off the sea, my father ofttimes saith.” “poh!” said nick, stoutly, for he saw the pasty coming in, “they can na beat us english- men " and with that fell upon the pasty as if it were the spanish armada in one lump and he sir francis drake set on to do the job alone. as he ate his spirits rose again, and he almost forgot that he was stolen from his home, and grew eager to be seeing the wonders of the great town whose ceaseless roar came over the housetops like a distant storm. he was still somewhat in awe of this beautiful, flower-like little maid, and listened in shy silence to the wonderful tales she told : how that she had seen the queen, who had red hair, and pearls like gooseberries on her cloak; and how the court went down to greenwich. but the bandy-legged man kept popping his head in at the door, and, after all, nick was but in a prison- house; so he grew quite dismal after a while. “dost truly think thy father will leave me go?” he asked. “of course he will,” said she. see why thou dost hate him so p” “why, truly,” hesitated nick, “perhaps it is not thy father that i hate, but only that he will na leave me go. and if he would but leave me go, perhaps i 'd love him very much in- deed.” “good, nick! thou art a trump !” cried master carew's voice suddenly from the fur- ther end of the hall, where in spite of all the candles it was dark; and, coming forward, the master-player held out his hands in a most genial way. “come, lad, thy hand —’t is spoken like a gentleman. nay, i will kiss thee “i cannot — -- / .] - - / / } / * the remnant of mine honour ! ” and kissed him upon the forehead. “father,” said cicely, gravely, “hast thou forgotten me?” “cicely darted to his side with a frightened cry.” “nay, sweetheart, nay,” cried carew, with a wonderful laugh that somehow warmed the cockles of nick's forlorn heart; and turning quickly, the master-player caught up the little maid and kissed her again and again, so ten- derly that nick was amazed to see how one so cruel could be so kind, and how so good a - -- tº * ~ * - - --> \ - - sº ^ master skylark. . . .” - —for i love thee, nick, upon my word and on taking the boy's half-unwilling hands in his own, he stooped twined her arms about his neck and then lay back with her head upon his shoulder, purring like a kitten in his arms. “father,” said she, patting his cheek, “some one hath told him naughty things of thee. come, daddy, say they are not sol” (see next page.) the master-player's face turned red as flame. he coughed and looked up among the roof- beams. “why, of course they 're not,” said he, uneasily. “there, boy!” cried she; “i told thee so. why, daddy, think!—they said that thou hadst stolen him away from his own mother, and little maid could love so bad a man; for she would not leave him go!” vol. xxiv.- . - - r * * s y f -- f ! \ . “hollo!” ejaculated the master-player ab- ruptly, with a quiver in his voice; “what a hole thou hast made in the pasty, nick!” “ah, daddy,” persisted cicely, “and what a hole it would make in his mother's heart if he had been stolen away !” “wouldst like another draught of cordial, nick p” cried carew hurriedly, reaching out for the tall flagon with a trembling hand. “'t is good to cheer the troubled heart, lad. not that thou hast any reason in the world to let thy heart be troubled,” he added hastily. “no, indeed, upon my word; for thou art on the doorstep of a golden-lined success. see, nick, how the light shines through ” and he tilted up the flagon. “it is one of old jake ves- saline's murano-venetian glasses; a beautiful thing, now, is it not? t is good as any made abroad ' " but his hand was shaking so that half the cordial missed the cup and ran into a little shimmering pool upon the table-top. “and thou 'lt send him home again, daddy, wilt thou not p” “yes, yes, of course—why, to be sure—we'll send him anywhere that thou dost say, golden- heart: to persia or cathay—ay, to the far side of the green-cheese moon, or to the court of tamburlaine the great,” and he laughed a quick, dry, nervous laugh that had no laughter in it. “i had one of de lannoy’s red bohe- mian bottles, nick,” he rattled on ſeverishly; “but that butter-fingered rogue”—he nodded his head at the outer stair—“dropped it, smash! and made a thousand most counterfeit four- pences out of what cost me two pound sterling.” “but will ye truly leave me go, sir?” fal- tered nick. “why, of course—to be sure—yes, certainly —yes, yes. but, nick, it is too late this night. why, come, thou couldst not go to-night. see, ’t is dark, and thou a stranger in the town. 't is far to stratford town—thou couldst not walk it, lad; there will be carriers anon. come, stay a while with cicely and me—we will make thee a right welcome guest!” “that we will,” cried cicely, clapping her hands. “oh, do stay; i am so lonely here! the maid is silly, margot old, and the rats run in the wall.” “and thou must to the theater, my lad, and - (to be continº - | master skylark. ſ sing for london town—ay, nicholas,” and carew's voice rang proudly. “the highest heads in london town must hear that voice of thine, or i shall die unshrift. what! lad p- come all the way from coventry, and never show that face of thine, nor let them hear thy sky- lark's song p why, 't were a shame! and, nick, my lord the admiral shall hear thee sing when he comes home again; perchance the queen herself. why, nick, of course thou 'lt sing. thou hast not heart to say thou wilt not sing — even for me whom thou hatest.” nick smiled in spite of himself, for cicely was leaning on the arm of his chair, devouring º him with her great dark eyes. truly sing?” she asked. -* nick aughed and blushed, and carew laughed. “what, doth he sing p why—tº º come, tune that skylark note of thine ( ... golden-heart and me. * * she hears the birds in verity—and, nic the lass hath never seen a bird that sang, except within a cage. nay, lad, this is no cage!” ) he cried, as nick looked about and sighed. “we will make it very home for thee — will cicely and i.” “that we will!” cried cicely. “come, boy, sing for me — my mother used to sing.” at that gaston carew went white as a sheet, and put his hand quickly up to his face. cicely darted to his side with a frightened cry, - and caught his hand away. he tried to sm - " f but it was a ghastly attempt. “tush, tu little one; 't was something stung me!” he, huskily. “sing, nicholas, i beg of the , , there was such a sudden world of wear ! and sorrow in his voice that nick felt a pil - he knew not what, and lifting up his - young voice, he sang the quaint old madri carew sat with his face in his hand, after it was done arose unsteadily and s. º “come, golden-heart, "t is music such charmeth care and lureth sleep out of her day valley — we must be trotting off to bed.” that night nick slept upon a better bet with a sheet and a blue serge coverlid, an pillow stuffed with chaff. but as he drifted off into a troubled dre land, he heard the door-bolt throb into socket, and knew that he was fastened in. “dost truly, ſ * * : ~" r- "t will make he ! o [mar. jed's windmill. firmly set up on the bank in front of the house overlooking the shore and lake. by the end of the first summer it had grown to be one of the belongings of the place, and when jed went to play in the sand or to wade along the water's edge, he felt that it protected him in warm and comfortable, and jed was sure that it sometimes waved its arms gratefully toward him. as a result of the close companionship which thus sprang up between jed and his windmill, and from his life in the open air, jed in time “jed's father had whittled out for him a little wooden windmill.” some way,+ at least, he thought he was always safe if he were in sight of it. in the fall jed used to stand at the window and watch with great delight the mad whirl- ing of its arms; but one night, during a heavy northeaster, he lay awake a long time listen- ing to the pitiful creaking of the windmill, and in the morning he found two little arms lying broken on the ground, from the force of the storm. this was more than his tender heart could bear. jed's father mended the broken arms, but jed felt he had been thoughtless. so after that the little windmill was carefully taken down each fall when the winds began to blow cold, and put up in a sheltered place un- der the eaves of the porch, where it looked grew to be quite a reliable weather prophet, and if any one had asked him to explain the reasons for the morning lake-breeze, the evening land- breeze, and the sudden rise of squalls and tem- pests, he could have done it most intelligently, for he had not conned the old philosophy in vain, and the chapter on “winds” was one especially thumbed. upon jed's return from the village on this september morning, he climbed rather listlessly up the bank, tired and warm after the exertion of rowing. his mother was standing by the porch, twisting the wayward branches and ten- drils of a hop-vine around the strings that had been stretched for its support from the floor of the porch to the roof. .] jed's windmill. “well, mother, father 's gone. it seems dreadfully lonesome already, does n’t it?” “yes, jed, we shall be pretty much alone; but we may be thankful if father gets plenty of work — though i do think those northern woods are dangerous places in dry weather, and i suppose we must expect considerable warm weather the rest of this month. those forest fires start so easily, and come on so fast, and we have had so little rain. but we won't borrow trouble. we shall have enough to do to make both ends meet while he 's gone. af. ter you cool off, you'd better bring up a few pails of water for the kitchen. the cistern is so low i am afraid to use it except for drinking- water.” yes, there was plenty to do — water to carry, fish to catch, and chickens to feed. the work seemed harder than usual, for the heat grew more intense than it had been during the whole summer. once a week jed rowed over to the village, two and a half miles away, to see if there were a letter from father, and to bring back the grocery supplies. the last time he went over he had stopped to listen to the men in the store, who were talking over the forest fires which had been and were still raging in various parts of the state. he was fear- ful of hearing them speak of one in the vicinity where his father was at work; and when he reached home he threw himself down on the ground by the windmill and cried out, “oh, my little windmill! the winds come and whisper their secrets to you — can't you tell me if father is in any danger? you see, if anything hap- pens to him, i am the only man left to take care of mother and the baby!” but the wind- mill only turned lazily about, and if it knew any secret, it did not reveal it. it grew hotter and hotter. the air was thick with the smoke which drifts from the forest fires so many hundreds of miles through- out the whole lake-region. it became almost unendurable to work in the little garden, or to sit out in the boat trying to catch fish. the fish would n't bite; everything seemed languid and depressed. even the windmill itself shifted uneasily, turned its arms fitfully about, or stood motion- less in the quiet heaviness of the atmosphere. every afternoon,_indeed, all day long-the sun hung like a great copper ball in the hea- vens, and every evening it disappeared long before the hour of sunset in a dense mass of pink smoke. no rain fell, and more and more frequent became the accounts of fires, in the stray newspapers which jed brought back from the village. one day the sun had risen dull and coppery as usual, no breeze had sprung up to relieve the stagnant heat, the windmill stood motionless, and jed lay on the soft carpet of pine-needles, looking up at the branches of the trees outlined against the sky. it was about two o'clock in the afternoon, and he was waiting till the cool of the day to row over to the village. suddenly the arms of the little windmill turned toward the lake, and began to revolve rapidly as a strong, cool breeze set in from the water. the jed. air became cleared of smoke, so that for the first time in many days the sun shone brightly. jed pondered to himself the reason for this, as he jumped up and ran down the winding steps in the bank to pull the boat higher up on the sand. for days the water had been so smooth and glassy that he had carelessly left the boat lying at the very water's edge to save him- jed's windmill. [mar. “suddenly the arms of the little self the trouble of dragging it back and forth in the heat. no storm-clouds were gathering, no squall was threatening — there was not that excuse for the breeze which had sprung up so sud- denly. all at once a paragraph from the old philosophy came to him as vividly as if he were reading it from the page itself. “the hot air rising from the land creates a vacuum into which rushes the colder air from just above the water.” “but,” thought jed, “the hot air has been rising from the land for many days, and there has been a little freshening of the air in the middle of the mornings, though nothing like this. what can be the reason, unless —” and jed stood still, his brown, sunburned face almost paling, as the thought in his mind rushed on, wording itself thus: “unless the forest fires are coming here—unless they are closing in upon us!” a childlike feeling of helplessness came over windmill turn ed toward the lake.” him, a longing to run to his mother; but he re- membered his father's last words—that he should care for mother and amy; and the sense of his dignity as a protector brought with it a manly resolve. the desire for sympathy was so strong, however, that he rushed back up the bank and straight to the side of his windmill. throwing one arm about the staff to which it was fastened, he looked far out on the water, eagerly but vainly scanning the distant horizon for a possible sign of an approaching storm. “tell me what it all means, little windmill,” he cried. “show me what is the matter quick enough, so that i can help mother and the baby!” the arms of the little windmill turned on and on, faster and faster, but its creaking voice said no new thing. still, jed's heart grew brave as he stood there, and he began to think and plan. in his forest home he had read and heard of many great fires, and the cruel details of all these stories crowded into his mind at once. .] jed's windmill. whole villages had been overtaken by the flames and destroyed in a few short hours. families living in the woods had fled from their homes, only to be suffocated by the smoke or killed by falling fire-brands. “oh, it is too terrible to think of and yet, since the windmill has given me a warning, can't i do something to save us all from such a death i must not frighten mother until i am sure; but i can get everything ready, so that we can fly to the wa- ter, our only safety if the fire does come.” so for several hours he ran quickly and quietly about, gather- ing together whatever things he thought would be useful; and if his mother noticed him at all, she thought only that the fresh breeze from the lake was making him feel better and a little more like working. she sat quietly sewing in the front room, so she did not see him as he hur- riedly put into a basket in the kitchen all the food he could find cooked and ready for eating. shawls and thick coats he tied to- gether, and did not forget a little pillow for the baby to sleep on; for it would be a whole night, and per- haps more than one, which they would be obliged to spend in the boat before they could find some place of shelter. all the valuables which he “finally the great flames leaped from tree-top to tree-top.” late in the afternoon, when his preparations were nearly completed, he sat down for a few moments to rest near his windmill. it had ceased its turning, and stood quiet; but as he looked at it, it swung slowly first one way and then another, as if reluctant to look away from the beautiful blue waters it had gazed upon so many years. finally turning its back upon them, it faced landward, and then once more the little arms began to fly, faster and faster, (see next page.) could not take away, but which he dreaded and with its turning the hot air, thick with to think of losing, he carried down to the smoke, came sweeping on, choking and stifling shore and buried deep in the sand. everything which drew breath. jed jumped up jed's windmill. , and stood for just a moment, realizing with an overwhelming fear that what he had anticipated had really come, then ran to the house, where on the porch he met his mother, with a look of alarm upon her face. “what does it mean, jed p” she cried out. “it is the fire, mother; the fire we were afraid of for father has come to us. but don’t be afraid, mother,” as her face turned pale and she caught at the railing; “we will run to the boat, and out on the water we shall be safe.” there was no time for jed to tell how he had guessed the coming of the fire. snatching the baby and helplessly looking for a moment round her little home, the mother hastened with him down the bank, and not until his strong young arms had pulled the boat out upon the protecting bosom of the lake did she learn of the precautions, which her brave boy had taken to save their lives and to provide for their comfort. once out of danger, jed looked back for a farewell glance at his windmill, and was glad and proud that it stood with its face to the danger, and glad, too, that the little whirling arms were turned away from him, for he could not have borne the sight of them outstretched toward him, beseeching, imploring him not to desert his lit- tle friend and comrade. darkness was coming on, so the little party in the boat rowed but a short distance out, and then dropped anchor. the fire came on and on, the smoke rolling out in such dense vol- umes as almost to blind them for a -time, and then liſting to show a dull red glow upon the sky. nearer and nearer it came; the crackle and roar became louder and louder, and finally great flames leaped from tree-top to tree-top. it was a wonderful, majestic sight, the grand- est fireworks little jed had ever seen; and his childish imagination could not stifle the admi- ration of it, in spite of the heartbreak at seeing the destruction of his home. they did not try to row away that night, but sat and watched the fire stretching away along the banks of the lake as far as they could see, and only when its fury had spent itself did they fall asleep. early in the morning, when day was just breaking, they awoke and made ready for the long row which lay ahead of them; for it might be many days before they could get beyond the fire-belt and reach kind friends who would succor them. turning to look back, they beheld the heap of ruins where their happy home had been, the tall, blackened tree-trunks stretching along the shore as silent indicators of the destruction which the raging fire had left behind. the pole which had borne the windmill stood black- ened and charred, and the little arms had dropped at its side. its short career was over, but not in vain; for was not one boy wiser, stronger, braver, and truer for the lessons which the little windmill had taught him p and at the last it had saved three lives. a winter day. by m. l. van vorst. a line of white is on the hedge this shining, sparkling winter's day; i lean upon the window-ledge and brush the pretty snow away. it made the fields and gardens white; it lies upon the roofs and ground. it fell so softly in the night, when i was sleeping safe and sound. i think i 'll go and get my sled, my little gloves grandmother knit, my cap with tabs, my muffler red— and try to coast a little bit. “go out before it melts away,” my mother said. i hope she'll stand there in the window, while i play, and smile and nod, and wave her hand. by laura e. richards. once there was a little boy, who in drumming found his joy; dawn and daybreak, noon and night, drumming was his heart's delight. when above his task he bent, “tum-te-tum,” his fingers went; when at games he smiling sat, still they sounded, “rat, tat, tat.” on the table, on the chair, on the crystal window fair, on his book or on his work, with his spoon or with his fork, still this foolish little body drummed and drummed, “te-tum-te-toddy.” if his hands were busied quite, still his feet kept up the fight: “rumpty tumpty, tiddlety tee, rumpity-boom-dee-boom-ty-dee.” but one evening, sad to tell, something very strange befell. vol. xxiv.- . suddenly—a dreadful comer— in there marched the drumlie drummer. eight feet tall and four feet wide, yards of bearskin cap beside. armed with drumsticks thick and long, made of hardest wood and strong. then the youngster's arm seized he ; said, “my boy, now come with me! autumn, winter, spring, and summer, all your life you've been a drummer; now, my little master ned, you shall be a drum, instead ' " tied his arms, his ankles, too, with a ribbon broad and blue; slung him round his neck. “and now, master ned, i'll show you how.” marching, marching through the town goes the drummer up and down: “tum-te-tum-te-tum-te-tum,” goes the dreadful, nedful drum. dangling from the ribbon blue, the rhyme of the drumlie drummer. neddy feels the dread tattoo, “rumpty-iddity-whango-whack!” up and down upon his back. neddy's shrieks distract the air, yet no creature seems to care; father, mother, sister dear, pass him by and never hear. “rub-a-dub-dub-a-dub-di-do-dee, drumming is the sport for me; di-do-di-do, dum-dum-dum ! see my dreadful, nedful drum. tum-tum-tum-tum-tum-tum-tummer — here i go, the drumlie drummer. little boys who can't keep still, come with me and soon you will. tumplety-tumplety-tumplety-tee, rub-a-dub-dub-a-dub-dub-a-dub-dee, rumpty-iddity-whango-whack, up and down upon your back.” when at last unhappy ned woke to find himself in bed, from his toes up to his crown, all was black and blue and brown; and his back did ache, and ache— really, truly, fit to break. mother, with a plaster hid it— said that horrrid football did it. ned said nothing; but i hear that he drums no more this year. animal tracks in the snow. by barney h oskin standish., there are three classes of people who are especially interested in animal tracks in the snow: country boys who go cross lots and through woods to school in winter, woodsmen in general, whether hunters, trappers, or lovers of nature, and artists who paint winter land- scapes and country scenes. the tracks here represented are copied from nature, with the animal in sight, and are nearly as typical of their kind as the tracks of man are of man- kind. in each case they represent the animal as if going up the page, and in each group of tracks the upper or head ones are made by the hind feet (with a possible exception in no. ). it is with the hind feet upon the ground in front of the fore feet that the animal makes its spring. the rabbit sleeps by day in tufts of grasses and brush-piles. at night it comes forth to browse, ornamenting the snow with its almost unchanging groups of footprints. it never walks, but it hops a few inches and jumps several feet. in its jumps one fore foot is placed directly in front of the other, and the hind feet are thrown outside and ahead of them. the fore feet come up, one at a time, as the hind feet go down; and the animal is thus doubled up for the leap. no. represents the tracks. the deer is noted for its long leap and the high rate of speed which it is capable of at- taining. unlike the rabbit or the fox, it has hoofs, and a single footprint is not unlike that of the sheep. its walking-tracks are repre- sented by no. . you will observe that they are but slightly spread. no. represents the tracks of its leaps, and of course the forward ones are made by the hind feet. the muskrat is more or less active all win- ter, for it stores no food, but obtains it under the ice. this consists of aquatic plants and their roots. on warm days you may find its tracks beside the open streams. it is not a good walker—some woodsmen maintain it never walks when traveling. the tracks of its short, slow jump are shown by no. . the skunk during the colder part of winter remains in its den, which is usually a hollow log or an earth burrow. long before snow disap- pears, however, you may expect to find its foot- prints. it sleeps by day and hunts by night. the tracks made when walking are so wide apart that they appear in two rows, as may be seen by looking at no. held level with the eye. this may be because the skunk's legs are short and its body wide. although this animal has a wabbling canter, it is slow on foot, and seldom attempts to run when in danger. it has a surer means of self-defense. no. shows the tracks of the short, awkward leap. the mink makes its nest in the banks of streams, in hollow logs, and among rocks. its feet are partly webbed, and it is an excellent swimmer, capable of catching fish. this animal seems, however, incapable of walking, and when on land or ice proceeds by a series of jumps, often so long that you would say it was fleeing from danger. for each jump it leaves but two tracks. this, no doubt, is the result of raising its fore feet, one at a time, and sliding its hind feet under them, as the leap is finished. no. represents the tracks that it leaves in the snow. the weasel and ermine make similar tracks. squirrels during the coldest weather of win- ter sleep in their nests in hollow trees, and also in those made of leaves in tree-tops. but on warm, sunshiny days they come forth. there- fore it cannot be truly said that they are hiber- nating animals. their fore legs are short com- pared with their hind ones, and the feet on these legs have but four toes, while their hind ones have five. as they pass from tree to tree in the snow they leave their four-cornered groups | . rabbit minkwe. squirrel. medium ºr gºtortog deer or skunko muskrat-sel irmine|medium rate. uffer tradiº |high sheed wólking (slow welking jumping tºed hind hind jºr l ope) - #.tracks feet sº or eet, 'in front - * , || || | | | " . fºllº f wº - nº t w t w / f º { º - - {{ wnº ! § {} - t § { º & \ § w {! º f \ w * { - §§ | w ... -- f | * | { { ". * r º w ! º * | w. w. ! ( w § $ (, , { } { • * | & {{ || |, ū . w. w. r § { t wº i ." * | } | | || , " | | t § w \} | {{ { t !) & # yeeei. t * . to x. racoon rumingfist Ślow jum ‘ing gºté. . $ ( { & . ë) q $, $ (* is? () º % (). $ (). § & º, / Č. w t,” | * | !," & ** & /.. , © - ſ @ \ ( ; : . t. ( -- racoon resoon slowwalk fºst trö q s & $ - $ * \ w ſº * , | ( ſº t / \ t º, * w. ', • * \ ... • º * / s, ! º," º \{ ū º } | | * * * | * ſ | % t * @ & \. - t | t } § 'v // i \ ** * ** ! ſ . l ie t|jum * §nd | | - june's -º-º: -- garden. by marion hill. [begun in the november number.] chapter ix. rather encouraging. june took leila with her, both girls agreeably anxious to find out the reason for sarah's signal. the rich girl's room was at all times a delightful retreat. it had big arm-chairs, and window- seats, and cozy nooks, and picturesque couches, and everything else that is dear to young per- sons' hearts. sarah herself, without her crutch, and in all the glory of a dainty house-gown, in . the depths of some cushioned corner, was as pretty a sight as one could wish to see. this particular evening she was radiant with sup- pressed excitement. . “june, dear, it has come at last!” “what?” asked june, tucking leila into a seat. “success! i am a ‘liter'y character' at last.” and she waved a magazine in triumph. “no! glory ! you don't mean to say that any magazine has published an article of yours /" was the unflattering outcome of june's excite- ment. “yes; and i've called you up here to read it to you—that is, if you care to listen,” added sarah shyly. - “don't i, just?” said cordial june. “but wait a tiny minute”; — and she ran out and hung over the banisters. “oh, roy! roy! come up here! in sarah's room.” then she danced back into that sanctum. “what do you mean by that?” demanded sarah, with every sign of anger. “i thought that it would be nice for us to hear it all together,” replied the unmoved june, with all the innocence of a cherub. sarah bit her lip, and roy lounged in, mani- festly ill at ease in the unfamiliar apartment. he sat down in an obscure corner. we 're then sarah began to read, awkwardly at first, but soon losing herself in her own story, and rendering it with the thousand charms of a perfect understanding. it was a direct little tale, as sweet and as sad as a bit of music. but there was no bitterness in it, no unkindness, no complaining—just the strange, deep sadness of life, and of living. not one of her listeners could stir till it was finished; then a sigh broke from all — a sigh of interest, of approval, of appreciative melancholy. “you’re a genius!” cried june, unstintingly. “oh, sarah, you must read it again to me some time,” begged leila, hungrily. their honest praise was sweet to the young author, but she wanted to hear from another— from that silent, sprawling, graceful figure whose face was hidden in the shadow. june bent down and looked in it. “roy,” she said, betraying him purposely, but in divine kindness—“roy, you are crying!” he started to his feet, perhaps to leave the room. “oh, roy, if you are crying, you must love me a little, and i love you so much l’” sarah had done with concealment; she wrung her hands in piteous expectation. at the sound of her voice, roy turned in a flash, and hurried to her. he knelt beside her and put his curly head in her lap. sarah's face had the look of an angel as she bent over him. “come out of this,” commanded june, with decision; and taking leila by the hand, she drew her quietly home. the next day was marked by two charming episodes, and was a red-letter day in june's mental calendar. in the morning she slipped over to pay grandma bell a short visit. she had not neglected the old lady, running in at odd opportunities, with cheerful anecdotes and bright looks, until the lonely old soul waited for [mar. june's garden. her sunny visits as the treat of the day. such a lonely old lady, living under the roof of her son and daughter as might a stranger who was unsought for and unwanted! this day, when june was stealing up into the attic room, she came again face to face with mr. rouncewell, for the first time since their introductory encounter. “aha!” he began, gruffly cheerful. “you are the young lady with the weakness for pink, i suppose p” “yes, sir,” said june, laughing, and thinking it no harm to encourage an ogre in his pleasant moments. “i have caught sight of you several times lately, slipping past like a brownie. where do you go? upstairs to grandma's room?” “yes, sir. do you call her grandma, too?” asked june. “ever since little willie started it—my little chap ! he 's dead, you know — and happier; but we miss him — we always shall. ah! well, well!—but what is the attraction up there old trunks, eh?” “partly.” “um; i thought so. frippery, eh?” “there is a faded little dress of yours, sir.” “lord bless me! you don't say sol” “yes, sir; and one of your curls, soft and yellow; and a pair of your tiny slippers.” “well, i never !” “and she never takes them out or puts them in without kissing them.” “what an extraordinary idea!” fumed mr. rouncewell, but dropping his glance rather guiltily. “and she often tells me of the time she used to teach you to walk, and of how she used to dream that as years went on the places would be changed, and she would lean on your arm instead.” he gave her a look, half distrustful, half anx- ious to hear some more, and his ruddy face took on a deeper hue. “would n't you like to hear her tell it her- self?” asked june, pleadingly. “well—” was his doubtful rejoinder. “she is very lonely,” continued june, putting her hand fearlessly into his great paw. old trunks full of old “h'm!” he coughed, and it was a sign of tractableness. “come on,” said june, with a joyous tug, and they ascended the stairs together, his pon- derous step almost shaking the foundations. “why, john "exclaimed the old lady, de- lightedly. “well, mother, i've come to see that won- derful party dress of mine, and the curl and the slippers, and all the rest of the treasures.” “why, john " “not all at once, you know; bit by bit. i can come up here every day for a time; make believe i am a little boy again.” “why, john " it seemed to be all she could say, but she said it with every variety of expression. he patted her awkwardly upon the back. “this forward young woman spoke as if she half fancied i neglected you,” he said, looking at june in mock anger. - “i wholly fancied it,” amended june, per- fectly undaunted, dancing to the door. “you don't need me to-day, grandma bell; for i've heard it all before,” she added, leaving mr. rouncewell quite ill at ease without her support. “he 's really a dear old thing,” she told herself, as she found her way out of the house. but the wonderful thing happened that night, and happened in her own back parlor. that very useful room was also the dining-room, and she was engaged in setting the tea-table by the flickering firelight. leila was helping her, happy in being able to recognize the dishes by the feel of them, and taking great delight in ac- complishing her task as well as when she had her sight. “the sumptuous repast is now ready,” june heralded. “tea and bread in abundance, and butter that will have to be carefully eked out or it will not last till saturday. and it must!” she concluded savagely, stooping down to car- ess the basking misfit. but leila gave a sudden, terrified little scream, and dropped the saucer she was hold- ing. she pressed her hands to her eyes. “what's the matter?” cried june anxiously. “june, i saw the firelight!” “my darling — darling! can you see again?” june exclaimed tremulously. . june's garden. “avo z" wailed leila, taking away her hands and peering into the darkness. “but i did, june; indeed i did ' " “my poor little girl! it was, maybe, only your fancy. you can see queer flashes all the time, you know.” “i saw it! i saw it! but it is all gone again. oh, june, to have it come back for a minute, and then to lose it !” and leila sobbed. leaving the excited child bound by fearful promises to remain calm, june rushed to the oculist's house. it was not long before she returned, alone but triumphant. “there was no need for him to come, he said — not to-night, at any rate; that there was nothing to be done but to wait; that you are to be very, very careful; that it may be ºr i –h i - hº-hº-hº as ºrſ l - ll - ºf iff ºf - - º - h - -- . - - º º - --- h. | - - - ls | "i - º -] º - * º º -- - º v/ - a. - lº ſº º - “sarah waved a magazine in triumph.” “you are sure you saw p” june demanded. “sure! and — and — maybe it is fancy, but i think, now, that i saw you too. you were bending down.” june ran to her, and tied her eyes with a silk handkerchief. “don’t you dare take that off,” she com- manded. “you will be putting your head in the grate trying to see again, and with some such bit of foolishness you will ruin everything.” vol. xxiv.- . months before you can see again, but that you are a fortunate girl, for your sight will come back to you!” to keep any sort of control over herself, june raced out into the garden, and hopped about excitedly in the faint moonlight. the glorious perfection of her lilies gave her a sud- den resolution. “since our luck seems to be coming back to us,” she said aloud, “i will make my final [mar. june's garden. attempt at acquiring a fortune. i will go to the city and try to sell those lilies—to-mor- roze, a ’’ chapter x. a dismal failure. dear me! how easy it was for june to come to that resolution, and what difficult proportions it assumed when she proceeded to carry it out. in the first place, the lilies were very hard to coax into a presentable-looking bundle; lovely they were indeed—but too lovely, with stems a yard long, ending in magnificent clusters of waxy white blooms. “i 'll look like a christmas-card ' " wailed june, frightened at the showiness of them. it was very early in the morning, and she was all ready to take the first train to san francisco. her mother and sister hung about her to give her the comfort of their presence till the last minute. “if your heart fails you, june,” said mrs. miller, anxiously, “ or if anybody is rude to you, come right home. we need the money, indeed; but no sum would pay for having your feelings insulted.” “yes, 'm,” moaned june, vaguely. “oh, i can smell 'em from here, and they're lovely " cried leila. “do you know, i asked roy to ask the price of them for me, and he told me that the florists were selling them at five dollars a dozen. count them, june.” “four dozen and a half,” said that mournful young business woman. “a little more than twenty-two dollars,” said mrs. miller, thoughtfully. “to buy them : " cried june, with tragic em- phasis. - “well, say you get only half of that — say you get twelve dollars.” “or say i get frightened to death, and am brought home stiff!” was june's wild assump- tion. then she grasped her formidable deco- rations, and wandered off to the train. she was miserably conscious of being a con- spicuous object, and she suffered tortures dur- ing her half-hour's journey. the intensely strong perfume sickened her, and the sheaf of blossoms distorted itself into the likeness of an abominably grotesque umbrella which it was impossible to furl. “if i ever get out of this alive, i'll never do it again!” she promised herself. she wondered if everybody did not know her errand, and all its unpleasant details. she flushed at every gaze that fell to her share; and she got all that were going. the more she tried to reassure herself that she was doing a perfectly natural thing, the more flushed and more miserable she got. when she reached the city, she slunk past florist's after florist's, positively not daring to go in. finally she pulled herself together, and administered a sound scolding where it would do most good. “look here, june miller,” she said severely, “if you are going to be an idiot, i will never talk to you again! this thing is n’t pleasant, i know; but business is business, and if you want pay you have got to work: so into the next florist's you go — the next, mind that!” she went. the man in charge was not en- thusiastic. yes; he bought flowers sometimes. yes; the lilies were showy. were they in de- mand? well—only so-so. “do you think you would care to take these?” asked june, in conclusion. “to buy them well, money is short now. no; i could n't really buy them. but i might find some use for them. if you like to leave them —” “i don't like,” said june, very sweetly; and she walked out. finding that trade had certain exhilarations of its own, she entered the next store quite cheerfully. something had evidentlygone wrong, for the proprietor was puffing around at a great rate. “what's all this?” he howled, running un- expectedly into june as he turned a corner. “would you like to buy some flowers ?” asked she, trying to keep her heart in its proper place. “no, no, no!” he roared, backing away, as from a pestilence. june shot out as quickly as she could. “wow, wow, wow !” she mimicked for her own conso- lation when she was safely in the street. “what a terrible man" she met with every sort of experience except .] june's garden. success. as a rule, people were very kind to her; but as for purchasing her flowers — no, they would not. they grew as heavy as so much iron, too; but june persevered doggedly. at last she entered a little store into which a strangely sad-looking man preceded her. he went up to the wet and fragrant counter first, so june hung back until he should get through. “and what flowers have you got to put on a little dead baby?” he asked, and his voice was rugged and grief-shaken. the matter-of-fact florist expatiated on the beauty of several white flowers in his stock. “yis; she's that pretty, you would n't think she could die. an' there's not a flower for her. think o' that l—faith, not one ! i hoped some would be sent her—sure, i don't know from where, but she looks lonesome like. an' san francisky 's such a place for flowers i look at thim, now !”— and he pointed pathetically at the array of lilies in june's arms. she smiled at him with eyes that brimmed with tears. his hopeless, grief-sodden voice had gone directly to her heart, and she saw the waxen little baby lying in her lonely bed, with “not a flower on her,” as the father had said. “‘yes, for ten cents,’ june said, bravely.” “how many will tin cints buy?” demanded the man, showing the money. “ten cents?” queried the florist. “why, nothing at all. these roses are two and three dollars a dozen, and lilies are more. of course, i can let you have a few marguerites”—taking them up as he spoke. “thim daisies ” said the man, sorrowfully. “oh, that won't do at all, at all. she 's the only child we iver had, and now that she is lying dead, an' at peace, an' with the angels, sure we wanted to put something rarer than sich things on her.” “yes?” said the florist, yawning. then the hard-earned, despised ten-cent pieceſ it was pitiful. she went to him, and laid her pure flowers in his wondering grasp. “for tin cints?” he asked, a gleam of hope in his weary eyes. then june had a divine inspiration. she could give him the flowers, and yet not lay him under a burden of gratitude. “yes; for ten cents,” she said bravely, holding out her hand for the money. he gave it to her, hesitating a trifle, as if he feared there was something wrong; but the steady light in her eyes reas- sured him. he held the flowers proudly to his bosom – they were his; he had bought them. june's garden. “daisies, indeed! see thot, now !” he ex- claimed triumphantly. when he left the store, the florist turned a reproachful gaze upon june. “what did you do that for?” he asked. “i would have given you ten dollars for those.” “that's a comfort,” said june, tremendously cheered. “i feel better than ever.” she looked at the ten cents with positive adoration. when she got home it was nightfall, and her family were anxiously expecting her. roy and sarah were there also, and june noticed that each seemed trying to make up to the other for years of neglect. it was quite a cheering sight, and june very much needed cheering. to add to her general depression, the first rain of the winter season began to fall, quietly but persistently, as if to emphasize the fact that autumn was dead and gone. “ unless somebody gives me some bread and butter, right away or sooner, i 'll take a bite out of misfit!” declared june, ferociously. so roy obligingly administered to her wants, while she recounted the history of the day. “and i would n't spend that dime for a dol- lar,” she ended, incoherently. “poor june !” said leila commiseratingly. “poor june, indeed,” agreed that personage, with a mouth full of bread and butter. “be- cause, if you come to think of it, all my work and perseverance have come to nothing. all my slips, all my seeds (no offense, roy ), all the my hopes and all my fears (to borrow from mr. longfellow) — everything has ended in a per- fect failure.” “that 's so,” said roy, with conviction. “but don't despair, june.” “you don't know me!” observed june, tak- ing another mouthful. “besides, i have a lovely motto from the persian.” “let's hear it,” suggested sarah. “you’re going to: “success lies, not in never falling, but in rising every time you fall.” what do you think of it " “you don't despair, do you ?” asked her mother, whose arm was around leila's waist. “not while the bread and butter lasts. but, all the same, i wish i had n’t failed.” roy laughed, and ran his hand affectionately through sarah's hair. it never entered june's head to see in that loving little action one re- sult of her “failure.” nor did she dream of congratulating herself because the fretfulness had disappeared from sarah's pretty face — sa- rah, who was humbly hoping that there was a great work for her in the world, after all. nor did her thoughts reach out to the big rounce- well house, where a dear old lady was feeling herself rich in the recovered wealth of her son's love. that is the odd thing about our failures: they sometimes do such an immense deal of good, although we may not know it. end. a fight. by sydney dayre. i saw a fight the other day— who do you think were in it? that saucy rogue, jack frost; but he was not the one to win it. he took a grip and held so tight on everything about him, that everybody said 't would take a tussle fierce to rout him. but then she came, the lovely spring, with smile so sweet and merry that soon the stubborn, icy imp became discouraged—very. she smiled again. in fright and fear, confusion and commotion, he fled—to take a summering beside the arctic ocean. the united states government is at present devoting special attention to the fortification and defense of the harbors along the atlantic coast, many of which are so situated that a hostile fleet might too easily enter them. the government officials are busy, therefore, in de- vising plans and gradually carrying them into execution, for the protection of these cities or important commercial points along the coast. of these harbor-defenses there are four dis- tinct kinds. they are torpedo mines, mortar- batteries, batteries of rapid-fire guns, and disap- pearing guns. the torpedo mines are operated from mining casemates located at the entrances of harbors or bays, the exact situation and their interior arrangement being a department secret. some mines are spherical in shape, about three feet in diameter, and constructed of steel. these, when in service, are expected to hold a hundred pounds of high explosives, and to float near the surface. but they must be concealed as well as buoyant, and so to each is attached by a cable a mushroom-anchor to keep the torpedo just below the surface, out of sight and beyond the reach of the fire of machine-guns. these mines are intended for use in the channels that hostile ships would have to sail a mortar-battery in position. one of the rifled mortars is shown above on a larger scale. harbor defenses. [mar. through, and are arranged in threes and set closely in the channel according to plans previously arranged. if necessary, the sea off the entrance to a harbor or bay could be well filled with them. these mines may be exploded or may be perfectly harmless according to the will of the occupant of the mining case- mate, who, with his important apparatus, is out of reach of shot and shell, there being tons of earth between him and the upper air. out from this chamber through a tun- nel below low-water mark, and hence safe from discovery by the enemy or shot from them, run numerous cables to the mines planted in the channel or in the sea. within the chamber the opera- tor has an elaborate chart with the loca- tion of every torpedo or mine upon it. a self-moving torpedo on its way to attack a. man-of-war. by telegraph or other signals from observation stations near by, he is kept informed of the approach of vessels, and acts as he thinks best under the circumstances. he may receive word from his stations to such effect that with his chart he knows a ves- sel is directly within a cluster of the sunken mines. then he can touch a key, and a mine will instantly explode be- neath or near the vessel. if the vessel is a friendly one, how- ever, the operator can disconnect his batteries, and the ship will sail in per- fect safety over the tons of explosive be- neath. if the wea- ther be foggy, or if some other condi- tion unfavorable for locating a vessel pre- vails, and enemies are known to be near, the pressing of many buttons will make - - every one of these mines a deadly force, and any ship that ventures in will strike a tor- pedo, roll it over, and automatically a hostile warship blown up by an anchored torpedo. .] harbor defenses. close an electric circuit, which will explode the mine; and the ship will be sunk, or badly shat- tered. there are various devices for ascertain- ing that the hidden mines and connections are in good working order. the mortar-batteries usually mount sixteen guns, and are so arranged that the exploding of a mortar, or perhaps a shell from the enemy, can affect but four pieces, if as many as that. the batteries are made up of rifled mortars. the placing of these batteries is an extensive - - - - __ used, as it probably would be, only an indistin- guishable vapor would rise from the pits to be- tray the location of the battery. the enemy would hear a report, and, from he knew not where, the shells would rain down and pierce the decks. if but three or four guns were fired there might be some hope of escaping injury, but with sixteen pieces carefully trained the chances of instant destruction of the ship are greatly increased. but this is too close range to begin the fight- - on board a battleship going into action against a fortified harbor." and expensive undertaking. the batteries, when completed, are capable of dropping upon a vessel some five or six miles away a shower of several hundred pounds of iron or steel and explosives. the layout of a battery is such that all six- teen mortars being trained alike and primed, the pressing of one button will cause them all to fire at the same instant. they are planted some twenty feet below the surface in pits, and are consequently quite concealed from the enemy. if smokeless powder should be ing, as the enemy's guns could long before have swept all within sight alongshore and done great damage to shipping that had sought protection in the bay or harbor; and so coast- defense guns are located about the entrances to harbors and bays. these, too, are so arranged as to be hidden from the enemy, as it is no longer sufficient to build great granite walls, pierced by port-holes and bristling with cannon. these offer too good a target to the enemy, and only a short period of fire against them with modern guns would completely demolish them. oo harbor defenses. various plans have been devised for the building of coast de- fenses of this kind. even fighting turrets, like those on monitors, have been suggested and built. some of them rise into sight only preparatory to the firing of the guns which they contain. others are somewhat raised above the surface, and the guns disappear for loading. in either case, though, very ponder- ous and expensive ma- chinery is required for them. a disappearing gun set up in a pit similar to the mortar-pit is more in favor. there are several styles of these with various powers to elevate them, but all are lowered by the re- coil of discharge. the gordon counterpoise carriage is perhaps the most novel. it is fitted for a ten-inch breech- loading rifle, the weight of which is about , pounds. it has an advantage over other pat- terns in that while being loaded it affords greater protection to itself and to the gunners than the other styles; and this is an important fea- ture. it is operated by either hand-power or electricity. with the former it has fired thirty- two shots in an hour; which is considered remarkably rapid firing. but this is not all that is needed to make a bay or harbor defensible. these large guns would not be very dangerous to an enemy's fleet of torpedo boats. these move and turn very quickly, and, once past the great guns, the a ten-inch rifled gun on a cordon disappearing carriage. torpedo mines might be disposed of without much difficulty. to prevent such action by the enemy, batteries mounting rapid-fire guns are employed. the torpedo-boats can change their course with such rapidity that big guns cannot be trained on them quickly enough to be effec- tive, and alongshore — opposite portions of the channel where torpedo mines are planted—are needed batteries of these small spitfires. with such a quadruple defense as torpedo mines, mortar-batteries, disappearing guns of long range, and batteries of rapid-fire guns, a fleet of hostile ships would find it a very dif- ficult task to enter any bay or harbor along the coast. charles rawson thurston. miss nina barrow. by frances courtenay baylor. [this story was begun in the february number.] chapter iii. marlan makes a beginning. “you see i am getting old, my dear marian,” said mrs. andrews. “i have not been myself since that attack last winter, and i have sent for you to hold up my hands as the prophet's friends did, to be a stay and prop to me, and to take charge of nina. i am no longer equal to the task. you will find her somewhat self- willed and obstinate. you will have to be very firm with her, or she will get her own way. i give you full authority. i know how you have been reared, and how well you are fitted for your position. and, really, my head begins to swim now when i have to carry a point with nina, careful as i am about mak- ing them, she gets so excited under opposition. she does n't know yet that we are going to england on the th. i have n't been able to make up my mind to tell her, for there will be a scene. she has always said that i never should go abroad. but dr. lyon thinks that i ought to try vichy, and while i would never go for that alone, there is another important reason for doing so.” “your health is quite reason enough, cousin elizabeth, and you are the best judge of such questions. nina is but a child,” said marian. “yes, of course; but she is so decided. and don't you think her very clever? she amazes me often. she knows where all the shops are, and how to shop, and what cars to take, and really she is often right. only i must be firm about this. you see, marian, i have been thinking that i might die — i have thought a great deal about that, and everything, lately; and the child would be left so unprotected. there is her trustee, to be sure, and guardian; but really we rarely see him, and hear from him only when he makes his statements. she vol. xxiv.- . will have a large fortune, you know, a very large fortune, admirably invested by mr. foster. and her only very near relatives are in eng- land – her cousins, the children of her father's half-sister, you know.” “the aubreys,” said marian. “i know of the relationship. have they ever met?” “no ; that is just it. i am anxious that they should. i wish to make friends of them — true friends for my poor child. my friends nearly all are dead, or scattered to the ends of the earth, and her father's friends and her mother's seem so absorbed in their own interests and families; and her own count for nothing when it comes to protection, and all that. i have long seen it; i have three times written that i would come, but nina never would hear of it, and i thought she would get over the feeling if i waited. but i can't wait any longer, my dear marian. i fear i have done wrong in waiting so long. her aunt (anna barrow that was) is dead, and mr. aubrey has married again; but they write very kindly, and seem in- terested in and for her. and there are the children. so now, to keep myself up to the mark, i have taken our passage for the th, and the aubreys have asked us to go first to them for a visit, and after that we will see. claudine goes with us. but mind, nina is to know nothing until the time comes when she must be told.” “your wishes, cousin ehizabeth, i shall al- ways respect,” said marian; “but i think it would be best to tell nina frankly your plan and your reason for making it.” “not for the world ! not now !” cried out the old lady. “i am not equal to it. i'm all shaking with nervousness at the thought. i should not get to sleep all night. i am used to managing nina. not a word, marian in your department you shall be all-powerful; but no one can manage nina in such matters ex- cept myself. she has been going to a first- oi o [mar. miss nina barrow. class school, and has nice little friends there, and is improving every day; but when i de- cided to take her to europe, i felt the need of a staff, and i thank you for consenting to take the position.” “i was glad to take it, cousin, and you were very good to offer so liberal a salary,” said marian. “it enables me to put the two younger boys at the technical and industrial school, and i am most grateful to you for help- ing me to help them. you may be sure that i shall do all that i can to justify your confidence and repay your generosity. i have some plans of my own as to the best way of doing this; and i am sure that you will not regret taking nina abroad. this is not a good place for a child, cousin. the simplest, humblest home is greatly to be preferred to it. and, as you say, it is important that she should meet her rela- tives. new associations, different surround- ings—” marian colored and stopped. she did not like to say what she thought,- of how nina was absorbing a thousand harmful in- fluences and ideas, in the tittle-tattle, the vul- garities, the coarseness, the gossip about her. “cousin elizabeth,” said marian, “now that our talk is over, i think of going for a walk. would you like nina to go with me? where is she p” “oh, i've no objection if you can get her to go. she is around somewhere with claud- ine, i guess,” mrs. andrews remarked placidly. “i don't know where, but she 's all right; she can take care of herself. oh, here she is!” nina had burst into the room while she was speaking, in a high state of excitement. “oh, grandy, what do you think? the fitz-patricks in have gone away, and all their baggage is kept 'cause they have n't paid their bill. and there's three carriage-loads of people just come ! i saw them from the par- lor window, and counted the parcels — twenty- three and a bird-cage. i've had a splendid time this afternoon. it has n't been dull a bit. where are you going, cousin marian p can't i come, too p” “ask your grandmother,” said marian. “grandy? what for p of course i'll come,” said nina. “i shall not take you unless you do,” said marian. “i thought of going to hear the hun- garian band play for an hour.” “oh! i like music better than anything. do take me too,” said nina. “ask your grandmother,” repeated marian, quietly. “it is only right, and you should never go anywhere without doing so. i shall go and dress, and shall join you in the parlor, if she gives you permission.” “‘permission l’” quoted nina, who was in the habit of telling her grandmother when she had better take a drive or pay a visit. “grandy,” said she, “i’m going out with cousin marian.” marian overheard this, and could but smile at nina's idea of respectful submission to au- thority. marian was a sensible woman, and saw that she must win nina's affection and confidence before she could alter anything — in other words, get a fulcrum before she could use a lever. the afternoon passed swiftly and agreeably for nina, who found her cousin a very different sort of companion from any she had ever had. marian talked to her as she would have done to any one else; she treated her with scrupu- lous, grave politeness; begged her pardon when she chanced to jostle against her in the street; asked whether she would prefer to go down town by the “elevated" or the horse-cars; of. fered her the shelter of her umbrella when it began to rain; said, “excuse me, dear; but you are losing your pretty pin,” and replaced it; asked if she were tired when they stopped in a shop, got her a seat, and behaved toward her exactly as to another lady. nina was not used to such consideration and respect—did not know that it was marian's way of teaching her to respect herself and others. marian made a few purchases, and then, calling nina, said: “can you crochet? i am very fond of it, and know a great many pretty stitches.” “i can do it a little,” replied nina. “how would you like to make a little scarf for your grandmother to throw over her head? she would be so delighted. she has so much neuralgia,” said marian. “oh, i could n't. i'd never get it done,” said nina. “oh, yes, you would. i'll help you, and you'll see; and she will be so pleased. your .] miss nina barrow. o dear grandmother, who loves you so dearly it will please her so much l’ urged marian, brightly. “all right; i will, then,” agreed nina. “what colors?” asked the shopman. this question was decided by choosing lilac and white. “useful occupation, and something done for others,” thought marian, who had been tempted to get nina a little present, and then had told herself firmly that what nina needed was not getting, but giving, and giving of that which should cost her something in time, trouble, or money, or in all three; not so much as one more whim, caprice, or fancy should be gratified, but she should learn to please and gratify others. as they were entering the hotel, marian said: “run away upstairs now, and let your grandy know that you have returned, and i will join you in a moment.” but as marian went on to the desk to get her key, nina pranced into the parlor, perched on the music-stool, shook her hair over her shoulders, and banged on the piano in atro- cious fashion until she was tired of doing so, which, fortunately for the comfort of some la- dies seated there, was very soon. one of them asked her to play softly, as her head ached; and nina, for an answer, settled herself afresh, with a wriggling movement of the body and a toss of the head expressive of utter defiance of the world in general, struck a few more clash- ing chords, and then suddenly abandoned the field, whisking out of the room pertly, with her usual absurd air of importance. left alone, the ladies rejoiced that they were rid of nina—but prematurely, for presently the stout lady became aware of a curious feeling about her back. she was interested in the morning paper, and did not immediately inves- tigate the sensation; but presently turned and found that a steady stream of water was being directed toward her from the direction of the door. nina was on the other side of it, had got the range adroitly, and with a long pipe was, through the keyhole, blowing water upon her ample person with wicked delight and the most dire effect upon a new dress. the stout lady rushed across the room, pulled open the door, and made an effort to seize nina. but that young person was too quick for her. she ran down the hall, turned a corner, ran on farther, darted up a long flight of stairs used by the servants, and presently was safe in marian's room, laughingly relating what had happened, while the stout lady stormed about on the first floor, uttering threats so violent that her just vexation was made to seem ridiculous. “there 'll be a horrid row,” said nina. “she’ll go to grandy and make a great fuss. but it was n't anything, cousin marian. i just wanted to have some fun, that was all; and you ought to have seen her feeling around with her hand to find out what it was at first. i nearly died laughing. she 's horrid, anyway,+the spitefullest person you ever saw; and my! but she bounced when she did find out ! i wonder if she has gone to grandy yet”—peeping out of the door down the corridor. “no, not yet. yes! there she is she sha’n’t come in here!” —shutting the door quickly and locking it, and then embracing marian. “it was just all fun, i tell you; now don't you be horrid, and scold too. you might stand up for me when i've told you it was just for fun, not spite at all, i declare, this time. but grandy 'll be furious with me. why don't you do something? i thought you were different from the others, and would un- derstand.” “so i do, nina. i will see what can be done,” said marian. and then she showed that she did know the difference between the faults and the sins of a child by first telling nina that it was not as if she had been guilty of wilful deceit or untruth, convincing her that she had been exceedingly rude, and absolutely persuad- ing her to ask forgiveness. nina did this when they went down to dinner; and that she should do it at all amazed her old enemy, who had really suffered many annoyances at her hands, and who was anything but gracious in accept- ing her apology. “you are the sensiblest person i 've ever seen, cousin marian; and i just love you,” said nina, that evening, when they were talking over the apology. “two wrongs do not make a right. you made her angry, remember; and if she is vin- o . [mar. . miss nina barrow. dictive, or seems so for the moment, it is be- cause this is not your first offense against her. if you had always been polite and courteous—” “she's nothing but a companion, anyway,” said nina scornfully. “all the more reason for your being polite to her. and perhaps she can't afford to have even an old dress spoiled, much less a new one.” “oh, pshaw i'll give her another,” ex- claimed nina, impatiently. “you can't patch every hole with green- backs, as you seem to think you can, nina. if you hurt people's feelings, wound their proper pride, treat them with disrespect or un- kindness, all the money in the world won't mend matters, dear. if i were to call you a fool and a scarecrow, and then give you a twenty-dollar gold piece, would you not want to throw it at my head? i am sure you would. do you love me, nina p i am so glad, and i believe you. but you know you have n't quite proved it yet. oh, no. it is easy to say so, but there are better ways of showing that you do love me. we shall see.” chapter iv. nina's lessons. with all her own thoroughness and con- scientiousness, marian went to work carefully to map out and arrange nina's life on a new basis. the first requisite for that young lady's edu- cation was quite evidently lacking, marian saw, when she came in switching her skirts about more aggressively than usual, and shrugging her shoulders. she took a chair and pouted openly, thrusting out her lower lip and looking defiant and disagreeable. “i want to have some idea where we stand, nina,” said marian, oblivious apparently of these demonstrations. “i’m not going to study. it 's too awful hot and stuffy in here. i don't know as i'm going to have you for my governess at all; and to-day i'm going to the chamber of horrors with the tompkins family. they've got seven rooms and a private parlor, and are ordering jobson around like anything; and they have n't seen a thing in new york, and i told them i'd take them to see the chamber of horrors—” “have you promised ?” asked marian, in- terrupting her. “yes; and there's nine of them,--i'll be ten, — and they are full of it. i guess it will make them all creep; and janie, she's the third, i'm going to jump out at her and grab her when i get her down there. it 'll be such fun l’” said nina, having by this time talked herself into a state of good-humor and cheer- fulness. “your grandy thought you ought to be- gin lessons to-day, nina,” marian now man- aged to say; “but if you have promised, you must keep your word, of course, and we will have only one lesson, and see where we stand, as i said. here, take this book and read a little in french for me. how many holi- days have you had lately?” “well, it 's been pretty much all holidays, cousin marian, and that 's a fact. one week it rained, and one week i had the toothache some, and one week my new dresses had n’t come home, and the girls had seen all the old ones so often, i just would n’t go a single step; and then the tompkinses came, and i did n't want to go; but that did n’t matter. don't you bother.” “stay,” said marian; “here 's claudine; let me hear you speak french first.” “repeat your “la marseillaise,’ mademoi- selle,” suggested claudine. nothing loath, nina struck an attitude and burst forth into the broadest alsatian peas- ant germanic-french, striking her breast and rolling her eyes as she made her stirring appeals to the “enfants de la batrie,” her denunciations of the “gohortes étrangères,” and her threats of “vers des longtemps brébarés.” it was so comical to see and hear her that marian, although she tried hard to prevent herself from doing so, could not help laughing until the tears came. even when she had re- covered herself a little, and begged nina's par- don in answer to an imperious “what 's the matter with you, anyway?” the remembrance overcame her again once or twice. she then cross-questioned claudine, and found that she was from a little village that had made .) o miss nina barrow. the narrowest possible escape from being a german one always; that she had a fiery little french heart, if not tongue; that she had come to this country as assistant to a baker, and had then, to her surprise, been promoted to the rank of maid and nurse in a “famille distinguée, les hoskins, avenue madisone,” from which place she had been “secured" by mrs. andrews. having dismissed claudine, marian said: “you recited with expression, nina; but claud- ine's french is anything but parisian. she would say ‘barisien.” she has n't a ‘p' in her alphabet. i will show you the difference; and when you have unlearned a little we will soon remedy that. you would not take lessons in english from bridget, would you? well, claudine's french is first cousin to bridget's english, and both are as bad as they can be. as your teacher, i must see that you are prop- erly taught whatever you are to learn. and as your cousin, i wish to see you grow up an accomplished, lovely girl. now the lesson is going to be this: you shall copy on this bit of paper every fault of speech, english and french, that you have made since you came in. and then — i wonder whether you like pictures p” said marian. “yes, i do. i think they are just too splen- did for anything,” said nina. for a few moments after nina's reply ma- rian was silent. she was thinking; and her thoughts ran much as follows: “cousin elizabeth was right about nina's picking up an education. it is easy to do that in any large city. but what an education! what shall i say? oh, dear! what have i undertaken p. this child would almost have to be born again to become what i should like to see her. how thankful i am to think of our dear children at home in our quiet, old-fashioned country home in maryland,- simple, healthy, happy, leading a natural, wholesome life, with their pony and chickens and ducks and turkeys and pigeons and other pets; up at sunrise, in bed at sundown; reading, studying, playing, growing, working, knowing every bird's nest for miles around, every tree, every animal; rejoicing, like the sun, to run their daily course; rosy, merry, eager, innocently naughty often, wading in sims's brook, fishing, blackberrying; plainly dressed, hungry as little wolves; but children through and through. i long to be back with them again! but i must, for their sakes, stay here. and i must do what i can for nina. but what to do? to scold her would be folly. she would not understand me if i were to tell her that she shocks, disgusts, pains me every time she opens her lips. she would think me ‘old-fashioned,’ ‘cross,’ ‘countrified,’ ‘absurd,' “stiff,' everything except in the right. i am so glad that my brothers are poor and will have to earn every cent that they will ever spend, and make their own way, and a way for others de- pendent on them.” marian's lips were compressed, her brows contracted, as she bent her eyes upon her work and these thoughts passed through her mind. presently she felt nina's arms about her neck. “what are you so quiet for, and why did you want to know if i liked pictures?” she asked. “i was, thinking of a great many things, nina,” she replied. “and as to the pictures, i was thinking of the great loan collection which is on exhibition here now. i have had a number of tickets sent me, and there are some very rare and beautiful pictures in the collection. suppose we take the tompkinses there to-day, instead of to the wax-works this is the last day, indeed, and you will see the original of this little pic- ture of mine of the arabian chief that you like so much, and many others that will please you. i would n't miss them for a great deal, and meant to have spoken to you yesterday about going. can you draw or paint at all, nina p” “no, i can't. can you ?” “it is the thing that i am thought to do best,” said marian; “but my best is not very good when compared with such pictures as we are going to see. still i am very fond of draw- ing in charcoal and pastels, and i think i can teach you how to paint flowers prettily in water-colors.” “oh, would you—can you really i should like that best of all. i do love flowers. they are just too sweet for anything,” said nina. “so they are, dear. you should see our long avenue of white lilacs at home in full bloom on a spring morning, and you would say so. that reminds me. we must stop while we are out, o [mar. - miss nina barrow. and buy a few roses for the sick girl in the next room, must n’t we ?” “all right. i 'll get her a big bunch of “american beauties,’” agreed nina. “and how would you like to paint her one, for your first lesson that would n't fade ever, and i know she would be delighted. is n’t she a sweet, gentle creature ? and so long ill— seven years — poor child !” “well, i will,” said nina, who could not re- sist such an appeal. “jobson says her mother neglects her awful. jobson's mother was the best mother that ever was in england. she was a professed cook. but his father was a failure. jobson —” “sh! nina, no gossip; that 's one of the “remembers,' you know,” said marian. “you should say, “neglects her shamefully, if you say it at all; and you'd better not, for i dare say there is no truth in it whatever. come, now for your list, and then i'll go and arrange mat- ters with mrs. tompkins, and we shall have a delightful afternoon—my word for it!” thus beguiled, nina was soon at work writ- ing “unless” for “’less,” “because” for “'cause,” “almost” for “‘most,” and straightening out her verbs and adverbs; and that done, marian took down hawthorne from the shelf, and read her the “three gray sisters,” with which nina was delighted. “there is a good deal that i want to get out of that child's head, and the best way to do it is to fill it, and drown them out with quite other things. i foresee, though, that before we go much further there will be a struggle for supremacy between us. so far it has all been plain sailing, but nevertheless the storm is coming. there has been nothing to arouse her temper or thwart her plans; no opposition en- countered. i wonder how it will come, and what will be the result!” mused marian, as she sat by nina and watched her pencil travel slowly over the paper. she found it easy to arrange matters with the tompkins family, and after luncheon they all went off together to see the loan collection —chiefly modern pictures, some of them really fine, and nearly all very interesting. marian kept nina with her, and carefully explained and commented upon the various examples of french, spanish, german, and english art be- fore them; she talked so pleasantly of paintings and painters, indeed, that nina, whose attention could rarely be fixed long upon anything, lis- tened to every word, asked a great many questions, made some highly characteristic re- marks of her own that amused marian very much, and was for “coming again another day,” forgetting that this was the last opportunity of seeing those pictures. on their way home, marian stopped at an optician's to get a little pocket microscope, which she meant to give nina, and said to her frankly: “i am going to make a purchase that i do not wish you to see, nina; so i shall ask you to go to the back of the shop and wait there a few minutes for me.” she was absorbed in making a choice of a mi- croscope within her means, yet powerful enough for ordinary purposes, when nina rushed up to her and threw herself into her arms, sobbing, and so terrified that she could barely gasp out: “oh, cousin marian i am dying ! i am dying !” amazed and alarmed, marian embraced, soothed, comforted her, and gradually learned from one of the clerks what it meant, and what had happened. nina, it seemed, had with her usual enterprise and boldness gone into a small room quite at the rear. there was an electric. battery there, and a gentleman who came every day to take a shock,-no, not a gentleman, for he had done a most ungentlemanly thing in allowing nina to just “catch hold for a mo- ment.” she, all unsuspicious, had received a severe shock, physical and mental. she trem- bled, wept, and was completely upset. marian was all kindness and gentleness, and gradually managed to quiet nina and to take her home; and nina clung to her like a limpet all that evening, and would not leave her. when they were about to part for the night, marian said to her: “you see now, dear nina, what a cruel and often really wicked thing it is to frighten any one, don't you ? see how ill and unhappy you have been made all this afternoon by a stupid trick. let it teach you one thing: never to give pain or fright to any one while you live. i meant to speak to you about it when you were talking to-day of jumping out at that * º ** º ; --~~ at the opera.-" ears down in front, please ' " the little shadow folk. by clinton scollard. what time the round moon kindles on windy wintry eves, and murmurs stir those gossips, the sere old oaken leaves, a troop of kin from nowhere go faring to and fro — the nimble little shadow folk that dance upon the snow. - they glide, they leap, they waver, they twist, they intertwine; they break in tortuous turnings, they join in freakish line; their arms with knots are gnarly, their legs are all a-bow — the elfish little shadow folk that dance upon the snow. they race across the valley, they fleet along the hill, and yet we hear no laughter, their frolic is so still; and what their jolly games are, alas! we may not know — the merry little shadow folk that dance upon the snow. their daytime is our night-time, their night- time is our day, and they are sound in slumber when we are out at play; for when the dawn looks ruddy, swift off to bed they go — the sleepy little shadow folk that dance upon the snow. a boy i knew. by laurence hutton. [this series was begun in the december number.] iv. −then the boy got as far | as a room of his own, papered with scenes from circus-posters, and peo- pled by tin soldiers, he used to play that his bed was the barge “may- flower,” running from barrytown to the foot of jay street, north river, and that he was her captain and crew. she made nightly trips between the two ports; and by day, when she was not tied up to the door-knob — which was barrytown — she was moored to the handle of the washstand drawer — which was the dock at new york. she never was wrecked, and she never ran aground; but great was the excitement of the boy when, as not infrequently was the case, on occasions of sweeping, hannah, the upstairs girl, set her adrift. the mayflower was seriously damaged by fire once, owing to the careless use, by a deck- hand, of a piece of punk on the night before the fourth of july; this same deck-hand being nearly blown up early the very next morning by a bunch of firecrackers which went off— by themselves—in his lap. he did not know, for a second or two, whether the barge had burst her boiler or had been struck by lightning ! barrytown is the river port of red hook — a charming dutchess county hamlet in which the boy spent the first summer of his life, and in which he spent the better part of every suc- ceeding summer for a quarter of a century; and he sometimes goes there yet, although many of the names he knows were carved, in the long- ago, on the tomb. he always went up and down, in those days, on the mayflower, the real boat of that name, which was hardly more real vol. xxiv.- . to him than was the trundle-bed of his vivid, nightly imagination. they sailed from new york at five o'clock, p. m., an hour looked for, and longed for, by the boy, as the very beginning of summer, with all its delightful young charms; and they arrived at their destination about five of the clock the next morning, by which time the boy was wide awake, and on the lookout for lasher's stage, in which he was to travel the intervening three miles. and eagerly he rec- ognized, and loved, every landmark on the road. barringer's corner, the half-way tree; the road to the creek and to madame knox's; and, at last, the village itself, and the tavern, and the tobacco-factory, and massoneau's store, over the way; and then, when jane purdy had shown him the new kittens and the little chickens, and he had talked to “fido” and “fanny,” or to fido alone after fanny was stolen by gypsies, he rushed off to see bob hendricks, who was just his own age, barring a week, and who has been his life-long friend for fifty-three years and nearly six months; and then what good times the boy had bob was possessed of a grandfather who could make kites, and swings, and parallel-bars, and things which the boy liked; and bob had a mother — and he has her yet, happy bob ( — who made the most wonderful of cook- ies, perfectly round, with sparkling globules of sugar on them, and little round holes in the middle; and bob and the boy for days, and weeks, and months together hen's-egged, and rode in the hay-carts, and went for the mail every noon, and boosted each other up into the best pound-sweet tree in the neighborhood; and pelted each other with little green apples, which weighed about a pound to the peck; and gath- ered currants in season; and with long straws sucked new cider out of bung-holes; and learned to swim; and caught their first fish; and did all the pleasant things that all boys do. io [mar. a boy i knew. at red hook they smoked their first cigar- and wished they had n't! at red hook they disobeyed their mothers once, and were found out. they were told not to go wading in the creek upon pain of not going to the creek at all; and for weeks they were deprived of the delights of the society of the faure boys, through whose do- main the creek ran, because, when they went to bed on that disastrous night, it was dis- covered that bob had on the boy's stockings, and that the boy was wearing bob's socks; a piece of circumstantial evidence which convicted them both. when the embargo was raised and they next went to the creek, it is remembered that bob tore his trousers in climbing over a log, and that the boy fell in altogether. the boy usually kept his promises, how- ever, and he was known even to keep a candy-cane —twenty-eight inches long, red and white striped like a barber's pole — for a fortnight, because his mother limited him to the consumption of two inches a day. but he could not keep any knees to his trousers; and when the boy's mother threatened to sew buttons—brass buttons, with sharp eyes—on to that particu- lar portion of the garment in question, he wanted to know, in all innocence, how they expected him to say his prayers! one of bob's earliest recollections of the boy is connected with a toy express- wagon on four wheels, which could almost turn around on its own axis. the boy im- ported this vehicle into red hook one summer, and they used it for the transpor- tation of their chestnuts and their apples, green and ripe, and the mail, and most of the dust of the road; and bob thinks, to this day, that nothing in all these after years has given him so much profound satisfaction and enjoyment as did that little cart. bob hendricks. bob remembers, too, what the boy tries to forget,_the boy's daily practice of half an hour on the piano borrowed by the boy's mother from mrs. bates for that dire purpose. mrs. bates's piano is almost the only unpleasant thing associated with red hook in all the boy's experience of that happy village. it was pretty hard on the boy, because, in the boy's mind, red hook should have been a place of unbroken delights. but the boy's mother wanted to make an all-round man of him, and when his mother said so, of course it had to be done, or tried. bob used to go with the boy as far as dr. bates's house, and then hang about on the gate until the boy was released; and he asserts that the music which came out of the window in response to the boy's in- harmonic touch had no power whatever to soothe his own savage young breast. he at- tributes all his later disinclination to music to those dreary thirty minutes of impatient waiting. the piano and its effect upon the boy's un- certain temper may have been the innocent jane purdy. cause of the first and only approach to a quarrel which the boy and bob ever had. the prime cause, however, was, of course, a .] ii a boy i knew. girl. they were playing, that afternoon, at cholwell knox's, when cholwell said some- thing about julia booth which bob resented, and there was a fight, the boy taking chol- well's part; why, he cannot say, unless it was because of his jealousy of bob's affection and admiration for that charming young teacher, who won all hearts in the village, the boy's the boy's uncle john. among the number. anyway, bob was driven from the field by the hard little green apples of the knox orchard; more hurt, he declares, by the desertion of his ally than by all the blows he received. it never happened again, dear bob, and, please god, it never will! another trouble the boy had in red hook was dr. mcnamee, a resident dentist, who operated upon the boy now and then. he was a little more gentle than was the boy's city dentist, dr. castle; but he hurt, for all that. dr. castle lived in fourth street, opposite washington parade ground, and on the same block with clarke and fanning's school. and to this day the boy would go far out of his way rather than pass dr. castle's house. per- sonally dr. castle was a delightful man, who told the boy amusing stories, which the boy could not laugh at while his mouth was wide open. but professionally dr. castle was to the boy an awful horror, of whom he always dreamed when his dreams were particularly bad. as he looks back upon his boyhood, with its frequent toothache and its long hours in the dentists' chairs, the boy sometimes thinks that if he had his life to live over again, and could not go through it without teeth, he would prefer not to be born at all! it has rather amused the boy, in his middle age, to learn of the impressions he made upon red hook in his extreme youth. bob, as has been shown, associates him with a little cart, and with a good part of the concord of sweet sounds. one old friend remembers nothing but his phenomenal capacity for the consump- tion of chicken pot-pie. another old friend can recall the scrupulously clean white duck suits he wore of afternoons, and also the blue- checked long aprons he was forced to wear in the mornings; both of them exceedingly distasteful to the boy, because the apron was a girl's garment, and because the duck-suit meant “dress-up,” and only the mildest of gen- teel play; while bob's sister dwells chiefly now upon a wonderful valentine the boy sent once to zillah crane. it was so large that it had to have an especial envelope made to fit it; and it was so magnificent, and so delicate, that notwithstanding the envelope, it came in a box of its own. it had actual lace, and pinkish cupids reclining on light-blue clouds; and in the center of all was a compressible bird-cage, which, when it was pulled out, like an accordion, displayed not a dove merely, but a plain gold ring—a real ring, made of real gold. nothing like it had ever been seen before in all dutchess county; and it was seen and envied by every girl of zillah's age between rhinebeck and tivoli, between barrytown and pine plains. the boy did an extensive business in the valentine line, in the days when february four- teenth meant much more to boys than it does now. he sent sentimental valentines to phoebe hawkins, and comic valentines to his uncle john, both of them written anonymously, and both directed in a disguised hand. but both recipients always knew from whom they came; and, in all probability, neither of them was much affected by the receipt. the boy, as he has put on record elsewhere, never really, in his inmost heart, thought that comic valentines were so very comic, because those that came to him usually reflected upon his nose, or were illum- i [mar. a boy i knew. inated with portraits of gentlemen of all ages adorned with supernaturally red hair. in later years, when bob and the boy could swim — a little — and had learned to take care of themselves, the mill-pond at red hook played an important part in their daily life there. they sailed it, and fished it, and camped out on its banks, with ed curtis — before ed went to west point—and with dick hawley and frank rodgers, all first-rate fellows. but, as mr. kipling says, that is another story. the boy was asked, a year or two ago, to write a paper upon “the books of his boy- hood.” and when he came to think over the matter he discovered, to his surprise, that the books of his boyhood were only one book! it was bound in two twelvemo green cloth vol- umes; it bore the date of , and it was filled with pictorial illustrations of “the per- sonal history and experiences of david cop- perfield, the younger.” it was the first book the boy ever read, and he thought then, and sometimes he thinks now, that it was the greatest book ever written. the traditional books of the childhood of other children came to the boy later. “robinson crusoe,” and the celebrated “swiss family” of the same name; “the desert home,” of mayne reid; marryat's “peter simple”; “the leather stocking tales”; “rob roy”; “the three guardsmen” were well thumbed and well liked; but they were not the boy's first love in fic- tion, and they never usurped, in his affections, the place of the true account of david cop- perfield. it was a queer book to have ab- sorbed the time and attention of a boy of eight or nine, who had to skip the big words, who did not understand it all, but who cried, as he has cried but once since, whenever he came to that dreadful chapter which tells the story of the taking away of david's mother, and of david's utter, hopeless desolation over his loss. how the book came into the boy's posses- sion he cannot now remember, nor is he sure that his parents realized how much, or how often, he was engrossed in its contents. it cheered him in the measles, it comforted him in the mumps. he took it to school with him, and he took it to bed with him; and he read it, over and over again, especially the early chap- ters; for he did not care so much for david after david became trotwood, and fell in love. when, in , after his grandfather's death, he first saw london, it was not the london of the romans, the saxons, or the normans, nor the london of the plantagenets or the tudors, but the london of the micawbers and the traddleses, the london of murdstone and grinby, the london of dora's aunt and of “jip.” on his arrival at euston station the first object upon which his eyes fell was a donkey-cart, a large wooden tray on wheels, driven, at a rapid pace, by a long-leggèd young man, and fol- lowed, at a pace hardly so rapid, by a boy of about his own age, who seemed in great mental distress. this was the opening scene. and london, from that moment, became to him, and still remains, a great moving panor- ama of david copperfield. the boy never walked along the streets of london by his father's side during that mem- orable summer without meeting in fancy some friend of david's, without passing some spot that david knew, and loved, or hated. and he recognized st. paul's cathedral at the first glance, because it had figured as an illustration on the cover of peggotty's work-box : this was the book of the boy's boyhood. he does not recommend it as the exclusive literature of their boyhood to other boys; but out of it the boy knows that he got nothing but what was healthful and helping. it taught him to abominate selfish brutality and sneaking falsehood, as they were exhibited in the murd- stones and the heeps; it taught him to avoid rash expenditure as it was practiced by the micawbers; it showed him that a man like steerforth might be the best of good fellows and at the same time the worst and most dan- gerous of companions; it showed, on the other hand, that true friends like traddles are worth having and worth keeping; it introduced him to the devoted, sisterly affection of a woman like agnes; and it proved to him that the rough pea-jacket of a man like ham peggotty might cover the simple heart of as honest a gentle- man as ever lived. the boy, in his time, has been brought in contact with many famous men and women, .] a i boy i knew. but upon nothing in his whole experience does he look back with greater satisfaction than upon his slight intercourse with the first great man he ever knew. quite a little lad, he was staying at the pulaski house in savannah, in – perhaps it was in —when his father told him to observe particularly the old gentleman, with the spectacles, who occupied a seat at their table in the public dining-room; for, he said, the time would come when the boy would be very proud to say that he had break- fasted, and dined, and supped with mr. thack- eray. he had no idea who, or what, mr. thackeray was ; but his father considered him a great man, and that was enough for the boy. he did pay particular attention to mr. thack- eray, with his eyes and his ears; and one morn- ing mr. thackeray paid a little attention to him, of which he is proud, indeed. mr. thackeray took the boy between his knees, and asked his name, and what he intended to be when he grew up. he replied, “a farmer, sir.” why, he cannot imagine, for he never had the slight- est inclination toward a farmer's life. and then mr. thackeray put his gentle hand upon the boy's little red head, and said: “whatever you are, try to be a good one.” if there is any virtue in the laying-on of hands the boy can only hope that a little of it has descended upon him. and whatever the boy is, he has tried, for thackeray's sake, “to be a good one!” the end. thackeray's advice to the boy: “‘whatever you are, try to be a good one.'" - some queer craft. [mar. i a muleta, or portuguese fishing-boat. the extreme narrowness of beam, an outrigger, end, steering with a paddle when the end in to which a hollow, boat-shaped log is attached, which he sits happens to be the stern. no iron extends from this side, so that the proa is a is used in the construction of the proa. the catamaran with one hull much smaller than sides are made separately, and sewed together the other. in sailing her a man sits in each at the ends with bark. the peculiar build of - an eskimo in his kayak. .) some queer craft. the flying proa – double-ended, with differ- ing sides, one always lee, the other always wea- ther—is made possible by the direction of the trade-winds and the fact that the ladrone islands lie in a line almost due north and south, so that these slim, birdlike craft have simply to follow these points of the compass. the fiji islanders have so-called “double canoes,” which resemble the proa. one kind of fiji island canoe is, however, more like a true catamaran, the hulls being decked over and connected by a platform instead of by out- riggers. hatches lead below decks, and there is a small raised platform protected by a mat as a quarter-deck, from which the captain main- tains a lookout for schools of fish. these craft are often from sixty to eighty feet long, and are steered with an oar twenty feet in length. two and sometimes more men are required to handle this oar. the mast is on a pivot, and instead of going about, the sail is simply shifted from bow to stern. and now, shifting the scene from the isles of the pacific to the nile, we find another char- acteristic lateen-sail craft in the egyptian da- habiyeh, the passenger-boat of the nile, or in the nuggar, the freight-boat of that historic river. these craft ply under regular racing rig, for the huge yard, with its powerful sweep, is about one third longer than the hull, and there is also a lateen-rigged jigger-mast. where one of these craft is eighty feet long, the yard is one hundred and twenty—so long that it is made of several pieces firmly spliced. this enormous sail-power is required to stem the current. nine months of the year the a’eis, as the captain is called, has the wind fair up- stream, and on the return voyage he stows away the sail and just floats down. to swing around with the current, he has a rudder six feet wide, the tiller extending over the top of the cabin, which is flush with the deck. and so the dahabiyeh drifts slowly past the ancient ruins along this famous stream; and the pas- senger on this craft, of a type perhaps coeval vol. xxiv.- . with the pharaohs, concludes that he who has not “done.” egypt on a dahabiyeh has not done it at all. the nuggar is like the dahabiyeh, except that it has no deck, only a stage for the steersman. it is a rough-looking craft built of short pieces of wood so loosely joined as to require much plugging with mud and rags. perhaps the oddest-looking craft in the world is the muleta, the boat of the portuguese fisher- men. the remarkable features of the rig are the numerous little spritsails forward, which re- semble so many little white-winged birds flying ahead of the vessel. curious, too, is the rowel of ornamental nails at the bow. the usual method of fishing from the muleta is with drag- nets. while the tropical and semi-tropical sailor clings to his lateen rig, the extreme northern race, the eskimo, clings perforce to his kayak and paddle. the kayak suggests our racing- shell, but without the sliding seat, and so cov- ered over that only a hole remains to admit the body. even if the eskimo of the extreme north wished to adopt a sail, he could not do so for lack of wood for the mast. the light frame of his kayak is made of bone skilfully thonged with seal-leather, and the skin of the seal is generally used for the covering. i have seen the eskimos of labrador in their kayaks, and it is wonderful with what a quick, nervous quiver these light craft respond to the slightest touch of the paddle. within easy reach are the harpoons, guns, and bladder-floats of these daring sea-hunters, who, in their frail-looking kayaks, with icebergs towering almost in their course, and the white glare of the ice “loom” in the offing, brave dangers compared with which those encountered by the navigators of the flying proas, dahabiyehs, and muletas are trifling. the eskimos furnish the extreme in- stance of that dogged courage of the northern races which, united with intellectual energy, has enabled those more favored in their surroundings than these dwellers on arctic shores to develop into the great people of the earth. how a president is inaugurated. by clifford howard. on the th of this march the twenty-fifth president of the united states will be inaugu- rated. the beautiful capital of our nation has been the scene of many grand and imposing celebrations; but it is said that the inaugu- ration this year will be more magnificent than anything of the kind that has ever taken place in washington. if thomas jefferson could come back to earth, it would be hard to make him believe that all this wonderful ceremony was for no other purpose than to install a new president in office. as you will remember, thomas jefferson was the first presi- dent of our country to be inaugurated at wash- ington. this took place in the year , when our national capital was not much more than a year old; and you may imagine that the city was a very different-looking place from what it is to-day. but now instead of a straggling town with a few muddy streets and about three thousand inhabitants, jefferson would find our national capital one of the most beautiful cities on the face of the earth, with a population of nearly three hundred thousand; and on march he would behold a scene such as he never dreamed of thousands of flags fly from the house-tops and windows, bright-colored bunting in beau- tiful designs adorns the great public buildings, all the stores and business houses are gaily deco- rated with flags and streamers, and everything presents the appearance of a great and glorious holiday, while the streets swarm with the hun- dreds of thousands of people who have come to the city from all parts of the country to take part in the grand celebration. everybody is moving toward pennsylvania avenue, where the parade is to march. no, not everybody: some fifty or sixty thousand make their way to the capitol, so as to get a glimpse of the inauguration exercises that take place on the east portico; and although the ceremonies will not begin until nearly one o'clock, the great space in front of the capitol is packed with people three hours before that time, some of them having come as early as eight o'clock in the morning to be sure of get- ting a good view. - early in the morning pennsylvania avenue is cleared of all street-cars, carriages, and bicycles, and no one is allowed to step off the sidewalk. a strong wire rope is stretched along each side of the avenue, so as to prevent people from getting into the street. soon every window and balcony along the line is crowded with spectators. even the roofs are black with people, and small boys may be seen perched among the branches of the trees, or hanging on to the electric-light poles. for a distance of nearly three miles, on each side of the street, people are packed so closely together that it is almost impossible for them to move. in every park and open space along the line large wooden stands have been erected; and these, too, are filled with those who are willing to pay for seats. as the time for the morning parade draws near, the crowds become restless with eager- ness and excitement. policemen on horseback dash up and down the avenue to see that the road is clear, and every now and then a trooper or messenger in bright uniform gallops past. suddenly the boom of a cannon is heard. the next moment there comes the distant roll of drums, and then, amid the inspiring music of brass bands and tremendous cheering, the pro- cession appears moving slowly down the avenue on its way to the capitol. riding ahead is a squad of mounted police—big, brawny fellows, with glittering brass buttons. after them come the united states troops and naval forces, armed with their rifles and sabers that flash in the sunlight, and marching to the music of the fa- mous marine band, while rumbling over the how a president is inaugurated. iq hard, smooth pavement of the avenue come the big cannons drawn by powerful horses. then appears the chief marshal of the parade on his spirited horse, heading the body-guard of soldiers that surround the open carriage containing the president and the president- elect, sitting side by side. as the carriage, which is drawn by four handsome horses, rolls slowly along with its distinguished occupants, men and boys shout and cheer at the top of their lungs, and throw their hats into the air when their voices give out, while the women and girls wave their handkerchiefs and hurrah with the rest of the crowd. with hat in hand, the president-elect smiles and bows to the right and the left; and with the bands playing and people cheering, handkerchiefs fluttering and flags flying, he arrives at the capitol a few min- utes before noon. here he meets with another rousing reception from the great mass of peo- ple who have been waiting for him for two or three hours; and it requires all the efforts of a small army of police to open a way for him and his party to pass into the capitol. the fifty-fourth congress is drawing to a close. the house of representatives is about to adjourn, and many of its members have al- ready come over to the senate to witness the closing exercises there. extra chairs and seats have been brought in for them and the many other prominent officials who also have gathered there, including the officers of the army and the navy, the justices of the supreme court, the cabinet officers, and the foreign ambassadors and ministers, many of whom are dressed in their gorgeous state robes. according to law, congress must come to an end at noon; but if the presidential party has not made its ap- pearance when the senate clock is about to point to twelve, the hands are moved back a few minutes so as to gain time. and before the hands are allowed to get around to twelve, everybody has arrived, everything is in readi- ness, and the president of the senate has ad- ministered the oath of office to his successor, the new vice-president of the united states, who at once calls an extra session of the sen- ate, so that not a moment elapses between the death of one session and the birth of another. then, after a short prayer by the chaplain and a brief address by the vice-president, the dis- tinguished people gathered in the senate form in line, and, headed by a company of newspa- per reporters, they march in dignified procession to the rotunda, and thence to the platform on the east front of the capitol. the nine justices of the supreme court, clothed in their black robes, walk out on the platform first, followed by the president-elect. as soon as the crowd catches sight of him, a deafening shout breaks forth from fifty thou- sand throats, and, amid the enthusiastic uproar that lasts several minutes, hats and canes, um- brellas and handkerchiefs, are waved aloft or thrown wildly into the air by joyous and pa- triotic americans. removing his hat, the president-elect comes forward, and, turning to the chief justice of the united states, takes the oath of office as required by the consti- tution. then comes the inaugural address, which, of course, only those near the platform are able to hear. but the thirty or forty thou- sand who can't hear the speech are willing to agree with everything that is said, and every little while they shout and cheer and applaud. all this time the crowd on the avenue has been patiently waiting for the return of the president. the morning's procession was noth- ing more than a military escort; now is to come the great feature of the day—the grand inauguration parade. the ceremonies at the capitol are over at half-past one, and the new president goes at once to the white house, greeted with rousing cheers all along the way, and prepares to review the greatest parade ever seen in the city of washington. all the morn- ing, companies of soldiers, political clubs, bands, and drum corps have been preparing for the afternoon's march. there are so many thou- sands who are going to take part in the parade that orders have been given requiring all com- panies to march in ranks reaching from curb to curb, a distance of one hundred and thirty feet, and to follow one another as closely as possible. the march is begun a little before two o'clock; and, although the people have been standing on the sidewalks since early morning, they have plenty of enthusiasm left, and they fill the air with their shouts and hurrahs as .] i johnny in gobolink land. pressing, with only a few real live gobolinks to reward his pains. - that night, when the light was out, johnny seemed to see funny little figures all over the wall. some were alone—exactly alike on both sides — and some, differing in their parts, came in twos and groups. and so they kept on coming and coming, widgelums in pairs— dipsey-doodle-the-great- kioodle, and his brother—followed by a long procession. but johnny thought none of them so fine as his own festive santa claus. no verse in the book gave him quite such pleasure as his own first couplet. “i 'll make a lot of gobolinks to-morrow that'll beat the whole book all to pieces—an' i'll write some more poetry to them, too.” as he uttered this resolution aloud he sud- denly heard a queer little titter, and looking up he saw the funniest and fattest old fellow imag- inable walking up and down the brass rod that ran across the foot of his bed. he evidently was not timid, for he kept his footing easily, with his hands deep in his pockets. “what are you laughing at, mr. smarty, and who are you?” johnny sat bolt upright as he spoke. he was not a coward, and even if he had been, the funny little fellow was far smaller than himself. at this the intruder stopped in the middle of the brass rod, and chuckled. “who are you, i say?” johnny repeated. “i am the great gee-whizz " as he spoke, his guest made a low bow to the moon, which at that moment peeped in at the east win- dow. “i am the great gee-whizz — surnamed the riotous, because of my festive disposition; and if you'll be attentive, and excuse my back, i'll gobble all about it for you.” johnny had never been quite so attentive in all his life, and presently, the funny fellow began to sing in an uncommonly high-pitched voice: “oh, i am the great gee-whizz : my regular business is to carry the keys of gobolink land— ca-flappety-boodle-sizz!” as he uttered the last line he suddenly flapped his great arms and ears like wings, and johnny nearly fell out of bed with surprise. gee-whizz laughed pleasantly at this. “don’t be disturbed,” he said; “those last words are gobolink talk; and i often end my songs with that wing-like movement. being keeper of the keys, i mostly keep my hands in my pockets; and as lord high gobolinktum to the king i preserve my dignity by turning my back to everybody except his highness. these others “keeper of the keys.” that you see are in my train. i was laughing just now because you spoke of making gobo- links. you might get a few gobolink pictures; but there 's just as much difference between a gobolink and his picture as there is between a boy and his photograph, or his gobograph, as we call them. we have lots of gobographs of you, by the way, in our collection.” johnny was sitting bolt upright now. “oh, we snap you on the fly,” continued the gee-whizz. “you are a pretty nice fellow — for a boy. of course, you are not a gobolink.” by this time, johnny had pretty well recov- ered himself, and he was a trifle offended at the insinuation of his guest; also, perhaps, at his facility in making rhymes, which johnny had not found by any means so easy a task. [mar. johnny in gobolink land. “i do not think gee-whizz is a very nice name,” he said, a little crossly; “and ca-flap- pety-boodle-sizz sounds like slang. i don't be- lieve you would have said it if you could have thought of anything else to rhyme. it sounds to me more like a soda-fountain. i 'll take chocolate and cream, please,” he added. all the gobolinks laughed at this. johnny could hear them tittering all over the room, even where he could not see them, and he suddenly realized that he was in the midst of a great number of the strange creatures. “oh,” said the gee-whizz, “you will have to go with us if you want soda-water to-night. we will take you to the land of noodle. it is not very far, as it is only on the border of the gobolink country. of course, we could not take you to the capitol or the king's palace on the first trip. it is day after to-morrow there now.” almost before he knew it, johnny found him- self on the way. he had no idea what direc- tion they were taking. he did not recognize any of the country as they swept along far above it. his arm was linked through that of the great gee-whizz, and behind them came a troop of ridiculous creatures. johnny kept constantly looking over his shoulder at the grotesque train. “is it much farther ?” he asked, when he thought they had come about . % miles. “oh, yes, some distance,” replied the great gee-whizz; “and to pass the time i will tell you a sad little story of noodle land, which con- tains a moral as well as a romance. you are fond of rhymes, i perceive, so i will recite it in that way. all gobolinks are very good single- handed poets, and you will get a number of ideas on rhyming from us in the course of time.” johnny was rather overawed by this state- ment. “i shall be very glad, indeed, to learn,” he said, humbly. “i 'm afraid my poetry would not do to put into a book — yet.” “oh, for that matter i have seen some pretty poor poetry in books,” said the gee- whizz. “i have written some of it myself. ‘the sad fate of the gentle oodle' is my latest: “once there was a gay gamboodle— tall and brave was he; and he loved a gentle oodle— this was in the land of noodle where all oodles be. “‘dear,’ he whispered to the oodle, ‘whatsoe'er you do, look out for the fierce impoodle— he would make a thin cathoodle quickly out of you.” then the foolish little oodle laughed and shook her head. “‘never mind, my gay gamboodle i fear not your fierce impoodle,' thus the oodle said. “but, alas, a thin cathoodle she was doomed to be; for, one day, the fierce impoodle caught the gentle little oodle— silly oodle—poor gamboodle— lonely now is he.” johnny had grown very grave during this recital. “is that a true story p” he faltered, as the gee-whizz fin- ished. ** oh, yes,” said gee-whizz. “i have go- bographs of all the characters in my pocket. i shall use them in my new book, which i intend to call “doo- daddles.” here he drew some pictures from his pocket and passed them over to johnny. the gentle oo- dle held his at- tention longest because of her sad fate, her no- table lack of arms, and the pathetic expression of her eyes. as johnny handed the pictures back, the great gee-whizz suddenly pointed to a high hill that just then appeared before them, down which johnny saw swarms of ink- goblins coming to meet them. º . *. º the gay gamboodle. .] johnny in gobolink land. “you call your book “doo-daddles'? what a funny name! ” said johnny. “and what are doo-daddles p” “oh, they are really only daddles, but we call them doo-daddles because almost anybody can do them. but we are now,” said the gee whizz, “on the border of gobolink land; and those are the no odle-inks. they are a quiet, inoffensive peo- ple; and if it were not for the fierce impoodle that lies in wait forstragglers,and a band of rob- bolinks that now and then make a raid on them for boodle— which is our regular gobolink word for wealth — their happi- ness would be unalloyed.” they had by this time reached the noodle advance guards, who flocked around them, all eager to get near the little boy. johnny recognized the great kioodle, who seemed to be an officer of rank, as well as his brother, who was only of rank and file. but the gee-whizz was hur- rying johnny over the hill-top. “i must take you at once to the great shampoodle,” said he. “he governs the land of noodle. . after that introduction you can go about pretty much as you please. only be careful to avoid the im- poodle and the robbolinks.” johnny's fear had long since departed, and the centle oodle. the thin cathoodle. the great sham- the fierce inipoodle. poodle. he was enjoying everything immensely. he was very much interested just now in studying the queer houses and streets as they swept over them, and the great palace of the shampoodle that was looming up just ahead. the streets the robbo link chief. below seemed full of people and queer animals and fowls. suddenly, just as they landed on the steps of the palace, there was a wild cry johnny in gobolink land. and a sudden uproar. the great gee-whizz grasped the little boy's arm very tightly. “the robbolinks!” he shrieked; and now for the first time johnny saw his face, which was pale with fear. “you must fly at once. here! this way—quick!” a medley of wild shouts filled johnny's ears. a troop of noodolinks, headed by the great kioodle, rushed by at full speed. a flock of queer geese ran hissing and squawking past. johnny felt himself lifted bodily by the great gee-whizz, and a second later he was dropped into what looked like a big bicycle tire. there was a rush of air, a roaring sound, a long slide, and a flash of light, and johnny was suddenly sit- ting bolt upright again in his bed, with the morn- ing sun shining in at the east window where he had seen the moon but a few hours before. he rubbed his eyes, and felt himself to make sure that he was all there. “my ' " he said at last, “but that was a narrow escape, i tell you. i wonder what became of the great gee-whizz. he sent me back with ‘a ca-flappety-boodle- sizz!' — sure enough ' ' " he reflected for some moments over the strange adventures of the night. a flock or gees e. fromi gobol-ink land. “anyhow,” he said, “i 'll have some pic- tures to show him next time he comes, and some poetry too — you see if i don't.” a fortune. one day a man was walking along the street, and he was sad at heart. business was dull. he had set his desire upon a horse that cost a thousand dollars, and he had only eight hundred with which to buy it. there were other things, to be sure, that might be bought with eight hundred dollars, but he did not want those; so he was sorrowful, and thought the world a bad place. as he walked, he saw a child running toward him. it was a strange child; but when he looked at it, its face lightened like sunshine and broke into smiles. the child held out its closed hand. “guess what i have!” it cried gleefully. “something fine, i am sure,” said the man pleasantly. the child nodded and drew nearer, then opened its hand. “look!” it said; and the street rang with its happy laughter. the man looked, and in the child's hand lay a penny. “hurrah!” said the child. “hurrah!” said the man. then they parted, and the child went and bought a stick of candy, and saw all the world red and white in stripes. the man went and put his eight hundred dollars in the savings-bank, all but fifty cents; and with the fifty cents he bought a brown hobbyhorse with white spots for his own little boy; and the little boy saw all the world brown with white spots. “is this the horse you wanted so to buy, father?” asked the little boy. “it is the horse i have bought,” said the inan. “hurrah!” said the little boy. “hurrah ' " said the man. and he saw that the world was a good place, after all. a. b. a’. the true story of marco polo. by noah brooks. [this story was begun in the june number.] chapter xvii. the polo brothers introduce western siege artillery. fter marco had visi- ted yunnan, he made an excursion into bur- mah and bengal. re- turning to cathay, he next describes some of the cities of the south- ern part of that em- pire, and proceeds to relate a curious circumstance connected with the capture of the city of saianfu, or siang- yang-fu, as it is now called, one of the cities of manzi, the province lying south of the yel- low river. he says: now you must know that this city held out against the great khan for three years after the rest of manzi had surrendered. the great khan's troops made in- cessant attempts to take it, but they could not succeed because of the great and deep waters that were round about it, so that they could approach from one side only, which was the north. and i tell you they never would have taken it, but for a circumstance that i am going to relate. you must know that when the great khan's host had lain three years before the city without being able to take it, they were greatly chaſed thereat. then messer nicolo polo and messer maffeo and messer marco said: “we could find you a way of forcing the city to surrender speedily”; whereupon those of the army replied, that they would be right glad to know how that should be. all this talk took place in the presence of the great khan. for messengers had been despatched from the camp to tell him that there was no taking the city by blockade, for it continually received supplies of victual from those sides which they were unable to invest: and the great khan had sent back word that take it they must, and find a way how. then spoke up the two brothers and messer marco, the son, and said: “great prince, we have with us among our followers men who are able to construct mangonels which shall cast such vol. xxiv.- . great stones that the garrison will never be able to stand them, but will surrender at once, as soon as the man- gonels or trebuchets shall have shot into the town.” the khan bade them with all his heart have such mangonels made as speedily as possible. now, messer nicolo and his brother and his son immediately caused timber to be brought, as much as they desired, and fit for the work in hand. and they had two men among their followers, a german and a nestorian christian, who were masters of that business, and these they di- rected to construct two or three mangonels capable of casting stones of -pounds weight. accordingly they made three fine mangonels, each of which cast stones of -pounds weight and more. and when they were complete and ready for use, the emperor and the others were greatly pleased to see them, and caused several stones to be shot in their presence; whereat they mar- veled greatly and greatly praised the work. and the khan ordered that the engines should be carried to his army which was at the leaguer of saianfu. and when the engines were got to the camp they were forthwith set up, to the great admiration of the tartars. and what shall i tell you? when the en- gines were set up and put in gear, a stone was shot from each of them into the town. these took effect among the buildings, crashing and smashing through every thing with huge din and commotion. and when the townspeople witnessed this new and strange visitation they were so astonished and dismayed that they wist not what to do or say. they took counsel together, but no counsel could be suggested how to escape from these engines, for the thing seemed to them to be done by sor- cery. they declared that they were all dead men if they yielded not, so they determined to surrender on such conditions as they could get. so the men of the city surrendered, and were received to terms; and this all came about through the exertions of messer nicolo and messer maffeo and messer marco; and it was no small matter. for this city and province is one of the best that the great khan pos- sesses, and brings him in great revenues. there is some uncertainty about the story, as here told by marco, for it is related in history that the city was reduced at a period earlier than the time of the visit of the polos; but it is possible that there has been a mistake made in the dates, as recorded by the chinese histo- rians. but, in any case, the employment of the true story of marco polo. [mar. novel engines of war, by the advice of strangers from the west, was an actual fact; all histo- ries agree as to that. a mangonel was an engine of timber designed to throw great stones a long distance with terrific force, exactly as described by marco. in those ancient times, before the invention of gunpowder, it was cus- tomary to use these, and also arblasts, or bows of steel or horn, so tough and strong that the string had to be drawn back to the trigger by a lever, or a winch. another contrivance for throwing bolts and stones was the catapult, and another was the ballista. it is related that jºivº e catapults, mangonels, and oth er ancient machines for throwing stones, arrows, and various missiles. from illustrations in marco polo’s book. burning stuff to corrupt the air was sometimes thrown into a city by the besiegers who used these machines. the machines used by the saracens were called trebuchets; and that is a name sometimes applied to the mangonel. the yang-tse-kiang river aroused the admi- ration of marco, and he devotes much space to an account of its vastness and the volume of its commerce. the chinese name for the stream is “son of the ocean,” so great is its depth and width. of it the traveler says: and i assure you this river flows so far and traverses so many countries and cities that in good sooth there pass and repass on its waters a great number of vessels, and more wealth and merchandize than on all the rivers and all the seas of christendom put together! it seems indeed more like a sea than a river. messer marco polo said that he once beheld at that city , vessels at one time. and you may judge, if this city, of no great size, has such a number, how many must there be alto- gether, considering that on the banks of this river there are more than sixteen provinces and more than great cities, besides towns and villages, all possessing vessels p messer marco polo aforesaid tells us that he heard from the officer employed to collect the great khan's duties on this river that there passed upstream ,ooo vessels in the year, without counting those that passed down indeed as it has a course of such great length, and receives so many other navigable rivers, it is no wonder that the merchandize which is borne on it is of vast amount and value. and the article in largest quan- tity of all is salt, which is carried by this river and its branches to all the cities on their banks, and thence to the other cities in the interior. the vessels which ply on this river are decked. they have but one mast, but they are of great burthen, for i can assure you they carry, reckoning by our weight, from ooo to , cantars each. in going upstream they have to be hauled, for the current is so strong that they could not make head in any other manner. now the tow-line, which is some paces in length, is made of nothing but cane. 'tis in this way: they have those great canes of which i told you before that they are some fif- teen paces in length; these they take and split from end .] the true story of marco polo. gold island. to end into many slender strips, and then they twist these strips together so as to make a rope of any length they please. and the ropes so made are stronger than if they were made of hemp. there are at many places on this river hills and rocky eminences on which the idol-monasteries and other edi- fices are built; and you find on its shores a constant succession of villages and inhabited places. there is very little exaggeration in this ac- count. by twelve thousand cantars we should understand that the traveler refers to a weight equal to a little more than five hundred tons, which is a large cargo. the “idol-monasteries” of marco polo still stand on the rocky islets of the yang-tse-kiang; they are buddhist monas- teries and are known as orphan rock, golden island, and silver island. and they are very picturesque features of the river scenery. silver island. chapter xviii. among the isles of india. we have already said that the first accounts ever written of the countries lying to the south and east of china were the work of marco polo. it should not be understood that he visited all the islands of the indian archipelago, but from others he learned what he has set down in his book concerning those regions of the world, then unknown to europe except by very vague and misty report. and, considering that the information which he acquired is given us at second hand, it must be admitted that very few mistakes have been made in his narra- tive. marco introduces his account of the isles an is land monastery. of india with a description of chinese sea-going vessels, which we shall not repeat. the ships of the great khan were better for navigation in distant seas than those of europe were in marco's time. they were better than the vessels with which columbus crossed the atlantic and discovered the coast of america. but the chinese have made no progress since that day. they build their junks, as they are called, just as they did one thousand years ago. still, it is to be noted that the mongols, or chinese, invented and used water-tight com- the true story of marco polo. [mar. partments in ships; and our modern ship-build- ers have copied the chinese in this respect, at least, even although the chinese have not in- vented anything of importance to mariners since then. now let us see what marco has to say about japan; for that is the country which he names chipangu, and which was variously known af- terward in those days of spelling by sound, as cipango, zipangu, and zumpango. marco is describing to us the countries sub- ject to the great khan; and cipango was in- teresting to him for the reason that kublai khan had lately sent an expedition against it. he says: chipangu is an island towards the east in the high seas, miles distant from the continent; and a very great island it is. the people are white, civilized, and well-favored. they are idolaters, and are dependent on nobody. and i can tell you the quantity of gold they have is endless; for they find it in their own islands, and the king does not allow it to be exported. moreover, few merchants visit this country because it is so far from the main land, and thus it comes to pass that their gold is abundant beyond all measure. i will tell you a wonderful thing about the palace of the lord of that island. you must know that he hath a great palace which is entirely roofed with fine gold, just as our churches are roofed with lead, insomuch that it would scarcely be possible to estimate its value. more- over, all the pavement of the palace, and the floors of the chambers are entirely of gold, in plates like slabs of stone, a good two-fingers thick; and the windows also are of gold, so that altogether the richness of this palace is past all bounds and all belief. they have also pearls in abundance; which are of a rose color, but fine, big, and round, and quite as valuable as the white ones. in this island some of the dead are buried, and others are burnt. when a body is burnt, they put one of these pearls in the mouth, for such is their custom. they have also quantities of other pre- cious stones. kublai, the grand khan who now reigneth, having heard much of the immense wealth that was in this isl- and, formed a plan to get possession of it. for this pur- pose he sent two of his barons with a great navy, and a great force of horse and foot. these barons were able and valiant men, one of them called abacan and the other voxsainchin, and they weighed with all their company from the ports of zayton and kinsay, and put out to sea. they sailed until they reached the island aforesaid, and there they landed, and occupied the open country and the villages, but did not succeed in getting posses- sion of any city or castle. and so a disaster befell them, as i shall now relate. it was this part of marco's story that was greatly disbelieved in europe when he returned to tell of the wonders he had seen in the far east. possibly his account of the marvelous adventures of khan's generals in cipango threw doubt on his whole story. the expedition was a failure, and it is likely that each of the leaders attempted to put the blame upon the other; the result was a long and curious tale of ad- venture which, although you may some day like to read it for yourselves, need not be told here. but the marvels of the fabled island of ci- pango took strong hold of the european ima- gination, after a while. as we have already said, columbus expected to reach india and cathay by sailing westward, and one of the the three asiatic rhinoceroses. indian (upper) sum a- tran (lower) javanese (middle). objects of his search was the rich island of ci- pango. when he happened on those islands which he called mistakenly the west indies, he was afraid that he had missed cipango, and he asked the natives where the land of gold (cipango) was situated; when they pointed to the south, he made up his mind that he had sailed by the northern point of cipango and had fallen upon a century of presidents. i united states and china, and the doughty gen- eral ( ) who, in a well-fought battle, gave the characteristic order, “a little more grape, cap- tain bragg!” lowell said of the man ( ) to whom we now turn our eyes, “he cannot let go the apron-string of the past.” he is with the last chief magistrate ( ) belonging to the great whig party. and now we see the president ( ) who set in operation the civil-service re- form act, and the one ( ) who was privileged to have his life written for his campaign by the author of “the wonder book.” we look intently at the statesman ( ) whom sydney smith called “a living lie, because no man on earth could be so great as he looked,” and our eyes linger on “the kindly-earnest, brave, foreseeing man the first amer- ican” ( ). it was high praise that bancroft bestowed on that able leader ( ) when he re- ferred to him as the “wisest civilian of vir- ginia.” the author and orator ( ) by his side received only the seven electoral votes of ver- mont when nominated for the presidency by the anti-masonic party. the next carriage in line brings the president ( ) who took the oath of office in his rooms at the kirkwood house in washington, and the friend ( ) of lafayette against whom, as a cabinet official, false charges were made in the house of representatives — the movement be- ing known as the “a. b. plot.” though we cannot hear his matchless voice, we see the face of the statesman ( ) who named the protec- tive-tariff policy “the american system,” and with him we hail the president ( ) in whose administration oklahoma, the last new terri- tory, was created. both of the men who bring up the rear of the remarkable procession had military expe- rience. one ( ) directed a telling fire on the city of mexico from a gun placed in the steeple of a village church; and the other ( ) once commanded a company of minute-men of whom john randolph said, “they were raised in a minute, armed in a minute, marched in a minute, fought in a minute, and vanquished in a minute!” that energetic youth became the profound jurist whose decisions best interpreted and greatly strengthened the constitution un- der which we live. the fanciful parade is over. as we turn from it, let us look with clearer sight at the men and things of to-day. list of prizes offered for answers to the prize puzzle “a century of presidents.” for the best answers to the presidential puzzle on page , according to the conditions of the competition, st. nicholas offers the following prizes: one prize of five dollars. two prizes of four dollars each. five prizes of three dollars each. ten prizes of two dollars each. twelve prizes of one dollar each. these, amounting to sixty dollars, will be given in the form of brand-new one-dollar bills. directions for pre- paring and forwarding answers are given below. the competition is open to all regular readers of st. nicholas from the age of ten to the age of eighteen years inclusive. the committee of judges in awarding prizes will take into account not only the correctness of the answers, but the age of the sender and the neatness of the manuscript. all answers must be received at the office of st. nich- ol.as before april , , and no competitor may send more than one copy. do not write letters or notes that require a reply, as the editor cannot undertake to answer questions concern- ing the competition. the conditions are fully stated here. each number represents a question to be answered by the name of a man of distinction in the history of the united states. arrange the answers in the order of the questions, and number them on the left-hand margin. give your name, age, and address at the top of each page of the answers, leaving space enough above to fasten use sheets of note-paper size, and black ink, and write on only one side of the paper. the pages together. address: office of st. nicholas, union square, new york city; and write in left-hand lower corner of the envelop “prize puzzle.” º º º // ſ | * º by grace winthrop. my little love and i- all in the winter weather,- though winds may sob and sigh, yet we are glad together, my little love and i. beside the fire, at home, all in the winter weather, through fairyland we roam; o'er hill and dale and heather, and ocean's flying foam. and there, within a wood,— all in the winter weather, all in the winter weather. [mar. and pussy wise we meet,_ aº and so my love and i,_ all in the winter weather, $º all in the winter weather,- we marvel at his neat, though cold and dark the sky, fine boots, and wonder whether still we are glad together, they 'd fit our tabby's feet. my little love and i. report upon the prize puzzle “a thanksgiving- day problem.” a great many solutions were received to the “thanksgiving-day problem,” and it is pleasant to state that in no previous competition has the standard of excellence been so high. besides the prize-winning answers, there were very many with only one or two mistakes. all competitors seem to have found both pleasure and profit in hunting for the correct answers, and to have entered upon the work in the same spirit as the contestant who wrote: “i wish good luck to all, and much happiness to the prize-winners.” several solvers forwarded answers tastefully decorated with various devices suggesting the puritans and the thanksgiving season. the sixteenth question was a difficult one to answer with accuracy. that a certain captain wadsworth hid the connecticut charter in the famous “charter oak” of hartford seems well established, but his christian name is shrouded in mystery. “james” and “joseph” and “william ” were given on excellent authorities. later, “jeremiah” and “peleg” wadsworth put in a plea for recognition in connection with this famous event, but after due consideration they were ruled out. it seems probable that, if more time had been allowed, other members of this large and interesting family of boys might have been discovered. bancroft, in his “history of the united states” (vol. i, page ), says: “tradition loves to relate that the charter lay on the table; that of a sudden the lights were extinguished, and, when they were rekindled, the charter had disappeared. it is certain that “in this very troublesome season, when the constitution of connecticut was struck at, captain joseph wadsworth, of hartford, rendered fruitful and good service in securing the duplicate charter of the colony, and safely keeping and preserving the same' for nearly eight-and-twenty years.” - the question that proved the most puzzling was number eighteen. the author of the puzzle quotes as author- ity vol. i, page , of “the cyclopaedia of united states history,” by benson j. lossing, ll.d. writing of william brewster, he says: “he took with him to the wilderness his wife and numerous children. it was upon the lid of his chest that the political compact was signed on board the ‘mayflower.” one enterprising competitor, miss sally f. dawes, wrote as follows concerning this question: “number eighteen was the hardest, but at last i found the answer in the ‘genealogy of the white family.” it reads as follows: “before they found a place to land and settle, those men of justice and sense, carver, bradford, white, brewster, and winslow, drew up, on the lid of elder brewster's chest, in the cabin of the “mayflower,” an instrument which established the principle of individual liberty as a right which has influenced the destiny of man.’” .] report upon the prize puzzle. letters from several friendly correspondents, however, have convinced the committee that there is grave doubt whether the mayflower compact was signed on the lid of any chest, and whether, if it were so signed, the chest belonged to brewster, carver, winslow, winthrop, or another. in justice, therefore, to all contestants, the committee in awarding prizes have not considered any reasonable answer to question no. an error—a course that has not affected the standing of any prize-winner, since all the best lists agreed-in assigning the chest to elder brewster or john carver. many facts in the early history of our country are not clearly established, and often reputable historians differ. it was inevitable, therefore, that some of our correspondents should question certain of the facts stated. but the author of the puzzle has cited good authority for each answer, and the following list is believed to be correct. . george berkeley, bishop of cloyne, ireland. . elder william brewster (according to tradition). . rev. jonathan edwards. . nathaniel bacon. . john eliot. . mrs. mary dyer (or dyar). . captain john smith. . gov. william bradford. . captain william (or robert) kidd. . giles corey (or cory). . robert cavelier, sieur de la salle. . mrs. anne marbury hutchinson. . père (or father) jacques (or james) marquette . pocahontas (or ma-ta-oka). (and joliet, his companion). . john alden. - . captain henry (hendrik or heinrich) hudson. . º º (or **) standish. . rev. cotton mather. : *. arvard. io. virginia dare. . samuel de champlain. . gov. peter (or petrus) stuyvesant (peter the . sir george calvert (or cecil calvert), lord balti- headstrong, or testy). more. the grant was promised to one, and made to the . sir henry (or harry) vane the younger. other. . gen. james edward oglethorpe of georgia. . william penn. . sir edmund andros. . rev. john davenport. . john rolfe. . sir william berkeley. . captain william (or james or joseph) wadsworth. . elihu yale. . rev. george whitefield. . roger williams. list of prize-winners. (the figures after each name give the prize-winner's age.) first prize, five dollars: clara louise green, . two second prizes, of four dollars each: fannie pitkin, ; henry guy carleton, . five third prizes, of three dollars each: marion r. fenno, ; rachel phipps, io; janet dana, io; edward eagle brown, ii; james j. forstall, . ten prizes, of two dollars each: alice l. perry, ; walter f. furman, io; louise mcdonald; cornelia williams, ; helen m. stott, ; james l. péquignot, ; lucy a. maling, ; harry b. gifford, ; susan whitman smith, ; harold w. bynner, . seventeen prizes, of one dollar each : ruth m. soule, ; charles dana harmon, ; h. s. whittemore, ; lucretia de schweinitz, ; beth b. gilchrist, ; margaret w. stone, ; grace w. goodwin, ; harry dowling, ; abbot a. thayer, ; elizabeth s. sergeant, ; grace c. norton, ; nellie van volkenburgh, ; lucia k. dwight, ; helen e. allis, ; t. k. wellington, ; bessie bush, ; edward b. wight, . roll of honor. lauren s. fish, edwin balmer, elsa behr, clara c. mendenhall, alice evelyn ozias, richard r. stanwood, dudley b. purington, mabel hancock, mary margaret hanna, charles jarvis harriman, louise k. ames, dorothy maris. henry m. hathaway, frances eleanor mason, isabel adair lynde, george roberts, jr., margaret ropes, hazel r. hyde, laurence r. clapp, suzette k. grundy, henry girard hollon, katharine s. doty, mary r. cecil, ellie s. gladding, alex. macomber, theo. mcc. marsh, ruth e. richardson, kenneth white, ruth mitchell, mar- garet lantz, marion m. vaughan, hubert birchby, alletta v. dodd, marshall coxe, gertrude byrne, william alex- ander childs, mansfield ferry, clara munyan lathrop, francis r. appleton, jr., alathea mountsier, marion miller, margaret k. stevens, francis a. joy, olive oburn, emma jennette pratt, charles s. hanna, bertha h. lippincott, marshall p. cram, katherine stubbs, martha packard, helen e. searle, mary guest smith, deane ed- wards, frances c. boardman, katharine s. craven, joseph b. eastman, waldine scratchley, joseph v. sloan, ray seaman, marie l. slack, sam c. welling, robert c. crowell, john lawton, donald a. dunham, helen a. [mar. report upon the prize puzzle. boynton, stanley c. burton, gladys smith, sarah edmunds bradford, margaret augur, edward l. lyon, ellen b. townsend, bernice l. wing, fred w. shear, homer m. clark, mitchell wilby, edmund c. johnston, helen emerson childs, arthur bell, elizabeth r. bleecker. one correspondent writes: “i have been studying colonial history at school, but while working on your uzzle i found out that there was yet a great deal to earn.” another writes: “i never knew before that so many people had written about the early history of this coun- try.” still another says: “i used five different histories of the united states in looking up my answers. . . . i hope you will continue to publish these prize puzzles, as one has fun in trying to answer them, besides the chance of getting a prize. of course i hope to get a prize, but if #. i shall not find fault.” a little girl in the west writes: “we live on a farm, twenty .#. from a railroad station, in a newly opened indian reservation. there are, of course, no public libraries within reach, and we have but few books of reference.” a father writes: “your “thanksgiving-day problem” has aroused much enthusiasm for the study of colonial his- tory in my little boy. he has worked most persistently, earnestly, and honestly to find all the answers.” a massachusetts boy writes: “i have had a real good time .*** the answers, and feel sure of all except- ing two— and .” a philadelphia boy says: “i suppose you will have a good bit of work to do, since there is so much compe- tition; but i 've worked a good deal myself over this puzzle.” the letter-box. and a new jersey girl says: “although there are five answers i cannot get, i want you to see that i am in- terested in the problem.” scranton, pa. dear st. nicholas : i think st. nicholas deserves thanks of parents and those interested in young people for all the good, wholesome things it supplies, and par- ticularly for the historical puzzles. without a prize, the reward is great in the amount of knowledge gleaned and interest excited in the search for the answers; and i, for one, thank you. i think the first number of the new volume particularly good. with best wishes, i am very truly yours, ada m. phillips. - omaha, neb. dear st. nicholas : we seniors are delighted with your removal of restrictions on assistance. since no- blesse oblige, this st. nicholas girl, as such, would of course do her work thoroughly and for herself. but it is pleasant to correspond with cousin on the pacific coast as to the curiosities of churchyard literature; to discuss at table the adequacy of five grains of corn for a thanksgiving feast; to have big brother turning over stacks of annals taller than himself, and little brother iving assurance that though bancroft beat no drums or captain wadsworth, thousands of enthusiastic his- torians do. let me repeat, the work is gracie's own, her family and friends having assisted in the french sense only. with perennial love from seniors and juniors for im- mortal st. nicholas. m. r. harris. the “st. nicholas girl” won a first prize in the fourth of july puzzle contest. f honolulu. dear st. nicholas: it is from the far-off sandwich islands that i send you my greeting. we have a lovely place in a valley, which is approached by a long avenue of royal º and from where we have a beautiful view toward the mountains. in front of the house is a lawn, and behind that stretches a long pasture — the playground for our horses as well as our- selves. we have a large rambling house, in which i and my three brothers and sisters were born. our neigh- bors are americans and germans. the germans have three children, one little boy and two girls, the youngest of whom has long brown curls: their parents intend to go to germany next year, and as we may go at the same time we shall all travel to- gether. but before that i shall write you once more. hoping to see this letter printed, i remain your interested reader, elsie s-. cherryvale, kansas. dear st. nicholas : i am a little boy ten years old. i have a bicycle and enjoy riding a great deal. i want to tell your readers how to make an “artist” top. it can be made easily and will make as pretty figures as a boughten one. take a cigar-box lid, and with a pair of dividers mark out a circle about two and three-quarter inches in diameter. cut this out and bore a hole in the center, in which force a short lead-pencil. place a sheet of white paper on a level surface, and taking the top of the lead-pencil between the thumb and finger, spin it as you would a º or teetotum. the pencil, which should be a very soft one, will mark the most beautiful spirals and curves on the paper. readers will try it. your interested reader, i hope some of your willie mitchell. canton, mass. dear st. nicholas: i am going to have some black decoy ducks in a few weeks. there is a brook running through our land. as it runs through a ditch, when it is dammed up it will make a little pond. for my duck- house i am going to use a dog-house that i have, putting a window in the back of it. i live near blue hill. last summer i rode to blue hill on my bicycle, taking my bicycle up the hill and down, not being able to ride it. i saw a fine view of bos- ton harbor, being a very pleasant day. i have a brother in harvard college who is twenty- one years of age, and he took the st. nicholas when he was a little º i am very fond of reading, and re- main your faithful reader, norman b. french. .] the letter-box. college hill, clinton, n. j. dear st. nicholas: i am eleven years old. i have two goats, which i drive, and º, very much. i named them “nancy hanks” and “martha washing- ton.” martha washington is a very droll goat. the post to which she is tied is not more than two inches in diameter. she sometimes puts one of her front feet on top of this post and views the country; she looks so wise when she is doing this that nancy hanks looks as if she were smiling at her. i keep the goats in a stall. martha jumps up into the manger and sleeps there, while nancy sleeps under the manger. one day when martha's post was crooked she rubbed up against it just as if she wanted to straighten it. martha can also walk on her hind feet, and when she is free in the barn and wants an apple she just puts her front feet on top of the barrel, and puts her head over into the barrel, and gets one. nancy once had a fight with a cow; in so doing she lost one of her horns. this is all true. your interested reader, lloyd paul stryker. a well-known resident of chicago recently sent us the following interesting and gratifying letter; and kindly consented that it should be shown to our readers. chicago, ill. dear st. nicholas: it was some time in the seven- ties—your files will indicate the year—that in looking around for a christmas present for a little boy with a very bright mind, i hit upon the first bound volume of the st. nicholas. it was an exceedingly attractive book, both on account of its illustrations and its reading- matter. for several years i repeated the gift, º, for the sake of the person who received it, and partly because of younger children in the family, to whom the annual volumes would be instructive and interesting. then the magazine came regularly into the household, and at the end of each year the numbers were carefully bound and stored away for continued use. this went on till the elder son went to college. the first volume of st. nicholas, you will remember, containedagood many interesting suggestions aboutbirds, animals, flowers, and other natural objects. the little fel- low who received this volume as his christmas gift first of all exhausted, with the help of the illustrations, the natural history portion of it, then devoured the rest of it, then put his scientific information into practice—that is, became an observer, brought many of his specimens to his parents, expressed his thoughts about them, com- pared his ideas with what was said in st. nicholas, and in this way, before he himself or any one else was conscious of the fact, had found the work of his life. quite likely, to this day the young man has hardly thought of the st. nicholas as having had so decided an influence in directing his attention to that great field of study to which he has now devoted himself. still, it may truthfully be said that it was the reading of this magazine, and talking over its contents with his parents, which gave him the impulse which he has so steadily }.. while in the public schools he came into the posses- sion of a poor microscope, i think, one advertised in the st. nicholas, and furnished at a low rate. with this he did some very good work, and was still further led into the study of natural objects. but the chief value of it all was that he had now become an investigator on his own account, was doing, though without any sus- fº of it, original work as a scientist. in a few years, is father, as a prize for a really excellent essay based on the boy's personal observations, furnished him a first- class microscope, and fitted up for him and the other children in the family a room in the house, and encour- aged them to use it as a workshop, and to invite into it such comrades as were interested in what it contained, and in the experiments which were there made. a description of some of these experiments would make very attractive reading. two or three years before his preparatory course was over, an excellent second-hand telescope came into our young student's hands. its use developed to the fullest extent a love for astronomy, which had already begun to show itself. this instru- ment was afterward attached to one of the instruments belonging to a great university, where, as a private stu- dent, its owner, outside his regular course of study, rap- idly became master, before his graduation, of all that is popularly known in astronomical science. he had de- cided, with the approval of his parents, upon the work of his life. upon the observatory which his father fitted up for him, many thousands of dollars have been ex- pended, and with the equipment, which only private means have secured, many remarkable discoveries have been made. for these discoveries the astronomical society of france has seen fit to honor their author with its gold medal. although less than thirty years old, he is now in º of one of the most important scientific departments of a great university, and is in correspon- dence with many of the leading scientific bodies of the world, as well as with some of their most distinguished members. his name is known quite as well in europe as in his own country. in fact, the importance of his jºries is even better understood abroad than at ome. conservative in all his notions, yet enthusiastic and untiring as an investigator, possessing mechanical ability of a high order, and well trained as a chemist, it is not too much to say that few young men in the wide world have prospects of a more brilliant future. that the foundations of this scientific career were in part laid by the work of those who made the st. nicholas it is not too much to assert. yours very truly, w. washington, d. c. my dear st. nicholas: i am seven years old, and i wrote these little verses about my baby sister. i am one of your little readers. frances cleveland lamont. baby. a little baby has come to town, the sweetest little sister, with little white socks and a little white gown, and i was the first that kissed her. she has hazel eyes and brownish hair, and a dimple in her chin, her complexion it is very fair, and her name is katharine. marin, switzerland. dear st. nicholas: my home is in egypt, but i am an american girl. i am eleven years old. we spent last summer in switzerland. it is a beautiful country, with its lakes, snow moun- tains, and flowers. when we came, in the end of may, the ground was covered with little pink-tinted daisies and forget-me-nots. §. day we walked to the end of a valley, right up under the jungfrau, and gathered alpine roses, gentians, anemones, and many other flowers. we snow-balled each other, although it was august; it was great fun. o the riddle-box. irididle. a word of but one syllable am i; from my dread presence men of old did fly; behead me twice, a syllable i gain, i lose my deadly aspect-yet a bain to p. humanity you 'll find me still, and e'en the strongest, meeting me, grow chill. e. t. corbett. illustrated idlagonal. all the words letters. other, in the order numbered, the . (from the ictured contain the same number of when rightly guessed and placed one below the upper left-hand letter to the lower right-hand letter) will spell the name of an english poet. hidden names. the names of a number of illustrious persons are concealed in the following sentences. all were famous in the same way. mrs. brown was washing tony's face, and scolding him because he had not come in sooner, to get ready for school, when the door suddenly opened, and a damsel clad in velvet and fur and nodding plumes stood before her. seeing no sign of recognition in mrs. brown's amazed face, the new-comer exclaimed: “you have not forgotten mary jeffers only a few years ago my bro- ther, adison and i were your daily visitors.” “in- deed, i have not,” mrs. brown replied, and she made the young lady very welcome. any were the ques- tions asked and answered. at last mary jeffers said laughingly: “and do you still make that delicious straw- berry jam adison and i were so fond of? i remember we helped you pick berries for that jam on roe's hill one lovely summer day, adison, john quin, cy adams, celia quin and i. the quins are all in chicago now. i met le roy deane, a great friend of jack's, on the train coming here, and he told me all about them. he says the quins are º in the van. buren and co., of chicago, have just published jack's latest novel, and it is a great success. and celia, now mrs. william h. harris, only last year sold one of her paintings for a thousand dollars. her husband is ve andsome, but neither wise nor witty. , le roy thinks he must feel out of place in such a bright family as the quins. george quin is a rising young lawyer, and will soon be at the top. o. l. king, the millionaire, is his father-in-law. lorenzo quin and his wife went to brazil, but did not stay. lorenzo is engaged in the manufacture of cutlery, and this year he will fill more orders than any other maker. do you remember his keen face and eyes that seemed to pierce you through and through if his knives are as sharp as he is himself, they will cut anything. he married miss lizzie buchan, and her fa- ther gave him his first start in business. john quin will soon wed isabel franklin, col. northrup's niece. but john's only true mate was esmé deane. she would not listen to his suit, because her dying father had asked her to grant a last request, and marry ben shay. esmé was not ben's first choice, either. he was for a long time engaged to edgar field's daughter, but for some reason it was broken off. she went to scotland and became the bride of lord arthur cleve.” “lands sakes ’’ exclaimed mrs. brown, “married a lord? i wonder if he is as handsome as ben p” “har- ris onslow saw him in london, and he says he is a fine- looking man,” mary answered; “but i see by the clock that i have overstayed my time, and perhaps wearied ou with all my gossip.” so, with hasty adieux, miss }. took leave of mrs. brown. j. m. jones. charade. let others seek a warrior's grave or perish at the frozen pole; in my old second let me die, upon my first, within my whole. charles g. buck. numerical enigma. i am composed of fifty letters and form a quotation from carlyle’s “heroes and hero-worship.” my - - - is to please. my - - - is one of the united states. my - - - are parts of a table. my - - - - is a thin cake. my - - - - is a hard, black wood. my - - - - - are fine banquets. my - - - - - is to train. my - - - - - - - is diligent. my - - - - - - - is atrocious. “cornelia blimber.” some “intentions.” examples: meant to defend; armament. meant to wear; raiment. i. meant to sadden. . meant to adorn. #. meant to try. . meant to fasten. . meant to hide. . meant to cure. . meant to live in. . also meant to live in. . meant to ensnare. io. meant to charm. . meant to please. . meant to bestow. *ś meant to commemorate. i . meant to annoy. . meant to notify. . meant to gladden. . meant to be a warlike game. . meant to warn. . meant to set- tle. . meant to heal. . meant to decide. . meant to confess. m. e. floyd. the de vine press, new york. : -, in - - - - * - - by his curiosity was the cause of our first meet- ing. it was in this way. i was serving at the time as a civil-engineer in building a system for bringing water to some of the arid plains of southern arizona, the region where moses first opened his eyes. early one june morning our little band started out to make some surveys across the sandy desert of which that country is so largely made up. along the trail, a foot deep with alkali dust, the four-horse wagon containing my nine men and their instruments slowly plodded, now and then hidden by the choking cloud which surrounded it; while by its side, trying to avoid the worst of it, i rode on horse- back. although the sun had not long risen, it was already burning hot, and we were all feeling particularly cross and uncomfortable in consequence, when suddenly our driver spoke: “what-fer kind er bird is that p” he said. following the line of the whip with which he pointed, i saw, on the rounded top of one of the giant cacti with which these deserts are thickly studded, an eagle the like of which, though familiar with the fowls of that region, i had never before seen; and i may here add that we never did with any certainty discover the species to which she belonged. i rode near to get a better view, but she desired no closer acquaintance; for, after unfolding her wings once or twice in a hesitating sort of manner as i approached, she finally spread them and flew heavily away, a couple of pistol-shots from the wagon having only the effect of increasing her speed. the cactus on which she had been resting was a very fair sample of the largest ſ Š É § atame eagle wqlcott le clear beare). variety in the world of that interesting plant. of the thickness of a man's body, it rose straight from the ground, a beautiful fluted column of vivid apple-green, to a height of twenty-five feet, where a cluster of branches nearly as thick as the parent stem grew out from it and turned upward, while the main trunk, without a bend, rose several feet higher, between two of these branches and the trunk there was built a nest of good-sized sticks, about twice as large as a bushel-basket; and on this my eyes happened to be resting when the noise of the shots brought above its edge a little head covered with grayish-yellow fuzz, out of which peered two big round eyes with an air of anxious inquiry. “a young one : " cried a rod-man who had seen the head at the same moment. the team was stopped, and the cactus was surrounded by all, eager for a sight of the bird; but though we waited in silence for some minutes, its head did not again appear. in that desert country, far from railways and towns, we led rather dull lives; so the several pets we possessed in the big permanent camp miles away served in no small measure to amuse us; and to these we wished to add our young friend of the cactus. but how to get him down was a problem. somebody suggested that a volunteer climb the cactus, but no one thrust himself forward to do so. the spanish name by which it is known is sujuarro, which, put into english, means “that which scratches”; and as the spines which thickly cover the outer edges of the ridges are from one to four inches long, and as sharp as needles, it will be seen that the name gives a good idea of the plant. “moses " — a tame eagle. we did not like to cut it down, for fear the fall might injure the fledgling; but after some debate no better method presented itself, so the two axmen set to work. as the first blows made the green shaft tremble, the head ap- peared once more, trying, with an expression of concern, to see what was going on below ; but this the thick sides of the nest prevented. then it looked at me and said, “jark!” this was the first remark “moses” ever made to us, and there was no time for more then ; for the axes had eaten through the pulpy mass, which now began to bend to its fall. as the nest tilted we could see the thick body belonging to the head, with two big claws clutching wildly, while the weak, featherless wings flapped madly in an instinctive effort to support their owner. the cactus came down with a crash, and running up, we looked for our bird; but only a little gray down was visible, with one leg help- lessly extended from under a big branch which, broken by the shock, had fallen across and al- most hid him. we feared he was killed; but when, by means of an ax-head hooked around the prickly stuff, it was pulled aside, he gath- ered himself together, quite unhurt, and then, surveying the strange beings who surrounded him, made up his mind to them with that philos- ophy we later learned to be one of his traits, and opening his great mouth to its fullest ex- tent, hinted that he was hungry and wanted something to eat. here was another puzzle. eagles are meat- eaters, and fresh meat we had not; so what to give him we could not think, until at length one of the rodmen, a silent youth, said: “b'iled eggs. might go. moses could surely eat them things all right enough.” this is how he got his name. the reasons for thus christening him, given some days later, were that a su- juarro looked as much like a bulrush as any- thing in that desert would be expected to; and, further, because the oriental cast of coun- tenance caused by the hooked beak seemed to warrant it. however, the name and the “b'iled” eggs both “went”; for, selecting one of the latter from our luncheon, it was placed, bit by bit, in the cavity yawning to receive it. when it was nearly all gone, the cavern closed, and, filled to the brim, the youngster showed a desire to sleep. in a barley-sack carefully placed in the wagon this privilege was given to him, while we went about our work. on gathering for the noonday meal, however, harsh shrieks from the bag proved that further provisions would be acceptable. another egg followed the first, and this lasted him until, the day's task being finished, we started to return to camp. then he woke up and from his barley-sack loudly de- manded more; but we had no more to give him then : we had eaten it all ourselves. when we arrived at the home camp some fresh beef was at once procured, but moses was asleep then; he did n't want to be disturbed, and when we tried to feed him, behaved so like a cross child that we put him in an old soap-box in which we had arranged a nest of straw, and left him until morning. the half-breed in whose charge he had been left told us that he was far better than an alarm- clock, for no one could sleep through the cries with which he greeted the rising sun and his notion of breakfast-time; and while an alarm would ring for only half a minute, moses was wound up to go all day, or until he got some- thing to eat. but his guardian treated him kindly, and moses grew and thrived, soon put- ting on a handsome suit of brown and gray fea- thers, which he was very proud of, and spent most of his spare time in preening; and he was beginning to think seriously of trying his wings when an accident put off his flying for a long time. jhaving known, thus far, nothing but kindness from man, he was absolutely without fear, and, as it turned out, rather too much so. a rock which jutted out from the high cliff on which our camp was built was a favorite seat for the half-grown bird; and one morning, as he was enjoying the view from this place, a mexican strange to the camp, thinking he saw a wild bird, stole up as close as he dared, and, being without firearms, began throwing stones. moses turned and looked after each rock as it whizzed past, until one struck him fairly, and sent him fluttering over the cliff. a couple of our men approaching at that moment, the mexican narrowly escaped following moses; but his frantic statements that he did n’t know “moses " — a [april, tame eagle. that the eagle was a tame one finally convinced them, and he climbed down to where moses was lying on a ledge forty feet below, and brought him to the top again. the poor bird was found to be quite badly hurt. the sight of one eye was gone forever, and a wing drooped. this last we thought was broken, but a care- ful examination showed no fracture; and though for many weeks it could not be extended with- out pain, it at length began to heal, and even to be of use on the few occasions when rapid loco- motion was, in the opinion of moses, desirable. these were chiefly when he was taken “cours- ing,” as we used to call it. he was very fond of the lizards with which these plains abounded, and one large variety, called “swifts” from their remarkable speed in running, seemed to be especially coveted. whenever one of these was caught, which was not often, moses would be brought out, and after the swift had taken ten feet start, would be set free. the lizard would promptly resolve itself into a white streak across the desert, and screaming with excitement, half running, half fly- ing, moses would pursue, followed by the laugh- ing crowd, of which only those on horseback had much chance of keeping up. it was in no sense a cruel sport: it amused moses and us, and did n't hurt the swift, for he got away every time; and if the feelings of our pet were a trifle injured, as he returned, perched on some one's wrist or saddle-horn, from his fruitless hunt, these were speedily soothed by the prompt gift of a nice bit of fresh beef, so no one was the worse. the lizards, however, he seemed to view as a sort of dessert, and, as he could absorb an unlimited quantity, they were always in demand. a certain stick kept on the veranda of our office was generally under his eye; and when any one picked this up and started for a walk across the desert, moses would hop gravely along behind, sure that some of his favorite dainties would soon be forthcoming. of course, moses was perfectly well able to catch the smaller kinds of lizards for himself, but there was less exertion in allowing some one else to do it for him; and exertion, at this period of his life, was a thing to which moses was violently opposed. these occasions were almost the only ones when he would be silent for any length of time; for he seemed to under- stand perfectly that at the first note of his voice every lizard within hearing would run for its life to the nearest refuge; and only when a blow of the stick failed for the second or third time to reach its mark would he give utterance to his deep disgust at such clumsiness. the big red ollas (porous earthenware jars) swinging under the eaves of the veranda, in which our drinking-water was kept cool by evaporation, were also objects of his closest attention; and when any one took down the dipper for a drink, he would go, with his pecu- liar racking run, and post himself directly un- der the jar, all the while uttering his harsh cry of entreaty. every one knew what this meant; so the first dipperful would be poured slowly between his wings, while he wriggled his body and stuck each feather in a different direction, in order that the cool water might reach every part. this was the only kind of bath he ever would take; but as it was a thirsty country, the thermometer often registering above a hundred degrees the twenty-four hours round, his op- portunities were so frequent as to enable him to keep himself in a more or less soaked condi- tion for a good part of the time. moses had a language of his own, which, by the constant practice he gave us, we soon learned to understand. it consisted of a series of cries, all harsh and nerve-rasping, but per- fectly distinct, each one expressing a different emotion. thus, rage, entreaty, excitement, and pleasure were each easily distinguished by those who knew him well. his one syllable note of greeting was more explosive and perhaps a shade less disagreeable than the rest: and he had also a low, crooning sort of murmur: but this he used only in soliloquy, so to us it ex- pressed only the fact that moses was talking over things with himself. we never knew when he learned to fly. if he practised as most young birds do, it must have been in private, for the first hint to us of his having acquired this new accomplishment was one day when we were sitting on the ve- randa of the corps barracks. moses had been playing in his peculiar way, which consisted in fighting a handkerchief that one of us would .] “moses"— a tame eagle. flap at him. he had reduced this to shreds, and grown tired of the sport, when suddenly, spreading his wings, he shot away over the plain as if he had been flying for years. two hundred yards or more away, across the plaza formed by the camp buildings, stood the canvas office of a contractor. the door was open, and through it sailed moses, and alighting on the edge of the high desk where the proprietor was engaged in adding up a column of figures, greeted him with his cry of salutation, which i have tried to render by the word “jark.” the man was startled, but thinking that our bird had escaped, picked him up and carried him back to us. this made moses furious. he did n't like this person, to start with; for on one occasion, when asked for a bath, the man had poured over the bird the whole eight gallons the olla held, with a force which nearly flat- tened him. then, only members of the engi- neer corps were entitled to take liberties with moses; and finally he would allow no one to carry him save when perched on the wrist. so when he was brought across the plaza hugged in the contractor's arms, though he never thought of trying to escape, he objected to the indignity in his own way, as the man's bleeding hands and torn shirt testified. his new power of flying opened to moses a whole range of new amusements. there was the cook-house, down under the cliff, where the laborers ate. formerly this had been quite outside of his ken, but now he soon discovered that meat was kept there. fresh beef, such as moses loved, was in the charge of chinese cooks whose nerves were rendered sensitive through excessive opium-smoking; so all moses had to do in order to procure a meal was to perch himself on top of one of the poles which supported the thatched roof, and begin his rasping cry. his voice would soon bring him the coveted morsel! this, if he really was hungry, would be torn in pieces by his strong bill and claws, and eaten at once; but if he only feared he might become faint, as was fre- quently the case, he would reject with scorn the offered dainty until somebody had cut the meat into small bits for him; then, after eating these very slowly one by one, he would leave the cooks in peace for a while. one day, however, moses shrieked in vain. the fresh meat was out, and salted flesh he could not eat. it was in winter, and though not what we would consider cold, it was suffi- ciently so to drive all the lizards underground; so the poor bird, accustomed to regular food, must really have become very faint. all the morning he yelled industriously, but finding that it would bring him nothing, finally ceased, and sat on the ridge-pole of the office, ap- parently wrapped in thought. two half-grown kittens playing on a plank-walk leading to the office door finally attracted his attention, and moses “pricked up his ears,” so to speak, di- recting his keen gaze upon them for some time. then, evidently saying to himself, “they’ll do,” he swooped down, pouncing on the spot; but the “to say that the man was startled would be to put it very mildly.” (see page .) cats, guessing his hostile errand, had scam- pered under the walk. still, nothing daunted, he paced over the surface in his funny way, his one eye turned down to the wide cracks “moses"— a [april, tame eagle. between the sunken planks to sight his prey. discovering their whereabouts, he hopped down to the ground, lay on his side, and straining his leg to its utmost, reached to where he had last seen them; but at the approach of the big sharp open claw they prudently retreated to the opposite side of the walk. thus foiled, moses mounted the planks for a second at- tempt, found the cats, and descended on that side with a suddenness that he hoped would win; but of course they, seeing this h flank movement, re- - - turned again to | their first place. | then he tried to º º tear up a plank - with his beak, and finding that this would n’t do, returned to his old tactics; and so the game went on un- til, weary and disgusted, moses flew to the wheel of a lumber-wagon standing hard by, deter- mined to have them when they came out. he wait- ed for hours, but the cats seemed very well con- tented where they were, and so remained still until the advent of the butcher, with his beef-laden donkeys, set them once more free, with assured safety. the calm belief of moses that everything he could see about our camp existed only for his pleasure was sometimes productive of amusing results. from the top to the bottom of the cliff a staircase, perhaps two hundred feet long, ex- tended. it was a weary climb, and one day, as the eagle was wheeling about in the air over- head, it happened that one of the laborers from below was slowly ascending the long stairs. he had nearly reached the top, and was bending well forward, helping himself along by the hand-rail, when moses suddenly took it into his head to rest himself. the climber's neck happened to be the first object suited to his purpose which met his eye, and upon it he accordingly settled. to say that the man was startled would be to put it very mildly. with a terrified yell he straightened up, and, some- what thrown off his balance by this, moses naturally, in order to keep his place, tight- ened the hold of his big claws. this completed the fright of his unwill- ing perch, who, with another and still wilder yell, plunged under the banisters, landing on a ledge of rock some ten feet be- low. he rose, save for a few bruises and his scratched neck, none the worse; while moses, perched on the railing, regarded him with an expression of grieved surprise. a no ther time it was a horse, wan- dering with a sad air over the arid plains in his search for a stray bit of bunch-grass, that moses selected for a resting-place. it was a cow- pony, and a vicious one,—a confirmed “buck- er,” which few cared to mount; but now he had met one who could ride him with ease. startled by the alighting of the big bird, and spurred by the claws, the bronco began to pitch in a manner that threw his former exploits of this kind into the shade. this was delightful, and with one claw en- twined in the mane of his steed, the other closely gripping his withers, and gracefully bal- anced by his extended wings, moses shrieked with joy. twice round the plaza he rode, “gracefully balanced by his ex- tended wings, moses shrieked with joy.” .] “moses." a tame eagle. and then, flying to the top of a cactus near by, he watched the horse, frightened ahmost to madness, galloping away over the plain at a speed attained by him only on one other oc- casion, and that was on the following day, when moses repeated the performance. his flights about this time began to be longer, sometimes keeping him away for several days, and so his fame spread. the scattered settlers for many miles up and down the slug- gish gila recognized his cry for food, and read- ily answered it by the offer of the best they had. he was always perfectly tame, and if a bit of beef or a lizard was held up in the air and a whistle sounded to attract attention, a speck far up in the ever-blue sky, would soon resolve itself into moses, who, descending like a bullet, but landing gently as a feather on the extended wrist, would take his provender, and, retiring to his old perch on the ridge-pole, would devour it as of yore. but at last the spring came; and once when he presented himself for his rations, we noticed that he was accompanied by one of his own kind, who waited for him while he ate. it never seemed to occur to him to offer his companion any share in his repast, but the other eagle apparently did not notice this omis- sion; and when he had finished, they flew away together, disappearing in the direction of old mexico; and from that time on, his former haunts knew moses no more. the gouty wizard finds it difficult to move on. the incantation is successful. “how is this,” he says in triumph, “for a cane!" the last three soldiers. i road from the log barn did this,' or ‘the man in the farthest twin cabin did that,’ or ‘the old chap in the long house flanked by orchards and stacks did something else,'—so i say let's give them family names.” the others laughingly admitted that the idea was not a bad one, and bromley suggested at random the names smith, jones, and brown. “as good as any others,” said philip. “very well,” said bromley, “then we will call this first neighbor “smith.’” “no, you don't,” cried philip with much spirit. “i’ve taken a prejudice against that old fellow, because he sits on the woodpile and smokes his pipe every afternoon while his wife does the milking. smith is too respectable a name for him.” - “i did n't know,” said coleman, laughing, “that there was any particular virtue in the name of smith.” “i did n't say there was,” said philip, “but if this first old loafer should turn out half as bad as i fear he will, the name would be a slur on too many families, you know. now, if it's all the same to you gentlemen, we will begin at the other end and call the man of the orchard ‘smith.” “jones' naturally falls to the owner of the second twin-cabin, and this fellow below becomes — say, ‘shifless,' whether he likes it or not.” as no one of the three had even heard of any one of the name of shifless, philip's arrange- ment was agreed to, and from time to time they settled other names on the dwellers in every cabin in sight, and one column of smoke which rose from behind an intervening ridge was spoken of as “thompson's smoke.” on the morning of december in that first year on the mountain, the three soldiers were thrown into a great state of excitement by a remarkable discovery. coleman and bromley were clearing off the snow from a stack of pea- vines preparatory to beating them out on the floor of the house, when philip came running toward them, holding up the telescope and beckoning them to meet him. he said he had seen three united states officers at the long cabin under sheep cliff, which was known as smith's. the others needed no urging to fol- low philip. indeed, they ran so rapidly over the frozen ground in the rare upper air that they scarcely had breath for speaking when they arrived on the point of rocks. philip di- rected the glass on the house again, and then, with a cry of delight, he passed it to coleman. “there they are . there they are i see? by the end of the house!” as soon as the lieutenant had adjusted the powerful glass to his eye, he had the men be- fore him almost as distinctly as if they had been standing within hailing distance. there was no mistaking the evidence that two of them were officers of what the three soldiers con- sidered the beaten and disbanded army, while, although the third was in citizen's dress, it was unlike the dress of the mountaineers. “heaven help them l’exclaimed lieutenant coleman, as he gazed in amazement on the scene at the end of the log house. “how ragged they aré! they must have been hunted through the woods like wild animals. both of the two in uniform wear jackets of the mounted service, and — stop—as sure as you are born, the taller of the two is a lieutenant of artillery. he has but one shoulder-strap left, and that has too dark a ground for either cavalry or infan- try. they may be from the staff. there is something about their uniforms in spite of rags and dirt that makes me think so. the other carries a roll of blankets over his shoulder—he must be a soldier — and they have just come in, too, for their haversacks are mighty lean.” it looked as if the poor fellows had found friends at last; for while they stood talking with two women at the end of the house, smith himself, who was a lank mountaineer with a red beard, was lounging by the gate with his gun on his shoulder, as if watching against sur- prise from the road. bromley, who had been patiently waiting, now took the glass. “by jove!” he cried, “there are four girls there now, and the short officer is going into the house. you are right, fred, the old man is on guard, with a sharp eye in his head, too. they are all going into the house, now, by neighbor smith's advice, i fancy. i'll tell you who they are, fred. they are escaped pris- oners from charleston. they must have been hiding in the woods and swamps for months. if that is the condition of the officers of the .] the last three soldiers. they in view of what might happen during the day. in their drowsy, half-wakeful state it seemed to coleman and philip as if no time at all had passed since the departure of bromley, when they were startled by the echoing report of the carbine. hurrying on their clothing, they scampered across the hard snow to the rocks, where they found bromley with the tele- scope fixed on the house of shifless. “there the old rogue is,” said bromley, handing the spy-glass to coleman, “leading his mule out of the stable. he must have got some information during the night, for after going to the stable with a lantern, he climbed up onto that ridge beyond, and looked over at smith's clearing as if he wanted to satisfy him- self that all was quiet there. i suspected he was up to some deviltry, as soon as i got out here, for i saw a light in the house, showing first from one window and then from another. drat his picture " bromley continued. “as soon as he began climbing the hill i fired the alarm.” “i never knew him to turn out before eight o'clock,” said philip. “he certainly means mischief,” said cole- man, “for he is saddling the mule. now he has blown out the lantern and hung it on the bar-post. now he is mounting, the treacherous old villain confound him — there he goes trotting down the road toward the store.” philip and bromley took a look at the man, hurrying along in the gray of the morning be- fore another soul was awake in the settlement, and then they saw him turn on to the road which would lead him around the mountain into the cove. “if i were only down in his neighborhood now,” said coleman, following shifless with the telescope, “with a good rifle, i 'd tumble him off that mule. i should be serving my country.” “what country?” sneered bromley. to this coleman made no reply, and the three walked slowly across the mountain to the boulder side. they had not long to wait there before the man on the mule appeared on the road below, and they followed him with scowl- ing eyes until he drew up in front of the cove post-office, dismounted, and went in. “of course,” exclaimed bromley, “the post- master is a creature of the confederacy.” in half an hour the two men trotted away together, and soon disappeared among the mountains. our heroes turned back, certain in their minds that this stealthy journey of shifless had been undertaken with hostile intentions toward the three officers who still remained in the cabin under the shadow of sheep cliff. they felt keenly their inability to warn them of the danger which hung over them, and hoped that during the day they might see the visitors leaving the valley. their anxiety now made it necessary to watch for developments in the cove as well as in the valley, and they scarcely found time to prepare their meals, which they ate as they moved about. all day the telescope was in transit from one side of the mountain to the other until there was a deep path trodden in the snow. from time to time one or another of the officers was seen near the cabin, and even if they had not been seen at all, the presence of smith or one of the girls watching at the gate would have been sufficient evidence that the officers were still there. they might be waiting for a guide or the cover of night be- fore going on. the day was unusually cold, and beyond the smoke from the chimneys and here and there a woman in a doorway, there was no movement in the quiet valley. late in the afternoon of this december , for it was christmas eve, and not a very cheerful one on the mountain,_ bromley, who was watching on the cove side, spied a body of men at that very point in the road where the two horsemen had disappeared in the morning. he shouted so lustily for the telescope that both philip and coleman joined him with all haste. what they saw through the glass was a strag- gling column of mountaineers advancing in single file along the winding road, their steel rifle barrels catching the last rays of the setting sun. there were thirteen men in the party, of whom about half wore some part of a con- federate uniform; but neither shifless nor the cove postmaster was with them. they had scarcely time to pass the glass from one to an- [april, the last three soldiers. other in their excitement before the men left the road, and turned up the mountain side with a stealthy movement that made it plain they were going into temporary concealment. a few extracts from lieutenant coleman's diary at this point give a vivid picture of what was happening during the night on the moun- tain and about it. i am writing by the light of the fire in our house on this christmas eve, at io: o'clock by my watch, pow- erless to warn our friends at the cabin of the impending calamity. soon after dark, fire appeared on mountain- side; and it is now burning brightly as reported by philip, who has just returned to the lookout. , midnight. have just come in-fire still visible. : . philip reports that fire has just been extin- guished on mountain side. sparks indicated fire was put out by beating and scattering the brands. we are all about to go to point of rocks—shall probably be up all night. it seems that as soon as day began to dawn faintly on the mountain tops, and while it was still dark in the valley, the three soldiers were crouching on the rocks eagerly awaiting light in the clearing. first the whitewashed walls of the cabin came into view, and then, in the gray dawn, as they fully expected, they began to distinguish motionless figures stationed at regular intervals in the clearing, and forming an armed cordon about the house. there was no sign of smoke from the stone chimneys, nor any other evidence that the inmates had been disturbed by the soldiers, or had awakened of their own accord. there was one hope left. the officers might have gone away during the night. they should soon know; and meanwhile the snowy moun- tains reared their dark ridges against the slowly reddening eastern sky, and a great silence lay on the valley. chapter xi. in which the soldiers make a map. the forbearance of the captors to disturb their prisoners was puzzling to the three sol- diers huddled together on the point of rocks. through the telescope the men could now be plainly seen in their rough mountain dress, moving to and fro on their stations, and appar- ently keeping under cover where trees or out- houses were available as a mask. at one point several men were grouped together behind a fodder-stack, as if in consultation, and on the road could be seen one who seemed to be watching impatiently for some expected arrival. holding the telescope soon grew tiresome, and they passed it from one to another that no movement in the gruesome pantomime might escape their observation; and the observer for the time being broke the silence at intervals with details of what he saw. “there!” cried philip at last, “the men are getting lively behind the fodder-stack. now the fellow in the road is waving his hat. hold on there comes a man — two men — on horseback. now the sentinels are moving in toward the cabin.” thus the cordon was drawn close about the house, in which the inmates still showed no signs of life. the horsemen dismounted and tied their horses to the fence, and then with an armed guard advanced to the door. lieutenant coleman looked at his watch. it was twenty minutes after seven. at seven twenty-eight, the old mountaineer appeared, and was passed down the line to the road. next came the three officers one after the other, and they were removed to one side under guard. then the four women seemed to be driven out of the house by the soldiers, and forced along by vio- lence into the road. some of the men ap- peared to be breaking the windows of the cabin, and others were running out of the open door, appropriating some objects and ruthlessly de- stroying others. for the first time the soldier exiles realized how far they were removed, by their own will, from a world in which they had no part. the sufferers were their friends whom they knew not, and to help whom they had no power. they were like spirits looking down from a world above on the passions of mor- tals, as helpless to interfere as the motionless rocks. after a brief consultation the mounted men rode away to the north, while the prisoners with their guards advanced in the opposite direction, and soon disappeared behind that ridge up which shifless had climbed to look over, in the gray of the morning of the day be- fore. a puff of smoke burst from the deserted [april, the last three soldiers. mountain, and now and then, in return for their keep, laid an egg, which was often frozen be- fore it was found. the soft, clean husks of the corn, added to the pine boughs, made comfortable beds, and the tents spread over the blankets provided “philip made up the most marvelous stories, which the fire." abundant covering. great bunches of catnip and pennyroyal for tea hung from the rafters, and even the wild gentian, potent to cure all ailments, was not forgotten in the winter outfit. the prayer book and army regulations which formed their library were read and re-read and discussed until theology and the art of clothing and feeding an army were worn threadbare. philip, who was blessed with a vivid imagination and great originality, made up the most mar- velous ghost-stories and the most heartrending and finally soul-satisfying romances which were recited in the evenings before the fire, to the huge enjoyment of his companions. if it was romance, a fat pine- knot thrust between the logs illumined the interior, and searched the farthest corners and crannies of the room with a flood of light; and in case it was a ghost-story, the logs were left to burn low and fall piecemeal into the red coals before the eyes of the three figures sitting half re- vealed in sympathetic obscurity. one of the most in- teresting incidents of the first winter was the construction, by lieu- tenant coleman, of a map of the “old unit- ed states,” and the plotting thereon of the confederacy as they supposed it to be. when it is remembered that the map was drawn entirely from memory, the clear topographical knowledge of the offi- cer was, to say the least, surprising. the first reference to the map is found in lieutenant coleman's entry in the diary for the th of january, : were recited before as we were sitting before the fire last night, george introduced a subject which, by common consent, we have rather avoided any reference to or conversation upon. this related to the probable boundaries of the new na- .] the last three soldiers. tion established by the triumphant confederates. we had no doubt that the confederacy embraced all the states which were slave-holding states at the outbreak of the rebellion; and as they doubtless had made wash- ington their capital, it was more than probable that they had added little delaware to maryland on their northern border. we assumed that so long as there were two governments in the old territory, the ohio river would be accepted as a natural boundary as far as to the mis- -ro --- &ae * was rl, n ° rººf ºf ------t frame, and thus provided a clean white canvas five feet square on which to draw the map. if lieutenant coleman and his companions had known that general sherman, after whom they had named their island in the sky and whom they mourned as dead, was that very morning marching into the city of columbia, the capital of south carolina, with all his ſº map of rar ..unirtz staffs cowristãº, starts ratºrssºns, cour-wºrtress) -n. * - . frºximory ar-r-r exº~ %a- - - º, ^ %. w // e * --- * jºu" i.e.: “ * ( iy *e w t - o o , o sº. , *---- -l-n- . •tº s- ( * y- - -> \- . - -- no --- n- sissippi; but we were of widely different opinions as to the line of separation thence. george, who is inclined to the darker view, is of the opinion that the southern republic, if it be a republic at all, would certainly demand an opening to the pacific ocean, and therefore must embrace a part, if not the whole, of california. february . we have been confined to the house two days by a driving snow-storm, and the territorial ex- tent of the confederacy has come up again, not, however, for the first time since the discussion on the d of jan- uary. as we still have one stormy month before the opening of spring, i have determined to enter upon the construction of a map which shall lay down the probable boundaries of the two nations. when george and i are unable to agree, the point in dispute will be argued be- fore philip, and settled by the votes of the three. on february , then, this map was begun on the inner side of one of the rubber ponchos after buttoning down and gluing with pitch the opening in the center. it was stretched on a vol. xxiv.- . fºr wº se wo bands playing and flags flying, the map would never have been made, and the life on the mountain would have come to a sudden end. fortunately for the continuance of this history, they were ignorant of that fact, and lieutenant coleman on this very day began plotting his map with charcoal. after going over the coasts and watercourses and establishing the boun- daries of states, and that greatest and most difficult of all boundaries, the one between “the two countries,” he would blow off the charcoal and complete the details with ink. of this necessary fluid there was a canteen full, which had been made in the fall from oak-galls (lumps or balls produced on the oak-leaves by tiny insects) and the purple pokeberries which had been gathered from the field below the ledge. the oak-leaves had been steeped in warm wa- ter, and this mixture, together with the berries, seeing and believing. - by harold wilson, m. d. t is an old and a wise saying that “seeing is believ- ing,” yet every- body knows that very often what we see, and therefore believe, proves to be not really true at all. as we grow older, finding that our eyes have so frequently deceived us, we are often not satisfied with the evidence they give us until we have verified it by touch or smell or hearing or taste, or by looking at some doubtful thing from differ- ent points of view, or under a different lighting. we are not willing to believe that a conjurer actually draws rabbits from a man's ear or coins from the tip of his nose just because our eyes tell us such tales. sometimes our decep- tions are so lasting that things must be made wrong in order to look right, which seems rather contradictory. if we look at the letter s or the figure as carefully as we can, the upper and lower halves seem to be almost exactly the same size. if we turn them upside down, thus, s, , the difference in the size of the loops is quite astonishing, and we won- der how we could have been so mistaken; yet perhaps the truth is that the loops are neither so dif- ferent nor so much alike as they seem to be, as we see when we look at them turned upon their sides, thus, ºn , oo. the eye is such a delicate bit of machinery, it has so many parts, and so many different kinds of work to do, and such long hours of labor, that it is not surprising, after all, if in the capacity of receiving-office for so many millions of light-waves every minute, it should + occasionally send wrong messages to the cen- tral station in the brain. nor is it to be won- dered at if the mind itself, having so many other things to attend to at the same time, sometimes fails to understand what certain mes- sages from the eye may mean. these mistakes on the part of the mind in interpreting the com- munications which the eye sends to it, are called illusions of sight. moreover, in the eye itself certain things may go on which give us wrong sensations, which, although not truly illusions, are very much like them. thus, when we suddenly strike our heads or faces against something in the dark, we see “stars,” or bright sparks, which we know are not real lights, though they are quite as bright and sparkling as if they were. when we close one eye and look straight ahead at some word or letter in the middle of this page, for example, we seem to see not only the thing we are look- ing at, but everything else immediately about it and for a long way on each side. but the truth is, there is a large round spot, somewhere near the point at which we are looking, in which we see nothing. curiously enough, the ex- istence of this blind spot was not discovered by accident, and nobody ever suspected it until mariotte reasoned from the construction of the fig. i. the vanishing disk. eyeball that it must exist, and proceeded to find it. now we can all find it very easily. if you will hold fig. straight in front of the right eye, and about ten and a half inches away from it, the left eye being kept closed, then look sharply at the center of the little cross, every- ' seeing and believing. [april, and that the lower ones come closer to- gether there than at the ends; and if the top of the page is tipped away from you so that you look obliquely down at it, these appearances are all the more striking. yet if we turn the page about and look at the drawings from the side, we see at once that the artist has done his work truly, and that it is our eyes that have been at fault. so, in fig. , the circle seems to dip in or flat- ten at the corners of the square, yet it is positively a true and uniform curve. in fig. the line running upward on the right- hand side of the black rectangle is the di- rect continuation of one of the two lower lines on the left. everybody says that it Šà fig. . Žiš Ša fig. . is with the upper one of these lines; and as we examine it carefully, running the eye back and forth so as to be sure, this certainly seems to be true. but hold the figure so as to look fig. . along the line as a carpenter looks along the edge of a board, and it is surprising to see how much we have been mistaken. if i were to ask what fig. represented, most persons would say that it was a pic- ture of a transparent cube of which three faces were visible, the one toward you, the upper, and the left-hand one,—as is shown in fig. io. some other person looking on might say, how- ever, that it was a cube showing the /ower and the right- hand faces, as shown in fig. ; and upon looking at it again, sure enough, this seems to be so; and yet, while we still look at it, it sudden- ly changes, and once more looks like fig. io. with a little practice, we discover that we can make it look either way at pleas- ure, though it has an un- comfortable fashion of turning about of its own accord. gen- erally we can see it like fig. io more eas- ily, perhaps because that .] seeing and believing. is the way most real cubes appear as we look ference in length between the upper and lower at them usually from above. so fig. we pair. after the guesses have been made, mea- can see either as a flight of steps leading up to sure them; it will be instructive. the left, or as an overhanging or upside-down now, we all want to know, of course, how fig. . fig. ro. fig. i i. stairway which we could climb only by stand- these curious illusions come about, and whether ing upon our heads. it is a little hard to see there are others than those we have just seen. these two stairways, and you may succeed bet- yes, there are many others, and men have ter by turning the page around while looking known them from very early times. in at the drawing. it is easy, sometimes, to see st. nicholas for october, , mr. objects that do not exist: thus, in fig. , if arlo bates told how the greek archi- the page is tipped a little and held so that tects took advantage of these illusions the right eye looks along the line a b, and the to improve the appearance of the tem- ples; and it has lately been found that the cathedral builders of the middle ages also so arranged their lines and curves as to deceive the eye. on the next page, figs. and , copied from the article by mr. bates, show how two lines of the same length may be by branch- ing lines made to look quite unequal; but it is a great deal easier to see that they are b d' a. fig. . fic. . and looking at the point where the two lines cross, a third line is seen standing right up from the paper like a little rod or pin. fig. , when looked at with one eye from a point where it can look along all of the lines without moving the head, that is, at a point where all l left along the line c d', both eyes being open l the lines would meet if they were drawn long enough, shows a lot of black pins standing upright as if stuck into the page. in the picture at the end of this article, it will be found interesting to let the spectators guess which of the stones in the magic bridge is longest, and also to estimate the precise dif- vol. xxiv.- . fig. . seeing and believing. fig. . illusions than to explain why we are deceived in them. even the wise men who have studied them do not always agree in their explanations. and then, to understand these explanations, we have to know a great many things that are not so interesting. besides, what we need most of all to know about them is the fact that they f g, . exist, and that often “things are not what they seem,” and that seeing ought not always to be believing. our eyes must be trained to beware of tricks that may be played upon them, and where our eyes deceive, our brains must help us to find out the truth, even in the midst of apparent error. ‘ſºg ſº agag bridge the new umbrella. by agnes lee. oh, ellal with her first umbrella she walked abroad like any queen. she held it proudly for display, admired its handle, stroked its sheen, and never little girl more gay. dear ella | such a wee umbrella one day upon the market-place i met her; dripping were her curls. she looked, despite her sunny face, the most forlorn of little girls. “why, ella where 's your new umbrella p” said i; “the storm has drenched your hair just see your frock! just see your hat! and what is this you hug with care p — a broom, a fiddle, or a cat?” oh, ella : with her first umbrella | she looked at me and shyly spoke, the rain-drops pelting on her yet: “i have it here beneath my cloak, because, you see, it might get wet !” =} - - - ei alºe hen i was a boy it used to be a fad among the young folks to raise silkworms, and in the town in which i was born nearly every boy in the parish kept them, much to the annoyance of the women- folk of the household, i fear. they found ca- terpillars in their drawing-rooms, and caterpillars weaving their cocoons in every place where they should not be. i suppose the caterpillars and the boys were nuisances; but it was great fun for the boys. years later, when i was journeying in the moun- tains of lebanon, making sketches for a book called “picturesque palestine,” almost the first thing that attracted my attention was my old friend the silk- worm. in fact, he was in evidence long before we landed from the steamer; for far away on the mountain-side those step-like lines climbing almost to the eternal snows are the silkworms' pastures — terraces of mulberry plants. but why, you will ask, “silk and cedars”? the only satisfactory reply i can give you is that after all these years, when the weary marches and danger- ous passes of those mountains are forgotten, the silk- culture and the cedars of lebanon are the two pic- tures still fresh in the memory. i will try to tell you about it. to begin at the begin- ning, we must go back to the quaint old city of tripoli, situated in the northwest corner of syria, where the foot- w hills of the lebanons come tumbling down into the sea. though its palmy days are over, its great age should command our re- spect; for tripoli was founded seven hundred years before the time of christ. the history of the city we will not go into. its chief industry eems always to have been connected with the silkworm. as far back as a. d. there were four thousand looms kept busy; and tripoli is still - and cedars. [april, silk the wady kadisha, or carox of the river kalois.h.a. the dark mass of trees in the center of the picture is the grove of the cedars of lebanon. the chief market for the silk raised in the leba- nons. some of the silk is spun into hanks in the mountains, but most of it is brought down in cocoons, which are carried in beautifully woven baskets, about the size and shape of a flour- barrel, loaded pannier-wise on donkeys. on leaving tripoli, the road—it is really a rough mountain bridle-path — runs along the course of the “sacred” river kadisha, that rises just below the cedars. at first the road is a deep cut through the plateau; and this part of the journey would be dreary enough were it not for the gorgeous masses of oleander, which beautiful shrub flourishes all over syria. after passing the plateau, which is some thirteen miles in width, the river is hemmed in by a wild cañon between gigantic limestone cliffs. while rounding one of these cliffs i nearly lost my life, the trail at this point passing, at the very edge of the cliff, over a smooth, boulder- like mass of rock without a particle of earth upon it. my horse, who was very fond of ad- miring the scenery instead of paying attention to his business, slipped just at this bad point, .] silk and cedars. partly owing to the idiotic horseshoes used in that country, which are simply flat plates of iron put on cold. one, if not both, of his hind legs went over the edge, and there was nothing more substantial than air for a thousand feet below. however, the wiry little beast scram- bled cat-like up on the shelving ledge again; but it was a narrow escape. we are now approaching the region of the silk-culture; and those step-like lines which we saw from the ship's deck turn out to be little hanging gardens. wherever a handful of earth get ready to spin their cocoons; but a second crop comes on later, and a curious use is made of that. the tree-owner purchases one of those queer, big-tailed syrian sheep, the tail of which weighs twenty pounds when at the full maturity of its fatness; and then a strange stuffing process begins, not unlike the fattening of the strasburg geese. when the sheep can eat no more, the women of the house feed it; and it is no uncommon sight to see a woman going out to make an afternoon call, leading her sheep by a string, and carrying a basket of mulberry the grove of cellars of lebanon. can be made to rest upon a ledge, there a mul- berry plant grows. it is a picturesque and thrilling sight to see a boy lowered by a rope over the precipice, carrying a big basket of earth and cuttings of mulberry twigs to plant in his hanging garden. the crop of leaves, fodder for the worms, is gathered in the same way. by such patient and dangerous industry have these hardy mountaineers been able to make their wilderness of rock blossom into brightly-colored silks. not a single leaf is left on the trees by the time the voracious worms leaves on her arm. having arrived at her friend's house, she squats on the ground, rolls a ball of mulberry leaves in her right hand, and slips it into the sheep's mouth, then works the sheep's jaw up and down with the other hand till she thinks the mouthful has been chewed enough, when she thrusts it down the throat of the unfortunate animal. the funny part of the business is that probably half a dozen gossips of the village are seated around the yard, all engaged at the same operation. of course the sheep get immensely fat, and that is o [april, silk and cedars. the object; for at the killing-time the fat is tried out and put into jars, as meat for the winter. as the time approaches for the silkworm to hatch out of the egg, the family move out of the house, and camp under the trees, giving up the entire establishment to the worms, after having placed the eggs on shelves made of a reed like bamboo. at first the young worms are fed on finely chopped leaves; but as they grow larger the leaves need only be broken in two. the people have to feed and watch the worms night and day, or they wander in search of food and be lost; and in the silence of the night the sound of the worms feeding is like a gently falling rain. the worms fast three or four times during this period, and about twenty-four hours is the length of each fast. a curious feature about their fast is their posture; they assume the atti- tude of a cobra snake about to strike, and re- main rigidly fixed in that position for the en- tire period. when they are ready to spin, small branches are placed on the shelves, and as the cocoons are formed upon them the dead twigs seem to bear golden fruit. when the worms get through that part of the business the neigh- bors are called in — something as to an old- fashioned new england apple-paring bee. they call it “qtāf” in arabic—that is “picking”; and soon you see piles of pale-green, pure-white, and golden-yellow cocoons heaped upon the floor. later they may be spun into hanks; but usually the cocoons are sent down the moun- tains to tripoli or damascus, and after their thirty or forty days of toil, they too often have to sell the produce for next to nothing, as the chinese are always ready to undersell them. another curious use mr. silkworm is put to is to soak him in vinegar for some hours, after which he is drawn out into so-called “catgut” to make snells or leaders for fish-hooks. although from our camping-ground in this village of silk-spinners the grove of cedars looked as if it were within an hour's ride, there was a long, weary day's journey before we reached them. every girl and boy of the christian world has heard and read, over and over again, of the “cedars of lebanon "; but very few have any idea of the locality and sur- roundings of the famous grove. it is a popu- lar error, by the way, to suppose that there are no other cedars remaining besides this group at the head of the “wady” (valley or cañon) kadisha. there are, to my knowledge, ten other groves, some numbering thousands of trees. this particular group that we are about to visit is called by the arabs by a name which means, “cedars of the lord.” they number about four hundred trees, among them a circle of gigantic fellows that are called by the natives “the twelve apostles,” upon the strength of an old tradition that jesus and his disciples having come to this spot and left their staves standing in the ground, these staves sprouted into cedar-trees. there is every reason to suppose that in the time of king solomon these scattered groves were part of an enormous unbroken forest, extending the entire length of the lebanon range of mountains, about one hundred miles, running nearly parallel with the mediterranean shore from a little below beirut. the summits of the range are from fifteen to twenty miles from the coast. the lebanon — that is, the “white ”— does not derive its name from glittering snow-peaks, but from the white limestone cliffs of its summits. the first historical mention of the trees is in the bible ( sam. v. ): “and hiram king of tyre sent messengers to david, and cedar trees, and carpenters, and masons: and they built david an house.” from that day to this the people have been almost as reckless and wasteful of these noble giants of the mountains as our own people are of these cedars' first cousins, the redwood trees of the california coast-range. as we approach the grove, which stands upon the top of a small hill, the foliage is almost black against the snow-covered crags of dahr-el-kadib, which rears its highest peak over ten thousand feet above the sea. there is a maronite chapel in the grove, its patriarch claiming the sole right to the sacred trees; and, luckily, the superstition with which the trees have been surrounded has been their salvation. all the cedars of lebanon would have been demolished for firewood years ago were not the people threatened with dire calam- ity should they take a single stick. .] i silk and cedars. from the few noble trees that remain strug- gling for existence in these snow-clad mountains, it is very hard to picture the great unbroken forest david and solomon knew. but even this small grove, remaining hidden away in their barren mountain-tops, figures prominently in history, poetry, art, and romance. there is probably not in the world another group of trees that has the same rare interest. the cones of the lebanon cedar are unlike anything i know in this country. they are about the size and form of a well-grown spitz- enberg apple, and almost as smooth. the full- grown one that i have drawn on page is as smooth and hard as it was the day i gathered it, fifteen years ago. those wonderfully beautiful trees will bear transplanting into any mild climate. indeed, i have seen much finer specimens in england than in syria. there is one in richmond park, the great branches of which cover the better part of a half-acre of ground. on the ferry. by m. l. van vorst. moonlight, starlight— how many lights there be! little swinging lanterns on the ships at sea. green lights, yellow lights, crimson lights aglow — i see them shine on winter nights in mist and snow. big boats, little boats — how many boats there be! little swinging life-boats on the ships at sea. i go on the ferry-boat, mother goes with me; i wish some day that we would float far out to sea! master skylark. by john bennett. [begun in the november number.] chapter xvii. carew's offer. next morning carew donned his plum-col- ored cloak, and with nick's hand held tightly in his own went out of the door and down the steps into a drifting fog which filled the street, the bandy-legged man with the ribbon in his ear following close upon their heels. people passed them like shadows in the mist, and all the houses were a blur until they came into a wide, open place where the wind blew free above a wall with many great gates. in the middle of this open place a huge gray building stood, staring out over the housetops— a great cathedral, wonderful and old. its walls were dark with time and smoke and damp, and the lofty tower that rose above it was in part but a hollow shell split by lightning and black- ened by fire. but crowded between its massive buttresses were booths and chapmen’s stalls; against its hoary side a small church leaned like a child against a mother's breast; and in and around about it eddied a throng of men like ants upon a busy hill. all around the outer square were shops with gilded fronts and most amazing signs: golden angels with outstretched wings, tiger heads, bears, brazen serpents, and silver cranes; and in and out of the shop-doors darted apprentices with new-bound books and fresh-printed slips; for this was old st. paul's, the meeting-place of master skylark. london town, and in paul's yard the printers and the bookmen dealt. with a deal of elbowing the master-player came up the broad steps into the cathedral, and down the aisle to the pillars where the mer- chant-tailors stood with table-books in hand, and there ordered a brand-new suit of clothes for nick of old roger shearman, the best cloth- cutter in threadneedle street. while they were deep in silk and silver thread, haerlem linen, and leyden camelot, nick stared about him half aghast; for it was to him little less than monstrous to see a church so thronged with merchants plying their trades as if the place were no more sacred than a booth in the public square. the long nave of the cathedral was crowded with mercers from cheapside, drapers from throgmorton street, stationers from ludgate hill, and goldsmiths from foster lane, hats on, loud-voiced, and using the very font itself for a counter. by the columns beyond, sly, foxy-faced lawyers hobnobbed; and on long benches by the wall, cast-off serving-men, var- lets, grooms, pastry-bakers, and pages sat, wait- ing to be hired by some new master. besides these who came on business there was a host of gallants in gold-laced silk and velvet prom- enading up and down the aisle, with no busi- ness there at all but to show their faces and their clothes. and all about were solemn shrines and monuments and tombs, and over- head a splendid window burned like a wheel of fire in the eastern wall. while nick stared, speechless, a party of the admiral's players came strolling by, their heads half hidden in their huge starched ruffs, and with prodigious swords that would have dragged along the ground had they not been cocked up behind so fiercely in the air. seeing master carew and the boy, they stopped in passing to greet them gaily. master heywood was there, and bowed to nick with a kindly smile. his companion was a handsome, proud-mouthed man with a blue, smooth-shaven face and a jet-black periwig. him carew drew aside and spoke with in an earnest undertone. as he talked, the other began to stare at nick as .if he were some curious thing in a cage. “upon my soul,” said carew, “ye never heard the like of it. he hath a voice as sweet and clear as if puck had burst a honey-bag in his throat.” “no doubt,” replied the other carelessly; “ and all the birds will hide their heads when he begins to sing. but we don't want him, carew — not if he had a voice like miriam the jew. henslowe has just bought little jem bristow of will augusten for eight pound ster- ling, and business is too bad to warrant any more.” “who spoke of selling p” said carew, sharply. “don’t flatter your chances so, mas- ter alleyn. i would n't sell the boy for a world full of jem bristows. why, his mouth is a mint where common words are coined into gold! sell him i think i see myself in bed- lam for a fool! nay, master alleyn, what i am coming at is this: i'll place him at the rose, to do his turn in the play with the rest of us, or out of it alone, as ye choose, for one fourth of the whole receipts over and above my old share in the venture. do ye take me?” “take you? one fourth the whole receipts? zounds, man, do ye think we have a spigot in el dorado p” “tush master alleyn, don't make a poor mouth; you ’re none so needy. you and henslowe have made a heap of money out of us all.” “and what of that? yesterday's butter won't smooth to-day's bread. 't is absurd of you, carew, to ask one fourth and leave all the risk on us, with the outlook as it is . here's that fellow langley has built a new play-house in paris garden, nearer to the landing than we are, and is stealing our business most scurvily l’” carew shrugged his shoulders. “and what 's more, the very comedy for which ben jonson left us, because we would not put it on, has been taken up by the burbages on will shakspere's say-so, and is running famously at the curtain.” “i told you so, master alleyn, when the fel- low was fresh from the netherlands,” said carew; “but your ears were plugged with your own conceit. young jonson is no flatfish, if he did lay brick; he 's a plum worth any- body's picking.” “this was old st. paul's, the meeting-place of london town." vol. xxiv.- . .] master skylark. been there. diccon had often made nick whistles from the pollard willows along the avon below the tannery when nick was a tod- dier in smocks, and the lad thought he would like to see him before going back to stratford. then, too, his mother had always liked diccom field, and would be glad to hear from him. at thought of his mother he gave a happy little skip ; and as they turned into paternoster row, “master carew,” said he, “how soon shall i go home p” carew walked a little faster. there had arisen a sound of shouting and a trampling of feet. the constables had taken a purse-cutting thief, and were coming up to the newgate prison with a great rabble behind them. the fellow's head was broken, and his haggard face was all screwed up with pain; but that did not stop the boys from hooting at him, and asking in mockery how he thought he would like to be hanged and to dance on no- thing at tyburn hill. “did ye hear me, master carew p” asked nick. the master-player stepped aside a moment into a doorway to let the mob go by, and then strode on. nick tried again: “i pray thee, sir —” “do not pray me,” said carew sharply; “i am no indian idol.” “but, good master carew —” “nor call me good — i am not good.” “but, master carew,” faltered nick, with a sinking sensation around his heart, “when will ye leave me go home " the master-player did not reply, but strode on rapidly, gnawing his mustache. chapter xviii. master heywood protest.s. it was a cold, raw day. all morning long the sun had shone through the choking fog as the candle-flame through the dingy yellow horn of an old stable-lantern. but at noon a wind sprang up that drove the mist through london streets in streaks and strings mixed with smoke and the reek of steaming roofs. now and then the blue gleamed through in ragged patches overhead; so that all the town turned out on pleasure bent, not minding if it rained stewed turnips, so they saw the sky. but the fog still sifted through the streets, and all was damp and sticky to the touch, so cicely was left behind to loneliness and disap- pointment. nick and the master-player came down lud- gate hill to blackfriars landing in a stream of merrymakers, high and low, rich and poor, faring forth to london's greatest thoroughfare, the thames; and as the river and the noble mansions along the strand came into view, nick's heart beat fast. it was a sight to stir the pulse. far down the stream, the grim old tower loomed above the drifting mist; and, higher up, old london bridge, lined with tall houses, stretched from shore to shore. there were towers on it with domes and gilded vanes, and the river foamed and roared under it, strangled by the piers. from the dock at st. mary averies by the bridge to barge-house stairs, the landing-stages all along the river-bank were thronged with boats; and to and fro across the stream, wherries, punts, barges, and water-craft of every kind were plying busily. in middle stream sail-boats tugged along with creaking sweeps, or brown-sailed trading-vessels slipped away to sea, with costly freight for russia, tur- key, and the levant. and amid the countless water-craft a multitude of stately swans swept here and there like snowflakes on the dusky river. nick sniffed at the air, for it was full of strange odors — the smell of breweries, of pitchy oakum, norway tar, spices from hot countries, resinous woods, and chilly whiffs from the water; and as they came out along the wharf, there were brown-faced, hard-eyed sail- ors there, who had been to the new world— wild fellows with silver rings in their ears and a swaggering stagger in their petticoated legs. some of them held short, crooked brown tubes between their lips, and puffed great clouds of pale brown smoke from their noses in a most amazing way. broad-beamed dutchmen, too, were there, and swarthy spanish renegades, with sturdy craftsmen of the city guilds and stalwart yeo- men of the guard in the queen's rich livery. .] master skylark. “sir!” cried carew, clapping his hand upon his poniard. heywood looked up steadily. “how p wilt thou quarrel with me, carew? what ugly poison hath been filtered through thy wits why, thou art even falser than i thought! quarrel with me, who took thy new-born child from her dying mother's arms when thou wert fast in newgate gaol p” carew's angry face turned sickly gray. he made as if to speak, but no sound came. he shut his eyes and pushed out his hand in the air as if to stop the voice of the writer of comedies. “come,” said heywood, with deep feeling; “thou canst not quarrel with me yet — nay, though thou dost try thy very worst. it would be a sorry story for my soul or thine to tell to hers.” carew groaned. the rest of the players had passed on, and the three stood there alone. “don’t, tom, don't!” he cried. “then how can ye have the heart?” the other asked again. the master-player lifted up his head, and his lips were trembling. “”t is not the heart, tom,” he cried bitterly, “upon my word and on the remnant of mine honour ! t is the head which doeth this. for, tom, i cannot leave him go. why, tom, hast thou not heard him sing? a voice which would call back the very dead that we have loved if they might only hear. why, tom,'t is worth a thousand pound! how can i leave him go?” “oh, fie for shame upon the man i took thee for " cried heywood. “but, tom,” cried carew brokenly, “look it straightly in the face; i am no such player as i was, this reckless life hath done the trick for me, tom, and here is ruin staring henslowe and alleyn in the eye. they can- not keep me master if their luck doth not change soon; and burbage would not have me as a gift. so, tom, what is there left to do? how can i shift without the boy? nay, tom, it will not serve. there 's cicely — not one penny laid by for her against a rainy day; and i'll be gone, tom, i'll be gone — it is not morning all day long—we cannot last forever. nay, i cannot leave him go!” “but, sir,” broke in nick wretchedly, hold- ing fast to heywood's arm, “ye said that i should go!” “said ' " cried the master-player, with a bit- ter smile; “why, nick, i'd say ten times more in one little minute just to hear thee sing than i would stand to in a month of easters after- ward. come, nick, be fair. i 'll feed thee full and dress thee well and treat thee true — all for that song of thine.” “but, sir, my mother —” “why, carew, hath the boy a mother, too?” cried the writer of comedies. “now, heywood, on thy soul, no more of this!” cried the master-player with quivering lips. “ye will make me out no man, or else a fiend. i cannot let the fellow go—i will not let him go.” his hands were twitching, and his face was pale, but his lips were set deter- minedly. “and, tom, there's that within me will not abide even thy pestering. so come, no more of it! upon my soul, i sour over soon " so they came on gloomily past the bear- houses and the queen's kennels. the river wind was full of the wild smell of the bears; but what were bears to poor nick, whose last faint hope that the master-player meant to keep his word and send him home again was gone? they passed the paris gardens and the tall round play-house that francis langley had just built. a blood-red banner flaunted overhead, with a large white swan painted thereon; but nick saw neither the play-house nor the swan; he saw only, deep in his heart, a little gable-roof among old elms, with blue smoke curling softly up among the rippling leaves; an open door with tall pink hollyhocks beside it; and in the door, watching for him till he came again, his own mother's face. he began to cry silently. “nay, nick, my lad, don't cry,” said hey- wood gently; “’t will only make bad matters worse. mever is a weary while; but the long- est lane will turn at last: some day thou’lt find thine home again all in the twinkling of an eye. why, nick, "t is england still, and thou an englishman. come, give the world as good as it can send.” nick raised his head again, and throwing the hair back from his eyes, walked stoutly along, though the tears still trickled down his cheeks. “sing thou my songs,” said heywood heart- [april, master skylark. ily, “and i will be thy friend—let this be thine earnest.” as he spoke he slipped upon the boy's finger a gold ring with a green stone in it cut with a tall tree: this was his seal. they had now come through the garden to the rose theatre where the lord admiral's company played; and carew was himself again. “come, nicholas,” said he half jestingly, “be done with thy doleful dumps — care killed a cat, they say, lad. why, if thy hateful looks could stab, i'd be a dead man forty times. come, cheer up, lad, that i may know thou lovest me.” “but i do na love thee!” cried nick indig- nantly. “tut! do not be so dour. thou 'lt soon be envied by ten thousand men. come, don't make a face at thy good fortune as though it were a tripe fried in tar. come, lad, be pleased; thou 'lt be the pet of every high-born dame in london town.” “i'd rather be my mother's boy,” nick an- swered simply. chapter xix. the rose play-house. the play-house was an eight-sided, three- storied, tower-like building of oak and plastered lath, upon a low foundation of yellow brick. two outside stairways ran around the wall, and the roof was of bright red english tiles with a blue lead gutter at the eaves. there was a lit- tle turret, from the top of which a tall ash stave went up; and on the stave, whenever there was to be a play, there floated a great white flag on which was a crimson rose with a golden heart, just like the one that nick with such delight had seen come up the oxford road a few short days before. under the stairway was a narrow door, marked “for the playeres onelie”; and in the doorway stood a shrewd-faced, common-looking man, writing upon a tablet which he held in his hand. there was a case of quills at his side, with one of which he was scratching bus- ily, now and then prodding the ink-horn at his girdle. he held his tongue in his cheek, and moved his head about as the pen formed the letters: he was no expert penman, this phil henslowe, the stager of plays. he looked up as they came to the step. “a poor trip, carew,” said he, running his fin- ger down the column of figures he was adding. “the play was hardly worth the candle — cleared but five pound; and then, after i had paid the carman three shilling fip to bring the stuff down from the city,'t was lost in the river from the barge at paul's wharf! a good two pound.” “hard luck!” said carew. “hard? adamantine, i say! why, "t is very stones for luck, and the whole road rocky! here 's burbage, condell, and will shakspere ha’ rebuilt blackfriars playhouse in famous shape; and, marry, where are we?” nick started. an idea came creeping into his head. will shakspere had married his mo- ther's own cousin, anne hathaway of shottery; and he had often heard his mother say that master shakspere had ever been her own good friend when they were young. “he and jonson be thick as thieves,” said henslowe; “and chettle says that will hath near done the book of a new play for the au- tumn — a master fine thing !—‘romulus and juliana,' or something of that italian sort, to fol- low ben jonson's comedy. ned alleyn played a sweet fool about ben's comedy. called it monstrous bad; and now it has taken the money out of our mouths to the tune of nine pound six the day — and here, while ye were gone, i ha' played my lord of pembroke's men in your ‘robin hood, heywood, to scant twelve shilling in the house!” heywood flushed. “nay, tom, don't be nettled; 't is not the fault of thy play. there 's naught will serve. we 've tried old marlowe and robin greene, peele, nash, and all the rest; but, what! they will not do—’t is shakspere, shak- spere; our city flat-caps will ha' nothing but shakspere!” nick listened eagerly. master will shak- spere must indeed be somebody in london town he stared across into the drifting cloud of mist and smoke which hid the city like a pall, and wondered how and where, in that terrible hive of more than a hundred thousand men, he could find one man. “i tell thee, tom heywood, there 's some o master skylark. stead. “what a pretty boy!” she said, and tossed him a flower that one of the men had just given her. it fell at nick's feet. he started back, looking up. the girl smiled, so “nick put one leg over the sill and looked back.” he took off his cap and bowed; but the men looked sour. - at the side of the stage was a screen with long leather fire-buckets and a pole-ax hanging upon it, and behind it was a door through which nick saw the river and the gray walls of the old dominican friary. as he came down to it, some one thrust out a staff and barred the way. it was the bandy-legged man with the ribbon in his ear. nick looked out longingly; it seemed so near! “master carew saith thou art not to stir out- side — dost hear?” said the bandy-legged man. “ay,” said nick, and turned back. there was a narrow stairway leading to the second gallery. he went up softly. there was no one in the gallery, and there was a win- dow on the side next to the river; he had seen it from below. he went toward it slowly that he might not arouse suspicion. it was above his head. there were stools for hire standing near. he brought one and set it under the window. it stood unevenly upon the floor, and made a wabbling noise. he was afraid some one would hear him; but the apprentices in the pit were rattling dice, and two or three gentlemen's pages were wrangling for the best places on the platform; while, to add to the general riot, two young gallants had brought gamecocks and were fighting them in one corner, amid such a whooping and swashing that one could hardly have heard the skies fall. a printer's man was bawling, “will ye buy a new book p” and the fruit-sellers, too, were raising such a cry of “apples, pears, nuts, cakes, and ale!” that the little noise nick might make would be lost in the wild confusion. master carew and the manager had not come out of the tiring-room. nick got up on the stool and looked out. it was not very far to the ground — not so far as from the top of the big hay-cock in master john combe's field from which he had often jumped. the sill was just breast-high when he stood upon the stool. putting his hands upon it, he gave a little spring, and balanced on his arms a moment. then he put one leg over the window-sill and looked back. no one was paying the slightest attention to him. over all the noise he could hear the man tuning the viol. swinging himself out slowly and silently, with his toes against the wall to steady him, he hung down as far as he could, gave a little push away from the house with his feet, caught a quick breath, and dropped. (to be continued.) the lights that guide in the night. by lieutenant john m. ellicott, u. s. n. when ships are sailing upon the ocean the lights of heaven are their guides. even in the dark ages, when the compass and sextant were unknown instruments, the seemingly motionless pole-star hung like a beacon light in the north- ern heavens, and the rising and setting of the sun and stars distinguished the east from the west. when, however, ships come near the land the lights of heaven are not sufficient safely to guide them. rocks lie in their paths unseen in the night; reefs and shoals spread under the water; while unsuspected currents sweep the frail craft all blindly upon these dangers. nevertheless, ships were sailed along dan- gerous coasts for centuries before a plain sys- tem of marking dangerous places was invented. the early mariners were bold and reckless rovers, more than half pirates, who seldom owned a rood of the coasts along which they sailed, and could not have established lights and landmarks on them had they cared to do so. the rude beginning, then, of a system of lighthouses was when the merchants with whom the reckless mariners traded in those dark ages built beacons near the harbor mouths to guide the ships into port by day, and lighted fires for their guidance at night. as such a harbor- guide had to be a sure landmark in the day- time and a light by night, it soon took on a settled shape — a tower on which could be built a fire; and such a tower was usually built of stone. this method of guiding ships into the ports which they sought was scarcely established be- fore human wickedness used it as a means for their destruction. bands of robbers, or, as they came to be called, “wreckers,” would hide themselves somewhere near the haven sought by a richly laden vessel, and after overpower- ing the fire-keepers would extinguish the bea- con-fire on the night on which the ship was vol. xxiv.- . expected. then they would light another fire near some treacherous reef. the mariner, sail- ing boldly toward the false light, would dash his vessel to destruction on the reef, whereupon nººsºº-hº º º *hºº --~~~~ --- º i º- a screw-pile ocean lighthouse on fowey rock, florida. the robber band would plunder the wreck and make off with the booty. the mediterranean sea was the great cradle of commerce, and some of the ancient beacon- towers at the entrance to its harbors stood in- the lights that guide in the night. [april, tact for centuries. the giant statue known as the colossus, at * rhodes, is supposed to have been used as a beacon and light- house,_the spread of the legs of that great figure of apollo indicating the harbor entrance by day, while a fire burned in the palm of his uplifted colossal hand at night. al- though the account of the colossus is only a matter of guesswork, it is historically true that in those ages of ignorant heedlessness of the need of beacons a light- house was built so grand in proportions, so enduring in character, that it became known as one of the seven wonders of the world, and outlived all the others, save the pyramids, by centuries, and in some ways has never been excelled by any similar structure in modern times, unless it be by our mammoth marble monument to washington. this was the lighthouse built on the little island of pharos by ptolemy philadelphus, king of egypt, two hundred and eighty years before christ, to guide vessels into the harbor of alexandria. from all de- scriptions, it must have closely resembled our washing- ton monument; for it was built of white stone, was square at the base, and tapered toward the apex. open win- dows were near its top, through which the fire within could be seen for thirty miles by vessels at sea. to build it cost eight hundred talents, or nearly one mil- lion dollars; and its height was almost exactly the same as that of the washington monument; so if you can imagine that great column standing solitary on a low, far-reaching, yellow, sandy desert shore, with a fitful fire flaring from its top at night, you will have clearly in mind the pharos at alex- andria, which served as a lighthouse for sixteen hundred years. as commerce became a source of great revenue to nations, the maintenance of lights and bea- cons for the protection of vessels became a national care; but this was of so very gradual a growth that it was not un- til the beginning of the seventeenth century that the building, lighting, and maintaining of lighthouses was looked after with regularity by all gov- ernments. the best proof of the slowness of nations to see the necessity of properly lighting their coasts is afforded by great brit- engraved by chart-es state. ain, as a rule the most a win ter landixo at the minot ledge licht. advanced commercial --- .] the lights that guide in the night. nation. during the reign of queen elizabeth light. putting in red prisms gives still other a religious brotherhood known as “the brother- changes. thus each light has its “character- hood of the most glorious and undivided trin- ity” was directed by an act of parliament to preserve ancient sea-marks, and to erect beacons and “signs of the sea.” for more than a hun- dred years this brotherhood kept up the ancient sea-marks, but erected nothing new; then they began to purchase and operate lights owned by private indi- viduals or by societies; and still later they commenced to build lighthouses and beacons. fi- nally, in , parliament gave trinity house the entire control of the lighthouses of england. meantime the means of lighting was being steadily improved. the open fire gave place to the oil-lamp; then a curved mirror, called a parabolic mirror, was placed behind the lamp to bring the rays together; next, many lamps with mirrors were grouped about a central spindle and some such lights are still in opera- tion. the greatest stride came when an ar- rangement of lenses, known as the fresnel lens, in front of a lamp replaced the mirror behind it. this lens was rapidly improved for light- house purposes, until now a cylindrical glass house surrounds the lamp-flame. this house has lens-shaped walls which bend all the rays to form a horizontal zone of strong light which pierces the darkness to a great distance. the rapid increase in the number of light- houses has made it necessary to have some means of telling one from another, or, as it is termed, of giving to each light its “characteris- tic.” coloring the glass made the light dim- mer, but as red comes most nearly to white light in brightness, some lights have red lenses. the latest and best plan, however, is to set up- right prisms at intervals in a circular frame- work around the lens, and to revolve this frame by clockwork. thus the light is made to flash every time a prism passes between it and an observer. by changing the number and places of the prisms, or the speed of the clockwork, the flashes for any one light can be made to occur at intervals of so many seconds for that section of a fresnel lens. istic,” and this is written down in signs on the charts, and fully stated in the light-lists carried by vessels. thus, on a chart you may note that the light you want to sight is marked “f. w., v. w. fl., -sec.,” which means that it is “fixed white varied by white flashes every ten seconds.” when a light is sighted you see if those are its characteristics; and, if so, you have found the right one. another scheme is used on the coasts of france, in addition to those i have told you. it is a means for swinging a vertical beam of light across the sky at regular times. thus the florida. the lighthouse at st. augustine, whereabouts of a light can be discovered by the appearance of its beam long before the light itself shows above the horizon. lighthouse buildings are variously painted the lights that guide in the night. [april, so that they will have a “characteristic” by day. thus some towers are red, some black, some white and black in horizontal or verti- cal stripes, some checkerboarded, and some painted in spiral bands like those on a barber's pole as in the picture on page . one seldom thinks, when he watches the in a northeaster. brightly cheering and safely guiding light of a lighthouse, what ceaseless watching and patient heroism it takes to keep the light burning year in and year out through all weathers. gener- ally there is for each light only a keeper with two assistants, and often the keeper is assisted only by his wife, sons, or daughters. even the most comfortably situated lighthouses are generally on lonely headlands, with no human dwelling near. others are on outlying rocks, or islands swept by the sea, and wholly cut off from the land except in fair weather. there are even a few which, built upon sunken reefs, seem to rise from the very bed of the ocean, and against which storm-driven seas break with shocks which shake them to their foundations. such are the eddystone light- house, off the coast of england at the entrance to the english channel, and our own minot's ledge light, near the entrance to boston harbor. these two are the most isolated houses in the world. they were built at the utmost peril to human life. each was swept away by storms after completion, and had to be rebuilt. the first lighthouse on minot's ledge was built in . it was an octagonal tower resting on the tops of eight wrought-iron piles eight inches in diame- ter and sixty feet high, with their bases sunk five feet in the rock. these piles were braced together in many ways; and, as they offered less surface to the waves than a solid structure, this lighthouse was considered by all authori- ties upon the subject to be exceptionally strong. its great test came in april, . on the th of that month, two keepers being in the light- house, an easterly gale set in, steadily increas- ing in force. people on shore, and no doubt the keepers themselves, watched the heavy seas and exposed light- i outside and inside weather. (a ditty for springtime or any other time of year.) in the morning, when our eyes pop open early, very early, and we creep and peep to watch the sun arise; if he 's hiding, and a cloudy sky a-glow- ering, grim and surly, has no streaming golden beaming for our eyes, why, then, lightly as a feather, must our spirits dance together, and our faces must be sunny all day long; for as fresh as highland heather we can make the inside weather when the outside seems to be so very wrong. but if with the outdoor sunshine all the happy birds are singing, and the trees are budding in the glad, warm light; and the arbutus is peeping from its brown leaves' tender keeping, and the face of day is fresh and sweet and bright, - why, then, why not all together make our faces match the weather ?— fresh and sweet and bright and sunny all day long ! for as fragrant as the heather is the charming outside weather, and the inside cannot be so very wrong. jessie macmillan anderson. the boyless town. a cross old woman of long ago declared that she hated noise: “the town would be so pleasant, you know, if only there were no boys.” she scolded and fretted about it till her eyes grew heavy as lead, and then, of a sudden, the town grew still, for all the boys had fled. and all through the long and dusty street there was n’t a boy in view ; the base-ball lot where they used to meet was a sight to make one blue. the grass was growing on every base, and the paths that the runners made; for there was n't a soul in all the place who knew how the game was played. the dogs were sleeping the livelong day — why should they bark or leap p there was n’t a whistle or call to play, and so they could only sleep. vol. xxiv.- . ' the pony neighed from his lonely stall, and longed for saddle and rein; and even the birds on the garden wall chirped only a dull refrain. the cherries rotted and went to waste — there was no one to climb the trees; and nobody had a single taste, save only the birds and bees. there was n’t a messenger-boy — not one to speed as such messengers can: if people wanted their errands done, they sent for a messenger-man. there was little, i ween, of frolic and noise; there was less of cheer and mirth : the sad old town, since it lacked its boys, was the dreariest place on earth. the poor old woman began to weep, then woke with a sudden scream : “dear me!” she cried; “i have been asleep; and oh, what a horrid dream . " robert clarkson zongue. miss nina barrow. by frances cou rtenay baylor. [this story was begun in the february number.] chapter v. nina at sea. “take her up, jobson | here, thomas, help jobson put miss nina into the carriage,” said marian by way of putting an end to a most painful scene on the morning of the th, the day they were to sail for england. it almost consoled claudine for the three days and nights in which she had walked the floor with her poor face puffed out beyond rec- ognition in consequence of nina's selfish ex- posure of her to the rain, and for all the conse- quent suffering. she said to marian, who had been very kind to her: “mademoiselle, she will be so furious as not was, never, since i am with madame!” nina dimly divined that there was something in the air; and when the truth could no longer be concealed there was a scene. she and her grandy had what the spanish expressively call “moors and christians,” meaning a tremen- dous dispute — a good deal of “moor” and very little “christian,” indeed; and i grieve to say that mrs. andrews, being old and feeble, got much the worse of the disgraceful dispute, and would certainly have fared still worse had she not enlisted claudine on her side. that active young person buzzed about them, and, honestly shocked and indignant, cried out from time to time: “oh / oh / quelle honte /—méchante, dé. testable/"—and seizing nina, dragged her away, and was holding her firmly by the wrists when marian entered. nina, on seeing marian, rushed into her own room, banged the door, locked it, and continued to shriek like a de- mented thing. as soon as mrs. andrews could speak she said: “she is furious with me for keeping it from her. she says she will never forgive me, and that she simply will not go. oh, dear! what am i to do with her, marian p i would have told her, only i knew she would be so opposed to it, and do just as she has done; and so i thought it best to get everything done quietly and all ready. could n't you go to her and coax her round, and reconcile her to the idea, marian, and get her in a good humor.by to-morrow? we must go; our passage is taken, and every- thing.” “i am afraid i am in no humor to do any coaxing, cousin,” said marian. “i don't like to trust myself to speak to nina at all, at present, i am so indignant with her for her behavior to you. i never knew anything so painful, so shocking, as her conduct this af. ternoon. i have no words to express—” “now, marian, i 'll not have fault found with nina. we all have our faults. oh, if she only would stop her crying ! ” nina cried until the door had actually to be burst open, and there she was on the bed cry- ing herself into hysterics. marian, who was one of those calm, sensible women to whom people always look in an emergency, without a word stooped down, picked nina up in her arms, walked rapidly down the passage to the bath-room, and putting her head under the shower-bath, turned on the water. it was only for an instant, but nina gave a startled gasp and came back to her “seven senses” with a rush. marian then carried her back, all wet and dripping, and not heeding claudine's fussy suggestions, undressed the child, rubbed her off briskly, popped her into her gown, cleared the room, opened the windows, turned out the gas, and stayed on guard till nina slept. next morning she took a light breakfast to her patient. “i don't want anything,” whimpered nina, pettishly. marian calmly poured out the tea, buttered the bread, and bade her eat it; and miss nina barrow. i she was doing so when mrs. andrews came to the door. “cousin,” said marian, “you have not much time; won't you leave nina to me? however, we will talk of that another time. we shall have to bestir ourselves this morning. here, claudine !” she gave claudine directions rapidly in french about helping nina to dress and finish- ing the packing. then, going to her room, she made herself ready, spent an hour in helping mrs. andrews to do the thousand and one last things, rang for the porters, gave her arm to her cousin, and called to claudine and nina to follow. “take no notice of nina, cousin,” she urged. “it is much better so.” mrs. andrews was borne off downstairs, and after about five minutes nina came rushing out from the elevator and down the hall. “i won't go to england,” she called; “i tell you, i won't /" and running into the parlor ad- joining, she threw herself on the sofa, rolled off, drummed with her heels, and banged her head about on the floor, for all the world like an enraged baby. it was then that marian called the waiters and bade them put nina, willy-nilly, into the carriage at once, having previously seen that mistress and maid took their places. jobson and thomas bore nina off screaming, her legs and arms flapping like a mill-wheel. marian jumped in at a bound, jobson and thomas fell back panting from their recent ex- ertions, the horses plunged forward. the deed was done, and they were off. there was no- thing for nina to do except to sit still and sub- mit and gradually subside, for marian took no notice of her whatever. marian engaged the grandmother in conversation, busied herself with the packages, or discussed their plans, until she had her party safely at the landing. then the carriage was dismissed, steamer-chairs were bought, and the passengers and their ef. fects were transferred to the “arabia” before nina could recover from the state of amaze- ment into which she had been plunged. this capable, composed, resolute cousin marian was not “grandy,” and somehow had the advan- tage of her; but though nina submitted, she decided she would “show her a thing or two some day!” meanwhile the novelty of the scene, the fine ship, the crowds thronging it, the leave-takings, the long cabin filled with people, the tables heaped all their length with flowers sent the passengers by their friends, swept all unpleasant thoughts out of nina's mind, and set her to staring and chattering. besides, she stumbled almost immediately upon louise compton, who was “going, too"; so before long she was laughing joyously. marian arranged everything most comforta- bly for mrs. andrews in her cabin, and it was settled that claudine should occupy the trans- verse sofa-bed there, nina and her grandmother the two berths, marian herself being in another state-room some distance from them. by the time this was done, nina had roamed all over the ship in her usual restless fashion; she had penetrated even to the cook's galley; and had been challenged by the captain with a good-natured “hello! young un, what are you doing in my cabin p come out of there!” louise compton had refused to enter, remained outside, and begged nina not to go in. nina was pushed hither and thither by the crowd; and, finally, having sat down on a bonnet-box and crushed it in, had been soundly berated by the lady to whom it belonged—a woman whose appearance suggested a british grenadier in petticoats. she had been for thirty years the principal of a “young ladies' educational establishment” in montreal, and was very se- vere, not to say awful, in appearance. “may i ask, little girl, if you are aware that that is my box upon which you are sitting p” she had first said to nina austerely; “my cap- box / get up immediately . " “well, i did n't say it was n't,” retorted nina, with the utmost coolness, turning her pert face up toward the imposing countenance looming above her. the “grenadier” could scarcely believe her senses. she, miss gregory, before whom gen- erations of pupils and parents and teachers and servants and tradesmen had bowed in all hu- mility and submission, to be spoken to in such a way by a little girl—a mere child! the tiers of gray curls packed above and .] miss nina barrow. not merely because it was demanded; and rev- erence in her was as yet dormant, unawakened. she had, indeed, a capacity for all noble feel- ing; but it would not have been suspected by any one who had heard her angry and imperti- nent reply to miss gregory's last unwise speech. miss gregory certainly had not been polite, and she soon became even abusive. the signal for departure being given just then, however, a general commotion ensued, and the scene ended by nina's running to stare over the side of the ship, which glided gently out of the dock into the river, swung her sharp bow around, and started off bravely and cheerfully on her long, invisible path across the ocean, followed by faint cheers, waving handkerchiefs, and the lingering, fixed gaze of the relatives and friends on shore. nina and louise compton naturally drifted together to the same places, and were much in- terested in all that was going on. they pointed out this or that to each other, and made merry, very merry, over the odd costumes and the baskets, parcels, bags, and big bundles of the steerage passengers; while mrs. andrews, mrs. compton, and marian made acquaintance with one another. miss gregory, in walking past them, chanced to drop her cane. louise darted forward to pick it up, but was not allowed to do so. miss gregory waved her away, and with considerable difficulty stooped and re- gained possession of it, saying acidly: “no, thank you. i have had quite enough of for- ward children for one afternoon"; and then she resumed her majestic course, her volumin- ous skirts catching the evening breeze, an in- verted mushroom of a hat tied formally under her square, set jaw, a plaid shawl drawn tightly about her stately figure. louise colored, and running back, caught her mother's eye and her gentle smile, and her words, “never mind, dear. you did what was kind. what has so vexed the lady ?” there was no answer from louise, who only looked in an embarrassed way at nina; and presently they all went below, nina holding her grandmother's elbow and saying as she skipped along: “it's great fun, grandy, and i was a big goose to make a fuss about coming.” at table the members of the party were placed by or opposite one another, but miss gregory happened to sit next to marian. the latter was much amused when miss gregory, having-twice recommended stewed mushrooms, which marian twice declined, said to the stew- ard not ten minutes later: “stewed mushrooms for this lady, steward!” “but i don't care for them, thank you; i don't eat them,” said marian. “but you should eat them; it is a foolish prejudice; there is nothing more wholesome, more delicious,” insisted miss gregory, serving her before she could remonstrate. they all sat on deck some time afterward, and marian was charmed with mrs. compton. she found miss gregory an extremely well informed and highly educated woman, who might have been an agreeable one as well had she not been in the habit of mentally ranging on benches before her everybody that she met, while she “imparted information” and “as- sumed charge of" them. marian at last took mrs. andrews below, saw that she needed nothing, and received a kiss and a “thank you, my dear, for being so considerate. you certainly will spoil me dread- fully, marian.” on going next morning to see her, however, marian found her in a woeful state enough, in spite of her precautions; for although all port- holes had been closed by the captain's orders, nina had insisted on having the port-hole open because she found the state-room hot. the result was that “as soon as the sea got hup,” as the voluble stewardess explained to marian, mrs. andrews had been aroused from a sound sleep by a swash, followed by two more waves that left her in a swimming-bath. marian aided her to dress, while the steward- ess and claudine set to work to repair the damage done. nina's air of bravado died away as she watched marian deftly helping her grandmother, and trying to make her more comfortable in mind and body. the unspoken reproach of the clear gray eyes, the kind helpfulness toward her grandmother, the silence toward herself, marking marian's displeasure, at last wrung from nina a jerky, embarrassed, “well, i did n't know it was going to come in " miss nina barrow. [apr , with miss gregory, at queenstown. mrs. compton and louise also had stopped there, as they were to journey through ireland to england, to limeshire, the county in which the aubreys lived, where the comptons had friends. nina was not particularly struck by the really fine sights to be seen in liverpool; she had not yet learned to take an intelligent interest in such things; but she was fascinated by the strangeness of her surroundings, and, when they began going about, by the street- boys who, wherever she went, haunted her footsteps, headed her off, put down small squares of carpet, and proceeded to turn somer- saults and make wheels of themselves for her amusement. she scattered ten shillings among them, and as much more among the wretched beggars with whom, unhappily, the city swarms; and at last could not turn around without find- ing herself surrounded. the great norman draft-horses, with their thick necks and shaggy hoofs, interested her; and she and marian had an amusing visit to the market, a number of walks, and some drives in the suburbs. mrs. andrews who was not well enough to go with them, soon tired of liverpool; so at break- fast one morning they all agreed to go on to london, and the plan was carried out that same day. they were surprised to find it still quite light when they rolled into euston station in london at ten o'clock that evening. “i could read quite fine print, if i liked,” said marian. “how odd it seems, at this hour!” “oh, yes. bill, on the ship, he says the sun in england does n’t really get up or go to bed at all, as it does in the southern parts. . he says it just dips around a corner, and comes up again smiling,” said nina. “bill was a nice man, but he was so awful busy all the time, very, i mean, cousin marian,— he had n't much time to talk. and it was a shame; he knew 'bout — about—such wonderful things. i was dying to hear about them, and so was louise. i gave him my bottle of cologne for good-by, and he said: ‘lor', miss, whatever should i do with it?' and i told him to smell it, that i guessed he could do that if he tried. and he said, ‘smell it, miss?— me / i'd not know bergamot from bilge-water; but i'll send it 'ome to my little mary—bless 'er heyes!' don't they talk funny over here, cousin marian p” “speak queerly well, that is an open question, dear. they think the same thing of us, you know !” said marian. marian secured cabs, and nina was much surprised when their baggage was heaped above them — and, indeed, she kept her head out of the window while it was being done. “look here ! it 'll smash in on us,” she said sharply to the cabby; “or roll off, or something. have n't you any baggage-wagons in london to take trunks, without people waiting around so long, and carrying them off on—their own backs are you afraid they 'll get stolen? they ought to be in our rooms this minute waiting for us. gracious! you are not smart a bit. why don't you do as they do in america?” cabby assured her that it would be all right, and with some grumbling about a “saratoga" that he and his fellow-cabmen together could scarcely lift up to the roof, and which he said was “what you might call a 'ouse when stood on hend,” he rubbed a red nose with the handle of his whip, asked, “wot's the address, my lady ?” then he touched his hat, mounted the box, and drove off, meditating upon the extra charge he meant to make. the novelty of her surroundings, of everything that she saw, — streets, houses, people, shops, policemen, the children, the beggars, the carriages, the ser- vants, the rush and roar of the capital of the commercial world, as she bounced and jolted along, amused nina immensely. now it was a chimney-sweep who caught her eye; now a costermonger and his donkey-cart; now a street vender of flowers, “all a-blowin' and a-grow- in’”; now a group of little ones with their in- dian “ayah"; now a guardsman in a gorgeous uniform, with a pancake of a hat stuck jauntily on the side of his head, walking beside a neat nursery-maid; now a “swell” tearing along in a hansom; now a gorgeous turnout with liveried servants, all hats and plush and buttons. on they went, on and on and on, nina exclaiming, “oh, look " oh, see! look here—there! yon- der, claudine! oh, how funny it all is " and claudine, solemnly gazing, and sitting up very erect, her arms full of parcels, would reply with a superior smile, “oui, mademoiselle, les anglais miss nina barrow. ingly, but prepared to bluster on provocation, as the peculiar tone of his voice showed. “well, what of it?” asked nina impatiently, her nose in the air. “nothing, my lady; nothing whatsomedever — nothing,” cooed cabby, all contentment; “which the things can be counted by all, and there as soon as ever they can be got on a four-wheeler”; after which he again touched his hat, as did cabby the second, and nina rolled away again, finally reaching the hotel, where marian anxiously awaited them. “is n’t he the most perfectly hideous beauty of a pug that you ever saw p such a time as we've had all turned over, and everything. english drivers are the greatest gumps! gran- dy's saratoga 's gone to smash, i tell you! it'll be here presently. you let the clerk pay him, so he can't take you in. what sort of a hotel is this, anyway?” inquired nina, display- ing her purchase and relating her adventures; “ and what did you come to this horrid, dark, ugly, old-fashioned place for p i 've a great mind to get up and go somewhere else. it's the pokiest, blackest—well, i 'm hungry; i guess i 'll stay. here, claudine, take my hat!” stay they did, and were comfortably lodged, admirably served, and heavily charged; but nina did not think the place improved on acquaintance. she missed the noise, the glit- ter, the publicity, of the huge caravansaries to which she had been accustomed. “call this a hotel !” she said to the meek housemaid in attendance; “why, it hardly holds our trunks; and just look at the dingy furniture | mercy! you 'd open your eyes if you could see our hotels—st. augustine, southern california, saratoga, and narragansett pier, and all. what 's the matter here, any- way ? you 're all walking around as if on eggs, and whispering. is anybody dead? no? well, why don't you cheer up, then, and look lively? you have n't got any people around, or any bands, and there 's nothing going on, and getting a pitcher of ice-water takes an hour, and we are not going to stay shut up in our rooms all the while, eating by ourselves like a jail, and not a bit of fun! i know i'm just going to hate london . i have n't looked around much yet, but i just know i'm going to be awfully disappointed.” to all of which mary ann opposed only a “really, now, miss!” or “you don't say so, miss' " nina “looked around" next day, the after- noon of the day after their arrival; and this is how it came about. mrs. andrews, being tired and unequal to any exertion, kept her room. marian had gone to see an old friend, having provided nina, as she thought, with agreeable occupation. she had scarcely left the house, however, when nina might have been seen struggling into her ulster and pinning on her hat. “i’m just going to see if there's anything going on outside in the streets,” said she to herself. “i’ll just go out and look around and see what 's in the stores, and all the funny english people and things”; and nina sallied forth, with all london before her. the elderly, highly respectable hall-porter stared and ventured to say, “you are never going out alone, miss, are you ?” as she passed him. “yes, i am, too. i'm not going to ask you, i guess,” replied nina promptly, with a toss of her head. “ahem | beggin' pardon, does the fambly know—w'ich they carn’t,” said the porter, with a little cough behind his hand. “young ladies are not allowed to go about the city alone in this country,” remarked the old man solemnly. “it ain't safe. it ain't done, miss. you should n’t, now, really, miss.” “well, i don't care if they don't. i'm a 'merican, and i can take care of myself, and i'm going to do as i please,” announced nina, as she put up her grandmother's black-lace par- asol and went her wilful way. ( 'o be continued.) the eiger. the monch. the jungfrau tunnel. by f. w. wendt. “yes, pretty rough trip,” uncle tom called back, leaning over the railing of the steamer that had brought him home again. and in truth it must have been; for when may and harry, standing on the pier, looked up at the huge black funnels, they saw large white salt- patches clinging to the very top, showing that the ocean had climbed away up there. on the evening of uncle tom's arrival, a merry little family party had gathered around the marston tea-table. the red-shaded lamp in the middle of the table, among steaming bis- cuits and delicacies of every kind, threw a fine, cheery glow over everything. even the sing- ing tea-kettle bubbled and chuckled, and danced its little cover up and down in high glee, be- cause uncle tom had come home again from europe. when he came from abroad he al- ways had news and stories to tell, which may and harry enjoyed as much as their parents, dr. and mrs. marston. - “well, tom, how fares the world on the other side of the atlantic, and what news can you tell us?” asked dr. marston. “the most interesting novelty i have found is a plan to take a railroad excursion through a tunnel to the very tip-top of europe amid snow and ice,” answered uncle tom. oo [april, the jungfrau tunnel. alpine climbers. table is switzerland,” said mrs. marston, “and uncle tom can take us with him and point out places on our make-believe switzerland.” uncle tom went out, and when he came back with a large package of photographs un- der his arm, he found everything ready for the “trip.” the rough, dark-green tablecloth was a fine ground to build upon. large and small plates were to represent cities, and cups of dif- ferent sizes were ready to be put into the proper places as snow-covered mountains. “ah! here we are,” cried uncle tom. “now, ladies and gentlemen, we will take you up higher than you have ever been in your life. all aboard | – we start from interlaken. “on the map, you see, switzerland looks like a large, irregular ink-blot, squeezed in between france, germany, and italy. its boundary- line is very ragged, little tails and legs and fringes sticking out all around. but our green, oblong table will do well enough.” uncle tom took up two large plates. “now find berne and lucerne on the map, and put the plates on the correct places on the table.” harry and may, after a little study of the map, laid them in their proper positions. then they found interlaken, and marked that site, too, with a small saucer. the three formed a triangle in the middle of switzerland, with one of the corners, marked by the interlaken sau- cer, pointing south. “that is to show us exactly where we are,” said uncle tom. “now below interlaken we will place three “tea-cup mountains.” the one on the right is the eiger, the next one, to the left, touching it, is the mönch, and the largest one, to the left of the mönch, is the jungfrau. “a train leaves interlaken early in the morn- ing and takes us through the beautiful lauter- brunnen valley. then we have to change cars and get into a funny little combination com- posed of one car and a small locomotive. this strange train pushes and puffs up the steep incline with us, and gives us a fine view of the mountains—the eiger, mönch, and jung- frau — the mountains which are to be pierced by the great tunnel through which the ascent is to be made. “every minute the scenery changes. the river below and the chalets grow smaller and smaller, and finally, as we look down, appear like noah's-ark villages. “we have reached scheidegg, the last sta- tion at present, and the beginning of the great railway that is to be built. we are very high, about feet, but as yet we seem to be only at the foot of the three mighty mountains that you can see in this large picture. the one farthest to the left is the eiger, where the tun- nel is to begin. then comes the mönch, and the largest one on the right is the jungfrau. here also is the plan that shows you exactly what the engineers are going to do.” .] o the jungfrau tunnel. uncle tom placed a tracing beside the pho- tograph. “do you see that dotted line?” he asked. “that is how the tunnel is going to be built. where it begins on the left is the farthest point you can now reach by rail — station scheidegg, as i have told you. “one day i walked up toward the point where the engineers propose to begin the tunneling. pickaxes and powder and dyna- mite will slowly march ahead of them and open the passage for present and future generations. first into the very heart of the eiger mountain; then, after a sharp right- turn, through the next mountain, the mönch; still on, under the gla- ciers and ice and snow fields, to the center of the jungfrau, to within about feet from the top, directly under the highest peak. a large circular shaft will be run vertically from here to the summit. there will be steps going up this shaft, but as two hundred feet is a pretty long climb by means of a stairway, a large elevator will shoot up and down, and whirl people from the dark interior of a mountain into the dazzling sunlight of the most heavenly swiss panorama.” “why, that is like ‘arabian nights’ and “aladdin'!” exclaimed may. “you are quite right, may; people do things now that seem more incredible than the feats accomplished by the slave of aladdin's won- derful lamp,” said uncle tom. harry had been thinking and wondering. how the mountains are climbed to-day. he was a bright lad, and always wanted to know the why and wherefore of things. “how long is that whole tunnel going to be " he finally asked. “over six miles.” “and the train goes uphill under ground crossing. a crevasse. all the time, does n’t it; and has to go very slowly p" “yes.” “then,” said harry, “i don't think i would like to creep around in darkness, inside of a mountain, like that, and not see a thing.” “you are right, my boy; but it will not be necessary. every fifteen minutes there will be a large, roomy station, with great windows cut .] the jungfrau tunnel. -newsmen (**) *-****__------- …ºt. p.ºrg/ºuſ” (aarthern jide.) diagram of the proposed jungfrau railroad. “no,” said uncle tom; “we can only rea- son it out; a very ingenious experiment has been made with guinea-pigs.” “with guinea-pigs!” called out little may. “is n't that funny?” then uncle tom told the children how scientific men had proved by means of animals that the sickness that overcomes most people at great heights is due as much to exertion as to the altitude. guinea-pigs were chosen to experiment upon; and as it would have been difficult actually to take them up the jungfrau mountain, a very clever scheme was found to produce the same conditions. “air, light as it may seem, weighs fifteen pounds a square inch at the level of the sea. the higher we rise the lighter or more rarefied it becomes. this we must fully comprehend to understand the experiment. to begin with, we shall need a large glass bell-jar, one from which the air can be pumped. we can tell exactly how light the air under the jar is at any moment by the instrument connected with it.” so saying, uncle tom showed a pic- ture of the apparatus. “it looks like a thermometer,” said may. “it does; and it is a similar instrument, called a “manometer,' or measurer of the pressure of gases, such as air. under the jar there is a vol. xxiv.- . wheel, like the wheels that we have seen squir- rels play in. by means of electricity they can make this wheel revolve slowly or quickly. “and now our experiment begins. we put two guinea-pigs, called ‘john' and “jim,' un- diagram of the spiral staircase and elevators. to the summit of the jungfrau. der the glass jar. john, however, is placed in the wheel, while jim is allowed to lie down a tiger tale. and thus beguiled, those tigers smiled º the livelong day n til, at length, there was not left ***** -- - - another tune to play. + *k * + º-what happened º then i do not - know: i was not there to see. * º but when a - ſman runs short orºtánes. *can tigers ºrwººtº- be appeased ºn with prunes, * or marmalade (~" and silver spoons? that's what perplexes me. the true story of marco polo. by noah brooks. [this series was begun in the june number.] chapter xix. the wonders of india. marco's description of the pearl-fishery of ceylon is not only very interesting, but also truthful. the general features of the pearl- fishery of to-day are the same as in his time. the name “maabar,” which marco gives to the region described, means probably that which we now know as the coromandel coast. the point which he calls “bettelar” is undoubtedly patlam, on the coast of ceylon. the shark- charmers, of whom marco speaks, are still in existence. they pretend to be able to charm the sharks so that they will not attack the divers. the secret which they have is usually bequeathed from father to son, and never goes out of the family; and it is believed by all the natives and by many foreigners that they do really keep away the sharks. marco says: when you leave the island of seilan and sail westward about miles, you come to the great province of maabar, which is styled india the greater; it is the best of all the indies, and is on the mainland. in this province there are five kings, who are own brothers. i will tell you about each in turn. the province is the finest and noblest in the world. at this end of the province reigns one of those five royal brothers, who is a crowned king, and his name is sonder bandi davar. in this kingdom they find fine and great pearls; and i will tell how they are got. the sea here forms a gulf between the island of seilan and the mainland. and all round this gulf the water io the true story of marco polo. [april, has a depth of no more than or ſathoms, and in 'some places no more than two fathoms. the pearl- fishers take their vessels, great and small, and proceed into this gulf, where they stop from the beginning of april till the middle of may. they go first to a place called bettelar, and then go miles into the gulf. here they cast anchor and shift from their large vessels into small boats. the merchants divide into various companies, and each of these must engage a number of men on wages, hiring them for april and half of may. of all the produce they have first to pay the king, as his royalty, the tenth part. and they must also pay those men who charm the great fishes, to prevent them from injuring the divers while engaged in seeking pearls under water, one twentieth part of all that they may take. these fish-charmers are termed abraiaman ; and their charm holds good for that day only, for at night they dissolve the charm so that the fishes can work mischief at their will. these abraiaman know also how to charm beasts and birds and every living thing. when the men have got into the small boats they jump into the water and dive to the bottom, which may be at a depth of from to fathoms, and there they remain as long as they are able. and there they find the shells that contain the pearls, and these they put into a net bag tied round the waist, and mount up to the surface with them, and then dive anew. when they can't hold their breath any longer they come up again, and, after a little, down they go once more, and so they go on all day. these shells are in shape like oysters or sea-hoods. and in these shells are found pearls, great and small, of every kind, sticking in the flesh of the shell-fish. in this manner pearls are fished in great quantities, for thence in fact come the pearls which are spread all over the world. and the king of that state hath a very great receipt and treasure from his dues upon those pearls. now we come to a marvelous tale of dia- monds, and the way they are come by, which sounds so much like a chapter out of the “ara- bian nights' entertainments” that we must copy it entire. marco says that after one leaves maabar and travels about one thousand miles in a northerly direction, one comes to the kingdom of mutfili. no such kingdom now exists, and it is supposed that by this was meant motupalle, in the madras presi- dency. it was in mutfili that the golconda diamonds were found; and this is the tale they told marco of the finding of them: it is in this kingdom that diamonds are got; and i will tell you how. there are certain lofty mountains in those parts; and when the winter rains fall, which are very heavy, the waters come roaring down the moun- tains in great torrents. when the rains are over, and the waters from the mountains have ceased to flow, they search the beds of the torrents and find plenty of dia- monds. in summer also there are plenty to be found in the mountains, but the heat of the sun is so great that it is scarcely possible to go thither, nor is there then a drop of water to be found. moreover, in those mountains great serpents are rife to a marvelous de- gree, besides other vermin, and this owing to the great heat. the serpents are also the most venomous in ex- istence, so that any one going there runs fearful peril; for many have been destroyed by these evil reptiles. now among these mountains there are certain great and deep valleys, to the bottom of which there is no ac- cess. wherefore the men who go in search of the dia- monds take with them pieces of flesh, as lean as they can get, and these they cast into the bottom of the valley. now there are numbers of white eagles that haunt those mountains and feed upon the serpents. when the eagles see the meat thrown down, they pounce upon it, and carry it up to some rocky hill-top, where they begin to rend it. but there are men on the watch, and as soon as they see that the eagles have settled, they raise a loud shouting to drive them away. and when the eagles are thus frightened away the men recover the pieces of meat, and find them full of diamonds which have stuck to the meat down in the bottom. for the abundance of diamonds down there in the depths of the valleys is astonishing, but nobody can get down; and if one could, it would be only to be at once devoured by the serpents which are so rife there. there is also another way of getting the diamonds. the people go to the nests of those white eagles, of which there are many, and find plenty of diamonds which the birds have carried off with the meat that was cast into the valleys. and when the eagles themselves are taken diamonds are found in their stomachs. so now i have told you three different ways in which these stones are found. no other country but this king- dom of mutfili produces them, but there they are found both abundantly and of large size. those that are brought to our part of the world are only the refuse, as it were, of the finer and larger stones. for the flower of the diamonds and other large gems, as well as the largest pearls, are all carried to the great khan and other kings and princes of those regions; in truth, they possess all the great treasures of the world. the story of the eagles and the diamonds is one of the oldest in literature. you will find it in the adventures of sindbad the sailor, in the “arabian nights' entertainments”; and as it is very unlikely that marco polo ever saw that book, which had not been translated in his time, we may suppose that his story and that of sindbad had a common origin among the per- sians; for it appears in persian, chinese, ara- bian, jewish, and other oriental legends. in i the true story of marco polo. [april, manner of bird as great. but this i can tell you for certain, that they are not half lion and half bird as our stories do relate; but enormous as they be, they are fashioned just like an eagle. the great khan sent to those parts to inquire about these curious matters, and the story was told by those who went thither. he also sent to procure the release of an envoy of his who had been despatched thither, and had been detained; so both those envoys had many won- derful things to tell the great khan about those strange islands, and about the birds i have mentioned. they brought (as i heard) to the great khan a feather of the said ruc, which was stated to measure spans, whilst the quill part was two palms in circumference, a marvel- ous object. the great khan was delighted with it, and gave great presents to those who brought it. they also brought two boar's tusks, which weighed more than pounds a piece; and you may gather how big the boar must have been that had teeth like that! they related, indeed, that there were some of these boars as big as a great buffalo. there are also numbers of giraffes and wild asses; and in fact a marvelous number of wild beasts of strange aspect. the measurements that were common in marco polo's time are not so familiar nowa- days; but if the readers of st. nicholas want the roc. after an ancient persian drawing. to figure out the dimensions of marco's big bird, a pace may be reckoned as equal to two and a half feet, a span to nine inches, and a palm to four inches. the fable of the rukh, or roc, is one of the oldest in the world—as old as that other which relates the adventures of the men who got their diamonds from the valley of the serpents in such curious fashion; and, like that, we find it in the story of sindbad the sailor. but scien- tific research has proved that some such colos- sal bird did exist in ancient times. there have been found in madagascar the remains of an immense bird, and also a fossil egg of the mon- ster. this egg, which is in the british mu- seum, is thirteen and a quarter inches long and six and a half inches in diameter; its contents would be equal to two and a half gallons. hſ the bird were constructed on the model of the eagle, for instance, its egg, comparing it with that of the eagle, would require a bird so big that its quills would be ten feet long and its wings would spread over thirty feet. in new zealand have been found the bones of a great bird called the moa by the natives; this was a lazy and stupid creature, incapable of flying, and not unlike the ostrich in structure and habit. the moa, or dinornis, as it is named by the scientists, was over ten feet high. not long since, there were found, beside the re- mains of a moa, the bones of a still bigger bird which resembled the eagle, and was evidently a bird of prey twice as big as the moa. if this creature lived on the moa as its prey, why may not some other gigantic bird, like the roc, have preyed on the great bird whose egg and bones were found in madagascar p the next succeeding chapters of marco polo's book are taken up chiefly with accounts of the wars of kublai khan, with which we have no great concern. then he skips to the far north, and tells us of the wandering tartars of that region, and of the manners and customs of siberia. his description of the far north made no such profound impression on the mind of eu- rope as was made by his account of the coun- tries in the southern and eastern parts of asia, and need not detain us. now we have come to the end of marco polo's book, and we cannot better end our extracts from it than with the epilogue, or con- cluding address, which rusticiano, or ramusio, or some of the earliest copyists, put down here as a finish to the whole : conclusion. and now ye have heard all that we can tell you about the tartars and the saracens and their customs, and the horsesh of of luck. by rudolph f. bunner. nless i find some ber- ries,” he said, “we shall have only the empty blue bowl for supper.” and again he brushed aside the bramble- bushes and docks and mullens that grew above his head, and looked along the hedgerow and up the dim little road. up the little road to where it grew misty and lonesome looked little jan; and there he saw a horseman, small, and afar off, coming to- ward him. the horse, fat, short, and white, plashed the damp earth as he came nearer and nearer; and afar off jan saw the rider's smile like the smile of a grinning imp, good-natured, strange, and goblin-like as his body, legs, and ears. his eyes twinkled like little, distant stars in the coming twilight as he noticed that jan was watching his approach. “berries p” cried the little figure on horse- back. “pick the berries by your head.” and jan looked at the berries he was stand- ing near. his hand reached for the fruit, but his eyes settled on the stranger; and as they took in his queer style of dress, his fat little stomach, his broad, grinning features, they grew round and wide, till his mouth followed suit and breathed forth a wondering “o !” of surprise. “you never saw any one like me, did you?” asked the rider. “you ought to take a good look at me, so i 'll go home with you, and spend the night at your house.” his words bubbled out as water flows from a round bottle. “come, you hungry little boy with the yellow cap!—but first pick up those eggs near your feet.” jan stared, and slowly turned his eyes from his new friend to the ground; then he picked up the eggs, and fixed his eyes on him again. “and here in my wallet,” cried the horse- man, “is enough for the rest of the supper. well, well, we are in — in —good fortune!” “you are luck!” screamed jan, rushing forward. “you are luck! and my father has waited so long for you!” his berries and “his hand reached for the fruit, ºt his eyes settled on the strancer. eggs fell from his hands as he rushed at the stranger; but his friend, with a merry twist of his foot, caught them before they touched the .] i the horseshoe of luck. the wife and the little girl, who stood in the doorway. they both bowed, courtesied, moved aside, and smiled shyly and hopefully, gazed deprecatingly at the novel guest, pushed wider open the door for him, and luck entered the house. hand in hand the mother and the little girl gertrude came after him, softly and quietly. he was kneeling before the fire, and at his breath the green wood that, as it smoked and smoldered had given forth little plaintive whist- les and sounds as though it was crying to be taken back to the forest, stop- ped all this and changed the tune to a dance of red and yellow flames, and they shone over luck's mis- chievous features, over the mother's pale face, over gertrude's open, black eyes, over jan's round cheeks, and sparkled on the mist of tears of grati- tude and raindrops on the gaunt features of the man. he had come back, for he had left content- ment moored in the one sheltered corner of the old and rickety stable where the rainy mist now thick in the air could not reach and chill him. they watched luck—luck who acted as cook—who emptied his rusty fat wallet for supper, who fanned the smoke up the chimney, and who even found time for the candle, and trimmed and snuffed the candle wick until the flame grew bright. and then they sat down to supper, huddled at one end of the table, that the long delayed visitor might not be crowded and that he might be pleased by the courtesy shown him. “he showed them how to tumble downstairs without - “some eggs?” cried the head of the house, pushing the dish quietly forward— “or, would you rather have some berries to finish your supper with ?” murmured the wife, as she caught luck's roving eye. it went merrily on, the supper, and luck's hobgoblin smile flashed over his face, came, and flitted away. “what did you do with the horseshoe p.” whispered the man's wife to him. “it’s over the door, right enough,” he re- plied. “i could find no nails, but to- morrow will do; there was a hook that i hung it on for the time. but we have better than that with us”; and his lean feat- ures smiled in a rusty way at his guest, as though they were not used to such antics. when they fin- ished, luck turned toward the children, and for the rest of the drizzly, damp evening, indoors, cozy and com- fortable, luck amused them. he showed them how to tumble down- stairs without getting hurt— with no bumps when it was done, – how to drop the glass and chi- na, the little they had, so it would not break. he laughed and frolicked with them, and chased over the little house like a lively kitten. “where shall we put him ” asked the man, when their visitor for the moment had frisked upstairs. “in our room, of course; we must sleep in the one opposite,” answered his wife. “but you forget that the roof leaks in that one,” he replied uneasily, as a gust of wind came, and a thud sounded from upstairs. get i ing hu'rt.’ [april, the horseshoe of luck. “was that luck p” cried the woman anx- iously. “oh, mother!—the big old birds' nest has blown down on the roof,” came the voice of jan from above. sure enough it had, and there it had lodged, over the leak, so as to keep dry the room they were to sleep in. it was late when they went to bed, for luck, with the children, now bethought him to find things in the house long hidden or mislaid. where there 's little to lose there 's less to find; yet a penny and a bent sixpence came to light, and other things followed, little in all, it must be confessed, but enough to keep the whole family awake and excited until a late hour. the little old clock kept up their race as the hours went by, the one hand always winning because it has the longest leg and the other sleeps too much. the leaves outside grew heavy with moisture, and the sly and creeping mist covered the house, the weedy garden, the fields— splash! a drop had fallen full on the nose of the sleeping man, waking him from his dreams of good times. splash another came from the leak above his head that the dislodged birds' nest had stopped up. he bounded out of bed and faced the dark- ness of early morning. groping and chilled, “they all started out, going where the horse's footprints led them.” then, when he was ready, luck was shown to his room. he closed the door, and with a merry bound they heard him land in the mid- dle of the bed; and then they themselves went to their rooms, happy and sleepy, to be ready for the morning. over the house quiet settled, and the out- side noises that the merriment had drowned before could make themselves heard : the swish of the boughs when the breeze blew and they rubbed themselves against the house and wrote their names in the language of the trees on the weather-stained and faded clapboards; the drip, drop, drip of the rain from the worn and sloping eaves. downstairs the hands of he lit a candle. the rain had stopped, though the cold mist still hung round the house, and the soaked birds' nest had ceased to keep the ceiling dry. “i wonder if these things happen when luck is dozing?” he asked himself, and, sleepy and annoyed, he started off to wake his visitor. the door of luck's lodging-place was open, but when he reached there, and the flame of the candle straightened itself out and lit the room, he saw an empty bed! now he was well awake himself. he called out to the rest of the family, he ran down- stairs, he looked in the shed, where no ſat white horse was to be found, but only a few foot- the proud young morher: “he may be president ver!” nanny and jack. by h. c. bunner. her uncle gave little nanny but soon she conquered her terrors, a jack-in-the-box with a squeak; and spoke, like a brave little tot. but the squeak of the jack was nothing “you think you are real,” said nanny; to nanny's terrified shriek. “but, truly, you know you 're not!” the curiosity-shop. by clifford howard. a horse problem. once a farmer who had a number of valuable horses, when he died, left his horses to his three sons to be divided as follows: james, the eldest, was to receive one- halſ; john was to have one-fourth, and little jacob, the youngest, was to get the “remaining sixth.” when the horses were counted it was found that there were just eleven of them. now, according to the will, james was entitled to one-half of them; but as one-half of eleven is five and a half, james was in a fix. john was no better off, because his share of one-fourth would give him two horses and three-fourths of a horse, while little jacob's portion would be only one whole horse and five-sixths of a horse. to chop the horses into fractions was not to be thought of. the boys puzzled over the problem a long time, but were unable to solve it; so at last they called upon a kind neighbor and asked him if he could help them out of their difficulty. this neighbor was a very smart and very good old man, and he told the boys he would be over the next day and straighten the matter for them. so the following morning the eleven horses were driven out into a field and placed in a row, and pretty soon the old neighbor came along leading one of his horses, which he put at the end of the line. then there were twelve horses altogether. next he turned to the eldest son, and he said: “james, my boy, you may take the first six horses in the row, because six are one-half of twelve; and that 's your share.” then he told john to take the next three horses, “because,” said he, “three are one-fourth of twelve; and that's your share.” “and now, jake,” said he to the youngest son, “you may take the next two, because two are one-sixth of twelve; and that's your share.” so james received six, john received three, and jacob received two, making a total of exactly eleven horses; and before the boys could recover from their astonish- ment, the kind old neighbor got up on his horse and rode away. “ uncle sam.” when we talk of the united states government in a familiar sort of way we call it “uncle sam ”; and you have often seen pictures of uncle sam—a long, lean, old-fashioned yankee, with a high hat and with a swal- low-tail coat and breeches marked with the stars and stripes of the flag. the way in which the united states came to be called uncle sam is this: during the war of the united states govern- ment entered into a contract with a man by the name of elbert anderson to furnish supplies to the army. when the united states buys anything from a contractor, an inspector is always appointed to see that the goods are what the contract calls for, and that the government gets full value. in this case the government appointed a man by the name of samuel wilson, who was always called “uncle sam ” by those who knew him. he in- spected every package and cask that came from elbert anderson, the contractor, and if he found that the con- tents were all right, the package or cask was marked with the letters “e. a.— u. s.”—the initials of the contractor and of the united states. the man whose duty it was to do this marking was a jovial sort of fel- low, and when somebody asked him what these letters meant, he said they stood for elbert anderson and uncle sam. everybody, including “uncle sam” wilson himself, thought this was a very good joke; and by and by it got into print, and before the end of the war it was known all over the country; and that is the way the united states received its name of “uncle sam.” mr. wilson, the original “uncle sam,” died at troy, n. y., in , at the age of eighty-four. shaking hands. when we meet a friend we shake hands, and we al- ways shake with the right hand, because we have been taught that it is not proper to offer the left one; but very few of us ever stop to ask where this custom of shaking hands came from, and why it is the right hand is used. like most other customs, shaking hands originally had an important meaning and served a useful purpose, which is now generally forgotten. before people had become as peaceable as they are now, nearly every man always carried a sword or dagger, so that he might be ready to fight at a moment's notice; for in those days people were easily insulted, and it did not take much to start a quarrel. under these circumstances it was necessary for men to be on their guard; and so when one man met another coming along the road, he was never certain whether the other would turn out a friend or an enemy. if both were in a kindly mood and wanted to show that there was no ill-feeling, each grasped the other by the right hand. as the right hand is the one with which the sword is drawn, it was a token that the one who allowed his right hand to be grasped did not intend to harm the other man, and that he placed himself at his mercy. of course, as time went on and people were not so ready to kill one another, this cus- tom no longer had the same meaning; but as folks had got into the habit of shaking hands, they kept it up, and are doing it to this day; and we still insist that the right the letter-box. editorial note. a friendly correspondent, mr. e. l. hale, has writ- ten to the editor about the code of flag-signals published in mr. shelton's serial, “the last three soldiers.” the code will be found on page of the number for december, . mr. hale writes that the code in actual use by the united states signal corps is an exact reversal of that given by mr. shelton. he is right; but during the civil war several dif- ferent codes were in use, and among them that given in the story. our correspondent, however, says very justly that if boys are to learn any code, they should learn the code now in use, so that they may be ready to act as signal- men if necessary. the suggestion is a good one; and the code of signals in actual use to-day is here printed with the thanks of st. nicholas to mr. hale for call- ing attention to it: the myer code. u. s. naval code for visual and telegraphic signaling. a... | e... || i..... || m. | q. | u.. || y.. b. | f. k | n. ... || r. . . w. || z. c.. : g. . | o... | s. . | w. d. . . || h. | l.. . ! p. | t. .. | x. numerals. . . . . . iiii . . . . . . iii || . . . . . . ii . . . . . . ..... . . . . . . . . . . . . . ...... | ...... iii o. . . . . ii abbreviations. t. . . - - x x ... “numerals follow” or “numerals end.”... sig. ...signature end of a word...... - - - - - - - - - - (repeat last word...... . . end of a sentence. repeat last message . . . end of a message........... error.................. . . i understand. . . . . . . . . . movealittle to the right . . . move a little to the left . . instructions for using the code. the whole number opposite each letter or numeral stands for that letter or numeral. to signal with flag or torch. there are but one position and three motions. the first position is with the flag held vertically in front of the center of the body, butt of staff at height of waist, signalman facing squarely toward the station with which it is desired to communicate. the first motion, or “one " or “ ,” is a motion of the flag to the right of the sender, and will embrace an arc of °, starting with the vertical and returning to it, and will be made in a plane exactly at right angles to the line connecting the two signal stations. the second motion, or “two '' or “ ,” is a similar mo- tion to the left of the sender. to make the third motion, “front,” or “three” or “ ,” the flag is waved to the ground directly in front of the sender, and instantly returned to the first position. numbers which occur in the body of a message must be spelled out in full. numerals may be used in signal- ing between stations having naval-signal books, using the code calls. to send a message. “to call” a station, signal its initial or “call letter” until “acknowledged.” “to acknowledge,” signal “i understand,” followed by its initial or “call letter.” make a slight pause after each “letter,” also after each “front.” galena, illinois. dear st. nicholas: i am ten years old, and this is the second year i have taken you. my mother had the st. nicholas when she was a little girl, and even now enjoys looking over my magazine almost as much as i do. i Å. in this old town, which has sent forth so many men who became famous in history. ever since the fine statue of general grant was given to our city by mr. h. h. kohlsaat, we celebrate grant's birthday every year. many former galenians from all over the country come here at that time. among the noted orators that have delivered the ad- dress at the exercises are william mckinley and chaun- cey depew. once eugene field was here, and gave some of his beautiful verses at the public reception. your interested reader, leo titus le bron, jr. oak park, ill. dear st. nicholas : i live in oak park, a suburb of chicago. i am twelve years old. i always look for- ward to your coming. i like the story of “master skylark,” and was so glad to find it was a continued story and i also liked the story of “the king's castle in no man's land.” i think it teaches one to be satisfied with what he has. if avaro had not opened the hundredth door, i suppose he could have gotten out all right. *. have a little shetland pony. his name is “dick.” we have two carts—one with a top, and one without. we enjoy dick very much. we expect to have a great deal . fun with him this winter i remain your devoted reader, lambourne smith. menlo park, cal. dear st. nicholas : i thought that some of your readers might like to know something about this part of the world. i live on a hill about a mile and a half from the stanford university. we have a fine view from our house. we can see the lick observatory on mount hamilton, san francisco bay, and the most of santa clara valley. it is very º: here, never very hot and never very cold. we have roses and other flowers blooming in the open air now in the middle of december. we went out camping last summer, and crossed the coast range of mountains, which are only three miles from where we live. the road wound around side hills and through cañons, with beautiful evergreen trees of mountain laurel, manzanita, madroña, and redwood grow- ing close to and shading the road. he redwood trees grow very tall and straight, and so the riddle-box. double acrostic. my primals and finals name twin brothers of mytho- logy. - &osswords (of equal length): . the science of medicine. . a city of russia bombarded by the eng- lish and french in . . exerts one's strength with painful effort. . last. . in the month immediately receding the present. . an instrument for scraping ones. m. r. white. illustrated zigzag. all the words pictured contain the same number of letters; when rightly guessed and placed one below the other, in the order numbered, the zigzag (from the upper left-hand letter to the lower left-hand letter) will spell the surname of a celebrated author. charade. to her husband she said, just to be in the style, “for my first, now to europe let's go for a while !” and my second they acted, when there, o'er and o'er, pretending they often had been there before. returning, she said, “call me katharine, now, 't is more dignified far than my third, you'll allow.” for my whole, you can choose any object you please, but take three of one kind, and you'll guess it with case. fixances amory. double diamonds. i. across: i. in connection. . a national hero. . a roman. . a cupboard intended to contain arti- cles of value. . stunned. . conducted. . in con- nection. dow nward : . in connection. . a boy. . a conspiracy. . a townsman. . fed. . a mascu- line nickname. . in connection. ii. across: . in jumbles. . a small animal. . walking sticks. . wading birds. . unimportant. . three-fourths of a pulpit. . in jumbles. downward : . in jumbles. . a cover. . hur- ried. . a marine animal hunted for its oil and flesh. . portable shelters. . to declare. . in jumbles. iii. across: . in trembled. . guided. . raged. . regarded with reverence or profound respect. . a county in ireland. . a spanish title. . in trembled. downward: . in trembled. . a color. . a basin. . . a young hare. . a county in ireland. . an african dignitary. . in trembled. m. e. floyd. poetical enigma. fill each blank with the name of a poet. “no,” said the –, “the meat 's not done, it's only — in the pan; oh, now it , and i must run; no at present!” off she ran. it 's only talk, and that is cheap. what are when people scold — a-day ! no to keep her head from freezing in this cold ! e. r. b. geographical final acrostic. the names described are not all of the same length. when rightly guessed, the last letters will spell the name of a famous river of europe. cross-words: . a city of france. . a river of germany. . a city of india. . one of the united states. . a country of europe. “herryci revir.” connected squares. + * * * + * * * * * * * - * + + * * + + + - * * * * i. upper left-hand square: i. a fabric used for garments. . a morning reception. . places for bak- ing. . portable lodges. . a grand duchy and state of the german empire. ii. upper right-hand square: i. a coin men- tioned in the “merchant of venice.” . a russian edict. . a hut. . apart. . dogma. iii. central square: . striking effect. . to reprove. . a washable fabric. . . one fully skilled in anything. . soldiers' habitations. iv. lower left-hand square: . to entertain with food and drink. . a western cattle-farm. . weariness. . penetrating. . a pilferer. v. lower right-hand square: . a tendon. . brainless. . pertaining to the nose. . to decree by law. . strips of leather around a shoe. f. wif. the de winne press, new york. vzl map gf the marvelous -/ t/v_l) c/jt c/ showing i * * * * * r e = ºrrºw zº frºr; ºr: *t, f. ºri ºr: irr t rr; #; # - -- . pºrºs.' ~~ . &. ~&^^\º ####:nºri " x - -- - - * - jºir; # *::::: & s i l l i k in * & º <-->c ow vlt r u % ^^ 	º monubi . . . . i* mr munch jinjº }.} *. --> i yi º * . **** ;” emerald *...* * sº wºr / - - tºrtº ºrđ &arecrows tºwn “”ºnº, flutterbudgetº rigmarole & ... iſ china ºutensia o countwo q l . d **** c • unt mº * jalace 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'g & º *— a r t e s s c ; h n t : a v e r tas & this book belongs to who is also registered as a citizen of the land of oz on the page containing his first initial º -- .* rºº º - - , ſº & _*: ". - *... . - • . . º º s s \) n with - tº ºr- by jack snow in collaboratio ------------- ſºr - sº -t - -, ---- - -- - n º -- º' | -- * - professor h. m. wocclebug, t.e., a fºr - - -, * º - * - º - ºf . * - . . . . ., " ": "... dean of the royal college of % º 'º º cºs, º - *zºº / º ſt ſº º with ovkr of the celebrated oz illustrations : *** ***, *, º 'º -ºi iº ... k. by john r. neill, frank kramer, * dirk"; º -- - - / - = juvenile collection - - -- tz. , . copyright by jack snow printed in the united states of america \what i, ozz ". - - º • , - * * , lº s-º' * ? – - nº. " literal, hundreds of people, from tiny youngsters to mature readers, have asked me “what is oz—where did l. frank baum get the word oz?” i have wondered about this myself—certainly never was a more magic word ever invented—and have searched many sources for an answer. it seems there are a number of answers. first, simply because it has received the widest circulation and acceptance, is the theory that one day, back in , while he had the idea of the wonderful wizard of oz on his mind, baum was using a filing cabinet. the rear tier of papers was marked from “o" to “z”. from this, some would have us believe, baum got the word “oz". but for me that explanation is a little too glib and much too prosaic. although i did not meet baum during his life-time, i feel i have spent many years in his company through his books and a careful study of his personal life and times. i don't think baum's mind worked the filing cabinet way. he was a great lover of dickens. could not he have been fascinated by dickens' pen- name, boz? couldn't he have simply dropped the “b”, which for him stood for baum, and used the remaining “oz" for the name of his own personal wonderland? best of all, i like to believe that baum found the word “oz" in the following fashion: in his foreword to one of his early books, a new wonderland, baum wrote that for as long as he could v remember he had been thrilled and captivated by tales that caused the reader to exclaim with “ohs” and “ahs” of wonder. oz can be pronounced either “ohs” or “ahs". this is explanation enough for me. oz came—not out of an office filing cabinet—but right out of wonderland and leads right into another wonderland. jack snow. this book is dedicated in grateful friendship to horatio p baum page preface: what is oz? - vii informal introductions to over six hundred and thirty oz char- acters—people, animals and creatures—with hints on the parts they play in the thirty-nine oz books appendices: story highlights of the thirty-nine oz books published from to (in order of publication): the wizard of oz and the land of oz ozma of oz, dorothy and the wizard in oz and the road to oz the emerald city of oz, the patchwork girl of oz and tik-tok of oz the scarecrow of oz and rinkitink in oz the lost princess of oz, the tin woodman of oz and the magic of oz glinda of oz, the royal book of oz and kabumpo in oz the cowardly lion of oz and grampa in oz the lost king of oz, the hungry tiger of oz and the gnome king of oz the giant horse of oz, jack pumpkinhead of oz and the yellow knight of oz pirates in oz and the purple prince of oz ojo in oz, speedy in oz and the wishing horse of oz ix contents appendices: story highlights of the thirty-nine oz books published from to —continued captain salt in oz, handy mandy in oz and the silver princess in oz ozoplaning with the wizard of oz and the wonder city of oz the scalawagons of oz, lucky bucky in oz and the magical mimics in oz the shaggy man of oz and the hidden valley of oz biographical sketches of the authors and illustrators of the thirty-nine oz books: l. frank baum w. w. denslow john r. neill ruth plumly thompson jack snow frank kramer rachel r. cosgrove “dirk" [dirk gringhuis] - - - who's who in ozº is for adventure. any oz book is your round- trip ticket to adventure. you can travel through strange lands with any of the hundreds of fascinating oz folks. read about them in this book—then pick your adventure! an “ox fan' friend whose name begins with a one who has tasted high adventure in all four countries of oz and is now a registered citizen of the land of oz. a-b-sea serpent a curious snake-like creature, whose body consists of alphabet blocks, and whose tongue is a tape measure. with his old friend, the rattlesnake, the a-b-sea serpent once vacationed in oz. the royal book of oz, p. (t)* :}; the page number following the title of the book (for example, “p. ," above) tells you where each character first appears in oz history. (b), (t), (n), (s), and (c) stand for the author of the book whose title they follow: baum, thompson, neill, snow and cosgrove. - abrog for many years abrog served as royal prophet of perhaps city in the maybe mountains of the winkie country of oz. then one day he announced that the princess pretty good would be married to a monster within four days unless someone else married her immediately. he suggested himself as the ideal bridegroom. king peer refused, saying that abrog was only trying to fulfill his own pro- phecy. abrog disappeared and so did pretty good. he is next heard from as gorba, the wizard. (see gorba.) grampa in oz, p. (t) addie the royal serpent of the red jinn of the land of ev is an adding adder. unlike most adders, addie never adds up to trouble. the purple prince of oz, p. (t) adora the queen of the kingdom of doorways in the munch- kin country of oz is of small credit to royalty. she should change her name to ajara, because she jars so many peoples' nerves. then her sub- jects could make a bad joke, like “when is adora not adora? when she's ajara, silly!" the cowardly lion of oz, p. (t) known as tattypoo's amiable dragon, agnes turned out not to be a dragon at all, but the victim of one of old mombi's wicked transformations. she now is one of the most amiable and at- tractive young ladies in the court of queen orin of the ozure isles in the munchkin country. the giant horse of oz, p. . (t) akbad because akbad did what he thought was best—even though his deeds could be considered wrong—some peo- ple might call him a realist. once soothsayer in the court º of king cheeoriobed of the ozure isles, he is no longer § occupying that exalted position. and he has nothing at all to say—soothing or otherwise. the giant horse of oz, p. . (t) alberif, prince of peaks, and his people, are yodeling islanders. sea- farers, except those who are deaf, usually steer a wide course around peakenspire. captain salt in oz, p. . (t) º º ** ann gora this young unicorn is the favorite lady-in-waiting to queen roganda of unicorners in the munchkin country. ann gora is very pretty, as unicorns go, but we feel we'd rather go away from ann gora, her bad temper, and her sharp horn. ojo in oz, p. . (t) the young queen of oogaboo, a tiny country in a far corner of oz, still reflects on her ill-fated venture to conquer the world. queen ann soforth once set forth with a ridiculous army of sixteen of- ficers and one private soldier, confident that no one could resist her might. after many adventures and even more hardships, queen ann was content to return with her bedraggled army to quiet little oogaboo, where she reigns peacefully, happy to be a big frog in a small pool, rather than a small frog in a big pool. tik-tok of oz, p. . (b) jº atmoſ fere the sky man of oz is a balloonish sort of person who lives high above the clouds in the strato- sphere above oz. with the help of a pair of iron boots, atmos fere descended to the bottom of the atmosphere. he intended to seize ozma and take her to his sky kingdom, to prove to the rest of the air people that beings really live at the bottom, as well as the top, of the air. but ozma had a pin and used it. (these air people think of the bottom of the air, in which we live, as we do about the bottom of the sea.) the hungry tiger of oz, p. . (t) ato is the eighth king of the octagon isles in the no- nestic ocean, across the deadly desert from oz. his people once re- volted and foolishly followed the nome king in an attempt to conquer oz. later, ato became a cook on captain salt's pirate ship. he liked the life so well that, even though he has now won back his kingdom, he spends six months of the year sailing the nonestic ocean and cooking for captain salt and his crew. pirates in oz, p. . (t) ~ n audah aujah and aurah >~ n the three adepts (at sorcery) are beautiful young women who now rule the people once known as flat- heads, in the wild mountainous region of the gillikin country. many years ago, the three adepts came to the mountain of the flatheads and decided to remain there and try to help those backward people in the use of their canned brains. all went well until coo-ee-oh, wicked witch-queen of the neighboring skeezers, transformed the adepts into three fish and threw them into the lake which surrounds the magic island of the skeezers. excitement and magic came thick and fast before the three adepts regained their human shapes and resumed their rule of the folk once known as flatheads. glinda of oz, p. . (b) aunt em princess dorothy's beloved aunt now lives in the royal palace in the emerald city. although there is nothing magical about her, aunt em is a great favorite of the oz people. she is loved for her homespun goodness, her sense of humor, and her never-ending wonder and admiration for all the marvelous people and amazing happenings in the land of oz. the wizard of oz, p. . (b) o is for baum [lyman frank]. the first and by far the greatest royal historian of oz, he is its discoverer. had it not been for l. frank baum, we would know nothing at all about oz an “oz fan' friend whose name beg ins with ‘b’ “ one of l. frank baum's faithful and appreciative read- ers, who is here registered as a citizen of the land of oz. noisy town, where the police carry batons instead of night sticks, and the trolley cars hum strauss waltzes. the nome king of oz, p. (t) bangladore it used to be that giants ate people. but, in the case of bangladore, who lives in the winkie country, it is the other way round. folks try to eat him, for he is made of a most superior grade of taffy. (perhaps pulling him made him the giant he is!) the royal book of oz, p. . (t) barber of raſh ~ the barber once made a hair-breadth escape from the kingdom of rash, in the land of ev, and found his way to the city of down town, below the surface of ev. he now spends his days giving the money-changers of down town close shaves and clippings. the hungry tiger of oz, p. . (t) barrel bird n othing much is known about this bird, except that he appears to have lost his feathers and modestly flies about in a barrel. it would seem that he had been sky-larking and had flown too high! lucky bucky in oz, p. . (n) belfaygor of bourne the lord of the baron lands of the ſº quadling country once had an enchanted beard which ſº * \m º grew enormously. (the thought occurs that the barber/ º of rash could have grown fabulously rich if he had known belfaygor!) to add to his troubles. belfaygor was angry with baron mogodore—but that's a whole story in itself. jack pumpkinhead of oz, p. . (t) ~ e’ bell snickle º this curious creature is a mystery—and he knows it. º | in fact, bell snickle is so proud of being a mystery that º º he won't tolerate any other mysteries around him. once, s º ſ º he caused a great commotion in oz, when he "snickled" - º around the wizard's scalawagons, only succeeding in d º piling one mystery on another. the scalawagons of oz, º * p. . (n) ~ benny |- a stone statue of a public benefactor—a man known for his good deeds—once stood in a public square in boston. the statue magically came to life and found its way to oz, where it soon made friends and was nicknamed benny. benny may have a heart of stone, - - but it is of the soft variety—warm and sympathetic. the s- giant horse of oz, p. . (t) betsy is a little girl from oklahoma, just about the same age as princess dorothy. she was shipwrecked and, with her faithful friend hank the mule, had many adventures which finally ended hap- pily in the emerald city. ozma invited betsy to make her home in the royal palace, so that dorothy might have a companion her own age. tik-tok of oz, p. . (b) bhookuſ this servant of the duke of dork lives on a floating castle-island in the nonestic ocean. since breakfast, the “bananny” goat, came to dork, bhookus has very little to do—and he does it nicely! pirates in oz, p. . (t) n- º º wº º | ~ º - big lavender bar a. - the king of bear center in the winkie country is a handsome toy bear. like all his subjects, the big lavender bear is stuffed with a fine grade of hair. he also possesses a mite of magic, by means of which he aided cayke the cookie cook in finding her lost magic dishpan. too, he helped dorothy and her searching party in their hunt to find the lost ozma. the lost princess of oz, p. . (b) bilbil - a long time ago, prince bobo of boboland was trans- formed into a goat by a wicked magician. as bilbil the goat, the prince fled from his native land and became the friend and companion of king º' rinkitink, who had no idea the surly goat was enchanted. it took all the skill of the world's most powerful sorceress, glinda the good, backed by the magic of the wizard of oz, to restore prince bobo to his natural form. king rinkitink and prince bobo have become so fond of each other that the former bilbil now makes his home in rinkitink's royal castle. rinkitink in oz, p. . (b) an iron weathercock perched atop a barn near chicago, sº bill came to life suddenly during an electric storm. he jº flew blindly in the terrible gale until he landed in the quadling country. here he embarked with grampa and prince tatters on a succession of lively adventures. grampa in oz, p. . (t) billina when dorothy was traveling with her uncle henry to australia, a storm came up at sea, and she was washed overboard. with her went a chicken coop and one sadly bedraggled yellow hen. the hen, whom dorothy named billina, proved to be a wise and faithful companion through a series of startling adventures in the land of ev and the nome kingdom. now, billina is a famous personage and has hatched many little chicks, all of whom she names either dorothy or daniel. ozma of oz, p. . (b) **** :---- bini aru a hyup who lives on mount munch in the munchkin country, bini was once a clever sorcerer. when ozma proclaimed that the practice of magic in oz was forbidden to all except glinda the good and the wizard, bini stopped practicing his magical arts at once and destroyed many of his wizard's tools. he kept only one charm, a magic word (“pyrzqxgl”) which he had invented. bini wrote down this magic word and how to pronounce it and hid the paper under the floor of his home. (although the magic word has long since been discovered, no one in the united states or any part of the great outside world has managed to pronounce it correctly.) the magic of oz, p. . (b) binx binx is one of the pirates who plotted with the nome king to conquer oz. but soon they had the wind taken out of their sails. pirates in oz, p. . (t) ~ - - - in stratovania, high in the stratosphere over oz, bittsy- wittle serves airy dishes and light refreshments to the high-and-mighty royalty of this rarified realm. ozoplaning with the wizard of oz, p. . (t) bitty bit the seer of some summit is one of the wisest and most e-- º º º agreeable men in, or out, of oz. ozma was so impressed with him that she invited him to make his home in the emerald city. but bitty bit preferred his homey brown castle, perched on a crag overlooking the -º nonestic ocean. very likely he is still there. the wishing horse of oz, p. . (t) º º blank of blankenberg º º * these people, who live underground in the *** * * * . sº gillikin country, are called blanks because they have neither faces nor heads; they appear to be ani- mated collections of clothing walking about. for many years, they held captive pastoria, the lost king of oz, º * º, and forced him to act as their tailor. the lost king of \'s, gº oz, p. . (t) ſº- - º º º bl .z€ſ { --- * º º º keeper of the volcano that erupts underground in the land of ev, the sullen blazes is too hot a subject to write about at length; we would need asbestos paper to handle him properly. gramp in oz, p. . (t) blink a lovable little winkie man, blink is the caretaker of sº the scarecrow's corn-ear castle in the winkie country, not far from the * tin woodman's tin palace. the royal book of oz, p. . (t) / bini aru a hyup who lives on mount munch in the munchkin country, bini was once a clever sorcerer. when ozma proclaimed that the practice of magic in oz was forbidden to all except glinda the good and the wizard, bini stopped practicing his magical arts at once and destroyed many of his wizard's tools. he kept only one charm, a magic word (“pyrzqxgl”) which he had invented. bini wrote down this magic word and how to pronounce it and hid the paper under the floor of his home. (although the magic word has long since been discovered, no one in the united states or any part of the great outside world has managed to pronounce it correctly.) the magic of oz, p. . (b) binx binx is one of the pirates who plotted with the nom king to conquer oz. but soon they had the wind tº out of their sails. pirates in oz, p. . (t) in stratovan º wittle serves airy dishes a - royalty of this rari . (t) -- . blinkem the personal attendant to the king of bunnybury, whose kingdom is a civilized city of rabbits in the quadling country, - blinkem, like his whole city, is under the personal protection of glinda, who is very fond of bunnies. the emerald city of oz, p. . (b) *. - - - * º - blinkie º this old woman was once leader of an evil band of ~ witches who terrorized the good people of jinxland, in a remote corner! of oz. the two most evil deeds that blinkie ever performed were to \, ', freeze the heart of a lovely princess so that she could no longer love, \ . and to transform cap'n bill into a grasshopper with a wooden leg. the scarecrow, with the aid of the ork, soon put matters aright. blinkie was punished by losing all of her magical powers and being sent back & to her hovel to live as a harmless old lady. the scarecrow of oz, p. . (b) this fellow is one of the nine fishermen who live on barren nonagon island in the nonestic ocean. bloff is still convinced that the visit of the red jinn to his cottage was a nightmare, and he still can't explain the disappearance of his poor cat nina. the silver princess in oz, p. . (t) o blotz general blotz is a guardsman in the service of gloma, the dark witch of the black forest, in the winkie country. it is his duty to escort strangers entering the forest to gloma's royal circle. the wishing horse of oz, p. . (t) sº º º blue bear rug ; once a live blue bear, this pet of an old woman named - dyna choked to death on a fish bone. dyna loved the bear so dearly that she had his skin made into a rug. ultimately, the blue bear rug was brought to life by the magic powder of life and proved to be a real nuisance. he followed dyna all around the house and refused to lie flat, for sweeping. the road to oz, p. . (b) blue rabbit blue rabbit has blue eyes and lives in the blue munchkin country. he once led the scarecrow, the tin woodman, polychrome, and woot the wanderer through his burrow under the , wall of solid air, so that they could continue their journey to mount munch. blue rabbit is especially fond of blue carrots. the tin wood- man of oz, p. . (b) blug general blug, commander of the nome king's legions of warriors, once gave the old nome his first idea about conquering oz. it was blug's plan to burrow a tunnel under the deadly desert, leading to the emerald city. however, blug made the mistake of telling roquat that his armies were not powerful enough to conquer the emerald city. the wicked nome king threw his sceptre at blug and later banished him. eventually, the nome king used poor blug's idea. the emerald city of oz, p. . (b) bobo the prince of boboland. see bilbil, the goat. bob up this little orphan boy's name once was bobby downs. with the clown, notta-bit-more, he found his way to oz from america. ozma, dorothy, button bright, and all the oz folks quickly took the a homeless little red-headed boy to their hearts, and you º can be sure he is living very happily in oz today, with his faithful clown friend. the cowardly lion of oz, p. . (t) boglodore . boglodore was a wizard in ozamaland and was also known as the old man of the jungle. he carried prince tandy off to patripanny island in the nonestic ocean and left him to the mercies of the wild beasts and leopard men. when his own treachery betrayed him, boglodore turned against his co-plotter in a way that helped prince tandy out of his difficulties. captain salt in oz, p. . (t) boldoſo at one time, boldoso was a henchman of realbad the bandit. now he is a peaceful winkie farmer, prouder of his golden corn than he was of his golden coins in former days. ojo in oz, p. (t) bookman this curious little man lives in the winkie country. his body is a book, but it never contains the information anyone wants, unfortunately. (we have tried to make who's who in oz very different from book- man!) the nome king of oz, p. . (t) book of royalty the king of bookville, in the winkie country, is a proud, stupid, and unpleasant monarch. his hard-tooled cover conceals much lore respecting the superiority of royalty over common folk. we would like to tell the king of bookville that he is out of date—in fact, he is out of print! the hidden valley of oz, p. . (c) boy boq is the munchkin man who so kindly entertained dorothy, sheltering her in his home on the little girl's first night in oz, during her first visit to emerald city. the wizard of oz, p. . (b) bragga captain of the guard of baffleburg, bragga is like some other minor officials: what he lacks in ability, he makes up in bragga- docio. jack pumpkinhead of oz, p. . (t) braided man this curious personage is a very old man who lives half way up the spiral staircase, in the pyramid mountain of the valley of voe, a little-known underground country across the deadly desert from oz. the braided man's white hair and beard are so long they fall to his feet. he has very carefully braided both hair and beard, tying them with brightly colored ribbons. he manufactures flutters for american flags and rustles for ladies' silk dresses. dorothy and the wizard in oz, p. . (b) breakfaſt breakfast is a “bananny” goat, the only one of her kind. her horns are golden-ripe bananas, which keep falling off wherever she goes. so, breakfast leaves a trail of bananas—which would make her a very welcome visitor to a fruit store. in case you like milk with your breakfast bananas, breakfast can supply that, too. pirates of oz, p. . (t) gate. bristle, who is one of the exclusively rabbity inhabitants of bun- nybury, greets all visitors and conducts them to his majesty, the king. the emerald city of oz, p. . (b) --- = ~~ - -º- brown wren this saucy little bird once helped the shaggy man and his friends escape from a place called hightown, located somewhere in the sky over the valley of romance. the brown wren taught shaggy and his comrades that there are more ways of going through the air than flying. ever try swimming in the air? shaggy did. the shaggy man of oz, p. . (s) i. º *** . * - º ...”" . bru not much is known about bru, except that he is one of the wisest animals in the great forest of gugu in the gillikin country, and that he is one of the three counselors of king gugu, ruler of that forest. the magic of oz, p. . (b) bubbleſ wº- these “bubbles" are to be found on the up-hill-down- hill river in the nome kingdom, across the deadly desert from oz. when one pops and vanishes, it speaks a single word. the only disad- vantage in conversing with the bubbles is that a lengthy conversation is likely to find you answering yourself. lucky bucky in oz, p. . (n) bud - king bud is the ruler of noland, a beautiful fairyland that lies across the desert from oz. bud is a frank and merry boy, dearly beloved by all his subjects. once he was a simple country lad, but a series of amazing adventures made him king of noland. the road to oz, p. . (b) bullfinch this small bird's bright little eyes don't miss much. it was bullfinch who gave button bright the clue that solved the mystery of lost ozma's whereabouts. the lost º, princess of oz, p. . (b) bumpy man | º in the magical land of mo, there is a mountain which has an ear, and this ear is actually the bumpy man. he lives at the top of the mountain, where it snows popcorn and rains lemonade, and his bumps always warm him when there is going to be a storm. you may be sure this ſº scarecrow of oz, p. . (b) bungle when dr. pipt was practicing magic, he tested his pow- -ºi: –- der of life on an ornamental glass cat. the cat came to life, but it re- mained ornamental and not much good for anything. margolotte, dr. pipt's wife, named the cat bungle. it has pink brains, the workings of which you can see, and a ruby heart which is very hard. bungle now resides in the emerald city, but spends a great deal of time tramping about oz, exploring and discovering odd nooks and crannies of the famous fairyland. for bungle is just as curious as any flesh-and-blood cat. the patchwork girl of oz, p. . (b) this fellow once stole red top mountain, in the quadling country. he calls himself king of the kudgers, a not-too-pleasant people who live on the moun- tain. without knowing it, bustabo achieved a happy result by stealing red top mountain. for it had been ruled by azarine, a beautiful fairy princess. when she lost her mountain kingdom, she went to the emerald city to live and soon became a great favorite. ozoplaning with the wizard of oz, p. . (t) button bright once lived in philadelphia, where he was always getting lost. somehow, he wandered right into fairyland and met dorothy and the shaggy man. he was just in time to attend one of ozma's famous birthday parties. the wizard sent him home in an enchanted soap bubble, but it wasn't long until button was lost again and having more adventures. he went to sky island with trot and cap'n bill. since he has come to oz with the scarecrow, trot, and cap'n bill, he finds it the best country of all in which to get lost. someday, perhaps there will be a whole book about button bright's doings. the road to oz, p. . (b) buzzub / regos is an island in the nonestic ocean ruled by king º gos, and buzzub is a captain in king gos' army. big and burly as he / is, buzzub was once defied, overcome, and sorely frightened by the boyish prince inga of pingaree. the big warrior learned that appear- ances can be very deceiving, and that you should know your enemy before you laugh at him. rinkitink in oz, p. . (b) * is for courage. the cowardly lion's adventures have taught him that seldom is it possible to face danger without fear. the important thing is that your courage be stronger than your fear an “oz fan'' friend whose name begins with cº one whose courage will assert itself when called upon to do so, and who is here registered as a citizen of the land of oz. made entirely of the finest quality candies. the candy man lives in one of the delightful valleys of merryland, the fourth valley of seven, in all. in this particular valley, the people are all made of candy, as is their land. the earth is delicious fudge, and the foun- -- tains all gush lemonade. the candy man once accompanied queen £ dolly of merryland to the emerald city, where they were distinguished guests of ozma at one of her wonderful birthday parties. the road jº to oz, p. . (b) - cap'n bill whale; eº cap'n bill is an old sailor who now makes his home in the emerald city. one of the best-loved personages of oz, he has been the life-long friend and companion of trot, a little girl who came to oz with him. at about the time trot was born, cap'n bill suffered an accident which resulted in the loss of a leg. this ended his career as a sailor. at the suggestion of cap'n griffith, also a sea-going man who was away from home much of the time, cap'n bill came to stay with mrs. griffith to help look after trot. thus, trot found a constant com- panion in the old man, from whom she learned many curious things about the sea. loving the little girl as if she were his own child, cap'n bill had many strange and amazing fairy adventures with trot, even before they came to oz. for their adventures in the fabulous fairy- land of oz, you must read the scarecrow of oz, p. . (b) carrot-topped boys and girls who may be distant cousins of this carter green. the hungry tiger of oz, p. . (t) cat with two tail; tattypoo, good witch of the gillikin country, has a cat with two tails. this curious cat has nine lives and twenty-four appe- tites—one for each hour around the clock. the giant horse of oz, p. . (t) the far southwestern part of the winkie country, there is a high plateau, and on it live the yips. cayke is a yip. when cayke's magic dishpan was stolen, she and the wise frogman went out in search of it. this was the first time a yip had ever ventured off the mountain top. before cayke recovered her precious dishpan, she and the frogman had some pretty exciting adventures. the lost princess of oz, p. . (b) c bunn, equire as his name suggests, c. bunn, esq., is a bun. in fact, he's a cinnamon bun and so important that the quadling town of bun- bury is named for him. the emerald city of oz, p. . (b) ! º chalk this famous wishing horse of oz is the faithful steed, friend, and companion of skamperoo, king of skampavia, near the land of ev. not just because his name is chalk, but because of his many excellent qualities, the wishing horse was bound to make his mark in oz. he did—and played a large part in liberating oz and free- ing its people. (chalk up a victory for chalk!) the wishing horse of oz, p. . (t) º . chalulu º the official “wise man" of the court of regalia in the gillikin country, chalulu got his reputation for being wise by advising everyone to do nothing. of course, if you do nothing, you are not likely to get into trouble, nor are you likely to accomplish anything good, either. so the people who followed chalulu's advice led very safe, but dull, lives. and yet they thought chalulu a very wise man. we're glad he lives in far-off regalia. the purple prince of oz, p. . (t) cheer the king of the illumi nation is a hand-dipped mon- arch, a candleman, as are all the inhabitants of this shadowy realm that lies just below the surface of the gillikin country. these candle- º - * -- ears. the silver princess in oz, p. . (t) chillywalla - the chief of the boxers in the land of ix, across the deadly desert, isn't a bad sort of fellow. chillywalla just can't understand why everyone doesn't want to live in boxes, as do he and his people. the boxers can't stand the sight of anything that isn't properly boxed, including chimney-villains these smokies live in chimneyville, in a place called soot city. that's a dark spot in the yellow winkie country. since the chimney-villains are made of smoke, they naturally live in chimneys, and their city is quite sooty. (no doubt they would be just as happy if they lived in the united states, in the great city of pittsburgh!) jack pumpkinhead of oz, p. . (t) china milk maid deep in the south of the quadling country lies quaint china city, where all the people and animals are made of beautiful china. the china milk maid is one of the most charming among them. the worst that can be said of the inhabitants of china city is that they are brittle and chip easily. for this reason there is a great wall running all the way round the china city to protect its fragile subjects. the wizard of oz, p. . (b) china princeſ if you've just read about the china milk maid, you've probably guessed that china princess lives in the same town. but she is not very happy there, for she lives in constant fear of being touched by ordinary people. china princess shudders at the thought she might be broken and have to be mended, thus marring her delicate beauty. some flesh-and-blood folk are like that, too; they don't know that a few wrinkles lend character and interest to a face. the wizard of oz, p. . (b) chin chilly - chin chilly, frigid king of isa poso, an island in the nonestic ocean, is made of snow and ice, as are all of his subjects. if | you ever get shipwrecked, avoid its happening near this island, for it's | the coldest place in the world, and its people are all cold-hearted. any humor they may have possessed at one time is now frozen stiff. grampa in oz, p. . (t) chinda formerly, chinda was the seer of samandra, in the winkie country. now, she is the grand bozzywog of that same coun- try. please don't spend any time trying to find the meaning of the word bozzywog, for even professor wogglebug couldn't define it for us. the yellow knight of oz, p. . (t) & º, º, | - tº chiºſ --~~\ºs º) a giant porcupine who lives in the munchkin country, chiss once had the unfriendly habit of throwing his sharp quills at travelers on the “road of yellow brick.” but he went too far when he threw them at the patchwork girl (who was “stuck-up” enough without them!) and the shaggy man took the quills away from chiss and sank them in a pond, thus turning the porcupine into a fairly well-behaved citizen. the patchwork girl of oz, p. . (b) ºt-_ chocolate ſoldier, ºs-sº this curious candy army once set out to capture the emerald city. we suspect that the children and some of the women wanted to surrender to such de- licious conquerors. how ever that may be, the chocolate soldiers failed to seize the city, and they were then trans- formed into tiny toy soldiers. the wonder city of oz, p. . (n) choggenmugger this great beast is even longer than his name. on the island of regos in the nonestic ocean, choggenmugger lives on a diet of dragons and alligators—that's how big and tough he is! once, niko- bob, the sturdy charcoal burner, chopped choggenmugger to bits, but we learn later that he grew back together again. rinkitink in oz, p. . (b) ſº ºf º, chopſyſ - husband to nimie aimee, this surly individual lives on mount munch, in the munchkin country. since he was made from the discarded flesh-and-blood parts of both the tin woodman and the *& tin soldier, chopfyt can't be either one, completely. (maybe he's hard to get along with because he has a split personality!) let's just sum it all up by saying that chopfyt is always someone else. the tin woodman of oz, p. . (b) chriſtine tº queen of crystal city in the munchkin country, chris: tine is barely mentioned in oz history. actually, that is just as well, for. } * * the only nice thing about her is her name. ojo in oz, p. . (t) ,º o ſº sº chriſtmaſ tree sº * . * --> * ---- a live christmas tree sounds like fun, but this one º ſº. provided fun for no one. the last time it was heard from, it was run-º - ning about the red quadling country—where it had no business to be, at all—trying to collect some new ornaments. jack pumpkinhead of oz, p. . (t) * chriſtopher brrr! is the best we can say for king chris- topher and his crystal people of crystal city, munchkin. they are all as cold-hearted as the sub-zero temperature of their abode. let's make our chilly visit a short one. s ojo in oz, p. . (t) f o cloud fairieſ these lovely creatures, with their fleecy, shadowy forms, were glimpsed by dorothy, the wizard, and their companions when they were climbing the spiral staircase in pyramid mountain, to escape from the invisible valley of voe. read about it in dorothy and the wizard in oz, p. . (b) cloud puſherſ many times, doubtless, you have watched the clouds move across a summer sky. who moves them? maybe, if you look more closely the next time, you'll catch a glimpse of the “cloud pushers.” the wonder city of oz, p. . (n) collapſible kite built for the sake of convenience, this remarkable kite carried jam all the way to the land of oz, where it gained the power of speech. sometimes collapsible kite was very silent, but when a good wind was blowing, what a chatterbox-kite it became! the hidden valley of oz, p. . (c) colonel crinkle an officer in the nome king's army, colonel crinkle has a very short, and a very sad, history. very early in his career, he made the mistake of disagreeing with the nome king. just to show he was boss, roquat had colonel crinkle sliced very thin, like dried beef, and fed to the seven-headed dog. soon after, the dog suffered a bad case of indigestion and seven headaches. in a way, colonel crinkle had his revenge. the emerald city of oz, p. . (b) º * - % º comfortable camel with his companion, the doubtful dromedary, the com- fortable camel was blown to the munchkin country by a very severe sandstorm. the comfortable camel, who is disturbed by nothing, was soon quite at home with the cowardly lion, the hungry tiger, hank the mule, and all the other famous animals in oz. camy attached himself to the yellow knight, sir hokus, to whom he affectionately gave the name of his former master, karwan bashi. the royal book *seſ" of oz, p. . (t) confido (c. \ . nº - ~ ~ this imperial puppy of the realm of samandra, in the ~~ º winkie country, talked too much for his master's good. of course, his master shouldn't have whispered his secret into confido's silky ears. he made the mistake of thinking his 'fido'was a dumb beast. the yellow knight of oz, p. . (t) cook the good-natured cook was the first fuddlecumjig to be put together by dorothy and her friends when the party from the emerald city visited the village of fuddlecumjig. the cook advised them about other interesting fuddles to be put together, just like jig-saw puzzles. later, he cooked the hungry party a splendid meal that tasted nothing like a jig-saw puzzle. the emerald city of oz, p. . (b) º once there was a floating volcano in the nonestic ocean. can you imagine a better place for a bakery? the wizard of oz couldn't, so he transported the volcano with its cooks and bakers to lake quad, in the quadling country. since that time, there has never been a shortage of baked goods in oz. lucky bucky in oz, p. . (n) a very wicked lady was this queen of coregos, whose husband is king gos of regos. she liked to lead her warriors to peace- ful islands, to plunder the helpless people. one of her wicked deeds was to make slaves of the ruling family of the island of pingaree, with the exception of prince inga, who proved to be her undoing. after being thoroughly conquered, we hope that both queen cor and king gos reformed. rinkitink in oz, p. . (b) count-it-up where else but in the city of rith metic, in the gilli- kin country, would count-it-up live? actually, the count is nothing more than an oversize pencil, badly in need of sharpening. he's such a stickler for accuracy that he adds up to a total loss, as far as fun is concerned. he lives in constant fear that someone in oz will invent an adding machine and put him out of business. kabumpo in oz, p. conardly lion ~ > . although he was a king of the jungle, the famous cow- ardly lion of oz believed he lacked courage, until the wizard gave him a super-concentrated potion of pure courage to drink. of course, the cowardly lion was always brave, but he lacked confidence in him- self. that's really what the wizard gave him. the great lion is well loved in oz and has shared many adventures with its people. he makes an imposing figure, crouched beside the throne of the princess ozma. the wizard of oz, p. . (b) \ \ crank clock - standing on a stairlanding in the royal palace of the emerald city, the crank clock is not too pleasant, as time-pieces go– although you may have known some pretty grumpy old grandfather, clocks! when you next visit oz, you won't want to pass more than the time of day with crank clock. scalawagons in oz, p. . (n) croſſ patch queen cross patch is the sixth ruler of the kingdom of patch in the winkie country. her royal highness went to pieces some years ago and, according to the custom in patch, her pieces were care- fully placed in a scrap bag. ten years later, the bag was opened, and out stepped cross patch, bad as new. true, she was no longer a queen, but she didn't mind that. you see, the ruler of patch has to work mighty hard, day and night, to be cross all of the time. and that's very -- yº little fun, as you know! the nome king of oz, p. . (t) ſº º a " crown prince of the lavalander, when captain salt was sailing the nonestic ocean, he came too close to lavaland, a floating and ex- plosive bit of volcanic land. almost before the captain and his sea-going explorers knew what was happening, w | º º, / the crown prince was on board. he had erupted from the island to the deck of the ship. since he was about to burn the ship, there was but one thing to do. at the suggestion of roger the read bird, captain salt loaded him into the ship's cannon and fired him back to lavaland. cap- tain salt in oz, p. . (t) crunch here's the story of a wasted life. a long time ago, a great statue, three times as big as an ordinary man, was carved out of a huge stone. a wizard named wam passed by and decided it would be good fun to bring the statue to life, which he did. he named the statue crunch. but the stone man didn't know what to do with this phenome- non called life. he just stood still and watched things happen about him. wam was much disgusted and vowed never to waste another stroke of magic on a statue. years later, the statue decided to make something out of his life. unfortunately, he took the wrong direction and proved to be a hard-hearted and unsympathtic fellow. he really got into trouble when he tried to steal the cowardly lion and take him to a monarch who collected lions. glinda the good and the wizard stepped in at this point and removed wam's magic. crunch is now lifeless, nothing more than a huge stone man standing in the kingdom of mudge, in the munchkin country. since crunch didn't make proper use of his opportunities, he wound up just as he started—a stone. the cowardly lion of oz, p. . (t) cryſobel realbad the bandit never really was bad, you know. there was always a lot of the knight-errant in him. consequently, he had to conquer the blue dragon and release crystal city from its long enchantment. but this all started trouble for him. crystobel, princess of crystal city, decided realbad was just the husband for her. more- over, she wanted to change him into a crystal man, and this caused him some uneasy moments before he escaped. ojo in oz, p. . (t) cue back in the old days, poor lady cue did her best to give the spellbound actors and actresses on the stage of the theater of romance their lines, so that they would know what to say and when to say it. however, she always managed to mix everything up very badly. today she is perfectly at home, standing behind the players in the bridge games at the palace of romance, telling them which cards to play and how to bid. the shaggy man of oz, p. . (s) curiouſ collabuſ - gº deep in the purple gillikin country lives this lavender cat who dearly loves nothing better than to sit on his front porch in a rocking chair, fanning himself and asking - | questions of anyone who will talk with him. he looks something like an ordinary cat, that is, if ordinary cats grew to the frightening size of eight-year-old children. the curious cottabus comes of distinguished ancestry, for he is first cousin to the original cat-who-was-killed-by- curiosity, and to the cheshire cat, who live in other books. kabumpo in oz, p. . (t) curtain - queen curtain reigns with king ticket as well-loved º º monarchs of the valley of love, just across the deadly \ desert from oz. at one time, the valley of love was known as the valley of romance. once, queen curtain depended on the theater for make-believe love, but now she knows what real love is. she is quite happy with her work in the school of charm and maidenly bewitchery, which she conducts for the young maidens of the valley of love who are looking for reliable and cheerful husbands. the shaggy man of oz, p. . (s) cullendip miss cuttenclip is a talented young girl who has created a charming village out of paper—magic paper supplied by glinda the good. the cuttenclip village is a great attraction to visitors who like to marvel at the pretty paper people. (but if you visit them, beware! you know what a sneeze did!) the emerald city of oz, p. . (b) o is for dorothy, princess of oz. beloved by millions for three generations, dorothy is the dream daughter whom in real life l. frank baum never had an ‘‘oz fan'' friend whose name begins with ‘‘d’ “ one who has known moments when trading places with dorothy or toto—for a while at least—would have been great fun, and who is here registered as a citizen of the land of oz. prove an inexpensive way in which to travel, as lucky bucky once discovered. lucky bucky in oz, p. . (n) daylight this brilliant girl with the laughing eyes pays homage to erma, the lovely queen of light, in the fairyland ruled over by tititi-hoochoo. tik-tok of oz, p. . (b) dear deer dear deer, wife of shagomar, the great stag noted for his devotion to princess azarine, is the most beautiful doe in existence. she now lives in the emerald city but seldom makes a public appear- ance. when dear deer does venture out into the streets of the city of emeralds, all the people and even the animals are entranced with her soft loveliness and gentle grace. ozoplaning with the wizard of oz, p. . (t) a lot of trouble was once caused in the tiny oz country of ozamaland by one didjaboo, who wanted to get rid of ozamaland's perfectly good royal family in order to become the ruler himself. properly, he was one of the nine royal judges of ozamaland. captain salt in oz, p. . (t) dikey ºr . diksey lives in the city of the horners, in the far south of the quadling country. a great joker, diksey once made a joke that was so bad it almost led to war with the hoppers, neighbors of the horners. diksey apologized and explained his joke. when you have to explain a joke, you're admitting it was a very poor one, but the hoppers forgave the horners, and peace was officially declared. the patchwork girl of oz, p. . (b) dicky bird / the trees of diksey land, in the munchkin country, are ºf filled with dicky birds, which is no inducement to go there. a parti- cular dicky bird distinguished himself by guiding dorothy and her * friend to diksey land, but they lived to wish they hadn't followed dicky bird's instructions. ojo in oz, p. . (t) ſpp captain dipp of the spoon brigade serves his majesty king kleaver of the kingdom of utensia in the quadling country. the spoon soldiers expected to have a stirring time when they captured dorothy and toto. they took their captives to king kleaver, who was in a black mood and made some cutting remarks. the emerald city of oz, p. . (b) doctor pipt this crooked magician's fame rests chiefly on his invention of the powder of life. it was this pow- der which brought to life such famous oz personages as jack pumpkinghead, the sawhorse, the gump, the blue z bear rug, the patchwork girl, and the glass cat. ozma sº deprived him of his magic powers but straightened out s his body so that it was no longer crooked. dr. pipt was s - then quite happy to return home to his wife margolotte. the patchwork girl of oz, p. . (b) dolfin dollfins are little, doll-like fish-fairies which live in the nonestic ocean and follow every ship that passes through their waters. doonerſ let's not spend too much time with the dooners, for they are sad people who live on the shore of the nonestic ocean and resent all strangers. they tie up travelers with seaweed and pelt them with sand balls. the wishing horse of oz, p. . (t) dor ol hy : dorothy gale is a little girl who lived with her aunt em and her uncle henry on a farm in the great prairie lands of kansas. a cyclone carried dorothy, her little dog toto, and the farm house to the land of oz. the great wind set the house down in the munchkin country, accidentally destroying the wicked witch of the east, who had held the munchkin people in bondage for many years. after count- ſ less adventures, dorothy finally found her way to the emerald city, where the famous wizard of oz unsuccessfully tried to help her return to kansas in a balloon. the balloon escaped, taking the wizard with it and leaving dorothy and toto in oz. glinda, the good sorceress of the south, enabled dorothy to return home by telling her of the magic powers possessed by the silver shoes dorothy had taken from the feet of the wicked witch of the east. dorothy made three other fascinating trips to the land of oz before she, with uncle henry, aunt em, and toto, came to the eme- rald city to make a permanent home. in the meantime, ozma had made dorothy a princess of oz. dorothy had won all the hearts of the oz people, and she and her aunt em and uncle henry were eagerly welcomed by ozma and all her subjects. the people of oz feel that dorothy has brought them good luck, for it was dorothy who intro- duced to the emerald city such famous persons as the scarecrow, the tin woodman, the shaggy man, billina the yellow hen, tik-tok the machine man, button bright, the cowardly lion, and many others. (it is interesting to note that the first word ever written in the very first oz book was “dorothy.” the last word of the book is “again.” and that is what young readers have said ever since those two words were written: “we want to read about dorothy again.”) the wizard of oz, p. . (b) doubtful dromedary doubtful is a desert-going animal, who once lived in the land of camelia, which was long ago blown off all the maps. so don't try to find it. a great sand storm blew the doubtful dromedary and the comfortable camel to the land of oz. as soon as they arrived in the munchkin country, things began to happen, involving dorothy, the cowardly lion, sir hokus, and the scarecrow. for proof, see the royal book of oz, p. . (t) º dragonetieſ fº it seems that these dragonettes are not even distant cousins to the dragonettes in dorothy and the wizard in oz. perhaps because these are oz dragonettes, they are kinder and more friendly. they helped sir hokus by providing him with something to chase. and you know how dearly knights love to pursue dragons—or drago- nettes! the wonder city of oz, p. . (n) dragonetieſ there are some young dragons who live in a cave under the surface of the earth, just above the valley of voe and across the deadly desert from oz. it is the custom of the mother dragon to tie their tails to the wall of the cave so they can't get into mischief while she goes to the surface to look for food for them. dorothy, the wizard, and a boy named zeb once had a lengthy and illuminating conversa- tion with these dragonettes. dorothy and the wizard in oz, p. . (b) dyna & an old lady who lives in the emerald city, dyna has many visitors. they don't come to see her, however; they come to see her blue bear rug. once a live bear from the munchkin country, the blue bear rug was brought back to life by the powder of life. it is a great embarrassment to dyna because it refuses to behave like a respectable rug, because it believes it is still a real bear. the road to oz, p. . (b) o is for emerald–in emerald city, storyland's most famous capitol. here, in ozma's royal palace, gather the best-loved immortals of the magic land of oz. and here, too, many happy adventures transpire an ‘‘oz fan'' friend whose name begins with “e” one who knows the enchantment of oz and many of its secrets, and who is here registered as a citizen of the land of oz. ~<\ \º eeſabo eeſabo, chief footman in the palace of pumperdink, in the gillikin country, once got well-dipped by the chief dipper when a certain important birthday cake blew up, exploding the whole king- dom into an uproar. but to find out how prince pompadore and the elegant elephant settled the kingdom's explosive problem, you must read kabumpo in oz, p. . (t) electra electra is a dazzling maiden, one of the most faithful and useful servitors of erma, queen of light. tik-tok of oz, p. . (b) --- n. se- elma princess of the bigwigs, elma lives in immense city, in the nome country. during the day, while wearing her bigwig, elma (who is only seven years old) is at least feet high. but at night, when the princess removes her bigwig, she shrinks to the size of an ordinary child. elma tried to make a pet of the hungry tiger on one occasion, treating the huge animal like a pussycat and dressing him in doll clothes. (of course, this happened during the daytime.) the hun- gry tiger of oz, p. . (t) emerald cutler when number nine came to the emerald city from his father's munchkin farm, he had only one friend in all the city. that was the emerald cutter, number nine's uncle. the royal emerald cutter did his best to help the country boy in the city, which proves that, in addition to knowing his emeralds, he could recognize a diamond in the rough. the wonder city of oz, p. . (n) a good name, this, for a dragon that once lived on the island of isa poso in the nonestic ocean. this fire-breather once made the mistake of plunging into an icy stream. enorma's fire was put out, and no one ever feared her again. as you may know, once a dragon's fire is extinguished, the horrid creature grows as meek and mild as a puppy. grampa in oz, p. . (t) eguinot; you've probably seen pictures of centaurs, but i imag- ine you have never found a live one in the zoo. the equinots of the gillikin country are much like centaurs. they like to keep their stable homes well filled with people to currycomb them and make them com- fortable. the hidden valley of oz, p. . (c) erma the queen of light lives in the land of the great jinjin, tititi-hoochoo, where all the people are fairy kings and queens who minister to the needs of mortals. erma sees to it with her magic that we of the great outside world have light—sunlight, starlight, moonlight, and even electric light. she once entertained betsy bobbin in her over- whelming fairyland. tik-tok of oz, p. . (b) erwic the prime minister of the skeezers, in the far north of the gillikin country, ervic was once a youth in the service of the wicked skeezer queen, coo-ee-oh. after a series of magical adventures, during which ervic dis- played courage, cleverness, and ingenuity in helping to defeat coo-ee-oh, the new queen aurex immediately named ervic her prime minister. glinda of oz, p. . (b) eureka the pink kitten was dorothy's companion in some ad- ventures which began in a california earthquake and ended happily in the emerald city. dorothy named the kitten eureka because she had found her, and uncle henry told her that eureka means, “i have found it!” and he's right, too. dorothy and the wizard in oz, p. . (b) evered ! # evered is the scarlet prince of rash, in the land of ev. little prince reddy lost his kingdom, and it took the help of ozma and the hungry tiger to win it back for him. today, everyone in rash is much happier. the hungry tiger of oz, p. . (t) evoldo evoldo evil did! yes, he was a bad man, the king of ev, who sold his family into slavery to the nome king. dorothy and ozma, with the help of billina, the yellow hen, freed the royal family and returned them to their country. ozma of oz, p. . (b) evring this young prince of ev spent a number of years as a purple china kitten, standing on a bric-a-brac shelf in the nome king's palace of enchantments. by good luck, dorothy broke the enchantment and freed evring from his brittle existence. ozma of oz, p. . (b) is for fairyland, old as man's dreams. the magic of fairyland continually comes true, for man first imagines, then brings his dreams to life through science and the machine. ozma's magic picture has already become a reality in our own living rooms an "oz fan fr i end w hose. name beg ns w i th f * * one who has tried the magic paths of fairyland, learned its secret ways, and is now a registered citizen of the land of oz. falcero ºv. a royal fairy princess of the forest of follensby in the gillikin country, faleero is the homeliest living fairy. she spends all her time gathering faggots, which she stores in her forest hovel. to escape marrying her, prince pompadore once fled from his kingdom of pumperdink. kabumpo in oz, p. . (t) felina it is well known that black cats are the pets of old witches, so it shouldn't be surprising that snow white felina is the pet cat of fairy princess ozana of oz. the magical mimics in oz, p. . (s) º - ferryman a long time ago, he cut the tail off a fox and harmed other animals cruelly. the kind-hearted tin woodman, emperor of the winkies, heard of his misdeeds and deprived the ferryman of the power of un- derstanding the speech of animals. and so, today, the ferryman is the only person in oz to hear only grunts, squeals, owls, barks, and other animal noises, instead of words. the lost princess of oz, p. . (b) fi-nance here is a lady literally made of money—fi-nance, queen of down town, in the land of ev. but, since there isn't a single coin in all the world even shaped like a heart, no one really loves this poor little rich queen. the hungry tiger of oz, p. . (t) firelight one of the favorite handmaidens of erma, queen of light, this lovely maiden has smouldering eyes and a radiantly warm beauty. perhaps you have seen her, dancing in the flames of your fire- place on a cold winter's night? tik-tok of oz, p. . (b) firſt and foremoſt the supreme ruler of the dreaded phanfasms, who dwell on the top of mount phantastico, first and foremost is one of the most evil of all creatures. he joined the nome king in an attempt to conquer and plunder the land of oz. first and foremost and his dreadful erbs wanted no reward; they undertook the venture for the joy of making happy people unhappy and destroying something good. of course, they didn't succeed. evil can go just so far, and then it is stopped, of itself. in this case, the evil deeds were halted by an inno- cent handful of dust. the emerald city of oz, p. . (b) firſt knight of the realm in the valley of romance, across the deadly desert yº from oz, the first knight of the realm had been in charge of all “first ºn night" performances in the famous theater of romance. the theater is now closed, and the first knight has a new job. he teaches dramatics in the college of arts and sciences in the valley of love. the shaggy man of oz, p. . (s) fiſherman this winkie fisherman once asked dorothy and piga- sus, “who is ozma of oz?” can you imagine that? of course, there was a magic black fish at the end of that fisherman's line. the wishing horse of oz, p. . (t) y = fizzenpop nº. * \) // the grand vizier of rash is a lovable, effervescent old man who never ceased in his efforts to restore prince reddy to his lost throne of rash. fizzenpop finally succeeded, and today he is the hap- piest rash man alive. the hungry tiger of oz, p. . (t) º deadly desert except lizards and scorpions. their mirage-kingdom is made of blue flames that grow in the shifting sands where nothing flathead; \ }. there are exactly of these curious beings, and they live on a mountain top in the gillikin country. a long time ago, the flatheads were just ordinary people with flat heads and no brains. queen lurline felt sorry for them and gave each one a can of brains. but, once they had brains, the flatheads couldn't behave. they began to steal one another's brains! glinda of oz, p. . (b) º flub blub sº - - ºf this is the name of the king of the scooters, and the scooters are a race of people who live on a river in the gillikin country. they have great wings in which they catch the wind and sail across the surface of the water, much like the water bugs you have seen in the summer on the surface of pools and streams. (but don't ever call a scooter a bug! he wouldn't like it!) the lost king of oz, p. (t) * s ºu º' the munchkin country. this is most unusual, for owls are supposed fluff with her brother, king bud, princess fluff rules the kingdom of noland, a famed fairyland where strange and wonderful things are constantly occurring. fluff is so gay and good-hearted that everyone in noland loves her. once, she and king bud visited oz. the road to oz, p. . (b) flutterbudget; in a remote corner of the quadling country, the flut- terbudgets live quite alone in their small village. no visitor ever stays there long, because the flutterbudgets are an unpleasant folk, who live in constant fear of the terrible things that might happen. very few of these terrible things ever actually come to pass, but the flutter- budgets talk about them all the time and are always warning strangers of the dangers that surround them. i am afraid that several of these flutterbudgets have reached the great outside world, where we allow them to walk about freely, alarming those who bother to listen to them. wisely, in oz, they are confined to one small village. the emerald city of oz, p. . (b) fooliſh owl foolish lives with a wise donkey in a little house in to be wise and donkeys, stupid. but foolish owl and wise donkey get along very well together, and sometimes the owl's foolish doggerel does show real wisdom. the patchwork girl of oz, p. . (b) ) to the yips, in the winkie country. there, the bird dropped him into a pool in which grows the magic skosh. the frog ate of the skosh and grew very wise and as large as a man. then he left the pool and lived with the yip people. later, the frogman left yip land and became famous, although not too popular, all over oz. the lost prin- cess of oz, p. . (b) n > fumbo, king of ragbad, was so extravagant he reduced ragbad to a poverty-stricken nation. to make matters worse, he went jout into a storm one day and lost his head. his son, prince tatters, went forth to seek his fortune and found the head of his royal father. ozma reunited the king and his head, and fumbo is now said to be a better king and a wiser man for the travels his head made. grampa in oz, p. . (t) funnybone; the settlement of the funnybones is on the edge of the deadly desert, in the winkie country. did you ever bump your funnybone? 'felt like an electric shock, didn't it? these funnybones like to tickle travelers with their electric shocks. like all practical jokers, they have almost no real sense of humor—they just enjoy making others feel uncomfortable. lucky bucky in oz, p. . (n) is for glinda, the good sorceress who rules over the quadling country. in her great love for her people, glinda uses her magical powers only to bring the greatest happiness to all. love is like good sorcery, for through it we bring happiness to others as well as ourselves an “oz fan'" friend whose name begins with “g” one who knows the excitement of journeying in the gil- likin country, and is here registered as a citizen of the land of oz. gardener . . gardner of the rose kingdom, near theº land of ev, is a funny little man who dresses in rose- - colored costumes, with rose ribbons at his knees and- elbows, and a bunch of ribbons in his hair. the rose kingdom is devoted to the culture of the most perfect roses, and gardener is a very important person there. } he doesn't like people who pick his roses, but the a º shaggy man did—and everyone was happy about that, except gardy. tik-tok of oz, p. . (b) - garde queen of the island of pingaree, garee now lives peace- fully on her beautiful island in the nonestic ocean with her husband, king kitticut, and her son, prince inga. almost forgotten are those terrible days when the gentle queen was a prisoner of the wicked nome king. rinkitink in oz, p. . (b) gargoyle; this is the kind of creature we dream about some- times, after we have eaten too much. these gargoyles are carved from wood and are extremely ugly, and they fly about on wooden wings cºp which unhook from their shoulders. their wooden country is on top º of pyramid mountain, rising from the valley of voe. once, dorothy and the wizard encountered them, but since the wizard set fire to their ugly land, there may not be a single wooden gargoyle left. dorothy and the wizard in oz, p. . (b) º a small servant of mogodore of baffleburg, in the quad- ling country, ginger is a lively lad who performs marvels with his silver dinner bell. when he rings the bell—hey, presto! there is plenty to eat, and the food is always highly spiced, owing, we imagine, to gin- ger's name. jack pumpkinhead of oz, p. . (t) glinda - º | this famous ruler of the quadling country is the great- est sorceress of all. glinda is the firm friend of princess ozma; indeed, it was glinda who solved the mystery of ozma's birth and freed her * from an enchantment that had kept her from the throne. and she has taught the little wizard all that she knows about magic. glinda lives in a handsome castle, surrounded by a bevy of beautiful maidens. she spends her time studying sorcery and devising ways to make the people of oz even more happy than they are. one of her most prized posses- sions is the great book of records, in which every event that occurs anywhere in oz (or elsewhere) is magically and truthfully recorded, just as soon as it happens. thus, glinda is wise and good beyond mea- sure, and oz is fortunate indeed to possess her. the wizard of oz, p. . (b) gloma gloma, the black queen, lives in the black forest, in the otherwise-yellow winkie country. in spite of the darkness of her gloomy realm, gloma is a good witch, which she proved by helping dorothy when oz had been conquered. the wishing horse of oz, gloria gºſ ºº º ! º º * in the days when a tiny and remote country in oz º º */called jinxland was ruled by king krewl, who had stolen the throne is from king kynd, princess gloria's father, the poor princess was most unhappy. and so were all the jinxlanders. gloria wanted to marry pon, * the gardener's boy, but her uncle insisted she marry ugly old googly goo, who was very rich. what happened? for the present, we'll just tell you that gloria is now queen gloria and her royal husband is pon. and neither of them will ever stop thanking the famous scarecrow of oz. the scarecrow of oz, p. . (b) glubao for a short time, glubdo ruled over the red jinn's realm in the land of ev, with the help of his brother, gludwig. the best thing we can say about glubdo is that he wasn't quite the dumbo gludwig proved to be. the silver princess in oz, p. . (t) gludwig - º gludwig the glubrious, brother of glubdo, was one of of the jolly jinnicky, the red jinn of the land of ev. he / stirred the jinn's people to rebellion and forced jinnicky from his throne. then, gludwig showed his real nature, for he proceeded to turn all those who opposed or displeased him to stone. but the little red jinn wasn't beaten so easily, and it wasn't long until he had won back his throne. you can be sure that gludwig received his punish- ment. the silver princess in oz, p. . (t) godorkaſ lord of a floating castle-island in the nonestic ocean, godorkas, the duke of dork, has a great liking for bana- mas. now that breakfast, the bananny goat, has come to his luxury island, his excellency is about the most con- tented duke afloat. pirates in oz, p. . (t) queen of stairway town in the gillikin country, go- down was a savage-looking person who was stooped and tired from her endless trips down the stairs of her realm. her husband, king kumup, was just as tired from coming up. kabumpo and randy decided there was no future in either coming up or going down all the time, so they took off in another direction. as randy said, “im—magine spending your life on the stairs!” the purple prince of oz, p. . (t) good witch of the north when the cyclone first blew dorothy and toto and their kansas farm-home to oz, settling the house on the wicked witch of the east and killing her in the process, it was the good witch of the north who greeted dorothy, advising her to travel to the emerald city to ask the wizard of oz to send her and her little dog back home. al- though not much has been heard about her since, dorothy says that some pretty important things have transpired involving the good witch of the north, but the story is just too long to crowd into a small space. it would take a whole book, dorothy tells us. the wizard of oz, p. . (b) 'googly goo º * a rich and powerful nobleman of jinxland, googly goo * learned that money will not buy love or happiness. he tried to buy the love of princess gloria; in fact, he even paid a wicked witch to freeze the princesssheart so that she couldn't love anyone else. but gloria preferred pon, the lowly gardener's boy, and all of googly goo's money couldn't change that. the scarecrow of oz, p. . (b) gorba this is the wizard-name of abrog, if you spell that name backwards. gorba is the prophet of perhaps city in the maybe mountains of the winkie country. as a wizard, this wicked man stole princess pretty good of perhaps city and tried to transform her into a chunk of mud. but the princess was too pretty for that and o emerged from the charm as urtha, the flower fairy. Ş. after gorba's misdeeds had been righted, he was pun- ished by being turned into a brown mouse. grampa in oz, p. . (t) (^- goſ º º if he were not inspired to do evil by his wife (who is cor, co-ruler of coregos, the twin islands) gos, ruler of the isle of regos in the nonestic ocean, would be nothing more than a big and sº burly monarch, perhaps not too intelligent, but with a hearty joy in his ſº rough island life. he may have grown wiser, however, since he has tasted defeat at the hands of the boy prince, inga of pingaree. rinki- tink in oz, p. . (b) after he had been retired from active army duty as an old man with one game leg, grampa sprang into action at the time of ragbad's need. he went forth with prince tatters to engage in a series of amazing exploits that resulted in the freeing of a beautiful princess. when he returned triumphantly with a happy prince tatters, he found the love and devotion of an entire kingdom waiting for him in the now prosperous ragbad. grampa in oz, p. . (t) scarecrow when the straw man fell down the magic beanpole into their land. the grand chew chew explained to the scarecrow all about his (the scarecrow’s) former existence as the exalted chang wang woe, emperor of the silver islands. but the scarecrow found that kinging it can be a royally risky business, and he was overjoyed to be rescued by dorothy and her companions. the royal book of oz, p. . (t) grand gallpool directly to the northeast of the nome kingdom is the land of the growleywogs. the grand gallipoot is the ruler of these fearsome creatures, who are very tall, thin people with extremely powerful muscles lying just below their skins. overbearing and disa- greeable, they appear to be thin and weak, but they are really so strong the feeblest of them can toss an elephant seven miles. general guph secured the aid of the grand gallipoot and his growleywogs when he was enlisting allies for the nome king's ill-fated venture to conquer oz. the emerald city of oz, p. . (b) grand gheewizard imagine! this magician of the silver islands wanted to change the scarecrow into an eighty-five-year-old silver islander! the three princes of the silver islands were behind the scheme, too, and there was much oriental skullduggery afoot. dorothy appeared in the nick of time, and the scarecrow's straw stuffing didn't age even a single day. the royal book of oz, p. . (t) grand mo-gull king of all land and sea birds, the grand mo-gull car- ried young prince philador from the ozure islands to the hut of tatty- poo, the good witch of the gillikins. the prince sought her aid in free- ing his lovely islands from a magic spell cast by old mombi. the giant horse of oz, p. . (t) grandmother gmit this elderly lady lives in the village of the fuddlecum- jigs, folks built like jig-saw puzzles who are likely to "scatter” themselves at any moment. when she is in one piece, grandmother gnit occupies her time knitting mittens for a foolish kangaroo, who constantly loses sº them. boxing gloves would actually be more suitable for this fellow, - anyway. the emerald city of oz, p. . (b) grapégatherer s—º when dorothy, the tin woodman, percy, jam, and the & cowardly lion were plotting to overthrow terp the terrible, a giant, grapegatherer risked his freedom to help them. all this took place in the hidden valley of oz, p. . (c) great dragon this is the father of a family of huge dragons who dwell in a cave just below the surface of the winkie country. woot the wanderer once accidentally dropped into the dragon cave. if he hadn't been wearing the magic apron of mrs. yoop, woot's wanderings would have ceased on the spot. the tin woodman of oz, p. . (b) | greta * º ordinarily, glinda, the good sorceress of the south, selects her serving maids from the quadling country. once in a while, § she is pleased to be served by lovely girls from other oz countries. imagine then, the pride and joy of little greta, a humble milkmaid from the northern country of the gillikins, when glinda made her one of her best-loved maids-in-waiting! ozoplaning with the wizard ( of oz, p. . (t) \,, grumph ſ º with such a name, wouldn't you guess that this fellow & º - r * ... < * , - - * º *** is a nome? grumph turned up in the emerald city with his friend º umph, another nome, and stole jenny jump's magic turn-style, º taking it up a chimney—a typically “nomish” thing to do. the wonder city of oz, p. . (n) º grumpy when a person is in a bad mood, haven't you heard it said, “he’s cross as a bear?" well, in the winkie country there is a cross kingdom of patch, where all the people are cross patches. nat- urally, there had to be a cross bear living there, and his name is grumpy. the gnome king of oz, p. . (t) guardian of the magic muffin trae this particular “guardian” has the body of an elephant, the tail of an alligator, and two heads—a wolf's head and an owl's head. is it any wonder that no one has ever found a name for this creature? gugu, in the central and western part of the gillikin country. king gugu, the leopard, suffered the humiliation of being transformed by kiki aru into a fat little gillikin woman. the magic of oz, p. . (b) friendly city. since bookville is peopled by rather uppish and snobbish “books,” what it really needs is a good, horn-rim-spectacled librarian to put the books in their places. the hidden valley of oz, p. . (c) gump - once there was a creature resembling an elk whose . head hung on the wall of the royal palace in oz. when the scarecrow and his companions were constructing a “thing” which would carry ſ them from the royal palace of the emerald city (where they were being held captive by general jinjur's army of revolt) they removed the head from the wall and fastened it to the front of their make-shift flying machine. then they brought the whole contraption to life with the magic powder of life. after the gump had served his purpose, the head was returned to the wall of the royal palace. at rare intervals, this head sees fit to speak, and visitors, not knowing the gump's amazing history, are quite startled. the land of oz, p. . (b) guph commander-in-chief of the nome king's army and suc- cessor to general blug, general guph once embarked on a dangerous mission. it involved enlisting the aid of a horde of wicked creatures to march with the nome army through a tunnel leading under the deadly desert, and then on to the emerald city. once there, guph planned to pillage and despoil the entire land of oz. to shorten a long story—guph is no longer a general— indeed, few ozians choose to remember him. the em- erald city of oz, p. . (b) guraada gureeda, princess of umbrella island, very nearly be- came the servant of a giant—loxo the lucky. she is called gureeda because she reads so much and so gu- reedily. however, when she met speedy and terrybub- ble, gureeda found that her own life was as exciting as any she had ever read about. speedy in oz, p. . (t) guig as royal sorcerer of the land of the mangaboos, a vegetable kingdom lying under the surface of the earth near the land of ev, gwig once tested his magic against that of the wizard of oz. the mangaboo tried to stop the wizard's breathing, but that great oz personage unsheathed a huge sword and sliced gwig in two. but he then got planted, so that he could sprout and produce a new gwig, which seems to us about like sewing seeds of discord. dorothy and the wizard in oz, p. . (b) * - cº- cº- sº- prº- pre- cº- pre- * - nº- se d.e. tº e • e nº- ºr- tº e a b be e º e | is for happiness, ever present in the land of oz. no matter how many millions have found happiness in this magical place, there's more than enough for the millions to come an “oz fan’’ fr i end whose name begins with ‘‘h’" one whose happiness requires that frequent hours be spent in oz, and who is here registered as a citizen of the land of oz. - - - ' ', * . * - lº --> _ººs—"º hah hoh "… sº a º nºe the king of kimbaloo, in the gillikin country, hired hah hoh as the town laugher. hah hoh is one laugher who has both the first laugh and the last—he laughs at his own bad verses, but no- body else does. the lost king of oz, p. . (t) half a lion a long time ago, a man named tazzywaller, then high | chamberlain of mudge, cut a lion in half. the head locked up the rear half in the castle. the unfortunate half a lion (the head) roamed the forests of the munchkin country. when ozma heard of the poor beast's plight, she quickly reunited the two halves and made a whole lion of half a lion. since no one ever dies in the land of oz, half a lion might have been cut into a thousand pieces, and each bit of him would have had to wander in the munchkin forests. of course, if this % had happened, it would have made ozma's task much more difficult. the cowardly lion of oz, p. . (t) hammerhead these wild and lawless people inhabit a hill in a de- serted section of the quadling country. they prevent travelers from passing their hill by popping their heads out (like the well known jack- as the sawhorse, the cowardly lion, the hungry tiger, and toto. like toto, hank is from the united states. tik-tok of oz, p. . (b) happy toko \ once the royal drummer of the silver islands, happy \ toko was promoted to the position of imperial punster by the scare- crow. later, happy was knighted by the yellow knight; a short time thereafter, he became emperor of the silver islands. the royal book of oz, p. . (t) harum sarum harum scarum of scare city in the quad- ling country, was a most frightful looking fellow. he continually made ugly faces, groaned and shouted, and º he was always wanting to chop off someone's head, or murder someone. but he couldn't scare peter, a little boy from philadelphia, because peter was a baseball fan and had seen the crowds at shibe park. jack pumpkin- head of oz, p. . (t) haſhem hashem is one of the several chefs serving in the royal kitchen of the palace of pumperdink, in the gillikin == country. without our telling you, you would know, of course, that hashem is in charge of the meals served on mondays and days following holidays and feast days. kabumpo in oz, p. (t) heelerſ strange creatures called heelers once invaded oz. they stayed only a few pages and then showed their heels to the oz folk and vanished to their home beyond the deadly desert. no one was sorry to see them go. the wonder city of oz, p. . (n) herby the medicine man of oz was once an ordinary little winkie man who liked to cure such ills as boredom, fatigue, laughing-at-the-wrong-moment, and other such ailments. old mombi did one of the few useful acts of her life by enchanting him, so that he became a real medicine man, with a medicine chest right in his own chest. today, herby happily serves as court physician of ozma's royal palace, even though his cures are sel- dom needed there. the giant horse of oz, p. . (t) hiergargo one of the greatest magicians who ever lived, hier- gargo built a giant tube right through the center of the earth. when he decided to travel through this tube in order to save time, he went so fast that he came out the opposite end, flew into space, hit a star, and exploded! in brief, he ended with a bang! tik-tok of oz, p. . (b) high boy the giant horse of oz is an amazing creature, with stilt-like legs that adjust themselves to any length for traveling over a t | prairie or a mountain. high boy cut quite a figure in the emerald city and proved so courageous and good-natured that he is the most famous horse in oz, next to ozma's beloved sawhorse. the giant horse of oz, p. . (t) h ^ . high coco-lorum | the city of thi, in the winkie country, is the home of the thists, and their ruler is the high coco-lorum. these thists (try not to lisp when you say their name!) are an odd people, with diamond- shaped heads and heart-shaped bodies; their eyes are very large and round; their noses and mouths are very small. the only hair they have & grows in tufts at the tops of their heads. and, as you may have guessed, they eat thistles. until dorothy and her party visited thi, no one even knew the city existed, which is not strange, for this strange place is en- chanted and jumps about the landscape. in addition, it is surrounded by a nearly impassable field of great, prickly thistles. beyond this hedge, there is a high stone wall, which is just an optical illusion. from all this, we can take a hint—we know the thists want to be left alone. the lost princess of oz, p. . (b) high qui-queſtioner the king of keretaria, a small munchkin country, thinks he must have an official questioner to annoy visitors to his realm. the high qui-questioner does this expertly, aided by a golden staff tipped by a question mark. he once tried to question handy mandy, but her answers were so simple and to-the-point that the hi qui-ques- tioner concluded she was not playing the game fairly— his game, that is, in which everyone but him is wrong. handy mandy in oz, p. . (t) hi-lo inside a small mountain in the quadling country, not far from the emerald city, there is an elevator that rises to the very top of that mountain. the operator of this elevator is a little wooden man named hi-lo. every day, he carries scores of ozians up and down. they are all curious to see princess ozana's lovely story blossom garden, which grows atop the mountain. the magical mimics in oz, p. . (s) /* hi-lo, mr. ~ the wife of hi-lo lives on top of the mountain in the village of pineville, a charming town in which the inhabitants are wooden dolls carved from pine. the scent of the pine and the fresh breezes make pineville almost as much an attraction as ozana's fairy story blossom garden. the magical mimics in oz, p. (s) himſelf the elf of the silver hammer appears and does the bid- ding of anyone who strikes with the enchanted silver hammer. “him- self” is a leprechaun (which means he is an irish fairy) and a very wise creature. for a time, he and his silver hammer served handy mandy and nox the white ox. he now makes his home in the emerald city, where he serves princess ozma. handy mandy in oz, p. . (t) hip hopper ip hopper is the champion wrestler of the under- ground hopper city, in the mountainous region of the quadling country. as with all the hoppers, hip has only one leg. we should like to see hip hopping about in a wrestling match, with all the watching hoppers hopping up and down, no doubt hopping mad should hip hopper happen to lose! the patchwork girl of oz, p. . (b) hippenſcop this young stratovanian, who serves in the royal court º ts of king strut, took part in one of the most bewildering bits of oz his- tory we ever hope to read. jellia jamb is all mixed up in it, and hip- penscop turns out to be the little oz maid's special friend. with ozo- % * planes zoooooooming! all about, there is more excitement than we have room to tell about. ozoplaning with the wizard of oz, p. . (t) ſº º sº hip-po-gy-raf * (, whatever this creature is, we are sure he is the most hyphenated animal in existence. it takes three hyphens to hold him to- gether. he resembles both a hippopotamus and a giraffe, and he eats straw. of course, this is all hearsay, for hip-po-gy-raf lives in the in- visible land of the munchkin country. but one thing we are sure of the scarecrow once met him and got the stuffing eaten out of him, but he later found the creature wasn't such a bad sort, after all. the tin woodman of oz, p. . (b) hi-Świnger the king of swing city, quadling country, flies through the air on a trapeze. naturally, he does it with the greatest of ease for he's had lots of practice. even though swinging on a trapeze may look like lots of fun on tv or in the circus, how would you like to have to “get into the act” and swing giddily, high above the earth, with no practice at all? since that's what happens to strangers who come to swing city, most folk stay away from there and remain strangers to highty, king of swing. jack pumpkinhead of oz, p. . (t) his woodjeſty "way over in a remote section of the winkie country, there lives a “tree man.” he is a gnarled old person who rules over the twigs, a strange, bush-like people. his woodjesty is the only one who can keep the young twigs in line and stop them from beating-about- the-bush when they have misbehaved! kabumpo in oz, p. . (t) º hokus of poke; [… º ja many, many years ago, right here in the great outside world in england, there lived a young knight. in his first battle, * hopfrog equire an enterprising bullfrog conducts a bathing beach on a brook near a waterfall in the quadling country. bull- selected an ideal spot for his work, for the southland of the quadlings is the warmest and sleepiest of all the oz countries. the scalawagons of oz, p. . (t) lº. humpy º, in that fabulous fairyland of hollywood, in the state of california, where nothing is too unusual to happen, there once was a dummy named humpy. he was a “stunt man” who performed all those dangerous feats too risky for live actors. humpy was very happy when he found himself in oz, appreciated for himself alone, and no long- er the dummy he had once been. the lost king of oz, p. . (t) º * hungry t.ger -ºxºſº *- flºº º- - - friend and comrade of the famous cowardly lion of oz, the tiger is hungry because he has a longing to eat fat babies. fortunately, his conscience is many times stronger than his appetite. dorothy and the other oz folks who know the hungry tiger well will assure you that he would be horrified at the very thought of being angry with a baby, much less devouring one! still, the hungry tiger likes to build up this baby-eating jungle legend about himself, never forgetting, of course, that he does have a very powerful conscience. most oz-readers believe that the hungry tiger first appeared in ozma of oz, but we think he may have been introduced in the wizard of oz. in that book, (see page ) the cowardly lion answered a tiger's pleas for help and destroyed a beast which had been devouring the forest animals. the lion promised this tiger that, once dorothy was safely on her way home, he would return to the forest and become king of the beasts. we can conclude that the lion did this, for he does not appear in the second oz book, the land of oz. but, in the third oz book, ozma of oz, the cowardly lion reappears with a friend, the hungry tiger, both of them arriving in the emerald city (where they still live) from the jungle. do you agree with our “sup- poses”? the wizard of oz, p. . (b) º hurrywurree the chief counselor of the quix, of quick city in the winkie country, is hurrywurree the worst. you'll want to hurry through quick city as quickly as you can, for the quix are, without || doubt, the most unpleasant and disagreeable people in all oz. the ºf yellow knight of oz, p. . (t) º : ; - º, hyacinth /*- this lady was queen of uptown and wife of joe king when we first met her in this oz book. but joe was due for a promo- tion and, in later oz books, became king of the gillikins. no matter what her station, queen hyacinth is always gracious and gentle. the giant horse of oz, p. . (i) qq janu ianu is a little girl who lives with her mother, father and brother in the valley of voe, where all the people are invisible because they eat of the dama fruit. the voe people have chosen this diet, not only because it is so delicious, but because it makes them in- visible and thus safe from attacks by the ferocious invisible bears of voe. (because adam ate of the forbidden fruit, perhaps the people of voe have named their fruit after him. if you rearrange the letters in dama, you can easily spell adam.) dorothy and the wizard in oz, p. . (b) imperial perſuader although he hoped to be able to tell people what to do and make them want to do it, the imperial persuader was only mildly successful, even in his native country of keretaria. handy mandy in oz, p. . (t) imperial squamoſ under the spell of this wicked “cooky. witch,” an entire village was pickled, preserved and jarred. the cowardly lion and company narrowly escaped be- ing canned as mincemeat. the cowardly lion of oz, p. . (t) - / yº- inga —º i'll the boy prince of pingaree was the hero of some of the strangest and most exciting adventures in oz history. with the aid of ~ o three magic pearls, a fat and jolly king named rinkitink, and a goat called bilbil, prince inga conquered two islands ruled by a fierce war- rior king and queen and almost overcame the power of the infamous nome king. he did all this in his efforts to free his beloved father and mother, the rulers, and their enslaved people. inga's bravery and courage brought aid quickly from ozma. rinkitink in oz, p. . (b) *~~ ts y ipply here's one royal scribe with whom we wouldn't change places. ippty was once royal historian and scribe of the kingdom of rash, in the land of ev. one unhappy day, he stole the hungry tiger of oz, whom he hoped to persuade to devour the innocent prisoners of the wicked pasha of rash. and that's one idea ippty shouldn't have popped up with, for it bounced him right out of rash onto a lonely island in the nonestic ocean. the hungry tiger of oz, p. . (t) º º nº- º ſ iomere & isomere is a fairytale princess who is, even now, living the “happy ever after” part of her life. there was a time, though, when isomere's husband was known as realbad the bandit, and she didn't even know where her son was. we know, of course, that her son's name is ojo, and that he is now the prince of seebania. ojo in oz, p. (t) o matiah the wizard captured iva, a young kitchen boy, and held him captive in the nome king's tunnel, under the emerald city. iva escaped and played a large part in liberating ozma and putting matiah out of business as a wizard. the wishing horse of oz, p. . (t) just above the munchkin country is the country of un. ź. its former king had the unlikely name of i-wish-i-was. % the uns have the heads of birds, with brightly colored feathers, and the bodies of human beings; hence, they are called featherheads. for the most part, the uns are a most unpleasant people. the only good un, who is now their king, is unselfish. the cowardly lion of oz, p. . (t) panion of tip. made by a mischievous boy and brought to life by an old witch, good-natured jack masquerades as a man with a pumpkin head and is a hallowe'en prank all in himself an “oz fan'" friend whose name begins with “j” one who can enjoy the jack pumpkinheads of any world, for their warm and simple selves, and who is now a registered citizen of the land of oz. good qualities are so many and so endearing that every- one loves him. there are worse things to have in one's head than pumpkin seeds! the land of oz, p. . (b) - jaguar - a jaguar once happened upon the scarecrow, the tin woodman, polychrome, and woot the wanderer as they were adven- turing through the winkie country. the poor beast hadn't eaten for days, and he felt he would be compelled to eat either woot or poly- chrome, much as the travelers interested him. he preferred woot, for he feared that polychrome, because of being the rainbow's daughter, might be rather soggy and misty. polychrome helped him out of this dilemma by preparing a magic breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast. since the magical omelette consisted of five dozen eggs, with two dozen loaves of bread on the side, the jaguar was quite satisfied and very happy to be friendly. the tin woodman of oz, p. . (b) jak the horners, whose chief is named jak, live in a cave city in the mountainous southern part of the quadling country. jak thought it a great joke on the hoppers (who have only one leg per person) to say that their understanding was less than that of the horners. but the pun didn't pan out, and jak couldn't understand why! (for goodness sake, don't confuse this jak horner from a corner of oz with the jack horner in his corner of mother gooseland! they aren't even cousins-twenty-times-re- moved.) the patchwork girl of oz, p. . (b) jam _- from his home in ohio, small jam traveled to the land ! of oz in a crate attached to a collapsible kite. among a his oz adventures were the conquering of terp, the * terrible giant, and the freeing of the people of the hid- den valley, in the gillikin country, from terp's terrible power. when his adventures were over, jam wanted to go back home to ohio. the wizard, who had once traveled in that state with a circus, knew exactly where to return jam, and back to ohio sailed boy and kite. the hidden valley of oz, p. . (c) jazzma tune town, in the winkie country, is ruled by queen jazzma, who has very short hair and a rather loud voice. some of the older residents of tune town complain that jazzma is much too mod- ern for their taste. (and it is whispered that jazzma, herself, is now worried about a saucy young upstart named bee-bopma who has just come to tune town and is even noisier and less melodious than jazz- a ma.) the nome king of oz, p. . (t) º y jellia jamb º º º ever since ozma became ruler of the land of oz, her º, & personal maid and companion has been jellia jamb, and a great friend- º ship has grown up between the two girls. pretty, lively, and always *t faithful, jellia is one of the best-known and best-loved personages in the royal palace of the emerald city. you will recall that jellia was a member of the royal staff even before ozma was princess. she acted as interpreter for the scarecrow and jack pumpkinhead when jack felt he couldn't understand scarecrow language. the land of oz, p. . (b) jenny jump - when jenny was angry, she jumped. her anger on one occasion was so great that she jumped all the way from her home in new jersey to the land of oz, bringing with her a bad temper and a bit of magic given her by a leprechaun from weehawken. no sooner had she arrived than she decided to rule oz. she organized the first oz election and was ready to run against ozma. finally, for the good of jenny and oz, it was decided that her propensity for ill temper, envy, and ambition had to be changed, and this the wizard brought about. jenny still jumps, however; the last time she was heard of, she had jumped down to the age of eleven. the wonder city of oz, p. . (n) º,' 'º' as wizards go, glegg was a pretty bad sort, for he mixed ~ gillikin country, and he mixed up everything at ozma's royal palace, - - too. but j. glegg found that mixed magic is nothing to mix into, for he ended his dark career in the darkest fashion imaginable—as a heap of black soot. kabumpo in oz, p. . (t) streets, jim the cab horse was retired to the hugson ranch in cali- fornia, where he pulled only the light ranch buggy. on this same ranch worked zeb, a young boy whose uncle was bill hugson (also dorothy's uncle). when zeb hitched jim to the buggy and went to the railroad stop to meet dorothy and take her to the hugson ranch, he didn't anticipate the earthquake that threw dorothy, eureka, jim, and zeb into a great crack in the earth's surface—the “opener” of such adven- tures as zeb and jim had never dreamed could happen. finally, they arrived safely in the emerald city, where jim made the mistake of running a race with the tireless sawhorse. poor jim was so humiliated at being beaten by a wooden horse that he wanted to get back to ranch life, where there would be no wooden steeds, and zeb, too, de- cided he was better fitted to be a rancher in california than an ad- venturer in oz. so dorothy used the magic belt to send them back to the hugson ranch. dorothy and the wizard in oz, p. . (b) jinjur j injur, a vivacious young girl, once raised an army composed of pretty maids from all four oz countries. armed with hatpins, the army of revolt moved on the emerald city and succeeded in driving the scarecrow from the throne, in the days before ozma came to rule. it was jinjur's idea that oz had been too long ruled by men, who were now to stay home and do housework. but jinjur made the mistake of allying herself to old mombi. glinda the good then stepped in and ended general jinjur's career as a lady soldier. jinjur is now - happily married and on the best of terms with the scare- ºg crow, ozma, and other oz folks whom she once opposed. (*. º the land of oz, p. . (b) jimmicky --~~~~ in his kingdom in the land of ev, across the deadly" º desert from oz, the red jinn lives in a jar stuffed full º k of magic. jinnicky is a thoroughly likeable fellow and "º uses his magic to help everyone whose cause is just. once, he traveled to the land of oz to help the purple prince free the royal family of pumperdink. our jinnicky pre- fers to live in a jar, he says. the truth of the matter is that the red jinn is so plump no bottle would fit him. but a jar—that's mighty comfortable for a roly poly jinn. the purple prince of oz, p. . (t) \º jo apple elc this may not be very who's who-ish, but we're going yº to put right here all the members of queen anne's oogabooian army ºf who are named jo. when queen anne set out to conque oz, she en- ; ) is listed all the men in her tiny kingdom except one. they were commis- ºg * *. sioned as follows: as generals: jo apple, joe bun, joe cone, and jo - clock; as colonels: jo plum, jo egg, jo banjo, and jo cheese; as o mayors: jo nail, jo cake, jo ham, and jo stockings; as captains: jo sandwich, jo padlock, jo sundae, and jo buttons. jo files became, for a short time, the only private in the army, and every army must have its “private files,” you know. the one jo who refused to go to war was jo candy, for he felt he must stay home to harvest his crop of jackson balls, lemon drops, bon-bons, and chocolate creams, so that the chil- dren of oogaboo would not be disappointed. as you may have guessed, each of these jos grew in his own orchard the thing for which he was named. tik-tok of oz, pp. , , , and . (b) . * joe king º ** once a mountaineer in the gillikin country and king of the uplanders of uptown, a sky city of oz, joe king lent his famous steed, the giant horse, to young prince philador, so that the prince might liberate his country from bondage. joe is now king of the gil- likins, and what a merry monarch he is! the giant horse of oz, p. . (t) joker : mr. joker is a funny little clown who lives in the china º % village in the quadling country. since he is made of china and is very gº brittle, it is no wonder that mr. joker is a little cracked. but the cracks tº in his head seem to make him all the funnier as a clown. the wizard º ! of oz, p. . (b) º/". º - john dough john dough the first, king of the two kingdoms of hiland and loland, is made entirely of delicious gingerbread, and he/ was brought to life by an arabian"elixir of life. before becoming king of the twin countries that lie just over the desert from oz, john dough enjoyed many wonderful adventures in the company of para bruin the rubber bear, and chick the cherub, in the country of mifkets and with the fairy beaver king on the isle of phreex. john is so good-natured that he once allowed part of himself to be eaten so that a sweet little princess might be restored to health by the magic elixir he contains. the road to oz, p. . (b) johnny cake johnny cake may have been a runaway when you first heard about him, but now he is a cheerful old gentleman who lives in the town of bunbury, quadling country. he has traveled a lot, being well known outside oz, and he loves to tell long-winded tales of his adventures. the fresher bunbury folk are of the private opinion that johnny is getting a trifle stale. the emerald city of oz, p. . (b) this fairy friend of the shaggy man is never without } \ i. his chest of tools. working cheerfully and swiftly, johnny dooit can º build almost anything out of nothing, in almost no time at all. once, | johnny built a sandboat that carried shaggy and his friends safely ¥ across the deadly desert to oz. later, ozma honored johnny by in- viting him to her birthday party. the road to oz, p. . (b) ~~ johnnan there was once a wonderful “wozard" in the gillikin country. (a wozard is not quite as powerful as a wiz- ard.) this particular wozard was named ozwoz, and he traded one of his wooden soldiers, named johnwan, to the red jinn of ev for a magic cookie jar that always stayed full, no matter how many cookies were taken from it. personally, we think ozwoz got the better of the bargain, but jinnicky was pleased with his trade. john- wan is now the personal bodyguard of the purple prince of regalia. the purple prince of oz, p. . (t) jol jemkiph soforth a long time ago, jol was king of oogaboo, a tiny country in a desolate corner of oz. jol's wife had such a sharp tongue that the poor hen-pecked fellow crept over a mountain pass into oz proper and has never been heard of since. a few years later, his wife followed. (we hope she didn't find him.) tik-tok of oz, p. . (b) —º junnenrump & high in the sky over oz is stratovania, a land in which all people live out-of-doors under canopies. junnenrump is the busiest servant boy in that land. look under any canopy and you'll find him. busily fetching and carrying, always ready to jump-en-run for any of the canopy people. ozoplaning with the wizard of oz, p. (t) you have seen. which would you be like— rinkitink—who was so well loved that he had to scamper off on a vacation for relief? or like ruggedo, who was so wicked that he was banished from his own kingdom? an “oz fan' fr i end whose name beg ns with “k” one who can laugh, cry, and be merry at the exaggerated antics of kings, and who is here registered as a citizen of the land of oz. queen of stratovania, a country high in the sky, kabebe behaved like many other high-strung ladies do when their husbands are absent: she tried to run the country. high as it was, queen kabebe almost succeeded in running stratovania into the ground. ozoplaning with the wizard of oz, p. . (t) - kabumpo - when prince pompadore of the kingdom of pumper- dink set out to search for his “proper princess,” kabumpo the elegant elephant was his faithful companion. not only is he an elegant ele- phant; he is an elegant fellow too, and the people of oz, as well as thousands in the great outside world, are very fond of kabumpo, ka- ** kachenka -ºš since he is the royal counselor of king sizzeroo, of umbrella island, kachewka is supposed to do the king's thinking for him. fortunately for both of them, being king of umbrella island is a flighty business and doesn't require much in the way of brains.speedy in oz, p. . (t) kalidahſ - dreadful beasts called kalidahs attacked dorothy and her friends when they were journeying to the emerald city on the “road of yellow brick.” the sharp wits of the scarecrow and the sharper axe of the tin woodman saved the adventurers from these fierce ani- mals. the kalidahs have bodies like bears and heads like tigers. per- haps they got their name from kaleidoscope, the pretty toy children love to look into because it shows pictures ever-changing and many- shaped. but we hope none of us ever sees a kalidah when he looks into when first we heard of kaliko. he was chief steward of the nome king. later, when ruggedo had been banished from his underground kingdom, kaliko became king of the nomes. everyone had thought him a pleasant enough fellow—for a nome—but, when power was put into his hands, he used it to mistreat the king and queen of pingaree. like some folks in the great outside world, kaliko didn't \{ know how to use success. ozma of oz, p. . (b) kangaroo the only kangaroo in oz lives just two miles due south kangaroo to reach the village, where old grandmother gnit, his friend, sits and g-nits mittens for him, day in and day out—that is, when she isn't scattered over the landscape. the emerald city of oz, p. . (b) kapooſa kapoosa is the major dumbo of menankypoo in gno- man's land, near the kingdom of rinkitink. like all menankypooians, kapoosa can't talk. these odd people never speak, but converse by means of words that appear on their foreheads. maybe this is what peo- ple mean when they say they can “read our thoughts.” pirates in oz, g º p. . (t) gatekeeper of the royal palace of regalia, in the gilli- kin country, kayub failed only once in a long career to guard the gate. that was when kabumpo, the elegant elephant, rumbled in to call on king randy. gates and gatekeepers have never bothered kabumpo, but kabumpo bothered the gatekeeper! the silver princess in oz, p. . (t) kerr for a time, kerr ruled as king of keretaria, in the munchkin country. however, he was a villain and an imposter, and so he couldn't last long in oz. handy mandy gave him a hand down from his throne. handy mandy in oz, p. . (t) the rightful boy-king of keretaria, kerry was a prisoner of the wicked wizard of wutz, while uncle kerr occupied his throne. handy mandy and nox, the white ox, soon put everything right. to- day, king kerry and keretaria are as happy as any young king and his country have a right to be—and that's pretty happy in munchikinland. handy mandy in oz, p. . (t) kettywig º-rºº º brother to king pompus of pumperdink, in the gillikin country, kettywig is a deep-dyed villain. he once allied himself with the witch, princess faleero of follensby forest, to steal the throne of pompus. kettywig thought he was pretty smart, but he met his match in faleero, who took over the throne and provided kettywig with a nice, tight cell in the palace dungeon. when rascals put their heads together, one of them is likely to lose his head. certainly, in this deal, kettywig didn't get a-head! the purple prince of oz, p. . (t) kik-a-bray dunkiton is a community of donkeys, whose inhabitants declare they are the smartest beings alive. they have no streets in their towns, and their buildings and houses have no numbers. the don- keys believe only stupid people need such guideposts and signs to help them get about. king kik-a-bray was so impressed with the good man- ners and polite words of the shaggy man that he gave that unfortunate person a donkey's head, which didn't please shaggy at all. kik-a-bray was much surprised at this for, like all donkeys, he thought no other existence could be so fine. and shaggy found it very hard to stop being a donkey! the road to oz, p. . (b) at one time, kiki aru was a cross, disagreeable, unhappy boy living in hyup land on mount munch. then, he learned a secret of transformation, made friends with— of all people!—the nome king, and caused a great deal of trouble. in order to cure kiki of his trouble-making, he was forced to drink of the waters of the “fountain of forgetfulness', upon doing which he immediately forgot all his wickedness and became a normal, happy youth. the magic of oz. p. . (b) - kind, joly º the king of kimbaloo, in the gillikin country, has ex- actly five hundred subjects—two hundred and fifty girls and two hun- dred and fifty boys. kimbaloo was one of the happiest kingdoms in all oz until kinda jolly made the mistake of hiring old mombi the witch as castle cook. what a stew she cooked up! but even that turned out all right, and kimbaloo is once more one of the merriest kingdoms you can find. the lost king of oz, p. . (t) king of corabia for five hundred miserable years, owing to a wicked spell, the king of corabia and all his subjects dwelt as fish in the depths of a turbulent stream. but when speedy had a date, he kept it (it was only the stone he threw away!) and so the evil spell was magically broken and strange things began to transpire, which restored the king of corabia, his queen, and his subjects to their proper places and opened a wonderful door of happiness for the beautiful princess. the yellow knight of oz, p. . (t) king of corumbia the same evil spell which held the king of corabia in thrall rooted the king of corumbia and all his subjects, deep into the ground as trees. without the assistance of confido, the sultan's con- fiding fido, neither spell might ever have been broken, and there might never have been a story about the yellow knight of oz, p. . (t) king of fix city neither the people of fix city, winkie country, nor their king, ever move about; they just stand fixed in one place, and so, their furniture, trees, bushes, scenery and so forth move about for them. for our part, we wouldn't want to be fixtures in fix city, but we may be getting close to it, here in the great outside world, where we have so many machines and gadgets to move about for us. the royal book of oz, p. . (t) o king of play over in the winkie country, there is a band of people living in a forest who do nothing but play. with most of us, play is fun and relaxation after work. with these play fellows, play is hard work. they play so hard and so constantly that they might as well be hard at work doing something useful. grampa in oz, p. . (t) king of shuttertown shuttertown is a kingdom in the winkie country. (there seem to be so many kingdoms in winkieland, no doubt the winkie folk have a housing shortage too!) the king just sits on a chim- ney in shuttertown and closes shutters over his face to anything he doesn't like to see. (there have been incidents in the history of the great outside world at which folk have “closed their shutters"—many of them). the giant horse of oz, p. . (t) * king of k fairy bºnn across the deadly desert from oz, this little monarch of the industrious beavers lives in his underground kingdom, where he once helped john dough and chick the cherub in their time of need. again, he went along with the shaggy man, twink, and tom on their journey to the land of oz, displaying some beaver magic that was a surprise even to the shaggy man, accustomed as he was to magic and wizardry. the shaggy man of oz, p. . (s) king of the figure head; as a king, this one is a dismal disappointment, for the - / king of the figure heads is nothing more than an ordinary school ruler, a and he rules the city of rith metic. his subjects have thin, wiry bodies on which are mounted, as heads, numerals such as “ ”, “ ”, “ ”, and so a forth, up to “ ". for all the ruling of their ruler king, the figure heads tº are so stupid that, if they weren't all together looking at one another's heads, not one of them could count up to ten! kabumpo in oz, p. . (t) king of the soup sea - here is a curious creature made of soup bones, with a cabbage head! he rules happily in a sea of delicious soup, somewhere in the gillikin country. kabumpo in oz, p. . (t) king of the winged monkeyſ as servant of the magic cap, when owned by the wicked witch of the west, the king of the winged monkeys led his band to capture dorothy and her com- panions. again, when dorothy possessed the cap, the winged monkeys carried dorothy and her friends to glinda the good, who made it possible for dorothy to return to kansas. the wizard of oz, p. . (b) - º, kitticut king kitticut is the father of prince inga of pingaree, a small but beautiful island noted for its pearl fisheries. because of the wealth of pingaree, the island was once attacked by fierce warriors, and king kitticut and his queen were sold into slavery to the nome king. only prince inga survived, as you can read in rinkitink in oz, p. . (b) a-, kleaver º _- -- ~~~~ -— – you've probably seen cleavers in butcher shops, but not live ones, which is what king kleaver is. he lives in the kingdom of utensia, in the quadling country. the people of utensia are all live kitchen utensils: spoons, forks, knives, saucepans, etc. the strang- est thing about utensia is that there is not a cook or a single thing to eat in the whole kingdom! the emerald city of oz, p. . (b) º kojo º kojo is a three-legged tripedalian servant of the friend- ly little giant, nandywog, in a valley in the gillikin country. randy and - kabumpo will always remember their visit with nandywog as one of the more pleasant happenings in the purple prince of oz, p. . (t) king konk lives on an island in the nonestic ocean, where he rules the shellbacks, an odd kind of people who eat shells. when peter, roger the read bird, and cap'n salt refused to eat with them, konk flew into a rage and said some “hard” words—in shell, of course. the three thought they would have to use another kind of shells (ball, shot and bombshell) to “konker” king konk, but the shellbacks turned turtle, and our adventurers thankfully turned their backs on the shellbacks. pirates in oz, p. . (t) º º, jinxland is really a part of oz, but it is remotely situated and separated from oz by a deep chasm. this was a most unhappy land when ruled by king krewl, and everyone was glad to see him de- throned by the famous scarecrow, and the beautiful gloria, the coun- try's rightful ruler, crowned queen in his stead. king krewllanded another job in jinxland, where he is now palace gardener. the scare- crow of oz, p. . (b) he made the tin woodman of oz and, later, the tin soldier. but when he made the mistake of working in flesh-and-blood (which is certainly no work for a tinsmith) he created chopfyt, who, if you re- call, was “always someone else.” the tin woodman of oz, p. . (b) - kuma party in º * this fellow is able to overcome many problems which & pºtrouble us. when kuma party wants to go for a walk, he sends his legs out to stretch, and the rest of him stays at home to answer the doorbell. when he wants to attend a concert, he just sends his ears; his eyes, alone, go to the picture gallery. and so it goes—or rather, so goes kuma party. he is the son of the remarkable wizard, wumbo the wonder worker. the nome king of oz, p. . (t) kumup sifting all the facts about stairway town, gillikin coun- try, we find that it and its king are about the most stupid in all oz, for subjects and ruler just walk up and down stairs all day long. if only someday one of them would fall downstairs—but nothing ever hap- pens! the purple prince of oz, p. . (t) king kynd was the father of princess gloria, of jinxland. king phearce stole the throne from king kynd, and king krewl stole it from king phearce. the scarecrow gave the throne back to gloria, who was, by this time, rightful ruler of the realm. the scarecrow of oz, p. . (b) is for love. “the land of oz is love,” observes ozma in tik tok of oz. this wise ruler knows that love works astonishing wonders and transformations, for love is the most powerful magic of all an ‘‘oz fan" " fri end whose name begins with " "l"" one who is ever ready to love the good creatures of story who bring so much joy, and who is here registered as a citizen of the land of oz. | chuckle all day and all night long. they are not too pleasant, though, for they laugh not with, but at people. the lost king of oz, p. . (t) º . lazy quadling meet the laziest man in oz. this quadling lived beside a river. in order to get him to build a raft, which they needed to cross c the river, the scarecrow and his friends gave lazy some “square meal tablets”. since the man was too lazy to eat, this was the first square meal he'd had in ages. the patchwork girl of oz, p. . (b) leopard - right out of the heart of the forest of the winkie coun- try comes this leopard to prove, once and for all, that a leopard can and does change his spots—in oz. sometimes this leopard's spots are stars; sometimes they are moons; sometimes squares, or oblongs, or triangles—and sometimes—new shapes never before heard of the leopard was a good friend to jam, and no matter how furiously his spots changed, his loyalty never did. the hidden valley of oz, p. . (c) º li-mon-eagº &º in reality, these two creatures, who existed for only ai - short time and made much trouble in the forest of gugu, were the nome king and kiki aru. kiki, seeking to impress the forest animals, º - ruggedo, the old nome king, once had a servant with very long and very sensitive ears. by putting his ears to the ground, this nome could hear sounds occurring thousands of miles away. yet when the hearer caught the sound of the marching feet of the army of oogaboo, ruggedo pulled those ears until it's a wonder they aren't two feet longer. tik-tok of oz, p. . (b) yº ! loo ) gugu, ruler of the forest of gugu, in the gillikin coun- try, has for counselor a unicorn called loo. when loo became a man for a short time, he acted in a very foolish manner. now that he is again a unicorn, he is very much ashamed of the idiotic pranks he played when he had two legs instead of four. the magic of oz, p. . (b) lord high freezer for the most part, the winkie country enjoys the de- lightful, not too warm temperature which prevails in oz the year 'round. still, there is one place in winkieland called icetown. the lord high freezer is the cold fellow - who keeps things iced in icetown. it is our opinion that the lord high freezer needs to be de-frosted. the hid- den valley of oz, p. . (c) lord high humpus the only important thing lord high humpus of per- haps city (maybe mountains, winkieland) ever did was to rush prince tatters into marriage with princess pretty good. we understand that they have a curious marriage ceremony in the maybe mountains: when it is time for the groom to say, “i do,” he just says, “maybe.” that custom might be very popular with certain people here in the great outside world. grampa in oz, p. . (t) lord high mayor not only is the lord high mayor very tall, but he lives in hightown, far up in the air over the valley of romance, near the land of ev. up in hightown, there is absolutely no gravity, although the people are always grave. the lord high mayor issure histown is the world's center of culture and interest. the shaggy man of oz, p. & (s) º *ſº - º lord high upper dupper º º this nobleman held a high place in the court of kere- taria, in the munchkin country. it was his duty to put people in their places. the lord high upper dupper was convinced that the proper place for everyone who didn't agree with him was the keretaria klink. handy mandy in oz, p. . (t) lorna little is known of lorna except that she is a wood nymph for whom three strands of emeralds once were made. the emeralds came complete with enchantment. ! like so many precious stones, these magic emeralds º spelled bad luck for some people, once they had been ' stolen from lorna. the wishing horse of oz, p. . (t) loxo loxo the lucky was once a tremendous giant living in the quadling country. today, the tables are turned, and loxo is no longer a giant; instead, he is just a rather insig- nificant farmer. speedy in oz, p. . (t) - - - º º lucky bucky * a a lots of small boys go to new york harbor to see the ſº sights, but we'll wager lucky bucky is the only small boy who was ever blown out of a tug boat in that harbor º into the nonestic ocean! once there, lucky bucky met y a wooden whale named davy jones and traveled with him to the emerald city. he liked the adventures he and davy had on the way to the emerald city, where he can be found even today. lucky bucky in oz, p. (n) is for munchkin—the blue country in the west and probably the most famous of the four oz countries. dorothy's house landed, you will recall, on munchkin land when the powerful kansas cyclone carried her to far off oz an ‘‘oz fan" fr i end whose name begins with “m”" one who knows the magic of the enchanted “blue land" well, and who is here registered as a citizen of the land of oz. , marcia the queen of mudland has just one distinction: she is undoubtedly the homeliest woman in oz. in fact, she is probably the origin of the expression "ugly as mud.” the _ - * & yellow knight of oz, p. . (t) the wife of dr. pipt, the “crooked magician." made the patchwork girl from an old crazy quilt she found in her attic, and various items from her sewing basket. poor margolotte had intended the patchwork girl to work as her hired maid, without wages, of course. but, after ojo gave the girl an overdose of brains, that gaudy maiden had her own ideas about life, and they didn't include being a hired girl for anyone. the patchwork girl of oz, p. . (b) maribella maribella is a dainty sky-shepherdess and lives in the clouds over oz, and over the great outside world, too. she shepherds the stars across the sky every night. not even the smallest star ever gets lost in the vast expanse of night as maribella herds them safely across the sky, to make room for the coming day. grampa in oz, p. . (t) amemo this curious little winkie man never does anything without writing it down on a pad. he has a twin brother named ran- dum who is just the opposite of thoughtful little memo. (we have met folks just like both memo and randum in our own world.) the royal book of oz, p. . (t) dº miſket; : º across the deadly desert lies the nonestic ocean, and \ ^ / on an island in that ocean live the mifkets. these people once had visitors to their island in the persons of john dough and chick the cherub. they treated john and chick as mischievously as they did the scalawagons. the mifkets and the scoodlers may be the same people, since they look so much alike. but the mifkets can't remove their heads, and the scoodlers can. the scalawagons of oz, p. . (n) amira the marchioness of muckengoo, a dismal spot in the otherwise bright winkie country, is the sister of queen marcia of mudland. mira is only a shade better looking than her sister. it seems that any number of mud packs has failed to improve the appearance of these grimy ladies. the yellow knight of oz, p. . (t) mir-erable meſmerizer a poor little half-wizard of the baron lands, in the quadling country, the mis-erable mes- q merizer should know better than to mess around with º- magic, but he kept right on meddling and getting into more and more messes. once, he gave his master a flow- ing beard—it turned out to be of the kind of whiskers that flow at the rate of six feet per minute! jack pumpkin- head of oz, p. . (t) º the mist maidens are about the most attractive crea- tures you could hope to meet on a hot day in august. they live in a valley in the gillikin country, and are lovely and light as gossamer. to see them in their sheltered valley, cool, graceful, and floating, you would think them made of the air itself—and they are. glinda of oz, p. . (b) mixtuppa mustafa is the ruler of mudge, a tiny country in the munchkin land, and mixtuppa is his wife. however, the lady might give you an argument about even that, for she is so confused she isn't sure of anything. clocks make mixtuppa furious for, every time she looks one in the face, it shows a different time. which proves, to her, that clocks are unreliable since they keep changing all the time. the cowardly lion of oz, p. . (t) moſt a curious animal, half monkey and half fish, mo-fi lives in a sea-forest in the nonestic ocean. if you can imagine º y a monkey that can swim and a fish that can climb trees, º' that's the mo-fi. captain salt in oz, p. . (t) f - known as the mighty, the baron of baffleburg, quad- ling country, the only thing really mighty about mogo- dore was his ambition. he actually wanted to conquer oz and marry ozma, but he was very quickly put in his place, which was back in his castle. he is content to remain there now, a midget in his tiny kingdom, hoping * that some day a nice little baffleburgundian maiden will come along and consent to mend his socks for him. jack pumpkinhead of oz, p. . (t) mombi \, \ probably the most famous witch in the land of oz, old mombi played a very large part in the making of oz history. she guarded the secret of tip's origin very closely, and it was only when 	he boy ran away from her that old mombi got into real trouble. even then, she did not give up without a struggle, and she fought even the powerful sorceress, glinda the good. glinda finally compelled mombi to tell the truth about tip's real identity. you'll be surprised when you find out all about it in the land of oz, p. . (b) **moſ -- º -- a clockmaker named mooj separated a whole royal - family of oz and caused a great deal of trouble. the king of seebania became realbad—a bandit, because of mooj. his queen, isomere, a s \ º º ſº mourned her husband and son for years because of mooj. and ojo didn't know who his parents were for many years, because of mooj. as it turned out, mooj was a better trouble maker than he was clock- maker. ojo in oz, p. . (t) moonlight / this lady doesn't live in oz alone—she lives on high in the heavens, and you can see her almost every night. hundreds of popular songs and poems have been written about her, and to her. she is a soft and dreamy-eyed damsel who serves erma, the queen of light. tik-tok of oz, p. . (b) - mopſ. aru on the top of mount munch, in the munchkin country, live the highups, of which mopsi is one. in her own country, she is noted for her ability to make very tasty huckleberry pies. she is also famous as the wife of bini aru, once a famous sorcerer, and the mother of kiki aru, who became involved with the wicked nome king. the *magic of oz, p. . (b) º muddle muddle is a middling and lives somewhere under the ( º in the land of oz. these middlings are most unattractive peo- - / ſ j c - ple, made of mud, twisted roots, and chunks of coal, just as you would expect of those who dwell underground. when the scarecrow was falling down his family tree, he was stopped by muddle and the king of the middlings, who made the stuffed traveler pay a toll before he was allowed to continue his journey. the royal book of oz, p. . (t) º º nº mugly \- n on the fringe of oz, near the deadly desert, live the headmen, people consisting of nothing but heads. mugly is one of these folks who cry out whenever a traveler is seen in their land, “off with his body!" the silver princess in oz, p. . (t) mugwump general mugwump is commander of the army of the silver islands, a realm lying below the surface of the munchkin coun- try. the general and his army are famous for their decorations. how- ever, whenever there is trouble, no one can find general mugwump and his soldiers. but, when the battle has been won by civilians, the general and his army march victoriously in, to receive medals and honors. the royal book of oz, p. . (t) munchkin farmer this farmer once made a scarecrow from an old suit of munchkin clothes and perched him on a pole in a cornfield. of course, you know what happened after that. the royal book of oz, p. . (t) muſtafa ruler of the barbarous kingdom of mudge, in the - . . sº southwestern part of the munchkin country, mustafa was once a great º º lion fancier. he had lions, but he wanted one more—the cowardly lion of oz. by the use of trickery and magic, he captured the famous lion, only to have both him and the other , lions turn into stone. the cowardly lion was finally restored to life, and mustafa was pun- ished for his evil doing. the cowardly lion of oz, p. . (t) | º º º nadj the queen of norroway, a tiny island in the nonestic ocean, likes nothing better than a fight. the truth is that she has been fighting her neighbors of roaraway island for the past three centuries speedy in oz, p. . (t) /* - k § this pretty little girl of the land of ev is the personal maid of the haughty princess langwidere. many people thought, when nanda was appointed, that she would be jealous of her mistress, who upºn has thirty heads. but such is not the case, for in nanda's one head there is a great deal of common sense. ozma of oz, p. . (b) nandynog the “little” giant of the gillikin country is one of the friendliest and best-natured giants you'll ever meet. nandywog is called “little” because he is a mere twenty- four feet tall, and that is short by giant standards. the purple prince of oz, p. . (t) º nifflipok ºf \ to be a good servant, one must have a good master. niflepok was a bad and frightened servant because he worked for the king of the silver mountains in the gillikin country. if he had worked for someone good and kind, nifflepok would have been his naturally good-hearted and willing self. handy mandy in oz, p. . (t) nikobo here is a hippopotamus who proved to be the best friend & a prince ever had. nikobo of patripanny island has a huge body con- * . taining a warm heart filled with kindness and affection for prince tandy. he now lives in ozamaland with tandy. captain salt in oz, p. . (t) º nikobob when prince inga of pingaree conquered coregos and freed his people from slavery, he sent a charcoal burner named nikobob back to pingaree to supervise the rebuild-as, ing of the plundered island. so capable was nikobob that º - king kitticut, inga's father, appointed him lord high ~ . chancellor. rinkitink in oz, p. . (b) ſº - - - * | º l nimmie aimee º' a long, long time ago, nimmie aimee loved first a wood- man, nick chopper, and then a soldier, captain fyter. but the wicked & witch for whom nimmie worked enchanted the axe and the sword of º * * - - ~ * > these two, respectively, so that they cut themselves to pieces. out of sº | these pieces, ku klip, the master tinsmith, made a new man named - chopfyt, named for both the tin woodman and the captain. with this º misfit combination as her husband, nimmie aimee seems to be content. hº- the tin woodman of oz, p. . (b) nina until jinnicky, the red jinn of the land of ev, came --- 	o nonagon island, poor nina, the cat, didn't know what kindness < - ** , º -_ meant. now she purrs day and night in the comfortable castle of the red jinn. the silver princess in oz, p. . (t) º º º º nine tiny piglets once a sailor visited the island of teenty-weent, where everything is very small, and found nine tiny piglets. he took them to los angeles and sold them to the wizard who was performingº in a circus. dorothy and the wizard in oz, p. . (b) noma beware the raggle taggle gypsy band! noma was one - of the gypsies who stole ojo away from his friends. she lured him into one of the gypsy wagons. ojo in oz, p. . (t) nome king formerly known as roquat the red and roquat of the rocks, this old nome, who was once king of all the nomes, is now called ruggedo. he has tried on several occasions to conquer oz, and he once led a horde of vicious creatures through a tunnel under the deadly desert to the emerald city. now the old nome king is | "a wanderer on the face of oz, all because of his own evil ) doing. the present king of the nomes is kaliko and, while he is not so wicked as the former king, he still slips from good behavior occasionally and has to be straightened out. (gnome is spelled nome in this book because professor wugglebug agrees with mr. baum, who spelled the word this way.) ozma of oz, p. . (b) fin nºt wº ºf ºr * wrº- * * * * **, *, ** . octopuſ, & ºr * since this pussycat is so-named, has eight legs, and lives on an eight-sided island (in the nonestic ocean) she has only eight lives. lucky bucky in oz, p. . (n) a long giant with a short name, the less said about og, the better. this ogre of ogowan was shut up in a mountain for five hundred years. pirates in oz, p. . (t) ojo for a long time, no one but unk nunkie knew that ojo was a prince. ojo's father, the rightful ruler of seebania, was meanwhile posing as realbad the bandit. he met ojo, without knowing the lad was his long-lost son, and the two became real friends, having some fine adventures together. ojo was used to adventure, for he had had many before he met his father, as you'll discover to your pleasure in the patchwork girl of oz, p. . (b), omby amby omby amby's flowing green whiskers have been a . º familiar sight around the emerald city ever since the wizard caused º that fabulous city to be built. with the coming of ozma, the “soldier' with the green whiskers” was given three appointments: as guardian of the gates, as the royal army, and as the royal police force. see also, wantown. the land of oz, p. . (b) - \. * opah - a long time ago, orpah the merman was captured and held slave of quiberon, a monster who lurked in the lost lake of orizon, in which the ozure isles are located. but the evil sea monster was vanquished, and orpah now --- lives happily in lake orizon with his fine stable of sea horses. the giant horse of oz, p. . (t) overman-amu the champion fighter of the valley of voe once was noted far and wide for his bravery in facing the fierce, invisible bears that roam this beautiful valley. one day overman-anu climbed the spiral staircase to pyramid mountain, leading to the country of the dread gargoyles. after fighting the gargoyles nine days, he escaped and returned to voe. dorothy and the wizard in oz, p. . (b) owl man this phanſasm met general guph on his way up mount phantastico and led that nome into the presence of the first and fore- t of phantastico. the emerald city of oz, p. . (b) -q_^ º * * . . . . * once upon a time, long ago, queen lurline flew with º band over oz and saw that it was a most beautiful land, so % º, beautiful that she caused it to become an enchanted fairyland. she % // her fairy left a tiny baby fairy to be its ruler (who, of course, was ozma). then % she flew over the deadly desert to mount illuso, where the evil mimics % º º º dwell. there she left one of her fairy band, princess ozana, to stand guard against the wicked magical mimics, lest they attempt to harm º nn the oz folk. the magical mimics in oz, p. . (s) ſº ** `s * ~ * n \ ^__ s * - * ~~~~ ºf ozaeruſ 'n a rather unimportant little servant to silly, the king of • cave city, ozeerus flashes the “blue flame” on people and thus trans- forms them into shades and shadows. the giant horse of oz, p. . (t) ozgaºl. the princess of the rose kingdom, near the land of // ev and the nome kingdom, is a distant cousin of princess ozma. the º shaggy man and betsy bobbin picked ozga from the royal rose bush a on which she was growing. but the haughty rose subjects refused to \ recognize her as their ruler, for they wanted a king. later, ozga met private files of the army of oogaboo, and they became firm friends. ozma, realizing it would make them unhappy to be parted, sent them both back to oogaboo. tik-tok of oz, p. . (b) ozma - princess ozma of oz is one of the most powerful fairy \'rulers in the world. after being freed from mombi's enchantment by glinda the good, ozma ruled her country so well that she was loved v, by all her people. in a time of crisis, when the nome king built his j tunnel under the deadly desert and threatened to conquer oz, the º girl ruler refused to fight. because of her goodness and her faith in right over might, the nome king was vanquished and his ugly horde of warriors turned helplessly away. ozma once made a long and dangerous journey to the country of the nomes, to rescue the royal family of ev from slavery. this adven- ture nearly led to ozma's own enslavement by the nome king. ozma has opened her heart and the land of oz to a number of friendless and homeless people from the great outside world. kindness and love, more than her magical powers, have made ozma the most dearly-loved of all * * º cº- ozwold his mate once left ozwold the ostrich with a huge egg, from which it was his duty to hatch his son. ozwold did this with the aid of scraps, a little boy from philadelphia, and other companions. through all the hatching process, ozwold traveled constantly, his long legs carrying him through some mighty exciting adventures. the gnome king of oz, p. . (t) jº - - º' the wonderful "wozard" of the gillikin country guards ` his comfortable castle with two thousand huge, wooden soldiers. he commands these wooden-headed soldiers with his “wozardry” (not quite so powerful is wizardry). the purple prince of oz, p. . (t) pajonia the tiny daughter of prince pompadore of pumperdink and his wife peg amy, the beloved pajonia is still too small to have had many adventures, but her mother and father saw some really exciting times in the purple prince of oz, p. . (t) pajuka when old mombi was exerting her most wicked magical * ſº powers, she enchanted the baby ozma. at this time, she º º transformed pajuka, prime minister to ozma's father, pastoria, into a goose. old mombi insisted that pajuka had always been a goose, needing only feathers and a º, j, beak, and she confessed she had forgotten what had sº {v_ happened to pastoria as the result of her evil magic. pa- gº tº juka might have been a goose, but he was also a loyal º subject. he remained faithful to pastoria and eventually regained his identity. the lost king of oz, p. . (t) º palumbo one of the steadiest men in oz, palumbo is the court juggler of the ozure islands, munchkin country. it is said that he is such a great juggler he can balance even a budget. since there seems to be no such thing in oz as money, we wish palumbo would come into the great outside world, where his talents would really be appreciated. the giant horse of oz, p. . (t) panapee another of the royal chamberlains of oz, panapee served mustafa, the monarch of mudge, in the munchkin country. he got his ruler into real trouble when he put into mustafa's head the idea of stealing the cowardly lion. for, once they had the lion by the tail, they couldn't let go! the cowardly lion of oz, p. . (t) instead of a watch dog, on umbrella island they have pansy, the royal watch cat. although umbrella island wanders all over the wide expanse of the sky, pansy has never had a “sirius” fight with the “dog star". her favorite spot in the sky is the milky way. speedy in oz, p. . (t), --- panta loon º. the loons of loonville, in the winkie country, are nothing more than human-sized balloons, inflated with a lighter-than- air gas. panta and the rest of the loons live in the tree tops, fastening themselves with cords so they won't float away. although panta once captured the scarecrow, the tin woodman, and woot the wanderer, he was quick to see the point when woot showed him a thorn. the tin woodman of oz, p. . (b) para bruin para is a full-size bear made of genuine rubber, with nothing synthetic about him. he is the constant companion of john dough and chick the cherub of hiland and loland. if you think bouncing a rubber ball is fun, you ought to try bouncing a rubber bear! the road to oz, p. . (b) paſtoria this pleasant old gentleman was another victim of having forgotten all of his past life, with the blanks of blankenburg, under the surface of the gillikin country. poor pastoria was forced to become a tailor with these strange people who had no visible bodies. however, he was rescued from this fate by snip, a little gillikin boy who was also one of mombi's victims. when pastoria's memory had been restored and he was revealed as the “lost king” of oz, he abso- lutely refused to accept the throne from ozma, or even share it with her. he wanted only to have a little tailor shop in the emerald city with snip, whom he had come to love dearly, as his button boy and faithful assistant. the lost king of oz, p. . (t) ºf ºf -º- º or - // f : ºt. ( & ) * * * * ſº- - - - vº \ º the prime patter of roganda is a little blue dwarf who & lives in unicorners in the munchkin country. what does pat pat? he pats all the beautiful unicorns, and grooms and cares for them, too. ojo in oz, p. . (t) patchwork girl nicknamed scraps, the famous patchwork girl of oz was made from an old crazy quilt of margolotte, wife of dr. pipt, the crooked magician. just before the crooked º, magician brought scraps to life, ojo added more magic º abrains to her head than margolotte meant her to have. º º margolotte had intended scraps for her serving girl, but scraps had other ideas about that. instead, she went along with ojo on a series of exciting adventures, ending in the emerald city. here, scraps became an immediate favorite. although she may be too boisterous at times, this fault is readily forgiven in the light of her sunny good nature, high spirits, loyalty, and abounding love of life. not many flesh-and-blood people have as much fun as scraps, the “crazy quilt” maiden. the patchwork girl of oz, p. . (b) º per hapſ - º the only time the jolly monarch, king peer haps of º ſy perhaps city, atop the maybe mountains of the winkie country, was w ever unhappy was when his court prophet stole the beloved princess pretty good. percy vere, the forgetful poet laureate of perhaps city, made a dangerous trip down the mountain to search for the princess. as you well know, percy vere persevered through many an odd adven- ture until he found princess pretty good and made old peer happy once more. grampa in oz, p. . (t) | º - jº- - pºg amy - would you believe that a wooden doll could become the a princess of sun top mountain in the gillikin country? it happened! and peg amy was the doll's name. it seems n. a wizard (wicked, of course) named j. glegg changed \ peg amy into a tree, to avenge himself on her uncle. cap'n bill carved a small doll from that tree, and trot named the doll peg amy. next, the nome king stole the doll and made it, through his bungling magic, as large as a person. he also brought the doll to life, but that is just part of the wonderful story of peg amy, all of which you can read in kabumpo in oz, p. . (t) pºggo peggo was a swashbuckling pirate who swashed over- board when his legs buckled. he thought he was going to conquer oz, but he only succeeded in putting his wooden foot in his mouth. pirates in oz, p. . (t) pºpper and salt these are two guards in the kingdom of rash, in the sº land of ev. pepper and salt feared they might be thrown to the <- hungry tiger, to season betsy and her friends, who already faced that fate. the hungry tiger of oz, p. . (t) percy ae, once an ordinary white rat, doomed to be the victim / of experiments in a professor's laboratory, percy came - to oz with a little boy named jam. what oz did for sº that rat is really worth reading about! now as big as º a human being, he is a very popular member of the animal set of emerald city. the hidden valley of oz, p. . (c) percy vere the court poet and prime favorite of king peer of perhaps city invariably forgets the last word of his jingles and rhymes. percy doesn't exactly write blank verse, he just leaves the last word of º peter pun --~~ *~~ once court jester of corumbia, in the winkie country, \_º ^ peter pun told too many “punny" jokes and got turned into a funny- ~ suckle vine. the yellow knight, having no sense of humor, released him. his fate might well have served as a warning to professor woggle- bug, but the professor says he knows too many influential wizards and wozards in oz to be frightened! the yellow knight of oz, p. . (t) phearſe just as bad as his name sounds, phearse stole the throne of jinxland from king kynd. following this wicked theft, phearse got himself pushed over a cliff by king krewl, so that he was no longer in any position to sit on a throne. the scarecrow of oz, p. . (b) when we first heard about philador, prince of the ozure islands in the munchkin country, he and all his family were captives of a water monster known as quiberon. so philador started out to find help in conquering the wet beast, finding it in the giant horse and o succeeding in settling quiberon's hash once and for all. (in fact, we understand that the ozure islands are still dining off quiberon hash!) philador is now prince of the munchkins. the giant horse of oz, p. . (t) r not a very nice name, for a not very nice person! pid is one of the slow pokes, who live in the country of pokes, munchkin country. he was once the servant of sir hokus of pokes, now the spirited yellow knight of oz. but pid was such a slow poke, he stayed where he was, while the yellow knight went on to happier lands and events. the royal book of oz, p. . (t) pigaſuſ this winged pig lives in the emerald city and once helped defeat the nome king, who is still trying to con- quer oz. pigasus can soar sky high, which might (but doesn't) account for the high cost of pork roasts. any- one who rides on pigasus must speak in poetry, for this steed brings out all the ham in his riders. pirates in oz, p. . (t) pinny and gig these are two of the happiest guinea pigs in oz. pinny and gig escaped from a professor's laboratory and now live in a munch- kin country home, where they are beloved pets. they have recently become good friends of the nine little piglets belonging to the wizard. the hidden valley of oz, p. . (c) the land of ev, required great patience and pinny penny was greatly relieved when king skamperoo went away to visit oz. he was even more delighted when his ruler returned, for the king now no longer behaved like a spoiled child, as he had before he made his historic trip. once a tremendous thunderbolt carried this princess of anuther planet to the land of ev. planetty was made of metal, as are all the people on her planet. she found it a “hard” life and was glad to become the flesh-and- blood queen of regalia, wife to king randy. the silver princess in oz, p. . (t) *issil º poppa * a giant mud turtle named ploppa lives in a swamp in the mudland kingdom of the winkie country. you wouldn't expect a turtle to be noted for a good disposition, perhaps, but ploppa is the one good-natured being in this sticky land of mud. he once helped sir hokus escape. the yellow knight of oz, p. . (t) polychrome - * the daughter of the rainbow lives on the beautiful bow you see arching across the sky following rain. occasionally, this lovely sky fairy dances off the foot of the rainbow and onto solid earth. on several occasions, she has heedlessly danced on, and her father, the rainbow king, has lifted his bow without knowing he has left one of his daughters behind. at one such time, polychrome enjoyed adven- tures that led to the land of oz and the emerald city. the road to oz, tº p. (b) \ | * pon \ \ there are “from rags to riches” stories in the land of oz º as well as elsewhere. pon was once a gardener's boy in the palace of |º the kingdom of jinxland, so poor that he wore rags. now he sits on ºr a throne, doesn't work at all, and wears only the finest of clothes. the º scarecrow of oz, p. . (b) , - - pop lollypop t all day and lets his daughter, little minty, clean the house and do all the work. the scala- wagons of oz, p. . (n) * o poppet º poppet is a handsome young doll who faithfully and º musingly serves princess ozana of pineville. you may recall that fe &%* |pineville is near cuttenclip village and the story blossom garden, in º al preſerva / ºlº / this queen of a strange glass city in the munchkin coun- try has gone to too many cooking schools, we fear, for she has pre- served all the people in her city. evidently, her motto is, “like those – whom you can, and those whom you can't like, can!” the cowardly sº lion of oz, p. . (t) r- lº the prime piecer does piece work in the crazy quilt sº kingdom of patch, in the winkie country. he once tried to piece to- gether a plot which would make scraps, the patchwork girl, queen of the quilties. but scrapps soon scrapped with the piecer, and his plot went to pieces. the nome king of oz, p. . (t) prime preſerve the chief servant of queen preserva in the glass city of munchkinland, where everyone is jellied, preserved, canned and jarred, is not accountable for his actions. the reason for this is that he is pickled. the cowardly lion of oz, p. . (t) prime pumper *i radio stations have chief announcers, but the prime pumper is a chief announcer without a radio station. he chiefly announces distinguished visitors to the royal court of the kingdom of pumperdink, which is in the gillikin country, kabumpo in oz, p. . (t) prince of the mangaboo: distinguished by the star he wears, the prince of the inner-earth kingdom of the mangaboos took dorothy and the wizard to see gwig, the vegetable sorcerer. these mangaboos are all as cool as cucumbers. dorothy and the wizard in oz, p. . (b) prince perix an unlikely sort of prince, this one! he had a good chance to leap on his white horse and go in search of princess pretty good. did he go? no, prince perix just stayed at home in perhaps city and let the court poet steal the glory he might have won. well, it takes all kinds of princes to make a kingdom. grampa in oz. p. . (t) prince pompadore the royal family of pumperdink, gillikin country, was once threatened with "disappearance if prince pompadore did not marry the "proper fairy princess. pompadore and kabumpo, the ele- gant elephant, set out in search of such a princess. you can imagine what wondrous adventures they had. kabumpo in oz, p. . (t) / ºº º, - ~ - - princeſ of monday mountain º / f ** queen of the tubbies, together with her large, well- / & scrubbed daughter, rules over the washerwomen of monday mountain, z in the winkie country. percy vere spent one monday morning in very ~~~~ hot water because the princess wanted to keep him. grampa in oz, ** * p. . (t) / ; princeſ of the mangaboo: although dorothy picked this princess from the plant on which she ripened (the mangaboos are vegetable people) the wicked princess was as cold-hearted as the rest of her subjects. she had dorothy and her friends driven into the black pit, from which the this princess was stolen from her home in perhaps cº by a wicked wizard, who planned to transform her into a lump of earth. but the princess pretty good was so good that she became, instead, a lovely flower fairy named urtha. after many adventures, she is now happily married to prince tatters of the kingdom of ragbad, in the quadling country. grampa in oz, p. . (t) private fileſ the only private in the army of queen ann soforth of , oogaboo, private files handed in his resignation when queen ann ordered him to capture ozga the rose princess, polychrome, and betsy bobbin. all private files wanted to capture was ozga's heart, which he did. tik-tok of oz, p. .(b) profesſor grunter swyne º this happy pig is an authority on "cabbage culture" and º ºr “corn perfection.” professor swyne lives with his wife and one child in a tiny cottage in the munchkin country. the tin woodman of oz, - p. . (b) props when the theater was in operation in the castle of the valley of romance, lord props was in charge of the sound effects, stage furniture, etc. he bungled everything badly, but he is doing very well, today, as instructor of the finger painting classes in the college of arts and sciences in the valley of romance. the shaggy man of oz, p. . (s) pudge like many another wise man, pudge, sage of the coun- try of ragbad, quadling country, is very good at telling other people what to do for the good of their country. meanwhile, he sits back in an easy chair, awaiting results. grampa in oz, p. . (t) puffup some folk have a tendency to puff up when they are close to really important personages. this footman in ozma's royal palace is one of that sort, putting on all sorts of airs because of the people with whom he associates. he really is quite ridiculous as com- pared with the natural and unaffected ozzites, such as the patchwork girl, the scarecrow, dorothy, and ozma, herself. handy mandy in oz, p. . (t) a general and commander of the pumperdinkian royal > army, gillikin country, quakes is celebrated for never having lost a battle, which naturally makes him quite a person in pumperdink. it is considered the worst possible taste to bring up the fact that general quakes has never fought a battle. that, it seems, is a military secret. kabumpo in oz, p. . (t) queen of ev the nome king transformed this unfortunate queen into a purple footstool to adorn his chamber of ornaments. what a humiliation for a proud queen to suffer! but billina, the yellow hen, discovered the nome king's secret—that the entire royal family of ev were all purple ornaments. so billina had only to look among the thousands of variously colored bric-a-brac to release the royal chil- dren from their enchantment. they included five princesses: evanna, evrose, evirene, evedna, and evella; and, four princes: evrok, eving- ton, evroland, and evardo, the eldest, who is the present king of ev. ozma of oz, p. . (b) queen of the bigwig, immense city is in the nome kingdom and is in- habited by no one but bigwigs. their queen wears the biggest wig of all and is a very proud and overbearing lady. as long as it is daylight, º *~~ o she is nearly feet tall; but, when night falls and she removes her “big wig,” she shrinks to a little lady of five-feet-two. the queen is never seen without her wig, although she has very nice brown hair of - her own. she also has one little daughter, who is only about feet tall—in the daytime. the hungry tiger of oz, p. . (t) ſ º ºf queen of the field mice º º mr. baum really should have found out the name of this delightful character when he wrote about her, for this tiny queen and her subjects twice played an important part in the history of oz. in the wizard of oz, the field mice rescued dorothy, the cowardly lion and toto from the field of deadly poppies, in which they had fallen asleep. in the land of oz, the queen of the field mice gave the scare- crow permission to carry a dozen of her little subjects in his straw, to the emerald city, where he released them. the mice frightened the girl soldier of general jinjur's army of revolt and enabled the scare- crow to regain his throne. the wizard of oz, p. . (b) * * * ſ * º | º queen of the scoodler, ſº . a strange creature rules over the scoodlers, who inhabit a rocky, barren section of land just across the deadly desert from oz. the scoodlers have two faces and two sides, and their feet are shaped like the letter “t” turned upside down. they can remove their heads, and, when they find strangers in their land, they throw these heads at the travelers to frighten them away. once, the scoodlers captured dorothy and her friends and were preparing to make soup of them. polychrome's cleverness and the fact that the shaggy man played base- ball when he was a boy saved the group from the scoodlers' soup kettle. the road to oz, p. . (b) quiberon quiberon is a fire-breathing, smoke-snorting monster which old mombi produced from out of her closet. she placed quiberon in the lost lake of orizon, so that none of the inhabitants of the five ozure isles of oz might ever return to the mainland. the wizard of oz quickly tamed quiberon, and lake orizon is no longer smoky. the giant horse of oz, p. . (t) quick siher far below the surface of the munchkin country lie the silver islands, where quick silver is a servant in the royal palace. his hair is silver-white, and he has a queue at least six feet long. since he is only four feet tall, that is too much queue. quick silver is the fastest little man in the silver islands. often, he finds himself returning from an errand while he is still thinking about going! the royal book of oz, p. . (t) quiggeroc the present general of the armies of the nome king hasn't been very active for a number of years. possibly, quiggeroc thought about the fate of the generals who had preceded him and wisely decided to be seen and heard as little as possible. the nome king has a habit of “relieving" his generals when they displease him. quiggeroc feels fine and doesn't want to be relieved. lucky bucky in oz, p. . (n) quink quink, queen of the shellbacks, who lives on an island in the nonestic ocean, lives on a diet of shells, like all of her subjects. it must be a noisy place at meal time! pirates in oz, p. . (t) c - - - * --~ * º ~~ /* - º º - . - ºzºº - - ~- ºf - – *ºss * * ºs … º == - - as) when this young dragon was only , years old, he was sent, as an instrument of justice, on an important mission by tititi-hoochoo the great jinn. quox was so efficient that, as a result of his mission, the wicked nome king was deprived of all his magic powers. ruggedo was forced to leave his underground kingdom and become a homeless wanderer on the face of the earth. at this time, quox was in great disgrace in his own land. in his youth he had spoken disrespectfully of his famous ancestor, the original dragon, the oldest living creature in oz. tik-tok of oz, p. . (b) & ------ | | of adventure, courage, love, and the magically mysterious. r also stands for reilly in reilly and lee, the company which has published the oz books for half a century an “oz fan' fr i end whose name begins with “r” one who has known the romance of high adventure in the exciting pages of oz, and who is now a registered citizen of the land of oz. prised if father was named paddy scratch. the royal book of oz, p. . (t) randy - randy's official name is randywell handywell branden- a burg bompadoo, prince of the purple mountains, on which is perched the kingdom of regalia, in the gillikin country. randy was required to prove himself a proper prince of regalia. this he did to everyone's satisfaction in the purple prince of oz, p. . (t) - - * º - --- *_ º this good grey ape lives in the forest of gugu in they gillikin country. rango, an elderly ape, quite serious and scholarly, is a counsellor in the court of king gugu. the magic of oz, p. . (b) \ rattleſnake not all like the rattlesnakes we know, this one is as harmless as a baby's rattle. in fact, the rattlesnake is a great favorite of the water babies in the nonestic ocean. once, he and the a-b-sea sººn traveled overland to oz. the royal book of oz, p. . (t) sº - , reachard –º ---- --- this long-armed reacher is the right-arm man of the a dictator of diksey land, in the munchkin country. reachard has she neither helps nor harms anyone with her magic. once, she was tricked by a skeezer boy named ervic into restoring the three adepts to their natural shapes. reera, with great good nature, admitted she had been tricked. since it had been done in a good cause, she did not regret her action and bore no malice toward ervic. glinda of oz, p. . (b) - - renard king renard the fourth, known also as king dox of foxville, was so pleased with button bright that he gave the boy a fox head. since all the dogs he met barked at him, button bright was not at all pleased. finally, he bathed in the truth pond, where every- thing false vanishes, and his boy head was restored. the road to oz, p. . (b) rhomba far below the surface of the winkie country lies the kingdom of subterranea. here, rhomba is the chief counsellor of his imperial lowness, the shah. rhomba speaks low verse in a low voice. in fact, you can't go any lower than subterranea. the yellow knight of oz, p. . (t) rhyming dictionary joke book, formerly court jester of book- ville, winkie country, was the only “book” who was kind to dorothy and jam and their friends. the rhyming dictionary helped the travelers escape from bookville, and then he went to live in the emerald city. he and scraps, the patchwork girl, are the best of friends; in fact, everyone likes him except professor wogglebug, who didn't want me to mention him in this book. wogglebug is a little stuffy where books are concerned, and he insists that the rhyming dictionary is a “popular" or “cheap" edition. of course, he's popular; but, cheap or not, he has a good heart. the hidden valley of oz, p. . (c) rigmarole; inhabitants of a small outlying section of the quadling country, the rigmaroles are incapable of talking directly to the point about anything. when asked a simple question calling for a “yes” or “no” answer, the rigmaroles launch into a lengthy harangue, making their interrogators wish they'd kept their mouths closed. the emerald city of oz, p. . (b) rinkitink king rinkitink is a fat, jolly little monarch, who now lives happily in his capitol of gilgad. at one time, he was most unhappy, since he wanted to enjoy life and see the world, but his people felt that a king's place was in his castle. king rinkitink escaped and fled to the friendly island of pingaree (in the nonestic ocean). he took with him his talking goat, bilbil. after a succession of adventures and a pleasant visit in the em- erald city, he was quite content to return to his island kingdom and quietly rule the rinkitinkers. rinkitink in oz, p. . (b) rora rora is the wife of su-dic, once the ruler of a strange race of people known as the flatheads, who lived in the gillikin coun- try. during the war between the flatheads and their neighbors, the skeezers, rora was transformed into a golden pig by coo-ee-oh, queen of the skeezers. as a golden pig, rora was just as foolish as she had been as a woman. seeing that the transformation made no improve- ment, glinda the good changed rora back into a woman. glinda of oz, p. . (b) rosa merry this queen of kimbaloo, a tiny kingdom in the gillikin country, has charge of half the country's five hundred inhabitants. -== rosa merry is responsible for two hundred and fifty girls. each morn- ing, these girls pick old- and new-fashioned bouquets from rosa merry's bouquet bush and distribute them among the nearby winkie people, who are great flower lovers. king kinda jolly has charge of the coun- try's two hundred and fifty boys, who harvest the button crop from kimbaloo's button woods and distribute buttons to the winkie house- wives, famous as seamstresses. the lost king of oz, p. . (t) nº. rough paſha - the pasha of rash is known as irasha, or the rough \ pasha. to begin with, rash is a small kingdom in the safety pin policeman ...” this minor official does his best to uphold his office and pin down law-offenders in the winkie country. but he is only a make- º shift, with a copper badge. he tried to pinch lucky bucky and davy º jones, but only succeeded in getting them to see the point. lucky \ ºn in oz, p. . (n) º *~~~~ ºf sally º this salamander came originally from lavaland island ' in the nonestic ocean. sally likes nothing better than to snuggle up and have a nice warm nap in the hot bowl of king ato's pipe. maybe sally is what people mean when they say, “put that in your pipe and smoke it!” captain salt in oz, p. . (t) salye soforth a strange part of this story is that it was not salye, but her sister, queen ann of oogaboo, who sallied forth to conquer the world. queen ann soforth found this a foolish mission in a world much larger than tiny oogaboo, and she was soon happy to return to her remote oz kingdom. salye had been queening it in oogaboo while ann was gone—perhaps that was the reason she had goaded her sister into sallying forth in the first place! tik-tok of oz, p. . (b) *- ... • ºl. samuel salt better known as captain salt of oz, old sam salt was once captain of a pirate ship and discovered more ad- ventures than he did gold. after visiting oz, he reformed and became the official royal explorer, finding new countries and claiming them for oz in ozma's name. - º now, he lives in the land of ev and is still having ad- "ventures. pirates in oz, p. . (t) - * º jandman everyone knows the sandman. once, the nome king y grew to giant size and carried ozma's royal palace, on top of his head, high into the clouds. seeing it, the sandman thought it was some child's dream palace, and so he put all the flesh-and-blood people in it sound asleep. since he put the nome king to sleep, too, he did more good than harm. kabumpo in oz, p. . (t) janta clauſ the greatly loved and revered patron saint of all chil- dren is included in this book because, quite fittingly, he once visited ozma to attend one of her famous birthday parties. accompanied by all his ryls and nooks, the forest creatures who help santa fashion all his wonderful toys, santa claus was the greatest and most highly hon- ored guest at ozma's party. the road to oz, p. . (b) jawhore early in his adventures with jack pumpkinhead, tip realized that jack would never be a speedy traveler because of his pe- culiar construction and the tendency of his joints to bend the wrong way. tip was eager to get to the emerald city, so, coming upon a carpenter's sawhorse, he brought it to life with old mombi's magic powder of life. as the first, fleetest, and most famous horse in the land of oz, the sawhorse is the favorite of princess ozma, who re- gards him as her royal steed and has had his wooden legs shod with gold. the land of oz, p. . (b) jarecrow perhaps the most famous personage in oz, the scare- crow was discovered by little dorothy when the kansas cyclone first carried her to oz. dorothy helped the scarecrow down from the pole in a cornfield where a munchkin farmer had placed him, and the straw man accompanied her to the emerald city. there, after many adventures, the wizard of oz filled the scarecrow's head with a mixture of bran and pins and needles. since then, the scarecrow has been one of the wisest men in oz. his famous brains have solved many knotty problems and helped his friends out of many perilous predicaments. for a short time, the scarecrow reigned as king of oz, but he gladly stepped down from that throne when its righftul heiress, ozma, appeared to claim it. the scarecrow now lives in a novel corn- cob castle in the winkie country, near the beautiful nickel-plated pal- ace of his bosom friend, nick chopper, the tin woodman, emperor of the winkies. the wizard of oz, p. . (b) scarlet spider this creature actually threatened the peace of oz for a short time. but the evil magic which the mimics had awakened in the scarlet spider was not powerful enough to withstand the good magic of the princess ozma. the magical mimics in oz, p. . (s) o sciſſor bird ripper, the scissor bird, is an important personage in the winkie kingdom. once, the scissor bird, who has scissors for a beak, planned to make the patchwork girl the queen of the quilties of patch. scraps had her own ideas about the project, however, and she very quickly scrapped ripper's plans. the gnome king of oz, p. . (t) jevenanome together with sixantwo and fouranfour, sevenanone staged a revolution against king ato of the octagon islands in the nonestic ocean. they then set out to conquer oz. but, although all three of them add up to trouble, they don't add up to enough to con- quer oz. now they are quite content to stay peacably at home on their eight-sided eight islands. pirates in oz, p. . (t) shpherd \ \ - the rolling country is the most desolate section of all m winkieland. only one person lives there—a lonely shepherd. you can !'s well imagine the old fellow's puzzlement when, some years ago, he r \ heard a knock on his door. on opening it, his amazement grew! he ".i was greeted by none other than dorothy and a group of the most cele- brated citizens of oz. the shepherd made them comfortable in his cottage over night, and then gave them valuable information about the country that lay ahead of them. dorothy noticed a strange thing on this visit—the shepherd had no sheep! the lost princess of oz, p. . (b) shirley sunſhine | nº. this giddy girl has now settled down as the wife of - º belfaygor, baron of the baron lands, quadling country. at one time, shirley nearly became the bride of mogodore. had she done so, she would have lost the “sunshine” in her name, for sunshine never pene- tes the ugly world in which mogodore does his perpetual moping. :k pumpkinhead of oz, p. . (t) § ׺ {º, g/ (whooſenwaller ſº --> this nome is royal chamberlain of kaliko, present king of the nomes, who in turn was once royal chamberlain for rug- gedo, the former nome king. we sincerely hope oz history doesn't repeat itself as our history often does. imagine—shoofenwaller, king of the nomes! the wishing horse of oz, p. . (t) º, siko pompous /nzºº, siko is a leprechaun from new jersey. he is very fond of cheese and will grant almost any wish if you reward him with a pound of limburger. he was responsible for jenny jump's trip to oz, and you can be sure the oz people don't love him for that. siko just doesn't under- stand oz magic and has promised not to meddle any more. the wonder city of oz, p. (n) silly this king of silhouettes, the shadow people of cave city, just below the surface of the munchkin country, would like to reduce everyone to a shadow. fortunately, his gloomy kingdom has very few visitors. the giant horse of oz, p. . (t) singer of raſh here's living proof that it's rash to be a singer if you have a voice like a horse. the singer of rash wound up in a dreary place called down town, which is reached by subway from the land, of ev. there he is happily making money singing for the down town- ers, who are so busy making money themselves that they don't have time to stay and listen to his singing, even after they have paid to hear it. this is an ideal situation for the singer of rash! the hungry tiger of oz, p. . (t) jºſer six there were so many children in the munchkin farm family from which number nine came that the mother and father –t despaired of finding names for all of them. so, they just called them by numbers, and sister six was the sixth sister. (i wonder, if sister six had had a twin brother, whether they would have called him half-a-dozen?) the wonder city of oz, p. . (n) * : s the king of umbrella island always wanted to travel, but he didn't want to leave his island. that was a problem. waddy, sizzeroo's court magician, cleverly solved this difficulty by building a huge magic umbrella over the island. immediately, it became a floating island in the sky. after that, sizzeroo had plenty of adven- tures and travel, although he has never stepped off his island. (he'd better not, for it's a long step down!) speedy in oz, p. . (t) skally skally is a member of the robber band of chief vaga and his bandits, who lurk in a dark forest in the quadling country. now we're not going to tell you a thing more about skally; we're just going to make two additions to two words in the sentence before this, and you'll know exactly what to expect when you read about skally. ready? skallywag is a member of the robber band of chief vagabond and his bandits, who lurk in a dark forest in the quadling country. grampa in oz, p. . (t) his unattractive country on tall stilts. even though they have stilts, smirch and the miremen don't excite my envy! the yellow knight of oz, p. . (t) jmith and tinkers undoubtedly the greatest manufacturing concern in all fairyland, smith and tinker's plant is located in the city of evna, the capitol of the land of ev. here, smith and tinker tirelessly turned out such masterpieces of mechanical perfection as tik-tok, the ma- chine man, and the mechanical giant with the hammer, who guards one of the mountain passes leading to an entrance to the nome king- dom. the original mr. smith had acquired the fashionable habit of painting in his spare time. he painted a picture of a river so natural that, as he was reaching across to paint some flowers on the opposite bank, he fell into the water and was drowned. mr. tinker invented a ladder so tall that he could rest the end of it on the moon. one night when there was a full moon, mr. tinker climbed up his ladder. he found the moon such a lovely place he decided to stay there, so he pulled the ladder up after him—and he has never been seen sincel ozma of oz, p. . (b) once there was a ferocious griffin who lost his grrrr! he then became a mild-mannered iffin. how snif the griffin was scared out of his grrrr! is a most logical story, for he was held captive for many years in scare city. a good scare can, sometimes, prove to be a good thing—and this is one of those cases. for this particular iffin became a perfectly delightful adventure-companion for peter, the boy from philadelphia. jack pumpkinhead of oz, p. . (t) a long time ago, snip was one of the button boys in king kinda jolly's kingdom of kimbaloo in the gillikin country. then, kinda jolly made the mistake of hiring old mombi, the witch, as the castle cook. old mombi needed a strong young boy to accom- pany her on her search for pastoria, the “lost king” of oz. she chose snip and abducted him. adventure followed adventure, and snip proved his courage by managing to outwit old mombi and find pas- toria. the old king and the young boy became so fond of each other that they formed a partnership and are now known for maintaining the best tailor service in the emerald city. the lost king of oz, p. . (t) jnoclorotomuſ a most unpleasant earth serpent that lived in the munchkin country bore this serpenty name. he was put away tem- porarily by realbad, the bandit. we are grateful to realbad for dis- patching snoctorotomus, even for a little while. with a name like that, he could be a serious nuisance to readers! ojo in oz, p. . (t) for six months and then eats away the remaining half of the year. as you might suspect, yawning and gaping is a national pastime. snorpy failed to sell kabumpo and party on sharing even so much as a single bite with him, so great was kabumpo's fear of sliding into the queer habits of gapers gulchers. the silver princess in oz, p. . (t) snufferbux - this poor brown bear suffered five years of captivity by a gypsy band that roamed through the munchkin country. snuf- ferbux found happiness through meeting ojo when he, too, became their captive. in the course of making their escape, they both met with breath-taking adventures. nowadays, honest snufferbux is just about the happiest bear in oz; in fact, he is the royal bear of the beautiful forest region of seebania, in the munchkin country. ojo in oz, p. . (t) - soft-ſhell crab this soft-shell crab didn't make his entrance on toast, with tartar sauce as companion, but we're likely to wish he had. in- stead, he came bouncing in upon the scene on the back of a zebra, while dorothy and her friends were camping in the quadling country. his saucy conduct proved sauce enough for all. the friendly zebra brought him forth from his forest pool with the hope of settling an argument, but mr. zebra lost the argument and got pinched in the bargain. the emerald city of oz, p. . (b) spiker, somewhere in the sky over oz, there is a horde of ter- ozoplanes, but the ship was too fast for them. the tin woodman was pilot of the ozoplane when this encounter occurred. one of the spikers caught a glimpse of the tin man at the controls of the ship and reported in a puzzled fashion to his comrades that he had seen a little tin can rattling around in the big tin can. the tin woodman regarded this as an unkind remark. ozoplaning with the wizard of oz, p. . (t) spud spud is one of the potato folks of a potato patch in the quadling country. just to put these saucy potato people in their place, we will tell you a little story—a true one, too. once, a long time ago, there was a society of people who believed potatoes were un- healthful and should not be eaten by human beings. they campaigned against potatoes under the name of “society for prevention of un- healthful diet.” see where spud got his name? the scalawagons of oz, p. . (n) squealina Śwyne -> squealina is the wife of professor grunter swyne. with | their children, they live in a small cottage near mount munch in the munchkin country. being the wife of a professor is sometimes trying, but mrs. swyne seems quite content with her lot. the tin woodman - º of oz, p. . (b) called “spikers.” they look like spiders, except that they "y are covered with sharp spikes. they attacked one of the wizard's ] - o manages to get his lick into every pot, kettle and sauce pan used in the royal kitchen. when someone over-eats and medicine is required, stirem is busy again, stirring the remedy well before it is taken. ka- bumpo in oz, p. . (t) jīork this kindly bird appeared briefly to play an important part in the history of oz. very early in his career, the scarecrow was left clinging to a pole in the middle of a river. since the scarecrow cannot swim, he might now be lying at the bottom of that river had not the stork carried him to shore. of course, the stork didn't mind this at all, for he is used to carrying bundles. the wizard of oz, p. . (b) aff sirulooviouſ known as strutoovious the seventh, or strut of the strat, the haughty king of stratovania lived in the stratosphere over oz. he decided he could conquer oz easily because it was beneath him. but he was just flying too high, and, instead of conquering oz, he fell into a heap of trouble with the ozoplanes. ozoplaning with the wizard of oz, p. . (t) stubby stubby, king of tappy town, put his foot down when realbad the bandit danced a clog. it seems that realbad insulted the king when he danced, for the people of tappy town talk by tapping their feet. ojo in oz, p. . (t) o taka taka is the fat chancellor of menankypoo, located across the deadly desert from oz. the last word we received about taka was that he and all the menankypooians had been plundered by pirates, and taka had been thrown into the sea. for a time taka stupidly allowed himself to sink, but he found this very uncomfortable, so he started to paddle. this happened a number of years ago, and it may well be that, by this time, taka will have paddled himself to shore. pirates in oz, p. . (t) tandy tandy's full name is tazander tazah of ozamaland, which is located on the long continent of tarara. boglo- dore, the wizard, carried tandy off into captivity on patrippany island. after many exciting encounters, tandy returned home to ozamaland and banished his enemies. captain salt in oz, p. . (t) sº l^ tatterſ sº sº * -º when ragbad, a small kingdom in the quadling coun---º try, was reduced to poverty and king fumbo lost his head entirely, the handsome young prince tatters set out to find a fortune or a wealthy young princess. with tatters went grampa, an old soldier, but not too old to answer his country's call. tatters and grampa had some noble adventure which took them through a large part of oz, during which tatters found both his fortune and his beautiful young princess, though not just in the manner he expected. grampa went back to his comfortable rocking chair with enough new stories to satisfy a whole new generation of ragbadians. grampa in oz, p. . (t) tatlyoo tattypoo thought she was the good witch of the north, but she couldn't remember anything about her past life, and her ideas about herself turned out to be a case of mistaken identity. tattypoo had conquered the wicked witch of the north, old mombi, and the peace-loving gillikens begged her to rule over them. this she did, using her magical powers to do only good. it was when tattypoo became curious about her identity that she found out who she really was. the giant horse of oz, p. . (t) tazzywallerº once the royal chamberlain of mudge in the munch- kin country, tazzywaller made a sad mistake by interesting his ruler, the mustafa, in lions. for mustafa collected lions, and more lions. when tazzywaller confessed that he could not possibly add the fa- mous cowardly lion of oz to his king's collection, the poor chamber- lain was demoted to feeding the lions. the cowardly lion of oz, p. . (t) taebo \ | once upon a time in ozamaland, there were nine oza- mandarins. these fellows planned to divide ozamaland into nine parts and rule each separately. teebo was third in rank among the oza- mandarins, and that meant, by his kind of arithmetic, that he should rule over one-third of ozamaland. but prince tandy appeared on the scene, and you never saw nine madder ozamandarins. captain salt in oz, p. . (t) † Ö. terp this terrible giant once lived in the hid- den valley of the gillikin country. nowadays that is all in terp's terrible past. he has become just an average gillikin farmer and does nothing more terrible than to raise huge heads of purple cabbage. the hidden valley of oz, p. . (c) once there were huge animals that roamed the earth, larger even than the biggest elephants. today, all that remains of them is their bones. scientists wire these bones together and recon- struct the monsters for us to see. being scientists, they had to give them such difficult names as dinosaur. terrybubble is one of these huge bony creatures who was magically returned to life. he traveled to oz with speedy, a boy from philadelphia. terrybubble grew very fond of speedy and proved to be a loyal, if rather large, companion. speedy in oz, p. . (t) o this extraordinary machine man was made by smith and tinker's in the town of evna, in the land of ev. ~ evoldo, the king of ev, bought tik-tok for a servant. sº evoldo enjoyed beating his servants, but tik-tok af- forded him no pleasure, for the beatings didn't hurt the - machine man a bit. selfish evoldo then sold his family as slaves to the nome king, in exchange for a long life. later he regretted this decision and tried to buy his family back, but the nome king refused to return them. in despair, evoldo locked tik-tok inside a stone cavern and threw the key into the nonestic ocean. he regretted this action, too, jumped in after the key, and was drowned, thus de- stroying the long life the nome king had granted him. dorothy rescued tik-tok from the cavern, and he accompanied her to the land of oz, where he has made his home ever since. in many ways, tik-tok, with - - his clock-work mechanism of pure magic, is much like the electronic robots we read about today. after all, science is nothing more than pure magic, coming true very slowly. ozma of oz, p. . (b) til loon as royal mendress of the village of loon- ville in the winkie country, til loon gathers up the limp rubber skin when one of the balloon people of that queer town bursts. she mends the puncture and the loon man or woman can be blown up to proper loonville size once more. the tin woodman of oz, p. . (b) tin woodman a long time ago, nick chopper was an ordinary, flesh- and-blood woodman; that is, he dwelt in the forest and chopped down trees for a living. he fell in love with nimmie aimee, a young woman who lived with an old witch in the forest. this witch was afraid the hard-working girl would marry and leave her, so she enchanted the woodman's axe. nick chopper chopped off an arm. a friendly tin- smith made him a new arm. then the enchanted axe chopped off his foot, and the tinsmith made him a tin leg. in a short time, he was made entirely of tin, and he was, truly, the tin woodman. but the wicked witch had won, for the tin woodman had no heart with which to be kind and loving toward nimmie aimee. one day he was caught in a rainstorm in the forest and rusted, so that he was no longer able to move. it was thus that dorothy and the scarecrow found him. doro- thy oiled his joints, enabling nick to move about and to talk again. the rest of the tin woodman's history is full of adventures, narrow escapes, and happy conclusions. today he is nickel-plated and lives in a handsome tin palace, where he rules as emperor of the winkie country. the wizard of oz, p. . (b) tiny & tiny is one of the biggest bandits in realbad's band of forest marauders. in fact, the only thing tiny about tiny is his in-x. telligence. he has a big appetite, a big ambition, and a big body— but a bean-sized brain. ojo in oz, p. . (t) tititi-hoochoo known as the great jinjin, tititi-hoochoo rules a *. º, strange fairyland on the other side of the world from oz. the great º jinjin is that country's only private citizen, all his subjects being kings and queens, each wielding great natural powers over mankind. tititi-/ hoochoo is greatly feared and respected for his many awesome powers.' " his justice is never tempered with mercy. it was he who banished ruggedo, the nome king, to the upper earth, to become a homeless wanderer. tik-tok of oz, p. . (b) toddlady this faithful scribe and prime moneyster in the court of king cheeriobed of the azure islands is a much hap- pier man than he used to be. in the old, bad days, he inscribed in his chronicle many unhappy events brought on by the monster quiberon. but now that quiberon is gone, toddledy's official scribbling is only of gayety and happiness. in fact, his pen fairly dances over the paper now. the giant horse of oz, p. . (t) º % (º º sº - … . . tollydiggle - . s the official jailer of the emerald city is a plump, pleasant, little woman who feeds her prisoners apple dumplings and the most delicious omelettes. that is, she would feed these delicacies to her prisoners except for the fact that, in all her years of service, she has had only one—ojo, who, when he first came to the emerald city, made the mistake of picking a four leaf clover. ojo didn't know this was toto almost everyone who has ever heard of oz has heard of toto, dorothy's little black curly-haired dog, who was her first companion on her first visit to oz. when dorothy came to live per- manently in oz, toto came with her. since all the oz animals talk, it finally occurred to dorothy that it was strange toto, too, did not learn to speak to her. when dorothy asked toto to explain this, the little dog told her—in words—that he and dorothy understood each other so well there was no need for him to talk. the wizard of oz, p. . (b) –" ºs ºº º ºf tottenhot; * - º º º ºf a º º these strange people live in little underground houses in the quadling country. they wear animal skins for * clothing and large rings in their ears, for ornaments. º º while a mischievous lot, the tottenhots are a harmless ſº people who sleep all day and frolic all night in the moon- \ light. the patchwork girl of oz, p. . (b) town crier in the old days, to “cry the news" was to call it out, - - - loudly, so that all could hear it in the town. of course, º nº to cry also means “to weep”. the town crier of wonder city does both: he cries the news and weeps copious tears, at one and the same time. the wonder city of oz, p. . (n). o ) º here is a different kind of town crier. the people of ºx the city of kimbaloo, in the gillikin country, are so happy that they never cry. still, they feel that it isn't right to be happy all of the time, so they hire a man who does all their crying for them. the lost king tozzyſog for two long years, faithful tozzyfog, of sun top moun- tain, located in the gillikin country, searched for his beloved niece, peg amy, not knowing in all this time into what form the princess had been transformed by the wicked magician, j. glegg. kabumpo in oz, p. . (t) trot trot and cap'n bill lived with trot's mother in a cottage near the ocean in california. little trot griffiths never grew lonely in the company of the grizzled old sailor, who could spin wonderful yarns of his days on the sea when he was younger and needed no wooden leg. but none of the old man's tales was as wonderful as the adventures they had in oz. the scarecrow of oz, p. . (b) ting tsing this is the wife of chang wang woe, who, a long time ago, was emperor of the silver island, far below the surface of the munchkin country. the king of the golden islands, who had been defeated in war by chang, sent a magician to the silver island. the magician turned chang into a crocus. the faithful tsing tsing placed that crocus in a bowl. three days later, the magic crocus had grown into a giant beampole, its top appearing in a munchkin farmer's corn- field. according to the magic spell that had been cast, the spirit of chang wang woe would enter the first thing that touched the bean- pole. and the first thing that touched the beanpole was—the scare- crow. the royal book of oz, p. . (t) tubeſkinſ - in the nome country, there is a great hollow tube that passes right through the center of the earth. on the other side of the earth, tubekins is the guardian of that hollow tube. as it is against the law to use the tube for traveling, anyone who zooms out of the tube has to answer to tubekins, who is also known as the “peculiar person'. tik-tok of oz, p. . (b) º tuzzle when tuzzle, grand vizier of samandra, saw his sultan turn a whole kingdom of people into fish, he should have resigned and looked for another job. but he remained in the sultan's service, who sent him to the emerald city to bring back the comfortable camel. but poor tuzzle's journey was to no avail. the yellow knight of oz, p. . (t) twiſle - although he didn't approve of conjo's magicianship, twiffle, the little doll-clown, was most loyal to his master. after conjo drank of the waters of the fountain of oblivion, twiffle went with him back to the isle of conjo. he promised ozma solemnly that he would do his best to see that conjo used his magic for nothing but good results in the future—with no more stealing of boys and girls from america. the shaggy man of oz, p. . (s) * * twink | ; with her twin brother tom, twink jones found her way s! from buffalo, new york, to the emerald city of oz. between those \ two cities occurred some of the most exciting and fascinating adven- tures you ever read about. the shaggy man of oz, p. . (s) twobyour although twobyfour was only an unimportant servant to skamperoo, king of scampavia, he was responsible, in a way, for the fall of the emerald city. for it was he who called to the attention of skamperoo the magic emeralds that came from the emerald city. just the sight of those emeralds was enough to make skamperoo's f mouth water. poor twobyfour got no reward at all. the wishing tº horse of oz, p. . (t) » ( - - º twoffle - this small doll-clown lives in the nursery of twink and tom jones in buffalo, new york. it was twoffle's cousin, twiffle, who was partly responsible for the jones twins' trip to oz. now that they are back in buffalo, twink and tom sometimes look long and strangely at twoffle. many times, they have resolved to stay up all night and sur- prise their old friend twoffle when he makes one of his visits to his cousin in their nursery. but they have never yet been able to stay awake that long. the shaggy man of oz, p. . (s) wº \ - w ! º is for united states. oz is our contribution to fairyland. translated into many languages for enjoyment the world over, oz has come to be from america what alice is from england, grimm's fairy tales are from germany, and the tales of hans christian andersen are from denmark an " "o.z. fan'" fr end whose nam. e beg ins with u"" one whose life has been enriched by the great story- tellers of all lands, and who is here registered as a citizen of the land of oz. ugly one - º º the younger brother of the shaggy man was captured by the nome king and given an ugly face in place of his naturally pleasant one. ruggedo locked the unfortunate fellow up in a forest in which the trees were made of precious metals and the ground was strewn with valuable jewels. the shaggy man heard his brother's plight and set out to rescue him. after a whole “bookful” of adventures the two were reunited. polychrome, the lovely daughter of the rain- bow, broke the nome king's spell of ugliness by kissing the ugly one. shaggy's brother now lives happily in oz, the guest of ozma. tik-tok of oz, p. . (b) - ugu º when he lived in the city of herku, winkie country, ſº ugu was a poor shoemaker, very much discontented with his lot. one n \ day, he discovered in his attic a treasure store of magical instruments \ and books on magic. he stopped making shoes and began the study tº \ of magic, with the hope of becoming the greatest magician in oz, thereby ruling the country. after he became skilled in magical powers, he stole ozma and enchanted her. on the same night, he also stole all of the important magic in the land of oz. and that's how matters stood when dorothy and her friends set out to search for ozma in the lost princess of oz, p. . (b) umb mount illuso is a twin mountain in phantastico, which country borders the nome country. the king of the magical mimics, who dwell on mount illuso, was once goaded by his wife, the evil queen ra, into leading his mimics to oz, which he very nearly suc- ceeded in conquering. these mimics are unusual creatures who rest- lessly change their shapes every few minutes, and they have the power of taking the form of any human being or animal they choose. even the person mimicked can't tell the difference between himself and his imitator! you can read all about what they did to dorothy, the wizard, and other oz folk in the magical mimics in oz, p. . (s) umph like all nomes, umph had to try his hand at making trouble, proving to be good at being bad, umtillio s minstrel in the court of cheeriobed, king of the lovely and serene ozure islands, in the blue munchkin country, umtillio knew a thousand songs, which he sang to please his cheery ruler and the happy people of the islands, playing on his harp to accompany \º himself. once upon a time, these islands had been as peaceful as they appeared to be, but the coming of the monster quiberon ended this serene and happy existence. how quiberon's noisy tyranny was ended is told in the giant horse of oz, p. . (t) is for variety, spice of the hectic life lived in oz. - in wandering through the great lands themselves, we are first treated to variety in color. in the adventure we encounter, variety is endless. and in its formidable cast of characters, the variety in oz leads us totally out of all the zoos with which we are familiar an “oz fan” fr i end whose name begins with ''v' " one on whom the great variety to be found in life is not wasted, and who is here registered as a citizen of the land of oz. vaga when the renegade vaga captured prince tatters of ragbad, and grampa, the faithful old soldier, he had to take bill, the cast iron weathercock from illinois. vaga would have enjoyed pick- ing up bill and casting him back to illinois on the first “ill wind" that passed by. grampa of oz, p. . (t) vanetta a long time ago, queen vanetta of the blanks was not blank, and neither were her people. they were just ordinary people, ruled by a woman more than ordinarily plain to look at. one day, vanetta discovered a magic forest pool that rendered invisible those who bathed in º its waters. believing that, if she could not be seen, she would then be thought as beautiful as any maiden, vanetta took a dip. she was so well pleased with the vinegar and muſtard vinegar has a sour disposition, and mustard, a hot tem- per. that's why these two royal guards of the over-spiced red kingdom of rash, in ev, are so named. the hungry tiger of oz, p. . (t) vig in a walled city in the winkie country live vig and his subjects. these people of herku city are served by a race of giants. this is very strange, because herkus are small and lean, and apparently very frail. actually, they are the strongest people in the world, from whom their giant servants quail in fear. the herkus get their strength from zosozo, a magic liquid invented by vig. naturally, the herkus see to it that not a drop of this strength-giving potion ever passes a giant's lips. but vig did lend a bottle of it to the wizard of oz once, with surprising results. the lost princess of oz, p. . (b) voice that loſt hiſ man once, a singer caught a cold and lost his voice. the voice was most unhappy and wandered everywhere searching for its master. it spent one evening with number nine's family, singing a lullaby to the fourteen children. everyone concerned was very happy when the voice finally found his man and they could sing together once more. the wonder city of oz, p. . (n) is for wonderful–the wonderful wizard of oz. it was on that great day many years ago, when the wizard took his first step out of his balloon onto oz, that the history of oz really began. starting out as a humbug, he truly became a wonderful wizard. with his well known black bag of magic tools, the little wizard is loved by everyone who has ever heard of oz an ‘‘oz fan' " fri en d whose name beg ins with "w" " one whose excitement at “wizardry” extends to the wiz- ardry of present day scientists, and who is here registered as a citizen of the land of oz. the entrance to bear center, winkie country. all the bears who live in that city are stuffed with a fine quality of curled hair and live in comfortable hollow trees. the only creature corporal waddle ever succeeded in scar- ing was a weasel; he shot at it and away it ran. perhaps the reason for this is that waddle's sole weapon is a pop gun. the lost princess of oz, p. . (b) waddy tºº the wizard of umbrella island, which is completely surrounded by air except when it is raining, once came up with a stroke of magic so ingenious it amazed even the wizard of oz. waddy is un- doubtedly a wizard just wadded with wonderful magic. speedy in oz, p. . (t) Ǻ wag ºf ºº, this rabbit once lived in the green meadowland just outside the emerald city. wag wasn't really a bad bunny, but he got all mixed up with the nome king, who managed to persuade the baffled bunny to assist in one of the various schemes to conquer oz. in the course of their plotting, wag's size increased to ten times that ". º of any normal rabbit. he now lives happily on sun top mountain, where he eats five pounds of carrots a day. kabumpo in oz, p. . (t) wagarag the chief steward to mogodore, baron of baffleburg, quadling country, warned his master not to open the “forbidden flagon' predicting it's opening would cause great trouble for the baf- fleburgundians. at the worst possible moment for mogodore, the flask was opened, and the baffleburgundians just vanished, but without disappearing. it happened in jack pumpkinhead of oz, p. . (t) wam the only important magic wam the wizard ever worked was to enchant three strands of emeralds. he intended them as a gift to lorna, the wood nymph, from the king of the green mountains. but a squirrel stole the emer- alds, thinking them green nuts. when he found they were not good to eat, the squirrel discarded the emeralds. matiah, a skamperanian peddler, found them—and then the trouble began! the wishing horse of oz, p. . (t) y wantowin s] this is really omby amby, the soldier with the green whiskers. perhaps the oz historian who wrote this book wanted to see if you remembered omby amby and so invented a new name for him. well, you did remember, and now wantowin is again called omby amby. ozoplaning with the wizard of oz, p. . (t) white rabbit this wise little bunny met button bright in a great peach orchard, in the winkie country, and warned him that he would have to “answer to ugu” if he ate a certain peach. that was the first time button and his friends heard of ugu, and the knowledge led them straight to the lost princess of oz, p. . (b) wicked witch of the eaſt when dorothy's kansas home was whisked into the air by a cyclone and settled in oz, it also settled the fate of the wicked witch of the east. she was so bad that q no one was sorry to see her destroyed. all that was left * of her were the two things which were good—her two shoes, which dorothy wore in her first journey through oz. the wizard of oz, p. . (b) wicked witch of the weſt & dorothy melted this wicked witch with a bucket of water. the old woman was so dried up and filled with black magic that good clean water melted her down to nothing. by doing this, doro- thy freed herself and the winkies. the wizard of oz, p. . (b) wilby a woodchopper and a wise man, wilby refused to be- come frightened by the cowardly lion, and he taught the beast that good will is just as important as courage. the cowardly lion learned that sage and friendly words are better, sometimes, than a square meal. the cowardly lion of oz, p. . (t) wilſon a winkie farmer named wiljon was one of the first people to meet the frogman when he came down the mountain from the secluded yip country. the lost princess of oz, p. . (b) º, v. * sº the winks guard the passageway to gapers gulch, in the gillikin country. (this is one place in which no one ever tried to catch forty winks!) the silver princess in oz, p. . (t) wizard of oz - /...if twº once, a long time ago, in the great city of omaha, there lived a happily married politician. naturally, part of his job as a poli- tician was to kiss many babies. he grew so fond of this part of his work that he decided it would be nice to have a baby of his own to kiss. his good wife thoroughly agreed with him, and so a son, which the politician and his wife considered to be the most wonderful baby in the world, was born to them. so wonderful was this child that the parents sought a remarkable name for him, selecting oscar zoroaster phadrig isaac norman henkel emmanuel ambrose diggs as the lad's impressive cognomen. when the baby grew to be a boy and went to school, he discovered that the initials of all but the first two of this long string of names spelled p-i-n-h-e-a-d. in desperation, he decided to use only the initials of his first two names, and called himself o. z. diggs. when he became a young man, he learned how to do sleight-of-hand tricks and called himself a wiz- ard. to attract people to the circus with which he traveled, he made balloon ascensions, painting his initials (o.z.) on the side of the balloon. one day, his balloon was caught up by a strong wind and carried to a strange land. when the wizard descended, he was greeted by the local inhabitants as the wizard of oz and became their ruler. the rest of his story is so chock full of adventures that the telling of them fills many volumes. on the very spot on which his balloon descended, which happened to be precisely where the four countries of oz meet, the wizard ordered built the beautiful and now famous emerald city. the wizard of oz, p. . (b) - wizard of wutz this is a very minor wizard who once aspired to be the ruler of oz. thanks to handy mandy and himself, the elf, wutz is now one of the prickliest cactus plants anyone ever backed into. handy mandy in oz, p. . (t) “i started life as a lowly bug in the fields of the winkie country. it was a wretched existence, for i had to live in continual fear of the great birds who ate helpless insects. since i didn't know how to make clothing for myself, i shivered in the cold and sweltered in the heat. one happy day, i crawled, exhausted, into a little red building, which i was to learn later was a school house; there, i made my home between two of the warm hearth bricks. i paid close attention to professor nowitall as he taught the children, and i thus acquired a very complete deducation. one day, the professor discovered me crawl- q ing over the hearth. that was my moment of great destiny, for he placed me in a machine which projected me, in a magnified state, onto a screen. of course, i stepped from the screen as professor h. m. woggle- bug, t.e. (the letters h.m. stand for highly magnified; t. e., for thoroughly educated.) i am now dean of the royal college of oz and the most learned and im- portant educator in the favored land of oz.” the above was written for this book by professor wogglebug, himself. we found it so well written that we have made no changes, other than to take the bugs out of the spelling. for a first reference to professor wogglebug, see the land of oz, p. . (b) woodchopper this friendly woodcutter once knew the tin woodman when he was a flesh-and-blood person. again, when ojo started with unk nunkie on his first adventure in oz, it was this woodchopper who gave him some very helpful information about the land of oz. the patchwork girl of oz, p. . (b) … wooden gardener **----- one of the small wooden folk fashioned by the fairy princess ozana was a wooden gardener, who cared for the story blos- som garden in the village of pineville. since then, he has been pro- moted and is now in charge of conducting visitors through the garden. the magical mimics in oz, p. . (s) º woot the wanderer lives in the gillikin country, but he is seldom at home. he once wandered into the tin woodman's nickel-plated palace in the winkie country and started nick chopper on the most important quest of his career. although we haven't heard about woot for a long time, we presume he is still wandering. the tin woodman of oz, p. . (b) is for kiss. x has but one really important function in the english language, and that is to line up in rows at the close of letters. kisses express all degrees of endearment, in oz; consequently, "x" is a hard-working character indeed an ‘‘oz fan" " fri end whose name beg-ins with - x"" a rare mortal to be sure, whose name begins with “x,” is proudly registered here as a citizen of the land of oz. * he flexible man of moocher mountain, in the munch- kin country, is a flexible person, to say the least. his expanding and contracting legs carry him and his pas- sengers up and down the mountain. instead of being an elevator operator, x-pando is an operating elevator. n ojo in oz, p. . (t) n w. w. & a, - a s !) - ~ º - - º * ~~~~~ *-c - -ses - is for you, for without you there could be no land of oz. your appreciation has made oz live in a very special way, but no less truly than anything else that draws breath in our great and mysterious world an “oz fan'" fr end whose name begins with “y” you who have signed your good name on yonder line are here declared to be a registered citizen of the land of oz. is for oz—last instead of first—a rare and adventur- ous letter. zee, which is zed, which is izzard (you'll note its presence in wizard), also makes a bold appearance in such time-tested favorites as the prisoner of zenda, the mark of zorro, and prince zalinski's secret. in rupert of hentzau and tarzan of the apes, its appearance is somewhat more stealthy an “oz fan'" friend whose name begins with “z'" a rare and elusive bird is z , whose name, signed at the appointed place above, attests to registration as a citizen of the land of oz. zella nikobob, once a charcoal burner on the island of regos, ſ brought his daughter zella a pair of shoes which he had found in a trash can in the rear of the royal palace. neither zella nor nikobob knew that those shoes contained two of the magical pearls which were prince inga's source of power. the happy conclusion found zella living on the island of pingaree, where her father is now king kitticut's prime minister. rinkitink in oz, p. . (b) zeronſ these flaky zerons live on an exceedingly cold mountain in the nome kingdom. they have the power to make it cold for any- one who visits their mountain. it's a law there that anything above zero must be lowered immediately. lucky bucky in oz, p. . (n) - the wife of zithero, leader of a gypsy band, doesn't have music even in her name, as her husband does. zinaro spent most of her time telling peoples fortunes and cooking up a hot, peppery stew. it was she who enticed ojo into the gypsy encampment. ojo in oz, p. . (t) zithero here he is, obediently next to his wife—zithero—leader of the gypsy band that stole ojo away from his unk nunkie. zithero is not really a bad sort, but being a gypsy leader, he feels that he simply must live down to his reputation. realbad the bandit caught him up short. ojo in oz, p. . (t) queen zixi of the fairyland of ix appears to lº out sixteen years of age, but she has, in reality, lived for many thousands of years, for she knows the secret of remaining forever young and beautiful. she is the firm friend of king bud and princess fluff, whose kingdom of noland adjoins hers. the road to oz, p. . (b) zunda and now a lowly inhabitant of subterranea, a gloomy city far below the surface of the winkie country, attains the promi- nence of being our last hero. happily, zunda did do something re- markable once—remarkable for a subterranean, that is. he reflected a glimmering of sunlight when he befriended speedy, the small boy who was trying to escape from the underground kingdom, as you will learn in the yellow knight of oz, p. . (t) qae) (l) . $ ~~ Œ (l) c- c- < story highlights of the thirty-nine oz books published from to the wizard of oz |originally published as the wonderful wizard of oz it is in this book that oz is “discovered.” a little kansas girl— dorothy gale—is carried in her house to oz when a cyclone whisks it through the sky. as the house lands in the munchkin country (one of the four great countries of oz) it destroys a wicked witch and sends dorothy off on her first adventure in oz. she finds the scarecrow, meets the tin woodman and the cowardly lion, melts a second wicked witch with a pail of water and finds her way home. since this book appeared a half-century ago, we have learned many marvelous things about the land of oz. baum [l. frank) and denslow [w. w.] . (the current edition is illustrated by evelyn copelman.) the land of oz (originally published as the marvelous land of oz) this sequel to the wizard of oz deals entirely with the early history of oz. no one from the united states or any other part of the “great outside world” appears in it. it takes its readers on a series of incredible adven- tures with tip, a small boy who runs away from old mombi, the witch, taking with him jack pumpkinhead and the wooden saw-horse. the scarecrow is king of the emerald city until he, tip, jack, and the tin woodman are forced to flee the royal palace when it is invaded by general jinjur and her army of re- belling girls. the land of oz ends with an amazing surprise, and from that moment on ozma is princess of all oz. baum and neill [john r.] . ozma of oz few of the oz books are as crowded with exciting oz happen- ings as this one. not only does it bring dorothy back to oz on her second visit, but it introduces dorothy to ozma, relates ozma's first important adventure, and introduces for the first time such famous oz characters as tik-tok, the me- chanical man, billina the hen, the hungry tiger, and—the nome king! most of the adventures in this book take place outside oz, in the land of ev and the nome kingdom. scarcely a page fails to quiver with excitement, magic and adventure. baum and neill, . dorothy and the wizard in oz of course, everyone always predicted it would happen! and in this book it does—the wizard comes back to oz to stay. best of all, he comes with dorothy, who is having adventure number three that leads her to oz, this time via a california earthquake. in this book we meet dorothy's pink kitten, eureka, whose manners need adjusting badly, and two good friends who we are sorry did not remain in oz—jim the cabhorse, and zeb, dorothy's young cousin, who works on a ranch as a hired boy. baum and neill, . the road to oz we like to think of this volume as “the party book of oz.” almost everyone loves a party, and when ozma has a birthday party with notables from every part of fairyland attending—well! it is just like attending ozma's party in person. you meet the famous of oz, and lots of others, such as queen zixi of ix, john dough, chick the cherub, the queen of merryland, para bruin the rubber bear and—best of all–santa claus himself! of course there are lots of adventures on that famous road to oz before the party, during which dorothy, on her way to oz for the fourth time, meets such heart-warming char- acters as the shaggy man, button-bright, and lovely polychrome, daughter of the rainbow. baum and neill, . their way to the nome kingdom, one fascinating adventure follows another. they meet queen ann soforth of oogaboo and her army, and lovely poly- chrome, who had lost her rainbow again; they rescue tik-tok from a well; and are dropped through a hollow tube to the other side of the world where they meet quox, the dragon. you'll find it one of the most exciting of all the oz books. baum and neill, . the sararoy of oz this is the oz book which l. frank baum considered his best it starts quietly enough with trot and cap'n bill rowing along a shore of the pacific ocean to visit one of the many caves near their home on the california coast. suddenly, a mighty whirlpool engulfs them. the old sailorman and the little girl are miraculously saved and regain consciousness to find themselves in a sea cavern. (to this day, trot asserts she felt mermaid arms about her during those terrible moments under water.) from here on, one perilous adventure crowds in upon another. in jinxland they meet the scarecrow who takes charge of things once cap'n bill is transformed into a tiny grasshopper with a wooden leg. an exciting royal reception greets the adventurers upon their return to the emerald city. baum and neill, . rinkitink in oz prince inga of pingaree is the boy hero of this fine story of peril-filled adventure in the islands of the nonestic ocean. king rinkitink pro- vides comic relief, and by the time you reach the final page you will love this fat, jolly little king. bilbil the goat, with his surly disposition, provides a fine contrast to rinkitink's merriment and prince inga's bravery and courage in the face of danger. some may say that the three magic pearls are the real heroes of this story, but the pearls would have been of little use to king kitticut and queen garee if prince inga hadn't used them wisely and courageously. baum and neill, . the loſt princeſ of oz talk about button-bright getting lost—ozma is almost as bad! this is actually the second time ozma has been lost. as you know, once she was “lost” for many years. but in this book she is lost for only a short time. as soon as it is discovered that the ruler of oz is lost—and with her all the important magical instruments in oz—search parties, one for each of the four countries of oz, set out to find her. we follow the adventures of the party headed by dorothy and the wizard, who explore unknown parts of the winkie country in search of ozma. how ozma is found, and where she has been, will surprise you. frogman, a new character, is introduced in this book. baum and neill, . the tin woodman of oz woot the wanderer causes this chapter of oz history to transpire. when woot wanders into the splendid tin castle of nick chopper, the tin woodman and emperor of the winkies, he meets the scarecrow, who is visiting his old friend. the tin woodman tells woot the story of how he had once been a flesh-and-blood woodman in love with a maiden named nimmie aimee. woot suggests that since the tin woodman now has a kind and loving heart, it is his duty to find nimmie aimee and make her empress of the winkies. the scare- crow agrees, so the three set off to search for the girl. no less surprising than the adventures encountered on the journey is nimmie aimee's reception of her former suitor. baum and neill, . the magic of oz old ruggedo, the former nome king, comes to oz for the second time, and makes more trouble than he did on his first visit. ruggedo never gives up the idea of conquering oz, and this time he has the advantage of being in the country without ozma's knowledge. also, he has the magic and somewhat grudging help of kiki aru, the munchkin boy who is illegally prac- ticing the art. if you like magic, then this is a book for you. there's magic on every page, and everyone in the story eventually is transformed into something else, or bewitched in one way or another. even the wild animals in the great forest of gugu do not escape. baum and neill, . glinda of oz this is the last oz book written by l. frank baum. it is one of the best in the series, with dorothy, ozma, and glinda in an adventure that takes them to an amazing crystal-domed city on an enchanted island. this island is situated in a lake in the gillikin country. ozma and glinda are confronted by powerful magic and determined enemies. for a time dorothy and ozma are prisoners in the crystal-domed city which is able to submerge below the surface of the lake. few of the oz books equal this one in suspense and mys- tery, but it has less humor than some of the other books, perhaps because mr. baum was ill while writing it. baum and neill, . the royal book of oz this is the first oz book written by ruth plumly thompson, who was but twenty years old when she wrote it. professor wogglebug lets fall the weighty observation that the scarecrow has no background—no family tree. so the scarecrow indignantly goes in search of his family tree to the munchkin corn field, where he had been placed on a pole long ago to frighten away crows. the pole turns out to be a magic bean pole, and the scarecrow falls down it, far below the surface of oz, down to the silver islands. here, the scarecrow dis- covers that he is supposed to be the re-created emperor chang wang woe of the silver islands. among the new characters introduced are: sir hokus of pokes, comfortable camel, and doubtful dromedary. thompson [ruth plumly] and neill, . kabumpo in oz this is the first oz book with an animal in its title role. kabumpo, however, is much more than an animal—he is a genuine personality. kabumpo the elegant elephant is the wisest and oldest living creature in pumperdink. the loſt king of oz what happened to pastoria, king of oz in the old days, long before the wizard came to oz and erected the emerald city? that question has been asked many times. long an oz mystery, this book settles the matter at last. you won't be surprised to learn that mombi, the witch, is involved. also entangled in pastoria's history are snip the lovable little button boy, pajuka the goose who is also a prime minister, and humpy, a hollywood dummy. once freed of mombi's enchantment, pastoria proves to be a delightful old man who has not the slightest desire to be king of anything. he is perfectly happy with his little tailor shop and his assistant, snip the button boy. thompson and neill, . the hungry tiger of oz everyone knows that the hungry tiger of oz is the largest, the most powerful, and the most magnificent tiger in existence. realizing this, can you imagine a “little” girl so huge in size that she fondles the hungry tiger as though he were a kitten, dressing him in doll clothes like a baby? that's what happens to the hungry tiger in this book. maybe it's punishment for his pre- tended desire to eat a fat little baby. reddy, the young prince of rash, wins back his kingdom, ozma is taken sky riding by a gigantic airman named atmos fere, and the nome king concocts more mischief. you'll like carter green the vegetable man, who makes his first appearance here. thompson and neill, . the gnome king of oz this is peter's first visit to oz—peter being a small boy from philadelphia—and he manages to make it an exciting one. peter accompanies the nome” king on another of that former monarch's periodic attempts to con- quer oz. while this is happening, the quilties of patch are trying hard to make the patchwork girl their queen. scraps objects violently, for the cross-patch life of the queen of the quilties doesn't appeal to jolly scraps. peter and scraps meet for a breathless series of adventures. peter arrives in the emerald city o just in time to save the city from the nome king. ozma offers to make him a prince of oz. peter, however, prefers his dream of peter on the pitcher's mound back home in philadelphia, to a throne in the emerald city. thompson and neill, . *also spelled gnome in oz books. the giant horſe of oz this is the third horse in all the land of oz. the first is the wooden saw-horse, who looks only vaguely like a real horse, but is nonetheless ozma's favorite steed. the second is jim, an old cab horse now retired to pas- ture on a california ranch. jim doesn't stay long in oz—magic makes him nervous. high boy, the giant horse of oz, is one of the most remarkable creatures you will ever meet. he has expanding and contracting legs, so that he can adjust them to mountains or plains and speed along with equal ease. highboy races through some remarkable adventures in this book with prince philador, benny the “public benefactor” and many other fascinating oz folk. thompson and neill, . jack pumpkinhead of oz j ack pumpkinhead, who claims no less a personage than ozma as his royal “parent”, makes his own book here, and it's one that should win jack many thousands of new friends. we meet another old friend in this story: peter, the little philadelphia boy, is back in oz again, and he and jack have some wonderful times together. they meet the iffin, who is as charming a crea- ture as you ever saw. they also meet mad mogodore the robber baron, who actually captured ozma and believed he was on his way to becoming king of oz. he was on his way all right—and you'll see how. thompson and neill, . the yellow knight of oz sir hokus, once of merrie england but more recently of pokes city, oz, is always ready for a new exploit. he relishes nothing more than the slaying of a herd of dragons or the rescuing of a bevy of beautiful princesses, the yellow knight, sir hokus, has enough adventures to satisfy the most am- bitious of knights. he not only rescues a fair princess, but he frees two whole kingdoms of hundreds of people, who had been transformed into fish and trees. as you've probably guessed, he gets help from comfortable camel, speedy, and lots of other friends. thompson and neill, . pirateſ in oz here comes peter, another lone voyager from the united states, to adventure all over the nonestic ocean with captain salt and his pirate crew, and finally to sail to the land of oz and the emerald city. captain salt and his pirates are not very much like the pirates you've read about in treasure island. they are so busy having magical adventures and exploring strange lands that they just can't spare the time to rob and plunder. different, too, is their chef. he sails with them six months of the year because he likes to cook and travel, and stays home the other six months in his castle where he is none other than king ato. and here's where you'll meet roger the read bird. thompson and neill, . the purple prince of oz this story is something like the old fairy tales in which the prince has to accept challenges, conquer, and perform feats of daring before he can become king or win the beautiful princess. prince randy of regalia finds himself in just such a situation, and he courageously sets out to perform all the feats required of him. he wins the friendship of kabumpo the elegant elephant, and after enough encounters to fill ten oz books, he proves himself every inch a king. you'll like randywell handywell brandenburg bumpadoo, the prince of the purple mountain. thompson and neill, . ojo in oz one day as ojo sits quietly in the cottage in which he and his unk nunkie live, along comes a band of gypsies and lures him into one of their rattle-trap wagons. in no time at all, ojo is their captive and the wagon carries him away from home. but why do the gypsies want ojo? how is he, a small boy, in any way valuable to them? the surprise answer is worth waiting for. ojo and his friend snufferbux, a dancing bear and also a captive, are rescued from the gypsies by realbad the forest bandit. ojo and realbad become very fond of each other and adventure through the munchkin country, visiting uni- corners, crystal city, and other strange places. thompson and neill, . speedy in oz remember speedy, the little boy who arrived in oz by space rocket from long island in the yellow knight of oz? well, here he is in his own book with a most delightful companion. terrybubble is an honest-to-goodness live dinosaur, with all the lovable characteristics of a faithful dog. speedy and terry visit the fascinating islands—umbrella and roaraway—and are instrumental in freeing umbrella island of the tyranny of loxo the terrible giant. eventually they arrive in emerald city. there speedy meets many old friends and ozma uses her magic to send him happily home again to his beloved uncle billy. thompson and neill, . the wiſhing horſe of oz most oz fans are mystery fans, too, so here is an oz mystery that is all tangled up in three strands of emeralds and the strange magic that lies in the depths of their stones. originally intended for a tree maiden, they instead fall into evil hands. the story starts in skampavia, a tiny country outside oz, where skamperoo, the ambitious and discontented king, decides to become king of all oz. he succeeds, for a time. his companion is chalk, the magnificent white wishing horse, and it is the good horse sense of chalk that brings about and starts off to visit his old friend jinnicky, red jinn of the land of ev. long before they arrive at jinnicky's castle, randy and kabumpo are breathless with all that can happen only in oz. they pass through an amazing chasm called gapers' gulch, meet planetty, lovely princess from anuther planet and thun the thundercolt, her amazing steed. (they like the space maiden and her other- world horse so well that they take them along with them.) but this is just the beginning of a story that is truly “out of this world.” thompson and neill, . ozoplaning with the wizard of oz of course you have heard of the stratosphere—who hasn't, nowa- days, when talk of space travel seems just a breath of air away from the actuality. in this tale the wizard of oz invents ozoplanes, wonderful magical craft that zoom up into the stratosphere. as you may suspect, the stratosphere over oz is different from any other. here the stratosphere boasts a country called strato- vania, ruled by king strut. this high-minded monarch takes a fancy to jellia jamb, new arrival by ozoplane, and decides to make her his starina. simul- taneously, the occupants of another ozoplane are adventuring on red top mountain, where bustabo has stolen the throne from azarine. thompson and neill, . the wonder city of oz j enny jump is a girl from new jersey who becomes involved with an irish fairy, a leprechaun, who unwisely gives jenny just enough magic to make her unreasonable. whenever jenny becomes angry, which is often, she jumps. finally, she becomes very angry and jumps clear to oz. actually, jenny is very lucky for she finds a magic “turn-style.” those who pass through the turn- style come out in newly-styled clothing. jenny gets the help of a small boy, number nine, to run a style shop, but none of this is enough for jenny. she wants to rule all oz. of course something has to happen and it does. and her leprechaun is persuaded to confine his green magic to new jersey where the natives regard it with no more wonder than they do their mosquitoes. neill, . the salamagons of oz º after the success of his ozoplanes, the wizard of oz decides to invent something for both land and air travel. the result is scalawagons. every- thing is running smoothly when tik-tok, superintendent of the scalawagons factory, runs down. along comes the bell-snickle, a mystery even to himself, and takes advantage of tik-tok's helpless condition by loading the scalawagons with flabber-gas. the wizard hasn't counted on this and nearly loses all his scalawagons. it takes a whole book—filled with the fascinating adventures of jenny jump, the nota bells, a rubber ghost, and a mifkit—to tell the story of the rescue of the scalawagons. neill, . lucky bucky in oz lucky bucky, a small boy from the united states, is aboard a tiny tug boat in new york harbor not far from the statue of liberty, when the boiler of the tug boat blows up. lucky is blown sky-high and into a whole “bookful” of of wonderful adventures. first of all, he meets davy jones, a wooden whale, who gladly accepts lucky as a passenger. the inside of davy is furnished as elaborately and comfortably as an ocean liner. lucky and davy go plunging all the way to the emerald city, meeting many strange people on this water-level route to the land of oz. this is the first time we ever heard of a whale in a river, but maybe that's what makes it a whale of a tale. neill, . the magical mimic; in oz for thirty years, from through , there had been a new oz book each year. but in john r. neill, life-long illustrator and author of the last three oz books, died. america was at war, and paper was difficult to obtain even in limited quantities. for four years no new oz book was pub- lished. in the magical mimics in oz appeared, the work of a new author and a new illustrator. here is oz once again, and in the best baum tradition. the sinister, colorful mimics, winging from out of the depths of mount illuso to capture dorothy and the wizard, the excitement in the emerald city while dorothy and the wizard are captives of the mimics, the discovery of princess ozana and her beautiful story blossom garden—all go to make this one of the popular oz books. snow [jack) and kramer [frank] . the shaggy man of oz ever since he met dorothy on the road to oz many years ago, the shaggy man has been one of the best loved of oz characters. this book is shaggy's story: how his famous love magnet falls from the gates of the emerald city, and how ozma explains to shaggy that the valuable talisman can be re- paired by only one person—the magician who made it. on his way to see this magician, conjo, who lives on an island in the nonestic ocean, shaggy meets twink and tom, twins from buffalo whom conjo had transported to his island. adventure follows adventure, first in conjo's castle, then in the valley of ro- mance, later in the caverns of the fairy beaver king, and finally even under the deadly desert. (there is a rumour afloat that conjo again has the idea that he should be the new wizard of oz.) s.now and kramer, . the hidden valley of oz this is the story of jam, a small boy from ohio, who journeys to oz by means of a “collapsible kite.” jam lands in a jam indeed when his kite lets him down in hidden valley. there he becomes the prisoner of terp the terrible. the cruel giant has enslaved all the inhabitants of this beautiful gil- likin valley. aided by his friend percy the white rat, jam escapes, but only to return after many adventures, and reduce terp to normal size, thus freeing the grateful people of hidden valley. ozma sends jam home to ohio, while percy, now human being size, prefers to stay that way'in oz. new characters whom jam meets on his travels are the rhyming dictionary and the leopard with the changing spots. coscrove [rachel r.] and “dirk” [dirk gringhuis] . biographical sketches of the authors and illustrators of the thirty-nine oz books l. frank baum ( - ) on may , , lyman frank baum was born in chittenango, a small town in madison county, eight miles northeast of syracuse, new york. originally, the family bore the name of van baum and came from the nether- lands to america before the revolutionary war. when frank was five years old his father, benjamin ward baum, estab- lished the family home, called roselawn, just outside mattydale, a few miles north of syracuse. baum's father had made his fortune by developing penn- sylvania's first oil wells. (at one time, he had a young man on his payroll named john d. rockefeller.) roselawn was the boyhood home that baum knew and loved so well. he writes of it, calling it by name, in dot and tot in merryland. baum's writing ability manifested itself early. between his twelfth and fifteenth years he wrote, edited, and published the roselawn home journal, a newspaper which was widely circulated throughout syracuse and which carried advertising by local merchants. it was printed on a “toy” press bought by baum's father in new york; actually, this press was the equal of many used on country weekly news- papers. except for a rather unhappy season at peekskill military academy, baum was privately tutored, and through his love for books he was to a large extent self-educated. his seventeenth year found frank baum an eager cub reporter on a new york newspaper, the old world. from this time on, his career varied to an almost bewildering degree. at the age of nineteen he opened a printing office in brad. ford, pennsylvania, establishing a paper which is ancestor to the present bradford definite need and was immediately successful. baum proved to be an energetic editor, overflowing with ideas and suggestions. the baum family had achieved security, if not affluence. the most important thing that had happened to baum on the world was his meeting with w. w. denslow, an artist working on the paper. born in the same year and with a mutual interest in books, art, and the theater, they became firm friends. for the preceding ten years baum had been contributing jingles, poems, and short stories to magazines, with only an occasional acceptance. as a writer, he appeared to be getting nowhere. his first book, mother goose in prose, was published in , but it failed to sell. in , baum wrote and denslow illustrated father goose: his book. published in , it was an immediate suc- cess, with no one more surprised at its amazing popularity than baum and denslow. they followed it swiftly with a book called the wonderful wizard of oz. about the wizard, baum wrote to his brother, “i think it is the best work i have done, but you never can tell about the strange, queer public.” the public's opinion of the wonderful wizard of oz is history; baum and denslow had arrived, but they were destined to do only one more book together —dot and tot in merryland, published in . baum naturally regarded oz solely as his creation, but denslow insisted that his work as illustrator was fully as important and that he should share in the profits of such enterprises as the tremendously successful stage play the wizard of oz, based on the book. when the marcelous land of oz was published as a sequel to the wizard in , it was illustrated by john r. neill. in neill, baum and his publishers had found the virtually perfect artist to depict the fanciful wonderland of oz and its whimsical people. the remainder of the baum story is one of almost unbroken success. once he had public approval of his work, baum wrote prodigiously. lest readers sus- pect him of over-writing, he used seven different pen names. as edith van dyne, he wrote the “aunt jane's nieces” series of books for girls. as floyd akers, he wrote the “boy fortune hunters” series for boys. as laura bancroft, he wrote policeman bluejay, one of his finest fairy tales, later reissued under his own name as babes in birdland. as schuyler stanton, he wrote two adult novels, the fate of a crown and daughters of destiny. in , maud and frank went abroad on a leisurely tour of italy, north africa, and egypt. this was a vacation, but out of it came a novel—the last art and literary center rivalling new york, and it was natural that denslow should seek out and know the people who moved in these circles. when l. frank baum settled in chicago, he and denslow—as fellow workers on the chicago evening world—became friends. out of this friendship popped a book of jingles by baum, hilariously illustrated by “den.” the two men submitted this joint effort, father goose: his book, to just about every likely publisher in the country, finally, in , it was only by putting up their own money that they persuaded a chicago publisher, the george m. hill company, to publish and distribute the book. the result created a sensation in the book world. nearly , copies were sold in its first year. in the year following, the baum-denslow collaboration team produced the wonderful wizard of oz. the two men were now established in their careers as author and illustrator. in , dot and tot in merryland made its debut, perhaps the most delightfully illustrated of all the denslow books. but the storm clouds were gathering. in , the musical extravaganza, the wizard of oz, opened at the old majestic theater on new york's columbus circle. at that time the majestic was a brand new playhouse. the play, which bore almost no resemblance to the book, was a resounding success. denslow believed that as illustrator of the book, he should share in the proceeds of the play. neither the producer nor the author of the play agreed. thus, the baum-denslow collaboration was ended. denslow went east and worked for a time with the elbert hubbard group at east aurora, new york. he was a staff artist on the new york herald. during these years, he wrote and illustrated a series of delightful nursery books: the abc book, the night before christmas, humpty dumpty, little red riding hood, animal farm, and many others. he also wrote and illustrated billy bounce, much in the style and format of the oz books. with paul west, he wrote and illustrated the pearl and the pumpkin, which was translated into a broadway musical comedy with only minor success. denslow even wrote and illustrated a small book called the scarecrow and the tin man. of course, the word “oz" was not used in it. ironically, a re- print of this little book was sold in the lobbies of new york theaters showing the motion picture the wizard of oz, a few years ago. denslow's later years were not pleasant ones. ill and unable to work at the end, he died penniless in buffalo, new york, in . john r. neill ( - ) j ois r. neill was born in philadelphia on november , , of irish, scottish, and holland-dutch ancestry. after completing high school, he attended the pennsylvania academy of fine arts, where he received his only formal art training. upon leaving the academy, he entered the field of newspaper illustrating, working for the new york evening journal, the philadelphia inquirer, and the philadelphia north american. while on the staff of the latter paper, when he was but twenty-five, neill illustrated his first oz book, the marcelous land of oz, a sequel to the wonderful wizard of oz, which had been published four years before in . the second oz book was an immediate success; even today, as the land of oz, it is a “best seller” among oz titles. there were many who mourned the passing of the baum-denslow partner- ship, which had resulted in such delightful books as dot and tot in merryland; father goose: his book; and, of course, the wizard. but it took only a few oz books to establish neill as admirably talented for depicting the famous baum characters. while neill worked on his superb drawings and paintings for the road to oz and the emerald city of oz, he also illustrated evangeline, snowbound, and other classics. at this time, neill was undoubtedly strongly influenced by the great eng- lish illustrator, arthur rackham, as were many other artists of the period. the neill style is one which combines rare beauty with great charm and a captivating sense of humor. - in all, neill illustrated thirty-five oz books, of which he also wrote three; he also illustrated other baum books: sky island, the sea fairies, john dough and the cherub, as well as a series of six small books known as “the little wizard stories of oz.” neill once remarked that he considered the oz books merely a pleasant annual chore, and that he had no idea of the books' importance to their readers until he wrote the wonder city of oz. during all these years, neill was also illustrating magazine stories for the saturday evening post, the ladies home journal, and other national magazines. his home, in the early part of his career, was at devil's acre, bordering the upper delaware. later, he built a home on long island which included a studio for himself and a small theater. here his four daughters staged plays for which he devised and painted the scenery. the latter years of his life were spent at his country home near flanders, new jersey, which bore the “neillish" name of endolane. his daughters, now grown women, were models for many of the children who still adventure in the “never-never-grow-older” land of oz. it is typical of john r. neill, who reflected the beauty of the world in pictures, that he often made a small design even of his name, with john contracted to the now quaint “jno.” ruth plumly thompson ( - ) like john r. neill and w. w. denslow, ruth plumly thomp- son was born in philadelphia. at seventeen, she was selling verse and fairy tales to the fondly remembered st. nicholas magazine. one year later, she was a staff member of st. nicholas, and editor and writer of a weekly page for children for the philadelphia ledger. when l. frank baum died in , the publishers of the oz books began looking for someone to continue the series. miss thompson's work in st. nicholas attracted their attention. her first book for the series, the royal book of oz, appeared in . from then until , she wrote an oz book a year—nineteen in all. miss thompson gave up adventuring in oz to write other children's books and articles, and to devote her time to television and radio projects. in addition to the oz books, ruth plumly thompson is widely known as the author of ten fairy tale volumes, scores of verses, serials for juvenile maga- zines, syndicate features, magazine fiction and articles, radio and television scripts, and teen-age fiction. she now makes her home in ardmore on the phila- delphia main line. jack snow ( - ) bons august , , in piqua, ohio, of irish, german, and american-indian ancestry, jack snow was years old when l. frank baum died. he immediately wrote to reilly and lee, suggesting that he be commis- sioned the new author to write the oz books. a polite person on the staff of - rachel r. cosgrove ( - ) bonn december eleventh—uncomfortably close to christmas, according to miss cosgrove—at westernport, maryland, rachel coscrove at- tended schools in maryland and west virginia. she graduated from west virginia wesleyan college (buckhannon) with majors in biology and public speaking and with the degree bachelor of science. - occupation-wise, miss cosgrove does pharmacological research for a large pharmaceutical concern near new york city. her job classification is that of chemist. the land of oz was the first oz book miss cosgrove read; at the early age of five years, it made such an impression on her that it still remains her favorite oz book (with the possible exception, of course, of the hidden valley of oz). her likes run in the b's–baum—bowling–bridge—and she has an understandable weakness for cats of high or low pedigree, and for white rats, like percy. “dirk" [dirk gringhuis ( - ) dink gringhuis was born in grand rapids, michigan, of welsh- dutch descent. when he was a little boy and grown-ups asked him, “what do you want to be when you become a man?” dirk always answered that he wanted to be an artist. he began his career by studying under several painters. in , he studied illustration at the american academy of art in chicago; after two years there, he went to new york city for further study. - in , dirk, now married, returned to grand rapids, where advertising art beckoned. in , he did his first juvenile illustrations. this outlet for his talents so fascinated him that he decided to devote all his time to it. in , he moved to the tulip town of holland, michigan, where he wrote and illustrated his first book. since then, he has written three more books for children, worked as a free lance illustrator, and headed the art department at hope college. dirk now has a country home just outside lansing, where he lives with his family, mrs. gringhuis, eight-year-old rickey, a dachshund named otto, and a cat with the incredible name of tommasacio. for relaxation, dirk paints portraits, takes an active part in an arts and crafts society, and in the cub scouts. historical university of michigan tas artes library vrtas of the lacus s k t.k. he saw his yellow wig in the puppet's hand page pinocchio the story of a puppet by “ c. collodi” (carlo lorenzini) *********************** with illustrations in color by maria l. kirk ********************** doo philadelphia and london j. b. lippincott company hood t copyright, , by j. b. lippincott company published september, printed by j. b. lippincott company at the washington square press philadelphia, u. . a. spec, chil , sclcl - books of the ages / / t introduction \here seems to be no game more be- loved of children in all lands and all times than the one called pretend. toy- soldiers for the boy, and dolls—few or many- for the girl supply the only raw material re- quired to play this, for of course the charm of the game lies largely in the imagination of the doughty captain who endows his men with life and ability to go through exciting manoeuvres; and in that of the miniature mother who directs so wisely the behaviour of her family. after we grow up we are astonished to learn that this game originated with the old greeks hundreds of years back, who used to make little jointed puppets of wood or card- board representing men and women, moving them about in a life-like fashion which was hugely entertaining to both old and young. so popular was the game that soon the romans wanted to play, too, and then later on the italians, french and english made puppets for their countries, only they called these little figures marionettes. shakespeare alludes to this form of diver- sion in his plays, as do other distinguished writers of those times. the beautiful opera introduction faust really owes its existence to the marion- ette-play by the same name which for many generations delighted the german people and gave goethe the idea for his opera. and who can doubt but that the wonderful mechanical doll ophelia in offenbach's operatic master- piece, the tales of hoffman, is a direct de- scendant of those primitive puppets? in italy puppet-plays have survived up to the present, having reached a quite high degree of artistic perfection. in our own country the most familiar street puppet-show is punch and judy-not forgetting their delectable baby- and wherever this appears it never fails to draw shrieks of laughter from the audience. pinocchio is by all odds the best puppet- story to be found anywhere, and we sigh in sympathy with the funny little chap's scrapes and punishments, or chuckle at his pranks, while we feel like exclaiming, “why, how much pin pinocchio must have been like me!' the author of this captivating tale, signor lorenzini, or “ collodi”—as he liked to call himself after his native town in italy-lived during the nineteenth century ( – ) and devoted himself to writing and education, be- lieving that one pleasing way to teach was through the puppet-plays. louise r. bull contents chapter page i. how it came to pass that master cherry the car- penter found a piece of wood that laughed and cried like a child.... ii. master cherry makes a present of the piece of wood to his friend geppetto, who takes it to make for himself a wonderful puppet, that shall know how to dance, and to fence, and to leap like an acrobat. iii. geppetto having returned home begins at once to make a puppet, to which he gives the name of pinocchio. the first tricks played by the puppet iv. the story of pinocchio and the talking-cricket, from which we see that naughty boys cannot endure to be corrected by those who know more than they do....... v. pinocchio is hungry and searches for an egg to make himself an omelet; but just at the most interesting moment the omelet flies out of the window..... vi. pinocchio falls asleep with his feet on the brazier, and wakes in the morning to find them burnt off vii. geppetto returns home, makes the puppet new feet, and gives him the breakfast that the poor man had brought for himself.... viii. geppetto makes pinocchio new feet, and sells his own coat to buy him a spelling-book. ix. pinocchio sells his spelling-book that he may go and see a puppet-show . x. the puppets recognise their brother pinocchio, and receive him with delight; but at that moment their master fire-eater makes his appearance and pinocchio is in danger of coming to a bad end.. contents xi. fire-eater sneezes and pardons pinocchio, who then saves the life of his friend harlequin. xii. the showman, fire-eater, makes pinocchio a present of five gold pieces to take home to his father, geppetto; but pinocchio instead allows himself to be taken in by the fox and the cat, and goes with them..... xiii. the inn of the red craw-fish. xiv. pinocchio, because he would not heed the good counsels of the talking-cricket, falls amongst assassins. xv. the assassins pursue pinocchio; and having over- taken him hang him to a branch of the big oak. xvi. the beautiful child with blue hair has the puppet taken down: has him put to bed and calls in three doctors to know if he is alive or dead. ... xvii. pinocchio eats the sugar, but will not take his medicine: when, however, he sees the grave- diggers, who have arrived to carry him away, he takes it. he then tells a lie, and as a punish- ment his nose grows longer.... xviii. pinocchio meets again the fox and the cat, and goes with them to bury his money in the field of miracles.... xix. pinocchio is robbed of his money, and as a punish- ment he is sent to prison for four months...... xx. liberated from prison, he starts to return to the fairy's house; but on the road he meets with a horrible serpent, and afterwards he is caught in a trap...... xxi. pinocchio is taken by a peasant, who obliges him to fill the place of his watch-dog in the poultry- yard... contents xxii. pinocchio discovers the robbers, and as a reward for his fidelity is set at liberty.. xxiii. pinocchio mourns the death of the beautiful child with the blue hair. he then meets with a pigeon who flies with him to the seashore, and there he throws himself into the water to go to the assist- ance of his father geppetto.. xxiv. pinocchio arrives at the island of the “industrious bees," and finds the fairy again... xxv. pinocchio promises the fairy to be good and studious, for he is quite sick of being a puppet and wishes to become an exemplary boy.. xxvi. pinocchio accompanies his schoolfellows to the sea- shore to see the terrible dog-fish..... xxvii. great fight between pinocchio and his companions. one of them is wounded, and pinocchio is arrested by the gendarmes. xxviii. pinocchio is in danger of being fried in a frying-pan like a fish.... xxix. he returns to the fairy's house. she promises him that the following day he shall cease to be a puppet and shall become a boy. grand breakfast of coffee and milk to celebrate this great event.. xxx. pinocchio, instead of becoming a boy, starts secretly with his friend candlewick for the “land of boobies" xxxi. after five months' residence in the land of cocagne, pinocchio, to his great astonishment, grows a beautiful pair of donkey's ars, and he becomes a little donkey, tail and all. xxxii. pinocchio gets donkey's ears; and then he becomes a real little donkey and begins to bray ....... contents xxxiii. pinocchio, having become a genuine little donkey, is taken to be sold, and is bought by the director of a company of buffoons to be taught to dance, and to jump through hoops: but one evening he lames himself, and then he is bought by a man who purposes to make a drum of his skin...... xxxiv. pinocchio, having been thrown into the sea, is eaten by the fish and becomes a puppet as he was before. whilst he is swimming away to save his life he is swallowed by the terrible dog-fish.... xxxv. pinocchio finds in the body of the dog-fish ... whom does he find? read this chapter and you will know... xxxvi. pinocchio at last ceases to be a puppet and becomes a boy.... illustrations page he saw his yellow wig in the puppet's hand...... frontispiece the one who ate the least was pinocchio.. the crow, advancing first, felt pinocchio's pulse.... he began with his hands and nails to dig up the earth that he had watered... “gallop, gallop, my little horse”. “what species of fish is this?”. and they laughed, and laughed, and laughed. he swam with redoubled strength and energy toward the white rock... pinocchio i how it came to pass that master cherry the carpenter found a piece of wood that laughed and cried like a child t here was once upon a time . . "a king!” my little readers will in- stantly exclaim. no, children, you are wrong. there was once upon a time a piece of wood. this wood was not valuable: it was only a common log like those that are burnt in winter in the stoves and fireplaces to make a cheerful blaze and warm the rooms. i cannot say how it came about, but the fact is, that one fine day this piece of wood was lying in the shop of an old carpenter of the name of master antonio. he was, however, called by everybody master cherry, on account of the end of his nose, which was always as red and polished as a ripe cherry. no sooner had master cherry set eyes on the piece of wood than his face beamed with delight; and, rubbing his hands together with satisfaction, he said softly to himself: pinocchio “ this wood has come at the right moment; it will just do to make the leg of a little table.” having said this he immediately took a sharp axe with which to remove the bark and the rough surface. just, however, as he was going to give the first stroke he remained with his arm suspended in the air, for he heard a very small voice saying imploringly, “do not strike me so hard!” picture to yourselves the astonishment of good old master cherry! he turned his terrified eyes all round the room to try and discover where the little voice could possibly have come from, but he saw no- body! he looked under the bench-nobody; he looked into a cupboard that was always shut -nobody; he looked into a basket of shavings and sawdust-nobody; he even opened the door of the shop and gave a glance into the street- and still nobody. who, then, could it be? “i see how it is,” he said, laughing and scratching his wig; “evidently that little voice was all my imagination. let us set to work again." and taking up the axe he struck a tre- mendous blow on the piece of wood. “oh! oh! you have hurt me!” cried the same little voice dolefully. pinocchio this time master cherry was petrified. his eyes started out of his head with fright, his mouth remained open, and his tongue hung out almost to the end of his chin, like a mask on a fountain. as soon as he had recovered the use of his speech, he began to say, stuttering and trembling with fear: “but where on earth can that little voice have come from that said oh! oh!? ... .. here there is certainly not a living soul. is it pos- sible that this piece of wood can have learnt to cry and to lament like a child? i cannot believe it. this piece of wood, here it is; a log for fuel like all the others, and thrown on the fire it would about suffice to boil a saucepan of beans. how then? if anyone is hidden inside, so much the worse for him. i will settle him at once.” so saying, he seized the poor piece of wood and commenced beating it without mercy against the walls of the room. then he stopped to listen if he could hear any little voice lamenting. he waited two minutes-nothing; five minutes-nothing; ten minutes—still nothing! i see how it is,” he then said, forcing him- self to laugh and pushing up his wig; “evi- dently the little voice that said oh! oh! was all my imagination! let us set to work again.” pinocchio but as all the same he was in a great fright, he tried to sing to give himself a little courage. putting the axe aside, he took his plane to plane and polish the bit of wood; but whilst he was running it up and down he heard the same little voice say, laughing: “ have donel you are tickling me all over!” this time poor master cherry fell down as if he had been struck by lightning. when he at last opened his eyes he found himself seated on the floor. his face was quite changed, even the end of his nose, instead of being crimson, as it was nearly always, had become blue from fright. ii master cherry makes a present of the piece of wood to his friend geppetto, who takes it to make for himself a wonder- ful puppet, that shall know how to dance, and to fence, and to leap like an acrobat a t that moment some one knocked at the door. “come in,” said the carpenter, without having the strength to rise to his feet. a lively little old man immediately walked into the shop. his name was geppetto, but when the boys of the neighbourhood wished to put him in a passion they called him by the nickname of polendina, because his yellow wig resembled a pudding made of indian corn. geppetto was very fiery. woe to him who called him polendina! he became furious, and there was no holding him. good day, master antonio," said gep- petto;“ what are you doing there on the floor?” i am teaching the alphabet to the ants.” “much good may that do you.” “what has brought you to me, neighbour geppetto?” polendina. in italian, pudding of indian corn. pinocchio “my legs. but to say the truth, master antonio, i am come to ask a favour of you. here i am, ready to serve you,” replied the carpenter, getting on to his knees. “ this morning an idea came into my head.” “let us hear it." “i thought i would make a beautiful wooden puppet; but a wonderful puppet that should know how to dance, to fence, and to leap like an acrobat. with this puppet i would travel about the world to earn a piece of bread and a glass of wine. what do you think of it?” bravo, polendina!” exclaimed the same little voice, and it was impossible to say where it came from. hearing himself called polendina, gep- petto became as red as a turkey-cock from rage, and turning to the carpenter he said in a fury: why do you insult me?” who insults you?” you called me polendina!... “ it was not i!” would you have it, then, that it was i? it was you, i say!” “no!” yes!” “no!” “ yes!" and becoming more and more angry, from pinocchio “and words they came to blows, and flying at each other they bit, and fought, and scratched man- fully. when the fight was over master antonio was in possession of geppetto's yellow wig, and geppetto discovered that the grey wig belong- ing to the carpenter had remained between his teeth. give me back my wig,” screamed master antonio. you, return me mine, and let us make friends." the two old men having each recovered his own wig shook hands, and swore that they would remain friends to the end of their lives. “well then, neighbour geppetto,” said the carpenter, to prove that peace was made,“ what is the favour that you wish of me?" “i want a little wood to make my puppet; will you give me some?” master antonio was delighted, and he im- mediately went to the bench and fetched the piece of wood that had caused him so much fear. but just as he was going to give it to his friend, the piece of wood gave a shake, and wriggling violently out of his hands struck with all its force against the dried-up shins of poor geppetto. "ah! is that the courteous way in which pinocchio you make your presents, master antonio? you have almost lamed me!. “i swear to you that it was not i!..." then you would have it that it was i?..." the wood is entirely to blame!...” “i know that it was the wood; but it was you that hit my legs with it!... “ i did not hit you with it!.. “ liar!” geppetto, don't insult me or i will call you polendina!...' ass!" polendina!" donkey!” “polendina!” baboon!” “polendina!” on hearing himself called polendina for the third time geppetto, blind with rage, fell upon the carpenter and they fought desperately. when the battle was over, master antonio had two more scratches on his nose, and his adversary had two buttons too little on his waistcoat. their accounts being thus squared they shook hands, and swore to remain good friends for the rest of their lives. geppetto carried off his fine piece of wood and, thanking master antonio, returned limp- ing to his house. iii geppetto having returned home begins at once to make a puppet, to which he gives the name of pinocchio. the first tricks played by the puppet g eppetto lived in a small ground- floor room that was only lighted from the staircase. the furniture could not have been simpler,—a bad chair, a poor bed, and a broken-down table. at the end of the room there was a fireplace with a lighted fire; but the fire was painted, and by the fire was a painted saucepan that was boiling cheerfully, and sending out a cloud of smoke that looked exactly like real smoke. as soon as he reached home geppetto took his tools and set to work to cut out and model his puppet. “what name shall i give him?" he said to himself;“ i think i will call him pinocchio. it is a name that will bring him luck. i once knew a whole family so called. there was pinocchio the father, pinocchia the mother, and pinocchi the children, and all of them did well. the richest of them was a beggar. having found a name for his puppet, he began to work in good earnest, and he first pinocchio made his hair, then his forehead, and then his eyes. the eyes being finished, imagine his aston- ishment when he perceived that they moved and looked fixedly at him. geppetto seeing himself stared at by those two wooden eyes took it almost in bad part, and said in an angry voice: “ wicked wooden eyes, why do you look at me?” no one answered. he then proceeded to carve the nose; but no sooner had he made it than it began to grow. and it grew, and grew, and grew, until in a few minutes it had become an immense nose that seemed as if it would never end. poor geppetto tired himself out with cut- ting it off; but the more he cut and shortened it, the longer did that impertinent nose become! the mouth was not even completed when it began to laugh and deride him. stop laughing!” said geppetto, pro- voked; but he might as well have spoken to the wall. stop laughing, i say!” he roared in a threatening tone. the mouth then ceased laughing, but put out its tongue as far as it would go. geppetto, not to spoil his handiwork, pre- pinocchio tended not to see, and continued his labours. after the mouth he fashioned the chin, then the throat, then the shoulders, the stomach, the arms and the hands. the hands were scarcely finished when geppetto felt his wig snatched from his head. he turned round, and what did he see? he saw his yellow. wig in the puppet's hand. “pinocchio! .. give me back my wig instantly!” but pinocchio, instead of returning it, put it on his own head, and was in consequence nearly smothered. geppetto at this insolent and derisive be- haviour felt sadder and more melancholy than he had ever been in his life before; and turning to pinocchio he said to him: young rascal! you are not yet com- pleted, and you are already beginning to show want of respect to your father! that is bad, my boy, very bad!” and he dried a tear. the legs and the feet remained to be done. when geppetto had finished the feet he received a kick on the point of his nose. “i deserve it!” he said to himself; “i should have thought of it sooner! now it is too late!” he then took the puppet under the arms “ you pinocchio and placed him on the floor to teach him to walk. pinocchio's legs were stiff and he could not move, but geppetto led him by the hand and showed him how to put one foot before the other. when his legs became flexible pinocchio began to walk by himself and to run about the room; until, having gone out of the house door, he jumped into the street and escaped. poor geppetto rushed after him but was not able to overtake him, for that rascal pinoc- chio leapt in front of him like a hare, and knock- ing his wooden feet together against the pave- ment made as much clatter as twenty pairs of peasants' clogs. stop him! stop him!” shouted geppetto; but the people in the street, seeing a wooden puppet running like a racehorse, stood still in astonishment to look at it, and laughed, and laughed, and laughed, until it beats description. at last, as good luck would have it, a car- abineer arrived who, hearing the uproar, im- agined that a colt had escaped from his master. planting himself courageously with his legs apart in the middle of the road, he waited with the determined purpose of stopping him, and thus preventing the chance of worse disasters. when pinocchio, still at some distance, saw pinocchio the carabineer barricading the whole street, he endeavoured to take him by surprise and to pass between his legs. but he failed signally. the carabineer without disturbing himself in the least caught him cleverly by the nose — it was an immense nose of ridiculous propor- tions that seemed made on purpose to be laid hold of by carabineers—and consigned him to geppetto. wishing to punish him, geppetto intended to pull his ears at once. but imagine his feelings when he could not succeed in find- ing them. and do you know the reason? it was that, in his hurry to model him, he had forgotten to make them. he then took him by the collar, and as he was leading him away he said to him, shaking his head threateningly: “we will go home at once, and as soon as we arrive we will regulate our accounts, never doubt it." at this announcement pinocchio threw him- self on the ground and would not take another step. in the meanwhile a crowd of idlers and inquisitive people began to assemble and to make a ring round them. some of them said one thing, some another. “poor puppet!” said several," he is right not to wish to return home! who knows how geppetto, that bad old man, will beat him!... pinocchio and the others added maliciously: 'geppetto seems a good man! but with boys he is a regular tyrant! if that poor pup- pet is left in his hands he is quite capable of tearing him in pieces!... it ended in so much being said and done that the carabineer at last set pinocchio at liberty and conducted geppetto to prison. the poor man, not being ready with words to defend himself, cried like a calf, and as he was being led away to prison sobbed out: “ wretched boy! and to think how i have laboured to make him a well-conducted puppet! but it serves me right! i should have thought of it sooner!...” what happened afterwards is a story that really is past all belief, but i will relate it to you in the following chapters. iv w the story of pinocchio and the talking- cricket, from which we see that naughty boys cannot endure to be cor- rected by those who know more than they do ell then, children, i must tell you that whilst poor geppetto was being taken to prison for no fault of his, that imp pinocchio, finding himself free from the clutches of the carabineer, ran off as fast as his legs could carry him. that he might reach home the quicker, he rushed across the fields, and in his mad hurry he jumped high banks, thorn hedges, and ditches full of water, exactly as a kid or a leveret would have done if pursued by hunters. having arrived at the house he found the street door ajar. he pulled it open, went in, and having secured the latch seated himself on the ground and gave a sigh of satisfaction. but his satisfaction did not last long, for he heard some one in the room who was saying: “cri-cri-cri!” who calls me?” said pinocchio in a fright. “ it is i!” pinocchio turned round and saw a big cricket crawling slowly up the wall. pinocchio “ tell me, cricket, who may you be?” “i am the talking-cricket, and i have lived in this room a hundred years and more.” “now, however, this room is mine,” said the puppet,“ and if you would do me a pleasure go away at once, without even turning round.” “i will not go,” answered the cricket, “un- til i have told you a great truth.” * tell it me, then, and be quick about it.” “woe to those boys who rebel against their parents, and run away capriciously from home. they will never come to any good in the world, and sooner or later they will repent bitterly.” sing away, cricket, as you please, and as long as you please. for me, i have made up my mind to run away to-morrow at daybreak, because if i remain i shall not escape the fate of all other boys; i shall be sent to school and shall be made to study either by love or by force. to tell you in confidence, i have no wish to learn; it is much more amusing to run after butterflies, or to climb trees and to take the young birds out of their nests.” “poor little goose! but do you not know that in that way you will grow up a donkey, and that every one will make game of you?” hold your tongue, you wicked ill-omened croaker!" shouted pinocchio. but the cricket, who was patient and phil- pinocchio osophical, instead of becoming angry at this impertinence, continued in the same tone: but if you do not wish to go to school why not at least learn a trade, if only to enable you to earn honestly a piece of bread!” “do you want me to tell you?” replied pinocchio, who was beginning to lose patience. “amongst all the trades in the world there is only one that really takes my fancy.” “and that trade-what is it?” “ to eat, drink, sleep, and amuse myself, and to lead a vagabond life from morning to night. as a rule,” said the talking-cricket with the same composure,“ all those who follow that trade end either in a hospital or in prison.” “ take care, you wicked ill-omened croaker! woe to you if i fly into a passion!...” poor pinocchio! i really pity you!...” why do you pity me?' because you are a puppet and, what is worse, because you have a wooden head.” at these last words pinocchio jumped up in a rage, and snatching a wooden hammer from the bench he threw it at the talking-cricket. perhaps he never meant to hit him; but un- fortunately it struck him exactly on the head, so that the poor cricket had scarcely breath to cry cri-cri-cri, and then he remained dried up and flattened against the wall. pinocchio . anything that he could gnaw. but he could find nothing, nothing at all, absolutely nothing. and in the meanwhile his hunger grew and grew; and poor pinocchio had no other relief than yawning, and his yawns were so tremen- dous that sometimes his mouth almost reached his ears. and after he had yawned he splut- tered, and felt as if he was going to faint. then he began to cry desperately, and he said: 'the talking-cricket was right. i did wrong to rebel against my papa and to run away from home.. if my papa was here i should not now be dying of yawning! oh! what a dreadful illness hunger is!” just then he thought he saw something in the dust-heap—something round and white that looked like a hen's egg. to give a spring and seize hold of it was the affair of a moment. it was indeed an egg. pinocchio's joy beats description; it can only be imagined. almost believing it must be a dream he kept turning the egg over in his hands, feeling it and kissing it. and as he kissed it he said: “and now, how shall i cook it? shall i make an omelet? ... no, it would be better to cook it in a saucer!... or would it not be more savoury to fry it in the frying-pan? or shall pinocchio i simply boil it? no, the quickest way of all is to cook it in a saucer: i am in such a hurry to eat it! without loss of time he placed an earthen- ware saucer on a brazier full of red-hot embers. into the saucer instead of oil or butter he poured a little water; and when the water began to smoke, tac! ... he broke the egg-shell over it that the contents might drop in. but instead of the white and the yolk a little chicken popped out very gay and polite. making a beautiful courtesy it said to him: “a thousand thanks, master pinocchio, for saving me the trouble of breaking the shell. adieu until we meet again. keep well, and my best compliments to all at home!” thus saying it spread its wings, darted through the open window, and flying away was lost to sight. the poor puppet stood as if he had been bewitched, with his eyes fixed, his mouth open, and the egg-shell in his hand. recovering, however, from his first stupefaction, he began to cry and scream, and to stamp his feet on the floor in desperation, and amidst his sobs he said: indeed the talking-cricket was right. if i had not run away from home, and if my papa was here, i should not now be dying of pinocchio hunger! oh! what a dreadful illness hunger is!... and as his stomach cried out more than ever and he did not know how to quiet it, he thought he would leave the house and make an excursion in the neighbourhood in hopes of finding some charitable person who would give him a piece of bread. vi pinocchio falls asleep with his feet on the brazier, and wakes in the morning to find them burnt off t was a wild and stormy winter's night. the thunder was tremendous and the lightning so vivid that the sky seemed on fire. a bitter blusterous wind whistled angrily, and raising clouds of dust swept over the coun- try, causing the trees to creak and groan as it passed. pinocchio had a great fear of thunder, but hunger was stronger than fear. he therefore closed the house door and made a rush for the village, which he reached in a hundred bounds, with his tongue hanging out and panting for breath, like a dog after game. but he found it all dark and deserted. the shops were closed, the windows shut, and there was not so much as a dog in the street. it seemed the land of the dead. pinocchio, urged by desperation and hun- ger, laid hold of the bell of a house and began to peal it with all his might, saying to himself: “ that will bring somebody.” and so it did. a little old man appeared at a window with a nightcap on his head, and called to him angrily: pinocchio “what do you want at such an hour? “ would you be kind enough to give me a little bread? “wait there, i will be back directly,” said the little old man, thinking he had to do with one of those rascally boys who amuse themselves at night by ringing the house bells to rouse respectable people who are sleeping quietly. after half a minute the window was again opened, and the voice of the same little old man shouted to pinocchio: come underneath and hold out your cap.” pinocchio pulled off his cap; but just as he held it out an enormous basin of water was poured down on him, watering him from head to foot as if he had been a pot of dried-up geraniums. he returned home like a wet chicken quite exhausted with fatigue and hunger; and hav- ing no longer strength to stand, he sat down and rested his damp and muddy feet on a brazier full of burning embers. and then he fell asleep; and whilst he slept his feet, which were wooden, took fire, and little by little they burnt away and became cinders. pinocchio continued to sleep and to snore as if his feet belonged to some one else. at vii geppetto returns home, and gives the puppet the breakfast that the poor man had brought for himself pº oor pinocchio, whose eyes were still half shut from sleep, had not as yet discov- ered that his feet were burnt off. the moment, therefore, that he heard his father's voice he slipped off his stool to run and open the door; but after stumbling two or three times he fell his whole length on the floor. and the noise he made in falling was as if a sack of wooden ladles had been thrown from a fifth story. “ open the door!” shouted geppetto from the street. “dear papa, i cannot,” answered the pup- pet, crying and rolling about on the ground. why cannot you?” because my feet have been eaten." and who has eaten your feet?” “ the cat,” said pinocchio, seeing the cat, who was amusing herself by making some shav- ings dance with her forepaws. open the door, i tell you!” repeated gep- petto angrily. “if you do not, when i get into the house you shall have the cat from me!” pinocchio . "i cannot stand up, believe me. oh, poor mel poor me! i shall have to walk on my knees for the rest of my life!.. geppetto, believing that all this lamenta- tion was only another of the puppet's tricks, thought of a means of putting an end to it, and climbing up the wall he got in at the window. he was very angry, and at first he did nothing but scold; but when he saw his pinoc- chio lying on the ground and really without feet he was quite overcome. he took him in his arms and began to kiss and caress him and to say a thousand endearing things to him, and as the big tears ran down his cheeks, he said, sobbing: “my little pinocchio! how did you manage to burn your feet?” “i don't know, papa, but believe me it has been an infernal night that i shall remember as long as i live. it thundered and lightened, and i was very hungry, and then the talking- cricket said to me: 'it serves you right; you have been wicked and you deserve it,' and i said to him: 'take care, cricket!' and he said:' you are a puppet and you have a wooden head,' and i threw the handle of a hammer at him, and he died, but the fault was his, for i didn't wish to kill him, and the proof of it is . pinocchio that i put an earthenware saucer on a brazier of burning embers, but a chicken flew out and said: 'adieu until we meet again, and many compliments to all at home ’: and i got still more hungry, for which reason that little old man in a nightcap opening the window said to me: ‘come underneath and hold out your hat,' and poured a basinful of water on my head, because asking for a little bread isn't a disgrace, is it? and i returned home at once, and because i was always very hungry i put my feet on the brazier to dry them, and then you returned, and i found they were burnt off, and i am always hungry, but i have no longer any feet! ih! ih! ih! ih!...” and poor pinocchio began to cry and to roar so loudly that he was heard five miles off. geppetto, who from all this jumbled ac- count had only understood one thing, which was that the puppet was dying of hunger, drew from his pocket three pears, and giving them to him said: “ these three pears were intended for my breakfast; but i will give them to you. eat them, and i hope they will do you good. “ if you wish me to eat them, be kind enough to peel them for me.' peel them?” said geppetto, astonished. “i should never have thought, my boy, that pinocchio you were so dainty and fastidious. that is bad! in this world we should accustom our- selves from childhood to like and to eat every- thing, for there is no saying to what we may be brought. there are so many chances!... “you are no doubt right,” interrupted pinocchio, “but i will never eat fruit that has not been peeled. i cannot bear rind.” so that good geppetto fetched a knife, and arming himself with patience peeled the three pears, and put the rind on a corner of the table. having eaten the first pear in two mouth- fuls, pinocchio was about to throw away the core; but geppetto caught hold of his arm and said to him: “do not throw it away; in this world every- thing may be of use." “but core i am determined i will not eat, shouted the puppet, turning upon him like a viper. “who knows there are so many chances! repeated geppetto without losing his temper. and so the three cores, instead of being thrown out of the window, were placed on the corner of the table together with the three rinds. having eaten, or rather having devoured . pinocchio the three pears, pinocchio yawned tremen- dously, and then said in a fretful tone: “i am as hungry as ever!” but, my boy, i have nothing more to give you!” nothing, really nothing?" i have only the rind and the cores of the three pears." “one must have patience!” said pinocchio; “if there is nothing else i will have to eat a rind.” and he began to chew it. at first he made a wry face; but then one after another he quickly disposed of the rinds: and after the rinds even the cores, and when he had eaten up everything he clapped his hands on his sides in his satisfaction, and said joyfully: ah! now i feel comfortable.' ' you see now,” observed geppetto, “ that i was right when i said to you that it did not do to accustom ourselves to be too particular or too dainty in our tastes. we can never know, my dear boy, what may happen to us. there are so many chances! . . viii geppetto makes pinocchio new feet, and sells his own coat to buy him a spelling- book n > o sooner had the puppet appeased his hunger than he began to cry and to grumble because he wanted a pair of new feet. but geppetto, to punish him for his naugh- tiness, allowed him to cry and to despair for half the day. he then said to him: why should i make you new feet? to enable you to escape again from home?” “i promise you,” said the puppet, sobbing, “ that for the future i will be good. “ all boys,” replied geppetto, “when they are bent upon obtaining something, say the same thing." “i promise you that i will go to school, and that i will study and earn a good char- acter.” “ all boys, when they are bent on obtain- ing something, repeat the same story.” “but i am not like other boys! i am better than all of them and i always speak the truth. i promise you, papa, that i will learn a trade, and that i will be the consolation and the staff of your old age.” pinocchio geppetto, although he put on a severe face, had his eyes full of tears and his heart big with sorrow at seeing his poor pinocchio in such a pitiable state. he did not say another word, but taking his tools and two small pieces of well-seasoned wood he set to work with great diligence. in less than an hour the feet were finished: two little feet-swift, well-knit, and nervous. they might have been modelled by an artist of genius. geppetto then said to the puppet: shut your eyes and go to sleep!” and pinocchio shut his eyes and pretended to be asleep. and whilst he pretended to sleep, gep- petto, with a little glue which he had melted in an egg-shell, fastened his feet in their place, and it was so well done that not even a trace could be seen of where they were joined. no sooner had the puppet discovered that he had feet than he jumped down from the table on which he was lying, and began to spring and to cut a thousand capers about the room, as if he had gone mad with delight. “ to reward you for what you have done for me,” said pinocchio to his father, “i will go to school at once.” “good boy." pinocchio when it is real poverty, is understood by every- body—even by boys. well, patience!” exclaimed geppetto, all at once rising to his feet, and putting on his old fustian coat, all patched and darned, he ran out of the house. he returned shortly, holding in his hand a spelling-book for pinocchio, but the old coat was gone. the poor man was in his shirt sleeves, and out of doors it was snowing. and the coat, papa?' i have sold it." why did you sell it?” “because i found it too hot." pinocchio understood this answer in an instant, and unable to restrain the impulse of his good heart he sprang up, and throwing his arms round geppetto's neck he began kissing him again and again. ix pinocchio sells his spelling-book that he may go and see a puppet-show a s soon as it had done snowing pinocchio set out for school with his fine spelling- book under his arm. as he went along he began to imagine a thousand things in his little brain, and to build a thousand castles in the air, one more beautiful than the other. and talking to himself he said: to-day at school i will learn to read at once; then to-morrow i will begin to write, and the day after to-morrow to cipher. then with my acquirements i will earn a great deal of money, and with the first money i have in my pocket i will immediately buy for my papa a beautiful new cloth coat. but what am i saying? cloth, indeed! it shall be all made of gold and silver, and it shall have diamond buttons. that poor man really deserves it; for to buy me books and have me taught he has remained in his shirt sleeves. ... and in this cold! it is only fathers who are capable of such sacrifices!. whilst he was saying this with great emo- tion he thought that he heard music in the dis- tance that sounded like fifes and the beating of a big drum: fi-fi-fi, fi-fi-fi, zum, zum, zum, . . pinocchio he stopped and listened. the sounds came from the end of a cross street that took to a little village on the seashore. "what can that music be? what a pity that i have to go to school, or else ..." and he remained irresolute. it was, how- ever, necessary to come to a decision. should he go to school? or should he go after the fifes? to-day i will go and hear the fifes, and to-morrow i will go to school,” finally decided the young scapegrace, shrugging his shoulders. the more he ran the nearer came the sounds of the fifes and the beating of the big drum: fi-fi-fi, zum, zum, zum, zum. at last he found himself in the middle of a square quite full of people, who were all crowd- ing round a building made of wood and canvas, and painted a thousand colours. “what is that building?” asked pinocchio, turning to a little boy who belonged to the place. “read the placard—it is all written and then you will know." i would read it willingly, but it so hap- pens that to-day i don't know how to read.” bravo, blockhead! then i will read it to you. the writing on that placard in those letters red as fire is: great puppet theatre “has the play begun long?” pinocchio “it is beginning now. “how much does it cost to go in?” twopence.” pinocchio, who was in a fever of curiosity, lost all control of himself, and without any shame he said to the boy to whom he was talking: “would you lend me twopence until to- morrow?" i would lend them to you willingly,” said the other, taking him off, " but it so happens that to-day i cannot give them to you." “i will sell you my jacket for twopence,” the puppet then said to him. “what do you think that i could do with a jacket of flowered paper? if there was rain and it got wet, it would be impossible to get it off my back.” will you buy my shoes?” they would only be of use to light the fire.” how much will you give me for my cap?” that would be a wonderful acquisition in- deed! a cap of bread crumb! there would be a risk of the mice coming to eat it whilst it was on my head.” pinocchio was on thorns. he was on the point of making another offer, but he had not the courage. he hesitated, felt irresolute and remorseful. at last he said: pinocchio will you give me twopence for this new spelling-book?” “i am a boy and i don't buy from boys, replied his little interlocutor, who had much more sense than he had. “i will buy the spelling-book for two- pence,” called out a hawker of old clothes, who had been listening to the conversation. and the book was sold there and then. and to think that poor geppetto had remained at home trembling with cold in his shirt sleeves, that he might buy his son a spelling-book! pinocchio “ it is indeed himself !” screamed miss rose, peeping from behind the scenes. “it is pinocchio! it is pinocchio!" shouted all the puppets in chorus, leaping from all sides on to the stage. “ it is pinocchio! it is our brother pinocchio! long live pinocchio!..." “pinocchio, come up here to me,” cried harlequin," and throw yourself into the arms of your wooden brothers!” at this affectionate invitation pinocchio made a leap from the end of the pit into the reserved seats; another leap landed him on the head of the leader of the orchestra, and he then sprang upon the stage. the embraces, the hugs, the friendly pinches, and the demonstrations of warm broth- erly affection that pinocchio received from the excited crowd of actors and actresses of the puppet dramatic company beat description. the sight was doubtless a moving one, but the public in the pit, finding that the play was stopped, became impatient, and began to shout: we will have the play-go on with the play!' it was all breath thrown away. the pup- pets, instead of continuing the recital, re- doubled their noise and outcries, and putting pinocchio on their shoulders they carried him in triumph before the footlights. at that moment out came the showman. pinocchio he was very big, and so ugly that the sight of him was enough to frighten anyone. his beard was as black as ink, and so long that it reached from his chin to the ground. i need only say that he trod upon it when he walked. his mouth was as big as an oven, and his eyes were like two lanterns of red glass with lights burning inside them. he carried a large whip made of snakes and foxes' tails twisted to- gether, which he cracked constantly. at his unexpected appearance there was a profound silence: no one dared to breathe. a fly might have been heard in the stillness. the poor puppets of both sexes trembled like so many leaves. why have you come to raise a disturbance in my theatre?” asked the showman of pinoc- chio, in the gruff voice of a hob-goblin suffering from a severe cold in the head. “believe me, sir, it was not my fault!..." “that is enough! to-night we will settle our accounts." as soon as the play was over the showman went into the kitchen where a fine sheep, pre- paring for his supper, was turning slowly on the spit in front of the fire. as there was not enough wood to finish roasting and browning it, he called harlequin and punchinello, and said to them: pinocchio “bring that puppet here: you will find him hanging on a nail. it seems to me that he is made of very dry wood, and i am sure that if he was thrown on the fire he would make a beautiful blaze for the roast." at first harlequin and punchinello hesi- tated; but, appalled by a severe glance from their master, they obeyed. in a short time they returned to the kitchen carrying poor pinoc- chio, who was wriggling like an eеl taken out of water, and screaming desperately: “papa! papa! save me! i will not die, i will not die!...” xi t fire-eater sneezes and pardons pinocchio, who then saves the life of his friend harlequin \he showman fire-eater—for that was his name-looked, i must say, a ter- rible man, especially with his black beard that covered his chest and legs like an apron. on the whole, however, he had not a bad heart. in proof of this, when he saw poor pinocchio brought before him, struggling and screaming “i will not die, i will not die!” he was quite moved and felt very sorry for him. he tried to hold out, but after a little he could stand it no longer and he sneezed violently. when he heard the sneeze, harlequin, who up to that moment had been in the deepest afflic- tion, and bowed down like a weeping willow, became quite cheerful, and leaning towards pinocchio he whispered to him softly: “good news, brother. the showman has sneezed, and that is a sign that he pities you, and consequently you are saved.” for you must know that whilst most men, when they feel compassion for somebody, either weep or at least pretend to dry their eyes, fire- eater, on the contrary, whenever he was really overcome, had the habit of sneezing.' pinocchio after he had sneezed, the showman, still acting the ruffian, shouted to pinocchio: “have done crying! your lamentations have given me a pain in my stomach.... i feel a spasm, that almost ... etcil etci!” and he sneezed again twice. bless you!” said pinocchio. “ thank you! and your papa and your mamma, are they still alive?” asked fire-eater. papa, yes; my mamma i have never known.' “who can say what a sorrow it would be for your poor old father if i was to have you thrown amongst those burning coals! poor old man! i compassionate him!... etcil etci! etcil” and he sneezed again three times. “ bless you!” said pinocchio. “ thank you! all the same, some compas- sion is due to me, for as you see i have no more wood with which to finish roasting my mutton, and to tell you the truth, under the circum- stances you would have been of great use to me! however, i have had pity on you, so i must have patience. instead of you i will burn under the spit one of the puppets belong- ing to my company. ho there, gendarmes!” at this call two wooden gendarmes imme- diately appeared. they were very long and pinocchio very thin, and had on cocked hats, and held unsheathed swords in their hands. the showman said to them in a hoarse voice: “ take harlequin, bind him securely, and then throw him on the fire to burn. i am de- termined that my mutton shall be well roasted.” only imagine that poor harlequin! his terror was so great that his legs bent under him, and he fell with his face on the ground. at this agonising sight pinocchio, weeping bitterly, threw himself at the showman's feet, and bathing his long beard with his tears he began to say in a supplicating voice: have pity, sir fire-eater!...' “here there are no sirs,” the showman answered severely. “have pity, sir knight! . “here there are no knights!” have pity, commander!.. here there are no commanders!” " have pity, excellence! ..." upon hearing himself called excellence the showman began to smile, and became at once kinder and more tractable. turning to pinoc- chio he asked: “well, what do you want from me?” “i implore you to pardon poor harlequin.” “for him there can be no pardon. as i have spared you he must be put on the fire, for pinocchio i am determined that my mutton shall be well roasted." in that case,” cried pinocchio proudly, rising and throwing away his cap of bread crumb—“in that case i know my duty. come on, gendarmes! bind me and throw me amongst the flames. it is not just that poor harlequin, my friend, should die for me!..." these words, pronounced in a loud heroic voice, made all the puppets who were present cry. even the gendarmes, although they were made of wood, wept like two newly-born lambs. fire-eater at first remained as hard and unmoved as ice, but little by little he began to melt and to sneeze. and having sneezed four or five times, he opened his arms affectionately, and said to pinocchio: 'you are a good, brave boy! come here and give me a kiss.” pinocchio ran at once, and climbing like a squirrel up the showman's beard he deposited a hearty kiss on the point of his nose. “ then the pardon is granted?” asked poor harlequin in a faint voice that was scarcely audible. “ the pardon is granted!” answered fire- eater; he then added, sighing and shaking his head: xii the showman, fire-eater, makes pinocchio a present of five gold pieces to take home to his father, geppetto; but pinocchio instead allows himself to be taken in by the fox and the cat, and goes with them t the following day fire-eater called pinocchio on one side and asked him: “ what is your father's name?” “geppetto.” “ and what trade does he follow? “he is a beggar.” “does he gain much?” “gain much? why, he has never a penny in his pocket. only think, to buy a spelling- book for me to go to school he was obliged to sell the only coat he had to wear-a coat that, between patches and darns, was not fit to be seen. * poor devil! i feel almost sorry for him! here are five gold pieces. go at once and take them to him with my compliments." you can easily understand that pinocchio thanked the showman a thousand times. he embraced all the puppets of the company one by one, even to the gendarmes, and beside him- self with delight set out to return home. > pinocchio >> it, you can see that these here are five gold pieces.” and he pulled out the money that fire- eater had made him a present of. at the sympathetic ring of the money the fox, with an involuntary movement, stretched out the paw that had seemed crippled, and the cat opened wide two eyes that looked like two green lanterns. it is true that she shut them again, and so quickly that pinocchio observed nothing. and now," asked the fox,“ what are you going to do with all that money?" first of all,” answered the puppet, “i intend to buy a new coat for my papa, made of gold and silver, and with diamond buttons; and then i will buy a spelling-book for myself.” “for yourself?” “ yes indeed: for i wish to go to school to study in earnest. “look at mel” said the fox. through my foolish passion for study i have lost a leg.” “look at me!” said the cat. “ through my foolish passion for study i have lost the sight of both my eyes. at that moment a white blackbird, that was perched on the hedge by the road, began his usual song, and said: pinocchio “pinocchio, don't listen to the advice of bad companions: if you do you will repent it!.. poor blackbird! if only he had not spoken! the cat, with a great leap, sprang upon him, and without even giving him time to say oh! ate him in a mouthful, feathers and all. having eaten him and cleaned her mouth she shut her eyes again and feigned blindness as before. “ poor blackbird!” said pinocchio to the cat, “ why did you treat him so badly? ” “i did it to give him a lesson. he will learn another time not to meddle in other people's conversation.” they had gone almost half-way when the fox, halting suddenly, said to the puppet: “would you like to double like to double your money? ' “in what way?” “would you like to make out of your five miserable sovereigns, a hundred, a thousand, two thousand?" ' i should think so! but in what way? “ the way is easy enough. instead of re- turning home you must go with us.” “and where do you wish to take me?” “to the land of the owls." pinocchio reflected a moment, and then he said resolutely: pinocchio the field of miracles. in this field you must dig a little hole, and you put into it, we will say, one gold sovereign. you then cover up the hole with a little earth: you must water it with two pails of water from the fountain, then sprinkle it with two pinches of salt, and when night comes you can go quietly to bed. in the meanwhile, during the night, the gold piece will grow and flower, and in the morning when you get up and return to the field, what do you find? you find a beautiful tree laden with as many gold sovereigns as a fine ear of corn has grains in the month of june." “so that,” said pinocchio, more and more bewildered, supposing i buried my five sovereigns in that field, how many should i find there the following morning? “ that is an exceedingly easy calculation,” replied the fox, “a calculation that you can make on the ends of your fingers. put that every sovereign gives you an increase of five hundred: multiply five hundred by five, and the following morning will find you with two thousand five hundred shining gold pieces in your pocket.” oh! how delightfull” cried pinocchio, dancing for joy. as soon as ever i have obtained those sovereigns, i will keep two the one who ate the least was pinocchio ܗܝ ܀ ܘܢܗ pinocchio frogs, lizards, and other delicacies; he could not touch anything else. he had such a dis- gust to food, he said, that he could put nothing to his lips. the one who ate the least was pinocchio. he asked for some walnuts and a hunch of bread, and left everything on his plate. the poor boy, whose thoughts were continually fixed on the field of miracles, had got in antici- pation an indigestion of gold pieces. when they had supped, the fox said to the host: “give us two good rooms, one for mr. pinocchio, and the other for me and my com- panion. we will snatch a little sleep before we leave. remember that at midnight we wish to be called to continue our journey." “yes, gentlemen,” answered the host, and he winked at the fox and the cat, as much as to say: “i know what you are up to. understand one another! no sooner had pinocchio got into bed than he fell asleep at once and began to dream. and he dreamt that he was in the middle of a field, and the field was full of shrubs covered with clusters of gold sovereigns, and as they swung in the wind they went zin, zin, zin, almost as if they would say: “let who will, come and take us.” but when pinocchio was at the most pinocchio interesting moment, that is, just as he was stretching out his hand to pick handfuls of those beautiful gold pieces and to put them in his pocket, he was suddenly wakened by three violent blows on the door of his room. it was the host who had come to tell him that midnight had struck. “ are my companions ready?” asked the puppet. ready! why, they left two hours ago.” why were they in such a hurry?” “ because the cat had received a message to say that her eldest kitten was ill with chil- blains on his feet, and was in danger of death.” “did they pay for the supper?” “what are you thinking of? they are much too well educated to dream of offering such an insult to a gentleman like you." “what a pity! it is an insult that would have given me so much pleasure!” said pinoc- chio, scratching his head. he then asked: and where did my good friends say they would wait for me?" “at the field of miracles, to-morrow morning at daybreak.' pinocchio paid a sovereign for his supper and that of his companions, and then left. outside the inn it was so pitch dark that he had almost to grope his way, for it was im- pinocchio either mad or rogues! give ear to me, and go back.” on the contrary, i'm determined to go on.” the hour is late!..." “i am determined to go on." “the night is dark!...” “i am determined to go on.” “ the road is dangerous! “i am determined to go on.” “remember that boys who are bent on following their caprices, and will have their own way, sooner or later repent it.” always the same stories. good-night, cricket." good-night, pinocchio, and may heaven preserve you from dangers and from assassins." no sooner had he said these words than the talking-cricket vanished suddenly like a light that has been blown out, and the road became darker than ever. xiv pinocchio, because he would not heed the good counsels of the talking-cricket, falls amongst assassins “r eally,” said the puppet to himself as he resumed his journey, “ how un- fortunate we poor boys are. every- body scolds us, everybody admonishes us, everybody gives us good advice. to let them talk, they would all take it into their heads to be our fathers and our masters-all: even the talking-cricket. see now; because i don't choose to listen to that tiresome cricket, who knows, according to him, how many misfor- tunes are to happen to me! i am even to meet with assassins! that is, however, of little con- sequence, for i don't believe in assassins-i have never believed in them. for me, i think that assassins have been invented purposely by papas to frighten boys who want to go out at night. besides, supposing i was to come across them here in the road, do you imagine they would frighten me? not the least in the world. i should go to meet them and cry: gentlemen assassins, what do you want with me? remem- ber that with me there is no joking. there- fore your business and be quiet!' at this speech, said in a determined tone, those go about pinocchio poor assassins-i think i see them—would run away like the wind. if, however, they were so badly educated as not to run away, why, then, i would run away myself, and there would be an end of it.... but pinocchio had not time to finish his reasoning, for at that moment he thought that he heard a slight rustle of leaves behind him. he turned to look, and saw in the gloom two evil-looking black figures completely en- veloped in charcoal sacks. they were running after him on tiptoe, and making great leaps like two phantoms. “here they are in reality!” he said to him- self, and not knowing where to hide his gold pieces he put them in his mouth precisely under his tongue. then he tried to escape. but he had not gone a step when he felt himself seized by the arm, and heard two horrid sepulchral voices saying to him: * your money or your life!' pinocchio, not being able to answer in words, owing to the money that was in his mouth, made a thousand low bows and a thou- sand pantomimes. he tried thus to make the two muffled figures, whose eyes were only visible through the holes in their sacks, understand pinocchio pinocchio's mouth seemed to be nailed and riveted together. then the shorter assassin drew out an ugly knife and tried to force it between his lips like a lever or chisel. but pinocchio, as quick as lightning, caught his hand with his teeth, and with one bite bit it clean off and spat it out. imagine his astonishment when instead of a hand he perceived that he had spat a cat's paw on to the ground. encouraged by this first victory he used his nails to such purpose that he succeeded in lib- erating himself from his assailants, and jump- ing the hedge by the roadside he began to fly across country. the assassins ran after him like two dogs chasing a hare: and the one who had lost a paw ran on one leg, and no one ever knew how he managed it. after a race of some miles pinocchio could do no more. giving himself up for lost he climbed the stem of a very high pine tree and seated himself in the topmost branches. the assassins attempted to climb after him, but when they had reached half-way up the stem they slid down again, and arrived on the ground with the skin grazed from their hands and knees. but they were not to be beaten by so little: collecting a quantity of dry wood they piled it beneath the pine and set fire to it. in less time pinocchio than it takes to tell the pine began to burn and to flame like a candle blown by the wind. pin- occhio, seeing that the flames were mounting higher every instant, and not wishing to end his life like a roasted pigeon, made a stupendous leap from the top of the tree and started afresh across the fields and vineyards. the assassins followed him, and kept behind him without once giving in. the day began to break and they were still pursuing him. suddenly pinocchio found his way barred by a wide deep ditch full of dirty water the colour of coffee. what was he to do? “onel two! three!” cried the puppet, and making a rush he sprang to the other side. the assassins also jumped, but not having measured the distance properly-splash, splash!.... they fell into the very middle of the ditch. pinoc- chio, who heard the plunge and the splashing of the water, shouted out, laughing, and with- out stopping: a fine bath to you, gentleman assassins.” and he felt convinced that they were drowned, when, turning to look, he perceived that on the contrary they were both running after him, still enveloped in their sacks, with the water dripping from them as if they had been two hollow baskets. xv the assassins pursue pinocchio; and having overtaken him hang him to a branch of the big oak a t this sight the puppet's courage failed him, and he was on the point of throw- ing himself on the ground and giving himself over for lost. turning, however, his eyes in every direction, he saw at some distance, standing out amidst the dark green of the trees, a small house as white as snow. if i had only breath to reach that house," he said to himself,“ perhaps i should be saved.” and without delaying an instant, he recom- menced running for his life through the wood, and the assassins after him. at last, after a desperate race of nearly two hours, he arrived quite breathless at the door of the house, and knocked. no one answered. he knocked again with great violence, for he heard the sound of steps approaching him, and the heavy panting of his persecutors. the same silence. seeing that knocking was useless he began in desperation to kick and pommel the door with all his might. the window then opened and a beautiful child appeared at it. she had pinocchio blue hair and a face as white as a waxen image; her eyes were closed and her hands were crossed on her breast. without moving her lips in the least, she said in a voice that seemed to come from the other world: “ in this house there is no one. they are all dead.” “ then at least open the door for me your- self,” shouted pinocchio, crying and imploring. “i am dead also.” “ then what are you doing at the window?” i am waiting for the bier to come to carry me away. having said this she disappeared, and the window was closed without the slightest noise. “oh! beautiful child with blue hair,” cried pinocchio," open the door for pity's sake! have compassion on a poor boy pursued by assas... but he could not finish the word, for he felt himself seized by the collar, and the same two horrible voices said to him threateningly: “you shall not escape from us again!” the puppet, seeing death staring him in the face, was taken with such a violent fit of trembling that the joints of his wooden legs began to creak, and the sovereigns hidden under his tongue to clink. pinocchio in the meantime a tempestuous northerly wind began to blow and roar angrily and it beat the poor puppet as he hung, from side to side, making him swing violently like the clatter of a bell ringing for a wedding. and the swing- ing gave him atrocious spasms, and the run- ning noose, becoming still tighter round his throat, took away his breath. little by little his eyes began to grow dim, but although he felt that death was near he still continued to hope that some charitable person would come to his assistance before it was too late. but when, after waiting and wait- ing, he found that no one came, absolutely no one, then he remembered his poor father, and thinking he was dying ... he stammered out: “oh, papa! papa! if only you were here!” his breath failed him and he could say no he shut his eyes, opened his mouth, stretched his legs, gave a long shudder, and hung stiff and insensible. more. xvi the beautiful child with blue hair has the puppet taken down: has him put to bed and calls in three doctors to know if he is alive or dead w! hilst poor pinocchio, suspended to a branch of the big oak, was ap- parently more dead than alive, the beautiful child with blue hair came again to the window. when she saw the unhappy pup- pet hanging by his throat, and dancing up and down in the gusts of the north wind, she was moved by compassion. striking her hands to- gether she made three little claps. at this signal there came a sound of the sweep of wings flying rapidly, and a large falcon flew on to the window-sill. “what are your orders, gracious fairy?” he asked, inclining his beak in sign of rever- encefor i must tell you that the child with blue hair was no more and no less than a beau- tiful fairy, who for more than a thousand years had lived in the wood. “do you see that puppet dangling from a branch of the big oak?” “i see him.” very well. fly there at once: with your strong beak break the knot that keeps him sus- pinocchio pended in the air, and lay him gently on the grass at the foot of the tree.” the falcon flew away, and after two minutes he returned, saying: “i have done as you commanded.” and how did you find him?” “to see him he appeared dead, but he can- not really be quite dead, for i had no sooner loosened the running noose that tightened his throat than, giving a sigh, he muttered in a faint voice: ‘now i feel better! . the fairy then striking her hands together made two little claps, and a magnificent poodle appeared, walking upright on his hind-legs ex- actly as if he had been a man. he was in the full-dress livery of a coach- man. on his head he had a three-cornered cap braided with gold, his curly white wig came down on to his shoulders, he had a chocolate- colored waistcoat with diamond buttons, and two large pockets to contain the bones that his mistress gave him at dinner. he had besides a pair of short crimson velvet breeches, silk stockings, cut-down shoes, and hanging behind him a species of umbrella-case made of blue satin, to put his tail into when the weather was rainy. “ be quick, medoro, like a good dog!” said the fairy to the poodle. “have the most beau- pinocchio with a fit of convulsive trembling that shook the whole bed. “that puppet there,” continued the talk- ing-cricket, “is a confirmed rogue... pinocchio opened his eyes, but shut them again immediately. he is a ragamuffin, a do-nothing, a vaga- bond. ..." pinocchio hid his face beneath the clothes. that puppet there is a disobedient son who will make his poor father die of a broken heart! ..." at that instant a suffocated sound of sobs and crying was heard in the room. imagine everybody's astonishment when, having raised the sheets a little, it was discovered that the sounds came from pinocchio. “when the dead person cries, it is a sign that he is on the road to get well,” said the crow solemnly. “i grieve to contradict my illustrious friend and colleague,” added the owl; “ but for me, when the dead person cries, it is a sign that he is sorry to die.” xvii pinocchio eats the sugar, but will not take his medicine: when, however, he sees the grave-diggers, who have arrived to carry him away, he takes it. he then tells a lie, and as a punishment his nose grows longer a s soon as the three doctors had left the room the fairy approached pinocchio, and having touched his forehead she perceived that he was in a high fever that was not to be trifled with. she therefore dissolved a certain white powder in half a tumbler of water, and offering it to the puppet she said to him lovingly: “ drink it, and in a few days you will be cured.” pinocchio looked at the tumbler, made a wry face, and then asked in a plaintive voice: “is it sweet or bitter?” “ it is bitter, but it will do you good.” “if it is bitter, i will not take it." listen to me: drink it.” “i don't like anything bitter.” “ drink it, and when you have drunk it i will give you a lump of sugar to take away the taste.” “where is the lump of sugar?” pinocchio “i cannot drink it so!” said the puppet, making a thousand grimaces. why?” “because that pillow that is down there on my feet bothers me.' the fairy removed the pillow. “ it is useless. even so i can't drink it...." “ what is the matter now?” “ the door of the room, which is half open, bothers me.” the fairy went and closed the door. “in short,” cried pinocchio, bursting into tears, “i will not drink that bitter water—no, no, no!...” “my boy, you will repent it. ..." “i don't care.. “ your illness is serious. ." “i don't care. ... “ the fever in a few hours will carry you into the other world. ... “i don't care... “are you not afraid of death?” “i am not in the least afraid!... i would rather die than drink that bitter medicine." at that moment the door of the room flew open, and four rabbits as black as ink entered carrying on their shoulders a little bier. what do you want with me? cried pinocchio, sitting up in bed in a great fright. pinocchio we are come to take you,” said the big- gest rabbit. to take me?... but i'm not yet dead!... “no, not yet: but you have only a few minutes to live, as you have refused the medi- cine that would have cured you of the fever.” oh, fairy, fairy!” the puppet then be- gan to scream, give me the tumbler at once ... be quick, for pity's sake, for i will not die- no... i will not die....” and taking the tumbler in both hands he emptied it at a draught. we must have patience!” said the rab- bits; “ this time we have made our journey in vain.” and taking the little bier again on their shoulders they left the room, grumbling and murmuring between their teeth. in fact, a few minutes afterwards pinocchio jumped down from the bed quite well: because you must know that wooden puppets have the privilege of being seldom ill and of being cured very quickly. the fairy, seeing him running and rushing about the room as gay and as lively as a young cock, said to him: “ then my medicine has really done you good?” good, i should think so! it has restored me to life!... pinocchio “ then why on earth did you require so much persuasion to take it?” because you see that we boys are all like that! we are more afraid of medicine than of the illness.” “disgraceful! boys ought to know that a good remedy taken in time may save them from serious illness, and perhaps from death. ..." “oh! but another time i shall not require so much persuasion. i shall remember those black rabbits with the bier on their shoulders and then i shall immediately take the tumbler in my hand, and down it will go!...” now come here to me, and tell me how you fell into the hands of those assassins." “it came about that the showman fire- eater gave me some gold pieces and said to me: 'go, and take them to your father!' and in- stead i met on the road a fox and a cat, two very respectable persons, who said to me: 'would you like those pieces of gold to become a thousand or two? come with us and we will take you to the field of miracles,' and i said: 'let us go.' and they said: 'let us stop at the inn of the red craw-fish,' and after mid- night they left. and when i awoke i found that they were no longer there, because they had gone away. then i began to travel by night, for you cannot imagine how dark it was; pinocchio and on that account i met on the road two assassins in charcoal sacks who said to me: ‘out with your money,' and i said to them: 'i have got none,' because i had hidden the four gold pieces in my mouth, and one of the assassins tried to put his hand in my mouth, and i bit his hand off and spat it out, but in- stead of a hand i spat out a cat’s paw. and the assassins ran after me, and i ran, and ran, until at last they caught me, and tied me by the neck to a tree in this wood, and said to me: * to-morrow we shall return here, and then you will be dead with your mouth open, and we shall be able to carry off the pieces of gold that you have hidden under your tongue.'' and the four pieces—where have you put them?” asked the fairy. “i have lost them!” said pinocchio; but he was telling a lie, for they were in his pocket. he had scarcely told the lie when his nose, which was already long, grew at once two fingers longer. “and where did you lose them?” in the wood near here.” at this second lie his nose went on growing. “if you have lost them in the wood near here,” said the fairy, we will look for them, and we shall find them: because everything that is lost in that wood is always found.” xviii pinocchio meets again the fox and the cat, and goes with them to bury his money in the field of miracles t \he fairy, as you can imagine, allowed the puppet to cry and to roar for a good half-hour over his nose, which could no longer pass through the door of the room. this she did to glve him a severe lesson, and to cor- rect him of the disgraceful fault of telling lies— the most disgraceful fault that a boy can have. but when she saw him quite disfigured, and his eyes swollen out of his head from weeping, she felt full of compassion for him. she there- fore beat her hands together, and at that signal a thousand large birds called woodpeckers flew in at the window. they immediately perched on pinocchio's nose, and began to peck at it with such zeal that in a few minutes his enormous and ridiculous nose was reduced to its usual dimensions. “what a good fairy you are," said the puppet, drying his eyes, “ and how much i love you!” “i love you also,” answered the fairy; “and if you will remain with me, you shall be my little brother and i will be your good little sister.... pinocchio “i would remain willingly ... but my poor papa?” “i have thought of everything. i have already let your father know, and he will be here to-night.” really?” shouted pinocchio, jumping for joy. “then, little fairy, if you consent, i should like to go and meet him. i am so anxious to give a kiss to that poor old man, who has suffered so much on my account, that i am counting the minutes." go, then, but be careful not to lose your- self. take the road through the wood and i am sure that you will meet him." pinocchio set out; and as soon as he was in the wood he began to run like a kid. but when he had reached a certain spot, almost in front of the big oak, he stopped, because he thought that he heard people amongst the bushes. in fact, two persons came out on to the road. can you guess who they were? ... his two travelling companions, the fox and the cat, with whom he had supped at the inn of the red craw-fish. " why, here is our dear pinocchio!” cried the fox, kissing and embracing him. “how come you to be here?” “how come you to be here?” repeated the cat. pinocchio oh, poor “ it is a long story," answered the puppet, which i will tell you when i have time. but do you know that the other night, when you left me alone at the inn, i met with assassins on the road. ..." assassins!... pinocchio! and what did they want?” they wanted to rob me of my gold pieces." “ villains!..." said the fox. “ infamous villains!” repeated the cat. “but i ran away from them,” continued the puppet, “and they followed me: and at last they overtook me and hung me to a branch of that oak-tree. and pinocchio pointed to the big oak, which was two steps from them. “is it possible to hear of anything more dreadful?” said the fox. “in what a world we are condemned to live! where can respect- able people like us find a safe refuge?” whilst they were thus talking pinocchio observed that the cat was lame of her front right leg, for in fact she had lost her paw with all its claws. he therefore asked her: “what have you done with your paw?” the cat tried to answer but became con- fused. therefore the fox said immediately: my friend is too modest, and that is why she doesn't speak. i will answer for her. i pinocchio must tell you that an hour ago we met an old wolf on the road, almost fainting from want of food, who asked alms of us. not having so much as a fish-bone to give him, what did my friend, who has really the heart of a cæsar, do? she bit off one of her fore paws, and threw it to that poor beast that he might ap- pease his hunger.” and the fox, in relating this, dried a tear. · pinocchio was also touched, and approach- ing the cat he whispered into her ear: if all cats resembled you, how fortunate the mice would be!” “and now, what are you doing here?” asked the fox of the puppet. “i am waiting for my papa, whom i expect to arrive every moment." and your gold pieces?” “i have got them in my pocket, all but one that i spent at the inn of the red craw-fish.” and to think that, instead of four pieces, by to-morrow they might become one or two thousand! why do you not listen to my ad- vice? why will you not go and bury them in the field of miracles?” “to-day it is impossible: i will go another day.” “ another day it will be too late!...” said the fox. pinocchio “why?” “ because the field has been bought by a gentleman, and after to-morrow no one will be allowed to bury money there.” “how far off is the field of miracles?” “not two miles. will you come with us? in half an hour you will be there. you can bury your money at once, and in a few minutes you will collect two thousand, and this evening you will return with your pockets full. will you come with us?" pinocchio thought of the good fairy, old geppetto, and the warnings of the talking- cricket, and he hesitated a little before answer- ing. he ended, however, by doing as all boys do who have not a grain of sense and who have no heart—he ended by giving his head a little shake, and saying to the fox and the cat: “let us go: i will come with you. .” and they went. after having walked half the day they reached a town that was called “ trap for block- heads.' as soon as pinocchio entered this town, he saw that the streets were crowded with dogs who had lost their coats and who were yawning from hunger, shorn sheep trembling with cold, cocks without combs or crests who were begging for a grain of indian corn, large butterflies who could no longer fly because they pinocchio had sold their beautiful coloured wings, pea- cocks who had no tails and were ashamed to be seen, and pheasants who went scratching about in a subdued fashion, mourning for their brilliant gold and silver feathers gone for ever. in the midst of this crowd of beggars and shamefaced creatures, some lordly carriage passed from time to time containing a fox, or a magpie, or some other ravenous bird of prey. “and where is the field of miracles?” asked pinocchio. it is here, not two steps from us.' they crossed the town, and having gone beyond the walls they came to a solitary field which to look at resembled all other fields. 'we are arrived,” said the fox to the pup- pet. “now stoop down and dig a little hole in the ground and put your gold pieces into it.” pinocchio obeyed. he dug a hole, put into it the four gold pieces that he had left, and then filled up the hole with a little earth. now, then,” said the fox, “ go to that canal close to us, fetch a can of water, and water the ground where you have sowed them.' pinocchio went to the canal, and as he had no can he took off one of his old shoes, and filling it with water he watered the ground over the hole. he then asked : sic pinocchio “is there anything else to be done?” nothing else," answered the fox. we can now go away. you can return in about twenty minutes, and you will find a shrub already pushing through the ground, with its branches quite loaded with money.” the poor puppet, beside himself with joy, thanked the fox and the cat a thousand times, and promised them a beautiful present. “we wish for no presents,” answered the two rascals. “it is enough for us to have taught you the way to enrich yourself without undergoing hard work, and we are as happy as folk out for a holiday.' thus saying they left pinocchio, and, wishing him a good harvest, went about their business. xix pinocchio is robbed of his money, and as a punishment he is sent to prison for four months t: \he puppet returned to the town and began to count the minutes one by one; and when he thought that it must be time he took the road leading to the field of miracles. and as he walked along with hurried steps his heart beat fast tic, tac, tic, tac, like a draw- ing-room clock when it is really going well. meanwhile he was thinking to himself: “ and if instead of a thousand gold pieces, i was to find on the branches of the tree two thousand?... and instead of two thousand supposing i found five thousand? and instead of five thousand that i found a hundred thou- sand? oh! what a fine gentleman i should then become!... i would have a beautiful palace, a thousand little wooden horses and a thousand stables to amuse myself with, a cellar full of currant-wine and sweet syrups, and a library quite full of candies, tarts, plum-cakes, maca- roons, and biscuits with cream.' whilst he was building these castles in the air he had arrived in the neighbourhood of the field, and he stopped to look if by chance he pinocchio could perceive a tree with its branches laden with money: but he saw nothing. he advanced another hundred steps—nothing: he entered the field ... he went right up to the little hole where he had buried his sovereigns—and noth- ing. he then became very thoughtful, and for- getting the rules of society and good manners he took his hands out of his pockets and gave his head a long scratch. at that moment he heard an explosion of laughter close to him, and looking up he saw a large parrot perched on a tree, who was prun- ing the few feathers he had left. “why are you laughing?” asked pinoc- chio in an angry voice. “i am laughing because in pruning my feathers i tickled myself under my wings.” the puppet did not answer, but went to the canal and, filling the same old shoe full of water, he proceeded to water the earth afresh that covered his gold pieces. whilst he was thus occupied another laugh, and still more impertinent than the first, rang out in the silence of that solitary place. once for all,” shouted pinocchio in a rage, may i know, you ill-educated parrot, what you are laughing at?” “i am laughing at those simpletons who believe in all the foolish things that are told pinocchio the gendarmes, to avoid losing time, stopped up his mouth, and carried him off to the lock-up. and there he remained for four months - four long months—and he would have remained longer still if a fortunate chance had not re- leased him. for i must tell you that the young emperor who reigned over the town of “ trap for blockheads,” having won a splendid victory over his enemies, ordered great public rejoic-. ings. there were illuminations, fire-works, horse races, and velocipede races, and as a further sign of triumph he commanded that the prisons should be opened and all the pris- oners liberated. “if the others are to be let out of prison, i will go also,” said pinocchio to the jailor. no, not you,” said the jailor, “because you do not belong to the fortunate class.” “i beg your pardon,” replied pinocchio, “i am also a criminal." “ in that case you are perfectly right,” said the jailor; and taking off his hat and bowing to him respectfully he opened the prison doors and let him escape. xx liberated from prison, he starts to return to the fairy's house; but on the road he meets with a horrible serpent, and afterwards he is caught in a trap yo cou can imagine pinocchio's joy when he found himself free. without stopping to take breath he immediately left the town and took the road that led to the fairy's house. on account of the rainy weather the road had become a marsh into which he sank knee-deep. but the puppet would not give in. tormented .by the desire of seeing his father and his little sister with blue hair again he ran and leapt like a greyhound, and as he ran he was splashed with mud from head to foot. and he said to him- self as he went along:“how many misfortunes have happened to me. and i deserved them! for i am an obstinate, passionate puppet. · i am always bent upon having my own way, without listening to those who wish me well, and who have a thousand times more sense than i have!... but from this time forth i am determined to change and to become or- derly and obedient. for at last i have seen that disobedient boys come to no good and gain nothing. and will my papa have waited . pinocchio approached to within a few steps, and said to the serpent in a little, soft, insinuating voice: “excuse me, sir serpent, but would you be so good as to move a little to one side, just enough to allow me to pass?' he might as well have spoken to the wall. nobody moved. he began again in the same soft voice: ' you must know, sir serpent, that i am on my way home, where my father is waiting for me, and it is such a long time since i saw him last!... will you therefore allow me to pass?" he waited for a sign in answer to this re- quest, but there was none: in fact, the serpent, who up to that moment had been sprightly and full of life, became motionless and almost rigid. he shut his eyes and his tail ceased smoking. “can he really be dead?” said pinocchio, rubbing his hands with delight; and he de- termined to jump over him and reach the other side of the road. but just as he was going to leap the serpent raised himself suddenly on end, like a spring set in motion; and the pup- pet, drawing back, in his terror caught his feet and fell to the ground. and he fell so awkwardly that his head stuck in the mud and his legs went into the air. at the sight of the puppet kicking violently with his head in the mud the serpent went into xxi pinocchio is taken by a peasant, who obliges him to fill the place of his watch-dog in the poultry-yard pi inocchio, as you can imagine, began to cry and scream: but his tears and groans were useless, for there was not a house to be seen, and not a living soul passed down the road. at last night came on. partly from the pain of the trap that cut his legs, and a little from fear at finding him- self alone in the dark in the midst of the fields, the puppet was on the point of fainting. just at that moment he saw a firefly flitting over his head. he called to it and said: “oh, little firefly, will you have pity on me and liberate me from this torture?” “poor boy!” said the firefly, stopping and looking at him with compassion, “but how could your legs have been caught by those sharp irons ?” “i came into the field to pick two bunches of these muscatel grapes, and ..." “but were the grapes yours?” “no...." “ then who taught you to carry off other people's property?” pinocchio >> i was so hungry.... “hunger, my boy, is not a good reason for appropriating what does not belong to us. ... that is true, that is true!” said pinocchio, crying. “i will never do it again.” at this moment their conversation was in- terrupted by a slight sound of approaching footsteps. it was the owner of the field coming on tiptoe to see if one of the polecats that ate his chickens during the night had been caught in his trap. his astonishment was great when, having brought out his lantern from under his coat, he perceived that instead of a polecat a boy had been taken. ah, little thief !” said the angry peasant, “then it is you who carry off my chickens?" “no, it is not i; indeed it is not!” cried pinocchio, sobbing. “i only came into the field to take two bunches of grapes!... “he who steals grapes is quite capable of stealing chickens. leave it to me, i will give you a lesson that you will not forget in a hurry.” opening the trap he seized the puppet by the collar, and carried him to his house as if he had been a young lamb. when he reached the yard in front of the house he threw him roughly on the ground, and putting his foot on his neck he said to him: xxii inocchio discovers the robbers, and as a reward for his fidelity is set at liberty h eggs and e had been sleeping heavily for about two hours when, towards midnight, he was roused by a whispering of strange voices that seemed to come from the courtyard. putting the point of his nose out of the kennel he saw four little beasts with dark fur, that looked like cats, standing consulting together. but they were not cats; they were polecats- carnivorous little animals, especially greedy for young chickens. one of the pole- cats, leaving his companions, came to the open- ing of the kennel and said in a low voice: “good evening, melampo.” ‘my name is not melampo," answered the puppet. oh! then who are you? “i am pinocchio." “ and what are you doing here?” i am acting as watch-dog." “ then where is melampo? where is the old dog who lived in this kennel?” “he died this morning.” is he dead? poor beast! he was so good. but judging you by your face i should say that you were also a good dog." > co pinocchio the four polecats thinking themselves safe repaired to the poultry-yard, which was close to the kennel, and having opened the wooden gate with their teeth and claws, they slipped in one by one. but they had only just passed through when they heard the gate shut behind them with great violence. it was pinocchio who had shut it; and for greater security he put a large stone against it to keep it closed. he then began to bark, and he barked exactly like a watch-dog: bow-wow, bow-wow. hearing the barking the peasant jumped out of bed, and taking his gun he came to the window and asked: what is the matter?” “ there are robbers!” answered pinocchio. “where are they?” “ in the poultry-yard.” “i will come down directly.” in fact, in less time than it takes to say amen, the peasant came down. he rushed into the poultry-yard, caught the polecats, and having put them into a sack, he said to them in a tone of great satisfaction: “at last you have fallen into my hands! i might punish you, but i am not so cruel. i will content myself instead by carrying you in the morning to the innkeeper of the neigh- pinocchio >> bouring village, who will skin and cook you as hares with a sweet and sour sauce. it is an honour that you don't deserve, but generous people like me don't consider such trifles!... he then approached pinocchio and began to caress him, and amongst other things he asked him: “how did you manage to discover the four thieves? to think that melampo, my faithful melampo, never found out anything!.. the puppet might then have told him the whole story; he might have informed him of the disgraceful conditions that had been made between the dog and the polecats; but he remembered that the dog was dead, and he thought to himself: “what is the good of accusing the dead? the dead are dead, and the best thing to be done is to leave them in peace!... “when the thieves got into the yard were you asleep or awake?” the peasant went on to ask him. “i was asleep,” answered pinocchio, “but the polecats woke me with their chatter, and one of them came to the kennel and said to me: 'if you promise not to bark, and not to wake the master, we will make you a present of a fine chicken ready plucked!... to think that they should have had the audacity to make such pinocchio a proposal to me! for although i am a puppet, possessing perhaps nearly all the faults in the world, there is one that i certainly will never be guilty of, that of making terms with, and sharing in the gains of, dishonest people!” “well said, my boy!” cried the peasant, slapping him on the shoulder. such senti- ments do you honour: and as a proof of my gratitude i will at once set you at liberty, and you may return home.” and he removed the dog's collar. pinocchio the ground. he was larger than a turkey. “do you also know geppetto?” he asked. “do i know him! he is my poor papa! has he perhaps spoken to you of me? will you take me to him? is he still alive? answer me for pity's sake: is he still alive?” “i left him three days ago on the sea- shore." “what was he doing?” “he was building a little boat for himself, to cross the ocean. for more than three months that poor man has been going all round the world looking for you. not having succeeded in finding you he has now taken it into his head to go to the distant countries of the new world in search of you." “how far is it from here to the shore?” asked pinocchio breathlessly. “more than six hundred miles." six hundred miles? oh, beautiful pigeon, what a fine thing it would be to have your wings!..." “if you wish to go, i will carry you there.” “how?” “astride on my back. do you weigh much?” “i weigh next to nothing. i am as light as a feather. and without waiting for more pinocchio m.l.koen cg gallop, gallop, my little horse" pinocchio jumped at once on the pigeon's back, and put- ting a leg on each side of him as men do on horseback, he exclaimed joyfully: “gallop, gallop, my little horse, for i am anxious to arrive quickly!... the pigeon took flight, and in a few minutes had soared so high that they almost touched the clouds. finding himself at such an immense height the puppet had the curiosity to turn and look down; but his head spun round, and he became so frightened, that to save him- self from the danger of falling he wound his arms tightly round the neck of his feathered steed. they flew all day. towards evening the pigeon said: “i am very thirsty!” and i am very hungry!” very hungry!” rejoined pinocchio. “let us stop at that dovecot for a few minutes; and then we will continue our journey that we may reach the seashore by dawn to- morrow." they went into a deserted dovecot, where they found nothing but a basin full of water and a basket full of vetch. the puppet had never in his life been able to eat vetch: according to him it made him sick and revolted him. that evening, however, he pinocchio ate to repletion, and when he had nearly emptied the basket he turned to the pigeon and said to him: “i never could have believed that vetch was so good!” “be assured, my boy,” replied the pigeon, “ that when hunger is real, and there is nothing else to eat, even vetch becomes delicious. hunger knows neither caprice nor greediness. having quickly finished their little meal they recommenced their journey and flew away. the following morning they reached the seashore. the pigeon placed pinocchio on the ground, and not wishing to be troubled with thanks for having done a good action, flew quickly away and disappeared. the shore was crowded with people who were looking out to sea, shouting and gesticu- lating “what has happened?” asked pinocchio of an old woman. “ a poor father who has lost his son has gone away in a boat to search for him on the other side of the water, and to-day the sea is tempestuous and the little boat is in danger of sinking.” “ where is the little boat?” “ it is out there in a line with my finger,” pinocchio said the old woman, pointing to a little boat which, seen at that distance, looked like a nut- shell with a very little man in it. pinocchio fixed his eyes on it, and after looking attentively he gave a piercing scream, crying: it is my papal it is my papa!” the boat meanwhile, beaten by the fury of the waves, at one moment disappeared in the trough of the sea, and the next came again to the surface. pinocchio, standing on the top of a high rock, kept calling to his father by name, and making every kind of signal to him with his hands, his handkerchief, and his cap. and although he was so far off, geppetto appeared to recognise his son, for he also took off his cap and waved it, and tried by gestures to make him understand that he would have returned if it had been possible, but that the sea was so tempestuous that he could not use his oars or approach the shore. suddenly a tremendous wave rose and the boat disappeared. they waited, hoping it would come again to the surface, but it was seen no more. “ poor man!” said the fishermen who were assembled on the shore, and murmuring a prayer they turned to go home. just then they heard a desperate cry, and pinocchio looking back they saw a little boy who ex- claimed, as he jumped from a rock into the sea: “i will save my papa!” pinocchio, being made of wood, floated easily and he swam like a fish. at one moment they saw him disappear under the water, car- ried down by the fury of the waves; and next he reappeared struggling with a leg or an arm. at last they lost sight of him, and he was seen no more. poor boy!” said the fishermen who were collected on the shore, and murmuring a prayer they returned home. xxiv pinocchio arrives at the island of the industrious bees,” and finds the fairy again p inocchio, hoping hoping to be in time to help his father, swam the whole night. and what a horrible night it was! the rain came down in torrents, it hailed, the thunder was frightful, and the flashes of light- ning made it as light as day. towards morning he saw a long strip of land not far off. it was an island in the midst of the sea. he tried his utmost to reach the shore: but it was all in vain. the waves, racing and tumbling over each other, knocked him about as if he had been a stick or a wisp of straw. at last, fortunately for him, a billow rolled up with such fury and impetuosity that he was lifted up and thrown violently far on to the sands. he fell with such force that, as he struck the ground, his ribs and all his joints cracked, but he comforted himself, saying: this time also i have made a wonderful escape!” little by little the sky cleared, the sun shone out in all his splendour, and the sea became as quiet and smooth as oil. pinocchio are villages in this island where it would be possible to obtain something to eat, without running the danger of being eaten?” certainly there are,” replied the dolphin. indeed you will find one at a short distance from here." “and what road must i take to go there?” you must take that path to your left and follow your nose. you cannot make a mistake." “will you tell me another thing? you who swim about the sea all day and all night, have you by chance met a little boat with my papa in it?'s “and who is your papa?” “he is the best papa in the world, whilst it would be difficult to find a worse son than i am. during the terrible storm last night," an- swered the dolphin, “ the little boat must have gone to the bottom." “ and my papa?” “he must have been swallowed by the ter- rible dog-fish who for some days past has been spreading devastation and ruin in our waters.” “is this dog-fish very big?” asked pinoc- chio, who was already beginning to quake with fear. “big! ..." replied the dolphin. that you may form some idea of his size, i need only pinocchio tell you that he is bigger than a five-storied house, and that his mouth is so enormous and so deep that a railway train with its smoking engine could pass very easily down his great throat.” “mercy upon us!” exclaimed the terrified puppet; and putting on his clothes with the greatest haste he said to the dolphin: good-bye, sir fish: excuse the trouble i have given you, and many thanks for your politeness." he then took the path that had been pointed out to him and began to walk fast—so fast, indeed, that he was almost running. and at the slightest noise he turned to look behind him, fearing that he might see the terrible dog- fish with a railway train in its mouth following him. after a walk of half an hour he reached a little village called "the village of the indus- trious bees.” the road was alive with people running here and there to attend to their busi- ness: all were at work, all had something to do. you could not have found an idler or a vaga- bond, not even if you had searched for him with a lighted lamp. ah!” said that lazy pinocchio at once, “i see that this village will never suit me! i wasn't born to work!" pinocchio in the meanwhile he was tormented by hunger, for he had eaten nothing for twenty- four hours-not even vetch. what was he to do? there were only two ways by which he could obtain food—either by asking for a little work, or by begging for a halfpenny or for a mouthful of bread. he was ashamed to beg, for his father had always preached to him that no one had a right to beg except the aged and the infirm. the really poor in this world, deserving of com- passion and assistance, are only those who from age or sickness are no longer able to earn their own bread with the labour of their hands. it is the duty of every one else to work; and if they will not work, so much the worse for them if they suffer from hunger. at that moment a man came down the road, tired and panting for breath. he was drag- ging alone, with fatigue and difficulty, two carts full of charcoal. pinocchio, judging by his face that he was a kind man, approached him, and casting down his eyes with shame he said in a low voice: “would you have the charity to give me a halfpenny, for i am dying of hunger?” * you shall have not only a halfpenny," pinocchio said the man, “but i will give you twopence, provided that you help me to drag home these two carts of charcoal.” “i am surprised at you!” answered the puppet in a tone of offence. “let me tell you that i am not accustomed to do the work of a donkey: i have never drawn a cart!.. so much the better for you,” answered the man. “ then, my boy, if you are really dying of hunger, eat two fine slices of your pride, and be careful not to get an indigestion.” a few minutes afterwards a mason passed down the road carrying on his shoulders a basket of lime. “would you have the charity, good man, to give a halfpenny to a poor boy who is yawn- ing for want of food?” "willingly,” answered the man. with me and carry the lime, and instead of a halfpenny i will give you five.” “but the lime is heavy," objected pinoc- chio, “and i don't want to tire myself.” you don't want to tire yourself, then, my boy, amuse yourself with yawning, and much good may it do in less than half an hour twenty other people went by; and pinocchio asked charity of them all, but they all answered: “ come “ if you.” pinocchio » are you not ashamed to beg? instead of idling about the roads, go and look for a little work and learn to earn your bread.” at last a nice little woman carrying two cans of water came by. “will you let me drink a little water out of your can?” asked pinocchio, who was burn- ing with thirst. “drink, my boy, if you wish it!” said the little woman, setting down the two cans. pinocchio drank like a fish, and as he dried his mouth he mumbled: “i have quenched my thirst. if i could only appease my hunger!. the good woman hearing these words said: “ if you will help me to carry home these two cans of water, i will give you a fine piece of bread.” pinocchio looked at the can and answered neither yes nor no. “and besides the bread you shall have a nice dish of cauliflower dressed with oil and vinegar," added the good woman. pinocchio gave another look at the can, and answered neither yes nor no. and after the cauliflower i will give you a beautiful bonbon full of syrup." the temptation of this last dainty was so pinocchio great that pinocchio could resist no longer, and with an air of decision he said: “i must have patience! i will carry the can to your house." the can was heavy, and the puppet not being strong enough to carry it in his hand, had to resign himself to carry it on his head. when they reached the house the good little woman made pinocchio sit down at a small table already laid, and she placed before him the bread, the cauliflower, and the bonbon. pinocchio did not eat, he devoured. his stomach was like an apartment that had been left empty and uninhabited for five months. when his ravenous hunger was somewhat appeased he raised his head to thank his bene- factress; but he had no sooner looked at her than he gave a prolonged oh-h-h! of astonish- ment, and continued staring at her, with wide open eyes, his fork in the air, and his mouth full of bread and cauliflower, as if he had been bewitched. “what has surprised you so much?” asked the good woman, laughing. it is ..." answered the puppet, “it is . it is ... that you are like ... that you remind me yes, yes, yes, the same voice ... the same eyes . . . the same hair yes, yes, yes.. . . pinocchio you also have blue hair ... as she had ... oh, little fairy!... tell me that it is you, really you! . . do not make me cry any more! if you knew ... i have cried so much, i have suffered so much....' and throwing himself at her feet on the floor, pinocchio embraced the knees of the mysterious little woman and began to cry bitterly xxv pinocchio promises the fairy to be good and studious, for he is quite sick of being a puppet and wishes to become an exem- plary boy at t first the good little woman maintained that she was not the little fairy with blue hair; but seeing that she was found out, and not wishing to continue the comedy any longer, she ended by making her- self known, and she said to pinocchio: “ you little rogue! how did you ever dis- cover who i was?” “ it was my great affection for you that told me. “do you remember? you left me a child, and now that you have found me again i am a woman—a woman almost old enough to be your mamma. “i am delighted at that, for now, instead of calling you little sister, i will call you mamma. i have wished for such a long time to have a mamma like other boys! ... but how did you manage to grow so fast?' that is a secret." “ teach it to me, for i should also like to grow. don't you see? i always remain no bigger than a ninepin.” >> pinocchio . . but you cannot grow,” replied the fairy. why?” “because puppets never grow. they are born puppets, live puppets, and die puppets." “oh, i am sick of being a puppet!” cried pinocchio, giving himself a slap. “it is time that i became a man. “and you will become one, if you know how to deserve it.... not really? what can i do to deserve it?” “a very easy thing: by learning to be a good boy.” “and you think i am not?” 'you are quite the contrary. good boys are obedient, and you.... “ and i never obey." good boys like to learn and to work, and you...." “and i instead lead an idle vagabond life the year through.” good boys always speak the truth. ." “ and i always tell lies.” “good boys go willingly to school. ..." “and school gives me pain all over my body. but from to-day i will change my life.” “do you promise me?” 'i promise you. i will become a good little boy, and i will be the consolation of my papa. . . pinocchio willingly, willingly, willingly!” “ to-morrow,” rejoined the fairy, “you will begin to go to school.” pinocchio became at once a little less joyful. “ then you must choose an art, or a trade, according to your own wishes." pinocchio became very grave. “what are you muttering between your teeth?” asked the fairy in an angry voice. “i was saying,” moaned the puppet in a low voice, “ that it seemed to me too late for me to go to school now.... “no, sir. keep it in mind that it is never too late to learn and to instruct ourselves.” “but i do not wish to follow either an art or a trade.” “why?' “because it tires me to work." my boy,” said the fairy,“ those who talk in that way end almost always either in prison or in the hospital. let me tell you that every man, whether he is born rich or poor, is obliged to do something in this world—to occupy him- self, to work. woe to those who lead slothful lives. sloth is a dreadful illness and must be cured at once, in childhood. if not, when we are old it can never be cured.” pinocchio was touched by these words, and lifting his head quickly he said to the fairy: pinocchio “i will study, i will work, i will do all that you tell me, for indeed i have become weary of being a puppet, and i wish at any price to become a boy. you promised me that i should, did you not?' “i did promise you, and it now depends upon yourself.” xxvi pinocchio accompanies his schoolfellows to the seashore to see the terrible dog- fish t \he following day pinocchio went to the government school. imagine the delight of all the little rogues when they saw a puppet walk into their school! they set up a roar of laughter that never ended. they played him all sorts of tricks. one boy carried off his cap, another pulled his jacket behind; one tried to give him a pair of inky mustachios just under his nose, and another attempted to tie strings to his feet and hands to make him dance. for a short time pinocchio pretended not to care and got on as well as he could; but at last, losing all patience, he turned to those who were teasing him most and making game of him, and said to them, looking very angry: “ beware, boys: i am not come here to be your buffoon. i respect others, and i intend to be respected.” “well said, boaster! you have spoken like a book!” howled the young rascals, convulsed with mad laughter; and one of them, more im- pertinent than the others, stretched out his pinocchio making you lose all love of study, and perhaps even they may bring upon you some great mis- fortune." there is no fear of that!” answered the puppet, shrugging his shoulders and touching his forehead as much as to say: “ there is so much sense here!” now it happened that one fine day, as he was on his way to school, he met several of his usual companions who, coming up to him, asked: “ have you heard the great news?” “ no.” "in the sea near here a dog-fish has ap- peared as big as a mountain.” “not really? can it be the same dog-fish that was there when my poor papa was drowned?” we are going to the shore to see him. will you come with us?” “no; i am going to school.” “what matters school? we can go to school to-morrow. whether we have a lesson more or a lesson less, we shall always remain the same donkeys.” “but what will the master say?” the master may say what he likes. he is paid on purpose to grumble all day.” “and my mamma?..." pinocchio “mammas know nothing,” answered those bad little boys. “do you know what i will do?” said pinoc- chio. “i have reasons for wishing to see the dog-fish, but i will go and see him when school is over.” “poor donkey!” exclaimed one of the number. “do you suppose that a fish of that size will wait your convenience? as soon as he is tired of being here he will start for another place, and then it will be too late." ‘how long does it take from here to the shore?” asked the puppet. “we can be there and back in an hour.' “ then away!” shouted pinocchio, “and he who runs fastest is the best!” having thus given the signal to start, the boys, with their books and copy-books under their arms, rushed off across the field, and pinocchio was always the first-he seemed to have wings to his feet. from time to time he turned to jeer at his companions, who were some distance behind, and seeing them panting for breath, covered with dust and their tongues hanging out of their mouths, he laughed heartily. the unfor- tunate boy little knew what terrors and horrible disasters he was going to meet with!... xxvii great fight between pinocchio and his companions. one of them is wounded, and pinocchio is arrested by the gendarmes w hen he arrived on the shore pinoc- chio looked out to sea; but he saw no dog-fish. the sea was as smooth as a great crystal mirror. “where is the dog-fish?” he asked, turn- ing to his companions. “he must have gone to have his breakfast," said one of them, laughing. “ or he has thrown himself on to his bed to have a little nap,' added another, laughing still louder. from their absurd answers and silly laughter pinocchio perceived that his com- panions had been making a fool of him, in inducing him to believe a tale with no truth in it. taking it very badly, he said to them angrily: “and now may i ask what fun you could find in deceiving me with the story of the dog- fish? “oh, it was great fun!” answered the little rascals in chorus. “ and in what did it consist?” pinocchio “in making you miss school, and persuad- ing you to come with us. are you not ashamed of being always so punctual and so diligent with your lessons? are you not ashamed of studying so hard?” and if i study hard what concern is it of yours?” “it concerns us excessively, because it makes us appear in a bad light to the master.” why?” because boys who study make those who, like us, have no wish to learn seem worse by comparison. and that is too bad. we too have our pride!.. “ then what must i do to please you?” “you must follow our example and hate school, lessons, and the master-our three greatest enemies." “ and if i wish to continue my studies?” “in that case we will have nothing more to do with you, and at the first opportunity we will make you pay for it.” “really,” said the puppet, shaking his head, “you make me inclined to laugh.” “eh, pinocchio!” shouted the biggest of the boys, confronting him. “none of your superior airs: don't come here to crow over us! ... for if you are not afraid of us, we are not pinocchio afraid of you. remember that you are one against seven of us." seven, like the seven deadly sins," said pinocchio with a shout of laughter. “ listen to him! he has insulted us all! he called us the seven deadly sins!...” “pinocchio! beg pardon ... or it will be the worse for you! “ cuckoo!” sang the puppet, putting his forefinger to the end of his nose scoffingly. “pinocchio! it will end badly!. “ cuckoo!” you will get as many blows as a don- key!.. “ cuckoo!” “you will return home with a broken nose!..." “ cuckoo!” ah, you shall have the cuckoo from me!' said the most courageous of the boys. “take that to begin with, and keep it for your supper to-night.” and so saying he gave him a blow on the head with his fist. but it was give and take; for the puppet, as was to be expected, immediately returned the blow, and the fight in a moment became general and desperate. pinocchio, although he was one alone, de- pinocchio fended himself like a hero. he used his feet, which were of the hardest wood, to such pur- pose that he kept his enemies at a respectful distance. wherever they touched they left a bruise by way of reminder. the boys, becoming furious at not being able to measure themselves hand to hand with the puppet, had recourse to other weapons. loosening their satchels they commenced throwing their school-books at him-grammars, dictionaries, spelling-books, geography books, and other scholastic works. but pinocchio was quick and had sharp eyes, and always managed to duck in time, so that the books passed over his head and all fell into the sea. imagine the astonishment of the fish! thinking that the books were something to eat they all arrived in shoals, but having tasted a page or two, or a frontispiece, they spat it quickly out and made a wry face that seemed to say:“ it isn't food for us; we are accustomed to something much better!” the battle meantime had become fiercer than ever, when a big crab, who had come out of the water and had climbed slowly up on to the shore, called out in a hoarse voice that sounded like a trumpet with a bad cold: have done with that, you young ruffians, pinocchio ing he was dead the terrified boys ran off as hard as their legs could carry them, and in a few minutes they were out of sight. but pinocchio remained. although from grief and fright he was more dead than alive, nevertheless he ran and soaked his handkerchief in the sea and began to bathe the temples of his poor schoolfellow. crying bitterly in his despair he kept calling him by name and say- ing to him; “eugene! . my poor eugene!... open your eyes and look at me!... why do you not answer? i did not do it, indeed it was not i that hurt you so! believe me, it was not! open your eyes, eugene. if you keep your eyes shut i shall die too. ... oh! what shall i do? how shall i ever return home? how can i ever have the courage to go back to my good mamma? what will become of me? where can i fly to? ...oh! how much better it would have been, a thousand times better, if i had only gone to school!... why did i listen to my companions? they have been my ruin. the master said to me, and my mamma re- peated it often: ‘beware of bad companions!' but i am obstinate ... a wilful fool. ... i let them talk and then i always take my own way! and i have to suffer for it. ... and so, ever pinocchio since i have been in the world, i have never had a happy quarter of an hour. oh dear! what will become of me, what will become of me, what will become of me? ..." and pinocchio began to cry and sob, and to strike his head with his fists, and to call poor eugene by his name. suddenly he heard the sound of approaching footsteps. he turned and saw two carabineers. “what are you doing there lying on the ground?” they asked pinocchio. 'i am helping my schoolfellow.” “ has he been hurt?” “ so it seems.” hurt indeed!” said one of the carabineers, stooping down and examining eugene closely. “ this boy has been wounded in the temple. who wounded him?' “not i,” stammered the puppet breath- lessly. “if it was not you, who then did it?” not i,” repeated pinocchio. and with what was he wounded?” “ with this book.” and the puppet picked up from the ground the treatise on arithmetic, bound in cardboard and parchment, and showed it to the carabineer. and to whom does this book belong?” “to me. xxviii pinocchio is in danger of being fried in a frying-pan like a fish t here came a moment in this desper- ate race-a terrible moment when pin- occhio thought himself lost: for you must know that alidoro—for so the mastiff was called—had run so swiftly that he had nearly come up with him. the puppet could hear the panting of the dreadful beast close behind him; there was not a hand's breadth between them; he could even feel the dog's hot breath. fortunately the shore was close and the sea but a few steps off. as soon as he reached the sands the puppet made a wonderful leap—a frog could have done no better—and plunged into the water. alidoro, on the contrary, wished to stop himself; but carried away by the impetus of the race he also went into the sea. the unfor- tunate dog could not swim, but he made great efforts to keep himself afloat with his paws; but the more he struggled the farther he sank head downwards under the water. when he rose to the surface again his eyes were rolling with terror, and he barked out: “i am drowning! i am drowning!” pinocchio drown!” shouted pinocchio from a dis- tance, seeing himself safe from all danger. “help me, dear pinocchio! . . . save me from death!..." at that agonising cry the puppet, who had in reality an excellent heart; was moved with compassion, and turning to the dog he said: but if i save your life, will you promise to give me no further annoyance, and not to run after me?” “i promise! i promise! be quick, for pity's sake, for if you delay another half- minute i shall be dead.” pinocchio hesitated: but remembering that his father had often told him that a good action is never lost, he swam to alidoro, and taking hold of his tail with both hands brought him safe and sound on to the dry sand of the beach. the poor dog could not stand. he had drunk, against his will, so much salt water that he was like a balloon. the puppet, however, not wishing to trust him too far, thought it more prudent to jump again into the water. when he had swum some distance from the shore he called out to the friend he had rescued : “good-bye, alidoro; a good journey to you, and take my compliments to all at home.” good-bye, pinocchio,” answered the dog; a thousand thanks for having saved my life. pinocchio appearance of an immense lizard standing on its hind-paws. when the fisherman had drawn his net out of the sea, he exclaimed with great satisfaction: “ thank heaven! again to-day i shall have a splendid feast of fish!” “what a mercy that i am not a fish!” said pinocchio to himself, regaining a little courage. the net full of fish was carried into the cave, which was dark and smoky. in the middle of the cave a large frying-pan full of oil was frying, and sending out a smell of mushrooms that was suffocating. “now we will see what fish we have taken!” said the green fisherman; and putting into the net an enormous hand, so out of all proportion that it looked like a baker's shovel, he pulled out a handful of mullet. “ these mullet are good!” he said, looking at them and smelling them complacently. and he then threw them into a pan without water. he repeated the same operation many times; and as he drew out the fish, his mouth watered and he said, chuckling to himself: what good whiting!..." “what exquisite sardines!..." “ these soles are delicious!... and these crabs excellent!... “what dear little anchovies!... pinocchio i need not tell you that the whiting, the sardines, the soles, the crabs, and the anchovies were all thrown promiscuously into the pan to keep company with the mullet. the last to remain in the net was pinocchio. no sooner had the fisherman taken him out than he opened his big green eyes with astonishment, and cried, half-frightened: “what species of fish is this? fish of this kind i never remember to have eaten! and he looked at him again and having examined him well, he ended by saying: “i know: he must be a craw-fish." pinocchio, mortified at being mistaken for a craw-fish, said in an angry voice: “a craw-fish indeed! do you take me for a craw-fish? i tell you that i am a puppet.' “a puppet?” replied the fisherman. “to tell the truth, a puppet is quite a new fish for i shall eat you with greater pleasure.' eat me! but will you understand that i am not a fish? do you hear that i talk and reason as you do?” that is quite true,” said the fisherman; and as i see that you are a fish possessed of the talent of talking and reasoning, i will treat you with all the attention that is your due.” “ and this attention?..." “ in token of my friendship and particular me. cm . what species of fish is this?” pinocchio regard, i will leave you the choice of how you would like to be cooked. would you like to be fried in the frying-pan, or would you prefer to be stewed with tomato sauce?" “ to tell the truth,” answered pinocchio, if i am to choose, i should prefer to be set at liberty and to return home.” you are joking! do you imagine that i would lose the opportunity of tasting such a rare fish? it is not every day, i assure you, that a puppet fish is caught in these waters. leave it to me. i will fry you with the other fish, and you will be quite satisfied. it is always consolation to be fried in company." at this speech the unhappy pinocchio be- gan to cry and scream and to implore for mercy; and he said, sobbing: “how much bet- ter it would have been if i had gone to school! i would listen to my companions and now i am paying for it! ih!... ih!... ihl...' and he wriggled like an eel, and made in- describable efforts to slip out of the clutches of the green fisherman. but it was useless: the fisherman took a long strip of rush, and having bound his hands and feet as if he had been a sausage, he threw him into the pan with the other fish. he then fetched a wooden bowl full of flour and began to flour them each in turn, and as . pinocchio soon as they were ready he threw them into the frying-pan. the first to dance in the boiling oil were the poor whiting; the crabs followed, then the sardines, then the soles, then the anchovies, and at last it was pinocchio's turn. seeing himself so near death, and such a horrible death, he was so frightened, and trembled so violently, that he had neither voice nor breath left for further entreaties. but the poor boy implored with his eyes! the green fisherman, however, without caring in the least, plunged him five or six times in the flour, until he was white from head to foot, and looked like a puppet made of plaster. he then took him by the head, and.... pinocchio “ do one of his schoolfellows, a certain pin- occhio...." and who is this pinocchio?” asked the puppet, pretending ignorance. they say that he is a bad boy, a vagabond, a regular good-for-nothing. .. “ calumnies! all calumnies!” you know this pinocchio?” by sight,” answered the puppet. and what is your opinion of him?” asked the little man. he seems to me to be a very good boy, anxious to learn, and obedient and affectionate to his father and family. ... whilst the puppet was firing off all these lies, he touched his nose and perceived that it had lengthened more than a hand. very much alarmed he began to cry out: “don't believe, good man, what i have been telling you. i know pinocchio very well, and i can assure you that he is really a very bad boy, disobedient and idle, who instead of going to school runs off with his companions to amuse himself.” he had hardly finished speaking when his nose became shorter and returned to the same size that it was before. “and why are you all covered with white?” asked the old man suddenly. pinocchio . me. “i will tell you. without observing it i rubbed myself against a wall which had been freshly whitewashed,” answered the puppet, ashamed to confess that he had been floured like a fish prepared for the frying-pan. “ and what have you done with your jacket, your trousers, and your cap?” “i met with robbers who took them from tell me, good old man, could you per- haps give me some clothes to return home in?” “my boy, as to clothes, i have nothing but a little sack in which i keep beans. if you wish for it, take it; there it is.' pinocchio did not wait to be told twice. he took the sack at once, and with a pair of scissors he cut a hole at the end and at each side, and put it on like a shirt. and with this slight clothing he set off for the village. but as he went he did not feel at all com- fortable—so little so, indeed, that for a step forward he took another backwards, and he said, talking to himself: “how shall i ever present myself to my good little fairy? what will she say when she sees me? ... will she forgive me this second escapade? ... i bet that she will not forgive me! oh, i am sure that she will not forgive me!... and it serves me right, for i pinocchio “ah, i understand!” said the snail. “wait for me there. i will come down and open the door directly.” “be quick, for pity's sake, for i am dying of cold.” my boy, i am a snail, and snails are never in a hurry." an hour passed, and then two, and the door was not opened. pinocchio, who was wet through, and trembling from cold and fear, at last took courage and knocked again, and this time he knocked louder. at this second knock a window on the lower story opened, and the same snail appeared at it. “beautiful little snail," cried pinocchio from the street, “i have been waiting for two hours! and two hours on such a bad night seem longer than two years. be quick, for pity's sake." my boy,” answered the calm, phlegmatic little animal—“my boy, i am a snail, and snails are never in a hurry." and the window was shut again. shortly afterwards midnight struck; then one o'clock, then two o'clock, and the door remained still closed. pinocchio at last, losing all patience, seized the knocker in a rage, intending to give a blow that would resound through the house. but pinocchio the knocker, which was iron, turned suddenly into an eel, and slipping out of his hands dis- appeared in the stream of water that ran down the middle of the street. “ah! is that it?” shouted pinocchio, blind with rage. “since the knocker has disap- peared, i will kick instead with all my might.” and drawing a little back he gave a tre- mendous kick against the house door. the blow was indeed so violent that his foot went through the wood and stuck; and when he tried to draw it back again it was trouble thrown away, for it remained fixed like a nail that has been hammered down. think of poor pinocchio! he was obliged to spend the remainder of the night with one foot on the ground and the other in the air. the following morning at daybreak the door was at last opened. that clever little snail had taken only nine hours to come down from the fourth story to the door. it is evident that her exertions must have been great. “what are you doing with your foot stuck in the door?” she asked the puppet, laughing. “it was an accident. do try, beautiful little snail, if you cannot release me from this torture.” “my boy, that is the work of a carpenter, and i have never been a carpenter.” pinocchio “beg the fairy from me! ..." “the fairy is asleep and must not be wakened.” but what do you suppose that i can do all day nailed to this door?” “ amuse yourself by counting the ants that pass down the street." bring me at least something to eat, for i am quite exhausted.” at once,” said the snail. in fact, after three hours and a half she returned to pinocchio carrying a silver tray on her head. the tray contained a loaf of bread, a roast chicken, and four ripe apricots. “here is the breakfast that the fairy has sent you,” said the snail. the puppet felt very much comforted at the sight of these good things. but when he began to eat them, what was his disgust at making the discovery that the bread was plaster, the chicken cardboard, and the four apricots painted alabaster. he wanted to cry. in his desperation he tried to throw away the tray and all that was on it; but instead, either from grief or exhaus- tion, he fainted away. when he came to himself he found that he was lying on a sofa, and the fairy was beside him. pinocchio “i will pardon you once more,” the fairy said, “but woe to you if you behave badly a third time!.. pinocchio promised, and swore that he would study, and that for the future he would always conduct himself well. and he kept his word for the remainder of the year. indeed, at the examinations before the holidays, he had the honour of being the first in the school, and his behaviour in general was so satisfactory and praiseworthy that the fairy was very much pleased, and said to him: “ to-morrow your wish shall be gratified.” “ and that is?” “ to-morrow you shall cease to be a wooden puppet, and you shall become a boy.” no one who had not witnessed it could ever imagine pinocchio's joy at this long-sighed-for good fortune. all his schoolfellows were to be invited for the following day to a grand break- fast at the fairy's house, that they might cele- brate together the great event. the fairy had prepared two hundred cups of coffee and milk, and four hundred rolls cut and buttered on each side. the day promised to be most happy and delightful, but .. unfortunately in the lives of puppets there is always a “but” that spoils everything. . pinocchio without saying more the puppet took leave of his good fairy, who was like a mamma to him, and went out of the house singing and dancing. in less than an hour all his friends were invited. some accepted at once heartily; others at first required pressing; but when they heard that the rolls to be eaten with the coffee were to be buttered on both sides, they ended by saying: “we will come also, to do you a pleasure.” now i must tell you that amongst pinoc- chio's friends and schoolfellows there was one that he greatly preferred and was very fond of. this boy's name was romeo; but he always went by the nickname of candlewick, because he was so thin, straight, and bright like the new wick of a little nightlight. candlewick was the laziest and the naugh- tiest boy in the school; but pinocchio'was de- voted to him. he had indeed gone at once to his house to invite him to the breakfast, but he had not found him. he returned a second time, but candlewick was not there. he went a third time, but it was in vain. where could he search for him? he looked here, there, and everywhere, and at last he saw him hiding in the porch of a peasant's cottage. pinocchio > “ what are you doing there?” asked pinocchio, coming up to him. “i am waiting for midnight, to start. why, where are you going?” very far, very far, very far away.” “and i have been three times to your house to look for you. what did you want with me?” “do you not know the great event? have you not heard of my good fortune?" “ what is it?” “ to-morrow i cease to be a puppet, and i become a boy like you and all the other boys.” “much good may it do you.” to-morrow, therefore, i expect you to breakfast at my house.” “but when i tell you that i am going away to-night.” “at what o'clock?” “ in a short time.” “ and where are you going? i am going to live in a country ... the most delightful country in the world: a real land of cocagne! . “and how is it called?” “it is called the ‘ land of boobies.' why do you not come too?” “i? no, never!” pinocchio “you are wrong, pinocchio. believe me, if you do not come you will repent it. where could you find a better country for us boys? there are no schools there: there are no mas- ters: there are no books. in that delightful land nobody ever studies. on thursday there is never school; and every week consists of six thursdays and one sunday. only think, the autumn holidays begin on the st of january and finish on the last day of december. that is the country for me! that is what all civilised countries should be like! ... 'but how are the days spent in the ‘ land of boobies '?” “they are spent in play and amusement from morning till night. when night comes you go to bed, and recommence the same life in the morning. what do you think of it?” “hum!.. ." said pinocchio; and he shook his head slightly as much as to say, “ that is a life that i also would willingly lead.” “well, will you go with me? yes or no? resolve quickly.” “no, no, no, and again no. i promised my good fairy to become a well-conducted boy, and i will keep my word. and as i see that the sun is setting i must leave you at once and run away. good-bye, and a pleasant journey to you.” . pinocchio “where are you rushing off to in such a hurry?" home. my good fairy wishes me to be back before dark.” “wait another two minutes." “it will make me too late.” only two minutes.' and if the fairy scolds me?” “ let her scold. when she has scolded well she will hold her tongue,” said that rascal candlewick. “and what are you going to do? are you going alone or with companions?” alone? we shall be more than a hundred boys.” “ and do you make the journey on foot? “a coach will pass by shortly which is to take me to that happy country.” “what would i not give for the coach to pass by now!...” why?” that i might see you all start together.” stay here a little longer and you will see us.” no, no, i must go home.” wait another two minutes." “i have already delayed too long. the fairy will be anxious about me.” pinocchio distance a small light moving . and they heard a noise of talking, and the sound of a trumpet, but so small and feeble that it re- sembled the hum of a mosquito. “ here it is!” shouted candlewick, jump- ing to his feet. what is it?” asked pinocchio in a whisper. it is the coach coming to take me. now will you come, yes or no?” “but is it really true,” asked the puppet, that in that country boys are never obliged to study?” “never, never, never! what a delightful country! . . . what a delightful country! ... what a delightful country!” xxxi after five months' residence in the land of cocagne, pinocchio, to his great aston- ishment, grows a beautiful pair of donkey's ears, and he becomes a little donkey, tail and all t last the coach arrived; and it arrived without making the slightest noise, for its wheels were bound round with tow a and rags. it was drawn by twelve pairs of donkeys, all the same size but of different colours. some were gray, some white, some brindled like pepper and salt, and others had large stripes of yellow and blue. but the most extraordinary thing was this: the twelve pairs, that is, the twenty-four don- keys, instead of being shod like other beasts of burden, had on their feet men's boots made of white kid. and the coachman? .. picture to yourself a little man broader than he was long, flabby and greasy like a lump of butter, with a small round face like an orange, a little mouth that was always laugh- ing, and a soft caressing voice like a cat's when she is trying to insinuate herself into the good graces of the mistress of the house. . pinocchio all the boys as soon as they saw him fell in love with him, and vied with each other in taking places in his coach to be conducted to the true land of cocagne, known on the geo- graphical map by the seducing name of the “ land of boobies." the coach was in fact quite full of boys between eight and twelve years old, heaped one upon another like herrings in a barrel. they were uncomfortable, packed close to- gether and could hardly breathe: but nobody said ohl-nobody grumbled. the consolation of knowing that in a few hours they would reach a country where there were no books, no schools, and no masters, made them so happy and resigned that they felt neither fatigue nor inconvenience, neither hunger, nor thirst, nor want of sleep as soon as the coach had drawn up, the little man turned to candlewick, and with a thou- sand smirks and grimaces said to him, smiling: tell me, my fine boy, would you also like to go to that fortunate country?” “i certainly wish to go.” but i must warn you, my dear child, that there is not a place left in the coach. you can see for yourself that it is quite full.. “no matter,” replied candlewick; “if >> pinocchio and they clapped their hands and applauded him as if they would never finish. but the donkey suddenly kicked up its hind-legs and backing violently threw the poor puppet into the middle of the road on to a heap of stones. the roars of laughter recommenced: but the little man, instead of laughing, felt such affection for the restive ass that he kissed him again, and as he did so he bit half of his other ear clean off. he then said to the puppet: “ mount him now without fear. that little donkey had got some whim into his head; but i whispered two little words into his ears which have, i hope, made him gentle and reasonable.” pinocchio mounted, and the coach started. whilst the donkeys were galloping and the coach was rattling over the stones of the high road, the puppet thought that he heard a low voice that was scarcely intelligible saying to him: “ poor fool! you would follow your own way, but you will repent it!” pinocchio, feeling almost frightened, looked from side to side to try and discover where these words could come from: but he saw nobody. the donkeys galloped, the coach rattled, the boys inside slept, candlewick snored like a pinocchio “ don't but have you by chance taught him to talk?" no; but he spent three years in a com- pany of learned dogs, and he learnt to mutter a few words.” “poor beast!” come, come,” said the little man, let us waste time in seeing a donkey cry. mount him, and let us go on: the night is cold and the road is long.' pinocchio obeyed without another word. in the morning about daybreak they arrived safely in the “ land of boobies." it was a country unlike any other country in the world. the population was composed entirely of boys. the oldest were fourteen, and the youngest scarcely eight years old. in the streets there was such merriment, noise, and shouting, that it was enough to turn any- body's head. there were troops of boys every- where. some were playing with nuts, some with battledores, some with balls. some rode velocipedes, others wooden horses. a party were playing at hide and seek, a few were chas- ing each other. boys dressed in straw were eating lighted tow; some were reciting, some singing, some leaping. some were amusing themselves with walking on their hands with their feet in the air; others were trundling pinocchio hoops, or strutting about dressed as generals, wearing leaf helmets and commanding a squad- ron of cardboard soldiers. some were laugh- ing, some shouting, some were calling out; others clapped their hands, or whistled, or clucked like a hen who has just laid an egg. to sum it all up, it was such a pandemonium, such a bedlam, such an uproar, that not to be deafened it would have been necessary to stuff one's ears with cotton wool. in every square, canvas theatres had been erected, and they were crowded with boys from morning till evening. on the walls of the houses there were inscrip- tions written in charcoal: “long live play- things, we will have no more schools: down with arithmetic:” and similar other fine sentiments all in bad spelling. pinocchio, candlewick, and the other boys who had made the journey with the little man, had scarcely set foot in the town before they were in the thick of the tumult, and i need not tell you that in a few minutes they had made acquaintance with everybody. where could happier or more contented boys be found? in the midst of continual games and every variety of amusement, the hours, the days, and the weeks passed like lightning. “oh, what a delightful life!” said pinoc- chio, whenever by chance he met candlewick. pinocchio see, then, if i was not right?” replied the other. and to think that you did not want to come! to think that you had taken it into your head to return home to your fairy, and to lose your time in studying! ... if you are at this moment free from the bother of books and school, you must acknowledge that you owe it to me, to my advice and to my persuasions. it is only friends who know how to render such great services.” “it is true, candlewick! if i am now a really happy boy, it is all your doing. but do you know what the master used to say when he talked to me of you? he always said to me: ‘do not associate with that rascal candle- wick, for he is a bad companion, and will only lead you into mischief!... “poor master!” replied the other, shaking his head. “i know only too well that he dis- liked me, and amused himself by calumniating me; but i am generous and i forgive him!” noble soul!” said pinocchio, embracing his friend and kissing him between the eyes. this delightful life had gone on for five months. the days had been entirely spent in play and amusement, without a thought of books or school, when one morning pinocchio awoke to a most disagreeable surprise that put him into a very bad humour. > > pinocchio head against the wall; but the more he cried the longer his ears grew: they grew, and grew, and became hairy towards the points. at the sound of his loud outcries a beau- tiful little marmot that lived on the first floor came into the room. seeing the puppet in such grief she asked earnestly: what has happened to you, my dear fellow-lodger?' “i am ill, my dear little marmot, very ill and of an illness that frightens me. do you understand counting a pulse?” “ a little.” then feel and see if by chance i have got fever.” the little marmot raised her right fore- paw, and after having felt pinocchio's pulse she said to him, sighing: my friend, i am grieved to be obliged to give you bad news!.. what is it?" “you have got a very bad fever!..." what fever is it?” “ it is donkey fever.” “ that is a fever that i do not understand," said the puppet, but he understood it only too well. then i will explain it to you," said the marmot. “ you must know that in two or . pinocchio three hours you will be no longer a puppet, or a boy. then what shall i be?” “in two or three hours you will become really and truly a little donkey, like those that draw carts and carry cabbages and salad to market." “ oh! unfortunate that i am! unfortunate that i am!” cried pinocchio, seizing his two ears with his hands, and pulling them and tearing them furiously as if they had been some one else's ears. my dear boy,” said the marmot, by way of consoling him, “what can you do to pre- vent it? it is destiny. it is written in the decrees of wisdom that all boys who are lazy, and who take a dislike to books, to schools, and to masters, and who pass their time in amuse- ment, games, and diversions, must end sooner or later by becoming transformed into so many little donkeys.” “but is it really so?” asked the puppet, sobbing. “ it is indeed only too true! and tears are now useless. you should have thought of it sooner!” “but it was not my fault: believe me, little marmot, the fault was all candlewick's!..." “ and who is this candlewick?” >> pinocchio “one of my schoolfellows. i wanted to return home: i wanted to be obedient. i wished to study and to earn a good character ... but candlewick said to me: “why should you bother yourself by studying? why should you go to school? ... ... come with us instead to the “ land of boobies": there we shall none of us have to learn: there we shall amuse our- selves from morning to night, and we shall always be merry. “ and why did you follow the advice of that false friend? of that bad companion?” 'why?... because, my dear little marmot, i am a puppet with no sense ... and with no heart. ah! if i had had the least heart i should never have left that good fairy who loved me like a mamma, and who had done so much for me! ... and i should be no longer a puppet . . . for i should by this time have become a little boy like so many others! but if i meet candlewick, woe to him! he shall hear what i think of him!..." and he turned to go out. but when he reached the door he remembered his donkey's ears, and feeling ashamed to show them in pub- lic, what do you think he did? he took a big cotton cap, and putting it on his head he pulled it well down over the point of his nose. he then set out, and went everywhere in pinocchio search of candlewick. he looked for him in the streets, in the squares, in the little theatres, in every possible place; but he could not find him. he inquired for him of everybody he met, but no one had seen him. he then went to seek him at his house; and having reached the door he knocked. “ who is there?” asked candlewick. it is i!” answered the puppet. “wait a moment and i will let you in." after half an hour the door was opened, and imagine pinocchio's feelings when upon going into the room he saw his friend candle- wick with a big cotton cap on his head which came down over his nose. at the sight of the cap pinocchio felt almost consoled, and thought to himself: “has my friend got the same illness that i have? is he also suffering from donkey fever?..." and pretending to have observed nothing he asked him, smiling: “how are you, my dear candlewick?” “very well; as well as a mouse in a par- mesan cheese.” are you saying that seriously?” why should i tell you a lie?" excuse me; but why, then, do you keep on that cotton cap which covers up your ears?” pinocchio . the doctor ordered me to wear it because i have hurt this knee. and you, dear puppet, why have you got on that cotton cap pulled down over your nose?” “ the doctor prescribed it because i have grazed my foot. oh, poor pinocchio! . oh, poor candlewick! ..., after these words a long silence followed, during which the two friends did nothing but look mockingly at each other. at last the puppet said in a soft mellifluous voice to his companion: satisfy my curiosity, my dear candle- wick: have you ever suffered from disease of the ears?" “never!... and you? “never! only since this morning one of my ears aches." “mine is also paining me.” * you also? . . . and which of your ears hurts you?” both of them. and you?” both of them. can we have got the same illness?” “i fear so." will you do me a kindness, candlewick?'” willingly! with all my heart.” you let me see your ears?' >> >> “ will pinocchio “why not? but first, my dear pinocchio, i should like to see yours. “no: you must be the first." no, dear! first you and then i!” well,” said the puppet, “ let us come to an agreement like good friends.” “let us hear it.” “we will both take off our caps at the same moment. do you agree?” “ i agree. “ then attention!” pinocchio began to count in a loud voice: one! two! three!” at the word three! the two boys took off their caps and threw them into the air. and then a scene followed that would seem incredible if it was not true. that is, that when pinocchio and candlewick discovered that they were both struck with the same misfor- tune, instead of feeling full of mortification and grief, they began to prick their ungainly ears and to make a thousand antics, and they ended by going into bursts of laughter. and they laughed, and laughed, and laughed, until they had to hold themselves to- gether. but in the midst of their merriment, candlewick suddenly stopped, staggered, and changing colour said to his friend: help, help, pinocchio!” seek m.l.kark and they laughed, and laughed, and laughed xxxiii pinocchio, having become a genuine little donkey, is taken to be sold, and is bought by the director of a company of buffoons to be taught to dance, and to jump through hoops: but one evening he lames himself, and then he is bought by a man who purposes to make a drum of his skin f inding that the door remained shut the little man burst it open with a violent kick, and coming into the room he said to pinocchio and candlewick with his usual little laugh: “well done, boys! you brayed well, and i recognised you by your voices. that is why i am here.” at these words the two little donkeys were quite stupefied, and stood with their heads down, their ears lowered, and their tails be- tween their legs. at first the little man stroked and caressed them; then taking out a currycomb he curry- combed them well. and when by this process he had polished them till they shone like two mirrors, he put a halter round their necks and led them to the market-place, in hopes of sell- ing them and making a good profit. pinocchio and indeed buyers were not wanting. candlewick was bought by a peasant whose donkey had died the previous day. pinocchio was sold to the director of a company of buf- foons and tight-rope dancers, who bought him that he might teach him to leap and to dance with the animals belonging to the company. and now, my little readers, you will have understood the fine trade that little man pur- sued. the wicked little monster, who had a face all milk and honey, made frequent jour- neys round the world with his coach. as he went along he collected, with promises and flattery, all the idle boys who had taken an aversion to books and school. as soon as his coach was full he conducted them to the “ land of boobies,” that they might pass their time in uproar, and in amusement. when these poor deluded boys, from continual play and no study, had become so many little don- keys, he took possession of them with great delight and satisfaction, and carried them off to the fairs and markets to be sold. and in this way he had in a few years made heaps of money and had become a millionaire. what became of candlewick i do not know; but i do know that pinocchio from the very first day had to endure a hard, laborious life. when he was put into his stall his master games, in pinocchio filled the manger with straw; but pinocchio, having tried a mouthful, spat it out again. then his master, grumbling, filled the manger with hay; but neither did the hay please him. ah!” exclaimed his master in a passion. does not hay please you either? leave it to me, my fine donkey; if you are so full of caprices i will find a way to cure you! ..." and by way of correcting him he struck his legs with his whip. pinocchio began to cry and to bray with pain, and he said, braying: “j-a, j-a, i cannot digest strawl..." “then eat hay!” said his master, who understood perfectly the asinine dialect. j-a, j-a, hay gives me a pain in my stomach.” “do you mean to pretend that a little don- key like you must be kept on breasts of chickens, and capons in jelly?” asked his master, getting more and more angry, and whipping him again. at this second whipping pinocchio pru- dently held his tongue and said nothing more. the stable was then shut and pinocchio was left alone. he had not eaten for many hours, and he began to yawn from hunger. and when he yawned he opened a mouth that seemed as wide as an oven. pinocchio i will teach you to jump through the hoops, to go through frames of paper head foremost, to dance waltzes and polkas, and to stand upright on your hind legs.” poor pinocchio, either by love or by force, had to learn all these fine things. but it took him three months before he had learnt them, and he got many a whipping that nearly took off his skin. at last a day came when his master was able to announce that he would give a really extraordinary representation. the many-col- oured placards stuck on the street corners were thus worded: great full dress representation to-night will take place the usual feats and surprising performances executed by all the artistes and by all the horses of the company, and moreover the famous little donkey pinocchio, called the star of the dance, will make his first appearance. the theatre will be brilliantly illuminated. pinocchio this speech was received with much laugh- ter and applause; but the applause redoubled and became tumultuous when the little donkey pinocchio made his appearance in the middle of the circus. he was decked out for the occa- sion. he had a new bridle of polished leather with brass buckles and studs, and two white camelias in his ears. his mane was divided and curled, and each curl was tied with bows of coloured ribbon. he had a girth of gold and silver round his body, and his tail was plaited with amaranth and blue velvet ribbons. he was, in fact, a little donkey to fall in love with! the director, in presenting him to the pub- lic, added these few words: “my respectable auditors! i am not here to tell you falsehoods of the great difficulties that i have overcome in understanding and sub- jugating this mammifer, whilst he was grazing at liberty amongst the mountains in the plains of the torrid zone. i beg you will observe the wild rolling of his eyes. every means having been tried in vain to tame him, and to accustom him to the life of domestic quadrupeds, i was often forced to have recourse to the convincing argument of the whip. but all my goodness to him, instead of gaining his affections, has, on the contrary, increased his viciousness. pinocchio however, following the system of gall, i dis- covered in his cranium a bony cartilage, that the faculty of medicine in paris has itself recognised as the regenerating bulb of the hair, and of dance. for this reason i have not only taught him to dance, but also to jump through hoops and through frames covered with paper. admire him, and then pass your opinion on him! but before taking my leave of you, per- mit me, ladies and gentlemen, to invite you to the daily performance that will take place to-morrow evening; but in the apotheosis that the weather should threaten rain, the perform- ance will be postponed till to-morrow morning at antemeridian of postmeridian.” here the director made another profound bow; and then turning to pinocchio, he said: courage, pinocchio! before you begin your feats make your bow to this distinguished audience-ladies, gentlemen, and children.” pinocchio obeyed, and bent both his knees till they touched the ground, and remained kneeling until the director shouted to him: “ at a foot's pace!” then the little donkey raised himself on his four legs and began to walk round the theatre, keeping at a foot's pace. after a little the director cried: pinocchio trot!” and pinocchio, obeying the order, changed to a trot. gallop!” and pinocchio broke into a gallop. “full gallop!” and pinocchio went full gallop. but whilst he was going full speed like a racehorse the director, raising his arm in the air, fired off a pistol. at the shot the little donkey, pretending to be wounded, fell his whole length in the cir- cus, as if he was really dying. as he got up from the ground amidst an outburst of applause, shouts, and clapping of hands, he naturally raised his head and looked up and he saw in one of the boxes a beau- tiful lady who wore round her neck a thick gold chain from which hung a medallion. on the medallion was painted the portrait of a puppet. “ that is my portrait!... that lady is the fairy!” said pinocchio to himself, recognising her immediately; and overcome with delight he . . o tried to cry: oh, my little fairy! oh, my little fairy!” but instead of these words a bray came from his throat, so sonorous and so prolonged that all the spectators laughed, and more especially all the children who were in the theatre. pinocchio then the director, to give him a lesson, and to make him understand that it is not good manners to bray before the public, gave him a blow on his nose with the handle of his whip. the poor little donkey put his tongue out an inch, and licked his nose for at least five minutes, thinking perhaps that it would ease the pain he felt. but what was his despair when, looking up a second time, he saw that the box was empty and that the fairy had disappeared! he thought he was going to die: his eyes filled with tears and he began to weep. no- body, however, noticed it, and least of all the director who, cracking his whip, shouted: courage, pinocchio! now let the audi- ence see how gracefully you can jump through the hoops.” pinocchio tried two or three times, but each time that he came in front of the hoop, instead of going through it, he found it easier to go under it. at last he made a leap and went through it; but his right leg unfortunately caught in the hoop, and that caused him to fall to the ground doubled up in a heap on the other side. when he got up he was lame, and it was only with great difficulty that he managed to return to the stable. pinocchio bring out pinocchio! we want the little donkey! bring out the little donkey!” shouted all the boys in the theatre, touched and sorry for the sad accident. but the little donkey was seen no more that evening. the following morning the veterinary, that is, the doctor of animals, paid him a visit, and declared that he would remain lame for life. the director then said to the stable-boy: what do you suppose i can do with a lame donkey? he would eat food without earn- ing it. take him to the market and sell him.' when they reached the market a purchaser was found at once. he asked the stable-boy: “how much do you want for that lame donkey?” twenty francs.” “i will give you twenty pence. don't sup- pose that i am buying him to make use of; i am buying him solely for his skin. i see that his skin is very hard, and i intend to make a drum with it for the band of my village.” i leave it to my readers to imagine poor pinocchio's feelings when he heard that he was destined to become a drum! as soon as the purchaser had paid his twenty pence he conducted the little donkey to pinocchio in the world. but instead, induced by my dis- like to study and the advice of bad companions, i ran away from home . . . and one fine day when i awoke i found myself changed into a donkey with long ears ... and a long tail!... what a disgrace it was to me!-a disgrace, dear master, that the blessed st. anthony would not inflict even upon you! taken to the market to be sold i was bought by the director of an equestrian company, who took it into his head to make a famous dancer of me, and a famous leaper through hoops. but one night during a performance i had a bad fall in the circus and lamed both my legs. then the director, not knowing what to do with a lame donkey, sent me to be sold, and you were the purchaser!...' only too true! and i paid twenty pence for you. and now who will give me back my poor pennies? “and why did you buy me? you bought me to make a drum of my skin!... a drum!... only too true! and now where shall i find another skin?..." “don't despair, master. there are such a number of little donkeys in the world!” “tell me, you impertinent rascal, does your story end here?” “no,” answered the puppet; “i have pinocchio “good-bye, master; if you should be in want of a skin to make a drum, remember me.” and he laughed and went on swimming; and after a while he turned again and shouted louder: good-bye, master; if you should be in want of a little well-seasoned wood for lighting the fire, remember me." in the twinkling of an eye he had swum so far off that he was scarcely visible. all that could be seen of him was a little black speck on the surface of the sea that from time to time lifted its legs out of the water and leapt and capered like a dolphin enjoying himself. whilst pinocchio was swimming he knew not whither, he saw in the midst of the sea a rock that seemed to be made of white marble, and on the summit there stood a beautiful little goat who bleated lovingly and made signs to him to approach. but the most singular thing was this. the little goat's hair, instead of being white or black, or a mixture of two colours as is usual with other goats, was blue, and of a very vivid blue, greatly resembling the hair of the beautiful child. i leave you to imagine how rapidly poor pinocchio's heart began to beat. he swam with redoubled strength and energy towards pinocchio the white rock; and he was already half-way when he saw, rising up out of the water and coming to meet him, the horrible head of a sea- monster. his wide-open cavernous mouth and his three rows of enormous teeth would have been terrifying to look at even in a picture. and do you know what this sea-monster was? this sea-monster was neither more nor less than that gigantic dog-fish who has been men- tioned many times in this story, and who, for his slaughter and for his insatiable voracity, had been named the “attila of fish and fisher- men.” only think of poor pinocchio's terror at the sight of the monster. he tried to avoid it, to change his direction; he tried to escape; but that immense wide-open mouth came towards him with the velocity of an arrow. “be quick, pinocchio, for pity's sake,” cried the beautiful little goat, bleating. and pinocchio swam desperately with his arms, his chest, his legs, and his feet. quick, pinocchio, the monster is close upon youl..." and pinocchio swam quicker than ever, and flew on with the rapidity of a ball from a gun. he had nearly reached the rock, and the little pinocchio goat, leaning over towards the sea, had stretched out her fore-legs to help him out of the water! ... but it was too late! the monster had over- taken him, and, drawing in his breath, he sucked in the poor puppet as he would have sucked a hen's egg; and he swallowed him with such vio- lence and avidity that pinocchio, in falling into the dog-fish's stomach, received such a blow that he remained unconscious for a quarter of an hour afterwards. when he came to himself again after the shock he could not in the least imagine in what world he was. all round him it was quite dark, and the darkness was so black and so profound that it seemed to him that he had fallen head downwards into an inkstand full of ink. he listened, but he could hear no noise; only from time to time great gusts of wind blew in his face. at first he could not understand where the wind came from, but at last he discovered that it came out of the monster's lungs. for you must know that the dog-fish suffered very much from asthma, and when he breathed it was exactly as if a north wind was blowing. pinocchio at first tried to keep up his cour- age; but when he had one proof after another pinocchio that he was really shut up in the body of this sea-monster he began to cry and to sob out: help! help! oh, how unfortunate i am! will nobody come to save me?” who do you think could save you, un- happy wretch?. said a voice in the dark that sounded like a guitar out of tune. “who is speaking?” asked pinocchio, frozen with terror. “it is i! i am a poor tunny who was swallowed by the dog-fish at the same time that you were. and what fish are you?” “i have nothing in common with fish. i am a puppet.”. “then if you are not a fish, why did you let yourself be swallowed by the monster? “i didn't let myself be swallowed: it was the monster swallowed me! and now, what are we to do here in the dark?” resign ourselves and wait until the dog- fish has digested us both.” ‘but i do not want to be digested!” howled pinocchio, beginning to cry again. “neither do i want to be digested,” added the tunny;“ but i am enough of a philosopher to console myself by thinking that when one is born a tunny it is more dignified to die in the water than in oil." pinocchio that is all nonsense!” cried pinocchio. “ it is my opinion,” replied the tunny; “and opinions, so say the political tunnies, ought to be respected.” “to sum it all up... i want to get away from here ... i want to escape.” escape if you are able!... “is this dog-fish who has swallowed us very big?” asked the puppet. “big! why, only imagine, his body is two miles long without counting his tail.” whilst they were holding this conversation in the dark, pinocchio thought that he saw a light a long way off. “what is that little light i see in the dis- tance?” he asked. “it is most likely some companion in mis- fortune who is waiting like us to be digested.” “i will go and find him. do you not think that it may by chance be some old fish who perhaps could show us how to escape?” i hope it may be so with all my heart, dear puppet." good-bye, tunny.” good-bye, puppet, and good fortune attend you." “where shall we meet again?. “who can say?... it is better not even to think of it!" . pinocchio his arms he threw them round the little old man's neck, and began to shout: “oh, my dear papa! i have found you at last! i will never leave you more, never more, never more!” “then my eyes tell me true?” said the little old man, rubbing his eyes; “ then you are really my dear pinocchio?” yes, yes, i am pinocchio, really pinoc- chio! and you have quite forgiven me, have you not? oh, my dear papa, how good you are! ... and to think that i, on the contrary oh! but if you only knew what misfortunes have been poured on my head, and all that has befallen me! only imagine, the day that you, poor dear papa, sold your coat to buy me a spelling-book that i might go to school, i escaped to see the puppet-show, and the show- man wanted to put me on the fire that i might roast his mutton, and he was the same that afterwards gave me five gold pieces to take them to you, but i met the fox and the cat, who took me to the inn of the red craw-fish, where they ate like wolves, and i left by myself in the middle of the night, and i encountered assassins who ran after me, and i ran away, and they followed, and i ran, and they always followed me, and i ran, until they hung me to a branch of a big oak, and the beautiful child pinocchio with blue hair sent a little carriage to fetch me, and the doctors when they had seen me said immediately, “if he is not dead, it is a proof that he is still alive'—and then by chance i told a lie, and my nose began to grow until i could no longer get through the door of the room, for which reason i went with the fox and the cat to bury the four gold pieces, for one i had spent at the inn, and the parrot began to laugh, and instead of two thousand gold pieces i found none left, for which reason the judge when he heard that i had been robbed had me immediately put in prison to content the robbers, and then when i was coming away i saw a beautiful bunch of grapes in a field, and i was caught in a trap, and the peasant, who was quite right, put a dog-collar round my neck that i might guard the poultry-yard, and acknowledging my innocence let me go, and the serpent with the smoking tail began to laugh and broke a blood-vessel in his chest, and so i returned to the house of the beautiful child who was dead, and the pigeon, seeing that i was crying, said to me, ‘i have seen your father who was building a little boat to go in search of you, and i said to him, ‘oh! if i had also wings,' and he said to me, ‘do you want to go to your father?' and i said, without doubt! but who will take me to him?' pinocchio foundered. the sailors were all saved, but the vessel went to the bottom, and the dog-fish, who had an excellent appetite, after he had swallowed me, swallowed the vessel. ..." 'how?" “he swallowed it in one mouthful, and the only thing that he spat out was the mainmast, that had stuck between his teeth like a fish- bone. fortunately for me the vessel was laden with preserved meat in tins, biscuit, bottles of wine, dried raisins, cheese, coffee, sugar, candles, and boxes of wax matches. with this providential supply i have been able to live for two years. but i have arrived at the end of my resources: there is nothing left in the larder, and this candle is the last that remains ... “ and after that?” after that, dear boy, we shall both re- main in the dark.” “then, dear little papa,” said pinocchio, there is no time to lose. we must think of escaping ... “of escaping?... and how?” “we must escape through the mouth of the dog-fish, jump into the sea and swim away. “you talk well: but, dear pinocchio, i don't know how to swim." “what does that matter?... i am a good pinocchio swimmer, and you can get on my shoulders and i will carry you safely to shore.” “all illusions, my boy!” replied geppetto, shaking his head, with a melancholy smile. “do you suppose it possible that a puppet like you, scarcely a metre high, could have the strength to swim with me on his shoulders!” “ try it and you will see! ” without another word pinocchio took the candle in his hand, and going in front to light the way, he said to his father: "follow me, and don't be afraid.” and they walked for some time and traversed the body and the stomach of the dog- fish. but when they had arrived at the point where the monster's big throat began, they thought it better to stop to give a good look round and to choose the best moment for escaping now i must tell you that the dog-fish, being very old, and suffering from asthma and palpitation of the heart, was obliged to sleep with his mouth open. pinocchio, therefore, having approached the entrance to his throat and, looking up, could see beyond the enormous gaping mouth a large piece of starry sky and beautiful moonlight. “this is the moment to escape,” he whis- pered, turning to his father; "the dog-fish is pinocchio panting for breath ... he could do no more, and the shore was still far off. he swam until he had no breath left; then he turned his head to geppetto and said in broken words: “papa ... help me ... i am dying!...” the father and son were on the point of drowning when they heard a voice like a guitar out of tune saying: “who is it that is dying?” “ it is i, and my poor father!...” “i know that voice! you are pinocchio!” “precisely: and you?” “i am the tunny, your prison companion in the body of the dog-fish.” “and how did you manage to escape? “i followed your example. you showed me the road, and i escaped after you.” tunny, you have arrived at the right mo- ment! i implore you to help us, or we are > lost.” “willingly and with all my heart. you must, both of you, take hold of my tail and leave me to guide you. i will take you on shore in four minutes.' geppetto and pinocchio, as i need not tell you, accepted the offer at once; but instead of holding on by his tail they thought it would be pinocchio at this spon- more comfortable to get on the tunny's back. having reached the shore pinocchio sprang first on land that he might help his father to do the same. he then turned to the tunny, and said to him in a voice full of emotion: my friend, you have saved my papa's life. i can find no words with which to thank you properly. permit me at least to give you a kiss as a sign of my eternal gratitude!...” the tunny put his head out of the water, and pinocchio, kneeling on the ground, kissed him tenderly on the mouth. taneous proof of warm affection, the poor tunny, who was not accustomed to it, felt extremely touched, and ashamed to let himself be seen crying like a child, he plunged under the water and disappeared. by this time the day had dawned. pinoc- chio then offering his arm to geppetto, who had scarcely breath to stand, said to him: “ lean on my arm, dear papa, and let us go. we will walk very slowly like the ants and when we are tired we can rest by the way- side.” “and where shall we go?” asked geppetto. in search of some house or cottage, where they will give us for charity a mouthful of bread, and a little straw to serve as a bed.” pinocchio i will have pity on both father and son, but i wished to remind you of the ill treatment i received from you, to teach you that in this world, when it is possible, we should show cour- tesy to everybody, if we wish it to be extended to us in our hour of need.” you are right, cricket, you are right, and i will bear in mind the lesson you have given me. but tell me how you managed to buy this beautiful hut." this hut was given to me yesterday by a goat whose wool was of a beautiful blue colour.” and where has the goat gone?” asked pinocchio with lively curiosity. “i do not know.” “and when will it come back? ...' “it will never come back. it went away yesterday in great grief and, bleating, it seemed to say: ‘poor pinocchio ... i shall never see him more ... by this time the dog-fish must have devoured him!... "did it really say that? ... then it was she!... it was shel ... it was my dear little fairy! ..."exclaimed pinocchio. when he had cried for some time he dried his eyes, and prepared a comfortable bed of straw for geppetto to lie down upon. then he asked the cricket: pinocchio > his dying eyes, and answered in broken words in the same language: “i am ... can ... dle ... wick .. and having again closed his eyes he expired. “oh, poor candlewick!” said pinocchio in a low voice; and taking a handful of straw he dried a tear that was rolling down his face. “do you grieve for a donkey that cost you nothing?” said the gardener. “what must it be to me who bought him for ready money? “i must tell you ... he was my friend!” your friend?” “ one of my schoolfellows!... “how?” shouted giangio, laughing loudly. “how? had you donkeys for schoolfellows? ... i can imagine what wonderful studies you must have made!...' the puppet, who felt much mortified at these words, did not answer; but taking his tumbler of milk, still quite warm, he returned to the hut. and from that day for more than five months he continued to get up at daybreak every morning to go and turn the pumping machine, to earn the tumbler of milk that was of such benefit to his father in his bad state of health. nor was he satisfied with this; for dur- ing the time that he had over he learnt to make hampers and baskets of rushes, and with the pinocchio money he obtained by selling them he was able with great economy to provide for all the daily expenses. amongst other things he constructed an elegant little wheel-chair, in which he could take his father out on fine days to breathe a mouthful of fresh air. by his industry, ingenuity, and his anxiety to work and to overcome difficulties, he not only succeeded in maintaining his father, who continued infirm, in comfort, but he also con- trived to put aside forty pence to buy himself a new coat. one morning he said to his father: “i am going to the neighbouring market to buy myself a jacket, a cap, and a pair of shoes. when i return,” he added, laughing, “ i shall be so well dressed that you will take me for a fine gentleman.” and leaving the house he began to run mer- rily and happily along. all at once he heard himself called by name, and turning round he saw a big snail crawling out from the hedge. “do you not know me?” asked the snail. “ it seems to me and yet i am not . sure “do you not remember the snail who was lady’s-maid to the fairy with blue hair? do you not remember the time when i came down- stairs to let you in, and you were caught by pinocchio found old geppetto quite well, lively, and in good humour, just as he had been formerly. he had already resumed his trade of wood- carving, and he was designing a beautiful frame of leaves, flowers, and the heads of animals. satisfy my curiosity, dear papa,” said pinocchio, throwing his arms round his neck and covering him with kisses; “ how can this sudden change be accounted for?” * this sudden change in our home is all your doing,” answered geppetto. how my doing? “because when boys who have behaved badly turn over a new leaf and become good, they have the power of bringing content and happiness to their families.” and where has the old wooden pinocchio hidden himself?” “there he is,” answered geppetto, and he pointed to a big puppet leaning against a chair, with its head on one side, its arms dangling, and its legs so crossed and bent that it was really a miracle that it remained standing. pinocchio turned and looked at it; and after he had looked at it for a short time, he said to himself with great complacency: “how ridiculous i was when i was a pup- pet! and how glad i am that i have become a well-behaved little boy? .. r "" i *‘ ‘r = ’ haw" ' . ‘ m m j r. m. k?‘ ‘l.'i'.) a!‘ . ‘ v" copyright, , by rand mcnally & . tu! rand~mcnally pnass chicago d- the contents alice's adventures in wonderland pagi dedication. . . . . . . . . . . . . . ii cum“ i. down the rabbit-hole . . . . . . . . . ii. tiie pool or tears . . . . . . . . . . iii. a caucus-race and a long tale . . . . . . iv. the rabbit sends in a little bill . . . . . v. advice from a caterpillar . . . . . . . . vi. pig and pepper vii. a mad tea-party . viii. tiie queen's croquet ground . ix. the mocx turtle's story . . . . . . . . x. tiie loester-quadrille . . . . . . . . . xi. who stole the tarts? . . . . . . . . . xii. alice's evidence . . . . . . . . . . . i alice's adventures in wonderland “i? --| \g ‘i. \ "- j : . " all in the golden afternoon full leisurely we glide; for both our oars, with little skill, by little arms are plied, while little hands make vain pretense our wanderings to guide. ah, cruel three! in such an hour, beneath such dreamy weather, to beg a tale of breath too weak to stir the tiniest feather! yet what can one poor voice avail against three tongues together? imperious prima flashes forth her edict “to begin it": in gentler tones secunda hopes “ there will be nonsense in it!" while tertia interrupts the tale not more than once a minute. anon, to sudden silence won, in fancy they pursue the dream-child moving through a land f wonders wild anai new, in friendly chat with bird br beast — and half believe it true. and ever, as the story drained the wells of fancy dry, and faintly strove that weary one to put the subject by, “the rest next time—" “it is next time!" the happy voices cry. thus grew the tale of wonderland: thus slowly, one by one, its quaint events were hammered out — and now the tale is done, and home we steer, a merry crew, beneath the setting sun. alice! a childish story take, and, with a gentle hand, lay it where childhood's dreams are twined in memory's mystic band, like pilgrim's wither'd wreath of flowers pluck'd in a far-ofl land. alice's adventures in wonderland chapter i down the rabbit—hole lice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank, and of having nothing to do: once or twice she had peeped into the book her sister was reading, but it had no pictures or conver- sations in it, “and what is the use of a book," thought alice, “without pictures or conversations?" so she was considering, in her own mind (as well as she could, for the hot day made her feel very sleepy and stupid), whether the pleasure of making a daisy-chain would be worth the trouble of getting up and picking the daisies, when suddenly a white rabbit with pink eyes ran close by her. there was nothing so very remarkable in that; nor did alice think it so very much out of the way to hear the rabbit say to itself, “oh dear! oh dear! i shall be too late!" (when she thought it over afterwards, it occurred to her that she ought to have wondered at this, but at the time it all seemed quite natural); but, when the rabbit actually took a watch out of his waistcoat- pocket, and looked at it, and then hurried on, alice i i alice's adventures started to her feet, for it flashed across her mind that she had never before seen a rabbit with either a waistcoat- pocket, or a watch to take out of it, and, burning with curiosity, she ran across the field after it, and was just in time to see it pop down a large rabbit-hole under the hedge. in another moment down went alice after it, never once considering how in the world she was to get out again. the rabbit-hole went straight on like a tunnel for some way, and then dipped suddenly down, so suddenly that alice had not a moment to think about stopping herself before she found herself falling down what seemed to be a very deep well. either the well was very deep, or she fell very slowly, for she had plenty of time as she went down to look about her, and to wonder what was going to happen next. first,’ she tried to look down and make out what she was coming to, but it was too dark to see anything: then she looked at the sides of the well, and noticed that they were filled with cupboards and book-shelves: here and there she saw maps and pictures hung upon pegs. she took down a jar from one of the shelves as she passed: it was labeled “orange marma- lade," but to her great disappointment it was empty: she did not like to drop the jar, for fear of killing some- body underneath, so managed to put it into one of the cupboards as she fell past it. “well!" thought alice to herself. “after such a fall as this, i shall think nothing of tumbling down-stairs! how brave they'll all think me at home! why, i would n't say anything about it, even if i fell off the top of the house!" (which was very likely true.) in wonderland i down, down, down. would the fall never come to an end? “i wonder how many miles i 've fallen by this time?" she said aloud. “i must be getting somewhere near the center of the earth. let me see: that would be four thousand miles down, i think—" (for, you see, alice had learnt several things of this sort in her lessons in the school-room, and though this was not a very good opportunity for showing ofi her knowledge, as there was no one to listen to her, still it was good practice to say it over) “—yes, that's about the right distance—but then i wonder what latitude or longitude i've got to?" (alice had not the slightest idea what latitude was, or longitude either, but she thought they were nice grand words to say.) presently she began again. “i wonder if i shall fall right through the earth! how funny it'll seem to come out among the people that walk with their heads downwards! the antipathies, i think—" (she was rather glad there was no one listening, this time, as it did n't sound at all the right word) “—but i shall have to ask them what the name of the country is, you know. please, ma'am, is this new zealand? or australia?" (and she tried to curtsey as she spoke—fancy, curt- seying as you're falling through the air! do you think you could manage it?) “and what an ignorant little girl she'll think me for asking! no, it'll never do to ask: perhaps i shall see it written up somewhere." down, down, down. there was nothing else to do, so alice soon began talking again. “dinah 'll miss me very much to-night, i should think!" (dinah was the cat.) “i hope they'll remember her saucer of milk at tea-time. dinah, my dear! i wish you were down i _ alice's adventures here with me! there are no mice in the air, i'm afraid, but you might catch a bat, and that's very like a mouse, you know. but do cats eat bats, i wonder?" and here alice began to get rather sleepy, and went on saying to herself, in a dreamy sort of way, “do cats eat bats? do cats eat bats?" and sometimes “do bats eat cats?" for, you see, as she could n't answer either question, it did n't much matter which way she put it. she felt that she was dozing e, and had just begun to dream that she was walking hand in hand with dinah, and was saying to her, very earnestly, “now, dinah, tell me the truth: did you ever eat a bat?" when suddenly, thump! thump! down she came upon a heap of sticks and dry leaves, and the fall was over. alice was not a bit hurt, and she jumped up on to her feet in a moment: she looked up, but it was all dark overhead: before her was another long passage, and the white rabbit was still in sight, hurrying down it. there was not a moment to be lost: away went alice like the wind, and was just in time to hear it say, as it turned a corner, “ oh my ears and whiskers, how late it 's getting!" she was close behind it when she turned the corner, but the rabbit was no longer to be seen: she found herself in a long, low hall, which was lit up by a row of lamps hanging from the roof. there were doors all round the hall, but they were all locked; and when alice had been all the way down one side and up the other, trying every door, she walked sadly down the middle, wondering how she was ever to get out again. suddenly she came upon a little three-legged table, all made of solid glass: there was nothing on it but a page i when the rabbi! look a watch out of his waistcoal-porkel, alice started to her feel ’ in wonderland i tiny golden key, and alice's first idea was that this might belong to one of the doors of the hall; but, alas! either the locks were too large, or the key was too small, but at any rate it would not open any of them. however, on the second time round, she came upon a low curtain she had not noticed before, and behind it was a little door about fifteen inches high: she tried the little golden key in the lock, and to her great delight it fitted! alice opened the door and found that it led into a small passage, not much larger than a rat-hole: she knelt down and looked along the passage into the loveliest garden you ever saw. how she longed to get out of that dark hall, and wander about ‘among those beds of bright flowers and those cool fountains, but she could not even get her head through the doorway; “ and even if my head would go through," thought poor alice, “it would be of very little use without my shoulders. oh, how i wish i could shut up like a telescope! i think i could, if i only knew how to begin." for, you see, so many out- of-the-way things had happened lately, that alice had begun to think that very few things indeed were really impossible. there seemed to be no use in waiting by the little door, so she went back to the table, half hoping she might find another key on it, or at any rate a book of rules for shutting people up like telescopes: this time she found a little bottle on it (“ which certainly was not here before," said alice), and tied round the neck of the bottle was a paper label, with the words “drink me " beautifully printed on it in large letters. it was all very well to say “drink me," but the wise little alice was not going to do that in a hurry. “no, i alice's adventures i'll look first," she said, “and see whether it's marked ‘poison' or not"; for she had read several nice little stories about children who had got burnt, and eaten up by wild beasts, and other unpleasant things, all because they would not remember the simple rules their friends had taught them: such as, that a red-hot poker will burn you if you hold it too long; and that, if you cut your finger very deeply with a knife, it usually bleeds; and she had never forgotten that, if you drink much from a bottle marked “poison," it is almost certain to disagree with you, sooner or later. however, this bottle was not marked “poison," so alice ventured to taste it, and, finding it very nice (it had, in fact, a sort of mixed flavor of cherry-tart, custard, pine-apple, roast turkey, tofiee, and hot buttered toast), she very soon finished it ofi. o o o o o o q q q i “what a curious feeling!" said alice. “i must be shutting up like a telescope!" and so it was indeed: she was now only ten inches high, and her face brightened up at the thought that she was now the right size for going through the little door into that lovely garden. first, however, she waited for a few minutes to see if she was going to shrink any further: she felt a little nervous about this; “for it might end, you know," said alice to herself, ‘ ‘ in my going out altogether, like a candle. i wonder what i should be like then?" and she tried to fancy what the flame of a candle looks like after the candle is blown out, for she could not remember ever having seen such a thing. in wonderland i after a while, finding that nothing more happened, she decided on going into the garden at once; but, alas for poor alice! when she got to the door, she found she had forgotten the little golden key, and when she went back to the table for it, she found she could not possibly reach it: she could see it quite plainly through the glass, and she tried her best to climb up one of the legs of the table, but it was too slippery; and when she had tired herself out with trying, the poor little thing sat down and cried. “come, there's no use in crying like that!" said alice to herself rather sharply. “i advise you to leave ofi this minute!" she generally gave herself very good advice (though she very seldom followed it), and some- times she scolded herself so severely as to bring tears into her eyes; and once she remembered trying to box her own ears for having cheated herself in a game of croquet she was playing against herself, for this curious child was very fond of pretending to be two people. “but it 's no use now," thought poor alice, “to pretend to be two people! why, there 's hardly enough of me left to make one respectable person!" soon her eye fell on a little glass box that was lying under the table: she opened it, and found in it a very small cake, on which the words “eat me" were beautifully marked in currants. “well, i'll eat it," said alice, “and if it makes me grow larger, i can reach the key; and if it makes me grow smaller, i can creep under the door: so either way i'll get into the garden, and i don't care which happens!" she ate a little bit, and said anxiously to herself, “which way? which way?" holding her hand on the o alice's adventures top of her head to feel which way it was growing; and she was quite surprised to find that she remained the same size. to be sure, this is what generally happens when one eats cake; but alice had got so much into the way of expecting nothing but out-of-the-way things to happen, that it seemed quite dull and stupid for life to go on in the common way. so she set to work, and very soon finished off the cake. * t # # i i c o o ' chapter ii the pool of tears “ uriouser and curiouser!" cried alice (she was so much surprised, that for the moment she quite forgot how to speak good english). “now i 'm opening out like the largest telescope that ever was! good-by, feet!" (for when she looked down at her feet, they seemed to be almost out of sight, they were getting so far off). “oh, my poor little feet, i wonder who will put on your shoes and stockings for you now, dears? i'm sure i shan't be able! i shall be a great deal too far off to trouble myself about you: you must manage the best way you can—but i must be kind to them," thought alice, “or perhaps they won't walk the way i want to go! let me see. i'll give them a new pair of boots every christmas." and she went on planning to herself how she would manage it. “they must go by the carrier," she thought; “and how funny it'll seem, sending presents to one's own feet! and how odd the directions will look! alice's right foot, esq., hearthrug, near the fender, (with alice's love). oh dear, what nonsense i'm talking!" just at this moment her head struck against the roof of the hall: in fact she was now rather more than nine : in wonderland but if i'm not the same, the next question is ‘who in the world am i?' ah, that 's the great puzzle!" and she began thinking over all the children she knew that were of the same age as herself, to see if she could have been changed for any of them. “i'm sure i'm not ada," she said, “for her hair goes in such long ringlets, and mine does n't go in ringlets at all; and i ‘m sure i can't be mabel, for i know all sorts of things, and she, oh, she knows such a very little! besides, she's she, and i 'm i, and—oh dear, how puz- zling it all is! i'll try if i know all the things i used to know. let me see: four times five is twelve, and four times six is thirteen, and four times seven is—oh dear! i shall never get to twenty at that rate! however, the multiplication-table does n't signify: let's try geogra- phy. london is the capital of paris, and paris is the capital of rome, and rome—no, that's all wrong, i'm certain! i must have been changed for mabel! i'll try and say ‘how doth the little—'," and she crossed her hands on her lap, as if she were saying lessons, and began to repeat it, but her voice sounded hoarse and strange, and the words did not come the same as they used to do:- “how doth the little crocodile improve his shining tail, and pour the waters of the nile on every golden scale! “how cheerfully he seems to grin, how neatly spreads his claws, and welcomes little fishes in, with gently smiling jaws! " in wonderland never was so small as this before, never! and i declare it's too bad, that it is!" as she said these words her foot slipped, and in another moment, splash! she was up to her chin in salt- water. her first idea was that she had somehow fallen into the sea, “and in that case i can go back by railway," she said to herself. (alice had been to the seaside once in her life, and had come to the general conclusion that, wherever you go to on the english coast, you find a number of bathing-machines in the sea, some children digging in the sand with wooden spades, then a row of lodging-houses, and behind them a railway-station.) however, she soon made out that she was in the pool of tears which she had wept when she was nine feet high. “i wish i had n't cried so much!" said alice, as she swam about, trying to find her way out. “i shall be punished for it now, i suppose, by being drowned in my own tears! that will be a queer thing, to be sure! however, everything is queer to-day." just then she heard something splashing about in the pool a little way off, and she swam nearer to make ‘out what it was: at first she thought it must be a walrus or hippopotamus, but then she remembered how small she was now, and she soon made out that it was only a mouse, that had slipped in like herself. “would it be of any use, now," thought alice, “to speak to this mouse? everything is so out-of-the-way down here, that i should think very likely it can talk: at any rate, there's no harm in trying." so she began: “ mouse, do you know the way out of this pool? i am very tired of swimming about here, mouse!" (alice thought this must be the right way of speaking to a alice's adventures mouse: she had never done such a thing before, but she remembered having seen, in her brother's latin gram- mar, “a mouse—of a mouse—to a mouse—a mouse— mouse!") the mouse looked at her rather inquisi- tively, and seemed to her to wink with one of its little eyes, but said nothing. “perhaps it does n't understand english," thought alice. , “i dare say it's a french mouse, come over with william the conqueror." (for, with all her knowledge of history, alice had no very clear notion how long ago anything had happened.) so she began again: “ a est ma chatte?" which was the first sentence in her french lesson-book. the mouse gave a sudden leap out of the water, and seemed to quiver all over with fright. “oh, i beg your pardon!" cried alice hastily, afraid that she had hurt the poor animal's feelings. “i quite forgot you did n't like cats." “not like cats!" cried the mouse in a shrill, pas- sionate voice. “would you like cats, if you were me?" “well, perhaps not," said alice in a soothing tone: “don't be angry about it. and yet i wish i could show you our cat dinah. i think you'd take a fancy to cats if you could only see her. she is such a dear quiet thing," alice went on, half to herself, as she swam lazily about in the poo , “and sits purring so nicely by the fire, licking her paws and washing her face—and she is such a nice soft thing to nurse—and she's such a capital one for catching mice oh, i beg your pardon!" cried alice again, for this time the mouse was bris- tling all over, and she felt certain it must be really offended. “we won't talk about her any more, if you'd rather not." in wonderland “we, indeed!" cried the mouse, who was trembling down to the end of its tail. “as if i would talk on such a subject! our family always hated cats: nasty, low, vulgar things! don't let me hear the name again!” “i won't indeed!" said alice, in a great hurry to change the subject of conversation. “are you—are you fond—of —-of dogs?" the mouse did not answer, so alice went on eagerly: “there is such a nice little dog, near our house, i should like to show you! a little bright-eyed terrior, you know, with oh, such long curly brown hair! and it'll fetch things when you throw them, and it'll sit up and beg for its dinner, and all sorts of things—i can't remember half of them—and it belongs to a farmer, you know, and he says it's so useful, it 's worth a hundred pounds! he says it kills all the rats and—oh dear!" cried alice in a sorrowful tone. “i'm afraid i've offended it again!" for the mouse was swimming away from her as hard as it could go, and making quite a commotion in the pool as it went. so she called softly after it, “mouse dear! do come back again, and we won't talk about cats, or dogs either, if you don't like them!" when the mouse heard this, it turned round and swam slowly back to her: its face was quite pale (with passion, alice thought), and it said, in a low trembling voice, “let us get to the shore, and then i'll tell you my history, and you'll understand why it is i hate cats and dogs." it was high time to go, for the pool was getting quite crowded with the birds and animals that had fallen into it: there was a duck and a dodo, a lory and an eaglet, and several other curious creatures. alice led the way, and the whole party swam to the shore. in wonderland had been of late much accustomed to usurpation and conquest. edwin and morcar, the earls of mercia and northumbria ———' " “ugh!" said the lory, with a shiver. “i beg your pardon!" said the mouse, frowning, but very politely. “did you speak?" “not i!" said the lory, hastily. “i thought you did," said the mouse. “i proceed. ‘edwin and morcar, the earls of mercia and northum- bria, declared for him; and even stigand, the patriotic archbishop of canterbury, found it advisable —' " “found what?" said the duck. “found it," the mouse replied rather crossly: “of course you know what ‘it' means." “i know what ‘it' means well enough when i find a thing," said the duck: “it's generally a frog or a worm. the question is, what did the archbishop find?" the mouse did not notice this question, but hur- riedly went on, “ ‘— found it advisable to go with edgar atheling to meet william and offer him the crown. william's conduct at first was moderate. but the insolence of his normans——' how are you getting on now, my dear?" it continued, turning to alice as it spoke. “as wet as ever," said alice in a melancholy tone: “it does n't seem to dry me at all." “in that case," said the dodo solemnly, rising to its feet, “i move that the meeting adjourn, for the immediate adoption of more energetic remedies " “speak english!" said the eaglet. “i don't know the meaning of half those long words, and, what's more, i don't believe you do either!" and the eaglet bent o alice's adventures down its head to hide a smile: some of the other birds tittered audibly. “what i was going to say," said the dodo in an oflended tone, “was, that the best thing to get us dry would be a caucus-race." “what is a caucus-race?" said alice; not that she much wanted to know, but the dodo had paused as if it thought that somebody ought to speak, and no one else seemed inclined to say anything. “why," said the dodo, “the best way to explain it is to do it." (and, as you might like to try the thing yourself, some winter-day, i will tell you how the dodo managed it.) first it marked out a race-course, in a sort of circle (“the exact shape does n't matter," it said), and then all the party were placed along the course, here and there. there was no “one, two, three, and away!" but they began running when they liked, and left off when they liked, so that it was not easy to know when the race was over. however, when they had been running half an hour or so, and were quite dry again, the dodo suddenly called out, “the race is over!" and they all crowded round it, panting. and asking, “but who has won?" this question the dodo could not answer without a great deal of thought, and it sat for a long time with one finger pressed upon its forehead (the position in which you usually see shakespeare, in the pictures of him), while the rest waited in silence. at last the dodo said, “everybody has won, and all must have prizes." “but who is to give the prizes?" quite a chorus of voices asked. in wonderland i “why, she, of course," said the dodo, pointing to alice with one finger; and the whole party at once crowded round her, calling out, in a confused way, “prizes! prizes!" alice had no idea what to do, and in despair she put her hand in her pocket, and pulled out a box of comfits (luckily the salt water had not got into it), and handed them round as prizes. there was exactly one apiece, all round. “but she must have a prize herself, you know," said the mouse. “of course," the dodo replied very gravely. “what else have you got in your pocket?" he went on, turning to alice. “only a thimble," said alice sadly. “hand it over here," said the dodo. then they all crowded round her once more, while the dodo solemnly presented the thimble, saying, “we beg your acceptance of this elegant thimble"; and when it had finished this short speech, they all cheered. alice thought the whole thing very absurd, but they all looked so grave that she did not dare to laugh; and, as she could not think of anything to say, she simply bowed, and took the thimble, looking as solemn as she could. the next thing was to eat the comfits: this caused some noise and confusion, as the large birds complained that they could not taste theirs, and the small ones choked and had to be patted on the back. however, it was over at last, and they sat down again in a ring, and begged the mouse to tell them something more. ‘ ‘ you promised to tell me your history, you know," said alice, “and why it is you hate—c and d," she added alice's adventures in a whisper, half afraid that it would be offended again. “mine is a long and a sad tale!" said the mouse, turning to alice, and sighing.- “ it is a long tail, certainly," said alice, looking down with wonder at the mouse's tail; “but why do you call it sad?" and she kept on puzzling about it while the mouse was speaking, so that her idea of the tale was something like this: — “fury said to a mouse, that he met in the house, ‘let us both go to law: i will prose- cute you.—- come, i'll take no de- nial: we must have the trial; for really this morn- in wonderland “you are not attending!" said the mouse to alice, severely. “what are you thinking of?" “i beg your pardon," said alice very humbly: “you had got to the fifth bend, i think?" “i had not!" cried the mouse, sharply and very angrily. “a knot!" said alice, always ready to make herself useful, and looking anxiously about her. “oh, do let me help to undo it!" “i shall do nothing of the sort," said the mouse, getting up and walking away. “you insult me by talking such nonsense!" “i didn't mean it!" pleaded poor alice. “but you're so easily offended, you know!" the mouse only growled in reply. “please come back, and finish your story!" alice called after it. and the others all joined in chorus, “yes, please do!" but the mouse only shook its head impatiently, and walked a little quicker. “what a pity it would n't stay!" sighed the lory, as soon as it was quite out of sight. and an old crab took the opportunity of saying to her daughter, “ah, my dear! let this be a lesson to you never to lose your temper!" “hold your tongue, ma!" said the young crab, a little snappishly. “you're enough to try the patience of an oyster!" “i wish i had our dinah here, i know i do!" said alice aloud, addressing nobody in particular. “she 'd soon fetch it back!" “and who is dinah, if i might venture to ask the question?" said the lory. alice replied eagerly, for she was always ready to alice’s adventures talk about her pet: “dinah's our cat. and she's such a capital one for catching mice, you can't think! and oh, i wish you could see her after the birds! why, she'll eat a little bird as soon as look at it!" this speech caused a remarkable sensation among the party. some of the birds hurried off at once: one old magpie began wrapping itself up very carefully, remarking, “i really must be getting home: the night- air does n't suit my throat!" and a canary called out in a trembling voice, to its children, “come away, my dears! it's high time you were all in bed!" on various pretexts they all moved off, and alice was soon left alone. “i wish i had n't mentioned dinah!" she said to herself in a melancholy tone. “nobody seems to like her, down here, and i'm sure she's the best cat in the world! oh, my dear dinah! i wonder if i shall ever see you any more!" and here poor alice began to cry again, for she felt very lonely and low-spirited. in a little while, however, she again heard a little pattering of footsteps in the distance, and she looked up eagerly, half hoping that the mouse had changed his mind, and was coming back to finish his story. chapter iv the rabbit sends in a little bill twas the white rabbit, trotting slowly back again, and looking anxiously about as it went, as if it had lost something; and she heard it muttering to itself, “the duchess! the duchess! oh my dear paws! oh my fur and whiskers! she'll get me executed as sure as ferrets are ferrets! where can i have dropped them, i wonder?" alice guessed in a moment that it was looking for the fan and the pair of white kid-gloves, and she very good-naturedly began hunting about for them, but they were nowhere to be seen —everything seemed to have changed since her swim in the pool; and the great hall, with the glass table and the little door, had vanished completely. very soon the rabbit noticed alice, as she went hunting about, and called out to her, in an angry tone, “why, mary ann, what are you doing out here? run home this moment, and fetch me a pair of gloves and a fan! quick, now!" and alice was so much frightened that she ran off at once in the direction it pointed to, without trying to explain the mistake that it had made. “he took me for his housemaid," she said to herself as she ran. “how surprised he'll be when he finds out who i am! but i'd better take him his fan and gloves —- that is, if i can find them." as she said this, she came upon a neat little house, on the door of which was alice's adventures a bright brass plate with the name “w. rabbit" engraved upon it. she went in without knocking, and hurried upstairs, in great fear lest she should meet the real mary ann, and be turned out of the house before she had found the fan and gloves. “how queer it seems," alice said to herself, “to be going messages for a rabbit! i suppose dinah 'll be sending me on messages next!" and she began fancying the sort of thing that would happen: “ ‘miss alice! come here directly, and get ready for your walk!' ‘coming in a minute, nurse! but i've got to watch this mouse-hole till dinah comes back, and see that the mouse does n't get out.' only i don't think," alice went on, “that they 'd let dinah stop in the house if it began ordering people about like that!" by this time she had found her way into a tidy little room with a table in the window, and on it (as she had hoped) a fan and two or three pairs of tiny white kid- gloves: she took up the fan and a pair of the gloves, and was just going to leave the room, when her eye fell upon a little bottle that stood near the looking-glass. there was no label this time with the words “drink me," but nevertheless she uncorked it and put it to her lips. “i know something interesting is sure to happen," she said to herself, “whenever i eat or drink anything: so i'll just see what this bottle does. i do hope it'll . make me grow large again, for really i'm quite tired of being such a tiny little thing!" it did so indeed, and much sooner than she had expected: before she had drunk half the bottle, she found her head pressing against the ceiling, and had to stoop to save her neck from being broken. she hastily in wonderland put down the bottle, saying to herself, “that 's quite enough—i hope i shan't grow any more—as it is, i can't get out at the door—i do wish i had n't drunk quite so much!" alas! it was too late to wish that! she went on growing, and growing, and very soon had to kneel down on the floor: in another minute there was not even room for this, and she tried the effect of lying down with one elbow against the door, and the other arm curled round her head. still she went on growing, and, as a last resource, she put one arm out of the window, and one foot up the chimney, and said to herself, “now i can do no more, whatever happens. what will become of me?" luckily for alice, the little magic bottle had now its full effect, and she grew no larger: still it was very uncomfortable, and, as there seemed to be no sort of chance of her ever getting out of the room again, no wonder she felt unhappy. “it was much pleasanter at home," thought poor alice, “when one was n't always growing larger and smaller, and being ordered about by mice and rabbits. i almost wish i had n't gone down that rabbit-hole— and yet—a.nd yet—it's rather curious, you know, this sort of life! i do wonder what can have happened to me! when i used to read fairy tales, i fancied that kind of thing never happened, and now here i am in the middle of one! there ought to be a book written about me, that there ought! and when i grow up, i'll write one—but i'm grown up now," she added in a sorrowful tone: “at least there 's no room to grow up any more here." alice's adventures “but then," thought alice, “shall i never get any older than i am now? that ' be a comfort, one way- never to be an old woman —but then —always to have lessons to learn! oh, i should n't like that! " “oh, you foolish alice!" she answered herself. “how can you learn lessons in here? why, there 's hardly room for you, and no room at all for any lesson- books!" and so she went on, taking first one side and then the other, and making quite a conversation of it alto- gether; but after a few minutes she heard a voice outside, and stopped to listen. “mary ann! mary ann!" said the voice. “fetch me my gloves this moment!" then came a little patter- ing of feet on the stairs. alice knew it was the rabbit coming to look for her, and she trembled till she shook the house, quite forgetting that she was now about a thousand times as large as the rabbit, and had no reason to be afraid of it. presently the rabbit came up to the door, and tried to open it; but, as the door opened inwards, and alice's elbow was pressed hard against it, that attempt proved a failure. alice heard it say to itself, “then i'll go round and get in at the window." “that you won't!" thought alice, and, after waiting till she fancied she heard the rabbit just under the win- dow, she suddenly spread out her hand, and made a snatch in the air. she did not get hold of anything, but she heard a little shriek and a fall, and a crash of broken glass, from which she concluded that it was just possible it had fallen into a cucumber-frame, or something of the sort. in wonderland next came an angry voice—the rabbit's—“pat! pat! where are you?" and then a. voice she had never heard before, “sure then i'm here! digging for apples, yer honor!" “ digging for apples, indeed!" said the rabbit angrily. “here! come and help me out of this! " (sounds of more broken glass.) “now tell me, pat, what's that in the window?" “sure, it's an arm, yer honor!" (he pronounced it “arrum." “an arm, you goose! who ever saw one that size? why, it fills the whole window!" “sure, it does, yer honor: but it's an arm for all that." “well, it's got no business there, at any rate: go and take it away!" there was a long silence after this, and alice could only hear whispers now and then; such as “sure, i don't like it, yer honor, at all, at all!" “do as i tell you, you coward!" and at last she spread out her hand again, and made another snatch in the air. this time there were two little shrieks, and more sounds of broken glass. “what a number of cucumber-frames there must be!" thought alice. “i wonder what they'll do next! as for pulling me out of the window, i only wish they could! i'm sure i don't want to stay in here any longer!" she waited for some time without hearing anything more: at last came a rumbling of little cart-wheels, and the sound of a good many voices all talking together: she made out the words: “ where's the other ladder? — why, i had n't to bring but one. bill's got the other— bill! fetch it here, lad!—here, put 'em up at this page "so bill's got to come down the chimney, has he?" in wonderland i “so you did, old fellow!" said the others. “we must burn the house down!" said the rabbit's voice. and alice called out, as loud as she could, “if you do, i'll set dinah at you!" there was a dead silence instantly, and alice thought to herself, “i wonder what they will do next! if they had any sense, they'd take the roof ofi." after a minute or two, they began moving about again, and alice heard the rabbit say, “a barrowful will do, to begin with." “a barrowful of what? " thought alice. but she had not long to doubt, for the next moment a shower of little pebbles came rattling in at the window, and some of them hit her in the face. “i'll put a stop to this," she said to herself, and shouted out, “you'd better not do that again!" which produced another dead silence. alice noticed, with some surprise, that the pebbles were all turning into little cakes as they lay on the floor, and a bright idea came into her head. “if i eat one of these cakes," she thought, “it's sure to make some change in my size; and, as it can't possibly make me larger, it must make me smaller, i suppose." so she swallowed one of the cakes, and was delighted to find that she began shrinking directly. as soon as she was small enough to get through the door, she ran out of the house, and found quite a crowd of little ani- mals and birds waiting outside. the poor little lizard, bill, was in the middle, being held up by two guinea- pigs, who were giving it something out of a bottle. they all made a rush at alice the moment she appeared; but she ran off as hard as she could, and soon found herself safe in a thick wood. “the first thing i 've got to do," said alice to herself, alice's adventures as she wandered about in the wood, “is to grow to my right size again; and the second thing is to find my way into that lovely garden. i think that will be the best plan." it sounded an excellent plan, no doubt, and very neatly and simply arranged: the only difficulty was, that she had not the smallest idea how to set about it; and, while she was peering about anxiously among the trees, a little sharp bark just over her head made her look up in a great hurry. an enormous puppy was looking down at her with large round eyes, and feebly stretching out one paw, trying to touch her. “poor little thing!" said alice, in a coaxing tone, and she tried hard to whistle to it; but she was terribly frightened all the time at the thought that it might be hungry, in which case it would be very likely to eat her up in spite of all her coaxing. hardly knowing what she did, she picked up a little bit of stick, and held it out to the puppy: whereupon the puppy jumped into the air off all its feet at once, with a yelp of delight, and rushed at the stick, and made believe to worry it: then alice dodged behind a great thistle, to keep herself from being run over; and, the moment she appeared on the other side, the puppy made another rush at the stick, and tumbled head over heels in its hurry to get hold of it: then alice, thinking it was very like having a game of play with a carthorse, and expecting every moment to be trampled under its feet, ran round the thistle again: then the puppy began a series of short charges at the stick, running a. very little way forwards each time and a long way back, and barking hoarsely all the while, till at last it sat down a in wonderland good way off, panting, with its tongue hanging out of its mouth, and its great eyes half shut. this seemed to alice a good opportunity for making her escape: so she set off at once, and ran till she was quite tired and out of breath, and till the puppy's bark sounded quite faint in the distance. “and yet what a dear little puppy it was!" said alice, as she leant against a buttercup to rest herself, and fanned herself with one of the leaves. “i should have liked teaching it tricks very much, if —if i'd only been the right size to do it! oh dear! i'd nearly forgotten that i've got to grow up again! let me see —- how is it to be managed? i suppose i ought to eat or drink something or other; but the great question is ‘what?' " the great question certainly was “what?" alice looked all round her at the flowers and the blades of grass, but she could not see anything that looked like the right thing to eat or drink under the circumstances. there was a large mushroom growing near her, about the same height as herself; and, when she had looked under it, and on both sides of it, and behind it, it occurred to her that she might as well look and see what was on the top of it. she stretched herself up on tiptoe, and peeped over the edge of the mushroom, and her eyes immediately met those of a large blue caterpillar, that was sitting on the top, with its arms folded, quietly smoking a long hookah, and taking not the smallest notice of her or of anything else. chapter v advice from a caterpillar he caterpillar and alice looked at each other for some time in silence: at last the caterpillar took the hookah out of its mouth, and addressed her in a languid, sleepy voice. “who are you?" said the caterpillar. this was not an encouraging opening for a conver- sation. alice replied, rather shyly, “ i — i hardly know, sir, just as present — at least i know who i was when i got up this morning, but i think i must have been changed several times since then." “what do you mean by that?" said the cater- pillar, sternly. “explain yourself!" “i can't explain myself, i'm afraid, sir," said alice. “because i'm not myself, you see." “i don't see," said the caterpillar. “i 'm afraid i can't put it more clearly," alice replied, very politely, “for i can't understand it myself, to begin with; and being so many difierent sizes in a day is very confusing." ’ “it is n't," said the caterpillar. “well, perhaps you have n't found it so yet," said alice, “but when you have to turn into a chrysalis — you will some day, you know — and then after that into a butterfly, i should think you'll feel it a little queer, won't you?" “not a bit," said the caterpillar. in wonderland “well, perhaps your feelings may be different," said alice: “all i know is, it would feel very queer to me." “you!" said the caterpillar contemptuously. “who are you?" which brought them back again to the beginning of the conversation. alice felt a little irritated at the caterpillar's making such very short remarks, and she drew herself up and said, very gravely, “i think you ought to tell me who you are, first." “why?" said the caterpillar. here was another puzzling question; and, as alice could not think of any good reason, and the caterpillar seemed to be in a very unpleasant state of mind, she turned away. “come back!" the caterpillar called after her. “i've something important to say!" this sounded promising, certainly. alice turned and came back again. “keep your temper," said the caterpillar. “is that all?" said alice, swallowing down her anger as well as she could. “n ," said the caterpillar. alice thought she might as well wait, as she had nothing else to do, and perhaps after all it might tell her something worth hearing. for some minutes it pufied away without speaking; but at last it unfolded its arms, took the hookah out of its mouth again, and said, “so you think you're changed, do you?" “i'm afraid i am, sir," said alice. “i can't remem- ber things as i used —and i don't keep the same size for ten minutes together!" “can't remember what things?" said the caterpillar. in wonderland “ you are old," said the youth, “one would hardly suppose that your eye was as steady as ever; yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose — what made you so awfully clever?" “i have answered three questions, and that is enough," said his father. “don't give yourself airs! do you think i can listen all day to such stufl'? be of, or i'll kick you down-stairs!" “that is not said right," said the caterpillar. “not quite right, i'm afraid," said alice, timidly: “some of the words have got altered." “it is wrong from beginning to end," said the cater- pillar, decidedly; and there was silence for some minutes. the caterpillar was the first to speak. “what size do you want to be?" it asked. “oh, i'm not particular as to size," alice hastily re- plied;“ only one does n't like changing so often, you know." “i don't know," said the caterpillar. alice said nothing: she had never been so much contradicted in all her life before, and she felt that she was losing her temper. “are you content now?" said the caterpillar. “well, i should like to be a little larger, sir, if you would n't mind," said alice: “three inches is such a wretched height to be." “it is a very good height indeed!" said the cater_ pillar angrily, rearing itself upright as it spoke (it was exactly three inches high). “but i'm not used to it!" pleaded poor alice in a piteous tone. and she thought to herself, “i wish the creatures would n't be so easily ofiended!" alice's adventures “you'll get used to it in time," said the caterpillar; and it put the hookah into its mouth, and began smoking again. ‘ this time alice waited patiently until it chose to speak again. in a minute or two the caterpillar took the hookah out of its mouth, and yawned once or twice, and shook itself. then it got down off the mushroom, and crawled away into the grass, merely remarking, as it went, “one side will make you grow taller, and the other side will make you grow shorter." “one side of what? the other side of what?" thought alice to herself. “of the mushroom," said the caterpillar, just as if she had asked it aloud; and in another moment it was out of sight. alice remained looking thoughtfully at the mush- room for a minute, trying to make out which were the two sides of it; and as it was perfectly round, she found this a very difficult question. however, at last she stretched her arms around it as far as they would go, and broke off a bit of the edge with each hand. “and now which is which?" she said to herself, and nibbled a little of the right-hand bit to try the effect. the next moment she felt a violent blow underneath her chin: it had struck her foot! she was a good deal frightened by this very sudden change, but she felt that there was no time to be lost, as she was shrinking rapidly: so she set to work at once to eat some of the other bit. her chin was pressed so closely against her foot, that there was hardly room to open her mouth; but she did it at last, and managed to swallow a morsel of the left-hand bit. page is a very good height indeed!" said the caterpillar angrily ‘i in wonderland u i ii * * o o * # “come, my head 's free at last!" said alice in a tone of delight, which changed into alarm in another moment, when she found that her shoulders were nowhere to be found: all she could see, when she looked down, was an immense length of neck, which seemed to rise like a stalk out of a sea of green leaves that lay far below her. “what can all that green stuff be?" said alice. “and where have my shoulders got to? and oh, my poor hands, how is it i can't see you?" she was moving them about, as she spoke, but no result seemed to follow, except a little shaking among the distant green leaves. as there seemed to be no chance of getting her hands up to her head, she tried to get her head down to them, and was delighted to find that her neck would bend about easily in any direction, like a serpent. she had just succeeded in curving it down into a graceful zigzag, and was going to dive in among the leaves, which she found to be nothing but the tops of the trees under which she had been wandering, when a sharp hiss made her draw back in a hurry: a large pigeon had flown into her face, and was beating her violently with its wings. “serpent!" screamed the pigeon. . “i'm not a serpent!" said alice indignantly. “let me alone!" “serpent, i say again!" repeated the pigeon, but in a more subdued tone, and added, with a kind of sob, “ i 've tried every way, but nothing seems to suit them!" “ i have n't the least idea what you're talking about," said alice. o alice's adventures “i've tried the roots of trees, and i've tried banks, and i've tried hedges," the pigeon went on, without attending to her; “but those serpents! there 's no pleasing them!" alice was more and more puzzled, but she thought there was no use in saying anything more till the pigeon had finished. “as if it was n't trouble enough hatching the eggs, . said the pigeon; “but i must be on the lookout for ser- pents, night and day! why, i have n't had a wink of sleep these three weeks!" “i'm very sorry you've been annoyed," said alice, who was beginning to see its meaning. “and just as i 'd taken the highest tree in the wood," continued the pigeon, raising its voice to a shriek, “and just as i was thinking i should be free of them at last, they must needs come wriggling down from the sky! ugh, serpent!" “but i'm not a serpent, i tell you!" said alice. “i’m a——i'm a—" “well! what are you?" said the pigeon. “i can see you're trying to invent something!" “i — i'm a little girl," said alice, rather doubtfully, as she remembered the number of changes she had gone through, that day. “a likely story indeed!" said the pigeon, in a tone of the deepest contempt. “i 've seen a good many little girls in my time, but never one with such a neck as that! no, no! you're a serpent; and there's no use denying it. i suppose you'll be telling me next that you never tasted an egg!" ’ “i have tasted eggs, certainly," said alice, who’wa's in wonderland i a very truthful child; “but little girls eat eggs quite as much as serpents do, you know." “i don't believe it," said the pigeon; “but if they do, why, then they 're a kind of serpent: that's all i can say." this was such a new idea to alice, that she was quite silent for a minute or two, which gave the pigeon the opportunity of adding, “you're looking for eggs, i know that well enough; and what does it matter to me whether you're a little girl or a serpent?" “it matters a good deal to me," said alice hastily; “but i'm not looking for eggs, as it happens; and, if i was, i shouldn't want yours: i don't like them raw." “well, be off, then!" said the pigeon in a sulky tone, as it settled down again into its nest. alice crouched down among the trees as well as she could, for her neck kept getting entangled among the branches, and every now and then she had to stop and untwist it. after a while she remembered that she still held the pieces of mushroom in her hands, and she set to work very carefully, nibbling first at one and then at the other, and growing sometimes taller, and sometimes shorter, until she had succeeded in bringing herself down to her usual height. it was so long since she had been anything near the right size, that it felt quite strange at first; but she got used to it in a few minutes, and began talking to herself, as usual, “come, there's half my plan done now! how puzzling all these changes are! i'm never sure what i'm going to be, from one minute to another! however, i've got back to my right size: the next thing is, to get into that beautiful garden — how is that to be done, i wonder?" as she said this, she came suddenly upon alice's adventures an open place, with a little house in it about four feet high. “whoever lives there," thought alice, “it'll never do to come upon them this size: why, i should frighten them out of their wits!" so she began nibbling at the right-handbit again, and did not venture to go near the house till she had brought herself down to nine inches high. alice's adventures alice went timidly up to the door, and knocked. “there 's no sort of use in knocking," said the foot- man, “and that for two reasons. first, because i'm on the same side of the door as you are: secondly, because they're making such a noise inside, no one could possibly hear you." and certainly there was a most extraordinary noise going on within —a constant howling and sneez- ing, and every now and than a great crash, as if a dish or kettle had been broken to pieces. “please, then," said alice, “how am i to get in?" “there might be some sense in your lmocking," the footman went on, without attending to her, “if we had the door between us. for instance, if you were inside, you might knock, and i could let you out, you know." he was looking up into the sky all the time he was speaking, and this alice thought decidedly uncivil. “but perhaps he can't help it," she said to herself; “his eyes are so very nearly at the top of his head. but at any rate he might answer questions.— how am i to get in?" she repeated, aloud. “i shall sit here," the footman remarked, “till to-morrow ——" at this moment the door of the house opened, and a large plate came skimming out, straight at the footman's head: it just grazed his nose, and broke to pieces against one of the trees behind him. “ — or next day, maybe," the footman continued in the same tone, exactly as if nothing had happened. “how am i to get in?" asked alice again, in a louder tone. “are you to get in at all?" said the footman. “that's the first question, you know." in wonderland it was, no doubt: only alice did not like to be told so. “it's really dreadful," she muttered to herself, “the way all the creatures argue. it's enough to drive one crazy!" the footman seemed to think this a good oppor- tunity for repeating his remark, with variations. “i shall sit here," he said, “on and off, for days and days." “but what am i to do?" said alice. “anything you like," said the footman, and began whistling. “oh, there's no use in talking to him," said alice desperately: “he's perfectly idiotic!" and she opened the door and went in. the door led right into a large kitchen, which was full of smoke from one end to the other: the duchess was sitting on a three-legged stool in the middle, nursing a baby: the cook was leaning over the fire, stirring a large caldron which seemed to be full of soup. “there 's certainly too much pepper in that soup!" alice said to herself, as well as she could for sneezing. there was certainly too much of it in the air. even the duchess sneezed occasionally; and as for the baby, it was sneezing and howling alternately without a mo- ment's pause. the only two creatures in the kitchen that did not sneeze were the cook, and a large cat, which was sitting on the hearth and grinning from ear to ear. “ please would you tell me," said alice, a little tirnidly, for she was not quite sure whether it was good manners for her to speak first, “why your cat grins like that?" “it's a cheshire-ca ," said the duchess, “and that's why. pig!" she said the last word with such sudden violence alice's adventures that alice quite jumped; but she saw in another moment that it was addressed to the baby, and not to her, so she took courage, and went on again:- “i did n't know that cheshire-cats always grinned; in fact, i did n't know that cats could grin." “they all can," said the duchess; “and most of 'em do." “i don't know of any that do," alice said very po- litely, feeling quite pleased to have got into a conversation. “you don't know much," said the duchess; “and that's a fact." alice did not at all like the tone of this remark, and thought it would be as well to introduce some other subject of conversation. while she was trying to fix on one, the cook took the caldron of soup off the fire, and at once set to work throwing everything within her reach at the duchess and the baby — the fire-irons came first; then followed a shower of saucepans, plates, and dishes. the duchess took no notice of them even when they hit her; and the baby was howling so much already, that it was quite impossible to say whether the blows hurt it or not. “oh, please mind what you're doing!" cried alice, jumping up and down in an agony of terror. “oh, there goes his precious nose!" as an unusually large saucepan flew close by it, and very nearly carried it off. “if everybody minded their own business,” said the duchess, in a hoarse growl, “the world would go round a deal faster than it does." “which would not be an advantage," said alice, who felt very glad to get an opportunity of showing off a little of her knowledge. “just think what work it in wonderland would make with the day and night! you see the earth takes twenty-four hours to turn round on its axis —" “talking of axes," said the duchess, “chop off her head!" alice glanced rather anxiously at the cook, to see if she meant to take the hint; but the cook was busily stirring the soup, and seemed not to be listening, so she went on again: “twenty-four hours. i think; or is it twelve? i —" “oh, don't bother me!" said the duchess. “i never could abide figures!" and with that she began nursing her child again, singing a sort of lullaby to it as she did so, and giving it a violent shake at the end of every line:- “speak roughly to your little boy, and beat him when he sneezes: he only does it to annoy, because he knows it teases." chorus (in which the cook and the babv ioined) :— “ wow! wow! wow!" while the duchess sang the second verse of the song, she kept tossing the baby violently up and down, and the poor little thing howled so, that alice could hardly hear the words: — “i speak severely to my boy, i beat him when he sneezes, for he can thoroughly enjoy the pepper when he pleases!" alice's adventures chorus “wow! wow! wow!" “here! you may nurse it a bit, if you like!" the duchess said to alice, flinging the baby at her as she spoke. “i must go and get ready to play croquet with the queen," and she hurried out of the room. the cook threw a frying-pan after her as she went, but it just missed her. alice caught the baby with some difficulty, as it was a queer-shaped little creature, and held out its arms and legs in all directions, “just like a star-fish," thought alice. the poor little thing was snorting like a steam- engine when she caught it, and kept doubling itself up and straightening itself out again, so that altogether, for the first minute or two, it was as much as she could do to hold it. as soon as she had made out the proper way of nursing it (which was to twist it up into a sort of knot, and then keep tight hold of its right ear and left foot, so as to prevent its undoing itself), she carried it out into the open air. “if i don't take this child away with me," thought alice, “they're sure to kill it in a day or two. would n't it be murder to leave it behind?" she said the last words out loud, and the little thing grunted in reply (it had left off sneezing by this time). “don't grunt," said alice; “that's not at all a proper way of expressing yourself." the baby grunted again, and alice looked very anxiously into its face to see what was the matter with it. there could be no doubt that it had a very turn-up nose, much more like a snout than a real nose: also its in wonderland eyes were getting extremely small for a baby: altogether alice did not like the look of the thing at all. “but per- haps it was only sobbing," she thought, and looked into its eyes again, to see if there were any tears. no, there were no tears. “if you're going to turn into a pig, my dear," said alice, seriously, “i'll have nothing more to do with you. mind now!" the poor little thing sobbed again (or grunted, it was impossible to say which), and they went on for some while in silence. alice was just beginning to think to herself, “now, what am i to do with this creature, when i get it home?" when it grunted again, so violently, that she looked down into its face in some alarm. this time there could be no mistake about it: it was neither more nor less than a pig, and she felt that it would be quite absurd for her to carry it any farther. so she set the little creature down, and felt quite relieved to see it trot away quietly into the wood. “if it had grown up," she said to herself, “it would have made a dreadfully ugly child: but it makes rather a hand- some pig, i think." and she began thinking over other children she knew, who might do very well as pigs, and was just saying to herself “if one only knew the right way to change them —" when she was a little startled by seeing the cheshire-cat sitting on a bough of a tree a few yards off. the cat only grinned when it saw alice. it looked good-natured, she thought: still it had very long claws and a great many teeth, so she felt that it ought to be treated with respect. “cheshire-puss," she began, rather timidly, as she did not at all know whether it would like the name: in wonderland i when it's angry, and wags its tail when it's pleased. n ow i growl when i'm pleased, and wag my tail when i 'm angry. therefore i 'm mad." “i call it purring, not growling," said alice. “ call it what you like," said the cat. “ do you play croquet with the queen to-day?" “i should like it very much," said alice, “but i have n't been invited yet." “you ' see me there," said the cat, and vanished. alice was not much surprised at this, she was getting so well used to queer things happening. while she was still looking at the place where it had been, it suddenly appeared again. “by-the-bye, what became of the baby?" said the cat. “i 'd nearly forgotten to ask." “it turned into a pig," alice answered very quietly, just as if the cat had come back in a natural way. “i thought it would," said the cat, and vanished again. alice waited a little, half expecting to see it again, but it did not appear, and after a minute or two she walked on in the direction in which the march hare was said to live. “i've seen hatters before," she said to herself: “the march hare will be much the most inter- esting, and perhaps, as this is may, it won't be raving mad—at least not so mad as it was in march." as she said this, she looked up, and there was the cat again, sitting on a branch of a tree. “did you say ‘pig' or ‘fig'?" said the cat. “i said ‘ pig,’ "replied alice; “and i wish you would n't keep appearing and vanishing so suddenly: you make one quite giddy!" alice's adventures “all right," said the cat; and this time it vanished quite slowly, beginning with the end of its tail, and ending with the grin, which remained some time after the rest of it had gone. “well! i've often seen a cat without a grin," thought alice; “but a grin without a cat! it's the most curious thing i ever saw in all my life!" \ she had not gone much farther before she came in sight of the house of the march hare: she thought it must be the right house, because the chimneys were shaped like ears and the roof was thatched with fur. it was so large a house, that she did not like to go nearer till she had nibbled some more of the left-hand bit of mushroom, and raised herself to about two feet high: even then she walked up towards it rather tirnidly, saying to herself, “suppose it should be raving mad after all! i almost wish i'd gone to see the hatter instead!" chapter vii a mad tea— party here was a table set out under a tree in front of the house, and the march hare and the hatter were having tea at it: a dormouse was sitting between them, fast asleep, and the other two were using it as a cushion, resting their elbows on it, and talking over its head. “very uncomfortable for the dormouse," thought alice; “only as it 's asleep, i suppose it does n't mind." the table was a large one, but the three were all crowded together at one corner of it. “no room! no room!" they cried out when they saw alice coming. “there 's plenty of room!" said alice indignantly, and she sat down in a large arm-chair at one end of the table. “have some wine," the march hare said in an encouraging tone. alice looked all round the table, but there was nothing on it but tea. “i don't see any wine," she remarked. “there is n't any," said the march hare. “then it was n't very civil of you to offer it," said alice angrily. “it wasn't very of you to sit down without being invited," said the march hare. “i did n't know it was your table," said alice: “it's laid for a great many more than three." “your hair wants cutting," said the hatter. he had been looking at alice for some time with great curiosity, and this was his first speech. alice's adventures “you should learn not to make personal remarks," alice said with some severity: “it's very rude." the hatter opened his eyes very wide on hear- ing this; but all he said was, “why is a raven like a writing-desk?" “come, we shall have some fun now!" thought alice. “i’m glad they've begun asking riddles — i believe i can guess that," she added aloud. “do you mean that you think you can find out the answer to it?" said the march hare. “exactly so," said alice. “then you should say what you mean," the march hare went on. “i do," alice hastily replied; “at least —at least i mean what i say- that 's the same thing, you know." “not the same thing a bit!" said the hatter. “why, you might just as well say that ‘i see what i eat' is the same thing as ‘i eat what i see'!" “you might just as well say," added the march hare, “that ‘i like what i get' is the same thing as ‘i get what i like'! " “you might just as well say," added the dormouse, who seemed to be talking in his sleep, “that ‘i breathe when i sleep' is the same thing as ‘i sleep when i breathe' !" “it is the same thing with you," said the hatter, and here the conversation dropped, and the party sat silent for a minute, while alice thought over all she could remember about ravens and writing-desks, which was n't much. the hatter was the first to break the silence. “what day of the month is it?" he said, turning to alice: he had taken his watch out of his pocket, and was looking in wonderland at it uneasily, shaking it every now and then, and holding it to his ear. alice considered a little, and then said, “ the fourth." “two days wrong!" sighed the hatter. “i told you butter would n't suit the works!" he added, looking angrily at the march hare. “it was the best butter," the march hare meekly replied. “yes, but some crumbs must have got in as well," the hatter grumbled: “you should n't have put it in with the bread-knife." the march hare took the watch and looked at it gloomily: then he dipped it into his cup of tea, and looked at it again: but he could think of nothing better to say than his first remark, “it was the best butter, you know." alice had been looking over his shoulder with some curiosity. “what a funny watch!" she remarked. “it tells the day of the month, and does n't tell what o'clock it is!" “why should it?" muttered the hatter. “does yourwatch tell you what year it is?" “of course not," alice replied very readily: “but that 's because it stays the same year for such a long time together." “which is just the case with mine," said the hatter. alice felt dreadfully puzzled. the hatter's remark seemed to her to have no sort of meaning in it, and yet it was certainly english. “i don't quite understand you," she said, as politely as she could. “the dormouse is asleep again," said the hatter, and he poured a little hot tea upon its nose. the dormouse shook its head impatiently, and said, alice's adventures without opening its eyes, “ of course, of course: just what i was going to remark myself." ’ “have you guessed the riddle yet?" the hatter said, turning to alice again. “no, i give it up," alice replied. “what's the answer?" "i have n't the slightest idea," said the hatter. “nor i," said the march hare. alice sighed wearily. “i think you might do some- thing better with the time," she said, “than wasting it in asking riddles that have no answers." “ if you knew time as well as i do," said the hatter, “you would n't talk about wasting it. it 's him." “i don't know what you mean," said alice. “of course you don't!" the hatter said, tossing his head contemptuously. “i dare say you never even spoke to time!" “perhaps not," alice cautiously replied; “but i know i have to beat time when i learn music." “ah! that accounts for it," said the hatter. “he won't stand beating. now, if you only kept on good terms with him, he'd do almost anything you liked with the clock. for instance, suppose it were nine o'clock in the morning, just time to begin lessons: you'd only have to whisper a hint to time, and round goes the clock in a twinkling! half-past one, time for dinner!" (“i only wish it was," the march hare said to itself in a whisper.) “ that would be grand, certainly," said alice thought- fully; “but then—i should n't be hungry for it, you know." “not at first, perhaps," said the hatter: “but you in wonderland could keep it to half-past one as long as you liked." “is that the way you manage?" alice asked. the hatter shook his head mournfully. “not i!" he replied. “we quarreled last march — just before he went mad, you know —" (pointing with his teaspoon at the march hare) “ — it was at the great concert given by the queen of hearts, and i had to sing ‘ twinkle, twinkle, little bat! how i wonder what you're at!’ you know the song, perhaps?" “i've heard something like it," said alice. “it goes on, you know," the hatter continued, “in this way:— ‘ up above the world you fly, like a tea-tray in the sky. twinkle, twinkle ——' " here the dormouse shook itself, and began singing in its sleep, “twinkle, twinkle, twinkle, twinkle—" and went on so long that they had to pinch it to make it stop. “well, i'd hardly finished the first verse," said the hatter, “when the queen bawled out, ‘he 's murdering the time! ofi with his head!' " “how dreadfully savage!" exclaimed alice. “and ever since that," the hatter went on in a mournful tone, “he won't do a thing i ask! it's always six o'clock now." a bright idea came into alice's head. “is that the reason so many tea things are put out here?" she asked. “yes, that's it," said the hatter with a sigh: “it's always tea-time, and we've no time to wash the things between whiles." alice's adventures “then you keep moving round, i suppose?" said alice. ’ “exactly so," said the hatter: “as the things get used up." “but when you come to the beginning again?" alice ventured to ask. “suppose we change the subject," the march hare interrupted, yawning. “i'm getting tired of this. i vote the young lady tells us a story." “i'm afraid i don't know one," said alice, rather alarmed at the proposal. “then the dormouse shall!" they both cried. “wake up, dormouse!" and they pinched it on both sides at once. the dormouse slowly opened its eyes. “i was n't asleep," it said in a hoarse, feeble voice, “i heard every word you fellows were saying." “tell us a story!" said the march hare. “yes, please do!" pleaded alice. “and be quick about it," added the hatter, “or you'll be asleep again before it's done." “once upon a time there were three little sisters," the dormouse began in a great hurry; “and their names were elsie, lacie, and tillie; and they lived at the bottom of a well —" “what did they live on?" said alice, who always took a great interest in questions of eating and drinking. “they lived on treacle," said the dormouse, after thinking a minute or two. “they could n't have done that, you know," alice gently remarked. “they'd have been ill." ' “so they were," said the dormouse; “very ill." in wonderland alice tried a little to fancy to herself what such an extraordinary way of living would be like, but it puzzled her too much: so she went on: “but why did they live at the bottom of a well?" “take some more tea," the march hare said to alice, very earnestly. “i've had nothing yet," alice replied in an ofiended tone: “so i can't take'more." “you mean you can't take less," said the hatter: “it's very easy to take more than nothing." “nobody asked your opinion," said alice. “who's making personal remarks now?" the hatter asked triumphantly. alice did not quite know what to say to this: so she helped herself to some tea and bread-and-butter, and then turned to the dormouse, and repeated her question. “why did they live at the bottom of a well?" the dormouse again took a minute or two to think about it, and then said, “it was a treacle-well." “there 's no such thing!" alice was beginning very angrily, but the hatter and the march hare went “sh! sh!" and the dormouse sulkily remarked, “if you can't be civil, you'd better finish the story for yourself." “no, please go on!" alice said very humbly. “i won't interrupt you again. i dare say there may be one." “one, indeed!" said the dormouse indignantly. however, he consented to go on. “and so these three little sisters — they were learning to draw, you know " “what did they draw?" said alice, quite forgetting her promise. o alice's adventures “treacle," said the dormouse, without considering at all, this time. “i want a clean cup," interrupted the hatter: “let's all move one place on." he moved on as he spoke, and the dormouse followed him: the march hare moved into the dorrnouse's place, and alice rather unwillingly took the place of the march hare. the hatter was the only one who got any advan- tage from the change; and alice was a good deal worse off than before, as the march hare had just upset the milk-jug into his plate. alice did not wish to offend the dormouse again, so she began very cautiously: “but i don't understand. where did they draw the treacle from?" “you can draw water out of a water-well," said the hatter; “so i should think you could draw treacle out of a treacle-well — eh, stupid?" “but they were in the well," alice said to the dor- mouse, not choosing to notice this last remark. “of course they were," said the dormouse: “well in." this answer so confused poor alice, that she let the dormouse go on for some time without interrupting it. “they were learning to draw," the dormouse went on, yawning and rubbing its eyes, for it was getting very sleepy; “ and they drew all manner of things — everything that begins with an m " “why with an m?" said alice. “why not?" said the march hare. alice was silent. the dormouse had closed its eyes by this time, and was going off into a doze; but, on being pinched by the hatter, it woke up again with a little shriek, in wonderland i and went on: -—-that begins with an m, such as mouse-traps, and the moon, and memory, and much- ness —you know you say things are ‘much of a muchness'— did you ever see such a thing as a draw- ing of a muchness?" “really, now you ask me,' confused, “i don't think ——" “then you should n't talk," said the hatter. this piece of rudeness was more than alice could bear: she got up in great disgust, and walked off: the dormouse fell asleep instantly, and neither of the others took the least notice of her going, though she looked back once or twice, half hoping that they would call after her: the last time she saw them, they were trying to put the dormouse into the teapot. “at any rate i'll never go there again!" said alice, as she picked her way through the wood. “it's the stupidest tea-party i ever was at in all my life!" just as she said this, she noticed that one of the trees had a door leading right into it. “ that's very curious!" she thought. “but everything's curious to-day. i think i may as well go in at once." and in she went. once more she found herself in the long hall, and close to the little glass table. “now, i'll manage better this time," she said to herself, and began by taking the little golden key, and unlocking the door that led into the garden. then she set to work nibbling at the mushroom (she had kept a piece of it in her pocket) till she was about a foot high: then she walked down the little passage: and then — she found herself at last in the beautiful garden, among the bright flower-beds and the cool fountains. , said alice, very much chapter viii the queen's croquet ground large rose-tree stood near the entrance of the garden: the roses growing on it were white, but there were three gardeners at it, busily painting them red. alice thought this a very curious thing, and she went nearer to watch them, and, just as she came up to them, she heard one of them say, “look out now, five! don't go splashing paint over me like that!" “i couldn't help it," said five, in a sulky tone. “seven jogged my elbow." on which seven looked up and said, “that's right, five! always lay the blame on others!" “ you'd better not talk!" said five. “i heard the queen say only yesterday you deserved to be beheaded." “what for?" said the one who had spoken first. “that 's none of your business, two!" said seven. “yes, it is his business!" said five. “and i'll tell him — it was for bringing the cook tulip-roots instead of onions." seven flung down his brush, and had just begun, “well, of all the unjust things -—" when his eye chanced to fall upon alice, as she stood watching them, and he checked himself suddenly: the others looked round also, and all of them bowed low. “would you tell me, please," said alice, a little timidly, “why you are painting those roses?" five and seven said nothing, but looked at two. alice's adventures on their faces, so that they could n't see it?" so she stood where she was, and waited. _ when the procession came opposite to alice, they all stopped and looked at her, and the queen said, severely, “who is this?" she said it to the knave of hearts, who only bowed and smiled in reply. “idiot!" said the queen, tossing her head impa- 'tiently; and, turning to alice, she went on: “what 's your name, child?" “my name is alice, so please your majesty," said alice very politely; but she added, to herself, “why, they're only a pack of cards, after all. i need n't be afraid of them!" “and who are these?" said the queen, pointing to the three gardeners who were lying round the rose-tree; for, you see, as they were lying on their faces, and the pattern on their backs was the same as the rest of the pack, she could not tell whether they were gardeners, or soldiers, or courtiers, or three of her own children. “how should i know?" said alice, surprised at her own courage. “it's no business of mine." the queen turned crimson with fury, and, after glaring at her for a moment like a wild beast, began screaming, “ off with her head! ofi —" “nonsense!" said alice, very loudly and decidedly, and the queen was silent. the king laid his hand upon her arm, and timidly said, “consider, my dear: she is only a child!" the queen turned angrily away from him, and said to the knave, “turn them over!" ' the knave did so, very carefully, with one foot. “get up!" said the queen in a shrill, loud voice, and in wonderland the three gardeners instantly jumped up, ‘and began bowing to the king, the queen, the royal children, and everybody else. “leave off that!" screamed the queen. “you make me giddy." and then, turning to the‘ rose-tree, she went on, “what have you been doing here?" “may it please your majesty," said two, in a very humble tone, going down on one knee as he spoke, “we were trying —" “i see!" said the queen, who had meanwhile been examining the roses. “off with their heads!" and the procession moved on, three of the soldiers remaining behind to execute the unfortunate gardeners, who ran to alice for protection. “you shan't be beheaded!" said alice, and she put them into a large flower-pot that stood near. the three soldiers wandered about for a minute or two, looking for them, and then quietly marched off after the others. “are their heads off ?" shouted the queen. “their heads are gone, if it please your majesty!" the soldiers shouted in reply. “that 's right!" shouted the queen. “ can you play croquet?" the soldiers were silent, and looked at alice, as the question was evidently meant for her. “yes!" shouted alice. “come on, then!" roared the queen, and alice joined the procession, wondering very much what would happen next. “it's —it's a very fine day!" said a timid voice at her side. she was walking by the white rabbit, who was peeping anxiously into her face. alice's adventures “very," said alice:—“where's the duchess?" “hush! hush!" said the rabbit in a low hurried tone. he looked anxiously over his shoulder as he spoke, and then raised himself up on tiptoe, put his mouth close to her ear, and whispered, “she's under sentence of execution." “what for?" said alice. “did you say ‘what a pity'?" the rabbit asked. “no, i did n't," said alice. “i don't think it's at all a pity. i said ‘what for?' " “she boxed the queen's ears —-—" the rabbit began. alice gave a little scream of laughter. “oh, hush!" the rabbit whispered in a frightened tone. “the queen will hear you! you see she came rather late, and the queen said " “get to your places!" shouted the queen in a voice of thunder, and people began running about in all direc- tions, tumbling up against each other: however, they got settled down in a minute or two, and the game began. alice thought she had never seen such a curious croquet ground in her life: it was all ridges and furrows: the croquet balls were live hedgehogs, and the mallets live fiamingoes, and the soldiers had to double themselves up and stand on their hands and feet, to make the arches. the chief difficulty alice found at first was _in manag- ing her flamingo: she succeeded in getting its body tucked away, comfortably enough, under her arm, with its legs hanging down, but generally, just as she had got its neck nicely straightened out, and was going to give the hedge- . hog a blow with its head, it would twist itself round and look up in her face, with such a puzzled expression that she could not help bursting out laughing; and, when alice's adventures the whole head appeared, and then alice put down her flamingo, and began an account of the game, feeling very glad she had some one to listen to her. the cat seemed to think that there was enough of it now in sight, and no more of it appeared. “i don't think they play at all fairly," alice began, in rather a complaining tone, “and they all quarrel so dreadfully one can't hear oneself speak —and they don't seem to have any rules in particular: at least, if there are, nobody attends to them—and you've no idea how confusing it is all the things being alive: for instance, there's the arch i've got to go through next walking about at the other end of the ground—and i should have croqueted the queen's hedgehog just now, only it ran away when it saw mine coming!" “how do you like the queen?" said the cat in a low voice. “not at all," said alice: “she's so extremely—" just then she noticed that the queen was close behind her, listening: so she went on “— likely to win, that it's hardly worth while finishing the game." the queen smiled and passed on. “who are you talking to?" said the king, coming up to alice, and looking at the cat's head with great curiosity. “it 's a friend of mine—a cheshire-cat," said alice: “allow me to introduce it." “i don't like the look of it at all," said the king: “however, it may kiss my hand, if it likes." “i'd rather not," the cat remarked. ' “don't be impertinent," said the king, “and don't look at me like that!" he got behind alice as he spoke. in wonderland “a cat may look at a king," said alice. “i've read that in some book, but i don't remember where." “well, it must be removed," said the king very decidedly; and he called to the queen, who was passing at the moment, “my dear! i wish you would have this cat removed!" the queen had only one way of settling all difficulties, great or small. “off with his head!" she said without even looking round. “i'll fetch the executioner myself," said the king eagerly, and he hurried ofi. alice thought she might as well go back and see how the game was going on, as she heard the queen's voice in the distance, screaming with passion. she had already heard her sentence three of the players to be executed for having missed their turns, and she did not like the look of things at all, as the game was in such confusion that she never knew whether it was her turn or not. so she went off in search of her hedgehog. the hedgehog was engaged in a fight with another hedgehog, which seemed to alice an excellent opportunity for croqueting one of them with the other: the only difl‘iculty was, that her flamingo was gone across to the other side of the garden, where alice could see it trying in a helpless sort of way to fly up into a tree. by the time she had caught the flamingo and brought it back, the fight was over, and both the hedgehogs were out of sight: “but it does n't matter much," thought alice, “as all the arches are gone from this side of the ground." so she tucked it away under her arm, that it might not escape again, and went back to have a little more conversation with her friend. page "it may kiss my hand, if t! likes," said the king chapter ix the mock turtle's story “ u can't think how glad i am to see you again, you dear old thing!" said the duchess, as she tucked her arm affectionately into alice's, and they walked ofi together. alice was very glad to find her in such a pleasant temper, and thought to-herself that perhaps it was only the pepper that had made her so savage when they met in the kitchen. “when i'm a duchess," she said to herself (not in a very hopeful tone, though), “i won't have any pepper in my kitchen at all. soup does very well without -—— maybe it's always pepper that makes people hot- tempered," she went on, very much pleased at having found out a new kind of rule, “and vinegar that makes them sour—and camomile that makes them bitter — and —and barley-sugar and such things that make children sweet-tempered. i only wish people knew that: then they would n't be so stingy about it, you know ——-" she had quite forgotten the duchess by this time, and was a little startled when she heard her voice close to her ear. “you're thinking about something, my dear, and that makes you forget to talk. i can't tell you just now what the moral of that is, but i shall remember it in a bit." “perhaps it has n't one," alice ventured to remark. alice's adventures “tut, tut, child!" said the duchess. “everything 's got a moral, if only you can find it." and she squeezed herself up closer to alice's side as she spoke. alice did not much like her keeping so close to her: first, because the duchess was very ugly; and secondly, because she was exactly the right height to rest her chin on alice's shoulder, and it was an uncomfortably sharp chin. however, she did not like to be rude: so she bore it as well as she could. “the game's going on rather better now," she said, by way of keeping up the conversation a little. “ 't is so," said the duchess: “and the moral of that is — ‘oh, 't is love, 't is love, that makes the world go round!' " “somebody said," alice whispered, “that it's done by everybody minding their own business!" “ah, well! it means much the same thing," said the duchess, digging her sharp little chin into alice's shoulder as she added, “and the moral of that is — ‘take care of the sense, and the sounds will take care of them- selves.' " “how fond she is of finding morals in things!" alice thought to herself. “i dare say you're wondering why i don't put my arm round your waist," the duchess said, after a pause: “the reason is, that i'm doubtful about the temper of your fiarningo. shall i try the experiment?" “he might bite," alice cautiously replied, not feeling at all anxious to have the experiment tried. “very true," said the duchess: “flamingoes and mustard both bite. and the moral of that is —‘ birds of a feather flock together.’ " in wonderland “only mustard is n't a bird," alice remarked. “right, as usual," said the duchess: “what a clear way you have of putting things!" “it's a mineral, i think," said alice. “of course, it is," said the duchess, who seemed ready to agree to everything that alice said: “there's a large mustard-mine near here. and the moral of that is — ‘the more there is of mine, the less there is of yours.' " “ oh, i know!" exclaimed alice, who had not attended to this last remark. “it's a vegetable. it does n't look like one, but it is." “i quite agree with you," said the duchess; “and the moral of that is — ‘be what you would seem to be' — or, if you'd like it put more simply— ‘ never imagine yourself not to be otherwise than what it might appear to others that what you were or might have been was not otherwise than what you had been would have appeared to them to be otherwise.' " “i think i should understand that better," alice said very politely, “if i had it written down: but i can't quite follow it as you say it." “that's nothing to what i could say if i chose," the duchess replied, in a pleased tone. “pray don't trouble yourself to say it any longer than that," said alice. “oh, don't talk about trouble!" said the duchess. “i make you a present of everything i've said as yet." “a cheap sort of present!" thought alice. “i'm glad they don't give birthday-presents like that!" but she did not venture to say it out loud. alice's adventures “thinking again?" the duchess asked, with another dig of her sharp little chin. “i've a right to think," said alice sharply, for she was beginning to feel a little worried. “just about as much right," said the duchess, “as pigs have to fly; and the m—-" but here, to alice's great surprise, the duchess's voice died away, even in the middle of her favorite word ‘moral,' and the arm that was linked into hers began to tremble. alice looked up, and there stood the queen in front of them, with her arms folded, frowning like a thunderstorm. “a fine day, your majesty!" the duchess began in a low, weak voice. “now, i give you fair warning," shouted the queen, stamping on the ground as she spoke; “either you or your head must be off, and that in about half no time! take your choice!" the duchess took her choice, and was gone in a moment. ' “ let 's go on with the game," the queen said to alice; and alice was too much frightened to say a word, but slowly followed her back to the croquet ground. the other guests had taken advantage of the queen's absence, and were resting in the shade: however, the moment they saw her, they hurried back to the game, the queen merely remarking that a moment's delay would cost them their lives. all the time they were playing the queen never left ofl quarreling with the other players, and shouting “ off with his head!" or “off with her head!" those whom she sentenced were taken into custody by the soldiers, who alice's adventures “what is the fun?" said alice. “why, she," said the gryphon. “it 's all her fancy, that: they never executes nobody, you know. come on!" “everybody says ‘come on!' here," thought alice, as she went slowly after it: “ i never was so ordered about before, in all my life, never!" they had not gone far before they saw the mock turtle in the distance, sitting sad and lonely on a little ledge of rock, and, as they came nearer, alice could hear him sighing as if his heart would break. she pitied him deeply. “what is his sorrow?" she asked the gryphon. and the gryphon answered, very nearly in the same’ words as before, “it's all his fancy, that: he has n't got no sorrow, you know. come on!" so they went up to the mock turtle, who looked at them with large eyes full of tears, but said nothing. “this here young lady," said the gryphon, “she wants for to know your history, she do." “i'll tell it her," said the mock turtle in a deep, hollow tone. “sit down, both of you, and don't speak a word till i've finished." so they sat down, and nobody spoke for some min- utes. alice thought to herself, “i don't see how he can ever finish, if he doesn't begin." but she waited patiently. “once," said the mock turtle at last, with a deep sigh, “i was a real turtle." these words were followed by a very long silence, broken only by an occasional exclamation of “hjckrrh! " from the gryphon, and the constant heavy sobbing of the mock turtle. alice was very nearly getting up and saying, “thank you, sir, for your interesting story," in wonderland but she could not help thinking there must be more to come, so she sat still and said nothing. “when we were little," the mock turtle went on at last, more calmly, though still sobbing a little now and then, “we went to school in the sea. the master was an old turtle —we used to call him tortoise " “why did you call him tortoise, if he was n't one?" alice asked. “we called him tortoise because he taught us," said the mock turtle angrily. “really you are very dull!" “you ought to be ashamed of yourself for asking such a simple question," added the gryphon; and then they both sat silent and looked at poor alice, who felt ready to sink into the earth. at last the gryphon said to the mock turtle, “drive on, old fellow! don't be all day about it!" and he went on in these words:- “yes, we went to school in the sea, though you may n't believe it —" “i never said i did n't!" interrupted alice. “you did," said the mock turtle. “hold your tongue!" added the gryphon, before alice could speak again. the mock turtle went on. “ we had the best of educations—in fact, we went to school every day " “i've been to a day-school, too," said alice; “you need n't be so proud as all that." “with extras?" asked the mock turtle, a little anxiously. “yes," said alice: “we learned french and music." “and washing?" said the mock turtle. “certainly not!" said alice indignantly. alice's adventures “ah! then yours was n't a really good school," said the mock turtle in a tone of great relief. “now, at ours, they had, at the end of the bill, ‘french, music, and washing — extra.' " “you could n't have wanted it much," said alice; “living at the bottom of the sea." “i could n't afford to learn it," said the mock turtle with a sigh. “i only took the regular course." “what was that?" inquired alice. “reeling and writhing, of course, to begin with," the mock turtle replied; “and then the different branches of arithmetic —ambition, distraction, uglification, and derision." “i never heard of ‘uglification,’ " alice ventured to say. “what is it?" the gryphon lifted up both its paws in surprise. “never heard of uglifying!" it exclaimed. “you know what to beautify is, i suppose?" “yes," said alice doubtfully: “it means —to — make — anything — prettier." “well, then," the gryphon went on, “if you don't know what to uglify is, you are a simpleton." alice did not feel encouraged to ask any more questions about it: so she turned to the mock turtle, and said, “what else had you to learn?" “well, there was mystery," the mock turtle replied, counting off the subjects on his fiappers,—“mystery, ancient and modern, with seaography: then drawling — the drawling-master was an old conger-eel, that used to come once a week: he taught us drawling, stretching, and fainting in coils." “what was that like?" said alice. in wonderland “well, i can't show it to you, myself," the mock turtle said: “i'm too stifi. and the gryphon never learnt it." “had n't time," said the gryphon: “i went to the classical master, though. he was an old crab, he was." “i never went to him," the mock turtle said with a sigh. “ he taught laughing and grief, they used to say." “so he did, so he did," said the gryphon, sighing in his turn; and both creatures hid their faces in their paws. “and how many hours a day did you do lessons?" said alice, in a hurry to change the subject. “ten hours the first day," said the mock turtle: “nine the next, and so on." “what a curious plan!" exclaimed alice. “that 's the reason they're called lessons," the gryphon remarked: “because they lessen from day to day." this was quite a new idea to alice, and she thought it over a little before she made her next remark. “then the eleventh day must have been a holiday?" “of course it was," said the mock turtle. “and how did you manage on the twelfth?" alice went on eagerly. “that's enough about lessons," the gryphon inter- rupted in a very decided tone. “tell her something about the games now." chapter x the lobster-quadrille he mock turtle sighed deeply, and drew the back of one flapper across his eyes. he looked at alice and tried to speak, but, for a minute or two, sobs choked his voice. “same as if he had a bone in his throat," said the gryphon; and it set to work shaking him and punch- ing him in the back. at last the mock turtle recovered his voice, and, with tears running down his cheeks, he went on again:— “you may not have lived much under the sea—" (“i have n't," said alice) —“and perhaps you were never even introduced to a lobster—" (alice began to say, “i once tasted " but checked herself hastily, and said, “no, never") “—— so you can have no idea ' what a delightful thing a lobster-quadrille is!" “ n o, indeed," said alice. “what sort of a dance is it?" “why," said the gryphon, “you first form into a line along the sea-shore —" “two lines!" cried the mock turtle. “seals, turtles, salmon, and so on: then, when you've cleared all the jelly-fish out of the way " “ that generally takes some time," interrupted the gryphon. “— you advance twice —- “ each with a lobster as a partner! " cried the gryphon. “of course," the mock turtle said: “advance twice, set to partners " , o in wonderland i “— change lobsters, and retire in same order," continued the gryphon. “then, you know," the mock turtle went on, “you throw the —" “the lobsters!" shouted the gryphon, with a bound into the air. _ “— as far out to sea as you can— “swim after them!" screamed the gryphon. “turn a somersault in the sea!" cried the mock turtle, capering wildly about. “change lobsters again!" yelled the gryphon at the top of its voice. “back to land again, and—that's all the first figure," said the mock turtle, suddenly dropping his voice; and the two creatures, who had been jumping about like mad things all this time, sat down again very sadly and quietly, and looked at alice. “it must be a very pretty dance," said alice timidly. “would you like to see a little of it?" said the mock turtle. “very much indeed," said alice. “come, let's try the first figure!" said the mock turtle to the gryphon. “we can do it without lobsters, you know. which shall sing?" “oh, you sing," said the gryphon. “i've forgotten the words." so they began solemnly dancing round and round alice, every now and then treading on her toes when they passed too close, and waving their forepaws to mark the time, while the mock turtle sang this, very slowly and sadly:- i' alice's adventures “ will you walk a little faster?" said a whiting to a snail, “ there's a porpoise close behind us, and he's treading on my tail. see how eagerly the lobsters and the turtles all advance! they are waiting on the shingle — will you come and join the dance? will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance? will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you join the dance? “ you can really have no notion how delightful it will be when they take us up and throw us, with the lobsters, out to sea!" but the snail replied, “ t for, too far!" and gave a look askance — said he thanked the whiting kindly, but he would not join the dance. would not, could not, would not, could not, would not join the dance. would not, could not, would not, could not, could not join the dance. “what matters it how far we go?" his scaly friend replied. “there is another shore, you know, upon the other side. the farther from england the nearer is to france — then turn not pale, beloved snail, but come and join the dance. will you, won't you, will you, won't you. will you join the dance? will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you join the dance?" “thank you, it's a very interesting dance to watch," said alice, feeling very glad that it was over at last: “and i do so like that curious song about the whiting!" “oh, as to the whiting," said the mock turtle, “they — you've seen them, of course?" ' alice's adventures "boots and shoes under the sea," the gryphon went on in a deep voice, “are done with whiting. now you know." “and what are they made of?" alice asked in a tone of great curiosity. “soles and eels, of course, the gryphon replied, rather impatiently: “any shrimp could have told you that." “ if i 'd been the whiting," said alice, whose thoughts were still running on the song, “i 'd have said to the por- poise, ‘keep back, please! we don't want you with us!' " “they were obliged to have him with them," the mock turtle said. “no wise fish would go anywhere without a porpoise." “would n't it, really?" said alice, in a tone of great surprise. “of course not," said the mock turtle. “why, if a fish came to me, and told me he was going a journey, i should say, ‘with what porpoise?' " “don't you mean ‘purpose'?" said alice. “i mean what i say," the mock turtle replied, in an offended tone. and the gryphon added, “come, let 's hear some of your adventures." “i could tell you my adventures — beginning from this morning," said alice a little timidly; “but it's no use going back to yesterday, because i was a difierent person then." “explain all that," said the mock turtle. “no, no! the adventures first," said the gryphon in an impatient tone: “explanations take such a dreadful time." so alice began telling them her adventures from the i, in wonderland time when she first saw the white rabbit. she was a little nervous about it, just at first, the two creatures got so close to her, one on each side, and opened their eyes and mouths so very wide; but she gained courage as she went on. her listeners were perfectly quiet till she got to the part about her repeating, “you are old, father william," to the caterpillar, and the words all coming different, and then the mock turtle drew a long breath and said, “that's very curious!" “it's all about as curious as it can be," said the gryphon. “it all came different!" the mock turtle repeated thoughtfully. “i should like to hear her try and repeat something now. tell her to begin." he looked at the gryphon as if he thought it had some kind of authority over alice. “stand up and repeat ‘ 't is the voice of the sluggard,' " said the gryphon. “how the creatures order one about, and make one repeat lessons!" thought alice. “i might just as well be at school at once." however, she got up, and began to repeat it, but her head was so full of the lobster- quadrille, that she hardly knew what she was saying; and the words came very queer indeed:- “ 'tis the voice of the lobster: i heard him declare ‘you have baked me too brown, i must sugar my hair.’ as a duck with its eyelids, so he with his nose trims his belt and his buttons, and turns out his toes." “that 's different from what i used to say when i was a child," said the gryphon. “well, i never heard it before," said the mock turtle; “but it sounds uncommon nonsense." alice's adventures alice said nothmg: she had sat down again with her face in her hands, wondering if anything would ever happen in a natural way again. “i should like to have it explained," said the mock turtle. “she can't explain it," said the gryphon hastily. “go on with the next verse." “but about his toes?" the mock turtle persisted. “how could he turn them out with his nose, you know? " “it 's the first position in dancing," alice said; but she was dreadfully puzzled by the whole thing, and longed to change the subject. “go on with the next verse," the gryphon repeated impatiently: “it begins ‘i passed by his garden."' alice did not dare to disobey, though she felt sure it would all come wrong, and she went on in a trembling voice:- “i passed by his garden, and marked, with one eye, how the owl and the oyster were sharing a pie:" “what is the use of repeating all that stuff?" the mock turtle interrupted, “if you don't explain it as you go on? it's by far the most confusing thing i ever heard!" “yes, i think you'd better leave off," said the gry- phon, and alice was only too glad to do so. “ shallwe try another figure of the lobster-quadrille? " the gryphon went on. “or would you like the mock turtle to sing you another song?" “oh, a song, please, if the mock turtle would be so kind," alice replied, so eagerly that the gryphon said, in a rather offended tone, “hm! no accounting in wonderland for tastes! sing her ‘turtle soup,' will you, old fellow?" the mock turtle sighed deeply, and began, in a voice sometimes choked with sobs, to sing this:— “beautiful soup, so rich and green, waiting in a hot tureen! who for such dainties would not stoop? . soup of the evening, beautiful soup! soup of the evening, beautiful soup! beau — ootiful soo —- p! beau — ootiful soo —oop! — ) of the e —e —evening, beautiful, beautiful soup! “beautiful soup! who cares for fish, game, or any other dish? who would not give all else for two p ennyworth only of beautiful soup? pennyworth only of beautiful soup? beau — oottful soo — p! beau — ootiful s — oop! s — p of the e —e — evening, beautiful, beauti —f ul soup!" “chorus again!" cried the gryphon, and the mock turtle had just begun to repeat it, when a cry of “the trial 's beginning!" was heard in the distance. “come on!" cried the gryphon, and, taking alice by the hand, it hurried off, without waiting for the end of the song. “what trial is it?" alice panted as she ran; but the gryphon only answered, “come on!" and ran the faster, while more and more faintly came, carried on the breeze that followed them, the melancholy words:— “ s — p of the e — e — evening, beautiful, beautiful soup!" chapter xi who stole the tarts? he king and queen of hearts were seated on their throne when they arrived, with a great crowd as- sembled about them —all sorts of little birds and beasts, as well as the whole pack of cards: the knave was stand~ ing before them, in chains, with a soldier on each side to guard him; and near the king was the white rabbit, with a trumpet in one hand, and a scroll of parchment in the other. in the very middle of the court was a table, with a large dish of tarts upon it: they looked so good, that it made alice quite hungry to look at them —“i wish they'd get the trial done," she thought, “and hand round the refreshments!" but there seemed to be no chance of this; so she began looking at everything about her to pass away the time. alice had never been in a court of justice before, but she had read about them in books, and she was quite pleased to find that she knew the name of nearly every- thing there. “that's the judge," she said to herself, “because of his great wig." the judge, by the way, was the king; and, as he wore his crown over the wig (look at the tailpiece if you want to see how he did it), he did not look at all comfortable, and it was certainly not becoming. “and that's the jury-box," thought alice; “and those twelve creatures" (she was obliged to say “creatures," you see, because some of them were animals, and some in wonderland were birds), “i suppose they are the jurors." she said this last word two or three times over to herself, being rather proud of it: for she thought, and rightly too, that very few little girls of her age knew the meaning of it at all. however, “jurymen" would have done just as well. the twelve jurors were all writing very busily on slates. “what are they doing?" alice whispered to the gryphon. “they can't have anything to put down yet, before the trial 's begun." “they're putting down their names," the gryphon whispered in reply, “for fear they should forget them before the end of the trial." “stupid things!" alice began in a loud indignant voice; but she stopped herself hastily, for the white rabbit cried out, “silence in the court!" and the king put on his spectacles and looked anxiously round, to make out who was talking. alice could see, as well as if she were looking over their shoulders, that all the jurors were writing down “stupid things!" on their slates, and she could even make out that one of them did n't know how to spell “ stupid," and that he had to ask his neighbor to tell him. “a nice muddle their slates 'll be in, before the trial 's over!" thought alice. one of the jurors had a pencil that squeaked. this, of course, alice could not stand, and she went round the court and got behind him, and very soon found an opportunity of taking it away. she did it so quickly that the poor little juror (it was bill, the lizard) could not make out at all what had become of it; so, after hunting all about for it, he was obliged to write with one finger in wonderland i i “take off your hat," the king said to the hatter. “it is n't mine," said the hatter. “stolen!" the king exclaimed, turning to the jury, who instantly made a memorandum of the fact. “i keep them to sell," the hatter added as an explana- tion. “i've none of my own. i'm a hatter." here the queen put on her spectacles, and began staring hard at the hatter, who turned pale and fidgeted. “give your evidence," said the king; “and don't be nervousi or i'll have you executed on the spot." this did not seem to encourage the witness at all: he kept shifting from one foot to the other, looking uneasily at the queen, and in his confusion he bit a large piece out of his teacup instead of the bread-and-butter. just at this moment alice felt a very curious sensation, which puzzled her a good deal until she made out what it was: she was beginning to grow larger again, and she thought at first she would get up and leave the court; but on second thoughts she decided to remain where she was as long as there was room for her. “ i wish you would n't squeeze so," said the dormouse, who was sitting next to her. “i can hardly breathe." “i can't help it," said alice very meekly: “i'm growing." “you've no right to grow here," said the dormouse. “don't talk nonsense," said alice more boldly: “you know you're growing too." “yes, but i grow at a reasonable pace," said the dormouse: “not in that ridiculous fashion." and he got up very sulkily and crossed over to the other side of the court. all this time the queen had never left ofi’ staring at in wonderland i “you must remember, ' remarked the king, “or i'll have you executed." the miserable hatter dropped his teacup and bread- and-butter, and went down on one knee. “i'm a poor man, your majesty," be began. “you're a very poor speaker," said the king. here one of the guinea-pigs cheered, and was imme- diately suppressed by the officers of the court. (as that is rather a hard word, i will just explain to you how it was done. they had a large canvas bag, which tied up at the mouth with strings: into this they slipped the guinea-pig, head first, and then sat upon it.) “i'm glad i've seen that done," thought alice. “i've so often read in the newspapers, at the end of trials, ‘there was some attempt at applause, which was immediately suppressed by the oflicers of the court,' and i never understood what it meant till now." “if that 's all you know about it, you may stand down," continued the king. “i can't go no lower," said the hatter: “i'm on the floor, as it is." “then you may sit down," the king replied. here the other guinea-pig cheered, and was suppressed. “ come, that finishes the guinea-pigs!" thought alice. “now we shall get on better." “i'd rather finish my tea," said the hatter, with an anxious look at the queen, who was reading the list of singers. “you may go," said the king, and the hatter hur- riedly left the court, without even waiting to put his shoes on. “— and just take his head off outside," the queen in wonderland i the list, feeling very curious to see what the next witness would be like, “— for they have n't got much evidence yet," she said to herself. imagine her surprise, when the white rabbit read out, at the top of his shrill little voice, the name “alice!" i alice's adventures “nearly two miles high," added the queen. “well, i shan't go, at any rate," said alice: “besides, that 's not a regular rule: you invented it just now." “it's the oldest rule in the book," said the king. “then it ought to be number one," said alice. the king turned pale, and shut his note-book hastily. “consider your verdict," he said to the jury, in a low trembling voice. “there's more evidence to come yet, please your majesty," said the white rabbit, jumping up in a great hurry: “this paper has just been picked up." “what 's in it?" said the queen. “i have n't opened it yet," said the white rabbit; “but it seems to be a letter, written by the prisoner to —to somebody." “it must have been that," said the king, “unless it was written to nobody, which is n't usual, you know." “who is it directed to?" said one of the jurymen. “it is n't directed at all, "said the white rabbit: “in fact, there's nothing written on the outside." he unfolded the paper as he spoke, and added, “it is n't a letter, after all: it's a set of verses." “are they in the prisoner's handwriting?" asked another of the jurymen. “no, they're not," said the white rabbit, “and that's the queerest thing about _it." (the jury all looked puzzled.) “he must have imitated somebody else's hand," said the king. (the jury all brightened up again.) “please your majesty," said the knave, “i did n't write it, and they can't prove i did: there 's no name signed at the end." in wonderland i “if you didn't sign it," said the king, “that only makes the matter worse. you must have meant some mischief, or else you'd have signed your name like an honest man." there was a general clapping of hands at this: it was the first really clever thing the king had said that day. “that proves his guilt," said the queen. “it proves nothing of the sort!" said alice. “why, you don't even know what they're about!" “read them, " said the king. the white rabbit put on his spectacles. “where shall i begin, please your majesty?" he asked. “begin at the beginning," the king said, very gravely, “and go on till you come to the end: then stop." these were the verses the white rabbit read :— “ they told me you had been to her, and mentioned me to him: she gave me a good character, but said i could not swim. he sent them word i had not gone (we know it to be true): if she should push the matter on, what would become of you? i gave her one, they gave him two, you gave us three or more; they all returned from him to you, though they were mine before. if i or she should chance to be involved in this aflair, he trusts to you to set them free, exactly as we were. i i alice's adventures my notion was that you had been (before she had this fit) an obstacle that come between him, and ourselves, and it. don't let him know she liked them best, for this must ever be a secret, kept from all the rest, between yourself and me." “that's the most important piece of evidence we've heard yet," said the king, rubbing his hands; “so now let the jury " “if any one of them can explain it," said alice (she had grown so large in the last few minutes that she was n't a bit afraid of interrupting him), “ i ' give him sixpence. i don't believe there 's an atom of meaning in it." the jury all wrote down, on their slates, “she does n't believe there's an atom of meaning in it," but none of them attempted to explain the paper. “if there's no meaning in it," said the king, “that saves a world of trouble, you know, as we need n't try to find any. and yet i don't know," he went on, spreading out the verses on his knee, and looking at them with one eye; “i seem to see some meaning in them, after all. —‘said i could not swim'—you can't swim, can you?" he added, turning to the knave. the knave shook his head sadly. “do i look like it?" he said. (which he certainly did not, being made entirely of cardboard.) “all right, so far," said the king; and he went on muttering over the verses to himself: “ ‘we know it to be true'— that's the jury, of course —‘i gave her one, they in wonderland i i i gave him two '— why, that must be what he did with the tarts, you know ——" “but it goes on, ‘they all returned from him to you,"' said alice. “why, there they are!" said the king, triumphantly, pointing to the tarts on the table. “nothing can be clearer than that. then again —‘before she had this fit' — you never had fits, my dear, i think?" he said to the queen. “never!" said the queen, furiously, throwing an inkstand at the lizard as she spoke. (the unfortunate little bill had left off writing on his slate with one finger, as he found it made no mark; but he now hastily began again, using the ink, that was trickling down his face, while it lasted.) “then the words don't fit you," said the king, looking round the court with a smile. there was a dead silence. “it's a pun!" the king added in an angry tone, and everybody laughed. “let the jury consider their ver- dict," the king said, for about the twentieth time that day. “ n o, no!" said the queen. “sentence first —verdict afterwards." “stuff and nonsense!" said alice loudly. “the idea of having the sentence first!" “hold your tongue!" said the queen, turning purple. “i won't!" said alice. “ofi with her head!" the queen shouted at the top of her voice. nobody moved. “who cares for you?" said alice (she had grown to her full size by this time). “you're nothing but a pack of cards!" i i alice's adventures at this the whole pack rose up into the air, and came flying down upon her; she gave a little scream, half of fright and half of anger, and tried to beat them off, and found herself lying on the bank, with her head in the lap of her sister, who was gently brushing away some dead leaves that had fluttered down from the trees upon her face. “wake up, alice dear!" said her sister. “why, what a long sleep you've had!" “oh, i've had such a curious dream!" said alice. and she told her sister, as well as she could remember them, all these strange adventures of hers that you have just been reading about; and, when she had finished, her sister kissed her, and said, “it was a curious dream, dear, certainly; but now run in to your tea: it's getting late." so alice got up and ran off, thinking while she ran, as well she might, what a wonderful dream it had been. but her sister sat still just as she left her, leaning her head on her hand, watching the setting sun, and thinking of little alice and all her wonderful adventures, till she too began dreaming after a fashion, and this was her dream :— first, she dreamed about little alice herself: once again the tiny hands were clasped upon her knee, and the bright eager eyes were looking up into hers—she could hear the very tones of her voice, and see that queer little toss of her head to keep back the wandering hair that would always get into her eyes — and still as she listened, or seemed to listen, the whole place around her became alive with the strange creatures of her little sister's dream. the long grass rustled at her feet as the white rabbit hurried by—the frightened mouse splashed his way through the neighboring pool — she could hear the rattle in wonderland i i of the teacups as the march hare and his friends shared their never-ending meal, and the shrill voice of the queen ordering off her unfortunate guests to execution—once more the pig-baby was sneezing on the duchess's knee, while plates and dishes crashed around it — once more the shriek of the gryphon, the squeaking of the lizard's slate-pencil, and the choking of the suppressed guinea- pigs, filled the air, mixed up with the distant sob of the miserable mock turtle. so she sat on, with closed eyes, and half believed herself in wonderland, though she knew she had but to open them again, and all would change to dull reality— the grass would be only rustling in the wind, and the pool rippling to the waving of the reeds —the rattling teacups would change to tinkling sheep-bells, and the queen's shrill cries to the voice of the shepherd-boy—and the sneeze of the baby, the shriek of the gryphon, and all the other queer noises, would change (she knew) to the confused clamor of the busy farm-yard—while the low- ing of the cattle in the distance would take the place of the mock turtle's heavy sobs. lastly, she pictured to herself how this same little sister of hers would, in the after-time, be herself a grown woman; and how she would keep, through all her riper years, the simple and loving heart of her childhood; and how she would gather about her other little children, and make their eyes bright and eager with many a strange tale, perhaps even with the dream of wonderland of long ago; and how she would feel with all their simple 'sorrows, and find a pleasure in all their simple joys, remembering her own child-life, and the happy summer days. through the looking—glass and what alice found there child of the pure unclouded brow and dreaming eyes of wonder! though time be fleet, and i and thou are half a life asunder, thy loving smile will surely hail the love-gift of a fairy-tale. i have not seen thy sunny face, nor heard thy silver laughter: no thought of me shall find a place in thy young life's hereafter — enough that now than wilt not fail to listen to my fairy-tale. a tale begun in other days, when summer suns were glowing — a simple chime, that served to time the rhythm of our rowing — whose echoes live in memory yet, t hough envious years would say ‘forget.’ come, hearken then, ere voice of dread, with bitter tidings laden, shall summon to unwelcome bed a melancholy maiden! we are but older children, dear, who fret to find our bedtime near. without, the frost, the blinding snow, the storm-wind's moody madness — within, the firelight's ruddy glow, and childhood's nest of gladness. the magic words shall hold thee fast: thou shalt not heed the raving blast. and, though the shadow of a sigh may tremble through the story, for ‘happy summer days' gone by, and vanish'd summer glory — it shall not touch, with breath of bale, the pleasance of our fairy-tale. through the looking-glass and what alice found there chapter i looking—glass house ne thing was certain, that the white kitten had had nothing to do with it—it was the black kitten's fault entirely. for the white kitten had been having its face washed by the old cat for the last quarter of an hour (and bearing it pretty well, considering): so you see that it could n't have had any hand in the mischief. the way dinah washed her children's faces was this: first she held the poor thing down by its ear with one paw, and then with the other paw she rubbed its face all over, the wrong way, beginning at the nose: and just now, as i said, she was hard at work on the white kitten, which was lying quite still and trying to purr—no doubt feeling that it was all meant for its good. but the black kitten had been finishal with earlier in the afternoon, and so, while alice was sitting curled up in a comer of the great arm-chair, half talking to herself and half asleep, the kitten had been having a grand game of romps with the ball of worsted alice had been trying to wind up, and had been rolling it up and down till it had all come undone again; and there it was, spread over the hearth-rug, all knots and tangles, with the kitten running after its own tail in the middle. ! and what alice found there i mischievous darling! what have you got to say for yourself? now don't interrupt me!" she went on, hold- ing up one finger. “i'm going to tell you all your faults. number one: you squeaked twice while dinah was washing your face this morning. now you can't deny it, kitty: i heard you! what's that you say?" (pretend- ing that the kitten was speaking). “her paw went into your eye? well, that's your fault, for keeping your eyes open—if you'd shut them tight up, it would n't have happened. now don't make any more excuses, but listen! number two: you pulled snowdrop away by the tail just as i had put down the saucer of milk before her! what, you were thirsty, were you? how do you know she was n't thirsty too? now for number three: you unwound every bit of the worsted while i was n't looking! “that's three faults, kitty, and you've not been punished for any of them yet. you know i'm saving up all your punishments for wednesday week— suppose they had saved up all my punishments?" she went on, talking more to herself than the kitten. “what would they do at the end of a year? i should be sent to prison, i suppose, when the day came. or—let me see- suppose each punishment was to be going without a dinner: then, when the miserable day came, i should have to go without fifty dinners at once! well, i should n't mind that much! i'd far rather go without them than eat them! “do you hear the snow against the window-panes, kitty? how nice and soft it sounds! just as if some one was kissing the window all over outside. i wonder if the snow loves the trees and fields, that it kisses them and what alice found there i there 's a dear!" and alice got the red queen off the table, and set it up before the kitten as a model for it to imitate: however, the thing did n't succeed, principally, alice said, because the kitten would n't fold its arms properly. so, to punish it, she held it up to the looking- glass, that it might see how sulky it was, “—and if you're not good directly,' she added, “i'll put you through into looking-glass house. how would you like that? “now, if you'll only attend, kitty, and not talk so much, i'll tell you all my ideas about looking-glass house. first, there 's the room you can see through the glass—that's just the same as our drawing-room, only the things go the other way. i can see all of it when i get upon a chair— all but the bit just behind the fireplace. oh! i do so wish i could see that bit! i want so much to know whether they've a fire in the winter: you never can tell, you know, unless our fire smokes, and then smoke comes up in that room too—but that may be only pretense, just to make it look as if they had a fire. well then, the books are something like our books, only the words go the wrong way: i know that, because i've held up one of our books to the glass, and then they hold up one in the other room. “how would you like to live in looking-glass house, kitty? i wonder if they'd give you milk in there? perhaps looking-glass milk is n't good to drink — but oh, kitty! now we come to the passage. you can just see a little peep of the passage in looking-glass house, if you leave the door of our drawing-room wide open: and it's very like our passage as far as you can see, only you know it may be quite different on beyond. oh, kitty, how i through the looking—glass nice it would be if we could only get through into looking- glass house! i 'm sure it's got, oh! such beautiful things in it! let's pretend there's a way of getting through into it, somehow, kitty. let's pretend the glass has got all soft like gauze, so that we can get through. why, it's turning into a sort of mist now, i declare! it'll be easy enough to get through—" she was up on the chimney-piece while she said this, though she hardly knew how she had got there. and certainly the glass was beginning to melt away, just like a bright silvery mist. in another moment alice was through the glass, and had jumped lightly down into the looking-glass room. the very first thing she did was to look whether there was a fire in the fireplace, and she was quite pleased to find that there was a real one, blazing away as brightly as the one she had left behind. “so i shall be as warm here as i was in the old room," thought alice: “warmer, in fact, because there ' be no one here to scold me away from the fire. oh, what fun it'll be, when they see me through the glass in here, and can't get at me!" then she began looking about, and noticed that what could be seen from the old room was quite common and uninteresting, but that all the rest was as different as possible. for instance, the pictures on the wall next the fire seemed to be all alive, and the very clock on the chimney-piece (you know you can only see the back of it in the looking-glass) had got the face of a little old man, and grinned at her. _ “they don't keep this room so tidy as the other," alice thought to herself, as she noticed several of the chessmen down in the hearth among the cinders; but in another moment, with a little “oh!" of surprise, she ozqo; !” { pa; auo o limp-tum ; o u; urnop zos only iibq-jhbmu'\_\‘,_ ‘ ~ ‘b’- and what alice found there i was down on her hands and knees watching them. the chessmen were walking about, two and two! “here are the red king and the red queen," alice said (in a whisper, for fear of frightening them), “and there are the white king and the white queen sitting on the edge of the shovel—and here are two castles walking arm in arm—i don't think they can hear me," she went on, as she put her head closer down, “and i'm nearly sure they can't see me. i feel somehow as if i was getting invisible " here something began squeaking on the table behind alice, and made her turn her head just in time to see one of the white pawns roll over and begin kicking: she watched it with great curiosity to see what would happen next. “it is the voice of my child!" the white queen cried out, as she rushed past the king, so violently that she knocked him over among the cinders. “my precious lily! my imperial kitten!" and she began scrambling wildly up the side of the fender. “imperial fiddlestick!" said the king, rubbing his nose, which had been hurt by the fall. he had a right to be a little annoyed with the queen, for he was covered with ashes from head to foot. alice was very anxious to be of use, and, as the poor little lily was nearly screaming herself into a fit, she hastily picked up the queen and set her on the table by the side of her noisy little daughter. the queen gasped and sat down: the rapid journey through the air had quite taken away her breath, and for a minute or two she could do nothing but hug the little lily in silence. as soon as she had recovered her i through the looking—glass breath a little, she called out to the white king, who was sitting sulkily among the ashes, “mind the volcano!" “what volcano?" said the king, looking up anxiously into the fire, as if he thought that was the most likely place to find one. “ blew—me— up," panted the queen, who was still a little out of breath. “mind you come up—the regular way—don't get blown up!" alice watched the white king as he slowly struggled up from bar to bar, till at last she said, “why, you'll be hours and hours getting to the table, at that rate. i'd far better help you, had n't i?" but the king took no notice of the question: it was quite clear that he could neither hear her nor see her. so alice picked him up very gently, and lifted him across more slowly than she had lifted the queen, that she might n't take his breath away; but, before she put him on the table, she thought she might as well dust him a little, he was so covered with ashes. she said afterwards that she had never seen in all her life such a face as the king made, when he found himself held in the air by an invisible hand, and being dusted: he was far too much astonished to cry out, but his eyes and his mouth went on getting larger and larger, and rounder and rounder, till her hand shook so with laughing that she nearly let him drop upon the floor. “oh! please don't make such faces, my dear!" she cried out, quite forgetting that the king could n't hear her. “ you make me laugh so that i can hardly hold you! and don't keep your mouth so wide open! all the ashes will get into it — there, now i think you're tidy enough!" is nose it ing “ mperialfiddlestick!" said the king, rubb i o through the looking—glass knight is sliding down the poker. he balances very badly'). “that's not a memorandum of your feelings!" there was a book lying near alice on the table, and while she sat watching the white king (for she was still a little anxious about him, and had the ink all ready to throw over him, in case he fainted again), she turned over the leaves, to find some part that she could read, “— for it's all in some language i don't know," she said to herself. it was like this. \diuow rss . kl. zscol ‘(msle s!“ has ,g'sll'rul was 'i' cm- “ is} sldm'sg bun w b'scl ,zswqqo‘nl sslt sisur ‘(zm'sm \llx .sdmgmo ultras smom n“ bub. she puzzled over this for some time, but at last a bright thought struck her. “why, it 's a looking-glass book, of course! and, if i hold it up to a glass, the words will all go the right way again." this was the poem that alice read. jabberwock y 't was brillig, and the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe: all mimsy were the borogoves, and the mome raths outgrabe. “beware the .iabberwock, my son! the jaws that bite, the claws that catch! beware the jubjub bird, and shun the frumious bandersnatch! " and what alice found there i i he took his vorpal sword in hand: long time the manxome foe he sought — so rested he by the tumtum tree, and stood awhile in thought. and, as in uflish thought he stood, the jabberwock, with eyes of flame, came whiflling through the tulgey wood, and burbled as it came! one, two! one, two! and through and through the vorpal blade went snicker-snack! he left it dead, and with its head he went galumphing bdck. “and hast thou slain the jabberwock? come to my arms, my beamish boy! frabjous day! callooh! callay!" he chortled in his joy. 't was brillig, and the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe: all mimsy were the borogoves, and the mome raths outgrabe. “ it seems very pretty," she said when she had finished it, “but it's rather hard to understand!" (you see she did n't like to confess, even to herself, that she could n't make it out at all.) “somehow it seems to fill my head with ideas—only i don't exactly know what they are! however, somebody killed something: that's clear, at any rate —" “but oh!" thought alice, suddenly jumping up, “if i don't make haste, i shall have to go back through the looking-glass, before i've seen what the rest of the i through the looking—glass house is like! let 's have a look at the garden first!" she was out of the room in a moment, and ran down- stairs—or, at least, it was n't exactly running, but a new invention for getting downstairs quickly and easily, as alice said to herself. she just kept the tips of her fingers on the hand-rail, and floated gently down without even touching the stairs with her feet: then she floated on through the hall, and would have gone straight out at the door in the same way, if she had n't caught hold of the door-post. she was getting a little giddy with so much floating in the air, and was rather glad to find herself walking again in the natural way. and what alice found there i “but what could it do, if any danger came?" alice asked. “it could bark," said the rose. “it says ‘bough-wough!"' cried a. daisy. “that's why its branches are called boughs!" “did n't you know that?" cried another daisy. and here they all began shouting together, till the air seemed quite full of little shrill voices. “silence, every one of you!" cried the tiger-lily, waving itself passionately from side to side, and trembling with excitement. “they know i can't get at them!" it panted, bending its quiver- ing head towards alice, “or they would n't dare to do it!" “never mind!" alice said in a soothing tone, and, stooping down to the daisies, who were just begimiing again, she whispered, “if you don't hold your tongues, i'll pick you!" there was silence in a moment, and several of the pink daisies turned white. “that 's right!" said the tiger-lily. “the daisies are worst of all. when one speaks, they all begin together, and it's enough to make one wither to hear the way they go on!" “how is it you can all talk so nicely?" alice said, hoping to get it into a better temper by a compliment. “i've been in many gardens before, but none of the flowers could talk." “put your hand down, and feel the ground," said the tiger-lily. “then you'll know why." alice did so. “it's very hard," she said; “but i don't see what that has to do with it." “in most gardens," the tiger-lily said, “they make the beds too soft— so that the flowers are always asleep." i through the looking—glass this sounded a very good reason, and alice was quite pleased to know it. “i never thought of that before!" she said. “it's my opinion that you never think at all,". the ’ rose said, in a rather severe tone. “i never saw anybody that looked stupider," a violet said, so suddenly, that alice quite jumped; for it had n't spoken before. “hold your tongue!" cried the tiger-lily. “as if you ever saw anybody! you keep your head under the leaves, and snore away there, till you know no more what 's going on in the world than if you were a bud!" “ are there any more people in the garden besides me?" alice said, not choosing to notice the rose's last remark. “there 's one other flower in the garden that can move about like you," said the rose. “i wonder how you do it —" (“you're always wondering," said the tiger- lily), “but she's more bushy than you are." “ is she like me?" alice asked eagerly, for the thought crossed her mind, “there's another little girl in the garden, somewhere!" “well, she has the same awkward shape as you," the rose said: “ but she's redder — and her petals are shorter, i think." “they're done up close, like a dahlia," said the tiger-lily: “not tumbled about, like yours." “but that's not your fault," the rose added kindly. “you're beginning to fade, you know—and then one can't help one's petals getting a little untidy." alice did n't like this idea at all: so, to change the subject, she asked, “does she ever come out here?" “i dare say you'll see her soon," said the rose. and what alice found there i “she 's one of the kind that has nine spikes, you know." “where does she wear them?" alice asked with some curiosity. “why, all round her head, of course," the rose replied. “i was wondering you had n't got some too. i thought it was the regular rule." “she's coming!" cried the larkspur. “i hear her footstep, thump, thump, along the gravel-walk!" alice looked round eagerly and found that it was the red queen. “she's grown a good deal!" was her first remark. she had indeed: when alice first found her in the ashes, she had been only three inches high—and here she was, half a head taller than alice herself! “it's the fresh air that does it," said the rose: “wonderfully fine air it is, out here." “i think i'll go and meet her," said alice, for though the flowers were interesting enough, she felt that it would be far grander to have a talk with a real queen. “you can't possibly do that," said the rose: “i should advise you to walk the other way." this sounded nonsense to alice, so she said nothing, but set off at once towards the red queen. to her surprise she lost sight of her in a moment, and found herself walking in at the front-door again. a little provoked, she drew back, and, after looking everywhere for the queen (whom she spied out at last, a long way off), she thought she would try the plan, this time, of walking in the opposite direction. it succeeded beautifully. she had not been walking a minute before she found herself face to face with the red queen, and full in sight of the hill she had been so long aiming at. i through the looking—glass alice never could quite make out, in thinking it over afterwards, how it was that they began: all she remem- bers is, that they were running hand in hand, and the queen went so fast that it was all she could do to keep up with her: and still the queen kept crying, “faster! faster!" but alice felt she could not go faster, though she had no breath left to say so. the most curious part of the thing was, that the trees and the other things round them never changed their places at all: however fast they went, they never seemed to pass anything. “i wonder if all the things move along with us?" thought poor puzzled alice. and the queen seemed to guess her thoughts, for she cried, “faster! don't try to talk!" not that alice had any idea of doing that. she felt as if she would never be able to talk again, she was get- ting so much out of breath: and still the queen cried, “faster! faster!" and dragged her along. “are we nearly there?" alice managed to pant out at last. “nearly there!" the queen repeated. “why we passed it ten minutes ago! faster!" and they ran on for a time in silence, with the wind whistling in alice's ears, and almost blowing her hair off her head, she fancied. “now! now!" cried the queen. “faster! faster!" and they went so fast that at last they seemed to skim through the air, hardly touching the ground with their feet, till suddenly, just as alice was getting quite ex- hausted, they stopped, and she found herself sitting on the ground, breathless and giddy. the queen propped her up against a tree, and said kindly, “you may rest a little, now." and what alice found there ! alice looked round her in great surprise. “why, i do believe we've been under this tree the whole time! everything 's just as it was!" “of course it is," said the queen. “what would you have it?" “well, in our country,’ said alice, still panting a little, “you 'd generally get to somewhere else—if you ran very fast for a long time as we've been doing." “a slow sort of country!" said the queen. “now, here, you see, it takes all the running you can do, to keep in the same place. if you want to get somewhere else, you must run at least twice as fast as that!" “i 'd rather not try, please!" said alice. “i'm quite content to stay here—only i am so hot and thirsty!" “i know what you'd like!" the queen said good- naturedly, taking a little box out of her pocket. “have a biscuit?" alice thought it would not be civil to say “no," though it was n't at all what she wanted. so she took it, and ate it as well as she could: and it was very dry: and she thought she had never been so nearly choked in all her life. “while you're refreshing yourself," said the queen, “i'll just take the measurements." and she took a ribbon out of her pocket, marked in inches, and began measuring the ground, and sticking little pegs in here and there. “at the end of two yards," she said, putting in a peg to mark the distance, “i shall give you your directions— have another biscuit?" “no, thank you," said alice: “one 's quite enough!" “thirst quenched, i hope?" said the queen. ’ : through the looking—glass alice did not know what to say to this, but luckily the queen did not wait for an answer, but went on. “at the end of three yards i shall repeat them—for fear of your forgetting them. at the end of four, i shall say good-by. and at the end of five, i shall go!" she had got all the pegs put in by this time, and alice looked on with great interest as she returned to the tree, and then began slowly walking down the row. at the two-yard peg she faced round, and said, “a pawn goes two squares in its first move, you know. so you'll go very quickly through the third square —- by railway, i should think—and you'll find yourself in the fourth square in no time. well, that square belongs to tweedledum and tweedledee—the fifth is mostly water—the sixth belongs to humpty dumpty—but you make no remark?" “i —i did n't know i had to make one— just then," alice faltered out. “you should have said," the queen went on in a tone of grave reproof, “‘it's extremely kind of you to tell me all this'—however, we'll suppose it said—the seventh square is all forest — however, one of the knights will show you the way—and in the eighth square we shall be queens together, and it's all feasting and fun!" alice got up and curtseyed, and sat down again. at the next peg the queen turned again, and this time she said, “speak in french when you can't think of the english for a thing—turn out your toes as you walk- and remember who you are!" she did not wait for alice to curtsey this time, but walked on quickly to the next peg, where she turned for a moment to say “good-by," and then hurried on to the last. and what alice found there how it happened, alice never knew, but exactly as she came to the last peg, she was gone. whether she vanished into the air, or whether she ran quickly into the wood (“and she can run very fast!" thought alice), there was no way of guessing, but she was gone, and alice began to remember that she was a pawn, and that it would soon be time for her to move. chapter iii looking—glass insects f course the first thing to do was to make a grand survey of the country she was going to travel through. “it's something very like learning geography," thought alice, as she stood on tiptoe in hopes of being able to see a little further. “principal rivers—there are none. principal mountains—i'm on the only one, but i don't think it's got any name. principal towns—why, what are those creatures, making honey down there? they can't be bees—nobody ever saw bees a mile ofl, you know —" and for some time she stood silent, watching one of them that was bustling about among the flowers, poking its proboscis into them, “just as if it was a regular bee," thought alice. however, this was anything but a regular bee: in fact, it was an elephant—as alice soon found out, though the idea quite took her breath away at first. “and what enormous flowers they must be!" was her next idea. “something like cottages with the roofs taken off’, and stalks put to them—and what quantities of honey they must make! i think i'll go down and —- no, i won't go just yet," she went on, checking herself just as she was beginning to run down the hill, and trying to find some excuse for turning shy so suddenly. “it'll never do to go down among them without a good long branch to brush them away — and what fun it ' be when they ask me how i liked my walk. i shall say, ‘oh, i and what alice found there i liked it well enough —~' (here came the favorite little toss of the head), ‘only it was so dusty and hot, and the elephants did tease so!' “i think i'll go down the other way," she said after a pause; “and perhaps i may visit the elephants later on. besides, i do so want to get into the third square!" so, with this excuse, she ran down the hill, and jumped over the first of the six little brooks. * t t a o o a i o o i * “tickets, please!" said the guard, putting his head in at the window. in a moment everybody was holding out a ticket: they were about the same size as the people, and quite seemed to fill the carriage. “now then! show your ticket, child!" the guard went on, looking angrily at alice. and a great many voices all said together (“like the chorus of a song," thought alice), “don't keep him waiting, child! why, his time is worth a thousand pounds a minute!" “i'm afraid i haven't got one," alice said in a frightened tone: “there was n't a ticket-office where i came from." and again the chorus of voices went on. “there was n't room for one where she came from. the land there is worth a thousand pounds an inch!" “ don't make excuses," said the guard: “you should have bought one from the engine-driver." and once more the chorus of voices went on with, “the man that drives the engine. why, the smoke alone is worth a thousand pounds a puff!" alice thought to herself, “then there's no use in i through the looking—glass speaking." the voices did n't join in, this time, as she had n't spoken, but, to her great surprise, they all thought in chorus (i hope you understand what thinking in cho- rus means—for i must confess that i don't), “better say nothing at all. language is worth a thousand pounds a word!" “i shall dream about a thousand pounds to-night, i know i shall!" thought alice. all this time the guard was looking at her, first through a telescope, then through a microscope, and then through an opera-glass. at last he said, “you're traveling the wrong way," and shut up the window, and went away. “so young a child," said the gentleman sitting opposite to her (he was dressed in white paper), “ought to know which way she's going, even if she does n't know her own name!" a goat, that was sitting next to the gentleman in white, shut his eyes and said in a loud voice, “she ought to know her way to the ticket-office, even if she does n't know her alphabet!" there was a beetle sitting next the goat (it was a very queer carriage-full of passengers altogether), and, as the rule seemed to be that they should all speak in turn, he went on with, “she'll have to go back from here as luggage!" alice could n't see who was sitting beyond the beetle, but a hoarse voice spoke next. “change engines " it said, and there it choked and was obliged to leave off. “it sounds like a horse," alice thought to herself. and an extremely small voice, close to her ear, said, "you might make a joke on that—something about ‘horse' and ‘hoarse,’ you know." and what alice found there i then a very gentle voice in the distance said, “she must be labeled ‘lass, with care,' you know —" and after that other voices went on (“what a number of people there are in the carriage!" thought alice), saying, “she must go by post, as she's got a head on her ———" “she must be sent as a message by the telegraph —" “she must draw the train herself the rest of the way —-," and so on. but the gentleman dressed in white paper leaned forwards and whispered in her ear, “never mind what they all say, my dear, but take a return-ticket every time the train stops." “indeed, i shan't!" alice said rather impatiently. “i don't belong to this railway journey at all —i was in a wood just now—and i wish i could get back there!" "you might make . on am." said the little voice close to her ear: "something about ‘you would it you could,' you know." “don't tease so," said alice, looking about in vain to see where the voice came from. “if you're so anxious to have a joke made, why don't you make one yourself?" the little voice sighed deeply. it was very unhappy, evidently, and alice would have said something pitying to comfort it, “if it would only sigh like other people!" she thought. but this was such a wonderfully small sigh, that she would n't have heard it at all, if it had n't come quite close to her ear. the consequence of this was that it tickled her ear very much, and quite took off her thoughts from the unhappiness of the poor little creature. ~r know m m friend," the little voice went on: --. dear friend, and an old friend. and you won't hurt me, though i an an insect." “what kind of insect?" _alice inquired, a little anxiously. what she really wanted to know was, i through the looking—glass whether it could sting or not, but she thought this would n't be quite a civil question to ask. "what. then you don't-—" the little voice began, when it was drowned by a shrill scream from the engine, and everybody jumped up in alarm, alice among the rest. the horse, who had put his head out of the window, quietly drew it in and said, “it's only a brook we have to jump over." everybody seemed satisfied with this, though alice felt a little nervous at the idea of trains jumping at all. “however, it'll take us into the fourth square, that's some comfort!" she said to herself. in another moment she felt the carriage rise straight up into the air, and in her fright she caught at the thing nearest to her hand, which happened to be the goat's beard. a e o a o o i ll q |! ‘l o * * but the beard seemed to melt away as she touched it, and she found herself sitting quietly under a tree —- while the gnat (for that was the insect she had been talking to) was balancing itself on a twig just over her head, and fanning her with its wings. it certainly was a very large gnat: “about the size of a chicken," alice thought. still, she could n't feel nerv- ous with it, after they had been talking together so long. “— then you don't like all insects?" the gnat went on, as quietly as if nothing had happened. “i like them when they can talk," alice said. “none of them ever talk, where i come from." “what sort of insects do you rejoice in, where you come from?" the gnat inquired. and what alice found there i “i don't rejoice in insects at all," alice explained, “because i'm rather afraid of them—at least the large kinds. but i can tell you the names of some of them." “of course they answer to their names?" the gnat remarked carelessly. “i never knew them to do it." “what 's the use of their having names," the gnat said, “if they won't answer to them?" “no use to them," said alice; “but it's useful to the people that name them, i suppose. if not, why do things have names at all?" “i can't say," the gnat replied. “further on, in the wood down there, they've got no names—however, go on with your list of insects: you're wasting time." “well, there's the horse-fly," alice began, counting off the names on her fingers. “all right," said the gnat. “halfway up that bush, you'll see a rocking-horse-fiy, if you look. it's made entirely of wood, and gets about by swinging itself from branch to branch." “what does it live on?" alice asked, with great curiosity. “ sap and sawdust," said the gnat. “ go on with the list." alice looked at the rocking-horse-fly with great interest, and made up her mind that it must have been just repainted, it looked so bright and sticky; and then she went on. “and there's the dragon-fly." “look on the branch above your head," said the gnat, “and there you'll find a snap-dragon-fly. its i through the looking—glass body is made of plum-pudding, its wings of holly-leaves, and its head is a raisin burning in brandy." “and what does it live on?" alice asked, as before. “frumenty and mince-pie," the gnat replied; “and it makes its nest in a christmas-box." “and then there's the butterfly," alice went on, after she had taken a. good look at the insect with its head on fire, and had thought to herself, “i wonder if that's the reason insects are so fond of flying into candles —because they want to turn into snap-dragon-flies!" “crawling at your feet," said the gnat (alice drew her feet back in some alarm), “you may observe a bread-and-butter-fiy. its wings are thin slices of bread- and-butter, its body is a crust, and its head is a lump of sugar." “and what does it live on?" “weak tea with cream in it." a new difliculty came into alice's head. “sup- posing it could n't find any?" she suggested. “then it would die, of course." ' “but that must happen very often," alice remarked thoughtfully. “it always happens," said the gnat. after this, alice was silent for a minute or two, pondering. the gnat amused itself meanwhile by humming round and round her head: at last it settled again and remarked, “i suppose you don't want to lose your name?" “n o, indeed," alice said, a little anxiously. “and yet i don't know," the gnat went on in a careless tone: “only think how convenient it would be if you could manage to go home without it! for instance, through the looking—glass herself, “where things have no names. i wonder what ' become of my name when i go in? i should n't like to lose it at all—because they 'd have to give me another, and it would be almost certain to be an ugly one. but then the fun would be, trying to find the creature that had got my old name! that's just like the advertise- ments, you know, when people lose dogs —‘answers to the name of “dash": had on a brass collar' —just fancy calling everything you met ‘alice,' till one of them answered! only they would n't answer at all, if they were wise." she was rambling on in this way when she reached the wood: it looked very cool and shady. “well, at any rate it's a great comfort," she said as she stepped under the trees, “after being so hot, to get into the — into the—into what?" she went on, rather surprised at not being able to think of the word. “i mean to get under the— under the —under this, you know! " putting her hand on the trunk of the tree. “what does it call itself, i wonder? i do believe it 's got no name—why to be sure it has n't!" she stood silent for a minute, thinking: then she suddenly began again. “then it really has happened, after all! and now, who am i? i will remember, if i can! i 'm determined to do it!" but being determined did n't help her much, and all she could say, after a great deal of puzzling, was “l, i know it begins with l!" just then a fawn came wandering by: it looked at alice with its large gentle eyes, but did n't seem at all frightened. “here then! here then!" alice said, as she held out her hand and tried to stroke it; but it only started back a little, and then stood looking at her again. chapter iv tweedledum and tweedledee hey were standing under a tree, each with an arm round the other's neck, and alice knew which was which in a moment, because one of them had “dum" embroidered on his collar, and the other “dee." “i suppose they've each got ‘tw'ee- dle' round at the back of the collar," she said to herself. - they stood so still that she quite forgot they were alive, and she was just going round to see if the word “tweedle" was written at the back of each collar, when she was startled by a voice coming from the one marked “dum." “if you think we're wax-works," he said, ‘you ought to pay, you know. wax-works weren't made to be looked at for nothing. nohow!" “contrariwise," added the one marked “dee," “if you think we're alive, you ought to speak." “i'm sure i'm very sorry," was all alice could say; for the words of the old song kept ringing through her head like the ticking of a clock, and she could hardly help saying them out loud :— “ tweedledum and tweedledee agreed to have a battle; for tweedledum said t weedledee had spoiled his nice new rattle. i i through the looki n g—glass just then flew down a monstrous crow, as black as a tar-barrel; which frightened both the heroes so, they quite forgot their quarrel." “i know what you're thinking about," said tweedle- dum; “but it is n't so, nohow." “contrariwise," continued tweedledee, “if it was so, it might be; and if it were so, it would be; but as it is n't, it ain't. that 's logic." “i was thinking," alice said very politely, “which is the best way out of this wood: it's getting so dark. would you tell me, please?" but the fat little men only looked at each other and grinned. they looked so exactly like a couple of great school— boys, that alice could n't help pointing her finger at tweedledum, and saying, “first boy!" “nohow!" tweedledum cried out briskly, and shut his mouth up again with a snap. “next boy!" said alice, passing on to tweedledee, though she felt quite certain he would only shout out “contrariwise!" and so he did. “you've begun wrong!" cried tweedledum. “the first thing in a visit is to say ‘how d'ye do?' and shake hands!" and here the two brothers gave each other a hug, and then they held out the two hands that were free, to shake hands with her. alice did not like shaking hands with either of them first, for fear of hurting the other one's feelings; so, as the best way out of the difficulty, she took hold of both hands at once: the next moment they were dancing round in a ring. this seemed quite natural (she remembered and what alice found there i afterwards), and she was not even surprised to hear music playing: it seemed to come from the tree under which they were dancing, and it was done (as well as she could make it out) by the branches rubbing one across the other, like fiddles and fiddle-sticks. “but it certainly was funny" (alice said afterwards, when she was telling her sister the history of all this), “to find myself singing ‘here we go round the mulberry bush.' i don't know when i began it, but somehow i felt as if i'd been singing it a long long time!" the other two dancers were fat, and very soon out of breath. “four times round is enough for one dance," tweedledum panted out, and they left off dancing as suddenly as they had begun: the music stopped at the same moment. then they let go of alice's hands, and stood looking at her for a minute: there was a rather awkward pause, as alice did n't know how to begin a conversation with people she had just been dancing with. “it would never do to say ‘how d 'ye do?' now," she said to herself: “we seem to have got beyond that, somehow!" “ i hope you're not much tired?" she said at last. “nohow. and thank you very much for asking," said tweedledum. “so much obliged!" added tweedledee. “you like poetry?" “ye-es, pretty well — some poetry," alice said doubt- fully. “would you tell me which road leads out of the wood?" “what shall i repeat to her?" said tweedledee, looking round at tweedledum with great solemn eyes, and not noticing alice's question. i through the looking—glass “‘the walrus and the carpenter' is the longest," tweedledum replied, giving his brother an affectionate hug. tweedledee began instantly: “the sun was shining here alice ventured to interrupt him. “if it 's very long," she said, as politely as she could, “would you please tell me first which road " tweedledee smiled gently, and began again: , “ the sun was shining on the sea, shining with all his might: he did his very best to make the billows smooth and bright —- and this was odd, because it was the middle of the night. “ the moon was shining sulkily, because she thought the sun had got no business to be there after the day was done — ‘it 's very rude of him,' she said, ‘to come and spoil the fun! ' “the sea was wet as wet could be, the sands were dry as dry. you could not see a cloud because no cloud was in the sky: no birds were flying overhead — there were no birds to fly. “the walrus and the carpenter were walking close at hand: they wept like anything to see such quantities of sand: ‘if this were only cleared away,' they said, ‘it would be grand!' and what alice found there i if seven maids with seven mops swept it for half a year, do you suppose,' the walrus said, ‘that they could get it clear?' ‘i doubt it,' said the carpenter, and shed a bitter tear. ‘“o oysters, come and walk with us!' the walrus did beseech. ‘a pleasant walk, a pleasant talk, along the briny beach: we cannot do with more than four, to give a hand to each.' “ the eldest oyster looked at him, but never a word he said: the eldest oyster winked his eye, and shook his heavy head — meaning to say he did not choose to leave the oyster-bed. “but four young oysters hurried up, all eager for the treat: their coats were brushed, their faces washed, their shoes were clean and neat —- and this was odd, because, you know, they had n't any feet. “ four other oysters followed them, and yet another four; and thick and fast they came at last, and more, and more, and more — all hopping through the frothy waves, and scrambling to the shore. “ the walrus and the carpenter walked on a mile or so, i through the looking—glass and then they rested on a rock conveniently low: and all the little oysters stood and waited in a row. ‘“t he time has come,' the walrus said, ‘t o talk of many things: of shoes — and ships — and sealing-wax- of cabbages — and kings — and why the sea is boiling hot — and whether pigs have wings.' ‘“but wait a bit,' the oysters cried, ‘before we have our chat; for some of us are out of breath, and all of us are fat!' ‘n hurry!' said the carpenter. they thanked him much for that. “ ‘a loaf of bread,' the walrus said, ‘is what we chiefly need: pepper and vinegar besides are very good indeed — now, if you're ready, oysters dear, we can begin to feed.' “‘but not on us! ' the oysters cried, turning a little blue. ‘after such kindness that would be a dismal thing to do!' ‘the night is fine,' the walrus said ‘do you admire the view? “‘it was so kind of you to come! and you are very nice!' the carpenter said nothing but ‘cut us another slice. and all the little oysters stood and waited in a row and what alice found there i i i wish you were not quite so deaf —- i 've had to ask you twice!' “‘it seems a shame,’ the walrus said, ‘to play them such a trick. after we've brought them out so far, and made them trot so quick!' the carpenter said nothing but ‘the butter's spread too thick!’ “'i weep for you,' the walrus said: ‘i deeply sympathize.' with sobs and tears he sorted out those of the largest size, holding his pocket-handkerchief before his streaming eyes. ‘“ oysters,' said the carpenter, ‘you've had a pleasant run! shall we be trotting home again?' but answer come there none — and this was scarcely odd, because they'd eaten every one." “i like the walrus best," said alice: "because he was a little sorry for the poor oysters." “he ate more then the carpenter, though," said tweedledee. “you see he held his handkerchief in front, so that the carpenter could n't count how many he took: contrariwise." “that was mean!" alice said indignantly. “then i like the carpenter best—if he did n't eat so many as the walrus." “but he ate as many as he could get," said tweedle- dum. i through the looking—glass this was a puzzler. after a pause, alice began, “ well! they were both very unpleasant characters " here she checked herself in some alarm, at hearing something that sounded to her like the puffing of a large steam-engine in the wood near them, though she feared it was more likely to be a wild beast. “are there any lions or tigers about here?" she asked timidly. “it's only the red king snoring," said tweedledee. “come and look at him!" the brothers cried, and they each took one of alice's hands, and led her up to where the king was sleeping. “is n't he a lovely sight?" said tweedledum. alice could n't say honestly that he was. he had a tall red night-cap on, with a tassel, and he was lying crumpled up into a sort of untidy heap, and snoring loud —“fit to snore his head ofi!" as tweedledum remarked. “i'm afraid he'll catch cold with lying on the damp grass," said alice, who was a very thoughtful little girl. “he's dreaming now,' said tweedledee: “and what do you think he's dreaming about?" alice said “nobody can guess that." “why, about you!" tweedledee exclaimed, clapping his hands triumphantly. “and if he left off dreaming about you, where do you suppose you 'd be?" “where i am now, of course," said alice. “not you!" t weedledee retorted contemptuously. “you 'd be nowhere. why, you're only a sort of thing in his dream!" “if that there king was to wake," added tweedle- dum, “you'd go out—bang!—just like a candle!" i through the looking—glass “selfish things!" thought alice, and she was just going to say “ good-night" and leave them, when tweedle- dum sprang out from under the umbrella, and seized her by the wrist. “do you see that?" he said, in a voice choking with passion, and his eyes grew large and yellow all in a moment, as he pointed with a trembling finger at a small white thing lying under the tree. “it's only a rattle," alice said, after a careful exam- ination of the little white thing. “not a rattle-snake, you know," she added hastily, thinking that he was frightened: “ only an old rattle—quite old and broken." “i knew it was!" cried tweedledum, beginning to stamp about wildly and tear his hair. “it 's spoilt, of course!" here he looked at tweedledee, who imme- diately sat down on the ground, and tried to hide himself under the umbrella. alice laid her hand upon his arm, and said, in a sooth- ing tone, “you need n't be so angry about an old rattle." “but it is n't old!" tweedledum cried, in a greater fury than ever. “it's new, i tell you—i bought it yesterday—my nice new rattle!" and his voice rose to a perfect scream. all this time tweedledee was trying his best to fold up the umbrella, with himself in it: which was such an extraordinary thing to do, that it quite took off alice's attention from the angry brother. but he could n't quite succeed, and it ended in his rolling over, bundled up in the umbrella, with only his head out: and there he lay, opening and shutting his mouth and his large eyes —“looking more like a fish than anything else," alice thought. and what alice found there i “ of course you agree to have a battle?" tweedledum said in a calmer tone. “i suppose so," the other sulkily replied, as he crawled out of the umbrella: “only she must help us to dress up, you know." so the two brothers went off hand in hand into the wood, and returned in a minute with their arms full of things—such as bolsters, blankets, hearth-rugs, table- cloths, dish-covers, and coal-scuttles. “i hope you're a good hand at pinning and tying strings?" tweedledum remarked. “every one of these things has got to go on, somehow or other." alice said afterwards she had never seen such a fuss made about anything in all her life—the way those two bustled about—and the quantity of things they put on—and the trouble they gave her in tying strings and fastening buttons—“really, they'll be more like bundles of old clothes than anything else, by the time they're ready!" she said to herself, as she arranged a bolster round the neck of tweedledee, “to keep his head from being cut off," as he said. “you know," he added very gravely, “it's one of the most serious things that can possibly happen to one in a battle—to get one's head cut off." alice laughed loud: but she managed to turn it into a cough, for fear of hurting his feelings. “do i look very pale?" said tweedledum coming up to have his helmet tied on. (he called it a helmet, though it certainly looked much more like a saucepan.) “well—yes—a little," alice replied gently. _ “i 'm very brave, generally," he went on in a low voice: “only to-day i happen to have a headache." i through the looking—glass “and i've got a toothache!" said tweedledee, who had overheard the remark. “i'm far worse than you!" “then you'd better not fight to-day," said alice, thinking it a good opportunity to make peace. “we must have a bit of a fight, but i don't care about going on long," said tweedledum. “what 's the time now?" tweedledee looked at his watch, and said, “half- past four." “let's fight till six, and then have dinner," said tweedledum. “very well," the other said, rather sadly: “and she can watch us—only you'd better not come very close," he added: “i generally hit everything i can see—when i get really excited." “and i hit everything within reach," cried tweedle- dum, “whether i can see it or not!" alice laughed. “you must hit the trees pretty often, i should think," she said. tweedledum looked round him with a satisfied smile. “i don't suppose," he said, “there'll be a tree left standing, for ever so far round, by the time we've finished!" “and all about a rattle!" said alice, still hoping to make them a little ashamed of fighting for such a trifle. “i should n't have minded it so much," said 'hweedle- dum, “if it had n't been a new one." “i wish the monstrous crow would come!" thought alice. “there's only one sword, you know," tweedledum said to his brother: “but you can have the umbrella—- and what alice found there i it's quite as sharp. only we must begin quick. it's getting as dark as it can." “and darker," said tweedledee. it was getting dark so suddenly that alice thought there must be a thunderstorm coming on. “what a thick black cloud that is!" she said. “and how fast it comes! why, i do believe it 's got wings!" “it's the crow!" tweedledum cried out in a shrill voice of alarm; and the two brothers took to their heels and were out of sight in a moment. alice ran a little way into the wood, and stopped under a large tree. “it can never get at me here," she thought: “it's far too large to squeeze itself in among the trees. but i wish it would n't flap its wings so—it makes quite a hurricane in the wood—here's somebody's shawl being blown away!" and what alice found there i i “yes, but then i had done the things i was punished for," said alice: “that makes all the difference." “but if you had n't done them," the queen said, “that would have been better still; better, and better, and better!" her voice went higher with each “ better," till it got quite to a squeak at last. alice was just beginning to say, “there's a mistake somewhere ——," when the queen began screaming, so loud that she had to leave the sentence unfinished. “oh, oh, oh!" shouted the queen, shaking her hand about as if she wanted to shake it off. “my finger's bleeding! 'oh, oh, oh, oh!" her screams were so exactly like the whistle of a steam-engine, that alice had to hold both her hands over her ears. “what is the matter?" she said, as soon as there was a chance of making herself heard. “have you pricked your finger?" “i have n't pricked it yet," the queen said, “but i soon shall—oh, oh, oh!" “when do you expect to do it?" alice asked, feeling very much inclined to laugh. “when i fasten my shawl again," the poor queen groaned out: “the brooch will come undone directly. oh, oh!" as she said the words the brooch flew open, and the queen clutched wildly at it, and tried to clasp it again. “take care!" cried alice. “you're holding it all crooked!" and she caught at the brooch; but it was too late: the pin had slipped, and the queen had pricked her finger. “that accounts for the bleeding, you see," she said i through the looki ng—-glass to alice with a smile. “now you understand the way things happen here." “but why don't you scream now?" alice asked, holding her hands ready to put over her ears again. “why, i've done all the screaming already," said the queen. “what would be the good of having it all over again?" by this time it was getting light. “the crow must have flown away, i think," said alice: “ i 'm so glad it's gone. i thought it was the night coming on." “i wish i could manage to be glad!" the queen said. “only i never can remember the rule. you must be very happy, living in this wood, and being glad whenever you like!" “only it is so very lonely here!" alice said in a melancholy voice; and, at the thought of her loneliness, two large tears came rolling down her cheeks. “oh, don't go on like that!" cried the poor queen, wringing her hands in despair. “consider what a great girl you are. consider what a long way you've come to-day. consider what o'clock it is. consider anything, only don't cry!" alice could not help laughing at this, even in the midst of her tears. “ can you keep from crying by considering things?" she asked. “that's the way it's done," the queen said with great decision: “nobody can do two things at once, you know. let's consider your age to begin with—how old are you?" “i'm seven and a half, exactly." “ you need n't say ‘exactually,' " the queen remarked. “i can believe it without that. now i'll give you and what alice found there i something to believe. i'm just one hundred and one, five months and a day." “i can't believe that!" said alice. “can't you?" the queen said in a pitying tone. “try again: draw a long breath, and shut your eyes." alice laughed. “there's no use trying," she said: “one can't believe impossible things." “i dare say you have n't had much practice," said the queen. “when i was your age, i always did it for half-an-hour a day. why, sometimes i've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast. there goes the shawl again!" the brooch had come undone as she spoke, and a sudden gust of wind blew the queen's shawl across a little brook. the queen spread out her arms again, and went flying after it, and this time she succeeded in catching it for herself. “i've got it!" she cried in a triumphant tone. “ n ow you shall see me pin it on again, all by myself!" _ “then i hope your finger is better now?" alice said very politely, as she crossed the little brook after the queen. # q i * t a: * a: t * * ii c i “ oh, much better!" cried the queen, her voice rising into a squeak as she went on. “much be-etter! be-etter! be-e-e-etter! be-e-ehh!" the last word ended in a long bleat, so like a sheep that alice quite started. she looked at the queen, who seemed to have suddenly wrapped herself up in wool. alice rubbed her eyes, and looked again. she could n't make out what had and what alice found there i struck her. “i 'll follow it up to the very top shelf of all. it'll puzzle it to go through the ceiling, i expect!" but even this plan failed: the ‘thing' went through the ceiling as quietly as possible, as if it were quite used to it. “are you a child or a teetotum? " the sheep said, as she took up another pair of needles. “you'll make me giddy soon, if you go on turning round like that." she was now working with fourteen pairs at once, and alice could n't help looking at her in great astonishment. “how can she knit with so many?" the puzzled child thought to herself. “she gets more and more like a porcupine every minute!" “can you row?" the sheep asked, handing her a pair of knitting-needles as she spoke. “yes, a little—but not on land—and not with needles —" alice was beginning to say, when suddenly the needles turned into oars in her hands, and she found they were in a little boat, gliding along between banks: so there was nothing for it but to do her best. “feather!" cried the sheep, as she took up another pair of needles. this did n't sound like a remark that needed any answer: so alice said nothing, but pulled away. there was something very queer about the water, she thought, as every now and then the oars got fast in it, and would hardly come out again. “feather! feather!" the sheep cried again, taking more needles. “you'll be catching a crab directly." “a dear little crab!" thought alice. “i should like tha ." “did n't you hear me say ‘feather'?" the sheep cried angrily, taking up quite a bunch of needles. i through the looking—glass “indeed i did," said alice: “you've said it very often—and very loud. please where are the crabs?" “in the water, of course!" said the sheep, sticking some of the needles into her hair, as her hands were full. “feather, i say!" “why do you say ‘feather' so often?" alice asked at last, rather vexed. “i'm not a bird!" “you are," said the sheep: “you're a little goose." this offended alice a little, so there was no more conversation for a minute or two, while the boat glided gently on, sometimes among beds of weeds (which made the oars stick fast in the water, worse than ever), and sometimes under trees, but always with the same tall river-banks frowning over their heads. “oh, please! there are some scented rushes!" alice cried in a sudden transport of delight. “there really are—and such beauties!" “you need n't say ‘please' to me about 'em," the sheep said, without looking up from her knitting: “i did n't put 'em there, and i'm not going to take 'em away." “no, but i meant—please, may we wait and pick some?" alice pleaded. “if you don't mind stopping the boat for a minute." “how am i to stop it?" said the sheep. “if you leave off rowing, it'll stop of itself." so the boat was left to drift down the stream as it would, till it glided gently in among the waving rushes. and then the little sleeves were carefully rolled up, and the little arms were plunged in elbow-deep, to get hold of the rushes a good long way down before breaking them ofl—and for a while alice forgot all about the sheep and what alice found there i and the knitting, as she bent over the side of the boat, with just the ends of her tangled hair dipping into the water—while with bright eager eyes she caught at one bunch after another of the darling scented rushes. “i only hope the boat won't tipple over!" she said to herself. “oh, what a lovely one! only i could n't quite reach it." and it certainly did seem a little provoking (“almost as if it happened on purpose," she thought) that, though she managed to pick plenty of beautiful rushes as the boat glided by, there was always a more lovely one that she could n't reach. “the prettiest are always further!" she said at last, with a sigh at the obstinacy of the rushes in growing so far off, as, with flushed cheeks and dripping hair and hands, she scrambled back into her place, and began to arrange her new-found treasures. what mattered it to her just then that the rushes had begun to fade, and to lose all their scent and beauty, from the very moment that she picked them? even real scented rushes, you know, last only a very little while — and these, being dream-rushes, melted away almost like snow, as they lay in heaps at her feet — but alice hardly noticed this, there were so many other curious things to think about. they had n't gone much farther before the blade of one of the oars got fast in the water and would n't come out again (so alice explained it afterwards), and the consequence was that the handle of it caught her under the chin, and, in spite of a series of little shrieks of ‘oh, oh, oh!' from poor alice, it swept her straight off the seat, and down among the heap of rushes. however, she wasn't a bit hurt, and was soon up i through the looking—glass again: the sheep went on with her knitting all the while, just as if nothing had happened. “that was a nice crab you caught!" she remarked, as alice got back into her place, very much relieved to find herself still in the boat. “was it? i did n't see it," said alice, peeping cautiously over the side of the boat into the dark water. “i wish it had n't let go — i should so like a little crab to take home with me!" but the sheep only laughed scornfully, and went on with her knitting. “are there many crabs here?" said alice. “crabs, and all sorts of things," said the sheep: “plenty of choice, only make up your mind. now, what do you want to buy?" “to buy!" alice echoed in a tone that was half astonished and half frightened—for the oars, and the boat, and the river, had vanished all in a moment, and she was back again in the little dark shop. “i should like to buy an egg, please," she said timidly. “how do you sell them?" “fivepence farthing for one— two pence for two," the sheep replied. “then two are cheaper than one?" alice said in a surprised tone, taking out her purse. “only you must eat them both, if you buy two," said the sheep. “then i'll have one, please," said alice, as she put the money down on the counter. for she thought to herself, “they might n't be at all nice, you know." the sheep took the money, and put it away in a box: then she said, “i never put things into people's hands—that would never do— you must get it for chapter vi humpty dumpty owever the egg only got larger and larger, and more and more human: when she had come within a few yards of it, she saw that it had eyes and a nose and mouth; and, when she had come close to it, she saw clearly that it was humpty dumpty himself. “it can't be anybody else!" she said to herself. “i'm as certain of it, as if his name were written all over his face!" it might have been written a hundred times, easily, on that enormous face. humpty dumpty was sitting, with his legs crossed like a turk, on the top of a high wall — such a narrow one that alice quite wondered how he could keep his balance — and, as his eyes were steadily fixed in the opposite direction, and he did n't take the least notice of her, she thought he must be a stufied figure, after all. “and how exactly like an egg he is!" she said aloud, standing with her hands ready to catch him, for she was every moment expecting him to fall. “it's very provoking," humpty dumpty said after a long silence, looking away from alice as he spoke, “to be called an egg —very!" “i said you looked like an egg, sir," alice gently ex- plained. “and some eggs are very pretty, you know," she added, hoping to turn her remark into a sort of compliment. “some people," said humpty dumpty, looking away from her as usual, “have no more sense than a baby!" i through the looking—glass for the queer creature. “that wall is so very narrow!" “what tremendously easy riddles you ask!" humpty dumpty growled out. “of course i don't think so! why, if ever i did fall off — which there's no chance of —but if i did " here he pursed up his lips, and looked so solemn and grand that alice could hardly help laughing. “if i did fall," he went on, “the king has promised me — ah, you may turn pale, if you like! you did n't think i was going to say that, did you? the king has promised me — with his very own mouth — to — to —" “to send all his horses and all his men," alice interrupted, rather unwisely. “now i declare that's too bad!" humpty dumpty cried, breaking into a sudden passion. “you 've been listening at doors — and behind trees —and down chimneys — or you could n't have known it!" “i haven't, indeed!" alice said very gently. “it's in a book." “ah, well! they may write such things in a book," humpty dumpty said in a calmer tone. “that's what you call a history of england, that is. now, take a good look at me! i'm one that has spoken to a king, i am: mayhap you'll never see such another: and, to show you i'm not proud, you may shake hands with me!" and he grinned almost from ear to ear, as he leant forwards (and as nearly as possible fell off the wall in doing so) and offered alice his hand. she watched him a little anxiously as she took it. “if he smiled much more the ends of his mouth might meet behind," she thought: “and then i don't know what would happen to his head! i 'm afraid it would come off!" and what alice found there i “yes, all his horses and all his men," humpty dumpty went on. “they'd pick me up again in a minute, they would! however, this conversation is going on a little too fast: let's go back to the last remark but one." “i'm afraid i can't quite remember it," alice said, very politely. “in that case we start afresh," said humpty dumpty, “and it's my turn to choose a subject —" (“he talks about it just as if it was a game!" thought alice.) “so here's a question for you. how old did you say you were?" alice made a short calculation, and said, “seven years and six months." “wrong!" humpty dumpty exclaimed trium- phantly. ' “you never said a word like it!" “i thought you meant ‘how old are you?’ " alice explained. “if i'd meant that, i'd have said it," said humpty dumpty. alice did n't want to begin another argument so she said nothing. “seven years and six months!" humpty dumpty repeated thoughtfully. “an uncomfortable sort of age. now if you'd asked my advice, i'd have said, ‘leave off at seven' —but it's too late now." “i never ask advice about growing," alice said indignantly. “too proud?" the other inquired. alice felt even more indignant at this suggestion. “i mean," she said, “that one can't help growing older." “one can't, perhaps," said humpty dumpty; “but i through the looking—glass “certainly," said alice. “and only one for birthday presents, you know. there's glory for you!" “ i don't know what you mean by ‘glory,' " alice said. humpty dumpty smiled contemptuously. “of course you don't —till i tell you. i meant ‘there's a nice knock-down argument for you!' " “but ‘glory' does n't mean ‘a nice knock-down argument,' " alice objected. “when i use a word," humpty dumpty said, in rather a scornful tone, “it means just what i choose it to mean—neither more nor less." “the question is," said alice, “whether you can make words mean so many different things." “the question is," said humpty dumpty, “which is to be master—that's all." alice was too much puzzled to say anything; so after a minute humpty dumpty began again. “they've a temper, some of them—particularly verbs: they're the proudest—adjectives you can do anything with, but not verbs—however, i can manage the whole lot of them! impenetrability! that 's what i say!" “would you tell me, please," said alice, “what that means?" “ now you talk like a reasonable child," said humpty dumpty, looking very much pleased. “i meant by ‘impenetrability' that we've had enough of that subject, and it would be just as well if you'd mention what you mean to do next, as i suppose you don't mean to stop here all the rest of your life." “that's a great deal to make one word mean," alice said in a thoughtful tone. and what alice found there i “when i make a word do a lot of work like that," said humpty dumpty, “i always pay it extra." “oh!" said alice. she was too much puzzled to make any other remark. “ah, you should see 'em come round me of a saturday night," humpty dumpty went on, wagging his head gravely from side to side, “for to get their wages, you know." (alice didn't venture to ask what he paid them with; and so you see i can't tell you.) “you seem very clever at explaining words, sir," said alice. “would you kindly tell me the meaning of the poem called ‘jabberwocky'?" “let's hear it," said humpty dumpty. “i can explain all the poems that ever were invented—and a good many that haven't been invented just yet." this sounded very hopeful, so alice repeated the first verse :— “'t was brillig, and the slithy loves did gyre and gimble in the wabe: all mimsy were the borogoves, and the mome raths outgrabe." “that's enough to begin with," humpty dumpty interrupted: “there are plenty of hard words there. ‘brillig' means four o'clock in the afternoon—the time when you begin broiling things for dinner." “that'll do very well," said alice: “and ‘slithy'?" “well, ‘slithy' means ‘lithe and slimy.' ‘lithe' is the same as ‘active.' you see it's like a portmanteau — there are two meanings packed up into one word." “i see it now," alice remarked thoughtfully: “and what are ‘toves'?" and what alice found there i “i read it in a book," said alice. “but i had some poetry repeated to me much easier than that, by — tweedledee, i think it was." “as to poetry, you know," said humpty dumpty, stretching out one of his great hands, “i can repeat poetry as well as other folk, if it comes to that —" “oh, it need n't come to that!" alice hastily said, hoping to keep him from beginning. “the piece i 'm going to repeat," he went on without noticing her remark, “was written entirely for your amusernen ." alice felt that in that case she really ought to listen to it; so she sat down, and said “thank you" rather sadly. “in winter, when the fields are white, i sing this song for your delight —- only i don't sing it," he added, as an explanation. “i see you don't," said alice. “if you can see whether i'm singing or not, you've sharper eyes than most," humpty dumpty remarked severely. alice was silent. “in spring, when woods are getting green, i'll try and tell you what i mean": “thank you very much," said alice. “in summer, when the days are long, perhaps you'll understand the song: "in autumn, when the leaves are brown, take pen and ink, and write it down." through the looking—glass “i will, if i can remember it so long," said alice. “you need n't go on making remarks like that," humpty dumpty said: “they're not sensible, and they put me out." “i sent a message to the fish: i told them ‘this is what i wish.’ “ the little fishes of the sea, they sent an answer back to me. “ the little fishes' answer was ‘we cannot do it, sir, because i" “i'm afraid i don't quite understand,‘ said alice. “it gets easier further on,” humpty dumpty replied. “i sent to them again to say ‘it will be better to obey.' “ the fishes answered, with a grin, ‘why, what a temper you are in!' “i told them once, i told them twice: they would not listen to advice. “i took a kettle large and new, fit for the deed i had to do. “my heart went hop, my heart went thump: i filled the kettle at the pump. “ then some one came to me and said ‘the little fishes are in bed.' “i said to him, i said it plain, ‘then you must wake them up again.' i through the looking—glass “the face is what one goes by, generally," alice remarked in a thoughtful tone.’ “that's just what i complain of," said humpty dumpty. “your face is the same as everybody has —- the two eyes, so —" (marking their places in the air with his thumb) “nose in the middle, mouth under. it's always the same. now if you had the two eyes on the same side of the nose, for instance—or the mouth at the top—that would be some help." “it wouldn't look nice," alice objected. but humpty dumpty only shut his eyes, and said, “wait till you've tried." alice waited a minute to see if he would speak again, but, as he never opened his eyes or took any further notice of her, she said “good-by!" once more, and, getting no answer to this, she quietly walked away: but she could n't help saying to herself, as she went, “of all the unsatisfactory —" (she repeated this aloud, as it was a great comfort to have such a long word to say) “of all the unsatisfactory people i ever met ———" she never finished the sentence, for at this mo- ment a heavy crash shook the forest from end to end. [ through the looking—glass of them are wanted in the game. and i have n't sent the two messengers, either. they're both gone to the town. just look along the road, and tell me if you can see either of them." “i see nobody on the road," said alice. “i only wish i had such eyes," the king remarked in a fretful tone. “to be able to see nobody! and at that distance too! why, it's as much as i can do to see real people, by this light!" all this was lost on alice, who was still looking intently along the road, shading her eyes with one hand. “i see somebody now!" she exclaimed at last. “but he's coming very slowly—and what curious attitudes he goes into!" (for the messenger kept skipping up and down, and wriggling like an eel, as he came along, with his great hands spread out like fans on each side.) “not at all," said the king. “he's an anglo- saxon messenger—and those are anglo-saxon attitudes. he only does them when he's happy. his name is haigha." (he pronounced it so as to rhyme with ‘mayor.') “i love my love with an h," alice could n't help beginning, “because he is happy. i hate him with an h, because he is hideous. i fed him with—with — with ham-sandwiches and hay. his name is haigha, and he lives ———" “he lives on the hill," the king remarked simply, without the least idea that he was joining in the game, while alice was still hesitating for the name of a town beginning with h. “the other messenger's called hatta. i must have two, you know-to come and go. one to come, and one to go." and what alice found there i “i beg your pardon?" said alice. “it is n't respectable to beg," said the king. “i only meant that i did n't understand," said alice. “why one to come and one to go?" “don't i tell you?" the king repeated impatiently. “i must have two—to fetch and carry. one to fetch, and one to carry." at this moment the messenger arrived: he was far too much out of breath to say a word, and could only wave his hands about, and make the most fearful faces at the poor king. “this young lady loves you with an h," the king said, introducing alice in the hope of turning ofi the messenger's attention from himself—but it was of no use—the anglo-saxon attitudes only got more extraor- dinary every moment, while the great eyes rolled wildly from side to side. “you alarm me!" said the king. “i feel faint — give me a ham sandwich!" on which the messenger, to alice's great amusement, opened a bag that hung round his neck, and handed a sandwich to the king, who devoured it greedily. “another sandwich!" said the king. “there's nothing but hay left now," the messenger said, peeping into the bag. “hay, then," the king murmured in a faint whisper. alice was glad to see that it revived him a good deal. "there 's nothing like eating hay when you're faint," he remarked to her, as he munched away. “i should think throwing cold water over you would be better," alice suggested: “-- or some sal-volatile." “i did n't say there was nothing better," the king i through the looking—glass replied. “i said there was nothing like it." which alice did not venture to deny. “who did you pass on the road?" the king went on, holding out his hand to the messenger for some more hay. “nobody," said the messenger. “quite right," said the king: “this young lady saw him too. so of course nobody walks slower than you." “i do my best," the messenger said in a sullen tone. “i'm sure nobody walks much faster than i do!" “he can't do that," said the king, “or else he 'd have been here first. however, now you've got your breath, you may tell us what's happened in the town." “i'll whisper it," said the messenger, putting his hands to his mouth in the shape of a trumpet and stooping so as to get close to the king's ear. alice was sorry for this, as she wanted to hear the news too. however, instead of whispering, he simply shouted, at the top of his voice, “they're at it again!" “do you call that a whisper?" cried the poor king, jumping up and shaking himself. “if you do such a thing again, i'll have you buttered! it went through and through my head like an earthquake!" “it would have to be a very tiny earthquake!" thought alice. “who are at it again?" she ventured to ask. “why, the lion and the unicorn, of course," said the king. “fighting for the crown?" “yes, to be sure," said the king: “and the best of the joke is, that it's my crown all the while! let's i through the looking—glass dear child?" he went on, putting his arm aflectionately round hatta's neck. ' hatta looked round and nodded, and went on with his bread-and-butter. “were you happy in prison, dear child?" said haigha. hatta looked round once more, and this time a tear or two trickled down his cheek; but not a word would he say. “speak, can't you!" haigha cried impatiently. but hatta only munched away, and drank some more tea. “speak, won't you!" cried the king. “how are they getting on with the fight?" hatta made a desperate effort, and swallowed a large piece of bread-and-butter. “they're getting on very well," he said in a choking voice: “each of them has been down about eighty-seven times." “then i suppose they'll soon bring the white bread and the brown?" alice ventured to remark. “it's waiting for 'em now," said hatta; “this is a bit of it as i'm eating." ' there was a pause in the fight just then, and the lion and the unicorn sat down, panting, while the king called out, “ten minutes allowed for refreshments!" haigha and hatta set to work at once, carrying round trays of white and brown bread. alice took a piece to taste, but it was very dry. “i don't think they'll fight any more to-day," the king said to hatta: “ go and order the drums to begin." and hatta went bounding away like a grasshopper. for a minute or two alice stood silent, watching him. suddenly she brightened up. “look, look!" she cried, pointing eagerly. “there 's the white queen running and what alice found there i across the country! she came flying out of the wood over yonder —how fast those queens can run!" “ there's some enemy after her, no doubt," the king said, without even looking round. “that wood 's full of them." “but are n't you going to run and help her?" alice asked, very much surprised at his taking it so quietly. “no use, no use!" said the king. “she runs so fearfully quick. you might as well try to catch a bander- snatch! but i'll make a memorandum about her, if you like—she's a dear good creature," he repeated softly to himself, as he opened his memorandum-book. “do you spell ‘creature' with a double ‘e'?" at this moment the unicorn sauntered by them, with his hands in his pockets. “i had the best of it this time?" he said to the king, just glancing at him as he passed. “a little—a little," the king replied, rather nervously. “you should n't have run him through with your horn, you know." “it did n't hurt him," the unicorn said carelessly, and he was going on, when his eye happened to fall upon alice: he turned round instantly and stood for some time looking at her with an air of the deepest disgust. “what—is—this?" he said at last. “this is a child!" haigha replied eagerly, coming in front of alice to introduce her, and spreading out both his hands towards her in an anglo-saxon attitude. “we only found it to-day. it's as large as life, and twice as natural!" “i always thought they were fabulous monsters!" said the unicorn. “is it alive?" o through the looking—glass “it can talk," said haigha solemnly. the unicorn looked dreamily at alice, and said, “talk; child." alice could not help her lips curling up into a smile as she began: “ do you know, i always thought unicorns were fabulous monsters, too? i never saw one alive before." “well, now that we have seen each other," said the unicorn, “if you'll believe in me, i'll believe in you. is that a bargain?" “yes, if you like," said alice. “come, fetch out the plum-cake, old man!" the unicorn went on, turning from her to the king. “none of your brown bread for me!" “certainly—certainly!" the king muttered, and beckoned to haigha. “open the bag!" he whispered. “quick! not that one—that's full of hay!" ' haigha took a large cake out of the bag, and gave it to alice to hold, while he got out a dish and carving- knife. how they all came out of it alice could n't guess. it was just like a conjuring-trick, she thought. the lion had joined them while this was going on: he looked very tired and sleepy, and his eyes were half shut. “what's this!" he said, blinking lazily at alice, and speaking in a deep hollow tone that sounded like the tolling of a great bell. “ah, what is it, now?" the unicorn cried eagerly. “you'll never guess! i could n't." the lion looked at alice wearily. “are you animal — or vegetable —or mineral?" he said, yawning at every other word. “it's a fabulous monster!" the unicorn cried out, before alice could reply. page zoi alice had seated herself on the bank of a little brook, and was sawing away with the knife through the looking—glass cakes," the unicorn remarked. “hand it round first, and cut it afterwards." this sounded nonsense, but alice very obediently got up, and carried the dish round, and the cake divided itself into three pieces as she did so. “now cut it up," said the lion, as she returned to her place with the empty dish. “i say, this isn't fair cried the unicorn, as alice sat with the knife in her hand, very much puzzled how to begin. “the monster has given the lion twice as much as me!" “she's kept none for herself, anyhow," said the lion. “do you like plum-cake, monster?" but before alice could answer him, the drums began. where the noise came from, she could n't make out: the air seemed full of it, and it rang through and through her head till she felt quite deafened. she started to her feet and sprang across the little brook in her terror, * t o i q o * it * * : t ‘ t i, ! and had just time to see the lion and the unicorn rise to their feet, with angry looks at being interrupted in their feast, before she dropped to her knees, and put her hands over her ears, vainly trying to shut out the dreadful uproar. “if that does n't ‘drum them out of town,"' she thought to herself, “nothing ever will!" i through the looking—glass “well, not the next day," the knight repeated as before: “not the next day. in fact," he went on, holding his head down, and his voice getting lower and lower, “i don't believe that pudding ever was cooked! in fact, i don't believe that pudding ever will be cooked! and yet it was a very clever pudding to invent." “what did you mean it to be made of?" alice asked, hoping to cheer him up, for the poor knight seemed quite low-spirited about it. “it began with blotting-paper," the knight answered with a groan. “that would n't be very nice, i'm afraid " “not very nice alone," he interrupted, quite eagerly: “but you've no idea what a difference it makes, mixing it with other things — such as gunpowder and sealing wax. and here i must leave you." they had just come to the end of the wood. alice could only look puzzled: she was thinking of the pudding. ' “you are sad," the knight said in an anxious tone: “let me sing you a song to comfort you." “is it very long?" alice asked, for she had heard a good deal of poetry that day. “it's long," said the knight, “but it's very, very beautiful. everybody that hears me sing it —either it brings the tears into their eyes, or else —-" “or else what?" said alice, for the knight had made a sudden pause. “or else it does n't, you know. the name of the song is called ‘haddocks' eyes.’ " “oh, that's the name of the song, is it?" alice said, trying to feel interested. and what alice found there i yet twopence-halfpenny is all they give me for my toil.' “but i was thinking of a way to feed oneself on batter, and so go on from day to day getting a little fatter. i shook him well from side to side, until his face was blue: ‘come, tell me how you live,' i cried, ‘and what it is you do!' “he said, ‘i hunt for haddocks' eyes among the heather bright, and work them into waistcoat-buttons in the silent night. and these i do not sell for gold or coin of silvery shine, but for a copper halfpenny, and that will purchase nine. “ ‘i sometimes dig for buttered rolls, or set limed twigs for crabs: i sometimes search the grassy knolls for wheels of hansom-cabs. and that's the way' (he gave a wink) ‘by which i get my wealth — and very gladly will i drink your honor's noble health.' “i heard him then, for i had just completed my design to keep the menai bridge from rust by boiling it in wine. i thanked him much for telling me the way he got his wealth, but chiefly for his wish that he might drink my noble health. through the looking—glass “and now, if e'er by chance i put my fingers into glue, or madly squeeze a right-hand foot into a left-hand shoe, or if i drop upon my toe a very heavy weight, i weep, for it reminds me so of that old man i used to know— whose look was mild, whose speech was slow, whose hair was whiter than the snow, whose face was very like a crow, with eyes, like cinders, all aglow, who seemed distracted with his woe, who rocked his body to and fro, and muttered mumblingly and low, as if his mouth were full of dough, who snorted like a buflalo — that summer evening long ago, a-sitting on a gate." as the knight sang the last words of the ballad, he gathered up the reins, and turned his horse's head along the road by which they had come. “you've only a few yards to go," he said, “down the hill and over that little brook, and then you'll be a queen but you'll stay and see me off first?" he added as alice turned with an eager look in the direction to which he pointed. “i shan't be long. you'll wait and wave your handkerchief when i get to that turn in the road! i think it'll encourage me, you see." “of course i'll wait," said alice: “and thank you very much for coming so far — and for the song— i liked it very much." “i hope so," the knight said doubtfully: “but you did n't cry so much as i thought you would." and what alice found there i so they shook hands, and then the knight rode slowly away into the forest. “it won't take long to see him ', i expect," alice said to herself, as she stood watching him. “there he goes! right on his head as usual! however, he gets on again pretty easily — that comes of having so many things hung round the horse " so she went on talking to herself, as she watched the horse walking leisurely along the road, and the knight tumbling off, first on one side and then on the other. after the fourth or fifth tumble he reached the turn, and then she waved her handkerchief to him, and waited till he was out of sight. “i hope it encouraged him," she said, as she turned to run down the hill: “and now for the last brook, and to be a queen! how grand it sounds!" a very few steps brought her to the edge of the brook. “the eighth square at last!" she cried as she bounded across, t o o o t o i i i o i o o i and threw herself down to rest on a lawn as soft as moss, with little flower-beds dotted about it here and there. “oh, how glad i am to get here! and what is this on my head?" she exclaimed in a tone of dismay, as she put her hands up to something very heavy, that fitted tight all round her head. “but how can it have got there without my knowing it?" she said to herself, as she lifted it ofi, and set it on her lap to make out what it could possibly be. it was a golden crown. chapter ix queen alice ell, this is grand!" said alice. “ i never expected i should be a queen so soon — and i'll tell you what it is, your majesty," she went on, in a severe tone (she was always rather fond of scolding herself), “it'll never do for you to be lolling about on the grass like that! queens have to be dignified, you know!" so she got up and walked about — rather stifliy just at first, as she was afraid that the crown might come off: but she comforted herself with the thought that there was nobody to see her, “and if i really am a queen," she said as she sat down again, “ i shall be able to manage it quite well in time." everything was happening so oddly that she did n't feel a bit surprised at finding the red queen and the white queen sitting close to her, one on each side: she would have liked very much to ask them how they came there, but she feared it would not be quite civil. how- ever, there would be no harm, she thought, in asking if the game was over. “please, would you tell me —" she began, looking timidly at the red queen. “speak when you're spoken to!" the queen sharply interrupted her. “but if everybody obeyed that rule," said alice, who was always ready for a little argument, “and if you only spoke when you were spoken to, and the other person always waited for you to begin, you see nobody would ever say anything, so that " page “queens have to be dignified, you know!" and what alice found there i “ ridiculous! " cried the queen. “why, don't you see, child —" here she broke off with a frown, and, after thinking for a minute, suddenly changed the subject of the conversation. “what do you mean by ‘if you really are a queen'? what right have you to call your- self so? you can't be a queen, you know, till you've passed the proper examination. and the sooner we begin it, the better." “i only said ‘ if ' ! " poor alice pleaded in a piteous tone. the two queens looked at each other, and the red queen remarked, with a little shudder, “she says she only said ‘if'——" “but she said a great deal more than that!" the white queen moaned, wringing her hands. '“oh, ever so much more than that!" “so you did, you know," the red queen said to alice. “always speak the truth — think before you speak — and write it down afterwards." “i'm sure i did n't mean —" alice was beginning, but the red queen interrupted her impatiently. ‘ “that's just what i complain of! you should have meant! what do you suppose is the use of a child without any meaning? even a joke should have some meaning — and a child's more important than a joke, i hope. you could n't deny that, even if you tried with both hands." “i don't deny things with my hands," alice objected. “nobody said you did," said the red queen. “i said you could n't if you tried." “she's in that state of mind," said the white queen, “that she wants to deny something —only she does n't know what to deny!" and what alice found there i alice considered. “the bone would n't remain, of course, if i took it — and the dog would n't remain: it would come to bite me —and i'm sure i should n't remain!" “then you think nothing would remain?" said the red queen. “i think that's the answer." “wrong, as usual," said the red queen: “the dog's temper would remain." “but i don't see how— “why, look here!" the red queen cried. “the dog would lose its temper, would n't it?" “perhaps it would," alice replied cautiously. “then if the dog went away, its temper would remain!" the queen exclaimed triumphantly. alice said, as gravely as she could, “they might go different ways." but she could n't help thinking to herself, “what dreadful nonsense we are talking!" “she can't do sums a bit!" the queens said together, with great emphasis. “can you do sums?" alice said, turning suddenly on the white queen, for she did n't like being found fault with so much. the queen gasped and shut her eyes. “i can do addition," she said, “if you give me time — but i can't do subtraction under any circumstances!" “of course you know your a b c?" said the red queen. “to be sure i do," said alice. “so do i," the white queen whispered: “we'll often say it over together, dear. and i'll tell you a secret —i can read words of one letter! is n't that grand? ’! through the looking—glass “what did he want?" said the red queen. “he said he would come in," the white queen went on, “because he was looking for a hippopotamus. now, as it happened, there was n't such a thing in the house, that morning." “is there generally?" alice asked in an astonished tone. “well, only on thursdays," said the queen. “i know what he came for," said alice: “he wanted to punish the fish, because —" here the white queen began again. “it was such a thunderstorm, you can't think!" (“she never could, you know," said the red queen.) “and part of the roof came off, and ever so much thunder got in — and it went rolling round the room in great lumps —and knocking over the tables and things — till i was so frightened, i could n't remember my own name!" alice thought to herself, “i never should try to remember my name in the middle of an accident! where would be the use of it?" but she did not say this aloud, for fear of hurting the poor queen's feelings. “your majesty must excuse her," the red queen said to alice, taking one of the white queen's hands in her own, and gently stroking it: “she means well, but she can't help saying foolish things, as a general rule." the white queen looked timidly at alice, who felt she ought to say something kind, but really could n't think of anything at the moment. “she never was really well brought up," the red queen went on: “but it's amazing how good-tempered she is! pat her on the head, and see how pleased she'll be!" but this was more than alice had courage to do. through the looking—glass sounded more like a tune: at last she could even make out words, and she listened so eagerly that, when the two great heads suddenly vanished from her lap, she hardly missed them. she was standing before an arched doorway, over which were the words “queen alice" in large letters, and on each side of the arch there was a bell- handle; one was marked “visitors' bell," and the other “servants' bell." “i'll wait till the song's over," thought alice, “and then i'll ring the—the—which bell must i ring?" she went on, very much puzzled by the names. “i'm not a visitor, and i'm not a servant. there ought to be one marked ‘queen,' you know —" just then the door opened a little way, and a creature with a long beak put its head out for a moment and said, “n o admittance till the week after next!" and shut the door again with a bang. alice knocked and rang in vain for a long time; but at last a very old frog, who was sitting under a tree, got up and hobbled slowly towards her: he was dressed in bright yellow, and had enormous boots on. “what is it, now?" the frog said in a deep hoarse whisper. alice turned round, ready to find fault with anybody. “where 's the servant whose business it is to answer the door?" she began angrily. “which door?" said the frog. alice almost stamped with irritation at the slow draw! in which he spoke. “this door, of course!" the frog looked at the door with his large dull eyes for a minute: then he went nearer and rubbed it with and what alice found there waiters set a leg of mutton before alice, who looked at it rather anxiously, as she had never had to carve a joint before. “you look a little shy: let me introduce you to that leg of mutton," said the red queen. “alice — mutton: mutton — alice." the leg of mutton got up in the dish and made a little bow to alice; and alice returned the bow, not knowing whether to be frightened or amused. “may i give you a slice?" she said, taking up the knife and fork, and looking from one queen to the other. “certainly not," the red queen said, very decidedly: “it is n't etiquette to cut any one you've been introduced to. remove the joint!" and the waiters carried it off, and brought a large plum-pudding in its place. “i won't be introduced to the pudding, please," alice said rather hastily, “or we shall get no dinner at all. may i give you some?" but the red queen looked sulky, and growled, “pudding — alice: alice — pudding. remove the pud- ding!" and the waiters took it away so quickly that alice could n't return its bow. however, she did n't see why the red queen should be the only one to give orders; so, as an experiment, she called out, “waiter! bring back the pudding!" and there it was again in a moment, like a conjuring-trick. it was so large that she could n't help feeling a little shy with it, as she had been with the mutton: however, she conquered her shyness by a great effort, and cut a slice and handed it to the red queen. “what impertinence!" said the pudding. “ i wonder how you'd like it, if i were to cut a slice out of you, you creature!" and what alice found there i ‘bring it here! let me sup!' it is easy to set such a dish on the table., ‘take the dish cover up!' ah, that is so hard that i fear i 'm unable! for it holds like glue —- holds the lid to the dish, while it lies in the middle: which is easiest to do, un-dish-cover the fish, or dishcover the riddle?" “take a minute to think about it, and then guess," said the red queen. “meanwhile, we ' drink your health — queen alice's health!" she screamed at the top of her voice, and all the guests began drinking it directly, and very queerly they managed it; some of them put their glasses upon their heads like extinguishers, and drank all that trickled down their faces — others upset the decanters, and drank the wine as it ran ofi the edges of the table — and three of them (who looked like kangaroos) scrambled into the dish of roast mutton, and began eagerly lapping up the gravy, “just like pigs in a trough!" thought alice. “you ought to return thanks in a neat speech," the red queen said, frowning at alice as she spoke. “we must support you, you know," the white queen whispered, as alice got up to do it, very obediently, but a little frightened. “thank you very much," she whispered in reply, “but i can do quite well without." “that would n't be at all the thing," the red queen said very decidedly: so alice trial to submit to it with a good grace. (“and they did push so!" she said afterwards, when she was telling her sister the history of the feast. “you and what alice found there “i can't stand this any longer!" she cried, as she jumped up and seized the table-cloth with both hands: one good pull, and plates, dishes, guests, and candles came crashing down together in a heap on the floor. “and as for you," she went on, turning fiercely upon the red queen, whom she considered as the cause of all the mischief — but the queen was no longer at her side; she had suddenly dwindled down to the size of a little doll, and was now on the table, merrily running round and round after her own shawl, which was trailing behind her. at any other time, alice would have felt surprised at this, but she was far too much excited to be surprised at anything now. “as for you," she repeated, catching hold of the little creature in the very act of jumping over a bottle which had just lighted upon the table, “i'll shake you into a kitten, that i will!" chapter xi waking — and it really was a kitten, after all. and what alice found there a merry laugh. “and curtsey while you're thinking what to —— what to purr. it saves time, remember!" and she caught it up and gave it one little kiss, “just in honor of its having been a red queen." “snowdrop, my pet!" she went on, looking over her shoulder at the white kitten, which was still patiently undergoing its toilet, “when will dinah have finished with your white majesty, i wonder? that must be the reason you were so untidy in my dream.———— dinah! do you know that you're scrubbing a white queen? really, it's most disrespectful of you! “and what did dinah turn to, i wonder?" she prattled on, as she settled comfortably down, with one elbow on the rug, and her chin in her hand, to watch the kittens. “tell me, dinah, did you turn to humpty dumpty? i think you did ——however, you'd better not mention it to your friends just yet, for i'm not sure. “by the way, kitty, if only you'd been really with me in my dream, there was one thing you would have enjoyed ———i had such a quantity of poetry said to me, all about fishes! to-morrow morning you shall have a real treat. all the time you're eating your breakfast, i'll repeat ‘the walrus and the carpenter‘ to you; and then you can make believe it's oysters, dear! “now, kitty, let's consider who it was that dreamed it all. this is a serious question, my dear, and you should not go on licking your paw like that — as if dinah had n't washed you this morning! you see, kitty, it must have been either me or the red king. he was part of my dream, of course — but then i was part of his dream, too! was it the red king, kitty? you were his wife, and what alice found there a boat, beneath a sunny sky lingering onward dreamily in an evening of july- children three that nestle near, eager eye and willing ear, pleased a simple tale to hear — long has poled that sunny sky: echoes fade and memories die: autumn frosts have slain july. still she haunts me, phantomwise, alice moving under skies never seen by waking eyes. children yet, the tale to hear, eager eye and willing ear, lovingly shall nestle near. in a wonderland they lie, dreaming as the days go by, dreaming as the summers die: ever drifting down the stream — lingering in the golden gleam — life, what is it but a dream? the end an easter greeting to every child who loves “alice" dear child: please to fancy, if‘ you can, that you are reading a real letter, from a real friend who'm you have seen, and whose voice you can seem to yourself to hear wishing you, as i do now with all my heart, a happy easter. do you know that delicious, dreamy feeling when one first awakes on a summer morning, with the twitter of birds in the air, and the fresh breeze coming in at the open window when, lying lazily with eyes half shut, one sees as in a dream green boughs waving, or waters rippling in a golden light? it is a pleasure very near to sadness, bring- ing tears to one's eyes like a beautiful picture or poem. and is not that a mother's gentle hand that undraws your curtains, and a mother's sweet voice that sum- mons you to rise? t rise and forget, in the bright sunlight, the ugly dreams that frightened you so when all was dark—to rise and enjoy another happy day, first kneeling to thank that unseen friend, who sends you the beautiful sun? are these strange words from a writer of such tales as “alice"? and is this a strange letter to find in a book of nonsense? it may be so. some, perhaps, may blame one for thus mixing together things grave and gay; others may smile and think it odd that any one should speak of solemn things at all, except in church and on a sunday; but an easter greeting an i think—nay, i am sure—that some children will read this gently and lovingly, and in the spirit in which i have written it. for i do not believe god means us thus to divide life into two halves —to wear a grave face on sunday, and to think it out-of-place to even so much as mention him on a week-day. do you think he cares to see only kneeling figures, and to hear only tones of prayer—and that he does not also love to see the lambs leaping in the sunlight, and to hear the merry voices of the children, as they roll among the hay? surely their innocent laughter is as sweet in his ears as the grandest anthem that ever rolled up from the “dim, religious light" of some solemn cathedral? and if i have written anything to add to those stores of innocent and healthy amusement that are laid up in books for the children i love so well, it is surely something i may hope to look back upon without shame and sorrow (as how much of life must then be recalled i) when my turn comes to walk through the valley of shadows. this easter sun will rise on you, dear child, feeling your “life in every limb," and eager to rush out into the fresh morning air — and many an easter-day will come and go, before it finds you feeble and gray-headed, creeping wearily out to bask once more in the sunlight — but it is good, even now, to think sometimes of that great morning when the “sun of righteousness shall arise with healing in his wings." surely your gladness need not be the less for the thought that you will one day see a brighter dawn than this — when lovelier sights will meet your eyes than any waving trees or rippling waters — when angel hands shall undraw your curtains, and sweeter tones than ever loving mother breathed an easter greeting shall wake you to a new and glorious day — and when all the sadness and the sin that darkened life on this little earth shall be forgotten like the dream of a night that is past! your aflectionate friend, easter, i lewis carroll nforced bindin rm written and illustrated by xt, ~‘‘'.~~.‘.. d '|i'i ' '.i. retty sighfwith the butterfly fish swim- t|~at flower garden was a _ ’ . ‘ i‘ ‘ ‘ m p m ‘mg in and out among the branches of the corals. q i kg b‘ sally soapbubble and her silver fish sally soapbubble the silver fish began to go down through the air until they stopped right beside the pails. then sally got out and filled her soapbubble boat with them until there was just room enough left for her to squeeze in. then the silver fish went up and up until they were in the northern lights again. there he stopped and sally got out and began to fill the pails. she found a solid spot to stand on, and as soon as each pail was full she stacked it in the boat. she dipped one pail right into the glittering red light and filled it. then she put the cover on and dipped another pail in the yellow light. when the pails were all full she got back in and the silver fish pulled the boat back to the forest where the frost elves were. when they saw her coming they all cheered. “we’ll get through in time if you help us,” they told sally. “we were afraid it would be time for the leaves to drop off before we had them painted.” so all day sally and her silver fish made trips back and forth for paint. once some paint rubbed oif onto the boat as it sailed through the lights, and by the time night came it was irridescent with beautiful, clear colors. “i don’t care,” sally told the silver fish, as they made their last trip back. “it makes it fin o b r a igan de o university :: ‘:." '~ donated by the grand rapads publlc l brary the may g qurgley collect on of ch ldren’s lrterature december the unn ersltv of mlchlgan dearbom mardlglan llbrary —.—<’.“— __~ ‘i’; .. ... . ,... ._,li ~“_i w ”'..‘ “y ”_.';gg;a»:s ~£. .'.. * (‘y .\ :z /’ , ‘i . ¢, john dough and a whimsical wonder-story in which is described the marvelous the cherub creation of john dough, the gingerbread man; his meet ing with the incubator baby called chick the cherub: their adventures in the isle of phreex, land of the mifkets, pirate island and hiland and loland by l. frank baum “royal historian of oz " illustrated by john r. neill the reilly & lee co. chicago \ \ list of chapters the gun euxm tn: two fmsxs tan gmcsnnauo man j -m doucn bscms ms ao- van-runs cmcx, rm: cm-znwa tm: fnsmcs or pmuax-:x . tm: lady exacunoun tm: palace or rommcs tm: suvsn p pittypat and ‘rm: mmcsrs tm: isumo pnmcsss para baum, the runs:-: ban. bucx oonoo the fairy bmvnns tm: fucnr < 'rm~: fummcols svowr or pirate lsumn kmo doucu and ms couwr over the door appeared a weather-worn sign that read: “jules grcgrande, baker.” in one of the windows, painted upon a sheet of cardboard, was another sign: “ home-made bread by the best modern machinery.” there was a third sign in the window beyond the doorway, and this was marked upon a bit of wrapping-paper, and said: “ fresh gingerbread every day.” when you opened the door, the top of it struck a brass bell suspended from the ceiling and made it tinkle merrily. hearing the sound, madame leontine grogrande would come from her little room back of the shop and stand behind the coun- ter and ask you what you would like to purchase. madame leontine—or madame tina, as the children called her-—was quite short and quite fat; and she had a round, pleasant face that was good to look upon. she moved somewhat slowly, for the rheumatism troubled her more or less; but no one minded if madame was a bit slow in tying up her parcels. for surely no cakes or buns in all the the great elixir town were so delicious or fresh as those she sold, and she had a way of giving the biggest cakes to the smallest girls and boys who came into her shop, that proved she was fond of children and had a generous heart. people loved to come to the grogrande bakery. when one opened the door an exquisite fragrance of newly baked bread and cakes greeted the nos- trils; and, if you were not hungry when you en- tered, you were sure to become so when you examined and smelled the delicious pies and doughnuts and gingerbread and buns with which the shelves and show-cases were stocked. there were trays of french candies, too; and because all the goods were fresh and wholesome the bakery was well patronized and did a thriving business. the reason no one saw monsieur jules in the shop was because his time was always occupied in the bakery in the rear-a long, low room filled with ovens and tables covered with pots and pans and dishes (which the skillful baker used for mixing and stirring) and long shelves bearing sugars and spices and baking-powders and sweet-smelling extracts that made his wares taste so sweet and agreeable. the bake-room was three times as big as the i //, / / £ / / * y ‘' / ‘ ‘ i/i ‘ .; , _!: ‘ , i / i .. i , . mr / ii?‘-]"‘\.ii ‘ -l \ “.\“: .%. !. ,‘\"‘ ‘ , . - “.::::"|"“‘~ ‘i . : : . ‘ ---...l-...,“ . _;______!_ if il.¥l..!_“..__‘\“' i j ".”\“:“. t :" "' i.i ‘i..,§‘ . ..‘")‘..‘b, ‘r i .‘.‘ ‘ll ‘i l" . y‘- . ‘ ‘ .‘\‘l‘{ m .z ..*~~. e ~‘i"| if ‘" ‘ & ix \*\\\ \%€\ ?_ _.. an arab dashed into the room. i i the great elixir shop; but monsieur jules needed all the space in the preparation of the great variety of goods re- quired by his patrons, and he prided himself on the fact that his edibles were fresh-made each day. in order to have the bread and rolls ready at breakfast time he was obliged to get up at three o’clock every morning, and so he went to bed about sundown. on a certain forenoon the door of the shop opened so abruptly that the little brass bell made a furious jingling. an arab dashed into the room, stopped short, looked around with a bewildered air, and then rushed away again and banged the door after him. madame looked surprised, but said nothing. she recognized the arab to be a certain ali dubh, living in the neighborhood, who was accustomed to purchase a loaf from her every morning. perhaps he had forgotten his money, madame thought. when the afternoon was half over he entered again, running as if fiends were at his heels. in the center of the room he paused, slapped his fore- head despairingly with both palms, and said in a wailing voice: “they’re after me!” next moment he dashed away at full speed, even i the great elixir forgetting to close the door; so madame came from behind the counter and did it herself. she delayed a moment to gaze at the figure of ali dubh racing up the street. then he turned the corner of an alley and disappeared from view. things did not startle madame easily; but the arab’s queer behavior aroused in her a mild curi- osity, and while she stood looking through the glass of the door, and wondering what had ex- cited the man, she saw two strange forms glide l» eec] bc] ‘% i ff] ff ff the great elixiir past her shop with a stealthy motion and proceed in the same direction ali dubh had taken. they were also arabs, without a doubt; for although their forms were mufiled in long cloaks, the turbans they wore and the glint of their dark, beady eyes proclaimed them children of the desert when they came to the alley where ali dubh had disappeared, the two strangers were joined by a third, who crept up to them with the sly, cat-like tread madame had noted, and seemed to confer with them. afterward one turned to the east, a second continued up the street, and the third stole into the alley. “yes,” thought madame, “ they are after ali dubh, sure enough. but if they move so slowly they are not likely to catch the poor fellow at all.” now, madame knew very little of her queer customer; for although he made a daily visit to the bakery for a loaf and a few cakes, he was of a gloomy disposition, and never stopped for a chat or a bit of gossip. it was his custom to silently make his simple purchases and then steal softly away. therefore his excited actions upon this eventful day were really remarkable, and the good lady was puzzled how to explain them. she sat late in the shop that evening, burning a i the great elixir dingy oil lamp that swung in the center of the room. for her rheumatism was more painful than usual, and she dreaded to go to bed and waken monsieur jules with her moanings. the good man was slumbering peacefully upstairs_she could hear his lusty snores even where she sat-and it was a shame to disturb him when he must rise so early. so she sat in her little room at the end of the counter, trying to knit by the light of a flickering candle, and rocking back and forth in her chair with a monotonous motion. suddenly the little bell tinkled and a gust of air entered the shop, sending the mingled odors of baked stuff whirling and scurrying about the room in a most fragrant manner. then the door closed, and madame laid down her knitting and turned to greet the new-comer. to her astonishment, it proved to be ali dubh. his brown cheeks were flushed, and his glittering black eyes roamed swiftly over the shop before they turned full upon the madame’s calm face. “good!” he exclaimed, “you are alone.” “it is too late for trade. i am going to bed presently,” said madame. “i am in great trouble, and you must help me,” returned the arab, hastily. “ lock your door and i the great elixir come with me into your little room, so that no one can see us through the street windows.” madame hesitated. the request was unusual, and she knew nothing of the arab’s history. but she reflected that if the man attempted robbery or other mischief she could summon monsieur jules with a cry. also, her interest had been aroused by ali dubh’s queer behavior during the day. while she thought the matter over the arab himself locked the street door and hurried into the little room, where madame composedly joined him a moment later. “how can i help you? ” she asked, picking up her knitting again. “listen! ” said the arab. “i must tell you all. you must know the truth!” he put his hand in a pocket of his loose robe and drew out a small flask. it was no bigger than two fingers and was made of pure gold, upon which strange characters had been richly engraved. “this,” said the arab, in a low, impressive voice, “is the great elixirl ” “what does that mean?” asked madame, glan- cing at the flask doubtfully. “the great elixir? ah, it is the essence of i the great elixir vitality, the water of life_the greatest thing in all the world!” “i don’t understand,” said madame. " not understand? why, a drop of the price- less liquid which this golden flask contains, if placed upon your tongue, would send new life coursing through your veins. it would give you power, strength, vitality greater than youth itself l the great elixir you could do anything—accomplish wonders- perform miracles-if you but tasted this precious liquid!” “how odd!” exclaimed madame, beginning to feel bewildered. and then she asked: “where did you get it?” “ahl that is the story. that is what you must know,” answered ali dubh. “it is centuries old, the great elixir. there is no more of it in all the world. the contents of this flask came into the keeping of the ancestor of the chief of my tribe ~whom we call a shiek—and has been handed down from father to son as an heirloom more priceless than diamonds. the chief of my tribe, its last owner, carried the flask always hidden in his breast. but one day, when he and i were hunting together, a mad camel trampled the shiek to his death, and with his last breath he gave the great elixir into my keeping. the shiek had no son, and the flask was really mine. but many other arab shieks longed for the treasure and sought to gain it. sol escaped and wandered over the world. i came here, thinking i was safe from pursuit. but they have followed mel " “all the way from arabia?” asked madame. “yes. to-day i saw them. they know my i the great elixir lodgings. they are secretly hidden near, and before morning i know they plot to kill me and secure the great elixir. but for a time i have escaped them. i came here unseen. you must help me. you must take charge of the great elixir and keep it safely for me.” “nonsense!” cried madame, becoming aroused at last. “do not say that, i beg of you,” exclaimed the eager arab. “ you are honest-i know you are! and they will never suspect you of having the golden flask.” “perhaps not,” said madame, “ and then, again, they may. my business is to tend the shop, and i am not going to get myself killed by a lot of des- perate foreigners just to oblige you, monsieur ali dubhl take your great elixir to some one else. i don’t want it.” for a minute the arab seemed in despair. then his face suddenly brightened. “ you suffer from rheumatism, do you not?” he asked. “yes, it's pretty bad to-night,” she replied. “then i will cure itl i will cure your pains forever if you will keep my precious elixir in secret until i come to reclaim it.” i the great elixir madame hesitated, for just then she had a very bad twinge indeed. “ you think you can cure my pains?” she asked. “i know itl” declared the arab. he put his hand in a pocket and drew out another flask-a mate to the one containing the great elixir; only this was made of solid silver instead of gold. “this flask,” said ali dubh, “contains a positive cure for rheumatism. it will not fail. it never has failed. take it and use it to make yourself well. five drops in a bowl of water are enough. bathe well the limbs that ache, and all pain will be gone forever. accept it, gracious madame, and keep for me the other flask in safe hiding until my enemies have gone away.” madame was a practical woman, and it seemed an easy thing to do as the arab desired. if she could get relief from those dreadful pains it would be well worth while to undertake a little trouble and responsibility by caring for ali dubh’s other and more precious flask. “very well," said she. “i agree." the arab’s face flushed with joy. “good,” he cried; “i am savedl guard well my precious flask-the one of gold. show it to no one—not even to your good husband. remember the great elixir that diamonds and rubies could not buy the great elixir—the marvelous essence of vitality. as for the silver flask, i give it to you freely. its con- tents will cure all your ailments. and now, good night, and may allah bless you!” swiftly he stole from the room, unlocked the street door and vanished into the darkness. and madame sat looking thoughtfully at the flasks. | presently she remembered that the front door was yet unlocked. so she trotted out into the shop, bolted the door securely, drew down the cur- tains, and put out the dim light that had burned over the counter. then madame returned to the little room and looked at the two flasks again. aside from her rheumatism the good lady had one other physical weakness; she was color-blind. that is, she could seldom distinguish one color from another, and was quite liable to think blue was green and green was yellow. many people have this trouble with their eyes; but it never had bothered madame especially in waiting upon her customers. now, however, when she came back into her room and gazed at the two flasks upon her table, she had no idea which one was of gold and which of silver, for the weakness of her eyes prevented her from telling them apart by means of their color. “let me see,” she murmured; “this must be the two flasks the flask which the arab first drew from his pocket. no-i think this was the one.” but the more she hesitated the more confused she became, and in the end she told herself honestly that she had not the faintest clue to guide her in knowing which flask contained the essence of vitality and which the cure for rheumatism. and the pains were now so bad that she was anxious to cure them without a moment’s delay. the engraving on the two flasks was nearly the same; and if some of those queer foreign charac- ters really differed, madame did not know it. also in size and shape the flasks were exactly alike. truly madame was in a fine quandary, and there seemed no way of getting out ofit with safety. she had almost decided to hide both flasks until the arab returned, when several sharp twinges of pain caught her and made her long most earnestly for relief. if she went to bed now she would be sure to suffer all night, and in one of the flasks was a sure cure. “i’ll guess at it, and take the chances!” declared madame, firmly. and then, choosing at hap- hazard, she hid the silver flask behind the mirror and put the gold one in her pocket. afterward she picked up the lamp and walked as silently as the two flasks possible through the short passage that led to monsieur jules’ bake-room. the big place was still and dark, and the little lamp only brightened a small part of it. but madame did not care for that. those pains were getting extremely hard to bear, and she had even ceased to care whether or not she had selected the right flask. taking a brown bowl from the shelf she drew it nearly full of water and then placed it upon a corner of the long, white mixing-table, beside the lamp. next she took the golden flask from her pocket “how much did the arab say to put in the wa- ter?” she won- dered, pausing in perplexed thought. “i de- clare, i've ac- tually forgotten! but he said it was sure to cure me, the two flasks so i may as well use all the flask contains. for, after i am cured, i shall not need any more of it.” reasoning thus, madame removed the stopper and poured into the bowl every drop of that precious elixir which ali dubh had prized more than life itself, and which his wild countrymen had come all the way from arabia to america to possess. for generation after generation the price- less liquor had been preserved with jealous care, and now the baker’s wife was rubbing it upon her limbs in an endeavor to cure the pangs of rheu- matisml she used very little of the contents of the bowl, after all. the touch of the elixir upon her skin, although it was diluted with so much water, sent a glow of exhilaration throughout all her stout body. the pains were suddenly eased, and madame began to feel as light and airy as a fairy, in spite of her great mass of flesh. it occurred to her that she would like to dance; to run and shout, to caper about as she used to do as a girl. but soon her shrewd common sense re- turned, and she told herself this was but the effect of the wonderful medicine, and that the wisest z the two flasks thing she could do was to go to bed and sleep soundly while she might. being still somewhat bewildered, the good wo- " man picked up the lamp, and, leaving the bowl containing the elixir standing upon the table, mounted the stairs with lighter steps than she had known in years. five minutes later she was in bed, snoring as loudly as monsieur jules himself. cd) “i ~_l w @s@@@ - the baker awoke at three o’clock, and soon afterward came downstairs yawning and rubbing his eyes in his accustomed manner. for it is a real hardship to arise in the middle of the night and go to work, and monsieur jules sometimes regretted he was such a skillful baker; for any other profes- sion would have allowed him to sleep until daylight. but the bread and rolls and gingerbread must be fresh and warm by breakfast time, or the people would be sadly disappointed; and the only possible way to get them ready was to start the work at three o’clock. first, he lighted the big swinging lamps, which made the room bright as day, and then he built the fires in the great furnaces. presently these last were roaring in a very business-like manner, and as soon as he heard the roar monsieur jules began to whistle. it was his custom, and kept him from getting lonesome while he worked. u ' the gingerbread man next he kneaded the bread, formed it into loaves, and placed them in long rows upon the slabs—ready for the oven. the rolls were then mixed and kneaded, and it took a longer time to get them ready than it had the bread, for they were small and quite daintily shaped. but at last the z the gingerbread man important task was completed, and while they were rising and the ovens heating, monsieur mixed his gingerbread and cakes. somehow, the work progressed very swiftly this morning, and after a time the baker found he had a good hour to spare before the ovens would be ready. then a sudden idea struck him. “ why, to-day is the fourth of_]uly,” he thought, “ and that is a national holiday. i think i will make a fine gingerbread man, such asi used to make in paris, and put it in the shop window to attract attention. these americans like enterprise, and they have never seen a gingerbread man, for i have not made one since i came to this country.” with monsieur jules, to think was to act, and scarcely had he spoken these words when he began to gather his material together for a great batch of gingerbread dough. for he resolved that the man he was about to make should be big enough and fine enough to arouse the wonder of all be- holders. he began by filling a great bowl with flour, and then rubbed into the flour some butter and lard. “ that will make it short," said monsieur, “ although it is to be a tall man.” then he added some ' the gingerbread man molasses. “he will be a sweet fellow,” thought the baker, smiling at his own pleasantries. then he shook in the ginger and several fragrant spices, and began mixing the dough into one great mass. “it is too stiff,” reflected the baker, a few mo- ments later. “my man must not be stiff, for that would render him disagreeable.” he laughed at the whimsical thought, and glancing around, saw the brown bowl that madame had left sitting upon a corner of the table. it was nearly full of the precious liquid, and monsieur jules, with his mind intent upon his work, never stopped to wonder how it came there. perhaps he thought he had himself unconsciously filled the bowl with water. anyway, he dumped all of the essence of vitality --the great elixir which could never be duplicated in all the world—into the mass of dough he was preparing for his gingerbread man! monsieur merely noticed that the dough had now become the proper consistency, and mixed easily. whistling merrily, he presently spread the huge batch of dough upon the big table and began roll- ing it and working it into the shape he desired. ah, but monsieur jules grogrande was a true artist, although a bakerl under his skillful hands the gingerbread man slowly but surely took form; then a sudden idea struck him the gingerbread man and the form was fully as large as that of a well- grown fourteen-year-old boy. but it was by no means a boy that monsieur was forming with such care; it was, rather, the figure of a typical french gentleman, such as may seldom be met with else- where than on the boulevards of paris. it was interesting to watch the figure grow: interesting, of course, to monsieur jules, as there was no one else in the bake-room to see. i the gingerbread man the man appeared to be dressed in excellent fashion. monsieur made him a collar and shirt-front of white bread dough, which looked very beautiful in contrast to the brown gingerbread-dough of his clothes. then with a lump of dough, carefully kneaded, he formed the man’s necktie, making a very artistic bow indeed. a waistcoat of fashion- able cut was next added. the buttons on the man’s coat were white lozenges, and to represent shoes the baker mixed his dough with licorice, until the shoes seemed as black and shiny as if freshly polished. you would have loved to see, could you have been present, the delicate skill with which the clever baker carved the hands and fingers of his man, using a small but sharp knife, and patting and rounding each dough finger into proper shape. he even clipped from a sheet of transparent celluloid the finger-nails, and pressed them carefully into the dough at the ends of the fingers. who but monsieur would ever have thought of such a thing? but, after all, it was upon the face that the baker exercised his best skill. as a sculptor forms his models out of clay, so monsieur pressed and squeezed and molded his pliant dough, until every feature of the gingerbread man became wonder- the gingerbread man found them, and then pressed them into the dough face. and now it positively seemed that the gingerbread man was looking at you, and the eyes lent its face a gentle and kindly expression. “there’s something lacking, however,” mur- mured the baker, looking at his work critically. “ah, i know—it’s the teeth!” teeth for a gingerbread man! but nothing was easier to represent, once their absence was noted. between the lips of the man our baker pressed two rows of small white candies, and it was wonderful to remark the pleasant smile that now lent its charm to the face. with a sigh of satisfaction in the result of his work, the baker at last declared his gingerbread man ready for the oven. “and it is my masterpiece!" cried monsieur jules, proudly. “ never, even in paris, have i seen so perfect a man of dough. he is well worthy to have a name, and i will call him john dough, which will be appropriate, indeed! ” but the great ovens were now glowing brightly, so monsieur filled them with bread and rolls, and watched them carefully until the big and little loaves were all done to a turn. the cakes and cookies came next, and by the time that dawn the gingerbread man arrived the front shop was stocked with heaps of the warm, fresh-smelling loaves and rolls, and trays of delicious cakes and buns, hot from the ovens. then the baker came back to his gingerbread man, which he first placed gently upon a great iron slab, and then slid it all into the open door of a perfectly heated oven. with great anxiety monsieur watched the oven. the dough was properly mixed, the workmanship was most excellent. would the baking turn out to be as perfect as the rest? much good dough may be spoiled in the baking. none knew that better than jules grogrande. so he tended the oven with nervous care, and finally, at exactly the right moment, the baker threw open the oven door and drew out the sheet of iron upon which the great and grand ginger- bread man rested. he was baked to perfectionl filled with pride and satisfaction, monsieur bent admiringly over his great creation; and as he did so, the gingerbread man moved, bent his back, sat up, and looked about him with his glass eyes, while a wondering expression crept over his face. “dear me!” said he, “isn’t it very warm and close in this room?” the gingerbread man the great elixir had accomplished its purpose. the wonderful essence of vitality, prized for cen- turies and closely guarded, had lent its marvelous powers of energy, strength, and life to a gingerbread manl and all through the stupidity of a baker's wife who was color-blind and could not distinguish a golden flask from a silver onel , monsieur jules, who knew nothing of the arab’s flasks, or of the great elixir, glared wildly into the glass eyes of the gingerbread man. he was at the gingerbread man first sure that his own eyes, and also his ears, had played him a trick. “john dough-john doughl” he cried, “did you speak? merciful heavensl did you speak, john dough?” “i did,” said the gingerbread man, struggling to rise from the slab, “and i declare that it is warm and close in this rooml” monsieur jules gave a scream of terror. then he turned and fled. a moment later he staggered into the shop, tossed his hands above his head, and fell in a heap upon the floor-being overcome by a fainting spell. madame, who had just come downstairs and opened the shop, gazed upon her husband's terrified actions with an amazement that prevented her from moving a limb or uttering a sound. what in the world could have happened to jules? then she received the greatest shock of her life. from out the door of the bake-room came a gingerbread man, so fresh from the oven that the odor of hot gingerbread surrounded him like a cloud. he looked neither to right nor left, but picked monsieur’s tall silk hat from off a peg and placed it carelessly upon his own head. next he caught up a large candy cane from a show-case, ts it v{l _ ~ ;z‘<-":: ‘§:":l" ij , -! mi?’ kw. use . ,... ‘ $ §‘<\# w‘; .st . _‘ ‘‘ monsieur jules turned and fled the gingerbread man ‘\ /\> stepped over the prostrate body of the baker, and so left the shop, closing the front door behind him. madame saw him passing the windows, stepping along briskly and swinging the cane in his left hand. then the good lady imitated her husband’s example. she gave a sl' l' ll scream, threw up her hands, and tumbled ovct uiicohscious. © \~ now, when john dough left madame grogrande’s shop and wandered up the street, he was reeking with the delightful odor of fresh gingerbread. indeed, he was still so hot from the oven that i am positive you could not have held your hand against him for more than a second. the great elixir had brought him to life, and given him a certain standing in the world; but during the first half- hour of his existence john dough was very hot- headed. also he was hot-footed, for he discovered that, by walking fast, the contact with the fresh morning air drew the heat from his body and made him feel much more comfortable. one virtue lent by the great elixir was knowl- edge, and while john dough felt that he possessed unlimited knowledge (having had an overdose of the elixir), he could not very well apply it to his surroundings because he lacked experience with the world, which alone renders knowledge of any value to mankind. john dough could speak all lan- %]%d@as%@si@s fiylrivea pg é | ]ohn dough begins his adventures guages—modern and classic. he had alogical and clear mind—what is called a “level head,” you know; and this was coupled with good sense, fair judgment, and a tangled mass of wisdom that had been dumped into him in a haphazard fashion. < but these rare qualities were as yet of no use to our man because he had acquired no experience. it was like putting tools into a scholar’s hands and asking him to make a watch. john dough might accomplish won- ders in time, if he did. not grow stale and crum- ble; but just now he was the freshest individual that ever came out of a bake-room. . it was still early morn- ing, and most folks were in bed. a prowling dog smelled the gingerbread and came trotting up with the intention of having a bite of it; but john dough raised his candy cane and hit the dog a clip on the end of its nose that sent the animal in john dough begins his adventures another direction with its tail between its legs. then, whistling merrily, the gingerbread man walked on. he knew no tune whatever, but he could whistle, and so he managed to express an erratic mixture of notes that would have made herr wagner very proud. i i his flesh (or bread, rather) was cooling off beautifully now. he was growing hard and crisp and felt much more substantial than at first. the baker had made him light and the elixir had made him strong and vigorous. a great future lay be- fore john dough, if no accident happened to him. presently some one said, “ hellol ” john stopped short, for in front of him stood a bright-eyed boy witha piece of lighted punkin one hand and a bunch of firecrackers in the other. it was ned robbins, who had been up since daybreak cele- brating the glorious fourth. “you skeered me at first,” said the boy, with a look of amazement that he tried to cover with a laugh. “i beg your pardon, i’m sure,” returned john dough, politely. john dough begins his adventmes “been to a masquerade?” asked ned, staring hard at the gingerbread man. “no, indeed,” replied the other. “i am not disguised, i assure you. you see me as i am.” “g'wanl ” exclaimed ned. but he could smell the gingerbread, and he ‘began to grow frightened. so he touched the punk to the fuse of his biggest firecracker, dropped it on the ground at the feet of john dough, and then turned and scampered up an alley as fast as he could go. the gingerbread man stood still and looked after ned until the cracker suddenly exploded with a bang that caused john’s candy teeth to chatter. his whole body was terribly jarred and he nearly fell backward in the shock of surprise. then he, also, started to run. it was not fear, so much as ignorance of what might happen next, that caused him to fly from the spot; but he ran with a speed that was simply wonderful, considering that his limbs were of gingerbread. truly, that arabian elixir was a marvelous thingl bang! he had run plump into another group of boys, knocking two of them over before they could get out of his way. his silk hat was jammed over his eyes and the candy cane struck the wheel of a toy cannon and broke off a good two inches from its end. -"//// '‘: ,,,/ j,“ . .‘ y \“"e , , uo/~<>\s. &?k\ \ q ‘-\‘ .“ tax l. x l ;, . ,. .... . _:m\i-fiw$_ eva ‘ ~ _flhmm “m‘m:t n f ._ . gmpgw .* . i_...w ,“ john dough begins his adventures as he pulled off his hat he heard a shout and saw the boys all scram- bling for the broken end of the candy cane. one of them grabbed it and ran away, and the others followed in a mad chase and were soon out of sight. john dough looked after them wonderingly jim/ » / ~/fl% all» / !/mu) . ) j john dough begins his adventures ‘ then he drew himself up, pulled down his fine vest, sighed at discovering a slight crack in his shirt-front, and walked slowly along the street again. his first experience of life was not alto- gether pleasant. “good gracious!” said a voice. he paused, and saw a woman leaning over a gate beside him and glaring at him in mingled sur- prise and terror. she held a broom in her hand, for she had been sweeping the walk. john lifted his hat politely. “ good morning, madam,” said he. “why, it’s really alivel ” gasped the woman. “is a live person so very unusual?" asked john, curiously. “surely, when he's made of cake! ” answered the woman, still staring as if she could not believe her eyes “pardon me; i am not cake, but gingerbread,” he answered, in a rather dignified way. “it’s all the same,” she answered. “you have n’t any right to be alive. there's no excuse for it.” “but how can i help it?” he asked, somewhat puzzled by this remark. “oh, i don’t suppose it's your fault. but it is n’t right, you know. who made voui” _lohn dough his adventures “jules grogrande, the baker,” he said, for he had read the name over the door. “i always knew there was something wrong with those frenchies,” she declared. “are you done?” before he could reply she had drawn a large straw from the broom and stuck it several inches into his side. “don’t do thatl” he cried, indignantly, as she drew out the bit of broom again. “i was only tryin’ you,” she remarked. “you’re done to a turn, and ought to make good eating while you’re fresh.” - john gazed at her in horror. “good eating!” he cried; “woman, would you murder me?” “i can’t say it would be exactly murder,” she replied, looking at him hungrily. “ to destroy life is murder?” he said, sternly. “but to destroy gingerbread is n’t,” she rejoined. “and i can’t see that it’s cannibalism to eat a man if he happens to be cake, and fresh baked. and that frosting looks good. come inside while i get a knife.” she opened the gate and tried to grab john dough by an arm. but he gave a sudden back- ward leap and then sped down the street at a furi- t. _ knife " a t e g i " come inside while ii john dough begins his adventures ous run, looking neither to right nor left in his eager flight. luckily, he was not in the center of the town, but near the outskirts, and the houses were few and scattered. .by and by he saw a deserted barn near the roadside. the door was half open and sagged on its hinges, so it could not be closed. john darted into the barn and hid behind some hay in the far side. he was thoroughly frightened, and believed he must avoid mingling with the people of the town if he would escape instant destruction. a knifel a knifel the word kept ringing in his ears and filled him with horror. a knife could slice him into pieces easily. he imagined himself sliced and lying on a plate ready for hungry folks to eat, and the picture made him groan aloud. all through the day he kept securely hidden behind the hay. toward evening he decided to revisit the bakery. it was a diflicult task, for he had passed through many streets and lanes without noticing where he was going, and it grew darker every minute. but at last, just as he was beginning to despair, he saw a dim light in a window and read over the door the sign: “jules grogrande, baker.” john dough begins his adventures the arab, dolefully; for within him was enough of the great elixir to bring a dozen men to life, and give them strength and energy for many years. ah, monsieur and madame, think of what your stupidity has cost the worldl” “i do not comprehend,” said madame, firmly, “how the world has ever yet been benefited by the great elixir, which you and your selfish country- men have kept for centuries corked up in a golden flask.” “bismillahl” shouted the arab, striking himself fiercely across the forehead with his clinched fist. “cannot you understand, you stupid one, that it was mine—mine/—this wonderful water of life? i had planned to use it myself—drop by drop-- that i might live forever.” “i’m sorry,” said monsieur; “but it is your own fault. you forced my wife to care for the flask, and you would not let her tell me about it. so, through your own stupidity, i used it in the gingerbread man.” “ah!” said ali dubh, an eager gleam in his eyes, “where, then, is that same gingerbread man? if i can find him, and eat him, a bit at a time, i shall get the benefit of the great elixir after alll it would not be so powerful, perhaps, as in its john dough begins his adventures natural state; but it would enable me to live for many, many yearsl ” john dough heard this speech with a thrill of horror. also he now began to understand how he happened to be alive. “i do not know where the gingerbread man is,” said monsieur. “he walked out of my shop while he was quite hot.” “but he can be found,” said the arab. “it is impossible for a gingerbread man, who is alive, to escape notice. come, let us search for him at oncel i must find him and eat him.” he fairly dragged monsieur and madame from the room in his desperation, and john dough crouched out of sight behind the counter until he heard them pass through the door and their foot- steps die away up the street. the talk he had overheard made the gin- gerbread man very sad indeed. the bakery was no safe home for him, after all. evidently it was the arab’s intention john dough begins his adventures to find him and insist upon eating him; and john dough did not want to be eaten at all. therefore his enemies must not find him. they were no safer to meet with than the awful woman who wanted to cut him into slices; and he was learning, by degrees, that all men were dangerous enemies to him, although he had himself the form of a man. he left the bakery and stole out into the street once more, walking now in the opposite direction from that taken by the arab and the grograndes. as he hurried along he met with few people on the streets; and these, in the dark, paid little attention to the gingerbread man; so gradually his spirits rose and his confidence in his future returned. by and by he heard a strange popping and hissing coming from the direction of the square in the center of the town, and then he saw red and green lights illuminating the houses, and fiery comets go sailing into the sky to break into dozens of beautiful colored stars. the people were having their fourth of july fireworks, and john dough became curious to witness the display from near by. so, forgetting his fears, he ran through the streets until he came john dough begins his adventures to a big crowd of people, who were too busy watching the fireworks to notice that a gingerbread man stood beside them. john dough pressed forward until he was quite in the front row, and just behind the men who were firing the rockets. for a time he watched the rush of the colored fires with much pleasure, and thoroughly enjoyed the sputtering of a big wheel that refused to go around, merely sending out weak and listless spurts of green and red sparks, as is the manner of such wheels. but now the event of the evening was to occur. two men brought out an enormous rocket, fully fifteen feet tall and filled with a tremendous charge of powder. this they leaned against a wooden trough that stood upright; but the rocket was too tall to stay in place, and swayed from side to side awkwardly. “herel hold that stickl" cried one of the men, and john dough stepped forward and grasped the stick of the big rocket firmly, not knowing there was any danger in doing so. then the man ran to get a piece of rope to tie the rocket in place; but the other man, being excited and thinking the rocket was ready to fire, - ' ?»; ////i ’///' ’ / , ,,» ,/u" //z". //{' ,’ " ' . i ‘‘ n ., i , -'.'_“..".: ‘/.~»-. ,,,;;;,- ]ohn dough is carried off by the rocket / / \ \ \ \ ‘:\‘\ \ \ \ ~\‘ ,,/r ia r " ,/: , / i ’ ’ ., iii i ' //, , , pl; [i //j, : ” i -/ / ~ . \ \ \ .\“ -;‘.-\ \§\.~\ \ "! / ., " . : -.' , ' . h , i,ll, h !’ ,l / , .,,|. ., .,| .,.l.[,. . i ' "i. m,: "i,ll lil il’: " i//‘/- i"_.f |‘ , if \. ;_,. .. , , .: , ,| w, ll’/pl !'||i§i ,, i : ,?‘ “i ~- " '/- / a ~ '/ 'i“’,i/ /,,/in. /,,'/, i ",'.. t ‘/.. , ..,.: i -. ’ ,;’. i/. ,“,. i‘ ‘a ..'~? / , , .' ‘| ’,. ,. ,,/:-!// , . , ; "‘ .i"/ i /i//ii i /> //i; 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" ‘ |, -- . _ > ,, ;:‘_~_= . -_:_.:.._;_ ._._.- \_“_.\ —\:::: ‘*::::_ \"“§§§§-:- "\ ,\*.~'-*'—?- _._..... ; _:.\‘..“...:_ \:r_.~=:::::~ §fi:-:-:-: q :.—.,:i,~i.;- -. .‘“““, ‘ .:::_-.- \‘€;:{ \' \ “=- \: john dough begins his adventures touched off the fuse without noticing that john dough was clinging fast to the stick. ' there was a sudden shriek, a rush of fire, and then—slowly at first, but with ’ ever-increasing speed—the huge rocket mounted far into the sky, carrying with it the form of the gingerbread manl the rocket continued to send out fiery sparks of burning powder as it plunged higher and higher into the black vaul-t of the heavens; but few of these came in contact with john dough, who clung to the far side of the stick and so escaped being seriously damaged. also the rocket curved, and presently sped miles away over land and sea, impelled by the terrible force of the powder it contained. john fully expected that it would burst presently, and blow him to bits amid a cloud of colored stars. but the giant rocket was not made in the same way as the other and smaller ones that had been fired, the intention being merely to make it go as high and as far as possible. so it finally burned itself out; but so great was the speed it had attained that it continued to fly for many minutes after the last spark had died away. then the rocket began to take a downward course; but it was so high up, by that time, that the stick and the empty shell flew onward hour chick, the cherub john rolled over and sat up, and then another person—a little man with a large head—also sat up and faced him. l “what do you mean by it?” asked the little man, glaring upon john dough angrily. “can’t you see where you ’re falling?” “ n ,” answered john. it was growing lighter every minute, and the gray mists of morning were fading away before the rising sun. john looked around him and saw he was upon a broad, sandy beach which the waves of a great sea lapped peacefully. behind was a green meadow, and then mountains that rose high into the air. “ how did you happen to be where i fell?” he asked, turning to the little man again. “i always sleep on the sands,” replied the other, wagging his head solemnly. “it’s my fad. fresh air, you know. i’m called the ‘fresh-air fiend.’ i suppose you ’re a new inhabitant. you seem rather queer.” “‘ i ’m made of gingerbread,” said john. “well, that certainly is unusual, so i’ve no doubt you will be warmly welcomed in our island,” replied the man. “but where am i?” asked john, looking around again with a puzzled expression. chick, the cherub “this is the isle of phreex,” answered the other, “and it is inhabited by unusual people. i'm one, and you ’re another.” he made such a droll face as he said this that the gingerbread man could not resist smiling, but it startled him to hear another laugh at his back- a sound merry and sweet, such as a bird trills. he swung around quickly and saw a child standing upon the sands, where the rays of the sun fell brightly upon its little form. and then the glass eyes of the gingerbread man grew big, and stood out from his cake face in a way that fully expressed his astonishment. “it’s a visionl ” he exclaimed. “no, it’s the cherub—whom we call chick,” answered the big-headed man, carelessly. the child had fair hair, falling in fleecy waves to its shoulders, but more or less tangled and neglected. it had delicate features, rosy cheeks, and round blue eyes. when these eyes were grave—which was seldom—-there were questions in them; when they smiled—which was often—sunbeams rippled over their blue surfaces. for clothing the child wore garments of pure white, which reached from the neck to the ankles, and had wide flowing sleeves and legs, like those of a youngster’s pajamas. the ca’ .. , at q‘ ri,, ‘.‘> ‘.. r";~,,,<,"“, \‘“.‘_l .w fig _ ,- ii? -|r. b ,’..‘‘ . &,‘ chick, the cherub little one’s head and feet were bare, but the pink soles were protected by sandals fastened with straps across the toes and ankles. “good morning,” said john, again smiling and hoping he had not stared too rudely. “it gives me great pleasure to meet you.” “my name’s chick,” replied the child, laughing in sweet trills, while the blue eyes regarded the gingerbread man with evident wonder. “that’s a funny name,” said john. “yes, it is funny,” the child agreed, with a friendly nod. “chick means a chicken, you know. but i’m not a chicken.” “of course not,” returned john. “a chicken is covered with feathers. and you are not.” at this chick laughed merrily, and said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world: “i’m the incu- bator baby, you know.” “dear me, i had n’t the least idea of it,” john answered gravely. “may i ask what an incubator baby is?” chick, the cherub the child squatted down in the sand, hugged its chubby knees, and uttered peal after peal of joyous laughter. “how funny! ” it gurgled; “how funny that you don’t know what the incubator baby isl really, you must be fresh-bakedl” “i am,” said john, feeling rather ashamed to acknowledge the fact, but resolving to be truthful. “then, of course, you are very ignorant,” remarked the f resh-air fiend, rubbing his big head complacently. “oh, as for that,” said john, “i acquired, in course of manufacture, a vast deal of ancient learning, which i got from an arabian elixir with which the baker mixed me. i am well posted in all events down to the last century, but i cannot recall any knowledge of an incubator baby.” “no, they’re a recent invention,” declared the big-headed man, patting tenderly the child’s golden curls. “were you, by any chance, at the pan- american exposition? or the lousiana purchase exposition?” “no,” answered john. “my knowledge was corked up about then.” “well,” continued the man, “there were a good many incubator babies at both those expositions, chick, the cherub and lots of people saw them. but chick is the first and only original incubator baby, and so chick properly belongs in the isle of phreex.” chick jumped up, made a stiff bow, and with eyes sparkling with mischief exclaimed: “i’m six years old and quite strong and well.” “tut-tut, chickl” remonstrated the big-headed man; “it was more than two years ago you were taught to make that speech. you can’t be always six years old, you know.” the little sprite enjoyed the joke so much that john was forced to laugh in sympathy. but just then a thought struck him, and he asked, a little nervously: “do you like gingerbread?” “i don't know,” replied chick. “are you gingerbread? ” “i am,” said john, bravely. “then i like gingerbread,” the child declared; “for you smell sweet and look kind and gentle.” john didn’t know whether to accept this as a compliment or not. he was sorry to learn that he smelled sweet, although to be called kind and gentle was grateful praise. “some folks,” he remarked, timidly, “have an idea they like to eat gingerbread.” chick, the cherub “i couldn't eat you,” the child said, seriously, “because, being the incubator baby, i have to be very careful of my diet. you might not agree with me.” “i ’m sure i could n’t agree with any one who ate me,” john declared. “for, although as yet i have had no experience of that sort, it seems to me a very undesirable fate.” “very true,” remarked the big-headed man. “let's be friends!” exclaimed chick, coming close to john and taking his soft brown hand in a firm clasp. “i'll take care of you.” john looked down at the merry little elf in positive wonder. “we'll be friends, all right,” said he; “but instead of your taking care of me, chick, i’ll take care of you.” “oh, there you are entirely wrong,” broke in the big-headed man. “chick’s a privileged char- acter in the isle of phreex, and the only one of us who dares defy our awful kinglet. and in case of danger—” “danger!” cried john, with a start. “is there danger here, too? ” chick's laughter rang out at the foolish question, but the man replied seriously: chick, the cherub “there is danger everywhere, to those who are unusual, and especially in the isle of phreex, where we are at the mercy of a horrid kinglet. but come; we must go and report your arrival to that same graceless ruler, or we shall all be punished.” “very well,” said john, meekly. but as he took chick’s hand and turned to depart the fresh-air fiend uttered an exclamation of annoyance, and said: “here’s bad luck alreadyl the failings are coming this way.” as he spoke a noise of shouting and chattering reached their ears, and presently several people came around a corner of rock and stood before john and his newly found friends. “it's the brotherhood of failings,” whispered the big-headed man. “ look out for them, or they'll do you a mischief.” “ don’t worry; i ’ll take care of you,” said chick, pressing the dough hand. john stared at the new-comers, and they returned the compliment by staring at him. a queerer lot of folks could seldom have been seen together. “ this is the blunderer,” said the fresh-air fiend, indicating a short, fat man who was clothed in glittering armor and bore a lance over his shoulder. q the brotherhood of failings chick, the cherub the blunderer acknowledged the introduction by bowing. “and here is the thoughtless one,” continued the man, pointing to a tall, lean man who was clothed in chamois-leather and carried a wide-mouthed blunderbuss under his arm. “look out for the gun,” said chick; “he never knows whether or not it is loaded.” “and here are the disagreeable, and the unlucky, and the sorrowful, and the ugly, and the awkward,” continued the big-headed man, pointing out each failing in turn. “their peculiarities you will have no trouble to discover. indeed, on all the isle of phreex, there is no one more unpleasant to meet with than this same lot of failings.” at this the brothers all bowed, saying at the same time: “we are proud of ourselvesl” at that instant the awkward tripped over his own toes and fell against the blunderer, who tumbled headlong and thrust his slim lance straight through the body of john dough. “ ohl ” cried chick, greatly horrified. “i told you sol” growled the fresh-air fiend, pulling out the lance hastily. “tell me, john dough, are you dead, or are you just dying?” “neither one,” said john, ruefully pushing chick, the cherub together the hole that the lance had made; “but it does n’t add to my personal appearance to be prodded in that fashion. i’m made of ginger- bread,” he explained, turning to the man in armor. “i beg your pardon! i really beg your pardon! ’ said the blunderer, greatly distressed at what he had done. “i had no intention of hurting you.” “ he means well,” said the incubator baby; but that doesn’t help much.” “he won’t last long in this island,” grunted the bad -tempered, referring to john dough. “ being made of gingerbread, he can’t be expected to last,” remarked the disagreeable, smiling in a way that made john shudder. “he shall have my protection,” said the blunderer. “it’s the least i can do to make amends. here—put on this armor!” he hastily began stripping off the plates of metal, and placed the steel helmet over the head of the gingerbread man. “no, no!” exclaimed john. “i don’t want to wear all that hardware.” “but you must!” cried the blunderer. “it’s the only way you can escape accident in this awful island.” “that’s true enough,” agreed the big-headed ! c..hick,the cherub man. “i advise you to wear the armor, my gingerbread friend.” so john submitted to being dressed in the armor, and no sooner had the plates been strapped upon him than the wisdom of the act was apparent. for there came a rush and whirl of sound, and sud- denly a great monster swept over the sands at the very spot where they stood. it sent the brotherhood of failings sprawling in every direction, while the incu- bator baby flew to the water's edge, and john dough’s armor-clad body was knocked down and pressed into the soft sand until it was level with the surface. but presently chick came back and made the others dig him out and set him upon his feet again, and then it was seen that no one had been seriously injured. “what was it?” asked john, gazing in amaze- ment at the place where the monster had disap- peared in the distance. chick, the ,cherub “it’s the one-wheeled automobile,” answered the sorrowful, “and unless it gets smashed mighty soon the isle of phreex will be an isle of gripples. i don't understand why they license the thing.” “why, to make room for new arrivals, of course,” declared the disagreeable. “but it was lucky for the pudding man that he happened to be dressed in steel.” “i am not pudding, if you please,” said john, indignantly. “i beg you to remember that i am gingerbread.” “it’s all one,” remarked the thoughtless, “your cake is dough, anyhow." “let us return to the castle,” the ugly said. “our kinglet should be introduced to his new subject.” so they all started off across the green, chick leading the gingerbread man, until they came to a path leading upward through the rocks, along which they began to ascend. john had much diffi- culty in keeping out of the way of the awkward, who tripped and stumbled constantly, while the blunderer insisted upon taking the wrong path, and the bad-tempered stopped twice to fight with the disagreeable and the thoughtless. at last, however, they reached the top, which proved to be chick, the cherub // /, " //” /zfi /-‘\‘. a broad plain of rock, upon which stood a great castle with many tall spires and grim towers and glittering minarets. while they paused for john dough to admire the view, and that they all might get breath, a sharp voice said near them: “you’re late, you lot of failings, and the kinglet will scold.” john looked around, and saw perched upon a point of rock beside the path a most curious look- ing creature. “don’t starel” it said, with a laugh. “i don’t, and i’ve got a dozen eyes to your one. let me introduce myself. i’m the prize potato from the centerville fair.” indeed, john now noticed a big blue ribbon twined around the middle of the potato, and on the ribbon was printed in gold letters: “first prize.” “some day you ' sprout,” said the disagreeable, “and then you won't have so many eyes.” the prize potato winked its numerous eyes, one after the other, in a droll fashion, and answered: qi ‘ o i it yr:.il“ ‘i ‘i; |!-l\ i! phreex f o castle e h t chick, the cherub “some day you ’ll meet with an accident, my dear failing; but when you’re planted in the ground you’ll not sprout at all. that’s where i’m your superior, for i’m perpetual. every one of my eyes is good for a half-peck of potatoes, at least.” “unless you ’re boiled with your jacket on,” remarked the ugly, with a sour smile. “come, comel let us on,” interrupted the little man with the big head. “our kinglet doubt- less awaits us.” when they had gone a few steps farther the incubator baby paused to say: “some one is following us, and it's a stranger.” this remark caused john to look around, and immediately he stopped short with an expression of horror upon his frosted face. for there, turning the corner of the rocky path, was ali dubh the arab. the fellow at once uttered a yell of joy and triumph, and drawing his gleaming knife he rushed upon john dough with great eagerness. the gingerbread man had given up all hope of escape and stood tremblingly awaiting his foe when, chick suddenly grasped the blunderer’s lance and tripped the arab so neatly with it that ali dubh fell his full length upon the path and broke his chick, the cherub > knife-blade into a dozen pieces. but he squirmed forward and was about to bite into john’s leg when the big-headed man came to the rescue and threw a handful of pebbles into the arab’s open mouth, and so prevented him from doing the gingerbread man any damage. “he seems dangerous,” remarked the blunderer. “let’s tie him up, before he hurts some one.” so while the arab was coughing the pebbles out of his mouth, the brotherhood of failings bound chick,‘ the cherub his hands and feet with strong cords, so that he could not move. “he’s mine!” shouted the arab, as soon as he could speak. “he belongs to me. i claim him for my own.” “there’s no harm in that,” replied the fresh-air fiend. “but one of the laws of this isle is that no person shall be injured by any one except the king- let. and every one here must obey the laws. so, unless you promise not to carve or to eat this man of gingerbread, who is now a subject of our king- let, we must lock you up in prison.” “i ’ll eat him as soon as i have the chance. i have a right to do so,” cried the arab. “you ’re a bad man! ” said chick, stamping one small foot indignantly. “i'm not,” answered ali dubh; “i’m a good man. and i paid jules grogrande fifty cents for this gingerbread imitation of a man, who is mixed with my own magic elixir. also i paid a witch nine dollars to transport me to wherever the gin- gerbread man might be—which is right here—that i might take possession of my own property. so i’ve got him, and he’s paid for, and he ’s mine, and i claim the right to eat him whenever i please.” “you ’ll do no such thing,” declared chick. chick, the cherub “why, john dough is alive, and no one has a right to make him dead and then eat him—-even if he is paid for!” “don’t worry, my cherub,” said the big-headed man, soothingly; “we ’ll go at once and lock this arab in a strong room of the castle, so that he can’t possibly escape.” chick smiled sweetly at this promise; but the arab scowled and said, grimly: “never mind. my time will come. some day chick, the cherub i shall surely eat that gingerbread man, in spite of this cherub and all the rest of you.” this defiance made the brotherhood of failings and the big-headed man so angry that they at once dragged ali dubh away to the castle, and john dough and chick followed after, hand in hand, and feeling quite safe. presently they came to a great archway that led into the courtyard of the castle. having passed through this arch, the gingerbread man saw groups of the most astonishing people, who were busying themselves over extraordinary tasks, such as build- ing machines, boiling strange-smelling chemicals in queer pots, drawing curious designs, and like occu- pations. a sudden crash announced that the blunderer had fallen into the middle of a delicate machine and smashed it into bits. before they could pull him out the unlucky one ran against the whirling arm of a windmill and was tossed half- way across the courtyard, while the awkward one upset a boiling kettle and set every one to coughing who inhaled the odor of the compound that was spilled upon the ground. to john’s surprise no one seemed much worried over these accidents. even the victims joined in chick’s merry laughter, and those of the failings chick, the cherub who had escaped disaster calmly proceeded to lock up the arab in a cell that had a strong iron grating for a door, and fastened with a huge padlock. afterward they all entered through a second arch into the great hall of the castle. this was a long, wide room with a tiled floor, and walls that were covered with many trophies, such as armor, spears, battle-axes, and swords of ancient design. at the farther end was a raised platform upon which stood a gorgeous throne. back of the throne was an electric sign, flashing one letter. at a time, and reading: “what is home without a kinglet?” over the throne was suspended an enormous crown —big enough for a giant—which sparkled with gems. beside the throne a very fat man sat in a chair so low that his knees nearly touched his chin. he wore a short red coat, a wide white vest, and blue knee-breeches, and all were embroidered in gold. the fat man’s eyes were closed and he seemed asleep. within the throne sat the kinglet, propped upon purple cushions, so that he would fit it better. for the kinglet was a small boy with a long, freckled face, blue eyes, a pug nose, and black hair banged across his forehead, and hanging in lank, straight bl chick, the cherub locks far down over his shoulders. he wore an ermine cloak lined with purple, and bore in his hand a sceptre with a jewelled ball at one end, while beyond the ball projected a small golden knob. the kinglet’s slim legs were crossed under him like those of a turk, and he seemed very frail and delicate. however, when the failings and the fresh-air fiend and chick and john dough entered, the kinglet’s brow was puckered into a frown, and his blue eyes fairly flashed fire. “odds zooksl ” he cried, as they all knelt before the throne, “why have you dared to wait until this hour to pay me your devoirs?” then he leaned down and prodded the fat man with the knob of his sceptre, so that the sleeper started and opened his eyes. “is that right, nebbie? is ‘devoir’ a kingly word?” he demanded. “absolutely kingly, your majesty,” said the fat man, yawning. “it was used by king arthur and richard caeur de leon.” “very welll” said the kinglet, proudly. then he turned again to the kneeling group before him. “why don’t you answer me?” he exclaimed. “why are you so late in paying me your boudoirs?” {mi _- k! l the kinglet and nebbie chick, the cherub “devoirs, your majestyl” said the fat man, hastily. “i said ‘devoirs’l” returned the kinglet, turning upon him in anger. “we are late because we did not get here sooner,” said the awkward; “and we could not get here sooner because we were late.” “sol” shrieked his majesty, with blazing eyes. “now by my halidom—” he paused suddenly, and turned to the fat man, prodding him so fiercely that he jumped several feet into the air. “is ‘halidom’ the right word, n ebbie?” “sure,” said the fat man, nodding emphatically. “what does it mean?” asked the kinglet. “what does halidom mean?” “yes.” “why, a halidom is a halidom,” said the fat man, thoughtfully; “and belongs to kings.” “but what is it?” persisted the kinglet, impatiently. . “it’s a—a—-a sort of a royal prerogative, and is usually painted red,” returned the fat man, and immediately resumed his seat and closed his eyes again. the kinglet sighed, and turned anew to the failings. chick, the cherub “let me see,” he remarked; “where was i p” “you were by your halidom, your majesty,” suggested the blunderer. “oh, yes.” again the long freckled face took on a frown. “by my halidom, churl—” he stopped to glance_ at the fat man. “churl is all right,” mumbled nebbie, without opening his eyes. “by my halidom, churl, you shall either swallow my sceptre or die the death! ” “what death?” asked the blunderer, trembling. “the one that makes people dead,” replied the kinglet, sternly. “choose, then, varlet—” (“varlet is good,” said n ebbie, quickly, to avoid a thrust) “whether to swallow my sceptre or die the death! ” the blunderer glanced at the sceptre, the jewelled ball of which was nearly as large as his head. “i’ll swallow the sceptre,” he said. - “good,” cried the king, and held it toward him. “but not now,” added the blunderer, hastily; “i ’ll take my time about it. you did n’t say when, you know.” the kinglet turned red with rage. “now, by the royal juggernaut of jowl—” he began. chick, the cherub “if i should swallow it now,” continued the blunderer, calmly, “you would cease to be a kinglet; for a kinglet without a sceptre is nothing but a flibbeijig.” “what!” shrieked his majesty, jabbing the fat man furiously. “that’s right,” declared nebbie, groaning and rubbing his fat side dolefully. “a kinglet without a sceptre is a flibberjig, and i’ll be black and blue by to-morrow morningl ” “well,” said his majesty, after considering the matter, “i forbid you, sir blunderer, to swallow my sceptre until i give you leave.” . then his eye fell upon john dough and chick, who were standing at one side of the failings, and immediately the little kinglet looked surprised, and then curious, and then annoyed. but perhaps the annoyed look was because chick laughed in the royal face in a way that was certainly disre- spectful, and even john dough did n’t look at all humble. “here, you chick; behave yourself,” com- manded the kinglet. “i won’t,” said chick, pouting two pretty lips. “well, this kingdom existed at one time without an incubator baby, and i believe we could spare chick, the cherub you now. i’ll have your saucy head cut off,” declared the kinglet. “i dare you!” said chick, making a face. “there ’s a nice child, i must say! ” retorted the kinglet, scowling. “but what can we expect of a baby that has no parents and no proper bringing-up? bah! i’m ashamed of you, chick!” “don’t you dare say anything against my incu- bator! ” cried chick, angrily. “i guess i’ve had as good bringing-up as you have, you disagreeable kinglet, you!” his majesty was at first about to retort with equal q anger; but he suddenly "" .?\ changed his mind and turned to john dough. ~ “who are you, stranger?” he asked. “and why are you wearing the blunderer’s armor?” so much disrespect had been shown this kinglet by his subjects that john was about to reply lightly to these questions; but to his surprise chick grasped his hand and whispered to him to make a low bow \ . e chick, the cherub and to be very careful what he said. so the gingerbread man stepped forward and addressed his majesty with great ceremony. “oh, most puissant and serene kinglet!” he began; “i am called john dough, because i am made of gingerbread; and i came to your isle because i could not help it.” the kinglet looked upon the stranger with a kindly expression. “‘puissant and serene’l” he murmured. “evi- dently, john dough, you are a person of wit and intelligence, such as are most welcome to the isle of phreex. kneel thou at my feet.” john knelt, as commanded, and the kinglet at once dealt him a sharp blow upon the “ blunderer’s helmet ti with the heavy end h of the royal sceptre. it dented in the steel plate, and would have crushed the gingerbread m a n ’ s head had it not been so well protected by the helmet. chick, the cherub “i dub you knight of phreex,” said his majesty. “rise, sir john dough—villain no longer, but noble and favored among my subjects! ” john stood up and bowed, although he was slightly dazed by the force of the blow. “long live the gentle kinglet of phreex,” he managed to say. and chick clapped two chubby hands with glee, and~whispered: “well done, my friend!” “you please me, sir john,” remarked the little kinglet, swelling out his chest complacently. “i wish all the people of phreex were so polite and discerning.” then he looked around and inquired: “where’s sir austed alfrin, the poet laureate?” immediately a drapery parted, and a man with a pale, thin face and long black hair entered and saluted his majesty with profound respect. the poet had a bandage over one eye and hobbled as if lame in one leg. he was clothed all in black, and his long frock coat had grease spots down the front of it. “ have you made me a sonnet to-day? ” demanded the little kinglet. “yes, my royal master,” answered the poet; and, pompously unrolling a scroll, he read in a loud, falsetto voice, these lines: “there is a wise kinglet of phreex, whose wit is so great that it leaks; his brain is n’t big, but who cares a fig while wisdom from him fairly reeks?" “now, that’s not so bad,” said his majesty, reflectively. “ but can’t you make it a little stronger, sir poet?” “i ’ll try,” replied austed alfrin; and after pencil- ling some words on his tablets he read as follows: “the goddess of wisdom felt sad; and when asked why she whimpered so bad, said: ‘ there _s one, it is true, who knows more than i do—- and the kinglet of phreex is the lad!’ ” chick, the cherub “now that,” said his majesty, “strikes me as being real poetry. how does it strike you, sir john dough?” “it’s fairly good,” replied the gingerbread man; “but it hardly does you justice.” “the poet does n’t dare do his majesty justice,” said the disagreeable failing. “if he did, there would soon be no poet.” “there’s something in that, too,” said the kinglet. “but now, sir austed, write me a sonnet on my new subject, sir john dough.” the poet sighed and began writing on his tablets; and presently he read this: “the kinglet of phreex, it is said, has a knight made of stale gingerbread; we could eat him, but yet the dyspepsia we ’d get would soon make us wish we were dead.” “that,” said john, indignantly, “is rank libel; and if your majesty will loan me your sceptre, i’ll make an end of this poet in seven seconds by the clock.” “you have my permission to make mince-meat of him,” replied the kinglet, cheerfully. “mercy! mercy, my lord!” screamed the poet, falling upon his knees before john and hastily | chick, tihe cherub wiping the verse off his tablets, “give me one more chance, i beg of youl ” “very well,” said the gingerbread knight. “but if it’s no better than the last you shall be discharged. is it not so, your majesty?” “quite so,” laughed the kinglet. the poet nervously scribbled another set of lines, which he read in a voice that trembled with fear: “the gingerbread man is so sweet, to eat him would be a rare treat; he ’s crisp and well spiced, and you ’d find, were he sliced, that the eggs in him cannot be beat ! " “that’s better,” said john, “but i’m not sure about the eggs, as i did not pay much attention when i was mixed. however, this sincere tribute to my excellence will save you from my displeasure, and you may go free.” the poet did not wait an instant, but ran from the hall as fast as his legs would carry him. the kinglet now dismissed the failings, who left the royal presence quarrelling and threatening one another, and making so much noise and uproar that the gingerbread man was glad to see them go. “are n’t they nice?” asked the kinglet, look- ing after them. “i’d like to drown them all in the castle moat, like kittens; but every king, chick, the cherub they say, has his failings, so i suppose i must keep mine.” he sighed, and continued: “but what did the poet’s sonnet say about your being crisp and well spiced, and rather good eating were you sliced?” “don’t pay any attention to that, your majesty!” said john, hastily. “but why not?” persisted the kinglet. “i declare, sir john, there’s something about you that makes me hungry whenever i look at you. i don’t remember having eaten any gingerbread since i was a boy—ahem!—i mean since i came to rule over the isle of phreex. ho there, my guards! fetch me a knife!” john was now trembling with terror; but chick said to the kinglet: “your majesty forgets that you are to have pancakes and maple-syrup for tea. what’s the use of spoiling your appetite, when you know the gingerbread man will keep good for weeks?” “are you sure?” asked the kinglet, anxiously. “are you sure he ’ll keep? won’t he get stale?” “of course not,” answered the child. “he's the kind of gingerbread that always keeps good. and you must n’t forget he’ll be a credit to the chick, the cherub isle of phreex; for whoever saw a live gingerbread man before?” “nobody,” declared the kinglet, positively. “you ’re right, my cherub; i’ll save the ginger- bread man for another meal, and in the mean time i can show him off before my people. we pride ourselves, sir john, on having a greater variety of queer personages than any other kingdom in ex stence.” “then you ought to be careful of them, and not permit them to be eaten,” said john, still anxious. but the kinglet did not seem to hear him. “pancakes and maple-syrupl” muttered his majesty, longingly. “dear me, chick; i wish tea were ready now.” “so do i,” said chick, laughing; for john dough was safe from being eaten just then, what- ever might be his future fate, and the child had saved him by the mention of the cakes and syrup. but now a sudden hubbub was heard at the door, and in rushed a number of the royal guard wheeling a big platform on which was seated a woman so exceedingly fat that she appeared to be much wider than she was long. “herel what’s the trouble with bebe celeste?" asked the kinglet, frowning. j~ ! ‘ bebe celeste chick, the cherub “she has lost two ounces, your majesty,” puffed one of the guards, wiping the perspiration from his forehead with his coat sleeve. “two ounces! ” shouted the kinglet. “now, by the toga of samson-—by the way, n ebbie, did samson wear a toga?” he punched the fat man so severely that nebbie gave a roar of pain before he answered. “he wore several, your majestyl ” “then, by the several togas of samson, bebe celeste, how dare you come before me two ounces shy?” “i did n’t come; i was brought,” said the fat woman, in a wheezy voice. “she was weighed in the balance and found wanting,” said the guardsman. “what was she wanting?” asked the kinglet. “two ounces, your majesty.” the ruler rubbed his pug nose with one finger, in a reflective manner. “bebe,” said he, “you’ve been exercising again. you’re trying to reduce! ” the woman began to cry. “’t ain’t my fault, your royal giblet—” “kinglet, woman!” said the fat man, without opening his eyes. chick, the cherub “your royal kinglet, i did n’t mean to lose a single flutter o’ flesh. but my dog duo got to quarrelling with himself and i got exercised in my mind—” “oh, the loss is in your mind, is it?” interrupted the king. “i would n’t mind the loss if i had not forbidden you to exercise at all, even in your mind.” “i could n’t help it, your fudgesty—” “majesty, woman! ” said the fat man, sleepily. “my dog duo got to quarrelling—” “bring us the dog, varlets, churls, and vassals!” screeched the kinglet, in his shrill voice. the guards stumbled over each other to obey; and presently they returned leading such a curious animal that john dough stared at it in amazement. it was a dog, without doubt; or rather, it was a dog’s body with a head and two legs at either end of it. so that when one end walked forward the other end had to walk backward, and that made the back end growl angrily. but the same end was not always the back end of the dog; for first one head, and then the other, would prove strongest, and drag the curious animal forward. when this double dog, which was named duo, was brought in, both heads were snarling and barking in a very noisy manner. but however much enraged they were, they could never get together to do one another mischief. “be silent!” yelled the kinglet, annoyed at the clamor. but the dog’s heads paid no attention to the command. “very well,” said his majesty; “i’ll put a stop to your noise for good and alll here, you guards, fetch me the royal executioner!” the fat lady began crying anew at this, and presently the door opened and a young girl entered the hall. she was clothed in simple robes of pure chick, the cherub white, over which her loose brown hair flowed in a soft cloud. her eyes were large and dark and very gentle in expression, and her cheeks were fair as a lily. in one hand the maid bore a long sword, the naked blade of which shone brightly in the light. in the other hand was a sharpening- stone, and as she bowed before the kinglet she rubbed the stone gently against the keen edge of the blade. although the dog’s heads were still quarrel- ling, and bebe celeste still weeping, it was upon john dough that the royal executioner first turned her eyes. “i hope it is n’t this one, your majesty!” she said, in a voice of dis- appointment; “for he won’t bleed at all, being made of cake.” “i beg your pardon, exclaimed john, hastily. “i am not cake, but gingerbread.” chick, the cherub “why, this is the most valuable creature in all your dominions!” said the guard. “do you desire to rob yourself of such a treasure, your majesty?” the kinglet hesitated, and then jabbed the fat man with his sceptre. “is it so, n ebbie?” he asked. “it is so, my lord,” answered the fat man. “if you want to butcher anything, cut up a few of the royal guards, or mince the failings, or carve chick, the cherub. but the dog duo is one of the remarkable features of your kingdom, and should be preserved at all hazards. why, he ’s worth more than bebe celeste.” “that reminds me of bebe,” said the kinglet, looking at the fat one sternly. “take her away, guards, and stuff her with mashed potatoes and pate de foi gras. if she doesn’t regain those two ounces in three days, she ’ll disgrace my kingdom, and i’ll turn her over to the royal executioner.” so the guards trundled away the platform on which the fat lady sat, and the dog duo followed, first one head leading, and then the other. and now his majesty threw off his ermine robe and laid down the sceptre and scrambled out of the throne. “the royal audience is ended for to-day,” he said, “and now i ’ll go and see if those cakes and i ! chick, the cherub maple-syrup are ready for tea. and see here, you incubator baby, look after sir john dough, and mind that nobody eats him. if there’s one bite gone when i see him again i’ll turn you over to the royal executioner—and then there won’t be any incubator baby.” then his majesty walked away, chuckling to himself in a very disagreeable manner. at once the fat nebbie rolled out of his low seat and stood up, yawning and stretching out his arms. “our kinglet is a hard master,” said he, with a sigh, “and i really wish some one would get up a revolution and dethrone him. he’s been punching my ribs all day long, and i'll be black and blue by to-morrow morning. i chick, the cherub i ! | “he’s cruel,” said chick, patting the fat man’s hand, as if to comfort him. “yet he ’s too tender-hearted to suit me,” com- plained the lovely executioner. “if i could only shed a single drop of blood, i’d feel that i am of some use in the world.” “ how dreadful! ” cried john, with a shudder. “oh, not at all!” said the girl. “for what ’s the object of being an executioner if one can't execute?” and she tucked the sword under her arm and took out her handkerchief and went away weeping sorrowfully. t w q c <i>o>”.o’ ® w wests <qll]’?l'f@@x mm w» b “well, did n’t i take care of you all right?” laughed the incubator baby, leading john dough from the throne-room and up a broad flight of marble stairs. . “indeed you did,” he answered, gratefully. “really, my dear chick, i believe that dreadful kinglet would have eaten me but for you.” “’course he would,” said the cherub, nodding gayly; “and won’t he be wild when he finds there are no pancakes and maple-syrup for tea?” john stopped short. “are n’t there?” he asked. “oh, chick! i’m afraid he ’ll punish you for deceiving him.” “i don’t mind,” declared the child. “ no one shall eat a friend of mine that i ’ve given my promise to take care of. so come along, john dough, and don’t worry. i’ve got a lovely room on the top floor of this castle, and i ’ll share it with you.” i fi i the freaks of phreex so john mounted more marble steps, until finally chick brought him to a handsome apartment on the third story. i the freaks of phreex “ here we are! ” cried the baby. “now, make yourself at home, john, for we need n’t fear the kinglet until to-morrow morning, and then he ’ll have forgotten that i fooled him.” our hero’s first act was to take off the blunderer’s heavy armor and pile it in one corner of the room. when free from the weight of metal he felt more like himself again, and walked to the window to view the scenery. “it ’s a pretty place, chick,” he remarked. “oh, the isle is all right,” answered the child. “it ’s the people here that are all wrong, as you ’ll soon find out. do you ever eat, john dough?” “ never,” said john. “then, while you ’re waiting here, i’ll go over to the dairy and get my milk for tea. you don’t mind if i leave you for a few minutes, do you?” “not at all,” he declared. “but it has just started to rain, outside; you ’ll get wet, won’t you?” “that’s nothing,” laughed chick. “i won’t melt.” “it’s different with me,” said john, sadly. “if my gingerbread body got soaked it would fall to pieces.” that made the little one laugh again, and it ran merrily from the room and left john dough alone i vs th e . . fr e a k s.. of qphr e ex “i respect your pride, sir,” said the other. “ it’s bread in the bone, doubtless. ha, ha!” john looked at him reproachfully, and the little man at once grew grave. “this island is full of inventors,” said he; “but they ’re all cranks, and don’t amount to anything —except me.” “what have you invented?” asked john. “this!” said the other, taking a little tube from his pocket. “you will notice that it often rains —it’s raining now, if you ’ll look outside. and the reason it rains is because the drops of water fall to the earth by the attraction of gravitation.” “i suppose so,” said john. “ now, what do people usually do when it rains ? ” asked the little man. “ they grumble,” said john. “yes, and they use umbrellas—umbre//ar, mind you, to keep themselves dry!” “and that is quite sensible,” declared john. the bald-headed one gave a scornful laugh. “it ’s ridiculous!” he said, angrily. “an umbrella is a big, clumsy thing, that the wind jerks out of your hand, or turns inside out; and it ’s a nuisance to carry it around; and people always borrow it and never bring it back. an umbrella, sir, is a i the freaks of phreex humbug! a relic of the dark ages! i’ve done away with the use of umbrellas entirely, by means of this invention—this little tube, which can be carried in one’s pocket!” he held up a small instrument that looked like a tin whistle. “ how curious!” said john. “is n’t it? you see, within this tube is stored a power of repulsion that overcomes the attraction of gravitation, and sends the rain-drops flying upward again. you stick the tube in your hat- band and walk out boldly into the rain. immedi- ately all the rain-drops shoot up into the air, and before they can fall again you have passed on! it’s always dry where the wearer of this tube goes, for it protects him perfectly. and when it stops rain- ing, you put it in your pocket again and it ’s all ready for another time. is n’t it great, sir? is n’t it wonderful? is n’t the inventor of this tube the greatest man in the world?” “i’d like to try it,” said john, “for no one needs protection from the rain more than i do. being made of gingerbread, it would ruin me to get wet.” “true,” agreed the other. “i’ll lend you the tube, with pleasure. stick it in your hat-band.” h the freaks of phreex that the bald-headed inventor was really as great a man as he claimed to be. after descending the slippery path through the rocks, he crossed the patch of green, and at last reached the sandy shore, where he found the baker’s hat, soaked through by the rain. as he lifted it he saw the crooked handle of the candy cane sticking out of the sand, and drew it forth to find it in excellent condition, little of the dampness having reached it. but now, as john dough began to retrace his steps, he discovered that his feet were soft and swollen. for he had been walking on the damp ground and through the wet grass; and although no rain had fallen upon his body, his feet were getting to be in a dangerous condition, and the licorice in them had become sticky. after he had recrossed the grass and come to the edge of the rocks he began to be frightened, for bits of his left heel now commenced to crumble and drop in the path; and when he tried walking on his flabby toes, they were so soggy and soft that he knew they would not last very long. while he paused, bewildered, another calamity overtook him. for the tube suddenly lost its power of repulsion and ceased to work, and the h the freaks of phreex raindrops began to pelt his unprotected body and sink into his flesh. he looked around with a groan of dismay, and discovered a round hole, or tunnel, in the rock near by. staggering toward this, he entered the tunnel and found that now no rain could reach him. the floor was smooth and dry, and in the far distance he saw a light twinkling. not daring to walk farther upon his mushy feet, john got down on his hands and knees and began crawling toward the farther end of the tunnel. he made slow progress, in that position; but soon he heard a noise of machinery, and felt the warm air of a furnace coming to meet him. that gave him courage to proceed, and he crawled onward until he had reached a large, circular chamber, where a tall man with whiskers that resembled those of a billy-goat was busily working among a number of machines. “hello!” this personage exclaimed, as he saw the gingerbread man. “what have we here?” the voice and eyes were alike kindly; so john told the man his story and asked permission to dry his feet at the glowing furnace. “make yourself at home,” said the man, and turned to his work again. the place was lighted by electricity, and was ii the freaks of phreex i '// warm and comfortable. john pu his feet as near to the furnace as he dared, and soon felt the heat drying up his soaked feet. it was not long, indeed, before his entire body was as crisp and solid as ever; and then our hero stood upon his feet and found that the damage to his heel would not interfere much with his walking. “what are you doing?” he asked the man. “making diamonds,” replied the other, calmly. “i suppose i am the only one in the world who ever ';v---~.- ..,- -.—;, =;.~, jt -.~.,r..--—--q rr . =-~~ ——— —-—— i h the freaks of phreex succeeded in making real diamonds; but people did not believe in me, you see, so they sent me to the isle of phreex. here i have manufactured the finest diamonds the world has ever known, for no one interferes with my work. look at these.” he threw back the lid of a large tin box, and john saw that it was full to the brim with sparkling gems of a clear white color. “take some,” said the man, offering him a handful. “they are of no use to me here, because i cannot dispose of them. but i have the satis- faction of making them, just the same. help yourself! ” “ n o, thank you,” said john. “i have no use for diamonds, any more than you have.” “but the time may come when riches will be a great help to you,” said the man, and picking out three very big stones he began pressing them into john dough’s gingerbread body, one after the other. “there!” he exclaimed. “they are now safely concealed, and if you ever need them you can dig them out and sell them. those three stones would be worth several thousand dollars if you ever get into the world again, where diamonds are valued.” “you are very generous,” said john. h the freaks of phreex “oh, not at all, i assure youl” said the man, wagging his goatlike beard with every word he spoke. “in this curious island there is no value to anything whatever, not even to life. all i can do with my diamonds here is to stick them into the kinglet’s crown and sceptre; so i’m getting a big stock of them laid by. very soon i shall begin studding the roof of the throne-room with diamonds, and it will be a pretty sight to see them glittering in one mass.” “well, said our hero, “if it has stopped raining, i believe i’ll bid you good-by.” “never mind the rain,” answered the man. “ here is a winding staircase that leads directly up- ward into the castle. if you go that way, the rain cannot reach you. . the tunnel through which you entered is only used for ventilation.” john thanked the good-natured diamond-maker and started to climb the stairs. there were a good many steps, but after a while he came to a gallery of the castle, and had little difliculty in finding the passage that led to his own room. ~ as he walked along he heard the sound of a piano, and paused at an open door to peer within the room, for he imagined some one was pounding upon the keys of the piano with a sledge-hammer. ii —_.z. ' the musician threw himself upon the piano. ii the freaks of phreex but immediately a fluffy-haired man looked up alpd saw him, and the_next iililstalpt pounced uplpn t e ginger rea man in muc t e same way t at a cat would pounce upon a rat, and seized him fast, drew him into the room, and closed and locked the door. john was astonished, but the fluffy-haired musi- gian began gaclzjng up and down the room, swinging is arms an s outing: “i have it! i have it at last! i am great! i am magnificent! i am better than vogner him- self!” he paused to glare upon john. “why don’t you shout you baked idiot? why don’t you weep with joy?” he cried. “it is great, i tell you! it is great!” “what is great?” asked john. “the symphonic! the divine symphonie, you heartless molasses-cake, or devil’s food, or whatever you are! and i composed it—i---tietjamus toips! i am greater than vogner!” “i did n’t hear it,” said the gingerbread man. the musician threw himself upon the piano, and produced a succession of such remarkable sounds that john was surprised. “did you understand it?” demanded the fluffy- haired one, jumping up again. h the freaks of phreex “ n o,” said john. “no! of course not!- no one can understand it. it is genius! it will be played at all the great concerts. the critics will write columns in praise of it. some folks can understand vogner a little. n o one can understand me at all! i am wonder- ful! i am superb!” “well,” said john, “i ’m not a judge. it seemed to me like awful discord.” the musician threw himself upon his knees and burst into tears. “thank you, my friend!—my dear friend! said he, between the sobs. “such praise gladdens my heart and makes me very happy! ah! glorious moment, in which i produce music that is not understood and sounds like discord!” john left the musician still shedding tears of happiness, and walked to his room. “ the people of this island are certainly peculiar,” he reflected; “and i am very glad indeed that i am an ordinary gingerbread man, and not a crank.” he found the bald-headed inventor of the power of repulsion awaiting him in the room. “well, how did the tube please you? is it not wonderful?” he inquired. “it’s wonderful enough when it works,” said ii the freaks of phreex john; “but it suddenly quit working, and nearly ruined me.” “ah, the power became exhausted,” returned the man, calmly, “but that is nothing. it can be easily renewed.” “however,” john remarked, “i think that whenever any one uses your tube as a protection from the rain, he should also carry an umbrella to use in case of accident.” “an umbrella! bah!” cried the inventor, and left the room in a rage, slamming the door behind him. $ presently chick returned, looking bright and happy as ever; but when the ‘child heard the tale of john’s wanderings in the rain he received a sound scolding for being so careless. “you must n’t pay any attention to the inventors,” said the cherub. “this isle is full of ’em, and most of their inventions won’t work.” “i ’ve discovered that,” said john. “but they’re good fun, if you don’t take 'em in earnest,” continued the baby; “ and as it ’s going to rain all the afternoon i’ll take you around the castle to make some calls on some of the cranks that are harmless. john readily agreed to this proposal; so chick took his hand and led him through some of the wide halls, stopping frequently to call upon the different inventors and scientific discoverers who inhabited the various rooms. they were all glad to see the pretty child and welcomed john dough almost as cordially. i ! the lady executioner one personage presented the gingerbread man with a smokeless cigar that he had recently invented. another wanted him to listen to a noisless music- box, and was delighted when john declared he could hear nothing at all. a third wanted him to try a dish of hot ice-cream made in a glowing freezer, and was grieved because the gingerbread man was constructed in such a way that it was impossible for him to eat. “really,” said john, “i don’t see the use of these things.” “oh, they’re not useful at all,” replied chick, laughing; “but these folks are all trying to do something queer, and most of them are doing it. now we’ll climb this tower, and i’ll show you what i call a really fine invention.” so up they climbed to the top of one of the turrets, winding round and round a narrow staircase until they came upon a broad platform. and on this platform rested a queer machine that somewhat resembled a bird, for it had two great wings and a big body that glittered as brightly as if it were made of silver. while they stood looking at this odd contriv- ance a door in the body of the bird opened and a young man stepped out and greeted them. i fi_ q b ‘mg ;/ \ / said chick imar this is the lady executioner john thought him quite the most agreeable per- son, in looks and manner, that he had yet met in the isle of phreex; excepting, of course, his friend chick. the young man had a sad face, but his eyes were pleasant and intelligent and his brow thoughtful. in a few polite and well-chosen words he welcomed his guests. “this is imar,” said chick, introducing john; “and he has invented a real flying-machine.” “one that will fly ? ” asked john, curiously. “of course,” said the baby. “i’ve had many a ride in it—have n’t i, imar?” “ to be sure,” replied the young man. “i have often taken chick to ride as far as forty yards from the tower. if it did not rain, just now, nothing would give me more pleasure than to prove to you that my invention will work perfectly.” “i see you have made it resemble a bird,” remarked john, who was quite interested in the machine. “yes,” said the dreamy imar, “and the reason i have succeeded in my invention is because i have kept close to n ature’s own design. every muscle of a bird’s wings is duplicated in this machine. but instead of being animated by life, i have found it necessary to employ electric batteries and motors. i the lady executioner gingerbread man, he never required sleep or rest; so he sat quietly in a chair and thought of many things until a new day dawned. by morning the rain had ceased and the sun arose in a blue sky and flooded the isle with its warm and brilliant rays. the incubator baby was so happy this pleasant day that it fairly danced away to get its regular breakfast of milk and oatmeal. but john dough’s little friend was back at his side before long, and together they went hand in hand through the halls of the castle to the throne- room of the kinglet. they found his majesty already seated in the throne, with the fat nebbie asleep at one side of him and the girl executioner carefully sharpening her sword on the other side. “this is my busy day,” said the kinglet, nodding graciously to chick and the gingerbread man. “ there are too many useless people in my kingdom, and i’m going to kill off some of them. sit down and watch the flash of the executioner’s sword.” then he turned to his guards and commanded: “ bring in the general.” immediately they ushered before the kinglet a soldierly man clothed in a gorgeous uniform. his i the lady executioner head was erect and his countenance calm and set. the eyes seemed dull and listless, and he walked stifliy, as if his limbs were rheumatic. “sire, i salute you!” the general exclaimed, in a hollow voice. “why am i brought before you as a prisoner—i, the hero of a hundred battles?” “you are accused of being foolish,” said the kinglet, with a broad grin upon his freckled face. “sire, at the battle of waterloo-—” “never mind the battle of waterloo,” inter- rupted his majesty. “i am told you are scattered all over the world, as the result of your foolishness.” “ to an extent, sire, i am scattered. but it is the result of bravery, not fool- ishness.” he un- strapped his left arm and tossed it on the floor before the throne. “i lost that at bull run,” he said. then he un- hooked his right leg i the lady executioner . and cast it down. “that, sire, was blown ofl-i at sedan.” then he suddenly lifted his right arm, seized his hair firmly, and lifted the head from his shoulders. “it is true i lost my head at santiago,” he said, “but i could not help it.” john was astonished. the old general seemed to come to pieces very easily. he had tucked the head under his right elbow, and now stood before the kinglet on one foot, presenting a remarkably strange appearance. his majesty seemed interested. “what is your head made of?” he asked. “wax, your majesty.” “and what are your legs made of?” continued the kinglet. “one is cork, sire, and the other—the one i am now standing on—is basswood.” “and your arms?” “ rubber, my kinglet.” “you may go, general. there is no doubt you were very unwise to get so broken up; but there is nothing left for the royal executioner to do.” the girl sighed and felt the edge of her blade; and the old general replaced his head, had his leg and arm again strapped to his body by the i i i the lady executioner guards, and hobbled away after making a low bow before the throne. just thena great noise of quarrelling and fight- ing was heard near the doorway, and while all eyes were turned toward the sound, a wooden indian sprang into the hall, waving a wooden tomahawk over his head, and uttering terrible war-whoops. following him came a number of the brother- hood of failings, trying to capture the indian. i the lady executioner the awkward tripped up and fell flat on his face; the unlucky got in the way of the tomahawk and received a crack on the head that laid him low; the blunderer was kicked on the shin so violently that he howled and limped away to a safe distance. but just before the throne the disagreeable, the bad-tempered, and the ugly managed to throw a rope about the indian’s arms and bind them fast to his body, so that he ceased to struggle. “what’s the trouble?” asked the kinglet. “sir,” said the indian, proudly; “once i had the honor to be a beautiful sign in front of a cigar store, and now these miserable failings dare to insult me.” “ he claims his name is wart-on-the-nose,” answered the disagreeable, “and any one can see there is no wart at all on his nose.” “so we decided to fight him,” added the ugly. “ and he dared to resist,” said the bad-tempered. “i am a great chief,” the indian declared, scowl- ing fiercely. “i am made of oak, and my paint is the best ready-mixed that can be purchased!” “ but why do you claim your name is wart-on- the-nose?” asked the kinglet. “i have a right to call myself what i please,” answered the indian, sulkily. “ are not white girls i the lady executioner called rose and violet when they have not that color? john brown was white and mary green was white. if the white people deceive us about their names, i also have a right to deceive.” “now, by my—my—my—” the kinglet jabbed the fat man with his sceptre. “ halidom!” yelled n ebbie, with a jump. “by my halidom!” said the kinglet, “i will allow no one in my kingdom to tell an untruth. there being no wart on your nose, you must die the death! executioner, do your duty!” the failings tripped up the indian so that he fell upon his face, and then the girl advanced solemnly with her sword. three times she swung the glittering blade around her head, and then she glanced at the kinglet and said: “ well! ” “well, what?” asked his majesty. “is n’t it time to change your mind?” “i’m not going to change my mind in this case,” said the kinglet. “ chop off his head!” at this the girl screamed and drew back. “ do you really mean it?” “of course.” “oh, your majesty, i could n’t hurt the poor i ! the lady executioner thingi” sobbed the executioner. “it would be simply awful! p/ease change your mind, as you always have done.” “i won’t,” said the kinglet, sternly. “you do as i tell you, maria simpson, or i’ll have you executed next!” the girl hesitated. then she took the sword in both her hands, shut her eyes, and struck down- ward with all her might. the blade fell upon the indian’s neck and shivered into several pieces. “he’s wood, your majesty,” said the execu- tioner. “i simply can’t cut his head off.” “get a meat cleaver! ” cried the kinglet. “ do you suppose i’ll allow wart-on-the-nose to live the lady executioner when he has n’t any wart on his nose? get the cleaver instantly! ” so the girl brought a big meat cleaver, and lifting it high in the air, struck the indian’s neck as hard as she could. the cleaver stuck fast in the wood; but it did n’t cut far enough to do much harm to the victim. indeed, wart-on-the-nose even laughed, and then he said: “there ’s a knot in that neck—a good oak knot. you could n’t chop my head off in a thousand years!” the kinglet was annoyed. “ pull out that cleaver,” he commanded. the girl tried to obey, but the cleaver stuck fast. then the failings tried, one after another; but it would n’t budge. “never ‘mind, leave it there,” said the indian, rolling over and then getting upon his feet. “it won’t bother me in the least. in fact, it will make a curious ornament.” “ look here, sir john dough,” said the kinglet, turning to the gingerbread man; “ what am i going to do? i’ve said the indian must die, because he has no wart on his nose. and i find i can’t kill him. now, you must either tell me i the lady executioner “good!” echoed the indian, proudly. “now none of those miserable failings dare say my name is not suitable!” “i ’m very sorry about that cleaver,” remarked the kinglet. “you 'll have to carry it around wherever you go.” “that ’s all right. i’ll add to my name and call myself wart-on-the-nose-and-cleaver-in-the- neck. that will be a fine indian name, and no one can prove it is not correct.” saying this, the wooden indian bowed to the kinglet, gave a furious war-whoop, and stalked stifliy from the room. “ bring on the next prisoner!” shouted the kinglet, and both chick and john gave a gasp of surprise as imar was brought into the room. the inventor of the flying-machine, however, did not seem the least bit frightened, and bowed calmly before the throne. “what’s the charge against this man?” inquired the kinglet. “ he’s accused of being a successful inventor,” said one of the guards. the other inventors claim no one who succeeds has a right to live in the isle of phreex.” “quite correct,” replied his majesty. “cut off his head, maria.” . st“ i the lady executioner “alas, sire! my sword is broken!” she ex- claimed. “then get another.” “but i have no other sword that is sharpened,” she rotested. i “then sharpen one!” retorted the kinglet, frowning. “certainly, your majesty. but a sword cannot be properly sharpened in a minute. it will take until to-morrow, at least, to get it ready.” “then,” said the kinglet, “i’ll postpone the execution until to-morrow morning at nine o ’clock. “if you’re not ready by that time i’ll get a new royal executioner and you’ll lose your job.” “i shall be ready,” said the girl, and walked away arm in arm with the sad young man, on whom she smiled sweetly. “it’s all right,” whispered chick to john. “imar won’t get hurt, for the kinglet will forget all about him by to-morrow.” “and now, my guards,” said his majesty, stretch- ing his arms and yawning, “bring hither my two- legged horse, that i may take a ride around my kingdom.” so presently the guards led in a big, raw-boned nag that had two legs instead of four, and these i now you sit still and behave yourself the lady executioner two set in the middle of its body. it seemed rather frisky and pranced around in a nervous manner, so that the kinglet had great difliculty in mounting the horse’s back, whereon was a saddle made of purple velvet and cloth of gold. “hold still, can’t you?” cried the kinglet. “i can; but i won’t,” said the horse, in a cross tone, for it appeared the animal was able to talk. “i ’ll thrash you soundly, if you don’t behave l ” screamed the kinglet. “i ’ll kick you in the ribs, if you dare to threaten me!” returned the horse, laying back its ears. “why, you miserable little freckle-faced kinglet, i could run away with you and break your neck, if i wanted to!” “that’s true,” said his majesty, meekly “i beg your pardon for my harsh words. let us be friends, by all means!” the horse snorted, as if with contempt, and the guards finally managed to hoist the little kinglet to his seat upon the animal’s back. “throw away that mace!” cried the horse. his mayesty obeyed, at once. “ now,” said the animal, “you sit still and behave yourself, or i’ll dump you over my head. under- stand?” i the lady executioner “i understand,” said the kinglet. “ very good! ” declared the horse. “ when you ’re on your throne you ’re a tyrant; but when you ’re on horseback you ’re a coward, because you ’re at my mercy, and you know it. now, we are off.” the beast pranced down the hall and out of the arched entrance, bearing the kinglet upon his back; and when they were gone john and chick started to take a walk along the beach of the seashore. but no sooner had they stepped into the court- yard than an awful yell saluted their ears, and be- fore them stood the form of the terrible arab! /////// watt i .i§--i ‘.- .._ / » ' {, lit!) “he must have broken loose!” cried chick. “let us run, john dough, before he can eat you.” at once john turned to fly, with chick grasping his hand to urge him on. ali dubh had indeed succeeded in breaking through the iron grating of his prison, and had even managed to untie his hands. but his legs were still firmly bound together from his ankles to his knees, so that he could only move toward them by hopping. nevertheless, at sight of the gingerbread man, who was mixed with his precious elixir, the arab began bounding toward his victim with long hops, and had john and chick not run so fast as they did it is certain the arab would soon have over- taken them. through the throne-room they fled, with ali dubh just behind them, and then they r. . . ‘i ~ . , . .. j, . .. i ’ ‘r ' / /- ‘z ¢ ll‘ -¢= "i?<j j ./f ~/ i the palace of romance began mounting the marble stairways to the upper stories of the castle. their pursuer, nothing daunted by his bound legs, hopped up the stairs after them with remark- able swiftness. “hurry!” cried chick; “hurry, john dough, or you ’ll be eaten.” they came to the second flight of stairs, and still the arab followed. “we are lost,” said john, in despair. “he’ll surely get me this time.” but chick tugged at his pufl-‘y brown hand and hurried him on, for the incubator baby at that very moment thought of a clever way to save the gingerbread man. still holding john’s hand, the child ran through the upper passages to the foot of the tower of imar, and began climbing up the steep stairs as fast as possible. luckily for the fugitives, these stairs to the tower were very diflicult for ali dubh to climb by hopping. when he was half-way up he lost his balance and tumbled down again, and this accident gave john and chick time to enter the body of the bird flying-machine, which still lay stretched upon the roof of the tower. “quick!” shouted the child, shutting and fast- i ! i_.-a "fl-iurry, john noucn, on vouu. be eaten! the palace of romance ./;: -_ . . /.,/ . i ,- //l ;:i_,- l. will carry us somewhere, never fear. this button that i pushed is to start it, and there ’s another button somewhere to stop it.” “where?” asked john. “i don’t remember. but never mind that; we don’t want to stop just yet, anyhow.” john stooped to look through the little win- dow, and saw spread out beneath him the isle of phreex. the brotherhood of f ail- ings stood upon the shore watching the flight of the machine, and the kinglet was riding along calmly upon his two-legged horse without any idea that the incu- bator baby and the gingerbread man were leaving his kingdom for good and all and he would probably never see them again. the great bird flew steadily westward, and chick laughed and chatted, and seemed to enjoy the journey immensely. they were flying over the / i the palace of romance happy and contented as when upon firm land; so john gradually forgot his fears. the sun had sank low upon the horizon, and was looking for a good place to dive into the sea, when the voyagers discovered something far ahead of them that glit- tered brightly upon the water. neither could determine what the glitter meant, until they drew nearer and saw a small, rocky islet, upon which was perched an enormous palace that seemed to be made of pure gold, having many crystal win- dows set in its domes and sides. “it is certainly a beautiful place,” said john. “let us land upon the islet.” “all right,” re- turned chick. “i’ll see ifl can fi n d o u t w h i c h button stops the thing.” the baby pushed one of the buttons, and at once the bird shot up higher into the air. i the palace of romance “that is n’t it!” cried john, in sudden alarm. chick pushed another button, and the machine began whirling around in short circles. “ dear me!” said john; “what’s going to happen to us?” chick laughed and pushed another button. “one of ’em must be to stop,” declared chick, cheerfully; “and there’s only two more left.” the bird paused, with a quick trembling of its wings, and slowly fluttered downward. “oh, now we’re all right,” gayly announced the queer child, “for there’s only one button left; and when i push it, john dough, you must pull back the silver lever and steer straight for the golden palace.” down, down they sank, and fortunately the descent was made to the flat roof of a wing of the palace. when they had almost reached it, chick, who was watching the roof through the little win- dow, pushed the last button, while john threw over the lever. immediately the flying-machine fell with a thump that made the gingerbread man’s candy teeth knock together. “wow!” said chick. “that was a jolt and a half! i hope nothing’s broken.” i chick discovers a trap door i the palace of romance puzzled expression, and then back into the child's smiling face, and sighed. by this time they had climbed out of the bird’s body and stood upon the roof. it was so high above the rocks that it made john dizzy to look down; but chick soon discovered a trap-door that led downward into the palace by means of a tiny staircase. they descended the stairs, and, having pushed aside a heavy drapery that hung across a doorway, came upon a broad passage running through the upper story of the palace. this led to still another passage, and still another; but although they turned this way and that in the maze of passages, no living person did they meet with. the tiled floors and paneled walls were very beauti- ful and splendid; but they were so much alike that our adventurers completely iost their way before they came by accident to a broad staircase leading downward to the next story. these stairs were covered with soft carpeting and the balusters were of filigree gold. still no one was to be seen either on the stairs or in the passages, and the palace was silent as could be. they found another staircase, by and by, and descended to the main floor of the palace, passing through magnificent parlors and galleries, until i the palace of romance finally a hum of pleasant voices reached their ears. . “i feel much relieved,” said john, “for i had begun to think the place was uninhabited.” “let us go on,” replied chick, “and see who these people are.” turning first to the right and then to left, and now following a high-arched marble passage, the adventurers suddenly found themselves before heavy draperies of crimson velvet, from beyond which came clearly the sounds of laughter and the merry chattering of many people. they pushed aside the draperies and entered a splendid domed chamber of such exquisite beauty that the sight made even chick pause in astonish- iiichii. all around the sides and in the ceiling were set handsome windows made of bits of colored glass, so arranged that they formed very pleasing pictures. between the windows were panels of wrought gold having many brilliant gems set in the metal. the floor was covered with priceless rugs of quaint patterns, and the furniture consisted of many settees and easy-chairs designed to afford the highest degree of comfort. fountains of perfumed waters sparkled here and i ! the palace of romance there, falling into golden basins; and little tables scattered about the room bore trays of dainty refreshments. seated within the room were groups of ladies and gentlemen, all clothed in gorgeous apparel, soft {i of speech, graceful and courteous in demeanor, and with kindly faces. these looked up with joyous surprise as the gingerbread man and chick entered, and the gen- tlemen all arose and bowed politely to the strangers. “welcome!” cried the ladies, in a soft chorus; and then two of their number came forward and i the palace of romance “ how is that?” asked john, surprised. they were silent for a time, and ceased laugh- ing. but finally one of the gentlemen said: “our laws oblige us to destroy every stranger, after he has related to us all the stories he knows. <~ nimsizavu-mm~.'d” it grieves us very much to tell you this; but the laws cannot be changed, and the death is very simple and without much pain. for you will be dropped through a trap into a long slide leading to i the palace of romance startling news he had just heard so confused his mind that it drove all recollection of romance out of his head. “never mind,” whispered chick. “all stories except the true ones have to be made up; so i’ll - \> t i"-=" . %fl\ jll! ij make up some. and don’t you worry, john dough. i’ve been in worse boxes than this,i can tell you.” the gingerbread man did n’t know exactly what chick meant, but the tone of confidence relieved i the palace of romance his embarrassment and inspired him with hope. the ladies and gentlemen set chick and john in the center of their group and drew their chairs around them and prepared to listen attentively to the child’s story. one might suppose the incubator baby’s life- time had been so brief that it knew no stories at all; but chick was full of imagination and glad of the chance to invent wonderful tales for others to listen to. and the child had resolved to make the stories so long and so interesting that a chance of escape from death might finally be discovered. the flying-machine still rested upon the roof, and if they could manage to regain it there would be no need of their being dumped through the trap- door into the sea. so chick began to tell the company a story about an astonishing silver pig that once lived in dagupan (wherever that may be), and was the king of all the pigs of that vast country. his squeal could be heard for seven, miles, the child solemnly declared, and the pig’s feet were so swift and tire- less that he could have run around the world in a single day had there been no oceans to stop him. the ladies and gentlemen were much interested in the story, and listened very attentively while i t e _h s l . r v p g _l chick related a host of wonderful adventures that daylight faded away and the silver pig. befell the the incubat r errupted the tale o still int golden lamps were ghted, but baby kept the story going. finall one of the company li y e mm ‘it t ad .. ,€ io an fly mo r c “o ma u“ c mm ‘wm w; aw hc hc tu cd ‘mm cm t an ‘mm €o o mc mc fim du h mm hid ss tn ak ma wc_fi‘m _‘d_hnw_/so tcda_j mtgwy tgmfld wtwhm stht% ul wbfm w d h company of ladies € h t d h beautiful rooms, gentlemen had bidden them a gracious and kindly good-night. z ‘if’! ’ u ___,v,’”” uw_“n v‘ i / " ‘.i'n. .\'*>‘ ' e‘ h p‘ w rr‘ ”‘\‘€ !! ‘ \' i'% av‘ \~ \> " “'<i\ ,,\“\' ,:"_,,: :_ iq . (“dc \%ww\ \ . ,; _ “i ‘i ‘ uwud f i i‘ ‘ wnv_n_mu_ ~ q : ‘ gmvv l ] d ‘v/w i” i ivk ,. v ‘ ‘w /-t» \”l/ in \ \_a eu \ ' \ \ g ““\___‘ w“? \‘ ‘y u_‘a_k\_ ‘gt m “ how long is that story of the silver pig?” asked john, when they were alone in their room. “as long as i want to make it,” answered chick, brightly. “but suppose they get tired of it?” john sug- gested, timidly. “then they’ll finish us and the story at the same time,” laughed the child. “but we won’t wait for that, john dough. this palace is n’t a healthy place for strangers, so i guess the quicker we get away from it the better. when everybody is asleep we’ll go to the place where our machine lies, up on the roof, and fly away.” “very good,” agreed john, with a sigh of relief. “i had begun to think we would be killed by these pleasant ladies and gentlemen.” they waited for an hour or two, to be sure all others in the palace were asleep, and then they crept softly from the room and began to search for the staircase. the passages were so alike and so i the silver pig confusing that this was no easy task; but finally, just as they were about to despair, they came upon the stairs and mounted to the upper story of the palace. and now they really became lost in the maze of cross passages that led in every direction; nor could they come to that particular doorway that led to the stairs they had descended from the little flat roof where the flying-machine lay. often they imagined they had found the right place; but the stairs would lead to some dome or turret that was strange to them, and they would be obliged to retrace their steps. morning found the child and the gingerbread man still wandering through the endless passages, and at last they were obliged to abandon the quest and return to their room. all that following day the fair-haired, blue-eyed baby continued the strange tale of the silver pig, while the ladies and gentlemen of the palace of romance seemed to listen with real pleasure. for, long ago, they had told each other all the stories they could themselves remember or imagine; so that it was a rare treat to them to hear of the wonderful adventures of chick’s silver pig, and they agreed that the longer the story lasted the bet- ter they would be pleased. i the silver pig trap-door into the sea. chick thought of the sea, too, but the thought gave the child one more idea, and it promptly tumbled the silver pig over the side of a ship and landed the adventurous animal upon the bottom of the ocean, where (chick went on to say) it became acquainted with pretty mermaids and huge green lobsters, and res- cued an amarylis from a fierce and disagreeable sea-dragon. this part of the tale soon became really exciting, and when bedtime again arrived the listeners were glad to believe they would hear more of the famous silver pig during the follow- ing day. but chick knew very well that the story had now been stretched out to the very limit, and when they were alone the child took the gingerbread man's hand and said: “unless we can find those stairs to-night, john dough, our jig is up. for by to-morrow evening i’ll be at the bottom of the deep blue sea, and the fishes will be having a nice supper of soaked incubator baby with gingerbread on the side.” “please do not mention such a horrible thing,” exclaimed john, with a shiver. “the stairs are surely in existence, for once we came down them; so let us make one more careful search for them.” i the silver pig this they did, walking for hours up and down the passages, pulling aside every drapery they came to, but never finding the slender staircase that led to the flat roof. even when it grew daylight they did not aban- don the quest; for they could see their way much better than when feeling along dim passages by the uncertain light of the moon; and, as the danger grew every moment, they redoubled their eager- ness in the quest. all at once they heard footsteps approaching; and, as they were standing in the middle of a long passage, they pressed back against the marble wall to escape discovery. at once the wall gave way, and john tumbled backward into another passage, with the cherub sprawling on top of him. for they had backed against a drapery painted to re- present a wall of the outer passage, and now found themselves in a place they had not before explored. hastily regaining their feet, the fugitives ran down the passage, and at the end came suddenly upon another heavy drapery, which, when thrust aside, was found to conceal the identical flight of steps they had sought for so long and unsuccess- fully. uttering cries of joy, chick and john quickly i i ""‘=~'!v ‘ |i!.!p!!!!!!!!!!!!!!i!!!!!!i!!!!i!e. in iv ' y” i f" ‘y v,\‘ i l.li .-" .qvrq---..-no $ -pin uq . "“éuul“umwu .‘w<. the escape i ..!‘ ! h! hm il!’ ‘ , “this invention works better than i thought it would, after getting that bump,” john remarked, as they flew onward over the vast expanse of rolling waves. “it’s a bit wobbly, though,” said chick. “ don’t you notice it flops a little sideways?” “yes,” answered john, “and it seems to me the bird does not move so swiftly as it did at first.” “guess the ’lectricity’s giving out,” returned chick, calmly. “if it does, what’ll happen?” “we ’ll be drowned, i suppose,” said john. “i don’t understand electricity, for the wisdom i de- rive from the magic elexir dates far back beyond the discovery of electric fluid.” “your wisdom ’s bald-headed, i’m afraid,” observed the child, smiling at the solemn counte- nance of the gingerbread man. “but, say! is n’t i pittypat and the lvlifkets dilute the elixir that i am mixed with and destroy all its magic powers. by the way, what ’s the thing doing now ? ” “it’s getting more wobbly. but never mind. it’s lots of fun, is n’t it, john dough?” will fr / s‘ ” . \ “not exactly fun,” said john, seriously; “ but i will admit this voyage is rather exciting.” just then something snapped, and they heard a rapid whir of machinery inside the bird, a squeak i -:v.,~ r-—..,-.,!‘ _- § . - ‘ .--. .- ..,,:.. ‘ i ll l+ i‘ ~v ‘j ‘m land o t chick assists john pittypat and the mifkets could have watched our flight he would know that imar has n’t solved the flying-machine problem yet.” “still, it carried us away from two bad places,” said chick, “and that ’s all we wanted of it. come on, john dough; let ’s go and explore our island.” it did not take our adventurers long to discover they were in a really remarkable place. near the shore was a strip of land that at first sight seemed thickly covered with grass; but when chick examined it closely it was found to be a mass of tiny trees set close together, and each tree was full of small and tender green leaves. and, as the trees were only an inch or two high, they really looked like grass from a distance and proved to be soft and pleasant to walk upon. but behind this green sward towered a forest so strange and magnificent that both chick and john dough held their breaths in amazed awe as they gazed upon it. for they beheld a confused group of the most gorgeous plants imaginable, most of them having broad leaves as big as the sails of a ship and of exceedingly vivid colorings. there were violet and carmine leaves side by side with brilliant yellows and pinks, blues and ambers, and among them great bunches of pure white leaves that i pittypat and the !\/lifkets in fairness rivaled those of a lily. some of the huge forest plants were low and broad-no taller than an ordinary house—-but many of them shot up into the sky like spires and church steeples. and another strange thing was the fact that they were all filled with clusters of flowers of many beautiful shapes and designs. and the flowers were of various tints of greens—running from a delicate pea-green through all the different shades to bright emerald, and then to deep bottle-greens. yet the flowers were the only green colors in all the vast forest of brilliant plants-—which glowed so magnifi- cently under the rays of the sun that the eyes of our friends were fairly dazzled as they gazed. “my!” gasped chick. “is n’t it splendiferous, john dough?” “it is, indeed very gorgeous and beautiful,” answered the gingerbread man. “but has it oc- curred to you, little friend, that there may be noth- ing for you to eat in all this wilderness of color.” “ eat ? ” exclaimed chick. “why, john dough, i’m hungry this very minute! i have n’t had a bite to eat since i left the palace of romance, and now you mention it, i’m half starved. but per- haps there is n’t a smitch of oatmeal or cream on all this island!” i pittypat and ‘the mifkets “ could n’t you eat anything else? ” asked john. “oh, i could, i suppose. but other food might make me ill, you know. incubator babies have to be very careful of their diet.” “but if you don’t eat you will die,” said john; “so it will be best for you to dine upon whatever you may find.” “ there may be fruits in the forest,” said chick, thoughtfully; “but it's such a queer forest that quite likely the fruits are poisonous.” “still, you ’d better try them,” persisted the gingerbread man. “if you don’t you ’ll die; and if you are poisoned you ’ll die. but there is a chance of your finding healthful fruits instead of poisonous ones. i regret that in all my store of wisdom, derived from the arabian elixir, there is no knowledge of such a forest or the fruits these gay plants may bear.” “well, you wait here till i come back,” said chick, more cheerfully. “i’ll explore and see what i can find. there ’s no need to worry until the time comes, anyhow.” with that the little one waved a chubby hand toward john dough, and then ran into the forest and disappeared beneath the great purple and orange colored leaves. i pittypat and the l\/lifkets and now it occurred to the gingerbread man to make an examination of himself and see what an extent ofdamage he had suffered since he had come, hot and fresh, from monsieur jules’ bakery. his lovely shirt-front was cracked in several places and speckled with tiny black spots where the pow- der of the rocket had burned it. his left shoulder was also black- ened with burned powder, and he had lost one of the lozenge but- tons from his red vest. also, one of his heels was slightly crumbled and there were three marks in his body where the diamonds had been pressed into % him, beside the {j lance-thrust of :”} the blunderer. yt. "if, these damages were not at all i pittypat and the mifkets serious, however, and he was beginning to con- gratulate himself upon his escape, when he dis- covered a curious sensation in his nose. raising his hand, he found that the extreme end of his nose had been chipped off in some way during his escape from the palace of romance, and this rather marred his personal appearance. the discovery made him sigh regretfully; and when he looked around, in the newly arrived sunlight, it seemed that his vision had become in some way twisted and unnatural. he could not understand this at first, and rose to his feet rather dazed and unhappy. then an idea occurred to him, and he felt of his glass eyes and found that one—the left eye—had become loose in its socket and turned inward, making him cross-eyed. he remedied this by turning it with his fingers until it looked straight ahead again, and matched the other eye; but often thereafter that left eye would get twisted and bother him until he turned it straight again. while he awaited chick’s return, john strolled to the edge of the forest and sat down upon a big yellow mushroom that was strong enough to bear his weight. it seemed to be a peaceful island, and the gingerbread man was well pleased with his i . pittypat and the lvlifkets question. how is that you understand my lan- guage, and can talk to me?” m“ - via! ““ ’°‘ r . a» ‘~,\i~ om : , fig“ l” vi‘ '»\‘<.,§ r<. * %/i i \@ iiiiiiiii . saws \il..~ .- . .‘ ~ z: q \ ‘ ~ §~"\u. ._ $ = t/ ?\' ’~'§ ‘ - id, r i ~_ r / : §\> if” §§ i " ! qillhi‘ \ l i’ if ‘ll’ i/i / §\i tn" °.’|<§/ ?'l§\§\ q .-\/ ll! \ ’ “i cannot tell you that, i'm sure,” said john, “unless it ’s the effect of the elixir. that seems to be responsible for almost everything, you know.” i pittypat and the mifkets the rabbit did not know, of course, and looked at its new acquaintance in a puzzled sort of way. “are there any more like you on this island ? ” inquired john dough “oh, yes; there are lots of us!” exclaimed the rabbit. “but not so many of us as there are mifkets.” “ and what is a mifket?” asked john. “a sort of creature that is neither an animal nor a man,” answered pittypat. “and the mif- kets rule this island because they are bigger and fiercer than we rabbits are. also i know many squirrels and birds and mice, and the fairy king of the beavers—for i am well acquainted here. but i do not like the mifkets, and scamper away when they come near. there is a bouncing brown bear, also, who lives on a hill yonder, and once he claimed to be king of all the animals. but the mifkets found out that our bear is not nearly so dreadful as he seems; so they refused to obey him, and now have a king of their own. for my part, however, i like the brown bear best of all our in- habitants, for he has a jolly nature and never hurts any one.” “but are there no men—no people like me upon this island?” asked john. i pittypat and the l\/lifkets “ n o one like you, most surely,” answered pitty- pat, staring at the gingerbread man with its big eyes. “but as for human creatures, there are three who dwell with the mifkets, near the other side of the forest.” “dear me!” sighed john; “i'm sorry to hear that. who are the humans?” “well, one is the princess, and the princess is very beautiful and lovely,” answered pittypat. “ she is n’t much bigger than the child i saw here with you a few minutes ago; but our little princess is beloved by every creature on the island—except, perhaps, the mifkets, who love only themselves.” “ does the princess live in a palace?” asked john. “oh, yes; a beautiful palace made by bending downward the big leaves of the roi-tree and fastening the ends to the ground. one of the leaves is left loose, for a doorway, and in the room thus formed the princess lives in great state and loneliness, and sleeps upon a bed of fragrant mosses.” “does she like gingerbread?” inquired john, after a thoughtful pause. “i don't believe she knows what gingerbread is,” the rabbit replied. “but you may be sure the princess will not harm you, however fond she might be of gingerbread.” i ‘* _ :igi"e §r — r-zuoma or ma princess \ \ ii, pittypat and the mifkets “i ’m glad to hear that,” said john. “ but your princess is the only one of the three human creatures you mentioned. who are the others?” “her father and mother,” said the rabbit. “ the three landed here in a small boat some years ago. they were shipwrecked, i suppose, and the boat is still lying upon the north shore. but the terrible mifkets captured the father and mother of the princess and made them slaves, to wait upon them and obey their wishes; and as the little girl was delicate and not very strong, they let her live by herself in the palace of the roi- tree, and mocked her by calling her a princess. if she grows up to be strong i think they will make her a slave, too; but she is so frail and weak that none of us rabbits believe she will live very long.” “this is all very interesting,” said john. “i ’d really like to meet these humans.” “then come with me and i will guide your steps to where they are,” promised the rabbit. “i must wait until chick comes back,” said the gingerbread man, looking toward the plant forest. “is chick the child i saw going into the forest?” asked the rabbit. “yes,” replied john. “it’s an incubator baby i pittypat and the mifkets “you'll have to meet the mifkets, you know,” said pittypat, rather fearfully. “never mind; we ’re not afraid,” answered john, boldly; and chick, who as yet had heard nothing of the mifkets, continued to munch the fruit with perfect composure. so the rabbit whisked around, lifted its big ears a moment, sniffed the air, and then sprang away with long and graceful leaps along a tiny path that led through the magnificent forest. i john settled the baker’s hat (which was showing distinct signs of having been frequently crumpled) upon his gingerbread head, picked up the remains of his candy cane, and followed the guidance of the white rabbit. chick came after, tripping lightly along the path. before they had gone very far beneath the bright-hued, mammoth foliage pittypat gave a sudden whisk and disappeared from sight, having popped into a hole. john dough, of course, stopped and gazed around with his glass eyes to see what had become of his new friend, and at the same moment a queer creature dropped from an overhead leaf and stood in the path of the gingerbread man. another followed, and still another, and the three strange beings looked at john curiously, as if as much surprised at the meeting as he could be. ‘chick pressed close to the side of the gingerbread man and stared with big eyes at the new arrivals. perhaps nowhere else in all the world could be i the lsland princess found such unusual creatures as these mifkets. their heads had the appearance of cocoanuts, and were covered with coarse hair clipped close, and turning upward until it ended in a sharp peak at the very top. their faces were like putty, with small, beady eyes that glittered brightly, flat noses, and wide, grinning mouths. the mifkets bodies were shaped like pears, and their legs were short and their arms long. for clothing they wore gay leaves of the forest plants, twisted and woven together in quite a clever way; and taken all together, they were as unlike any creatures that inhabit our part of the world as can well be imagined. i the lsland princess “we’ll take your word for it,” growled the third creature. and then it added: “what are you doing here?” “ standing still, just now,” said john, gravely. to his surprise all three began laughing at this reply, and they seemed so greatly amused that one hit another a merry cuff upon the ear, which he in turn passed on to the third. but the third—the growling one—turned suddenly upon john dough and gave him such a sounding cuff upon the side of his head that the blow dazed him for a moment. at this chick doubled two fat fists and ran at the queer mifkets so fiercely that they were greatly astonished at the angry buffets they received, and fell back a few steps from the path. immediately john dough recovered his wits and aimed a strong blow with the candy cane at the wild people of the forest. much to his astonishment it sent all three of them tumbling to the ground—one over- turning the others. for so great was the energy and strength lent to his gingerbread arm by the magic elixir that the mifkets could not stand before it. chick laughed merrily at the howls of their enemies, who quickly scrambled to their feet and leaped into the leaves of the giant plants, where i the lsland princess they were hidden from sight. but the sound of their rapid retreat could be heard until it died away in the distance. then the rabbit stuck its nose from the hole in which it had hidden and said: “bravely done, little one. bravely done, john dough. yet i warn you to beware these wicked mifkets, who will now consider you both their enemies.” “i don’t care,” said chick; and “i ’m not afraid,” added john, who was quite pleased to find himself so powerful. “well, let us continue our journey,” suggested pittypat; “for i want you to meet our sweet princess. but i advise you, whenever you meet with more of those mifkets, to try to be friendly with them. there are hundreds of them, you know, and only two of you.” “that sounds like good advice,” acknowledged john. again they started along the path, and presently it led them out of the forest to another part of the shore of the island, where a rocky headland curved into the sea in the shape of a new moon, forming a pretty bay, on which floated a small boat at . nchor. on the inner edge of this headland and i the island princess i~ if facing the bay stood a tall plant, whose broad colored leaves were bent downward to form a dome- shaped room, one leaf being turned up to make an opening that served as a door. “you must whistle at the door, and the princess ‘*'~*<*.>i xv ll ., will appear,” said pittypat. “i cannot talk with her as i do with you, mr. dough; so i’ll leave you now, and run home to tell my folks of the new friends i have found.” with these parting i the lsland princess instantly accepted this shipwrecked waif as a real princess, and from that moment worshipped loyally at her shrine. chick, standing solidly with brown feet spread wide apart, chubby fists clutching the last of the forest fruits, and tangled locks flowing carelessly around the laughing face, was a strong contrast to the little lady who advanced from the door with dainty steps to welcome the strangers. the prin- cess wore a gown of woven leaves plucked from the island plants, but so slight and graceful was her form that any sort of dress would be sure to seem fit and becoming if the maid wore it. “ hello!” said chick. “we ’ve come to see you.” “i ’m glad of that,” answered the girl, in a soft voice, as she came close and kissed the cherub’s rosy mouth. “it has been dreadfully lonesome in this place without any one to play with or to keep me company. but may i inquire who you are?” “this is john dough,” answered the cherub, bfiefly; “and i’ni(huckf’ “i ’m pleased to make your acquaintance,” said the girl. “they call me the princess; but that is hirnockery,i anisuref’ “but are you not treated as a princess?” asked john. i the lsland princess “yes; and that is why i am so lonely,” the girl replied, sadly. “the naughty mifkets have made my poor father and mother their slaves, and mock me by shutting me in this tree-house and calling it a palace and me a princess. but really i am as much a slave as either of my dear parents.” “can’t you go out if you want to?” asked chick. “oh, yes; but the island is small, and there is no one to play with except pittypat, who is a white rabbit, and para bruin, who is a bouncing brown bear.” “what strange companions!” said john. “i ’ve met pittypat, and like the white rabbit very much; but a bouncing brown bear must be a dreadful creature.” “not at all, i assure you,” returned the girl, earnestly. “just wait until you meet him, and you ’ll see that he could n’t hurt any one if he would, and would n’t if he could.” “that’s all right,” said chick. “but do the mifkets illtreat you in any way?” asked john. “oh, no; until now they have done me no real injury whatever,” the princess answered, “but their tempers are so hateful that i am in constant i the island princess fear of them. you must meet the mifkets, of course, since you cannot leave this island; and you must obey them as we all do. but perhaps mr. dough, being made of gingerbread, will be treated with more respect than human beings are.” “or with less,” said john, with a shudder. “nevertheless, we will meet the mifkets boldly, and i am not going to make myself unhappy by being afraid of them.” “nor i,” said chick. “they’re only beasts.” “ then, if you will please follow me, i will lead you to the king’s village,” said the girl; “and there you may see my father and mother.” “very well,” agreed john. “but i must tell you that we have already encountered three of these creatures, and defeated them easily.” “i pounded ’em like sixty,” added the cherub, with a nod and a laugh. the princess led them by a path deep into the forest, passing underneath the broad leaves of the plants, which were so thick that they almost shut out the daylight and made the way gloomy and fearsome. but before long a big clearing was reached, in the center of which was a rocky mound with a broad, flat stone at the very top. all around were houses made by bending down the i ~ :- .~n!au*!'»i’!"" ll l l ll!!! l|,n. .~. /* ”§,g;?f" ‘j ,? r r‘s.§-f;, : *.c ,, if w- ll!!! " n i nmillll!:l!!!!!'!!!!l!!!!!!!!!!!'!!!!!!:i!|:!!!: ni,!!! "h! ll ll"! ll! .. »! hu:;,, ll ll!!! ! l,!‘ j i h" ‘!» ll!“ ill w!- »! !! ,.,.,..,,.,...., * n ; !]|!! ! ‘ l!!!!!i!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!.!.l!l!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!|!!!l!l!"!l!!!!!!ll!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!ll!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!i!l!l!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! |!!!!!!!!! the king of the mifkets i the lsland princess huge leaves of the plants and fastening them to the ground with wooden pegs, thus “forming circular rooms. none of these houses seemed quite so handsome as the palace of the princess; but they were big and of many colors, and when our friends stepped into the clearing a swarm of the mifket people crowded out of the doorways to surround the strangers and gaze upon them curiously. upon the flat stone in the center of the clear- ing reclined an aged mifket, who was lazily sunning himself, and who seemed to pay no attention to the chattering of his fellows. yet it was toward this stone that the princess, after a half-frightened look at its occupant, led her new friends; and all the mifkets, big and little, followed them and formed a circle around them and the aged one. “this is the king,” whispered the girl. “be careful not to anger him.” then she knelt humbly before the flat stone that served as a throne, and john dough knelt beside her. but chick stood upright and laughed at the sight of the lazy mifket king reclining before them. the short, coarse hair that covered the head of the king was white, proving him to be very old; and his raiment was woven of pure white leaves, ~<i i the island princess a faded and ragged suit of blue clothes, to which he had doubtless clung ever since the days when he had been shipwrecked and cast upon this island. john dough was about to express in polite words his pleasure in meeting the father of the princess, when the king, having finished drinking, suddenly flung the gourd at the little man’s head. he ducked to escape it and the gourd struck the forehead of a big mifket just behind and made a sound like the crack of a whip. at once the big mifket—who was remarkable for having black hair upon his head instead of the dingy brown that was common to all the mifkets—uttered a roar of rage and aimed a blow at the bald head of the luckless slave. but the little man ducked this blow also, and then scampered away to the royal dwelling as fast as his thin legs could carry him. “ let him go,” said the king, speaking sleepilyin the mifket language. then he turned to the black one and asked: “who are these creatures, ooboo? and how came they here?” “ i don’t know,” answered black ooboo, sulkily; “the girl brought them.” “perhaps i can explain,” said john dough, speaking in their language. “ my friend chick and i “wm § "hm ‘h | mu ll !||r i "i ll! mw" ‘uiii !!!:!lu~ wdl :.‘“"'ll!»\ ‘mm .|'~ a lll..lllllrllllllllllll“ the mifkets howled with delight the lsland princess i arrived here but a short time ago in a flying- machine, which unfortunately broke down and pre- vented us from getting away again.” the mifkets looked at the gingerbread man in astonishment. not because they had any idea what a flying-machine might be, but to hear their own language spoken by so queer a personage, filled them with amazement. “are you one of those miserable creatures called humans?” asked the king, blinking his eyes at the gingerbread man. “ i cannot, in truth, claim to be precisely human,” replied john, “but it is certain that i possess a degree of human wisdom. it comes from the elixir, you know.” “what are you made of?” demanded the king, who was certainly puzzled by john’s words. now, the gingerbread man realized that if he told the mifkets he was good to eat he would soon be destroyed; so he answered: “i am made ofa kind of material known only to civilized men. in fact, i am very different from all the rest of the world.” the king did n’t understand, and when he did n’t understand it made him very tired. “ oh, well,” said he, lying back in the sun, “just _‘..-__~- .j_ _:n,._r - ‘- z the lsland princess make yourself at home here, and see that you don’t bother me by getting in my way.” . that might have ended the interview had not black ooboo, scowling and angry, stepped forward and said: “if the stranger is to live with us he must fight for the right to live in peace. it is our custom, your majesty.” “so it is,” returned the king, waking up again. “ the stranger must fight.” at this decision all the mifkets howled with de- light, and chick and the princess began to be uneasy about their friend. but john said, calmly: “i have never fought with any one, your ma- jesty; but i’ll do the best i can. with whom must i fight?” “why, with black ooboo, i suppose,” said the king; “and if you can manage to give him a sound thrashing i’ll be your friend for life.” ooboo scowled first at the king and then at john, and all the other mifkets scowled with him, for the black one was seemingly a great favorite among them. “whatever material you may be made of, bold stranger,” he said, “i promise to crush you into bits and trample you into the dust.” ! the island princess then the crowd having pressed backward, the black mifket sprang upon the gingerbread man, with long, hairy arms outstretched as if to clutch him. but john was quicker than his foe. he grasped ooboo about the waist, lifted him high in .» . . . .v.t\ .~ -..».-....- i i . ~ -w) .-e-. h ..... ‘ -‘ x . /| ./fly /“\“ \ i \' gm the lsland princess the air— big and heavy though he was-—and flung him far over the throne whereon the king squatted. the black one crashed into the leaves of a forest plant and then tumbled to the ground, where he lay still for a moment to recover from his surprise and the shock of defeat. the rabble of mifkets did n’t applaud the fall of their champion, but they looked upon the gin- gerbread man with wonder. and the king was so pleased that he laughed aloud. “well done, stranger,” said he. “ooboo needed to be taken down a peg, and you did it very neatly. now get away, all of you, and leave me to sleep.” he proceeded to curl himself up once more upon the flat stone, and the mifkets obeyed his command and stole away to their dwellings. john advanced to where chick and the princess stood, and the cherub patted him on the hand and said: “i’d no idea you could do it, john. was n’t it lovely, princess, to see him toss that black beast like a football?” “i ’m glad your friend won the fight,” answered the girl; “ but black ooboo is a dangerous enemy, and even the king is afraid of him. now come with me, please. i want you to meet my dear the lsland princess yet john encouraged them to believe a way would soon be found, and they all had great confidence in his ability to save the entire party; for he had proved himself both wise and powerful. while they were still talking the king rolled his fat body into the dwelling and demanded his din- ner, at the same time ordering the princess to get back to her own palace and to stay there. but he favored john dough by sending several of the mif- kets to build a dwelling for the gingerbread man and the incubator baby just beside that of the little princess, which pleased them all very much. next morning the little princess came to the door of the new dwelling built for chick and john dough, and said to them: “let us take a walk, and i will show you how beautiful our island is in those parts where there are no mifkets to worry us.” so together the three walked along the shore until they drew near to a high point of rock, the summit of which was reached by a winding path. when they had climbed up the steep the princess had to stop to rest, for she was not strong and seemed to tire easily. and now, while they sat upon some rocks, a big brown bear came out of a cave and stood before them. “don’t be afraid,” whispered the princess. “he won’t hurt us. it’s para bruin.” the bear was fat and of monstrous size, and its color was a rich brown. it had no hair at all upon its body, as most bears have, but was smooth and shiny. he gave a yawn as, he looked at the w ! i \!!\ ,~ r |. .i “stop that!” john shouted / z para bruin, the rubber bear rubber of the best quality. i’m practically in- destructible.” “well, i declare!” said john, who was really astonished. “are your teeth rubber, also?” “to be sure,” acknowledged the bear, seeming to be somewhat ashamed of the fact; “but they appear very terrible to look at, do they not? no one would suspect they would bend if i tried to bite with them.” “ to me they were terrible in appearance,” said john, at which the bear seemed much gratified. “i don’t mind confiding to you, who are a friend and speak my language,” he resumed, “that i am as harmless as i am indestructible. but i pride myself upon my awful appearance, which should strike terror into the hearts of all beholders. at one time every creature in this island feared me, and acknowledged me their king; but those horrid mifkets discovered i was rubber, and have defied me ever since.” “how came you to be alive?” asked john. “was it the great elixir?” “i ’ve never heard of the great elixir,” replied the bear, “and i’ve no idea how i came to be alive. my earliest recollection is that i was living in much the same way that i am now. do you remember when you were not living?” zio para bruin, the rubber bear “ n o” said john. this conversation, which she could not at all understand, surprised the princess very much. but she was glad to see that the rubber bear and the gingerbread man had become friends, and so she took chick’s hand and led the smiling cherub up to where they stood. “this is my new friend, whose name is chick,” she said to the bear, for the girl was accustomed to talk to para bruin just as she would to a person; “and you must be as good and kind to chick as you have been to me, my dear para, or i shall not love you any more.” the bear gave the princess a generous hug, and then he hugged chick; but the words the girl had spoken seemed to puzzle him, for he turned to john and said: “why do you suppose so many different lan- guages were ever invented? the mifkets speak one language, and you and i speak another, and the princess and chick speak still another! and it is all very absurd, for the only language i can understand is my own.” “i can speak with and understand the princess and the mifkets as well as i can speak with you,” declared john. zll para bruin, the rubber bear the bear looked at him admiringly. “if that is so, then tell me what the princess said to me just now,” he requested. so john translated the girl’s words into the bear language, and when para bruin heard them he laughed with delight. “tell the princess that i’ll be as good to her friend chick as possible,” said he, and john at once translated it so that the princess understood. “ that’s nice,” said she. “i knew para would be friends with chick. and now ask the bear i. bounce for us. he does it often, and it is a very interesting sight.” so john requested the bear to bounce, which he at once agreed to do, seeming to feel considerable pride in the accomplishment. from the point upon which they stood, the hill descended in a steep incline toward the forest, and at the bottom of the hill was a big flat rock. curling himself into a ball, the great bear rolled his body down the hill, speeding faster every moment, until he struck the flat rock at the bottom. then he bounded high into the air (in the same way that a rubber ball does when thrown down upon a hard pavement), and made a graceful backward curve until he reached the top i para bruin, the rubber bear of the hill again, where he bounced up and down a few times, and then stood upright and bowed before the gingerbread man and the gleeful cherub —who was rapturously delighted by the performance. “ great act, is n’t it?” asked para bruin, grinning with pride. “no ordinary bear could do that, i assure you. and it proves the purity and high grade of my rubber.” “it does, indeed!” declared john. “i am greatly pleased to have met so remark- able and talented a bear. para bruin, the rubber bear “ you must visit me often,” said the bear, making a dignified bow. “it is a great treat to hear my own language spoken, for i am the only bear upon the island. i have n’t any visiting cards, but my name is para bruin, and you are always welcome at my cave.” “i am called john dough,” said the gingerbread man. “i cannot claim to be indestructible, but while i last i shall be proud of your friendship, and will bring the children to visit you often.” “try to teach them my language,” suggested para bruin; “for i love children and have often wished i might talk with them. as for the little princess, all the island people love her dearly- except, of course, the mifkets—and we all worry, more or less, over her health. she’s weak and delicate, you know; and her life here is made so unhappy by the separation from her parents that i’m afraid she won’t be with us very long.” he wiped a tear from his eye with a puffy paw and glanced affectionately at the girl. “what’s the matter with her?” asked john, anxiously. “no strength and vitality,” answered the bear. “ she ’s failing every day, and there is n’t a drug- store or a doctor on the island. but don’t tell i para bruin, the rubber bear her, whatever you do. perhaps she does n t realize it, and the knowledge would only make her more unhappy.” then the bear, who seemed remarkably tender- hearted, trotted with bouncing footsteps into his cave, so that the little princess for whom he grieved might not see the tears that stood in his rubber e es. ~ yafter that john and .chick and the princess started to return to their dwellings by means of a short cut through the forest, known to the girl. john was feeling very contented in the companion- ship of the two children, and reflected that in spite of the mifkets his life on this beautiful island bade fair to be pleasant and agreeable. but his content was suddenly inter- rupted by the cherub, who gave a loud cry and pointed excitedly into the forest. ‘ the gingerbread man had cast but one look when he began to tremble violently. for there ! \ \ \ zis / / ' para bruin, the rubber bear before him—only a few paces away—stood his bitter and relentless enemy, ali dubh the arab! “at last,” said ali dubh, smiling most unpleasantly, “i have again found you.” john was too agitated to reply; but chick asked, boldly: “how on earth did you ever get to this island?” “ by means of the witch,” the arab replied. “i purchased from her two transport powders. one transported me to the isle of phreex, and when you then escaped me the other powder transported me here. but i cannot allow the gingerbread man to escape me again, because i have no more powders, nor any way to reach the witch who makes them. so, my dear john dough, please accept your fate, and permit me to eat you at once. - “that i cannot do,” said john, firmly; “for if i am eaten, that is the end of me.” “how selfish!” exclaimed the arab. “who are you, to be considered before ali dubh, son of a mighty shiek, and chief of an ancient tribe of the desert? remember, sir, that when i have eaten you i shall gain for myself the priceless powers of that great elixir contained in your gingerbread, and ‘ ss. ~,. . " \€. ali dubh attacks john ll‘ r r.. para bruin, the rubber bear caught the body of ali dubh in a strong clasp. next moment he had lifted him up and tossed him high into the air, as easily as he had tossed the mifket. the arab alighted in the top branches of a tall scarlet plant and clung to them in great fear lest he should fall to the ground and be killed. indeed, so frightened was he that he uttered screams of terror with every breath, and forgot all about eating john dough in the more important thought of how he might reach safety. “ let ’s run!” exclaimed chick, grasping john’s hand. “don’t mind the arab. if he fa.lls it's good enough for him! ” “the mifkets will rescue him, i’m sure,” added the princess. “see! there come some of the creatures now, with black ooboo at their head.” hearing this, john hesitated no longer, but fled down an- other pathway with the chil- dren, and soon left the sound of ali dubh’s cries far behind him. \. ;\ \,i\,_.;;i ,///. stilt. @@h@@ | w ‘q tt.‘..; _“'i,.,...j!l)ll-i. . t~ that evening, when john came out of his tree house to watch the sunset, he found pittypat, the white rabbit, sitting before his door. “i’ve news for you, my friend,” began the rabbit, in a grave voice. “black ooboo and the arab who wanted to eat you have become fast friends, and together they are determined to destroy you.” “how did you know that the arab wants to eat me? ” asked john. “i was hidden among the plants when you met, and heard your talk,” replied the rabbit. “you must look out for ooboo and the arab, or they will surely do you a mischief, for the mifkets now know that you are good to eat.” “it’s kind of you to warn me,” said john; “but can you tell me of any way to escape from this island, good pittypat? ” ~ black ooboo “not just at present,” returned the rabbit; “but our prince is very wise indeed, and i will ask him what is best to be done. in the meantime you must keep away from your enemies as much as possible.” with these words the rabbit sprang into a low bush and disappeared, leaving john dough to sad reflections upon his dangerous position in this lonely island. soon after daybreak next morning, while chick and the princess were out hunting berries for their breakfast, john went for a walk along the shore, and so engrossed did he become in his thoughts that he did not notice when a band of mifkets stole upon him from behind and threw a coil of stout rope around his shoulders. before he realized his misfortune he was bound fast with many turns of the rope. then he found that he had fallen into the hands of his old enemy, black ooboo; but the arab, to his great relief, was not with the party that had captured him. shouting with glee at the capture of the ginger- bread man, the mifkets led him away through the forest paths until they arrived at the clearing wherein the king lazily reclined upon his flat rock. ! black ooboo ooboo at once awoke the aged ruler, who sat up and said in a weary tone: “have you taken the stranger prisoner, as i commanded? ” “we have,” answered the black one. john dough was very indignant at the treat- ment he had received, so he addressed the king angrily, saying: “by what right do you command me to be bound in this disgraceful manner? did you not give me permission to live among you in peace ?” “i am a king, and the promises of kings should never be relied upon,” said the old mifket, winking slyly at his prisoner. “since i first saw you the arab has arrived, and he tells us that the material you are made of is very good to eat.” “can the arab understand your language?” asked john, in surprise. “it seems so,” answered the king. “in some parts of arabia the people speak exactly as we do; so the arabs are probably descended from our race. anyhow, ali dubh understands us and we understand him, and we ’ve decided to have a bite of you before he can eat you himself.” this was disturbing news to the gingerbread man, and he stood before the king wondering how i w \ ‘; .h,‘ v, § ‘\, \‘\ \"“" mifkets recapture john e h t black ooboo pain him especially, for he had no nerves; but to be chewed up by a common forest mifket was a liberty that any gingerbread man might well resent. “seems to me there ’s molasses in him,” said ooboo, with a wink at the king, and immediately he bit off another finger and ate it. “also a bit of ginger,” he continued, calmly, eating the next finger. “and spices.” another finger was gone. “it is n’t exactly cake, and it is n’t exactly bread,” the black one proceeded, smacking his lips; “but it’s pretty good, whatever it is”; and with that he ate the last finger remaining on john’s left hand. the king was no longer sleepy. he had be- come quite interested, and the circle of mifkets that stood silently back of john were looking at their victim with hungry eyes. “bring him here to me,” said the king. “i ’ll eat the other hand and see what it’s like.” ooboo immediately pushed the prisoner toward the rock; but john was now terribly frightened, and had made up his mind not to allow the rest of his body to be eaten without a struggle to save himself. so he suddenly exerted all the strength the great elixir had given him, and burst his rope bonds as easily as if they had been threads. at the same instant the arab leaped into the group , black ooboo “it is n’t our boat, either,” said chick. “it belongs to the father and mother of the little princess, and they may want to use it themselves, some day, to escape in.” “that’s true,” said john. “how is the prin- cess to-day? ” “she’s worse,” answered chick. “seems to me she gets weaker and more delicate every day.” “that’s what the rubber bear says,” john re- marked, thoughtfully. “ see here,” said the child, “that gingerbread of yours is full of strength and power, is n’t it? ” “that’s what ali dubh says,” john responded. “the elixir that i am mixed with is claimed to be very powerful.” “and it’s true,” declared chick, “for i’ve seen you do things no gingerbread man could ever do without some magic elixir being mixed up with him. well, then, why don’t you let the princess eat the rest of your left hand, and get well? the hand is n’t any use to you since black ooboo ate off the fingers.” . john looked at his left hand nervously. “what you say, chick, appears to be true,” said he; “ but you’ve no idea how i dread to be eaten. i’m not very substantial at the best, and during s -if s < black goboo my brief lifetime i’ve been crumbled and chipped and bitten to such an extent that i dread to lose even a crumb of my person more than is absolutely necessary. of course i’d like to help the princess, and restore her to health and strength; but perhaps we can find some better way to do that than to feed her on my gingerbread.” “very well, john dough,” said the .cherub, getting up to go to the princess, “i suppose you can do as you please about feeding yourself to your friends; but if i was gingerbread you can just bet i would n’t be so stingy with myself!” left alone, john sighed and wondered if it was really his duty to sacrifice his left hand to save the frail little girl and restore her to strength and health. he wanted to be kind and generous, yet the very thought of being eaten filled him with horror. presently he left the tree house and wandered along the coast. chick’s rebuke disturbed him not a little, and he wanted time to think it over. so by and by, when he thought he was alone, he sat down upon a rock and tried to decide what to do. suddenly a low rustle disturbed him, and he looked up to see the brown bear squatting beside him. black goboo and knocked him off his rock. that ’s really sur- prising, for ooboo has always before been a coward, and afraid of the king. but now he has declared he’ll be king himself, and offers to fight any one who opposes him. is n’t that funny? i don’t know where black ooboo got so much courage and strength all of a sudden, i’m sure.” “i know,” said john. “he got it from my fingers, which he ate. my dough is mixed with the great elixir, you know, which is nothing less than concentrated energy and strength and vitality and knowledge. the fingers have made ooboo the most powerful mifket in the island, so it is no wonder he has become king.” para bruin listened to this carefully, and after a moment’s thought he said: “if that is the case, john dough, you must feed some of yourself to the princess to make her strong again.” “that’s what chick says; but i don’t like to do it,” said john. “you will do it, though,” said the bear; “for if you don’t you are no friend of mine, or of any other honest person. i’m going back to my mountain, and if you don’t save the little princess i'll never speak to you again.” ! black ooboo away stalked para bruin, and john dough arose with a sigh and walked far into the forest, trying to make up his mind what to do. he came to the bank of the brook presently, and seating him- self upon a fence beside the stream gazed into the rushing water in deep thought. from the distance came the roar of water falling over the big dam which the beavers had built, and once or twice a mifket strayed that way and looked curiously at the silent figure of the gingerbread man. but they had orders from the arab and ooboo not to r black goboo disturb him, so they crept away again and joined their fellows among the giant plants. a long time john dough sat there by the stream, until suddenly he was aroused from his musings by a shriek of discordant laughter behind him. “ ho, ho, ho! what an absurd thing! who ’d ever have thought it?” he turned around and saw a gorgeous macaw standing on a log back of him. the bird was all aglow with crimson and green feathers, and its black eyes twinkled mischievously, while contin- uous shouts of laughter came from its ruffled throat. i “keep still, can’t you?” said john, in an annoyed tone. “what are you laughing at, anyway?” the bird pushed its head underneath a wing and shook with suppressed mirth. “oh dear! it’s too funny for anything! what a lark—hoo, hoo, hoo! what a lark it is! ” its voice was somewhat smothered by the feathers, but john heard every word, and it made him angry. “you’re a rampsy, that’s what you are!” he cried. black ooboo it was not likely that his strength would enable him to escape from so many of his enemies, and he almost gave himself up for lost. for before him was the stream of water—almost as deadly to him as the close ranks of the mifkets behind him. the macaw was strutting up and down beside him, and at his look of despair the bird said: “you ’re surely in a bad way, my friend; but i believe i can save you. when i fly up, grab my feet, and i ’ll carry you away to your dwelling.” “you!” he exclaimed, gazing at the bird in surprise; “you are by no means big enough to fly away with me.” “size does n’t count for much,” chuckled the macaw; “and since i breakfasted ofli your coat- tails i feel myself to be as strong as an ox. just grab my legs, as i tell you to.” john decided that it was worth attempting, be- ing the only thing to do. the mifkets were press- ing closer, and soon he would be within reach of their clubs. so, as the macaw flew into the air john grasped its legs with his right hand (which was the only hand that had fingers), and, sure enough, the strength of the little bird was so great that it easily drew him up into the air, high above the heads of his chattering and disappointed foes. black ooboo “ fooled again,” cried the macaw; but of course the mifkets did not understand the words. away over the tops of the giant plants flew the bird, with john dough clinging to its legs, and it was not long before it gradually descended again and landed the gingerbread man safely before the door of l' s own dwelling. “ don’t thank me, ” said the macaw, turning toward him one black eye, in a saucy manner, and winking comically. “i ate part of you for my breakfast, and feel greatly refreshed. were it not for the arab i’d hope to get another meal off you, but between the arab and the mifkets you ’re not likely to last l o n g. g o d bye.” and then it flew away into the forest. z chick met him at the door. “there’s less of you than ever,” said the child, looking him over carefully. “your coat tails are gone now.” “yes,” said the gingerbread man, “a macaw ate them a few minutes ago. but there will be even less of me in another minute. have you a knife, chick?” “ what are you going to do?” asked the cherub, with sudden interest. “i ’m going to save the princess before i’m gone entirely,” said john, with decision. “not that i have overcome my dislike to being eaten, you understand, but if a black mifket and a foolish bird find it so easy to feast upon my person, ali dubh is sure to get me in time, and before that happens i want to do one good deed, and help the little girl to regain her strength and health.” “ good! ” exclaimed chick, approvingly. “you ’re under land and water all right, john dough, even if it did take you a long time to make up your mind. but we have n’t any knife.” “what shall we do?” john asked, anxiously. “can’t we break off a chunk of you?” the cherub inquired. “ n o ! ” replied the man, with a shudder. “wait a minute!” cried chick, “i ’ve an idea.” away trotted the chubby legs, and presently the child returned with a long, slender leaf, plucked from one of the strange forest plants. “this ’ll saw gingerbread all right, i’m sure. hold out your hand, john dough! ” john turned away his head and held out his left hand—the one from which black ooboo had eaten the finger. “there! it’s all over. did it hurt?” asked chick. “ n o.” john looked at the arm where his hand had been. “it is n’t much worse than it was before,” said the child. “you’ll never miss it in the world. now wait here while i go to the princess.” after chick had vanished into the girl’s dwelling the gingerbread man gave a sigh of relief. ~ under land and water the banks of the stream, and presently met pittypat. “be careful where you go,” said the rabbit, in a worried tone. “the arab is after john dough, and i hear that black ooboo has determined to destroy the little man with the red whiskers and the fat woman with the corkscrew curls, who are the father and mother of our princess.” “are you sure?” asked the girl, clasping her hands in real terror. “there’s no doubt of it,” pittypat replied. “and i ’m not sure but the princess will share their fate. these are troublous times, since the arab arrived and black ooboo became king.” “there’s the boat,” said chick, turning to the girl; “can’t your parents escape in that?” “they have always said they would use the boat to leave the island, if there was any danger,” answered the princess. “but the ocean is so big and the boat so very little that they did not like to make such a voyage unless it became necessary.” “well, it seems to be necessary now,” said john. “but what will become of the rest of us? the boat will only hold two.” “it might hold me as well as my parents, if the ! under land and water water was calm,” said the girl; “but i will not escape and leave you and chick to your fate. unless we can find some way to save us all i will let my parents escape alone in the boat.” “that’s foolish,” said chick. “you go in the boat. john dough and i will get along all right.” but this the princess refused to do, and after a long discussion the rabbit decided to go and consult a gray owl which was renowned for its wisdom. the others walked up to para bruin’s cave, and the first thing the bear said was: “look out for yourselves. black ooboo has ordered all the humans on this island to be killed, and the mifkets are arming themselves with long sticks, to which they have bound sharp thorns torn from a tree in the forest. the gingerbread man is to be eaten, i understand; so there’s likely to be an end of all of you, very soon.” “is there no way to escape?” asked john. “none that i can think of,” said the bear. “ but you can depend upon my assistance, if there is anything i can do. how well the princess looks to-day!” “yes,” answered john, proudly; “she’s been eating some of my gingerbread.” hearing this, para bruin gave john a grateful under land and water mother of our princess got away without being hurt in the least.” this good news greatly pleased the girl, and her anxiety was much relieved. but the ginger- bread man had become thoughtful, and asked pittypat: “what are the mifkets doing now.” “they are getting ready to search the forest for you and chick and the princess,” was the reply. “the arab is with them.” “this is certainly unpleasant news,” remarked the gingerbread man. “ did the gray owl tell you how we may escape?” “the owl sent me to the king of the fairy beavers,” replied the rabbit, “and he has consented to hide you in his palace. it is a rare favor, i assure you; but the mifkets cannot reach you there.” “a fairy beaver!” cried chick, gleefully; and the princess asked, wonderingly: “can a beaver be a fairy?” “why not?” inquired pittypat. “all the ani- mals have their fairies, just as you human folks do; and it is lucky for us that the fairy beaver lives on this very island. there is only one danger—that the mifkets find you before i can lead you to the under land and water beaver king. so follow me at once, i implore you, before it is too late!” he turned, with these words, and led them along the river bank at such a swift pace that the princess could hardly keep up with him. “how far is it?” asked john. “the palace of the beavers is somewhere under the big dam in the river, which is not far away. the king promised to meet us at the waterfall; but he will not allow me to enter, because i am a rabbit, so you must go in alone. but have no fear. the king will allow nothing to harm you.” as pittypat spoke they could hear the distant roar of the waterfall at the beavers’ dam. but another sound also fell upon their ears—a sound that quickly renewed their terror—for it was the yells of the approaching mifkets. presently the fierce creatures appeared, coming swiftly through the forest. “ hurry!” called pittypat. “ hurry, or it will be too late! ” ‘ john picked up a great wooden club that lay near their path, and while chick and the princess hurried after the rabbit he stopped and hurled it toward the mifkets. it fell among them with such force that several were knocked over and many "v \n under land and water upon his high peak and watching them. the bear doubtless saw the danger of his friends, for he called to them: “look out—i’m coming to the rescue!” then he quickly curled his great body into a monster ball and rolled swiftly down the side of the mountain that faced them. the mifkets who were near the waterfall turned curiously to watch the bear. they had often seen him roll against the . . ./// flat stone and bound back to l' ls place again, and thought he would do the same thing now. ~\s\:ki but old para h" bruin was more clever than they suspected. . , , *" he missed the “» "‘ "p : /y flat stone alto- / fit‘- ' gether and came bound- ing along at a z z... *'/ ’%' %i..-l </// ’ : - f / .? as i -‘ this i the mifkets uttered cries of rage as they ob- served the escape of their intended victims, and rushed forward to follow them. but immediately a great flood of water began falling just at the place where the children and john had entered, and as the mifkets recoiled from this new danger our friends heard a soft voice say, with a little laugh: “they will not dare to follow you now. come with me, and be careful not to slip.” john looked down, and saw a handsome beaver standing beside him. his fur was the color of silver, and upon his head was a tiny golden crown set with jewels so bright and sparkling that the rays lighted the dim place like so many sunbeams. the beaver king’s face was calm and dignified, and his eyes kindly and intelligent. without further speech he led the way far under the roaring water- fall; and the space between the dark wall of the dam and the sheet of water was so narrow that the air was filled with a fine spray, which moistened __ ii _—__—... ._ ._,‘...,-, the fairy beavers john’s gingerbread in a way that caused him great uneasiness. but, lighted by the radiance of the king beaver’s crown, they soon came to a place directly under the center of the fall, and here their conductor halted and tapped three times upon the surface of the wall. it opened instantly, disclosing a broad passage, and through this the king led them, the wall closing just behind them as they entered. the noise of the waterfall now sounded but dimly in their ears, and presently they emerged into a large vaulted room, which was so beautiful that the little princess clasped her hands with a long-drawn sigh of delight, chick laughed, and john removed from his head the crumpled and soiled silk hat that he had clung to ever since he had left the bakery. he had seen beautiful rooms in the island of romance, but nothing there could compare with the mag- nificence and grandeur of this hall of the fairy beaver’s palace. the walls were set thick with brilliant jewels, arranged in a way that formed exquisite pictures, all \ \ \ . the fairy beavers of these borrowing color from the natural tints of the gems. the ceiling was clustered with tiny glass globes, in each of which was a captured sunbeam; and these lent a charming radiance to the splendid room. many cushions were strewn upon the floor, and the floor itself was of gold, richly engraved with scenes depicting the lives and adventures of beavers. while our friends admired the loveliness of the hall of the beavers, the silver-furred king spoke again, in his soft voice: “you are now underneath the deep water formed by our dam, which was built by the beavers who were our forefathers many years ago, and which has endured until now. but in all the years of its existence the little princess and the incubator baby are the first human beings to be admitted to our fairy palace. your compan-ion, my dears, is merely gingerbread, and lives by means of fairy powers that make him a fit comrade for fairies the world over.” “it was very good of you to save us from the mifkets, and we are grateful,” said the girl. “ you ’re all right!” added chick, emphatically. “i am glad to be of service to one so sweet and beautiful,” returned the king, with a dignified bow the fairy" beavers i assure you they are filled with many beaver fairies, who are even now watching you with much curiosity.” both the children started at hearing this, and glanced hastily around; but nothing but the walls of the palace met their gaze, and the king smiled upon them indulgently. “at our banquet, this evening,” said he, “i will permit you to see my people. but now please come to the music-room, where you may enjoy the strains of harmony that provide us with one of our chief amusements.” he led the way to another room, the roof of which was dome-shaped. from different points in this dome projected the ends of many silver tubes, and near the floor of the room, directly underneath each of the tubes, was placed a plate of glass or of metal. the king invited his guests to seat themselves, and then pressed a diamond button that was placed in the wall. this allowed the water from the river above them to drip slowly through the silver tubes; and as it fell, drop by drop, on the plates beneath, it made sounds that were very sweet and harmonious. the metal plates gave out deep and resonant sounds, while the smaller glass plates “\,.‘uq ‘- \l i \ ““\ $ ‘ - \ .. observation rqqm e h t m ll l the fairy beavers then the scene changed, and they saw para bruin climbing slowly up the side of the steep hill to his den. he seemed none the worse for his roll down the mountain and his bath in the river, and they noticed that he laughed and chuckled to him- self as .if much amused. “that was a good fight,” john dough heard him murmur, in the bear language; “and i’m mighty glad i was in time to save the princess, chick, and the delicatessen man. they’re safe enough with the beavers by this time, the white rabbit says!” then he laughed again; and, reach- ing the top of the hill, entered his cave and lay down to rest. again the scene changed, and the princess be- held the open sea, upon which floated the boat that bore safely her father and mother. they seemed to be quite comfortable, and the girl was pleased to see that they had put enough provisions and fresh water into the boat to last them during a long voyage. the man, although little, was strong, and pulled sturdily at the oars; and the woman steered the boat in the right direction. our princess was very glad to see these sights, and to know para bruin was safe, and that her dear parents had escaped the fierce mifkets. in com- the fairy beavers pany with her friend chick and the gingerbread man, she wandered through the palace during all that afternoon, seeing many wonderful things that the fairy beavers had provided for the comfort and amusement of their community. it was, indeed, a little world by itself, placed under land and water, where no mortal could guess its existence. in the early evening the king escorted them to a splendid banquet hall, where a long, low table was set in the center of the room. the dishes were all of sparkling cut-glass, and the eatables proved to be very delicious foods made from vegetables that grew at the bottom of the river, together with fish and lobsters and oysters, and many rare sweet- meats that could only have been created by the magic of the fairies themselves. around the long table were rows of. silken cushions; but when the children and the ginger- bread man entered, the room seemed deserted by all save themselves and the king. his majesty the king of the fairy beavers sat upon a cushion at the head of the table and graciously placed the princess and chick close to his right hand and john dough at his left. then he blew softly upon a silver whistle, and at once before the eyes of his guests appeared rows of ! the fairy beavers fairy beavers, occupying the cushions beside the low table. they were all pretty to look upon, having silvery fur as soft as satin, and large dark eyes that ' i: g // regarded the strangers pleasantly and without fear. from the neck of each was suspended, by means of silken cords, a richly embroidered cloak, ex- quisitely woven from a material unknown to the i the fairy beavers princess, and blazoned with an emblem denoting the rank or degree of the wearer. also each of the fairy beavers wore a jeweled circlet upon the brow; but none of these was so magnificent as the diadem of their king. while our friends gazed wonderingly upon the fairy beavers, the king introduced them, saying: “this is a little mortal princess named jacquelin, whom i have protected because her heart is as fresh and innocent as the daisies that grow in the fields. this is chick, known also as the cherub, an in-- cubator baby without relatives, but who is not lacking in friends. and this is john dough, a strange creature, having the form of a man, made out of gingerbread. he is not exactly a fairy, but lives through the magic of a fairy compound known as the ‘ great elixir,’ and is therefore not respon- sible for being alive and is liable to perish before he has grown very old. each of these guests is, i believe, worthy of our friendship and protection, and i trust that my people will join me in welcom- ing them to our palace.” answering the king’s speech, all the beaver fairies gracefully arose from their cushions and bowed thrice-once to the princess and once to chick and once to john dough. then they all the fairy beavers could enjoy, they tasted some of the dishes and found them so delicious that both ended by eating heartily, and afterward decided they had never enjoyed a meal so much. of course john dough missed the pleasure of eating, but he had a good time listening to the musiciand watching the dancers; so he was quite content. later he amused the company by telling the story of his adventures since he had come to life in the bake-shop. he spoke in the beaver language, so that all understood him; and even the princess could understand most of his speech, for the portion of gingerbread she had eaten had con- veyed to her some share of the powers of the great elixir. the fairy beavers were much interested, and loudly applauded the recital. after dinner the girl was escorted by six pretty beaver fairies to a cosy little room decorated with pink and white shells, which were polished smooth as glass. there was no regular bed in the room, but the beavers heaped many of the soft cushions into a corner, and upon these the princess lay down and slept very peacefully until the next morning. chick had a room of blue and gold, in the four corners of which perfumed fountains shot their sprays into the air. the tinkling sounds of these the fairy beavers fountains mighthave soothed any child to sleep, yet chick could have slept as soundly in the open forest as within this luxurious room. john dough also was supplied with a room in the palace; but as he did not sleep he had no need to lie down, and so amused himself during the night by looking at the beautiful pictures that decorated the walls and ceiling. most of these depicted the work of beavers engaged in building dams and houses; john found them very interesting, and therefore passed a pleasant night. soon after daybreak the beaver king came to john and escorted him to the observation room, where he found chick and the princess—who had already risen and finished their breakfasts—gazing earnestly through the window of the black box. he also approached the box to gaze at the shift- ing pictures, and discovered that the forest had become as quiet as usual, the arab and black ooboo having returned to the village in the clearing, and only a few of the mifkets being left to wander along the sides of the brook and watch the water- fall at the dam of the beavers. “now,” said the fairy beaver to the girl, “i can do one more thing to please you. make a wish, princess, and i will grant it.” ",e-¢- .. , i ’ ‘e. ‘p : i w,,‘ \ r"_ e-/ “ the princess embarks in the submarine the fairy beavers “thank you!” she cried, eagerly. “i wish to rejoin my dear father and mother, wherever they may be.” “very well,” returned the king; “come with me.” he led them through many passages, until they reached a sort of tunnel that brought them to a rocky cave under the river bank, some distance below the waterfall. the water of the river covered half the floor of the cave, and upon the sandy beach at its edge rested a large glass cylinder, which was pointed at both ends and had a door in the top. harnessed to one end of the glass tube were twenty-four strong beavers, who sat motionless beside it. “the boat in which your father and mother are still riding is far out in the ocean,” said the king to the princess; “but in this submarine boat you will be drawn by my swimming beavers so swiftly that the journey will not seem long to you.” “are we not to go with the princess?” asked the gingerbread man. “there is room for only one more in the boat,” replied the king, “so the cherub and you must bid farewell to your friend, in order that she may safely rejoin the parents she so dearly loves.” “i ’m sorry,” said john, sadly. the fairy beavers when the king had closed and fastened the door, he gave a signal to the four-and-twenty beavers, and at once they dashed into the water, drawing the glass submarine after them, and began swimming with powerful strokes down the river. they swam well under the surface of the water, and the glass boat followed them without either touching the bottom or rising to the top. at first the princess was much bewildered by her strange journey, for it seemed as if the water was pressing upon her from all sides. but presently she realized that she was quite safe in the glass tube, and began watching curiously the pretty weeds and water-flowers that grew at the bottom of the river, and the queer fishes that swam around her. the speed of the swimming beavers was surpris- ing. it was not long, indeed, before they reached the mouth of the river and swam boldly out into the sea. jacquelin had no idea of the direction they took, but she trusted to the wisdom of her friend the fairy beaver, and was not at all frightened. and now the sights that she saw were very strange indeed; for the seaweeds were of most gorgeous hues, and there were not only big and little fishes of every description, but brillant sea- the fairy beavers anemones and jelly-fish floating gracefully on all sides of her. the journey was long, but not at all tiresome, and the girl had not realized how far she had been drawn through the waters of the ocean when a dark gray object appeared just overhead, and the beavers came to a halt. slowly the glass cylinder rose to the surface of the waves, and jac saw just beside her the boat containing her parents. the girl's mother also saw, to her great surprise and joy, the “."“ form of her daughter lying in the glass case, and at once p§\ unfastened the door the fairy beavers and assisted the child to crawl out and scramble into the boat. the first act of the little princess was to kiss her father and mother delightedly, and then she l.eaned over the side of the boat and refastened the door of the cylinder. “tell your king that i thank him!” she called to the beavers, trying to speak their own language; and the intelligent little creatures must have understood, for the glass cylinder sank swiftly beneath the water, and she saw it no more. . many days the princess and her parents rode in the boat, until one morning they came to another small island and ventured to land upon it. they found it to be a beautiful place, in- habited by no savage beasts of any sort, and con- taining a grove of trees that bore figs and bananas and dates and many other delicious fruits. i i so they built themselves \ a cottage on this island, and z lived there in peace and happiness for many years. __--—,er" i the flight of the flamingoes danger, but should black ooboo or the terrible arab chance to capture you, they would cut your gingerbread to bits in no time, and you would be ruined. for this reason it will be best for you to leave this island as quickly as possible.” john readily agreed to this, and the king remained silent for several minutes, engaged in deep thought. then he said: “i believe i know a way to save you, john dough. but i must have your permission to cut you into nine pieces.” “what good will i be when cut into pieces?” asked john, somewhat alarmed at the suggestion. “do not fear,” said the beaver. “i promise to /. the flight of the flamingoes again restore you to your present form. the mifkets have placed spies all about our dam, and if you attempted to walk away from here they would soon discover you. therefore i will cut you into nine pieces, wrap each piece in a bit of cloth, and send the parcels by my beavers along different paths to the top of the hill where para bruin lives. there the bear and chick can put you together again, for the child will have no trouble in reaching the bear’s cave. after the nine parts are in place i will give you a magic cordial to drink; it will render your body as solid and substantial as it is now.” “but how can we escape from the island, once we have reached para bruin’s cave?” asked john. “the flamingo people owe me many favors,” answered the king. “you do not weigh much, so i will ask one of the flamingoes to fly with you to some other country. it will take two of the birds to carry chick; but, if the child is not afraid, the journey will be perfectly safe.” “i ’m not afraid,” said chick. “anything suits me.” “i think your plan is an excellent one,” declared john, “and we are both greatly obliged to your majesty for your kindness.” the flight of the flamingoes so the king brought a great knife, and with the assistance of chick, who was much interested in the operation, cut john dough into nine pieces. these were wrapped into packages and eight beavers were summoned, who carried eight of the packages through secret passages to the forest and then up the mountain-side to the cave of para bruin. the ninth package, containing the head of john dough, the king undertook to carry him- self, and although the mifket spies of black ooboo noticed the nine beavers carrying packages up the hillside, they paid little attention to them, never suspectingthat in this queer fashion the tr gingerbread man was mak- ing his escape. and chick walked boldly along the river bank and up the hill to meet para bruin, who hugged the i i !“ aw ii! “will!!! i / z the flight of the flamingoes child joyfully in his rubber arms, and tried to lick the plump cheeks with his pink rubber tongue. the mifkets were puzzled by chick’s appearance, and wondered where the little one had come from; but they did not offer to interfere with the child in any way. it was not long before the beaver king reached the bear’s cave and laid the ninth package, contain- ing john’s head, beside the other eight, which had already arrived. “what’s all this?” asked para bruin, eying the packages with much surprise. “ be patient and you will see,” replied the king, and then unwrapped john’s head. when the bear saw it he uttered a groan and exclaimed: “alas! my poor friend has come to a sad end!” “not so,” answered john’s head. “the fairy beaver has cut me apart, but he has promised to put me together again, so that i will be as good as new. and you must assist us, friend para.” “most willingly! ” declared the bear. then, under the king’s direction, para bruin and chick set up john’s legs, and placed the sec- tions of his body upon them, and afterward perched his head upon the body. john expected to tumble down at any moment, for he was just like a house the flight of the flamingoes “ do you think so?” asked para, eagerly. “i’ll ask them about it, for i understand their language,” promised john; and this so delighted the rubber bear that he bounded up and down in glee. before long four great birds were seen approach- ing through the air, and soon they alighted upon the mountain close to where our friends stood. “we were sent to carry a gingerbread man and a fair-haired child away from this island,” said one of the birds, in a squeaky voice. “i am the gingerbread man,” replied john, speaking as the flamingoes did; “and here is the fair-haired child. but we also wish you to carry our friend para bruin with us. one of you can carry me, and two can carry chick. that will leave the fourth to fly with para bruin, if you will kindly consent.” “what, that monstrous bear!” exclaimed one of the birds, indignantly. “he ’s large, it is true,” replied john; “but he’s made of rubber, and is hollow inside; so he really does n’t weight much more than i do.” “well,” said the flamingo, “if that is the case i do not object to carrying him.” john related this conversation to the bear, who i ' i a i i \ ~ .::‘: /i'f . /‘ ’,"f ,. , -(l, a-‘ . gf-g-. ,.j‘ ‘‘.u_ the flight of the flamingoes flight that in a few moments the island of the mifkets had vanished from their view. “ nice ride, is n’t it?” chick called to john. “rather nice,” answered the gingerbread man. “but this cord is so tight it’s wearing a crease in my body.” “what a pity you are not made of rubber, as i am!” said the bear, cheerfully. “nothing ever injures me in the least. i’m practically inde- structible.” “ how are you getting on, chick?” asked john. “fine! ” answered the cherub. “this knocks imar’s flying-machine into a cocked hat.” then for a time they sailed on in silence, dan- gling from the ends of their cords, while the strong wings of the flamingoes beat the air with regular strokes just above their heads. s (\.‘\ .f r i -, ‘z-p-"' \ i rte ~ f tits is! the birds flew close together and made great speed, and in about three hours from the time they started an island appeared just ahead of them. whereupon john said to the bird that bore him: '“ let us stop here, so we can examine the island and see how we like it. this cord is cutting into my gingerbread body, and i’d like to stop for a time, anyway.” “very well,” answered the bird; and when they were over the center of the island the flamingoes gradually descended and alighted upon the ground. john untied the cord from his waist, and also assisted chick and para bruin to free themselves. the bear was not injured at all, but the cord had worn a straight line around john’s body, although not very deep; and in some way the gingerbread man had lost another of his lozenge buttons. the place where they had alighted was covered by grass and surrounded by groves of trees. “this looks like a fine country,” said chick, gazing around. z sport of pirate lsland “it’s better than our old island, anyway,” re- marked para bruin. but just as he spoke the flamingoes uttered shrill screams and flew quickly into the air, and our friends turned in time to see a most curious creature come from the grove and approach them. it had somewhat the likeness of a man, yet was too queer ever to be mistaken for a human being, although it was certainly alive. its body was a huge punching-bag, and its head was a foot-ball. for legs it had two of those golf-clubs called “putters,” and one of its arms was a tennis-racket and the other a base-ball club. this was curious enough, in all // conscience; but the face was more / curious yet. for the eyes were golf balls, and the nose a square of bil- liard-chalk, and its mouth a mere slit in the foot-ball where the lacing /// z retired pirates e h t sport of pirate island ;,wi f' r” |!l!!f‘ so john borrowed a dagger from the chief and picked out of his body one of the three diamonds which the inventor had given him in the isle of phreex. it glittered most beautifully in the sun- light, and the eyes of the pirate also glittered with greed. for he had noticed two other scars on sport of pirate lsland john’s gingerbread body, similar to the one the diamond had been picked out of. taking the diamond in his dirty hand he said: “well, where. are the other jewels?” “you agreed to accept this one as our ransom,” answered the gingerbread man. “you misunderstood me. i said three,” declared the pirate; and turning to his men he shouted: “ did n’t i say three, boys?” “you did! you said three sparklers ! ” cried the retired pirates and bandits, in a loud chorus. so john, with a sigh of regret, picked the other two diamonds out of his body and gave them to the chief. “ now,” said the pirate, “i will allow you to go. but where you can go to is a mystery to me, for you are on an island.” “stop!” cried another man, as they turned to depart. “ you ’ve got to settle with me, now. i ’m the bandit chief, and i also demand a ransom.” “i have given the pirate chief all the diamonds i had,” said john. “then you shall surely boil in oil!” shouted the bandit, scowling fearfully. “seize them, my men, and away with them to the fiery furnace.” but just then came a flutter of wings, and the four flamingoes flew down and sailed along just ! sport of pirate lsland “ that was a noble deed, my good para! ” said the gingerbread man. “oh, i’m a bouncer, all right!” answered the bear, proudly. “but now let us get away from this awful place as soon as possible.” so the flamingoes flew swiftly across the sea with them, and john dough found that he sailed more easily while clutching the bird’s foot than when the cord had been fastened around his body. chick also rode with perfect comfort, but para bruin was obliged to wrap the cord several times around his fat paw, to prevent it from slipping out of his grasp. i . ‘illl!fiii(i after a long and steady flight the birds reached another island, larger than the first, and much more beautiful. the adventurers looked down upon green valleys and vine-covered hills, patches of stately forest and fields of waving grain. but aside from the scattered farm-houses, they saw no cities or villages until they were over the exact center of the island, where a most curious sight met their view. the island was divided into two halves by a high and strong wall of stone, that ran from ocean to ocean, passing exactly through the center of the land. in the middle of the island the dividing wall was broken by a great castle, which looked upon both sides of the wall, and had many impos- ing towers and turrets and spires stretching high into the air. clustered near to the castle and upon the east side of the wall were many tall and narrow buildings, some of them rising to a height of three or four stories. the windows in these buildings were tall and narrow, and the doors were tall and narrow, and the chimneys were iuwml f is i h! h!!!’ llll"!//i the castle o ill!!!» f hiland and loland f hiljajnd and lolantl tall and narrow. it was quite a city in size, but the houses all looked as if they were set upon stilts, while the streets were also narrow. on the west side of the wall, adjoining the castle, was also a city, but of a quite different sort. for the houses were low, none being of more than one story, and the windows and doors in them were so broad and low that they were wider than they were high. as for the streets, they were re- markably broad. the cities upon both sides of the wall were pretty and well built, and there were many beautiful parks and pleasure grounds scattered about. our friends had not much time to observe these things closely, for at john’s request the flamingoes alighted upon the top of the great wall, near to an entrance of the castle. “we must leave you now,” said one of the birds, “for we are obliged to hurry home again. but i am sure you will be quite safe in this beautiful country.” “good-by,” said john, “and thank you very much for bringing us here.” chick and the bear also thanked the kind flamingoes, and then the birds flew into the air and soon disappeared. hiland and loland “what a lovely place to bounce!” said para bruin, leaning over the edge of the wall nearest to the tall houses and gazing downward into the street. “it’s a good way down,” said chick. “you ’d better be careful.” “nonsense!” replied the bear, scornfully. “the higher the wall the finer the bounce.” with that he made a ball of himself and rolled off the wall. john and chick leaned over and saw the rubber bear strike the pavement far be- low and then bound upward again. when he was on a level with the top of the walls he reached his paws, caught the edge of the stones, and drew himself up be- side them. “great,—was n’t it?” he asked, proudly. hiland and loliand “yes; but i advise you to be careful,” said the gingerbread man. “we know nothing of the people who inhabit this country, and if you should chance to miss the wall when you bound upwards you would become a prisoner and be at the mercy of those who captured you.” “ that ’s true,” agreed the bear. “i’ll be more careful until we get better acquainted. what shall we do now?” “let’s try to find a way into the castle,” sug- gested chick. “it’s the only way to get off this wall, for i can’t bounce as you do, para bruin.” “nor can i,” added john. “how strange it is that the island should be divided by this great wall! and how queer to have everything short on one side and tall on the other! but perhaps the people in the castle can explain it all.” they walked along the broad wall toward the castle, and presently came to the large entrance gate, one of the wickets of which stood ajar, as if inviting them to enter. “shall we go in?” asked john, hesitating. “ of course,” decided chick, promptly. “what ’s the use of staying outside, when the door’s open?” so they passed through the wicket and entered a lofty arched hall, built of blocks of exquisite hiland and loland was a great marble hall, having a domed ceiling, and windows which looked upon the tall city to the east of the wall, as well as upon the low city to the west. there were also great entrance doors, ad- mitting people from both sides of the wall; but these doors were closed. they were not locked, however, and john said to his companions: “we know nothing of the owner of this castle, nor of the people inhabiting the opposite sides of the great wall. they may prove to be either our enemies or our friends, so i advise that we be cautious until we know what treatment we may expect from them. two of us should remain here while the third boldly enters inot the cities to make inquiries.” “i ’ll go,” said chick. “ no, indeed; you ’re too young and too small,” objected para bruin. “but i'm just a regular child, while you’re a rubber bear and john dough ’s a gingerbread man,” said the cherub. “ they would n’t think anything of my being here; but if either of you two go there’s liable to be trouble.” “ the cherub is wise for one so young,” observed john. “therefore we will let the child visit the cities and report to us. having found the castle i w /f jg ! _i|.l..‘--:: :l ‘ ,§lr i . ‘,“ w.n __ til‘ iiii‘ w , ~ “hl;jh' .:‘ . hwjuhi, ’ ‘fax s r young” o s e n o r o f “use s i “the cherub m i hiland and loland great and wonderful a country, or city, or people anywhere else in all the world.” “what is the castle called?” asked the child. “we call it the castle of hilo,” said the man. “it was the dwelling of the former king of hilo, who ruled over our great nation as well as over the miserable creatures residing on the other side of the wall.” “but where is your king now?” inquired chick. “the castle is empty.” “to be sure the castle is vacant at present, for our king is long since dead,” the soldier re- plied. “ but we are patiently awaiting the arrival of his successor. there is a prophecy that our next ruler will be a king who is wise and just, but not made of flesh v a-“ - q’ and blood, and al- though this seems . .j=-< hiland and loland so john and para opened the door at the oppo- site side of the arched hall, and the cherub passed out and came upon another soldier, who seemed to be standing guard at the castle entrance. this one was dressed in a red uniform, with silver buttons, and was the shortest and fattest person chick had ever beheld. but his broad face was smiling and good-natured in expression, and he tipped his low, flat hat gracefully to the pretty incubator baby. “what country is this?” asked the child. “this, most lovely one, is the superb and grand country of loland,” replied the man; “and this splendid city you behold is the city of lo; and our magnificent people are called lolanders.” king dough and his court “what ’s that?” asked john. “it’s the one that rules the ruler,” said the smiling cherub. “so just behave yourselves- you and your chief counselor—and you ’ll both find i know my business.” thereupon the child led john dough to the king’s attiring-room, and hunted in the closets until a fine ermine robe and a crown and scepter were discovered. the crown was a little tarnished ! llill||!|!|i|'||l!!||!|l!||!|!|l‘|‘!|!|,i|ii!|l!||!|i| king dough and his court from lack of use, but the jewels in it still sparkled brightly; so the bear set it upon john’s gingerbread head and put the scepter in his right hand. chick folded the ermine robe around him in such a way that his missing left hand was not noticed, and then they led the gingerbread man to the great hall and placed him in the royal throne. he might have looked more dignified had not his nose been badly chipped and his left glass eye so loose in its socket that it rolled every way but the right way; however, the robe concealed the fact that his shirt-front was soiled and cracked, and that several lozenge-buttons had broken off during his recent adventures. but kingly robes and a kingly crown cover many defects, and when para bruin and the cherub stood back and took a critical look at their friend they felt quite proud of his regal appearance. when all had been made ready and john was seated in the throne, chick went to the west door of the castle hall and threw it open, and at the same time para bruin opened wide the east door. then, together, they cried out to the people: “the king has come! enter his castle, all ye hilanders and lolanders, and greet the new ruler in a fitting manner!” i k ‘ : tr?‘ ; ",| £ .¥%~ * jjwna-_ ‘ .,“_ “. in. %_‘p gm i ‘ g \ j._ j' j “ “jj ,. university of michigan dearborn ‘i, / i i i ‘ ’/ ’ § /_ } k er p it‘ a bandage and some salve on daddy’s poor toe, and then they all sat in the dormer window and thought how very hungry they were. “i could go and get some wheat from the stor- room,” said johnny mouse. (i no, johnny, you could not,” said his mother. the reason why we are allowed to stay in this nice home, is that we never take anything which does not belong to us, and you must never, any of you, take anything that is not given you.” ll “there is a new moon tonight,” said grand- mother mouse. “isn’t it pretty?” p _*¢ —q§,\__ \_____m_ __“_ “_ . ! l ' “grandfather,” asked johnny mouse, “what is the moon made of?” i “i once heard a lady remark to a gentleman," said grandfather mouse, who was old-fashioned and like to use elegant language, “that perhaps the moon is made of green cheese." “i wonder!” said johnny mouse. “if that is true, wouldn’t it be a jolly place to live?” the more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea and he could just imagine himself sitting safely in the curve of a young new moon, biting off big pieces of soft new cheese to drop down to his hungry family. i - ..‘ x __ te ./ ll ' ’ i ll go. said johnny mouse. “the moon is very far away,” said mother mouse, “and i do not see how you could get there. you have no wings.” “leave that to me,” said johnny mouse. “i shall find a way.” so he kissed his mother goodbye and scam- pered up to the roof of the house. ' he was just in time, for he found reddy bat just about to take his family out to supper. “how are you, johnny mouse?” asked reddy .q ____ ~fl.. f * _""" """'"-"'”" _" “'“"‘ '-. “\‘l._“ 'l‘\“l l!‘!‘\l\l“‘l!"\‘@ ‘n m [mu a ‘ \ m i | ciij rlil i . "! si" ‘$ _l f‘ ‘\- l ‘|)ll,| f i i \ i fl (' ’/‘ -' ‘. l, (i k v .\-~‘ ( ‘ donated by the grand rap ds publu: l brary the may g qmgley collect on of ch ldren’s l terature december the umverslty of mlchlgan dearborn mardlglan llbrary ~vh g““ \‘ - ‘,‘\ \ \‘ q andy’s adventures on n oah's ark $ ‘ \ \ ‘ - \ ' i \ \ i \ - - , ‘ - ém’ am @;y°s> w@( qtu) g@§) § n@ /q b dous]&$ z <'->~br”;$l<i- . dot) auifpor } ' pictur-¢s gi p¢|'nk'—b x taum" cl<-no; p lu /\'\ gi le.n.s.._ €wyo . . n rk . -t/\yl°r*"c<>w> . ‘jzf - % my i copyright, xgoz, by j. f. taylor and company,n-ewyork. publis/zed, october, . —~ “ acknowledgment is due t/ze new york herald for gh/ing';>ermz'.m'on to reproduce this fiery." . d. z. d. i -i‘-. ' \ . i o \ ‘.¢ ..-a—- > ..- .-‘ ‘...-. "‘-t.-q- -‘* . . - - - ‘i. chapter i. ii. iii. iv. v. vi. vii. viii. ix. x. xi. xii. xiii. contents dedication . . . andy, -i n <s, and the hobby horse t -us toytown trolley . . . . . tm: lead souanans and the ?jr wn -: robbers . . . . . . . . “ dry goons and notions." . . . doug!-inut life-preservers and a poetical horse . . . . . . one orderof unicorn-on-the-cob . . a swell musicale . . . . . . the north pous at last . . . a horse doctor and an accident . . jack-in-tyne-box and a disabled engine . tm; lion on the y.-xcm" . . . . - the trial -‘ the tin mouse . . . how the tin mouse w n the hundred- yard crawl . . . . . . . i dedication for mother has to work so hard, a dancing nights, or pouring tea " each afternoon, she has no time to play and romp with me! i wish some nights 'she’d stay at home, and, when it's time to go to bed, she'd hear my prayers instead of nurse. then when it’s dark i'd have no dread, if she'd jes’ let me hold her hand— her pretty hand with all its rings and i can go right off to sleep if mother only sings ! but mother has no time, she says, to humor little girls, 'cos she gets tired out with balls and things that keep her up till three. i hark each night for mother's step, and then i call out, loud and clear, “ hope you'll have a lovely time," and, “ good-night, mother dear ! ” but when she's gone, and down below ihear the carriage door slam to, i feel so lonely i could cry, and sometimes p'r'aps i do! andy, jinks, and me hobby horse <-.- andy’s adventures on n oah’s ark .__i-_i- _ chapter . andy, jinks, and the hobby horse. to begin with, andy had always been a lonely little boy. he lived with his father in a great, gloomy house. he was an only child, and when his mother died, which was while andy was still a mere baby, his father determined that, if he could help it, nothing should take from him his only remain- ing treasure. not being robust andy was never allowed to go to school, for fear he might catch some disease and die. so he was taught at home by a middle-aged governess, who_ wore great, gold-rimmed spectacles and never smiled. un- p l $ ll andy’s adventures on noah's ark der the guidance of this kindly but gloomy person, the study hour was never a joyous time for andy. his one other companion was anne, his nurse, who loved him like a mother, and, acting under his father's instructions, never let him out of her sight. andy returned the good anne's affection, but for all that she was not a congenial play- fellow for a lively boy of eight. every morn- ing she would take himffor “a romp in the park," as she would call it. but nurse herself was too fat and too old to do anything but drop into the nearest bench, there to beam fondly on andy as he stood disconsolately in the middle of the walk, and wondering what on earth to do with himself; for, mind you, if he approached another boy to propose a game, nurse would call him to her and tell him not to speak tostrange lads for fear he might catch the measles or the scarlet fever, or some other dreadful thing. even if a friendly dog invited andy to play with him, it would be— q. andy, jinks, and tbe hobby horse “ andy, darlin', kape away from that strange beast ; he might bite you l" sometimes it would be his governess who took \““ ,/// w “mwy, darlln', rape a\vay from that strange beast; he mom‘ arm you ! “ him out, and that was even worse than nurse. miss lemon never let go of his hand for fear andy might vanish in thin air, or the sidewalk %l is andy’s adventures on noah's ark might swallow him up. it was so long ago that miss lemon had been a child that she had quite forgotten what it was like. on the occasion of these walks with andy, she was at great pains to amuse him. but her idea of amuse- ment was to ask him to name the “capital of each state, my dear, and the principal rivers" ; or else, “ how much is two and eight and five? " then poor andy would cry out fretfully, “i don't want to do 'rithmetic and jography; i want to play something." and miss lemon would look at him reproachfully through her spectacles, and say, “ i’m sure that's a very nice pastime, my dear, combining as it does a pleasant mental diversion with some useful instruction." so it was that nurse and miss lemon, be- tween them, prevented andy from catching anything, from measles to a good time. the one ray of sunshine in his lonely little life was his father's good-night kiss when that busy man came home late after his day's work. —~ andy, jinks, and tbe hobby horse _._ _.._ in the morning, too, andy would see him for a few minutes at breakfast before he was off for the day. i have said that andy had no other com- panions than miss lemon and nurse; but i had forgotten captain jinks. now the captain was nothing more nor less than a very large rag doll, who spent his days astride a rocking-horse in the nursery and at night he shared andy's trundle bed. the cap- tain was not what you would have called a hand- some fellow. he was slightly cross-eyed, and one eyebrow was higher than the other. his best feature was his mouth, which was large and wore a perpetual smile. he was andy's confidant, and at night when his prayers had been said, and nurse had gone, andy would pour into captain jinks' ear—or rather the place where an ear ought to have been—all his woes, and all the brave desires of his boyish heart. the captain would listen in sympathetic silence is andy, jinks, and toe hobby horse how long he slept he never knew, but sud- denly he awoke with a start and sat up in bed. it was no longer raining, and what andy thought must be the moonlight was streaming in the window and making the room as light as day. then andy thought of the captain and looked around for him, but that gallant fellow was nowhere to be seen. ‘ “ he was beside me when i went to bed," said andy aloud, “ i wonder where he can be?" “here i am," cried a small voice, and to andy's astonishment there was captain jinks smiling and nodding to him from over the foot of the bed. now andy has always been so sure in his own mind that the captain could talk if he wanted to, that he was not so much surprised to hear him speak as he afterwards thought he ought to have been; so his next question was : what are you doing, captain ? “l am just starting off for toytown," said \ andyls adventures on noah’s ark jinks, and here he hauled out a small watch and gazed at it very anxiously. andy rec- ognized it as a toy watch which had been given him that very christmas, and its face was simply painted. \ z % \.~ in \ ' “here! am,“ cmeo a s:u.u. . voice. “why, jinks," cried andy, “ does that watch keep any sort of time ?" “ yes," saidthe funny fellow in an aggrieved tone. “it keeps lots of it; but it's a very poor sort." andy, jinks, and tire hobby horse andy felt a trifle perplexed. “ i'm afraid you don't understand me," he said. “ i mean, can the watch go? " the captain scratched his head; then he remarked gravely : “ that depends on where you want it to go." andy burst out laughing. he could not help it for the life of him. “oh, captain jinks," he cried. “you're so funny. i didn't mean that at all." “ then please say what you do mean," said the rag doll just a mite sharply. “and be quick about it too, for this watch is losing time so fast that pretty soon there won't be enough left for me to catch the trolley, in and it's the last one to-night, too." the captain's method of computing time seemed logical enough, only somehow andy could not quite understand him. “i guess i must be very stupid," he thought to himself. “ yes, you are," the captainiretorted, quite ' l :': "' . :-‘as-.= '..i=.+-. .., ‘ , . i. ii" -i:-. -. .- a -: !: :£ !__-.__.i!~ i andy's adventuresion noah's ark as though the boy had spoken aloud. “ but you can't help that, you know," he added with a bland smile. “you'll out-grow it." “well i guess i've got more sense than a " than an old rag doll, he was going to say, but he was afraid it might hurt the cap- tain's feelings, so he added, “than a lot of other folks." “very like, very like," said jinks with a wise look, “i shouldn't wonder, now, if you had as much as a whole half-dollar." “ but i wasn't talking about c-e-n-t-s," cried andy, laughing, “i was speaking of s-e-n-s-e." “ how was i to know which word you meant?" grumbled the rag doll. “ if you'd spelled the words out in the first place now, you'd have saved a deal of bother." “ but think how long it would take," cried andy, “ if i stopped to spell out all my words." “ well, you'd talk less, and that would be a comfort," muttered the captain, with a tri- umphant air. o andy, jinks, and tbe hobby horse andy felt very much hurt at this rude re- mark but he simply said, replioachfully, “i think you are very rude, jinks, i never treated you so unkindly." jinks actually -blushed at this—can you imagine a rag doll blushing ?—then he winked both eyes very hard as though he had gotten something in them, out he made no reply. then andy remembered the captain had said he was going to toytown, wherever that might be. i “oh, jinks," he cried, “won't you please take me with you? i should so love to go. miss lemon and nurse .never take me any- where that's any fun, and oh, it would be just bully to go with you." ' “ all right, come along," said jinks, “ only hurry and get dressed, or we shall be too late." “i must say," he added, “the way the womenfolk in this house treat you, fairly makes my sawdust boil." ‘ it l r : ', -i iii; -=|. :' ' ."|: -|- | l i -. . . ..._u.-c- -.........- _-- .... . . . ._.. .._-- . . “as;-> -aw-_-n-|n.a.:\fi_a .=.¢. ...;.- a j andy's adventures an noah’s ark the idea of sawdust boiling struck andy as being very funny, but just then something funnier happened to him. he was looking about for his clothes, and in his impatience he cried out, “oh, where are my stockings ?" i i hardly were the words out of his mouth when the stockings suddenly appeared and began to wriggle themselves on andy's bare legs, as though some invisible hand were at work. “and now where are my shoes ?" cried andy, when he had gotten over his surprise at the strange performance of his stockings. immediately his little boots came hoppity-hop across the floor and jumping up they slipped onihis feet as nicely as you please. i “ dear me," said andyto himself, “ i never knew clothes to act in that way before ; but it certainly is a very easy way of getting dressed. i guess all i have to do is to name something and it gets in its right place." andy, jinks, and tbe hobby horse acting on this thought andy called out loudly, “shirt." instantly his shirt, which had been lying limply on a chair-back, rose up and came sailing through the air like a kite, to land gently on andy's head and then to work its way down over his shoulders. .-\ instantly his shirt rose up and came sailing through the air like a kite. i each part of his attire andy called by name, and at once it seemed to fly to its -place. so in almost no time andy was ready to start. the captain in the mean time showed his im- .:] i 'i pl ‘i i - ll l . ; ..il": -k‘-...~\ i ---. i andy's adventures on noah’s ark patience by hopping first on one foot and then on the other. suddenly andy felt something soft rub against his hand and looking around the boy beheld his hobby horse; it was rocking gently to and fro and gazing up into andy's face with its great glassy blue eyes. somehow andy did not feel very much sur- prised to see it, ‘nor was he very much aston- ished when the captain came skipping across the floor and attempted to climb into the sad- dle. he was very clumsy about it ; the horse was rocking back and forth all the time, and when jinks would get one foot in the stirrup and swing the other foot over, he always swung so hard that he would lose his balance and tumble over on the other side. over and over he kept repeating this performance, and all the time he was muttering to himself, “l must hurry—i must hurry. dear me, why doesn't this horse stand still ?" suddenly lhe unfortunate jinks caught his andy, jinks, and tbe hobby horse leg in a sharp buckle on the stirrup. there was a rasping sound as of something ripping ; and the poor captain fell over on his side with" an agonized expression on his usually bland face. ‘ “for goodness' sake, boy," he ca-lled to andy, “ bandage up my leg as quickly as you can—i am sawdusting to death." and sure enough, a faint trail of fine saw- dust lay upon the ground. in a moment andy had wrapped his handkerchief about the ripped place. “there now," said andy cheerily, “you’re all right," and picking up the rag doll he placed it carefully in the saddle. but even then andy expected to see the gentleman pitched off; for the horse was rocking very violently now, and the captain's legs were waving wildly in the air, while his arms were wound tight around the horse's neck. “ get up behind me quickly,” cried the cap- -l l i ~ ' l ll _¢-. : ~ ,. l p l ..._ ‘. :. \k| l .._.--... - _ -.;; fl andy's adventures on noah's ark tain excitedly. “this beast will be off in a minute more i " - i it occurred to andy that it was much more ,/r ll l'| l , mw lllll //// “j / fl $'-cl s q‘ oo the horse rose up in the air. likely that _]inks would be off in a minute but he did not want to offend an old friend. so he said nothing but jumped on the rocker and then on the horse's back. i r i i " q zita chapter ii. the toytown trolley. when andy opened his eyes after he had waited fearfully for the rock- ing horse to bump into the wall, he perceived that somehow they had gone straight through the side of the house, like water through a sieve. ‘ outside were not the paved streets and noisily clanging street cars which andy was accustomed to. instead, to his great surprise, a beautiful country landscape opened out be- fore him—lovely winding roads, placid lakes and great trees, their thick foliage lazily stir- ring in a soft summer breeze. when andy had first opened his eyes, the rocking horse was slowly sailing through the air along the tops of the trees. it made andy a trifle - - - l l l \ \ i. i e ‘ /‘ i i ;;-.._...-.__. “a.-__ r-»-i--— - andy’s adventures on noah’s ark dizzy to look down, and he expected every minute that they would go crashing to the ground below. “ oh, captain jinks," cried andy, “ i didn't know that a rocking horse could fly l " “well, you don't know much, and that's a fact," replied the captain briskly. he had quite recovered from his exciting experience in mounting the horse. and was as saucy as even “did you ever see a horse fly ? " he asked presently. “oh, yes," cried andy, “lots and lots of times !" . “well, now you've seen a rocking horse fly, and what's more, you've ridden one," said jinks. “ you ought to feel very much obliged to me," he went on, “for it isn't every one who has had that privilege." andy felt like laughing at that, because he didn't see why he should be obliged to the captain for letting him ride his own horse, " " ‘ ‘ ht \ j.‘j-|,‘ !‘j iii“ iii.‘ ' i -|.l: i ' i l -./ /, a / ///a l ‘- -.j-/ _-; qw- j \( ~ - g\/%,\ q ‘ {z k s \ // l/i // ‘ y \&\ \ \ ‘j’ % /,’ j \‘/o k“/% / i w/"" w llllxllllmh mt // /// *%//- ’% / __ ~ --- _~ . -..=‘ ground- it see-“ed t andy they would never reach the i - j \ - . . i p ' - m * ‘ k ' the toytown trolley and, besides, the captain never could have ridden it himself if andy hadn't helped him on. all this time the rocking horse had been mounting higher and higher in the air. suddenly it gave a quick plunge, head downward. it was so unexpected that both andy and jinks slid off into space. the horse, like a balloon suddenly relieved of its ballast, went shooting skyward again, and andy, who was falling face upward, watched it till it was a mere speck in the blue sky. ' it seemed to andy they would never reach the ground. but this falling through the air was really a delightful sensation, and andy came to the conclusion that they were falling very slowly and not fast enough to hurt them- selves. suddenly he and the gallant captain went plunging into what seemed thick, fleecy clouds,"and then, kerchunk! they had fallen right on top of a very soft haystack. < l -.-_--.......__--... :--_-ea->...._......-...__..q._.-,~ _-_.__.. . .-_. m i andy’s adventures on noah's ark andy thought it was a great piece of luck that they should have come down on the stack instead of the hard ground, but when they tried to climb down he was inclined to change his mind. it was either the most enormous haystack ever seen, or else, as andy suggested to the captain, they had grown smaller. “of course we have grown smaller," was the captain's astonishing retort. “ everyone who goes to toytown has to be of a certain size, you know,—-—about one foot tall. it's those white clouds we just passed through," the captain explained, “that shrink you right down to the proper size." “ but why does everybody have to be one size in toytown ?" asked andy, very much in- terested. “because it makes it ever so much more sociable all the way around," said jinks. “how could a great big fellow like me take tea, for instance, with alittle china doll only . the toytown trolley three inches high? why, i'd probably walk right over her and never know it !" “oh, then, toytown is the home of all the dolls!" cried andy. “what an interesting place it must be ! " “right you are !" replied jinks gayly. then he went on by way of explanation, “you see, every night when boys and girls are fast asleep the dolls all travel to toytown and have a sociable time. my, don't they gossip, and how they do criticise their young mistresses and masters ! " and jinks chuckled. ‘ “ sometimes," he went on, “when a little girl is sick and can’t sleep and calls for her doll, then, of course, the doll can't go to toy- town that night, but that doesn't happen very often, i am glad to say." just then a silvery bell was heard to tinkle in the distance. “ dear! dear! " cried the captain. “ that's the trolley car, and it will be starting in another minute. however shall we get down? " ,_:f$="““"“_“ andy's adventures on noah's ark the sides of the haystack were very steep and it did not seem safe to tryisliding down. “if only you were a horse now, or a cow," remarked the captain, regretfully, “ you could eat our way down to the ground. it would take time, of course, but it would be the safest way." andy thought it was rather selfish of the captain to wish that he were a horse or a cow, but, as usual, he said nothing. just then andy felt something hard under his foot. quickly he pushed aside the hay revealing a small trap-door with a little ring in the centre with which to lift it. the captain caught sight of it as andy cleared away the straw and cried out :— “ look! there's a door!" quite as though he were the first to see it. “ i see it ! " retorted andy, a little bit angry at jinks, “i couldn't help it very well, as i was the one to uncover it ! " “yes, yes," cried jinks, “that's right, you . the toytown trolley un-covered it, but i dis-covered it ! " he added triumphantly. “because you see i was the first to speak of it !" “ well, as long as you wan t all the vi ’_ ¥ i } glory of the ' thing," said andy, “sup- posing you "do a little of the work. s u p - p o s i n g you lift the cover off l " -- as tuscan with all -us might." “ anything to be obliging, i'm sure l " replied the captain, with what was meant to be an airy flourish of his right arm. he tugged with all his might at the ring but could not budge it an inch. “ why, captain !" cried andy, almost chok- ing with laughter,“ how do you expect to pull up the lid when you're standing on it yourself !" ii. andy’s adventures on noah’s ark “it doesn't matter, it doesn't matter!" re- plied the captain, lcheerily. “i don't weigh more than six pounds, and six pounds more or less to pull up doesn't make any dif- ference to me l" “ oh, captain jinks, you old simpleton !" cried andy, giving the rag doll a little push out of the way. -the captain lost his balance and sat down in a heap; and he sat where he fell, and kept repeating over and over to himself, as though he thought it of the greatest importance, “i dish-covered it—i dish-covered it." with one mighty pull andy had yanked aside the lid and there was revealed a small flight of stairs that led down into the darkness below. “ well, whoever would have thought of finding a stairway inside a haystack ! " cried andy, and, with a hasty call to the captain to follow him, he descended the steps. at the bottom he found himself in a long, narrow, low-roofed tunnel, and at the very end a small patch of the toytown trolley ' .~~‘>-- .: -f-__-__.-i; fl l"=:§::::~_ :=.--*=- -t %. daylight shone in. at the moment came another tinkle of the bell, and at that sound the captain ‘became so excited that he fell all the way down the steps. “ the trolley l " he cried, catching at andy's hand. “come, hurry, or we shall certainly miss it !" his fall did not seem to have injured him at all. and now they began to run the faster with every step. about every ten steps the captain would trip and fall, but he did not let alittle thing like that retard their progress; when he fell he would just roll on till he came feet end up and then he would start to run on again. but this performance, so often re- peated, was a little trying for andy, as the captain kept tight hold of his hand all the time. at last they reached the opening of the tunnel, and there stood the trolley which the captain had been so afraid of missing. andy rubbed his eyes and looked again. was it -=- % l l l l | l l li li |= ,. ll j! l.' l i. l | l __._ *kv- ._ < l l l i i l l andy's adventures on noah's ark really? yes, it was—one of the little tin cars from the nursery. as andy remembered it, the cars were so small he could pick up the whole train in his hands. but this car was of a monstrous size, big enough for andy to get into. and then he remembered that it was because he had shrunk that the car looked so large. now andy had often wondered if there were really and truly seats inside his cars, just as there are in the real cars people travel in. but the windows were only painted and so were the doors and so andy had never been able to look inside. now, however, the windows were all open and dolls of all kinds were looking out. in one window appeared the head of his cousin elsa's french doll, she who had real hair and could open and shut her eyes. she caught sight of andy at that moment and nodded and smiled at him quite like an old acquaint- ance, and andy, who was a very polite little boy, lifted his cap and bowed in response the toytown trolley though it struck him afterward that bowing to a doll was a very funny thing for a boy to do and he made up his mind he would never tell anybody about it lest he should be teased. ‘the captain was standing by one of the windows, talking away to a friend he had met, and andy went to the rear platform. there he was astonished "to see one of his tin soldiers, evidently acting as conductor of this queer carload. “ no dogs allowed on this car ! " said the conductor, in a hoarse voice, and he looked straight at andy. andy felt that some reply was expected, so he said, rather sharply, “i should think that you could see i have no dog." “ well, my eyesight isn't very good these days," replied the conductor, “and i didn't know but what you might have a dog or two concealed in your pocket or somewhere." andy made no answer to this absurd re- mark and started to get aboard the car. andy's adventures on noah's ark “ where's your ticket ?" “ i—i haven't any," faltered andy. “well, you'll have to buy one, then," an- nounced the conductor, frowning fiercely at andy. é ' tu“tuv t?’ ' vg\| - ‘ lit“ ("hvan y ‘i /i ~ ‘‘mmj \/\”ve=lp"'» sea “ no noes allowed ! " s/no ' -ts counucrox. “where shall i buy one, please?" asked andy, looking vainly around for any sign of a ticket office in the woods that surrounded the car. “it doesn't make any difference to me where you buy it, said the conductor shortly. - the toytown trolley then he closed one eye and gazed intently at the sky. “i'm here to run this car," he announced, without addressing anyone in particular, “ and not to act as a bureau of information. some people ask more questions " he stopped abruptly and walked slowly into the car. it was not really a walk, for the tin soldier's feet were still fastened to their metal base. it was really a series of short hops. as soon as the conductor had disappeared, andy quietly mounted the steps and went inside. at that moment there was a crash ; then a babel of dolls' voices and the patter of many feet. ¢ ~ the lead soldier and tfie brownie robbers ~ k '\ ‘.‘...-.. -...- ‘- chapter iii. the lead soldier and the brownie robbers. ‘ i ‘he crash and the general hubbub which occurred immediately on andy’s enter- ing the toytown trolley car, he at once saw was due to- the sudden collapse of the tin soldier who was acting as conductor. that gentleman, while hopping along the aisle of the car, had managed to trip himself up, and, of course, had fallen full length. he lay there perfectly helpless, while the various occupants of the car gathered around, issued orders, and made suggestions, but no one attempted to help him. “ it's a fit, i think!" cried judy, who was one of the passengers. “ nonsense, my dear i" replied punch, with a knowing look. “ it's just a little dizziness, that's all." i andy's adventures on noah's ark u , . - . ,, hes in a dead faint, i know he is. said the french doll in a hushed sort of voice. “ oh ! isn't there a doctor anywhere?" ‘ “ call a doctor—where's the doctor ?" cried the other passengers in chorus, and they pro- ceeded to search the car, looking under the seats, and in all the absurd and impossible places you could think of. “the stupid things!" thought andy, and, walking up, he cried in a bold voice: “stand one side, if you please; i'll put him on his feet." at this the soldier, who had been lying like one asleep, opened his eyes and lookedup at andy. “you've got some~sense—y u have!" he muttered. then he turned his gaze on the group of dolls. “gabbling hens!" he growled contemptu- ously. at that the dolls all fiounced back to their seats, and left andy alone to put the soldier on his feet. - - - - ‘ ‘ - l‘__ - - - - _ _ i ‘ ‘ - i -’-*_—*' -‘...¢- * _ ,-|--\, \ £‘ el‘ ‘ i .| ._ ' ‘i i" ‘ ll‘ - ,-- ‘ill‘ - l||.|:"-. i i '- \ % \ / /it '\ i\ \ \\\ - ( .\'\ nv fi \ c // x? ’ -- ---- .. 'o - .‘‘‘‘- ‘|.,oz— \ \ i ‘ _ _ i e ‘-.a.._.- a‘ '.."; . ‘... i ‘’. lead soldier and brownie robbers this was no easy job as that individual made no effort to help himself, but kept per- fectly rigid when andy took him by the shoulders and boosted him to an upright position. “thankee very kindly!" said the man of metal when andy, ‘panting from his efforts, had finished the job. “ don't mention it !" replied andy politely. “but say," he added, "you're as heavy as lead, do you know it?" and he wiped the per- spiration from his brow. “ naturally i " retorted the conductor, “ see- ing that's what i am made of l" “oh, i beg your pardon!" cried andy, fearing the other was offended. everyone seemed so touchy in this queer land. “i didn't mean to joke about it!" then he added by way of changing the subject, “ tell me how you came to be aiconductor ? " “ well, it was this way," replied the other. “at first i was for going in for the navy, but i ; l l ‘ andy's adventures an noah's ark the trouble was the water doesn't agree with me. even as a boy i never could swim—factl i had the very best of teachers, too. my parents spared no expense, but somehow it wasn't any use. the last teacher i had—he was a canvas-back duck and a superb swim- mer—told me that my specific gravity was what kept me from learning. i dare say you've noticed my gravity?" added the con- ductor, looking anxiously at andy. “ not 'specially," replied the boy. “ well," the other went on, “i took to making jokes and telling funny stories in the hopes that it would make me more light- hearted and buoyant: but somehow it didn't keep me afloat whenever i got in the water." just then somebody shouted, “all aboard !' and the trolley-car bounded off at a terrific rate of speed. the conductor started to take up the tickets and andy wondered what he was going to do about it, as he had none. he soon noticed, however, that instead of - lead soldier and brownie robbers real tickets, the dolls offered bits of candy and cake which the conductor accepted, bit into, and then returned. if it happened to be a very nice kind of candy, it was to be noticed that the conductor returned mighty little. one doll, a small-sized china doll with one arm gone and wearing a very tattered gown offered a piece of chewing gum. the conductor eyed it suspiciously and then re- l‘ turned it, remarking, _-mum,’sm> ..w,~»mdr.~~“that's no good on this train; that's been used before !" which was perfectly true, for the doll had been chewing on it ever since she had boarded the car. captain jinks came to her rescue by offering two peppermint creams for himself and the one-armed doll. in the mean time andy had been searching h |‘ - _ > i i i i f l. f ! v \ i i i i - ..‘ ;‘§..‘._-..-- i i i i andy's adventures on noah's ark in his pockets for a stray bit of candy and as the conductor reached his side he handed him a vanilla wafer. the conductor broke it into two, ate one-half and stuck the other in andy's hat band. “ that's your return coupon !" he said. “it must be bully to be conductor on this line," andy remarked, “ cos you get so many nice things to eat." “ not always nice," replied the other with a slow shake of his head. “ once i got a piece of april fool candy— remember i didn't get over z‘/tat for a week. another time my teeth got stuck fast in a chocolate caramel. so i couldn't open my mouth to ask for tickets or call out the names of the stations. i had a dreadful time of it." “what salary do you get ?" inquired andy, very much interested in the man's career. “i get ten cents a year and all i can eat," said he proudly. “ it's an awful lot of money —isn't it?" he went on in a solemn tone of andy’s adventures on noah’s ark and carrying pistols as big as themselves, swarmed into the car and ordered everybody to hold up their hands. the conductor made a feeble attempt to use his gun ; but as it was glued close to his side he only succeeded in shooting a couple of holes in the roof. the leader of the band came up to andy, who sat with folded arms, and pointing his u ‘i' weapon at him he cried shrilly, surrender . “shan't!" retorted andy boldly. “i'm a boy—i am ; and you are nothing but a lot of cloth brownies stuffed with cotton !" yelling and screaming, the whole band made straight for the rebellious andy. % _ - ~ ‘ i‘ ‘iii. l-i,"m-h‘bl|]h~-_ f'u\h‘x‘m-lnh -‘, ‘ ‘ - ‘..‘‘:£ . ,, fllyhk ‘m “ dry goods and notions f f \ chapter iv. ! “ dry goods and notions.. as the brownie robbers pressed close up to andy he heard a small voice in his ear whisper, “throw this at them!" and he felt something being shoved into his hand. he looked down and saw that it was a. giant torpedo. without stopping to think what the consequences might be he flung it straight at the brownies. the next instant there was a fearful explosion, and then andy felt himself flying through the air. he hit against some- thing and clutched wildly at it. it was a low- hanging limb of a tree. then andy dropped lightly to the ground and looked about him. to his intense surprise he saw his hobby horse, with -jinks astride, come dashing down the road. the horse had lost its rockers and andy's adventures on noah's ark was now trotting along quite like an' ordinary animal. as for the captain, he was bouncing up and down on its back like a great rubber ball. all signs of the trolley car and its oc- cupants had disappeared. “lucky i ran across this animal," r e - marked the q captainas ' ifi’ andy clam- >.” r —;i», i ‘l) , l .|.-|"l'l'l". q m‘ ‘ bered up be- _ hind him, “or w e w o u l d <; surely h a v e m is s e d the boat " . . . . . “ -ns i-{obby—l-(orse wrrn jinks astride." “oh! do we have to take a boat now?" asked andy. “ no ! " said jinks, sharply, “i should say not! it's the boat that takes us." - “well, that's what i meant," said poor ~“dry goods and notions” andy, who was tired of having everybody cor- rect him. “ well, i'm no mind-reader!" snapped the captain, who seemed to be in a very bad humor. they rode in silence for some time, and andy began to get very tired of being jounced up and down. “i wish this horse would change his gait," he remarked at last, rather wearily. “stuff and nonsense!" cried jinks, very angrily. “i don't see any gate, anyway, and if there was one it isn't the horse's place to change it. at that andy gave up trying to talk to jinks, and he amused himself by looking about him. presently he discovered a most astonishing thing. the road they were trav- elling kept curving to the right, and andy noticed that every little while they passed a certain big tree. ' “i do believe," he thought, “that we are andy's adventures on noah's ark going around in a circle ! and if that is the case we could ride for a week and we'd never reach the boat." just then the hobby-horse, which had slowed down to a walk, suddenly bounded forward in a dead run. poor andy was taken unawares and slid off the rear onto the ground. he called to jinks to stop him, but the scared look that gentleman flung over his shoulder showed very plainly that the horse was beyond his control. andy started to run after the runaway, then he paused, as a brilliant idea came to him. “why, all i have to do," he said to him- self, “ is to sit down and wait. they're bound to come around pretty soon. probably by the time the horse has run around the circle a few times more he’ll be glad to stop." with this comforting thought andy proceeded to look about him for a nice, comfortable spot where he might sit and rest while waiting for captain jinks. suddenly he became aware that right across " -ii-ii: “dry goods and notions” -u--.-h-_-'- the road from where he sat was a funny little store, with a sign above the door which read, “ dry goods and notions." “that's funny!" thought andy. “i never noticed that place before. i think i'll go over and see what's inside." with that he stepped on the road to cross over to the other side. no sooner had he stepped on the road than the store and all the trees around it seemed to fly past him. and then andy made another interesting dis- covery ; the road itself was moving along like a merry-go-round. while andy was wonder- ing what to do, he saw the same little store coming towards him. so just as it was oppo- site he jumped off the road on that side and walked up to the door. it was open, so he walked right in. the interior was very dark, but when his eyes had become accus- tomed to the poor light he saw a queer-look- ing object sitting behind the counter. at first he thought it was a very wrinkled andy's adventures on noah's ark old woman and then he was astonished to dis- cover it was an owl with a funny old cap on its head. the creature never stirred, but looked straight before it blinking sleepily. presently it moved its head and looked at andy sideways. “ well, boy, can't you speak? " said the owl in a shrill voice. “ yes'm," said andy meekly. now he had often seen the sign “ dry goods and notions," and had often wondered what “ notions " might be. he had a dim idea that it might be something good to eat so he thought this a fine opportunity to find out. “if you please, ma'am," said andy in a timid voice, “ i should like a notion." “ very sorry," replied the owl, “but we haven't an ocean left. i sold the atlantic and pacific last week. and, anyway, we only keep dry goods now, nothing in the liquid line whatever." “ i didn't say an ocean i said a notion," ex- plained andy, trying not to laugh. andy's adventures on l\ioah's ark “try another notion!" suggested the owl, very much in the tone of voice one might ask somebody to try another cough drop. this time the paper read :—-“ it's the same time it was this time last time." “ i'm afraid that doesn't help me any," said andy politely, and he started out to find jinks. “ wouldn't you like a horse blanket or something choice in dog collars!" called the owl after him. “ no, thank you ! " replied andy. “or rocking chairs or hairpins," the owl went on in a melancholy voice. “ or flag poles, or fish hooks, or f-a-a-ans ! " . the owl's voice had gotten shriller and shriller until with the last word it had become as piercing as a whistle; and andy had to cover his ears with his hands as he ran off pell- mell. when he took his hands down he could still hear the sound, but it seemed to have changed i i //-- i v / ;//, /i / <¢ ' wi, ' ‘/ /.. / ' if i//i’! - / , //// ’, ;{i§ i ~ ff, iilf\il m llll . . i \ \ |ll'll" / '| ////i / ‘// //, /' if l j llr \ ll \ ” wt. "now here's a very good notion said the o § \ i i i \ i ' m - \ . ' i _ ‘ - .. a “dry goods and notions” a little, and now the boy saw that it was really a whistle blown from a familiar-looking boat some distance ahead and moored at a dock. andy stopped short in wonder, for he sud- denly recognized it as his own noah's ark. he knew it by the hole in the lid or roof where he had knocked off a jagged piece of wood but the day before. now, strange to say, the long neck and mild face of a wooden giraffe rose up through this opening. after scanning the horizon, the animal called out, “ all clear ahead, and the tide on the turn, captain." this announcement was evidently meant for noah himself, for that worthy came hopping around a corner of the ark and proceeded to stutter out about a hundred orders to his sons and a couple of the ark monkeys who seemed to be doing duty as longshoremen. - “ stand by the hawsers there, and be ready to cast off ! " the absurd little fellows evidently were andy's adventures on noah's ark “hi, there! captain noah!" he called shrilly. “ vi/ait for me !" andy fairly flew over the intervening space of gently inclined turf. when too late the boy saw that the boat was too far out for him to reach it by jumping, and he tried to stop himself. . doughnut life-preservers and a poetical horse i -----‘_‘__._._.__i -.....,...*.<.-= -.._--s l chapter v. doughnut life-preservers and a poetical horse. h e heard wild shouts of, “ look out i clear the road there !" and then he splashed into the water. andy was frightened for a moment, for he could not swim very well. as his head came up, he saw ham leaning over the bow of the ark, which, to andy's surprise, loomed up as large as a canal-boat. the next instant ham threw him a life-preserver tied to a rope. andy grabbed at it, and then he burst out laughing, for it was nothing but a huge cruller, with a hole in the centre, and it was tied to a piece of darning cotton. painted on it in large letters was the warning: i don't eat the life-preserver. instead of keeping him up, the doughnut began to pull him down below the surface; so doughnut life-preserver \ gettin' so old it makes him absent-minded. he went into a restaurant by mistake, and when he asked for a life-preserver they gave him this. and then it was so cheap, only five cents l" “lt would make a much better anchor, i should say," remarked andy, thoughtfully, “ or a sinker for your fish line." “well yer see it's just this ere way!" re- marked ham who was rather weak in his gram- mar. “ bein' as 'ow we are an arktic explora- tion party we've got to provide agin' all kinds ' mishaps. “ now one o' the worst things to be afeard of is starvin' to death. you never happened to starve to death, did ye, sir? well, i come near it once. at last havin' nothin' else to eat, i ate an animal cracker—it was polar bear one, too, i remember, an' a fine fat fellow. i remember it was a' thursday i started in on 'im. ‘e lasted till sunday arternoon. 'fact, ifl don't forget, i had one of 'is hind legs left over fer monday breakfast." - doughnut life-preserver says pop, wotever we leave behind on this trip it mustn't be victuals. just then up comes the giraffe who'd been hearin' wot had been said; an' says he to pop, ‘ i've often thought if the masts was made ' sticks of peppermint candy and the life-preservers was made of sponge-cake how many people might have been saved from starvation. ' " “ but goodness i" cried andy “ what good would asponge-cake preserver be when it came to drowning?" - “ ah!" cried ham, closing his left eye. “ but wot good would a life-preserver be if you were starvin' to death. you can't eat cork, you know." “ no-o," said andy doubt- fully. the argument seemed unanswerable, and yet he couldn't reason it out to his own satisfaction. “well then, supposing the boat should sink, how could you save people?" “oh, that's all attended to!" cried i-lam. “we've got a big lot of long loaves of french bread. all you've got to do is to hol- r andy's adventures on noah’s ark low out the inside and they float like anything ! so you can't say we aren't prepared for the ' ) worst . he wound up triumphantly. - it occurred to andy that it would have been more sensible to have real life-preservers that would float, and loaves of bread that one could eat, but ham seemed so pleased with their cleverness in preparing for a long voyage that andy didn't have the heart to say he thought it a very silly arrangement. just then the ark swung around so that her stern was within a few feet'of the dock. at the same moment andy caught sight of jinks, still astride the rocking horse, making for the ark and waving his arms. “ oh, there's jinks ! do wait a moment for him !" cried andy. ham shook his head as he walked slowly away. “ couldn't think of it. the boat's be- hind the tide-table now, and we -can't afford to be no later." “ what's a tide-table ?" asked andy, for- -_ -- : === ‘_ doughnut life-preserver getting his approaching friend for the mo- ment. “say young feller!" remarked ham con- temptuously, “you can't know the fust rudi- ments of runnin' an ark. we don't travel by steam. no more do we travel by sail. we go out with the tide, an' we come back with the tide. if we miss the tide we have to wait till the next day." “ that must be an awtul slow way to travel i" said andy. - “i slow, but sure is our motto !" retorted ham. “ railroad trains is often delayed. steamboats break down sometimes ; but time, tide, and the ark wait for nothin' i " “what's the rate of speed?" “ 'bout aninch a minute. an'a pretty pace i call it, too i" said ham, as he hopped off. andy turned towards land at the sound of clattering hoofs wondering if jinks could possibly reach the boat. the boy thought for a moment that the horse and rider would both andy's adventures on noah's ark plunge into the water, but no such thing happened. at the very edge the horse stopped short, with his feet planted stiff out before him ; while poor jinks, by sheer force of %%’ ’~q_ lhl ilg \ . \. ’ , //z_. poor jinks went flying through the air. momentum, went flying through the air and landed gracefully on his head on the deck_ the horse stood for a moment, gazing at his # ' doughnut life-preserver recent rider; then, apparently satisfied that he had accomplished his errand, he wheeled about and galloped away. “clever horse that!" remarked jinks, still standing on his head. “ now, if you'll kindly put me right side up, i'll be obliged." jinks was quite a heavyweight for the small andy to handle, and the rag doll was so fear- fully helpless, especially in the management of his legs ; but after a little hard work the boy had his friend in a more comfortable position. “ there!" murmured jinks, with a sigh of relief. “ that's better. i've always wanted to take an ocean voyage. i call this bully!" just then a growl of animal voices, mingled with the shriller tones of captain noah, was heard from the forward deck. the giraffe stretched his long neck through the hole in the roof, from which point he could gain a good view forward. “ say, fellows ! " he chuckled, looking down on andy and jinks. “old noah's havin' a s andy's adventures on noah's ark bully row with the elephant. better go and see -the fun i" and he disappeared. on going forward, andy found such a mob of animals surrounding the elephant and noah that he could see nothing of what was going on. all the animals were speaking at once, and the din was nearly deafening, andy found himself next to the giraffe. so he asked him politely what seemed to be the matter. “why, you see, it's this way," began the giraffe. “this is a night boat, but the ele- phant has eaten up all the bedding. just now the lion thought he'd lie down and take a snooze, and of course there wasn't anything to lie down on except the bare floor. the ele- phant says it's a pretty how de do if a fellow can't enjoy a quiet little meal without having every one pitch into him, and the lion says he is going to write to the management and have captain noah removed. noah says that if a person doesn't know the difference between bedding and feed it isn't his fault. he says doughnut life-preserver - i i i he never carried an elephant on this boat yet that didn't give him a lot of trouble." “ i've often heard of having an elephant on your hands," said andy, very much pleased .. ,,”‘/ ii\i ' ' l \ '/) , ‘ i (w ~' "* ~—z —/-*y_*. /‘z %’ noah was in a furious tempbr. with his own shrewdness, “but i never knew quite what that meant before." one by one the animals wandered back into the interior of the ark and with much grunting and snuffiing and shuffling they proceeded to \~* , ;! § * ) y ‘/ if ~t’li ".i’$ ' \ \/ andy's adventures on noah's ark settle themselves for a ‘nap. andy found himself all alone for the moment, while jinks was way up in the bow indulging in a little nautical talk with captain noah. the boy felt a timid touch on his arm and / - .‘ -.g~‘ !i/\ \ i j i \ £ - e ~ ? it ‘\, “ are you pond or poetry? " looking around he beheld a mild-eyed horse gazing at him rather appealingly. “ are you fond of poetry?" the gentle crea- ture asked, with much eagerness. “ well some kinds—the funny kind," replied andy frankly. \ doughnut life-breservei‘ “ really? well as for me-—-i just dote on the works of robert browning." “ who's he ? " asked andy. “ dear me i never heard of him ? "exclaimed the horse in a shocked tone of voice. “why, browning is a famous poetizer. his very name suggests something that's ‘we/z done.' " there was a slight pause. “that was a clever remark of mine, you know !" murmured the horse timidly. “ what isaid about being well done—browned, you know—see ? ' “yes. i suppose that is very clever i" ad- mitted andy doubtfully. “ do you write poe- try yourself ? " “ well you see i " simpered the horse, “ i do a little versification in the way of business. it's my method of curing stuttering. before ijoined noah's arktic tour for my health, i ran what i called a “ horsepital for stuttering quadrupeds. " andy's adventures on noah's ark “i didn't know that horses could talk, let alone stutter !" cried andy. “that's just it; they are all stutterers by nature, and it makes 'em so ashamed they have given up trying to talk at all i " explained the horse. “if you asked one if he could talk, he'd probably de-neigh it i “ my method of curing stuttering is very simple. the first year i make the pupil say ‘ prisms, prunes, and pumpkin-pie’ three times every half hour, in alternation with ‘cranberry crutches, and crullers.' when the pupil can do that with a pint of oats in his mouth at the same time, without losing the oats, he is ready for the second year, or senior class. “on graduation-day every patient, or i should say pupil, is obliged to recite a little poem which i have composed for the occasion. “ if the pupil can get through the last line of it without getting twisted he is given the degree of ‘c. o. s.' which means ‘cured of stuttering.' ° doughnut life-preserver -—~ j-~ “here is a copy of the poem," added the horse, blushing prettily as he hauled a bit of paper from his pocket. “i assure you it is strictly original with me. it may strike you perhaps as having some of the soft brown- ing feeling—lamb is usually well done you know—but it's rather pleasing fancy, is entirely my own ! " - this is what andy read on the piece of paper: mary had a little lamb with green peas on the side ; and when the waiter brought the bill, the lady loudly cried : “a dollar-ten—my goodness, me ! i call that awful‘ steep l" the waiter merely murmured, “ ma'am, “ we do not keep cheap sheep l " “sweet idea, isn't it?" giggled the horse, and with a kindly nod he hobbled away, leav- ing andy to re-adjust his opinion of the value of horse sense. \ j ~ unicorn-on-z‘/ze-cob i but wooden animals, anyway, and that he owned them. still, somehow, he felt just a little uneasy. “we're likely to have lots of weather be- fore we reach the pole," went on his high- ness, the lion, leaning his front paws on the edge of the table and speaking in a confiden- tial tone of voice. “are we going to the north pole?" asked andy, much interested. “ to be sure we are." “ why ? " asked andy, “ because the north pole won't come to us l " said the lion. then he turned savagely on the others, who were listening intently. “ that's a joke ! " he roared. immediately everybody laughed and sput- tered in a feeble sort of way and looked half frightened to death. ' the lion beamed graciously on them. "“ it's a most congenial company, and we have such lovely times together," he remarked, pleas- andy's adventures on noah's ark antly. “and it's nice to have people who so thoroughly appreciate your jokes." “ but that was an awfully poor joke of yours," said the truthful andy. “i know it, but it's good enough for these n‘ “mks dz- q/l - “i'u. try a little roast mu'l’l‘ n," said “ ossy.” dumb creatures," answered the lion, who seemed to be in an excellent humor. then he leaned over till his whiskers tickled andy's cheek. “ are there any of those present you would like to be introduced to ?" he whispered. “they're really a most distinguished lot. unicorn-on-t/ze-cob some of them are very big personages indeed —very big," and here the lion looked very hard atthe elephant and the rhinoceros. “but size doesn't always count!" replied andy, not a bit impressed. the lion looked nettled and turned to the rhinoceros. “ ‘ ossy,' old man," he asked, “do you count ? " - “ ossy " was fast asleep at that moment, with his head on the table. but a porcupine, who sat next to him, stuck a quill in him and he sat up with ajump. . the question was repeated. “ oh! yes i" he simpered. “i can count up to eleven and a half !"' “there, you see, he does count i " cried the lion, triumphantly. andy started to explain that that was not what he meant, when old noah woke up sud- denly. he rang a large bell and his two sons, shem and ham, rushed in. “ serve dinner now i "he muttered, hoarsely, andy's adventures on noah's ark and then fell asleep again. ham went up to the lion and bowed. “will you have fish balls, snowballs or cannon balls ? " he asked. r.- q" i/#'\ ff’ i |\ \ /,/. q\\'¢ "i'll have a little fried ham! said the lion. ! . “i think i will have a little fried ham! his highness answered grimly, staring fixedly at the poor man. ioo andy's adventures on noah's ark shem and noah over the head and sent them sprawling on the floor, where they lay blink- ing up at the ceiling." - “ the next chap that lays hands on me, i'll drill full of holes," he growled. the lion strolled down toward the unicorn u ////////////” §; is is ti-ie lion strolled toward the unicorni and smiled kindly on him. “we've stood by each other before now," he said, “principally on coats-of-arms and over swell shops, and so we'll have to stand by one another again, i guess i " “do i get my dinner, or don't i?" thun- dered the elephant, waving his trunk in a most l andy's- adventures on noah's ark “i think it must be iceland," exclaimed “ ossy " to andy. “iceland nothing i" growled a polar bear, who was heading the expedition to find the north pole. “what is your opinion?" asked the timid sheep of andy. - “ well, i can tell you what it looks like—it looks exactly like floating island, and it's the nicest kind of pudding i know of!" - a swell musicale \ \ i i i i i i i i i ' i \ *-.--....‘ ‘hq.--‘_> --‘*- **- - ‘ - ~< * -‘- -*-‘_. i—_li ~ \ chapter vii. a swell musicale. andy glanced down at the water and noticed that it was a pale yellow, and thickish. “i'll bet this is a custard sea i" leaning over the edge he dipped a finger in the liquid and then put it to his lips. “ crackyl it's good!" he cried. every- body followed his example, and the giraffe had the best of it, because he had so much neck. the lion pulled a quill out of the porcupine, which he said worked better than a straw, and before five minutes had passed all the animals were leaning over the side of the ark sucking in soft custard through quills; all except the poor porcupine, who hadn't one left. andy's adventures ‘on noah's ark suddenly there was a shock and a dull thud as the ark ran into the floating island. a great mass of the glistening stuff, nicely fla- vored with lemon, stretched out before them; and then all the animals began lapping it up or guzzling it down, each one according to his bringing up. everybody aboard the ark was so busy eat- ing the floating island that no one noticed how‘ dark it was getting. the sea had changed to its natural green color, and big billows set the ark to pitching and rolling, the motion growing more violent with every second. a swell musicale salty spray dashed over the deck and spoiled what was left of the pudding, and presently the poor animals, who were not any too steady on their feet anyway, toppled over on their sides and lay strewn about the deck. their little wooden legs being perfectly stiff, they could not get up themselves, and kind-hearted andy, with the ever-obliging captain jinks, went around putting the ani- mals upright. this was rather disheartening work, as they promptly fell over as fast as they were righted. noah and all his family were also lying on their backs, the little round bases on which their feet were glued making them roll around in a circle. “ i never was so upset in my life!" inur- mured the lion peevishly, as andy set him up- right for the seventeenth time. to make-matters worse, great waves that felt to andy like warm soapsuds swept the deck and threatened to sweep everybody into the sea. just then andy heard a cry for help we ~ i \ii\ ii "' ssh w away %l||mul »--‘,/ iii p a swell musicale a monster wave came dashing over the boat, and the next second a poor sheep went floating by, bleating feebly. “ something has got to be done ! " remarked andy decidedly. *‘ the nutton's done—very well done, i should say," muttered jinks, pointing to the disappearing sheep. “come, jinks," ' cried andy ; “ help me carry everybody indoors." . i “ aye, aye, sir!" responded that worthy, and seizing on the lion, they first escorted him to a place of safety. next they made for old i andy's adventures on noah's ark noah, who was rolling around the deck in a most amazing way. as the two rescuers ap- proached, noah came rolling toward them with such fury that before he could jump aside the old fellow had tripped up jinks and sent him sprawling. * ». h “wot 're yer tryin' to do?" growled that gentleman, as he scrambled to his feet. “ i beg your pardon!" cried noah, in feeble tones. “but i'm that restless to-day i can't lie still." i a swell musicale h it's the force of gravity that makes you roll," put in andy, who to tell the truth was not a little proud of his scientific knowl- edge. “well, do you think that i ought to take something for it?" inquired captain noah, anxiously. here he rolled off in a great hurry. when he rolled back again andy said, laughing, “it isn't anything that you take medicine for. there are several kinds. for instance, there's specific gravity." “well, this can't be pacific gravity," re- joined noah, “because we are sailing on the atlantic." . andy didn't just know what specific gravity meant himself, -so he didn't attempt to ex- plain. “ come, noah," he said, “jinks and i are going to put you inside the ark, where you'll be safe. " “ look to the passengers first ! "cried noah, grandly. “ the captain, you know, is always the last one to be saved. take in the others. the north pole at last starting. here they found most of the cabin taken up with a long counter with great high stools before it. the giraffe was the first to take a seat. ham stood behind the counter. he seemed to be nearly frozen with the cold, and his teeth chattered so he could hardly speak, “i know what i'll have," murmured the lion, looking meaningly at noah's son, “ i'll have a little cold ham i" “ no yer won't i " remarked that fellow sul- lenly. “this ain't no d la carte bill of fare!" “ no; i suppose it's cl la ark i " retorted the lion. “ a joke!' he added savagely, pounding the table. everybody immediately yelled and howled with merriment. . there were two bowls on the counter. one was full of oyster shells and the other con- tained nothing more appetizing than bran. the giraffe sniffed daintily at the latter. “is it perfectly fresh?" he inquired. “ it's bran new! " said ham. “look here!" yelled the lion, as a few andy's adventureson noah's ark started to laugh, “if you get off another pun like that i'll -lick the paint off you ! " the poor fellow edged his way up the counter as far from the lion as he could. “ what have you got to eat, anyway?" asked andy. “ oats, peas, beans, and barley," began ham in a monotonous tone. “is that the menu, or is that a song?" in- quired a camel, with polite sarcasm. “you may bring me two quarts of oats!' said the donkey. “and i'll have a little of everything!" eagerly remarked the giraffe. “ pig ! " growled the elephant. the giraffe's mild eyes filled with tears. “the doctor said that i must eat plenty of nourishing things," he murmured gently. “ try a ham omelet!" suggested the lion, with a wink at andy. - “aw! give us a rest on that joke !" cried the unicorn. “your jokes are the stupidest things i ever heard, anyway! " i the north pole at last - “i am an englishman!" replied the lion proudly, as though that settled the question. “ have you any pie or pudding?" asked andy, who, like all the boys, was very fond of sweets. “naw!" growled ham, who had grown very ill-tempered. “we don't serve no des- sert nohow! " “what ridiculosity!" exclaimed a camel. “ where i come from we have very little else than desert. all the animals screamed at this joke, and a h heavy-weight pig became so hysterical that the lion and the unicorn had to carry him out in the fresh air and fan him. he continued to squeal for a long time after. however, as the lion amused himself by making sailor's knots in piggie's tail, it was no wonder. when the lion returned the animals were still laughing at the camel's joke, which seemed to make the lion very jealous. “ stop laughing, everybody i" he roared, andy's adventures noah's ark and when there was dead silence he turned to the camel with an angry scowl. “if you do that again," he muttered, “ i'll put another hump on your back i " suddenly the ark, which had been running along smoothly and swiftly, came to an abrupt stop, and everybody rushed for the door— everybody except the giraffe, who had just commenced on the bowl of oyster shells. “three cheers!" yelled andy, for there just ahead of them was the north pole, sure enough. on top of it was a weather-vane, and whichever way it pointed, it always pointed south. andy was puzzled, then his eyes brightened. “why, of course!" he said to himself. “ no matter which way you start off from the north pole you are bound to go south. there's no other way to go !" did that ever occur to you, dear reader? andy went up to a huge pile of what he took for snow. he tasted of it and found i $ . ;-> / x gag l q §\\ fig //%/%/%// \ '% peppbrm nt candy- f \vas made o no th th i the north pole at last it was the most delicious lemon ice. then he made another discovery; a large silver spoon was already sticking into the tempting mess. i “the king will knight me for this grand discovery of the pole!" remarked the lion, swelling out his chest. “ i may even be made a baronet." “what did the baron eat?" cried the giraffe, who had just arrived upon the scene. “ you make me sick!" cried the lion in disgust. “i wish to goodness you'd go away and eat lemon ice till you freeze your- self." “ hurray !" suddenly shouted andy. “ come on, fellows; the pole is made of peppermint candy and it tastes bully i " a horse doctor and an accident chapter xi. a horse doctor and an accident. andy found the lemon icebergs and the vanilla icebergs so delicious that he had eaten three of each before he discovered, what with the cold without and cold within, he was nearly frozen. the hungry giraffe had been licking ‘the. north pole—-which was a giant stick of peppermint candy, you remember—so that pretty soon he had worn it almost through half way up and the upper part finally toppled over with a crash. this interesting trophy was carried aboard the ark by some of the animals. it was decided to leave somebody to guard it, and as the giraffe seemed so willing and obliging in the matter, he was appointed “custodian of the north pole." in order to warm up a bit, andy, suggested i ‘ andy's adventures on noah's ark us i " a game. let's dance the virginia reel, he cried. “ you mean the real virginia, don't you ?" put in the unicorn, who prided himself on his english grammar. “ ‘ real ' is a qualifying adjective and should precede the noun." “ but that isn't the kind of real i mean," retorted andy, laughing. “ the kind i mean is spelled r-e-e-l, reel." “oh i you mean afishing reel," replied the unicorn, with a nod of understanding. “what you meant to say was, ‘ let's wind the virginia reel.' " “ you could make a very nice rhyme about that," remarked a poetic cow, gently nodding her head up and down. “ for instance— how i love to wind the reel, oh i the real ‘ virginia real,' while i hear the church bells peal " sweet potatoes, and i feel--—" “ if you feel as you talk, you'd better call in a doctor," cried the lion, rudely. “ if you'll a horse doctor and an accident allow me to criticise" (here the lion bowed low), “ your verses are very tripe—er—i mean very trite." “ i still maintain that it is not good form to say ‘dance a virginia reel,' " put in the uni- corn, obstinately. “ you're talking through your horn i" shouted the lion, angrily. “ in england we always call that dance, “ ‘ sir roger de coverlet'— ahem—-at least, it's something like that." “ perhaps you mean sir roger de bed- spread," murmured a mild-mannered lamb. “ i'll make a bedspread of your wool if you don't hold your tongue i" yelled the lion, in a rage. “don't you know little lambs should be eaten and not heard? i've a good mind to give you a good dressing down for your impertinence," the angry fellow went on. “ sort of a lionaise dressing, eh ? " ventured the‘ quiet camel. every one wanted to laugh at that, but the lion looked so fierce nobody dared so much as giggle. andy's adventures on noah's ark an old sheep muttered something about bad tempers and unfortunately the lion overheard him. “if i hear another word from you," he re- marked, grimly, fixing a wicked eye on the old sheep, “we'll play mutton, mutton, who's got the mutton ! " peace-loving andy cleared the warlike atmosphere by starting in dancing the reel at once. ham and jinks had just led off, when suddenly the prow of the ark rose up and the entire company slid toward the stern and lay in a panic-stricken heap. the floor of the ark was a steep inclined plane, with the animals in a terrible mix-up at the lower end. the tipping up of the ark had been so sudden that no one was able to keep his balance. ham was standing on his head, with the animals piled so thickly about him he couldn't move, and the poor unicorn had landed on his horn, which stuck fast in the deck. - a ho-rse_docto'r -ana’ an accident “ if you wouldn't mind getting off my chest," remarked afeeble voice under andy, “ i should like to take a breath or two." andy with difficulty rose to his feet, and be- held poor jinks still grinning, but looking rather pale. the ark slowly righted itself and was now again on an even keel. as jinks got up the sawdust gently trickled from a rip in his left leg. the lion strutted up at that moment, and, seeing jinks' danger, he called out in a loud voice, “ is there a doctor present? " an antiquated horse hobbled over, “i am one," he said, with great dignity. “ you i" shouted the lion, in his rude way. “you a -doctor—-why you couldn't cure a ham, you couldn't !" the horse paid no attention to this remark; and andy turned to him, a bright idea sizzling in his head. “ you're what they call a horse doctor, aren't you ?" he said pleasantly. “ i've heard of them before, but i'd never met one." a horse doctor and an accident "and what do you suppose i'd be doing while that was going on?" inquired the lion, with dangerous politeness. “ you'd probably be making a few biting remarks," suggested the camel, with a twinkle in his eye. "that puts me in mind of the trying ex- perience of an old cab horse who took up the medical profession," remarked the horse, who was sewing up jinks‘ leg with some darning cotton. “he was a fine fellow and so culti- vated. one day he was called in by a bengal tiger, who was suffering with a bad stomach- ache. ‘too much fricasseed monkey,' so he said. very indigestible dish," added the horse, looking at andy. “ did you ever try it?" “ no," replied andy, politely, “i never did." “ well," pursued the horse, “ my friend gave him the usual treatment—a thorough rubbing with axle grease and a tablespoonful of harness dressing every two hours until the patient is better—or worse. andy's 'a-dv'entures' on noah's ark “ well, when the doctor asked for his fee— it's a quart of oats avisit, you kn w—the tiger ¢ an said, not much “ i should think not. it was little enough !" cried the hungry giraffe, who was much inter- ested in the story. - “ he didn't mean that," explained the horse. “he meant he wasn't going to pay up. ‘i have been taken in !' cried my friend, the cab horse, whereupon the tiger replied, ‘ no, but you are going to be,' and with that he flew at his doctor and devoured him on the spot i" there was quite a pause as the listeners pondered over the cab horse's sad fate, when andy, wishing to change the subject, inquired of the doctor. "‘ you write ‘m. d.' after your name, don't you ?" the horse nodded. ‘ “ well, what does ‘ m. d.' stand for?" “ mighty dull," suggested the lion. “ more dosing," came from the camel. “it means ‘ master of doctoring,' '- ex- a horse doctor and an accident plained the _ horse, ignoring the~others' re- marks. just then the giraffe, who had ‘gone on deck, poked about two feet of neck in through the door to observe :—-“ noah has inflated the balloon, and we're sailing through the air at a great rate. you ought to come on deck and see the view. it's lovely!" everybody rushed for the deck, and the lion, confidentially linking his arm in andy's, majes- tically brought up therear. there was nothing to be seen but floating clouds, already the north pole and the lemon icebergs were lost to view. “ did you ever see a shoofly ? " inquired the lion playfully. “ no, but i've heard a cough drop," retorted andy, who was very fond of that brand of joke. “what would you call the man who de- signed this boat we're on?" pursued the lion, who seemed to be in a jolly mood. “ i give it up i" cried andy. andy’s adventures on noah's ark " why, an ark-itect, of course!" replied the lion, with a grin. “what fun !" cried andy. “why, this is just like the end- men at the minstrels. ask me another conundrum, please." ' before the lion could reply there came a loud report, and andy saw that the balloon had blown up. the animals seemed to lose their wits and began jumping off into space, till only andy, jinks and the lion remained on the deck. andy felt they were falling very rapidly. things grew misty, and then splash! andy had plunged into the water ! i jack-in-the-box and a disabled - engine \ \ i ci-i‘apter x. jack-in-the-box and a disabled engine. as andy rose to the surface he shook the . water out of his eyes and tried to look about for help. he could see no distance, because of the high waves, so the boy bravely struck out and soon found himself swimming in splendid fashion. ‘ “climb up on me if you're tired," said a voice in his ear. it was the giraffe with his great long neck towering above the water like a ship's mast. andy accepted the kind invitation, and, shinning up the neck as though it were the trunk of a tree, he soon found him- self high and dry. “ where are you bound for?" went on the giraffe. ~ “vi/'hy, i was going to toytown with cap- tain jinks," andy said. “but i don'-t- know andy's adventures on noah's ark what's become of him. i hope he won't drown, or anything." " not he," said the giraffe. “ he'll turn up all right. he'll swell up a bit—-sawdust peo- ple always do in the water. but a thorough drying out will fix him all right." they swam on for some time; that is, the giraffe did. andy was having an easy time of it, when they ran right into a dock, which, because of a certain fogginess, they had not noticed. “ ah i here you are !" cried the giraffe. “this is toytown. and now, good-by. oh, by the by," he added. “ i'm going up to the central park zoo next week to visit some cousins. will be glad to have you drop in any time." “ thank you very much," replied andy, “ i certainly will call." and then he turned about toward toytown. the atmosphere seemed to have cleared. in every direction were straight roads, bordered by stiff wooden fences, and here /. » / £ - .—//‘-\ /. ’ / /. —<—/ -h ~l . —— .-=-—_.-'_r-*-» - ira”! {t ;///%—/ f? iré thiy iwam on for $ m! timi ll -.i-im , jack-in-tfie-box and there were the stiffest kind of trees, which reminded andy of the toy trees in his nursery. so did the funny narrow houses that appeared here and there. andy went up to one of the trees and felt of it. “ whyl do believe they are just toy trees and toy houses i " he said to himself. and, indeed, they were! at that moment two soldiers—two of andy's tin soldiers—came hopping slowly down the road toward andy. apparently they did not notice him till just as they reached the dock. then they stopped short and stared. “where did you come from ?" inquired one sharply. “ i came on the boat," replied andy, politely. “you mean you came off the boat i " said the other soldier, without looking at andy. “ where is the boat ?" asked the first soldier. “ why, you see, it got sunk," replied andy_ “who sunk it ? " asked the second officer, with an angry glare. i andy’s adventures on noah’s ark .“iwell, you see," began andy, “the bal- loon" “that's it!" broke in the first soldier. “blame something else. i believe you sunk the boat yourself, and i arrest you!" and before -the astonished andy quite knew what had happened he found himself marched along the road, with a soldier hopping along on either side. they did not hold him, and yet andy seemed to have lost the power to run. then he found himself in a great room filled with all kinds of dolls, and at one end, behind a sort of desk, sat two or three tin soldiers—offi- cers, evidently. as andy entered a loud buzz arose. “what's the prisoner accused of?" asked one of the officers. “of sinking noah’s ark, with all on board, your excellency," replied one of andy's guards. ~-‘-‘ what is the evidence against him ? " asked another officern ' ' “ he's a boy and " \ jack-in-z/ze-box ' “ enough " broke in the officer. “ he's a boy. that proves his guilt. i will now pro- nounce sentence. he shall have twenty whip- pings a day for twothousand years. com- !) t mence at once. - “wait!" cried andy, trembling all over. “let me explain." ' “ we'll whip you first and let you explain afterward," cried the officer. “ men: proceed! " a hundred tin soldiers with whips and lashes made for poor andy. and just then he saw captain jinks running towards him as fast as legs would take him. “save me !" cried andy to him, in an agony of fear. ‘ jinks started in most valiantly to knock down soldiers right and left, but his unfortu- nate habit of tripping up soon put him on his back, where he was at the mercy of the foe. suddenly, andy was conscious of the fact that he was slowly but surely regaining his right size and height. - then with a shout of tri- i jack-in-t/be-box sudden andy tripped and fell, and the next mo- ment he was falling down a dark, deep, well-like hole. he did not seem to fall very fast, how- ever, and presently he alighted on the floor of a toy shop. he felt strange and numb, just as he did when he took laughing gas, at the dentist's. ' he sat down in a small chair, and gazed drowsily at a little square box standing on the edge of a table. how long he sat staring at it he never knew, but after a while he saw a tiny wooden soldier approaching the box. he was a smart little fellow in a very big hat and a bright red uniform; and he was straight as a soldier should be. when he had hopped up to the box he rammed his little gun against the hook which held the cover down, and zip ! up flew a grin- ning jack-in-the-box! ~ ' “ thanks, awfully, old fellow! " squeaked mr. jack, nodding and trembling on his spiral body. “ it's good to get a breath of fresh air y w jack-in-tbei-box ' jack, in a kinder tone of voice. “ your see, as a family we're rather athletic, and this being all doubled up in a small box is trying to the nerves." - there was heard a hum of many tiny voices and the rush of innumerable tiny feet. a toy railway with its pretty little station was spread out over the floor. andy behelda lot of dolls and some wooden soldiers climbing in and out of the small cars of a waiting train. “oh, dear!" said andy, wistfully, “i wish i were little again, so that i could ride in those cunning cars i " “ that's easily fixed," replied jack, pleas- antly. “just sit up on this table beside me—- so‘ i now close your eyes and think of some nice convenient size just as-hard as you can think." ' - andy did as he was told, and kept saying “six inches" half-aloud over and over so fast that presently it sounded very much like “sick injuns." (you repeat “six inches " very fast, and see what it sounds like.) jack-in-tfie-box - / soldiers who were fussing at some part of the engine. andy found it was one of those locomotives that go by clockwork, and two of the fellows were trying to wind it up by means of an enormous key ; at least, it looked enor- mous to the six-inch andy. as he came up the wooden soldiers bike mi ,t stopped their work, and one cried, “ah! here's a boy! he'll know how to wind up this plaguything !" “.what's the trouble? " asked andy. “it's this way, gov'nor," replied one who andy's adventures on noah's ark seemed to be the conductor. “ every time we give half a turn to this 'ere key the old engine jumps ahead a couple of inches. she's that nervous she won't stand still till we get her all wound up !" “ dear me i " said andy, greatly perplexed. “ i could hold the engine till you wound her up if i was as big as i usually am i " “as big as you usually are!" cried the conductor, in a rage. “ old jack-in-the-box has been showing you the telescope trick. i call it too bad. we've enough beats on this railroad already." “if you call me names, mr. wooden-sol- dier, i'll kick your old train over i " cried andy, forgetting he was just half a foot high. “well, well, i didn't mean any offence," replied the other, sulkily. “but old jackie has been giving me a lot of trouble lately teaching folks how to get smaller and larger. only last week that bloomin' giraffe over there thought himself down to two inches i o jack-in-tfe-box and bought a half-fare ticket. but what does he do when once i've punched it ? why then he thinks himself one foot tall and fills the car, so i couldn't carry another passenger. “ and that isn't all," went on the angry con- ductor, his voice rising to a shrill scream. “ he bought a cut-rate meal ticket for the din- ing car. you know the ticket reads ‘ all you can eat for fifty cents.' well, he's two inches high when he sits down at the table, mind you, but he thought himself up to thirteen inches before he got through, and we hadn't so much as a tin tart left. the company has just made a new rule which says, ‘ no dogs or giraffes are allowed aboard these cars.' " " where does this train go to ?" asked andy. the conductor scratched his painted head. “ well, that depends. we advertise to run between nurseryville and bedland. last night we were completely blocked. some ab- sent-minded person had left a pair of over- ~ -.' v _- --- _*. n. :- *~ - * *"'" * ' " *’ ' *' . -. . . - - i ¢ . \ v . ~ . \ . i - - - . -.. . . -- ...¢ \—i ¢----- . ‘d . \ .~ i / chapter xi. the lion on his yacht. when andy had hopped off the train, he saw that they had indeed collided with a steam vessel of some sort. the captain of the boat, whom andy made out to be a small gutta-percha doll, was having a heated dispute with the engineer of the train. “ you're a pretty captain, you are," fumed the engineer. “what do you mean by poking your ugly old bow right in our way, and we behindhand, too ?" “ fiddlesticks," yelled rubber, the captain. “ when a steam yacht like this 'ere goes aground, the last thing she'd expect would be a train ' cars. i might a' expected a fog, or pirates, or an ocean steamer; but i've been a steamboat captain nigh onter thirty years, and andy’s adventures on noah's ark this is the first time i was ever run into by a bloomin' landlubber of a locomotive !" as andy approached, they both appealed to him as to which was in the right. “ well," said the diplomatic andy, “if you w a rier \ // /du i/i -./t’ u you're a pretty captain i " fumed the engineer. ask me, i should think it depends on what tack the boat was on." “ bless yer 'eart," cried rubber, “ it was jes' a plain, ordinary carpet tack, pint end up ; we runs into her an' o' course we sticks fast." “ did some one mention hard tack?" sim- pered the ever-hungry giraffe, appearing at that the lion an his yacht ' moment. “ i hope you have some aboard, cap- tain, it's my favorite fruit." “one of these days you'll get a nice hard 'tack of dispepsy," muttered rubber, with grim humor. “ and serve you jolly well right, too, for an old glutton." “well, sir, you see the doctor saidl must have nourishing things." “oh, go chew gum," growled the disgusted lion, who was the owner of the yacht and who had suddenly appeared on deck. “ hey?" murmured the giraffe, who was slightly deaf. “ no straw," retorted the irritated lion. the giraffe's eyes lit up with gentle joy. “ah, yes—straw. that reminds me, it was only yesterday i had a delicious straw hat, spring style, for luncheon. i wish, though, i had not indulged in the ribbon dressing. i didn't sleep a wink all last night." “i s'pose the band was so loud it kept you awake," chuckled rubber. i andy's adventures on noah's ark " look here, my man," remarked the lion in lofty tones. “i pay you to run my yacht and not to crack stale jokes." “ he's jealous, that's what's the matter with him," muttered rubber in andy's ear. “hello !" he cried suddenly, “if here aren't our old friend, mr. jack-in-the-box," here he held out a grimy hand to the new arrival. “ shake," he said. “ thankee, i always shake," squeaked the funny fellow. “my spiral column is that sen- sitive i'm all ofa tremble all the time— thankee.” “ all aboard," shouted rubber. then he added, “ we'll be off in a minute." “ off what p" asked the giraffe. “off the tack, you ninny," and he added, turning to andy, " when we start you bet we'll fly. this is a swift old tub, let me tell you. \vhy, last night we covered two breadths of carpet in one hour and forty minutes." “ i shouldn't call that fast traveling," said andy's adventures on noah's ark h n my yachts a flyer, eh? he chuckled, proudly. “ yes—yes," gasped andy, “but why does she go round in a circle?" “well, you see," explained the other, “the rudder got stuck that way." “ it's a great disadvantage, i should think," said andy. “ 'cos, no matter where you start out to go, you never get there." “ yes," said the lion. “ there's something in what you say; but, on the other hand, think of the advantages. by going around in a circle you're not likely to run on rocks and things, then, if it turns very stormy suddenly, why, you're right near home all the time." while the lion was talking, the boat stopped so suddenly that the lion, jack-in-the-box, and andy were flung headforemost over the bow. when andy -had picked himself up he saw that he was standing in front of a doll's house. ~- --- — — i l mm|s§w><(\ / /} iii! %' “ia re flung headforemost over the bow they we d -‘_‘.. ‘ andy's adventures on noah's ark “ simple enough i" put in the lion. “ small door for the small doll, large door for the large doll. miss waxie, you know, couldn't possi- bly crawl in through the small one." “ no, but the small doll could go through the large door i" retorted andy triumphantly. “perhaps the small door was made first," suggested jack. just then an upper sash was flung up, and miss waxie hung out of the window uttering short, shrill squeaks like the “ mamma i " “papa i" of a talking doll. only now andy thought she was calling, “murder! robbers i" the big front door was standing ajar, and with a rattle and a buzz a little tin mouse on wheels rolled out and ran briskly off. at the same moment two absurd looking brownie policemen came skip- ping around the corner of the house, and went in pursuit. their method of chasing the little thief was the funniest thing, andy thought, he had ever seen. the two were twins, and kept in step the lion on his yacht \ as they ran. about every six strides they would stop and make some elaborate side steps, as though they were dancing the lancers ; then on they would go again. “ jiminy l" laughed andy. “ if they keep that up they'll never catch the mouse." “they don't want to," answered the lion. “ and what's more, they couldn't‘ if they tried to. the mouse will run until he is run down, then he'll have to stop anyway, and then of course, the policemen will nab him easy enough." “ what will they do with him ?" asked andy. “oh they'll take him to court and the judge will try him," was the lion's reply. “ who's the judge ?" “ an old owl, and very cross and crabbed." ‘ “ is he a good judge ? " the boy asked. “ he goes to church every sunday," put in jack gravely. ’ “oh ! i didn't mean that way. i meant does he know his business? the trial oft/ie tin mouse i i (;h.~a’pt'er the trial or the tin mouse. because of the extraordinary way the two brownie policemen- chased the tin mouse—it was more like a heel‘-and-toe dance than a chase—andy and jack-in-the-box easily caught up with them. the poor mouse was lying perfectly still in the road. its little eyes kept slyly looking—— now to the right and now‘ to the-lef't;. other- wise it betrayed no interest when the brownies; proceeded to beat‘ a lively‘ tattoo on‘ its tin back. ' ‘ “ move along, now. move along ! " said one of the officers, sharply. “ can't yer see i'm run down?" muttered the tin mouse, irritably. “when my father is run down, the doctor makes him take asmilk. punch every night when he goes to bed," remarked: andy. - . andy's adventures on noah's ark “well," rejoined the second policeman, rub- bing his chin thoughtfully, “we didn't think to bring any-milk with us, but we can give the thief a few plain punches." and with that they started in to jab the unfortunate mouse just as hard as they could. when they got tired of that they proceeded to kick him furiously. “when you get through knocking all the paint off of me you might run me in," muttered the mouse, peevishly. “well, i should think so," cried sympathetic andy. ' “we know our business," remarked officer no. . “ we'rejust‘dentifying' the prisoner," and he pointed to several big dents in the poor victim's shiny back. -“ dear mei" said andy, very much inter- ested, “ i never knew before what ‘dentifying' aprisoner meant i " the officers now proceeded to roll the mouse along toward the courthouse. pres- i - the trial of t/ze tin mouse ently they came to a long, high wall, without a sign of a doorin it. “ that is the courtyard," explained jack, “and inside the wall is the courthouse." “ vvhere's the door?" asked andy, looking about. “well, you see, when they put up the wall they painted the doors in on the inside, but forgot to paint 'em in on the outside, so folks never know jes’ where they are." here the two brownies picked up the mouse and heaved him over the wall, and andy heard him light on the other side with a bang and a rattle. “what a funny wall !" exclaimed andy, walking close up to it. “it shakes as though it was made of cloth or paper." “ it's made of plaster," returned ]ack-in-the- box. “what kind of plaster?" ask the boy. - “court plaster, of course," retorted the other ' “and it's great stuff to prevent prison- andy’'s adventures on noah's ark ens from escaping. - every time they try to they get stuck on it. we've ‘tried flypaper, , but itis not nearly as good as court plas- ter. flypaper will tear!" j:us : then a screeching was -heard in the distance. “ wha 's that ?" asked andy. the jack-in-the-box stretched upwards as far as rhis spiral body would let him and looked over the top of the wall. “it's judge owl calling the court to "order," he said. “dear, dear!" cried andy, in a fever of impatience, “ we shall be late. oh, do you think we shall ever find .a door p" ' “ possibly we may to-morrow or next week or next month or next year," replied jack, .p-la-cidly, as he :sa.nk gently down. the boy looked imploringly at the two brownies, but they had fallen asleep, with .their -bacles-against the wall. ‘ '--then andy had a brilliant idea.- h-e — ‘ - \ in--w-—g—— the trial of z/zei tin mouse f whipped ‘out his penknife and "cut -a big vertical slit in the wall. then, with two horizon-tal slits, he made alarge-sized‘ opening, and through it they all marched. the mouse-was lying ouietly on his back inside the wall, and .\- / ,,ti@t $ /i ' ”"ll - the policbmen ran him into the court house. [the policemen righted him and ran him into the courthouse.‘ - ~ - the jury-box was -wi-th~animals,- -and ‘among ‘them ‘recognized ..-?the- hungry giraffe and- theirascible lion. - the '-latt'er 'nod- ded genially to him as hewalkecl i-n-.-- -- andy's "adventures on noah's ark “ what's your name?" the judge asked the prisoner. - - "i won't tell l" snapped mr. mouse. the old owl ruffled his feathers and glared down at the culprit. “ tell me your name !" he roared. i “ oh, rats!" muttered the angry prisoner. " o. rats," wrote the judge. “ very good." “very bad," retorted the other. “the prisoner admits he is a very bad character i" exclaimed the owl, nodding at the jury. “ please make a note of that." “liar, liar, liar!" screamed the now infuri- ated prisoner. "order!" yelled the judge, and the jury offered such advice as “ bang him in the head ! " “ jump on him l" and “ kick him !" till it looked to andy as though there would be nothing left of the poor mouse. ' when quiet had been restored the giraffe was called as witness. i he was just finishing the remains of a chicken sandwich. -:- ‘ - the trial of me tin mouse “ tell us what you know about the case," said the judge. - “i was eating my unch," said the giraffe, “ when i saw the prisoner run out olf the house of miss wax doll and runaway, the police- men after him. then the mouse ran down, the police ran up, and they ran him in—-and— that's all." “you talk as though you were trying to conjugate the verb to run," remarked the judge, sarcastically. “teacher always said i was good at grain- mar," simpered mr. giraffe. “you jes' ought to hear me decline proper nouns." “ ask him to decline chickenisandwich ; i'll bet he won't l" remarked the lion with a grin. “silence in the court!" screamed the owl. then when he had settled his glasses on his roman nose, he asked: ‘ “ what did the prisoner steal ? " “if it please your honor," murmured miss f andy's adventures on noah's ark wa.x doll, stepping forward. “early this morning, when i was fast asleep, the ‘prisoner stole a march on me." ‘ -- every one glared at mr. mouse. “the villain to do such a thing!" cried jack-in-the-box. andy had to laugh. “ hoot mon," screeched the judge, who was scotch, “ dinna laugh in court." m“ pardon me," murmured "theigiraffe, who awoke suddenly from a nap in the jury box, “ didn't i hear some one mdntion dinner ?" - “ oh, take another nap," roared the lion. andy began to feel very sorry for the tin mouse, and he determined to have him set free if possible. “if it please your honor," began andy, “‘stealing a march' doesn't mean that the prisoner took anything which did not belong to him." “well, whom does the march belong to, then p." asked the judge severely. - . .. m z the trial of me tin "mouse i _ '+*-. p'erlra:ps ;i' :'w.as a two-step," suggested -the glrafle. ' ' . - ‘ . " . - . “ same thing," snapped the lion. “ let the .eil@:l arr : play it on his trumpet and see if ‘it's any good," l-are adxiled. “ oh, dear, you stupid,‘ stupid people !" cried andy, trying hard not to giggle. “why .can':t you understaznd ‘ stealing -a march ' is only a fancy kind of way of saying that you have g o=t.th:ebestof’ape 'son?".' - . y“ that's just it," cried‘ miss wasx doll‘ in a passion. “ he got the best. if - he'd‘ only takwn the second best i wouldn't have minded at all" ‘ - “if i got it at all i' guess i got it in the neck," 'g-miwled the tin mouse, who sometimes used slang. . ‘ “did you find anything on the prisoner? " asked the judge of the policeman. ‘“ noth.in', yer honor, 'cept a fresh coat of paint,":rep ied one brownie. "‘ perhaps. he stole that," sugzgestedi the ele- phant. - ' - sxooh m\’ ‘eh . jo shave’! h . nhhmlhh hsoow hhj. ghxoo neia ahhj. , */ / o ‘ g\. in’): \. \ \ q s s-- - - \ \" .\ \\*‘ \ /// -/ // iii i ll i///if \ i, \\‘ \ \ \’ ' ”//lip’; "ii i. iii /i ll ll ll mm il lll /’ ll . — mil i i flllill llll ‘-a-¢ .q-vq‘-‘.i-.-‘.-‘-- ‘‘‘-.-‘.. " *‘ ‘-' .- - ‘‘ .—_i.........._..¢_ _ .-. - -. j | i ¢ | | . i y ( - ‘.at- ... .. 're. ~-" -‘. - = \ :*’ .§-"a-iii --* ii ' ' 'fi -—' —— ' ———— — * -- o < ' - i ‘ r a.'.. -— . i —~ i-low the tin mouse won the hundred-yard crawl i = a gi. andy's adventures on noah's ark q q \ j/// ” ls \g‘ o . . ff ’”</ /»'* ; <> if-‘:'!::::::=. ‘%:::;§.-- " rfifilllb wi! my wire nsconnm by the gallant consist. but it had never occurred to him to ask the fellow; so now he waited with interest to hear what the stiff little commander would say. -“ why, it was this way," began the col- t/ze hundred-yard crawl onel. “ one dark night about the hour of twelve (here the dolls shuddered with delight and miss \vaxie murmured ‘ i-iow romantic l’) i, with a company of as sturdy soldiers as were ever turned out of a german toy factory, started out to capture a strange animal which had been seen prowling about in the outskirts of nurseryville. we were in bed clothes valley when we caught sight of the monster rushing about on the top of bolster mountain. then we lost sight of the foe, but later came upon his tracks by bathtub lake. as it happened, the water in the lake was very warm, for master andy's papa was about to take a bath. now all wooden soldiers with any glue in their composition should avoid warm water as you would the plague. but three of my men—foolhardy fellows—ventured too near and toppled in." ' “ mercy! " screamed miss china doll, “how exciting ! did the poor dears drown ?" " “ no," rejoined the colonel, “ yo.u- couldn't . i : t/ze hundred-yard crawl range of mountains when we were surprised by a sudden attack on the part of the wild animal. before.i had a chance to order a charge the beast seized me in his sharp teeth and began tossing me in the air and then catch- ing me." “ how horrible !" cried miss waxie. “ of course, my men did what they could to effect a rescue," went on the colonel, proudly. “but with one blow of his paw the beast had knocked my entire company fiat on their backs and senseless. in the course of his sav- age onslaughts the animal bit off my right arm. after awhile he got tired of tossing me about and ran away." -“ what kind of an animal was it?" asked miss china doll. “it was one of the canine species," replied h the colonel, and one of the most ferocious specimens i have ever seen." “why, that must have been my fox terrier tags l " broke in andy, with a laugh. : ‘ a ‘*’—- - - - |--qt-if!‘ \ -. c - - -- ' . -- \ - i ‘p ‘yr? h . .‘ v... / /> \m& \<\>u\&(,\nl §a\"=\ 'y§'\<\g\,, -__ _ ___ av‘ ‘- donated by the grand raprds publzc lrbrary the may g quzgley collectzon of chlldren s llterature december the umversnty of m ch gan dearbom mardngxan llbrary " i u“\‘ ‘ “ ii‘ { "' ' _“__ i i i“) ~_&_ a’ ? wvik’, m t _ ' lg”/iy w m t _ _ flab} u ‘ z // kgfi g i i i “i i ill _ i b ‘ ‘ | jill!‘ ‘xi _ _l\_$_“‘w'r_‘ _ m w ‘ u ‘ t _ i ' i i | i ‘i i- ‘iii /_ the golden goblin _ _ \} j ts? \ \_| _k ‘ /‘il ‘ ‘ \ ‘\_!i _\ i;l|\‘ my "‘ “ w ~ ‘ _ _ _ _ i i _ i p / \ \ s i i i i v i l ‘ ,¢ w¢)_> l ‘ oi \ y see page jan bowed low and gurtruida made a deep curtsey. e. the gqlden gqblin or t be flying dutchman, junior % a pleasant fantasy for children based on the most fascinating of all undying legends -row m prose and vans: b curtis dunham auzbor qftwo in a zoo and nu pictures by george f. kerr “ "='-_. l __ / indianapolis " ‘_ the bobbs-merrill company publishers , o all manly little boys who are gentle and protecting in their attitude toward little girls; to all womanly little girls who encour- age such little boyswith their trustfiil friend- ship and sympathy; to all little boys and _->' little girls who believe in the kind of enchant- ent that rewards good thoughts and kind deeds; and to all the happy fathers and mothers, uncles and aunts, grandfathers and grandmothers of such little boys and little girls, these adventures ofjan and gurtruida are dedicated by their friends, the author and the illustrator contents l i chapter page l i master spray’s prophecy . . ii jan is afraid he’s afraid . . i ,,_._ ii iv the golden goblin’s chimney . . v domestic life in the neptune family vi on the enchanted island . . . vii the animated anchor . . . vii ix “go to the golden goblin” . x down, down, down! . . . x xii the coral fire . . . . xii xiv how the royal spider’s prey escaped xv “the flying dutchman, junior” . i the man in chains . . . i transformation of the mermaid princesses i the golden goblin has a cold in his head i the vigil of the faithful f iredogs . i the ilescue . . . . . v a<t_~‘-\ > h . l i \ > i i j __ _/\_/ in i i’, . %' ’\ *\._ the golden goblin the golden goblin chapter i master spray’s prophecy -w _ ,'(t _/—q’ ____ _‘ l ~ \» ‘ n the second night after the wreck of the dutch barque, [vi/fie/mind, = the bosom of the south indian ,_,_--’___.__.-- ,... gag ocean lay calm and silvery n the } diz ¢¢ of a full moon and countless stars. the breeze that came from the west was so gentle that only now and then did the blue of a wave-crest change into foaming ¢white. the long swells, rising and falling, lwere like a cradle rocked by a kindly hand .to invite sweet slumber. indeed, as though , _ , _. ._...!___,...,_'_._____;-hh.hh.__ _ __‘ . " i a<cr\.n__a " i i l i i i this were t mdly m ss _¢;> ;a,__‘r_l ese waves a thousandimiles from qlan-d, two who were little more than children slept as peace- fully on their raft of ship’s/(qgpars as they » would have doine‘\‘i i"§heir)l ds at home. ' ' both were ? apely limbs, his thick and e collar of his vel- they were ah girl aii‘ fair, with rou qcheely’ i and both hadlgjiellow’ i waving locks } vet-skirted c,!“,,;¢bti»tjliiq i~i."gioldeh ri-nglets were i \ l_j,’l ,\' ‘ _ .» confined by l/it;/l€ dutch cap, ll which, as rested on his shoulder as li;ie;:_l i:e’ta\z riedyp€ rtly gainst a water- cask at the fooéfjof/thie raft’s shortkmast. his broad-bri » ifiilitjilil, blacl/ /that lay his side. ivy/igre-eflac ~-»s atin/ -, jigh whim -stoaiings,/aégl_,l isiis<']ii£?e it e l ~ ~ isilvver b¢ql<le‘s,§ s d»r,essed» in k ,,,~,_ j , skirt \~'each il'$ie >i‘i'»-.\:§‘ q€s. uporrjher little f¢&‘~ slippers of buff l i f l a ; i h _,__. _“~k-»--~"~ — * _ h_{___ -- ) i i i i j : v l i l a: ‘c z % i‘ “¥~."‘a * - » i leather. if were y r iirticles ifiof ~\ v clothing up’di; t\h'§__raft the have been in ii?“ (q , " c» '- n » » » '-i el i the two square b'o;_§;s with; mings and locks;iwliieh‘-jstood»near the mast. v the air was so b¢i ;;y"§@_d¢r, ytxhisiséouthern sky that no outer wraps) werej{x§e(}c»?di‘ii a. p presently the stirred\i“;i;ii} her sleep, and i§_soo_£i her eyes o'p;§\iil/€d. she sat up and rubbed €i'>zcy€s, lool<.in”§'@_ about as though frightened hen she gazed-ilptlonthe face of the sleeping w; youth, patt softly and smiled. his seemed r[i:§t'uneasil'y* €@qn.st the mast; raised drew upon her ‘z shoulder, back ofihair from » :{o;;gheaii», youth brcflthecl more deeply i 'evenl-;k,‘i”§fi;' 'stret/ghed out hi§_£i‘.-'~'-'.'bs -est-q /the sig,h~of;?: amt gazeawoin ~ __h . , ‘-\,:q_ on sari‘;-as r‘t.';.) -y ‘r i them cross §§i‘~~"¢ own upon her as \ i i y s j though»»to thega that vast waste i ?; '.- " ~ _§{" / ‘ : , _ -;\ __of ocean _ . there ‘ in-nq§~§jfixed object h .;<»§a-,, ‘ . n. \_‘ i. / _ i u ‘) . upon wl'llcl'l he i e could, tgstvfiiéi confidence ‘ .' ‘ ' ll \ that all ere lo tlvvi‘ _\ld~"be welilfl the westernl.peei§%as {res//hcijing. she saw white crests pursuing e other, and in the moonlight they ya§sumedvtth_e oddest shapes. some were like shlips in mlinvigt-re; others seemed to be flocks of bl dsibarely resting : “j -/i/i ' i: \‘> on the surfa \ oclean; /yet others were like woolly l a —§a'tl,y- magnified,gamboling . ii) ,- va . merrily. for f of tl' cvsi€£fp» i g youth whose head was on %r oulde/r shelxclaimed: “oh, how c aitrminag/i” %?" gurtruidégdi her coifipanion, ising ‘§did you;.c'all“‘rrie;?;;"do you;-,\ a sail?” ear]an;izz’gs/his/lansvweiied cons so ilforgetfimlg of\ nlyoiuv. poor be! i am ire ted. corn? fh \ s \? oil/lder and sleepragiiln j nfisyawiied and sa /s _ l"? v i . i r > y - ,»» €”".y*_‘fl “i nev _.~ ' '- "‘: ¢._,_.. ‘ » q thel e i've slept did youiiever se : silcha \ . _ i 
r; is what wakenckgvgyou./)»it rs‘»\‘; erd. seel 
lext;; ,|yngave-/lvivithi,>his woolly ‘i a leggyhgs. but what q » _ hite cloak m ely nightl uch staiiis?’e ' [end look at th _ pfaikgxliv-dloolif! /fl;i?l;iiere’s a flock of lambs about/anig challengingg; othegjustvget/a y d t/hd/m “in holland!” <yes, jan. t made liiigh, and_,,that / / /‘§\"i” a look, gu ;ti‘i$_ilid;;@»'( tire ‘é‘,_»i_s their shep- la funny fellfcigwyiyliz ¢€ép%x@ ?g”§¢s, head over heels l - gurtruid ‘- \&. ' j , q - itu,,| . \ it wit’hinia\_,_ e t in i, stpodikupright arr’ 'w nderat ihes e / fit . / s aizjeics mo d = lapped her ihandsgin delight. w d ' gre “jnore is- w. p ;»» en on frtxén mid or; xtheyflout f 'were vagu se of the bits of the golden goblin ~ t t“%_tt“"t i \ i v qt’ t‘ _'~" v ‘\’” 'a " spray and r’§v:v l ‘iv'%w-tinted bv~§}; at danced v about tht-‘:'iei'tld§j_“fi\;g\ure in théglf ‘alight. soon a put? of wind b’l"elw the i form so close‘ to the raft that lts flowin antle caught a ./i “ ~i a s “’} yy on one corner, a id|iti§rms i;te“tled it leaned ‘ il ‘ \ above the childr so‘\}_ los tét t almost : i’ </"»‘\:r\-/ k ' / /:’;‘(‘ vv i touched them i ’ “oh!” excl éd gd i-ida,' drawing back. “swish, swa”"bur§t?r zr ubblesl” exclaimed e the figure. tl tép&s_i' e that you two are alive?” q // ' ' “indeed sakgtéifiida. “but— but, excuse ygh nifigdlwtelling us who l you are, sir / an may bu s! ah, ' , you, “fwo“‘ £% %e landl < mastsffifiia ~ / jlefm if i <¥i,# \_ t ei sky\i da_vnce€ e §i_dow‘ gai'n;;\ j z" pray poised him- :s.‘\ .. er ~%%§%d self airily on the green top of a billow and sang a song with great spirit, in a deep barytone voice. i i l i i ' jan to go i onp*/ g olden ooel \i_ ~ all e i. h ‘i fig i bgrque west- i ward bo\ €ils_\were was \i.iii the boats. why did you neit“go in s, you foolish children?” i i \ “it was impolssibl'e;; \ uihuida; “they insisted on sepax i eyfltordercd dear i ii’ i ’ n another. ’ ; “we have ne arated since gur- § truida was as t nee~,x~’§§leclared jan, “and we nevergalilplbi so lyiereq-we are, and q we ask your.,:l{'i\ ' £_~=§n¢¢, sir." a for severaf mentsg/_ma'st¢r spray could = ./ only gaze e childrénjand request his ; bubbles to ekplgde,/whichfghey kept on doing i eat blfliliéhrc/y. fihiallyihe said to jan: ; \ / _/f\j _ _ . . " ” th lit i ' }"tdh |\ “"'_§ -is of ‘ h! ne er graid when ow i qoegyyour om ._ l§;¢\x&ér¢ not fo' -'--»"~ da, sir, answered io ~q, ;; y»&'» i frank y ,§§§lif;should be coward ini:tl $;_ i§§f\ivorld. butfould i be a ' i ; “gt” .' __,»» _§ oe>_l in ; coward before dear, gurtruidaii l i l l l r y i master spray/pd/t>_ is,hain/dis,t his hips and his shoulders shookvi iii” he o\}i }l}ne“s;»of his figure could not be sehg r th§\my‘riad bubbles that a i at/l ‘\ thri he swept the danced about hi foam from his face and) s “bravo, m _not go wit i " m ’ - -i heir dutles; bu,-t now and the \_': you, for i ha our paths as/ii/-haveiithe gift of prophecy i once. before’ you scc youi'~/, t home aggm you will have wretched i i i i _/:‘€ aa;;.-__._._.~___ ~¥ r___ h i ' \ the most mafrie. gs experiencesithat ever fell v i - ’~\__' .-'- . i- . to the lots, i -ran bem often; you wi ,xeadly q r, ‘but »fearq rii beg/<he,r@rrr?y y tiiivvill retyirn\ a ‘/ a \ i __/ ,\ g .\ gu ’ u d rig \ ; and the shall watch rfimalways. r an kiyou, i‘ aimed ta ii the goldengobl in “at present,” replied the fantastic figure, with a sweep of his hand toward the west, “you had best watch that sail over there. lower your own sail so that the other may overtake you. for the present, farewell.” gazing in the direction indicated by master spray, jan and gurtruida saw plainly in the moonlight the sails of a large vessel, and its bow was toward them. when they turned to bid godspeed to their fantastic friend he was far away, speeding over he waves with his mantlelof i , i foam wid spread to the breeze. the golden cjobl in jan ' chapter ii is afraid he’s afraid an and gurtruida looked in each other’s eyes, and then both laughed. they were used to reading each other’s thoughts. i r v,-*¢ “no,” said gurtruida, fl “it’s not a dream. it would be miraculous if two per- sons dreamed the same dream at the same time.” “master spray called our attention to the ship,” said jan, pointing toward the western horizon, “and there she is. at least we are not dreaming now." the ship had now approached so near that her hull was visible to the children on the raft. she ~;s......~._......_...._......,...._ e.,~_j i e a i i __-. .>._.l._-..._ ...\.. _ ,h_u i, _ i ,~,_,_,__} {__t.ue_. qolden ( oblin!,. ‘ “ had»is a- l had a queé,i§§_u'ncanny loo fashioned»"siails,;. which si ~ raggedggand l patched and»§&»"iv:ere w ; i glistening in ’ the moonlight. .§".' 'v|_, iycrentihull, too, with the overhanging dt:,.§$ q stern/_.hid h above the i amidship sectionlhaid a gay color un- like that of any j) gurtruidéi had seen before , x _ i “what a strigge-loql(~l ipl look, jan! §he’s the very itfiiag/;{o'f',)i ’ac~§ §hip in the ' print that hangsjin lour i ncle’§;li ry.” no answeiiciiiheifromjan./gurtruida turned ; and saw himgtgariding with his back toward her. his shouldefgfiiggieigiéeishaking. gi.lrtruida did not notice that were knocking together, § and she cou :tlfi"-i‘ ,<i§'_i§»—?-ie that his face was as white -/x‘/ ?jas»i“iba@.ay‘ iit is _,~, hz; li'_=%i;' ha!" layiigh t ‘:/e istifiienedt hi by n ng	 ‘- ~ vo-. a i‘ % look at mel »» \ l i i l f i v i i i i iiiher crew of s ifrsedéb )ir od two hurl i‘ * ,,\i. * j . \ .. \,i ? i saltl j q... ...; w, hews ‘ ‘€- wheii"i'-m »‘ in {ii- » é i ':»-»h-»i with you ' i . _ , f»»~ __ __ "»)»q§;; ,._r»§ ‘ i _ cc ii not even t~ a vesseliwith : . \_k§ . »'§=- »\»—§.. i:idemned‘for eie homeward /,. at ever haunted p — , dred and fifty ac _, ever to be blo'.,_n/i'l>ac passage? of all~}’:¢ie ghos the world, gurtgfiida, rh/eyé, gr; the most fear- ful. think i/ir v,hiti'j;ir\€ommands the ship, gurtruida @ i dier<;l¢“cken,fwh%when the winds at the c; ' “ ' ri:i»r -e; ‘i opposed ~./ - . »"» him on the vo me to qgsterdam, defied o a w ' "_¢ his maker aé ughfitithisydoom upon the ship and all cw thféi of being picked up by. such.a‘§’ ‘~;p,=¢f all the ships tli"at sail the »:»z.\ ‘i l ,. » ,_. . a e;/x ‘ ‘, ‘ cwns.~' of sharing the" i -j ~tal crew:/_tq, film thci o arefft afi'id, g x ‘ya/'hy,»ianl w. i ahq| ,o longer afraiéh" up i i i i i i i i i » i the golden goblin /—"/ ' ‘\ “besides, jan dear, llas /in / ter spray prophesie/d th'a'tm‘k\ all would be well/w/ /th us in the end.” i], “so he did,”,»"dsaid§]‘a _ . he leaneq'_/_¢_ ,\gains¢tf'§he lg?“ raft’s short mlaisit with arm protectiingl-y gurtruida’s waist,_\, vqhil'e:,l,i §,i' head rested onyhis iifigasiti and together they _ t the ship that was; ast over- hauling them.,»"”iiili rt-gently "kn jan looked at the compass he carried in his? pocket and uttered an exclamation of surprise. “what is it, jan?” asked gurtruida. “why, the féring dutcfiman is sailing due east. her course is always westward, of course, to round the cape. this breeze is not strong enough to drive her back.” “the crew must have sighted us, and changed the ship’s course in order to pick us up,” said lin gurtruida. men who wo at can not be so bad,'\ij?iiiii‘j_’i;:v i “no,” said ]afiv;;f‘that »d{gnth,‘ be. all the i tales of sailors shipvvirecltiéd ih pt‘, ocean agree that vanderdeckienalvv-ays keep e westward course except w~he dape a in , , obeying the curse, drive hirnvv vick east (;ithere is some r i i vvother reason. ,vsi‘fi/neth tiiivaordinary has ; e l *"happened.” v v.‘ v , g “ the ship w at that they could see ’ quite plainly§~ ,@gh¢r hey looked ' gray and av,‘ eiltliri,- q§iailsi.f?ithey moved about, and/dpointing at the raft. one of themistoiod apart bfgide thevvvrail on the z l.?i%il,b?? b.tfli“‘§°‘l‘?i‘;*‘/ *‘ ‘h¢ii§f?s?*b was in - w the iii-‘y,"j_pp??¢/fl-, .;‘? e §.;,j;fi “’¢ , yhistl /'vof—}su_,rprise.i ‘ v v §é d y ‘? wmyerli, ,. ~ ‘?=}é..*> ;ae: ad; n ed ‘,_\ g urt
uidaal“:~ at’ "ie"gfia%;; red.rde,cjlvten t‘he.vvteles;co‘p"qj’ c ei §.,is‘tall and majestieain appearance.” .. _a______..._.._...~ _..____ _t...._.. i i i i i i i i __w i the deck, andlf " . =. ,/j; - *{f;}»i‘ now, much _tp),|ithe r(su;p_r se, the children ' “ if he were :sti*llj“i'n comnig,»“,»i one else on they/after.-dec v / “certainly notsu fellow as the one‘ ‘he has a black patcfl/ ov > could hear thegfirjamp a d uld allow no _,i~@elm *> _ , “ yes, i ber,” said./i’ “ n ,_,, xx, ;‘ _, _ <=_’/’ j._~ r~ ~ it n, villainous pe. lookl a g ‘hots’ big boots on é x/oic i "ithe“~man with the black patch itlielflt/eliesico ‘ he ordered i them to low i, i . b’ ‘- “ghosts sel u y ~ “amass / , . tf>i'{"*rii; ‘ i ) t, and rqyv cl ., of ,. r» “they c'o"$i e i gurtruida. '¢ lk, at least‘/ehnud; and when they move abojuéjr feet§: §nak€—l§:qsound. it is°ver istran e;:,”_¢§' cc‘ ’ _ i i ' ' if‘ theraft. i s i c" ' " p” thgfiigh it looked ¢> <r:ir f'<fti.i?i?- & t reai the golden gobl in _ calling (.~ fr’ . §$»thcv%littlc the four ééyorn, half-rdi ‘ 'u / »_the man witlit’ ' ffigi‘ -: :-" »§é,eye'seemed .‘ -'g_'~ them with malicious!” “ea, ..,:-»- » \ v - v}! " ’ ,' . \,._ ». . ’ pitted by s ‘i‘*¥. i.,""xp?ié \/ , \“‘}i=i,filf?li ke‘§ffa ‘ d. told/hiin nftfiig rate if y 	o se wire? ‘“ vt, jrfpleasu re, whv l‘e_{ ’a‘ ‘k npleasa i the leathe"»;'f.“i<';ir_i"' at was dee l t ,|?)._': .__. p y iiaawi », % the after-v_ ma? his hand vtibilgthe ii y iv>;.~ ;e vpted by a et” i’ s “s , “ho, therel ii‘ blut trinkerl.v,,»ldui*i/ke iiqq§‘_i:i .= i i , s /$ v, ‘ . _ helped;-"'tvhv§. dren up the te i f” z ~. ' the \op deck wheiieffi l ope s.tood_ his one’? \_ * .“ ‘“~i;\; _ ck patcliilto a terrible rage, lack patch, * : mouth was* ‘w’ . ile wrinkled bou q he ocea q g _ ii the golden gobl in while the four sailors cast black looks upon the children. “vanderdecken!” screamed the ill-favored little man. “a double curse upon vander- decken. two hundred and fifty years has \ . . *‘-;!;¢;f*..,.ar" miiim i derdecken tried and failed to return us to ur homes in holland. vanderdecken is accursedl” as he uttered these last words black patch, whose eyes were on the stairs leading up from the lower deck, turned pale and stepped back a pace. jan and gurtruida turned and saw n enormok_ : , up sailors fell bacl<p/é “jsi,_.thou_gl£a l the parrot stré;?qi:e»t‘ota;,|-eileai-z , cocked a solemi blac} i regarding the sh /ren ' fiaharsh voice; m;;we’re all \ rsedl then the ‘ the four ,- hoisting p i they shoutecl_‘i‘¢i‘ i»i_ §t'.:;_ /_:es disgrial eibfifflfi, never heard on board an» , tship: tchman ( h=ay <y€ i y *€ 'y ~- l mnfhe t i' * / :'yei‘--e ! ylei—eo ac q ye—‘eo, heave ii ~> ‘ "'" ' gatgged sail to the
 i ten m n ship can sail wit ‘e'- q i-urfgzi » . qt ,‘, u. if; _'_¢ “uv d » . \ ~,. . . ' q ! " v€ 'y g€ the four of the bird. n the deck, i h,,and then, lied in o ~	airs, hopped own again ;*a:;n£a:_-,<:l :ia .lwitliout a word * ; z/deck and began iilled at the ropes y -ith
iggin‘g. moans asa sidginiian groans, ._ 'w@\}re merry \mates\"q€‘:d#v¥ ll’ a ‘hi for the pol-t\oi'd §i ilt§_¥jrien's bones—- ye--eo, heave l ye-—eol < j . i k as i ox ‘v * nag’ wi‘ w ix q ' y ill gaze long and just growing rosiyp with t a while he turneyd? to t /elia‘ and said: ‘/' i v \i \l m-¢"l'lo ‘l s died f away ]an"§h‘d§u‘rtruida each other and shuddered.//ilihey patch shrug ,- /xw -’ i, nj: l l his shoulders, and ““t_lien* lif “his‘_\tvtelescope and ‘ eastern horizon, ing dawn. after diien with a leer i “in the ca o comfortable. there you _ <_ no longer wonderingly deck and walk: i -l'te_n_but he is rtruida left the ,, arch of strange being who, contrary’. ~-.- ; all the<f,lege'hds,.could be ‘os d as c l%%i of the /fl;/zng dq'c&marz. h the golden goblin chapter the man in chains idway down the steps lead- ing to the cabin of the ffying dutcfiman the children stopped in delighted amaze- ment. what they saw was enough to delight and amaze any one. upon a carved oak table in the center of the room were heaps of dazzling ' gems, some pure white, others blood-red, many of exquisite green, blue and yellow tints, while all about the margin of the table were strings of great pearls. in every direction these jewels reflected the light from a single ancient oil lamp which swung above the table from the cross-beamed low ceiling. the lamp itself gave but a dim light; but the heaps of diamonds, rubies, emeralds and sap- as l " ' , a ‘ z) i rough-looking il, rs ‘ix h eiiiiery it forth ii iile¥'gfii i'ied’ii~ai*~rli§i]f\i;i_dredfold. ' t - “oh, how beafitiful k ' /xi. “- \ “perhaps h%i‘f./b€ttq‘
 to the deck ” said j ihfqfhtwo liq) hyiliearded and with lowering s. d command- mgvoice fromi "l, of ofthei cabin “ir timid i v t of‘a far corner enter chil- * dren; youa - i } l l at this t " sail sullenly to ' - \ !! e; their task near the table, ‘, ~ e l tharlgoyqfi; sir,’j,as;;;_*i,_<_'_-;;_gu ;}: <ui?:ia to»'the if ' ’* i'¥l."i." p ‘l /if ‘/—t" i more gems from a chest gave the visitors no more ‘you to it j» k knd@" . /j. ll %n the _ j ll yoitrcgi a ii - eivdice laugh gely \ p iiaching them»ii tl l i if q . gurtruidaiiiiiii l _____i_ _||q. . i". ....a *..|. _‘_.a__j_-_a..__..__-__.__..€_*.__ re thatwas t t\{\=» ' shadows) _ _ _ i‘ fin page they went on emptying the chest ofjewels. - ii____-..__ ii ? » m. igone' of ailitilors sworq iijiihis breath, ~ ‘-f~ _‘_,.»;. “,~»., fr t~ ’-»'i-»@ y‘.‘,/ t they "w€n§{én_emptyin §f;§h&§hest of jewels”; till the stout oal<\;{table»|seji:}n i éi<jlf tio groan with ' . . ' -' '\.‘- /i \i its weight of ip‘t‘icel,ess’stone?{/(igilvlany of the l stones were setl\ih\kg‘old\ 'ings»,and bracelets of v f old-fashioned wdrlgiinansh .' /here were neck- fiilaces, too,with eiflifrmou i aints ofdiamonds,iii pearls and rul~ the; ‘v old cups filled with unset stfi\' /q a and antique medallions th y linh: ted with gems. the y .- chest from whkigv idazila/ng jewels were a l \ g being taken seemed to i .;n,o_./~bottom. gt’ __/‘li, , i ‘j/'\, as the chi£d{ens eyes grew more accus- i k’ x.» p " < * '” ‘an? ~ tomed to tlij €sfi?§ido,wsi around theawalls they t./" _= ha '. saw other -_ _ silial/f em tied of their contents ‘ as ~-—m/“: : >/ . p/.. r ic ,- » toyed sil,k. @nd velvet arments. g /m v,-=~\ we fe ,|ga; pep/qrball aft <?i§,»i_ gang. pfiéis _\y,e;re }pfea’$ upon the d-jsieat thatyran adi‘ / v ' \‘ ‘iii / a ‘w’; -~ v t ‘i v alo g the; side of "the ,, _ e;fx)f;'f§l ein,l, . . l in.-- ~- ~a»*» ere “embroidered in ,_ i_q.i _d$ lv€i' _;,p_thers , .\ — . \ > /see ‘d.,,tq\,l)e made ¢n~t'i~ :¢ly_‘ §f;rii<>se the,re\’fashioned ~men and women. l erhcrewar t -ie gqldenqqblin - x z‘! i i l’»£ _~___ _-_-_-\._~'_ a v x'- "” q $. j vi‘ i q igmq c:"¢'= .»i;,"—»l ; ‘j »aj »- x_,i ' ' ‘, ! »— . all .. , tits” »’ .. ,;:.;.=~< . ¢* qt‘, u wfl »)»»,»» l‘ , "p \- a \~ . s- ‘p * "f,»»» _ ":»- {gut u,_;,,,, n» .v x q ‘i “‘ fig‘ | .‘ < .~-€q
 /". -nt, a , -' ?’-$ . , v hap -‘ ;- “f-‘;==, the golden cjobl in the cabin that they could see quite clearly, half reclining on the cushioned seat, a large, bearded man of majestic but very stern appearance. the parrot hopped up beside the man and he stroked its head, while gazing at jan and gur- truida, not unkindly. “are you captain vanderdecken?” asked jan respectfully. “ ha, hal” laughed the man, and his_ mirth had a bitter note in it. “aye, aye, captain vanderdecken i am, though at present not master. come hither, lad.” jan advanced to within a pace of where the ll if " t l l e. '\» s a // fl l enhgoblin _ /-,_{ v ida’s gasped [in his own. decl~;v,>_ @f-vliifs eyes rest a / \ . . iupon the youth.-ful, v ‘ faint smile softened his stern’ fea ’. e e e’-pa “i have heard.‘yo'ii =z-»story),’ hefksaid. “you ‘ - / j /i. - " '€ safe aboard m ',$l' est geasy. it s true - p’ , p l that ust now t . +~‘.el§‘is mu i "p lmt ere lon the r j . > ' §_ rascals will coniiggo nfi/$ , v kneesp " he reflected ?/m ’ dititkand then asked: f:>d d you <,_v> e ship vs; course, lad? ii. ..“”yes, capta \ yfivas daii;|._as>we came .§»g _..=,ti _./, . v ' .‘ i, ggaiboard. th¢}%@f t poigr rosiest the horizon. it seemed to me that the i was due" easafiii , d my 'sr%@,£;.nd §rere not § /some: * -~ "- “ :a, ,,j/ r - \ /, gt ” ".k he\_seem i v vv évi f>questio.,nv. __ “'~'";» ' “s‘be how strongfii tr: *\§...i_. y lo o k s,” _...»_-_. i i l i i i vv/ . v‘ \.,(\ ' , x»x» .vv v,-». » médsitattiiflig on i i i i i y "-»»*e_ '~ i " ‘" w»r;»~f): “$ gurtruidatfiigg it he»gnu. early ‘ffigndred ' “hush, jan!‘/i is he‘ defied his maker. grow older, never die; for _ mu;'it,.’jstriiyn=: in vain to sail his ship homb;-$'et,‘]‘x /deliar,to us he seems gentle and kind,.” fir “children,” i i” ing his head »» en, at last, rais- g lth»éni, “it is best that you sho hithler ‘we are now bound, withgu nt./you know that my course ~ ewa ‘ ~_ ‘.z'.i‘,-(j@i:‘i? ,i‘sterdam from i batavia in t ”§and of/_ia°\'/ail but m men . ;~;. ~“ , “ .. y ~._ q have mutinié i" laring iy ;j,;§~,my'fé~‘§_l‘_t that the hgs he bile to ‘fismnd thiifirape, flné i er “ ilse sit }z can ~ ~= c‘ ”~ nsense is this?” staril »_,,a‘tt\i ihe boy s j i i / l. _. "l ti-ie gqlden goblin ? t “why,” said jan in surprise, “through the‘~‘\t£_>- canal of‘-de lesseps, which connects the r‘qd_ q;-_ sea with the mediterranean, is a much shorter "roiite than around the cape. i—-—” » "iii--t‘ but, with a significant look, gurtiiuidj reminded jan‘ that the captain iofgthe ffling dutchman could know nothing’of this;-great modeirii achievement. jan hung his l'reni.d,~and vanderdecken, after staring at hilniiigain, . . » \ /_g)\ i went on‘: - ‘, - a ;;\> ';-» . , -\ i v " \_ /‘ '“ rhseally crew of mine are fools enough gl ‘t - - . -. ( l to bdflievgin ehchantment. they have»),€<i‘-‘t thel ship’§ ediifse forithe enchanted isle, where (hey j believe th'e.;' golden goblin’s lchimheyyeiiiierges from the ioceap’s bottom into: the outerfv;i}orld.” the ellijdren looked at each other i€i:i'ali'l z€- merit.‘ they had never heard of any “golden goblin.” but captain vanderdecken was jg growing excited. he went on rapidly: “this island lies at latitude : south, and longitude : east. we should reach it in a few hours. there is hardly room on~it for f? ‘ x? the gqlden (§obi..i,l\i,__ the city of amsterdam, but in its center ' f l l q. ‘st \. < . ' /'. l-;-;/iy the open crater o an extinct vo cano, which these fools of sailors call the golden goblin’s chimney. they expect to clamber down it into the palace of the arch enchanter, far__below the sea, and black patch—the-iscoundr_ell'-g= expects him to enchant my ship/so that it will sail quickly home, in return for the jewels and rich garments which i am carrying to their" owners, amsterdam merchants. 'oh, the idiotsl the scoundrelsl” ' - suddenly in his wrath captain vanderiidfiecken rosev_to his feet and flung out his arms. there" was -ia jangling of iron upon iron as he did so, and for the first time the children saw that long chains fastened to airing in the ceiling and to his ankles and wrists, by manacles riveted fast, held him hopelessly a prisoner in the cabin of his own ship. at this sight _]an’s eyes flashed. “tell me where to find a hammer and a chisel, sir,” he said, “and it won’t be long_before you are master of your ship againl” f _ i’ v §:.'£> \;.;i;,* .f '} in-» ' .\ ' - but again vanderdecken was reclining on -j \‘{;_f;/-(lit longseat. ._.-i /;, ‘ '. \ i “thank llyoufmy lad,” he said. “it is‘ not needful for me to risk embroiling your _ j these rascals. this mutiny is only a brief ‘egr- ,,' fi sode. soon the scoundrels will be coming to me on their knees, and once again obi course . i i | ‘e- wilibe westward, toward home!” .' the great green parrot had hopped to the top of the oak table. he fiapped his wings ' three times and croaked: “we’re all accursedl” _ at thatmoment dunken hagen and blut trinker came down the cabin stairsjidofiled their hats, and, to the amazement of jap‘ and gurtruida, bowed low to the two children. it was dunken hagen who spoke to them, and his tones were humbled, as though he stood in awe of the little castaways. “black patch, the master, begs that you will come on deck,” he said. _ ‘ j //. » -‘ad . ---- " “_ - s_ » t - ' the golden goblin’s chimney “ii”: i i i . -| -\ v. /\ o <“-./ , u , ' " -_ . c) / ' i!‘ _;. l chapter iv ‘- - .,./ i “my goodnessl” whispered gurtruida in , . jan s ear; “how polite they are.to us all of a sudden.” “i’m glad for your sake,” answered jan. “ come, we must not keep black patch waiting.” when they emerged upon the lower deck they saw the whole crew assembled in two rows at the foot of the stairs leading to the poop-deck, where l_ lack patch stood awaiting them. ._the sailors stood with their caps in their hands. as the children passed between the two ilines to the foot of the stairs the sailors lifted their eyes humbly, casting admiring glances at them. black patch, with a smirk on his face that made him more villainous-looking than ever, met them at the top of the stairs. he, too, held his cap in his hand. the sailors now gathered at the foot of the i i i k ‘fa it c lo‘ r-""""'“" / ‘- il’ \. " -\ % i” {stairs and gave three cheers in the dutch_l_an‘\ '\ \l . . ail‘; . - _ w tl' ‘qllcstioji)a?i _g’vvoi (l€l‘ in their eyes. __ i ___!'?€you must‘excuse me,”'said the l§%ader‘of the mutineers; “at first i did vnot‘rea ze-willie‘ ,l- war y !_ ’_:\ :_ _, ‘v / v! you were. is there anything i can do i:o.m'ake i w / ‘ ' \ - /\_ \‘\_ yqq_m¢;‘§ comfortable?” " / _v —-w-..---—- f ' “i--l,i._don’t understand,” stammered jaii. ci?’ ‘¢€‘donv’t try to deceive me,” said black patch,} laughing slyly. “you are godchildren of her majesty the queen of the sea.” gurtruida, who was very quick-witted, nudged jan. asiiusual, he divined her meaning, and answered the villain with just the right amount of surprise in his voice. ~ , “why, how did you learn? i di-dn’t say any- thing about it, and i’m sure gurtruida didn’t.” black patch, still smiling slyly, drew them to the stern of the ship and pointed meaningly over the rail. now both jan and gurtruida required all their self-restraint to repress "' exclamations of astonishment. only a few ;"\i;g__//a /.__ _,_ __. , " -/jgiiage. vjp§ife'_children looked__ at bladk pa
;li\‘;'-;_i’;,// vf , the gqlden cjqblin yards back of the rudder of the ffying dutcfi- man, dancing blithely along in her wake, with sail spread to the fresh breeze, was the little raft that had borne them so safely and from which they had lately parted with so much regret. the top of the short mast seemed to nod at them, as much as to say: “be of good cheer, children, i am still with you.” ' “there!” exclaimed black patch triumph-\ antly, “now you see how i came to recognize you. your godmother, her majesty the queen of the sea, has enchanted your raft so that it will follow ou in roof of i “z q her watchfulfiess ove}: you. i ‘a am glad, for now you can be of great use to us.” and the i l;;~ villainous little man "..\ "- _g adjusted the patch w :_'over his eye, smiled ',___¢¢ again, showing his ' ' /'-i" broken yellowteeth, l - - _l ‘r \ ta k _ | ; -‘p and resumed his inspection of the eastern hor_i-‘-;- , ‘ wt " - i _ i/v i .'zon through the telescope. ,_\ /’ the children leaned over the rail, watching a the raft and its nodding masthead. i l p “it must be true,” said gurtruida...“o jr clear little raft could not keep __up great shiplgunless it were enchant:-":d.'i§~ . "“t_’wish i could believe that aboii>t"iier majesty the queen of the sea,” said _i .it'wist- ; .fu-lly.- “'_i’diratlier be enchanted by h‘er_,than is ;,“ qu ‘sq. iby thisghostly old ship.” » -..-.--. ' “ql l"’:exclaimed gurtruida: “l§§>, you a -believe that we are enchanted, too?”i,i »_i$~ ; _, . “of course,”ianswered jan. .“ every one knows that the féving dutcbman is enchanted, and all aboard of her.” ,! _;t,i :_» , ‘ just then some flying bits of sea-foam moist- i ened their faces and they heard a familiar voice: “swish, swash, burst my bubblesl’.’»§’>»»» “jan, jan! it’s master spray!” said gur- truida in delight. “but where is he?” . _ i ")-' ': ‘- "i! ~ , . (j t \~~ ‘* h;~ before she had finished s eakin "q~~* / -;__-. - . ..._l.’_-....i..;.g._.;..»|--<.. "‘ i ti -i» . ‘ \ 'i ‘u i '\ / i l )» '-. \i_ the golden goblin - “but it’s all right," continued master spray. “,you can consider yourselves very fortunate. trust my mistress and me. lve’// see you y-through in first-class shape. before the sun is straight over-your heads, if you look to the east, you’ll see the golden goblin’s chimney. that’s where her majesty is going to give you an audience to-night.” y “to-night? this very night?” said gur- truida eagerly. i “yes,’i’ said master spray, gathering his mantle about him. “ her majesty’s social engagements kin the most exclusive circles under the sea occuipy most of heiutime during the day, you’ll have to excuse me now. i promised neptune a sea-foam shampoo, and he hates to be kept waiting.” i with these words master spray turned a few cartwheels and went skipping off eastward from the top of one wave to another. gurtruida leaned her head on ]an’s shoulder. ___ . ':j._, "‘s____ _t:.- ___'_?”___} —— éblfi \ ' i, \ y ' ] "\ , i : -: . | ‘/\ i, i la “ii? feel just a little faint,_]an, dear," she said. t“ i“ “ “ ' " e an _ __ .,¢§ . .\ \~ ~ " ‘ tn r 	 -\ . ‘r . i t ~. , v -- - , i/q‘ / ‘ -<">-<?".‘\;i. ..%/i@l‘f\*f.’- /'.; c ll i-. the golden goblin “i jan supported her with one arm. he saw a bit frightened himself, but the sight of gur- truida’s pale face made him feel all at once as. brave as a lion. a “it will be all right, dear,” he said. “really, i am an awful coward, but justinoiw i have a feeling that i can take you safely through anything.” , “i- think, perhaps it’s because [' -in not accustomed to so much enchantment: all at. once, dear jan,” said gurtruida with j faint smile.‘ “i can't.‘ help thinking about home. v, do you remember, jan, dear, the song"w‘v§§,_used to sing out in the lane under the poplars? pi think _ if we sang the dear old song once i should feel quite cheerful again.” '~;_. ;v_< jan hummed reflectively for a moment, and then their childish voices united sweetly in the old song of their home in holland; ~ " v~' ' ' .. k ._, p ' - \. ~ ’ iv" “ll; ””‘~~t__~< -_i- ....._.._".- --l\. -:~ ....... ".-.......-_-...¢_..,-. ’ ......’ _....____,,._ ,__.,,,__,, ' \ ‘* . »-. -' \ | \ i. t. ii’ -- ' u - ‘ -__; " /.-i that she looked white and frightened. he was‘?-_ i --i-l~_(> - - i \. sf", .- . which the children sang in the dutch language -seemed to affect black patch and the sailors deeply. it reminded them, too, of their hol- land homes and the friends whom they had not seen for so many, many years. in rough, yet not unmusical chorus, they repeated the last refrain, jan and gurtruida quickly joining with their clear young voices. ' suddenly, as the closing cadence died away, one of the sailors shouted: “avast,ftherel‘ the golden gobliii’s""chim- ney onit¥_e poripbowl” j ; jg. _it»was u»nnecessary for black to raise his telescope, the enchanted isle _had come into plaiiiview,—-the low rim of its ol__d crater, the sandy‘ beach with its semicircl"e,_-of huge rocks tumbling into the waves at one side, its scattering palms and grassy slopes. the sailors danced about the deck in their glee, but black patch presently threw down his telescope in a rage. dyke verdomd seized the glass, leveled i . ’ \ - ' i \ . *> '.;’/ i __ ~» i. pu ll the golden goblin ,.‘;"s the words and melody of the old song-j .\- :t/ \ii't“i' i i j "‘\':" ' \ / i the golden gobl in it fora moment at the island, lowered it and announced to the sailors in consternation: “bad luck, matesl it must have been an earthquake. the whole rim of the old crater’s caved in and stopped up the golden goblin’s as“ chimney. before the sailors could utter the complaints which mutinous sailors always make when any- thing goes wrong, black patch turned to the children and said, in a soft voice and with his cunning smile,- “ little ones, we have treated you well; now you can help us out ofour difliculty ifyou will.” x \ is g _, _, ,_ .. ————- — "l_~ :. >"fl_'n ‘f. $¢,;'!'a_,. 'i_ j,’ t l_ "y ' i i i i m '¢‘¢ _ ytl, i g possible we wlll do. gladly, \"""pl(ed ' gqthf_caut on, for he distrusted fie f smirkingilliain.:} i- _ »‘k , ~ the golden goblin \ *-~e-»:p-=, s a very simple thing for you, my .»lacl~; m _ - two have the protection of her majesty ' tlie'iqueven of the sea. we find ourselves in ‘k sudden ‘need of her favor, also. we__have heard » .- g; §é¥i'€h¢ is to give you an audience on the lbeachi of yonder enchanted isle to-night, and we ask you to speak well of us and beg her grant us the same boon.” ;; ' “ that she can not fail to do,”rretu‘rned jan, “whenitsl!_ey sees it is your ship which carries us afiel-y to her." .\ i. ' biackrpatchi‘§eemed ernbarrassed. he p scratched his head and finally explained: -‘ “royal favor is very uncertain, my lad. i have reason to believe that her majesty has a ' secret dislike for this shipand all aboard her. we want you to go first and plead our cause for us.” “(go on ahead of the ffying dutc&man. ” said ;=;|§']an. “ but how?” --i -_-- - .-._- _v---.,--,- -w'q—if"i-ivv'u-u-- » —-w-_._. ’\ ._ /. "\ - ll /' l\. f\ [n j, i’ ll‘ -\, \ i .. / o i the gqlden qiqbl in -’ black patch jerked his head toward the stern. “there is your ever-faithful raft. the power j that causes it to follow will make it lead when you are upon it again. gurtruida touched ]an’s arm and whispered, j “ y€s.” f “we~‘will do as you ask,” said jan. q] n ' quickly the sailors brought the raft --along-if side and gently lowered the children upon it. it seemed to rise with pride on the waves to receive them. p “as we arefenchanted,” said gurtruida, “we shall need ‘no food nor water.” . - . - “ that is true,’\t__ianswered jan ; f‘ recall » that not since we first met- master spray ha either of us thought of food or drink.’§-l /i “oh, but-our chestsl” exclaimed gurtruida to black patch, who was leaning over the rail with a boat-hook in his hand about to shove the raft off. “we must have our best clothes. what will her majesty think? when the lvi/- be/mina was wrecked we were wearing these ,_ . -. -.¢-_ _.--_--_ v“\ -a .§ i :-;»>.. if i’ " -_ i ti-pie golden goblin i old-fashioned things just for fun. we have beautiful new clothes in our chests.” _ “i will take good care of your chests,” said black patch, who had his own reasons for wish- ing to retain some hold on the godchildren of the queen of the sea. ' “as for her majesty, she is a bit old-fashioned herself and will be charmed to receive you as you are.” and he gave the raft a push with the boat-hook that sent it bounding merrily over the waves far ahead of the f[yz'ng dutcbman. straight toward the shining beach of the enchanted isle flew the raft. the children looked back. the féring dutchman seemed to be standing still. ‘q ? / /l,l .w- -, ‘p~ ) ~ ' ii \ \_ ,.-,/ll the golden gobl in why must the ocean be so wet? why can't the sun forget to set? why can't the moon come up in the west? why must the little birds go to rest? oh, dear, oh, dear! what is the use of trying to sing? what is the matter with everything? what isn't fast is sure to be loose. what is the use? what is the use? oh, dear, oh, dear! when they had finished their lugubrious refrain the twelve beautiful mermaids con- tinued to neglect their hair while they kept on sighing, “oh, dear!” in the most discon- tented manner possible, until, suddenly, some- thing happened to recall them to a sense of duty. outjust beyond the rock on which sat the loveliest of the beautiful mermaids, old neptune, with his three-pronged spear in one hand, his long beard festooned with seaweed and his crown very much on one side, bobbed up out of the waves with no ceremony what- ever. he seemed in a very bad humor. he shook his trident at the mermaids, upbraiding them in shrill tones: . i » v i u < \ i v < ' -' "-_ ‘:’f:%>- ’_¢a / ‘t f " ..a l_, ‘i \ , , ’ f . ‘ . “you needn’t think i d'idn’t see you, you id_le\_ minxesl -‘what do you mean by sitting the(£\_ ll, and squawking, instead of combing your hair, \ by special order of the queen?” - at the mermaids were too frightened to make any reply in words. they lifted their hand- glasses and plunged the pearl combsinto their tangled locks. frantically they tugged away at the neglected snarls, while neptune, still upbraiding them, waded on to the beach and began plucking the seaweed from his beard. he hopped about fussily, with his crown rest- ing on one ear, and hardly stopped to catch his breath. “whatever is the matter with you girls i can’t imagine. am i not an indulgent parent? haven't you a queen for a mother? aren’t you royal princesses, every one of you?-though you don’t deserve to be. aren’t you blessed with the finest, most palatial, happiest and wettest home in all the watery world? what? why don’t you answer respectfully, ethelinda?” .» ll the golden goblin ’ i , / s “yes, your maj'esty,”murmured the lovelieshi-i l pf the twelve beautiful mermaids, whose hair____»,f§ u/. -. ,. f. i‘ ‘e was the most tangled and who was trying to ‘* keep back the tears because the ocean was al- g ready salt enough. " i ,“and you, floralinda? don’t i provide you } '~. with everything that is good for a girl--and ‘ . m'ii—€li more than you deserve?” i “yes,‘your majesty,” answered the second loveliest. “what have you to say, amberlincla? dd i neglect anything suitable to one of your ex-l alted station-thanks to the queen and myself p", “no, your majesty,” admitted the third loveliest of the twelve royal rnermaids,'between sobs, for the comb was hurting her terribly. “coralinda, and the rest of you, do you know of any other father who is more kind, thoughtful and indulgent than i am?” “no, your majesty,” said the fourth loveli- est in the same breath with all the other eight. .¢ " "" i t at this neptune was about to look in"ethel-, ; /if -l. . a _. --.,.. - -. " i—— ' - /; / / q: ti-ie gqlden ciqblin ,‘;’;inda’s glass to see if his crown was on straigl_)t§ _,";>i»;d en he-was amazed to heara/ll of the twew _/ princesses say with one voiceriliiiiiiffsi "' ,u,.:--»'i“but, your majesty!”--and then qeh“ey i l stopped, frightened at their temerity. -;_ “but? but? but to me, after all for youil- ”;-and neptune danced about oniiflie sand in such impatience that his crown'sii;= over and rested on the other ear. su'_'dd.e ii he stood‘ still, looked sternly at ethelinda and _ said: !ispeak, daughter. it shall not‘/he said? thatil lever refused to listen to any model-ate * requjestifnade by the royal princesses."§ix»= ' “youi'i»imajesty,” said princess ethelinda,g turning pale in the moonlight, “we are tired? of swimming about like fishes. we want to? have feetttp run about on the sand with, and; lovely long clinging gowns instead of scales.’ i whenthese words had fallen on his aston-. ished and outraged ears, neptune stood for a long time [opening and closing his mouth and swallowing vainly at something which .__.n _ -tg ' i ii i h “ ~q u nu- - -.‘- i i stubbed her toe on the golden goblin’s door- ' . _ the golden goblin ’_'to be several sizes too large for his i;atli'eii\ shrunken and skinny throat. at length "fig dashed his crown down on the sand, jumped on’ it, and approached his beautiful daughters in the most remarkable tirade of his whole fussy life. -"l ' “what! do my ears deceive me? here am i,~§ary and worn after a hard day of toil herding the whales and the porpoises—with my most reliable shepherd dogfish down with the mange, too-only to find my pampered and ungrateful daughters unappreciative of the greatest blessing ever vouchsafed to our race- fish-tails to swim with. by the great sea ser- pent, i had never dreamed of such ingratitudel how often have i heard the queen say, ‘oh, neppy, ifi could only swim with the grace of our daughters!’ think of that! your own mother knows the disadvantages of feet. she always knows when it is going to rain by the way her corns pain her. only the other day she i \ ) \ j!/if if z i ‘ }}/i; ~_ x. -flat dogma know of stone-bruises? how can you understand the agony of corns? comb ayoiir hair, you idle, ungrateful minxes, and let ~ me hear no more of this.” l..¢ i pufiing from resentment and lack of breath, “- neptung picked up his crown, brushed off the sand,‘ banged it on the back of his head, and fstalked moodily up and down the beach. the itwelve beautiful mermaid princesses, for the imoment quite overcome, went on combing ltheir hair with great energy. and now, all in a moment, the sea along the beach began to gleam with a soft, opal- i tinted radiance. at the spot where these tints were loveliest there presently rose a queenly figure, with a majestic beauty far greater than that of any one of the twelve royal mermaids. a splendid diaclem was on her brow and a jew- eled wand in her hand. she glided rather than walked to the shore, and stood on the sand, "fl with neptune, hardly two-thirds her height \*j’§tep and game home with a terrible stone-bruise.'“:\‘ i n , \ . -r" i ' . / . i i‘ ' "t‘~r \ ~ ‘i _,. ‘\ '. ‘.- - a , i - i ~__ ___ \ q <. /» the golden goblin and a sorry figure by comparison, bobbing be- fore her. the mermaids bowed so low that their flowing dark tresses swept the rocks on which they sat. the queen of the sea- for it was her royal highness-smiled gra- ciously upon the princesses, who were now properly combed, and said to neptune, her consort: “ our time is somewhat limited; we shall proceed with the business before us.” she stretched forth the jeweled wand over the ocean to the west. almost instantly the -~ _‘\ i _irii§»éi ”’>‘/‘w o y '—»=-€\%_: q‘ -vs : —l~ chapter vi on the enchanted island an and gurtruida were “huddled in each other’s arms with their hands over their eyes. their hearts throbbed so, they found it impossible to utter the po- lite speeches they had framed in their minds, with which to address her maj- esty, the queen of the sea. the queen smiled and said: “why do you cover your eyes, children? i am your friend. look at me quite fearlessly.” “ oh, your majesty,” faltered gurtruida, “you are so beauti- ful and majestic, and the light that shines from you is so brightl” o ./i n i‘ instantly the radiance of the queen's body diminished to a soft opalescent glow. the chil- dren opened their eyes and looked about them in wonder. the queen stood silent and smil- ing until they should have become a little accustomed to their unusual surroundings. “your majesty,” said jan, assisting gurtruida to rise, “if you don’t mind we will run about a bit on the sand to restore our courage. it is so long since we have set foot upon land.” “certainly,” said the queen most affably. “you have the freedom of my isle.” thereupon the queen went and sat on one of the rocks near ethelinda, the loveliest of the twelve beautiful royal mermaids. the rock was shaped like a throne, and the queen looked very royal as she sat there, with nep- tune, looking as dignified as it was possible for him to look, standing a little below her. the twelve beautiful mermaids sighed and seemed more mournful than ever as they watched these mortal children, hand in hand running along /l\ii ( /rr//\ i . \ ’ f i i o the golden goblin -*. ‘§ q. a ‘ (d ll ‘ . the golden gobi-in yvj the bgach. presently they started again th_pi\ “dismal chorus; v, v by i c - i l i i - z’ .-‘r i’ - \ »”)” nothing but silver scales to wear-—-" _\ \ ,. _ . “eorigoodness sake, be quiet!” broke in neptune peevishly. “do you suppose the i queen-s-f’ ' " “patience, my daughters,” said the queen, i laying her hand on n eptune’s shoulder to calm i him; ii“ perhaps i may have a pleasant surprise * for yoii later.” ‘ and gurtruida skipped happily down to the edge of the waves-f they saw! master spray turning cartwheels on the top of a breaker that was just rolling “oh, master spray,” cried gurtruida, hold- ing out her hands toward him, “you have been so kind to us! do come on the beach and .n_ . have, a romp with us.” r? ' “what's that?” inquired master spray,"bal- " ? q) ": .-"f a c i - ’ '* ~ ‘eel,’ ~ ., ‘ -=~_ -i ei- v: - , i |_| f ll ' l “oh, dear, oh, dear, oh,,dear! <.: "~ r , {*> nothing to do but comb our hair, \ '?‘y ' ! ' the golden (‘joel in ancing himself on the breaker and looking very much astonished. “come and have a romp with us. it’s lovely here on the sand.” i “well, burst my bubblesl” exclaimed the odd fellow. “i can’-t come on the beach, you know.” ° o°°oo cg o o ,q., _¢;_" “why not? de- manded the chil- , - on . dren together. \ j‘ o i cg ’ ‘$ “ i d "- » et my feet '”wllllll'"' |i _.-. i‘- the golden gobl in dry,” said master spray. “once i let a breaker carry me up on the sand, and i got my feet dry and had a fearful cold.” as though alarmed at the very idea—which caused the children to laugh merrily—master spray skipped hastily out to the third breaker that was just forming and stood there shaking his head till a perfect rainbow of bubbles formed about him. now, having got the motion of the sea out of their legs, jan and gurtruida approached the queen hand in hand, jan bowing low and gurtruida making a deep curtsey at every other step. the queen turned to neptune and said: “your highness, these are the little casta- ways i told you about yesterday. they are two little mortals whom i have taken under my protection.” “you must understand that you are very fortunate to have her majesty take an interest in you,” said neptune, looking patronizingly :"‘ f\ i x |_ i i‘/\/‘ r\/i‘: fa. '% . i the o h £\lg.oblin __ seeéinngly, pa u\ ;i!,:_ ,l-;~ntion- to the threat: enmg gestures” ll of neptune. if “patience, ii f,»patience,” said the as ~ _ qu:ee f£,\»and then she rned to the children. ~ “\ ,‘. ,._q .-,{_¢§.y\‘t>,u'—mu,s_t_ gmderst at i know of / \ thatiiliisis-biz illen you‘; h jzmes. i have de_ termined to befriendilfil ' ,“|’ea.ow if you have any special requests to mal<ie",~-»'speak.’ wm? i the queen’s glance l'€f '.*;-fit upon jan, and - - ,_ , l *- t was very kindly: w v » . a ,' . . “ “your>l\/i;ajest)', is very - c ous,‘§ sald jan,» | “and thereffelfigio favors we ask you to grant. dear gurtruiida and i wish to be sent safely “- to our home in holland, and we wish you to grant an audiglicd to the master dfgthe ship that picked us up.” q q - “what ship is _t§li¢at?!:’ asked the queen, look- ing sgddenly veryr=sternfi \ % fzshecisj called the‘ f/fig q“ has »»/y»q»\ sssvsss. these words neptune became so angry? tha‘€he fairly frothed at the mouth. hejabbggé qqblin .. . v .: v, -» q : at the air with -'s-»tli‘ -pronged spear and: screamedp”i v _ v - // l <v¢_what riglit_vh'as ing dutcfiman to be? saigjig eastwgpd on ocean? '§‘/lie should; sail west, west, westl”. im the quezn cal ‘fifi-x;..»§ii, s said: i o ‘fr ‘ - . - “i appivjllg fl tiny at all, least; -‘-"~ . ~s , . of all qnf d a ship; but i will grain; yours requestianid see this person.”'\|,| and she piintedii her wand at master spra,y,l$+"ho approgohed near the throne as he cipuld wid out”ag€ttldg” ; ~ ' \ his feet dry. ' i ' ! i " h , ! \~ »\"'»» i>i “master spray, ’ ommanded'tqueen,“go:fv forth and bringyflo fine the ship called the mg dutcfiman.” , \ l \‘ without stop; ‘jig to perform any of his customary/aiitics, mdster spray wide his mantlekf foam awwentrboundfi olf to sea so rapidly that in _ momenit=he vvias out of sight. the queen, face was. now like marble, and so se~s majestic beauty theg q that neither jan no ,?’,;?;.kuida could lo_ok}jp _p it without kept pointed out to siea, with i and oke the \ eckoning moti oone sp . even ~ e now appeared grave and dignified. , emed to the children that hardly a l minute had’, elapsed before the fflling j - iappeared e horizon in anothe h . r ithe sailoi- %‘ e visible ‘ i"._i;f';.r deck, and in ~ -~: . l another the could be seen ifllttin great chests y = g ,._. into adioa vanflylgetting ready t lpweriit. l'black patcliilliwals directing their aibbi}€; the wind filled th/e f(;/ing dutchman’: sails and she came so fast that ijhe sailors thefnselves seemed to fear she wouldlbfi dashed upon the rocks of the enchanted isle. \ l_ill_&=\; -' but presently thejéluweenioivered herjeweled wand and instantly the shipistopped with all her sails__hi;n_gjing limp. _]a_ri and gurtruida saw ii‘ . \ , several “of the sailors ‘fall on their knees as" f - "~ ‘though overcome by the miracle. but the negftz moment black patch was gesticulating madly ,____ the golden goblin .-__- _ \ and they were hastening to lower the boat.l into the boat black patch stepped first, andi after him devil dare, dunken hagen, blut trinker and dyke verdomd. these four,j whil\;_black patch steered, took oars and began . to pull for the strip of beacbat the foot of, the rock-throne on\;:whichw sat the queen of the sea._watching the boat closely the queen,‘ presentlydiihrust foirth thewyand. the boat“ stopped at that instant, nor ccguld all the efforts of the four sailors, tugging at the oars, move it an inch. i at this black patch flew into a terrible rage. in his passion he so far forgot himself as to stand on the helmsman’s seat and shake his. clenched hand at the queen. her royal highness lifted theljeweled wand quickly, and suddenly the boat with all it contained rosej bigh in the air, surrounded by a rising torrent éof foam, while the voices of-»the unfortunate sailors united in a dreadful shriek. where the; . -rv l boat had been jan and gurtruida saw an enor-j _ \ the golden goblin \ cl |; and they were hasteningyto lower the boat.? into the boat eblack;§pat_ch stepped first, and‘; after him devil,-»d , dunken hagen, blut? o trinker and i)yke md. these four,,| while blackap _ >	ch st%r ook oars and began? to pg -i':fo '\'the striplg‘ ch atfthe’ foot ofj the r ‘lk-throne on » l» psat, the’queen of: the se atching the b h aftclosely the queen presently,fl;rust forth t the boat stopped at that tant, njlijgluld all the efforts of the fouq~ ug h at the ‘oars, move it an inch. i pi‘ \“l' at this elac tch fle ‘into rr'bl w] __, e erage. in his passiohj he so far f<‘prgiit\himself as to stand on tlie helmsman’s sdat and\shake his clenched hanfiit the qugen. her royal highness lifted" »_-jewelediyvand quickly, and suddenly the by; yyith iiiji'..c*on	ained lose n_ the a§ ;,"surrq\iind-»§i° ‘ i'§.a'rising torreiint r-',_,._<-= , . ‘. \ ‘-» kn in while the voices oéégvunfortunate . .. a e sailo nited ' a dread a shrie boat had‘ ~n an % chapter vii the animated anchor resently, while the queen continued her motions with the jeweled wand, a boat dropped out of the sky, fall- ing bottom upward on the sand near the water’s edge. next, from the same direction, fell two great chests, which landed right side up in per-! fect condition near the rocks on which sat the twelve beau- tiful mermaids. then down came black patch and the four sailors sprawl- ing on the sand in a semicircle directly in front of the throne, with a jar that left them i . ! gaping and speechless for several moments. with a stern glance at black patch the queen said: __ v ' _i .__€_._ ‘ : k fr r page four sailors. q) tc -j down came black patch and the golden. goblin uwh<v;%are you?" her tovi';vievs were/jsevere. “m-m-m-aster and f<_i‘¥ ‘$;»/ %-iithe ¢_¢-eiéfiv of the f-f-/ifi/ing d-du if-i” ‘muttered black patch through his c ng teeth. “ah, eyoéare that despigiable of ' i ...~ . "."':"!»"‘.“.'=i' neers,v sal {d so severe that c ya ch and t __,_ ,,,.»ur sailors writhed in te v \‘?%ow dare you approach throne in this d- '\ivxi.a{e~‘—!ai(:tf”l.lv€ iand undignified manner?’ “yes, how da/i‘e:;!you?” blustered neptune. : it was whgllyizgintentigonal, your ,majesty, said the i assure? o~§§i lack patch, looking about him in»»a‘ fa l ipn. “i-i th .	here must ) l ' '¢ ~\ have been exp osion.” " “you are luc to have} hdir heads still on your shoulders,” esn. “don’t let it occur againj.’j/, * wjth much estnesi%§?'_\, i'=§-_§ felt to see ) ¢‘_—i \ q. if ai.__’:‘jones we're broken, bifg»_ :cl-assured the queen that -»nothing of thcfzncfihould happen again with his consent. k “enough,” commanded the queen haughtily. the golden goblin black patch and the sailors went on digging until the whole of a lay revealed. at either end of the cross-piece there was a rusty knob. there were two broad, flat flukes; but these, in- stead of being attached to the ends ofa heavy, curved bar of iron, were like rusty boots on the feet of an iron man-for the bar of which the ring was the upper end had been split to form the two wide-spread ends terminating in the flukes. itwas,indeed, a strange sort of an- chor. the four sailors good-sized ship’s anchor r‘("'" i / .." ‘ . »- @< usru-=_--———-—-e the so obli g looked at it with i , and pgtly »q >»li ' i ( . dunken hagen exc >_ “ blast my topligh" v t “what!” shrieked u , priding the sailor with his tridejft; “ "int! pro :-.>- » i . _/i ii ml,‘ “ s ealii.» ~ ii?iman( t":en' ee p _ ---' q" “beggi v your majestyis pardoii," said dunken gen, who h q ,'-:zat:rawledg'behind black patchito escape nep \l‘l‘h’s painful atten- itions, ufhis is thielport anelior ofv§l_q€ ffling “ . ' dutcfimaj: in a stor i_n"the year . , a v .” "j " “that wast eye f efore the‘gpflden goblin built his chiiii y,” sa d the queen\,§{:and this sand was twenty fathomsl the waves.” itspeakinggf/@’ei$gp§idé:n goblin’s chimney, your majesty,;began black, patch, “woglvd hau—” ~ *»»../" #.’ /!/ ~*~\ _ _, y v ._ _, v \ __’ (%“s l€l' ccl?"s (l the queen.,|_“more about r h * \ ‘ v" . . !t at matter, perhaps, when some points v lyour record have been cleared up." and the§ the golden gobl in “they are ghosts, all of them. spooks! i knew them on that ghostly ship. i was afraid, and buried myself in the sand at the bottom of the ocean. oh, good queen, buryme once more!” “i will protect you,” said the queen. “tell me why you have the greatest fear of the one with the patch over his eye." “oh,” said the ani- mated anchor, “bid $ him go from my sight. he is not a well-be- haved ghost. he is not, and never was a respectable ghost, like his hard-working father and mother and brothers. he is the black sheep of the ghost family.” ti-ie. . ql,]%%i;i qoelin “ah,” said thgj with evident interest, athat is just what\;»§ié=z"lv_ ed tp knoyv/fabout. be good enough— t fi"~t-t the story"of this w y~i(i son ofrespe e ghosts. obedieiiice to l:;d_ueen’;/c while black patch among . ~'¢'l(h$ll ¢i.' i ' panions, and jan and l'ie$;l_j'_',“'.*ida and tlietwel_ve beautiful rmaids listene 'eagerly,“theiag‘i\- ' matedllkfior chanted tlq?»"§ale of the blaék sheep of the gh 't family,\":{';|jfa roaring bass voice that wa%j-if-le rusty ‘at the edges_,;_biit otherwise quziieyisatisfactory. 'i \~»_\? r song o/ ”’/l‘he animated ‘ianchor to a highly rcgpecta'ble_ ‘ghost family, “if i j with a record as clean as a spook’s well can be, a small ghost was born on a bleak wd‘hter’s day who was destined to change all its pride to dismay. from the very first hour of this y-spook’s life its home was a scene of conten a trife ropriety scornin ~ v w howled all the‘ i ing, to the scandal of all‘ the spook neighbors ept papa-spook walk o silence its squawl;» _-.‘_y_._. gh worn with his ghostly n ; for h ooks sleep, as you know, thro q . a i r” and fall must haste to their duties way t, ti-ie eoi.p,i;;. s_aoblin ueen ver ccii‘id‘li"\i?$;@{isl!,|>li'ave no need of q -y \ ( i’!/\» ,, n »'i» », | ii k” ”i".- in i »? :‘ i’ v‘ keys. with these words shéipghed wit er wand the lid of the larger of-ttij? two chests, whichg immediately flew fin. the queen smiledgil *-“ - _ , ‘lb; . “- transferred the wan;/‘i; ft hand and with .her right reached chest. ‘* “that is the chest filled with the rich gar- m if.‘ is ments of ago,” hisp }§.*ed gurtruida to \ ‘i ¥’?»r- - ,}, \’ ‘hr . “ "ii .v_ . »jan. “'i:‘li”‘iqueen is pleasdgijila the childre_ / ere quite unprepared _§fv_thei; iwonderful /thildgtliat happened. whefiriitheiigs iqueen drew forth herlhalnd it was clasped ‘another as white and sl nder as her own then j -p-v-_ appeared the/ihfzdfid and finallyithe whole charm- ’fvv ing figure of/ethelinda, thesloveliest of the litwelve beautiftll/er|ne_rmai@§—\only she was no longer a mermaid. he‘fifoir“m"was drag;:e_glh'_a . . *’ -\ * ' - ‘”¥.*f? clinging gown_<’of old-gol=d__, and, mgit ~"===»= '” ful of allfais shelstood upon the sahd'twt littgk feet peejaed forth from berigth the gown, clai- in shining golcfiippers. the ( c)l%ll§l goblin while ethelindaidllg staring speechlessly at;_i i \ . t q ll ill the feet for wl cl »».$ltfé'_,ily.a__'i*_loi ed so ardentl . g y, the queen re‘a¢hedlfi.r.af iiarid intp the chestj agriin and in the sarr§aé\§$énner theré‘ emerged; f_loralin'da, ,t_h_e} loiiilgliest prinizess, all pale iros%cludihgi ill§.?*~f-\‘i.f“for two little feetiji p i i"'\¥r/)‘»’l'//' which pl a’y_;i»fillé&fi§;=la\'}?,,§fldelight, although: she did seem able to utter a word. shel; stood thelinda ijij-:§::‘e, in quick sue—, | _ \ nl ' cession, the queen helped fr-i_}'_~.i the chest cora- | linda, amberlinda and t\ bfother_.~i~princesses;§i. all in char)ming clinging gownsiof helio§pe§-zl- lavende/r, pale pink and pale green, with slippers? » to match for»lithe two littleifpqtlwith which each? was miraculoiisly provided. * as the six princesses stood on the sand in a row delightedly looking at their brand-new feet in their piftfy slippers, the queen assisted from the "ctiest,;;ne after the other, the six re- mainingdgprincesse/s; bu	\instead of gowns and slippers, these wore the rich costumesiof six? teenth cenfuryxcavaliers-shoes with silver j! l» "' li.i"‘. [age chest the cavalier princesses. q) -c.‘ -j she assisted from -q q -;____ l i ‘- the g to try tokwalk. cult to preserve thp i~ each reached out f q cavalier princesses, w do a little better. but » held out her - i _ / ‘ it'll‘- *‘ sayingak a/i ' ‘q ‘ ‘p _ g “please'ili>ttle i ortal, us how‘, to use our nevi} f efii’ i n.c qbl in owns found it difli- $ .-t ‘t »»?" $ p nee. instinctively ort" to ,."onei of the 'ng.no skirts, could \ ‘q . as very awkwardl ii; work‘ for all of _the!n. engt/h ‘ethelinda ly to gurtruida. the cav lier rincesses ‘i-jade the same re- h i up i . . . quest ofv.\nan,$whose lctjver limbs in their / . breeches stocliin s and s oes with buckles so ’ g \ \ = much resembled their own. i jaii andigurtruida were indeed glad to oblige such beautiful princesses, and the scene that followed was so pretty and amusing that even fussy old nep- tune laughed and applauded by turns. q first the children steppedfslowly, handgin #» hand, a few steps/to the right and then to the left, and forward/and back, while the princesses in couples repeated these movements as_._,_wellj- j as _ t~ - the gql-de»n.c"loblll\i to gurtruida, butvshe to it very well, especiall}> when jan and they went pirouetting toge§therzfi§_§..'u‘and fogthfiin front of the princesses.’ sofieprincessjesiibegan to imitate them,%nd_/also th,:,;"animated anchor, after doubtfully shaking\i';'i§“j:v-zhead antlggriaking many rus?y”grimaces. iix,-»»,i‘» t i t il .\ in "“', devil dage/changed thelhiitiie and crdndnued is .t-»~s~~ i .. ~~ playing as though more than willing to blow the br§,th op? _of his body. every mbment ifithe dance grew more animated, with the prin- cesses and the animated anchor each moment fl\‘"."»vi . y!‘ ._. »i_-~ i i l i surer of their feet, until, w th peals of merry fljlaughter, jan“/and gurtruida, with the princesses i" and the animated anchor after them, went racing over the sand, the st the golden gobl in fingers again and looking indignant. at length he turned to the queen and said: “there, your majesty, see what you've done! our hussies of royal princesses have gone daft over the joy of having feet. all your patience and trouble in bringing them up as royal mer- maids has gone for nothing. it’s a terrible ex- ample to set the mer- maids of the common people, who copy the princesses in everything. they’ll all be wanting feet, and i know too well your obliging nature. soon there won’t be a mermaid in the ocean.” “don’t worry,” said the queen with _ ' ' j ”. ~ ». a smile. “it s onlya i, ‘ . . '°~!a ii“ caprice of the prin- -, -...‘§,v.. ?' cesses; it won’t be long before they’re chapter ix “co to the golden goblin” “alas, your our majesty,” began black patch servilely, in whining tones, “as you are queen of the sea, and the most wonderful en- chantress in all the world, we beg that you will en- chant the winds at the cape of storms which, for two hundred and fifty years, have opposed our passage home. command them to oppose us no longer, so that we may end this weary voyage at last, and-” “stop!” commanded the queen. “is not your ship called the féling dutcfiman?” majesty, that is true, but-” the g ' ” ' '. ‘z? obl in “-and o in curse because ofits mast r’s i _ ._ . “yes, your mhest “—and you pla l / captain in chains ce r this mutiny *" icl',is an outrage to the . d . . ‘vv . vv_,. shes" . ' !"'""hi"'!'” ' ' n an a its o ;.,j,»-,,v_,._=*|,,- l eace-loving in- habitant§?:’§? ‘/ “yes, ii majesty,” in neptune f /ing duiégmafzyf: stwarcl, pettishlyg ii nd by! turnih’-igl the bow ofthe .-| knows its co\q‘_sj!jls e west" wjhen all the world -or ever and ever, s v \!i v these mutinjlfi.slsc lfndrels >have\_ c? ttered my best herds/ f whales and four winds.” fl porpoises to the the queenfcalmed neptune with a touch b . of her hand on his shoulder, and, after medi- tating briefly, said ‘cg, black asses. - -- l-»- . . ¢<youhmust understand thgt ri}utiny. \$ de_ testable to me.‘ i feel that it isltiiy duty _t~q-i - -' -» >— y’ '_-‘ .--i release“ captaifi vanderdeckenhand, thus ‘en§ "--u // §" a; ' u fable him to indict uponfyou the punishmefifé _.t;- . l ,_vyou so richly deserve.” ~?r~< . “' -q ,‘ \l _, - the golden _oobl \i black patch alldlitihe ~ailors prostrated themselvesbefore, ‘.ji they shook in limb turned a sickly v‘g.é—‘i¢aso_us,” cj.‘»j|.>" ‘tied . v ed, ‘ is course.“ first, because iwel,l»knov$l'jnqfi§~er ou i q y will returndto’ your captain on youir knees, i ! ' ' - d ~a voluntarily- l'and, second, l)i€.;';*}ls€ the two little‘ , i y "‘ -dd? l mortals ha’ e reported thsijfiu have treated i them kin ' ‘jxvaltvli gh i cl ill imagine your sly » ‘ "~ > \’ and de se in actin in a manner l ' _ .é»\ %{% ppm . . g . so contra to ‘your e il natures. and now,” continued they ueeyn in hpr\*s*t‘ernest tones, while she rose ttfigiejf f ll height at the foot of the throne, “whyihave you attempted to con- .. ceal from me my island?” s - ; their arm queen s e; ere indeed lightning called forth} _ pp-j"_ . \ to strike’~_--‘-="_'iead. lifting her wand the i the golden gobl in danced all over his head;m“the g ovldhen gdblin’s chimney has been an'awft l nuisanee to us. it was always smoking. the queeii is very good-natured, but one day the smoke got to be unbearable, and her majesty, with a wave of vher wand, stopped it up with four hundred thdusand million tons of granite; he-he-he!” and he chuckled his crown on straight again. “naturally the golden goblin vgnd i are not on the best of terms at present,” admitted the queen. “as a matter of fact, our relations a_ have never been cordial. the golden goblin? » n v exercises his powers of enchantment-—which are very great_-for,|purposes which i can not approve. besides, as you doubtless have vheard, his four daughtdrs have control of the four winds. they, of course, can not disturb the main body oi my jean, but they are con- tinually ruflli it ‘face in a most annoying annen a had drawn near and w ‘ i k v l r r f \ e i » it ld~e-n— ~q tl n is;-:i w.ever,liihe ijv _aj.esuty_,w§§fi°?i_s_e, . ese little mortals desire it i will permit tliex incesses to escort you to the golden goblin’s ‘ lace by the deep-sea entrance.” _ a “oh, your majesty,” said jan, “i’m such a i blvardl sha’n’t we all be drowned?” it f . . ,;“not wl' l€ you are under my protection, answered the queen with a smile. *‘ ‘ “if you please, your majesty,"as!aied gur- truida earnestly, “dear jan isn’t alcioward at all. he’s the bravest boy in the whole world.”£.i the queen smiled upon themz:both, and,'<z continued: “you will go on board the fflring %iut£gma:zrz i ..- with these sailors and the twelve princesses- who know the/‘way\ perfectly—an_d the ship will carry you quickly and safely tolthe bottom of the ocean,’/“to the/great coral gate of the golden palace. there you will dis- embark princesses will gain admission fotthe ou need feel no alarm, ; f~é; _uz§l%~€t my protectio the golden gobl in water, even at the bottom of the ocean, will seem the same as the air to all on the ship. and you will see many strange and beautiful things which as yet no mortal eyes have-behelél-:__\ ,,,, “this golden goblin, your majesty,” said v-. ‘ jan doubtfully, “can hebeelied upon not to if play any of his s ‘ll’ tricks on gur- i’ truida?” v’ u‘ “that reminds me,” said the’ queen, taking a iiéir ring from her fin- ger and placing it on one of jan’s. ‘q, §_. h i . _,‘_ “if . i -' - - . ..;_- _.- . .)!-ue.q'.\' either of you little mortals should find yourselves inéany danger, all you have to do is to kiss this ring and i sliall/ %" p g~ be with you instantly.” “thank you, your majesty,” said jan. “now i am quite easy in my mind.” the queen stretched out her wand toward ~ "t “i i » i i i | i i lthe-hgoldl \lc qblin the flying dutcfi za ,. which had . ; ,m.qv¢il .,__ _ ‘ i dj. kiring all this tiiiie, land‘; bieiamwfr-om“ l_l:*ie blazing jewel at its end rested on the ship’s high poop. immediately, stern foremost,_the ship began to drift toward the rocks, while black patch and the four sailors looked on in astonishment. gently the ship approached till it stopped close to a rock whjose hait top was on a level with her upper deck, and so close that a child could have stepped aboard. the queen turned to black patch. “back to your ship,” she said, “and be sure and remember what you owe to these little i mortals.” ‘ * - the sailors made haste to clamber abioard, looking frightened and awe-struck. jan and gurtruida followed them, with a final grateful bow and curtsey to the queen, who gave each an encouraging smile, and then came the twelve beautiful princelsfg, who were now quite steady the' .-,..~,|'l“_he saglors had goneim- ‘" ’ ”’deck,:f ir theyii-ii “‘ ___, _ i ____._ i o “ . i i i i i i i i i i i i i i i i i '**“*=i _.._.¢ "<t__‘&<}/ lden mated anchor, rubbed its beak. ojil the rusty cheek, and croaked: e how well you’re lookingl welcome hoihie, welcome homel” l ilthus the strange pair stood on the high deck of the ship’s stern, surrounded by ian anjd gurtruida and the tvvelveijeautiful princesses, when the queen '€igain£_,riaise'd her wjalnd. slowly the ffying dutcfimaflyivviith al sails set as usual, drew away her bowsprit dipped under the waves,»heri_iieei§s v , . [ anli those on them, and soon theltop of mainmast, too, hacilizdisappeared, and the of the sea and her consortljwejréilileft aliblne on the behch e enchanted-»_isi§§ , fi ‘-» _ » \) / i ‘ i . , i i .- _a . l - ' i h / l ....___-._/-t ,.’-----iii - q"-y_ _ . _ , _. _l,_._ io \~»-,=~.' . ,:"i” ' '-. ' ' hapter‘y*x#l—~->'il{i down, down, downl a it t . f[yz'ng dutc/zman gurtruida clung, trem- i “there is nothing to fear, % you are now two of us, and a'{’ - i i all the same.” a iafter a moment the chil zaliz this was true. if tl_i,e/_water touhiei i could not feel they breath as iever. there'\wa,_il;ziiily a slight i the moon’s rays, which enabled t plainly all about the§ forms of oc ’ grew stranger the de//e’/per the ship sank toward i the bottom. soijn of these floated across the life that i i deck, darting‘ /way and thft, and casting curious glad an and>gurjtruida, tlfey t .witlr'~%§idening eyes,~:’,§iut § gazed oatiths i ‘ "“""“” “ s s f %. i at l. w w‘. ._____._. -_. --._. ..>. q ,,___,__, _,___$____ as the waters closed over the deck of i i __.__..___a___-.._.. _____.__..__-_ bling, to _]an’s arm. the twelve princesses i i laughed merrily, and ethelinda said i i i i i i i ___ ____._,___>>_____._-»||__.-..___ _>>_m__|_. ____.__ mm £ i i l m m- obi paid noaattseetisv w.rsb¢a nim_at¢ nor the twelve beautiful princesses, whose. . changed aspect they seemed not to notice. y — v very soon after the ship sank beneath t waves two familiar creatures of the oceanfgg swimming lovingly side by side, descended the deck near the children and rested against ai coil of rope. ii l{‘they are jellyfish,” said a ‘iable and loving they look!” ;at this the animated anc i with laughter _ , i _ “ho-ho, ha-ha!k"‘;h laughie d/iii} his rus voice. “of course>}.éhey’re amiable. they’re;_ lovers. many a,tli ;l%i\nl\" €i i’ve gone whizzin‘ diojwn to the bottom‘ ail the end“ my cabféi ive seen young jellyfiaih a-courtifih. h‘o¥,h;o, ha-ha-ha! ”-and athetanimated anchor laugliledii asipthough the best joke in all th i» ei wllorld of $.,|»if;.‘ l - .- ‘ */ '-f|» i he waved a ggsty hand»ar.»tl_re queer »lovers“arrd“sai?:{ ' " ' re“ ‘ "" w *i' 'h_~__*_—*_y l , '“'i“"i “e” mortals for an audience.” the larger of the two jiellyfisliw interested he fixed his round e es truida s face, and presently winding half a ,§‘*‘> of his arms around the waist of his swee i ii" whose head dropped on his shoulder, he re ed to the; animated anchor,|s §u,g“giesti i ciiriously gurgling sort of song with these j i l itt isn‘t every day you can have two li song of the amorous a jellyfish my mother was, m ill‘ was a squid w he loved her very much because-— l juseliecausc he did an vflthat we are fully grown, miss jellyfish and prefer like them/to be alone and tell» each other why “oo , ! on/ :/igigly giggly gee ” in meltmg tones she says to me and “o s oor oogly googly goo‘? my voice responds like liquid glue theiiby the hour, most tenderly j _ mi i linn- l_.__ l and soulfully together we— the. golden goblin "wi i i i k i i i i i i i i i i a i i i i i i i 'f‘igg y giggly gmh. _ _ ovslrswslr aw?" "st "”"""—¢ issly sissly. wslr swsly s<><>-” j ~ she has the most expansive smile-- "l g» it meets beneath her chin; ‘ her palpitating heart the while stirs her remotest fin. and yet the beauties of her mind;~~,_ _ in every sort of weather, ‘i,-pg eclipse all other charms, ilfind, , \ when we converse “oo’s oor iggly giggly gee ?” * she giggles gleefully to me. and “oo’s oor oogly googly i gurglingly demand anew. ;,_ ‘i such iggly things these words we oog_le"/tii<{’n_i;tl_ie livelong d sfissly see» qoslyebésly goo. i )’ gl§gly °i f§ ° )’ °‘) i i i i i i j : h whe?fi’er wed” lei: near the shore a/we’re~‘our igg ing’s right, for on/'}?l>e be h sometimes a score fl’ ‘ . , " . . - i ._ pigglers are in sight. ;, , » igglers on the £ /aayim l ar (ls in piqgsgqrfins, , , l. » .t§,;"§_ig_gkrs.—;lqseat hand“ uflil * l ,i'i vitfnl:urious iegs and things” _ » ‘ y fi is ' h £ " l i if i ? would be if you were a little i _. ___._|__.__»».. -_.._..___, “ha-ha-hal” roared the with a roguish glance at jan and gu‘ftr;uidla, “that last stanza is one on you all right-; ;; . " "iii. it’s the way of lovers all over obliged,mr. and. ' s jellyfish be happy.” i , i oo’s i g ' she asks of him familiarly. and “oo’s oor oogly googly goo?" he makes reply just as i do. to make the matter clearer yet they even copy our duet: ~ ‘ “lssly giggly ass, oogly googly goo, issly giggly, oogly googly goo ! ” e slash’ sss ‘?” -£ >>.a“su . '$ v- n mated* anch géer. i sup but instead of svviirrming on tli i jellyfish and his/swee§;’hepa‘rt continuediiti _ themselves on their tailsyagainst the coil oflrope, °: o“).'“ '€ ' . ; o fl> while they cas%ti,,ami,;yl_§l/e glances atlthe two _chil- dren. fellyfish saidifto gurtrtgdaz y “we like,')§§u»» wfefll accompany. ry much. don’t mind ion your journey. my;.i,:- - - . - d h i ; ff?" i §ff°“§j‘yl§,w ‘a»“~@h,, i — gol ' ! i b l » i i l i i i i ' o ___ _. . .. ~_) id_a.i "lei xi _a. “why, i declare it s._ ' - i l i_e}x- l claimed ethelinda. s i i “have-have you met him before?” gasped q gurtruida. ; “certainly, my dear. he is the leader of i the royal herd, who ran away the other day, and his royal highness hasvbeen looking for him everywhere. that’s whfhe wa cross — when ou arrived on the enc y - ’* . the whale looked at ethelindapfand gur¢__,:zzq= =. truida was sure she saw him»c'lo__se one e ii! roguishly. “alexander, goléright home this minute commanded ethelinda. »>~§"i‘ §- a “naughty alexahkklér, you’ll catchgitl” said’; floralinda. “alexander, you ou,/fight to be ashamed q_fyour- self, running g_h-ithis wayl” said amberlinda. the only may the whale made was playfully y to bump the shipkeskide with hisaimmense nose, sending l bbin§:$,;:_ jout so that jan and gur- nim;§';§ii—an*chor and"the'§‘flve ‘ i i i d it itatvtwa (princesses could hardly kgeg thejgrmfeet onmthe the golden obl in a.. _._____||__.._..— ....._ déék, while the sailors *fe "¢&{ theirknees ind howled dismally. at length coralinda, étlhe sweetest-voiced of all the princesses, gave itlhe whale’s nose a soft pat with her little hand and -i said pleadingly: r ‘ “please go home, alexander./,»they miss you terribly.” { at these gentle words the/whale gave a mighty flip of his tail—which made the f[yz'ng i dutc/mzarz bounce about like a cork -and sank. v “there!” sighed ethelinda, “his. royal], highness will be so relieved.” when the ship was steady once more'_]an and gurtruida, looking down beyond her bows, saw a long way off, and far below themfa faint . but beautiful pink glow in the water.i§ presently i the glow deepenediuntil it turned the mastsr ~ r and rigging, and’ every object on the deck and ; i j ' l about them in the ocean, the color of coral. ¢<oh,- » bea'fiiif' ll:__char_r,ningl” exclairgbdi _. : h . $ ?“ rel ‘ w at‘:- : ‘! l ) > the c c)ldel\l_c ‘in the name. of her majesty,,.q ) ea, openl a _ , and slowly the two halves of the great gate swung inward before the bows of advancing ship. a i chapter xi the golden goblin has a cold in his head , , ‘ he moment the ship had entered the golden goblin’s palace, and the great gates of coral had closed behind her, even jan and gurtruida re- »ij'n‘fe alized that something more serious than the arrival of the f[yz'ng dutc/zmarz had lately occurred. the vast chamber, i ?" a a ( ' which seemed hewn out of solid coral, even to its high, groined ceiling, was filled with a soft, pink radiance reflected from the walls, after passing through what ap— peared to be enormous diamonds set in a semicircle above the gates. the chamber_- evidently a sort of covered courtyard—was thronged with fantastic figures running hither and thither in the greatest confusion. they l » i t i j ti-ie / en goblin seemed to belriers, for some carried spears and all wore rilmets and tunics of some shin- ing yellow ryiyéral, like gold. they had the features of zyuman beings rendered grotesque by long green mustaches and great green, bushy eyebrows. but most fantastic of all were their hands and feet. these were enormously broad at the fingers and toes, which ap- peared to be webbed for the greater part of their length, and > ' / % i were quite bare. \ two of these strange beings, who were nearly twice the height of the others, stood on guard at a door on the further \§_<ide of the chamber. each of \ t®‘n held upright a staff twice | u "v:?o it »-, ~€ q q &~ &¢” if ~ > -@\ =e\<<-q.-\ \, > (q his own height, having a huge gleaming eye at its upper end. other great eyes dangled at l e i » l i l l i ’ ,., ' ~ i) at °,>_ “ ‘-|§,__.‘¢i..»-.»|¢_'- v v" “ls ofbfiéheir 'ten ;acleshai-»s backs."teveryv m m¢n{th¢" door opened gte permit the exit of a female of this odd,-looking” race, clad in a short robe of some gea-green material and wearing a quantity of sea-green hair coiled at the back of her neck. each of these women was burdened with a large basket piled high with something that loolfi, like soiled linen. for every woman he out another entered. these also ca askets but in this instance the contents w stacks o ' ' ' st fr always when oii’e:,§f the women came out with her basket,|shekwas instantly surrounded by soldiers who seemed fito questionwher with the utmost anxiety, and when she would shake her head dismally ti}/e/soldiers would run about more distraughéfilfan before. ' ;_heir anxiety was so gi;ea,tr'that'/_fhey seemed hardly to notic he entr i e of the ~,f(ying dutchman. **i all rand,“ rtruida neatly-folded fresh linen, evidently-bu wl the golden goblin’s laundry. ‘k a %\ '. . . f . v. , : v » > ‘ »» ' . - t - r;.e.olnr. \i.eoel. > -_.._ j before . ... ship had come to a standstill in,thez§, center of the chamber, and, by the direction f ofithe princess ethelinda, had turned about; so | @ ___.<_.._.__.___|._ .._._.|..__._ _..__ that her bows pointed at the great gates. las . soon as this manmuver had been executed, the i animated anchor, evincing great excitement, - sent his rusty, clanking legs flying forward where he seized the end of the cable from . " ‘ which he had broken free a centuryfihefore, and leaped over the port bow. the cable rattled ' through the hawser-hole, and, looking over the ‘_ ' ship’s side in astonishment, the children saw i” i the faithful fellpwuflsecuring an iron-like grip with his rusty arms and legs around one of them y carved hinges of thésgates. when the animated a anchor appeared satisfied with his grip he l shouted to the children; i “ha-hal mymfiukes have not forgotten their l cunning. g;’i/gig/dfplay your visit to the golden goblin. i’llf the ship against an army till y;<*. r:==§;&.{*i"*?"\/q ~ ' i i arfirsrtlre grea.’pz.;.s¢;"ai;sias , t_|' i v ) ithe poop-deck of the fb/ing dutcbman was ' — t ti-ie golden goblin g w r a strong fancy to the animated_,anchor, seemed anno*yed,but presently, after some dis- ordant croaking, it rubbed its head on']an’s rim and remarked placidlyz it i §“we’re all accursedl” now within a few yards of the door where stood the gigantic guards, whose heads w re nearly on a level with the rail. ., e ‘ “what ho fellow” said the p -inyc;és‘s‘ethel-’,._j a _ q,’ , , q twelve princesses of the sea larerwithout w c r-» two little mortals and demand an auidiencei , at this the guard twirled his g '€ci‘iui¥\us§?.cl' cs and. seemed embarrassed. at length heisaid sullenly: ) = . “his cantankero’ ;majesty is not receiving. > inda “inform the golden goblin; that th n _ - ‘-q li $ “what! to me?’ id the princess ethelinda sternly, whilf*. “l,l fie other royal maidens frowned at th //w ptuouslfellow. “how -dare you giwg q~,;—an answer to the—heiress apparent wr "‘ h am-_--~ g_~__. ___ __ “his cantankerous maj- esty is indis-‘i e _ posed,” muttered the guard.& i “ah, indeed? what ap- " pears to be the ‘f trouble?” -‘ *.-"_':_rvu"' -w.-y la -'-xvi ,- ' -_-‘iy: , ; (‘w v, ell me what all these wwomen are carrying in nd out in those baskets.” “aheml” said the guard r" » --“- cautiously: “well,it is the royal laundry.” “indeed? the olden goblin i i \ \ " ¢ , yr‘ i “all his cantankerous majesty's sub- ects are forbidden to men- tion it on pain e;of instant death,” answered the guard i “at least,” said the prin- cess, “you can - » -a- »-. ‘. <~¢. £>.-b-n_»a -.-- l‘,’:;’\ . ’ ‘zap; /‘ \§\ \ ‘?*§\"'§»">¢‘q’;"' -\ ;,\ "' *"" ?.“i¢‘>=::,‘./b ‘! i§li» » l s l i i | ' i . e l ! l__,___h_,u—, ' . golden goblin must-_he..._e.n.terta,in_ingua. greath..n,u.n‘il>er of l l fwvza w" "i.hww" h h . t v i i i . i guests. since our arrival enough soll€(l linen has come out and enough fresh linen has gone in to serve for a palace full of women and fops.” and ethelinda cast upon the guard a look so severe that he forgot to open the door for a laundress who had just approached with her basket. ;' .. i “wait!” commanded the me what is in the basket-” i i muttering, but evidently wayfifaid to disobe the guard took the basket fromgthe woman a lifted it up to the ship’s rail. ethelinda one of the neatly- ed squares of liifen from the basket and s~ it out. it was a hand- kerchief. the basketvwas full of handkerchiefslgl “ah, i see,’_} said /the princess, replacing the handkerchief in the/éiasket, which the guard p‘ ’ y . gave back to ?e woman and l'i:;st ly opened the door for h r, “ah, the golden goblin has , a ‘cold inhis head.” i ‘~ - ~ - ‘ '; "‘ rrflraveen t mériision*ed—it, ai ‘t g_._ l him to see ifihe was suspected,i“y u must/lino i i as ‘ f say that i told you. ‘ “i will protect you, fellow; but do not kee usl waiting. we shall pay our respects to th four princesses, if they are at home. “their gusty highnesses are at home," said the guard, “but they, too, are indisposed. i haven t you noticed that therehas-n’t bgeen a : a days?” west wind for a week.” ¢ “the princess occiélinta is not so bad as the i _\ others. but princess orienta, princess arctica, in fact, they are confined to their royal couches. _ ‘a ' éféao € $ “tush, fellow, there’s beens ' a ste s xii breath of wind from any directiorf theseifthree, | *? “oh, i forgot,.’fsaid the guard injconfusiori, , and princess antarctica are very ill indeed; the gqlden cjqb..lli._.-_~_, l turning pale and casting anxiousglances abou ('d"u r-rr- ~ wl “and his»)i,~nkerous majesty, is he, too, i confined tankerous majesty will not sicians. he sits all,;&,;}""q' q’ z ., y= kw’? ..»_ i i j i ’ l-m;rne.eolni;. \ c oi?; ~ i, i ~ »-** l @"§r¢h¢ra,i. .¢ff ?¢shipa"¢ °a‘¢ ¢. €p..xi §w“ tofthe floor of the courtyard. the other prin- l cesses followed her in the same manner. ‘ l §:“come,” said ethelinda to the children. i l . . . ,, . . j fi“oh, it is so far to jump, said gurtruida, i drawing back. j; “it is nothing in this atmos‘ph e_re,” said ethelinda. x b a “i will catch you ” said jan and‘he leapigfi landing quite lightly beside the priinifléssi if arms, gurtruida leaped, toownd hardly fe the shock of her fa,lllasn_ian’s hands caught ih “openl” ¢om ~i&£a_nd¢d princess ethelind z emboldened by the sight ofjan’s upstretclfé‘ i a a j the guard obeyed, and the children.,iifo;§a haugh tily. hi i i i lowing the twelve beautiful princesses, found themselves in the coral-walled throne-room ? of the golden gglids palace. it was a large, . ' l. r ,_‘ . . . , ? l many-side évith a high dome in which q were m . ? set like jewels at regiaii ingetr seemed green as it e%}”'=e= ._. §" _ _"' ‘ » ————» ~— __. __. a h-- j. as .the-fioldei\lc qb r i l e > s i i i i i i i i» i t certain one of the lniman-looking firedogajzag shivering. t i i i i i in -suddenly the muffled figure on the thron drew up convulsively and plunged into a per- fect paroxysm of sneezing,while two immensely broad hands with fingers webbed to the second i joint reached out spasmodically in all di- rections. a dozen attendantg came running i, ‘ ..i from a room back of the thrinne and thrust i handkerchiefs into the groping hapds, while the ~ i’ ii’ :tumul :ii ¢ chewyi sneezing became every moment r ous, until, with an explosive “ that shook the coral walls of the *fp“ s it the mufiied figurerose, tore off its upper,| ¢ wrappings, revealing a swollen and tear-stai countenance, and thundered: i “handkerchiefs! handkerchiefs! what has v become of allymy handkerchiefs? ker-chew! let the gr a;ri%l/;chamberlain of the royal laundry be /lger-chew!-— f"l’i_‘?f?§i ? liii ~ i l“w“liereupoii the -§f¥oldetnt——goblin retsu‘ii'ieicl'% l"iis ~~~~- -----~-i- ------a » -.- ,§_§l_ figw: ‘j~fi stock-st i ‘w , am gm mo wyn afi __a c a >>>> <<d mm r jp“ _ warm m tmgwh zya r, l r e o yrmb o sneezingh . it-www‘ increasing the twelve near the d breath. i gr, i‘ la___tg" _ ,’ i \__,_ r ichapiterix*i ’ ~ i the coral fire ‘ so grotesque was the golden goblin’s ap- * pearance that jan, as his natural fears wore away, was tempted to laugh aloud. “the figure of this potentate of the regions under the sea , was tall and imposing. it wast cglafii ' i a close- a i fitting robe of golden scales, ,~t contortions caused by the fit of ezing, woil i have appeared really ma_jestl\§&§ ‘e golden, i goblin’s crown, too, was quit‘ royal ah i gorgeous ahair;§(<~he face unde,_i? i¢_w'i§§f i aydelight such fa.k"‘would be forfthe saucy . a little street boys-flat lromp in amsteiidamlg q. the golden,."gobliji had sea-gre£inustaches s¢ylong that they hf to be twistedjand tu_r med , up over his v is sea-green_e»yiebrows,»i§§o, tj wiere each,;;ij;éar foot long, ahd seeme life i have gwire, for were twi and;twirlediupward;,'iandpthe"“point»ofiei ~ itttw "wt" i i i ttte “ “ow " " av; »);—"i——-»§»h d ned _wi , . e éthe golden gob bcaiise of his byihis efforts to q'¢_ . ‘ch i l(l v€st€d of the ggtacheg, it would ;_be quite ihiinly, even havnd-y ii; ___ l is av; . *,» \»g_ ;'_.‘ ¢_ fsome in a dark aiidirs/evererwa i, ‘ ll, ’ as _]an’s reflections reache this j‘ i - i a ).. or k * ‘ii? . _-' "? ‘ .-' ‘i . againsti%'\sidég=><_ i_'f the c golden goblin sneeze , %» a tink \»:‘ ‘i €iy tgimeritlie " ' ' . ‘- ’ . ii, ' ' thou gh %¢:tl;i_‘a§ if-» led , liii’s~.»faée was not swollen“be .. i . surdyeyebrows and mus-' ; - ., h »/q, » ¥ ' point the golden goblin, who/ylras confronting managed to get} addressed to the his unbiddenguests in a attitude, ni a few words between sneezes, i {princess ethelinda: ' “catch—catch-'-ker-chew! may i ask to what circum'—ke'r-chew-stance i am in- ' debted for the—-ker-chew—honor of your _' visit—catch—catch-ker- ch ew p ” i “may it please your gantankerous majesty,” _', began ethelinda—and'then the beautiful prin- cess looked abo ‘sneezed! ut her in a startledway, and ,i tn? d shapigilgi ep s and was i l r » j. l ' i,‘ - - -’ . lon/their couches si €cz i w,tl €_' most heart- b k' f h' ' “ker-chew!” sneezed thenygreat green parrot, who had entered with the others and stood beside janiijf . $ “stop! how_idare_,y'ou,;in my presence?” thundered the golden goblin. ‘and then he was seized with anothe%i'o l,ysi}i of sneezing. ethelinda sneezed agai_i,f"l:$i;ri§;l then flora- linda sneezed. then all »'thp‘il\kither princesses sneezed, and pr:esen:t,ly»_]aii“'a’n _<l gurtruida, greatly to theiirlhumihation, were sneezing as though their sgtlbjpended it. the door opened and _~ priricessioccidenta, ruler of the westirfliridiand ranfsneezing, into the apartment her three sisters—orienta of the__,ea st arctica‘ of the north wind, and.antar'cticai pf the south wind-_-were lying rea ing as ion. - hither and thither ran royal attendants dis- tributing handkerchiefs to the royal family and their guests, including the parrot, and while no one could utter a word because of the epidemic ti-ie c ‘lde. _.._....._ -i i bu' o q‘ # ‘. ker-chew ! " sn eezed the r ' g eat green parrot. p age _§ -_.h_t _ old]-ln goblin. i l” of sneezi-ni x t was upon them all, the door i . . . - ~' opened again, admitting the animated anchor in a state of trenghdous excitement. too ex- cited even to no , ¢‘é:~ ; ;a£ all in ihe room were . '\"~. s. . too busy with the r’&_eezing to,pay him the slightest attention,’the animated anchor fell on his rusty kn,$es before_ q frincess ethel- inda and annoufiied: ' ~ \'“ i \,,¢\ , j’ \ utl' e '€’s_ a eb”iiispii{awcy,on ship to kidnap the princesses§;%	l{e»»fe€ur winds,\,and hold them for raii,i)d[s‘éi?.‘(.§./$ .‘ -_ .i tfli)l{c!‘ ls majesty ' "ii ,/’:/ must be waf_i‘@€lls,§f _‘ and tl €ii;_i]'lv~€-ia.i lihat€£(l /anchor fell to sneezing till-ii§as§."from all his joints rose in a cloud ' i i ( ' . isbiiiieihingghaippened that shocked ithe" golden goblin so that .h'.e"»stopped_short “right/in:,the middle of oneinf his most success- ful sneezes. the queer, human-looking fii;e- dogs were shaking as though they were alive ‘and had an attack of ague, and all at once, in unison, they gave vent to a series of sneezes so i ‘- ' i the n goblin --ker-che saidrfai i k ago after all the palace fires went out__;be_i d e an earth- quake choked upjthe royalfiliih “if you had not p_e»i‘s ste'd gi burning soft j coal and smoking eyes chanted isle,” sawj§the»f)r_inc ss everely, “her i majesty the que ' ” of the‘; " ould not have‘; been compelle‘ o summolf- at earthquake,’;f~ t‘ “well,” saighe vgold'en\—goblin “if you will i if cure __ j _ take g a in my head, whic rtain/ly carry me off in be bygones _. “ =;&-?r»“r " another week,if ' /we’ll let bygones ,, qi ‘on the en- this awful éold i i as every o_rie__ibut herself and the golden goblin was stillgsneezing, it was difiicult for them to make themselves heard. putting her lips close to his cantankerous majesty’s ear the princess shouted: \_ i /“in the first place we mus warm fire in the grate.” t have a nice," §_ z § “but the chimney won’t draw,” shouted the /golden goblin in the princess’ € l'. . ti-ie golden gobl in “that doesn’t make any difference, if you go about it right,” said the princess. “a nice warm fire in the grate without any chimney!” exclaimed the golden goblin in- credulously. “show me how and i will grant any favor you may ask that is in my power.” “agreed,” said the princess‘ ethelinda. “we must have a coral fire.” “a coral fire?” repeated the\golden goblin, opening his eyesvery wide. “why, i’ve more coral than i knriw what to do with. if you’re really in earnest youiwill solve the most im- portant problem that vexes my reign, in these days when even soft coal is becoming so scarce.” without replying in words, ethelinda seized a small coral chair standing near the fireplace, dashed it on the floor so tha _..it_was shattered into fragments, and'_piled	hc_:;fragments neatly in the‘fireplace, standing.’ between th\<_:_:stql,- ' sneezing firedogs. i \ “now,” she said, “i~ must have some flash . j " water», ‘ ' --_:-i - the golden gobl in furniture that glowed ruddily, while the beauti- ful pink-white flames leaped high, and grateful warmth stole all through the room, even into the apartment occupied by the princesses of the four winds. the golden goblin—whose sneezes were already growing less frequent— resumed his throne, rubbing his hands. gradually all the sneezing ceased, though the animated anchor, owing to his being so rusty inside as well as out, was not quite cured until, upon the golden goblin’s invitation, he approached close to the grate and warmed all his joints thoroughly. meanwhile he scruti- nized the firedogs with a curiosity that was only satisfied when, with the great iron poker, he had given each of them a smart thump on the side of the head and heard the sound of metal on metal. the silence in the great throne-room became al- .”-‘i ..-~’---_ -__ i i i i i ~_ »jqgq'.<-w is '?‘ * ,q§ p a v- %ost opp? m mi-i,#'. i| of -»q% . k ~§‘ :“i~.""'. sneezin . ~a.n .. “m ed in some -' _ l, egg _ , . iiiipatienhce fpr the. princ mi.‘fi€l ncla to ap- proach the filden ( !)-kn resp, ing the object of their visit. wejeiaware of the his gantan ‘ous majesty was yawning an etchingjhims if luxuriously. the children? ced into adjoining room and saw the ncesses the four winds tfissing their ' ‘q about while they sighed langu lwén f/tjhelinda and her i . }/'/<>§’si§{aiziimated' than usual, while the - - green parrot had perched himself on of theethrone and closed cause of her delgg/. iii?‘ i >» i sister princess_ » »g one e e slee ‘§hum',‘hai”_j»yawned the golden goblin; _j§it’.s' been more than a week since i’ve closed an eye. a little good mhsictwould certainly start” me ofif on the best sleep of my whole career. i almost regret dismissing the royal ‘orchestra; but the rascalsiwould persist in / i playing wagner, confound hem! ._.- i i /' /| i ( i the golden gobl in at these words gurtruida advanced timidly to the foot of the throne and said: “if it would please your majesty, jan and i know a lullaby that we can sing for you. it’s about a little mite ofa girl and her doll, and when you come to the refrain it’s very sooth- ing.” pf‘ “good!” said the golden goblin, yawning again; “fire away with your lullaby-if you’re quite sure it isn’t wagner." the twelvembeautiful princesses grouped themselves on ‘either side/of the throne, the animated anehor stretched out his creaking joints on the hearthstone, and jan and gur- truida, standing {hand in hand, sang sweetly to the golden goblin their lullaby called: -d . v _. _ _ g ._,. j ‘ ' - r/ ’ . \ i. dolly’s' bedieme , ’ e . e ‘ - ' - | i ‘\ / j > \ / ' ,. romps ijollylsqltlrher dolly; _, v, '/ " i ' poor dolly owes toipolly. "‘- ‘- ,, i one sawdust leg completelygoae, , _)/ ;_ the otherbadly mended; i t - oi -' the left hand off the right hand on— ' '\ ' '; all day long, up stairs and down, " my j ' , - one eye black, larpygn, \.._/ the golden gobl in for polly’s health is splendid. but soon the restful shades of night change polly’s mood completely; to dolly, now in spotless white, she’s_ crooning, oh, so sweetly-— dolly’s bedtime comes again, close those eyes so blue; blessed angels hover near,‘~§_qd polly’s heart is true. sleep, my dolly, dream oncd more, darling, do not sigh-- fold your precious ;ha'nds d sleepiby-low-by, lullaby. filled wirfihope of time $: for dolly, is miss polly. ‘- - “you must mend your naughty ways,” says _polly to her dolly. “you must be‘ spanked when you tell fibs, much mo fond of quarrels; and wherf you soil your little bibs , ltrerhble for your morals.” but wlfei-ihthe soothing shades of night lu're,polly to herslumbers, then sinlgs she to her heai't’s delight _ i i" ' f irivsoft, reposeful “numbers-— t __,‘ ' dollfs bedtime comes again, close those eyes so blue; _,e/blessed angels hover near, and‘ heart is true. ‘ff if sleep, my dolly, dream once more, darling,‘ do not sigh’-‘— i -, - fold your precious hands anggsleefi-: -by-‘low-by, lullgby. , ‘j i. . \ \_;____ / before ‘_-ian and gur tii;ii‘l'cla‘i”i»_vilire“'well started ‘on the second stanza ~the- prince;sses‘ee.tsl e f ou“i'..'§§§/indis were motionless on their couches. _ -_--- - ‘ -_-. _ ‘~_ ti-ie gqlde - -— the end f;¥l'l€ -first ref golden goblin nodding on his throniigpwith the ani- mated anchor jsfioring the hearth- stone. the tvvqlve§;~pi;incessesijoined in the second refrain,=.bu	 before it was ended they had sunk into cushioned‘-§seats",which attendants -r ~-/ placed for them/vayhd were,~y“s’le"eping as soundly as the golden gpblin hiniself. as for jan and gurtruida, the last notéifoinndithem seated on . _ - -p the floor at thggfeet o_f,tli'e princess ethelinda, resting their id ir§ §y\'iheads against her knees. soon the attendants withdi'ew and the only sounds to be‘.-heard in the golden goblin’s throne-room were the crackling of the coral ) \ , flames and the rusty snores of the animated " \/ anchor. ...,-/ > / i . i i i '-.- i '.' -.. m -, / ~- - - ii‘ ~ ="\§ c i ‘g |’ . -i : "\~» /q/‘l \- . ‘t the vigil.of :.~ tqjrlazoocse iinuted anchor, i the rustysno j if ' stretched o \ the he‘s,_‘thi.itpne',at their feet, may have givenftlie livinfg	;ffi£e'dogs the hint that the were lon _e,/rdpbuisierved. at any ; l y g rate the one he./left: l ‘esen_tly opened one ; ~i.li_ lg .iil uickly on observing a eye, but clos p that one eye‘ o\li€t$ \§l‘l=ij'lj€og thellright was — open and ob$!f~'i%‘him.» the firedog . on the ri ht, as, re bolder*of‘the two, for he cleared his thro‘a§;iyvith a metallic, “aheml ” and xi / _ l remarked: ., ‘¢f_, ‘ v e t i kl ” - “oh, ‘pshaw,i§d§ff obs,_ no o-iie’s looking. /“ll-xt'e you quite sure, longsl_ anl§‘s?”l saidthe firedog on the left, in ‘a whis“per_tha't sounded like » “two pieces of stove-pipe/being rubbedgtogethern /“of course. his m'ajesty\_‘and‘~ev.r‘ybo‘dy' felseris sound asleep. comeon; i’m goir; jg>,~.lo / \- . stretch my legs.” "\ - - t§~ \‘ t‘ . {.___ i ~ -_ --_.-—»-.-_.__,__ i k. / .; ,_ \_ with t and stepped over the sleeping form of the ani- mated anchorqy knobs followed his example timidly, and, elbow to elbow, stepping as softly as possible with theirliron feet, the royal spies made a circuit of the-_‘:-apalrtment, looking through variouslffdlbors to ‘- hi-tain that they were not observcid by anyn attendants. ¢<they’re al’l'gasle'ep," too,““\sai‘d knobs, as they returned; (‘;i the fireplace aiid»stood re- garding jan <_g\irtruida curiously. “n o wo ijt@rl§i.i'iai;i"ch a week as this has been i hope neveixojéhe again.””, longshanksrwias thoughtful. presently he shuddered and-_,§s‘ked: ,_ i ’~/ / < . i “do you suppose, knobs, tl €l_§__l' s majesty \ , gshanks w i, te nimbly will insist upon our execution?”" /i i “that idea is bothering me some, too, i must confess,” said his comipanion. “it’.s a p,ity_‘ we can’t perform some great service just now : - —detect a conspiracy of some kind. “have you any suspicions of that pair of t“ ii ....., ~. ' ,- the golden gobl in little mortals over there?” asked longshanks, pointing at the soundly-sleeping children. a “not the slightest. i’ve taken a fancy to ’em myself._ but i don’t know about that queer fellow on the hearth. his snores are too loud, it seems to me, to be quite honest.” with that longshanks lifted his iron foot and gave the animated anchor a smart kick in his ribs. whereat the rusty fellow rolled over and snored louder and more rustily than before. “no, he’s all right,” said knobs. but the great green parrot, who had opened one eye and observed the kick with disapproval, croaked hoarsely and said: “avast therel” - e i . i i i r i . r ---- ‘—y up w the qqljn ll ther€’s pi‘? . to shed but rus gs, he sleeps : ? \ _ sounder than therest. :,,\_ h.‘ dyke vctdohl.d. was,li oking with suspicion on the firedogs._ he’ ught,he\ had seen one of them open his left eye. “\l{ie‘sei,z;ed the poker and gave knobs/ajsharp ra “loii the side of his head. the clangiof ironjo ‘lop satisfied him. “no morejgi this whispered dunken hage,r'i:{~,<~(‘a bag of the olden gob- lin’s' diamondeigfyidfigh after.” d: “ n , i ,”_§',@(l§lt)'€ivll dare." “’tis more than diamonds we’ll get them, too; but with the princesses of the.;four winds in our hands we can foiice the golden goblin to hold ‘in. ’ ill) back the west wind till we’ve passed the cape and are safely started home._ we can’t trust all to black patch.” \__ i with? that the four sailors began looking about for signs of the four p'rincesses.'» devil dare was first to ‘catch sight of them as they lay sleeping on their couches in the adjoining r w ."'”“' _ the golden gobl in room. he motioned to his comrades, and without further parley they stole softly in a body to the room of the princesses. all were sleeping so soundly that the sailors had no fear \» / of their awakening. each lifted gently a princess from her couch, and seemed not to think it strange that her two arms fell naturally about his neck, so that great beards and flowing tresses mingled. orienta, princess of the east wind, fell to the share of dyke verdomd; in the arms of blut trinker was arctica, princess of the north wind; antarctica, princess of the south wind, was in the arms of dunken hagen, while devil dare clasped tightly the beautiful form of occidenta, princess of the west wind. / the golden goblin ,___ the door to the princesses’ chamber being wide, the four conspirators, burdened as they were, could retreat side by side. thus they stole swiftly toward the great entrance, and had reached the center of the throne-room before any suspicion of danger crossed their minds. then it was that those faithful royal spies, the two firedogs, took the most terrible of all pos- sible advantages of the superstitious sailors from the f /ing dufcfiman. at exactly the same instant knobs and longshanks rose from their places on the fender, and with eyes and mouths wide open, waving their long arms menacingly, leaped with a horrid clanking ofiron upon the coral floor right in front of thie sailors. the spec- tacle was so gruesome and so unexpected that their feet seemed glued in their tracks, and they joined in a mighty yell of fright. it was piire fright, so paralyzing that not one of the sailo'*rs*could move. their first impulse was to drop their lovely burdens and fly. their arms _.. l the golden gobl in “aha, a'con\spiracy!” he said. “well done,l knobs. good, very good,‘longshanks. all your indiscretions of the liiastl are fully par- doned. resume-your postsllof duty. i shall be pleased present‘ly\{_o. mainldi oqe of the royal housemaids to bo of yopan extra fine polish.” i; _ the firedogsfgesumedielj; places on the fender, and looked so said? a metallic that it was difficult land gurtruida to believe that they had%§er\_l;§ 	_"h,em of their own accord. the upro:i?_f\kl@i brought several soldiers running intofljeiehroney-room. when they saw what had befgllfen the princesses of the four winds theyiifeggupon their faces before the oeld-at oeb i'ii.¥’ ~ . ":“ha, fellovvs, so is hgyyou guard the‘ ._,— slumbers of the royal faihily—when we have not slept for a week!” said his canta_n_kerous" majesty, spurning one with his foot. “vety well, i shall attend to your cases later. in the mean- while, see that these barbarians do not escape.” .ti-ie c-»olde.n__goblil\i?_ l i the gtiiliden goblin pt.{éilt€d at sailors, who appeared to ~oldihg in their . "* i ‘ " sa- arms the four princs 'l‘§iough the reverse was really the - ndjeach of them was instantly seiz§ e»»two of the largest soldiers, while the othe; went and unbund the two guards lying byigifhe wall. ,. while jan _’ d gurtruida‘ i n, won- dering whatil$ful fate was in store for the sailors, thefgiglden goblin stalked back and forth before thej	§em'blihigicul iits, twisting his long mustach$’s;% ey wori£d§~g more grace- fully over his; , andievidenitly reflecting deeply. preseiitly he clapped his great handg o and said to an attendant who approached fell_ oi- iighi‘§” §n‘¥:iies: )iiiiil ’__/“bring forth the royal spiierl” at these words the twelveibeautiful princesses ‘f looked grave, and jan and gurtruidasaw that" even the hardened soldiers of his cantankerous majesty turned pale. _ , _ _,/ i the g gof the little gold balls at thee his wiry g ‘l ' ,.,_ . —:-»»r; \-»- » . i __?..-,_-._- v t ' eyebrows, while the kn___ _»our—sa l rs shook under th,e’r%t,. and w _ p ll - /' y “accordingly,$.' ‘have sejnttfor the royal k’ spider.” ii‘-,__.-"\i‘ f if noticing that dime &m d “men did not appear to realizeyyhe-avvfu‘ frificance of this statement, the §_olden g.o!lx:li\d	<§ontinued: “as the efiicacy of c'apiital‘~p\i_nishment de- t -*""‘ "' §ef " ' pen s argey_g@,qn;	he_terror_, nticipation, i have compoisedgsiirnethlng, the ‘suggestion q of the royal,_~gr§;nd chamberlain of capital penalties, wl'll€;l ;~i_-, think will enable the con- demned to ap'p;ie	 iate what is in store for them.” out of politeness’ to his cantankerous maj- esty “the twelve "princesses assumed attitudes _o'f-attention. jan and gurtruida, with some idea of asking mercy for -t_l’re\sailors, had drawn “/ i i . ‘ ~~) j ‘ near tot them, so that all-served asan audieneey yvhenf the golden goblin, suiting v§ice and fiactibn to ‘the words of his terror-inspiring de- scriptive po'em, began his recitation called: ;:'#.r; " ' “ ‘ the golden gobl in sharp teeth gnashing, comes miss spider down her net! now you know her as the fly does, what his eye sees so your eye does— mouth a cavern like a tavern yawning for its guest; awful whiskers, like some dragon's, four eyes big as wheels of wagons, tongues like dippers, horrid nippers— all words fail to tell the rest! by the time the golden goblin had reached the last line of his fearsome word-picture the sailors were howling dismally for mercy. “oh, your majesty,” pleaded gurtruida. but at that moment the heavily-barred door opened and a great, gray, hairy-legged spider, \iqll' the golden goblin .. excitement.»-“do you give -yol ;f'icoi s€i t to our marriage with these beautiful princesses?” “why, certainly,” repliedyhis cantankerous majesty, with great cordiality. “and will that save us from the royal spi- der?” asked dunkien hageri,,o,ver the round shoulder of antarctica, prineess of the south wind. i .{ ".l‘r.~‘? “it will, indeed,”’_said'the golden goblin. the sailors *~§j(§re\‘qverjoyed. jan and gur- truida could ,!»f_ : :ii\‘.- .il'iliii_ ,\ 'st .fl/cliff why the twelve princesses shoiiljifregard them with looks of such deep commiseration. vi fl “take away royal spider,” said his can- tankerogs majesty, who added, upon reflec- ti .n‘: “and awaitimy further instructions.” li/wiith much difiiculty sthje keeper,-igot the _disap/poi/nted royal spiderjaack into this den. ' j thereupon the golde(ir -gt,»';bl.in said t._q_th_e§_ princesses of the f our windsi». t "\_ ' \ r ‘ / “go now with your betrothed husbands and consult, upon details ‘of the wedding.” the golden gobl in “that’s itl” laughed his cantankerous maj- esty; “i’m light-headed on account of that cold and a whole week of sneezing. i could have sworn just now that the whole twelve of you royal mermaids had feet and long gowns like your mother, instead of tails like fishes, and silver scales.” “so we have,” said ethelinda, displaying one pretty foot in its little golden slipper. “her majesty, our mother, listened to our plead- ings, and so transfor ” med us. i v “well, upon my royal ”\l/ wordl”—here the golden goblin broke off, cast a furtive look of admiration at the princesses, and then asked abruptly: \, n “did you understand that i was to grant more than one favor in return for the secret of the coral fire?” as q ' the golden goblin §‘ gurtruida laid her head on his breast — m . j ..; _ g d “f erfect confentrnent an . rs‘: wt‘ h i i l th . t e‘f<§risiis‘x,:\__/éegsgpearer enqé ized. they saw the goldeniv pha- his ha'n'd‘toward black _ gall? " ,}.¢ “»oftii;§n--* -i?-l“': vanderdecken tried _ qt -, . it‘-“ _ _., we it coptir q i§li“‘bllitt. ti? %°“l°t§.‘h"?>;:#*@t iii ii. "wu - ‘black “ the pl matureca vrtilel‘ your royal au “g it you doubt it?” dem i,gn _eriously .> _- . _f‘¥"y-k liken has at cantankeroiis v ' ii ~ -q ustaches we ' ‘ ~ "‘<”v- al i it; am ,re'al- ‘ “_eng'ugh'l you should know ti” in which you can_»ii'ft th ship and beat homeward db he l_( l,§)’l" |t" .'§ j., ‘}c»,\vli (ls at the cape of iii p, l ow ’ t- led and the golden goblin dutcfiman had started toward the great “lg-a - gates, which were slowly opening outward. the four sailors-,_-devil dare, dunken hagen, e dyke verdomd and blut trinker_-were at-e= g :f;;m£ting toggoard her by the rudder chains,‘." tb theygwere clinging when the wrath; iffifgden goblin, with a gesture, |? to all but their horror-strickéi; jthe fate of his i » ‘ q ra he bow of the ship, and §‘i'itl‘._l -mighty , y./ _.,¢ , . leap caught pj“y_d clung to her figurta -if ‘ hich had the shape»b.f-an atrociously ugly .. _an. another wave of the golden -‘ nd chan ed “black patch into wqg§i__f,‘“»-;t his g » "*~"" t ' .' "? head, which, as the ship fiogigéi “ ~t through the gates, could be se fly \ in disgust" from that of the a 'd~, now alive and grinning at him thrgiigliu pwroken teeth. ' §qw_i'l‘ ilookin about . it g t‘ b d h " » " "\ . ' ”‘s»‘ ‘kl m '*__;-git‘, saw esi e t e open q. yjng fish, all bridled ant »._""\ ______, dled, ‘x “i never was so scared if in all my life,” said jan simply. “if you had not been there, dear gurtruida, believe me, i would have died of fright.” gurtruida patted him on the cheek, and they talked no more during that wonderful flight. i‘ | pi- l i i v i i i i i < _ i j i. i _v ;- - ab .§ :% /.\ /"./' i ‘ '. | w '_-_ ‘\ #- /- _,- ¢-":_ ti-ie gqlden gqblin the enchanted isle grew more and more distinct. presently they could see the queen ' _ ..,_______ -_"i.‘.:.'_, =-»" - " - ) \. \| and neptune standing on the sandy beach, =~- as though waiting to welcome them. at length ' the flying fish floated gently down to the water by the rocks, and the children stepped ashore. \ with a flash of his tail through the green water ii ‘ their faithful steed disappeared. ~ _- the queen and neptune greeted them most" kindly. neptune seemed in a state of sur- prising good-humor. when gurtruida asked anxiously whether the twelve beautiful prin- cesses had arrived safely, he chuckled till his crown seemed to dance a jig on his bald head. at the same time a silvery chorus of laughter rang out from the rocks that were half-buried in the sea. looking, startled, in that direction, jan and gurtruida saw the twelve beautiful royal mer- maids sitting combing their hair just as when they had first made their acquaintance—only theylwere no longer mournful, but very merry. \ ii "' " up the golden goblin i». §;tress she was smiling upon them from he hrone and pointing her wand out over the sea suddenly, as they were waving g pleasant fare- j . e . . wfiell two‘ the twelvg ld€ ut ful\»iii" €§ .- a ds, canieqniand swept them gently, offh vi ‘\ i mi; . . . - _> far out fr_om shore, while a familiar or “swish, swash, burst my bubbles!” it was master spray, but thekodd fellovy’ seemed much preoccupied. multgeri inco- i herentl kaboiut his bursting bubbles‘ ‘e-j ‘the y\ ’i . w‘ . ' raftfsiipliua merry dance over _tliéiiwaves thatwifi soon	he, enchanted isle had cit" " v¢ ed froni “ i . \ t’hej£‘hildren’s. view entirely. x ce-,-afte; r’ - ' '§ '- ' . ' ; casting alstartled glance at the é orizon, . g » master s pa danced awa tow he wes : y p.y . . i . » ; a arentl in reat a itation w t a si*;ole'§ pp y g g > ” ;= .___, word of farewell, and was seen 'no morei. if “what ‘strange conduct!” said jan, standing? by the mast and straining his eyes i i>an _effort_si to see what had frightened away their merry companion; “i can see nothing thatiijéialarm-"i ., ». .;__;;,- f jng even to ____,\~.;__~.>;. fi , ~ ~ w; i / vi b »" s» l.. _ ii / l ' ‘m _ . $ what "'-*' s the matter with in q s £_l‘ i's §‘?“’_u’aht, wegare no onger e _ f w?-:fips of water from’i the golden gobl in ._ “perliggs it means that we are no long}: enchanted?” said gurtruida. “aren’t you thirsty, jan, dear? i am-teri_l%l;y.” . .“ as wonderin s " t qt __'f ‘hat’s it,” said jan jrank heartily. then , =,‘ i gurtruida,” &€ ing to be don; (iv:- ‘zll£ aylight',, in back against} ”tfitf§a’s head dowry: sleepy dear jan afraid, dear i ¢ .', not now,w_th,y» y afraid, gurtrui et shall tglsy" is where rd was no ‘~_§'~‘ en slept and the star?‘ t.»—))» ghd '. ' . \_:-»,|‘_ .i;.__ »_- .. <<j . .» k u ‘ donated by the grand rapzds publzc l brary the may g quzgley collectzon of chzldren s literature december the umverslty of mlchlgan-dearbom mardxg an llbrary q \ ‘ _ x _ __ ; ': ///e __¢__\ _ _\ i_ _' z p '" / /\ so soon as we got into the street, we met the turtle and the pelican, walking arm-in-arm, and each smoking a cigarette.— wallypugland. page . adventures m wallypug-land by g. e. farrow author or “ the wallypug or wuv,‘ “'r ~n: wallypug in london," etc. with fifty-six illustrations by alan wright a. l.-burt company, publishers, - duane street, new york. - ‘ . - adventures in wallypug~land _ preface. never was a wallypug, and it was all just a pack of nonsense”; that “ girlie never went to why at all, and that in fact there was no such place in’ existence ” ? i can only regretfully admit that, sooner or later as we grow up to be men and women, there are bound to be many fond illusions which are one by one ruthlessly dispelled, and that many of the dreams and thoughts which, in our younger days,‘ we cherish most dearly, the hard, matter-of-fact world will always persist in describing as f‘ a pack of nonsense.” however, for many of us fortu- nately, this tiresome time has not yet arrived, and for the present we will refuse to give up our poor dear wallypug—for whom i declare i have as great an affection and regard, as the most enthusiastic of my young readers. you will see that in the following story i have described my own experiences during a recent visit to the remarkable land over which his maj- preface. esty reigns as a “kind of king, and i maytell you that, amongst all of the extraordinary crea- tures that imet there, there was not one who ex- pressed the slightest doubt as to the reality of what was happening ;while for my own part, i should as soon think of doubting the existence of the fairies themselves, as of the simple, kind- hearted, little wallypug. there now ! i hope that i have given quite a clear and lucid explanation, and one which will prevent you from being made unhappy by any doubts which may arise in your mind as to the possibility, or probability, of this story. please don’t forget to write to me again during the coming year. believing me to be as ever, your afiectionate friend, g. e. farrow. _ < - {' ' _ contents. anvnurnmcs in vvallypugland. char page i. how i went to why . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ii. a strange welcome . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . iii. a terrible night . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . iv. late for breakfast. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . v. the trial . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . vi. his majesty is deposed . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . vii. foiled . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. viii. the little blue people . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ix. the wallypug recovers his crown . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . x. the home of ho-lor . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. xi. the why and \ver-har-wei railway . . . . . . . . . . . . . xii. back again at why . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. xiii. a new state of affairs . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xiv. “ good for the complexion " . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xv. " wallypug’s blush limited ” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. xvi. “ au revoir” . . . . . . . . . . . . - . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. the blue dwarfs . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . _ . . . . .. _ \ ' ' . ' _ all /we chapter i. hovv i went to why. for some time past i have been the guest of his "- "°b°'"- majesty the wal- lypug at his palace in the mysterious king- dom of why—a country so remarkable that even now i am only just beginning to get used to my strange surroundings and stranger neighbors. imagine, if you can, a place where all of the animals not only talk, but take an now went to why. she takes a very active interest in parliament ary affairs, and is a strong supporter of woman's wrongs. “ every woman has her wrongs,” she declares, “ and if she hasn’t she ought to have.” you will naturally wish to know how i reached this strange country, and will, no doubt, be sur- prised when i tell you how the journey was accomplished. one morning a few weeks since, i received a letter from his majesty the wallypug asking me to visit him at his palace at vvhy, in order to as- sist him in establishing some of our social customs and methods of government, which he had so greatly admired during his visit to england, and which he was desirous of imitating in his own land. a little packet was enclosed in the letter, bearing the words, “ the shortest way to why. this side up with anzvietg/.” “ well,” i thought, “ i suppose they mean ‘ this side up with care,’ ” adventures in wallypugland. and was proceeding very carefully to open the packet when a gust of wind rushed in at the win- dow, and blowing open the paper wrapper, scat- tered the contents—a little white powder—in all directions. some particles flew up into my eyes, and caused them to smart so violently that i was obliged to close them for some time till the pain had gone, and when i opened them again, what do you think? i was no longer in my study at home, but out on a kind of heath in the brilliant sunshine, and apparently miles from a house of any kind. a finger-post stood a little way in front of me, and i could see that three roads met just here. anxiously i hurried up to the post to see where i was. one arm pointed, “ to no- where.” “ and i certainly don’t want to go there,” i thought ; the other one was inscribed, “to somewhere,” which was decidedly a little << better, but the third one said, to everywhere else.” “and, good gracious me,” i thought, i how i went to why. “that’s not much use, for i don’t know in the least now which of the last two roads to take.” “-r =nr’s nor nwcu usz.‘ i was puzzling my brain as to what was the best thing to be done, when i happened to look down the road leading to “ nowhere,” and saw a curious- adventures in wallypugland. looking little person running towards me. he had an enormous head, and apparently his arms and legs were attached to it, for i could see no trace of a body. he was flourishing something in his hand as he ran along, and as soon as he came closer i discovered that it was his card which he handed to me with a polite bow and an exten- sive smile, as soon as he got near enough to do so. “ mr. nobody, n . nones u ch-street, nowhere,” is what i read. the little man was still smiling and bowing, so i held out my hand and said : “ how do you do, sir ? i am very pleased to make your acquaintance. perhaps you can be good enough to tell me-—” the little man nodded violently. “ to tell me where i am,” i continued. how went to why. continued, jerking his head in the direction in which mr. nobody had disappeared. “ nothing,” i replied. “ very well, then, what was it ? ” he asked. “ what do you mean?” said i. “ why, stupid, you said nobody and nothing, didn’t you, and as two negatives make an affirm- ative that means he must have said something.” “ i’m afraid i don’t quite understand,” i said. “ ignorant ostrich ! ” remarked the crow con- temptuously. “ ” look here, i cried, getting very indignant, “i will not be spoken to like that by a mere bird!” “ oh, really! who do you think you are, pray, you ridiculous biped ? where’s your hat ?” i was too indignant to answer, and though i should have liked to have asked the name of the place i was at, i determined not to hold any fur- ther conversation with the insolent bird, and adventures in wallypugland. walked away in the direction of “somewhere,” pursued by the sound of mocking laughter from the crow. “ wher.e's your hat ?“ i had not gone far, however, before i perceived a curious kind of carriage coming towards me. it was a sort of rickshaw, and was drawn by a kangaroo, who was jerking it along behind him. a large ape sat inside, hugging a carpet bag, and holding on to the dashboard with his toes. how i vvent to \vhy. “ let’s pass him with withering contempt,” i heard one of them say. “ all right,” was the reply. “ drive on.” “i say, man,” called out the ape, as they passed, “we’re not taking the slightest notice of you.” “ oh, aren’t you? well, i’m sure i don’t care,” i replied rather’ crossly. the kangaroo stopped and stared at me in amazement, and the ape got out of the rick- shaw and came towards me, looking very indig- nant. “ do you know who i am ?” he asked, striking an attitude. “no, i don’t,” i replied, “and what’s more, i don’t care.” “but i’m a person of consequence,” he gasped. l “you are only an ape or a monkey,” i said firmly. adventures in wallypugland. “oh! i can clearly see that you don’t know me,” remarked the ape pityingly. “ i’in oom hi.” . “ indeed,” i said unconcernedly. “ i am afraid i’ve never heard of you.” “never heard of oom hi,” cried the ape. “why, i am the inventor of broncho.” “what’s that?” i asked. “good gracious! what ignorance,” said the ape; “ here, go and fetch my bag,” he whispered to the kangaroo, who ran back to the rickshaw and returned with the carpet bag. “ this,” continued oom hi, taking out a bottle, “is the article; it is called ‘ broncho,’ and is ex- cellent for coughs, colds, and affections of the throat; you will notice that each bottle bears a label stating that the mixture is prepared accord~ ing to my own formula, and bears my signature ; none other is genuine without it. the wallypug, when he returned from england and heard that i /// /. . .__ _~- ‘, “ft‘ \,\~ , "> '\ / ‘ ...’ , w‘’ //;. . , — \ (l!_"_’a * \ : ‘ .s\§ v ‘ '=_-' _ *‘_ _,“‘c‘-. . _ _ \,~ / . lgilg/¢////\i ,‘l' "there," continued oom-hi, taking out the bottle, “is the article; it is called 'broncho.”’—-page . wwllupualand. adventures in wallypugland. “ his majesty ; he—he—he,. that’s good,” laughed the kangaroo. “ do you call the wally- pug ‘ his majesty’ ?” he asked. “ of course,” i replied, “ he is a king, isn’t he ” “ a kind of king,” corrected oom hi. “ you don’t catch us calling him ‘ your majesty,’ i can tell you though, one animal is as good as another here, and if anything, a little better. if you are going to why, we may as well go back with you, and give you a lift in the rickshaw.” “ you’re very kind,” i said, gratefully. “ not at all, not at all; jump in,” said oom hi. “ hold on a moment,” said the kangaroo. “ it’s his turn to pull, you know.” “ of course, of course,” said the, ape, getting into the vehicle ; “ put him in the shafts !” “what do you mean z” i expostulated. “your turn to pull the rickshaw, you know; how i went to why. we always take turns, and as i have been drag- ging it for some time it’s your turn now.” “ but i’m not going to pull that thing with you two animals in it. i never heard of such a thing,” i declared. “who are you calling an animal?” demanded the kangaroo, sulkily. “ you’re one yourself, aren’t you ? ” “ well, i suppose i am,” i admitted. “ but i’m not going to draw that thing, all the same.” “ oh, get in, get in ;. don’t make a fuss. i sup- pose i shall have to take a turn myself,” said oom hi, grasping the handles, and the kangaroo and myself having taken our seats we were soon trav- eling down the road. the kangaroo turned out to be a very pleasant companion after all, and when he found out that i came from england told me all about his brother, who was a profes- sional boxer, and had been to london and made his fortune as the boxing kangaroo. he was adventures in wallypugland. quite delighted when i told him that i had seen notices of his performance in the papers. we soon came in sight of a walled city, which oom hi, turning around, informed me was why. and on reaching the gate he gave the rickshaw in charge of an old turtle, who came waddling up, and each of the animals taking one of my arms, i was led in triumph through the city gates to the wallypug’s palace, several creatures, includ- ing a motherly-looking goose and a little gosling, taking a lively interest in my progress, while a giraffe in a very high collar craned his neck through a port-hole to try and get a glimpse of us as we passed under the portcullis. mmm u chapter . a strange wel- come. e soon reached the wallypug’s pal- ace, which stood in a large park in the center of the city of why. i had g , b", been very inter- ested in noticing the curious architecture in the streets as we passed along, but was scarcely pre- pared to find the palace such a very remarkable place. it was a long, low, rambling build- ing, built in a most singular style, with all a strange welcome. the way in, it was nothing more or less thana huge jam-pot, with a very large label on it marked “ strawberry jam,” while above it were the words, “ when is a door not a door ?” “ when is a door not a door ?” i repeated, vaguely conscious of having heard the question before. “ ha—ha—ha,” laughed a mocking voice at the bottom of the steps, and looking down i saw an enormous cockatoo with a paisley shawl over her shoulders and walking with the aid of acrutched stick. “ sold again, were you ? serve you right,”she cried. “ when is a door not a door ? pooh ! fancy not knowing that old chestnut. why ! when it’s a jar, of course, stupid. bah!” “ it’s a very absurd practical joke, that’s all that i can say,” i remarked, crossly, walking down the steps again. “ perhaps you can tell me how i am going to get into this remarkable place.” _ adventures in wallypugland. “ humph ! perhaps i can and perhaps i won’t,” said the cockatoo. “ i dare say it’s a better place than you came from, anyhow. you’re not the first man that has come down here with his su- perior airs and graces, grumbling and finding fault with this, that, and the other; but we’ll soon take the conceit out of you, i can tell you. where’s your hat ? ” this was the second creature that had asked me this question, and really they threw so much scorn and contempt into the inquiry that one would imagine that it was a most disgraceful offense to be without a head covering. i thought the most dignified thing to do under the circumstances was to take no ‘further notice of the bird, and was quietly walking away when the cockatoo screamed out again, “where’s your hat? where’s your hat where’s your hat?” each time louder and louder, till the last inquiry ended in a perfect shriek. a strange welcome. “ don’t be so ridiculous,” i cried. “ i’ve left it at home, if you must know.” “ down with the hatters !” screamed the cock- atoo irrelevantly, “ down with the wallypug! down with men without hats ! down with every- body and everything!” and the wretched bird danced about like a demented fury. at the sound of all this commotion a number of windows in the upper stories of the palace were thrown open, and curious heads were popped out to see what was the matter. among them and immediately over my head, i noticed the doctor- in-law. “ oh ! it’s you, is it, kicking up all this fuss?” he remarked as soon as he recognized me. “ well, really!” i replied, “ i think you might have the politeness to say ‘ how do you do ? ’ considering that it is some months since we met.” “ oh, do you indeed ?” said the doctor-in-law, . adventures in wallypugland. contemptuously. “ well, supposing i don’t care one way or another. where’s your hat ? ” / // ,m// /i,/////,,./ n/» , /av/fl , , / / ’ ‘_§\q~i i \ u down with ram doctor-in-law." before i could answer the cockatoo had screamed out “down with the doctor-in- law!” and the irate little man had replied by hjn €§:s. é .’.l?‘¢- n‘- q‘! \| ,. " "- \‘il ,_ ' \ / v» \__ e ~ -|l’w_”.°. . . ‘ll \. i \ i ‘fly!’ h ' i ‘ ° “all: n. "i saw his majesty. the'\vallypng himself, running across the lawn towards me, with both hands stretched out in wel- \ \'\ /r, ' r i'- come. "--page . ""ailyv“ l<wd- a strange welcome. throwing a book at her head out of the palace window. - i was thoroughly disgusted at this behavior and at the strange reception that i was receiving, and had fully determined to try and find some way of getting home again, when, happening to turn round, i saw his majesty the wallypug him- self running across the lawn towards me, with both hands stretched out in welcome, and his kind little face beaming with good nature. “how d’ye do? how d’ye do ? ” he cried. “so pleased to see you. didn’t expect you quite so soon, though. come along—this way.” and his majesty led me to another entrance, and through a large square hall hung with tapestry and many quaint pieces of old-fashioned armor, to a door marked “his majesty the wallypug. strictly private.” i noticed, in passing, that the words, “ his majesty ” had been partly painted out, and “ what cheek !” written above them. once in- adventures in wallypugland. side the door, the wallypug motioned me to a chair, and said, in a mysterious whisper, “i’m so glad you came before she returned ; there’s so much i want to tell you.” “ who do you mean ? ” i asked. “ sh—madame--er, my sister-in-law,” he re- plied, with a sigh. “your sister-in-law!” i exclaimed. “why, i didn’t know you were married.” “ neither am i,” said his majesty, with a puzzled frown. “ that’s the awkward part about it.” “but how on earth can you possibly have a sister-in-law, unless you have awife or a married brother?” i asked. “ well, i’ve never quite been able to under- stand how they make it out,” said the poor wally- pug, sorrowfully ; “ but i believe it is something mixed up with the deceased wife’s sister’s bill, and the fact that my uncle, the grand mochar a strange welcome. i of gamboza, was married twice. anyhow, when i returned from london i found this lady, who says that she is my sister-in-law, established here in the palace ; and—and—” his majesty sank his voice to a whisper, “ she rules me with a rod of iron.” i had no time to make further inquiries, for just then the door opened, and a majestic-looking person sailed into the room, and after looking me up and down with elevated eyebrows, pointed her finger at me, and said, in a stern voice : “ and who is this person, pray ?” “ oh, this,” said his majesty, smiling nervously, and bringing me forward, “is the gentleman who was so kind to us in london, you know. allow me to present him, mr. er—e ” r “ i hope you have not been picking up any un- desirable acquaintances, wallypug,” interrupted his majesty’s sister-in-law severely. “ i don’t like the look of him at all.” adventures in wallypugland. “i’m sorry, madame, that my appearance doesn’t please you,” i interposed, feeling rather " ’ “ i don't approve of you in the least,“ said the sister-in-law. nettled ; “ perhaps under the circumstances i had better——” “you had better do as you are bid and speak a strange welcome. when you are spoken to,” remarked the lady grimly. “ where’s your hat ? ” “i haven’t one,” i replied, rather abruptly, i am afraid, but i was getting quite tired of this continual cross-questioning ; “ and really i don’t see that it’s of the slightest consequence,” i ven- tured to add. “oh! don’t you,” said his majesty’s sister-in- law, with a sarcastic smile. “well, that’s one of the many points upon which we shall disagree. now, look here, i may tell you at once that i don’t approve of you in the least; still, as you are here now you had better remain ; but mind, no putting on parts or giving yourself airs and graces, or i shall have something to say to you. do you understand ?” and with a severe glance at me, the lady folded her arms and stalked out of the room, leaving his majesty and myself star- ing blankly at one another. chapter iii. a terrible night. my reception at why had been such a very peculiar one that i had fully made up my mind to return home at once, but his majesty the wallypug begged me so earnestly to stay with him, at any rate for a few days, that i deter- mined, out of friendship to him, to put up as best i could with that extraordinary person the sister- in-law, and the rest of the creatures, and remain, in order to help him if possible to establish his position at why on a firmer basis. so i took possession of a suite of rooms in the west wing of the palace, near his majesty’s pri- vate apartments, and we spent a very pleasant evening together in my sitting-room, playing a terrible night. draughts till bedtime, when his majesty left me to myself, promising that he would show me around the palace grounds the first thing in the morning. after he had gone, there being a bright wood fire burning in my bedroom, i drew a high- backed easy-chair up to the old-fashioned fire- place, and made myself comfortable for a little while before retiring for the night. my bedroom was a large, old-fashioned apart- ment, with a low ceiling and curiously carved oak wainscoting, and i watched the firelight flickering, and casting all sorts of odd shadows in the dark corners, till i must have fallen asleep, for i remember awaking with a start, at hearing a crash in the corridor outside my bedroom door. a muttered exclamation, and a pelican, carrying a bedroom candlestick marched in, and carefully fastened the door behind him. “ great clumsy things—i can’t think who can adventures in wallypugland. have left them there,” he grumbled, sitting down and rubbing one foot against the other, as though in pain. and i suddenly came to the conclusion that he must have stumbled over my boots, which i had stood just outside the door, in order that they might be cleaned for the morning. the pelican had not noticed me in my high- backed chair, and, being rather curious to see what he was up to, i kept perfectly still. going over to a clothes press, which stood in one corner of the room, the bird drew forth a long white night-gown and a nightcap ; these he proceeded solemnly to array himself in, and then, getting up on a chair, he turned back the bed- clothes with his enormous beak, and was just about to hop into bed, when i thought that it was time for me to interfere. “here! i say, what are you up to?” i called out in a stern voice. “oh—h-h! ah—h-h! there’s a man in my a terrible night. room !” screamed the pelican, evidently greatly alarmed. “murder ! fire! police! thieves!” “ hold your tongue ! ” i commanded. “what do you mean by making all that noise at this time of night, and what are you doing in my room ” “ your room, indeed !” gasped the bird ; “ my room you mean, you featherless biped, you ! ” “look here!” i remarked, going up to the pelican, and shaking him till his beak rattled again. “don’t you talk to me like that, my good bird, for i won’t put up with it.” you see i was getting tired of being treated so contemptu- ously by all of these creatures, and was deter- mined to put a stop to it, somehow. “but it is my room. let me go, i say!” screamed the bird, struggling to get free, and dabbing at me viciously with his great beak. “ it is not your room,” i maintained; “and adventures in wallypugland. what is more, you are not going to stay here,” and i pushed the creature towards the door. “ we’ll soon see all about that,” shouted the pelican, wrenching himself from my grasp, and rushing at me with his beak wide open, and his wings outstretched. he was an enormous bird, and i had a great struggle with him. we went banging about the room, knocking over the furniture and making a terrible racket. at last, however, i managed to get him near the door, and giving a terrific shove i pushed him outside, and, pulling the door to, quickly turned the key. i could hear mr. pelican slipping and stum- bling about on the highly polished floor of the corridor outside, and muttering indignantly. presently he came to the door, and banging with his beak, he cried, “ look here ! this is beyond a joke—let me in, i say—where do you suppose i am going to sleep?” a terrible night. “anywhere you like except here,” i replied, feeling that i had got the best of it. “go and perch or roost, or whatever you call it, on the banisters, or sleep on the mat if you like—i don’t care what you do !” “ impertinent wretch ! ” yelled the bird. “ you only wait till the morning. i’ll pay you out ;” and i could hear him muttering and mumbling in an angry way as he waddled down the corridor to seek some other resting-place. “ what ridiculous nonsense it is,” i thought, as i tumbled into bed shortly after this little episode ; “these creatures giving themselves such airs. no wonder the wallypug is such a meek little person if he has been subjected to this sort of treatment all his life.” and pondering over the best method of altering the extraordinary state of affairs, i dropped off to sleep. i do not know how long it may have been after this, but a terrific din, this time in the courtyard adventures in wallypugland. below my window, caused me once more to jump from my bed in alarm. i could hear a most un- earthly yelling going on, a babel of voices, and he was interrupted by a shower of missiles. occasionally a resounding crash as though some- thing hollow had been violently struck. pushing open the latticed windows i saw in the moonlight a little man dressed in a complete suit of armor with an enormous shield, like a dish- a terrible night. cover, arranged over his head, playing the guitar, and endeavoring to sing to its accompaniment. he was continually interrupted, however, by a shower of missiles thrown from all of the windows overlooking the courtyard, out of which angry heads of animals and other occupants of the palace were thrust; he was surrounded by a miscella- neous collection of articles which had evidently been thrown at him, and some of them, had it not been for his suit of armor and the erection over his head, would have caused him considerable injury. he did not seem to mind them in the least, though, and continued singing amid a perfect storm of boots, brushes, and bottles, as though he was quite accustomed to such treatment : and it was only when an irate figure, which somehow reminded me of his majesty’s sister-in-law, clad in white garments and flourishing a pair of tongs, appeared in the courtyard, that he took to his heels and fled, pursued by the white-robed ap- adventures in wallypugland. parition, till both disappeared beneath an arch- way at the farther end of the courtyard. most wiry‘! i l :;!l~‘ the musician took to his heels and fled. of the windows were thereupon closed, and the disturbed occupants of the palace returned to their rest. i was just about to close my lattice too, when i caught sight of a familiar figure at the a terrible night. i adjoining window. it was my old friend a. fish, esq. “oh ! id’s you iz id,” he cried. “ you have cub thed, i heard that you were egspegded.” “ yes, here i am,” i replied. “ how are you ? how is your cold ?” “ oh, id’s quide cured, thags ; dote you dotice how butch better i speak ? ” “ i’m very glad to hear it, i’m sure,” i replied, waiving the question and trying to keep solemn. “ what’s all this row about?” “ oh ! thad’s the troubadour, up to his old gabes agaid ; he’s ad awful dusadce. i’ll tell you aboud hib in the bordig—good dight.” and a. fish, esq., disappeared from view. chapter iv. ' \ late for breakfast. i awoke very early in the morning, just as it was daylight, and being unable to get to sleep again amid my strange surroundings, iarose and crept down-stairs as noiselessly as possible, intend- ing to go for a long walk before breakfast. at the bottom of the stairs i came upon a strange-looking white object, which, upon closer inspection, turned out to be the pelican, asleep on the floor. he was not sleeping as any respectable bird would have done, with his head tucked under his wing; but was lying stretched out on a rug in the hall, with his head resting on a cushion. his late for breakfast. enormous beak was wide open, and he was snoring violently, and muttering uneasily in his sleep. i did not disturb him for fear lest he should make a noise ; but hurrying past him i made my way to the hall door, which after a little difiiculty . “" _ /———— > - ’ -~ . -.-~ :! »' . _ q! ,_. _ . ‘ '_\.;.:‘-> ,_ '- - ‘. .-“ll-f ' ';""“‘: ‘ / i_!" -!’)"*i"/" , '”‘m‘||g,\fl !fliil'u - -"' <' the pel_can was snoring violently. i succeeded in unfastening. an ancient-looking turtle with a white apron was busily cleaning the steps, and started violently as i made my appearance at the door. “bless my shell and fins!” he muttered; “ what’s the creature wandering about this time of the morning for ; they’ll be getting up in the adventures in wallypugland. middle of the night next. just mind where you’re treading, please!” he called out. “the steps have been cleaned, and i don’t want to have to do them all over again.” i managed to get down without doing much damage, and then remarked pleasantly: “ good morning ; have \you——” “ no, i haven’t,” interrupted the turtle snap- pishly ; “ and what’s more, i don’t want to.” “ what do you mean ? ” i inquired, in sur- prise. “ soap ! ” was the reply. “ i don’t understand you,” i exclaimed. “ you’re an advertisement for somebody’s soap, aren’t you ? ” asked the turtle. “certainly not,” i replied, indignantly. “your first remark sounded very much like it,” said the turtle suspiciously. “ ‘ good morn- ing, have you used—-—’ ” “ i wasn’t going to say that at all,” i inter- late for breakfast. rupted. “ i was merely going to ask if you could oblige me with a ight.” “ oh, that’s another thing entirely,” said the turtle, handing me some matches from his waist- coat pocket, and accepting a cigarette in return. “ but really we have got so sick of those adver- tisement catchwords since the doctor-in-law re- turned from london with agencies for all sorts of things, that we hate the very sound of them. we are continually being told to ‘ call a spade a spade,’which will be ‘ grateful and comforting ’ to ‘ an ox in a teacup ’ who is ‘ worth a guinea a box,’ and who ‘ won’t be happy till he gets it.’ ” “ it must be very trying,” i murmured sym- pathetically. “ oh, it is,” remarked the turtle. “ well,” he continued in a business-like tone, “ i’m sorry you can’t stop—good morning.” “ i didn’t say anything about going,” i ejacu- lated. adventures in wallypugland, “ oh, didn’t you? well, i did then,” said the turtle emphatically. move on, please ! ” “ you’re very rude,” i remarked. “ think so ? ” said the turtle pleasantly. “ that’s all right then—good-by,” and he flopped ._l';~, . ’ the turtle flopped down on his knees and resumed his scbubbing. down on his knees and resumed his scrubbing. there was nothing for me to do but to walk on, and seeing a quaint-looking old rose garden in the distance, i decided to go over and explore. i was walking slowly along the path leading to a j late for breakfast. i it, when i heard a curious clattering noise be- hind me, and turning around i beheld the trou- badour, still in his armor, dragging a large standard rosebush along the ground. “ as if it were not enough,” he grumbled, “ to be maltreated as i am every night, without hav- ing all this trouble every morning. i declare it is enough to make you throw stones at your grandfather.” “what’s the matter?” i ventured to ask of the little man. “ matter ? ” was the reply. why, these wretched rosebushes, they will get out their beds at night, and wander about. i happened to leave the gate open last night, and this one got out, and goodness knows where he would have been by this time if i hadn’t caught him mean- dering about near the palace.” “ why ! i’ve never heard of sucha thing as a rosebush walking about,” i exclaimed in surprise. adventures in wallypugland. “never heard of a-—. absurd !” declared the troubadour, incredulously. “ of course they do. that’s what you have hedges and fences around the gardens for, isn’t it ? why, you can’t have been in a garden at night- “e>ii‘ time, or you wouldn’t talk such nonsense. all the plants are al- lowed to leave their beds at mid- night. they are expected to be g back again by daylight, though, ..,,,_,,,,,,,,,,,, and not go wandering about goodness knows where like this beauty,” and he shook the rosebush violently. “in you go,” he continued, digging ahole with the point of his mailed foot, and sticking the rose- bush into it. “ hullo!” he exclaimed, going up to another one, at the foot of which were some broken twigs and crumpled leaves. ‘ ‘ you’ve been fighting, have you? i say, it’s really too bad!” adventures in wallypuglan d. pair of tongs, it’s more than i bargained for. look out ! here comes the wallypug,” he con- tinued. sure enough his majesty was walking down the path, attended by a. fish, esq., who was wearing a cap and gown and carrying a huge book. “ah! good -morning-—good morning,” cried his majesty, hurrying towards me. “ i’d no idea you were out and about so earlyi. i’m just hav- ing my usual morning lesson.” “yes,” said a. fish, esq., smiling, and offer- ing me a fin. “ever sidse i god rid of by cold i’ve been teaching the wallypug elocutiod. we have ad ’our every bordig before breakfast, ad he’s geddig on spledidly.” “ i’m sure his majesty is to be congratulated on having so admirable an instructor,” i re- marked, politely, if not very truthfully. “thags,” said a. fish, esq., looking very adventures in wallypugland. quickly as possible, taking three or four wriggling steps, and then giving a funny little hop with his tail, till, puffing and out of breath, we arrived at the palace just as the bell stopped ringing. his majesty hastily rearranged his disordered crown, and led the way into the dining hall. a turtle carrying a large dish just inside the door whispered warningly to the wallypug as we entered, “look out ! you’re going to catch it,” and hurried away. a good many creatures were seated at the table which ran down the center of the room, and at the head of which his majesty’s sister-in-law presided, with a steaming urn before her. the doctor-in-law occupied a seat near by, and i heard him remark : “they are two minutes late, madame. i hope you are not going to overlook it,” to which the lady replied, grimly, “you leave that to me.” late for breakfast. “ sit there,” she remarked coldly, motioning me to a vacant seat, and the wallypug and a. fish, esq. , subsided into the two other unoccupied chairs on the other s ( of the table. chapter v. the trial. for a moment nobody spoke. the wallypug sat back in a huddled heap in his chair, looking up into madame’s face with a scared expression. a. fish unconcernedly began to eat some steam- ing porridge from a plate in front of him—and i sat still and waited events. a band of musicians in the gallery at the end of the hall were playing somewhat discordantly, till madame turned around and called out in an angry voice : “ just stop that noise, will you? i can’t hear myself speak.” the musicians immediately left ofl' playing with the exception of an old hippopotamus, play- the trial. ing a brass instrument, who being deaf, and very near-sighted, had neither heard what had been gjlllr “ sror that noise i " said nor observed that the others had stopped. vvith his eyes fixed on the music stand in front adventures in wallypuglan d. of him, he kept up a long discordant tootling on his own account, gravely beating time with his head and one foot. his majesty’s sister-in-law turned around furi- ously once or twice, and then seeing that the creature did not leave off, she threw a tea-cup at his head, and followed it up with the sugar basin. the latter hit him, and hastily dropping his instrument, he looked over the top of his spec- tacles in surprise. perceiving that the others had left ofi playing, he apparently realized what had happened, and meekly murmuring, “i beg your pardon,” he leaned forward with one foot up to his ear, to hear what was going on. “ i’m waiting to know what you have to say for yourselves,” resumed madame, addressing the wallypug and myself. “the traid was late, add there was a fog od the trial. the lide,” explained a. fish, esq., mendaciously, with his mouth full of hot porridge. “a likely story !” said the good lady sarcas- tically. “ a very convenient excuse, i must say ; but that train’s- been late too many times re- cently to suit me. i don’t believe a word of what you are saying.” “if i might venture a suggestion,” said the doctor-in-law, sweetly, “ i would advise that they should all be mulcted in heavy fines, and i will willingly undertake the collection of the money for a trifling consideration.” “ it’s too serious a matter for a fine,” said the madame severely. “ what do you mean by it ?” she demanded, glaring at me furiously. “well, i’m sure we are all very sorry,” i re- marked, “ but i really do not see that being two minutes late for breakfast is such a dreadful afiair after all.” “ oh ! you don’t, don’t you ?” said the sister- adventures in wallypugland. in-law, working herself up into a terrible state of excitement ; “ well, i do, then. do you sup- pose that you are going to do just as you please here? do you think that i am going to allow myself to be brow-beaten and imposed upon by a mere man———” “ who hasn’t a hat to his back,” interposed the doctor-in-law, spitefully. “hold your tongue,” said the sister-in-law. “ i’m dealing with him now. do you suppose,” she went on, “ that i am to be openly defied by a ridiculous wallypug and a person with a cold in his head ? ” “i’b sure i havn’d,” declared a. fish, esq., indignantly. “by code’s beed cured this last bunth or bore.” “ humph, sounds like it, doesn’t it?” said the lady, tauntingly. “however, we’ll soon settle this matter. we’ll have a public meeting, and see who’s to be master, you or i.” the trial. “ hooray, public meeting ! public meeting !” shouted all the creatures excitedly. “ yes, and at once,” said the sister-in-law impressively, getting up and leaving the table, regardless of the fact that scarcely anybody had as yet had any breakfast. the rest of the creatures followed her out of \ the room. ~ » when they had quite disappeared and the wallypug, a. fish, esq., and myself were left alone, i thought that we might as well help our- selves to some breakfast. so i poured out some of the cofl'ee, which we found excellent, and had just succeeded in persuading his majesty to try a little bread and butter, when some crocodiles appeared at the door and announced : “you are commanded to attend the trial at once.” “ what trial ? ” i asked. “your own,” was the reply. “ you and the adventures in wallypugland. wallypug are to be tried for ‘ contempt of sister- in-law,’ and a. fish, esq., is subpoenaed as a- witness.” “oh, dear! oh, dear!” said the poor wally- pug, wringing his hands. “i know what that means. whatever shall we do ?” _ “dever bide, old chap. i do the best i cad to get you off,” said a. fish, esq. “ cub alog, it will odly bake badders worse to de- lay.” ' ' ~ - ~ ‘ i ' so we allowed ourselves to be taken in charge by the crocodiles, and led to the public hall, his majesty and myself being loaded with chains. i _ i - we found the sister-in-law and the doctor-in- law seated at the judges’ bench when we entered. the sister-in-law wore a judge’s red robe, and a long, flowing wig under her usual head-dress, and the doctor-in-law was provided with a slate, pencil, and sponge. the trial. we were conducted to a kind of dock on one side of the bench, and on the other side appeared what afterwards transpired to be the witness box. the body of the hall was crowded with animals, craning their necks to catch a glimpse of us. ‘ ‘ silence in court,” screamed out a gaily-dressed ostrich, and the trial began. “ we’ll take the man crea- “smme in court,“ ture first,” said the sister-in- ‘°“"““’ “e °“““°“' law, regarding me contemptuously. “ now then, speak up ! what have you got to say for yourself ? ” “ there appears to be—” i began. “silence in court,” shouted the ostrich, who was evidently an official. “surely i may be allowed to explain,” i pro- tested. adventures in vvallypugland. “ silence in court,” shouted the bird again. i gave it up and remained silent. “call the first witness,” remarked the sister-in-law im- patiently, and the turtle, whom i had seen clean- ing the steps in the morning, walked briskly up into the witness-box. i “ well, turtle, what do you know about this man ? ” was the first question. “so please your importance, i was cleaning my steps very early this morning, when the pris- oner opened the door in a stealthy manner and crept out very quietly. ‘ho !’ thinks i, ‘this ’ere man’s up to no good,’ and so i keeps him in conversation a little while, but his language— oh !-—and what with one thing and another and noticing that he hadn’t a hat, i told him he had better move on. i saw him walk over to the rose garden and afterwards join the wallypug and mr. fish. i think that’s all, except—ahem—that i missed a small piece of soap.” the trial. “soap?” said the doctor-in-law, elevating his eyebrows. “this is important—er—er—— what kind of soap ? ” l “yellow,” said the turtle. “ fourpence a pound.” ‘ “ hum ! ” said the doctor-in-law, “ very mys- terious, but not at all surprising from what i know of this person—call the next witness.” the next witness was the cockatoo, who scrambled into the box in a great fluster. “he’s a story-teller, and a pickpocket, and a. backbiter, and a fibber, and a bottle-washer,” she screamed excitedly, “ and a heartless deceiver, and an organ-grinder, so there !” and she danced out of the witness-box again excitedly, muttering, “down with him, down with him, the wretch,” all the way back to her seat. “ah, that will about settle him, i fancy,” re- marked the doctor-in-law, putting down some figures on his slate and counting them up. adventures in wallypugla.nd. “ what are you doing ? ” demanded the sister- in-law. “summing up,” was the reply. “ the judges always sum up in england, you know; that’s thirty-two pounds he owes. shall i collect it?” “ wait a minute till i pass the sentence,” said the sister-in-law. “prisoner at the bar,” she continued, “you have since your arrival here been given every latitude.” “and longitude,” interrupted the doctor-in- law. “ and have taken advantage of the fact to dis- obey the laws of the land in every possible way. you have heard the evidence against you, and i may say more clear proof could not have been given. it appears that you are a thoroughly worthless character, and it is with great pleasure i order you to be imprisoned in the deepest the trial dungeon beneath the castle moat, and fined thirty-two pounds and costs.” _ then pointing to me tragically, she called out, “ officers ! take away that bauble ! ” and i was immediately seized by two of the crocodiles, pre- paratory to being taken below. chapter vi. ms majesty is nnrosnn. “ stop a minute!” cried madame, as i was being led away. “ we may as well settle the wallypug’s affair at the same time and get rid of them both at once. put the creature into the dock.” his majesty was hustled forward, looking very nervous and white, as he stood trembling at the bar, while madame regarded him fiercely. “aren’t you ashamed of yourself?” she de- manded. “ye-e-s!” stammered his majesty, though what the poor little fellow had to be ashamed of was more than i could tell. his majesty is deposed. “i should think so, indeed,” commented the lady. f‘ now then, call the first witness.” the first witness was a. fish, esq., who coughed importantly as he stepped up into the box with a jaunty air. “ let’s see, what’s your name?” asked the doctor-in-law, with a super- cilious stare. now, this was absurd, for, of course, he knew as well as i did what the fish’s name was; but as i heard him whisper to madame, the judges in england always pretend not to know anything, and he was doing the same. “by dabe is a. fish, you doe thadt well edough,” was the answer. _ “don’t be impertinent, or i shall commit you for contempt,” said the doctor-in-law, severely. “ now then—ah—you are a reptile of some sort, i believe, are you not?” “ certainly dot ! ” was indignant reply. “ oh ! i thought you were. er—what do you do for a living i” adventures in wallypugland. “ i’b a teacher of elocutiod add a lecturer,” said a. fish, esq., importantly. "> xi “oh ! indeed. teacher of elocution, are you? and how many pupils have you, pray ?” “ well, ad presend i’ve odly wud,” replied a. fish, esq., “ and that the wallypug.” “ oh ! the wallypug’s a pupil of yours, is he ? i suppose you find him very stupid, don’t you ?” “doe, i don’t l” said a. fish, esq., loyally. “ he’s a very clever pupil, ad he’s gettig od splen- didly with his recitig.” “oh! is he, indeed; and what do you teach him, may i ask ? ” “ i’ve taught hib ‘ twinkle, twinkle, little star,’ ad ‘ billy’s dead ad gone to glory,’ ad several other things frob shakespeare.” “ shakespeare ? hum— ha — shakespeare cl i seem to have heard the name before. who is he ? ” “ a great poet, born in england in , m’lud,” explained one of the crocodiles. his majesty is deposed. “ really ! he must be getting quite an old man by now,” said the doctor-in-law, vaguely. “he’s dead,” said a. fish, esq., solemnly. “ dear me ! poor fellow ! what did he die of ? ” “ don’t ask such a lot of silly questions,” inter- rupted the sister-in-law, impatiently; “get on with the business. what has a. fish to say on behalf of the wallypug ? that is the question.” “ he’s gettig od very dicely with his recitig,” insisted a. fish, esq. “ he was repeatig a speech from richard iii. to us this bordig whed the breakfast bell rang, ad that’s why we were late at table.” “ oh l that’s the reason, is it * ” said the sister- in-law. “ bah ! i’ve no patience with a man at his time of life repeating poetry. positively childish, i call it. what was the rubbish ?” she demanded, turning to the wallypug. “ a horse, a horse, my kingdom for a horse,” began his majesty, feebly. adventures m wallypugland. “ what ! ” shrieked the sister-in-law, starting up from her seat. “say that again ! ” “ ‘a-a horse, a horse, my-my kingdom for a horse,’ ” stammered the wallypug, nervously. ‘f traitor ! monster! ” cried the sister-in-law furiously. “ hear him ! ” she screamed. “he actually has the efirontery to tell us to our faces that he is willing to sell the whole of this kingdom for a horse. oh! it is too much ! the heartless creature! oh-h !” and the lady sank back and gasped hysterically. at this there was a terrible uproar in the court—the animals stood' up on the seats, frantically gesticulating and crying : “ traitor ! ” “down with the wallypug ! ” “off with his head !” “ banish him !” “ send him to jail ! ” while above all could be heard the cock- atoo screaming: “i told you so. i told you so! down with the wallypug ! off with his crown ! dance on his sceptre, and kick his orb round the town.” his majesty is deposed. the poor wallypug threw himself on his knees (( and called out imploringly, it s all a mistake,” and i tried in vain to make myself heard above the uproar. v“ ' q. / -i -"‘<'o -. \ *’ " _ _ -b- *.l. h ‘ \_}' “traltorl monsteri“ “err with h_s head l " the whole assembly seemed to have taken leave of their senses, and for a few moments the utmost confusion prevailed. the creatures nearest to the wallypug seemed as though they would tear him to pieces in their fury, and if it had not been for adventures in wallypugland. his jailers, the crocodiles, i am convinced they would have done him some injury. “this is outrageous,” i managed to shout at last. l “ you are making all this disturbance for nothing. what the wallypug said was merely a quotation from one of shakespeare’s plays.” “oh, it’s all very well to try and blame it on to poor shakespeare, when you know very well he’s dead and can’t defend himself,” was madame’s reply. “that’s your artfulness. i’ve no doubt you are quite as bad as the wallypug himself, and probably put him up to it.” “ yes. down with him ! down with the hat- less traitor ! ” screamed the cockatoo. and despite our protests the wallypug and myself were loaded with chains and marched off by the crocodiles, his majesty having first been robbed of_his crown, sceptre, and orb, and other insignia of royalty by the doctor-in-law, who hadn’t a kind word to say for his old sovereign, his majesty is deposed. and who seemed positively to rejoice at his maj- esty’s downfall. i was highly indignant with his heartless ingratitude, but could do positively nothing, while all of my protests were drowned §- the wallypug was loaded with chains and marched off by the crocodileb. in the babel of sounds made by the furious crea- tures in the body of the court. after being taken from the dock i was marched ofi in one direction and his majesty in another, and the last view i had of the wallypug was that dventures in wallypugland. of the poor little fellow being limply dragged along by two crocodiles in the direction of the dungeons. i was conducted to the top room of a tower, in an unfrequented part of the palace, and there left to my reflections, without any one to speak to for the remainder of the day. towards the evening i heard some shouting at the bottom of the tower, and looking out as well as i could through the barred window, i saw the doctor-in-law rushing about with a packet of newspapers under one arm—and heard him call- ing out, in a loud voice, “ special edition ! arrest of the wallypug ! shocking discovery! the wallypu g a traitor ! sister-in-law prostrate with excitement ! the hatless man implicated ! ” he was doing a roaring trade, as nearly everybody was buying papers of him, and excited groups of animals were standing about eagerly discussing what was-evidently the cause of a tremendous sensation in the kingdom of why. ‘w ‘ll °>#_\ // ~ >»f.>t\,“;**- rr} /v_r .‘,§$r -— $fl’pu ".- - °(/q x;-\- “i saw the doctor-in-law rushing about with a packet of der one arm calling out in aloud voice, ‘special land. newspapers un . edition! arrest of the wallypug!’ "—page . wall:/ml __- s u i chapter vii. foiled ! i stood at the barred window for some time, watching the doctor-in-law rushing about with his papers, and then started back as a huge and disreputable-looking black crow settled on the stone ledge outside. i soon recognized him as being the bird who had behaved so impertinently to me on my first arrival at why. “ well !” he exclaimed, squeezing himself through the iron bars, and staring at me over the tops of his spectacles. “ you have got your- self into a pretty muddle now, i must say. i should think you are thoroughly ashamed of your- self, aren’t you ?” , adventures in wallypugland. “ indeed, i’m not,” i replied. “ i’m not con- scious of having done anything to be ashamed of, and as for that trial, why it was a mere farce, and perfectly absurd,” and i laughed heartily at the recollection of it. “h’m! i’m glad you find it so amusing,” re- marked the bird sententiously. “you won’t be so lighthearted about it to-morrow if they treat you as the papers say they purpose doing.” “why,'what do they intend to do then?” i exclaimed, my curiosity thoroughly aroused. “ execute you,” said the crow solemnly. “ and serve you jolly well right, too.” “what nonsense !” i cried, “ they can’t exe- cute me for doing nothing.” “ oh, you think so, do you ? didn’t you insti- gate the wallypug to become a traitor, and sell the kingdom for the sake of a horse?” said the crow, referring to his paper. “ certainly not ! ” i cried emphatically. foiled z “ well, they say you did, anyhow,” said the crow, “ and they intend to chop ofi your head and the wallypug’s too. it won’t matter you not having a hat then,” he continued grimly. “ but you don’t mean it, surely !” i exclaimed. “ they certainly can’t be so ridiculous as to treat the affair seriously.” “well, you see,” said the bird, “ things with- out doubt look very black against you. in the first place what did you want to come here at all for ?” “ i’m sure i wish i hadn’t,” i remarked. “ just so ! so does every one else,” said the crow rudely. “ then, when you did come, you were without a hat, which is in itself a very sus- picious circumstance. ” “ why ?” i interrupted. “ respectable people don’t go gadding about without hats,” said the bird contemptuously, turning up his beak. “ and then, the first morn- adventures in wallypugland. ing after your arrival you must needs go prowl- ing about the grounds before any one else was up‘)? " ;: "“‘i i * »-- wt? z ' - %: :‘ w/ p - r‘ “wan mm you some t leave mu in your w u.?" ‘ “what are you going to leave me in your will ?” he continued insinuatingly. “ nothing at all,” i declared. “ and besides, i’m not going to make a will. i don let them kill me without a good struggle, i can ’t intend to tell you.” . foiled “h’m, you might as well let me have your watch and chain. it will only go to the doctor- in-law if you don’t. he is sure to want to grab everything. i expect he will want to seize the throne when the wallypug is executed. i saw him just now trying on the crown, and smirking and capering about in front of the looking-glass.” “the doctor-in-law is an odious little mon- ster,” i exclaimed. “ oh, very well,” cried the crow, wriggling through the bars, “ i’ll just go and tell him what you say. i’ve no doubt he will be delighted to hear your opinion of him—and perhaps it will in- duce him to add something to your punishment. i hope so, i’m sure—ha—ha !” and the wretched ill-omened bird flew away laughing derisively. i could not help feeling rather uncomfortable at the turn which events had taken, for there was no knowing to what lengths the extraor- “mu _ “ ‘gr e you there?” cried a. fish, esq. “yes; what is it?" i vvallypu gland. —page . ‘ ‘ar asked. av- _ j roman “ proposed to the curate, and so all those slippers will be wasted. don’t you think we had better—” but i rang off and stopped the connection, for i felt sure that the communication was not in- tended for me. presently there was another ring at the bell, and this time i found myself connected with the exchange. i knew that it was the exchange, because they were all quarreling so. “ it was all your fault ! ” “ no it wasn’t.” “yes it was.” “ well, you know a. fish, esq., is , —so there.” “ yes, and he wanted to be connected with the west tower in the palace.” “ connect me with , , please,” i called. and a moment or two afterwards i heard a well-known voice sounding through the instru- ment, and i knew that a. fish, esq., was at the other end. “ are you there ?” he cried. adventures in wallypugland. “yes ; what is it ? ” i asked. “there isn’t a biddit to spare,” he gasped; “lift up the loose stode dear the fireplace, ad you will find a secret staircase leadig to the dudgeod, where the wallypug is ibprisod ; hurry for your life, he has discovered a way of escape.” i dropped the receiver, and flew to the fireplace. yes, sure enough, there was the loose stone that a. fish, esq., had spoken of, and having raised it with some difiiculty i found a narrow spiral staircase beneath, leading down into mysterious depths. i plunged into the darkness, and after walking round and round, and down and down, for a con- siderable time i saw a faint light at the other end. i hurried forward as quickly as i could, and found myself in a dimly-lighted dungeon. the wally- pug was here alone, and was busily cramming everything he could lay his hands on into an enormous carpet-bag. foiled. “thank goodness, you have come ! ” he ex- claimed, in a terrible fluster, when he saw me. “ i was afraid you would be'too late. we must escape at once if we would save our necks. fortu- nately, i have just remembered that this dun- geon is connected with the shute which the late wallypug had constructed between here and ling choo, in china, which is on the other side of the world—it is enormously long and very steep, but quite safe—we must use it in order to get away. we are to be executed in the morning if we stay here, so i am informed; therefore, we must lose no time. i have just finished packing up. ah ! what’s that ? ” he exclaimed, listening intently. “ quick ! they are coming !” he cried, as sounds were heard in the passage outside the dungeon door; and touchingaspring, an enormous open- ing appeared in the wall. his majesty gave me asudden push, which sent me sprawling on to a adventures in wallypugland. l'n and jumping down smooth and very steep inc e, a ' into the unknown. himself, we slid rapid y aw y by the cri p \§\ \ \~ \ \ z shute. we blid rapidly dow'n the that we were only just in time was evidenced es of rage and disappoin ursued us from the dungeon, as the doctor-in- tment which roman. law and the other creatures saw us escape from their clutches, and we could hear the cockatoo’s shrill cries grow fainter and fainter as we sped swiftly down the shute towards ling choo chapter viii. the little blue people. down, and down, and down we flew, quicker and quicker each moment. the shute was as smooth as glass, and grew steeper than ever as we descended. his majesty was a little way be- hind me, but the terrific rate at which we were traveling made it impossible for us to hold any conversation. once or twice ishouted out some- thing to him, but receiving no reply i soon gave that up. the attitude in which i was slipping down the shute was a most uncomfortable one, but after a considerable time i managed to turn over on to my back, and eventually to twist around, till, at any rate, i was traveling feet fore- most, which was some slight consolation, although the little blue people. " i naturally i was dreadfully concerned as to what was to be our fate at the other end of our journey. “ slipping along at this rate,” i thought, “ we shall probably be smashed to a jelly when we do arrive at the bottom. at any rate i shall, for the wallypug and the carpet-bag are bound to de- scend upon my devoted head.” by and by i began to grow very hungry, and then came another dismal thought. supposing this extraordinary trip continued for any length of time, how should we get on for food ? we seemed to be traveling through a kind of tunnel, with very smooth walls on either side. the wallypug had said that we were bound for china, and that that country was on the other side of the world. if so, then we were in for a pretty long journey. i twisted my head around, and tried to get a glimpse of his majesty, who was only a few yards above me. i could see that he was struggling to get something out of the adventures in wallypugland. carpet-bag, and a few minutes afterwards a little packet of sandwiches came whizzing past my head. i managed to catch it as it fell upon the see he was struggling t get somethin i could g out of the carpet-bag. highly-polished boards by stretching out one leg just in time to prevent it from slipping too far. the sandwiches were very good, and i enjoyed them immensely, and for a few moments almost forgot our strange surroundings. i was soon, the little blue people. e however, recalled to a sense of our condition by the fact that we suddenly emerged from the tun- nel into broad daylight, the shute apparently de- scending the steep sides of a high mountain. as soon as my eyes became accustomed to the light i noticed, to my great surprise, that everything in this new country was of a deep rich blue color. the rocks on the mountain side, the strange- looking trees, and even the birds—of which i could see several flying about—were all of the same unusual tint. i had hardly noticed this fact, as we flew down the side of the mountain, when i felt myself sud- denly pulled up with a jerk, and lifted high into the air in a most unaccountable manner, and when, after a moment or two, i recovered from the shock, i found that both the wallypug and myself were suspended from a line at the end of two long fishing-rods which were fastened into a quaint little bridge crossing the shute. ‘ adventures in wallypugland. there we hung, dangling and bobbing about inifront of each other in the most ridiculous way, the dear wallypug still clinging to his carpet-bag with one hand, while in the other he clutched a half-eaten sandwich. i shall never forget his majesty’s surprised expression when he found himself hanging up the air in this unexpected way. “like being a bird, isn’t it ?” he remarked when at last he found a voice. “ h’m, not much,” i replied. “i feel more like a fish at the end of this line. i wish some one would come and help us ofl:'. there’s a hook, or something, sticking into my shoulder, and it hurts no end.” you see there was evidently something at the end of the lines which had caught into our clothes, and the hook, or whatever it was, just touched my shoulder. it did not hurt very much, but just enough to make me feel un- comfortable. “ i wonder where we are,” said the wallypug, # , ‘e ii l”! l //// ‘iv ~\'€i \_\__ hi i ‘j ' in _ *___"_mk_v__va’_m§ k _ ."_l__i % _ \ {_v _ h ‘ “ k _ g > i \ h__ \_ ‘v ‘ ooking about be sure. ” allypugkmd. hwww mm, hg am wm we wf '_ u ,&m mo by wm mm ‘w mm nw “i wo him. page . the little blue people. looking about him. “ whata funny color every- thing is, to be sure.” “ yes, isn’t it ?” i replied. and truly it was a most remarkable scene. there was a curious little kind of temple in the distance and a number of most extraordinary-looking trees; and these, and the grass, and, in fact, everything that could be seen, were of a bright blue tint. “ i know what those trees are called,” said the wallypug, pointing to some remarkable looking ones, with a lot of large blue globes on the branches instead of leaves. “ what ? ” i asked. “ gombobble trees,” said his majesty. “ i’ve seen pictures of them before.” “ where ? ” i asked, more for the sake of some- thing to say than for anything else. “ on our willow-pattern plates at home,” said his majesty. “ there were those and the wiggle- woggely trees, you know.” ()() adventures in wallypugland. “ i wonder,” he continued speculatively, “if by any chance we are there.” “ what do you mean ? ” i asked. “i wonder if this is the place which is shown on the willow-pattern plates,” said his majesty. before i could reply we heard an excited excla- mation from the bank, and turning around as well as we could we saw two curious little blue people dressed in flowing blue costumes. “oh !” they exclaimed, when they saw us, throwing up their hands in a comical little way, (( we ve caught something. what funny things! what are they ?” “ i wonder if they bite,” cried the shorter of the two. “do you bite, you funny things, you?” cried the other, shaking her head at us. “ n o, of course not,” said the wallypug. “ help us to get down, will you, please?” “ not yet,” said both of the little blue creatures, chapter ix. the wallypug recovers his onown. his majesty and myself stared at each other in dismay. our position was growing more and more uncomfortable every moment, and, added to this, i had a growing impression that the rods to which we were attached would sooner or later break with our weight. “ well ! i do think that they might have helped us off the hooks, at any rate,” grumbled his majesty, discontentedly. “so do i,” i rejoined, and was about to add something else when my attention was attracted to the peculiar behavior of the two blue birds which we had previously noticed circling about over our heads. adventures in wallypugland. l they were wheeling round and round in a most eccentric manner, and as they drew closer we could see that they were as singular in appear- ance as they were in their manner. “ why, they’ve got ever so many wings !” cried his majesty in surprise. “ go away l ” he shouted, as one of them fluttered past his face. the birds, however, were not to be got rid of so easily, and, uttering shrill little cries, they hovered about over his majesty’s head, every now and then making a vicious dart at the sandwich which he still held in one hand. “ oh ! take them away !—take them away !” he shouted, dropping his carpet-bag in alarm, and evi- dently forgetting that i was as incapable as he was of driving them off. “ throw your sandwich away !” i shouted ; “ it’s that they are after, i believe.” his majesty did so, and we soon had the satis- i‘ the wallypug recovers his crown. faction of seeing the birds squabbling over it on the bank at the side of the shute. / l * . “ so away i " shouted his majesty. “ fortunate i tied my bag to the string of my cloak, wasn’t it ?” remarked the wallypug, when they had gone. “ i should have lost it else. oh, adventures in wallypugland. look ! what’s that coming down the shute ? ” he cried, as something suddenly came rolling and bounding down the steep incline. “ o—o—o—h ! ” he continued delightedly, as it stopped, caught in the mouth of the carpet-bag which, attached to the cord of his majesty’s cloak, dangled down the shute. “ why, it’s my crown ! they must have thought that i wanted it, and sent it down after me. how very kind of them. wasn’t it ? ” i had my own opinions on the subject, and held my peace, for i felt quite sure that it was not through any intentional kindness that the crown had found its way to its proper owner. his majesty very carefully drew up the carpet- bag with its precious burden, and soon had the in- tense satisfaction of putting the crown of why on his royal head once more. “ oh ! ” he cried with a little sigh of satisfaction, “ it does seem nice to have it on again. i’m afraid the wally pug recovers his crown. that i should soon have caught a cold in my head, like a. fish, esq., if i had gone without it , much longer. ll" (pl “ gracious !” he cried, §r"'//i&l_. pointing excitedly to- wards the top of the |_ shute, “ there’s some- ., \'\ thing else coming down l why it’s the doctor-in- law and madame. oh ! —and the cockatoo-—and -—the rabbit and the mole. bless me! if the whole of why isn’t com- ing along.” it was quite true; at- tached to a strong rope a long line of creatures /' ,‘ ‘. - '¢€ wis ll § ‘ llqiiq, \ _ ) ‘n \ v l‘ ‘ \'. \. - : . lil a long line of creatures was cofing down the shutte- adventures in wallypugland. was coming down the shute, the doctor-in-law leading thehway. he soon caught sight of us dangling at the end of our rods, and calling out “halt!” in a loud voice, he pulled at the rope as a sign that they were to stop. this signal was passed along by the others, and the cockatoo, who was attached to the rope in a very uncomfortable manner, gave a loud “ squ-a-a-k ” as the sudden jerk caused it to tighten about her neck. the signal, however, managed somehow to reach those at the other end, for the procession suddenly came to a standstill. “ oh, there you are then ! ” called out the doc- tor-in-law in a severe voice. “ thought you had escaped us, i suppose.” the cockatoo, in a voice choking with rage, and the tightened rope, shrieked out, “ down with the traitors !” while the rabbit passed the word along, “ it’s all right. we’ve found them.” adventures in wallypugland. at us, by means of the bridge. the rope, how- ever, by which he was attached to the sister-in- law was not sufficiently long to enable him to do this, and while he was unfastening it there was a sudden cry in the direction of the tunnel, and a moment afterwards, screaming, kicking, and struggling, the whole party rapidly disappeared down the shute. the rope had given way ! “he, he, he! ha, ha!” laughed his majesty, as the huddled mass vanished in the distance. “ what a lark! oh what a muddle they will be in when they reach the bottom.” l i tried to imagine what would be the result, and came to the conclusion that, uncomfortable as i was in my present position,’ i would rather be where i was than attached to the rope with the others. in the meantime the little blue people, their curiosity evidently aroused by the noise, were the wallypug recovers his crown. hurrying towards us as quickly as possible, bring- ing with them a very stout blue person, who was waddling along, being alternately pushed and pulled by the others in their eagerness to reach us. “ see, there they are ! ” cried the little lady whose name we afterwards found out was gra- shus. “oh my ! aren’t they a funny color?” “ shall we get them down ?” asked the other, whose name was mi-hy. i the little fat man regarded us critically, and said nothing for a moment or two, then he nodded his head violently. “ you’re sure you won’t bite?” said mi-hy, looking up into my face. “ n o, of course not. don’t be silly,” i replied. thereupon, after a great deal of pulling and pushing on the part of mi-hyland gra-shus, the rods to which we were attached were swung around, and the wallypug and myself alighted, one on either side of the bank. adventures in wallypugland. his majesty smoothed his rumpled garments, and, adjusting his crown to a more becoming angle, positively swaggered across the bridge to where the three little blue people stood in a line to receive us. “ this is ho-lor,” said mi-hy, pushing the little fat man forward, while gra-shus bashfully hid behind the ample folds of his gorgeous blue skirts. “ how do you do ? ” asked his majesty gra- ciously. “ do what ?” asked ho-lor, smilingly. “i mean, how are you ?” explained the wally- pug. “you mean what am i, i suppose?” said the little man, putting on a puzzled expression. “ n o, i don’t,” said the wallypug. “i mean just what i say—how are you ?” “ but i don’t understand,” replied ho-lor. “how am i what ‘q ” “ his majesty the wallypug of why,” i ex- ~' .°‘ :.°\-» . * "' :. --- ._ - : - mm |‘! _ll///[ulla q i £'\“\~g§ his majesty swaggered across the bridge to where the three little blue people stood in a line to receive us. —page . wall;/pugland. the wallypug recovers his crown. plained, “wishes to say, that he hopes you are quite well.” “ oh ! i beg your pardon” said ho-lor. “ how very stupid of me. but you know, the fact is, we get such a lot of foreigners down here, and they do ask such funny questions. a french- man we caught the other day actually asked me how i carried myself. wasn’t it rude of hi n—- considering my weight too ?” “you’re a wallypug, too, aren’t you?” asked gra-shus, looking smilingly up into my face. “ oh, no ! ” i replied ; “ i am only his majesty’s guest.” “his majesty ! do you mean that?” said mi- hy, pointing to the wallypug. the wallypug drew himself up with an air of offended dignity. “i am not a ‘that’; i’m a kind of a king,” he explained, in a tone of remonstrance. “ g)-ooh !” exclaimed the little blue people, fall- adventures in wallypugland. ing down on their knees and bowing their fore- heads to the ground, with their hands stretched out before them. “ pray forgive us, majestuous “pray ronorvm vs,“ mxcnuman the blue people wallypug, we thought you were only an ordinary person. you see we’ve never caught a king be- fore. oh ! don’t chop our heads off, will you ? ” the wallypug recovers his crown. “ of course not,” said his majesty, kindly. “but kings always chop ofi people’s heads, don’t they ?” cried the little people, anxiously. “oh dear no,” said the wallypug. “get up; or you’ll spoil your clothes. could - we have a cup of tea, please? we are rather fatigued with our long journey.” the little blue people immediately jumped up and led the way to where behind a clump of curious blue trees the quaintest little boat you could possibly imagine was moored against the bank. a blue lake stretched as far as the eye could reach, and a number of little islands were dotted about it. on one, a little larger than the rest, a quaint little blue pagoda could be seen. chapter x. the home on h -lor. “i live over there,” said ho-lor with pride, pointing to the island with the pagoda on it. “mi-hy shall row us across, and gra-shus shall make us some tea.” “ oh! yes,” said grashus clapping her hands. “and we’ll show mr. majesty wallypug our beautiful pet dog—won’t we ? ” it was impossible not to be interested in these quaint and simple-minded little folk, and after we had all stepped into the little boat and mi-hy had pushed off, his majesty was soon chatting affably with ho-lor, who explained that he was a mandarin of the blue button, and ninety-eighth- cousin-twice-removed to the emperor of china. the home or ho-lor. we soon reached the opposite bank, and his majesty having been ceremoniously assisted out of the boat, we ascended a slight hill, and soon found ourselves before ho-lor’s residence. to our great surprise we found that it exactly re- sembled the building so familiar to all who have seen a willow-pattern plate. the tall pillars at the portico, the quaintly- shaped curly roofs, the little zig-zag fence run- ning along the path, and the curious trees, all seemed to be old friends—while two little islands, one of which was connected to the mainland by a quaint bridge, completed the picture. ' the two birds, which had by this time finished squabbling about the sandwich, were billing and cooing over our heads, and the sight of them seemed suddenly to convince us of‘ the identity of the spot. l “why, this must be the land of the willow- pattern plate,” cried his majesty excitedly. adventures in wallypugland. “yes, it is,” admitted ho-lor. “don’t you think it is a very pretty spot ?” “ charming,” declared the wallypug ; “ i have often wanted to come here.” “ the real name of the place,” said ho-lor, “is wer-har-wei, and it is a portion of china; but come, you must see our little dog; i can hear that mi-hy has gone to fetch him.” “his name is kis-smee,” said gra-shus, “and he is such a dear old thing. we’ve had him ever since he was a puppy.” there was a sound of barking, and a confused clattering of chains, which told of a dog being unloosed. a moment afterwards there came bounding out of the house the most extraordinary- looking creature that i have ever beheld. it was a very fat and atrociously hideous ani- mal, bearing but slight resemblance to a dog. its enormous mouth wore a perpetual grin, and was decorated at the corners with curious little scal- -ifi -§;)|:‘au i ?“ ‘m “. . , - - ‘i i i)- wit o <~ ‘v. "m z// § .‘i_‘i/j, \’\ .. ' "" u |‘di-ii‘|\l.||/ it i ( come along, good dog! come and speak to the pretty wallypugs.”—page . wallup“ l¢md- the home or ho-lor. lops. it was bandy-legged, and its hinder legs were much longer than the front ones. added to this, the skin on its haunches was wrinkled up into curious kind of rosettes, while its tail was really all sorts of shapes. this beautiful creature came careering down the steps, dragging mi-hy with him, and was hailed with delight by gra-shus, who cried in endearing tones: “come along, good dog! come and speak to the pretty wallypugs. good kis-smee. good dog, then!” his majesty clutched my arm nervously, and retreating behind the carpet-bag, regarded kis- smee with a certain amount of suspicion, while i must confess to having experienced a slight feel- ing of uneasiness myself. for if kis-smee took it into his ugly head to object to us, there was no knowing what might be the result. there was no occasion for alarm, however, for adventures in wallypugland. kis-smee turned out to be one of the mildest and best-behaved of dogs. he made great friends with the wallypug at once, and clumsily gamboled, or, as his majesty explained it, “ flumped,” about him in the most friendly manner. “ he doesn’t take to strangers as a rule,” said ho-lor, “ but he certainly seems to have taken a fancy to you.” i “ he is a beautiful creature,” said his majesty, politely patting the huge animal a little nerv- ously. “ oh l i don’t know about that,” remarked ho-lor, looking very pleased nevertheless. “ he is of a very rare breed, though.” “ what kind of dog do you call him ?” i inquired. “ he’s a smirkler dog,” replied ho-lor proudly. “ a what ? ” i exclaimed. the home of ho-lor. if a smirkler. he smirkles for mivlets you know,” was the reply. “ good gracious. what are they ?” cried the wallypug. (( mivlets ? ” asked ho-lor. “ee is a beautiful c'r.l!a' ‘ure," said his mumsrv. his majesty nodded. ( (( why young mivs, of course.” but what are mivs?” asked his majesty curiously. ‘( things that are smirkled for,” replied ho- adventures in wallypugland. lor promptly. “ but come. i see that gra- shus has prepared some tea for us." we entered the little blue temple and were each presented with a little blue rug, upon which we sat cross-legged, as we observed that mi-hy and ho-lor were doing. gra-shus served us in blue cups what tasted like delicious tea, but which looked exactly like blue ink. no sooner had we taken a few sips than i noticed that the wally- pug was slowly turning a light blue color, while at the same moment he stared at me fixedly a moment, and then exclaimed : “why, what a funny color you are ! ” i looked at my hands, and found them a rich blue shade. “ we look like the oxford and cambridge boat race, don’t we?” he continued : “ i’m so glad that i’m cambridge !” i did not at all approve of the change, for although we did not look so very remarkable in adventures in wallypugland. finished our tea mi-hy brought around the little blue boat again, and we went for a row_ on the ornamental lake. somehow or another kis-smee was left behind, and although the wallypug suggested putting -///\ /‘i // we went for a row on the ornamental lake. back for him, it was finally decided, however, not to do so. “ perhaps he will smirkle a mivlet while we are away,” said ho-lor. and i confidently hoped that he might do so, for i was as curious as was the wallypug to know what the term meant. the home or h -lor. just then we passed a curious little blue island with one tiny house on it, standing in the midst of some curious trees and strangely-shaped rocks. “ let’s go ashore and fish,” suddenly suggested mi-hy. “ oh ! yes, do,” cried the wallypug. “ i love fishing ; but i’m never allowed to do so in my own land.” “ why not ?” inquired ho-lor. “ the fishes object,” replied his majesty, sadly ; “ they say that it gives them the tooth- ache.” i “ how absurd of them,” said ho-lor, sym- pathetically. “ yes ; isn’t it perfectly ridiculous ?” replied his majesty ; “ for they really haven’t any teeth, you know.” by this time the boat had reached the shore, and we all scrambled out and assisted ho-lor up the steep rocks. . adventures in wallypugland. from within the little blue house mi-hy brought some rods and lines, and we began to fish. there was no bait of any kind, but this ho-lor explained was not necessary. under the circumstances i was not surprised to find that we did not get a bite for a consider- able time. - at last, however, the wallypug announced with a delighted shout, “ i’ve got one ! ” and we all ran over to see what it was. slowly his majesty wound up his line, while mi-hy hung over the rocks with a landing net. “ i’ve got it!” he shouted. “ oh, what a beauty !” and diving his hand into the net, he drew out--—what do you think? an empty ink- bottle! i couldn’t help laughing at his majesty’s disappointed face, but ho-lor seemed positively to think that it was acatch worth having. “ it’s in capital condition,” he exclaimed, examining the home or ho-lor. it critically, “ and has. a beautifully-shaped neck.” “ but it’s only an old ink bottle,” objected the poor wallypug. “ what else did you expect to catch, i should like to know ?” said mi-hy. “ some people are never satisfied. many a time i have fished here a whole day and only caught a piece of blotting paper or a pen-wiper.” “what funny things to catch !” exclaimed the wallypug. “ they are very appropriate things to get from a lake of ink,” said ho-lor rather huffily. “ oh ! i’m sure i beg your pardon, i had no idea it was real ink,” said his majesty, apologet- ically. “ i don’t think we had better fish any longer,” he said putting away his rod. “ i hoped to have caught some real fish, you know.” “ never heard of them. what are they?” asked ho-lor. adventures in wvallypugland. “ why, things with scales, you know,” ex- claimed the wallypug. “ oh, you mean weighing machines,” said mi-hy. “ no l no ! i mean—” “ hark ! what’s that?” said ho-lor, putting his hand to his ear. “ come on ! that’s kis-smee barking. i expect he has smirkled a mivlet. come along, hurry up, or we shall be too late.” we hurriedly launched the little boat, and were soon on our way across the little lake. the sound of furious barking, mingled with a strangely familiar voice, came from behind ho-lor’s house, and hurrying forward we came suddenly upon a remarkable sight. kis-smee was prancing madly round a gom- bobble tree to the lower branches of which a. fish, esq., was clinging in an agony of fright. @“§@\$ fies-s ¢.&"’a~\k “’ ll-el. /hr ' ll! ,‘i . ‘a— kis-smee was prancing madly round a gombobble tree to the lower branches of which a. fish, esq., was clinging in an agony of fright.—page . w¢ll /p l< fld- adventures in wvallypugland. kis-smee off as we approached. “ keep hib of$. take hib away! ” “ it’s all right,” said his majesty, reassuringly, “ he won’t bite you now that we are here.” indeed, directly the dog discovered that a. fish, esq., was a friend of the wallypug’s, he went up to him, and grinning in an absurd way, held out a paw to be shaken, which favor, how- ever, was declined by a. fish, esq., who evidently regarded these overtures with a certain amount of suspicion, and looked greatly relieved when ho-lor and mi-hy, seeing that we were engaged with a friend, considerately left us to ourselves, and took kis-smee away with them. chapter xi. the why and wer-har-wei railway. “ fancy seeing you!” cried his majesty, as we sat down beside the fish under the gombobble tree. “how ever did you get here? and what’s the news at why ? ” “ oh, thad’s a log story,” said a. fish, esq., and proceeded to tell us how that after we had escaped from why, by means of the shute, there had been a great commotion in the place, and the doctor-in-law was furious. he declared that we should not slip through his hands in this way, and had a long conversation with the sister-in- law and the others as to the best way of affect- ing our capture. finally they decided to attach - adventures in wallypugland. themselves to a long rope, and come down the shute in pursuit of us. a. fish, esq., made the excuse that his cold was too bad to permit him to join the party, and waited till they had got a good way down, and then cut the rope. he thought that this would be the best way of being of serv- ice to us. and so it was, of course, for good- ness only knows where our pursuers were by this time. a little while after he had cut the rope a. fish, esq., came across the crow, who told him that he had been informed by two dufl"er birds (which was the name of the curious blue birds which we had noticed) that we were here at wer-har-wei, and had immediately set about to discover the best way to get here. he went in the first place to the station-master at why, and found him, as usual, engaged in squabbling with the porter. the why and wer-har-wei railway. they were arguing as to whether a certain sig- nal should be up or down. the station-master declared that the signal should always be up on the up line and down on \ lb usijll the station-master was squabbling with the porter. the down line. this the porter would not agree to, so it was at last decided to put one up and one down and leave them so, and then the engine- drivers could do as they pleased about going on or stopping. adventures in wallypugland. when they had quite settled this dispute, a. fish, esq., had asked them if there were any trains running between why and this place, and at first they had said no ; but presently the porter remembered that there was a certain train which started on some days and went no one knew where. n o one was ever known to travel by it, and the engine-driver, who was an old salamander by the name of mike, was deaf and dumb, and could neither read nor write, so that they had never been able to find out from him where his train went to. it had some letters on it which corre- sponded with those on the station-master’s collar, but no one had ever been able to discover what they meant. they were popularly supposed to stand for weary waiting and horribly vvobbly railway, the initials on the station-master’s collar being w.w.h.w.r., but a. fish, esq., had by a brilliant inspiration come to the conclusion the why and wer-har—wei railway. i i that they stood for why and wer-har-wei rail- way, and when the train, which consisted of only one carriage and the engine, came into the station, he jumped in, to the intense surprise of mike, who had never had a passenger before, and who in his agitation recklessly put two shovelfuls of coal into the furnace, and, giving a frantic “toot” on the whistle, started off at full speed. “ it was a dreadful journey,” said a. fish, esq., “ ad i dever had so bedy ups and dowds id all by life.” we didn’t quite understand what he meant by this at the moment, but a little later on we dis- covered the reason to our cost. after an eventful journey, a. fish, esq., had arrived at this place, and had found on alighting from the train that no one was to be seen, and he was just about to kick at the door of ho-lor’s house when kis-smee came bounding out. poor a. fish, esq., had been terribly alarmed, and had adventures in wallypugland. made for the nearest tree, and was vainly trying to climb up into it when we made our appearance. “ if i were you,” he advised, “ i should cer- taidly cub back to why at odce, for the people all seeb to be rejoiced thad madame and the doctor- id-law have gode away, ad i think thad they would willingly forgive you for having said, ‘ ad horse ! ad horse ! by kigdob for ad horse !’ ” after talking the matter over for a few minutes we decided that perhaps it would be the best thing to do, and as the little blue station was only just at the back of ho-lor’s house we thought that perhaps by hurrying we should catch the same train back to why by which a. fish, esq., had come. so we set out to try and find the little blue people, to bid them “ good-by,” and thank them for their hospitality. we found them at the station sitting beside mike, to whom it appeared they were in the habit of being very kind on his occasional visits. the why and wer-har—wei railway. they seemed quite sorry to hear that we were leaving them so soon, and insisted upon making the wallypug a present of kis-smee, andiof stuff- ing into my pocket an enormous gombobble as a souvenir of my visit. then there was just time to look at the “train” before we started. i must say that of all crazy, ramshackle afiairs it was quite the worst that i had ever seen. to begin with, the wheels were all sorts of shapes, and not one of them was quite round. there was only one compartment, and that had no windows in it. and the engine ! well, it was something like pufiing billy, only a little worse. there was no room for kis-smee in the carriage, so we were obliged to chain him up on the roof, evidently much to his disgust. i must confess to acertain feeling of uneasiness when, having taken our seats, the engine gave a snort, and puffing out a volume of dense black smoke and smuts, started us on our journey. adventures in vvallypugland. by reason of the odd shape of our wheels and the unevenness of the rails the carriage pitched and tossed about like a ship at sea, and our pas- sage over a little wooden viaduct, where on either side the little blue people stood waving their adieux with quaint little flags, was, i am con- vinced, attended with considerable danger. it was really a dreadful journey. the carriage pitched backward and forward, and rolled from side to side with every revolution of the wheels, while poor kis-smee, on the top, kept slipping about in the most painful manner. his maj esty’s carpet-bag, which had not been securely fastened to the top of the carriage, slipped ofl' soon after we started, and though we rang the bell violently mike refused to stop, and it was lost forever. “fortunately there was not much in it l” his majesty gasped between the jerks which the irregular motion of the train occasioned. “ only a tooth-brush and small cake of soap.” i x p ~j ,‘ _z d __ i\-an "‘*“.i all wright __i_ fl —\_-_-- --'-""' the carriage pitched backward and rolled from side to side. —pa.ge . - ' wwllymugland ' u / 'i* -_ _ — _q—_ ‘ - adventures in wallypugland. “ why ! i thought you were deaf and dumb,” i cried. “ och—that’s all gammon sure—~oi can talk all roight, and hear all roight too when it suits me purpose. well, now, ye see when the dog fell off the roof he upset me coal-scuttle, and never a bit of coal is there left. would ye be good enough, kind gentlemen, to go back and pick some up oflf the line, it’s only about a moile and a half back.” the engine, it appeared, could not be reversed, and, as there was no chance of getting a supply anywhere else, nothing remained but for his majesty and myself to go back with the coal-scut- tleand pick some of the spilt coal up. kis-smee bounded delightedly at our side ; but we did not take a. fish, esq., with us, as he com- plained of a pain in his tail, and we feared that the long walk might make it worse. “ i shall amuse byself while you are away by the why and wer—har—wei railway. giving bike ad elocutiod lessod,” he said, as we left him. but mike, who was undoing his bundle prepar- atory to having some dinner, did not look very enthusiastic over the project, and i am almost certain i heard him mutter, “ not if i know it,” as we were walking away. we found the coal, as we expected, beside the line, after we had walked a little over a mile, and his majesty and myself picked it up, and packing it in the scuttle, took turns in carrying it back to the train again. we had nearly arrived at the spot where the train was waiting for us, when his majesty noticed some curious flowers growing in a little copse beside the line, and we put down our coal- scuttle and went to gather them. while we were doing so, however, we heard a wild shout, and looking up beheld an enormously tall and thin man running towards us, gesticulatin g violently. adventures in wallypugland. he was waving some wire and leather dog muzzles in one hand. \ ' s fie‘- . ‘ ' \/here s you». muzzle ' \+_;_;.~ ml! qlgua g z? ' | m'- ¢' \ );} ¢€ s the tall thin man was waving some muzzles. cc where’s his muzzle ? ” he deman ded, pointing to kis-smee. “ can’t you see the dog is mad and must be muzzled immediately? ” the why and wer—har—wei railway. , “i’m sure he’s not,” cried the wallypug, in- dignantly, and patting kis-smee’s head. “ he is,” declared the man. “all dogs are mad, and i insist upon them being muzzled.” “very well,” i interposed. “you had better try and put a muzzle on this one yourself.” “ oh ! i’ll soon do that,” cried the man, select- ing a large muzzle from the collection which he carried with him. “ come here, sir ! good dog, then.” . kis-smee growled, and grinning more than ever made a dart at the man, who dropped his muzzles and fled, screaming, “mad dog! mad dog ! ” at the top of his voice. his majesty and myself, laughing heartily at his discomfiture, hurried back to the train with- out meeting with any further adventures. a. fish, esq., and mike seemed to be rather cool towards each other, i thought, and i heard afterwards that they had not got on at all well chapter xii. back again at why. kls-smee was overjoyed to get out of the train, and eagerly strained at the chain which his majesty had aflixed to his collar, in his endeavor to get through the barrier. the porter, however, who pretended not to know us, demanded our tickets. “it’s all riglit,” said his majesty, smilingly. “ i’m the wallypug, you know.” “nonsense,” said the porter. “the wally- pug was ugly enough, goodness knows, but he hadn’t a blue face like you; besides, wallypug or no wallypug, you don’t get through here with- out a ticket, i can tell you.” here was a pretty pickle. we had not thought io adventures in wallypugland. in the least about tickets, and in fact had no idea that any would be required. “i certainly shan’t let you pass the barrier without,” said the porter, in answer to our ex- planations. “ but what are we to do ?” asked the wally- pug. “ can’t we pay at this end ? ” “ certainly not. my instructions are to de- mand a ticket of every one passing this barrier, and unless you give me one you cannot go through.” “ but i tell you we haven’t any. can’t you tell us what to do?” “ go back for them, i should say,” said the porter, yawning unconcernedly. “ now then, one thing or another. are you going to give me the tickets or not ? ” “ how caii we give them to you if we haven’t any ?” demanded the wallypug. the porter slammed the door to impatiently, and went a back again at why. \ little way up the platform, turning around to call out warningly, “ if we find any suspicious-look- ing characters hanging about the station prem- ises we shoot them.” the porter demanded our tickets. “ what nonsense!” cried the wallypug, rat- tling and kicking the gate. “ we can’t stop here all day. let’s call the station-master. hi! hi! station-master! ” he shouted. adventures in wallypugland. no one answered for a few minutes, but eventually a door some little distance up the platform opened, and the old station-master made his appearance, puffing and blowing, and followed by the . porter, carrying a huge blunder- buss. “ now then, what’s all this noise about ?” he demanded. “ we want to get out, if you please,” said the wallypug. “where are your tickets,” demanded the sta- tion-master. i “ we are very sorry,” i began in explanation. “ hold your tongue, and speak when you are spoken to,” interrupted the station-master. “ where are your tickets?” “they haven’t any,” explained the porter officiously. “ they are trying to defraud the company.” “h’m, funny-looking lot of people, too,” re- back again at why. oom-hi turned it into a patent meat extract, and called it vimbril, and it killed ever so many people.” “ indeed l” exclaimed the wallypug, anxiously. “ any one i know ? ” “ madame and a few other folk,” was the reply ; “ and the doctor-in-law is not expected to re.- cover.” “good gracious! why, we thought them at the other end of the world. however did they get back to why again ?” “oh, they sent us a cablegram when they got to china, and we let down an enormously long rope and pulled them up the shute again, you know. but it was a very long journey, and they had nothing to eat on the way. so as soon as we hauled them up we gave them eacha large dose of vimbril. madame expired at once,” he added, with a sob. the tears were streaming down the turtle’s , adventures in wallypugland. / nose as he sympathetically joined in the pelican’s weeping. “ what about the doctor-in-law ? ” inquired his majesty, solicitously. “ oh, he has a very strong constitution, you k_now, and he may pull through. we’ve got him back at the palace in his old quarters.” “poor fellow ! poor fellow ! ” said the wally- pug, sympathetically. “ let’s go and see what we can do for him.” i thought this very kind of his majesty, consid- ering all he had sufiered through the doctor-in- law’s ingratitude ; but the good-hearted little fellow was full of sympathy, and hurried towards the palace with all speed. . chapter xiii. a new state of affairs. “oh my! good gracious me!” exclaimed a voice as we approached the entrance to the palace and looking up we beheld the cockatoo perched on a window-sill. “ just look at these creatures. what a color. why, why,” she exclaimed, peering at us closely, “ i’m bothered if it isn’t the wallypug and the hatless man, and the great mr. a. fish, esq. where have you been? vvhat did you come back for? what do you want?” she screamed. “ it’s dud of your busidess,” replied a. fish, esq., shortly. “ oh! isn’t it,” said the cockatoo furiously. “ i’ll soon show you whether it’s none of my busi- adventures in wallypugland. ness or not. to begin with, the wallypug and the headless traitor ”— " do you mean me ? ” i interrupted, “ because i am not headless yet, you know.” “wnrr a . i " mxouman -rm; cocxxroo. “headless, or hatless, it’s all the same,” said the cockatoo, “ you might as well run about with- out your head for all the good it is to you, ” she added insolently. “well you two are escaped a . a n ' -ni we found the doctor-in-law looking very weak and ill but ml} ’////l\‘ / />'/' / /, / \ w ?"$'\‘" b \l\~‘ he recognized us all and held out his hand to th w ll ’ e a ypug.—- page . wallypugland. _ ' l ' _ __ ‘[ adventures in wallypugland. and which i am happy to say has already an enormous circulation in why. it is very cheap (four copies for a penny), and contains an enor- mous amount of totally unreliable information ; besides which there is a page devoted to domestic matters, highly interesting to ladies, and includes receipts for artistically furnishing your house with old tea chests and soap boxes, painted with enamel and draped with art muslin ; there are also several poems weekly on the subject of ‘baby’s little socks,’ which are immensely popular with some people, here is one of them,” he cried, turning to the back page of his paper, a copy of which he had with him. “ oh! the baby’s little socks, darling baby’s little socks ; when the kettle’s softly steaming, when the firelight's glow is gleaming, ‘ and i’m sitting idly dreaming, whisper gently, ‘baby's socks.’ “ oh the darling little socks ; baby’s babg/’s little socks ; a new state or affairs. toys that baby fingers scatter, little feet that pitter-patter, tittle tongues—but there—no matter, let’s get back to baby’s socks.” “ there,” he concluded triumphantly, “what do you think of that ?” “ well, i don’t wish to be rude,” i remarked, “ but i certainly think it’s the greatest rubbish i’ve ever heard in all my life. “ rubbish ! ” he exclaimed, “ why all the ladies who read the daily whyer think it beautiful. i have to get the same gentleman to write verses like that nearly every day.” “ do you mean to tell me,” i replied, “ that a man writes such twaddle as that.” “ oh ! you’re jealous, that’s what’s the matter with you. a man write them ? of course he does.” “ and do you pay him for these precious con- tributions,” i exclaimed in surprise. “ i promise to pay him ever so much a year,” : adventures in wallypugland. said the crow, “ but—er—ahem—i have a very bad memory. i have several contributors whom i pay on the same system, it’s a very cheap way,” he sniflfled. “ i’ve copied it from a contem- porary.” ' “well, we’re very busy just dow,” said a. fish, esq., “ would you bind telling us your busidess ad goig, because_we wandt to ged to work agaid.” “ oh ! to tell you the truth,” said the crow, “ i wanted to know if the wallypug would let me print an interview with him in to-morrow’s paper. you have just returned from wer-har- wei, i believe, haven’t ycu ; i was sitting on the signal post at the station just now and saw you arrive. i think my readers would be very inter- ested in hearing your impressions of the coun- try.” i took his majesty aside and pointed out to him that very possibly an interview with him appear- a new state of afeairs. ing in the paper would have a good effect on his people, and he could use it as a means of adver- tising the reforms he intended making in the gov- ernment of the land ; and his majesty agreeing with me on the point, he seated himself comfort- ably in his own particular chair, and the crow, perching on the back of another, the interview began. “ let’s see,” said the crow, making a great spluttering with his pen, which was cross-nibbed and broken. “ when were you born ?” “ well, really,” said his majesty, “ i, er—was so young at the time that i scarcely remember.” “oh, well, i’ll put it down as y. d. ; that will do as well as any other date.” “ why y. d. ?” i inquired, curiously. “ year of disgrace,” was the prompt reply. “ bless me ! this must be a post office pen,” he went on, as the pen scattered the ink about in all directions. “ they are always bad, you know.” adventures in wallypugland. / then, having asked the vval ypug no end of questions, not only about our journey, but on all sorts of private matters also, the wretched-look- ing bird gathered up his papers, which were cov- ? ”%>a \’ } “ this mwsr be a rosr omucm pen,” sun ram cnow. ered with unintelligible blots and scratches and scattered in all parts of the room, and, tucking them under his wing, departed, to have the mat- ter set up in print. chapter xiv. “goon for the complex on.” the crow had scarcely left the room when there was another knock, and without waiting for a reply the cockatoo burst into the room in a fine fluster. she was followed by the kangaroo and oom hi. . “ look at them ! loolc at them!” she blurted out, “did you ever see such objects in all your life. what a color !” “hm ! eggshell blue,” said the kangaroo, examining the wallypug critically. “very extraordinary tint. never seen a face that shade before.” _ “ the other one is worse,” declared the cock- atoo, pointing at me derisively. “ i alwiyég knew . adventures in wallypugland. he was something disreputable. i believe,” she added, sinking her voice into a hoarse whisper, “i believe he has let himself out as an advertise- ment for stephen’s blue-black ink, or ricket’s paris blue. what depravity. down with him ! duck him in the pond ! scrub him with sandpaper! boil him!” and so she went on. “ what’s all this bother about?” i exclaimed. “ don’t you see that his majesty is engaged. if you don’t immediately go about your business i will have you put out of the room.” “ oh l will you indeed,” exclaimed the cockatoo excitedly, “ i should like to see you attempt it. it strikes me that you are the one that will be put out. we can stand a good deal down here, but a hatless object with a blue face. ough !” “ here, come and do your duty,” she shouted, going to the door, and the two crocodiles entered and caught hold of me roughly by the collar. _ l él) ‘i____ _ i /____ _ / _y _ f , ? /w /j z? m///' i /// lg cv /y / ;///// z i _ /, “ you’re putting “ough! ough!" spluttered his majesty. do-o-n't! stop! i say, do leave it all in my eyes. oh, ach! wallypugland. ofi'. ”—page . “good for the complexion.” “bring them out into the courtyard,” shouted the infuriated bird, and before i could protest i was bundled unceremoniously out of the house by the crocodiles, the kangaroo and oom hi follow- ing with the wallypug. “now then,” said the cockatoo, stopping be- fore a large tub of water which stood on the ground, “ see what soap and water will do.” the kangaroo rummaged about and discovered a small hard piece of yellow soap, and oom hi brought forth a good sized sponge, and together they gave the poor little wallypug such a scrub- bing as i should think he had never had before in all his life. “ ough ! ough ll” spluttered his majesty. “ you’re putting it all in my eyes. oh, ach ! do-o-on’t ! stop ! i say, do leave off. ough !” the poor little fellow was nearly choked. oom hi sponged the soap away and the cocka- too stared critically at the poor wallypug, who adventures in wallypugland. spread out to dry, and with strict injunctions not to move till he was told. the last view that i had of his majesty was of . j ".'~ . ' ‘a ' ' i, uzflfiflfir wn i’ _ > ‘n r , his majesty in the stocks. the poor little fellow, utterly worn out with his exertions, meekly sitting in the stocks and falling into an uneasy slumber, from which, however, he “ good for the complexion.” was frequently awakened by the bees and flies, which, attracted by the sticky stuflf on his face and hands, flocked around him as though he were a pot of jam. “ we might keep this as a curiosity,” said the cockatoo, turning her attention to me next. “ put in a cage with a large label, ‘ blue-faced and hatless man, dangerous !’ he ought to be an attraction to our menagerie. i think that’s what we’ll do with him,” and despite my struggles and protests i was ignominiously marched off by the crocodiles, who continued to make rude and per- sonal remarks about my appearance all the way to the dungeon, where it appeared i was to spend my time till a cage could be prepared for me. of course i was terribly indignant at my treat- ment, but was absolutely powerless to prevent it and the only thing that i could do when the crocodiles had left me alone, after a few parting adventures in wallypugland. n jeers, was to consider the best way of effecting my escape. i was pondering seriously upon this question, ‘d the made rude and personal remarks about my appearance. when suddenly i remembered the gombobble with which the little blue people had'presented me when i left vver-har-wei. taking it from my pocket i idly wondered if it were good to eat “good for the complexion.” or not. it felt soft and looked something like a huge blue orange or a melon ; getting out my penknife i plunged it in and cut the fruit open. inside was a white juicy pulp ‘which looked very tempting, so trusting to its being good to eat i took a bite. it was delicious ! i took another bite, and then, happening to look at my hands, i discovered to my great delight that they were regaining their proper color. “ come, this is better,” i cried, tackling a third piece ; and then suddenly remembering the poor wallypug, i carefully cut the gombobble in half and put part of it asideifor his majesty, and was just about to eat another little piece my- self, when, happening to look up, i caught sight of mr. nobody from nowhere, squeezing through the bars of my dungeon window. he was as smiling and happy as ever, and adventures in wallypugland. made me an elaborate bow with an elegant flourish, and then looked so very knowing that i felt sure that he had something important to communicate. adventures in wallypugland. mr. nobody nodded again very energetically, and i could see that he knew all about it. more- over he wrote on his paper, “ poor wallypug ! ” and looked most sympathetic. “ would you like to help him ? ” i inquired. the little man nodded again, and seemed quite delighted at the prospect. handing him the half of the crombobble which i had reserved for his majesty, i said, “ take this to the wallypug immediately and, if he is quite alone, tell him to eat it all, and on no account to tell any one how he became possessed of it.” “mr. nobody nodded to show that he under- stood, and, taking the piece of gombobble, he squeezed through the bars of my cell, and was soon running off in the direction of the stocks. i awaited his return with some anxiety, and was delighted to see when he did come back, that his face was beaming with delight. “wallypug’s blush limited.” “ his majesty has regained his complexion, and ii \'l iii i *! \ ./ l is very grateful to you,” he wrote hurriedly, clapping his hands and capering about. i adventures in wallypugland. “ now go and tell oom hi and the kangaroo, and if they come to the conclusion that his majesty’s complexion has been restored through using the stuff they call ‘ wallypug’s blush,’ don’t say anything to the contrary ; it will put them into a good temper and perhaps make them kinder to his majesty.” mr. nobody seemed quite to understand and hurried off again. he did not come back, but about half an hour afterwards there was a noise at the door of my cell, and after a great deal of fumbling at the lock, oom hi and the kangaroo entered. ' oom hi carried a basin and the kangaroo a bottle of vimbril, or wallypug’s blush, as it was now called. they looked very amiable, and after some kind remarks about the weather oom hi cleared his throat and said in a sort of apologetic voice : , , l “wallypug's blush limited.” “er, we didn’t mean to be too severe, you know, and what we have done has been all for the best. you will be pleased to hear that my sass §\.. oom hi carried a basin, and the kangaroo a bottle of viiibr_l. invaluable preparation, ‘ wallypug’s blush,’ has proved perfectly satisfactory, and his majesty the wallypug is a living testimony to its worth. his beautiful complexion has entirely returned, and i adventures in wallypugland. have no doubt if we could persuade you to use it too it would be equally successful in your case. you will try it, won’t you ?” he pleaded earnestly. “ of course if my complexion, such as it is, is restored, i shall be released from here?” i haz- arded. “oh! certainly,” said both animals at once, and so after surreptitiously devouring the re- mainder of the gombobble, i permitted the creatures to smear my face over with their precious rubbish on the distinct understanding that i should be allowed to have a good wash afterwards. the gombobble acted perfectly, and the animals were delighted when they saw the result, as they of course put it down to the effect of their “ wal- lypug’s blush.” “go and fetch the cockatoo,” said oom hi, “ she shall judge for herself.” —“wallypug’s blush limited.” i am about to become a director, and am to be paid several thousands more for persuading the cockatoo to join the board too.” “but,” i objected, “ what do you claim that ‘ wallypug’s blush’ does ?” “ oh, it restores people with blue complexions to their natural color, you know.” “ but surely there will be a very limited sale,” i said ; “ there cannot be very many people with blue faces, you know.” “ oh, of course, you must try and spoil every- thing with your absurd objections,” said the cockatoo crossly. “yes, i really don’t see that your contention has much weight,” said the doctor-in-law. “provided it is only advertised enough, the public willnbuy any rubbish, whether it does what it professes to do or not. and we shall simply call it ‘wallypug’s blush for the complexion,’ you know ; besides, even if it doesn’t answer, we adventures m wallypugland. can turn it into something else, boot polish or hair wash, you know.” and so seeing them so busily and enthusias- tically engaged in the business of drawing up the prospectus, we said good-night and retired to our pooids. chapter xvi. “ au revoir.” the next morning all was excitement at the palace. the news of our return had spread abroad, and in the morning copy of the daily whyer, which his majesty found on the breakfast-table when we went down, a full and, i must say, sur- prisingly accurate account of the interview ap- peared, together with the information that his majesty would attend parliament in state in the afternoon, and that an address from the throne would be read, in which certain changes in the government would be suggested. there was also a paragraph about a. fish, esquire’s, lecture upon the “unreasonableness of misunderstand- adventures in wallypugland. ability,” which the editor advised everybody to try and hear. his majesty was in quite a fluster, and we spent several hours in preparing an elaborate written speech which he was to read out in the afternoon ; and then, having settled this and other matters to our satisfaction, we took kis-smee out for a little walk just before luncheon. one of the first persons we met was the croco- dile at the lodge. \he looked once or twice at his majesty, as if in doubt, and then at kis-smee. on seeing the latter his eyes sparkled, and he came up and spoke at once. “ hullo, wallypug !” he began unceremoni- ously. i his majesty bowed, alittle distantly i thought. “ what a fine fat dog ! ” exclaimed the croc- odile, pointing to kis-smee. “is he for sale ? ” “ certainly not,” said the wallypug. the crocodile sighed. “ just my luck,” he “au revoir." remarked, “i love dogs and i should so enjoy taking this one home to tea with me. perhaps you will let him visit me sometimes. what’s his name ?” “on! really, wallypug, this is so sunnmn.” “ kis-smee,” said his majesty. “ oh ! really wallypug, this is so sudden,” said the crocodile, smirking, “ i’d no idea you were so affectionate. i’m so bashful, too. i couldn’t really think of kissing you in public.” adventures in wallypugland. “ n o, no ! ” explained his majesty hastily—~ “ kis-smee is the dog’s name ; you asked me what his name was, you know.” “ oh !” said the crocodile, looking greatly dis- appointed. “ i misunderstood you. very sorry, i’m sure. well, what are you going to do now? ” his majesty told him of the meeting in the afternoon, and the crocodile promised to come. “ that is,” he added, “if i may bring my in- valid with me.” _ “ who is that ?” asked the wallypug. “ oh! a very feeble old joke i’ve got staying with me,” said the crocodile. “ i could bring him in the perambulator, you know—the one i used to wheel the weak cup of tea about in—he’s such a nice old man.” “ what is he, did you say ?” asked his majesty. “ an old joke,” repeated the crocodile, “ his name is joe miller, and he eats nothing but chest- nuts, and even they have to be very ancient be- “au revoir." , i fore he can digest them. oh ! he’s a character, ‘i can tell you. make you die of laughing the first time you meet him; but as he always says the same thing over and over again—for hours and hours, he is rather trying at times. however, i will bring him along, and you can judge for your- self.” we left the crocodile then and went back to luncheon—_after which we set out for the house of words. we found that quite a lot of creatures were waiting in the lobby for the doors to open. there was the doctor-in-law, telling a funny story to the pig, for which he afterwards made a charge of one pound nineteen and elevenpence, describing it as professional attendance—and wording the bill as follows : to one pig, one guinea (guinea-pig), . £ “ laugh and grow fat,” one joke, o £ adventures in wallypugland. and to the mole, who happened to overhear the joke, he made another charge ; but the mole got out of paying for it on the plea that he couldn’t see it; but whether he meant the bill or the joke i could never find out, moles are notoriously blind. oom-hi was there and the turtle too, and a. fish, esq. , listened, open-mouthed, while they dis- cussed the state of afiairs. the cockatoo, irrepressible as ever, held forth on the subject of socialism to an interested audi- ence, consisting of the crocodile and the rabbit. while the crow filled in a few spare moments by interviewing the pelican. the creatures stood aside very politely to allow his majesty and my- self to enter, kis-smee growling ominously at the cockatoo, who screamed, “ down with domestic animals,” as he passed. this remark of hers gave offense to the pig also, who demanded to know if she was referring to him. \\ oom-hi was there and the turtle too, and a. fish, esq., listened, open-mouthed, while they discussed the state of af- fairs.—page . wa" lp" l< "d- “au revoir.” “ of course not,” replied the cockatoo ; “ you’re not a domestic animal, are you ?” “ sure an i am that same in me own counthry,” said the pig, who was evidently of irish descent. “ och down with the dirthy landlords thin,” screamed the cockatoo, which caused the pig to laugh and put him in a good temper again. “ i couldn’t bring the old joke along after all,” whispered the crocodile to me, as we squeezed through the door ; “ he is more feeble than ever.” “ how’s kis-smee ? ” “ quite well, i think, thank you,” i replied. “ isn’t he delightfully fat,” whispered the croc- odile, smacking his lips. “ about three nice large mouthfuls, i should say,” he concluded mysteriously, winking one eye at me. i haven’t the remotest idea what he meant, and besides i hadn’t time to think about it then, for the meeting was about to commence. - we all found seats, and a. fish, esq., being is adventures in wallypugland. called upon to open the proceedings, he commenced his learned treatise upon the “ unreasonableness of misunderstandability.” what it was all about i haven’t the remotest idea, for what with his extraordinary way of talk- ing, and the continual interruptions of the ani- mals, who would keep shouting, “ hear ! hear !” “ question !” “ withdraw l” “ order ! order! ” etc., at all kinds of odd moments, i could not hear a word that was being said. moreover, the hall was unaccountably hot and stufly, and for some time i had the greatest difficulty in keeping awake; and at last my head sank down and i dozed off, awaking at intervals when the cocka- too was unusually energetic ; but at last even her voice was silenced, and i remember no more till i awoke with a start, and found myself, to my great dismay, back again in my own study in london. . i have addressed several letters to “ his maj- “ au revoir.” esty the wallypug, the royal palace, why,” as i am very anxious to know how affairs are going on there ; but i am sorry to say they have always been returned through the post, marked in blue pencil, “not known. insufiicient address.” the blue dwarfs : an adventure in thuringen. “ and then on the top of the caldon low there was no one left but me.” l mary howitt. “ i liked the blue dwarfs the best—far, far the best of anything,” said olive. “ ‘ the blue dwarfs! ”’ repeated rex. “what do you mean ? why can’t you say what you mean plainly ? girls have such a stupid way of talking ! ” “ what can be plainer than the blue dwarfs . ” said olive rather snappishly, though, it must be allowed, with some reason. “we were talking about the things we liked best at the china place. the blue dwarfs. about. do you know, i think it’s a little, just a very little frightening? don’t you, olive ?” “ no, of course i don’t,” said olive, and, to do her justice, her rather sharp answer was meant as much to reassure her little brother as to ex- press any feeling of impatience. rex was quite a little fellow, only eight, and olive, who was nearly twelve, remembered that when she was as little as that, she used sometimes to feel fright- ened about things which she now couldn’t see anything the least frightening in. and she re- membered how once or twice some of her big cousins had laughed at her, and amused them- selves by telling her all sorts of nonsense, which still seemed terrible to her when she was alone in her room in the dark at night. “of course there’s nothing frightening in it,” she said. “ it would be rather a funny idea, i think. of course it can’t be, you know, rex. there are no dwarfs, and gnomes, and fairies now.” adventures in wallypugland. ular summer tourists from other countries, who prefer going where they are more sure of finding the comforts and luxuries they are ac- customed to at home. but it was by no means out-of-the-way in the sense of being dull or deserted. it is a very busy part of the world indeed. you would be amazed if i were to tell you some of the beautiful things that are made in these bare homely little german cottages. for all about in the neighborhood there are great manufactories and warehouses for china and glass, and many other things; and some parts of the work are done by the people at home in their own houses. the morning of the day of which i am telling you had been spent by the children and their friends in visiting a very large china manufactory, and their heads were full of the pretty and wonderful things they had seen. and now they were waiting in the best parlor of the village inn while their uncle arranged the blue d\varfs. about a carriage to take them all on to the small town where they were to stay a few days. their aunt was tired, and was resting a little on the sofa, and they had planted themselves on the broad window-sill, and were looking out with amusement at all that passed. “what have you been chattering about all this time?” said their aunt, suddenly looking up. “ i think i must have been asleep a little, but i have heard your voices going on like two birds twittering.” “have we disturbed you, auntie?” asked olive, with concern. ' “oh no, not a bit; but come here and tell me what you have been talking about.” instantly rex’s mind went back to the dwarfs. “ auntie,” he said seriously, “ perhaps you can tell me better than olive can. are there really countries of dwarfs, and are they a kind of fairies, auntie ? ” adventures in wallypugland. sort of a carriage they were to go on in-—u/as it an ox-cart ; oh, mightn’t they for once go in an ox-cart? and might he—oh, might he sit beside the driver in front ? his uncle laughed and replied to his questions, but olive stayed beside the sofa, staring gravely at her aunt. ’ “auntie,” she said, “you’re not in earnest, are you, about there being really a country of dwarfs?” olive was twelve. perhaps you will think her very silly to have imagined for a moment that her aunt’s joke could be anything but a joke, espe- cially as she had been so sensible about not let- ting rex get anything into his head which could frighten him. but i am not sure that she was so very silly after all. she had read in her geog- raphy about the lapps and finns, the tiny little men of the north, whom one might very well describe as dwarfs; there might be dwarfs in the blue dwarfs. q please, uncle, is?!” when her aunt looked up and said lazily—- “ oh, my dear child, do be quiet ! can‘t you go to sleep yourself a little ! we shall have more than enough of the forest before we are out of it ?” which ofiended olive so much that she relapsed into silence. auntie was a truer prophet than she knew; for when they got to the little hamlet in the wood, where they were to rest, something proved to be wrong with one of the horse’s shoes; so wrong, indeed, that after a prolonged examination, at which all the inhabitants turned out to assist, it was decided that the horse must be re-shod before he could go any farther ; and this made it impos- sible for the party who had come in the carriage to go any farther either. for the nearest smithy was two miles off ; the horse must be led there and back by the driver, which would take at least two, if not three, hours. it was now past the blue dwarfs. so the three set off, leaving olive to her own devices. she waited till they were out of sight, then she made her preparations. “ i’d better take my purse,” she said to her- self, “in case i meet the dwarfs. auntie told me to be very polite, and perhaps they would like some of these tiny pieces ; they just look as if they were meant for them.” so she chose out a few one-pfennig copper coins, which are much smaller than our farthings, and one or two silver pieces, worth about twopence-halfpenny each, still smaller. then she put in her pocket half a slice of the brown bread they had had with their cofiee, and arming herself, more for appearance’- sake than anything else, with her parasol and the book she had with her in her traveling bag, she set off on her solitary ramble. it was still hot—though the forest trees made a pleasant shade. olive walked some way, farther and farther, as far as she could make out, into the adventures in wallypugland. heart of the forest, but in her inexperience she took no sort of care to notice the way she went, or to make for herself any kind of landmarks. she just wandered on and on, tempted first by some mysterious little path, and then by another, her mind full of the idea of the discoveries she was perhaps about to make. now and then a squirrel darted across from one tree to another, disappear- ing among the branches almost before olive could be sure she had seen it, or some wild wood birds, less familiar to the little foreigner, would startle her with a shrill, strange note. there were here and there lovely flowers growing among the moss, and more than once she heard the sound of not far off trickling water. it was all strangely beautiful, and she would greatly have enjoyed and admired it had not her mind been so full of the queer fascinating idea of the blue dwarfs. at last—she had wandered about for some time—-olive began to feel tired. the blue dwarfs. “l may as well sit down a little,” she thought ; “ i have lots of time to get back. this seems the very heart of the forest. they are just as likely to be seen here as anywhere else.” so olive ensconced herself in a comfortable corner, her back against the root of a tree, which seemed hollowed out on purpose to serve as an armchair. she thought at first she would read a little, but the light was already slightly wan- ing, and the tree shadows made it still fainter. besides, olive had plenty to think of—she did not require any amusement. queer little noises now and then made themselves heard—once or twice it really sounded as if small feet were pat- tering along, or as if shrill little voices were laugh- ing in the distance ; and with each sound, olive’s heart beat faster with excitement—not with fear. “ if i sit very still,” she thought, “ who knows what i may see? of course, it would be much adventures in wallypugland. nicer and prettier if the dwarfs were quite tiny— not like the little man we saw in the street at that place—i forget the name—for he was not pretty at all-—but like the blue dwarfs at the manufac- tory. but that, i suppose, is impossible, for they wouldbe really like fairies. but they might be something between : not so big as the little man, and yet bigger than the blue dwarfs.” and then olive grew a little confused in trying to settle in her mind how big, or how small rather, it was possible or impossible for a nation of dwarfs to be. she thought it over till she hardly seemed sure what she was trying to decide. she kept saying to herself, “any way, they could not but be a good deal bigger than my thumb! what does that mean? perhaps it means more in ger- man measures than in english, perhaps?" but what was that that suddenly hit her on the nose! olive looked up, a very little inclined to be ofiended; it is not a pleasant thing to be hit the blue dwarfs. , olive sat still and looked at them. somehow she did not feel surprised. “how big are they ?” she said to herself. “ bigger than my thumb ? oh yes, a good deal. i should think they are about "as tall as my arm would be if it was standing on the ground. i should think they would come up above my knee. i should like to stand up and measure, but per- haps it is better for me not to speak to them till they speak to me.” she had not long to wait. in another moment two little blue figures separated themselves from the crowd, and made their way up to her. but when they were close to her feet they igave a sud- den jump in the air, and came down, not on their feet, but on their heads ! and then again some of her aunt’s words came back to her, “if they should ask you to stand on your head, for in- stance.” “ dear me,” thought olive, “ how did auntie adventures in wallypugland. _ know so much about them? but i do hope they won’t ask me to stand on my head.” her fears were somewhat relieved when the dwarfs gave another spring and came down this time in a respectable manner on their feet. then, with a good many bows and flourishes, they began a speech. i “we are afraid,” said the first. “ that the fir-cones,” said the second. “ were rather underdone,” finished up the first. olive really did not know what to say. she was dreadfully afraid that it would seem so very rude of her not even to have tasted the cones. but naturally she had not had the slightest idea that they had been intended for her to eat. “i am very sorry,” she said, “mni, sir ! my lord! i beg your pardon. i don’t quite know what i should call you.” the blue dwarfs. to come very much if it isn’t too far ; but i am afraid i couldn’t eat any supper. indeed, i’m not hungry.” and then a bright thought struck her. “ see here,” she went on, drawing the half slice of bread out of her pocket, “i had to put this in my pocket, for i couldn’t finish it at our afternoon coffee.” the two dwarfs came close and examined the piece of bread with the greatest attention. they pinched and smelt it, and one of them put out his queer little pointed tongue and licked it. “ not good ! ” he said, looking up at olive and rolling about his eyes in a very queer way. “i don’t know,” said olive; “i don’t think it can be bad. ‘it is the regular bread of the country. i should have thought you would be accustomed to it, as you live here.” the two dwarfs took no notice of what she said, but suddenly turned round, and standing with their backs to olive called out shrilly, the blue dwarfs. seemed to put itself on, and olive felt very happy and triumphant as she said to herself, “now i’m really going to have some adventures.” the dwarfs marched—no! one cannot call it marching, for they had about a dozen different ways of proceeding~they moved on, and olive in the middle, her blue cloak floating majesti- cally on her shoulders. no one spoke a word. it grew darker and darker among the trees, but olive did not feel frightened. on they went, till at last she saw twinkling before them a very small but bright blue light. it looked scarcely larger than the lamp of a glow-worm, but it shone out very distinct in the darkness. immedi- ately they saw it the dwarfs set up a shout, and as it died away, to olive’s surprise, they began to sing. and what do you think they sang? olive at first could hardly believe her ears as they listened to the thoroughly english song of “ home, sweet home.” and the queerest thing adventures in wallypugland. was that they sang it very prettily, and that it sounded exactly like her aunt’s voice ! and though they were walking close beside her, their voices when they left ofii' singing did not so much seem to stop as to move off, to die away into the distance, which struck olive as very odd. they had now arrived at the trunk of a large tree, half way up which hung the little lamp—at least olive supposed it must be a lamp—from which came the bright blue light. “ here we are,” said one of the dwarfs, she did not see which, “ at the entrance to our village.” and thereupon all the dwarfs began climbing up the tree, swarming about it like a hive of bees, till they got some way up, when one after an- other they suddenly disappeared. olive could see all they did by the blue light. she was be- ginning to wonder if she would be left standing there alone, when a shout made her look up, and she saw two dwarfs standing ii a branch hold- the blue dwarfs. that she was to walk up the village street to see all there was to be seen. so on she marched, her blue cloak floating about her, so that sometimes it reached the roofs of the houses on each side at the same time. olive felt herself rather clumsy. her feet, which in general she was accustomed to consider rather neat, and by no means too large for her age, seemed such great awkward things. if she had put one of them in at the window of a dwarf house, it would have knocked everything out of its place. _ , “ dear me ! ” thought olive, “ i had no idea i could seem clumsy l i feel like a great plowman. i wish i were not so big.” “ yes,” said a voice beside her, “ it has its dis- advantages ;” and olive, looking down to see who spoke—she had to look down for everything ~—caught sight of one of the two dwarfs with whom she had first spoken. she felt a little the blue dwarfs. “i did not know i was so hungry,” thought olive ; “ but i do hope it isn’t fir-cones.” “yes,” said the dwarf ; “ they’ll be better done this time.” then he gave a sort of sharp, sudden cry or whistle, and immediately all the dwarfs of the village appeared as if by magic, and began hurrying into the house, but as soon as they were in the middle of the passage they fell back at each side, leaving a clear space in the middle. “for you,” said the first dwarf, bowing po- litely. “do you always have supper here altogether like that ? ” said olive. “ how funny l ” “not at all,” said the dwarf; “it’s a table d’hote. be so good as to take your place.” olive bent her head cautiously in preparation for passing through the door, when again the same. sharp cry startled her, and lifting her head the blue dwarfs. could feel sure of, and after two or three more vain efforts olive fairly gave up, and, sinking down on the ground, again burst into tears. “ if i but had a mariner’s compass,” she thought, her fancy wandering ofi to all the stories of lost people she had ever heard of. then she further reflected that a compass would do her very little good if it was too dark to see it, and still more as she had not the slightest idea whether her road lay north, south, east, or west. “if the stars were out !” was her next idea ; but then, i am ashamed to say, olive’s ideas of astronomy were limited. she courd have perhaps recognized the plow and the pole star, but she could not remember which way they pointed. besides, she did not feel quite sure that in thii- ringen one would see the same stars as in england or paris; and, after all, as there were none vis- ible, it was no good puzzling about it, only if they h-ad been there it would not have seemed so i the blue dwarfs. words “verirrt,” “ armes kind,” which she knew meant “ lost ” and “ poor child.” then he went on to tell that he too was on his way from the same village to somewhere ; that he came by the woods, because it was shorter, and lifting high his lan- tern, gave olive to understand that he could now show her the way. so off she set under his guidance, and, only fancy ! a walk of not more than ten minutes brought them to the little inn ! olive’s wander- ings and straying had, after all, drawn her very near her friends if she had known it. poor auntie and rex were running about in front of the house in great distress. uncle and the land- lord and the coachman had set off with lanterns, and the landlady was trying to persuade auntie that there was not really anything to be afraid of ; neither bears, nor wolves, nor evilly-disposed people about: the little young lady had, doubt- less, fallen asleep in the wood with the heat and q adventures in wallypugland. fatigue of the day ; which, as you know, was a very good guess, though the landlady little im- agined what queer places and people olive had been visiting in her sleep. -i the dwarf was a well-known person there- abouts, and a very harmless, kindly little man. a present of a couple of marks sent him off to his cottage near by very happy indeed, and when uncle returned a few minutes later to see if the wanderer had been heard of, you can imagine how thankful he was to find her. it was not so very late after all, not above half-past ten o’clock, but a thunderstorm which came on not long after explained the unusual darkness of the cloud- covered sky. “ what a good thing you were safe before the storm came on ! ” said auntie, with a shudder at the thought of the dangers her darling had es- caped. “ i will take care never again to carry my jokes too far,” she resolved, when olive had a. l. burt"s books rob yotmo i=-sorts. books for girls. sue and i. by mas. o’re lly. mo, cloth, illus- trated. price cents. “a thoroughly delightful book. lull of sound wisdom s_ well as tun."— athonizum. the princess and the goblin. a fairy story. by gsoiws macdunald. mo. cloth, iilusu-and, price i cents. "if n child once begins this book, it will get so deeply interested in lf. that when bedtime comes it will altogether forget the moral, and will weary its purvnts with iniportunitics for just a few minutes more to how everything euds."—§aturday review. pythia’s pupils: a story of a school. by evil hartner. nio, cloth. illustrated, price $ . . “this story of the doings of several bright school girls is sure to lnteresi girl readers. among many good stories ior girls this is undoubtedly one of the very best."—tsaohers' aid a story of a short life. by j uliana hormrm ewing. mo. cloth, illustrated, price $ . . “the book is one we can heartily recommend, (or it is not only bright and interesting, hut also pure and healthy in tone and teaching.’- ‘curler. the sleepy king. a fairy tale. by aubrey hor- wood and sti:yllour hicks. ln , cloth, illustrated, price tents. “wonderful as the adventures of bluebell are. it must be admitted that they are very naturally worked out and very piuusiblg presented. altogether this is fin excellent story for girls."—snturdsy enew. two little waifs. by mrs. molesworth. mo, cloth, illustrated, price cents. “mrs. l\i l(‘s\'ur!h' delightful story of ‘two little wall's‘ will charm all the small people who rind it in their stockings. it relates the ad- ventures oi.’ t\o lovable english children lost in paris, and is just wonder- ful enough to pleasantly wring the youthful heart."—new york tribune. adventures in toyland. by edith king hall. mo, cloth, illustrated, price cents. "the author is such a bright, cheery writer. that her stories are always acceptubie to all who are not confirmed cynics. and her record of the adventures is as entertaining and enjoyable as ne might expect."— boston courier. adventures in wallypug land. by g. e. farrow. mo, cloth, illustrated, pricv t cents. “these adventures are simply inimitable, and will delight boys and girls ot mature age, as well as their juniors. no happier combination of author and artist than this volume presents could be found to furnish healthy amusement to the young folks. the book is an artistic one in every sense."-—to -onto mail. fussbudget’s folks. a story for young girls. by anna f. burmnuu. mo. cloth, illustrated. price $ . . 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" for sale by all booksellers, or sent stpaid on recei t of price by tho publisher, a. l. burt, - duane gotten, new yo:-r. w-fl_ ”_._ _(| q,-_k_.'. - v l _ _~ "p" ”"_‘—""-i"" "”‘ - i " ‘_ ” " ”* ' ”” _.t‘"” ‘ jpn .f'arr‘éa his lfarr w, g. e. (george §edward), d. \ adventures in wallypuq—land t i i \ l‘ l-__—--z l ”-_€—~— —-i———' — --“i” s / i ‘h- h i 'é - m)’ k w» donated by the grand rapzds publzc lrbrary the may g quzgley collectwn of chzldren s lzterature december the uruvemxty of mlchlgan-dearbom mardlglan llbrary onmn fmav puns »j edith ogden harrison author of princz jilverwinqj ’h) fi| illustration: in color g’ otberbrawmy-i lucy rn- » perhm chicago ac mkzlurg k co mcmiii c'opyr{§ ]zt by a.c.m¥ cl urg ’co. i pufilirfied uctober , the university press cambridge u-b.a. illus]"nat on§ “none of my jewels are like the fairy’s” frontispiece ' she was called the love- liest princess in the world . . . . . . nerida had never been lovelier than in her bridal robes . . . . the princess fled from the evil woma.n’s temptations . . . . the whole court waited, in amusement, the promised sign . . . the child grew in beauty and wisdom . . . . pagi i | , _;-{——- ? i \ ~ fi z ‘\ o» ll the star fairies he star fairies live in those jewelled homes we i see twinkling in the sky every night, shining out like diamonds. no mortal could dwell in them, for their blaze of light is so dazzling it would blind and kill us at once. but the earth is so far away that simply their sparkle reaches us, and does not even frighten us but only makes us wonder at their great beauty. the star fairies are very busy, for they have many things to do to help make all the pretty things there [ ] the star fairies are in our own world. they mix the bright colors and paint all the beautiful flowers around us. the lovely pink roses you see would never be so beautiful if they were painted by mortal hand. think of all the work there must be in painting even one flower, and then think of all the flowers in the world. it must keep thousands of fairies busy all the time. and how hard it must be to choose the colors—yellow for the butter— cups, blue for the violets, purple for the pansies. do you think any mortal could ever get the perfect tints the fairies do‘! when they selected green for the trees and the grass they picked out the very nicest color that could be thought of to make the forests and fields so cool and pleasant. they also paint the stripes in the rainbow, and they love that work, for those delicate colors are their especial delight. and they also stain the sky that rich deep blue we see in the big ceiling overhead. but besides all these duties, they have another much more important than any i have yet told you about, and compared to it the painting of the flowers and the grass and the rainbow and the sky seems a very small duty indeed. their real work is the care of the little children in the world. as soon as a child is born it is given a [ ] figs? i‘-" i-f""""j ‘- ! a’lt~a d\./l/\l\av~/l\( .a<./ /i .nv~ % “- % 'y_, ml) h/if $ . ... ,g,;,.,.;§_$r‘ x ""“‘ a u¢» l. q‘ nr\q§§ \§~‘ % she was called the loveliest princess in the world. (page — - ‘~ ‘ .g.-_- _..¢‘ _ the star fairies star fairy to guide and to watch over it through life, and a new star is hung up in the sky to show how pleased the queen of the star fairies is to welcome it. do you know the easiest way to lear n the number of children born into the world’! choose some fine clear night and then count the stars overhead. if you succeed in doing this, you will easily learn the exact number of little ones in the world. well, once upon a time in a beautiful kingdom upon the earth there dwelt a king and a queen who had one lovely girl baby. she grew up to be a beautiful young maiden, and her hair was as black as night, while her skin was as white as milk. her cheeks were pink as the lining of a seashell, and her lips were like cherries. she was called the loveliest princess in the world. now a young prince in the fairy star realm had been given charge of this girl baby when she was born, and as she grew up he had carefully guarded and protected her. as he watched her become daily more beautiful, it is not to be wondered at that when she was grown to be a young woman he had fallen in love with her. but every one knows a fairy cannot wed a mortal, at any rate our fairy had never before heard of such a thing. [ l the star fairies her silken tresses were more to him than all the jewels of fairyland, and he would not listen. at last the queen sadly admitted there was a way for him to marry his earth maiden. she had the power to make him a mortal, but only for a short while, and for every year of happiness. spent upon the earth as a mortal, he must serve in fairyland one hundred years of bondage. ten years meant one thousand of bondage, and twenty years of earthly joy was the most she had the power to grant. the fairy prince turned pale when he heard the great test his love would be given, but he never hesi- tated, and bravely answered. “ give me but the earth maiden for my bride,” he said, “and for that happiness i am willing to suffer anything. but whatever form my penalty takes, o queen, grant me my last request as a star fairy. in serving these long, long years of bondage leave me still my wings! d not take away from me those signs of my royal blood, and when i am again changed from a mortal to my fairy form restore to me at least my wings.” the queen granted the request, and then giving him [ l the star fairies her hand to kiss, she told him he could come upon the earth and reign as king for twenty years. full of joy he thanked her and prepared to return at once to the earth. thousands of star fairies determined to go with him, and give him a brilliant journey. sail- ing through the sky, their thousands of flashing wings made a wonderful glow in the heavens, and then ap- peared for the first time those strange northern lights, which the wise men have so often since talked about and wondered over. for, as they flew, their long shin- ing skirts trailed behind them, and floating mysteriously through the sky, great streamers of light were seen. sometimes they shot up in a pure white and silver light, then they changed to a pale pink or orange, then died away to a delicate green. it was the flowing garments of the fairies, long and cloud-like, and their brilliant jewels and necklaces with their golden wands that lit up the heavens. they were doing honor and bidding good-bye to their beloved brother. the queen had given the star fairy the form of a very handsome young man and she had provided a rich and powerful kingdom for him to rule over, so that he had no trouble in meeting his earth maiden and declaring his [ ] the star fairies love for her. when the father of the maiden saw a powerful and wealthy young king come to woo his daughter, he did not object to the marriage, and as for the princess, when she heard the handsome young man say how much he loved her, she quickly fell in love with him. so the marriage was celebrated with great splendor, and the northern lights again appeared in the heavens. the young king and his beautiful queen_ lived most happily and ruled their kingdom most wisely for many years. the star fairy was happier than he ever dreamed of being, for he found his earth maiden more precious to him every day. in spite of all his happiness, however, the fairy suffered pain in the thought that each day brought him closer to separation from. those he loved so dearly. the time must come, sooner or later, when he would have to leave his wife and children, and return to the star land, and the pain in his heart grew with each year that passed. at last the twenty years had nearly gone, and as his wife had noticed for a long time his increasing sadness she decided to ask him the cause. of late, too, those wonderful shifting curtains of light in the north had appeared more [ ] the star fairies often and more brightly, and after each of these appear- ances, her husband had seemed more unhappy. what could it mean’! .one evening while they sat together watching those beautiful signals she questioned him, and he opened his heart and told her his secret, concealing nothing from her. she was of course very much surprised to learn he was a star fairy, but her only thought was how dreadful it would be to have to lose him, for she loved him dearly, and she begged him to persuade his fairy queen to let them be together in his exile. he kissed her tenderly and promised to do as she wished, and the days went by, and at last his summons came. it was a clear and lovely evening. a slim crescent of the moon hung over the earth and the heavens were studded with the jewelled homes of the fairies. never had they shone so brilliantly. they looked like fire, and their long rays darting down glowed like streams of light on the water. the star fairy and his wife sat together watching the night, and it seemed to them they heard soft music, but it was only the beating of the waves on the white sand. at last in the far distance they saw a faint light [ ] the star fairies shimmer and fade away again. the queen crept closer to her husband’s arms, for she knew the light was the fluttering wing of a star fairy. perhaps it was a signal. stronger and nearer came the lights, and presently they saw amid all this splendor of opal and red and silver the fairy queen herself. her gown was silver and gold, and on her forehead glittered one beautiful flashing star. she had softened her brilliancy a little to suit mortal eyes, and she was seated in a lovely rose upheld by butterflies. “ the desire of your heart shall be granted, unselfish soul,” she said to the queen, “ and if you have the cour- age to share your husband’s days of bondage your love will give him an immortal soul. a mortal can never become a star fairy, but it is possible by some great sac- rifice on the part of a mortal to provide a star fairy with a soul. but for two thousand years you must both wander upon the earth in the form i shall provide. after that, if your courage does not fail, you will again have your beautiful bodies and live together with immortal souls in a star palace of your own choosing.” thus saying, the fairy queen was slowly borne away in her rose car by the butterflies, and in a few moments she had disappeared in the fleecy clouds. looking down, i ] ks‘ the gift of the birds; or, the treasure of the south own at the plantation house where the broad d galleries were supported by large red brick pillars, the green window-shutters of a front room on the second floor were flung wide open, for in the room lay a little girl getting well. she was only six years old and she had been very ill; but now the gloomy days had passed, and, except that she was as white as the big magnolia-blossoms on the trees, she was beginning to be herself again. [ ] the gift of the birds gazed steadily back with its tiny bright eyes at zeline. it was about eight inches long, and its tail, which it kept wriggling all the time, had black markings on it, while its body changed its colors from brown to green in various shades every few minutes. zeline lay very quiet watching it, and finally, losing its fear of her, the beauti- ful little creature came closer, and at last ran across her hand. day by day the lizard returned to watch zeline among her pillows, but it would dart away swiftly at the least movement of the child or any sudden noise in the house. zeline was fascinated with her new pet and could talk of nothing else. it helped her to pass away the time, and it became so tame that it ate from her hand. one warm, balmy day, as the little girl was watching it blink its eyes and change its colors, she said: “oh, you wise-eyed lizard, if you could only talk to me! ” “ but i can,” promptly replied the lizard. “ good gracious! ” said the little girl, “ can you really talk ‘q ” “ certainly,” the lizard replied. “ i came especially to talk to you, but you never gave me a chance.” [ ] the gift of the birds and was lying alone, covered up with brown leaves, but it was not afraid and was cooing with delight when dis- covered. as there was no one to claim it, the birds de- cided to adopt it for their own. “the little thing soon grew up to be a lovely child, and became the delight of her adopted parents. they built her a beautiful home of jasmine hedges and covered it with leaves. they taught her to sing exquisite melo- dies, and she lived a gay, light-hearted creature. her food was the delicious berries she found in the forest, and her drink the crystal streams that bubbled through them. all day she roamed the woods, but there was not an animal or a creature in the broad forest that did not love the pretty nymph child nerida, so she went and came unharmed. “ free to enjoy herself as she pleased, there was only one thing she was forbidden to do : she could never enter the marsh nor tread its enticing-looking ground. for its soft green grass and its attractive flowers concealed dread- ful terrors. an old witch lived there with an ugly alli- gator for her son, and this horrible son demanded human beings for his food. the birds feared that nerida’s beauty might make him want to devour her also. s [ ] the gift of the birds “ the witch adored her ugly son, and near the lagoon in which he lived she had made her dwelling. this she did by turning the land into a marsh; that is, she filled the ground with reeds and rushes and soft grass, making it look like land, and then soaked it through and through with water, so that the beautiful earth one saw was really not earth at all, but only a deadly quagmire. “if one stepped out of the little pirogue or'canoe floating on the bayou and tried to gather the beautiful tiger-lilies or purple passion-flowers that grew every- where about, he was never seen again. the moment he put his foot on the marsh he sank rapidly to his knees, and in spite of all his efforts to save himself, was drawn down lower and lower into the mud. the old witch had him in her clutches and would never release him. only his little pirogue was left floating down the bayou to tell his sad fate. “ every one, therefore, was warned against the deadly dangers of the marsh-lands. the birds could venture there because their wings protected them, and if they stopped to drink or rest, they flew lightly away again unhurt. the witch hated them because they were beau- tiful and innocent, but she had no power over them, — [ ] the gift of the birds she could harm nothing that could fly. so also with the butterflies who came to sip the sweetness from the flowers. “years went by and the wood nymph had grown into a charming maiden. her long hair fell to her knees, and her bright eyes sparkled like dew-drops. her pretty teeth gleamed between her red lips when she laughed, and she laughed long and merrily because everything was bright and beautiful in the woods. the birds were anxious, however, to see her well married, and in their long journey northward they looked eagerly for a suita- ble husband. but nerida was not in a hurry, for she loved her foster parents and her companions in the wood. she loved the squirrels, and the red-throated lizards were her delight, but she loved her liberty best of all, and she would sit for hours on the banks of the sunny bayou twining leaves in her hair and singing her pretty songs. “ one day a river god was swimming in the river, and hearing the singing he stopped to listen. he thought he had never seen anything more beautiful than nerida, or heard more bewitching music than her songs. so day after day he returned to see and talk to her, and when [ ] the gift of the birds the birds returned from their long pilgrimage they found nerida deeply in love with the handsome stranger. “ when they found their beloved adopted daughter was so happy, the birds gladly gave their consent to the marriage, and wedding preparations were at once begun. the birds desired nerida to weave her own wedding-veil, and they told her of a wonderful material they had seen in the east. so away they flew to the land of araby, promising to return soon with the softest and lightest stuff in the world to weave for the bridal finery. “the wood nymph and her lover were happy and contented, and were quite willing to await the birds’ re- turn. nerida always met her lover on the banks of the bayou, and there, singing and twining garlands of leaves, they passed many happy hours together. “ one beautiful warm afternoon, as some lovely clouds were floating lazily across the blue sky, she ran down to meet him. not a breath was stirring, for the day was soft and mild, and the unrufiled waters of the bayou re- flected long yellow beams, and golden lights quivered far down in their shining depths. suddenly a school of tiny fish jumped up, showing their bright colors and markings of green, while the water fell from them in "-i f [ the gift of the birds glittering showers, but save for this sudden disturbance everything around was perfectly quiet. “ the little maid was too early for the meeting hour, so she sat and amused herself watching all the beautiful things about her. how lovely the marsh was, with its tints softened by a tender haze and its reeds and rushes scarcely moving! there was a dreamy stillness every- where, and the flowers were never more tempting. “ a big star-eyed passion-flower growing close along the border of the stream was most enticing. it grew so near, nerida thought that once across the bayou she could pick it without an effort. and surely that was not marsh ground it grew upon, for the grass looked firm and strong beneath it. the great purple flower with its delicate, white-crowned centre smiled across at her bewitchingly. how lovely it would look in her hair when she greeted her lover! “ another moment and the imprudent little nymph had plunged boldly into the water and crossed the stream. soon she stood upon the spot, and the splendid flower was already in her hand, when suddenly, without warn- ing, the ground gave way beneath her feet. in an instant she realized her peril, and screamed aloud in fear. alas! [ ] the gift of the birds __. ——~ -- ;_ ——_. __ - in the midst of the warm sunshine and breathing the sweet perfume of the acacias, and i suddenly darted away like lightning to find you. and here i am,” added the lizard, “ will you help us‘l” “but how can i?” asked zeline, big-eyed and wondering. “ easily! ask your father to drain the marsh, and that will drive the old witch away. she cannot live without water, and then we can rescue nerida and her handsome lover, and we shall all be happy again. you must hurry, though,” he continued, “for if you will watch to-night you will see how much in earnest the old witch is that her ugly son’s marriage to our little nerida shall soon take place. she lights her lamps early, and she keeps her frog slaves working all night preparing for the wedding feast.” so that evening zeline begged her father to drain the marsh, and he, amused at her anxiety, told her she was a most wise little girl, for he had been thinking of doing just that thing for many a day. then she showed him through the window the mysterious lights, flitting back and forth through a pearly mist lying low over the reeds and rushes ; for every night the witch spread this white [ ] the gift of the birds for the feast, and an orchestra of mocking-birds sang the wedding march, while all the inhabitants of the woods offered marriage gifts to the bride and groom. nerida had never been lovelier than in her bridal robes. a beautiful dress made from the softest thistle-down en- veloped her form. she wore magnificent pearls which her lover brought her from the blue depths of the gulf, but on her head she put only a crown of green leaves, for the soft material which the birds had brought from araby for the wedding veil, she gave in her gratitude to zeline, who had. done so much for her happiness. the witch’s power was utterly destroyed, and she was compelled, in punishment for the evil she had done and the many lives she had sacrificed, to weave an endless shroud and hang it upon the trees. that shroud is the beautiful gray moss you see hanging in graceful drapery from the live oaks. the alligator was left in the lagoon, but was forbidden ever to enter the salt waters of the gulf again. he was to be hated for his cruelty by all good fishes, and must avoid their haunts forever under pain of death. then the faithful, happy birds made their present to zeline. each one drew from its breast a single bit of [ ] '“ ——.;:-"i.--i , ya. r ill/li’. i \ / ' i _ / \ l, b if j(lfv/* i /v i/w / vi‘! le:y.@.pcrxna§ - e -->~\‘t< l_ ‘ ‘>""si" ‘ . :. . __ \ -_ s\ y““’“'r ii ¢.i tr he b 'lal robes. (p ge ) nerida had never been lonelier {ban in r ' _lz- q ll “i-—i -- —-- ~* ;—=-? i u _ v _ e .. . _ _ \ - - - _ _— — ‘ —_ — ~——- . — — is __—. - ¢- the land of the polar star and never move it from the spot where the fairy king should place it. now this city was filled with splendid palaces, built of solid gold and silver, and studded with many rare and precious stones. in the handsomest and costliest of all these buildings was placed the great treasure. all day long its jewelled rays shone out, so that no matter where the fairies might be, they had no difliculty in returning. but at night, when all its glowing light was thrown up into the sky, to guide the sailors and save them from shipwreck, they could not always tell the spot, for there were millions of stars in the heavens and they were all so much alike. then the fairy king gave them a sure guide : one night, as darkness fell upon the earth, there crept up over the hills seven brilliant little stars all a-glitter with fire and silver, and two of them pointed toward another tiny sparkling one hanging exactly over the palace treasury. this star has ever since stood like a sentinel in the heavens, shedding its dazzling rays directly down upon the palace containing the priceless stone, and showing the way home to every little wander- ing fairy. f or a long time the people of the earth were faithful [ l the land of the polar star the shining gem, and the temptation was too great—she stretched out her hand and grasped it. but just as she lifted it, a terrible noise like thunder broke upon her, and the palace shook like a leaf. in her fright she dropped the jewel, and it rolled away upon the roof, and was no longer directly in the north. the terrible noise awakened the city, and in a few moments the streets were filled with people. in their midst appeared the fairy king, and at sight of him the frightened queen clung to her husband for protection. stern and angry, the fairy king spoke: “ see how you have valued the mark of my especial favor! this jewel is contentment; but never again shall you enjoy it upon the earth, because you have broken your promise. you shall be banished from this glorious land where i shall hide it, but always and forever you shall long for it and seek it. that shall be your punishment.” then a beautiful yoimg fairy in a dress made of silver and sunshine, sparkling like dew on the roses, ran forward and threw herself at the fairy king’s feet. “ oh, your majesty,” she implored, “ be not too hasty in your dreadful decision. the people of the earth are ignorant of the great value and blessing of this jewel. [ l the land of the polar star true, they have been ungrateful, but do not on that account condemn them forever to lose it. no matter how severe your sentence may be, let them at least have the hope of redeeming the jewel some day.” the king looked down tenderly upon the fairy, for she was his own daughter and favorite child, and gradually the frown disappeared from his forehead. “you are soon to be married, my child,” he said. “ i will give you this precious gem as a wedding present, and you may, if you choose, finally restore it to the un- grateful mortals who have so carelessly lost it. but i make one condition in trusting it to you: you shall not give it to them or let them redeem it for a thousand years! that length of time shall they suffer. in this beautiful spot upon the earth you may live with your husband and ten thousand fairies, and carefully guard your treasure. for should this priceless jewel be taken from you, or you in your tenderness of heart give it back to the mortals before the thousand years shall have expired, i condemn you, with your husband and your followers, to dissolve and fade away into moonshine and mist.” so saying, the king lifted his daughter to his heart i__ _ [ i the land of the polar star and tenderly embraced her. soon afterwards the little princess was married to the handsomest prince in the fairy realm, and with her faithful followers she took charge of the wonderful jewel. but the earth king with his queen and all their sub- jects had been banished, and had gone weeping out of the beautiful country they so loved. the fairy king ordered the fairies to fan the waters of the ocean with their wings, making them colder and colder, until finally they fioze so hard that no mortal could ever cross them. then they wove a most beautiful, wonderful, sparkling mass together, white and soft as thistle down, and called it snow, piling it in glistening heaps around their country. lastly they spun a glittering cur- tain of gossamer web, brilliant as the sun, and hung it around their city, thus blinding any one who saw it except a fairy. thus wrapped in its spotless mantle of snow, fairy- land awaited any invasion of the mortals. many years went by, and the people of the world were discontented and unhappy, for they were always regretting the lost jewel and the wonderful land where it lay hidden. the fairies, however, occasionally came and visited the inno- [ ] the land of the polar star men are blinded with the snow and driven back by the ice barriers, which are the weapons used by the fairies. some day soon, for a thousand years is but a day in fairyland, when mortals least expect it, the tender- hearted fairy princess in robes of shining light, with her husband and their whole court, will pull down those bar- riers of ice and snow. the ice will float away, and the snow will melt, and the beautiful princess will come forth from her wondrous land with the precious jewel, and with generous hands will give it again into the keep- ing of the world. then at last the brilliant jewel will really belong to the people of the earth, and the glorious land wherein it lies will again be opened to the world, yielding its rich beauties to mortal eyes forever. [ ] ¢ i i “/// , i/’ / // , // \ i(“ \>; , / / wry. the forest of rainbow colors ne day a long time ago, the sun-god was sending down upon the earth a bright stream of golden beams, which fell in a flood of glory over a great forest. the light and heat thus given by the sun was being taken up by the leaves and bodies of the trees, for it was this which gave them their strength and enabled them to grow so high. big, towering trees they were, and their long, green branches stretched out in every direction, waving cool shadows which danced along the ground. the forest covered many, many miles, and the giant trees, rearing their heads proudly at the thought of their wide possessions, nodded a friendly good-morning to the glittering sun. [ ] the forest of rainbow colors now the prince had not ridden far when he saw a crowd of people ahead of him hurrying on toward a distant city. on inquiring their destination he was told they were going to attend a grand tournament, where the bravest and most successful knight was to wed the beautiful princess gwendolyn. the princess gwendo- lyn was the only daughter of the king, and was the loveliest maiden the sun ever shone upon. rigel and his followers decided they would ride into the city and see the lady who was so beautiful, and also watch the tournament, where they were told any might enter the lists provided he was a gentleman and a brave knight. they found the tournament was to take place on a large open field near the king’s palace. a low balcony had been built for the princess gwendolyn and her ladies- in-waiting, so arranged that when a suitor entered the lists he could ride up to the princess and salute her. as each knight bowed very low before her, the princess would take a ribbon from one of the ladies-in-waiting and, leaning over, pin her colors on his breast. then the knight would ride slowly away to fight for the hand of the beautiful maiden. prince rigel sat upon his prancing black charger [ ] the forest of rainbow colors pinned it with the ribbon upon his breast. his eyes spoke love though his lips said never a word, and when she had decorated him with her rose and her colors, he stooped and kissed the hand she extended to him, and rode forward to join the other suitors. the tournament came to an end at last. princess gwendolyn’s dainty white hand was fought for long and hard; but one by one the suitors were unhorsed, until finally prince rigel stood alone, victorious! to him belonged the most beautiful princess in the world. had he done right in winning her without telling her his secret’! he hardly knew; but of one thing he was perfectly sure, and that was that he loved the beautiful gwendolyn with his whole heart. approaching her, he bent his knee and asked if he might speak with her for a moment alone. she drew apart from her handmaidens and granted his request. “ ah, charming and adorable princess,” he began, “ i love you more than my life, and if you consent to marry me i shall be the happiest and proudest man in the world. but before you consent to give me your hand, i have a confession to make. though i am a prince of high and royal blood, and therefore your equal in marriage, [ ] the forest of rainbow colors i cannot reveal to you the secret of my birth; and you must promise in accepting me never to open the tiny golden ball i wear about my neck.” so saying, he drew forth the lovely trinket at his throat and showed it to her. “ grave dangers might arise should you seek the knowledge i must withhold,” he continued; “but prom- ising this, o beautiful princess, you will not regret, i am sure, your marriage with me.” the princess gwendolyn looked long into the clear and honest eyes of her lover while he was speaking, and what she saw there must have satisfied her, for she gave him her hand, saying, “ i will promise all you wish.” then prince rigel joyfully took her in his arms and kissed her tenderly. shortly afterwards they were married, and the people said they had never seen a handsomer couple. the prince was well provided with gold and silver, and he built his wife a magnificent palace and furnished it in the richest manner. the palace was on the crest of a hill and commanded a splendid view of the country and valleys for many miles around. far off in the shimmer- ing distance they could see the great forest the sun-god ‘ [ ] the forest of rainbow colors one day as she was returning from the edge of the green woods, she saw the witch of the mountain appear suddenly in her path. the old woman’s home on the mountain-side was called the hill of the wind, for the wind blew and moaned pitifully about it. it was built on a high, narrow wall of rock, and jutted out over an abyss, leaving just the narrowest path to walk on, and even if the witch had been agreeable she would not have had many callers in such a place. but no one ever went to see her. now, gwendolyn was not glad to meet her, for where- ever the mountain witch went she made mischief, and so the princess tried to pass her with a simple “ good- morning.” but the witch was smiling a mocking smile, and stopped her saying, “ why worry your heart out, my pretty lady, about a man who loves his secret better than his wife ‘q ” “what do you mean “i” asked the princess indignantly. “ all day while you pine and fret,” replied the old witch, “ he carries out his plans, nor does he think of you a single moment.” the poor princess looked very unhappy at these words, but she would not allow the horrid old woman to speak [ ] the forest of rainbow colors of the witch of the mountain! the night was black and the wind cut her soft cheeks like a whip, but she hardly felt it; she rode on and on until she came to the lonely house of the old witch, who stood without the door expecting her. “ quick, quick!” said the trembling wife as she reached the house. “ read the dreadful secret, and then let me return to my husband. i feel terribly guilty in taking the ball, but upon my bended knees i will beg his for- giveness for it.” “ weak and silly woman,” sneered the witch, “ why are you sorry?” but the princess, pale and with flying hair, did not answer; she only begged in a low voice that the witch would read the charm and let her hurry home. the old witch took the trinket and held it tightly for a moment in her hands as though weighing it; then sud- denly she thrust a sharp-pointed needle through it. in an instant a tiny yellow flash leaped out and rolled down the mountain-side. it seemed only a few drops of pure gold, but a magic glow surrounded it, and the light flamed as it rolled. it happened so suddenly, and the precious liquid or flame rolled away so swiftly, like [ ] the forest of rainbow colors quicksilver, that neither of the frightened women was able to catch it as it slipped by them. it was growing bigger and bigger as it went down the mountain-side, and when it reached the woods below, it shot up in sud- den splendor, a great mass of fire. what was it? they had never seen anything like it before. diamonds and rubies, sapphires and opals, all melted together might show such colors, but nothing else. in a few moments the flames were leaping up among the trees. oh, how fast they burned! the sky overhead was all red with the reflection-the magnifi- cent forest was on fire! the witch shrieked with delight at the awful damage she had done, but the terrified wife crouched on her knees in terror and remorse. here it was prince rigel found her, but she hardly knew her husband. rays of light seemed to flash from his eyes, and he looked as though he were surrounded with the same strange flames that raged below among the trees. but tenderly he raised his wife to his breast, and said, “ alas, my be- loved! could you not trust me ‘q see the fearful calam- ity your curiosity has brought about: the world will soon be utterly destroyed, and you have caused our [ ] the forest of rainbow colors etemal separation, for now i must return to my father in the sun. this was my secret, gwendolyn, and this magical fire, so necessary to my existence, is death to yours.” “ do not leave me alone, my husband,” cried the un- happy wife, clinging to him. “ i should die without you. can you not save the world in any.way ' ” “ if you had loved me,” he replied sadly, “ i might have had the power.” “ but i love you with all my heart,” said the wretched woman, “ and i would give my life to prove it.” “ would you give up your life upon the earth for me? would you go to my father’s palace in the sun ‘q ” gladly she answered, “ only forgive me this dreadful thing and keep me with you always, for i cannot be happy without you, beloved husband.” at these words he clasped her in his arms and pointed over the hills to the sun rising slowly out of the sea. the waters looked cold and steel-blue in the faint light just breaking, but the sky was all a delicate pink with the tender flush of early dawn. calling his knights to- gether rigel gave them some strange orders, which they hastened to obey. gwendolyn saw a great light dart [ ] the forest of rainbow colors thus it was that the sun-god saved the world fi'om being destroyed by fire. in spite of all his efforts, how- ever, some of the sun fire sank deep into the earth and hid under the mountains. those mountains are to-day called volcanoes, and sometimes powerful flames break from them and shoot up with such fury that the earth trembles, and we call it an earthquake. when the fire was out the prince turned to his wife, who was weeping by his side, and in spite of all she had done his heart was tender toward her, for her sorrow was so great he could feel no anger. “ beloved,” he whispered, “come with me.” then she felt herself drawn gently to him, and lifted in his arms, and she knew they were floating upwards higher and higher. when at last they reached the sun, rigel pleaded earnestly with his father, not only to for- give his beautiful wife her foolish curiosity, but also to make the world forget it and forgive her. moved by rigel’s prayers the sun king placed gwendolyn in the star-studded sky and called her the moon. and there she shines in glorious splendor, flood- ing the world with light, and making the night even more beautiful than the day. that she is a good and [ ] the forest of rainbow colors \ tender wife again and has earned her forgiveness, we all know, for all the wealth of light she showers on the earth is given her by the sun ; without his loving, tender glances she would not shine at all. so if he were angry for a single minute, and turned his face away from her, she could not give us any light, but would be dark and gloomy. this proves, therefore, that the sun god and his wife are contented, and so long as the moon continues to shed her splendid silver beams upon the earth, you can feel sure that rigel and gwendolyn are still per- fectly happy. [ ] the lost city of the. sea the lost city of the sea any years ago, in a beautiful kingdom bor- b dering on the ocean, there dwelt a handsome young prince who devoted all of his time to study. he cared nothing for the amusements and pleas- ures of the court, and found his recreation in watch- ing the waters and the skies. it distressed his father greatly that his only son never joined the youths and maidens at their sports, and he despaired of ever get- ting him interested in the affairs at court. every one called him a dreamer, because he spent his time in day-dreams. but one night the prince did have a wonderful dream. it seemed to him he was transported to a mighty empire which ruled over a great continent. rich and magnifi- cent palaces filled the cities, and beautiful women came [ ] the lost city of the sea up by the sea, it was certainly foolish to look for it. however, being an indulgent father, he said: “ if you can show me any proof of any kind that such a city ever existed, i will consent to your undertaking to find it.” ‘ that night, therefore, when the golden-haired queen appeared again the prince told her what his father had said, and begged her for some sign. “very well,” replied the queen, “go to the water’s edge to-morrow near mid-day, and in the sky you shall have a sign.” the next day at the appointed hour the whole court gathered and waited, in amusement, the promised sign in the skies, for none of them had any faith in the prince’s dream. but the young prince never doubted the beautiful queen’s promise, and presently his faith was rewarded, for suddenly, like a perfect picture cast upon the heavens, they saw a marvellous sight. far away over the level of the sea beautiful clouds were taking shape, and soon the reflection of the lost city was thrown upon the sky. the streets were all of gold and silver, the palaces and domes were shining with jewels and gorgeous colors. nothing was ever seen more [ l the lost city of the sea depths of the waters, hoping and praying for a glimpse of the lost city beneath. one day, exhausted and faint with hunger and thirst, he was bending over the side of the boat, when he felt it suddenly drawn down into the water by unseen hands. slowly it sank into the cool, green depths; lower and lower it went, and after the burning, parch- ing thirst he had endured, the water was more deliciously refreshing than anything he had ever ex- perienced before. presently he opened his eyes and looked about him. exquisite blue starfish floated near him, and white ones with rosy-tinted veins; sea-urchins and sea-cucumbers floated by, and strange and wonder- ful creatures of all kinds. far off, hanging from the slippery rocks, he saw what looked like white leaves, but when he came nearer he found they were delicate little sponges. a group of larger ones, soft and beauti- ful, clung to the reefs. suddenly the boat stopped before a great gate of red coral. the prince stepped out and fastened the boat, and walking up to the gate tried to unlock it. it swung slowly open before him, and he found himself in the streets of a beautiful city. his heart beat madly [ ] the lost city of the sea as snow, in others it took on a soft rosy pink. the doors of this palace were cut out of the rarest opals. smrounding the mother-of-pearl palace was a garden filled with wonderful shrubberies, and in the courtyard leading up to it were living whales spouting out water. magnificent shells half as tall as himself bordered the path on either side, and these beautiful sea-shells were all lined with the daintiest pink you ever saw. he ad- vanced towards the palace and finally entered one of the opal doors, which swung back before him as silently as the coral gates had done. the prince found himself in a vaulted room brilliantly lighted and handsomely furnished. several doors led out of it, and he approached one and knocked. in a moment it was opened by an old man with a long white beard and flowing white garments, who held in his hands a bunch of keys. as he unlocked and opened the door the young prince heard joyous strains of music. two beautiful dancing-girls, richly dressed, came gliding into the room, and knelt and kissed his feet, crying, — “we are your slaves, —command us, o mighty prince, and we will obey you.” prince nizir, though very much startled at their ap- [ ] the lost city of the sea not long been under the sea,” she continued, “when i determined to give employment to my people by this industry. it was an easy thing to take the salt from the water, but how to supply the people on the earth was not so easy to determine. we had not the right to go upon the earth, but i soon learned we might work under it, so we tunnelled the whole world. after doing this it was an easy thing. to plant salt mines everywhere, and this we have done, so that to-day every portion of the globe is supplied with salt made in the building you now see.” nizir, looking closely, saw hundreds of sparkling forms flitting through the factory, their clothes powdered with the beautiful diamond dust they called salt, and when- ever they moved they flashed forth brilliant light. these people were kept busy night and day supplying the world’s demand for salt, and keeping the salt mines filled. . on the second morning, when the prince awoke, every body was clothed in a bright green, and the lovely queen appeared wearing a green silk dress with an emerald necklace. the third day her dress was pale blue, with flashing diamonds and turquoises for ornaments. on the . "’~ [ ] the lost city of the sea home. they need not stay long, he argued, and could soon return to the sea city. now his wife loved him very dearly, so he had not much difficulty in persuading her to do as he wished. she told him, however, that during her stay upon the earth she must keep absolute silence. she would not be allowed to speak a single word, but must remain dumb. only upon this condition could she accompany him before the time allotted for his reign should expire. prince n izir agreed to the condition and said it would be an easy matter to explain her silence to his father. their subjects consented reluctantly to their departure, and very soon afterwards they started on their journey. they found the prince’s boat where he had left it fastened to the coral reef, and soon after getting into it they rose on the top of a wave and floated on the broad blue waters of the ocean, and not many hours later prince nizir pointed out to cleito the tall towers of his father’s palaces. his subjects, who had mourned him as dead, came running out to meet him, and soon the shore was lined with wondering people. he greeted them joyfully, but they were terrified and frightened at his appearance. he [ ] the lost city of the sea now king nizir was madly in love with his queen and spent as much time with her as he could take from the cares of state, but all of his tenderness did not make her happy, for her listless and indifferent manner never changed. only when he would sit beside her talking of her beautiful home, and telling her how he was arrang- ing to return to that wonderful kingdom beneath the sparkling waters, would she show any interest. the gossips at court whispered that the queen was one of the shipwrecked people and the daughter of a great sultan; that she had disobeyed her father’s command in running away with her lover, and that when her lover was drowned she did not care to live without him. it was said that she and the king alone were saved from the sinking vessel in that awful storm, and that the king went mad from hunger and thirst, and imagined every- thing about the lost city and his life there with the beautiful cleito, and that he had mistaken the daughter of the sultan for his bride of the ocean. thus the court gossips talked, but the queen never broke her silence. one day, radiant and smiling, the king came to his wife and asked her if she would like to ret n'n that day [ ] the lost city of the sea to her beautiful home in the sea. she was startled at his question and a little frightened, but she nodded an eager assent, and when the ship came entered it with a smile. she had dressed herself as a bride for a wedding, all in white, with a veil upon her head and lilies in her hair. then she and the king sailed merrily away in the early moming mists to find their beloved city. they never returned to their earthly kingdom. their subjects offered large rewards for finding the boat with the mad king and his beautiful queen, and the seas were searched for many months, but without success. some- times a white-sailed vessel was sighted and chased, but when caught it was never the king's ship. with the passing of the days people noticed strange and myste- rious things. often the wind swept by groaning and shrieking in agony, and often the mariners sailing in their stanch little crafts were startled by seeing close to their boat a phantom ship. as soon as they turned their lights upon it and gave chase it would disappear. and sometimes to this day, in a big storm, or again on a quiet night, sailors see a white sail slip close by them, with two figures on the deck, a man and a woman, and the woman is dressed in bridal robes and is very [ ] \ i i _ i i “i @- _‘§ =:},§ _/£ the white palace n a country of wonderful beauty, where the green i fields sloped down to the water’s edge and the trees waved their long, green branches under a smiling sky of sunshine, there once ruled a king and a queen. the country was rich and prosperous and the people were thrifty and happy, and all would have been well had it not been for the queen’s ambition. now the queen was young and handsome, but she was also haughty and proud, and in her selfish way she tried to make every one around her believe that what she had was the very finest and best in the world. her palace, her lands, her clothes, her jewels, she urged with arrogant pride were better than any one’s else in the whole wide world. but the king was so busy, that he [ ] the white palace hardly noticed this weakness of his wife’s; and besides, he really was so devoted to her that he would probably have been the last to see it anyway. the pleasures of this royal couple were many, but one drop of bitterness always mingled in them—they had no children. the queen was constantly wishing for a child and hoped when it came that it would be the most beautiful and the most brilliant in the kingdom. one day, after many years of waiting, their hearts’ desire was granted in the birth of a little daughter. she was as dainty a little princess as could be found, and lay like a pink rose-bud amid her white pillows. that night while the queen was watching her little one, there appeared beside the baby’s cradle a tall fair- haired woman. she wore a crown of seven stars upon her head, and a magnificent cloak, heavily embroidered in many colors, fell from her shoulders to her feet. one arm was outstretched, and in it she carried a wand. “ i preside over the cradle of the new-born,” said the handsome woman to the queen, “ and i have the power to grant any wish you may make for your child. choose well, for one alone can i give.” then the queen, lifting herself on her elbow, gazed [ ] the white palace asked an explanation, but the golden-haired woman replied, - “ your daughter’s life alone will develop the answer. guard well the veil. you have chosen her life and h cannot alter it now. the poor mother, terrified at these words, called loudly for her maids, but when they came the stranger had vanished, leaving only the white veil, soft and fine as a spider’s web, spread over the sleeping princess. the queen at once took every precaution to preserve the veil. placing it in a tiny golden box, and sealing and locking it, she hid it in the palace treasury, putting the key of the golden box around her neck. the king, alarmed at first at the story of the mid- night visit from the star-crowned woman, shared his wife’s anxiety, but as time went by they gradually forgot their fears. the child grew in beauty and wisdom; her eyes were large and brown, and her hair curled in soft ringlets about her face. her cheeks were like peaches and cream, and every one marvelled at the wonderful love- liness of the little princess helice. her first lisping words were so bright that people stopped to listen, but [ ] the white palace they did not remain long, for almost immediately she began showing the fatal gift she possessed, —she could read the thoughts of other people’s minds. sometimes it was most embarrassing, and her parents soon realized what a disagreeable power it was. once, when helice was a little older, a princess quite high in rank stopped to caress her, saying, “vvhat a dear you are! ” “ then why do you think i cannot be human because i am so queer’! ” asked the rash little girl. another time, a courtier picked her up and held her high on his shoulder to view some passing pageant, and when he put her down bowed low, saying, “i am honored to have held the king’s daughter.” “why, then, do you think it is a pity i was ever born, and a misfortune for the kingdom that i am here?” inquired helice. every day such things happened, and in spite of the fact that the princess was growing more and more beautiful she was more and more shunned. every one feared her words. the minute her bright eyes fell upon their faces she could read their innermost thoughts, and no one could ever keep a secret before the little prin- ‘ [ ] the white palace cess. it was a very uncomfortable state of affairs, to say the least, and the unhappy queen acknowledged she had made a fearful mistake in wishing so much wisdom for her little daughter. helice at first did not mind it, but finally she dis- covered she was not like other children and this made her very unhappy, for she was a tender-hearted little girl, and she did not wish to hurt people’s feelings. so she begged her mother to destroy the veil, and relieve her from the hateful spell, but this the queen would not do, knowing well that if she did her daughter’s life would dissolve like foam. time went by, and things were all in this unhappy state, when some visitor at the court related a story which greatly impressed the little princess. it was called “ a just punishment,” and was as follows. there once lived a great tyrant of a king who deter- mined to increase his riches by means that were very dishonorable. his queen, who was equally ambitious, was even more wicked than he, and together they planned to fool the already oppressed people, and de- mand more taxes. they had discovered a small stream of water in the depths of a large forest. it flowed out [ ] the white palace “ o beautiful princess,” began olenus, in rich, low tones, “the king has surely won you fairly.” then the princess, who again felt her heart beat strangely, said, “make haste to answer our riddle”; and ordering her herald to come forward, he read the following: “a man had twelve sons, and each of his sons had thirty white sons, and thirty black daughters. these sons and daughters died every day, yet they were immortal.” “ the answer,” replied the young count, steadily watching the princess’ lovely face, “is this. the year has twelve months or sons. each of these months has thirty white sons or days, and thirty black daughters or nights. they consequently die, yet they live always. am i correct ‘i ” “yes,” murmured the princess, pale as death, “that is the true answer.” “ then upon my bended knees, i demand the fulfil- ment of your promise for my friend and king.” saying this, count olenus advanced, and kneeling held out his hand. white and trembling, but with the dignity of a princess, helice laid her hand in his, and said in a low, soft voice,- [ ] the white palace desert where the sand-storms rise and sweep across countless miles of waste, the fame of her great beauty had reached them, until they all longed to see her; and how, hearing of her marvellous loveliness, their king had determined to win her for his bride. “tell us of your country,” said the‘princess one night. “what is it like?” “i will try to describe it,” said the count softly, and he began. “ in the far east, as you know, lies the country of bengalia. its great cities and its beautiful villages are the pride of its people, and its fame for wealth is as wide-spread as its reputation for its magnificent mosques and temples. for since the first king of bengalia ruled, wisely and well, it has ever been famous. “once in the long ago--it sounds like a pretty romance-a charming little princess was given a bit of country by her father, and put at the head of a nation. she was a winsome maiden, though rather young for such a responsible position, but she was as wise as she was beautiful, and governed her people well. she soon made her domain a charming spot; fields were cultivated, flowers were planted and grew [ the white palace side of the mountain, and he ate up all the sheep and cattle, and finally ended by demanding the hand of the dainty little princess in marriage. “ the people refused his demand and made war upon him, but he was so powerful he could crush whole armies at once, and so they determined to try some other means than fighting to rid themselves of him. they sent an army of bees to sting him to death in the night, but his skin was so thick that when the bees stung him he just turned over and said, ‘ dear me, how annoying the mos- quitoes are to-night,’ and went right to sleep again. then they sent a lion to eat him up, but when the lion saw how big he was, he became so frightened he could not even roar. “ finally the princess, who was as brave as she was beautiful, determined to face him herself, and at the head of a large army she advanced to meet him. but he just snatched her up when he saw her and put her in the high tower. then he destroyed her lands, ruined her fields, and turned the country into a trackless desert, with nothing but scorching sands everywhere, and the unfortunate people were turned into hills of stone and left to whiten beneath the blazing sun. ~i [ ] the white palace “ after he had put the country under this awful spell he sat himself down, determined to wait until the poor little princess would consent to marry him. all day he left her locked in the tower while he looked for food, and at night after his long tramp he would return and climb to the top of the tower and demand of her in a loud voice if she was ready to marry him. but the prin- cess, miserable as she was, always answered, ‘ no, you are a cruel monster and have destroyed my faithful people and my country, and i shall never marry you, for i hate you.’ “ the old giant would chuckle to himself, and leaving a jug of water and a loaf of bread outside her door would say, ‘very well, my pretty one, this is all you shall have to eat until you consent,’ and would hobble down the steps again. “ so the poor little maiden sat there alone, and spent her days singing to keep up her courage, though you may be sure her songs, like her heart, were very sad. one day a handsome young prince, who was hunting and had lost his way, stopped before the tower and heard her lovely voice. amazed, he asked who she was, and in sad tones she told him her story. “the young prince determined to rescue her, and [ ] the white palace going to the forest he met a friendly giraffe who kindly consented to assist him. the giraffe accompanied him to the tower, and then stretched out his long neck for the prince to climb up on, and in this way the young man soon reached the tiny window through which came the princess’ voice. looking in, the prince saw the most beautiful princess he had ever beheld, but he also saw that the window was barred with iron and that he could not open it. “ he did not despair, however, but telling the lovely maiden to keep up her courage, he went back to the forest. there he'found a little animal with soft fur and very strong feet, called the mole, which always digs into the earth, and asking the little fellow to return with him, with its assistance he dug ia big hole under the steps. this hole he lightly covered with dirt, and then sat down to wait for the old giant. of course he hid himself well so as not to be seen. the giant came as usual that night, and walked up the steps to the tower and asked the princess if she would marry him. then the prince cleared the dirt from the hole, and in a mo- ment the steps gave way and the old giant tumbled down and was killed. [ ] the white palace see the narrow strip of green fields richly cultivated, crawling like a lizard on its banks, and back of the green strip lies the desert with its yellow sands, while amid these sands rise the tawny hills, barren and stern, stand- ing like sentinels guarding the great treasures of the country,—-and to this lovely land, fair princess, my king invites you!” the story was finished and the princess arose, almost in tears. she knew not why, but she was very sad. the next day the king would arrive and she must marry him. was she unhappy because she was to go to the fair land of bengalia olenus had so beautifully described ‘i the morning broke clear and brilliant. the king had arrived in the night, and his army of white tents lay beyond the city. the bride, colorless as a lily in her snowy clouds of lace and satin, stood silent amid her laughing maidens. she felt like a victim prepared for sacrifice, and her mournful eyes lingered on all her be- loved and beautiful possessions in the white palace. but she had given her pledge and she must fulfil her promise and marry the king. at last the hour had come when she must go to meet [ ] the white palace him. stately and dignified, she approached the throne- room where he awaited her. so sad was she that she could hardly raise her eyes to greet him when he ad- vanced and took her hand. when she did gain her courage, however, to look up, she saw the king of ben- galia, smiling with love before her, was none other than the handsome count olenus ! the pale little princess quickly became a blushing rose when the king whispered, “ forgive me my decep- tion, beautiful helice, but i determined to gain your heart as well as your hand, and this seemed the only way.” they were married immediately, and after the cere- mony the king of bengalia drew his charming bride away from the throng of merry-makers out into the quiet garden, sweet with roses and honeysuckle, and it seemed to them they were the happiest people in the world. the evening was strangely beautiful. the glitter of the day was passing and soft shadows were creeping up over the hills, but the sky was all a delicate rose pink. the king was telling his bride of the beautiful home he had prepared for her beyond the sea, and the life of happiness they would lead there together, when suddenly in their [ "efterfef eveite" - library - c. *a* d --> --> yll c- can : els tabl's hed the may g. quigley collection of children's literature waldo wanted adventures. but more than that, he wanted a friend. for although he was made of wood, his heart was very warm indeed. but the boys on the bridge would have none of him. the little red tug- boat left him behind. and the sea gull splashingly flew away. just when waldo was most dis- couraged, he found kit. no duck could have a better friend than kit, he quickly learned. and kit loved waldo even more when kit's father said they couldn't have gotten along without him. imagine waldo's sadness, then, when kit suddenly changed. you will be as surprised as waldo when you learn the reason. and what kit decided in the end will make you feel as waldo did. _ _-______- .——v—~—-,—- w i‘ thrown into the little brook, until there was only one duck left in the big basket. “but, master!” paulus’ voice was excited. “look at this one. his bill is all out of shape. something has happened to this one!” paulus didn’t know it, but this little duck had enjoyed the trip from the workshop to the stream as much as the old men them- selves. he had seen the maple leaves and he had watched the white clouds sail by overhead like pufls of cotton. he had en- joyed all this, even though paulus had said that wooden ducks had no feelings. the old duckmaster took the little duck from paulus’ hands and looked at him. the duck wondered what was going to hap- pen next. then the man said, “aye,” and his eyes were sad. “his bill is crooked and out of shape. indeed it is. hewas the last duck of the season, and i was very weary when carvedhis face.” the little duck hadn’t noticed anything odd about his face before. he had been too busy seeing the new world about him. but now he was sad because he had made the olcfman unhappy. then he was suddenly excited, for he had heard the old duck- master say to paulus, “but throw him.in the water anyway. he has a right to get wet before we toss him out with the shavings.” the little wooden duck was so very pleased that he was going to be thrown into the water with the other ducks that he didn’t hear about being tossed out with the shavings. » so “plop” went the last little duck of the season, and his small wooden heart almost splintered for joy when he felt the soft water ripple against his breast. _ _ oon it would be dark among the rushes, and the wind sighed s sweetly through the branches of the weeping willow tree that swept its leaves in the water of the little stream. the water felt soft and smooth and quiet as it moved past the little duck, who was stuck fast behind the thick green stems of the water weeds. suddenly he looked down at the water and saw another duck. . “ho,” thought the little wooden duck, “how gay!” and he looked again. the duck that looked back at him from the water was indeed an odd creature. his bill was a most peculiar shape, which gave him a permanently startled expression. “hello, little friend,” said the wooden duck happily. “i see that your bill is crooked, too. did the duckmaster make a mistake in carving you?” the duck in the water said nothing at all. - the wooden duck tried again. “perhaps you are embarrassed because your bill is crooked. but look at me! the duckmaster said that mine was not a bit straight and i don’t care . . . at least, not very much.” . io ¢-iv . every time he went under the water, he only bobbed up again, a duck’s length farther along from his tormentors. “i did so want them to be my friends,” sighed waldo as the last stone missed him and splashed water up over his back. “and noyv i am really alone, and i am afraid, and i never, not ever, want to have an adventure!” when waldo looked toward the shore, his eyes were so filled with tears he could scarcely see the little white houses, with their green shutters and red roofs, that scrambled up the hill. on and on he drifted, and once, when he fell asleep, his head dropped forward on his breast and his bill went under the water. “f lbdub,” sputtered waldo, shaking his head quickly from side to side. and then his eyes grew rounder and rounder. for the water on his bill had a very peculiar taste. c-autiously, he dipped his bill into the water again. and this time he said a frightened little “quack,” for it was salt -water, and even an inexperienced little wooden duck, like waldo, knew what that meant! “i am drifting out to sea,” he quavered, “and i will never be heard of again!” but waldo was wrong. for, although the water was most cer- tainly salty, he was not in the ocean. he was drifting into the mouth of a great river, and, beforehe had time to do more than catch his breath at the thought of being lost at sea, a playful gust of wind sent him moving toward the shore. ‘ -i- l.‘ chapter five _ he rain slanted cold against waldo’s feathers and the water t slapped against his bill, but waldo felt warm and happy as he shook his head from side to side to whisk the raindrops from his eyes. for behind him, as he could see when he twisted his neck and looked over his shoulder, came the little red tugboat. slowly at first, then more quickly, it huffed and puffed, and the billows of black smoke, like big blankets, hung low over the gray water. “i wish that i could sing like a nightingale,” quacked waldo, “for i am happy at last. i am proving that i am very brave. it doesn’t matter that i am just a wooden duck. and it doesn’t matter that my bill is crooked and my tail feathers are chipped where little boys threw stones at me. for i am about to become a hero-duck and i shall wear a ribbon. i will save the tugboat from the storm by my clever navigation!” a wave spun him closer toward the shore, and the red tugboat followed right behind his tail feathers. ahead of waldo were rows of big wooden posts that looked like short telephone poles stuck in the water. the poles made two . them over two of the wooden posts. waldo floated quietly at the tugboat’s side, waiting for it to say “thank you” to him. but the tugboat said nothing at -all. since he had been battling the rain and the waves for a very long time and was tired and wet and sleepy, waldo tucked his head under his wing again and went quickly to sleep. but just be- fore he began to dream little duck dreams, he said to himself very happily, “when i wake up in the morning the sun will be shining and my friend, the tugboat, will be able to see me. then he will speak to me and thank me for saving his life.” sure enough, when waldo woke, the sun was shining, al- though, because he was almost hidden by the tugboat on one side and by the great wooden posts on the other, waldo had to crane his neck and look straight up into the blue sky to make sure. but there it was, bright and warm, in the rain-washed sky. waldo felt happy and adventurous, so he said, “quack!” very clearly to the tugboat. “beep . . . hank . . .beep,” cried the tugboat gaily and let out a tremendous puff of smoke and a very loud hiccough of steam. suddenly, there was a great rush of water as the tugboat’s pro- pellers started to turn, and the little red boat backed away from the dock. poor waldo, quietly regarding the morning sunlight, was thrown against the wooden posts and then sucked under the water until he could not breathe at all and got a great mouthful of _ _ _ chapter seven own . . . down, went waldo into the frothing waves, d and when he came coughing to the top of the water he was very, very angry. “i am not enjoying my life one bit. it has been nothing but waves and more waves, and what i want most is dry land and a friend. perhaps i am not a very seaworthy duck, but i don’t care!” the wind was whipping the waves into great green mountains of water. the rain was pelting against waldo’s cold wet back. the storm grew stronger and more fierce every minute. “this is a dreadful storm,” cried the little duck. “much worse than the one when i rescued the tugboat.” it was a great storm indeed. the clouds grew even blacker, the waves roared higher, and the rain came down in such torrents that waldo could not see beyond his own crooked bill. had he been able to see, he would have known that he was being tossed toward the shore. as it was, waldo feared that he would never live to see another day. one moment he was on the top of the biggest wave in the whole ocean. and the next instant he was thrown with a tremen- dous force upon a rain-soaked beach. he lay panting on the sand, trying to think, hoping that he would never again see a drop of salty water. and while he lay there, among the seashells and the stray bits of seaweed and wood, the clouds gathered their dark cloaks about their shoulders and started to move off into the west, and the rain stopped. waldo sighed a long gurgling sigh. “i have escaped the ocean. i am on a beautiful beach and i shall never go to sea again!” now that the sky was clearing and a misty ray of sun fell weakly across the beach, waldo could see that he was not alone, after all. a big brown crab scuttled sideways across the sand, heading toward the ocean. “have to go home, you know,” the crab explained to waldo over his shoulder. “shouldn’t be up here on the beach at all. the storm did it.” and he plopped into a tiny wave that had crept quietly up the sand. “what a foolish fellow,” sighed waldo. “imagine, going back into the raging sea again!” by this time the sea was not raging at all. it had become quite calm and blue again. however, waldo imagined that he was still in great danger and that the sea was very evil indeed. then up on the beach waldo saw a strange brown bird walking stiff-legged at the edge of the water. “oh, horrors me!” he thought. “could it be another seagull?” i the wild duck closed his eyes very rudely, said nothing at all, and wiggled his tail as he drifted away. because waldo kept his eyes wide open, he saw kit and mobey coming over the sand dunes to the water’s edge. kit waswhistling and mobey’s red tongue lapped over_his teeth, making him look very fierce and excited. actually, the -dog was thinking of the warm fireside he had left and the bowl of food that would be wait- ing for him when he went back to the little white house with its green shutters. - “ho! look at the ducks!” cried kit, and began to wave his arms. “woof, wooof,” barked the dog, plunging into the cold water and swimming out toward the little wave where waldo floated. “honk, honk,” called the biggest wild duck, and with a tre- mendous whirringiof wings and splashing of tail feathers, twenty- four green ducks rose into the air. following the leader duck, honking to each other, they formed a flying v and disappeared in the distance. all but one. he was the twenty-fifth wild duck, the one who had spoken to waldo. though he flapped his wings and honked as loudly as the others, he stayed in the water. the dog shook the water from his eyes and swam strongly toward the struggling duck. he seized the duck by the neck, very gently in order not to hurt him, and swam toward shore. kit, _ — _ _ _ _ m _"__ _..-“ jpn . ian university of plichigpn-deflrbork the velveteen rabbit light burning on the mantelpiece. and when the boy dropped off to sleep, the rabbit would snuggle down close under his little warm chin and dream, with the boy's hands clasped close round him all night long. and so time went on, and the little rabbit was very happy—so happy that he never noticed how his beautiful velveteen fur was getting shabbier and shabbier, and his tail coming unsewn, and all the pink rubbed off his nose where the boy had kissed him. spring came, and they had long days in the garden, for wherever the boy went the rabbit went too. he had rides in the wheelbarrow, and picnics on the grass, and lovely fairy huts built for him under the raspberry canes behind the flower border. and once, when the boy was called away suddenly to go out to tea, the rabbit was left out on the lawn until long after dusk, and nana had to come and look for him with the candle because the boy couldn't go to sleep unless he was there. he was wet through with the dew and quite earthy from diving into the burrows the boy had made for him in the flower bed, and nana grumbled as the velveteen rabbit where the two strangers had passed. the velveteen rabbit was all alone. "oh, dear!" he thought. "why did they run away like that? why couldn't they stop and talk to me?" for a long time he lay very still, watching the bracken, and hoping that they would come back. but they never returned, and presently the sun sank lower and the little white moths fluttered out, and the boy came and carried him home. i j, ~ ~ ~ ~ s -~ what should she do? p age o, speaking likenesses. by christina rossetti. with pictures thereof by arthur hughes. - .. to my taatrsft kotir, in grateful remembrance of tile stories with which she used to entertain her children. list of illustrations. page edith and her kettle.....front. "a chair pressed gently against flora till she sat down"............ vignette "her mother, stooping over the child's soft bed, awoke her with a kiss-........ the apple of discord....... the knocker shakes hands with flora.... the cross fairy deprives flora of her strawberry feast. flora and the children in the enchanted room.... edith, with her dog frisk, her cat cosy, and crest the cockatoo.......... vinu list of illustrations. page edith thinking how she shall light her fire and boil her kettle in the wood............ the boy with the great mouth full of teeth grins at maggie............... maggie and the sleepers in the wood........ maggie drinks tea and eats buttered toast with grannie speak ing li ken esses. come sit round me, my dear little girls, and i will tell you a story. each of you bring her sewing, and let ella take pencils and colour-box, and try to finish some one drawing of the many she has begun. what maude! pouting over that nice clean white stocking because it wants a darn? put away your pout and pull out your needle, my dear; for pouts make a sad beginning to my story. and yet not an inappropriate beginning, as some of you may notice as b speaking i go on. silence! attention! all eyes on occupations, not on me lest i should feel shy! now i start my knitting and my story together. whoever saw flora on her birthday morning, at half-past seven o'clock on that morning, saw a very pretty sight. eight years old to a minute, and not awake yet. her- cheeks were plump and pink, her light hair was all tumbled, her little red/l/ips were held together as if to kiss some one; her eyes also, if you could have seen them, were blue and merry, but for the moment they had gone fast asleep and out of sight under fat little eyelids. wagga the dog was up and about, muff the cat was up and about, chirping birds were up and about; or if they were mere nestlings and so could not go about (supposing, that is, that there were still a few nestlings so speaking kind, dear mother: and flora woke up to a sense of sunshine, and of pleasure full of hope. to be eight years old when last night one was merely seven, this is pleasure: to hope for birthday presents without any doubt of receiving some, this also is pleasure. and doubtless you now think so, my children, and it is quite right that so you should think: yet i tell you, from the sad knowledge of my older experience, that to every one of you a day will most likely come when sunshine, hope, presents and pleasure will be worth nothing to you in comparison with the unattainable gift of your mother's kiss. on the breakfast table lay presents for flora: a story-book full of pictures from her father, a writing-case from her mother, a gilt pincushion like a hedgehog from nurse, a box of sugarplums and a doll from alfred her brother and likenesses. susan her sister; the most tempting of sugarplums, the most beautiful of curly-pated dolls, they appeared in her eyes. a further treat was in store. "flora,' said her mother, when admiration was at last silent and breakfast over: " flora, i have asked richard, george, anne and emily to spend the day witl you and with susan and alfred. you are to be queen of the feast, because it is your birthday; and i trust you will all be very good and happy together." flora loved her brother and sister, her friend emily, and her cousins richard, george and anne: indeed i think that with all their faults these children did really love each other. they had often played together before; and now if ever, surely on this so special occasion they would play pleasantly together. well, we shall see. anne with her brothers arrived first: and emily speaking having sent to ask permission, made her appearance soon after accompanied by a young friend, who was spending the holidays with her, and whom she introduced as serena. [what an odd name, aunt! —yes, clara, it is not a common name, but i knew a serena once; though she was not at all like this serena, i am happy to say.] emily brought flora a sweet-smelling nosegay; and serena protested that flora was the most charming girl she had ever met, except of course dearest emily. "love me," said serena, throwing her arms round her small hostess and giving her a clinging kiss: "i will love you so much if you will only let me love you." the house was a most elegant house, the lawn was a perfect park, the elder brother and sister frightened her by their cleverness: so exclaimed likenesses. serena: and for the moment silly little flora felt quite tall and superior, and allowed herself to be loved very graciously. after the arrivals and the settling down, there remained half-an-hour before dinner, during which to cultivate acquaintance and exhibit presents. flora displayed her doll and handed round her sugar-plum box. "you took more than i did and it isn't fair," grumbled george at richard: but richard retorted, "why, i saw you picking out the big ones." " oh," whined anne, "i'm sure there were no big ones left when they came to me." and emily put in with a smile of superiority: "stuff, anne: you got the box before serena and i did, and we don't complain." "but there wasn't one," persisted anne. "but there were dozens and dozens," mimicked george, "only you're such a greedy little baby." " not one," whimpered anne. then serena speaking remarked soothingly: "the sugar-plums were most delicious, and now let us admire the lovely doll. why, flora, she must have cost pounds and pounds." flora, who had begun to look rueful, brightened up: "i don't know what she cost, but her name is flora, and she has red boots with soles. look at me opening and shutting her eyes, and i can make her say mamma. is she not a beauty? "i never saw half such a beauty," replied smooth serena. then the party sat down to dinner. was it fact? was it fancy? each dish in turn was only fit to be found fault with. meat underdone, potatoes overdone, beans splashy, jam tart not sweet enough, fruit all stone; covers clattering, glasses reeling, a fork or two dropping on the floor. were these things really so? or would even finest strawberries and richest cream have liken esses. been found fault with, thanks to the children's mood that day [were the dishes all wrong, aunt? —i fancy not, ella; at least, not more so than things often are in this world without upsetting every one's patience. but hear what followed.] sad to say, what followed was a wrangle. an hour after dinner blindman's buff in the garden began well and promised well: why could it not go on well? ah, why indeed? for surely before now in that game toes have been trodden on, hair pulled, and small children overthrown. flora fell down and accused alfred of tripping her up, richard bawled out that george broke away when fairly caught, anne when held tight muttered that susan could see in spite of bandaged eyes. susan let go, alfred picked up his little sister, george volunteered to play blindman in susan's stead: but still pouting and c; speaking grumbling showed their ugly faces, and tossed the apple of discord to and fro as if it had been a pretty plaything. [what apple, aunt?-the apple of discord, clara, which is a famous apple your brothers would know all about, and you may ask therm some day. now i go on.] would you like, any of you, a game at hideand-seek in a garden, where there are plenty of capital hiding-places and all sorts of gay flowers to glance at while one goes seeking? i should have liked such a game, i assure you, forty years ago. but these children on this particular day could not find it in their hearts to like it. oh dear no. serena affected to be afraid of searching along the dusky yew alley unless alfred went with her; and at the very same moment flora was bent on having him lift her up to look down into a hollow tree in which it was quite obvious likenesses. .. the apple ofdiscord., j the apple of discord. speaking itkenesses. susan could not possibly have hidden. " it's my birthday," cried flora; "it's my birthday." george and richard pushed each other roughly about till one slipped on the gravel walk and grazed his hands, when both turned cross and left off playing. at last in sheer despair susan stepped out of her hiding-place behind the summer-house: but even then she did her best to please everybody, for she brought in her hand a basket full of ripe mulberries which she had picked up off the grass as she stood in hiding. then they all set to running races across the smooth sloping lawn: till anne tumbled down and cried, though she was not a bit hurt; and flora, who was winning the race against anne, thought herself ill-used and so sat and sulked. then emily smiled, but not good-naturedly, george and richard thrust each a finger into speaking one eye and made faces at the two cross girls, serena fanned herself, and alfred looked at susan, and susan at alfred, fairly at their wits' end. an hour yet before tea-time: would another hour ever be over? two little girls looking sullen, two boys looking provoking: the sight was not at all an encouraging one. at last susan took pouting flora and tearful anne by the hand, and set off with them for a walk perforce about the grounds; whilst alfred fairly dragged richard and george after the girls, and emily arm-inarm with serena strolled beside them. the afternoon was sunny, shady, breezy, warm, all at once. bees were humming and harvesting as any bee of sense must have done amongst so many blossoms: leafy boughs danced with their dancing shadows; bell flowers rang without clappers: likenesses. [could they, aunt?-well, not exactly, maude: but you're coming to much more wonderful matters!] now and then a pigeon cooed its soft waterbottle note; and a long way off sheep stood bleating. susan let go the little hot hands she held, and began as she walked telling a story to which all her companions soon paid attention —all except flora. poor little flora: was this the end of her birthday? was she eight years old at last only for this? her sugar-plums almost all gone and not cared for, her chosen tart not a nice one, herself so cross and miserable: is it really worth while to be eight years old and have a birthday, if this is what comes of it? "-so the frog did not know how to boil the kettle; but he only replied: i can't bear hot speaking water," went on susan telling her story. but flora had no heart to listen, or to care about the frog. she lagged and dropped behind not noticed by any one, but creeping along slowly and sadly by herself. down the yew alley she turned, and it looked dark and very gloomy as she passed out of the sunshine into the shadow. there were twenty yew trees on each side of the path, as she had counted over snd over again a great many years ago when she was learning to count; but now at her right hand there stood twenty-one: and if the last tree was really a yew tree at all, it was at least a very odd one, for a lamp grew on its topmost branch. never before. either had the yew walk led to a door: but now at its further end stood a door with bell and knocker, and "ring also" printed in black letters on a brass plate; all as plain as possible in the lamplight. likenesses. flora stretched up her hand, and knocked and rang also. she was surprised to feel the knocker shake hands with her, and to see the bell handle twist round and open the door. "dear me," thought she, " why could not the door open itself instead of troubling the bell?" but she only said, "thank you," and walked in. the door opened into a large and lofty apartment, very handsomely furnished. all the chairs were stuffed arm-chairs, and moved their arms and shifted their shoulders to accommodate sitters. all the sofas arranged and rearranged their pillows as convenience dictated. footstools glided about, and rose or sank to meet every length of leg. tables were no less obliging, but ran on noiseless castors here or there when wanted. tea-trays ready set out, saucers of strawberries, jugs of cream, and plates of cake, floated in, settled d speaking down, and floated out again empty, with considerable tact and good taste: they came and went through a square hole high up in one wall, beyond which i presume lay the kitchen. two harmoniums, an accordion, a pair of kettledrums and a peal of bells played concerted pieces behind a screen, but kept silence during conversation. photographs and pictures made the tour of the apartment, standing still when glanced at and going on when done with. in case of need the furniture flattened itself against the wall, and cleared the floor for a game, or i dare say for a dance. of these remarkable details some struck flora in the first few minutes after her arrival, some came to light as time went on. the only uncomfortable point in the room, that is, as to furniture, was that both ceiling and walls were lined throughout with looking-glasses: but at first this did not strike flora as any disadvantage; likenesses. the knocker shakes hands with flora. speaking likenesses. indeed she thought it quite delightful, and took a long look at her little self full length. [jane and laura, don't quite forget the pockethandkerchiefs you sat down to hem. see how hard ella works at her fern leaves, and what pains she is taking to paint them nicely. yes, maude, that darn will do: now your task is ended, but if i were you would help clara with hers.] the room was full of boys and girls, older and younger, big and little. they all sat drinking tea at a great number of different tables; here half a dozen children sitting together, here more or fewer; here one child would preside all alone at a table just the size for one comfortably. i should tell you that the tables were like telescope tables; only they expanded and contracted of themselves without extra pieces, and seemed to study everybody's convenience. speaking every single boy and every single girl stared hard at flora and went on staring: but not one of them offered her a chair, or a cup of tea, or anything else whatever. she grew very red and uncomfortable under so many staring pairs of eyes: when a chair did what it could to relieve her embarrassment by pressing gently against her till she sat down. it then bulged out its own back comfortably into hers, and drew in its arms to suit her small size. a footstool speaking from her startled hand, but without any clatter' and flora looked round to see the speaker. [who was it? was it a boy or a girl? — listen, and you shall hear, laura.] the speaker was a girl enthroned in an extra high armchair; with a stool as high as an ottoman under her feet, and a table as high as a chest of drawers in front of her. i suppose as she had speaking made welcome: but either the door was gone, or else it was shut to and lost amongst the multitude of mirrors. the birthday queen, reflected over and over again in five hundred mirrors, looked frightful, i do assure you: and for one minute i am sorry to say that flora's fifty millionfold face appeared flushed and angry too; but she soon tried to smile good-humouredly and succeeded, though she could not manage to feel very merry. [but, aunt, how came she to have fifty million faces? i don't understand.-because in such a number of mirrors there were not merely simple reflections, but reflections of reflections, and reflections of reflections of reflections, and so on and on and on, over and over again, maude: don't you see? the meal was ended at last: most of the children had eaten and stuffed quite greedily; likenesses. poor flora alone had not tasted a morsel. then with a word and i think a kick from the queen, her high footstool scudded away into a corner: and all the furniture taking the hint arranged itself as flat as possible round the room, close up against the walls. [and across the door?-why, yes, i suppose it may have done so, jane: such active and willing furniture could never be in the way anywhere.-and was there a chimney corner -no, i think not: that afternoon was warm we know, and there may have been a different apartment for winter. at any rate, as this is all makebelieve, i say no. attention!] all the children now clustered together in the middle of the empty floor; elbowing and jostling each other, and disputing about what game should first be played at. flora, elbowed and jostled in their midst, noticed points of appearance speaking that quite surprised her. was it themselves, or was it their clothes? (only who indeed would wear such clothes, so long as there was another suit in the world to put on?) one boy bristled with prickly quills like a porcupine, and raised or depressed them at pleasure; but he usually kept them pointed outwards. another instead of being rounded like most people was facetted at very sharp angles. a third caught in everything he came near, for he was hung round with hooks like fishhooks. one girl exuded a sticky fluid and came off on the fingers; another, rather smaller, was slimy and slipped through the hands. such exceptional features could not but prove inconvenient, yet patience and forbearance might still have done something towards keeping matters smooth: but these unhappy children seemed not to know what forbearance was; and as to patience, they might have answered me nearly in the words speaking likenesses. of a celebrated man-" madam, i never saw patience." [who was the celebrated man, aunt?-oh, clara, you an english girl and not know lord nelson! but i go on.] "tell us some new game," growled hooks threateningly, catching in flora's hair and tugging to get loose. flora did not at all like being spoken to in such a tone, and the hook hurt her very much. still, though she could not think of anything new, she tried to do her best, and in a timid voice suggested "les graces." "that's a girl's game," said hooks contemptuously. "it's as good any day as a boy's game," retorted sticky. "i wouldn't give that for your girl's games," snarled hooks, endeavouring to snap his fingers, but entangling two hooks and stamping. speaking "poor dear fellow!" drawled slime, affecting sympathy. "it's quite as good," harped on sticky: "it's as good or better." angles caught and would have shaken slime, but she slipped through his fingers demurely. "think of something else, and let it be new," yawned quills, with quills laid for a wonder. " i really don't know anything new," answered flora half crying: and she was going to add, "but i will play with you at any game you like, if you will teach me;" when they all burst forth into a yell of "cry, baby, cry!-cry, baby, cry!"-they shouted it, screamed it, sang it: they pointed fingers, made grimaces, nodded heads at her. the wonder was she did not cry outright. at length the queen interfered: "let her alone; -who's she? it's mzy birthday, and we'll play at hunt the pincushion." likenesses. so hunt the pincushion it was. this game is simple and demands only a moderate amount of skill. select the smallest and weakest player (if possible let her be fat: a hump is best of all), chase her round and round the room, overtaking her at short intervals, and sticking pins into her here or there as it happens: repeat, till you choose to catch and swing her; which concludes the game. short cuts, yells, and sudden leaps give spirit to the hunt. [oh, aunt, what a horrid game! surely there cannot be such a game? —certainly not, ella: yet i have seen before now very rough cruel play, if it can be termed play. —and did they get a poor little girl with a hump?no, laura, not this time: for] the pincushion was poor little flora. how she strained and ducked and swerved to this side or that, in the vain effort to escape her tormentors! f speaking quills with every quill erect tilted against her, and needed not a pin: but angles whose corners almost cut her, hooks who caught and slit her frock, slime who slid against and passed her, sticky who rubbed off on her neck and plump bare arms, the scowling queen, and the whole laughing scolding pushing troop, all wielded longest sharpest pins, and all by turns overtook her. finally the queen caught her, swung her violently round, let go suddenly,-and flora losing her balance dropped upon the floor. but at least that game was over. do you fancy the fall jarred her? not at all: for the carpet grew to such a depth of velvet pile below her, that she fell quite lightly. indeed i am inclined to believe that even in that dreadful sport of hunt the pincushion, flora was still better off than her stickers: who in the thick of the throng exasperated each other and fairly maddened themselves by a free use of cutting likenesses. manence of result. flora falling to the share of angles had her torn frock pressed and plaited after quite a novel fashion: but this was at any rate preferable to her experience as pincushion, and she bore it like a philosopher. yet not to speak of the girls, even the boys did not as a body extract unmixed pleasure from self help; but much wrangling and some blows allayed their exuberant enjoyment. the queen as befitted her lofty lot did, perhaps, taste of mirth unalloyed; but if so, she stood alone in satisfaction as in dignity. in any case, pleasure palls in the long run. the queen yawned a very wide loud yawn: and as everyone yawned in sympathy the game died out. a supper table now advanced from the wall to the middle of the floor, and armchairs enough gathered round it to seat the whole party. likenesses. meringue, a strawberry ice, sugared pine apple, some greengages: it may have been quite as well for her that she did not feel at liberty to eat such a mixture: yet it was none the less tantalizing to watch so many good things come and go without taking even one taste, and to see all her companions stuffing without limit. several of the boys seemed to think nothing of a whole turkey at a time: and the queen consumed with her own mouth and of sweets alone one quart of strawberry ice, three pine apples, two melons, a score of meringues, and about four dozen sticks of angelica, as flora counted. after supper there was no need for the furniture to withdraw: for the whole birthday party trooped out through a door (but still not through flora's door) into a spacious playground. what they may usually have played at i cannot tell you; but on this occasion a great number of bricks speaking happened to be lying about on all sides mixed up with many neat piles of stones, so the children began building houses: only instead of building from without as most bricklayers do, they built from within, taking care to have at hand plenty of bricks as well as good heaps of stones, and inclosing both themselves and the heaps as they built; one child with one heap of stones inside each house. [had they window panes at hand as well?no, jane, and you will soon see why none were wanted.] i called the building material bricks: but strictly speaking there were no bricks at all in the playground, only brick-shaped pieces of glass instead. each of these had the sides brilliantly polished; whilst the edges, which were meant to touch and join, were ground, and thus appeared to acquire a certain tenacity. there were bricks (so to call likenesses. them) of all colours and many different shapes and sizes. some were fancy bricks wrought in open work, some were engraved in running patterns, others were cut into facets or blown into bubbles. a single house might have its blocks all uniform, or of twenty different fashions. yet, despite this amount of variety, every house built bore a marked resemblance to its neighbour: colours varied, architecture agreed. four walls, no roof, no upper floor; such was each house: and it needed neither window nor staircase. all this building occupied a long long time, and by little and little a very gay effect indeed was produced. not merely were the glass blocks of beautiful tints; so that whilst some houses glowed like masses of ruby, and others shone like enormous chrysolites or sapphires, others again showed the milkiness and fiery spark of a hundred opals, or glimmered like moonstone: but the playground g speaking was lighted up, high, low, and on all sides, with coloured lamps. picture to yourselves golden twinkling lamps like stars high overhead, bluish twinkling lamps like glowworms down almost on the ground; lamps like illuminated peaches, apples, apricots, plums, hung about with the profusion of a most fruitful orchard. should we not all have liked to be there with flora, even if supper was the forfeit? ah no, not with flora: for to her utter dismay she found that she was being built in with the queen. she was not called upon to build: but gradually the walls rose and rose around her, till they towered clear above her head; and being all slippery with smoothness, left no hope of her ever being able to clamber over them back into the road home, if indeed there was any longer such a road anywhere outside. her heart sank within her, and she could scarcely hold up her head. to speaking first: " look," cried angles, pointing exultantly: "just look at quills, as red as fire. red doesn't become quills. quills's house would look a deal better without quills." "talk of becomingness," laughed quills, angrily, "you're just the colour of a sour gooseberry, angles, and a greater fright than we've seen you yet. look at him, sticky, look whilst you have the chance:" for angles was turning his green back on the speaker. but sticky-no wonder, the blocks she had fingered stuck together!-sticky was far too busy to glance around; she was engrossed in making faces at slime, whilst slime returned grimace for grimace. sticky's house was blue, and turned her livid: slime's house-a very shaky one, ready to fall to pieces at any moment, and without one moment's warning:-slime's house, i say, was amber-hued, and gave her the jaundice. these likenesses. half mad with fear, flora flung herself after it through the breachand in one moment the scene was changed. silence from human voices and a pleasant coolness of approaching twilight surrounded her. high overhead a fleet of rosy grey clouds went sailing away from the west, and outstripping these, rooks on flapping black wings flew home to their nests in the lofty elm trees, and cawed as they flew. a few heat-drops pattered down on a laurel hedge hard by, and a sudden gust of wind ran rustling through the laurel leaves. such dear familiar sights and sounds told flora that she was sitting safe within the home precincts: yes, in the very yew-tree alley, with its forty trees in all, not one more, and with no mysterious door leading out of it into a hall of misery. she hastened indoors. her parents, with alfred, susan, and the five visitors, were just sitting down likenesses. playmates and pretty presents, yet scarcely knew how to bear a few trifling disappointments, or how to be obliging and good-humoured under slight annoyances. "aunt, aunt!" " what, girls? " "aunt, do tell us the story of the frog who couldn't boil the kettle." "but i was not there to hear susan tell the story." "oh, but you know it, aunt." "no, indeed i do not. i can imagine reasons why a frog would not and should not boil a kettle, but i never heard any such stated." "oh, but try. you know, aunt, you are always telling us to try." "fairly put, jane, and i will try, on condition that you all help me with my sewing." h speaking " but we got through our work yesterday." "very well, maude, as you like: only no help no story. i have too many poor friends ever to get through my work. however, as i see thimbles coming out, i conclude you choose story and labour. look, these breadths must be run together, three and three. ella, if you like to go to your music, don't stay listening out of ceremony: still, if you do stay, here are plenty of buttonholes to overcast. now are we all seated and settled then listen. the frog and his peers will have to talk, of course; but that seems a marvel scarcely worth mentioning after flora's experience." edith and a teakettle were spending one warm afternoon together in a wood. before proceeding with my story, let me introduce each personage to you more particularly. likenesses. the wood should perhaps be called a grove rather than a wood, but in edith's eyes it looked no less than' a forest. about a hundred fine old beech-trees stood together, with here and there an elegant silver birch drooping in their midst. besides these there was one vine which, by some freak, had been planted near the centre of the group, and which, year after year, trailing its long graceful branches over at least a dozen neighbours, dangled bunches of pale purple grapes among its leaves and twisted tendrils. the kettle was of brilliant copper, fitted up with a yellow glass handle: it was also on occasion a pleasing singer. edith was a little girl who thought herself by no means such a very little girl, and at any rate as wise as her elder brother, sister, and nurse. i should be afraid to assert that she did not reckon herself as wise as her parents: but we must hope not, for her own sake. speaking the loving mother had planned a treat for her family that afternoon. a party of friends and relations were to assemble in the beech-wood, and partake of a gipsy tea: some catch-singing might be managed, cold supper should be laid indoors, and if the evening proved very delightful, the open-air entertainment might be prolonged till full-moonrise. preparations were intrusted to nurse's care, others of the household working under her, and she promising to go down to the beeches at least half an hour before the time fixed for the party, to see that all was ready. an early dinner throughout the house and no lessons in the schoolroom set the afternoon free for the gipsy feast. after dinner edith dressed her doll in its best clothes, tied on its broad-brimmed hat and veil, and hooked a miniature parasol into its waistband. her sister was busy arranging flowers for the likenesses. supper-table, her brother was out taking a walk, nurse was deep in jams, sandwiches, and delicacies in general; for nurse, though going by her old name, and still doing all sorts of things for her old baby, was now in fact housekeeper. none of these could bestow much attention on edith, who, doll in arm, strolled along into the kitchen, and there paused to watch cook rolling puff paste at her utmost speed. six dozen pattypans stood in waiting, and yawned as they waited~ edith set down her doll on the window-seat and began to talkgi.i st cook,.with a goodnatured red face, made her an occasional random answer, right or wrong as it happendd. "what are we to have besides sandwiches and tarts? " "cold fowls, and a syllabu', and champagne, and tea and coffee, and potato-rolls, and lunns, and tongue, and i can't say what besides." likenesses. ran out to fetch curled parsley from the kitchengarden. "i can light the fire," called out edith after her, though not very anxious to make herself heard: and thus it happened that cook heard nothing beyond the child's voice saying something or other of no consequence. so edith found a box of lucifers, and sallied forth kettle in hand. striking on the burnished copper, the sun's rays transformed that also into a resplendent portable sun of dazzling aspect. the beautiful sunshine bathed garden, orchard, field, lane and wood; bathed flower, bush and tree; bathed bird, beast and butterfly. frisk, the newfoundland dog, and cosy, the persian cat, meeting their young mistress, turned round, to give her their company. crest, the cockatoo, taking a constitutional on the lawn, fluttered up to her shoulder and perched there. the four went likeness'eso of bee.c-:ltr(ee, birch-trree, and. vine. h-ow she longed f;or a cluster of those purple grapes which,,'han-.ginfi hi gh. above her head, swrung to and frd with every br eath of win: d; now straiinin a tendr:il, n'ow di.splacing a lea, i ow dippiipng towards her but never withinx reach. still, as edciih was such a v:ery wise gir], w ie miust not suppose she wold stai-ln loncg aoape after ullattaiti.able grapes nor di she.g hrr sin.ess ju st then twas to boil a, kettle and to'lth.is she bent her. mindct itree- sticks and a ho'.. dependent theee:fromr sugg'ested a t ripod eve f, ' the k ettle; and so it waso i[whv a tripod, aunit? —- hyave been wondering at th.e - o remar:ks'but here com-es oln:e at last. three sticks, mude, are thel fewest bat can stand. up firmly by themselves; tpwo would tumbr: le down, ai. fou al re not wanted tihe rweel t i it s - and then pass it to clara.] speaking within the legs of the tripod lay a fagot, supported on some loose bricks. the fagot had been untied, but otherwise very little disturbed. by standing on the fagot, edith made herself more than tall enough to hang the kettle on its hook: then jumping down she struck her first match. a flash followed; and in one instant the match went out, as might have been expected in the open air and with no shelter for the flame. she struck a second lucifer, with the like result: a third, a fourth, with no better success. after this it was high time to ponder well before sacrificing a fifth match; for two only remained in the broken box. edith sat down to reflect, and stayed quiet so long, with her cheek leaning on her hand and her eyes fixed on a lucifer, that the aborigines of the wood grew bold and gathered round her. [who were the aborigines, aunt?-the natives likenesses. of the wood, laura; the creatures born and bred there generation after generation.] a squirrel scampered down three boughs lower on the loftiest beech-tree, and cracked his beechmast audibly. a pair of wood pigeons advanced making polite bows. a mole popped a fleshy nose and a little human hand out of his burrow-popped them in, and popped them out again. a toad gazed deliberately round him with his eye like a jewel. two hedgehogs came along and seated themselves near the toad. a frog[ the frog, aunt?-yes, laura,] -the frog hopped at a leisurely pace up the pond bank, and squatted among the long grasses at its edge. the wonder is that frisk, cosy, and crest, let this small fry come and go at pleasure and unmolested; but, whatever their motive may have been, they did so. they sat with great gravity speaking right and left of their mistress, and kept themselves to themselves. edith's situation had now become, as it seems to me, neither pleasant nor dignified. she had volunteered to boil a kettle, and could not succeed even in lighting a fire. her relations, friends, and other natural enemies would be arriving, and would triumph over her: for if her fire would not light, her kettle would certainly never boil. she took up the fifth lucifer and prepared to strike-paused-laid it back in the box: for it was her last but one. she sat on thinking what to do, yet could think of nothing to the purpose: of nothing better, that is, than of striking the match and running the risk. what should she do? she had not even so much as half an eye to spare for the creatures around her, whilst they on their side concentrated their utmost attention on her. likenesses. what should she do? likenesses. [was it full, aunt?-no, maude, there was not a drop in it: so after all it was fortunate that it hung above black sticks instead of over a blazing fire, or it would soon have been spoilt. remember, girls, never put an empty kettle on the fire, or you and it will rue the consequence.] the toad peered with his bright eye in among the sticks. "i should vote," said he mildly, "that the next lucifer be held and struck inside the heap, to protect the spark from draughts." [how came the toad to be so much cleverer than his neighbours, aunt? - well, jane, i suppose such a bright thought may have occurred to him rather than to the rest, because toads so often live inside stones: at least, so people have said. and suppose his father, grandfather and great-grandfather all inhabited stones, the idea of doing everything inside something may well have come naturally to him.] likenesses. but that first spark of success was followed by a dim, smoky, fitful smouldering which gave merely the vaguest promise of a coming blaze. a pair of bellows would have answered far better than the squirrel's tail: and though, with a wish to oblige, the two wood-pigeons fluttered round and round the tripod, they did not the slightest good. just then a fox bustled up, and glanced askance at frisk: but receiving a reassuring and friendly nod, joined the party under the shady vinebranches. this fox was a tidy person, and like most foxes always carried about a brush with him: so without more ado he went straight up to edith, and gave her dusty frock a thorough brushing all round. next he wrapped his fore paws about the vine, and shook it with all his force; but as no grapes fell, though several bunches bobbed up and down and seemed ready likenesses. "and please, aunt, be wonderful." "well, laura, i will try to be wonderful; but i cannot promise first-rate wonders on such extremely short notice. ella, you sitting down too? here is my work for you all, the same as yesterday, and here comes my story." old dame margaret kept the village fancy shop. her window was always filled with novelties and attractions, but about christmastide, it put forth extra splendours, and as it were blossomed gorgeously. flora's doll, her sugar-plum box and hedgehog pincushion, came i should say from this very window; and though her hoops and sticks for les graces can scarcely have looked smart enough for a place of honour, they emerged probably from somewhere behind the counter. [did edith's doll come out of the window too?-yes, clara, if flora's did i have no doubt speaking edith's did; for as they say in the arabian nights, " each was more beautiful than the other."] in spite of her gay shop, dame margaret was no fine lady, but a nice simple old woman who wore plain clothes, and made them last a long time: and thus it was that over and over again she found money to give or lend among her needy neighbours. if a widow's cow died, or a labourer's cottage was burnt down, or if half-a-dozen poor children were left orphans, dame margaret's purse would be the first to open, and the last to shut; though she was very cautious as to helping idlers who refused to help themselves, or drunkards who would only do more harm with more money. i dare say her plain clothes and her plain table (for she kept a plain table too) were what enabled her, amongst other good deeds, to take home little maggie, her orphan granddaughter, when the child was left'almost without kith or kin to care for her. likenesses. these two were quite alone in the world: each was the other's only living relation, and they loved each other very dearly. hour after hour on christmas eve, business raged in dame margaret's shop. i shrink from picturing to myself the run on burnt almonds, chocolate, and " sweeties " of every flavour, all done up in elegant fancy boxes; the run on wax dolls, wooden dolls, speaking dolls, squeaking dolls; the run on woolly lambs and canaries with removable heads; the run on everything in general. dame margaret and maggie at her elbow had a busy time behind their counter, i do assure you. [did maggie serve too?-yes, jane; and it was her delight to run up steps and reach down goods from high shelves.] about three o'clock, the shop happened for a moment to be empty of customers, and dame margaret was glancing complacently round upon l likenesses. chocolate, a beautiful bouncing ball, and two dozen crackers, had all been left behind. basket on arm, maggie started for the doctor's house: and as she stepped out into the cold open air it nipped her fingers and ears, and little pugnose. cold? indeed it was cold, for the thermometer marked half-a-dozen degrees of.frost; every pond and puddle far and near was coated with thick sheet ice, or turned to block ice from top to bottom; every branch of every bare oak shivered in a keen east wind. how the poor little birds kept warm, or whether in fact any did keep warm on the leafless boughs, i cannot tell: i only know that many a thrush and sparrow died of cold that winter, whilst robin redbreast begged crumbs at cottage windows. his snug scarlet waistcoat could scarcely keep hungry robin's heart warm; and i am afraid to think about his poor little pretty head with its bright eye. speaking maggie set off on her journey with a jump and a run, and very soon got a fall: for without any suspicion of what awaited her she set her foot on a loose lump of ice, and down she went, giving the back of her head a sounding thump. she was up again directly, and ran on as if nothing had happened; but whether her brain got damaged by the blow, or how else it may have been, i know not; i only know that the thwack seemed in one moment to fill the atmosphere around her with sparks, flames and flashes of lightning; and that from this identical point of time commenced her marvellous adventures. were the clouds at play? they went racing across the sky so rapidly! were the oaks at play? they tossed their boughs up and down in such rattling confusion! maggie on her travels began to think that she too should dearly like a game of play, when an opening in the forest disclosed to her likenesses. a green glade, in which a party of children were sporting together in the very freest and easiest manner possible. such a game! such children! if they had not been children they must inevitably have been grasshoppers. they leaped over oaks, wrestled in mid-air, bounded past a dozen trees at once; two and two they spun round like whirlwinds; they darted straight up like balloons; they tossed each other about like balls. a score of dogs barking and gambolling in their midst were evidently quite unable to keep up with them. [didn't they all get very hot, aunt?-very hot indeed, maude, i should think.] the children's cheeks were flushed, their hair streamed right out like comets' tails; you might have heard and seen their hearts beat, and yet no one appeared in the least out of breath. positively likenesses. " thank you all; but i mustn't stop to play." speaking likenesses. over again? —yes, ella, you really can't expect me not to utilize such a brilliant idea twice.] "no, running races," cried a second girl, wriggling forward through the press like an eel. " no, this,"-" no, that,"-" no, the other," shouted every one in general, bounding here, spinning there, jumping up, clapping hands, kicking heels, in a tempest of excitement. "anything you please," panted maggie, twirling and leaping in emulation, and ready to challenge the whole field to a race; when suddenly her promise to make haste crossed her mind-her fatal promise, as it seemed to her; though you and i, who have as it were peeped behind the scenes, may well believe that it kept her out of no very delightful treat. she ceased jumping, she steadied her swinging basket on her arm, and spoke resolutely though m speaking sadly: " thank you all, but i mustn't stop to play with you, because i promised granny to make haste. good-bye;"-and off she started, not venturing to risk her decision by pausing or looking back; but feeling the bouncing ball bounce in her basket as if it too longed for a game, and hearing with tingling ears a shout of mocking laughter which followed her retreat. the longest peal of laughter comes to an end. very likely, as soon as maggie vanished from view among the oak-trees the boisterous troop ceased laughing at her discomfiture; at any rate, they did not pursue her; and she soon got beyond the sound of their mirth, whilst one by one the last echoes left off laughing and hooting at her. half glad that she had persisted in keeping her word, yet half sorry to have missed so rare a chance, maggie trudged on solitary and sober. a pair of woodpigeons alighting almost at her feet pecked about likenesses. in the frozen path, but could not find even one mouthful for their litdle empty beaks: then, hopeless and silent, they fluttered up and perched on a twig above her head. the sight of these hungry creatures made maggie hungry from sympathy; yet it was rather for their sakes than for her own that she lifted the cover of her basket and peered underneath it, to see whether by any chance kind granny had popped in a hunch or so of cake,alas! not a crumb. only there lay the chocolate, sweet and tempting, looking most delicious through a hole in its gilt paper. would birds eat chocolate, wondered maggie,[would they, aunt?-really, i hardly know myself, laura: but i should suppose some might, if it came in their way.] -and she was almost ready to break off the least little corner and try, when a sound of rapid footsteps coming along startled her; and speaking hastily shutting her basket, she turned to see who was approaching. a boy: and close at his heels marched a fat tabby cat, carrying in her mouth a tabby kitten. or was it a real boy? he had indeed arms, legs, a head, like ordinary people: but his face exhibited only one feature, and that was a wide mouth. he had no eyes; so how he came to know that maggie and a basket were standing in his way i cannot say: but he did seem somehow aware of the fact; for the mouth, which could doubtless eat as well as speak, grinned, whined, and accosted her: "give a morsel to a poor starving beggar." "i am very sorry," replied maggie, civilly; and she tried not to stare, because she knew it would be rude to do so, though none the less amazed was she at his aspect; "i am very sorry, but i have nothing i can give you." speaking "i don't believe you are starving," cried maggie, indignantly, for he looked a great deal stouter and sleeker than she herself did; and she started aside, hugging her basket close as the beggar darted out a lumpish-looking hand to seize it. " i'm hungry enough myself, but i wouldn't be a thief!" she shouted back to her tormentor, whilst at full speed she fled away from him, wondering secretly why he did not give chase, for he looked big enough and strong enough to run her down in a minute: but after all,, when she spoke so resolutely and seemed altogether so determined, it was he that hung his head, shut his mouth, and turned to go away again faster and faster, till he fairly scudded out of sight among the lengthening shadows. had this forest road always been so long? never before certainly had it appeared so extremely long to maggie. hungry and tired, she lost all spirit, and plodded laggingly forward, longing for her likenesses. journey's end, but without energy enough to walk fast. the sky had turned leaden, the wind blew bleaker than ever, the bare boughs creaked and rattled drearily. poor desolate maggie! drowsiness was creeping over her, and she began to wish above all things that she might just sit down where she stood and go fast asleep: never mind food, or fire, or bed; only let her sleep. [do you know, children, what would most likely have happened to maggie if she had yielded to drowsiness and slept out there in the cold?-what, aunt? —most likely she would never have woke again. and then there would have been an abrupt end to my story.] yet she recollected her promise to make haste, and went toiling on and on and on, step after tired step. at length she had so nearly passed through the forest that five minutes more would bring her out into the by-road which led straight ilvn rc\ svn ~n~i iv lmn.~~l speaking to the doctor's door, when she came suddenly upon a party of some dozen persons sitting toasting themselves around a glowing gipsy fire, and all yawning in nightcaps or dropping asleep. they opened their eyes half-way, looked at her. and shut them again. they all nodded. they all snored. whoever woke up yawned; whoever slept snored. merely to see them and hear them was enough to send one to sleep. a score or so of birds grew bold, hopped towards the kindly fire, and perched on ncighbouring shoulder, hand, or nose. no one was disturbed, no one took aly notice. if maggie felt drowsy before, she felt ready to drop now: but remembering her promise, and rousing herself by one last desperate effort, she shot past the tempting group. not a finger stirred to detain her, not a voice proffered a word, not a foot moved, not an eye winked. speaking were all the sleepers gone clean away since maggie passed scarcely a. quarter of an hour before? surely, yes: and moreover not a trace of their glowing fire remained, not one spark, not one ember. only something whitish lay on the ground where they had been sitting: could it be a nightcap? maggie stooped to look, and picked up, not a nightcap, but a wood-pigeon with ruffled feathers and closed eyes, which lay motionless and half frozen in her hand. she snuggled it tenderly to her, and kissed its poor little beak and drooping head before she laid it to get warm within the bosom of her frock. lying there, it seemed to draw anger and discontent out of her heart: and soon she left off grumblilng to herself, and stepped forward with renewed energy, because the sooner the pigeon could be taken safe indoors out of the cold, the better. mew, mew, mew: such a feeble pitiful squeak \y ~";;i — i~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~( (b fi"onttsp ece of sing-song, \ohio "lo f~~iontispirce of si~rg-song. /"c../~ a. bed-time stories. by louise chandler moulton. with illustrations by addie ledyard. price, $ . . dedication to my daughtert flore]nce. it is you that i see, my darling, will another as kldndly critic on every page of this book, so patiently hear them through? with your flowing, golden tresses, will the many children care for and your wistful, wondering look, the tales that i told to you? as you used to linger and listen you smile, sweetheart, at my question, to the " bed-time stories " i told, for answer your blue eyes shine: till the sunset glory had faded, "we will please the rest, if it may be, and your hair was the only gold. but the tales are-yours and mine." mrs. moulton's charming collection of stories is eminently one of the most popular books of the season. says the " chicago times ":-" her pretty book of - bed-time stories' is spotless as an open calla; and so rich in beautiful lessons, attractively conveyed, that every mother should present her children with it as a text-book on children's manners towards parents, servants, and companions. tenderness, devotion, truth, repentance for faults inevitable while the old adam remains an heirloom in the human family, sympathy with distress, generosity toward misfortune, and the superiority of the moral to the merely earthly, are happily taught by every little one and bigonne in the volume." "alwasys pure and pwiou, tleis are never merely goody; and they hae an eevation of thought and expression such as t we have a right to look for from that -myost sacred of all things human,- an acfectionate, conscientious, self-forgetful mother."e- the christian intelligencer. roberts bros., publishers, boston, mass. robelrtsbl brspbihrs otn as peterkin gabrielle emilie jackson, mrs. gabrielle emilie snow jackson copyright, by duffield & company contents chaptr i sailing toward the promised land. ii a little derelict . . . . . . iii seeking his fortune . . . . . iv open sesame . . . . . . . . v what the magical words opened. vi in the land of song and flowers. peterkin ardent hopes lay far off upon the starboard bow, a faint blue line. the well-dressed, happy people upon the upper deck looked upon their less fortu- nate fellow-beings with divers emotions: some pityingly, some indifferently, some kindly, some with open repugnance. in one group a young girl, lovely as the morning light enveloping her, smiled and waved her hand to a little tad of seven or eight who stood near a frail-looking man, and a tired-looking woman, his bright, dark eyes darting from one object to another, his white, even little teeth gleaming as he smiled upon the world-at- large. he held an object which caused the girl to clap her hands and laugh aloud; it was so gro- tesque: a huge green cotton umbrella as tall as himself, and very nearly as thick through. as she looked at him the ship rolled just enough to bring the sunlight across his face, when up popped the comical umbrella, instantly turning its small bearer into a toadstool of enormous proportions. cocking his parapluie at a rakish angle, he smiled io toward the promised land up at the girl, a smile so sunny, so winning and trustful that she cried: “oh, i must find out who or what that funny little kid is!" “and how do you hope to do so, dear?” asked an older woman at whose side she stood and whom she so strongly resembled as to leave no doubt of their relationship. the words were accompanied by a smile and a lighting of the eyes as though in the object of her question the speaker's whole world centred as, indeed, it did, for in her daughter's lovely young girlhood wondrous spon- taneity and sunshiny disposition emilie minot had found her inspiration for life, for the necessary effort for existence, in short, for any desire to live since her husband's tragic death when loraine was a tiny child. “oh, i don't know, but if i wish hard enough it's sure to happen. but, mother, look-look at him! isn't he the cunningest little chap you ever saw ?" ii toward the promised land the lady looked puzzled. where had she seen that smiling face before. she could not recall. laying her hand upon the funny little dark green russian cassock she asked: "your name?" a negative head-shake was the only reply. “nicholas? john? ivan? peter ?” frantic nods in the affirmative. an answering nod and smile from the lady. "peter? peter ?” “petrovitch,” was the funny answer. “peterkin. peter-kin.” "pee-pee-ter-keen,” was the smiling reply. he understood. “i shall come to see you again some day very soon. i must hear you sing again.” peter's face was blank. the girl understood. “i'll get dombroski to tell him. he speak-a americano and ze roosh, too. we go to buy da gum. thank-a you lady.” the lady went her way resolved to learn more peterkin up. in that vast city what was one family of russian emigrants? much less one small russian boy. disappointed emilie minot returned to her home in a near-by suburb and told the sunshiny daughter of her failure to find the little lad of the futelike voice in whom their interest had grown so keen, and for whom a place might have been found in st. john's choir, had all gone well. he became a mere incident in their lives, until something made him a very real factor. but to peter. many a time had he thought in a vague way of the donor of the coin. she must, of course, be at least a kniajna (princess) for only a princess would have a purseful of golden coins. he wished in a vague way that he might see her again, but princesses did not often stray into the world of humble-folk. he remembered her face, but had no recollection of its association with the long voyage across the great ocean or the lovely a little derelict young girl on shipboard. he had seen only the girl at that time. and what was it the princess lady had called him? pee-pee-ter-kin. a droll name. perhaps that was his name in the american tongue. he would remember that name and if ever asked his name would give it in american instead of rus- sian. he liked the americans. they smiled oft- ener than the russians and peter liked smiles. he was beginning to smile again himself, though the woman with whom he now lived kept him pretty busy. she was busy herself making won- derful clusters of flowers from silks and muslins, and peter had to sit for hours twisting stems and doing other curious things to help her. but as the spring days grew warmer and lovelier, peterkin, as we shall henceforth call him, longed for the real flowers which he had known in russia, for their home had been in the suburbs of a great city and wild flowers grew abundantly in its woods and fields. with the artist's soul dominating his a little derelict noon peterkin paused to look at the gay pictures on some of the covers, posters and advertisements. the proprietor, a boy about eighteen or nineteen cried: "hey dago, pipe de high-brows! some class to that goil, ain't there now?" now peterkin had picked up a good bit of eng- lish during the seven months spent in america, and he knew he was no dago. “i no dago. i come out of the great russhia. i serve the tzar!” he answered, drawing himself up proudly. “ah, g'wan! czar nothin'! you serve the president o’ the 'nited states. d’cher git that? we ain't got no czars near the 'merican eagle. ours ain't got but one head, but she's some bird. see!" peterkin didn't see, but he smiled and the smile won the day. then he asked: “what all those ?" “books, magazines, noospapers. tell yer peterkin whose only breathing place it was, and who, dur- ing the long spring evenings, practically lived there. in the adjoining flathouse lived a family which had come from the same province in russia. in this family were ten children, and two of them girls, but little older than peterkin, had elected themselves his guides, philosophers, and friends. he sought them out. did they know anything about that big house at the end of the street ? sure they knew. it was a gold mine, that big house. “did they make books like his father's and mother's bible, in which was written the date of his parents' marriage and his own birth ?” "no they won't to make bibles, and they wouldn't to make your kind of bibles anyways. they ain't to know greek church bibles nor jew- ish bibles. no, it was stylish books they would to make in that big house so ladies can dress up fine and grand and their children be elegant. yes, it chapter iv open sesame n ow many curious things take place in the office of the editor of a big magazine, some of which have been expected as a matter of course to take place, but many, many others, far beyond the liveliest imagination of the most imaginative editorial staff. the editor of this particular magazine had passed through many remarkable experiences, amusing, pathetic, trying, pleasing, but never in all the ten years during which she had sat at that big desk, and so ably directed its staff, had such a remarkable scene as this one occurred. but she was equal to the situation. the small human being who had rushed across the room speaking wholly unintelligible words so rapidly peterkin and with such intense emotion was a bonny lad, bright of face, sweet, clean, wholesome, and the eyes in which tears seemed to well were as dark, expressive and beautiful as a fawn's; the voice ex- quisitely soft and musical. it had not been so many years since mrs. vancourtlandt's little son had cast himself upon her knees when eager to have some childish wish granted, though he was now in yale and the very core of her heart. so, the maternal instinct which rarely fails true womanhood, rose to the emergency in a splendid manner in spite of the many eyes upon her, for the office was a busy one and the staff numerous. she slipped an arm about the little figure and drew him close to her side as she asked: “why, little man, who are you and where did you come from? how in this world did you ever reach the thirteenth story of this great building? did someone send or bring you? and now that you are here what can i do for you? can you speak english ?” "ords opened ok him in her arms to he buried his head not to sob. am not afraid and— yut her for an inspira- rl who is going up, i gentleman leading a ld by the hand came not more than six the spring sunshine. 'tuation. the child the terrified peter- iny, silk-gloved one raid, and, besides, a re coming up with me, ye.” the lovely, imperious he led him into the iron peterkin vet touch across its strings, the clear, sweet voice was singing in his native tongue: “god the all-merciful! earth hath forsaken thy ways of blessedness, slighted thy word: bid not thy wrath in its terrors awaken; give to us peace in our time, o lord! “god, the all-wise! by the fire of thy chastening, earth shall to freedom and truth be restored; through the thick darkness thy kingdom is hastening; thou wilt give peace in thy time, o lord! “so will thy people with thankful devotion, praise him who saved them from peril and sword; shouting in chorus, from ocean to ocean, peace to the nations, and praise to the lord.” it was the only hymn or song he knew; the sole expression of his loneliness, his yearning. in land of song and flowers powell lovely and fascinating in a white lace gown, mr. powell, the ever delightful, genial host. and the adopted son? ah! who will recognise in the handsome, manly, courtly little lad the same peterkin who from the steerage smiled up from beneath his green cotton umbrella? the smile which won his fortune in the great new world. two years have done wonders for the little im- migrant who came from a land of persecution to one of freedom—to a land which recognised and valued his fine instincts and the wonderful talent inherited from parents gently born but reduced to pitiful poverty through oppression. peterkin has grown tall and sturdy during these two years. grown also in grace of person and manner under the new matischka's and batka's loving care. he calls them by those odd names and they, keen of sympathy and understanding, realise why. he has won their hearts by his sunshine and gentle- ness, and profited beyond belief by their training. peterkin a knowledge of their language came quickly under skilful teachers, and though he still speaks with a slight accent, and frequently introduces one of his own musical russian words into his conversa- tion, his vocabulary is surprisingly wide for a ten- year-old lad. and to-day he stands beside his foster-parents assisting them to receive their numerous guests. a courtly bow, a warm hand-clasp, an unassuming word in response to their greeting, a bonny little lad in his white duck suit, his broad sailor collar of rich red, his patent-leather pumps. entirely free from self-consciousness, no trace of self- conceit. it is the day upon which mr. and mrs. powell give their annual musicale. when st. john's choir gives its wonderful selections taken from the year's work, a testimony of what the year's efforts have developed. from the big living-room the guests move for- ward to the music room, a truly wonderful room, in land of song and flowers smothered, crushed, killed in the parent, but find- ing such exquisite expression in the son. no pains have been spared and the reward of the two years is in every way beyond this good man's wildest dreams. the rich chords of the piano fill the room with their harmony, and then the fairy hidden in the violin,—an instrument whose beauty and value mr. powell had instantly recognised,-lifts her silvery voice under peterkin's magical touch. it seems as though the tenants of elfin land have crept upon the mortals sitting there, bringing with them the denizens of the woodland back of the bungalow, for there sweet and soft are the thrush's notes, the catbird's clear whistle, the warbler's trills and the robin's evensong, as well as the slumber-lied of the german mother, and the weird strains of other folk songs. a strange, thrilling, compelling medley all, all given by the fairy of the violin over whom little peterkin holds absolute sway. truly, he has haled her forth as princeton university library the fairx who believed in human beings written andlitustrated by gertrude alice kay library of princeton university. presented by moffat, yard & bo san bar les la g ad ra erinne mereu ege eur inc o . le to ivas pers monster ope st fara isang mata fue que su se sw s f orume rec salah be esger na senses seks . gandy and the very little fairies, te ne copyright, moffat, yard & company to a real fairy in disguise mew contents chapter page i. where gundy was found .... ii. gundy's home . . . . . . . iii. gundy and his grandmother. ... iv. the fine-feeling fairies . ... v. the human being house ... vi. gundy uses his pipe ..... vii. the trash-men ....... viii. the end of the cabbage house . . ix. flower-garden tildy ..... x. gundy finds his parents ..... xi. uncle comes to the rescue ... xii. the christmas fairy-baby. ... meori al (recap). of . nas o introduction tat hen i was a child i wondered e n and wondered about a great many things, but most particu- larly about fairies. in the stories that were told and read to me fairies did strange and wonderful things but- the stories were always too short, and stopped too soon, without telling whether the fairies had fathers and mothers and grandmothers and what they ate and where they lived. but now i am no longer a child, and since that pleasant time i have learned a few simple things, among them more about fairies. so, in this book, i will try to relieve the wonder- ing minds of the children who would like to know more about them. introduction but, before i begin, you must promise not to ask too many questions. especially you must not ask, “is it true?” for, you see, i am a timid person, easily embarrassed, and questions frighten me, particularly the one- “is it true?” i will forget what i started out to say if you embarrass me, and the result will be that very suddenly the printing in this book will stop altogether, and the pictures too, and there will be pages and pages with- out anything on them—not even a comma. if i tell you what i have learned about one gundy, a certain little he-fairy, i think it will give you an idea of all fairies. the very first and most important thing about fairies is moonlight. they are born in the moonlight, work and play in the moon- light-and hide in daytime. i cannot exactly say that fairies are born either, but rather that they just happen in the moonlight. that is, they are found by a certain mother-fairy and father-fairy when the moon is bright enough to see. maybe it will be in a flower, or jump- introduction ing out of the spray of a fountain, or under a cucumber vine—almost anywhere; you never can tell. but it must be true that the moon causes fairies, draws them out of their hiding places, just as the sun draws the buds and little shoots of plants out of their hiding places. surely it is the moon, for almost no one ever, ever sees a trace of a fairy in day- light-no one excepting one old lady and a couple of children who thought they saw one. now, a baby fairy when he first happens is very like a common, every day baby, only, of course, he's a thousand times smaller—and has wings. that is what makes him a fairy- being so small and having wings! he can talk from the very first, and about his first remark will be that he does not believe in human beings. and not until he has gone to school will he admit that there are human beings, no matter what his father and mother say. fairies grow up very fast. but being born with teeth and knowing how to talk introduction gives them a good start of course. they go on living their little lives till something hap- pens to their wings—then it is all over, and they vanish as if they had never happened at all. there are just as many kinds of fairies as there are kinds of folks, so, if i were to start and keep on and on telling about this one and that one, this book would be a very thick book and look very important on the book shelf; it to keep its balance. but i do not intend to go on and on telling about this one and that one; i am going to tell about gundy only, and what happened to him. .. doc **** chapter where gundy war found on the night that gundy was found by his mother and father many things happened be- cause the moon was so wonderfully bright. in the first place the birds did not believe that it was the moon at all. they thought it was the sun because it was so bright, so they started their best early bird songs. and on that bright night ugly people looked almost beautiful in the moonlight and common-place things appeared fine and mysterious and the whole world seemed a different place. hu- man beings walked about and talked in a friendly way, forgetting the petty things that fairy who believed in human beings they quarreled about in broad daylight or under electric lights. poets and musicians and artists grew happy and had sudden new ideas and were sure that the ideas would bring them fame sooner or later. now, gundy's father and mother—i have never been able to learn their real names, or just why they called him gundy the minute they laid eyes on him—on this particular night were out with all the other fairies, as well as the human beings, to enjoy the won- derful white moonlight. very early in the evening, when they first saw the moon, over in the east, beyond the high white fence, they knew that it was going to be a very, very big white moon by the time that it could cliṁb a quarter of the way up the sky. indeed, all the fairies had their eye on that moon. and more than one mother-fairy said to a father-fairy that it would be wise to keep a sharp lookout for fairy-babies, be- cause a moon like that one over there was where gundy was found ii sure to coax the little rascals out of their hid- ing places. so, gundy's father and mother, after talk- ing it all over, decided to set forth and see what they could see, and find what they could testing her wings find. they put on their second-bests and looked very neat and tidy. fairies are al- ways rather nervous about their wings, for, as i have told you, when they lose them it's the end and they vanish. on this night—but it happened really every time they went anywhere—gundy's father gave gundy's mother's wings a gentle little pull to see if fairy who believed in human beings they were all secure and in good trim. she tested his in the same way and they agreed that they were a pretty husky pair of fairies and had no need to worry about old age for many a long day if they had known, for sure and certain, that they were really to find gundy that night they would have put on their very bests in- stead of their second-bests but, as i have said, they looked very neat and tidy as they set forth. neither of them was beautiful, as you nat- urally expect fairies to be, but in the moon- light they looked their best and said many pleasant things to each other as they went along. now, i must tell you something about gundy's parents before we come to him, for after that the story will be mostly about him and what happened to him. on the whole they were of a very good sort. their disposi- tions were good, but of the two possibly gundy's father had the better, though he where gundy was found far over on the road they could hear the mur- mur of human being voices. but they kept a safe distance. they met other fairies, some very important and fine-feeling ones from the flower-garden, who seemed bent on finding fairy-babies too. to-night every one seemed to be out for the same purpose. this wor- ried gundy's parents, for it did not seem likely that a humble couple from a cabbage house, dressed in their second-bests, could stand a chance against these other aristocratic fairies. however, they hastened forward, hopping, sometimes flying, not missing a flower, lifting all the big leaves to look beneath, and scan- ning every nook and corner where the treas- ure might be found. but it happened that they were always just too late. suddenly, near by, some voices would be heard and they would fly toward the sound to find a couple of fairies chuckling over a tiny, tiny fairy-baby whom they had discovered swinging on a cob- web or in a holly-hock or in a knot-hole of the fairy who believed in human beings big-tree. it was strange, but try as they would, gundy's parents were always too- too late. incodellanseraya . n m twitter povertyway on this particularly fine moonlight night they had started out feeling so hopeful, but after repeated disappointments their courage fairy who believed in human beings whatever led gundy's father there none will ever know—least of all gundy's mother. and without once stopping he made straight toward a certain battered tin-can. before she knew what to expect he lifted a fairy-baby out and held him up in the moonlight. did you ever wish for a certain thing ever so hard, then suddenly get that very thing that you had wished for? and did it hap- pen that you couldn't find words to say how happy you were inside? well, that's the way those two little fairies felt when they found the fairy-baby in the tin-can. all they could say was, gundy! gundy! gundy! i do not know any words small enough to make you know how small gundy really was. of course, you and i, being human beings, could not have seen him, and would probably have said that he "wasn't at all”—i suppose that is why human beings never find the fairy-babies on moonlight nights. but some time i intend to go out with my magnifying glass and look about—and hope for luck. where gundy was found of course they were happy, those fairy- parents. but gundy's mother scarcely knew what to say, for she was ambitious and had al- ways hoped to find a fairy-baby in a flower or in the fountain-spray, and she wondered if she could feel just the same toward a tin-can baby. but gundy's father was perfectly sat- isfied, only he did feel like saying “i told you so” to gundy's mother because she had not wanted to come to the dump. they were both so excited over their find that they were a little quarrelsome. each par- ent wanted to carry the fairy-baby and each was sure that the other did not know how. gundy's quick-tempered mother said she hoped that the baby would have more wit than his father. and after some time, for gundy's father was a bit slow, he said that “gundy looked exactly like his mother, which was a pity!” this was not a very nice thing to say, for i must confess that if you could have seen poor little gundy you would have said that he was very, very homely. fairy who believed in human beings they were arguing in this way when they met some other fairies, some of the fine-feel- ing ones who had just found a little jewel of a baby in a flower. they were feeling very proud and patronizing, and stopped to see what gundy's parents were talking about. they spied gundy in his father's arms. and, as gundy's mother had feared, they asked where he had been found. she quietly pinched gundy's father, but he failed to un- derstand and blurted out the whole truth about the tin-can on the dump—everything! this, of course, caused a great laugh and much shrugging of aristocratic shoulders. “on the dump!” they exclaimed. “well, let's have a look at him!” and poor little gundy was held up, turned over and over and round and round and his little wings tweaked and twisted. the fine-feeling fairies said what they thought about a fairy-baby, as ugly as this one, found in a tin-can, on the dump over poverty way. it was oh, terribly rude, and where gundy was found you would have thought that gundy's poor parents were deaf, for all of these unkind things were said before them. suddenly a tiny little voice said, “please take me back to the tin-can; i'm only a dump-baby. take me back to the trash- men!" “what does he mean?” asked all the amazed fairies. “who are the trash-men? can it be those dreadful human beings who drive a cart and haul trash to the dump?” just here i must tell you about the trash- men. they were rather dreadful—but they were so terribly poor and forlorn. there were three of them, brothers, and they had a little sick sister in their shanty-home over on poverty way. they made a-few-pennies-a- day hauling garbage and trash in their broken down cart. but, oh! you should have seen their horse. now, when the baby gundy spoke of the trash-men, who were really human beings, every one was of course surprised, and one of - fairy who believed in human beings the fine-feeling fairies who had just found the little jewel of a baby in a flower, spoke up • hun v. me ini | the three forlorn trachmen and said that gundy should not be allowed to live. now this altogether mean fairy went on to say that since gundy had been found in where gundy was found a tin-can on the dump, over poverty way, and was so ugly, and believed in human be- ings, as no natural fairy-baby should, some one ought to pull out his wings and put an end to him. “out with his wings!” cried the altogether mean fairy, a horrible look in his eyes. there was silence and it seemed as if the others might agree to do as the altogether mean fairy had said. gundy's mother trem- bled like a leaf and she hugged poor little gundy tight to her, for now she did not care if he had come from over poverty way and if he were ugly–he was her own fairy-baby and no one should harm him! but the others gathered around more closely and the altogether mean fairy pushed forward as if he would snatch gundy from his mother's arms. then a surprising thing happened; and it happened very quickly too. an arm shot out, again, then again, and the altogether mean fairy fell sprawling in a heap and gundy's chapter ii gundy's home gundy's happy parents hopped and flew and raced along, sometimes one carrying him, sometimes the other, and sometimes carrying him together on a chair made with their hands. they discovered that he held a tiny pipe in his tiny hands. but where he got it i do not know. they concluded that he must be a musical fairy and quite marveled at his ability, although they had never heard him play on his pipe. when they reached the cabbage house gundy's father handed him to gundy's mother while he went ahead to make a light. now he didn't have to hunt a match-oh, no indeed; all that he did was to clap his hands, and a dozen fire-flies opened their sparks and fairy who believed in human beings took their places, one over the door of the cabbage house, the others inside, so that when gundy's mother laid him down in his little crib, which had always been ready for him, he looked around and found himself in the cabbage house a very cheerful, snug, little place. now, the cabbage house wasn't a real cabbage- tight and hard—but it was a house made of big cabbage leaves nicely fitted together. some very large ones formed the roof, the gundy's home crinkling edges overhanging like eaves, which gave quite a pretty effect. there was a door of course and little windows and a chimney made of a pea-pod. when gundy's parents built the cab- bage house they hid it away back in the corn-patch where it was not likely to be seen or 'stepped on. you see gundy's parents were plain fairies and lived in the vegetable garden. on the other side of the high white fence was the flower garden, growing in orderly rows round and round the fountain. it was very beautiful. and fairies lived there too—the fine-feeling ones. up some stone steps, from the flower garden, stood the great human being house -but i'll tell you more about that, later, and also of the people who lived there. many of the vegetable garden fairies moved about, living one day in the corn husks, the next under a spreading cucumber vine, and so on. but gundy's father and gundy's home gundy's cradle was a small bean-pod, swung from the ceiling with corn-silk. fairies use corn-silk for many, many different purposes. there was a tiny stove in one corner, made out of a little yellow gourd. tables and chairs, made from odds and ends found in the vegetable garden, were shaped and twisted and tied with corn-silk in the most clever way. and when the place was well lighted with fire-flies, almost any one would have said that it was a very nice little home to live in. on that first night of all, gundy, sitting up very straight in his crib, looked around at everything and was greatly pleased in his small way. it was so very different from the dump. now, gundy, who had heard only trash- men talk, very often used some of their dreadful words--but of course he did not know that they were at all dreadful. so, as he looked around at the cozy cab- bage house, he clapped his little hands to- fairy who believed in human beings gether and made a trash-man remark. oh, it was quite rough-it never would do to tell, and gundy's parents were quite horri- fied. but they understood that poor little gundy was not to blame, for he had never heard anything else. “we must send for grandmother at once,” said gundy's father. “but no,” said gundy's mother, “not till i make him some clothes.” they had a few words about this, but gundy's mother had her way. now, probably you do not know it but little fairies always go to school to their grandmothers. i think it rather nice—and quite sensible too, for the older a fairy grows the more it knows, and so, of course, a grandmother-fairy is wiser than any of the others. some of the very old fairies know a great many things—common, everyday things about human beings, also about animals and bugs and birds and bats. they know about the gundy's home wind, where it starts and where it goes. but the most wonderful thing that they do know is magic. that is, the very, very old ones know magic and they try to teach it to the young ones; but so often the little rascals are mischievous and won't pay attention, and so grow up to be rather stupid. when the time comes, when they should be able to per- form a deed of magic, they don't know how and stand open-mouthed and dumb. you see fairies are like human beings, in some ways. gundy's grandmother was very old in- deed. her wings were almost as thin as air and you could see through them. she lived alone in a nearby mole-hill, because she thought it was warmer than the cabbage house. everybody was very careful of grandmother, for she was very frail-a sud- den gust of wind and she might vanish. on this first day of gundy's life with his parents his mother set to work with her nim- ble fingers and a happy heart. she made him fairy who believed in human beings his first suit of clothes. as i have told you fairies use corn-silk for many purposes, es- pecially for their clothing; that is the every- day vegetable garden fairies do. the fine- curace int the went to her chest feeling flower-garden fairies of course use rose petals and cobwebs and such things for their clothing. this thrifty woman always had a large supply of corn-silk on hand. she went to her chest, drew out an armful and began in the most surprising way to form a little gar- fairy who believed in human beings very, very cunning. he was sº fat and his stiff little wings stuck out so prettily. he did look a little uncomfortable, but you know he had never worn clothes before. “how do like yourself, gundy?” they cried. and poor gundy made another dreadful trash-man remark, in reply. “go quickly for grandmother," cried gundy's mother in alarm, for this must not go on. gundy would disgrace them if he continued to talk like the trash-men. so gundy's father took to his wings, out the door and over to the mole-hill to fetch gun- dy's grandmother-school-teacher. chapter iii gundy and his grandmother gundy's mother bustled about to prepare the school room. she dragged a very large toad-stool out into the middle of the floor and a onen polki, : . fairies go to school to their grandmothers placed a little toad-stool directly in front of it. then she picked gundy up and set him on the little toad-stool and told him to fold his hands and look straight in front of him. fairy who believed in human beings very soon gundy's father returned with grandmother on his back. my, how frail and wizened she was! they carefully put her on the big toad-stool, and she looked very solemn indeed. then and there began gun- dy's first day at school. "say good-morning, grandmother,” said gundy's parents anxiously. “say good-morning, grandmother,” re- peated gundy, eager to please everybody. then they all shook their heads and said, “no, no, that is not right.” and poor gundy thought he had done something very wrong and his lip trembled. few children are afraid of their grand- mothers, but, at first, gundy was afraid of his, for she was so very queer looking, and she didn't seem to love him very much. but that probably was because she didn't know him and suspected him of being stupid. the first lesson that a fairy-baby has is on human beings, for as i told you in the be- ginning no baby believes in them, so he must gundy and his grandmother these lessons, oh, very much indeed, and he used to beg his mother to allow him to go, after school, and play with the little animals. but she always answered that he was too lit- he used to beg to play after school tle, something might happen to him. then she would hug him tightly, for now gundy's mother loved her homely fairy-baby very much indeed. but one day when school time came and grandmother sat waiting on her big toad- fairy who believed in human beings but-but-but-all of a sudden gundy started to play the most ticklish little dance tune, and my! what a squeaking and chirping there was outside. they rushed to the door to see that squirrels, chipmunks, moles, crick- gandy made him skip ets and the big rabbit, every last one of them, were dancing wildly. gundy stopped his playing, which of course stopped the dancing, and he shook his finger at the big rabbit, who had bitten the roof, and he told him that he must not spoil their house by taking greedy big bites out of it. all the other animals gundy and his grandmother joined in and said sharp things to the big rab- bit, who hung his head and seemed to hate himself. then to punish him gundy played another ticklish dance, just to him, and made him skip so fast, so fast, that he was ready to drop, and panted that he never, never would bite another roof. after that gundy played a really nice little dance and there in the moonlight, in the corn- patch, gundy's parents and all the little ani- mals danced together. gundy was a very obedient boy and did ex- actly what he was told to do. but more than that, he really found things to do, and helped his mother in many, many ways. now that the corn was getting ripe he gathered great bunches of corn-silk for her. he would come in with his small arms full and drag- ging it along behind him. he grew every day and was now able to drag a bean, from away over where they grew, to the cabbage house. all the little animals were very fond of him and they loved to help him with his fairy who believed in human beings little tasks. he had many friends, but among them not a single little fairy-play-mate! one day when he was toiling along with an extra large bean-pod he heard a merry laugh and looked up to see three pretty little fairies watching him. he stopped, smiled and drop- por do ) o c bdn le voor on they pushed him rudely away ping his bean skipped over toward them, meaning to take their hands and be good friends as he was with all the little animals. ah, but they pushed him rudely away, and hooted and yelled and called him “dump- baby.” alas, poor gundy, who had only kind feelings toward every one! gundy and his grandmother started to climb. it took a long time, for the corn-stalk was very, very tall. he rested on every other leaf as he came to it, but finally reached the top which waved so proudly in the breeze. oh, how beautiful the world was! could that be the flower garden over there where all those gay blooms tossed their heads? gundy thought of the aristocratic, fine-feeling fairies whom he had heard of who lived in the flower garden. how he would love to be friends with them, but he knew that they would call him “dump-baby” and laugh at him. then it came into gundy's mind to wonder if they some time would grow to like him if he were always kind and knew magic and helped them in every way that he could. poor gundy who had a good will toward everybody and wanted to be friends! he stayed a long time on the tall corn- stalk, for there was so much to be seen. a huge creature, somewhat like the trash- men, was moving about over in the flower fairy who believed in human beings garden. it must be the gardener, for he wore a big hat, as big as the cabbage house, just as grandmother had said. and high above everything towered the great human being house, but gundy could see no one moving there. some time, he thought, i may go there—but how, that was the question. at last gundy started to climb down. then he thought of his corn-silk rope which he carried with him everywhere. he tied it securely to a leaf and dropped easily and lightly to the ground. . his father and mother had missed him and were scurrying here and there, looking frantically for him. they were a bit cross but forgot to scold when he told them of the thou- sands of interesting things to be seen from the top of the corn-stalk. they hung on every word that he said and thought him a brave boy to climb so high and see so much. it now came to be a regular habit with gundy to climb the corn-stalk every day after gundy and his grandmother school. he sat up there alone and thought and thought. he kept saying to himself, over and over, how fine it would be if in some way he could get over into the flower garden and up to the human being house. his wings, of course, were not yet strong enough to carry him so far—but surely there was some other way. and one fine day gundy had an idea; it came all of a sudden, like a flash, and he low- ered himself on the corn-silk rope with a quick jerk. gundy was right. when you have an idea hurry, hurry before it can get away, for it's a very precious thing and must not be lost. they do not come every day. i cannot quite explain gundy's idea, for there was some of grandmother's magic in it—and you must remember that i'm only a human being. all that i know is that when he reached the ground he darted quickly into the cabbage house, dipped his pipe into the blue dye, the rose and green, and came flying out again to raise his pipe to the sky and blow fairy who believed in human beings with all his might and main. a strange thing to do, you'll say; but a very wonderful thing . @odos oss gundy had invented the bubble - happened, for a sparkling, gleaming little ball which grew rapidly larger rose from gundy's pipe and floated in the air. gundy and his grandmother gundy had invented the bubble! gundy, the ugly dump-baby from poverty way, had invented the bubble. with a quick movement he flew after it, jumped in and floated up, up and away. his father and mother and grandmother standing together in front of the cabbage house held their breaths with feelings of de- light and alarm. could it be their own little dump-baby, whom they had found in a tin- can over on poverty way, who was now sail- ing far over their heads in the beautiful spark- ling bubble? ah, if they could have known how long it would be till they should see him again they would have been greatly dis- tressed. but gundy in his bubble rose higher and higher, over the waving corn and away to- ward the flower garden. he strained his eyes for some trace of the cabbage house and his parents, but they were lost to sight. he felt a touch of homesickness and wondered if he had done right when he invented this fairy who believed in human beings bubble-thing that was to carry him so far from his happy home. but there was no stopping and turning back now, for the bubble floated steadily on and on. gundy noticed, however, that it was growing very, very thin, like grandmother's wings, and he held his breath, wondering what he would do if it were to break suddenly. by this time the vegetable garden had fal- len far behind with its familiar corn-patch, cabbages, cucumbers, beans and the rest. he had sailed over the high white fence and now hung directly above the flower garden. the bubble had grown so very thin that gundy knew it could only last a very short minute more. what he expected soon happened; the bub- ble burst on a tall yellow lily and simply went to nothing at all, just like fairies when some- thing happens to their wings. and there gundy found himself on the tall lily, with no bubble in sight and everything different and strange about him. fairy who believed in human beings which to describe them. they looked like sprays of jewels—such colors and so wonder- fully made! gundy was delighted with the beautiful sight, but the flower garden fairies only ve mw ... slav to .gbo a. and oh, such fairien seemed surprised at seeing him there. this soon gave way to mirth and they laughed and laughed. now every one knows how uncom- fortable it is to have people laughing when you do not know what they are laughing about—you always feel that it must be your- self; maybe your hat is crooked or your face the fine-feeling fairies smutty! poor gundy felt so and finally dropped his head and stood there looking very stupid. but, suddenly, he heard deep breathing behind him and managed to turn around to face the angriest fairy he had ever beheld. his eyes bulged, his face was crimson and he showed his long teeth dangerously. alas, poor gundy! it was the altogether mean fairy, that was glaring at him there in such a rage that gundy didn't know what to expect next. the other fairies seemed greatly interested in what was about to happen. they liked to see the altogether mean fairy angry, for something, always, was sure to follow. the altogether mean fairy knew gundy the instant that he blundered onto his lily, and in- tended to make him pay well for the time that gundy's father had beaten him and clipped his miserable wings. grabbing poor little gundy by the collar of his round-about, he cried in a loud hoarse voice for all to hear—then he told what a com- fairy who believed in human beings mon little out-cast gundy was, found in an old tin-can on the dump, over on poverty way, found by vegetable garden parents who lived in a ridiculous cabbage house. he jeered at gundy's simple little garments and homely face, and the crowd continued to laugh and laugh. no one protested and no one had a kind word for poor little gundy. then the altogether mean fairy lifted gundy by his ears and held him far out over the edge of the lily—and dropped him. not having time to save himself or spread his wings, gundy fell head-long, down, down. he could hear the others still laughing as he struck the ground and crumpled one of his poor wings most painfully. poor, gentle, generous-hearted gundy could not under- stand why he had been treated so unkindly. his crumpled wing tingled with pain and he thought of his mother and longed to cry on her shoulder. the big tears ran down his cheeks, but there was no one there to feel sorry. the fine-feeling fairies but, suddenly, he heard a most welcome sound—a cricket. maybe it was one of his good friends who liked his piping. the ii ali they pointed and stared tears stopped and he picked up his little pipe and played his best cricket song-one that all the crickets knew and loved well. he played fairy who believed in human beings it once, then again, but all was silent and the cricket answered never a sound. then the fairies, who are all very curious, came walking by to see what had happened to him. they pointed and stared when they saw his crumpled wing, but not one of them offered to help him or said that they were sorry. the real reason for this was that they were so dreadfully afraid of not always being aristocratic and proper, for it would never do in the world for flower garden fairies to have anything to do with this outcast from the dump who lived in the vegetable gar- den in a ridiculous cabbage house! and that too was the reason why the cricket answered never a sound when gundy played the cricket-song-he was afraid of not seem- ing an aristocratic and proper cricket—i am sorry to say—but you see for yourself—that there are snobs everywhere. everybody has had the toothache, and knows how it grumbles and jumps, and jumps and shoots. well, that is just how gundy's the fine-feeling fairies crumpled wing felt and he didn't know where to go or what to do. he dared not think of his home or his parents, for it made the pain worse and his tears blinded him, but he did think of his grandmother and wished, oh how he wished, that he had paid better heed to her lessons in magic. he hopped very slowly and painfully about among the flowers. how beautiful they were, but how unfriendly they seemed, just as a row of tall fine houses seems in a strange city, where you haven't a single friend. there were roses and lilies and snap-dragons and lark-spurs and asters and zinnias and, oh, ever so many others, all perfect in their own way. but finally he came to a place among the beautiful flowers where a little wild climbing- bean grew. it had found its way into the flower garden by mistake. "here is where i may rest,” said gundy, with a sigh. and the little climbing-bean waved its leaves in answer, for no doubt it was lonely too, in this flower garden where it was fairy who believed in human beings so out of place. and gundy stayed quietly there, eating the little pink beans and playing sadly on his pipe. he tried, oh very hard, to be brave, but sometimes, when he could not help it, he thought of his parents and the big tears would run down his cheeks. then the climbing-bean would rustle its leaves as if it were trying to comfort him. but one day, when he sat there playing on his pipe to comfort himself, he heard a tre- mendous noise. the ground seemed to rock and sway. he peered out to see what could be the matter. coming directly toward him -oh awful sight-was the gardener, and in his hand he held his hoe. it flashed through gundy's mind that the gardener was coming to dig up the little climbing-bean, which did not belong in this aristocratic flower garden. and gundy was right, for that was exactly what the gardener intended to do. gundy's heart stood still in terror. oh, if he only knew some magic! then a thought the fine-feeling fairies came to him: if he could make the big rabbit dance with his pipe, he could make the gar- dener do so too. and he played the most ticklish dance tune that ever was played-oh, it was very lively indeed! he could see the gardener's enormous boots get into step, then it was very lively indeed faster, faster, faster they flew till one could scarcely see them. gundy stopped a moment to get his breath; the gardener slowed down his wild dance and made a furious movement toward the lit- tle climbing-bean—ah, but suddenly gundy started the music again, and faster than ever. this ridiculous performance continued un- fairy who believed in human beings til the gardener was nearly dead and was glad to creep away from that corner of the garden where the climbing-bean grew. he was irish, was the gardener, and believed the bean to be haunted—and he allowed it to stay where it was! news of gundy's act traveled like wild- fire from one end of the garden to the other. all the fairies, more curious than ever, came trooping past to stare at him, but they no longer laughed. and his name could be heard in every fairy household and some of the fairies thought that he should be better treated because he had done a clever thing. but there were others, especially those who lived in the lilies, who said, “never, never could a fairy, found in a tin-can, live on equal terms with them!” and so the matter stood. gundy's wing pained him less and less, but it would always be a crumpled wing and he could never do more than half fly. but he made the best of it and still had a good will toward every one. when he felt stronger he fairy who believed in human beings sat beside him on the fountain-ledge. now, these very little fairies belonged to the aris- tocratic and proper flower garden fairies, but like real children they didn't care whether he came from the dump or not. the impor- tant thing was that he smiled and waved his hand and was willing to play with them. he played on his pipe and they loved it. he told them about the cabbage house and the big rabbit who bit the roof—and their jaws dropped open-wide, for they were so interested. but the trouble was, when gundy talked about the cabbage house the big tears always rolled down his cheeks, which of course worried the very little fairies. day after day they used to go there to meet on the fountain ledge and sometimes gundy would do tricks for them with cob-web ropes as his grandmother had taught him to per- form with corn-silk. and the very little fairies never grew tired of gundy's tricks. his name was heard very often now in all the fairy households, for all the very little fairy who believed in human beings they sailed. it was wonderful. the very lit- tle fairies could not speak, they were so happy. when they finally came floating gently down, and the bubble broke in the spray near gundy's favorite spot, and it was all over, the very little fairies cried, “do it again”—“do it again!” so gundy had to do it again and again. he was very patient with the very little fairies and they loved him a great deal. the last time that he came down he found that all the fine-feeling fairies were out in their most gorgeous garments. they in- tended to make a party of it. these were the very same fairies who had laughed loudly at gundy, allowed the altogether mean fairy to drop him off the lily and had not had a kind word to say about his poor crumpled wing. but these fine-feelers had changed their minds and decided that it was entirely proper and aristocratic to notice gundy's cleverness, and so they clapped their hands for all they were worth. all of the fairies were out the fine-feeling fairies the fine-feeling fairies hunted and called, but gundy, like the cricket, answered never a sound and they concluded that he must have left them altogether. they were in great dis- tress, for now they knew how clever and kind gundy was, even though he was found on the dump and lived in a cabbage house in the vegetable garden the altogether mean fairy was in black disgrace. no one would speak to him be- cause it was he who first started to be unkind to gundy. but the altogether mean fairy retorted that they had all laughed when he dropped gundy off the lily, which was almost as bad. they were all ashamed of them- selves. the magic. thing that gundy had wished for had happened. they all went home and each one made a vow that never, never would they be so unkind to another as they had been to gundy, the great and good! gundy stayed in his hiding place till the moon had dropped out of sight and before the morning star appeared in the east. all chapter v the human being house gundy fully expected the bubble to carry him back over the high white fence, to the cabbage house in the vegetable garden where he would find his parents and his grandmother waiting for him. but as the pale morning star appeared in the east he could dimly see that everything about him looked strange, stranger even than the flower garden. he grew alarmed and tried to force the bubble to go the other way, but the morning breeze, which carried them along, was fresh and strong and he could do nothing. alas, alas, poor gundy was not to see his home for many a day! looking ahead, he saw that they were com- ing toward something very huge and dark. his poor little heart trembled. but as they fairy who believed in human beings drew nearer, the morning star came out quite clearly, and gundy saw that it was the hu- man being house which he had seen so long ago from the corn-stalk in the vegetable gar- den. it looked so big and solemn there in the faint morning light. he didn't know just what to expect, but he soon found out, for the bubble carried him directly through an open window of the hu- man being house, broke suddenly, and left him sitting on a broad window-sill. when he recovered somewhat from the surprise of find- ing himself there, his thoughts were very sad. it was a keen disappointment that he could not go home. what would his parents think had become of him? the more he thought the sadder he grew, till finally he burst into tears and sobbed out loud. he was sure that there was no one near so he cried and cried. but a nice, gentle, little voice from away over in a dark corner inter- rupted him and said, “who is crying?” then gundy stopped short and sat up very straight fairy who believed in human beings then, there was the child, who had happy eyes and could always laugh no matter how solemn and glum the others might look. his eyes seemed full of little brightly-burning lights, and soft curls covered his fine head. -his mother would have loved those curls, but no one ever spoke of his mother and father, and he was too young to begin to ask questions. probably they were dead—i do not know. the little nurse-maid, who was the gar- dener's daughter, was also irish, and she was the other one beside the child who could laugh. but she was very careful and only laughed when she was alone with the child. there were other persons, servants, who moved silently about, in and out of the rooms, néver smiling and always looking the same, day in and day out. : but the morning that the child nearly dis- covered gundy's hiding place up over the window was the beginning of a happier time, for him as well as for the entire household. the human being house as he stood there looking up to where the sound of gundy's pipe had come and hoping that he would hear the sound again, the little nurse-maid opened the door and stuck in her merry little head. "quick, quick, quick, nursie,” said the child, jumping up and down in delight. “there is a fairy in the room. he came be- fore it was light, and sat on the window-sill and cried to himself, and finally he played on a little pipe. i heard him. and now he is hiding up over the window." “why, the little rogue!” said the nurse- maid. she thought that the child had started their old game of “pretend.” they often played “pretend,” one of them beginning it, the other falling in line at once. its a fine game for two persons. “where can the fairy be?” said the nurse, shaking the curtains vio- lently. had she known it, she almost scared gundy to death and he thought every moment that he would fall on her head. then, while she dressed the child they fairy who believed in human beings round they circled, but suddenly crash went a large, costly vase. it fell to the floor in a thousand pieces. one of the dancers had sonucu solo piec m oli everybody looked frightened knocked it over. the whole household rushed in to see what had happened. every- body looked scared. gundy stopped playing gundy uses his pipe his pipe as suddenly as he had started, but not soon enough, for the child cried, clapping his hands, “oh, there's our little fairy again, playing his pipe!” grandmother and uncle were in a rage as they turned to the child and asked what he meant by “our little fairy?” then he told them in his happy way about the little fairy, who had come in the window that morning before it was light, and sat on the sill and played his pipe. and he told them about the gardener and the climbing-bean. when he had finished grandmother and uncle seemed crosser than ever and said that it was all ridiculous nonsense and that he was an absurd child, and never again to let them hear him say another word about fairies. he was sent to his room and scolded at till he was out of sight. then everybody was severely scolded, and the day started in this solemn human being house with everybody in a bad humor and feeling hateful. grandmother slammed her door and uncle fairy who believed in human beings got behind his crackly.- newspaper and the glum servants carried away the broken bits of the costly vase. . gundy felt rather ashamed of himself, for he had made those human beings dance and upset the costly vase and it was his fault that every one was severely scolded and put into a bad humor. but-yet, he knew that something had to be done; some magic was needed to waken these glum people and cheer this sol- emn human being house. - his grandmother could have told him what to do, but she was far away, so he must do the best he could, all alone. and, then and there, he made a vow that he would, somehow, change matters in this gloomy home. alone with uncle, gundy decided to begin on him. he climbed up the back of the big chair and sat there, thinking about the vow that he had just made. finally, he took õuť his faithful pipe and played a little cricket song—just to see what uncle would do. and uncle, who was a little bit deaf, said some- gundy uses his pipe eye, and asked him if he had ever heard a strange piping which had made him dance ridiculously, against his will. the gardener answered, “sure, sir, it's a fairy!” and uncle half believed him though he did not say so, and they both talked at once, each telling the other what had hap- pened to him. they forgot all about every- day affairs, for nothing else seemed important but this strange fairy who seemed able to make the most solemn person dance—and keep on dancing. they sat on the fountain ledge side by side and talked on and on. gundy, left by himself, sat in uncle's big chair and laughed and laughed himself into another idea. he decided to hunt grand- mother. he did not, of course, know where she had gone, but thought he could find her, for he remembered hearing her door slam after she had scolded everybody. · he set forth on his search, looking in one big gloomy room after another, and finally he crawled through a crack and found her fairy who believed in human beings with her cards spread out before her. poor grandmother had nothing to do either and must have been as bored as uncle was, to be wasting the precious hours this way. but she had fallen asleep over her stupid game. gundy decided to put in the time until she awoke by building a card house. my, what solemn looking kings and queens and jacks these were, but what could you expect in this house? if you've ever tried to build a card house you know how hard it is to make the cards stand up, and finally when you do and think that you can make it still higher—a puff, and over it all goes. well, i do wish that you could have seen gundy building. you would have laughed with pleasure, for it was such a very clever card-house. he grew so interested that he blinked and panted and for- got all about grandmother. now this was very dangerous for a fairy to be doing in broad daylight, for she might at any moment open her eyes and see him. and that is ex- gundy uses his pipe dropped like a flash to the floor and scur- ried under the piano. when they tried to find him there he was far out in the hall, then up- stairs, then down again. there was surely magic in that chase, for they never could quite find him, because when they thought they had him, he was always somewhere else. the house rang with laughter, which, as you can imagine, was a great surprise to the house itself. finally, though gundy had not been found, the end of the day came. it was the first really happy day that any one in the human being house could remember, but there were many, many more to follow, for a magic thing had happened—the solemn grown-ups had learned how to laugh. after everybody had said good-night and the house was all quiet, gundy came out of his hiding place and sat on the broad window- sill in the child's room—and wondered what would happen next. the moon came out and the whole world fairy who believed in human beings turned silvery and misty, and gundy looked down into the beautiful flower garden and away toward his old home, the vegetable gar- den. while he sat there, thinking about his parents, he noticed three bent forms moving vo three bent figures creeping along - very slowly and carefully and without a sound through the garden and up toward the human being house. he watched them breathlessly, for somehow he had the feeling that he had seen them before. on they came, creeping stealthily till gundy could stand it no longer. he started to climb down the vines on the side of the house. the three chapter vii the trash-men over hedges and fences and brambles and streams went the trash-men at top speed. gundy did not know that anything could go so fast. but finally they went a bit slower, then still slower till they got down to a tip- toe just as they turned into a narrow, dark, alley which was poverty way. when they came to the meanest little shanty of them all, they gently opened the door and crept quietly in. a feeble sputtering candle made a little circle of light in the black darkness. at first gundy, who still clung to the first trash- man's hat, could see nothing, but he blinked his eyes hard and discovered that near by a small child lay in a little bed. fairy who believed in human beings she stirred, and in a weak voice said, “what did you bring me?” the poor trash-men stood there empty handed and shook their heads sadly from side to side. and the little sick sister bur- ied her thin face in the pillow and softly cried. ah, thought gundy, it's my fault, for i made the trash-men dance so that they would not turn into robbers, and steal from grand- mother and uncle and the others. but some- thing must be done to help these poor miser- able creatures. yet how can i, a stupid fairy, do it? he left the trash-man's hat and crawled far up in the darkness where he sat on a nail that had been driven into the wall. and he tried to think of some way in which he could help these poverty way folks. noth- ing short of magic would do; he knew that. ah, if his grandmother were only here; she would know what to do! with the first faint streaks of the morning the three sad trash-men rose from their dark fairy who believed in human beings human being house were stirring about in great excitement. they were all sure that they had heard strange noises and seen rob- bers below in the garden. they were sure of it. down they came to see about it—all look- ing very dangerous, indeed. uncle came first, a candle in one hand, his big umbrella in the other. he wore his usual purple dress- ing gown and slippers, and had forgotten his wig. then came grandmother, all bundled up in a pink comforter and wearing a night- cap, with a big feather duster in one hand and a candle in the other. then came nursie and the child and all the others. every one carried a candle and some terrible weapon, such as a yard-stick or an egg-beater or a fan. they looked here and they looked there- but no robbers. it was like their hunt for the fairy had been the day before. finally, though, they found foot-prints—robber-foot- prints, three complete sets of them. well, well, they would certainly follow and the trash-men way, the little sick sister was growing stronger every day, where she lay in a big soft bed in the human being house. she and the child had become fast friends and played together all day long, with their toys spread out on the bed. after they had played a long time they often called nursie to beg for a fairy-tale and they would listen without making a sound. they would not even blink their eyes, or they might miss something- they were so anxious to know more about fairies. at other times, they would coax uncle to tell them what he knew about fairies. his stories were wonderful, for of course he knew a great deal about fairies—having one right under his coat-collar most of the time—but he didn't know that. they all spoke often of “our little fairy,” meaning gundy, but no one knew his real name or anything about his parents or the cabbage house. they had all heard his pipe, and grandmother was sure that she had had a fairy who believed in human beings glimpse of him—but that was all. every one hoped that some fine day something would happen that they might know more about the little fairy who had done so much for them all. fairy who believed in human beings and thin that one could barely see them- they were liable to drop off at any moment ! but one bright morning when gundy's parents carried grandmother's breakfast, in a little basket, over to the mole-hill, they found the place all empty-empty. and they bent down and picked up her frail deli- cate wings, for she was through with them, and this was the end. but, as i have told you, fairies are wiser than human beings in many ways, and instead of being sad about it they agreed that it was well, for now grandmother would worry no more about gundy; so they carried the delicate wings back to the cab- bage house. these days the cabbage house seemed very quiet and lonely-worse than before gundy had come there to live. in the even- ings there was no one to play on a pipe to cheer them, but gundy's good friends, the little animals and bugs, were faithful and came to comfort and amuse the lonely parents. and they brought their noisy babies along the end of the cabbage house iii and even offered them as gifts to take gundy's place. the big rabbit who had bitten the roof was particularly generous, and offered them a little rabbit or two, indeed as many as they could use, but gundy's parents shook their heads. not wishing to hurt his feelings they said it would never do for little rabbits to live in a cabbage house, for they might eat the roof and make themselves sick. the fact was no baby could take gundy's place and there was no use trying. instead of going out to hunt a new one, on moonlight nights, gundy's parents sat sadly at home and talked of him. gundy's busy little mother made one gar- ment after another, for she used to say, “how shabby his round-about must be by this time and surely his shoes are nothing but holes. some day when he comes home he will be happy to find these new things ready and hanging in rows.” and most every day she made little sweet cakes for him, hoping that on that day he would come. but when he did fairy who believed in human beings not come she would feed the sweet cakes sadly to the little crickets who were always hanging around. i think the little crickets were pretty wise, for crickets! ah, but one day a very alarming thing ou wa - liter aloe ma l it's who they were talking about gundy. happened! the gardener came down into the vegetable garden and walked along the row, next to the cabbage house row. the ground rocked and trembled and every mo- ment they expected to have him step over into their row and crush the cabbage house with fairy who believed in human beings knew that gundy never, never would forget them. they were very happy, happier than for many a long day. but the next day a dreadful thing hap- pened. the gardener came down the row where the cabbage house was, and stepped on it! gundy's parents only had time to fly for their lives or they too would have been stepped on. what a sad wreck it was! all of the furni- ture was crushed—all of gundy's new clothes, the gourd stove, the chimney, everything spoiled! it seemed the end of everything for them, and they wept bitterly. but their good friends the crickets were soon on hand to comfort them, and showed them a cozy place under a pumpkin vine, where they could live till they should build a new house. it was a bad time for all vegetable garden fairies, however, for no sooner was the corn gathered than the stalks were cut down and piled in stacks. then the pumpkins were fairy who believed in human beings dance and speak well of him! life was good after all, even though the cabbage house had been stepped on. but they grew sad again as darkness came on, for the trash-men had cleared everything -familiar away and it was all burnt black in the bon-fire. gundy's parents were no longer young, their wings were getting thin and summer was gone and the wind was cold. the trash-men had scared all their old friends, the little animals and bugs, away, so gundy's parents were all forlorn and alone where they shivered under a dandelion which the trash-men had overlooked. to comfort each other they kept saying, “gundy will come back to us; gundy will not forget.” and the night wind blew bitterly cold. as they sat there shivering they noticed in the cold moonlight something coming slowly across the space where the vegetable gar- den had been. it proved to be a strange cricket. he looked so tired and cold that flower-garden tildy things as human beings do. now, instead of wasting time and money as the human beings do, having all sorts of ups and downs and keeping everybody anxious and the gos- sips working over time, while they vainly try to find their proper mate—the fairies have a better way. if two fairies find that their wings are exactly alike, the same in pattern and color—that's all there is to it. they are mates. and they know it at once, for there never were more than two sets of wings that were exactly alike. a fairy may be scampering along, think- ing about his supper or the stars in the sky, almost anything but of his future mate; and he may suddenly turn a corner and bump right into her. they will probably stop to say “beg pardon,” catch sight of each other's wings- then possibly give a surprised squeal or two and scamper away together. that's all there is to it—no bother and fuss! now gundy had always been much too busy to give the matter of his mate any fairy who believed in human beings landing among the larkspurs, and disap- peared from sight. “why, what was that?” said uncle, turn- ing quickly. “it was a fairy,” cried the children. “we saw him jump—yes we did.” and the three .. . mnh her name was tildy. of them hunted and searched through the larkspurs but found nothing at all. so they went slowly up to the human being house, each wondering if it really was “our little fairy” who had jumped into the larkspurs. and now i will tell you about the fairy fairy who believed in human beings that gundy was found on the dump. of course the altogether mean fairy loved his little daughter and was wonderfully proud of her and gave her everything that he could steal from the other fairies. he made a very good father, indeed! when tildy spied gundy and saw that his wings were exactly like hers she was neither sad nor glad. she knew that he was her mate and she had no opinion of her own about the matter. tildy never had opinions. she went in and told her father of what had happened and he of course was greatly excited, think- ing that it must be a very fine-feeling fairy indeed who was coming to claim tildy. the news spread like wild-fire and almost every fairy in the flower garden came rushing out to see beautiful tildy’s mate. ah, but when gundy appeared—what a shock! he was still homely, of course; he had always been so. and shabby_indeed he wore the same round-about and trousers that his mother had made him long ago, so of flower-garden tildy : course they were full of holes and much too small for him. the poor fellow hung his head and felt, oh terribly, embarrassed. he expected them to laugh and jeer at him as they had once done. but no, they did not laugh and jeer. these flower garden fairies had learned a lesson about treating strangers unkindly; for who can tell—they may be very good, and clever, and gifted in magic, as one certain visitor was long ago. there they stood in silence, all eyes on gundy. the al- together mean fairy was pale with rage and disappointment but he dared not say a word, for it was against the new flower garden rules. and gentle tildy did not say a word- but that was because she could not think of anything to say. ah, but suddenly the very little fairies, who now were not quite so little as they once were, recognized their dear old friend who did tricks for them, and rode them in a bub- ble round and round the fountain. my, oh my, what a time! everybody was flower-garden tildy the ground. then they formed a procession, which was a grand spectacle, and marched around and around the fountain. after that a precious drop of honey, stolen from a careless bee, was brought forth and gundy and tildy were supposed to drink it. but gundy objected, saying that he didn't care much for sweets and would prefer in- stead a pink bean that could be found on a certain climbing-bean which grew in the flower garden by mistake. the quickest fairies went for the beans, and when they re- turned everybody ate beans, for politeness' sake, but they found them very good indeed. then they began to talk about vegetables and the vegetable garden and vegetable garden fairies, and everybody decided that a big mis- take had been made and that all the fairies should be friends and that the high white fence meant nothing at all. gundy told them about the human beings up in the big house, who had once made the same mistake, but now things were different fairy who believed in human beings with them and on poverty way too. and he surprised himself by making a very nice little speech about having a good will toward every- body. while he was talking a cricket came hurry- ing along in great excitement and pushed his way through the crowd till he stood beside gundy. and without even saying, “beg par- don,” he asked him if he were gundy. and gundy answered, “gee.” then the cricket told the story of how the vegetable garden had been destroyed, how all the little animals had been scared away by the trash-men-and the fairies scattered, homeless and forlorn. and without pausing for breath, he went on to tell about two old fairies he had found shiv- ering under a dandelion, how they had lost their home and had no place to go—and he added, coming closer to gundy, “they are your parents.” gundy's heart nearly stopped beating. to think that his parents were in such great dis- tress while he was wasting time at a foolish chapter x gundy finds his parents gundy and the cricket had many trials on their journey. the moon went under a cold cloud and they could not see where they were going. the way was rough and they stum- bled and slipped miserably. the wind grew colder and colder and sud- •denly a sharp gust of it brought the first snow flurry and the poor travelers shivered and shook. gundy wrapped his wedding cloak tightly about him; and they went bravely on. ah, if he only had two good wings so that he could fly! this half-flying, half-hopping was tiresome and slow. he missed his faith- ful pipe that had gone with him everywhere and had been so useful when he was in trou- ble. if he had it now he could cheer him- self and the cricket and perhaps his parents gundy finds his parents would hear it and know that he was coming. the wind clouds in the sky were sailing fast and soon uncovered the pale moon, but only long enough for the cricket to see that they were traveling in the right direction. on and on they toiled. but now the moon had disappeared altogether and in the dis- tance they heard a rooster crow and knew that daylight would come soon. another sudden snow flurry almost took their breath and they had to stop and cover their heads until it was past. when they started forward again daylight was coming fast and the cricket thought that he could see the dandelion, which the trash- men had missed, far, far ahead. they were nearly exhausted and could barely crawl. and finally, when it seemed that they had taken their last step, they reached the dandelion, but its fuzz had blown away and its leaves were covered with snow. the cricket could not be sure whether or not it was the right dandelion. but anyway gundy finds his parents human being, what a time they had when the brisk red squirrel almost dumped gundy into his parents' arms. all that they could say was, “gundy, gundy, gundy,” just as they had said it on that moonlight night, so long ago, when gundy's father, lifting him out of the tin-can on the dump, held him up for his mother to see. and the red squirrel look- ing on thought that they never would stop hugging each other. of course everybody asked questions and talked at once-everybody but the cricket, and he, poor fellow, had gone to sleep. one of gundy's first questions was about grandmother. where was she? ah, they told him, grandmother had lost her wings and vanished, but it was better so for she had missed all their worries and the cold winds. but never, never would they forget grand- mother who knew so much magic. then gundy's quick-witted mother spied his pansy-petal cloak and asked him if he had become a fine-feeling fairy. to prove that he fairy who believed in human beings had not, and never would be a fine-feeling fairy, gundy threw the pansy-petal cloak aside and his mother saw that he still wore the out-grown, corn-silk round-about and trousers which she had made for him, long . . . sosy b a is uloos the awked him where he got it ago, before he left home in the bubble. then gundy's fond parents asked him to tell them what a great man he was now. gundy was greatly surprised and answered that some mistake had been made, that he wasn't a great man at all, but that he had many good friends out in the world beyond gundy finds his parents the vegetable garden. and he told them about uncle and grandmother and the trash-men and all the others. but his parents insisted still that he was a great man, for the cricket, now asleep, had said so; and then, too, they had heard the human beings talk- ing about him as if he were a very great man. “but, great man or not,” said gundy's busy little mother,"you must have some new clothes.” then she examined his gorgeous wedding cloak, turning it over and over and admiring its elegant texture. and gundy stood there trembling like a leaf in the wind, for he had not told them a single word about flower-garden tildy. finally his mother, who had asked him every other question at least twice, asked him where he got his cloak. gundy truthfully answered that it was his wedding gift from his mate. ah, what a shock it was to gundy's parents to learn that he had found a mate. they had felt that now, with gundy safely home, they fairy who believed in human beings would build another cabbage house and start life all over again and live happily till the end of time. "oh, why did you do so, gundy?" wailed his mother. “why didn't you look the other way when you saw her wings?” but gundy with bowed head did not tell her that he had thought of looking the other way, but was too honest. after a while gundy's mother's curiosity got the better of her grief and she began to ask a great many questions about flower- garden tildy. and gundy answered the best that he could, saying that she was very beauti- ful, wore rose petal and cob-web garments and didn't know enough to keep from being stepped on. he told them, too, of giving his faithful pipe to tildy for a wedding present, and they shook their heads, thinking it the first mistake gundy had ever made. but what else could the poor boy do? then after thinking the matter over gundy's mother, who had really very good gundy finds his parents sense, said that gundy must go back to where flower-garden tildy lived, for she was his mate, or else their wings would not have been exactly alike. but gundy shook his head and refused to go alone—his parents must go too. but this they did not wish to do, to leave the dear old vegetable garden and go over into the flower-garden where only fine-feeling fairies lived, for, as they said, they were only plain fairies and would be out of place there. but gundy told them how kind the fine-feel- ing fairies were nowadays and how they wished to be friends with the vegetable gar- den fairies. then the red squirrel spoke up and said that gundy was right about the mat- ter and that his parents ought to go with him and help him to build a new home over there. so, one fine bright evening they packed up and the red squirrel agreed to take them as far as the fountain, on his back. they all had new winter clothes of soft fur made of odds and ends that their good host, the red fairy who believed in human beings squirrel, had given them. and they looked very neat and comfortable indeed. my, what a fine, swift ride they had through the frosty night air. they were sorry when gundy spied the fountain, not far ahead, and said that they would soon be there. but where were the flowers? they had expected to find them standing there in chilly rows, as gundy had last seen them, but not a flower was in sight and the fountain was empty, dry, without a single sparkling drop of water. the flower garden was ready for winter. and where were the fairies? where was tildy? suddenly, at that moment, gundy decided that he very much liked little flower- garden tildy who never could think of a word to say. alas, she was gone. fairy who believed in human beings ready to drop out, and some of the fairies had vanished altogether—the altogether mean fairy among them. they were really a miser- able lot of fairies and i am very sure that if gundy had not come along when he did all of their wings would have dropped out and they would have vanished entirely. they had nothing warm and their fine clothes were in tatters. they were rejoiced to see him, of course. he had a way of always appearing at the right moment to help some one. every one wanted to shake his hand and stroke his nice, soft fur clothes that the red squirrel had given him. but gundy was eager to find little flower-garden tildy, and his heart ticked like a watch as he looked this way and that in the crowd, in search of her. ah, but when he did find her his heart ached, for she looked so very frail. and she held out her empty hands, and gundy saw that she had lost his faithful, magic pipe that uncle comes to the rescue he had given her for a wedding gift. but he did not scold, for tildy looked so very beau- tiful. and she said never a word, but al- lowed gundy to wrap her in his warm fur round-about. lead uud rondo awang tomad) ! the pipe war gone gundy's parents were almost afraid of tildy, because she was so beautiful. they had never seen anything quite like her before. but she smiled gently at them, which is al- most the same as speaking, and they stood closer, and gundy's mother put more warm fairy who believed in human beings couldn't take them all in—there would not be room. and it was too cold to live under the leaves—anyway the leaves were liable to blow away at any moment. but something fortunate happened, just as it had before over on new poverty way. uncle solved gundy's problem for him. and this is how it happened. when the children up in the human being house looked out of the window, the morning after the terrible night of the first snow, they saw the frozen fountain and the poor dead flow- ers. they said to each other, “oh, where is our little fairy?” for you remember that uncle and the children were quite sure that their little fairy had left them the night before and jumped into the lark-spurs. uncle missed him somehow, and the children were certain that they saw him jump. they went to find uncle, and there he was by his window, looking down into the garden at the frozen fountain and the poor dead fairy who believed in human beings and the moon was up, who should appear but the red squirrel with a bag of nuts —all nicely cracked with his own cracker. he zipped in and out of every fairy-house leaving behind a nice little pile. “ah,” said gundy to the others, "the whole world has a good will toward us,” and they moved into their new homes and were very happy fairies indeed. every one decided that gundy and tildy and gundy's parents should live in the fairy-house right under uncle's window, for gundy it was who had invented uncle or at least had made him over. and gundy was very willing, for then he and uncle could look after fairy affairs together. but the only objection to the new houses was that some forward sparrows took it for granted that uncle had made the houses for them. of course that was a mistake, just as it was for the sparrows to think that the crumbs which uncle and the children sprinkled about were for them. chapter xii the christmas fairy-baby “christmas is coming, christmas is com- ing,” sang the children one day, in the gar- den, as they worked on a fat snowman, who looked somewhat like uncle, but did not have his magic laugh. “what is christmas?” said the curious fairies who heard the children's words. “can christmas be a strange human being or what can it be?” they couldn't explain it and were greatly puzzled, and decided that they simply must know what christmas was. they scampered about from house to house asking each other what they knew about christmas—but every one shook his head. so, of course, gundy, who always had to work out all the problems, that is unless un- cle did it, was asked to find out about christ- the christmas fairy-baby claus, but their words soon trailed off too and gundy could not tell what they said. then he slipped into grandmother's room. she too was talking in her sleep, and about christmas, like the others. but she said a strange thing that kept ringing in gundy's ears long afterwards. she said, "peace on earth, good will toward men.” ah, thought gundy, those are very fine words—it's always been in my heart, but being only a stupid fairy i couldn't say the words. then he left the human being house, for there was nothing more said by the sleepers, and when he reached home he told all that he had heard to the curious fairies who were waiting there for news. they listened to every word but did not know much more about christmas than they had before. they were not satisfied and urged gundy to go back, this time in daylight, when people were not talking in their sleep. you never can believe what you hear sleepers say! the christmas fairy-baby well, things were in a flutter! the house was all hung in green garlands and wreaths and a huge evergreen tree stood in the hall- way. gundy couldn't understand about the tree or why the children were hanging the beautiful glistening balls on it. he had never seen anything quite so pretty as those balls. they were gold and silver and blue and green, and they made him think of the bubbles which he used to blow with his faithful pipe. he couldn't understand, either, why uncle stood, in great danger, on top of a tall ladder, fas- tening a silver star to the top of the big tree. but whatever it was all about, surely it was nice, for every one seemed so very happy and kept saying over and over, “christmas is com- ing to-morrow!” they told secrets behind their hands and winked and laughed and hid big, square packages under the sofa. after uncle had fastened the star in place on top of the tree, he climbed down the lad- der, put on his coat and things, and went away. when he came back he was carrying fairy who believed in human beings so many bundles that you could scarcely see him. you only knew that he was there be- cause of his magic laugh behind the bundles. and when gundy saw him he wondered if uncle really was talking in his sleep last night when he spoke of the million dolls and the rest of it. he really looked now as if he had them all right there. but all day long the children talked about santa claus and peeped up the big chimney in the hall, and counted again and again the long stockings—everybody's, that hung in the chimney. the whole house had a fine smell -it made gundy hungry-for every time any one opened the doors leading to the kitchen, a wonderful breeze blew out and every one smacked his lips and said, “christmas is com- ing to-morrow!” at last bed time had come. grandmother said so as she led the children into the nur- sery. she had promised to read them a story before they went to bed, sọ gundy, listening by the door, heard the beautiful christmas the christmas fairy-baby story which closed with the words he loved so much—“peace on earth, good will to- ward men.” he had come to the conclusion that christmas was something very, very good, for everybody was so happy about it. he would rush back and tell all the other fairies about it as soon as uncle opened his window and went to bed. and finally when everybody was in bed and fast asleep, and gundy had very lovingly tucked in the cov- ers around his good human friends, he jumped out of the window and went home. all the fairies were waiting—anxious to hear the news about christmas. gundy sat down and told them about everything he had seen and heard. he told of the green gar- lands and wreaths, and the big evergreen tree hung with the beautiful glistening balls so like his fountain-spray bubbles. then he spoke of the silver star on top of the tree; in fact he told it all, and the fairies concluded that after all christmas must be something the christmas fairy-baby uncle? they would jump through his win- dow and see. but no—uncle was fast asleep in his bed. gundy was alarmed-robbers again! he grasped tildy's hand and together they flew into the hall to see if the big tree and the beau- tiful balls had been stolen. there they had a surprise. the fat man with the huge pack was filling the long stock- ings with gifts. he had come down the chimney. ah, this was santa claus—why, of course! now he remembered what the children had said about santa claus as they peeped up the chimney and counted, again and again, the stockings which hung in a row by the chimney. gundy and tildy liked santa claus' looks so much that they almost ran out to speak to him. maybe it was because he looked so much like uncle and had a laugh like his! and my, what a lot of presents he left! he filled all the stockings with presents, he hung them on the tree and piled them under the the christmas fairy-baby there, in the beautiful silver and blue ball which had dropped off the christmas tree, was a tiny, tiny fairy-baby. yes, there was! it was a christmas fairy-baby, and i think that santa claus must have known that there were two fairies in the room and so left this little present for them. now you know, as well as i do, that flow- er-garden tildy rarely ever had a word to say, because she couldn't think of anything to say. but my, oh my, how her tongue did fly when this happened. you never heard the like! gundy was afraid she would waken the entire household. any one would think, to see her, that it was the first fairy-baby ever found! finally gundy coaxed her to come along home quietly, and they gathered up their christmas present and started. then tildy thought she couldn't wait till she got home to show the fairy-baby to gundy's parents. gundy really thought she'd talk her head off–her tongue went so fast. when they finally reached home she made him call all the fairy who believed in human beings other fairies to come and see what they had and she was sure that the reason all the human be- ings were so excited, and the house in such a flurry, was that they all knew that little christmas—for that was the fairy-baby's name —was coming. had not the children said over and over again, “christmas is coming?" indeed, all the human beings had said so. and to tildy this meant only one thing- “little christmas is coming.” of course gundy knew better but he allowed tildy to believe it for it made her so very happy. and now i have come to the end and it is time to leave gundy and tildy and little christmas and the others. i have kept my promise and told you all that i know about gundy. maybe, some time, i will be able to tell the rest of the story, tell all about little christmas' school days, what became of the children in the human being house and how uncle and santa claus went into busi- . . kay the fairy who human beings cere the gjutpl and % gpfltt: a tale of modern spiritualism. by t. s. arthur. g. g. evan s, chestnut street, philadelphia. . // entered according to act of congress, in the year , by j. w. bradley, in the clerk's office of the district court of the united states for the eastern district of pennsylvania. btereottped by l. johnson k co. philadelphia. philadelphia: pbtktkd by kino & haiku, ax x street. preface. thb title at first chosen for this book was "the young governess;" but the one it now bears more clearly expresses its scope and mean- ing. the author regards modern spiritualism, as it is called, as a phase of demonology, using the word in its bad sense; and classes it with witch- craft, necromancy, and like disorderly influences. so believing, he has written from that stand-point in the case. there will, of course, be plenty to reject his view,—to be angry and to denounce. but wiser ones will approve, and many, he trusts, be warned in time to escape the sad consequences which are sure to follow any enthralment of the will made free by god. contents. imi chap. i.—the young governess ii.—gaining influence iii. —trials iv. —worth and pretension v.—the wind and the sun vl—the governess dismissed vii.—a revelation viii.—the new governess ix.—the shadow of evil x.—a little breeze xi.—the demon unveiled xii.—a fearful mystert xiii.—doubt and anxiety xiy.—painful consequences xv.—alarming occurrence xvi.—disappearance of madeline contents. mm chap. xvii.—the search xviii.—a nest of psued -spiritualist xix.—the bird and the serpent xx.—the re cue xxl—<the arrest xxii.—breaking the spell xxiii. —the anoel stronger than the demon xxiv. —an unexpected revelation xxv.—a revelation xxvi.—reviewing the matter xxvii. getting right xxviii.—conclusion the angel and the demon. chapter l the young governess. mrs. dainty's health was poor, and her nerves delicate. it was no use, she said: the wear and tear of body and mind were more than she could stand. she must have a governess for the children. mr. dainty never opposed his wife in any thing, and so replied,— "very well, madeline. find your governess." but uncle john—uncle johns, by-the-way, if they happen to be on the mother's side, android bachelors at that, are proverbially inclined to inter- fere with the home-management of their nieces— had, as usual, a word to say after he was alone with mrs. dainty. "don't have any thing of the kind," said he. "be governess to your own children." "but i'm not equal to the task. it will kill me. the angel and the demon. were set forth at large. she must speak french with the true parisian accent, and be able to teach that language; her knowledge of music must be thorough; she must be perfect in drawing and painting; her manners must be ladylike, her tastes refined: in a word, she must possess all the high accomplishments necessary to educate the children of a fashionable mother who was "in society." she would greatly prefer a frenchwoman. at last she heard of a "french lady," the daughter of a french count of the old regime, who was de- sirous of procuring the situation of governess in a family of "good standing." an interview with this lady was held in the presence of uncle john, who took occasion to ask her some questions about paris, where he had spent several years. the stately manner and superior air which she assumed at the commencement of the interview gradually gave way under these questions, until madame showed considerable embarrassment. "your face is very familiar to me," said uncle john, finally. "i am sure i must have met you in paris." "monsieur is undoubtedly mistaken," said the lady, with returning dignity. "perhaps so," replied uncle john; then, in a more serious voice, he added, "but one thing is the angel and the demon. certain: you do not possess the qualifications desired in the governess of my nieces." the "french lady" offered no remonstrance, and asked for no explanations, but, with a flushed face, arose and petired. "better keep clear of counts' daughters," said uncle john, as the applicant withdrew. "if you will have a governess for the children, procure one born and bred so near at home that you can readily learn all about her." mrs. dainty, who was particularly attracted by the appearance of the french lady, was not alto- gether pleased with uncle john's summary mode of despatching her, though a little startled at the idea of getting an impostor in her house. what next was to be done ?" suppose we adver- tise?" said mrs. dainty. "and have your bell-wire broken before ten o'clock the next morning," replied uncle john. "take my advice, and wait a few days." "what good will waiting do? unless we take some steps in the direction we wish to go, we shall never arrive at the end of our journey." "good steps have been taken," said uncle john, cheerfully. "you have already made known to quite a number of your friends that you want a governess. the fact will not die; many will re- the angel and the demon. member and speak of it, and somebody will happen to think of somebody who will just suit you." so mrs. dainty concluded to wait a few days, and see what time would bring forth. on the third morning after the interview with the trench count's daughter, as mr. and mrs. dainty and uncle john sat talking together on the gover- ness-question, the waiter opened the door, and said that a young woman wished to speak with mrs. dainty. "who is she, and what does she want?" inquired mrs. dainty, with an air of indifference, stroking the head of her king charles spaniel, which, instead of her baby, occupied a comfortable position in her lap. the servant went down to gain what information he could from the visitor touching her business with mrs. dainty, and returned with the informa- tion that she was an applicant for the situation of governess in the family, having been informed that the lady wanted a person in that capacity. "tell her to come up," said mrs. dainty. "i wonder who she can be?" was added, as the servant withdrew. uncle john sat with his chin resting on the head of his cane, apparently so much engaged with his the angel and the demon. own thoughts as to be unconscious of what was passing. in a few minutes the door reopened, and a young woman in plain attire, and of modest, almost timid aspect, entered. mr. dainty was standing with his back to the fire; mrs. dainty sat in her morning wrapper, with the king charles spaniel still in com- fortable quarters; and uncle john remained in the same position, not stirring as the girl entered. "take a chair," said mrs. dainty, with that super- cilious indifference which imagined superiority often puts on toward imagined inferiors. the girl flushed, trembled, and sat down, letting her eyes fall to the floor. "what is your name?" asked mrs. dainty. "florence harper," replied the girl. "where do you live?" "at no. — elwood street." "with whom?" "my aunt." "are your father and mother living?" "no, ma'am." even mrs. dainty felt the sadness with which this reply was made. "i am in want of a governess for my children," said mrs. dainty, coldly; "but i hardly think you will suit." the young girl arose at once. the angel and the demon. "sit down." mrs. dainty spoke with a slight im- patience. the visitor resumed her chair, while mr. dainty kept his place before the fire, with his eyes fixed upon her curiously. "do you speak french?" inquired mrs. dainty. "yes, ma'am." "what french school did you attend?" "i was with mr. picot for six years." "indeed!" there was a new interest in mrs. dainty's voice. ",how is it in regard to your musical qualifica- tions?" she continued. "i will satisfy you, madam," said the applicant, in a quiet but firm and dignified manner, "in re- gard to my ability to teach the various branches of a polite education, by references, if you desire them." "oh, certainly! i shall expect references, of course. you don't imagine that i would take an entire stranger into my house without the most rigid inquiries touching her character?" miss harper arose. "do you wish," said she, "to make any inquiries about me? or have you concluded that i will not suit you?" »v "you can leave your references," replied mrs. dainty. the angel and the demon. the names of two ladies were given. mrs. dainty had no acquaintance with them, but she knew their standing. "that will do," she replied. "shall i call again, or will you send me word if you desire to see me," said the young girl. "you may call." mrs. dainty spoke in a very indifferent manner. the visitor retired. "i don't like her," said mrs. dainty. "why not?" inquired uncle john, lifting, for the first time, his chin from the head of his cane. "too plebeian," said mrs. dainty. "nothing but a countess will do for your young hopefuls," retorted uncle john. "plebeian! there is the air of a lady in every movement. take my advice, and learn all you can about her; and i'm mistaken if you don't at once secure her ser- vices." mrs. dainty's heart was set on having a governess; and, as no better opportunity offered for procuring one, she made inquiries about miss harper, and re- ceived encouraging information. a family council, consisting of herself, husband, and uncle john, de- cided in the affirmative on the question of engaging the young lady, who, as she did not return to know whether her services would be desired or not, was the angel and the demon. sent for. terms, duties, and the like being dis- cussed and settled, miss harper, with many mis- givings and strong reluctance, assumed the difficult and responsible position of governess in,the family of mrs. dainty. three children were placed under her care: agnes, the eldest daughter, now in her fourteenth year; madeline, the second, eleven years old; and george, in his sixth summer. many unwise re- marks had been made about the young girl in the presence of the children; and when she assumed, formally, the charge of them, she perceived at a glance that they held her in contempt, and were not in the least inclined to obey her authority. the first day's trials were severe enough. mrs. dainty, in whose mind there was a foregone con- clusion adverse to the young governess, made it her business to be present with her for some hours while giving her introductory lessons to the chil- dren, or, rather, while making her first efforts to dive into their minds and see what had already been stored away. the mother did not act very wisely during the time; for she was not a very wise woman. could she have seen the image of herself as it was pictured in the mind of miss harper, she would not have felt very much flattered. a small portion of light entered the region of perception b * the angel and the demon. once or twice, the way being opened by a quiet answer to some remark that broadly displayed her ignorance. one result followed this rather meddle- some interference on the part of mrs. dainty. her respect for the young governess was materially heightened. on the second day, miss harper was left in the undisturbed charge of her young pupils, and she had a better opportunity for studying their natures. agnes, the oldest, she found to be indolent, proud, and quite ready to imitate the example of her mother in disrespectful conduct toward herself. madeline was of a gentler, more loving, and more obedient disposition; while george was a rude, well-spoiled specimen of a boy who showed no in- clination whatever to come under even the mildest discipline. "she'll never do any thing with them," said mrs. dainty, in a confident manner, as she sat alone with her husband and uncle john, on the evening of the first day, and talked over the new arrange- ment. "why do you think so?" asked uncle john. "she's too young and inexperienced. she hasn't character enough. agnes is almost as much of a woman as she is." "don't be too sure of that," said uncle john. the angel and the demon. ' "agnes will have to live very fast if she ever over- takes miss harper." "she's rather an indifferent-looking personage," remarked mr. dainty,, in a careless way, "and hasn't stuff enough in her for the management of three such spirited children as ours." uncle john smiled. "you are quite taken with her," said his niece. 'i haven't had much time for observation," re- plied uncle john; "but the little i have seen im- presses me favorably. beneath that modest, quiet, almost timid exterior, there lies, if i am not mis- taken, far more reserved power than you imagine. give her a fair chance, second her efforts in every attempt she makes to bring the children into order and subordination, and particularly refrain from the slightest word in their presence that will lower her in their respectful regard." mrs. dainty saw, from the last remark, that she had erred in a very thoughtless way; and her cheeks burned a little when uncle john added,— "i have heard something of miss harper's history from a lady friend, who represents her as a very superior girl, and says that she was raised in a circle of refined and highly-intelligent people." "oh, well, we can give her a trial. perhaps she will do," replied mrs. dainty, in a languid manner. the angel and the demon. "i'm glad she has been raised among refined people. my greatest fear was that she would impart vulgar manners to the children." "i don't think she can do them any harm." uncle john spoke a little ironically. "i hope not," said mrs. dainty, seriously; and the subject, not taking a turn that was agreeable to her, dropped of its own weight. we shall see, in another chapter, some of the re- sults of this new arrangement in the home of the fashionable mother. the angel and the demon. chapter n. gaining influence. having procured a governess for the children,— even if she were not all that was expected in the individual who was to fill so important a place,— our fashionable mother felt a weight of care re- moved from her shoulders. she could now go out when she pleased, and stay as long as she pleased, and not suffer from the troublesome consciousness that she was neglecting her children,—a species of dereliction that never escaped the watchful eyes of uncle john, who had no hesitation about speaking plainly. miss harper's experiences with the children on the first and second days were not very encouraging; and this was particularly so in the case of agnes, whose conduct toward her was exceedingly offensive. on the third morning, this young lady positively refused to give her french recitation at the time required by miss harper, declaring that it was her wish to take a music-lesson. she had overheard her mother and uncle john conversing on the sub- the angel and the demon. ject of miss harper's authority over the children, on which occasion mrs. dainty had said,— "i will have no iron rule with agnes. miss harper must treat her with that respectful con- sideration to which a young lady in her position is entitled. there must be no petty domineering; no ordering with upstart authority; no laying down of law." "do you expect to be always present with miss harper in the school-room?" uncle john asked quietly, as if he was really in earnest. "of course not! what a preposterous idea!" replied mrs. dainty. "then miss harper must have authority in your absence." uncle john spoke very decidedly. "agnes will never submit to any authority from her." "why not from her, pray?" "because agnes has reached an age when she can comprehend the wide difference between their respective stations. she is almost a young lady." "you are a weak woman, madeline," said uncle john,—" a very weak woman, and i am almost out of patience with you. now, do you wish to know, plainly, how i regard this matter?" "not particularly." mrs. dainty gaped as she spoke. the angel and the demon. a kind of fascination. it was not anger, nor re- buke, nor sternness, but the quiet power of a su- perior mind over that of an inferior. agnes tried to withdraw her gaze, but it seemed impossible to do so. a strange feeling of respect, almost awe, came stealing into her heart and repressing her dominant selfhood. when miss harper withdrew her steady gaze, agnes almost caught her breath, so marked was the sense of relief that followed. "madeline dear," said miss harper, in a cheerful, pleasant voice, speaking to the younger sister, "shall i hear you read now?" madeline came smiling to her side, and, lifting her book to her face, read the lesson which had been given to her. "very well done! you are improving already." miss harper spoke so encouragingly that madeline looked up into her kind face, and said, without thinking of the place and the occasion, "thank you!" the young governess had already opened a way into her heart. '"now, agnes," said miss harper, "if you are ready with your french lesson, i will hear it." she spoke kindly and cheerfully, fixing her eyes at the" same time steadily upon her, and with the same look of quiet power which had subdued her a little while before. the angel and the demon. "i would rather take my music-lesson first." agnes could not yield without a show of resistance. something was due to pride. » "the hours of study were fixed in consultation with your mother," said miss harper, mildly; "and it is my duty as well as yours to act in conformity therewith." "oh, mother won't care!" agnes spoke with animation. "if i prefer this hour to twelve it will be all the same to her." "your mother don't care for her word, agnes?" miss harper spoke in a tone of surprise. "i didn't mean that," was answered, with some little confusion of manner. "i only meant that if she knew i preferred one time to another she would not hesitate to gratify my wishes." "very well. we will consult her this evening," said miss harper. "and if she consents to a new arrangement of the study-hours i will make no ob- jection. but at present both you and i are bound to observe existing rules. i have no power to change them if i would. so, come up to the line cheerfully, to-day, and to-morrow we will both be governed by your mother's decision." agnes was subdued. without a sign of hesita- tion she went on with her lesson in french, and said it all the better for this little contention, the angel and the demon. through which she came with an entirely new im- pression of miss harper. when the young teacher came to george, this little reprobate would do nothing that was required of him. his book he had, from the commence- ment of the school-hours, refused to open; replying to every request of miss harper to do so with a sullen, "a'n't a-going to." "now, george, you will say your lesson," said miss harper, in a pleasant tone. "a'n't a-going to," replied the little fellow, pout- ing out his lips, and scowling from beneath his knit brows. "oh, yes; george will say his lesson." "a'n't a-going to." "oh, yes, georgie," said agnes, now coming to the aid of miss harper. "say your lesson." "a'n't a-going to." his lips stuck out farther, and his brow came lower over his eyes. "come, georgie, do say your lesson," urged agnes. "a'n't a-going to." the resolute will of the child had no other expression. "i'll tell mother," said agnes. "don't care! tell her! you wouldn't say your lesson." "oh, yes, georgie, agnes did say her lesson the angel and tue demon. like a good girl; and so did madeline." miss harper showed not the least excitement. he# voice was calm and her manner even. "now say yours." "a'n't a-going to." the persistent little rebel had no idea of capitulation. "i knew a little boy once" there was such a pleasant, story-telling tone in the voice of miss harper that george was betrayed into looking up into her face, when she fixed his eye as she had, not long before, fixed the eye of his self- wifled sister. "i knew a little boy once," she repeated, "who had no mother. before he was as old as you are now, his mother died and went to heaven. poor, dear little fellow! it was a sad day for him when his good mother died and left him to the care of strangers." george was all attention. already the unpleasant lines of frowning disobedience were fading from his childish countenance, and a gentle, earnest look coming into his eyes. "after this little boy's mother died," went on the governess, "there was nobody in the house to love him as she had done. his father was absent all day, and very often did not get home in the even- ing until poor little willy was fast asleep in bed. the angel and the demon. as it would not do to leave willy alone with the •cook and chambermaid, his father got a governess, who was to have the care of him and teach him all his lessons. now, it so happened that this gover- ness was not kind aud good as willy's mother had been, but was selfish and cruel. she gave him long, hard lessons, and if he did not get them— which he often could not—would punish him cruelly; sometimes by shutting him up in a dark closet, sometimes by making him go without eat- ing, and sometimes by whipping him. and all the while she managed to make willy's father believe that she was kind and good to him. "poor little willy! he grew pale and sad- looking, and no wonder. i was at the house one day" "oh, miss harper! did you know him?" said george, with a countenance full of interest. "yes, dear, i knew little willy; and i knew his mother before she died. as i was just saying, i called one day at the house, a few months after his mother was taken away from him; and, as the servant opened the door for me, i heard the voice of willy, and he was crying bitterly. all at once the voice was hushed to a low, smothered sound. "'what is the matter with willy?' i asked; and the angel and the demon. the servant answered that she supposed the go- verness was putting him into the dark closet again. in an instant there seemed to stand before me the child's dead mother, and she pointed upward with her finger. i did not stop to think, but ran up- stairs into the nursery, where i found the go- verness sitting by the window with a book in her hand. "'where's willy?' i demanded. she started, and looked very much surprised and a little angry. but i was in earnest. "'where's willy?' i repeated my question more sternly. as she did not stir, i went quickly across the room and opened a closet door, which i found locked, with the key on the outside. there, lying on his face, was the dear child. i took him up in my arms and turned his face to the light. it was pale as marble. i thought he was dead. "'bring me some water,' i called, in a loud, quick voice. the frightened governess fled from the room, but soon returned with water. i threw it into the dear child's face, and rubbed his hands and feet. in a few minutes, he began to breathe. "'give him to me, now,' said the governess, en- deavoring to lift him from my arms. but i said, * no; cruel woman!' she looked angry, but i was * the angel and the demon. not moved. 'untie my bonnet-strings,' i spoke to the chambermaid; and the girl took off my bonnet. "*' 'jenny,' said i to the chambermaid,—i knew her name,—'jenny, i want you to go for willy's father.' "jenny did not hesitate a minute. 'there's no use in sending for his father,' said the governess. but we didn't mind what she said. when willy's father came, she was gone. he was very much dis- tressed when he saw his dear little boy, and very angry when i told him about the dark closet. after that i became willy's nurse and teacher. but he did not stay with us very long. the angels came for him one lovely summer evening, and bore him up to the heavenly land; and he is now happy again with his mother." tears came into the eyes of all the children when florence harper ceased speaking. she had found the way to their hearts, and, not only this, had lifted for them just so much of the veil that concealed her true character as to let them see enough to win something of love and something of respectful con- sideration. the book was still in the hand of george, and, as he let his eyes fall from the face of miss harper, the angel and ti e demon. they rested on the open page. nothing was said by the latter. a few moments of silence passed, and then george, in a low but rather earnest voice, said over his lesson. the young governess had conquered. /_ the angel and the demon. looked her real character for the time. she was a superior, commanding an inferior, with a complete consciousness of the gulf that stretched between them. her manner, even more than her words, was offensive to the young governess, whose native in- dependence and self-respect impelled her at once to resign her position and leave the house. "george; madeline." she spoke quietly,—almost indifferently. , "why don't you call them as if you had some life in you?" exclaimed mrs. dainty, losing all patience. miss harper turned away without a word, and went up-stairs, intending to put on her bonnet and leave the house. near her room-door she met uncle john, who had overheard the offensive language of his niece. he saw that the young girl's face wore an indignant flush, and that both lips and eyes indicated a settled purpose. "what are you going to do?" he asked, letting her see by look and tone that he understood her feelings. "i am going away from here," she replied, firmly. "you must not do it," said uncle john. "self-respect will not permit me to remain," an- swered florence. "feeling must yield to duty, my dear young c the angel and the demon. lady," said uncle john, with an earnestness that showed how much he was interested. "my duty' is not here," was the slowly-spoken answer. "our duty is where we can do the most good. i know something of your morning's trials and wise discipline. you have done nobly, florence,—nobly. there is good in these children, and you must bring ,it forth to the light." "i am but human," said florence, with a quiver- ing lip. "you are gold in the crucible," replied uncle john. "the fire may be very hot, my dear young friend; but it will leave no mark upon your real character. it is not every spirit that has a quality pure enough to meet life's higher ordeals. xo, no: shrink not from the trials in your way. the lions are chained, and can only growl and shake at you their terrible manes. go back for the children. for their sakes, draw them to yourself with the singular power you possess. be to them all their mother fails to be. and always regard me as your friend and advocate." uncle john left her and went back to his own room. a few moments florence stood irresolute. then, stepping to the head of the stairs, she called, to george, who was pounding at his mother's door. the anoel and the demon. mrs. dainty had re-entered her chamber and locked it against the children. the child did not heed her in the least. going down to him, and taking his hand, which the stubborn little fellow tried to pre- vent her from doing, she said, in a voice that was very kind, and in a tone full of interest,— "george, dear, did i ever show you my book of pictures?" instantly the firm, resisting hand lay passively in hers; though he neither looked up nor answered. "it is full of the sweetest pictures you ever saw,—■ birds, and sheep, and horses; children playing in the woods; and ducks and geese swimming in the water." "won't you show them to me?" said the child, turning to his young teacher, and half forgetting, already, in the pleasing images she had created in his thoughts, his angry disappointment in being thrust from his mother's room. "yes; and you shall look at them just as long as you please," answered florence. madeline had thrown herself upon the passage- floor in a stubborn fit. her mother's discipline in the case, if the child had remained there until she came from her chamber, would have been to jerk her up passionately, and, while passion remained in the rapidly-acquired ascendant, inflict upon her the angel and the demon. from two to half a dozen blows with, her hand. wild, angry screams would have followed; and then the repentant mother would have soothed her child with promised favors. "madeline must see them also," said miss harper, pausing and stooping over the unhappy little girl. "don't you want to see my picture scrap-book?" she spoke very cheerfully. "oh, yes, madeline! do come! miss harper is going to show us a book full of such beautiful pictures." the voice of george went home. madeline arose to her feet. taking, each, a hand of their gover- ness, the two children went with light feet up to her room, and in her book of pictures soon lost all marks of their recent unhappy disturbance. mrs. dainty appeared at the dinner-table in a bad humor, and commenced scolding about the new governess. "she'll have to do better than this, before i am suited with her," she said, captiously. "what's the matter now?" asked mr. dainty, in a manner that exhibited some annoyance. "matter!" replied his wife. "i guess you'd think it was some matter, if, when you came in late, tired and hungry, the whole body of children were to hover around you with their thousand wants and the angel and the demon. complaints. it's miss harper's business to keep them out of the way. she's paid for doing it. i had to call her down from her room, and when i spoke to her sharply she turned herself from me with an air of offended dignity that was perfectly ridiculous. the upstart! i shall have it out with her this afternoon. no domestic shall treat me with even a shadow of disrespect. i scarcely think she comprehends her true position in the family; but i will enlighten her fully." the children listened with wide open ears, from agnes down to george. mr. dainty made no re- sponse, and uncle john merely remarked, "i hope you will think twice before you act once in this business of defining miss harper's position and making yourself clearly understood. my advice is, to be very sure that you understand yourself first." there was nothing to offend in the manner of uncle john. he spoke in sober earnest. "mother," said agnes, breaking in through the pause that followed uncle john's remark, "did you say that i should take my french lesson first?" ""no: who said that i did?" mrs. dainty answered, without a moment's reflection. "why, miss harper said so, and made me give my french recitation before i was ready for it." the angel and the demon. "i said no such thing." mrs. dainty spoke with some indignation, born of a vague notion, from what agnes had said, that the young governess was assuming arbitrary rule over the children, and falsely quoting her as authority. "i said no such thing! what does she mean by it?" "well, she said you did, and made me say a lesson before i had half learned it. that's not the way to do!" "oh, dear!" exclaimed mrs. dainty. "here comes the trouble i feared! give these vulgar people a position a little in advance of what they have been used to, and forthwith they take on airs. i saw it in the girl at the first interview. i knew then that she wouldn't suit, and if my judgment hadn't been overruled she never would have come into the house." mrs. dainty glanced toward meddlesome uncle john as she said this. but uncle john did not seem to be in the least disturbed. "agnes," said he, looking across the table at the injured and complaining girl, "what lesson did you propose to recite in place of your french?" agnes flushed a little as she answered,— "my music-lesson." "ah! that was the substitute. what about it?" and uncle john turned his quiet eyes upon the the angel and the demon. countenance of his niece. "if i am not mistaken, i heard you tell miss harper that you thought the hour from twelve to one the best for music." "maybe i did," answered mrs.dainty, pettishly; "but i didn't fix it as a law more binding than the statutes of the medes and persians. something was left to the girl's own discretion." "and i think it will be found on examination," said uncle john, "that she used the discretion wisely." "oh, but she said"—agnes had taken her cue from her mother—"that the hours for study had positively been fixed by mother, and that she had no authority to vary them in the least." "preposterous!" ejaculated mrs. dainty. "what's the news to-day?" said uncle john, turning to mr. dainty. "any thing of importance stirring in the city " he wished to change a subject the discussion of which could do nothing but harm among the children. the answer of mr. dainty led the conversation into an entirely new channel. once or twice, during the dinner-hour, mrs. dainty tried to renew her complaints against the governess; but uncle john managed to throw her off, and so the matter was dropped for the time. the angel and the demon. _ chapter iv. worth and pretension. the manner in which florence harper met the insolence of mrs. dainty—we give her conduct its true designation—chafed that high-spirited lady exceedingly. she could neither forget nor forgive such conduct in an inferior. what right had she to exhibit an independent spirit?—to show a womanly pride that would not brook an outrage? the very thought made the hot blood leap along the veins of indignant mrs. dainty. oh, yes. she would "have it out with her!" so, toward the middle of the afternoon, florence was sent for, and she went down to the sitting-room where mrs. dainty was alone. uncle john was on the alert. he had remained in his own apartment, listening, with the door ajar, for nearly an hour, and heard the sum- mons given to florence. he was in the sitting-room almost as soon as she was, and in time to prevent an interview, the result of which would, in all pro- bability, be the withdrawal of miss harper from the the angel and the demon. family. his niece looked at him with a frown as he entered. an offensive interrogation was just on her tongue, but she repressed the words, substituting therefor this query:— "when did we fix the hours of study for the chil- dren, miss harper?" "on the day before yesterday, ma'am," replied florence, in a calm, respectful voice. "i never had any thing to say to you on the sub- ject!" mrs. dainty lost temper, and, of course, dignity and self-respect. "was not ten o'clock mentioned by you as the hour when it would be best to commence the les- sons?" inquired florence. "if it was, that doesn't mean fixing all the hours of study " "you said you wished agnes to begin with french," said florence, quietly. "well, suppose i did: what then?" "only, that i understood you to mean that you wished her to let french constitute her first lesson, as most important. you will, no doubt, remember that i approved this, as her mind would always come fresh to the study." "approved!" mrs. dainty could not repress this manifestation of contempt. "you will also remember, that you spoke of the * the angel and the demon. hour from twelve to one as most suitable for music." miss harper looked at the excited lady with a steady gaze. "and upon that you based a set of arbitrary rules, and tried to enforce them by representing me as their author!" "no, madam, i did no such thing." florence drew her slender form up to its full height, and looked calmly, steadily, and with an air of dignified self-respect upon mrs. dainty. "i simply remained firm to my duty when agnes wished to begin with music; and said to her, that the hours of study had been arranged in consultation with you, and that i had no authority to change them. so i understood the matter, and, in my action, simply regarded the good of your child. i did not, of course, permit my pupil to direct the plan of study, and only yielded a reference to you in order to make my firmness of purpose the less offensive to her pride. and you must forgive me, madam, for saying, that it is neither just to me nor your children thus to react upon my honest efforts to meet your wishes in regard to their studies, and serve at the same time their best in- terests as a teacher. i wish, for the sake of your children, you knew me better. as it is, if you de- sire me to remain their instructor, you must either the angel and the demon. fix the hours and subjects of study in so plain a way that no one can mistake them, or leave it altogether in my hands. in either case, i will guarantee sub- mission on the part of the children." the outraged pride of mrs. dainty broke through the pressure of involuntary respect which the dig- nified, resolute, perfectly independent manner of the young teacher had inspired, and the word "im- pertinent!" was on her lips, when uncle john said,— "miss harper is clearly right, and i am pleased to know that she has acted with so much firmness and so much prudence. she is entitled to praise, not blame." mrs. dainty waved her hand for the governess to leave the room. without a word, or the slightest apparent hesitation, miss harper retired. "uncle john!" mrs. dainty turned angrily upon the old gentleman the moment they were alone, "i am out of all patience with you! what chance have l to command respect from inferiors in my house, if you step in to justify them to my face when i am attempting to blame improper actions? it's an outrage, and i won't have it!" "there is only one way to command the respect of your household, madeline," replied uncle john, "and that is, to treat them with kindness and jus- - the angel and the demon. tice. you may demand respect from those whom you regard as your inferiors, forever; but, unless your actions toward them be marked with dignity and ladylike self-possession, your command will be no more heeded than was that of the old british king who commanded the waves of the sea to stop their advancing course. respect or contempt is an independent thing, and always has free course. if a lady desires the first, she has to do something more than utter her proud behest. she has got to deserve it; and, if she fail in this, she will surely have the last,—contempt." "i don't wish to hear any more of that," replied mrs. dainty, curtly. "i hardly think it fair to seek a justification of your own conduct in turning around and assailing me. what right had you to approve miss harper's conduct to her face, when i was blaming her?" "the common right which every one has to drag another from the brink of a precipice over which he is about blindly casting himself. i have observed miss harper very closely since she has been in the house, and at times when she could not be aware of this observation. when you have been in the street, i have been at home, watching her deport- ment among the children; and it has always been kind, wise, and consistent. there has been no the angel and the demon. shadow of that domineering spirit of which you seem so nervously afraid, but always a firmness that knew just how far to yield, and how far to be im- movable. i happened to hear all that passed in regard to the french and music lessons. agnes was all to blame, and florence was all right. it was beautiful to see with what a gentle dignity florence met the efforts of agnes to be mistress instead of scholar, and how wisely she subdued the incipient lady's rebellious pride. she gave no offence in doing so, but really won upon her kind feelings; and, but for the opportunity given her pride to speak out its mortification, you would never have heard a word of complaint. "you will thus understand," continued uncle john, "why i threw in a word of justification in time to prevent the utterance of language on your part, which would inevitably have resulted in the loss of a governess for your children who has already gained more power over them for good than any other being in the world possesses. and now, madeline, let me warn you against any further ex- hibitions of passion, pride, or contempt toward one into whose hlmds you have committed the well- being of your children. seek to elevate, not de- press her. treat her with respect and considera- tion, and your children will do the same. you the angel and the demon. make her the guide, counsellor, and companion of your children. think of the vast influence she must exercise over them! the work of forming their young minds—of directing their characters— is in her hands, not yours. the mother's high pre- rogative you choose to delegate to one regarded as an inferior. happily, in this case, the choice of a representative has not been foolishly made. in all respects miss harper is qualified for her position, and, if sustained in it,' will act her part nobly. she is no common person, let me tell you, but one of superior mind, high moral worth, and almost perfect accomplishments,—in a word, a model for your chil- dren! but she is, at the same time, a young woman with too much self-respect to bear your haughty, insulting manners. h you wish to keep her, there- fore, you must not repeat the offences of to-day." "does she expect me to curtsy every time i meet her, and to say, 'if you please,' and 'by your leave, miss'?" the lips of mrs. dainty curled, and she looked very scornful. "no,—nothing of the kind. only that you shall treat her with common decency,—which you have not done!" uncle john was provoked. "you are quite complimentary, i must confess," said mrs. dainty, with an oft'ended manner. "i speak the truth, and that is always the highest the angel and the demon. , compliment i shall ever pay yon, my foolish niece!" retorted uncle john, who used his prerogative, in most cases, to the full extent. "i think we had better drop this subject," said mrs. dainty. "very well; let it drop now. i will renew it again when your feelings are less excited and your judgment less obscured. only let me repeat my warning about miss harper. you have an angel in your dwelling: let her remain to bless your chil- , dren. but the guest will not remain if you treat her as though she were a spirit of evil." the angel and the demon. chapter v. the wind and the bun. "mother, can't i take my music-lesson first?' said agnes. it was on the morning after her fruitless effort to be mistress instead of scholar. mrs. dainty was in the middle of one of the most absorbing chapters of the "mysteries of paris," a book which she had read until twelve o'clock on the night previous, and to which she had turned, imme- diately after her late breakfast, with the eagerness of a mere excitement-lover. she did not heed her daughter's question. only the sound of a disturb- ing voice was perceived. "mother!" agnes uttered her name in a loud, impatient tone, grasping her arm as she spoke, and shaking it to attract attention. "what do you want, you troublesome girl?" mrs. dainty turned angrily toward her daughter. "can't i take my music-lesson first?" "i don't care what lesson you take first! go away, and don't disturb me!" this was the mother's thoughtless answer. agnes the angel and the demon. glided away in triumph, and mrs. dainty's eyes fell back to the pages of her book, unconscious of the meaning of her reply. "i'm going to take my music-lesson first!" said agnes, as she came into the study-room, where miss harper was seated with george and madeline. and she tightened her lips firmly, elevated her chin, and tossed her head jauntily, while from her clear, dark eyes looked out upon her teacher a spirit of proud defiance. "very well," replied florence, in a voice that showed not the slightest disturbance. "at twelve o'clock i will be ready to give the lesson." "i'm going to take it now," said agnes, drawing up her petite form to its extreme height, and look- ing, or rather trying to look, very imperious. miss harper could scarcely help smiling; but she repressed all feeling, and merely answered,— "you can practise your scales for the next two hours, if you prefer doing so, agnes. at twelve i will give you a lesson." "i'll go and tell mother that you won't give me my music-lesson!" said the baffled, indignant girl, flirting out of the room. "mother!" she had grasped the arm of her mother again. "go away, and don't annoy me!" mrs. dainty d the angel and the demon. threw out her arm, and swept her daughter away from her side. "mother!" agnes had pressed back again, deter- mined that she would be heard. "what do you want?" mrs. dainty dropped her book from before her face, and turned, with anger flashing in her eyes, upon her daughter. "miss harper won't give me my music-lesson!" "oh, dear! there's to be nothing but trouble with that stuck-up girl!" exclaimed mrs. dainty. "i saw it from the first." and, tossing her book from her, she started up, and went with quick steps and a burning face to the room where miss harper sat with the two children next younger than agnes, who were leaning upon her and looking up into her face, gathering intelli- gence from her eyes as well as her fitly-spoken words. "see here, miss!" exclaimed mrs. dainty, as she came sweeping into the room, "i'm getting tired of this kind of work, and it must end! what do you mean by refusing to give agnes her music-lesson?" "do you wish her music to precede her french?" very calmly, and with a quiet dignity that rebuked the excited mother, was this question asked; but mrs. dainty was partially blinded by anger, and, obeying an ill-natured impulse, made answer,— the angel and the demon. "i want no airs nor assumptions from such as you! i hired you to instruct the children, not to set them by the ears. i saw from the beginning that you wouldn't suit this house,—that a little brief authority would make a tyrant of you, as it does of all vulgar minds." mrs. dainty was losing herself entirely. the face of miss harper flushed instantly, and for a moment or two an indignant fire burned in her eyes. but right thoughts soon find a controlling influence in all superior minds. the assailed young governess regained, almost as quickly as it had been lost, her calmness of exterior; nor was this calmness merely on the surface. she made no further remark, until the stubble fire in mrs. dainty's mind had flashed up to its full height and then died down for want of solid fuel. then, in a voice that betrayed nothing of disturbed feeling, she said,— "if it is your wish, madam, that agnes should take her music-lesson first, i have no objection. my duty is to teach her, and i am trying to do so faith- fully. but things must be done in order. establish any rules you deem best, and i will adhere to them faithfully." "give agnes her music-lesson!" mrs. dainty spoke with an offensive imperiousness, waving her hand toward the door. the angel and the demon. miss harper did not move. "do you hear me ?*' exclaimed mrs. dainty. the fires had received a new supply of stubble. "fool!" mrs. dainty turned quickly, a shame-spot already on her cheek, and met the angry eyes and contemp- tuous face of uncle john, who had thrown his voice iuto her ears alone. "fool!" his lips shaped the word for her eyes; and she saw it as plainly as if it had been written in staring capitals. uncle john beckoned to her with his head, step- ping back as he did so, in order to prevent the other inmates of the room from seeing him.- mrs. dainty obeyed the signal, and, without venturing another remark, retired from the study-room, and, sweeping past uncle john, sought refuge in her own chamber. "a'n't you going to give me my music-lesson, miss?" if her mother had retired from the field, there was no disposition whatever on the part of agnes to follow her example. "certainly," was the mild, evenly-spoken an- swer. "come along, then, and give it to me now." "i will be ready at twelve o'clock, agnes." the angel and the demon. "mother told you to give it to me now, and you've got to do so." "oh, don't talk so to miss harper, aggy!" said madeline, her voice trembling and her eyes filling with tears. the words came just in season. miss harper felt that all this was more than she ought to bear; and outraged pride was about rising above convic- tions of duty. "georgy and i love you. we will say our les- sons." the sweet child lifted her large, beautiful eyes to the face of her governess. "tell us a story, won't you, miss harper?" it was george who made the request. "as soon as you and madeline have said your lessons, i will tell you a nice little story." and florence won him to her will with a kiss. the lesson-books were opened instantly, and, the light tasks set, the little ones entered upon them with willing spirits. "come and give me my music-lesson!" broke in, discordantly, the voice of agnes. "at twelve o'clock, agnes." there was not the smallest sign of disturbed feeling in the manner of the governess. "mother will turn you out of the house! i heard her say so!" . the angel and the demon. a red spot painted itself on the brow of miss harper. but it faded as quickly as it came. seeing that she was not to have her will with the governess, agnes flirted from the room, and sought the apartment to which her mother had retired. "mother! mother! that upstart thing says she won't give me my music-lesson for you nor anybody els«!" now agnes went a step too far, and at the wrong moment. it was just then dawning upon the mind of mrs. dainty that her daughter had exaggerated the conduct of miss harper, and led her into an unladylike exhibition of herself. the sting of mor- tification excited her quite enough to make her turn with sharp acrimony upon this wilful daughter. "i don't believe a word of it!" she said, angrily. "all this trouble has grown^out of your bad con- duct. go off and say your lessons at the right time. i won't be annoyed in this way any longer." "but, mother" mrs. dainty took her by the arm and thrust her from the room, saying, passionately,— "don't let me see your face again to-day!" for several minutes agnes sat upon the stairs leading up to the study-room, so disappointed and mortified that only anger kept her from tears. down from this room came the low murmur of voices; the angel and the demon. and her ears recognised now that of madeline or george, and now that of miss harper. how mu- sical was the latter, compared with the sound of her mother's rebukiug tones that were still in her ears! in spite of pride and self-will, her heart acknow- ledged the contrast; and, with this acknowledg- ment, touches of shame were felt. even with mean false accusation on her side, self-will had failed to triumph. success would have blinded her to the quality of her own spirit; but failure made her vision clearer. all remained still in the mother's chamber and still through the house, as the mortified girl sat al- most crouching on the stairs, and quiet was only disturbed faintly by the muffled voices that were heard in the study-room. agnes could not help but think, for passion was subsiding; and thought dwelt naturally upon the persons and circumstances by which passion had been aroused into turbulence. a contrast between the mother's spirit and the spirit thus far shown by miss harper forced itself upon her mind, and she saw the beauty of the one and the deformity of the other. in spite of her pride, a feeling of respect for miss harper was born; and with this respect something of contempt for her weak, passionate mother found an existence. the angel and the demon. "now tell us the story, won't you, miss harper?" it was the voice of george, ringing down from the study-room. the lessons were over; and the promised story was to come. scarcely conscious of what she was doing, agnes moved quietly up the stairs, until she was near enough to the door of the study-room to hear dis- tinctly. "there was once a little flower-bud." miss har- per began her story in a low voice, and agnes leaned forward, listening earnestly. "it was very small, and two green leaves gathered their arms closely around it, for there was a hidden treasure of sweetness in the heart of that bud. one day the cold, angry wind came along, and wanted the bud to open her beautiful pink leaves and give out from her heart the sweet perfumes that were hidden there. he blew harshly upon her, throwing her little head first on one side and then upon the other, and called angrily for her to open, that her sweet- ness might breathe in his ugly face. but the two green leaves only hugged their arms closer around the bud. then he dashed her head upon the ground, and tried to trample the life out of her; for he did not love her at all: he only loved himsel f. the light stem that held the bud did not break, but only bent down, and, when the cruel wind was the angel and the demon. gone, raised up again from the ground and lifted the bud into the warm sunshine that was coming abroad. "it was very different when the gentle, loving sunshine came and asked the two green leaves to unclasp themselves and let the bud grow into a flower, that the sweetness might come out of its little heart. greener and softer grew these leaves, and they seemed almost to smile with pleasure, as they gently fell back from the swelling bud, that opened and opened in the face of the sunshine until it became a beautiful flower, the perfume in its heart filling all the air around." miss harper paused. "what a sweet story!" said madeline, looking still into the face of her governess, and with won- dering eyes, for she felt, child as she was, that the story had a signification. "love and kindness are always better than anger," said miss harper, answering the child's eyes. "the sunshine was love?" said madeline. "yes; and the cold wind was anger." "and what was the flower?" asked the child. i "you and george are human flhwers, dear;" and, from the swelling love in her pure spirit, miss the angel and the demon. harper pressed a kiss on the lips of both the children. "am i a flower?" asked george. "i call you a little human flower," answered tho governess,—"a little human flower, with love in your heart, hidden away there like sweetness in the heart of the bud i was telling you about. will you let me be your sunshine?" the wayward boy flung his arms around the neck of florence and clasped her tightly, but without speaking. he felt more than he could utter. a tear dropped upon the hand of agnes, as she sat upon the stairs near the door of the study- room. it seemed to her as if heaven were in that room, while she was on the outside. never in her life had she felt so strangely; never had such a sense of desolation oppressed her. that lesson of the bud, the wind, and the sunshine,—how deeply it had sunk into her heart! acting from a sudden impulse, she started up, and, going in where the young governess sat with an arm drawn around each of the two children, she said, with burning eyes, and a voice unsteady from emotion,— "be my sunshine also, miss harper! oh, be my sunshine! i have long enough been hurt by the angry wind!" the angel and the demon. an appeal so unlooked for surprised florence; but she did not hesitate. rising instantly, she took the extended hands of agnes in both of hers, and answered,— "i have only sunshine to give, dear agnes. regard me no longer as an enemy and an op- pressor. i am your friend." "i know it, i know it, miss harper!" "your true friend," added florence, kissing her. "and now," she added, in a sweet, per- suasive voice, "let us make this room sacred to peace, order, and instruction, and open all its win- dows for love's warm sunshine to stream in upon us daily." "it shall be no fault of mine if otherwise," was the low, earnest reply of the young girl, whom love had conquered. thb angel and the demon. chapter vi the governess dismissed. "how do you like your governess?" inquired a fashionable friend, who w£s making a call upon mrs. dainty. mrs. dainty shook her head and pursed up her lips in a vulgar way that was natural to her. "not perfect, of course," said the friend. "no,—not within a thousand miles of perfec- tion." "an american girl, i presume?" "yes." the lip of mrs. dainty assumed a curl of contempt. "poor american girls are an indifferent set," re- marked the lady. "a'n't you afraid that your children will, imperceptibly, imbibe her low habits and vulgar ways of speaking?" "yes; that is my greatest fear. already i think i see a change." "i wouldn't keep her an hour, if that were the case," said the lady. "no, not for the fraction of an hour!" she added, with emphasis. "i had al- the angel and the demon. most as soon see my children vicious as vulgar; for vice may be eradicated, but vulgarity is a stain nothing can polish out." "and, to add to her offence," remarked mrs. dainty, "she has assumed an upstart authority which has kept the house in hot water ever since she came into it. the children, and particularly agnes, will not submit to her rules and exac- tions." "why don't you pack her off? i'd do it in less than no time," said the refined acquaintance. "i've about made up my miqd to do it, and in spite of all opposition." "opposition! "who has any right to oppose?" "that fussy old uncle of mine is always meddling in our affairs,—uncle john." "why do you keep him about the house?" "he's my mother's brother," replied mrs. dainty. she could have given a better reason; but it would have been at the expense of an exposure of selfish- ness she did not care to make. "if he were my mother's great-grandfather, he couldn't find harbor in my house if he interfered in what didn't concern him," said the lady. mrs. dainty sighed. uncle john was a great trouble to her, for he would say what he thought and do what he pleased. but then uncle john g the angel and the demon. owned the house they lived in, which they occupied rent free, or in compensation for board. and, moreover, uncle john was worth two or three dol- lars where her not over-thrifty husband was worth one. no, no. it wouldn't just answer to turn uncle john out of the house; for that would be a losing business. "if i could only find the right stamp of a gover- ness," said mrs. dainty, sighing again. "i think i know a person who would just suit you." g "oh, indeed! where can i see her?" "have you any acquaintance with mrs. ashton?" "no,—though i have long desired to be num- bered among her friends." "only yesterday she mentioned to me," said the visitor, "that she knew a highly-accomplished eng- lish lady, a widow, whose husband died in the east india company's service, and asked me to bear her in remembrance if i should hear of any one who wanted a governess." "how fortunate!" exclaimed mrs. dainty. "an educated english lady! what more could i desire?" "nothing. shall i speak to mrs. ashton about you, and learn the lady's address?" "by all means. won't you see her this very day?" thk angel and the demon. moderately good society. but her husband failed in business several years ago, and died shortly afterward, i think. so it is her daughter you have for a governess! how things will come around! there was a time when she seemed to think i wasn't good enough to associate with her; and now her daughter has come down to the position of a hireling. well, well! isn't this a queer world? if florence is like her mother, i don't think she will suit." "she puts on airs above her station," said mrs. dainty. "an inherited fault. her mother had a way of looking down upon everybody. i couldn't bear her!" "humph! this spawn of hers actually assumed to put herself on a level with me, and to 'approve' my opinions in regard to the children's education! i was too provoked!" "you'll always have trouble with her," said the lady. "the stock isn't right. is agnes taking lessons in music?" she inquired, in a pause that fol- lowed. the sound of a piano had for some time been heard. mrs. dainty drew out her watch as she answered in the affirmative. she saw that it was half-past twelve o'clock. a moment or two she listened, while a serious expression came into her face. the angel and the demon. mother noticed this, and her blood grew hot as she imagined the cause to be a crushed spirit under the iron rule of miss harper. uncle john had made it his business to see a great deal more of what was going on than any one imagined. he understood the state of agnes's mind far better than did her mother. all was coming right, he saw, and his wise heart, so full of interest for the children, felt a burden of care removed. after dinner he went out. "just what i wished for," said mrs. dainty to. herself, as she saw him take his hat and cane. "i will make clean work of it with this 'angel' of yours: see if i don't!" "tell miss harper that i wish to see her in my room," mrs. dainty spoke to a servant, half an hour later. the servant carried the message to the go- verness, who obeyed the summons without a mo- ment's delay. "i have sent for you, miss harper, to say what you must have yourself inferred,—that you will not suit me for a governess." > mrs. dainty spoke coldly,—almost severely. that florence was surprised, her suddenly-heightened color showed plainly. she caught her breath, and for a few moments, looked bewildered. mrs. dain observed this, and said,— the angel and the demon. •thv "you have no reason to be surprised or disap- pointed, miss. i told you in the beginning that i leli didn't think you would suit; and i have never seen wa cause for a moment to change my mind since you ( came into the house. instead of falling into your her, place and doing your duty as became one in your h' | position, you have done nothing but keep me and fe^. the children in hot water from the day you entered wrt! the house. when you get a good situation again, take my advice, and be content with a hireling's f to' place, and don't assume the airs of a mistress. no lt lady will have her children domineered over as you '°^ have domineered over mine." "mrs. dainty, i repel" wj "not a word to me, miss! not a word to me!" hoi" replied the lady, imperiously. "i permit no one in : my house to answer back. here are your wages for the time you have been instructing the children. take the money, and go!" ffh* miss harper did not touch the money, but turned away, and was leaving the room. "miss harper!" the voice of mrs. dainty had. t¥ in it a commanding tone, en* florence paused, and turned partly around, jiri "why don't you take the money? say!" iin "i cannot receive pay for services that are so poorly regarded," was her calmly-spoken answer. the angel and the demon. "impudent!" miss harper turned away again. "stop!" the foot of mrs. dainty jarred on the floor. miss harper looked back. "don't see one of the children; but go off with yourself immediately!" the young governess flitted away almost as noise- lessly as a spirit. at the same moment mrs. dainty rung her bell violently. to the servant who an- swered, she said,— "tell all the children to come to my room." "they shall see who is mistress in this house." (so she talked with herself in the interval.)' "uncle john has had his way a little too long. but there is a point beyond which patience ceases to be a virtue; and i have arrived at that point." "what do you want, mamma?" asked madeline, as she came with agnes and her little brother into her mother's apartment. "i want you to stay here with me," was the cold answer. "can't i go back to miss harper? she was -telling us such a sweet story when you sent for her." "no; you can't go back. tou must stay here." "i don't want to stay here. i'm going back to miss harper. i like her better than anybody in this the angel and the demon. grasping george by an arm, she bore him, scream- ing, from the room; and, as his cries came back to her from the distance, miss harper could hear ming- ling with them the sound of passionate blows. "poor children!" she said. "there is good in them, but how sadly overgrown by weeds! with such a mother, what hope is there? but i must not linger here. for their sakes i would have remained, even though suffering insult daily. no choice is left me, however, and i must go." as miss harper passed the door of mrs. dainty's room, on her way down-stairs, dressed to leave the house, she heard the sobbing of george and made- line, mingled with stormy words that were passing between agnes and her mother. the purport of these she did not stop to hear, but hurried on, and, without seeing or speaking to any one, took her silent departure. the angel and the demon. chapter vii. a revelation. "florence!" miss harper stopped suddenly, and looked up in a bewildered manner. "florence!" repeated the voice of uncle john. "mr. fleetwood!" she could only utter the kind old man's name in a low, choking voice. "where are you going, florence?" he asked. "home," was the answer. "has anything happened at home? is your aunt sick?" "ito, sir." "are you sick, florence?" "yes, sir. sick at heart!" was the reply of florence, made with quivering lips. uncle john turned, and walked beside miss har- per, in the direction he had found her going. "there is something wrong, florence," said he. "why have you left the house of my niece so sud- denly?" "mrs. dainty has dispensed with my services." "what?" the angel and the demon. "mrs. dainty does not wish me any longer to hold the place of governess to her children," said florence. uncle john was silent for some moments. he then said,— "how did tjiis happen? tell me everything freely." florence related what had passed between her and mrs. dainty at the hurried interview preceding her departure from the house. "you must go back again," said uncle john, after florence had finished her brief narrative. "impossible !" was her firm answer. "say not so, florence." "impossible, mr. fleetwood! impossible! i am not strong enough to bear all this insult and indig- nity. i can suffer pain, or even death; but my spirit will not brook humiliation like this! only for the children's sake have i remained up to this day." "and only for their sakes would i still have you remain," said uncle john. "but the door is shut against me; and i will never knock to have it opened," said the young girl, with, an indignant spirit; "never! never!" she repeated the words very firmly. "the door must be opened for you, and without the angel and the demon. this visit?" she added, a slight shadow coming into her face as she looked more narrowly at flo- rence. "a providential one, doubtless," said mr. fleet- wood, smiling. "i met your niece, just now, flee- ing from the post of duty, and have accompanied her hither, that i might hear the report she has to make of herself." "a good report, i doubt not," replied the old lady, throwing a kind but serious glance upon the countenance of her niece. "when the door is shut in your face, you can hardly be blamed for leaving the threshold," said florence, with some bitterness in her tones. "is it so bad as that, my child?" mrs. elder spoke with much tenderness, which did not wholly conceal a flush of indignation. "just so bad." florence said this slowly, and with an emphasis on every word. "just so bad," she repeated. "and yet mr. fleetwood wishes me to return for the children's sake." "and is not that a powerful motive?" said the old gentleman, speaking before mrs. elder had time to reply. "for the children's sake! for the sake of those little ones whom the lord, when upon the earth, took up in his arms and blessed with a divine blessing,—who are so precious in the eyes of ilea- the angel and the demok. ven that their angels do always behold the face of our father. i urged, you see, mrs. elder, no light motive." • the eyes and countenance of florence both drooped to the floor, and she remained sitting al- most motionless. "i must know all the facts in the case, mr. fleet- wood, before i can say a word touching the duty of my niece. what she sees to be right she has the courage to do, and, if my eyes can aid her in seeing right, i will gladly lend her their more experienced vision. let me have the whole story of this new trouble with mrs. dainty." in as few words as possible, florence rehearsed what had passed between her and mrs. dainty, giving to her auditors that lady's emphatic and in- sulting terms of dismissal. mrs. elder remained gravely silent for some minutes after florence had ceased speaking; while mr. fleetwood waited patiently to get the conclu- sion of her thoughts. "i don't see that it is possible for florence to go back again," said the old lady, speaking as if that view of the case were clearly settled in her mind. "extreme cases require extreme measures," said mr. fleetwood. "i treat my niece, for most of the the angel and the demon. time, as if she were partially demented. and so she is; for vanity and love of the world have in a measure dethroned her reason. she was my favorite when a little girl; and i remained strongly attached to her as she grew up toward womanhood, —though i could not be over-patient with the fashionable follies to which she showed far too early an inclination. for some years i have been alto- gether out of heart with her, and see no hope of her reformation, except- through virtue of some great calamity. but she has children, to whom all . my love is transferred,—children who may be trained to good or warped to evil. i had almost come to despair of them, when a bright day re- newed old acquaintanceship, and i discovered in your excellent niece all the qualities needed to save these children. how wisely, lovingly, and un- selfishly she has performed her task so far i need not repeat to you, mrs. elder, for i have told you every word before. and now, do you think i can give her up? no, no. she must return. but i will make the way as easy for her as pos- sible. all the rough places i cannot hope to make even; but she has courage to walk, if she knows the voice of*duty, even where sharp stones are certain to cut her tender feet. already she has won her way into the hearts of the children, and the angel and the demon. has at this moment more power over them for good than any living soul. this power must not be lost." "every child that is born," said aunt mary, in a thoughtful tone, "is precious in the eyes of god, and his love toward that child is manifested in the best possible arrangement of things external to its life, in order that these may awaken in its heart emotions of kindness, mercy, and pity toward others. such emotions, whenever excited, fix themselves as permanent things in the young im- mortal, and remain there like good seed that may be warmed into life and produce good fruit when time has brought the age of rational freedom. it is by such remains of good and true things in all their varieties, which are stored up in the minds of children from the earliest days of infancy, up to manhood, that our divine father is able to save us from the evil inclinations we inherit, when we step forth, as men and women, self-reliant and ration- ally responsible. to help in the work of storing up in the minds of young children such 'remains,' as i have called them, is indeed ^a heavenly work; and all who engage in it are co-workers with angels." "and to neglect such work," said mr. fleet- wood, "when it lies in our way, and will be per- * the angel and the demon. formed by no other hands if we refuse to do it, involves no light responsibility. the perversion, corruption, and final ruin of an immortal soul is a fearful thought." a deep sigh fluttered the bosom of florence har- per; but she made no remark. "if a mother neglect her high duties in this re- gard," said mrs. elder, "can we say that another becomes responsible in her stead?" florence raised her head and listened with marked interest for mr. fleetwood's answer to this question. he reflected a moment, and then made reply:— "for the work god sets before us are we alone responsible. his love for his children is so great that he is ever providing the means to help them to a knowledge of the good that is needful to secure their happiness. if those appointed by natnre to do good to his little ones neglect their high trust, he leads others to a knowledge of their wants; and, if these pass by unmoved to kindness, he still offers the heavenly work to other hands." the head of florence again drooped, and again her bosom trembled with a sigh. "i do not ask florence to return to our house to-day," said mr. fleetwood. "she must have r little time for rest and reflection, and i must have the angel and the demon. a little time for observation and management at home. the meaning of this hasty step on the part of my niece i do not comprehend. something lies behind it that i must make out clearly before acting." "i will see you in the morning, florence," added the old gentleman, on rising to go. then, taking her hand, he said, very earnestly, and with slight emotion,— "ever regard me as your friend,—nay, more than a friend,—as a father. do not fear that i' will advise you to any course of action in this i matter that i would not advise you to take were you indeed my own child—as—as you might have been!" the voice of the old man grew strangely veiled with feeling as he uttered, in something of an absent way, the closing words of the last sentence. "yes! yes! as you might have been, florence!" repeated mr. fleetwood, with sudden energy, catch- ing at the hand of the young girl and pressing it to his lips. "tell her all! yes, tell her all!" he added, turning to mrs. elder in a hurried, excited man- er. "her presence moves me strangely, and ■emories of the past are too strong for an old aan's feelings." tne angel and the demon. mr. fleetwood left, abruptly, the apartment, pass- ing into the street, and so leaving the aunt and niece alone. "tell me all of what, aunt mary?" said florence, • coming to the side of mrs. elder. her face had become very pale. "a simple story of thwarted love and undying affection," replied aunt mary, calmly. "mr. fleet- wood loved your mother, and that love was only in a measure returned. your father won her heart more truly, and she decided in his favor. they were married, and you are their only child. if your mother had married mr. fleetwood, the current of her life might have run smoother; but whether she would have been happier is not for me to say. mr. fleetwood never would marry again; and it seems that his love for your mother has been an undying passion. i will say no more than this. but he is a man of great moral worth, noble sentiments, and a true heart. his interest in you is not a passing whim or preference, but has in it such deep regard as a wise and good father knows only for his child. and so you may be very sure that he will advise you to no course of action in regard to his niece and her children that he would not advise for his own daughter. it was his love for these children that led him to desire you for their governess,— the angel and the demon. you, whom he rightly knew only through my re- presentation of your character. i think you will see it best to return to your post." "i can only go back through mrs. dainty's invita- tion, and, i was going to say, after her apology." • "withhold for the present that last condition," said aunt mary. "i doubt not, when the time comes, the way in which your feet should walk will be made very plain." f the angel and the demon. engaged, but that she can send me word as to her business." the waiter retired. on coming back he said,— "the woman wouldn't tell me her business. she says she was desired to call by mrs. ash ton, but that, if you are not prepared to see her, it is of no consequence." "mrs. ashton! oh, yes; now i understand! has she gone?" the manner of mrs. dainty changed suddenly; and she made the inquiry with manifest eagerness. "she acted as if she were going," replied the waiter. "go back quickly, and say that i will be down in a moment." a gleam of satisfaction shot across the face of mrs. dainty. "my new english governess!" she ejaculated, in a low tone, as the waiter left the room. "i'll soon have a new order of things with the children!" after slightly adjusting her dress, which had be- come disarranged during her sleep in the easy-chair, mrs. dainty put on as grave an air of dignity as she could assume, and went down to the parlor. as she entered, a tall woman dressed in black arose, and stood, awaiting her approach, with a half proud, half deferential air, fixing upon her at the same time the angel and the demon. two small, gray, piercing eyes, that seemed to go right through mrs. dainty. her widow's weeds, as the waiter had informed his mistress, were a little rusty; and the same might be said of her com- plexion. her nose was rather a marked feature for prominence and size; her lips were delicate in com- parison with the rest of her face, and had a certain flexibility which showed them to be quick indicators of feeling. the whole aspect of the face made upon mrs. dainty, at the first glance, rather an unfavor- able impression; and she seemed to be pushed from rather than drawn toward the woman. "mrs. jeckyl ?" she said, assuming a frank, smiling courtesy, as she came forward and offered her hand. "my name." and the visitor bowed with a re- served dignity, giving only the tips of her fingers to mrs. dainty. "mrs. ashton desired you to call?" "yes, ma'am. she said you were about changing your governess, and would like to see me on the subject." the woman's manner a little embarrassed mrs. dainty: there was in it an air of conscious supe- riority that rather overawed her. "i have dismissed an upstart american girl, who took on airs with both me and my children," replied mrs. dainty, with considerable warmth. the angel and the demon. "american girls. i have observed," said the visitor, "are apt to forget themselves in the respect you mention. it grows naturally out of your system of government, i presume. this equality of the people must often show itself as an offensive element in society. i have been many times annoyed by it since i came to america." "oh, it's dreadful!" replied mrs. dainty. "dread- ful!" "like other evils," was replied, "it will, i sup- pose, cure itself in time. people who can afford to be independent will throw off the rude familiars^ who thrust themselves too far in advance of their right positions." "exactly so, as i have done in the case of miss harper, whom i sent off without a moment's warning, for the offence of presumption. she very foolishly imagined that her judgment and her will touching the children were superior to mine, and ventured to set me at naught in their eyes. it was a bold experiment on her part, and proved, of course, a failure." "if all american ladies would act with a like decision of character," said mrs. jeckyl, "a needed reform would take place much sooner than it is likely to occur while things go on as at present. but to the purpose of my visit. you desire, as i the angel and the demon. understand, to secure the services of a competent governess for your children." "i do," replied mrs. dainty. "so i have been informed; and i have called to see you at the particular request of mrs. ashton. i do not know that i am prepared to make a positive engagement at present, however. the position will be new to me; and i feel averse to assuming it. having moved all my life in the best english society, i find it hard to repress a natural repugnance to be- coming a mere employee—a kind of half servant— in an american family." "i am not surprised at the feeling," said mrs. dainty, whose respect for the lady had mounted at least thirty degrees on the scale of estimation. "it would be strange if you felt differently. but i think we can make your position in our family wholly agreeable. at least, it shall not be my fault if there is any failure." "if the lady herself is on my side "mrs. jeckyl paused. "you need not be troubled for the rest," said mrs. dainty, finishing the sentence. "very truly said," was remarked, in a compliant, insinuating manner. the two ladies then came down to a regular * business interview, in which the questions of service the angel and the demon. and compensation were fully discussed. the terms of the applicant were high, and her stipulations varied. she was to have no care of the children beyond their education. mrs. dainty must have a nurse to give all attention to their bodily wants, while she administered solely to their mental needs. the hours of study must be fixed, and the nurse produce the children at the study-room doors pre- cisely at the time specified. with the termination of the study-hours, all demands upon the governess for service in the family must end. after that her time must be her own. as to her meals, they must be sent to her room, and she must have the privilege of ordering as she desired from the day's bill of fare. all this was imperative, and all this mrs. dainty yielded, so earnest was she in her desire to secure the services of this accomplished english lady. "there is one thing of which i must advise you," said mrs. dainty, during the interview. "we have residing with us a bachelor uncle of mine, who, being in no business, amuses himself by petty inter- ferences in our family concerns. he is a terrible annoyance sometimes. i mention this in the be- ginning, that you may be prepared for him. one of the reasons why i sent oft" that american girl was, because he took her side in every thing, and encouraged her in all her airs and assumptions." the angel and the demon. "he must keep out of my way." there was a peculiar lifting of mrs. jeckyl's upper lip as she said this,—as we sometimes see it in an angry beast,— just showing her teeth enough to make it evident that she had the power to bite, and the will, too, under sufficient provocation. the effect on mrs. dainty was not pleasant; but she waved aside the warning impression as something in which there was no meaning. "hold him entirely aloof," she said. "do not permit his interference in the smallest matter." "what right has he to interfere?" mrs. jeckyl showed a measure of womanly indignation. "none!" was answered, with warmth. "none! i consider myself competent to decide in all ques- tions touching the management of my own children, and his meddlesome interference puts me out of all • patience. "we' must lay our heads together to cir- cumvent him entirely." "why circumvent?" said mrs. jeckyl. "why take all that trouble? isn't there an easier and plainer way?" "i do not wish seriously to offend my uncle," replied mrs. dainty, slightly depressing her tone. "he is an excellent, well-meaning, kind-hearted man. i would therefore circumvent rather than harshly oppose him. he is rather quick-tempered, the angel and the demon. and an open rupture might ensue. the best way for you will be to keep him entirely at a distance. stand wholly on your dignity. do not respond to any suggestion or advice that he may offer in regard to the children, but keep your own counsel and carry out your own views." "trust me for that," said mrs. jeckyl. "he will always find me rock or india-rubber." "when will you come?" asked mrs. dainty, as this preliminary interview was about closing. "as early as you desire," replied the educated english lady. "to-morrow, if it is agreeable." "i wish you would say this afternoon." "this afternoon!" mrs. jeckyl opened her small gray eyes wider than usual. "i have a particular reason," said mrs. dainty. "if it is very particular." there was a yielding air about mrs. jeckyl. "it is,—very particular. i will explain. uncle john knows nothing at all yet about my break with miss harper, and still thinks her in the house. her services were obtained through him, and he seems to regard her as a kind of protsgi. now, in order to let him understand that i am entirely in earnest, and that her return is impossible, i wish him to learn two facts in the case at the same time,—that the old governess has left the house, and that a new » the angel and the demon. chapter ix. the shadow of evil. showing the room was a simple affair, but when it came to showing up the children the matter as- sumed rather a complicated aspect. agnes was the first whom mrs. dainty ventured to introduce to the new governess. "my oldest daughter, mrs. jeckyl," she said, as agnes, who had been summoned to the study-room, entered with a grave, half-wondering, perceptibly- clouded face. "agnes, mrs. jeckyl, our new go- verness, who takes the place of miss harper." agnes, who had advanced to within a few steps of her mother and mrs. jeckyl, stopped suddenly. the quicker-flowing blood dyed her face to a deep crimson. the tall, repulsive-looking englishwoman —repulsive to the sight of agnes—advanced a step and offered her hand; but, instead of taking the extended hand, agnes merely returned her sharp penetrating look, with one half fearful and half repugnant. the angel and the demon. "why don't you speak to the lady?" said mrs. dainty, with some sharpness of tone. agnes partially extended her hand, and mrs. jeckyl, changing her dignified look to one of smiling insinuation, accepted the reluctant courtesy. "sit down, my dear." mrs. dainty's manner changed, and her voice assumed its pleasantest tones. the three then sat down, facing each other, but neither of them at ease. "mrs. jeckyl," said the mother, "has come to take the place of miss harper as your governess. she is an accomplished english lady, and will be very kind to you. i shall expect you to submit j'ourselves to her dutifully, and to be guided by her instructions. you are the oldest, my daughter, and your example to madeline and george will be all- potent. as you lead, they will follow. lead them kindly, then, into obedience and acquiescence. it is in your power to make this change an easy one for all parties. confide in mrs. jeckyl. you will find her worthy of all confidence." "believe me, my dear child," (mrs. jeckyl took up the theme in a peculiarly insinuating voice, and with a smile that obliterated nearly every disagree- able feature in her countenance,) "that i am indeed your friend. i do not come here as a harsh, exact- the angel and the demon. first impressions are rarely continued. she will find me considerate, just, and sympathizing. i have been young, and can well remember the days of girlhood. indeed, the child in me is not all extin- guished yet. i like your daughter's face, and see in it the index of a mind to which judicious culture will give strength and beauty." "thank you for the prophecy," said mrs. dainty, highly pleased with this well-timed remark. "i have seen that agnes possessed more than ordinary endowments, and that all she wanted was a judicious instructor, who could be at the same time a wise and loving friend. be that to her, mrs. jeckyl, and you will have our everlasting gratitude." "trust me, madam, that i will seek the highest good of your children in all things," was replied in a manner that was meant to be impressive, but which so thinly veiled the hypocrite that agnes, whose eyes were upon the woman's face, curled her lip in almost involuntary contempt. "call george and madeline," said mrs. dainty, but little encouraged by agnes's reception of the governess, and anxious to get matters settled be- tween this latter personage and the children as quickly as possible. agnes left the room, and soon returned with her brother and sister. madeline entered with a de- the angel and the demon. i mure face, and shy, timid air; while george bounded in, boy-like, shouting at the top of his voice. "george!" mrs. dainty held up her finger in a warning way. george checked his rude manner, and stood with his large eyes fixed curiously upon the face of mrs. jeckyl, who tried to put on a most winning counte- nance. but, so far as the boy was concerned, her eftbrt was entirely fruitless. to him her aspect was wholly repulsive. ""what old woman is this, mamma?" he asked, looking from mrs. jeckyl to his mother. "why, george! george! hush! what do you mean? where are your manners?" and the face of mrs. dainty crimsoned. "you see, mrs. jeckyl," she said, trying to apolo- gize for the child's rudeness, "how our children ape the coarse manners of these vulgar american do- mestics. miss harper, the governess whom i have just dismissed, has left her mark behind her, as you see; and a very ugly mark it is." "she isn't ugly at all!" exclaimed george, by no means comprehending the drift of his mother's re- mark, but understanding clearly enough that miss harper was the subject of disparaging words. "she's beautiful, and i love her. i do!" "madeline dear,"—mrs. dainty turned from the angel and the demon. george, over whom she had but little influence, and spoke very pleasantly,—" let me present you to mrs. jeckyl, who is to be your governess in the place of miss harper." but the child, instead of advancing toward mrs. jeckyl, stepped back slowly,—as if the woman's eyes were two broad, strong hands, pushing her away,—receding until she stood against the wall. "madeline! come here this moment! what do you mean?" mrs. dainty spoke sharply. the child now moved, sideling, along the wall, keeping her gaze fixed, as by a kind of fascination, upon mrs. jeckyl, until she came opposite to where her mother was sitting. then, not withdrawing her eyes for an instant from the strange woman's face, she came forward and stood by her mother's side. "this is my second daughter, madeline," said mrs. dainty, pushing the child toward mrs. jeckyl. "how are you, my dear?" mrs. jeckyl, seeming not to observe the intense repugnance of the child, reached out a hand, and, taking hold of madeline, drew her.almost forcibly to her side. "what a nice little girl!" she said, holding her tightly in one hand, and smoothing her hair with the other. "what sweet curls! where did you get them, dear?" the angel and the demon. but madeline, with a flushed, half-frightened face, tried to release herself from the woman's firm grip. "what dear children you have!" said mrs. jeckyl, now insinuating an arm around madeline, and continuing to smooth her hair with gentle but regularly-repeated passes. "we shall be the best of friends in a little while. i shall love them very much." once or twice madeline, over whose face rapid changes were passing, (at one moment it was deeply flushed, and at the next overspread by a strange pallor,) made a spring in the effort to release her- self. but the hand of mrs. jeckyl, that was upon her arm, tightened to a vice-like grasp, while the other intermitted not for an instant its regular motions, just above, or slightly touching, her hair. "we shall be very good friends, madam,—the best of friends. i always attach children strongly." mrs. jeckyl spoke confidently, and like one wholly at her ease. at this moment mrs. dainty became oppressed with a feeling of vague terror, united with an almost intolerable repugnance toward mrs. jeckyl; and it was with an effort that she overcame the impulse to bpring forward and snatch madeline from her invest- q » the angel and the demon. ing arm. a little while she struggled weakly against this strange feeling; then it passed slowly away, aud, like one awakening from a dream, she found the current of her life moving on once more in its regular channels. but she had a different impres- sion of mrs. jeckyl, and a new feeling toward her. it seemed as if they had been suddenly removed from each other, and to so great a distance that immediate contact was forever impossible. she was about suggesting that it might be as well for mrs. jeckyl to defer until the next day her formal entrance into the family, when she observed a change in madeline, who, instead of endeavoring to get away from the new governess, now leaned against her, although the hand that held her a little while before was no longer closed upon her arm. almost at the moment of noticing this, mrs. jeckyl raised the unresisting child to her lap, who leaned her head back against her, and gazed up into her face with a pleased, confiding, almost affectionate, look. "i said we would be good friends." mrs. jeckyl glanced with an exultant smile toward mrs. dainty. "i understand the art of attaching children. what a dear, sweet child this is! i promise myself a world of pleasure in entering into her pure young mind the angel and the demon. and storing it with lessons of wisdom. and your oldest daughter" mrs. jeckyl turned her glittering eyes—that seemed to have in them a charmed power—upon agnes. for a moment or two the young girl was retained by them, as if a spell were on her: then she turned away and fled from the room, her whole being per- vaded by a strange sense of fear. not in the smallest degre^ did mrs. jeckyl seem to be disconcerted at this. "young people have curious fancies," she said, in an even voice. "i am used to them, and know how to adapt myself to all these variant peculiari- ties. give yourself no further trouble about my position with your children. i will manage all that. leave me now with madeline and george. i want to make their better acquaintance. come, georgie dear; i have in my pocket the funniest little box, with the funniest little man in it, you ever saw in your life." the funny little box, and the funny little man, won over the romping boy, and he went to the side of mrs. jeckyl without a moment's hesitation. it was as much as mrs. dainty could do to tear herself from the apartment and leave her two little the angel and the demon. children alone with this woman. she felt a vague sense of evil. a shadow, as from the wing of danger, seemed to have fallen upon her spirit. but mrs. jeckyl asked to be alone with them, and she felt that she must retire. the angel and toe demon. chapter x. a little breeze. "who is that old woman i met on the stairs just now?" inquired mr. fleetwood, late in the afternoon of the day made memorable by the entrance of mrs. jeckyl into the dainty family. "it is our new governess," replied agnes, to whom the question was addressed. a look of dis- gust marred her face as she spoke. "your new governess!"' exclaimed uncle john, in amazement. "when did she come, and where from?" "she came two hours ago; but whether she dropped from the clouds, or was dug out of the earth, is more than i can tell. she's horrible! i don't know what's come over mother!" "who is she? what is her name?" "a wicked-looking old woman, whom mother calls an accomplished english lady. her name is jeckyl." "jeckyl? jeckyl?" uncle john shook his head. "never heard of her before." * the angel and the demon. "nor anybody else but mother. and where she found her, the dear only knows!" "why was florence harper sent away?" a sad expression came into the face of agnes, as she replied,— "my fault, i suppose. in my blind self-will, i resisted her when she was right and i was wrong; and i complained of her unjustly. mother talked very roughly to her,—she's always done that; and then—and then, i believe, miss harper went away." "miss harper was a kind, good girl," said uncle john, "and tried always to do what was right. i am sorry you misunderstood or resisted her, for she was the best friend you will ever find in a gover- ness." "i know she was, uncle; and i have learned it just too late. oh, i would give any thing in the world to have her back again." "i must see your mother at once," said uncle john. "where is she?" "in her own room." "will you say that i want her?" agnes went to her mother's room. "uncle john wishes to see you," said she. "what does he want to see me about?" asked mrs. dainty. the angel and the demon. "i don't know. he's waiting for you over in the sitting-room." "tell him i'm engaged just now." but that reply didn't suit uncle john at all. his niece had no business to be engaged, to him! "what is she doing?" he inquired of agnes. "reading." "ah, well! if she can't come to me, i can, at least, go to her." and uncle john left the sitting- room. mrs. dainty started and looked confused as mr. fleetwood entered her chamber. • "very particularly engaged?" said the old gentle- man, a little sarcastically. "i didn't imagine that your business was one of life and death!" retorted mrs. dainty, with height- ening color. "and yet it may be, for all your defect of imagi- nation," said the old man, seating himself with the air of one who had something on his mind. "where is florence harper?" "that is a question not in my power to answer," replied mrs. dainty. "she left here some hours ago." "why did she leave?" "i sent her away." "for what cause?" "she did not suit me." the angel and the demon. "in what respect?" "in all respects." "a sweeping range of objections, truly. may i ask another question?" "forty, if you like." "who is that old woman i met on the stairs a little while ago?" "old woman! i've seen no old woman." mrs. dainty emphasized the last words. "a middle-aged woman, then, with a hard— almost wicked—face. she was dressed in black." "our new governess, probably," said mrs. dainty. "that old hag your new governess!" uncle john felt outraged, and spoke intemperately. "i beg of you not to use such language, uncle john." mrs. dainty afi'ected calmness, and spoke in a tone of quiet rebuke. "the person to whom you refer is an accomplished english lady, whose husband—a man of rank, i believe—died in the east india company's service." "poh! a cast-off, superannuated lady's maid, more like!" retorjed uncle john, with overflowing indignation. "this is insufferable!" exclaimed mrs. dainty, losing temper. "what is insufferable?" the angel and the demon. it was uncle john's turn to assume an exterior calmness. "your unwarrantable interference in our family concerns! it has come to a pretty pass when i can- not even buy a beefsteak, or turn off a disorderly domestic, but you must interfere in the matter and volunteer an ignorant condemnation. to tell you the plain truth, uncle john, i am getting very tired of this, and wish it to end. i didn't consult you about this affair, because i didn't think it one in which you had any rights or interest." "indeed! you ignore my interests quite sum- marily. pray, did you consult your husband?" inquired mr. fleetwood. "no, i did not!" was replied. "there was no occasion to worry his mind on the subject." "probably you thought he had no more right in the case than your troublesome old uncle," said mr. fleetwood, sarcastically. "whether he had or not doesn't signify in the present controversy," replied mrs. dainty, still showing a great deal of angry excitement, "i chose to send away an offensive, upstart american girl, who didn't know her place, and who kept the chil- dren by the ears half of the time, and take in her tead an accomplished, middle-aged lady, with years the angel and the demon. and experience on her side. i have no question in regard to my husband's acquiescence, and therefore shall not permit you to hector me on the subject. so pray, uncle john, spare me any further annoy- ance! it will only tend to produce, in both of us, states of unkinduess." "where so much is at stake, i must venture much," said mr. fleetwood. "i pray you, in turn, be not offended, if i press you on this subject. the love i bear for you and these children will not let me keep silence. you have strangely misappre- hended florence harper. she" "uncle john!" mrs. dainty interrupted the old gentleman, "i have shut the door against her: so let her name die in this house. i shall not consent to canvass with you either her good or evil qualities. i know just as much of her as i ever care to know." "what do you know of this mrs. jeckyl, to whom, in such mad haste, you have given over the care of your children? an accomplished english lady? is that the extent of your knowledge? did you ever hear of her before to-day?" "go on, uncle john! go on! i will try to be patient!" said mrs. dainty, leaning back in her chair and forcing to her lips a smile of resignation. "a fig for your patience! answer me in reason!" retorted the old gentleman. the angel and the demon. "i will when i make you my father confessor; but not before. i have no need at present for such a ghostly appendage." in this spirit the controversy went on for more than half an hour, no advantage whatever being gained by uncle john. mrs. dainty said that she had tried a governess of his selection, and tried her faithfully; and now she was going to try one of her own choosing, and, if he talked until doomsday, it would not, in the smallest degree, affect her purposes in the case. most reluctantly did mr. fleetwood consent to abandon the argument. he felt that too much was at stake. but a woman's will in the case was alto- gether too strong for him. mrs. dainty had made up her mind to have her own way, and all remon- strance, argument, and persuasion went with her for nothing. the angel and the demon. chapter xl the demon unveiled. "such a scene as i have had with that meddle- some old uncle of mine!" said mrs. dainty to mrs. jeckyl. the two ladies met in the room of the latter, whither mrs. dainty repaired as soon as mr. fleetwood, hopeless of gaining any influence over her, had retired, discomfited, from the field of con- troversy. "on what subject?" inquired the new governess. "oh, about you!" said mrs. dainty. "about me? what about me?" the small, gray eyes of mrs. jeckyl lightened. "i told you that miss harper, that abominable girl i sent oft" to-day, was a pet of his." "ah, yes; i remember. well, there's one thing very certain, madam: he'll find no pet or plaything in me!" there was the look of an ogre in the woman's skinny face. "i met him on the stairs an hour ago: one glance told me his character. i read him like a book." "how did you read him?" asked mrs. dainty. the angel and the demon. "he's an old cot-betty! a thing i despise!" said mrs. jeckyl, with contempt. "he's kind-hearted." mrs. dainty uttered a word of apology for uncle john. it came from her lips almost unbidden. "kind-hearted! any fool may be kind-hearted," said mrs. jeckyl, "and yet be very annoying in his folly. i never had much fancy for what are called kind-hearted people by way of apology for a thou- sand annoying vices and defects of character." "uncle john has few defects of character, and no vices." mrs. dainty could not help this just defence of her excellent relative. "by your own showing, madam," said mrs. jeckyl, affecting a pleasant tone, "he is very much inclined to be meddlesome in your affairs: that i call a vice. if you think the appellation too severe, you can call the peculiarity by another name. i can't tolerate such men!" "i don't ask your toleration of him. only avoid, if possible, giving offence. for my mother's sake, if not for his own, i must bear with him and treat him with all considerate kindness." "i'll manage him," said mrs. jeckyl. "so don't give yourself any trouble about his interference with my duties or privileges in the house." there was considerable modification in the tone the angel and the demon. and manner of mrs. jeckyl. she saw that she had shown her rough side a little too plainly, and that there were reasons why mrs. dainty could not ignore uncle john altogether. "you must bear as kindly as possible with his peculiarities. lie means well," said mrs. dainty, as a very feeling sense of her many obligations to uncle john, past, present, and to come, grew dis- tinct in her mind. "he won't trouble me any." mrs. jeckyl smiled in a lamb-like way,—or, rather, tried so to smile. but the effort was one so unusual to her that she failed in the result; and mrs. dainty was in some doubt as to the meaning of the curious expression that came into the woman's face. she had visited the room of mrs. jeckyl for the purpose of having a very free talk about uncle john, and also for the purpose of settling with that lady some very decided plans of operation in regard to him. but the spirit in which mrs. jeckyl showed herself disposed to act rather cooled her ardor, and set her to thinking in a new direction. the conference closed almost abruptly, and little to the satisfaction of either party. mrs. dainty more than half repented of her hasty action in taking this strange woman into the house and giving over her children to a guardianship and an influence the angel and the demon. ill that might be for evil instead of good. when her husband questioned her, she put as bold a face upon the matter as was possible,—denouncing miss har- per in unmeasured terms, and extolling the edu- cated, accomplished english lady whom she had been so fortunate as to secure in her place. "it is best, sometimes, to let well-enough alone," said mr. dainty, on learning from his wife the change she had seen proper to make in a matter of so much importance. "and i think miss harper was at least well enough." this was all he remarked, and mrs. dainty saw it best to leave the matter, so far as he was con- cerned, just there. his easy indifference left her generally free to do about as she pleased: so, when- ever he failed of prompt acquiescence in any course she designed to take, she pursued the easy policy of not disturbing his mind on the subject. "oh, she's hateful! i'll get a gun and shoot her!" it was little george who thus freely expressed his indignant appreciation of the new governess. he was talking to madeline; and they were near enough to their mother's door to be heard distinctly. "i wish miss harper was back again," said made- line. her voice had a mournful sound in the ears of mrs. dainty. "i loved her so." "miss harper was good, but this old woman is the angel and the demon. hateful. what made you sit in her lap and lean your head against her?" "i don't know. i couldn't help it," replied made- line, still speaking in a kind of plaintive way. "i wish mother would send her out of the house. i'm afraid of her." "i'm not afraid of her!" spoke out little george, boldly. "and i don't mean to say a single lesson." "that won't be right," said madeline. "she is our teacher, you know." "she isn't my teacher if i don't choose; and i don't choose," responded young america. "i'll say my lessons to miss harper; and i won't say them to anybody else." "madeline dear!" it was a new voice among the interlocutors, and the tones send a strange thrill among the nerves of mrs. dainty, all was silent for some moments. the presence of the new-comer seemed to have thrown a spell over the children. "come, dear; i want to show you something beautiful i have in my room." mrs. dainty sat breathlessly still, listening. there was the sound as of a child rising slowly from the floor. "come, george." it was the same voice. "a'n't a-going to!" was the quick, sturdy reply. the angel and the demon. jeckyl, "who has been frightening her with the story of a snake in my room. how dare you do so, sir?" ""well, so you have!" persisted little don't care. "i saw it. there it is now, in your bosom! see! if its head isn't peeping out alongside of your neck!" it was now mrs. jeckyl's turn to start and look frightened. so natural and earnest was the boy's tones, that even she was for a moment deceived, and clutched convulsively at the imaginary snake. "too bad!" she exclaimed, recovering herself. "too bad!" others soon joined the little group at the door of mrs. dainty's chamber; for the cry of madeline had reached every ear in the dwelling. among the first to arrive was uncle john. "she did it!" cried george, pointing to mrs. jeckyl. "she did it!" "did what?" asked uncle john. "frightened maddy! she's got a snake in her bosom! take care!" "a snake!" uncle john looked puzzled. "i saw it in her room; and she's got it in her bosom- now," persisted the little fellow, quite de- lighted in observing the storm he had raised, and more delighted at the discomfiture of the enemy. the angel and the demon. "you wicked little wretch!" exclaimed mrs. jeckyl, advancing toward the boy. george glided behind uncle john, and, peering oat from his place of refuge, made a new attack. "they're in her eyes now! don't let her come near you, sister aggy! take care, papa! old snake! she's the mother of snakes! see! they're crawling all over her!" a tiger about to spring upon his victim could not have glared with two more cruel eyes than those that sought the form of little george. "silence!" cried mr. dainty, who had joined the excited company. "silence!" he repeated, sternly, as george attempted to speak again. ""what does all this mean?" "it simply means," said mrs. jeckyl, with forced composure, "that this little boy of yours has fright- ened his sister with an improbable story of a snake in my room. he seems to have a fruitful imagina- tion, as he now multiplies the snake by a score, and covers my body with them." uncle john now observed madeline, who stood with her face hidden upon her mother's bosom, and shrinking very closely to her, turn her head slowly and look at mrs. jeckyl. her countenance was pale, and her eyes had a strange—almost terrified— expression. she gave only a single glance, and then the angel and the demon. hid her face again, while a low shudder was seen pervading her body. "it is plain," said uncle john, taking advantage of the singular state of affairs presented, and address- ing the new governess, "that your efforts to gain influence over these children have been unsuccessful, and that, judging from the present state of affairs, such efforts in the future will be hopeless. my ad- vice to you, therefore, is to retire immediately." "i have no knowledge of you, sir, in the case," replied mrs. jeckyl, growing at once self-possessed, and speaking with dignity. "iam here, under regular engagement with mrs. dainty, to perform a service to her children, for which i hold myself entirely competent, and to recede from which under the reaction' of simple child's-play like this i am not in the least inclined. am i covered with snakes, sir?" "not literally," replied uncle john. "not literally! what am i to understand, sir, by your words?" "simply the meaning they convey to your mind. nothing more." "are there snakes in my eyes?" the woman was losing her forced composure. "say yes, uncle john! say yes!" spoke out little george. "if you look into a mirror, you can see for your- the angel and the demon. self," replied the old gentleman, who, now that he had come fairly into conflict with the stranger, de- termined to adopt any mode of warfare that would drive her from the house. "i don't wonder that you frightened madeline." "uncle john!" mrs. dainty now made a feeble effort to speak in favor of her new governess. "this is insufferable! am i to have no control in my own house? are people to be insulted" "oh, mother! mother! send her away!" it was madeline who interrupted mrs. dainty, as she lifted her face with a look of such pleading fear that it checked her utterance. and the shudder that thrilled the child's frame was so strong that it sent the blood coldly to her mother's heart. "madam!" (mr. dainty now assumed the con- trolling power, and spoke to mrs. jeckyl like a man who was in earnest,) "after this scene you cannot remain here in any comfort to yourself, nor in any acceptance in our family. i beg you, therefore, to retire from the house, and at once." "sir "mrs. jeckyl made an effort to reply, but mr. dainty would have no parley with her. "madeline," he said, laying his hand upon his wife and speaking very firmly, "go into your room with maddy and george; and youj agnes, leave us." there was no hesitation on the part of any thus the angel and the demon. addressed, for all, except george, were more than glad to get out of the presence of mrs. jeckyl. he, —little rebel!—as he went at his father's bidding, looked back over his shoulder, and called out,— "snakes! snakes!" as soon as mrs. jeckyl was alone with mr. dainty and uncle john, and found herself without any chance of holding the place she was in reality parti- cularly desirous to retain, she gave full course to her indignant feelings, and for some minutes poured forth a torrenfof mad invective. not a single word was said in reply; and so, like one beating the air, she soon exhausted herself. her departure was like the lifting of a storm-cloud from the dwelling of mr. dainty; but the storm did not pass without leaving some traces of its evil work. scarcely had mr. dainty seen this woman beyond the threshold, ere he was startled by a cry of distress from his wife, and the eager calling of his name, on reaching the chamber from which her voice came, he saw madeline lying upon the bed, pale and deathly in appearance; and when he laid his hands upon her he found that she was rigid and insensible. the angel and the demon. least, not satisfactorily. to me her state is unac- countable." "had she a fall, or a fright?" asked the physi- cian. "neither. and yet her mind was seriously dis- turbed." "by what?" "i can scarcely explain, for i am in doubt my- self." "perhaps your wife can answer my questions more clearly." and the physician addressed him- self to mrs. dainty. but the mother was silent. to her mind there was a deep mystery in the affair. that madeline's state was, in some way, dependent upon mrs. jeckyl's influence over her, she had a vague conviction. but as to the manner and meaning of this influence she was in total ignorance. "will you inform me, as briefly as possible, as to the condition of things existing at the time this par- tial suspension of life took place?" the physician addressed mrs. dainty. "i think she was frightened at something said by george," mrs. dainty answered. "what was that something?" "he said that our governess had a snake in her bosom, and that snakes were crawling all over her." the angel and the demon. the doctor looked thoughtfully upon the floor, and waited for additional information. but mrs. dainty said nothing further. little george was standing close to the bedside. as the doctor raised his head, his eyes rested upon the boy's face. "i think," he said, as he looked at the bright- eyed child, "that you must have seen very sharp to find serpents about miss harper." "oh, it wasn't miss harper!" replied the boy, in a quick tone: "she's lovely!" "who, then, was it? i thought miss harper was governess to your children?" and the physician turned to mrs. dainty. "no, sir; miss harper is no longer the governess of my children." there was a certain coldness of manner about mrs. dainty that was meant to repress inquiry on this particular subject. "i hope, madam," said the doctor, speaking with some earnestness, and a little severity of tone, "that you will be as unreserved as possible in your communications. unless i have all the informa- tion in regard to the cause of madeline's illness that it is in your power to give me, it will be im- possible to prescribe intelligently, or with any hope of reaching the case. miss harper, i understand, then, was not the person to whom the angel and the demon. your little son referred as having a snake in her bosom?" as mrs. dainty did not reply immediately, uncle john spoke out in his blunt way, and right to the purpose, saying,— "no, it was not miss harper, but a wicked old hag that my niece picked up somewhere. if i had any faith in witchcraft, i would believe that she had laid a spell on madeline." the doctor now turned to uncle john. "when did this new governess of whom you speak come into the family?" "to-day." "only to-day?" "she came into the house only a few hours ago." "was madeline well this morning?" "perfectly." "this is a sudden illness, then?" "so i understand it," replied uncle john. "how is it, agnes?" and he spoke to the sister of made- line, who was leaning over the bed, gazing with wet eyes upon her pallid face. "did madeline show any symptoms of illness before this sudden attack?" "she has acted strangely ever since mrs. jeckyl came into the house." the angel and the demon. "mrs. jeckyl!" said the physician, in a tone of surprise. the eyes of all turned quickly to his face with looks of inquiry. "do you know this woman?" asked mr. dainty. "i am not certain. but i think i have heard the name before." there was an air of evasion about the doctor. "she is an englishwoman," remarked mr. fleet- wood. the doctor looked at agnes, and pursued his in- quiries. "acted strangely, you say. in what respect?" "i can hardly explain, sir," replied agnes. "but i have heard tell of birds being charmed by serpents; and the way madeline acted toward mrs. jeckyl made me think all the while of a bird and a serpent. i do not much wonder that georgie saw snakes in her eyes. they were the strangest eyes i ever looked into, and made me shudder. she's done something dreadful to madeline!" "were they alone together?" inquired the phy- sician. "for a little while." "did madeline seem repelled, or attracted, by this woman?*' "both. she appeared to be drawn toward her, t ie angel and the demon. yet acted like one struggling to get away. oh, sir, it was dreadful! i never met so terrible a woman! her eyes shone, sometimes, like coals of fire. i was afraid of her." "did you see her put her hands on madeline?" "yes, sir." "in what manner?" "she held her with one hand, while with the other she smoothed her hair." "did madeline try to get away?" "at first she did; but after a while all her strug- gles ceased, and she laid her head back against her, half shutting her eyes, and looking like one just going to sleep." the doctor's countenance assumed a still graver aspect. "was this woman an entire stranger?" he asked, in tones of surprise, turning to mrs. dainty. "she came highly recommended by mrs. ashton, as an accomplished englishwoman, the widow of a distinguished officer who died in the service of the east india company." "iler own story, i suppose, believed by mrs. ashton without evidence. and on this slight knowledge of the woman you placed these tender, impressible children under her control!" and the doctor shook his head ominously. the angel and the demon. "there has been harm -done here," he added, "beyond my skill to cure." "what harm?" mrs. dainty's face grew sud- denly as pale- as the face of her unconscious child. "do you not know, madam," said the doctor, "that there are men and women at this day who possess an evil power over the minds of those who submit themselves to their influence, stronger than even the witch of endor possessed of old,—persons' in mysterious league with evil spirits, who delight through them to break down the soul's god-given freedom and make it the slave of their will? if this were my child, i would rather a thousand times see her pass upward into heaven than live on here exposed to the assaults of infernal spirits, who, in my opinion, have gained admittance to her through this evil woman's power!" "doctor," said mr. fleetwood, laying his hand upon the physician's arm with some firmness of clasp, "no more of that, if you please! it is neither the time nor the place!" "i stand rebuked," answered the doctor. "but i feel strongly on this subject, and am apt to speak warmly." "time is passing," said mr. fleetwood, "and every moment is precious. this child needs your * the angel and the demon. most skilful attention. i think you understand her case as fully as it can be understood through any further explanation at this time. we place her in your hands. do for her jg> the utmost of your skill." the angel and the demon. chapter xm. doubt and anxiety. it was nearly two hours from the time the phy- sician entered the house of mr. dainty before he retired, and then the night had fallen. he left madeline in a natural slumber, and with her pulses beating evenly. she had recovered from her al- most cataleptic condition with the rapidity of one awakening, and showed a tranquil rather than dis- turbed state of mind. the presence of the doctor seemed a little to surprise her, and she asked, as she looked from face to face, who had been sick. soon after, like one overwearied, she sunk into a gentle sleep. before retiring from the house, the physician had a long conversation with mr. dainty and mr. fleet- wood, in which he gave it as his opinion that mrs. jeckyl had attempted to gain a mesmeric influence over madeline, and with a successful result that it was frightful to contemplate. "she looked to me like a very fiend incarnate," said mr. fleetwood. "i can believe any thing tiie angel and the demon. against her as to evil purpose; but i am hardly pre- pared to reach your conclusion in the case." "has the child ever shown symptoms of nervous disease at all resembling her present affection?" "never," replied mr. dainty. "you heard agnes describe the way in which she acted toward this woman?" "yes." "was it not remarkable?" "very." "have you any theory in regard to it different from mine?" "i have no theory on the subject," said mr. dainty. "the whole thing is beyond my reach." "are you familiar with these modern phe- nomena, which some call, oddly enough, spiritual- ism?" a look of disgust came into the face of mr. dainty, as he answered,— "no." "if you were familiar with them, either from reading or observation," said the doctor, "you might be inclined to think as i do touching your daughter's sudden terror, which was followed by so deep a prostration of mind and body." "her imagination," said mr. fleetwood, "is no doubt far more active than we had supposed, and the angel and the demon. she may have an idiosyncrasy in regard to snakes which threw her into a condition of paralyzing terror when george declared that the woman had serpents crawling all over her. i am sure that her eyes were remarkably snaky at the time. this, to me, is a more intelligible explanation." the doctor did not urge his view of the case, although his response to mr. fleetwood was not of a character to show any leaning, on his part, to that gentleman's opinion. after charging them to keep madeline as free as possible from all disturbing influences, he went away, promising to call in the morning. before making his visit to the house of mr. dainty on the next day, the doctor, whose mind had become very much interested in madeline's case, called to see mrs. ashton, whom he knew very well. after making a few friendly inquiries about her family, he said,— "you recommended to mrs. dainty an english- woman as a suitable person to take the place of governess to her children?" an expression of surprise came into the face of mrs. ashton, as she answered,— "i have not the pleasure of an acquaintance with mrs. dainty." for a moment the doctor looked puzzled. before the angel and the demon. he had time to put another question, mrs. ashton said,— "there is an englishwoman named jeckyl" "the same! what do you know of her?" the doctor spoke quickly, interrupting the lady. "very little," replied mrs. ashton. "but why do you question me in regard to this woman, dr. edmonson?" "mrs. dainty engaged her on your recommenda- tion." "on my recommendation!" "yes." "in the first place, doctor, i don't know mrs. dainty, except by sight; and, in the second place, i have never recommended mrs. jeckyl to any- body." "there has been some deception, then," said dr. edmonson. "there certainly has, if i have been made to en- dorse the woman. i did speak of her, to one or two persons, as an englishwoman who desired to get the situation of governess, and i may have spoken of her as educated and accomplished,—not so much from my knowledge of her acquirements as from her own testimony in the case. and now i remember that somebody told me that mrs. dainty was about changing her governess, and that i men- the angel and tiie demon. tioned this to mrs. jeckyl and advised her to see about the matter. this is the utmost of my doings in the case." "what is your impression of the woman?" in- quired the doctor. "not particularly favorable," said mrs. ashton. "i can hardly tell how she got access to my family in the beginning. at first i pitied her lonely and almost helpless condition in a strange country, and felt some interest in her; but this interest has steadily diminished, until now the woman is so repulsive that i can scarcely endure her pre- sence." "and this is all you know of her?" "all; and i am pained to think that she has been received into any family on my supposed recom- mendation. i should not like her to have a con- trolling influence over my children. but pray, doctor, what has happened in connection with her and mrs. dainty's family? i hope she has not been robbing them, or any thing of that kind?" "nothing of that kind," answered the doctor. "but i'm afraid she has been attempting mesmeric influence over one of mrs. dainty's children." "dr. edmonson!" there was about mrs. ashton a peculiar tone and manner that excited the doctor's curiosity. the angel and the demon. you would be better,' said mrs. jeckyl, as if speak- ing to herself. once or twice since, in thinking of this incident, i have had a vague impression that the sleep of emmeline on that occasion was not a natural one, and that it depended, in some way, on the act of mrs. jeckyl." "i have no doubt of it," said dr. edmonson. "you have not?" "no: evidently the woman transferred, for the time, some will-force of her own to the child, pro- ducing temporary unconsciousness. her spirit over- shadowed the helpless little one." the words of dr. edmonson sent a shudder along the. nerves of mrs. ashton. "you frighten me!" she said. "you have cause to be frightened. when half- insane men and women step beyond the orderly course of natural life and invoke powers of evil— for all things disorderly are evil—to enable them to exercise a mysterious and controlling influence over their weaker fellow men and women, there is subtle danger abroad, more fearful in its effects than the invisible pestilence walking in darkness and wasting at noonday. it is no light thing, mrs. ashton, to disturb the divine harmonies of the human soul,— to thrust an impious hand boldly down among its hidden strings! i am amazed at the folly and weak- : the angel and the demon. ness that prevail oh this subject,—at the singular infatuation of well-meaning persons, who permit themselves to become the instruments of invisible powers and influences the quality of which even the feeblest reason might determine. to hear some of these persons talk confidently, and with self-satisfied tone and countenance, about penetrating the arcana of the spiritual world, excites my mirth sometimes, but oftener affects me with sadness." "i have two or three friends," said mrs. ashton, "who have been carried away by these things, and their lapse from reason has caused me deep re- gret." "you rightly designate their state of mind," re- plied, the doctor, "as a lapse from reason. no mind possessing a true rational balance is in any danger of falling from its mountain-height and crystal atmo- sphere, where every thing is seen in its true relation, down into this miry valley, where the thick atmo- sphere distorts every object and mirage adds its mocking illusions. i am in no wonder at the re- sult,—at toppling reason, lapsing virtue, desolated homes! every tree may be known by its fruit; and the product of this has shown itself to be evil from rind to core! "never again, mrs. ashton, permit this woman jeckyl to darken your chambers with the shadow the angel and the demon. of her presence. if she have once brought your little emmeline under this direful influence of which we are speaking, she has disturbed the natural order of her mind and gained a certain power over her. a second trance will be induced more easily than the first. even by her serpent-eye she may cast on her a spell." mrs. ashton grew pale and shuddered. "i warn you in plain words," added the doctor, "speaking as i think, and from a solemn sense of duty. mrs. jeckyl, if i am to judge by the way in which her presence and active sphere affected one of mrs. dainty's children, has a potency of will al- most irresistible. in madeline's efforts at resistance —for she manifested from the very beginning an intense repugnance toward the woman—she was thrown into a condition of trance profound almost as death. the state in which i discovered her, when summoned by the family, was not that of an ordinary suspension of vital powers. i saw in an instant that extraordinary causes had been at work. and i now fully comprehend the case. there has been a disturbance of the order of that child's life that may never be corrected. ah, mrs. ashton, a mother can never be too careful in the selection of those who are to be the daily companions, and, i might say, educators, of her children!" the angel and the demon. from the house of mrs. ash ton, dr. edmonson went to mrs. dainty's. he found madeline as well, apparently, as usual, and her mother's cheerfulness restored. he made an effort to startle her mind with a clear apprehension of the danger through which the child had just passed, but only partially succeeded. mrs. dainty hadn't much faith, she said, in the strange stories told about the power of mes- merists, and considered nine-tenths of the alleged phenomena as sheer delusion. she could under- stand how madeline's repugnance to mrs. jeckyl might have been so strong as to produce vital-sus- pension for a period; but that mrs. jeckyl had gained any power over her was a thing not to be admitted for a moment. the doctor observed madeline very closely, and was satisfied that a change had taken place. "did you sleep well last night?" he inquired of her. "not very well," was answered. "why?"' "i had ugly dreams, that waked me up." "often?" "two or three times." "what did you dream about?" "i don't know." "try if you can remember'one of j our dreams." the angel and the demon. "i fell into the water once," said madeline. "and that woke you?" "no, sir; but i thought that mrs. jeckyl tried to push me under, and that made me wake up." the doctor looked very earnestly into madeline's face. its expression troubled him. "can you remember another dream?" "no, sir: i can't remember any more." "you may be thankful, mrs. dainty," said dr. edmonson, "tnat circumstances so soon showed the character of this woman. the harm she might have done your children is inconceivable." "i think you put too serious a face upon the matter, doctor," replied mrs. dainty. "time, i fear, will tell you a different story," said the doctor, as he arose to depart. "for the present let me enjoin upon you to keep this child as free as possible from all disturbing causes." mrs. dainty made no answer, and the doctor, bowing almost formally, bade her good-morning. * ■ the angel and the demon. chapter xt . painful consequences. "madeline." mrs. dainty looked up, a slight expression of annoyance coming into her face: uncle john stood before her. "well? what is it?" she did not speak with an air of encouragement; nor did she by look or motion give the old gentleman an invitation to sit down. he had entered the library, where she was reading. "i want to have a talk with you about the chil- dren," said mr. fleetwood. he was altogether self- possessed, and his tone and manner were earnest. a deeper shade of annoyance passed over the countenance of mrs. dainty. "you still purpose having a governess?" "i don't know that i purpose any thing," replied mrs. dainty. "i've had such wretched luck, so far, with governesses, that i shall hardly feel safe in trying another." the angel and the demon. ""why not recall miss harper?" said mr. fleet- wood. "uncle john!" mrs. dainty turned upon the old gentleman a look of indignant surprise. "the children are all attached to her; and she is pure-minded, true-hearted, and" "she's insolent and upstart!" retorted mrs. dainty, with passion; "and i will never have her back in her old place." "ton have altogether misapprehended florence," urged mr. fleetwood, with unusual earnestness of manner. "i am not apt to misapprehend people," said mrs. dainty, drawing her head up a little proudly. "have you noticed madeline particularly, during the last few days?" inquired mr. fleetwood, after a pause. "particularly? how?" mrs. dainty looked curiously at the old gentleman. "do you see no change in her since that remark- able experience with mrs. jeckyl?" "no," was answered, without hesitation. "i have." "indeed! you are sharp-sighted, uncle john!" mrs. dainty spoke lightly. "love is always sharp-sighted when danger is about," was sententiously answered. the angel and the demon. "you are fanciful." "no, madeline!" the countenance of mr. fleet- wood became still more serious. "no, madeline; i am not a dealer in light fancies, but a man of sober thoughts and direct purposes, as you have reason to know. there is a change in our little pet, and one boding, i fear, unhappy consequences, unless she is at once surrounded by counteracting influences. the spirit of that bad woman, in over- shadowing her, left something of its darkness on her young spirit." mrs. dainty sighed unconsciously. "what is the change you have observed, uncle john?" she said, her repellant manner subsiding. "do you remember to have heard her merry laugh ringing through the house as of old?" mrs. dainty thought for a moment or two, and then replied,— "i do not." "do you know where she is now?" "no." "come with me." the old gentleman arose, and moved toward the library-door. his niece followed him, with a look of questioning interest on her countenance. ""where is she?" the mother spoke in a whisper. "step softly," said mr. fleetwood. the angel and the demon. from the library they went noiselessly up to the nursery. "see!" and the old gentleman directed the attention of his niece to madeline, who was sitting there alone, her back to the door, silent and motion- less. "she is reading," whispered the mother. uncle john shook his head. "madeline!" mrs.dainty could not repress the impulse to speak. the child started up and turned with something of a frightened look toward the door. "what are you doing here all alone?" asked mrs. dainty. "nothing," answered the child, looking confused. "nothing?" "no, ma'am." "how long have you been here alone?" "i don't know." "come down with me to the library." "i'd rather stay here," replied madeline. "and i'd rather have you in the library," said mrs. dainty, with an air of impatience. "i wasn't doing any thing," urged madeline. "i didn't say that you were. but that doesn't signify. come down into the library." "i don't want to go down into the library." the angel and the demon. "come! do you hear me?" but madeline stirred not. mrs. dainty was about starting forward to grasp the child's arm and constrain obedience, when uncle john held her back, whispering,— "patience! patience! remember that you are now dealing with a diseased mind instead of a healthy one. there is something wrong about the child, and, if you love her, be prudent." "you deal in riddles," said mrs. dainty, yielding to the constraining force, of uncle john. "dis- obedience, it strikes me, is a disease that should be dealt with promptly." she spoke in a'whisper. "madeline!" there was a winning tenderness in the old man's voice that found its way to the child's heart, for she moved toward uncle john and grasped his outstretched hand. the moment she felt its warm pressure, she shrunk close to his side, while a pleasant change in her young face revealed the change which had come over her spirit. "i want you in the library," said mrs. dainty, firmly. she did not think it right to let the child have her own way. "come," uncle john spoke, cheerfully; and moving away, madeline followed without resistance. but mrs. dainty failed altogether in awakening an interest in the child's mind. uncle john, think- the anoel and the demon. ing it best to leave them alone for a time, withdrew from the library. the mother, on whose mind a pressure of concern had fallen, took down a large volume of natural history, filled with costly engrav- ings, and, opening it on a table, drew madeline's attention to the pictures. "isn't this beautiful?" she said, pausing over a group of exquisitely-colored birds. "yes, ma'am," replied the child, in a tone that betrayed an entire lack of interest. "humming-birds! oh, how beautiful!" the tones of mrs. dainty's voice were animated. "this one with golden wings and emerald-green bosom is like the darling wee bird we saw this spring, flutter- ing among the honeysuckle-leaves in the garden. isn't it sweet?" "yes, ma'am." there was not a ripple of interest in madeline's voice. "don't you like birds?" inquired the disappointed mother. "yes, ma'am." "here are two beautiful doves. how lifelike! it seems every moment as if they would fly away! a'n't they lovely, dear?" "yes, ma'am." mrs. dainty bent down and looked into the child's the angel and the demon. face. her eyes were not on the book, but cast dreamily to the floor, and there was in her counte- nance a sad expression. "madeline!" mrs. dainty spoke with a sudden- ness that caused her child to start and the varying color to dance over her face. "what do you mean by this? i don't^ under- stand you!" mrs. dainty's mind was growing con- fused through impatience. for an instant madeline looked frightened, and then burst into tears. "what are you crying about, silly child? what ails you?" madeline answered nothing, but wept more vio- lently. "are you sick?" "no, ma'am," sobbed the unhappy child. "what's the matter with you, then?" "i don't know." "crying like a baby, and don't know for what? shame on you!" madeline moved away from her mother's side, as if a hand had been suddenly pressed against her. "come, now! there's been enough of this! dry up your tears at once, and be a good girl! here! let me wipe them all away." the angel and the demon. "madeline! answer me, or i will punish you severely." the mother had raised her hand to strike a blow, when mr. fleetwood, who remained near the library- door, came in hastily, and with a look and gesture warned her against that extremity. "uncle john!" exclaimed the excited woman, losing all patience, "i wish you would mind your own business, and not interfere with me. you only encourage this self-willed child in her spirit of dis- obedience!" and before mr. fleetwood had time to reply she caught madeline by the arm, and dragged her from the library, and through the passages to her own apartment, the door of which she closed and locked. "you'll find that i'm in earnest!" she exclaimed, in a husky but determined voice, as she hurried madeline across the room. seating herself, she drew the child close in front of her, and, looking steadily into her face, said,— "speak! what do you mean by this conduct?" the aspect of madeline's face, as it now appeared in the eyes of mrs. dainty, was so strange that alarm took the place of anger. all life seemed to have receded therefrom. the blue lips stood apart, the eyes were wide open, almost staring, the skin was of an ashen hue. lifting her quickly from the the angel and the demon. floor, the mother laid her child upon a bed, and, after bending over her a few moments anxiously, went to the door and called mr. fleetwood. "i warned you," said the old gentleman, in a reproving voice, as he saw the child's condition. "i told you that you were dealing with a diseased mind!" "what can ail her? oh, uncle john, send at once for the doctor!" mrs. dainty wrung her hands, and stood glancing from madeline to mr. fleet- wood, her countenance pale with fear. the old gentleman bent down over the child, laying his hand upon her forehead and breast, and then searching along her wrists with his fingers. her flesh was cold, and damp with perspiration, and there was so feeble a motion in the heart that scarcely a wave of life could be felt along the arteries. "oh, send for the doctor! she may die!" mrs. dainty was overwhelmed with distress. "be patient. control yourself, madeline." uncle john spoke with unusual calmness. "get cold water and bathe her forehead and temples." this was done, and signs of more active life fol- lowed. a warmer color returned to her cheeks; respiration became deeper; the half-opened eyes the angel and the demon. closed, giving the look of sleep, instead of death, to her childish face. "what is the meaning of this? what has come over the child?" said mrs. dainty, breathing more freely as she saw that a new and healthier action had supervened: "i don't understand it, uncle john." "there is disease of the mind, madeline, as i have been trying for the last hour to make you understand. its exact nature cannot at once be determined. neither anger nor force will avail any thing: of that be fully assured." "but, uncle john, she must not be permitted to have her own will entirely. that leads to ruin." "of course not. the government of love, wise and gentle in all its ministrations,—not the govern- ment of angry force,—must have rule. see into what a mental paralysis your efforts to compel sub- mission have thrown her. if her mind's condition had been a healthy one, this would never have occurred. deal with her, then, wisely and gently, as you would deal with the sick." mrs. dainty sighed deeply, and looked troubled. "what does it mean, uncle john? what is the cause of this strange affection?" "it was not so before mrs. jeckyl came into the house." the angel and the demon. mrs. dainty gave an unwilling assent. "something has been done to her by that woman. if i were a believer in witchcraft i would say that she had laid a spell upon the child; that madeline was under the influence of an evil eye." "there is something wrong," murmured mrs. dainty, speaking partly to herself,—" something wrong! i wish i had never seen that dreadful woman." a low shudder pervaded her nerves. "yes, something very wrong," said mr. fleet- wood; "and it will require the wisest care on our part to restore the harmonious action of her life, so suddenly and so strangely disturbed." for nearly two hours madeline lay in a deep sleep; and during all that time mrs. dainty sat by the bedside. when she awoke at last, her mind was in a tranquil state, like one coming out of a refreshing slumber. but she exhibited none of her old lightness of spirit,—was quiet, yet cheerful, rather than of pensive mood. she did not seem inclined to join, as of old, her little brother george, master "don't care," in any of his sports, but rather shrunk away into unobserved places, sitting quiet and idle. * i tue angel and the demon. chapter xv. alarming occurrence. time made very little change in madeline's state; no change, at least, for the better. twice during the succeeding fortnight her mother's anger was excited again t her, and the strong, passionate will of the one set itself vigorously to work to subdue the so-called "wilfulness" of the other. but each time the storm, like all storms, made itself felt only in wreck and ruin. madeline, after the exhaustion of the wild strife of passion was over, showed a moody, absent exterior, and an increased tendency to be alone. "what can ail the child?" mrs. dainty would say, in her uneasiness and perplexity, now appealing to her husband, and now to uncle john. but from neither could any solution of the mystery of her strange state be derived. the family physician was called in and consulted, though with little satisfac- tion. "there must be a change for madeline," he said. "her mind must be diverted. she is in a morbid state;" with much more to the same pur- the angel and the demon. pose. yet nothing was gained. the mental dis- ease abated not, but commenced assuming new forms. morbid desire began taking the place of morbid indifference; and, if this inordinate craving were not indulged, fits of nervous prostration fol- lowed the excitement of contention, resembling the stupor of opium. it now became a matter of serious consideration in the family as to how madeline was to be treated by the other members. suddenly her will had grown exacting. the mild-tempered, gentle, loving little girl had become imperious, selfish, and de- manding. if she desired a thing, or wished for an indulgence, no amount of opposition subdued her. denial, argument, punishment, increased instead of weakening her purpose, and the certain result was a nervous spasm, or deep stupor, lasting at times for hours. so long as she had her own way, the current of her life glided along smoothly; but any obstruction swelled it into a turbulent flood, the dark depths of which were hidden from all eyes. the doctor strongly recommended change of place, new associations. "send her out in the car- riage every day, or take her to the public squares for a ramble among the children," he would urge, when he saw her moving in her quiet way about the the angel and the demon. house, and marked the singular expression of her countenance, that had in it something almost weird. one day agnes, the elder sister, accompanied by george, had taken madeline to the city square, through which they wandered for some time. grow- ing tired, the girls sat down to observe a party of little children who were jumping the rope, while george, boy-like, took a wide range over the grounds. suddenly the attention of agnes was called to madeline by an exclamation, and, looking around and into her face, she saw that her eyes were fixed on some object with a look of fear. follow- ing their direction, she saw at a short distance the repulsive form of mra. jeckyl, who was standing perfectly still, gazing at them. her first instinctive movement was to shade the eyes of madeline with her hand and thus hide from her the form which had disturbed her with its presence. as she did so, madeline shut her eyes and leaned her head back against her sister. as soon as mrs. jeckyl saw that she was observed, she came forward, offering her hand to agnes in a familiar, way, and inquiring with an affectation of interest about the family. "ah," she continued, "and here is my little pet, maddy!" placing her hand, as she spoke, on the the angel and the demon. head of madeline, whose slight form quivered and shrunk at the touch. "how are you, dear?" she asked, in tones meant to be winning. but madeline kept her face buried in her sister's garments. "that little rebel brother tried to frighten my pet," she added, her hand still playing with the child's curls,—" the naughty boy! but maddy was my jewel! little darling! come! look up, and let me see, if only for a moment, that pair of bright eyes." agnes felt the head of madeline slowly turning, as if she wished to get a stealthy glance at the woman's face. "ah! peep-bo! peep!" said mrs. jeckyl, play- fully. "i thought the light would come." madeline had taken a single look, and then hid- den her face again. "how have you been, darling?" mrs. jeckyl bent her head close down to the face of made- line. the child made no answer. still the woman's hand was on her head, and restlessly moving among the sunny curls. twice had agnes pushed it away with a firm effort; but it returned again persistently. she had a strange, be- the angel and the demon. wildered feeling, and an impulse to catch madeline in her arms and flee away, as from impending danger. "ah! peep-bo!" madeline had stolen another look, and the woman, watchful as a serpent, had caught the glance; and now her eye held that of the child, who did not again turn her face away, but continued to gaze upon that of mrs. jeckyl. "you are a little darling!" said mrs. jeckyl, now bending close to madeline, and smiling upon her in her most winning manner. "the sweetest pet in all the world! here, sit on my lap." and she made an attempt to lift madeline from the arm of her sister; but agnes resisted, saying, coldly,— "if you please, madam, let her remain where she is." but the woman was bent on having her own way. not seeming even to hear the words of agnes, she applied her strength, and drew the child upon her lap. a deep fluttering sigh came up from the heart of madeline, and light spasms quivered over her face. there was a brief, feeble resistance; then strength and will were subdued, and, passive as a babe, she shrunk against the woman, laying her head down upon her bosom. roused by fear and indignation, agnes started to her feet, and, grasping her sister by the arms, the angel and the demon. said, as she exerted her strength in the effort to remove her,— "let her go, mrs. jeckyl!" "don't fret yourself, my dear," said the woman, fixing her glittering eyes into those of agnes, with a look meant to subdue her also. but the effort to hold her passive by the strength of a powerful will failed wholly. "release my sister!" she added, sternly. but mrs. jeckyl drew her arm the more tightly around madeline, and with her steady eye sought to throw a spell over agnes. grown desperate with fear, agnes now exerted all her strength, and with a single violent jerk suc- ceeded in wresting the half-insensible form of her sister, from the arms of mrs. jeckyl. "you're a polite young lady!" said mrs. jeckyl, in a sneering manner. "this is american good- breeding, i suppose!" "and you're a wicked woman," replied agnes, indignantly confronting the enemy. "snakes! snakes!" it was the ringing, exultant voice of little "don't-care" george, who had circled the square in a trot, and just returned to the place where he had left his sisters. mrs. jeckyl turned with a start upon this unwel- come intruder. the angel and the demon. was acting on the principle that discretion was the better part of valor, and making a hasty retreat from the battle-field. "you're a very rude little boy," said a grave old gentleman. "and she's a very wicked woman," answered little don't care, looking boldly up into the speaker's face. ""wby did you call her snakes?" inquired the man: "there's no sense in that." "if you'd looked into her eyes, you'd have seen them," replied george, half carelessly; and then, grasping the outstretched hand of his sister agnes, he withdrew from the little crowd, and passed with quick steps homeward. the angel and the demon. chapter xvi. disappearance of madeline. the danger which threatened madeline had sud- denly taken on a new and more alarming aspect. with the removal of mrs. jeckyl from the house of mr. dainty, it was believed that all direct influence had ceased, and that whatever of evil she had wrought upon the child would gradually lose its power over her as time progressed. but the enemy had not left the field; there was only a change of position. the detail by agnes, in an excited manner, of what had occurred in the city square, sent through all hearts a thrill of fear. in the family council, mr. dainty talked indignantly of the police and arrest, while mr. fleetwood, for the most part silent, walked the floor with uneasy footsteps. "i shall not dare to let madeline pass our own threshold," said mrs. dainty, in a troubled voice, "though she is dying for change of air and change of scene. oh, isn't it dreadful!" "the woman must be arrested" mr. dainty an- the angel and the demon. nounced, for the tenth time,—the only remedy he had to suggest. "what good?" inquired uncle john. "we will have her bound over to keep the peace," said mr. dainty. uncle john shook his head as he answered, "you cannot bind the influence of her evil eye. it may fall upon our precious one at any moment least expected, and in spite of all law or police. the danger comes from a new direction, and is too subtle in its nature to be restrained by common bonds." "what then are we to do?" asked mrs. dainty, wringing her hands in a distressed manner. but no one ventured a reply to her question. after a long and troubled session, the family v council broke up, without having arrived at any satisfactory result beyond the common conclusion that it would not be safe to let madeline, in her present state, go out, and thus be in danger of meet- ing the strange woman who had thrown so fearful a spell over her young spirit. singularly enough, the child, from this time, showed a restless desire to get away from the house. instead of creeping into lonely rooms by herself, she would seek the front windows and door, and stand gazing into the street, her eyes wandering up the angel and the demon. and down among the passengers, as if in search of some one. when taken from the door or windows, she would resist, and sometimes fall into passionate fits, that left her in a strange stupor. three times within a week she attempted to steal away; and once she succeeded in getting off", but was met by her father, who happened to be returning home, when only a few blocks distant. to his inquiries as to where she was going, she replied, "to the square." after a slight opposition, she concluded to go back with him, but was moody and ill-natured for the rest of the day. so it continued for weeks, with but little change for the better. mrs. dainty's fears were all the while excited, and she never felt comfortable a moment when madeline was away from her. one day, in taking her usual after-dinner sleep, mrs. dainty was visited by a frightful dream about madeline, so vivid in its character as to awaken her. her first impulse, the moment bewildered thoughts ran clear, was to seek for her child. "madeline!" she called, going to her chamber-door. for a mo- ment or two she stood listening, then called, in a louder voice, "madeline! madeline!" "madeline!" it was the voice of the oldest daughter, calling from the library. "agnes, where is madeline?" the angel and the demon. "i do not know," replied agnes, coming toward her mother. "i heard her and george up in the nursery not long ago. perhaps she is there. george!" a pair of rapid feet responded noisily to the call. "george, where is your sister?" "don't know," answered the boy. "isn't she in the nursery " "no, ma'am." "i heard you and her talking there not long ago," said agnes. "she went down-stairs for a piece of cake a good while ago." agnes almost flew down to the kitchen, and in- quired of the chambermaid, whom she found there, if she had seen madeline. "i heard her come down-stairs a little while ago, and i think she went into the parlor," replied the chambermaid. one of the parlor-shutters was found pushed open, the curtain drawn aside, and a chair out of posi- tion. "she has been here," said mrs. dainty, in a choking whisper. perhaps she has fallen asleep somewhere," sug- gested a domestic. h * the angel and the demon. "search through the house, everywhere!" replied mrs. dainty. "look into all the rooms and closets! how could you lose sight of her?" but they searched in vain. the child was not in the house! "where is uncle john?" asked mrs. dainty, in her terror and bewilderment. mr. fleetwood entered from the street at the moment his name was mentioned, and in no way lessened the anxious fears of his niece by his troubled exclamations ou learning that madeline was nowhere to be found in the house. "i have trembled every day in fear of this!" said the old man, pacing the floor in great agitation. "how could you leave her unguarded?" not long, however, did mr. fleetwood remain inactive. after sending word to mr. dainty, and despatching servants in various directions to search through all the neighborhood, he went out himself, and commenced a series of close inquiries at all the stores and offices within several squares. "had she curly hair?" inquired a boy who was buying something at one of the stores visited by mr. fleetwood. "yes," answered the old gentleman, with a sud- den eagerness of manner. "and wore a blue frock?" tub angel and the demon. with others who confirmed the boy's statement that a child, resembling madeline, had been seen in company with an old woman dressed in black. this caused him to visit the chief of police and secure his efficient aid in the matter, thus putting in operation the most vigilant means of discovery. it was nearly an hour after mr. fleetwood left the house, when, disappointed in any good result, he returned to the anxious, frightened family, to meet pale, tearful faces and trembling inquiry. mr. dainty and the servants had also been in search of the lost one, but their search had proved quite as fruitless. the boy who had hoped to gain the reward of ten dollars had likewise reported himself. he had spent an hour in vain. night came down upon the fearfully-disturbed inmates of mr. dainty's family, and yet madeline was absent. nothing whatever could be learned in regard to her, exrcept the single fact mentioned by the boy, and confirmed by others, that a little girl resembling her had been seen in company with an old woman dressed in black. the angel and the demon. chapter xvil the seakch. "it is nearly a week since mr. fleetwood was here," said mrs. elder, as she placed her work- basket on the table and drew up a chair. florence, who had just brought in a lighted lamp, sighed, but made no answer to the remark. "he seemed more than disappointed, i thought, at your persistent refusal to make any advances toward a reconciliation with mrs. dainty," added mrs. elder. • "yes: he was offended." there was a touch of sadness in the low voice of florence harper. "no, not offended, dear," said mrs. elder, quickly. "that is too strong a word. he was disturbed." "he asks of me too much, aunt mary." florence spoke with some warmth. "i am but human." "perhaps he does. but the condition of things at mrs. dainty's must be his excuse. see into what a state of mind madeline has fallen." "poor child! i cannot sleep, sometimes, for thinking of her," said florence. the angel and the demon. "i can hardly wonder at mr. fleetwood, seeing that his heart is wrapped up in those children. he has seen how much power for good you can have over them, and, now that an evil hand is at work, seeking to mar the sweet beauty of madeline's spirit, can you feel surprise at his eagerness to bring her again within the sphere of your influence? i cannot, florence." "then you think i ought to go?" aunt mary was silent. "mrs. dainty has not desired my return." "she has not communicated such a desire; but mr. fleetwood has over and over again said that only weak pride keeps her from doing so. shall not something be conceded for the children's sake?" "if you think i ought to call and see mrs. dainty, as mr. fleetwood proposes, i will go to-morrow," said florence. aunt mary was silent. "you will not advise me?" florence spoke in a perplexed voice. "if you act from my advice, you will not act freely," said mrs. elder. "the question, moreover, is one of such difficult solution, that i do not see it clearly enough to speak with decision." the bell at this moment rung violently, causing the angel and the demon. both florence and her aunt to start and look with inquiring eyes into each other's faces. a few moments afterward a man's feet were heard moving quickly along the passage. "mr. fleetwood!" ejaculated mrs. elder, rising as the old gentleman entered hurriedly. "florence," said mr. fleetwood, in an agitated manner, as he laid his hand upon the arm of miss harper, "you are wanted!" "for what? has any thing happened to the chil- dren?" "yes,—something dreadful! madeline is lost or stolen!" "oh, mr. fleetwood! lost! stolen! what do you mean?" "madeline has been gone from the house for several hours, and we have searched for her every- where in vain. two or three persons in the neigh- borhood are positive that they saw her, or a child answering in all things her description, in company with a woman dressed in black. that infamous mrs. jeckyl, without doubt!" "dreadful! dreadful!" exclaimed florence, clasp- ing her hands and turning very pale. "ah, florence! florence!" said mr. fleetwood, "if you had only thrown the wings of your love around her, this would not have been!'" the angel and the demon. "glad for the sake of agnes. oh, we are in dread- ful trouble! poor madeline! uncle john has told you all. oh, my child! my child! where can she be? it will kill me!" and mrs. dainty fell into a fit of hysterical sobbing. "have you no further intelligence of madeline?" mr. fleetwood inquired of mr. dainty. "none. i have just returned from the police- office. not a word of the child, although reports have come in from all parts of the city." "where did mrs. jeckyl live at the time she came here?" asked florence. none could answer the question. "is there no one of whom she could be inquired about?" "mrs. ashton, i think, knows something in re- gard to her," said mr. fleetwood. "has any one been to see her?" inquired florence. "no one. we should have thought of that be- fore," said mr. dainty. "who knows her re- sidence?" mrs. dainty gave the required information, and a servant was despatched immediately with a note to mrs. ashton. that lady could not say where mrs. jeckyl lived, but thought she was at a certain the angel and thk demon. boarding-house in twelfth street. thither mr. dainty went without delay. "does a mrs. jeckyl board here?" he inquired of the waiter who came to the door. "no, sir," was answered, in a tone plainly enough conveying the information that the woman about whom he made inquiry was known to the ser- vant. "when did she leave?" he asked. "a month ago." "where can i find her?" "don't know." "where did she go when she left your house?" "don't know, sir." the waiter's manner showed some impatience, as if the very name of the woman were an offence to him. "i wish to see mrs. brainard. is she at home?" "yes, sir. walk into the parlor, and i will call her down." mr. dainty went into the parlor, and in a few moments the woman who kept the boarding-house entered. "you had a mrs. jeckyl here a few weeks ago?" said mr. dainty. "i had." "do you know where she is now?" the angel and the demon. "ito, sir." mrs. brainard's voice had in it some- thing of impatience and something of disgust. "when did she leave your house?" "nearly four weeks ago." "where did she go?" "i really cannot answer the question, sir. i was so glad to get her out of my house that i let all in- terest in her die the moment she was beyond my door." "do not any of your servants know where she went?" "it is possible, sir. i will inquire of the chamber- maid." "if you please; for i must find her, alive or dead!" "is there any thing wrong about her?" asked airs. brainard, curiously. "i am afraid she has stolen my child!" said mr. dainty, his manner growing excited. "stolen your child!" mrs. brainard became pale and agitated, and her eyes turned toward a little girl, not seven years old, who at the moment entered the room. she reached out her hand, and the child drew to her side. the moment mrs. brainard's arm could be thrown around the little one, she clasped her eagerly, as if she felt that she had just escaped impending danger. the angel and the demon. "if you can aid me in tracing her," said mr. dainty, "you will confer the highest benefit." mrs. brainard left the room, and returned in a little while with the chambermaid, who thought mrs. jeckyl went to a house in fifth street near noble. the name of the person who kept the house she did not remember. this was all the chambermaid could tell. the waiter was ques- tioned, but from him nothing was elicited. "how did this woman conduct herself while in your house ?" asked mr. dainty. "she made herself very offensive to most of my boarders, and gained a singular influence over two of them,—ladies, who were invalids and had been suffering for years with nervous complaints. she is a woman of masculine intellect, sir. few men are her equal in an argument. her satire is withering." "so i should infer from the little i saw of her. you speak of her influence over two ladies in your family. how was this obtained?" "in what i regard as a very disorderly way. mrs. jeckyl is a 'medium,' as it is called." "a mesmerist," said mr. dainty. "or spiritualist, as some say. the thing has various names." "the power, if any power is possessed by these the angel and the demon. people," said mr. dainty, with strong evidence of feeling, "is demoniac." "just what i have said from the beginning," re- plied mrs. braihard. "i have seen much evil, but no good, result from these disorderly practices. had i known mrs. jeckyl to be a 'medium,' she would not have found entrance into my house. i have closed my doors against more than one of them." "then mrs. jeckyl mesmerized the ladies to whom you refer?" "she had table-tippings, rappings, writings, and all sorts of diablerie going on in their rooms for nearly a week, turning the heads of my boarders, when i closed down upon her with a strong hand, adding a notice to vacate her apartment. she de- murred, and was insolent. but i have a will of my own, sir, and was not to be thwarted. if she had not left at the time specified in my notice, i would have had her trunk set out on the pavement." "i cannot but applaud your spirit," said mr. dainty. "desperate diseases require desperate re- medies. but time passes, and i must not linger. what you say of the woman only adds to my anxiety and fear. i must find her, and rescue my child, ere sleep closes an eyelid." "heaven give you success!" said mrs. brainard. taking a carriage, mr. dainty was driven rapidly * the angel and the deimon. "i don't know how that may be. a tall, sinister- looking englishwoman, with an eye that held a lurking serpent, took boarding here some weeks ago. but she only remained three or four days. she was disagreeable to us, and we made ourselves disagreeable to her; and so we parted." "where did she go?" mr. dainty asked, eagerly. the lady shook her head. "no one in this house knows. she went as she came,—a marvel and a mystery." "and beyond this you can give no information in regard to her?" "none whatever." mr. dainty stood for some moments silent and perplexed. then, with a sickening sense of disap- pointment, he retired, and, entering the carriage which awaited him at the door, ordered the driver to take him to his own house as rapidly as possible. he brought with him neither light nor comfort, and found none awaiting his arrival. not a single gleam of intelligence touching the absent one had shone in upon his afflicted family. what more could be done? the evening had waned, and it was now past the hour of nine. to abandon all search for the night seemed cruel; yet, without, a single clue to unravel the mystery of the child's absence, what step could be taken toward the angel and the demon. accomplishing her recovery? whither were they to go in search of her? the wretched mother, from a state of almost frantic excitement, had fallen into a condition little removed from stupor. the family physician was called in to see her, but he prescribed nothing. her trouble was beyond the reach of any medicines he could give. anxious and sleepless was that night in the house of mr. dainty. early in the morning the search for madeline was renewed. not the least active in this search was miss harper. with a perseverance and assiduity unknown to the sterner sex, she steadily sought to find the clue that was to unravel the mystery of madeline's absence. starting where mr. dainty had begun, at mrs. brainard's, she went from thence to the house in fifth street where a woman answering to the description of mrs. jeckyl had made a brief sojourn. beyond this point mr. dainty had failed to go; but florence was not to be thrown off so easily. her woman's tact and feeling all came in to quicken the interest of every member in the family, and the result was a declaration on the part of a servant, who was questioned re- peatedly, that she thought she could recognise the hack-driver who took the woman, with her trunk, away. the angel and the demon. in company with this servant, an irish girl, flo- rence visited the various hack-stands in the city; but at none of them did the girl recognise any driver as the one for whom they were in search, and they were going back, the heart of florence heavy with disappointment, when her companion exclaimed,— "'deed, and that's the very mon himself, so it is!" and she pointed to a hackman who was leisurely driving his carriage along, just in advance of them. to spring forward was but a natural impulse, and in a moment the driver reined up his horses at the sign given by florence. leaving his box, he stepped to the pavement, saying, as he did so,— "want a carriage, miss?" "i wish to ask you a question or two first," re- plied florence, slightly confused at the abruptness with which she was confronted by the man. "as many as you please, miss," returned the hack- driver. "how long is it since that woman left your house?" asked florence, turning to the girl. "about two weeks," was answered. "in the morning or afternoon?" "in the morning." "and this is the man who drove her away?" m the angel and the demon. "i think so. he looks like him, ony way." "about two weeks ago," said florence, now addressing the hack-driver, "a tall woman, dressed in black, was taken, with her trunk, from a house in fifth street near noble. do you remember any thing about it? were you the driver?" "i was," replied the man. the whole frame of miss harper quivered in- stantly with an eager impulse. "can you take me to the house where you left her?" she asked. the man stood in thought for some moments, and then answered,— "i think so." "will you accompany me?" florence spoke to the girl. "certainly, miss : i'm at your service." "drive me there as quickly as possible." and florence stepped toward the door of the carriage, which was instantly thrown open by the hackman. entering, with the girl, she seated herself, and was soon driven rapidly away toward the northern part of the city, and through streets with the aspect of which she was unfamiliar. at last the carriage stopped before a house of not over-inviting exterior. it was old, dingy-looking, and had a deserted aspect, all the shutters being closed to the third story. the angel and the demon. "this is the place, miss," said the driver, as he opened the carriage-door. "are you certain?" inquired florence, a slight tremor running along her nerves as she looked up at the house. "dead sure," replied the hackman, in a confident voice. "i know the house by its shut-up look. i've passed here many a time, and have never seen a window open yet, or the sign of a human about the house." "come," said florence to the irish girl, and the two stepped from the carriage, and, crossing the pavement, ascended the steps. the bell was rung, and, after waiting for a few moments, the door opened, and a slightly-formed girl, about fifteen years of age, with a singularly interesting face, in- quired their errand. "does a mrs. jeckyl live here?" asked flo- rence. "no, ma'am," replied the girl. "mrs. hawks?" said the companion of florence. the girl shook her head. "we were told," said florence, "that a woman bearing one of these names came to your house about two weeks ago. she was a tall english- woman, dressed in black." "won't you come in and see my mother?" and the angel and the demon. the girl moved back a pace or two from the door. according to the invitation, florence stepped over the threshold and entered the house, following the girl, who conducted her into the back-parlor, which was feebly lighted by the rays that came in through a small opening in the shutters. "sit down," said the girl, "and i will call my mother." and she passed, with a gliding motion, noiselessly from the apartment. the eyes of florence soon accommodated them- selves to the feeble light, and, gazing around the room, she noted its contents with curious interest. the furniture was meagre and plain, the carpets worn, and the window-curtains faded. a few arti- cles, which seemed the relics of a better condition, indicated the possession of taste. while yet engaged in making these observations, florence, whose eyes had been peering into the adjoining parlor, the shutters of which were closed tightly, turned her head and met the steady, penetrating gaze of a woman who had entered so silently that no sound of footfall had disturbed the air. this woman was in height a little above the me- dium stature; of slender proportions; with an un- usually high and broad- forehead; faded, almost sallow, complexion; eyes black as coals, yet bright the angel and the demon. as fire; lips arching, thin, and flexible; and a deli- cate, receding chin. florence arose, and stood before the woman in momentary confusion, her eyes drooping beneath her singularly penetrating gaze. "pardon this intrusion," said florence, with considerable hesitation of manner. "i am in search of a person who, as i am informed, came to your house some time within the past two weeks." the woman requested florence to resume her seat, and then, drawing a chair in front of her, said, in a low, musical, yet not altogether pleasant voice,— "what is the name of the person you are seek- ing?" "mrs. jeckyl," replied florence. the woman shook her head. "she has gone by the name of hawks, i be- lieve," said florence. another shake of the head, accompanied by the remark,— "i do not know any one bearing either name." "she is an englishwoman, tall of stature." "ah!" the response was in a quick voice, in which was a shade of surprise. "she dressed in black," said florence. the angel and the demon. "did you say her name was jeckyl?" asked the woman. "yes. but i believe she has also gone by the name of hawks." "was she young, or old?" "past the middle point of life." "a woman answering your description was here about two weeks ago, and remained several days. but her name was fordham." "another alias, no doubt," said florence, in a quickened voice. "and now, madam, if you will tell me where i can find her, you will confer an obligation beyond all price." "is she a relation?" inquired the woman, look- ing steadily into the excited face of her young visitor. "no!" answered florence, with an expression of disgust. "why do you seek her?" the manner and tone of the woman threw a chill over the feelings of miss harper. "the person i seek has, it is feared, enticed away, or stolen, a little girl, whose mother is almost beside herself in consequence." "a grave charge to bring against any one," said the woman, seriously. "i hardly think it can apply to mrs. fordham." the angel and the demon. "you know something of her antecedents, then?" florence spoke inquiringly. "nothing," answered the woman, almost coldly. "where can i find her now?" "i have neither seen nor heard of her since she left my house," said the woman. the look of distress that settled on the counte- nance of miss harper seemed to awaken a motion of sympathy in the woman's heart. "whose child is missing?" she inquired, in a soft voice. "the child of mrs. edward dainty, number street; a little girl, eleven years old. she has been absent since yesterday. the woman suspected of the crime of enticing her away was employed, a short time ago, as governess, but dismissed almost immediately, in consequence of certain defects that entirely destroyed her right influence over the chil- dren." "what were those defects ?" inquired the woman, evincing a new interest in the matter. "she attempted, it was thought, to magnetize the children." "ah!" the woman seemed more interested, and leaned toward florence, fixing upon her, as she did so, her dark, bright, weird-looking eyes. there was a brief pause. the angel and the demon. "well, what of it?" inquired the woman, seeing that florence remained silent. "the consequences were serious, so far as the little girl i refer to was concerned," said florence. "she was changed almost from the hour mrs. jeckyl drew her within the sphere of her influence." "delicately organized, and easily impressed, no doubt." the woman spoke half to herself. "she is a sweet, lovely child," said florence, "and it is terrible to think of her pure, almost infantine spirit coming within the sphere of such a woman. death, in my regard, would be a blessing instead." "you speak warmly on the subject," said the woman. "i have cause to do so, for i feel warmly," said florence. "you have met mrs. jeckyl, as you call her?" "no. happily, i never crossed her path. my foot has not touched the slime of her serpent- trail!" the woman's face darkened, as if a shadow had fallen upon it. "if the person you call jeckyl, and the one who passed a few days in my house, are the same," she said, "your language is far too strong. though she is to me, partially, a stranger, yet i have had testi- the angel and the demon. mony in regard to her of the highest and most authoritative character. i know her quality as well as if i had seen her heart laid open and read it liko the pages of a book. she belongs to an exceptional class in the present time. to ordinary people she is unintelligible. the high purposes of her life are not appreciated by them. she cannot be weighed in their balance." the woman spoke rapidly, and with enthusiasm, quick changes running over her face, and her eyes brightening and darkening by turns like a stormy sky. a low shudder of fear crept into the heart of florence as she looked at this woman; and the irish girl who accompanied her, and who had until now remained standing, moved backward toward the door of .the room, gaining which, as a point of advantage, she said,— "'deed, and, miss, i think as how we'd as well bo going from here." "stay a moment." and florence reached forth a hand toward the girl. "i shouldn't wonder if i was riding on a broom- stick next!" muttered the latter, as she receded into the passage. "don't go, if you please. i will be with you directly." there was a tremor of anxiety in the tones of florence. g» the angel and the demon. "i will not call in question a word you have said," remarked florence, speaking in a depreca- tory tone, as she turned to the woman. "all i ask now is that you give me some clue by which i can trace this person from the time, she left your house. that is my errand here; and i beg, in the name of humanity, that you will satisfy it to the extent of your ability." "i asked her no questions when she left," replied the woman. "she came with a message from an absent one in the upper spheres,—a message that filled my heart with reverent gladness. as an honored guest, she remained for a few days an inmate of my house, and then went as she came. the spirits led her here, and the spirits withdrew her in their own good time. she is gifted in a high degree; and they have chosen her as one of their most favored messengers to darkly-wandering mor- tals. i bless the day she came to this house. ah! now i see the white garments, and now the angel- face, of that blessed daughter who ten years ago left my heart desolate." the woman's eyes were elevated, and she seemed in an ecstatic vision. "she removed the veil from my dull eyes,—that honored messenger!" she continued, "and, by a pure vision, i now see beyond the dark boundary thenangel and tiie demon. which conceals the beautiful world where the blessed ones dwell. she likewise unstopped my ears, so that they can hear spirit-voices. i hearken to them all day long." "i call nothing of this in question," said flo- rence, rising, and moving toward the door; "but other matters of interest press on me too impera- tively for delay. once again, let me implore you to give me some light. think again! is there no one likely to be informed of her present home, to whom you could refer me? let your mother's heart counsel for me in this matter!" "i trust the spirits in all things. for wise ends they have hidden from me all that pertains to their favored messenger. she came in mystery, and de- parted as she came. in the spirit i meet her almost daily. in the body i know her not." i the irish girl had already retreated beyond the outer door, and stood upon the marble steps. hopeless of gaining any information here touching the object of her search, florence, over whose spirit had fallen a strange, suffocating fear, as if her very life were waning, turned from the woman, and al- most rushed, panic-stricken, from the house. "'dade, and it's the divil's den!" ejaculated the irish girl, bluntly, as they crowded into the car- riage. "i wouldn't go into that house again for a the angkl and the demon. mint o' money. i expected every instant to see you spirited off!" florence did not answer the girl, but ordered the driver to leave her at the house in fifth street and then to take her to the residence of mr. dainty. she brought neither light, hope, nor comfort to those who had anxiously awaited her return, and found none for her own troubled heart. the angel and the demon. possession just now," replied adele, in a low, clear tone, the slight quiver in which showed a disturbed state of feeling. "you are perverse," said the woman. "the spirits must be consulted. there are evil influences at work." "they are at work in that mrs. fordham, if, as this young lady says, she has stolen a child !" adele made answer, speaking firmly. "i never liked her. she's wicked!" "adele!" "i believe it, mother." the girl was resolute. "she tried to get me in her power; but i was able to resist her, thank god!" "daughter! daughter! "wtiat is the meaning of this?" exclaimed the woman, in surprise and dis- pleasure, rising as she spoke, and advancing toward adele, with the evident belief that if she could get her hands upon her she could more effectually bring the full power of her strong will to bear in subduing her rebellious spirit. but adele retreated into the next room, saying, in a quick, decided voice,— "i'm getting heart-sick of all this, mother! there is in it more of evil than good, i sadly fear. i don't like the people who come here. some of them may mean all right; but some of them, i the angel and the demon. know, mean all wrong; and your mrs. fordham is one of them. and so is mr. dyer. i hate the very sight of him! he said something to me last night." "what did he say?" eagerly asked the mother. "i can't tell you now, because i promised him that i would not . but if he says it again i'll dash the first thing into his face that i can lay my hands on." just then the door-bell rang, and adele answered the summons. the very man about whom they were speaking entered. the moment adele saw him she started back, and, running along the pass- age, escaped from his presence up-stairs. "mr. dyer!" said the mother, with a pleased familiarity of manner, singular under the circum- stances, to say the least of it. she gave him her hand, which he grasped hard, and retained while they walked back into the darkened parlors. "mrs. weir!" was his simple response. his tone was low, penetrating, agreeable. let us de- scribe mr. dyer. it is the countenance that indi- cates the man. chin, mouth, nostrils, eyes, fore- head,—on these each one writes his character, though he tries never so hard to play the hypocrite. the lineaments of the face never lie. but in the present instance the face was so much hidden by a the angel and the demon. hairy veil that much of its true expression was con- cealed. intellectually, taking his rather low fore- head as a guide, mr. dyer was not a man of supe- rior endowments. but his small brown eyes, shining out from their hollow recesses, indicated mental activity and alertness. the skin of his face was colorless, and had a bleached appearance, all the lines running down, as if it had been rained upon every day for a dozen years. high up, reach- ing nearly to the cheek-bones, the hairy in vesture began, and that seemed to have yielded also to the causes which made all the facial lines perpen- dicular. it was guiltless of curl, or curving line of beauty, but shot down, straight and thick, a dark brown mass, wiry and unsightly. the hair upon his head was long, dry, harsh, and straight, lying like the mane of some beast upon his shoulders. his full, pouting lips indicated sensuality. yet even this countenance had been schooled by a sinister purpose so as to deceive some by }ts meek expression of goodness. mr. dyer was that intellectual, strong-willed woman's plaything, a biologist,—we use one of the names assumed by a modern sect of pseudo-spirit- ualists,—a getter-up of circles, and a leader in the insane orgies of mesmerism run mad. he was wonderfully given to trance-ecstasies, and could ele- the angel and the demon. dium," and could subdue by means of his stronger will the consciousness of sickly, nervous women, and so control the wonderful organism of their spirits as to make them speak and act like mere automatons. it was a vast improvement on maelzel and kempelon! at the time of his introduction to the reader, dyer had already been the instrument of promoting four separations between husband and wife. he was himself a married man; but, having discovered that another, a handsomer, brighter, and more attractive woman than his lawful partner, was conjoined to him as to the spirit, and therefore, according to his reading of the matter, his real wife, he had separated himself from the heart-broken woman against whom he had committed one of the most grievous sins in the crowded calendar of human wrongs. in the eye of the law he was a vagrant, for he had no apparent means of support. but he managed to get his share of worldly gear from his duped or corrupt admirers. it was sufficient for some of them that the familiar spirits, or demons, required their favorite instrument to be clothed and fed and supplied with needful money. such was the man whose appearance gave evident pleasure to mrs. weir, notwithstanding the intima- tion of her daughter, just made, that his evil eyes tiie angel and the demon. had fallen upon her, and that already his polluting breath had touched her fair young cheek. as the two entered the parlors, dyer still holding the woman's hand, he gazed into her eyes with a fixed look, beneath which her own did not quail. "and what have the spirits been saying to you this morning?" he spoke in a low voice, modulated to musical cadences, and bent his face close to hers. "i can see, by the lucid depth and strange ethereal brightness of your eyes, that you have been holding sweet communion with them." they sat down upon a sofa, and mrs. weir re- plied,— "new spheres are opening to me. i am anxious to rise higher, higher, into more celestial states; but the spirits are ever teaching me lessons of patience. i am too worldly yet, they say. the dross of this outer sphere is dimming my fine gold; the stain of earth is on my garments. their low whispers are lingering yet in my ears, and my soul feels the hush of a deep tranquillity." "beautiful! celestial!" and mr.dyer raised his hands in almost saintly benediction. "of all this the scoffing world knows nothing," went on mrs. weir, murmuring in a soft, sweet voice. "it is too gross and sensual, and, like the swine, tramples on these precious pearls." the angel and the demon. "and still, like the swine," added dyer, "turns upon and rends us who cast them at its feet." "alas! too true!" mrs. weir spoke almost sadly. "but the spirits sustain us. their communica- tions are our exceeding great reward," said dyer, with enthusiasm. "we are not in the world nor of it, but enjoy the glorious privileges of the im- mortals." he leaned closer. "to the pure all things are pure" the door-bell rung, and each gave a start,—a shade of disappointment clouding the brightness of their faces. "did you expect another visitor at this time?" asked dyer. "no," replied mrs. weir, as she listened to the light steps of adele on the stairs and moving along the passage to the door. both sat very still, hearkening. a low ejaculation of surprise escaped the lips of adele. then were heard the rustling of a woman's garments, and the movement of feet. mr. dyer and mrs. weir arose as the parlor-door was pushed open. "mrs. fordham!" exclaimed the latter, as a tall woman in black entered with a slow, stately step, the angel and the demon. to a high mission. but how was she to be brought into the sphere of her holy calling? in common language, she was not mine. i was not the instru- ment of her birth, and therefore, in the world's regard, had no right to dispose of her. again i consulted the spirits. the answer was clear. the bars of custom must be thrown down, they said. the child was destined to a high use, and human bonds must not restrain her. for a time the spirit was willing but the flesh weak. i hesitated, held back, doubted; but clearer and clearer came the indications. at last all communication was withdrawn from me. i asked, but received no answer; again and again i called to my old and dear companions, but not even a faint, far-off echo was returned to my half-despairing cry. then, and not till then, i yielded. i sent forth my thought and affection toward this child—this beloved one of the spirits—and drew her toward me. though distant as to the body, i felt that my hands were upon her, and that she was approaching. and she came in good time,—came and threw herself into my arms,—a young devotee to this new science, a neophyte priestess for service at the altar in that grand spiritual temple, the walls of which are towering upward to heaven." mrs. fordham's eyes gradually assumed an up- the angkl and the demon. ward angle: a rapt expression came into her face; her voice was deep and muffled by feeling. "precious darling! chosen one! beloved of the angels!" said mrs. weir, bending over the little girl, who now lay in a trance-sleep against the woman's bosom. "will the spirits communicate through her now?" asked dyer. "let me inquire of them," answered the woman. and she relapsed into a state of real or apparent cessation of all exterior consciousness. ten minutes of almost pulseless silence followed, the child still lying in her strange, unnatural sleep. "they will speak," said mrs. fordham, in a deep yet hushed tone. then she laid her hand gently on the colorless face of the child-medium, and held it there for the space of several seconds. a few light passes followed. the child caught her breath: there were slight convulsive spasms of the chest and limbs, while a most painful expression saddened her gentle face. "dear child !" murmured mrs. "weir. "it is the strife in her soul of evil spirits against the good," said mrs. fordham. "she is not yet wholly purified for her great mission. happily for her, the battle is fought in states of unconsciousness. she is spared all suffering." the angel and the demon. "the spirits love and protect her," said dyer. "they love and protect their own; and she is theirs," answered mrs. fordbaru. as she spoke, she raised the child to a sitting posture. her eyes were still closed, and the look of sadness and suffering yet remained. dyer drew a chair and sat down directly in front of her. mrs. weir took another and did the same, but arose immediately, and, looking to the opposite side of the room, said,— "come, adele; bring a chair and sit down with us." but adele neither answered nor stirred. "daughter, did you hear me?" mrs. weir's voice was firmer. "i do not wish to come into the circle," replied adele. "don't be foolish, child: come," said mrs.. weir. "no, mother: i wish to be excused." mrs. weir was moving across the room toward her daughter, when dyer said,— "stop, madam! let us consult the spirits." mrs. weir came back. "mrs. fordham, ask the spirits about this strange perverseness," said dyer. the woman closed her eyes and sat quite still for a minute. the angel and tiie demon. "the spirits require the circle to be harmonized," was mrs. fordham's decision. "you must come, adele!" dyer spoke half authoritatively. but adele stood as firm as marble. "adele!" mrs. weir's voice, now sharp and com- manding, thrilled through the rooms. "there are other spirits besides mrs. ford- ham's familiars, and they tell me not to harmonize her circle to-day," answered adele, speaking very calmly, and with meaning emphasis. "they are evil, lying spirits!" exclaimed dyer, with excitement. "from the infernal spheres," said mrs. fordham, solemnly. "i am afraid, mrs. weir, that sirens are seeking to possess your daughter, that they may utterly destroy her." "adele, come! flee to us quickly!" cried mrs. weir, in a tremor of excitement, stretching forth her hands. "my spirits are true, and i believe them!" answered the girl, resolutely. and she stood im- movable. "the spirits will not communicate unless the circle is harmonized," said mrs. fordham, with ill- concealed impatience. the angel and ttte demon. "let the perverse creature withdraw, then." mr. dyer spoke sharply. "go!" said mrs. fordham, waving her hand. but adele stirred not. "go!" repeated her mother. there was not a sign of obedience. "all things must harmonize, or the spirits will not answer. if the girl will not come into the circle, she must leave the room." it was mrs. ford- ham who spoke. "the spirits tell me to remain, and i will obey them!" said adele, with unwavering firmness. "they are bad spirits!" dyer almost thundered out the words, his pent-up anger and impatience getting the better of his self-control. "lying spirits!" shrieked mrs. fordham, catch- ing the excitement of the man. "who is to decide?" asked adele, calmly. "heaven's messenger!" said mrs. weir, pointing to mrs. fordham. "it is through her that the spirits of the higher spheres descend." "heaven's messengers don't rob mothers of their children!" adele answered. "if there are lying spirits in the case, they have found access to her ears, not mine!" "heavens and earth!" exclaimed dyer, starting to his feet; "what does the girl mean?" the anoel and the demon. mrs. fordham' self-imposed calmness all departed, and the fire in her eyes shot out toward adele like serpent-tongues. with three or four quick passes, she restored the little girl who sat in her lap to a half-dreamy consciousness of real things, and then, taking two or three strides toward the door, said, glancing over her shoulder,— "the same room, mrs. weir?" "the same," was answered, and woman and child disappeared from sight. the angel and the demon. chapter xix. the bird and the serpent. "you needn't stand glowering upon me after that fashion, john dyer!" said adele, after mrs. ford- ham and the child had left the room. "i know you, sir!" "silence !" was the passionate response, and "silence!" was repeated, though in feebler utter- ance, from the mother of adele. "that is a wicked woman!" said the girl, reso- lutely. "there is a serpent in her eyes. i saw it when she was last here; and it looks out with keener venom now. mother, beware of her!— and—" she hesitated a moment, and then went on, in a bolder tone,—"beware of him! there is an adder in your path: one step more, and it will sting you to death!" she pointed her finger steadily at dyer, and stood gazing at him until his eyes fell in confusion. then she passed from the room with rapid but noiseless feet, gliding away like a spirit. "an enemy hath done this," said dyer, almost the angel and the demon. meekly, turning to the mother of adele. "you have slumbered, i fear, and let the evil one scatter tares in your field." "i know not its meaning," sighed mrs. weir. "this morning i noted the first signs of a perverse temper." "what were the signs?" dyer looked sharply into her face, reading every changing lineament, as if he were scanning the pages of a book. there was slight confusion, and a moment's hesitation, on the part of mrs. weir. she then answered,— "i desired to take her hand and lead her up among the beatific mountains, but she held back. i urged, and she refused. she then acknowledged having resisted mrs. fordham in the same way when that honored messenger made my house bright with her presence. oh, it is distressing me beyond utterance!" "can you trace the cause?" inquired the man. "no." "your sphere is not strong enough." "who has a stronger sphere than mrs.fordham?" queried the mother. "she has set her at defiance also: nay, her power of resistance just now proved more than our combined influence was able to over- come." "i can do it!" said dyer, after a pause. "leave the angel and the demon. her in my hands. i will exorcise the spirits of evil." "your sphere repels her." dyer was on the alert again, and his keen glances were upon the face of his companion. "has she said so?" "yes. and you heard her strange language just now." "well? what further?" "i have nothing further. we know that antago- nistic spheres exist." "true, true." the man seemed relieved. "she has compared me to a serpent. but i know my own heart. evil, be thou far from me! come, angelic purity! as we draw nearer the invisible world we grow more ethereal, and the coarseness of depraved nature is dissipated in the fire of divine affinities. to the pure all things" the ringing of the door-bell again interrupted their pleasant communion, and in a few momenta they were joined by two visitors,—females,—who met dyer and mrs. weir in a manner that showed tnem to be on terms of close familiarity. in the mean time the woman fordham had retired with the child to one of the chambers above, her mind deeply disturbed by the unexpected incident of adele's opposition to the necromantic rites about the angel and the demon. being instituted,—so much disturbed that she was unable to prolong the spell she wished to throw over the consciousness of the little girl, who mo- mently became more and more distressingly alive to the strangeness of her position. "oh, ma'am," she said, in pleading tones, as the woman shut the door on entering the chamber, "won't you take me home? mother is crying for me. i heard her crying all last night . oh, dear! i do want to go home to my mother!" "don't fret yourself, child!" replied the woman, a little harshly. "you shall go home." "take me home now, won't you? i don't like to be here. you promised me yesterday that i should go home before night. oh, ma'am, do take me home now!" the little clasped hands were raised pleadingly; the husky voice quivered; the pale face had in it a look of fear and distress that would have melted any heart not made hard, by selfish passions, as the nether millstone. "you shall go home, dear," said the woman, softening her voice and assuming an affectionate manner. "you shall see your mother to-night." and she tried to lift her upon her lap, but the child resisted and held back. then the woman seized her by both arms, and held her firmly, look- the angel and tite demon. ing into her eyes, and exerting the serpent's power of fascination. the child stood still, held by a grip too strong for resistance, but she let her eyes fall. "look at me!" commanded the woman. but the glance she hoped to catch and hold in her weird gaze did not turn itself from the floor. "look at me! do you hear?" and the woman placed one hand under the little girl's chin and forced her face upward. but, instead of looking at the woman, the child shut her eyes. holding her thus, mrs. fordham commenced with one hand a series of mesmeric passes; but the child struggled and tried to escape from her. a blow was evidently meditated, for there was a quick raising of one hand, accompanied by an angry flash sweeping over the woman's face. but the cruel purpose was repressed. "what has come over the girl?" she muttered, impatiently. "am i thus to be baffled again? i did not look for it here! but down, excitement! if i would regain my power, it must be through calmness and a resolute will." releasing the child, who instantly shrunk away to the farther side of the room, mrs. fordham assumed an unimpassioned manner, but kept her gaze steadily resting upon her victim. the angel and the demon. the woman sat on the bedside, and the child stood pale, trembling, and in tears, crouching against the wall directly opposite. every thing became silent and motionless as death. the child did not look up, but steadily persisted in avoiding the gaze of her persecutor. but the powers of evil were too strong: there was an eye upon her that possessed a charm too potent for her to withstand; she was a frightened bird struggling, but in vain, against the fascination of a serpent. one, too, three minutes passed; all remained hushed as if statues and not living forms were in the room. at last the woman stirred slightly, as though the inner excitement had struggled through all restraining bars and shuddered along the surface: her head gradually bent forward, and her eyes protruded fearfully. and now there was an apparent relaxation of muscle in the child. evidently, her will was losing its faculty of resist- ance. a minute more, and the woman began approaching, with the stealthy movements of a cat, her eyes still fixed intently upon the girl. cau- tiously, and as if in doubt, she laid her hand against her cheek, touching it lightly. the child did not stir! she pressed the hand harder: there was no sign of consciousness! she called: there was no answer! suddenly a new life seemed thrilling along the * the angel and the demon. woman's veins. her countenance flushed; her eyes danced in light; her whole person quivered. stooping over the child, she lifted her with some caution, as if fearing the spell might dissolve, bore her across the room, and laid her upon the bed. then she made slow passes above her for the space of nearly five minutes. "all right!" she muttered, as a glow of evil triumph warmed her disfigured face, and her thin lips parted in a demoniac smile. "it was a hard struggle, but a vain one! there is an opposition of spheres in this house, and the medium of its activity is adele weir. twice has she set me at defiance, twice thwarted the spirits. it must not occur again. am i to be set at naught by a strip- ling of a girl like this?" after standing over the unconscious child for some time longer, and using sundry tests to make sure that she was completely locked in magic slum- ber, mrs. fordham turned away, and, passing through the door, closed it, and was going down- stairs, when a slight noise caught her ear. glancing up in the direction from which it came, she caught sight of adele watching her from the passage above. it was only a momentary glimpse; for, on finding that she was observed, adele retired from sight instantly. the angel and the demon. mrs. fordham paused, stood thinking for a little while, and then slowly returned to the room. she entered and examined the lock on the inside. it held a key. this was removed and passed into the wards on the other side. "thus i make surety doubly sure," she said to herself, again closing the door, which she locked, placing the key in her pocket. she then went down to the parlor. "how is our little trance-medium?" asked dyer, as she entered. "all right," was answered. "spirits from the lower spheres have battled hard for her, but the strife was vain. she is safe." "i congratulate you on the triumph," said mrs. weir, enthusiastically. "she is a lovely child," was added, with a touch of mother-feeling in her voice. "the most remarkable child-medium i have yet seen." mrs. fordham looked at the two visitors before mentioned. "the communications received through her are extraordinary. i am taking record of them daily, and their publication will astonish the world. society is on the eve of some new developments. it is the night before the morning." "is she tranquil?" asked mrs. weir. "entirely so." the angel and the demon. "sleeping?" "all the avenues to her soul are locked, and i have the key," said mrs. fordham, with triumph in her tones. "hark!" she paused and listened, her eyes raised to the ceiling. after a few moments of silence, she went on. "i thought there was a movement in the room above. but it was imagi- nation, i presume." "is there no danger of her awakening?" asked one of the visitors. "none: only the hand that shut the door of her soul's consciousness can open it again." "how wonderful is this power!" said the last speaker. "i tremble sometimes to think what terrible consequences might follow its abuse." "there is no danger of its abuse," returned mrs. fordham. "you think not?" "i am sure of it." "none but the favored of spirits are intrusted with this power," said dyer; "and they are pro- tected." "will not the spirits speak through her to-day?" asked one of the visitors. "i do not know. there have been opposing influ- ences; but i trust they are removed. in half an hour we will go up to where she is lying in trance- the angel and the demon. sleep; and perhaps the spirits will move her to utterance." "is she a speaking or writing medium?" was asked. "speaking. whenever her lips are unclosed, it seems as if you heard a spirit talking." half an hour was permitted to elapse, and then mrs. fordhnm, dyer, mrs. weir, and the two visitors passed with hushed footsteps up to the chamber. at the door mrs. fordham paused, and, speaking to mrs. weir, said,— "your daughter must not be permitted to enter. the circle cannot be harmonized if she is present." "i will see to it," was whispered back. the door was then unlocked, and the company entered, each one with suspended breath. mrs. fordham preceded; but, ere she had gone half across the room, an exclamation of surprise and dis- appointment fell from her lips. the child was not there! in less than half a minute every part of the chamber was searched; but no sign of the missing one appeared. "she may have thrown herself from the win- dow!" said mrs. weir, blank terror in her counte- nance at the thought, .. the window was opened, but no form lay on the ground beneath. the angel and the demon. "where is your daughter?" demanded mrs. fordham. mrs. weir stepped to the door, and called, "adele!" twice, thrice she called; but only echo replied. "it is her work!" exclaimed mrs. fordham, roused to mad excitement. "impossible!" said mrs. weir. "adele! adele!" her voice went thrilling through the house. "search everywhere, from garret to cellar!" mrs. fordham spoke in a commanding voice, and then went striding up-stairs and sweeping like a storm from room to room. chambers, attics, lumber-rooms, closets, cellar, and out-buildings, they searched with scrupulous care; but neither adele nor the child were found. both had vanished from the house, leaving no sign. the angel and the demon. " herself, adele left the room, and, going to her own chamber, hurriedly put on a bonnet and shawl, and then, coming back, lifted the sleeper resolutely in her arms, and, bearing her from the apartment, locked the door and withdrew the key. for a few moments she stood at the top of the stairs, irresolute as to her next step. then, laying her burden upon the floor, she went down the first flight and listened. the sound of muffled voices from the parlor was distinct enough to warn her that one of the doors at least was open, and that it would be folly to attempt to leave the house by the front way. there was an outlet back, by means of a narrow alley leading past a row of small houses into a court, and thence to a street running parallel with the one on which mrs. weir lived. but, to reach the yard so as to gain this outlet, adele must descend the stairway, the foot of which was near the back-parlor, and pass out by a door opening within a few feet of the parlor-window. this mode of egress was, therefore, almost as impossible as the first, for the window she knew was open. for a little while the excited girl was in despair; and the words, "it is hopeless," were on her lips, when she thought of a low shed out upon which she could climb from one of the second-story win- dows of the back-building. to think was to act. the angel and the demon. vanished through the gate, shutting it noiselessly behind her. hurrying down the long alley-way and through the court, adele emerged upon the open street. an omnibus was passing at the mo- ment, and she signed the driver to stop. it so hap- pened that no passengers had yet entered the vehicle, and this made her and her insensible companion the sole occupants when it moved on again. taking the extreme upper end of the seat, she placed the child in an upright position, so as not to attract the attention of those who might come in, and sup- ported her with one arm. the stage moved on for two squares before gain- ing any accession to the number of its passengers. then two ladies came in. they looked hard at adele; also at the child whose face was hidden among her garments. two men came in next; and then a woman with a little girl. after that, an elderly man entered. he kept looking up and down the cross-streets, and glancing at the passen- gers on the sidewalks, in a curious, anxious kind of way, as if in search of some one. at last he fixed his eyes on adele with a gaze so penetrating that it brought the color to her face. from her he looked to the child crouching down in the corner of the seat, and kept gazing at the half-hidden form until adele by a slight movement threw her body • the angel and the demon. farther forward, so as to conceal it still more from observation. where was adele going with the rescued child? that question the girl could not herself answer. escape was the first thing, and flight the second. the passing omnibus had given the second stage in the proceeding. all beyond was still in doubt. one passenger after another left, until only adele with her charge, and the old gentleman, remained. the curiosity of the latter, it was plain to the girl, had become strongly excited, and she began to feel certain that he would not leave the omnibus, nor permit her to do so, without penetrating the mys- tery of her sleeping companion. with stealthy glances she examined his face, in order to gain such limited knowledge of his character as was possible under the circumstances. her impression was favorable. at last the stage reached the exchange, and adele was yet undetermined what to do or which way to go. the possession of an insensible child in such a public place would at once attract notice, and probably draw around her an excited and mis- judging crowd. fear was intruding upon her heart. the old gentleman stepped forward to pay his the angel and the demon. a carriage called quieth', and, taking into it both adele and his recovered niece, was driven rapidly to the residence of mr. dainty. on the way he gained such information as adele permitted him to glean. it was not by any means satisfactory. the anoel and the demon. chapter xxi. the akrbst. "found! found!" the words rang through the house as uncle john entered, bearing madeline in his arms. her rescuer followed with noiseless footsteps and gliding motions. responsive cries of joy and the noise of rapid feet were heard from all parts of mr. dainty's dwelling; and by the time mr. fleetwood reached the mother's room an eager crowd surrounded him. tenderly laying madeline upon the bed, he exposed her pale, sad-looking countenance to view, the sight of which flooded every face with tears. "where is the girl?" he asked, imperatively. "i am here." and adele moved toward the bed. "what is the meaning of this?" he demanded. "what ails our precious darling?" "the sleep is mesmeric," answered adele, in her low, musical voice. "mesmeric!" ejaculated mr. fleetwood. "mesmeric!" exclaimed mr. dainty, in anger. "who has dared to do this?" the angel and the demon. i "it was mrs. fordham," replied adele. "who is mrs. fordham?" "the woman for whom you were in search," said adele, turning to florence harper, whom she had recognised. "mrs. jeckyl!" said florence. "devil!" almost thundered mr. fleetwood. "how is this spell to be broken?" asked flo- rence, coming up to adele and grasping her arm tightly. "no one can break it but mrs. fordham. she has locked up her senses, and she alone can open them." "cannot you do it?" florence asked, eagerly. "no," was answered, almost mournfully. "try." "it is useless." and the girl shook her head. "did you see it done?" now asked mr. fleet- wood, turning from the bed where he had been vainly trying to arouse madeline to consciousness. "no, sir. she was alone with the poor little thing." "you have seen children put to sleep?" mr. fleetwood asked the question. "oh, yes, sir. often." "and you've seen them wakened?" "yes, sir." the angel and the demon. "do as you have seen it done, and wake this child if possible." adele moved forward timidly, and, with evident strong reluctance, and standing over madeline, com- menced making passes with her hands, beginning at the breast and moving them upward over her face. the motions were slow at first, but increased in quickness. this was continued for two or three minutes, but without apparent effect. "it is of no use," said the girl, stopping suddenly, and as if in despair. "i have no power. the hand that has been at work here is stronger than mine. you must get mrs. fordham." ""where is she?" "at my mother's house." "where does your mother live?" "she knows." and adele looked toward flo- rence. "take florence in the carriage," said uncle john, speaking to mr. dainty, "and go with her to one of the police-stations and get an officer. then drive with lightning speed to the house where the girl's mother lives, and have mrs. jeckyl arrested and brought here." "come." mr. dainty spoke to florence, who went hurriedly from the room, and made herself ready in the quickest possible time, p the angel and the demon. "where can we find her?" he asked, in a disap- pointed voice. "i know not. she comes and goes as the wind; and no questions are asked as to her coming or going." "step into this room," said the officer, motioning to one of the parlor-doors. mrs. weir obeyed, and mr. dainty and florence went in with her. quick glances were thrown around the apartments, but they had no other inmates. "remain here," said the officer. "i will search the house. you stand by the door, sir, and do not permit any one to pass to the street." mrs. weir made various signs of rebellion; but the officer warned her to be quiet, or he would have her taken to the police-station. this threat really frightened her, and she sunk down, almost nerve- less, upon a chair. "be quick," said mr. dainty, speaking to the officer. "the woman is tall, with a thin, sallow, evil face, and dark, wicked eyes. you can make no mistake." the officer left the room. it was nearly ten minutes before he came back. "she ,is not in the house," he said, "and i fear has escaped, as i find an outlet in the rear, leading through a court, into another street." the angel and the demon. "i told you that she was not here," said the wo- man, a gleam of triumph shooting from her eyes, and her manner exhibiting relief. "she must be found!" mr. dainty spoke with agitation. "we are on her track, and only need to persevere. this is one of her haunts; and to this house my poor child was brought." "she will in all probability return here," said the officer, "if what this woman states is true. but if she were really in the house at the time of our arrival, and made her escape out through the alley and court i have mentioned, we shall have to search for her in another direction. my advice is to send the carriage out of the neighborhood. if the woman should come back and see it standing before the door, she will take the alarm, and not enter." "your suggestion is good," remarked mr. dainty. "i will order the carriage around the square. the driver can wait for us in the next street." and he went to the door and gave direc- tions accordingly. returning, mr. dainty said to the officer,— "shall we all remain here, or will you go for ad- ditional aid, so as to extend the search?" "i think," replied the officer, "that, as this woman is fully implicated in a very serious crime, the angel and the demon. i had better take her to the police-station. she is evidently a participant in the business, and shows great anxiety about the escape of her accom- plice." mrs. weir's sallow face changed to a more ashen hue at this suggestion. "i do not know," added the officer, speaking for effect, "that bail, under the circumstances, will be accepted. she will no doubt be imprisoned until all parties in this most horrible outrage are dis- covered. her evidence in the case will be of too much importance for risk of absence, even under bail, to be taken." "indeed, gentlemen," said mrs. weir, now thoroughly frightened, "i am innocent in this matter. mrs. fordham, who brought the child here, is an entire stranger. i never saw her until very recently." "where is she now? how can we trace her?" demanded the officer. "i know not. she went as she came, and i asked no questions." ""more the fool for that!" said the officer, coarsely. "but i am afraid there is as much of the knave as the fool in the present case. right kind of people are not in the habit of letting suspicious old women, and total strangers at that, come into their houses the angel and the demon. and depart at will, yet asking no questions. the story isn't probable, madam." "but true, for all," answered mrs. weir. "it is just as i have said. mrs. fordham came and went, and i asked no questions." "and why not?" "because i—i" the woman hesitated. "say on." "we are commanded not to cast pearls before swine," she replied, with sudden spirit; "and i shall not cast down things precious to be trampled under your feet." "you've got some spice in you, i see," returned the officer, a little amused. "people in your trade generally have. it requires a full portion to carry them through." the woman's face flushed as she said,— "explain yourself, sir! what do you mean by my trade?" "oh, that of harboring child-stealing vagabonds and the like! this seems to have been your last occupation. but i am not here to bandy sharp words. my business is to find mrs. fordham. if you can direct me to the place where she now is, well; if not, i must arrest you, and you will be held in custody until she is produced,—perhaps longer." the angel and the demon. the woman's face turned pale again. at this moment the bell rung. mrs. weir started up and was moving toward the door. "excuse me, madam," said the officer, laying his hand upon her arm; "but i will attend the door." and he drew her firmly back. she made a slight resistance, but the officer held her tightly for an instant. "take her in charge, if you please," he said to mr. dainty, "while i see after this visitor." mr. dainty did not hesitate. grasping her arm, he said, sternly,— "let us have no trifling! this business may cost you dear. complicity in crime is no light matter, i can tell you." the officer was now at the street-door. as he opened it, a tall woman in black, answering in all respects to the description of mrs. fordham, stood ready to enter. "walk in, madam," he said. but she stood still, with her keen eyes reading every lineament of his face. she was not satisfied with its expression. "walk in," repeated the officer. "no, i thank you. please say to mrs. weir that the angel and the demon. g mrs. fordham would like to see her at the door for a moment." "mrs. weir is engaged," was the officer's reply. "has her daughter returned?" queried mrs. fordham. "yes." "ask her to step here." by this time mrs. fordham had retreated a little, and the oflicer, seeing that she was about descend- ing the steps, moved suddenly forward, and, throw- ing one arm around her waist, drew her with a sudden jerk into the passage and shut the door. the movement was so quick, and so unexpected, that the woman was taken entirely off of her guard. "you are arrested for child-stealing!" said the officer, ere she had recovered from her surprise. "it is mrs. jeckyl!" exclaimed florence, appear- ing at the parlor-door. "mrs. jeckyl! oh, wretch! wretch!" said mr. dainty, who had released mrs. weir, and now con- fronted the thoroughly-alarmed woman, who, seeing herself completely in the power of these two men, gave up without a struggle. "shall i go for the carriage?" said the officer. "yes, immediately. but, stay! let me call * the angel and the demon. the carriage, while you hold your prisoner in charge." "what are you going to do?" demanded mrs. jeckyl, with regaining self-possession, as mr. dainty left the house. "my business," replied the officer, "is to make this arrest. what follows will depend on the cha- racter of evidence which may be produced against you." "at whose instance is the arrest made?" "at the instance of mr. dainty, whose child you abducted." "i must know your authority!" the woman was growing bolder. the officer merely took a metal star from his pocket and fastened it against his breast. the effect was instantaneous. the woman's eye quailed beneath his steady gaze. "come," said .the officer, as the carriage was heard rattling to the door. she hesitated, but moved as she saw his hand rising to grasp her arm. "do you wish the other woman arrested, also?" inquired the officer, on meeting mr. dainty at the door. "she is without doubt an accomplice." . "i only want this woman now," said mr. the angel and the demon. dainty. "if the other is needed we can send for her." "but will hardly find her," muttered the officer. mr. dainty did not heed the remark. he was too eager to have mrs. jeckyl conveyed to his dwelling to pause on any other considerations. entering the carriage with mrs. jeckyl, florence, and the officer, he ordered the driver to take them to his residence in the quickest possible time. heeding the injunc- tion, the driver put the whip upon his horses, and dashed rapidly away. the angel and the demon. chaptee xxh. breaking the spell. it was more than an hour from the time mr. dainty and florence left to go in search of mrs. jeckyl, before they returned, bringing the woman with them. during all tbat period not a sign of life, beyond a feeble heart-beat, did madeline exhibit. mrs. dainty was almost wild with distress, and sat over her child, weeping and wringing her hands. agnes was calmer, but in deep grief; while tjucle john moved about the chamber in which madeline lay, as restless as an unshrived ghost. adele sat by the bedside, her face bent down, and hidden from view. occasionally uncle john or mr. dainty would ask her a question. then she would look up, exhibiting a pale countenance, and answer in a low voice that was touchingly sad. many times had both the mother and mr. fleet- wood renewed their efforts to break the fearful spell that lay upon the unconscious child. an age of suspense they endured until mr. dainty's return. the angel and the demon. at last a carriage was heard at the door. uncle john went to the window. "they have come!" he said, greatly excited, as he saw mr. dainty step to the pavement. "there is an officer!" he added. "and there is mrs. jeckyl! oh, the wretch! yet how glad i am to see her!" breathless expectation followed. adele arose from her place by the bedside, and shrunk away into a remote part of the room; while agnes came nearer to madeline, and laid her hand upon her. the mingled sounds of voices and footsteps were heard along the passage and on the stairs, and then the chamberdoor opened, and mr. dainty en- tered, followed by mrs. jeckyl, the officer, and florence. on the stern face of the woman sat a dark, defiant scowl. she looked at mrs. dainty, at agnes, and at uncle john, with unflinching eyes, but did not speak. quick glances were then thrown about the room, and adele, half hidden by one of the window-curtains, was only partially seen, but not recognised. "for what purpose am i here?" she asked, look- ing at mr. dainty. "simply to undo your evil work," he replied. "you see that child?" and he pointed to the bed. the angel and the demon. mrs. jeckyl, and her young lips compressed and resolute. "you do know something of the child." she spoke out boldly. "for you brought her to my mother's house. iler present condition is the work of your hands, and you can restore her in a moment if you will." mrs. jeckyl's countenance grew almost livid with rage; and she glared at adele, as if seeking to blast her with her burning eyes. but the young girl stood without a quailing glance, and looked up steadily into her face. • "it is as i say, and you know it." there was no sign of fear or embarrassment in the voice of the brave young girl. "then act quickly!" said mr. dainty. "oh, mrs. jeckyl, help us if you can! break the spell that rests on our dear child!" mrs. dainty clasped her hands and spoke imploringly. but the woman stirred not from the place where she stood. "she can do it if she will." it was adele who spoke, and her voice was clear aud confident. mrs. jeckyl again scowled upon her, like a wild animal at bay. "i have sent for the doctor," said mr. fleetwood, returning to the room where the excited family the angel and the demon. stood hovering around the bed on which madeline lay. "we were simpletons not to have done this before. my faith is stronger in him than in this impostor. it will be found, i think, that madeline's unnatural sleep is the effect of some drug, or of fright, or injury." a grim smile parted the lips of mrs. jeckyl. "she can bring her to in a moment, if she will," persisted adele. "i've seen such things done many, many times." "no one asked you for information," said mrs. jeckyl, turning in an excited manner toward the girl. "this is mere trifling," spoke out the police- officer, sternly, and he advanced to the side of mrs. jeckyl. "why was she brought here?" and he looked toward mr. dainty. "to remove from this child the spell she has cast upon her through some infernal art." "so i understood. very well, madam, let it be done at once." mrs. jeckyl stood, in evident debate with herself, for some moments. "if i do as you desire, what then?" she ad- dressed mr. dainty. "quick! quick! mrs. jeckyl!" now broke in mrs. dainty. "oh, save my child! she will die! break this terrible sleep!" the angel and the demon. chapter xxiii. the angel stronger than the demon. "i have wronged you, miss harper," whispered mrs. dainty. it cost the weak, proud woman an effort to make this acknowledgment. but madeline's arms were around both of their necks, and the child was cling- ing to both with a half-trembling eagerness. this confession made all the rest easy. '/return to us," she added, "and be to my chil- dren what you once were." "do come back again!" it was the pleading voice of madeline. "oh, i wish you had never gone away!" florence felt a shudder run through the child's body, as if some fearful image had been presented to her mind. "say you will come back, and take your old place, miss harper," urged mrs. dainty. the arm of madeline which was around her mother's neck withdrew itself and joined the arm that circled the neck of florence. * the angel and the demon. curiously, glancing, as she spoke, toward .the win- dows. "is it morning? "no: the day is nearly done. it lacks scarcely an hour to sunset." "is it so late?" madeline looked serious, and her face passed from transient light into shadow. "yes. you have slept a long time. but come, dear, you must get dressed for tea." madeline looked up at miss harper with a kind of vague wonder in her countenance, and then let her eyes wander slowly about the room, as if search- ing for some-person or object. "haven't i been away from here, miss harper?" she inquired, looking at florence. "why do you ask that question?" "i'm sure it isn't all just a dream. that mrs. jeckyl! oh, dear! i feel so strangely!" and madeline laid her hand upon her breast. "don't think of any thing, dear, but the happy present," said florence, smiling into the little girl's face. but the eyes of madeline were filling with tears, and their expression had become very sad. "oh, it was so dreadful!" "what was dreadful, maddy?" her mother asked. "i don't know," she answered, in a bewildered the angel and the demon. manner. "i saw it all just now; and now it's gone again." "what is gone, love?" "i thought she was going to kill me." the child spoke as if to herself. "who, maddy?" "it was mrs. jeckyl. she had me in a room. oh, dear, mother! i don't know what's the matter with me!" and the child shuddered, while an expression of almost abject fear came into her face. "you are safe at home, my love,'' said mrs. dainty, in a soothing voice. "there is no mrs. jeckyl here, but kind miss harper instead. and she is going to stay with us." 'that's best of all," replied madeline, partially recovering herself, and looking up into the face of- miss harper. "i was so sorry when you went away and that dreadful woman came in your place." "won't you rise now?" said florence, taking madeline by the hand and drawing her gently ipwards. the child yielded, and sat erect in bed. mrs. dainty brought a frock, and a change of under-clothing, and both she and florence busied themselves in removing the soiled garments of made- line and replacing them with such as were fresh the angel and the demon. * < "is she?" responded the little boy, with a suddenly illuminated face. "yes, indeed. a'n't you, miss harper?" 'and madeline looked up into the face of her gover- ness. "if you want me?" was the smiling reply. "oh, that's grand!" said george, striking his hands together and jumping a foot from the floor. "did you hear that, uncle'join?" "hear what?" asked the oldjgentleman. "miss harper is coming back again!" answered the boy. "oh, i'm so glad!" mr. fleetwood threw an almost - grateful look upon florence, as he said,— "you have friends here, miss harper. children are no hypocrites." "if this is true, as i hope it is, let me welcome you with a most sincere welcome," said mr. dainty, coming forward and giving his hand to florence. mrs. dainty entered at the moment. she had lingered in the chamber after florence left. "it is true," she spoke out, with womanly frank- ness. "i have asked her to return, and she has kindly consented. we shall all know each other better in time, i hope." the flushed cheeks, drooping eyes, and unsteady lips of miss harper showed emotion, not triumph; the angel and the demon. hadn't we, maddy? do you remember the stories i used to tell?" they were already in the passage. "oh, yes, indeed!" was answered. "and they were such beautiful stories!" "would you like to hear another? i know a great many," said florence. "if you please, miss harper. i always love to hear your stories; they make me feel better." "oh, it looks as natural as can be!" said flo- rence, speaking with animation, as she entered the study-room. "here is my arm-chair, just in the old place. there! i am in it again, feeling quite at home and comfortable." "and i am in my little chair, close by your side, and waiting for a story," said madeline, who was already feeling the spirit of her companion and true friend as well as teacher. "the story, is it?" and florence bent down and left a kiss upon the sweet, upturned face. "very well: my promise shall be kept. now, let me think: what shall the story be?" miss harper lifted her eyes, and sat thoughtful for some moments. then, reaching her hand toward a table that stood near, she took up a bible, saying, as she did so,— "i used to read you some of the stories in this the angel and the demon. precious volume, and i think you always loved to hear them. shall it be a bible story now?" florence was looking down upon the face of her pupil. its expression suddenly changed into one of strong repugnance, and, with an impatient gesture, she said,— "no! i don't want to hear a bible story!" florence was shocked by the tone and manner of the child more than by her words. "not a story from the divine book, maddy dear?" she said, in a voice touched by an irre- pressible sadness. "oh, you cannot mean what you have said! angels are present with us in the holy word; and they bring to our souls peace and happiness. let me read to you about the birth of our saviour in bethlehem." miss harper opened to the second chapter of matthew: as she did so, madeline turned her head away. miss harper began,— "now, when jesus was born" the instant these words reached the ears of made- line, she sprung upon the volume in the hands of miss harper, and would have torn the open pages, if she had not been prevented. her countenance was flushed almost to congestion, and her eyes gleamed with an evil light. the angel and the demon. "there were other attendants on that baby, be- sides those visible to human eyes." the hands of madeline were raised quickly, but the closing words of the sentence arrested the movement. "the mother did not see them; the father did not see them: but still they were there." the hands of madeline began to fall, and her ear slightly turned, listening, toward florence. "i said they were not visible to human eyes," resumed miss harper. madeline looked up, be- guiled into wonder. "but they were as really pre- sent, and as near the baby, as its parents. no,—not both of them." the last sentence was spoken in a changed tone, as if it involved some special mean- ing. "not both? "who were they?" asked madeline, her interest beginning to be excited. "the one that stood near the babe," said miss harper, "had the form of a beautiful woman just passed upward from sweet young girlhood. her countenance was lovelier, and purer in expression, than that of any face ever seen by you in a picture. she bejit over the babe with clasped hands, gazing down upon it with looks of wondering love; and when it smiled her face grew suddenly radiant. the other," (miss harper's voice fell lower, and the angel and the demon. took on a graver tone,) "stood in a distant corner of the room, almost crouching down, as if held there by some superior power. very different was she from the pure being who bent over the child. her face wore a frowning, malignant expression. instead of curling golden hair gracefully falling around her neck and upon her shoulders, dark, tangled locks stood out from her head, or crept down over her face, like serpents." "who were they?" asked madeline, now tho- roughly interested. "one was the baby's guardian angel; the other, an evil spirit." madeline raised her eyes to the face of miss harper with looks of deeper wonder. "the angel's presence," resumed florence, "was alone sufficient to hold that evil spirit, who wished to hurt the tender babe, at a distance; just as good affections in our hearts have power to hold the bad and selfish ones so far away that they can do us no possible harm. day by day that infant grew larger, and brighter, and happier; but never for a moment did the angel remove, nor for a moment cease to spread around the babe a sphere of tender love, of innocent and holy calmness. and the mother, and all who drew near to look upon the babe or to hold it like a precious thing in their arms, felt this thb angel and the demon. old, the angel's face would at times be shadowed; and then a gleam of malignant pleasure would flash over the countenance of the attendant fiend. and now i will tell you the reason. do you wish to hear?" "oh, yes, miss harper! tell me the reason," answered madeline, all attention. "the babe, even as early as i have said, dis- played an evil temper. it grew angry, pushed its mother away, and resisted her. this troubled the guardian angel, and this it was that gave the fiend delight. but these fits of passion were but tran- sient, passing away as the morning cloud and the early dew, under the sunny influence of that blessed guardian angel. the fiend was still repelled,—still kept at a distance. but she wearied not with wait- ing. she knew that her time would come,—that the angel would not always have power to hold her in the distance." miss harper paused, and looked into the face of madeline. there was something in its deeply- interested expression that a little puzzledier. "shall i go on?" she asked. "the fiend didn't hurt the baby, miss harper? the angel didn't go away?" her voice was earnest almost to eagerness. "the angels never leave us of their own accord. the angel and the demon. baby by stimulating them to a more rapid growth. do you understand my meaning?" «i think so." "one of the first things that was taught to this baby, as its mind began to open, was the existence of god." florence spoke low and reverently, while her eyes were fixed upon the countenance of her atten- tive listener. she saw a slight impulse strike the child's features, and a flush of sudden feeling veil them. "of that good god who had sent his pure angel to be its guardian," she added, in a still lower and more reverent voice. the light returned again to madeline's face. "'how shall i do this?' asked the mother, in her own heart; and the reply came. she did not know that it was the angel's voice that gave the wished- , for answer. so she took the little one's hands in hers one evening, clasped and raised them upward, and said, 'god bless little amy.' the baby was too young to repeat the words of her mother, or even to comprehend their full meaning; but the angel, who bent very near, breathed a holy feeling into her tender spirit, and she had a faint im- pression of something higher than the visible, and up to which she might look for blessing. tue axgel and the demon. how sweetly the angel smiled at this! how darkly frowned the watchful fiend! the first idea of god was given; and that was a great gain, for the angel could now be more intimately present with the child in this idea. so far the angel was triumphing over the fiend." "are angels present with us when we think of god?" asked madeline, interrupting miss harper, and speaking with the manner of one who felt an interest in the question. "if we think of him reverently, they are." "how, reverently, miss harper?" "as great, and good, and holy," said florence; "for then we shall desire to be like him, and angels are always present with us when we desire to be good." "and do they help us to be good?" "always. to them it is the most delightful of employments." the eyes of madeline drooped. she sighed faintly, and remained silent. florence waited for some moments, and then went on, speaking slowly and impressively:— "tenderly loved and wisely guarded, the first moons of the baby's life waxed and waned, and at last a golden year of its life was completed. the idea of god, once conceived in the child's mind, g the angel and the demon. leaned her head and listened with fixed attention. thus she read:—' now, when jesus was born in bethlehem of judea, in the days of herod the king, behold there came wise men from the east to jerusalem, saying, where is he that is born king of the jews? for we have seen his star in the east, and are come to worship him.' the evil spirit could not abide in the presence of this word of truth, as it entered the mind of an innocent little child, and so retired to a distance, almost writhing in hatred and pain. the mother read on:—' when herod the king had heard these things, he was troubled, and all jerusalem with him. and when he had gathered all the chief priests and scribes of the people together, he demanded of them where christ should be born. and they said unto him, in bethlehem of judea, for thus it is written by the prophet: and thou, bethlehem, in the land of juda, art not the least among the princes of juda, for out of thee shall come a governor, that shall rule my people israel. then herod, when he had privily called the wise men, inquired of them dili- gently at what time the star appeared. and he sent them to bethlehem, and said, go and search diligently for the young child, and when ye have found him, bring me word, that i may come and worship him also. when they had heard the king, the angel and the demon. they departed; and lo! the star which they saw in the east went before them, till it came and stood over where the young child was. when they"saw the star, they rejoiced with exceeding great joy. and when they were come into the house, they saw the young child, with mary his mother, and fell down » and worshipped him; and when they had opened their treasures they presented unto him gifts,—gold, and frankincense, and myrrh.'" florence had triumphed; for madeline was listen- ing to this story of the nativity with deep attention. and so she kept on, repeating from memory the whole chapter. "and now," continued florence, "not a day passed in which that innocent little one did not ask her mother to read; and the mother read to her, at least once every day, some story from the bible, so that, as she grew older, her memory was full of pre- cious histories, in the thought of which her guar- dian angel could be present with her. she loved to hear of little samuel; of joseph, who was sold into egypt by his brethren; and of the blessed saviour, who went about doing good. "and the child grew, and grew, until babyhood was passed and the sweetness of infancy gave place to a more earnest life. but always the day opened or closed with some lesson from the holy book; the angel and the demon. chapter xxiv. an unexpected revelation. in the excitement attendant on the restoration of madeline to conscious life, adele had been for- gotten. uncle john was the first to remember her. it was immediately after the withdrawal of florence with her charge to the study-room. "where is the girl ?" he asked, suddenly glancing around. no one could answer the question. "did you leave her in your chamber?" uncle john spoke to his niece. "i do not think she is there," replied mrs. dainty. "i hope she has not left the house," said uncle john. there was concern in his voice, and'he moved, as he spoke, toward the door. "we are largely in her debt, and she, i think, needs our pro- tection." "she shall have it!" mr. dainty spoke with emphasis. "go, madeline, and see if she has re- mained in your room." mrs. dainty went to her chamber. * the, angel and the demon. "not here!" she uttered the words just audibly. a few moments she stood, her eyes glancing around the apartment, when a low sound, like a repressed sob, came to her ears. stepping forward, she drew aside one of the heavy window-curtains. there sat adele, crouching upon a low ottoman, her face buried in her hands. "we were afraid you had gone," said mrs. dainty, speaking in a kind-voice, and laying her hand gently on the girl's head. adele looked up, but did not answer. her singularly beautiful face, in which the softness of childhood still blended with woman's firmer out- lines, was pale and very sad. mrs. dainty, whose nerves were still all ajar, felt something like awe steal into her heart as she looked upon the counte- nance which was upturned to hers. just then tjncle john, whose anxiety about the young stranger would not permit him to await the return of his niece, entered the room. his face brightened as he saw adele. "ah, my brave girl, you are here. we were afraid you had left the house," he said, encou- ragingly. adele arose, and stood, with timid, downcast look, before mrs. dainty and mr. fleetwood. "we owe you more than thanks," said the latter. the angel and the demon. "the service you have rendered us is beyond all price. how shall we repay the obligation?" adele raised her dark eyes and looked steadily into the face of mr. fleetwood. there was a strange depth and beauty in those eyes, and something mournful and pleading. mr. fleetwood felt their appeal. "what is your name?" he asked. "adele," replied the girl. "adele—what?" a slight flush came into her face; but she did not answer until after a silence of several moments. she then said,— "adele weir." "do you wish to return to your mother?" this question disturbed the girl. there was evidently a strong mental conflict. "if mother was as she used to be. but" the feelings of adele overmastered her, and she again covered her face. shuddering sobs almost convulsed her frame. they were not loud, but repressed as if by the whole strength of her will. "if mother was as she used to be." self-pos- session was restored, after a brief struggle. "but she is not, and i am afraid never will be. since she became a medium, she has not been like my mother of old. the spirits tell her a great many strange the angel and the demon. i am afraid her right reason is gone. when i was a very little girl, she belonged to the church, and used to read the bible a great deal. she always read it aloud when i was with her; and bo i got my thoughts full of verses and stories, until i could say almost chapters by heart. but mother believes now that spirits are making a higher revelation than the bible, and that its teachings are of but small account in comparison. i am afraid that if the spirits were to tell her to do almost any thing that is forbidden in the bible, she would jio it . isn't it dreadful?" "dreadful indeed!" said mr. fleetwood. "but you believe in the bible?" "oh, yes,—yes! at first they put me to sleep, and tried to make a medium of me. i believe that i did write and talk some. but when i got back into my real self again i had such awful feelings that i was sure it must be wrong. and so i prayed god to teach and help me. and i think he did. their power over me grew less and less; and at last i was able to throw it all off. oh, sir, i do not think it would be right for me to go back again." "you must not return," answered mr. fleetwood, positively. "god heard your prayer, verily, and has granted you a deliverance." the lashes of the girl's eyes fell slowly down - the angel and the demon. "can't i eat with miss harper?" and made- line pushed her chair a little way back from the table. mrs. dainty's eyes met those of her husband. her face grew troubled and irresolute; his evinced a puzzled state of mind. uncle john looked at his niece, and mutely signed for her to say yes. "h you prefer doing s^>," answered mrs. dainty, replying to madeline. "but i would rather have you take tea with us." consent and objection at the same time only tended to push the child's mind further away from an even balance. she had stepped back from the table with a light motion as consent passed her mother's lips, but stood suddenly still, with a clouded face, at the objection. "run along, dear," said uncle john, in a cheer- ful voice. "mother says yes." madeline moved a pace or two, and then stopped. her chin was drawn down, her brow contracted, her lips pouting. "go, go, dear! mother is willing." mrs. dainty saw her error, and now, hoping to retrieve it, spoke with pleasant animation. madeline looked up at her mother, as if in doubt of her sincerity. mrs. dainty smiled tenderly, and said, in a loving voice,— the angel and the demon. chapter xxv. a revelation. mr. and mrs. dainty and uncle john sat alone in the library, into which they had passed from the tea-table. uncle john referred to the remark of his niece about the children eating with inferiors. he spoke with unusual sobriety of manner, and in a voice subdued far below its ordinary tone; for mr. fleetwood was not only a man of quick feel- ings, but one who rarely took special trouble in the way of concealment. "in what respect, madeline," he asked, in open- ing the conversation, "do you think the children will suffer injury by sitting at the same table with miss harper? don't be annoyed at the question. don't let feeling obscure your mind. there is much of vital importance involved in this matter. let us come to its consideration moved solely by a desire to see what is right. you are the mother of these children, and your interest in them should be higher than your regard for any social usage or for the angel and the demon. "put her upon a social equality with yourself." "how?" "if she were your sister, what then?" "she is not." "but if she were? then she would sit with you at table; she would meet your friends; she would be a trusted companion." "she is not my sister," answered mrs. dainty. "suppose she were the daughter, or adopted daughter, of a valued friend or wealthy citizen?" "that would alter the case. but she is not." "are you sure?" uncle john's voice fell to a lower tone, and had in it a quiver of feeling. "i am sure," said mrs. dainty, with confidence. uncle john let his eyes sink to the floor. it was plain that there was something held back in his thoughts. "i wish," he said at length, almost sadly, "that i could help you to see below the surface of things, —that you were able to tell gold from tinsel, worth from its counterfeit. all true value lies in quality. you know the quality of florence harper. honor the good, then. be independent in your sphere of life. set the noble example of being just. you can afford to do so. let it be seen as a new thing, and worthy of emulation, that in choosing a companion and instructor for your children you take one worthy the angel and the demon. to sit by your side and share your favor and con- fidence. you cannot see into the mind of an infe- rior and a dependant as you can into the mind of one who is regarded as an equal." but uncle john could not lift the minds of mr. and mrs. dainty up into the clear-seeing region that his own occupied. "it is all in vain to press that view," said his niece. "there are certain social distinctions that must be maintained. as to miss harper, if her presence as a governess in our family is to be at the cost of your constant interference in the matter of position, i shall be driven to the necessity of dis- missing her from my service." the little head of mrs. dainty balanced itself firmly, and she looked dignified and composed. but she was not prepared for the change that instantly appeared in uncle john's manner. he stood up very erect, with a firm, decided manner, and said, like a man iu earnest,— "you will not, i presume, reverse your present decision v "i will not," replied the lady. "then florence cannot remain." mr. fleetwood spoke as by authority. "i can't see," said mrs. dainty, "that you have any right to control her movements." the angel and the demon. said, if she were my own child i could not love her more tenderly. true, wise, noble-hearted, self-ab- negating girl! to me it is a cause of wonder that your eyes were not able to see the angel in your house." "i am bewildered, uncle john," said mrs. dainty, greatly subdued. "leave me now, that i may col- lect my thoughts." "as you collect them," replied mr. fleetwood, "i pray you to examine each with the closest care. only true thoughts lead to right actions. let there be no error in your summing up,—no fatal defect in your conclusions. there are two paths diverging before you: madeline, spoiled child of a dear sister! beware, lest you take the wrong one!" and he went, in evident agitation, from the room. the angel and the demon. chapter xxvi. reviewing the matter. "that alters the case," mrs. dainty spoke sug- gestively, raising her eyes from the floor, and look- ing at her husband. it was nearly five minutes after uncle john had left the library. "yes, that alters the case," was the half-dreamy response of mr. dainty. "that alters the case," he repeated, and then relapsed into silence. so far they were agreed. "that artful girl" mrs. dainty paused, for she was not entirely cer- tain in regard to her husband's present estimate of miss harper. "do you think her artful?" inquired mr. dainty, looking at his wife. \ "see what influence she has gained over uncle john." "that may be explained on other grounds," said mr. dainty. "what are they?" "he has himself referred to them." the angel and the demon. "i thought he had forgotten florence williams years ago, or that, if he remembered her at all, it was with indifference or dislike. she jilted him meanly. but i was always glad of it." "madeline," said mr. dainty, speaking in a de- cided way, "we cannot change the present con- dition of things: that each of us may see at a glance. and the question for us to ponder is, can we afford to let our feelings rule, and so break with uncle john? there is no use in beating around the bush. no use in fretting ourselves. the horns of our dilemma are visible as the sun at noonday, and we must make our election. uncle john has made his: that is certain." "and do you really think he will give us and our children up for that girl?" said mrs. dainty. "i am sure of it. did you not see how he was moved when he said that he loved her as if she were his own child? i marked it well. i have seen him disturbed a hundred times in my life, but never as he was this evening." mrs. dainty sighed deeply. "we shall have to humor him," said mr. dainty. "and let that upstart triumph over me!" mrs. dainty burst into tears. pride could not endure the thought. the angel and the demon. "are you not prejudiced against her, madeline? she has never seemed to me presuming." before mrs. dainty could reply, the library-door was pushed open, and madeline came gliding in. from her manner it was plain that she had come to make a request, and also plain that she was in doubt as to its reception. "mother," she said, as she paused a few steps from mrs. dainty. "well, dear?" "can't i "the child hesitated, and her face colored. "say on, dear." "can't i sleep with miss harper?" a strongly-uttered negative was on the lip of mrs. dainty, when a warning look and gesture from her husband forced her to keep silence. "can't i, mother?" urged the child. "say yes. do, mother!" madeline was unusually earnest. "why do you wish to sleep with miss harper?" asked her father. "oh, because she is good, and i love her." "don't you love sister agnes?" "yes, i love her." the tone of madeline's voice fell. "isn't she good?" t the angel and the demon. "toleration is not going to do," she answered. "entire social equality is demanded; and nothing less will satisfy either of them." "i am not sure that miss harper has demanded any thing. uncle john said she had not, and that she was here only upon his strong solicitation. it is barely possible, madeline, that you have misunder- stood her from the beginning. at least, one thing is now certain. her social position will be changed by uncle john's formal adoption. she will be lifted to our level, and society will recognise her. so far we will be all right with the world." "there is something in that," said mrs. dainty, a trifle softened. "but will she remain as governess to the children?" "we can sink the word 'governess.' let her be their companion and instructor." "only another name for the same thing," re- marked mrs. dainty. "the position is menial." "i have thought differently, since uncle john's remarks a little while ago," said mr. dainty. "they struck me as having great force." "what did he say? i was so excited and out- raged that i scarcely comprehended him." "he said that the teacher, guide, and companion of our children must be socially equal, or she cannot lift them up to our level. and he asked, with to the angel and the demox. have her remain as your governess. we had no knowledge of all this when she came here, but he told us about it this evening. and now she is going to be one of us; that is, she will be as our daughter and your elder sister." "how glad i am! how glad i am!" exclaimed agnes, striking her hands together, while tears filled her eyes. "but, mother, you don't say any thing!" and she stood up and looked earnestly into her mother's face. "can you accept her as an equal?" asked mrs. dainty, almost coldly. "she is wiser and better than i am," replied agnes, humbly. "if she will accept me as a sister, my heart will yield to her joyfully. dear mother, take her into favor and love, for she is worthy." "leave us now, daughter," said mrs. dainty, in a softened voice. "we will talk about this another time." and agnes, after kissing her mother affection- ately, withdrew from the library. "the thing is inevitable." mrs. dainty was not by any means reconciled, as both tone and manner indicated. "but easy." "easy?" "yes, and may be accepted gracefully. let us the angel and the demon. "i see; i see," answered mrs. dainty, moodily. "but, when a thing has to be done, only fools hesi- tate. i will discipline my feelings to-night, and to- morrow put on toward this usurping girl a new exterior. don't fear but that i shall play my part." "it may cost you a struggle," said her husband, "but the strife will soon be over. i hope much from her gentle nature, and much from her clear perception of right. she will not,' i am sure, take a mean advantage of this great diversion in her favor." "time will show," was the almost sullen re- sponse. the angel and the demon. old man's breast and wept passionately. even the worldly, calculating heart of mrs. dainty was touched, and mr. dainty drew his hand quickly across his eyes to dash away the blinding drops. "i promised madeline to return very soon." florence was the first to gain entire self-control. she spoke in a low but steady voice, as she looked up. "and now i must go back to her. i need not say that my heart is deeply touched by this unexpected occurrence. you offer more than i have any right to claim,—more than i desire. let me still be to your children as in the beginning. i came as their teacher; i have learned to love them; i am sure that i can do them good." "the children's teacher, and the mother's friend!" said mrs. dainty, whose feelings were taking a higher tone. she saw herself in the right path, although by constraint, and felt that the way before her was easier to walk in than she had dared to hope. "yes,—the mother's friend," mr. fleetwood spoke slowly and with emphasis; "for none else is worthy to be the children's instructor, companion, and guide." while he was yet speaking, florence retired from the room. "you have done well, madeline," added mr. the angel and the demon. fleetwood, as the door closed on florence, "and better a great deal than i had reason to expect. in bending down to one like miss harper, and raising her up to the social level you occupy, there is no loss on your part, while the sphere of life in which you move gains largely by an accession of virtue, intelligence, refined taste, and womanly self-reliance. depend upon it, madeline, the benefit is largely in your favor. florence will give more of good than she receives." "she is certainly a remarkable girl," said mr. dainty. "in our late trouble she exhibited qualities that now excite my admiration. if our dear lost child had been her own sister, she could not have pursued the search with greater assiduity. we owe her more than we can ever repay." "and there is a work," replied mr. fleetwood, speaking in a tone of unusual seriousness, "which, if she have the wisdom to execute, will lay us under still higher obligations." uncle john paused. mr. and mrs. dainty looked at him inquiringly. "maddy is changed." he paused again,—then added,— "and there is a fearful mystery connected with the change. we trace its beginning from the hour that demon in human guise entered our the angel and the demon. home, and let the glare of her evil eye fall upon the child. she gained, by some infernal art, control over the will of that child, and led her off a captive, powerless to resist. thank god, we have rescued her, so far as the body is concerned. but the thral- dom went far below the visible and the external. there is yet a spell upon her life,—a spell that must be broken; and i have no hope, except in florence harper!" a shadow of fear settled on the face of mrs. dainty. "it is wonderful," continued uncle john, "with what wise caution miss harper is already acting toward maddy. would you believe it? the child not only refused to let florence read to her from the bible, but actually sought to destroy the book! and yet the good girl was not turned aside from her holy purpose, but lured the perverse one into the right way. in the end, maddy listened with deep interest while florence read of the saviour's birth. wise, loving, true-hearted girl! she is the angel in our house, madeline! fail not to honor the heavenly guest. she has begun right; let us give her all possible aid, so that the angel may triumph over the demon." the angel and the demon. chapter xxvih. conclusion. on the next day adele weir was taken by mr. fleetwood and florence to the house of mrs. elder. the good lady, when she clearly understood the case, and read something of the girl's character and state of mind, did not hesitate about receiving her, and adele accepted the proffered home and refuge with tearful gratitude. mr. fleetwood and florence returned together. as they drew near the house of mr. dainty, they saw a woman ascend the steps and ring the bell. before they came up, the door was opened and the woman entered. "who is that?" asked mr. fleetwood. "if my eyes do not deceive me," was the reply of florence, " it is the mother of adele weir." "no! she would hardly dare venture here." "a mother will dare much for her child," said* florence. they moved forward quickly, and were soon at the door. the angel and the demon. "who came in just now?"inquired miss harper, in a low voice. the waiter shook his head as he answered, "don't know, miss." "what name did she give?" "she asked for mrs. dainty, but would not send up her name." "let us go into the parlor;" said mr. fleetwood, in a whisper to florence. florence looked assent, and the two passed in. a woman closely veiled sat on one of the sofas. "mrs. weir!" said florence, speaking with blend- ed surprise and indignation in the tones of her voice. the veil was drawn aside, revealing the pale face and glittering black eyes of adele's mother. her thin lips were firmly set, and the expression of the woman's countenance was resolute. "i have come for my child!" she said, in a voico that betrayed much agitation of mind. "she is not here," florence replied. "she was brought here," said the woman, fixing her piercing eyes upon the face of miss harper. "she came here to restore to her mother the child a wicked woman enticed away, and you secreted, making yourself thereby a party to the crime." "and is here now?" said mrs. weir. u * the angel and the demon. prise, and a shade of alarm came over her pale face. "mr. dyer has nothing to do with the affairs of my house," she said, quickly. "he is known to have been a party in this wicked transaction." mr. fleetwood spoke sternly and positively. "and i shall get the police on his track." mrs. weir manifested still greater disturbance, which encouraged the old gentleman to continue the assault in that direction. "see to it, then, both of you!" he continued. "such things are not to be done in the broad day and passed over as of light account. you will all of you find, before you are done with this nefarious business, that you have gone a step too far. mrs. jeckyl has escaped us; but some one must answer to outraged justice. florence!" mr. fleetwood turned quickly to miss harper and said, "tell the waiter that i wish to see him," adding, in a lower key, "it will hardly do to let this woman escape." the closing words reached the ears for which they were really intended, and mrs. weir, as florence turned to leave the parlor, moved toward the door leading into the passage. "stay," said mr. fleetwood, speaking to mrs. weir. "don't go yet!" the angel and the demon. if he had said "go," instead, she could not have shown a greater willingness to depart. "john!" mr. fleetwood called for the waiter, in a loud, imperative voice. • that was enough. mrs. weir's alarm was com- plete, and she fled precipitately from the house. a few days afterward mr. fleetwood visited the neighborhood in which she had lived, but found her house vacant, and "to let" on the door. the task before miss harper was no light one. it required more than a single victory over the evil spirits who had gained, through disorderly rites, power in the child's mind, to dispossess them. scarcely a day passed in which madeline did not relapse into moody states or show a strangely per- verse will. patience, gentleness, loving-kindness, all were brought into exercise; and sometimes the contest would be long and painful. but always the angel proved stronger than the demon, and the tried spirit of the child arose, through divine aid, superior to its foes. as weeks and months glided onward, the old tranquil states returned, and the gentlest and sweet- est of all the children was restored to herself again, —stood clothed and in her right mind. mrs. dainty, from whose eyes the veil had fallen, now saw the character of florence in its true light. there had the angel and the demon. growing daily more and more like their guide, com- panion, and friend. he had loved them from the beginning for their childish innocence and affection, but love took now a deeper tone, and gathered strength and emotion from the beauty of goodness that daily blossomed in their lives, the sweet presage of fruit in sunny autumn. of mrs. jeckyl no more was seen or heard. she vanished like an evil spirit when the sun-rays of truth stream down through the rifted clouds of error. the shadow of her presence had left a blight on the earth; but warm sunshine and gentle dews made the soil fruitful again, and good seeds, planted by careful hands, soon shot up the tender blade and covered the desert place with greenness. mrs. weir came not again. the warning of conse- quences had thoroughly alarmed her, and adele was permitted to remain under the wise, religious care of mrs. elder. very deeply had her young life been disturbed by the disorderly influences to which she had been subjected in her mother's house; and there were times when the evil spirits who had gained access to her mind found some of the old avenues unguarded, and flowed in with their sphere of error, invading even the outer citadel of natural and cor- poreal life. but mrs. elder knew wherein lay the power of exorcism. she knew that as she filled the angel and the demon. the mind of adele full, as it were, of the precepts and narratives of the divine word which was "in the beginning," which was "with god," and which "was god," she would succeed in casting out the spirits who sought to rule her, and set her freed soul upon the rock of eternal ages. she did not labor in vain. and so good triumphed. the angel was stronger than the demon. the human souls that came forth from god, with god-given freedom of will, were restored to the orderly life into which they were created, free, as reason developed, to select, un- biassed by the intrusion of disorderly spiritual spheres, the paths of life in which they would move through the world. without such rational freedom, spiritual regeneration is impossible; 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mo. over pages, with mezzotint engraving, - - $ . cloth, full gilt, . leaves from the book of human life. large mo. of pp., with illustrations and steel plate. $ . cloth, full gilt, ----.--- . golden grains from life's harvest field. j mo. bound in muslin, with beautiful mezzotint engraving, $ . cloth, full gilt, . jet) fficjbte ir) q ggl- fiooft), jdi)$f j sqto jhcre. mo., $ . cloth, full gilt, . the withered heart. mo., with fine mezzotint frontispiece. bound in cloth, - $ . cloth, full gilt, . the fireside angel. pp., mo., with an engraving. bound in muslin, gilt edges. $ . ggf agenti wanted in every part of the united state* and britith province: address, j. w. bradley, n. th st., philad'a. date due date issued date due hall c s a hall Šº § §）, gd scn s Ș ts anna mar mi gc . s ffeats* £s y>uh unmitic dickson q. brown \, ' urav.n ty p. w. vaul.lt,. f.s.a. eugraved by j. baetin. ■\ the l draky w*^. london: longman, brown, green, and longmans. mdcccxtviii- m london: cook and co., printers, , fleet street. -a introduction. ow fertile of thought are the fairy legends of ireland; full of natural poetry, and seldom without a moral! that upon which this tale is founded is, i believe, common to all parts of the island; although i have, perhaps, committed a practical ana- chronism in bringing 'the kelpies' of the north into the south. it is believed that a child whose father has died before its birth is placed by nature under the peculiar guardianship of the fairies; and that, if born on midsummer eve, it becomes their rightful property. this introduction will suffice to explain the machinery by which i have endeavoured to trace the progress of a young k e #^ c introduction. girl's mind from infancy to womanhood; the good and evil influences to which it is subjected; and the trials inseparable from a contest with the world. i express my earnest thanks for the powerful assistance my story has received from many distinguished artists; to whose genius i am largely indebted for the effective manner in which it is placed before the public. since its appearance in detached parts, in "the art- union journal"—i have carefully revised it; the addition of several new and more important engravings will, i trust, give to the tale an increased interest and value, and justify its publica- tion in a more complete form than it could receive in the pages of a periodical work. a. m. h. the ro ery, old bbompton. d. maclibe, r.a. . . . frontispiece to part vi. c. stanfield, r.a. . . . frontispiece to part ix. t. creswick, a.r.a. . . frontispiece to part viii. e. m. ward, a.r.a. . . pages , . a. elmore, a.r.a. . . . page . w. e. frost, a.r.a. . frontispiece to part ii. j. noel paton, r. s. a. . pages , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , and frontispieces to part v., x., and xi. frederick goodall . . pages , , , , , , , , , , , . thomas landseer . . . page , , . e. h. wehnert . . . frontispiece to part iii. r. huskisson pages , , , , , , , , and frontispieces to parts i. and vii. f. w. topham .... pages , , . kenny meadows . . . pages , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . ' illustrations. f. w. fairholt .... pages , , , ; frontispiece to the volume. j. franklin pages , , , , , , , , , . j. h. weir pages , , , , , , , . f. w. hulme pages , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , and frontispiece to part iv. j. lecurieux the title page. the engravings by w. t. green, g. and e. dalziel, j. bastin, j. williams, h. linton, g. measom, \v. measom, a. j. mason, &c. &c. the initial letters designed by t. r. macquoid. the cover designed by j. marchant. the volume bound by bone and son. dra-m by h. huekiebtm. engraved by w. t. gre«n. the mother's blessing. part the first. t was as bleak and chill a midsummer eve as the oldest dweller in the lake- country of klllarney could call to mind. the wind, although it did not absolutely roar through the gap of dunloe, or round and about the purple mountain, and 'lofty mangerton of the hoary head,' disturbed by its harsh murmurings and audible discontent the young trees and lowly shrubs that grow beneath the shadows of the evergreen woods. all know that $ unearthly spirits hold their revels on midsummer eve; it is their fete-night: when they show the elements, of the past and future, that a power mightier than theirs can rule them. the wind knew this well; yet, on this evening, was neither entirely submissive nor absolutely rebel- lious. at times, it started from its dull quiet and prowled abroad; fretting everything it touched; shaking the light branches of the silver birch and drooping willow, ruffling the narrow forms of the slim laburnum, wrestling roughly with the stout holly, and scattering the deli- cate arbutus, whose leaves, fruit, and flowers are as fair and bright amid december's snow, as in the sunshine of july. the wind was not only out midsummer eve: of season, but unnatural; it brought the chill of winter into the very midst of summer. it was, in truth, a sharp-toothed and biting wind; forcing its way into ill-built cottages—through broken windows and shrunken doors, where poverty sought warmth from peat-smoke rather than fire; piercing through every hole in the torn blanket or tattered cloak; whistling in bitter mockery of the poor man's moan; stirring the flax upon the rock which the feeble fingers of age, or the firmer ones of youth, twisted into threads; causing the lamb to nestle closely into its mother's wool, and the foolish calf to low complainingly at its chilling howl, as it passed through the half-roofless out-house. anon, it pelted the ivyed ruins of old mucross, terrifying the very owls, who hooted it onwards, without stirring from their hermit-cells ; and scourged the angry bats who ventured forth on their wonted errands. the beings who held sway over earth that night were so bent on mischief that they exerted their utmost skill to rouse the storm kino from a fairy tale of lovf.. uneasy repose, as he pillowed his head beside the daemon punch-bowl— set like the eye of a cyclops in the rough brow of mangerton; but the old fellow wh was still too wearied by the exertions of the long past winter to attend their summons, grumbled his displeasure in a tone which the echoes of glena repeated in thunder. compelled to be content with the efforts of his sharp and bitter satellite, they sought, so aided, to accomplish great things before the last hour of midnight—scudding with it bravely and boldly through the open country : at length it grew conscious of-impotence, and retreated to narrow defiles and crowded inclosures—like those who, lacking power to disturb the world, delight in the minor evils of inflicting misery in their neighbourhoods and homes; but when, after ruffling the waters of the flesk, it sprang upon the bridge of many arches, it gave a wild howl of delight to see old doctor magrath bowed to the neck of his grey pony. "at him—at him—keep him back—keep him back," muttered a thousand voices to the wind; and surely there must have been some mysterious understanding between them, for right glad did it seem of encouragement to worry the old man, as he had never before been worried; his hat and wig flew over the bridge, and his poor bare head was buffeted as by a forest of shillelas; but while he moaned and murmured at the rough handling of the elements, two stout fellows followed to see that he neither tarried nor turned back; and who, having neither hat nor wig to midsummer eve: lower lake—except on their own 'eve,' that they may have a chance of adopting some new-born child of earth into their community—a chance which seldom becomes a reality—although it is theirs by royal charter— the charter of the prince o'donoghue, lord of a thousand palaces that lie fathoms deep beneath the surface of loch lene. kitty's grandmother had seen the kelpie queen in all her magnificence, arise on one of these festive occasions, from her water-palace, on the back of a huge frog, who seemed proud of his burden, and carried her with the air and bearing of a race-horse, while her dark air streamed on either side her sallow face, and her attendant court were endeavouring to press into their service everything they could take—from a tadpole to a water-rat; she had often recounted this to kitty, in her childhood; and kitty, even at that early period, affected to doubt a tale, which, despite her seeming, crept through her bones, and made her very heart freeze within her bosom. she would now have given all she possessed in the world, to have had any one with her beside her sick lady; she started at every noise. a certain wise man—known as randy the woodcutter—had been sent off for the doctor; and while she waited his return, she had, she thought, frequently heard him 'whisperin and cosherin at the door ;' and yet he came not. at length, however, his well-known step was distinctly audible. "is all right, randy ?" she asked, from within. "all will be right when i knock," he answered, "and then open quickly." "is he on the road?" inquired the nurse, heedless of the warning; but before he could reply, a sharp blast rushed inward, and extinguished the flickering light of the lean candle she held with a trembling hand. "a cross and a blessing about us, kitty kelly!" exclaimed randy, falling on his knees. "god, he knows i couldn't help it. why did you open the door before i knocked? i done all for the best, as the end will prove. oh, murther! why don't you shut the door, instead of standing there like a rock in the lake — there's something more than the wind pass'd in now!—bless yourself, woman, dear! oh, then, sure it's impossible to tell what would be on the wings of the wind this midsummer eve!" a fairy tale of love. "nothing worse than yourself," stammered the nurse, bravely, though she perceived, at once, that the horse shoe was gone, and even fancied she saw 'something' flying off with it. turning eagerly to randy, who, pale and shivering, was gazing on the kitchen rafters — "is the doctor coming!" she exclaimed. "'deed is he; and for fear he'd stop or turn back from his duty, on account of the hardness of the night, i set my two cousins to keep the road after him. he'll be here soon. oh, sure it was only my duty i did, madam." "is the man mad to madam me!" exclaimed kitty. "stand on yer legs, and shut the door, and put the chair against it, and don't keep staring and bowing to the rafters; dear me, but it is a blast; and i didn't think there was more than a whisper going." "kitty kelly, you're not altogether of this country," exclaimed randy, in a low tone: "you've only been two hundred years in it—for you came in with ould oliver crommell; so give way to your prayers—it's no wind that we're trembling in: of the three we're watching, one came in with me—the mistress will thank me for that; there was a second—and there will be a third. you may strive against them; i dare not!" "i dare!" replied kitty, whose courage had in part returned—and then she started, for she fancied she heard shouts of ironical laughter; but, little daunted, she attempted to close the door violently. in this, however, she did not succeed; the wind pushed against her, and not only had the best of it, but flung her to the other end of the kitchen. "make the blessed sign," said randy, yet without moving to her assistance. "i can't," she replied; "my hand's weighed down by a ton weight." she had hardly uttered the words, when a gust of wind, freighted with most extraordinary noises—sighs, and snatches of music, atoms of laughter, and fragments of old songs, mingled with the sound of rushing waters— entered the cottage, and filled it as with an atmosphere. '"it will shut asy enough now," observed the woodcutter, rising from midsummer eve: his knees, and wiping his brow. "air, earth, and water! oh, i'm not afraid to say my say about the good people, day or night; they never did me an ill-turn, and never will; quiet, and kindly, and good they are, and mane nothing but good to the dear lady ;" and his huge head nodded, and his long limbs bent and twisted, in a peculiar sort of homage to something invisible to all eyes but his own. the nurse thought it probable that randy made the speech and performed his gesticulations, in the hope of propitiating the good offices of the company whom she now knew had come to the birth. it was currently believed that he could see and understand more than beseemed an honest man; and yet randy was an honest man, and had the unbought happiness of being more loved than feared. still, the all-powerful 'they,' whispered he, was a 'fairy man;' and, as such, he was consulted by many who would scruple to confess they had any faith or trust in the existence of the 'good people.' this opinion had strengthened wonderfully during the last few months; indeed, ever since the young widow had given promise that the child of a dead father was to visit a care-full world, his hours had been spent, even more than usual, beside the fairies' oak—a withered and time hol- lowed tree, which hung its decayed branches over the sedges that skirted the base of the far-famed 'eagle's nest' (the most won- derful of the lake's many won- ders); and he had been more than ever attentive to keep free from pebbles and worm-heaps, 'the ring,' which tradition and his own knowledge assigned as the favourite trysting-place of the 'good people.' a fairy tale of love. the door was now easily closed, and the candle relit at the kitchen fire; the woodcutter threw upon it an additional heap of bog-fir: the old cat's hair stood out like porcupines' quills; every now and then she opened her mouth to hiss, but closed it again without a sound ; she would lift a paw, and stretch it forth, bristling with claws—then draw it back again, each claw returning to its downy sheath. "sit down, randy, and don't be showldering the chimney, as if there wasn't a chair in the place," said the nurse, through her chattering teeth. "i know better manners than to disturb any one from their sate," he answered, bowing round, respectfully. the nurse crossed herself with the thumb of her right hand, and retreated to the bed-room of her mistress. the fire burned brightly—yet the cat took no pleasure in its blaze, but kept moving, uneasily, from one side to the other,—' wrinkling' up her coat, as if water had been thrown upon it — her tail twitching and bristling in restless discomfort. "it's hard on you, pusheen gra!" said randy, addressing the cat; "but you can't help yourself. they'll neither hurt nor harm you, pusheen." "they've got possession now, and they'll keep it," he thought to himself. "they will!" whispered a soft voice in his ear. randy caught hold of the fore-lock of his hair, pulled it, and jerked his head rapidly forward. "and for good," he said aloud, wishing to compliment nightstar, the queen of the fairies of the air, whose voice he knew, and whom he had often seen descend to earth with her train of attendants shining in the distance, like a silver halo in the moonlight. and many a time, in the cool of a midsummer night, when the grateful flowers drank in refreshing dews poured into their bosoms by midsummer eve: considerate clouds, had he seen honeybell, queen of earth's faires, pass on her favourite hum- ble-bee, whose flight was guided by her page; while nightstar descended with her train of attendant sprites, simply by the action of her own will. "and for good!" he repeated. don't speak," replied the fairy, in a dignified tone; "there is no necessity; we see your thoughts as they are formed, and notice them if we please." "the dickens a doubt i doubt ye," thought the woodcutter; for, despite his caution, thoughts would come. "now, don't swear, randy; it's vulgar." the woodcutter could not prevent himself from thinking an earnest prayer, that power might not be given them to change the child, at its birth, for one of their c wn. "and why not?" was the inquiry, in a low and gentle tone—the very shadow of a sound. "why not are your world's children so free from care, and all the sorrows and troubles of life—that tug at your hearts, furrow your brows, weigh you down before your time— spectres leading you to graves—are they so very happy, that you do not wish them to be with us, who, you know, spend our lives in enjoyment?" "from sunset to sunrise," thought randy, "no mortal ever knew what you do be doing when the sun shines." "even so," replied nightstar, whom, on turning round, he saw seated in the very centre of a cobweb, while a fairy tale of love. her page was engaged in combat with the dispossessed spider, who, dangling by his thread, endeavoured to defend himself against the well- poised spear of the active elf. "from sunset to sunrise," she repeated, rocking herself backward and forward on her seat; "even so; and surely that is better than spending it as you and the rest of you spend it—in heavy sleep or midnight brawling." "you never could lay that last to me, or to any of the kerry boys," replied randy, speaking out boldly; for he believed ireland the finest country in the world, and killarney the greenest spot in the emerald isle. he had no sooner spoken than he heard a loud clapping of hands, and little cries of "bravo!" and, fully aware of the compliment, he gave another pull at his head-tuft, and, to his great astonishment, found, on opening it, that he had caught a fairy in his hand. "why didn't you hold me when you had me," exclaimed the creature, springing on a moonbeam that had just entered the window; "and then i would have told you of hidden treasure, as well as the leprehawn you are so fond of hunting." "sure, it's not misdoubting your honour's generosity i'd be," replied the woodcutter. "you can give me the information, or the gould, which ever your honour plases, all the same;" and then there were shouts of merry laughter; and it seemed to the enlightened eyes of the bewildered man, that a multitude of the fairies of the three elements completely occupied the kitchen—twirling round the rafters, and filling every crevice and corner—some even clinging to the feathers of the cock's tail. the earthly good people were far more slow and heavy in their movements than those who appertained to the purer element; they ate and drank whatever they could find, and fought sham fights with each other—and real ones with the kelpies or water fairies. the woodcutter's unsealed eyes had no difficulty in distinguishing the three distinct races, who had attended their liege ladies to be present at the birth of the fatherless, on midsummer eve: he knew that the change of the earthly for the unearthly child, would belong of right to whichever of the three had first entered the house, and he congratulated himself on having so managed that midsummer eve: nightstar and her court had been the earliest arrivals. honeybell, queen of the earthly spirits, would, he thought, yield honourably to the claims of her royal sister; but he had no such faith in the queen of the kelpies. she was a yellow, damp, distorted, little creature, who diverted herself in a huge tub, by causing the elves who make up, what may be called 'the people' of the other tribes, to be ducked whenever they were caught by her frog-like subjects. randy had his own purposes to work out, and he dreaded the kelpies' influence: his mind filled with hope when he contemplated the gentle dignity and kindly expression of nightstar, her attendants floating around her with ineffable grace—many of them perfectly transparent, their bosoms illumined from within, by a little spark of light like that which flashes from a diamond. he looked upon the queen reclining on the cobweb with as much ease as an eastern lady in a palan- quin, and having attracted her attention by what he intended to be a gentle sigh, but which shook the web, so that her majesty caught hold of the banner of her standard-bearer for support, he composed his thoughts. "you might have conveyed to us your desire to think, without blowing a hurricane," said nightstar; "but you mortals are so very boisterous. yet i must forgive you, randy; you are an honest fellow, and i don't think i ever yet found a black ugly thought at nurse in your mind: evil gets there, to be sure, sometimes; but it does not stay; it meets with no entertainment; you are an innocent soul, randy, and we love you much; otherwise, we should have granted you no such royal privileges as you possess. you have a great regard for this poor lady, i know: she will have a daughter, i can tell you that. and now what is to be done with the little maid who is to be with us in a few minutes?" "she'll come to the from her father's grave,' poor mother, plase your gracious majesty, like a beautiful sum- mer butterfly rising thought the woodcutter. a fairy tale of love. the queen nodded twice, and smiled. "if she is not very, very pretty, randy, i think i shall give her up to my royal sister, honeybell." "you're a mother, yourself, i'll go bail, my lady," thought randy, "though you are so very small and young." "oh, yes! i was a mother more than two hundred years ago," answered the queen. "what a little darling of a beauty she is," thought the woodcutter, and the fairy smiled her pleasure at the compliment. "and looks as fresh as the first drop of may-dew," so ran his thoughts. the fairy smiled againi and drew herself up with gentle pride. "she's every inch a queen," thought randy, as her own particular court gathered about her. "if she was six feet high in her stocking vamps, she could not be more stately." queen nightstar had certainly much of mortal woman about her; she was lovely—witty—kind—and generous; but very, very small—even for a fairy; and yet the little creature prided herself upon her stateliness, upon her dignity, and queenly presence. she had never been so well pleased with randy, though she had patronised him for years; she had hitherto thought him a good-natured creature; now, she fancied him endowed with exceeding penetration. "you're mighty fond of the young prences and prencesses, i'll go bail," thought randy. "i am, of course," she replied. "might i make bould to ask how many your majesty has?" "about three dozen," was the gracious reply. "and you couldn't fix upon one you'd like to part with?" "part with!" she exclaimed—" i would yield my life rather than one of my children! man—man—do you think i could have a choice !—my dear, dear children!—a mother's heart is large enough for all. i could love ten times as many, and yet one does not rob another of a hair's breadth of love." "why, then, if you are so fond of the whole three dozen, won't you allow that it's hard to take an only child from its mother—and she a widow?" "you are very provoking, randy," said her majesty, in answer to his thoughts—" and cunning in reasoning; but we merely exchange—we leave her one of ours." midsummek eve: "one of the ne'er-do-wells—that she'll see pine and die (to all appearance) before her eyes, at the end of three months: the grass isn't green yet over poor mary mackay, who fretted the life out of herself, after one of your changelings." "not one of mine—one of honeybell's," replied nightstar, thought- fully. "the baby will be all in the world left to comfort her; and sure there's plenty of children born in killarney this holy night, by twos and threes—not wanted; where there's no house to hold, nor clothes to cover them: wouldn't one of them do for you?" "i don't like low-born children," answered nightstar, with a toss of her lovely little head. "the highest born may have the lowest bed, when all is over; any way, your majesty could make them what you plase; and it's yourself that knows that many a fine brave spirit rises from under the cabin roof; but no matter what they are; you could give them the gifts that would make them great people—and beautiful women, like yourself— my lady!" "i'm sure i don't want to take the mortal's only little one, if she thinks so much about it: no doubt she will be very fond of it," sighed the queen. "honeybell is in such a sweet temper—so well-pleased with the cream and cakes, that she would, i daresay, instead of changing the child, help me to endow it. but there are the kelpies; and you know their queen is no friend of ours. air has the first right of choice, earth the second, and water the third. she won't give it up, i am certain, even if honeybell did." a sudden thought crossed randy's brain. "i see, i see!—do it, do it," continued nightstar, as rapidly as the thought was formed in randy's mind; and, suddenly turning round, she addressed an observation to one of her courtiers, while the woodcutter seized a little platter of blessed salt, and tossed it into the tub where the kelpies were sporting. it was quickly and cleverly done; instantly the hands of randy hung as awkwardly as usual by his sides; but great was the consternation that followed; such splashing of water and whistling of wind: the kelpies rushed out of the house in the wake of their a fairy talk of love. insulted queen, threatening revenge on the fairies of earth, by whom they imagined the trick had been played them. randy quickly shut-to the door, and could not help admiring the dignified self - possession of nightstar, who called to honey- bell that the time was come. immediately the court attend- ants prepared to follow their royal mistresses, but nightstar expressed a wish that they should enter the chamber alone; and it was a beautiful sight to see them floating on- ward, honeybell holding in her hand her sceptre of fairy fox- glove, and wearing a necklace of diamonds that circled her throat with a wreath of light; eclipsed, however, by the star that glittered above the head of her sister queen. they moved on, hand- in-hand to the birth-chamber; while poor randy, bewildered by the perfume of dews and flowers, and the gentle music, that whispered all around him, sunk upon his knees. "remember, gracious queen," he thought; "remember, every crow thinks its own bird the whitest." in a little time, a low wail and bitter cry told him that a struggle had commenced between a living spirit and a bitter world. his entreaty, addressed to the fairies, did not, however, content the woodcutter; the attitude he had assumed suggested another — a higher and holier petition; he prayed with all the fervency of his warm and honest heart, that the dear young lady might be saved in her hour of trial, and that her baby might be spared to her, to be the blessing and the hope of after years. prayer gives strength to the feeble and invi- midsummer eve! gorates the strong. he arose much comforted, and looked round with a smile of satisfaction upon the tiny court, who, freed from the restraint which the august presence of their queens imposed, unbent their spirits, and played such-madcap pranks, that randy could not but feel his freedom of sight a rare privilege; it amused him greatly to contrast the buoyant and thoughtless energy and activity of the younger members of the two regal courts, with the bearing, impressive even to solemnity, of the high official personages who, upon occasions such as this, were always in close attend- ance upon their sovereigns. randy watched them with more than com- mon interest, for he knew they would soon be summoned to council. this man, though cast in so rough a mould, was gentle and gracious in heart and mind. he had been known for years to the good people, and they delighted to do him kindnesses. they led him to where the red deer shed their horns—and brought him the richest and earliest of the wood strawberries. when the sky looked blue above, and the summer breath stirred the trees — so that all said, 'the fair weather is with us now;' they showed him where the little cloud was rising, herald of the storm king; they taught him to dye wood, so that common fir could not be known from the arbutus or the charmed yew, so prized by strangers; they gave him knowledge of the virtues which dwell in herbs and flowers — of palmistry — of murrain stones and fairy strokes — and filled his mind with fables and old tales. had he lived in earlier times, randy a fairy tale of love. would have suffered wizard's martyrdom. as it was, he was as often called 'randy, the fairy man,' as 'randy, the woodcutter,'—and he had certainly imbibed some of the spirit-feeling with the spirit-repute: he was keenly alive to the beauties of nature; heard sweet music in the murmurs of brooks, and tuneful melodies from the leaves of trees. he could tell, it was said, what the south breeze whispered to the west, and gather the birds of the air around him—be they ever so wild. he wore a four-leaved shamrock in his bosom, and a wreath of mountain-ash circled his conical hat. the wildest deer on glena would neither harm him, nor fly from him. whenever he passed through a village, or rested himself beneath a tree, children would crowd about him; and if he gave them but the blossom of a daisy, they would think themselves happy. his midsummer eve: only enemies were the eagles; the echo of their screams, or the shadow of their wings, were the only natural sights or sounds that damped his spirits. his haunts were the ancient hollow oak and the green grass slopes whereon grew the foxglove—flower chiefest in favour with the beings of whom randy did not scruple to own himself the faithful and fond ally. he would have enjoyed the pranks and oddities of the fairy tribes much longer, but that his attention was aroused by a smart tap on the cheek from the wand of the chancellor. "i am commanded by his lordship," said a dapper little official, his secretary, in a dark cobweb robe, and a wig composed of the down of the wild rush, "to tell you to do something rational for his amusement; we have taken much pains with your education, randy," he added, "and would fain see its fruits." "would his honour like a story grave or gay—of his own, or of our people?" having obtained leave to use his own discretion, randy bethought him once or twice, and then, with a low bow to the great dignitary of fairy-land, he said:—" flowers, my lord, are very beautiful to look at, and very sweet to smell; but if you were much among the tip-tops of the family, you would be surprised at the odd ways some of them have, and the airs they give themselves. well, those i am talking about had been used to a deal of tenderness, and were brought up under the warm shade of a fine glass-house; and the beautiful lady that tended them said, one day, 'the roses in the flower-knot last twice as long, and are much sweeter.' well! yer honour never heard anything like the rustling of leaves the flowers got on with, when they understood what the lady said; being brought up lonely and grand, and looking out on the a fairy tale of love. world through glass windows, they thought everything in a garden must be low and common. yer honour, they looked down on the flowers of the garden, just as much, or may be more, than the flowers of the garden look down on the flowers of the field—instead of looking up to the great cause of all the sweetness and beauty they possess — who knows that if fine flowers are the most admired, the flowers of the field make glad the hearts of the greatest number of innocent children, who enjoy a heaven of happiness in gathering the cowslip, the wild violet, and the star-eyed daisy: to say nothing, yer honour, of the favour your people show—in preference to all the flowers that ever grew in a garden—for the banks of thyme, the blue-bells, the silver cuckoo blossom, and the purple foxglove." this procured randy a round of applause. "to go back, my lord, to the pampered flowers; some change of fortune coming on the lady, she was obliged to leave her palace of a house, and take shelter beneath the roof of a cottage—' there's some of my dear flowers,' said the sweet lady, 'able to bear removal as well as myself, and who knows but we may be all the stronger and better for it; i hope we are not too far gone in luxury to prevent our enjoying comfort.' so she placed them in her cottage-garden; her favourite white rose folded the protecting moss closely over her bosom, lest she should catch cold, and—a —i forget the name of it—shut itself as safe up in its leaves as if it was going a journey of a thousand miles; and looked with a wave of contempt upon the manner in which the garden flowers strove, out of civility, to make room for it; while one or two grave blossoms—of the sage class— knew they should get stronger and better from being in the fresh pure air of heaven, and admitted that their new neighbour—the rose of the garden —was in every respect as much the lady as the rose of the glass-house; in the morning, the garden rose unfolded to welcome the sun, and to hear the early hymn of the birds, and to see how her buds were growing; and as the dew-drops, one by one, ascended to the clouds that y midsummer eve: had left them during night, for her refreshment, she perfumed them for their journey, and graciously thanked them for their care: but the pampered flowers bent beneath the dew, and complained of the damp and chill; and the delicate rose said that her dress was tossicated, and shook off the dew-drops so roughly in her pet, that the tender things broke into atoms, and the proud flower desired they should visit her no more, as she was too high-born to be treated like a common flower; and needed no help from common things; what was a refreshing blessing to others, her refined ignorance—" "she should have learned of us," interrupted the chancellor: "we know how to bring refreshment to, and take refreshment from, every flower that grows in garden or in field: they are our drinking cups, a thousand times richer than the things made of the world's dross, which you earth-worms call 'precious gems.' your rose should have learned of us." "she learned of nature, my lord, at last," continued randy, "for the next v-rv\ night not a sparkle from any cloud visited her leaves, and she saw the fleecy moisture enveloping the other flowers, and felt that the nature she had scorned, was comforting her children, and whispering to them to be of good cheer, for that next year their blossoms should be fairer and wax stronger: and the gentle loving dews clustered upon the buds and leaflets; and at last, as morning drew near, a sharp dry air made the most impertinent inquiries concerning her quarrel with the dew-drops, and whistled spitefully in her face, and ruffled her leaves, so that, the next day, the hot sunbeams entered into her heart; and in the deepest humility she petitioned to be treated as a common flower, convinced that—" the moral of randy's tale was scared from his lips by a message from queen nightstar to the chancellor, and by the noise made by a fairy tale of love. honeybell's page in rousing his lordship from the heavy slumber into which he had fallen. "keep up, mistress," said the nurse to the widowed mother: "the jewel it is! — so like it's father. a girl's born lucky that's like it's father! what do you say ?—' it has no father v it has two, lady dear: one in heaven, and one over—about—around us all!—the very king of heaven is the father of the earthly fatherless!—may he mark it to grace! think of the comfort she'll be to you—to be your own; the weight of the world isn't half weight to the young mother who looks at her dawshy babby. 'you want to see it ' i'm sure you do; but wait till nurse puts on its pretty cap, and makes it sit up like a lady. i tell you, dear, it's the very moral of its father." "his child!—his child!—his own child! to smile like him—to speak like him! are you sure, nurse, nothing will happen it—nothing take it from me? i have a strange feeling, as if my child were in danger. but what danger ? — there is nothing could have the heart to take my baby from its lone mother." randy felt the tears gathering in his eyes, but they were quickly changed to tears of joy—for he saw the writhing, misshapen shadow, that was to have been substituted for geraldine's infant, forced by a number of the attendants to leave the cottage. he then thought he would peep into the interior. there was no doubt about it; queen honeybell looked sulky; but the lamp in nightstar's bosom shone more brightly than ever, and her words fell on his ear more full of music than the robin's winter song. "let us endow her for the world, and against the world; it is some time since we have permitted the child of our choice to remain exposed to the temptations and imperfections of mortality: let us guard her, and yet leave her with her mother." what music and tenderness were in nightstar's words, as she continued—" i am looking at this moment into that young mother's heart: i see how new feelings stimulate midsummer eve: its pulsations: i see it expanding — welling forth its very essence into the new life which, though mysteriously parted from it, is dearer to it than ever; there is a whole universe of love—pure, unselfish, spotless love—love without limit, boundless as ocean, and deeper than its deepest caves — in that sweet mother's heart, towards the little lump of half- animated clay that is her child. oh, sister! if it were given you to see the future that whirls through her brain! the great power of all has poured into her a new nature—a stronger motive and firmer prin- ciple of life: her very heart is enlarged. "a child deprived of its father, and born on midsummer eve, is by right our own," said honeybell, pouting; but you have always some whimsey in your head about these creatures of earth. i do not envy you your power of seeing thoughts and hearts, believe me!" "let it be ours," persisted nightstar; "let us pour into its heart and mind whatever of good we can; but let us not take it from its mother." the queen of earth's fairies bent her head in no very cordial acqui- escence; and the aerial troop, seeing that their queen had vanquished, were mightily pleased thereat, and played sundry fantastic tricks; now opening the baby's sleepy eyes, to ascertain their colour, sleeking its small quantity of downy mole-like hair with their tiny hands, endeavouring to straighten its little wrinkled fingers, and sadly retarding the nurse in its adornment, by untying the strings as fast as she tied them. "sister," persisted nightstar, "help me to endow my favourite." "we never agree on educational matters," answered honeybell: "you are too ideal for me—better have her all to yourself." "you do yourself injustice, sister. let us wave our wands, and show the young mother, as in a dream, what may be the future qualities of her soul's idol: let us bestow on the fairest of earth's blossoms the most precious of all gifts that woman can receive or bestow: let us gift her with love." "love! rubbish!" answered honeybell, pettishly—" the source of woman's misery." "and happiness!" "i would gift her with beauty, wealth, and spirit; the world's trea- sures: that she may subdue the world." a fairy tale of love. "let her mother determine," said nightstar; "let her mother determine. do you offer your gifts, and i will offer mine!" the pallid mother trembled in every limb while the queens performed their spells above her couch. at first, her vision was perplexed: she saw, floating around her, those animated atoms of the mysterious world that have so much power over our destinies—without recognising what or who they were. at length she singled out the two queens—nightstar, as a living thing of light—honeybell, as only a creature, beautiful and minute. the nurse saw that geraldine's eyes were fixed, and that she seemed entranced; this, she fancied, was but a wile to get her to take her eyes off the child. presently, her lady's lips moved, and she spoke softly and slowly, as if she were replying to certain questions, which the nurse did not hear. "whatever will give her most happiness, and make her most beloved—no woman was ever happy who was not beloved," she said. there was a pause after she had spoken these disjointed words; and the nurse observed that her soft eyes wandered first to one side, then to another. she tried to call randy, but her tongue refused its office; she clutched the infant firmly in her arms, and kept her eye steadily upon it. again words came faint and wearily from the mother's lips. "thank you, thank you — if you cannot prevent the world from assailing her — it is well to teach her to endure — we must all do midsummer eve: that—the more love, the more endurance—riches, honours, and beauty, are fine things — but love is the perfume of life!" there was another pause, and the young mother's eyes were illumined by an expression of tenderness, resignation, and joy, such as had never gladdened them since her widowhood. her lips quivered, and after a time, large tears welled forth, but disappeared before they reached her cheek — removed by some invisible agency. "there is good to be gathered from both such sponsors," she said again; "but you think my thoughts—to be loving and beloved. so let it be!" a soft mild light shone through the chamber—the atmosphere was filled with most sweet fragrance, and music soft and low. the nurse urged by an irresistible influence, arose, and placed the infant on the mother's bosom. and as it drank its first draught of love, it became imbued by that regenerating essence which cheers us from the cradle to the grave! drawn ty v.'. e. ¥ n«t, a. r. a. engraved by o. dalzitl. the fairy ring. part the second. he kitchen at 'dovecote,' as mrs. raymond, in happier days, had named her cottage, was a long rambling room; dried hams and fish, intermingled with bunches of herbs, were suspended from the rafters; and in a division, ' hurdled' off for the purpose, the nurse's favourite poultry, and, occasionally, a weakly lamb, or a brood of tender turkeys, while their red heads were progressing, found a well-warmed shelter. it was sufficiently confused and straggling to be styled 'picturesque,' and as uncom- fortable as pic- turesque inte- riors generally are; there was a more than usual quantity of piggins and noggins, and very fine old chairs—some gaunt and high-backed, others grotesque midsummer eve i and clumsy; it contained a dresser, garnished by more 'crockery' and pewter than 'nurse kitty' cared to keep in order; a settle, a losset, and wheels for spinning both flax and wool; and a deep chimney—a perfect cavern of blackness, even when the fire burned brightest—made mirthful in winter by the merriest of crickets. a door, it will be remembered, opened from the kitchen into the chamber where the sweet subject of fairy contest and fairy care had drawn her first breath of life. in a small parlour at the opposite end of the dwelling she received the name of 'eva.' before i tell how swiftly time flew— what it created and destroyed—what it mended and tattered—i must describe, briefly, the up-and-down, half-rustic, half-ornee, habitation, where her childhood was passing. dovecote certainly did not turn 'its silver lining to the crowd ;' the road view of the cottage was scarcely more than a mass of white wall and brown thatch; but those who were admitted within, and inhaled the perfume of its delicious garden, wondered what magic had been exercised to make so humble a place a fairy tat.f. of lovk. . a very paradise of beauty. there was a strange mingling of architectural incongruities about it. the window of the sitting-room might have been called an oriel; it was laced with stained glass, and overhung by woodbine and clematis, where the butterfly, and that gigantic beauty of kerry—the great dragon fly—sported from sunrise to sunset. next to this, a little square lattice peeped forth, plain and unadorned, save by the white curtain within; and beyond that was a porch—a perfect bower of climbing roses. at the other end, was the ordinary kitchen-window, beside which randy was generally found seated—so much did he delight in watching the spray of the torc waterfall, that gleamed above the trees. opening, as this window did, upon the bend of the lawn, shaded by a sturdy rowan tree, and canopied by magnolia and variegated holly, it was in itself a study for a painter. a long grass bench, tufted with wild flowers, stretched nearly the length of the cottage, and then terminated abruptly at the porch, where the forest of roses rambled out and about, giving shelter to wrens, tits, and robins, half-way to the top of the pointed gable which rose above it. such a magazine of animated nature as both porch and gable had become!—the dear old gable!—which people said had been a tower, a castle, or something of an abbey—once. it was truly a most beautiful half-saved ruin! its projecting stones covered with moss a foot deep—the green triumphant ivy trailing around what had been a buttress — the wall-flower and snap-dragon nodding to each other from their several nooks; the lichens and maiden hair, and golden-cupped flowers, with broad shining leaves, and the delightful tone of the sage-green moss, that clings closely to old stones, so lovingly anxious for their preserva- tion, adding by contrast to the natural har- mony of the whole—overgrowing the nest of the restless martin; while, a little higher up, the swallow — his toilsome journey over — knew that his home was ready. in a small niche-like nook an aged owl had dwelt for more than half a century; for men as old remembered s midsummer eve: him so long, looking out at twilight, with the same air and manner—if not wise, at least contemplative and sedate. but, after all, the glory of the old gable was the weathercock; there were old, very old, people, in cloghreen, who remembered when the weathercock was not there, but none who could tell when it was put up, or by whom; in short, there was a mystery — a story about it that was growing into a legend to try faith 'hereafter.' everybody said the weathercock was too large for the gable—too heavy for the old wall; but the wall bore up bravely; gloried in the distinction; and did not at all mind the long massive bar of iron that was passed through it, but seemed rather proud than otherwise of the curiously-wrought cross that stood out so clearly against the sky. surmounting the whole, beneath this symbol of faith, were crossed arrows, depending from either end of which originally hung the iron letters that designate the four points of the compass; one of these had been removed, and a hand—'the forefinger only extended— occupied its place. the cross was regarded with much veneration by the peasantry, and they failed not to draw omens from the birds that rested thereon. when the winds were wild, and contended madly together, the weathercock groaned sadly, and the old gable, with generous sympathy, echoed its complaints; but, generally, it performed its duty silently—perhaps we may add—sullenly. the garden of dovecote had a charm, which neither pen nor pencil can convey; it was evident that the presiding mind was of no common order; one that understood where every flower might be not only seen to the best advantage, but be so placed as to augment the beauty of its neighbours. such fuschias! such myrtles! such verbenas! as flou- rished there, were never seen elsewhere in the open air, even in kerry; it was a well-arranged community of flowers and shrubs, grouped in most charming harmony — of trees bending gracefully over the green turf, where the rich-toned crocus, and the delicate snow-drop, blos- somed long before they peeped forth in less sheltered parterres; every- thing, indeed, was trained, as though nothing had been in training; so ordered, that disorder seemed impossible. in this happy retirement, the young widow and her child were passing their lives: the first years of infancy had vanished, as geraldine thought, a fairy tale of love. h'j without any danger having threatened her little eva; but randy was by no means of her opinion: he knew full well that the kelpie queen —who considered herself cheated of her right—had been watching for means to taint the mind and harm the heart of the young girl; and during the week that preceded her birth-day, he took little food or repose, but wandered unceasingly about the cottage, seeking and working charms. always on her birth-days, it had certainly been evident to her mother that her temper became fitful; there seemed a contest in her little bosom between the spirit of evil and the spirit of good. she was restless — her eyes wandered — and she had said, more than once, she heard music when her mother sung not, and a louder rush of water than the fall of the waters of the torc. the mystery that hovered around her made her an object of the deepest and tenderest interest to all by whom she was beloved. abundantly was the promise of her birth fulfilled. richly indeed was this lovely child endowed with the purest and holiest affections of our nature. her little life had been spent in discharging the offices of kindly love to all living things that came within her sphere. inanimate nature shared her tenderness; not a drooping flower that she would not seek to revive, nor a bruised bough that she would not bind. this, to her, was neither care nor labour; on the contrary, it was her joy— her very life. she acquired music without an effort: loving it so dearly, that the complications of the science made her pastime: and whenever she wearied of her other studies, her mother had but to say, "if you loved me, you would learn," to urge her to increased exertion. if ever child was ruled and guided by the law of love, it was eva raymond! even when guilty of faults which, though common to most children were uncommon in her, a word or two of tender reproach, rather than reproof, would at once cast her weeping on her mother's bosom. the purest passion sent from heaven upon this sin-stained world is the love a mother bears her child! enduring, faithful, and intense, — a perpetual sacrifice of self at the shrine of nature, — a deep mystery, which, when fathomed, causes the world to wonder at its depth and purity. and geraldine watched over eva with a mother's tenderness, and much of a father's wisdom. her whole life was midsummer eve: a mingling of hope and fear—not for herself, but for her child. eva's appearance in the village was a jubilee; parents pointed her out to their children, and children looked upon her with delight; while her mother's friends vied with each other in returning her considerate, and yet childish, love. one she would greet with garden—another with wild—flowers; to a third she would present fruit gathered by her own hand: for, though her mother was not rich, save in the possession of such a child, she managed to have something always ready to lessen the wants of those who needed ;—;:nd surely, like the widow's cruise, the generous hand is replenished by him who loveth a cheerful giver. eva was liberal in giving: she was more—she was generous to forbear. she could over- come any desire of her own, by the stronger desire of gratifying another; and this in childhood is perhaps the greatest of all proofs of love; for then the will is strong—the reason weak. as she advanced in years, her temper, at times, became more easily excited than was seemly, and she was strongly inclined to jealousy—not envious—there was no envy in her nature—but jealous if she were not loved. she would praise and caress a playfellow, and tell over to her mother all the child's good deeds, and do all she could to create in her an affection for the child; and yet if her mother manifested much tenderness towards her companion, she would shed abundant tears—tears without words or murmurs. and this often troubled the gentle widow, made her thought- ful to call some other great feeling into action, and sometimes to doubt if her choice, at the child's birth, had been the safest and wisest; for if love, the pure love of her innocent heart, brought its ecstacy of happiness, it also conveyed its poignancy of pain: and then she re- membered that none born into life can be separated from its sorrows— that the best lesson we can learn is to endure them—that the sweetest softener of our own griefs, is the privilege of soothing the griefs of others. time was passing; year added unto year its gatherings of knowledge and affection, and also its strength of will;—another and another birth- day went by, unmarked by any obvious danger. child though she was—a very frolic, a toy, a delight, a sunbeam, a comforter—as far as love went, a friend—still she had hours of deep thoughtfulness, a fairy tai.e of i.ove. mingled with tears—unaccountable tears—and fits, not of sullenness, but of silence. her seventh birth-day had now arrived, and her mother considered it as the passing away of childhood, for, in most things, the child had wisdom beyond her years. day broke with even more than the loveliness of that lovely season; randy arose with the sun from the green bench whereon he had passed the night, and pro- ceeded to sort the herbs he had collected in the moonlight. they were the wild herbs that had grown upon the banks of the rapid laune—where the grass is ever young and always green; for the fairies love the moist place, and keep its verdure fresh and sweet at all seasons: in winter the frost comes not here; in summer no arid heat parches up the blades that are full of generous life. the village children are happy when their plays are on this pleasant sward. he was not long alone, for the nurse soon joined him with a cor- dial greeting and a cheerful 'good morrow.' "seven, randy—seven to-day! and she looked wise enough last night for double that: if ever there was a born sunbeam it is that little darling." "ay," added randy, "whose skin is as white as the blossom of the cuckoo sorrel; whose eyes are as blue as the flower of the flax; her lips red as the berry of the wood-strawberry that grows on steep glena; her hair black as the raven's wing;—isn't that poetry, kitty!" midsummer eve! "poethry!" repeated the nurse, contemptuously. "i 'd thank you not to be drawin' comparasons of her beauty from such wild unnatural things as ravens' wings." "true for ye," he answered; "and i wonder any mortal has the daring to lift up his voice when such as that is looking at him!" and randy reverendly uncovered his head to the sun, which had just risen from behind the mountains—a huge eye of glowing fire, whose rays penetrated the deepest and darkest forests of the beautiful glen. "the birds don't mind it," said kitty; "you hear them singing." "hymns!" replied the woodcutter. "hymns, and bits of praise and thankfulness: the flowers, poor things, open their leaves to the same tune; every blade of grass lifts itself up in gratitude at sunrise. sure, i heard the unfledged birds learning their matins from their parents an hour ago in the old gable. such a twittering!—and now, hark how they sing out!" "i think," continued the nurse, after a pause, more in compliment to randy's feelings than to her own: "i think i never saw so round a ring as that down yonder on the grass; there 's twice as much dew on it as on any other part of the lawn. what made it, randy?" "agh!" was the only answer to this leading question. "well," she continued, "i never thought you a bit like yourself since the night she was born. seven years this blessed midsummer night —and what a night that was!" "it's yourself and the ould pusheen cat that's alive still — 'tis you both might say that, if you had any knowledge," replied the woodcutter. "i—and the cat! the ould grey pusheen that sleeps the four quarters round, barring midsummer?" "that's it!" explained randy: "that cat will never sleep another midsummer night after what she went through: she always looks ould at midsummer. a dale that ould pusheen might tell the world of what she sees and thinks; but she 's wise and—silent. there's more than one might learn a lesson from a silent cat." "you know all about herbs and cats, randy; but you never say how i look," said the nurse. "indeed, then," he replied, mingling his observations with comments a fairy tale of love. upon his herb-gatherings: "i think you always look the same: the elder's a fine thing, and so is the ash; and the hazel, and liverwort, and ragweed, so are they—fine things ;—i don't see any change for the better on ye these twenty years. camomile, it's bitter but true—the herb for you; and the sweet of the violet—the colour of her own eyes. there's an ould rhyme that was ould when my grandfather was young: something about 'the rose is red, the violet's blue, carnation's sweet, and so are you:' but there's no flower of the garden sweet enough or beautiful enough to go alone upon her birth-day. but what's here," he exclaimed, hastily; "i never could have gathered the wild rue, nor the wet dogweed, nor the water nettle! was i mad, or are they put here for a warning?" "he it mad, and he always was mad," said poor kitty, " and knows more, i fear, than a christian man should; and yet sees nothing hardly worth seing around him! lord help us! why doesn't he catch the ould cluricaun, that does be mending his brogues, night and day, under the shadow of the cow-thistle? why does'nt he lay hould of him and make him give up the purse o'goold he carries, ever and always, in his pocket. a fairy man! enagh! and can't catch the only fairy worth catching—the ould cobbler that would make the little mistress as rich as she is beau- tiful! a fairy man!" and the nurse retired to her own territory to prepare the several 'treats' her best skill could devise, in the forms of sally-lnn and slim-cake, for her darling. but kitty was not allowed to remain long at her occupation. she had enough to do to answer the taps at the door, and receive the various little tokens by which high and low, rich and poor, sought to testify their affection for eva raymond. long before she unclosed her eyes, her mother was praying by her bedside—praying earnestly to the author of all good to protect her child through time and for eternity. the mother, so fair and young, seemed like a sister bending over a sister's couch; but no sister ever framed such prayers—no sister ever felt such love! it increased s midsummer eve: the more for that she saw the child's face grow troubled, while slowly, from between her closed lids, large tears came forth, flooding her glowing cheeks, and her head moved so restlessly on her pillow, that geraldine awoke her, and while folding her to her bosom, murmured forth blessings and caressing words, such as have their source only in a mother's heart. "i think i have dreamed such dreams before, mamma. i think i have, but i am not sure; now that i see you and the sun, am again quite happy; but it was so damp and cold." "what, my child?" "the water, mother! but now it is all gone!" and then the nurse came in, bearing a full basket of gifts; presently the shadow of randy was outside her window; and in the happy elasticity of childhood forgetting all troubles, she bounded forth upon the lawn in the fresh air and bright sun of morning, as a young roe from a thicket on the wild-wood sward. "hark, mamma! how sweetly the birds sing! and listen! there is the a fairy tale of love. .",.-, wood-quest. i do so love the coo of that dear bird: and here is randy. am i to wear that nosegay of curious herbs all day, randy. oh! i will; you gave me the same last year. i am quite, quite happy now—quite happy, and thankful, and will be so good. look, look, how brightly plays the waterfall! look! i never saw the spray so high above the trees." her gaze was again turned towards the waterfall, and again she expressed a wish to watch the play of its gems in the sunlight, exclaiming, with more than her usual eagerness, " oh, mamma! how i do long to bathe in it: to feel it fall among my hair, and grasp its jewels in my hands." "not fresh and fasting—go not near water at all, this day," replied the woodcutter; "oh! darling, be led and said by me, the whole of this blessed day. listen, avourneen :.—a pair of thrushes, dear, built their nest in a beautiful bower, and an ould wood-quest had a grate love for them, and used to sit and watch, and think how happy they were, and pray that they might be always so: but the male bird said to his mate, "it's a poor country, and i must go into another, and gather food against the young ones come out in the nest we have made, and cry for food; and we have none to give them.' and the poor mate said, 'don't go, avourneen deelish, for when the time comes- we shall not want food; there has been a hard winter, and the sunbeam always comes out when the cloud is gone; so you see, there will be plenty of red-worms in spring, and ripe berries in summer; and he who sends both will take good care that we want neither: go not from me, for life as it is, is all too short to enjoy your song:' but he would go; and the fowler spied the brave free bird as he winged his way, his heart full of the memory of his own nest: and his eyes full of the image of the patient loving mate, who would have stayed his going; and the cruel fowler aimed at his true heart, and his aim was steady, and the bird returned no more." "hush," whispered eva; "hush, randy! look at mamma?" and then in a loud voice she added, "i do not want to hear any more about the old thrush birds, master woodcutter; but i do want to hear about the young thrush-bird and the old quest; that's yourself and me, master randy. ah! i've found you out, and i'll finish your fable: — the young thrush-bird was a wild, wilful, naughty, little bird, that would fly hither and thither, no matter how the old wood-quest croaked." a fairy tale of love. "they danced on it all last night," said the woodcutter, "it was a great sight; a sight you could never forget, lady; a lovely night too, and the small stars dreaming their way through the heavens; and they all dressed so beautiful; but i'm sure things are not going on in all parts as they like: for many of them had bows and arrows, and long spears, and that's a sign of warfare; but you'll watch her lady, you'll let me watch her all day, and don't let her go near water. they throw that spray ten times higher than ever, just to dazzle her," he said, pointing to the boiling waters of the torc; "they swarm about it like bees. i wish the waters were chained jn the bowels of the earth. i had a father and four brothers drowned at sea!" mrs. raymond never contradicted the woodcutter! she promised that eva should only move in his shadow, and invited him to enter the cottage with them; but randy said she was safe beneath the shelter of her own roof, and while she was with her mother he would rather watch the waterfall. he rambled over the lawn and among the flowers, gazing every moment upon the bounding river, that, through a passage of jagged rocks, finds a peaceful path in the valley. at last, wearied by watching and the excitement of his own thoughts, he sat down beneath the shade of an evergreen oak, where not a movement of the half-sportive, half-angry waters could escape his observation. he began to think of himself, and how much more knowledge he had than other people; his confidence in his own powers increased, and a boastful spirit warred with his better nature; he said: "lam of myself strong; i am brave; i care not who helps me; i can save her! ay! dance away imps of the dark waters. i, randy, the woodcutter, defy ye all!" eva's silvery laugh fell upon his ear, and he would, if he could, have recalled the presumptuous words, "i care not who helps me;" but his gaze was fascinated by the spray; and he lolled lazily upon the sward, questioning almost if he was quite himself; he might be o'donoghue of the lakes—so uplifted did he feel —and why? in a little time longer he ceased to ask why; once he caught the stony eyes of a large yellow frog fixed upon him with a sort of cunning inquiry; but what cared he for either the kelpie queen, or her steed! how the foam and spatter of the waters dazzled and made him wink! and then he felt hot and thirsty, and at the moment, a grotesque midsummer eve i and distorted dwarf, carrying in both hands a huge china bowl, stood by his side, and on tip-toe offered him to drink: at first randy motioned him away; but there arose from the bowl a very fragrant steam; and the dwarf asked if he feared to drink to his young lady's health, of the mountain dew, sweetened with the richest honey of the wild bee—' mountain dew '—name which libels the purest and holiest draught that nature sends to earth from heaven! and as the woodcutter's good spirit had been half vanquished by the spirit of evil that taught him to overvalue his own strength, and the enemy had power over him—he drank—and slept. the day was passing rapidly, and though geraldine missed the a fairy tale of love. woodcutter, she never doubted that he was active in his self-imposed duty. she had many cares to think of, and when eva, after bestowing the flowers she had gathered in the morning, asked permission to go into the garden, she gave it, adding, "remember, eva, you are not to go near water. nay, my child, i am quite serious; if there were no other cause, you must not give pain to our old friend randy. you must promise." "i do, mamma, i do; i shall find the woodcutter in the garden, and keep with him; he said he would to-day tell me the tale of the weather- cock." and away she went, full of life, singing along the alleys, and bounding over the lawn, calling loudly on him who heard not: and .vfevv - mj-g--jgfcl whom, at last, she found sleeping soundly. the child turned away not to disturb him, and as she did so, she caught sight of the torc waterfall. never, she thought, till that moment, had aught so beau- tiful appeared before her; she clapt her hands and sprang onward with joy. resting on the very crest of the waterfall was a perfect and en- tire rainbow; myriads of tinted stars dropped from its arch, without in- juring its brilliancy or form—mingling with, and yet apart from, the snow- white foam. if all the jewels of the east had been flung into the mist, they could not have produced a more dazzling effect, than did those which nature lavished upon the sportive waters. the fascinated and bewildered child, though she had stolen away on tiptoe from where randy slept, now called impatiently to him to accompany her; once, twice, thrice—each time she was farther from him; but he, the true and faithful hearted, when not under the influence of the evil-spirit spell, heard her not. her pro- mise to her mother was forgotten. oh! wayward, unthinking child! the sin of the garden of eden was with you while the sun shone, soft music sought to win you to the banks of the wildest thyme; huge humble s midsummer eve: bees invited you to their cells, and offered you the rich banquet of their honey; voices whispered from out the virgin lilies, and rustled the leaves of the bright rose; if the kelpie queen had spread snares and painted shows to lure you to her waters, the votaries of the spirits ot earth and air were watching, like true sub- jects, in the absence of their queens, to frus- trate her evil courses. but in her green and slimy palace the kelpie worked, and sent forth her people to do her bidding. she could weave spells in her dark cell beneath the waters the length of a midsummer day. nightstar trusted to a mortal; the kelpie discovered that mortal's weakness. alas! the child heard the warnings but heeded them not; their unaided power was too weak—nightstar was above, waiting to descend on the gray vapour which suc- ceeds the last beam of the setting sun. on went the child, and as she passed, she heard behind her sighs and sobs of sorrow; her favourite flowers drooped their heads—they could not look upon her—they would have warned her, had they the power; the lark hovered above her head—his delicious song gushing forth at intervals, as he rose and fell, but the child heard not — heeded not; the robin crossed her path, and looked with his large lustrous eyes into her face; but her eyes were dazzled—her better self was overpowered. on she went; the pre- cincts of her own garden were over-stepped; and the mocking fiend that had tempted him, now roused the woodcutter with snarling laughter. he awoke, and his permitted eyes saw at once the danger. "rouse up, proud randy, and save her now!" the bewildered man, who had quaffed the poison, arose; he staggered from side to side; he had deprived himself of power over the members of his own body. he would have called, but his swollen tongue refused obedience to his will; conscious of his own impotence—he saw the peril he could not avert. a fairy tale of love. • she stood below the second fall, her arms extended towards the magic rainbow; the water was welling up to kiss her feet; beneath it the face and form of the kelpie queen, veiled by her flowing hair, was dimly visible. if he had been him- self, a few bounds of randy's active limbs could have placed him by her side; but self-betrayed—self-abandoned —he gazed without a move. the waters were rising around her—another minute and she would be lost to earth and sky for ever. he knew—he understood — but he could neither cry out nor press forward! and still the fiend crackled in his ears, "great randy, save her!" his blood whirled madly through his veins, and then came a shriek — a woman's shriek of warning and of agony. the child looked back—and saw her mother! she sprang from the fatal bank into her arms. "why did you scream, mamma," said eva. "the waters were so calm, and you frightened away the rainbow." "there was no rainbow," answered her mother. "the fall has been more than usually dark to-day; but you broke your word, eva; you have made me unhappy." the child had forgotten her pledge until that moment, and shame and sorrow came to her young bosom. she would have knelt for forgiveness, midsummer eve: but it was sweeter to hang about her mother's neck, hear the pardon uttered before it was asked, and have her tears kissed away. the day seemed to have fleeted strangely and rapidly; the long, long twilight of midsummer was approaching — when the evening and morning meet together upon the hills, and rejoice that no cold and shivering night divides them from each other. though unconscious of the danger she had escaped—shame at her broken promise, and sorrow at her mother's displeasure, kept eva silent and sad. but she soon regained her elasticity, and pointed with earnest delight to a tall tree whereon a wood-pigeon sat cooing to her young on the topmost bough : the bird bent downward its loving eyes, and the child gazed upward with a gesture of delight. her little heart bounded with affection towards the bird; but, as she looked, suddenly a hawk darted upon it. the next moment, eva was pressing the dove to her bosom, to which it had flown for shelter, while the fierce bird, disappointed of its prey, wheeled above her head, evidently pondering whether he might not strike the child and come off" victor. although her cheeks were flushed, her little foot stood firmly forward; her arm was stretched in an attitude of defiance towards the pirate of the air; her lips were open, and her head was thrown back, while her mother stood astounded at the boldness of the hawk, and the courage of a timid and tender girl, who would tremble at the falling of a leaf, and shrink from a shadow—now strengthened by love to brave the anger of the feathered assassin, whose scream sounded like a curse from his purple beak, while his - a fairy tale of love. distended talons were drawn closely upon his mottled breast; and yet she quailed not; her little hand continued uplifted to save the thing that trusted her; and then came a flash — a report — the murderer in his turn reeled, and a cloud of feathers floated to the sward; the hawk wheeled in a broken circle once round, then, with wavering motion, disappeared among the trees. "i'm enough myself to do that, anyhow," quoth the woodcutter; "praise be to the author of the strength, as well as the will, for such a service," and then he crouched forward like an animal that deserved and expected chastisement; while eva exclaimed—" it is saved! it is saved! —but i will not let it go yet: look how still it is: it shall soon return to its young; it will coo in its own woods; but it will still be my own darling wood-quest, that i saved." oh what a happy birthday, to have found something that trusted me !—something new to love!" the child stood at her mother's knee; she held the wood-quest to her heart, and, though smiles were playing on her face, her eyes were brimming over with tears. "i am not crying, dear mamma; i hear its young calling it! i hope i am not selfish, but i do not want it to fly away too soon." "my own sweet eva," replied her mother, with a troubled counte- nance; "that bird will never fly away." "oh yes, it will," answered the child, in full confidence of the power of affection; "it would not leave its youngs—it would not of its ownself remain with me for ever." "nothing," answered her mother; "nothing, however much we love it, eva, remains with us, for ever. my dear — dear child, the poor bird is dead!" "oh, no! she replied, in a tone of anguish. "oh, no! it cannot be; i felt its heart beat against mine when it came first; and then it laid its head just there. it cannot be; i do not think the hawk touched it; iloath cannot come so soon. if you take it from me, mamma, take care it does not fly away too quickly." "i will take it as tenderly as you can, dearest. see how its head hangs; and though its young call it in such plaintive tones it heeds them not; its tender eyes are already dim; your own bosom, eva, is stained by its blood. my poor child, this sudden and violent death is new to you; midsummer eve i the cruel hawk struck too surely—although it escaped to die at peace upon your innocent heart." eva enveloped herself in the folds of her mother's dress, and her sobs were loud and bitter. "may all springs and sweet waters dry around them!" exclaimed randy; "and neither thorn, nor rush, nor the sting of the poisonous nettle move in their defence, but leave them unarmed to the sharp bill of the merciless heron and the vengeance of the king-fisher. may the broad- backed frog refuse to do their bidding, and the great lake king forbid them his hunting grounds! i know their dark den by the old weir bridge: i know it well; the water under its one arch is as black as their own hearts, and rushes along like the fury of their own wicked wishes. may the sunlight never come there; —. may no moonlight shine on the path or brighten the way of those that put this sorrow on her, this blessed day." the woodcutter paused for breath. "fool that i was—fool—fool; and now to strike her through her feelings. oh! won't there be murder when the moon rises? and how will i ever face nightstar? oh, fool! the viper- black-water sarpint! she worked me cruel usage, and my heart will tremble with the torture it went through to the day of my death. if that had been a right bird, it would have been lying upon the grass. augh! i know her better than ever now; in league with hawks and eagles, is she! and wanting such as that blessed angel to sit in the slime, and twine her hair with the shells of the stripey snail and the rattling pearls of fishes' eyes ;—her face, the glass to train her beauty, too, to be the lamp and the music of her dripping palace." and so the woodcutter vented his -the toad — the a fairy tale of love. anger both on himself and the kelpie, in words not loud but deep; yet neither mother nor child heard him; the child continued weeping bitterly, and her mother would have carried the bird away, but eva entreated her to leave it a little longer. "let me keep it a little longer, mamma—just half an hour; i will give it up in half-an-hour. do, mamma—dear mamma! i will not idle nor play with it; i will only keep it until i understand what death is." "my child feels it a bitter knowledge; i felt its bitterness long since," sighed her mother. "i know—i know," she said quickly; that was when papa died; but do let me keep it. it was so alive when it flew to me such a little time ago, and seemed so happy. i loved it in a moment, and could have died to save it!" and then her tears flowed afresh. "you tell me to pray when i want good gifts from heaven: is to understand death a good gift? may i pray for it, mamma?" "it is, indeed, right to pray for understanding," she replied. "you now see that the life which moved its wings, and gave it power to go hither and thither, taught it to rear its young, and caused its pretty cooing to sound in the woods—is gone!" "where ?" inquired the child. "and did it go out of this deep red wound?" "it is not given me to know where it is gone; but it is gone: and wise as we think ourselves, we have no power to call it back. but you must remember, that if it will have no more pleasure here, it will have no more pain." the child shook her head, and, taking the bird in her hand, passed into her chamber, laid it down on her little bed, and then knelt by its side. she uttered no sound, though her lips moved, and ever and anon, tears fell silently on her clasped hands, and she would fondle the bird, and resume her thoughts and prayer. who can tell what feelings were shadowed forth at that solemn moment to that deep-hearted child! more than once she pushed back the hair that clustered over her brow, and pressed her hands upon its rounded surface; her eyes, so blue, so expressive, radiated with new emotions—beaming with elevated sensations; her mind expanded, and palpitated with increased knowledge; she seemed entering on a new midsummer eve: existence; she prayed earnestly, not taught words, but framing her simple petition in her own language. how earnestly she desired goodness and patience; that sudden death might be kept away from all she loved; that she might become wise, and that many might love her, and that she might love all the world and comfort the poor; she felt both resigned and elevated by this humble sacrifice; more than once her mother entered, unperceived, and unwilling to disturb her, silently withdrew. a bright light, as of the glory of the setting sun, entered; and knowing that the sun had set long before, and the grey clouds were descending over earth, the child was astonished; and at the same moment she started, for she thought she heard the rustling of wings, and flushed with the hope that the bird had revived, she touched it, but it had grown so stiff and cold that her fingers were involuntarily drawn back; and she forgot she had learned nothing of the mighty mystery concerning which she would have inquired; but an in- crease of hope, and faith, and love, seemed infused into her nature. she had become tranquil, and returned to her mother with a quiet smile; then placing the bird in her hands, she said, "let us bury it: it will not be naughty to love it in its grave." and as they carried the dead bird to the foot of a hawthorn bush, where the grass was greenest, and the earliest beams of the sun shed their light and warmth, they heard the bereaved birds lamenting their loss, and they saw the wood- pigeon's mate comforting and feed- ing them—calling on her he should never see again, with a loud and peculiarly sorrowful cry. randy dug the grave and covered it over, and walked silently back to the cottage; there, casting him- self along the green bench, he waited the summons he knew he should receive from nightstar. a fairy tale of love. bonfires blazed from every hill, and the happy children of the village raised a tremendous one, in honour both of midsummer and the birth-night of eva raymond. they looked well, through the trees, and recalled to those who mingle the past with the present, the baal fires of old. the woodcutter never moved from his post; it would be impossible to record his thankfulness for the child's preservation, or his contempt for his own unworthiness. he resolved humbly to submit to any punishment his royal mistress might inflict. he saw the distant fires die away, one by one, upon the hills—the voices of the children ceased altogether—then from the cottage he heard the night hymns of praise and prayer arise—the do" took his last round in the garden, and licked the woodcutter's hand as he passed—and the lights that threw such shadows on the lawn were extin- guished—a discontented grasshopper once or twice moved its restless wings beneath a broad dock-leaf, and the corn-crake in the distance seemed at last to have the world to herself—so silent had everything become. suddenly there appeared glimmering lights among the trees, and the soft low note of the fairy bagpipe struck upon randy's ear. "i had - midsummer eve: nothing to be ashamed of this time last year," he said; "but surely my repentance, and the bullet i shot, will plead in my favour :— and there is no harm done," whispered self-justification; but randy courageously put aside so dangerous an ally, and resolved to say nothing for himself. but the woodcutter could not see them distinctly, as he had done in former times: there seemed a mist—a veil—between them and him: he heard the music and the booming hum of queen honeybell's great bee; while the lights of nightstar's fairy host glittered brightly, and the twanging of her minstrel harps sounded clearly enough; but he could hardly trace the outline of the fairy queens, as they took their seats upon the ' hillock,' in the very midst of the ring. instead of dancing, as usual, the queens con- tinued in grave consultation, attended by their ministers of state. randy could see them come and go—pass and repass; and suddenly there arose a great tumult, and the music (to which they had paid no attention) ceased; and randy himself was called forth and confronted with the dis- torted sprite that had tempted him to neglect of duty. nightstar addressed the huge and trembling mortal in a voice of tender displeasure, that wounded him more severely than if she had reproved him in an angry tone. she told him that all was known to her: but now she only asked if that thing which some of her people had secured, while he was seeking to escape from her dominions, was the spirit that had tampered with her sentinel. randy identified him at once, and, without farther question, she ^ t decreed that he should be given over, within five minutes, to the bees of honeybell's court, whose honey he had so often plundered — to work their pleasure with him until sun- rise. it would seem that this was considered a hard sentence, though it afforded infinite delight to the great bee, who advanced at once to take the imp into custody. he was a bee of most savage aspect, and the cowardly cup-bearer shrunk before the sword-like sting, and rough, hairy, arms he extended towards the slimy page of the kelpie queen. randy felt that his turn must come next, a fairy tale of love. for both queens regarded him silently for some moments; but, as they did, his eyes became clearer, and he saw more distinctly—and they whispered together. that was a good sign. the woodcutter knew his thoughts were penitent, and his sorrow sincere; but honeybell looked sulky, and night- star sad—and tears gathered in the poor fellow's eyes. but as he stood, there arose a tumult among the outposts of the ring, which suddenly gave way, and the kelpie queen, her dark hair streaming like a death- pennon behind her, her eyes glittering like rubies, cantered into the assembly; and then, springing on the grass, demanded her place by the side of her royal sisters. the queens arose, and descending, hand in hand, into the arena, declared they would rather resign their throne than share it with her, and dared her to mount it alone. dark faces showed more dark amid the troops of light, and there was a breathless silence, broken only once by a shriek from the kelpie page. "who dares to punish my subject?" demanded the fierce queen. "i dare," answered nightstar, with dignity; "how dared you send him to tamper with my people?" "he gave the oaf to drink when he was athirst; and, like all mor- tals, he knew not when to stop." "this double dealing is unworthy of royalty—even royalty such as yours"—replied nightstar. "you gave him (for yonder imp is your familiar) of the poisoned drink, heated at your own furnace. you gave it him that you might lure my charge into your power to be your slave; and not content with that, what you could not vanquish, you persecuted, and mingled so many tears with her young cup of life, that the hardness of premature wisdom has chilled her interest in existence. shame upon you, there is nothing lovely that you would not either enslave or destroy!" "the child is mine," said the kelpie, daringly. "the child is mine: your jugglery cheated me of my right. did not you refuse her?" she continued, addressing honeybell. "i gave her to nightstar," replied the heavy-lidded queen. "hear this, lords and ladies of all courts," exclaimed the subtle kelpie. she having no right but to choose, does not choose, but gives what of right was mine—the infant rejected by nightstar and by herself." "she was not rejected by me," interrupted nightstar. midsummer eve: "then why is she not here? i see changelings in both your courts, but not the prize—the orphan raymond," rejoined the kelpie. "because i choose her to remain with her earthly mother. she being mine i leave her where i will. i appeal to no lords and ladies; such is my will; and i maintain it, as befits my state," quoth nightstar. "i say this to you, dark reveller of the lake." the kelpie started, awed by the brightness and boldness that animated the fragile form of the air queen, and the dark faces of her troop, drew back. "give me my page," she said. "go ask him of the bees," replied the haughty nightstar. "you have made our revels dark by your presence. we would be rid of both: at the crow of cock you can send for your base satellite." "the craythur only did his duty in obeying his queen," thought randy. nightstar applauded with a smile. "nay, release him," she con- tinued, "the victim of his treachery suggests to us, that he only did his duty in obeying his queen." at that moment the cock crew, and the woodcutter, rubbing his eyes, looked into the soft haze of a midsummer morning. drawn by webnert. engraved by e. dalzicl the discomfiture of the kelhes. part the third. n the spacious and lofty hall of an ancient castle near killarney, adorned after the fashion of old, rather than of modern, times, two youths, apparently about the same age, were occupied—-each according to his taste; it was evident that, however close their connection, their pursuits were opposite; one was seated in the deep recess of a window, that overhung a clear and rapid river; beside him were scattered various implements of the chase; a long fowling-piece rested against the seat, and he was eagerly engaged in fitting a string to a good yew bow; his brown hair clustered around his head so thickly, that it was difficult to ascertain its form; the brow was full, the eyes grey and sparkling; the nose straight and delicate; the mouth large, but the mould was so perfect, and the lips were so sharply chiseled and rich in colour—so fertile of smiles—that cormac's admirers called it beautiful; yet, even when in repose, its expression was unpleasing and often painful. the other youth was seated also, but at another window. it would have been difficult to guess which was the elder and which the younger of the two: brothers they might be—relatives they certainly were; their hair 'z midsummer eve i and eyes were of the same colour; the brow of sidney was more full, his eyebrows were better arched; but the great distinction was in the lower portion of the face; whether in action or repose, sidney's mouth expressed the firmness and decision of character that usually determine a man's fortune; the chin was finely modeled, sufficiently large, but free from every taint of sensuality; when he smiled, it was with the eyes rather than the lips; sometimes, indeed, they parted, and then his eloquent countenance was lit up by the sunshine of an elevated and ''-'v -'-- :v v-'-j-i^s,? most happy nature. he had been drawing—for an open sketch-book lay upon a table that stood in front of the richly-carved chair whereon he sat; nor was that the only indication of his taste—a half-finished map was kept open by a box of water-colours, and a french horn and a fishing-rod rested on the deep stone sill of the open window. every- thing in the room appeared in keeping with its ancient state: even the youths had that aristocratic bearing which indicates the consciousness of rank. - a fairy tale of love. "what are you thinking of, sidney?" inquired cormac, having, after many efforts, tightened the cord to his pleasure. "what are you thinking of? that shake of the head is no reply. / was thinking how opposite we are in habits, and yet how united in affection; you are so contem- plative; so fond of books; your heart is so tender, and yet you are so firm; so deep a lover of music; so cautious; so serious! a man at eighteen; / am thoughtless, changeable, impetuous." he waited, as people, young and old, often do, when they enumerate their faults, in the hope of contradiction; but sidney made no attempt to stay his words. "i have a bitter will, and a hard heart," he added, at length. "you have not a hard heart, cormac," said sidney; "i know not what you mean by a 'bitter will,' but you have the impetuous will of a talbot." cormac smiled, and looked rather pleased than otherwise. "how are you going to spend the remainder of the day?" added sidney, while arranging his sketches, so as to leave all things in order. "i hardly know; my mother is so unreasonable. women never judge rightly about their sons. if i take up a gun, she thinks i must be shot; if i go on the lake or river, she trembles lest i should be drowned; if i ride, she fears i shall break my neck;—i wish my father had lived." "how unfortunate! to have a mother who loves you, an old inherit- ance, and an ancient name; to be the person in your own home considered above all others!" "you should not say that, sidney," replied his cousin, "for i think my mother loves you quite as much as she loves me—and no wonder!" "she has indeed proved how she loved her husband by being a child to his parents, and a parent to his brother's children. my father says his children have two mothers," replied sidney, in a voice trembling with emotion—an emotion proceeding from the knowledge that his aunt considered him necessary to his cousin, but had never loved him. "and there it is again," said cormac; "i never had a brother; though to be sure you are the same thing, sidney. but, if i had half a score of brothers and sisters, like other fellows, i might do as i like. my mother could not have watched them all as she watches me." midsummer eve! "we have been at eton so long, cormac; and she is so delighted to have you home," suggested his cousin; "and so proud of you." "and yet, sidney, i am not as much beloved as you are," said cormac, in a discontented tone. "wherever we are, dogs and children find you out; when we returned home together only last week, many of the old men in the crowd who welcomed me back, kept saying, "that is the young master in the blue cap; %e should know him anywhere, by his smiling eyes and sweet face ;" my cap was scarlet; and yet i bowed and smiled twice as much as you." "that was but a mistake made by half-blind age." "not at all; you have the luck! your shilling always does as much good as my guinea. but let us think of something else. you deserve the popularity and have it—i deserve—but no matter. i wonder would the arrow carry this strip of crimson to the top bough of yonder ash. come, take your bugle, and when you sound, i shoot." the youths stood together at the window; the one with the bow drawn to its full extent; the other, his head a little thrown back, and the bugle ready to sound its ti-ri-la in honour of the shot. born within the same week, they were nearly the same height: but cormac was more athletic than his cousin, sidney more lythe and graceful than cormac. the arrow, bearing its thread of crimson, sped its way, and the echoes of the narrow pass over which the castle hung took up the blast of the horn; now whispering, now ringing forth the long-drawn note in many varied tones —tones, so varied, that both youths held their breath, less they should miss the slightest sound. "well blown! well shot!" said cormac, after the last intonation had died upon the air. "by my word, it leads me to believe the strange stories of our lake region, when such a note is repeated in so many modulations. my arrow may have struck some dryad to a tree; it passed the ash." "it would be sure to do so," said sidney; "the ash is a charmed tree." "and you to tell me that with a grave face," answered cormac. "you, so wise! you to have faith in old wives' tales! i remember the pleasure you took, long ago, in hearing about lake horses and a fairy tale op lovb sb phookas, and 'our cousin o'donoohue,' as my stately mother calls him—o'donoghue, who, every may morning, rises from his palace, a thousand fathoms deep, and rides over the lake, attended by bevies of sylphs and fairies. i never could listen with patience to such legends, much less believe them." "nor i, exactly; but we hear much we do not believe, that, neverthe- less, has for us a strange interest." "well, that is true. i am sure i remember the wild story that went through the country about little eva raymond. was she not the child of one of your father's brother officers, sidney." "she was." "i dare say," continued the loquacious cormac, "she is not as pretty a child as she was." "child!" echoed sidney, "she is fourteen this very midsummer eve." a fairy tale of love. . to his cousin's happiness, and lady elizabeth permitted no one to thwart cormac but herself. the beauty of eva raymond was rendered still more dangerous by the mystery believed to hover round her; but lady elizabeth held herself and all hers above such influences, and in the centre of the lake country, while rowing upon its waters, beneath the very shadow of ross castle, on the lonely shore of innisfallen, or passing through the deepest defiles of the savagely wild gap of dunloe, she mm delighted to express her disbelief in fairy lore and legend—to say, what, even in my saxon dwelling, as an ally of the 'good people,' i should not care to repeat. the effects of this imprudence were manifest in the nightly disturbance of her household; strange noises rattled through ard-flesk; sleep became a stranger to the inhabitants of certain portions of the castle; the dairymaid complained that the cream was midsummer eve: 'broken,' and not a tythe of the butter yielded; the coachman, that his horses fell lame; the henwife, that the eggs were sucked; the butler vowed that 'something' not only drank the wine, but left it running, as through a pin-hole; and once he staggered from the dim and vaulted cellar, pale as a ghost, and said that his candle had been blown out as he unlocked the door, but that he had seen anumber of quaint little creatures no longer than his thumb, dressed in the strangest fashion; some wearing cocked hats and square-cut coats, running along the moonbeams that slanted upon a huge pipe of claret—some with flagons, others with outlandish bottles, others bearing vessels full of wine on their heads —all detected in the very act of robbing the cellar; the lady's maid, whose little malignant person was so stiffened out that she suggested the idea of having been dipped in a bowl of starch and hung in the sun to dry, complained most bitterly that whenever she was going to sleep something tickled the sharp point of her nose with a nettle, and that, consequently, she had not closed her eyes for a fortnight; and what made this fact the more extraordinary was, that a simple country girl who slept with her, and whom she unmercifully fagged during the day, rested soundly and cormac's favourite hunter sweetly, despite the efforts to awaken her. a fairy tale of love. had been nearly ridden to death by the phooka the night before he wanted it for the field, and more than once the powder in his flask had been found wet when he knew he had left it dry. sidney had nothing to complain of; on the contrary, his pony, from having been a vicious, ill-tempered beast, had become gentle as a lamb, and endowed with the affection and intelligence of a dog; his fly was sure to hook the finest salmon in lake or river, and the tenderest echoes repeated every note of his bugle. but cormac and his mother, instead of endeavouring to propitiate the good people, who were justly offended with much, both said and done to their annoyance, accounted for everything in a mode so matter-of-fact, that they irritated the fairies, as much by their obstinacy as by their contempt. lady elizabeth was very particular and formal in all things connected with her toilet; draperies of the finest muslin, starred with gold, descended from her inlaid looking-glass; a cheval-glass stood at the right angle of her dressing-table to give effect to the profile and the figure, and cosmetics were carefully enshrined in boxes of filagree silver. she always dismissed her maid when her lappets were pinned on, and completed her adornments in soli- tude ; — i should write 'repairs,' rather than ' adornments;'—the tint for the cheek, the pencil for the eyebrow, the pearl powder for the throat, were used in secret; but, of late, the stately lady has been so bewildered, that she had more than once applied the rouge to her eyebrows, and the black po- made of ispahan to her cheeks! —she did it more than once, and yet she knew it not, until the faithful mirror of the drawing-room undeceived her. lady elizabeth felt that her dignity was invaded by some malign a fairy tale of love. be punished, not protected, and was sorely displeased with the steward; but he was an old servant, and feared not to speak his mind. he said the man had been seized in the night by ' the sickness,' and repeated that, even if he could, he would not move, lest others might suffer by his visitation. lady elizabeth said she supposed he was a poacher, or some fellow of bad character, to be in her wood at night, but that he must go home, or to prison. the youths looked at each other, and cormac did say it was hard to send a poor fellow to jail for having a fever. "he is no poacher, my lady," added the steward; "and, indeed, i may say he is at home; for his life is spent, innocent-like, among the woods and hills; he has winter shelter, in a summer-house, a kind lady gave him to live in, but the creature's prayer is that she may not hear he is sick, for fear she should come and see him; and so, maybe, get 'the sickness' herself: oh! but his moans are woful. i hope your honour's ladyship will not go against the custom of the country, but give him shelter, for the love of god." "i am sure it is randy, the woodcutter!" exclaimed sidney; "do, dear aunt, let me entreat, with old matthew, that he may be sheltered; he saved my jife once from a red-deer on glena—a brave old fellow: the deer followed me furiously, but when randy appeared, went away as gentle as a lamb. we both remember him, cormac." the young men united their entreaties, but lady elizabeth continued inexorable; she talked a great deal, declared her belief that illness, particularly fever, and more particularly than all, irish fever, was sent as a punishment to the poor for being idle; consequently only the idle got the fever. she showed, to her own satisfaction, that industrious folk were always healthy; she had examined the state of the country, during her visits of a month at a time, every five or six years, and taken great pains to point out to them what they ought to do to improve their minds and clothe their bodies; and their declaring they had no means to do as she bade them was the consequence of laziness; she considered, indeed, as do other people, equally wise, that sickness was a shame and poverty a sin, while doctors were abundant and food was plentiful. "what a fool i was to tell her anything about it," said old matthew, after he left the room; "i'd as soon lose my life as try to move him midsummer eve: against his will; and he'll perish where he is. oh, then, what business at all have those in ireland who have no heart for the sick and poor!" in less than half-an-hour after this little scene, the cousins left the hall, cormac carrying his gun, and warm as the weather was, sidney threw his cloak over his arm: it was as fragrant, as glowing, and as balmy an evening as ever midsummer brought upon its wings; every bird, and bee, and flower, rejoiced; the refreshing dews still hovered over the earth they would bless with a long draught of love before the morning came; at times, the lads encountered a current of air so laden with heat, that they said it might rain and thunder ere the next day's noon; and then they hurried on, with lightsome steps, and, after a time, with lighter hearts, for lady elizabeth's harshness was painful to think upon, and sidney loved her so well, that he could not bear to believe her guilty of unworthy actions; and he continually repeated to himself, "she is afraid of fever on our accounts—that is all—that must be all; she has been so very kind to me;" and as he thought this grateful thought, all things around him, all things he looked upon, increased sevenfold in beauty. away they went, and soon their jests and merry laughter set the echoes dancing above them; the shadows of the trees crossed into a most fantastic pavement the grass upon which they trod; and once, as cormac raised his gun to bring down a golden-billed blackbird, that was seated just - a fairy tale of love. as above his brown mate in a hawthorn bush, the bird broke into such a gush of music, that he let his piece fall, and met sidney's earnest look with a smile as bright as the blackbird's whistle was loud. "it would," he exclaimed, " it would have been downright murder—it was so like saying, 'could you do it!'" on they went; how the rabbits scudded before them; the hare started from her form; the burley cockchafer struck against their hats, and their faces were netted by the tracery of the gossamer spider; while at intervals the belling of the red-deer sounded far, far away. "are you sure we have got on the right track," he said, at last. "yes," replied sidney, " i have noted every tree and turn as the steward told me« i really think, cormac, you had better come no farther, for here is what they call the ^eb 'weary well,' and this turn to the right will bring us to the river — look — there is the bridge. with me it is a part of duty to see the poor fellow; he never did for you—what he did for me." they pro- ceeded onwards, however, and at the next turn, before either spoke again, they stopped in- voluntarily, for two overhang- ing trees formed a frame-work, into which a most exquisite bit of lake and mountain was set as in a picture-frame. the most luxuriant foliage dipped into the water; fold upon fold of trees of various hues, of. which they saw but the topmost branches, made the mountain base appear a continuation of gigantic garlands, while towards the summit, one pile of rocks against another stood out against the sky. the youths knew the islands underneath by name, and whispered them to each other; for cm- midsummer eve: the scene was so still and lovely that they did not dare disturb it by the sound of even low voices. at length they turned away. "how can my aunt leave a scene like this, for the pent-up life of a crowded city?" asked sidney. "it is certainly beautiful," replied cormac; "but the misery of the people is its blight!" "it would vanish as it does elsewhere, if you were always at home," said sidney; "but look—here is the tree. now, cormac, go no farther. if you were to take this fever i should never forgive myself: back, dear cormac." "i will not go back," replied cormac. "if my mother will not, it is my duty to protect him." and, despite his cousin's entreaties, he continued to walk by his side, until their progress was arrested by the sound of voices in conversation. "hush!" exclaimed sidney, and his countenance changed from its usually calm expression to one of trembling eagerness and joy. "hush! she is here—she has found him!" cormac followed silently, until sidney paused. the woodcutter supported himself on his elbow, beneath the shade of one of those gigantic laurels that grow only in the lake country, and mingled the most earnest entreaties, that eva would leave him, with prophetic warnings as to the care she ought to take of herself, while, little heeding his words, having drawn a large branch to the ground, and secured it by a long sash, she draped a shawl so as to protect him from the night-dew. no description could convey an idea of the ease and buoy- ancy of her movements, or the gracious and tender expressions by which she entreated the poor sufferer to lie down upon the pillow of heather she had heaped for his relief. exercise and anxiety had imparted a glow to her usually pale complexion; and, though her words were full of cheerfulness and hope, her eyes frequently overflowed with tears, and her voice was broken like that of a nightingale when it laments the passing away of spring. i'm safe enough, darling of your mother's heart! jewel of the moun- tains! and the only fear i have—mavourneen deelish !—is that you'll come to harm through the sickness that is over me. oh, then, how did you hear it at all?" a fairy tale of love. "i missed you in the morning, and my mother thought you were long coming. i asked of all i met if they had seen you; and when i heard where you were, i came at once. do not fear for me. i have sat from night till morn, watching by the side of poor fever-stricken people, and never felt an ache; never has weariness been upon my eyelids. now i will go; but will return ere the moon rises." "stop!" exclaimed the woodcutter; "stop! as you value my ever- lasting rest—as you value your mother's love—as you value your own life—come not back to me to-night! don't you remember this time seven years—don't you mind since! but you don't—you don't! the knowledge and the trials are on me; you can't see them—so best. they hunted me with the fever-hound — the fleshless yellow dog with the open mouth—swift of foot, with hot blighting breath, that preys on fresh graves, and carries the pestilence through sleeping towns into the a fairy tale of love. his hands. "away," he added, "and at once ;—i don't want cloak or cover ;—faith in her safety will be my saving :—away!" well the wood- cutter knew that he was not left without protection: one of the most skilful herbalists of fairy land was left to guard him; and, lest he should grow sleepy with long watching, a gentle and loving fay was ordered to attend and keep him to his duty. sidney, who, when eva was in sight, lacked the courage to address her, the moment she was gone, felt the most intense de- sire to follow. he had not confided to his cousin that many times since their return he had watched and waited to see her curtain withdrawn at daybreak by her small white hand—to hear her voice answer the birds in their matin song—to gather the rose leaves that fell from the flowers she had touched—to feel the ecstacy of breathing the air she breathed—to teach his pen her name, until, if it did not obstinately refuse to write aught else, it would run on with such wild words, harmonising so together, and expressing thoughts, and hopes, and fears he never dared to frame upon his lips, that, at last, the silent, feeble instrument — the poor feather of a bird!—became his confidant, his cherished friend. he needed no second bidding from the woodcutter. cormac thought he was wild, and called to him for explanation, but received no reply; and, half-annoyed, he followed along the path, musing on the vision of beauty he had seen,—as he had never mused before; a sharp and bitter pang shot through his frame, when he remembered that sidney had the privilege of looking upon eva whenever he wished; that he had enjoyed such privilege without communicating it to him: he felt offended; angry and harsh thoughts arose in his mind against his cousin: in all the endowments bestowed by nature upon her favourites, he knew ns midsummer eve: sidney was his superior; and until then his easy nature had been content to admit such superiority; but now—even already—he valued his own position and wealth as nothing worth compared with the advantages possessed by his cousin. his ears, unaccustomed to the tones and dialect of his native country, had not caught the meaning of the wood- cutter's half-muttered words; yet, suddenly, the idea flashed upon him that sidney had followed eva, and he hastened his footsteps, hoping to overtake him. urged by mysterious whisperings, his rapidity in- creased, until he rushed forward, careless of huge drops of rain that struck upon his brow, and the sudden gathering of a storm, which in the lake country descends almost before its darkly spreading pall en- shrouds the heavens. in a mere span of time, nature had so completely changed her aspect, that the scene could only be recognised by its mighty landmarks; the lakes were a mass of heaving and leaden-coloured waters; fierce gusts of wind dashed down the ravines, like wild-horses, confessing no master; the forest moaned heavily as their crowned heads bowed to their king of terrors; the sharp pinnacles of the mountains speared the clouds which hung in fantastic forms around brows that would not be capped by a perishing vapour; the sheet-lightning, at one moment, descended as a broad and shining pennon upon the waters; the next, the sublimely awful instrument of almighty vengeance darted from the seething clouds, ere the deep and heavy thunder lumbered forth the slow announcement that it was about to run its course. there was something so startling in the sudden outbreak that cormac paused, and viewed the scene in wonder at its singular magnificence; the pent-up rain had not yet mingled with the lightning; its violence was suspended over the earth, upon which the surcharged clouds prepared to fall in overwhelming force. suddenly he heard a scream—a shriek — so sharp as to seem supernatural; and, looking up, he saw an eagle floating amid the storm, as if its delight was in the elemental war that filled all other created things with terror. beneath where the bird now rose—now descended-—-cormac perceived that a gully, half-river, half-lake, was crossed by a fragile plank, rendered almost unnecessary in dry weather, by the huge stepping-stones which broke the water into a thousand dimpling eddies; the recent summer rains had filled the channel to a fairy tale of love. overflowing, and as it was within a few yards of the lake, it tumbled violently over every obstacle, and uplifted its waters against the little bridge, that showed like a thread over the whirling cauldron. an artist would have deemed its white foam a graceful foreground to the purple hue of the mountain that rose beyond the dark lake to which the narrow but impetuous torrent was hastening; and while something of the same idea passed through cormac's mind, he saw eva raymond move from the shelter of the overhanging bank, and step with modest fearlessness upon the plank, — intending to reach dovecote by the pass of the plank- bridge,—the very bridge of which the woodcutter had warned sidney. to his unspeakable horror, connac distinctly saw the plank raised, by midsummer eve: the force of the waters; yet still she moved as calmly on, as if walking on her mother's lawn. he was a long way above her, yet he shouted to her of peril;—in reply, he heard again the scream of the eagle: and felt that no voice could reach her ear. at once, he dashed down the path that commanded a view of the perilous pass; suddenly, he saw sidney risking his life on the fragile plank; and, though convinced that the maiden's chance of safety was increased tenfold, it was like a blast of the lightning on his brow, to note him there. sidney stretched his arms imploringly towards her, and she, half-turning, waved her hand to him, as regardless of danger as if unconscious of its existence: one huge swell, yellow and frothy, curled around the plank ;.—the fragile bridge heaved in the air, and in an instant—almost as rapidly as thought—both, both so full of life, had disappeared! how the elements warred above them, and how the cruel waters hurried them towards the lake; but sidney struggled bravely, for he struggled for more than his own life! he gained a rock!—he stood upon it in safety—he was saved! but it was only to gaze into the waters, and then dive into their depths for the treasure they held back. cormac remained powerless upon the bank that overhung the fatal spot where both had disappeared:—there was no vestige of the plank, no indication even of where it had rested; but the river boiled over at his feet. suddenly, he heard his name called; it was sidney's voice! he sprang in half-delirious ecstasy to the place from whence it came; and there, battling the strong and angry current, he saw his cousin, one arm wreathed round eva, while, with the other, he clutched the strong bough of a tree which overhung the stream. it seemed from the moment sidney grasped it, that the torrent played less fiercely round them; or it might be that his strength had returned, for, almost without cormac's assistance, he drew the delicate form of the fair girl upon the bank. "your old luck, sidney," whispered cormac, as he bent over her. "she recovers." eva raymond was restored to consciousness much more rapidly than they could have expected; the cousins seemed unable to render her any assistance, though both were filled with the deepest anxiety; so intense was their watching, that the tempest subsided without their observing how a fairy tale of love. rapidly it ceased in the valleys and how swiftly it passed from the mountain tops. as she returned, in her dripping garments, to dovecote, the trees were laden with rain-drops, and the fragrant thyme sent up its perfume as incense to her footsteps; night forhore to perplex her with its shadows; and the very air vibrated with joy at her preservation; the lakes had resumed their tranquillity; and nature seemed again at peace. cormac endeavoured to entertain her with eton jests, and the pleasures of a city life: and talked lightly, as youths of small sympathies often do. sidney spoke little; his care being to remove every burr and bramble from her path. she replied to cormac, but thanked sidney by looks rather than words, until after a few minutes' shelter in her fond mother's arms, amid tears and blushes, she presented him as her preserver. meanwhile, randy remained on his heather couch, incapable of midsummer eve rendering assistance to himself or others. the rain did not penetrate the shelter which the forest leaves afforded; he muttered to himself fables and scraps of old songs, until at last he slept. as the night waned, the woodcutter was shown the murkiness and despair that reigned in the kelpie's palace beneath the waters of the upper lake. he saw the queen cast herself upon the steps of her throne, and, for a time, none of the dwellers of that dark region dared to offer her consolation; at last her favourite lizard presumed to lick her hand, and the most musical of her frogs croaked forth a song of solace on his reedy harp. but this, instead of soothing, seemed to drive her to desperation; she vowed never again to meet the queens in amity—she entreated all bad spirits to join her in luring the child of earth to her destruction. the distorted creatures of her court trembled as her fiery eyes rested upon them, for well they knew she would soon devote them to the vengeance that demanded sacrifice. the turmoil was terrible; a fierce war between the imps, her pages, and the frogs, her steeds, restored her to partial self- command; and after having bathed her swollen eyes in a decoction of the poisonous mandrake, she gave ear to the councils of her nurse, who had rare experience in all wicked mysteries, having been created of the slime of the waters of the nile, as it lay upon the land of egypt; she blamed her darling for periling her liberty against a whim. but while she grimaced and gesticulated the vision became confused; the woodcutter's sight was disturbed by the flapping of the wings of monstrous bats, and the spectre dance of marrowless bones that had lain beneath the old weir bridge, and in the chamels of mucross and aghadoe for centuries; the roar of cataracts was in his ears, and he felt himself hurled forward into the depths of o'sullivan's cascade; and then he called on nightstar, and asked why she had deserted him? and the sound of a fairy tale of love. the oozing waters melted away, and the forms of the kelpies became dim and pale, until a vapour, formed of fading rainbows, where all the hues were blended into one another, in most delicate harmony, shut out the evil sights of evil spirits: and a strain of melancholy music encircled him on every side, so unlike the usual music of fairy land, that he hardly recognised its source, until—not commanding the revels, as in past times— not bandying repartee with honeybell—nor enjoying the frolics of puck— nor leading the mystic dance of midsummer—nor excited to laugh- ter or mirth—he saw the queens descending on the wings oe a bat, and when they had stepped upon earth, he recognised night- star absolutely weeping, as she reproached honeybell for her care- lessness of eva at that eventful time. honeybell seemed intent on extracting the one drop of sweetness from the trumpet-like tube of the woodbine, and then cast the half-crushed blossom to the great bee, who turned it over with his trunk, and thought how very wasteful great ladies were of the good things that fell to them. she listened with more than her usual pout to the remonstrances of nightstar; whose words fell as sadly as softly from her lips. "i do not think," she said, "of the misery yonder fiend of the waters has cost me. i know her enmity, and can meet and overcome it. she has cast my trusty servant upon a bed of sickness; it shall be the renewal of his youth. she endangered the liberty and life of my well-beloved; it will end in her own banishment and slavery; but you, honeybell, to tamper with eva—you to thwart me thus! what should the child know of the love that frivolous mortals dally with—the very scum of the passion of noble souls?" "you live so much in the upper air, sister," replied honeybell, peevishly, "that you lose all sympathies with the beings of earth." "not so; i seek their elevation. i honour love from its first dawning upon the world to the very last, when it triumphs over all perish- able things. had i not deemed it the worthiest of all boons, would 't midsummer eve i i have endowed her with it? but the bud should not be forced to blossom before its time: the hearts as well as the heads of these poor mortals need ripening. troubled as i am with many cares for the good of others" "that makes you so exciteable, my dear queen," interrupted honey- bell. "i remember when you enjoyed your existence as much as i do mine." "i enjoy it more than ever now," replied nightstar; "we, my royal sister, have higher motives than sipping sweets from flowers, or passing time in mere idle frolics in the moonlight. i notice my anxieties but to excuse my frequent absence from eva's pillow. i have been passing from one country to another, but would not have consigned to your care either my adopted child or my faithful partisan, had i thought you would have deserted the one, or played with the feelings of the other; not only have you whispered follies into eva's ear, but you have perverted, by your worldliness, her mother's nature. see i not at this very moment, when her child is sleeping under the influence of my surest spells, that she is weighing the merits of the brave, the true, the earnest, the faithful youth, who, poor though she believes him, has that within him which never failed to achieve the highest honours your earthly world can give; yet she—a mother—a good and tender one—with the face of her precious child lighting up her darkness—even she rates these high qualities at scarce a feather's weight, and absolutely, though unconsciously, regrets that her child's life was not saved by the sensual cormac, rather than the high-hearted sidney!—now, mark you, honeybell, it is not because the red fluid runs in unequal currents through their young veins, for sidney has as many far-off ancestors as cormac; but this usually wise and good, and always devoted mother, bends to the worn out coronet that glitters on the cramped and narrow brow of an earl's daughter! this is your teaching, honeybell." "i respect the aristocracy," she exclaimed. "and so do i," replied nightstar; "many of my greatest favourites are numbered among its daughters—i have scores under my protection who have never heard my name, whom i shield from worldly influences and their contaminations—and who are pure as they are beautiful." a fairy tale of love. honeybell felt inclined to sneer; but the earnestness of her royal sister was so lofty and true, that she turned away her face. "but nature," continued nightstar, "has its nobles as well as antiquity and rank. i honour the self-created glories of mind: i venerate those who achieve greatness by labour — endurance — patience — and the high purposes that exist only with high souls!" "i know all that, my dear sister," again interposed honeybell; "and so do we all—at least it has become the fashion of late to say so; but instead of finding fault with me, as you have done, i expected a public vote of thanks for my good management. two lovers secured to a little village damsel—and two such lovers! either sufficient, in four or five of our hours—which they call years—to set a palace in a ferment!—what do you want for your adopted? a young girl's heart vibrating between lovers is pretty sport to me; but if you look angry and come to that, i think i have as good a right as you have to suggest what i please to eva. disturbances seem rife in fairy-land about this young mortal! she is mine as well as yours." "honeybell!" exclaimed nightstar, reproachfully, "do you not remember you generously gave her up to me?" "well, perhaps i did," replied the vacillating queen; "and a trouble- some gift she is likely to prove—particularly when in love." "in love!" repeated nightstar. "really, queen, i did not think you could have used a phrase so vulgar. oh, sister, sister! see you not the difference between loving and being (as gross mortals call it) in love?" "you are too refined for me!" exclaimed her sister, impatiently; "and i am so weary, and the night is so fine, that really all i can do is to consign her at once to your superior management! cannot you render her and hers oblivious of the past, and my elves shall unite with yours in driving the talbots out of the country." "the high-born and wealthy are far too ready to leave it," replied nightstar; "and you know i have no power to erase a blot from the living heart—to render an immortal mind oblivious! but my poor wood- cutter at this moment is thinking a fable that may teach even me how dark buds become bright blossoms—and—" a fairy tale of love. strength of an independent and manly nature. nothing could be more soothing than the calmness and stillness which prevailed over the sleeping world—yet he was insensible to its influence—his young mind was a chaos —his brain refused its office to calm the beatings of his heart; and at length his head sunk upon his arm, and he entreated aid and direction from the power that is never appealed to in vain: supplicating him who listeneth in darkness as well as in light, and whose ear is never deaf when sorrow and trouble speak rightly! comforted in spirit, his thoughts arranged themselves har- moniously; hope, with its train of blessings, re-entered his mind, and, looking upwards, he wondered if one he loved watched the stars as he did—at that hour—when nature was most tranquil and most pure. suddenly the wood- cutter laid his hand upon the window whereby sidney stood; but the youth had grown so accus- tomed to his appearance at all times and places, that he had ceased to be surprised—meet him where he would. "i heard every word you said, master sidney, dear," said the poor fellow; "and much good has it done us both, sir. it's a fine thing to open the heart and let out all the bad and take in the good that's sure to come at our bidding. a shut heart is neither for god nor man! but wicked things are always busy about, sir: only they may be overcome; and i'll tell you a story about that. i saw a mighty purty sight once, master sidney. you know i can't abide the eagles in the air: thieving robbers they ever and always were, and cruel; if people knew as much about them as i do, they'd change their mind, and not call them royal birds a fairy tale of love. the other, and at last clasped the cage with his long legs; but could not move it; so he went to the other side, and found two bars open. 'oh, oh!' he said; 'oh, oh! now i can get in and feast,' and in he went, and when he was safe, down went the bars, and the butter- fly bore him away in triumph, to wait the judgment which all impure doers must meet sooner or later. "i think more about such things since the last sickness i had; only the cares of the good people that depend so much on me, and miss eva, and yourself, come across me—and that bothered and bother- ing ould creature, kitty kelly, she sets me foaming — she's so worldly-minded! oh, then, isn't a worldly-minded woman a woful thing! you remember the flowers you gave miss eva? the darling settled them in her own chaney bowl, and i watched her looking at and trimming them with her heart in her eye. 'is there any new kind of flower among them, miss darling?' i said to her, pretending innocence, as she kept taking them in and out of the water. 'no, randy,' she answers, 'none.' 'because you're such a while giving them the last touch,' i said again. she never turned round to smile at me, as she often does, but carried them away, and i couldn't help thinking how much fairer the living flowers of the almighty's garden are than all the flowers of the field. now, sir, would you believe it, but the minute kitty kelly got miss eva's back turned, she threw them all out, and filled the bowl full of the fruit master cormac had brought her!" "and what did she?" inquired the almost breathless sidney. "she cast them out, sir—flung them over the lawn. i wish you midsummer eve! had only seen what i saw," continued the woodcutter, as, seized by one of his fits of sudden wildness, he clapped his hands; "there they went! hurroo! rolling past kitty's window. she could not see what i saw; and thinking they kept going on of themselves, cried out to know 'what ailed them, hopping in the grass?' well they might hop!—well they might roll! three little fellows kicking one apple! hurroo!—two at a strawberry! how pleased they were to see the rich fruit scorned, because of the rich giver—that was sport! how they danced !—you'll hardly believe it; but it's as true as that the moon is shining. i've seen the queen herself sitting like a star on miss eva's forehead, and she never a bit the wiser! but," he added, sorrowfully, "there must have been talk about it; for an hour after i heard the jewel sobbing in her little chamber, and the mistress had a troubled look: but keep a good heart, master sidney — it's grate fortune is before you, sir — grate luck! sure there isn't one about the place this minute that doesn't love you before any other—" "that's not 'luck,' either to them or to me," interrupted sidney— "and only wishes you were in it, instead of them that are—." "god forbid," said the youth; "and you must not say this — nor think it. my cousin will be a blessing to you all hereafter, when i shall be far—far away,—perhaps to return to you no more." "whisht! whisht!" exclaimed the woodcutter, "and don't be doubting that way! i've seen all about it, as if it was in a book; but a fairy tale of love. s 'then i'll stay where i am,' says the gallant cock; 'i'm not going to lave all my little chickens and their mothers, and my hatching hens, to the mercy of a cowld starving world, with no one to take care of them or purtect them. i should be ashamed to crow if i was guilty of such mane- ness.' 'well, bring 'em,' said the kelpie, spitefully. the cock looked up at the horse, where it was snorting and blowing, and clapt his wings. 'no,' he answered, ' we'll stay where we are; no good comes from those who tempt us to forget the duties we are all hatched to perform. i'm grately obleeged; but i'll have nothing to do with you; so the sooner you are off the better.'" "can you read the planets," inquired sidney, abstractedly. "not as well as i do palms; but there's grate reading in nature, master sidney: what do you think of the story i told you?" "truly, randy, i did not hear it." "i thought as much," replied the woodcutter; " it's wonderful, when the heart talks aloud, how deaf the ears grow to every thing else!" the woodcutter wended his way towards the cottage, and sidney threw himself on his bed, to dream what dreams he could. after the events of that day, cormac and sidney avoided each other, by unspoken, but mutual, consent; and the lady elizabeth grew towards her nephew first cold, and then bitter; it was hard to bear, and harder still, when sidney implored her to tell him in what he had offended; midsummer eve to hear words drop like icicles from her lips—words which carried con- viction that the affection she had once borne him had departed. he wrote to his father: the reply attributed blame, and advised concilia- tion. it was only when wandering around dovecote, when hearing eva's voice, when assisting in her missions of charity, when singing the same song, or reading the same book with her, that he was happy; and ^:>-^r-<. -^*——^-f^ yet 'happy' is but a cold word to express his emotions—the emotions of his deep, earnest, engrossing love. it was his life—more, far more than his life; a ministering angel she was of all the holy offices that create blessings here and hereafter. cormac, too, often brought to the dovecote the passions of his ardent and stormy nature; he was sidney's cousin, and, therefore, was for a time welcomed by eva; he was lady elizabeth's son—the heir of ard-flesk—that secured a welcome from her mother. it had chanced that on the midsummer eve which followed the rescue of eva from the waters, lady elizabeth arose in an angry humour; it was true her little starched maid had been with her the previous night, until the matin crow of the early cock; it is true that her ladyship had been tart and snappish to cormac during the previous week; that she had hinted 'that sons had their own purposes to serve when they remained with mothers;' that she had read a homily to both young men on the evils of low connections; that she had spent half the day in studying a fairy tale of love. rochefoucault, and the other half in repeating his maxims; that her mind was filled with an extraordinary 'something' that would not be content quietly to subside into nothing, as was the case usually; both the youths felt that some event must happen, but there was between them no confi- dence as of old, and they could but resolve their own thoughts; cormac glared fiercely upon sidney, who met the glare with the calm light of eyes so full of truth and power, that his cousin for an instant turned inquiry into himself—rapidly, but not satisfactorily. "it's little use i'm to miss eva," mused the woodcutter, as he traced the progress of sidney through the dew of the meadow that led to dovecote: "it's little use i'm to miss eva now; and that brave young heart afoot before the sun at midsummer: and master cormac will be here, before noon, only he comes a visiting on a high- trotting horse, decked with whip and spur, and a gay green riding-coat; and the chil- dren salute him, and stand still as he rides by, and say to each other, 'that's the young lord of ard-flesk;' but they bless master sidney when he goes along, and they dance before him in his path. how nightstar scorns the gay youth on the fine horse, who brings gifts to the mother—and distress to the child!" thus randy thought, before lady elizabeth had arisen from her bed, and commanded that four horses should be harnessed to the family coach, and the new liveries which had never been worn since a royal duchess looked at the 'fittings' of her london drawing-rooms, and deigned to observe that they were very well—' for her!' her ladyship ordered forth the new liveries, and commanded her little maid to array her in the costly folds of a scarlet cashmere, while a plume of white feathers descended over her left shoulder ; and as she midsummer eve: stood on the stone steps of the ancient house, the butler and porter bowed behind her, and the footmen, with dress bouquets, bowed before, and waited her ladyship's ascent to her carriage; yet none of them had the remotest idea as to where her ladyship was going; if the little lady's- maid knew, she kept her secret well. "where to, my lady?" inquired the head footman, while the coachman bent down his head to listen; and the porter and butler extended their necks, and the other footman, although he looked indifferent, opened his ears, and cormac's bloodhound, keeldar, rose up from his lair, and after peering from beneath his eyes, and shaking, growled; and her ladyship's own old spaniel wheezed to be taken up; and the footman, after a long pause, repeated the question, "where to, my lady?" "drive on!" replied lady elizabeth; "and drive fast, particularly through the village: i cannot endure the sight of misery." a fairy tale of love. "she can't abide the sight of misery," repeated the porter to the butler; "i wonder she doesn't put them out of it!" "it's against law to make a fire and burn the poor," said the butler, as he kicked the spaniel his mistress had committed to his tender care. "a little would do it!" continued the porter, musingly; "a little goes a great way in charity; anyhow, the people who give are of that opinion; but a little would do it here; and sure she'd not be troubled with such pains about her heart, or such meagrims and things in her head .—if she'd try: just relieve one or two families as an experiment. randy has a fable about that—of how a fine sick lady grew better as her purse grew lighter; and whenever she gave a guinea she lost an ache! well, it's a curious world, and i will always say so," he continued, as he sunk gradually into his chair: "a very curious world, and of all places i was in, this is the strangest and most unnatural. i never get through a quiet night's rest, and i don't know one that does." when the carriage and horses of lady elizabeth talbot stood at the road entrance to dovecote, it was nearly as long as the cottage itself. numbers gazed upon it, in the distance, speculating upon the visit, and fearing that, having her beauty, the 'proud lady' was going eva away—just as beautiful damsels of 'lifted ' by enchantment. the old weather- ind creaked so audibly, that the coachman directed his eyes upward, while the startled inhabitants of the old tower, in their turn, fixed theirs on him, until every leaf seemed instinct with life. the horses reared and snorted, and in one of the ruined windows of the tower, randy's head was set as in a frame-work of knotted ivy. turned midsummer eve: it was in vain the coachman shook his whip, and the footmen ex- tended their gold-headed canes towards him; he continued muttering and gesticulating, until, as some of his expressions reached their ears, they were awed into silence by the 'fairy man.' the majestic lady entered as eva, more in sadness than in joy, was drawing up the strings of her harp. lady elizabeth had a keen per- ception of the beautiful and her taste had been rendered fastidious by a long acquaintance with the best models of classic beauty; she brought all living creatures to the test of the grecian statue; and, consequently, refused to be satisfied with much that less fastidious critics called 'perfection.' but when she passed within the sanctuary of that humble cottage, and met the beaming eyes of the young girl, who received her with a heightened colour, but with no more confusion of manner than youth and modesty rendered graceful, the lady forgot for a few brief moments the object of her mission—completely overpowered by the love- liness she could scarcely believe was real; after gazing on her silently, until eva turned from her high-bred stare, "i wished," she said, "to see your mother, young lady. i do not desire to give you pain." "nor her!" exclaimed eva — the expression of her face changing to one of deep anxiety. "you cannot surely wish to give my mother pain? if it must be—let me suffer instead: lady, we are one in heart and soul—we have no secrets from each other. oh, do not give her pain!" lady elizabeth gazed upon that form, trembling with emotion; many thoughts crowded her mind, jostling each other with fearful rapidity; but one prevailed above the rest: all her arts, all her indulgence—her wealth, her rank—all she had in the emptiness of her hollow soul, most coveted—all she had lavishly bestowed — all had failed to procure her a tithe of such love! whence came it "do you then love your mother so very dearly " she inquired, taking her hand, and looking earnestly and inquiringly into eva's faultless face. "love my mother!" repeated eva, almost unconsciously; "surely every child loves its mother." "yes," replied lady elizabeth, " in a degree; but you look so much love. love such as / have met with, has its own purposes to work out; have you no purpose in this love " a fairy tale of love. "oh, yes, lady! a great—great—purpose; the purpose of deserving and keeping hers." "now tell me truly, young lady, have you no secret hid away from your mother in some dark corner of your heart?" "none!" she said, and the light of truth shone in her eyes; "none!" "you are born to be believed," answered lady elizabeth, un- consciously dropping the hand, "do you not know me?" "i know to what house this noble dog belongs!" answered eva, laying her hand on the bloodhound, who had preceded his mistress; the dog turned, and placed his head under the hand that offered the caress. "you must know keeldar well: he would hardly do so much to me; and they say his race never caress those who are not of gentle blood." "he does not lose caste by caressing a raymond!" was eva's reply .—proud in words, but not in tone; it sounded a truth — not a boast; "i know him well, lady elizabeth; he always accompanies his master." "then you admit that mr. talbot is a visitor here?" inquired the lady, unable to repress her astonishment at finding eva so self-possessed on a subject upon which her own anxiety made it difficult to enter. "we see him occasionally, and i am always pleased when he brings keeldar; the dog is so noble and so true." "do you then prefer the dog to the master?" s- a fairy tale of love. "and you like him better than his master," repeated lady elizabeth, fixing her penetrating eyes upon the fair face which beamed upon her. "mr. talbot is your son, lady elizabeth," replied eva, " and intends us all kindness; but—i am very, very fond of keeldar." "mr. talbot would appreciate the compliment," said the lady, proudly; "yet," she added, thinking as wordlings do, that truth is but seeming, and finding it impossible to believe that eva could be really indifferent to her son and heir; "yet, by your own admission, he has been here without my knowledge. is it not so?" a hue of deep indignant crimson flushed eva's cheek. "without your knowledge, lady! why without your knowledge " the girl looked timidly, and yet, frankly, towards the imperious woman. "i will not talk with her," she murmured; "there is a spell about her: i pray you," she said aloud, "send your mother hither." "lady elizabeth, i entreat!" exclaimed eva, advancing. "i will not speak with you again!" she said, hastily turning away from the eloquence of her beseeching look. "i seek audience of your mother." "she would honour the choice of an emperor," was the thought that rushed through her mind, as eva disappeared; nor had she arranged her plans when mrs. raymond entered the room. the greeting was brief; and the lady-mother, in a few short, hard, hurried words, re- proached geraldine with laying a snare in her daughter's beauty to entrap the heir of a noble house. geraldine's nature revolted at the idea of her child's name being so used. it is not to be questioned that she had built, as mothers often will, a lofty palace, wherein her soul's idol might reign a triple queen—of riches, love, and beauty; but eva herself had over- thrown the structure; and the mother was roused into forgetfulness of all save that she had a child to justify and to protect. "i do not think," she said, and her voice rang upon the lady's ear, like an echo of the one she had heard a few moments before ; "i do not think your ladyship's rank or wealth entitle you to enter a house, however humble, and insult its mistress. i do not deny that your son has spoken to me of his affection for my child; but as it was not returned; there was no need to trumpet to his mother the fact of his rejection. i confess i should have rejoiced had he been older, and had a fairy tale of love. "you wrong all high-born maidens, lady, in supposing them guilty of so mean a craft; if they loved him indeed!" she continued, blushing as she spoke; "but, even then, they would surely wait to be wooed, and not permit wooing either, unless feeling that love could be given in return." "and did you thus?" "truly, lady, i hardly know. i hope i did—i think i did; for, from the first evening, when—when his cousin saved my life—he com- plained of my coldness." "who? sidney!" the tell-tale blood, summoned by the sound that was music in her ears —a name that nestled in her pure young heart—rushed in a glowing current from its citadel, and steeped brow, cheek, and bosom, in the deep roseate hue of love. "he saved my life," she murmured: "poor as it is, it is my mother's world. he saved my life." if any of the harsh thoughts, which had been her counsellors during the pompous progress of lady elizabeth to the dovecote, had time to whisper her who often gave them scope and entertainment, they would have recalled to her memory, much that eva's few simple words and maidenly emotion had obliterated. she stood mortified and abashed in the presence of a girl, blushing and trembling, on the threshold of a new sensation, which, according to her destiny, was to guide her from her cradle to her grave. lady elizabeth would have gloried in her power to tear asunder two young loving hearts, casting the tenderest to perish—a trophy of the power of her house; but now that eva had put away cormac's love, as a tlling of no value—and, as she saw, cherished another affection in its stead, she would have sacrificed many of her diamond heir- looms to have been her arbiter of fate. she expected a triumph—she ex- perienced a defeat; and, angered but not humbled—she still clasped eva's hands in hers, while the girl again murmured, "he saved my life!" strange to say, no rejoicing came over the spirit of lady elizabeth that her son was safe from the snare she considered to have been spread for him; but every feeling merged into one of indignation, that a talbot— and her son — should have subjected himself to rejection by a simple cottage girl—" and the growth (as her heart in its contraction designated her nephew), the growth of her charity substituted in his place." as she f g midsummer eve: withdrew from the most unsatisfactory visit she had ever made, was it her irritated nerves that conjured up the sound, or did peal after peal of low musical and yet ironical laughter ring amid the leaves that tangled on the walls of the old tower? and why did the swallow stoop so low in its wheeling flight that the ruffle of its wings agitated the feathers which drooped upon the proud lady's shoulders; and eva's robins rush into the martins' nests that clustered beneath the thatch; and the two old fleshy-faced bats, who were never seen but after sunset, peer down from their grey stones, and scream, and squeak like monkeys; while the white-eared owl who had followed the weather- cock from whence it came, and mused beneath its sheltered base, in half-sleepy silence on atmospheric changes, why did he brave the sun, and, with winking eyes, hoot like a maniac? the very atmosphere became uncomfortable to lady elizabeth, for she could hardly breathe. little knew the proud lady that her discomfiture at the dovecote had been reported—long before she had passed its threshold — to eva's guardian. randy had descended from the tower, and taken his seat on the centre of a mound, underneath the old gable, beside which the lady must pass ere she issued from the a fairy tale of love. gate; while, peering from a broken window, kitty kelly also watched —with different feelings and opposite conclusions. the countenance of the woodcutter was expressive of sly triumph; there was a volume of quaint joy in his rough face, as the news was brought to him by a troop of tiny beings, invisible to all but him; who, though they spoke no word, indicated by a thousand merry antics, that a great victory had been achieved. they vanished as they came; and the next moment randy stood beside the garish footmen, hat in hand. "glad to see your ladyship abroad to hear the blessings of the poor, and to thank you myself for the fine shelter your honour put over me when i was down in the sickness in your ladyship's wood," and he bowed with uncouth solemnity. "he speaks of sickness!" said the lady to the footmen: "i never remember relieving him." "maybe your ladyship hasn't the best of memories — i have," observed the woodcutter, still with seeming respect. "do you ever think of dives and lazarus?" he questioned; and in an instant his manner changed, his eyes rolled and sparkled, and the terrified lady shrunk into a corner of the carriage. "stand back," he continued, addressing the servants who would have removed him—" and let the coachman get his horses to stir if he can! — my lady, the brightness of your diamonds will not light you to glory — nor gold, that never brought sun- shine to a poor man's house, make soft your bed in heaven! there isn't a poor half-starved colleen that gathers wild straw- berries on glena would take your place and your trouble along with it. whisper— you wanted a daughter as well as a son, but she's not for you," he said, pointing his finger derisively; "she's for your betters." "take me home !" exclaimed lady eliza- beth. "take her," said the woodcutter, with in- creasing wildness of manner, "to where the body we pamper must go to, f midsummer eve: whatever becomes of the rest—to the little cold wet grave, that all the violets in the world can't sweeten! go to mucross, my lady, and learn your lesson there. the thigh-bones of strong men, that carried them through the wars of life—now white and powdery; the bare empty skulls of proud and beautiful ladies, with hairy worms for ringlets—are there. drive her to mucross ! — hurroo!" the horses, frightened by the yell, set off at full gallop; but when the carriage arrived at ard-flesk, lady elizabeth was so overcome by terror, that she was carried by her servants to her dressing-room. "and, mother," questioned eva, on the evening of that day, as she sat on a low stool at her mother's feet, in the depth of their oriel window, "were the ladies of rank whom you met before you married, and of whom you tell me so little, were they like that proud unhappy lady who grieved us so much this morning?" "not many like her, dearest; but some, whose heads are not suffi- ciently strong for the giddy height on which they stand,—certainly a little like her." *' poor thing!" she exclaimed; "now it is all over, and i look back upon her and her words, i am so thankful that my lot is not cast in the a a fairy taie of love. noisy world. i feel as if i never could be happy there: it must be so like struggling in a torrent," and she shuddered at the remembrance. "you cannot live always here, my child! you must not." "why, mother?" "your education will need perfecting." "nay, mother! are you not my teacher?" "there is much i do not know—much that you must learn; besides women have a destiny of usefulness and knowledge to fulfil; a part to act, not in the torrent of life, but in its under current: they must not live only for birds, and flowers, and trees." "the poor !—my mother!" "one great duty, but not the only one; you must learn, eva, to live in the world, to love the world, to serve the world, yet to withstand the world—a time may come — must come — when i shall not be with you, when you must think and act for yourself; when—" "mother, you are not ill!" interrupted eva, starting in sudden appre- hension at the thought of separation. "thank god, no, dearest; but well or ill, a mother must prepare her child for the future; you must, despite yourself, bear in mind, that the practical wisdom of manhood is often oblivious of youth's first love." "nay, mother!" "you must hear me; there are few things more brittle than man's love; few things of which the world so speedily makes shipwreck. man must enter that world; and necessity compels woman to enter it also, though by a narrower path, or she can never be a help-meet for him. alas, my child! if his father remembered our old friendship; if his aunt forgot her pride; if he were of a proper age; even if the love that shares your love for me in your young heart, should hold its faith, and sidney hold his with you, you will have to endure—" eva did not now look up; she hid her face in her mother's lap, and replied—" nothing." "nothing!" repeated geraldine. "nothing, dearest mother, with you and with him." "one little word—poverty." "we are not poor," replied eva. midsummer eve i and thus it is, thought geraldine, that young hearts feel, and think, and love, and hope! what a vision is their life! sleeping in faith and trustfulness, and dreaming dreams that make an earthly heaven! then waking to the chill and cold of universal and particular change! she has slept and dreamed too long!—yet let me wake her tenderly, if wake she must, in a degree; is not such a dream better than being learned in the tricks and petty toils of a single day (for such is life), rather than bearing onward bravely to attain the perfecting which leads to immor- tality ?" my darling child!" she said, as she covered her brow with kisses, "i have been vain and foolish. i thought you could have loved cormac, and i knew his mother's leave would follow his desire if she once saw you; there would have been wealth, position, power," "stay mother," interrupted eva, "was it for these you wed my father's fortunes, saying, as i have heard, when his cousin, the great judge, would have wooed you from him, that you would rather carry a knapsack for edward, than sit on the woolsack with horace. ah, mother!" she continued, half-rising, and flinging her arms round her neck, "i have found you out!" "and would you, eva, do as i did," replied geraldine, struggling with her tears—" would you be the millstone round the neck of a brave spirit, which, but for you, could run its course, untrammelled, to all the honourable distinctions that men so largely covet?" "no," she answered; "i would run it with him, run it at his feet, run it through poverty, through sorrow, sickness, misery, shame!—no, not through shame—shame could never mate with him—and at the last, guided by him, would find strength to mount with him—bright in his glory! oh, mother," and eva sank at her mother's feet, "teach me how to do this; take me anywhere to make me worthy a destiny so high; strengthen my exertions, elevate my mind, and i will be to you the truest, dearest child, that ever knelt for blessings at a mother's knee!" what a sweet time it was! and how sweetly mother and child mingled together their tears and blessings; they were friends — friends in the highest and holiest meaning of that noble word—each full of love and admiration of the other; and how the mother advised, and the child listened with meek ears; still thinking that worldly wisdom was hard, a fairy tale of love. and wondering why it should be needed; but yielding in the fulness of love and duty to one who must know better than herself; relieved too, by the certainty that in future she should hear no more of cormac. geraldine spoke of leaving dovecote for a time; and this she heard with tears, and listened for words to come that would tell of their return; and then she thought of randy! what would become of him while they were gone! and so the evening passed in smiles, and tears, and counsel, and sweet confidence; the evening of a day that added years to eva's store of knowledge of herself and of the world; and though no farther mention was made of sidney, yet eva saw that her mother, however indistinctly, kept him in view; at last, calmly and sweetly her arm hung round her mother's neck, her head resting on her mother's shoulder, she slept half-dreamily, for the bright spirit of her birth was with her then, soothing her with sweetest music, until the various passages of her destiny were faintly shadowed forth by sound. first, the spirits of childhood's favourite flowers raised their small voices; they came from the shady nooks of deep valleys and overhanging r a fairy tale of love. at times, sighs mingled with hymns of praise; and as the rout passed on, the shriek of the murderous mandrake rose above the voice of the spirit of the rose; and though gloomy forms appeared in the distance, half-shrouded by the branches of the yew and the cypress, moaning forth such strains as are heard only echoing from tombs, still the chant, the happy chant, that had accompanied her life gained strength; and as the shadows of noisome trees and heavy-leaved flowers became so dark and mournful that eva felt her strength exhausted, her mind obscured, and life struggling through the midsummer eve. last pulses of existence, she was suddenly revived by a burst of purest harmony, and a light softer than the setting sun, and free from the coldness which the silent and mysterious moon casts with her beams upon the earth; and looking upwards, she saw the si>irit of the rose beaming with a glory all its own; and then she knew it for the spirit of universal love, and in an ecstacy of renewed existence, she held forth her arms towards it; and as she did so, a voice called "eva!" and she knew the voice of sidney. on the instant all around her became confused, the beauty of the season faded, heavy clouds, stained and murky, gathered around her, and shut out nightstar from her sight. again the voice called "eva!" and starting from her troubled slumbers she awoke, not knowing which was the real, and which the world of dreams. --.if. l\jc,' part the fifth. oneybell was enjoy ing to the full the luxury of a midsummer night, couching t upon roses—while her husband —(husbands are always lovers in fairy land,) poured the richest gifts into her lap, and the sweetest flattery into her ear; troops of her attendants were disporting around her; some engaged in hunting the gossamer spider; others in extracting nectar from the flowers; others, again, blowing bubbles and debating whether the dew gathered from the rose produced a colour different from that shaken off the petals of the lily. honey- bell smiled at the somewhat angry discussion of her courtiers, and, with half-shut eyes, indulged her mood of most luxurious laziness, from which the voice of nightstar hardly aroused her, as, swifter and brighter than lightning, she stood before her sister queen — the wand with which she had wrought out eva's vision still trembling in her hand. "uprouse ye!" she said—" uprouse ye, and come with me! ere the flowers we both love are polluted by human blood; — up, fair honeybell!—there is only time to act—none to think ;—but now, as i passed the bank whereon my subjects were sporting, i saw a hideous midsummer eve i banshee glide over earth." i know that it bodes evil to those we love and protect. uprouse ye then; and come with me!" "eva is always in some fresh trouble," said honeybell—" i thought you told me i should have nothing more to do with her; yet, methinks my counsel would serve her better far than your's; your gifts are always leading her into a maze of anxieties; while mine would give her freedom, joy, and love—if you would but let them work." "it is for sidney i most fear," answered the queen. honeybell was roused in a moment. "he is worthy a throne in fairy land!" she replied; "evil to him! up spirits of mine, up, and arm ye "with all good thoughts and honest spells," interposed nightstar. "with weapons of all kinds," interrupted honeybell; "a victory prepared for, is half gained before a battle is fought." "follow in the best order you can, only follow!" exclaimed night- star; and as she spoke she rose into the air, glittering like a meteor. quicker than mortal thought ever travelled through mortal brain did the benevolent fairy speed to avert mischief: and, alighting on a dove, that surmounted a half-ruined pavilion, which terminated the south end of the terrace at ard-flesk, she paused to arrange her thoughts; it was not without dismay she beheld troops of dark spirits congregated below, crowding, and crushing, and exulting; her arrival had not been noted by the ill-favoured crew; and upon looking back, she beheld with midsummer eve! "honest!" sneered cormac—how the fiends exulted at the sneer— and how they deepened its effect! "heed it not! " whispered nightstar to sidney—" high souls care not for taunts unmerited." "are you a man to bear it!" croaked the councillors of evil. "honest!" echoed sidney. "cormac, you know i am honest; though you scowl on me, yon know in your secret heart that i am honest; that, even in this course of love, i have never worked darkly to win—" "what you cannot, dare not, wear," inter- rupted cormac, fiercely —"even you would hard- ly tempt eva forth upon the world to share a beggar's portion." in the very torrent and whirlwind of strong passion, which tempted cormac to utter these words, he felt his heart stung by sudden pain, and he would gladly have recalled them. "be calm and triumph," whispered nightstar, on one side. "are you a man to bear it," suggested a fiend, on the other. "i am no beggar, cormac," replied sidney; "and ere our lives draw to a close, my name may fill as full, as bright, as honoured a page as midsummer eve "stand back!" said sidney; "this is child's play." "it is man's vengeance," exclaimed cormac, striking, with sudden fury, at his cousin; but a power stronger than his own hung upon his arm, and, missing his aim, he stumbled forward. as sidney passed the threshold, cormac raised his voice in a curse of such deadly import, that it was echoed by a shriek which trembled amid the trees; and then he called his cousin the name that brands a man's brow, and sinks into his heart—he called him 'coward!' the youth turned; and, as he paused beneath the full beams of the queenly moon, he looked more noble than the finest apollo that ever endowed creative sculptor with im- mortality. "i go hence," he said, " wronged and insulted in many ways; but i will not go until you retract that last dark word. this scar upon my arm, won in defending you, now three years past, proves me no coward; other things recalled might be my witnesses. i am neither coward in act nor word; had you not been filled with sudden passion, you had not dared to lift your finger against me. am i a coward, cormac?" both now stood in the open air, both in the beauty of manhood's youth; sidney, with folded arms, remained firm and motionless; "am i a coward, cormac?" he repeated; and his cousin shunned the light of his clear, well-opened eyes. "no !" was the brief reply; "i wronged you there: for that—that only—i ask forgiveness." eagerly the frank and generous heart threw wide its portals at the words; before another could be spoken, he grasped cormac's hand in his; then casting it from him as suddenly as if it had been a serpent-sting, he exclaimed, "you struck at me with that, cormac !"—and he pointed to where a tell-tale beam of light showed the blade of a foreign dagger, which sidney had withdrawn from his grasp, and cast upon the ground. "you struck at me with the dagger my father gave us when we acted plays together! it is indeed time i left this house!" "sidney, sidney!" shouted cormac, when many minutes had dropped into the passing hour, and the woods loomed between him and the moon, so that he thought he was alone with darkness; "sidney!—but it is better he should go. always the advantage," he muttered; "no wonder midsummer eve nightstar, seriously, " when we can be the monitors of men—the guardians of women." answered the blooming queen, as she stepped gracefully between the wings of her "as you please," attendant bat. "we will not forget your injunctions, and for all our lightness, will fulfil them to the best of our ability." nightstar hung for a little about the pavilion, and seeing that none awoke to convey cormac in his state of utter helplessness to the shelter of the house, she aroused his mother; nor did the gentle-hearted queen speed away from ard-flesk until its heir rested on his own bed, over which lady elizabeth hung in most eloquent sorrow, while the fairy's invisible agent soothed the ravings of his fever. the night was nearly spent when sidney paused at the garden gate of the dovecote, where randy waited his arrival. "you are surely not going away, master sidney," said the poor fellow; "all the things you told me about are up yonder—all but this great book. oh, master sidney, don't lave us for the wicked world beyond these mountains !—don't lave us !—trouble is everywhere. i can't tell what ails miss eva, but she has been sitting all night at the window, and sits there still. oh! to think of sorrow coming here, when there's so much of it due to those who never felt its chill about their hearts. shall i tap at the window and tell miss eva you are here, master sidney?" "not for the world, randy. what i have to say to her must be said in the bright light of morning. hope comes with its breezes and its beams! we must think and speak now as man and woman, not as girl and boy." "why, then, the lord look down on the both of ye, master sidney, dear! sure its wonderful how you've grown up from babbies under my very eyes, jewel!—i thought you said you'd wait till morning, sir, to speak to her." midsummer eve! books—that's the rocks; and then the thought came into her head that the green moss, with its little blossoms of white pearl, told her a dale of the vanities as well as the freshness of youth; and the grey old moss preached her a regular sermon of wisdom, telling her tales of what it had seen, and how god's sunshine mingled with the billows of the lake, even in the stormiest weather; and how, bare as the rock was, it gave the old moss enough to live on, which the grass of the beautiful meadows would hardly believe possible; and, by'n-by, the little starry-eyed snails —tiny striped things—said how pleasantly they lived within them grate books: many a time, by the same token, have i seen them snails when they weren't altogether so comfortable; when the good people would be teasing them out of their life, of a moonshiney morning, keeping them from their drop of dew. and little wriggling worms, with tasselled horns, spoke to the lady in praise of the barren rocks; and the little fishes, and curious crawling things, boasted of the shelter and purtection they afforded them; and while all this knowledge, and a dale more that i can't think of, was coming to her as sweet as music on the wind, who should rise up a fairy tale of love. on the head of the waters but o'donoghue himself, and putting a quiet smile on his grand ould face,—' and what are you going to pay me,' he says, 'for reading my books,' he says. 'oh, grate king!' makes an- swer the lady, 'i have never read a line in them, but i should like to, very much.' 'nonsense,' he says, 'begging your beauty's pardon, but you have been reading them these two hours. havn't you been larning of the grey and green moss, and of the starry-eyed snail, and the tasselled-horned worm, and of all the small and great creeping things, what you never knew before; turning over page after page of the book of nature, the finest, grandest, ancientest book that ever was shut or opened,' says the king; and the lady bowed her head and thanked the king and owned the pleasantest reading ever she had was in o'donoghue's library! he minds me," murmured randy, when his tale was ended, "no more than a plover's whistle," — and the poor fellow laid down at his feet, and fell asleep. the prospect of exerting mind and energy roused the best feelings in the heart of the noble and enterprising youth. he must, he knew, consult his father, and though he feared he had neither money nor influ- ence to push his fortunes, yet he could reckon upon his wisdom and affection; and, above all—what sons do not always meet from fathers— sympathy. he well knew he would approve his leaving a home to which he was no longer welcome. sidney loved his aunt more than she was ever loved before, and panted for the time, which, with the hopefulness of the young, he believed could not be far distant, when he should revive midsummer eve; her affection for him. he had abundant plans for the future. his drawings had been frequently termed ' masterpieces of art;' and he cer- tainly cultivated such enthusiastic acquaintance with nature, that it added freshness and truth to his vigorous pencil, which might win him fame and gold hereafter. love had taught him poetry; and could he doubt the excellence of his verses, when eva wept at their pathos and exulted in their heroism. what most boys encountered as difficulties he had con- sidered enjoyments; his mind like an alembic, distilled perfumes from that which others thought sapless leaves; and few men at five-and-twenty had minds more fully stored than sidney at nineteen. these varied and enviable acquirements gave him self-reliance rather than self-confidence; and—as all do, before experience teaches knowledge—he fancied the world would receive him with open arms, and help him to independence and fame. his thoughts and ambitions—exalted and purified by the love which in its purity purifies all the aspirations of man—rose far above the lofty mountains that shut in the fair valley; and, confused as they were, still certain hopes and feelings were clearly defined, though arising out of the chaos of the future. how proud he should be of eva; no puny- freckled jealousy suggested that he should shut her within the casket of selfish love. how he should glory in the admiration she excited, knowing that the high treasure of her heart was all his own! if dark thoughts of cormac crossed this vision, he set them aside in the belief that some sudden madness had stirred within him; and then he longed for morning to tell her how bright (poor youth!) his future was!—how they should write each other brief chronicles of each day's love and labour. and at last the morning broke — it did not come tardily — what midsummer morning ever did —but he thought so, and eluded its delay, as the vapours climbed the hills, resting like loitering travellers on the way—now hanging on a pinnacle, and then creeping into some damp cave, until driven forth by those arrows of light, which the sun casts forth at his first rising. at last, from within eva's chamber, he heard her voice, warbling handel's hymn— "how cheerful along the gay mead." the voice was feeble: it came forth like a sigh—as if her heart went not with it. strange, that at the sound of that subdued tone his sensitive spirit a fairy tale of love. fainted— it brought to him a sense of unworthiness—a lack of strength to work out the lofty purposes wherein, but a few moments before, he triumphed; and he longed for her to come forth, as was her custom, to meet the morning as it descended from the mountain tops. "eva! eva!" he exclaimed at length, impatiently; "eva! all night i have watched here. i would not disturb you, though i have much to say, and little time to tarry—eva!" she came to the summons, not blushingly, but with a sober step and heavy anxious eyes; yet her chill and trembling hand met his with as fond a pressure as it had ever done. "i slept last evening," she said, "on my mother's shoulder, and saw such midsummer visions! and then i heard your voice through the burley that succeeded; — it called 'eva,' sidney—just as you called me now. i have read and prayed, and read again: but i have never slept or slumbered since. i know that something has happened. what of lady elizabeth?" "i have left her for ever." "and that!" exclaimed eva, bursting into tears; "that is my fault." "no, eva; nor mine. the links dropped away one by one, and at the last a single shudder set the poor captive free. i must leave you now for a brief time," he continued, speaking rapidly; "first go to my father, and counsel with him; then, out into the world. a talbot cannot lack station! and i will make the wealth i covet—but for you; and then, oh, eva, we shall be so happy!" "when you have made the wealth?" she inquired — her woman's clear-sightedness seeing beyond the extended boundary of his hopes. "yes, when i have made the wealth! and have we not read together of many brave adventurers on whom it poured in golden showers —of some, lacking even the advantages i possess—of name and edu- cation?" "yes," she said; "we have read of its being achieved—when the head, prematurely whitened, was seeking a cold green pillow for its rest. and we have seen pictures—you yourself drew one—of fame blowing its trump above the tombs." "eva, this is not like you; you are not yourself this morning. midsummer eve: look out into the light, dearest! look on the fair earth — the fairer sky; listen to the music of your own birds; they are giving you welcome. the old surly weathercock — our iron sentinel—has not creaked once! look —" "at your bright hopeful face, sidney, better than all my premature wisdom, as my mother sometimes calls it," she continued, smiling her own sweet smile; "it is going fast; it is seldom more than a shadow, except," she added, turning away her face, "when you talk of leaving this!" "and yet it must be," he replied; and then he spoke without reserve, as men speak to those they love and trust; and eva, recovered from her dreams, suppressed her own regrets, and strengthened his right resolves; not, however, heightening his hopes—for her mother had told her many tales of blight and sorrow, so that, even hoping with him, she feared to hope too much; until after some gentle reasoning, in which the timidity of the girl blended with the forethought of the woman, warmed by his enthusiasm, and believing in him so truly that, yielding to the delightful thought that the world must do so too, their young hearts beat in unison, and spoke out in the sunny air, as though the future was eager to do their bidding. sidney opened the great book randy had carried, and enjoyed eva's delight, as she turned over the sketches and finished drawings which had tempted him to think the world of art almost at his control. "how glorious it will be," she said, smiling amid the tears that would flow at intervals, "if your father sanctions your choice, and you really become like the great painter, to whom princes and kings rendered homage! i wonder if his early drawings were as beautiful as these!— and never to tell me, sidney, how hard you worked, and how many you had done." "at first," he said, "it was only my amusement; but of late i have looked to art as a means of life and fame! and now what think you of this?" he added, drawing forth a portrait. eva bent over it in astonishment. "as like," she said, "as what my mirror gives—but far more lovely; is it for me?" "no, eva, i cannot part with both—but this is for you. i meant to a fairy tale of love. have left it by your harp, to remind you when i am gone of one who goes forth to win what he thinks will be granted more to your prayers than to his deserts." she took the sketch he had made of himself. "do you not like it?" he said, seeing she looked upon it doubtingly. "how kind—how good of you to do it for me; but it is hardly like you, dear sidney—it has not your bright, happy, animated, yet sensitive expression; the eyes are not so full of light." "exactly what think of your's, beloved eva; it is so spiritless when you are by—so quite unworthy of you; and yet—why it is but canvas, after all ! — the shadow of the substance — the memory of the reality; something to recall the words that passed between these lips; the dove-like sweetness of those eyes. let us'put them both away now." "nay, give me mine!" she exclaimed. "i can speak to it when you are gone— tell it my thoughts, bid it good night, and then again good midsummer eve: morning. i shall lock it up, sidney, and only let my mother look at it sometimes. there, stand away; ah! now it is more like—oh, yes!— your lofty brow and richly curling hair. but it will not smile upon me! i wish you had painted the smile! you leave others to do you justice!" "i shall be jealous of my own canvas," said the young lover; "and yet joy to think it your companion when i am gone." sidney tarried at the dovecote till the day was nearly done, hearing much of what eva's mother considered worldly wisdom; though it may be doubtful whether geraldine had ever practised one of the sage maxims she so zealously endeavoured to impress upon his mind. anxious as she had been to secure cormac the rich jewel of her daughter's love, the conduct of lady elizabeth, her stern bearing and determined pride, had roused her; and during that day she felt a secret pleasure in her child's love for one who had the courage to preserve his own dignity by quitting his rich and powerful relatives and looking fortune boldly in the face. the very fact that such a course received her approbation proved how little she had in common with the wordly wise. she enter- tained a high opinion of sidney's talents; and her ductile nature—to the full as loving and gentle as was that of eva, but without the higher qualities which her child inherited from her father—was not calculated to withstand the influence which their hopes and aspirations exercised, while full of youth and loveliness, they sat side by side, thinking hours minutes, and wondering how time could pass so swiftly. at length, farewells were taken; and even after the very last, eva accompanied sidney down the garden path, to the little gate leading on the meadows, beyond which sported the waters of the torc. "i ask yer pardons, darlings of my heart," said randy, advancing to where they lingered, finding it almost impossible to separate; "i ask yer pardons; but you don't mind the ould woodcutter any more than you would a sod o' turf—or anything dead, or senseless at yer feet—only, i want ye to part here, just in this gap, where the swallows meet when they're gathered from the four winds of heaven, to build their nests and rear their young in our own land; there's a rowan tree over yer heads to keep ye from harm; and that little stream at yer feet—small as it'is— is constant in its track; it's a fine thing to see the constancy of them midsummer eve: over the stone — the stone the white doe rests at, once in every year, when she visits the whitestone well — and god go with the one, and god be with the other!" prompted by a delicacy, which all the conventionalities of the world can never teach, the poor fellow wiped the tears from his eyes with his rough hand, and walked on. the fragile girl, all trembling as she was, had more command over words than had her young lover. "go," she said, "go, sidney, i will not say do not think of me -—. for i hope that would be impossible! but i say, do think of me! and thus—to press forward in all things that will tend to your own honour: for in that only can i rejoice. yet do not;" and here her voice, but not her purpose, fal- tered—" do not waste time in writing much—a line will do, to say you are well; but let me have that line; and do not work too hard, what- ever it may be you work at; we are both young, and years hence will be time enough—" she would have said "to be united ;" but the words would not come—she hung her head, repeating, "time enough; and so, the blessing of god be upon all your labours!" "we part in perfect faith, and truth, and love, one to the other," murmured sidney—" i full of hope—" but his voice sounded so like its knell, that she said, "not in that tone—yet full of hope—of certainty!" as she spoke—it was a trifle, a thing of nought; but when the feelings are excited, straws, shreds, perfumes, a sound, a fancy even, sweeping through the brain so rapidly that its course cannot be noted, will be read as an omen, either for good or evil—and so it chanced, that a x a fairy tale of love. single feather from the wing of an eagle, which silently and unperceived had floated above their heads, dropped at sidney's feet. "there," she exclaimed, pointing to the royal bird, which, for the first time in her life, she looked upon with pleasure. "there at your feet is an omen of success; and see, he pilots the path you are going! follow, sidney, and so high and so glorious will be your destiny, even in the full light of a glowing world!" when eva returned to the dovecote, she found the bloodhound, who had so often accompanied both corrnac and sidney, seated at the door, with that grave, sad, expression of countenance which so peculiarly distinguishes the race. he rose silently, followed her into her chamber, and half-curled round her feet, casting stealthy glances towards her weeping face. "poor keeldar!" she said, patting his head, "you never did this before: poor keeldar!" and the noble fellow shook his flapping ears, and replied with a low whine—then curled himself up again, seeming determined not to be driven away. at night, he was turned into the lawn; but the next morning found him on the grass-bench beneath eva's window—her self-elected guardian. four days had passed—and the interest eva evinced in the movements of the little ragged killarney post-boy, 'who travelled,' as he called it, into 'the town'—and then back to the village with 'the news'—at what- ever hour suited him best—was something new and extraordinary; and many turns, upside down, did he give the letter, which, on the afternoon of the fourth day, he presented to her. "i'm sure i'd ha' brought it yesterday, miss, if i'd thought you cared about it; for i forgot it on the counter of bill henesy's shop—an' i half-way home; and minded to turn back; but i didn't." the emotions excited by a first love-letter are better either imagined or recalled, than described. into the deepest shadow of the deepest arbour of the garden, did eva rush to read — what for the truth, the earnestness, the heroism, and, withal, the delicacy, of its passion might have been proclaimed from the house-top, without bringing the faintest increase of colour to her cheek. no fairer lady's bower could be imagined than that she had chosen; the shadows of the trees crossing midsummer eve: each other fantastically around iter; the music of the wild bird lending melody to the scene, and her thoughts, half-real, half-romance, deepening into the enchantment which belongs to the dreams of early love,— when she was abruptly summoned by kitty to the cottage, to meet lady elizabeth talbot. the great lady came not in the pomp of equipage and dress, as before; her toilet was suited to the chamber of sick- ness, rather than her gilded state; her looks, haggard even to wildness; her natural energies stretched to their utmost tension; and when eva entered, timidly, her mother seemed almost as much dis- tressed as their visitor. . " i cannot expect sympathy from either!" were the proud lady's first words—" and yet you are both women—you, a mother! and you so young! how stern and cold you look!" "i!" exclaimed eva, "i, lady?" "ay—you! and no great wonder; i suppose sidney has told you something which causes you to regard my son as little short of a—" she shuddered, and examined eva's countenance with more than her usual scrutiny, adding, "is it not so?" "whatever may have passed between your nephew and your son to still more determine sidney to seek his own fortune, lady, we know not. we saw he had been deeply wounded," said geraldine, "but he would not speak of it; it was among the past and painful things of which even his young life has had so many: he has set his heart and strength against the future—and so best." lady elizabeth breathed more freely; there was in eva the same open, frank look that accompanied her mother's words. she read human nature with a keen, clear eye; and it was but the effect of the excitement and anxiety she had undergone, and the half-ravings of her son, which had made her a false interpreter of both looks and words. "let all such a fairy tale of love. things be past," she said; "i come to you as a suppliant. you little know the depth and strength of the love you have cast from you. my son is writhing in all the agony of fever; night and day he calls upon your name; entreats me to bring you to him, that he may see you once more. the physicians tell me that his very life depends on his seeing you—on hearing your voice. young lady, i am told that you have frequently braved the pestilence whose very name i shrink from; that you are often found in cabins, by the pallet of disease and death! is this so?" "lady, it is! i fear no sickness, and think of death only as of the uprising of life. why should i fear?" "how strange!" murmured the lady; "such faith and firmness dwelling in a form so fragile! i hardly know how to frame such a request," she continued, turning to geraldine; "but if you will permit your daughter to see cormac — to speak a few words to him — the physicians say the effect may be so tranquilising, that the only child will be spared to the widowed mother!" how strange are the contradictions of the human mind! no matter what a mother's own experience may have been; no matter how clear are her views of happiness, of love, of duty,—still she is seldom, if ever, proof against the glittering chance of a wealthy union for her daughter. geraldine would not have sanctioned a dishonourable word or thought in eva; and yet she thought, 'how sad it was she could not love cormac!—but who knows, who knows v lady elizabeth interpreted the silence of both mother and child disadvantageously to her entreaty. "i pledge myself," she said, "that no tie shall bind you; that if he is happily soothed by the interview, you shall return with blessings—blessings such as mothers only can give—blessings on the goodness that permitted you to yield to my earnest prayer. i, an aged, widowed mother, could kneel at your feet— could implore for him what i would not do to save my own life! my only child is struggling against death; the light that is my light is even now flickering; mysterious forms contend over his wasting and sinking form. it may be, that the little reason left will be gone before i return—that you may come when it is too late to recall him to himself: midsummer eve i but make the trial, i implore you!—and may you"—and she turned to geraldine—" may you never know the terror of being a childless parent!" "if," said eva, "my mother does not disapprove, we will be at ard-flesk within an hour." lady elizabeth knew how to accept a favour gracefully — a rare know- ledge in a proud woman. before eva went, she wrote a few hurried lines to sidney. "have you told him where we are going?" inquired her mother. "certainly, dearest mother," was the reply. "will it not make him anxious and un- happy?" suggested geraldine. her daughter's bright face beamed upon her. "oh, no!" she answered, "he will be glad; it is what he would have wished. surely, we can trust each other!" their's were the mutual confidence and trust, that are as force-full in absence as in the daily watching of suspicious care; feelings that keep even a stricter guard in solitude than amid a crowd; which no cankering jealousy can ever taint; and, as they have their source in truth, their aim and end are virtue! how still and dark looked the old house at ard-flesk!—while, as if aware of the necessity for silence, keeldar lifted his feet stealthily, as he followed his adopted mistress through the hall, and up the carved stairs, into the dimly-lighted drawing-room. how magnificent it seemed to both its visitors! eva had never seen anything so grand. the servant advanced, and drew up the blind of the centre window. geraldine glanced upon the velvet hangings and the richly-gilded fur- niture, and thought how perfectly her daughter's figure was reflected in the various mirrors. "all this could have been yours!" she whispered in her ear. eva started indignantly; but, self-reproved, she pointed to the window, where s midsummer eve. through another window that commanded a view of the distant town, skirted by the bountiful river flesk, she pointed to the human habitations, containing inmates to whom nature had given the high privilege of enjoy- ing her works as freely as to the young lord of the domain, who shared, in common with the lowliest kerne, the evils incident to humanity. it was a fair scene—a scene of surpassing beauty—outspread before them; the river flowing through a most fertile valley, and rushing into the lake—to which even liberal fame has been a niggard, when compared with the lavish bounty it derives from nature. beautiful killarney! large is thy endowment of loveliness! great is thy store of hallowed memories! glorious are thy associations with the past! what a world of wealth art thou to poet and to painter! before geraldine had time to reply, lady elizabeth was in the room. fixing her eyes, as before, upon eva, she said, "you are a glorious creature! and may god bless you for the sacrifice!" she understood her at that moment better than her own mother. how awfully through the deep hangings, the silence and darkness of that chamber, came the ravings, and strained, unnatural murmurs, of the youth, whose burning brow could find no rest upon its pillow. lady elizabeth's fantastic airs were overwhelmed by a mother's agony. sometimes she would press her hands to her ears, to shut out his midsummer eve. obligation — a feeling too frequently mistaken for generosity—and she pressed a jewel of large value upon eva. "forgive me !" said the young girl; "forgive me the plainness of my words, lady! i intend no discourtesy; but i cannot be paid for an act of mere humanity." again lady elizabeth would have forced her to accept the gift, but eva, standing by her mother's side, seemed to increase in stature as she again refused it. "you are too proud, young lady," said lady elizabeth, in an offended tone, as she placed the jewel on the table; "a princess might accept it." "i can accept nothing from lady elizabeth talbot," she answered, gently, though her words were stern; "but i will pray humbly that her son may be restored." "how changed she has become," thought her mother, as with the dignity of a youthful queen, eva passed from the second chamber. ,r" / i by dan. macliaa, r.a. enferaved by w. t. green. the vision op the woodcutter. part the sixth. any and great changes had taken place ere another midsummer reminded eva that she had added another year to her life. cormac recovered slowly, and had sought, with his mother, the relief it is believed change of air and scene can, in certain cases, alone supply. ard-flesk was again left, like so many of the aristocratic 'homes' of ireland, to the care of aged servitors; and rumour described the young heir as gathering strength rapidly when freed from the spells that hovered around 'the lake country.' randy wandered about more than usual; some thought he became wiser as he grew older; but, in truth, it was sadness, and not wisdom, that made him silent. usually, when evening was drawing on, he would start suddenly from his musings, rush back to the dovecote, and pass the night under the shelter of the old gable. nothing could have more astonished a stranger, unacquainted with the woodcutter's habits, than to see him seated on the bank, looking into the deep waters of the lake; his hands folded on his bosom, grasping a rugged and mis-shapen staff; his battered hat, garlanded with wild trailing plants, bent over his brows, and yet not con- cealing the fervent expression of his eyes, while he watched every midsummer eve: ripple on the surface, every bubble that rose and floated, listening for voices only heard by him, and bending to the breeze, as if in homage. but eva perceived no alteration in the fidelity and attach- ment of her guardian, although he had more than once complained that 'a shadow was over him.' he seemed to have an instinctive knowledge of what she wished him to do; and with the zeal of true affection, his act followed her desire so rapidly, that she hardly needed words to tell her wants. he comprehended the vacuum caused by the absence of sidney; he brought her a young fawn, and by constant and judicious training, established so good an understanding between it and keeldar, that the dog took eva's new favourite under its protection; and if any one observed how watchfully he guarded it, he would skulk away, hiding a fairy tale of love. himself in the bushes, as if ashamed of being caught in so foolish and undignified an act as protecting, or playing with, the fawn of a red-deer. so well could randy divine eva's thoughts, that if the expected letter had not arrived in due time, he would stride to meet 'the post,' and without heeding the little lad's remonstrance, seize the post-bag, and convey it forthwith to be plundered in the dovecote; indeed, -his eccen- tricities and earnestness wiled away many a moment that had been otherwise heavy with care. sweetly though her mother's voice sounded in the duet, there was another wanted to perfect its harmony. geraldine and eva read from the same book, yet neither tale, poem, or history, were quite what they used to be, when one read and two listened; and well as geraldine walked, she could not mount the hills with eva as she used to do; and her cheek became pale, not flushed, by exercise; some- times eva observed this; but her mother smiled away all anxieties that had birth in herself. midsummer eve: eva's beauty attracted as much attention, and was as much noised abroad as the fame of the lovely district in which she dwelt. many watchers waited her passing through the village, or her entrance to the village church, that they might be assured if she really were as fascinating as report represented her to be; rude men gazed, yet turned away with reverence and respect, mingled with admiration; youths and maidens alike followed her with affection; in all things she comported herself as became one betrothed to an absent lover, and consequently bound to be circumspect in her most trivial ways; not that eva studied this; she acted as she felt, not altogether because she reasoned thereupon, but because of the divine instinct of right that stirred within her. she was alike devoid of prudery and affectation, and while she returned with cordial frankness the greetings of fair rich gentlemen, who would have periled their lives to win her smile, they felt that not for them was the smallest particle of that pure heart's love—such love as lovers ask for. everything that moved loved her! and yet how sadly would her young life have passed, but for letters—not what are called 'love-letters,' and yet letters of earnest love—letters that told sidney's history, brief as it had been. he had found his father older by five counted years than when he had last seen him, but looking older by twenty—struggling through the 'fag-end of life,' with a proud spirit and impoverished means; but, never having been either servile or insensible, still rich in the respect of all who knew him. so much sidney said, but he did not add, that two days in the threadbare home of a half-pay officer with five children, of whom he was the eldest, convinced him he had nothing to expect from his parents but their love, advice, and blessing. his mother, with a heart sick from sorrow, saw him depart, with three letters of introduction and an ill-filled purse, while his father retreated into the privacy of a little room, to which a few bookshelves imparted the title of 'library,' and there on his knees, offered up prayers, steeped in many tears, for the noble and brave, the eldest born of a late marriage. upon the faded cloth of that table he found a letter from sidney, recording the simple story of his love. he could not speak of this deep passion; but to conceal it was impossible. the letter was refolded with a sigh, followed by a murmur—" poor boy! he has enough to encounter without this." a fairy tale of love. if sidney's first letters were a little tinged by melancholy, eva thought it was only natural they should be so; then came the energies and breathings of hope; then wonder !—wonder that london should seem so altogether different now from what it did when he spent the holidays with lady elizabeth in cavendish square—wonder, but no mistrust! he had delivered his introductions, and been hospitably received, that is, he had been invited to dinner by all, and had good council from one, an old brother officer of his father's, and a brave man, still in the prime of life, by whose side eva's father fell. it was pleasant to visit the maimed, but handsome veteran, in his retirement near the pic- turesque bridge at chelsea— where the trees that have been 'venerable' for more than half a century, shadow 'cheyne walk ' and its numberless associations of the olden time. here, by the help of a stout crutch, he used to halt along -i . - .: midsummer eve: beneath the shade of lime-trees, that lent a pleasing shelter and a delicious fragrance to the little damp plot of ground he was pleased to call his garden; it was pleasant to see how he had turned his sword into a pruning knife, and trimmed the beautiful jasmine that would tangle over the windows, and amusing to hear him express displeasure at the invasion of his neighbours' chickens, who would step out of the ranks, and pick up his seeds; and above all, it delighted sidney to hear the praises of eva's father and his own father—the praises of the raymond and the talbot mingled. there are few things so gratifying to age as the attention paid by youth to their 'thrice-told tales ;' sympathy evinced by the young in the few amusements of the old, is certain to double the remaining pulsations of life within their rigid veins; it is the most delightful revival of their own early days—it brings back the hilarity and cheerfulness of bygone times without their attendant bitterness—for every personal pleasure has its pain! and many a twilight hour did the young man gratify the maimed officer by listening to his tales of past repulse and victory. he was a charming study in every respect for the young painter, there was a breezy freshness in his voice—an intelligent sparkle in his eyes—a firm- ness on his lips—a dignity in his broad and lofty-brow—a spirit-moving energy in his thoughts, given with so much genuine kindness, as if they were mounting guard over his young friend; and, while they feared urging him forward too much, dreaded still more retarding him in the glorious race he was self-appointed to fulfil. eva knew all about the old soldier, and about sidney's fellow students, and about the subjects he originated, and the subjects he copied; she wondered in her own mind why he had 'fellow students —' or what he went to the royal academy to learn; she thought all he did perfection, and could not understand why he copied anything; she thought nothing but his natural modesty prevented his repeating to her the fine compliments he must ere then have received; and she built his castle so high, that at last it became cloud-capt, and losing it altogether, she would descend to earth, and wonder, if surrounded by bright lords and beautiful ladies, as he must be, would he keep true to the village maiden of cloghreen! poor eva! she little knew that sidney's 'studio' was indeed a lofty chamber, a fairy tale of love. for the time being, and for the sake of cheapness, near the bridge at battersea, in a tall, red brick, quaint house, such as we now see in pictures; that there he laboured with the unabated enthusiasm of one who has a noble end in view. he had shown his drawings to judges, who regarded them with astonishment, and told him he only needed study to set his name on high; but that study must be continued—must be persisted in—and his right spirit shrunk from appealing to his father for aid to continue in the course he had chosen; he laboured, day by day, to achieve the knowledge he knew he needed; and at night, his candle wasted long past midnight to complete the drawing which, disposed of for a tythe of its value, was to provide him food and raiment; this he was able to accomplish, and experience had already taught him he was far more fortunate than scores of others who were climbing the same hill; his noble mind never contrasted this life of labour and privation with that of the luxury and ease he had hitherto led; the independence of his nature strengthened it; and when he heard of distinctions conferred upon some prosperous academician, and the prices he received for his pictures, it sent a thrill of hope and pleasure through his frame; he remembered that this great person once toiled as he was toiling, perhaps more severely, and under even greater disadvantages, and that the reward would come to him, as it had done to others; thus, his nature was saved by the elements of its own generosity, from the wasting and baneful midsummer eve: poison of envy; and, of himself, he created nothing to distract his course; sometimes, indeed, when the body would faint beneath the fatigue and pressure of actual labour and anxiety, or he was stricken down by some unexpected disappointment, he would rest his head upon his hands, and recall the vision of her he loved, to revive his fainting spirits. happy, happy, was it for sidney that his trials came in the strength and spring-tide of his youth! time had flown upon its swiftest wings, and sidney still toiled on; his genius had attracted the notice of the masters of our only school, and he had been rewarded; eva joyed because he joyed at this; but she could hardly conceive it a distinction proportionate to his deserts. eva had passed another birth-day, her mother spoke less frequently than she had done about leaving dovecote; and yet there was a perpetual restlessness about her that perplexed and grieved her daughter, who, nevertheless, rejoiced at whatever assured her a lengthened sojourn at killarney. the year was rushing on with its usual velocity, when the stillness of the country was somewhat moved by the account of lady elizabeth talbot's death; there were no tears shed to her memory at ard-flesk; no 'ullagawn!' raised its appealing sorrows to the mountains; no prayers wafted their petitions for her repose to that mysterious home from which no traveller returns. in due time, a stately monument recorded her many ' virtues,' and when they were read over to randy, he turned away, saying, "it's the first we ever heard of them!" in the solitude of his studio, sidney earnestly and bitterly wept her loss. eva's birth-days were not as troubled as of yore; yet they were times of contending feelings and emotions; she had grown to an age when the past had its retrospect, the future its anxieties; the wordly and unworldly, it might be, sometimes contended even in her bosom. the kelpie's power was enchained—the strength in virtue gained by eva would almost have effected this, without the interposition of other influences; yet, what she could not destroy she troubled; and honeybell and nightstar entertained such opposite opinions, that eva sometimes found it difficult for a few moments to decide between the whispers of their invisible agencies; but nightstar always triumphed in the end, and soothed by dreams what had been disturbed by day; often did the bright queen shadow a fairy tale of love. forth to the sleeping girl the anxieties and toils of her lover; but her truth was always lighted by hope; look as you would into the dark pit, the star was at the bottom; the great attribute of the most royal fairy was her faith in futurity; however she might sorrow with, and for, the present, she looked beyond it; and while eva inspired others with love, the fairy failed not to mingle hope with the love of sidney and the deepest pity for cormac; a woman is seldom at ease in the society of a rejected lover; but his memory is a perpetual sacrifice to the self-love which is never absent from our nature, and he has always an interest in her good wishes; thus, she thought with generous tenderness of the loss of his mother, which, in her simplicity, she believed cormac could not fail to deplore—and wondered how he endured it. the evening that randy had repeated the words that were graven on the fine monument, that looked, as he said, so "unnatural in the ancient ould abbey, where the o's of ould ireland lived and reigned — grey / midsummer eve: and grand — and could not feel kindly towards interlopers in white marble," eva was pondering on lady elizabeth's death, and all the uncertainties of life. her eyes were fixed upon her mother; the light of their evening lamp was shining full on her head; and as she looked, the thought her changed, grown thin, her eyes large—much larger than usual — and her cheeks sunk. geraldine was copying music, singing now and then the note she wrote; but after she had lent it sound, she would sigh, as if breathing the melody gave her pain. eva watched her for some time, and as she did so, the idea grew upon her, to perfect agony, that her mother was ill; she felt the blood rush to and from her heart with suffocating rapidity, and at last, unable to endure it longer, she sought kitty, and startled her from her wheel, by asking suddenly if she thought anything was the matter with her mother. "is it with the mistress?" inquired the maid; adding, " there's some- thing the matter with yourself, angel dear! its the fault of that half- wild craythur the woodcutter; he's been crooning over his sooperstitions, as he always does when midsummer is drawing on—that's it!" eva repeated her question — kitty turned away her head; but eva was not to be beguiled from her inquiry, and rinding that kitty still averted her face, she turned it gently round with her hands, and looking steadfastly upon her, saw that the faithful creature's eyes were filled with tears. "it's only the wakeness that's in them, dear!" she exclaimed, re- moving the tears with her apron; "it's nothing but the wakeness!" she was not a good actress, and eva felt assured that her mother was ill, that kitty knew it, and that efforts had been made to keep the sad knowledge from her; for some time she was bewildered, her brain reeled, she could hardly stand, and the nurse, with an exclamation of terror, placed her on a chair. "your heart's not beating the way her's do be, i hope, darling?" she inquired. "oh, sure, the life would lave me, without a warning, if both of ye got that way. oh, a cushla machree! what would i give to put the remains of life that's in me into her. oh, if we could only strengthen the strong in heart, with the strength that goes astray in many a bad body, the times would mend, jewel! with the world, and all in it!" -v a fairy tale of love. that night, unable to repose, eva roused kitty from her slumbers, to learn, as she said, the worst, and listened with breathless anxiety for her words: all that kitty had to tell was, that the mistress slept badly; that she had wasted to a skeleton, and never seemed quiet or contented, as she used to be; that old doctor magrath—but to be sure there was no good in him—no use in minding what he said! she knew that miss eva did not know he had been often to the dovecote; the mistress always hail him when miss eva was away for a few hours with her friends, or attending to the poor; and twice he brought a great doctor with him from tralee, and doctor magrath said he thought miss eva ought to know it, but the mistress would not hear of it, and after all, maybe, it was only doctor magrath making much of his own opinion; but he said the other doctor thought what he thought." "and what was that?" inquired eva. "oh, then, how could i tell! who ever in the world found out what a doctor thought; they bid her take nourishment, and keep her mind asy, and not walk or fret; they always bid one not to fret. i've nothing more to tell you, miss, darling; i wish i had." "and what do you think, kitty?" "oh, then i don't know, dear!—she's young, not quite nineteen years older than yourself; and sure the lord will spare her, for you are two birds alone in the wide world — may say two birds quite alone — for master sidney's a long time away. ah, mister cormac was a fine young gentleman: there i see the colour changing in your face; i'm always saying what i ought not to say, dear; and the mistress will never forgive me for telling you how bad she is; i wonder you never saw it before; i used often to tremble for fear you'd ask me." eva pressed her hands on her heart to still its beating. she crept into her mother's room so noiselessly that, though geraldine was awake, she would not have heard her, but that her shadow crossed the moonlight that rested on the floor. "why is this, my child—who told you i was waking?" she inquired. "i came to see," was the reply, as she knelt beside her couch; "i fancied you looked ill last night, and i questioned kitty. oh, mother, mother, why did you deceive me?" a fairy tale of love. flourish, that will mount and triumph, when all that we cling to here shall vanish, like the vapours before the sun, whose rising we have so often watched together; this is the best hope—the hope, my blessed child! which i have sought to nourish—even with your bright eyes upon me, eva. often, often! during the watches of the night, do i pray for you, and yet pray not to let my ever-living, ever-renewing, love for you, come between me and him—the giver of our spirit's immortality. i am excited, eva! i must strike a light and take the lulling poison that procures me the only feverish rest i have known for months." and when eva saw her trembling hand, and noted how the beatings of her heart agitated her night-dress, and marked the clammy hair matting upon her forehead, she understood why it was that of late her mother had forbidden her entering her chamber at night. faint and sick with sorrow, she left her, at her entreaty, to the stupor which followed the draught; and no pen could tell, no commonly afflicted heart conceive, the anguish she experienced in the solitude of her little chamber. death was almost as great a mystery to her then as when she knelt and prayed beside the stricken woodpigeon. she thought she knew it:— she thought, because she ministered so often beside the deathbeds of the poor, that she could question the grave as to its victory, and remain firm to the faith that there was no sting in death! oh! how she longed for morning; it was a positive relief to her when, with the greyest, earliest, light, she heard randy's voice in reply to keeldar's whine—speaking as though the poultry and pigeons — even the young lambs and calves — understood his words. she was determined in her purpose; and the rising sun saw her cantering her pony over the flesk bridge, followed closely by keeldar, who never turned his head towards the ivyed chimneys of ard-flesk, as they towered above the distant wood. surely the spirits of the morning hovered around her and invigorated the old pony to do its best, for the usually wilful animal needed no reminder, but went as joyously forward as though only five—not fifteen—years had dappled his coat with grey.' on she went. "the blessing of the morning, and every morning she rises, be about her," exclaimed an old woman, tottering beneath the creel of turf that was strapped across her shoulders; "but i can't tell what's a fairy tale of love. but it was easy to imply as much. she could not trust herself to speak; and the doctor promised to see her mother on the following day. she urged her pony to its utmost swiftness: how could she now endure to be away from her whose very hours were numbered. doctor magrath was punctual to his appointment. he brought with him the doctor who had previously visited geraldine. he told eva that the disease had been stealing on for years, and that he was only astonished how her mother could have borne up so long against it. "i saw," he said, "that her desire to spare you pain was keeping her up in a way impossible to all but woman's love: we can do nothing more, young lady; nothing, but recommend you to be patient, and trust in him!" "he could save her!" interrupted eva. "he could save her. oh, because of my importunity, she may be saved! may she not? oh, say she may!" "with him, dear young lady, all things are possible; but i, as a. physician, see no mortal path to permament recovery." eva struggled for composure—for words—for breath; and when struggles for all these were vain, she would have fallen to the ground, but for the supporting arm of the physician. "you have tried her too much," said old doctor magrath. "nothing that i could have stated would have afflicted her thus; but in you she had great hope!" "and therefore was i truthful," he replied. "of all cruelties there is no cruelty equal to that of permitting death to rush unexpected into a sick chamber." randy had never passed such a midsummer eve as the one that rapidly followed the physician's visit—never since he was stricken by fever in the forest! if sympathy could have alleviated eva's distress, she would have been comforted; but she was completely overwhelmed in spirit, though her natural strength of mind supported her, and amid this great trial she trusted. the woodcutter, in whose mind and heart there was a strange mingling of piety and superstition, after having offered to eva a few brief but earnest words of consolation, departed from the dovecote midsummer eve: to visit a well of peculiar sanctity—the holy well of lochfort; and here he passed many hours in sad communion with his own thoughts. the few wayfarers who were bending there, glided noiselessly away when they noted the more than usually mournful countenance of the fairy man: and knew that no common event could have called him into that mountain solitude, and amid objects where the 'good people' were rarely or never found. "it is your birthday, my own eva," said geraldine, as she rose on her pillow to embrace her; "and i am most grateful to the great power that i am spared to wish you the joy i shall not be here to wish you another year. i have always prayed to pass away when the earth was in its beauty—to mount heavenward with the incense of the teeming world — to leave you amid the consolations of summer, rather than among the cold winds or bitter snows. there are people all around us, dearest, who care for us, and will doubly care for you when i am gone. i had angel whisperings during the night, and whatever of doubt or fear i felt for you, my own beloved, has past quite—quite away! i know you will be protected! i know that your progress even through the thorns and briars, and beside the pitfalls, of the world, will be joyful. i know where you have rested your heart." "on you, mother, on you!" interrupted eva, as she covered her white-worn hand with kisses. "god is good !" said geraldine. "he never takes from us one stay without giving another. as the blossom fall the buds expand; i wish a fairy tale of love. you this very hour to write and tell sidney i pray to see him once more; you will find a present home with the vicar's wife. eva! eva!" she continued, in a reproachful tone, "i had expected more firmness; you tend me day and night; you are as unwearied in your watchings as in your love; but your self-command would rejoice me more than all. my fair sweet child, we must call on faith to aid us in the trials of life. i will write sidney myself. i suffer no pain. i feel as though i could rise from this bed—not with these remnants of earth around me!" she added, looking at her wasted arms; "but leaving them as the spirit leaves the tomb—up, up, and away. my own love, i feel i could do this, but for you—whose loving eyes, and plenteous tears, and deep, deep prayers, keep me from the home that waits me there! oh, beauteous sun!" she exclaimed, clasping her hands in sudden ecstasy, while a deep flush of crimson burned beneath the intense brightness of her large dark eyes; and she looked through the open window upon the little paradise her taste had created, where every leaf bent beneath the refreshing dews, • of which the glowing orb already demanded tribute; and saw far off the peaceful glen between the mountains, over which the morning was breaking in mellowed glory: "oh, beauteous, sun! and thou sweet balmy air! birds who have dwelt with me in safety! the grass green a fairy tale of love. been about this long time. i fling sticks at her on the sly; they pass right through her, but she moves on all the same. i don't like her, nor does keeldar—he bays her as he would the moon; but she steals on— the way death to be doing — stealing without word, and often without warning, the warm soft breath from the withered lips of age, or the rosy ones of youth—it's all one to her." "don't speak so loud, randy, she is sleeping!" "if she dreams by daylight," he continued, lowerfhg his voice into a whisper; "if she dreams by daylight, she'll win brightness without waiting. oh, avourneen deelish! don't take on so—sure it's all ms doing! the little golden-wren one day sat at her hall-door: 'and if i was the eagle,' she said, 'nature would take better care of me, and i shouldn't have to toil the way i do, to provide for them little golden-bills within there;' and the eagle sat on his rock—'and if i was the sun,' he says, 'i'd have grate divershun, hunting the clouds about the heavens, and not have the trouble of thinking how to feed my royal prince and princess, that want as much food as if they had not the king of the birds for a father; how i wish i was the sun!' 'ah! ah,' laughs the sun, and he up bright and strong in his glory; 'you're all a thankless set of cratures, from the little wren up to your kingly self; you provide for your children! you are only the means,' says the sun; 'they'd be all badly off if they were left to you; wrens, robins, and eagles, the huge king of the waters, princes, people, all, are fed by a greater than you; let nature withdraw her care, and see where you'll be then! the nature that can exalt the lowly, feed the hungry, take care of the nestlings when the hunter's arrow has struck down the father; that it is that feeds, and cares, and clothes—a pretty set you are to talk of providing? ah! ah!' and the sun rolled on, and the wren and the eagle both remembered his words. look up, jewel!" added the woodcutter. "look up, darling, yours is heart trouble—only believe this—it's for the best! she'll meet him she loved before you were born; and many a young fawn, and young lamb we've seen deserted on the hills; and yet somehow hands were always found to foster even them wild things; it's another angel in heaven will be watching you, dear! sure the prayers of the whole country will make soft her bed in that blessed place: the prayers of the poor, the r midsummer eve i fatherless and the widow; there's nothing but grace and glory before you, miss eva; them that knows best shows me as much. i'll go now, dear; but just take a turn in the summer air, and think of the happiness that's coming to her, and think of what an ancient ould woman i once knew was always saying, ' there's a silver lining to every cloud!'" the whole of that day geraldine enjoyed life in the prospect of death, as she had never enjoyed life before. she spoke of, and prayed much for, sidney; but did'not repeat her wish to see him; the future was already with her; her hopes seemed perfected; she had arranged, what the weak-minded dread to think of, long previously. she was perfectly free from pain, even the violent beatings of her heart were stilled, and at her request eva sung to her one of her favourite hymns, in which at intervals her own voice joined so clearly that hope swelled in her child's bosom. she was so grateful that eva's birth- day had been such a day of happiness. evening lowered its mantle over earth; but all was so serene, and calm, and clear, that the watchers within and without said there was no night. the earth slept beneath a grey, soft, twilight; no one thought of shutting out the warm sweet breeze that did not ruffle a rose-leaf; and the shadows on the grass told randy it was past midnight. as he lay in his usual place he became sensible of the presence of the sister queens, floating in a circle around the open window. after moving round and about, honey bell, and the few attendants who were with her, disappeared; and nightstar, with a timid and crouch- ing air, as if fearful of intruding, slipped into the chalice of a sleeping lily, that rested its stem against a fairy tale of love. the trellice. randy's thoughts questioned of nightstar, if there was no spell to stay geraldine's departure. "we know our place," she answered, in a faint low tone; "we seek to make life happy; but meddle not with death! even i dare not enter the chamber; honeybell's more worldly spirit could not linger here; but i can comfort eva, can again whisper what i have whispered long. the day of her birth has gone without being a day of death, and now her mother sleeps; i can see the breath passing sweetly from between those lips that shall utter words no more. now, eva holds her hand! oh, how she looks into her face, hand still locked in hand; and now, assured of her slumbers, her worn-out head droops on her mother's pillow—now!" said nightstar, not in the gentle tone that sounded like a silver joy-bell, but solemnly, as the wind that sighs through the spires of some ancient iii^x -:*y cypress; and rising half out of the flower, she waved her wand, and created a soothing vision in the mind of her endowed child; slowly the suggester of sweet dreams went round, shimmering in the darkness—an midsummer eve. undulating ray of light; but suddenly its motion ceased, and she crouched into the flower, drawing her tresses around her like a mantle—and then a presence, a dim and shadowy outline, not horrible, but dark and untransparent, came—who can tell from whence? all nature shrunk and shivered as it passed; it seemed to fill all space, yet entered the trelliced window! the awful herald of the grave! silently it passed, without disturbing a dew-drop, though ushering a mortal to immortality! such was the faith of the departing soul, that it left no sigh upon the lips, nor did hand press hand in token of farewell. the stars were bright as ever in the deep blue sky, and still eva slept —the living pillowed with the dead—a sweet, calm, dream-like sleep, and when the stars went out, the warm rays of the sun awoke her; she loosened her fingers from the still gentle clasp, and gazed upon the white face, smiling her old sweet loving smile; and then something terrible crept through her veins; she put her lips close, closer, to her mother's —there was no breath! eva was indeed an orphan! -.•v.'--.- --:- drawn w k. hueltieenn. engraved by w. t. greun, the fairy gathering. part the seventh. ell might nightstar triumph in her pupil; well might she exclaim to honeybell, "see— behold! this is my work; could all your worldly wisdom have achieved an end so high the maiden's influence has extended even below the waters of her native lakes; and, bowing to the power with which i en- dowed her, rather than to the justice that sought to wake him from his heavy slumbers, o'donoghue has banished from his realm the kelpie and her court. she has strength no longer to work eva harm—so long as she treads the land of the shamrock and the harp." "go on," said honeybell. "in childhood, she was the idol of the poor; now those who pride themselves on the ten or twelve descents they number — sands that sparkle in their fleeting centuries — vie with each other to tempt the maiden of the cottage to their halls; they send gay equipages to wile her from her sadness; and speak of her beauty, and her song—as if no one had ever beauty or song like hers. these children of earth cannot a fairy tale of love. i saw the frightful phooca, the enemy of all good, riding in triumph over the scenes we love so well; and which she, the mortal we protect, still hallows by her presence. we must be astir, my fair sister, for danger threatens her this day—not her heart! not her mind!—they will be firm, amid all trials, all perils, all temptations; firmer than the cromleach that has stood for ages in dunloe, which a touch can move, but an earthquake cannot shake from the base that props it. knowing eva, as you do," continued the air-queen, "i am astonished you could so completely misunderstand her nature, as to suppose her capable of change. i saw the renewal of her faith, as the grass grew green over her mother's grave, for though sidney came not, yet there was no wavering in her love— no changing in her faith; that faith is her happiness; she values what you value, as i do^as nought. honeybell, you are not listening." "i am, indeed; only tell me something new," replied the heedless fairy. "am i not telling you—here, beneath the moonbeams—of mortal constancy," quoth nightstar. "now, do attend my story for a moment. one who is good as well as great, suddenly sent sidney to where, long ago, we flourished, till driven thence by superstition and its train of crimes —to fair and fervent italy—to catch still more the painter's inspiration; midsummer eve! a most noble art—for so men call it; lauding thus, the natcre, in which we move; for art is only perfect when it copies nature most." "nightstar," quoth honeybell, gravely; "can we not decoy one of these painters to our court " "may the moon shine on ye more brightly, my sweetest sister! why, they know every nook of fairy land; they copy us on their canvas: it is by their genius the herd of common mortals know us so well. they sweep away the mists from history, and illumine truth; they give life, for all the purposes of life, to heroes of old times; they make the present of the past, and foredoom the future; they set high deeds on high— of freedom, virtue, charity, patriotism, loyalty; they preach great sermons without words; they are mighty teachers of the multitude—for the eye of man accepts what the ear refuses; they make the common rugged surface whereon they work, to discourse of powers that have moved the world; they bring gay foreign lands into the compass of a narrow room; they move a forest; the green verdant lawns—the flowery meads —the vistas—the blue hills and babbling brooks—they carry them into the very hearts of crowded cities, so that poor panting, care-worn, mortals look upon them, and renew their youth." "do they build temples for these men?" inquired honeybell, who was a great lover of justice. "neither for them, nor to them," replied nightstar; "they seem to care but little how they live, knowing they prepare a noble mausoleum to their own names, to which, when they are dead, all men bow down in worship. do you listen? sidney departed suddenly—he, not receiving geraldine's last letter, knew nothing of eva's loss, until another letter followed him to rome, in fond reply to one he wrote to her. in the brightness of her pure, unselfish love, she bade him not to think of her, but journey on—gathering health and knowledge in that bright-skyed country: that she was not alone, but would wait his return, remaining lady of the dovecote until then." "how many moons since?" "seven, or nine, i know not which; i cannot lear n their count of time." "and you say all the attention lavished upon her, by those who journey miles to pay it, has moved her to no new fantasy!" a fairy tale of love. "to nothing i could blame, where she the spirit of a star!" "it is curious—very curious," mused the queen; "and she not rich, yet with refinement, and a zeal for good." "good is ever done by rich and poor, if there be the will," replied nightstar; "few things have ever joyed me more than the perfectness of this creature—so truly high, and yet so lowly-minded." "well, well," said honeybell: "one wearies of perfection, as one does of moonshine. i am sometimes so glad when the broad-faced moon stares herself to death, and goes right out; the dancing, trembling, winking stars, that sparkle in heaven's high arch, delight me most. i hardly see the same two following nights; and if i do, i know them not. i love to watch them shooting to the earth, and fly to see where they have fallen. if a maiden catches a falling star, and keeps it, she is sure of her lover's faith! know you that, sister?" nightstar smiled, but there was sadness in her smile. "you were triumphing just now," observed honeybell; "and now you do not heed our sportive elves. look at yonder imps of mine; they are mimicking the loves of earth's poor children: wooing, where there is no heavier trouble than the dew-drop that weighs down the petals of the sheltering rose. your favourite, randy, is watching them from *p* )k , his old quarters in the garden, thinking himself asleep: how you have endowed that mortal. i suppose you will take him altogether to fairy land ere long; but you are not heeding; you are gazing into futurity—what see you there?" "a trial—hard to endure for her i guard," replied nightstar; "it midsummer eve: approaches from a far-land—a speck, an atom, the veriest shadow! but it will gain strength and power as it comes on—still," she added, with an air of triumph, "i nothing fear; nothing can change her now, 'stablished, as she is, in virtue! our next great festival—our midsummer—will be with us soon; for the tender leaves, so lightly tinged with colour, as they burst through the pale-brown shelter of their parent twigs, are grown into a hardy green; the hawthorn buds are swelling; the swallows of the old gable have long since come; and the feathered choir are there, in fullest tune; there are nests in every bush and tree; and as i peeped at a green-finch, i saw she had hatched her young; the wheat grows tall and strong, and the oat and the barley put forth their spiral leaves; the blossom of the nut is dropping off, leaving the germ it sheltered to grow and ripen; the insects stir in the long grass; and" "enough!" said honeybell; "my bees have been busy gathering honey all day, and labour renders them lazy steeds by night. we must away, good sister, to our nests in the flowers and the hollow trees, or to the disguises that perplex the minds of mortals. where shall we meet again? when the weather was chill and the nights were dark we had light and music of our own in the halls of ard-flesk, and in many time-honoured but deserted mansions; but when summer is with us, i'm for the green-wood—the arched bays where the silver sands glisten, and the waters carry our songs to bards of other lands. we must away; for the morning light is breaking over lofty curran tuel." "aye, look!" exclaimed nightstar; "look at yon red streak, heralding the sun: we must indeed, away; my eyes ache with the rapid brightness which floods the sky. the busy hum of earth is beginning a fairy tale of love. about us; and as the earliest herald of evils that come with day, look at yonder wasp so soon astir for mischief—awake to disturb in others the repose he cannot himself enjoy. he will not be the only one, ere midsummer passes, to feel a sting sharper than his own." "'t was as fine a sight as ever i saw," quoth randy, as, waking, he stretched himself and looked towards the scene of fairy meeting. "'t was a mighty fine gathering intirely, as i could wish to see: people talk of having grate imagination and fancy, but they never could fancy those things, rushing like the four winds, from—who knows where !—aye, that's it. where do they come from? where do they go? if their home was in the stars, they'd be far too happy up there, sparkling in the deep blue sky, that has neither beginning nor end—to come down to this troublesome pilgrimage of a world, where smiles are finished with tears, and the dance ends in the coffin! oh, wirah, wirah! the longer we live the more we see of it; and yet we don't wish to lave it: that's just for want of faith in where we're to go to! i've hunted ruins, and mosses, and in old trees, and deep caves—over and through the holy island of innisfallen, down in the mines of ross, high and low—in flower-bells and under broad leaves, in mountains, and beside the streams that make music on their way, but i never could make out one of the good people in the daylight—in the night they give me no rest; it is randy here, midsummer eve: and randy there, and randy everywhere witli them; and sometime or other they'll end by taking randy altogether; and i didn't care, for if it wasn't for the child-stealing, there's no harm in the craythurs. i thought awhile ago, how much i'd like to be with them, and go share in their little innocent ways, drinking dew out of flowers, playing at hide and seek with the moonbeams, and making love in roses! i see it all! and yet there's some poor unenlightened creatures who would as good as tell me i had not the sight of my own eyes; they would swear all i saw and heard over there was only a drame, or think me bewitched or crazy! they say if the good people were always about miss eva she'd see them. why, so she does, many a time. she looks nightstar full in the face, and does not know it!" and then he walked carefully from one flower-pot to another, delighting in keeping everything in other as it was when (to use his own expression) "the poor misthress went away." "there's twice as many daffodils this spring as there was last, miss, dear," he had said, when eva was about to visit the vicarage; and the snowdrops are as thick as hail—a lucky sign, agra! a fairy tale of love. and i never saw the earth so tangled with violets—white and blue! you could be lost in them, dear; and a wonderful promise of cherries and roses. i wish all them fine ladies and gentlemen wouldn't keep you away from the dovecote: and though keeldar's very civil when you're in it, he's too proud to stay with the likes of me, when you're wanting; and, jewel, you're not half as rosy or as happy-looking as you used to be. ah, avourneen deelish, you go too often to the churchyard, mourning over the one grave—where the sweetest herbs and flowers of spring and summer always grow. now, don't be angry with your poor randy— don't, dear! only where's the good of it? she'd hear you just as ready from this, as to sit there on the grass that's long now. cry as loud as we will, dear, there's no answer from the grave; none that we can hear with our ears, though there is a voice comes to our heart, after much weeping, to comfort us!" and then, seeing eva in tears, he would reproach himself bitterly, and, to change the subject, speak of sidney; that would produce almost as much emotion, until, in despair, he would overwhelm her with accounts of a new brood of chickens, or amuse her with stories of the wonderful sagacity of a calf kitty was rearing, or tell her of the steadiness with which every child in the village attended school, 'because they knew she would like it.' eva never considered midsummer eve: anything 'trivial' that proved how much she was beloved; and when she left the cottage which she could not bear to resign, and yet could not endure to remain in—recalling, as it did, during the long solitary hours, all the happiness she had enjoyed therein—she told randy she would return before her next birthday. midsummer was at hand—the woodcutter appeared to have forgotten all things connected with it—save that it was her birth-day; while kitty wept unceasingly that the anniversary of her dear lady's death was so near. no one ever thought of calling eva 'the young mistress;' her authority was altogether of a different kind from that which the term implies: she was, in the poetic feeling and phraseology of the country, 'the world's darling,' the flower of the lakes,' 'the rose of mucross,' 'the heart's delight,' 'the pulse of the heart,' 'the world's cush la machree'— to all within her sphere; and if they loved her before 'her a fairy tale of love. trouble,'—with the warm instinct of irish nature, they idolized her after it. 'midsummer,' then, was at hand; randy roused himself from his world of dreams, to gather eva's favourite flowers, to garland the porch, to trim the roses, to deck the fawn—now grown into a doe— with ribbands; and at last, unable to shake off the heaviness that weighed upon his spirits, he sat down upon the old grass bench and sobbed like a child. "get up!" exclaimed kitty, "here's the world's darling in sight, and two ladies riding home with her; you ought to be ashamed of yourself, to meet her this way, and she coming from a raal gentleman's house to stay with us. make yourself up, like a proper servant; and when you open the hall-door, don't begin blessing her, but stand straight, and bow—while i curtsey behind—and say—' miss, here's the gardener! he would open the door for joy, miss! all the other servants would do the same. we must keep up her consequence, randy—we must keep up her consequence." "she likes things as they are," replied randy—nevertheless making an attempt to shake down his shaggy hair, and dry his eyes—" she likes things as they are, and no show, kitty; she'd give me her hand friendly before the queen, if she was to the fore; she has no half-lady pride in her—not she." "but we must keep up her consequence, randy," persisted kitty—. smoothing down her white apron over her black dress; "i have laid everything out to the best advantage; and, oh, randy! if you had but a frill to your shirt, you'd look so nice." "i'm very well to have a shirt, let alone a frill—as the plain sweet pea said to the feathered columbine; frill! enagh," repeated randy, in a tone of contempt. "randy," whispered kitty, "i shouldn't mind, for once, lending you one of my caps to pin inside; just to keep up her consequence." randy did not deign a reply to this considerate suggestion, but cast a look of reproach at kitty. "do, randy, be said and led—for once." "i'm ashamed "of ye, so i am, to think of her consequence. her consequence," repeated the woodcutter, emphatically, "to be kept up by the ould frill of a yallow nightcap!" midsummer eve: "the ignorant nagur," muttered kitty, as she rushed to the door, "the poor dark craythur!" proud was kitty of the fine horses, and the fine servants, and the beautiful young ladies who brought miss eva home, and were delighted with the dovecote, and gave kitty a golden guinea; and kitty had sufficient of bad taste to fancy, that if miss eva were dressed like them, she would look better than in the plain high robe of black silk, 'without a bit of anything on it but crape ;' and though these young ladies were but new ac- i < i - quaintances whom eva had met at the vicar's, they deeply regretted parting from her, and embraced her again and again, extorting a promise that she would soon permit them to withdraw her from her solitude once more. "paler every time she comes home," sighed randy; "and a weight's about my heart, as if i was going to lose her altogether. i'm here, miss, darling," he said, gently putting his head into the window. "your poor midsummer eve: the greenest clover; the head and foot-stones were garlanded with the flowers geraldine loved best; if there had been no other cause for tears, eva would have wept at this delicate mark of the woodcutter's tender thoughtfulness. he had fed the robins there; and as she sat in silent commune with the dead, the large-eyed birds came about her, looking mutely into her face—not chirping, but gazing with their soft dark eyes as if in sympathy. she could hear the murmurs of the lake-waters, as the currents rushed from one to the other, through the 'long range;' and the full choir of distant birds filled the air with music. she could see the proud tomb of lady elizabeth at the end of one of the long aisles; perched upon the armorial blazonry that surmounted the stately pile, was a raven—an ominous and unclean bird. she could not but contrast its uncared-for loneliness and neglect, with the simple but endearing tokens of affection that blossomed on her mother's humble grave. at last, she wandered homeward and turned into the bower, which arose on a mound a fairy tale of love. g above the whitestone well: it was only a seat, overshadowed by a luxuriant growth of bending trees; interlaced by wild roses and climbers of various kinds—a pretty rustic spot, whose beauty no art could imitate." the day had passed through its fainting hours —sighing for the cool of evening: it had been one of the most feverish days of a feverish summer. randy's care had kept the flowers moist and the grass green; but the water had to be looked for in the whitestone well—so low had it fallen; the cattle lowed plaintively over the dried-up and scorched marshes; and the waters of the lakes seemed to recede farther and farther from their sedgy margins—now, indeed, no longer sedgy, for the green rush had become a brown, sapless, coarse-grained straw; and the broad leaves of the water-lily were drawn up by the scorching heat into crumpled heaps, where nothing, not even a tiny snail, obtained food; the very woodpaths were thick with dust, and the bounding river reduced to a peevish brook—as if it were itself thirsty— crawled, where it had so often triumphed, amid huge stones and rocks. the day was, in truth, not only sultry but feverish; and eva felt the enervating effects of such oppressive weather: it increased the weariness that weighed her spirits down. she knew she must use some exertion for her future maintenance, for her mother's store must, sooner or later, be exhausted. she was too proud, too right-minded, for a moment to endure dependence. she felt bewildered and sorrow-stricken; kind as were all ito her, she a midsummer eve i had no heart-friend — no one to whom she could open her mind. she knew none who really sympathised with her spirit's yearning for activity. she felt as all feel, in a degree, who have been used to the companion- ship of souls. at last keeldar, who had watched her, came and laid his head on her lap, and, not receiving the attention he expected, placed himself at her feet. he had not rested long, however, when his flap ears moved; he arched them upwards, leaving more space for sound to enter; and then his tail stiffened, and he moved his nostrils, rose up, turned round, and stood in an attitude peculiar to his race, when expecting an intruder. a shadow rested on the grass—a lengthened shadow; and, before eva could rise from her seat, a stranger, for she knew him not, stood before her. he removed his hat, and she saw at once that his hair was dark—it was not the nut-brown hair of sidney. "do you not know me, eva?—not know me! am i cither so changed or so forgotten that you do not remember cormac talbot?" "cormac!" repeated eva, in a tone of the deepest disappointment; for she only thought of one, and though she had no reason to expect him, the very shadow on the grass suggested the possibility of his presence. "yes—cormac! will you not speak to me? i who have returned solely to see you; whose life has been cheered by the hope that you would hail my return as the return of a friend! surely in nothing have i forfeited my right to that title, eva!" she extended her hand, and felt that his was chill and damp. "will you not speak to me, eva?" he repeated. "i am so astonished," she said, while endeavouring to withdraw the hand he still clasped; i could not have thought of seeing you." "and why not? did you think i could forget you? did you fancy my love was written as on sand? but i respected your sorrow, and would not suddenly intrude upon it." "you have suffered also," she said, endeavouring to guide the con- versation to another theme. "my poor mother—yes—but that was long expected. she was never to me what your mother was to you, eva." "no !" she replied, shocked at the implied fault-finding; "there were a fairy tale of love. few like mine; but she loved you. you should not efface such memories, sir; those who do so trample upon graves!" "it may be," he said, carelessly: "but i came not from the sunny south to talk of sorrow, though respected yours. i have journeyed night and day to meet you here to-night. why even your dog will hardly give me welcome!" he added, in a tone of disappointment. "we ought," said eva, after the lapse of a few moments, "we ought, indeed, to welcome back its gentry to this poor country. i am sure that all the people will shout a welcome when they hear of your return." "i would rather you would whisper yours," he replied, attempting to regain the hand she had withdrawn. "i speak it without a whisper," answered eva, her self-possession fully restored: "it would be strange if i did not welcome back the cousin of sidney talbot to his native land." "on no such plea will i owe my welcome here," he replied. "listen eva; not when i offered my young unpractised heart for your acceptance, beneath the sanctuary of that roof, and with the entire approval of your mother, did i love you with a tithe of the love with which i now woo you to be mine. eva, you shall hear me!" she would have retired, but he prevented her. "i am in nothing changed—no more than you," she answered. "still you must hear me," he repeated. "hear me once more; you have lately seen a shadowing forth of the power and luxury that wealth supplies. you have seen every eye turn in admiration of your beauty, and heard high-born lips sound your praises. you have witnessed the strength of position, and looked upon the wide-spread tables that wealth surrounds with grateful guests; but think, eva—think! when in addition to your beauty—to the fascination which encompasses you, as with a spell — think, if in addition to all these, you had the wealth — the station — which cormac talbot's wife must have — think — think what you would be!" "a self-degraded, self-condemned woman, ashamed to look into my own heart, lest it should rise in judgment against me!" "you cannot scorn such power for such good!" a fairy tale of love. "and bade you tell me so," said eva, in a tone that made cormac start. "can you not add that to the false tale you have invented." "now, by every sacred tie, in heaven and earth !" exclaimed cormac, "you do me wrong; i have invented nothing. every artist in rome has been speaking of the failure of his task as a thing certain. had he been less ambitious, he might have been more successful. he has no more chance of becoming a great artist, so to say, than yonder dog of becoming a lion." he turned to look at keeldar, but he was gone. "or than you, his cousin, have of partaking his noble nature, you might add," said eva, in the same tone which had before called forth such strange sensations. cormac drew back and paused. "i can endure anything from you, and nothing you can say shall move me from my purpose. i will endure anything to save you from yourself, from the deep and bitter poverty in which you would plunge—not alone, but with him whose love for you has cooled, though his honour may be firm, poor and feeble as he is; with him, whom you would drag still more deeply into a fathomless abyss of want and misery! ask yourself if this be just? ask yourself if any woman has a right to immolate that which she professes to love?" "i have heard you patiently, sir," said eva, " and will hear you to the end: have you finished?" "no," he replied; "not finished, until, on my knees, i again offer you the passionate love of a passionate nature. eva, you love your country; i will minister to its prosperity, and never leave its shores; you love the people—you shall remain their guardian angel. you shall realize the dream of your childhood, and pour consolation and bestow comfort upon the hundreds whose breath lingers, not lives, within their feeble frames! does not the very fact of your not hearing from my cousin argue his change? write and ask him if he will not gladly resign the contract that clogs, not clings, about his heart. oh, eva! does not my constancy deserve some word? fair forms and bright eyes crossed my path, and sought to win my love—but it was yours! your image lay as an amulet upon my heart, and shielded me from sin. still cold and silent? eva, speak to me; have you no word for me? i offer you wealth, love, honour, faithfulness—all that the fairest and richest covet. midsummer eve: even were sidney not poor and discomfited, you cannot cling to the tattered fragment of a travelled artist's worn-out fondness, feeding upon voluptuous forms, conniving at impurities i dare not name to you, until his sense sickens, and his" "now i have words !" interrupted eva. "i heard you patiently, though my pulses quickened and my heart beat high; though i disbelieved in all but your tale of sidney's poverty—still i heard you. what should i care for the love of one who could not penetrate the heavy shadows, that press upon the noblest natures like realities, even on their very eve of triumph? what should my heart, were it as free as the fleetest roe that bounds to meet the sun-beams on glena, care for him whose mean soul makes poverty a reproach, and thinks a true and earnest woman's love could be aught but a shield and a staff for protection and support! what should i care for the patriotism that may be bought and paid by heartless smiles? you know the breath lingers, not lives, within the frames of those god sent you into the world to sustain; and yet you bargain, in your selfishness, for a heartless hand as a price of your return to those you never should have abandoned; and for whose souls and bodies, hereafter, if not here, you will be as surely called to account as you now stand before me—rich and powerful in this world's gifts, though unchanged in the nature which made me shrink even from your boyish kindness. sir, were the grass as green over the grave of sidney talbot as it is where i have been to-day, and where i would i were even now, i would die above it rather than be your wife." as she spoke, and before cormac could give utterance to the violent words that twined like serpents round his tongue, even as he grasped her arm within his hand, keeldar burst upon them with a loud cry of joy; there was a rustling among the trees, a parting of the branches, and in an instant eva fell upon sidney's bosom. cormac stood unmoved; his lip curled in proud defiance; he saw that she had fainted, and it was not until sidney bore her into the open air, that her face, upturned to her native heaven, astonished him by the high-souled expression that elevated its matchless beauty, as the moonlight shone upon it—inspiring him with reverence, as though he gazed upon the face of an angel. "do not go, exclaimed sidney—" do not go—i too hastened to be here on eva's birthday; i heard your protestations, and while you a fairy tale of love. urged her not to sink me into poverty, i loathed myself for seeking her as my bride, when i had nothing but poverty to offer her. in bitter self-reproach and agony, i turned to leave this hallowed spot—when her priceless pleading, her knowledge of the shadow which wrestled with me, when weakened by imagination and excess of labour, i felt myself a doomed man, encoffined by my own trembling hand -— the shadow which made me doubt the power—the immortal power—that has conquered! look up and hear that, eva, my own eva; though poor and penniless, i achieved my purpose; and those of whom he truly spoke as doubting, have followed me with generous acclamation; your image, your faith, your hope, your love! by some mysterious spiriting, though far away, tk infused themselves into my nature, and i became, though poorly lodged and poorly clad—i became the art-wonder of immortal rome! no letter a fairy tale of love. wanted means to purchase; where i have passed hours offering up thanksgiving that you were here, in your own native home, loving and beloved, by nature and natural hearts." "that was when the shadows of which we spoke so thickened round you," murmured eva; "i do not tremble at such poverty! being passed, 'tis but another theme for thankfulness." "it may return!" said sidney; "i would not deceive you — not for the price of your own priceless self. the reputation i achieved in rome, came like electricity on me and all beside; it may follow me to england; but compliments are tardy servitors to stern necessity; and success may never come." cormac fixed his eyes upon eva while sidney was speaking; but the expression of his features was that of perfect hopelessness; he turned away, but listened still. "think of nothing for my sake," she again murmured. "but," he added, "even if the ringing music of silver and of gold, chime in this city home, / still am doomed to toil all day. i cannot walk with you abroad, for every moment's light is precious wealth to the poor artist; the sun—his taskmaster—is too fitful in these climes to brook delay; and you will miss the service and devoir, which are of right your own; and, oh! you know not how hard it is to climb the prickly hills that lead by toilsome and extended paths—by pitfall and morass—to fortune. i often think my very nature changed. as he has truly said, i am dark and fitful." "you are a slanderer, sidney," she exclaimed, timidly ; but slightly veiling the deep, earnest, struggling love, which taught her eloquence and banished fear—" i am not a child to take fright at shadows which com- panion loneliness, yet fade, like our hill-vapours, in the sun. i know your spirit hopeful, but easily depressed; and i mind the time when you said (the words are yours), that eva's voice and eva's look, could" — the woman triumphed over the heroine, and, unable to repress her tears, she sought to hide them within the cottage. cormac, affecting a spirit that was not in him, cast his light cloak over his shoulder, and, addressing sidney, spoke,—as though he felt not: "in love and war they say all things are fair;" he could no more in that midsummer eve. strain, and his voice changed; "i could not have believed that such fidelity dwelt in the heart of woman; this truth puts all the schools' philosophy to flight—had i won her, i would have borne her beauty in triumph through the world !—you, if steeped to the very lips in poverty, will know a happiness that i shall never taste. she is too high above the earth and earthly things for me; fare-ye-well, cousin—cousins are crosses in most families, and mine is no exception. i would have wronged you if i could; but you'll forgive me cousin—you'll forgive me." he walked bravely across the lawn, and passed the bower of the whitestone well; then turned, and seeing that sidney had entered the dovecote, sought beneath the shadow of the weeping ash a rose which had fallen from eva's hand, and, placing it in his bosom, separated the branches that shielded the seat from the east wind, and fled across the meadows, as if he thought that speed might relieve his heated and throbbing brain." iu mm p . r v part the eighth. andy, good luck to ye, randy," was the saluta- tion of one of the killarney strawberry girls to the woodcutter, as from the lake shore he watched the progress of a boat towards the fair island of innisfallen. "good luck to ye, kindly, mary," he replied. "good luck to you, and all the sun and moon shine on, by day or night." "thank ye, randy; will you have a noggin of sweet milk? or a leaf of strawberries? you're kindly welcome to any or all. it's heart-broken you look; sure you never would hear tell of any one thinking of the rose of kerry but master sidney; and now he's come for her, and she's going, you're not satisfied." "because she's going," sighed randy!" that's just it. no, mary, thank you all the same, i'll have nothing. and sure it's giving you straw- berries and milk i ought to be, and you having no one belonging to ye." "'deed, i have," replied the girl, cheerfully; "i have plenty to care for me, and, though i havn't a shoe to my foot, i've a light heart, and pleasant times," she added, with a sigh—" in summer, anyway." a midsummer eve i "winter and summer will be all alike to me when she's gone," continued randy, in a subdued voice; "as long as she was on the sod i was content; though i could not hear the voice, i knew it was somewhere on ireland's breeze; and though i did not see her smile, i knew it was brightening some irish sunbeam. do ye think that's a safe boat they're pleasuring in, mary?" - ebbgf "to be sure it's safe—randy, man, what ails ye intirely? listen! that's spillane's bugle. why, that last blast of music ought to rouse your heart; and there's keeldar's answer to it! miss eva visits every spot before the time conies for her to leave them." "isn't there rough water round the island?" interrupted randy. "it's as smooth as glass, randy; the rough water's in your own eyes," replied the girl. "the boat's empty now; and yet i don't see them on the beautiful island. oh, may the blessed sod that was trod by hundreds of holy men in the day's of ireland's glory, send an incense into their young hearts!" a fairy tai.e of love. "they say miss eva might have married the young lord of ard- flesk?" "or any one she chose," answered randy; his faith in sidney only wavering when he thought of eva's leaving the dovecote; "any one she chose—i hope he'll always think of it—to her." "do you think them islands as handsome as the strangers do?" inquired the strawberry girl. "you've no knowledge, mary; you'd see more beauty in a little dirty bonnet-shop above in the town, than in that—paradise," replied the woodcutter, angry at their beauty being questioned. and well did the broken mountain, and dark deep wood, and fair expanse of water, spangled with is- lands, deserve the term. the ruined castle of ross, the smooth lawns and state- ly trees of innisfallen— rich alike in the beauties of nature, and the memories ot ancient learning; the tiny islets, varied by every tint of verdure and of foliage; the bold sharp-rocky promontories, each having its own legend—well did they all merit the woodcutter's enthusiasm; and when the wild clear notes of the magic bugle poured forth one of the melodies identified with the scene, randy a fairy tale of love. his side was a white butterfly, sitting with folded wings on the petals of a pale wild rose. "why is it?" resumed the voice which endowed the insect for a time; "why is it that the sound of the bells of the old gable were no more to you than to other mortals; that you, so long favoured, heard nothing but the tinkling —only because faith fainted in your bosom; even now your eyes are sealed, and, though you see the boat upon the lake, you see not that which guides and guards it. unhappy mortals! the purest spiritings are clogged in the mire of your unrefined natures. have i not, from her entering on this scene of mingled smiles and tears, been with her, and averted what she could not avoid? why should you doubt me now, and chill the air with tears?" "it's asy talking with you, my lady," thought the woodcutter; "you who can be with her whenever you like; and though only allowed your own form, from sunset to sunrise, can whip up any shape that's plasing to you to sport round the world in, and the owner never the worse or the wiser of it. if / could do it, it's not murning i'd be." "randy," replied the voice, "do not attempt to deceive me; i see the thoughts that wrestle with, and supplant, each other in your feeble heart; because eva cannot go hence with gay and gaudy trappings you think she cannot be happy—you forget that she herself is happiness! ordinary mortals derive their happiness from external objects: eva is en- dowed to give, and by giving, to receive; but you do not understand me." "i'm trying, madam." "people are not satisfied to let their fellow-creatures be happy after their own fashion; they want them to be happy after theirs. it the hawk said to the woodpigeon, you shall share my prey; i will divide with you the singing lark and the blue titmouse, and you shall fare better than ever you did before, the woodpigeon would say, 'no—that is not my habit; i cannot live on such cruel fare; give me the full-eared grain and the water of the pure spring." "true, for you, my lady; everything according to its kind." "exactly so; and if our love is to be a benefit, and not a curse, we must forget what would make us happy, and study to comprehend what will make happy those we love. everything according to its kind." midsummer eve i "and will she be very happy, my lady ?" questioned randy. "she will, indeed! for the cankers and cares that disturb the minds and destroy the happiness of so many mortals will but show her forth the brighter; she will suffer much—but unhappy she will not be." "if it's plasing to you, my lady," thought the woodcutter; "i wish you'd be so good as put every spark of suffering away from her intirely. i heard once of a rich gentleman who paid a poor man to fret for him. now, if there must be suffering, can't your majesty put it upon me— not upon her? and i'll bear it—better than ever i bore a load of wood up the highest mountain in kerry. oh, avourneen, lady dear! do put it on me. i'll wait content and asy for the grandeur to come to her; and never turn my tongue to so much as ask for it, if i can be sure she'll be without the suffering. how can she be happy and suffer?" "do you not say, foolish mortal, that you could be happy, suffering for her sake?" "oh, joyfully!" he exclaimed, so loudly that the butterfly's wings vibrated, and she fixed her feet firmly upon the rose. "and do you not think the love she bears sidney will make her joy- fully endure suffering for his sake?" "oh, my lady ! can't you settle it so ?" persisted randy, " that they'd have no suffering at all; they're young now—but life is short; and when it gets cut and crushed in the bud, there's never much good in the blossom." "there's a care over both bud and blossom, randy," said the voice; "and surely the power that has guarded the past may be trusted for the future: the bud shall not be crushed; and i think, randy, when you see the blossom (and you shall see it) your race here will be pretty well run, and you'd better come to my country; you would meet many there you have heard of long ago, and have pleasant times." "i wonder," thought the woodcutter, slowly, "is oliver crummel among them; for if he was in it i'd rather stay where i am." a little laugh rung in his ears; but before there was a reply to his question his heart beat with sudden delight at the promise that he should see the 'blossom!' his faith returned; he felt his heart expand within his bosom as the blessed influence infused its essence into his nature; his interest in eva continued undiminished, but his anxiety was a fairy tale of love. gone; the petals of the rose fell in a perfumed shower on the grass, while a dove of snowy plumage, whose glancing wings shone like silver in the sun, flew so close to his cheek that its feathers almost touched him; he knew the butterfly had changed its seeming, and watched the dove as it crossed the lake, until it was no larger than the smallest swallow that skimmed the waters; he saw that it hovered around the boat, which soon diminished to a white speck, as it passed into the wilder scenery k>j- ^-i of the upper lake, among the mountains, spanned by a beautiful and auspicious rainbow. insensibly the woodcutter sank into a deep slumber upon the bank. he was awakened by keeldar licking his face; and when he fairly opened his eyes, he saw those he dearly loved looking upon him; for a moment he fancied they were returned in what he would have called 'great glory,' to their own land; but a second glance told him the reality, and that he should see thein no more, for a while, after 'to-morrow '—to morrow, the goal and the grave of so much hope. the woodcutter had, however, many resources within his mind; and midsummer eve: it away about its legs, it striped it in bands round its body, singing all the time how it was making itself as handsome as a wasp; and if the creature had taken half the pains to gather honey, it would have carried home a rare store; but it nothing heeded but to paint itself in a way that nature never intended; and how it marched up and down the pointed leaf of a sweet lily, and flew to the whitestone well, balancing its body over the water in foolish admiration of the falsehood it was putting on the world, and the insult it was offering to the great nature that made it. well, after a little, it boomed here, and it boomed there, whizzing and fuzzing, until at last it lit upon a fruit-tree, thinking to rest itself. 'ah, ah!' said the gardener, 'there is a wasp—i must kill it.' 'father,' answered the gardener's son; 'father, it has the head of a bee.' 'no child; it is a wasp,' persisted the gardener; 'look at the yellow bars about its body. if it was a bee it should suffer no harm. it is a wasp, and must die.' and the vain bee was crushed in a moment." "aye, aye," he repeated; "everything according to its kind!" eva leaned fondly on sidney's arm; her new-made friends had met her on her landing, resolved to be her bridemaids, and render their last homage, for a time, to her worth and beauty. "it is only for a time we shall lose her," they said to each other; young, guileless girls, knowing nothing of the world and its trials, and believing all the anxiety their parents expressed for eva's future prospects were little more than tales to fright away love, could not look upon them both without admiration and affection—both so glorious in their beauty; so high-souled, so richly endowed with the exact talents that best befit the man and woman. they had adorned the dovecote during her absence, so that it seemed an entire bower, clustered and crowned with flowers; and had placed their varied gifts within her room, which glittered like the enchanted chambers of old romance. they wished to surprise her on her return from her fare- well visit to the lakes, and playfully insisted she should be led blindfold into the dovecote. keeldar did not like his mistress to be thus treated, and showed his teeth more than once to the sportive bridemaids; while randy carefully laid a crossed stick on the threshold, which eva stept over without disturbing—a sure sign, thought randy, she will overcome the crosses of the world. a fairy tale of i.ove. eva had enough of the superstition of her country to beautify, but not encrust, her nature; and she knew it would give pain to those who loved her if she knelt beside her mother's grave after sunrise on the morning of her bridal; she arose, therefore, while the mists lingered on the mountains, just as the grey dawn was stealing into the valleys, and passed beneath the arched entrance to the abbey, resolved to regain her chamber before her bridemaids awoke. early as it was there were pilgrims there before her; but with natural delicacy they quitted its precincts at her approach, and left her to the solitude of the time-honoured ruin. she knelt beside her mother's grave, on the spot consecrated by much loving service. her hands were clasped in prayer. "oh, my mother!" she exclaimed; "if it be possible, look down and bless your child, with the full earnest blessing which you, and you only, of all the world, know how to bestow. oh, mother mine! mine in heaven as well as upon earth, counsel me for good—so that i may not be unworthy to meet your pure spirit in heaven !—oh, that i could have but a sign, a token that you hear me; that you are near me—happy i know you are—oh, that you had midsummer eve i but lived to bless me on this morning!" she bent her head until her long hair falling upon the violets whereon she knelt, was gemmed with dew; there was something ineffably sweet and harmonious in the scene, the deep grey shadows of the abbey, the funeral pyramids of ivy, the hardly-heard moaning of the old trees, felt rather than heard—the balmy air—the solemn silence, as yet unbroken by the song of the earliest bird; the hares, as they returned to their forms in the undisturbed pastures, hardly paused to listen to eva's murmured words, falling as gently as her tears, while she repeated, "oh, mother!—my mother!—be with me on my entrance into this new existence; teach me, counsel me, that i may be to him have chosen, all that you were to my father; my mother! could you but hear me, you would give me a sign; i ask it not from the cold grave, the chill, dark cell that holds the shrine from which the spirit has departed; i ask it not from you, green-coated mound! but from on high—where the emancipated live in infinite variety of holiest love, a fairy tale of love. and purest joy, and in the everlasting brightness which dazzles not their eyes—mother,—oh, mother! is there no sign?" like all high-hearted creatures, eva never questioned in her most secret mind, the lightness, or abiding, of her lover's faith; if he could have been harsh or false, she would have thought she had given him cause; her only fear was of her own unworthiness—nothing but that! she had made ready all of value in money she possessed, and which, in her want of knowledge, she considered a large store—more than two hundred pounds—and her mothers jewels, the rather valuable for that they had been hers; these she had placed in a small casket, as a gift to sidney, all she considered she had to bestow, thinking herself as little worthy of account. she had not told him of this store, but left it ready to place within his hands, an hour before they commenced their journey; she thought how astonished he would be at its magnitude, and had it been thousands it would have been all the same—her hand was as generous as her heart was pure; she remembered how her mother had given all she had to her father, and that they had but one heart and mind between them in all things; and as she knelt by that green grave, she recalled all her mother's love and tenderness, and her tears flowed, as she repeated, "mother—oh, mother! must the sun arise without a sign from thee?" she was not long alone—stimulated by the same spirit, sidney sought midsummer eve world, my own eva; we do not look enough upon nature, either human or divine; we keep too much within the darkness of our cells—unlike the bees, who, though they work and store at home, go forth into the natural world, among its hills, and heaths, and sunlight, to procure their honey— singing while they are learning what is best and wisest! are these strange bridal thoughts ?" he added, looking doatingly upon her. "no," she replied; "i love to hear you, sidney, for your soul is neither limited nor confined, but fresh, and full of the pure freedom, which is one of man's best birthrights; it will joy me so much hereafter to know that all the homage you receive will not clog your high thoughts, nor damp your love for nature, nor your veneration for its holy cause." "the homage i receive!" he repeated, fondly pressing her hand to his heart; "nothing can i tell you, dearest, of the battle we must fight; nothing of coldness, or wrong, or unrequited labour, or jealousy, or strife; nothing seems to stand between you and the vision you have created of the —homage i receive!" "which proves my faith as true as the reality," she answered. "oh sidney! in what should we have faith, next to our creed, if not in a spirit, like yours, that can will—in genius, like yours, that inspires" "and in love and trust like yours!" he added; "the torch of the modern hymen is lit amid the bakes and broils, the savoury stews and fumes of the kitchen fire! ours has been kindled in arcadia!" eva laughed! "he does not dream," she thought—"he does not dream of my golden store—of the surprise of my rich casket;" so little was her earnest bright nature accustomed to concealment, that she had watched her words, so that she might not betray her secret; it had at one time appeared to her a mine of wealth; but even the little she had learned of the world at the vicar's, combined with the memory of her mother's estimate of household expenses, pruned the wings of her imagination; still, she was not quite portionless, and the casket:—the richly carved and inlaid casket—the jewel-box of some ancestor—sidney, she was certain, would put it in a picture some day, it was so beautiful! thinking of the surprise she intended for her bridegroom, restored her mind to its elasticity; and when sidney bade her adieu for a brief space at the garden-gate, she entered the dovecote without one feeling of fear for a fairy tale of love. the future; her whole being was trust and love; she wondered why her bridemaids had risen so early, and arranged her simple tiring with so much taste, and placed the pearl chain ready—which surely she had never told them she should wear, although she had resolved to do so only the night before. and whence came the perfumes that enriched her chamber; and whence the flowers! such flowers as never grew within the compass of her garden; and what multitudes of bees were booming about her window, fuzzing in and out, some lighting on her very lips, as if to gather honey, and then away again; she feared them not, for from her childhood up the bees had been her friends, and never suffered wasp or hornet to remain near the dovecote; surely, never was bridal chamber so magically decked, and a bouquet of real fragrant orange blossoms seemed powdered with diamonds; she sat like the lady in the enchanted chair—her casket— sidney's casket—was covered with flowers, and the bees kept such a buz- zing about it, that eva fancied they danced and shook their wings to some wild minstrelsy. no fear of the future clouded her happiness; hope shone forth in her eyes; and still the fervent womanly prayer, 'to make her worthy of his love,' if it did not find words, arose again and again from her heart, pure and undefiled, to the high throne of heaven. when her bridemaids entered to deck her for the altar, they were so full of words—of joy—of sorrow; so full of the contradictions of midsummer eve: affection—so devoted to the tiring and adorning of the fair bride, and yet so loth to part with her; that she neglected to solve the mystery of the pearl chain; and passed to the little stone-roofed church amid the blessings of the people—without even thinking of her perplexity. before the ceremony began, she had turned to look for randy amid the crowd; and when exchanging her snowy robes for a plain travelling dress, she inquired of the weeping kitty if she had seen him. "just one sight i got of him, miss—oh, then it's ma'am i mane—at the brake of day, and he not a morsel like himself—only clane, and shaved, and dacent, looking out of the tower windy, and a bran new shillela in his hand, stiff and tidy, as if he was going a journey. 'come down, you unnatural wild baste,' i says to him, quite mannerly; 'come down and wish her joy ;' and he made no answer, only pointing with his stick over the mountains towards the sea. i shouldn't wonder, darlin', if they gave him the shape of a gull, or a heron, or a phillipaweeken, or some- thing of that sort, and sent him over the wide ocean with you; not that midsummer eve i prayers find their way up to the coorts above, mine and those of the people will be in the heavens this blessed day, gaining strength long before you, for your honour and glory—standing between you and harm, now and for evermore." the faithful creature prostrated herself in continued and earnest prayer; and the crowd without, actuated by the same feeling, waiting to catch a last sight of her they had loved since her birth, knelt as by one common impulse, to invoke blessings upon her as she passed—now totally unable to control her tears —to the carriage that waited to convey sidney and his bride to the place of embarkation. "oh, lanna machree! won't you take this blessed cross, that my mother prayed to all her life?" said one ; while another exclaimed, "here's a root of the hare's foot fern, and the house has never burned that gave it shelter;" another, " here's a raal four- leaved shamrock, lady dear; my brother was on the seas with it all his life, and never got hurt or harm: it's the raal thing, jewel, and you'll never be sunk in the waters, if you wear it on your heart." those who had nothing else to give flung heather and flowers at her feet, exclaiming, " from the wild gap of dunloe "— a fairy tale of love. "from the top of the toomies"—" the sweet strawberries from glena, lady"—" the real arbutus, lady, that grows nowhere out of killarney"— "this handkerchief, dear, was steeped in may-dew, maybe you'd keep for mary maley's sake "—" along with a sprig of the real witch elm," said another. keeldar never had been so caressed; the children hung about his neck; and seeing how completely eva was overcome by this, sidney entreated the people to spare her farther leave-taking. "the sun has not shone since she has been a bride, nor the rain rained," suggested a woman. "but it won't be so!" said another. "the shower is hanging in the clouds, and when that is over, see if we don't have the sun," quoth the beggarman, as he waved his tattered hat to the carriage, and turned to his more serious companions; while one more serious than the rest looked upwards, and murmured something about a storm gathering in the sky, adding, that the 'fairy man' had seen the good people "last night, hiding themselves behind rose-leaves, a sure sign that the fierce wind was coming." midsummer eve. "the blessing and the prayer are both with her, now and for evermore," murmured the people. "with them both," said poor kitty, wringing her hands. "to be sure; and that's quare; this morning they were two—a few holy words, and they are one—for time and for eternity," he added, lifting his hat—" to live together, to rise together, at the last day, no matter where they're buried, they'll rise together at the last!" kitty continued to talk disjointedly, for her sobs prevented her finishing a sentence; and long after the crowd had dispersed, and she was alone, she fancied she heard the chiming of bells and whispers among the trees, and voices repeating,—" the dovecote will be blooming then ; "—while others murmured, "when?" kitty would have closed out the sounds by drawing the curtain of the lonely room; but she saw there was a 'braugh' about the moon; and again the chimes struck up in the old gable; and the weathercock creaked and moaned in the changing wind. " drawn ty c sucflald. r.a. kngraved by w. t. qreen. the wreck of the swift. part the ninth. ow lovely was the morning—the early morning! the vessels that found shelter and repose in one of the loveliest of the many rivers—the river lee—that, content with the mere manifestation of beauty, wander through the most fertile and most inactive island of the world—gave no signs of being freighted with life, or endowed with the power of motion. the ships at the quays were scarcely moved by the barely perceptible heaving of the waters; while others nearer ocean, rose and fell gently under its influence: the villas, that lined the banks, or crowned the heights, peeping from amid thick foliage, sent forth no curling smoke; the cattle were half-slumbering in the pastures: no flies danced on the surface of the pools; no rising lark sung out to the corn-fields or the waving grass. there was a total absence of movement, where, in an hour or two, there would be so much. the vapours seemed to linger over the lonely scene as if with feelings of affection for the objects they had enwreathed at night—imparting even a fantastic character to the a fairy tale of love. shipping, twining round the rigging and capping the masts, rising and descending, until, like the memory of a dream, they vanished altogether, leaving clear vistas, with "the blue above and the blue below," while beyond, in the dim distance, were mingled tall vessels and green lawns, the shores at one point seeming to touch each other, at another melting away into the softest haze. in the opposite direction, far from ships and their traffic, the lovely lee wandered "at its own sweet will" through green meadows of the richest grass; passing beside rugged ruins, with their records of past feuds and legends of departed grandeur—ancient abbeys converted into broken tombs—rising upon the placid and flowery banks, a cottage or two clinging to the base, like barnacles on some mighty rock; then away again, a clear, strong, fertilizing river, singing to the heavens or murmuring to the earth—seldom spanned by a bridge, never disturbed by a water-wheel—and at that early hour, when all things are undefined, reflecting nothing but the soft grey tone of the morning a fairy tale of love. the worn-out wayfarer looked for them, as, chased by the morning, they were disappearing frorri his gaze. "they are all going to their homes!" he exclaimed, in his simplicity, "and she that was my home will be on the seas before the next sun goes down." and wildly he talked, while the generous lee rippled soothingly over his feet, until at last his bushy head sank upon his chest, and he half-slumbered — starting at intervals; for though his rest was brief, it was troubled by 'thick coming fancies,' and he could hardly be said to sleep—speaking, as he did, his visions—"i tell you," he murmured, as if addressing some one in the air, "they are passing under the waters this very minute: don't i know their dark forms and faces, rushing on, rushing here—and there yes, and i hear their voices; they are passing to the sea; they will rouse its waves—yet you thought them banished—oh, my grief!—they were banished from the lake to the rivers! sure, i see one of the worst of them floating this very minute out to sea—evil be to him that evil brings! oh! can't you keep her with us," he continued, clasping his hands in wild entreaty; then after musing a few moments, he added, "shine the brighter! oh, isn't she the brightness of the country? what need of more than that! they are rushing on still, some to get before, others behind, the ship; but they can't get above it, you say; yes—i know that; you are great in your own land; but when i look at ye, how can i think you'd ride over a sea tempest! i'm struck with blindness !" he exclaimed, suddenly and loudly, a fairy tale of love. all been a dream; and after a time he fancied something—it might be the light of morning—passed over his eyes, and sitting up, he saw the blue and green dragon-fly darting hither and thither in the morning light, and heard the buzzing of bees, and the distant croaking of the ill-omened frog, and the lowing of kine, mingled with the bleating of lambs, and the trumpet-like neigh of the free-limbed horse, as he joyed in the invigorating air, and with flowing mane and distended nostril bounded round and round the enclosure, which he could have cleared without an effort; then arched his neck, and stood a model of strength and beauty, gazing with gentle, yet fearless eye, upon the landscape—every fence of which he had taken when a-field with his companions. yet, early as it was—for no human foot-print had marked the sappy dew that clustered the luscious clover into a matted carpet-—early as it was, an aged woman stood beside the woodcutter, and questioned him as to where he was going. with pleasure as intense as had been his agony, randy looked upon her withered features; even in his boyhood days, when, like all of his country, he evinced the most extraordinary aptitude to 'fall in love' with every pretty face—never, even in those days, had he felt greater delight in the fresh beauty of seventeen, than in the clearness of vision which enabled him to count the wrinkles in the crone's face! midsummer eve! "i'm not blind !" he exclaimed, exultingly. "many a one's dark, good man, that has the sight of his eyes; but what ails ye to be here, like an eel in the grass?" "tell me this?" quoth randy, looking at her; "why is a sarpint treated with all manner of respect, when an eel, his own blood-relation, is considered only fit to be skinned?" "because," replied the woman, "the one has power and the other none; power to defend itself—power to punish an aggtessor." "i see now you have understanding," said the woodcutter, "and so, maybe you'll tell me the road to cork." "i'll guide ye that far, and welcome," she answered. randy looked perplexed. "i'd not like to be troubling an ancient lady like yourself." "you're fearful i can't walk as fast as you, maybe; but if i can't, " a fairy tale of love. why leave me behind, that's all." the little old woman trudged on towards the city dimly visible in the distance; and, though the wood- cutter plied his stick as a help to his speed, yet she, without any assistance, kept before him, leading him, not by the high road, but over hedges and through bog and morass, stopping at nothing—not even a park wall, which randy scrambled at, but could not conquer. "where are ye?" she screamed from the other side. "i'll go no farther in your track," he replied; "you're something not right! i'll go back to the high road." "then you won't reach cork in time," she answered, "and the ship will have sailed, for the wind is changing and the tide is fair; but take hold of this— 'shred of flax that ne'er was spun.' there, now—you're over; but walking is weary work," she continued. midsummer eve: "it's not much trouble to you," muttered the panting woodcutter. "oh, yes, it is a great deal of trouble. when i travel generally, i manage differently." "you can't go faster, i'll go bail," hinted randy. "but my horses can, and my will can." "oh, never a doubt have i of the will, ma'am, whatever i might have of the horses. by all accounts a woman's will would beat the kerry coach with four." "the kerry coach," she repeated, contemptuously; "why, look at it there, crawling like a snail on a sunny wall! while we—keep the line of flax in your hand, and see how we go!" then randy knew how it was, but thought it more prudent to ask no more questions; he had even an idea of making an apology, touching his want of faith; but he could not. "the mind is a wonderful thing, randy, and when you see her—as you will very soon, for there are the steeples—saint barry's—and peter's —and shandon, that one of our own poets tells you "—shines so grand on the river lee!" and now you can hear the hum of far-off voices, and the turmoil and din of a city—which i hate." "i believe it's a wicked place, sure enough," suggested randy. "the lord be praised, its little i know of it." "wicked, only because wherever there are many, there must be much bad, as well as much good," she answered; "but the one draws out the other, and though they work one against the other, still it steadies the balance—it steadies the balance," she repeated. "the world is not so bad a world, after all, if one knew how to use it—and to be useful in it; those who serve it least complain of it the most." "there's a terrible deal of poverty in it," said randy, shuddering; for the interiors of the suburban huts they passed, however rapidly, were now exposed to view, and there, squalor and misery, starvation and disease, contended and struggled with one wretched human frame after another, prostrating the strong and crushing the weak; and that within a fairy tale of love. ear-shot of traffic and its wealth, and while car and carriage rolled on in comfort and luxury. "it's happier on glena—brighter among the toomies—oh, if the breath of this pestilence should reach her," thought the woodcutter; and the little old woman turned back and scowled on him. randy jostled against one person and ran against another, yet nobody seemed to notice him. at last, he began to think he was invisible, and then remembered that he still held in his hand the "shred of flax that ne'er was spun;" the identical shred of fairy flax with which he had been drawn over the wall. this, of course, he regarded as a great treasure, knowing that by its power he could see all things—yet not be seen. had not his mind been so full of eva, it would have delighted him to prove this power; but his guide hurried on so as to give him not a moment to indulge even a fleeting propensity to see the wonders of the ' beautiful city,' as mortal -i i midsummer eve: eyes had never seen them before: and he found himself on the quay, now bustling with life, and opposite the ship in which eva and sidney were about to sail, standing beside the fleet-footed old woman who, not in the least wearied, was folded in her cloak, while he, from fatigue, could hardly stand. earnestly he gazed on the ship whose pennon floated gaily on the wind, and earnestly on another that was moving slowly out to permit the one in which eva was to embark to near the quay; this ship was newly painted, and prepared for a long voyage—an emigrant ship—and a man close to randy was extolling her fleetness and safety, to a group of those who were about to seek in a far-off country the advantages which a miserable and selfish policy denied them in their own; for what can the emigrant find—or rather seek—but the land !—waste, yet craving labour for cultivation—which he leaves idle and useless by his own cabin door at home! what, indeed, is ireland—and what are its people—but lands wanting hands and hands wanting lands? "fleet and safe!" repeated the woodcutter, in a loud voice, as he looked upon the vessel; "why she is riddled by rats; there is not a sound timber in her; she is patched and painted like an ould beauty to hide decay. never set foot in her, if you value your lives. oh, the wicked- ness of risking life in such a thing as that!" no one could tell who spoke, for randy still held the shred of flax, and the iniquitous man who was deluding the poor people stood chafing and trembling with rage and terror at the unknown voice that had trum- peted the truth, while each asked another who had told—who had spoken? the woodcutter felt relieved when he saw how sound the english packet was, and how nobly she sat the waters, like a thing of life—steady and willing to obey her helmsman; he rejoiced at this, and only regretted that she was so soon to set her sails for the other land. he stood gazing at her, forgetful of all things else, until his eyes filled with tears; he neither heeded the rushing to and fro of the people who had nothing to do but to impede those who had work to accomplish, nor the cries of the sailors as they heaved in the luggage or tugged at the ropes; nor the quarreling of the car-boys; nor the importunity of the beggars; neither did he think of the presence or absence of his guide, nor remember, when he brushed away his tears, the stem of fairy flax which he must have a fairy tale of love. woodcutter under the shadow of his roof. and as to clothes, master sidney, sure you set me up for ever with the clothes. i've so much of them that it's a throuble to count them; so take it sir—my little gatherings ever since she was born, sir; odd bits of money—i hid them for her in a hole in the ould gable. i never thought them mine to use —sure haven't the sense to know what to do with money. oh, master sidney, it isn't the pride that makes you turn from poor randy's offering! sure, when i'd get a tester or a tenpenny, all the joy i'd have would be, like an ould magpie, letting it drop into the hole and hearing it chink — thinking that as she grew oulder she'd have the sense to use it. och, machree! when the earth is dry, it drinks the drop of dew as eagerly as the shower! look, if ye won't have it i'll fling it into the sea—i'll never carry it back to its ould place. oh, if i have been true and faithful, lighten my heart, avourneen, and don't kill it with cowldness!" randy's plainness and earnestness wrung sidney's heart; he took the extraordinary-looking receptacle of his wealth, determining to appro- priate it for his benefit, for he knew the tenderness and generosity of the poor fellow's nature. the woodcutter little thought, that out of her small store, eva had left a provision for him, in case of his illness or destitution, to the almonry of the parish priest. and now the packet left the quay, amid the smiles and tears of those on shore and those on board, threading her way, amid the pathless windings of the glorious lee, that by a royal lavishing of nature's bounties, perplexes the stranger-ships that seek her harbour, to judge which of her many beauties is to be admired the most; while those whose sails are set for foreign ports, go forth with the knowledge that, steer where they may, they can see nothing amid the nations of the world surpassing in loveliness the loveliness they leave behind. randy still stood upon the deck, for the captain had said, "let him go as far as cove, young lady; the poor fellow looks like a follower of the family, and can as quickly find his way back from cove as from cork." randy could not speak his thanks, only again and again entreated eva to tell him what he could do for her; being near her, hearing her voice, and crouching in her shadow, had dispelled all the fancies that midsummer eve i lip, as he watched the light feathery clouds, tinged with the deepest rose colour, that scudded over the heavens, until the whole expanse was flooded with vapour, which, as the hues faded, seemed to cling together closely and more close; how sidney joyed in the effects—the light and shade—the gorgeous colouring — canopying the deep-toned waters — sketching with a clear eye and truthful hand the outlines of the clouds, rapidly changing as they were, comparing them to sights he had seen abroad, and pouring with right enthusiasm into the ears of his fair bride tales of the wonders that nature teaches her true worshippers. she heard not the wind that followed fast, nor noted how the ship's speed increased, nor how the captain stood as if the sea world was his home, triumphing in the ease with which his vessel rose and glided into the deeps of waters now heaving themselves into waves. nothing in sea- craft could be more perfect than the graceful motion of the ship; every portion working together in the stiffening breeze, as if courtesy, not necessity, bowed her over the billows. "it is magnificent!" said eva, as she turned once more to gaze upon the heavens. "and you fear nothing?" inquired the captain. "nothing." "by jove!" said the good sailor, when he returned from the cabin, "that lady's smile would quell a tempest." as the night advanced, the storm gathered down upon the waters, but not so fiercely as to cause any alarm for the safety of the ship, while the good seamanship of her com- mander, and the steadiness of his crew, convinced sidney, that, despite the increasing gale, they could weather it bravely—if they kept the open sea; and when he assured eva ' all would be right,' she but smiled at his supposing she entertained a doubt. her fellow-passengers already looked to her for hope: at first, whenever the ship laboured in the trough of a heavy sea, they screamed violently; but eva's self-possession by degrees communicated itself to them, and they were tranquillized—talking in whispers; but when, at intervals, the pale lightning flickered through the cabin, they crowded closely together, like affrighted sheep, while keeldar vented his apprehensions in low moanings. sometimes a lull would come, and it was hoped the storm was passing off; but after one x a fairy tale of love. of those 'lulls' it increased so as to make stout hearts quake with fear. the impending clouds were so highly charged with the electric fluid, that wreaths of are sported around the gallant ship, which, nothing daunted, maintained its power, and rode upon the waves like a war-horse over a field of battle. the scene became too awful to excite so tranquil a feeling as admiration; but, at the moment when the captain exulted in the strength and bearing of his vessel, and congratulated himself on the good seamanship that had so ably and quickly prepared for the rattling gale, the lightning struck the heel of the main-topmast, and from thence rushed like a fiery serpent down the body of the mast, which it crushed and shivered into splinters, shattering the stout iron hoops, into small pieces, which, driven fore and aft, sprang into the foaming surge. the scene was awful beyond description; nothing pictured or imagined could equal its reality; amid the elemental strife the stricken ship, heaving in its agony, showed like a pyramid of fire, as though some bright volcano had been cast forth from the dungeons of these dark yawning waves to affright the ocean and the heavens. every object, every straining cord and madly flapping sail, the very features of the terror-stricken crew, transfixed in various attitudes, were visible each to the other; the thunder rolled away in triumph; the darkness that succeeded, awful as it was, was a positive relief; men could not breathe till then; the vessel reeled violently, then shivered like a living thing in a paroxysm of ague. there was a lull—a pause—a fearful moment of silent horror; so long—it seemed an eternity concentrated into an instant. "now, god protect us, we are struck by lightning! struck—but not crushed!" this was whispered in the darkness of that terrible moment. who but eva thought of consolation then? "we are lost!" exclaimed a voice, loud and distinct in its terror. "he who said so, deserves to be so," shouted the captain. "cut away the wreck of the mast; there is stout life in the good ship yet." "the fireball has gone right through her, sir," exclaimed the mate, as another flash of lightning showed his ghastly face to his officer. "well, sir," was the cool reply, "and what of that? i have had a ball through my body, and yet—i am here." "brave heart!" exclaimed sidney; "we shall be saved!" _ midsummer eve: "i will not cling to you or impede your movements," said eva to her husband; "but will go anywhere, or do anything you tell me." the pitching and rolling of the ship prevented her words from being heard; but sidney saw her face, pale yet calm, and could trust her then, when death with life was struggling for the mastery. no time was lost; each hand was ready, each heart true; what men could do was done; the deck was cleared, the pumps were rigged and got to work, and several of the people were left between decks, to hoist up and heave overboard whatever they could manage. had 'the swift' not been struck, she would have had little difficulty in weathering the gale; but her main-mast gone, the water gaining in the hold, despite all efforts at the pumps— one of which had become disabled—she was left completely at the mercy of a heavy sea; and though the thunder had ceased, and the lightning no longer, with bitter mockery, exhibited their danger in its varied and lurid lights, they looked in vain for a break in the black and stormy clouds that poured upon them, and seemed to some as if collected to hide their perils from the compassionate eye of providence. sidney was prompt to assist and prudent to advise. eva's influence increased with the peril; "god," she said, " was with them," and so great was her command over the feelings inseparable from a woman's nature, that the captain did not hesitate to tell her their only chance now was to run for land. "we shall lose our all," said sidney; "but we may save our lives— your casket, dearest?"— "it is gone," she answered, calmly; "i heard them say the passengers' luggage was overboard." sidney could be of little further service; he twined his arms round eva, and felt that her heart did not beat more quickly than usual: half an hour of intense anxiety, crowded as it was by the past and future, crushed years into moments. "it cannot be," he said, "that god will cut off our young lives thus in the summer of the year and of our age!" "and if it were, dear heart!" she answered, "what do we fear? a plunge into that gulf to wake in heaven! but, sidney, trust me, we shall have a far longer struggle with life, nor know the perfecting of immortal love so soon!" it seemed, as she spoke, that there was a lessening of the storm; but in the distance they saw the fatal foam a fairy tale of lovr. wreath, telling of rocks and shoals that guard the land. the captain ordered the boats to be lowered, and said how thankful they ought to be that the drenching rain had extinguished the fire, which otherwise must have destroyed them in their sudden terror; the jolly boat was hoisted on the lee side, and afterwards the other boats on the booms were got into the water; but the sea ran so high that it was with difficulty they were prevented from being stove alongside, and one was instantly drawn under and sunk; this too with the water gaining fearfully and the ship tumbling on towards the shore; the captain gazed on the fearful breakers and endeavoured to change the course of the doomed ship, so as to turn a point and run her for a bay where there might be comparatively still water, and safety obtained on a rock, which was never covered even at high tides; breathless anxiety stilled every lip; while the breakers foamed and frothed around the spiral rocks that stood up dark and frightful in the grey light, which a dense haze prevented from brightening into morning; the faithful vessel worked strongly in the current, zealous to serve her commander's will to the last. how the poor thing laboured! a wreck of the noble craft that had queened it over the sunny waters of the previous morning; how heavily she rose and fell, now drifting helpless, then, by an effort, still struggling to obey the helm that creaked and groaned like the weathercock in the old gable. "one more such plunge," mut- tered sidney, "and we are in still water;" what a moment it was; men bent and laboured for their lives; others seemed transfixed, paralysed, as they shrunk from the fierce dark crags which overhung their course. on a sudden, a sunk rock that projected under water, considerably below the limits of the visible point, struck the bow of the ship; instantly, she swung round—her head cleared, but her stern coming on the rock, struck repeatedly, and the sea being very heavy, her rudder broke away, and all her works aloft were shivered; for a moment, helpless as she was, she forged off, but at the same instant ran upon another rock, the sea breaking over her; a half-suffocated cry of despair arose from the deck; several persons were washed overboard; the confusion of a death-struggle succeeded; but the captain never for an instant lost his presence of mind; some cried, "the boats—the boats," and seemed about to rush into them, as they tossed about half-full of water, knowing that the ship could not midsummer eve: long hold together; if there were any means of getting on the reef, the captain knew there was still water on the other side; but the breakers lashed the ship furiously, and dashed in a fearful gully between it and the reef; it was impossible, the most daring thought, to attempt, short as it was, to cross it; no one for an instant supposed they who had been washed overboard could clamber the precipice; the fog was evidently clearing off, the light increasing, and the ship did not pitch as unceasingly, shaking rather when the surge dashed over her; at last, they heard a hail from the reef, and, much to their astonishment, they saw the figure of one of their crew—he was saved! he made signs to them to throw him a rope lower down, and descended with an ease which proved him unhurt to a point where a rope might be secured; every moment increased the danger of those who clung to the ship; if she got off the 'spike,' upon which she was as it were impaled, she must instantly settle and sink: every effort was made to fling a rope across, but in vain—one bold-hearted fellow offered to carry it through the surge. a plunge, and he struggled midsummer eve: the movements of his head, as he struggled onwards. again eva en- couraged him, and all felt the influence of her voice. eagerly at last the sailor grasped the rope, and waved his arm in triumph; but the dog would not yield up his charge. "it is the glove he wants," exclaimed eva, in agony. the captain put his trumpet to his mouth. "give him the glove." there had been a fierce and determined wrestling between the man and the dog; but it ceased at once. the sailor clambered to the nearest ledge, the rope coiled round his arm, while keeldar, unable to shake the water from his coat, shut his teeth firmly on the glove. still the waves rolled on, though the gale abated. the sailor on the reef made fast his rope; but it had been injured in its progress, and was unequal to much weight. doing as he was ordered, the little cabin boy coiled one of great midsummer eve. safely lodged in the few cabins that skirted the coast, eva, still the guardian angel of those whose weakness required encouragement and aid, and sidney active everywhere to remedy in part the misfortunes of the night. "you have not lost your sketch-book," said eva; "some day you will immortalise the clouds that last night beguiled us by their beauty!" "my own dearest," he replied, looking mournfully upon her; "that and poor randy's purse are all our wealth." "sidney, the mine is not exhausted so long as the ore is there!" "but the means may be wanted to work it." "never, while the will and health remain! i could chide you, dearest, for a distrustful word or look, living as we are, memorials of god's mercy. i did hope to have eased your toil by the contents of that casket, which now, perhaps, the fishes look upon with wondering eyes: but it was not to be; it is i who should grieve, seeing that i come a burden to you; and yet i do not! this is indeed a new world, but none the less to be desired. i have still some few jewels, and one above them all, that never tines—hope! faith in the future—born of the past!" ' tj «j. nnel i'-atna, r.s a. engrivej by h. ltiataa. the struggle foh like. part the tenth. ll like a dream it is," said eva to her husband, as, 'the daylight done,' in london, they sat at the open window of their apartment, looking to where they knew the sun had set, without fei: discovering a lingering tint of colour on the dense atmosphere—thick and grey from the v vapours of congregated multitudes: "all like a . dream, it is," she repeated; "the brief, yet eventful, past of our young lives—the fearful wreck—the most merciful preservation—the loss of our little store; and yet this later darkness serves but to render still more bright the tender help, the affectionate interest, shown and expressed towards us. what is so dear as human sympathy!" "true," answered sidney; but the word came coldly from his lips. "and," she added, "the prosperity that will be sure to follow!" sidney neither spoke nor sighed, but he shuddered, or made some movement, which caused eva to pause; and while pushing back the abundant hair that clustered on her husband's brow, she whispered, "dearest, you are fevered with over work." "i am not working now, sweet eva." a midsummer eve: "nay, but you are; it is not only while you hold the pencil, giving palpable existence to the creations of your mind—it is not only then you labour. i know you better, my own dear one! you look, even at me, with a vacant eye! seeing beyond, or turning in your gaze to what is spread so richly on the broad table-land of your great heart." "it is the only table i have to spread," he answered, smiling bitterly. "that table will supply others in good time," was the bright reply; "and even if it did not—if still the furnishing of our earthly feastings and trappings be as scanty as—as—it must be—for awhile — i could welcome its continuance, with you, for the immortality you must win— hereafter! i could not have knit my heart to a reputation that would have crept into its grave—nothing doing—nothing done! had you inherited a fortune, your course, as well as your duties, would have been different; then, as now, having the great power to will—which is, indeed, the right to conquer. but, sidney," she continued, in a voice of reproving tender- ness, "all my eloquence is thrown away upon you. come, we will go on a voyage of discovery, and meet our old companions—air and freedom— amid trees which the late showers have enriched with verdure." "no, not this evening," he answered; "there is something i want to sketch, and you have been out to-day." "but not keeldar—keeldar has not been out; not had his walk— poor keeldar!" and the dog aroused himself with a shake from beside the easel, looking more wearied than he would have done after a day's hunting on glena; the deep-toned grey about his muzzle and ears had become lighter; he seemed dusty, and his eyes were heavy. "keeldar wants a walk," continued his mistress; and the dog again shook himself, and gave a low hollow bark; then standing on his hind legs, sniffed out of the open window, gazing with a haughty air at the chimney-pots. "they are not trees, old friend. do come, sidney!" the artist answered only by a kiss, and prepared to do as eva requested. it was a very delight to see how quickly she prepared for the purposed walk. how, with playful earnestness, she smoothed with her soft hand the ruffled silk of her husband's hat, and drew forth the fingers of his gloves. "there never was a better valet!" she observed, pulling down a wrinkle in the carefully kept coat—" this temporary discomfort, a fairy tale of love. sidney, has increased my knowledge; our single room is as well ordered as though attended by a dozen kittys. i can clean a palette! mix a salad! pleat a frill! my hands are all the stronger for the exercise; and when i get a harp, i shall ring out right bravely those chords, which, if you remember, baffled my fingers so provokingly once." "nothing baffles you," replied sidney; but his voice was sad— "nothing! you look poverty in the face, and bid it welcome with a smile." "and did it ever vanish at a frown? is there not a scripture—i read it this very morning—which says—i forget the exact words, but their spirit ran, ' shall we receive good from his hand, and shall we not receive evil also!' hope is the birthright of immortality. surely, even the murky world wherein we now exist was never made for misery; if we think it so, we make it so! the harder the struggle, the greater the given strength. one moment more—i will set our little supper ready against our return; the radishes look so bright in this glass of sparkling water; and you praised my choice of this cheese a week ago; now, master sidney, am i not worthy to be an artist's wife does not that little round table, with its snow-white cloth, relieved by the green leaves and glowing red, make a charming foreground to that lovely picture on the easel, and the deep back-ground of two old chairs, and the worm-eaten cabinet—which kitty would call a kitchen press ?—the poor lay figure looks sulky in the corner, ever since i took its place; but it adds to the picturesque of our little scene; and so does your dusky painting-gown, and that maroon curtain—not to catalogue the odds and ends of armour, and much pictorial rubbish! now, let us go, dearest, or keeldar will begin to bay; he has been up and down stairs already, and may disturb that sick lady on the second floor below us, whom no one ever sees." "i saw her once," replied sidney—" i forgot to tell you; it was while you were repeating poetry—(for, as yet, your memory is our only book, save one)—when you sat to me yesterday. she came up the stairs, opened the sliding window just outside the door, and then half-entered, listening while you spoke, shaking her finger at me, to keep me silent." "how strange!" said eva, rejoicing within herself, as they de- scended the tedious stairs, that his mind was somewhat diverted from its melancholy. a fairy tale of love. "are you sure you want it for food " inquired sidney, as his fingers wandered amongst the few 'halfpence' that were in his pocket—hard to find! the man muttered no thanks, but pointing to where the spirit pest-house displayed its coloured poisons through panes of costly glass, waved the coin in exultation as he dashed into the door, exclaiming, "now i shall have gin!" a young fragile woman, lingering on the threshold, staggered to eva, and gazing in her face, whispered—" you give to bold beggars like him, while you, lady, and such as you shrink from such as i; and yet a kind word would have saved me once. god bless you!" she continued, following a little behind, and not heeding keeldar's growl; "i think you would help me now, if you could—i am not drunk, nor am i starving; but i am heart-broken." eva gave her the smallest of silver coins, and while she clung more closely to sidney's protecting arm, she spoke a few words of mingled counsel and kindness, which left the unfortunate flooded in tears. "it's long since i heard such music as that voice," she muttered to herself, as they passed on; "and i'll keep this for a token; it may do me good." "if our natures were such that we could distil happiness from the comparative misery of our fellow creatures," said sidney, as they enjoyed the twilight beneath the noble trees of hyde-park, "we ought to be happy, for we see many to whom our position would be positive prosperity; and yet we do not know all their trials." "nor their consolations," added eva—" when we lost all except poor randy's treasure, and were shivering among the rocks of a stranger land, how deserted and desolate must we have appeared; and yet what a world of happiness existed within ourselves!" "that is quite true," replied sidney; "we did enjoy a world of happiness; we were so full of hope; but ever since our arrival here, one disappointment has followed another; i do not know that circumstances are worse than before i went to rome, but i had just cause to expect they would be better; and then i suffered alone and did not feel it so bitterly—my greatest trial, dearest, is knowing what you endure." "you exaggerate that endurance; truly, i suffer nothing, except from the shadows of those clouds that pass at intervals over your spirit, and which time will soon dispel; you have lost your best friend by death, not a fairy tale of love. periled neither by poverty nor prosperity; if sidney could have been happy in a desert, she could have been happy with him—he was her universe. faith, which is the stronghold of hope, never forsook her, not even when she thought that sidney grew thin and worn, and—worse than both—restless and uncommunicative. she spoke to him of this during their homeward walk, and chid so gently, that reproof struck upon his ear like praise; and he promised to amend, and cast his moodiness away; and his spirits were refreshed, simply by the communion of her gladsome nature. they agreed they would endure patiently, and labour together hopefully—she, with the ready thought and willing hands that work with circumstances, not against them—he, in his noble calling, promising her again and again, that never more would he lock up his feelings from her inspection. nothing during their walk had changed their condition, and yet his sorrows were half gone; he sprang up the attic stairs, feeling a load removed from his crushed heart, simply by her words and sweet companionship. silence is the canker of sorrow, and once the prescribed subject had been entered on, he wondered why he had not poured forth his thoughts long before; he could hardly account for his revived spirits. "after all," said eva, when they had returned, "there is a magic in the name of home; if the room were half its size, i should cling to it as a sanctuary; it has a fine clear north light—the painter's delight." "and see, eva," added sidney, while she sought the materials for striking a light; "there is a veritable moonbeam; it seems astray here, not knowing where to rest; and at this moment there is a fine effect of shadow." "yes," she answered, smiling, though in darkness; "cast by that tall chimney-pot; fancy it our dear old gable; and that cat, whose eyes are glittering upon us from those tiles, the ancient owl down, keeldar; did you never see a cat before, that you set your bristles at it." the candle was lit, and its inmates formed a strange contrast to the odd, yet picturesque, appearance of the chamber; the light gave an unearthly, yet most angelic, effect to eva's beauty. "i wish i could fasten that expression on your picture, dearest," he said, turning to the easel, where he had placed a small portrait he had taken a fancy to paint: the easel was there—the portrait gone! sidney uttered a loud excla- midsummer eve: him. 'send that,' he says, when he was straggling back again; 'send that little history to the darlint in london, who fed me and mine many a day; send her that,' says he, 'to rise her heart!' and these were his words: — * some of the flowers of the trees thought they'd petition the snow not to fall upon them in winter, but come in the summer, when it would melt while falling. 'you keep us back,' said the flowers, ' wrap- ping the earth in your cold shroud; come in the summer, and you will then refresh, and not blight, us.' 'foolish things!" answered a snow-flake that trembled like a feather on the impatient bud of a white-thorn tree. 'it is i who protect you from the bitter cold of winter, and who give you strength to enjoy the beautiful summer: all things in season are best.' so when the weeks danced into the months, and the sun sent his heat into the flowers, and the shadows fainted upon the grass, the blossom of the white-thorn tree reproached a sunbeam that trembled on its leaves. where were you in the keen cold weather, when you were wanted ' it questioned; 'where?' 'what matters that to you,' answered the sun- beam; 'if i told you where i was you would be none the wiser. i am here now. was not the tree, you grow out of, once a small seed ; and has it not increased and prospered, been heated and cooled by the power that sends me, in due season, a messenger of heat and brightness into your very heart? the snow told me of your murmurings last winter, and now i shall have to tell the snow of your murmurings this summer: a pretty world we should have of it if every flower chose its own season?' 'i shall drop before my time,' sighed the blossom, 'that is impossible,' answered the sunbeam; "poor silly thing! can't you understand that the snow and i could not meet together. i should destroy its usefulness, and it would destroy mine; each in its turn; and that's the way of nature! —each in its turn, and all for good !'" "each in its turn," repeated eva in her own mind: "each in its turn—joy and sorrow—and sorow and joy; i had a vision of them once, chasing each other round the globe, as it turned, while the stars twinkled in the firmament; first the one and then the other paused for a moment before me, and methought the tears of sorrow expanded my heart more than the smiles of joy. beautiful both—and wisdom-giving! the cricket sung a true song: each in its season—and all for good!" a fairy tale of love. well and earnestly did sidney labour; and some of the very happiest hours of eva's life were spent in watching how his mind enriched the canvas — calling into existence the noblest forms, and adding to their development, by each touch of his vigorous pencil, some new beauty or stronger character. it was wonderful how every creature in that house of many inhabitants loved her: the lame child of the widow, to whom it belonged, would climb up the stairs, and, knocking against the door with its lean fingers, entreat to be allowed to do something for her. careful she was, even of a flower, tending the fading plants of her poor landlady so diligently, that the old leaves regained their colour, and the young ones sprouted forth all fresh and green beneath her charge. the lark, whose dingy cage had cracked beneath the sun, renewed its life under the shadow of the leaves she spread around it: and enjoying, poor thing! the freshness of the sod her charity bestowed, sung until tears quivered upon eva's cheek. she sought out misery, and prayed within walls that had never before heard the voice of prayer! her step was the music of many a sick-room; and never was her birth-gift more palpable than during this time of bitter trial. she was still 'loving and being beloved.' some- times (but that must have been pure imagination) she heard the murmur of bees, and scented the perfume of flowers, as if borne by a passing breeze across her brow; and in her absence small household duties would be performed, as if by invisible hands; and, in winter, when flowers become the luxuries of the wealthy, who would hardly notice them in the time of their abundance, she would find some beside her work; and sidney often perceived his palette set and his brushes washed when eva declared she had neither touched the one nor the other. how did these things come about? perhaps randy could have told. but eva had stern realities to deal with. like all persons of great talent, sidney was discontented with his own labours. he had 'looked' at the old mighty ones—not to imitate, but to emulate; and it might be, that their strength was beyond his grasp, though not beyond his aim. this frequently dispirited the artist; and so intent was he on bringing up his picture to the ideal of his conception that he would destroy the labour of a week, if any new thought—or a thought fresh set—suggested a better working out of his subject. as the spring advanced, sidney became more a fairy tale of love. and while he moved noiselessly in the darkness, fearing to awake her who watched his motions through the dim, dim twilight of the little chamber, filling the atmosphere with the most earnest prayer-breathings that ever passed from the depths of woman's love to the throne of him who hears unspoken emotions, as though a trumpet told them to the heavens, the devotional feeling, inseparable from truly great minds, by degrees softened and soothed his disturbed nature, until unconsciously they prayed together—each for the other—in silence and in darkness; and eva would hear him listening lest she were disturbed by those half-breathed prayers. a little longer, and their necessities had grown so urgent that every trinket—every small luxury—had disappeared; but eva did not murmur, for sidney never missed them. sometimes he would talk wildly about his hopes; at others, sink down beside his easel in a sleep so un- refreshing and disturbed that his wife would abridge it. the picture was his great stimulus, and he revived to fresh exertion. at length it was sent to the academy—not finished as he intended it should have been, for painting in and painting out retarded his great purpose. but eva thought, notwithstanding, that it would attract the world. poverty in england was then denied all access to high works of art; but she would look at the pictures in the shop-windows, and return with increased faith in the greatness of her husband's conceptions. a long period of uncertainty and suspense elapses between the reception of the works at the academy and their exhibition, during which the painters have no means of knowing their fate—whether they will be received or rejected it is not in their power to ascertain. the sufferings of the artist at this period can better be imagined than described. his struggle was great and unconquerable; he had resolved what to do if this effort failed, and if his health were not shattered in the contest; a fear, too, would sometimes come with others that trooped through the throbbings of his brain—a fear that his thoughts too often did battle with circumstances rather than with himself; for he was a just man—just and true, or eva could not have loved him. when we consider these things, and how his frame was worn by sickness, there was a noble greatness in his silence. things of love and tenderness grow tenfold in the imagination; and so do things of terror. sidney would have given much to recall the picture, to satisfy himself upon particular a fairy tale of love. suddenly folded her in his arms, exclaiming, "eva, eva! what is to become of you!" she soothed him with the gentlest words and holiest hopes; and at last he slept. when assured of this, she propped up a box upon their two remaining chairs, and commenced writing to one whose sympathy with suffering was known to her. a terrible feeling urged her to this. if her husband died from false pride, should she not be his murderer? she wrote on rapidly, until the last, and then she questioned how she could sign their name—his name to such a document. his name, which in less than two short weeks (so ran her thoughts) would be midsummer eve: blazoned to the world as that of the 'great artist.' she paused— would not a feigned name answer? "i cannot write a lie nor shame his name," she murmured. she gazed hopelessly round the room—she knew there was nothing disposable within the box, yet she raised its cover; it fell from her fingers—the hollow sound told of its emptiness, and with a shudder she looked towards the mattrass on which sidney lay, fearing he had awoke;—not so; he slept soundly. she pressed her head within her hands, tightly—and sinking gradually on her knees, her long hair covering her, as with a shroud, she prayed, though no sound escaped from her heaving bosom, no sighs accompanied her abundant tears ;—she prayed the strengthening and refreshing prayer of an earnest and pure heart; then rising, she tore the note into the smallest fragments, which fell like snow upon the dark boards. again she wrote—necessity conquering pride, but not stooping to beggary. it was to the old officer— a little — a very little she required for the present, just to give them food, and procure him medical advice—that was all. the first day's exhibition over, and immortality was sure to follow. this was finished, and she thought she would take it to the post and return before sidney awoke. as she descended—outside the old woman's door a glittering guinea, dropped on the stairs, arrested her attention. never before had gold shone so brightly in her eyes; never before had such a grim host of skeletons floated around her; never before had such whisperings— tales of those who had died of hunger—not in the wilderness, but amid the busy traffic of the city's life—suggested the duties owed by self to self, to her throbbing ears. she pushed the coin away with her foot; it rang out—what awful music to the famishing is the sound of gold! she picked it up; it felt like molten lead. what was it that quivered in her bosom — that made her shut her hand close, close upon it, when the lame child's footstep sounded in the passage, three stories down? she knocked at the old woman's door, it was instantly opened; there was a brightness about the beldam's face, almost unnatural; her eyes shone like stars beneath her wrinkled brows. "is this yours?" inquired eva. the old creature pointed, with averted face and quivering finger, to a table on which there were several of the same glowing coin. eva laid it down mechanically, and turned away with a relieved heart, and yet a fairy tale of love. hungry and penniless. that had been a heavy day! keeldar—the noble brute—disdained to ask for food, but laid apart, rugged and scraggy, with half-shut eyes. as the evening advanced, sidney became much worse. passing down the stairs, eva asked the old woman to watch for a little by his side. she walked rapidly from street to street, until she arrived at the door of a well-known physician. she knocked—he was not at home. she said she must see him, and would wait. the servant showed her in as if she were a duchess, and a lovely child, who had seen her cross the hall, immediately entered, creepingly, and, climbing upon her lap, insisted on sharing its cake with its new friend. the physician soon followed—a man of few words and grave; and when the door was closed —" sir," said eva, "i am come to ask you to visit my husband, who is, i fear, very ill,—but stay, sir; we are too poor to pay you now; will you trust a stranger's honesty to do so hereafter?" the good man rang the bell, ordered back the carriage he had just quitted, and drove her home. the old woman had been faithful to her trust; more than faithful, for a judicious supply of refreshment was on the table. eva turned to thank her; she had disappeared. the physician said but little —" quiet of mind and body, perfect repose—nothing to agitate or disturb." "you hear, dearest," whispered eva, as she bent over his pillow. "i will try," he replied; and the tone of his voice was greatly calmed; he looked into her eyes with his old look of tranquil love. "he is already better," she murmured. "i will come again to-morrow," said the doctor; "and you must not be too proud to borrow more than advice from your physician." he inquired his patient's name? "sidney herbert." "herbert!" repeated the good doctor. "herbert! the herberts are curious in christian names. i wrote a -prescription for one poor fellow to-day—a hopeless case. how unequally the world's goods are divided!" eva was, indeed, the physician's debtor for more than advice; and though, for some time, a low wasting fever had ascendancy over sidney, i a fairy tale of love. "and perhaps get you a harp," suggested sidney, obeying the sugges- tion of his taste rather than his judgment. "and our dear physician; only see all the good we have learned of human nature in our poverty. but you must sleep now, my own dear one," and kneeling devoutly, side by side, they prayed together, the same thoughts, the same words, and slept. only once when eva awoke she fancied she heard her aged neighbour again sobbing bitterly. "did any one ever see a lady so beautiful as our lady, mother?" inquired the lame boy," as he gazed after eva the next morning. sidney fancied she was leaning on his arm, but truly she managed to sup- port him, as pale, and bent, and feeble, he, notwithstanding, walked rapidly on. eva and sidney walked quickly along oxtord street, but were obliged to pause at the crossing to let a pompous funeral go past. it moved midsummer eve: slowly; the hearse heavy with plumes; the mourners in trappings of the deepest woe—all, except their features! they expressed no sadness! the eloquence of death made no impression on them; they kept time to the horses' tread, and that was all. some private and mourning carriages followed. "we shall not be among the first," exclaimed the impatient sidney; they crossed; another mourning carriage was passing; they were recog- nised by one of its inmates—it was the physician; he thrust his arm out of the window. "god bless you," he said, and every feature of his kind face was lit up with pleasure; "i give you joy, with all my heart." "i daresay," whispered eva to her husband—" i daresay he has heard the picture is well hung." "you speak, dearest, as if you were certain it was admitted." a light, light laugh, such a one as had often echoed through the dove- cote, followed this observation. on they went. "you are looking pale, dearest," said eva; "shall we call a coach?" a fairy tale of love. - "you require it more than i do, my own kind love;" he answered; "but i fear we cannot spare so much." "i have three shillings." "the admission two, and the catalogue one." "but you will get in free—have your card for the season, sidney." he beckoned to a passing carriage, and the manner in which he threw his wearied frame upon the cushions proved how much he needed rest. they alighted in the strand; crowds of persons were hurrying for- ward; the joy-bells of the churches were ringing merrily; every person seemed to them in holiday dress. together they passed beneath the portal of the once palace of the proud somerset; pausing for a moment and looking at each other. eva fancied sidney became paler than usual; but she could not be certain; her head swam round, and motes—strange tiny forms—floated between her and him. she could not have defined her feelings; they were already of mingled hope and despair. she saw clearly enough that the 'elect' walked confidently in, knowing they were 'well hung'—they had touched upon their pictures, a grace only accorded to those whose station and knowledge in art ought not to require such a privilege. she rejoiced in the happiness of others; but she wished that sidney had the same certainty! she pressed bis arm more closely to her side; he did not tremble, but she felt that he breathed earnestly, as if nerved for trial, and she dared not look at him again. numbers who pressed forward were haggard and care-worn; brows of noble mould, wrinkled by anxiety, not age, contracted over eyes filled with fire—blazing it out in discontent; some, again, with compressed mouth, so rarely defeated—men who shape their own fortunes; others whose frank features were changed into recklessness by disappointment; numbers, bitter thinkers, who mistook a desire to paint for the power to do so; all these mingled with the visitors, some loving art for its holy self; others for its fashion; others, again, because the exhibition passed away time—that great material of the skilful workman! sidney asked for a catalogue; the good-natured porter (one who was a truer friend and worthier patron of artists than many a high-born lord) expressed his regret that all he had were sold; he would have a fresh supply in a few minutes. eva suggested they should not wait—they would g midsummer eve i be sure to see it. they ascended the steep stairs, sidney paler than ever, and suffering much fatigue from the ascent. some whom he had known met him; but so changed did he seem to them that they did not speak, wondering if it really were sidney, and where he had found that lovely wife, who seemed unconscious of the admiration she excited. at any other moment sidney and eva would have hung over the beauties that were illumined by the matchless pencil of lawrence; they would have appreciated the creations of wilkie; the magnificence — nature's true magnificence of turner; but, to eva, all appeared a mass of gilding and colour, with no more distinctness than a child's hand gives to the transient forms of the kaleidoscope — the one picture was stamped upon her mind: it was not there! none could picture her feelings—more vivid, but hardly as intense as those of her husband: his bitter disappointment burned into her brain; the insult offered, as she at that moment believed—premeditatedly—roused her indignation. she then remembered the promises she had made to those who had entreated for the little she owed them; they struck upon her heart, with the dull monotonous clamour of a funeral bell. sidney, in whose name she had promised, would be considered an untrue man! could he survive such an imputation! sidney! sidney to be deemed faithless to his word. she felt that her powers of sustaining such a trial were passing away. in a whirlwind of conflicting emotions, she talked, hardly knowing what she said. she sprang to the next flight of stairs after her husband; but, eager as she was, she could not equal the rapidity of his movements. "you see, you see; it is not here—nor here!" he repeated. then in a hoarse voice he added, "let us go down for a catalogue." eva followed him breathlessly, but she felt as if her heart was breaking. when they were opposite the principal rooms he paused, drew her hand beneath his arm, and bending down, whispered, "do not sink now, my own heroic wife; you have sustained me through much worse than this—when all earthly friendship was far from us: it is not so now. i am, you see, calm—calm! there may be some mistake,—bear up, eva. he who gave me such a treasure, will give me strength to keep it!—bear up, my darling—you always hoped more from this picture than i did !—bear up!" a fairy tale of love. gaining strength from his, eva muffled her face in her veil, and, clinging to his arm, they descended. "a shilling," said the porter, as he handed the catalogue. sidney could not say he had it not; but he turned away. "pay me next time," added the man—whose generous heart was in his kindly countenance. how their fingers trembled among the leaves, as a bird rustles amid the foliage that surrounds its rifled nest; eagerly they glanced over it. « h—h—h—no sidney herbert!" "sad want of room, sir; some of the very finest pictures rejected for want of room. a fine exhibition could be made of the rejected pictures," explained the kind porter, who comprehended the scene at once. sidney returned the catalogue. "the gentleman looks tired," persisted the man; "better go and sit down in the sculpture-room." neither replied; but eva's look thanked him. "there it is again," he muttered, looking after them. "i often won- der how i have stood it so long—poor things!" "you hear, sidney; some of the finest pictures have been rejected for want of room," said eva. oh, what agony was in the answering smile; what power — what eloquence — what anguish! too earnest, too intense for words. heart understood heart. never—never—never! in their long course of love, had each loved the other with such entireness of devotion as at that moment. "my eva!" he said. she felt him tremble; she hurried him to the open door. there, rushing forward, came the physician. although the mourning crape was still on his hat, his face was charged with tidings of great good. he was too full of it to impute their changed looks to more than ordinary fatigue. "i am delighted to have found you," he exclaimed; "such true homage as you have received!" before the sentence was concluded sidney fell on his shoulder—to all appearance lifeless. "i knew it would kill him," said eva, as she wildly flung herself beside her husband. "and you knew it also, doctor; you have met him dressed for the funeral—dressed for the funeral," she repeated, utterly midsummer eve: unconscious of her words and actions, or of the people who gathered round her. "it has struck her more deeply than it has him,." said the kind man; "and that at such a time!" there was solemn music, that night, in the woods of ard-flesk ; some- times a hollow rushing sound would pass above and around the castle; the mightiest trees of the forest bowed to it, and the young saplings trembled; but the sky was clear, and the stars were bright—the meekest daisy could look up to them without closing a petal—there was something so sweet and full of charity in their gentle aspect. sometimes, the music assumed a tone of tender melody, trembling amid the leaves, and issuing from the flowers; but never once was there a strain that could be called mirthful; the waters of the beautiful river flesk were troubled, but not disturbed, and moaning sounds arose therefrom, as though they repeated, "she was ours—she was ours."—if there had been any to look into the deeps of the rapid river, they might have seen creatures shrouded in the long green weeds that tangle the limbs of the drowning, and net them to their fate! in what was called 'my lady's flower-garden,' beneath the great drawing- room of ard-flesk, and the window where, together, eva and her mother once stood, during cormac's illness, there is a lawn of exceeding beauty and verdure; and reposing as it does in a valley, old doctor magrath (who was accounted a philosopher as well as a physician) had said the lights that danced on it were phosphoric—how randy tossed his arms and laughed aloud at his wisdom! randy knew that on that same night the fairy courts held solemn meeting on the very spot. they were there now — when the fair valley, as well as the crowded city, was shrouded in darkness—all were there — all, but queen nightstar — the light, the purity, the chief grace of the fairy courts was wanting. honeybell, as usual, pouted, and declared that two kingdoms were more than she could manage; that she should rejoice when nightstar's caprice for mortal life was ended. "she had reasons," she added, with the increased dignity of mystery, "to declare it might be possible for the queen of air to appear before them very soon." this announcement was received with so much movement and acclamation by the fairy troops, that if old doctor magrath had been near them, he would have been blinded by ' phosphoric light.' a fairy tale of love. the compliment paid to their favourite queen, honeybell received as a tribute to herself, and bowed and smiled graciously. at that moment the hollow rushing sound increased; as it approached, it changed into a uni- versal wail. sighs seemed heaved from the very bowels of the earth ; the old halls sent forth groans piteous to hear ; the affrighted spirits of the woods and flowers sought refuge amid the leaves and blossoms of the earth—as the banshee floated onwards to mucross! how the deep mysterious spirit lingered about the old abbey—how its transparent outline mingled with the shadows of the material world! the owl ceased to hoot, and the bat to k midsummer eve. flap its heavy path through the murky air; the beetle folded his armour over his filmy wings, and the death's-head moth trembled on the broad- leaved ivy. what had called her forth, and why did she circle round one particular spot? why, descending slowly upon earth, did she clap her hands at intervals, and, though she cried not loudly, sob and moan that one so young should mate with the red earth worm, and be closed up—until the appointed time—in the damp and lonely grave! those who watched—if there were any brave enough to do so—might have seen the awful shadow pausing, for a brief moment, upon one of the two mounds — of earth and stone—raised above the other graves in gloomy mucross! **te. dr««o lv j. nu t !>«..„!„ li a. elgravbd wy j. w the woodcutter's visit. midsummer eve: objects, so varied and so apart, seemed concentrated by some magic power; while the dovecote, crouching amid trees, sparkled like one huge diamond, illumined from within and without—every pane of its latticed windows, every moss and stone of the old gable, distinctly visible; the very doe appeared transfixed and motionless, as if listening for some expected sound; at intervals, the crags of the reeks, touched by light, shone out against the soft grey sky; suddenly, stars of all colours sparkled among the foliage, then glittered upon the long grass, and vanished; the bells of the old gable chimed the sweetest and wildest music that ever floated through clo- ghreen; every flower poured forth a melody, so calm and soft—the very echo of a sound; and still the fairy hosts aug- mented—those of the earth and air mingling in sweetest amity. there was much state in queen honeybell's court; all her officers, and ladies, and knights, and pages, were cognizant of some great ceremony, at which the attendant troops could only guess: her bees were in per- petual motion; while she her- self was decked more gaudily than is warranted by good taste, and, more than once, she chid her husband's mirthful laughter. "our sister, nightstar," she said, "has been sojourning in the land of state-form, and has, no doubt, made herself mistress of court etiquette! i would be in no way behind her in knowledge. our poor sister is full of theories for mortals' purification; and, therefore, will the more rejoice that v_ midsummer eve i land; but as she turned towards the east, she espied the heralds of mornikg, proclaiming its presence on the hills. "behold!" she exclaimed, pointing to the fast-coming influences; "the hour is at hand: but to night, friends, true and faithful—to-night! we will again make populous these glades and halls—-to-night!—and for a purpose." where went they —fanning the air with unseen wings, leaving the trail of their brightness above the dark morass—while in a moment, oblivious of the past, the cleft-crown of mangerton and the crags of ' the reeks'—mingled in dim obscurity with the lingering clouds. the time- honoured arch of mucross cast its shadow lightly over cormac's new-made grave, spanning it as with a blessing! it swelled beside his mother's stately tomb, marked by a simple urn—recording, in compliance with his midsummer ete been troubled; the features disturbed; the lines of age and suffering broken by the tremulousness of a wandering yet tender nature. so aged, within a score of months, had he become, that twenty tranquil years would not have left such records on the lofty brow—a very tower of dreams—that rose above his closed lips! the peasants—his near neighbours and dear friends, had said—' the woodcutter's heart was breaking ever since miss eva went:' and kitty, putting in for a word of sympathy on her own account, declared * that her's was the same, only she did not show it so much.' on the midsummer morning, when sidney was to return as lord of ard-flesk—on that morning, when the cup of randy's happiness was full to overflowing, no one who had not seen him for a time could have recognised the guardian of eva raymond. he had changed into an almost spirit-likeness of his former self: the earthiness of his nature had gradually disappeared; the once stalwart woodcutter was but the shadow of his manly frame; he wandered around his early haunts almost unconsciously, gathering herbs, caressing children, succour- ing the unfledged birds if they tumbled from their nests, visiting geraldine's grave, and forgetting how minutes passed into hours, when he folded his arms, and mused upon some passage in eva's simple life, beside the whitestone well, or in the depths of the forest glades; he prayed much, but not where the peasants of the vale and mountain prayed together—not by carved cross or in consecrated aisle; he would climb the mountain to meet the rising sun, and offer his matins on its highest peak, his face turned towards england— kneeling alone, above his fellow-beings, with outstretched arms and floating hair; the shepherd boys beneath, among the crags, crouching together—in a fairy tale of i.ove. awe not fear—wondering if, in his dreariness, he sought that spot to be the nearer god! that wild prayer finished, he would hood his eyes with his hand, and bend a never-satisfied gaze towards the english coast, fancying he saw the sea and ships, created by his own imaginings; his thoughts— no matter what he did—were there. his kind friend, even in her darkest hours, wrote to him regularly a few kindly words; and he would ponder over the letters he could not read, with eyes full of unshed tears! when cormac s funeral passed to its resting place, anticipated by the joyful intelligence which the good doctor had so panted to communicate h a fairy tale of love. wild bursts of excitement in which he had formerly indulged. kitty said she could not bear to look at him, he was so unlike himself. the lark had finished her song and disappeared before randy awoke; and he might have slept longer but for kitty, who had beeen sitting, dressed in 'her best,' in the kitchen of the dovecote; the old cat—old, although a daughter of our ancient friend—purring at her feet. after enjoying awhile, in silence, the luxury of coming dignity—as housekeeper at ard-flesk—she arose and paced slowly forth to join the woodcutter. "are you going to stay there all day, randy, astore!" she said, touching him with the black oak staff she had found, ot late, a wonderful aid in the collecting of stray chickens, and a needful support to tottering a fairy tale of love. c commenced licking his hands, pausing occasionally to look into his face, with its deep, soft, hazel eyes. randy enfolded her neck with his arm, and pressed her head to his bosom, and talked to her as though she understood his words. "she's coming, avourneen deelish; she's coming! as a grand lady, they say. they think she 'll roll down the grate avenue to the shouts of the people and the noise of loud music, and bow to many a high head that will bend low to her for the first time; but they 're wrong, bright eyes! they don't know her as we do. she'll come first to the dovecote. she 'll enter it, as she always did, like a sunbeam. she 'll press the ould bible to her heart, and bend her knees beside her mother's bed—don't i know her! the devotion is in her; but not for what the world worships. she 'll rise as pure out of prosperity as she did out of the black trouble. i'll not forget it to poor kitty, that she said i had a right to the first look; and you, my dappled darling, you'll miss your randy soon; but i 'll have my turn with the rest, and spend many a moonlight in the ould places: pleasant times we 'll have of it! and yet i 'd rather stay as i am a little longer, only for the weight of clay that's round me!" and so he continued until the afternoon, talking in- coherently to every familiar bush and flower, apostrophising the old gable, and reproving the weathercock for creaking at such a time; taking no note of the sounds of music and laughter with which every breeze was freighted: nor heeding the boat-race, nor contributing a single stick to the bonfires which that night were to blaze a welcome upon every hill. "all is decked in mucross," he muttered to himself; "i did that yesterday." the intense heat of the day was passed, and randy, becoming more and more restless, stood on the mound above the whitestone well; he commanded a view of the avenue of ard-flesk; he saw the flags floating, and the noisy music jarred upon his ear. suddenly there was a heaving of the multitude; the great gates, heavy with garlands, were thrown open; the servants marshalled on the steps and along the hall, under the able direction of the late lady elizabeth's old butler; a carriage and four entered; the echoes of the eagle's nest took up the shouts, and sent them round the lakes. the carriage proceeded slowly up the avenue. randy covered his face with his hands as he descended, so that he could not see that the carriage only contained two gentlemen—the midsummer eve: london physician and the old officer; while sidney's father, who had been waiting at the entrance, turned away with an air of disappointment. randy sat on the grass bench, his fingers pressed upon his eyes, but not so closely that tears did not stream through them. had he been mistaken! had she really gone first to ard-flesk? no, no—two rough paws were on his shoulders, and keeldar's hot tongue and panting breath upon his cheek. clutching the dog to his heart, he looked in at the window—there was eva! her lips upon her mother's bible, kneeling beside her mother's bed! sidney, too, was there; pale, almost as a spectre, but with promises of health in his bright eye and erect carriage. a few moments more, and the woodcutter had his reward. "why randy—dear randy—is it you; can it be possible—is it you?" "as much as there's left of me, darling," was the plaintive reply; and then quite unable to control his feelings, he bent his head over keeldar, and wept aloud. "you will soon be quite well again, now we are returned, dear old friend," said sidney; "and we shall have gay times at ard-flesk. you shall be my prime minister, and take the same care of "and sidney whispered some words into the old man's ear. they failed to produce a smile. "she's under god's care, and needs no care of mine now, sir," he said, conquering his tears. "i knew she'd come first to the dovecote. i did not tell them, and if i had, they would not have believed me." and then he advanced, and with his fingers traced eva's features. "it can't be a wholesome place that england," he said, shaking his head; "and there's been heaviness on that brow, and tears in those eyes—often; but it's over—it's ended; prosperity and peace are met, and will remain with them!" "keeldar's bloodshot eyes rolled with sullen distaste upon the doe; he did not like her to share his lady's caresses; but he treated her rather with contempt than with ill-temper, and she did not seem inclined to renew her acquaintance with him. as the little party quitted the cottage to proceed by the woodpath to ard-flesk, eva paused to gaze upon it again. "shall i continue as happy in that lordly place," she said, "as i have been here?" midsummer eve: no sound is more magnificent than the swell of a multitude of voices sending its shout aloft, impregnating the air with the enthusiasms of the earth, until the cry is echoed through the blue vault of heaven; the people shouted, but far more touching than the shouts were the sobs, and prayers, and blessings, of eva's humble friends. she made grievous mistakes in her recognitions, speaking to the juniors as if they were the elders of a family, so that, at last, kitty, 'seeing,' as she said, ' there was no good in randy,' identified them with her staff. but eva was quickly over- powered by the scene; sidney supported her into the great oak-paneled dining-room; it was one of those rooms of sombre magnificence which are delightful to write about—to walk through—to paint—but not to live in. the paneling shone like a succession of darkened mirrors, with here and there a grim family portrait; the carvings were heavy, the enrichments of the ceiling faded, and the turkey carpet seemed as if it had gathered itself up from the polished boards; but the windows looked into the woods—the deep, deep musical woods, with their eloquent leaves and waving boughs; and the atmosphere was cool and pleasant. eva's eyes wandered from one to another of the paintings; no matter how poor, or dull, or quaint, a picture may be, it suggests something; but sidney, whose eyes were fixed on her, could not help smiling, thinking, as he did, that though she looked she saw nothing. he was mistaken. "sidney!" she exclaimed, springing forward, " sidney—look!" he was as much astonished as she was; for there, upon the walls, set in all the splendour of new gilding, hung his own picture—the picture concerning which he had never inquired since the day of his fearful disappointment in london; there it hung. he walked towards it, followed by the physician. "full of great faults," muttered the artist; "and yet for a rejected picture, not so very bad! how came it here?" the woodcutter's wild laugh made eva start. "poor randy loses his wits at times, and finds them again. the daisy looks the sun in the face; a whisper came to me over the sea, and said—one told him—he's in the churchyard now; and were you to sit by his side the length of a summer day, he would tell you nothing." "we must watch our old friend," said eva, in a whisper to her a fairy tale of love. husband; "it breaks my heart to see him thus — how wild and strange he seems." again she looked at the picture. "how it joys me to see it." sidney and eva gazed at each other for a moment—steadfastly. "what a monitor it will be!" he said. "while i was painting in that drapery" "which is as light as though a full-drawn sigh would waft it from the canvas," exclaimed eva, triumphantly. "well, while i was painting that, my arms aching from weakness, so that i could hardly hold the pencil, you sat beside me, converting the wire of an old bird-cage into chain-armour, which we were too poor to hire, to deck my hero in; you did your work, dearest, though your fingers bled!" "and these plumes, these golden goblets—an artist's gold—all on his canvas; that boy holding up the grapes, so ripe and luscious—we never knew who sent us those ripe grapes!" another wild laugh from randy again startled them both. "we toiled to seek a fitting model for that boy among the active- earning faces of the city children; there was none whose brow was free from thought—not one who smiled unconsciously! what a record it is!" persisted sidney. "what a lesson it must ever be to me! where the brightest inspirations were shrivelled by the beggar's want; and you, bright angel, shining, as angels do, more brightly in the dark! companioned .—counselled—bore with—prayed for—me i of all the gifts that corniac lavished on me, i ought to value that picture most. if pride—or arrogance —enter my bosom, that should drive them hence; if genius needs protec- tion, that recalls to me, its sufferings, and my duty." "poor randy," whispered the woodcutter, "he will soon be going; but if the lady eva were to ask her with the bright star to let him stay another year, she would." "you shall stay many years, dear old friend; do not look so wildly into the woods, randy; you shall tell me all your dreams again, and how you did battle with the kelpies for my sake." "they're gone !" he exclaimed, eagerly; "gone—not one in the whole country! sail away, queen of the lakes! there's nothing to trouble the a fairy tale of love. stand her words, but kneeling before her, as a child kneels at its mother's knee, entreated her pardon. "i might have minded better, darling, and kept more trouble from you. yet, i'd have died, any hour of the day or night, to serve you, or the mistress, or master sidney; and grand as you are now, you'll not forget the pleasant times of childhood; their innocence will come back to you, and light the dark path you'll have to take one day or other—you'll think of the pleasant times when i brought you the wood-strawberries, and the young birds, and the flowers; and hunted the children to get their learning; and nursed the fawn. you'll think of the good and forget the bad. hush!" midsummer eve: he exclaimed, half-rising. "hush! did you hear that? the first blast of the royal bugle! and now the trumpet! hush! never did such a note as that rouse the old stag on glena! there's not a lord about the place who dare ring out such a call as that!" "see how he listens, as though the echoes were reverberating in the distance," said sidney. "hush! don't speak—only look! it's no wonder i'm going blind with their brightness," he continued. "ay, in with you to the dovecote, and light it up; there's nothing to scare ye there! the first bit of the butter is on the doorpost, the crickets are fed, and the sweet mead is ready in the chiny .bowl! look, they are chaining the weathercock, and putting their spells round the old gable." "his wits have quite left him," whispered eva, as she clung to her husband. "our good physician must see to him. and now he bends low to the fancied multitude, peopling the scene with his imaginings." "salute them! salute them!" he exclaimed to eva, who saw that his excitement was increasing. "it is their welcome to the lady of ard- flesk! from the four corners of the winds—-from earth and air they gather — ah, ah! the great bee who punished the kelpie page— isn't he grate! whisht! how he booms! hornet and wasp! hang- ing spider! leaf-rolling worm! sly field mouse! and matted mildew!— have at them all, my brave ones with the golden banners! ay, ay, i forgot—it's love, not war, you're bent on now: bow to them, lady; bow when i do! it's grate honor they pay you, mavourneen deelish—grate honour intirely." eva, to humour him, did as he desired, and the old man's face became flushed with intense delight. he moved restlessly about, bowing and pushing back the hair from his fevered brow; — then, addressing the invisible world, he exclaimed— "see, fair nightstar, she bends to your goodness! bright honeybell! there's a welcome for you, as well as for her; don't be jealous, sweet honeybell! look! there is a ring on the earth, and a ring in the air! they are above us—around us; the queens bow to the lady—the lady to the queens!" for an instant he looked into eva's face. "what a fairy tale of love. large pearls are on your cheek, darlint. it isn't tears they'd be—what should tears do there now? what call have you to tears?" eva could not control her emotion. randy wandered again. "they are going! it was well done—it was well done! yes—you see i must follow. if you had asked another year when she looked at you; but it's too late now— —there's nothing for us to do when love is prosperous; nothing to do then !—you don't want prayer or blessing now from the poor woodcutter. don't you hear them calling me? not that—that's the wind! but now— ay, ay ;" and, bending reverently, he at first went slowly on, and then rushed into the thicket. "follow him, sidney," said eva. "poor faithful creature! his mind is a ruin so thickly overgrown with such sweet fancies, that to restore the one you destroy the beauty of the others. he is out of sight." "i might as easily follow the track of the red-deer," replied sidney: "we will send after him. you are almost fainting, my own dear one; i should not have suffered this." "we shall see him no more," sobbed eva. "the moment i saw him to-day, i felt that he had but tarried to welcome our return. we shall never see our faithful randy more!" the next day, and the next, witnessed troops of eager visitors crowding to ard-flesk; but they could not divert eva from her anxiety respecting her old friend. he was sought for in wood, in river, on mountain, and in valley; but in vain; and evening after evening the sweet lady of ard-flesk wept as she said, " we shall see him no more!" and the echoes caught the sound, and repeated "no more," in saddest cadence, from the eagle's nest to the purple mountain. the dovecote was preserved as a temple for repose and thought- fulness—a place of self-questioning and sacred communion with all the memories of their lives—a place wherein to keep the heart's true jubilee— holding the feasts of childhood and of age upon its lawns—distributing alms within its porch; all living things therein tasting repose and liberty. once in the deepening twilight of her birthday, eva, her first-born sleeping on her bosom, fancied she saw the woodcutter pass and repass her window; and, once—on a midsummer eve—the child to whom keeldar had transferred all the attention his extreme age permitted midsummer eve. him to pay, told his mother that a very old man, with flowing white hair, had met him in the wood, and looked at him so long, that though he was not afraid, he was glad to return to her. the peasants speak of randy, even now, as present at times— not in the flesh, but in the spirit; a sort of moving shadow, yet shadowless; they tell the children going to the mountain, that, if they are good, the woodcutter will take care that no harm shall come to them, on hill or glen—by water or wild. they say he hides the tender fawns from the foxes, and saves the young trees from the fury of the east wind; they tell of his wondrous knowledge, of the dangers which surrounded eva's childhood, and of his prophecies concerning her, whose nature, impressed by the divinity, imbibed the great and useful knowledge, that woman's true happiness — the only happiness her pure soul can taste of, unalloyed—consists in loving and being beloved. cook and co. printers, t>, fleet street, i.onilon. princeton university library - charlotte anne elizabeth moberly an adventure macmillan and co., limited st. martin's street, london glasgow: printed at the university press by kobert maclehose and co. ltd. lot a llls preface it is a great venture to speak openly of a personal experience, and we only do so for the following reasons. first, we prefer that our story, which is known in part to some, should be wholly known as told by ourselves. secondly, we have collected so much evidence on the subject, that it is possible now to consider it as a whole. thirdly, conditions are changing at versailles, and in a short time facts which were unknown, and circum- stances which were unusual, may soon become commonplaces, and will lose their force as evidence that some curious psychological con- ditions must have been present, either in ourselves, or in the place. it is not our business to explain or to understand—nor do we pretend to understand —what happened to put us into communica- tion with so many true facts, which, nine sw) . preface years ago, no one could have told us of in their entirety. but, in order that others may be able to judge fairly of all the circum- stances, we have tried to record exactly what happened as simply and fully as possible. elizabeth morison. frances lamont. publishers' note s reason the ladies whose adventure is described in these pages have for various reasons preferred not to disclose their real names, but the signatures appended to the preface are the only fictitious words in the book. the pub- lishers guarantee that the authors have put down what happened to them as faithfully and accurately as was in their power. contents chapter page i. three visits to the petit trianon ii. results of research . . . . iii. answers to questions swers to . . . . Ιοο iv. a rÊverie . erie . . . . . . i chapter i visits to the petit trianon miss morison's account of the first visit to the petit trianon august, after some days of sight-seeing in paris, to which we were almost strangers, on an august afternoon, , miss lamont and i went to versailles. we had very hazy ideas as to where it was or what there was to be seen. both of us thought it might prove to be a dull expedition. we went by train, and walked through the rooms and galleries of the palace with interest, though we constantly regretted our inability through ignorance to feel properly the charm of the place. my knowledge of french history was limited to the very little i had learnt in the schoolroom, historical novels, an adventure and the first volume of justin m'carthy's french revolution. over thirty years before my brother had written a prize poem on marie antoinette, for whom at the time i had felt much enthusiasm. but the german occupation was chiefly in our minds, and miss lamont and i thought and spoke of it several times. we sat down in the salle des glaces, where a very sweet air was blowing in at the open windows over the flower-beds below, and find- ing that there was time to spare, i suggested our going to the petit trianon. my sole knowledge of it was from a magazine article read as a girl, from which i received a general impression that it was a farmhouse where the queen had amused herself. looking in baedeker's map we saw the sort of direction and that there were two trianons, and set off. by not asking the way we went an unnecessarily long way round, -by the great flights of steps from the fountains and down the central avenue as far as the head of the long pond. the weather had been very hot all the week, but on this day the sky was a little overcast and the sun shaded. there was a lively wind blowing, the woods were looking the petit trianon beyond it. everything suddenly looked un- natural, therefore unpleasant; even the trees behind the building seemed to have become flat and lifeless, like a wood worked in tapestry. there were no effects of light and shade, and no wind stirred the trees. it was all intensely still. the man sitting close to the kiosk (who had on a cloak and a large shady hat) turned his head and looked at us. that was the culmina- tion of my peculiar sensations, and i felt a moment of genuine alarm. the man's face was most repulsive,—its expression odious. his complexion was very dark and rough. i said to miss lamont, “which is our way?” but thought “nothing will induce me to go to the left.” it was a great relief at that moment to hear someone running up to us in breath- less haste. connecting the sound with the gardeners, i turned and ascertained that there was no one on the paths, either to the side or behind; but at almost the same moment i suddenly perceived another man quite close to us, behind and rather to the left hand, who had, apparently, just come either over or through the rock (or whatever it was) that an adventure bz shut out the view at the junction of the paths. the suddenness of his appearance was some- thing of a shock. the second man was distinctly a gentleman; he was tall, with large dark eyes, and had crisp, curling black hair under the same large sombrero hat. he was handsome, and the effect of the hair was to make him look like an old picture. his face was glowing red as through great exertion,—as though he had come a long way. at first i thought he was sunburnt, but a second look satisfied me that the colour was from heat, not sunburning. he had on a dark cloak wrapped across him like a scarf, one end flying out in his prodigious hurry. he looked greatly excited as he called out to us, “mesdames, mesdames," or (“madame” pronounced more as the other), "il ne faut (pronounced fout) pas passer par là.” he then waved his arm, and said with great animation, "par ici ... cherchez la maison." i was so surprised at his eagerness that i looked up at him again, and to this he re- sponded with a little backward movement and the man said a great deal more which we could not catch. the petit trianon a most peculiar smile. though i could not follow all he said, it was clear that he was determined that we should go to the right and not to the left. as this fell in with my own wish, i went instantly towards a little bridge on the right, and turning my head to join miss lamont in thanking him, found, to my surprise, that he was not there, but the running began again and from the sound it was close beside w us. silently we passed over the small rustic bridge which crossed a tiny ravine. so close to us when on the bridge that we could have touched it with our right hands, a thread-like cascade fell from a height down a green pretty bank, where ferns grew between stones. where the little trickle of water went to i did not see, but it gave me the impression that we were near other water, though i saw none. beyond the little bridge our pathway led under trees; it skirted a narrow meadow of long grass, bounded on the further side by trees, and very much overshadowed by trees growing in it. this gave the whole place a sombre look suggestive of dampness, and an adventure own са shut out the view of the house until we were close to it. the house was a square, solidly-built small country house ; – quite different from what i expected. the long windows looking north into the english garden (where we were) were shuttered. there was a terrace round the north and west sides of the house, and on the rough grass which grew quite up to the terrace and with her back to it, a lady was sitting, holding out a paper as though to look at it at arm's length. i supposed her to be sketching, and to have brought her own camp-stool. it seemed as though she must be making a study of trees, for they grew close in front of her, and there seemed to be nothing else to sketch. she saw us, and when we passed close by on her left hand, she turned and looked full at us. it was not a young face, and (though rather pretty) it did not attract me. she had on a shady white hat perched on a good deal of fair hair that aluffed round her forehead. her light summer dress was arranged on her shoulders in handkerchief fashion, and there was a little line of either green or gold near the edge of the handker- ea the petit trianon chief, which showed me that it was over, not tucked into, her bodice, which was cut low. her dress was long-waisted, with a good deal of fullness in the skirt, which seemed to be short. i thought she was a tourist, but that her dress was old-fashioned and rather unusual (though people were wearing fichu bodices that sựmmer). i looked straight at her ; but some indescribable feeling made me turn away annoyed at her being there. we went up the steps on to the terrace, my impression being that they led up direct from the english garden; but i was beginning to feel as though we were walking in a dream,—the stillness and oppressiveness were so unnatural. again i saw the lady, this time from behind, and noticed that her fichu was pale green. it was rather a relief to me that miss lamont did not propose to ask her whether we could enter the house from that side. we crossed the terrace to the south-west corner and looked over into the cour d'honneur ; and then turned back, and seeing that one of the long windows overlooking the french garden was unshuttered, we were going towards the petit trianon ii versailles, where we had tea?; but we were neither of us inclined to talk, and did not mention any of the events of the afternoon. after tea we walked back to the station, looking on the way for the tennis court. on the way back to paris the setting sun at last burst out from under the clouds, bathing the distant versailles woods in glowing light, -valerien standing out in front a mass of deep purple. again and again the thought returned, —was marie antoinette really much at trianon, and did she see it for the last time long before the fatal drive to paris accom- panied by the mob? for a whole week we never alluded to that afternoon, nor did i think about it until i began writing a descriptive letter of our ex- peditions of the week before. as the scenes came back one by one, the same sensation of dreamy unnatural oppression came over me so strongly that i stopped writing, and said to miss lamont, “do you think that the petit trianon is haunted?” her answer was prompt, i remember that on account of the wind i put on my coat. the petit trianon three months later miss lamont came to stay with me, and on sunday, november roth, , we returned to the subject, and i said, “if we had known that a lady was sitting so near us sketching it would have made all the difference, for we should have asked the way." she replied that she had seen no lady. i reminded her of the person sitting under the terrace; but miss lamont declared that there was no one there. i exclaimed that it was impossible that she should not have seen the individual ; for we were walking side by side and went straight up to her, passed her and looked down upon her from the terrace. it was inconceivable to us both that she should not have seen the lady, but the fact was clear that miss lamont had not done so, though we had both been rather on the lookout for someone who would reassure us as to whether we were trespassing or not. finding that we had a new element of mystery, and doubting how far we had seen any of the same things, we resolved to write down independent accounts of our expedition to trianon, read up its history, and make every enquiry about the place. miss lamont an adventure returned to her school the same evening, and two days later i received from her a very interesting letter, giving the result of her first enquiries. e. m. november, . an adventure orance practically for the first time with her. we decided to go to versailles one day, though rather reluctantly, as we felt it was diverging from our plan to go there too soon. i did not know what to expect, as my ignorance of the place and its significance was extreme. so we looked up general directions in baedeker, and trusted to finding our way at the time. after spending some time in the palace, we went down by the terrace and struck to the right to find the petit trianon. we walked for some distance down a wooded alley, and then came upon the buildings of the grand trianon, before which we did not delay. we went on in the direction of the petit trianon, but just before reaching what we knew after- wards to be the main entrance i saw a gate leading to a path cut deep below the level of the ground above, and as the way was open and had the look of an entrance that was used, i said : "shall we try this path ? it must lead to the house,” and we followed it. to our right we saw some farm-buildings looking empty and deserted; implements (among others a plough) were lying about; we looked in, but saw no one. the impression was saddening, the petit trianon but it was not until we reached the crest of the rising ground where there was a garden that i began to feel as if we had lost our way, and as if something were wrong. there were two men there in official dress (greenish in colour), with something in their hands; it might have been a staff. a wheelbarrow and some other gardening tools were near them. they told us, in answer to my enquiry, to go straight on. i remember repeating my question, because they answered in a seemingly casual and mechanical way, but only got the same answer in the same manner. as we were standing there i saw to the right of us a detached solidly-built cottage, with stone steps at the door. a woman and a girl were standing at the doorway, and i particularly noticed their unusual dress; both wore white kerchiefs tucked into the bodice, and the girl's dress, though she looked or only, was down to her ankles. the woman was passing a jug to the girl, who wore a close white cap. i the woman was standing on the steps, bending slightly forward, holding a jug in her hand. the girl was looking up at her from below with her hands raised, but nothing in them. she might have been just going to take the jug or have just given it up. her light-brown hair escaped from under her b an adventure ere following the directions of the two men we walked on: but the path pointed out to us seemed to lead away from where we imagined the petit trianon to be; and there was a feeling of depression and loneliness about the place. i began to feel as if i were walking in my sleep; the heavy dreaminess was oppressive. at last we came upon a path crossing ours, and saw in front of us a building consisting of some columns roofed in, and set back in the trees. seated on the steps was a man with a heavy black cloak round his shoulders, and wearing a slouch hat. at that moment the eerie feeling which had begun in the garden culminated in a definite impression of something uncanny and fear-inspiring. the man slowly turned his face, which was marked by smallpox : his com- plexion was very dark. the expression was very evil and yet unseeing, and though i did not feel that he was looking particularly at us, i felt a repugnance to going past him. but i did not wish to show the feeling, which i thought was meaningless, and we talked about the cap. i remember that both seemed to pause for an instant, as in a tableau vivant; but we passed on, and i did not see the end. the petit trianon al best way to turn, and decided to go to the right suddenly we heard a man running behind us: he shouted, “mesdames, mesdames,” and when i turned he said in an accent that seemed to me unusual that our way lay in another direc- tion. “il ne faut (pronounced fout) pas passer par là.” he then made a gesture, adding “par ici . . . cherchez la maison.” though we were surprised to be addressed, we were glad of the direction, and i thanked him. the man ran off with a curious smile on his face: the running ceased as abruptly as it had begun, not far from where we stood. i remember that the man was young-looking, with a florid complexion and rather long dark hair. i do not remember the dress, except that the material was dark and heavy, and that the man wore buckled shoes. we walked on, crossing a small bridge that went across a green bank, high on our right hand and shelving down below as to a very small overshadowed pool of water glim- mering some way off. a tiny stream descended from above us, so small as to seem to lose itself before reaching the little pool. we then fol- lowed a narrow path till almost immediately we an adventure came upon the english garden front of the petit trianon. the place was deserted; but as we approached the terrace i remember drawing my skirt away with a feeling as though someone were near and i had to make room, and then wondering why i did it. while we were on the terrace a boy came out of the door of a second building which opened on it, and i still have the sound in my ears of his slamming it behind him. he directed us to go round to the other entrance, and seeing us hesitate, with the peculiar smile of suppressed mockery, offered to show us the way. we passed through the french garden, part of which was walled in by trees. the feeling of dreariness was very strong there, and continued till we actually reached the front entrance to the petit trianon and looked round the room in the wake of a french wedding party. afterwards we drove back to the rue des réservoirs. the impression returned to me at intervals during the week that followed, but i did not speak of it until miss morison asked me if i thought the petit trianon was haunted, and i said yes. then, too, the inconsistency of the dress and behaviour of the man with an august an adventure home was in paris came into my room, and i asked her, just on the chance, if she knew any story about the haunting of the petit trianon. (i had not mentioned our story to her before, nor indeed to anyone.) she said directly that she remembered hearing from friends at versailles that on a certain day in august marie antoinette is regularly seen sitting outside the garden front at the petit trianon, with a light flapping hat and a pink dress. more than this, that the place, especi- ally the farm, the garden, and the path by the water, are peopled with those who used to be with her there; in fact that all the occupations and amusements reproduce themselves there for a day and a night. i then told her our story, and when i quoted the words that the man spoke to us, and imitated as well as i could his accent, she immediately said that it was the austrian pronunciation of french. i had privately thought that he spoke old french. immediately afterwards i wrote and told this to miss morison.. f. l. november, . by old i mean old or unusual forms, perhaps surviving in provincial french. the petit trianon on receiving miss lamont's letter i turned to my diary to see on what saturday in august it was that we had visited versailles, and looked up the history to find out to what event she alluded. on august oth, , the tuileries was sacked. the royal family escaped in the early morning to the hall of the assembly, where they were penned up for many hours hearing themselves deposed, and within sound of the massacre of their servants and of the swiss guards at the tuileries. from the hall the king and queen were taken to the temple. we wondered whether we had inadvertently entered within an act of the queen's memory when alive, and whether this explained our curious sensation of being completely shut in and oppressed. what more likely, we thought, than that during those hours in the hall of the assembly, or in the conciergerie, she had gone back in such vivid memory to other augusts spent at trianon that some impress of an adventure it was imparted to the place? some pictures which were shown to me proved that the out- door dress of the gentlemen at court had been a large hat and cloak, and that the ladies wore long-waisted bodices, with full gathered short skirts, fichus, and hats. i told the story to my brother, and we heartily agreed that, as a rule, such stories made no impression at all upon us, because we always believed that, if only the persons involved would take the trouble to investigate them thoroughly and honestly for themselves, they could be quite naturally explained. we agreed that such a story as ours had very little value without more proof of reality than it had, but that as there were one or two interesting points in it, it would be best to sift the matter quietly, lest others should make more of them than they deserved. he suggested lightly and in fun that perhaps we had seen the queen as she thought of herself, and that it would be interesting to know whether the dress described was the one she had on at the time of her rêverie, or whether it was one she recollected having worn at an earlier date. my brother also enquired whether we were quite sure that the petit trianon the last man we had seen (who came out of the side building), as well as the wedding party, were all real persons. i assured him with great amusement that we had not the smallest doubt as to the reality of them all. as miss lamont was going to paris for the christmas holidays, i wrote and asked her to take any opportunity she might have to see the place again, and to make a plan of the paths and the buildings; for the guide books spoke of the temple de l'amour and the belvédère, and i thought one of them might prove to be our kiosk. e. m. the petit trianon the old feeling returned in full force; it was as if i had crossed a line and was suddenly in a circle of influence. to the left i saw a tract of park-like ground, the trees bare and very scanty. i noticed a cart being filled with sticks by two labourers, and thought i could go to them for directions if i lost my way. the men wore tunics and capes with pointed hoods of bright colours, a sort of terra-cotta red and deep blue. i turned aside for an instant-not more-to look at the hameau, and when i looked back men and cart were completely out of sight, and this surprised me, as i could see a long way in every direction. and though i had seen the men in the act of loading the cart with sticks, i could not see any trace of them on the ground either at the time or afterwards. i did not, however, dwell upon any part of the incident, but went on to the hameau. the houses were all built near a sheet of water, and the old oppressive feeling of the last year was noticeable, especially under the balcony of the maison de la reine, and near a window in what i afterwards found to be the laiterie. one man wore red, the other blue ; the colours were not mixed. an adventure i really felt a great reluctance to go near the window or look in, and when i did so i found it shuttered inside. coming away from the hameau i at last reached a building, which i knew from my plan to be the smaller orangerie; then, meaning to go to the belvédère, i turned back by mistake into the park and found myself in a wood, so thick that though i had turned towards the hameau i could not see it. before i entered i looked across an open space towards a belt of trees to the left of the hameau some way off, and noticed a man, cloaked like those we had seen before, slip swiftly through the line of trees. the smoothness of his movement attracted my attention. i was puzzling my way among the maze of paths in the wood when i heard a rustling behind me which made me wonder why people in silk dresses came out on such a wet day ; and i said to myself, "just like french people." i turned sharply round to see who they were, but saw no one, and then, all in a moment, i had the same feeling as by the terrace in the summer, only in a much greater degree; it was as though i were closed in by a group of people the petit trianon who already filled the path, coming from behind and passing me. at one moment there seemed really no room for me. i heard some women's voices talking french, and caught the words “monsieur et madame" said close to my ear. the crowd got scarce and drifted away, and then faint music as of a band, not far off, was audible. it was playing very light music with a good deal of repetition in it. both voices and music were diminished in tone, as in a phonograph, unnaturally. the pitch of the band was lower than usual. the sounds were intermittent, and once more i felt the swish of a dress close by me. i looked at the map which i had with me, but whenever i settled which path to take i felt impelled to go by another. after turning back- wards and forwards many times i at last found myself back at the orangerie, and was over- taken by a gardener. i asked him where i should find the queen's grotto, that had been thought this gardener did not look like a frenchman ; he had more the air of an englishman. he had hair on his face, a grizzled beard, was large and loosely made. his height was very uncommon, and he seemed to be of immense strength. his arms were long and very muscular. i noticed that even through the sleeves of his jersey. the petit trianon laiterie, and for that reason it was shuttered. a second tradition they mentioned interested me very much. it was that on october th, —which was the last day on which marie antoinette went to trianon-she was sitting there in her grotto, and saw a page running towards her, bringing the letter from the minis- ter at the palace to say that the mob from paris would be at the gates in an hour's time. the story went on that she impulsively proposed walking straight back to the palace by the short cut through the trees. he would not allow it: but begged her to go to the "maison" to wait whilst he fetched the carriage by which she was generally conveyed back through the park, and that he ran off to order it. f. l. january, . an adventure - . during the next two years very little occurred to throw light on the story. the person living in versailles to whom we had been directed as having related the tradition of the queen's being at trianon on october th, , was unable to remember anything at all about it. the photographs of the belvédère made it clear that it was not identical with the kiosk. on the many occasions on which miss lamont went to the trianon she could never again find the places,—not even the wood in which she had been. she assured me that the place was entirely different; the distances were much less than we had imagined ; and the ground was so bare that the house and the hameau were in full view of one another; and that there was nothing unnatural about the trees. miss lamont brought back from paris la reine marie antoinette, by m. de nolhac, and le petit trianon, by desjardins. we was the petit trianon noted that m. de nolhac related the traditional story of the queen's visit, and that the comte de vaudreuil, who betrayed the queen by inviting her to the fatal acting of the “ barbier de séville” in her own theatre at trianon, was a creole and marked by small- pox (pages , ). turning over the pages of desjardins i found wertmüller's portrait of the queen, and exclaimed that it was the first of all the pictures i had seen which at all brought back the face of the lady. some weeks later i found this passage: “ce tab- leau fut assez mal accueilli des critiques contemporains qui le trouvèrent froid, sans majesté, sans grace. pour la posterité, au contraire, il a le plus grand mérite; celui de la ressemblance. au dire de madame campan, il n'existe de bon portrait de la reine que cette toile de wertmüller et celle que madame lebrun peignit en " (page ). in january, , miss lamont went to the comédie française to see the “barbier de séville," and noticed that the alguazils standing round were dressed exactly like our garden officials, but had red stockings added. this was interesting, as the comédie française с the petit trianon on monday, july th, , miss lamont and i went to the trianon, this being my second visit. we were accompanied by mademoiselle — who had not heard our story. on the saturday of the same week (july th) we went again unaccompanied. both days were brilliant and hot. on both occasions the dust, glare, trams, and comers and goers, were entirely different from the quietness and solitude of our visit in . we went up the lane as at the first time and turned to the right on reaching the building, which we had now learnt to call the logement des corps de gardes. from this point everything was changed. the old wall facing us had gates, but they were closed, and the one through which we had seen the drive passing through a grove of trees seemed to have been closed for a very long time. we came directly to the gardener's house, which was quite different in appearance from the cottage described by miss lamont in , v an adventure vas in front of which she saw the woman and the girl. beyond the gardener's house was a parterre with flower-beds, and a smooth lawn of many years' careful tendance. it did not seem to be the place where we had met the garden officials. we spent a long time looking for the old paths. not only was there no trace of them, but the distances were contracted, and all was on a smaller scale than i recollected. the kiosk was gone ; so was the ravine and the little cascade which had fallen from a height above our heads, and the little bridge over the ravine was, of course, gone too. the large bridge with the rocher over it, crossing one side of the lake at the foot of the belvédère, had no resemblance to it. the trees were quite natural, and seemed to have been a good deal cleared out, making that part of the garden much less wooded and picturesque. the english garden in front of the house was not shaded by many trees; and we could see the house and the hameau from almost every point. instead of a much shaded rough meadow continuing up to the wall of the terrace, there is now a broad an adventure one thing struck me greatly-people went wherever they liked, and no one would think of interfering to show the way, or to prevent anyone from going in any direction. we searched the place at our pleasure. we went to the hameau, following the path taken by miss lamont on january , . we tried to find the thick wood in which she had lost her way, but there was nothing like it, and such paths as there are now are perfectly visible from one another, even in summer. we asked a gardener sweeping one of the paths whether that part of the grounds had ever been a thick wood. he said he believed that it had been, but could give us no date beyond the fact that it was before his time—more than twenty years ago. on our return to versailles, we went into a bookseller's shop and asked if he had any maps or views of the petit trianon as it had been in old days. he showed us a picture (which he would not part with) of the jeu de bague. we saw at once that the central building had some likeness to the kiosk, but the surrounding part was not like, and its position was unsuitable for our an adventure details of the search are recorded in a book which, to us, goes by the name of the green book. it contains the original papers written in , the history of the gradual accumulation of information, correspondence with one another and also with others on the subject, the accounts written by one or two friends who have helped us at different times, also pictures, maps, and lists of books consulted, and the account of curious incidents which took place during the search. e. m. f. l. results of research reservoir gardener's house ruelle porte du jardinier enclosure galc logement avenue an adventure the guards the second event was our meeting with two dignified, thoughtful-looking officials, dressed in long green coats and three-cornered hats, hold- ing something in their hands which miss lamont wrote of in as possibly being staves. in response to our enquiry for the petit trianon they coldly directed us forward. there are no officials so dressed at trianon now. at present they wear black, with tri- colour rosettes in their hats ; in summer they have white trousers. in we were told by fully-informed persons at versailles that it was "impossible” that we should have seen such uniforms, “unless they were worn by masqueraders,” for green was a royal livery, and no one wore it now at trianon. supposing them to have been masqueraders, the dress may have been that of gardes de la porte. the ceremonial overdress of the gardes de la porte, as was that of part of the gardes du corps (gardes de la manche), was green, with gold and silver embroidery and red stockings : results of research they carried halberds. but the officers had galon instead of embroidery, and no red stock- ings : they carried an ebony cane with an ivory ball. the livery of the comte d'artois, who was colonel-général of the gardes suisses was green ; and those of the gardes du corps and suisses who were in his service had green uniforms. there is evidence of a much quieter dress without even galon, called the “ petite livrée,” which was probably green, as it was worn by the suisses, piqueurs, gardes de la porte, and the garçons jardiniers. the traditional dress of those royal servants who filled the minor parts in the royal theatre at versailles is still to be seen at the acting of the barbier de séville in the comédie française, which is the descendant of the royal theatre. this dress (except for the added red stockings) is the same as the one we saw in . in we learned that the porte du jar- dinier at the petit trianon was always guarded picture of a garde de la porte du roi louis xv., dite de la manche, d'après une gravure de chevilet. r. jacquemin. souvenirs d'un page, le comte d'hezecques, pp. - . (he says that their underdress was blue.) ibid., p. . arch. nat. o', . results of research covered such a cottage (more than one) within the gates which were not far from the place where she had seen the plough. these cottages were not in the right position for our experi- ence in , but the type was the same. in we discovered from the map of that there was a building, not now in existence, placed against the wall (outside) of the gar- dener's yard between the ruelle and the porte du jardinier; if our original route lay through this yard to the english garden, this building would be exactly in the right place for miss lamont's cottage. in september, , we saw from marks on this wall that a building might have stood here; for the cornice of the wall is broken into, and there seems to be a perpendicular line from it to the ground visible through the plaster. a photograph shows this. if the girl seen should be the “marion” of madame julie lavergne's story (first read in ), she would have been years old in , and her mother was then alive. her father's house would have been near the reser- voir and not within the locked gates of any enclosure, for she let herself out at night by e an adventure an open window. all this would suit the position of the building in the map. the kiosk on our entrance into the english garden in , we found our path crossed by another, beyond which, in front of us but rather to the left hand, stood a small circular building having pillars and a low surrounding wall. it was on rough uneven ground, and was overshadowed by trees. repeated searches during seven years by ourselves and others have failed to discover this building. in september, , miss lamont found in the archives a paper (without signature or date) giving the estimate for a “ruine” having seven ionic columns, walls, and a dome roof. (a “ruine " seems only to mean a copy of an older building.) if the walls of this building were low it would correspond in appearance with our recollection of the kiosk. this “ruine” is said to have formed a “naissance de la rivière,” suggesting its position above the small légendes de trianon, madame julie lavergne, pp. , . results of research though we were assured in by a very good authority, that no gentleman now living at versailles would wear a large cloak either in winter or summer, there might be nothing sur- prising in what we saw if the kiosk could be found. but considering that it is gone, it is historically interesting that we discovered in that there is one man in the story of trianon who exactly suits the description. most of the intimate accounts of the period say that the comte de vaudreuil was a creole and marked by smallpox. he was at one time one of the queen's innermost circle of friends, but acted an enemy's part in persuading her to gain the king's permission for the acting of the politically dangerous play of le mariage de figaro. the king had long refused to allow it, saying that it would cause the bastille to be taken. the earlier version of the same play, le barbier de séville, was last acted at . i la reine marie antoinette, de nolhac, pp. , . le barbier de séville, by beaumarchais, was first played in ; it was re-written and made politically scandalous as le mariage de figaro in . this version was played in vaudreuil's private theatre at gennevilliers and at the odéon, , and for the first time in paris, by permission, april th, . an adventure trianon (august th, ), just at the begin- ning of the diamond necklace episode, when vaudreuil took the part of almaviva and was dressed for it in a large dark cloak and spanish hat. in we found out from madame Éloffe's journal (the queen's modiste) that in the broad-brimmed hat had entirely displaced the three-cornered hat, and was generally fashion- able ; also that swords were no longer generally worn." vandreuil left the court of france amongst the first party of emigrés after the taking of the bastille, july, . the running man though we were surprised when the second man, also dressed in a large cloak and hat, ran up to us and with extreme earnestness directed us to go to the right rather than to the left, yet we merely thought his manner very french; and as he said in the course of a rather long unin- telligible sentence “cherchez la maison,” we imagined that he understood that we were modes et usages, de reiset, p. , vol. i. an adventure van looking for the house, and followed his direc- tion. we noticed that he stood in front of a rock and seemed to come “either over, round, or through it." the following year ( ), we learned that there was a tradition that on october th, , a messenger was sent to trianon to warn the queen of the approach of the mob from paris : that she wished to walk back to the palace by the most direct route, but the messenger begged her to wait at the house whilst he fetched the carriage, as it was safer to drive back as usual by the broad roads of the park. a local tradition affirming this has been embodied by madame julie lavergne in a volume entitled (unfortunately for historical purposes) légendes de trianon. this particu- lar scene in the story, called “la dernière rose,” interested us greatly, for it seemed to come from an eye-witness and recalled many of the points of our vision. the queen, it is said, had been walking with and talking to marion (the daughter of an under-gardener) before going to her favourite grotto. after remaining there some time, and on growing alarmed at her own sad thoughts, the queen called to results of research as marion and was surprised to see, instead of the girl, a “garçon de la chambre” suddenly appear, trembling in all his limbs. after reading the letter brought to her from the minister at the palace, the queen desired him to order the carriage and to let madame de tourzel know. the messenger bowed (as our man had done), and once out of sight, ran off at full speed. the queen followed him to the house." enquiries through the publisher, in , as to madame lavergne's sources of information, elicited the fact that her informant as to every detail of that scene had been marion herself. this marion, the légendes tell us, afterwards married m. charpentier, an under-gardener, known in by the name of " jean de l'eau,” on account of his bringing water daily from ville d'avray for the queen's table. he afterwards became jardinier en chef, being appointed in by napoleon in succession to antoine richard. the name “charpantier” appears in amongst the “ouvriers terrassiers," who clear * légendes de trianon, p. . * la belle jardinière, lavergne, pp. , . an adventure up sticks and leaves, plant flowers, and rake. in , “ mariamne” received wages for picking up leaves in the trianon grounds ; this is quite possible, as children are said to have been used for that work, and the absence of surname suggests that she was the daughter of one of the gardeners. the marriage certificate of alexandre char- pentier, in , gives his father's name as louis toussaint charpentier, and his mother's name as marie anne lemaignan. the mar- riage certificate of these persons (from which we should have learnt their age) is said to have been destroyed. in the wages book the names of two “lemonguin” (elder and younger) appear; also “ magny,” but not, so far as has been discovered, lemaignan. if this marie anne charpentier was years old at her son's birth (november, ), she would have been eight years old in , and in . this would suit arch. nat. o!, . arch. nat. o!, . letter enclosing marriage certificate (copy from the archives municipales, versailles). arch. nat. o', , . results of research the “mariamne ” of the archives, madame lavergne's story, and the girl seen by miss lamont. two more points show the faithfulness of “marion's” account of that scene. madame lavergne (quoting her) says that "pale rays of autumn sunshine lighted up the faded flowers.” it must, therefore, have been fairly fine; and in the wages book it appears that on october th, , all the gardeners were at work in the grounds, and it is stated that on wet days they worked under cover, sometimes clearing out the passages of the house. secondly, she says that the queen sat at the entrance of her grotto, where fallen leaves choked the course of the “ruisseau.” from entries of payment it appears that the streams were cleared of dead leaves on october ist, nd, and rd, , but not on the th or th, or ever again. it is exactly a point which marion would have noticed. madame lavergne lived at versailles from till her marriage in , at which time marion would have been ; and as we believe that alexandre charpentier was head gardener * . o', . . o', . an adventure at the petit trianon for over fifty years, his mother would have been easily accessible to madame lavergne during her repeated visits to trianon, even after her marriage. her father, m. georges ozanneaux, was a personal friend of louis philippe, and was constantly about in the royal palaces.' it is necessary to speak of the grotto; for madame campan says that the queen " était assise dans sa grotte . . . lorsqu'elle reçut un mot d'écrit . . . qui la suppliait de rentrer à versailles.” madame lavergne says “marion se dirigea vers le parterre des rosiers, et la reine alla s'asseoir à l'entrée de sa grotte favorite, auprès de la petite source. les feuilles jaunies tombées des arbres couvraient la terre et obstruaient le cours du ruisseau. ... le murmure de la petite cascade qui arrose l'intérieur de la grotte, retentissait seul dans le bosquet. ... effrayée d'être seule, elle appela marion ; mais, au lieu de la jeune fille, un garçon de la chambre ... parut, une lettre à la main.” the queen cannot, therefore, la vie de madame lavergne. quoted in les palais de trianon, m. de lescure, p. . légendes de trianon, madame julie lavergne, p. . results of research have been many steps away from the grotto, at one end or the other, when the messenger came to her. in we asked to be shown this grotto, and we were taken to one on the further side of the belvédère, near the hill called l'escargot, which was formed in . we felt sure that this could not have been either of the two grottos spoken of in the archives. in the end of one grotto is mentioned as being near the porte d'entrée, "à la cloison de la porte d'entrée du jardin au bout du grotte trois pottereaux et deux traverses.” in there was a "projet d'un pont et chutte en rocher, avec parapet.” this was probably a bridge (the vergelay bridge ?) over the principal river where it issued from the larger lake. the river was made at this time. in june, , a new “petite rivière ” was planned to receive the water drained from the “ravin de la grotte,” and to conduct it into the larger lake. for this purpose a new grotto was made of a “forme ovale, ornée en glaçon,” through which the “petite rivière ” was to run. a “ravin du petit pont” was also planned. arch. nat. o', . . b. ds results of research in a "montagne” was made “en face du jardin français–en face de la comédie.” in march and april, , a hill called “l'escargot " was piled up?_beyond the bel- védère—and, presumably, a third and very small grotto was made. the creation of the escargot hill would have made the “ravin” on the north side of the belvédère, which is still visible, and leads to the greater lake. there are several reasons why we think that the queen's grotto (the second made) was on the theatre side of the belvédère. . d’hezecques' description of it in shows that, though a “ruisseau" passed through it, persons could go freely out at both ends ; whereas when water was passing down through the upper entrance of the “escargot" grotto, no one could have used it at the same time : there is only room for the water. . he speaks of the “prairie” being visible from “une crevasse, qui s'ouvrait à la tête du lit”; this would have been possible from a grotto on the theatre side, but not on the other, as the “escargot" hill would have been in the way. . . souvenirs d'un page, p. . an adventure porte d'entrée ..: toimintamm escargot hi yard petite porte gardener's grotto iš small lake ivédère agi. rocher e bridge ... ... . e poulaillers larger lake . dueen's grot nin . vergelay bridge on petite rivière hea nagne l french garden results of research la vc . d’hezecques describes a staircase which “conduisait au sommet de la roche,” enabling persons to leave hurriedly. there is something like an ancient rock staircase attached to the back of the large rock, giving the name to the rocher bridge. . he says that the grotto was very dark on first entering, and l'espinasse's picture of the belvédère in shows the opening to a cavern on its southern side close to the rocher bridge, which could be truly described as "venant du coté de la grotte." could the rock out of which the cavernous mouth was cut have been lifted over the long bridge at some later time? for in l'espinasse's picture there is no such rock over the bridge as there is now, and the cavern has disappeared. . the map of represents (according to desjardins) “le projet de mique complêtement exécuté.” in it the figure ( ) (indicating the grotto) occurs both at the “escargot” and also on the theatre side of the belvédère. in september, , miss lamont was asked whether she had seen a map of the place recently placed in the front hall of the petit desjardins, picture, p. . ov an adventure trianon, and she said no. on going there she found the map, which had not been there at any of her former visits, and saw that the grottos were put, as far as she could judge, just where we had long ago, through elaborate personal research, decided must be their real position. she could only make this out by standing on the table amongst the books and photographs, the map being hung too high to be easily seen. several further points of interest have emerged in connection with the running man. . in april, , we learned that our being directed at all in the grounds was unusual, for since september, , they have been thrown open until dark. the difficulty now experi- enced is to find a guide. . he spoke of the “maison.” in we found out that the queen was in the habit of calling the petit trianon “ma maison de trianon," to distinguish it from the palace and the chateau. louis xvi. had presented it to marie antoinette on his accession. desjardins, pp. , . an adventure in which the consonants are strengthened and the diphthongs broadened. in the autumn of we read the baron de frénilly's souvenirs, in which it is stated that wigs were universally worn by gentlemen in french society up till . after that date powdered hair became the general usage; the first person (m. de valence) who ventured to appear with unpowdered hair did so, apparently, in , after which it became a mark of extreme fashion. the same was the case with buckled shoes. gold, silver, stones, and rosettes had been required for a gentleman's dress ornaments; but after the commercial treaty with england in , steel was used for everything. buckled shoes are expressly mentioned as being very fashionable in , and there was, at that time, a rage for steel ornaments. was bridge over little cascade following the man's direction, we turned to the right and walked over a small rustic bridge which crossed a tiny waterfall coming from * souvenirs du baron de frénilly, p. . ib. p. . results of research je above us, on our right hand, and flowing in front of a little rocky cliff with ferns growing in the crevices. the water seemed to have formed a steep narrow little ravine, which shelved away below us to a little glimmering pool neither bridge, nor cascade, nor ravine can be found, or anything suggesting them. in the person in charge at the house assured miss lamont that there never had been more than one cascade, meaning the rush of water under the rocher bridge. the rocher bridge is certainly not the one we crossed, which was high above the level of the lakes. in we bought souvenirs d'un page by the comte d'hezecques. he says: “en face du chateau, une pelouse . . . se terminait par une roche ombragée de pins, de thuyas, de mélèzes, et surmontée d'un pont rustique, comme on en rencontre dans les montagnes de la suisse et les précipices du valais. cette perspective agreste et sauvage rendait plus douce celle ... de la troisième façade du chateau. he also speaks of water passing through the moss-lined grotto, which, according to our idea, souvenirs d'un page, p. . results of research position of our little cascade, small bridge, and glimmering pool. in april, , an old ms. map was found amongst such archive papers as relate to the grottos, showing a small bridge in the right position relatively to the lakes, the rocher bridge, and the place where we believe the queen's grotto to have been. isolated rock in we found a mass of rocks standing in the dry bed of the small lake. on one rock covered with ivy were two full-grown pine trees. it seems unlikely that the trees should have originally been in the small circular basin of water. d’hezecques says that thuya and pine trees were planted high up over the grotto to give it the appearance of a swiss mountain. the grotto was destroyed about , and it is possible that some of the rocks covering it were displaced and allowed to slip into the lake below, and that the present pine trees may have been seedlings at the time, for we are souvenirs d'un page, p. . an adventure n was had given it the look of an orchard. so much was this the case that the lady sitting under the north terrace was thought to be making a study of tree stems; for she was looking into trees, and she held a large paper in her hand, and, as we passed, held it out at arm's length. at present there are trees on each side of the pelouse, and one growing near the site of the old jeu de bague, but none growing in front of the house, and it all looks drier, brighter, and less confined than in . we have found two interesting mentions of this pelouse. before the new theatre was built in , the old comédie stood on it for three years. when the comédie was moved it gave place to a “pelouse parsemée d'arbres.”i the lady nothing unusual marked the lady sitting on a low seat on the grass immediately under the north terrace. i remember recognising that desjardins, pp. , ; arch. nat. o, , ; terrade, le théâtre de la reine, p. . an adventure unpleasant, and the other so unaccountably and infectiously excited,-made a deep impression. the legend that we heard the following winter of the queen having been occasionally seen sitting in front of the house in the english garden, is of course incapable of proof; but three things were to us full of interest. i. in i saw wertmüller's picture of the queen, which alone of all the many por- traits shown me in any way brought back the face i had seen; for the face was more square and the nose shorter. a few weeks later we read that madame campan considered it almost the only picture of her that was really like, though other people thought that it did not do her justice. ii. in april, , we learned that there was only one time during the queen's tenure of the petit trianon when she could have seen strangers in her gardens, from which, in earlier days, the court was entirely excluded, and to which even the king only came by invitation. for four months, after may, , when the court was carried off to paris, the public streamed in as it liked. so many came to see the place that had been too much talked about, results of research that the king and queen had gone that sum- mer to marly for a little rest and quiet. that was the time when d’hezecques, with one of the deputies, walked round and saw the grotto and the little bridge. at the time the trianon officials must have learnt to treat strangers with cold politeness, but probably resenting the necessity. this exactly accounts for the manner of the guards at the porte du jardinier; they made no difficulty, and told us that we should find the house by going that way, but in quite an unusual manner for frenchmen. it was mechanical and disen- gaged. iii. in the summer of we read the jour- nal of madame Éloffe (the queen's modiste). she says that during the year the queen was extremely economical, and had very few dresses made. madame Éloffe repaired several light, washing, short skirts, and made, in july and september, two green silk bodices, besides many large white fichus. this agrees exactly with the dress seen in . the skirt was not of a fresh white, but was light coloured, slightly yellowish. the white fichu in front seemed to have an edge of green or gold, just as it would an adventure have appeared if the white muslin, or gauze, was over green. the colour would have shown more clearly at the back, but in front, where the white folds accumulated, the green would have been less prominent. the straight edge in front and the frill behind had often puzzled me, but in madame eloffe's illustrations of the fashions at that time there are instances of the same thing. there is in the book a coloured picture of the green silk bodice, with all the measurements to enable her to fit the queen perfectly. mea cm en jeu de bague as we approached the terrace at the north- west corner of the house, we had some barrier on our right hand entirely blocking the view, so that we could see nothing but the meadow on our left hand, and the house with its terrace in front. at present the pathway which curves towards the house, and is very likely the old one, has a large bare space on the right hand with one beautiful old tree growing on the edge of it; modes et usages, de reiset, vol. i. pp. , , , , . results of research and from some way off one can easily see across it to the chapel beyond the french garden. a long piece of wall extends westward from the terrace, round which one has to go into the french garden in order to find the staircase; whilst the whole length of wall, including part of the north terrace, is hidden by a large old spreading bush, completely covering the place where the lady sat. originally, we could not see the steps whilst on the path, but after we had passed the barrier on our right hand we found them at once with- out going round any wall. the map of shows us that the jeu de bague (put up in ) once stood on what is now bare space. it was a circular building surrounded by a wooden gallery, masked by trees. this would have completely shut out the view, and the path was probably curved on its account. in , we learnt that the queen had a passage made under the terrace from the house to the jeu de bague; and in we dis- covered the old walled-up doorway leading into the english garden behind the bush. the ground seems to have been a good deal raised an adventure us very quickly along a level. his manner was jaunty and imperious, and he told us that the only way to the house was by the cour d'hon- neur. it was difficult to hear what he said. we thought at once that we were trespassing and looked for some way down from the terrace, upon which he constituted himself our guide, and with an inquisitive, amused expression, went with us a little way down the french garden, and showed us out into the avenue by a broad road. there is much to say about this incident. . the man evidently did not mean us to stand on the terrace so near to the house, and forced us to move away. he was the second person that afternoon who had excitedly insisted on our going one way rather than another ; but now we know that since the gardens and terraces have been made public until dark, and people walk about freely. no one has ever stopped us since, nor can we hear of anyone else who has been guided as we were. ii. in we found that the building out of which the man came was the old chapel, which is in a ruinous condition. in , miss lamont had leave to go into the an adventure east english garden house cour d'honneur south north (terrace steps steps terrace jeu de bague n.w. west plain chapel courtyard french garden pied chapel a storeys terrace landing gallery orte du perron de la chapelle cour de la'cuisine porte de la bouche cour des cuisines avenue an adventure ledge, and smiled at the idea as he looked at the blocked-up old doors. in august, , two other friends went to the chapel and entirely confirmed all that had been said about its ruined condition and the impossibility of the great door having been opened in . their guide told them that the big door had been marie antoinette's private entrance. the gallery was still stand- ing and had two chairs on it of gilt and old red velvet; but when they asked whether it was possible to enter it, the guide laughed and pointed to the staircase. there was no other entrance, he said, and the stairs had been in that condition for the last ten years. they thought from the look of the stairs that they had probably been so for much longer. in september, , a fifth friend went to the chapel and bore witness to the impossibility of the doors having been used in , and was told that the staircase had finally broken down fifteen years before. iii. from desjardins' book we learned that the queen's concierge had been bonnefoy du plan. he had rooms between the chapel and the cour d'honneur and kept his stores in a loft results of research over the chapel, reached by the now broken- down old staircase. the window of this attic still looks over the french garden, and from it, in old days, he would have seen anyone approaching the house from that side. the name of the suisse (the porter) in charge of the porte du perron de la chapelle in was lagrange. his rooms were immediately behind the chapel, looking into the avenue. he could easily have been sent through the chapel to interview strangers on the terrace. iv. we did not lose sight of the man when he came to us. as it is now he must have gone quite out of sight, down one flight of steps outside the chapel door, and (after pass- ing under a high wall) have reached the terrace (where we were standing) by a second set of steps. the present wall of the chapel court- yard is so high as to hide half the door, and a large chestnut tree in the courtyard hides it from the part of the terrace on which we were,—even in winter. in april, , we discovered that a con- tinuous ground-floor passage from the kitchens once passed the chapel door to the house. desjardins', le petit trianon, pp. , . results of research c fully. on the garden side, not at all far from the chapel, the jamb of an old opening still projects from the building, covered with ivy ; and the stones on the ground are laid, for a space of about twelve paces, the other way from the stones on either side, evidently to make a carriage road. a large rectangular stone was lying on the ground which might either have been a step, or part of the second jamb. on the avenue side marks of an open- ing of some sort can be traced through the plaster with which louis philippe finished the buildings after restoring and also altering them. the opening would have included two present windows not far from the porte de la bouche, as the signs of it are visible on both sides of the opening, and the space between is from twelve to twenty paces. within the kitchen court the buildings have been so altered and plastered over that no traces of change could be found. all the points corresponded with the recollec- tion of the roadway through which we had passed in . ud results of research the entry in the wages book showed that up to , from time to time “une voiture à cheval, et un conducteur,” were hired for pick- ing up branches and sticks in the parks: but on october th, , a cart with two horses (almost certainly requiring two men) was hired for three days for the purpose.? in august, , a former gardener, who had been at trianon long enough to remember both the charpentiers, father and son, laughed at the idea of such a dress being worn now at trianon, as it belonged to the “ancien régime." he assured us that carts of the present day in france had scarcely altered at all in type, and that the two now in use at trianon (which we found in a shed at the ferme) were of the old pattern. eau the wood miss lamont then went from the hameau towards the small orangerie. whilst on the ascending path she saw, on looking back, a man passing in front of, or in, a distant plantation on his way to the hameau. he ibid. o!, . an adventure was dressed in the cloak and hat we had seen the previous summer. she then descended to the low ground in front of the belvédère and crossed one of the bridges over the principal river (not the rocher bridge, but possibly the vergelay bridge). after going forward a little she turned, meaning to go back to the hameau, and recrossed either the same bridge, or the next one which is very near the vergelay. she immediately found herself in a wood of very tall trees, with such high, thick under- growth that (even though it was winter) she could not see through it. well-kept paths opened at intervals right and left at different angles, and they gave the impression of being so arranged as to lead round and round. she had the feeling of being in the midst of crowds passing and repassing her, and heard voices and sounds of dresses. on looking back she found the view as completely blocked as it was in front and to the sides. after vainly pursuing the confusing paths for some time, she found herself close to the hill leading to the orangerie. in and in we tried to find this results of research wood, without results. there are open planta- tions, but they have no undergrowths concealing paths from one another, even in summer. several people have gone independently to look for the wood, but have not found it. in miss lamont was told by the chief authority that in this direction trees had been thinned and not replaced. the entries in the archives indicate that there must have been woods near by in which paths were cut for the queen ; it is also likely that the older woods, such as les onze arpents, are not referred to; for when these plantations were made thousands of lower shrubs were bought to be placed under the trees, which were paid for by the king. in the gardeners' wages book, the gathering up and occasional burnings of undergrowths in a wood (apparently in this part of the garden) are alluded to. in mique's map ( ) the wood with its diverging paths can be plainly seen. it is approached by the two bridges over the river, and stretches towards the hill on which the orangerie stands. arch. nat. oʻ, . ? ibid. o?, . an adventure the music whilst in the wood miss lamont heard sounds of a band of violins drifting past her from the direction of the house. the sounds were very soft and intermittent, and were lower in pitch than bands of to-day. she could afterwards write down from memory about twelve bars, but without all the inner harmonies. she ascertained immediately afterwards that no band had been playing out of doors that afternoon at versailles. it was a cold, wet winter's afternoon. in march, , the twelve bars were shown to a musical expert, who said (without having heard the story) that the bars could hardly belong to one another, but that the idiom dated from about . he found a grammatical mistake in one bar. after hearing the story, he said that bands in the eighteenth century were lower in pitch than they are now. he suggested the name of sacchini. in march, , miss lamont and a friend results of research and very freely, in inversions and variations, in other places. the character of the accompaniment was reminding. thirds and sixths constantly occur in monsigny's music. grétry. the same phrases were used and the ascending passage was found. also, hidden consecutive fifths. pergolesi. “ largo and andante in d.” similar phrases were used. the tall gardener miss lamont then went along the upper path, and when between the escargot hill and the belvédère, she met a very tall gardener of apparently great strength, with long muscular arms. she thought that with his long hair and grizzled, untidy beard and general appearance, he had the look of an englishman rather than a frenchman. he was dressed in a rough knitted jersey, and a small dark blue round cap was set at the back of his head. she enquired where answers to questions toi misleading ; because they mostly deal with conditions of physical excitement, and study of the abnormal and diseased, including problems of disintegrated personality which present such close analogy to those of insanity. we have the deepest distrust in, and distaste for, stories of abnormal appearances and conditions. we find narratives of revenants unconvincing, and studiously avoid (as utterly lowering) all spiritualistic methods of communication with the dead. we have never had the curiosity, or the desire, to help in the investigations of psychical phenomena. . we belong to no new schools of thought : we are the daughters of english clergymen, and heartily hold and teach the faith of our fathers. . we are quite certain that neither of us exerted any conscious influence over the other ; for though we saw much in common, yet each had independent vision. we should think it wrong either to exercise, or to submit to, in- fluence of that nature. we are independent people and accustomed to stand on our own feet. . our condition at the time was one of an adventure perfect health and enjoyment of a holiday in the midst of very hard work. . we were entirely ignorant of the history and traditions of the place, and continued our conversation about other things after every interruption. we did not even know that we were in the grounds of the petit trianon until we saw the house. . at the time miss lamont thought that there was something unusual about the place and was puzzled ; the same idea returned to her occasionally during the following week. miss morison put her feeling of oppression down to some physical fatigue in herself, and so said nothing; for we did not know one another very well at that time, were in the relation of hostess and guest, and neither of us thought of enlarg- ing on uncomfortable sensations. after some days, when miss morison was writing an account of the expedition, she thought it over with care, and realised that her sensations had not been caused by fatigue, but had produced fatigue. she became convinced that the op- pression had been due to some unusual cause in the place itself, and instantly turned to miss lamont and said so. miss lamont agreed. answers to questions ma we then discussed the man by the kiosk and the running man, but said that there was much besides which had caused dreamy depression. miss morison returned to her letter and wrote down: “we both think that the petit trianon is haunted.” when we met next (three months later) we talked it over again, and finding that miss lamont had not seen the lady, and that miss morison had not seen the plough, cottage, woman, or girl, we resolved to write separate accounts of our visit in order to find the dis- crepancies, but with no idea of making ex- haustive histories. these papers are still in existence. miss lamont, in her story, used the words “uncanny” and “eerie” to describe her feelings, but they did not mean that she had the least idea at the time that any of the people encountered were unreal or ghostly; this was still more true of the scenery. . during the next three years, miss lamont repeatedly took parties of girls over the trianon, and she reported that the place was changed ; but miss morison could not believe it, and even made maps to remind her what their old route had been. after miss morison had paid a an adventure second visit to trianon in july, , and had found out for herself that the place was entirely changed, it was resolved to undertake a personal research into the matter, and to say no more until we had discovered for ourselves whether our vivid recollections of the people and the place tallied with any ancient reality or not. up to that time we had told the story freely, with the result that we have constantly traced it inaccurately reported in histories, sometimes purporting to have come from other sources, and even in newspapers and small periodicals. after research had begun to yield interesting results, we were obliged to be silent, find- ing that publicity prevented our getting at evidence. we are very busy people, and have refused to let the incident take a prominent place in our time, interests, or fancy, though from the first we agreed to lose no given opportunity of elucidation. the evidence has, therefore, come slowly ; but the manner in which it has come has often been a source of surprise. if a helpful person came in our way, we showed the whole thing: if we were casually asked if certain answers to questions reports were true, we confirmed them (when we could), but said nothing further. we were anxious to wait until we had exhausted every possible means of satisfying ourselves as to the exact amount of interest attaching to the story; and it was several years before we had to believe that we had seen the place as it had been a hundred years before, and as it had not been, in several important particulars, since . the research had been undertaken with the idea of disproving the suggestion that any- thing unusual had happened, for we were resolved not to deceive ourselves or anyone else, if personal industry could prevent it. . in the course of the last four or five years, miss lamont has searched for evidence bearing on the story (either by word or pic- ture) in the archives nationales, in the library, museum, mairie, and archives departmentales at versailles : also in the libraries nationale, hôtel de ville, and in the musée carnavalet, and in the conservatoire de musique at paris. she has poked about in french book and print shops, and must have seen a large number of the originals of the published plans, illustrations, and accounts of the place. we an adventure believe that there is not likely to be any striking documentary evidence other than we have dealt with. . the historical interest of the story seems to depend on the truth of the tradition that the queen went to trianon on october th, . we can find no negative evidence of this, but extremely little which is both affir- mative and trustworthy. madame campan's short statement remains the basis of other people's longer and more detailed narratives. general la fayette's full account of the day was burned by his wife during the terror. count fersen's memoirs were also partly de- stroyed. the abbé bossuet had madame de tourzel's careful history of that day burned ; but in the published memoirs she says that she was in residence that day at versailles, as gouvernante des enfants de france; she does not mention having gone to trianon, as im- plied by marion's story, but it is still possible. most french historians now adopt madame campan's statement, but in the words of one of them) “with some doubts.” it is worth mentioning that many later historians insert the fact (though it is not recorded by madame answers to questions campan) that "the queen was accompanied by a single valet.” is this a tradition ? . we do not believe in anniversaries in the usual sense. we have tested both our days (august oth and january nd), going, as far as possible, under the same circum- stances, without any result at the petit trianon. yet it is possible that if we entered into an act of memory, it may well have been first made on the terrible roth of august, , though the memory itself was occupied (in the central place) with the events of october th, . the dress of the messenger was more suitable for october than august. at the same time vaudreuil left france the previous summer and cannot have sat in the trianon woods after the taking of the bastille, july th, . there is an incoherence about both the large and small incidents which seems to require combination within a single mind, and the only mind to which they could all have been present would have been that of the queen. our theory of , that we had entered within the working of the queen's memory when she was still alive, is now enlarged. we think that the two first visits to trianon (august was nov anon an adventure th, , and january nd, ) were part of one and the same experience; that quite mechanically we must have seen it as it ap- peared to her more than a hundred years ago, and have heard sounds familiar, and even some- thing of words spoken, to her then. having been for two most trying years con- fined to paris, and (excepting for a visit to st. cloud) through two hot summers, and being in the midst of the tumultuous horrors of the great tenth of august, she may, as the day wore on, and she grew more used to her miser- able position in the hall of the assembly- where she sat for eighteen hours—have fancied (in memory) the grounds at trianon more spacious than they really were; and have seen the trees, as one sees trees in recollection, like a picture without life, depth, or movement. in rêverie her mind may have wandered from the familiar sight of the two bersys at the gate, to the little vision of two men gathering up garden rubbish into a cart (which we know happened on october th, , as well as one day during the last winter she spent at ver- sailles), and which-without any reason-had remained in her mind. she may have thought answers to questions vas of the place as it was during that year of the meeting of the states-general when the grounds were, for the first time, thrown com- pletely open to the public, and intruding strangers could be seen there. or she may have gone back to the earlier years and the pleasant afternoons when the band played on the pelouse in front of the house, and to the excitement of acting in the little theatre with her special friends, perhaps letting herself realise the unkindness of the pressure put upon her by vaudreuil to have the acting of the mariage de figaro authorised. how naturally the thought of him would have formed one picture in her mind with the memory of the last scene, when she was hurriedly summoned from trianon, never to return! for she may very likely have sup- posed all that she was suffering to have been more exclusively the result of her own former mistakes than could have been just, and have been going over them in her mind. on our return to paris on the day of the original visit to trianon, when undoubtedly her image was uppermost in our thoughts, and the recollection of her terrible end was hardly to an adventure be endured, the recurring consolation to miss morison was, “she has forgiven it all now, and knows the true meaning of the french revolution on both its good and bad sides, and also the exact proportion of her own part in it.” but the act of memory which had so strangely and mechanically clung to the place, with which we had, perhaps, been associated in the grounds, was incoherent and pictorial. it was oppressive to us because it represented a more limited view of those times than after a hundred years we have learnt to take of them, and was far more limited than any thought the queen can have about them now. . our answer to the suggestion that we were in a state of suspended consciousness is that our conversation and sense of the quiet continuity of things remained unbroken, and, in spite of oppression, believed ourselves to be particularly wide awake and on the alert. when we were first asked whether the man from the side building was real or not, we laughed at the idea of any un- reality; all was so quietly natural that we are still uncertain whether the tall gardener belonged to another century or not. it has an adventure from leaves after october th, , and that “mariamne” is only mentioned as having been paid for work in the grounds in , as one of several children so occupied. if masqueraders were posing as guards at the porte du jardinier, the cinematograph idea does not explain the reappearance of the old cottage close by, in its former position as placed in mique's map of . if the part of the queen was being acted, what of the orchard of trees we saw her looking into, not now in existence; also, what is the account of the barrier at our right hand screening off the present view and exactly answering to the old enclosure of the jeu de bague? the cinematograph does not explain the man who opened the great door of the chapel, easily banging it behind him as he came out ; for in the people living in the place believed that it had not been opened since the days of louis xvi., and the keeper of the key knew that even the door of the landing had not been opened for fifteen years. how was the wall lowered, which now largely hides the great door from the terrace, and inakes it necessary to go down one flight of steps and up another, an adventure of anything so considerable would have been in the catalogue. even should it be proved that a cinemato- graph had been taken that very day, it would not be a possible explanation to us. the groups we saw were small and isolated from one another. there was the deepest silence everywhere, and no sunshine ; whilst the light was the worst possible for a picture, for the sky was overcast. and though whilst we stood there an indefinable air of strangeness dropped over everything, including the tall forest trees, it was not of a kind that could be accounted for by fictitious scenery. the people moved and spoke as usual, but their words were extraordinarily difficult to catch. in september, , the question of such representation was settled by an enquiry of the authorities. no leave to take cinematographs had been granted in august, . the fête had been on june th, and the photographs of it had been taken sufficiently near the time to be published in the july number of versailles illustré. not one of the pictures in this number is in the least like what. we saw either in the matter of subjects, costumes, or places. the an adventure as we had first talked about are constantly being repeated to us; some with the little additions we can recognise as our own early surmises ; generally with the omission of points we did not know to be interesting until later; and often with all the muddles arising from the attempt to shorten a long story, with a few unauthorised additions and explanations thrown in. these stories are told to us as being the property of persons we have never heard of. we have constantly enquired on what authority they rest, and, if there is any at all, we have not infrequently been able to discover the track they have followed from us back to us again. . we do not think that deception explains it. if we were deceived in one, two, or three points, could we have been in all ? for out of them we have been able to reconstruct the story of trianon in many tiny details, the truth of which we have had to discover for ourselves. . we are constantly asked why we, of all people, should have had such an adventure? we are equally puzzled; and have come to think that it may not be so unusual as it seems. we can imagine that people, even if they sus- pected anything unusual (which they might chapter iv a rÊverie a possible historical clue to find the causes of the universal movement, which for convenience we call the french revolution, one should be a trained historian, philosopher, and theologian, and be able to pass in review and justly estimate the aspirations for political consolidation, greater individual responsibility, and the revolt against papal tyranny over consciences, as they had been working in all european countries for many centuries. to find the causes for the particular form which this universal development took in france, it would be necessary to weigh the moral, social, and political (including the fiscal) tendencies of earlier generations. this would be manifestly impossible in a paper dealing with the revolution in france as it may have an adventure on appeared to a single mind, on one special day, at a time of great mental excitement. there can be no doubt that marie antoinette was the innocent victim of a world-wide up- heaval in the moments when men were first consciously developing it, and we can well believe that to herself the reasons for such reversals of older thoughts seemed inscrutable ; whilst she would have vainly sought, in reflecting over her own mistakes, for grounds sufficient to justify the enormous misfortunes which overwhelmed her personally. the tenth of august, , was a marked day in the history of the french revolution. the tide of french democratic reaction against the ever-increasing selfishness of privilege, and the inability of the rulers to sympathise with the growing desire for greater freedom and less personal government, had been gathering force with constantly increasing momentum; and on this day louis xvi. virtually relinquished all independence as head of the state by sur- rendering himself, for the sake of the safety of his family and to save france from the crime of massacring its king, into the doubtful care of the legislative assembly. a rÊverie that assembly grew out of the states- general which had been convened by the king, may th, , at one of the critical moments when the dissatisfaction of the nation with its financial conditions produced keen anxiety to the court; and it had (on another epoch-making day of that unrestful period) refused, on june rd, , to be dissolved by mandate of the king. from that moment the national assembly had become the centre of the reforming party in france. louis xvi., as king, did not seem to stand in the way of the wishes of the nation as expressed by the assembly. he appeared to be willing to forego more of his prerogatives than was compatible with the existence of monarchy as understood in france; but, it was believed, the queen was of a different opinion and desirous of upholding the ancient monarchical idea as a practical force, which at that time, in spite of the king's amiability and absence of policy, could not be otherwise than hostile to the still vague, but unbounded, aspirations of the democratic party. “madame veto” had that influence over the king due to a strong personality and her position as a much loved an adventure tas aso wife ; upon her, therefore, fell the wrath of the nation. it was instinctively recognised that as a wife and mother she had every reason to desire the continuance of things as they were, and the people quickly interpreted every act of vacillation on the king's part to the queen's active enmity to the rising forces of democracy. it was on august th, , that the legis- lative assembly was made to realise another function belonging to it beyond that of fighting the prerogatives of the king and of the aris- tocracy. in such a restless age, and in such a country as france, it was impossible to suppose that the outspoken longings of philosophers, poets, and statesmen for freedom, should not stir up the hope of freedom from all authority and restraint whatever in the lowest stratum of society. the lengths to which the mob in paris could go had, during the last three years, shown itself on isolated occasions, but with increasing frequency and savagery. both mob and assembly were animated by the same desire, viz. to make monarchy in france abso- lutely helpless to withstand their will. the assembly was trying to bring it about with some appearance of constitutional decency, some a rÊverie without apparently perceiving that unless the king was allowed to banish himself, a dis- crowned monarch without any raison d'être whatever in the country inevitably meant his ultimate, and perhaps speedy, disappearance by death. the mob saw its policy more clearly, and was ready to get rid of him and the queen by instant murder. thus, on the morning of august roth, the legislative assembly had the double part to play of continuing its assault on privilege whilst protecting the royal family from destruction. when, at some moment between and a.m., louis xvi. and marie antoinette entered the manège in which the council met, there was, at first, some attempt at restrained cour- tesy showing itself in the grave assurance of protection in reply to the king's request, and also in half an hour's doubt as to where he should sit down. but the assembly was entirely aware of its victory in this act of unconditional surrender on the part of the king, and would allow no royal guards of any description to enter. there was a short alarm lest it should have to defend itself against the cannon of the insurgents, the sound of firing approaching an adventure sistent with republicanism and, though worsted in it, the events of the last three years probably justified it in her own mind. she inherited a belief in a strong rule, bene- ficent as her own kindly nature required, but one that could fight its battles and make full use of such opportunities as hereditary kingship possessed. again and again she had felt that the king's action was worse than nothing. marie antoinette would have sternly punished the crime of killing the king's officials ;? she would have upheld the sovereign office as long as there were those who prized it. the country could never have reached the present point of rebellion if the taking of the bastille, for instance, had not been condoned and the murders and outrages connected with it had not been allowed to pass without adequate punishment why were the troops dismissed so soon after, and the nobles allowed to emigrate? it may have been right for the monarch to urge upon some of them the danger in which they stood i de launay; governor of the bastille, july , . flescelles ; prévôt des marchands, foulon ; ministre, } july , . berthier; intendant de l'ile de france, . an adventure and cold blooded carnage were then and there destroying the last stronghold! the tiny loge, only feet square, so painfully hot and full of comers and goers, seemed to the despairing queen empty of all who should have been there to represent the monarchical principle. the presence of the prince de poix and the duc de la rochefoucauld and a few others, who were endangering their lives by being with them, only emphasised the forlornness of the royal condition. looking from her dismal corner in the loge at the king, who sat with impassive mien facing the assembly, what waves of painful emotion must have swept across her brain ! the king could not see things from her point of view, but he had loved and spoilt her. he had been faithful to her, as no french monarch for many generations had been loyal to his wife. he was devoted to her and to their children; had paid her debts again and again ;? in the queen's wardrobe cost , livres ; in it cost , livres ; in it cost , . one dress only worn once cost livres, not counting the material. la reine marie antoinette, de nolhac, pp. , . in the queen's personal debts amounted to , livres, which the king paid out of his own purse. all this was a rÊverie had ennobled and enriched her friends; his patience and magnanimity were saintly; but how often had she raged against his theory that the king's duty was to set an example of lofty forbearance and forgiveness of every , injury even when done to him as representing the law, justice, and power of the whole french peoples. she had instinctively felt that had she been in the king's place she would have found her way through the past crises without either descending from her throne or doing wrong to the most christian charity. she knew that she was kind-hearted, and had always loved to be the benefactress of others : yes, she too could forgive royally when for- giveness was due from her in her own person, but not when it required injustice to others. but marie antoinette was too clear-sighted to impute all the blame of this downfall to the king's mistakes. no double his feeble idea had been to behave as though the democrats only were the nation, forgetting the contrary view of those who had either banished them- selves or who were perforce silent unless he changed after the birth of her first child, and the queen, from that time, cut down every possible expense. an adventure of her son was secure. she had long accustomed herself to the thought of being assassinated, but there was no fear of a judicial murder ; no government of france would sink to such a point of wickedness and unwisdom in the face of a united europe. they would be con- demned to more years of miserable bondage, but they would be together ; friends would rally; circumstances would clear themselves. the queen had it in her still to do and dare everything if there were any hope of surmount- ing the present crisis. if she might only act! but no, the queen's heart sank again as the numbing sense of help- lessness came over her, remembering that she would not be allowed to act. it was always the king who had the last word. she might plan, but he, with all his love and confidence in her, invariably thwarted every attempt requiring some spirit of defiance. he had ruined the varennes scheme by letting himself be re- cognised at critical moments. why did he review the guards that morning, and make it even in the conciergerie the queen seems to have dis- believed in the likelihood of a formal condemnation to death. marie antoinette, lenotre, pp. , . an adventure mov exhausted by horror and disappointment, what strength remained to the queen must have spent itself in thoughts for her little son, who with touching obedience was trying to be “ bien sage avec ces vilains hommes."! if she was personally helpless to save his crown, surely the kings of europe would see to it. again hope revived at the thought of a successful war already beginning. the false moves of the last years perhaps only meant at the worst, that though she and the king had to die at the hands of an enraged but defeated france, the boy would escape. with victorious armies surrounding paris, there would be those within who would then be roused to get the lad into the protection of friends. surely god would help him then! but what if everything should fail? fatality had overtaken every reasonable hope since this terrible revolution had begun. there were forces of mysterious and terrific magnitude, which seemed to her to be bearing away everything that had been stable hitherto. her ignorance of what constituted these forces increased their terror for her. la rocheterie, p. . a rÊverie during the two hours when the deputies separately repeated the words of the oath to maintain liberty, equality, or die, the queen in utter weariness tried to penetrate the mystery of that fatality which seemed to overtake royalty in france, and herself in particular. perhaps for a moment she realised that had she seriously studied history some light might have come as to the meaning of this crushing movement. the volumes of hume's history of england, which in early days had been carelessly listened to, conveyed little to her inattentive mind. she did not know even the history of france intelligently enough to be able to guess whether the enveloping force owed its strength to anything which could have been foreseen. was there anyone who could have foreseen this trend of events, when it was only last year that the con- stitution had been applauded to the skies as the consummation of political wisdom? was the penury of the country and the starving condition of the poor at the bottom of la reine marie antoinette, de nolhac, p. . ? almanack historique de la revolution française pour l'année , par m. j. p. rabaut (contemporain). a rÊverie maz v mazy wood beyond the vergelay bridge follow- ing in thought the sound of the light operatic music, so often played on bright afternoons, which drifted past her as she made her way along the wood paths. well-known bars of monsigny's music mingled with reminiscences of sacchini's and grétry's operas. was it not on an august day, twelve years ago, that she first acted herself in the charming little newly-built theatre? it was in a play of sedaine (le roi et le fermier) for which monsigny had written music, especially for the trianon; and with pain it was remembered that the plot of the play was the favourite one at trianon, viz. the superiority of the farmer's condition over that of the king. vaudreuil had acted the part of the farmer lover to her jenny. the queen's thoughts flew to another, and the last, acting, so immediately followed by the frightful episode of the diamond necklace when outrage first touched her and personal popularity was finally lost. under pressure from the comte de vaudreuil she had august ist, . august th, . cardinal rohan had been arrested four days before, on august th, . a rÊverie imprinted on her memory. she had wandered up the lane past the logement des corps de gardes, and had noticed on the ground near the lodge gates the old plough,—a reminiscence of louis xvi.'s boyhood. coming towards the porte du jardinier, she had seen rodolphe and fidel bersy? in the long green coats of the petite livrée of the gardes. they were directing some strangers. these guards were special friends of hers. had she not paid all expenses out of her own purse when rodolphe's children had been ill with smallpox ? whilst passing them she had noticed marie anne lemaignan . histoire de marie antoinette, rocheterie, pages , . vol. i. the brothers bersy with bréval were generally selected for guarding the porte du jardinier whenever the queen was at trianon, arch. nat. o', . they had the title of garçons jardiniers de la chambre, o , . probably green, as it was worn by the suisses, piqueurs, gardes des portes, garçons jardiniers, and such royal servants as filled the minor parts at the royal theatre at versailles, arch. nat. o', . the traditional dress is still to be seen at the comédie française, which is the descendant of the old royal theatre. the comte d'artois was captain of the guards (including the gardes des portes) in , and his livery was green. * in , arch. nat. o , . the names “lemonguin” and “magny” are to be found in the old lists of under-gardeners at trianon, arch. nat. o?, k an adventure s m standing near her mother on the steps of their cottage outside the enclosure. the queen calculated that the girl, who had then been fourteen years old, must now be a young woman of seventeen, and with her promise of beauty would soon marry: probably, she thought, to young charpentier, who was , . “mariamne" is mentioned among the children paid for picking up dead leaves in the grounds, , arch. nat. o , . marion's mother died shortly before , légendes de trianon, lavergne. ? in mique's map of there is a building outside the wall between the ruelle and the porte de jardinier. if marianne was at her son's birth in she would have been in , and in . in “marion” (daughter of an under-gardener) was chosen by the versailles republican club to personate the local goddess of reason. horrified at the prospect, the night before the installation on the altar of the versailles notre dame, she so completely disfigured her face with scratches from a thorn branch that she never completely lost the marks (legéndes de trianon, mdme julie lavergne, pp. - ). in “charpantier" is mentioned as an ouvrier terrassier, having to clear up sticks and leaves, plant flowers, and rake (arch. nat. o', ). charpentier seems to have been the " jean de l'eau," so called from his daily duty of fetching water from ville d'avray for the queen's table. he even tried to get it to her when she was in the conciergerie, august, . he was afterwards wounded at marengo and became a captain, and in was appointed by napoleon jardinier en chef at the petit trianon, and married marion (légendes de trianon, p. ). a rÊverie re already, she knew, attached to the girl. the queen's intimacy with her servants at trianon had been a never-failing happiness, and she thought with infinite tenderness of the troubles their loyal sympathy for her must be causing them now. passing through the gardeners' enclosure and the porte d'entrée she had come into the english garden. advancing a few steps, she had suddenly caught sight of vaudreuil sitting by the small circular “ruine,”ı dressed, she remembered, in the slouch hat and large cloak which had become fashionable since he had the marriage certificate of alexandre charpentier, in (at that time chef d'atelier aux pepinières royales de trianon, and, later, for many years jardinier en chef at trianon), shows that he was the son of louis toussaint charpentier, pension- naire, and marie anne lemaignan (mairie de versailles). “ dec. , . commencé par ordre de m. mique le model de la partie de la grotte ... du coté des montagnes ... là dessus une petite ruine d'architecture, l'avoir penté, planté, et gazonné." “detail estimatif d'une ruine formant la naissance d'une rivière, savoir-fouille de terre-maçonnerie ... le massif et le rigolle des fondations ... pierre dure . . . colonnes avec les murs au derrière ... colonnes . .. chapiteaux ... partie de la voute ... le parement des murs ... le fossite pour l'architecture . . . recapitulation ... chapiteaux lon- iques, antique ... membres . . . rosaces . . . livres" (arch. nat. o', ). the temple de l'amour is more than once called a “ruine," a rÊverie she had noticed that the little stream issuing from the grotto had not been cleared, but was choked with dead autumn leaves. this un- usual and forlorn sight had remained in her mind. here she had sat for a time looking at the place now deserted by all who had formerly been with her there, and, as was inevitable at that time of political anxiety, became engrossed in mournful anticipations of further troubles.? they had pressed more than she could bear, and feeling a sudden desire to speak to some- one she had entered the moss-lined grotto. the streams were cleared of dead leaves on oct. , , , but not on the th or th or after that date (o, ). memoirs of marie antoinette, by madame campan, p. . légendes de trianon, by madame julie lavergne, p. . in the time of marie antoinette there were at least three grottos at trianon, of which only one remains intact, and that possibly the last created; it may have been formed along with the escargot hill, raised in (arch. nat. o', ). the oldest grotto is mentioned in as ending at the porte d'entrée (o', ). issuing from the side of this first grotto was a “naissance de rivière,” which fed (perhaps by pipes) the small circular lake, whose waters passed under the rocher bridge, through the great lake to the stream which meandered through the grounds. a small "ruine” having seven columns, a dome roof, and walls, stood above the spring “formant la naissance de la rivière" (o', , desjardins, p. ). such waters as drained naturally through the first grotto seem to have collected in a little pool at the lower end. in june, , a new “petite rivière,” intended to carry these stagnant ) a rÊverie the elevated rocks, she called to marie anne lemaignan, whose father's cottage was not far off. fancying that she heard the girl running to her, the queen had turned and was surprised to see, instead of the girl, a garcon de la chambre, who, in a state of great agitation, handed her a letter from m. de saint priest, a minister at the palace. her memory recalled the look of that man, also in the fashionable spanish hat and cloak, flying over one of the upright rocks placed near the path by her orders. he had been so anxious that she should wait at the house whilst he fetched the carriage that she relinquished her first thought of hurrying back by the woods, and she turned instead to go to the little bridge which crossed the tiny waterfall. how fond she was of that little rustic bridge, which she had had placed high up on rocks, hiding the theatre and * légendes de trianon, madame julie lavergne, p. . (rocks placed) “pièce donnant au bord du lac de l'ancien jardin cote des rochers ... au long du chemin de l'emplace- ment de la ruine sur la conduitte en bois à la zième source du ravin" (o', ). in “pièce au dessus du rocher du ravin et . . . passage des voiture sur le pont de bois . . . pièce à droite en face du rocher du ravin." a rÊverie who now came in as they liked passed her by and even went up on to the terrace behind her by the staircase at her left hand. the queen knew that her concierge (bonnefoy du plan) was informed that she was there, and would certainly, on seeing them from his attic window over the chapel, send someone to ask them to go further from the house. it might not have been wise, but her old servants had done all they dared to protect her privacy. she had before now, when wandering about alone, heard the coldness and unconcern with which the bersy brothers had directed strangers in the grounds. just as she had expected, a moment later, the queen had heard the slam of the chapel doors and had thought that lagranget would probably conduct them into the avenue by the passage of the porte de la ménagerie, after may, , the grounds were thrown open (des- jardins, p. ). le petit trianon, desjardins, pp. , . the great door of the chapel, which led into the royal gallery, opened upon a terrace then joined to the western terrace of the house. * the name of the suisse (in ) in charge of the porte du perron de la chapelle was lagrange. his rooms were behind the chapel (desjardins, p. ). an adventure were terrible to look at. it was they who enacted the horrid scene of beheading the two murdered guards (varicourt and deshuttes) under the royal windows in the cour de marbre; and until they marched off to paris carrying with them the two decapitated heads on spikes, it was impossible to come to any terms with the mob. but after their departure, by lafayette's wish (which at that time amounted to command), first the king and then the queen had ventured on to the balcony, and had been greeted with some warmth. and now, three years later, they had not the “parmi eux se trouvoient des hommes de figure étrange, ce qui sembloient y avoir été appelés ; car le peuple de paris a sa physionomie, et ceux qui le connoissent savent bien dis- tinguer les étrangers qui s'y confondent. ces bandes farouches avoient précedé la garde nationale, dont il faut bien la distin- guer ; elles causèrent tout le désordre du lendemain. ... au dehors, les brigands s'étoient emparés de deux gardes du corps ; ils leur coupèrent la tête, malgré les efforts de ceux des gardes nationaux qui arrivoient. ... enfin cette bande de scélérats reprit la route de paris, emportant en signe de victoire les deux têtes des gardes des corps. avec eux disparut toute l'horreur des scènes sanglantes du matin. alors le caractère national se montra dans toute sa candeur. les soldats parisiens et les gardes du roi s'embrassent.”—almanach historique de la revolution française, m. j. p. rabaut, pp. . . this was written in , and rabaut was guillotined later "comme girondin." an adventure elders it was neither to rest nor to sleep, for they were still within sound of the fierce mob outside as well as of the distant hum of the all- powerful assembly about to decree their final destiny. three more weary days and nights spent in much the same manner were forced upon the unhappy family before they were conducted to the temple, and into what proved to be for the majority of them the valley of the shadow of death. e. m. november, . glasgow: printed at the university press by robert maclehose and co. ltd. ti ht hiihii a princeton university library this book is due on the latest date stamped below. please return or renew by this date. que: dec- - we mon - riniamed sex xx jun returned jun nun jan lºlº º . º - º sº | dcots | n | n - - - º - - - --- - - - princeton limitºcrºitu. ſºcquest of e- taurance . amer - - rson's " edinburgh edition" of the verley+ novels. i vols., royal ismo, cloth gilt, gilt tops, prict two shilling;! 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"nobody could possibly wish to have a handier and more reliable edition of burns than this, and the notes will be found to be of the greatest possible interest and value."—glasgow w. citizen. scott (sir walter), the complete poetical works of. with all the author's introductions, notes, appendices, etc.. and numerous other explanatory notes, by j. g. lockhart and others, illustrated with portrait and plates, vols., fcap. vo, cloth gilt, gilt tops, paper case, s. also half bound in leather gilt, gilt tops. -v weird tales scottish willia m p a ter son london and edinburgh morrison and gibb, edinburgh, printers to her majesty's stationery office. contents. page the vision of campbell of inverawe, . the tapestried chamber; or, the lady in the sacque l highland snowstorm, .... legend of the dropping well, . . wandering willie's tale,. . . . the haunted ships l l the unknown the rescue, the witch of laggan, .... allan mactavish's fishing, . . . weird tales. having been ordered abroad,—of their refusal to go, —of their having been moved, as if by one impulse pervading every indignant bosom among them, to make that most extraordinary and interesting march of retreat which they effected to northampton,—of their having been ultimately brought under subjec- tion,—and, finally, of their brave conduct in flanders, from which country they returned in october . after their return to great britain, the black watch were ordered into kent, instead of being sent into scotland with the other troops under general hawley, to act against those who had risen for prince charles. this arrangement probably arose entirely from great consideration and delicacy on the part of the government, who, fully aware of the high honour of the individuals of the corps, never entertained the smallest doubt of their loyalty, but who felt the cruelty of exposing men to the dreadful alternative of fight- ing against their friends and relatives, many of whom were necessarily to be found in the ranks of the insurgents. there were, however, three additional companies raised in the highlands, a little time before the return of the regiment from abroad. these were kept in scotland, and however distressing to their feelings the duty was which they were called upon to perform, on the side for which they were enlisted, they did that duty most honourably. one of these was recruited and commanded by duncan campbell, laird of inverawe. after various services in their own country during the period that the rest of the corps was abroad for the second time, these three companies were ordered vision of campbell of inverawe. to embark, in march , to join the regiment in flanders. but the preliminaries of peace having been soon afterwards signed, the order was counter- manded, and they were reduced. during the time that campbell of inverawe's company was occupied in the unpleasant duty to which i have alluded, he had been on one occasion compelled to march into the district of lorn, and to burn and destroy the houses and effects of a few small gentlemen, who were of that resolute description that they would have sacrificed all they had, and even life itself, rather than yield to what they held to be the government of an usurper. having been thus led to pursue his route, in a certain direction, for many a mile, he happened, on his return, to be detained behind his men by some accidental circumstance, and having lost his way after nightfall, he wandered about alone for several hours, until he became considerably oppressed with hunger and fatigue. with the expecta- tion of gathering some better knowledge of his way, he left the lower grounds, where the darkness of night had settled more deeply and decidedly down, and he climbed the side of a hill with the hope of benefiting, in some degree, by the half twilight which lingers longer upon these elevations, continuing to rest upon them sometimes for hours after it has altogether deserted their lower regions. with the dogged per- severance of one who labours on because he has no other alternative, he blindly pursued his haphazard course in a diagonal line along the abrupt face, always rising as he proceeded, until his way became every moment more and more difficult. the side of the weird tales. tj£'*'i • •>' > >•*: hilirweeftme steeper .and steeper at every step, until .fee began t,o be>atisfied that he had no chance of reaching its brow, except by retracing his steps, in order to discover some other means of ascending to it. to any such alternative as this he could by no means make up his mind. he cursed his own folly for allowing his company to march on without him. he uttered many a wish that he was with them. he felt sufficiently convinced that he had acted im- prudently in having thus exposed himself alone, in the midst of a district which was yet reeking with the vengeance which his duty had compelled him so unwillingly to pour out upon it. but his courage was indomitable, and his way lay onwards, and onwards he without hesitation resolved to go. he had not proceeded far, until high cliffs began to rear themselves over his head, whilst, from his very feet, perpendicular precipices shot down into the deep night that prevailed below. the goat or deer track that he followed became evety moment more and more blocked up with stony fragments, until at length it offered one continuous series of dangerous steps, requiring his utmost care and atten- tion to preserve him from a slip or fall that might have been fatal. whilst he was thus proceeding, with his whole attention occupied in self-preservation, he was suddenly challenged in gaelic by a rough voice in his front. "who comes there?" "a friend," replied inverawe, in the same language in which he was addressed. vision of campbell of inverawe. "i am not sure of that," said the same voice hoarsely and bitterly. "is he alone'?" "he is alone," said a voice a little way behind inverawe; "we are quite safe." "come on then, sir," said the voice in front, "you have nothing to fear." "fear!" cried inverawe, in a tone which implied that any such feeling had ever been a stranger to him; "i fear nothing." "i know you to be a brave man, inverawe !" said the man who now appeared in front of him. "come on then without apprehension. you need not put your hand into the guard of your claymore, for no one here will harm you. but what strange chance has brought you here?" "the loss of my way," replied inverawe. "but how do you come to know me so well?" "it is no matter how i know you," replied the other. "it is sufficient that i do know you, and know you to be a brave man, to whom, as such, i am prepared to do what kindness i can. what are your wants then, and what can i do for you?" "my wants are, simply to find my lost way, and then to procure some food, of which i stand much in need," replied inverawe. "be at ease then, for i shall help you to both," replied the person with whom he was conversing; "but methinks your last want requires to be first attended to, as the most urgent; so follow me, and look sharply to your footing." then, speaking in a louder tone to some individuals, who, though unseen, were posted somewhere in the obscurity to the rear of io weird tales. inverawe, he said, "look well to your post, lads, i shall be with you by and by." and then again turning to inverawe, he added—" come on, sir; you must climb up this way; the ascent is steep, and you will require to use hands as well as feet. goats were wont to be the only travellers here, and even they must have been hardy ones. but troublous times will often people the desert cliffs themselves with human beings, and scare the very eagle from her aerie, that she may yield her lodging to weary man. inverawe now began to clamber after his guide up a steep, tortuous, and dangerous ascent, where in some places they were compelled to pull up their bodies by the strength of their hands and arms. it lasted for some time; and he of the black watch, albeit well accustomed to such work, was beginning to be very weary of it, when at length they landed on a tolerably wide natural ledge, where inverawe per- ceived that the cliffs that arose from the inner angle of it so overhung their base as to render it self-evident that all farther ascent in this direction was cut off by them. rounding a huge fallen mass of rock, which lay poised on the very edge of the precipice, they came suddenly on a ravine, or rift, in the face of the cliff above, on climbing a few paces up which, they discovered the low, arched mouth of a cave, whence issued a faint gleam of light, and an odour of smoke. his guide stooped under the projection of the cliff that hung over it, and let himself down through the narrow entrance. inverawe followed his example without fear, and found himself in a cavern of an irregular form, from ten to twenty feet in diameter. vision of campbell of inverawe. i r this he discovered partly by the light of a fire of peats that smouldered near the entrance, and partially filled the place with smoke, but more perfectly by a torch of bog-fir which his guide immediately lighted. but he felt no curiosity about this, in comparison with that which he experienced in regard to the figure and features of his guide, with which he was in- tensely anxious to make himself acquainted. he was a tall and remarkably fine looking man, considerably below middle age. he was dressed in a gray plaid and kilt, betokening disguise, but with the full complement of highland armour about him. his hair hung in long black curls around his head. his face was very handsome, his nose aquiline, his mouth small and well formed, having its upper lip graced by a dark and well-trimmed moustache. his eyes, and his whole general expression, were extremely be- nignant. after scanning his face with great attention, inverawe was satisfied that he never had seen him before, and he had ample opportunity of ascertaining the reverse, if it had been otherwise, for the man stood with the bog-fir torch blazing in his hand, as if he wished to give his guest the fullest advantage of it in his scrutiny of him, and then, as if guessing the conclusion to which that scrutiny had brought him, he at last began to speak. "ay," said he calmly, "you are right, inverawe. your eyes have never beheld me until this moment. but i have seen you to my cost. i was looking on all the while that you and your men were burning and destroying my house, goods, and gear, this blessed morning, and / can never forget you." weird tales. "i know you not, that is certain," replied inver- awe; "and the cruel duty we were on to-day was so extensive in its operation, that i cannot even guess whom you are." "you shall never know it from me, inverawe," replied the other. "and why not?" demanded inverawe. "from no fear for myself," replied the stranger; "but because i would not add to that remorse, which you must feel, from being compelled to execute deeds which are as unworthy of you, as i know they are contrary to your generous and kindly nature. i have suffered from you deeply—deeply indeed have i suffered. but i look upon you but as an involuntary minister of the vengeance of a cruel government, and perhaps as an agent in the hand of a just god, who would punish me for those sins and frailties which are inherent in my human nature. i blame not you, and i can have no feeling of anger against you, far less of revenge. give me, then, the right hand of fellowship." "willingly, most willingly!" said inverawe, cordially shaking hands with him. "you are a noble, high-minded man; for certainly i can imagine what your feelings might have very naturally been against me, and i know that i am now in your power." "all i ask, inverawe, is this," continued the stranger; "that as i have been, and will continue to be, honourable towards you, you will be the same to me; and in asking that, i know that i am asking what is sure to be granted. the confidence in your honour which i have shown by bringing you here, will not be betrayed." vision of campbell of inverawe. glady pastures, which were seen to spread their verdant surface to the sun, along the course of the river awe. behind the gray towers of the building, broken rocks arose here and there, in bare masses, in the direction of the mountain; whilst the blue expanse of loch etive stretched away from the eye towards the north-east, as well as to the west. to the south- west, the groves, and grassy slopes, were abruptly broken off by the perpendicular crags of the romantic ravine through which the river makes its way, to pour itself across the open haughs of bunawe, and into loch etive. to sketch out the remainder of the neighbourhood, so that you may be fully aware of the nature of the country, which was the scene, where one of the most important circumstances of my tale took place, i may add, that about a mile above the ravine, the river has its origin from a long narrow arm of loch awe, which presents one of the most romantic ranges of scenery in scotland. the lake in the bottom is there everywhere about eighty or an hundred yards wide only; and whilst a bare, rocky mountain front, furrowed by many a misty cataract, rises sheer up out of the water on its western side, the steep, lofty, and rugged face of cruachan shuts it in on the eastern side, forming the grand and wild pass of brandera. here the mountain exhibits every variety of picturesque form,—of prominent crag, and half-concealed hollow, among which the gray mists are continually playing and producing magical effects; together with deep torrent beds, and innumerable waterfalls, thundering downwards unseen, save in glimpses, amid the thick copse which, generation weird tales. after generation, has sprung from the stools of those giant oaks, which were once permitted to rear their spreading heads, and to throw their bold arms freely abroad, athwart the rocky steeps that rear'themselves so high up above, as to be softened by distance and air, till they almost melt from human vision. having thus put you in possession of the scenery, i shall now proceed to tell you, that campbell of inverawe, after his long absence from home on military duty, felt all the luxury of enjoyment which these his own quiet scenes could bestow. and his mind expanding to all his old friendships, he largely exercised all the hospitalities of life. frequently did he fill the hall of his fathers with gay and merry feasters, and his own hilarious disposition always made him the very soul of the mirth that prevailed among them. one one occasion, it happened that he had congre- gated a large party together. the wine circulated freely. the fire bickered on the hearth, and threw a cheerful blaze over the walls of the hall, reddening the very roof, and gleaming on the warlike weapons that hung around. the wine was good, the jests were merry, and the conversation sparkling, so that the guests were as loath to depart as their kind host was unwilling to let them go. his lady had retired to her chamber, but still they sat on, making the old building ring again with their jocund laughter. but all things must have an end. the parting cup, to their host's roof-tree, was proposed by a certain young man called george campbell, and it was filled to the brim. but as all were on their legs to drain it, with vision of campbell of inverawe. heart and good will, to the bottom, a rattling peal of thunder rolled directly over their heads. there was not a man of them that did not feel that the omen was appalling. some hardy ones tried to laugh it off, as a salvo from heaven in homologation of their good wishes to the house of inverawe. but the pleasantry went ill down with the rest. servants were called for, horses were ordered, and out poured their owners to mount them,—when they were all surprised to see the heavens quite serene and tranquil. but not a word of remark was ventured by any one on this so very strange a circumstance. their hospitable enter- tainer saw every man of them take his stirrup-cup; and they galloped away, one after the other. after they were all gone, inverawe paced about in the courtyard for some time, in sombre thought which stole involuntarily upon him. he then sought his way up-stairs, and, lifting an oaken chair towards the great hearth, where the billets had by this time begun to burn tfd and without flame, he sat down in it for a while, listlessly to ponder over the events of the evening. the weary servants had gladly stolen away to bed, and the whole castle was soon as silent as the grave. not a sound was to be heard within the walls, but the dull, drowsy buzzing of a large fly, which the flickering light of a solitary lamp, left on the table, had prevented from retiring to some cranny of repose. the master of the mansion smiled for a moment, as the whimsical idea crossed him, that this tiny insect was perhaps the only thing of life which, at that time, kept watch with him within the castle. inverawe's thoughts reverted to the last toast which weird tales. had been given by his young friend campbell, and the strange circumstances by which it had been accom- panied. he had an only son, called donald, a promising young man, who was the prop of his house, and to whose future career in life he looked forward with all a father's anxiety. he had been long accustomed to weave a silken tissue of anticipated happiness, and honours, for the young man, and to view him, in his mind's eye, as the father of many generations to come. the youth was at that time from home; and this was the very first moment of his life that the notion of there being any chance of his being one day left childless, had ever occurred to him. he tried to shake off these gloomy presentiments, but still they returned, and clung to him, with a force and pertinacity that no reason could conquer. he would fain have risen to go to his chamber, but he felt as if some powerful, though unseen hand, had held him down to his chair; and he continued to sit on, absorbed in contemplative musings on these gloomy and painful dreams, till the billets on the hearth had consumed themselves to their red embers. suddenly all such thoughts were put to flight from his mind. he distinctly heard the great outer door of the castle creak upon its hinges. he remembered, that although he had not locked it, he had shut it behind him when he came in. it now banged against its doorway, and sent a hollow sound echoing up the long turnpike stair. faint, quick, and stealthy foot- steps were then heard ascending. one or two other doors were moved in succession. the footsteps approached with cautious expedition. and as inver- vision of campbell of inverawe. awe listened with breathless attention, the door of the hall was thrust open, a human countenance appeared for an instant in the dusky aperture, and then a man, with a naked dirk in his hand, his clothes dripping wet, his long hair hanging streaming over his shoulders and half-veiling his glaring eyes and pale and haggard countenance, rushed in, and made straight up to him. inverawe started to his feet, drew his dirk, and prepared to defend himself from this unlooked-for attempt at assassination. but ere he had well plucked it forth from its sheath, the intruder assumed the attitude of a suppliant. "for mercy's sake pardon my unceremonious entrance, inverawe!" said the stranger, in a hollow, husky, and exhausted voice. "and be not alarmed, for i come with no hostile intention against you or yours. i am an unfortunate wretch, who, in a sudden quarrel, have shed the blood of a fellow-creature. he was a man of lorn. i have been hotly pursued by his friends, and though i have thrown those who are after me considerably out, during the long chase they have kept up, yet they are still pressing like blood - hounds on my track. to baffle them, if possible, i threw myself into the river, and swam across it; and i now claim that protection, and that hospitality, which no one ever failed to find within the house of inverawe." "by cruachan!" cried inverawe, sheathing his dirk, and slapping it smartly with the open palm of his hand. "by cruachan, i swear that you shall have both!" weird tales. now, i must tell you, that this was considered as the most solemn pledge that a campbell of inverawe could give. their war-cry was, "coar-a-cruachan" that is, "helpfrom cruachan." and this expression had a double meaning, inasmuch as the word cruachan had reference both to the mountain of that name, and to the hip where the dirk hung. to swear by cruachan, therefore, and to strengthen the oath by slapping the dirk with the open palm, was to utter an oath, which must, under all circumstances, be for ever held inviolable. "but tell me," said inverawe, "how happened this unlucky affair?" "we were all met to make merry at a wedding," replied the stranger, "when, as i was dancing with but hold !—i hear voices! they approach the castle! i am lost if you do not hide me imme- diately." "this way," said inverawe, leading him to a certain obscure part of the hall. "aid me to lift this trap. now, down with ye and crouch there. they come." inverawe had barely time to drop the trap-door into its place, to resume his seat at the fire, and to affect to be in a deep sleep, when the voices and the sound of human footsteps were heard ascending the stairs. three men entered the hall in reeking haste—clay- mores in hand. they rushed towards the fire-place, where he was sitting. inverawe started up as if just awaked by the noise they made, and drew his dirk, as if to defend himself from their meditated attack. "hal" cried he, with well - feigned surprise. vision of campbell of inverawe. "assassins! then must i sell my life as dearly as i can." "not assassins!" cried they. "we are not assassins, inverawe. we crave your pardon for this apparently rude intrusion, but we are in pursuit of an assassin. we come to look for a man who has murdered another. have we your permission to search for him?" "certainly," said inverawe, "wherever you please." "he cannot be here," said one of the men. "i told you that he could not be here. don't you see plainly that he could not have come in here without awaking inverawe. we lose time here. we had better on after our friends." "depend on't he has run up loch etive side," said another of them. "what are all these wet footsteps on the floor?" said the first of them that spoke. "he might have been here without inverawe's knowledge." "don't you see that inverawe has had a feast, and that wine, and water, and whisky too, have been flowing in gallons in all directions?" said the second man. "see, there is a large pool of lost liquor. i verily believe that some of these footsteps are my own, made this moment, by walking accidentally through it. i tell you he never could have come here." "it is true that i have had a feast," said inverawe carelessly, "as you may see from the wrecks of it that still remain on the table." "i told you so," said the second man. "we only weird tales. lose time here. if you had only been guided by my counsel, we might have been hard at his heels by this time, as well as the rest." "haste, then, let us go!" said the first man. "away! away! cried his companions ; and, without waiting for further parley, they rushed out of the hall, and inverawe heard, with some satisfaction, their foot- steps hurrying down-stairs, and the shouts which they yelled forth after their companions growing fainter and fainter, until they were altogether lost in the direction of loch etive. inverawe was no sooner certain that they were fairly gone, without all risk of returning, than he proceeded, in the first place, to secure the outer door of the castle, and then returning to the hall, he went to the trap-door, and calling softly to the man con- cealed below, he desired him to aid him in raising it, by applying his strength to force it upwards, and thus their united strength enabled them speedily to open it, and to lift it up. "come forth now, unfortunate man," said inver- awe; "your pursuers are gone." "i come," said the stranger, in his husky, hoarse voice, and as he raised himself from the trap-door, his haggard countenance, and his blood-shot eyes, that glared with the horror of his situation, half seen as they were through his long moist locks, chilled inver- awe's very heart as he looked upon him. "now, sir," said inverawe, "you are safe for the present, your pursuers have passed on." "thanks! thanks!" replied the man; "i know not how sufficiently to thank you." vision of campbell of inverawe. sky. in addition to this, the great elevation of the position added to the security of the place, and the ravine-seamed front of the perpendicular mountain of rock that guarded the western side of the pass, immediately opposite to the face of cruachan, pre- cluded all chance of observation from that quarter. "this is not exactly the place where campbell ot inverawe would wish to exercise his hospitality to any one who deigns to ask for his protection," said the laird, whilst he was engaged in striking a light; "but in your circumstances it is the best retreat in which i can extend it towards you. here is a lamp; and i will leave this tinder-box, and this flask of oil with you. the cave is dry enough, and there is abundance of heather to be had around you. use your lamp only when you may find it absolutely necessary so to do; for its light might betray you; and take care to show yourself as little as possible during the daylight of to-morrow. i have promised you protection by cruachan, and by cruachan you shall have it. you must be contented with this my assurance for the present, for your safety demands that i shall not see you again, until i can do so without observation, under the veil of to-morrow- night's darkness. till then, you must e'en do with such provisions as this basket contains, and you may reckon on my bringing a fresh supply with me when i return. farewell, for i must hurry back, so as to escape discovery." "thanks ! thanks! kind inverawe!" said the man, in a state of extreme agitation and excitement,—" a thousand thanks! but, must you—must you leave vision of campbell of inverawe. might my absence and all be discovered. it cannot, as yet, as i suppose, be much after midnight; but even that is late enough for me. i must borrow the swiftness of the roebuck to carry me back. so again i say farewell till to-morrow night." inverawe tarried not for an answer, but, darting off through the wood, he rapidly descended among the rocks, and then bounded over all the obstacles in his way, with a swiftness almost rivalling that of the animal he had alluded to; and so he reached his own door, in a space of time so short, as to be almost incredible. the fire in the hall had now sunk into white ashes. the lamp, which he had left burning, was now flickering in its last expiring efforts. he swallowed a single draught of wine to restore his ex- hausted strength, and then he stole to his chamber, and crept into bed, happy in the conviction that his lady, who was in a deep sleep, had never discovered that he had been absent. the sleep that immediately fell upon inverawe himself, was that of the most perfect unconsciousness of existence. he knew not, of course, how long it had lasted, nor was he in the least degree sensible of the cause or manner of its interruption. but he did awake, somehow or other; and then it was that he discovered, to his great wonder and astonishment, that the chamber which, on going to bed, he had left as dark as the most impenetrable night could make it, was now illuminated with a lambent light, of a bluish cast, which shone through the very curtains of his bed. a certain feeling of awe crept chillingly over him; for he was at once convinced that the light weird tales. was something very different from the dawn of morn- ing. it became gradually more and more intense, till, through the thick drapery that surrounded him, he distinctly beheld the shadow of a human figure approaching his bed. he was a brave man; but he felt that every nerve and muscle of his frame was paralyzed, he knew not how. he watched the slow advance of the figure with motionless awe. the shadowy arm was extended, and the curtain was slowly and silently raised. the bluish light that so miraculously pervaded the chamber, then suddenly arose to a degree of splendour that was dazzling to his sight, and clearly defined the appalling object that now presented itself to his eyes. the face and figure were those of the very man who had formerly entertained him in the hole in the cliff on the moun- tain-side, in lorn. he was wrapped in the same gray plaid, too. but those handsome features, which had made so deep an impression on the recollection of inverawe, were now pale and fixed, as if all the pulses of life had ceased; and the raven locks, which hung curling around them, and the moustaches which once gave so much expression to his upper lip, now only served to increase the ghastliness of the hue of death that overspread his countenance, as well as that of the glaze of those immoveable eyes, which had then exhibited so much generous intelligence. inver- awe lay petrified, his expanded orbs devouring the spectacle before them. with noiseless action, the figure dropped one corner of the shadowy plaid in which it was enveloped, and displayed a gaping wound in its bosom, which appeared to pour out vision of campbell of inverawe. rivers of blood. its lips moved not; yet it spoke— slowly, and in a hollow and sepulchral tone,— "inverawe!—blood must flow for blood! shield not the murderer!" slowly did the spectre drop the curtain; and its shadow, seen through it, gradually faded away in the waning light, ere inverawe could well gather together his routed faculties to his aid. he rubbed his eyes, started up in bed, leaned on his pillow, and brushed the curtain hastily aside. all was again dark and silent. again he rubbed his eyes, and looked; but again he looked into impenetrable night. "it was a dream," thought, rather than said, inverawe; "a horrible dream—but nevertheless it was a dream, curious in its coincidences, but not unnatural. nay, it was most natural, that the strangest adventure of my past life should be re- called by the yet stranger occurrences of this night, and that both should thus link themselves confusedly and irrationally together during sleep. pshaw! it is absurd for a rational man to think of this illusion more. i'll to sleep again." but sleep is one of those blessed conditions of human nature which cannot be controlled or com- manded by the mere will. on the contrary, the very resolution to command it, is almost certain to put it to flight. the vision, or whatever else it might have been, haunted his imagination, and kept his thoughts so busily occupied, that he could not sleep. when his lady awaked in the morning, she found him lying fevered, restless, and unrefreshed. her inquiries were anxious and affectionate; but, by carelessly attribut- o weird tales. ing his indisposition to the prolonged revelry of the previous evening, he at last succeeded in ridding him- self of further question, and springing from his couch, he tried to banish all thought of the unpleasant dilemma into which he had been brought, by occupy- ing himself actively in the business of the day. he was so far successful for a time; but as night approached, his uncomfortable reflections and anti- cipations began again to crowd into his mind. he must fulfil his promise of visiting his guest of the cave, a guest whom he now could not help looking upon with horror as a foul murderer; and yet, if he dis- believed the reality of the previous night's visitation, there was no reason that he should so regard him more now, than he had done before. the difficulty of contriving the means of managing his visit, so that it should escape observation or suspicion on the part of his lady, or his domestics, was very consider- able. his lady was that evening more than ordinarily solicitous about him, from the conviction that pressed upon her that he had had little or no sleep the previous night, and remarking his jaded appearance, she eagerly urged him to retire to bed at an early hour. "my dearest," said he affectionately, "i shall: but before i can do so, i have some otter-traps to set. perhaps i had better go and finish that business now, while there is yet some twilight- go you to your chamber, and retire to rest. i shall sleep all the sounder by and by, after breathing the fresh air of this balmy evening for an hour or so." the lady yielded to his persuasion, and she had no vision of campbell of inverawe. sooner left him, than he took an opportunity of filling his basket with such provisions as he could appro- priate for the stranger with the least possible chance of detection ; and putting a few of his otter-traps over all, by way of a blind, he sallied forth in the direc- tion of the river. there he first most conscientiously made good his word, by planting his traps, and then, as it was by that time dark, he turned his steps up the side of ben cruachan, and made the best of his way towards the cliffs where the cave was situated. as he drew near to its mouth, he was in some degree alarmed by observing a light proceeding from it. he approached it with caution, and, on entering it, he beheld the stranger sitting in the farthest corner of it on the bed of heather, with his figure drawn up and compressed together, and his features painfully distorted, whilst his eyes were intently fixed on vacancy. for a moment inverawe doubted whether some fit had not seized upon him; but he started at the noise made by the entrance of his protector, and sprang up to meet him. "oh, inverawe," said he, "what a relief it is to behold you! oh, what a wretched weary time i have passed since you left me!" "i have brought you something to comfort you," said inverawe, so shocked with his haggard appear- ance and conscience-worn countenance, as almost to recoil from him. • "you know that i could not come sooner. you seem to be exhausted with watching. you had better take some of this wine." "oh, yes, yes, give me wine—a large cup of wine!" cried the stranger, wildly seizing the vessel weird tales. which inverawe had filled, and swallowing its con- tents with avidity. "oh, such a time as i have spent!" "this place is quite secure," said inverawe. "you have no cause for such anxiety, if you will only be prudent. but why do you keep this light burning? did i not tell you it was most dangerous to do so. some wandering or belated shepherd or huntsman might be guided hither by it, and if your retreat should be once discovered, your certain destruction must follow." "i could not remain in darkness," replied the stranger, with a cold shudder; "it was agonizing to do so! horrid shapes continually haunted me,— horrid, horrid shapes? even the shutting of my eyes could not exclude them. oh, such a night as last! never have i before endured anything so horrible." "you must take your own way, then," said inver- awe, as he spread out the contents of the basket before him. "i am sorry that i can do nothing better for you, but this is the best fare i could provide for you, without exciting suspicion in my own house. stay— here is a blanket, to help to make your bed somewhat more comfortable. and now, i must hurry away. yet, before i go, let me once more caution you about the light. perhaps i had better make all secure, by taking the lamp with me." "oh no! no! no! no!" cried the stranger, his eyes glaring like those of a maniac, while he rushed towards the lamp and seized it up, and clasped it within his arms. "no, nothing shall rend it from vision of campbell of inverawe. me! i will sacrifice my life to preserve it. what! would you leave me to another long, long, and dreadful night? would you leave me to utter darkness and despair?" "leave you i must," replied inverawe; "and if you will keep the lamp, you must do so at your own risk. but your thoughts must be dreadful thoughts indeed, so to disturb you. if conscious guilt be the cause of them, i can only advise you to confess your- self humbly to your creator, and to pray for his forgiveness." without waiting for a reply, inverawe left the cave, and made the best of his way home. on reaching his apartment, he found his lady awake. "you have been a long time absent, inverawe," said she anxiously. "i have, my love," replied he carelessly; "the delicious air of this night induced me to stay out longer than i had intended; but i hope i shall sleep all the better for it." exhausted as he was by fatigue of body and mind, as well as worn out by want of rest, inverawe did fall asleep immediately, and his sleep was sound and deep. for aught he knew, it might have lasted for some hours, when again, as on the previous night, he was awaked, he could not tell how. the curtains of his bed were drawn close, but the same uncouth blue light which pervaded the apartment on the former night, now again rendered them quite transparent. to convince himself that he was awake, inverawe looked round upon his wife. even at this early stage, the light was sufficiently bright to enable him t c weird tales. distinctly to see his lady's features as her head lay in calm repose on the pillow beside him. he turned again towards the side of the bed, and his eyes were dazzled by the sudden increase of light, produced by the curtain being raised, as before, by the extended hand of the spectre. the same well-remembered features were there, pale, fixed, and corpse-like; but the expression of the brow, and bloodless lips, was more stern than it was on the previous night. again the spectre dropped the fold of the filmy plaid that covered the bosom, and displayed the yawning gash, which continued to pour out rivers of blood. the spectacle was horrible, and inverawe's very arteries were frozen up. again it spoke in a deep, hollow tone, whilst its lips moved not. '' inverawe! my first visit has been fruitless !— once more i come to warn you that blood must flow for blood. no longer shield the murderer! force me not to appear again, when all warning will be vain!" inverawe made an effort to question it. his parched mouth, and dried and stiffened tongue, refused to do their office. the curtain fell, and the light in the room, as well as the shadow of the figure, began to wane away. he struggled to spring out of bed, but his nerves and muscles refused to obey his will, until it was gone, and all was again darkness. the moment that his powers returned to him, he dashed back the curtain, threw himself from the bed, and searched through the room, with outstretched arms; yet, bold and desperate as he was, he almost feared that they might embrace the cold and bloody figure which he had beheld. his search, however, weird tales. the lady promised what he desired, and then inver- awe communicated to her every circumstance that had occurred to him. she was struck dumb and petrified by the narration; but she had no sooner gathered sufficient nerve to speak, than she earnestly entreated him to have nothing to do in concealing the guilty stranger. "let not this awful warning, now given you for the second time, be neglected," said she. "send for the officers of justice without delay, and give up the murderer to be tried by the offended laws of his country. you know not what curse may fall upon you, for thus trying to arrest heaven's judgment on the guilty man. oh, inverawe, it is dreadful to think of it!" "all this earnestness on your part, my love, is natural," said inverawe calmly. "but think of the solemn oath i have sworn;—you would not have inverawe,—you would not have your husband,— break a pledge so solemnly given? whatever may befall me hefe, i cannot so dishonour myself. be- sides," added he, "whilst, on the one hand, i know that he to whom i am so pledged is like myself, a man of flesh and blood, who, for anything i know to the contrary, may, after all, be really less guilty than unfortunate; i cannot even yet say with certainty, that i have not been the sport of dreams, naturally enough arising out of the strange circumstances to which i have been exposed. but were it otherwise, and that, contrary to all our accustomed rational belief, i have indeed been visited by a spirit, what proof have i that it is a spirit of health? what proof vision of campbell oflnverawe. have i that it may not be a spirit wickedly com- missioned by the father of lies to take this form, in order to seduce me into that breach of my pledge, which would for ever blacken the high name of campbell of inverawe, and doom myself to ceaseless remorse during the rest of my days? no, no, lady! —i must keep my solemn vow, whatever may befall me." the lady was silenced by these words from her husband, but her anxiety was not thereby allayed. it increased as night approached; and especially when inverawe told her that he rriust again visit the man in the cave. during that day various rumours had reached him of people being afoot in search of a murderer, who was supposed to have found a place of concealment somewhere in that neighbourhood; and it was with some difficulty that he could suppress a hope that unconsciously arose within him, that he might be relieved from his pledge, and from his present most distressing and embarrassing position, by the accidental capture of him for whom they were searching. the duty of visiting the wretched man had now become oppressively painful to inverawe,— and the painfulness of it was not decreased by the additional risk which he now ran of being detected. but inverawe was not a man to abandon any duty for any such reasons. having again privately made up his basket of provisions, therefore, and put his otter- traps over its contents, as formerly, he left the castle as twilight came on, and making his circuit by the riverside with yet more care and caution than before, he climbed along the side of cruachan, and in due vision of campbell of inverawe. man than anything else—" i must have light—i should go distracted if i had not light. darkness would drive me to self-destruction! i tell you it is filled with horrible shapes. even when i shut my eyes, the horrible spectre appears. have pity !—have mercy on me, and stay with me but this one single night ?—for even the light of the lamp itself cannot always banish the terrific spectre from before me!" "spectre!" cried inverawe, shuddering with horror,—" what spectre?" "ay, the horrible spectre," replied the man. and then suddenly starting back, with his hands stretched forth, as if to keep off some terrific shape that had instantaneously risen before him, and with his eyeballs glaring towards the dark opening of the cave, he shrieked out—" hell and torments i 'tis there again,—there—there—see there!" "i see nothing," said inverawe, with some diffi- culty retaining a proper command of himself. "but this is madness—absolute insanity. see, here is your food; i must leave you immediately." "oh, do not go!" said the stranger, following inverawe for a few steps towards the mouth of the cave, and entreating him in a subdued and abject tone. and then, just as his protector was about to make his exit, he again started back, and stood as if he had been transfixed, whilst, with his hands stretched out before him, and his eyes fearfully staring on the vacancy of the darkness that was beyond the cavern's mouth, he again yelled out—"there ! there! —see there!" it must be honestly confessed that it was with no weird tales. very imperturbed state of nerves, that inverawe com- mitted himself to the obscurity of that night, to hurry homewards; and though no spectre appeared before his visual orbs, yet the harrowing spectacle which the guilty man had exhibited, and the allusion which he had made to the supposed spectre which he had seen in his imagination, kept that which he had himself beheld constantly floating before his mind's eye, during the whole of his way home; and he was not sorry, when he reached his own hall, to find his lady sitting by the fire waiting for his return. she was lonely and cheerless, and full of anxious thoughts regarding him; but her eye brightened up at his entrance, and she filled him a goblet of wine. inverawe swallowed it greedily down,—gave her a brief and bare account of his evening's expedition,— and then they retired to their chamber. on this occasion inverawe silently took the pre- caution of bolting the door of the apartment; and, on going to bed, the lady, with great resolution of mind, determined within herself to keep off sleep, and to watch, so that she too might behold whatever appari- tion might appear; hoping that if the spectre which had so disturbed inverawe should, after all, prove to be nothing but a dream, she might be able, from her own observation, to disabuse him of his fantasy. but it so happened that, notwithstanding all her precautions, and all her mental exertions to prevent it, she fell immediately into a most unaccountably deep sleep; and inverawe himself, in spite of all his harassing and distressing thoughts, was speedily plunged into a similar state of utter unconsciousness. vision of campbell of inverawe. again, for this the third night, he was awaked by the same light streaming through the apartment, and rendering the curtain of his bed transparent by its wonderful illumination. again he looked round on his wife, and beheld every feature of her face clearly displayed by its influence. she lay in the soundest and sweetest repose. his first impulse was to awake her, but he instantly checked himself, and felt grateful that she was thus to be saved from the contemplation of the terrific spectral appearance, the shadow of which he now observed gliding slowly towards the bed. the curtain was again raised. the same well- remembered figure and face appeared under the usual increased intensity of light. again the filmy plaid was partially dropped, and the fearful gash in the bosom was exposed, as before, pouring out blood. again the deep, hollow voice came from the motion- less lips, but it was accompanied by a yet sterner expression of the eyes, and of the pale counten- ance. "inverawe! my warnings have been vain. the time is now past. yet blood must flow for blood! the blood of the murderer might have been offered up—now your blood must flow for his! we meet once more at ticonderoga!" this last visitation of the apparition, accompanied as it was by a denunciation so terrible, had a yet more overwhelming effect upon inverawe than either of those that preceded it. bereft of all power over himself, he lay, conscious of existence it is true, but utterly incapable of commanding thought, much less of exercising action. ere he could rally his intellect, weird tales. or his nervous energy, the spectre was gone; and the apartment was dark. when his thoughts began to arise within him, they were of a more agonizing character than any which he had formerly experi- enced—" your blood must flow for his." these dreadful words still sounded in his ears, in the same deep, sepulchral tone in which they had been uttered. do not suppose that one thought of himself ever crossed his mind. he thought of his son—that son, for whose welfare every desire of his life was concen- trated,—that was his blood, against which he con- ceived this dread prophecy to be directed—that was his blood which he dreaded might flow. he shivered at the very thought. he recalled the strange circum- stances which had attended the drinking of the toast to his roof-tree. his anxiety about his son was raised to a pitch, that converted his bed, for that night at least, into a bed of thorns. he slept not, yet all his tossings failed to awaken his lady, who slept as if she had been drenched with some soporifer- ous drug. the sun had no sooner darted his first rays through the casement, however, than she awaked as if from a most refreshing sleep. she looked round upon her husband, — observed his haggard and tortured expression,—and the whole recollection of what she previously knew having come upon her at once, she began vehemently to upbraid herself. "i have slept," said she, in atone of vexed self- reprehension. '' after all my determination to the contrary, i have slept throughout the whole night; and you have been again disturbed. say! what has happened? have you seen him again?" vision of campbell of inverawe. "i have seen him," replied inverawe in a sub- dued tone and manner—" i have seen him, and his appearance was terrible." "say—tell me !—what passed?" exclaimed the lady earnestly. "inverawe, i must know all." inverawe would have fain eaten in his words. he would have especially wished to have left his wife in ignorance of the denunciation to which the apparition had given utterance. but he had not as yet recovered sufficient mastery over himself, to enable him to baffle the questioning of an acute woman. in a short time the whole truth was extracted from him; and now the lady, in a state of agitation that very much ex- ceeded his, began to press upon him the necessity of giving up the criminal to justice. her argument was long and energetic; and during the time that it occupied, he gradually resumed the full possession of himself. "i have heard you, my love," replied he calmly; "yet you have urged, and you can urge nothing which can persuade me to break my solemn pledge. the hitherto spotless honour of inverawe shall never be tarnished in my person. dreadful as is the curse which has been denounced upon me, i am still resolved to act as an honourable man. yet i will do this much. i will again visit the man in the cave, and insist with him that he shall seek some other place of refuge. i have done enough for him. i have suffered enough on his account. he must go else- where. perhaps i should have come to this resolve yesterday—the time, alas! may now be past. but, come what may, i am determined that the visit weird tales. of this night shall be the last that i shall pay to him. he must go elsewhere. even his own safety requires that he shall do so—and mine! but no matter, he must seek some other asylum!" even this resolve—late though it might be, was, for the time, some consolation to the afflicted mind of his wife. nay, it was in some degree matter of alleviation to his own sufferings. the broad sunlight of heaven, and the bustling action of the creatures of this world while all creation is awake, produces a wonderful effect upon the human mind, in relieving it from all those phantoms of anticipated evil which the silent shades of night are so apt to conjure up within it. inverawe and his lady were less oppressed with gloomy thoughts during the day than might have been supposed possible. it is true that he often secretly repeated over the denunciation of the apparition, hut even yet he would have fain persuaded himself, as he tried to persuade his wife, that he had been the sport of dreams, resulting from some morbid stale of his system. "ticonderoga i" said he, "where is ticonderoga? i know of no such place; nay, i never heard of any such place; and, in truth, i do not believe that any such place really exists on the face of this earth. ticonderoga! a name so utterly unknown to me, and so strangely uncouth in itself, would lead me to believe that it is the coinage of my own distempered brain; and if so, then the whole must have been an illusion. yet it is altogether unaccountable and inexplicable." thus it was that inverawe reasoned during that vision of campbell of inverawe. day; but as night again approached, it brought all its phantoms of the imagination along with it. inverawe, however, wound himself up to go through with that which he now considered as his last trial. having filled his basket as before, he set off on his wonted circuitous route to the cave. as he went thither, he endeavoured to steel up his mind to assume that resolute tone with the stranger which he now felt to be absolutely necessary to rid himself of so trouble- some and distressing a charge. much as it did violence to his innate feelings of hospitality, to come to any such determination, he resolved to insist on his departure from the cave that very night, and he had no difficulty in persuading himself that his doing this would be the best line of safety he could prescribe for the stranger, seeing that, by the active use of his limbs during the remaining portion of it, he might well enough reach some distant place of concealment before daybreak. full of such ideas, he pressed on towards the cave, that he might get him off with as little delay as possible. the light which had shone from its mouth upon former occasions was now absent, and inverawe hailed the circumstance as a proof that the wretched man had at last become more rational. he approached the orifice in the cliff, and gently called him. his own voice alone was returned to him from the hollow bowels of the rock. all was so mysteriously silent, that an involuntary chill fell upon inverawe. he repeated his call in a louder voice, but still there was no reply—no stir from within. a cold shudder crept over him, and for a moment he half expected to see issue from the black void before weird tales. him, that appalling apparition which had now three several times appeared by his bedside. a little thought enabled him to get rid of this temporary weakness. he recalled the last words of the spectre, and the strange uncouth name of ticonderoga. if such a place had existence at all, it was there, and there only, that he could expect to behold him again. he became reassured, and all his wonted manliness returned to him. he struck a light, and crept into the cave. a short survey of its interior satisfied him that the stranger was gone. the blanket, the ex- tinguished lamp, and some other things, lay there, but no other vestige of its recent inmate was to be seen. inverawe felt relieved; he was saved from even the semblance of inhospitality. but the recollection of the apparition's last words recurred to him", and then everything around him seemed to whisper him that indeed the time might now be past. he began, most inconsistently, to wish that the stranger had still been there—nay, he almost hoped that he might yet be lingering about the neighbouring rocks or thickets. he sallied forth from the cave, and abandoning all his former caution, he shouted twice or thrice in succession, at the very top of his voice, but without obtaining any response, except that which came from the echoes of the cliffs, muffled as they were by the roar of the numerous cataracts of the mountain-side, and the howling blast that swept downward through the pass far below. for a moment he felt that if the stranger had been still in his power, he could have given him up to justice, to be dealt with as a murderer; but reason made him blush, by bringing back to him vision of campbell of inverawe. his high and chivalric sense of honour in its fullest force, so that he turned to go homewards possessed with a very different train of thought. when his lady met him, she was eager in her inquiries, and deeply depressed when she learned that inverawe had now lost all chance of delivering up the murderer. "alas!" said she, in an agony of tears, "the time is now past.'" "do not allow this matter to distress you so, my love," said inverawe, endeavouring to soothe her into a calm, which he could by no means command for himself. "the more i think of it, the more i am persuaded that the whole has been a phantasm of the brain. let us have a cup of wine, and laugh all such foolish fancies away ere we go to bed. this perplex- ing and distressing adventure has now passed by, and this night i hope to shake off all such vapours of the imagination." inverawe had little sleep that night, but he was undisturbed by any reappearance of the apparition. unknown to his wife, he made a circuitous excursion next day to ben cruachan, where a more accurate examination of the cave and its environs satisfied him that the stranger was indeed gone. and he was gone for ever, for inverawe never afterwards saw him,— nor, indeed, did he ever again hear the slightest intelligence regarding him. days, weeks, and months rolled away, and by degrees the gloom which these extraordinary and portentous events had brought upon inverawe, as well as upon his lady, began to be in a great degree dissipated. his son had long since returned home in weird tales. full health and vigour, and things fell gradually into their natural and usual course. inverawe was one night sitting in social converse with his wife and his son, and their friend, young george campbell—the same indivdual who, as you may re- member, was the giver of the toast of the roof-tree of inverawe,—when a packet of letters was brought in, and handed to the laird. "what is all this?" exclaimed he quickly^ .breaking the seal, and hastily examining the contents. "ha! the old black watch again! this is news indeed!" "what ?—what is it?" cried his lady. "glorious news!" cried inverawe, rubbing his hands. "i am appointed to the majority of the highlanders; and here is an ensign's commission for you, young gentleman," said he, addressing george campbell. "and my friend grant, who writes to me, tells me that he has got the lieutenant-colonelcy. what can be more delightful than the prospect of serving in such a corps, under the command of so old a friend?" "glorious!—glorious!" cried young george camp- bell, jumping from his chair, and dancing through the room with joy. "a bumper to the gallant highlanders, and their brave commander!" cried inverawe, filling the cups. the toast was quaffed with enthusiasm. young inverawe alone seemed to feel that there was no joy in the cup for him. "would i had a commission too !" said he, in a tone of extreme vexation. "boy," said inverawe, gravely, "your time is vision of campbell of inverawe. coming. it will be well for you to stay at home to look after your mother. one of us two is enough in the field at once." "am i then to be doomed to sloth and idleness at home?" said donald pettishly; "better put petti- coats on me at once, and give me a distaff to wield." "speak not so, donald," said his mother, in a trembling voice. "you are hardly old enough for such warlike undertakings; and, indeed, your father says what is but too true—for what could i do, were both of you to be torn from me?" donald said no more. the cup circulated. george campbell was in high spirits, and full of happy anticipations. "i hope we may soon be sent on service," said he exultingly. "you may have service sooner than you dream of," said inverawe, going on to gather the remainder of the contents of his packet. "grant writes me here, that in consequence of the turn which matters are taking in america, he hopes every day for the arrival of an order for the regiment to embark. george, you and i must lose no time in making up our kits, for we must join the corps with all manner of expedition." the parting between inverawe and his lady was tender and touching. donald bid his father farewell with less appearance of regret than his known affection for him would have led any one to have anticipated. there was even a certain smile of triumph on his countenance as he saw them depart. but his mother was too much overwhelmed by her own feelings, to notice anything regarding those of her son. weird tales. the meeting between inverawe and his old brother officers was naturally a joyous one, and nothing could be more delightful than the warmth of the reception he met with from his long-tried friend colonel grant, now commanding officer of the corps. "my dear fellow, inverawe !" said he, cordially shaking him by the hand, "this happy circumstance of having got you amongst us again, is even more gratifying to me than my own promotion, and yet, let me tell you, the peculiar circumstances attending that were gratifying enough." "i need not assure you that the news of it were most gratifying to me," replied inverawe. "it doubled the happiness i felt, in getting the majority, to find that i was to serve under so old and so much valued a friend. but to what particular circumstances do you allude?" "when the step was opened to me, by the promo- tion of colonel campbell to the command of the fifty- fourth regiment," replied colonel grant, in a trembling voice, and with the tears beginning to swell in his eyes, "i was not a little surprised, and, as you will readily believe, pleased also, to be waited on by a deputation from the non-commissioned officers and privates of the corps, to make offer to me of a purse containing the sum necessary to purchase the lieutenant-colonelcy, which they had subscribed among themselves, and proposed to present to me, with the selfish view, as the noble fellows declared to me, of securing to them- selves, as commanding officer, a man whom they all so much loved and respected! campbell !—inver- awe!" continued he, with his voice faltering still vision of campbell of itiverawe. more from the swelling of his emotions, "i can never forget this, were i live to the age of methuselah—i can never deserve it all—but—but—pshaw! my heart is too full to give utterance to my feelings, and i must e'en play the woman." "noble fellows indeed!" cried inverawe, fully sympathizing with him in all he felt; "but by my faith they looked at the matter in its true light, when moved by selfish considerations, they were led so to act—for they well knew that you would be as a father to them." "i shall ever be as a father to them whilst it pleases god to spare me," said the colonel warmly, "and if ever i desert them while life remains, may i be blown from the mouth of a cannon!" "what was the result of this matter then?" de- manded inverawe. "why, as it happened," replied the colonel, "the promotion went in the regiment without purchase, so that i enjoyed all the pleasure of receiving this kind demonstration from my children, without taxing their pockets, or laying myself under an unpleasant pecuniary obligation to them, which might at times have had a tendency in some degree to paralyze me in the wholesome exercise of strict discipline. and we shall require to stick the more rigidly to that now, seeing that we are going on service." "we are going on service then?" said inverawe. "we have this very evening received our orders for america," replied colonel grant; "and never did commanding officer go on service with more con- fidence in his men and officers than i do." weird tales. "and i may safely say that never did officers or men go on service with greater confidence in their commander than we shall do," replied inverawe, again shaking the colonel heartily by the hand. george campbell was introduced by inverawe to the particular notice of colonel grant, and by him to the rest of the officers, among whom he soon found himself at his ease. the time for their embarkation approached, and all was bustle and preparation amongst them. george had much to do, and it was with some difficulty, but with great inward delight, that he at last found himself complete in all his arms, trappings, and necessaries. the night previous to their going on board of the ships appointed to convey them to their place of destination, was a busy one for him, and he was still occupied, at a late hour, in his quarters, when he was surprised by a knock at his door. "come in!" cried george campbell. the door opened, and a young man entered, whose fatigued and soiled appearance showed that he had come off a long journey. "donald campbell of inverawe!" cried george, in utter astonishment; and the young men were instantly in one another's arms. "my dear fellow, what strange chance has brought you hither?" "i come to throw myself on your honour," said donald. "i come to throw myself on the honour of him whom i have ever held to be my dearest friend; —on the honour of one who has never failed me hitherto, and who, if i mistake not, will not fail me now. give me your solemn promise that you will weird tales. bell, much perplexed. "but i have no relish for having any hand in aiding you to oppose the will of your father." "no matter now, george, whether you have any relish for it or not," replied young inverawe, smiling. "you have given me your promise that you will aid me, and you must now make the best of it. so come away. let me see how you can best manage to get me aboard. i must not be seen by my father till we land in america, and then i shall enter as a volunteer." '' what will your father say then?" demanded george campbell. "why, that the blood of inverawe was too strong in me to be restrained," replied donald. "why, man, it is just what he would have done himself. he will be too proud of the spirit inherent in his house, which has impelled me to this act, ever to think of blaming me for it. come, come, you have given me your word." "i have given you my word," said george campbell; "and i must honestly tell you that i wish i had been less precipitate. but having given it, i must in truth abide by it. it may be as you say, that your father will have more pride than pain in this matter, when he comes to know it. and then, as for myself, i shall be too happy to have you as my companion in so long a voyage. but come, let us have some refresh- ment, and then we can talk over the matter, and consider how your scheme may be best carried into effect." the thing was easily enough arranged. many of vision of campbell of inverawe. the privates of the corps were gentlemen who had attendants of their own. there was nothing extra- ordinary, therefore, in an officer being so provided. a slight disguise was employed to alter donald's appearance, so that he might escape detection from any one who had seen him before. next morning he went on board in charge of some of ensign george campbell's baggage, and there he remained snugly until the expedition sailed. the highland regiment embarked full of en- thusiasm, and it was ultimately landed at new york in the highest health and spirits. colonel stewart of garth, in his interesting work, tells us, that they were caressed by all ranks and orders of men, but more particularly by the indians. those inhabitants of the wilds flocked from all quarters to see the strangers, as they were on their march to albany, and the resemblance which they discovered between the celtic dress and their own, inclining them to believe that they were of the same extraction as them- selves, they hailed them as brothers. orders were issued to treat the indians kindly; but, although these were most generally and most cheerfully obeyed, instances did occur where gross acts of impropriety and harshness were exhibited towards them, and one of these i shall now mention. a young indian, of tall and handsome proportions, with that conscious air of equality which they all possess, came up to a group of the highlanders who were resting themselves round a fire. an ignorant and mischievous fellow of the party, who much more merited the name of savage than him of the woods, weird tales. having heated the end of the stalk of a tobacco pipe, handed it, full of tobacco, with much mock solemnity to the young indian,—who, in ignorance of the trick, was just about to take it into his hand, and to apply the heated end of it to his lips, when a young high- lander who was present, dashed it to the ground. the indian started—looked tomahawks at the high- land youth, and might have used one too, had not he, with his glove on, taken up a portion of the broken pipe-stalk, and signing to the indian to feel it, made him sensible of the kind and friendly service he had rendered him. the ferocious rage that lightened in the eye of the red man was at once extinguished. a mild and benignant sunshine succeeded it. he took the hand of the young highlander, and pressed it to his heart; and then, darting a look of dignified con- tempt upon the poor creature who had been the author of this base and childish piece of knavery against him, he slowly, solemnly, and silently with- drew. whilst major campbell of inverawe was on the march, his noble appearance seemed to make a strong impression on their indian followers. for his part, he was peculiarly struck with the fine figure and graceful mien of a heroic-looking young warrior of the woods, who seemed to keep near to him, as if earnestly intent on holding intercourse with him. he encouraged his approach; and, conversing with him, as well as the young man's imperfect knowledge of english permitted him to do, he invited him, when they halted for refreshment, to partake of his hasty meal. the young eagle eye—for such was the vision of campbell of inverawe. indian's name in his own tribe—carried a rifle; and major campbell having put some questions to him as to his skill in using it, his curiosity was so excited by all that the red man said of himself, that he resolved to put it to the proof. having loaded his own piece, therefore, he proposed to his new indian ally, to take a short circuit, to look for game, during the brief time that the men were allowed for rest, and one or two of the officers arose to accompany them. the eagle eye moved on before them with that silence, and with that dignified air, which marked the confidence which he had in his own powers. a walk of a few hundred yards from their line of march, brought them into a small open space of grassy ground, surrounded by thickets. inverawe stopped by chance to adjust the buckle of his bandoleer, when the eagle eye, who happened at that moment to be some paces to the right of him, sprang on him like a falcon, and threw him to the ground. as he was in the very act of doing so, an arrow from the thicket in front of them pierced the indian's shoulder, whilst he, almost at the same moment, levelled his rifle, fired it in the direc- tion from whence the arrow came, and, rushing forward with a yell, plunged among the bushes. the whole of these circumstances passed so instantaneously, that major campbell's brother officers were con- founded. but having assisted him to rise from the ground, they congratulated him on his escape from a danger which neither he nor they could as yet very well comprehend or explain. they were not long left in suspense, however, for the eagle eye soon re- appeared, dragging from the thicket the body of an weird tales. indian belonging to a hostile tribe. in an instant, the eagle eye exercised his scalping-knife, and possessed himself of the bloody trophy of his enemy. on examination, the ball from his rifle was discovered to have perforated the brain through the forehead of his victim. the mystery was explained. the young eagle eye had suddenly descried the lurking foe, deeply nestled among the bushes, and in the act of taking a deliberate aim at inverawe. he had saved the major's life at the imminent risk of his own, and that quick sight from which he had his name, had enabled his ready hand to take prompt and deadly vengeance for the wound he had received in doing so. the grateful inverawe felt beggared in expressions of thanks to his indian preserver. he and his friends extracted the arrow from the shoulder of the hero, poured spirits into the wound, and bound it up; and then, as they hastened back to join the troops, he entreated the eagle eye to tell him how he could recompense him. "it is enough for me," replied the young indian warrior, with dignified gravity of manner, mingled with becoming modesty, and in his broken language, the imperfections of which i shall not attempt to give you, though i shall endeavour to preserve the finer peculiarities of its poetical conceptions, — "it is enough for my youth to be suffered to live within the shadow of a chief, broad as that which the great rock spreads over the grassy surface of the prairie; a chief among those who have come over the waters of the great salt lake, in number like that of the beavers of the mohawk, whose fathers were the brethren of weird tales. the eagle eye, with great dignity, took the right hand of inverawe between both of his, and pressed it forcibly to his heart. when they reached the ground where the men were halting, the major despatched a non-commissioned officer with the indian, to find out the young man, and to bring him immediately before him. they soon reappeared with him; and what was inverawe's astonishment, when he lifted up his eyes, and beheld—his son! it was exactly as donald had himself prognosti- cated. inverawe's heart was so filled with joy, in thus so unexpectedly beholding and embracing his boy, at the very moment when he had been dreaming that he was so far from him; and with pride in think- ing of that brave spirit which had impelled him to follow him to america; as well as with deep gratifi- cation at the kind-hearted act which had thus caused him to be so strangely brought before him,—that no room was left within it for those gloomy thoughts which might have otherwise arisen there. he clasped him again and again to his bosom, whilst the indian stood by as a calm spectator of the scene, his coun- tenance unmoved by the feelings of sympathy that were working within him. their first emotions were no sooner over, than inverawe hurried donald away to introduce him to the commanding-officer, and he was speedily admitted into the corps as a gentle- man volunteer, with the promise of the first vacant ensigncy. it will easily be believed, that the strict ties which were thus formed between the campbells of inverawe and the noble eagle eye, were destined to increase every day. under the direction of his weird tales. sisted altogether of above twenty • two thousand regulars, and thirty thousand provincial troops, which last could not be classed under that character. the hopes of all were high, therefore, and active operations were immediately contemplated. it was some little time before this, that inverawe was spending an evening, tlte-a-tlte, with his friend colonel grant. the bottle was passing slowly but regularly between them, when, by some unaccount- able change in their conversation, the subject of supernatural appearances came to be introduced. colonel grant protested against all belief in them. the recollection of the apparition which had three several times visited inverawe, came back upon his mind, in form and colours so strong and forcible, that his cheeks grew pale, and a deep gloom over- spread his brow; so much so, indeed, that it did not escape the observation of his friend. colonel grant rallied him, and asked him, jocularly, if he had ever seen a ghost. "i declare i could almost fancy that you saw some spectre at this moment, inverawe," said he. "where?—how?—what?" cried' inverawe, dart- ing his eyes into every corner of the room, with a degree of perturbation which the colonel had never seen him display before. "nay," said the colonel, surprised into sudden gravity, "i cannot say either where or what; but i must confess that you seem to me as much disturbed at present as if you saw a spectre." "i cannot see him here," said inverawe, with an abstracted solemnity of tone and manner, that greatly vision of campbell of ihverawe. increased his friend's astonishment—" i cannot see him here. this is not the place where i am fated to behold him." '•'•him!" exclaimed colonel grant, with growing anxiety—"him !—whom, i pray you? for heaven's sake, tell me whom it is that you are fated to hehold!" "pardon me," replied inverawe, at length in some degree collecting his ideas, but speaking in a solemn tone. "an intense remembrance which came suddenly upon me, regarding strange circumstances which happened to myself, has betrayed me to talk of that which i would have rather avoided, and— and which cannot interest you, incredulous as you have declared yourself to be regarding all such super- natural visitations." "nay, you will pardon me, if you please," said the the colonel eagerly; "for you have so wonderfully excited my curiosity, that i must e'en entreat you to satisfy me. what were these circumstances that happened to you ?—tell me, i conjure you." "it is with great pain," said inverawe gravely, "that i enter upon them at all; for, although they still remain as fresh upon my mind as if they had happened yesterday, i would fain bury them, not only from all mankind, but from myself. and yet, perhaps, it may be as well that you should know them; for, strange as they are in themselves, they would yet be stranger in their fulfilment. listen then attentively, and i shall tell you every thing, even to the very minutest thought that possessed me." and so he proceeded to narrate all that i have already told. weird tales. "strange!" said the colonel, after devouring the narrative with breathless attention,—" wonderfully strange indeed! but these are airy phantoms of the brain, which we must not—nay, cannot allow to weigh with us, or to dwell upon our minds, else might we be bereft of reason itself, by permitting them to get mastery over us, and so might we unwittingly aid them in working out their own accomplishment. help yourself to another cup of wine, inverawe, and then let us change the subject for something of a more cheerful nature." but all cheerfulness had fled from inverawe for that night, and the friends soon afterwards separated, to seek a repose, which he at least in vain tried to court to his pillow for many hours; and when sleep did come at last, the figure of the murdered man floated to and fro in his dreams. but it did so, only the more to convince him of the wonderful difference between such faint visions of slumber, and that vivid spectral appearance which had formerly so terribly and deeply impressed itself upon his waking senses, in his own bed-chamber at inverawe. the conversation i have just repeated, together with inverawe's narrative, remained strongly en- graven upon the recollection of colonel grant. the whole circumstances adhered to him so powerfully, that he almost felt as if he too had seen the appari- tion, and heard him utter his fatal words. he could not divest himself of a most intense solicitude about his friend's future fate, which he could in no manner of way explain to his own rational satisfac- tion. but the active and bustling duties which vision of campbell of inverawe. now called for his attention, in consequence of the approaching campaign, very speedily banished all such thoughts from his mind. it was not long after this, that colonel grant was summoned by general abercromby to meet the other commanding-officers of corps in a council of war. the council lasted for many hours, and when the colonel came forth from it after it had broken up, he was observed to have a cloud upon his brow, and a certain air of serious anxiety about him, which was very much augmented by his meeting with his friend inverawe. "well," said inrerawe cheerfully to him, as colonel grant joined him and his other officers at mess, "i hope you have good news for us, colonel, and that at last you can tell us that we are to march out of quarters on some piece of active service." "we are to march to-morrow," replied the colonel, with unusual gravity. "whither?" cried inverawe eagerly. "whither, if i may be permitted to ask?" "we march to lake george," replied the colonel, with a very manifest disposition to taciturnity. "pardon me," said inverawe; "perhaps i push my questions indiscreetly,—if so, forgive me." "no," replied the colonel, with assumed careless- ness. "i have nothing which the good of the service requires me to conceal from you, inverawe, nor, indeed, from any one here present. we march for lake george, as i have already said; and there we are to be embarked in boats to proceed up the lake. our object," added he, in a deeper and somewhat s e weird tales. melancholy tone, — "our object is to attack fort defiance." '' what sort of a place is it?" demanded one of the officers. "a strong place, as i understand from the engineer who reconnoitred it," replied the colonel. "but these american fastnesses are so beset with forests, that no one can well judge of them till he is fairly within their entrenchments." "then let us pledge this cup to our speedy posses- sion of them !" exclaimed inverawe joyously. "with all my heart," said the colonel, filling his to the brim, but with a solemnity of countenance that sorted but ill with the cheerful shouts of mutual inter- change of congratulation that arose around the table. "with all my heart, i drink the toast, and may we all be there alive to drink a cup of thanks for our success." "father," cried young inverawe, in his keenness overlooking the colonel's ominous addition to the toast; "now father, these frenchmen shall see what stuff highlanders are made of!" "they shall, my boy," replied inverawe. "come, then, as i am master of the revels to-night, i call on you all to fill a brimmer. i give you highlanders shoulder to shoulder!" "hurrah!—hurrah! — hurrah!" vociferated the whole officers present. this was but the commencement of an evening of more than usual jollity. the spirits of all were up, and of all, none were so high in glee as those of inverawe and his son. there was something, indeed, vision of campbell of inverawe. which might have been almost said to have been strangely wild in the unwonted revelry of the father. colonel grant was the only individual present who did not seem to keep pace with the rest. the flask circulated with more than ordinary rapidity and frequency; but as the mirth which it created rose higher ^nd higher, and especially with inverawe and young donald, colonel grant's thoughts seemed to sink deeper and deeper into gloomy speculation. if any one chanced so far to forget his own hilarity for a moment, as to observe the strange anomaly in his commanding-officer, it is probable that he attributed it to those cares which must necessarily arise in the mind of one with whom so much of the responsibility of the approaching contest must rest. he retired from the festive board at an early hour, leaving the others, who kept up their night's enjoyment as long as they could do so with decency. inverawe and his son sat with them to the last; and all agreed, at parting, that they had been the life and soul of that evening's revel. the next morning, the officers of the highlanders were early astir, to get their men into order of march. major campbell of inverawe was the most active man among them. general abercromby's force upon this occasion consisted of about six thousand regulars, and nine thousand provincial troops, together with a small train of artillery. before they moved off, the general rode along the line of troops, giving his directions to the field officers of each battalion in succession. when he came up to the highlanders, he courteously accosted colonel grant and major campbell. weird tales. "gentlemen," said he, "we shall have toughish work of it ; for though the enemy have not had time to complete their defences, yet, i am told that, even in its present state, there are few places which are naturally likely to be of more troublesome entrance than we shall find—" "than we shall find fort defiance" somewhat strangely interrupted colonel grant, with an em- phasis which not a little surprised inverawe, as coming from a man usually so polite. "ay, i have heard, indeed, that fort defiance is naturally a strong place, general. but what will not high- landers accomplish! you may rely on it you shall have no cause to complain of the black watch!" "i have no fear that i shall," replied the general, betraying no symptom of having taking offence at the colonel's apparently unaccountable interruption. "i know that both you and your men will do your duty against fort defiance, or any other fort in america." "fort defiance is a bold name, general," said major campbell, laughing. "it is a bold name," said the colonel gravely. "it is a vaunting name enough," replied the general. "yet i hope to meet you both alive and merry as conquerors within its works. mean- while, gentlemen, pray get your highlanders under march for the boats with as little delay as possible." not another word but the necessary words of com- mand were now uttered. the regiment moved off steadily, and the embarkation on lake george was vision of campbell of inverawe. speedily effected, with the most perfect regularity and order, on the th of july . it must have been a beautiful sight indeed, to have beheld that immense flotilla of boats moving over the pellucid surface of that lovely sheet of water—not a sound proceeding from them save that of the oars, the unruffled bosom of the lake everywhere reflecting the serene sky. of a july evening, together with all the charms of its bold and varied shores, and its romantic islands,—its stillness affording a strange prelude to that tempest of mortal contest which was about to ensue. its breadth is about two miles—so that the boats nearly covered it from side to side. as they moved on, they were occasionally lost to the eyes of those who looked upon them from the shores, as they disappeared into the numerous channels formed by its islands, or were again discovered, as they emerged from these narrow straits. there were snatches of scenery, and many little circumstances in the features of nature around them, that called up the remembrance of their own loch awe to both the laird of inverawe and young donald, as the sun went down ; and the pensiveness arising from these home recollections, at such a time, kept both of them silent. at length, after a safe and easy, and, on the part of the enemy, an unobserved navigation, the boats reached the northern end of the lake early on the ensuing morning; and the landing having been effected without opposition, the troops were formed by general abercromby into two parallel columns. the order was given to advance; and the troops speedily came to an outpost of the enemy, which was weird tales. abandoned without a shot. but as they proceeded, the nature of the ground, encumbered as it was with trees, rendered the march of both lines uncertain and wavering, so that the columns soon began to interfere with each other; and great confusion ensued. whilst endeavouring to extend themselves, the right column, composed of the highlanders and the fifty - fifth regiment, under the command of lord howe, fell in with a detachment of the enemy, which had got bewildered in the wood, just as they themselves had done. the british attacked them briskly, and a sharp contest followed. the enemy behaved gallantly; and the highlanders especially distinguished them- selves. young donald of inverawe, his bosom bound- ing with excitement, from the shouts of those engaged in the skirmish, rushed into the thickest part of the irregular melee, and performed such feats of prowess with his maiden claymore, that they might have done honour to an old and well-tried soldier. excited yet more by his success, he became rash and unguarded, and being too forward in the pursuit among the trees —which had already broken the troops on both sides into small handfuls — he found himself suddenly engaged with three enemies at once. as he was just about to be overpowered by their united pressure upon him, a ball from a rifle stretched one of them lifeless before him, and in an instant afterwards, the eagle eye, whose accurate aim had directed it to its deadly errand, was flourishing his tomahawk over the head of another of his foes. it fell upon him—the skull was split open—the man rolled down on the ground a ghastly corpse; and the third, that was left vision of campbell of inverawe. opposed to young inverawe, began to give way in terror before him. urging fiercely upon this last foe, however, the youth ran him through with one tremendous thrust, and he too dropped dead. flushed with success, donald campbell was now about to continue the pursuit after some fugitives of the enemy, who came rushing past him, when, turn- ing to call on his red brother and preserver, the eagle eye, to follow him, he beheld him stooping over one of his dead foes, in the act of scalping him. at that very moment he saw a french soldier approaching his indian brother unperceived, with sword uplifted, and with the fell intent of hewing him down. spring- ing before the eagle eye, the young inverawe pre- pared himself to receive the meditated stroke, warded it skilfully off, and then following in on his foe with a thrust, he penetrated him right through the breast, with a wound that was instantaneously mortal. the eagle eye was now as sensible that he owed his life to young donald, as donald could have been that his had been preserved by the indian warrior. they stood for a moment gazing at each other, and then they embraced with an affection which the stern eagle eye had difficulty in veiling, and which young inverawe could not conceal. by this time the enemy were all cut to pieces, or put to flight. the joy of this unexpected victory was turned into mourning by the death of lord howe who had been unfortunately killed in the early part of this random engagement. his loss at such a time was greater than anything they had gained by this partial overthrow of the enemy. and you will easily weird tales. understand this, when i tell you that it was said of this young nobleman that he particularly distinguished himself by his courage, activity, and rigid observation of military discipline; and that he had so acquired the esteem and affection of the soldiers, by his gener- osity, sweetness of manners, and engaging address, that they assembled in groups around the hurried grave to which his venerated remains were consigned, and wept over it in deep and silent grief. the troops having been much harrassed by this engagement, as well as by the troublesome nature of their march, general abercromby, in consideration of the lateness of the hour, deemed it prudent to deliver them from the embarrassment of the woods, to march them back to the landing-place, which they reached early in the morning. they were then allowed the whole of the ensuing day and night for repose. but on the morning of the th of july, he rode up to the lines of the highlanders, and saluting colonel grant and major campbell of inverawe, "gentlemen," said he, "i have just obtained in- formation from some of the prisoners, that general levi is advancing with three thousand men to rein- force, or succour,—a—a—a—to succour, i say—the garrison i wish to attack." "what!" exclaimed colonel grant,—" to succour fort defiance, general? then i presume you will move on directly, to strike the blow before they can arrive." "that is exactly my intention," replied general abercromby. "and now i must tell you confidentially, gentle- vision of campbell of inverawe. men, that the present garrison consists of fully five thousand men, of whom the greater part are said to be french troops of the line, who, as i am informed, are stationed behind the traverses, with large trees lying everywhere felled in front of them. but i have sent forward an engineer to reconnoitre more strictly, and i trust i shall have his report before we shall have advanced as far as—as—" "as fort defiance," interrupted colonel grant. "well, general, are we to be in the advance?" "no," replied the general. "as you and the fifty-fifth have had all the fighting that has as yet fallen to our lot, i mean that you shall be in the reserve upon this occasion. the picquets will com- mence the assault, and they will be followed by the grenadiers, which will be in their turn supported by the battalions of the reserve. nay, do not look mortified, colonel ;—you and your men will have a bellyfull of it before all is done, i promise you." with these words the general left them, and the columns moved on through the wood in the order he had signified to them. they had now possessed themselves of better guides, and they were thus enabled to make their march more direct, and as they had already cleared their front of enemies, the leading troops were soon up at the entrenchments. here they were surprised to find a regular breast- work, nine or ten feet high, strongly defended with wall-pieces, and having a very impregnable chevaux dc frieze, whilst the whole ground in front was every- where strewed thickly over with huge newly-felled oak trees for the distance of about a cannon-shot weird tales, from the walls. from behind the ckevaux dc frieze, the enemy, in strong force, commenced a most gall- ing and destructive fire upon the assailants, so as to render the works almost unapproachable, without certain destruction, especially without the artillery, which, from some accident, had not as yet been brought up. but the very danger they had to encounter seemed to give the british troops a more than human courage. regardless of the hailstorm of bullets discharged on them with deliberate aim from behind the abattis, whilst they were fighting their laborious and painful way through the labyrinth of fallen trunks and branches that opposed their passage, they continued, column after column, to advance, dropping and thinning fearfully as they went. the highlanders beheld this slaughter that the enemy was making of their friends — their blood boiled within them. in vain colonel grant and major campbell galloped backwards and forwards along the line, using every command and every argu- ment that official authority or reason could employ to restrain and to soothe them, till their time for action should arrive. with one tremendous shout they rushed forward from the reserve, and, cutting their way through the trees with their claymores, they were soon showing their plumed crests among the very foremost ranks of the assailants. but so -mur- derous was the fire that fell upon them, that their black tufted bonnets were seen dropping in all direc- tions, never to be again raised by the brave heads that bore them. their loss before they gained the outward defences of the fort was fearful; but the vision of campbell of inverawe. onset of those who survived was so overwhelming that it drove the enemy from these outworks, and compelled them to retreat within the body of the fort itself. now came the most dreadful part of this work of death. the garrison, protected by the works of the fort, mowed down the ranks of the besiegers with a yet more certain and unerring aim. under the false report that these works were as yet incomplete, scaling ladders had been considered as unnecessary. the highlanders, gnashing their teeth like raging tigers caught in the toils, endeavoured to clamber up the front of them, by rearing themselves on each other's shoulders, and by digging holes with their swords and bayonets in the face of the intrenchments. some few succeeded, by such means, in gaining a footing on the top. but it was only to make them- selves more conspicuous, and more certain marks for destruction; and they were no sooner seen, than their lifeless bodies, perforated by showers of bullets, were swept down upon their struggling comrades below. by repeated and multiplied exertions of this kind, captain john campbell succeeded in forcing his way entirely over the breastwork, at the head of a handful of men; but they also were instantly despatched by the multitude of bayonets by which they were assailed. for hours did these gallant men persevere in the repetition of such daring attempts as i have described—all, alas! with equal want of suc- cess, and with increasing slaughter, till general abercromby ordered the retreat to be sounded. to this call, however, the highlanders were deaf; and weird tales. it was not until colonel grant, after receiving three successive orders from the general, which he had failed in enforcing, threw himself among them, and literally drove them back from the works with his sword, that he could collect and bring away the small moiety that yet remained alive of that splendid regiment with which he had marched to the attack. more than one-half of the men, and two-thirds of the officers, were lying killed or wounded on that bloody field. colonel grant had hardly gathered this remnant of his men together, when he hastened back over the ground where the contest had raged, to search eagerly for some of those whom he most dearly loved, and for the cause of whose absence from this hasty muster he trembled to inquire or investigate. the enemy, though victorious, had been too roughly handled to be tempted to a sally, for the mere purpose of annoy- ing those who were peacefully engaged in the sad duty of carrying off their wounded or dying comrades. the colonel was therefore enabled to make his way over the encumbered field without molestation, and with no other interruption than that which was pre- sented to him by the prostrate trees, which, however, seemed to him to offer greater obstruction to his present impatience than they had done during his advance with his corps to the attack. the scene was strangely terrible! it might have been imagined by any one who looked upon that field, that all nature, rven the elements themselves, had been at strife. slaughtered, and mutilated, and dying men lay in confused heaps, or scattered singly among the over- vision of campbell of inverawe. thrown giants of the forest, those enormous trees which had been so recently rooted in the primeval soil, where they had stood for ages. • colonel grant looked everywhere anxiously around him. many were the familiar faces that he recognised, but their features were now so fixed by the last agonizing pang of a violent death, as cruelly, yet certainly, to assure him that they could never again in this world recog- nise him. the last spirited words of high and courageous hope, so recently uttered by many of them to him in their anticipation of triumph, still rang in his recollection, and as he tore his eyes away from them, the tears would burst over his manly cheeks as the thought arose in his mind, that words of theirs would never again reach his ears. he moved hurriedly on, endeavouring to suppress his feelings, but every now and then compelled to give way to them, till his attention was absorbingly attracted by descrying the dark form of an indian, who was seated on his hams, beneath the arched trunk and boughs of a huge felled oak. it was the eagle eye. he sat motionless as a bronze statue, with the drapery of his blanket hanging in deep folds from his shoulders. his features were grave and still, and apparently devoid of feeling; but his eyes were turned downward, and they were immoveably fixed on the countenance of a young man who lay stretched out a corpse before him. his head was supported between the knees of the red man, whilst the cold and stiffened fingers of him who was dead were firmly clasped between both his hands. the weird tales. body was that of young donald campbell of inverawe. "god help me!" cried the colonel, clasping his hands and weeping bitterly. "god help me, what a spectacle!" "why should you weep, old man?" said the eagle eye, with imperturbable calmness. "my young brother has gone to the great spirit, like a great warrior as he was. who among his tribe shall be ashamed of him? who among warriors shall call him a woman? i could weep for him too did i not know that the great spirit has taken him to happi- ness, from which it were wicked in me to wish to have detained him for my own miserable gratifica- tion. but he is happy! he has gone to those fair, boundless, and plentiful hunting-grounds that lie beyond the great lake, where he will never know want, and where we, if our deeds be like his, will surely follow him. but till then the sunshine of the eagle eye has departed, and night must surround his footsteps, since the light of his pale-faced brother has departed!" "this is too much !" said the colonel, quite over- whelmed by his feelings. "help me to bear off the body. it must not be left here." the eagle eye arose in silence, and gravely and solemnly assisted the highlander who attended the colonel to lift and bear away the body, and they had not thus proceeded more than a few paces in their retreat from the works, when the weeping eyes of the highland commanding-officer and the eagle gaze of the red warrior were equally arrested at the same vision of campbell of inverawe. moment by one and the same object. this was the manly and heroic form of major campbell of inver- awe. he sat on the ground desperately wounded, with his back partially supported against the body of his horse, which had been killed under him. his eye-balls were stretched from their sockets, and fixed upon vacancy, with an expression of terror greater than that with which death himself, riding triumphant as he was over that field of the slain, could have filled those of so brave a man. colonel grant was so overcome that he could not utter a word. he was convulsed by his emotions. the eagle eye laid down the body of donald opposite to his father, and silently resumed his former position, with the youth's head between his knees. the father's eyes caught the motionless features of his son, and he started from his strange state of abstraction. "my son!" murmured the wounded inverawe. "so it is as i supposed—he is gone! but i shall soon be with you, boy. god in his mercy help and protect your poor mother!" "speak not thus, my dearest friend !" said colonel grant, making an effort to command himself, and hastening to support and comfort the wounded man; "trust me, you will yet do well. you must live for your poor wife's sake." "no!" replied inverawe, with deep solemnity. "my hour is come. in vain was it that your kind friendship and that of the brave abercromby suc- ceeded in deceiving me,—for i have seen him—i have seen him terribly,—and this is ticonderoga!" "pardon me, my dear inverawe, for a deception o weird tales. which was so well intended," said the colonel, much agitated. "it is indeed ticonderoga as you say, but —but—believe me, that which now disturbs you was only some phantom of your brain, arising from loss of blood and weakness. cheer up !— come, man !— come !—inverawe! merciful heaven, he is gone!" the tapestried chamber; or, the lady in the sacque. by sir walter scott. the following narrative is given from the pen, so far as memory permits, in the same character in which it was presented to the author's ear; nor has he claim to further praise, or to be more deeply censured, than in proportion to the good or bad judgment which he has employed in selecting his materials, as he has studiously avoided any attempt at ornament which might interfere with the simplicity of the tale. at the same time, it must be admitted that the particular class of stories which turns on the marvel- lous, possesses a stronger influence when told than when committed to print. the volume taken up at noonday, though rehearsing the same incidents, conveys a much more feeble impression than is achieved by the voice of the speaker on a circle of fireside auditors, who hang upon the narrative as the narrator details the minute incidents which serve to give it authenticity, and lowers his voice with an affectation of. mystery while he approaches the fearful and wonderful part. it was with such advantages that the present writer heard the following events related, more than twenty years since, by the celebrated miss seward, of litchfield, who, to her numerous s f weird tales. accomplishments, added, in a remarkable degree, the power of narrative in private conversation. in its present form the tale must necessarily lose all the interest which was attached to it, by the flexible voice and intelligent features of the gifted narrator. yet still, read aloud, to an undoubting audience by the doubtful light of the closing evening, or, in silence, by a decaying taper, and amidst the solitude of a half- lighted apartment, it may redeem its character as a good ghost story. miss seward always affirmed that she had derived her information from an authentic source, although she suppressed the names of the two persons chiefly concerned. i will not avail myself of any particulars i may have since received concerning the localities of the detail, but suffer them to rest under the same general description in which they were first related to me; and, for the same reason, i will not add to or diminish the narrative, by any circumstance, whether more or less material, but simply rehearse, as i heard it, a story of supernatural terror. about the end of the american war, when the officers of lord cornwallis's army, which surrendered at yorktown, and others, who had been made prisoners during the impolitic and ill-fated controversy, were returning to their own country, to relate their adven- tures, and repose themselves after their fatigues, there was amongst them a general officer, to whom miss s. gave the name of browne, but merely, as i understood, to save the inconvenience of introducing a nameless agent in the narrative. he was an officer of merit, as well as a gentleman of high consideration for family and attainments. . the tapestried chamber. some business had carried general browne upon a tour through the western counties, when, in the conclusion of a morning stage, he found himself in the vicinity of a small country town, which presented a scene of uncommon beauty, and of a character peculiarly english. the little town, with its stately old church, whose tower bore testimony to the devotion of ages long past, lay amidst pastures and corn-fields of small extent, but bounded and divided with hedgerow timber of great age and size. there were few marks of modern improvement. the environs of the place intimated neither the solitude of decay nor the bustle of novelty; the houses were old, but in good repair; and the beautiful little river murmured freely on its way to the left of the town, neither restrained by a dam, nor bordered by a towing-path. upon a gentle eminence, nearly a mile to the southward of the town, were seen, amongst many venerable oaks and tangled thickets, the turrets of a castle, as old as the wars of york and lancaster, but which seemed to have received important alterations during the age of elizabeth and her successor. it had not been a place of great size; but whatever accommodation it formerly afforded was, it must be supposed, still to be obtained within its walls; at least such was the inference which general browne drew from observing the smoke arise merrily from several of the ancient wreathed and carved chimney- stalks. the wall of the park ran alongside of the highway for two or three hundred yards ; and through the different points by which the eye found glimpses weird tales. into the woodland scenery, it seemed to be well stocked. other points of view opened in succession; now a full one, of the front of the old castle, and now a side glimpse at its particular towers; the former rich in all the bizarrerie of the elizabethan school, while the simple and solid strength of other parts of the building seemed to show that they had been raised more for defence than ostentation. delighted with the partial glimpses which he obtained of the castle through the woods -and glades by which this ancient feudal fortress was surrounded, our military traveller was determined to inquire whether it might not deserve a nearer view, and whether it contained family pictures or other objects of curiosity worthy of a stranger's visit; when, leaving the vicinity of the park, he rolled through a clean and well-paved street, and stopped at the door of a well- frequented inn. before ordering horses to proceed on his journey, general browne made inquiries concerning the pro- prietor of the chateau which had so attracted his admiration; and was equally surprised and pleased at hearing in reply a nobleman named, whom we shall call lord woodville. how fortunate! much of browne's early recollections, both at school and at college, had been connected with young woodville, whom, by a few questions, he now ascertained to be the same with the owner of this fair domain. he had been raised to the peerage by the decease of his father a few months before, and, as the general learned from the landlord, the term of mourning being ended, was now taking possession of his paternal the tapestried chamber. estate, in the jovial season of merry autumn, accom- panied by a select party of friends to enjoy the sports of a country famous for game. this was delightful news to our traveller. frank woodville had been richard browne's fag at eton, and his chosen intimate at christ church; their pleasures and their tasks had been the same; and the honest soldier's heart warmed to find his early friend in possession of so delightful a residence, and of an estate, as the landlord assured him with a nod and a wink, fully adequate to maintain and add to his dignity. nothing was more natural than that the traveller should suspend a journey, which there was nothing to render hurried, to pay a visit to an old friend under such agreeable circumstances. the fresh horses, therefore, had only the brief task of conveying the general's travelling carriage to woodville castle. a porter admitted them at a modern gothic lodge, built in that style to correspond with the castle itself, and at the same time rang a bell to give warning of the approach of visitors. appar- ently the sound of the bell had suspended the separation of the company, bent on the various amusements of the morning; for, on entering the court of the chateau, several young men were lounging about in their sporting dresses, looking at and criticising the dogs which the keepers held in readiness to attend their pastime. as general browne alighted, the young lord came to the gate of the hall, and for an instant gazed, as at a stranger, upon the countenance of his friend, on which war, with its fatigues and its wounds, had made a great alteration. but the uncertainty weird tales. lasted no longer than till the visitor had spoken, and the hearty greeting which followed was such as can only be exchanged hetwixt those who have passed together the merry days of careless boyhood or early youth. "if i could have formed a wish, my dear browne," said lord woodville, "it would have been to have you here, of all men, upon this occasion, which my friends are good enough to hold as a sort of holiday. do not think you have been unwatched during the years you have been absent from us. i have traced you through your dangers, your triumphs, your mis- fortunes, and was delighted to see that, whether in victory or defeat, the name of my old friend was always distinguished with applause." the general made a suitable reply, and con- gratulated his friend on his new dignities, and the possession of a place and domain so beautiful. "nay, you have seen nothing of it as yet," said lord woodville, "and i trust you do not mean to leave us till you are better acquainted with it. it is true, i confess, that my present party is pretty large, and the old house, like other places of the kind, does not possess so much accommodation as the extent of the outward walls appears to promise. but we can give you a comfortable old-fashioned room, and i venture to suppose that your campaigns have taught you to be glad of worse quarters." the general shrugged his shoulders, and laughed. "i presume," he said, "the worst apartment in your chateau is considerably superior to the old tobacco- cask, in which i was fain to take up my night's the tapestried chamber. lodging when i was in the bush, as the virginians call it, with the light corps. there i lay, like piogenes himself, so delighted with my covering from the elements, that i made a vain attempt to have it rolled on to my next quarters; but my commander for the time would give way to no such luxurious provision, and i took farewell of my beloved cask with tears in my eyes." "well, then, since you do not fear your quarters," said lord woodville, "you will stay with me a week at least. of guns, dogs, fishing-rods, flies, and means of sport by sea and land, we have enough and to spare: you cannot pitch on an amusement but we will find the means of pursuing it. but if you prefer the gun and pointers, i will go with you myself, and see whether you have mended your shooting since you have been amongst the indians of the back settlements." the general gladly accepted his friendly host's proposal in all its points. after a morning of manly exercise, the company met at dinner, where it was the delight of lord woodville to conduce to the display of the high properties of his recovered friend, so as to recommend him to his guests, most of whom were persons of distinction. he led general browne to speak of the scenes he had witnessed; and as every word marked alike the brave officer and the sensible man, who retained possession of his cool judgment under the most imminent dangers, the company looked upon the soldier with general re- spect, as on one who had proved himself possessed of an uncommon portion of personal courage,—that weird tales. attribute, of all others, of which everybody desires to be thought possessed. the day at woodville castle ended as usual in such mansions. the hospitality stopped within the limits of good order. music, in which the young lord was a proficient, succeeded to the circulation of the bottle; cards and billiards, for those who preferred such amusements, were in readiness; but the exercise of the morning required early hours, and not long after eleven o'clock the guests began to retire to their several apartments. the young lord himself conducted his friend, general browne, to the chamber destined for him, which answered the description he had given of it, being comfortable, but old-fashioned. the bed was of the massive form used in the end of the seven- teenth century, and the curtains of faded silk, heavily trimmed with tarnished gold. but then the sheets, pillows, and blankets looked delightful to the cam- paigner, when he thought of his "mansion, the cask." there was an air of gloom in the tapestry hangings, which, with their worn-out graces, cur- tained the walls of the little chamber, and gently undulated as the autumnal breeze found its way through the ancient lattice-window, which pattered and whistled as the air gained entrance. the toilet, too, with its mirror, turbaned, after the manner of the beginning of the century, with a coiffure of murrey-coloured silk, and its hundred strange-shaped boxes, providing for arrangements which had been obsolete for more than fifty years, had an antique, and in so far a melancholy, aspect. but nothing the tapestried chamber. could blaze more brightly and cheerfully than the two large wax candles; or if aught could rival them, it was the flaming bickering fagots in the chimney that sent at once their gleam and their warmth through the snug apartment, which, notwithstanding the general antiquity of its appearance, was not wanting in the least convenience that modern habits rendered either necessary or desirable. "this is an old - fashioned sleeping apartment, general," said the young lord; "but i hope you find nothing that makes you envy your old tobacco- cask." "i am not particular respecting my lodgings," replied the general; "yet were i to make any choice, i would prefer this chamber by many degrees to the gayer and more modern rooms of your family mansion. believe me, that when i unite its modern air of com- fort with its venerable antiquity, and recollect that it is your lordship's property, i shall feel in better quarters here, than if i were in the best hotel london could afford." "i trust—i have no doubt—that you will find yourself as comfortable as i wish you, my dear general," said the young nobleman; and once more bidding his guest good-night, he shook him by the hand, and withdrew. the general once more looked around him, and internally congratulating himself on his return to peaceful life, the comforts of which were endeared by the recollection of the hai dships and dangers he had lately sustained, undressed himself, and prepared for a luxurious night's rest. weird tales. here, contrary to the custom of this species of tale, we leave the general in possession of his apartment until the next morning. the company assembled for breakfast at an early hour, but without the appearance of general browne, who seemed the guest that lord woodville was desir- ous of honouring above all whom his hospitality had assembled around him. he more than once ex- pressed himself surprised at the general's absence, and at length sent a servant to make inquiry after him. the man brought back information that general browne had been walking abroad since an early hour of the morning, in defiance of the weather, which was misty and ungenial. "the custom of a soldier," said the young noble- man to his friends; "many of them acquire habitual vigilance, and cannot sleep after the early hour at which their duty usually commands them to be alert." yet the explanation which lord woodville thus offered to the company seemed hardly satisfactory to his own mind, and it was in a fit of silence and abstraction that he awaited the return of the general. it took place near an hour after the breakfast bell had rung. he looked fatigued and feverish. his hair—the powdering and arrangement of which was at this time one of the most important occupations of a man's whole day, and marked his fashion as much as, in the present time, the tying of a cravat, or the want of one—was dishevelled, uncurled, void of powder, and dank with dew. his clothes were huddled on with a careless negligence, remarkable in a military man, whose real or supposed duties are the tapestried chamber. usually held to include some attention to the toilet; and his looks were haggard and ghastly in a peculiar degree. "so you have stolen a march upon us this morning, my dear general," said lord woodville; "or you have not found your bed so much to your mind as i had hoped and you seemed to expect. how did you rest last night?" '' oh, excellently well! remarkably well! never better in my life," said general browne rapidly, and yet with an air of embarrassment which was obvious to his friend. he then hastily swallowed a cup of tea, and, neglecting or refusing whatever else was offered, seemed to fall into a fit of abstraction. "you will take the gun to-day, general?" said his friend and host, but had to repeat the question twice ere he received the abrupt answer, "no, my lord; i am sorry i cannot have the opportunity of spending another day with your lordship: my post horses are ordered, and will be here directly." all who were present showed surprise, and lord woodville immediately replied, "post horses, my good friend ! what can you possibly want with them, when you promised to stay with me quietly for at least a week?" "i believe," said the general, obviously much embarrassed, "that i might, in the pleasure of my first meeting with your lordship, have said something about stopping here a few days; but i have since found it altogether impossible." "this is very extraordinary," answered the young nobleman. "you seemed quite disengaged yester- the tapestried chamber. castle, but for all the country which i see from this elevated point of view." "this is most extraordinary," said the young lord, as if speaking to himself; "then there must be some- thing in the reports concerning that apartment." again turning to the general, he said, "for god's sake, my dear friend, be candid with me, and let me know the disagreeable particulars which have befallen you under a roof where, with consent of the owner, you should have met nothing save comfort." the general seemed distressed by this appeal, and paused a moment before he replied. "my dear lord," he at length said, "what happened to me last night is of a nature so peculiar and so unpleasant, that i could hardly bring myself to detail it even to your lordship, were it not that, independent of my wish to gratify any request of yours, i think that sincerity on my part may lead to some explanation about a circumstance equally painful and mysterious. to others, the communication i am about to make might place me in the light of a weak-minded, super- stitious fool, who suffered his own imagination to delude and bewilder him ; but you have known me in childhood and youth, and will not suspect me of having adopted in manhood the feelings and frailties from which my early years were free." here he paused, and his friend replied: "do not doubt my perfect confidence in the truth of your communication, however strange it may be," replied lord woodville; "i know your firmness of disposition too well to suspect you could be made the object of imposition, and am aware that your honour weird tales. and your friendship will equally deter you from exaggerating whatever you may have witnessed." "well, then," said the general, "i will proceed with my story as well as i can, relying upon your candour, and yet distinctly feeling that i would rather face a battery than recall to my mind the odious recollections of last night." he paused a second time, and then perceiving that lord woodville remained silent and in an attitude of attention, he commenced, though not without obvious reluctance, the history of his night adventures in the tapestried chamber. "i undressed and went to bed so soon as your lordship left me yesterday evening; but the wood in the chimney, which nearly fronted my bed, blazed brightly and cheerfully, and, aided by a hundred exciting recollections of my childhood and youth, which had been recalled by the unexpected pleasure of meeting your lordship, prevented me from falling immediately asleep. i ought, however, to say that these reflections were all of a pleasant and agree- able kind, grounded on a sense of having for a time exchanged the labour, fatigues, and dangers of my profession, for the enjoyments of a peaceful life, and the reunion of those friendly and affectionate ties, which i had torn asunder at the rude summons of war. "while such pleasing reflections were stealing over my mind, and gradually lulling me to slumber, i was suddenly aroused by a sound like that of the rustling of a silken gown, and the tapping of a pair of high- heeled shoes, as if a woman were walking in the the tapestried chamber. apartment. ere i could draw the curtain to see what the matter was, the figure of a little woman passed between the bed and the fire. the back of this form was turned to me, and i could observe, from the shoulders and neck, it was that of an old woman, whose dress was an old-fashioned gown, which, i think, ladies call a sacque; that is, a sort ot robe completely loose in the body, but gathered into broad plaits upon the neck and shoulders, which fall down to the ground, and terminate in a species of train. "i thought the intrusion singular enough, but never harboured for a moment the idea that what i saw was anything more than the mortal form of some old woman about the establishment, who had a fancy to dress like her grandmother, and who, having per- haps (as your lordship mentioned that you were rather straitened for room) been dislodged from her chamber for my accommodation, had forgotten the circumstance, and returned by twelve to her old haunt. under this persuasion, i moved myself in bed and coughed a little, to make the intruder sensible of my being in possession of the premises. she turned slowly round, but, gracious heaven, my lord, what a countenance did she display to me! there was no longer any question what she was, or any thought of her being a living being. upon a face which wore the fixed features of a corpse were imprinted the traces of the vilest and most hideous passions which had animated her while she lived. the body of some atrocious criminal seemed to have been given up from the grave, and the soul restored weird tales. from the penal fire, in order to form, for a space, an union with the ancient accomplice of its guilt. i started up in bed, and sat upright, supporting myself on my palms, as i gazed on this horrible spectre. the hag made, as it seemed, a single and swift stride to the bed where i lay, and squatted herself down upon it in precisely the same attitude which i had assumed in the extremity of horror, advancing her diabolical countenance within half a yard of mine, with a grin that seemed to intimate the malice and the derision of an incarnate fiend." here general browne stopped, ancl wiped from his brow the cold perspiration with which the recollection of his horrible vision had covered it. "my lord," he said, "i am no coward. i have been :n all the mortal dangers incidental to my profession, and i may truly boast, that no man ever knew richard browne dishonour the sword he wears; but in these horrible circumstances, under the eyes, and, as it seemed, almost in the grasp of an incarnation of an evil spirit, all firmness forsook me, all manhood melted from me like wax in the furnace, and i felt my hair individually bristle. the current of my life-blood ceased to flow, and i sank back in a swoon, as very a victim to panic terror as ever was a village girl, or a child of ten years old. how long i lay in this condition i cannot pretend to guess. "but i was roused by the castle clock striking one, so loud that it seemed as if it were in the very room. it was some time before i dared open my eyes, lest they should again encounter the horrible spectacle. when, however, i summoned courage to the tapestried chamber. look up, she was no longer visible. my first idea was to pull my bell, wake the servants, and remove to a garret or a hay-loft, to be ensured against a second visitation. nay, i will confess the truth, that my resolution was altered, not by the shame of exposing myself, but by the fear that, as the bell- cord hung by the chimney, i might, in making my way to it, be again crossed by the fiendish hag, who, i figured to myself, might be still lurking about some corner of the apartment. "i will not pretend to describe what hot and cold fever-fits tormented me for the rest of the night, through broken sleep, weary vigils, and that dubious state which forms the neutral ground between them. an hundred terrible objects appeared to haunt me; but there was the great difference betwixt the vision which i have described, and those which followed, that i knew the last to be deceptions of my own fancy and over-excited nerves. "day at last appeared, and i rose from my bed ill in health and humiliated in mind. i was ashamed of myself as a man and a soldier, and still more so, at feeling my own extreme desire to escape from the haunted apartment, which, however, conquered all other considerations ; so that, huddling on my clothes with the most careless haste, i made my escape from your lordship's mansion, to seek in the open air some relief to my nervous system, shaken as it was by this horrible encounter with a visitant, for such i must believe her, from the other world. your lordship has now heard the cause of my discomposure, and of my sudden desire to leave your hospitable castle. in the tapestried chamber. yet as the opinion that the room was haunted very strongly prevailed among the domestics, and was also known in the neighbourhood and to many of my friends, i feared some prejudice might be entertained by the first occupant of the tapestried chamber, which might tend to revive the evil report which it had laboured under, and so disappoint my purpose of rendering it an useful part of the house. i must con- fess, my dear browne, that your arrival yesterday, agreeable to me for a thousand reasons besides, seemed the most favourable opportunity of removing the un- pleasant rumours which attached to the room, since your courage was indubitable, and your mind free of any pre-occupation on the subject. i could not, therefore, have chosen a more fitting subject for my experiment." "upon my life," said general browne, somewhat hastily, " i am infinitely obliged to your lordship— very particularly indebted indeed. i am likely to remember for some time the consequences of the experiment, as your lordship is pleased to call it." "nay, now you are unjust, my dear friend," said lord woodville. "you have only to reflect for a single moment, in order to be convinced that i could not augur the possibility of the pain to which you have been so unhappily exposed. i was yesterday morning a complete sceptic on the subject of super- natural appearances. nay, i am sure that had i told you what was said about that room, those very reports would have induced you, by your own choice, to select it for your accommodation. it was my misfortune, perhaps my error, but really cannot be too weird tales. termed my fault, that you have been afflicted so strangely." "strangely indeed !" said the general, resuming his good temper; "and i acknowledge that i have no right to be offended with your lordship for treating me like what i used to think myself—a man of some firmness and courage. but i see my post horses are arrived, and i must not detain your lordship from your amusement." "nay, my old friend," said lord woodville, since you cannot stay with us another day, which, indeed, i can no longer urge, give me at least half an hour more. you used to love pictures and i have a gallery of portraits, some of them by vandyke, repre- senting ancestry to whom this property and castle formerly belonged. i think that several of them will strike you as possessing merit." general browne accepted the invitation, though somewhat unwillingly. it was evident he was not to breathe freely or at ease till he left woodville castle far behind him. he could not refuse his friend's invitation, however; and the less so, that he was a little ashamed of the peevishness which he had displayed towards his well-meaning entertainer. the general, therefore, followed lord woodville through several rooms, into a long gallery hung with pictures, which the latter pointed out to his guest, telling the names, and giving some account of the personages whose portraits presented themselves in progression. general browne was but little in- terested in the details which these accounts conveyed to him. they were, indeed, of the kind which are the tapestried chamber. usually found in an old family gallery. here, was a cavalier who had ruined the estate in the royal cause; there, a fine lady who had reinstated it by contracting a match with a wealthy roundhead. there, hung a gallant who had been in danger for corresponding with the exiled court at saint germain's ; here, one who had taken arms for william at the revolution; and there, a third that had thrown his weight alter- nately into the scale of whig and tory. while lord woodville was cramming these words into his guest's ear, "against the stomach of his sense," they gained the middle of the gallery, when he beheld general browne suddenly start, and assume an attitude of the utmost surprise, not unmixed with fear, as his eyes were caught and suddenly riveted by a portrait of an old, old lady in a sacque, the fashion- able dress of the end of the seventeenth century. "there she is!" he exclaimed; "there she is, in form and features, though inferior in demoniac expression, to the accursed hag who visited me last night!" "if that be the case," said the young nobleman, "there can remain no longer any doubt of the horrible reality of your apparition. that is the picture of a wretched ancestress of mine, of whose crimes a black and fearful catalogue is recorded in a family history in my charter-chest. the recital of them would be too horrible; it is enough to say, that in yon fatal apart- ment incest and unnatural murder were committed. i will restore it to the solitude to which the better judgment of those who preceded me had consigned it; and never shall any one, so long as i can prevent weird tales. it, be exposed to a repetition of the supernatural horrors which could shake such courage as yours." thus the friends, who had met with such glee, parted in a very different mood; lord woodville to command the tapestried chamber to be unmantled, and the door built up; and general browne to seek in some less beautiful country, and with some less dignified friend, forgetfulness of the painful night which he had passed in woodville castle. highland snowstorm. by john wilson ("christopher north"). one family lived in glencreran, and another in glencoe—the families of two brothers—seldom visit- ing each other on working days, seldom meeting even on sabbaths, for theirs was not the same parish kirk —seldom coming together on rural festivals or holidays, for in the highlands now these are not so frequent as of yore; yet all these sweet seldoms, taken together, to loving hearts made a happy many, and thus, though each family passed its life in its own home, there were many invisible threads stretched out through the intermediate air, connecting the two dwellings together,—as the gossamer keeps floating from one tree to another, each with its own secret nest. and nest-like both dwellings were. that in glencoe, built beneath a treeless but high-heathered rock,—lone in all storms,—with greensward and garden on a slope down to a rivulet, the clearest of the clear (oh ! once woefully reddened!), and growing, so it seems, in the mosses of its own roof, and the huge stones that overshadow it, out of the earth. that in glencreran more conspicuous, on a knoll among the pastoral meadows, midway between moun- tain and mountain, so that the grove which shelters it, except when the sun is shining high, is darkened weird tales. by their meeting shadows, —and dark indeed, even in the sunshine, for 'tis a low but wide-armed grove of old oak-like pines. a little farther down, and glen- creran is very sylvan; but this dwelling is the highest up of all, the first you descend upon, near the foot of that wild hanging staircase between you and glen- etive. and, except this old oak-like grove of pines, there is not a tree, and hardly a bush, on bank or brae, pasture or hay-field, though these are kept by many a rill, there mingling themselves into one stream, in a perpetual lustre that seems to be as native to the grass as its light is to the glow-worm. such are the two huts, for they are huts and »o more —and you may see them still, if you know how to discover the beautiful sights of nature from descriptions treasured in your heart, and if the spirit of change, now nowhere at rest on the earth, not even in its most solitary places, have not swept from the scenes the beautified, the humble but hereditary dwellings that ought to be allowed, in the fulness of the quiet time, to relapse back into the bosom of nature, through insensible and unperceived decay. these huts belonged to brothers, and each had an only child,—a son and a daughter,—born on the same day, and now blooming on the verge of youth. a year ago, and they were but mere children ; but what wondrous growth of frame and spirit does nature at that season of life often present before our eyes! so that we almost see the very change going on between morn and morn, and feel that these objects of our affection are daily brought closer to ourselves, by partaking daily more and more in all our most sacred highland snowstorm. thoughts, in our cares and in our duties, and in know- ledge of the sorrows as well as the joys of our common lot. thus had these cousins grown up before their parents' eyes—flora macdonald, a name hallowed of yore, the fairest, and ronald cameron, the boldest of all the living flowers in glencoe and glencreran. it was now their seventeenth birthday, and never had a winter sun smiled more serenely over a knoll of snow. flora, it had been agreed on, was to pass that day in glencreran, and ronald to meet her among the moun- tains, that he might bring her down the many pre- cipitous passes to his parents' hut. it was the middle of february, and the snow had lain for weeks with all its drifts unchanged, so calm had been the weather and so continued the frost. at the same hour, known by horologe on the cliff touched by the finger of dawn, the happy creatures left each their own glen, and mile after mile of the smooth surface glided away past their feet, almost as the quiet water glides by the little boat that in favouring breezes walks merrily along the sea. and soon they met at the trysting place—a bank of birch trees beneath a cliff that takes its name from the eagles. on their meeting, seemed not to them the whole of nature suddenly inspired with joy and beauty? insects, unheard by them before, hummed and glittered in the air; from tree roots, where the snow was thin, little flowers, or herbs flower-like, now for the first time were seen looking out as if alive; the trees themselves seemed budding, as if it were already spring; and rare as in that rocky region are the birds of song, a faint trill for a moment touched their ears, weird tales. and the flutter of a wing, telling them that somewhere near there was preparation for a nest. deep down beneath the snow they listened to the tinkle of rills unreached by the frost, and merry, thought they, was the music of these contented prisoners. not summer's self, in its deepest green, so beautiful had ever been to them before, as now the mild white of winter; and as their eyes were lifted up to heaven, when had they ever seen before a sky of such perfect blue, a sun so gentle in its brightness, or altogether a week-day in any season so like a sabbath in its stillness, so like a holiday in its joy? lovers were they, although as yet they scarcely knew it; for from love only could have come such bliss as now was theirs,—a bliss, that while it beautified was felt to come from the skies. flora sang to ronald many of her old songs, to those wild gaelic airs that sound like the sighing of winds among fractured cliffs, or the branches of storm- tossed trees, when the subsiding tempest is about to let them rest. monotonous music! but irresistible over the heart it has once awakened and enthralled, so sincere seems to be the mournfulness it breathes—a mournfulness brooding and feeding on the same note, that is at once its natural expression and sweetest aliment, of which the singer never wearieth in her dream, while her heart all the time is haunted by all that is most piteous,—by the faces of the dead in their paleness returning to the shades of life, only that once more they may pour from their fixed eyes those strange showers of unaccountable tears! how merry were they between those mournful airs! how flora trembled to see her lover's burning highland snowstorm. brow and flashing eyes, as he told her tales of great battles fought in foreign lands, far across the sea— tales which he had drunk in with greedy ears from the old heroes scattered all over lochaber and badenoch, on the brink of the grave still garrulous of blood? "the sun sat high in his meridian tower." but time had not been with the youthful lovers, and the blessed beings believed that 'twas but a little hour since beneath the eagle cliff they had met in the prime of the morn! the boy starts to his feet, and his keen eye looks along the ready rifle—for his sires had all been famous deer - stalkers, and the passion of the chase was hereditary in his blood. lo! a deer from dalness, hound-driven, or sullenly astray, slowly bearing his antlers up the glen, then stopping for a moment to snuff the air, then away—away! the rifle-shot rings dully from the scarce echoing snow-cliffs, and the animal leaps aloft, struck by a certain but not sudden death-wound. oh ! for fingal now to pull him down like a wolf! but labouring and lumbering heavily along, the snow spotted as he bounds with blood, the huge animal at last disappears round some rocks at the head of the glen. "follow me, flora!" the boy-hunter cries; and flinging down their plaids, they turn their bright faces to the mountain, and away up the long glen after the stricken deer. fleet was the mountain girl; and ronald, as he ever and anon looked back to wave her on, with pride admired her lightsome motion as she bounded along the snow. io weird tales. redder and redder grew that snow, and more heavily trampled, as they winded round the rocks. yonder is the deer, staggering up the mountain, not half a mile off—now standing at bay, as if before his swimming eyes came fingal, the terror of the forest, whose howl was known to all the echoes, and quailed the herd while their antlers were yet afar off. '' rest, flora, rest! while i fly to him with my rifle, and shoot him through the heart!" up—up—up the interminable glen, that kept winding and winding round many a jutting pro- montory and many a castellated cliff, the red-deer kept dragging his gore-oozing bulk, sometimes almost within, and then for some hundreds of yards just beyond, rifle-shot; while the boy, maddened by the chase, pressed forwards, now all alone, nor any more looking behind for flora, who had entirely dis- appeared; and thus he was hurried on for miles by the whirlwind of passion,—till at last he struck the noble quarry, and down sank the antlers in the snow, while the air was spurned by the convulsive beatings of feet. then leaped ronald upon the red-deer like a beast of prey, and lifted up a look of triumph to the mountain-tops. where is flora! her lover has forgotten her— and he is alone—nor knows it—he and the red-deer— an enormous animal, fast stiffening in the frost of death. some large flakes of snow are in the air, and they seem to waver and whirl, though an hour ago there was not a breath. faster they fall and faster—the flakes are almost as large as leaves; and overhead highland snowstorm. whence so suddenly has come that huge yellow cloud? "flora, where are you? where are you, flora?" and from the huge hide the boy leaps up, and sees that no flora is at hand. but yonder is a moving speck, far off upon the snow. 'tis she—'tis she; and again ronald turns his eyes upon the quarry, and the heart of the hunter burns within him like a new-stirred fire. shrill as the eagle's cry disturbed in his eerie, he sends a shout down the glen, and flora, with cheeks pale and bright by fits, is at last by his side. panting and speechless she stands, and then dizzily sinks on his breast. her hair is ruffled by the wind that revives her, and her face all moistened by the snow-flakes, now not falling, but driven—for the day has under- gone a dismal change, and all over the sky are now lowering savage symptoms of a fast-coming night- storm. bare is poor flora's head, and sorely drenched her hair, that an hour or two ago glittered in the sun- shine. her shivering frame misses now the warmth of the plaid, which almost no cold can penetrate, and which had kept the vital current flowing freely in many a bitter blast. what would the miserable boy give now for the coverings lying far away, which, in his foolish passion, he flung down to chase that fatal deer? "oh, flora! if you would not fear to stay here by yourself, under the protection of god, who surely will not forsake you, soon will i go and come from the place where our plaids are lying; and under the shelter of the deer we may be able to outlive the hurricane,—you wrapped up in them,—and folded, o my dearest sister, in my arms!" "i will go with no weird tales. you down the glen, ronald!" and she left his breast, but, weak as a day-old lamb, tottered and sank down on the snow. the cold—intense as if the air were ice—had chilled her very heart, after the heat of that long race; and it was manifest that here she must be for the night—to live or to die. and the night seemed already come, so full was the lift of snow; while the glimmer every moment became gloomier, as if the day were expiring long before its time. howling at a distance down the glen was heard a sea-born tempest from the linnhe loch, where now they both knew the tide was tumbling in, bringing with it sleet and snow-blasts from afar; and from the opposite quarter of the sky an inland tempest was raging to meet it, while every lesser glen had its own uproar, so that on all hands they were environed with death. "i will go—and, till i return, leave you with god." "go, ronald!" and he went and came, as if he had been endowed with the raven's wings. miles away and miles back had he flown, and an hour had not been with his going and his coming; but what a dreary wretchedness meanwhile had been hers! she feared that she was dying—that the cold snowstorm was killing her—and that she would never more see ronald, to say to him farewell. soon as he was gone, all her courage had died. alone, she feared death, and wept to think how hard it was for one so young thus miserably to die. he came, and her whole being was changed. folded up in both the plaids, she felt resigned. "oh ! kiss me, kiss me, ronald; for your love—great as it is—is not a» highland snowstorm. my love. you must never forget me, ronald, when your poor flora is dead." religion with these two young creatures was as clear as the light of the sabbath day; and their belief in heaven just the same as in earth. the will of god they thought of just as they thought of their parents' will; and the same was their living obedience to its decrees. if she was to die, supported now by the presence of her brother, flora was utterly resigned; if she was to live, her heart imaged to itself the very forms of her grateful worship. but all at once she closed her eyes, ceased breathing,—and, as the tempest howled and rumbled in the gloom that fell around them like blindness, ronald almost sunk down, thinking that she was dead. "wretched sinner that i am—my wicked madness brought her here to die of cold!" and he smote his breast, and tore his hair, and feared to look up, lest the angry eye of god were looking on him through the storm. all at once, without speaking a word, ronald lifted flora in his arms, and walked away up the glen, here almost narrowed into a pass. distraction gave him supernatural strength, and her weight seemed that of a child. some walls of what had once been a house, he had suddenly remembered, were but a short way off; whether or not they had any roof he had forgotten,—but the thought even of such a shelter seemed a thought of salvation. there it was—a snow-drift at the opening that had once been a door —snow up the holes once windows—the wood of the roof had been carried off for fuel, and the snow-flakes ii weird tales. were falling in, as if they would soon fill up the inside of the ruin. the snow in front was all trampled, as if by sheep; and carrying in his burden under the low lintel, he saw the place was filled with a flock that had foreknown the hurricane, and that, all huddled together, looked on him as on the shepherd, come to see how they were faring in the storm. and a young shepherd he was, with a lamb apparently dying in his arms. all colour, all motion, all breath, seemed to be gone; and yet something convinced his heart that she was yet alive. the ruined hut was roofless, but across an angle of the walls some pine branches had been flung, as a sort of shelter for the sheep or cattle that might repair thither in cruel weather—some pine-branches left by the wood-cutters, who had felled the few trees that once stood at the very head of the glen. into that corner the snow-drift had not yet forced its way, and he sat down there, with flora in the cherishing of his embrace , hoping that the warmth of his distracted heart might be felt by her, who was as cold as a corpse. the chill air was somewhat softened by the breath of the huddled flock, and the edge of the cutting wind blunted by the stones. it was a place in which it seemed possible that she might revive, miserable as it was with the mire-mixed snow, and almost as cold as one supposes the grave. and she did revive, and under the half-open lids the dim blue appeared to be not yet life-deserted. it was yet but the afternoon,—night-like though it was,—and he thought, as he breathed upon her lips, that a faint red weird tales. bright was the peat fire in the hut of flora's parents in glencoe, — and they were among the happiest of the humble happy, blessing this the birth- day of their blameless child. they thought of her, singing her sweet songs by the fireside of the hut in glencreran, and tender thoughts of her cousin ronald were with them in their prayprs. no warning came to their ears in the sugh or the howl; for fear it is that creates its own ghosts, and all its own ghost- like visitings; and they had seen their flora, in the meekness of the morning, setting forth on her way over the quiet mountains, like a fawn to play. some- times too, love, who starts at shadows as if they were of the grave, is strangely insensible to realities that might well inspire dismay. so was it now with the dwellers in the hut at the head of glencreran. their ronald had left them in the morning,—night had come, and he and flora were not there; but the day had been almost like a summer day, and in their infatuation they never doubted that the happy crea- tures had changed their minds, and that flora had returned with him to glencoe. ronald had laughingly said that haply he might surprise the people in that glen by bringing back to them flora on her birthday, and, strange though it afterwards seemed to her to be, that belief prevented one single fear from touch- ing his mother's heart, and she and her husband that night lay down in untroubled sleep. and what could have been done for them had they been told by some good or evil spirit that their chil- dren were in the clutches of such a night? as well seek for a single bark in the middle of the misty highland snowstorm. main! but the inland storm had been seen brewing among the mountains round king's house, and hut had communicated with hut, though far apart in regions where the traveller sees no symptoms of human life. down through the long cliff-pass of mealanumy, between buchael-etive and the black mount, towards the lone house of dalness, that lies in everlasting shadows, went a band of shepherds, trampling their way across a hundred frozen streams. dalness joined its strength, and then away over the drift-bridged chasms toiled that gathering, with their sheep-dogs scouring the loose snows in the van, fingal the red re? fer, with his head aloft on the look-out for deer, grimly eyeing the corrie where last he tasted blood. all " plaided in their tartan array," these shepherds laughed at the storm,—and hark, you hear the bagpipe play—the music the highlanders love both in war and in peace. "they think then of the owrie cattle, and silly sheep ; *' and though they ken 'twill be a moonless night,—for the snowstorm will sweep her out of heaven,—up the mountain and down the glen they go, marking where flock and herd have betaken themselves; and now, at midfall, unafraid of that blind hollow, they descend into the depth where once stood the old grove of pines. following their dogs, who know their duties in their instinct, the band, without seeing it, are now close to that ruined hut. why bark the sheep-dogs so ?—and why howls fingal, as if some spirit passed athwart the night? he scents the dead body of the n weird tales. boy who so often had shouted him on in the forest when the antlers went by! not dead—nor dead she who is on his bosom. yet life in both is frozen— and will the red blood in their veins ever again be thawed! almost pitch dark is the roofless ruin; and the frightened sheep know not what is that terrible shape that is howling there. but a man enters, and lifts up one of the bodies, giving it into the arms of those at the doorway, and then lifts up the other; and by the flash of a rifle they see that it is ronald cameron and flora macdonald, seemingly both frozen to death. some of those reeds that the shepherds burn in their huts are kindled, and in that small light they are assured that such are the corpses. but that noble dog knows that death is not there, and licks the face of ronald, as if he would restore life to his eyes. two of the shepherds know well how to fold the dying in their plaids,—how gentlest to carry them along; for they had learnt it on the field of victorious battle, when, without stumbling over the dead and wounded, they bore away the shattered body, yet living, of the youthful warrior who had shown that of such a clan he was worthy to be the chief. the storm was with them all the way down the glen; nor could they have heard each others' voices had they spoke; but mutely they shifted the burden from strong hand to hand, thinking of the hut in glencoe, and of what would be felt there on their arrival with the dying or the dead. blind people walk through what to them is the night of crowded day-streets, unpausing turn round corners, unhesitating highland snowstorm. plunge down steep stairs, wind their way fearlessly through whirlwinds of life, and reach in their serenity, each one unharmed, his own obscure house. for god is with the blind. so is he with all who walk on walks of mercy. this saving band had no fear, therefore there was no danger, on the edge of the pit- fall or the cliff. they knew the countenances of the mountains, shown momentarily by ghastly gleamings through the fitful night, and the hollow sound of each particular stream beneath the snow, at places where in other weather there was a pool or a water-fall. the dip of the hills, in spite of the drifts, familiar to their feet, did not deceive them now ; and then the dogs, in their instinct, were guides that erred not: and as well as the shepherds knew it themselves, did fingal know that they were anxious to reach glencoe. he led the way as if he were in moonlight; and often stood still when they were, shifting their burden, and whined as if in grief. he knew where the bridges were—stones or logs; and he rounded the marshes where at springs the wild fowl feed. and thus instinct, and reason, and faith, conducted the saving band along; and now they are at glencoe, and at the door of the hut. to life were brought the dead; and there, at mid- night, sat they up like ghosts. strange seemed they for a while to each others' eyes, and at each other they looked as if they had forgotten how dearly once they loved. then, as if in holy fear, they gazed in each others' faces, thinking that they had awoke together in heaven. "flora!" said ronald,—and that sweet word, the first he had been able to speak, n weird tales. reminded him of all that had passed, and he knew that the god in whom they had put their trust had sent them deliverance. flora, too, knew her parents, who were on their knees; and she strove to rise up and kneel down beside them, but she was powerless as a broken reed; and when she thought to join with them in thanksgiving, her voice was gone. still as death sat all the people in the hut, and one or two who were fathers were not ashamed to weep. legend of the dropping well. by hugh miller. '* mop.—is it true, think you t ant,—very true;—why should i carry lies abroad?" winter's tale. in perusing in some of our older gazetteers the half page devoted to cromarty, we find that, among the natural curiosities of the place, there is a small cavern termed the dropping cave, famous for its stalactites and its petrifying springs. and though the progress of modern discovery has done much to lower the wonder, by rendering it merely one of thousands of the same class,—for even among the cliffs of the hill in which the cavern is perforated, there is scarcely a spring that has not its border of coral-like petrifac- tions, and its moss and grass and nettle-stalks of marble,—the dropping cave may well be regarded as a curiosity still. it is hollowed, a few feet over the beach, in the face of one of the low precipices which skirt the entrance of the bay. from a crag which overhangs the opening there falls a perpetual drizzle, which, settling on the moss and lichens beneath, converts them into stone; and on entering the long narrow apartment within, there may be seen by the dim light of the entrance a series of springs, which filter through the solid rock above, descending in so continual a shower, that even in the sultriest days i o weird tales. "of midsummer, when the earth is parched and the grass has become brown and withered, we may hear the eternal drop pattering against the rough stones of the bottom, or tinkling in the recess within, like the string of a harp struck to ascertain its tone. a stone flung into the interior, after rebounding from side to side of the rock, falls with a deep hollow plunge, as if thrown into the sea. had the dropping cave been a cavern of greece or sicily, the classical mytho- logy of these countries would have tenanted it with the goddess of rains and vapour. the walk to the cave is one of the most agreeable in the vicinity of the town, especially in a fine morn- ing of midsummer, an hour or so after the sun has risen out of the firth. the path to it has been hollowed out of the hill-side by the feet of men and animals, and goes winding over rocks and stones— now in a hollow, now on a height, anon lost in the beach. in one of the recesses which open into the hill, a clump of forest-trees has sprung up, and, lifting their boughs to the edge of the precipice above, cover its rough iron features as if with a veil; while, from the shade below, a fine spring, dedicated in some remote age to " our ladye," comes bubbling to the light with as pure and copious a stream as in the days of the priest and the pilgrim. we see the beach covered over with sea-shells and weeds, the cork buoys of the fishermen, and fragments of wrecks. the air is full of fragrance. only look at yonder white patch in the hollow of the hill; 'tis a little city of flowers, a whole community of one species—the meadow-sweet. the fisherman scents it over the legend of the dropping well. water, as he rows homeward in -the cool of the even- ing, a full half-mile from the shore. and see how the hill rises above us, roughened with heath and fern and foxglove, and crested a-top with a dark wood of fir. see how the' beeches which have sprung up on the declivity recline in nearly the angle of the hill, so that their upper branches are only a few feet from the soil ; reminding us, in the midst of warmth and beauty, of the rough winds of winter and the blasting influence of the spray. the insect denizens of the heath and the wood are all on wing; see, there is the red bee, and there the blue butterfly, and yonder the burnet-moth with its wings of vermilion, and the large bird-like dragon-fly, and a thousand others besides, all beautiful and all happy. and then the birds. but why attempt a description? the materials of thought and imagination are scattered profusely around us; the wood, the cliffs, and the spring—the flowers, the insects, and the birds—the shells, the broken fragments of wreck, and the dis- tant sail—the sea, the sky, and the opposite land— are all tones of the great instrument, nature, which need only to be awakened by the mind to yield its sweet music. and now we have reached the cave. the dropping cave ninety years ago was a place of considerable interest; but the continuous shower which converted into stone the plants and mosses on which it fell, and the dark recess which no one had attempted to penetrate, and of whose extent imagina- tion had formed a thousand surmises, constituted some of merely the minor circumstances that had izz weird tales. rendered it such. superstition had busied herself for ages before in making it a scene of wonders. boat- men, when sailing along the shore in the night-time, had been startled by the apparition of a faint blue light, which seemed glimmering from its entrance: * * * the mermaid had been seen sitting on a rock a few yards before it, singing a low melancholy song, and combing her long yellow hair with her fingers; and a man who had been engaged in fishing crabs among the rocks, and was returning late in the evening by the way of the cave, almost shared the fate of its moss and lichens, when, on looking up, he saw an old grey-headed man, with a beard that descended to his girdle, sitting in the opening, and gazing wistfully on the sea. i find some of these circumstances of terror em- bodied in verse by the provincial poet whom i have quoted in an early chapter as an authority regarding the cromarty tradition of wallace; and now, as then, i will avail myself of his description :— "when round the lonely shore the vex'd waves toil'd with deaf ning roar, and midnight, from her lazy wain. heard wild winds roar and tides complain, and groaning woods and shrieking sprites ;— strange sounds from thence, and fearful lights, had caught the sailor's ear and eye, as drove his storm-press'd vessel by. more fearful still, tradition told of that dread cave a story old— so very old, ages had pass'd since he who made had told it last. 'twas thus it ran :—of strange array an aged man, whose locks of gray, weird tales. flood, received new accessions every night. so little, indeed, had he in common with the small-minded class who, possessed of only a limited number of narratives and ideas, go over and over these as the hands of a clock pass continually over the same figures, that, with but one exception in favour of the adventure of the cave, he hardly ever told the same story twice. there was a tradition current in cromarty, that a townsman had once passed through the dropping cave, until he heard a pair of tongs rattle over his head on the hearth of a farmhouse of navity, a district of the parish which lies fully three miles from the opening; and willie, who was, it seems, as hard of belief in such matters as if he himself had never drawn on the credulity of others, resolved on testing the story by exploring the cave. he sewed sprigs of rowan and wych-elm in the hem of his waistcoat, thrust a bible into one pocket and a bottle of gin into the other, and providing himself with a torch, and a staff of buckthorn which had been cut at the full of the moon, and dressed without the assistance of iron or steel, he set out for the cave on a morning of midsummer. it was evening ere he returned—his torch burnt out, and his clothes stained with mould and slime, and soaked with water. after lighting the torch, he said, and taking a firm grasp of the staff, he plunged fearlessly into the gloom before him. the cavern narrowed and lowered as he proceeded; the floor, which was of a white stone resembling marble, was hollowed into cisterns, filled with a water so exceedingly pure that it sparkled to legend of the dropping well. the rest of the adventure wonderfully resembled a dream. on returning to consciousness, he found that the gloom around him had given place to a dim red twilight, which flickered along the sides and roof like the reflection of a distant fire. he rose, and grasp- ing his staff staggered forward. "it is sunlight," thought he, "i shall find an opening among the rocks of eathie, and return home over the hill." instead, however, of the expected outlet, he found the passage terminate in a wonderful apartment, so vast in extent, that though an immense fire of pine- trees, whole and unbroken from root to branch, threw up a red wavering sheet of flame many yards in height, he could see in some places neither the walls nor the roof. a cataract, like that of foyers during the long-continued rains of an open winter, descended in thunder from one of the sides, and presenting its broad undulating front of foam to the red gleam of the fire, again escaped into darkness through a wide broken-edged gulf at the bottom. the floor of the apartment appeared to be thickly strewed with human bones, half-burned and blood-stained, and gnawed as if by cannibals; and directly in front of the fire there was a low tomb-like erection of dark-coloured stone, full twenty yards in length, and roughened with grotesque hieroglyphics, like those of a runic obelisk. an enormous mace of iron, crusted with rust and blood, reclined against the upper end; while a bugle of gold hung by a chain of the same metal from a column at the bottom. willie seized the bugle, and winded a blast till the wide apartment shook with the din; the waters of the cataract disappeared, as if weird tales. arrested at their source; and the ponderous cover of the tomb began to heave and crackle, and pass slowly over the edge, as if assailed by the terrific strength of some newly-awakened giant below. willie again winded the bugle; the cover heaved upwards, dis- closing a corner of the chasm beneath; and a hand covered with blood, and of such fearful magnitude as to resemble only the conceptions of egyptian sculp- ture, was slowly stretched from the darkness towards the handle of the mace. willie's resolution gave way, and, flinging down the horn, he rushed hurriedly towards the passage. a yell of blended grief and indignation burst from the tomb, as the immense cover again settled over it j the cataract came dashing from its precipice with a heavier volume than before; and a furious hurricane of mingled wind and spray that rushed howling from the interior, well-nigh dashed the adventurer against the sides of the rock. he succeeded, however, in gaining the passage, sick at heart and nearly petrified with terror; a state of imperfect consciousness succeeded, like that of a feverish dream, in which he retained a sort of half conviction that he was lingering in the damps and darkness of the cave, obstinately and yet unwillingly; and, on fully regaining his recollection, he found him- self lying across the ninth cistern, with the fragments of the broken bottle on the one side, and his buck- thorn staff on the other. he could hear from the opening the dash of the advancing waves against the rocks, and on leaping to the beach below, found that his exploratory journey had occupied him a whole day. legend of the dropping well. the adventure of willie millar formed at one time one'of the most popular traditions of cromarty. it was current among the children not more than eighteen years ago, when the cave was explored a second time, but with a very different result, by a boy of the school in which the writer of these legends had the mis- fortune of being regarded as the greatest dunce and truant of his time. the character of willie forms the best possible commentary on his story — the character of the boy may perhaps throw some little light on his. when in his twelfth year, he was by far the most inquisitive little fellow in the place. his curiosity was insatiable. he had broken his toys when a child, that he might see how they were constructed; and a watch which the owner had thoughtlessly placed within his reach, narrowly escaped sharing a similar fate. he dissected frogs and mice in the hope of discovering the seat of life ; and when one day found dibbling at the edge of a spring, he said he was trying to penetrate to the source of water. his schoolmaster nicknamed him "the senachie" for the stories with which he beguiled his class-fellows of their tasks were without end or number; the neighbours called him philosopher, for he could point out the star of the pole, with the great bear that continually walks round it; and he used to affirm that there might be people in the moon, and that the huge earth is only a planet. having heard the legend of willie millar, he set out one day to explore the cave; and when he returned he had to tell that the legend was a mere legend, and that the cave, though not without its wonders, owed, like the great ones of s i legend of the dropping well. the evening of the interment he felt oppressed and unhappy; his imagination was haunted by a thousand feverish shapes of open graves with bones mouldering round their edges, and of coffins with the lids dis- placed; and after he had fallen asleep, the images, which were still the same, became more ghastly and horrible. towards morning, however, they had all vanished; and he dreamed that he was walking alone by the sea-shore in a clear and beautiful day of summer. suddenly, as he thought, some person stepped up behind, and whispered in his ear, in the voice of his deceased companion, "go on, willie; i shall meet you at stormy." there is a rock in the neighbourhood of fiddler's well, so called, from the violence with which the sea beats against it when the wind blows strongly from the east. on hearing the voice he turned round, and seeing no one, he went on, as he thought, to the place named, in the hope of meeting his friend, and sat down on a bank to wait his coming; but he waited long—lonely and dejected; and then remembering that he for whom he waited was dead, he burst into tears. at this moment a large field-bee came humming from the west, and began to fly round his head. he raised his hand to brush it away; it widened its circle, and then came humming into his ear as before. he raised his hand a second time, but the bee would not be scared off; it hummed ceaselessly round and round him, until at length its murmurings seemed to- be fashioned into words, articulated in the voice of his deceased companion. "dig, willie, and drink!" it said; "dig, willie, and drink!" he accordingly weird tales. set himself to dig, and no sooner had he torn a sod out of the bank than a spijng of clear water gushed from the hollow; and the bee taking a wider circle, and humming in a voice of triumph that seemed to emulate the sound of a distant trumpet, flew away. he looked after it, but as he looked the images of his dream began to mingle with those of the waking world; the scenery of the hill seemed obscured by a dark cloud, in the centre of which there glimmered a faint light; the rocks, the sea, the long declivity, faded into the cloud ; and turning round he saw only a dark apartment, and the faint beams of morning shining in at a window. he rose, and after digging the well, drank of the water and recovered. and its virtues are still celebrated; for though the water be only simple water, it must be drunk in the morning, and as it gushes from the bank; and with pure air, exercise, and early rising for its auxiliaries, it con- tinues to work cures. wandering willie's tale. by sir walter scott. ye maun have heard of sir robert redgauntlet, of that ilk, who lived in these parts before the dear years. the country will lang mind him; and our fathers used to draw breath thick if ever they heard him named. he was out wi' the hielandmen in montrose's time; and again he has in the hills wi' glencairn in the saxteen hundred and fifty-twa; and sae when king charles the second came in, wha was in sic favour as the laird of redgauntlet? he was knighted at lonon court, wi' the king's ain sword; and being a red-hot prelatist, he came down here, rampauging like a lion, with commissions of lieuten- ancy (and of lunacy, for what i ken), to put down a' the whigs and covenanters in the country. wild wark they made of it; for the whigs were as dour as the cavaliers were fierce, and it was which should first tire the other. redgauntlet was aye for the strong hand; and his name is kend as wide in the country as claverhouse's or tarn dalyell's. glen, nor dargle, nor mountain, nor cave, could hide the puir hill-folk when redgauntlet was out with bugle and blood- hound after them, as if they had been sae mony deer. and troth when they fand them, they didna mak muckle mair ceremony than a hielandman wi' a roebuck. it was just, "will ye tak the test?"—if weird tales. not, "make ready—present—fire!" and there lay the recusant. far and wide was sir robert hated and feared. men thought he had a direct compact with satan— that he was proof against steel—and that bullets happed aff his buff-coat like hailstanes from a hearth —that he had a mear that would turn a hare on the side of carrifragawns — and muckle to the same purpose, of whilk mair anon. the best blessing they wared on him was, "deil scowp wi' redgauntlet!" he wasna a bad maister to his ain folk though, and was weel aneugh liked by his tenants; and as for the lackies and troopers that raid out wi' him to the persecutions, as the whigs caa'd those killing times, they wad hae drunken themsells blind to his health at ony time. now you are to ken that my gudesire lived on redgauntlet's grund—they ca' the place primrose- knowe. we had lived on the grund, and under the redgauntlets, since the riding days, and lang before. it was a pleasant bit; and i think the air is callerer and fresher there than ony where else in the country. it's a' deserted now; and i sat on the broken door- cheek three days since, and was glad i couldna see the plight the place was in; but that's a' wide o' the mark. there dwelt my gudesire, steenie steenson, a rambling, rattling chiel he had been in his young days, and could play weel on the pipes; he was famous at "hoopers and girders"—a' cumberland couldna touch him at "jockie lattin "—and he had the finest finger for the back-lilt between berwick and carlisle. the like o' steenie wasna the sort that wandering willie's tale. they made whigs o'. and so he became a tory, as they ca' it, which we now ca' jacobites, just out of a kind of needcessity, that he might belang to some side or other. he had nae ill-will to the whig bodies, and liked little to see the blude rin, though, being obliged to follow sir robert in hunting and hosting, watching and warding, he saw muckle mis- chief, and maybe did some, that he couldna avoid. now steenie was a kind of favourite with his master, and kend a' the folks about the castle, and was often sent for to play the pipes when they were at their merriment. auld dugald maccallum, the butler, that had followed sir robert through gude and ill, thick and thin, pool and stream, was specially fond of the pipes, and aye gae my gudesire his gude word wi' the laird; for dougal could turn his master round his finger. weel, round came the revolution, and it had like to have broken the hearts baith of dougal and his master. but the change was not a'thegither sae great as they feared, and other folk thought for. the whigs made an unco crawing what they wad do with their auld enemies, and in especial wi' sir robert redgauntlet. but there were ower mony great folks dipped in the same doings, to mak a spick and span new warld. so parliament passed it a' ower easy; and sir robert, bating that he was held to hunting foxes instead of covenanters, remained just the man he was. his revel was as loud, and his hall as weel lighted, as ever it had been, though maybe he lacked the fines of the nonconformists, that used to come to stock his larder and cellar; for it is certain he began weird tales. to be keener about the rents than his tenants used to find him before, and they behoved to be prompt to the rent-day, or else the laird wasna pleased. and he was sic an awsome body, that naebody cared to anger him; for the oaths he swore, and the rage that he used to get into, and the looks that he put on, made men sometimes think him a devil incarnate. weel, my gudesire was nae manager—no that he was a very great misguider—but he hadna the saving gift, and he got twa terms' rent in arrear. he got the first brash at whitsunday put ower wi' fair word and piping; but when martinmas came, there was a summons from the grand officer to come wi' the rent on a day preceese, or else steenie behoved to flit. sair work he had to get the siller; but he was weel- freended, and at last he got the haill scraped thegither — a thousand merks — the maist of it was from a neighbour they caa'd laurie lapraik — a sly tod. laurie had walth o' gear—could hunt wi' the hound and rin wi' the hare—and be whig or tory, saunt or sinner, as the wind stood. he was a professor in his revolution warld, but he liked an orra sough of this world, and a tune on the pipes weel eneugh at a bytime; and abune a', he thought he had gude security for the siller he lent my gudesire ower the stocking at primrose-knowe. away trots my gudesire to redgauntlet castle, wi' a heavy purse and a light heart, glad to be out of the laird's danger. weel, the first thing he learned at the castle was, that sir robert had fretted himself into a fit of the gout, because he did not appear before twelve o'clock. it wasna a'thegither for the sake of wandering willie's tale. the money, dougal thought; but because he didna like to part wi' my gudesire aff the grund. dougal was glad to see steenie, and brought him into the great oak parlour, and there sat the laird his leesome lane, excepting that he had beside him a great, ill- favoured jackanape, that was a special pet of his; a cankered beast it was, and mony an ill-natured trick it played—ill to please it was, and easily angered— ran about the haill castle, chattering and yowling, and pinching and biting folk, especially before ill weather, or disturbances in the state. sir robert caa'd it major weir, after the warlock that was burnt; and few folk liked either the name or the conditions of the creature—they thought there was something in it by ordinar—and my gudesire was not just easy in his mind when the door shut on him, and he saw himself in the room wi' naebody but the laird, dougal maccallum, and the major, a thing that hadna chanced to him before. sir robert sat, or, i should say, lay in a great armed chair, wi' his grand velvet gown, and his feet on a cradle; for he had baith gout and gravel, and his face looked as gash and ghastly as satan's. major weir sat opposite to him, in a red laced coat, and the laird's wig on his head; and aye as sir robert girned wi' pain, the jackanape girned too, like a sheep's head between a pair of tangs—an ill-faured, fearsome couple they were. the laird's buff coat was hung on a pin behind him, and his broad-sword and his pistols within reach; for he keepit up the auld fashion of having the weapons ready, and a horse saddled day and night, just as he used to do when he was able to wandering willie's tale. hirdy-girdy — naebody to say ''come in," or "gae out." terribly the laird roared for cauld water to his feet, and wine to cool his throat; and hell, hell, hell, and its flames, was aye the word in his mouth. they brought him water, and when they plunged his swoln feet into the tub, he cried out it was burning. and folk say that it did bubble and sparkle like a seething cauldron. he flung the cup at dougal's head, and said he had given him blood instead of burgundy; and, sure aneugh, the lass washed clotted blood aff the carpet the neist day. the jackanape they caa'd major weir, it jibbered and cried as if it was mocking its master; my gudesire's head was like to turn—he forgot baith siller and receipt, and down- stairs he banged; but as he ran, the shrieks came faint and fainter. there was a deep-drawn shivering groan, and word gaed through the castle that the laird was dead. weel, away came my gudesire, wi' his finger in his mouth, and his best hope was, that dougal had seen the money-bag, and heard the laird speak of writing the receipt. the young laird, now sir john, came from edinburgh, to see things put to rights. sir john and his father never gree'd weel. sir john had been bred an advocate, and afterwards sat in the last scots parliament and voted for the union, having gotten, it was thought, a rug of the compensations— if his father could have come out of his grave, he would have brained him for it on his awn hearthstane. some thought it was easier counting with the auld rough knight than the fair-spoken young ane—but mair of that anon. weird tales. dougal maccallum, poor body, neither grat nor graned, but gaed about the house looking like a corpse, but directing, as was his duty, a' the order of the grand funeral. now, dougal looked aye waur and waur when night was coming, and was aye the last to gang to his bed, whilk was in a little round just opposite the chamber of dias, whilk his master occupied while he was living, and where he now lay in state, as they caa'd it, weel-a-day! the night before the funeral, dougal could keep his own counsel nae langcr; he came doun with his proud spirit, and fairly asked auld hutcheon to sit in his room with him for an hour. when they were in the round, dougal took ae tass of brandy to hiniscll, and gave another to hutcheon, and wished him all health and lang life, and said that, for himsell, he wasna lang for this world; for that, every night since sir robert's death, his silver call had sounded from the state chamber, just as it used to do at nights in his lifetime, to call dougal to help to turn him in his bed. dougal said, that being alone with the dead on that floor of the tower (for naebody cared to wake sir robert red- gauntlet like another corpse), he had never daured to answer the call, but that now his conscience checked him for neglecting his duty; for, "though death breaks service," said maccallum, "it shall never break my service to sir robert; and i will answer his next whistle, so be you will stand by me, hutcheon." hutcheon had nae will to the wark, but he had stood by dougal in battle and broil, and he wad not fail him at this pinch; so down the carles sat ower a wandering willie's tale. stoup of brandy, and hutcheon, who was something of a clerk, would have read a chapter of the bible; but dougal would hear naething but a blaud of davie lindsay, whilk was the waur preparation. when midnight came, and the house was quiet as the grave, sure aneugh the silver whistle sounded as sharp and shrill as if sir robert was blowing it, and up gat the twa auld serving-men, and tottered into the room where the dead man lay. hutcheon saw aneuch at the first glance; for there were torches in the room, which showed him the foul fiend in his ain shape, sitting on the laird's coffin! over he cowped, as if he had been dead. he could not tell how lang he lay in a trance at the door, but when he gathered himself, he cried on his neighbour, and getting nae answer, raised the house, when dougal was found lying dead within twa steps of the bed where his master's coffin was placed. as for the whistle, it was gaen anes and aye; but mony a time was it heard at the top of the house on the bartizan, and amang the auld chimneys and turrets, where the howlets have their nests. sir john hushed the matter up, and the funeral passed over without mair bogle- wark. but when a' was ower, and the laird was begin- ning to settle his affairs, every tenant was called up for his arrears, and my gudesire for the full sum that stood against him in the rental-book. weel, away he trots to the castle, to tell his story, and there he is introduced to sir john, sitting in his father's chair, in deep mourning, with weepers and hanging cravat, and a small walkine rapier by his side, instead of the weird tales. stephen. "the siller maun be about the house, sir john. and since yer honour never got it, and his honour that was canna have ta'en it wi' him, maybe some of the family may have seen it." sir john. "we will examine the servants, stephen; that is but reasonable." but lackey and lass, and page and groom, all denied stoutly that they had ever seen such a bag of money as my gudesire described. what was waur, he had unluckily not mentioned to any living soul of them his purpose of paying his rent. ae quean had noticed something under his arm, but she took it for the pipes. sir john redgauntlet ordered the servants out of the room, and then said to my gudesire, "now, steenie, ye see ye have fair play; and, as i have little doubt ye ken better where to find the siller than ony other body, i beg, in fair terms, and for your own sake, that you will end this fasherie; for stephen, ye maun pay or flit." "the lord forgie your opinion," said stephen, driven almost to his wit's end—"i am an honest man." "so am i, stephen," said his honour; "and so are all the folks in the house, i hope. but if there be a knave amongst us, it must be he that telk the story he cannot prove." he paused, and then added mair sternly, "if i understand your trick, sir, you want to take advantage of some malicious reports concerning things in this family, and particularly respecting my father's sudden death, thereby to cheat me out of the money, and perhaps take away my wandering willie's tale. character, by insinuating that i have received the rent i am demanding. where do you suppose this money to be? i insist upon knowing." my gudesire saw everything look sae muckle against him that he grew nearly desperate; however, he shifted from one foot to another, looked to every corner of the room, and made no answer. "speak out, sirrah," said the laird, assuming a look of his father's, a very particular ane, which he had when he was angry; it seemed as if the wrinkles of his frown made that selfsame fearful shape of a horse's shoe in the middle of his brow;—" speak out, sir! i will know your thoughts;—do you suppose that i have this money?" "far be it frae me to say so," said stephen. "do you charge any of my people with having taken it?" "i wad be laith to charge them that may be inno- cent," said my gudesire; "and if there be any one that is guilty, i have nae proof." "somewhere the money must be, if there is a word of truth in your story," said sir john; "i ask where you think it is—and demand a correct answer?" "in hell, if you will have my thoughts of it," said my gudesire, driven to extremity,—" in hell i with your father, his jackanape, and his silver whistle." down the stairs he ran (for the parlour was nae place for him after such a word), and he heard the laird swearing blood and wounds behind him, as fast as ever did sir robert, and roaring for the bailie and the baron-officer. away rode my gudesire to his chief creditor (him wandering willie's tale. enemy, if he would but get him back the pock of siller, or tell him what came o't, for he saw the haill world was like to regard him as a thief and a cheat, and he took that waur than even the ruin of his house and hauld. on he rode, little caring where. it was a dark night turned, and the trees made it yet darker, and he let the beast take its ain road through the wood; when, all of a sudden, from tired and wearied that it was before, the nag began to spring, and flee, and stend, that my gudesire could hardly keep the saddle. upon the whilk, a horseman, suddenly riding up beside him, said, "that's a mettle beast of yours, freend; will you sell him?" so saying, he touched the horse's neck with his riding-wand, and it fell into its auld heigh-ho of a stumbling trot. "but his spunk's soon out of him, i think," continued the stranger, "and that is like mony a man's courage, that thinks he wad do great things till he come to the proof. my gudesire scarce listened to this, but spurred his horse, with "gude e'en to you, freend." but it's like the stranger was ane that doesna lightly yield his point; for, ride as steenie liked, he was aye beside him at the selfsame pace. at last my gudesire, steenie steenson, grew half angry ; and, to say the truth, half feared. "what is it that ye want with me, freend?" he said, "if ye be a robber, i have nae money; if ye be a leal man, wanting company, i have nae heart to mirth or speaking; and if ye want to ken the road, i scarce ken it mysell." weird tales. "if you will tell me your grief," said the stranger, "i am one that, though i have been sair miscaa'd in the world, am the only hand for helping my freends." so my gudesire, to ease his ain heart, mair than from any hope of help, told him the story from beginning to end. "it's a hard pinch," said the stranger; "but i think i can help you." "if you could lend the money, sir, and take a lang day—i ken nae other help on earth," said my gude- sire. "but there may be some under the earth," said the stranger. "come, i'll be frank wi' you; i could lend you the money on bond, but you would maybe scruple my terms. now, i can tell you, that your auld laird is disturbed in his grave by your curses, and the wailing of your family; and if you daur venture to go to see him, he will give you the receipt." my gudesire's hair stood on end at this proposal, but he thought his companion might be some humorsome chield that was trying to frighten him, and might end with lending him the money. besides, he was bauld wi' brandy, and desperate wi' distress; and he said, he had courage to go to the gate of hell, and a step farther, for that receipt. the stranger laughed. weel, they rode on through the thickest of the wood, when, all of a sudden, the horse stopped at the door of a great house; and, but that he knew the place was ten miles off, my father would have thought he was at redgauntlet castle. they rode into the outer court yard, through the muckle faulding yetts, wandering willie's tale. and aneath the auld portcullis; and the whole front of the house was lighted, and there were pipes and fiddles, and as much dancing and deray within as used to be in sir robert's house at pace and yule, and such high seasons. they lap off, and my gude- sire, as seemed to him, fastened his horse to the very ring he had tied him to that morning, when he gaed to wait on the young sir john. "god !" said my gudesire, "if sir robert's death be but a dream!" he knocked at the ha' door just as he was wont, and his auld acquaintance, dougal maccallum,—just after his wont too,—came to open the door, and said, "piper steenie, are ye there, lad? sir robert has been crying for you." my gudesire was like a man in a dream—he looked for the stranger, but he was gane for the time. at last he just tried to say, "ha! dougal driveower, are ye living? i thought ye had been dead." "never fash yoursell wi' me," said dougal, "but look to yoursell; and see ye tak naething frae ony- body here, neither meat, drink, or siller, except just the receipt that is your ain." so saying, he led the way out through halls and trances that were weel kend to my gudesire, and into the auld oak parlour; and there was as much singing of profane sangs, and biding of red wine, and speak- ing blasphemy and sculduddry, as had ever been in redgauntlet castle when it was at the blithest. but, lord take us in keeping! what a set of ghastly revellers they were that sat round that table! my gudesire kend mony that had lang before gane to weird tales. their place, for often had he piped to the most part in the hall of redgauntleu there was the fierce middleton, and the dissolute rothes, and the crafty lauderdale; and dalyell, with his bald head and a beard to his girdle; and earlshall, with cameron's blude on his hand; and wild bonshaw, that tied blessed mr. cargill's limbs till the blude sprung; and dumbarton douglas, the twice-turned traitor baith to country and king. there was the bluidy advocate mackenyie, who, for his worldly wit and wisdom, had been to the rest as a god. and there was claverhouse, as beautiful as when he lived, with his long, dark, curled locks, streaming down over his laced buff-coat, and his left hand always on his right spule-blade, to hide the wound that the silver- bullet had made. he sat apart from them all, and looked at them with a melancholy, haughty counte- nance ; while the rest halloed, and sung, and laughed, that the room rang. but their smiles were fearfully contorted from time to time ; and their laughter passed into such wild sounds, as made my gudesire's very nails grow blue, and chilled the marrow in his banes. they that waited at the table were just the wicked serving-men and troopers, that had done their work and cruel bidding on earth. there was the lang lad of the nethevtown, that helped to take argyle; and the bishop's summoner, that they called the deil's rattle-bag; and the wicked guardsmen, in their laced-coats; and the savage highland amorites, that shed blood like water; and many a proud serv- ing-man, haughty of heart and bloody of hand, clinging to the rich, and making them wickeder wandering willies tale. than they would be; grinding the poor to powder, when the rich had broken them to fragments. and mony, mony mair were coming and ganging, a' as busy in their vocation as if they had been alive. sir robert redgauntlet, in the midst of a' this fearful riot, cried, wi' a voice like thunder, on steenie piper, to come to the board-head where he was sitting; his legs stretched out before him, and swathed up with flannel, with his holster pistols aside him, while the great broad-sword rested against his chair, just as my gudesire had seen him the last time upon earth—the very cushion for the jackanape was close to him, but the creature itsell was not there —it wasna its hour, it's likely; for he heard them say as he came forward, "is not the major come yet?" and another answered, "the jackanape will be here betimes the morn." and when my gudesire came forward, sir robert, or his ghaist, or the deevil in his likeness, said, "weel, piper, hae ye settled wi' my son for the year's rent?" with much ado my father gat breath to say, that sir john would not settle without his honour's receipt. "ye shall hae that for a tune of the pipes, steenie," said the appearance of sir robert. "play us up, 'weel noddled, luckie.'" now this was a tune my gudesire learned from a warlock, that heard it when they were worshipping satan at their meetings; and my gudesire had some- times played it at the ranting suppers in redgauntlet castle, but never very willingly; and now he grew cauld at the very name of it, and said, for excuse, he hadna his pipes wi' him. weird tales. "maccallum, ye limb of beelzebub," said the fearfu' sir robert, "bring steenie the pipes that i am keeping for him!" maccallum brought a pair of pipes that might have served the piper of donald of the isles. but he gave my gudesire a nudge as he offered them; and looking secretly and closely, steenie saw that the chanter was of steel, and heated to a white heat; so he had fair warning not to trust his fingers with it. so he excused himself again, and said he was faint and frightened, and had not wind aneugh to fill the bag. "then ye maun eat and drink, steenie," said the figure; "for we do little else here; and it's ill speaking between a fou man and a fasting." now these were the very words that the bloody earl of douglas said to keep the king's messenger in hand, while he cut the head off maclellan of bombie, at the threave castle; and that put steenie mair and mair on his guard. so he spoke up like a man, and said he came neither to eat, or drink, or make minstrelsy; but simply for his ain—to ken what was come o' the money he had paid, and to get a discharge for it; and he was so stout-hearted by this time, that he charged sir robert for conscience-sake —(he had no power to say the holy name)—and as he hoped for peace and rest, to spread no snares for him, but just to give him his ain. the appearance gnashed its teeth and laughed, but it took from a large pocket-book the receipt, and handed it to steenie. "there is your receipt, ye pitiful cur; and for the money, my dog-whelp of a son may go look for it in the cat's cradle." wandering willie's tale. my gudesire uttered mony thanks, and was about to retire, when sir robert roared aloud, "stop, though, thou sack-doudling son of a whore! i am not done with thee. here we do nothing for nothing; and you must return on this very day twelvemonth, to pay your master the homage that you owe me for my protection." my father's tongue was loosed of a suddenty, and he said aloud, "i refer mysell to god's pleasure, and not to yours." he had no sooner uttered the word than all was dark around him; and he sunk on the earth with such a sudden shock, that he lost both breath and sense. how long steenie lay there, he could not tell; but when he came to himsell, he was lying in the auld kirkyard of redgauntlet parochine, just at the door of the family aisle, and the scutcheon of the auld knight, sir robert, hanging over his head. there was a deep morning fog on grass and grave-shine around him, and his horse was feeding quietly beside the minister's twa cows. steenie would have thought the whole was a dream, but he had the receipt in his hand, fairly written and signed by the auld laird; only the last letters of his name were a little dis- orderly, written like one seized with sudden pain. sorely troubled in his mind, he left that dreary place, rode through the mist to redgauntlet castle, and with much ado he got speech of the laird. "well, you dyvour bankrupt," was the first word, '' have you brought me my rent?" "no," answered my gudesire, "i have not; but weird tales. \ have brought your honour sir robert's receipt for it." "how, sirrah?—sir robert's receipt!—you told me he had not given you one." "will your honour please to see if that bit line is right?" sir john looked at every line, and at every letter, with much attention; and at last, at the date, which my gudesire had not observed, "from my appointed place," he read, "this twenty-fifth of november."— "what!—that is yesterday !—villain, thou must have gone to hell for this!" "i got it from your honour's father—whether he be in heaven or hell, i know not," said steenie. "i will delate you for a warlock to the privy council!" said sir john. "i will send you to your master, the devil, with the help of a tar-barrel and a torch!" "i intend to delate mysell to the presbytery," said steenie, "and tell them all i have seen last night, whilk are things fitter for them to judge of than a borrel man like me." sir john paused, composed himsell, and desired to hear the full history; and my gudesire told it him from point to point, as i have told it you—word for word, neither more or less. sir john was silent again for a long time, and at last he said, very composedly, "steenie, this story of yours concerns the honour of many a noble family besides mine; and if it be a leasing-making, to keep yourself out of my danger, the least you can expect is to have a red-hot iron driven through your tongue, weird tales. help him. and there was the bag of siller sure aneugh, and mony orra things besides, that had been missing for mony a day. and sir john, when he had riped the turret weel, led my gudesire into the dining-parlour, and took him by the hand, and spoke kindly to him, and said he was sorry he should have doubted his word, and that he would hereafter be a good master to him, to make amends. "and now, steenie," said sir john, "although this vision of yours tends, on the whole, to my father's credit, as an honest man, that he should, even after his death, desire to see justice done to a poor man like you, yet you are sensible that ill- dispositioned men might make bad constructions upon it, concerning his soul's health. so, i think, we had better lay the haill dirdum on thit ill-deedie creature, major weir, and say naething about your dream in the wood of pitmurkie. you had taken ower muckle brandy to be very certain about onything; and, steenie, this receipt" (his hand shook while he held it out),—" it's but a queer kind of document, and we will do best, i think, to put it quietly in the fire." "od, but for as queer as it is, it's a' the voucher i have for my rent," said my gudesire, who was afraid, it may be, of losing the benefit of sir robert's discharge. "i will bear the contents to your credit in the rental-book, and give you a discharge under my own hand," said sir john, "and that on the spot. and, steenie, if you can hold your tongue about this matter, you shall sit, from this term downward, at an easier rent." wandering willie's tale. "mony thanks to your honour," said steenie, who saw easily in what corner the wind was; '' doubtless i will be conformable to all your honour's com- mands; only i would willingly speak wi' some powerful minister on the subject, for i do not like the sort of summons of appointment whilk your honour's father—" "do not call the phantom my father!" said sir john, interrupting him. "weel, then, the thing that was so like him," said my gudesire; "he spoke of my coming back to him this time twelvemonth, and it's a weight on my conscience." "aweel, then," said sir john, "if you be so much distressed in mind, you may speak to our minister of the parish; he is a douce man, regards the honour of our family, and the mair that he may look for some patronage from me." "wi' that my gudesire readily agreed that the receipt should be burnt, and the laird threw it into the chimney with his ain hand. burn it would not for them, though ; but away it flew up the lum, wi' a lang train of sparks at its tail, and a hissing noise like a squib. my gudesire gaed down to the manse, and the minister, when he had heard the story, said it was his real opinion, that though my gudesire had gaen very far in tampering with dangerous matters, yet, as he had refused the devil's arles (for such was the offer of meat and drink), and had refused to do homage by piping at his bidding, he hoped, that if he held a circumspect walk hereafter, satan could take little the haunted ships. by allan cunningham. "though my mind's not hoodwink'd with rustic marvels, i do think there are more things in the grove, the air, the flood, yea, and the clmrncll'd earth, than that wise man, who walks so proud as if his form alone fill'd the wide temple of the universe, will let a frail mind say. i'd write i' the creed o' the sagest head alive, that fearful forms, holy or reprobate, do page men's heels; that shapes, too horrid for our gaze, stand o'er the murderer's dust, and for revenge glare up, even till the stars weep fire for very pity." along the sea of solway, romantic on the scottish side, with its woodland, its bays, its cliffs, and head- lands,—and interesting on the english side, with its many beautiful towns with their shadows on the water, rich pastures, safe harbours, and numerous ships,—there still linger many traditional stories of a maritime nature, most of them connected with super- stitions singularly wild and unusual. to the curious these tales afford a rich fund of entertainment, from the many diversities of the same story; some dry and barren, and stripped of all the embellishments of poetry; others dressed out in all the riches of a superstitious belief and haunted imagination. in this they resemble the inland traditions of the peasants; but many of the oral treasures of the galwegian or the cumbrian coast have the stamp of the dane and s i. weird tales. the norseman upon them, and claim but a remote or faint affinity with the legitimate legends of caledonia. something like a rude prosaic outline of several of the most noted of the northern ballads, the adventures and depredations of the old ocean kings, still lends life to the evening tale ; and, among others, the story of the haunted ships is still popular among the maritime peasantry. one fine harvest evening, i went on board the shallop of richard faulder, of allanbay; and, com- mitting ourselves to the waters, we allowed a gentle wind from the east to waft us at its pleasure towards the scottish coast. we passed the sharp promontory of siddick; and skirting the land within a stone-cast, glided along the shore till we came within sight of the ruined abbey of sweetheart. the green mountain of criffell ascended beside us; and the bleat of the flocks from its summit, together with the winding of the evening horn of the reapers, came softened into something like music over land and sea. we pushed our shallop into a deep and wooded bay, and sat silently looking on the serene beauty of the place the moon glimmered in her rising through the tall shafts of the pines of caerlaverock; and the sky, with scarce a cloud, showered down on wood, and headland, and bay, the twinkling beams of a thousand stars rendering every object visible. the tide, too, was coming with that swift and silent swell observable when the wind is gentle; the woody curves along the land were filling with the flood, till it touched the green branches of the drooping trees; while in the centre current the roll and the plunge of weird tales. wooden skewer round his neck, fell mid-leg down, concealing all his nether garments as far as a pair of hose, darned with yarn of all conceivable colours, and a pair of shoes, patched and repaired till nothing of the original structure remained, and clasped on his feet with two massy silver buckles. if the dress of the old man was rude and sordid, that of his grand- daughter was gay, and even rich. she wore a boddice of fine wool, wrought round the bosom with alternate leaf and lily, and a kirtle of the same fabric, which, almost touching her white and delicate ancle, showed her snowy feet, so fairy-light and round that they scarcely seemed to touch the grass where she stood. her hair, a natural ornament which woman seeks much to improve, was of bright glossy brown, and encumbered rather than adorned with a snood, set thick with marine productions, among which the small clear pearl found in the solway was conspicuous. nature had not trusted to a handsome shape, and a sylph-like air, for young barbara's influence over the heart of man ; but had bestowed a pair of large bright blue eyes, swimming in liquid light, so full of love, and gentleness, and joy, that all the sailors from annan water to far saint bees acknowledged their power, and sung songs about the bonnie lass of mark macmoran. she stood holding a small gaff-hook of polished steel in her hand, and seemed not dissatisfied with the glances i bestowed on her from time to time, and which i held more than requited by a single glance of those eyes which retained so many capricious hearts in subjection. the tide, though rapidly augmenting, had not yet the haunted ships. after yell, sustaining himself against the prodigious rush of the current. from a shealing of turf and straw, within the pitch of a bar from the spot where we stood, came out an old woman bent with age, and leaning on a crutch. "i heard the voice of that lad andrew lammie; can the chield be drowning, that he skirls sae uncannilie?" said the old woman, seating herself on the ground, and looking earnestly at the water. "ou ay," she continued, "he's doomed, he's doomed; heart and hand can never save him; boats, ropes, and man's strength and wit, all vain! vain! he's doomed, he's doomed!" by this time i had thrown myself into the shallop, followed reluctantly by richard faulder, over whose courage and kindness of heart superstition had great power; and with one push from the shore, and some exertion in sculling, we came within a quoit-cast of the unfortunate fisherman. he stayed not to profit by our aid; for when he perceived us near, he uttered a piercing shriek of joy, and bounded towards us through the agitated element the full length of an oar. i saw him for a second on the surface of the water; but the eddying current sucked him down; and all i ever beheld of him again was his hand held above the flood, and clutching in agony at some imaginary aid. i sat gazing in horror on the vacant sea before us: but a breathing time before, a human being, full of youth, and strength, and hope, was there; his cries were still ringing in my ears, and echoing in the woods; and now nothing «vas seen or heard save the turbulent expanse of water, and the sound of its weird tales. chafing on the shores. we pushed back our shallop, and resumed our station on the cliff beside the old mariner and his descendant. "wherefore sought ye to peril your own lives fruit- lessly?" said mark, "in attempting to save the doomed. whoso touches those infernal ships, never survives to tell the tale. woe to the man who is found nigh them at midnight when the tide has sub- sided, and they arise in their former beauty, with forecastle, and deck, and sail, and pennon, and shroud! then is seen the streaming of lights along the water from their cabin windows, and then is heard the sound of mirth and the clamour of tongues, and the infernal whoop and halloo, and song, ringing far and wide. woe to the man who comes nigh them!" to all this my allanbay companion listened with a breathless attention. i felt something touched with a superstition to which i partly believed i had seen one victim offered up; and i inquired of the old mariner, "how and when came these haunted ships there? to me they seem but the melancholy relics of some unhappy voyagers, and much more likely to warn people to shun destruction, than entice and delude them to it." "and so," said the old man with a smile, which had more of sorrow in it than of mirth; "and so, young man, these black and shattered hulks seem to the eye of the multitude. but things are not what they seem ; that water, a kind and convenient servant to the wants of man, which seems so smooth, and so dimpling, and so gentle, has swallowed up a the haunted ships. human soul even now ; and the place which it covers, so fair and so level, is a faithless quicksand, out of which none escape. things are otherwise than they seem. had you lived as long as i have had the sorrow to live; had you seen the storms, and braved the perils, and endured the distresses which have befallen me; had you sat gazing out on the dreary ocean at midnight on a haunted coast; had you seen comrade after comrade, brother after brother, and son after son, swept away by the merciless ocean from your very side; had you seen the shapes of friends, doumed to the wave and the quicksand, appearing to you in the dreams and visions of the night,—then would your mind have been prepared for crediting the maritime legends of mariners; and the two haunted danish ships would have had their terrors for you, as they have for all who sojourn on this coast. "of the time and the cause of their destruction," continued the old man, "i know nothing certain: they have stood as you have seen them for uncounted time; and while all other ships wrecked on this unhappy coast have gone to pieces, and rotted, and sunk away in a few years, these two haunted hulks have neither sunk in the quicksand, nor has a single spar or board been displaced. maritime legend says, that two ships of denmark having had permission, for a time, to work deeds of darkness and dolour on the deep, were at last condemned to the whirlpool and the sunken rock, and were wrecked in this bonnie bay, as a sign to seamen to be gentle and devout. the night when they were lost was a harvest evening of uncommon mildness and beauty; weird tales. the sun had newly set; the moon came brighter and brighter out; and the reapers, laying their sickles at the root of the standing corn, stood on rock and bank, looking at the increasing magnitude of the waters, for sea and land were visible from saint bees to barn- hourie. the sails of two vessels were soon seen bent for the scottish coast; and with a speed outrunning the swiftest ship, they approached the dangerous quicksands and headland of borran point. on the deck of the foremost ship not a living soul was seen, or shape, unless something in darkness and form resembling a human shadow could be called a shape, which flitted from extremity to extremity of the ship, with the appearance of trimming the sails, and direct- ing the vessel's course. but the decks of its com- panion were crowded with human shapes; the captain, and mate, and sailor, and cabin boy, all seemed there; and from them the sound of mirth and minstrelsy echoed over land and water. the coast which they skirted along was one of extreme danger; and the reapers shouted to warn them to beware of sandbank and rock; but of this friendly counsel no notice was taken, except that a large and famished dog, which sat on the prow, answered every shout with a long, loud, and melancholy howl. the deep sand-bank of carsethorn was expected to arrest the career of these desperate navigators; but they passed, with the celerity of waterfowl, over an obstruction which had wrecked many pretty ships. "old men shook their heads and departed, saying, •we have seen the end sailing in a bottomless ship— let us go home and pray'; but one young and wilful the haunted ships. r i man said, 'fiend! i'll warrant it's nae fiend, but douce janet withershins, the witch, holding a carouse with some of her cumberland cummers, and mickle red wine will be spilt atween them. 'dod i would gladly have a toothfu'! i'll warrant it's nane o' your cauld sour slae-water like a bottle of bailie skrinkie's port, but right drap-o'-my-heart's-blood stuff, that would waken a body out of their last linen. i wonder where the cummers will anchor their craft?' 'and i'll vow,' said another rustic, 'the wine they quaff is none of your visionary drink, such as a drouthie body has dished out to his lips in a dream; nor is it shadowy and unsubstantial, like the vessels they sail in, which are made out of a cockle-shell or a cast-off slipper, or the paring of a seaman's right thumb- nail. i once got a hansel out of a witch's quaigh myself,—auld marion mathers, of dustiefoot, whom they tried to bury in the old kirk-yard of dun- score; but the cummer raise as fast as they laid her down, and nae where else would she lie but in the bonnie green kirk-yard of kier, among douce and sponsible fowk. so i'll vow that the wine of a witch's cup is as fell liquor as ever did a kindly turn to a poor man's heart; and be they fiends, or be they witches, if they have red wine asteer, i'll risk a drouket sark for ae glorious tout on't.' 'silence, ye sinners,' said the minister's son of a neighbouring parish, who united in his own person his father's lack of devotion with his mother's love of liquor. 'whisht!—speak as if ye had the fear of something holy before ye. let the vessels run their own way to destruction; who can stay the eastern wind, and weird tales. the current of the solway sea? i can find ye scrip- ture warrant for that; so let them try their strength on blawhooly rocks, and their might on the broad quicksand. there's a surf running there would knock the ribs together of a galley built by the imps of the pit, and commanded by the prince of dark- ness. bonnilie and bravely they sail away there; but before the blast blows by they'll be wrecked; and red wine and strong brandy will be as rife as dyke-water, and we'll drink the health of bonnie bell blackness out of her left foot slipper.' "the speech of the young profligate was applauded by several of his companions, and away they flew to the bay of blawhooly, from whence they never returned. the two vessels were observed all at once to stop in the bosom of the bay, on the spot where their hulls now appear ; the mirth and the minstrelsy waxed louder than ever; and the forms of maidens, with instruments of music and wine-cups in their hands, thronged the decks. a boat was lowered; and the same shadowy pilot who conducted the ships made it start towards the shore with the rapidity of lightning, and its head knocked against the bank where the four young men stood, who longed for the unblest drink. they leaped in with a laugh, and with a laugh were they welcomed on deck; wine cups were given to each, and as they raised them to their lips the vessels melted away beneath their feet; and one loud shriek, mingled with laughter still louder, was heard over land and water for many miles. nothing more was heard or seen till the morning, when the crowd who came to the beach weird tales. and sat down behind that old oak, and looked abroad on the wide sea. i had my ain sad thoughts, ye may think, at the time : it was in that very bay my blithe gudeman perished, with seven more in his company; and on that very bank where ye see the waves leap- ing and foaming, i saw seven stately corses streeked, but the dearest was the eighth. it was a woeful sight to me, a widow, with four bonnie boys, with nought to support them but these twa hands, and god's blessing, and a cow's grass. i have never liked to live out of sight of this bay since that time; and mony's the moonlight night i sit looking on these watery mountains, and these waste shores; it does my heart good, whatever it may do to my head. so ye see it was hallowmas night; and looking on sea and land sat i; and my heart wandering to other thoughts soon made me forget my youthful company at hame. it might be near the howe hour of the night; the tide was making, and its singing brought strange old-world stories with it; and i thought on the dangers that sailors endure, the fates they meet with, and the fearful forms they see. my own blithe gudeman had seen sights that made him grave enough at times, though he aye tried to laugh them away. "aweel, atween that very rock aneath us and the coming tide, i saw, or thought i saw, for the tale is so dream-like, that the whole might pass for a vision of the night,—i saw the form of a man; his plaid was gray; his face was gray; and his hair, which hung low down till it nearly came to the middle of his back, was as white as the white sea-foam. he the haunted ships. began to howk and dig under the bank; an' god be near me, thought i, this maun be the unblessed spirit of auld adam gowdgowpin, the miser, who is doomed to dig for shipwrecked treasure, and count how many millions are hidden for ever from man's enjoyment. the form found something which in shape and hue seemed a left-foot slipper of brass; so down to the tide he marched, and placing it on the water, whirled it thrice round; and the infernal slipper dilated at every turn, till it became a bonnie barge with its sails bent, and on board leaped the form, and scudded swiftly away. he came to one of the haunted ships; and striking it with his oar, a fair ship, with mast, and canvas, and mariners, started up; he touched the other haunted ship, and produced the like transformation; and away the three spectre ships bounded, leaving a track of fire behind them on the billows which was long unex- tinguished. now was nae that a bonnie and a fearful sight to see beneath the light of the hallowmas moon? but the tale is far frae finished; for mariners say that once a year, on a certain night, if ye stand on the borran point, ye will see the infernal shallops coming snoring through the solway; ye will hear the same laugh, and song, and mirth, and minstrelsy, which our ancestors heard ; see them bound over the sand-banks and sunken rocks like sea-gulls, cast their anchor in blawhooly bay, while the shadowy figure lowers down the boat, and augments their numbers with the four unhappy mortals to whose memory a stone stands in the kirkyard, with a sink- ing ship and a shoreless sea cut upon it. then the the haunted ships. auld moll the present of a new kirtle and a stone of cheese." "o father," said his grand-daughter barbara, "ye surely wrong poor old mary moray. what use could it be to an old woman like her, who has no wrongs to redress, no malice to work out against mankind, and nothing to seek of enjoyment save a cannie hour and a quiet grave,—what use could the fellowship of fiends, and the communion of evil spirits, be to her? i know jenny primrose puts rowan-tree above the door-head when she sees old mary coming; i know the good wife of kittlenaket wears rowan-berry leaves in the headband of her blue kirtle, and all for the sake of averting the unsonsie glance of mary's right ee; and i know that the auld laird of burntroutwater drives his seven cows to their pasture with a wand of witch-tree, to keep mary from milking them. but what has all that to do with haunted shallops, visionary mariners, and bottomless boats? i have heard myself as pleasant a tale about the haunted ships and their unworldly crews, as any one would wish to hear in a winter evening. it was told me by young benjie macharg, one summer night, sitting on arbigland bank. the lad intended a sort of love meeting; but all that he could talk of was about smearing sheep and shearing sheep, and of the wife which the norway elves of the haunted ships made for his uncle sandie macharg. and i shall tell ye the tale as the honest lad told it to me. "alexander macharg, besides being the laird of three acres of peatmoss, two kale gardens, and the owner of seven good milch cows, a pair of horses, s m the haunted ships. i $ "so it fell on a time that laird macharg took his half-net on his back, and his steel spear in his hand, and down to blawhooly bay gade he, and into the water he went right between the two haunted hulks, and, placing his net, awaited the coming of the tide. the night, ye maun ken, was mirk, and the wind lowne, and the singing of the increasing waters among the shells and the peebles was heard for sundry miles. all at once lights began to glance and twinkle on board the two haunted ships from every hole and seam, and presently the sound as of a hatchet employed in squaring timber echoed far and wide. but if the toil of these unearthly workmen amazed the laird, how much more was his amaze- ment increased when a sharp shrill voice called out, 'ho! brother, what are you doing now?' a voice still shriller responded from the other haunted ship, 'i'm making a wife to sandie macharg!' and a loud quavering laugh, running from ship to ship, and from bank to bank, told the joy they expected from their labour. "now the laird, besides being a devout and a god-fearing man, was shrewd and bold; and in plot, and contrivance, and skill in conducting his designs, was fairly an overmatch for any dozen land elves. but the water elves are far more subtle; besides, their haunts and their dwellings being in the great deep, pursuit and detection is hopeless if they succeed in carrying their prey to the waves. but ye shall hear. home flew the laird,—collected his family around the hearth,—spoke of the signs and the sins of the times, and talked of mortification and prayer the haunted ships. a sudden sickness? though its sinful-like to send the poor messenger a mile agate with a lie in his mouth without a glass of brandy.' "' to such a messenger, and to those who sent him, no apology is needed,' said the austere laird, 'so let him depart.' and the clatter of a horse's hoofs was heard, and the muttered imprecations of its rider on the churlish treatment he had experienced. "'now sandie, my lad,' said his wife, laying an arm particularly white and round about his neck as she spoke, 'are you not a queer man and a stern? i have been your wedded wife now these three years; and, beside my dower, have brought you three as bonnie bairns as ever smiled aneath a summer sun. o man, you a douce man, and fitter to be an elder than even willie greer himself,—i have the minister's ain word for't,—to put on these hard-hearted looks, and gang waving your arms that way, as if ye said, "i winna take the counsel of sic a hempie as you." i'm your ain leal wife, and will and maun have an explanation.' -" to all this sandie macharg replied, 'it is written —" wives, obey your husbands ;" but we have been stayed in our devotion, so let us pray;' and down he knelt. his wife knelt also, for she was as devout as bonnie; and beside them knelt their household, and all lights were extinguished. "' now this beats a',' muttered his wife to herself; 'however, i shall be obedient for a time; but if i dinna ken what all this is for before the morn by sunket-time, my tongue is nae langer a tongue, nor my hands worth wearing.' the haunted ships. honest farmer and his wife to open the door; and when the like success attended every new stratagem, silence for a little while ensued, and a long, loud, and shrilling laugh wound up the dramatic efforts of the night. in the morning, when laird macharg went to the door, he found standing against one of the pilasters a piece of black ship oak, rudely fashioned into something like human form, and which skilful people declared would have been clothed with seem- ing flesh and blood, and palmed upon him by elfin adroitness for his wife, had he admitted his visitants. a synod of wise men and women sat upon the woman of timber, and she was finally ordered to be devoured by fire, and that in the open air. a fire was soon made, and into it the elfin sculpture was tossed from the prongs of two pairs of pitchforks. the blaze that arose was awful to behold; and hissings, and burstings, and loud cracklings, and strange noises, were heard in the midst of the flame; and when the whole sank into ashes, a drinking cup of some precious metal was found; and this cup, fashioned no doubt by elfin skill, but rendered harmless by the purification with fire, the sons and daughters of sandie macharg and his wife drink out of to this very day. bless all bold men, say i, and obedient wives!" the unknown. by john mackay wilson. in the year , a young and beautiful woman, whose dress and features bespoke her to be a native of spain, was observed a few miles beyond ponteland, on the road which leads to rothbury. she appeared faint and weary; dimness was deepening over the lustre of her dark eyes, and their glance bespoke anxious misery. her raiment was of the finest silk; but time had caused its colour to fade; and it hung around her a tattered robe—an ensign of present poverty and wretchedness, a ruined remnant of prouder days that were past. she walked feebly and slowly along, bearing in her arms an infant boy; and she was observed, at intervals, to sit down, press her pale lips to her child's cheek, and weep. several peasants, who were returning from their labours in the fields, stood and spoke to her; but she gazed on them with wild looks of despair, and she answered them in a strange language which they did not understand. "she has been a lady, poor thing," said some of them. "ha!" said others, who had less charity in their breasts, "they have not all been ladies that wear tattered silk in strange fashions." some inquired of her if she were hungry; if she wanted a lodging; or where she was going. but, like the mother of thomas-a-beckett, to all their the unknown. inquiries she answered them but in one word that they understood, and that word was "edinburgh!" some said, "the poor creature is crazed "; and when she perceived that they comprehended her not, she waved her hand impatiently for them to depart, and pressing her child closer to her bosom, she bent her head over him and sighed. the peasants, believing from her gestures that she desired not their presence, left her, some pitying, all wondering. within an hour some of them returned to the place where they had seen her, with the intent of offering her shelter for the night; but she was not to be found. on the following morning, one peter thornton, a farmer, went into his stackyard before his servants were astir, and his attention being aroused by the weeping and wailing of a child, he hastened toward the spot from whence the sound proceeded. in a secluded corner of the yard he beheld a woman lying, as if asleep, upon some loose straw; and a child was weeping and uttering strange sounds of lamentation in her bosom. it was the lovely, but wretched- looking foreigner whom the peasants had seen on the evening before. peter was a blunt, kind-hearted scotsman: he resembled a piece of rich, though unpolished metal. he approached the forlorn stranger; and her strange dress, her youth, the stamp of misery that surrounded her, and the death-like expression of her features, moved him, as he gazed upon her and her child, almost to tears. "get up, woman," said he; "why do you lie there? get up, and come wi' me; ye seem to be ill, and my wife will get ye something comfortable." weird tales. "but she spoke not, she moved not, though the child screamed louder at his presence. he called to her again; but still she remained motionless. "preserve us!" said he, somewhat alarmed, "what can have came owre the woman? i daresay she is in a trance i she sleeps sounder there in the open air, and upon the bare straw, wi' her poor bairn crying like to break its heart upon her breast, than i could do on a feather bed, wi' everything peace and quietness around me. come, waken, woman!" he added; and he bent down and took her by the hand. but her fingers were stiff and cold—there was no sign of life upon her lips, neither was there breath in her nostrils. "what is thisl" exclaimed peter, in a tone of horror—"a dead woman in my stackyard!—has there been murder at my door through the night? i'll gie all that i am worth as a reward to find it out!" and leaving the child screaming by the side of its dead mother, he rushed breathless into the house, exclaiming—"oh wife! wife—jenny, woman!—i say, jenny ! get up! here has been bloody wark at our door! what do ye think !—a dead woman lying in our stackyard, wi' a bonny bairn screaming on her breast!" "what's that ye say, peter!" cried his wife, starting up in terror; "a dead woman?—ye're dreaming—ye're not in earnest i" "haste ye! haste ye, jenny!" he added; "it's as true as that my name is peter thornton." she arose, and, with their household servants, accompanied him to where the dead body lay. the unknown. foreign words that they may stand for. we shall, therefore, just give him some decent christian name." "and what name more decent or respectable could we gie him than our own?" said jenny. "suppose we just call him thornton—peter thornton!" "no, no, gudewife," said he, "there must twa words go to the making o' that bargain; for though nobody would charge you wi' being his mother, the time may come when folk would be wicked enough to hint that i was his faither; therefore i do not think it proper that he should tak my name. what say ye now, as it is probable that his faither's name begun wi' a c, if we were to call him christopher; and as we found him in the month of may, we should gie him a surname after the month, and call him chris- topher may. that, in my opinion, is a very bonny name; and i hae nae doubt that, if he be spared till those dark een o' his begin to look after the lasses, mony a ane o' them will be o' the same way o' thinking." the child soon became reconciled to the change in his situation, and returned the kindness of his foster- mother with affection. she rejoiced as he gradually forgot the few words of spanish which he at first lisped, and in their stead began to speak the language of the borders. with delight in her eyes, she declared that "she had learned him his mother tongue, which he now spoke as natural as life, though, when she took him under her care, he could say nothing but some heathenish kind o' sounds, which nobody could mak any more sense o', than it was possible to do out o' the yammerin' o' an infant o' six months old." weird tatei. as the orphan grew up, he became noted as the liveliest boy in the neighbourhood. he was the tallest of his age, and the most fearless. about three years after peter thornton had taken him under his protection, he sent him to school. but, lively as the orphan christopher may was (for so we shall now call him), he by now means showed an aptness to learn. for five years, and he never rose higher than the middle of the class. the teacher was often wroth with the thoughtlessness of his pupil; and in his displeasure said—"it is nonsense, sirrah, to say that ye was ever a spaniard. there is something like sense and stability o' character about the people o' spain; but you—ye're a frenchman !—a thought- less, dancing, settle-to-nothing fool. or, if ever ye were a spaniard, ye belong to the family o' don quixote ; his name would be found in the catalogue o' your great-grandfathers." even peter thornton, though no scholar, was grieved when the teacher called upon him, and complained of the giddiness of his adopted son, and of the little progress which he made under his care. "christie, ye rascal ye," said peter, stamping his foot, "what news are these your master tells o' ye? he says he's ashamed o' ye, and that ye'll never learn." but even for his thoughtlessness, the kind heart of jenny found an excuse. "dear me, gudeman," said she, "i wonder-to hear the maister and ye talk; i am surprised that both o' ye haena mair sense. do ye not tak into consideration that the bairn is learning in a foreign the unknown. all. then she would point out to him the initial letters, the c. f. and the m. v., and would add, "that has been your faither and your mother's name when they were sweethearts—at least so our peter says (and he is seldom wrong); but the little e t between them—i canna think what it stands for. o christopher, my canny laddie, it is a pity but that ye would only endeavour to be a scholar, as ye are good otherwise, and then ye might be able to tell what the e t means. who kens but it may throw some light upon your parentage; for, if ever ye discover who your parents were, it will be through the instrumentality o' these rings. peter always says that (and, as i say, he is seldom wrong), and there- fore i always keep them locked away, lest onything should come owre them ; and when they are out o' the drawer, i never suffer them to be out o' my sight." in the fulness of her heart mrs. thornton told this story at least four times in the year, almost in the same words, and always exhibiting the rings. her kindly counsels, and the cogent reasons which she urged to christopher why he should become a scholar, at length awoke his slumbering energies. for the first time, he stood dux of his class, and once there, he stood like a nail driven into a wall, which might not be removed. his teacher, who was a man of considerable knowledge and reading (though perhaps not what those calling themselves learned would call a man of learning—for learned is a very vague word, and is as frequently applied where real ignorance exists, as to real knowledge),—that teacher who had s ' n weird tales. they who said so were in the right. poor jenny had not been in her grave eleven months and twenty days, when peter led another mrs. thornton from the altar. when he had brought her home, he intro- duced to her the orphan christopher. "now dear," said he, "here is a laddie—none know whom he belongs to. i found him one morn- ing, when he was a mere infant, screaming on the breast o' his dead mother. since then i have brought him up. my late wife was very fond o' him—so, indeed was i; and it is my request that ye will be kind to him. here," added he, "are two rings which his mother had upon her fingers when i found her a cold corpse. poor fellow, if anything ever enable him to discover who his parents were, it will be them, though there is but little chance that he ever will. however, i have been as a faither to him for more than ten years; and i trust, love, that ye will act towards him as a mother. come forward, christopher," continued he, "and welcome your new mother." the boy came forward hanging his head, and bashfully stretched out his hand towards her; but the new-made mrs. thornton had his mother's jewelled ring in her hand, and she observed him not. he stood with his eyes now bent upon the ground, now upon her, and again upon his mother's ring, as she turned it round and round. "well," said she, addressing her husband, and still turning it round as she spoke, "it is, indeed, a beautiful ring—a very beautiful ring!" "i am glad ye think so," said he; "she had been a bonny woman that wore it." the unknown. she placed the ring upon her finger, she turned it round again, and gazed on it with admiration. "i should like to wear such a ring," she added. "why, hinny, and ye may wear it," said peter; "for the ring is mine twenty times owre, whatever its value may be, considering what i have done for the laddie." with an expression of countenance which might be described as something between a smile and a blush, or, as the people north the tweed very aptly express it, with a "smirk" she slipped the ring upon her finger, saying that it fitted as well as though it had been made for her. passion flashed in the eyes of the orphan. his "new mother," as peter styled her, had done what poor jenny never ventured to do. he withdrew his hand which he had extended to greet her ; and he was turning away sullenly, when his foster-father said, "stop, christopher, ye must not go away until ye have shaken hands with your mother. and he turned again, and once more extended to her his hand. "well," said she, addressing her husband, and putting forth two of her fingers to christopher, "is it really possible that you have brought up this great boy? what a trouble he must have been—and expense too!" "oh, you are quite mistaken," said peter; "christopher never cost us the smallest trouble. i have been proud of him and pleased with him, since ever i took him under my roof; and, poor fellow, as to the expense that he has cost me, if i never had the unknown. and all to appear young in the eyes of some widowed or matronly divinity. i do not exactly agree with the poet who says— ' love never strikes but once, that strikes at all ": for i think, from nineteen to five and twenty, there are few men (or women either) who have not felt a particular sensation about their hearts which they took to be love, and felt it more than once too, and which ultimately would have become love but for particular circumstances which broke off the acquaint- anceship; and, before five and thirty, we forget that such a feeling had existed, and laugh at, or profess to have no patience with, those who are its victims. we should always remember, however, that it is not easy to put an old head upon young shoulders, and think of how we once felt and acted ourselves; and to recollect, also, how happy, how miserable, we were in those days. love is an abused word. elderly people turn up their nostrils when they see it in print. they will hardly read a book where the word occurs. they will fling it away, and cry "stuff!" but, if they would look back upon their days of old, they would treat it with more respect. but the second love of your middle-aged men and women—call it doting, or call it by any other name, but do not call it love, for that it is not, and cannot be. man never knows what love is, until he has experienced the worth of an affectionate wife, who for his sake would suffer all that the world's ills can inflict. now, peter thornton, though not an old man, and although his first wife had certainly been dear unto the unknown. would jenny have said had she seen this?" and peter, repenting of what he did, turned away and wept. yet a sin that is once committed is less difficult to commit again, and remorse becomes as an echo that is sinking faint. having, therefore, once lifted his hand against the orphan—though he then wept for having done so—it was not long until the blows were repeated without compunction. christopher, however, was a strange boy,—perhaps what some would call a provoking one,—and often, when mrs. thornton pursued him from the house to chastise him, he would hastily climb upon the tops of the houses of the farm-servants, and sitting astride upon them, nod down to her triumphantly, as with threats she shook her hand in his face; and, smil- ing, sing— "loudon's bonny woods and braes.'* but his favourite song on such occasions was the following, which, if it be not the exact words that he sang, embodies the sentiment— can i forget the woody braes where love and innocence foregather; where aft, in early summer days, i've crooned a sang amang the heather? can i forget my father's hearth— my mother by the ingle spinnin*— their weel-pleased look to see the mirth o* a' their bairnies round them rinnin*? it was a waefu' hour to me, when i frae them an* love departed: the tear was in my mother's ee— my father blessed me—broken-hearted; weird tales. my aulder brithers took my hand, the younkers a' ran frae me greetin' but, waur than this—j couldna stand my faithfu' lassie's farewell meetin'! can i forget her parting kiss, her last fond look and true love token? forget an hour sae dear as this! forget i—the word shall ne'er be spoken! forget!—na, though the foamin' sea, high hills and mony a sweepin' river, may lie between their hearth an' me, my heart shall be at hame for ever. now, when christopher was pursued by his perse- cutor, he sought refuge on the house-tops, sitting upon them much after the fashion of a tailor, and carolling the song we have just quoted most merrily. many, indeed, wondered that he, never having known the hearth of either a father or a mother, should have sung such a song; but it was so, and the orphan delighted to sing it yet we often do many things for which we find it difficult to assign a reason. there was one amusing trait in the character of christopher, and that was, that the more vehemently mrs. thornton scolded him, and the more bitter her imprecations against him became, so while he sat as a tailor on the house-top did his song wax louder and more loud, and his strain become merrier. we have heard women talk of being ready to eat the nails from their fingers with vexation; and on such occa- sions mrs. thornton was so. but her anger did not amend the disposition of christopher, though it often drew down upon him the indignation of her husband. it has already been mentioned that he struck him the unknown. husband endeavoured to soothe and restore her, and the men-servants followed christopher. but it was an idle task. no one had rivalled him in speed of foot, and they could not overtake him. "the time will come," he cried, as he ran, "when peter thornton will repent his conduct towards me. follow me not, for the first who shall lay a hand upon me shall die." the farm-servants who pursued him were awed by his manner; and after following him about a mile, turned back. "where can the laddie have gone to?" said peter; "he never took ony o' these fits in jenny's time. i hope, wife, that ye have done nothing to him that ye ought not to have done." "me done to him !" she cried—"ye will bring up your beggars, and this is your reward." "mrs. thornton," answered he, "i am amazed and astonished to behold this conduct in christopher. for more than a dozen years he has been an inmate beneath my roof; seldom have i had to quarrel him, and never until you became my wife." the words between peter and his better half grew loud and angry; but, instead of describing their matrimonial altercations, we shall follow the orphan christopher. but before accompanying him in his flight from the house of peter thornton, we shall go back a few years, and take up another part of his history. there resided in the neighbourhood in which chris- topher had been brought up one george wilkinson, who had a daughter named jessie. christopher and weird tales. jessie were schoolmates together; and when the other children ran hallooing from the school, they walked together, whispering, smiling at each other. it was strange that affection should have sprung up in such young hearts. but it was so. christopher became the one absorbing thought upon which the mind of jessie dwelt; and she became the day-dream of his being. she was comparatively a child when he left the house of his foster-father—so was he ; yet, although they became thus early parted, they forgot not each other. young as she was, jessie wilkinson lay on her bed and wept for the sake of poor christopher. they indeed might be said to be but the tears of a child; yet they were tears which we can shed but once. young as jessie was, christopher became the dream of her future existence. she remembered the happy days that they had passed together when the hawthorn was in blossom, or the bean was in the bloom, when they loitered together, side by side, and the air was preg- nant with fragrance, while his hand would touch hers, and he would say "jessie!" and look in her face and wonder what he meant to have said; and she would answer him, "christopher!" still did those days haunt the recollection of the simple girl; and as she grew in years and stature, his remem- brance became the more entwined around her heart. when she had reached the age of womanhood, other wooers offered her their hand ; but she thought of the boy that had first loved her; and to him her memory clung, as the evening dawn falleth on the hills. her father was but a poor man; and when the unknown. many perceived the liking which christopher may, the adopted son and supposed heir of the rich peter thornton, entertained for her, they said that nothing, or, at least no good, would proceed from their acquaintance. but they who so said did not truly judge of the heart of jessie. she was one of those who can love but once, and that once must be for ever. in their early childhood, christopher had become a part of her earliest affection, and she now found it impossible to forget him, or shake his remem- brance from her bosom. it was certainly a girl's love, and elderly people will laugh at it; but why should they laugh? had they the feelings which they once cherished—the feelings which were once dearest to them — the feelings without which they believed they could not exist ?—and wherefore could they blame poor jessie for remembering what they had forgot? many years passed, and no one heard of chris- topher. even peter thornton knew nothing of where he was, or what had become of him—the child of his adoption was lost to him. lie heard his neigh- bours upbraid him with having treated the boy with cruelty ; and peter's heart was troubled. he reflected upon his wife for her conduct towards the orphan, and it gave rise to bickerings between them. hitherto we have spoken of the unknown orphan; we must now speak of an unknown soldier. at the battle of salamanca, amongst the men who there distinguished themselves, there was a young sergeant, whose feats of valour attracted the notice of his superiors. where the battle raged fiercest, there were o weird tales. the effects of his arm made visible ; hij impetuosit* over all his enemies had attracted the notice of his superior officers. but in the moment of victory, when the streets were lined with dead, the young hero fell, covered with bayonet wounds. a field- officer, who had been an observer of his conduct, ordered a party of his men to attempt his rescue. the life of the young hero was long despaired of; and when he recovered, several officers, in admiration of his courage, agreed to present him with a sword. it was beautifully ornamented, and bore the inscrip- tion— "presentedto christopher may, sergeant in the regiment of infantry, by several officers who were witnesses of the heroism he displayed at the battle of salamanca." the sword was presented to him at the head of his regiment, and the officer who placed it in his hand addressed him, saying: "young soldier, the gallant bearing which you exhibited at salamanca has excited the admiration of all who beheld it. the officers of your own regiment, therefore, and others, have deemed it their duty to present you with this sword, as a reward of merit, and a testimony of the admira- tion with which your heroism has inspired them. i have now the gratification of placing it in the hands of a brave man. take it, and if your parents yet live, it will be a trophy of which they will be proud, and which your posterity will exhibit with admira- tion." "my parents!" said the young soldier, with & a'gh; "alas, sir ! i never knew one whom i could the unknown. call by the endearing name of father or of mother. i am an orphan—an unknown one. i believe i am not even an englishman, but a native of the land for the freedom of which we now' fight!" "you are a spaniard!" said the officer with sur- prise; "it is impossible — neither your name nor features bespeak you to belong to this nation. but you say that you never knew your parents—what know you of your history?" "little, indeed," he replied; and as he spoke, the officers gathered around him, and he continued: "i have been told that in the month of may, four and twenty years ago, the dead body of a woman was found in a farm-yard, about fifteen miles north of newcastle. she was dressed in spanish costume, and a child of about three years of age hung weeping on her bosom. i was that child; and i have been told that the few words i could then lisp were spanish. the kind - hearted wife of the honest northumbrian who found me brought me up as her own child, and while she lived, i might almost have said i had a mother. but at her death, i found, indeed, that i had neither parent, kindred, nor country, but that i was in truth what some called me in derision—' the unknown.' i entered the army, and have fought in defence of the land to which i believe i belong. this only do i know of my his- tory, or of who or what i am." while the young sergeant spoke, every eye was bent upon him interestedly; but there was one who was moved even to tears. he was an officer of middle age, named major ferguson. he weird tales. approached the gallant youth, and gazed earnestly in his face. "you say that you were about three years old," he said, "when you were found clinging to the breast of your mother: have you no remembrance of her—no recollection of the name by which you were then called?" "none! none!" answered the other. "i some- times fancy that, as the vague remembrance of a dream, i recollect clinging round my mother's neck, and kissing her cold lips; but whether it indeed be remembrance, or merely the tale that has been often told me, i am uncertain. i often imagine, also, that her beautiful features yet live in my memory, though with the indistinctness of an ethereal being—like a vapour that is dying away on the far horizon; and i am uncertain also whether the fair vision that haunts me be indeed a dim remembrance of what my mother was, or a creation of my brain." the interest of the scene was heightened by the resemblance which major ferguson and the young sergeant bore to each other. all observed it—all expressed their surprise—and the major in his turn began his tale. "your features, young man," said he, "and your story, have drawn tears to the eyes of an old soldier. thirty years ago i was in this country, and became an inmate in the house of a rich merchant in madrid. his name was valdez, and he had an only daughter called maria. when i first beheld her, she was about nineteen, and a being more beautiful i had never seen—i have not seen. affection sprang up weird tales. ous winding passages. i heard the grating of locks, and the creaking of bolts, as they proceeded. door succeeded door, groaning on their unwilling hinges, as they ascended stairs, and descended others, in an interminable labyrinth. still the men who hurried me onward maintained a sullen silence; and no sound was heard, save the clashing of prison doors, and the sepulchral echo of their footsteps ringing through the surrounding dungeons. they at length stopped. a cord, suspended from a block in the roof, was fastened round my waist; and when one, turning a sort of windlass, which communicated with the other end of the cord, raised me several feet from the ground, his comrade drew a knife, and cut asunder the fastenings that bound my arms. while one, holding the handle of the machine, kept me hanging in the air, other two applied a key to a large square stone in the floor, which, aided by a spring, they with some difficulty raised, and revealed a yawning opening to a dungeon, yet deeper and more dismal than that which formed its entrance. the moment my hands were at liberty, i tore the bandage from my eyes, and perceiving, through the aid of a dim lamp that flickered in a corner of the vault, the horror of my situation, i struggled in desperation. but my threatenings and my groans were answered only by their hollow echoes, or the more dismal laughter of my assassins. "' down! down!' vociferated both voices to their companion, as the stone was raised; and, in a moment, i was, plunged to the dark mouth of the dungeon. i uttered a cry of agony, louder and longer than the weird tales. feeling of the present, opened upon my mind, like the confused terror of a dismal dream. i rose slowly to my feet, and, disengaging myself from the rope by which i was suspended into the vault, endeavoured to look around the walls of my prison-house; but all was dark as the grave. recollecting the part sustained in seizing me by the wounded man, who still groaned and writhed at my feet, i darted fiercely upon him ; and hurling him from the ground, exclaimed, 'villain! tell me or die !—where am i? or by whom am i brought here?' a loud, long yell of terror, accompanied by violent and despairing struggles, like a wild beast tearing from the paws of a lion, was the only answer returned by the miserable being. and as the piteous and heart-piercing yell rang round the cavern, and its echoes, multiplying in darkness, at length died away, leaving silence more dolorous than ourselves, i felt as a man from the midst of a marriage-feast, suddenly thrust into the cells of bedlam; where, instead of the music of the harp and the lute, was the shriek and the clanking chains of insanity; for bridal ornaments, the mad- man's straw; and for the gay dance, the convulsions of the maniac, and the sorrowful gestures of idiocy. every feeling of indignation passed away—my blood grew cold—the skin moved upon my flesh—i again laid the wretched man on the damp earth, and fear- fully groped to the opposite side of the dungeon. "as i moved around, feeling through the dense darkness of my prison, i found it a vast square, its sides composed merely of the rude strata of earth or rock; and measuring nearly six times the length of the unknown. brain; and groping along the damp floor, where my hand seemed passing over the ribs of a skeleton, i threw a loose fragment in the air, towards the point from whence the doubted glimmering proceeded; and perceived, for a moment, as it fell, the shadow of a substance. then, springing forward to the spot, i gasped to inhale, with its feeble ray, one breath that was not agony. "thirst burned my lips, and, to cool them, they were pressed against the damp walls of the prison; but my tongue was still dry—my throat parched— and hunger began to prey upon me. while thus suffering, a faint light streamed from a narrow open- ing in the roof of the vault. • slowly a feeble lamp was lowered through the aperture, and descended within two or three feet of my head. a small basket, containing a portion of bread and a pitcher of water, suspended by a cord, was let down'into the vault. i seized the pitcher, as i would have rushed upon liberty; and raising it to my lips, as the pure, grateful beverage allayed the fever of my thirst, i shed a solitary tear, and, in the midst of my misery, that tear was a tear of joy—like the morning-star gilding the horizon, when the surrounding heavens are wrapped in tempest. with it the feelings of the christian and the man met in my bosom; and, bending over my fellow-sufferer, i applied the water to his lips. the poor wretch devoured the draught to its last drop with greediness. "the presence and the unceasing groans of my companion—yea, the dungeon and darkness them- selves—were forgotten in the one deadening and the unknown. for the first time, aided by the lamp that was sus- pended over me, i gazed inquisitively, and with a feeling of dismay, around the golgotha in which i was immured. there lay my hideous companion, the foam of pain and insanity gurgling from his mouth; beside him the skeleton of a mailed warrior, and around, the uncoffined bones of four others, partly covered with their armour, and * 'the brands yet rusted in their bony hands.' "although prepared for such a scene, i placed my hands before my eyes, shuddering at the thought of becoming as one of those—of being their companion while i lived—of lying down by the side of a skeleton to die! the horror of the idea fired anew my resolution, and added more than human strength to my arm. i again eagerly sought the direction of the doubtful gleam, which formerly filled me with hope; and was convinced that from thence an opening might be effected, if not to perfect liberty, to a sight of the blessed light of heaven, where freedom, i dreaded not, would easily be found. filled with determination, which no obstacle could impede, i took one of the swords, which had lain by the side of its owner, untouched for ages, and with this instrument commenced the laborious and seemingly impossible task, of cutting out a flight of steps in the rude wall, and thereby gain the invisible aperture, from which something like light was seen to emanate. the ray proceeded from an extreme angle of the dungeon, and apparently at its utmost height. the materials on which i had to work were chiefly a hard the unknown. withhold him, i perceived he had drained off the contents of a goblet, in which a few drops of a dark coloured liquor still remained; and the pitcher of water was untouched. the wretched maniac had swallowed the draught but a few minutes, when, rolling himself together, his screams and contortions became more frightful than before, and increasing in virulence for an hour, he lay motionless a few seconds, gasping for breath; and springing suddenly to his feet, he gazed wistfully above and around him, with a look of extreme agony, and exclaiming, 'heaven help me!' he rushed fiercely towards the wall in the opposite direction to where i was attempting to effect my escape, gave one furious pull at what appeared the solid rock, and with a groan, fell back and expired. "when the horror occasioned by his death in some degree abated, the singularity of the manner in which he tore at the wall of the dungeon fixed my attention; and with almost frantic joy i perceived that a portion of the hitherto thought impenetrable rock had yielded several inches to his dying grasp. i hastily removed the body, and pulling eagerly at the unloosed frag- ment, it fell upon the ground, a rough unhewn lump of granite, leaving an opening of about two feet square in the rude rocky wall, from which it was so cut as to seem to feeling, and almost appearance, a solid part of it. "my task was now abandoned. the gleam of light, which for weeks was to me an object of such intense interest, proceeded from a mere hairbreadth cleft in the rock. taking up a sword which lay upon the ground, i drew my body into the aperture formed ward tales. by the removal of the piece of rock; and creeping slowly on my hands and knees, groping with the weapon before me, i at length found the winding and dismal passage sufficiently lofty to permit me to stand erect. i seemed enveloped in an interminable cavern, now opening into spacious chambers, clothed with crystal; again losing itself in low passages, or narrow chinks of the rock, and suddenly terminating in a slippery precipice, beneath which gurgling waters were heard to run. hours and hours passed; still i was groping onward, when i suddenly found my hopes cut off by the interposition of a precipice. i probed fearfully forward with the sword, but all was an unsubstantial void; i drew it on each side, and there it met but the solid walls. i knelt, and reached down the sword to the length of my arm, but it touched nothing. in agony i dropped the weapon, by its sound to ascertain the depth, and, delighted, found it did not exceed eight or ten feet. i cautiously slid down, and groping around, again placed my hand upon the sword. though my heart occasionally sank within me, yet the overcoming of each difficulty lent its inspiring aid to overcome its successor. often every hope appeared extinct. now i ascended, or again descended the dropping and crystalled rocks; now crept into openings, which suddenly terminated, and turning again, anxiously listened to the sound of the rippling water as my only guide. often, in spite of every precaution, i was stunned with a blow from the abrupt lowness of the roof, or suddenly plunged to the arms in the numerous pools, whose waters had been dark from their birth. the rescue. not result as he expected, varying considerably from the dead-reckoning, had not noticed the captain's motions. when he had completed his calculations, he called out, without looking round, "i make our latitude and longitude, so and so. can that be right? how is yours?" receiving no reply, he repeated his question, glanc- ing over his shoulder and perceiving, as he thought, the captain busy writing on his slate. still no answer. thereupon he rose; and, as he fronted the cabin-door, the figure he had mistaken for the captain raised its head and disclosed to the astonished mate the features of an entire stranger. bruce was no coward; but, as he met that fixed gaze looking directly at him in grave silence, and became assured that it was no one whom he had ever seen before, it was too much for him; and, instead of stopping to question the seeming intruder, he rushed upon deck in such evident alarm that it instantly attracted the captain's attention. "why, mr. bruce," said the latter, "what in the world is the matter with you?" "the matter, sir? who is that at your desk?" "no one that i know of." "but there i>, sir; there's a stranger there." "a stranger! why, man, you must be dreaming. you must have seen the steward there, or the second mate. who else would venture down without orders?" "but, sir, he was sitting in your arm-chair, fronting the door, writing on your slate. then he looked up full in my face; and, if ever i saw a man plainly and distinctly in this world, i saw him." i f the rescue. "have you been trifling with me, sir?" added the captain, in a stern manner. "on my word as a man and as a sailor, sir," replied bruce, "i know no more of this matter than you do. i have told you the exact truth." the captain sat down at his desk, the slate before him, in deep thought. at last, turning the slate over and pushing it toward bruce, he said, "write down, 'steer to the nor'west."' the mate complied; and the captain, after nar- rowly comparing the two handwritings, said, "mr. bruce, go and tell the second mate to come down here." he came; and, at the captain's request, he also wrote the same words. so did the steward. so, in succession, did every man of the crew who could write at all. but not one of the various hands resembled, in any degree, the mysterious writing. when the crew retired, the captain sat deep in thought. "could any one have been stowed away?" at last he said. "the ship must be searched; and if i don't find the fellow, he must be a good hand at hide-and-seek. order up all hands." every nook and corner of the vessel, from stem to stern, was thoroughly searched, and that with all the eagerness of excited curiosity,—for the report had gone out that a stranger had shown himself on board; but not a living soul beyond the crew and the officers was found. returning to the cabin after their fruitless search, "mr. bruce," said the captain, "what the devil do you make of all this?" weird tales. "can't tell, sir. / saw the man write; you see the writing. there must be something in it." "well, it would seem so. we have the wind free, and i have a great mind to keep her away and see what will come of it." "i surely would, sir, if i were in your place. it's only a few hours lost, at the worst." "well, we'll see. go on deck and give the course nor'west. and, mr. bruce," he added, as the mate rose to go, "have a look-out aloft, and let it be a hand you can depend on." his orders were obeyed. about three o'clock the look-out reported an iceberg nearly ahead, and, shortly after, what he thought was a vessel of some kind close toit. as they approached, the captain's glass disclosed the fact that it was a dismantled ship apparently frozen to the ice, and with a good many human beings on it. shortly after, they hove to, and sent out the boats to the relief of the sufferers. it proved to be a vessel from quebec, bound to liverpool, with passengers on board. she had got entangled in the ice, and finally frozen fast, and had passed several weeks in a most critical situation. she was stove, her decks swept,—in fact, a mere wreck; all her provisions and almost all her water gone. her crew and passengers had lost all hopes of being saved, and their gratitude for the unexpected rescue was proportionately great. as one of the men who had been brought away in the third boat that had reached the wreck was ascend- ing the ship's side, the mate, catching a glimpse of his the rescue. face, started back in consternation. it was the very face he had seen, three or four hours before, looking up at him from the captain's desk. at first he tried to persuade himself it might be fancy; but the more he examined the man the more sure he became that he was right. not only the face, but the person and the dress, exactly corresponded. as soon as the exhausted crew and famished passen- gers were cared for, and the bark on her course again, the mate called the captain aside. "it seems that was not a ghost i saw to-day, sir; the man's alive.' "what do you mean? who's alive?" "why, sir, one of the passengers we have just saved is the same man i saw writing on your slate at noon. i would swear to it in a court of justice." "upon my word, mr. bruce," replied the captain, "this gets more and more singular. let us go and see this man." they found him in conversation with the captain of the rescued ship. they both came forward, and expressed, in the warmest terms, their gratitude for deliverance from a horrible fate,—slow-coming death by exposure and starvation. the captain replied that he had but done what he was certain they would have done for him under the same circumstances, and asked them both to step down into the cabin. then, turning to the passenger, he said, "i hope, sir, you will not think i am trifling with you; but i would be much obliged to you if you would write a few words on this slate." and he handed him the slate, with that side up on which the mysterious writing was not. "i will do anything the rescue. intended to speak to you about it as soon as we got a little quiet. this gentleman" (pointing to the passenger), "being much exhausted, fell into a heavy sleep, or what seemed such, some time before noon. after an hour or more he awoke, and said to me, 'captain, we shall be relieved this very day.' when i asked him what reason he had for saying so, he replied that he had dreamed that he was on board a bark, and that she was coming to our rescue. he described her appearance and rig; and, to our utter astonishment, when your vessel hove in sight, she corresponded exactly to his description of her. we had not put much faith in what he said ; yet still we hoped there might be something in it, for drowning men, you know, will catch at straws. as it has turned out, i cannot doubt that it was all arranged, in some incomprehensible way, by an overruling providence, so that we might be saved. to him be all thanks for his goodness to us." "there is not a doubt," rejoined the other captain, "that the writing on the slate, let it have come there as it may, saved all. your lives. i was steering at the time considerably south of west, and i altered my course to nor'west, and had a look-out aloft, to see what would come of it. but you say," he added, turning to the passenger, "that you did not dream of writing on a slate?" "no, sir. i have no recollection whatever of doing so. i got the impression that the bark i saw in my dream was coming to rescue us; but horn that impression came, i cannot tell. there is another very strange thing about it," he added. "every weird tales. thing here on board seems to me quite familiar; yet i am very sure i never was in your vessel before. it is all a puzzle to me. what did your mate see?" thereupon mr. bruce related to them all the circumstances above detailed. the conclusion they finally arrived at was, that it was a special interposi- tion of providence to save them from what seemed a hopeless fate. the above narrative was communicated to me by captain j. s. clarke, of the schooner julia hallock, who had it directly from mr. bruce himself. they sailed together for seventeen months, in the years and ; so that captain clarke had the story from the mate about eight years after the occurrence. he has since lost sight of him, and does not know whether he is yet alive. all he has heard of him since they were shipmates is, that he continued to trade to new brunswick, that he became the master of the brig comet, and that she was lost. i asked captain clarke if he knew bruce well, and what sort of man he was. "as truthful and straightforward a man," he replied, "as ever i met in all my life. we were as intimate as brothers; and two men can't be together, shut up for seventeen months in the same ship, with- out getting to know whether they can trust one another's word or not. he always spoke of the circumstance in terms of reverence, as of an incident that seemed to bring him nearer to god and to another world. i'd stake my life upon it that he told me no lie." weird tales. posterity, in those mischievous inventions practised by the witches of latter times, who understand the knack of torturing their unhappy contemporaries in all its branches, as exemplified in the cases of several worthies noticed in the sequel. the next important power of a witch and a warlock consists in their control over air and water, whereby they raise most dreadful storms and hurricanes by sea and by land, and thus accomplish the destruction of many a valuable life, which otherwise might have been long spared. the following account of the loss of a most excellent gentleman exhibits too melancholy an in- stance of the success of their experiments in this way :— "john garve macgillichallum of razay was an ancient hero of great celebrity. distinguished in the age in which he lived for the gallantry of his exploits, he has often been selected by the bard as the theme of his poems and songs. alongst with a constitution of body naturally vigorous and powerful, razay was gifted with all those noble qualities of the mind which a true hero is supposed to possess. and what reflected additional lustre on his character, was that he never failed to apply his talents and powers to the best uses. he was the active and inexorable enemy of the weird sisterhood, many of whom he was the auspicious instrument of sending to their 'black inheritance' much sooner than they either expected or desired. it was not therefore to be supposed, that, while those amiable actions endeared razay to all good people, they were at all calculated to win him the regard of those infernal hags to whom he was so deadly a foe. as might be naturally expected, the witch of laggan. they cherished towards him the most implacable thirst of revenge, and sought, with unremitting vigilance, for an opportunity of quenching it. that such an opportunity did unhappily occur, and that the medi- tated revenge of these hags was too well accomplished, will speedily appear from this melancholy story. "it happened upon a time that razay and a number of friends planned an expedition to the island of lewis, for the purpose of hunting the deer of that place. they accordingly embarked on board the chieftain's yacht, manned by the flower of the young men of razay, and in a few hours they chased the fleet-bounding hart on the mountains of lewis. their sport proved excellent. hart after hart, and hind after hind, were soon levelled to the ground by the unerring hand of razay; and when night termi- nated the chase, they retired to their shooting quarters, where they spent the night with joviality and mirth, little dreaming of their melancholy fate in the morning. "in the morning of next day, the chief of razay and his followers rose with the sun, with the view of returning to razay. the day was squally and occasionally boisterous, and the billows raged with great violence. but razay was determined to cross the channel to his residence, and ordered his yacht to prepare for the voyage. the more cautious and less courageous of his suite, however, urged on him to defer the expedition till the weather should some- what settle,—an advice which razay, with a courage which knew no fear, rejected, and expressed his firm determination to proceed without delay. probably weird tales. with a view to inspire his company with the necessary degree of courage to induce them all to concur in the undertaking, he adjourned with them to the ferry- house, where they had recourse to that supporter of spirits under every trial, the usquebaugh, a few bottles of which added vastly to the resolution of the com- pany. just as the party were disputing the practica- bility of the proposed adventure, an old woman, with wrinkled front, bending on a crutch, entered the ferry-house; and razay, in the heat of argument, appealed to the old woman, whether the passage of the channel on such a day was not perfectly practi- cable and free from danger. the woman, without hesitation, replied in the affirmative, adding such observations, reflecting on their courage, as imme- diately silenced every opposition to the voyage ; and, accordingly the whole party embarked in the yacht for razay. but, alas! what were the consequences? no sooner were they abandoned to the mercy of the waves than the elements seemed to conspire to their destruction. all attempts to put back the vessel proved unavailing, and she was speedily driven out before the wind in the direction of razay. the heroic chieftain laboured hard to animate his com- pany, and to dispel the despair which began to seize them, by the most exemplary courage and resolution. he took charge of the helm, and in spite of the combined efforts of the sea, wind, and lightning, he kept the vessel steadily on her course towards the lofty point of aird, in skye. the drooping spirits of his crew began to revive, and hope began to smile upon them,—when lo! to their great astonishment, a large the witch of laggan. cat was seen to climb the rigging. this cat was soon followed by another of equal size, and the last by a successor, until at length the shrouds, masts, and whole tackle were actually covered with them. nor did the sight of all those cats, although he knew well enough their real character, intimidate the resolute razay, until a large black cat, larger than any of the rest, appeared on the mast-head, as commander-in-chief of the whole legion. razay, on observing him, instantly foresaw the result; he, how- ever, determined to sell his life as dearly as possible, and immediately commanded an attack upon the cats; but, alas! it soon proved abortive. with a simultaneous effort the cats overturned the vessel on her leeward wale, and every soul on board was precipitated into a watery grave. thus ended the glorious life of jan garbh macgillichallum of razay, to the lasting regret of the brave clan leod and all good people, and to the great satisfaction of the abominable witches who thus accomplished his lamentable doom. "the same day, another hero, celebrated for his hatred of witchcraft, was warming himself in his hunting hut, in the forest of gaick, in badenoch. his faithful hounds, fatigued with the morning chase, lay stretched on the turf by his side,—his gun, that would not miss, reclined in the neuk of the bothy,—the skian dhu of the sharp edge hung by his side, and these alone constituted his company. as the hunter sat listening to the howling storm as it whistled by, there entered at the door an apparently poor weather-beaten cat, shivering with cold, and weird tales. drenched to the skin. on observing her, the hairs of the dogs became erected bristles, and they imme- diately rose to attack the pitiable cat, which stood trembling at the door. 'great hunter of the hills,' exclaims the poor-looking trembling cat,' i claim your protection. i know your hatred to my craft, and perhaps it is just. still spare, o spare a poor jaded wretch, who thus flies to you for protection from the cruelty and oppression of her sisterhood.' moved to compassion by her eloquent address, and disdaining to take advantage of his greatest enemy in such a seemingly forlorn situation, he pacified his infuriated dogs, and desired her to come forward to the fire and warm herself. 'nay,' says she, 'in the first place, you will please bind with this long hair those two furious hounds of yours, for i am afraid they will tear my poor hams to pieces. i pray you, therefore, my dear sir, that you would have the good- ness to bind them together by the necks with this long hair.' but the curious nature of the hair in- duced the hunter to dissemble a little. instead of having bound his dogs with it, as he pretended, he threw it across a beam of wood which connected the couple of the bothy. the witch then, supposing the dogs securely bound, approached the fire, and squatted herself down as if to dry herself. she had not sitten many minutes, when the hunter could easily discover a striking increase in her size, which he could not forbear remarking in a jocular manner to herself. 'a bad death to you, you nasty beast,' says the hunter; 'you are getting very large.' 'ay, ay,' replied the cat equally jocosely, 'as my hairs the witch of laggan. imbibe the heat, they naturally expand.' these jokes, however, were but a prelude to a more serious conversation. the cat still continuing her growth, had at length attained a most extraordinary size,— when, in the twinkling of an eye, she transformed herself into her proper likeness of the goodwife of laggan, and thus addressed him: 'hunter of the hills, your hour of reckoning is arrived. behold me before you, the avowed champion of my devoted sisterhood, of whom macgillichallum of razay and you were always the most relent- less enemies. but razay is no more. his last breath is fled. he lies a lifeless corpse on the bottom of the main ; and now, hunter of the hills, it is your turn.' with these words, assuming a most hideous and terrific appearance, she made a spring at the hunter. the two dogs, which she supposed securely bound by the infernal hair, sprung at her in her turn, and a most furious conflict ensued. the witch, thus unexpectedly attacked by the dogs, now began to repent of her temerity. 'fasten, hair, fasten? she perpetually exclaimed, supposing the dogs to have been bound by the hair ; and so effectually did the hair fasten, according to her order, that it at last snapt the beam in twain. at length, finding herself completely overpowered, she attempted a retreat, but so closely were the hounds fastened in her breasts, that it was with no small difficulty she could get herself disengaged from them. screaming and shrieking, the wife of laggan dragged herself out of the house, trailing after the dogs, which were fastened in her so closely, that they never loosed weird tales. their hold until she demolished every tooth in their heads. then metamorphosing herself into the like- ness of a raven, she fled over the mountains in the direction of her home. the two faithful dogs, bleeding and exhausted, returned to their master, and, in the act of carressing his hand, both fell down and expired at his feet. regretting their loss with a sorrow only known to the parent who weeps over the remains of departed children, he buried his devoted dogs, and returned home to his family. his wife was not in the house when he arrived, but she soon made her appearance. 'where have you been, my love?' inquired the husband. 'indeed,' replies she, 'i have been seeing the goodwife of laggan, who has been just seized with so severe an illness, that she is not expected to live for any time.' 'ay! ay!' says he, 'what is the matter with the worthy woman?' 'she was all day absent in the moss at her peats,' replies the wife, 'and was seized with a sudden colic, in consequence of getting wet feet; and now all her friends and neighbours are expecting her demission.' 'poor woman,' says the husband,' 'i am sorry for her. get me some dinner; it will be right that i should go and see her also.' dinner being provided and despatched, the hunter imme- diately proceeded to the house of laggan, where he found a great assemblage of neighbours mourning, with great sincerity, the approaching decease of a woman whom they all had hitherto esteemed virtuous. the hunter, walking up to the sick woman's bed in a rage, proportioned to the greatness of its cause, stripped the sick woman of all her coverings. a the witch of laggan. shriek from the now exposed witch brought all the company around her. 'behold,' says he, 'the object of your solicitude, who is nothing less than an infernal witch. to-day, she informs me, she was present at the death of the laird of razay, and only a few hours have elapsed since she attempted to make me share his fate. this night, however, she shall expiate her crime, by the forfeiture of her horrid life.' relating to the company the whole circum- stances of her attack upon him, which were too well corroborated by the conclusive marks she bore on her person, the whole company were perfectly convinced of her criminality; and the customary punishment was about to be inflicted on her, when the miserable wretch addressed them as follows: 'my ill-requited friends, spare an old acquaintance, already in the agonies of death, from any further mortal degradation. my crimes and my folly now stare me in the face, in their true colours; while my vile and perfidious seducer, the enemy of your temporal and spiritual interests, only laughs at me in my distress; and, as a reward for my fidelity to his interest, in seducing every thing that was amiable, and in destroying every thing that was good, he is now about to consign my soul to eternal misery. let my example be a warning to all the people of the earth to shun the fatal rock on which i have split; and as a strong inducement for them to do so, i shall atone for my iniquity to the utmost of my ability, by detailing to you the awful history of my life.' here the wife of laggan de- tailed at full length the way she was seduced into the service of the evil one,—all the criminal adventures s q weird tales. in which she had been engaged, and ended with a particular account of the death of macgillichallum of razay, and her attack upon the hunter, and then expired. '' meanwhile, a neighbour of the wife of laggan was returning home late at night from strathdeam, where he had been upon some business, and had just entered the dreary forest of monalea, in badenoch, when he met a woman dressed in black, who ran with great speed, and inquired of the traveller, with great agitation, how far she was distant from the churchyard of dalarossie, and if she could be there by twelve o'clock. the traveller told her she might, if she continued to go at the same pace that she did then. she then fled alongst the road, uttering the most desponding lamentations, and the traveller continued his road to badenoch. he had not, how- ever, walked many miles when he met a large black dog, which travelled past him with much velocity, as if upon the scent of a track or footsteps; and soon after he met another large black dog sweeping along in the same manner. the last dog, however, was scarcely past, when he met a stout black man on a fine fleet black courser, prancing along in the same direction after the dogs. 'pray,' says the rider to the traveller, 'did you meet a woman as you came along the hill?' the traveller replied in the affirma- tive. 'and did you meet a dog soon after ?' rejoined the rider. the traveller replied he did. 'and,' added the rider, 'do you think the dog will over- take her ere she can reach the church of dalarossie?' 'he will, at any rate, be very close upon her heels,' the witch of laggan. answered the traveller. each then took his own way. but before the traveller had got the length of glenbanchar, the rider overtook him on his return, with the foresaid woman before him across the bow of his saddle, and one of the dogs fixed in her breast, and another in her thigh. 'where did you overtake the woman?' inquired the traveller. 'just as she was entering the churchyard of dalarossie,' was his reply. on the traveller's return home, he heard of the fate of the unfortunate wife of laggan, which soon explained the nature of the company he had met on the road. it was, no doubt, the spirit of the wife of laggan flying for protection from the infernal spirits (to whom she had sold herself), to the church- yard of dalarossie, which is so sacred a place, that a witch is immediately dissolved from all her ties with satan, on making a pilgrimage to it, either dead or alive. but it seems the unhappy wife of laggan was a stage too late." allan mactavisks fishing. husband with a depth and intensity of affection which had led her to do as she had done—to violate filial duty for his sake; but which could not teach her to forget the fault she had committed, or the parent whom she had deserted; and the consciousness of her disobedience was with her in her happiest hour, to sink her heart as with a weight of lead. she was the only child of a wealthy farmer, originally from ayr- shire, who had come during his daughter's childhood, immediately after the death of his wife, to settle in stirlingshire, not far from the bridge of allan. andrew weir was one of those who still retain, almost in all their original strictness, the peculiar tenets and ideas of the cameronians, of whom there are many to be found at the present day in the wild and lonely districts of the south'-western part of scotland. his notions of family discipline, and of strict seclusion from those who held a different doctrine from his own, were extremely rigid; yet, notwithstanding these, the affection which he had borne his daughter was very great, — nor had the harmony subsisting between them ever experienced any interruption, until the arrival of allan mactavish near their place of residence; and his subsequent acquaintance with margaret, first broke in upon the calm tenor of her life, by introducing sensations to which her heart had never before been awakened. the intimacy of his daughter with the young high- lander had continued for a considerable time ere andrew weir became aware of it; for margaret knew her father's prejudices too well to dare make him acquainted with her lover. it came to his knowledge weird tales. by accident, and his anger was proportionally great. in common with many of his countrymen, andrew entertained an extreme dislike to highlanders, which dislike, in the present instance, received tenfold con- firmation from the circumstance of mactavish being a catholic. he would have considered himself as signing the warrant for his daughter's eternal perdi- tion, had he not instantly forbidden all intercourse between them. at this juncture, allan's foster-brother died, and left him a small legacy; but with his death, at the some time ceased all the reasons for allan's remaining absent from his own country. he contrived an interview with margaret ere he should depart. it is needless to linger on an oft - told tale. the struggle between filial affection and all-powerful love in the heart of the unsophisticated girl, was severe and long continued; while the religious feelings in which she had been educated, contributed to swell the amount of reluctance and of terror with which she contemplated the step to which she was urged. but love at last prevailed. margaret fled from her father's house with her lover. they instantly proceeded to edinburgh, where they were marrried by a catholic priest; and then sought the lonely solitudes of allan's old argyllshire mountains. but margaret—so strict had been the filial obedience in which she was brought up, so severe the religious faith of her youth—could not find happiness the portion of her married life notwithstanding all the kindness of her husband, the loveliness of her infant, and the peacefulness of her home. the image of her gray-haired father going weird tales. your husband to bide at hame the nicht, and no gang to the fishin', or ye'll maybe rue it when ye canna' mend it.' and wi' that he turned roun', and gaed awa' again, or ever i had pooer to speak till him ; an' i startit up, and waukenet wi' the fricht. but do, allan !" and margaret again burst into a flood of weeping: "it's na' for nocht that i've seen the auld man this nicht. be ruled by the warnin' he gied me, and dinna gang to the fishin'." "hoots, bairn," exclaimed her husband, "your father liked na' me. it was mair like he wad warn ye no' to let me gang, to hinder me from some good than from ill. no, no, margaret dear, gang i must, this night." margaret again wept, wrung her hands, and implored her husband not to go. but superstitious as every highlander is, on this night it appeared that his wife's mysterious dream made no impression upon allan mactavish. his spirits, on the contrary, had seldom seemed so high or so excited. he led margaret to the door;—showed her the calm, clear sky, brilliant with stars, and the full spring-tide coming so tranquilly into the little bay ;—asked her with a kiss, if this were a night to let a dream frighten him from his fishing; and without awaiting further remonstrance, strode to the place where his boat was moored; and as he pushed it from the shore, turned his head, once more to utter a light and laughing farewell. "gang to your bed, my bonny peggy," he said, "and be up belyve the morn, to see the grand boat-load o' fish that i'll bring ye back." margaret stood upon the shore and watched his boat allan mactavisks fishing. - as it doubled the headland, until, through the darkness, her straining eye could no longer discern it; heedless the while of the still advancing tide, that now laved her feet. she dried her tears, and looked up to the calm heaven, where not a cloud obscured the dark- blue bosom of night; till at last, half reassured by her husband's cheerful anticipations, half cheered by the serene aspect of the weather, she returned to the cottage, and after commending him in a fervent prayer to the protection of heaven, she replenished the fire with peats, and lay down beside her child, where in a short time she fell into a tranquil sleep. how long margaret had slept she knew not; but it could not have been very long, for, except the fitful flashes of the fire-light, all was darkness in the cottage, when she was suddenly awakened by a loud and pro- longed sound. she started up in bed, and listened, in an agony of apprehension that almost froze the blood in her veins. it was no dream,—no delusion, —she distinctly heard the loud wild howling of the awakened blast, raging overhead as though it would tear off the very roof of the cottage, and scatter it in its fury. she had sunk to sleep when all was stillness on earth and in heaven. she woke to a tumult as awful, as though all the winds had at once been set free from their cave, and despatched to waste their wrath upon the vexed bosom of the sea. but, deeper and more awful than the winds, there came another sound —the raging of the waters, as they rose in their might, and dashed themselves with a loud booming roar upon the cliffs. margaret sprang from her bed, and, un- dressed as she was, rushed to the cottage door. the weird tales. instant she raised the latch, the force of the tempest dashed it open against the wall. she looked out into the night a pitchy darkness now brooded over all things; every star seemed blotted from the face of heaven; but dimly through the gloom she could descry the white crests of the waves, as they surged and lashed the beach within a few yards of the cottage door. the tide had risen to a height almost unexampled on that coast, beneath the influence of a vernal storm; it had far overpassed its usual limits within the cove of craig- navarroch; and on the rocks, beyond which it could not go, it was breaking high,—high overhead,—with a noise like thunder. never was change in the weather more sudden and more complete. margaret stood for a minute in speechless horror and dismay ; then, rush- ing back into the cottage, she fell upon her knees, and held up her hands to heaven. "lord god!" she exclaimed—" have mercy ! have mercy!" she could not utter another word. she hid her face in her hands, and sobbed in agony. still the tempest raged, and the waves roared on. margaret dressed herself, and carefully covered her infant, whose sweet sleep was unbroken by the fearful tumult. again she went to the door, and stood, looking into the night, regardless of the wind, which drove a heavy rain against her face. she strained her ears to distinguish some sound,— some cry,—amid the pauses of the hurricane. as well might she have striven to distinguish the low music of the woodland bird, as the wildest shriek that ever broke from the lips of despair and anguish, in the midst of an uproar of the elements like that allan mactamsks fishing. through which she had dreamt of hearing it. but those from whom that sound must have come, were far—far beyond where her ear could catch their voices. she closed the door, returned into the room, and knelt down again on the floor, burying her face and closing her ears, as if to shut out the noise of the tempest; while her whole frame shook with the gasping sobs which brought no tears to relieve her; and at every fresh howl of the blast, she shuddered and her limbs shrank closer together. she tried to pray,—but the words died upon her lips. she could not speak ;—she could not even think ;—she only felt as though she were all one nerve—one thrilling nerve—quivering beneath repeated and torturing pangs. on a sudden the wind sunk,—completely sunk. for the space of three minutes there was not a breath heard to blow. margaret raised her head, and listened. all was still. she was about to spring from the ground, when back—back it came again, —the hideous burst—the roaring bellow of the augmented hurricane, as though it had gained strength and fierceness from its brief repose! back it came— shaking the very cottage walls, and rattling the door and little window as though it would burst them open; and margaret flung herself forward again with a wild shriek, and clasped her hands over her ears again, to deaden the sound. then she started from the ground, as a thought struck her, which seemed to bring some faint gleam of hope. "i kenna whan the storm began," said weird tales. it could not be said that she saw—but she felt as if something cold and wet had glided swiftly by her, with a scarce perceptible contact, into the house. a damp dew overspread her forehead; her limbs trembled and bent beneath her, as she instinctively turned round, and looked into the room which she had quitted. the light was so faint, that within the house it scarce vanquished the darkness; but a bright gleam flashing up from the fire, showed everything in the room distinctly for an instant's space; and by that gleam, margaret beheld the figure of her husband standing within the door, pale, as it seemed to her, and dim, and shadowy, with the water dripping from his clothes and hair. the fire-flash sunk as instan- taneously as it had shone, and all again was obscurity, as she dropped upon the floor in a swoon. when the unhappy wife again opened her eyes, and recovered her perceptions of what was passing around her, she found herself laid in her own bed. the bright glorious sunshine was beaming in at the cottage window, as though to mock her desolation. several women, from the neighbouring fishing village, were in the room; one of whom held in her arms, the infant of margaret, whom she was endeavouring to soothe and quiet; and at the moment she raised her head, the door opened, and upon the self-same spot where she had that morning beheld his likeness stand, she saw the lifeless corpse of her drowned husband, borne in the arms of some of his comrades, who had with difficulty rescued it from the devouring waves; yet rescued it too late to save. ' date issued date due princeton university library vetvs & testa novum mentum princeton university library ! blackwood's edinburgh magazine. vol. ix. april-august, . william blackwood, edinburgh; and t. cadell and w. davies, strand, london. . blackwood's edinburgh magazine. no. xlix. april, . vol. ix. contents. fables from la fontaine, in english letter from ***, inclosing hymn verse. to christopher north, esq.. a second letter from the man in the manchester poetry newmum. moon.com amanews.com the september forest.cmoramowwaw.com letter to the editor...... the wail of lady anne ....room.com a reverie in the garden of plants, letter from fogarty o'fogarty, esq.. ib. ode written in the cemetery of pere daniel o'rourke, an epic poem in la chaise six cantos. canto iv. the moon graham's memoirs of poussin annamarcore owen's report to the county of lanark on the cultivation and patronage of lord byron's doge of venicerane british art. letter first..... works preparing for publica- letter second mamma tion www.ro saranno. british eclogues. no. ii. monthly list of new publ). the mariner's last visit omnia.... cation sanna www.coram on the neglect of foote as a dramatic writer. monthly register. horæ danicæ. no. v. commercial report com soaprenew... masaniello ; a tragedy. by b. s. appointments, promotions, &c. quomone ingeman births, marriages, and deaths.com..... mancomana edinburgh: william blackwood, no. , prince's street, edinburgh ; and t. cadell and w. davies, strand, london ; to whom communications (post paid) may be addrcssed. sold also by all the booksellers of thie united kingdom. james pallantyne & co. printers, edinburgh. xol b just published, hy william blackwood, edinburgh ; and t. cadell, strand, london, i. in three volumes, mo., price £ , s. valerius; a roman story. they'll sit by the fire, and presume to know what's done i' the capitol. shakespeare. ii, in one volume, mo., annals of the parish; or, the chronicle of dalmailing; during the ministry of the rev. micah balw hidder written by himself. arranged and edited by the author of " the ayrshire legatees,” &c. iii. handsomely printed in vo., with a map and two charts, price s. d. a geographical and commercial view of northern central africa; containing a particular account of the course and termination of the great river niger, in the atlantic ocean. by james m‘queen. blackwood's edinburgh magazine . no. xlix. april, . vol. ix. fables from la fontaine, in english verse. * full of wise saws and modern instances."shakespeare. “ i am a nameless man—but i am a friend to my country, and of my country's friends."-ivanhoe. a translation is in general a sad dull indeed we are told that he wrote it for business. it is like a dish twice dress- bread. besides, dryden had nothing ed, and the flavour is lost in the cook- virgilian in his composition. it would ing. the object should be rather to be difficult to imagine anything more transfuse than translate ; to embody, opposite than their poetical characters, as it were, the spirit of the original in unless it be those of homer and pope, a new language; to give, in short, to who may be considered as the very translation, the same meaning in a li- antipodes to each other. still, when an terary which it bears in an ecclesiasti- occasion is offered for the display of cal sense,—where it always implies an his power, dryden takes noble advan- improvement in the thing translated. tage of it. for instance, when turnus, the mode of conducting this literary in his indignant reply to the affected operation is as various as the terms by apprehensions of drauces, says, - which it is expressed. sometimes the “nunquam animum talem dextrâ hac (ab- work is, according to the dutch phrase, siste moveri) overgeret, i. e. overdone ; sometimes, amittes ; tecum habitet et sit pectore in according to the french phrase, it is isto." traduit , i. e. traduced ; and sometimes, the translator, adds a line, which according to our own phrase, it is done, heightens the sarcasm, and conveys, i. e. done for into english. dryden in the strongest manner, the spirit and has perhaps furnished the most bril- temper of the speaker :- liant specimens in our language of suc- “ let that vile soul in that vile body rest : cessful execution in this line. his tenth the lodging is right worthy of the guest!” satire of juvenal almost surpasses the the only poet of modern times capable original. what can be more beautifully of translating virgil—the elegant, the easy and simple than the opening ?- tender virgil-was racine. dryden “ look round the habitable world, how should have confined himself to juve- few nal ;—though in saying this, we must know their own good, or, knowing it, pure not forget his splendid versions of ho- sue." race. here, however, he gives us pa- and yet how he warms with his sub- raphrase rather than translation ; he ject as he advances, pouring forth bears the lyric muse of the latin thoughts that breathe, and words that bard upon his own sublimer pinions, bur, in the very spirit of the roman to a loftier heaven of invention, and satirist. makes her sing in a higher tone of in- but juvenal was a poet after his spiration. there is nothing in the own heart, and he translates him con odes of horace that can be compared amore. his virgil is less happy. here with “ alexander's feast ;” and we he seems to be performing a task,--and shall seek in vain in the original for vol. ix. octavo. john murray, albemarle street, london. . a fables from la fontaine. [ april, the vigour and verve of the following of wit, or a fool; but to be both, and translation: that too in the extreme, is indeed ex- “ happy the man, and happy he alone, traordinary, and only to be found in he who can call to-day his own! him.” he who secure within can say • to-morrow do thy worst, for i have lived easier to convey an idea of la fontaine but, though it might perhaps be to-day ! be fair, or foul, or rain, or shine; by transcription than description, yet the joys i have possessa in spite of fate we must not shrink from the attempt are mine : altogether. but how shall we express not heaven itself upon the past has power, in english the bonhommie, the naiveté, but what has been has been, and i have the badinage, those characteristic qua- had my hour.” lities of his poetry, which, like the po- lib. iii. ode . etry itself, seem almost out of the reach but we are straying from the object of translation. let us try. first then of our present inquiry,—la fontaine. his bonhommie is revealed to us in that who is there that has not read la comprehensive benevolence, which does fontaine ? to those who have he need not confine its sympathy to mankind not, and to those who have not, he can- alone, but embraces all ranks of crea- not be described. it is an inviting sub- ted beings. he considers the inferior ject—but there are some things in the creatures as— world which defy definition or descrip- “ hotes de l'univers sous le noms d'ani- tion, and of such are those exquisite maux;" peculiarities of style which distinguish and he seems to entertain some feelings the french fabulist. as, in the case of kindness even for the vegetable in- of a beautiful countenance, where the habitants of our common world, if one charm resides rather in the expression may judge from the tone of affectionate than in the features themselves, it is regret with which he laments the ha- in vain that limners endeavour to fix voc committed by the stag upon the upon canvass the changing.“ cynthia leaves of the vine which had preserved of the minute ;" one look in her face him,- makes us forget all their daubs; so with " que de si doux ombrages, la fontaine, a single page of his works soient exposés à ces outrages." will reveal to the reader more of his his morality is of that indulgent kind nameless graces than he would collect which probes the heart without wound- from us, even though we were to fol- ing it, and leads us to virtue, by carry- low the bent of our inclinations, and ing us back to nature. his fables are, discourse most eloquently upon the indeed, as it were, the law of nature in subject, through a dozen pages. the action. virtue is represented by him graces of his style are not only undefi- in her most engaging form, as the off- nable, but incomparable ; he is a poet spring of sentiment; and the way to absolutely sui generis, and we are at a her temple, instead of the customary loss for an object of comparison. he steep and thorny road," appears like sometimes reminds us of goldsmith, , a “primrose path.” in his exposure but it is rather in himself than in his of vice there is no ill-nature, no ran. writings ; though goldsmith certainly cour, no bitterness of satire ;-he is not possesses more than any writer we one of those who “ridet et odit.” the know, that mixture of tenderness of perusal of his fables sooths and com- feeling, with playfulness of humour, poses the mind, producing the same which finds its way so irresistibly to sort of refreshment which arises from the heart. in their individual charac- a quiet stroll in the country, --from ters the resemblance is much more stri- which we return with those kindly king. what la bruezere says of the feelings towards human nature, and french poet, might mutato nomine be that tranquil spirit of resignation to applied indifferently to either. * la the will of providence, which areshewn fontaine appeared coarse, heavy, and in an indulgent forbearance to the fail- stupid ; he could not speak or describe ings of others, and a patient endurance what he had just seen, but when he of our own misfortunes ;--and what wrote he was the model of poetry. all better lessons than those can we learn is lightness, elegance, fine natural sen- from philosophy. timents, and delicacy of expression, and next for his naiveté, that en- throughout his works. it is very easy, gaging charm which seems to result said a humorous observer, to be a man from the union of two things which we .) fables from la fontaine. fear are seldom found in conjunction, we do not enjoy his dry and quaint -innocence of heart, and cleverness of humour as much as that wanton, play- head. it is to this mixture of shrewd- ful, sportive strain, in which he so ness and simplicity, archness and un- often indulges. with what an ap- consciousness, that weowethose charm- pearance of being in earnest does he ing contrasts between the thought and identify himself with the concerns of the expression, which, like a delicate the creatures of his fancy! how feel- figure in arussetgown, render both more ingly he seems to sympathise with the attractive, and constitute " la grace distress of his poor disconsolate bird, de la souddaintê" of which he himself who has lost—"ses eufs, ses tendres speaks. and it is the happy compound @ufs, sa plus douce esperance !" the of these ingredients that forms “la characters of the different animals are grace encore plus belle que la beauté," drawn and preserved with a minute which is the distinguishing quality of attention to nature, that gives to his his muse. how prettily, for example, fables much of the interest of a drama; does he talk of love,“ce mal qui peut- and so gravely and completely does he étre est un bien." there is, indeed, seem to surrender himself to the illu- something in his style which may truly sions of his imagination, that it is dif- be called delicious. he writes as á ficult not to catch the contagion for å man might be supposed to write who moment, and pull down our map to has just been loosened from the apron search for the great city of ratapolis. strings of nature. thus, he always but the greatest merit of all in la awakens the same sort of interest with fontaine, is the happy art which he which one cannot help listening to the possesses of insinuating the most im- artless prattle of childhood. for, we portant instruction, while he seems to are as much delighted with the inge- be only amusing his reader with the nuous disclosures of feeling into which details of trifles. for instance, in the he seems to be betrayed in his acci- dispute between the rabbit and the dental conversations with the reader, weazle, who had, in the absence of the as with the gaiety and spirit with which proprietor of the warren, taken pos- he animates his narrations. at once session of a burrow,—the one defend- simple, tender, and natural, he con- ing his title as first occupier, and ridi- trives to leave upon our hearts a per- duling the pretended rights of jean manent impression of all the argu- lapin ;-—the other claiming by virtue ments which he had in the first in of a regular succession from the afore- stance addressed to our understandings. said jean, through pierre and simon, he is, above all others, the poet of the his immediate ancestors—we have the graces; and, in his most unstudied cream of the whole controversy on the and careless effusions, we feel inclined right of property. the fables of la to apply to himself the lines which he fontaine are not intended exclusively addressed to a lady of his own time:- for childhood. he is the poet of com- “la negligence, à mon gre, si requise mon life and common sense. to un- pour cette fois fut sa dame d'atours." derstand him completely requires an it is, however, a great mistake to intimate acquaintance with men and suppose that la fontaine was indebte with things, and, as often as we return ed to nature alone for his poetical ex to him, we shall find that he will af- cellence. the gifts he owed to her ford us entertainment and instruction were sensibility and imagination ; but exactly in proportion to the extent of no one could be more sedulous than he our experience, and the progress of our was in studying the niceties of lan- knowledge. guage, and ransacking the treasures of but it is time to turn from la fon- the older writers, to form picturesque taine to his translator, or rather his and imitative combinations of expres- imitator ; for the writer of the volume sion for his own use. if any one before us has taken the french poet as should be so deceived, by the apparent a master rather than as a model; and, facility of his versification, as to over as he tells us in his preface, has limit- look the elaborate pains of the com- ed himself to the task of putting some position, he will in fact be paying the of those fables which most struck his highest compliment to la fontaine ; fancy, into english verse, of various for “ ars est celare artem.” measure, without always copying the lastly, we must say a few words of thoughts, or attempting the manner his badinage ; and we doubt whether of the original, and he has introduced fables from la fontaine. [ april, his prototype. some allusions to the present times la fontaine the vehicle of political where they were suggested by the sub- discussion and polemical controversy. ject. we can truly say, that the sam it is pity too, that a volume which ple he has given us, would make us might please all the world, should be anxiously wish for more, if we did not rendered unpalatable to so many, by think that his talents might be better the introduction of topics which, as employed in original composition. it far as the merit of the book is con- does not seem to us that it is necessary cerned, would have been much better for him " to steer by the rudder and omitted altogether. a polemical pamph- compass of another man's thoughts;" let may be a very good thing in its and indeed we like him best when he way, but we do not expect to find a is least like the original. still, if he polemical pamphlet under the title of will be content with the humble office ** fables from la fontaine, in eng- of imitation, we think him eminently lish verse." we particularly allude to qualified for the task he has underta- the tone and temper of the note on ken. in wit and humour, in wanton "the woodman and the forest." if it is playful satire, in sportive raillery, he expedient, for the good of the whole may fairly challenge a comparison with community, that the catholics should we doubt whether be excluded from political privileges la fontaine himself is more success- (the only grounds on which such ful in provoking a smile by the happy exclusion can be defended,)—let them expression of inexpressible ideas, and be excluded, but let the necessity be by those irresistible combinations of clearly made out, and when made out, language which convey more to the let it at least be enforced without in- mind than they reveal to the eye or sulting the feelings of the objects of the ear, and that in a way, too, neither the exclusion.* to talk of the admis- to disgust or displease. he is very sion of our catholic fellow-subjects to skilful, too, in the use of those sort of an equal participation with ourselves quaint phrases which give force and in the blessings of the constitution, as spirit to the familiar and ludicrous likely to lead to the rekindling of the style of composition. he perhaps re fires of smithfield, is to talk in defiance minds us sometimes more of peter of reason and common sense. to im- pindar than la fontaine, and his style pute to the catholic church at present combines much of the beauties of both the persecuting spirit which once ani- what we miss most in the english mated it, is unfair and uncharitable. version, is that gentleness of feeling, persecution belongs exclusively to no and tenderness of sentiment, which particular sect. henry the eighth at pervade the french fables. this is one time burnt protestants for denying perhaps to be attributed to the slight the real presence; and, at another, cut infusion of the gall of party politics off the heads of catholics for denying with which the work is seasoned ; the his own supremacy. persecution was effects of which upon the milk of hu- the spirit of the age, and was practised man kindness, are, we fear, invariably indiscriminately by either sect that the same. our political sentiments are happened to be uppermost. if the ca- well known, and we cordially approve tholics carried it farther than the pro- of the substance of the doctrines which testants, we must at least remember the writer before us so zealously main- that they had a better excuse for it, tains; but there is a time and a place believing, as they did, that there was for all things. we fly to poetry as a re no salvation out of the pale of their lief from the angry contentions of the own church. if they, however, car- hour, to sooth our imaginations with ried it farther, we have continued it more pleasing pictures than the world longer. till very lately, it was a hang- of reality presents to us. it is hard, in- ing matter for a priest to say mass; deed, if there is to be no neutral ground, and the rest of the code relating to our no sanctuary to secure us against the catholic brethren, was in the same intrusion of party hostilities; and, in merciful spirit of enactment. the ca. this light, we consider it as a species tholics, therefore, have as much to fore of profanation, to make the fables of give and forget as we have. but the swift has somewhere said, that we have only just religion enough to make us hate one another. .] fables from la fontaine. question is not what has been, but what could accrue from such a belief, even is. queen mary and the pretender supposing it were more general, if, as are dead. where is the country in is probably the case, it impresses the which the persecuting spirit that the mind with a deeper sense of the so- author imputes to the catholic church, lemnity of the ceremony, and implants is now acted upon? the fact is, that a stronger feeling of the religious re- the catholics only ask from our own sponsibility. again, if we all believed government the same indulgence that that marriage was a sacrament, might catholic governments abroad extend to it not tend to strengthen the obliga- their protestant subjects. for our own tions of the marriage vow by an addi- parts, we have no fancy for the catho- tional sanction,-a sanction, of which lic religion, and should be very sorry we fear the annals of doctors' com- to see its influence extended; but we mons will shew that it stands deplo- think it a strange complaint to make rably in need. against men now-a-days, that they be but we gladly leave the polemical lieve too much; there is surely more for the poetical part of the volume,- danger to be apprehended from those upon which last portion we can be- who haveno belief at all. wethink the stow almost unqualified praise. let doctrine of transubstantiation very ab- the writer speak for himself. we will surd, and equally repugnant to the begin with one of the shortest fables by words of scripture and the evidence of way of specimen. our senses; but we cannot see whatharm “ the lion and his associates. once a lion with three other beasts made alliance, and set all the quadruped world at defiance. in the honour of each, every member confided, that the booty they took should be fairly divided. it happened the bear caught a deer in his toils, and he sent for the rest to go snacks in his spoils. they met: the fat prey each was ready to fly on, but the post of grand carver they left to the lion.” the lion executes the task allotted to him very adroitly, while the other high contracting parties,—the wolf, the fox, and the bear, drew round:- “ and stood licking their lips while the carving went on." the imitator has, we think, shewn taste in restoring the associates as they are described in the old fable, instead of adopting the new quadruple alliance which la fontaine had, for no good reason, introduced. “ quoth the lion, 'you'li think me a butcher by trade: observe with what skill these allotments are made. the first to my rank, not a beast will refuse; so this as the lion's just option i choose. the second of course as my right you'll resign, by the right of the strongest that portion is mine. that the third is my own is as certainly true, to my courage can less than a quarter be due ? and now, my good friends, having settled these shares, let him lay his paws on the remnant who dares !'” the imitations abound with a great variety of metre, and there is, through- out, an uncommon facility and spirit in the versification. for instance, the open- ing stanza of “ the wasps and the bees :"- “ there happened once a suit between that insect tribe who serve a queen, those quaker-coated flies i mean, i'he industrious bees :- “ and the pert wasps, that roving pack, in yellow jackets trimm'd with black, who, corsair-like, rob and attack whome'er they please.” fables from la fontaine. [april, or again, in “ love and folly." “ in the good days of yore, before cupid was blind, with eyes keen as arrows he aim'd at each bosom ; old records of paphos the cause have assign'd, how the playful young deity happen'd to lose 'em; and they shew, why so small is the portion of bliss, in the tender connection from that time to this. “ master love and miss folly were very great cronies ; one minute they kiss'd and another they pouted: the cause of their frequent discussions unknown is; which did the most mischief may fairly be doubted: but so it fell out, upon one april day, a terrible quarrel took place at their play." folly teazes love to join together a silly young fop and a superannuated wi- dow. 'love hesitates, and at last refuses, when folly, losing her temper, throws her bauble sceptre at his head, which hitting him full in the eyes, makes him blind ever after. cupid complains to the council of olympus :- “ a synod of gods was conven'd at the place : jove patiently heard what was urg'd by each pleader; for the good of mankind he determin’d the case, that the culprit should now to the blind boy be leader ; and e’en to this day, thousand instances prove, folly still is the guide and the leader of love." if our limits would permit us, we should be glad to find room for the “ rat in retirement,” which it seems is from the pen of a friend ; and for the “ ad- dress to the critics,” which is struck off in the author's happiest manner, and which, though the least literal, is perhaps the most fontainish morsel in the whole volume. one more fable, and we have done. “ the satyr and the traveller. a sater in a rocky den lived distant from the haunts of men, though half a goat, he seldom ran to revel in the train of pan; but led a quiet sober life with one fair dryad for his wife; and she, engross'd by household matters, prepar’d his soup, and brought young satyrs. it happen'd on a wintry day a traveller had lost his way; and stiff with cold, and drench'd with rain, he joy'd the satyr's cave to gain. he peeps :--and midst recesses inner, he sees his horned host at dinner. he halts, and near the entrance lingers, and, blowing hard his aching fingers, he frames apologetic speeches, to his landlord with the shaggy breeches : but, ere he could excuse begin, a hoarse rough voice exclaims- come in! if you can dine without a cloth, stranger, you're welcome to my broth.” the satyr then, to satisfy the curiosity of his wife, inquires of his guest for what purpose he had been blowing his fingers so assiduously. the stranger replies “to please your lady i'll inform her, i blow my hands to make them warmer.' .] fables from la fontaine. the mistress of the rocky cottage pours for her guest some smoking pottage ; who to gulp down his mess the quicker, blows, ere he tastes, the scalding liquor. the satyr, o'er the table leaning, surpris’d, once more inquires his meaning." the traveller now tells him that he blows his broth to cool it; at which re- ply the satyr loses all patience, shews him the door, and fairly turns him out: ««whilst i possess this vaulted roof, (and fiercely then he rais'd his hoof,) no mouth its mossy sides shall hold which blows at once both hot and cold.” we subjoin the conclusion of the fable, with the notes, because it is one of the best and most spirited of the “ modern instances,” without stepping be- yond the bounds of fair and legitimate satire; though we still think this is scarcely the proper place for such topics. “tell me, ye westminster electors, who love polítical projectors, whom cunning state empirics please, have you not met with mouths like these ? mouths which advance assertions bold, blow sometimes hot, and sometimes cold ? have you no smooth-tongued sophist found who, proteus-like, still shifts his ground, promulging for the public good schemes by no mortal understood ? whose patriot soul so truly roman, would trust the regal power to no man, though check'd and limited it be, like britain's well poised monarchy: yet plasters praises thick and hearty upon his fav'rite bonaparte?" “ who, deeply ting’d with classic lore, would now with lofty pigeon soar, displaying to our wond'ring sight, a literary paper-kite! giving, as harold mounts the gale, collected scraps to form his tail:- now takes a lower road to fame, charm'd if the rabble shout his name; when every zealous wild supporter, proves parliaments are best when shorter, by windows broke in every quarter: whilst fractur'd heads demonstrate clearly, these sports should be repeated yearly ! when such mad follies meet our eye, is't right to laugh-or must we cry? we smile at such attempts to fob us; but sigh to find the hoaxer h- electors ! midst this horrid clatter, 'twas well to imitate the satyr.” " since the printing of this fable, the praise here given to the westminster electors is no longer due. panegyric or censure expressed in this place will affect them very little; nor perhaps will their choice, in the present instance, be of much importance to the great council of the nation. this event however, which many persons will consider as the extinction of good sense among the elective body in that city, will be celebrated with appropriate honours by the detrocratic faction. mors janua vitæ, is a common motto for funereal decora- fables from la fontaine. [april, ments. mr h-e with the same antithesis, and complying with the pro- pensity to punning, which heraldic inscriptions often exhibit, may place under his achievement, newgate is the new gate to the house of commons." the well-known epigram of a noble poet, on the same subject, affords one of the many instances of coincidence of thought, where there could be no communication between the writers : would you go to the house through the true gate, much quicker than ever whig charley went; let parliament send you to newgate, and newgate will send you to parliament ! but we must bring this rambling celui de n'y penser pas.". whoever he be, article to a conclusion. if we had more we hope a second edition will soon en- space, it would be easy to say much able this “nameless man" to step boldly more in praise of this amusing volume, forward ; and though we cannot pro- - and if we had a whole sheet before mise that he will thereby secure to his us, we should have nothing more to descendants the same advantages which, urge in the way of objection. the vo- it is said, were conferred upon those of lume is evidently the work of a scho- the french fabulist—a perpetual im- lar and a gentleman, while the happy munity from taxation; yet he may facility of his numbers as clearly shews fairly claim for himself that wreath, that he was born a poet :-for, like which he is so well entitled to wear, la fontaine, “ il joint a l'art de plaire from the tree of apollo. a second letter from the man in the moon. “ petruchio. how bright and goodly shines the moon ! katharine. the moon ?- the sun ; it is not moonlight now. petr. now, by my mother's son, and that's myself, it shall be moon or star, or what i list, or e'er i journey to your father's house- evermore cross'd and cross'd! nothing but cross'd. kath. forward, i pray. and be it moon, or sun, or what you please ; and if you please to call it a rush candle, henceforth, i vow, it shall be so for me.' taming of the shrew. in my last, respected christopher, i pamphlet of predictions concerning her gave vent to some of my spleen at the appearances throughout every night misconceptions and mal-practices of of every month in the year, yclept an certain of the poetical tribe in your almanack? has not the cottager the nether sphere. i have as much reason stitched pages of hieroglyphic moore, for wager of battle with another set of with a splashed red stamp in the dexter dabblers in fiction—i mean those prose corner of the title-page? does not the writers, who compound novels and ro- schoolmaster possess white's epheme- mances for the entertainment of sub- ris,or the gentleman's diary, cramm'd scribers to circulating libraries, and to the colophon with crabbed diagrams? other gentry who are overburdened what old lady is unpossessed of gold. with time. "what i have to complain smith, or else of that still morediminu- of in these authors is, that they take tive record of red-letter days, and lunar strange liberties with the condition of changes, with which the company of the moon—that is, they generally keep stationers indulge her, in a fairy quarto, her at the full throughout their stories. about the size of the good matron's pin- now, every body knows that the moon cushion? do not the various counties -“the inconstant moon”-applicable of england and of scotland too, belike, as this epithet is to her, is “constant (although of that i am not so well in inconstancy"-like a lady of the old aware, for when i made almanacks my french court, she makes her changes study it was in england,) and eke the very regularly—she waxes and wanes learned universities, send forth the -increases and decreases, with all the same predictive notices in huge broad- precision of a time-piece. is there not side sheets, which make walls and forsooth in every house in the land, a doors, and wainscotting look glorious .] a second letter from the man in the moon. where they are hung up? and do not ral would get a parliamentary reward all and every one of those tell more for the discoverer if he would bring than a year beforehand ; nay, and some his invention to perfection)—while in of the picture to the eye, the very others the nights are as invariably dark shape which my mistress the moon will and moonless ? in the romances, i assume on any given night? do they believe, most pranks are played with not mark down, with the accuracy of the “ silver deity of the silent hours," a prompter's play-book, the very times for most novels are conducted, if not when she will make her" exits and her with “ truth," yet by “ daylight.” but entrances," and declare as infallibly as in a romance, where, for instance, the any old tide-waiter, the periods of her scene is laid on the shores of the me- influence upon the hour of high-water diterranean, the moon is pressed into at our sea-ports ? although she never the writer's service, and made to beam fails to do what these sapient oracles “sans intermission"-she is made to set down for her, yet is she taxed with walk through the sky, and to show the mutability-mutable as she is then, it whole of her face without a veil, night must be granted that she is so metho- after night-for otherwise, how could dically, and that any one of tolerable paolo and ninetta dance upon the prudence can foresee her mutations. sands in her golden radiance? but well, then, is it fair, doing, as she presto, it is all sable gloom again, if a does, just what is prescribed to her, cut-throat is hired to murder the he- that novelists should so frequently roine, or even if the heroine is to pry make her stand stock still ? have not about the castle in which she is im- i, above all men, reason for incredu- mured, shading a lamp with her taper lous hatred of what i read in their fac fingers, though we know very well it brications, when i find henryand lucy must be blown out before she gets back meeting a-nights, for three weeks to- to her chamber again. the moon, in gether, under an oak tree, and having this case, if not altogether obliged to the round moon shining above them make herself scarce, is at the utmost through the branches all the while ? it only allowed to give a sullen gleam, and is not, perhaps, requisite that writers of then shroud herself in tenfold dark, stories should be very minute chrono- ness and poor angelina, or celesti- logists, but in a case of this kind, it is na, or rosalbina (or whatever the for- obvious to all, that they must be talk- lorn virgin's name may be only there ing of some miraculous appearance in is a special necessity for its ending in the heavenly bodies, or at least they a) staggers onward in murky obscuri- cannot be speaking of that moon from ty. there is one thing, however, worth which i take my prone descent, plump- notice, and this is, let the place be ever down every fortnight. it would be so ruinous, and full of flights of steps, invidious to point out any particular and crowded with pillars, and dilapi- work of fiction ; yet surely the multi- dated by very suspicious looking chasms tude of them, in which no observance in the side-walls—yet never did i read of the constant variation of the phases of one of these young ladies tumbling of the moon is paid by the writers of down stairs, or making her nose bleed them (the fair ones especially,) is so by hitting it against an obtrusive pil- great, that it cannot have escaped thy lar, or pitching head over heels down keen eye, christopher, or the observa- any of the lateral passages, or yawning tion of thy readers. in fact, our ro- rents in the mason-work-every one of mancers and novelists play such va- them an accident most likely to mis- garies with the moon's appearances and betide a damsel who paces about dark- non-appearances, that i become as per- ling, her lamp out and the moon set. plexed as poor katharine was, and know the utmost misfortune which befals, hot whether these tale-tellers, like pe- is that she wanders astray a little, and trachio, are talking of the moon, the finds herself in a prohibited part of the san, or of a rush candle ; for their dwelling perhaps, and possibly she may description of her doings seems to suit chance to pick up a rusty dagger by the one as little as the other. canst thou way, which (the fountain of her heart not recal to thy recollection, that, in meanwhile curdling with horror) she some delicate narratives, there is a perceives to be incrusted with blood moon visible every night, wherever she long since shed. but thou wilt say— is wanted-(a most useful thing it “marry, how does she perceive all this would be, and the postmasters-gene- in the dark?"-ay, that's a problem, vol. ix. b a second letter from the man in the moon. [april, which, from default of intellect on my upon the shelf. in this, some catastro- part, must wait without its solution, phe was to be brought about by a mur- and a joyful q. e. d. at its tail. not der in the dark--the gentleman-villain content, however, with making the is to walk on first, and the person who moon come and go, out of all reason- goes second in the line is to be dispatch- able calculation, they will not do hered by a blow from a hired assassin- justice, when they allow that she is some one, however, who knows the ar- present. hast thou not in thy multi- rangement, pops in before the leader, farious reading, christopher, met with and so this worthy gets the blow on passages of the same kidney as this ? his mazzard which he intended for his * maltida rushed towards the castle, neighbour at his back. now, unluckily whose sculptured portal was illumina- when i saw it, the stage was so im- ted by the lucid rays of the full orbed perfectly darkened, indeed so light was moon. suddenly, to her terror, she saw it all the while, that not only the per- a muffled figure issuing from the arch- sons of the actors, but even the most way, when at once a multitudinous trifling distinctions in their dresses were mass of clouds spread over the lumi- more than merelyperceptible, so that the nary, and the shuddering matilda was cunning contriver of the plot seemed to involved in solid darkness. it became us as if he could not possibly fail to see, impossible for her to determine on and even to know the very person who which side to direct her steps—all was stept forward, and made him play se- black, bewildering, indistinguishable cond fiddle, when he did not intend it. shade-shepaused, and listened.” now now, this make-believe theatrical although, when the moon is “ full sort of darkness is what i cannot help orbed," i am in it, yet from confiden- thinking of, when romancers sudden- tial and credible friends, i am too well ly wrap up their moon in the man- aware that a cloudy night upon earth, tle of a fleecy cloud, and tell us that at the time of the month above indica- not a twinkling of light remains—but ted, is nothing like a perfectly dark despite their asseverations that the one; and when only broken clouds blackness is pitchy, palpable, porten- pass over the moon, there remains a tous, i am certain there is still a glim- very tolerable degree of glimmer to di- mering sufficient to warn matilda from rect one's steps by, or to discern the stepping into a puddle, if she dislikes objects immediately around one. to wet her white satin slippers, which thisinstantaneous, and impenetrable are, no doubt, prettily edged with sil- darkness, so often conjured up by ro ver tinsel, and graced with a spangled mance writers, strongly reminds me of rosette in front. she may pause she the dark scenes on the stage, where al- may listen—but i will be bound for it, though the interlocutors of the drama she walks straight to the castle, if it deplore their being “sand blind" with is needful that she should do so. even it, or even high gravel-blind,” (as if she wanders, it will only be into some lancelot gobbo bath it) yet do box, deserted cloister, or ruinous oratory, pit, and gallery, very plainly distin- for sure i am, it is not so dark as to let guish every thing that is going on ; hier go astray into the moat, or through and while the actors creep about with the horse-pond, or among the piggeries, faultering foot, that they may notstum- or through a brew-house, a wash-house, ble, and with hands dispread, that they or a scullery-all which were actual may not dash their brains out by jost- appendages, although vulgar ones, to ling against an obstacle haply harder the most romantic castles in baronial than their skulls—the great wonder days of yore. now, if future construc- would be, if anyof the blundering awk- tors of novels and romances will take wardness which so often happens in the my advice, (though i am half afraid dark were to take place; for no spec- they will give no heed to it) i should tator, however simple, can help belie- recommend to them, when they have ving that the “harlotry players” see fixed that such or such a fact shall hap- one another perfectly. i remember see- pen at the time of full moon, to re- ing a play (for i sometimes go to the member, that at about three pages on- theatre when my sovereign lady is “hid ward, (or as many more as will occupy in her vacant interlunar cave”) which about fourteen days, by a rough guess) was called, the wife of two hus- it must be a night without a moon- bands, though i fear that both wife convenient as it may be for orlando to and husbands twain are now all laid go home by moonlight, he must be .) a second letter from the man in the moon. content to guide his steps by a lantern; marks and notes of time, that the read- and if charlotte indites a love epistle, er finds it impossible to say whether when, like the rest of of the house, she they have adapted their story to the ought to be in bed, and asleep, she po- nature of things in this particular or sitively must not indulge in a simile, not. drawn from any pretended peep-out at now i am on the score of novel- the moon, and from affecting to see her reading, and that i may not seem to image twinklingin the water--for moon be altogether morose, (for i must own there assuredly can be none visible. that my communications to you have again, the dealers in the sublimer style, almost all been of the find-fault kind,) the romance-inditers, ought, when they i will pay a little debt of gratitude for bave once fixed upon a perfectly moon- a favourreceived from one of the novel- less night, to allow the moon to be writing tribe. in a little tale called journeying up in the sky after a couple “ duty,” by the late margaret roberts, of weeks have elapsed in their narra- (of whom it is worth wbile to read her tive. wish ever so, that it may be as friend mrs opie's account, in which her black as thunder, it cannot be allowed delightfully feminine character is admi- them—the current of events must con- rably drawn-a character in which in- form to the changes of nature, and they tellect, gentleness, and firinness of must postpone their dark deeds for a principle seem to have been most hap- fortnight further on in the work. at pily blended)-in this tale, there is a this particular period, rustivisagio can- delicate compliment to me, me—the not be allowed to mutter to his com- man in the moon! i said before (al- rogue ugglifizio—“ha, by st domi- though my modesty would not suffer nic, as murky a night as we could wish me to expatiate upon it) that i do not for !" no," the blanket of the dark” so often get any mention made of me, will have some holes in it, and through as, upon reasonable consideration of them some lunar rays will penetrate; the superabundant panegyric lavished it is an equal chance too, that the said upon the moon, may seem to be natu- blanket may be removed altogether. ral and right. but in the posthumous but enough-you may be sure, con- novelet of mrs roberts i have a whole nected as i am with the moon, that i ode inscribed to me, and, partial as i canpot read fictitious works, contain- am aware my judgment must neces- ing these discrepancies, with all the sarily be in the matter, i still do think coolness of an unconcerned person. no, that thou, christopher, wilt allow that i get puzzled---my wits turn topsy- many of the stanzas have great merit. turvy—and i shut up the book in de- i suppose i am to understand that the spair. not, indeed, that all these light sentiments are intended to come from troops of the literary squad are guilty the heroine of the tale, rather than of these faults—but since i have been the authoress. be it so. i subjoin scrupulous as not to mention those most of the poem, allowing myself the “who are transgressors in this sort," benefit of making a running gloss up- i, on the other hand, shall not call upon it, for the lady is sometimes a little the blush of modesty on the cheeks of out of her reckoning; but, on the those who either have steered clear of whole, it is exceedingly grateful and their fellow-fiction-mongers' errors, or flattering to me to have been so no- else have so dextrously embroiled all ticed. the ode opens thus. . man of the moon ! enthroned on high, bright regent of the midnight sky, receive an earthite's suppliant sigh, man of the moon ! here, then, my humility makes me confess, that the second line contains the title of my liege mistress the moon herself, and not an appellation of mine. . whate'er thy form and nature be, long have i loved and worshipped theo, and been thy humble votary, man of the moon! a second letter from the man in the moon. [april, . for in thy broad and shining face, eyes, nose, and mouth, and chin Í trace, with many a soft and smiling grace, man of the moon ! 'tis true, thy head is round and bare, and seems to mourn the loss of hair, a wig, for love of fashion, wear, man of the moon ! in the stanzas above, there is some confusion concerning my looks-in- deed, in the last of them, i am fearful that the writer mistakes the moon it- self for my head; otherwise i know of no particular deficiency in the outside honors of my brain-pan-but let it pass, the next verse makes up for it all. . but i will love thee as thou art, and give to thee my truant heart, and never from my vows depart, man of the moon ! i skip on now over four verses; and here i must beg leave to say, that the inquiry in the th and th is of too delicate a nature to admit of a public answer. . when venus in her silver vest, nearer thy orb appears to rest, does not one sigh escape thy breast, man of the moon ! . dost thou not feel some soft alarms, and long, whene'er thou view'st her charms, to stop her transit in thy arms, man of the moon ? o, staid and semnologous christopher ! my heart goes pít-a-pat even at the mere transcribing of these exquisitely expressed and bosom-searching queries --but i must not betray myself. . and tell me, dost thou never peep, when mortals sleep (or seem to sleep) and from thy chamber slily creep, man of the moon, . to watch this busy world below, to see how joy is mixt with woe, how often cares from pleasures flow, man of the moon ; . and then return unto thy sphere, thy eyes bedew'd with pity's tear for all that thou hast witnessed here, man of the moon? . oh if thou wert to gossip given, how many a tale of earth and heaven thou 'dst tell from rosy morn to even, man of the moon! to much of this my present and previous letter is a sufficient answer. .] a second letter from the man in the moon. . ah who can stop a woman's tongue ? or, who like her a theme prolong? one question more then, right or wrong, man of the moon ! . say, hast thou ever yet explored, or dost thou guard the sacred hoard, where human wits 'tis said are stored, man of the moon ? . if such thy office, deign, o deign, to give me back my wits again, for long i've search'd for them in vain, man of the moon ! to the lines cited above, the fair poetess annexes an explanatory note." it may, perhaps, be unnecessary to remind the reader of the story of astolpho (as related by ariosto) who kindly undertook a voyage to the moon to recover his friend's wits; and when he was there, was surprised to find a phial in which were his own."-it would be entering into too long a disquisition to elucidate the economy of our sphere; but if i ever write to thee, christopher, on the subject of our visitors, i may, perhaps, afford the intelligence here requested. in a verse i shall now quote, the lively lady makes merry in guessing at my pro- ceedings during an eclipse. . when the cold earth shall intervene thine and the solar orb between, dost thou not squint behind the screen, man of the moon ? and in the concluding lines, she expresses a wish, which was not realized, and i am sure that i have most to deplore that it was not. . with thee to roam through liquid skies, where love, 'tis whisper'd, never dies, how blest, as cynthia, would i rise, man of the moon! . but if, in love and friendship sweet, on earth congenial spirits meet, soon may i see thee at my feet, man of the moon ! those who are not much in the way of fashion to be sure, yet not altogether receiving favours put a great (perhaps deserving of the slights i have expe- an undue) value on them, when they rienced, i cannot say i shall be sorry are kindly offered. i hope, however, for it. my modesty will not be shocka that the intrinsic value of the style in ed, if i should see myself alluded to which the one above, so prettily be- more frequently, either in prose or in stowed on me, is conveyed, will induce verse. but i am arrived at the end of thy admirers, most popular christo- my paper-and, perchance, christo- pher, to look upon it with an eye of be- pher, of thy patience too-be this so nignity;--and if the poem should have or not, i subscribe myself thine, the effect of giving a hint that i am a personage, though rather gone out of the man in the moon. [april, revery in the garden of plunts. letter to the editor, inclosing revery in the garden of plants ; with ode, written in the cemetery of pere la chaise, at paris. mr editor, you will no doubt be wondering who wrote this, and why it was sent to you, and wherefore the person who sent it did not tell you who he is, and so forth. but i will soon explain all this to you. with regard to the why, i will tell you plainly, that it was sent for the amusement of your readers ;-as to the who, the writer would not permit me to tell his name ;-and for the wherefore, i durst not, until i know how you like the pieces, not being permitted to send them on any other terms. the truth is, they were composed by my particular friend, (of whom i am very fond, and so is he of me; but you need not say any thing of this,) who is apt to indulge in reveries, making verses, and such trumpery; but who, so far from having any inclination hitherto to have any of them printed, scarce- ly even writes them. however, finding these upon subjects that might inte- rest, or at least amuse some of your readers, i have prevailed with him to let me send them to you, for the purpose of being inserted in your magazine, should it please you to do so. and to prove to you how very disinterested he is, and how very little he thinks of either praise or blame in these said reveries of his, i will here give you the copy of a song, which i snatched from him one even- ing as he came home from viewing the setting-sun “ descending on his glorious cloudy throne,” as he expresses it. this will let you know better his manner of thinking than any thing i can tell you. my lonely silent thought i would not sell for all the brilliant glory bought by deeds of arms, or all that fame can tell of pageantry's alluring charms. nature, divinely drest in rich attire, wakes, with her music, in the breast a softer glow, and makes the soul respire a purer bliss than all below. fame cannot yield me joy ; her trump may sound for who her fickle breath employ to spread their praise ; i only hope that, crown'd with peace, will end my humble days. ah! when i must expire, beside a grove could i be laid to see retire sol's parting ray! alone with her i love, in nature's hymns to sigh my soul away! way, you see, mr editor, that this song is somewhat extravagant in its and seems to indicate an excessive attachment to natural scenes, not very common to those who have spent the greater part of their time in towns. i think the mechanism of it is also more complicated than that of our songs generally is, though it does not appear less smooth on that account. however, as i seldom sing, and may be mistaken, i leave this to your better knowledge. and i am, sir, your very humble servant, amicus. p. s.-should this please you, it is possible i may induce my friend to let me send you some more of his scribbles. .] revery in the garden of plants. a revery in the garden of plants; with an ode, written in the cemetery of pere la chaise, at paris. these miry streets, enclosed by centre, spread here some tiny frag- gloomy walls and towering houses, ments of their tops to gratify our won- chase every pleasant thought away. dering gaze. the metals, crystallized i'll enter into this garden, or rather, in combination with the powerful acids, into this store-house of nature. here present in groups and clusters their va- every thing seems to be collected that rious forms and hues, that mock the can please the eye, or gratify the ima- power of art, and set it at defiance. gination. these pleasant walks, with there, preserved in alcohol, or hang- overarching trees, that yield delight- ing pendant from the roof or walls, the fal shade and shelter against the sum- deadly serpent is displayed, of every mer sun and winter blast, seem to in race or tribe; from that small asp, vite the studious and the melancholy whose deadly chilling venom froze the to contemplation and wild revery.- warm, voluptuous stream that flowed | here inhabits every plant that springs in cleopatra's veins, to the horrific from nature's bosom,- from the lofty, boa, that, undaunted, with proud and towering cedar, that lifts his head, and daring crest, waged single war against spreads out his arms in glorious ma a roman army. though harmless and jesty, scorning alike the winter's blast- innocent, their very figure seems to ing storm, and the sweet-scented gale chase the stream of life back to its of spring, even to the humble, modest, source, and fills the mind with horror. sweet-smelling violet, that spreads a even the eye, as if sympathetic, refu. round its unassuming odours, itself ses to be pleased with brilliant colours unseen ;-so humble and obscure vir- attached to a form that inspires terror tue sheds around her happiness and to the mind, and moves the heart with peace, though, unobtrusive, often un unutterable disgust. perceived. the finny race display their various no care is wanting bere. the hardy wondrous forms beside them. the plant of europe breathes free its na mighty trackless wave, the deep abyss, tive air; the tender, delicate plant of and ocean's thousand caves, give up african, or indian soil, rejoices in the their gregarious or solitary inhabitants, agreeable climate of the hot-house. that nothing may be wanting to com- even the aquatic plants here spread, plete this assemblage. here they are and wind, and twine, in seeming con- all, formed for attack, defence, or flight, fusion, in their natural element, pre- according to their various natures and senting to innumerable insects a hu- their uses. some winged, quit for mid couch and tender nourishment. a momentary space their native ele- but that cabinet contains within its ment; some spread their little sail up- precious walls a still more rare assem on the glassy surface of the wave, and blage of wonders. there the black wanton sport along, when zephyr's roleanic rocks display their regular mildest breath scarce ripples o’er the pristnatic forms to the astonished vul- deep; others sit, chained upon their gar, and discriminating sage, and ask native rock, scarcely endowed with mo- investigation. here are the various tion or with life, and finish their ex- petrifactions,—there, the common, the istence where it began ; whilst others, rare, and precious crystals present them- impelled by their organic locomotion, selves in systematic order, shining in or eager sport, or ravenous desire, move native splendour, pure, and unsullied unimpeded through the mighty deep, from the womb of nature,-she seems outstripping the velocity of indian ships to have formed them in her freaks, moving before the constant winds that to gratify herself alone. the hand of fill their crowded sails. their forms, art has likewise here been busy,—these or round, or flat, or smooth, or prick- brilliant agates testify its power. there ly, are all with regularity arranged, are the various marbles, earths, and according to their race, or tribe, or fa- stones.—the primitive rocks, whose mily. mighty columns of four thousand miles the monkey world attracts our cu« rest on the dark profound of nature's rious eye. though dead, and silent, revery in the garden of plants. [april, and motionless, their various attitudes seated side by side, seem not to have are so well feigned, that yet they seem forgot that they were chosen by the to play their imitative tricks, and gaze queen of love to represent her amo- on us with a malignant sneer, as though rous dalliance; though not more ten- they scorned the second place in ani- der, faithful more than she. the hal- mated nature. but this is not doubt- cyon here, betokening happy days, dis- ful, their place is fixed; ye doubting plays his beauty. the ostrich, strong- philosophers, we ask not your opinion: est of the feathered race, and fleetest we have a monitor within our bosoms, in the course of all that timid fly or a brilliant spark of ever-living fire, that bold pursue, displays those plumes lights the way to everlasting truth. that have so long time waved upon the now fierce, as if in life, the monarch warrior's crest, and lent a grace to of the woods darts his appalling glare ; heighten female charms. the stock- and near him the ferocious tiger seems dove seems to coo his plaintive note; to breathe unutterable rage over the and, seated on his branch, with eleva- bleeding tender fawn, yet struggling ted bill, the charming nightingale, the in the pangs of parting life. the polar prince of song, seems yet to challenge bear, the fierce hyæna, and the rave- ocean, earth, and air, to imitate his nous wolf, seem all to live, and gnash lovely plaintive strain, that lulls the their horrid jaws at the beholders, feathered nations to repose--that steals as though they could not brook delay. delightful on the charmed ear, inspi- the elephant stands there, strongest ring dreams of bliss. that charming of animals, the glory and the strength gentle bird, that dwells so much upon of indian kings. beside the sleek the wing, seems a fit habitant for pa- arabian, stands the small tartar horse, radisian groves, wherein to build its with shaggy coat; hither he travelled happy nest, and sip the essence of am- from the ural mountains, bearing his brosial dews. the lofty bird of jove quivered warrior to the fight, through looks round him with audacious eye, heaps of slain, and rivers tinged with holding the innocent lamb beneath his blood, stunned with the thunder of claw, as though secure that none dare contending nations; the way was much come to rob him of his prey. but too distant to return, he could no long- why this particularity? nor space, nor er fight, and so he gave himself to length of days, has scarcely been suffi- science. the other animals, or wild cient to keep the rarities of nature or tame, or fleet or slow, have all their from this abode of wonders. there, a place, their forms and attitudes, as na- few feathers, tied together, seem more ture made them in their native climes. sacred than the rest. what are they? the world has been ransacked from what virtue can there be in a handful utmost oriental isles, to where the an- of feathers ? why they are nothing des heaves his lofty head to gaze alone less than feathers of the ibis,—the upon aurora's blushes, while yet the sacred ibis, from the land of egypt,- lower world lies wrapped in sleep; from that worshipper of every beast and bird, terra australis to the frozen pole, ravished from the chambers of the si- where nature, laid in chains, denies lent tomb, where light had never pe- existence to organic being. netrated until four thousand years had the many-peopled air has sent her rolled away. four thousand years! delegates to this assembly, from all her by this amazing flood of days, how nations, families, and tribes. their many cities, with their people, and ranks are full and overflowing. of all their sacred shrines,-even nations, that mount on bold and daring, on ti- with their impotent and lying gods, morous or tardy wing, here sits the have been swept down into the awful representative to answer for his race. ocean of oblivion ! the travelling swallow seems, in its the insect nations are not here ne- native language, to talk of foreign glected, though some of them so small lands, and long fatiguing flights; the the visual orb scarce deigns to recog- lively wren, just springing from the nize them. shells too, of every kind, twig, presents a picture of animation. are here, common and rare, that deck the little humming-bird, drest out in the margin of the indian sea, or afric's all the resplendence of those colours burning shores. our milder climates first stolen by its ancestors from the furnish their share, nor are columbia's rainbow, challenges the artist to imi- shores exempted from the tribute. tate its hues. the faithful turtles, the provident sagacious bee dwells .] revery in the garden of plants. ye here in state; the noisy idle cricket sexual intercourse by, subtile penetra- dwells beside her: but how unlike each ting dust, lies concealed. other! the locust, that sad scourge there, too, is traced, and openly dis- of nations, has quitted his destructive played, through all its secret springs cecupation. the dragon-fly spreads and deep recesses, the mechanism of out his double wings, that radiant shine that beautiful, graceful, and noble with green and gold. the industrious being, man. that man, whose limbs silk-worm, that, like the careful bee, at once combine both strength and labours for creation's lord, is seen be- grace; whose expressive visage dis- side the gaudy butterfly, and foolish plays his penetrating, lofty, soaring moth, the silly moth, that flutters soul, that scorns the narrow bounds round the flame, with many a turn and of space and time, marks him the image wheel, nor can perceive the danger un- of his great creator, and lord of all be til it is consumed! attracted by the low. and you too, tender, soft, en- glare of regal pomp, what are you bet- dearing woman, his better half; whose ter, vain ambitious man, who headlong bosom heaves with warm benevolence, drive to join the splendid blaze? it whose modest love, and animating. only brighter shines in fierce combus. smile, inspire him to deeds of valour tion, and you are quite extinguished and of fame; nurse of his tottering old by its beams. age and tender infancy, the partner of the gloomy bull, and savage buffalo his cares, hope of his youth, and foun- together stand, with stern defiance tain whence his purest pleasure flows. graven on their front: and, over all why do you ever wear the face of sada these children of nature, great and ness! or, like the siren, smile but to small, the mild giraffe raises aloft his deceive ! towering front, and seems to gaze across say then, ye sages, after have his native plains. traced each bone, tendon, and nerve, but is this all, this house of wonders? and named them all, and pointed out no; yonder stands another, where their uses, where dwells the soul ? patare, stript of all her ornaments, her how does she impress her arbitrary gaudy clothing, and her pleasing forms, commands, that are, and must be shows only naked bones, and monstrous obeyed ? how can pure and immate- shapes that chill the mind with horror. rial being act upon matter gross, im- that tawny beauty from cafrarian land, pure? i find you cannot answer this, here finishes her travels and her shame; or answering, only shew how extra- nor needs she now a silken veil to cover vagant and vain are all your wild con- what her vile possessor only wished to jectures. employ your wisdom then show. there stands the assassin, un on mortal things, to heal our wounds, der whose ruthless dagger the celebra- to lessen mortal woe, and leave the tad kleber closed his eyes ; his high rest to worlds beyond the grave. enthusiasm for his country brooked not this iron railing, and that little to let escape even one solitary sigh to grove that skirts the margin of that gratify the ear of his cruel tormentors. hollow pool, yield a protection and so- there other ghastly shapes of animals lace to these winged prisoners. the and men, avariciously withheld by garrulous duck, the sea-gull, and the gtasping science from the craving tomb, diver, or press the rapid race, or and those unseemly, hideous abortions founce along, or in an instant disap- of nature, that never were intended to pear, then, rising quickly to the sur- look upon the sacred light of day, are face, flap their oily wings, and in there preserved, to gratify the view of their eager sport seem to forget they prying wisdom, or the empty gaze of are no longer free. the bold majes- idle folly : folly that looks with equal tic swan, arrayed in virgin white, unconcern on nature's beautiful and spotless and pure, sails proudly for- frightful things. ward like a barge of state, looks with here are the halls of wisdom, where contempt upon these petty crew pad- science keeps her court; where every dling around him ; half raising up his tree, and shrub, and animating odori- wings, and giving to his neck a better ferous flower, and microscopic plant, curve, he seems to swell with pride and are carefully explained to all who self-complacency. some in the grove choose to hear. and, not an opening or on the margin of the lake repose. bud, or fibre, colour, or shade, or the slender peacock walks amongst vol. ix. с revery in the garden of plants. [april, them. then, after kindly billing with rible he is when roused. near him his spouse, he raises up his splendid the bear plays off his clumsy tricks : circling fan, the most magnificent the he gently tumbles down upon his universe can boast, observes it with an back, and grasps his hinder paws, and eye that sparkles with delight, looks at mounting on his pole up to the very it, looks again, then shakes his wings, top, stands like a mighty lubber look- and screeches out his hoarse repulsive ing round to find applause ; then, slow note to testify his ecstacy of pleasure. and cautiously descending, after he yonder sits the raven, that sad por- has reached the ground, he drags along tentous bird, and croaks his frightful his great unwieldy bulk, and like some note, foreboding woes to come: the petty lap-dog, sits him down with arms mighty vulture hears the welcome extended wide, and gaping jaws, to sound, looks round with eyes of flame, catch the little morsel he has earned. and sharps his claws preparing for how mild and docile he seems ! and the prey. the chattering jay, the yet he pardoned not the daring soldier screeching parrot, and the siren linnet, who went into his den for love of gain. mind not these ominous forebodings. that loud tremendous roar of af- the winking stupid owl, that hates ric's brindled lion, mixed with the the light of day, sits solitary sighing yelping of the eager fox, and howling for the moon. the powerful falcon of the hungry, discontented wolf, sits upon his perch, lively, as though thrills on the vital chords that touch prepared to wing his airy course after the heart, inspiring terror. how aw- the rapid whirls of flying partridge, or ful, were it heard on afric's burning hasty timorous hare. plains, rousing the weary traveller from these small inclosures all have their his short repose, with humid brow, inhabitants. some browse upon their with parched and trembling lip, with native herbs, and find solace under burning veins and hollow languid eye, those trees that grow spontaneous on without a shelter or the means of their native plains, or shady wave up- flight! though here it is harmless and on their mountain tops. innocent as the bleating of the lamb, there grazes at his ease the noble the troubled air forgets not to perform stag, and spreads the branchy honours her functions in giving notice of the of his head; here dwells the feet, the dreadful sound. gentle, timid, mountain roe, that seems but let me have one glimpse of these to have forgot its alpine solitudes, and terrific forms, whose awful voice makes flies no longer from the face of man. animated nature tremble. the rest- the audacious goat presents his horny less leopard walks from side to side, head, and learns the little ones to butt shows his spotted clothing, then stops and play. the sheep, of various races, short, and sets his piercing eyes, and various lands, like travellers in their squats him down as though prepared native costume, here appear. this to take the murderous spring. no; comes from where the overflowing children, do not fly, there is no dan- nile rolls over his slimy bed his thou- ger; these bars would hold him though sand waves, backward beating the sea his powerful muscles were strong with such recoil, that neptune's eme- enough to raise him to the clouds. rald throne owns for a moment the the porcupine embattled sits encir- tremendous shock. the other owns cled with his spears, ready at once for a far more distant land: his fathers close attack or distant missile war. dwelt where africa presents, in proud the rest, except that grumbling fierce disdain, a towering barrier to the hyæna, are hushed in silence. what southern ocean; and spreads a table cannot time and human art perform ! high and broad, where all the gods look how that mighty lion, with that on olympus dwelt, or wild ima- horrid shaggy mane and outstretched gination ever knew, might feast and paws, lies slumbering in his den, and revel in licentious mood, nor want suf- in his bosom fearless lies the dog : man's mightiest enemy, and kindest within that hollow den the tusky truest friend of all the animals in na- boar lives with his family ; he wallows ture's wide domain, united in the cor- in the mire, like all his filthy race, to dial bonds of peace. cool his burning skin, then shakes him what is this ticket larger than the self, displays his horrid teeth, and others that bear the names of all these bristles up his mane, to show how ter- plants ? “ these medicinal plants are ficient space. .) revery in the garden of plants. cultivated here for the use of the poor.” walls, that tell no tales of sufferings or this is good indeed! in this immense crimes. no miserable wretch is now profusion of nature's stores and rari- dividing his small pittance with the ties, bow kind to think but for a mo- mice, in kind 'return for their welcome nent of the poor! how few in this company: no lonely sorrowing soul, wide world of pride, of tyranny, of within his solitary loathsome dungeon, grasping avaricious selfishuess, think obliged to spend his weary lingering of the sorrows of the suffering poor! days in training spiders on the dusty who, swelling in their gorgeous shows walls, to keep the mind from losing all of state, groaning beneath the burthen its powers, or bursting into madness. of their wealth, the produce of the poor how well for man were all these dread- man's sweat, and labour of his hands, ful ills banished for ever from our mor- dare think at all of such a despicable tal sphere, to visit it no more! but ty- being? yet there are some who sce with · rants still will reign, by whatsoever purer light, who see that men are equal name they may be called; and suffer- in their nature and their rights; that ing humanity still will weep, and give those who enjoy a brighter intellect or its plaintive murmurs to the winds, more liberal fortune, must use their that dare not whisper them too loud on influence to make men happy, or be the oppressor's ear, because he is en- anjast. and could you, laurelled blu- gaged, and must not be disturbed. cher, think but for a moment, to place here is a funeral ; come, let me fol- your lawless army on this sacred spot! low it to where the wicked cease from alas, your laurels here had perished troubling. how few the mourners are! like opening buds before the northern and even those few do not seem sad. blast! here wisdom has laid up her they only wear the garb of sorrow. stores, here sages long have toiled, and perhaps the departed was poor, or little bright persuasive eloquence has flowed known, or useless to society. perhaps to spread the light of science over the he was a stranger; like me, a poor ne- world. glected solitary stranger, a lonely wan- there, keeper, take your fee, and derer in a foreign land ; deprived of all let me pass the bridge of austerlity. the ties of blood, and claims of friend- it has no fault except the name. ship, that sweeten social life, that fond- strange, must it for ever be, that ly try to throw a veil upon our errors, one man's honour is another's shame! and eagerly attempt to render less se- brust these proud monuments of one vere the rugged gloomy passage to the nation's glory be raised to throw dis- tomb. perhaps he was—but no, no grace upon another? where is the me- more; conjectures here are vain : the rit, if we can only boast the weakness, cemetery of pere lu chuise presents a or the crimes, or the mistakes of our place of rest and silence to the benight- opponents in the race of fame and strifeed pilgrim, to whom all other cares are for empire? i fear the merit is but now superfluous. the narrow house small on either side. for he who loses now opens to receive its new inhabi- lays the blame on fate; and he who tant. our mother earth, like a kind gains applauds himself, his well-laid parent, receives again her weary child schemes, and daring execution. so thus into her lap, and spreads aro nd his alternately we own free will and fate, head such solemn stillness, that burst- aceording as they suit our purpose. ing worlds might roar in wild convul- there, there is the place where stood sive thunders round his bed, without that dreadful pile that frowned on infringing on his deep repose. yes; groaning france, unable to sustain the here is one friend still left. see how load of slavery. but liberty once rouse that spaniel leaps into the grave, and ed_ glorious liberty ! the bastile will not quit his master. menaces are sunk a mass of ruins, and all her not enough ; he will not stir: he must dungeons, dark resounding cells, and be torn out by force. the grave is clanking chains, and sounds of woe, closed, and yet he will not quit it. he ceased to exist for ever. no man now scrapes away the earth, and mourns with an iron mask is there complain- with such a lamentable voice, he almost ing of the cruelty of his inexorable ty- nakes me weep. now, though bound, rants, who, not content to rob him of and drawn away by force, he still looks his liberty, permitted not even his visage back with eager eye upon the spot. to be seen, except by dark and gloomy what strange fidelity is this ! it seems revery in the garden of plants. [april, beyond the powers of instinet. i do first cause, and down again to the not understand it. i leave it then to smallest atoms of uninformed matter. you, ye mighty reasoners, who count, this place is singular; i feel oppress- or think you count, the links of that ed with reverential awe, and mournful infinite chain, from man up to the great thoughts that crowd upon my soul. ode written in the cemetery op pere la chaise. the evening mild, the sky serene, a mother's hope, a mother's woe; the zephyrs through these poplars whis reft of her last sad hold to life-her child, pering low, and, like a reed amid the show, and all around this solemn scene bending beneath the storms of winter that gives the mind a melancholy glow, wild. my weary, wandering steps retain, real, undisguised affliction here, where peace, and rest, and silence reign. sheds on the grave a bitter tear. declining nature feels decay, that sculptured figure seems to weep, touch'd by october's ever-withering in graceful attitude of studied grief hand; watching a husband's final sleep; her fruits, her flowers, her foliage gay, but giided sorrows often find relief that spring disclosed, and summer saw where graves must never spread alarms, expand, to wound a youthful widow's charms. she sheds, and soon her smiling face what dost thou here, imperious pride ? turns pale in winter's cold embrace. must then the virtues of the dead be told paris, expanded to the eye, in this abode where worms reside her barriers wide and palaces displays; and reign supreme, in letters writ with her lofty towers that kiss the sky, gold? receive the tribute of a parting blaze, no pious rites thy.labours crave ere yet the sinking sun retires to gild the borders of the grave. to western worlds with all his fires. death mocks thy care, and scorns thy rage; paris, thou type of ancient rome, he clips ambition's wing, and lays him thou haughty queen of arts and nurse low; of war, gathers the spoils of age to age, in thee bright science finds a home, heaps up confused the wreck of friend youth enveloped in clouds, a leading star, and foe, whose rays the mystic paths explore and from amid the ruins high of wondrous worlds unknown before. he throws his dart, and nations die. in thee the gamester dwells secure; what marble tomb attracts my view, venus, led by the dance, the song, the that seems to scorn the wasting hand of lyre, time, unblushing vends her joys impure, bearing its sculptured honours new, and many virtues in her arms expire: and solid pyramidal front sublime ? but here no more her incense burns ah! is massena then no more, midst graves and monumental urns. his sword then sheathed, his battles o'er ? paris, behold thy kindred dust ! and so thou scaled the alps, and bore here poets, heroes, friends, and lovers terror and ruin o'er italia's plains, sleep. saw proud germania drunk with gore, canst thou a tear spare for the just ? and trembling lusitania dread thy or hast thou charged the stone for thee to chains : for what ? to hide thee here, and never and taught with care the doleful yew wake more the voice of war for ever. to bear thy sorrows ever new ? here, too, the bravest of the brave here sleeps delille, his harp at rest: les low, wrapp'din obscurity and shame; there heloisa, with her sage of yore, no flower breathes fragrance o'er his grave, their loves rejoin'd, their wrongs redrest, nor.simplest monument relates his name: by envy's poison'd shafts assaild no he rose, he shone, his course was bright as meteor's glare on brow of night. oppression here in vain would try to draw a tear or force a sigh. what sound is that i hear the sigh plaintiveit seems of some departed shade: that little cross, that snow-white rose, ah no! look there ; the smother'd cry emblem of virtue, innocence, and youth, yet heaves the bosom of that love-sick tell where the mortal spoils repose, maid. of beauty adorn'd by piety and truth: see how, convulsed, her tender heart a simple tomb! but want could spare laments its better, dearer part. no more to tell a mother's care, # weep? more. memoirs of poussin. [april, various objects of art and nature. we purely historical, it was not necessary, wish to direct the attention of the stu- and probably would have been impro- dent merely to a deep study of his per, to have introduced into his com- works, to the principles on which they positions the ideal forms and lofty con- are composed, and above all to the di- ceptions of raphael and michael an- ligence and patient perseverance which, gelo. poussin has been called the under circumstances of peculiar dif- ** painter of philosophers.” he might ficulty, enabled him finally to triumph have been designated with more truth over the various obstacles, by which ca the painter of propriety. he did not price, bad taste, and malevolence, at fix his standard on the highest pinacle tempted to arrest his course. those art- of art, but having selected a more hum- ists who are anxious to acquire the ge- ble station, it is his great praise that neral rudiments of art, will derive one he accomplished more completely, than great advantage from serious reflection almost any other artist, the objects on the works and example of poussin- which it was his ambition to attain. whatever they may acquire from him from his earliest years he appears to may be considered as real guin, for they have been blessed with a calm philoso- will at least have nothing of it to un- phical mind, free from strong passions, learn in their after progress. his style but replete with energy, and with an indeed does not abound with many of amiable and contented disposition, those captivating graces which distin- which enabled him to live in amnity guish the flemish, venetian, and some with his fellow men, to circumscribe other schools ; but it is founded on the his wants, and to concentrate the whole solid basis of industry and nature, and force of his mind upon his professional is admirably adapted to restrain, with- pursuits. these rare endowments ap- in due bounds, the exuberance and im- pear at an early age to have afforded patience of the youthful mind, always him an almost intuitive power of dis- prone to catch at every faithless guide, covering that line of art best suited whose flowery path allures by its faci- to his capacity, from the strength and lity, and the hope of gaining a shorter simplicity of which he was never led and more pleasurable road to excel- aside, either by the blandishments of lence. warmly, however, as we ad- colouring and effect, or the more dig- mire the works of poussin, and sincere- nified attractions of the highest depart- ly as we respect his memory, we hope ments of painting. from the study of we shall not be suspected, from any the works of almost every artist of emi- thing we have said, of a wish to over nence, he appears indeed to have ob- rate his talents and genius, by placing tained occasionally useful hints, which them on a level with the far mightier he dexterously interwove with his own powers of angelo, raphael, and some peculiar style, but without in the others of the great italian masters; slightest degree diminishing its origi- we are viewing him, in the present in- nality. his pictures, with the excep- stance, more in the light of a safe in- tion of those of a very few distinguish- structor of genius, than as possessing ed artists, possess greater uvison, in first rate genius himself, and we to their respective parts, than the produc- tally disagree with mrs grahain in tions of any other painter. whether thinking that his works at all prove his subject partook of the “ that “grandeur of thought and design, lively, or severe,” he uniformly made it expression and correctness, are inde- his successful care not to impair the pendent on the size of the canvas on general character, that ought to pervade which he was to work." the fact is, if the whole, by the introduction of ex- we except correctness, few pictures of traneous or inconsistent matter. per- poussin possess any of these qualities haps he occasionally carried this prin- in an eminent degree. his landscapes ciple too far ; when, with a view of undoubtedly shew, in many instances, giving his picture locality and an air considerable grandeur of thought and of antiquity, he has been led, as in his design; but in the great mass of his exposing of moses, into anachronisms, historical compositions, few of his in- for which his greatest admirers find it dividual figures rise above common na difficult to assign an excuse. ture; and perhaps, in the majority of we perfectly agree with our author- his subjects, and in the walk of art ess and sir joshua reynolds, in think- which he followed, for the most part ing that poussin's genius is displayed gay, the .] memoirs of poussin. ven. to the greatest advantage when em- themselves alone, for any one who has ployed upon subjects taken from the the capacity to understand their great ales and bacchanalian fables of the and various merit, and courage enough ancient authors. in these luxurious to persevere in his principles of study. sænes, his imagination seems to “wan- poussin's forms, in both sexes, seldom, ton at will." his nymphs, satyrs, and if ever, rise above common nature. bacchanals are the very natives of the the countenances of his women are foods and wilds described in classic rarely beautiful, and their expression story,—nothing reminds us of civiliza- not unfrequently partakes, too largely, tion, or of modern customs and man- of the affectation and grimace of his ners. the whole scene is jollity, ani- own countrywomen, to harmonize with mation, and liberty, while the excel- the antique and philosophical cast of lent and appropriate landscapes, which many of his serious subjects. perhaps, he uniformly introduces in his back. too, in some of his compositions, he grounds, give a charm, and a classical falls under the censure which our au. truth to the representation, which is thoress has passed, somewhat justly, perhaps not to be met with in the works upon many of our english artists; of any other artist in similar subjects. though she assigns a reason for their rubens and julio romano in stories of practice which cannot apply to poussin. this nature, may possibly have display. “hitherto, with the exception of very ed in their figures equal, if not supe- few instances, our english artists have rior, genius ; but they are frequently been too much a people by themselves. so grossly indelicate and licentious, that if they look to nature for action or ex- the spectator turns from their produc- pression, it is to the exaggerated action tions with horror. the good taste and and expression of the stage, or the refinement of poussin, preserved him mean and sordid action and expression from falling into such inexcusable of vulgar life, that they have been dri- faults, and render his pictures gene hence, in part, the failure in rally unexceptionable, in subjects even most of our historical pictures ; exag- where there exists the greatest danger geration on the one hand, and want of of violating propriety. his serious sub- dignity on the other.” p. . it must, jects, from profane and sacred history, however, be acknowledged, that several discover the profound knowledge he of poussin's best works are quiteexempt possessed of the principles of his art. from the charge of theatrical effect, İn no one of its departments can he be though, speaking generally of them, aid to be greatly defective; for though we think he has not altogether escaped his colour is often dark and crude, and the contagion of the french school, sometimes offensively so, yet many which, from its first establishment brilliant exceptions occur in his works, down to the present day, has been in which it is not only light and har- uniformly marked by a mean servility monious, but admirably adapted to the to fashion and theatrical pageantry, to subject. it is, indeed, very difficult to the total exclusion nearly of elevated account for this singular inequality, thought, and of the simple and gene- which is too apparent in the works of ral principles of nature. this being poussin, to escape the observation of the case, it is not surprising that pous- the most careless observer. in land- sin should have reached his th year scape, his tones and colouring are al- before he was called to any employment nost invariably excellent, and we can, in his native country worthy of his therefore, scarcely attribute to a defect great talents, or that, during his stay, of age, this strange disregard of every his life should have been embittered, principle of colour, which occasionally and all his plans thwarted, by the in- injuresand disfigures his happiest com- trigues, thejealousies, and cabals which positions. in all other respects he must finally drove him out of france. it be considered as an artist of a superior, is really melancholy to follow mrs if not of the highest, order. his style, graham in her detail of the many vex- indeed, does not admit of the daring atious circumstances, and petty perse- fights of the florentine and roman cutions, which assailed this great and schools ; but, as far as it goes, it com excellent man during what may almost bides a greater number of excellencies, be denominated his exile in his native with fewer defects, than that of most land.--"they employ me," says pous- other painters. his works and example sin, "for ever in trifles, such as fron- may be regarded as an academy in tispieces for books, designs for orna- } memoirs of poussin. [april, mental cabinets, chimney-pieces, bind- irksome a scene for the calm and dig- ings for books, and other nonsense. nified quiet that awaited his arrival at sometimes, indeed, they propose grande rome, and which it was his good for- er subjects ; but, fair words butter no tune to enjoy, undisturbed, through- parsnips !"and again ;-" i assure out the remainder of his distinguish- you, that if i stay long in this country, ed and honourable life. to the me- Í must turn dauber like the rest here; moirs, our authoress has added two as to study and observation, either of dialogues by fenelon on two of pous- the antique or any thing else, they are sin's pictures, together with a cata- unknown ; and whoever wishes to stu- logue of his principal paintings. the dy or excel must go far from hence." latter is a valuable and useful addition -"i am now at work upon the pic- to the work: as to the former, they ture for the noviciate of the jesuits; might have been very well spared; they it is very large, containing fourteen do not contain an accurate “descrip- figures larger than nature, and this tion" even of the pictures which it was they want me to finish in two months.” the author's intention to have criticie to a mind constituted like poussin's, sed. we can conceive nothing more insup upon the whole, however, we have portable than this eternal whirl of hur received much pleasure and instruc- ry, impertinence, and frivolity; nor tion from mrs grahamn's book, and have ought it to be wondered at, that, so cir- no hesitation in recommending it to cumstanced, he should have felt eager, the attention of artists, and to the ge- in spite of the royal favour, to quit so nerality of our readers. on tite cultivation and patronage of british art. letter first. sir, accomplishment of my hopes. having the fine arts are, unquestionably, explained to him the purpose of my vi- among the sources of happiness which sit, i produced several specimens of my it was the gracious intention of provi- son's abilities in drawing, in painting, dence that man should possess ; and and also, in order to shew the strength therefore we are bound to believe that, and fertility of his imagination, several as genius is one of the inost precious attempts in original composition. he gifts of heaven, it is a duty religiously appeared to be much pleased ; acknow- incumbent on those to whom it has ledged they contained incontestible evi- been imparted, or who are entrusted dence of very superior endowments, and with its early direction, to see that the entirely concurred with me in thinking, divine present be neither lost by a to- that, with due cultivation, aided, as he tal neglect of timely cultivation, nor expressed it," with such advantages wasted by the misapplication of its as were necessary to their complete de- wonderful powers. as the opinions of velopement and full effect,” the result men of high reputation in the arts on must be honourable to himself and his this important subject, must be allow- country. ed to have great weight, perhaps what delighted and encouraged with the i have now to communicate, may not favourable issue of this examination, i be unworthy of attention. took the liberty to request the obliging it is my good fortune, mr editor, to professor to tell me briefly what course have a son who has been thus favour- he would advise us to take, and parti- ed, being possessed of talents, which, cularly what should be our first steps, if carefully cultivated, would, i have that future success might not be en- no doubt, ensure to him a name among dangered by an injudicious commence- the most distinguished artists of this, ment. that i will do,' said he, or, i will not scruple to say, of any “ with pleasure, and i account myself other country. under this conviction, fortunate in the opportunity you afford and urged by the entreaties of my dear me to be useful to you and your inge- boy, i lately applied to an artist of emi- nious son, in a concern of such impor- nence to request the favour of his ad- tance. much,"continued he, “depends vice, as to the most prudent mode of on early impressions: let him therefore proceeding, so as to make sure of the have the benefit of the best advice at .] on the cultivation and patronage of british art. his outset ; for by which, not only those, i trust, it will be his endeavour much good will be done, but much to equal, and, if possible, to excel.” harm prevented. i trust the young “ such desires,” said he, " are no evi. gentleman has been liberally educa- dence of presumption; they are natu- ted?” “sir," said i,“ most liberal- ral, and what is more, they are wise. ly. in his education, no expence or whoever does not propose to attain the trouble has been spared on my part, summit of parnassus, will never reach dor application on his. he is familiar the mid-way. it would be cruel in with ancient literature, and homer is fortune not to reward as richly as they his idol.” “ you have done well, sir,” deserve, talents so promising, and am- said he, “ in storing his mind with the bition so laudable. the royal esta- treasures of ancient lore ; let him not blishment, sir, which i mentioned, be deficient in the languages of the li- confers honorary tokens-medals of ring: for in the prosecution of his pro- gold and silver, upon its meritorious fessional studies, he will have much students ; these your son will doubt- occasion for the information they con- less receive; they will be a gratifying tain, as well as the means they afford earnest of his final success ; they will of general communication.” i assured be gratifying also to you, and moreover him that these had not been neglect- be a passport into the world : the pub- ed; and whatever could be done to lic will be prepared to approve the more improve my son yet more in that spe- mature works of a genius which, in its cies of knowledge, should certainly not early career, had been honoured by be omitted. those who were best able to discover continuing the thread of his in- and appreciate its claims. advancing in structions, he said, “ be mindful, as his academical studies, another source i observed before, that no time be lost of improvement offers in the greek in placing the youth under a master marbles of the national museum, in of high professional reputation; one which he will find rare examples of who shall be not less distinguished for beautiful form and beautiful composi- his genius and good taste, than a sound tion, in the purest taste. those won- understanding : for then he will have derful fragments seem to have been at once the important advantages of preserved expressly for the regenera- wise instruction, practically illustrated tion of art. the world has nothing in by the best examples of modern art, at sculpture of equal value. a time when they will be most effica “we will now suppose your son to cious. during the early period of his have completed his academical labours; studies, he will derive great and lasting completed also the stipulated period of benefits from his access to the schools tuition under the direction of a mas- of the royal academy. in that noble ter, and to have arrived at the com- institution he will have an opportuni- mencement of a new course of study, ty to copy the finest remains of ancient in which, i conclude, you are prepa- sculpture ; he will have the same fa- red to support him,-i mean his tra- alities in the study of the human bo- vels on the continent, in order to be- dy, from choice examples of living na hold with his own eyes those wonders ture; he will hear the lectures of the of genius, which he has hitherto only several professors on painting, sculp- heard of in the reports of artists, or ture, and architecture, and in the li- faintly seen in wretched imitations." brary of that establishment, he will “ it is my determination, sir,” i re- find books and prints of great value, plied, “not to subject myself to the whence he will collect a fund of useful reproach of having withheld any thing ad interesting information on a va that i can command, that shall be re- riety of subjects connected with his commended by you, as either useful or main object.- no doubt,” added he, necessary to the honourable termina- * you intend your son shall pursue the tion of our united endeavours :- for i art in its highest department—that of consider myself as embarked in the historical painting?" “ certainly,”i same vessel with my son ; at the same replied, “i wish bim-and it is also time, i confess i was not prepared to his ambition, presumptuous as it may expect such an addition to expences, sem, to be the rival of michael an- which, even without it, almost alarm gelo, and of raphael ; and if there me with their probable amount. but, should be others yet more eminent, sir, if travel be necessary, my son shall vol. ix. d on the cultivation and patronage of british art. [april, certainly be enabled to go wherever in “ on quitting italy, the university struction may be found.” of art, he will not hasten direct to his “ sir,” said he, “ the grandeur of native land, but visit the wealth of mountain scenery cannot be conceived genius treasured up in many a conti- by those who have not beheld it with nental city. germany can boast of their own eyes. the vast expanse of numerous collections that must not be the ocean produces an effect on the passed unexamined. belgium, too, may mind of the actual observer which be proud of its rembrandt and reu- mocks all the powers of description. bens, whose extraordinary productions equally inconceivable are the mighty claim the admiration of the world. productions of italian genius in times from both of those artists, the judi- past; and to comprehend truly what cious student will derive much; and is there shewn to be within the grasp his taste having been purified in high- of human capacity, nothing short of er schools, he will know at once how ocular evidence will suffice. it is to separate what is of an exquisite qua- possible to believe what is extraordi- lity from what is base, and leave those nary without sensible proof, but such great but dangerous examples, enrich- credulity has nothing of the life of con- ed by their beauties, and, at the same viction ; besides, it is the sight, not time, untainted by their faults. the report of great works, by which we “ arrived at length in the bosom of are at once animated and instructed; his much-loved country, he presents your son, sir, must go and view the himself before a delighted parent, full stupendous labours of michael ange- of gratitude for the innumerable bene- lo, in the sestine chapel ; he must ac- fits which he has received through his tually behold the enchantments of the means, and eager to prove that the af- vatican, and indeed, all that the im- fection he had experienced, had not perial city contains of the divine ra- been unworthily placed.”. phael, and especially that miracle of here the artist paused: having, ashe art, and last of his labours on earth, conceived, fully complied with my re- the transfiguration. quest. i therefore politely expressed “at rome, your enraptured sod will my acknowledgments for his great revel in the luxuries of art; he will kindness, and added, that i hoped, and quaff the beverage of inspiration, and indeed confidently trusted, he would lave his faculties in the purest waters have the satisfaction of witnessing the of genius, issuing from innumerable excellence of his instructions in the fountains. although the pontifical example of my dear son, who should city will be the chief, it will not be his certainly follow them to the very lets only school. naples is rich in art; ter. “but lest i might by any un- but in the romantic, the grand, and fortunate accident," i added, “ be de- beautiful scenery of nature, it is, with prived of an opportunity of consulting its surrounding vicinity, a region of you on his return from the continent, wonders. florence contains many a Í entreat that you will further oblige gem of purest ray serene;' the con me with your directions as to what stellation of bologna must not be view- steps will be most proper for him to ed by him with a careless eye; the take at his entrance into the world ; miracles of corregio at parma, prove being, it must not be forgotten, hence- that he was indeed also a painter,' forth destined to subsist by the ho- though placed side by side with the nourable employment of the talents most divine of artists. at mantua he with which heaven has blessed him." will be ravished with the pencil of the “ sir,” said the venerable artist, “ i energetic giulio; and at venice, the have lived long, and i know much of glorious works of titian, tintoretti, art, of artists, and what is more, of the and paul veronese, will at once capti- state of public feeling towards both. vate and astonish him. day after day, by this knowledge and experience ! month after month, he will dwell on am happily enabled to give a decided the gorgeous scene: for there alone he answer to your question, which, rely- will see the energetic and grand in ing on your good sense and paternal composition, combined with all that is affection, i am sure will be satisfac- beautiful and splendid in colour, or tory. you are fully sensible of its im- powerful and harmonious in light and portance, and therefore, i request your shade. serious attention.” i assured him, that, .] on the cultivation and patronage of british art. deeply impressed as i was, with the the earth, equally grateful and gene- kind interest which he took in my con- rous, will liberally reward his talents cerns, and convinced of the value of his and his toil:-a return which neither counsel, it was impossible i should be will meet with from the soil on which either inattentive or ungrateful. “in he was born, with no better implement the voyage of life," i added, “our ves- of cultivation than his pencil. there, sel should not only be well prepared, i say, let him dig; there he may get but well conducted, and also our em- wealth, and honour, and furtherinore, barkation well timed; you, sir, who he may be the happy parent of sons no know all the requisites of equipment, less happy than their father: because know also exactly how to chuse the they will neither be tempted by an un- fortunate moment of commencement, fortunate ambition to solicit' the re- the true course, and all that may be wards due to merit, by occupations for hoped and feared in that perilous na- which they may have no talents, nor vigation.” “my counsel,” said he, by excellent talents, for which they “ be assured, shall not fail you.-lis- will find no occupation.". ten, sir, i beseech you. far to the my venerable counsellor now con- south, where the great peninsula of cluded; and being suddenly called africa projects its lofty cape into the away on other business, he apologized ocean, at some distance in the interior, and left me to meditate on the “ de- the provident care of government has cided answer” he had given to my last assigned an extensive tract of beauti- question. how far i thought it pru- ful and fertile land, expressly for the dent to be regulated by his advice, i tre of citizens under particular cir- shall take an early opportunity to in- cumstances.—to that far distant re- form you. in the mean time, gion let your ingenious son, when his i am, sir, your obedient servant, studies in art shall be completed, tran- a. z. sport himself; there let him dig ; british art and patronage. letter second. sir, that genius is more or less intimate- at the close of my former letter, i ly allied to madness, has been long promised to inform you what steps i imagined ; and although that notion pursued in consequence of my inter- may be wholly groundless, i confess view with the venerable person whom the directions i had just received for i lately consulted, respecting my son's the cultivation of talents, intended for desire to embrace the profession of an the highest exertions of art, with their artist. the apparent inconsistency- ultimate application, seemed to coun- not to say absurdity, of that gentle- tenance the general opinion ; and fear- mean's final instructions, must, i am ing that the respectable artist whom i persuaded, have reminded you of the had been consulting, was actually suf- well-known receipt for dressing a cu- fering under that calamity, i thought cumber in perfection: the most re- it advisable to try my fortune again, markable particulars in that process by applying to some other profession- being very similar, which was, that al man, who, though not quite so great after carefully combining a given quan- a genius, might have his intellects un- tity of the sliced fruit, with due por- der better regulation. tions of oil and vinegar, salt, pepper, i accordingly waited upon a gentle- mustard, and other ingredients, the man, whom fame reported to be the whole composition, so prepared for the person exactly suited to my purpose. table, should be thrown out of the win. to him, therefore, i opened my case, dow into the street. indeed his royal produced many specimens of my son's receipt, for preparing and dishing up abilities, as i had done before, and a artist, brought this cucumber-pre- mentioned his passion for the arts, and scription so strongly to my mind, that anxious desire to excel in that depart- i was restrained from smiling in the ment which was accounted the most face of my obliging counsellor, only honourable: on all which his observa- by the earnest and grave manner in tions were in the highest degree satis- which his recommendation was con- factory. perhaps i was blameable, but reged. i thought it only fair to repeat the on the cultivation and patronage of british art. [april, conversation i had just before held than those which his own particular with another artist, and expressed my conceptions of the art required. surprise at the singular conclusion of “ but, sir, though neither the great his instructions, in a way that intima- nor wealthy are here the liberal pa- ted my suspicions as to the deranged trons to whom the arts must look for state of his mental faculty. effective and permanent support, we my new friend, however, seemed are not therefore without patronage. entirely to approve the advice i had though in other countries, and other received, with the exception of the times, the chiefs of the state were, by turn which had been given to its con- rank and inheritance, the protectors of clusion; “ to account for which," he genius, here that duty is confined to no said, " it was not necessary to suppose particular class of society; here every the artist mad; he had only taken citizen, without distinction, male and that mode of discouraging your son's female, young and old, is such a pro- inclination to adopt a profession which tector; and if, comparatively, but few he believed to have neither public nor of the number have their thousands to private patronage in that species of art lavish on deserving merit, they each which the young gentleman seemed to have their mite; and when great acts prefer. that opinion,” continued he, are proposed, what good, and indeed * was no proof of insanity ; it simply what evil, may not be wrought by num- proved an erroneous mode of thinking. bers? if the man of genius may not if the misconception of a fact, or a here be honoured and enriched by the false inference from it, be thought a few, it must be owing to his own per- symptom of derangement, nine-tenths verse and impracticable spirit, if he re- of the world would be in danger of a ceive not those just rewards from the strait-waistcoat. combined liberality of the many. and “when the gentleman consulted by who shall say that the latter is a less you first presented himself to the pub- honourable source of patronage than lic, it is well remembered that few the former? when the arch-patron- men could produce stronger claims upon our country—is deceived in its legiti- its favour and protection. though his mate agents, their duty reverts to the hopes were high, he was not presump- principal, to be performed not by de- tuous; conscious of talents which all legation, but individually. let your acknowledged, he expected only that son therefore, my dear sir, proceed im- nourishing kindness which he concei- mediately, and without fear, to the ved the country owed to its ingenious cultivation of his fine talents, agree- youth, and which alone was wanting ably to the judicious advice you have to enable him to return the favour with already received ; let him have all that immeasureable interest. like many his own country can supply, and then others, he had deceived himself with let him enter the great schools of the accounts of ancient patronage, and continent, and become, as it were, the fondly anticipated no less from what pupil of the most illustrious masters of was proudly called an enlightened and ancient times; nor fear that, on his re- opulent nation; therefore, when the turn, rich in the stores of art, and first tinkling of his bell failed to col- anxious for distinction, he shall be lect around him the legitimate patrons compelled to relinquish both the art of art—the rich and great, his surprise and his country, to dig the earth for and disappointment were exactly what a scurvy subsistence in the wilds of might have been expected from his ig- africa.' norance of the real state of national i could not help taking the advan- feeling towards the object in which he tage of a pause here, to express the was so deeply interested. disheart- pleasure which my friendly counsellor ened by that neglect which he regard- gave me, and the delightful hope his ed as a proof either of public ingrati- interesting communication inspired ; tude, or a general insensibility to the but as he had not clearly explained higher works of genius, after strug, himself concerning the nature of the gling for a time without vigour, and patronage my son was hereafter to ex- consequently without effect, he gra- pect, i requested he would have the dually retired from the public eye, as goodness to describe how, on the corr- if preferring that his excellent talents pletion of his studies, he should pro- should wither and die, rather than ceed, so as to secure to himself those bloom by any other means of culture honours and rich rewards which an .) on the cultivation and patronage of british art. approving and grateful country would short time, his accumulated gains as doubtless be eager in some way to be- mount to a liberal reward for his la- stow. " that is the very point, sir, bour, far exceeding what he could have he replied, “ on which i am proceed- demanded from any single patron. ing to instruct you. i must confess, “ this, sir, is british patronage, a notwithstanding my eulogiums on the kind of protection suited to almost actual state of art, it were much to be every purpose that can be imagined ; desired that the extraordinary merit of but it is the life-blood of modern art, your son should, by its own intrinsic in that high class to which your son excellence, command that deep respect proposes to dedicate his talents. by and universal attention which it will thiskind of patronage, you will remark, certainly deserve, without other effort the artist is not only recompensed on on his part than merely presenting his his first appeal, but his work remains works to the judicious few, whose eir- in his possession, to be either again ex- culated reports might give the tone to hibited after the proper interval, re- public opinion; but when it is found served for the gratification of his fa- ihat this high sanction, however esti- mily, or presented by him to some mable, operating only on a confined public hall, church, or college, there circle, and therefore leading to no pro- to remain a lasting memorial of his ge- dutive glory, is in this case nugatory, nerosity. by this kind of patronage, means, more energetic, must be em- too, the artist, after receiving an im- ployed to move the general body, and portant benefit, is not burthened for tura the current of popular curiosity life by the favours of a single protect- into the desired channel. if that pasa or; he is nobly rewarded, yet he is in- sion for art which would of itself pro- dependent. dace an efficient patronage be want formerly, hospitals, schools, col- ing, it is not the part of wisdom to re- leges, and other useful establishments, pine, but to supply the deficiency by were erected and endowed by the libe- such expedients as our knowledge of rality of certain well-disposed indivi- the world may suggest. that import- duals ; such effects no longer flow from ant duty being, as i have just informe that cause. liberality, however, is ed you, not confined to a class, but not extinguished, it is diffused; pub- shared by the whole community, it is lic institutions are no longer to be re- to the people in the aggregate that the garded as monuments of the munifi- man of genius, who expects either cence of particular persons, but testi- fame or emolument from his labours, monies of the public spirit, actuated must address himself; and the mode by various motives. thus it is, sir, by which that appeal is made, will that our most celebrated artists are readily be conceived by you, sir, when formed, and thus also are they ena- i remind you of the practice of some bled to cover themselves with glory, artists of an inferior order, to whom even in the highest exertions of their you probably have often been a useful, genius ;-even in that elevated line though an unconscious benefactor. which immortalized the names of ra- “ an ingenious man, for instance, phael and michael angelo. in our in quest of matter for his pencil, visits times, sir, no man desires to possess a constantinople, venice, or any other work of this kind produced by his con- renowned city; and wishing to pro- temporary, but every man has just duce an extended representation of it, sufficient curiosity to take a passing he does not, however excellent his ta- glance at such works in a public exhi- lents, wait until some grandee, orbition, and just liberality sufficient to healthy citizen, shall give him a com- comply with the easy conditions on mission for that purpose ;—no, he im- which that hasty glance is to be ob- meliately paints his picture of an tained, and thus what one man, or sea ample size, spreads it on the walls of a veral, cannot be induced to perform, circular edifice, under the name of a thousands, by a voluntary impulse, panorama, and invites all the town to accomplish with ease. do not fear, view his finished work. accordingly, therefore, that your son shall, after gi- all the town crowd to the new spec- ving his admirable talents all the per- tacle, and simply by dropping a slight fection and polish of which they are fee at the door, are improved by his in- capable, be compelled to bury them in formation, and delighted, or at least an african grave dug by himself." anused, by his genius; and thus, in a “ that would be a consummation, on the caltivation and patronage of british art. [april, sir," said i, “ much as i respect the calculated to raise expectation and en- laudable employment of the husband- sure applause. while this prelude is man, i hope never to witness ; nor in- still fresh on the mind, the commence- deed can i persuademyself that it could ment of a 'great work’ is announced, have entered into the views of provi- ' which promises, it is said, ' in dence, after making him so rich a pre- the opinion of the most accomplished sent, to place him where it must be for judges, to be a prodigy of arta work ever concealed from the world. there in which will be seen all the excellen- is nothing, as it appears to me, profes- cics of the most excellent masters of sionally dishonourable, nor derogatory forme rtimes united ;' and much more to genius, either in the open appeal to of the same kind of stimulating intel- public judgment, or the modest claim ligence. these necessary preparations, to public liberality, which you have judiciously varied, must be continued described, although it is true, as you from time to time during the progress acknowledge, the rich meed of praise of the work, which should by no means and profit might be conveyed in a more advance too rapidly; for a production desirable form ; but if the public feel- of this kind should seem to be a moun- ing towards the arts allows of no alter- tainous issue—the effect of a mighty native, the candidates for either must struggle, in which the mind has to submit to the only conditions on which contend with all the toils and all the they can hope to gain them. had the difficulties of a wonderful birth. a arts, as in ancient times, been interwo- nice judgment will neither allow it to ven with the sacred and civil institu- appear before the whole country shall tions of the country, the artists might be inflated with expectation, nor be de- have prescribed their own terms; as it layed till that eager desire be tinctured is, those who engage in a profession, with gall, which may ruin the project. neither popular nor necessary, must “ at this critical moment, sir, the practise it as they find it, and as cir- great desideratum is notoriety, and to cumstances have ordered; all that is attain which, a variety of expedients required of them, is to proceed honest- will suggest themselves to minds that ly and fairly in the performance of that are active and acute. among others, which is in itself fair and honest. it biography should not be neglected. is on that point, sir, i am anxious to the monotonous life of a student pro- be satisfied ; i would fain be inform- mises few materials of interest, yet, in ed,” said i, “ how a youth, whose ta- the hands of an author expert in that lents are unknown to the world, shall department, your son's memoirs, gra- be able to attract the favourable notice ced with his effigy, might be made to of those who are to be his future pa- produce a “powerful sensation' in the trons. the “ stream of popular curi- pages of a periodical register extensive- osity," as you term it, is not to be di- ly circulated. he might find no inci- rected into the“ desired channel” with- dents, no events of importance, but out some previous steps, some active many topics of panegyric-wbich is measures, and of what nature these the thing most needful in the supposed may be, i own i am unable to conceive.” emergency. “ nothing is better known," he repli “ this, however, is only one of the ed, nor more easily made, than that numerous engines that, with more or preparatory arrangement, with all the less effect, the prudent artist will em- measures necessary to ensure the suc- ploy, as opportunities offerin the course cess of such enterprizes. you are an of his labour ; nor, indeed, should they englishman, sir, and therefore know be discontinued as long as fame and that in this country a thousand chan- fortune remain the objects of his am- nels are continually open, by which its bition. the great work is at length whole population are informed of what completed. a shower of notices dis- ever is passing in the world, even to the persed through the town, immediately most minute circumstances. by these declares the day when it will be un- channels, sir, on your son's preparing curtained and placed before the genera! for action, means well known to the eye. that momentous event takes experienced in these matters, are taken, place, whereupon, instantly, every jour- to inform the public of his return from nalist kindly, and, it must be suppo- his continental studies; which notice sed, disinterestedly, undertakes the plea- must be accompanied with such highly sing task of describing the work, and wrought commendations as are best its enthusiastic reception. all the . on the cultivation and patronage of british art. eye.' world, but especially all the great upon them by artificial excitements ; world, are said to have been present, but of the arts of design we know lito when the most rapturous applause tle more than the name. any carpen- dwelt on every tongue, and the most ter may be our architect-painting and exquisite delight sparkled in every sculpture we neither feel nor under- stand; and therefore, had it not been “but though thecommencement has for the admirable contrivances i have been aupicious and favourable be- briefly enumerated, we should not, ex- yond the most sanguine expectations, cepting those who chronicle our faces, the exertions of the ingenious author or perpetuate the remembrance of our are not to stop here, lest the ignorant, if dogs and horses, have had an artist left to themselves, should mar all that amongst us. but with these commande had been done. the publicopinion must ing advantages, all of which are the still be supported, and liberally suppli- inventions of modern ingenuity, and ed with criticisins expressly suited to purely british, i know not what may every class of visitors; so that none not be expected ; especially when time may be deficient, either in a perfect and our well-known zeal for improve knowledge of the subject of the work, ment, shall have developed all the capa- or in terms of appropriate praise. this cities of the system concerning which critical aid, besides imparting instruc- i have something more to add. tion where it may be necessary, will “let us now, sir, imagine that the have the further advantage of counter town-exhibition of your son's inesti- acting the mischievous influence of that mable work is brought to a close, which eavy and malignity which, although must sooner or later, as circumstances they prove its existence, continually shall ordain, take place. not, however, follow to persecute superior merit. in without having frequently alarmed the aldition to what is done by the vehicles public with the formal notice of that of daily intelligence, the town must event, and as frequently announcing also be placarded in every part, and that it would be protracted in compli- locomotive advertisements, in huge ance with the irresistible importuni- characters, mounted upon poles, must ties of unsated multitudes.' but al- wade the stream of population, and though no longer exposed in the me- continually move about from place to tropolis ; and though, if skilfully con- place, during the whole time the work ducted, it must have been greatly pro- is before the public, so that it shall be ductive both in fame and solid emolu- kept in perpetual remembrance. the ment, our patronage is not yet exhaust- wonderous novelty being in this man- ed--the provincial cities cry loudly for ner incessantlyproclaimed in every the same indulgence, and insist upon form and situation, an impulse is given sharing the felicity of the capital, in to the general mind, which never fails, terms so flattering, that the obliging in these particular cases, to supply the artist is utterly unable to refuse his want of native feeling for art so well, consent. the great work being accor- that it is impossible the effect of the dingly removed to its country desti- reality itself should be more complete. nation, the same expedients which i “ this hasty sketch, sir, while it have already mentioned, must be again explains the nature of british patron- resorted to; for although the example age, and shews the manner in which of the metropolis will do much, it will it is used by those who know how to not do all. *after congratulating the employ it to the best advantage, will inhabitants on their approaching hap- give you at least a faint idea of the no- piness, the same course of public an- ble resources of our art, and of its nouncement by the daily prints, and health and strength at the very time street-placards, must be attended to; when most people imagine it to be at and the same critical information dis- the point of death. we are a generous tributed with a bountiful hand, for the people, sir, and expend our money benefit of the rustic circles ; nor should freely upon objects that have our affec- anything be omitted that can either tions. we love horses, and women, excite curiosity, or invigorate admira- and wine, and conviviality, and hunt- tion. when the public ardour is ob- ing, and gambling, and fisty-cuffs, and served to cool in one place, others must sine other praise-worthy matters to be selected; and town-halls, assembly- these, sir, we have a natural attach- rooms, inns, booths, and even barns, leent, and therefore need not be sct are successively honoured in the tem- + on the cultivation and patronage of british art. [april, porary possession of a work declared phael you have named would doubt- by every voice to be the eighth won- less have lost none of their excellence, der of the world !' and thus, sir, would if, when produced, they had been ex- the ball of fortune increase as it roll- posed to the multitude in a booth, and ed.! their author had accepted the contri- “ do not, sir, i pray you,” conti- butions of individuals for the exqui- nued he, “ let this kind of appeal to site feast he had placed before them; the country at large be thought unwor- but the probability is, that, if such had thy of your son's character, either as then been the only mode of rewarding an artist or a gentleman. homer, we the labours of artists, and encouraging are well assured, travelled from town their exertions in the grand style, no to town, reciting or singing the seve such works as the cartoons would have ral portions of his noble poem to his been produced. born among barbarians countrymen, and, doubtless, for the or shopkeepers, with no better incite- two-fold purpose of fame and profit. ments to the talents which heaven had if such a proceeding was not deroga- bestowed upon him than rabble pa- tory to the high character of that an- tronage, and mountebank celebrity, cient bard, the prince and father of his name would never have received poets, much less would the vagrant the addition of divinc, nor would he artist of modern times be disgraced by have left behind him works which, a similar practice. if raphael, less three hundred years after his death, fortunately circumstanced, and born were the admiration of the world. among barbarians or shop-keepers, or “ it is possible, i will allow, that where a shop-keeping spirit pervaded empyricism may subsist, and even all ranks of his fellow-citizens, had thrive by practices upon the folly and been compelled to display his cartoons, ignorance of the world; but the suc- or any other of his incomparable works, cess of the empyrical artist is not the on the walls of a temporary booth; lofty aim of the honourable professor. placing himself at the door to receive because a dexterous impostor can col- in his cap the small fee required of the lect around him a senseless multitude, visitors, would those cartoons have ready with their pence and plaudits, been less worthy of their situation in the man of real talents, modest as he a royal palace than they now are with is meritorious, is not, therefore, to de- a more honourable origin, or the au- file the art of which he is the orna- thor of such works less deserving of our ment, with the unclean practices of respect ?"_“pardon me, sir,” said i, the charlatan ; to drug all the springs hastily, “ the sublime readings or of public intelligence; to blow his horn, chantings of homer in different parts and scatter about his billets, to draw of greece, at a time when the poet al. into his booth a babbling crowd, whose ways recited or sung the inspirations praise is death to the pride of genius, of his muse to assembled crowds, and and whose censure their best commen- when works of literature could not be dation. when such men, urged by ne- circulated by the press, afford no pa- cessity, or misled by sordid advisers, rallel case to the exhibitions of an iti- have descended to these low artifices, nerant artist in these days; and the the offence must always have been re- resemblance will appear still more re- garded as a public and professional mote when it is recollected that we misfortune ; and if the offenders were have no evidence that the bard of an- deserving of pity, still more was it due tiquity took any other means to in- to an art suffering under their inflic- crease and extend his fame than the tions. important benefits, i will ad- simple promulgation of his poems. mit, may accrue from your system of homer, sir, travelled with his budget popular contributions, and many use- of poesy, not as a circulating adven- ful projects be promoted by it; but if, turer, merely to levy contributions on when applied to the arts, it cannot be the ignorant, but as a benefactor to his separated from the multifarious con- country; to delight the lovers of he- trivances of empyricism ; if to estab- roic song, to animate public spirit, and lish and support the reputation of every to improve and exalt the national cha- considerable work submitted to public racter; and for these advantages, be inspection, it is necessary that the art- sides the pleasure of pleasing, just and ist should attach to his service a motley honourable praise was the only reward band of printers, editors, pamphlet he sought. the great works of ra- paragraph and placardeers, as the bell- .] on the cultivation and patronage of british art. men, trumpeters, and jack-puddings of scientious regard to truth ; for, much his train, i fear it will never be myson's as i honour my country, convinced, as happy destiny to add to the glories of i am, that, as a nation, it is brave, our national school. and wise, and generous, and just, be- “in fine, sir, although i cannot act yond all others, i would by no means upon your advice to its full extent, the go so far as to affirm that it cares one infonnation you have so kindly com- rush about the arts; and therefore, municated is most valuable, and enti- sir, if we do not think alike, i believe tled to my best thanks. what course i that difference turns chiefly on the shall pursue with respect to my dear question of expediency, namely, whe- søn, remains to be considered. pos- ther an artist of the rank which your sibly before that great question is set son aspires to, not having the kind of tled, my opinions may alter, but at patronage he might prefer, should lay present i confess i am inclined to the down his profession, or accept of that spade." which offers, and condescend to use it on concluding my animadversions in the only way in which it is found to on what this gentleman had termed be effectual.” british patronage, he smiled, no doubt here we parted. you see, mr at my "erroneous mode of thinking," editor, the dilemma in which i am and too wise to make any reply to ob- left, in consequence of my having un- servations attributed either to igno- fortunately consulted two doctors in- rance or folly, and too polite to resent stead of one. in truth, sir, your good their freedom, very civilly said, - counsel at this moment would be in- “ perhaps, sir, you may be perfectly estimable. “ between two stools,” it right in preferring the spade to the is said, “ the breech often comes to pencil; but as my opinion is not re the ground.” save me, i beseech you, quested on that point, i shall leave it from so unseemly a catastrophe. to be decided by your own good sense. i am, sir, i have answered your questions with your faithful servant, frankness, and, let me add, with a con- a. , british eclogues. no. ii. the mariner's last visit. he hath ta'en farewell of his native stream, and hill and dell; the last long lingering look is given, the shuddering start,-the inward groan, and the pilgrim on his way hath gone. wilson. how beautiful upon this verdant bank the sunshine slumbers ! how the vernal trees expand their foliage fresh and young ! how clear through yonder vale glitters the silver stream! how pleasant 'tis to mark the labouring ploughs traverse the field, and leave a sable track, while merrily behind the driver stalks, whistling in thoughtless vacancy of mind; the small birds, as it were a holiday, sing forth, with carol sweet, from every bough ; and larks, ascending to the clear blue sky, suffuse the air with music. none can feel but those, above whose head misfortune's clouds have muster'd in their gloom, how sweet it is, thus, after long years spent in the rough world, 'mid scenes, in which affection has small share, to stand, as i do now, and gaze upon the landscape, graven on the youthful mind in all its beauty ; render'd far more dear vol. ix. e british eclogues. no. ii. [april, by thousand thoughts with boyhood's glowing years close intertwined, and thus remaining still, heedless of all the tempests that have pass'd, in sunshine, and in vernal beauty dress’d. and thou, lone church-yard, with thy yew-trees dark, the children of departed centuries, often, in absence, have i seen thy sward with mountain daisies, and with natural blooms prank'd sweetly; these white monumental stones, and that retired and unassuming church, which, like a pious man, amid the mob of cities, and the bustle of the world, dwells in the beauty of its holiness, untainted, undefiled.-oh, quiet spot! how often have my visions pictured thee ! how often have i deem'd that, when at length these eyes shall in their mortal slumbers close, here-here, above all other spots of earth, my body would take up its last abode ; no marvel ! --but be still my throbbing heart; be tranquil, and resign'd :-now to my task. green sward, that in thy bosom hidest deep the form, that never more can bless mine eyes again ;--with bursting heart, and tearful gazé, i stand with thee; and, on the iron rails that compass thee about, i, leaning, inuse upon my past, and ship-wreck'd happiness. oh where art thou, the dove, that, to mine ark, brought duly home the olive-bough of peace ? oh where art thou, of whom in youth i dream'd (nor erring in my thought,) that, without thee, this world could be a mockery alone, a scene of desolation, cold and bleak, and cheerless, as the everlasting gloom of hyperborean realms?- elizabeth! dear name that, now, art but an empty sound, and hast, at least for my deluded heart, no meaning, save that for a talisman it served me once, and turn'd all thoughts to joy! when thou wert drooping on thy death-bed laid, and sickness like a demon haunted thee, turning all feelings, and all thoughts to pain, i was not near to hang beside thy couch in tenderness, and in anxiety; to sooth the unrepining ills ; to press thy hand against my lips, and tell that all my hopes of happiness on earth were fix'd in thee! to mention o'er the many happy scenes which we have view'a together; and to say, surely the same might be enjoy'd again! i was not near to watch, in tenderness, life's fluttering, dying spark; to mark the set of thy too rapid day's descending sun; to catch thy latest sigh; and bid thee hear, that though on earth a thousand yes were mine, one only love my heart would ever own! when last left my home, what wert thou then? a very picture of all loveliness :- the glow of health play'd on the varying cheek, .). the mariner's last visit. and round thy ruby lips ; thy hazel eye, through its long silken lashes, sparkled bright; and i have gazed upon thy snowy brow; and on the brightness of thine auburn hair ; and thought ('twas but a dream,) that many days of joy—and sunshine--and prosperity- would bless thee, and that thy reflected smile, through many years, would make me blest indeed. in hope we parted ;='twas a summer eve, and the long lines of the decaying light fell sombrely upon the crimson'd trees; and, ever and anon, a murmuring sound rose from the falling stream. the blackbird, perch'd on the tall sycamore, its pensive hymn chaunted to usher in the shades of eve. yea! even then, as the last lingering look i fix'd on thee, departing, something pass'd as if a shadow-o'er my drooping heart, to omen that i ne'er should see thee more! amid the flap of the distending sails, mid social converse, and the roar of waves, and the long vista of the ocean green, and the blue beauty of receding isles, i strove to overcome my sinking heart, and hush my fears to peace. yet, often-times, as coastways we pursued, and cape and bay alternately appeared, and pass'd behind; while soar'd the sea-gull with a wailing shriek, my gaze hath westward follow'd it, and wish'd what fondness will not lovers when they love ! that it could bear a blessing unto thee, and bring me thine, returning. months pass'd o'er; time with a healing touch did salve my fears ; and friendship wooed me through the livelong day: yet, oft-times, when i paced the midnight deck, and, save the murmuring billows, all was still; when plaintively, amid the cordage, piped the loud-breath'd winds, and, twinkling overhead, ten thousand lustres studded the blue arch, elizabeth, my thoughts did wander home, – to thee they stray'd, they dwelt on thee alone! i thought me of our sweet autumnal walks by the green wood, or o'er the yellow sands; of our long cherish'd, and unfaded love; of the vows pledg'd in early youth :- i thought- alas! it was a mockery of hope ! that, when again our keel did touch the strand of scotland, i should clasp thee in the flush of beauty, and should hail my wedded wife! long on the indian strand our steps delay'd ; and i (for still a supernatural dread did haunt me night and day !) did pine in heart, yea long to traverse the wide seas again, to brave the adverse elements, and thus from these external impulses subdue the agitations of the heart; we plough'd month after month the interminable main, saw but the sun, and sky, and the long clouds that sometimes floated o'er the hemisphere, british eclogues. no. ii. [april, and pass'd beneath the horizon; sometimes too,- i loved the sight-a lightning sheet would gila the pale front of the evening sky, and come with bright reiteration suddenly.-- sometimes the watery pillar, huge and vast, touching the clouds, and walking on the sea, approach'd us like a giant, to enwrap our vessel, and o'erwhelm us-till the ball sent from the cannon's throat did pierce its side, and the whole mass, a deluge, thundering fell. any thing—any thing that broke the calm, and caused a moment's thought, was dear to me, for my heart's load it lighten'd. day by day, i strove to comfort me, i strove to dash the mantle of despondency, that wrapt my thoughts in gloom, aside; yet, even then, i sometimes deem'd, that i should find thee well, and happy; and that thus my heavy fears, like clouds, would melt in that clear heaven of joy ; that would o'erarch my soul at meeting thee! oh! who shall tell my bosom's agony, - words cannot paint it-language is in vain- the misery, that like the fiery bolt, did fall; and, with an overwhelming sweep, pass'd through, and sear’d my unresisting heart ! when, scarcely had our keen prow touched the strand, then to my fond inquiry,- h, dread fate!- i heard that shou wert in the land of rest!! stunn'd to the soul,--and stupified,—and drugg’d to misery, and to loathing, with this draught from grief's most bitter chalice, for a while, beyond the sway of reason i did lie ; and said not-heard not-heeded not; the sun shone not for me; the summer of my life was wasted-wither’d, as by magic spell, into the leafless bough, and frosty wind ! as stills the tempest of a winter day into a sombre shade, a gloomy calm, so hath the hurricane, that rent my heart, wasted its foree, yet only left behind ruins, and all the silence of despair; and i have come, this once, before i leave this land for ever, thus to throw me down upon thy grave,—this green and silent grave, lose for an hour the manhood of my soul, and weep in solitude and bitterness. lo!'tis the crimson sun, whose western rays burn on the wall: i must away-away: farewell! already are our sails unfurl'd, and, flapping, woo the breeze to bear us on: farewell! oh dim, and silent field of graves! my native land, farewell !now to the sea; and then a wild and desolate abode, in lands unknown,- upon soine woody isle, upon the other sidc of this round world ! . ) on the neglect of foote as a dramatic writer. on the neglect of foote as a dramatic writer. it is, perhaps, one of the best signs of cation of tasteful bankers' clerks, and the literary taste of the day, that what shrewd cabinet-makers' apprentices. has been oddly called “ the careless- those plays which, at their first co- ness of mr warburton's servant,” but ming out, happen to have the longest which ought to be styled the carelesse run, are the most approved stock-plays. ness of mr warburton himself, could nor is it, in all probability, ever ad- scarcely occur at present. four manu- verted to, that peculiar circumstances, script plays of beaumont and fletcher unconnected with the intrinsic merits would not now be thrust into thedrawer of the piece, often combine to alter and to which the cook-maid was accustom- influence the test of approval. who ed to come for singeing paper. nay, if does not know that political feelings in- they were, i am by no means sure that duced both tories and whigs to en- "cooky” might not smell roast-meat, deavour to out-nuise each other in clap- and have some idea, that documents ping addison's cato ? and who does with such names affixed, might haply not know that a better play, brookes' be something better than mere“ pal- gustavus vasa, was in a manner sup- try blurred sheets of paper.” thanks pressed from the same cause? foote to the universal diffusion of reviews, is, perhaps, of the more modern dra- magazines, and newspapers, and tó matic writers, the one who has been the public writers who have, of late, most flagrantly neglected by the pub- so successfully laboured to re-open lic, certainly not for the causes which those " wells of pure english undefi- have been enumerated, but for causes led,” the dramatists of the elizabethan that ought not to have been efficient. age, the true augustan age of english it is, no doubt true, that the judg- literature, the satire of “ high life ment of the public is, in the long run, below stairs" has, so far, evaporated. never wrong. but then it is in the if mrs kitty, my lady's lady, or mr long run. there lies the mischief- philip, my lord's gentleman, be asked, for certain it is, that the public is not now a days, “who wrote shikspur," seldom most dreadfully tardy in coming the answer will not be “ ben jon- to the right decision. in the mean- son.” yet, at the time when the farce time, all sorts of vagaries are played was written, i suspect the bolt might off, at the expence of the poor author sometimes take effect in quarters much or projector. that is the way, to be above the intention of the author. the sure, in chancery—and why art thou early dramatists, however, ought not “ my public," it may be said with exelusively to occupy this salutary re- the many heads, to be less dubitant trospection. at the same time that the and circumlocutory, than the single “ reading public” (a phrase which ex noddle of the “ keeper of the king's cites such wonderment in mr cole- conscience?”. be it as it may; there ridge,) is dieted upon new editions of are many things, besides the writings ford, massinger, shirley,and marlow, of foote, to which thou hast yet, one it would be well if some critic would way or other, to do justice. for in- now and then oblige the play-going stance there is mr kean, calied “ public, and reform and re-edite the dignified,” because he is five feet five managerial lists of what are technically inches high ; and decried as ungentle- called “ stock-plays.” these lists are manly, because he does not make othel- of no little consequence; and, being the lo as strutting and as stiff as a gold stick sole work of managers of theatres, are, at court, or a herald at a coronation ; for the most part, compiled in the most then, scottish airs, with burns' verses absurd manner. this is natural enough to them, are styled “ vulgar," whilst -but the evil is not less on that ac- songs about“ roses” and “posies,” are count. the omission from these lists encored in the same breath. nay, is a sort of negative stamp of inferiori- fiddlers call avison on musical ex- ty; and with this stigma upon their pression, a profound and explanatory beads, plays slide out of remembrance book, and nobody contradicts them. it without the chance of appeal to the 'is downright heresy to think that a man matured judgment of the public, whilst may not write beiter english, for ha- others, of not half the value, are preser- ving his hearl stuffed full of greek and ved, and acted, and read, and publish- i atin idioms. don juan is recom- ed in sixpenny editions, for the edifi- mended to the notice of the society for un- on the neglect of foote as a dramatic writer. [april, the suppression of vice, by those who of any feeling but that of self-interest, passed over beppo, as one of the plea- makes no scruple of exciting the laugh- santest light productions of the time; ter of an andience by outraging the and boswell is laughed at and abused feelings of another. there is a sub- by everybody, as an egotist and an ab- dued ease and scholarlike elegance in surd fellow, for having written one of his diction, which no occasion ever the most valuable and interesting books tempts him to desert. the gentleman in the english language. lastly,for is never sunk in the satirist, nor the the list gets long-the subject of the man of education in the droll. his present paper, foote, passes with the wit is not often licentious, nor ever many, as a man of disreputable charac- gross. it has always the air of being ter, who had a sort of knack at writing suppressed rather than forced, his libellous farces. thoughts, if they did not flow easily, various causes have united to pro- seem to have been systematically re- duce the low estimation in which the jected ; and he appears to have resol- writings of foote are held. amongst ved not to say anything, however keen, these, the enmity of dr johnson, as which could not be said with a grace- displayed in the entertaining volumes ful and unperturbed propriety-such before referred to, was not one of the is the style of foote. if he was a buf, least. foote complained, and justly, foon in conversation, he certainly is of the crabbed moralist's harsh and not so in literature. that he was a contemptuous way of speaking of him, buffoon at all, i must be permitted to and had he, in return, exhibited the doubt. the strong prejudice against uncouth censor on the stage, it certain- him, which his writings were no doubt ly would not have been the most un- calculated to excite, has probably left provoked of his outrages on private a load upon his memory, at once un- feelings. he has been called the eng- deserved and irremediable. that this lish aristophanes. the greek wit, has been the case with many others however, actually caricatured socrates is undeniable. boccacio passes for a on the athenian boards, and that with- mere profligate; hobbes, foran atheist; out any provocation at all. it would priestley, for a deist; and machiavel for be useless to deny, that the personali, a fiend. with what reason, let those ties which gave temporary attractions who are familiar with their works bear to the drainas of foote, were in the witness. highest degree reprehensible. still, it some jacobin wit-probably on the must be granted that these pieces em- hustingsat covent-garden-has assert- body a vein of wit, a natural display ed, that the best sample of english go. of character, and an elegance of style, vernment was to be found within the which should ensure them readers, rules of the king's bench-and of eng- long after the immediate personal lish prosperity at the settlement of bo- causes of attraction have been forgot- tany-bay. it is, perhaps, equally odd, ten. and quite as true, to say that some of sarnuel foote is the prince of the the best specimens of moral satire and lighter dramatists. he is in the dra- of english style, are to be selected from ma what butler is in epic poetry. he the dramas of foote. the personal is the most elegant of farce-writers. eccentricities upon which many of his there cannot be a greater contrast than characters more or less depend ; and that of his style and the style of o'- which, at first, were perhaps their keefe, whose farces are, after all, the principal attraction, have ultimately most popular on the english stage. been their greatest injury. thus the writings of the irishman, full of « return the ingredients of the poison'd the richest, although most extravagant chalice humour, are altogether slovenly and to our own lips- inelegant. the coarseness of the dia- that his characters, however, included logue is only carried through by the the representation of individual parti- continued and intense exhibition of the cularities and obliquities, ought not to ludicrous; as the rough etchings of detract from their other merits. they hogarth are redeemed by the force of are singular, but still faithful represen- the expression. on the contrary, the tations of human nature. the talent style of foote is the last in the world which seized and delineated their su. to give the reader the idea of a licen- perficial peculiarities, has not omitted tious buffoon, who, himself destitute to embody that substratum of natural .] on the neglect of foote as a dramatic writer. sentiment and feeling, which is com- finished. it stuck at five and forty ; mon to our experience, and which i, charmed with the picture, and piqued « comes home to our business and our at the people--a-going at five and forty bosoms." who knows but that ham- -nobody more than five and forty let, that natural yet almost inexplica pray, ladies and gentlemen, look at this ble mixture of passion and reflection ; piece-quite flesh and blood, and only or that shallow, or that falstaff, or wants a touch from the torch of pro- that overreach, or that volponè, or that metheus to start from the canvass, and mr hardcastle, or, to quit the drama, fall a-bidding !-ageneral plaudit en- that parson adams, or trulliber, or sued; i bowed, and in three minutes morgan, or whiffle, or pallet, or pau- knocked it down at sixty-three, ten.” lus pleydell, esq. ; was drawn from “ that (observes sir george) was a some individual, in the author's eye, stroke at least equal to your master." at the very time of his writing ? who “o dear me! you did not know that does not know that some of these cha- great man; alike in every thing; he racters were so drawn? yet this does had as much to say upon a ribbon as a not detract from their general interest raphael.-his manner was inimitably and acknowledged merit, nor ought it fine. i remember they took him off at to do so. foote's disadvantage is, that the play-house some time ago ;-plea- the public knew the individuals from sant,-but wrong. public characters whom he drew, in the other cases this are not to be sported with—they are was known only to the author. sacred. but we lose time. there will it has happened to foote, as to many be a world of company. i shall please other dramatic writers, that those of his you but the great nicety of our art pieces which keep possession of the is the eye. mark how mine skims stage are by no means his best. in the round the room. some bidders are mayor of garrat, sturgeon and sneak, shy, and advance only with a nod; but though sufficiently laughable, are i nail them. one, two, three-four coarse caricatures, and the lyar is five ; you will be surprised-ha ha! perhaps carried off more by the spright- heigh-hó!” mrs cole is a powerful liness of the action, than by originality though somewhat coarse delineation of of character or humour of dialogue. one of those strange jumbles of the it has always appeared to me that the flesh and the spirit, half repentance minor is his best acting play; although and half vice; half hypocrisy, half some other of his pieces undoubtedly fear; half cant, half feeling-which contain characters more artfully drawn the early and more fanatical days of than the best in this comedy, excellent methodism produced. the composi- as they are. it is impossible that any tion is a most unaccountable one, and scene can be more amusing-more air. when loader the black-leg exclaims ily hit off-than that in which shift “may i lose a deal with an honour'at personates mr smirk. nor does it at bottom, if old moll does not bring the all detract from the pleasure of the tears into my eyes,” we feel it is im- reader to be told that smirk was drawn possible that the heterogeneous can be from the celebrated mr cock the auc- carried further. tioneer. the absurd self-importance, the farce of taste is a happy effort. whim, and flippancy, will always tell, garrick's lethe, which is something whether cock, smirk, or shift be the similar, as to the species of satire, is vehicle. his panegyric on his prede- not to be compared to it. foote never cessor mr prig cannot itself be too let the antiquaries and virtuosi alone ; much panegyrized. it may be a bur- and he has here added hit after hit lesque, but the tints, though rather to his numerous catalogue, at which, more vivid, are little less delicate than though they are repeated in almost those of nature. it is to the truth, every variety of form, it is difficult what the solar is to the lunar rainbow. to refuse a smile. when the mock his account of his own rise is not less “mynheer baron de groningen" asks whimsical and spirited. “one flower," novice of his bust, “but where is de says he, “ flounced involuntarily from nose ?" the replication of the irritated me that day, as i may say. i remem- connoisseur is what a frenchman would ber dr trifle called it enthusiastic, and call superb. “ the nose ! what care i pronounced it a presage to my future for the nose? where is de nose !-why, greatness.-the lot was guido; a sir, if it had a nose, i would not give single figure; a marvellous fine per- sixpence for it. how the devil should formance, well preserved and highly we distinguish the works of the an- on the neglect of foote as a dramatic writer. [april, cients, if they were perfect? the nose, pardons for making his grace wait, but indeed, --why i don't suppose now but, his grace knows my misfor-" the barring the nose, roubiliac could cut concluding scenes, in which they plead as good a head, every whit.--brush, as they think before the sergeant's gown -who is this man, with his nose?” and wig, whilst he himself is hidden “ the commissary” is another good under them; and in which the knight acting play, and was, i believe, for and the lawyer make each other tipsey many years very popular. the story with such ludicrous success, are not of “the patron" has been more than easy to be outdone. once dramatized in english. tobin it would be tedious to particularize left a farce on the same subject, which, further. the genius of foote, like that however, is much inferior to foote's. of all other writers of farces, and many sir thomas lofty, the patron, is de- writers of comedies, sometimes runs picted with great truth: and rust, the wild, and deviates into downright ex- old antiquary, who falls in love because travagance. sir peter pepperpot's ac- the lady's nose is turned up like that count of his getting a turtle down to of the bust of the empress poppæa, one of his boroughs, at election time, “the chaste moiety of the umiable nero,” by putting on it a capuchin, and taking is very amusing. it has always appear. it a seat in the fly, though it is hardly ed to me, however, that the characters possible to read it with gravity, is a in which he has been most successful glaring instance. his names, like those are sir luke limp, in the lame lo- oftheauthorof waverley, though some- ver, and sir christopher cripple, in the times a little too ludicrous, have always maid of bath. he seems to have write a happiness about them. we have ten them in order to display his own “ the part of othello by lord catas acting, after the misfortune of his bro- trophe's butler,”—“lord gorman's ken limb, and exhibit that nicely ba- fat cook,”—“mynheer vancaper, the lanced union of humour, licentiousness, dutch figuredancer at the opera-house cleverness, and absurdity, in which he in the haymarket;" and we are told delighted. that his own character was of the match between the marquis of of this cast there is no doubt; and they cully and fanny flipflap, the french are evidently written con amore. sir dancer.” luke limp (“ not to speak it pro his “ trip to calais” does him least fanely”) is in farce, very much what honour. the piece itself is indifferent, hamlet is in tragedy, and falstaff in and the transactions to which it gave comedy. at once attractive, odd, cle. rise, to say the truth, had better be left ver, weak, and vain : in short, a natu- in the cloud which envelopes them. ral, and yet rather inexplicable, com- the attack upon the duchess of position. his halting activity is not kingston was decidedly the most un. his worst part. he has “a thousand fortunate action of his unguarded and things to do, for half a million of volatile life. in that unaccountable people,-positively. promised to pro- woman he met with his match. lady cure a husband for lady cicely sulky, kitty crocodile was, in the end, too and match a coach horse for brigadier hard for him. his laxity of principle whip; after that, must run into the could not contend against her entire city to borrow a thousand for young disregard of it; and to her vindictive atall at almack's; send a cheshire intrigues was owing the prosecution cheese, by the stage, to sir timothy which is thought to have shortened tankard, in suffolk, and get at the his days. that it did so, is a proof herald's office a coat of arms to clap that he was possessed of strong feel- on the coach of billy bengal, a nabob ings, although they might not always newly arrived : so you see (he adds) i have been excited when they ought. have not a moment to lose.” nothing, with all his knowledge of the world, in farce, can be better than his sbifts it would seem that he attained to know to change his engagements, when he only by bitter experience “ furens is invited to dinner, first by sir gre- quid foemina possit.” gory goose, then by lord brentford, in a notice of foote’s works, it would and lastly, by his grace the duke be unpardonable to omit mentioning of —~, whose title he never waits to his excellent “ comic theatre from have repeated—“ grace where is he, the french.” there is not room, how- where - but scuttles out, after he ever, to do more than mention it. has got lord brentford's engagement disposed of, with“ i beg ten thousand t. d. .] horæ danicæ. no. v. hora danice. no. v. masaniello ; a tragedy. by b. s. ingeman. kiobenhavn. . of the tragedies of ingeman, so far example of the modifying, conferring, as we can learn, no translation has yet and creative power of genius ;-for in appeared in this country; nor indeed masaniello's character, there was but have we ever observed his name no- little to tempt the poet. he was a ticed by any of our pretenders to fo- fisherman of the lowest class at naples, reign scholarship. one of his plays-- who, as if supernaturally strengthen- but one only—“ the shepherd of ed, headed an insurrection of, we be- tolosa") has been rendered very faith- lieve, not fewer than , men, fully into german ; and if we mistake about the year , and, after a tu- not, a version of the “ blanca," by an multuous career of ten or twelve days, english gentleman, has been printed was killed in an accidental skirmish. at rome; but we have not seen it, nor ingeman, however, has imparted to do we know even the translator's name. his hero all those attributes most likely to such readers, therefore, as may be' to render him interesting. he has umacquainted with the fame of inge- drawn him as a husband and a father, man, it may be proper to observe, that-finely contrasted him with genuino, he is yet but a young man, from whose a hypocritical priest, and with pe- riper genius much may be expected. ronne, a robber,--and finally, has as- his first long work was a metrical ro cribed to him those gifts of imagi- mance, entitled the “ black knights,” nation, and independent energies of (one of the best of its class) which ap- soul, which a poet only could evince ; peared in . mere roinance, how- -gifts, indeed, which, as if to prove ever, whether in verse or prose, was their divine origin, are sometimes found not so suitable to his genius as drama- in individuals to whom fortune has tic composition; accordingly, in denied every external advantage ; appeared his “blanca” and “masa- while, in the abodes of wealth, luxury, niello," which (as our friend counsellor and splendour, they are sought for in hell observes) excited a “ furor” of vain. what we chiefly regret, with applause among the copenhageners. regard to ingeman's style, is, that these were quickly followed by the there are no lookings abroad on na- " lion knight and the “shepherd ture,”-no blendings of the magnifi- of tolosa," which appeared in . cent scenery of naples with delineation since that time, mr ingeman has been of the mind's internal conflicts. here, not merely resting on his laurels, but again, ingeman, like oehlanschlager, sedulously improving his mind by tra- is unfavourably contrasted with some of fels in italy, and by tranquil and la- the modern writers of germany; but, borious study, of which the fruits may perhaps, he was led into this error by soon be looked for. of the four regu- his italian studies. it may not be im- lar tragedies already mentioned, his probable, that he took alfieri for a countrymen are not determined which model, in whom no one mood of mind deserves the preference at present, or frame seems ever to have been ex- associations, which will probably oc- cited, that might not have existed as cur to our readers, have led us to well in a crowded theatre, as on the “masaniello," of whose real history most romantic spot of the neapolitan a long prefatory memoir might be shore, fanned by the softest breezes, given, but we have not for some time and illuminated by the loveliest sun- looked into giraffi, or his translator gleams. but enough of these remarks. howell.-in their entertaining his. the play before us is long, and our tory, every, circumstance, however prefatory notice ought therefore to be minute, is detailed,-but luckily the concise. mere outline of the story will be suf we pass over even without analysis ficient for the clear understanding and some of the introductory scenes. the duc appreciation of the work before play opens with a view of the bay of .-we have here, indeed, a foreible naples. masaniello is leaningona ruin- . vol. ix. f horæ danicæ no. v. [april, ed fountain on one side of the stage, the present state of public affairs, and on the other is his cottage. he is discon- to prevail on him to make some change tentedly murmuring some stanzas of a in his mode of government. the third revolutionary ballad, which lead to a scene brings again masaniello before us. confused disputation with his brother heis still dwelling on the revolutionary lazaroni, varied by interruptions of ballad which he had before sung ; and the monk genuino, the robber peronne, with his first soliloquy we shall begin a physician, &c. &c.; but the assem our extracts. our readers may think blage is instantly dispersed on the ap- (and with justice) that the style here pearance of one of the magistrates, is low-toned ;-but the author must whom masaniello always stigmatizes not be accused of “missing a mark at with the name of oppressors, or execu which he had not aimed.”-his inten- tioners. the second scene presents a long tion through the scenes where masa- dialogue between the viceroy (duke niello appears in the first act, was na- of arcos) and filmarino, a venerable turally to delineate the thoughts of a archbishop, in which the latter endea- poor and uneducated fisherman. vours to gain the duke's attention to (masaniello, alone, and mending his nets.) how strange !-whene'er i thus am left alone, that song revives,—and yet, as by some spell, mysterious bound, i cannot bring to mind its tragic end !- what influence thus hath changed me?- scarcely can i remember who i am !-- there was a time, when first i wove this net, i thought but of the profits it might gain to gladden laura's and the children's hearts ! now doth it seem, as if a voice from heaven said," follow me, and think of trade no more. a fisher, henceforth, shalt thou be-of men !" yet still along the accustom'd path i tread, disturb’d indeed and anxious ;-yet i move within the wonted circle, weave again this net-work when 'tis broken,-and at eve lay myself down to rest,—though sleep indeed flies from me, and the waking dreamer scorns. ha! cursed inaction !-indolence that longs for rest, upon the ocean's troubled wave, when wreck awaits the vessel ! yet, alas ! what can i do?-oh gracious heaven! if sleep indeed falls on me, wake me with thy thunder ; or if i wake not,--with thy lightening's glare, point out my path of duty, or destroy me! “ i for the avenging scourge of heaven am chosen !" so genuino spoke and so indeed, mine own disquiet every moment tells me yet am i undecided still- nor know which way to turn. full gladly would i go, and prostrate fall before king philip's throne, and tell the story of our miseries. but thither have our executioners barr'd all approach-well— let us then complain before the throne of heaven - this is indeed a holiday or should be so-yet seems a work-day-bells at a distance.) yet, hear now!-how sweet that sound ! 'tis the church bells !—this only consolation our tyrants cannot us deny. my laura ! good-pious-simple-hearted! thou art gone already with thy children reverently to join in praise of god-thither at last, .] masaniello—a tragedy. if earth should burn beneath our feet, can we still fly for refuge. (choir of monks, without.) te summe rogamus pater ! - ut corda nostra suscites- ut vere possint credere johannis testimonio, &c. masan. i hear the slow procession nearer move, i hear the solemn hymns rise through the stilly air, banishing from our bosoms earthly cares, and leaving them for heavenly raptures free ! thus, for a space, my country, may thy wrongs and sufferings be forgot. choir of people (without.) st johannes lovet være, at han vidne vilde bære, om den frelse som er nær, &c. &c. masan. so powerfully those notes attract me, i too, with the band of pious souls must join, and pray to heaven, whose aid can rescue us, even if we stood on the dread brink of hell. our voices here can reach beyond the starry spheres. - from prayer the powers of darkness cannot all withhold us.- [he is about to go, when the music suddenly ceases.--a great tumult, with shrieks of terror and lamentation, is heard without ; and laura soon after rushes in, pale and dishevelled, with her children in her arms.] laura. oh, heaven !-masaniello ! masan. what a shriek ! thou tremblest, and art deadly pale! people (without.) woe! woe! -- oh miserable day masan. tell me, i pray-. for heaven's sake, what has happened ? laura. where on earth is peace or rest, if thus the sanctuary may be profaned ?--if in the holiest place violence assails us? masan. apprehensions dread o'ercome me.-yet, it surely cannot be impossible! the tyrant could not venture ! laura. ay, he has more than ventured all thou fear st. - with impious force and worldly power defied us profaned the holy spirit ! masan. this is then thy thunderbolt, oh heaven ! and i awake! laura. full reverently, a peaceful band we went,- priests, -old men,-women, and our little ones, to solemnize this anniversary of blest st john. then suddenly there came a band of horsemen on us, even like wolves, bloodthirsty, on a harmless flock.—they spared nor priests, nor women ;--shamefully they us'd us :- even cast on earth the church's holiest emblems; dispersed the crowd with unrelenting blows, and horrid imprecations. all the while, our haughty nobles urged them on :-"strike ! strike !" they cried," and spare not! tread them under foot ! hora danicre. no. v. [april, for this is the command of royal arcos !"- we fled in terror; our poor children here, within an hair's breadth of their horses' feet, almost were crushed. children (weeping.) oh, father, father,-save us ! the cruel, fearful men! masan. (with frightful composure.) it is resolved ! now do i know the path which i must climb: laura, go cast that net into the fire, henceforth our wonted toil is at an end. laura. why glare thine eyes so fiercely? oh be calm ! why clench thy hand and knit thy brows so sternly? what would'st thou do? these men indeed were hirelings, and but fulfill’d their duty. masan. this i know : my vengeance is not aim'd at them. a child alone is angry with the rod that struck him: i crush the arm who wielded it. laura. oh heaven! masaniello, art thou then insane? one word presumptuous now, would cost thy life. masan. with words indeed i shall not rest contented now let me go ! laura. again i say, what would'st thou ? thy looks are terrible.-so have i ne'er beheld thee till this day. masan. 'tis true-till now thou saw'st me not awake i was a dreamer ; now first i know myself—i am indeed but a poor fisherman: a man of might, and dignity is held our duke of arcos- but i am the avenging scourge of heaven! (he rushes out.) laura. ye saints protect us! never till this hour his eyes have rolld so wildly.—now the fire has broken forth, that i so long have striven within his bosom to repress: the flame now fiercely rages—and my words, alas ! unwittingly have fann'd it into fury! we have said that the language in mysteries of their own profession, pe- the preceding scene is but tame; but ronne giving lessons to his less expe- this was at the commencement of the rienced comrade. their conversation, play, in all probability, systematically which oceupies six pages, takes place intended by the author, and it will be in the interior of a church, where they found, that the style improves as the walk aside, when masaniello again ap- action advances.- the next scene ex pears, and watch him while he utters hibits two robbers, peronne and pietro, the following prayer or soliloquy:- who hold a spirited dialogue on the masan. now do i know my duty, heavenly father! i have not woke in vain! i know at last, who is masaniello! but if woe or happiness, my portion is appointed, thou only know'st! to guard thy sanctuary, place me even like a tower of strength; or change thy servant to a sword of wrath, to strike where'er thou mark'st thy victims ;--and when thus my duty is fulfill’d, i gladly die! but all alone, i cannot here succeed : oh granit me then assistance! hither send spirits of death and murder, for blest angels .] masaniello-a tragedy. where wickedness so foully taints the air, would ne'er descend. therefore from realms accurs’d, send if thou wilt a demon of destruction ! - but hear my solemn vows:-if i in vain have thus been chosen,-if i from duty shrink, nor hope nor succour then be mine! ['claim fit punishment-eternal condemnation ! (he rises from the altar,--stands silently, and looking wildly forward.) peronne ( drawing nearer.) why starest thou thus into the va- cant air ? would'st thou catch motes that in the sunbeams play? or strivest thou here with angels, while on earth, to make acquaintance ? pietro. nay, disturb him not; he prays. if he beholds an angel's form, let him not look on thine. he cannot choose, but deem thou art a devil. peronne. flattering words !- ho, friend, what see'st thou there?-he stands unmoved, and speechless as a statue ; yet, one way remains to rouse him. (strikes him on the shoulder.) comrade! art thou dumb ? masan. (with cold sternness.) by heaven, the wretched state i shall restore ! it shall be free,-if on the scaffold i should perish! - (peronne laughs at him scornfully.) laugh'st thou ?-if all hell should laugh, my purpose were unchanged-it shall be so! peron. (scornfully.) a humorous brother this !- thou speak’st indeed beyond thyself-look at thy garments, friend !- thou hast not well for thine own wants provided, - and thou, forsooth, would'st free the state? masan. seek'st thou for strength or courage, then, in brave attire ? had i but one or two to stand by me, thou should'st ere long know what i can achieve, and who i am! peron. stranger, thy words and looks indeed amaze me. but think not thou speak'st with cowards here. know'st thou my name?—peronne has never earn'd a craven's reputation. say, friend, what would'st thou do?-here thou behold'st two faithful brethren, whom the torturing wheel may not appall. we shall unite with thee! lack'st thou such aid as ours ?-daggers well proved ? — see how they glisten ! (the robbers draw their daggers.) masan. murderers-banditti ! with such must then my glorious deeds be shared ? well-in your hands the dagger brightly gleams, while in the earth neglected, rusting lies the battle-sword of heroes! not in vain, at such a moment, hast thou proffer'd me a bloody hand, and, though from hell it came, thus would i grasp it !-but our compact still (as heaven and freedom to my heart are dear) shall solemnly be ratified-peronne, give me thy hand (they shake hands.) horæ danicæ. no. v. [april, now shalt thou know 'gainst whom my rage has been excited—'tis no foe that aims against my life or humble fortune- him could i not thus hateit is the serpent that sucks away the life blood of our state, and all to lingering misery would devote. villains ! i know, you, for base lucre's sake, have murder'd the defenceless-women, babes, you would relentless sacrifice! but you are angels, when contrasted with the fiends who rule us here. to our good king am i faithful to death-his representative who wrongs him, and our executioners- them do i hate, how proud soe'er their names- them into justice and humanity i shall compel, or crush them ! pietro. (aside) till this hour i have not known such confidence! . peron. thy language and fiery glances, with thy mean attire, are strangely match’d-but i have seen ere now bright diamonds glitter from ignoble moulds. i am thy man! pietro. and i ! masan. thy name, peronne, is bail for thee, that in a murderous deed, conceal'd and base, thou would'st be firm and faithful! but here our deeds are noble and heroic- to such thou art unused, and therefore now solemnly shalt thou swear. murderers, i know, heed little what is sacred-yet shalt thou kneel down and swear. the worm that never dies, the fire that never quenches—these shall be the perjurer's recompense-even unto thee such things are fearful ! masaniello now exacts a solemn oath to him by st januarius in a superna- of fidelity from each of the robbers; tural visitation. he is now joined by and the monk genuino (a base hypo- other conspirators, among the disaf- crite) ratifies their partnership by his fected citizens, and hands the sword to holy presence. this concludes the first them, to prove if any one has strength act. to draw it from the scabbard; but they the second act opens, just before the all fail in this attempt. he then takes break of day, in masaniello's cottage, it himself, draws and wields it with where the four conspirators-masa- the greatest facility. they all acknow- niello, the robbers, and genuino, en- ledge him for their chosen leader, and, ter disguised with masks, and large after some farther consultation, retire. hoods over their heads,-though this masaniello is then joined by laura, plan of concealment is highly disap- who had been awoke by the tumult; proved of by masaniello. then follows and the succeeding dialogue shall be & very effective scene, in which he pro- transcribed entire. duces an ancient battle-sword, given laura (enters pale and dishevelled.) ah me! what horrid voices all around ! who has been here? masan. 'tis , my love! fear nothing! laura. thou here, my heart's beloved, and all alone? but with thyself thou would’st not speak so loudly: or is it all a dream? methought i heard such hollow whispers, and such rough hoarse voices, nay, swords and daggers clashing all the night. .] masanielloma tragedy. masan. nay, dearest, be composed and calm. the din of arms thou should'st not blamē,-'tis better far than rattling chains. laura. oh heaven ! what mean these words? masan. ask not,-i scarcely know myself their import ! laura. oh heaven ! i recognize that sword ! methinks it is the same that in my dream i saw; it issued from a grave; you seized it then, and your own heart relentless pierced; then forth you drew the murderous brand, and planted it deep in the earth-straight it became a tree a palm tree green and spreading,—with thy blood 'twas fed and nourished. then a verdant bough fell from the tree, and veil’d thee from my sight; a scream awoke me,— 'twas our children's cry, that in their sleep were scar’d. masan. a blessed dream was this. oh laura ! if the palm tree grows green on my grave, full gladly with my blood will i sustain it. laura. heaven-what mean these words ? masan. laura, the sounds that through this night thou heard'st were not the work of dreams,--for murderers here have secretly held council. yet i call’d on heaven to be the witness of our bond, and shall not rest till all has been fulfill'd. laura. unhappy night! oh horrible ! masan. 'tis past ! the morn of freedom now begins to dawn : those that our oath has bound now wait for me. thou tremblest— is it hope or fear that moves thee? laura. nay, think not i can all a woman's fears abjure. o let me weep upon thy breast, once more, but for one moment there enjoy a dream of wonted rest-even in the next thy laura with her children may go forth, lost and forlorn, to seek thy lifeless frame ! (sinks into his arms.) masan. be calm and brave, my laura ! i have need of all my strength,- melt it not by tears ! heaven is my witness i do hold thee dearer even than the heart thou rendest, or the life that not to me belongs, but him who gave it. i am the avenging scourge of heaven !-know'st thou what mean these words? lo! now my native land is like a wreck that, by the storm-waves driven, breaks on the distant rocks, my brethren stand lamenting on the shore;-shall i not aid them? no!—to the deep i must unshrinking steer, and with the storm contend, even if i go but to my grave! laura. oh generous, noble heart ! how mean must i appear, by thee contrasted ! hasten and save! thy laura must not blame thee; yet can i not repress dread apprehensions ! see there our children! in their dreams, to thee, they stretch their arms imploring. woe to them- the fatherless! masan. this combat too! ah, nature, i must now rend thee from my heart,—though life itself were therewith torn away.- weep not (embracing the children.) hore danicæ. no. v. [april, if i too strongly clasp you-heaven alone knows if on earth i shall again behold you ! laura! farewell! farewell !– heaven strengthen you ! (rushes out.) laura. ay_hear him, heaven! forgive, and strengthen me, that i may not in anguish of my heart, follow his steps, and leave these little ones! poor innocents ! you draw my spirit down, and hold it here. if heaven's gates were thrown open, and angel forms appeared to welcome me, proffering a martyr's wreath, i could not grasp it, and leave you helpless here, and unprotected! but why should i that soaring spirit strive to chain down like mine own upon this earth ? why should i be his enemy, and by tears make every conflict heavier to be borne ? rather should i, like his good angel, aid him ; and now, methinks, i am his evil genius. forgive me, heaven! and yet, i am a mother! no parent could condemn me, if i sought to check him, and his anger to divert, by tears and supplications. yet i shall not- i seek not this! go then, masaniello! pursue thy path of glory! i indeed would gladly follow thee, if ties like these withheld me not! henceforth one trace of grief thou shalt not in these eyes behold again, till all has been fulfill'd. what sounds are these, (tumult without.) the clash of swords, and angry shouts! woe, woe ! (exit.) the rest of this act would, on the saniello represents to them that the stage, prove highly effective ; it exhi- crime rests wholly on the duke of ar- bits the progress and first consequencescos, and orders natalone to be taken of the conspiracy: the sounds heard into custody, and led away to prison, by laura proceeded from the market, which orders are immediately executed place, where a skirmish takes place be- by peronne and others. klasaniello tween the conspirators, with masaniel- then makes a long speech to the people, lo at their head, and the spanish guard. which we should willingly transcribe, afterwards filmarino, the venerable if long extracts were not requisite from arch-bishop, re-appears, and holds a the fourth and fifth acts. there is conversation with genuino (the jee next a scene with the duke of arcos, suit monk,) and afterwards with ma- who runs an equal risk with his agent saniello, upon which occasion the lat- matalone, and is saved only by taking ter asserts his importance as the chosen refuge in a church, and the interposi- “scourge of heaven,” (a title which tion of filmarino. this act is wound used to be conferred on attila.)—to up with a dialogue between matalone, this, follows an effective scene with now a prisoner, and peronne, in a sub- matalone, a nobleman who has for terraneous cavern. in the course of some time been imprisoned as a revo this conversation, matalone is skilful lutionist, but has now been chosen by enough to persuade the villain peronne the duke of arcos, as a favourite of to join with him in a new and separate the people, to convey to them a reno- conspiracy, involving the ruin and vation of their old charter-the mag- death of alasaniello. thus a counter- na charta of king philip. he is lis- plot is formed, exhibiting the first (in tened to with great attention by ma- this play) of these masterstrokes, by saniello, but the monk genuino desires which the inventive genius of inge- to look at the manuscript, and imme- man is distinguished, of which more diately pronounces it to be a forgery. will appear as we advance. this instantly produces a great tu we must now post rapidly through mult, and the people wish to punish the third act. it opens with a solilo- . matalone with instant death ; but ma- quy of the duke of arcos, who after- .] masaniello ; tragedy. fards holds long consultations with former, but on these dialogues we must genuino and with filmarino. the not pause to dwell. nothing being piety and wisdom of the latter are fine, more tiresome to the reader (or to our- ly contrasted with the low eunning, selves,) than mere analysis, we shall hypocrisy, and utter villainy of the give the next scene entire. scene iii. interior of a church.-masaniello, genuino. gen. now, let me wish thee joy! methinks, great hero, thy work ere long shall be fulfill'd- and i shall hail in thee the brutus of our land ! masan. that greeting will attend ine on the scaffold ! but 'tis no matter! if the seeds now sown with bloody hand shall rise on high, mine eyes full gladly will i close-- though they have not beheld the happy fruits. gen. why with such thoughts torment thyself? masan. father, such thoughts to me are joyful, and exalt my soul to heaven ! if yonder i behold my saviour's form, with thorns upon his meekly bending head, and blood upon his agonizing breast, i envy even the robber, who by him forgiven in his last hour, was borne away to paradise. gen. nay, thither by the grace of heaven we all shall come. truly 'tis great this life to sacrifice; but greater still to use it well on earth. masan. therefore to-day i use my life-to-morrow, i perchance am call'd to offer it in sacrifice. gen. nay, this i hope not. in the rolls of fame thy name will shine magnificently blazon'd ;- and when the people, with their chains, as now, are struggling, they will cry with voices hoarse, in vain for masaniello !-yet, to thee splendour is not in thine own times denied. masan. speak not thus proudly. from approving heaven alone can honour flow. the dust which here the almighty has employed shall be like chaff cast to the winds, and be no more remember'd. gen. but therefore should the flowers that spring on earth be cropt before the storm winds come to tear them! even this life is a treasure,-and if thou scorn'st its enjoyments, thou disdain'st indeed the works of heaven. masan. such words, in paradise, the serpent might have used. gen. (aside). ha ! have i then betray'd myself?-(aloud.) well, be it as thou wilt- we differ in our language, not in thought. if now the viceroy all our claims has granted, and all thy plans have fairly been fulfillid, thy noble deeds must not be under-rated. lift up thyself from poverty to wealth- from mean estate to power and dignity! thou wilt not now refuse, in minor points, to humour the great duke, nor lightly shed the blood of innocent men. vol. ix. g [april, horæ danicæ. no. v. masan. what blood must here be shed i know not-that let heaven determine : but this i know that if upon the throne the haughty duke should place me by his side, i would but stand there, still with sword in hand, until the people from their chains were free, and then unto my humble cot return. gen. how! wouldst thou then reject the gifts of fortune? masan. what call'st thou fortune? if i live to see our country's freedom won, then happiness in our poor cottage, in my laura's arms, amid our children, waits me. if i fall, then angels welcome me to realms of light, where even that robber has more dignity, than here the mightiest hero. gen. see'st thou not that thou art call’d to better services than catching fish and mending nets ?-wert thou so fortunate as from the deep to drag a rare and costly pearl, that might for thee rich luxuries obtain, and aid thy friend, would'st thou then cast it from thee? masan. holy father, i understand thee:-thou would'st share with me the luxuries from that pearl derived. so oft have i to thee confess'd, now let me be confessor in my turn, gen. i call it not a sin, to set a proper value here on this life's blessings; freely i confess that as i have my share of sufferings borne, i would partake thy fortune,-but thy name and well-earn'd glory still remain thine own. think! thou hast promised that when first thy plans were all fulfill’d, thou would'st not then forget my faithful services. masan. i would that now i could forget the monk who stands before me, for he is like the accurs’d and crafty snake! hence! from my sight-ne'er hast thou understood me! gen. nay, friend, for thine own good i counsell’d thee, and merit not thine anger. i indeed have understood thee better than thou think'st, but now no more must aid the vision wild that first inspired thee. true 'twas amiable, and shew'd at once a soul that could be fired by one great thought and reigning principle, whether correct or false it matter'd not,- nor will the stream of passion pause for reason. thou deem’dst it greater life to sacrifice, than here to use it, for the weal of men ; i did encourage thee-for i foresaw without the visionary confidence that thou wert chosen the avenging scourge of heaven, thou would'st not for our liberties contend; but now, as i believe the goal is won- 'tis time that i should from thy sight withdraw the darkening veil, and from such dreams awake thee; that in reality thou should'st rejoice, and grasp the treasure, whereon foolishly thou scek'st to close thine eyes.-go, seize it boldly, for it is thine! .] masanielloma tragedy. masan. thou satan, get behind me ! go from my sight--i hate and i despise thee ! - these were thy pious hopes, and i forsooth was in thy hands a pipe to play upon, and at thy music my poor soul to hell should dance before thee! thou hast err'd. from dreams thou hast indeed awoke me. while thou tear'st the dark veil from my sight, thy mask hath fall’n; thou stand’st at length before me undisguised, of all earth's grovelling crew the most accursed. thou worm ! thou viper ! to thy native earth return!-go hide within thy kindred mud thy loathsome form !- thou art too base for man to tread upon.-thy words have not deceived me. i am indeed the avenging scourge of heaven, and in heaven's name i swear, if thou again comest in my sight, even were it at the altar, this arm shall hurl thee straight to hell. away thou scum ! thou reptile ! with this fine burst of indignation cessity of granting to the people a full from masaniello, it seems as if the renovation of their rights, and the lat- genius of ingeman had in this tragedy ter betrays his stedfast purposes of thoroughly awoke; and all that fola treachery and revenge. accordingly lows is animated and powerful. in- he proposes, that when masaniello deed, from this point, the chief in comes to receive the ratification of the terest first commences. the monk charter, an end shall be put to his genuinois henceforth established as the career by means of poison. the duke personification of that evil principle, hears this not without astonishment on which all tragic interest directly or and indignation ; and the monk then indirectly depends ; and we almost re- darkly alleges that there are varieties gret that in this article we did not be- of poison, some that kill immediately, gin with the third act, and leave out others that produce lingering distem- the comparatively tame composition by pers-above all, madness. the duke which it is preceded. to the conver- refuses to listen to proposals so mean sation with the monk just now quoted and diabolical, but the monk covertly follows a rapid succession of scenes, persists in his own plans. there which, for variety and stage effect, is next another assemblage of the have seldom been equalled. there is people, at the church of st ludi- an affecting dialogue with laura, then vico, where masaniello appears, no a tumultuous assemblage of the people, longer as a humble fisherman, but in where the archbishop filmarino again a dress of princely splendour, and appears, and where masaniello's power makes several speeches to the assem- and importance are fully established. bly, on which we regret not having then the counterplot of matalone and time to dwell. peronne is brought forward. the lat after this we find ourselves again ter rushes on masaniello, and endea- in the audience hall of the palace; yours to stab him to the heart; but the masaniello, still in his princely attire, hero receives only a slight wound, is received by the duke with respect strikes peronne to the earth, and points and kindness, having now come only his sword to his throat. he spares his to obtain the final grants for which he life for the moment, however, but ora had stipulated, and then peaceably to ders him into custody, and to execu- lay down his arms, and submit hence- tion. there is then a long beautiful forth to the regular government. ac- dialogue with laura, which winds upcordingly, after an amicable dialogue this third act. of four or five pages, the duke offers through - the fourth act, the play him a parting cup of wine, which has continues to rise in interest. it begins been craftily drugged by genuino, with a long consultation between the (who has been watching all that goes viceroy and genuino, in which the forward.) masaniello empties the cup, former appears now fully sensible of and to the astonishment of the duke, the power of masaniello, and the nea even before he leaves the palace, draws horæ danicæ. no. v. [april, his sword, and betrays all the symp- lurk in every corner. his situation is toms of incipient rage and insanity! afterwards fully developed in the fol- he knows intuitively that he has been lowing interview with laura, at his injured, though he knows not by whom, own cottage. nor how, but declares that murderers cene iv. masaniello's hut. laura, alone. where atay'st thou? i have waited thee so long and anxiously! with such unquiet thoughts i struggled not, even when thy bark was lost on the wild waves, -when threatening clouds arose; or even when earth itself, with murmurings deep, beneath our footsteps trembled; when the smoke around vesuvius roll'd in blacker wreaths, and screaming birds fled from th' approaching storm ; anxious i was indeed, but not as now, for ocean is not fearful, as the sea of blood, whereon thou now art driven. more firm thy footsteps were even on the trembling earth, than now, when fires rage in the breasts of men, when every heart, like a volcano, hides within its folds internal rage and woe. where art thou ? now i hear him! (goes to the door.) heaven be praised ! scene v. laura, masaniello. laura. come to my arms ! (masaniello stands silently, leaning on his drawn sword.) nay, how is this? thou stand'st dark-silent-motionless! and look'st on earth, as if before thee an abyss were yawning! see'st thou not thine own laura ? silent still! tell me, for god's sake, what has happened ?--speak! masan. (suddenly starting, and with wild looks.) ha! haste thee ! haste! give me another dress! this burns me— tortures all my frame like fire, - nay, hell itself is burning in my soul ! laura. heaven! what has thus disturbed thee ! masan. nothing—nothing- but i shall never be a man again! haste-haste, i say ! these garments make me mad ! laura. oh heaven, what mean'st thou? masan. see'st thou not the wreath of hideous serpents they have twin'd around me, who scorch me with a thousand fiery tongues ?- now am i cooler! now shall it be proved, if, when these rags are gone, aught can appall the soul of masaniello - (tearing his dress.) thus no more shall you pollute our atmosphere—no more shall have fire or water-no, nor air in common with the serpents ; laura, go,- call the centurion who keeps watch to-day! laurá. (going.). oh woe! he has been dreadfully incens'd ! masan. at last, these gilded villains shall be taught, that justice will not ever sleep,—that i am not in vain the avenging scourge of heaven! captain enters. capt. what has our ruler to propose ? masan. go straight- .] masaniellonia trageay. command the people all to kindle torches; this is an holiday-it shall be kept with splendour, as becomes a festival ! but for the lights our people shall not pay ; that is the kingdom's and our viceroy's part ! hasten! fire every palace ! it will gleam o'er all the city !-haste thee !now away ! (exit captain.) laura. that was a horrid mandate! but to think of deeds like these, i tremble. oh, have pity! have pity on the people. where is now thy wonted clemency? masan. 'tis where i am myself,—masaniello !—thine old friend! can'st thou remember him? the man indeed who stand'st before thee is no more the calm, contented, humble fisherman,-but great in power and dignity. not therefore blest not quiet and confiding-but a stern administrator of relentless justice, with bloody sword in hand. laur. oh, dearest husband ! thy looks are now so wild and horrible. masan. ay, truly !-are mine eyes not eager, searching, and my lips parch'd and burning ?--'tis for blood i strongly thirst-and lo! my hands are knit convulsively, like tiger claws-in truth i am a tiger, laura ! but not, therefore, i persecute the tame and innocent flocks i seek wild beasts of prey-devourers fierce who feed upon the weak and the defenceless. them prostrate at my feet, i shall behold. laura. oh, dearest! when hast thou been thus perturb’d? masan. that i know not! nor can i muck remember! i am but newly changed to what i am but to such moods thou must be us'd-hereafter i shall not change again ! listen! (tumult without.) dost hear those acclamations ? hark! this i do love! the festival, when sword and fire unite is double-see'st thou not that ruddy gleam already spread on high? thus shall we read even in the vault of heaven, our liberty! laura. woe, woe! have mercy! see the palace yonder already all in flames ! masan. and art thou not rejoiced by such a sight? it is the mansion of the proud matalone! he indeed would have blown up in the air for his diversion some hundred thousand citizens. now comes the time of vengeance. ho! centurion (a soldier enters.) let criminal judges straightway be appointed, (chosen from the best of the people,) and a scaffold erected in toledo-street. henceforth shall executioners be stationed there, our sentence to fulfil on the condemn'd justice too long has slept! laura. masaniello! by all our love, i charge thee ! masan. name no more that word of mildness! to mine ear it sounds like flute tones in a darksome grave. no more [april, horæ danicæ. no. v. bring the lost lovely paintings to my sight, of banish'd hope and joy; an evil hand hath marr'd their beauty, now one only hue can i behold—'tis blood-red. laura. heaven protect us ! (filmarino enters hastily.) filmar. masaniello! knowest thou that thy people rage all abroad with fire and sword ? masan. ay, truly, with fire and sword-so should it be ! filmar. what say'st thou? masaniello, was it thou who gave these raging men the firebrands ? masan. ay, it was- 'twas i! when robbers' dens and murderers are blazing-is not this a pleasant sight? filmar. (confounded.) impossible! is this masaniello? masan. who told thee so ? 'tis all indeed that now remains of what he was; thou say'st the town is burning bravely-but, feel here, the fire (pointing to his forehead.) rages more fiercely! filmar. heaven, he is insane! laura. he's mad-he's mad-help-help! (rushes out.) filmar. masaniello, thou hast been-thou art ill. masan. how say'st thou? ill? it seems to me, that many will bear witness- i am now for the first time thoroughly well ! when saw'st thou me more powerful? filmar. far more power i saw thee prove, when thy dominion extended o'er thyself—no farther. now through weakness thou art violent! masan. no! i tell thee that i have more than all my wonted strength, and i can crush them who do point at me! perchance it is a devil who thus aids me; conjure him then, i pray thee! filmar. i conjure thee,-even masaniello, by the love thou bear’st to heaven, bé calm, regain thyself, and stop the flames that rage throughout the city; let fire and sword leave but one day in peace- hast, thou forgot—this is an holyday? masan. what would'st thou with thy crosses in the air, confessor,-holy father? he, indeed, was but himself a devil.-but i know, i know thee, friend, -thou surely art a good and guiltless spirit,-from whose presence fly the powers of darkness.—true, 'tis sunday, -ho! (a soldier enters.) centurion ! warn the people, it is sunday; let fire and sword until to-morrow rest! film. thy blood is heated,- pray thee, go to sleep, - and may the fiends of darkness fly from thee! masan. the fiends! nay, let them come, i fear them not ; even with all hell now, boldly shall i combat ; i shall not sleep-a ruler must not sleep,- no, i shall roam abroad, and watch for those who slumber. .] masaniello tragedy. he now reverts again to the frage collecting, in his madness, the enor- lent of a revolutionary ballad, which mous wickedness of the monk, is at we have already mentioned, and re- last roused to a sudden paroxysm of members at last its tragic conclusion. rage, and stabs him, as he believes, to he then rushes out with drawn sword the heart. the monk falls; but the in hand, and the act concludes with wound though severe, is not mortal. a short soliloquy of filmarino. the duke instantly calls for his guards, we now come to the fifth and last who declare that they were unable to act of this singular production, which, prevent the entrance of the maniac; whatever may be its defects, certainly genuino and masaniello are then borne affords high expectation of what the away severally. author may, with more experience, be the next scene, (probably the most able to accomplish. this last act opens poetical of the whole play), is in the with a dialogue between the duke of church-yard of st maria del carmino; arcos and sebastiano, one of his chief a grave is by chance newly opened, nobles,-where the madness and out, and a skeleton lies by its side. the rageous conduct of masaniello are com moon palely gleams. the church is mented on. various citizens also illuminated, and now and then are come in, complaining of injuries they heard deep notes of the organ. have sustained from the insurgents. the first dialogue here is between genuino is also present on this occa- filmarino and laura, who is now wan- sion; and in the midst of their consul- dering about in search of her husband, tation, masaniello himself, to the great who has broke away from his guards, terror of the monk, suddenly appears and has gone no one knows whither. in the audience room, and an highly the good archbishop administers to effective scene occurs, which we have her all the advice and consolation in not left time even to analyse. in the his power,—and they retire. then course of it, genuino, who has been masaniello appears, and we gladly sculking in a corner, attracts suddenly break the course of tiresome analysis the notice of masaniello. they con- by transcribing the scene. ferse together; and the latter fully re- scene v. the church-yard of st maria del carmino. an open grave, and a skele- ton on the side of it-moonlight. masan. (alone.) darker it grows at every step i take ; soon then must it be wholly night.-so long the deepening clouds have hung around my brow, scarce can i recollect how look'd of yore the smiling face of day! yet unto light through darkness must we pass,— 'tis but transition ! perhaps, perhaps !—but dreadful is that hour ! would it were past! (looking back.) i am not here alone! still follow me, tried countrymen, and friends! our march is through a darksome country here,– but light ere long will dawn.-ha! now look there: (with gladness on perceiving the grave.) look, and rejoice. we had gone far astray: but here, at last, a friendly port awaits us,- an inn of rest. i was already tired, and sought for shelter,—now i find this hut; truly 'tis somewhat dusky, low and narrow ; no matter! 'tis enough, ; -we want no more. (observes the skeleton.) ha, ha! here lies the owner of the cottage, and soundly sleeps,– hollo! wake up my friend! how worn he looks! how hollow are his cheeks ! hu! and how pale when moonlight gleams upon him! he has upon our freedom thought so deeply, and on the blood which it would cost,- that he hora danicæ. no. t. [april, is turn’d himself to naked joints and bones.* (shukes the skeleton.) friend! may i go into thy hut a while, and rest me there? thou see'st that i am weary, yet choose not like thyself to lay me down, and bask here in the moonshine-he is silent- yet hark — there was a sound a strange vibration, that touched me like a spirit's cooling wings who whisper'd thus ?-flaply it was the wind, or was it he who spoke so ? he, perchance,+ has lost his voice too, by long inward strife, and whispers thus, even like the night wind's rustling. (looks round surprised.) ha, ha! masaniello, thou'rt deceived ! this is a grave--this man is dead-and here, around thee are the realms of death. how strangely one's senses are beguiled--hush, hush ! (music of the choir from the church.) who sings in tones so deep and hollow 'mid the graves ? it seems as if night-wandering spirits woke a death song.--ha! there's light, too, in the church; i shall go there and pray. long time has past, and i have wander'd fearfully; my heart is now so heavy, i must pray! (erit into the church.) to this succeed dialogues between several citizens and soldiers of the spa nish guard, who are anxious to secure masaniello, but look on him with a superstitious terror, and dare not follow him into the church. then comes the death-scene of genuino, who is finally cut off by an accidental use of poison, which he had designed for masaniello, and which is inflicted on the monk by the mistake of his physician. next follows a very beautiful scene in the in- terior of the church, where masaniello, by prayer, and the assistance of filma- rino, has once more regained his faculties of memory and reason. filmarino having solemnly pronounced his blessing over him, retires, leaving masaniello, as he believes, in perfect safety. scarcely, however, has he time to utter another affecting soliloquy, which we must not pause to transcribe, when three of the spanish guard rush armed into the church. believing them to be friends, ma- saniello advances to meet them, when they instantly discharge their carabines, and shoot him through the heart, disappearing immediately, and leaving him to die unattended. his last words have just been uttered, when laura enters with her children. laura. where shall i seek bim? children. father--father! hear us ! laura. he wanders all alone, so weak and wilder'd oh heaven, let me but find him! (sees the body.) woe! woe! woe! hast thou then heard my prayer, but to destroy all earthly hope for ever! masaniello love! dearest! art thou gone? (kneeling with the children over the body.) filmarino enters. film. have murderers then * the ingenious translator of “ sintram,” will here be reminded again of lear's “ what-have his daughters brought him to this pass ?” + we despair'd of rendering the original here. it stands thus :- “ hm! det er vist en brystsotig, som alt har stænnet talen's redskab ud, og hvidsker som et windpust igiennem natten." .] masaniellom tragedy. profaned the holiest place? then woe to them! such crime meets no forgiveness. ay, he is fall'n ! close, laura, then his eyes. be calm,--and now let him in peace repose. he has indeed encounter'd his last earthly strife, and triumph’d. listen! he charged me, when we parted last, with benedictions for thee,-and for him i shall not fail in every solemn rite. what crimes soe'er in madness he committed, against him are not reckon'd. peace be with thee, thou greatest man of naples ! ---heaven's avenger! still let the people for whom thou hast fought ungrateful, rage against thee, even in death. yet thou hast won a glorious wreath, whose light will shine in future ages, nor decay long as the heart of man holds freedom dear- and when her last faint traces we behold, masaniello's loss shall be deplored. (the curtain falls.) thus ends the tragedy of masaniello. we cannot expect that the ad- mirers of our “ horæ germanicae" will in a like degree approve the pro- ductions of the danish school. there is a wide difference indeed in the style and taste of the two nations. yet from the meagre story of masaniello, inge- man has originated a work to which it is impossible to deny the praise of high inventive powers; and it is probable that, like oehlenschlager, he has, in this instance, written too rapidly to allow time for the developement of imagination. of his poetical romance the “ black knights,” or the tragedy of “ blanca,” we shall perhaps give an abstract in some future number. letter from inclosing hymn to christopher north, esq. sir, i look upon it to be the duty of every liege poet of these realms, such as i fatter myself i am, to follow in the eternal campaign of poetry his anointed king, with as much devotion as in old times the feudal retainers followed their barons bold to the wars. he must be obtuse indeed, who does not perceive that the poetical monarch of merry england is the poet laureate, and to him our allegiance is due. now, sir, dr southey has lately made an incursion into the ancient territory of the hexameter, and in so doing, has quitted himself as a man. it, therefore, is manifest that we, who are his subjects, should instantly march after him, to show our obedience. the instant i read his “ vision of judgment,” i was determined to do so; and, after long pondering on a subject fit for my muse, i decided on one, which, whatever may be thought of the ex- ecution, must be allowed to be one of the fittest subjects for poetry. i prepared myself for my task, in the manner narrated in the hymn ( . - .) until i got warm, i had no notion i could go on so well, but by the time i came to the conclusion, i waxed so valiant as to throw out the challenge (l. .) to the laureate himself. i do not repent it, bold as it may seem, but i hope it will not appear a kind of petty treason: i wish you would lay the case before mr jeffrey before you print the poem. i shall not detain you any longer, but re- main, sir, your humble servant. h vol. ix. [april, hymn to christopher north, esq. hymn to christopher north, esquire. contents. exordium.--immense merits of the hero. an ocean and continent not to be found in pinkerton, or malte brun. agreement with miss holford with respect to the muses. agreement also with an ancient comic source of inspiration. allusion to lord byron, and a learned theban.-beautiful picture of a murmuring streamlet. -mr wordsworth. picturesque description of a grove on the banks of the tagus. --benefit derived from the slave trade in jamaica.-cheering account of the internal state of france. an operation of high moment detains the auditory.--chemistry.—sir humphry davy. -ulysses... polyphemus.--homer.-inishowen.--hymn resumed.--hero applauded to the disparagement of other persons.—consternation of baldwin and co.-vain attempt of sir pythagoras to rally buonaparte.--small value of the beasts of a certain ancient concern.-high compliment to mr campbell. --small do. to dr polidori.—general massacre of the other magazines.- mr nichols saved and applauded.--compared with the hero.- catalogue of heroes in the manner of homer.-{in catalogue a compliment to the times.]–hero compared to agamemnon. preferred to the son of atreus for his more complete manner of doing business. king of dahomey.-awe-stricken men.--woe to the whigs.-reform of the toddy-drinkers. what work now patronized by very old women. „a knight of the hogstye makes his appearance.-amadis of gaul.-don belianis of greece.hector of troy.-tom crib of england. cause of speed.--various panegyrics on the hero.-geographical description of england, scotland, wales, ireland, united states, upper and lower canada, west indies, hindostan, australasia.--patriotic behaviour of the friends of the scotsman newspaper. catalogue of rivers, in imitation of the fairy queen. luff up for land. -end as beginning. l'envoy. appeal to the universe. difference between the god of homer, and the god of cockaigne. a challenge to dr southey..bet of a rump and dozen.-con- clusion. hail to thee, pride of the north, hail, christopher, star of edina! who from thy hill-seated throne, in thine own most romantic of cities, show'ring, with liberal hand, spread'st jollity all through the nations. how shall i speak thy renown? how utter the half of thy praises ? had i an ocean of ink, and a continent made into paper, yet would the ocean be drained, and the continent scribbled all over, ere i had told thy fame, thou wonderful worthy of scotland ! i'll not invoke you for help, fair maids of parnassian mountain ; no, i despise ye, my girls, in the manner of pretty miss holford ; ( ) for i agree with the thought of that comical worthy cratinus, ( ) who swore none ever throve on the wish-washy draughts of the muses. ho! my boy, step to the corner and fetch me a sneaker of brandy; drinkers of water avaunt! i care not a fig for your preaching: i shall get drunk as a lord, and then follow on with my poem, drunk as a lord i shall get, as drunk as his lordship of byron, ( ) when he sat boozing in thebes with the sixbottle solyman pacha. where is the water to mix? the water that once in the streamlet, murmuring sung o'er the pebbles, now sings its low song in the kettle, (which mr wordsworth and i hold in supreme veneration). ( ) here are the lemons at hand, which all on the banks of the tagus, grew in a beautiful grove, shedding round it their delicate perfume ; there by the light of the moon a poetical lover might wander, chanting a sweet canzonet to the honour of donna maria. (little he thought that the fruit, which there was hanging above him, would be sent over the sea to inspire so famous a poet.) here is the sugar beside, which the hands of the sooterkin negro reared for the sake of my punch in the island of sweaty jamaica. then there's the stingo itself sweet-smelling, balmy, delicious, $ .] hymn to christopher north, esq. drink that is fit for the gods, or the heavenly writers of blackwood ! gay were the frenchmen who made it in nantz, an illustrious city, merry they sung at their work, when they gathered the grapes in the vineyard, merry they sung at their work, when they trampled them down in the wine-vat, merry they sung at their work, when forth came the brandy distilling ; merrily i too shall sing when i swallow the fruit of their labours. stop for a moment, ye crowds, who list to my hymu in amazement, first till i mingle my punch, and then for a while till i drink it. now that i've tempered the stuff in a most scientifical manner, shewing a chemical skill, that even sir humphry might envy, i shall proceed with the task of discussing a dozen of tumblers. glorious, sublime is the draught! the wine that the crafty ulysses ( ) gave with a deadly intent to monoptical squire polyphemus, though it belonged to a priest, and priests know the smack of good liquor, though it is praised as divine by that honest old wine-bibber homer, ( ) though it sent forth such a scent as fairly perfumed the apartment, ( ) though it required to be mixt with almost two dozen of waters, never was better than this, which i at this moment am drinking. once on a time, it is true, i came across liquor superior, swallowing a lot of potsheen in the hills about far inishowen. ( ) well then, the business is done. a glorious poetical fury seizes my soul on the spot; i'll keep you no longer a-waiting: hail to thee, pride of the north, hail, christopher, star of edina ! thou art the lad of the lads, who handle the pen of the writer : ( ) none dare withstand thy award ; none dare dispute thy dominion. sweet is the smile in thy joy, and dread is thy frown when in anger. whom shall i equal to thee, thou chief of all magaziners ? look round, merry men all, and see the rest are but asses, if they be named in a day with thee, destroyer of dunces ! joyless is poor mr joy, confounded are baldwin and cradock, when they reflect on thy strength, and think of their own petty yelpers, janus can't shew any face, and lamb is led off to the slaughter. sad is the sapient heart of sir dick, the devourer of cabbage, vainly he calls to the fight old capel loft, and napoleon. ( ) constable trembles in soul, when he finds he has none to oppose thee save a collection of beasts, not worth a penny, a dozen. campbell himself, the sweet, the beautiful poet of gertrude, shrinks at the sound of thy name, and turning away from h. colburn, wishes he'd left the concern to jack polidori the vampire. why should i mention the rest ? unheard of perish the cattle ! but as i go along, i gladly pay thee a tribute, eldest of all magazines, the gentleman's, properly so called. pleasant art thou to read, ay, pleasant even in quaintness ; long may thy editor live, long live, and scatter around him tales of the days of old, and sentiments honest and loyal. (christopher's nearly as old, he being sexagenarian; never arise there a row 'twixt these two worshipful elders.) hail to thee, pride of the north ! hail, christopher, star of edina ! great is thy strength, kit, and valiant thy men are in battle. wastle, the laird of that ilk, who wrote of the crazy-pate banker, delta, triangular bard, both hugh and malachi mullion, hymn to christopher north, esq. [april, scott-jamie scott-doctor scott, the poetic uprooter of grinders ; timothy tickler so brave, and the couple of grave-looking germans, he that’s as great as a host, o'doherty, knight of the standard, seward and buller from isis, and hogg the shepherd of ettrick, cicero dowden from cork, tom jennings the poet of soda, ( ) petre of trinity, dublin, -o'fogarty, dwelling in blarney; gruff-looking z. is there, wet with the blood of the cockneys, so is the ancient sage, whom the men of chaldea delight in. how can i sum them all? go count the sands of the ocean, number the lies of the times, or reckon the motes of the sunbeam, num’rous as they are the bands, who draw the goose-quill for maga. over them all is north, as great as king agamemnon, when he led forward his greeks to the sacred city of priam. surely as pergamus fell by pelasgian valour and fury, so shall his enemies fall, if once they do battle against him. only the hosts of the king were ten years doing the business, while he in slaughtering his foes scarce spends ten minutes about it. hail to thee, pride of the north ! hail, christopher, star of edina ! many a man has been slain by thy trenchant and truculent falchion. thou, if thou wouldst, could build a hall like the kings of dahomey, all of the skulls of the dead, on whom thy sword has descended ; wonder not then if thy name is heard by many with terror. pale is the cheek of leigh hunt, and pale is the anti-malthusian; hazlitt i own is not pale, because of his rubicund swandrops, but he is sick in his soul at the visage of georgy buchanan; ( ) webb is a trifle afraid, the heavy-horse lieutenant shaketh, grim is the sage-looking phiz of the bacon-fly macvey neperus; joy does not reign in the soul of sweet missy spence, and the bagman, nor of some hundred beside, whose names 'twould tire me to mention, when they are told ev'ry month, lo! terrible christopher cometh ! thou hast for ever put down the rascally whig population ; muzzled by thee is the mouth of jeffrey's oracular journal ; onion and onionet there have suffered a vast degradation. ( ) nobody minds them now, not even the drinkers of toddy, ( ) who in the days of old, in garrets loftily seated, thought it a wonderful feat to be able to read through its pages : nobody minds them now, save awfully ancient old women. but i should never be done, did i tell even half of thy slaughters. amadis, hero of gaul, nor the grecian don belianis, hector the champion of troy, or cribb the champion of england, floor'd never have such a lot as thou in the days of thine anger. though i have much to say, i shall soon bring my song to an ending, almost out is my candle, my punch is out altogether. hail to thee, pride of the north ! hail, christopher, star of edina ! joyous am i, when i read thy soul-enlivening pages, cramm'd with delicious prose, and verses full as delicious ; whether thy theme be grave, sublime, abstruse, or pathetic, merry, jocose, or slang, quiz, humbug, gay or satiric, equally thou in all soar’st over the rest of creation. still are thy efforts devote to the honour and glory of britain ; then be thou read where'er the language of britain is heard of, .] hymn to christopher north, esg. through merry england herself, the much-honour'd land of the mighty, over the kingdom of scotland, north and south, highland and lowland, over the hills and dales of cambria, region delightful, and in the green-mantled island of erin, the land of potato. then thou shalt cross the sea to the yankee dominion of monroe, ( ) on to the regions of canada, snow-covered, upper and lower. southward away to the islands discover'd by christopher colon, which the blundering name of the western indies delight in. off to the east, thou fliest to the realms of the marquis of hastings, ( ) where the wild natives of ind regard thee with much veneration, placing thee there with the gods, next after brama and seeva. thence to the austral land, where fly the friends of the scotsman, learing their native soil, at the nod of judge or recorder, like patriotical folks, all for the good of their country. there thou art somewhat read by the honest botany bayers, who at the ends of the earth live under the sway of macquarie; ( ) severn, and trent, and thames, forth, tweed, and teviot, and leven, dovey, and towey, and neath, lee, liffy, slaney, and shannon, lawrence, potowmac, missouri, indus, and ganges, and oxley, wander through countries possess'd by jolly-faced readers of blackwood. thus have i sail'd round the earth, like captain cook or vancouver, here then i luff to the land, and haul in my bellying canvas, ending my elegant hymn with the self-same line that began it, hail to thee, pride of the north, hail, christopher, star of edina! l'envoy. nations of barth! who have heard my hymn so gloriously chaunted, answer, as honest men, did you ever hear any thing like it? never! i swear, by the god, whom homer calls argyrotoxos, and whom the bards of cockaigne address by the name of apollor ! come, and contend, if you dare, great laurel-crown'd bard of kehama ! come, and contend if you dare, in the metre of dactyle and spondée ! that i should beat you in song, i bet you a rump and a dozen, a rump and a dozen i bet,--and there is an end of the matter. ( .) “wake not for me, ye maids of helicon,” quoth miss holford. i am more po- lite ; for i call them “ fair maids.”—( .) rideo si credis, &c.—( .) lord byron comme- morates this adventure in a note on one of his poems, childe harold, i believe.—( .)“the kettle singing its low undersong,” w. w. also, “a fig for your languages, german and norse, &c. ( .) od. ix. . . &c. 'i give cowper's translation as the most literal i can find, though it does not do any thing like justice to the raciness of the original. “ i went ; but not without a goatskin filled with richest wine, from maron erst received ; the offspring of evanthes, and the priest of phoebus, whom in ismaras i saved, and with himself, his children, and his wife, through reverence of apollo ; for he dwelt amid the laurel sacred to his god, he gave me, therefore, noble gifts ; from him seven talents i received of beaten gold ; a beaker, urgent all, and after these, no fewer than twelve jars, with wine replete, rich, unadult'rate, drink for gods ; nor knew one servant, male or female, of that wine in all his house, none knew it, save himself, his wife, and the intendant of his stores ; hymn to christopher north, esq. [april, oft as they drank that luscious juice, he slaked a single cup with twenty from the stream ; and even then the beaker breathed abroad a scent celestial, which, whoever smelt, henceforth no pleasure found it to abstain. ( .) vinosus homerus. he deserves the title. none but a wine-bibber could have joyously described the wine as 'ndvv. åxngáclov, geion fotó. ( .) odun dödlie and xenitneoodídel oertioin ; which is very flatly rendered by cowper. if i mistake not, the landlord, in the beginning of the antiquary, panegyrizes his claret in the same manner, which i throw out as a hint to the future collector of parallel passages, such as mr c. metellus and mr watts.—( .) with general hart. ( .) a chaldean phrase. see chal. ms. ( .) sir richard's contributors. vid. hour's tete-a-tete with the public. in- deed that admirable work should be carefully studied by those who wish duly to appre- ciate my hymn.—( .) vid. chal. ms. again.-( .) see no. . luctus over sir d. d. he is there called demosthenes dowden, but i could not get demosthenes to scan. i therefore substituted cicero, which i hope mr dowden will be satisfied with.-( .) he, it appears, does not agree with an elegant, and judicious poet of the literary gazette, who sings concerning the cover of the magazine ; on that calm mild face i doat, which is on thy back impressed. ( .) again to the hour's tete-a-tete.--( .) ibid.—( .) we are not overpopular among the yankees, but munroe, who is a man of gumption, spoke rather civilly of us in his last message to the senate. it is a good omen, that america will not long be al- together so barbarous as tommy moore represents her. c. n.-( .) marquis of hasta ings, and ( ) governor macquarie--two particular friends and contributors of ours. c. n. p. s. i hope a sense of modesty will not hinder you from printing this hymn of mine. * p. s. concerning the scansion of the hymn, it was my intention to have dissertated somewhat, but i fear i should trespass too much on your pages. send it over to pro- fessor dunbar, and he will settle the matter for you in a minute. he can apply his new canon of homeric poetry to it, and if that will not make it scan, nothing that i know of, will. for instance, see l. . thou, if thoŭ, &c. which he could account for on the same principle as he does āgeç ăges, and all other lines in an equally luminous give me, however, a verse-mouth to read my poetry, and i despise all the gew-gaw work of the prosodians. indeed, i think the rule of the learned merlinus cocaius, or macaronicus, might be well transferred to english hexameter—"denique sicut virgilius, ac ceteri vates in arte poetica potuerunt alterare sillabas auctoritate sua, verbi gratia, relliquias, ita macaronicus poeta non minus hanc auctoritatem possidet circa scientiam, et doctrinam propriam,”-it being a mighty convenient regulation, and tending to save much trouble. p. Š. there is not a figure of rhetoric, from metaphor or apostrophe, down to pa. ragoge or anadiplosis, which the learned will not find in my poem. i have not time to enlarge on the subject, but i cannot help throwing out a hint to the ingenious. • we never have any objection to print truth; of course we publish this hymn.-c. n. manner. manchester poetry.t here is a book of poetry, good reada instance, in your mind the ideas of er, written and published in manches- manchester and wordsworth, and see ter. the phenomenon has absolutely if, by any mental process, you can r(- astounded us! we protest we should duce them into any sort of union. the as soon have expected a second edition genius of that great man would have of the miracle performed in the desert been absolutely clouded for ever by one for appeasing the thirsty israelites, as week's residence in the fogs of man- to find a hippocrene bubbling up chester ! poetry from manchester ! amidst the factories of that smoky why, we should as soon have ex- town. there is something in the very pected a miltonian epic from the mo- name itself which puts to flight all nosyllabical tims. the only associ- poetical associations. only couple, for ation we have connected with this very + the muse in idleness. by w. d. paynter, author of the tragedy of “ eury- pilus." vo. manchester, . .] manchester poetry. commercial town is the abstract idea ther valuable endowment, who ever of a little whey-faced man, in a brown could think that the modesty of the frock-coat and dirty coloured neck. scotsman could be attained all at once? cloth, smelling--not of perfumes or the thing is impossible, as dr john- cassia, but of cotton and callicoes; son said of sheridan's stupidity, such talking-not of poetry or the stagyrite, modesty is not in nature. it could but of nine-eights and fustians; and only have come by constant and assi- writing-not of shakespeare or pope, duous cultivation and practice, by lay- but “ your's of the th ult. duly ing hold of every opportunity of add- came to hand, in which per advice, ing to the good gift which nature ori- &c. &c." we have heard, to be sure, ginally bestowed, till that frame of thanks to their intelligent brethren mind was procured, which at once en- who travel northward, that such things chants and amazes us.-but to return are even to be found as poetical bag- to our manchester friends: let them men, who are favoured with clandes- not think we are inclined to be harsh tine visits of the muse. this, how- or severe with them. we have long ever, may, we think, be accounted for eyed them with benignity, not un- on the principle of locomotion, and the mixed however with some compassion great assistance afforded to them by the for their intellectual darkness. but let trotting of horses and the rumbling of them not despair. we have known wheels in the concoction of their po- cures to have been effected when the etical elevations. the flattest small via mater was even in a less promising beer will, we all know, by continual agi- state. much may be done by a perse tation, effervesce: what marvel, then, vering in a course of study, and read. that bagmen should write poetry, un- ing blackwood's magazine, which ex- der the influence of a like inspiration. cellent publication, ye manchester were the labours of these meritorious neophytes, persons confined to manchester, we nocturna versate mana, versate diumá. apprehend the afflatus would be found there is one thing however, which to cease. these instances, then, and even our indulgence, great as it is, can- we believe they are rare, do not affect not excuse, and that is their utter ne- the general rule. yet we would not glect of the great field which has re- be uncharitable ; and we are willing to cently been presented to them for ex. allow, that amidst the labours of the ercising their poetical powers,need we counting-house and sale-room, a few say, in the far-famed massacre of pen stationary individuals may be found terloo. such a shameful insensibility who are competent, upon emergencies, we never before witnessed. here was to supply their friends with a gratui- absolutely a niche vacant in the temple tous sonnet or valentine, which, bating of fame, and not a soul of them had their necessary want of rhyme and as- time or courage to step into it. the saults on priscian, may pass for a very chronieler of the enormities of the respectable and decent compilation. manchester magistrates, might have these are, however, but poor tri- taken his seat with the utmost com- amphs; and though to the gaping posure, by the side of virgil or ho- clerks, and literary warehousemen, of mer, yet no struggle has been mani. that intelligent town, they may ap- fested for this glorious distinction ! pear the very highest achievements of what species of poetry is there to human intellect,-fruits only growing which this inexhaustible theme would on the top and pinnacle of parnassus, not have been adapted ? first for the the very ne plus ultra of the endow- epic.--could any thing have been ments of the muse; yet we must whis- better fitted, from which to build the per softly into their ears, that it is by lofty rhyme, than the adventures of other performances than these that that “ pious Æneas,” orator hunt? their poetical credit is to be establish- manifold were his afflictions, and va- ed. let them not mistake the bot- rious and singular his mishaps,“ mul- tom for the top of the two forked hill. tum jactatus ;" indeed, he was miser- not that we expect all things at once ably shaken by the rude hands of con- of them; we are not such hard task- stables, and catchpoles; yet, amidst masters. we know, that in poetry as all, he persevered unmoved and unde well as in other things, progress can jected, mindful of his “ lavina lit- only be made slowly, and by degrees. tora," where now he has at length ar- to borrow an illustration from ano- rived; and long, may we say, may he manchester poetry. [ april, $ remain in the asylum to which the competent to fill his place. such a gods have sent him! then for the man as roscoe we should hardly ever elegiac.- is it possible for more pa- expect from the level of manchester thetic examples to be found any where merchants,-gentlemen, whose erudi- than the poor creatures, whose ears tion, we believe, consists in the play- and noses were cut off by the unrelent- ing whist, drinking port, and damning ing swords of those valiant men-at form,” as unceremoniously as en- arms, the manchester yeomanry? if sign northerton himself. more learn- the ancient author thought the loss of ing than this we think they would be his hair of so much consequence as to ashamed to possess; and of more learn- lament it in an elegy, how many elegies ing we would not willingly accuse would the deprivation of his ears or them. if five or six have the rare abi- his nose have elicited! we leave the lity to get through a few sentences of matter to be determined by a jury of mawkish common-place, at some pub- dandies. then for the ode.- what lic meeting, we apprehend that is the exquisite lyrical invocations might have extent of their powers, and the sum- been composed to the deceased major mit of their ambition. with respect cartwright, or the spirit of tom paine, to the society, which goes under the evoking from their elysium, those wor- name of the manchester * literary and thies departed, to return to earth ac- philosophical society, we understand, companied by astrea, (excellent socie- that like all other venerable institu- ty for her by the bye,) and view the tions, it is now falling to decay, or at bloodshed and carnage committed un- least principally directed to mecha- der the eyes of those modern neros, nics and commercial speculations. its the manchester quorum. peterloo name now reminds us of no eminent might have been compared to mara- abilities or extraordinary talents con- thon or thermopylæ, and the victims nected and associated with it; and we of the yeomanry, to the patriots who should augur that it has participated expired on those memorable plains. in that misfortune of old age, to out- and for the epigram.-but we are live its efficiency and reputation. be- launching out too far; it is useless fur- sides this, we believe, there are other ther to shew what capabilities the sub- minor societies, much on the plan of ject presented. the golden opportu. the edinburgh speculative, to be met nity is gone, the brazen head has ut- with in manchester, where nonsense tered the last monition; and even the is spouted by the hour; and attornies' ground of peterloo, after having, for clerks, and commercial book-keepers, some time, been daily visited by pa- disinterestedly labour for each other's triotic bagmen, and other devotees to benefit and improvement. here are to the great cause, is quickly losing its befound,orators and rhetoriciansinem- hallowed sanctity; and within a short bryo, reasoners on free-will, predesti- period, factories may be erected on that nation, and other lofty and mysterious distinguished spot where liberty ex- topics, in whose disputations, however, alted her cap, and patriotism poured nothing is concluded; and the person forth its blood. who generally comes off the worst, is such is the nature of things, and the unfortunate lindley murray.- therefore it was incumbent on our good there are, too, manchester newspapers, friends to have seized time by the fore- where there is occasionally a poetical lock. but to return to our subject. sketch by juvenis, or a stanza to miss seriously we are inclined to believe e. by modestus, or an address to the that manchester is not overburdened princess by euphemia, respectively with that unmarketable article literas written and indited by grocers' appren- ture. at least, we are pretty certain, it tices, milliners' protegées, and young has now hardly any person of acknow- scholars of the porch, ledged literary abilities and character “ who pen a stanza when they should to boast of. dr ferriar, whose elegant engross." mind and varied researches, could at or perhaps on some suitable and ex- all times give interest to the subject to traordinary occasions, there may be a which they were applied, is long since letter from mr a. to mr b. on the dead, and has left no one behind him conduct of mr c. with respect to parish lucus a non lucendo. the only readable papers in the transactions of this society, are those of dr ferriar, dr henry, and a very few others. the rest is a mere caput mor- tuum. .] manchester poetry. affairs, or some facetious and happy, selves should, in all probability, under- morsels of wit, which only want intel- take this laborious work. in manches- ligibility to complete them, by andrew ter, we have no less than ten different birchbottom, a personage, who, as his scribes, who each take different dem name imports, is in the habit of admi- partments of the town, and attend to nistering discipline. these literary bo- their vocation with unremitting dili-, dies, and literary performers, with an gence. we give them bandsome sala- occasional pamphlet, which the emer- ries, but are extremely select in the gencies of the times may strike out of persons whom we thus constitute our the crack-brained noddle of some re- reporters. on their first outset, not be- forming politician, big with official do- ing accustomed to the climate, the fogs cuments and letters of moment,-or and the effluvia proceeding from the some dramatic performance, which may cotton were so potent in their effects, be extorted from the unquiet conscience that the intellects of our unfortunate of some printer or printer's devil—or juvenals were most grievously discom- some prologue or epilogue, volunteered posed. when the communications by the pitiful heart of some young limb came to our hands, they were absolute- of the law, panting after immortality, ly of such a nature that we could nei- or some lecture published at the de- ther make head nor tail of them. in- sire of the auditors, utterly disproving stead of a sumn mmary of manchester li- the devil and all his works-or some terature, one sent us an abstract of a sermon, published at the like desire of manchester ledger. another, after in- the congregation, and which, to shew forming us of the state of the market, its good effects, has procured sleep ended by modestly requiring of us even when laudanum has failed-or some orders-for what dost thou think, some handbill, in large and visible good reader ! for demities and plates ! characters, containing words “ full of orders fronı us, christopher north, fire and fury, signifying nothing"-or for plates and demities !!! heard ever some public address, which like elka man the like? we were, accordingly, nah settle's epithalamium, with a new much perplexed. in time, however, facing, serves for all occasions equally, our messengers became completely ac- and is excogitated with much trouble, customed to the fogs and the etcetera and perused with more--constitute the of a manchester life, and having lost sum total and aggregate of what man- the unaccountable mania for traffick- chester is producing, or is likely to ing,'which at first possessed them, are produce, in the way of literature. now contented to forward our interests, our readers will, we think, be incli- instead of merely taking care of their ned to wonder at the accuracy and own. in addition to these regulars, we completeness of our information. it is now employ another auxiliary, our indeed perfect omniscience. there is worthy friend mr theophilus bailey, not, in fact, a town in this large king- a nephew by the father's side to miss dom of which we have not a full and bailey of unfortunate and famous me- complete literary and civil account re mory, by whom the slumbers of the gularly transmitted to us by our emis- halifax captain were so suddenly and saries, who are in number as countless so unpleasantly disturbed. reports as the sands of the sea, or the motes in indeed have been circulated that he is the sunbeams. not one silly thing is the illicit offspring of that celebrated said of our magazine of which we have connection; but this we considered not instantly knowledge. a very whis- mere slander on the fair fame of the per comes to our ears, increased to the unfortunate heroine, and therefore in- loudness of cannon. let, therefore, the treat our readers not to give it the least evil tremble within themselves, and credit. being a native of manchester, quake with the consciousness of their he is of course completely familiarized guilt. we hold but the rod over them, to the climate, and having the intel- which may be inflicted when they are lectual constitution of a horse, he can least prepared. we have at this mo bear the conversation even of man- ment a room entirely devoted these chester cotton spinners without alinch- official communications, which we are ing. he is indeed an extraordinary now keeping for some future continua- character. the alacrity of the mind tion of camden. did not our advanced is wonderful. so little is he influenced age and infirmities prevent us, we our- by locality, that we have had letters vol. ix. i manchester poetry. [april, from him, dated gotham, on the sub- cation to this his last and greatest. we lime and beautiful-comments from therefore apprehend that this conjec- the bogs of tipperary on the sculpture ture is erroneous, and that this drama- of the greeks, and to crown all, dis- tic performance has actually been pub- quisitions from glasgow, on the influ- lished within the memory of man, ence of poetical associations. though perhaps only in a confined but weare wandering from the subject town, and for the edification of a cho and mr paynter. nothing more, we sen few. certes this was a delicacy of think, is necessary to establish all that which the multitude was not worthy we have said of our intelligence, than still it is unchristianlike and illiberal the simple fact of our having reviewed for any one to keep to himself the pos- the work now before us. we are almost session of a common good ; and for certain it has completely escaped the ourselves therefore, as well as the other notice of all our contemporary journal- lovers of the drama, we beseech the ists, and really are afraid of incurring person or persons who may now enjoy the suspicion, a suspicion which before to himself the interesting production, has attached on us, of reviewing a book to suffer others to be sharers of its beau- not actually in existence. this suspi- ties, and to transmitit to us without de- cion, we entreat our readers, in justice lay, for the purpose of being reviewed to mr paynter, and in pity to ourselves, in the next number of our magazine. entirely to put away. our purpose is not such is our well grounded confidence to deprive mr paynter of one iota of his in it, deduced from the perusal of the merited reputation. we profess our in- present work, that we undertake to de- competence to manufacture any thing monstrate it to be superior to miran- like the extracts we are about to ad- dola, or any other recent dramatical duce. our business is merely to point performance. out their beauties, and enlarge on their in hopes shortly of being blessed defects. if, nevertheless, our assevera- with the good for which we have pe- tions are of no avail, and the reader titioned, we proceed to the “ muse shall require a more convincing proof in idleness," and first of all we must that mr paynter is a man of this world, notice a very alarming report which and consequently entitled to the credit has just come to our ears, and which of this performance, (though how a indeed had 'no small influence with person can doubt of the existence of a us in inciting us to review this book; member of the manchester philanthro- namely, that one half of the copies pical society is to us, we confess, a have been lately transmitted to edin- problem) let him forthwith send to burgh, for the purpose of being em- manchester for a copy of the book, and ployed by the pastry cooks in the lit- he will shortly receive a return which tle necessary occasions of their busi- will administer much satisfaction to ness. now, before sacrilegious hands his own mind, and much satisfaction laid upon the “ muse in idleness," to the mind of the publisher. we must simply beg leave to ask these the book now before us, as we are worthy persons, for whose manufac- informed by the title page, is written tures we have always maintained a by d. w. paynter, author of the tra- great affection, if they are aware of the gedy of eurypilus. when and where grievous sin they are about to commit, this tragedy was published, the first in appropriating to the involution of crepundia of our great author, our most cakes and comfits, " what was meant diligent inquiries have been unable to for mankind." let them take heed, for ascertain. as we never heard of it in we assure them that even the recreant any way, we can only imagine that it tailor, who was about to clip the great came out “in luminis oras" before we bulwark of our liberties, magna char- were born, which, good reader, was in ta, will stand guiltless in comparison the year . according to this suppo- with the clipper and mutilator of mr sition, mr paynter must now be advan- paynter's sybilline leaves. after this ced in years, and therefore in a very notice, we shall not consider ourselves proper frame of mind for writing such responsible for any suicides which may poems as these, which certainly bear hereafter happen among the members sometokens of senility. on this supposi- of this respectable fraternity, from tion, however, we cannot account for the pangs of conscience for such inexpiable long interval of time which has been poetical sacrilege, and deem ourselves suffered to elapse from his first publi- wholly exonerated from the conse- are .] as b to be without sleep, in an endeavour at its elucidation, but our success, we la profitable members of their father's house- ment to say, has yet been very manchester poetry. unces. and now, having eased our it prudent at the approach of the ter. mind, as the old casuists used to say, rible crisis, to fortify his spirits by a we must turn our attention to the ex- copious and genial libation. traordinary frontispiece which stares but enough of the plateour next book. we regret extremely that we which ushers in the delectable poems. cannot transfer it into our magazine in we present it to our readers, as a spe- its original state, as an everlásting cimen of our author's prose, and an puzzle for the ingenuity of our read example of metaphorical elegance. pure in the play, very mysterious and hiero fancy, which can deduce matter of il- glyphical, infinitely more perplexing lustration from the quarter sessions, than any of those yearly enigmas which and the house of correction. appearinthat prophetical work, moore's “ the heterogeneous children, disposed Ähnanack. our anxiety to get at the herein according to their respective tempe. have actually passed several nights time, (several of them, indeed, longer than a seven-years' apprenticeship,) idle and un- small. -are sent into the world, in order to at one time we conceived it å repre- yet with no other recommendation, (hea- make some sort of provision for themselves ; sentation of adam and eve in a state ven help them !) than self-report,-- which, of innocence, and certainly there is a by the way, people of thoughtful discretion beast in the corner which is ugly enough and forecast consider but a scurvily-slender for the serpent himself. but, besides loop, whereby to suspend so pretty a gim- that , there is a fourth character in the crack as hope ! piece, whom, upon this supposition, “ however, if all of them prove honest we cannot make out; adam would enough to escape the jail of infamy-and then be represented with a bowl of even one (beit the veriest dapperling amongst would hardly be perfectly in character. tlement in the republic of letters,—the at one time we interpreted it to deli: parent's most lively expectations will be an. neate hunt in ilchester prison, solacing surance to the whole bench of worshipful swered, to the full: and he gives his as. bis sorrows with a drop of the good critics, that it will not entirely break his creature in despite of his jailor, ad- heart, (though, peradventure, 'tis pretty umbrated in the blatant beast in the well fraught with fatherly affection) to be- corner, and of the two persons in the hold the rest of his offspring, each by vir. back ground, who appear to be anxi- tue of a vagabond's pass, return-in rags pusly cheapening a yard of ribband. -to their native parish of obscurity.” unfortunately for this view of the case, we are afraid there is something there is no appearance of any of these more here than meets the eye. it is outward and visible signs whích “du- surely rather an unprecedented intro- rance vile” generally brings along with duction to a book of poetry foran author it. here the parties seem quite at ease, to commence by displaying his accurate and mr hunt himself appears as com- knowledge of the vagrant laws. there fortable in every respect as if he were must certainly be some deep, some in- in his own house, (i.e. if he have one) scrutable sense attached to this para- with a select party of friends, toasting graph, for, in its obvious meaning, we annual parliamentsand universal suf. fear it has no sense at all. it cannot frage . this interpretation has, too, ano- surely be that this introduction, though ther sınall defect, that it is not entire- . apparently recommendatory of his va- ly consistent with chronology; but this gabond offspring, is to be extended to we regard as trivial. great' men are their unfortunate father, who stands in not to be circumscribed by rules, and more need of a settlement than his as shakespeare went before time, it is . children. it cannot surely be that this not reasonable that mr paynter should great man's labours have been under follow after it. upon the whole, we are the inspection and superintendance of very dubious on the subject, but are parish officers and beadles, those very inclined to think that the plate has incompetent cultivators of poetical ge- some reference to the manchester mas- nius. it cannot surely be that a re- sacre, and perhaps to the part our au- commendation so modestly made and thor performed in it, who might deem delicately insinuated should have been manchester poetry. [april, made and insinuated in vain. alas! there is something exceedingly awful that such things should be. when and championlike :- will genius be rewarded ? when will " let the wolfish king beware, modesty be preferred? shall parnas or by the gods i'll make him yell." sian bards stand in awe of the over in the next piece, the solitary bard, seer's whip, or write their eternal poems & representation, doubtless, of mr in their removals from parish to parish, paynter himself, we discern many and from township to township, which, delightful outpourings of sensibility: now glad to get rid of them, will at one there isa sweet description of his rural time contend for the honour of their abode in manchester,“ seated on the nativity? shame on ye, men of man- margin of a lake,” we presume the chester! have ye no bowels, ye cotton reservoir of some factory, near which, spinners and manufacturers? is there like master stephen, mr paynter is no mecenas in your factories, or wont to sit upon a stool, and be me- buckingham in your courts ? no one lancholy like a gentleman. enviable who wishes to have fame at a cheap indeed is the situation of a poet, he rate, and has ambition beyond the cal- can see “ silver waves” and majestic culations of his ledger? no one willing swans where the little dirty factory to receive dedications in lieu of bank boys about him can discern nothing notes, and immortality in exchange for but a pond of water as black as ink, filthy lucre? open your purses, and and a dead dog, perchance, floating at impart of your superfluity to one who the top of it. the following tribute to stands among ye, willing and ready to the memory of our author's parents it receive it. so shall you have a poet were injustice to suppress; and we can- laureate, who shall dignify your fogs not but approve of the conduct of his as pindar did his native bæotia, who father in debarring his son from clas- shall blazon forth with laudable per- sical lore, in order that he might have severance the perfections of your bodies leisure to cultivate his vernacular and the excellencies of yourminds, who tongue with that elegance and effect shall exalt your police meetings with which his poems display. his odes, and your commercial clerks' “his sire, who, in the heyday noon of life, meetings with his songs; your deaths cloy'd with the luxuries of garnish'd with his monodies, and your marriages pomp, with his epithalamia ; your newspa- hither retir'd on wreck of princely wealth, pers with his stanzas, and your christ- and with a yokemate, chaste as vesta's self, mas meetings with his charades; and transfus'd into his mind the hate of - who may, in the maturity of his pride, powers and the fulness of his grati which soon begat a gust for solitude; tude, even write a blank epic poem, in and though himself pre-eminently vers'd imitation of dyer's fleece, entitled in the rich fruitage of old greece and paynter's cotton. rome, but now for the poetry. we are made him but master of his mother- first presented with an imitation of tongue.” drayton's nymphidia, denominated eastcheap in the shades next fol- dwarfish warfare, or the battles of lows, where we are introduced to our the fairies. the worthy chronicler old acquaintances falstaff, poins, bar- of these great engagements appears to dolph, and dame quickly, whose very have been truly impressed with the reasonable expostulation with the fat dignity of his subject. his language, knight will fully prove, we think, that therefore, rises proportionably. in- shakespeare must quail to his imita- stead of the dog days, the term adopt- tor. our author subsequently, in a ed in common parlance, we meet with very ingenuous manner, confesses him- the dog's own days, which we prefer, self guilty of the grievous sin of diffi- as more elevated, and as giving the dence. this instance, we are sure, devil, or rather the dog, his due. will be sufficient to prove that the fault many other felicities of diction are only exists in the imagination of this equally apparent. we, however, en- solitary and self-accusing bard. tirely abstain from giving a further ac- “swift as domestic tiger clutches mouse, count of this precious morceau, merely mine hostess cry'd— thou knave, calling the attention of our reader to revile my house! the following declaration, in which was it for this i bought thee holland. shirts, --- .] manchester poetry. and mark'd thy filthy name upon the when, afar, he observ'd a proud city's skirts ? bright spires, thy tailor paid, for coats of finest nap,— his bosom was heated with opposite fires; for which i ne'er receiv'd a finger-snap? he rail'd at his fellows, with merciless hate, did i nut give thee, gratus, bed and and tax'd with injustice the rulings of board, fate !- whilst thou unconscionable reck’nings yet, when the arch'd welkin was tranquil scor'd ? and clear, was i not by thee, at thy latter end,- the thoughts of the past would engender and pray'd the saints thy broken heart a tear, to mend ?--- which stealing, apace, down his travel. and can'st thou, vassal-slave, use gain'd scars, calamy he pity'd mankind, and forgave his ill 'gainst one who was so parlous kind to stars! thee?.. ah, fie upon thy naughty varlet's tongue, one friend, whom he lov'd, yet remain a which, like a pismire, has mine honour a brother that friend ;—from the place of stung! we are next regaled by an ode and his birth, an allegory, both of which, though an exile for ten weary years he had been,- excellent in their way, we are obliged by his country remember'd and honour'd, to pass over. the following tale, which his spirit was lofty,—(orsino his name,) we extract entire, is designed certainly in the field he had sought and acquir'd “ to ope the sacred source of sympathetic honest fame :- tears." he brav'd a false noble, who fell in the it is very sad indeed. draw out your strife, handkerchief, good reader, for here is and valiant orsino was banish'd for life! matter that would melt a heart of his raiment now tatter'd-the mock of the stone. wind “ the lunatic and the outcast ; a tale. heavy-burthen'd his heart, and all-joyless his mind, by friendship undone ---by his mistress young leon had journey'd through regions betray'd, --- unknown,- a bankrupt in fortune and happiness enduring the frigid, and fierce torrid zone ; made; when, seated one even in sad reverie, disown'd by his equals ---revil'd by the on the measureless beach of the 'wide mean,-- caspian sea,- 'midst pride's bitter taunts, and the clamour at the foot of a steep frowning cliff, he of spleen, beheld young leon his birth-place---a gay tuscan a poor naked maniac, who frightfully town yell’d! at twilight abandon'd, with sorrows weigh'd down; ungracious his aspect_his eye sternly fierce tempests of anguish his thoughts he laugh'd whilst in anger,—and horribly wild, rudely hurl'd, smil'd ;- a pennyless outcast, he fled from the world. from his grim boxen visage, black tresses o'er the wild blasted heath, and the bleak hung down, barren hill, dank sea-weed he wore round his head, as on the cataract's brink,-by the foul sedgy rill, on the sharp cragged rocks that defac d 'mid whirlwinds and thunders that shook the smooth strand, the firm ball, he cast himself headlong, and clutch'd he wander'd and suffer'd, -unpity'd by the hot sand; all!- then, savag'd by phrensy, sprung up- not e'en the poor peasant-himself sorely with void stare,- press'd,) and maim'd his swarth forehead, and with a sigh of compassion his pilgrimage tore his lank hair ! bless d !- his head was oft pillow'd by fragments of when he saw the lone outcast, he utter'd wood, rude howls, marshy water his drink, moorland berries like those of the wolf when in forests he his food. prowls ;- a crown. calumny. manchester poetry [april, lycidas. tore advanc'd a few paces, then paus'd, as in woman needless, at the sudden evil of doubt, this “ innocent cain?" it is verily a now, fixing his eye-ball, -now, gazing most melancholy, catastrophe, and about should in future be a warning to the at length, with clench'd hands and quick keepers of asylums how they suffer gasping with ragem he rush'd feetly forward, the stranger their patients to go abroad to the da- t'engage; mage of our lord the king, and the and while, with shrewd signals and fear and consternation of his subjects. gestures, he brav'd, qur author's bucolical inspirations his feet toss’d the sand, - and thus, furious, come next, and theocritus and virgil he ray'd : hide their diminished heads. the for. · arch-rebel! com’st thou with intent to place, for what were the banks of mer has certainly the advantages of purloin a monarch’s regalia--his jewels and coin ? the cydnus or mincio, to those of the i'm king o'the elements clouds are my river mersey, or the duke of bridge- steeds water's canal! lend us your ears, i grasp all the thunders, and do mighty good folks, and listen to the bucolics deeds! of this manchester tityrus. one the wind is my grandsire-a dormouse my speech only we can quote. dam- o' sundays, i marry the tiger and lamb ! fly-fly my dominions ! or by the three zones - “o, that this breast were turn'd to lifeless i'll pluck out thy sinews, and rive all thy clay! bones!' yet wisdom speaks, and i must needs obey. he boisterous spoke, and all-frantickly my truant flocks again shall jointly feed, and bask at will, in their own verdant mead; a huge fragment of rock from the desolate my moping dog again shall range the lawn, shore : and, wakeful, guard the fold, from eve to he rais'd it; when leon his jeopardy saw, dawn: observ'd, in a trice, gentle nature's first tho'sad at heart, i'll seem as blithe a swain, law,- as e'er ply'd crook, or pip'd the jocund and smote the poor maniac, who, fearfully strain. maim'd, but (woe thc while !) should phyllis still toppled down on the waste,--and, scarce breathing, exclaim'd- her cruel scorn, and ne'er appear to rue,-- ah, leon—sweet brother-come, lend my dog may pine; my lambs deserted, me thine aid ! stray ;- 'tis orsino who calls—in his winding-sheet my crook and pipe, at once, i'll cast away ; laid ! and straight retiring to this silent vale, i'll lay me down,-and, dying, end my this said,- with a faint suspiration-he bale." dy'd ! the horror-struckoutcast, in agony, cry'd.. attentive to the last, you see, to the : , sorrow of sorrows! too weighty to affairs of the warehouse. the eyes of bear! - this lycidas, who, we opine, was a mine own brother i've slaughter'd !_now packer, could not be closed in peace welcome despair !” till the bale was made up. what a he wept o'er the body,--and kiss'd its cold stroke of nature! what excellent con- cheek, sistency of delineation! the author then, piercing the air with a piteous shriek, has here contrived to unite the before- swift aed tow’rd the billows an innocent deemed-incompatible characters of cain- a manchester warehouseman and an and buried himself—and his griefs in arcadian shepherd! he has managed the main." to depict a genius who can tend sheep we are now completely overcome, and pack up bales with equal facility. and must exclaim with lady frost in henceforth let us no more talk of the the play, “you have conquered, sweet, breathings of the doric flute, but more melting, moving sir, you have conquer- judiciously reserve our admiration for ed! what heart of marble can refrain the louder sounds of the manchester to weep, and yield to such sad say- trumpet. ings.” who is there, indeed, whose tales, fables, monodies, odes, elegies, eyes shall not overflow with tears, and epitaphs, and epigrams, and all the render us the labours of the washer. small artillery of the muses, now fol- pursue .] manchester poetry. low in formidable array, to excite our his hands from picking and stealing, wonder and astonishment at the versa- especially from our good author, who tility of this manchester bard. we had surely every reason to believe he are sorry we have not room for a spe- might continue unmolested. we re- cimen of our author's powers in each gard the fact as awfully characteristic of these different lines ; but alas, we of the present times. it is come to a cannot be for ever transcribing, even pretty pass indeed, when the dead arise from poetry so luscious as mr payn- to deprive us of our property: we ter's. this great man appears capable shall not be surprised soon to hear of of writing de omni scibili et de quolibet coaches robbed, and purses rifled, by ente. there is nothing too great or resuscitated highwaymen and pickpoc- too little for his wonderful powers. he kets. can wield the sword of goliah and the we are, amongst other interesting missile of david, at one and the same pieces, next presented with a very plea- time. his genius absolutely appears sant epistolary communication between co-extensive with poetry itself. his the gout and our author; and also with book is a compendium or abstract " of divers songs,&c. spoken before the man- the wisest and best of all other men's chester philanthropical society. how books," the very choicest culling of the the gout and our author became con- hyblæan honey. equal in beauty is nected, god knows—they are two of his prose. his introduction we have the last persons between whom we before inserted, but the following note, should have expected an acq tance. written apparently to prove that the probably, however, the latter produc- author of paradise lost has pillaged tion may explain the former, and the from the author of the muse on idle primitive diet of parnell's hermit may ness, it would be unpardonable to omit. not be much in requisition amongst “not so, the bee; who quickly found the members of the above-mentioned an access to the pulp profound;" benevolent institution. “ his food was herbs, his drink the crystal * think not, most courteous, thrice-gen. well.” tle, and indulgent reader, that our au- thor hath here plagiarised the miltonian we begin to suspect by the way, idiom. “ pulp profound,” independent from this circumstance, that mr payn- ly of its alliterative clegance, is undoubt- ter's case is not quite so bad as we sup- edly a rare example of " the sublime and posed, in our warm, and we hope elo- beautiful ;" yet, the bard of eden hath quent appeal to the benevolence of the no more claim to it, than the philosopher manchester people. we really now of china. "twas the divine emanation of have a notion that his residence is not his own deep sagacity, and purely of his so near to heaven by two stories as own fashioning ; ergo, according to all the we imagined before. be he, however, principles of equity, he certainly ought to near heaven, or near earth, or in ma- enjoy the sole and entire credit of it ?” homet's paradise between both, he is this is a very clear case indeed. as a personage who deserves promotion ; we understand the note, there is a mat- and if his humility, which, as our rea- ter of plagiarism to be settled between ders will hereafter see, is his only fail- milton and paynter, about this same ing, confine him at present to the “pulp profound," and certainly if the ground floor, we hope a time will come latter gentleman have not pillaged from when he will verify the gospel saying, the former, the former must have pil “ that he who humbleth himself shall laged from the latter. now mr payn- be exalted.". ter comes forward like an honest man, an epitaph on a lap-dog comes next, gives us his asseveration, which we re- commemorating the various virtues and gard the same as proof, that the steal- endowments of the deceased. after an ing was not on his side, and that these interval, the plain-dealing lover, in two words are his own sole and exclue which our author, after recounting the sive property. after this, it is impos- various beauties who have made as- sible to doubt where the mal-feasance saults upon his heart, concludes, as lies, and accordingly we charge john might be expected from the possessor milton with petit larceny on mr payn- of such poetical powers and intellectual ter's goods and chattels. truly it is a acomplishments, by declaring, that he strange thing that our great epic poet, loves himself the best. and let no one dead and departed as he is, cannot keep impute this to superabundance of va- manchester poetry [april, nity or self love. it is not easy for a forgets the sapient grecian's classic rules, man to tell what he might say or do, and all the irksomelumber of the schools, were he equally gifted with mr payn- tocull the honey from thy dædal plays,- the wildest sweet,--the sweetest past all ter; were we but in that enviable pre- dicament, we should, we are persua- great nature's minion ! fancy's fav’rite praise !— ded, be continually absorbed, like the flower ! indian god, in the contemplation of the muse's darling! foe to art's frail our own excellencies ; and this maga pow'r ! zine, and all that therein is, might in “we few, we happy few," with rev'rence that case, go to the red sea for aught free, we should care, any thing mr black- this tglass—now blushing-consecrate to wood might say to the contrary there thee." of, in any wise notwithstanding. how we envy those happy friends we have before said, that diffidence who were included in the select and appears to be the chief foible of our shakespeare-loving party! what a author. there are some who may be feast of reason and flow of soul must inclined perhaps to question this our have been exhibited here! with what assertion. let them therefore listen agusto must the favoured bonvives have to the poet himself, who surely ought discussed their black strap, (unless the to know best. port be intended for porter, which we « distressful state ! are inclined to believe,) and the works scarce equall'd by the pangs of hopeless of the commemorated poet, in the pre- love. sence of his greatest living representa- whilst happier bards, dismayless, mount tive! we fancy we see at this very mo. on high, ment some hulking, butcher-like look- and warble forth their vary'd strains su. ing man, with greasy leather breeches blime, and scarlet waistcoat, a face running with feeble hand, my muse attunes her down with perspiration, and eyes ab lyre, solutely starting out of their sockets in taine subjection to this giant fear ; which au, through childhood, more or observations to the president, (who in with exertion, rising up to offer some less, endure; but few, in modern times, save those whose this case can be no other than mr nerves paynter himself,) on the character of are exquisitely wrought, its mast'ry bear romeo, and dilating with extraordina- beyond their boyish and unthoughtful ry sensibilty on his unhappy love. he days." might perchance, be followed by some little mortified man, “one of nine, the following lines to the memory whose appearance instantly indicated of shakespeare, were delivered to a his occupation, and round whose mouth small party of friends, who assembled the bees might have swarmer, were it to commemorate the day on which that not for the mustard which lingered poet died, and gratifying indeed must thereon, discoursing with all the en- it have been to have heard such lines thusiasm of a kindred spirit, on the pronounced on such an occasion. exalted character of coriolanus. such “ 'twas on this day, two hundred years company as this who would not covet ? ago, alas, why were not we too invited to the purple tide of shakespeare ceas'd to the feast. it would indeed have been a thing to talk of all our lives, and this day, grim death o'er stratford wing'd proud indeed would have been the his flight, moment, when, on some future com- resolv'd to show mankind his keenest memoration day of shakespeare, we spite :- swift to its aim his shaft unerring sped, - happiness of drinking a bumper to the could exclaim, “on this day we had the the poet fell the soul of genius fled.- o, star-like shakespeare ! pride of ev'ry memory of shakespeare, with w. d. paynter, author of the tragedy of eu- the prince,—the god,--the glory of the rypilus !" stage ! but our enthusiasm is carrying us when, like the lark, aloft thy spirit soars, beyond the limits allotted for our re- the critic wonders,—but the bard adores! view. we must return to the subject how ; age! * aristotle. + port-winc. . manchester poetry. and close our extracts by the follow in the literary world, we have attempt- ing, which indeed might have indif ed' to shew; what wonderous effects his ferently done, as a beginning, middle, example may produce, it is not so and conclusion. easy to predict. we hope and trust it will excite an universal spirit of emu- « nonsense. lation, and that in the minds of all; an example of holiday poesy. from the lowest factory-boy to the "-full of sound and fury, highest cotton-spinner, the love of " signifying pothing." - shakespeare. « the shafts of cupid hurtle in the wind; thus shall arise to this great man a poetry may be kindled like a flame. the plumy vesture of his mother's doves seems sweetly swan-like, to the enamour'd more complete honour than that of mind; orpheus, the civilizer of barbarous and all the graces look ten-thousand nations, viz. that of having implanted loves !” in the very bales and bagmen of man- really this was completely a work chester, poetical fervour and feeling. of supererogation. after so many gra- thus shall mitchell's interest tables, tuitous specimens of this sort of wric and lord byron's falieri, lie in appro- tíng, our good and pains-taking author priate juxta-position on the same coun- was really carrying the joke too far, to ter and desk; while in the place of in- give us as a new thing, what every spiration, shall be visible the muse in page of the book from the first to the idleness and the rhyming dictionary; last, presented. besides, where was and an entry into the ledger, and the the need of imitating others in this completion of a stanza, shall follow style, when he writes himself so much each other in alternate succession. thus with the spirit of an original? but shall pattern books of prints, and pat- this we impute to the great modesty tern books of poetry, issue from man- of our author, who appears not to know chester to the north and to the south, what he is capable of doing or has and to the east and to the west, and done. it is, of course, incumbent up- returned bills and returned plays, be on us to set him right. let him, there sent back to that place in thousands by fore, for the future, give himself no the same capacious and comprehensive trouble in excogitating titles for his packet. thus shall we hear of new various productions. the general and bloomfields, dermodies, and clares, comprehensive one he has here given starting ap in regular and unbroken to this last, will equally serve for all. array, and their poems shall be adorn- we have heard an eminent author say, ed by a preliminary essay, written by that it is less difficult to write a poem some patronizing oracle of the counter. or play, than it is to find a name for it "nor will the good effects to be produ- when it is written. if this be the casc, ced by mr paynter's lucubrations, be how much is mr paynter obliged to us confined to the town 'which has the for this felicitousand universal appella. happiness of possessing that great bard. tion, which, while it will save himself we also we speak it with exultation much mental distraction and trouble, -shall reap of the plenteous harvest. will at once be acknowledged by every the commercial book-keepers, print- one who sees it, to be concise, signifie ers' devils, and attorneys clerks of cant, and just. manchester, will dispose themselves such are the prosaical and poetical through our pages in all the varieties labours of d. w. paynter, author of of ode, epigram, elegy, satire, and son- the tragedy of eurypilus, commemo- net, and thus our magazine receive a rator of shakespeare, professor of the new impetus from the offerings which vagrant laws, and poet laureat to shall monthly be brought to us by the the manchester philanthropical socie-commercial travellers from this peren- ty. what great things he has achieved nial fount of the muses. vol. ix. k [april, the september forest. the september forest. within a wood i lay reclined, upon a dull september day, and listen'd to the hollow wind, that shook the frail leaves from the spray. i thought me of its summer pride, and how the sod was gemm'd with flowers, and how the river's azure tide was overarch'd with leafy bowers. and how the small birds caroll’d gay, and lattice work the sunshine made, when last, upon a summer day, i stray'd beneath that woodland shade. and now it was a startling thought, and flash'd like lightning o'er the mind, that like the leaves we pass to nought, nor, parting, leave a track behind ! gom-trace the church-yard's hallow'd mound, and, as among the tombs ye tread, read, on the pedestals around, memorials of the vanish'd dead. they lived like us--they breathed like us- like us, they loved, and smiled, and wept; but soon their hour arriving, thus from earth like autumn leaves were swept. who, living, care for them ?- not one! to earth are theirs dissever'd claims; to new inheritors have gone their habitations, and their names ! think on our childhood-where are they, the beings that begirt us then ? the lion death hath dragg’d away by turns, the victim to his den! and springing round, like vernal flowers, another race with vigour burns, to bloom a while,-for years or hours, and then to perish in their turns ! then be this wintry grove to me an emblem of our mortal state; and from each lone and leafless tree so wither'd, wild, and desolate, this moral lesson let me draw, that earthly means are vain to fly great nature's universal law, and that we all must come to die ! however varied, these alone abide the lofty and the less ,- remembrance, and a sculptured stone, a green grave, and forgetfulness ! a. .] the wail of lady anne. the wail of lady anne. a ship came bounding with the gale, i watch'd with eager gaze the sail, more near it came--it journied on, and on the beech i stood alone ! i heard the sound of horses' feet,- and out i rush'd my knight to greet; but fast they gallopp'd past the gate, and left me standing desolate ! oh! when, from foreign climes, shall come, to part no more, my warrior home? when, to these halls, a welcome guest, shall he return, and i be blest! at twilight's still, and sombre hour, alone i seek the rosy bower, and think of times when it was sweet, in secret there with him to meet. and i will teach his baby fair to kneel, and lisp a gentle prayer ; and heaven will hear us, as we pray in love, nor turn from both away! haste-haste across the foaming seas, thou tardy ship, and woo the breeze ; with hoofs of speed, and sides of foam, speed, barb, and bear sir william home! letter from fogarty o'fogarty, esquire, inclosing fourth carto of daniel Ở rourke. dear sir, i suppose you think i am dead, but i am happy to inform you that i am still in the land of the living. i went out on the shooting-match with tom hungerford, as your correspondent h. informs you, (and that is the only word of truth in his letter) and had a very pleasant time of it indeed, for three or four days. 'twas just at the end of the partridge season, and i flatter myself that i am as fine a shot as my neighbours. i was getting on, knocking down my eight or ten brace a-day, when just on beating up a cover of lord car- bery's (the same nobleman whose loyal and elegant little pamphlet you have lately noticed) our party was joined by a couple of people from cork, who had just been emancipated from the counter, i believe, and though mere pro- vincials like myself, were complete cockneys in sporting. one of these wor- thies in the first shot that he fired, levelling at a hay-stack, i imagine, for no other object except myself was within range of his piece, but missing it, put the contents of his gun (and they were at least a finger too much) right into the centre of my hand. i have lost two fingers by the accident, (the surgeons here call them metacarpal bones,--i am sure they are fingers) but have re- covered the use of my band again, as you may perceive, though my penman- ship is somewhat altered for the worse. you will own then, i had some other fish to fry, beside continuing daniel o'rourke for you. i declare, upon ho- t letter from fogarty oʻfogarty. [april, nour, i had not my pen to paper, until the day before yesterday, since i wrote the third canto; and i now send you the fourth, which i hope you will receive in time to make its appearance in your th number. you were wrong to print holts' letter about himself and spider. my poem came into his hands without my knowledge, and i have severely rebuked those who entrusted it to him. i am surprised how you allowed yourself to be humbugg'd by him, but you are not the only magazine he plays upon, as professor - can tell you. de- pend upon it, (save accidents) you shall have cantos fifth and sixth in due course ; meanwhile, believe me to be, dear sir, yours, &c. fogarty o' fogarty. blarney, april , . p. s. i am told mathews has made use of my poem at some of his exhibi- tions. i am too remote from london to get authentic intelligence on theatri. cal affairs, but he is quite welcome, particularly as i am sure he has done it justice. i remember supping, after the play, with mathews when he was last in dublin, at tom lee’s of the shamrock, and a mighty pleasant fellow i found him to be. we were together until four in the morning! vaniel o'rourke, an epic poem, in six cantos, by fogarty o'fogarty, esq. or blarney. canto iv. the moon. t' inquire whether the moon be sea or land or charcoal or a quench'd firebrand; or if the dark holes that appear are only pores, not cities there? butler lungo sarà, se lutte in verso ordisco le cose, che gli fur quivi dimostrc, chè dopo mille, e mille io non finisco, e vi son tutte l'occorrenze nostre. ariosto, canto . . blessed ! thrice blessed was the age of gold, of which so much the ancient poets sing; i laud it not, because the rivers rollid in streams of milk, to ocean wandering; nor because mountains rose, which we are told were built of buns, or many a nicer thing; or because oaks distill’d the honey sweet, and most melodious pigs ran roasted through the street. .] daniel oʻrourke. cunto w. . these famous glories of old lubberland, i own were never yet admired by me; milk i ne'er deem'd a beverage o'er grand, whether supp'd plain, or dabbled into tea; for such weak drink, let cockney bards expand their ass-like jaws,-it suits their poetry: in syllabubs 'twill pass : for to my thinking, your syllabub is mighty pleasant drinking. . honey and buns,—but curse me if i pen for themes like these, my ever-living rhyme; but blest, thrice blessed will i say again, were the glad ages of the golden time; for then there lived an honest race of men, who would have thought it folly, ay or crime, were any one to think himself so bright, as to refuse due credence to his sight these days are gone! this glorious happy age, when every man believed the things he saw; where none sought truth in learning's mystic page, or bow'd the knee to philosophic law; when nature knew not telescope, nor sage swallowing down science with omnivorous maw; great is the change, but i shall scarce allow, 'that things are any better managed now. in former times, men thought the glorious moon was something near a supper plate in size, and no one would have ventured to impugn the man who trusted to his naked eyes; and all would laugh right fairly at the loon, who'd tell of hills and mountains in the skies; ( ) but now, good thanks to telescopic glass, he who his senses trusts is deem'd an ass. . who would have dared, except by way of fun, in times of old, to say that luna's face into some thousand miles in breadth was spun, and that above she filld a monstrous space; who'd have believed, that gaily round the sun, this earth kept moving at a steady pace; or that the stars were filld with merry creatures, just like ourselves in wisdom and in features. . none-no, not one! and they were right, you'll find, for newton's self knew nothing of the matter ; astronomers were either mad or blind, thus through the world such heaps of trash to scatter, for e'er i've done i'll satisfy each mind, the moon's not bigger, spite of all their chatter, than a round jolly butt of joyous ale, or good sir william's face, or lady ****'s tail. ( ) [april, daniel oʻrourke. canto iv. . for i presume it must appear quite plain, that dan advantage had of all before, for none besides himself, i will maintain, did thus into the lunar region soar ; astronomers, and poets lacking brain, against these truths, perhaps, may fume and roar; but on my word, i mind them not a jot, but credit dan ;-for dan was on the spot. . i'll ask what ariosto could have known, who never left this earth for half a minute; who never on an eagle's back had flown to the bright moon, to see what fun was in it. i think the poet should at least have shown, some proof for what he said was found within it; but the fact is, (it strikes us with conviction) that all this bard has sung is purely fiction. . credit me, gentle reader, that not one is true of all the various tales he told, the moon contains not the apostle john, nor vases made lost senses to enfold; milton, who says, that tenements thereon, translated saints, and middle spirits hold, is just as wrong. (pope's epic of the lock, i quite pass by, because 'tis only mock.) . now how could dan have sat at all with ease, if he had herschel's mighty moon to straddle, tell me my friend, sir william, if you please, how he could cross a thousand miles of saddle. 'tis evident absurdities like these, were humbugs merely,-barely fiddle-faddle; something (i mention it without apology) meant for mere lies like phillips's chronology. ( ) . oh! brave sir dick !--my pen cannot refrain from laying down an offering at thy throne; a foe to newton, and a friend to paine; rival to cobbett and to billy hone! thou who with highest wisdom can maintain that nap's a god, and wellington a drone; how sages will admire in ages hence, the uncommon nonsense of thy “ common sense.' . and now that i have proved these witlings knew nought of the essence of that heavenly ball, i shall endeavour, in a word or two, just to explain the matter to you all, who grant me patient hearing; and in lieu of maudlin epithets, which only pall on ears of taste, i'll give you, if you please, in simple terms, its nature :-'tis a cheese. ( ) .] daniel o'rourke. cunto iv. . a large round cheese, of polisk'd silver hue, (not as some people fancy, blue or green,) measuring across, exactly eight foot two, from side to side; where wondrous things are seen, but not more wondrous, than in strictness true, which from my readers i'll no longer screen. dan was not many minutes there before in the mid moon he spied a snug hall door. . this, in the centre, did our friend behold, but nothing more in that spot could he spy, a misty vapour here in masses roll’d, and quite deluded daniel's prying eye; but on the surface, on the outer mould, muddling in filth, a numerous, nimble fry of pigmy animals were here begotten, and ran about such places as were rotten. . and there were myriads of these little elves, tumbling and leaping, jostling, pushing, running, types, dan could see, of beings like ourselves ; some bent on sport, on business the more cunning- some lumpish folíos, quartos some, or twelves some joking, crying, laughing, groaning, punning, * in short such mites were here together hurľa, dan view'd the bustle of a mimic world. . the fact is this; whatever mean or base, grovelling, or filthy fellow, lives down here, is pre-existent in the lunar space, like to a maggot in her cheesy sphere ; and 'tis no wonder then, since that's the case, that the same dirty natures will appear here on the globe of our sublunar earth, as in the upper world, which gave them birth. . by some strange art, i try not to expound, dan knew each insect at first glance, as easy as the tyth proctor, or his pig in pound, or as his old companion at the daisy ; and though you'll say his intellect was drown'd in brandy, and of course his optics mazy, yet the fact's true: he saw three years ago the types of those who live here now below. . (as for the matter of the lord of day, although 'tis somewhat foreign to my theme, yet it, perhaps, is not amiss to say that'tis no other than a cheese of cream: there you will meet superior mites; for they who sport and wanton in the solar beam typify those predoom'd to be earth's glories, great poets, statesmen, warrior, wits, and tories.) [ april, daniel o raurke. canto iv. . now aid me, potent ruler of the brain, parent of thought and polisher of rhyme, whiskey supreme! to send in dulcet strain what dan beheld along the stream of time; for worthier theme there's none, i will maintain, in any poem, lyric or sublime; i care not in what pages you may look, to morgan dagherty, from lalla rookh. . why should i go to washy hippocrene? i care not for such vapid water's flow! 'tis you that add a spirit to the scene, clear the dull thoughts, and brighten up the brow; cowper a bard more jovial would have been, had he to mix a jolly bowl known how; and hogg, i'm sure, much more admired would be, ( ). did he swig punch, and leave off drinking tea. . inspired by punch i've fashion'd many a tale ; inspired by punch i've counted o'er the past; inspired by punch i've weather'd many a gale, and dared the storm and braved the wintry blast ; inspired by punch, unless the bowl should fail, in the next verses i'll unfold the vast countless banditti, that our hero found, compassing this same mighty cheese around . stuck in a corner busy in a debate, dan saw a handful of most restless creatures, above them something like a bone of meat, which all were gazing at with hungry features, and every tiny maggot at the bait strain'd with the utmost vigour of their natures: but all in vain the luckless rogues endeavour, each effort put them farther back than ever. . there he saw tierney busy as a mouse, heading his myrmidons to snatch the bone; there smart sir francis and his man boghouse, ( ) and lambton speeching till the lights are gone ; there cranky newport, not annoyed with vouc, and mr creevy standing all alone; there were the knights of the well-foughten field, bawling their spears, and face of brass their shield. . with fundamental features high upraised, waddled on gallant gordon, knight of b- there peter moore for wisdom aye be praised; and there montrose’s glory joseph hume; ( ) and he whose wit has all the realm amazed, whittington's rival, waithman's gallant ehum. (as for the lords, i dare not to repeat 'em, for fear 'twould be a scandalum magnatum.) ; ( ) . ] daniel o'rourke. canto iv. . to know the next group dan was forced to pause, they seem'd so little and so busy too; beside, they raked up with their filthy claws, so much thick dust that it obscured his view; and froth so fast carse sputtering from their jaws, that he could barely pierce the dulness through ; at length, by dint of toil, our gallant dan saw 'twas the gathering of the cockney clan. . (but they are all too worthless for my muse, such names my epic stanzas sha'nt pollute; let them be known to dwellers in the stews, where wanton strains their tenants loose embrute.) there too, he did the other tribes peruse, who, or to tinkling lyre or sounding flute, perform sweet melody with force endued, to charm themselves and plague the neighbourhood; . such as the poet of the sweet queen's own, or snivelling terrot, bard of common-place; or willy glass, whose punch-enticing drone ( ) does the mysterious haunts of masons grace ; or else—but why repeat the names unknown, to us prime heroes of poetic race; why post in song the luckless crowds that write, from arctic orkney to antarctic wight. . there were the critics, ever-nibbling crew, who under various banners criticise ; those who haunt ancient humbug's sage review, ( ) which my dear grandam loves to patronize; there were the petty monthly praters too ; there jeffrey's gentlemen, polite and wise : there smug s. smyth traducing mater alma, and goody barker preaching on αγάλμα, . the irish school of orators was there, stuck in a bag of metaphor and trope, headed by phillips with monarchic air, phillips with whom no living mortals cope, in pouring forth a flood of figures fair, frothy, and fine as bubbles blown from soap: sorry am i he's sail'd from us afar, to waste his sweetness on the english bar. . that many an ass from this romantic isle, besides the orators, were there 'tis plain; and once i thought it almost worth my while, to put some low corcagians in my strain ; but who would know them? who could know the vile junts of prigs that meet in falk'ner's lane? ( ) who'd understand me, if i nam'd the ass, who ( ) swore that small beer inspir'd the muse of tasso ? vol. ix. l [april daniel qʻrourke. canta ik. there too, he saw-but i had better stop ; a very long cantata i have sung; the matter, therefore, i shall quickly drop, and go to bed sweet blarney's groves among. i hold that bard no better than a fop, who lingers at his story over long, and keeps the honest people all suspended, who wish to know how his narration's ended. ( ) . then to my tale- dan saw these insects feeding on all the fodder which they there could find, sweet food it was ! whatever sort of reading on this our globe is scorn'd by all mankind, is, by a wond'rous system of proceeding, whipt to the moon upon the wings of wind, and being musty, rotten, and strong smelling, is proper food for mites in old cheese dwelling. . they feed on novels, by a. newman sold, written by people dwelling near the sky; on mr cobbett's paper versus gold, on the scots' magazine-food hard and dry; on irish tales, by lady morgan told; on mr godwin's elegant reply;( ), and some have got as fat as any bullock, by eating down whole columns of m‘culloch. . there they and many more are taken off, year after year, in never-ceasing number; people, perhaps, who are inclined to scoff may ask me where they stow such lots of lumber: but if we should their earthly coverings doff, they'll not be thought, i ween, much space to cumber; their true contents are all that upwards come, and they are little more than vacuum, . but trifling joy found daniel in the sight of the proceedings of this maggot nation, he would have thought himself as happy quite if planted in his own clay habitation : said he, “ 'tis certain that i was not right, to get into this state of civilation ; ( ) “oh ! that i was,” he adds with sigh deep drawn, “ off of the back of this big mullahąun.” ( ) . while thus he grieves, he hears a sudden sound of a door opening with a rusty creak, and turning very cautiously around, for dread of tumbling off had blanch'd his cheek, he saw what might a stouter heart astound, the very door of which you heard me speak ( ) thrust violently forth with noise of thunder, and forth there came a thing at which you'll wonder! . ] daniel oʻrourke. canto iv. notes. ( ) i must here remark, that your friend who signs himself the midshipman, and also he who goes under the forgery denomination of the man in the moon, are merely gentlemen bent on frolic not a word of what they say is authentic. captain kater, i am sorry to perceive, is also on the same tack, when he publishes to the world that he has discovered a volcano in the moon. this, as peter paragraph says, is pleasant, but wrong. ( ) every man may fill this hiatus as he chuses. ( ) a work, the merits of which ought not to be told in a note ; suffice it to say in one line, it contains, at least, as many lies as pages. for instance, he makes lord nelson, who was killed in , take copenhagen in ; cum multis aliis quæ nunc perscribere longum est. look, for ex- ample, at his account of waterloo. ( ) by this it appears the welshmen are correct in their selenology, except as to colour. ( ) since marriage, i understand mr hogg has turned tea-drinker, and mark the consequence. see how he has been since reviewed in that competent authority the edinburgh review! he had better look to himself. ( .) erratum, for boghouse, read hobhouse, vid. tentamen. ( ) see new whig guide. he, en his side of the question, somewhat resembles lord temple on his. of the latter, it was observed, that he answered the description of the temple of jerusalem in tacitus. templum in modum arcis. ( ) put for hume, by apocope, and for another reason. willison glass, esq. well known in this city of edinburgh, c. n. ( ) editor of the british review, well spoken of in the hour's tete-a-tete, and don juan. ( ) see thes. ( ) the scientific and literary society of cork, who meet in a bye-lane, mentioned in the text. ( ) a paper was produced at the above society, to prove some- thing to this effect. ( ) let this be a hint to the story-teller of the steam-boat. ( ) to malthus. when i heard of this reply, it reminded me of what my friend jack carran said to charley philips. p. told him he intended to give grattan a dressing never mind it, says curran, it would be only a child throwing a pebble at the leg of a colossus. ( ) a cant phrase in cork for a state of intoxication. a worthy orator of curs, who had taken a glass or two too much, was haranguing at a debating society on the state of ireland before the english invasion ; and the whole harangue was this -sir, the irish had no civilation_civization--civilation, i mean. finding, however, his efforts to get civilization out impracticable, he sat down with the satisfaction of having added a new word to our language. every drunken man ever since is here said to be in a state of civilation. ( ) , soft irish cheese. ( ) st. xiv. owen's report to the county of lanark.* [we have received, within these few months, several good articles respecting mr owen's celebrated system. we select one, written ably and temperately, though we are not prepared to say that we agree with our correspondent in all his arguments. we have much respect for mr owen, and think there is im- portant and profound truth in many of his views. to separate his errors from that truth, would be a work of some difficulty ; but no man is entitled to treat with ridicule the general reasonings of the philanthropist, which, while they frequently exhibit no ordinary intellectual power, are always distinguished by an amiable moral spirit. c. n.] few names have filled the world's municating distinct ideas of the prin- month more of late years than mr ciples on which they themselves anti- owen's; and few projectors, while their cipate success. for ourselves at least, schemes lay, yet in theory only, have we know, that previous to our visit to evet succeeded better in possessing the new lanark, we neither knew nor public with a knowledge of the objects cared very much about the matter. mr of their pursuit. and yet very few, we owen's name had frequently sounded believe, have ever been so unsuccess- in our ears, and we had heard gene- ful in exciting in others a kindred en- rally of his speculations, sometimes in thusiasm to their own, or even in comº respect, more frequently in derision ; • report to the county of lanark of a plan for relieving public distress, and re- poving discontent, by giving permanent productive employment to the poor and work- ing classes, under arrangements which will essentially improve their character, and ameliorate their condition, diminish the expenses of production and consumption, and create markets co-extensive with production. by robert owen. to. wardlaw and cunninghame. glasgow. . owen's report to the county of lanark. [april, but we had no definite notions as to the ficient confutation of them ;)--and points about them which excited either shall then proceed to answer, after our sentiment. in like manner, when at manner, the questions above proposed, the mills we met a neighbouring cler-' -with more favour, we shall here pre- gyman of our acquaintance escorting a mise, for much of mr owen's practi- party of friends over them, (the fifth cal plans than will be expected from or sixth time, as he told us, he had so the exposé of his theoretical views, with done their honours,) and conscious of which we begin. the disadvantages under which, through mr owen's positions, theoretical and .this ignorance, we were making our practical, may be arranged, we think, observations, we besought him to en to advantage, in the following order. lighten us on the subject,-he, alas ! . man is in no degree whatever a free we found was not less wandering in agent, or accountable for his conduct. the dark than ourselves. and many “one of the mostgeneral sourcesoferror times since, while either perusing ac- and evil in the world, is the notion that counts of this establishment in the pub- infants, children, and men, are agents lic newspapers, or conversing with those governed by a will formed by them- who have visited it, we have been selves, and fashioned after their own struck, very much struck, with the de- choice. to those who possess any know- gree in which nearly all have seemed ledge on the subject it is known, that attracted by its minute and accessory man is the creature of circumstances, details, its singing, dancing, machi- and that he really is, at every moment nery, &c., while not one appeared to of his existence, precisely what the cir- regard it as other than a curiosity in cumstances in which he is placed, com- its way, mighty interesting to look at, bined with his natural qualities, make but utterly unsound to build upon, and him."-report, p. . almost unworthy to be reasoned on at . every system of government, all. why is this? we have said to our therefore, which involves the idea of in- selves more than once. there is here dividual reward or punishment, praise a glittering promise, and nobody cares or blame, is founded on principles un- about it—the theory of a system, and just in themselves, and inconsistent nobody knows about it,-its professed with human nature. through this practice, and nobody penetrates it. it science,” that, namely, of the influence is plain that the instinctive common of circumstances over human nature, sense of the world is against the thing; “new mental powers will be created, but is it on this occasion well found- which will place all those circumstan- ed, or is there indeed ore at the bot- ces that determine the misery or hap- tom of this shaft, although superficial piness of man under the immediate con- observers will not stay to pick it up? troul of the present population of the on the occasion to which we have world, and entirely supersede all ne- alluded, although without other intro- cessity for the present truly irrational duction than our curiosity, we had the system of individual rewards and pu- honour to partake of mr owen's ge- nishments; a system which has ever neral hospitality, and the very great been opposed to the most obvious dic- pleasure of conversing with him free- tates of common sense and humanity, ly during nearly the whole of a pretty and will no longer be permitted than long evening. we are desirous, there while men continue unenlightened and fore, of commenting on his system, barbarous.”—p. . with the utmost deference towards . there is no inherent imperfec- himself personally; but finding that tion in man's constitution, his vices in he has just sent forth a new book on times past have been exclusively owing the subject, which therefore we deem to the vicious forms of society in which it our duty to review, and considering he has been placed. let these be bu also the greater number of his positions judiciously changed, and he is “capa- to be extravagant in the greatest pos- ble of receiving unlimited improvemen sible degree, we cannot compromise and knowledge, and, in consequence the entireness of our dissent from them of experiencing such uninterrupted en. on any such considerations. we shall joyment through this life, as will bes first, therefore, briefly state his prin- prepare him for an after-existence.”. ciples, abstracted from all such de- Þ. . tails as are accidental merely to them, . in particular, the prejudice by not integral; (this we shall deem suf- which men have been hitherto led t .) owen's report to the county of lanark. maintain a certain individuality of feel . the whole population should also ing-preferring their own interests, be made to eat together as one family, children, country, &c., to their neighé having their food prepared for them bours', is entireiy an excrescence on in one establishment. “various ob- their original nature, and not only jections have been urged against this should, but also very easily may be, practice, but they have come from those overcome. only, who, whatever may be their other . in like manner the division of la- pretensions, are mere children in the bour, which has hitherto been deemed knowledge of the principles and economy a source of power in arts and manufac- of social life.”-p. . tares, is, in truth, detrimental to both. . they should all be dressed alike, every man should know a little of and the roman or highland garb is re- every thing. “ it has been a popular commended in preference to any other. opinion to recommend a minute divi- " the advantages of this part of the sion of labour and interests. it will plan will prove to be so great in prac- presently appear, however, that this tice, that fashions will exist for a very minute division of labour, and division short period, and then only among of interests, are only other terms for the most weak and silly part of the poverty, ignorance, waste of every kind, creation.”—not human beings, wepre- universal opposition throughout socie- sume, but non-descripts, whom no ty, crime, misery, and great bodily and combination of circumstances could mental debility."-p. , to the end of materially improve.-p. . the paragraph. . the children of these establish- . the proper arrangement then of so- ments are also to be common good, and ciety is to divide the whole countryinto all educated together under general in- districts, removing the old land-marks, spection. two schools are to be pro- abandoning the old habitations, and vided for them, one receiving infants constructing new villages or townships from to years of age, the other those in their stead, on a certain definite from to ; and in these schools they plan, as traced by mr owen himself. are to be lodged, fed, and taught. each of these should contain accom- “each child will receive a general edu- modation for a population averaging cation early in life that will fit him for or , but varying according to the proper purposes of society, make circumstances from to ; and him the most useful to it, and most ca- to each should be annexed farms, in pable of enjoying it. before he is like manner varying from to years old, he may with ease be train- statute acres in extent, to be cultiva. ed to a correct view of the outlines ted by the whole community in strict of all the knowledge which men have rotation. spade cultivation is recom yet attained. by this means he will mended in preference to using the early learn what he is, in relation to plough, and the result is given, (page past ages to the period in which he ,) of some very interesting experi- lives—to the circumstances in which ments on this subject, instituted by a he is placed-to the individuals around gentleman of the name of falla, near him, and to future events. he will newcastle. * but the whole produce, then only have any pretensions to the according to the plan, must be stored name of a rational being."-p. . in the public granaries, and issued to . “ the peculiar mode of govern. individuals only as required ; in like ing these establishments will depend manner as the proceeds arising from on the parties who form them. those labour in all other departments must founded by land owners and capital- be common good. it were to encou- ists, public companies, parishes or coun- rage individuality of feeling to suffer ties, will be under the direction of an individual to retain to himself the the individuals whom those powers produce of his own labour.-p. , may appoint to superintend them, and will, of course, be subject to the rules et pass. *mr falla's attention, it seems, has been turned to this subject for nearly eighteen years, and he states his result to be, that the expence of cultivating an acre of land by the spade is only s. more than that by the plough, while the excess of profit is above £ . this seems worth inquiring about, certainly; and we should be very glad if any practical or theoretical agriculturist would favour us with his opinion on the subject. owen's report to the county of lanark. [ april, and regulationis laid down by their wealth, their ignorance for knowledge, founders. those formed by thie mid- their anger for kindness, their divi- dle and working classes upon a com- sion for unior ; effecting this change plete reciprocity of interests, should too, without subjecting a single indi- be governed by themselves upon prin- vidual even to temporary inconveni- ciples that will prevent divisions, op- ence." (p. .) the incredible blind- position of interests, jealousies, or any ness of man to the limits of his own of the common and vulgar passions powers, the worth of his own inven- which a contention for power is sure tions !—but we shall not trouble our to generate. their affairs should be readers with any formal commentaryon conducted by a committee, composed it; in very truth, as we have already of all the members of the association intimated, we could not say any thing between certain ages; for instance, of which could bear half so hard on it those between and , or between as this brief and unvarnished summary and , &c."-p. . of it, couched almost every where in . by these committees according. its author's own words. "we shall ly, not only are all matters of internal pass on rather to consider the causes economy to be arranged, but those also at once of the sort of mystery in wlrich of exchange of surplus of produce with it has ever, and still is, in some de- other societies, and of external intera gree, involved to the eye of casual ob- course generally. the principle, how- servers, and of the indifference with ever, according to which these ex- which, spite of its pretensions, it con- changes are to be effected, if we under- tinues for the most part to be received. stand it at all, of which we are not and in the first place it has been very certain, is a novel one. values overlooked, because nothing can be are to be estimated not according to more opposite to it than mr owen's any conventional sign, nor any re- own practice ; insomuch, that it lation to rarity of production, or a were even impossible from examining mount of capital embarked in raising that to surmise it. it may astonish it, but solely by the labour which the our readers, perhaps, after what they article to be valued may have cost. have just read, but we can assure “ the natural standard of value is in them that new lanark is really a principle human labour, or the com- very interesting spectacle,-a pattern bined manual and mental powers of for manufacturing establishments- men called into action.” « on the and we cannot express the pleasure principle by which the average phy- with which we there contemplated the sical power of horses is obtained, that success of its benevolent proprietor, in of men may also be learnt; and as it disseminating habits of industry, and forms the essence of all wealth, its va- contented chearfulness among the lue in every article of produce may al- grown population under his charge, so be ascertained, and its exchangeable and application and study among the value with all other value fixed accord- fine children, whose education, alniost ingly, the whole to be permanent for step by step, he superintends. it were a given period. human labour would well for the country at large, and most tius acquire its natural or intrinsic honourable to human nature, if the value, which would increase as science example he thus sets were imitated by advanced : and this is, in fact, the only other great manufacturcrs, and the really useful object of science. the bond of kindness and consideration, demand for human labour would be now so much interrupted, between the no longer subject to caprice,” &c. &c. higher and lower classes of so large a p. . proportion of our population, thus and this then is mr owen's system ; again renewed. but then mr owen this tissue, we must call it, of all that was the practical conductor of an es- is distempeted in fancy, unfounded in tablishinent like new lanark long fact, rash in assumption, inconclusive before he was a theorist in political in reasoning, unattainable in prac- economy, and the tact which he thus tice, is, with the addition of a little acquired in early life, adheres to hin singing and dancing, the far-famed still amidst all the mist with which system which is to renew the fair face his later studies have enveloped him. of humanity, lost for so many ages; here accordingly we find none of those and in the words of the projector him- extravagancies introduced, which so self, to “ exchange mens' poverty for abundantly distigure his paper sys. .] owen's report to the county of lanark. tem: on the contrary, a great many two-thirds of his own and family's most benevolent and beneficent, though wages; but it is a sale store, and its not very novel, views are consistently profits constitute a large portion of the and judiciously reduced to practice. school funds. lastly, children are there for instance, instead of maxims and certainly brought within the verge of opinions opposed to those of our faith, school discipline so early as two years we find at new lanark, as elsewhere of age, and it may be that this has a in this christian country, sabbath prospective view towards weaping the evening schools, and liberal subscrip, affection of their parents from them; tions, encouraged by the example of but then again they are neither fed the proprietor, in aid of bible societies, nor lodged at school, they are mere instead of man being considered an ir, ly there a few hours a day, eight, we responsible being, journals are kept in think, or ten; during a portion of every apartmeut of the conduct, good which, however, they are either at or had, of the people employed in it, play, or learning to dance, or in some and we are well persuaded, although other way engaged, conducive to their we do not know it, that, in cases of health and strength. all most excel flagrant delinquency, reproof would be lent: we repeat it, it is scarcely pos- administered upon the showing of the sible to accord too much praise to near, ledger, even by the good theorist him, ly all we see done at new lanark ; self. again, so far from the cotton among other things we may observe, spinners of new lanark, being invited that although these children's educaa to legislate for themselves between any tion is certainly much better, and more two given ages, we are sure mr owen extended than that of most others of would consider even an offered advice their rank, it is yet chiefly out of the from any of them a most unwarrant- bible and ordinary collections that able intrusion, and would much rather they are taught, and not even a pre legislate himself for all the world, than tence is made of giving them before suffer any one to interfere with him in they are twelve years of age, his own peculiar charge at home. fur; rect view of the outline of all the know. ther, there is precisely the same divi, ledge which men have yet attained." sion of labour at these mills as at any but, amidst all this, where is mrowen's other,- not a rood of land is attached system, or how is it possible that any to them for any purposes of either gar, one seeing this should have surmised dening or husbandry, no eating in it? common, though we believe that is in the second place, however, this intended, -no community of goods system sets out on such extraordinary but on the contrary, savings banks for assumptions, and reasons on them after- the accumulation of individual gains, wards so loosely and inconclusively, that and mr owen boasting that these were it has remained in obscurity; and we established before they were introduz cannot be surprised at it, because many ced generally by act of parliament, and have thought they could not possibly that several of his workmen have above understand it, when perhaps they l. vestel in them, encouraged to did, at the same time that they took such accumulation by his liberality in little or no interest in clearing up their allowing them five per cent. on their doubts. we confess that this has been highest as well as their lowest deposits, in a good degree the case with our- in opposition to the principle in the selves; we have been in possession of national banks, which he characterizes our present views on the subject almost as sordid, by which thật rate of inte: a year, but although tolerably convin- rest is limited to sums under l. . ced of their accuracy, for we had been again, at new lanark there is no doubt at considerable pains in drawing mr public store, and every workman has owen out and sounding his real depth, weekly credit opened at it under mr yet we always felt afraid to commit owen's own hand, to the amount of ourselves to print concerning his sys- a cor. • this we are indeed rather sorry for. we are persuaded, that were it possible in all manufactories to give each workman, the head of a family, a separate house, and a little spot of ground annexed to it sufficient to employ his leisure, renovate his health, and form in him habits of neatness and order in his household economy, it would be a great advantage. but, we fear, this is impossible in almost all cases. owen's report to the county of lanark. [april, tem till his own litera scripta appeared and lastly, for it cannot be necessary to bear us out in our representations to go to length on this head, that of it. we waited, it is true, with great position, that it is possible to deprive patience, for we thought very little a human individual of all feeling of about the matter at all; but this is individuality, to make him love any, just another feature of resemblance be- or rather every other's interest, off- tween us and the many observers to spring, * advancement, as well as his whom we have adverted. perhaps it own; and that all this may be effect- may be advisable, however, to notice a ed by a mere community of goods, a point or two in the system, such as may common table, an intimately connect- justify this hesitation and indifference. ed public interest what could we for instance then, let us take the very say to this, contradicted as it is by the first position laid down in it, viz. private history of every monastic in- that man is in no degree an account- stitution, in which, from the want of able agent, but is the slave of the cir- offspring, there must have been infi- stances in which he is placed, combined nitely less scope for selfish feeling than with his own natural dispositions. we must exist in general society however marked these last words when we framed, and where, notwithstanding, quoted them formerly, and we now all its most noxious productions bloom- mark them again, because they alone ed fresh and fair even as in the wilder- redeem the sentence from extravagance ness of the great world—what could we altogether; and if to natural had been say, we repeat, to this, but just “ there added acquired dispositions, and the must be some mistake here, mr owen first clause of the proposition been en never could mean this; but it is of no tirely withdrawn, and the second mo- great consequence, let us pass on. dified a little in universality of exprés- . but in the third place, mr owen's sion, important changes at the same system has been neglected, because the time we must confess, we should not world must always have felt that what- have had much hesitation in subscri- ever truth there might be in his as- bing to it. as it stands, it is opposed sumptions, or probability in his con- both to reason and to revelation ; but clusions, he was in no sufficient degree that is not all,- let us notice mrowen's qualified, either from experience or inconsistency in it. he here admits personal character, to reason on the that circumstances, over which he may one or conduct to the other, in the have controul, are combined in their dogmatical manner which he has uni- operation with dispositions, over which formly assumed ; at least we are sure, he has none; and yet in every follow- that whether the indifference with ing sentence of his theory he assumes, which his speculations have been recei- that change of circumstances alone will ved, has arisen in any degree from this work all the marvellous changes which source or not, it was certainly well he contemplates. again, let us take merited upon this score. it is painful his second position, that, because man to us to express ourselves in this man- is thus trammelled by circumstances, ner-painful, because in his place we for already even he has forgotten dis- really have a high respect for mr owen, positions, therefore, every system of but we never either knew or heard of government which involves the idea of pretensions so magnificent as his, so individual rewards or punishments, very inadequately borne out. mrowen praise or blame, is necessarily unjust piques himself on his experience-it is and unnatural; as if, granting even in truth very limited, he has only had his own premises, these very accidents it in his power to make one experi- had not as good a claim to a place as ment on human nature, and even that, links in our fetters, circumstances by as we have seen, is not the experiment which we are to be controlled, as any on which he reasons. and as to his of mr owen's own arrangements. philosophical talents, granting all his * we ought here to notice, however, that this particular height of improvement, in- difference to our own children, will not be found adverted to in the report from which we have taken almost every other part of our representation of this system. the fact is, it would not print, it is really too monstrous. but it is a legitimate and necessary con- sequence of the remainder, and we assert, nostro periculo, that in conversation mr owen states it as such. . owen's report to the county of lanark. premises unassailable, what can we say has been at new lanark must know of those of one who leaps at his con- that mr owen's life is passed at his clusions in the manner he does, with mills, and that in superintending their out looking to right or to left, or ma. details, displaying these to visitors, and king a single allowance for derange- caressing the children at his school, ment of any sort, expecting for exam. scarcely all the hours of the day are ple, to have floating wealth in his come sufficient for him. and we repeat monwealths, yet no desire in any to ap- the sentiment,-happy and enviable, propriate it,--diversities of character in and innocent and useful, and even his subjects, yet precisely the same ef. virtuous, are the hours thus spent; fects produced on all by the same ex. his benevolent feelings gratified, --his ternal circumstances, -legislative and success, and he is very successful, en- executive assemblies, yet no differences joyed, --his hobby put on all its paces of opinion, no rivalry, no collision be- without let or molestation. but mean- tween their members? we do not while, where is his theory, or where wish to wound mr owen's feelings, but the arguments by which, not in con- we cannot but say, that so far from junction with that success, but in op- feeling disposed to pin our faith to his position to it, he is to recommend it to dicta when he advances propositions others ?-why, just where they ought like these, they go far to indispose us, to be ---in oblivion ; whence, it is true, and they must have indisposed the we have now for a moment sought to world at large, against every thing he draw them, but whither we cannot but might bring forward along with them; think that the sooner they are again and that himself when seriously ada and for ever consigned, the better and vancing them, we can compare to no- the wiser. thing more exactly than an inexperi we conclude, then-the world has enced mariner adrift on a first voyage been quite right in neglecting mr of discovery, and setting down as land owen's system ; and every attempt like in his chart every fog-bank which rises that which we have learnt, with equal within his horizon. Örstill more nearly surprise and concern, is at present in perhaps, a raw and rash mechanic, cal. the contemplation of his country neigh- calating the power of a first supposed bours, to drag it from the shadle, and invention, and not only laying out of eveu petition parliament in its behalf, view every allowance for friction or is not merely wrong—it is ridiculous. other impediment, but actually decom- have these gentlemen forgotten sir posing in imagination the materials w. de crespigny's failure in the same with which he proposes to work, and cause ? the precedent had been worth saying to their elements, “ such and their adverting to, even for their own such properties shall you possess in all sakes. but the truth we in charity time to come and no other, for such believe to be, that they have no disa and such only will suit my purposes tinct idea of what they wish to recom- and enable mé to attain my ends! and mend: they have looked at new la- although i reason not upon experiment, nark, (a seduction to which the one but rather in its defiance, yet let me dissentient speaker among them, lord bat bring forward my own stool to belhaven, seems singularly enough stand on, and i am ready to demon- never to have exposed himself,) and strate, like the alchymists of old, that unaccustomed, probably, to analyze experiment and experience are alike minutely what they read, they have wrong, and ought to have been diffe. taken for granted that what they rent. saw there was also in the book, some- lastly, mr owen's theory has been where stowed away amid the decla- overlooked and neglected by the world, mation with which it is chiefly filled. pretty much because it has been not and their hearts, naturally enough less forgotten by himself. we have warmed by the sight, have carried already shewn that his practice is quite their heads along with them. but different: but that is not all, his heart even yet it is not too late to retrace is in that practice only, and his system their steps, even yet their monstrous is among the least of all his thoughts, petition may be strangled in its birth; excepting only as associated in his ima- and still they may take new lanark gination with certain supposed and re- for their pattern and their guide. we mote consequences. every one who would have all men go there indeed, vol. ix. m . owen's report to the county of lanark. [aprd, who are possessed of even tolerable clusions at which they subsequently reasoning powers; and who, as proprie- arrive,- that it is not by embark- tors of great estates, extensive mer. ing in gigantic schemes, not by con- chants, manufacturers, masters of fami- templating violent changes, not by lies, schools, orin any other way, possess meddling with the forms of society, either direct authority, or indirect in- (thosecrystalline forms, theuniformity fluence over considerable bodies of their of which, in all ages and countries, fellow men in the lower ranks of life. demonstrates that they are regulated we would have them go, however, not by affinities inherent in our nature and to listen, but to look ; not to have their of course beyond our controul,) not by faith perverted, or their imaginations casting doubt on the first principles of beguiled by mr owen's fancies ---but the christian religion,-the religion of: their understandings enlightened, and the age, had it even no other recom- their affections kindled by the realities mendation, --not by substituting for which he has created around him. amid its views of human nature through time these they will find much that is valua- and through eternity, the visions of a ble to learn, even while they reject the distempered imagination; not, in a word, trash with which it is surrounded; for by trusting the reins to mr owen even instance they will see it demonstrated, for one moment, however they may that however fallen in nature or sunk suffer, and even thank him, to pion in circumstances, there is still much neer the road before them; not, we say, moral good in man, that thatgood will by any, or all of these modes, that be much morecertainlyand extensively they can serve their country or their elicited by kindness than severity, the kind. — but, by uniting in a series of expression of interest than neglect, edu- minute endeavours to purify and im- cation than ignorance, in every case ;- prove the substance of which that finally, for their own encouragement, country, that kind, morally speaking, that independently of all the commands are composed, educating the poor, of religion, or the hopes of futurity, eliciting their kindly feelings, cultiva- there is much worldly wisdom, even, in ting their religious impressions, tight- a spiritof active beneficence; in practice ening thus the silken cords which bind it is generally successful, however theo- without fettering mankind, dischar. retically mistaken ; in feeling it is al- ging every man his own duties, social ways happy, in example always re and domestic, in his own place, che- spectable and praiseworthy. and when rishing and patronizing his own de- they have thus got their lesson, let pendants, loving his own children, them carry it home, not to prate pursuing his own best interests both about it at public meetings, nor yet here and hereafter; which, when still less to neglect and forget it, rightly understood, whatever mrowen, as so many others have done while or the freeholders of lanark may think they thought it inseparably connected of it, a wise and kind providence has with absurdities at which their reason already sufficiently identified with revolted, but to interweave it with those of the world at large, in con- principles derived from a far higher junction with the best and strongest source than even the best human spe- feelings of our common nature, with- culations, and reduce it patiently and out its being necessary for them to systematically to practice, each within endeavour to cement the union, al- bis own locality, his own sphere. lay, though, in truth, certain in such case ing down, at all events, the following to do what may lay in them to destroy as fundamental axioms of political ex- it, by their breach. pediency, whatever the particular con- . e. .) lord byron's doge of venice. lord byron's doge of venice. the edinburgh reviewers, in their the story of which lord byron has usual tone of self-complacency, said, possessed himself is, we think, by fa- when the first cantos of child harold the finer of the two, and we say pos- were published, that the promise of sessed, because we believe he has ad- future excellence held out by these hered almost to the letter of the trans- cantos was “really quite comfortable !" actions as they really took place. in we trust we never have been, and are the beginning of the th century, quite sure we never shall be, guilty of when the winged lion of st mark soar- talking in terms of such contemptible ed over the adriatic in all his “ pride ignorance and irreverence concerning of place," an old fierce warrior, whose any one who has vindicated to himself, valour had twice saved all but the ex- (as lerd byron had most effectually istence of his country, was, in his own done by any given score of stanzas in absence, and without solicitation, in- his child karold) the character of a vested with the ducal dignity. the se truly nervous, manly, and classical nate, ever jealous and ever ambitious, writer of the english tongue. but we curtail his prerogative at the outset,-- must borrow so far the spirit of mr but he does his duty bravely and wisely. jeffrey's dictum, and say, that nothing their jealousy has cut him off, indeed, has for a long while afforded us so from the private pleasures in which he much pleasure as the rich promise of had hitherto found the best solace of his dramaticercellencc unfolded in this new public toils—the intimate companion- production of our noble exile. lord ship of friends no longer his equals- "byron in his preface says well, that the no longer, in their patrician jealousy city of the plague, the fall of jerusa- of their prince, willing to be treated by lem, and miss baillie's de montfort, him as his equals. but for these de are sufficient proof of the present ex- privations, and for every evil beside, istence of dramatic power somewhere: he finds abundant compensation in the he might with great propriety have affections ofayoung, a beautiful, a high- added to this list the name of “the spirited, and yet a most gentle wife. cenci,” a very powerfully conceived she had been bequeathed to him as a and powerfully executed tragedy which legacy by her father, the dearest friend was published last year by mr p. b. of his youth. she loves him with a love shelly. but perhaps his lordship was which is not the less dear to him, be- withheld from mentioning that work, cause it partakes somewhat of the re- as we ourselves were from reviewing it verence of filial love,—while he, again, at the time when it appeared, by the both loves her as his bride, and che very disgusting nature of its subject- rishes her like a daughter. there is those vile extravagances, namely, of soinething entirely new and altogether parricide and incest, by perpetual re admirable in the manner of bringing pititions of which, or of something of out these charming varieties of the con- the same kind, we begin to fear it is jugal passion. alas! that he who has mr shelly's mad resolution to destroy done this should have ever prostituted the effect of all his genius, and blast his pen to paint, record, or foster the all the barvest of his fame. but lord pollution of woman! byron's own tragedy is infinitely su the lovely and innocent young wife perior to the “cenci,” even in the of the old warrior does not, however, merits of vigorous conception, and vi- escape the wound of evil tongues. a gorous diction; while it has the happi- young patrician, by name michel ness to be distinguished both from that steno, dares to inscribe the ducal and from too many of the productions of throne itself with a vile libel upon his lordship’s own genius, by uniform her purity. he is detected—and the purity of thought and purpose. with- wrath of the haughty prince of venice out question, no such tragedy as this knows no bounds. he is tried by the of marino faliero has appeared in council “ of the forty,” and found english since the day when otway also guilty—and he is condemned—to a was inspired to his master-piece by the month's imprisonment. interests of a venetian story and a the doge, who conceives himself to i venetian conspiracy. be insulted alike as a man, a soldier, a marino faliero, doge of venice, an historical tragedy, in five acts, with notes. the prophecy of dante, a poem. by lord byron. vo. murray, london, . lord byron's doge of venice. [april, noble, anil a sovereign, by this inade a shadow on thy fancy of a thing quate punishment inflicted on the ri- which would not have thee mourn it, but bald steno, is tempted, at the critical remember. moment when his passions are in their such is the simple outline of the story higliest state of effervescence, first by of marino faliero. as the tragedy the artful condolences, and then by the must be in the hands almost of all our no less artful solicitations, of one israel readers, we shall be contented with betruccio, a venetian citizen, who is quoting a very few specimens of its at the head of a plot recently formed dialogue, and we shall have no difficul. by the commons of the city against the ty in choosing specimens that cannot unbounded and intolerable insolence of be read too often. the nobles. faliero enters into the de- perhaps the finest scene in the whole signs of these men, and, though not play is that in which the doge first without many “compunctious visit- meets his wife after he has been made ings,” he persists in acting as their acquainted with the sentence of steno, leader. every thing under his direc- and has listened to the communication tion is prepared for an instant blow. of the conspirator bertuccio. the at dawn of day the great bell of st character of the calm, pure spirited martin's church is to be rung; that angiolina is developed in it most ad- bell can be sounded only by com. mirably;—the great difference between mand of the doge, and at the sound of her temper and that of her fiery hus. it every venetian noble must hasten to band is vividly pourtrayed,--but not the council hall. the conspired ple- less vividly touched is that strong bond beian bands are on this occasion to obey of their union which exists in the com- the same signal : they are to rush from mon nobleness of their deeper natures. every district or the city, and occupy there is no spark of jealousy in the the great place of st mark,---and old man's thoughts,-he does not ex- then, says the doge, -- pect the fervours of youthful passion in all the patricians flocking to the council, his wife, nor does he find them: but (which they dare not refuse, at the dread he finds what is far better,-the fear- signal less confidence of one, who being to pealing from out their patron saint's proud the heart's core innocent, can scarcely tower) be a believer in the existence of such will then be gathered in unto the harvest, and we will reap them with the sword for a thing as guilt. he finds every charm sickle. which gratitude, respect, anxious and the great bell does sound, and all deep-seated affection can give to the venice is alarmed; but in the interim confidential language of a lovely, and between the framing and the execution a modest, and a pious woman. she of the design, the whole has been be has been extremely troubled by her ob- servance of the troubled countenance trayed by the virtue or the vice of one and gesture of the doge, ever since the of the conspirators, who could not per- discovery of steno's guilt; and she share in the destined fate of all the does all she can to sooth him from his venetian nobility. the hand is ar- proud irritation. strong in her con- rested after it has struck but a few sciousness of purity, she has brought blows upon the bell of st mark's. the herself to regard without anger, the doge is seized in his palace—he is insult offered to herself, and the yet tried---he is beheaded immediately ; uncorrected instinct of a noble heart and in place of his picture in the great she is herself persuaded, that steno, makes her try to persuade her lord, as council hall, where all his predeces- whatever be the sentence of his judges, sors and all his successors are repre must be punished-moreeven than they sented, there is a blank space covered with a sable veil, over which still re- would wish him to be by the secret mains the original inscription : « heic suggestions of his own guilty consci- est locus marini faletro decapitati pro ence,--the deep blushes of his priva- criminibus.” the duchess seeks re- cy. at this the doge, experienced in fuge in a cloister, there, doubtless, to the ways both of good and evil men, do more than her modest old lord re- smiles compassionately upon angio- quests of her in these fine words lina. she then goes on thus :- when i am nothing, let that which i was angiolina. heaven bids us to forgive our be still sometimes a name on thy sweet lips, enemies. .] lord byron's doge of venice. answer never doge. docs heaven forgive her own ? is to make my dowry equal to the rank satan sav'd of aught in venice, and forego all claim from wrath eternal ! my father's last injunction gave you. ang. do not speak thus wildly doge. thus, heaven will alike forgive you and your foes. 'twas not a foolish dotard's vile caprice, doge. amen! may heaven forgive them. nor the false edge of aged appetite, ang. and will you ? which made me covetous of girlish beauty doge. yes, when they are in heaven ! and a young bride: for in my fireiest youth ang. and not till then ? i sway'd such passions ; nor was this my dage. what matters my forgiveness? an age old man's, infected with that leprosy of lust worn out, scorn'd, spurn'd, abused ; what which taints the hoariest years of vicious matters then men, my pardon more than my resentment? both making them ransack to the very last being weak and worthless ? i have lived the dregs of pleasure for their vanish'd too long- joys ; but let us change the argument. my child! or buy in selfish marriage some young vic- my injured wite, the child of loridano, tim, the brave, the chivalrous how littledeem'd too helpless to refuse a state that's honest, thy father, wedding thee unto his friend, too feeling not to know herself a wretch. that he was linking thee to shame! alas! our wedlock was not of this sort, you had shame without sin, for thou art faultless. freedom from me to choose, and urged in had'st thou but had a different husband, any husband your father's choice. lo venice save the doge, this blight, this ang. i did so; i would do so brand, in face of earth and heaven; for i have this blasphemy had never fall’n upon thee. so young, so beautiful, so good, so pure, repented for my sake ; sometimes for to suffer this, and yet be unavenged ! yours, ang. i am too well avenged, for you in pondering o'er your late disquietudes. still love me, doge. i knew my heart would never and trust, and honour me; and all men treat you harshly- know i knew my days could not disturb you long ; that you are just, and i am true: what and then the daughter of my earliest friend, more his worthier daughter, free to choose again, could i require, or you command ? wealthier and wiser in the ripest bloom doge. 'tis well, of womanhood, more skilful to select and may be better ; but whate'er betide, by passing these probationary years ; be thou at least kind to my memory. inheriting a prince's name and riches, ang. why speak you thus ? secured by the short penance of enduring doge. it is no matter why, an old man for some summers, against all but i would still, whatever others think, that law's chicane or envious kinsman have your respect both nowand in my grave. might ang. why should you doubt it-has it have urged against her rightmy best ever fail'd ? friend's child doge. come hither, child, i would a would choose more fitly in respect of word with you. years, your father was my friend, unequal fortune and not less truly in a faithful heart. made him my debtor for some courtesies ang. my lord, i look'd but to my fa- which bind the good more firmly ; when, ther's wishes, opprest hallow'd by his last words, and to my heart with his last malady, he will'd our union, for doing all its duties, and replying it was not to repay me, long repaid with faith to him with whom i was affi. before by his great loyalty in friendship; anced. his object was to place your orphan beauty ambitious hopes ne'er cross'd my dreams, in honourable safety from the perils, and should which, in this scorpion nest of vice, assail the hour you speak of come, it will be seen a lonely and undow'red maid. i did not think with him, but would not oppose the doge. i do believe you, and i know you thought true ; which sooth'd his death-bed. for love, romantic love, which, in my youth ang. i have not forgot i knew to be illusion, and ne'er saw the nobleness with which you bade me lasting, but often fatal, it had been speak, no lure for me in my most passionate days, if my young heart held any preference and could not be so now, did such exist. which would have made me happier ; nor but such respect, and mildly paid regard your offer as a true feeling for your welfare, and so. lord byron's doge of venice. [april, a free compliance with all honest wishes, it is not steno who could move me thus : a kindness to your virtues, watchfulness had it been so, he should—but let that not shown, but shadowing o'er such little pass. failings ang. what is't you feel so deeply, then, as youth is apt in, so as not to check ev'n now ? rashly, but win you from them ere you doge. the violated majesty of venice, knew at once insulted in her lord and laws. you had been won, but thought the change another nobly conceived scene is your choice; that at the opening of the third act, a pride not in your beauty, but your con where the old doge is introduced as duct, waiting by himself in the twilight for a trust in you, a patriarchal love, bertuccio, who is at that hour to con- and not a doting homage; friendship, faith, duct him into the presence of the as- such estimation in your eyes as these sembled conspirators. the rendez- might claim, i hoped for. ang. and have you ever had. vous is on the space between the ca- doge. i think so. for the difference in nal and the church di san giovanni our years, san paolo. in that church repose the you knew it, choosing me, and chose. i ashes of all the falieri,--and before its trusted gate, right over against where the ex- not to my qualities, nor would have faith pecting prince has taken his stand, ap- in such, nor outward ornaments of nature, pears an equestrian statue erected were i still in my five-and-twentieth spring; long ago by the senate, to one of his i trusted to the blood of loridano, ancestry, who centuries before, filled, pure in your veins ; i trusted to the soul under better auspices, the ducal chair god gave you—to the truths your father of venice. a gondola lies at some dis- taught you- to your belief in heaven—to your mild tance on the canal. the doge alone, virtues— and disguised, stands by the water side, to your own faith and honour, for my own. and this is his soliloquy. Áng. you have done well.--i thank you doge, solus. i am before the hour, the for that trust, hour whose voice, which i have never for one moment ceased pealing into the arch of night, might strike to honour you the more for. these palaces with ominous tottering, doge. where is honour, and rock their marbles to the corner-stone, innate and precept-strengthen'd, 'tis the waking the sleepers from some hideous rock dream of faith connubial; where it is not—where of indistinct, but awful augury light thoughts are lurking, or the vanities of that which will befal them. yes, proud of worldly pleasure rankle in the heart, city! or sensual throbs convulse it, well i know thou must be cleansed of the black blood "twere hopeless for humanity to dream which makes thee of honesty in such infected blood, a lazar-house of tyranny: the task although 'twere wed to him it covets most: is forced upon me, i have sought it not ; an incarnation of the poet's god and therefore was i punish'd, seeing this in all his marble-chisellid beauty, or patrician pestilence spread on and on, the demi-deity, alcides, in until, at length, it smote me in my slum- his majesty of superhuman manhood, bers, would not suffice to bind where virtue is and i am tainted, and must wash away the plague-spots in the healing wave. fall it is consistency which forms and proves it; fane ! vice cannot fix, and virtue cannot change. where sleep my fathers, whose dim statues the once fall’n woman must for ever fall; shadow her vice must have variety, while virtue the floor which doth divide us from the stands like the sun, and all which rolls dead, around where all the pregnant hearts of our bold drinks life, and light, and glory, from her blood, aspect. moulder'd into a mite of ashes, hold ang. and seeing, feeling thus this truth in one shrunk heap what once made many in others, heroes, (i pray you pardon me,) but wherefore when what is now a handful, shook the earth to the most fierce of fatal passions, and fane of the tutelar saints who guard our disquiet your great thoughts with restless house! hate vault, where two doges rest my sires ! of such a thing as steno ? who died, doge. you mistake me. the one of toil, the other in the field, not. yield you .] lord byron's doge of venice.' dess with a long race of other lineal chiefs doge. we-we!--no matter-you have and sages, whose great labours, wounds, earn'd the right, and state, to talk of us.—but to the point.--if this i have inherited, let the graves gape, attempt succeeds, and venice, render'd free till all thine aisles be peopled with the and flourishing, when we are in our graves, dead, conducts her generations to our tombs, and pour them from thy portals to gaze on and makes her children with their little me! hands i call them up, and them and thee to witn strew flowers o'er her deliverers' ashes then what it hath been which put me to this the consequence will sanctify the deed, task; and we shall be like the two bruti in their pure high-blood, their blazon roll of the annals of hereafter ; but if not, glories, if we should fail, employing bloody means their mighty name dishonour'd all in me, and secret plot, although to a good end, not by me, but by the ungrateful nobles still we are traitors, honest israel ;-thou we fought to make our equals, not our no less than he who was thy sovereign lords : six hours ago, and now thy brother rebel. and chiefly those, ordelafo the brave, is. ber. 'tis not the moment to consider, who perish'd in the field, where i since thus, conquer'd, else i could answer. let us to the meeto battling at zara, did the hecatombs ing, of thine and venice' foes, there offer'd up or we may be observed in lingering here. by thy descendant, merit such acquit doge. we are observed, and have been. ance ? is. ber. we observed ! spirits! smile down upon me; for my let me discover--and this steel cause doge. put up; is yours, in all life now can be of yours, here are no human witnesses : look there your fame, your name, all mingled up in what see you ? mine, is. ber. only a tall warrior's statue and in the future fortunes of our race ! bestriding a proud steed, in the dim light let me but prosper, and i make this city of the dull moon. free, and immortal, and our house's name doge. that warrior was the sire worthier of what you were, now and here. of my sire's fathers, and that statue was after ! decreed to him by the twice rescued city : think enter israel bertuccio. you that he looks down on us, or no? s. ber. my lord, these are mere phan- is. ber. who goes there? tasies; there are doge. a friend to venice. no eyes in marble. it. ber. 'tis he.- doge. but there are in death. welcome, my lord, you are before the i tell thee, man, there is a spirit in time. such things, that acts and sees, unseen, doge. i am ready to proceed to your though felt; assembly. and if there be a spell to stir the dead, . ber. have with you. i am proud tis in such deeds as we are now upon. and pleased to see deem'st thou the souls of such a race as such confident alacrity. your doubts mine since our last meeting, then, are all dis- can rest, when he, their last descendant peli'd ? chief, doge. not so—but i have set my little stands plotting on the brink of their pure left graves of life upon this cast : the die was thrown with stung plebeians ? when i first listen'd to your treason—start is. ber. it had been as well not ! to have ponder'd this before,-ere you em- that is the word ; i cannot shape my bark'd tongue in our great enterprize. do you repent ? to syllable black deeds into smooth names, though i be wrought on to commit them. natural strugglein the breast of the high- there is a great deal more of the same when i heard you tempt your sovereign, and born and haughty doge, between there- forbore sentment with which he burns on the one to have you dragg'd to prison, i became hand, and the reluctance with which he your guiltiest accomplice ! now you may, considers the meanness of the associates if it so please you, do as much by me. with whom he has leagued himself, on . ber. strange words, my lord, and the other. the conspiring doge is not, most unmerited ; wethink, meant to beambitious for him- i am no spy, and neither are we traitors. self, but heissternly,proudly,avenetian [april, lord byron's doge of venice. nor have way, noble, and it is impossible for him to as we went forth to take our prey around tear from his bosom the scorn for every the isles wrung from the false mahome- thing plebeian which has been implant tan; ed there by birth, education, and a long each stab of them will seem my suicide. and can i see them dabbled o'er with blood ? life of princely command. there are other thoughts too, and of a gentler is. ber. doge ! doge ! this vacillation is kind, which cross from time to time a child; if you are not in second childhood, unworthy his perturbed spirit. he remembers, call back your nerves to your own purpose, - he cannot entirely forget—the days and nights of old companionship, by thus shame yourself and me. by heavens ! which he had long been bound to those i'd rather whose sentence he has consented to forego even now, or fail in your intent, seal. he has himself been declaiming than see the man i venerate subside against the folly of mercy,--and argu- from high resolves into such shallow weak- ness! ing valiantly the necessity of total ex- stirpation, and that too, in the teeth you have seen blood in battle, shed it, both your own and that of others ; can you even of some of the plebeian conspira- tors themselves ; yet the poet, with from a few drops from veins of hoary vam- shrink then profound insight into the human heart, pires, makes him shudder when his own im. who but give back what they have drain'd petuosity has brought himself and all from millions ? who hear him to the brink. he can- doge. bear with me! step by step, and not look upon the bloody resolution, blow on blow, no not even after he himself has been i will divide with you ; think not i waver ; the chief instrument of its formation. ah! no; it is the certainty of all israel bertuccio says to him, percei- which i must do doth make me tremble thus. ving the alteration in his look, but let these last and lingering thoughts why stand you wrapt ? a moment back, and you were all impa. to which you only and the night are.con. tience. "scious, he makes his reply, starting as if and both regardless. when the hour ar- from some dream : rives, 'tis mine to sound the knell, and strike the doge. and is it then decided ? must blow, they die ? which shall unpeople many palaces, is. ber. who? and hew the highest genealogic trees doge. my own friends by blood and down to the earth, strew'd with their courtesy, bleeding fruit, and many deeds and days—the senators? and crush their blossoms into barrenness; is. ber. you pass'd their sentence, and this will i-must i have i sworn to do, it is a just one. nor aught can turn me from my destiny; doge. ay, so it seems, and so it is to but still i quiver to behold what i you ; must be, and think what i have been ! you are a patriot, a plebeian gracchus.se bear with me. the rebel's oraclethe people's tribune is. ber. re-man your breast ; i feel no i blame you not, you act in your vocation ; such remorse, they smote you, and oppress'd you, and i understand it not ; why should you 'despised you ; change ? so they have me ; but you ne'er spake with you acted, and you act on your free will. them ; doge. ay, there it is you feel not, nor you never broke their bread, nor shared do i, their salt ; else i should stab thee on the spot, to save you never had their wine-cup at your lips; a thousand lives, and, killing, do no mur. you grew not up with them, nor laughd, nor wept, you feel not-you go to this butcher-work nor held a revel in their company ; as if these high-born men were steers for ne'er smild to see them smile, nor claim'd shambles ! their smile when all is over, you'll be free and merry, in social interchange for your's, nor trusted, and calmly wash those hands incarnadine; nor wore them in your heart of hearts, as i but i, outgoing thee and all thy fellows have; in this surprising massacre, shall be, these hairs of mine are grey, aud so are shall see, and feel-oh god !-oh god! their's, the elders of the council ; i remember and thou dost well to answer that it was when all our locks were like the raven's “ my own free will and act;" and yet you wings, err, der ; 'tis true, .] lord byron's doge of venice." ". for i will do this! doubt not-fear not, i shall be succeeded by a bright milleniúm. will be your most unmerciful accomplice! doge dandalo survived to ninety summers and yet i act no more on my free will, to vanquish empires, and refuse their nor my own feelings--both compel me crown ; back ; i will resign a crown, and make the state but there is hell within me, and around, renew its freedoni--but oh! by what and like the demon who believes and trem. means ? bles the noble end must justify them. what must i abhor and dò. away ! away! are a few drops of human blood ? 'tis false, get thee unto thy fellows, i will híe me the blood of tyrants is not human : they, to gather the retainers of my house. like to incarnate molochs, feed on our's, doubt not, saint mark's great bell shall until 'tis time to give them to the tombs wake all venice, which they have made so populous. oh except her slaughter'd senate : ere the sun world ! be broad upon the adriatic, there oh men! what are ye, and our best de shall be a voice of weeping, which shall signs, drown that we must work by crime to punish the roar of waters in the cry of blood ! crime ? i am resolvid_come on. and slay, as if death had but this one at last the moment arrives when when a few years would make the sword gate, the bell is to be sounded, and the whole superfluous ? of the conspiring bands are watching and i, upon the verge of the unknown in impatience for the signal. the ne realm, phew of the doge and the heir of his yet send so many heralds on before me ? house, (for he is childless) leaves fa- i must not ponder this. ( a pause.) liero in his palace, and goes to strike hark! was there not with his own hand the fatal summons. a murmur as of distant voices, and the doge is left alone-and english the trainp of feet in martial unison ? poetry, we think, contains few passages what phantoms even of sound our wishes raise ! superior to that which follows: it cannot be the signal hath not rung- doge ( solns). he is gone, why pauses it ? my nephew's messenger and on each footstep moves a life. 'tis should be upon his way to me, and he done. himself, perhaps, even now draws grating now the destroying angel hovers o'er back venice, and pauses ere he pours the vial, upon its pond'rous hinge the steep tower even as the eagle overlooks his prey, portal, Ånd, for a moment, pois'd in middle air, where swings the sullen, huge oracular suspends the motion of his mighty wings, bell, then swoops with his unerring beak. thou which never knells but for a princely day! death, that slowly walk'st the waters ! march— or for a state in peril, pealing forth march on! tremendous bodements ; let it do its office, i would not smite i' the dark, but rather and be this peal its awfullest and last. see sound till the strong tower rock !_what! that no stroke errs. and you, ye blue sea silent still? waves! i would go forth, but that my post is here, i have seen you dyed ere now, and deeply to be the centre of re-union to too, the oft discordant elements which form with genoese, saracen, and hunnish gore, leagues of this nature, and to keep compact while that of venice flow'd too, but victo- the wavering or the weak, in case of rious : conflict; now thou must wear an unmix'd crimson ; for if they should do battle, 'twill be here, no within the palace, that the strife will barbaric blood can reconcile us now thicken : into that horrible incarnadine, then here must be my station, as becomes but friend or foe will roll in civic slaughter. the master-mover.-hark! he comes and have i liv'd to fourscore years for this ? he comes, i, who was named preserver of the city ? mynephew, brave bertuccio's messenger. i, at whose name the million's caps were what tidings ? is he marching ? hath he aung sped. into the air, and cries from tens of thousands they here !e-all is lost- yet will i make rose up, imploring heaven to send me an effort. blessings, enter a signor of the night, with and fame, and length of days--to see this guards, &c. day? signor. doge, i arrest thee of high but this day, black within the calendar, treason ! vol. ix. n lord byron's doge of venice. [april, sense doge. me! of seamen to the surge: i would not take thy prince of treason ?- who are they a life eternal, granted at the hands that dare of wretches, from whose monstrous yil- cloak their own treason under such an lainies order ?" i sought to free the groaning nations ! the drama, which is indeed full of michel steno. doge, uniformly sustained interest from be- a word with thee, and with this noble lady, ginning to end, -and which has the whom i have grievously offended. would high merit so uncommon in modern sorrow, or shame, or penance on my part, could cancel the inexorable past! performances, of embodying no episo- but since that cannot be, as christians let us dical deformity whatever—now hurries say farewell, and in peace : with full in full career to its close. every thing contrition is dispatched with the stern decision i crave, not pardon, but compassion from of a tyrannical aristocracy. there is you, no hope of mercy on any side,-there and give, however weak, my prayers for is no petition,-nay, there is no wish both. for mercy. even the plebeian con ang. sage benintende, now chief judge spirators have too much venetian of venice, blood in them to be either scared by inform the ribald steno, that his words i speak to thee in answer to yon signor. the approach, or shaken in the mo- ment of death; and as for the doge, ne'er weigh'd in mind with loredano's he bears himself as becomes a warrior further than to create a moment's pity daughter, of sixty years, and a deeply insulted for such as he is: would that others had prince. at the moment, however, which despised him as i pity! i prefer immediately precedes the pronouncing my honour to a thousand lives, could such of the sentence, admission is asked be multiplied in mine, but would not have and obtained, by one from whom less a single life of others lost for that of the spartan firmness might have which nothing human can impugn-the been expected. this is angiolina. she indeed hazards one fervent prayer a good name for reward, but to itself. of virtue, looking not to what is call’d to the unbending senate; but she sees in a moment that it is in vain, and unto the rock : but as there are, alas ! to me the scorner's words were as the wind she recovers herself on the instant; spirits more sensitive, on which such things and turning to her lord, who stands light as the whirlwind on the waters; souls calm and collected at the foot of the to whom dishonour's shadow is a substance council table, speaks words worthy of more terrible than death here and hereafter ; him and of herself. nothing can be men whose vice is to start at vice's scoffing, more unexpected, or more beautiful and who, though proof against all bland- than the behaviour of the young pa- ishments trician, who interrupts their conver- of pleasure, and all pangs of pain, are feeble, sation. when the proud name on which they pina- cled benintende. lady, it cannot be. their hopes is breathed on, jealous as the ang. (turning to the doge.) then die, eagle faliero! since it must be so ; of her high aiery ; let what we now but with the spirit of my father's friend. behold, and feel, and suffer, be a lesson thou hast been guilty of a great offence, to wretches how they tamper in their spleen half-cancell’d by the rashness of these men. with beings of a higher order. insects i would have sued to them—have pray'd have made the lion mad ere now ; a shaft to them- i’the heel o'erthrew the bravest of the brave; have begg'd as famish'd mendicants for a wife's dishonour was the bane of troy ; bread a wife's dishonour unking'd rome for ever, have wept as they will cry unto their god an injured husband brought the gauls to for mercy, and beanswer'd as they answer clusium, had it been fitting for thy name or mine, and thence to rome, which perish'd for a and if the cruelty in their cold eyes had not announced the heartless wrath an obscene gesture cost caligula within. his life, while earth yet boie his cruelties; then, as a prince, address thee to thy a virgin's wrong made spain a moorish doom ! province ; doge. i have lived too long not to know and steno's lie, couch'd in two worthless how to die ! lines, thy suing to these men were but the hath decimated venice, put in peril bleating a senate which hath stood cight hundred of the lamb to the butcher, or the cry years, time; .) lord byron's doge of venice. discrown'd a prince, cut off his crownless scene of his triumphs and his sorrows. head, the present abject condition of her and forged new fetters for a groaning peo- that once did hold the gorgeous east ple! in fee"—the barbarian sway under let the poor wretch, like to the courtesan, which she is bowed down to the dust who fired persepolis, be proud of this, -the profligacy of manners, which if it so please him— 'twere a pride fit for him ! ought rather, perhaps, to have been but let him not insult the lost hours of represented as the cause than the con- him, who, whate'er he now is, was a hero, sequence of the lossof venetian liberty; by the intrusion of his very prayers ; -all these topics are handled-and nothing of good can come from such a source, handled as no living writer but byron nor would we aught with him, nor now, could have dared to handle them. we nor ever: shall quote the greater part of the pe- we leave him to himself, that lowest depth nult scene, and the whole of the last. of human baseness. pardon is for man, and not for reptiles—wehavenone for steno, ben. hast thou more and no resentment: things like him must to utter or to do? sting, doge. may i speak ? and higher beings suffer ; 'tis the charter ben. thou may'st ; of life. the man who dies by the adder’s but recollect the people are without, fang beyond the compass of the human voice. may have the crawler crush'd, but feels no dogr. i speak to time and to eternity, anger : of which i grow a portion, not to man. 'twas the worm's nature ; and some men ye elements ! in which to be resolved are worms i hasten, let my voice be as a spirit in soul, more than the living things of upon you! ye blue waves, which bore my tombs. banner, doge (to benintende.) signor! complete ye winds ! 'which flutter'd o’cr, as if you that which you deem your duty, loved it, ben. before we can proceed upon that and filld my swelling sails as they were duty, wafted we would request the princess to withdraw, to many a triumph! thou, my native "twill move her too much to be witness earth, to it. which i have bled for, and thou foreign ang. i know it will, and yet i must en. earth, dure it, which drank this willing blood from many for 'tis a part of mine ; i will not quit, a wound! except by force, my husband's side. pro- ye stones, in which my gore will not sink, ceed! but nay, fear not either shriek, or sigh, or reek up to heaven ! ye skies, which will tear; receive it! though my heart burst, it shall be silent. thou sun! which shinest on these things, speak! and thou ! i have that within which shall o'ermaster who kindlest, and who quenchest suns ! all. attest ! the sentence is pronounced ; a brief i am not innocent—but are these guiltless ? hour is permitted for the last devotions, float up from the abyss of time to be, i perish, but not unavenged ; far ages and then,-still robedin hisducal gown, and show these eyes, before they close, the and wearing thediadem,--preceded with doom all the pomp of his station, from which of this proud city, and i leave my curse he is to be degraded in the moment on her and hers for ever !_yes, the hours only before the blow be struck,-ma- are silently engendering of the day, rino faliero is led solemnly to the when she, who built 'gainst attila a bul- giant's stair-case, at the summit of wark, which he had been crowned. on that shall yield, and bloodlessly, and basely spot he is to expiate his offence against yield the majesty of the venetian state. his unto a bastard attila, without wife struggles to accompany him to shedding so much blood in her last defence the dreadful spot, but she faints, and as these old veins, oft drain’d in shielding he leaves her on the marble pavement, shall pour in sacrifice.—she shall be bought forbidding them to raise her until all and sold, and be an appanage to those had been accomplished with himself. who shall despise her -she shall stoop to lord byron brcaks out with all his be power in the curse with which he a province for an empire, petty town makes this old man take leave of the in lieu of capital, with slaves for senates, lord byron's doge of venice. [april, my curse! beggars for nobles, pandars for a people ; slave, do thine office ! then when the hebrew's in thy palaces strike as i have struck the foe! strike as the hun in thy high places, and the greek i would walks o'er thy mart, and smiles on it for have struck those tyrants ! strike deep as his! when thy patricians beg their bitter bread strike, and but once. in narrow strçets, and in their shameful ( the doge throws himself upon his need knees, and as the executioner raises make their nobility a plea for pity ! his sword the scene closes.) then, when the few who still retain a wreck scene iv. -the piazza and piazzetta of of their great father's heritage shall fawn st mark's.—the people in crowds ga- round a barbarian vice of king's vice- thered round the gra gates of the du- gerent, cal palace, which are shut. even in the palace where they sway'd as sovereigns-- first cit. i have gain'd the gate, and even in the palace where they slew their can discern the ten, sovereign, robed in their gowns of state, ranged round proud of some name they have disgraced, the doge. or sprung second cit. i cannot reach thee with from an adultress, boastful of her guilt, mine utmost effort. with some large gondolier or foreign sol. how is it ? let us hear at least, since sight dier, is thus prohibited unto the people, shall bear about their bastardy in triumph except the occupiers of those bars. to the third spurious generation ;-when first cit. one has approach'd the doge, thy sons are in the lowest scale of being, and now they strip slaves turn'd o'er to the vanquish'd by the the ducal bonnet from his head—and now victors, he raises his keen eyes to heaven ; i see despis'd by cowards for greater cowardice, them glitter, and his lips move-hush ! and scorn'd even by the vicious for such hush !_no, vices 'twas but a murmur-curse upon the as in the monstrous grasp of their con distance ! ception, his words are inarticulate, but the voice defy all codes to image or to name them; swells up like mutter'd thunder ; would then, when of cyprus, now thy subject we could kingdom, but gather a sole sentence ! all thine inheritance shall be her shame, second cit. hush! we perhaps may entạil'd on thy less virtuous daughters, catch the sound. grown first cit. 'tis vain, a wider proverb for worse prostitution, i cannot hear him.-how his hoary hair when all the ills of conquer'd states shall streams on the wind like foam upon the cling thee, wave ! vice without splendour, sin without relief, now-now-he kneels-and now they even from the gloss of love to smooth it o'er, form a circle but in its stead coarse lusts of habitude, round him, and all is hidden—but i see prurient yet passionless, cold studied lewd- the lifted sword in air-ah! hark! it falls ! ness, (the people murmur. depraving nature's frailty to an art; third cit. then they have murdered when these and more are heavy on thee, him, who would have freed us. when fourth cit. he was a kind man to the smiles without mirth, and pastimes without commons ever. pleasure, fifth cit. wisely they did to keep their youth without honour, age without respect, portals barr’d. meanness and weakness, and a sense of would we had known the work they were preparing 'gainst which thou wilt not strive, and ere we were summond here, we would dar'st not murmur, have brought have made thee last and worst of peopled weapons, and forced them! deserts, sixth cit. are you sure he's dead ? then, in the last gasp of thine agony, first cit. i saw the sword fall_lo! amidst thy many murders think of mine ! what have we here? thou den of drunkards with the blood of enter on the balcony of the palace princes ! gehenna of the waters ! thou sea sodom ! which fronts st mark's place, a chief of the ten, with a thus i devote thee to the infernal gods ! bloody sword. he waves it thrice thee and thy serpent seed ! before the people, and crclaims-- (here the doge turns and addresses the “ justice hath dealt upon the mighty executioner.) traitor!" woe .] lord byron's doge of venice. (the gates are opened ; the popu- lion of st mark, yet floating there lace rush in towards the“giant's against the sea and the sky. turn to staircase,” where the execution the old church, with all its gilded cu- has taken place. the foremost polas, and mosaic-covered walls, and of them exclaims to those behind, twisted pillars, and oriental windows; the gory head rolls down the “ giant's and, last of all, turn towards the two steps !" flag-staffs, and observe between them [the curtain falls. some hundred or two white-coated we earnestly advise our edinburgh black-gaitered austrians, drawn up to readers who have not yet seen the pa- the sound of fife and drum by the side norama of venice, at present exhibit- of a field-piece.-look at this beauti- ed in this city, to go forthwith and ful picture, and then read once again see it. it is the finest piece of the the curse of the doge marino faliero. kind we ever saw-not even excepting the present volume contains also the finest we ever saw, that of serin- “ the prophecy of dante," of which gapatam. it places the spectator at we have, at this moment, no time to once in the midst of all the moulder- say any thing more than that it seems ing but yet visible magnificence of the to be quite worthy of its author, so far “sea cybelle." the piazza of st mar as the spirit of it goes; but that it by tin lies at your feet, all surrounded no means reconciles our ear to the me- with the finest possible rauges of old lody of the rima terza in english. demi-saracenic architecture; the walls this, however, may be merely the of every edifice blazing with tapestries effect of its novelty. we are not, in- and banners ; every window full of deed, quite sure that even the lau- howers; every roof crowded with reate's attempt to introduce the an- mimes and laughing boys. the whole cient hexameter into our prosody, of the immense area below shews like ought to be entirely reprobated. we the beau ideal of vanity-fair. there do not think, that, in the general, mr are mountebanks, apes, buffoons, pro- southey makes quite so much of that cessions, piinps, scuffles, merriment, measure as he might have done ; but gaudiness, glitter endless and bound- in spite of all the extravagance of less. it is the vain affected extrava “ the vision of judgınent,” he must gance of self-inflicted degradation. be no very worshipful critic who has turn to the blue sea, which meets not discovered in that production a every where around the embrace of the great deal both of true poetry and of bright italian heavens, and observe the delicious versification. [ april, works preparing for publication. works preparing for publication, london. in the press, and speedily will be publish shortly will be published, the first num. ed, a second edition, revised, corrected, and ber of illustrations of shakspeare, engra- enlarged, in four large volumes vo. illus- ved in the finest style, by the most eminent trated with maps and numerous fac-similes historical engravers, from pictures painted of biblical mss. of the introduction to expressly for this work, by robert smirke, the critical study and knowledge of the esq. r.a. holy scriptures.' by thomas hartwell mr thomas taylor is about to publish horne, m. d. author of the scripture doc- by subscription, in one volume, vo. iam- trine of the trinity defended, deism re- blichus on the mysteries of the egyptians, futed, &c. chaldeans, and assyrians; being the most travels through denmark, sweden, lap- copious, clearest, and most satisfactory de. land, finland, norway, and russia, with fence of the theology of the ancients. a description of the city of st petersburgh, mr partington, of the london institu- during the tyranny of the emperor paul. tion, will shortly publish a work on steam by e. d. clarke, l.l.d. being the sixth engines, comprising a description of this and concluding volume of the author's stupendous machine, in all its varied mo- travels in europe, asia, and africa. difications; with a complete analysis of the a reply to the “ end of religious con. various patents connected with this branch troversy," by rev. j. milner, d.d. bi. of mechanics to the present time. shop of castabala, from the pen of rev. another work on steam engines and richard grier, a.m. steam-boats, by mr john farey, junior, will be published in a few weeks, a illustrated with numerous engravings, by historical and topographical account of lowrie, is in a state of great forwardness. devonshire, being the ninth part of mag the legend of argyle, a novel, in vols. na britannia, or a concise account of the mo. several counties of great britain ; by rev. the hall of hellingsby, a tale in vols. ; dan. lysons, and the late samuel lysons, by the author of mary de clifford, arthur esq. fitz-albini, &c. &c. elements of the science of political eco a treatise on the epidemic cholera of nomy, by mr mill, author of the history india ; by james boyle, surgeon of his of british india. majesty ship minden. the history and antiquities of the preparing for publication by mr ed. tower of london; with biographical anec. ward blaquiere, letters from spain, con. dotes of royal and distinguished persons; taining an account of the past and present by john bayley, esq. f.s.a. of the hon. condition of the peninsula ; observations society of the inner temple, and his ma on public character, literature, manners, jesty's record office in the tower. it &c. will be illustrated with numerous engra sermons on important subjects, by t. vings, by artists of the first eminence; and l. o'beirne, d.d. bishop of meath." be comprized in two parts; the first of a treatise on indigestion, by a. p. w. which will be published early in the month philip, m.d. is nearly ready for publica- of may, and the other in the course of the tion. present year. memoirs of the carbonari, and of the in the course of the month will be pub- secret societies of the south of italy; with lished, a satirical novel, entitled, money biographical memoirs of several persons raising; or a day in cork-street; contains who have lately distinguished themselves ing sketches of character, and original let- in the revolutions of that kingdom; with an ters. appendix of original documents. illustrated observations on some of the general with portraits and other interesting plates. principles, and on the particular nature and mr elmes has issued proposals for pub- treatment of the different species of inflam- lishing by subscription, nemoirs of the mation; by j. h. james, surgeon to the life and works of sir christopher wren, devon and exeter hospital. with a view of the progress of architecture archbishop king's sermon on predesti- in england, from the beginning of the nation; a new edition, with notes ; by rev. reign of charles i. to the end of the seven. r. whalley, fellow of oriel. teenth century. preparing for publication, by rev. hugh a treatise on acupuncturation, being a owen, and rev. j. blackeway, a history description of a surgical operation, original- of the town of shrewsbury,in quarto vols.; ly peculiar to the japanese and chinese, with numerous antiquarian illustrations. now introduced into european practice, observations on the diseases of females. with cases illustrating the success of the part ii. by charles mansfield clarke. operation, by mr j. m. churchill. .] works preparing for publication. dr forbes of penzance is preparing for doctor wood, author of the prize es. publication, a translation of m. lænnec's say on irish history and antiquities, pub- work, on the pathology and diagnosis of lished in the thirteenth volume of the the diseases of the chest. transactions of the royal irish academy, the theory of topographical plan- has now in the press, a work, entitled " an drawing and surveying; or, guide to the inquiry concerning the primitive inhabi- just conception and accurate representation tants of ireland," which is expected to ap- of the surface of the earth, in maps and pear on the st of may, in vol. vo. il- plans; by j. g. lehmann, major in the lustrated with a curious map, containing saxon infantry. published and illustrated the local situations of the tribes of ireland by g. a. fischer, professor at the saxon in the second century-partly ptolemy's, royal academy, and translated from the and partly the author's. there will be original german ; by william siborn, a dissertation proving the authenticity of lieutenant, h.p. th infantry, with seven ptolemy's map. from the talents, re- teen plates, engraved by lowry. search, acute reasoning, and antiquarian mi woolnoth is preparing for publica- knowledge displayed by the learned author tion, a series of views of our ancient castles, in his prize essay, we are led to expect a to be engraved from drawings by arnold, faithful history of ireland, abounding with fielding, &c. with descriptions, by e. w. curious and interesting matter relative to brayley, jun. its antiquities, and the degree of civiliza- the fifth volume of the personal narra- tion, manners and customs of its primitive tive of m. de humboldt's travels to the inhabitants. the work will be brought equinoctial regions of the new continent, down to the close of the twelfth century. during the years - , translated by a volume of original poetry is in the helen maria williams, under the immé. press, and will speedily appear in a hand- diate inspection of the author. some form, comprising “ ismael, or the a view of the structure, functions, and arab, an oriental romance, sketches of disorders of the stomach, and alimentary scenery, foreign and domestic, with other organs of the human body, with remarks poems;" by the author of the novel of on the qualities and effects of food and “ lochiel, or the field of culloden." fermented liquors; by thomas harc, f.l.s. preparing for immediate publication, a in the press, correlative claims and series of portraits, illustrative of the no. duties; or, an essay on the necessity of a vels and tales of the author of waverley, church establishment, and the means of &c. the whole will be engraved in the exciting among its members a spirit of de most highly finished manner, from draw- votion, to which the society for promoting ings made expressly for the purpose, from christian knowledge and church union, in the most authentic originals. the diocese of st david's, adjudged a pre memoirs of the revolution of mexico, mium of £ in december ; by rev. with a narrative of the campaign of ge- sc. wilks, a.m. neral mina, anecdotes of his life, and ob- shortly will be published by mr wilson, servations on the practicability of connect- teacher of dancing, (from the king's tha- ing the pacific with the atlantic ocean, by tre,) an essay on deportment, chietly re means of navigable canals ; by w. d. lating to the person in dancing. robinson, vols. vo. principles of the bankrupt law; by saul, a tragedy ; translated from the archibald cullen, esq. second edition, in italian of count victorio alfieri ; and vols. vo. with great alterations and ad jephtha; a seriptural drama; by a lady. ditions down to the time of publication. notes and illustrations to “ the life of the second volume will contain the sta- lorenzo de medici,” including a vindica- totes, general orders, forins, and matters tion of the author's character against the of practice. criticisins and misrepresentations of several an elementary treatise on the theory writers who have noticed that work, and of equations of the higher orders; and accompanied by original documents ; by on the summation and revertion of alge william roscoe, esq. in vol. vo. braie series ; by the rev. b. bridge, in sermons ; by edward maltby, d. d. yol. vo. volume d. vo. a second edition of m. lavaysse's shortly will be published, the expedi. work (edited by edward blaquiere, esq.) tion of orgua, and crimes of lope de on venezuela, new granada, tobago and aguirre ; by dr southey. trinidad, is also in the press. ! works preparing for publication. [ april, edinburgh. annals of the parish ; or, the chronicles others, christina's revenge, or the fate of of dalmailing, during the ministry of the monaldeschi, which will be published in a rev. micah balwhidder; written by him- short time. self. arranged and edited by the author the supplement to the iliad, in of “ the ayrshire legatees," &c. in vol. books, by quintus smyrneus, translated mo. from the greek, by alexander dyce, a. b. mr moffat is preparing for the press a with illustrative notes and a preface. volume of poems, containing, among monthly list of new publications. london. biography. drama agriculture. an essay on soils, and composts, and memoirs of rev. mark wilks, late of the propagation and culture of ornamen- norwich, by sarah wilks, with a portrait, tal trees, shrubs, and flowers; by t. mo. s. haynes, nurseryman, oundle, northamp life of the duke de berri; by m. cha- ton, mo. s. teaubriand, vo. . od. antiquities. memoirs of the life and writings of the index monasticus ; or, abbeys and other right rev. brian walton, d.d. lord bi- monasteries, alien priories, friaries, &c. shop of chester, editor of the london poly- formerly established in the diocese of nor. glott bible; by rev. h. i. todd, m.a. wich, and the ancient kingdom of east vo. vols. , is. anglia ; by richard taylor of norwich. select female biography, comprising folio. £ , s. memoirs of eminent british ladies, mo. views of the remains of ancient build. s. od. ings in rome and its vicinity, with a descrip memoirs of h. wallace, esq. descend. tive and historical account of each subject; ant of the illustrious hero of scotland ; by m. dubourg. vol. atlas to. half written by himself, with a highly finished bound, engraved on plates, and beauti- portrait, vo. s. d. fully coloured, to imitate drawings. £ , memoirs of the life of the right hon. . william pitt; by george tomline, d.d. the topography of athens, with some bishop of winchester, to. vols. , . remarks on its antiquities ; by lieut. col. leake; with maps and plates ; the latter thérèse, the orphan of geneva. is. d. from the drawings of c. cockerell, esq. dramatic works of hon. r. b. sheri. vo. £ , . dan, with a preface by thomas moore, vo. vols. s. hints on an improved mode of build hamlet, and as you like it; a speci. ing, applicable to general purposes ; by men of a new edition of shakespeare ; by t. d. w. dearn, architect, vo. plates. thomas caldecott, esq. vo. . . d. the architect and antiquary's club, grammatical studies in the latin and mo. english languages ; arranged by james the grecian, roman, and gothic, archi- ross, l.l.d. . d. tecture, considered as applicable to public key to the second and third parts of and private buildings in this country; by ellis's exercises, from the writings of ci. w. fox. . cero, mo. s. principles of design in architecture, practical method of teaching the li- traced in observations on buildings, prim- ving languages; by c. v. a. marcel, vo. eval, egyptian, phænician, or syrian, gre- cian, roman, &c. &c. &c. in letters to a a geographical exercise book ; 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Á geographical and commercial view of tion, with life, small vo. s. northern central africa ; containing a par procedure in the house of lords upon táular account of the course and termina- appeals trom scotland,comprising.theforms nation of the great river niger, in the at- and regulations to be observed by scottish lantic ocean; by j.m'queen. vo. s. d. agents ; with an appendix, containing the lectures on the history of the week of standing orders of the house, table of the passion of our blessed lord and savic fees, &c. vo. . d. aun jesus christ by daniel sandford, remarks on the internal evidence for d.d. one of the bishops of the scotch the truth of revealed religion ; by tho. episcopal church, and formerly student of mas erskine, esq. advocate, mo. s. d. christ's church oxford, mo. . the life of john drouthy, an edm- commentaries on the laws of scotland, burgh coal carter ; in which is contained a and on the principles of mercantile juris- full confession of the practices of himself prudence; by george joseph bell, esq. and others, whereby the public are daily advocate; in two large vols. to. price defrauded to an incredible amount. write £ , s. in boards. the th edition, greatly ten by himself, ls. enlarged. imperial school atlas, containing disa remarks on some fundamental doc- tinct maps of the empires, kingdoms, and trines in political economy, illustrated by states of the world, with the boundaries of a brief enquiry into the commercial state europe, as settled by the treaty of paris of britain since the year ; by john and congress of vienna ; to which are craig, esq. f.r.s.e. author of elements added, the most useful maps of ancient of political science." vo. s. d. geography, accompanied by practical direc- edinburgh christian instructor for april, tions and diagrams for constructing maps on no. cxxix. the most approved projections: and a beau- edinburgh monthly review for may, tifully engraved view of the altitudes of no. xxix. the principal mountains, &c. engraved edinburgh philosophical journal, con- by lizars. imperial to. neatly half-bound ducted by dr brewster and professor ja and coloured in outline. price s. the mieson, no. viii. vo. s. d. same work may also be had neatly half. the novels and tales of the author of bound, in octavo, price s. forming the most waverley, &c.; comprising waverley, complete portable atlas yet published. gay mannering, the antiquary, rob roy, travelling map of scotland, divided and tales of my landlord, first, second, into compartments, with the distances on and third series. a new edition, uniform- the great roads, upon a new and impro- ly and beautifully printed by ballantyne, veď plan, by which any place or route may in volumes foolscap octavo, with a co be traced, without the inconvenience of un- pious glossary, and engraved titles to each folding, incident to maps in cases or on volume, price £ in boards. the title rollers, beautifully engraved and coloured, pages to this edition are embellished with forming a small pocket volume, neatly half- engravings, from designs by nasmyth, of bound. . real scenes, supposed to be described by volume iv. part ii. of encyclopædia the author of these works. edinensis ; or dictionary of arts, sciences, observations on derangements of the and miscellaneous literature. in six vo- digestive organs, and some views of their lumes to. illustrated with not fewer than comection with local complaints ; by one hundred and eighty engravings. by william law, fellow of the royal col. james miller, dd. fellow of the royal lege of surgeons of edinburgh, vo. s. college of physicians. a system of universal geography, by vindication of the "clanronald of glen. m. malte brun. part i. vo. s. d. garry," against the attacks made upon them a new plan of edinburgh and its en- in the inverness journal, and some recent virons, from a survey, by james knox; in- printed performances ; with remarks as to cluding all the recent and intended im- the descent of the family who style them. provements ; elegantly engraved on an im selves “ of clanronald.”' vo. s. perial sheet of drawing paper, price s. illustrations of british ornithology; by summary of the law of scotland, by p. j. selby, esq. scries first, in elephant way of question and answer. part ii. folio. no. . £i, s. ed. plain. £ , s. ing. . . coloured. vol. ix. monthly list of new publications. [april, a pronouncing geographical vocabu a treatise on the management of fe. lary, by the rev. thomas nelson, mo. male complaints, by alexander hamil- d. ton, m. d. professor of midwifery in the hero and leander, a tale of love; university, and fellow of the royal col- translated from the greek of the ancient lege of physicians, and of the royal so- poet musæus, with other poems; by fran- cie tyof edinburgh, &c. eighth edition, cis adams, surgeon, vo. s. d. revised and enlarged, with hints for the memoirs of the life of miss caroline treatment of the principal diseases of in- smith ; by moses waddell, d.d. pastor fants and children. by dr james hamil. of the union churches, south carolina, ton, jun. professor of midwifery in the mo. s. university of edinburgh, &c. price s. a new compendium of geography, in- d. boards. tendeđ chiefly for the use of schools ; by hints on the treatment of the princi. william scott, late teacher of elocution pal diseases of infancy and childhood and geography in edinburgh. seventh adapted to the use of parents. by james edition improved : to which is added, a hamilton, m. d. professor of midwifery set of exercises on geography, and a co- in the university, and fellow of the royal pious pronouncing geographical vocabu- college of physicians of edinburgh. third lary. price without maps, s. d. ; with edition, vo. price s. maps, s. ; and s. d. coloured maps, substance of lectures on the ancient bound and lettered. greeks, and on the revival of greek decisions of the first and second divi. learning in europe, delivered in the uni- sions of the court of session, from no. versity of edinburgh; by the late an- vember , to november ; collect- drew dalzell, professor of greek, a. m. ed by j. campbell, j. wilson, g. tait, f. r. s. e. published by john dalzell, r. rollo, and m. a. fletcher, advocates > esq. advocate, vols. vo. £ , s. by appointment of the faculty of advo the markinch minstrelsy ; or, the lu- cates. folio, £ , is. sewed. nar influences of the st, , th sep- etchings of edinburgh and its vicinity; tember, ; being an epic poem ; by by a. g. phillips, esq. no. i. vo. robert taylor. price s. proofs, s. monthly register. commercial report.- th april, . sugar.-the demand for sugar has continued very steady, and prices rather on the advance for finer qualities. the descriptions suited for refining are scarce, and much wanted. the demand for foreign sugars has been dull; but the prices have not mate- rially given way. the spring trade has not now the same effect upon the sugar mar- ket that it formerly had, as the demand from this country is greatly lessened from the direct trade carried on between european continental ports, and the colonies of foreign powers. as new sugars may soon be expected in the market, the price is not likely to improve. cotton.—during the latter end of last month the demand for cotton was ex- tremely brisk, the sales extensive, and at an advance on price. the demand has, how. ever, again subsided; but the prices remain nearly stationary. it does not appear when ther the demand was occasioned by speculation, from the exceeding low prices, or from the real wants of the trade. the quantity of cotton which continues to be imported into liverpool is astonishingly great, and is so adequate for even the increased consumpt, that we cannot see room for any material improvement in this article. coffee. the de mand for coffee continues very flat, and the prices rather on the decline. the quantity of coffee that is now imported direct into various ports of continental europe is so great as to take away, in a great measure, the trade from the merchants of great britain ; nor is there any hope or prospect of obtaining the command of that trade again. rum the demand for rum continues extremely dull, and prices are sunk to a rate which is altogether ruinous to the planter and importer. in pimento there has been an increased demand, from the scarcity of the article. flax-seed has declined in price. oils remain nearly stationary. tobacco has been rather in more request, but the prices are rather declined. some business has been done in quercitron bark. the market for fruit is very heavy. on bohea and low congou teas there has been a small advance. the silk market remains steady, and prices of some kinds a shade higher. a great and ra. pid advance has taken place on the prices of spirits of turpentine, in consequence of the very small stock. the corn market remains dull. bonded wheat and american flour are in more demand, and a trifling advance has taken place in prices accordingly. ) register. --commercial report. there is very little demand for rice, ashes are dull, and very little business doing hides are without alteration. regarding other articles of commerce no particular re. mark is necessary, the commencement of the year saw the trade of the british empire in an un. precedented state of languor and depression. since that period it has been slowly, but gradually, recovering its prosperity. towards the latter end of the year a very consider- able improvement had taken place in the chief manufacturing districts, though, in other branches, less activity and improvement was evinced. the business, however, transacted was done upon low terms, and at no adequate profit to the capitalist. the demand gra- dually extending, and the price of the raw material getting more into a settled state, af. forded prospects, for the future, more cheering than had for a long time taken place. the condition of the labouring manufacturer, and several of the mechanical branches of trade, vere greatly improved. work was abundant, and the rise of wages very considerable ; in some instances doubled, and in others much more. provisions, also, were to be had at an unusually low rate, which rendered the situation of the labouring poor very differ- ent indeed at the end of to what it was at the beginning, and during the previous year. on the other hand, the agricultural interests suffered most severely during the year that is past ; nor are their sufferings in any degree removed. the evils which lighted upon the manufacturing and commercial world, in , were felt, in their full force, by the agricultural part of the community, in . the farmer could obtain no adequate price for his produce, and the landlord, accordingly, found the payment of his rents could only be obtained from the farmer who had accumulated a capital from the profits of more fortunate years. the revival, however, of foreign commerce has given a stimulus to the manufacturing interest, which will be gradually felt by the agricultural ; and we have no doubt but the year will see the greater part of their distresses re. moved, and open up a more cheering prospect for the future. the wise and energetic measures of the executive government have tended to silence that factious spirit which stalked abroad, spreading discontent and disaffection amongst the population, and aggra, vating thereby all our distresses ; and, it may now be presumed, that reason will re. sume her empire over the public mind, and quietness, peace, and prosperity spread over the kingdom. the trade, in general, between this country and continental europe has been languid and upprofitable. this proceeds chiefly from the inability of the population to purchase any thing but what their immediate and absolute wants require, but more particularly from the encouragement which each country gives to its internal manufactures, and the direct communication which is opened up between all these countries and other foreign states and foreign colonies. this has deprived great britain of a very large proportion of the trade in colonial produce, and the returns for the same for the supply of the colonial pos. sessions of foreign powers, which formerly came through her hands. thus from peters. burgh, and hamburgh, and other places, a direct trade is carried on with south ame. rica, the spanish colonies, and other places, which trade some years ago was to them un. known. the continental states derive great and immediate advantages from this com, merce, as they not only obtain the produce of those places at a cheaper rate, but the ex. ports of their own productions are greatly increased. this is remarkably the case in russia, where, it appears, that under the new tariff, the exports of the produce of the russian soil and russian industry is doubled, and, in some instances, almost trebled, in one year. the greater part of the trade in question was formerly in british hands. we cannot justly complain of the loss, as it is quite reasonable and natural to expect that these powers will look to the interests of their own subjects in preference to the interests of other countries, however friendly the relations may be which subsist betwixt them. considerable anxiety has existed in the public mind, for some time past, upon the ru. mour that the trade with france was to undergo some alterations, and to be established upon a more liberal scale by both governments. this, however, will prove a matter of the greatest difficulty, as it involves so many interests, while, at the same time, the french nation are extremely jealous on that point. whatever proposals may be made for a more liberal system, must, we are persuaded, come from the french government in the first instance. to originate with, and to be proposed by the british government, would be sufficient to insure the rejection of every proposal that could be made. great expectations have been formed, and held out to result from the opening of such a trade, but we confess we hold a different opinion, and are convinced that we should take more of the finer manufactures of france than france would take of our finer cotton manu, factures in return, thereby throwing the balance of trade into the scale against us. for some years our trade with the mediterranean has been greatly embarrassed. the reason of that is very obvious. upon the return of a general peace, the french nation resumed their usual trade in that quarter, which the nature of the tremendous contest, so lang carried on, had almost annihilated. in many places on the shores of the mediter. register.-commercial report. [april, ranean the manufactures of france are preferred to ours. before the revolutionary wax commenced, the french trade up the mediterranean was as follows, viz. : exports. imports to morocco, , francs , , france canaan, , , , caramania and satalia, , surplus cyprus, , , aleppo and alexandrie, , , surplus tripoli and syria, , , , seyde and its dependencies, , , , , egypt, : , , , , making together about half a million sterling in exports, and , . in imports. nearly an equal amount, if not more, must have been cut off from our trade, for we must also take into account the trade which the italian states had with these places, and which was lost to them during the war. hence it is not difficult to perceive how the markets in the mediterranean would become glutted with our goods, and our mercantile transactions to these places become very disadvantageous. on the other hand, a more liberal system of commerce and intercourse with the mahommedan states, on both sides of the mediterranean, is gradually extending itself, and our trade in that quarter must continue to recover, perhaps extend itself in all these places; but it must always be bome in mind, that the trade of france and the italian states will extend in a similar manner, and perhaps in a greater ratio. the trade to the east indies has considerably increased since it was thrown open ; but we believe the exports have been more than what was necessary, and the imports a losing concern. as yet that trade has done no good to those engaged in it, but as there is every appearance of a desire for our manufactures extending in india, so there is a prospect that the trade may at last prove greatly beneficial to the interests of this coun- try: but the progress must be gradualmit cannot be forced. the prosperity of the co- lonies of new holland and van diemen's land continues to increase, and will, ere long, form an important branch of british commerce. the discovery of immense rivers in the interior of the former, and the great probability that these communicate with the ocean, in the great bay in the south-west side of the continent, and by naviga- ble estuaries, offer a grand prospect of extending colonization in the fine lands in the in- terior of the country. the cape of good hope continues to flourish, and, by degrees, must become an important commercial colony. the trade with south america, in all its branches, continues in an unsettled state. some improvement certainly has of late taken place ; but while civil war and internal com- motions continue to agitate these countries, as is at present the case, it is evident that no great improvement can be expected in any branch of commerce. as peace, however, is restored, and liberal governments established, and the population increases, commerce must greatly extend itself in those important regions of the world, and of which im provement we will come in for our full share. the markets in jamaica having been greatly cleared of their superabundant stock, and the low priced goods having come into the market, considerable sales have lately been effected for the spanish colonies. but the scarcity of bills has rendered the exchange so much against the merchant remitting, that much of his profit is in this way lost, while specie has become a still worse remit tance. if that specie is transmitted to the united states of america, and there invested in cotton, that tends to keep up the price of that article so high, that when it reaches this country, there is a certain loss incurred, from the great depreciation in value here. the merchant is thus beset with difficulties, but as the demand for goods continues, and is on the increase, so it is to be hoped that these things will gradually get to their proper channel, and the business amply remunerate all who are engaged in it. the situation of our sugar colonies is at this moment even more distressing than the state of the agriculturists at home. the price of all articles of colonial produce is sunk to a rate unprecedentedly and ruinously low, and from which state there appears to be but a small chance of their reviving again. the cause of this is to be sought in the con- tinuation of the slave trade by foreign nations, and the great extension, by this means, of the cultivation of colonial produce in these colonies. the prices at which they raise it are greatly below what the west india planters can possibly afford, and the immense quantities produced serve to supply and glut almost every market, of which this country had some time ago almost the exclusive supply. till the slave trade is completely stopped, therefore, the west india planters can expect no relief, while, if the system is much longer continued, even the stoppage of it will render, him no service, because all the foreign colonies will be filled with slaves sufficient to manufacture sugar for every country which does not of itself produce that article. the united efforts of the civilized world will, upon the present system, be found altogether inadequate to arrest the pro- .] register commercial report. gress of the slave trade with africa. it has increased the amount, and aggravated all its horrors. the same causes which operated with such distressing effects upon the commercial and agricultural interests in this country, operated in the united states of america to a still severer degree. hence the commerce with those states has of late been peculiarly unproductive; but, as amongst ourselves, so amongst them, the severe operation of these causes is gradually ceasing, commerce is, accordingly, beginning to rear her head again, and we may anticipate a progressive improvement in all our commercial in- tercourse with these states. from various reasons, however, it is not at all probable that our commercial relations with that quarter of the world can ever be so advantageous as these at previous periods have been. our north american colonies have felt, and are at present feeling their share of the general commercial and agricultural misfortunes which have visited the world. the ad- ditional duty also which, it seems, is now determined to be laid on their timber, and the reduction of the duty upon that article imported into great britain from the north of europe will, we fear, greatly retard the improvement of these possessions, and serve to continue the difficulties under which they at present labour, and which were arrived at that point from which gradual melioration might fairly have been anticipated. the prosperity of these valuable possessions is now become of the first consequence, not only to the mother country, but also to the west india colonies. the existence of the latter, in a great measure, depends upon the prosperity and extension of cultivation of our north american provinces. while the discoveries of captain parry, last summer, have tended to elucidate a great geographical question, these have also tended to extend the field for the davis' strait whale fishery, a branch of commerce of no mean importance to great britain. in the tonthern hemisphere a wide and rich field for similar pursuits is laid open, by the exa- mination of the coasts of new south shetland, south-west from the straits of magellan. the fisheries on that coast will certainly prove most productive, and we are happy to learn that the enterprizing merchants of liverpool have already eagerly and extensively engaged in the fisheries in that quarter. while we may (if peace is continued to the world) confidently expect a gradual im. provement of our trade with foreign nations, yet we must not look for, or expect that it in reach, in any of the old markets, the same beneficial extent that it once did. we mast expect and allow all other civilized nations to come in for their share of the trade of the world, and also expect that every nation will encourage their internal trade and ma. dufactures. under these circumstances it is our policy to look for new markets for our trade new markets in countries where no competition in native skill, manufactures, and industry is at all, or, at least, for ages, likely to come in competition with, or injure the demand for ours. such markets may yet be found. through the wide extent of the east indian archipelago there is a great field; but, above all, it is to africa that we onght to tum our attention. there is a field of vast magnitude a field which at present we may make exclusively our own. there is no longer any room to doubt, but that in the bights of benin and biafra the great river niger enters the atlantic ocean by several navigable estuaries, and that, by means of that noble river and its tributary streams, the whole central parts of the northern quarter of that great continent are laid readily open to the operations of commerce. these countries are all populous, and the elements of com- merce are most abundant, and also of the most valuable kinds. the productions of these places are those of which we are most in want, and every thing which they require are almost exclusively the productions of our industry and skill. hence the advantages of a trade with these parts becomes very evident, while planting, and extending legitimate commerce into the bosom of africa, is the most effectual way to benefit our west india colonies, and the only way by which we ever can put an end either to the external slave trade, or slavery in africa. only shew her princes and her population that we will give, and that they can obtain more for the productions of their soil, and the labour of their slaves, in africa, than for the slave himself, and the work is done. the slave trade would be unheard of, and trouble us no more. all this is in our power. a set- tement on the island of fernando po, and inland on the united stream of the niger, would place the whole within the grasp and under the controul of great britain. the following are the principal articles imported into great britain during the last fear in sugar-british plantation. , imported, , stock last year ahds. , , for home use and export , stock on hand, st january, . register.-commercial report, [april, foreign sugars imported, ." , boxes havannah , chests brazils , bags east indies packages, other parts. the importations of foreign sugars, particularly from the east indies and havan- nah, have considerably increased. the export of sugar from great britain to the con. intent of europe has greatly decreased. in the value of refined sugar exported was , , ., in , , , ., and, on the year ending the th january, , , , ., and the exports for the year ending the th january, is still less, ow, ing to these places receiving their supplies direct from foreign colonies. rum. , casks imported, , being an increase of rather more than puncheons. , bags imported in , making an increase of , bags. the comsumpt last year was , bags, being at the rate of , per week. t'he consumption in was only at the rate of , per week. coffee. , casks. , barrels and bags, or , tons. there was taken for home use , tons, and for exportation , tons. cocoa. , barrels and bags imported in , of which there have been taken for home use , and for export , barrels and b gs. cotton tobacco. hhds. . , imported into liverpool , ditto into london and bales into glasgow of which there were taken out of bond, for home use, at london and liverpool, viz.. london, , hhds. ; at liverpool, , hhds. ; and at glasgow and leith, , , lbs. ; and from the two former, for export, , hhds. grain, . imported into london, , yrs, wheat, , do. barley, , do, malt, , , do. oats, , do. rye, , do. beans, , do. pease, , do. tares, , do. linseed, , do. rapeseed, , do. brank, , do. mustard, , do. of various seeds, , sacks, and , barrels flour. for the year ending the th july , there was taken out of bond for england, galls. duties. brandy and geneva, , £ , rum, , , , , french wines, , , al other wines (foreign) , , , and , tuns cape wine. wool. imported, in , , , lbs. cloth milled, do. , , yds. linen manufactures. exported, in , from the united kingdom of irish and scotch linens, , , yds. irish linens , , do. british do. of all sorts , do. british sail-cloth. scotch and irish linens exported from ireland, - , yds. canvas , do. coloured , , do. plain white. on the th september, , the shipping registered of the united kingdom, and the plantations was , vessels, , , tons, and navigated by , men. exports and imports of great britain and ireland. year ending th january, ,—imports, £ , , making a decrease of , , . year ending th january, ,-exports. produce and manufactures of united kingdom, £ , , foreign and colonial, . , , official value. total £ , , . . .] register-commercial report. . . . making a decrease of , , . this is exclusive of the trade between great bri. tain and ireland. the declared value of exports stands as under, viz. :- brass and copper manufactures, £ , cotton manufactures, , , cotton, twist, and yarn, , , glass and earthen-ware, , , hardware and cutlery, , , iron and steel, wrought and unwrought, , , linen manufactures, , , silk manufactures, , sugar, british, refined, , , woollen goods, , , all other articles, , , total declared value, £ , , from which it appears that there is a falling in the cotton goods of , , ., and in woollen goods, , , .., and british refined sugar of , , ., from the preceding fear. trade of ireland. year ending th january, ,-imports, , , produce and manufactures united kingdom--exports, £ , , foreign and colonial, , total official value, £ , , exclusive of trade with great britain. imports into ireland, , , . s. d.—exports, , . s. d., native pro- duce; and , . s. d. colonial and foreign.-total, , . . d. sundries imported into great britain, ,- ashes, barrels, , oil, seal, casks, , barilla, tons, , olive oil, casks, , brimstone, tons , palun oil, casks, , flax, tons, , pepper, packages, , ginger, packages, , pimento, barrels and bags, , hemp, tons, , quercet. bark, casks, , hides, ox and cow, , rice, tons, , indigo, seroons and chests. , saltpetre, , lime and lemon juice, gallons, sheep's wool, packages, , madder, casks, , shumac, bags, . , madder roots, bales, , seed, flax, quarters, , mahogany, logs, , tallow, tons, , oak bark, tons, , tar, barrels, , , whale, tuns, . , turpentine, casks, , ditto, casks, , valonia, tons, , oil, cod and dog-fish, casks, , timber imported, . north of europe, , feet british north america, , , do. . . . . . . . . total, , , weekly price of stocks, from st to march, . ist. th, th. d. oor ] % bank stock, per cent. reduced, per cent. consols, per cent. consols, per cent. consols, per cent. navy ann...concora... imperial per cent. ann. india stock, bonds.com exchequer bills, consols per acc. long annuities.. french per cents. $ car ] pr. pr. pr. pr. pr. pr. son - pr. dis. !! register...commercial report. [april, course of exchange, april .-amsterdam, : . c. f. ditto at sight, : . rotterdam, : . antwerp, : . hamburgh, : . altona, : . paris, d. sight, : . ditto : . bourdeaux, : . frankfort on the maine, . petersburgh, : u. vienna, : ef. fo. trieste, : ef. flo. madrid, . cadiz, %. bilboa, barcelona, . seville, . gibraltar, . leghorn, genoa, . venice, : . malta, . naples, %. palermo, . lis- bon, % oporto, . rio janeiro, . bahia, . dublin, per cent. cork, per cent. prices of gold and silver, per .- foreign gold, in bars, £ : : . new dollars, d. silver in bars, stand. s. d. houten .; : edinburgh.- april l. wheat. barley. oats. pease & beans. isto..... . od. st, ..... . od. st....... s. od. st,...... . od. d, ...... s. od. | d, ...... s. od. d, ...... s. od. d,.....] s. . d, ...... s. od. d, ...... s. od. | d,...... s. od. | d,...... s. od. average of wheat, £ : : - ths., per boll. tuesday, march . beef ( ) oz. per lb.) os. d. to os. d. | quartern loaf. . d. to os. our mutton os. d. to os. d. os. d. to os. od lamb, per quarter . s. od. to s. od. fresh butter, per ſb. ls. d. to is. dº veal os. d. to s. od. salt ditto, per stone od. to s. od pork os. d.' to os. d. ditto, per lb. ls. d. to s. d tallow, per stone s. d. to s. od. eggs, per dozen . d. to s. od haddington.-april . wheat. barley. oats. pease. beans. st, ..... ls. d. st, ..... s. od. st, ..... s. od. st, .....) . d. st, ..... s. od. d...... s. d. ( d......] s. od. d ....... s. od. ( d,... .. s. od. | da....... . od. d,...... . d. | d...... . od. | d,...... s. od. d,...... . od. | d,...... s. od. average, £i : s. d. - ths. dverage prices of corn in england and wales, from the returns received in the week ended st march. wheat, s. .-rye, s. id.-barley, s. id.-oats, . .-beans, s. d.-pease, s. . beer or big, os. od. oatmeal, s d. . s. . per lb . solo ooo . . . . . . . . . london, corn exchange, april . liverpool, april . wheat, $. do . d. amer.p. lb. d. sweet, u.s. to wheat, red, new to hog pease . to eng. old to do. in bond oto - fine ditto • to maple to foreign . to sour do. . to superfine ditto to white to |scotch .. to oatmeal, per lb. ditto, old -to - ditto, boilers. to || waterford to english .to white, new to new ditto, - to - limerick to scotch .. to vine ditto. to smallbeans, new to drogheda to irish ... o to superfine ditto to ditto, old to dublin to bran, p. ib. to ditto, old - to - tick, new . to |irish old . to g foreign, new butter, beef, &c. - to - ditto, old . to bonded .. to rye to foreign .-to-barley, per lbs. butter,p.cwt. s. d. . d. fine ditto, to feed oats. to eng. . to belfast, new to barley to fine. to scotch . . to newry to fine, new to poland ditto. to irish. .. to . waterford . - to superfine to fine . . to oats, per lb. cork,pic. , o to malt. • to potatoe ditto . to eng. pota. to d dry to o fine • to fine . to irish do. . to beef, p. tierce scotch do. to -mess to malt per b. per brl. to o seeds, gc. april . fine .. to pork, p. brl. beans, per qr. -mess o to . d. . english. to middl. g to must. brown, to hempseed . . to irish .. to bacon, p. cwt. -white ... to linseed, crush. to rapeseed, . £ to short mids. to tares, new, . to new, for seed to pease,grey to o sides. to turnips, bsh. to ryegrass, to -white : to hams, dry, to o -red & green to o clover, red cwt. to flour, english, green to -yellow,new to -white ... to p. b.fine o to lard,rd.p.c. to caraway, ewt. to o coriander .. to irish.. to tongue, per firk. canary, qr. to o trefoil .... to o to rape seed, per last, . £ to £ . . . .] register.commercial report. prices current, april –london, . glasgow. liverpool london. s d s d s d s d s d £ £ ion: s d od sugar, musc. leith. b. p. dry brown, · cwt. to mid. good, and fine míd. fine and very fine, refined doub. loaves, powder ditto, single ditto, small lumps, large ditto, chished lumps, molasses, british, cwt. coffee, jamaica,. cwt. ord. good, and fine ord. mid good, and fine mid. duteh triage and very ord. ord good, and fine ord. mid, good, and fine mid. st domingo, pimento (in bond,j ::: spirits, jan. rum, o. p. gall. s d s od brandy, genera, grain whisky, wines, claret, st growths, hhd. portugal red, pipe. spanish white, butt. teneriffe, pipe. madeira, logwood, jam. £ honduras, campeachy, fustic, jamaica, cuba, indigo, caraccas fine, lb. s d s d timber, amer. pine, foot. ditto oak, christiansand (dut. paid.) honduras mahogany, st domingo, ditto, tar, american, archangel, pitch, foreign, cwt. tallow, rus. yel. cand. home melted, hemp, riga rhinc, ton. petersburgh, clean, flax, riga thies. & druj. rak. dutch, irish, nats, archangel, . bristles, petersburgh pirsts, ewt. ashes, peters. pearl, montreal, ditto, pot, oil, whale, tun. £ cod. (p, brl.) tobacco, virgin, fine, ib. middling, inferior, cottons, bowed georg. sea island, fine, good, middling, demerara and berbice, west india, pernambuco, maranham, sitiillillllullooor!|--iii itit *** ---- -- - ---oooo -- c cocow llll lll e it £ £ is d ls d ** vnom ref . . eur * * * ******jina brl. £ £ £ d iiillllluna + ) ooooo alphabetical list of english bankruptcies, announced between the th of february and the th of march, , extracted from the london gazette. aeason, j. valentine farm, ridge, herefordshire, astley, m. goswell-street, china-warehouseman. cor-dealer. bainbridge, w. evenwood, durham, horse-dealer. alport, t. r. birmingham, leather-dresser. barker, j. great, titchfield-street, upholsterer. anderson, j. jun. whitby, merchant. barker, t. burton in lonsdale, yorkshire, twine- amall, g. leamington, wine merchant. manufacturer. ashford, j. and eºl. ireland, birmingham, fac benson, j. r. artillery-place, merchant. billinge, j. bristol, grocer. vol. ix. p tors. register.-commercial report. [april, bird, t. st martin court, leicester-fields, habere jones, w. handsworth, stafford, farmer. dasher. jordan, w. sunbury, vietualler. birks, s. w. thorne, yorkshire, mercer. ker, t. late of the strand, boot-maker. blundell, w. liverpool, hardwareman. lance, b. capel-court, stock-broker. bradbury, g. wellington, malster. lawton, j. delph, yorkshire, inn-keeper. brown, j. bridgewater, tailor. lea, w. and j. f. paternoster-row, tibbon and burbery, r. coventry, silk-manufacturer. silk-manufacturer. burton, wolverhampton, grocer. lowe, g. manchester, cotton-dealer. candy. r. weson-town, somersetshire, farmer. macrae, a. devonshire-street, jeweller. clively, e. woolwich, draper. mace, s. norwich, grocer. coates, g. new bond-street, druggist. mallorie, w. leeds, paste-board manufacturer. cooper, j. eyain, derby, grocer, marshall, p. scarborough, solieitor. croxford, c. jun. iver, buckinghamshire, collar matson, r. barfrestone, kent, miller. maker. monsey, t. burgh, norfolk, farmer. culshaw, w. wrighington, lancaster, dealer. morgan, j. late of bedford, draper. cummins, gloucester, mercer. needs, e. bristol, shop-keeper. danson, j. millom, cumberland, dealer. newman, j. m. broomsgrove, dealer in wool. dark, h. barth, woollen-draper.. nicolls, w. a. a. stephen-street, tottenham- davies, j. liverpool, merchant. court-road. deakin, f. upton-upon severn, grocer. noad, s. birchin-lane, bill broker. dixon, j. bishopthorp, yorkshire, coal-merchant. palmer, t. gutter-lane, cheapside, silk manufac- downes, s. cranbourne-street, leicester-square, turer. • haberdasher. partridge, h. m. newport, monmouthshire, iron- drayton rayner, j. bow, mast-maker. monger. dudman, j. brighton, common carrier. pitt, d. fenchchurch-street, hosier. durtnall, j. dover, ironmonger. porter, j. leading roothing, essex, farmer. eggleston, b. great driffield," york, plumber. powell, t. bath, cloth-factor. farrell, j. prospect-place, newington-causeway, priddon, e. late of horncastle, miller. merchant. richards, j. and w. badham, broomyard, here. ferno, g. jun. stockport, grocer. ford, dealers in corn. field, j. and t. muscovy-court, trinity-square, rogers, j. and c. plymouth, coach-makers. four-factor rose, j. bath, grocer. fiseot, w. bristol, baker. sarvis, a. slone-street, upholsterer. fletcher, j. and Ø. barton-upon-irwell, cotton scofield, e. west bergholt, essex, publican. spinners. sedgewick, london, warehouseman. fox, e. l. jun. idol-lane, tower-street, broker. sheriffe, j. fairnham, grocer. freeland, w. bedhampton, southampton, miller. sheppard, w. ayr-street-hill, baker. french, j. coventry and edinburgh, ribbon me, skaiſ, h. whitby, draper. nufacturer. smith, p. p. and w. middleton, lancashire, mus- frost, l. liverpool, timber-merchant. lin manufacturers. fry, g. tunbridge-wells, lime-burner. smith, t. caponfield, staffordshire, iron-master. gittins, r. tewkesbury, corn-faetor. sprigens, j. chesham, draper. gough, r. liverpool, snuff manufacturer, thrapston, b. t. northamptonshire, draper. green, j. lower east smithfield, baker, troughton, b. jun. coventry, silkman. guy, j. blackfriars-road, dealer. troughton, j. j. and b. and a. newcomb, co- harrison, j. manchester, cotton-spinner. ventry, bankers, harrison, j. sandwich, wool-stapler. turner, j. rotherham, engineer. heaton, j. scholes, york, nail-manufacturer. warbrick, h. liverpool, merchent. hebdin, a. . parliament-street, woollen-cloth ward, t. coventry, silk munufacturer. merchant. whaley, j. king's lynn, norfolk, gunsmith. hobbs, h. chichester, farmer. wilby, d. late of dewsbury, clothier. hollis, j. goswell-street-road, stone-mason. wilkinson, j. and w. b. smith leeds, york, stuff hurney, r. stafford-street, bond-street, picture merchant. dealer. wilson, g. liverpool, linen-draper. jackson, t. bishop's offey, stafford, malster. wilson, j. macclesfield, bookseller. james, w. jun. abergavenny, cabinet-maker. windcatt, t. and w. tavistock, fellmonger. johnson, g. r. chiswell-street, oilman, wood, w. chester, cheese-dealer, alphabetical list of scotci bankruptcies, announced between the st march and d april, , extracted from the edinburgh gazette. ainslic, robert, lately of edingham, underwriter, reid, francis, and sons, watchmakers, glasgow. residing in edinburgh, on his own application, russel, john, grocer, hamilton. with concurrence of mr claud russel, account. walker, alexander, merchant and insurance-bro- ant, edinburgh, his disponee, under a private ker, aberdeen. trust, for purpose of winding up said trust. braid, robert, jun. tallow-chandler, paisley, dividends. brooks and blaikie, merchants and commission balfour, john, merchant, kirkaldy; a dividend of agents, grangemouth, and at glasgow, under s. per pound, th april. the firm of william blaikie and co. burn and pringle, timber merchants, fishertow, brown, archibald, grocer, leith. a dividend d april. fraser, alexander, manufacturer, inverness. bute, william, wright and builder, glasgow; a duguid, william, jun. merchant, aberdeen. final dividend th may. douglas, alexander, and co. grocers, edinburgh. caldwell, david, late vintner, glasgow; a first greatbatch, john, sometime victualler and inn and final dividend, april. keeper, roslin inn, now stoneware merchant, clark, arthur hill, innkeper, portpatrick ; a di. paisley. vidend, th april. harthill, james, merchant aberdeen. fife, james, joiner and cabinet-maker, leith; a johnston, robert and john, cattle-dealers, stew. dividend. artry of birkcudbright. johnstone, john, manufacturer, newabbey; a di- johnston, john, in troquhain, a partner of the vidend of s. ed. th april. firm of robert and john johnston, cattle-deal lawson, george, currier, edinburgh; a dividend ers, stewartry of kirkcudbright. on st march. kirkwood, david, cattle-dealers, lockridge hills, m'knight, samuel, jun. merchant, kirkcudbright; parish of dunlop. a second dividend, st march. mackay, john, merchant, thurso. pollock, alexander and john, cotton yarn mer- m.nair, alexander, merchant, dingwal). chants, paisley; a dividend, th april. rae, james, cattle-dealer and grain merchant had richardson, william and james, late wool mer- dington. chants and manufacturers, hawick; a dividendo rattray, james, and david, manufacturers, ban. d may. nockburn. .] register.-meteorological report. meteorological table, extracted from the register kept at edinburgh, in the observatory, calton-hill. n.b.-the observations are made twice every day, at nine o'clock, forenoon, and four o'clock, after. noonthe second observation in the afternoon, in the first column, is taken by the register thermometer. attach. ther. barom. ther. wind. attach. ther. barom. ther. wind. mar. { m. . m. s.e. frost with mar. m. . m. cble. a. . a, ) mod. snow. a. , a. fair. high. m. m. s.e. m. foggy . m. n.w. showers of a. . a. mod. a. . a. high. hail. m. { . m. us.e. rain. m. . m. n.w. a. . a. mod. a. . a. ) high. fair. m. /m. ) s.e. dull with m. . m. n. frost mom. a. a. mod. ishowers. a. . a. ) high. showers hail. m. . m. cble. dull, but m. . m. n. frost morn. a. . a. ) mod. fair. a. . a. ) high. dull day. m. . m. cble. ditto. m. . m. n. showers of a. . a. s mod. a. . a. ) mod. hail. . . m. w. rain. morn. m. . m. uw. frost. morn. a. . a. ) mod. fair day. a. . a, ) high. dull day. m. . m. cble. fair. . m. s.w. showers of m. ) a. . a. ) mod. a. . a. s brisk. snow. m. . m. cble. fair foren. m. . m. w. frost morn. a. . a. ) high. rain aftern. a. . a. | mod. fair day. m. . m. cble. showery. m. . m. cble. frost morn. a. . a. ) mod. a. . : a. ) mod. rainy day. m. . m. n.w. ditto. m. . m. cble. frost morn. . a. | mod. a. . a. ) mod. fair day. m. . m. w. rain morn. m. . m. cble. a. . a. | mod. fair day. a. . a. s mod. ditto. m. . m. w. dull, with m. . m. | sw a. . a, ) mod. showcra. a. . a. s mod. ditto. m. . m, w. frost morn. m. . m. n.w. ua. . a. ) mod. air day. a. . a. / high, ditto. . m. w. ditto. m. . m. n.w. showers of a. . a. ) high. a. . a. ) high. hail. . m. n.w. a. : a. } |high: fa fair. average of rain, . inches. { m. /m. appointments, promotions, &c. bretet capt. h. light, r. art. to be major in ens. nagel, lieut. vice bernet, dead the army th aug. th july, . r. x. gds. vet. surg. j. siddal, from b. p.vet. surg. j. d. o'brien, ens. th mar. . vice j. siddal, dead. th feb. surg. black, from h. p. staff surg. vice dr. cornet ahmuty, from dr. cornet bolton, cancelled . th feb. vice mallet, h. p. dr. th aug. gent. cadet r. bennet, from r. milit. as. surg. sandham, from f. surg. coll. ens.vice schoof, prom. th mar. vice o'meally, dead th july g. pigott, ens. vice patton, f. ist do. lieut. fisk, adjuta vice smith, dead. gent. cadet r. airey, from r. mil. coll. st june ens. vice alex. adam, res. th do. gren. gds. ens and lieut. fludyer, lt. and capt. ens, o'hara, from h. p. f. ens. vice by purch. vice trelawny, ret. do. wilmot, f. th do. rowley, from h. p. ens. lt. wardell, from h. p. dr. paym. and lieut. do. vice aitkin, h. p. th feb. as. surg. johnson, from h. p. as. surg. - urquhart, ens. vice wetherall, f. vice gibson, prom. th feb. th mar. cold. gds. a. r. wellesley, page of honour to the ens. stuart, lieut. vice smith, dead king, ens. and lt. vice griffiths, dead. th feb. . th jan. j. stuart, ensign, d jan. f. g. ens. and lt. blane, lt. and capt. by capt. wallis, major by purchase, vice purch. vice tuffnel, ret. th mar. mackenzie, ret. st mar. . h. bowden, ens. and lt. do. do. lieut. dawe, capt. do. do. f. lieut. everett, from h. p. r. afr. c. ens. patton, from f. lt. by purch, lieut. vice glen, eancelled, th feb. do, ens. wilmot, from f. ens. vice lieut. greene, capt. vice giles, prom. delaney, h. p. f. th mar. ist mar. , capt. hay, from f. capt. vice de ens. carpenter, lieut. do. havilland, f. do. lieut. kelly, from h. p. f. lieut. lieut. vans machen, capt. by purch. vice prideaux, f. th mar. , vice moyle ret. th do. e. h. dodd, ens. vice carpenter, prom. ens. t. r. thompson. lt. do. do. do. t. j. neill. ens. by purch. do. as. surg. m'lean, from h. p. as. surg. lieut. prideaux, froin f. lieut. vice vice sandham, dr. th july . kerr, h. p. f. do. bt. major de havilland, from f. capt. - clayton, ens. vice m'donald, vice morris, h. p. É. th mar. . superseded do, lieut. hall, from h. p. f. lieut. vice lieut. bower, from f. vice way, patience, cancelled, th do. dead st mar. . appointments, promotions, fc. [april, s.h.widdrington, ens.vice donithrone, assist. surg. alexander, from dr. with assist. cancelled, do. surg. stewart, h. p. f. lieut. rowan, capt. vice gray, dead, strachan, from f. with as. surg. th june, . lenon, h. p. w. Í. r. b. gormley, (late serj. maj.) q. mast. vice hennessey, dead, d feb. . resignations and retirements. ens. boultbee, lieut. th april, . major mackenzie, f. wetherall, from f. ens. vice capt. hamilton, ceylon reg. boultbee, th mar. . trelawney, gren. gds. capt. white, from h. p. f. vice hay, tuffnel, f. g. f. th do. moyle, f. t. byre, ens. vice lord f. montagu, christie, f. ceylon reg. th do. ensign alexander adam, f. lieut. hon. c. napier, capt. by purch. vice christie, ret. d feb. removed from the service. ens. gibson, lieut. do do. lieut. machell, hussars. gent. cadet w. codriggton, from r. mil, coll. ens. by purch. do. superseded. wm. aimsinck, ens. vice a. aimsinck, ensign p. e. m'donell, f. dead ist mar. ceyl. r. lieut. daly, capt. by purchase, vice appointments cancelled. hamilton, ret. sth do. lieut. glen, i f. lord f. montagu, from f. lt. do. patience, f. miscellaneous. ensign donithorne, p. surg. bolton, f. capt. t. st. g. lister, f. fort major and adjut. assist. surg. mouat, f. at jersey, vice miller, dead th feb. . lieut. j. chadwick, assisting in the riding school deaths. of the army, to have the rank and pay of capt. lieut. gen. rochfort, r. inv. art. woolwich, of cavalry d do. th feb. . capt. w. goddard, barrack mast. at nova scotia, major gen. r. marriott, late of f. paris, vice lynn, res. d jan. th mar. . rev. d. evans, chaplain to the forces. colonel robertson, h. p. insp. field of. rec. dist. major thistlethwaite, f. berbice, dec. . exchanges. clarke, f. nevis, antigua, th jan. . lleut. col. napier, f. g, with lieut. col. sir cowper, r. art. london, th feb. g. h. berkeley, f. fenton, h. p. f. kingsale, th aug. . bt. lieut. col. hay, from dr. rec. diff. between hicks, h. p. f. formerly of f. london, full pay cav. and full pay inf. with major synge, harrison, late of f. h. p. dr. capt. ackland, h. p. f. tenby, th dec. . major bloomfield, from f. with bt. lieut. col. de glutz, h. p. roll's reg. th jan. . hook, f. lieut. brannan, f. meerut, bengal, m'intyre, from f. with major fane, th aug. . w. i. r. demoor, f. fort william, bengal, capt. jones, from dr. with capt. garth, f. th sept. lister, from f. with capt. derinzy, h. p. pickering, f. do. d oct. wiltshire, from f. with capt. daniel, h. p. wilton, f. bangalore, th sept. sanderson, f.rec. diff. with capt. savage, hilliard, r. vet. bat. liverpool, h. p. th jan. . lieut. tighe, from gren. gds. rec. diff. with lieut. goodman, h. p. dr. sir john burgoyne, h. p. watkins, h. p. dr. - purdon, from f. with lieut. townsend, cazalet, h. p. dr. h. p. crewe, h. p. f. th nov. . o'brien, from f. with lieut. robison, de laffert, h. p. line germ. leg. hanover, h. p. de. th oct. o'neill, from f. with lieut. stevenson, cornet hon. d. carleton, h. p. dr. newbury, f. berks. a. cameron, from f. with lt. beckham, ensign gamble, f. trinidad, jan. . f. aimsinck, f. on passage from jamaica. fenton, from f. rec. diff. with lt. hall, ford, w. i. r. dominica, th dec. . h. p. f. white, inval. pimlico, th feb. . randal, from f.rec. diff. with lt. clarke, quart. mast. parkes, h. p. dr. wolverhamton, h. p. d feb. . ens. and adjt. osborne, from f. with lieut. and dep. assist. com. gen. braybrooke, berbice, adjut. russell, h. p. f. th dec. . ens. honeywood, from f. with ens. wetherall, ackroyd, barbadoes, h. p. f. th jan. . innes, from f. with ens. birney, hrp. f. couper, from f. with ens. thomas, h. p. richardson, berbice, th jan. . f. physician joseph taylor, on passage from ja- macleod, from f. with ens. boates, h. p maica to canada, muth nov. f staff surg. codrington, coventry, st mar. surg. erskine, from f.with surg. bolton, h. p. surg. o'meally, dr. reynolds, from f. with surg. white, h. p. assist. surg. webb, h. p. f. castle pollard, spencer, from f. with surg. alderson, h. p. york rangers. th sept. apothcoary leeson, cape of good hope. smyth, from f. with surg. herriot, h. p. hospit assist. conway, goree, africa, f. th oct. . .] register.-births, marriages, and deaths. births, marriages, and deaths. son. births. at st thomas's mount, madras, th october, , the lady of major limmond, honourable east india company's artillery, of a daughter. feb. . the right honourable harriet paget, of a daughter. . mrs james campbell, northumberland street, of a daughter. . at fortwilliam, mrs thomas macdonald, of a daughter. march . mrs. c. terrot, west nicholson's street, of a son. . at springkell, the lady of lieutenant colonel sir john heron maxwell, bart. of a son. . at levenside-house, mrs blackburn, of killearn, of a son. . mrs john menzies, salisbury street, of a son. . at auchenard, the lady of major alston, of a daughter. - Åt london, the lady of david chas. guthrie, esq. of a daughter. . at largs, the lady of captain chas. hope reid, of his majesty's ship driver, of a son. . at , gayfield square, mrs a. thomson, of a son. . mrs corrie, queen street, of a daughter. . at bonnington bank, mrs wyld, of a son. - at edinburgh, mrs speid, st john street, of . at g, park street, mrs hogg, altrive lake, da son. -the lady of john anstruther thomson, esq. of charleton, of a daughter. . at , northumberland street, the lady of w. macdonald, m. d. of balyshear, of a daughter. -mrs douglas, drummond place, of a son. . the lady of john watson, esy. of upper bedford place, london, of a son. - at clapham, the lady of alex. gordon, esq. of old broad street, london, of a daughter. - at clifton, the lady of arnold thomson esq. of the lst regiment, of a daughter. . at st andrews, mrs lee, of a daughter. . at paris, the countess of airly, of a daughter. . mrs mowbray, howe street, of a son. %. in george street, the lady of john mans- field, esq. of a daughter. - mrs john scotland, of a daughter. . mrs richard mackenzie, of a son. - at edinburgh, mrs macleod, jun. of cadboll, of a son. latdy. mrs m'culloch, shandwick place, of a son. - at kew, the lady of captain archibald buchanan, r. n. of a son. marriages. feb. . at wigton, mr. james thomson, sur geon, newton-stewart, to miss janet parker, wigton. - at spott-house, captain alexander renton sharpe, royal navy, c. b. to catherine, eldest daughter of robert hay, esq. of spott. march. i. at aberdeen, the rev. patrick cheyne, minister of st john's episcopal chapel, to eliza, youngest daughter of the deceased john annand of belmont, esq. - at glasgow, mr dugald maclachlan, mer- chant, tobermory, to miss catherine macdouald, only daughter of the late captain macdonald, alva . at glasgow, mr charles kennedy, surgeon, edinburgh, to isabella, youngest daughter of the late rev. mr gilbert dickson. - at leith, mr thomas hardie, mercluant, leith, to ann, daughter of mr williain goddard. . at st patrick square, lieutenant grant, late d regiment, to mary ann, cldest daughter of the late captain watson. . lieutenant-colonel james johnstone coch- rane, of the d regiment of guards, to charlotte, daughter of j. wiltshire, esq. of shockerwick- house. . at st john's church, horsly down, lon- don, mr james b. scott, brewer, leith, to jane, eldest daughter of john donaldson, esq of tho- mas street . at gilmore place, mr robert gilmour, to elizabeth beatson, daughter of david boswell beatson, esq. late of the north glassmount, and relict to dr o'flaharty, late of the island of st eustatia. . at queen street, george augustus borth- wick, m. d. to janet, daughter of george kinnear, esq. banker. . at oatridge, the rev. john geddes, one of the ministers of paisley, to dora, eldest daughter of the late mr james thomson, oatridge. . at inverness, lieutenant-colonel a. mack- intosh, h. e. i. c. s. to anna, eldest daughter of the late david sheriff, esq. - at edinburgh, mr william jamieson, build- er, to helen, daughter of mr alexander aber- nethy, farmer, westside. . at charlotte square, major william power, of his majesty's th dragoon guards, to miss ann horner, youngest daughter of john horner, esq. . at kenmore castle, mr j. maitland, edin- burgh, to frances, eldest daughter of the late james dalzell, esq. of barncrosh. . at edinbargh, william young, m. d. to margaret, daughter of the late mr r. white, ha- mildean. . mr thomas hardy, surgeon and dentist, duke street, to rosabina, daughter of robert forrester, esq. treasurer of the bank of scotland. deaths. june, , . at hydrabad, captain pringle, fraser, th regiment native infantry aged years, eldest son of the late rev. john fraser, libberton, lanarkshire. july . at mullye, on the nepaul frontier, major charles peter hay, of the d regiment, bengal infantry, commanding the champarur light in- fantry. aug. . at bandah, bengal, mr hay mac- dowall, youngest son of the late h. d. macdow- all of walkingshaw, esq. . at delhi, lieutenant charles george con- stable, adjutant to the st battalion, th regiment native infantry, much regretted. sept. . at calcutta, robert campbell, esq. of the civil department there. . at baroche, mrs campbell, wife of captain a. campbell, of the artillery, and commissary of stores, on the bombay establishment, having given birth to a son on the th. . at calcutta, walter davidson, esq. of the firm of hogue, davidson, robertson, and co. oct. . at chittagong, east indies, lieutenant james ewart, of the bengal artillery, son of mr ewart, clerk in chancery. nov. . at port maria, jamaica, captain james gordon, late of the aberdeenshire militia. dec. . at st helena, robert grant, esq. r. n. second son of the late francis grant, esq. of kil- graston. . at berbice, miss margaret johnston, eldest daughter of the late dr archibald johnston of that colony. feb. , . at lucia, in the th year of his age, john m'call, esq. late president of the council in that island, second son of the late john m'call, esq. merchant in glasgow. . at their house, near pinkie, miss jean ; and on the th, miss ann, her sister, daughters of the deceased mr main. . at york place, edinburgh, ellward, the youngest, and on the zoth williain, aged ', the eldest son of mr peter lorimer, builder. register.deaths. [april, . at bath, thomas macdonald, esq. former - at alloa, thomas drummond, second son ly of hind street, london, late first commission. of mr. george charles. er of the board appointed by the act of parliament - at her house, canongate, christian, young. for deciding on the claims of british subjects upon est daughter of the late mr john henderson. the american government. . Åt her house, pitt street, mrs christian . at rockingham, in ireland; aged , the baird, relict of mr george callender, surveyor in honourable colonel king, governor of the county edinburgh. of sligo. at london, john hunter, esq. vice-admiral . at hamburgh, beatrice jane, infant daugh- of the red, aged . ter of mr alexander m‘laren. . at earlstoun, mrs esther lauriston, widow . at stirling, mr burdon, late rector of the of the late rev. laurence johnston, minister of gramar school there. that parish. . at edinburgh, aged , nay campbell tait, . at castle-douglas, mr william crosbie, son of craufurd tait of harviestoun, esq. w. s. wine and spirit merchant. - mr robert callender, accountant in edin. - at his house, broughton street, mr thomas burgh. goodsir. march . at edinburgh, mrs ann gardner, wife - at his house, , catherine street, mr john of mr sylvester reid, accountant and deputy clerk horsburgh, shoemaker. of teinds. at edinburgh, the hon. mary dunean, - at cupar fife, mrs david methven. youngest daughter of viscount duncan. . at arihurstone, perthshire, mary harris, - at orchardton, james douglas of orchard- infant daughter of lieutenant-colonel' dick of ton, esq. tullymet. . Åt stratford place, london, lieutenant at montrose, mrs major gardyne. colonel p. douglas, late of the honourable east at moor park, richard alexander oswald, india company's service, on the bengal establishe esq. ment. at edinburgh, david pringle, son of the . george tate, admiral in the russian ser. late james pringle, esq. of lampikewells. vice, senator, and knight of st alexander nevs. - at linlithgow, mary martin relict of alex. koy, &c. &c. in the th year of his age. jamieson, in the th year of her age. - at edinburgh, miss jane charters hardie, - at her house, in elder street, mrs magdalene second daughter of the late dr hardie, minister of lythgow, relict of john young, esq. architect in ashkirk. edinburgh. - at leith, mrs m'gibbon. her remains were . at bellfield, in the th year of his age, mr deposited in the same grave with those of her hus- james stalker, who long enjoyed the highest cele band, her son, and daughter-in-law, all of whom brity as a teacher of english in the city of edin fell victims to suffocation, in a very confined apart- burgh. ment, in one night. . at crossmount, mrs janet butter, spouse of – mrs ann bell, wife of mr james alison, captain john campbell of boreland. merchant in leith, aged . - at his house in bolton row, viscount chet at elm-house, haddington, of apoplexy, wynd, aged . james cockburn, esq. in the th year of his age. - at portobello, mr john pringle, late sur. . mr andrew lawrie, late upholsterer in geon, r. n. edinburgh. . at haddington, mr william veitch, in the - at camlarg lodge, ayrshire, david wood. th year of his age. burn, esq. at dundas castle, adamina, the infant at the manse of gigha, mrs margaret ste- daughter of james dundas, esq. of dundas. venson, spouse of the rev. malcolm macdonald. . at paris, major general randolph marriott. . at edinburgh, mrs gloag, wiſe to mr john - at edinburgh, aged , ronald c. f. tullis, gloag, late merchant, edinburgh. son of mr robert tullis, abbotshall, fifeshire. . at his house, james's place, leith links, - at farr, inverness-shire, james mackintosh, mr robert dudgeon, merchant, leith. esq. of farr, in the th year of his age, and one - at stephen's green, dublin, mrs plunkett, of the oldest justices of the peace in the county wife of the right honourable w. c. plunkett a gentleman highly distinguished for soundness of colonel sandeman, of denfield, near ar- judgment and upright conduct. broath. . at gorgie, marion, second daughter of at haddington, lieutenant john henning, robert robb, fariner there. adjutant of the east lothian yeomanry cavalry. - at his house, stockbridge, mr william his reinains were attended to the grave by the gen- neaves, writer. tlemen of the corps in their uniforms. . in the neighbourhood of manchester, aged - at torbreck, alexander fraser, esq. of tor- years, richard thomas, second son of the late breck, deeply and justly regretted. mr thomas hunt of berford, oxon. it is impos. . at edinburgh, miss isabella webster, third sible for those who were acquainted with this ex. daughter of the late rev. john webster. traordinary young man to record his death, which . at shrub place, edinburgh, miss janet took place under eircumstances peculiarly distress- wood. ing, without the most unſeigned and sincere re - at pitt street, edinburgh, george john, son gret. of the instances of promises cut short, and of dr robertson. expectations blighted, few more melancholy can . at london, mrs wylie, mother of dr wylie, be found. he was the possessor of talents and abi of the madras artillery. lities of no ordinary or common rank, with a por. . at montrose, mrs airth, wife of alexandor tion of intellectual energy, still rare to be met with; airth, esq. of craigs. high in hope, and fervent in fancy-enthusiastic in - Át his house in craig's close, mr david wil- his researches, and indefatigable in his zeal. such lison, printer. was his disposition, and such his manners, that - at his house in frederick street, lieutenant- no one could know him without being concilia colonel thomas ingles. ted by his address, and won by his conversation. . at slateford, mrs janet cox, wife of the by those who had the pleasure of his acquaintance rev. dr belfrage. he will not soon be forgotten; and those even to - mr thomas morton, late farmer in balhouf- whom he was unknown, may perhaps not refuse to fie, parish of kilrenny, aged years, deeply re- lament over the memory of one who, had he lived, gretied. might have attained the highest dignities of his - at meadow place, lieutenant donald grant, profession, and become one of its greatest orna of the inverness-shire militia. ments. - at fisherrow, mr peter cathie, merchant. - at his house, simon square, mr john latdy. in stephen's green, dublin, in the sath brown, geneologist to his present majesty when year of his age, mr william gilbert, late of dame prince of wales, aged . street, bookseller. at her house, curzon street, may fair, - at exeter, aged , lady mary hannilton, london, the countess dowager of essex, aged . great aunt to the earl of leven and melville, and - at spring garden, alicia sophia baird, aunt to the earl of northesk. youngest daughter of sir james g. baird of - in the west indies, colonel clark of the th saughtonhall, bart. regiment of foot. .] register-deaths. james bonar, esq. . at edinburgh, james bonar, esq. solicitor of liest interest in every institution which propa excise after a short illness. thisgentleman was emi sed the dissemination of that truth as its ob nentlydistinguished as a man of science, as a scholar, jeet ; for thirty years he discharged the duties and as a christian. possessed of an active mind, and of one of the principal officers of the society for of a studious disposition, mr bonar early devoted propagating religious knowledge. he was se much of his time and attention to those literary eretary to the society for the sons of the clergy, pursuits, which qualified him to fill the highest of as also one of the secretaries of the edinburgh fices in many of the most distinguished literary bible society: and indeed there is scarcely a so. and scientific societies of this city. he was an early ciety in the city or neighbourhood, whose object meinber of, and for many years secretary to the was to promote either the present or future hap- speculative society, a member of the royal so piness of mankind, in which he has not been re- ciety of edinburgh, and a member of the astro cognized as an active and useful member.-and byroical institution, in each of which he held the when to this we add the exemplary piety of his pri. otice of treasurer at the time of his death. but his vate life, his cheerfulness of disposition, unabtru- personal exertions were not confined to the pro sive manners, extensive knowlelge, indefatigable motion of literature and science, as, with a deep industry, and unwearied zeal in every pursuit in impression on his own mind of the yet greater which he engaged, we cannot but consider the value of religious truths, he ever evinced the live dcath of such a man a public loss. samuel anderson, esq. . samuel anderson, esq. of rowchester and merous than they were judicious; but of the ex. moredun, banker in this city. mr anderson had tent of these no idea can be formed, as genuine set off for his seat in berwickshire on that day, modesty, and a total want of ostentation, were scronpanied by his lady and daughter, and whilst most conspicuous traits in his character. the horses were changing at the inn of whitbum, in general society, his manners were affable and he was suddenly taken it, and, in a short time, unobtrusive-his conversation lively and instruc- breathed his last. tive-his remarks, at all times shrewd, were uni- few individuals have been looked up to with formly to the point at issue. when retired in the more confidence and respect, as a citizen of edin bosom of his family, he shone conspicuous as an burgh, than mr anderson. endowed with supe attentive and an affectionate husband, and a fond rior talents, and educated for a mercantile protes. father. he was cheerful, humorous, and gay-en- sion, his mind acquired an expansion of ideas, and joying at all times innocent mirth, and possessing a hbaality of thought, by which his public con a vein of wit, which, though often displayed, was duct was ever regulated. 'in early life he was as never known to touch upon the foibles, or wound sumed as a partner in the banking-house of sir the feelings of any one. wiliam forbes and co. and his situation there the general regret that his death has occasioned brought him more in contact with the public. is the best testimony of his public character and easy of access all ranka found in him a ready and private worth, and must prove a balm of consola- able friend, either to direct at the outset-regulate tion to the fanily and relations whom he has left in the progress--or support at the close of life. his to lament his loss. acts of liberality and generosity were no less nu- dr gregory. april . at edinburgh, dr james gregory, pro consequence of the death of dr cullen, to the chair fessor of the practiec of medicine in the university of the practice of physic, the most important ef edinburgh, and first physician to his majesty medical professorship in the university; and for for scotland. he was interred on the th with great thirty-two years he sustained and increased the solemnity, his funeral being attended by the lord celebrity which the eminence of his predecessor provost and magistrates, professors of the univer had conferred upon the office. during this long sity, and other public bodies, by his numerous period the fame which his talents had acquired students, and private friends. attracted students from all parts of the world to it is seldom our lot to record the death of an in this city, all of whom returned to their homes with dividual so universally esteemed, or whose loss feelings of reverence for his character, more nearly will occasion so irreparable a blank, both in the resembling that which the disciples of antiquity academical celebrity of this city, and the national felt for their instructors than any thing which is celebrity of the country. he has been long at the generally experienced in the present situation of head both of the medical school and the medical society. practice of edinburgh; and to his great talents and of the estimation in which his scientific merits distinguished character, much, not only of the were held throughout europe, it is a sufficient ezinence of the university, but also of the pros proof that he is one of the few of our countrymen perity of the city, is to be ascribed. for above who have been honoured with a seat in the insti- thirty years he has annually taught the medical tute of france, a distinction which is only con- students of the university the most important part ferred upon a very small and select number of of their professional duties, and an admiration of foreigners. his abilities and reverence for his character have in as a literary man, he has long enjoyed a very consequence extended not only as far as the eng- high reputation. his acute and discriminating lish language is spoken, but as far as the light of mind was early devoted to the study of metaphy- evilization has spread in the world. perhaps there sics ; and in the literary and philosophical essays is no scientific man now in existence whose name which he published in the year , is to be found is s universally revered, or whose instructions one of the inost original and forcible refutations of have diffused over so wide a sphere the micans of the dangerous doctrine of necessity which has ever relieving human distress. appeared. to his reputation as an accomplished he was appointed in the year , at the early scholar, all the well informed persons in both parts age of twenty-three, to the professorship of the of the island can bear testimony. he was one of theory of physic, and he continued to teach this the few men who have rescued this country from class with great distinction for upwards of twelve the imputation of a deficiency in classical taste, years. as a text book for the lectures, he publish which is thrown upon it with too much justice by ed in the year , his conspectus medicine the our southern neighbours, and demonstrated that celice, which soon became a work of standard re the vigour of scottish talent may be combined putation over all europe, not only in consequence with the elegance of english accomplishments. of the scientific merits which it possessed, but the he was one of the last of that illustrious body singular felicity of classical language with which it of literary and scientific men whose labours gave was written. in the year he was appointed, in distinction to their country during the latter part register.--deaths. [april, esq. of the last century: and among the names of his the funeral procession. intimate friends may be ranked those of almost all the procession, upwards of in number, of his cotemporaries, who will be remembered in moved from st andrew's square a few minutes future ages as men of science or learning, of cullen past one o'clock, along prince's street, the north and black, of reid, and smith, and stewart; and bridge, down the high street, to the canongate we will venture to say, that the spot where his church yard, in the following order :- remains now lie interred, beside those of adam four batonmen. smith, will long be visited by the admirers of six ushers. scottish genius, as fitted to awaken no common two mutes. recollections. the gentlemen of the doctor's class, great, however, as was his reputation as a pro- walking four and four. fessor, and as a man of science and literature, it two mutes, was yet inferior to that which his character had the body, acquired among his personal friends. descended the pall suported by by the father's side from a long and memorable chief-mourner—john gregory, esq. line of ancestors, among whom the friend and co- right side. left side. temporary of newton is remembered, and by the . mr james gregory . mr william gregory mother's, from one of the most ancient noble fa- . mr donald gregory . rev. archd. alison milies of scotland, his character was early formed . dr. w. p. alison . mr archd. alison on an elevated model; and throughout his whole . sir g. mackenzie . t. farquharson, life, he combined, in a degree seldom equalled, the bart. studies and acquirements of a man of science with . dr a. m. ross . george bell, esq. the taste and honourable feelings of a high born william kerr, esq. g. p. . gentleman. while his name, in consequence, was three gilded battons on each side of the respected throughout europe, his society was pall bearers. sought after by the first persons of rank and emi- the lord provost, magistrates, and council, in nence in this country, and, like his lamented friend their robes, preceded by the city halberts, mr playfair, he maintained in no ordinary degree sword, and mace, covered with crape. the important communication between the aristo- the senatus academicus, in their gowns, cracy of rank and of talent. the brilliancy of his wit, and the epigrammatic force of his conversa- preceded by their janitor, with the university mace covered with crape. tion, will long be remembered by those who had the physicians. the good fortune to enjoy his acquaintance; while, the royal medical society, walking amongst a numerous circle of relations and friends, four and four. the kindness and generosity of his character have the royal physical society, rendered his death an irreparable loss, to the four and four. poorer classes his advice was at all times gratui- the friends of the deceased, not connected tously open; and such was the disinterestedness of with the public bodies, comprehending his conduct, that his income never was nearly so many of the most eminent characters great as the celebrity of his name might have pro- of the country. cured. the procession closed with the carriage of the he was distinguished through life by a nice and deceased, and those of the gentleinen chivalric sense of honour, which was perhaps too attending. high toned for the tranquil exercise of the profes on the arrival at the church-yard, the proces- sion to which he belonged; and occasionally led sion moved round the church by the east end ; on him into differences with his professional brethren, which his friends could not but lament, even while the students arriving at the gate, they opened to they admired and venerated the high notions of the right and left, to allow the coffin to pass personal and professional honour in which they proceeded from the gate of the church-yard direct through, uncovering at the same time. the friends originated. his whole character, indeed, was ra- to the grave. ther ned upon the exalted model of ancient the streets through which the procession pass. virtue, than accommodated to the lower standard ed, and the windows, were crowded, and the pres. of mere professional respectability; and we know of no one to whose life and conduct we can more sure was such that the procession had repeatedly to halt. the regent road, and the other terraces truly apply the classical words which he inscribed on the calton hill overlooking the place of inter- on the tomb of one of his earliest and most velued friends ment, were also covered with spectators. after the " vir priscæ virtutis, per omnes vitæ gradus, et interment the magistrates, council, and profes in omni vitæ officio, probatissima," sors retired into the church and disrobed, and the company separated on the burying ground, printed by jumes ballantyne and co. blackwood's edinburgh magazine. no. l. may, . vol. ix. contents. macaren wanaume. caramanma mano wo w vanderdecken's message home | the leafless treemmm familiar letter from the adjutant, translations from the less familiar containing projects, promises, and latin classics. no. vi. prudentius imitations the martyrdom of st eulalia. ib. fragment of a vision on a baptismal font the galiongee.mamammamanan... mary queen of scots ib. the kail pot manchester versus " manchester billy blinn poetry.” letter from dr olinthus petrecomano annals of the parish ; or the chro- caroline matilda, queen of denmark nicle of dalmailing twilight musings... narrative of the chinese embassy to biblical sketches. the khan of the tourgouth tar. no. iv. the death of absalom tars now no. v. the olive bough...... ib. extract from herodotus camaranaman no. vi. hagar in the wilderness on parliamentary reform sketches of scottish character. no. vi. ripvanwinkle parson willie. momenom.ar letter from rio de janeiro.commemora willie herdman cowo.memanomaa. lord byron and pope manae amarano preacher geordy. additional notices of geordy.com works preparing for publica- the steam-boat, no. iii. voyage tion first. (concluded). tale iv. the wearyful woman monthly list of new publi. tale v. spitzbergen...... cations henry schultze, and other poems ... on vulgar prejudices against litera- monthly register. commercial report.. campaigns of the british army at appointments, promotions, &c. mwan washington, &c.com macaranara | births, marriages, and deaths.mama mwanamama marocaranno wanawano mwano ture edinburgh: filliam blackwood, no. , prince's street, edinburgh ; and t. cadell and w. davies, strand, london ; to whom communications (post paid) may be addressed. sold also by all the booksellers of the united kingdom. james pallantyne & co. printers, edinburgh. blackwood's edinburgh magazine. no. l. may, . vol. ix vanderdecken's message home; or, the tenacity of natural affection. our ship, after touching at the cape, ring what he was looking at, he would went out again, and soon losing sight give no definite answer. they there- of the table mountain, began to be fore went also to the bows, and ap- assailed by the impetuous attacks of peared startled, and at first said no- the sea, which is well known to be thing. but presently one of them more formidable there than in most cried, “ william, go call the watch.” parts of the known ocean. the day the seamen, having been asleep in had grown dull and hazy, and the their hammocks, murmured at this breeze, which had formerly blown unseasonable summons, and called to fresh, now sometimes subsided almost know how it looked upon deck. to entirely, and then recovering its which tom willis replied, " come up strength, for a short time, and chan- and see. what we are minding is not ging its direction, blew with temporary on deck, but a-head.” violence, and died away again, as if on hearing this, they ran up with- exercising a melancholy caprice. a out putting on their jackets, and when heavy swell began to come from the they came to the bows there was a south-east. our sails flapped against whispering. the masts, and the ship rolled from one of them asked, “ where is she? side to side, as heavily as if she had i do not see her.” to which another been water-logged. there was so little replied, “ the last flash of lightning wind that she would not steer. shewed there was not a reef in one of at two p. m. we had a squall, ac- her sails; but we, who know her his- companied by thunder and rain. the tory, know that all her canvass will xamen, growing restless, looked anxi- never carry her into port.” ously a head. they said we would by this time, the talking of the sea- have a dirty night of it, and that it men had brought some of the passen- would not be worth while to turn in- gers on deck. they could see nothing, to their hammocks. “as the second however, for the ship was surrounded mate was describing a gale he had en- by thick darkness, and by the noise of countered off cape race, newfound- the dashing waters, and the seamen land, we were suddenly taken all a- evaded the questions that were put to back, and the blast came upon us fu- them. riously. we continued to scud under a at this juncture the chaplain came double reefed mainsail and foretopsail on deck. he was a man of grave and till dusk; but, as the sea ran high, the modestdemeanour, and was much liked captain thought it safest to bring her among the seamen, who called him gen- to. the watch on deck consisted of tle george. he overheard one of the four men, one of whom was appointed men asking another, “ if he had ever to keep a look-out a-head, for the seen the flying dutchman before, and weather was so hazy, that we could if he knew the story about her ?" to not see two cables length from the which the other replied, “ i have heard bows. this man, whose name was of her beating about in these seas. tom willis, went frequently to the what is the reason she never reaches bows, as if to observe something; and port ?" when the others called to him, inqui the first speaker replied, “they vol. ix. q vanderdecken's message home. [may give different reasons for it, but my the lamp at the binnacle being re- story is this: she was an amsterdam lighted, they perceived that the ship vessel, and sailed from that port se- lay closer to the wind than she had venty years ago. her master's name hitherto done, and the spirits of the was vanderdecken. he was a staunch passengers were somewhat revived. seaman, and would have his own way, nevertheless, neither the tempestu- in spite of the devil. for all that, ne ous state of the atmosphere, nor the ver a sailor under him had reason to thunder had ceased; and soon a vivid complain; though how it is on board flash of lightning shewed the waves with them now, nobody knows; the tumbling around us, and, in the dis- story is this, that in doubling the cape, tance, the flying dutchman scudding they were a long day trying to weather furiously before the wind, under a press the table bay, which we saw this of canvass. the sight was but mo- morning. however, the wind headed mentary, but it was sufficient to re- them, and went against them more and move all doubt from the minds of the more, and vanderdecken walked the passengers. one of the men cried a- deck, swearing at the wind. just after loud, " there she goes, top-gallants sunset, a vessel spoke him, asking if and all.” he did not mean to go into the bay the chaplain had brought up his that night. vanderdecken replied, prayer-book, in order that he might “may i be eternally dd if i do, draw from thence something to forti- though i should beat about here till the fy and tranquillize the minds of the day of judgment !" and to be sure, rest. therefore, taking his seat near vanderdecken never did go into that the binnacle, so that the light shone bay; for it is believed that he conti- upon the white leaves of the book, he, nues to beat about in these seas still, in a solemn tone, read out the service and will do so long enough. this ves- for those distressed at sea. the sailors sel is never seen but with foul weather stood round with folded arms, and along with her." looked as if they thought it would be to which another replied, “ we of little use. but this served to oc- must keep clear of her. they say that cupy the attention of those on deck for her captain mans his jolly boat, when a while. a vessel comes in sight, and tries hard in the mean time, the flashes of toget along-side, to put letters on board, lightning becoming less vivid, shewed but no good comes to them who have nothing else, far or near, but the bil- communication with him.” lows weltering round the vessel. the tom willis said, “ there is such a sailors seemed to think that they had sea between us at present, as should not yet seen the worst, but confined keep us safe from such visits." their remarks and prognostications to to which the other answered: “we their own circle. cannot trust to that, if vanderdecken at this time, the captain, who had sends out his men.' hitherto remained in his birth, came on some of this conversation having deck, and, with a gay and unconcerned been overheard by the passengers, there air, inquired what was the cause of was a commotion among them. in the the general dread. he said he thought mean time, the noise of the waves they had already seen the worst of the against the vessel, could scarcely be weather, and wondered that his men distinguished from the sounds of the had raised such a hubbub about a distant thunder. the wind had ex- capful of wind. mention being made tinguished the light in the binnacle, of the flying dutchman, the captain where the compass was, and no one laughed. he said, “ he would like could tell which way the ship’s head very much to see any vessel carrying lay. the passengers were afraid to ask top-gallant-sails in such a night, for it questions, lest they should augment the would be a sight worth looking at." secret sensation of fear which chilled the chaplain, taking him by one of every heart, or learn any more than the buttons of his coat, drew him aside, they already knew. for while they and appeared to enter into serious con- attributed their agitation of mind to versation with him. the state of the weather, it was suffi while they were talking together; ciently perceptible that their alarms the captain was heard to say, also arose from a cause which they did look to our own ship, and not mind not acknowledge. such things ;" and accordingly, he sent « let us .] vanderdecken's message home. a man aloft, to see if all was right about notice of this, and vanderdecken's boat the foretop-sail yard, which was chaf- having come close along side, one of ing the mast with a loud noise. the men came upon deck, and appear- it was tom willis who went up; ed like a fatigued and weatherbeaten and when he came down, he said that seaman, holding some letters in his all was tight, and that he hoped it hand. would soon get clearer ; and that they our sailors all drew back. the would see no more of what they were chaplain, however, looking stedfastly most afraid of. upon him, went forward a few steps, the captain and first mate were and asked, “ what is the purpose of heard laughing loudly together, while this visit ?” the chaplain observed, that it would the stranger replied, “ we have be better to repress such unseasonable long been kept here by foul weather, gaiety. the second mate, a native of and vanderdecken wishes to send these scotland, whose name was duncan letters to his friends in europe.” saunderson, having attended one of the our captain now came forward, and university classes at aberdeen, thought said as firmly as he could, " i wish himself too wise to believe all that the vanderdecken would put his letters on sailors said, and took part with the board of any other vessel rather than captain. he jestingly told tom wila mine." lis, to borrow his grandam's spectacles the stranger replied, “ we have the next time he was sent to keep a look- tried many a ship, but most of them out a-head. tom walked sulkily away, refuse our letters.” muttering, that he would nevertheless upon which, tom willis muttered, trust to his own eyes till morning, and “ it will be best for us if we do the accordingly took his station at the bow, same, for they say, there is sometimes and appeared to watch as attentively as a sinking weight in your paper." before. the stranger took no notice of this, the sound of talking soon ceased, but asked where we were from. on for many returned to their births, and being told that we were from ports- we heard nothing but the clanking of mouth, he said, as if with strong feel- the ropes upon themasts, and the burst- ing, “would that you had rather been ing of the billows a-head, as the ves- from amsterdam.' oh that we saw sel successively took the seas. it again !-we must see our friends but after a considerable interval of again.” when he uttered these words, darkness, gleams of lightning began to the men who were in the boat below, reappear. tom willis suddenly call- wrung their hands, and cried in a ed out, “ vanderdecken, again! van- piercing tone, in dutch, “oh that we derdecken, again! i see them letting saw it again ! we have been long here down a boat." beating about : but we must see our all who were on deck ran to the friends again.' bows. the next flash of lightning the chaplain asked the stranger, shone far and wide over the raging sea, “ how long have you been at sea." and shewed us not only the flying he replied, “ we have lost our dutchman at a distance, but also à count; for our almanack was blown boat coming from her with four men. over board. our ship, you see, is the boat was within two cables' length there still; so why should you ask of our ship's side. how long we have been at sea; for the man who first saw her, ran to vanderdecken only wishes to write the captain, and asked whether they home and comfort his friends.” should hail her or not. the captain, to which the chaplain replied, walking about in great agitation, made “ your letters, i fear, would be of nó no reply. the first mate cried, “who's use in amsterdam, even if they were going to heave a rope to that boat?" delivered, for the persons to whom they the men looked at each other without are addressed are probably no longer offering to do any thing: the boat to be found there, except under very had come very near the chains, when ancientgreen turf in the church-yard.' tom willis called out, “ what do the unwelcome stranger then wrung you want? or what devil has blown' his hands, and appeared to weep; and pou here in such weather.” a pier- replied, “ it is impossible. we cana cing voice from the boat, replied in not believe you. we have been long english, “ we want to speak with driving about here, but country nor your captain.” the captain took no relations cannot be so easily forgotten. vanderdecken's message home. [may, there is not a rain drop in the air but much-beloved and faithful wife, whom feels itself kindred to all the rest, and he left at a pleasant summer dwelling, they fall back into the sea to meet with on the border of the haarlemer mer. each other again. how then, can she promised to have the house beau- kindred blood be made to forget where tifully painted and gilded before he it came from? even our bodies are came back, and to get a new set of part of the ground of holland ; and looking-glasses for the principal cham- vanderdecken says, if he once were ber, that she might see as many images come to amsterdam, he would rather of vanderdecken, as if she had six be changed into a stone post, well fix- husbands at once.” ed into the ground, than leave it again; the man replied, “ there has been if that were to die elsewhere. but in time enough for her to have had six the mean time, we only ask you to take husbands since then ; but were she these letters." alive still, there is no fear that vander- the chaplain, looking at him with decken would ever get home to disturb astonishment, said, “ this is the in- her.” sanity of natural affection, which re on hearing this the stranger again bels against all measures of time and shed tears, and said, if they would distance." not take the letters, he would leave the stranger continued, “ here is them; and looking around he offer- a letter from our second mate, to his ed the parcel to the captain, chaplain, dear and only remaining friend, his and to the rest of the crew successive- uncle, the merchant who lives in the ly, but each drew back as it was offer- şecond house on stuncken yacht ed, and put his hands behind his back. quay.” he then laid the letters upon the deck, he held forth the letter, but no one and placed upon them a piece of iron, would approach to take it. which was lying near, to prevent them tom willis raised his voice, and from being blown away. having done said, “one of our men, here, says that this, he swung himself over the gang- he was in amsterdam last summer, way, and went into the boat. and he knows for certain, that the we heard the others speak to him, street called stuncken yacht quay, but the rise of a sudden squall pre- was pulled down sixty years ago, and vented us from distinguishing his re- now there is only a large church at that ply. the boat was seen to quit the place.” ship's side, and, in a few moments, the man from the flying dutch- there were no more traces of her than man, said, “ it is impossible, we can- if she had never been there. the sail- not believe you. here is another let- ors rubbed their eyes, as if doubting ter from myself, in which i have sent what they had witnessed, but the par- a bank-note to my dear sister, to buy cel still lay upon deck, and proved the some gallant lace, to make her a high reality of all that had passed. head dress." duncan saunderson, the scotch mate, tom willis hearing this, said, “ it asked the captain if he should take is most likely that her head now lies them up, and put them in the letter- under a tomb-stone, which will out- bag ? receiving no reply, he would last all the changes of the fashion. but have lifted them if it had not been for on what house is your bank-note?" tom willis, who pulled him back, say- the stranger replied, “on the house ing that nobody should touch them. of vanderbrucker and company." in the mean time the captain went the man, of whom tom willis had down to the cabin, and the chaplain spoken, said, “ i guess there will now having followed him, found him at his be some discount upon it, for that bottle-case, pouring out a large dram banking-house was gone to destruction of brandy. the captain, although forty years ago ; and vanderbrucker somewhat disconcerted, immediately was afterwards amissing:-but to re- offered the glass to him, saying, “here, member these things is like raking up charters, is what is good in a cold the bottom of an old canal.” night." the chaplain declined drink- the stranger called out passionate- ing any thing, and the captain having ly, “ it is impossible-we cannot be- swallowed the bumper, they both re- lieve it! it is cruel to say such things turned to the deck, where they found to people in our condition. there is a the seamen giving their opinions con- letter from our captain himself, to his cerning what should be done with the .] vanderdecken's message home. letters. tom willis proposed to pick the carpenter went to fetch his tools. them up on a harpoon, and throw it during his absence, the ship gave so overboard. violent a pitch, that the piece of iron another speaker said, “ i have ale slidoff the letters, and they were whirl- ways heard it asserted that it is nei- ed overboard by the wind, like birds of ther safe to accept them voluntarily, evil omen whirring through the air. nor when they are left to throw them there was a cry of joy among the sail- out of the ship." ors, and they ascribed the favourable “ let no one touch them," said the change which soon took place in the carpenter. “ the way to do with the weather, to our having got quitof van- letters from the flying dutchman is to derdecken. we soon got under weigh case them upon deck, by nailing boards again. the night watch being set, the over them, so that if he sends back for rest of the crew retired to their births. them, they are still there to give him.” familiar letter from the adjutant, containing projects, promises, and imitations. dear kit, he plucked a leaf of laurel for his brow. i write this in the earnest hope of but we shall drop the subject, as not its finding you less molested by your worth speaking about-conscious that inveterate enemy in the great toe ; and where the glory of his country, and brimful of the delight, which your mo- the reputation of his work is concern- desty and diffidence cannot prevented, no man will direct the helm with you feeling, in hearing it acknowledged a more intrepid spirit, or maul the in- from all quarters, that yours is the most vaders with a moreunerring hand, than excellent work of its kind, which has yourself, the redoubted christopher appeared in any country since the in- north, esquire. vention of printing. do let me know you asked me in your last, if i ever what the edinburgh review people now-a-days read any? and if so, what are saying about it, or, if they are at books occupy my attention and time? last fairly beat to a stand still, and se- a question with a vengeance. do you riously thinking of giving up the con- think that my knowledge comes to me cern. "i heard, indeed, that a meeting by intuition? after having written of their contributors has been lately above half a hundred articles to you, convened, either for that purpose, or in every department of human know- perhaps for petitioning you to make ledge, you ask me if ever i read any. your journal a general receptacle for that reminds me of the tower of ba- speculations of all kinds; and that, bel-you might as well ask it if it rear- thus, such of them as were capable, ed itself . but, in writing so, i doubt might be transferred to the legion of not you have only made a lapsuslingua, blackwood, and not utterly cast desti- or at any rate a joke on my multitudi- tute. but this is a matter, friend nous researches. all kinds of books come north, on which i would advise you welcome enough to me. i have a capa- to proceed with cautious circumspec- city of digestion rather ostrich-like, tion—it might prove like marriage and capable of managing a great far- alas! the day-a step not easy to be rago ; and assimilating the same into remedied. many of your supporters solid nourishment. i like the drama would find a delicacy in making com- very much ; and alexander macpher- mon cause with the generality of these son being now in the middle of the folks, as they have uttered such a quan- fifth act, will soon shew whether or tity of unsound and unsatisfactory stuff, not the genius of the drama loves me. in every branch and department of hu- novels are“ an appetite and a feeling" man knowledge, and ridiculed every which i cannot resist-political eco- thing worthy of respect and venera- nomy i like better than i do some of tion. exempli gratia, but that's a trifle, its professors—metaphysics are excel- there is your humble servant, whó lent food for me; and, over a ten- could not, with any degree of honour, hour's mathematical proposition, i am act in concert with men, who depre- as cool as a cucumber; but entre nous, ciated the late glorious war, and every theological controversy is my favour- battle in it, mid whose blood-shed, ite study; but don't mention this, as and under whose “sulphrous canopy' the roman catholic clergy like nothing familiar letter from the adjutant. (may, better than to have a bull-baiting with of merchants with spectacles, and goose me; and, in spite of all my assevera- quills stuck behind their ears, ponder- tions and protestations to the contrary, ing over their ledgers ; of awfully an- they will insist that i am a little loose cient spinsters, leering from behind both in my moral and religious prin- their fans, and looking unutterable ciples; but i am thoroughly convinced things; of grocers'apprentices, sanding that they are wrong. the sugar, watering the tobacco, and when you see wastle, tell him i then walking aloft to prayers ; of the have found it quite out of my power lack-a-daisical exclamations of board- to be over, according to promise, at the ing-school misses, and the pettifogging walking of the commissioner; but hope dandyism of lawyers' clerks, --and yet, yet to have that honour along with him. that these poets, in hostility to their at all events, i am determined to be own doctrines, should write of such over at the edinburgh races, as i have natural personages as a corsair, with got possession of as fine a bit of horse “one virtue, and a thousand crimes ;" hesh as ever put hoof to turf; and i of a lord lara, who, seeing a ghost, would like to know what success sala- broke out into a perspiration, and then manca would have, in taking a few spoke gaelic or some other outlandish rounds for the hunters' plate. if he be tongue; of count manfred, alias dr successful, it will be a good specula- faustus, jun. who tion ; if not, i will sell him the next _saw more devils than vast hell can hold, day at wordsworth's out of pure vex- the madman. ation, although i had him as a present of the giaour, who turned an infidel from a military friend of mine, who monk, because he ran away with ano- rode him at the battle of waterloo. ther man's wife, who was sewed up he has not yet lost tooth-mark, and in a sack, and thrown into the sea ; gallops like a fury. the best of it is, or of such a true and natural person as that the longer he runs he continues andes, “ giant of the western star,” to improve; and, if there be above sitting with his cheek reclined on his three four mile heats, i never saw the dexter hand, and a flambeau in his left horse, mare, or gelding, that i would fist, looking over in the dark from ame- not back him against, at considerable rica to europe ;-or of a gentleman of odds. he is a little stiff for the first the second-sight, begging his master mile or so after starting ; but when he not to go to battle, as he had a presen- begins to warm, you never beheld a timent that he would be much safer at finer personification of the fine idea, home ;-and a thousand other things, which lord byron has applied to de- well enough adapted to poetry, in my note the beauty and swiftness of ma- humble opinion, but having as slight zeppa's charger, an application to the practice of life, as who look'd as though the speed of thought scott must immediately send lord can well be imagined. sir walter were in his limbs. cranstoun's goblin page an errand to i have him in training already, aná the red sea, and let him be for ever hope to show him off in style to you in “ lost ! lost ! lost !” and as for his re- july. if i was not so lengthened in the doubted namesake, michael, the flag- nether extremities, i would not care stone must be no more lifted from his much to jockey him myself; but that, grave;—coleridge must tie the aun- to be sure, is an after consideration. cient marinere to a stake, and have a do give us a paper from your edito- shot at him with the cross-bow, as he rial pen on the pope and bowles con so treated the “ harmless albatross ;" troversy. i cannot fathom what camp- -and as for the lady cristabel, he bell and byron would be at. lord by- must, without delay, scribble four do- ron compares the poetry of pope to a zen of letters, inviting his friends to grecian temple, and the poetry writ- her funeral,- let him employ a patent ten by campbell, scott, wastle, sou- coffin, as she is rather a restless and they, wordsworth, hogs, coleridge, unruly subject. -- wordsworth must himself, myself, &c. to the tower of dispatch the danish boy to the land of babel. a pretty comparison of a sure- shadow ;-and hogg should purchase ty; but it is all in my eye, betty a pennyworth of saddle-tacks, and, martin, that men, like campbell and with a trusty hammer, nail the ears of byron, should imagine that theessence the gude grey catte to his stable- of poetry consisted in the manners and door, to frighten away the rats, as she inorals of society ; in drawing pictures will no longer be able to act as gover- .) familiar letter from the adjutant. ness to the seven daughters of the him to transmit it to you, that you laird of blair. as for miss kilma- might transmit it to the proper owner? ny, when she comes back at the end of it would not surprise me much, though the next seven years, let him give her you were yet to write me a letter, pro- a furlough, specifying perpetual leave of fessing your entire ignorance of the absence.- dr southey ought to send a whole transaction; and that you are specimen of a petrified glendoveer to free to give your oath, that you had the college museum, ere the species not so much as the smallest suspicion becomes utterly extinct, that future that the memorandum-book could pos- antiquarians may not be completely sibly belong to me. do you think me in- puzzled, if their bones be found, like nocent enough to believe any stuff of those of the mammoth, in a fossil state; this sort? though i am not a highland- and he ought togive the witch maimuna er, i have enough of the second-sight to in thalaba, that was perpetually sing- see clearly through trifles of this kind. ing, a half-crown's worth of the most but i will waste no more words on the choice ballads, to set her up in a decent subject; and, though we are hundreds line of trade, and have done with her. of miles apart, our hearts are always thomas moore's veiled prophet, with together. i can take a joke, and can out the nose, should get a proper certifi- give one; so we will shake hands cate, and be sent to the chelsea hospi- and forget the whole matter: indeed tal; and, on proper representation being i am almost sorry that i mentioned it; made, the peri, who had neither house but don't give any more extracts with- por hold, may be received into the cha- out my consent. rity-workhouse.-do, north, con tell our divan, the first time you all vince both mr campbell and his lord- meet in ambrose's, to remember me ship, that the world is tolerably well in their prayers ; as i am sure that i contented with the poetry they have never empty a tumbler or two, solus, foolishly thought proper to give it; without toasting them all alternately; that though mr campbell's criticism and, as i allow each a bumper, it some- is sometimes a little vapid, yet that his times obliges me to have a third brew- verses aregenerally excellent; and that, ing. let them know, that i will see if lord byron's system of moral and them all in july, and that i have a ethical poetry be after his old way, - budget of famous anecdotes and ren- that is, if beppo and don juan, like contres to entertain them with ; some the brick of the pedant in hierocles, of them out-hector hector, and they are specimens of the materials of which are all personal, ipso teste, as maturin it is to be composed, we should think, says. but i shall drop the subject, as that the world will be contented with i do not wish to promise. “ there's the specimens it has already enjoyed. a braw time coming,” as the deacon's enongh is as good as a feast, “where son observes. ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to be wise;" what would you think of it, i have and, as i am tired of it, i will drop the been amusing myself with some imi- subject. tations of the living authors ;-it was friend north, i have a crow to pluck during the time i was confined to my with you. you are as strange a fel- room, from having sprained my left low as ever fell within the circle of my ankle, in leaping over a five-bar gate acquaintance, always excepting mrs for a wager, and i intend to make a m-whirter, for she beats cockfight- complete cabinet of them. i have al- ing. you will pretend, now, that you ready allowed hazlitt a complete ration did not know to whom the memoran- of epigram, antithesis, and paradox. dum-book belonged, out of which you godwin sails in a parachute of theory, treated your readers, or rather the suspended to a balloon inflated with world, for all the world are your read- sulphureted hydrogen ; cobbett writes ers, a month or two ago. really this an official document, currente calamo, is provoking, and i do not take it al- with all the courtier-like dignity be- together well at your hands. would coming a secretary to her majesty; and it not have been more creditable to you, charley philips, with his fists tied into instead of creating a few smiles at my large bladders, knocks arguments from expence, to have written to the wan- off their feet, by repeated douces on ei- dering sinner of a bagman, into whose ther side of the chops, with his uncea- hands my book fell, that you knew the sing one, twos. i have, likewise, a com- proprietor; and that you would thank plete set of the poets, good, bad, and familiar letter from the adjutant. [may, indifferent. the cockneys i found it tage. to begin with the mightiest desperately hard to imitate, as i could man of our age, do you think that not make my genius to descend so low. in the following, i have caught the i do not know, but that i have carica- chivalrous flow, the tone of the olden tured some of them a little ; but this time, the grace, and the harmony, and was unintentional, as they have fair- the strength, that characterise the ly baffled me in many particulars, poetry of the ariosto of the north? as you seem interested in my lite- the lay of the last minstrel, and rary doings, i will treat you with two marmion, form eras in the mind of or three short specimens, as i see every true living admirer of poetical you are already in for a double pos- excellence. the hounds in the kennel are yelling loud, the hawks are boune for flight; for the sun hath burst from his eastern shroud, and the sky is clear, without a cloud, and the steed for the chase is dight: the merry huntsmen, up in the morn, crack the long whip, and wind the horn. lord timothy rubbed his eyes, and rose when he heard the merry crew; he scarce took space to don his clothes, and his night-cap quick he threw back on the pillow, and down the stair, disdaining brush or comb for hair, with lightning speed he flew; and, in the twinkling of a fan, with frock and cap, the gallant man, caparison'd all spick and span, was with the waiting crew. sir abraham rode his bonny grey ; sir anthony his black; lord hector hath mounted his sprightly bay; lord tom, lord jack, and all are away; curvet, and demivolte, and neigh, mark out their bold and brisk array, with buckskins bright, and bonnets gay, and bugles at each back. they had hardly ridden a mile, a mile, a'mile but barely ten, as each after each they leaped a stile, when their heart play'd pit-a-pat the while, to see a troop of armed men, a troop of gallant men at drill, with well soap'd locks, and stiffen'd frill; each in his grasp held spear or sword, ready to murder at a word, and ghastly was each warrior's smile, beneath his barred aventayle; buff belts were girt around each waist ; steel cuisses round each thigh were braced ; around each knee were brazen buckles; and iron greaves to save their knuckles; high o'er each tin-bright helmet shone the casque, and dancing morion, which reach'd to where the tailor sets, on shoulder, woollen epaulets; their blades were of toledo steel, ferrara, or damascus real; yea! human eye did never see, through all the days of chivalry, men more beclight from head to heel, &c. .] familiar letter from the adjutant. 'lady alice she sits in the turret tower, a-combing her raven hair ; the clock hath tolled the vesper hour, already the shadows of evening lower tó veil the landscape fair. to the jetty fringe of her piercing eye she raised her opera glass, for she was anxious to espy if her worthy knight should pass.- “lo! yonder he comes,”-she sigh'd and said, then with a rueful shake of head- “shall i my husband ne'er discover 'tis but the white cow eating clover!" she looked again,—" sure yon is he, that gallops so fast along the lea! alas! 'tis only a chesnut tree !! standing as still as still can be !!!" -" come hither, come hither, my little foot page, and dance my anguish to assuage; and be it jig, or waltz, or reel, i care not, so it doth conceal the ghosts, that of a thousand dyes, float evermore before mine eyes ; and i, to make thee foot it gay, with nimble finger, by my fay, upon the tambourine will play !" &c. but i must not give you too much of it, as it will spoil the interest of the work, which will shortly appear in three octavo volumes, printed uniformly, and with portraits ; something like peter's letters. the imitation extends to three cantos, together with an introductory epistle to my friend dr scott.- under the head of coleridge, you will find the continuation of cristabel, and the auncient waggonere ; both of which were ushered into public notice by your delightful and discriminating work, together with the following fragment of a vision. a dandy, on a velocipede, i saw in a vision sweet, along the highway making speed, with his alternate feet. of a bright and celestial hue gleam'd beauteously his blue surtout; while ivory buttons, in a row, show'd like the winter's cavern’d snow, which the breezy north drives sweeping forth, to lodge in the cave below: ontario's beaver, without demur, to form his hat did lend its fur: his frill was of the cambric fine, and his neckcloth starch'd, and aquiline ; and oh, the eye with pleasure dwells on his white jean indescribables ; and he throws the locks from his forehead fair, and he pants, and pants, and pants for air ; what is the reason i cannot tell,- there is a cause i know it well; too firmly bound—too tightly braced, the corsets grasp his spider waist, • r- vol. ix. [may, familiar letter from the adjutant. till his coat tails are made to fly even from the back they glorify. look again, he is not there- vanish'd into the misty air ! look again !-do ye see him yet? ah no! the bailiff hath seized him for debt; and, to and fro, like a restless ghost, when peace within the grave is lost, he paces as far, as far he should, within the bounds of holyrood ! his lordship of byron, i have not handled roughly enough ; i cannot yet forget the tower of babel ; what a speech !-as if we were a parcel of jack- asses ! i shall yet have at him for it. what do you think of the galiongee,- a fragment of a turkish tale? the galiongee, a fragment of a turkish tale. advertisement.—the author of this tale begs to inform the public, that the scattered fragments which it presents were collected from an improvisatore, who recited during the time that the author drank his fifth cup of mocha with that civillest of all gentlemen, ali pacha. the pacha sat in his divan, with silver-sheathed ataghan; and call’d to him a galiongee, come lately from the euxine sea to stamboul ; chains were on his feet, and fetters on his hands were seen, because he was a nazarene : when, duly making reverence meet, with haughty glance on that divan, and curling lip, he thus began. “ by broad phingari's silver light, when sailing at the noon of night, bismillah! whom did we descry but dark corsairs, who, bent on spoil, athwart the deep sea ever toil! - we knew their blood-red flags on high: the capitan he calld, belike, with gesture proud, to bid us strike, and told his sonbachis to spare of not one scalp a single hair, though garbs of green shew'á emirs there! it boots not, pacha, to relate what souls were sent to eblis throne, how azrael's arrows scatter'd fate, how wild, wet, wearied, and alone, when all my crew were drench'd in blood, or floated lifeless on the flood, i fought unawed, nor e'er thought i to shout amaun,' the craven's cry.- i took my handkerchief to wipe my burning brow, and then i took, with placid hand, my long chibougue, that is to say, my turkish pipe, and having clapp'd it in my cheek, disdaining e'er a word to speak, i shouted to the pirate,' now, you've fairly beat me, i allow,'”. &c. .] familiar letter from the adjutant. perhaps,—as i know that childe harold's pilgrimage is one of your first favourites,- you will find an account of his step-brother, childe paddy’s* banishment to new holland, more to your taste. this is the commencement. oh! mortal man how varied is thy lot, thy ecstasies of joy and sorrow, how chill'á, sunk, and servile art thou, or how hot flashes indignant beauty from thy brow! times change, and empires fall; the gods allow brief space for human contemplation, and above all partial dictates disavow unequal love; how can we, at their hand, for individual fate a gentler boon demand ! childe paddy parted from his father's cot; it was not castle proud, nor palace high, extraneous symmetry here glitter'd not, but turf-built walls and filth did meet the eye; loud was the grumph and grumble from hog-stye ; swans gleam'd not here, as on the leman lake, but goose and ducklings, famed for gabbling cry, with quack, quack, quack, did make the roofs to shake, till in their utmost holes the wondering rats did quake ! he thought of father, whom he loved, and left; he thought of mother, at her booming wheel ; he thought of sister, of his care bereft, he thought of brethren dear; and, to conceal the endless pangs that o'er his brain did reel, as through the vale bis pensive way he took, for fear his onward purpose would congeal, he sung, while pacing with right-forward look, “ sweet kitty of coleraine,” and “ fair of donabrooke !" i rejoice that your prophecy, as to the popularity of hogg's tales, has been abundantly verified. natural power and genius will fight their way, in spite of opposition, and “ disdainful of help or hindrance." i doubt not that his better half has had a hand in the purgation of the new edition. give my com- pliments to him; tell him i shall never forget the kindness i experienced at eltrive lake; and, above all, ask him how he likes the following stanzas, the opening of a ballad, as long as “ kirkmabreck," that celebrated modern timon, or rather she-timon, or woman hater. theyre wals ane brounie offe mucle faime thatte ussit too cumme too ane aulde fairme housse, ande evir the maydes fro theyre beddes came, alle theyre werke wals dune, soo cannye and douce. the cauppis wure cleanit; the yerne wals spunne, ande the parritche aye maide forre the oulde guidman, the kye wure milkit, the yill wals runne, ande shininge lyke goude wals the ould brasse pan. ande mickle they wonderit, and mair theye thocht, but neivir ane wurde too theyre minny spake theye, theye lukit aye too the braas theye hadde cofft, too buske theyre hayre, and to maike theme gaye. • it was first written “ childe raddy,” but i was afraid of angering the scotsman. m.o. familiar letter from the adjutant. [may, then outte spake jennye, the youngeste ane, “ i'm shure to mye jocke itte wull gie delyghte, ande maike the laddye a' fidginge faine, too see the luffes offe mye handes soe whyte." thenne outte spake kirstene, as doune she satte before the glasse toe kaim herre hayre, “ oh ! luke," quoth she, “ i amme gettinge soe fatte, thatte i offe idlesse muste beware. “ the neiburs theye wille kenne noe mee, forre i'm scrimply aible to gaung aboutte, iffe i gette on soe, ye wulle brieflye see a hurlye cofft toe carrye mee outte," &c. speaking of wordsworth, what is he dreaming about? the published part of the excursion does not extend to a week, and we have had no mure of it for the last seven years; if the poet's life and peregrinations are to occupy an equally proportionate space, published at the same distance of time, the world may expect to see the conclusion of the work at much about the same time when blackwood's magazine intends retiring from public notice, that is to say, somewhere about the year . the following is a small portion of a fifty page episode. it is entitled the kail pot. if e'er, in pensive guise, thy steps have stray'd at eve or morn, along that lofty street, yclept the canongate, exalt thine eyes, and lo! between thee and the azure sky, dangling in negro blackness beautiful, a kail pot hangs, upon an iron bar suspended, and by iron chains hung down. beneath it yawns a threshold, like the den of cacus, giant old, or like the caves of sylvan satyrs in the forests green;- there enter, and, amid his porter butts, in conscious wisdom bold, sits nathan goose, worshipping the muses and a mug of ale ! sweet are the songs of nathan goose, and strong, yea! potent is the liquor that he sells ; on many a cold and icy winter night, when stars were sparkling in the deep blue sky, have, circling round his board, a jovial throng, tippled until the drowsy chime of twelve. strange has it seem'd to me, that we, who breathe vapours, as watery as the cooling drops of rydal mere, should drink combustibles, and perish not; yet, thereby, of the soul the cogitations are disturb'd; its dreams are hollows by reality and time fulfill’d not, and the waking spirit mourns, when shines the sun above the eastern sea, the ocean seen from black comb's summit high, and throws his yellow light against the pane of chamber window,-window deep embower'a with honey-suckle blossoms ;-o'er the wrecks of such fantastical, and inane stuff, shadows, and dreams, and visions of the night. then follow headaches dreadful, vomitings . familiar letter from the adjutant. of undigested biscuit, mingled with the sour and miserable commixture of hot aquavitæ, with the mountain lymph,- if city water haply be so call’d, - the lymph of fountain-well, hard by the shop where seeds and roots are sold, above whose door the black-eyed eagle spreads his golden wings. hard is the lot of him, whom evil fates have destined to a way of life unmeet: whose genius and internal strength are clogg'd by drudgery, and the rubs of common men. but i have gazed upon thee, nathan goose, gazed on the workings of thy inward soul- haild with delight thy planet in the sky, and mid the constellations planted thee ? &c. as you are one of the prime admirers of the lyrical ballads, as who, with the sınallest pretensions to poetical taste, does not acknowledge most of them to be extremely fine, and studded over with the very pearls of poetry,– i have co- pied over for you a lyrical ballad of the true breed. i do not know but that you will like it almost as well as the waggoner, or peter bell. billy blinx. i knew a man that died for love, his name, i ween, was billy blinn; his back was hump'd, his hair was grey, and, on a sultry summer day, we found him floating in the linn. once as he stood before his door smoking, and wondering who should pass, then trundling past him in a cart came susan foy, she won his heart, she was a gallant lass. and billy blinn conceal'd the flame that burn'd, and scorch'd his very blood; but often was he heard to sigh, and with his sleeve he wiped his eye, in a dejected mood. a party of recruiters came to wile our cottars, man and boy; their coats were red, their cuffs were blue, and boldly, without more ado, off with the troop went susan foy! when poor old billy heard the news, he tore his hairs so thin and grey ; he beat the hump upon his back, and ever did he cry, ohon, oh me!- alas a-day!” his nights were spent in sleeplessness, his days in sorrow and despair, it could not last—this inward strife ; the lover he grew tired of life, and saunter'd here and there. « alack, familiar letter from the adjutant. СМау, at length, 'twas on a moonlight eve, the skies were blue, the winds were still ; he wander'd from his wretched hut, and, though he left the door unshut, he sought the lonely hill. he look'd upon the lovely moon, he look'd upon the twinkling stars ; “how peaceful all is there,” he said, “ no noisy tumult there is bred, and no intestine wars.” but misery overcame his heart, for all was waste and war within ; and rushing forward with a leap, o'er crags a hundred fathoms steep, he plunged into the linn. we found him when the morning sun shone brightly from the eastern sky; upon his back he was afloat- his hat was sailing like a boat- his staff was found on high. oh reckless woman, susan foy, to leave the poor, old, loving man, and with a soldier, young and gay, thus harlot-like to run away to india or japan. poor billy blinn, with hair so white, poor billy blinn was stiff and cold ; will adze he made a coffin neat, we placed him in it head and feet, and laid him in the mould ! i dare say you will suppose that there is no end to my prosing. but hold my pen !- for the present i am determined to have done. aš to southey, lamb, milman, croley, shelley, wastle, wilson, campbell, hunt, montgo- mery, bowles, dr scott, frere, rogers, bloomfield, herbert, thurlow, wil- lison glass, &c. you shall have more of them in my next; and meantime be- lieve me, more than ever has been yet professed by yours, &c. morgan odoherty. coleraine, red cow inn, april . letter from dr petre. sir, writers of that pestilent school. i have in a letter written by me some time since learned, with unaffected pain, ago, and which circumstances not ne- that they were written by mr lamb, cessary to be mentioned, have made a gentleman whose avowed writings i rather conspicuous, i had occasion to have always perused with the utmost advert to a series of articles in a con- pleasure. i do not know anywhere a temptible magazine, which were mark more delightful tale than his rosa - ed by the signature elia. i said that mond; and many of his smaller pieces they were filled with unjustifiable per- abound with the most pathetic touches sonalities, and applied to their writer of simple and natural beauty. of his the title of a “ cockney scribbler.” john woodville, will you suffer me to such he appeared to me, from his speak in the language of an article, style, matter, and connection with the which the wit of its gay, and the elo .] letter from dr petre. quence of its graver portions, render come from the author of rosamond the most attractive paper that has ever and john woodville? graced the pages of a magazine: “ this the society with which we mix, little composition (mr lamb's trage- must gradually impart to us its tinge; dy) glistens with the most vivid and and it is little wonder that the being beautiful poetry-nature keeps giving bound up in the same cover with haz- hints of herself throughout all its litt, and others of that deplorable set seenes-now in all that quaintness, of men, should contaminate. the very which at that period of human life, perusal of their writings, unless it be she more peculiarly loved—and now accompanied by any feelings but those in that universal language, in which, of admiration, is noxious. “ the fly,” without reference to time or place, she says old herbert, wantons forth in her strong and rejoi- “ 'that feeds on dirt is coloured thereby." cing existence there, passion is sim- providence has indeed diminished their ple as the light of day, or various as power of injury, by denying them ta- the coruscations of the northern lights lent, and suffering them to fill them- -there, truths so obvious as to com- selves with stupid and ridiculous va- mon eyes even to seem dull and trivial, nity ; but if a gentleman should un- become affecting-even sublime, by fortunately perunit himself to overlook their connection with profoundest re- their glaring defects, and connect him- flections, and most woful catastrophes self with them in any undertaking —there, character apparently artless whatever, we must confess that they and unformed, yet rises up like what still can injure, and only regret that we see conflicting, suffering, enjoying their victim, insensible of his degrada- dying, in this our every-day world— tion, should of necessity gradually sink so that when all is shut up unostentati- to their level. it is the sad condition ously at last, we feel the grandeur of of our nature; we are all docile enough the powers, and the awfulness of the in imitating the wicked and depraved, destinies of our human nature, in that whether in the real every day world, simple picture of humble but high hu- or the world of authorship. so it is manity, more mournfully and also more with mr lamb and the cockneys; he majestically than when the curtain falls allied himself to them“culpa vacuus," before the dead bodies of conquerors or (to use the words of sallust) but it is of kings." to be feared, that unless he abandons agreeing with this eloquent tribute the disgraceful connexion, he will be of applause on one of his works, and rendered“ quotidiano usu atque illece- feeling a strong attachment to many bris facile par similisque cæteris;" and, other of his performances, it was, as Í indeed, the symptoms of assimilation said before, with unaffected pain i dis- are too manifest already. covered that such an author was the there was a time when mr lamb man, whose anonymous writings had was classed with nobler associates; drawn from me so contumelious an men misguided indeed by the enthu- epithet ; and i am still more sorry to siasm, which at the day not unnatu- find that a more attentive perusal of rally seized upon the warm minds of his magazine articles has only confirm- youthful poets, glowing from the con- ed me in my opinion of their reprehen- templation of the visions of ideal per- sible nature. look, for example, at fection, the creatures of their vivid his ribald treatment of g. d. (one of imaginations, and fresh from the per- the most inoffensive men on the face usal of the inspiring writings of greece of the earth) of which, to be sure, he and rome, while theywere not yet pos- had afterwards grace enough to be sessed of experience sufficient to apply ashamed; or turn (to take one in- with true philosophy the lessons of an- stance out of a hundred) to his sneer tiquity to modern days. anti-jacobin on middleton, bishop of calcutta, for as i am, and as i ever have been, and his conduct in the oriental church, or trust ever shall continue, i wonder not wade through the columns of mere in that such minds should have contem- anity and very cockneyism, of which plated the beginning of the french the paper on april fools, in imitation revolution, with the feelings so di- of the style of rabelais, is a flagrant vinely painted by wordsworth. specimen, and seriously say, could you « oh ! times have ever suspected this stuff to have in which the meagre stale forbidding ways letter from dr pelre. (may, of custom, law, and statute, took at once as martyrs to their attachment to the the attractions of a country in romance. interests of mankind ? that would be ** what temper at the prospect did degradation indeed : and, even in a li- not wake terary point of view, what a different to happiness unthought of? the inert figure would the name of mr lamb were roused, and lively natures rapt away! make, were we parodying mr can- they who had fed their childhood upon ning's line, to rank him with his pre- dreams, the playfellows of fancy, who had made sent friends, and class together all powers of swiftness, subtility, and hazlitt and janus, webb and lamb and co. strength -but why need i continue quotations oh! what a falling off is there, from from a poem which is in the hands, southey, coleridge, lloyd, to such as and should be in the memories of all these ! the readers in england ? while they i am not so weak as to imagine that were yet under the influence of the what i have said will have the effect day-dreams, the witty muse of can- on mr lamb, which i desire ; but, i ning sung of trust, a sense of his own dignity will « southey and coleridge, lloyd and sooner or later dissolve his partnership lamb, and co." with the cockney brotherhood, and in derision indeed, but who, nume that i shall see him einerge from the rous as their aberrations of that period slough of despond, in which he is were, would now be ashamed of being now overwhelmed, bearing ranked with such master minds, even - no token of the sable streams, in derision? these gifted men have and mount far off among the swans of thames." long since abandoned the unholy rank for which they were too pure. is it so much have i deemed it necessa- possible that mr lamb still remains ? ry to say in my defence, for making is it possible that he can still hold come the charge on mr lamb which i did. munion with men, who, after the un- i have only to add, because i under- utterable horrors of the french revo stand there has been some absurd cri- lution, after witnessing the succession ticism on the subject, that the name of one set of blood-boultered villains i use is fictitious; that i am indebted after another, chaunting the praises of to mr north for my diploma of d. d.; freedom, and enforcing its cause by the that those who object to so usual a knife or the guillotine, until it ended practice, particularly in magazines, in the sullen military despotism of a may go quarrel with bentley for using heartless and bloody usurper, can still the signature of phileleutherus lip- hold up that revolution as the strug siensis, or dr parr for using that of gle of liberty, and these monsters, and philopatris varvicensis; and that, if their iron-souled successor, asits cham- they do, i shall consider them to be pions? who can stigmatize those who exactly what they are, most superlative overthrew that savage chief as tyrants, blockheads.- i am, &c. and can mourn over his slavish satel- olinthus petre, d. d. lites, whose only merit was a blind and trinity college, dublin, sanguinary obedience to his mandates, may , . caroline matilda, queen of denmark. of all the accounts published by writ- for the tenderest sympathies of human ers of various nations respecting the nature; and the danes hailed her unhappy fate of this queen, the follow- arrival with enthusiasm. but some ing appears to me more affecting and wretches, headed by the queen dowa- nearer the truth than any that has yet ger, regarded the beauteous matilda appeared in the english language. i with envious eyes. they could not felt induced, therefore, to translate it, bear the lustre which she shed on and trust that it may find a place in denmark, and planned the most insi- your excellent magazine. it was writ dious cabals against her, because she ten by mr augustus mahlmann, a bade fair to gain the hearts of the peo- german. ple by her amiable disposition, at the queen caroline matilda arrived in same time that her mentalendowments denmark in the bloom of youth and could not but acquire a decided in- beauty. she possessed a sou) formed fluence over the king. they soon suc- .] caroline matilda, queen of denmark. ceeded in robbing her of the king's af- but struensee, led astray by the fortu- fections; they withdrew from her the nate turn his fate had taken, aspired adıniration of the court, and even lost to higher objects. he rose from the sight of the respect due to her exalted situation of body physician and lec- rank. thus, without a friend, without turer to the dignity of a cabinet mi- a counsellor, surrounded by hateful nister ; he was ennobled, and obtained, and despicable beings, matilda had no- together with mr brandt, the title of thing to oppose to her enemies but count. there can be no doubt, that tears. her heart felt no solace but in it was his serious intention to render her tender care for her only and dearly denmark happy. he possessed the beloved child, the present king. when courage and acquirements necessary to he was inoculated with the small-pox the purpose ; but he was destitute of in the year , she never stirred from political experience, and that provident his bed ; she nursed him herself; the care which introduces the best mea- tenderness of her maternal care would sures with as much caution and pre- suffer no stranger to approach the dar- paratory management, as if they were ling of her heart. the very worst. with the precipitation struensee, the body physician, who and ardour of an enthusiast, he intro- had, since the king's return from his duced reform into all departments of last foreign travels, occupied one of the state. salutary, however, as those the first places among the favourites of measures were to the public, they pro- the monarch, had performed the ope- ved oppressive to individuals, who, in ration of inoculating the crown prince, consequence, became his most impla- and he attended him during his illness. cable enemies. struensee's administra- matilda, accustomed to be annoyed by tion lasted scarcely a year and a half, all who possessed the favour of her but it is incredible what he effected consort, had hitherto disliked struen- in that short period. he changed the see, although he had ever treated her entire system of foreign policy; he re- with respect. but when the duties of scued the court of denmark from the his station brought him daily into the degrading dependence in which it had queen's apartment, she became better been so long held by russia, and es- acquainted with him. struensee pos- tablished a more intimate connexion sessed a great mindandextensive know- with sweden and france. russia in ledge, with high courage and resolution. vain tried all means to effect his ruin; during the illness of the crown prince, but he displayed equal boldness and he passed several hours daily with the resolution. of domestic affairs, the fi- queen alone; and took occasion to ex nances particularly engaged his atten- press his sympathy in her situation. tion, from the dilapidated state into the queen, who had long sought a which they had been thrown by the friend and a bosom into which she wasteful system hitherto pursued. he could pour forth her sorrow, accepted retrenched the expenditureof the court, the offers of his friendship, made him discontinued many pensions, abolished her confidant, and obtained from him several public boards, disbanded the the promise that he would counteract life guards, curtailed the privileges of her enemies. struensee kept his word. the nobility, did away many places of he brought back the king to the em- the court, in short, he introduced eco- braces of his consort, and young count nomy, wherever it was practicable. h***, who had been the chief cause but these measures, however excellent, of the king's coldness, was removed. being so rapidly carried into execution, his place was given to mr brandt, placed numbers out of employment, struensee's friend. this first step deci- and raised enemies against their author ded every thing. the king being gain- among all classes of the people. dis- ed, it was easy to remove all others, content became general, but struensee who had shewn themselves to be the still possessed sufficient energy and queen's enemies, and to give to her boldness to dety all his enemies. fate, own and struensee's friends all the it would seem, was unwilling to permit influence that could be desired. if his downfall, before he had carried a matters had gone no farther, the horri- great and beneficent measure into exe- ble catastrophe, which effected the ruin cution—the abolition of vassalage. the of matilda, and stained the soil of lands were granted to the peasantry in denmark with the blood of two inno- possession, and the industrious portion tent men, would never have occurred. of the people were relieved from a yoke, vol. ix. s caroline matilda, queen of denmark. (may, under which they had hitherto groan- she found herself robbed of the love of ed-personal service was placed with a nation by whom she had once been in moderate bounds. the establish- idolized. struensee's courage failed ment of the liberty of the press was him; an oppressive anguish bowed the most inconsiderate of struensee's down his mind, and deprived him of measures; this was putting the readi- all energy of action. he threw himself est instrument into the hands of his at the queen's feet, he poured forth the enemies to enrage the whole nation agonies of his soul, he begged permis- against himself. the first works that sion to leave a country where he was appeared under the protection of the surrounded by an innumerable host of liberty of the press, weredirected against enemies, and where a dreadful fate struensee. every day satires and li- seemed to lead him on to a most wretch- bels were put forth. at first he re ed end. he pointed out to the queen garded these publications with con- that the same danger impended over tempt. but when his enemies, in con- her, and that his dismissal would af- sequence, grew bolder, and not only at- ford the only means of escaping it. but tacked him, but even the king and the all in vain; his solicitationis produced queen, in the most abusive terms, si no effect on the queen's heart, she pos- lence became no longer possible, and sessed a bolder spirit than he. she severe penal laws were enacted to put endeavoured to tranquillize his fears, an end to such nuisances. from this she begged him so stay, she conjured moment struensee's fall may be dated. him, she even threatened him. the the writings, which had appeared unfortunate struensee yielded, he be- against him had opened his eyes to the held tremblingly his approaching fate, number of his enemies and to their and staid. malignity; he saw himself and the the plans of the queen dowager and court exposed to the scorn of the mob. her creatures had attained maturity in addition, a mutiny of the seamen soon after the commencement of the took place. it was found necessary to year . the regiment of colonel yield to their demands, and apprehen- köller, the most determined enemy of sions were entertained, that the exam- struensee, mounted guard at the pa- ple might occasion more scenes of a lace on the th of january. a ball similar kind. struensee's situation was at court fixed for the evening, facilita- perilous, and he felt the danger. but ted the preparations making for the an effectual resistance demanded all infamous enterprize of the conspira- the energy of his soul, and that forsook tors. him. trumpets and kettledrums ushered to return to matilda.—levity and in the portentous day; matilda, una indiscretion, the usual companions of a concerned, danced till midnight, not careless and cheerful disposition, were at all surmising, that those were the the only faults with which the young last pleasurable hours of her life. the queen could be reproached. friendship ball was over at about one o'clock. a and gratitudeattached her to struensee. deathlike stillness pervaded the palace. the intimacy subsisting between the all slept save the conspirators, busied queen and struensee did not escape the in preparing the work of treason. the argus-eyed courtiers. matilda was too clock struck three. they rushed into frank to dissemble, her levity rendered the king's bed-room. the monarch her unfit for intrigue, and struensee was panic-struck, and the conspirators was imprudent. rumours were pro- terrified him still more, by fabricated pagated among the populace, who de- accounts of a dreadful insurrection. light in nothing so much as in listen- he was told that the populace were on ing to tales of what passes within the the point of storming the palace, that precincts of courts. these rumours the danger was most imminent, that his gained importance by being repeated life was in jeopardy, and that he could at the court of the queen dowager, only save himself by signing certain pa- matilda's most implacable enemy. bý. pers presented to him. under the first means of the liberty of the press, these impressions of terror, the king seized rumours were disseminated, and ma- the pen, but threw it indignantly down tilda was represented as the cause of when he discovered the name of his all the oppressions which the people consort at the top of a page. the con- endured. her honour and her good spirators besieged him afresh--they name fell a prey to her enemies, and painted his danger in frightful colours; .) caroline matilda, queen of denmark. they declared him to be undone, unless the queen struggled and resisted, her he subscribed; they urged, they be- danger adding to her strength. she sought, they forced him. overwhelm- struck the first officer down, who pre- ed with agony, deprived by terror of sumed to lay his traitorous hands up- his senses, the king signed the wretch- on her person. several others then ed orders for the arrest of his queen, fell upon her. in her despair she at- struensee, brandt, and all his friends. tempted to throw herself out at the without waiting for the orders being window, but she was kept back. her signed, colonel köller had already strength was at last exhausted. the hastened to struensee's apartments. conspirators then dressed her quickly, he pulled him out of bed, and treated and put her, deprived of all sense, in- him with the coarsest brutality. the to a coach. a captain of dragoons, unfortunate struensee had not even with a drawn sword, seated himself the presence of mind to ask for the or- beside her. what a ridiculous pre- der for his arrest. a manly resistance caution against a defenceless princess would have brought the officers stand, of twenty years! a subaltern, and one of ing at the door into the apartment, and her majesty's chambermaids, occupied the colonel, who had no written or the other places in the carriage, which der, would have been unmasked.* per- was surrounded by thirty dragoons. a haps the whole enterprize might have second coach followed, containing the been defeated, had struensee shews infant princess louisa, with her nurse, any presence of mind. and a maid of honour. all possible the most important part in this haste was made to reach the castle of tragedy, the arrest of the queen, was cronberg; the queen sat silent, and committed to count ranzan and co- lost in thought, near her inhuman lonel eichstadt. accompanied by se- companions. but when she espied the veral officers, they entered her majes- fortress, she was roused to a sense of ty's antichamber. matilda awoke and her dreadful situation. “o, god! i am called her waiting-women. pale and undone !” she exclaimed. she fainted trembling they entered, and informed away several times, and was carried up her majesty, that ranzan wished to into an apartment, where she was pla- speak with her in the king's name. ced in an arm-chair. the nurse car- " ranzan,” exclaimed the queen, “in ried her daughter, the princess louisa, the middle of the night, in the name of to the queen, when the cries of the the king!” she immediately sent a mes, child pierced her maternal heart. ma- sage to struensee, but the waiting-wo- tilda experienced the comfort of the man, in broken accents, told her ma- unfortunate--sheshed tears. she press- jesty, that he was arrested. dreadful ed the innocent babe to her heart, she surmises of abominable treason now overloaded it with kisses, and drowned took possession of matilda's mind; “i it in tears. the holy feelings of ma. am betrayed, i am lost, all is lost!” ternal affection outweighed the sense she exclaimed, wringing her hands. of her fate. but her composure returned in an in nine commissioners were appointed stant. “let the traitors come in,” she to examine and try the prisoners in the said calmly, “ i am prepared for the city. this was, however, merely done worst.” she advanced to meet ranzan, for form's sake; they had long ago been as he entered. he read to her the condemned. considerable time elap- king's order, to which she listened sed in the making out of the indict- with composure. she then took the ment, the counts of which were mul- order herself, read it, and threw it tiplied as much as possible, one being with contempt at ranzan's feet. “the more absurd than another. the two king's weakness has been abused," she partners in misfortune, struensee and said, “ such orders are not to be obeyed brandt, were at last broughtforth from by a queen.” ranzan ventured to threa- their horrible dungeons, tin which they ten ; but the queen treated him with had languished for many weeks. load- the most sovereign contempt. he thened with fetters, they appeared before became exasperated, and beckoned his the tribunal of their enemies. misfor- officers. they employed force, but tune had cowed the heart of struen- colonel köller had told the officers of his regiment, that he had written orders from the king. this assurance induced them to embark in the enterprize. + count struensee having been confined above three months, when he first came out, though in view of a terrible death, exclaimed, " () what a blessing is fresh air."- floward's state of prisons, vol. i, p. . caroline matilda, queen of denmark. (may, see; he appeared to be bowed down, schack then seizing her cold and trem sinking under the pressure of his fate. bling hand, guided it, and thus at last what a triumph to his enemies ! sure- the name of caroline matilda appear. ly he might have calculated, that he ed under the declaration, which her had no chance of being spared, and enemies had dictated. the commis- that his death had been irrevocably sioners left the castle, certain of being determined upon. yet he (my heart rewarded for their villainy at copen- revolts at what i am going to write hagen. when the queen recovered, down) suffered himself to be terrified she was thrown into a state which by threats, and to be inveigled by pro- might have excited apprehensions for mises, into a scandalous confession, re- her life, if any person had still felt any specting his intercourse with the queen. concern for the life of the unfortunate let those who can, pardon him. but sufferer. every manly heart must despise him. mr uldahl, king's counsel, was with a 'composure of deportment charged with the defence of the queen. befitting a queen, matilda received the this was, however, an empty form. commissioners, who arrived at cron- mr uldahl made, indeed, a most mas berg on the th of march, for the pur- terly defence. he proved, to a demon- pose of examining her majesty. she stration, how little regard could be replied with brevity, precision, and dig, paid to the declarations extorted, and nity, to all the questions put to her, surreptitiously obtained, from struen- however cunningly they were turned, see and the queen. he pointed out in order to ensnare her. the commis- with energy, how injurious the pro- sioners at last came to that point in cess was to the king's honour, and the accusation, on which the confes- made the most powerful appeals to the sion of the cowardly struensee had feelings of the judges ; but he failed been extorted. baron schack rathlon, in making any impression on these the spokesman, read struensee's decla- heartless, inexorable beings. on the ration to the queen. she expressed th of april, the sentence of divorce her doubts of the authenticity of the was pronounced, and on the th made document, conceiving it impossible, known to the queen. she was alto- that struensee should have behaved gether exhausted by grief and suffer, with such meanness; she denied every ings, and heard it with calm resigna- thing. “then is struensee a most abo- tion. minable calumniator," replied schack; the th of april, , is a day “ he deserves the severest punishment inscribed in the annals of denmark for having thus offended majesty; an with the blood of two innocent men. ignominious death must expiate his sentence of death was then passed on crime.” these words overwhelmed the two counts, struensee and brandt, the unfortunate queen; she shuddered and put in execution on the following at the thought of the execution of her day. with heroic courage, and a lofty friend. honour, pride, and regard con consciousness of his innocence, brandt tended for mastery in her noble heart; mounted the scaffold. he displayed and they triumphed. she asked, “will the greatest composure, while he suf- the unfortunate struensee obtain for- fered his right hand to be cut off ; and, giveness, if i admit the truth of his without heaving a sigh, he laid his declaration.” schack, with a friend- head on the block. struensee was ex, ly mien, gave her to understand, that ceedingly pusillanimous; it was found he would probably be pardoned; she necessary to hold him by the hair, in then sacrificed to the object of her order to inflict the mortal stroke. regard, who had acted so unworthily, since the publication of her sen- her honour, her good name, all, ai, tence, matilda had been treated more only that she might save his precious leniently. the triumph of her ene, life. she signed her name. but shę mies was complete ;—what more could had not finished the word caroline, they wish for? the english mini- when she looked up and beheld the ster, keith, who had, with praisewor. unmasked monsters sitting before her, thy zeal, interested himself in behalf with greedy, scornful, and mischie- of the unfortunate sister of his sove- vous looks, tracing the lines of her pen. reign, was accordingly permitted to “ you deceive me infamously," she visit the queen, that he might consult exclaimed, suppressing her breath and with her majesty upon her future attempting to get up; but, unable place of residence. to stand, she fell motionless back. on the th of may, two english .] caroline matilda, queen of denmark. frigates and a sloop of war arrived off her, within the walls of which her de- elsinore. on the th, the queen left serted child wept, seeking its mother. the castle of cronberg. the last mo. on the following day, however, a fair ments proved the most painful to her. breeze enabled the english vessels to she was now to part with the only come set sail. matilda stood on the quar- fort in her misfortune, the dearest ob- ter-deck, and beheld, slowly receding ject of her affections,-her beloved from her view, the land which she had daughter. and she had to leave her once entered as a queen, and now left, louisa, alas ! in the midst of her ene- depressed by the most heart-rending mies,-in the midst of those very per- anxieties, and overwhelmed with un- sons who had so dreadfully illtreated merited sufferings. the english ships the mother. matilda was going away, sailed for stade, whence matilda pro- when the child cried.she flew back, ceeded to zell. she resided there for pressed the little darling to her ago, the space of three years, in the most se- nized bosom ;-but she had to tear her- cluded retirement, only occupied with self loose again-yet could not! lin the recollections of her tenderly beloved berty beckoned her onwards,-mater- children, whose portraits she had recei- nal affection called her back : her heart ved from copenhagen. she was attacked bled,-her tears gushed in copious with a violent complaint, which a con- streams! at length she was led away stitution, impaired by intense suffer- almost by force. ings in mind and body, could not re- every thing seemed to conspire to sist, and she died in the twenty-third aggravate the agonies endured by the year of her age, lamented by all eu- unhappy matilda on leaving denmark. rope. the account of her death reach- a contrary wind prevented the eng- ed copenhagen on the day when a ball lish vessels from sailing, in consequence at court had been fixed for the even- of which the wretched princess had in ing. but it was not deferred; nor did view, for a whole day, the country in any person deplore her death. the which she had been subjected to mi- crown prince only was put into slight series beyond the power of language mourning. to describe: the fortress lay before f. twilight musings. how beauteous is this summer eve ! remote, upon the western sky, the sun declines; and round him weave the clouds, a gorgeous canopy. from fragrant fields, and pastures nigh, with gentle murmur comes the breeze, just kissing, as it passes by, the shutting flowers, and leafy trees; a twilight gloom pervades the woods, through all their blue-grey solitudes. and all is still-except the lay. of blackbird, from the neighbouring grove, clear hymning forth the dirge of day, in tones of warm, spontaneous love. and 'tween its margents, flower-inwove, the stream that gently murmurs on; or rustle of the grass, above the crimson-tinged sepulchral stone; the shadows of the church profound, o'erspread the eastward burial ground. how beauteous !-but, more beautiful, the days of vanish'd years awake, in burning tints, that render dull the charms of sky, and wood, and lake. though far remote, yet i can slake at memory's fount my burning thirst, and feel, no spells on earth can break the idol form i worshipp'd first; no second ties of love impart such rapture to the vacant heart! twilight musings. [may, the moon is upa lovely night! a lovely night of former years; so fair the landscape, that its sight makes gentle eyes o'erflow with tears ; the form, that by my side appears, is all my own; a happier lot ne'er came to quench a lover's fears, or render blest a poet's thought; the sum of earthly witcheries beside me, and before mine eyes ! then would we roam, and listen there, afar the watch-dog's sullen bay, and sounds that, floating on the air, told peace was near, and man away ;- the small bird startled from the spray, half slumbering ; the resounding woods; the ocean murmur from the bay; and inland hum of tumbling floods ! the star of love, with quiet eye, smiled down upon us from the sky! the moon shone o'er us, as we stray'd, and i have gazed upon the face, where, gently lined, its beams betray'd a wilder, and more winning grace. i turn'd from life,--that idle chace for fleeting joys, and empty good, and felt that all, in hope's embrace, was at my side in solitude; dove ot' my ark! that still would’st fiee, to bring joy's olive bough to me! years came, and went, and saw us such, and day succeeded day in bliss ; until our cup o'erflow'd too much with good, for such a world as this ; were ours the pure, the guiltless kiss, the ardent grasp of thrilling hand, and all the thousand witcheries that none, save lovers, understand and which, like shot-stars in the main, once quench'd are ne'er beheld again! where are ye now, departed scenes ?- a pictured leaf in memory's page ! no more your brightness intervenes, life's dreary dulness to assuage ! 'tis wonderful the heart can wage with peace and joy eternal strife; yet, like the captive bird in cage, live onward to the dregs of life through years of being, wild and waste, like dead sea apples to the taste ! yet, thus it is and 'mid the bowers where i, so blest, have roam'd before though all, except the summer flowers, are changed from what they were of yore, i stray, and silently deplore, that youth is like a running stream- love but a shade that stalks before and life itself a waking dream! we call on pleasure and around a mocking world repeats the sound ! .] biblical sketches. biblical sketches. no. iv. the death of absalom. the battle's voice waned fainter ; but the heath re-echo'd dismal to the groans of death ; more wide the thinn'd and scatter'd legions roam, more frequent gallops past the steed of foam ; the fiery war-horse, labouring, and out-done, his rider's faulchion glittering in the sun ; the rebel host is broken ; and again proud israel triumphs on the battle-plain! the heart of joab swell’d, elate to see his plans successful, and the rebel flee! he gazed around him from a central spot, for absalom he search’d, but saw him not ; and, though the king had mandate given to spare, his spirit yearn'd to find, and slay him there. fair was the son of david ; from his face beam'd princely majesty, and faultless grace ; the paragon of men, erect and tall, in lineament and form transcending all ; rapidly through the thick and shadowy wood, meanwhile, the prince, without a path pursued ; deep grief was in his eye; upon the wind he heard the shout of foes that spurr'd behind ; just was his overthrow, severe, but just, the doom that laid his impious schemes in dust; and, as compunctious gnawings woke within, he grieved o'er all his foolishness and sin ! more near the sounds approach'd; and faster sped his jaded mule, where'er an opening led; his helmet in the fray was lost, and now his yellow tresses flutter'd o'er his brow, and stream'd adown his back, now flow'd behind, now wanton'd forward in the casual wind ; and now they twin'd around an oaken bough firmly-and gallop'd on the mule below; suspended there hung absalom,--and near were none to rescue him-were none to hear ! insulting triumph swells upon the gale, and sternly now, encased in glittering mail, came bounding to the spot, in full career, the victor joab on, with forward spear; “ behold the rebel son,” elate he cried, then pierced his side, and smote him till he died ! then joab blew the trumpet-and around quick throng'd the warriors, summon’d by the sound; into a pit the noble form was thrown, and ready hands piled o'er the frequent stone ; but terror smote them, when the deed was done they thought upon the sire-upon the son ;- compunction, like a spell, each bosom rent, and, awe-struck, every warrior sought his tent. a no. v. tae olive bough. the dove flew east-the dove flew west found not a spot wherсon to rest ; biblical sketches. [may, beheld the waters far and wide outstretching, and on either side ; then backward to its prison fled, with wearied wing, and drooping head. and all was sad-o'er noah's soul dejection's tide began to roll; he gazed—and nought was seen around but waters, and the skies that bound; no island courted human foot, and all was wild- and waste- and mute ! from ararat's stupendous peak again the dove flew forth, to seek a spot, a resting place of green- at eve, returning she was seen in joy—the olive bough did fill, with glossy leaves, her little bill ! a ray of sunshine bursting bright, when clouds are dark, with rosy light; a flower of beauty, blooming forth amid the cold and snowy north ; of hope a beaming, to beguile despair's worn features to a smile. and noah's heart, dilating, felt where sorrow reign'd, that pleasure dwelt; and brooding visions died away, and darkness gave the reins to day ; and hope did triumph, and despair no longer found a mansion there! no. vi. hagar in the wilderness. the sun was now declining on the sky, the breeze was silent, and the sward was dry, as hagar, wearied out with travel, sate beneath an aloes, pondering on her fate ;- a bow-shot distant, ’mid the shrubby wild, young ishmael lay, a solitary child ;- for, when her bread was spent, her cruise was dry, the mother could not bear to see him die; and, 'mid beersheba's woods, that silent slept, she lifted up her voice, and loudly wept ! why doth she cease her wail,why start appall’d ? again it was a voice from heaven that cali'd;- “hagar, arise !" the viewless spirit said, forget your griefs, exalt your drooping head, “and quench in joyfulness your low despair; “ for god hath seen your griefs, and heard your prayer ; “ the boy shall yet survive ; -a mighty race, “elate, from him, their origin shall trace; “and wide-spread nations, touch'd with patriot fire, “ look back to him, and own him for their sire !" joyful she rose; and, on her listening ear, broke the sweet sound of water murmuring near ; she fill’d her thirsty cruise, and to the boy brought the cool beverage, with a mother's joy. awhile she watch'd, and wept, at length the streak of crimson play'd upon his lily cheek, and life and sense returning to the child, his bright black eyes he lifted up, and smiled! .] sketches of scollish character. no. vi. sketches op scottish character. no. vi. « parson willy." “what gentleman' retired from city noise “ has made this neat snug country box his choice?" a gentleman indeed !" with knowing leer, “responds the boy- no gentleman lives here. “ this is the manse,' and stavering o'er the dyke, “ there comes - the minister,' a surly tyke.” thus far the urchin--from our presence flew ;- what follows next, we from his mother' drew. this parson, în his years of student glee, whilst yet a burgess' son of low degree, had pledged in mutual love, his hand and heart, and played, through many a walk, the lover part, from blooming hawthorn pluck'd the flower with care, and fix'd the chaplet in his “ jeanie's” hair borne her on beating breast o’er ditch and style, still answering squeeze with squeeze, and smile with smile. indited verses, full of groves and streams banks, linnets, stock doves, twilight, and moon-beams- lips, smiles, and blushes, dimples, cheeks, and eyes- hopes, fears, and wishes, palpitations, sighs- thisbes-lavinias-ariadnes fair, with a whole host of és an is-were there. the magazine of words, wherewith 'tis common to conquer into love-man-trusting woman. “a tutor” now, he seeks the western shore, in chieftain hall, his fortunes to explore, with macs and mothers holds incessant wier, and leads a “ tutor life" from year to year ; yet still the frequent letter, sent with care, bespeaks him to his “ jeanie,” constant, there. meantime, o'er jeanie's face the summer throws the mingling colours of the blushing rose, she ripens into woman-hood, and sees an host of lovers, prostrate at her knees hears all the slang a lawyer could advance, but checks his “ too fimiliar" with a glance. the writer, favoured in his own belief, she stops amidst his tale, and says, “ be brief;" th' apothecary's prentice pleads in vain, she bids him take “ a doze”mato cure his pain, and lairds put on their boots, and mount their horses and sport their spurs, and shake their heavy purses ; whilst english riders turn aside to view her, and try in vain, “ by coaxing,” to undo her: her heart is with her willy-she can know no greater bliss than willy's love, below! her father is a deacon, votes are sought a kirk is vacant-kirks are sometimes got by deacon votes—and learn'd professors too, have proved, at times, a deacon's promise true. her willy-jeanie's willy'!-comes at last, and jeanie's every care is overpast; t vol. ix. sketches of scottish character. no. vi. [may, the kirk her love secured him—it is clear how willy now his aftercourse will steer. but jeanie's face is alter'd, and her dress might suit a landry maid of “ guid queen bess." her father is a weaver, could there be a brute more vulgar, more uncouth than he; and she a weaver's daughter-'twill not pass, a minister to wed a webster lass! there needs no further telling, all may view sweet jeanie's grave beneath that weeping yew! there needs no doleful weeping, all may see a portion'd dame, where jeanie hoped to be ; there needs no sudden bolt that breast to sever, for there the vulture conscience tugs forever. god says, go speed thee to the mountain, “ parson willy,” and court the solitude of glen and valley, adown the winding stream pursue thy way, where noon-day beams, midst dancing waters' play, profane the haunts of nature with thy tred, at thy approach the mountain flocks have fled- the raven curses from his stunted tree- the wagtail, from his stone, denounces thee- the grass-hopper is mute at thy advance, and sunflies close their wings, and cease to dance ; whilst sight-revolting ask, and crawling toad, all prematurely wake, and leave their sod ! go with the trading mob commix, and try to prig and cheapen, calculate and buy ; buy luck, and prosper-else thy traffic cease ; “ diminish”- who shall say encrease ?" or should it suit thy whim, let garden care thy thoughts, thy labour, and thy leisure share ; dig with the mole, or rake the crumbled earth, give all thou canst—to cabbages give birth ; or pausing o'er thy spade, thy hives survey, that pour their busy thousands on the day, peep through their windowed workshop, like a thief, descrying secrets, that exceed belief. thy plants shall wither, and the “ grub" shall feed on every garden leaf that springs of seed. thy bees in mortal combat shall contend, and in moth-eaten wax-thy hopes shall end. the festive board with viands fit is crown'd, and company to suit thy taste is found; a laughing, punning, beef-devouring squad, with no great previous trouble may be had. and porter too has passed-the wine has fled, for all the loyal toasts are gone to bed.” amidst the tumult of succeeding mirth, to which a bowl of whisky punch gives birth, a thunder-peal of happiness ; 'tis thine to own at every burst the curse divine; to shrink into reflection's glazy stare, and only seem, by starts, the glee to share. ascend the pulpit steps, suspend thy hat, thy coat skirts see thou cress not, look to that. .) parson willy. turn up the psalm-book knowingly, and then give us with emphasis king david's strain ; psalm eighty-eight, or ninety-four will do, secure to find in each, a curse or two. then follow up with prayer, in composition, all dove-tailed in, from praises to petition, neat scripture phrases, polish'd up so nice ! nor word nor sentiment repeated twice. breathe moderate doctrine next-all stilly, sweet, to lull the conscience into rest were meet ! but conscience will not rest—'tis god's decree, like strong man from his cups, he'll dart on thee; within his giant clutch thy throat shall rattle, what day he sallies forth and comes to battle. retired within thy study, take a chair, clear out the ribs, and sweep the hearth with care; then from thy shelves withdraw a volume fit, with reason seasoned, or replete with wit, where'er thy humour haply chance to drift, or watts, or rogers, rochester, or swift ; the death click stuns thy ear, the flame burns pale, and full upon thee curves the candle spale. the fiend of recollection makes thee shiver, the curse is on thee—“thou art blasted ever!" domestic happiness, the balm of life, and chief of all domestic joys—"& wife,“ combined with little imps that love to chat of all they wish to know, or wonder at- that speak their ignorance in sounds so pleasing, that not their ceaseless questioning is teazing, “ papa" us when we come from kirk or fair- prepared a kiss, or market store to share ; such happiness belongs to men of truth, who kept the plighted promise of their youth ;- thine is the withered hope—the blasted tree the blossom, where no fruit can ever be, domestic solitude, all drear, and lonely; for ever thou art seared—“the curse is on thee.' ye students, tutors, lately fledged divines, whose learning with your college“ suit" combines, to fix the heart of woman-pause a while, nor yield you captive to each winning smile. time plays sad tricks—a patron may be lost, by foul caprice or death's dread message cross'd, a kirk may cheat your grasp from year year, yet nearer still with every your taste may alter--rural beauties may into mere country bumpkins sink away. but pledged and plighted once-oh! let my tale your conduct guide your future peace avail, admonished thus, by - parson willy's” fate, avoid the error, ere it prove too late. to shift” appear, [may, sketches of scottish character. no. vi. “ willy herdman." the old soldier. poor willy herdman, o'er thy chilly bier be mine, with bursting heart to drop a tear, to sketch the features of thy harmless life, unstain'd by slander-undisturb’d by strife, thy very faults, not charity, would hide ; “ and all thy failings lean'd to virtue's side.” whent calpe stood a tower of frowning rock, and of united squadrons braved the shock 'twas thine, poor soldier, of unnoticed namne, to speed the fiery bolts of britain's fame, by pity led, through hissing waves to go, and from surrounding ruin wrest a foe; in his own spite the thankless wretch to save, and bear him, murm'ring curses, from the wave. it has been remarked, that anglers are, in general, good-natured and cheerful, and we believe there is a great deal of truth in the observation ; but it remains for us to add, that they are likewise not a little given to “ amplification.” an inexperienced hand, indeed, is less addicted to the influence of this figure of speech, as his want of address in the sport being known, few will credit his stretches : and a very skilful fisher, such as willy, has no reason for attempting the production of astonishment by any accounts wide of, or beyond the truth. but there lies betwixt these two extreme boundaries, an extensive common, occupied by a vast variety of every-day, or common-rate anglers, who, because they are just within the precincts of the credit, draw pretty largely upon the credulity of others. such fishers are always sure to hook trouts of a most interest. ing and uncommon size, which, as usual, after a certain amount of capers and bounds, effect their escape. these feats, too, are related with all the circumstantiality of truth. " it was on such a day of a certain month, and under a peculiar aspect of sky and cloud, that the miraculous event took place. the line had been so many times laid across the stream, or pool, without effect--when, on the last throw which was meant to be made, the hook is suddenly nailed to the bottom-a pull is made, and, to all appear. ance, you are immoveably fastened upon a rock, or sod. but all at once, and with an astonishing power, the monster takes the flood—makes directly for the deep water, and drags you, without the means of safe and successful opposition, along with him. the pool is so immensely deep, that the top of your rod is brought into contact with the wa. ter. he travels you along, in sublime smoothness, from one dark and retired recess to another—your line cutting the water like a razor-at times, however, he moves his head till your rod trembles in your hand ; tired at length, however, out of all his depths, he dashes furiously out to the lower extremity of the pool, shews fin and spot, shoulder and tail, at the water top, takes two or three most astonishing springs, snaps your line in two, and tumbles side foremost down, with a plunge into the next gullet!" * obstui. pui steteruntque," &c. &c. + gibraltar, at the siege of which willy lost a finger. he used to entertain me, on our way to and from the fishing," with anecdotes concerning this memorable defence. e. g. “ the dreadful red-hot ball firing from the castle had just commenced ; elliot was employed in viewing through a telescope the effects which his pills,' as he term- ed them, had upon the stomach of the enemy, whilst á soldier stood near him, in the ato titude of atlas, with his face turned upwards, emptying, through the bung-hole into his stomach, the remains of a keg, or cask of rum, almost the sole subsistence of the garri- son at the time. in the same instant, the general's telescope, and the soldier's cask were carried off by a ball, or splinter, but without injury to either individuals. they stood for a moment eying each other with something of that expression which a priest of the greek church exhibits, when the lord has taken one of the children he is baptizing under the ice of the neva · to himself.' • blast my eyes, an't please your honour ! exclaimed the enraged soldier at last, but these fellows have more impudence than good manners, by half;' and away he swung in full drive to his gun, to be revenged,' as he expressed it, upon the mannerless rascals, who could interrupt gentlemen at their studies !'" . willy herdman. but peace returning, with her smiling train of joys domestic, sene thee home again; gave thee thy hours in peaceful arts to pass, nor grudged to soldier old the soldier's glass. what pleasure mine, with truant step to stray at rising morn, by streamlet far away, with thee at noon, our finny dead to tell, amidst the solitude of mountain dell! what transport mine, by cooling fount to lie beneath the balmy breath of summer sky, from pocket stored the oaten feast to bring, and quaff the nectar of the neighbouring spring. hail blessed days! and still more blessed joy, that sooths the cares of manhood, leads the boy, with beating, glowing, panting, heart to view the mountain spret, empearled o'er with dew; that to the banks of some far winding stream, where live the dancing waters in the beam of summer sunshine ;-draws his steps away from school-boy revelment, and harsher play, to solitude and god, attunes the heart, and nerves the boy to act the manly part ! hail blessed source of innocence and health ! though oft the fishing hour was gain'd by stealth, though horace sung, and livy pled in vain, in storied page, and heart-assailing strain, though many a blow incurr’d, compelled a tear; yet still thou wert, and ever shall be, dear. and he shall live within my heart for aye, who stole of yore my truant steps away, taught me to know the seasons and the place, to wile with practised skill the finny race, what flies to choose, and how the bait prepare where fish withi hurried step, and when with care what tempting pools to pass, and where to try the rushing gullet, with discerning eye who taught me all the secrets of his art shall live for ever in my grateful heart. the wager laid, “ a friend” his word had given, though o'er the “ pools” the heaping drift was driven, that “ trouts” should grace his board“ on new-year’s-day," and willy sped to gain the bet-away to dark recess, and many a boiling wiel, and brought “ a dinner dozen" in his creel. but oh the night was foul! in wintry air sat high enthroned the demon of despair. ill-fated willy left a friendless door, “ full half-seas over,” to return no more! from social board he sought his homeward way, choaked by the drift, a bleaching corpse he lay! his be the curse of blood-avenging heaven, destruction's plough-share o'er his roof be driven, his “ bacon" soul by every hook be rent, and all his menial crew to h- be sent; on passing winds the dying cries who knew, nor through the drifting death with timely succour flew. [may, sketches of scottish character. no. vi. preacher geordy." poor forty years“ a preacher child of want," fit emblem of the church itinerant ; where may'st thou lodge, this night of cold and sleet ? within what parsonage hast thou a seat? in all thy yearly circuit, where thy home, for many preaching sabbaths yet to come dost thou with fiddle* on thy back, essay through moffat-dale, thy ministerial way y? or by the banks of nith's transparent tide, 'midst noisy parson progeny, abide? essay thy fiddle, jealous of thy skill, eye all the circle round, and blunder still? by gallovidian coast-dost thou display thy musket shoulder'd in a martial way,– to quell the radicals thou dared before, when faction braved the throne in ninety-four ? - or haply, hast thou found a friend and chair, fast by the wooded banks of " bonny ayr?” i hear thee, geordy-yet, in mem'ry's ear, thy loyal sabbath rhapsodies i hear ; even in thy prayers; the kindling accents fall in curses on the factions, one and all. “ they're not contented, lord, to vend their ware “ through all the tainted towns of lancashire, “ but down to scotland they in troops repair, “ and spread along our peaceful loyal coasts, “ defiling caterpillars-vile locusts. “ i'm even told they've sped their doctrines hither “ good lord, in wrath, confound them altogether!" oh, loyalty, no virtue is more fair, no flaw deformity, when thou art there ; thou givest more than horace ever said, her all-supplying queenship, money did! but then thou hast an eye-and thou canst know where to withhold, and where thy gifts bestow. to aid poor geordy, who has need of aid to clothe the naked, who in rags are clad to pension off the fatherless and poor, were waste of favour-" impotence” is sure ! yet once i knew a loyalist so poor, his utinost efforts could not bread secure ; • geordy, if the following anecdote is to be credited, is not the only brother of the cloth addicted to the bow and the string. “a clergyman was returning home early upon the sabbath morning, from where he had supped, and amused the party, du- ring the evening, with a tune on his own fiddle. the profane instrument had been packed up beneath his coat as decently as possible; and he was on his way down walk, some time about one o'clock in the morning, when he encountered a party of jolly tars, quite in the humour for frolic and mischief. having, in the course of a few friendly sa- lutes upon the back and shoulders, come into close quarters with the lurking instru- ment, one of them instantly gave the signal of information ; a search ensued, the fiddle was detected and produced, and, in spite of all remonstrance, played upon too, to the tune of • jacky tar,' till the party were tired dancing. the frolic being accomplished, the performer was dismissed with many benedictions, and a handsome remuneration in money, to boot. this money, the highly-respectable clergyman (still alive,) very natu- rally slipt into the plate in passing, in the very same day, to the pulpit, and made his fa- mily merry at the recital of the anecdote in the evening." .) preacher geordy. he tried, “ the member" tried each neighbouring laird, to write the minister,-but no regard his long memorials and his prayers procured ; yet still he wrote, and still his wants endured at length resolved, with one bold bound, to go straight to the throne, and all the utmost know, he penn'd a letter, spelt and pointed tight, directed “ to the king," to read at sight, “ expressly private,” travell’d the address, and who might dare to open an express ? and now, within the kirkgate of dumfries, he lives on “ ten good yearly pounds!" in peace. then, geordy, take the hint-thy claims evince, and lay thy grievances before thy prince; within his breast a sire's heart abides, no poorer can’st thou be, whate'er betides. “ juvenalis junior." “ additional notices of geordy." it is scarcely possible to strike out a ted his revolution in twelve months full-length likenessof geordy in rhyme; was a subject of science, rather than we shall therefore throw into more ac- of philosophical conjecture, through all commodating prose, and into the past the parts and portions of his circuit. tense, what we ourselves know, and each clergyman he honoured with a what amongst the clergy of the south visit, could sit down quietly by the of scotland is pretty generally known, side of his parlour fire, and, from the of this odd, but very inoffensive cha- day of the month, calculate at least racter. within a sabbath, geordy's approach. geordy moved like the great plane. this habit of regularity contributed tary bodies, to which, in some other greatly to render him so generally ac- parts of his accessories, and in particu- ceptable, for, when geordy was expect- lar, in respect of " inhabitants,” he ed on saturday, matthew henry, and bore a striking analogy, in an orbit, dr macknight, were permitted to re- or epilepse, of which the cent point pose, for that week, at least. at times, lay somewhere betwixt leadhills and however, from some cross and counter- wanlockhead. starting at edinburgh, acting attractions, which did not en- he took his way southward as far as ter into the general average of allow- peebles, and then crossing over by ances, geordy was a week too late in moffat, dumfries, castle douglas, and making his appearance and once out, kirkcudbright, he was in full southern always out—so that, through the whole apogee, when lodged with his wor« remaining portion of his orbit, sad de- thy and venerable namesake, the late rangement took place. “ cauld kail dr coulter, minister of stranraer. were het o'er again,” which did not ex- here, as might naturally be anticipa- actly agree with the stomach of hear- ted, the rapidity of his motion was con ers; severe colds were perceived, from siderably decreased, and he generally frequent coughing in the pulpit, and sud- sojourned not less than a month or six "den indisposition was experienced out weeks in stranraer and at old luce, of it. there was nothing but riding through ballantrae, where and running from one parish to another, stinchar flows 'mang muirs and mosses in quest of “ exchanges,” even so late mony ;" as ten o'clock on the sabbath morn- by girvan and maybole, he arrived at ing. one clergyman lost his character ayr, where his residence, being now in entirely with his parishioners, from his “ perigee,” was short, and, as he being compelled to®“ read;" and an. himself used sometimes to express it, other, who had formerly been unpo- unsatisfactory. from ayr, he travel- pular from that habit, was raised, by led by irvine, largs, glasgow, la- means of an extempore address, to the nark, to mrs wilson's, in the grass- highest pitch of popularity. lectures market, edinburgh, where he gene were delivered from six-and-forty ver- rally remained dormant " for a sea- ses,-and sermons shot out into seven son." the period of his annual re heads and ten horns. one clergyman, turn, for, like the earth, he comple, in particular, contrived to extend his sketches of scottish character. no. vi. [may, lucubrations to the ominous length of ingly, when geordy took the road from “ twenty-twoly," and yet he had only edinburgh, the gude folks were admo- exhausted twenty-one minutes three nished of the departure of winter, and quarters. another, after reading out the approach of spring. it was like the first verse of his lecture,—" from the breaking up of the ice around the the second epistle of paul the apostle coasts of greenland, -it was as if the of jesus christ, addressed to the in- snow-drop had pushed up its virgin habitants of corinth, commonly, and innocence and purity through the hoar in scripture language, called the co- frost. as he passed peebles, the shep- rin-thi-ans,” twice, yea thrice, very herds made arrangements for lamb- leisurely over, was compelled to put time, and the magistrates began to his handkerchief to his mouth, and sow peas. moffat well was regularly to proceed thus :-“ the apostle, my fitted out and cleared for summer use, friends,—my friends, the apostle, and the road to it new sanded and the apostle, my friends, means,-he edged with turf from etrickstane, on means in the verse which has just his arrival at the manse. been read in your hearing,—the a at bruce's own" guid town,” the postle means to explain-indeed does ancient burgh of lochmaben,” the he; and now let us pass on to the magistrates were chosen, and “god's next verse.” a third clergyman, who vengeance” * proclaimed free to all on had been recently married, felt the his entry. the farmers in the immen awkwardness—we suppose of his si- diate neighbourhood of dumfries set tuation in the pulpit, so much, that he up scare-crows amidst their new-sown absolutely fainted outright, and lifted grain, and shot hedge-sparrows, as an up his eyes from the surface of a grave- antidote against their breeding on his stone, upon the well known phisiogno- approach. the servant girls around mies of his own elders, his wife ha- castle douglas were seen by the way- ving been previously borne off in hyst- side as geordy moved on, extracting erics. it is scarcely possible for any with great labour, and little success, one who is uninitiated into the mys- thistle from their thumb-balls. at kir- teries of“ preaching," to conceive the cudbright turnips were sown, and ро- quantity and extent of derangement tatoes planted, and at stranraer again, which such a rare, and therefore un- the same crops were drill-harrowed, and foreseen occurrence produced. but howed under his auspices-“ auspice though inconveniences,such as we have geordy,”—at ballantrae, the grain, stated, -resulted unavoidably from such as it was,+ began to whiten, and an occasional deviation, these were un- girvan, maybole, and ayr, saw the questionably more than counterbalan- reaping fairly begun-all was not right ced by the benefit derived from the ge- at glasgow, if the harvest were not fi- neral law of revolution. in those dis- nished, and the west india fleet arri- tricts through which the line of his ved, ere geordy left them. the falls at movement lay, the inhabitants were lanark echoed hisapproach in the mar- enabled to make arrangements accord- tinmas flood, and the grass-market ingly. the ancients looked at the again felt his arrival in a cold east wind, bearing of particular stars, or constel- with occasional snow. it is not, how- lations, for direction in sowing and ever, merely because he travelled and planting. some families in scotland preached, that we have thus ventured have been known to hang on their din- to introduce him to the notice of our ner potatoes to boil, by the passing of a readers, numerous, intelligent, and not divinity student on his regular and a little fastidious as they are. geor- daily visit to iris mistress. accord- dy had not only locomotive and orato- . this is an allusion to geordy's far-famed prayer for the magistracy of lochmaben. -“ lord,” said he, “ remember the magistrates of lochmaben, such as they are." + vendace and dicu.--vendace, pronounced “ god's vengeance." a species of fish so called, found in one of the numerous lochs which surround the burgh; and if we may credit the report of the town council, with the exception of some lake “ far abroad," and one in the highlands,- found no where else. it is reported of this delicate und singular fish, that when conveyed to any other of the lochs, or even when removed to another quarter of the same loch, it either can not, or will not, survive the expatria- tion. the same story is told about the removal of serpents, and other venomous animals, to ireland. "twere well for scotland, and some other quarters of the world which shall be nameless, were the compliment reciprocal. .] preacher geordy. rial powers, but was, in the fullest and a pious old woman, who was sorely in the best acceptation of the words, scandalized at this unclerical display “ an odd character." his professional of military devotedness, took to her ardour was of a peculiar description; staff, and, with her plaid drawn down whilst he was decidedly enthusiastic over her forehead, that her eyes might in inculcating what he termed moral no longer be contaminated with "see- doctrine, he held “allhypocritical cant- ing,” was in the act of hitching slowly, ing idiots," as he was pleased to desig- but quite resolutely, out at the church- nate gospel and doctrinal preachers, door, when she was suddenly arrested in complete contempt. he was a mo- by a gae wa', woman-mak haste, derate man—that, indeed, is nothing and gae wa'-an' the country, as weel uncommon. but then, what is not ge- as the kirk, war rid o' you, and the nerally found under this variety of cle- like o' you, there wad be mair peace in rical character, he was altogether an the land.—gae hame an’birsela manks enthusiast, and entered with the same herring to your dinner, and that's the ardour and animation into the relative best ' frien' o' the people' i ken o'.” duties of social and civil life, with another of geordy's peculiarities which others generally discuss the consisted in his taste for music ; or, higher and more interesting doctrines more properly, in his attachment to a of the cross. his preaching was a sys- most unseemly combination of wood tein of scolding rather than of admo- and thairm, which he called a fiddle. nition; yet there was so much truth with this companion, during the win- and verisimilitude in what he said, ter evenings, he was in the habit of that, whilst it sometimes excited á attempting to hold sweet converse ; but smile, it seldom failed to carry con- it must be confessed by all who knew riction, if not correction, along with the parties, there was nothing recipro. it. if any of his hearers slept, or were cal in the intercourse ; for the more apparently inattentive, he would not blandishment that geordy called up scruple to address them—and snuff- into his somewhat austere features, and mills he held in utter abhorrence. no the more determined effort that he ex- sooner did one of these make its ap- hibited from the shoulders downwards pearance, in the shape of a ram's horn, even to the extremities of his fingers, or tin-made pen-case, than he denoun- the louder, and the harsher, and the ced it with his finger—“put up your more lengthened, were the tones of mill, honest man-e'en put it up; if oppression and murder, which were re- ye war only as attentive to your souls turned to him. “the dying notes of as to your noses, there wad be less a sow under the hands of a butcher," smuff-boxing amang ye.” on a frosty or the risping of a saw upon a rusty sabbath too, he compared his hearers nail, were really music in comparison. to a “byng” of frosted potatoes ; as it was no small treat, and no uncom- the spoiled, he very properly observed, mon occurrence, to see geordy with his were almost sure to vitiate the sound. fiddleunder,and his musket slungover, this was his ordinary style of preach- his military coat, travelling along to- ing, which, without any considerable wards his sabbath destination, at once aid from composition or taste, still made the musician, the soldier, and the di- a wonderful impression. vine. from a consideration of this ra- another of his peculiarities consists ther incongruous combination of quali- ed in the determined and almost out- ties in his character, several clergymen, rageous cast of his loyalty. had he who had at one time countenanced him, been requested by the king, or by his began latterly to scruple respecting the ministry, to lay his head upon a block, propriety of giving hiin on sabbath the or to thrust his neck into the hang- use of their pulpits. but geordy was inan's gravat, without hesitation geor- too high-spirited to remain a depen- dy would have complied. during the dant visitor where his sabbath servi. hazardous and turbulent period of the ces were not acceptable. the know- revolution in france, this spirit was ledge of this fact led many good-heart- powerfully evinced. having through cd clergymen to permit him to preach ihe friendly aid of some more wealthy to their congregations long after they brother possessed himself of an uni were fully convinced of the improprie- form, he was enrolled into a volun- ty of so doing. on one occasion he teer corps, and was seen, even in the ascended the pulpit with the fiddle un- pulpit, in this church militant garb. der bis arm, and very devoutly set about vol. ix. Ư sketches of scottish character. no. vi. [may, aiding the precentor, by means of the geordy several rather convincing proofs stringed instrument, in raising the of his innocence.-geordy could never tune. observing some little tittering in hear even an allusion to this affair, with the congregation, (for the vigilance of any degree of temper, afterwards. his suspicion was unremitting,) he took but perhaps the most notorious, as occasion in his prayer, where, as he of- well as the most truly ridiculous of all ten said, he found himself least strait- his military achievements, took place in ened—had most utterance-to express the immediate neighbourhood of a lit- himself in these or the like terms tle romantic village in galloway. geor- “ good lord, thy people—thine own dy had marched all day over that bleak peculiarchosen people of old, were wont and dreary length of barrenness which to praise thee with tabor, and with harp, separates newton-stewart from glen- and with sackbut, and with psaltery; luce, under the conviction that some- and thy douce and loyal servants war where in the glen, near by the vil- seen dancing, and skipping, and snap. lage, there was to be a vast turn-out ping their fingers to thy praise, and of disloyalty that very evening, for the weel they war rewarded for't-but purpose of military discipline. night now-a-days, nothing will serve us but had overtaken geordy by the way, and sighing, and graining, and squeaking, as he advanced upon the suspected and howling out dismal psalm-tunes, ground, his vigilance and alarm in- wi' feet nailed to the yird, and faces an creased. the springing of a black- ell lang, and muckle disloyalty in our cock, or the sudden wheel and scream hearts after a'-gif' thy blessing reach of a mire-snipe, were sufficient to us, it maun be mair by thy favour, than bring his musket to his shoulder. in our ain guid guiding, i trow.” this state of feeling, and on approach- “ the friends of the people," being ing, with all possible precaution, the then in the very zenith of their con- very spot where the treasonable trans- ventional and pike-making specula- actions were supposed to be going for- tions, were the means of leading geor- ward, a sudden and earth-born noise, dy many a“will wi' the wisp” chace. resembling the hollow and silent tred being armed by the authority of the of a company of men marching in close government, and furnished with wea- order, attracted his ear. it was but pons not only of defence but of attack, too evident, from the silence, as well he was ever amongst the very foremost as from the tred, that his information in crediting and in circulating alarms; had been well-founded. so, placing or in marching, on the shortest notice, his musket leisurely over a stone-built to quell mobs, or secure conspirators. inclosure, and pointing it in the direc- the fact is, that had not the lord tion of the noise, he proceeded, in the lieutenants, (or their clerks,) of the most firm and audible voice, - for different counties through which he geordy's courage was at least equal to marched, favoured him in more instan- his loyalty—to inculeate an immediate ces than one, his zeal would undoubts dispersion,-assuring them, at the same edly have brought him to much trou- time, that if they hesitated to obey, he ble. he once seized upon a lad, who would incontinently bring upon them, was occupied by night, all unwotting at a signal, a whole troop of dragoons of treason, by the side of a hedge, in which he had in waiting hard by. no courtship, and dragged him, under voice nor sound, save the thunder of fear of bodily injury, before the she- many feet, being returned, he proceed- riff, -when it came out, upon inves- ed to discharge his musket, and unfor- tigation, what the fires and the flames tunately with effect; but whilst em- which had excited suspicion, and call- ployed in reloading, and ere he could ed forth this prompt display of loy- calculate the nature of the danger, he alty, actually were ! on another occa was suddenly overpowered by a couple sion his zeal brought him souce like a of irish horse-dealers, who had him kite down upon a poor egyptian, who next day before a justice of the peace, was sitting by the way-side, fabrica- for wounding and maiming a fine ting not pikes, as geordy very natural- young horse which they were forward- ly supposed, but ram-horn spoons. in ing, along with many others, to the this instance, however, the matter was dumfries midsummer market. the settled without any legal interference, matter was adjusted, but the disgrace as the tinker thought proper, or found attendant upon it drove geordy ten it convenient, to take the cause under miles in advance on his circuit !- his own adjustment, and gave poor .] the steam-buat. no. iii. the steam-boat; or, the voyages and travels of thomas duffle, cloth-merchant in the salt-market of glasgow. no. iii. voyage first concluded. when i had ate my dinner and drank my toddy at the pleasant hotel of he- lensburgh, in which there are both hot and cold baths for invalid persons, and others afflicted with the rheumatics, and such like incomes, i went out again to take another walk, for i had plenty of time on my hands, as the steam-boat was not to sail for glasgow till six o'clock. at first, it was my intent to take a survey of the country and agriculture, and to see what promise there was on the ground of a harvest; but in sauntering along the road towards the hill of ardneve, i foregathered with mr and mrs mʻwaft, and four of their childer. they had been for some time at helensburgh, for the salt water, the gudeman having been troubled with some inward complaint that sat upon his spirits, and turned all to sour that he ate or drank. nobody could be more glad to see an old acquaintance than they were to see me, and mrs m-waft was just in a perplexity to think that i could ever have ventured to leave my shop so long, and come such a voyage by myself; but i told her that i had been constrained by the want of health, and that may be before the summer was done she might see me again, for that i had got a vast of entertainment, and was, moreover, appetised to such a degree, that i had made a better dinner that day, and with a relish, than i had done for years past, which she was very happy to hear, hoping the like in time would be the lot of her gudeman, who was still in a declining way, though he took the salt water in wardly every morning, and the warm bath outwardly every other day, thus as we were standing in the road, holding a free-and-easy, talking about our ails and concerns, and the childer were diverting themselves pu’ing the gowans and chasing the bees and butterflies, mr m-waft said that i could do no less than go back with them and take a glass of wine, and insisting kindly thereon, i found myself obligated to do so; accordingly, i turned with them, and went into the house where they had their salt-water quarters. it was one of the thackit houses near the burn, a very sweet place, to be sure, of its kind; but i could not help wondering to hear mr m‘waft ever expected to grow better in it, which, compared with his own bein house on the second flat of paterson's lan', was both damp and vastly inconvenient. the floor of the best room was clay, and to cover the naked walls they had brought carpets from home, which they hung round them like curtains, behind which carpets, all sorts of foul clothes, shoes, and things to be kept out of sight, i could observe were huddled. meanwhile, mrs m'waft had got out the wine and the glasses, and a loaf of bread, that was blue moulded, from the damp of the house; and i said to her, “ that surely the cause which had such an effect on the bread, must be of some consequence to the body.” “but the sea and country air," replied mr m'waft,“ makes up for more than all such sort of inconveniences.” so we drank our wine and conversed on divers subjects, rehearsing, in the way sketch, the stories related in my foregoing pages, which both the mistress and gudeman declared were as full of the extraordinaries as any thing they had ever heard of. mr m‘waft, when in his good health, as all his acquaintance well know, has a wonderful facetious talent at a story, and he was so much lightened with of a the steam-boat. no. iii. [may, my narrations, that after taking two glasses of the red port, he began to tell an adventure he once met with in going to london, on some matter of his muslin business, when one of the great cotton speculators, in the , fell to the pigs and whistles. tale iv. the wearyful woman. “it happened,” said he, “ that there below to my bed, she would come down were in the smack many passengers, and sit in the cabin, and tell a thou- and among others a talkative gentle- sand stories about remedies for the sea- woman of no great capacity, sadly sickness, for her husband had been a troubled with a weakness of parts about doctor, and had a great reputation for her intellectuals. she was indeed a skill. he was a worthy man,' quoth real weak woman; i think i never met she, and had a world of practice, so with her like for weakness, just as weak that he was seldom at home, and i was as water. oh but she was a weak crea- obliged to sit by myself for hours in ture as ever the hand of the lord put the day, without a living creature to the breath of life in, and from morn- speak to, and obliged to make the iron ing to night, even between the bock- tongs my companions, by which si- ings of the sea-sickness, she was aye lence and solitude i fell into low spi. speaking ; na, for that matter, it's a rits ; in the end, however, i broke out god's truth, that at the dead hour of of them, and from that day to this, i inidnight, when i happened to be wa have enjoyed what the doctor called a kened by a noise on the decks, i heard cheerful fecundity of words; but when her speaking to herself for want of he, in the winter following, was laid other companions; and yet for all that, up with the gout, he fashed at my spi- she was vastly entertaining, and in her rits, and worked himself into such a day had seen many a thing that was state of irritation against my endea- curious, so that it was no wonder she vours to entertain him, that the gout spok great deal, having seen so took his head, and he went out of the much; but she had no command of world like a pluff of powther, leaving her judgment, so that her mind was mea very disconsolate widow; in which always going round and round and condition, it is not every woman who pointing to nothing, like a weather- can demean herself with the discretion cock in a squally day. that i have done. thanks be, and “ mrs m'adam," quoth i to her praise however, i have not been tempt- one day, 'i am greatly surprised at ed beyond my strength; for when mr your ability in the way of speaking.' pawkie, the seceder minister, came but i was well afflicted for the hypo- shortly after the interment to catch me critical compliment, for she then fast- with the tear in my e'e, i saw through ened upon me, and whether it was at his exhortations, and i told him upon meal-time or on the deck, she would the spot that he might refrain, for it come and sit beside me, and talk as if was my intent to spend the remainder she was trying how many words her of my days in sorrow and lamentation tongue could utter without a single for my dear deceased husband. don't grain of sense. i was for a time as ci- you think, sir, it was a very proper re- vil to her as i could be, but the more buke to the first putting forth of his civility i shewed, the more she talked, cloven foot ? but i had soon occasion and the weather being calm, the ves to fear that i might stand in need of a sel made but little way. such a pro- male protector; for what could i, a spect in a long voyage as i had before simple woman, do with the doctor's me! bottles and pots, pills and other dozes, “ seeing that my civility had pro- to say nothing of his brazen pestle and duced such a vexatious effect, i endea- mortar, which of itself was a thing of voured to shun the woman, but she value, and might be coined, as i was singled me out, and even when i pre- told, into a firlot of farthings; not tended to be overwhelmed with the however that farthings are now much sickness, she would sit besiile me, and in circulation, the pennies and new never cease from talking. if i went baubies have quite supplanted them, .] the wearyful woman. greatly, as i think, to the advantage would ever take his nauseous medi- of the poor folk, who now get the one cines, which he never could abide to or the other, where, in former days, hear, for he had great confidence in they would have been thankful for a many of his prescriptions, especially a farthing; and yet, for all that, there isa bolus of four of brimstone and treacle visible increase in the number of beg- for the cold, one of the few of his gars, a thing which i cannot under- compounds i could ever take with any stand, and far less thankfulness on pleasure.' their part than of old, when alms were “ in this way,” said mr m‘waft, given with a scantier hand; but this “ did that endless woman rain her no doubt comes of the spreading wick- words into my ear, till i began to fear edness of the times. don't you think that something like a gout would also so, sir? it's a mystery that i cannot take my head; at last i fell on a de- fathom, for there was never a more vice, and, lying in bed, began to snore evident passion for church-building with great vehemence, as if i had been than at present; but i doubt there is sound asleep, by which, for a time, i great truth in the old saying, “the got rid of her ; but being afraid to go nearer the kirk, the farther from grace,' on deck lest she should attack me which was well exemplified in the case again, i continued in bed, and soon of provost pedigree of our town, a de- after fell asleep in earnest. how long cent man in his externals, and he keep. i had slept i know not, but when i it a hardware shop; he was indeed awoke, there was she chattering to the á merchant of ' a' things, from a steward, whom she instantly left the deedle and a thimble down to a rattle moment she saw my eye open, and was and a spade. poor man! he ran at last at me again. never was there such a a ram-race, and was taken before the plague invented as that woman; she session ; but i had always a jealousy absolutely worked me into a state of of him, for he used to say very comi- despair, and i fled from her presence cal things to me in the doctor's life- as from a serpent ; but she would pur- time, not that i gave him any encou- sue me up and down, back and fore, ragement farther than in the way of till every body aboard was like to die an innocent joke, for he was a jocose with laughing at us, and all the time and jocular man, but he never got tbe she was as serious and polite as any better of that exploit with the session, gentlewoman could well be. and dwining away, died the year fol “ when we got to london, i was lowing of a decay, a disease for which terrified she would fasten herself on me my dear deceased husband used to say there, and therefore, the moment we no satisfactory remedy exists in na- reached the wharf, i leapt on shore, ture, except gentle laxatives, before it and ran as fast as i could for shelter has taken root; but although i have to a public house, till the steward had been the wife of a doctor, and spent dispatched her in a hackney. then i the best part of my life in the smell of breathed at liberty-never was i so drugs, i cannot say that i approve of sensible of the blessing before, and i them, except in a case of necessity, made all my acquaintance laugh very where, to be sure, they must be taken, heartily at the story, but my trouble if we intend the doctor's skill to take was not ended. two nights after, i effect upon us; but many a word me went to see a tragedy, and was seated and my dear deceased husband had in an excellent place, when i heard her about my taking of his pills, after my tongue going among a number of la- long affliction with the hypochondria- dies and gentlemen that were coming cal affection, for i could never swallow in. i was seized with a horror, and them, but always gave them a check would have fled, but a friend that was between the teeth, and their taste was with me held me fast; in that same so odious, that i could not help spit- moment she recognised me, and before ting them out. it is indeed a great i could draw my breath, she was at my pity, that the faculty cannot make side, and her tongue rattling in my their nostrums more palatable, and i lug. this was more than i could with- used to tell the doctor, when he was stand, so i got up and left the play- making up dozes for his patients, that house. shortly after, i was invited to i wondered how he could expect sick dinner, and among other guests, in folk, unable to swallow savoury food, came that afflicting woman, for she the steam-boat. no. iii. (may, was a friend of the family. oh lord! the din of a tongue coming towards the such an afternoon i suffered—but the coach. it was the wearyful woman; worst was yet to happen. and before i had time to come to my- “ i went to st james's to see the sel, the door was opened, and she was drawing-room on the birth-day, and in, chatting away at my side, the coach among the crowd i fell in with her driving off. again, when, to make the matter com “ as it was dark, i resolved to say plete, i found she had been separated nothing, but to sleep on, and never from her friends. i am sure they had heed her. but we hadna travelled left her to shift for herself; she took half a mile, when a gentleman's car- hold of my arm as an old acquaintance, riage going by with lamps, one of them and humanity would not allow me to gleamed on my face, and the wearyful cast her off; but although i staid till woman, with a great shout of gladness, the end of the ceremonies, i saw no- discovered her victim. thing ; i only heard the continual mur “for a time, i verily thought that mur of her words like the sound of a my soul would have leapt out at the running river. croun of my head like a vapour; and • when i got home to my lodging, when we got to a turn of the road, i was just like a demented man; my where was a public house, i cried to head was bizzing like a beescap, and i the coachman for heaven's sake to let could hear of nothing but the bir of me out, and out i jumped. but waes that wearyful woman's tongue. it was me! that deevil thought i was taken terrible; and i took so ill that night, ill, and as i was a stranger, the mo- and felt such a loss o' appetite and lack ment i was out and in the house, out of spirit the next day, that i was ad came she likewise, and came talking vised by a friend to take advice; and into the kitchen, into which i had ran, accordingly, in the london fashion, i perspiring with vexation. went to a doctor's door to do so, but “at the sight, i ran back to the just as i put up my hand to the knock- door, determined to prefer the wet and er, there within was the wearyful wo- wind on the outside of the coach to man in the passage, talking away to the the clatter within. but the coach was servant-man. the moment i saw her off, and far beyond call. i could have i was seized with a terror, and ran off had the heart, i verily believe, to have like one that has been bitten by a wud quenched the breath of life in that dog, at the sight and the sound of run- wearyful woman ; for when she found ning water. it is indeed no to be des- the coach was off without us, her alarm cribed what i suffered from that wo was a perfect frenzy, and she fastened man; and i met her so often, that i on me worse than ever-i thought my began to think she had been ordained heart would have broken. to torment me; and the dread of her “ by and by came another coach, in consequence so worked upon me, and we got into it. fortunately twa that i grew frightened to leave my young london lads, clerks or sik like, lodgings, and i walked the streets only were within. they endured her tongue from necessity, and then i was as a for a time, but at last they whispered man hunted by an evil spirit. each other, and one of them giving me “ but the worst of all was to come. a nodge or sign, taught me to expect i went out to dine with a friend that they would try to silence her. ac- lives at a town they call richmond, cordingly the other broke suddenly out some six or eight miles from london, into an immoderate doff-like laugh that and there being a pleasant company, was really awful. the mistress paused and me no in any terror of the weary- for a minute, wondering what it could ful woman, i sat wi' them as easy as be at; anon, however, her tongue got you please, till the stage coach was under way, and off she went; present. ready to take me back to j.ondon. ly again the younker gave another gaffa, when the stage coach came to the door, still more dreadful than the first. his it was empty, and i got in ; it was a companion seeing the effect it produced wet night, and the wind blew strong, on madam, said, 'don't be apprehen- but tozy wi' what i had gotten, i laid sive, he has only been for some time mysel up in a corner, and soon fell fast in a sort of deranged state, he is quite asleep. 'i know not how long i had harmless, i can assure you. this had slumbered, but i was awakened by the the desired effect, and from that mo- coach stopping, and presently i heard ment till i got her safe off in a hack- .) the steam-boat. no. iii. ney coach from where the stage stop- trick o' the londoners. in short," pit, there was nae word out of her head, said mr m-waft,.“ though my ad- she was as quiet as pussy, and cowered ventures with the wearyful woman is in to me in terrification o' the madman a story now to laugh at, it was in its breaking out. i thought it a soople time nothing short of a calamity." by the telling of his adventure, which he acted to the life, mrs m'waft said, she had seen a better symptom in his health than had before kithed; we therefore all agreed, that there was a wholesome jocundity of spirit to be airn- ed by seeing the warld, although at the same time there might be both peril and hardship endured. having been thus solaced by the wine and adventures of mr m‘waft, rose to take my leave, the steam-boat, with her pinnet of smoke, being in sight. the mistress would have me to stay and take an early cup of tea, but i was afraid that i might lose my passage ; so i bad them farewell,—and going down to the shore, reached the pier in time to get into the jolly-boat with the first cargo of passengers. the voyage from heleusburgh to greenock afforded us no sort of adventures; the passengers were glasgow folk, on the retour, and of course, their talk was all anent themselves and their neighbours, and no the best entertainment to a stranger,—which i think must be owing to their great neglect of edifying com- munion :-but this is an observe that i have made on the intellectual state of my fellow-citizens since i began, in my voyages and travels, to mess and mell more with the generality of mankind. our passage to the custom-house quay of greenock consumed about twenty minutes,-a space of time that in no reason could be expected to bring forth any thing by the common, unless the vessel had sprung a leak, or the boiler been blown into the air; or any other peril of navigation had befallen us,- from all of which we were happily spared. at greenock we taiglet a lucky hour, in which i tyn't my patience, for the man in the ship was aye saying they would be aff in a minute ; but minute after minute trintled by, till the whole hour had rolled entirely away. had i known or foreseen that this was to chance, i would have employed myself in visiting some of the curiosities of the town. it was, however, a new thing to be in the number of “ honest travellers by sea and land," and that, i suppose, was the cause which made me, while we lay at the custom-house quay of green- ock, not altogether so well satisfied as i might otherwise have been. at long and length, the man having trumpetted his last call, the vessel ben gan to bestir herself, and paddled away towards port-glasgow, a town that has acquired some repute, as i have already intimated, on account of an im- puted thraw in its only steeple. in this passage, which took up a full quarter of an hour, we encountered nothing particular; but we had received an aug- mentation of passengers, some of whom were folk belonging to “ the port," seemingly creditable, well-doing bodies, but of an auld-fashioned cut; and i jealouse, no excessive customers to the cloth-merchant. i say not this, however, out of ony hankering of mind because i happen to be in that line myself, but altogether as a natural observe for a traveller to make upon them. having landed the port-glasgow bodies, i inspected my fellow-passengers with an inquisitive eye, in order to discover who among them was likely to prove the most instructive companion; and after a careful perusal of their ex- ternals, i made choice of a young man, with a fair complexion, coarse hempen hair, a round face, and eyes of a light blue colour; and i soon learnt by his longue, which was a broken english, that he was of a foreign stock; but not the steam. bort. no. iii. [may, to summer and winter on this fact, i may just at once say that he was a nors- man from norway, who had been at greenock, to open a correspondence about deals, and hemp, and iron, and the other commodities that abound, as he in- formed me, in all the countries circumjacent to the baltic sea, from the neva of petersburgh and riga, where the balsam comes from, so good for cutted fingers and inward bruises. at first we held a loose kind of preliminary interlocutory concerning the views on the clyde around us, the which he declared were of a surpassing beauty; and really it is not in the power of nature to do more for any lands- cape than she did on that pleasant evening. the heavens were hung, as it were, with curtains of visible glory; the hills were glowing like opal and ame- thyst, and the sea, that we were sailing, was as a lake of molten gold, shewing within its bosom another heaven and another earth ; between and which, the steam-boat was bearing us along like a mighty bird, through the tranquillity ofthe mid-air. “ i have seen nothing like this,” said the norsman, “since i was at spitzbergen;" and then he proceeded to relate to me the following story of his adventures, in that desart island, -all which i have set down, word for word, as he spoke the same to me:- tale v. spitzbergen. “ two year gone past i had much der cloud, which is like one balcony time and nothing to do, and having an for the little angels to look down upon affection for the strange things of na us in the steam-boat moving on the ture, i volunteered in my own mind, glass of this silent water. to go for pleasures of the chase to very well, we went away vit the spitzbergen. for this purpose i did tide, and we came to one part of spitz- hire a small ship, vit two mast, at got- bergen, where we saw the great rocks tenburgh, and sailed vit her round to of the coal. there is the coal for all the north cape. it was the first week the world, when you can find no more in june then, and we had such fine in this country; and there is likewise weather, that the sea was all as one the trunks of trees which come in the great field of smooth oil.-it was as corrents of the ocean, and are piled up calm as ice. in the bays by the paterage, that is by “at the north cape i went on shore what you call the lifting up of the to the land, where there is plenty of waves.—my got, what values of woods birds to shoot, and when i was gone be there, all broken in these bays of up the hill vit my gon, the tide went spitzbergen. away and left my ship on a great stone, “ very well, we sailed alongside the by which her bottom was much wound- coast, and there we came to one estu- ed, and the water came in. the sail- ary, opening into the bowels of the ors, however, when i had come back, land, and i made the sailors to navi. did not tell me of this adversity, but gate into the same, and went in and in, permitted me to sail for spitzbergen more than seventy-five mile, and were vit a hole in the bottom, which was not arrived at the sack-end. it may very bad of tem ; for if they had not cut the country to the other side, for i done so, i would have gone to the do not know that it does not—there is pole. by the living heavens, sir, i no corrent when you have passed by would have gone to the pole—there one little strait-the purse-mouth of was nothing to stop me; for i saw from the place; and therefore i do think an high hill in spitzbergen, when we myself it does not cut the country to were arrived there, all the sea clear to the other side, but is one firth like this the nort. , so beautiful it was, wherein we are now taking our plea- there vas no more to stop me from go- sures. ing to the pole, than there is now, if i “very well, we came back to anchor bad the wings, from flying up to you- in that estuary, under a rock, all on- .] spitzbergen. vered vit the lichen plant; it was as where there was no stream for the eider if the stones vere beginning to grow duck, nor any little thing that makes into the civilization of a soil, and to the sound on the earth. it was a yield the food for the sheep and the strange silence to feel in the sunshine cows that go about the farms, making – , it was a cold silence, and it made the fields so riant and merry vit life. me to cower into myself, as if one dead but no sheep nor cows ruminate in man had come out of his niche in the spitzbergen, only grand troops of rein- clay, and put his hand of earth upon deer, and such thousands of the eider my bosom. but when it is the time ducks, no man can reckon what thou- to be awake, then there is a noise and sands be there of eider ducks; and then charm in the air-birds fly—the ei- upon the shore in the bays, there be der ducks come in clouds—the rein- likewise such number of the morse, vit deer jump vit the gladness of renewed their red eyes, tam brutes, how they strength, and the morse on the shore did roll their red eyes at me, when i –tam brutes-open their red eyes. one day came into a creek where they “ very well, i must now tell you were on the shore, hundreds of them of mine adventure, and what made all together. i fired my gun, and they me to say that this beautiful evening rowed into the deep water--my got, on the clyde is like the lovely stillness how the tam brutes, vit their red eyes, that i saw in spitzbergen. did splash in the water. they were “ i went vit my gun to shoot the like three thousand paddles of the rein-deer and the eider duck, and i steam-boat, all going at one time from was alone, and nobody vit me upon the same momentum. it would be one the silent hills ; and i went up to the rich thing to go to these bays in spitz- top, the crown of the head of one high bergen, where the morse sleeps, tam mountain, which rose like a pyramid brutes, and close them in on all sides over many other steeple hills; and softly, vitout disturbing them in their from that place i saw the ocean all composure. i have formed the fine clear-not an iceberg in the horizon- speculation for going there some one all was open towards the pole. by the day, vit a contrivance that i have made living heavens, had the pole been one the idea of in my brain, by which i mast, i could have seen it myself that vill kill, in one season, tree thousand day; the air was so like nothing be- morse, ay more than tree thousand tween me and where it is. morse, tam brutes—how i would have “ very well: while i was sitting the satisfaction in killing tem all. there by myself, like the last man of “ but though there be much game the world, all other men being dead, for the pleasures at spitzbergen, it is and no motion stirring, and sound be- one serious, one grave place. i do not came dumb as death, i turned mine mean a churchyard ; but, as you would eyes to one little creek below, and there say, a country so empty of living noi- i discovered a ship at anchor. i had ses, that it is only fit for death, and the rejoicing palpitations in mine heart not for life to be. there was no night when i saw that vessel ; and, leaving while i was there; but the time to be mymeditations on the top of the moun- awake, and the time to be asleep, was tain, i went down towards hier ; but, marked out by nature in one dreadful as i came nearer and nearer, a strange manner; more thrice dreadful it did fear came upon me, and i could not seem to me than is the dark night, vit think what the ship could be doing the thunder in the clouds, and the fire there. she had a wild appearance spouting from a black sky. the sun few of her ropes were fastened—they went round about the hills, as if in hung dangling like men that are put quest of a place to set, and found none into chains for justice ; and her sails --then he did rise up again, when he were loose and full of holes, like the was low down, almost at the bottom old scutcheons in the tombs of the of the hill. that was the point of con- dukes of housenstadt in hungaria. cordance vid midnight, when the so “ but i made my heart big, and lemnity of the air was palpable to mine went on till i could see that the ship ear. one time when i had fallen asleep had been anchored there a long time. on the rocks, i happened to awake at —many years-all was so weather.. that time i was then alone-solitary worn about her. her seams gaped like -all by myself-in a dumb valley, hunger, and her cordage was like the vol. ix x the steam boat no. iii. [may, old trees that are furred with the lichen forcing open the door, entered it. it plant. as i was standing there, lookwas more dreadful than a sepulchre ; ing at her, and thinking where all her for there lay the bones of a dead man. seamen had gone, i saw eleven little his head had been pulled off by the mounds on the shore, and at the head tam foxes, and lay some distance from of each there was a cross, set up for a what had been his body. there was sign to shew they were the tomh-beds at his side four, five, seven muskets of christian peoples. i was made cold loaded ; a pitcher vit rye meal in it, by seeing this, and, looking round, i and another pitcher vit some water. discovered in the lea of a hollow rock while i was looking at this spectrum, one small hut, almost in ruin. the there came some one behind me, and foxes of the mountain had made a hole laid his hand on my shoulder."- through the roof. i went to it, and, here the norseman's tale was broken by the engine stopping. we had reach- ed, while he was thus conversing, bowling bay, where it behoved him, on affairs of business, to leave the steam-boat, he having an expectation of a vessel coming through the canal from grangemouth, with iron and deals from the baltic. fain would i have heard the rest of his story, but no persuasion of mine could make him come on to glasgow, so i was obligated to submit to the disappointment with as resigned a temper as i could exercise ; and i could not but on this oc- casion liken travelling in a steam-boat to the life of temporal man, where our joys are cut off in the fruition, and adversity comes upon us like a cloud, or a frost that nips the bud in the blowing. so i sat in this frame of mind, pon- dering on the uncertain pleasures of this life, and looking with an eye of com- passion on the stately houses and plantations that our principal merchants and manufacturers have built on high and pleasant places, thicker and thicker, till they are lost in the smoke and confusion of our tarshish; for verily, from all that i can read, hear, and understand, the city of glasgow is waxen like tyre of old, where traders are like princes. between nine and ten o'clock, i found myself safe and sound once more in the comfortable house of mrs maclecket, in the salt-market, having been absent near to fifteen hours, in the compass of which i had travelled by sea full two- and-forty miles ; and so well pleased was i with what i had seen and learnt, that i told the mistress it was my design to make another voyage, the which she highly approved, and said there was a visible sun-burnt alteration in my look, that shewed how well travelling agreed with my constitution. we had then a bit of supper in our wonted familiarity together, and in due season retired to our respective rests.-so ends the account and journal of my first voyage. henry schultze, and other poems. certain innovations made by that of painting, in which national charac- class of modern poets who write nar- teristics are studiously brought out ; ratives, seem to have been productive both of which peculiarities the verse- of happy effects; we more especially men of the last age thought too undige allude to that fresher sense of verisi- nified for poesy. open to ridicule as militude which they cast around their the practice may be of bestowing upon handyworks, by inventing and employ- the personages who figure in rhyme, a ing probable names of persons and sort of real-life patronymic, and even places, and by giving in their descrip- baptismal appellative-and the wags tions certain touches of a still-life sort have not been slow to seize upon the • henry schultze, a tale; the savoyard, a french republican's story; with other poems, mo. c. and j. ollier, london, . .] henry schultze, and other poems. opportunity-yet we truly believe that a name for verse,) the poem might the leonard ewbanks and barbara have gained something by it. of course, lewthwaites, the matthews and ruths, what we have said must not be taken of wordsworth, and those of later crea- too strictly, for we do not go all the tion, the phæbe dawsons and isaac lengths of tristram shandy's father ashfords of crabbe, have been of use; about names ; we have been speaking these names have not been without of an inferior constituent in fictitious their share in making these poets' pic- history, but still we advance the asser. tures of manners more impressive- tion that the use of actual names has they have helped to print the indivi- helped to improve costume in poems. duality of the characters with ten times many a versifier would attribute good, more power upon the memory, than honest, english accessories, to the abode would take place if we listened to the of a michael or a margaret, though sameadventures, if related of a “hoary- with such ordinary matter he would headed alcander," or a “ tearful la- scruple to pollute his diction, if the vinia." if we have to detail the lowly dwelling were that of a menalcas or a lot and hapless loves of a celadon and mysis. names of a natural semblance amelia, the scenery about them will set our recollections stirring-we can perforce assume the air of a book-pas- besides more easily recur to them, and toral, for we can scarcely have the still find ourselves among fellow-coun- hardihood to give a nymph and swain trymen. welove to know the real names so denominated, a genuine english of those in whom we are interested, cottage, with plates on the shelf and for they are as much part and parcel ballads on the wall. the very first of the idea of them as their counte- glimpse of the names of damon and nances, their voices, or their attire. we phyllis, are terribly provocative of as- could, therefore, be well content to sociations with kids and baa-lambs, learn what was the name of shenstone's crooks and garlands, scrips and oaten schoolmistress, knowing so perfectly, as pipes, with an assortment, moreover, we do, her looks, her dress, her chair, of love-knots and posies, carved on the spinning wheel and bible, her garden, rind of a tree; nor is a certain dog, and the green plot before her door, not with a ribband round his neck and an- forgetting the quivering birch-tree swering to the name of tray, altoge- which grew upon it; nor, indeed, ther forgotten. now most of these would we turn a deaf ear, if the sur- things have very few types amidst the name of beattie's edwin were pro- pastoral population of great britain, nounced within our reach of hearing. among which (upless unnaturalness be the other improvement we adverted a presumption against it) the said da- to, (not a new one indeed, but it is now mon and phyllis were, in verses of a perhaps more universally followed,) is date a little gone by, implied to have that of accommodating their descrip- a parochial settlement. for our parts tions to the accurate features of some we like the ground-work of poetic story- known country. bards do not now, as telling to be somewhat natural, unless many did no long time since, settle indeed the poet balloons us up into the the men and women creatures of their giddy regions of pure imagination- imagination, in a land of most hetero- otherwise, heap about the tale as many geneous materials, where the concomi- poetic accompaniments as you please, tants of the torrid and temperate zones but let the basis of some of its interest are rife throughout all seasons. by a arise from its reflection of truth, or of little more circumspection in poetical something truth-like. the effect of geography, england is not now so of, falconer's shipwreck, in which the ten made a mere land of bowers and actors are avowedly british mariners, flowers, and purling streams, where is in some respects diminished, by his the meadows allow of rural dances on having given them such unreal names their sod all the live-long year. our as palemon and albert. the main in- native land is confessed to have much cident (whether truly or not) is said cold weather, much wet and mist, so to have been suggested by something as not to be altogether in an out-o'- similar which happened to himself: door climate ; it is not concealed that now had he given his own name also, its pastoral districts are comparatively or one as good, to his hero, (for wila barren, and that where the soil teems ham falconer would not now be thought with fátness, our swains have made it either too familiar or too unmelodious rather unromantically arable. southey henry schultze, and other poems. (may, the tale opens is perhaps pre-eminently happy in sei- in the work under notice, a well contri- zing upon objects of nationality in his ved story is feigned to account for his landscapes-look at llaian's dwelling cruel determination of being so deli- in madoc-forty or fifty years ago, no berate a suicide ; and the poem itself one would have dared in an heroic is supposed to consist of extracts from poem to mention "crooked apple trees, the journal of the hapless man. this rough with their fleecy moss and mis- fragmentary mode gets rid of some of seltoe," growing in an orchard, ona grey the difficulties of maintaining unabated mountain-slope, fenced by low stone- interest in the connecting parts of a lines of wall, and neighboured by a story,—but we must object that it is little field of “ stubble hax." yet who not regular professional practice it is does not accept it as a vivid and natu- an escape per sultum—the gordian- ral picture of a secluded spot in wales ? knot is severed for the nonce, not dis- wordsworth may again be cited, for entangled. not that we greatly care he fearlessly (and, as we think, often how a poet pleases us, if he does but felicitously) introduces not only closely succeed in doing so. copied views of his native lake-scenery with henry schultze's relation of his into his poems, but their very names courtship of constance. are also given us in them; and certain- " we often rambled by the sea-beach side ly what he so presents to us is there. at eve, when the wind breathed not, and by more clearly apprehended.. al the tide, though “ the evening star,” the cot- outstretched at giant-length, in deep re- tage of old michael, be ed, yet the pose, scite may be traced out in grasmere lay heaving onward, onward, till it rose vale, (at least our conception is so into the distant blue, and bore on high like reality, that we can seem to do sail, mast, and banner with it to the sky. it,) for it was on a plot of rising ground the frequent seal shot up from out the where it deep his smooth black head, and from the neigh- “ stood single, with large prospect, north bouring steep and south, the sea-mew leap'd to skim before our high into easedale up to dunmail-raise.” path, now also, when our metrical wri- or scream above us her unheeded wrath. ters lay their scenes abroad, they are here arm-in-arm, we roam'd all free and not quite so chary of“ a local habita lone; tion and a name;" but if their business climb'd many a path and sat on many a lies in france, they prepare for us de- stone, nominations of people and places, in spoke the fiul heart unnoted, unrepressid, and told the love that swell'd in either sounds appropriately clattering or na- breast : sal,-if in germany, appropriately gut- here would we linger, till the star of even tural and lumbering, as if the sylla- look'd out upon us like an eye in heaven; bles were “ a neat post-waggon trot and saw us still upon the yellow sands, ting in.” breathing soft vows, and pledging trem- it is time, however, to put a stop to bling hands; our remarks, which are meant to usher and warnd my village maid at last to in our account of the first tale, in a flee neat anonymous volume of poems late- home through the falling dews from night ly published by messrs olliers. it pos- and me.”—pp. , . sesses not only the subordinate merits this is a beautiful appeal to our sym- upon which we have been dilating, pathy for the young pair, and it is but also the more important ones of wrought up with no mean skill in ver- spirit, taste, and feeling. a slight sification. after talking, however, in preface informs us, that it was found- our prefatory remarks, so much about ed on the fact recorled in a german local propriety, perhaps we ought to journal, of a man broken down by dis- object a little, that this sea-side stroll tresses, who carried into effect his re- has more of an english than german solution of starving himself in a soli- complexion about it, for germany is tary place: the stranger part of the hardly at all a maritime country. let incident is, that he was found to have it pass—the author may perhaps de- daily recorded, in notes pencilled in a fend himself by saying, that the scene memorandum book, the bodily sensa. of actiou is laid upon the sea-coast of tions which he experienced, till within shakespeare's bohemia, where perdita a very short time previous to his decease. was exposed ! high authority this, to .] henry schultze, and other poems. stone and you gainsay a critic, and make him roll up tall blocks of granite here and there were his map! ere the first extract con placed, cludes, we hear of their marriage,— like giant sentinels, along the waste. their setting up in trade,—their quiet but living sound and object there was domestic occupations, and their enjoy; save where afar from some huge mass of ment of the rest weekly brought round by the sabbath, the frighted eagle scream'd, or round its with all its sweets, base of pleasant bells, closed shops, and quiet skulk'd the grey wolf to gain her hiding streets : place. and we put on our best, and slowly trod still we moved on in silence. “well, my amid our neighbours to the house of god. friend, there i and constance breathed our happy we've made some progress to our journey's prayers, end.' and sent our praises up along with theirs; a nod was all my answer. • what,' he and there, i fear, my pride oft rose to see cried, none so devout and beautiful as she. have you no tongue to speak, my honest then would we walk forth arm-in-arm to guide ? share are you in grief, or yet in love, and loth the breezy freshness of the country air, to have your thoughts disturb'd ?'—“per- and tread the clover down, and by the haps in both. brook in both ? () then your case is bad ! but seck flowers and hawthorn for our chimney how ? nook; some scornful shepherdess rejects your or seated on some sloping bank survey vow ?' the beasts enjoying round their sabbath i did not say so.'- what! she kind, play ; or the tall windmill, or the distant hill, still sad?' _ nay, we are married.'- paying its lofty homage, mute and still. married too! swift fled the hours." p. . and have you children ?'_three.'- in the second fasciculus, we find “you make me stare ! they have three children; in the third, your wife and you are on good terms ?'- • we were.'- an agreeable lodger; in the next, con- • how then, has she turn'd shrew, or stance is depicted as half seduced by what ?' — nay, more; him, a villain came and changed her to a whore." * only happy when away from me, pp. , . and most so in von khulmann's com- pany." schultze continues in a disguised the succeeding portion shews her voice to describe the perfidy of the as a guilty thing, conscious of her wretch he is addressing, and his disco- crime, and confessing all to her hus- band, -penitent, but not desirous of “ ile fled. i followed him. revenge has pardon or favour. schultze cannot wings, hate her, though he determines to part and, like the lightning, on her victim from her; and plans a scheme of ven- springs, from whence he knows not. at a lucky geance upon the seducer. hour, * i track'd him well. he slept at kreitz when dreaded least, i had him in my that night ; power, and if a guide was found, at morning light found time and place, the wretch his design’d to cross the mountains, and would crimes to tell, then and might have sent, at once, his soul to be safe, he deem'd, from every hostilc ken. hell ! disguised, i offer'd to direct his way, but the thought cross'd me; such an act abd was received." --p. . would be the place chosen for retribution is unmanly, and more fit for him than me. draw then, damnd villain, draw !' i said, well imagined. and threw * up the long steep in silent speed we my beaver up, and gave my face to view. passid, he stood aghast. and now we reach'd the mountain's brow at last. - see, yon cagle clamorous for his a lonely table-land on every side, fare, thence spread its level samencss, dull and and fiends are buddling round us fast to wide. bear very of it. € henry schultze, and other poems. [may, grasp'd thy perjured soul away.' his sword he savageness; no heart-wringing repent- drew; ance drives him to offer an all-inadequate and on him, like a hurricane, i flew ; recompence for the miseries he has dash'd from his hand the feeble steel, and caused; but all is indolent self-satis- clasp'd, and bore him headlong to the ground, and faction, and confident assurance. it is not more improbable, than discordant my dagger next to stab him as he lay to right feeling, to make the employ- but cre i raised it, he was swoon'd away. ment of a heretofore blood-boultered already had my sabre left its trace, revolutionist, a cool projector of noyades deep in the wretch’s pale and mangled and fusillades, that of sitting in a little face. lonely eden, and declaring that here an eye was wrench'd from 'neath his fore. head grim, “ amidst my crops of flowers and maim'd, i deem for life, one quiver- and kneel beneath the open sky, i muse away my vacant hours ; ing limb. base as he was, i could not seal his fate, and serve my god at liberty."-p. . nor stoop to butcher him in such a state. the author seems to have suspected i rose, and turn'd away, and homeward something of this, for he makes an ex- trod, cuse in his preface, where he says that and left him there to conscience, and to god." he" by no means pledges himself for p. . the absolute correctness of the religi- henry's wife dies—so do his chil ous emotions there exhibited.” dren-he falls into utter penury, and still there is a good deal of striking fails to obtain employment or commi- poetry in different places in the savoy- seration, and the story is wound up by ard, and the relation of his returning the information of those who found recollections of the pious lessons incul. him expiring in the forest. the quo- cated by his mother in childhood is tations we have made will enable our well made, and the incident is natural. readers to see that the author, whoever he be, is possessed of true poetic powers, “ in confirmation, word on word, rose sweetly too from memory's store, and has much command of language; truths, which in other days i heard, some of his epithets are new, and pe but never knew their worth before. culiarly happy. lodged by a mother's pious care “ the savoyard," though a longer in the young folds of thought and sense, poem, is inferior to “ henry schultze, like fire in flint, they slumber'd there, and it appears to us to have been writ till anguish struck them bright from ten before it. it wants distinctness and thence. force; vagueness is its chief fault ; the the beacon lights of holy writ, sketch of the french revolution in it they one by one upon me stole ; passes before us like some vast smother- through winds and waves my pathway lit, ing cloud, which bears neither shape nor and chased the darkness from my soul.” p. . feature for the memory to lay hold up- on, and until we come to the dream in if our guess be right that henry prison, we take little personal interest in schultze is the latest written produc- the adventures of the savoyard himself. tion of this author, his progress is great, his consolation too, at last, although and the heroic measure appears to af- he looks to the right source, is too fa- ford the best display for his talents. natical. the reader will not readily ac we shall hope to meet with him again; commodate himself to the sudden re- and, as we have avowed a love for ligious tranquillity of one whom he names, we shall have no disinclination has just seen embruing his hands in to learn that, by which we are to de- blood ; one, in whom no active love to signate him among the successful poets man seems to take place of his former of the present day. .] on vulgar prejudices against literature. on vulgar prejudices aginst literature. yes, every poet is a fool; by demonstration, ned can show it : happy, could ned's inverted rule prove every fool to be a poet. prior. there is nothing more to be lament- from their acquaintance; of those who ed, and yet nothing more true, than seeing him on the street, that the “profanum vulgus," the com. “ estranged in heart, with quick averted mon mass of mankind, look on mental glance superiority with a jealous and jaun- pass'd on the other side ! diced eye; and, as if chagrined at their it is natural for parents and friends to own inferiority, or determined to make rejoice at the expanding blossoms of a up for it by petulance, seem to feel, fine intellect, and observing the ho- and to act from the conviction, that nours of school carried off by one in the superior gifts of the creator ought whom they have so powerfully an in- to subject the possessor to the derision terest, they expect nothing else than of society, or to the insolent sneers of that, by their developement, a portion invidious malignity. indeed, we can of their splendour will be reflected on discer no situation in human society them. and, doubtless,-if they could more to be pitied than that of the be content to wait for it. they expect youth who is prematurely and fatally him to enter, body and soul, into the conscious of the possession of superior bustle and contention of the world, talents, and who fondly, but too falla- and there follow up the superiority of ciously anticipates the distinction that his early days—but alas! his apparent is to accrue to him from their deve- listlessness surprises them. they ex- lopement; whose heart refuses to fol- pect him to exhibit all the fervour of low the tide of the world, and whose commercial enterprize and specula- thoughts, truants to the passing scene, tion-and lo! he neither makes his are ever wandering amid the anticipa- idol of precious stones nor of fine gold. ted brilliancies of his future career. they expect him to tread “ prefer- he beholds his less-gifted brethren pur- ment's pleasant paths," whereas he suing their various occupations with a turns into one beset with rocks and zeal, an industry and success, that difficulties, with the briers and the seems to reflect discredit on the back- thorns of disappointment. wardness of his own fate, and puts his - should they not have known, tardiness to the blush. immersed in if the rich rainbow on the morning cloud the common-place routine of business, reflects its radiant dyes, the husbandman or in the pursuit of some fashionable beholds the ominous glory, and foresees trifle, and splendid folly, the world impending storms !—they augured hap- disdains to sympathize with one who pily is an alien to all that they think, and that thou didst love each wild and won- to all that they do, while the paltry of faery fiction, and thine infant tongue sycophant, whose thoughts never soar- ed above the consideration of his own lisp'd with delight the godlike deeds of greece selfish interests, his hopes of prefer- and rising rome; therefore they deem'd, ment, or the unholy thirst for gold, forsooth, can point the finger of scorn as he that thou should'st tread preferment's passes by, and with a look that betrays pleasant path. the venom of his heart, seem to mur. [ -judging ones! they let thy little feet mur,-“ behold the idler." stray in the pleasant paths of poesy ; how proudly indignant, yet how and when thou should'st have prest amid feelingly, does southey inform us of the crowd, the difficulties he had to encounter, there did'st thou love to linger out the day, and the prejudices he had to overcome, loitering beneath the laurel's barren shade. was the wanderer even among those who once professed spirit of spenser ! friendship for him, but who now, ob- serving his mistaken conceptions and all this has been suffered a thou. conduct, were anxious to shake him off sand times, and must be borne ; but wrong?" on vulgar prejudices against literature. [may, let the unfortunate devotee remem more accurate fidelity to nature, than ber, that the world has never, in a they do the labourer at his task, or the single instance, refused to congratu- clown in his hours of relaxation-the late success, nor the nobler part of our country girl at her wheel, or the hoary nature to pay the homage due to de- mendicant begging alms by the road sert-their tribute to cæsar. envy is side; a thing which could not be ac- an ingredient in selfish and grovel- complished without a complete drama- ling, in paltry minds alone; but the tic metamorphosis, for the time, of the truly great and honourable, when a author into the subject of his delinea- glorious emulation fails, do not hesi- tion, and the total resignation of all tate to make a generous confession, selfish thoughts, and all selfish feel- and, forgetting all the petty trammels ings, and the abandonment of every of hostility and party spirit, come for- thought and assumption of superiority ward and add their unreluctant ap- into the hands of our common nature. plause to the general acclamations of it is justly remarked by southey, in mankind. let it be remembered, that his feeling and pathetic life of kirk the overcoming of difficulties is one of white, that he never knew any one, the purest and principal sources of gra- distinguished for genius and superior tification ; that the tranquillity which mental acquirements, who was not re- succeeds to a tempest is doubly de- markable for bashfulness and want of lightful, from the contrast of the mut- confidence in his earlier years. cicero tering thunder, and gloomy cloud, to has also told us, that when he saw a the whispers of the gentle breeze, and young orator embarrassed in the com- the azure of an untroubled sky; and mencement of his speech, he was sure that the glory of achievement is exact- something good was to follow from ly commensurate to the hazard of the him. when hundreds of less-cultiva- enterprize. leonidas, with his hand- ted and accomplished minds, scattered ful of patriots in the straits of ther- around their rhetorical common-pla- mopylæ, proved himself superior to ces with fortitude and assurance, the xerxes with his hundreds of thou- gentle, the dignified, the classical ad- sands of invaders; and the retreat of dison, with difficulty could overcome general moore, is a higher specimen his modest reluctance, though truth of military mastership than the pur- pointed his remarks, and eloquence suit of bonaparte. a general who, dwelt upon his tongue, and was often with a thousand men, would attack so much overcome by the delicacy of his adversary at the head of five times his feelings, as to be almost incapable that number, and be defeated, would of proceeding. enjoy the reputation of being a very but the multitude have very diffe- great fool ; but, if he happened to be rent ideas on the subject. the silence the conqueror, no one would dispute of a literary man is construed into his claim to the honours of a triumph. contempt, and his temperance into a it would appear that one of the vul- gloomy and methodistical unsociality. gar prejudices against literary men ori- if he speaks much, it is from the pride ginates in the notion that they regard of shewing his abilities; if he dresses every thing around them with a su- well, he is a conceited coxcomb; if he percilious disdain, as being of small habits himself plainly, he is a careless regard, in comparison with the more sloven. every thing doubtful in his lofty projects, and the more splendid conduct is looked on in the darkest of designs which occupy their attention; its bearings. every gossip is glad to and that being in quest of a nobler des- hear and to promulgate an evil report tiny than their neighbours, they are against the aspirant after distinction; unwilling to allow them to possess that the report of his foibles, like a ball degree of appreciation to which their rolled along a snowy surface, grows more limited abilities, nevertheless, larger as it proceeds; and, in its pass- unquestionably entitle them. now age from mouth to mouth, is magni- this, we do not hesitate to say, is an fied like my landlady's account of the erroneous idea, wholly incorrect, and mad dog, or the story of the three destitute of all foundation ; for shake- black crows of cheapside. all are re- speare and scott, two of the mightiest joiced to discover him tripping, to geniuses that the world has ever seen, prove that he is not “the faultless do not pourtray the character of a king, monster that the world ne'er saw ; or a courtier, with greater zest, and and the owls and the bats of the world, .] on vulgar prejudices against literature. in solemn conclave, determine with ac bear ; what is reckoned a trifle by one, elamation that the eagle is blind. may occasion the most heart-rending there is no doubt-and it is not to anguish in another. when socrates be denied—that another of the princi- heard the sentence of his banishment, pal prejudices against learning origi- he said that the whole world was his nates in a much more reasonable way, country, but ovid sighed in his exile and from a far juster cause,-the er for the scenes of his nativity; and rors that too frequently spring up in while cardinal de retz amused him- the constitution of genius. it is cu- self with writing the life of his gaoler, rious, that the soil most remarkable for tasso fretted himself to madness in fertility, is denoted by nothing more the solitude of his dungeon. correctly than by the luxuriancy of its when we reflect that education soft- weeds. no doubt, the alienation of ens the manners and refines the feel- the world already mentioned, and the ings, appetency for pure delight, so fre “ emollit mores, nec sinit esse feros ;" quently disappointed, and the superior so that one of the most prevailing cha- temptations afforded to a literary man, racteristics of men of genius is the may be brought in as a kind of apolo- great extent in the range of their plea- gy, and, if not as a proper excuse for surable and painful associations, their the error, at least in mitigation of its increased sensibility to impulses from heinousness. but to this we by no without, and to impulses from with- means consent. that man that walks in, we will be more inclined to sympa- astray through ignorance and dark- thise with those whom neglect has ness, and frailty of intellect, may be driven to despair, or disappointment tolerated and forgiven “ seventy-and- enticed into the unhallowed and hate- seven times, but he who walks astrayful regions of error. finding but sel- in the clear sunshine, and against the dom that harmony and felicity in mix. remonstrances of the monitor within, ed society which they are prone to seek richly deserves, and ought to suffer all after, it is not at aŭ marvellous that the odium of his guilt and folly. they should sometimes seek after it in " neither florid prose, nor honied lies of an erroneous path ; but these frailties rhime, are, in by far the greater number of can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a instances, the offspring neither of cold- crime." ness of heart, nor corruption of cha- but the truth is, that justice is not racter : they are the delusive and tem- often dealt; this prejudice of the world porary schemes to baffle affliction, and comes between, and hood-winks truth. by far more prejudicial to themselves the exonerating part of the plea is than others, resorted to in the hour of purposely and maliciously left out, and suffering, but hated and loathed and the culpable shades wrapt in tenfold despised in the calm of mental con- darkness. often has the very accusae templation and serenity. tion of guilt led to the consequences it we wish to make some distinction deprecated ; nor is there a surer me. between errors of feeling and errors of thod of rendering crimes general, than principle—between the backslidings of by giving them publicity, and suppo an unguarded moment and the invete- sing them to be common; for whatever rate perversion of moral sensibility, as is very common, it is supposed cannot the stream may be either polluted in be very wrong. no woman ever found, its course, or spring sullied and muda or fancied herself a witch, till she was dy from its fountain-head. we can suspected of being so. what can be sympathise with the unfulfilled pro- more unwarrantable than our method mises of pleasure, with the rainbow of determining the character of the un- hopes that beckoned, and eluded such fortunate? the extent of the temptgifted, and noble, and lofty-spirited ation is wholly put out of view, and beings as burns and byron. we can the degree of the evil incurred is sup- allow ourselves to participate in their posed to be greater or less, according sufferings, though self-inflicted, and as it falls from him from whom better to offer something in extenuation of things might have been expected. it their follies, for they were not destined is seldom or never a matter of reflec- for the dull routine of society, for tion how the sufferers are formed to “ they have not loved the world, nor vol. ix. y on vulgar prejudices against literature. [may, the world them ;" and with all the town, while his reputation as a poet capabilities of the most exalted, puri- was a barrier, which all the strenuous fied, and refined pleasurable emotions, efforts he made in his professional ca- found too often all their magic visions reer, were insufficient to overcome. but a dream, and all their expectations armstrong shared the same fate.- of rapture subsiding to the dull sun- blackstone, when he betook himself less gloom of misery ; but for the er- to the study of law, was obliged to bid rors of a perverted intellect, and an a farewell to the muse; so fared it un feeling heart, we have nothing to be with lord mansfield, of whom pope stow but contempt and execration. says, it is fortunate that the facul ies “how sweet an ovid was in murray lost !" which, whether from natural consti- darwin, with more unpoetical pru- tution or education, predominate in a dence, concealed his studies till his man's mind, are not easily turned medical reputation was established ; aside from their peculiar bent. had it and home was deprived of the pasto- been otherwise, we might at this day ral care of his parish, for daring to have had no groundless cause of com- compose one of the noblest and most plaint. the father of pascal shut up beautiful tragedies in the english lan- euclid from him, and would, on no guage. account, allow him to apply himself to strange, that what forms the glory the study of the mathematics; and the of our nature, and assimilates us to father of petrarch, observing the turn of superior orders of intelligence, should his son's mind towards elegant litera- be the object against which vulgar pre- ture, endeavoured to give a finishing judice discharges its shafts! strange, blow to the propensity, by burning his that the essence and fountain of all library. sir isaac newton was obliged moral rectitude, and political improve- to betake himself to a hay-loft, that he ment, should be polluted with the ve- might pursue his studies without mo rom of envy! strange, that the hand lestation; and benjamin haydon, the that offers happiness to virtúe, and greatest painter at present in europe, points the path of honourable distinc- was thwarted again and again, but to tion, should be thrust back, as it were, no purpose, in his devotions to his fa- filled with serpents, or directed the vourite science. in the estimation of way to everlasting infamy. socrates, some people, a man may give up his sir walter raleigh, and sir thomas leisure hours to any fashionable amuse- more, were persecuted to the death ment, he may be addicted to wine, he for defending the cause of truth, and may squander his money at play, he endeavouring to enlighten their fellow- may be guilty, in short, of almost any creatures; but though they feel it not, vice that can degrade the dignity, or it is soothing to think that posterity sully the purity of our nature, and yet has been as generous as their contem- be less obnoxious than he who devotes poraries were unjust, and that the re- his leisure to the cultivation of his verence which was denied to their per- mental faculties. what a crime it was sons, is paid to their memories. in addison to laugh at ignorance, to like the fly criticising the cupola of ridicule impoliteness, and endeavour st paul's, it is impossible for a con- to make learning fashionable! does tracted mind to comprehend, far less or does not his memory deserve the appreciate, the value of an exalted cha- execration of posterity? racter. if you allude to his powerful if the scandal of literature is at- generalization of thought,- to his mas- tached to any one's name, it is down terly command over the feelings,-to right murder committed on his repu- his unbounded range of imagination, tation and interest, and if his tempo- you will be answered with a “ pooh! ral advancement and worldly success what good are these to do to the world depend on his professional efforts, the or himself? are you in reality speak- veriest dunce, and the most igno- ing about the man whom i have seen rant pretender, have a greater chance walking about the streets at least a ot' success. the immortal locke, from hundred times, the person with the looking on our internal conformation blue coat and the shuffling gait?" with too philosophical an eye, was ac- “ yes,” if you answer," that is the counted too great a blockhead to be a very person to whom i allude. and physician. akenside attracted neither what is there in these to prevent his respect nor admiration in his native possessing these attributes ? julius cæ- .] on vulgar prejudices against literature. a stone." sar had a bald head ; alexander the honours lavished on the dead; and the great was a little man, and bona man who was allowed to roam the bar- parte could not have passed muster for ren heath of penury, a corporal of grenadiers.” then it will “ scorn'd by the world, and left without a be responded, “ all that may be very home," true, but these men lived in other and to encounter the biting blasts of countries, and every body says they are disappointment, has, when of no avail , great men." talk to a money-changer of the phi- ashes. to use the witty words of the a splendid mausoleum erected over his lanthropy of howard of the perils he satirical matthew prior, encountered, and of the difficulties he overcame of the countries he traver. “ he asked for bread, and they have given sed from the pure and unmingled love he bore to his fellow-creatures, with- but why all this lamentation and out the regards arising from the par. bitter regret ? as if the possession of tialities of country and kindred, nay: ward; as if the wealth of potosi could, genius were not of itself its own re- frequently in opposition to them-Óf the unremitting labours of his life, and for a moment, be put in competition of his death, worthy of such a life, and with it. what forms the dignity of you shall have a significant shake of man? what constitutes his excellen- the head, in response from the oracle ; cy among the orders of being? is it as much as to say “all very well, but not the comprehensive soul, that em- i can be better engaged.”. speak to braces in its grasp the beautiful and such a one of the eloquence of chalm the sublime ? the soul, that kindles ers-of his pure devotional lessons-of with the divine glow of enthusiasm, his fervent expostulations of his con- that turns indignantly from the per- vincing and overwhelming arguments versions of error, and exults, with a -of his “ turn ye, turn ye, why will generous pride, in the hopes of religion, ye die” and you shall have for answer, and in the purity of virtue? what is that he is a high-flier, a bigot, and an the we;lth of a cræsus to a heritage enthusiast. speak of othello-of the like this? what are the dominions of paradise lost-or of the excursion; cæsar, to the independence and the and you shall be told that shakespeare power concentrated in a single bosom? was a stage-player, and a deer-stealer: well may we agree with lord bacon, that milton was blind, and a republi- that“ knowledge is power.” can; and that wordsworth is a white “ then what are ye ! the mighty and the livered water-drinker, and a hypocon proud ! driacal recluse. ye rule but for an hour, but for an hour ; pure fams, and unmingled respect, your memories wither likethe yellow leaves, are glories, that, in a vast majority of the traces of your being fade away, instances, only overhang the grave. what are ye, when a century hath passºd ?” and weeds o'ertop your epitaphs unread :- paltry opposition is then ashamed of its resistance; and confounded preju the haunts of genius remain for dice often comes forward to express ever sacred-ahalo surrounds them in. contrition and repentance. when the effaceable by time. the trees under struggle of life is over, and when, af- which the poet has strayed shed a con- ter “ the fever of life," the slumbers secrated gloom; and the walls of the of death hang heavy around; then, home, where he erst made his abode, and frequently not till then, the mists are clothed with a borrowed majesty of error begin to be dispelled, and the and grace. the tomb of patroclus is structures of gerius appear in all their yet a hallowed object, from its mention native majesty and beauty; like the by “the blind old man of scio's rocky shadows that brood over a summer isle”-homer. the site of troy is landscape, and wrap hill and valley, sought after with a zeal and industry, and forest and streain, in wild confù- as if it could be restored to its original sion and disorder, till the golden sun- splendour ; or as if some great nation, rise dispels the illusion, and the hazir al blessings were to result from the ness, “ like an angel's veil, slow fold- discovery; or as if it reflected discredit ed up to heaven," leaves every thing on the human race to remain ignorant in the truth of native loveliness. the of its boundaries, or to give so celebra- neglect bestowed on the living, is en ted a name “ a local habitation.” the deavoured to be counterbalanced by the traveller in italy finds not an object, on vulgar prejudices against literature, (may, which, from the influence of a thou thanks to the diffusion of liberal sand endearing associations, has great and enlightened principles, and to the er attractions, than the tomb where the generosity of the present times, the ashes of virgil repose ; or the ruins case is now somewhat altered, and the of the forum, where the rulers of the evil alleviated. wealth no longer world hung entranced over the magic shrinks from paying deference to wis- eloquence that flowed from the lips of dom, and the first walks in the learn- cicero, pure ed professions are filled by men, emi- as from arabian trees nent for their literature. yet, with re- their medicinal gums." ret, it must be owned, that in every or, let us ask, has britain a greater department of civil society, there are claim to distinction among the nations still too many, whose views are as nar- of the world, from any one circum- row, whose ideas are as contracted, and stance, however celebrated it be in arts whose prejudices are as rooted as ever, and arms, than from its being the who seem, indeed, to glory in being birth-place of shakespeare ? and if the acquainted only with the one thing celebration of the anniversary of wa- needful. they are like the guides who terloo be held in the farthest settle undertake to conduct strangers over ments of india, so is the anniversary certain districts of the alps, and can of the birth of robert burns, the pas describe every thing with the utmost toral poet of scotland. precision within a limited range ; but “encamped by indian rivers wild, who are as ignorant as the man in the the soldier, resting on his arms, moon, (though, by the by, he is be. in burns's carrol sweet recalls ginning to take cognizance of the af- the scenes that blest him when a child, fairs of this world,) of every thing be- and glows and gladdens at the charms yond it. they are like horses yoked in of scotia's woods and waterfalls." á mill, that plod round, and round, when kingdoms, and states, and cic and round, until they are tired ; and, ties pass away, what then proves to be as the morning saw, the evening the most imperishable of their records, sees.” a lawyer of this class can talk the most durable of their glories? is well enough of special jurisdictions, it not the lay of the poet? the elo- and hornings, and captions, and ar- quence of the patriot? the page of the restments, and infeftments, and a thou- historian ? is it not the genius of the sand other tortuosities, which combine nation, imprinted on these, the most to veil the countenance of justice, and splendid of its annals, and transmitted to make law a trade. a clergyman of as a legacy, and a token of its vanished this class will confound your under- glory, to the after ages of mankind ? standing with a “ shadowy crowd" of and now, when the glories of greece pedantic opinions about purgatory, and rome are but shadows, does not gleaned from the dusty volumes of the our blood stir within us at the recital schoolmen-by a multitude of mysti- of their mighty achievements, and of cal notions concerning morality, and their majestic thoughts? which, but the tendency of sects; and by his abuse for the page of the chronicler, would of “ the scarlet woman who sitteth have been long ere now a blank and upon seven hills.”-and a physician of a vacancy; glory departed without a the same stamp will endeavour to ex- trace, or figures traced upon the sand, cite your astonishment by the recital and washed away by the returns of the of some particular cures effected by a tide. stomachic powder of his own, in severe “ oh! who shall lightly say that fame cases of the borborygmi in the intes- is nothing but an empty name? tinal canal ; of another example of the when, but for those, our mighty dead talicotian operation, whereby a nose, all ages past a blank would be, almost as good as the old one, lost in sunk in oblivion's murky bed, battles at home or abroad, was form- a desert bare, a shipless sea. ed, from the skin of the forehead care- they are the distant objects seen ; fully peeled down, and pinned to the the lofty marks of what hath been. side of the denuded cavities of the nos- oh! who shall lightly say that fame tril; or by some would-be philosophi- is nothing but an empty name? cal defence of german craniology. con- where memory of the mighty dead to earth-worn pilgrims' wistful eye tinue on topics like these, and their the brightest rays of cheering shed, screech-owl eloquence will flow that point to immortality.' - as boundless as the waters of the doep." . on vulgar prejudices against literature. but touch on any other subject ; let it it is “ more in pity than in anger," be on philosophy, or history, or general therefore, that we lament over the pre- literature, or even politics, and they judices that the vulgar retain against will “sit with sad civility,” as stupid science and literature ; though, too of- as bats, and as silent as pygmalion's ten, the professors of both are totally wife. dependent for all the comforts of life the remark of goldsmith is exceed- on the dictum of the public. what a ingly just, that the useful part of any “rueful martyrology," indeed, do the profession, whatever the professors may lives of philosophers and literary men say to the contrary, is easily acquired; present! yet what a glorious host, what and we shall venture to add, as easily a splendid assemblage of all that is retained. there is no excuse, there- lofty, and magnificent, and sublime, fore, for our stopping here, as if it were in human nature, do they constitute ! the ne plus ultra of acquirement, either what generous heart does not echo on the score of sufficiency, or of neces- back the fine ejaculation of words- sity; because it is an incontrovertible worth, fact, that the sphere of a man's use- “oh! that my name were mingled among fulness is proportionate, in a direct ra- theirs, tio, to the extent of his information, how gladly would i quitthis mortal sphere!" in any particular branch of science and art. improvers have seldom been so, blot them out from the history of the to the advancement of their own for world, and what would be the result ? tunes; but is it not a noble consolation what would remain behind but “the to think, that when we are no more, iron memories of kings and conque- our memories will be regarded with rors ?" what have civilization, and all respect and veneration ; that we will the elegancies of domestic life, de- be classed among the benefactors of pended on, but their agencies ? and our species; and that, when our grave- though many of them closed their eyes stones are mossed over, and sprinkled in death, with the weather-stains of ages, we “ with a sigh to find may receive the blessings of those who the unwilling gratitude of base mankind;" are reaping the benefits of our indus- yet time, who is the best chronicler of try. innovators, more especially if their all that is either worthless or praise- lessons run counter to the approved worthy, has dispelled the shadows and general practices of society, have which hovered around them, and fix- uniformly met with resistance; and ed them in beauty on that rock, which thisresistance, in many instances, seems is seen of all, and in that rank of es- to have been strong or weak, in the timation, which their merits deserve, direct proportion of the good which had columbus contented himself has been developed. numa pompi- with being a weaver, or shakespeare lius, whose mild philosophical temper with being a wool-stapler, or captain was insufficient, by natural means, to cook with being a cabin-boy, or john restrain the impetuous temper of rising locke with being a surgeon, or Şir rome, was obliged to feign nocturnal richard arkwright with being a hair- intercourse with the goddess egeria, dresser, or benjamin franklin with and succeeded in his designs, by thus being a printer, or james ferguson throwing over them the factitious lus- with being a shepherd, we do not think tre of a heavenly adviser. roger ba- that either science or society would con, who was born a century too soon, have had much reason to rejoice. suffered for his premature develope genius will assert its native supre- ment of science, in being suspected of an illicit intercourse with the evilone, macy; and let not the ignorant or the and condemned for this most true and will lower its triumph in the opinion vulgar suppose, that any effort of theirs proven crime, to the misery and the of the wise and good. it is like a light darkness of a cell. and. set on a high hill, which cannot be * the starry galileo with his woes," hid. the lightnings of envy, and the is an awful lesson to us of the igno- thunders of malice, flash and rumble rance and perversion of human nature, far below, leaving it in the pure ether operating, struggling against, and en- of heaven, encompassed with the splen- deavouring to annul the discoveries of dours of beauty and majesty. the philosopher. campaigns of the british army at wushington, $c. [may, caŃ paigns of the british army at washington, &c. * tuat any works which narrate events we are caught napping in the moment of such interest and importance as those of victory, and found perfectly stupified of the late war should in general be so by defeat. thedemon of dulness which intolerably dull, may appear at first haunts their works exercises perfect sight extraordinary. the cause, how- dominion over us; and at such times ever, we take to be simply this, that we have even detected ourselves cur- the writers are men of no talents, chiefly sing the scots greys, and wishing the belonging to the military profession, gallant forty second at the bottom of and of course just as well qualified to the sea. certain we are, that all the dissert on such subjects, as a chairman best accounts of the continental wars, to explain the wonders of the polar re- have been written by civilians, not by gions, or a scotch cadie to expound military men. the latter have been turkish law. such a writer is for ever beaten hollow on their own ground, heralding the exploits of his own little and now have not an inch to stand squad or battalion, recounting his upon; for even in novel writing the achievements on out-piquet, and dis women far excel them, and in baccha- gusting us, who care nothing about nalian songs we will match willison him, with some story of a rifleman glass, or the cobbler of falkirk, against sending a bullet through his thick legs, the best of them, and bet pompey's or a lancer breaking his sabre on his pillart to a stick of sealing wax on the still thicker scull . his narrative, too, issue. one of the most noted military is generally interlarded, by way of epi- works of the present age, for instance, sode, with the hair-breadth escapes and is the account of the egyptian cam- moving calamities of sundry youths paign by sir robert wilson. in a li- unknown to fame, the companions of terary point of view, a more contempt- his toils and dangers. we are quite ible work never issued from the press. ready to believe that major dobson we are convinced there were inany behaved well, and colonel jackson non-commissioned officers in sir ralph fought like a lion; but we really abercromby's army, who could have grumble at finding a dozen pages con- written quite as good a narrative of the sumed in explaining to us how the movements of the troops, and have ex- former had the mistortune to receive pressed themselves in much better lan- a bullet in his breech, and the latter guage ; and the difficulty only is to to lose his right whisker and three of conceive how any man could so com- his grinders. we believe it requires pletely succeed as he has done, in com- quite as much talent to describe a posing a work of which egypt was the battle well as to paint it on canvass, subject, containing no one syllable of and that the same keeping is necessary information in the least interesting to in both; but who, for instance, could the soldier, the scholar, the man of for a moment tolerate a picture of wa- science, or the philosopher. not one terloo, in which the chief figure was of his predecessors or successors, little lieutenant m'intosh of the th, or qualified as some of them have been, captain augustus polidore bumme of but have added at least a trifle to the the royal scotch fusileers? but over- stock of our knowledge; and the work looking these absurdities, it is indeed of sir robert wilson stands singly in quite wonderful how greatly the dul- the naked ignorance of its author a ino- ness of the narrator can deprive of all nument, though an unnecessary one, extrinsic interest thegreatevents which of that littleness of understanding and he records. who is there that, in the blindness of intellect by which his hinds of these writers, has not yawn- whole after life has been distinguished. ed at the briskest charge of cavalry, or these observations, however, are by po been lulled into a profound slumber by means applicable to the officers of the the mostdreadfuldischarge of artillery french army, and in a smaller degree * a narrative of the campaigns of the british army at washington and new or. leans, under general ross, pakenham, and lambert, in the years and ; with some account of the countries visited. by an officer, who served in the expedition. london, john murray, . + an admirable comparison, adopted from a prime article of the courant, on the fight betwixt black sam and chicken, lately fought at ravelrig toll. .] campaigns of the british army at washington, &c. at least to those of other foreign nations the first generals of the age has been than to our own. to french officers, directed. but somewhat too much of science has, in many cases, been deep- this. ly indebted; nor has the army of that we have indeed some apology to nation ever penetrated into any country offer for these hasty observations, in- interesting to europeans, without re- applicable as they certainly are to the turning with a rich store of valuable work, to which we are now about to information; and thus compensating, call the attention of our readers. this, in some degree at least, for the evils of too, is the production of a military au- unprincipled ambition, by contributing thor, but of one whose talents and ac- to the knowledge, while they encroach- complishments, we take it, would en- ed on the happiness of mankind. the title him to appear before the public pencil of man, perhaps, never drew a in a much higher character than he has more vivid and affecting picture of mi- chosen to assume as the narrator of the sery than may be found in la baume's campaigns of the british army at wash- account of the first russian campaign. ington and new orleans. a more we read it with all the avidity with entertaining volume we have seldom which we peruse a romance, and with met with ; and it is written through- a deeper interest, arising from a know- out with the same spirit, elegance, and ledge of its truth, than ever a romance vivacity, which contributes to give so excited. this, however, is but one of strong an interest to lord burghersh's many, and the eagerness with which account of the peninsular campaigns. these works are translated and read in the work commences with the conclu- our language, is convincing and mor- sion of the campaigns of the british tifying evidence of the utter incapaci- army in france, in the spring of . ty of our military authors, since we the regiment of our author was then are obliged to be indebted for the on- ordered to embark with several others ly tolerable records of our victories to for america, in order to constitute a the pens of our enemies. it is a mere force to carry hostilities into the inte- vulgar error to suppose, that military rior of the united states. they had men, from being present on the spot, a pleasant voyage across the atlantic are therefore better qualified to give an to the bermuda islands, which, how- accurate account of the manæuvres of ever, is detailed to us with somewhat a engagement, or to comprehend the too much prolixity,--and they after- great motives of policy by which the wards, being joined by a naval force several events of a campaign may have under admiral malcolin, sailed on the been dictated. on service, an officer expedition which formed the chief ob- in the inferior ranks of his profession ject of the armament. the ameri- knows nothing, and is allowed to know cans opiposed no resistance to their nothing, beyond the motions of his own sailing up the chesapeake, which they regiment or brigade. he is a mere ma- entered on the th of august; and chine; and beyond the confined or on the morning of the th, the army bit of his own vision every thing to was landed, under protection of the him is in utter darkness. during the guns of the ships, without experien- peninsular war, the officers generally cing any opposition. the primary ob- acquired their first knowledge of the ject which "general ross appears to movements of the different divisions of have had in view, was the capturc of the army from the english newspapers; a flotilla of gun-boats, which was sta- and in the confusion of an engagement tioned at nottingham, and which was en veloped in smoke, and with their at- afterwards blown up by the enemy. tention fully occupied by the occurren-disappointed in some measure in this, ces in their immediate neighbourhood, he next determined to penetrate to they are in a state of perfect ignorance washington, which he effected with of what is passing in other parts of the little loss, atter routing a considerable field. it is not to the horse who drives body of the enemy at bladensburgh. the mill that we must look for an ex- the following account of the entry of planation of the mechanism of the ma- the british army into washington, will chinery. nor is it from these humble shew the treacherous character of the though useful instruments of war, that enemy with whom we had to deal :- we are to expect a thorough compre “ such being the intention of general hension of the great principles of po- ross, he did not march the troops imme. licy, by which the military conduct of diately into the city, but halted them upon camprigns of the british army at washington, &c. [may, a plain in its immediate vicinity, whilst a what they will term a line of conduct at flag of truce was sent in with terms. but once barbarous and unprofitable. far from whatever his proposal might have been, it it ; on the contrary, i cannot help admiring was not so much as heard ; for scarcely had the forbearance and humanity of the bri- the party bearing the flag entered the street, tish troops, since, irritated as they had eve- than they were fired upon from the windows ry right to be, they spared as far as was pos- of one of the houses, and the horse of the sible, all private property, not a single house general himself, who accompanied them, in the place being plundered or destroyed, was killed. you will easily believe, that except that from which the general's horse conduct so unjustifiable, so direct a breach had been killed, and those which were ac- of the law of nations, roused the indigna- cidentally thrown down by the explosion of tion of every individual, from the general the magazines. himself down to the private soldier. all “ while the third brigade was thus em- thoughts of accommodation were instantly ployed, the rest of the army, having recal- laid aside ; the troops advanced forth with led its stragglers, and removed the wounded into the town, and, having first put to the into bladensburg, began its march towards sword all who were found in the house from washington. though the battle was end. which the shots were fired, and reduced it ed by four o'clock, the sun had set be- to ashes, they proceeded, without a mo- fore the different regiments were in a con- ment's delay, to burn and destroy every dition to move, consequently this short thing in the most distant degree connected journey was performed in the dark. the with government. in this general devasta. work of destruction had also begun in the tion were included the senate-house, the city, before they quitted their ground ; and president's palace, an extensive dock-yard the blazing of houses, ships, and stores, and arsenal, barracks for two or three the report of exploding magazines, and the thousand men, several large store-houses crash of falling roofs, informed them as filled with naval and military stores, some they proceeded, of what was going forward. hundreds of cannon of different descriptions, you can conceive nothing finer than the and nearly twenty thousand stand of small sight which met them as they drew near to arms. there were also two or three pub- the town. the sky was brilliantly illumin- lic rope works which shared the same fate, ed by the different confiagrations; and a a fine frigate pierced for sixty guns, and dark red light was thrown upon the road, just ready to be launched, several gun. sufficient to permit each man to view dis- brigs and armed schooners, with a variety tinctly his comrade's face. except the of gun-boats and small craft. the powder burning of st sebastian's, i no not recol- magazines were of course set on fire, and lect to have witnessed, at any period of my exploded with a tremendous crash, throw- life, a scene more striking or more su- ing down many houses in their vicinity, blime. partly by pieces of the walls striking them, “ having advanced as far as the plain, and partly by the concussion of the air ; where the reserve had previously paused, whilst quantities of shot, shell, and hand- the first and second brigades halted; and, grenades, which could not otherwise be forming into close column, passed the rendered useless, were thrown into the ri- night in bivouack. at first, this was agree- ver. in destroying the cannon, a method able enough, because the air was mild, and was adopted, which i had never before weariness made up for what was wanting witnessed, and which, as it was both effec. in comfort. but, towards morning, a vio- tual and expeditious, i cannot avoid rela- lent storm of rain, accompanied with thun- ting. one gun, of rather a small calibre, der and lightning, came on, which disturb- was pitched upon as the executioner of the ed the rest of all those who were exposed rest, and being loaded with ball, and turn- to it. yet, in spite of the disagreeableness ed to the muzzles of the others, it was fired, of getting wet, i cannot say that i felt dis- and thus beat out their breechings. many, posed to grumble at the interruption, for it however, not being mounted, could not be appeared that what i had before consider. thus dealt with ; these were spiked, and ed as superlatively sublime, still wanted having their trunnions knocked off, were af. this to render it complete. the flashes of terwards cast into the bed of the river. lightning seemed to vie in brilliancy with “ all this was as it should be, and had the flames which burst from the roofs of the arm of vengeance been extended no burning houses, while the thunder drown- farther, there would not have been roomed the noise of crumbling walls, and was given for so much as a whisper of disappro- only interrupted by the occasional roar of bation. but, unfortunately, it did not stop cannon, and of large depots of gunpowder, here ; a noble library, several printing-of- as they one by one exploded. fices, and all the national archives were “i need scarcely observe, that the con- likewise committed to the flames, which, sternation of the inhabitants was complete, though no doubt the property of govern- and that to them this was a night of terror. ment, might better have been spared. it is so confident had they been of the success not, however, my intention to join the out. of their troops, that few of them had cry, which will probably be raised, against dreamt quitting their houses, or aban- ] campaigns of the british army at washington, &c. doning the city ; nor was it till the fugi- washington. they were taken complete- tives from the battle began to rush in, fiil. ly by surprise ; nor could the arrival of the ing every place as they came with dismay, flood be more unexpected to the natives of that the president himself thought of pro- the antediluvian world, than the arrival of viding for his safety. that gentleman, as the british army to them. the first im. i was credibly informed, had gone forth in pulse, of course, tempted them to fly, and the morning with the army, and had conti- the streets were, in consequence, crowded rued among his troops till the british for- with soldiers and senators, men, women, ces began to make their appearance. whe- and children, horses, carriages, and carts ther the sight of his enemies cooled his cou- loaded with household furniture, all hasten- rage or not, i cannot say, but, according ing towards a wooden bridge which crosses to my informer, no sooner was the glittering the potomack. the confusion thus occa- of our arms discernible, than he began to sioned was terrible, and the crowd upon the discover that his presence was more wanted bridge was such as to endanger its giving in the senate than with the army ; and ha- way. but mr maddison, having escaped ving ridden through the ranks, and exhort- among the first, was no sooner safe on the ed every man to do his duty, hehurried back opposite bank of the river, than he gave or- to his own house, that he might prepare a ders that the bridge should be broken down, feast for the entertainment of his officers, which being obeyed, the rest were obliged when they should return victorious. for to return, and to trust to the clemency of the truth of these details i will not be an- the victors. iwerable ; but this much i know, that the “ in this manner was the night passed feast was actually prepared, though, instead by both parties ; and at day-break, next of being devoured by american officers, it morning, the light brigade moved into the went to satisfy the less delicate appetites of a city, while the reserve fell back to a height, party of english soldiers. when the de- about half a mile in the rear. little, how. tachment, sent out to destroy mr maddi- ever, now remained to be done, because son's house, entered his dining-parlour, every thing marked out for destruction was they found a dinner-table spread, and co- already consumed. of the senate-house, vers laid for forty guests. several kinds of the president's palace, the barracks, thé wine, in handsome cut-glass decanters, dock-yard &c. nothing could be seen except were cooling on the side-board; plate-hold- heaps of smoaking ruins ; and even the ers stood by the fire-place, filled with dishes bridge, a noble structure, upwards of a and plates; knives, forks, and spoons, were mile in length, was almost wholly demo- arranged for immediate use ; in short, eve- lished. there was, therefore, no further ry thing was ready for the entertainment of occasion to scatter the troops, and they were a ceremonious party. such were the ar. accordingly kept together as much as pos- rangements in the dining-room, whilst in sible on the capitol hill.”. the kitchen were others answerable to them in every respect. spits, loaded with joints ings and stores in washington, the having destroyed the public build- of various sorts, turned before the fire; pots, army then proceeded to baltimore, saucepans, and other culinary utensils, stood upon the grate ; and all the other where their operations were not quite requisites for an elegant and substantial re- so successful. general ross was kill- past, were exactly in a state which indica- ed by a shot from a rifleman in a tri- ied that they had been lately and precipi- fling skirmish, and having defeated the tately abandoned. american army after a pretty smart " you will readily imagine, that these engagement, our force was obliged to preparations were beheld by a party of hun- retire, in consequence of an intimation gry soldiers, with no indifferent eye. an from the admiral, that the river was elegant dinner, even though considerably, too shallow to admit of the co-opera- over dressed, was a luxury to which few of tion of the feet. the following is the them, at least for some time back, had been account of the melancholy fate of ge- accustomed ; and which, after the dangers neral ross, an officer as much respect- and fatigues of the day, appeared peculiar. ly inviting. they sat down to it, therefore, ed, and of as great promise, as any in not indeed in the most orderly manner, but the british army. with countenances which would not have “ having rested for the space of an hour, disgraced a party of aldermen at a civic we again moved forward, but had not pro- feast; and, having satisfied their appetites ceeded above a mile, when a sharp fire of with fewer complaints than would have pro- musketry was heard in front, and shortly bably escaped their rival gourmands, and afterwards a mounted officer came galloping partaken pretty freely of the wines, they to the rear, who desired us to quicken our finished by setting fire to the house which pace, for that the advanced guard was en- had so liberally entertained them. gaged. at this intelligence the ranks were * but, as i have just observed, this was closed, and the troops advanced at a brisk night of dismay to the inhabitants of rate, and in profound silence. the firing vol ix. z + campaigns of the british army at washington, c. (may, still continued, though, from its running cottages. to retire, unobserved, was, how- and irregular sound, it promised little else ever, impossible, because the rustling which than a skirmish ; but whether it was kept i had made among the trees drew theiratten- up by detached parties alone, or by the tion, and they saw me, probably, before i out-posts of a regular army, we could not had seen them. perceiving that their eyes tell ; because, from the quantity of wood were fixed on me, i determined to put a with which the country abounds, and the bold face on the matter, and calling aloud, total absence of all hills and eminences, it as if for a party to halt, i advanced, with was impossible to discern what was going my servant, towards them. they were on at the distance of half a mile from where dressed in sailors' jackets and trousers, and we stood. rose on my approach, taking off their hats “we were now drawing near the scene with much civility. on joining them, i of action, when another officer came at full demanded whether they were not english- speed towards us, with horror and dismay men, and deserters from the fleet, stating in his countenance, and called aloud for a that i was in search of two persons very surgeon. every man felt within himself much answering their description. they that all was not right, though none was assured me that they were americans, and willing to believe the whispers of his own no deserters, begging that i would not take terror. but what at first we could not them away; a request to which, after some guess at, because we dreaded it so much, time, i assented. they then conducted me was soon realized, for the aide-de-camp had into the house, where i found an old man scarcely passed, when the general's horse, and three women, who entertained me with without its rider, and with the saddle and bread, cheese, and new milk. while i housings stained with blood, came plun- was sitting there, a third youth, in the ging onwards. nor was much time given dress of a labourer, entered, and whispered for fearful surmise, as to the extent of our to one of the sailors, who immediately rose misfortune. in a few moments we reached to go out, but i commanded him to sit the ground where the skirmishing had ta still, declaring that i was not satisfied, and ken place, and beheld poor ross laid, by should certainly arrest him if he attempted the side of the road, under a canopy of to escape. the man sat down sulkily, and blankets, and apparently in the agonies of the young labourer coming forward, begged death. as soon as the firing began, he had permission to examine my gun. this was ridden to the front, that he might ascertain a request which i did not much relish, and from whence it originated, and, mingling with which i, of course, refused to comply, with the skirmishers, was shot in the side telling the fellow that it was loaded, and by a rifleman. the wound was mortal ; he that i was unwilling to trust it out of my fell in the arms of his aide-de-camp, and own hand, on account of a weakness in one lived only long enough to name his wife, of the locks. and to commend his family to the protec “ i had now kept up appearances as long tion of his country. he was removed to as they could be kept up, and, therefore, wards the fleet, but expired before his rose to withdraw; a measure to which i bearers could reach the boats." was additionally induced by the appearance our forces once more reimbarked, of two other countrymen at the opposite and repaired to jamaica, which was end of the hamlet. i therefore told the sail- appointed as a general rendezvous forors that if they would pledge themselves to a much larger army, intended for the remain quietly at home, without joining attack of new orleans. but before ac- the american army, i would not molest companying them to their destination, not to venture beyond the village, lest they them ; warning them, at the same time, we mu lay before our readers an ac- should fall into the hands of other parties, count of the imminent danger to which who were also in search of deserters. the our author was exposed, and from promise they gave, but not with much ala- which he appears to have extricated crity, when i rose, and keeping my eye himself with singular presence of mind. fixed upon them, and my gun ready cock- “tempted by this show of quietness, i ed in my hand, walked out, followed by one day continued my walk to a greater my servant. they conducted us to the distance from the fleet' than i had yet ven- door, and stood staring after us till we got tured to do. my servant was with me, but to the edge of the wood, when i observed had no arms, and i was armed only with a them moving towards their countrymen, double-barrelled fowling-piece. having who also gazed upon us without either ad- wearied myself with looking for game, and vancing or flying. you will readily be- penetrated beyond my former land-mark, i lieve, that as soon as we found ourselves came suddenly upon a small hamlet, occu- concealed by the trees, we lost no time in pying a piece of cleared ground in the very endeavouring to discover the direct way to- heart of a thick wood. with this, to con- wards the shipping, but, plunging into the fess the truth, i was by no means delight- thickets, ran with all speed, without think ed, more especially as perceived two stout- ing of aught except an immediate escape jooking men sitting at the door of one of the from pursuit. whether the americans did .] campaigns of the british army at washington, &c. attempt to follow, or not, i cannot tell. if same moment was to be attacked by the they did, they took a wrong direction, for, in main of our army. something more than an hour i found my * in this manner was one part of the self at the edge of the river, a little way force to act, while the rest were thus ap- above the shipping, and returned safely on pointed. dividing his troops into three co- board, fully resolved not again to expose lumns, sir edward directed that general myself to such risks, without necessity." keane, at the head of the th, the light the command of the army was now companies of the st, th, and th, toge- assumed by general keane, a very ac. ther with the two black corps, should make tive and spirited officer, who was after a demonstration, or sham attack, upon the wards superseded by the arrival of sir right; that general gibbs, with the th, st, th, and d, should force the ene- edward packenham. of the melan- my's left, while general lambert, with the choly fate of this officer it is impossible th, and d, remained in reserve, ready to speak without sorrow. he was, per. to act as circumstances might require. but haps, the man of all others to whom in storming an entrenched position, some- the army looked up with confidence thing more than bare courage is required. and hope. adorned with every quality scaling-ladders and fascines had, therefore, to excite esteem and admiration, in the been prepared, with which to fill up the prime of manhood, and with a long ditch and mount the wall; and, since to career of glory apparently open before carry these was a service of danger, requi." him, he was snatched in a moment from ring a corps well worthy of dependence, the our wishes and our hopes, in an un- th was for that purpose selected, as a re- giment of sufficient numerical strength, dertaking to the accomplishment of and already accustomed to american war- which his means were decidedly ina- fare. thus were all things arranged on dequate. had general packenham, the night of the th, for the th was fixed however, met with that honourable upon as the day decisive of the fate of new support which he was entitled to ex. orleans. pect from every portion of his army, “ while the rest of the army, therefore, much might have been done from his lay down to sleep till they should be roused pre-eminent military skill, and fertili- up to fight, colonel thornton, with the th, ty of resource. but we regret to state and a corps of marines and seamen, amount- that the following extract proves that ing in all to men, moved down to the he did not in all his officers discover brink of the river. as yet, however, no that courage and promptitude by which before they came : and when they did come, boats had arrived ; hour after hour elapsed british soldiers are in general distin- the misfortunes which i have stated above guished. were discovered, for out of all that had been “ the canal, as i have stated, being fi. ordered up, only a few made their appear- nished on the th, it was resolved to lose no ance. still it was absolutely necessary that time in making use of it. boats were ac- this part of the plan should be carried into cordingly ordered up for the transportation execution. dismissing, therefore, the rest of men ; and colonel thornton with of his followers, the colonel put himself at the th regiment, the marines, and a party the head of his own regiment, about fifty of sailors, were appointed to cross the river. seamen, and as many marines, and with but a number of untoward accidents oc- this small force, consisting of no more than curred, to spoil a plan of operations as ac- men, pushed off. but, unfortunately, curately laid down as any in the course of the loss of time nothing could repair. in. the war. the soil through which the canal stead of reaching the opposite bank, at was dug, being soft, parts of the bank gave latest by midnight, dawn was beginning to way, and, choking up the channel, pre- appear before the boats quitted the canal. vented the heaviest of the boats from get- it was in vain that they rowed on in per- ting forward. these again blocked up the fect silence, and with oars muffled, gaining passage, so that none of those which were the point of debarkation without being per. behind could proceed, and thus, instead of ceived. it was in vain that they made good a flotilla for the accommodation of their landing, and formed upon the beach, men, only a number of boats sufficient to without opposition or alarm; day had al- contain was enabled to reach their des ready broke, and the signal rocket was seen tination. even these did not arrive at the in the air, while they were yet four miles time appointed. according to the precon- from the batteries, which ought hours ago certed plan, colonel thornton's detachment to have been taken. was to cross the river immediately after it in the mean time the main body was dark. they were to push forward, so armed, and moved forward some way in as to carry all the batteries, and point the front of the piquets. there they stood guns before day light, when, on the throwing waiting for day-light, and listening with up of a rocket, they were to commence fic the greatest anxiety for the firing which ring upon the enemy's line, which, at the ought now to be heard on the opposite campaigns of the british army at washington, &c. [may, bank. but this attention was exerted in locks by one arm over the wall, and disa vain, and day dawned upon them long be- charged them directly upon their heads. fore they desired its appearance. nor was the whole of the guns, likewise, from the sir edward packenham disappointed in opposite bank, kept up a well directed and this part of his plan alone. instead of deadly cannonade upon their flank, and perceiving every thing in readiness for the thus were they destroyed without an oppor- assault, he saw his troops in battle array, tunity being given of displaying their va- indeed, but not a ladder or fascine upon the lour, or obtaining so much as revenge. field. the th, which was appointed to - poor packenham saw how things were carry them, had either misunderstood or going, and did all that a general could do neglected their orders ; and now headed to rally his broken troops. riding towards the column of attack, without any means the th which had returned to the ground, being provided for crossing the enemy's but in great disorder, he called out for co- ditch, or scaling his rampart. lonel mullens to advance ; but that officer “ the indignation of poor packenham had disappeared, and was not to be found. on this occasion may be imagined, but can- he, therefore, prepared to lead them on not be described. "galloping towards co- himself, and had put himself at their head lonel mullens, who led the th, he'com- for that purpose, when he received a slight manded him instantly to return with his wound in the knee from a musket ball, regiment for the ladders; but the opportu- which killed his horse. mounting another, nity of planting them was lost, and though he again headed the th, when a second they were brought up, it was only to be ball took effect more fatally, and he drop- scattered over the field by the frightened ted lifeless into the arms of his aide-de- bearers. for our troops were by this time camp. visible to the enemy. a dreadful fire was "nor were generals gibbs and keane accordingly opened upon them, and they inactive. riding through the ranks, they were mowed down by hundreds while they strove by all means to encourage the assail. stood waiting for orders. ants and recal the fugitives, tiii, at length, · seing that all his well-laid plans were both were wounded, and borne off the frustrated, packenham gave the word to ad- field. all was now.confusion and dismay. vance, and the other regiments, leaving the without leaders, and ignorant of what was th, with the ladders and fascines behind to be done, the troops first halted, and then them, rushed on to the assault. on the began to retire ; till finally the retreat was left, a detachment of the th, st, and changed into a flight, and they quitted the th, stormed a three-gun battery and took ground in the utmost disorder. but the it. here they remained for some time in retreat was covered in gallant style by the the expectation of support ; but none arri- reserve. making a forward motion, the th ving, and a strong column of the enemy and d presented the appearance of a re- forming for its recovery, they deternined newed attack, by which the enemy were so to anticipate the attack, and pushed on. much awed, that they did not venture be- the battery which they had taken was in yond their lines in pursuit of the fugitives. advance of the body of the works, being “ while affairs were thus disastrously cut off from it by a ditch, across which on- conducted in this quarter, the party under ly a single plank was thrown. along this colonel thornton had gained the landing- plank did these brave men attempt to pass, place. on stepping ashore, the first thing but being opposed by overpowering num- they beheld was a rocket thrown up as a bers, they were repulsed, and the ameri- signal that the battle was begun. this un- cans, in turn, forcing their way into the bat. welcome sight added wings to their speed. tery, at length succeeded in recapturing it, forming in one little column, and pushing with immense slaughter. on the right, forward a single company as an advance again, the st and th being almost cut to guard, they hastened on, and in half an hour pieces, and thrown into some confusion by reached a canal, along the opposite brink the enemy's fire, the d pushed on and of which a detachment of americans was took the lead. hastening forward, our drawn up. to dislodge them was the troops soon reached the ditch; but to scale work of a moment ; a boat with a carron- the parapet without ladders was impossi- ade in her bow, got upon their flank, gave ble. some few, indeed, by mounting upon them a single discharge of grape, while the one another's shoulders, succeeded in enter- advance guard extended its ranks, and ap- ing the works, but these were instantly proached at double quick time. but they overpowered, most of them killed, and the scarcely waited till the latter were within rest taken ; while as many as stood without range, when, firing a volley, they fled in were exposed to a sweeping fire, which cut confusion. this, however, was only an them down by whole companies. it was in outpost. the main body was some way in vain that the most obstinate courage was the rear, and amounted to no fewer than displayed. they fell by the hands of men men. whom they absolutely did not see ; for the “ it was not long, however, before they americans, without so much as lifting their likewise presented themselves. like their faces above the rampart, swung their fire- countrymen on the other side, they were ) campaigns of the british army at washington, &c. strongly entrenched, a thick parapet, with the th dashing forward to theft ald, they ditch, covering their front, while a battery received a leavy fire of musketry, and en- upon their left swept the whole position, deavoured to charge. a smart firing was and two field-pieces commanded the road. now for a few minutes kept up on both of artillery, the assailants possessed not a sides, but our people had no time to waste single piece, nor any means, beyond what in distant fighting, and, accordingly, bur- nature gave, of scaling the ram part. yet, ried on to storm the works, upon which, a nothing daunted by the obstacles before panic seized the americans, they lost their them, or by the immense odds to which order, and aed, leaving us in possession of they were opposed, dispositions for an im- their tents, and of eighteen pieces of can- mediate attack were made. the th, ex- . non.” tending its files, stretched across the entire we shall now conclude. the ex- line of the enemy, the sailors, in column, tracts we have given are of themselves prepared to storm the battery, while the the best recommendation of the work; marines remained some little way in rear and though we frequently cannot co- of the centre as a reserve. “ these arrangements being completed, incide in the military opinions which our bugle sounded, and our troops advan. the author is rather too fond of pro- ced. t'he sailors, raising a shout, rushed mulgating, yet we can safely say, that forward, but were met by so heavy a dis- in literary talent and amusing detail, charge of grape and cannister, that for an this volume appears to us very supc- instant they paused. recovering them. rior to any thing of the kind that has selves, however, they again pushed on, and lately issued from the press. the leafless tree. the silver moon careers a sky, whose breast is bright as beauty's eye; though somewhat of a paler hue; though somewhat of a milder blue; while sweeps around me, far and fast, with icy breath, the brumal blast; and lands and lakes are whitely lost in glistening snow, and sparkling frost. when last thy trunk by me was seen, the bloom was white, the leaf was green; the air was stirless, and the sun his summer circuit had begun; while throng'd about the flowers, and thee, the singing bird, and humming bee; and 'neath thy boughs the cattle stray'd, for sunshine could not pierce thy shade. the playful foals were gather'd there, and breath'd in haste the shaded air; startled at every murmur bye, with rising ears, and kindling eye, paw'd wantonly their clayey shed, and toss'd the forelock o'er the head. now, birds, and bees, and cattle, gone, upon the waste thou stand'st alone, beside thee, and beneath thee-none ! the fruitage and the foliage fled, thy naked and unshelter'd head uprears its straggling boughs on high, to greet the moonshine and the sky. how doth thy silence speak, and show the changeful state of things below! no difference may the eye survey on prospects, ushered day by day; } the leafless tree. [may, yet, when long years have pass'd between, and these through them remain'd umseen, then—then, the pausing mind, awake, beholds the change that seasons make; and scans, on earth's diurnal sphere, the wrecks of each revolving year! time circuits on unjarring wheels; below his viewless pencil steals, and traces o'er all being fall, perceived by none, and felt by all. with barren, leafless boughs, lone tree, such change presentest thou to me; thy fading leaf, and fleeting span, remind me of the fate of man ! speechless, to me thou seem'st to say, - i all mortal things like me decay, “ partaking, in a round like mine, “ their spring, their summer, and decline !" where salem in her glory stood, the seat of wisdom, and the good, a chaos worse than solitude frowns dark, and petty agas sway the realms that made the east obey !-( ) her rose is wither’d, --nought is hers but flat and terraced sepulchres, ( ) in joyless languor, where reside the children of degraded pride. now lawless plunderers overwhelm assyria's solitary realm, ( ) and issue from the sheltering rocks, to reave the shepherd of his flocks :- yes! where sennacherib of yore ( ) the potent sceptre sway'd, and bore his multitudes to overthrow, and lay revolting judah low; then turn’d his eye, and stretch'd his hand, towards ethiopia's tawny land, and loosed his lions from the yoke, while egypt shudder'd at the shock; hath fled, and nought re remains but yielding slaves, and desert plains ! how high to soar, how low to fall, were thine, chaldea's capital ! thy flowery gardens hung on high-- ( ) thy palaces, that charm’d the eye, with frost-work of refulgent gold; thy girding walls of giant mould have pass'd away, as doth the wind, to leave not even a trace behind; and snakes—a venom'd brood--are grown the sovereigns of babylon ! now power alone the cameľd arab hastes through tadmor's proud, and pillar'd wastes, 'tween bowers and temples overthrown, and palaces with moss o'ergrown ;- he gallops through the echoing streets, wherc nought he hears, and none he meets; .] the leafless. tree. as smiles the setting sun on plains where not a worshipper remains !( ) once carthage o'er the ocean sway'd, but dido's city hath decay'd ! ( ) greece, learning's seat, the patriot's home-( ) the might of egypt-persia-rome,- the ancient empires of the earth, ( ) that gave the wise and warlike birth, like them who rear’d, have pass'd away by dint of arms, or slow decay :- the ancient sages, where are they? the tenets they profess’d, and told the world, have like them grown old ; for others, which like them shall fade, rising, have thrown them into shade: 'twould almost seem, so strange the view, that truth itself can vary too; for things that have been clearly proved, by time are alter’d, changed, and moved ; and maxims, which the sage hath sought to suffer for, are come to nought; yet one remains, the favourite one of fallen athene's sapient son, the truest e'er pronounced below, that mortal man can nothing know!( ) though wisclom bids me not repine, how like thy luckless lot is mine! spring strew'd thy widening boughs with bloom, which summer ripen’d to perfume, which autumn mellow'd to decay, and winter sered, and swept away: thus time presented pleasures new, as if to snatch them from my view ; and shew, by contrast, what distress, what blind and blacken's dreariness frowns o'er the wide and waste abyss of baffled bopes, and ruin'd bliss ! so mortal joy and beauty flee, but happier planets smile on thee; for spring, with favouring hand, will shed reviving verdure round thy head; the flowers again will bloom around, and bees to sip thy sweets be found, and birds that sport on wanton wing, amid thy sheltering boughs to sing. but ah ! the bosom's wintry state, no second spring can renovate; no second summer can restore the happy years that now are o'er; childhood, with all its flowery maze of artless thoughts, and sinless plays; boyhood, devoid of cares and tears, of sordid acts, and selfish fears, and raising o'er the bonds of art, ardour of thought, and warmth of heart; or youth, when brightly over all love spread her rich and purple pall ; when lake and mount, and sea and shore, a borrow'd pride and beauty wore, the leafless trac. (may, and visions pass'd before the eyes, bright with the hues of paradise ! a glory from the summer day hath slowly sunk, and waned away ;( ). a splendour from the starry night hath pass'd to nought, and mock'd the sight; for clouds have gloom'd, and saiļd between, to darken, and bedim the scene, and o'er th' unshelter'd head hath past, with wailing sound, misfortune's blast. the fond, the fairy dreams of youth have vanish'd at the touch of truth; and o'er the heart, all seared and riven, the ploughshare of the world hath driven ! the play-mates of our infant years, our boyish friends, and young compeers, are some estranged in heart and thought, by fortune dark, or happy lot, depress'd too low, or raised too high, by anguish or prosperity; are some, by many a weary mile, though bent on home, removed the while; are some, who, changed by wizard time, even in a far and foreign clime, love best the pleasures usher'd last, and, in the present, lose the past; some on the wild, and tossing wave, but many-most within the grave ! man has in heart, in hope, in all, like lucifer, a fate and fall ! ( ) notes ( .) petty agas sway the realms that made the east obey. jerusalem is at the mercy of an almost independent governor : he may do with im. punity all the mischief he pleases, if he be not afterwards called to account for it by the pachá. it is well known, that in turkey every superior has a right to delegate his au- thority to an inferior ; and this authority extends both to property and life. for a few purses, a janissary may become a petty aga, and this aga may, at his good pleasure, either take away your life, or permit you to redeem it. t'hus executioners are multi- plied in every town of judea. the only thing ever heard in this country,—the only justice ever thought of, is : let him pay ten, twenty, thirty purses. give him five hundred strokes of the bastinado. cut off his head. chateaubriand's travels, vol. ii. p. . how pathetically does the prophet jeremiah give vent to his dreary forebodings of jerusalem's destiny. “ how doth the city sit solitary that was full of people ! how is she become as a widow ! she that was great among the nations, and princess among the provinces, how is she be- come tributary !"-lamentations. ( .) flat and terraced sepulchres. the houses of jerusalem are heavy square masses, very low, without chimnies or windows: they have flat terraces or domes on the top, and look like prisons or sepulchres. on beholding these stone buildings, encompassed by a stony country, you are ready to inquire if they are not the confused monuments of a cemetery in the midst of a desart. chateaubriand, vol. d. ( .) assyria's solitary realm. for an account of ancient assyria, vide the first and second books of herodotus; and for the modern, vide miscellaneous passages in kinneir's geographical memoir of the persian empire ; also niebuhr, travels, vol. ii. .) notes the leafless tree. ( .) where sennacherib of yore, the potent sceptre swayed. sennacherib, king of assyria, came up against all the fenced cities of judah, and took them, &c.—isaiah, xxxvi. and chronicles, ii. chap. xxxii. ( .) thy flowery gardens hung on high, fc. “ babylon, the glory of kingdoms,” saith isaiah, “the beauty of the chaldees' ex- cellency, shall be as when god overthrew sodom and gomorrah. it shall never be in- habited; neither shall it be dwelt in from generation to generation ; neither shall the arabian pitch his tent there, neither shall the shepherds make their fold there. but wild beasts of the desart shall lie there: and their houses shall be full of doleful crea- tures, and owls shall dwell there, and satyrs shall dance there. and the wild beasts of the islands shall cry in their desolate houses, and dragons in their pleasant places."- chap. xiii. ver. , &c.—por a striking account of the fulfilment of scripture prophecies relating to babylon, vide rollin, ancient history, vol. ii. ( .) as smiles the setting sun on plains, where not a worshipper remains. it would appear that these magnificent ruins are falling rapidly into decay, various pillars having been removed between the time of the visits of wood and volney. the reader may consult, for a description of these monuments of splendour, volney's tra- vels in egypt and syria, and pocock's travels, vol. ii. ( .) dido's city had decayed. devictæ carthaginis arces procubuere, jacent infausto littore turres eversæ. quantum illa metus, quantum illa laborum urbs dedit insultans latio et laurentibus arvis ! nunc passim vix reliquias, vix nomina servans, obruitur propriis non agnoscenda ruinis. ( .) greece, learning's scat, the patriot's home. we can all feel, or imagine, the regret with which the ruins of cities, once the capitals of empires, are beheld ; the reflections suggested by such objects are too trite to require recapitulation. but never did the littleness of man, and the vanity of his very best vir- tues, of patriotism to exalt, and of valour to defend his country, appear more conspicu. ous than in the record of what athens was, and the certainty of what she now is. lord byron. ( .) egypt,—persia,-romc,- the ancient empires of the earth. for an interesting account of modern egypt, vide the travels of denon, volney, and legh. for persia, vide kinneir, and sir john malcolm; as to rome, vide eustace classical tour, and “rome in the nineteenth century." how striking is the excla- mation of poggio, when looking on the ruins from the capitoline hill . ut nunc omni decore nudata, prostrata jacet, instar gigantei cadaveris corrupti atque undique exesi." ( .) mortal man can nothing know. well hast thou said, athena's wisest son! “ all that we know is, nothing can be known.” childe harold, canto . st. vii. ( .) a glory from the summer day, hath slowly sunk, and waned away. “ there hath passed away a glory from the earth.” wordsworth. ( .) man has in heart, in hope, in all, like lucifer, a fate and fall.-- when he falls, he falls like lucifer, never to rise again! shakespeare, henry viii. vol. ix. a (may, translations from the less familiar latin classics. translations from the less pamiliar latin classics. no. vi. prudentius. christopher north, esq. “ apotheosis" is a metaphysical trea- dear sir, tise, in verse, on the essence of the aurelius prudentius clemens is, deity, the double nature of christ, and i believe, chiefly distinguished as be- the division of persons in the trinity. ing the first christian poet, that is to “hamartigenia," or the origin of evil, is say, the first christian who applied an equally hopeless subject for a poet. poetry to his religion. ausonius, no “ psychomachia,” or conflicts of the doubt, professed christianity, though soul, is a succession of dull and heavy he never attempted to recommend it allegories, or rather personifications. by his verses. had prudentius never the hymn for sunrise, in the “ kathe- attempted to recommend his verses by merinon,"contains some poetical pass- his christianity, it might perhaps have ages, as do one or two more of the been as well, as far as his poetry is con- hymns under that title. the most cerned. the best description of this readable of his singular productions, poet, perhaps, is to say, in short, that however, appears to me to be the “pe- ħe is the latin dr watts. his works, ristephanon.” it is a poetical martyro- in the aggregate, exhibit that species logy. we have here some of the most of failure, which seems to be the lot noted legends of the saints told in me- of every poet who attempts a religious lodious verse; and the wonder is that theme, milton and one or two others some roman catholic, with zeal and always excepted. they are apparent- poetry, has not given us a translation ly the productions of a man of strong in the hymn on the mar- religious feelings, and of a good talent tyrdom of st eulalia, her sufferings for versification. his language, how- and death are commemorated with a ever deficient in augustan purity, is simple but intense pathos, of which always flowing, and, whenever his sub- the version, given below, will, i fear, ject admits of it, wonderfully easy and be found to retain but little. the lines perspicuous; but his poetical fancy is on a baptismal font are in a style to- poor and jejune. he is smooth and tally different. they are replete with wordy, not imaginative and vigorous. that point and antithesis in which the with language at command, he seems latter ages more and more delighted, to have been indifferent as to the fit- whether in poetry or prose. in the ness of the theme upon which it was original the terms are so laconically to be employed; and either to have strong, and the juxta position of epi- mistaken writing verses for writing thets so artful, as to make it, though poetry, or else to have thought that styled a hymn, little more than a string piety of intention made ample amends of serious epigrams. for dulness of execution. prudentius i am, &c. has in vain endeavoured to extract t. d, poetry out of polemical divinity. his ere now. the martyrdom of st eulalia, hymn ix. firmly she spoke, unshrinking still, nor sigh nor tear gave sign of pain, while from each wound a trickling rill soil'd her pure limbs with crimson stain, at last the closing torture came;- untrembling yet from many a wound, strongly she met the cruel flame, and felt it wrap her round and round, .] translations from the less familiar latin classics. "tis sad to see her scented hair, its last dark glossy ſinglets show; and leave that ivory shoulder bare, and o'er her modest bosom flow. the flame is feeding on her charms, see o'er her head the waving pyre ;- oh! see, she clasps it in her arms, and drinks, with dying lips, the fire. 'tis past-she sinks-she moves no more why sudden turn surrounding eyes; whence came that dove that flutters o'er, then seeks on milk-white wing the skies? eulalia-loved one-they who watch’d, thy body turn to dust again, beheld thine innocent spirit snatch'd to realms beyond the reach of pain. in vain the flames' red spires may brighten, the tyrant may his rage increase, thine ashes round the stake may whiten, but thou, sweet maiden, art at peace. -the tyrant heard the pinion's beat, and when that hovering dove he saw, he started from his guilty seat, and shrunk away in sudden awe. -and now the tearful scene is over- of friend or funeral bereft, the pure cold snows have fall'n to cover all that is of eulalia left. beneath the weeping heavens she lies, sepultured in a whiter shroud than falls to those, whose obsequies are follow'd by a gorgeous crowd. years have gone o'er-around her grave a goodly city now hath grown; behold her tomb, where ana's wave still strives to kiss the sacred stone. there is the virgin's marble bust, encircled oft by dewy eyes; snatch'd from that spot, the holy dust in many a pilgrim bosom lies. there, chased in gold is many a wreath, engemm’d is many a flow'ret fair ; they sparkle still, and incense breath, as summer had her palace there.- but 'twas in winter when she died, and winter hath his flow'rets too, oh! pluck the crocus in his pride, and on her tomb the vi'lets strew translations from the less familiar latin classics. СМау, , and virgins weave the bard a wreath of simple flow'rs—for such are meet and he a choral strain shall breathe, fearful, and soft, and low-yet sweet. then thou, eulalia, shalt look down, haply from yon blue heav'n the while, and see the early chaplets strewn, and smile a more angelic smile. on a baptismal font. hymn xiii. on this sad spot-here, where the conscious ground, foul with the blood of martyrs oft hath been, a never failing stream shall still be found, whose stainless wave can cleanse from every sin. let him, whose heavy soul yet yearns to mount, whose hot breast burns for heaven, still seek this spot, let him but wash in this eternal font, his hands are pure, and all their crimes forgot. here, where the lighten'd sinners' thanks are breathed, of olden time were fearless martyrs crown'd, yea, where the holy warrior's head was wreathed by trembling hearts, is kindly pardon found. the joyful waters sparkle o'er the brim, where martyrs' wounds once pour'd a crimson flood, and blest are both-and sacred still to him, who shed for us that water and that blood ! ye who have had, when here, asked for grace, and found this hallow'd spot a heaven afford,- what boots it whether, to your resting-place, the way was oped by water or the sword? mary queen of scots. sir, to have wished to see every person in some historical researches, in around her cheerful and happy. vin- which i have been recently engaged, dictiveness and cruelty were perfectly my attention was called to the much strangers to her : she possessed natu- agitated question of the participation ral good sense, and firmness of soul; of mary queen of scots, in the mur- but she was too easily a prey to the der of the earl of darnley, her hus- artful; too easily confided in profes- band. it leads to a multitude of cu- sions of attachment; and too willingly rious and interesting topics. on a ge- indulged in the aspirations of love. neral view of it, some circumstances, she was surrounded by designing, un- perhaps not even yet sufficiently con- principled, and remorseless adversa- sidered, appeared to me to afford strong ries, and scarcely had a friend. legitimate prejudices both in her fa to elizabeth, it is impossible to vour and against her. deny great talents, great strength of i. in her favour, it may be said, mind, great intrepidity, and inflexible that, abstractedly from this crime, steadiness of purpose ;-or not to ad- and the circumstances immediately mit that she was selfish, envious, ma- connected with it, the character of licious, and vindictive; that the hap- mary is uniformly amiable, and gene- piness of others, except so far as she rally respectable. she appears in his herself was interested in it, was indiffe- tory to have been good-natured, and rent to her; and that her jealousy of . ) mary queen of scots. the connubial joys of others, and her two other circumstances may be prevention of them, when this was in thought to raise a reasonable prejudice her power, were singularly hateful. against her. every part of the history of her reign . she does not explicitly deny her shews, that to accomplish any object, guilt, either at the time of her execu- particularly the ruin of a powerful ene- tion, or in her letter to elizabeth. my, there was no wickedness to which can this be otherwise accounted for, she would not resort, -no perfidy, no than by her unwillingness to plunge duplicity of which she was not capa- into eternity with an untruth on her ble; and that, both in england and lips? she appears to have died in great scotland, her ministers and subordi- sentiments of religion, and consequent- nate agents co-operated, without any ly with a fear of the eternal fires which, compunctious feelings, beyond a rem under this impression, she must have gard to their own safety, in her de- believed would follow such a solemn, signs, and became active instruments deliberate, and persisted-in untruth. for carrying them into execution. what, then, but a consciousness of it must be added, that throughout guilt would have withheld her from the conflict between mary and eliza- proclaiming her innocence in her dying beth, and during more than a century moments ? afterwards, the presses both of scot . james had much intercourse with land and england were wholly at the denmark, and upon his marriage with command of elizabeth and the favour. ann, its princess-royal, spent a whole ers of her cause. winter at copenhagen. now, both- this general view of the case raises well lived in captivity in that city du- legitimate prejudices in favour of mary ring several years, but no anthentic in- and against elizabeth. the former is formation favourable to mary, was increased by this circumstance, that ever obtained from denmark. though the whole power of the state in answer to the first observation, was in the possession of mary's ene- it has been said that it was beneath mies,--and though immediately after mary to deny such a crime; but could the murder of darnley they became the denial of ithave been really beneath masters of several persons actively en- her, under any circumstances? was gaged in the perpetration of that crime, it so, under the actual circumstances yet none of them criminated mary; of her case ? some of these were cer- nor is a single fact, which has the na- tainly of a nature to raise reasonable ture of direct evidence, brought against suspicion of her guilt, and therefore her. placed her on the defensive. ii. on the other hand—the marriage in answer to the second observation, of mary with bothwell, so soon after it has been said that james, in reality, the murder of darnley, particularly never did interest himself in the cause on account of the general suspicion of of mary; and very soon after the tra- his having contrived and participated gical event took place, made his terms in it, and of the two rapid divorces with cecil, and her other adversaries. which accomanied it,-raises a strong of this indifference of james to his legitimate prejudice against her. mother and to her good name, there but we must make great allowance certainly is some evidence ;-his com- for the effect which the bond of the munications with cecil admit of no nobles, recommending the marriage to doubt. mary, (which bond hume justly calls iii. the examinations at york and a reproach to the nation,) must have westminster, and the famous letters, had on her mind, and for the extreme are subjects which few have time to in- need in which she stood of the marital vestigate. support of a powerful, active, and at one circumstance is considered by tached nobleman. such she thought- mr laing, in his historical discus- and certainly had some reason to think sion on the murder of darnley, as she should find in bothwell it is highly unfavourable to mary. in the also observable, that only a few months first instance, she submitted her cause before the murder of darnley, she had to the decision of elizabeth; she af- formally given her royal consent to the terwards, on grounds which that able marriage of both well. her subsequent writer represents as mere pretences, union with him, to be effected by the declined her umpirage. murder of darnley, could not then have but, even if this was the case, may been in her contemplation. it not be excused ? nothing can be mary queen of scots. [may, more kind, respectful, or judicious, of elizabeth ; that she should be con- than the professions of elizabeth to fronted with her accusers; and that her captive relative. mary confided in the originals of the letters which form- them; every person must admit this ed the principal, if not the sole proof to have been unwise. such the bi- of her guilt, should be produced to shop of ross, and such lord herries, lier. her two only real friends, thought it. all were denied. for the denial of such, too, after the conferences began, the first, elizabeth could not be justly mary herself thought it. but it was blamed, if she had not admitted the then too late to retract directly the pro- accusers of mary into the most confi- mise of submission ; she was therefore dential communications with herself driven to the necessity of eluding it in and her ministers ; but no apology yet the best manner the case allowed. offered, by the apologists of elizabeth, it is, however, needless to plead this for her refusals to allow mary to be from the first to the last, confronted with her accusers, or to mary insisted on three things,-that have her original letters produced to she should be admitted to the presence her, is satisfactory. s. excuse. manchester versus manchester poetry.” to christopher north, esq. about half-past six in the evening she sat in the dark on the cellar-head, of the th ultimo, i was indulging in and heard the outrageous liquor fizzing a deep cogitation upon the chemical and fizzing through the interstices of affinities of white sugar and bohea, in the bung, afraid, poor soul, to venture a snug little wainscoated parlour in the down, and give it a friendly tap with vicinity of charlton row. the day the poker-head, i was rapidly running had been insufferably hot: my land- over the contents of the aforesaid publi- lady's tea-pot was drained to the dregs; cation, from the musky-visag'd portrait and the leaves themselves were begin- of georgie buchanan, to the specificim- ning to deploy from its capacious spout. primer of jemmy ballantyne. the old one of these precious relics fell upon lady had already arrivedat the necessity the disordered tray, and, on examining of bottling her incoinparable liquor to * it, i was convinced, that jeffrey and prevent it turning sour, when man- his tribe were as real patriots, as that chester poetry, plain black and white, was a genuine tea-leaf. accum, tests, stared me in the face. it was then be poison, and perdition, at once rushed yond the hour for visiting “one of the upon the imagination; and i imagined societies on the plan of the edinburgh the infernal compound bad already speculative;" but a paramount curio- commenced its demoralizing influence sity to examine this momentous notice, on my unfortunate pancreas. hence overcaine every terror of the president's forward i determined to order my tea reprimand, or the secretary's forfeit- from the “genuine tea company's ware book. candles were ordered, the door house," and altogether to discard the bolted, and i drew my legs upon the copper tea-kettle which was nightly comfortable sofa, not doubting i should polished to perfection by my indus- still arrive at the aforesaid meeting, by trious hostess. the time one half its members were it was this last idea, concerning the up to the neck in the metaphysical bog fondness that mankind evince for ar of causation. ticles of a brazen complexion (the as unfortunately, however, this was sociation of ideas is peculiar) which not the case, and about half-past nine engaged me, when a gentle tap inter- i was sent for in a great hürry (the rupted my reveries, and ushered thy president had fallen asleep) to appease delectable publication to my hands. a violent uproar, occasioned by a per- whilst the attentive mrs taperwaist sonal altercation between two sublime was removing the remnants of the re searchers after truth, who, from being past, seasoning her labour ever and most philosophically engaged, had pro- anon with some dolefu'exclamations ceeded most scientifically to blows, on the awfu’ lightning there had been palpably demonstrating the existence that afternoon, which had spoiled her of cause and effect. [my essay on the a -gallon cask of small beer, whilst subject, which fills four reams of pa- .] manchester versus “ manchester poetry.” per, closely written, will make thomas fane oath, as caused my dutch-built brown a complete fool. it's a pity he's landlady (mrs taperwaist) to jump not alive to read it. at the last meet- three cubic feet from the chair on which ing of the royal society, it was read, she was sitting in the next apartment. and received with three times three. and notwithstanding my endeavours i'll sell the copy-right for a handsome to keep down my choler, during the sum.] i soon quieted them by men- progress of reading, -" this volatility tioning your attack, and telling them of spirit, this forcible and indomitable all their speeches made at the last meet- action of mind, this never-tiring, (cursed ing, some fifteen-fifteenths of which fatiguing by the bye,) and never-weak- were copied from rees's cyclopædia, ening intellectual energy, this bounding were published in blackwood's maga- and unceasing mental (bodily) elastici- zine. the scene that ensued was unique ty” very nearly resembling battledoor in its kind. rough drafts, outlines, and and shuttlecock, so wearied, perplexed, heads of speeches; replies nos. , , and irritated me, that i fairly wished , and , as might be required ; writ- the author, essay, magazine, and pub- ten on old bills of parcels, the backs of lisher, “ instantaneously concocted into letters, and ledger-leaves ; of every chyle;" or within a reasonable distance possible shade between a sullied white of the “boa constrictor's huge gulph.” and a confirmed black, were tumbled popular hostility, however, as well as from every pocket in the room. one private ought to give place to candid begged to shew the meeting-what, criticism and allowance ; and when ex- how much, and whence, he had ex ercised against a deserving subject, will tracted his materials, solely, wholly, only in the end reflect disgrace upon it- and entirely, to direct, refect, or select, self, for an unworthy exercise of power. his own opinions. another was exceed- and although this good town may, in ingly anxious-to-to-(thumping the the “ prurient" imagination of a few table)—to shew how—that is, there “pullulating” wits, was no cause for the effect produced "excogitations” of a second diogenes, -(loud laughter, i suppose,) —no cause be, perhaps, “ shorn of some of its for-but i requested to be put in pos- beams," it will “ at length experience a session of those documents, to illus- renewal of its brightness, and receive its trate the answer i was then preparing merited due at the hands of posterity.” to the insolent impugners of local in the first place, my dear christo- talent, and of their's in particular. pher, i am inclined to question the whereupon the hearty thanks of the verity of thy emissaries, notwithstand- meeting were voted me; and the trea- ing thou art so very select in their ap- surer directed to purchase a half-crown pointment. the fogs and mists which copy of jack the giant-killer, as a to so closely envelope our native yous ken of their obligation. [at some fu- may have exercised their subtle in- ture time, i'll send you a copy of these fluence on these gentlemen's vision, curious documents : they will entirely which will account for the distorted supersede hazlitt's parliamentary elo- portraits transmitted to thee. quence; and may be of infinite use to i believe there is no writing extant, rising rhetoricians.] in which the respective merits of the li- but to return to my sofa— when i terary characters” of manchester " arrived at that part of thy observations, made the subject of comparative criti- which declares thy patronage of es- cism," and i think it would be no pionage, " i mounted up with the bril- less disagreeable to the distinguished liancy and rapidity of a sky-rocket ;" amongst that class, than painful to and though i did not “scatter about those of less conspicuous talent, were me sparks and scintillations which en- i to publish an invidious criticism upon lightened the whole atmosphere of litera- their individual productions, or to ture," i certainly uttered such a pro- throw down the apple of discord, that are • it may be proper to mention, that much of the language of this reply is adopted from an elegant essay on the respective merits of warburton and johnson, published in the december number. the author will immediately perceive the intention; and his good-humour will induce him readily to forgive so innocent a larceny; since it will have the effect of introducing that essay to more general and particular perusal. where such liberties have been taken, the passages are printed in italics, that the whole extent of the obligation may be appreciated. manchester versus “ manchester poetry." [may, some trojan boy might shew his skill evening. so that we are not without in the adjudication of it. besides, i inducement to lave our skulls in the know asmuch aboutchemistry, mecha- waters of helicon, even though there nics, or medicine, as a mole knows of were none of thy magazines to pour gas-light, and therefore am not quali- the oil and wine of wisdom into their fied to be the umpire in such a contest. recesses.- indeed, i am astonished some general observations, neverthe, thou shouldst risk the sale of co- less, upon the manifest inapplicability pies of thy work, which i know to be of such a sweeping censure as thou hast disposed of here, by paying such a pronounced upon the taste of the town, sorry compliment to the ninnies that may not be without their particular delight in it: but benefit ;" because they will compre folly loves the martyrdom of fame; hend, not only the worshipped lumi. and thou art jealous of our talents-that's naries of our intellectual sphere, but plain. also those “ who oppose themselves to for to say nothing of our skill in the standard corps of literature, in the the exalted science of belfry music confidence of individual power," and or in the surprising acumen of our through the telescopic channel of a pit and gallery critics in theatrical tac- goose-quill, discover“ new paths in tics or the depth of our knowing ones learning," and " new vistas in know- at the manchester turf meeting or ledge; they will be of use in display, our great skill in prize-fighting, and ing—" how far it is possible for abili- race-running-thou canst not be ig. ties the most splendid, to seduce their norant of our unrivalled celebrity in possessor to extravagance in the search thorough-bass-singing, which is the for originality, (that is, caricaturing a distinguishing feature of the neigh- whole town, a very original idea, by bourhood. couldst thou once hear an my credit,) and how transient and mo- anthem at prestwich church, solo, duo, mentary is the fame of paradoxical in, trio, and all o, thou would'st utterly genuity, (alluding to the laugh created discard the nobility's ancient concerts, by the former article, and the dismay nor refer to lavater for the physiog- produced by this answer) when com- nomy of the human countenance. ne pared with that which rests on the im ver were such pains taken to debase mobility of established truth.”—yes, the man's frontispiece, or to rival the mul- im-mo-bi-li-ty of established truth ! tiplied distortions of lunacy. now this certainly our manchester bucks aforementioned celebrity i take to be were never much celebrated for their wholly attributable to the beneficial in- metrical propensities ; nor perhaps fluence of our cotton factories, which would it be advantageous to exchange doubtless act as a tonic to the lungs; pounds sterling, day-books, and bar or perhaps to some “lurking particles ter, for trochees, anapæsts, and rhy- of the cotton, not carried off by expec- ming dictionaries; or to enliven our toration;" which impart that rough, mules and jennies with the isle of raspy depth to the voice, that entire palms instead of the oil of whales. but ly supersedes the necessity of bassoons these gentlemen of the neck-cloth can, and serpents in our churches and cha- with few exceptions, say the lord's pels. so that some benefits do accrue prayer, and decline hic hæc hoc, ge- from these huge lazarettos, the smoke nitive hujus ; and may be got through and fume of which are so disconcerting some dozen sentimentalities from by- to thy spies ; for if they prevent a clear ron, or moore. but where's the use perception of the poetical jingle, they of their invoking the muses, when contribute to the increase of harmony, they are provoked by droppings of in- and music and poetry are said to be spiration from a stone, in which the twin sisters. they intercept, to be measure and the meaning are most sure, those "rain-bow beaming rays, happily profundified ? so that that, which flash upon the aspirants for that that person means," is as trans- worldly immortality ; but psalmody parent as a balk of mahogany. passim, divine, with the simple, plain truths they have verses made in a passion at of sternhold and hopkins, have more a rookery in middleton, a little insig- charms for us than nificant town in the neighbourhood ; or -butler's wit, pope's numbers, prior's a few original stanzas, prepared by a case, mercurial process, and volunteered for with all that fancy can invent to please. the benefit of the clubs on a saturday and we are to be unmercifully .] manchester versus " manchester poetry.” belaboured, too, because our gentry not understood, although a certain doce are partial to their bowls of falernian, tor mistook it for a string of serious and do not make long speeches in the hypotheses. now it has struck me, high places. now, although i have that this might cease to be regarded well-nigh forgotten my classical quo. merely as an effort of wit, and be apa tations, i think it has been the prac plied to some practical advantages, if tice of every moon-struck votary of the author would render his theory in- the muses, who has had his eye-lids telligible to common sense, and fa- touched with the three living drops, shion, in the alembic of his ingenuity, from homer and pindar, down to a set of ideas which would correspond dibdin, and your dolon inclusive, to with the various members of a roasted laud the potent effects of that most goose, (a dish highly in fashion here) christian-like beverage, which often or any other usual appendage of a feast. makes men moralize, when sermons for example, if i wished to express cannot. indeed, the whole charge is an opinion of an anti-malthusian, wrong; for the generality of our po- without impediment to the mastica- pulation do not drink port, but sacri- ting process, i should clear the brains fice most copiously to johny barley- from the goose's head, hold the skull corn. as to the “damning form," that on my fork, and shake it at my neigh- may be correct enough, since such bour: if lie thought the idea good, he vehement asseverations are a distin. would partially smile, and shake the guishing feature in their character. it merry thought at me. we, (that is will be well if thy liberal rewards, un manchester by-payers, for what with der the name of salaries, do not lead dinner-parties, and taxes, i have run the zeal of thy servants to outstrip their through my patrimony, and am oblie discretion. whenever a man from a ged to live in lodgings; no. a, far country visiteth me, i shall mi, if you ever call upon me) are open. nutely examine his physiognomy, and hearted, generous, and hospitable, and mark his propensities; lest, while i discard many of the polite innovations be killing for him the fatted calf, and upon english comfort. as “ saginam uncorking for him my double brown cædite," exercise your grinders, was the stout, he be merely a vagrant emissary signal in former times ; " now, boys, of thine, taking note whether i wipe lay to,” is the token in this. but what my mouth before i drink, or eat mock- elegant refinements may not be expect turtle from a fish-plate. most fierce- ed, now that this courtly mæcenas hath ly do our leading knights of the care undertaken our polish, and seasoned ver threaten thee, should'st thou ever the mental and bodily repasts of my pitch thy tent so far south, for limit- townsmen with the savour of his attic ing the freedom of their feasts; since salt? thy partiality for long speeches, seven courses might be easily partaken savours strongly of whiggism. sure- of and three pint bottles per man most ly, christopher, thou art not an advo- comfortably deposited, by our present cate for that fawning, flattering, loqua- laws, without one interchange of con- cious vanity, which is most at ease versation, save. take a little more when its left foot is drawn back; its stuffing, jack."-" stuffing enough, left hand in the bosom ; its white bea- thank thee!" there is, however, a ver in the right ; and itself twisted plan, by which the glorious delights and twined into every attitude likely of the banquet might still be enjoyed to attract the attention of the gaping unbroken, and yet some mental ali- jebusites, who are content to swallow ment be mingled with the repast. a little unctious mummery, and to be amongst the published papers of that bespattered, for hours together, with society, which thou sayest is growing all as the holiday and lady terms” that old, and which is a bouncing f-i-b, since enrich the specious vocabulary of mo- there are more youths in it, training dern orators! up in the way they should go, than in and dost thou really believe, chris- the parish work-house-well, i say, topher, that we manchester folks, pas- amongst those papers, is one on the sionately attached as we are to the signs of ideas, (as a pestle and a drama, could swallow conscience at the mortar suggest the idea of an apothe suggestion of any printer or printer's cary) which is a most humorous and devil? that we could really give cre- ironical satire upon the folly of theo- dence to " a lecture utterly disproving rising too deeply on subjects that are the devil and all his works," whilst the vol. ix. b manchester versus " manchester poetry.”. [may, existence of such a being was proved, is impossible to conjecture. this emis- by the known residence of thy emissary sary of thine, and , christopher, (for amongst us? that we needed “sere we are marvellously old cronies, he sit- mons," to bring us the refreshing com- ting at my elbow whilst i write this, forts of sleep, when we take jeffrey's though he little thinks what a smo- blue pill every quarter-day? christo- king i am giving him,) have had ma- pher north, thou hast not measured ny a hard tug at rough draughts of our intellect by the standard gauge ; deeds, and smooth draughts of porter ; else wouldst thou not have been led to and he should not forget “ the many such inconsistencies ; nor, hadst thou coloured gems of genius” that shine in measured our intellect by the standard the “ prologue spoken before a private gauge, wouldst thou have brought the theatrical performance at manches- ghost of paynter's muse, from the tomb ter;" which said prologue i recited in which we saw her quietly inurned, for him, in a manner that would per- to disturb our easter revelries.-"a fectly have astounded kean or young. man who cannot build up a hovel,” besides which, not many months ago, says samuel johnson,“may pull down we'actually visited one of these “minor a temple ;" and even if the general im- societies," convinced (whether “ the becility of mr paynter's publication deceit was occasioned by the reveries were not in a degree palliated by the of a fer vid imagination, or the insinua- inartificial talent with which it is writ- ting" dexterity of self-love," i can't ten, it ought, nevertheless, to be ex- pretend to say,) that we should soon empted, in respect to the motive which cut a conspicuous figure. somehow led to its publication, from that mer- or other we did not succeed, notwith- ciless species of criticism in which you, standing we set a very proper example my dear fellow, have indulged. a in pertinaciously adhering to lindley stranger to its unfortunate author, and wlurray; but little less than such to the work itself, grammar in vain the sons of priscian teach; i yet cannot approve that“ unconquer- good facts are better than eight parts of able propensity for adjusting and fa- speech. shioning every thing according to the decrees of some standard hypothesis ; in short, we were little attended to; and on which, like the bed of procrustes, and perceiving, after a few trials, that you rack and torture every subject, till heaven did not mean us for orators, you have reduced it, by a process of dis. (although i practised with three mar- location, into some conformity with your bles in my mouth every night for a theories." indeed, if one may judge month, under the new bridge,) we sent by the specimens given to the public, in a resignation, which was politely ac- by your spy and the muse in idleness, cepted, but with this intimation, that .“ in poetical genius and capability it as we had left the camp as deserters, would perhaps be unfair to compare it was hoped we should never return them;" for the productions of the one, as spies.” * i have, since then, most to use his own words, “are such as scrupulously stuck to the parchment, many a school-boy would be ashamed to and never ventured within two streets own;" and the efforts of the latter, as of this controversial tabernacle. i wish, yourself have declared, are calculated most sincerely, my brother of the quill to excite“ an universal spirit of emu- had attended to the afore-mentioned lation in the minds of all; from the nota bene, since there are threats, and lowest factory-boy to the highest cot- rumours of threats, against your un- ton-spinner. known spy. indeed, every morning there are some persons, who, in their when i pass the muddy reservoir, in over-weening anxiety to lubricate and which our poetical painter saw the dead swallow the whole posse-comitatus of dogs floating, which he mistook for satirical subjects, cannot even spare swans, i turn away my head, lest i their nearest affections, nor grant a should find my dear friend dick, in his plenary indulgence to their own pec- black saxony coat, scudding before the cadilloes. why attornies' clerks are to wind, with that cursed magazine about be unmercifully lashed for writing pro- his neck for a main-sail. sorely do i logues and speculations on free-will, it fear for his safety; and, if he escape • sheridan to burke. .) manchester versus “ manchester poetry." with life, i fear they will make him success will mainly depend upon the take a draught of their manchester unanimity of both parties. and with sticks. respect to the society, i think i shall amongst other damning sins, we be elected president when the present are accused of ordering our books of gentleman filling that situation, and plates and books of pattern cards, by some two or three of the vice-presi- the same conveyance; and of being dents are dead, and therefore it would even likely to vie with the elegant, be imprudent in every respect. i may, learned, and amiable historian of lo- nevertheless, assert, that among the renzo de medicis. i advise my fel- recently-published papers of that so- low townsmen to take warning by my ciety, and also amongst those which. example, and still to continue this sa« have indeed been read, but which, ving practice, if they wish to maintain, from the native modesty of genuine in opposition to their more dashing talent, are withheld from the press, exemplars in a neighbouring sea-port, there are many that exhibit the most that prudent and praiseworthy thrifti- forcible and comprehensive grasp of ness, which will enable them to unite, understanding, and the most elegant, in their true and enviable colours, the varied, and refined endowments of unostentatious competency of british mind, productions which will alike re- merchants, with the munificent patron- sist the sophistries of genius and the age of the british arts; and the plain, ravages of time, and remain admired unwarped rhetoric of common sense, and forescent, when the essays of thy with the pleasing and instructive lan- most witty emissary are superseded and guage of scientific research. the same forgotten--mine, too, christopher ; i glimmering of taste which induces our don't exempt my own productions. thriving manufacturer to load his bible it is but passing a merited eulogium and psalter with a profusion of mo- on our poorer fellow-townsmen to as- rocco and gold, will, by the prudence sert, that, for the confined advantages which i recommend, enable him, in his which have fallen to their lot, they established prosperity, to fill the shelves combine most unequivocal shrewdness of his library with whatever is curious of intellect with very correct judga and amusing; and to line the walls of ment upon general topics; and that, his mansion with the finest produc- when left to the sober current of their tions of genius and art. it is, indeed, own feelings, and unpolluted by the the far-spread reputation of this lite- poisonous doctrines of designing men, rary and scientific town, whether they constitute a population at once founded in error or truth availeth the pride and ornament of their coun- not, which brings every library of con- try, and fit and deserving subjects to sequence to its mart, and every ob- a king of england. and, amongst seure individual to its fostering pro- the more generally-educated, - the tection. so that its inhabitants, not- proprietors of commercial establish- withstanding " the unsparing hand of ments,--the members of the learned this relentless satirist, whose portraits professions, -and particularly the re- are often less of true resemblances than verend brethren of the established and real caricatures,” will be found,“ in dissenting communities, the same na- the discharge of the social relations of tural advantages are eminently posa life, to be equally faultless and exem- sessed. indeed, this town, like any plary." other, no doubt, of equal extent, can after this general commendation, it boast every degree and shade of talent would perhaps not be well to particu- in the pulpit, from the pure, pious, larize individual talent, either in the eloquent, and orthodox dissertations body of the manchester people, or in of our modern tillotson, to the linsey- the literary and philosophical society woolsey fabrics of the rude, though sin- of which you have spoken so slighting- gularly-acute stocking-weaver, that left ly. for between you and me, though looms and stockings in the lurch, i should not like it to go forth to the and fell to mend and patch the church. world, the whigs fancy they have all there is one other topic to which i the talents; and as i do not think so, would allude, ere my candle is com- it would be unwise to lose the chance pletely out, and my noble self most ir- which i have of becoming the mem- recoverably drowsy, that is, the man- ber for this town, in case the elective chester business-friend christopher, franchise be extended to it, by endea-. i am as staunch a friend to my king vouring to prove the contrary, as my and the constitution as thou can'st pos- manchester versus “ manchester poetry." [may, sibly be: ["damn form," and drink servant again to be suspended—the healths five fathoms deep, upon the peaceful security of our hamlets, and natal day of our gallant, and buxom, the accumulated wealth of our towns and beloved monarch : his health, god again to be endangered—the majesty bless him ! is the first which i toast at of our civil tribunals, and the sanctity my own table, and a song to his pros- of our venerable establishments again perity, is the last which enlivens my to be profaned-amid the horror, and humble board. i do not mind a bro- the confusion, and the destruction, of ken head in defence of his honour, and such a struggle, i should recommend, my purse hath ever been unstrung to as the first offering to the sabres of our assert, by every sacrifice and exertion, gallant soldiers,--the dove-tailed sen- the unsullied dignity of his throne. tences, and the flagitious witticims of but, whilst i most conscientiously these most fair, most impartial, but, agree in the necessity of the inter- thank heaven, most impotent and self- ference alluded to, and most firmly blinded demagogues. believe that the salvation of the dis- trict was effected by it, i hold that man whilst penning the above remarks, to be beneath all contempt who would i thought that the best disproof i could perpetuate its unhappy consequences, offer of our mental obtuseness would by continued ribaldry, and eternize the be a specimen of my own verses, being painful recollections with which it is bred and brought up at the feet of ga- associated. and however determined- maliel, who is our parish schoolmaster. ly the leading characters of this our i had accordingly been dotting my town might co-operate in that inter- finger nails, and scratching my head, ference, and however undauntedly they a full half hour, to no purpose, when have abided by the consequences of my most dear friend, mr michael their own intrepid execution of the napperskin was introluced. without laws, i know there is not one of them, uttering a syllable, he drew thy maga- independent, honourable, and trulyzine from his pocket, opened it to the english gentlemen as they are, whose leaf folded down at manchester poetry, eye does not drop a tear for every drop and, biting his lip most methodically, of blood which was shed upon that oc- asked, “is that piece of impertinent casion, and who would not rather for- flippancy your writing?"-"no, by all feit his fortune or his life, than wit- the gods in the pantheon," responded ness such another insurrection in the i. “ then, i know whose it is, and very heart of this favoured country. i'll answer it," continued he. “you nor hath language force enough to ex- may save yourself the trouble," quoth press the abhorrence in which every , "it's already done; there it is, read.” humane and patriotic bosom will hold he accordingly perused the article, those anonymous scribblers, no matter but i could see by the inflexions of his whether birchbottom or squib,whether phiz that it wasn't the thing." its dictated by professional spleen or phi- as libellous as the other," said he, losophical apathy, who have continual- and i will answer it.”_" it will be ly applied the caustic of licentious wit all to no purpose, my dear michael to the festering sore in the mind of an napperskin," i replied, " for i hold irritated population, and who, in the between twenty and thirty shares in out-pourings of their sensibility, know the proprietorship of that magazine ; not how and i have, in consequence, & voice “ publica privatis secernere, sacra pro- potential as the duke's,' so that my fanis." article is sure to have the preference." it may be, they will never see this re- this rather staggered michael ; who cord of individual opinion, or, if they was obliged to content himself with should, that it will but serve as ali- suggestions, several of which i have ment to feed their meretricious popu- insensibly adopted. notwithstanding larity; but fewer years of experience this scurvy treatment, i bear thee no than have yellowed the greenness of malice, and am, my days, will convey the admonition dear christopher, home, and convince then, though late, thine assured friend, that "they have their reward." hildebrand snapdragon. if, however, such a calamity again n. b. do not forget to remember me be forced upon us if the amenities of to all my friends at edina. if i social life are again to be interrupted should go to the north, be assured the reciprocal offices of employer and they will find me a prime one. .) annals of the parish. annals of the parish; or the chronicle of dalmailing.* [in general, nothing appears more absurd than the insertion in a periodical work of an article conferring high praise on a known contributor to that work. in justification of ourselves on the present occasion, we shall only say, that the following review of the “ annals of the parish,” has been sent us by a person second to none in the modern literature of this country--a person whom we have not, and can scarcely hope ever to have, the honour of numbering among our regular contributors—and who, finally, is altogether ignorant even of the name of the author whose work he criticizes.-c. n.] in the title-page, this volume gives scots inland village, from its compara- itself out to be arranged and edited by tively unimproved state, in the year the author of “ the ayrshire lega- , down to the modern period, the tees,” published in several successive modern manners, the modern way of numbers of “ blackwood's edinburgh living, in the year ; and, amidst magazine ;" and we think it will not at these, the reverend writer pourtrays, all derogate from, but rather increase, with perfect sincerity, those little the reputation which they acquired. changes which the course of his own there is the same nature in the cha- years, as well as the course of events, racters,—the same idiomatic plainness produced in himself. he never forgets, in the manners and the language,—the however, his benevolence or his virtue; same pastoral simplicity in the good and his charity for the failings of others, old-fashioned clergyman, who is the and for those relaxations of moral dis- principal person of the drama. it de cipline, which are perhaps inseparable scribes the village and its inhabitants from a progressive state of society, con. with the same particularity as mrs tinues unabated by the prejudices of hamilton's well known " cottagers of ancient recollection, by the zeal of a glenburnie;" and though it does not warmly religious clergyman, or an ad- exhibit them in quite so sordid a garb herence to the rigid principles of cal- as that picture does, yet it dresses them vinism. in no unnatural or affected finery; they like the vicar of wakefield, mr have their every-day clothes, only micah balwhidder is the historian of cleaner and more tidily put on than his own fireside, and the various vicis. mrs hamilton's. that lady, indeed, situdes of their fortune. of these there we are inclined to think, went back, are not, like those of dr primrose, in- for her rural picture, to a period con cidents to surprise or to interest, by siderably distant, when she left scot- their uncommon or romantic nature, in land; and so, by a certain anachronism which respect the vicar of wakefield in manners, represented the lower ranks has perhaps gone somewhat beyond of scotsmen and scotswomen, of scots the limits of the probability even of cottages and scots dairies, rather as fiction. the simple and almost uni- they were or years ago, than as form journal of mr balwhidder is so they will now be found. besides, mrs little extraordinary, as to claim from hamilton, writing to reform abuses and us somewhat of a belief in its reality; errors, has perhaps caricatured them an advantage which belongs to those in a certain degree, or brought them at narratives that give the portrait of ac- least into a stronger light than that in tual life, (such as the works of rich- which they are usually seen, even by ardson), with so little of what we may the most impartial eyes; and by such call, in a painter's language, relief in means has, we know, given some of- the picture, as to appear hat to some fence to scots people, whose patriotism, romantic readers, but which have a though not stronger than truth, is at powerful charm for such as like to look least not weaker than their delicacy. on nature in its native garb, without these annals trace, we think very the ornaments in which fancy or re- fairly, the morals and manners of a finement delights to dress it; and there annals of the parish ; or the chronicle of dalmailing ; during the ministry of the rev. micah balwhidder. written by himself. arranged and edited by the author of “ the ayrshire legatees." -blackwood, edinburgh; t. cadell, london, . % annals of the parish. [may, is, as in the works of that great paint. door of the church, on the day of ore er of ordinary life, an individuality dination, was barred up by the mal- and minuteness in the description of content parishioners, so that the mi- the persons, and in the detail of the nister and his attendant members of little incidents, which, in their very the presbytery were obliged to go in tediousness, have the strong impres- at a window. a weaver of the name sion of truth and reality. in one pare of thorl, took occasion, from this cir- ticular our worther minister is much cumstance, to quote scripture against the reverse of dr primrose. so far the admission of mr balwhidder: from being a monogamist, he marries “ verily i say unto you, he that en- successively three wives, in all of whom tereth not by the door into the sheep- hemeets with those valuable household fold, but climbeth up some other way, qualities which his own virtues as a the same is a thief and a robber;" but husband deserve. the sarcasm had no effect on the mild. in its humorous passages this work ly-suffering temper of the minister. has no attempt at the brilliancy of wit, “though my people received me in this or the strength of caricature. the unruly manner, i was resolved to cultivate lines of its grotesque are marked with civility among them; and therefore, the no glaring colour, but place before us very next morning i began a round of vi- the figures as they are seen in every sitations ; but oh, it was a steep brae that village with which we are acquainted, i had to climb, and it needed a stout heart. and in the inhabitants of those vil- for i found the doors in some places barred lages as we see them at their doors or they saw me coming, ran crying to their mo, against me; in others, the bairns, when their firesides. they look, and speak, thers, here's the feckless bless-john ;' and act, as is natural to their situa- and then when i went in into the houses, tion, and are not forced into attitudes their parents would no ask me to sit down, either of the picturesque that may at- but with a scornful way, said, “honest tract admiration, or the ludicrous that man, what's your pleasure here?' never- may excite ridicule. theless, i walked about from door to door, in the distresses which these an, like a dejected beggar, till i got the almous nals occasionally relate, the pathetic is deed of a civil reception, and who would that of ordinary, not high-wrought have thought it, from no less a person than feeling, and its language the natural the same thomas thorl that was so bitter expression of affliction without the against me in the kirk on the foregoing swell of tragedy, or the whine of senti- day. thomas was standing at the door with ment. the description is never la- his green duffle apron, and his red kilmar- boured with epithet, nor brought for- nock nightcap-i mind him as well as if it ward by artificial lights thrown upon was but yesterday—and he had seen me it by the skill of the describer ; it is going from house to house, and in what simply of what he sees, and what we manner i was rejected, and his bowels were believe he could not but see. moved, and he said to me in a kind man- though in a work of the inartificial ner, • come in, sir, and ease yoursel; this kind, which the above general charac- will never do, the clergy are god's gorbies, ter announces, it is not easy to pick and for their master's sake it behoves us to out remarkable or striking passages, whole parish mair against you than mysel, respect them. there was no ane in the the purpurei panni which some popu- but this early visitation is a symptom of lar performances afford, we will sub- grace that i couldna have expectit from a init to our readers a few extracts, by bird out the nest of patronage. i thanked which they may judge of the merits of thomas, and went in with him, and we the work, and of the justness of the had some solid conversation together, and character we have given of it. i told him that it was not so much the pas- the account of the writer's settle- tor's duty to feed the flock, as to herd them ment in the parish of dalmailing, (si- well; and that although there might be tuated in that western district where, some abler with the head than me, there to be popular a minister must be what, was na a he within the bounds of scotland in modern language, we might call an more willing to watch the fold by night and ultra-gospel minister), is given with by day. and thomas said he had not heard a mair sound observe for some time, perfect impartiality, and with that and that if i held to that doctrine in the ineekness of temper which truly be- poopit, it would na be lang till i would longs to the gospel, though in the work a change. i was mindit,' quoth abuse of that word, the zeal of the he, never to set my foot within the kirke congregation frequently forgets it. the door while you were there ; but to testify, .) annals of the parish. and no to condemn without a trial, i'll be faith in freats, and was just an oracle of there next lord's day, and egg my neigh. sagacity at expounding dreams, and bodes bours to be likewise, so ye'll no have to of every sort and description_besides, she preach just to the bare walls and the laird's was reckoned one of the best how dies in family."" her day; but by this time she was grown the first change in the manners or frail and feckless, and she died the same occupation of this inland parish, is year on hallowe'en, which made every marked in the following natural ac- body wonder, that it should have so fallen out for her to die on hallowe'en." count of one of the boys going to sea. he was the son of one of its most ami- tion, and increasing employment and in tracing the progressive popula- able inhabitants, a mrs malcolm, who wealth of a village, the annals mark had seen better days, the widow of a clyde shipmaster, who had been lost one of those reverses of which we have at sea, and left by him with a family from too extensive or ill-managed con- lately seen but too many examples, of children, whose only support was the industry of their mother. cerns. a great cotton-mill, from which “ it was in this year that charlie mal- its first owner hadderived great wealth, colm, mrs malcolm's eldest son, was sent is afterwards, in the less fortunate or to be a cabin-boy in the tobacco trader, a less skilful hands of his successor, so three masted ship, that sailed between port- much a losing adventure as to occasion glasgow and virginia in america. she the company's stopping payment. the was commanded by captain dickie, an ir. fatal consequences are strongly but ville man ; for at that time the clyde was simply set forth in the annals of the supplied with the best sailors from our year when this happened. the melan- coast, the coal-trade with ireland being a choly spectacle of a thousand poor better trade for bringing up good mariners people, suddenly thrown out of em- than the long voyages in the open sea i ployment and deprived of subsistence, which was the reason, as i often heard said, why the clyde shipping got so many of is set before us in unexaggerated but their men from our country-side. the go- striking description. the dreadful ef- ing to sea of charlie malcolm was, on di- fects of the disorder in one family, are vers accounts, a very remarkable thing to thus described in a passage which may us all, for he was the first that ever went be given as a fair specimen of that sim- from our parish, in the memory of man, to ple pathetic which i have above men- be a sailor, and every body was concerned tioned, as belonging to this little book. at it, and some thought it was a great ven “ among the overseers, there was a mr ture of his mother to let him, his father dwining, an englishman from manches- having been lost at sea. but what could ter, where he had seen better days, having the forlorn widow do ? she had five wcans had himself there of his own property, once and little to give them ; and, as she herself as large a mill, according to report, as the said, he was aye in the hand of his maker, cayenneville mill. he was certainly a man go where he might, and the will of god above the common, and his wife was a lady fould be done in spite of all earthly wiles in every point; but they held themselves and devices to the contrary. by themselves, and shunned all manner of “on the monday morning, when charlie civility, giving up their whole attention to was to go away to meet the irville carrier their two little boys, who were really like on the road, we were all up, and i walked creatures of a better race than the callans of by myself from the manse into the clachan our clachan. to bid him farewell, and i met him just “ on the failure of the company, mr coming from his inother's door, as blithe as dwining was observed by those who were a bee, in his sailor's dress, with a stick, and present, to be particularly distressed, his a bundle tied in a barcelona silk handker- salary being his all ; but he said little, and chief hanging o'er his shoulder, and his went thoughtfully home. some days after two little brothers were with him, and his he was seen walking by himself with a pale sisters, kate and effie, looking out from face, a heavy eye, and a slow pace—all to- the door all begreeten ; but his mother was kens of a sorrowful heart. soon after he in the house, praying to the lord to pro. was missed altogether; nobody saw him. tect her orphan, as she afterwards told me. the door of his house was however open, all the weans of the clachan were gathered and his two pretty boys were as lively as at the kirk-yard yett to see him pass, and usual, on the green before the door. i hap- they gave him three great shouts as he was pened to pass when they were there, and i going bye; and every body was at their asked them how their father and mother doors, and said something encouraging to were. they said they were still in bed, him; but there was a great laugh when and would not waken, and the innocent auld mizy spaewell came hirpling with lambs took me by the hand, to make me her bachle in her hand, and aung it after waken their parents. i know not what was hiin for gude luck. mizy had a wonderful in it, but i trembled from head to root, and annals of the parish. [may, i was led in by the babies, as if i had not jamaica, had built a nest of affection in power to resist. never shall i forget what my heart. but, oh! the wicked wastry of i saw in that bed • life in war. in less than a month after, the news came of a victory over the french i found a letter on the table ; and i came fieet, and by the same post i got a letter away, locking the door behind me, and took from mr howard, that was the midship- the lovely prattling orphans home. i could man who came to see us with charles, tell, but shake my head and weep, as i gave ing me that poor charles had been mortal- them to the care of mrs balwhidder, and ly wounded in the action, and had after- she was terrified, but said nothing. i then wards died of his wounds." he was a hero read the letter. it was to send the bairns in the engagement,' said mr howard, “and to a gentleman, their uncle, in london. he died as a good and a brave man should." oh it is a terrible tale, but the winding. these tidings gave me one of the sorest sheet and the earth is over it. i sent for hearts i ever suffered, and it was long be- two of my elders. i related what i had fore i could gather fortitude to disclose the seen. two coffins were got, and the bo- tidings to poor charles's mother. but the dies laid in them; and the next day, with callants of the school had heard of the vic- one of the fatherless bairns in each hand, i tory, and were going shouting about, and followed them to the grave, which was dug had set the steeple bell a-ringing, by which in that part of the kirk-yard where ún. mrs malcolm heard the news; and know. christened babies are laid.' we durst not ing that charles's ship was with the fleet, take it upon us to do more ; but few knew she came over to the anse in great anxie- the reason, and some thought it was be- ty, to hear the particulars, somebody tell- cause the deceased were strangers, and had ing her that there had been a foreign letter no regular lair. to me by the post-man. “ i dressed the two bonny orphans in the “ when i saw her i could not speak, best mourning at my own cost, and kept but looked at her in pity, and the tear flee. them in the manse till we should get an ing up into my eyes, she guessed what had answer from their uncle, to whom i sent happened. after giving a deep and sore their father's letter. it stung him to the sigh, she inquired, * how did he behave ? quick, and he came down all the way from i hope well, for he was aye a gallant lad- london, and took the children away him- die !-and then she wept very bitterly. self. o he was a vext man, when the however, growing calmer, i read to her beautiful bairns, on being told he was their the letter, and when i had done, she beg. uncle, ran into his arms, and complained ged me to give it to her to keep, saying, that their papa and mamma had slept so it's all that i have now left of my pretty long, that they would never waken." boy; but it's mair precious to me than the another example of the pathetic, of wealth of the indies ;” and she begged me a tenderer, but less shocking kind, will to return thanks to the lord, for all the be found in the twenty-third chapter. comforts and manifold mercies with which although i have not been particular in her lot had been blessed, since the hour she noticing it, from time to time, there had put her trust in him alone, and that was been an occasional going off , at fairs and when she was left a pennyless widow, with on market-days, of the lads of the parish her five fatherless bairns. as soldiers, and when captain malcolm “ it was just an edification of the spirit, to got the command of his ship, no less than sce the christian resignation of this worthy four young men sailed with liim from the woman. mrs balwhidder was confounded, clachan ; so that we were deeper and deep- and said, there was more sorrow in seeing er interested in the proceedings of the dole- the deep, grief of her fortitude, than tongue could tell. ful war, that was raging in the plantations. by one post we heard of no less than three “ having taken a glass of wine with her, brave fellows belonging to us being slain i walked out to conduct her to her own in one battle, for which there was a loud house, but in the way we met with a se- and general lamentation. vere trial. all the weans were out para- “ shortly after this, i got a letter from ding with napkins and kail-blades on sticks, charles malcolm, a very pretty letter it in- rejoicing and triumphing in the glad tidings deed was ; he had heard of my lord egles. of victory. but when they saw me and mrs ham's murder, and grieved for the loss, malcolm coming slowly along, they guess- both because his lordship was a good man, ed what had happened, and threw away their and because he had been such a friend to banners of joy; and, standing all up in a him and his family. but,' said charles, row, with silence and sadness, along the • the best way that i can shew my grati- kirk-yard wall as we passed, shewed an in- tude for his patronage, is to prove myself stinct of compassion that penetrated to my a good officer to my king and country.' very soul. the poor mother burst into which i thought a brave sentiment, and fresh affliction, and some of the bairns into was pleased thercat ; for somchow charles, an audible weeping; and, taking one ano- from the time he brought me the limes to ther by the hand, they followed us to her make a bowl of punch, in his pocket from door, like mourners at a funeral nerer .] annals of the parish. was such a sight seen to any town before admonitions and revelations in the acred the neighbours came to look at it, as we book. knowing this, i perceived that it walked along, and the men turned aside would be of no effect to handle much the to hide their faces, while the mothers press mysteries of the faith ; but as there was at ed their babies, fondlier to their bosoms, the time a bruit and a sound about univer. and watered their innocent faces with their sal benevolence, philanthropy, utility, and tears. all the other disguises with which an infi- “ i prepared a suitable sermon, taking as del philosophy appropriated to itself the the words of my text, “howl, ye ships of charity, brotherly love, and well-doing in- tarshish, for your strength is laid waste.' culcated by our holy religion, i set myself but when i saw around me so many of my to task upon these heads, and thought it people, clad in complimentary mourning no robbery to use a little of the stratagem for the gallant charles malcolm, and that employed against christ's kingdom, to even poor daft jenny gaffaw, and her daugh- promote the interests thereof in the hearts ter, had on an old black ribbon ; and when and understandings of those whose ears i thought of him, the spirited laddie, co would have been sealed against me, had i ming home from jamaica, with his parrot attempted to expound higher things. ac- on his shoulder, and his limes for me, my cordingly, on one day it was my practice heart filled full, and i was obliged to sit to shew what the nature of christian cha- down in the pulpit, and drop a tear. rity was, comparing it to the light and “ after a pause, and the lord having warmth of the sun that shines impartially vouchsafed to compose me, i rose up, and on the just and the unjust-shewing that gase out that anthem of triumph, the th man, without the sense of it as a duty, was psalm ; the singing of which brought the as the beasts that perish, and that every congregation round to themselves ; but still feeling of his nature was intimately selfish, i felt that i could not preach as i had meant but that, when actuated by this divine ime to do, therefore, i only said a few words of pulse, he rose out of himself and became prayer, and singing another psalm, dismiss. as a god, zealous to abate the sufferings of ed the congregation." all things that live. and, on the next day, the good pastor laments the party i demonstrated that the new benevolence spirit which the political madness of which had come so much into vogue, was the years immediately following the but another version of this christian virtue. french revolution produced in the in like manner i dealt with brotherly parish. love, bringing it home to the business and “ this year had opened into all the leafi- of it was neither enlarged nor bettered by bosoms of my hearers, that the christianity dess of midsummer before any thir morable happened in the parish, farther being baptized with the greek name of than that the sad division of my people i went more roundly to work. i told my philanthropy. with well-doing, however, into government-men and jacobins was per: people that i thought they had more sense fected. this calamity, for i never could than to secede from christianity to become consider such heart-burning among neigh- utilitarians, for that it would be a confes- bours as any thing less than a very heavy sion of ignorance of the faith they desert- calamity, was assuredly occasioned by faults ed, seeing that it was the main duty incul. on both sides, but it must be confessed that cated by our religion to do all in morals the gentry did nothing to win the common- and manners, to which the new-fangled ality from the errors of their way. a little more condescension on their part would doctrine of utility pretended.". not have made things worse, and might mr balwhidder's toleration of dif- have made them better ; but pride interference in religious opinions is in the posed, and caused them to think that any same spirit, and attended with the show of affability from them would be con- same beneficial effects, as his patience strued by the democrats into a terror of with political dissenters. after men- their power. while the democrats were tioning among other refinements of no less to blame ; for hearing how their mo:lern luxury, the receipt of a turtle compeers were thriving in france and de- from glasgow, by the proprietors of molishing every obstacle to their ascend- the cotton mill, a description, natu- ency, they were crouse, and really insolent, ral enough, of his surprise at the ap- evidencing none of that temperance in pros- perity that proves the possessors worthy pearance of this new kind of fish, as of their good fortune. he calls it, and the disagreement of “ as for me, my duty in these circum. the dishes made of it on his stomach, stances was one plain and simple. the he digresses to a novelty of a different christian religion was attempted to be kind, a mental disorder which was in- brought into disrepute; the rising genera. troduced into the parish by some of tion were taught to jibe at its holiest ordi- the roman catholic workmen of the nances ; and the kirk was more frequented cotton mill. as a place to while away the time on a “ but the story of the turtle is nothing rainy sunday, than for any insight of the to that of the mass, which, with all its mum- vol. ix. c annals of the parish. [may, meries and abominations, was brought in- reviled and rejected, but my honest endea- to cayenneville by an irish priest of the vours to prove a faithful shepherd, were name of father o'grady, who was confes. blessed from on high, and rewarded with sor to some of the poor deluded irish la- the affection of my flock. perhaps, in the bourers about the new houses and the cot- vanity of doting old age, i thought in this ton-mill. how he had the impudence to there was a merit due to myself, which set up that memento of satan, the crucifix, made the lord to send the chastisement of within my parish and jurisdiction, was what the canaille schism among my people, for i never could get to the bottom of'; but the i was then wroth without judgment, and by soul was shaken within me, when, on the my heat hastened into an open division the monday after, one of the elders came to the flaw that a more considerate manner might nanse, and told me, that the old dragon of have healed. but i confess my fault, and popery, with its seven heads and ten horns, submit my cheek to the smiter ; and i now had been triumphing in cayenneville on see that the finger of wisdom was in that the foregoing lord's day! i lost no time probation, and it was far better that the in convening the session to see what was to weavers meddled with the things of god, be done. much, however, to my surprise, which they could not change, than with the elders recommended no step to be ta those of the king, which they could only ken, but only a zealous endeavour to great- harm. in that matter, however, i was like er christian excellence on our part, by which our gracious monarch in the american we should put the beast and his worship war; for though i thereby lost the pasto- pers to shame and flight. i am free to con ral allegiance of a portion of my people, in fess, that, at the time, i did not think this like manner as he did of his american sub- the wisest counsel which they might have jects ; yet, ter the separation, i was ena. given ; for, in the heat of my alarm, i was bled so to deport myself, that they shewed for attacking the enemy in his camp. but me many voluntary testimonies of affection. they prudently observed, that the days of ate respect, and which it would be a vain religious persecution were past, and it was glory in me to rehearse here. one thing i a comfort to see mankind cherishing any must record, because it is as much to their sense of religion at all, after the vehement honour as it is to mine. infidelity that had been sent abroad by the ** when it was known that i was to french republicans; and to this opinion, preach my last sermon, every one of those now, that i have had years to sift its wis- who had been my hearers, and who had se- dom, i own myself a convert and prose- ceded to the canaille meeting, made it a lyte." point that day to be in the parish kirk, and after a ministry of fifty years, this to stand in the crowd, that made a lane of venerable pastor retires from the ex- reverence for me to pass from the kirk door ercise of his sacred functions in the ly after a deputation of all their brethren, to the back-yett of the manse. and short- year . in the concluding chapter with their minister at their head, came to he gives an account of this event with the same temperate and charitable spi- server of silver, in token, as they were plea- me one morning, and presented to me a rit which distinguishes the whole nar- sed to say, of their esteem for my blameless rative of his blameless and virtuous life, and the charity that i had practised life. towards the poor of all sects in the neigh. “ my tasks are all near a close ; and in bourhood; which is set forth in a well. writing this final record of my ministry, penned inscription, written by a weaver the very sound of my pen admonishes me lad that works for his daily bread. such that my life is a burden on the back of fly a thing would have been a prodigy at the ing time, that he will soon be obliged to beginning of my ministry, but the progress lay down in his great store-house, the grave. of book learning and education has been old age has, indeed, long warned me to wonderful since, and with it has come a prepare for rest, and the darkened windows spirit of greater liberality than the world of my sight shew that the night is coming krew before, bringing men of adverse prin- on, while deafness, like a door fast barred, ciples and doctrines, into a more humane has shut out all the pleasant sounds of this communion with each other, shewing, that world, and inclosed me, as it were, in a pris it's by the mollifying influence of know, son, even from the voices of my friends. ledge, the time will come to pass, when the “i have lived longer than the common lot tiger of papistry shall lie down with the of man, and i have seen, in my time, many lamb of reformation, and the vultures of mutations and turnings, and ups and downs, prelacy be as harmless as the presbyterian potwithstanding the great spread that has doves; when the independent, the arabap- been in our national prosperity. i have be- tist, and every other order and denomina. held them that were flourishing like the tion of christians, not forgetting even these green bay trees, made desolate, and their poor little wrens of the lord, the burghers branches scattered. but, in my own estate, and anti-burghers, will pick from the hand i have had a large and liberal experience of patronage, and dread no snare. of goodness. * on the next sunday, after my fare. at the beginning of my ministry i was well discourse, i took the arm of mrs bal. .] annals of the purish. whidder, and with my cane in my hand, exposed to the censure of his parish- walked to our own pew, where i sat some ioners, to whose temporal and eter- time, but owing to my deafness, not being nal welfare he was always awake.. able to hear, i have not since gone back to among other practices which he re- the church. but my people are fond of probates with becoming severity, are having their weans still christened by me, smuggling, the immoderate use of spi, cus turn, come to be married at my hands, rituous liquors, the neglect of sacred believing, as they say, that there is some duties, the establishment of idle or thing good in the blessing of an aged gos. unprofitable places of resort, the rash pel minister. but even this remnant of and ignorant discussion of politics, the my gown i must lay aside, for mrs bal. irreverent contempt of legal and whole- whidder is now and then obliged to stop some authority. his opinions are al- me in my prayers, as i sometimes wander ways honest, always disinterested, and --pronouncing the baptismal blessing up- generally just . he censures gently, on a bride and bridegroom, talking as if but fairly, the inattention of country- they were already parents . i am thankful, gentlemen to measures of general or however, that i have been spared with a local improvement, when public not pound mind to write this book to the end ; but it is my last task, and, indeed, really private advantage is expected to be i have no more to say, saving only to wish the result; and gives its due import- a blessing on all people from on high, ance to a friendly and cordial commu- where i soon hope to be, and to meet there nication between different ranks of the all the old and long-departed sheep of my community, which may preserve to flock, especially the first and second mrs rank or wealth its beneficial influence, balwhidders." and to the lower orders the respect on the whole, we give our sincere and attention which are due to supe- and cordial approbation to these annals, rior station, when its power and in- not only as amusing, highly amusing fluence are exerted to the general ad- to such' readers as are fond of nature vantage. and simplicity, but as instructive. as on all these accounts, we sincerely a remembrancer, this little volume and warmly recommend the perusal may be very useful. we are very apt of these annals to the members of to forget the origin of practices which communities in situations similar to universal custom has now made us that of the parish of which this ex- consider as of established adoption, cellent clergyman had the charge; by though some of them have no merit such perusal, they may be cautioned but what prescription confers, and what novelties to adopt as useful, or others are subject to censure which ha- discourage as pernicious; and thus reap bit only induces us to withhold. the the advantage which the roman classic worthy clergyman never failed to no- imputes to the recollection of past tice the introduction into his parish events, by making the present time of such novelties, which his pulpit the disciple of the former ; sometimes, when necessary or proper, “discipulus prioris est posterior dies.” recommended to the approbation, or [since this article was put to press, we have been not a little struck by a critique on “ the annals," in the inverness courier. our good friends at inverness have been most fortunate in obtaining such an editor ; for we do not know any provincial journal that is conducted with more ability than the inverness courier. in proof of this, and from our regard to honest micah, we cannot help giving the following extract, which we hope will gratify our read- ers.-c. n.] "if there be one heartless and brain- though not of that degree. these three less mortal in the circleof english read- members of the sacred profession, hold ers, who does not remember parson the same rank among the clergy that abraham adams, and dr primrose, vi- sir roger de coverley, baron bradwar- car of wakefield, as the beloved of his dine, and sir hugh tyrold do among youth, let him not take up the parish laymen. they take possession of the annals-hecan never become acquaint- heart of the reader through every ave- ed with the rev. micah balwhidder, nue, by the mere force of their guile- ' doctor, as he was sometimes called, less and kindly natures. wisdom would annals of the parish. [may, not exchide them, and affection throws scotland. the character of micah every inlet wide open to admit them with the three mrs balwhidders, is, into the sanctuary. micah has not, to however, but a subordinate part of the to be sure, the learning or mental vi- design of this volume, which is to pre- gour of parson adams, nor the tender. sent a lively record of that change in ness and delicacy of “ the husband of manners and national character, which one wife,” the vicar-still he is wore has within the last sixty years wrought thy, in virtue of their common good, such miracles around us. this task is heartedness and pastoral affections, to executed with the minute fidelity and take his place by their side ; and he is lively colouring of crabbe. we may the first presbyter who has been thus be better understood by saying, that honoured. we have long borne a slight micah balwhidder is among our mo- grudge to “ the great unknown,” for dern historians what wilkie is among those prelatic limnings, as micah might the scottish painters; and we think say, which he has given of the scottish that the statistical account of scot- clergy. mr blattergowl devouring in land will never be complete, till the secret the fragments of the antiquary's faithful annals of this homely and ve- feast, and courting miss grizzel" for racious chronicler, are added to the cake and pudding”-heavy and cau- appendix. the personal character of tious mr poundext's "ale-inspired stu- micah, with his patriarchal groupe of dies ;" or mr mucklewraith, “a wee wives, stands out in fine relief from thing crackit, but a braw preacher for the body of the composition, and the a'that,"are ecclesiasticalsketches which pastoral virtues which cluster around might have called down the scourge of him, are enhanced and adorned by the jeremy collier, were that fiery mem- little harmless peculiarities of a former ber of the church militant still in the “student of the orthodox university body. of glasgow,” now become the grave “ the author of waverley has indeed pastor of a quiet country parish. mi. presented us with mr morton, but he cah has no claims to great talent, or is one of those self-sufficing charac, what he calls a kirk-filling elo- ters of perfect wisdom, and unmingled quence," but with a heart overflowing goodness, which are within the com- with kindness and thankfulness, he pass of any ordinary writer, and who, holds on the even tenor of his way as they have no need of the reader's enjoying the innocent self-importance indulgence, obtain but a slight hold on of his station, relishing a quiet joke, his memory. it was therefore reser- cherishing goodness, repressing vice, ved for the present writer to bring us and doing all the good in his power in acquainted with a character, of which his own little circle.” the prototype is to be found in the me, inverness courier, mory or imagination of every native of may , . narrative of the chinese embassy to the khan of the tourgouth tartars. * in preceding ages there appears to chiefly derived from the missionaries, have existed as great a desire to elevate who, in common with the rest of their the station which the chinese ought to zealous, intelligent, and intrepid bre- hold, in the scale of civilized nations, thren, appear to have committed the as there has been in later times tó usual failing (to use no harsher term) lower their pretensions below the fair of magnifying the power, consequence, level to which they appear entitled; and intellect of the nations they were and both mistakes seem to have origi- desirous of converting, and thereby of nated from the same source whence securing to themselves a proportion of every prejudice and error arises —a applause and fame, commensurate with great degree of ignorance of the facts the apparent importance of the people upon which alone any rational opinion converted, and the difficulties with can be grounded. in earlier times the which they had had to contend. it is information respecting the institutions, to this disposition, to exaggerate in the customs, manners, and policy of this early histories, that must be mainly ancient and extraordinary people, were attributed the very high notions for- • translated from the chinese, by sir g. t. staunton, bart. l.l.d. and f.r.s. octavo. murray, london, . .] narrative of the chinese embassy. merly entertained of the chinese cha- it may strike us at first sight. man- racter and policy, which, perhaps, has kind is ever prone to extremes; and induced many modern travellers, from no sooner do we behold a rent in the the falsehood of such representations, veil, that shrouds the object of our to fall into an opposite extreme, and to blind admiration from accurate obser, deal out the measure of their censure vation, than we fly into an opposite with the same want of discrimination, direction, and as inconsiderately de- which distinguishes the panegyrics of grade our fallen idol to the lowest preceding writers; though we perfect- depths of indifference and contempt. ly agree with sir george staunton, in a new era, however, with respect to admitting, “ that the observations of the chinese, seems, during the last age, the latter, as far as their opportunities to be dawning on our view ; when, extended, are, upon the whole, best from an increasing connection with entitled to confidence.” it must, how. this singular people, a more intimate ever, be allowed, that some of the mo- acquaintance with its peculiarities and dern writers have laboured under great customs, and, above all, from the la- disadvantages, not only “ from the bours and researches of such accom- comparatively narrowed limits to which plished writers as the mild, candid, their inquiries were restricted,” but and enlightened translator of the work also from some of them having drawn before us, we may be enabled to ob- their conclusions from the meagre in- tain new lights upon the subject, and formation obtained through a slight to form juster notions than have hither- acquaintance with some maritime places to been entertained of a nation which of the empire, where the simplicity appears to have been alike misrepre- and character of the natives had pro- sented by the indiscretion, prejudice, bably been greatly corrupted by their and ignorance of friends and foes. intercourse with european traders, as far as we can judge of the chi. from whose example and manners they nese, from the unsatisfactory informa- were not likely to be greatly confirmed tion formerly afforded, it seems im- in habits of common honesty or virtue. possible to deny that they must have the account given of the chinese at been civilized to a considerable degree, canton and its vicinity, in the narra- when every state in europe was sunk tive of lord anson's voyage, represents in complete barbarism. most of the them as the most dastardly, insincere, arts and sciences appear to have been and dishonest of the human race; and known among them in very early times; possibly, as far as the writer's experi, and their literature, at these periods, ence extended, he was fully justified was probably upon a level with that in his statements; but as mr barrow of any other nation in the world. their justly remarks, in his excellent travels government too, laws and domestic in china, “ to decide upon the general policy, though possibly not entitling character of the chinese, from the deals the chinese to hold the first rank in ings lord anson had with them in the the scale of civilized society, neverthe- port of canton, would be as unfair as less partake largely of wisdom and mo- it would be thought presumptuous in rality; and it will probably ever re- a foreigner to draw the character of main the wonder of mankind, that a our nation from a casual visit to fale system of government, so extended inouth, killybegs, or aberdeen.” the and so perfect in its kind, could have saine remark, he says, applies to other been so firmly established, in the com- writers on the subject, who never were parative infancy of the world, as to “five hundred yards beyond the limits have resisted through succeeding ages of the european factories at canton,” the storms and revolutions that have this discrepancy between the old and destroyed contemporary nations, and the late accounts of the chinese, if it long since swept them from the face of did not directly extinguish all curiosi. the earth. of the policy of the chi- ty with respect to the people and their nese, with respect to other states, it is institutions, had at least a great ten- difficult for an european to speak with deney to promote that indifference on impartiality. our views and practice the subject which we almost remem are so diametrically opposed to the exa ber had become somewhat general clusive nature of their system, that we about half a century ago—nor is a must unavoidably regard them in this charge of this nature so surprising as respect with a feeling somewhat bor- narrative of the chinese embassy. [may, dering on contempt ; but it ought to be these tribes, took the resolution of ay- remembered that it has been by a strict ing from his oppression, and of shel- adherence to this policy, that they more tering himself and his followers un- than probably owe the preservation of der the protection of the czar of rus- their government, laws, and indepen- sia. they were kindly received by dence, and even their existence as a na- that monarch, and a tract of cuuntry tion. had it not been for the exclusive was assigned for their residence be- system to which they have souniformly tween the river jaik, and the wolga, adhered, china would, in all likelihood, in the neighbourhood of the caspian have been long before this period in sea. tse-vang-rabdan, the chief of the situation of india, and have seen the eleuths, being with all his pro- her ancient institutions, and govern- vinces tributary to china, so very con- ment, sunk in the splendour of foreign siderable a defection as the tribe of usurpation. with such an example the tourgouths, appears to have given before her eyes and immediately on some uneasiness to kang-hee, one of the threshold of the empire, it is not the wisest and most powerful of the very sanguinely to be expected, that chinese emperors ; who accordingly, either from motives of inclination or some years subsequent to the settle- prudence, she will relax in a system ment of the tourgouths under their that has for ages proved the grand new masters, thought it adviseable to means by which her integrity has been send an embassy to a-yu-ke, under preserved. she has long existed, and the pretence of arranging the safe re- comparatively happily existed, with turn to his country of a tourgouth scarcely any intercourse with foreign prince, who had accidentally been ob- nations, and she has perhaps no other liged to throw himself under the pro- chance, in the present state of the tection of the emperor. the real mo- world, of retaining her national conse- tive, however, for sending the mission, quence, than by persisting in that line appears to have had two other very of policy, which has hitherto enabled distinct objects in view. first, to her to resist every approach of exter. sound a-yu-ke on the subject of the nal encroachment and innovation-by tourgouths returning to their old al- pursuing such a course, she may, in- legiance, and secondly, to open if pos- deed, have been deprived of many of ssible, hy indirect means, some com- the advantages and blessings, which munication with the czar of rus- have fallen to the lot of other states, sia. the chief conduct of the embas- acting on more liberal and enlarged sy was intrusted to a mandarin of views; but it must not be forgotten, the name of tu-li-shin, the author of that her children have also been spać the narrative, who appears to have red the wars, the persecutions, the de- been a person well qualified for the solation, and the bloodshed, which, in situation. he commences his narra- spite of the cries of suffering humani- tive, by giving a modest and not un- ty, and the precepts of the mildest and interesting account of his family, his most moral of religions, have for ages own rise in the state, his disgrace, and proved the disgrace and the scourge dismissal from public service, and his of almost every highly civilized por- subsequent retirement to linn-loo. tion of the world. here he remained for seven years, em- but it is now time to consider the ployed in the cultivation of his farın, work before us, which, as it may be and the service of his parents-till regarded as a kind of unique produc- " at length,” he observes," when it tion, is not only interesting on that was determined, in the year pro-tien, account, but also from the remarkable a year of universal tranquillity and circumstances in which the embassy pacification, to send a special mission itself originated, and the singular abi- to the kingdom of the tourgouths, a lity and secrecy with which the real region remote, and beyond the seas (or object of the mission was carried into great waters) i humbly addressed a effect. some years previously to , petition to his majesty, requesting to it seems that a-yu-ke, the khan of be employed on the occasion, that i the tourgouths, one of the four divi- might thus have an opportunity of sions of the eleuth, or calmuc tare evincing the grateful sense i enter- tars, conceiving some disgust at tse- tained of the many favours i had at vang-rabdan, the principal chief of former periods enjoyed under the im- ) narrative of the chinese embassy. perial government.* being admitted upon the service, to which you are at in consequence to the imperial pre- present appointed, there must be per- sence, i had again the happiness of fect harmony and concord amongst witnessing the benign influence, and you ; you must refrain from drinking excellent effects of the sacred virtues wine immoderately, and you must of his majesty. by his majesty's gra- strictly prohibit all excesses of this cious favour, i was restored to my for- kind among your servants and atten- mer rank and offices, and further ho- dants. in the course of your journey, noured, with his majesty's special you will have to enter certain districts commands to proceed upon the service of the kingdom of russia, where the i had solicited.”-on the th of may, manners and customs are extremely , he received the imperial edict, corrupt, and where there are many addressed to him and his colleagues, immodest women. your servants and and on the d of june following, set attendants must not be suffered on out from pekin on the expedition in these occasions to be disorderly and the st year of kang-hee. the edict licentious; and at all times you must itself is, for the purposes it had in maintain strong discipline and control view, one of the best and most artful over them. if while you are within pieces of diplomacy, we have ever seen; the russian territories, you should particularly in that part of it which yourselves chance to see any of the relates to the before mentioned khan women of the country, or to witness of the eleuth tribes, whom it is pret- any occurrence that may seem absurd ty evident, from the document itself, in your eyes, you are, nevertheless, as well as from the account given by to preserve always your gravity and mr bell, his imperial majesty must composure, and by no means to be have considered rather a troublesome lightly given to scoffing or ridicule. neighbour. the instructions relating if presents are offered to you, you to any interview the ambassadors may are not at once to accept of them, but have with the czar, are equally judi- to excuse yourselves again and again, cious, and the following directions as saying, wehave brought nothingrich to conduct and general behaviour, or valuable with us to offer to the cha- strike us as peculiarly characteristic of han-khan; how then can we think of the chinese, though of a nature some- accepting such presents from him?' in what superior to any thing that could the event, however, of their being very have been expected from a govern- earnest and pressing, you may accept ment, which we should previously of one or two things; and you are, in have supposed, must have been very such case, to produce the pieces of em- defective in its knowledge of the cus- broidered silks which you are to carry toms and manners of foreign nations. with you, and to present them to the “as the russians,"continues the edict, cha-han-khan in return, saying, 'be- “are of a vain and ostentatious dis cause of the great length of the jour- position, they will doubtless display ney, we have brought nothing with us before you, for your information, the that is very excellent or valuable ; several things they possess. on such these things we only offer as a trifling occasions, you are neither to express mark of our consideration on the oc- admiration, nor contempt; and are casion of the present meeting.' should merely to say, whether our country you not be invited to an interview, and possesses, or not, such things as these, only a messenger be sent to you, you it is quite out of our province to de- will still take occasion to present the termine. some things indeed there pieces of silk which you will have are which we have seen, and others brought with you; and you will say, have not seen ; but there are other 'having come a very long journey, things again which others have seen, we have nothing in our possession of though we have not. on these subjects value; but we offer you these trifles, therefore, we are by no means suffi as a mark of our consideration.' ciently informed. in your proceedings “ the laws and regulations of the it might seem extraordinary that a degraded officer should presume to solicit an appointment of this important and confidential character ; but a distant foreign mission is a service so little desirable in the eyes of a chinese, that it became highly meritorious in any officer of suitable abilities, to volunteer his services on the occasion, and it ap- pears accordingly, that tu-li-shim's offer was not only immediately accepted, but that he was himself entirely restored to favour in cousequence. vide note by translator. narrative of the chinese embassy. [may, russians are very severe and rigorous. ation of the vartous districts of the in the event, therefore, of any of your russian empire visited by the embas- servants or attendants committing a sy. the original chinese map of the trifling fault, you must not at once de- countries travelled through, sir george nounce them in anger to the magis informs us, " is remarkable only for its trate of the district. in all your pro- rudeness and inaccuracy.” this was ceedings, you must shew your clemen- perhaps to be expected, when the very cy and moderation, as well as your gra- imperfect state of geographical know- vity and composure. ledge in europe is considered, little “ if you are questioned respecting more than half a century previous to your own rank and offices, you are to the period of the embassy; and we say, we are only officiating magi- cannot help thinking it greatly to the strates, belonging to the outer tribu- credit of tu-li-shin's accuracy, that nals of government, and by no means the route he describes has been traced either great officers of state, or imme- with very little difficulty, on compa- diate attendants on the person of his ring it with the best maps of the pre- majesty' sent day, and the “latest discoveries • the inhabitants of the russian and authorities."-but to return from territory, its natural and artificial pro- this digression. we left our travel- ductions, its geography and generallers on their departure from pekin.- appearance, are also objects to which on the sixth day of the journey, they due attention is to be given by you in crossed the great wall at the pass of the course of your journey.-respect chang-kia-ken; and pursuing their the above." route over the range of mountains, these clear and very able instruc- called king-gan-ting, entered the dis- tions appear to have been understood, trict of tartars of the plain yellow di- and well acted upon, by the ambassa- vision, and were entertained by the dors, at least so far as regarded the mangou tartar garrison of cha-ha- more important points of the mission, eur, which supplied them with every as it not only succeeded in its profess- thing requisite for their journey, and ed object, but also in establishing a de- enabled them to send back to pekin gree of understanding with the tour- the guards and government horses gouths, which appears eventually to which had hitherto accompanied them. have paved the way for the return of continuing their route, they reached, that tribe to its ancient country and in ten days, the district of the kalkas, allegiance in the year . with re- where they experienced similar civili- spect to the minor objects of the em- ties, and shortly after arrived at the bassy, we do not quite agree in opinion great desert of sand; our author's ac- with sir george staunton, as to the count of which differs, in a very re- “meagre and unsatisfactory” nature markable manner, from the one given of the descriptions of “ the scenery and by mr bell, who traversed the same remarkable objects” on the route. we waste only a few years subsequently. certainly have perused them with con- — the embassy, according to the for- siderable pleasure, and have received mer, spent no more than two days as much instruction on these topics as in crossing the desert, which is descri- we could have expected from the jour- bed as generally abounding with the nal of travellers passing through a shrub chake; and in one spot, as be- country so unvaried and so devoid of ing remarkably fertile, and well wa- objects to attract attention. with re- tered by several rivulets :—while the spect to the inhabitants, their manners latter states, that he and his party were and customs, the account is certainly twenty-eight days in traversing it, flimsy enough, though great care ap- without halting; during which pe- pears to have been taken throughout riod, they had neither seen “river, the narrative, to state with accuracy tree, bush, nor mountain.” this dif- the situation of the different towns ference in the two accounts is the more and stations, their respective distan, remarkable, as sir george staunton ces, the amount of the inhabitants, informs us in his preface, the general the various strength of the garrisons, agreement found " between two wri- the number, size, and direction, of the ters, in whose views, feelings, habits, principal rivers, and of almost every and prejudices, there could be so little thing that could tend to throw light in common, is certainly creditable to on the geographical and military situ, both.” on the th of august, the .] narrative of the chinese embassy. will accept embassy reached the tu-la, or tola trouble and inconvenience of making of bell, (of which, and the rivers in us these presents? we beg, therefore, its neighbourhood, a somewhat elabo- with many thanks, to return them tó rate account is given,) and proceeding you.' ha-mi-sa-eur, however, again on its route, in about eleven days ar sent his messengers to us to press our rived at see-pu-ke-htu, the pass fix- acceptance of the presents; and through ed for the boundary of the russian these messengers they further obser- and chinese empires; and shortly af- ved, we are in the habit of regu- terwards came to the first russian sta- larly visiting the chinese empire to tion, where a messenger was waiting trade, and we have repeatedly experi- its arrival, sent by the governor of enced, for these many years past, the selinginsky, to learn the object of the great kindness of your most excellent mission. satisfactory replies having emperor: but this is the first time been obtained, a guard of officers and that any heavenly messengers have boats was sent to convey the “hea- visited our country. since we are now venly messengers” to the above place, so fortunate as to meet with you at where they were received by the go- this place, there is hardly any thing vernor with every mark of respect and we can do which is sufficient to ex- distinction. owing, however, to his press to you our respect and regard. being obliged to wait till a reply could again and again, therefore, we most be obtained to the dispatch he had for- earnestly request that you warded to the czar, acquainting him what we have offered. to this we with the arrival of the chinese, and replied, “since ha-mi-sa-eur has thus the purport of their journey, the em- spoken, we will accept of the eatables bassy could not be allowed to proceed be has sent us, and only send back to on its destination; though, from tu- him the fox-skins: but you must at li-shin's own account, no unnecessa the same time inform ha-mi-sa-eur, ry delay appears imputable to the that our chinese imperial govern- russians, who, he admits, uniformly ment has never allowed the officers, treated him and his party with the or any who may most respectful attention during a five time be employed in executing the months detention at salinginsky,-a emperor's commands, to accept of pre- réception the more remarkable, when sents, even of the smallest value. at we consider “the somewhat suspici- a future day, however, we shall have ous and equivocal nature of their mis- manyopportunities of meeting ha-mi- sion." during their stay at this place, sa-eur, and it will then be quite time the ambassadors were visited by hac enough for us to testify the reciprocal mi-sa-en, (the person originally en sentiments which we entertain for each' trusted to arrange with the russian other ; but just now it is absolutely government the safe conduct of the impossible for us to accept of any pre- mission,) and another russian mer sents of value, and we must therefore chant, both on their way to pekin, return the fox-skins; the dishes of who presented them with thirty fox- fruit we have agreed to retain, in or. skins, besides fruit and similar arti- der to shew our sense of his civilities.' eles." the ceremonies that took place at length, on the th of february, upon this occasion, are far from un , dispatches were received from amusing; and, as they contain a pret- the czar, authorizing the advance of ty accurate representation of what uni- the ambassadors, who were immedi- formly occurs throughout the narra- ately furnished with wheel car- tive in similar circumstances, we shall riages, and every necessary for the fu. extract the whole passage, for the edi- ture accommodation of their journey. fication of our readers. a military escort was also appointed to “ upon this we said, through the attend them, and the whole party set favour and kindness of his imperial out on the th of february from majesty, every thing we can use or salinginsky, amidst the highest ho- require upon our present journey is nours that could be conferred on them. already provided for us,-nothing is a description follows, of the district deficient: why then should you, who and town of salinginsky, which would are travellers like ourselves, be at the be scarcely worth noticing, did it not other persons, at any * apparently the tunninkaita of case, and the saralgyn of bell.translator. vol. ix. d .] narrative of the chinese embassy. bassadors pursued their route on horse- bell) the governor general of siberia,' back to the small village of mak-of- who seems, throughout the whole of sky. on the th of june, embarked its residence in this city, to have on the river ket, and in twelve days studiously avoided every thing that reached the station of narim, near the could give umbrage to the chinese; place where ket falls into the river by humouring them in all their pecu- oby, a distance of lec. conti- liarities, and extravagant pretensions. muing the voyage down the latter river, the communications that took place, they reacbed the station of surgute, between the two parties, on the several and the next day encountered a vio- occasions of their meeting, are highly lent gale, which greatly endangered amusing, and give a clearer insight the whole party. on this occasion, into the cautious character and policy the author takes the opportunity of of the chinese, than any other account remarking that the russians, when we have yet met with ; though we compared with the chinese boatmen, cannot help being a little sceptical, as are very inferior both in courage, and to the veracity of the author, when he expertness in the management of their describes prince gagarin as venturing vessels. “ the moment there is any to condemn his master, peter the great, danger, he says, they are happy to get and to draw a somewhat invidious close to the bank of the river, and if comparison between the government, they can retreat out of the stream al- of that able and extraordinary mo- together into some small creek, then narch, and that of the preceding czar. only they begin to be at ease.” from a short account follows of the city of surgute, they arrived at samarofsky, tobolsky, and its vicinity. it was and proceeded on the river irtish; without walls, or fortifications, but ap- here their course “ being against the pears to have been a place of consider- stream, they were obliged to be track. able importance, containing altogether ed by the tartar boatmen, the whole upwards of three thousand families, way" to demiansky, a distance of above twenty christian churches, and lec, whence in two days they departed a garrison of men. on the fifth for tobolsky, the capital of siberia, of september, the ambassadors left where they arrived on the th of au- tobolsky, escorted by a russian offi- gust. the preceding towns, with the cer, and a guard of sixty soldiers for exception of irkutsy and yeneseik, their protection, and quitting the river appear to have been very inconsider- irtish, they ascended the tobol, and able places; none of them are mention- proceeded, during the space of nine ed by our author as fortified when he days, against the stream to tumen, visited them in the year - , an being again “ tracked the whole of the omission which is a little remark- way by the tartars; but,” continues able, as mr bell, who passed through the author, “ the banks of the river the same places only a few years af- were so overgrown with wood, that terwards, particularly observes that there was no tracking path for them, several of them were somewhat strong, and they were consequently obliged to ly defended with ditches, pallisades, wade through the water and mud. and towers, a circumstance which could they were cut and wounded often by scarcely have escaped the notice of our the stones, and the blood was running author, if such fortifications had ex- from their legs and feet under the wa- isted at the period of the embassy; and, ter ; but the russian soldiers only perhaps, the only way of reconciling forged and urged them on so much the two accounts, is upon the suppo- the more, i could not bear the sight, sition that the russian government and remonstrated with them, upon might have felt some little disquietude which they desisted.” from tumen, with respect to the safety of these dis, they proceeded to epantshin, higher tant possessions, from the doubtful up the river; here they quitted their nature of the chinese mission, and boats and continued their route on have been thence led to put them in a horseback to verchaturia, the first more respectable state of defence du- station in russia, in europe, on which ring the period that intervened be- account they were received by the go- tween our author's and mr bell's visit. vernor with“ more than ordinary at- at tobolsky, the embassy was re- tentions." this town is described as ceived with every mark of distinction, beautifully and romantically situated, by ko-ko-lin, (prince gagarin of and the whole place as wearing a live- narrative of the chinese embassy. [may, ly and pleasing appearance, that some tween charles the xiith., and peter what reconciled our travellers to the great, from its commencement to their past fatigues and hardships. af- the defeat of the former at pultowa, ter remaining two days at this place, and his subsequent escape into tur- they proceeded through " deep and key, which happened about eight years miry roads,” and crossing the qural prior to the arrival of the embassy. mountains, reached solikamsky on it is singular, that in tu-li-shin's list the th of october. in journey of the different european nations ly- ing hither they met with a heavy falling west of the russian empire, no of snow, which lasted for several mention should be made of great bri- days, and gave the whole country a tain ; at that time, from the recent most magnificentand beautiful appear- successes and splendid achievements of ance ;—from solikamsky their direct king william and the duke of marl- route was by water, down the river borough, one of the first nations in kama, but the snow still continu- europe, both in power and reputation, ing, and the roads being impassable, and undoubtedly well known to the the russians would not allow them russians, from whom our author must, to advance till the th of novem- of course, have derived his informa- ber, when the ground having become tion. in the above list, however, there completely frozen, they were suffer- appears the name of a country sepense- ed to proceed in four sledges ; and suc- key ; upon the signification of which, cessively passing through the towns sir george staunton says he can offer kaygorod, stobodskoi, klinof, cazan, no conjecture, except; as it seems to us and simbirsk, they reached saratof, on the very unlikely one, that spain“has, the volga, “ the established place of by mistake, been included twice in the intercourse between the russian and catalogue,” that country having been tourgouth nations," on the st of ja- named before under the title of yusi- nuary, . at this place, the am- pania.-it does not appear likely that bassadors, owing to the great rigour the above dissimilar names should re- of the season, which rendered it im- late to the same nation ; and, with possible for a large party to proceed, great deference to sir george, we were detained for several months, du- would venture to suggest the perhaps ring which period, notwithstanding the less improbable notion, that under the severity of the weather, they were suc name of sepenseky, the author may cessively entertained by the russians, have intended to designate great bria with feasts, and with parties of plea- tain, in spite of the absence of all sure, either for shooting with bows “plausible analogy," upon which such and arrows, riding or fishing on the a conjecture could be formed. but to banks of the river.” a messenger, how- return.—on the th of june, the am- ever, was despatched without delay to bassadors quitted saratof, and cross- a-yan-ke khan, to acquaint him with ing the volga, arrived at the head. the arrival of the heavenly messengers, quarters of the tourgouths, on the at saratof, who received the account banks of the lake ma-nu-to, on the with great satisfaction, and immedi. ist of july, , where they were re- ately gave directions for providing ceived with every mark of profound re- tents, carpets, clothing, &c. for their spect and veneration. the officers, accommodation, to be kept in readiness priests, and chiefs, of the different to join the ambassadors at saratof, tribes, subject to a-yu-ke, together whenever the spring was sufficiently with their followers, were all drawn up advanced to allow of their proceeding. in lines on the road ; while the com- at this part of the narrative the au mon class of people came out to meet thor enters more fully than usual into the chinese to a considerable distance, somewhat of a general description of prostrating themselves before them, the russian empire, its extent, pro- and offering them every mark of good ductions, climate, and origin, together will and kindness. with a few remarks upon the national on the following day, the ambassa- character of the people, their laws, ha- dors had their first audience of a-yu- bits, and customs, which, as far as ke, who is said to have received the they go, appear tolerably accurate, edict of the emperor kneeling, and to though very meagre and unsatisfactory. have conducted himself otherwise with the author seems to have been well. marked subinission-circumstances in informed with respect to the war be- which we do not agree with sir george .] narrative of the chinese embassy. staunton in thinking so improbable as presented as shewing the utmost anxi- he appears to apprehend. ety to conciliate the chinese, by at- in the course of the narrative, tending, in the most minute manner, many reasons occur to induce a suspi- to their slightest requests, and to every cion that some secret understanding thing that could conduce to their com- existed between the tourgouths and fort and security, on their return home. the chinese, previously to the depar in recording these interviews, how- ture of the embassy from pekin; for, ever, we are fearful our author has in- on any other supposition, it is not easy dulged a little in his talent for ampli- to account for a government so devoid fication, though he falls very far short, of enterprize as that of the chinese, in this instance, of his after efforts in engaging in an extensive and hazar- the official report of the proceedings of dous undertaking, merely to ascertain the embassy, given in a subsequent the safest mode of returning a fugitive part of the work, and which we parti- prince to his native country. indeed, cularly recommend to the perusal of that the latter did not form the real our readers, as the choicest specimen of object of the mission, is pretty evident servile adulation and oriental bombast from the various conferences that took and insolence we have ever encounter- place between a-yu-ke and the ambas. ed. about the th of january, the sadors, all of which are characterized ambassadors took their final leave of by a singularinquisitiveness on the part tobolski and its governor, and quitting of the former, with respect to many mi- their former road, proceeded over an aute particulars relating to the actual uninteresting and thinly inhabited state of the chinese empire at that pe- country, through the towns of tara, riod, for which it would be difficult to and towsky, to yeneseik, and thence assign any adequate motive, except to slightly deviating from their old tract, an intention of again placing himself they passed by way of elimsky to ir- and his followers, under the protection kutsky. at this place they again fell of their ancient sovereign. on this sup- into their former route, and continuing position, the reception experienced by their journey, arrived without accident the ambassadors at their first interview at pekin, on the th of june, , with the khan, is precisely the one after an absence of somewhat more that might have been anticipated ; and than three years. we cannot therefore help thinking, that at their return, the ambassadors sir george, on this occasion, bears un were treated with great favour by the necessarily hard upon the veracity of emperor, who personally received their his author, when he eharges him with report of the transactions, and the re- giving the supposed," rather than the sult of the mission, and bestowed upon real manner in which the edict was re- them some of the highest marks of his ceived. approbation. the official report, to after remaining about a fortnight which we have before alluded, then with the tourgouths, during the whole follows, together with the imperial an- of which period they appear to have swer, which we subjoin for its brevity been treated in the most amicable and and pithiness, as a useful guide to the confidential manner, the ambassadors framers of all future replies to loyal took their final leave of the khan, on addresses.—“we understand your ad- the th of july, and set out on their dress, and have referred it to the pro- return, having previously, in the course per tribunal. your map we retain for of several highly amusing and interest- further examination.” ing conferences, on which our limits the remainder of the narrative com- will not allow us to dwell, settled, ap- prises a few private events relative to parently to the satisfaction of all par- the author, together with some account ties, the objects of the mission. on of a second mission, upon which he the th of september, the ambassa- was employed, to the frontiers of rus- dors reached cazan, and on the th of sia, and his communication on that december, arrived at tobolski, where occasion with prince gagarin, the lat- they remained somewhat more than a ter of which is written pretty much in month, waiting the return of prince the same bombastical and 'ridiculous gagarin, then absent on a visit to mos- style that distinguishes the official re- cow. on his arrival, several conferen- port, but with apparently a much ces again took place between him and greater violation of truth. in what the envoys; in all of which he is re manner the above communication was narrative of the chinese embussy. [may, received, we are not informed, the nar- number of the pekin gazettes, many rative concluding with tu-li-shin's of which discover a degree of justice, letter to the russian governor. promptitude, and decision of conduct, to the foregoing account, sir george in the executive administration of af- has subjoined a valuable appendix, fairs, and an earnest desire to influ- containing the “ abstract of part of a ence and conciliate public opinion on chinese novel, some notices of chinese state questions, which if, happily for plays, an extract from a chinese her- maukind, it were the nature of govern- bal, and a collection of miscellaneous ments ever to profit by experience, documents, extracted from the pekin might possibly prove a salutary lesson gazette,” all of which will be read with to the rulers of some other countries, interest, though we are sorry that the who, in the plenitude of self-compla- translator should have confined his ex- cency and power, blindly attempt to tracts from the chinese drama, to the arrest by coercion, the slow but steady mere“ notices” of four plays, which, march of public opinion. as a speci- at best, can give little or no idea of the men of the gazettes, we insert the fol- state of this branch of their literature. lowing, which we give without selec- we experienced a similar disappoint- tion.--" imperial ediet.” ment in the abstract from the novel, na-yen-tching possesses in out- and are scarcely yet reconciled with ward appearance some talents, but is sir george, for tantalizing us with the deficient in judgment, and is tardy and slight glimpse he has afforded of a undecisive when matters of importance work which, from its nature, promises are laid before him, and yet does not much entertainment, and a considera- attend to the words of others, but is ble insight into the manners and do- satisfied of the propriety of his own mestic habits of the chinese. it is true, opinion. the few good qualities which he informs his readers that he gave up he may be allowed to possess, are in- the idea of a complete version of the sufficient to cover his misdeeds. by a latter, from the want of sufficient in- strict execution of the laws, he should terest in the sequel, to induce him to have been deprived of all his dignities, proceed, as well as from certain cir- and banished to elle, as an expiation cumstances in the winding up of the of his offences; but, because all the story, which might not altogether ac other relatives of a-kowi have already cord with the feelings of the present been sent into banishment, during this day. nevertheless, we cannot help last half year, for different causes, we wishing he had persisted in his first cannot patiently endure the idea that intention, of giving the whole novel to not one should remain to perpetuate the public, not only for the reasons we the name and family of that ancient have assigned, but because it is obvious and faithful minister. but as na-yen- from the nature of the undertaking, tching can neither acquit himself with that the number of individuals must credit or success in the field, or with be trifling indeed, whose qualifications propriety or decision in council, he is and experience could in any degree an unprofitable and useless servant of render them competent to a task, the state, whom it is indispensibly re- which we learn with deep regret, from quisite that we should remove from the total abandonment of his “ chi- every office and employment of impor- nese pursuits,” there is no longer any tance; we hereby, therefore, deprive chance of our seeing accomplished by him of his office as president at one of the sensible and highly gifted transla- the supreme tribunals, as a general in tor of the work betore us. the army, and as a dignitary of the the extract from the chinese her- peacock's feather ; but, as a mark of bal is a most curious specimen of the our especial grace and favour, we grant accurate and minute manner in which him all the rank of a vice-president of the “ chinese treat subjects connected the imperial college ; and if he conduct with science and the arts,” and we himself eight years without blame in think, with sir george staunton, cer that situation, we shall permit him to tainly justifies the hope that some receive the salary that is usually at- valuable practical information may yet tached to it. be drawn from some of their works of “ the state and efficiency of our this description.” but by far the most military force has been greatly impro- remarkable part of the appendix will ved of late ; able-bodied men have be found in the extracts given from a been selected, and furnished with ade- .] narrative of the chinese embassy. quate supplies of stores of every kind. quainted with the chinese people and ge-le-teng-pas, and the other experi, government, than any other work we enced generals in command, are fully have ever perused, it would be injus- competent to accomplish our design of tice to the translator to forbear noti- bringing the war to a conclusion in the cing the very able manner in which he course of the present campaign ; we appears to have surmounted the va- forbid, therefore, for the future, any rious and great difficulties of his un- civil or military officer, excepting those dertaking. we cannot, indeed, from peculiarly distinguished by the title of our own knowledge, speak with cer- great officers of state, to present to us tainty as to the accuracy with which any observations or remonstrances on the original is rendered, but the whole the state of the army, and operations is written with so much simplicity, of the campaign, as such communica- perspicuity, and elegance, and exhi- tions have the effect of raising inju- bits such internal evidence of fidelity, rious suspicions and erroneous ideas, that even were the rare acquirements highly detrimental to the cause of sir george staunton, and the sound- khin-tse.” ness of his understanding less known much more might be said upon the to us, we should feel little hesitation various topics the work embraces, but in recommending it to the attention of we freely confess our inability to do our readers, not only as one of the thern full justice, even if our limits most curious literary productions of did not warn us to bring our observa- the age, but also as a faithful and tions to a close. in taking our leave highly intelligent version of the origi- of this singular and interesting book, nal chinese narrative. which certainly brings us better ac- extract from herodotus. ir is amusing to the contemplative opinion by the following arguments : man, who, in the seclusion of his study, "i do not think that it is any long- inhabits, as it were, a world of his own, er safe to entrust the supreme power to trace back to periods of the remotest of the state to the hands of a single antiquity the same topics which still person. ye remember to what excess form the subjects of hostile dispute cambyses went, and to what degree of amongst the warring factions of the insolence we have seen the magus ar- world without him. for the last half rive. how can the state be well gow century the minds of men have been verned in a monarchy, where a single almost exclusively engrossed with the person is permitted to do everything study of politics, and this universal according to his pleasure ? authority fever has called into existence a race without a check corrupts the most vir- of political quacks, who have prepared tuous man, and deprives bim of his their nostrums according to the pre- best qualities. envy and insolence vailing symptoms of the distemper. arise from present riches and prospe- but, after reading all that has been rity; and all other vices flow from written by these constitution-mongers, these two, when a man is possessed of from the abbé sieyes, down to jere every thing. kings hate virtuous men my bentham, both inclusive, we doubt who oppose their designs, but caress whether we might not collect a clearer the wicked who favour them. a single view of the subject from a few pages man cannot see everything with his of the great father of history-hero- own eyes; he often lends a favourable dotus; when he relates what passed ear to bad reports and false accusa- in the council of the seven chiefs of tions; he subverts the laws and cus- persia, when the government was a toms of the country; he attacks the bout to be re-stablished after the death honour of women, and puts the imo- of cambyses, and the punishment of cent to death by his caprice and his magus, who had usurped the throne power. when the people have the go- under the pretext of being smerdis, vernment in their hands, the equality the son of cyrus. amongst the members prevents all these otanes, one of the assembled chiefs, evils. the magistrates are in this case recommended that persia should be chosen by lot; they render an account come a republic, and supported his of their administration, and they form extract from herodotus. (may, all their resolutions in common with think, that he is not entirely right the people. i am of opinion, therefore, when he prefers the government of a that we ought to reject monarchy, and small number to a monarchy. it is introduce a popular government, be- certain, that nothing can be imagined cause we shall be more likely to find better or more perfect than the go- the advantages we seek in many, than vernment of a virtuous man. besides, in a single person.” such was the opi- when a single man is the master, it is nion of otanes. more difficult for enemies to discover but megabyses spoke in favour of secret counsels and enterprizes. when aristocracy." i approve," said he, "of the government is in the hands of the opinion of otanes, with respect to many, it is impossible but enmity and · exterminating monarchy, but i believe hatred must arise among them; for he is wrong in endeavouring to per- as every one wants that his opinion suade us to trust the government to should be followed, they gradually be- the discretion of the people, for it is come enemies. emulation and jea- certain, that nothing can be imagined lousy divide them, and then their ha- more foolish and insolent than the po- treds run to excess. hence arise se- pulace. why should we reject the ditions ; from seditions, murders; and power of a single man, to deliver our from murders and blood, we see a selves up to the tyranny of a blind and monarch become insensibly necessary. disorderly multitude? if a king sets thus the government always falls at about any enterprize, he is at least last into the hands of a single person. capable of listening to others; but the in a popular state, there must neces- people is a blind monster, equally des- sarily be a great deal of malice and titute of reason and capacity. they corruption. it is true, equality ge- are unacquainted both with decency, nerates no hatred, but it foments virtue, and even their own interests. friendship amongst the wicked, who they do every thing without judg- support each other, till some man who ment, and without order, and resem- has rendered himself agreeable to the ble a rapid torrent, which can have no people, and acquired an authority over bounds set to it. if therefore ye wish the multitude, discovers their fraud, the ruin of the persians, establish a and exposes their perfidy. then such popular government among them. as a man shews himself truly a nonarch; for myself, i am of opinion that we and hence we may know that mo- should make choice of some virtuous narchy is the most natural govern- men, and lodge the government and ment, since the seditions of aristocra- the power in their hands." such were cy, and the corruptions of democracy, the sentiments of megabyses. :. have an equal tendency to make us after him, darius spoke in the fol- have recourse to the unity of a su- lowing terms :-" i am of opinion, preme power." the opinion of dari- that there is a great deal of justice in us was approved, and the government the speech which megabyses has made of persia continued monarchical. against a popular state; but i also on parliamentary reform. reform has sunk into the establish- the nature of his political virtues, and ed theme for incipient oratory, and it the waste of his time. has been found the most convenient the public journals have already of all discharges for the accumulated given his tale of failure. nothing could common-place of patriotism fresh from be more solemn than the preparative school. i'wo attempts at bringing it for this tournament of the young chi- into notice have been lately made. one valry of opposition. all the graver by mr lambton, the young lulus and more battered champions had left of the fallen empire of the foxites, the field clear, and were posted at safe who seems to have adopted the injunc- distances to exhilarate themselves with tion of his model with pious fidelity; the recollection of the field. the • disce, pter, virtutem ex me, verumque let down, and radicalism had already trumpets sounded, and the lists were laborem.” stooped its gracious presence to crown no man can follow example closer in the conquerors, when it was discover« .] on parliamentary reform. ed that the champions had disappear. be given to the personages who have ed in the crisis of the charge, and laid their hands on " glorious reform” were actually sitting tranquilly at dine since their incarceration. cacus, in ner, discussing nothing more deadly his chains, hearing of the plunder of than the wines and cookery of the sheep and beeves by base hands of most profuse of all entertainers. the peasants, could not have writhed with motion, of course, fell to the ground; mightier wrath against his clown- and it was not honoured in its death, ish imitators. with what lofty scorn “ solvuntur risu tabule.” mr can- must the great detenu in ilchester jail ning, the most adroit and insidious of see the glories of manchester and spa- all scorners, pointed the house to the fields, sullied by the touch of opposi- ridicule of its desertion; and when its tion—the sceptre of the thunderer, hot advocates returned, the ridicule was and heavy as it was, thieved away by not forgotten. another attempt has mercury! with what agony must the since been made by lord john rus- martyrs who have expatriated their sel, on grounds more entitled to dis- spirits and their bones for the respec- cussion. his motion was negatived tive terms of seven and fourteen years, by a majority of between forty and glance on that remote country of the fifty; a trivial number, which the west, whose reform has become the reformers argue into a victory. but toy of a group of giddy boys, who, ac- the fact is, that the topic seems to have cording to the custom of their innocent been looked on as so little worthy of and hungry age, fling it down for a public interest, that a dozen votes dinner. the spirit of guy faux could more or less, might have been thrown not put on a darker frown, at rising in from perfect nonchalance. there on a fifth of november, and finding was no expectation of its passing ; and his death-dealing lantern and matches till some such conception begins to be in the hands of the young rabble. the formed, the serious feeling of the result is, that even the populace are house of commons seldom takes the sick of the eternal jargon of parlia- trouble of shewing itself. mentary restoration. and if there is the question has thus perished in any reform that they value beyond a the legislature, but it has also perish- paragraph in a hustings speech, it is ed with the people. the multitude, undoubtedly of that solid kind alluded headlong and ignorant, are yet not to in the election committee"areform altogether so blind or so rash as to in the practice of the last candidates, give perpetual confidence to the oppo- who gave nothing at all to the voters, sition. they have heard the same out whereas it had been the custom to give cry against men and politics, till it them a guinea a-piece, and upwards." has lost all power of awakening them, the bungling of the opposition has or awakens them only to weariness and actually spoiled the reform-trade. the contempt of the criers. reform has jackpudding has taken it upon him. past its season, by a whole summer; self, in the mountebank's absence, to å formidable time in the almanack of distribute the potions, and play the popular disturbance. a good harvest tricks; and the consequence is, that has stopped the mouths of the hungry, the rabble have deserted the booth. and with their hunger has died their to any man of candour, there are but discontent. bolts and dungeons have two points of view, in which the ques- narrowed the patriotic vigour of those tion of a parliamentary reform can pre- whose only hunger and thirst was re sent itself.-it must be, as increasing volution ; and the principal patriots the present power of the commons, have found their chief employment or changing the mode of its election. in writing their memoirs, and nurtu- on the first head, no discussion has ring their beards, occupations equally been raised. the house of commons worthy of them, and equally importo is powerful, perhaps, to the full extent ant to the “ great cause of liberty of public safety. we pass over the round the globe." but if those men usual topics of the necessity of preser- can cast an eye from their sublime oc- ving a balance of the three estates. cupations on the little doings of the but it is obvious, that, even as a mere under-ground world, their most cone expedient for gaining the time neces- temptuous and indignant sneer must sary to a sound judgment on great pub- vol. ix. on parliamentary reform. [may, lic questions, the power of debate and peers, must be the tyrant of the nation, decision ought to extend beyond the and finally must either give itself up, commons; the will of the house ought bound hand and foot, to despotism, or not to be authoritative, final, irrever- excite the furious and irresistible in- sible. it is by no means clear, that dignation that makes it the victim of there are not circumstances in which the populace. this is history--the suc- the popular power, concentrated in the cessive steps may have a shorter or a house, may not be too great for the longer interval, but the succession is people. there have been contests be- as sure as from intemperance to decay, tween the courts of law and the com- from opening the flood-gates of demo- mons, within the latter half of the last cracy to being swept away by its tor- century, on interests serious enough to rent-from thrusting our torch into a make a jealous nation tremble. the powder magazine, to being flung up in power of imprisonment for contempt, atoms by its explosion. and of sweeping within that imprison there is nothingnewin politics-the ment a number of individuals, of whom same absurdities and artifices on which but one may be the criminal, has ex- our ignorant disaffection has rejoiced cited strong animadversion before our with the joy of originality, have been time. played off ages before we were born. in the second point-the composition , the orators of the house of com- of the house, is the grand topic of all mons persuaded it to come to the follow- the miscellaneous oratory of patriot- ing resolution:“resolved, that the peo- ism, from that which drivels from the ple are, under god, the originalofall just lip steeped in michael angelo tay- powers.” the resolution seems harm- lor's champaigne, to that which burns less and undeniable. but reform has with the united inspiration of gin and been seldom satisfied with pausing in despair. its progress, from abstract truth to vi- it is but justice to the revolutionist gorous practice. a following resolu- in jail, or out, to allow that he is the tion declared, “ that the commons only consistent reformer. he would assembled in parliament, being chosen sweep away all at once. he would have by the people, have the supreme autho- no little selfish longing to save one rity of the nation.” the final resolu- fragment of the building to the over tion overthrew the frame of the state throw of another, because some small and laws at a blow,-"resolved that family interest has built its nest in the whatever is declared law by the com- corner to be saved. he would not pre- mons, has the force of law; and all serve a favourite ditch or door-post upon the people of this nation are included the ground. his plough makes clear thereby, although the consent and con- work; he sows the trench with revolu currence of the king and house of tionary salt, and curses all who would peers be not had thereto.” are we in- dare to restore the old sullen structure clined to return to the hazards of that so long frowned over the field. ? what he would erect in place of its but of the moderate reformers (in shelter, sullen as it was, has no share the house) who is to reconcile the in his thoughts or troubles. he takes opinions ? every man of the hundred it for granted that men will not stand and fifty has his scheme. they puff long without trying to raise some roof their policies with an enthusiasm, that against the common shocks and visita- might do honour to cornhill, and each tions of the political seasons. but what man boasts of his infallible way to se- contrivance they are to adopt, or how cure the capital prize. there can be they are to be protected till the choice no rational hope of an improvement in is made, whether they are to crowd the formation of the house, where the their naked and unfed siiles into the ground work is to be laid in ignorance, architecture of turk, or scythian, or that will not learn, and in passion, that saxon, or roman, he trusts to the pro- cannot understand ; in the virulent vidence to which he will trust nothing hatred of political opponents, and in else. the paltry ambition of making a name a house of commons chosen by the among the rabble. numerical power of the nation, must it is certainly to be desired, that be the house of the populace, must be where the most important interests of the slaves of the populace, must be the england are to meet their most im- destroyers of the throne and of the portant discussion, no meaner influence .] on parliamentary reforma should take a share that where the “ that with strong beer and beef, the hecatomb is given for the state, no country rules, spotted and diseased offering should and ever since the conquest, have been stain the altar. if it were possible to fools.” convert the house of commons into is it to be cast out of the account of an assembly of pure integrity, and practical results—when all that is good perfect wisdom, it would be eminent- must be practical—that almost without ſy desirable. but is it within the con an exception, the great luminaries and trivance of law and regulation, to ex. leaders of the state have been the gift clude the influence of wealth, and birth, of close boroughs? that chatham, and and authority? under what dexteri- burke, and pitt, and fox, and a whole ty of exclusion will not twenty thou host of illustrious names, were first sand pounds a-year inany county, from lifted before the public on those steps berwick to sussex, or even from a more which the axe of reform would hew northern boundary—if we might ven- away? the subject is too extensive ture to a region so incorruptible—not for my paper or my time. but, ad- be felt through the neighbourhood ? mitting in the fullest degree, the ne- is it nothing, that the system of uni- cessity of keeping the conscience of versal suffrage would make our foot, parliament vigilant and pure, we must men and chimney sweepers the arbi- beware of suffering it to be guided on- ters of our liberties ? that the system ly by the fantastic reveries of the po- of exclusive county representation pulace, or the gloomy and insidious would inundate the house, with the superstition of those who see nothing lazy opulence of fox-hunters, and far, good but in themselves, and their mers, and all that well-fed class, bloody and desperate resolve of ruin.. ripvanwinkle. sir, by his father into the fields to tend his the american tale of ripvanwin: flock, oppressed by the heat of the mid- kle's sleep, which has, no doubt, been day sun, quitted the high road, and perused by most of your readers, in retired into the shade of a cavern, where the “ sketch book," bears so close a he slept for years. awaking from resemblance in its circumstances to this sleep, he began to search for his that related of epimenides, that i sheep, but could not find them; and cannot but think the author must on going out into the fields, he obser- have had the latter before him. i ved, that the face of all things was will, therefore, desire you to insert a changed, and the lands now become the translation of part of the life of epime- property of another master. he re- nides, from diogenes laertes,* which turned 'home confounded and asto- will, i think, induce you to draw the nished. arrived at his own house, he same conclusion. was asked by the occupier of it, who yours, &c. he was; when at last, being recogni- wm. bainbrigge. zed by his brother, who was then grown old, was informed of the truth of epimenides, being one day sent what had happened.” he • l. i. p. . see also pliny, l. vii. c . [may, letter from rio de janeiro. letter from rio de janeiro. rio de janeiro, jan. , . see them carrying it on without re- mr editor, straint, and while the importers of drjohnson observes, “that friend slaves continue to contribute material- ship, like love, is destroyed by long ly to the wants of a needy exchequer, absence, though it may be increased it is hardly to be expected that the by short intermissions, and the asser- government will take any decisive tion is certainly true. a very few means to put a stop thereto, unless years removal from my nativity have through the remonstrance of some estranged many of those recollections power they are bound to respect. which i at one time felt assured were britain, example worthy of herself, too deeply engraven on my mind to was the first to declare, (contrary to stand in want of any periodical revival. the individual interest of many of her your magazine is forwarded me from subjects) her aversion to this inhuman liverpool, as regularly as opportunities traffic. america, retaining her mater- will admit, and still retains its place in nal love of liberty, has announced it my esteem ; indeed, i feel more anxi- death for any of her citizens to be con- ety on opening one of your numbers nected, directly or indirectly, therein. three months after its publication, than france has declared it illegal, and it is i used to do when, posting down to the there generally treated with that ab- trongate, i had it delivered to me still horrence it deserves. i have just seen wet from the press, and justling through an article in the “ revue encylope- the thoroughfare with my number un- dique” for august last, wherein the der my arm, made the best of my way, parisian press does liberal justice to to portland-street, where, (unmindful the exertions of britain in behalf of of the landlady's suggestions that my the africans ; had their emancipation tea cooled in the dish,) i applied my been complete, it best became her to knife to the top of your pages, without remain silent on the subject of these perceiving that i buttered the subjects exertions; but while such an extent which you had belaboured. of that unhappy country still remains i am here the daily witness of an subject to this cruel oppression, she increasing evil, the limiting, of which ought not to sit down in contemplation to the southern hemisphere, has remo- of what she has achieved, and give ved it further from the observation of others an opportunity of overstepping those friends to humanity, whose lau- her in the pursuit. dable exertions have effected its partial if any of your able contributors suppression, but cannot lessen the ini- would take this subject in hand, it quity of such a traffic. when portu- might meet the eye of some of our gal, agreeably to the wishes of the philanthropic countrymen, who, bu- sovereigns in congress, renounced hersied in endeavouring to alleviate the prosecution of the slave trade to the distresses under which britain has late- northward of the line, she further pro- ly groaned, may have overlooked for a mised her exertions to bring about a while the more distant complaints of gradual abolition thereof on those parts these injured fellow-creatures, but in of the african coast, to which she still whose bosoms still as keenly glow the retained a claim. but to this date have wish and determination to protect these promised exertions been made? them. on the contrary, the dread of in i am, with esteem, terference from powers which have mr editor, espoused the cause of humanity, seems your obedient servant, to have stimulated the portuguese to s. a more active pursuit of the trade. we .) lord byron and pope. lord byron and pope.* we wish that lord byron would con- trouble to write ill, than it takes others fine himself to poetry; or if he will to write well ; and, try as much as he write prose, we wish at least that his may, he cannot entirely divest himself friends would not be so eager to pub- of those splendid qualifications, which lish it. this wish is dictated by the occasionally reveal themselves, even in sincerest admiration of his genius,- the production before us. for instance, and it is painful to us to have our ad- in the description of the storm in the miration diminished. it is true that archipelago, we recognize the glowing kean sometimes condescends to ap- pen of the first poet of the age. pear in farce, but then it is only for we are almost tired of the pope his benefit, and an actor may perhaps controversy ; but as it is our bounden be pardoned for exposing himself on duty to follow the fashion of the hour, such an occasion, in order to fill his “and chase the new-blown bubble of pockets; but we can perceive no such the day,” we must say a few words on excuse for the exhibition of lord by- the subject, though with no hope of ron in the pages of pamphlets and setting a question at rest, which has magazines, in letters which would do been so long and so pertinaciously agi- littlecredit to any writer, and are wholly tated. lord byron may have bowled unworthy of the illustrious author of down some of the “ invariable princi- childe harold. there is, perhaps, in ples” of his antagonist, because, though all lord byron's writings, a too con- right in the main, mr bowles's expla- stant introduction of himself;—but nations have not done justice to his this egotism, which we can scarcely meaning; yet we think his lordship tolerate, even when enveloped in the has not succeeded in hitting the wicket graceful folds of his muse's veil, be- of truth; but that many of the posi- comes absolutely nauseous and disgust- tions in his letter are quite as erroneous ing when obtruded upon us in all the as those which he has with so much nakedness of plain prose. sarcastic severity attacked. the letter which is the subject of there has been, we think, a great our present remarks is aldressed to waste of words on both sides, in discus- **** ******, (which being interpret- sing whether images derived from na- ed, means john murray,) on the rev. ture or from art, are the most poetical. w. l. bowles' strictures on the life mr bowles says,—"i presume it will and writings of pope. in the motto, readily be granted that all images drawn his lordship says, “ i will play at from what is beautiful or sublime in bowls ;" but the progress of his letter the works of nature, are more beauti- resembles rather a game at skittles. ful and sublime than any images drawn he lays about him in all directions as from art; and that they are therefore he advances, hitting to the right and per se more poetical.” more than one to the left; or, as he elegantly ex half the disputes in the world would presses it himself, “ having once be- be prevented, if the contending par- gun, i am like an irishman in a “row,' ties would only be at the pains of de- any body's customer." the letter, con- fining what they mean by the words sidered as a piece of composition, is, in which their positions are propound- like all that he has written, clever, ed. now, in the case before us, what smart, energetic, bitter, obscure ; but, is meant by poetical ? if it is intended unlike much that he has written, it is to mean that which we suppose, it does, not only flippant, but the flippancy is the question should rather be which of the coarsest character, partaking class of objects is best adapted to de- rather of the slang of the pot-house, light the imagination, to move the than the sallies of the drawing-room. heart, and to elevate the mind and the we really believe, however, that it thoughts above the dull prosaical de- must take lord byron more time and tails of the world in which we live, letter to ******, by the right hon. lord byron. london ; murray, . lord byron and pope. (may, and breathe, and have our being. is it those sentient beings that bask in the not evident that before we can deter- brightness of his beams? or what the mine which are the most poetical, we charm of the silver mantle of the peer- we must first agree what poetry is ? less queen of night, if we could con- the greatest of poets has prayed for a ceive her wasting her beauty in the muse of fire to ascend the brightest inanimate blank of an eyeless universe? heaven of invention; and some wings that the works of art are no less po- are necessary even to the readers of etical than those of nature, mr camp- poetry, without which we shall never bell has also most successfully demon- be able strated in his instance of the launch of to lift from earth our low desires." a ship; and his beautiful description of the associations which such a spec- or be filled with those ideal musings, tacle awakens in the minds of the spec- elevated thoughts, and lofty aspira- tators, shews that he uses the word po- tions, which it is the province of poetry etical in the sense that we wish to‘at- to inspire. that the grand works of tach to it. how could lord byron, nature, awakening in us, as they do, whose writings breathe the very soul associations which lead our minds to of poetry, write such a sentence as the the contemplation of the great author following ?-_“ we are asked, what of nature, are, in our sense of the makes the venerable towers of west- word, eminently poetical, none will de- minster-abbey more poetical, as ob- ny; and we can understand, how, un- jects, than the tower for the manu. der certain circumstances, the meanest factory of patent shot, surrounded by flower that blows may call up the same scenery? i will answer, ar- thoughts that do often lie too deep for chitecture.” what, is the antiquity of tears,” its origin nothing ?-the kings that have been crowned in it, nothing ?- though this effect would, most assu the heroes, the statesmen, the poets, redly, never be produced by one of mr the philosophers, that are buried in it, bowles's minute descriptions ;—but it nothing ?-the solemn services that does not therefore follow, as mr bowles have hallowed it, nothing? would persuade us, that all images -if this be nothing, drawn from nature are more poctical why then the world, and all that's in't, than any derived from art; and still is nothing !” less does it follow, according to the lord byron did not so think, and so same mr bowles, that the poet “must have an eye attentive to, and familiar feel, when he stood within the coli- seum's wall:- with, every external appearance that she may exhibit in every change of _”till the place season, every variation of light and became religion, and the heart ran o'er shade, every rock, every tree, every with silent worship of the great of old ! leaf." the lord defend us from such the dead, but sceptred, sovereigns, who still rule a poet! we agree with mr camp- bell, that such qualifications would on- our spirits from their urns." ly be essential to a dutch flower-paint- manfred. er; and we entirely coincide with the but to return to pope.—the ques- following beautifulremarks of the same tion no longer is, as johnson tells us it writer. " nature is the poet's god- once was, « whether pope is a poet?” dess; but by nature no one rightly un -but to ascertain the order to which derstands her mere inanimate face, he belongs, that we may assign him his however charming it may be-or the proper place in the poetical calendar. simple landscape-painting of trees, lord byron, however, assures us, that clouds, precipices, and flowers. na- all this “ ordering" of poets is purely ture, in the wide and proper sense of arbitrary on the part of mr bowles, the term, means life in all its circum- “ that the poet is always ranked ac- stances,-nature moral, as well as ex- cording to his execution,”—"and that ternal.” nothing is more true, than the poet who executes best is the high- that the grandest scenes of nature est, whatever his department, and will only excite our interest or awaken ever be so rated in the world's esteein,” our sympathy, by connecting them now we think nothing more outrage- with human feelings and affections. ously absurd than this was ever ad- what would the glorious sun himself vanced by the boldest assertor of para- be, abstracted from the thoughts of doxes. we do not know what his .) lord byron and pope. lordship's politics may be, but his po- ut magus ; et modo me thebis modo ponit etics are radical and 'levelling with a athenis." vengeance. no one means to contend, there is nothing of this in pope.- that excellence of execution in an in- shall we take our idea from shake- ferior department, will not confer speare? higher rank than mediocrity in a su- perior branch of the art. thus, “ the poet's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling, " black-eyed susan” may, perhaps, doth glance from heaven to earth, from entitle gay to a higher place than earth to heaven, “ prince arthur” would confer upon the forms of things unknown, the poet's and as the imagination bodies forth blackmore, in spite of the disparity of pen the subjects,---for a good song is a bet- turns them to shapes, and gives to airy ter thing than a bad epic. but shall nothings we therefore say, that he who attains a local habitation and a name." excellence in the tragic, the epic, and the lyric, is not a greater poet and can this be applied to pope ? we a sublimer genius, than he who is think not. he is a moralist, a wit, equally supereminent in the didac- a critic, and a fine writer, much more tic, descriptive, the satirical, or the than he is a poet. though we seldom ludicrous; or, in other words, that quote the edinburgh review with any shakespeare, milton, and dryden, do marks of approbation, yet there is no not belong to a higher order of in- rule without an exception; and in the tellects, than pope and thomson, and present instance, we are glad to find butler and anstey? as well might we so strong a confirmation of our senti. say that a painter is also to be ranked ments, in the words of mr jeffrey. according to his execution alone, and speaking of the rape of the lock, he that in painting as in poetry, he who says :- :-" there is no finer gem than executes best is the highest, whatever this poem in all the lighter treasures may be his department. in this case, of english fancy. compared with any however, every body will perceive at other mock-heroic in our language, it once that it requires a higher order of shines out in pure supremacy for ele- faculties to execute the “ last judg- gance, completeness, point, and play- ment" and the “ transfiguration," as fulness. it is an epic poem in that they have been executed by raphael delightful miniature, which diverts us and michael angelo, than could be by its mimicry of greatness, and yet displayed in any excellence of execu- astonishes us by the beauty of its parts, tion in the inferior walks of landscape and the fairy brightness of its orna- or caricature; and every body, but ments. in its kind it is matchless ;- lord byron, will surely admit, that it but still it is but a mock-heroic, and is impossible to display as much poe- depends in some measure for its effect, tical power in a satire or a song, or a on a ludicrous reference in our own mock heroic, however excellent the minds, to the veritable heroics whose execution, as must be exerted in the solemnity it so wittily affects. his proper execution of a tragedy, an aerial puppets of divinity,—his sylphs epic poem, or an ode. the difference and gnomes,-and his puppet heroes of the subjects inust, supposing each and heroines,—the beaux and belles performance to be equally excellent of of high life-required rather a subtle its kind, establish that gradation of than a strong hand to guide them ranks, and that “ ordering" of the re- through the mazes of poetry. among spective writers, for which we think inventive poets, this poem will place mr bowles is right in contending. him high. but if our language con- and where, then, are we to place tains any true heroic creations of fan- pope? let us first endeavour to satis- cy, the agents of spenser’s and mil- fy ourselves with the definition of a ton's machinery will always claim a poet. what is poetry ?--and who is superior dignity to their lilliputian a poet? shall we listen to horace? counterfeits.' “ ille per extentum funem mihi posse andagain;-“without defining the videtur picturesque, we all feel that it is a ire poeta, meum qui pectus inaniter an charm in poetry seldom applicable to git, pope. in vain shall we search his irritat, mulcet, falsis terroribus implet, pastorals, or windsor forest, for such lord byron and pope. [may, a landscape as surrounds the castle of truth. religion does not make a part indolence,--the bower of eden, or of my subject ; it is something beyond the inimitable hermitage of beattie. human powers, and has failed in all in the knowledge and description of human hands except milton's, and refined life, pope was the mirror of dante's; and even dante's powers are his times. he saw through human involved in his delineation of human character in the living manners of his passions, though in supernatural cir- age, with the eye of a judge and a sa- cumstances. what made socrates the tirist. but when we use the trite greatest of men? his moral truth- phrase of shakespeare understanding his ethics. what proved jesus christ human nature, we mean something the son of god hardly less than his more extensive than when we apply miracles ? his moral precepts. a nd the same praise to pope. from the if ethics have made a philosopher the writings of the former, we learn the first of men, and have not been dis- secrets of the human heart, as it exists dained by the deity himself, are we to in all ages, independent of the form be told that ethical poetry, or didactic and pressure of the times. from pope poetry, or by whatever name you term we learn its foibles and peculiarities in it, whose object is to make men better the th century. we have men and and wiser, is not the very first order of women described by shakespeare: by poetry ?" pope we have the ladies and gentle now we think the whole of this men of england. the standard of his passage, passing over the argument for ridicule and morality is for ever con à moment is in the worst possible nected with fashion and polite life. taste, even if it had proceeded from amidst all his wit, it has been the feeling the pen of mr bowles, who is a mini- of many in reading him, that we miss ster of the church ;—but how are we the simplicity of the poet in the smart- to understand it as coming from the ness of the gentleman.” author of don juan? is it sarcasm ? is not this criticism for the most or irony ?-or are we to consider it as part just? is it not true, that pope is an illustration of the maxim of roche- the poet of high life, of town life, of foucault;—“ hypocrisy is the homage literary life ;-dealing little in pictures which vice pays to virtue.” it is real- of general nature and simple emotion? ly edifying to meet with a passage like are not his characters, as johnson this in the very same letter in which would distinguish them, characters of his lordship indulges himself in the manners rather than of nature? is following invective. “ the truth is, there not, in short, between shakes- that in these days the grand “primum peare and pope, considered as painters mobile” in england is cant; cant po- of character, as much difference as be- litical, cant poetical, cant religious, tween the man who knew how the cant moral; but always cant, multi- watch was made, and the man who plied through all the varieties of life.” could tell the hour by looking on the " quis tulerit gracchos, &c.” dial-plate? we should be ashamed of uttering but to resume the argument. lord such truisms, if it were not for the byron having resolved to magnify the extravagant and exaggerated praises little god of his idolatry, proceeds that have been lately lavished on the through thick and thin to the accom- little man of twickenham; as if it plishment of his purpose ; and among were the object to exalt him above all the first victims he offers upat the shrine his rivals; and establish a sort of pope- 'of his divinity is cowper, who is thus dom in the poetical, as in the religious incidentally immolated in a parenthe- world. lord byron, with all the zeal sis,—“for cowper is no poet.” we of a partisan, endeavours to support should have thought his lordship's this new kind of papal supremacy, own obligations to cowper, would have though we think the arguments he secured him a more respectful men- uses shew little more than the zeal of tion ; though poets are not famous for a partisan. but let his lordship speak their gratitude to one another. thus for himself. voltaire, after borrowing from shakes. “in my mind, the highest of all peare, laboured most assiduously to poetry is ethical poetry, as the highest depreciate him,- like a thief, as ste- of all earthly objects must be moral vens said, who, after robbing a house, .] lord byron qud pope. sets it on fire, to prevent the detection in its real sense, the maker,' the of the stolen goods. it is but fair, how creators-why must this mean the ever, to say, that his lordship after. o liar," the “ feigner,' the tale-teller.' wards, when he sacrifices a whole heca- a man may make and create better tomb of schools, at the same altar does things than these.” not spare himself. “ sooner," says he, “ than a single leaf should be torn from his laurel, it were better that all “ if any great national or natural which these men, and that i as one of convulsion could or should overwhelm their set, have ever written, should your (it is by this pronoun that lord b. “ line trunks, clothe spice, or fluttering his fathers) country in such sort, as designates the country of himself and in a row, befringe the rails of bedlam or soho." to sweep great britain from the king- doms of the earth, and leave only that, his lordship adds;—“there are those after all the most living ofhuman things, who will believe this, and those who a dead language, to be studied and read, will not.” we have no reason to think and imitated by the wise of future that the poetical temperament has and fargenerations upon foreign shores; much changed since cicero's time, who if your literature should become the tells us ;—“adhuc neminem cognoví learning of mankind, divested of party poetam qui sibi non optimus videre- cabals, temporary fashions, and nation- tur." still we must not call in ques- al pride and prejudice; an english- tion his lordship's sincerity. there man, anxious that the posterity of is something consoling and satisfacto- strangers should know that there had ry in the heroism of self devotion ;- been such a thing as a british epic but we much doubt whether lord by- and tragedy, might wish for the pre- ron would have been pleased at recei- servation of shakespeare and milton; ving the same sentence from any other but the surviving world would snatch judge. for ourselves we can sincere- pope from the wreck, and let the rest ly say, that we should be most unwil- sink with the people. he is the moral ling to consent to the terms of the poet of all civilization, and as such let sacrifice, and have no hesitation in ex- us hope that he will one day be the pressing our conviction, that if lord national poet of mankind.” byron continues to live and to write, now we should have really thought and will only abstain from pamphlets it impossible for any person, who had and magazines, he will be placed by left school seven years, to write seri- universal acclamation far above the ously in this manner of the essay on object of his present panegyric, and man. there is more sublime morali- form the fourth star of a glorious con- ty, and more impressive lessons of life stellation with shakespeare, milton, and conduct, to be derived from one and dryden. but we forget that we play of shakespeare, than from all the have now to do with lord byron as a school-boy coinmon-places and pom- writer of prose; and it is in the fol- pous truisms of pope's essay, of which lowing style of flippant cant, and hy- the motto ought to have been, “ what perbolical rhodomontade, that he winds oft was thought, but ne'er so well ex- up the climax of his adoration. press’d.”-we are not advancing any “of his power in the passions, in den new opinion; and if it be necessary to scription, in the mock-heroic, i leave call in the aid of authority, let us turn others to descant. i take him upon his to the discriminating criticism of john- -strong ground as an ethical poet: in son as an antidote to the unmeaning the former none excel ; in the mock rhapsody of praise which we have beroic and the ethical, none equal him; quoted above. and in my mind the latter is the high “ the' essay on man,' (says john- est of all poetry, because it does that son in his life of pope,) was a work of in verse, which the greatest of men great labour and long consideration, have wished to accomplish in prose. but certainly not the happiest of pope's if the essence of poetry be a lie, throw performances. the subject is perhaps it to the dogs, or banish it from your not very proper for poetry; and the republic as plato would have done. poet was not sufficiently master of his he who can reoncile poetry with truth subject; metaphysical morality was to and wisdom, is the only true poet' him a new study; he was proud of vol. ix. f lord byron and pope. [may, his acquisitions, and supposing him- through the columns of this article, to self master of great secrets, was in turn, when they have concluded it, to haste to teach what he had not learn- johnson's life of pope, which might, ed. we think, have saved all the ink that has been since spilled in this discus- sion. we have already quoted so much that we may as well conclude as we “this essay affords an egregious in- have begun; and shall, therefore, give stance of the predominance of genius, our own opinion of pope in the words the dazzling splendour of imagery, and of the author of “ the diary of an in- the seductive powers of eloquence. valid;"—a volume which, with the en- never was penury of knowledge and tertainment of a book of travels, con- vulgarity of sentiment so happily dis- tains much incidental observation on guised. the reader feels his mind full, all subjects. “the character of pope's though he learns nothing; and when poetry may be well illustrated by one he meets it in its new array, no longer of his own lines. it knows the talk of his mother and his plays round the head, but comes not near nurse. when these wonder-working the heart.' sounds sink into sense, and the doc- trine of the essay, disrobed of its or. he delights us by the fertility of his naments, is left to the powers of its fancy, the elegance of his imagination, naked excellence, what shall we disco- the point and pleasantness of his wit, ver? that we are, in comparison with the keen discrimination of his satire, our creator, very weak and ignorant; and the moral good sense of his reason that we do not uphold the chain of ing :--but he is seldom pathetic, and existence; and that we could not make never sublime. if eloisa to abelard one another with more skill than we be an exception to this observation, it are made. we may learn yet more- is a solitary exception, and erceptio that the arts of human life were copied probat regulum ;-besides, in that poem from the instinctive operations of other the sentiments seem rather adopted, animals ; that, if the world be made than the genuine offspring of the poet's for man, it may be said that man was heart. made for geese. to these profound " what that soul of feeling is, that principles of natural knowledge are poetical verve by which alone the poet added some moral instructions equally can rise to sublimity, and which pope new; that self-interest well under wanted, will be understood at once by stood will produce social concord ; that comparing his ode on music with dry- men are mutual gainers by mutual den's divine effusion on the same sub- benefits; that evil is sometimes ba- ject. his merit even in versification, lanced by good ; that human advan seems to have been over-rated. pope tages are unstable and fallacious, of may perhaps be said to have done for uncertain duration and doubtful ef verses what arkwright did for stock- fect; that our true honor is not to ings, by the invention of a sort of me- have a great part, but to act it well; chanical process in their composition. that virtue only is our own ; and that his couplets are as regular as if they happiness is always in our power. had been made with the unerring pre- “surely a man of no very comprehen- cision of a spinning jenny." sive search, may venture to my that he this mechanical process, however, did has heard all this before ; but it was not, in pope's case, lighten the labours never till now recommended by such of the workman. his verses seem al- & blaze of embellishments, or such ways to have come from him “ like sweetness of melody. the vigorous bird-lime from frieze.” his were not contraction of some thoughts, the lux- the thoughts uriant amplification of others, the in- cidental illustrations, and sometimes “ which voluntary move harmonious num- bers.” the dignity, sometimes the softness of the verses, enchain philosophy, sus- inspiration had little to do with his pend criticism, and oppress judgment poetry,—at least if we trust to the evi- by overpowering pleasure." - lives of dence of his manuscripts in the british the poets. museum, which shew us how literally we earnestly recommend those gen- his verses may be said to have been tle readers who now accompany us made with hands; and with how much .) lord byron and pope. labour of correction they were worked pope-the praise that is his due. we up to their present polish. his poetic sit down to the feast of reason and the cal opinions are much what we should flow of fancy which his works present to have expected from reading his poems. us with perpetual delight. the variety accordingly we learn from spence, that of his powers securing us against any' he thought “ ben jonson's works ta- feeling of satiety, and the exquisite ken altogether are but trash ;"-and taste with which he embellishes what- in the same spirit he pronounces that ever he touches,- “shakespeare's dramatic style is a bad “leaving that beautiful which still was so, one." again, he says in speaking of and making that which was not,- rhyme, i have nothing to say of rhyme, but that i doubt whether & gives to his reader a peculiar species of poem can support itself without it in enjoyment which no other poet per- our language, unless it be stiffened with haps can communicate. if he does not such strange words as are likely to de- sweep the strings of the human heart stroy our language itself. the high with that master-touch, which be- style that is affected so much in blank longs exclusively to a higher order of verse would not have been borne in poets, he knows how, milton had not his subject turned up- on such strange out-of-the-world things “ to wake the soul by tender strokes of as it does." the man who could thus write of the paradise lost, must sure and can at once charm the ear, delight ly have wanted some of the qualities the imagination, and inform the un- that are necessary to constitute the per, derstanding. these are no slight qua- fection of the poetical temperament. lifications, and though they may not but while we are combating the ex- be sufficient to entitle pope to a place aggerated panegyrics that have been in the highest rank of poets, will ever pronounced upon him; we must take cause hiin to shine pre-eminently in care that we are not carried by the force the second class,— of reaction into the opposite extreme. “ velut inter ignes let us give to pope elegant sensible luna minores." y. art,” [mr bowles has just published a pamphlet, the title of which we subjoin.* we regret that we have neither space nor time to notice it particularly ; but we beg to recommend it to our readers as a most satisfactory answer to lord byron's paradoxes, and as evincing throughout the spirit of the scholar and the gentleman. c. n.] two letters to the right honourable lord byron, in answer to his lordship's letter to **** ******, on the rev. wm. l. bowles's strictures on the life and wri. tings of pope ; more particularly on the question, whether poetry be more imme- diately indebted to what is sublime or beautiful in the works of nature, or the works of art? by the rev. wm. l. bowles. “ he that plays at bowls must expect rub- bers.” old proverb. “ naturam expellas furca, tamen usque recurret."--horacè. john murray, albemarle street, london, . works preparing for publication. [may ? works preparing for publication. same. london. a history of parga, by ugo foscolo, memoirs of james the second, in two will shortly appear. yols. small vo. with a portrait. shortly will be published, a catalogue lucidus ordo; a complete course of of the extensive library of his excellency studies on the several branches of musical the cardinal fesch, which will be found science, with a reduction of all the present particularly rich in abbatial and local intricacies of thorough bass, to one simple ecclesiastical history ; royal and noble principle of figurative designation, with genealogies ; versions of the scriptures; skeleton exercises, &c. ; by j. ralfe, mu. sacred philology ; councils ; lives of the sician in ordinary to his majesty. fathers; theology ; canon and civil law; mr m‘kenzie's thousand experiments ancient history and biography. toge- in chemistry and the useful arts will ther with several early printed books and shortly appear. chronicles. feminine worth ; a novel by jos, an . the author of " the student's ma. indian idol, who views european morals nual,” or an etymological and explanatory with calmness, impartiality, and truth. vocabulary of words derived from the in the press, a splendid work, by dr greek, is preparing for the press a work turton, illustrative of the conchology of on a similar plan, to consist of words the british islands. two hundred copies adopted from the latin language; both of only will be printed ; the plates all colour- which are intended as appendages to the ed from nature. english dictionaries usually placed in the principles and doctrines of assurances, hands of youth. annuities on lives, and of contingent re- the faustus of goëthe, translated by versions, stated and explained ; by wil- mr george soane ; also a translation of liam morgan, esq. actuary of the equit- sangerliebe ; a provencal legend, by the able life assurance office. the history of the plague, as it has · dr bethell, dean of chichester, has in lately appeared in the islands of malta, the press, a general view of the doctrine of corfu, cephalonia, &c.; by j. d. tully, regeneration. esq. surgeon to the forces. the personal history of king george the first volume of dr latham's gene- the third ; by e. h. locher, esq. f. r. ral history of birds, in to. will be publish- s. will shortly be published in quarto. ed in june. the second part of horæ entomologi early in next month will be published, cæ; or essays on the annulose animals; a treatise of the principles of bridges by by w. s. macleay, esq. a. m. f. l. s. suspension, with reference to the catenary, being an attempt to ascertain the rank and and exemplified by the chain-bridge over situation which the celebrated egyptian the strait of menai. in it the properties insect, scarabæus sacer, holds among or of the catenary will be fully investigated, ganized beings. and those of arches and piers will be de the odes of pindar, translated into rived from the motion of a projectile. it english verse ; by abraham moore. will contain practical tables ; a table of speedily will be published, in three vo- the dimensions of a catenary, and tables lumes vo. an account of the abipones, an of the principal chain, rope, stone, wood, equestrian people in the interior of south and iron bridges, with the dimensions of america, translated from martin dobriz- them, erected in different countries. hoffer, years a missionary in paraguay. in the press, a treatise on scrophula, mr brande's manual of chemistry, en- (to which the jacksonian prize for the year larged to vols. vo. was adjudged by the court of exa- nearly ready for publication, a gram- miners of the royal college of surgeons,) mar of the tamul language ; by robert containing its nature, treatment, and ef- anderson, esq. of the madras civil ser. fects, particularly upon children ; and on vice. the alteration produced on all the different in the press, the adventures of the goo. parts of the body; with especial reference roo noodle, and his five foolish disciples; also to its connexion with spinal curva- a comic hindoo tale, in the tamul lan- tures, diseases of the joints, affections of guage, printed in the original characters, the glands; particularly of the female and accompanied by a translation, voca- breasts, testicles, and prostate glands, bularly, and analysis ; by benjamin ba- with diseases of the eyes ; to which is bington, esq. of the madras civil service. added, an account of the opthalmia so views of america, in a scries of letters long prevalent in christ's hospital ; by from that country to a friend in england, eusebius arthur lloyd, member of the during , , and , by an english royal college of surgeons, senior surgeon to the general dispensatory, aldersgate a practical essay, on ring-worm, street, and late house-surgeon to st bar. scald-head, &c.; by samuel plumbe, esq. tholomew's hospital, in one vol. vo. woman. .] works preparing for publication. edinburgh. we are happy to inform our readers, that the history and croniklis of scotland, the title of the new work, by the “great compilit and newly corrected be the reve- unknown,” now in the press, is, “ the rend and noble clerke, maister hector pirate;" and the scene is shetland about boece, channon of aberdene ; translatit the end of the seventeenth century, laitly be maister john bellenden, arch- the ayrshire legatees, or the cor- dene of murray, channon of ros, at the respondence of the pringle family, will be command of the richt hie, richt excel- published in a few days. lent, and noble prince, james the v. of elements of the philosophy of botany; that name, king of scottis ; and im- containing botanical nomenclature, theory prentit in edinburgh be thomas david- of classification, anatomy, physiology, son, dwellyng forenens the frere wynd. geography, and diseases of plants ; with it will be accurately printed by ballantyne, a history of botany ; by a. p. de can- from the original edition in black letter; dolle, and k. sprengell. vo. with plates: and will be accompanied by memoirs of in a very small volume, an essay on the boece and bellenden. it will form two sentiments of attraction, adaptation, and handsome volumes in quarto ; each vo. variety. lume containing about pages. johnson's scots musical museum, an index to the decisions of the court containing six hundred scottish songs of session ; exhibiting the names of the adapted for the harp, pianoforte, or or. pursuer and defender, and the date of gan. chiefly collected and corrected by every reported case ; with a reference to robert burns. including nearly two the page of the reporter's volume, and hundred songs, originally written for this to the page of morison's dictionary, in collection, by the bard. a new edition. which each case is to be found. the cases to which are prefixed, an introductory are arranged in the strictly alphabetical essay, and illustrations, historical, bio- order of the pursuers' names. those graphical, and critical, of the whole lyric cases which have the same name as pur. poetry and music contained in this great suer are arranged under the alphabetical national work ; by william stenhouse, order of the defenders. by means of the vols. vo. double reference, this index will be equal- a history of the origin and progress of ly useful to those who possess morison's the society of clerks to his majesty's sig- dictionary, and those who have the fa- net in scotland ; their duties and privi culty collection and the collections of the leges; by william balfour, esq. w. s. more early decisions. the poems of alexander montgomery, a treatise on the history and j.aw of author of the cherrie and the slae ; with entails ; by erskine douglas sandford, a biographical preface, &c. printed by esq. advocate. ballantyne, in post vo., uniformly with professor dunbar is preparing for pub- the publications of ritson, ellis, &c. only lication a third edition of his greek exer- copies printed for sale. cises, with considerable additions, especial- transactions of the society of the anti- ly to the observations on the idioms and quaries of scotland. vol. ii. part ii. to. to the notes. a complete key will be geometrical analysis, and the geome- published along with it for the use of try of curve lines; by professor leslie, teachers. also a new edition of dalzel's . (nearly ready.) this work will collectanea majora, vol. i., in which will inchide, not only a regular and complete be inserted, instead of the extracts from system of conic sections, but will exhibit xenophon's cyropadia, now published in the beautiful relations of those higher the new edition of the minora, the whole curves, ancient or modern, which either of the seventh book of thucydides, and invite the application of algebra, or elu- in addition to the extracts from plato, the cidate the properties of mechanics and mencdenus of that author; with copious other branches of natural philosophy. it notes on the new matter, and a number of will serve as a comprehensive introduc- others in addition to those already published, tion to the study of astronomy and phy- the life of sir thomas craig of ric- sical science ; and, being joined to the carton, author of the celebrated treatise elements of geometry, will form the chief de jure feudali, containing biographical part of a course of classical mathematics. sketches of the most eminent lawyers, a short treatise on heat, theoretical who were the predecessors or contempora- and practical ; by professor leslie, vo. ries of craig; with incidental notices of this work will unfold the principles of the literary and political state of scot. science, and apply them, not only to the land, and of the history of the court of explication of the phenomena of climate, session, from the period of its institution but to the improvement of many of the till the union of the crowns ; by patrick mechanical and chemical arts. fraser tytler, esq. advocate, f.r.s. and the elements of natural philosophy; f.s.a. author of the life of the admira- by professor leslie, vols. vo. vol. i. ble crichton. will soon be published. in the press, practical observations on works preparing for pablication. [may, new matter. cold and warm bathing; with an ao subjects, in which will be introduced much count of the principal watering places in he is also preparing for the scotland and england ; by james millar, press, editions of ferguson's electricity, m.d. fellow of the royal college of phy- lady's and gentleman's astronomy, per-> sicians. (nearly ready.) spective and select mechanical exercises, a treatise on the contract of sale ; by with notes and additions. these, with m. p. brown, esq. advocate. the astronomy lately published, will com- dr brewster has in the press, a new prise a uniform edition of this popular edition of ferguson's lectures on select author. monthly list of new publications. agriculture. fine arts. classics. london. tical arrangement of the same words, toge- a dissertation on lime, and its use and ther with such others as could not be class. abuse in agriculture; by thomas hornby, ed under distinct heads, mo. is. d. vo. . hints to teach children the first princi- architecture. ples of music, mo. . observations on the construction and theory and practice; or, a guide to the fitting up of chapels, illustrated by plans, french language ; by j. maurois, mo. sections, and descriptions; by wm. al. $. d. exander, to. . a practical english grammar for the botany. use of schools ; by the rev. w. putsey. s. the british botanist ; 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empire, and more particularly, at the a fairy romance, translated from the ger. court of the amarapoorah ; by captain man; by george soane, a.b. mo. . hiram cox, of the hon. east india com- d. pany's bengal native infantry, vo. co. a tale of the olden time; by a har. loured plates. s. row boy, mo. journal of a voyage of discovery to the bleddyn ; a welsh national tale; by arctic regions, in his majesty's ships w. s. wickenden, mo. . hecla and griper ; by alexander fisher, a legend of argyle; vols mo. £ , extra surgeon, r. n. vo. . ls. theology. miscellanies. novels. monthly list of new publications. [may, edinburgh. annals of the parish ; or, the chronicle the religious tradesman and mer- of dalmailing ; during the ministry of the chant; by richard steele, a.m. mo, rev. micah balwhidder ; written by him. s. d. self; arranged and edited by the author of a new edition of dewar on personal “ the ayrshire legatees,” &c. mo. s. and family religion, greatly enlarged ; edinburgh christian instructor for may, with an extensive variety of prayers for no. cxxx. families and individuals, vo. s. boards. edinburgh monthly review for june, transactions of the royal society of no. xxx. edinburgh. vol. ix. part . to. boards. edinburgh review, no. lxix. s. ll. . winter evening tales, collected among extracts from the diary of the late the cottagers in the south of scotland; rev. robert shireff, minister of the asso- by james hogg. a new and much im ciate congregation, tranent; with brief proved edition, vols. mo. s. notes of his life, and an appendix of new observations on the natural his. papers ; by mrs shireff, mo. s. boards. tory of bees ; by francis huber. third memoirs of the wernerian natural his. edition, greatly enlarged, and illustrated tory society. vol. iii. with engra- by fine engravings, mo. s. vings. s. prize essays, and transactions of the the theological lectures of the late highland society of scotland ; to which is george hill, d.d. principal of st mary's prefixed an account of the principal pro- college, st andrews. edited by the ceedings of the society from to ; rev. alexander hill, dailly, vols. vo. by henry mackenzie, esq. vol. th. s. these lectures were left by the author inquiry into the books of the new tes in a state fit for the press, with his latest tament; by john cook, d.d. vo. s. corrections, and the manuscript has been sacramental address and meditations, faithfully adhered to by the editor ; so with a few sermons interspersed ; by the that this publication contains the fruits of rev. henry belfrage, vol. d, mo. the labours of those thirty years during . d. which the author so ably officiated as pro- the cenotaph, a poem, by james aik. fessor of divinity. man, mo. s. d. monthly register. commercial report.- th may, . sugar.—the demand for the superior new sugars continues to be tolerably good, and the prices to be maintained. the holders, however, anticipate a reduction from the arri. vals, which henceforward must prove considerable. a short time will determine whe- ther or not they are right. the price of sugar is now sunk so low, that the planters everywhere are labouring under the severest distress, and something must be done by the mother country for their relief. the latter claims a monopoly of all their labour, and of all their produce and supplies ; and, therefore, a close attention to their interesst is required from her in return. whatever injures these colonies must equally injure the interests of the mother-country. the administration, it is said, have it at present contemplation to lay an additional tax upon east india sugars, which may afford some relief ; but no permanent relief can be expected, unless the foreign slave-trade is completely and immediately put a stop to. if it is continued much longer, the colonies of foreign powers will be so filled with slaves, that the quantity of sugar, and other co- lonial produce, raised in these places, will be more than sufficient for the supply of all europe, upon terms much lower than our colonies can afford it. in foreign colonies, the cultivator is amply remunerated at s. per cwt. the expences of producing it costs the west india planters as much. coffee. the market for coffee may be stated at s. higher for all descriptions of foreign coffee. on the other hand, jamaica coffee was for some time rather on the decline ; but the market for it has rather improved towards the close of last week, and for every description of coffee the demand is considerable, and the market firm. cotton.—notwithstanding the few arrivals of cotton, still the market of late has been languid, and prices rather on the decline. this is the case with boweds, in which there has, nevertheless, been a considerable demand. other kinds remain without alteration. the purchases have been considerable, and the demand for twist has been extensive. the manufacturers are all busy, and the workmen in full employment. the prices of cocoa continue exceedingly low and declining. there is little doing in spices, except in pimento, for which the demand is considerable. the market for in. digo continues firm, and prices may be stated at an advance of d. to d. per lib. the purchases of tobacco have for some time past been inconsiderable, and chiefly confined .) register.-commercial report. to parcels for home consumption. rum continues exceedingly low and depressed, there are few sales of brandy, and geneva is without variation. fine wheats have rather advanced in price. every other description is dull. barley is scarce, and an advance of ls. has taken place. the demand for oats has been brisk, in consequence of the limited supply. there has been some inquiry for beef. the price of bacon is merely nominal; and for irish butter there is a fair demand. there is a fair demand for foreign tallow. hemp has declined in price. in flax there is little alteration. the other articles of commerce require no particular notice. the trade of this country in general may be stated as progressively improving. that to the east indies is gradually extending ; and from the report of the house of lords on the foreign trade of this country, we are happy to observe, that there is a prospect of british subjects being admitted to participate in the tea trade with china, and also to extend their exertions in different parts of the eastern world, at present within the limits of the east india company's charter. we also observe, from some recent occur- rences, that the attention of this country is directed to that immense field for trade, which the shores of the persian gulph, arabia, the red sea, and the east coast of africa af. ford. at no distant day we hope to see a still more extensive field for british commerce laid open in the interior of the african continent. . . . edinburgh.-may . wheat. barley. oats. pease & beans. st,...... s. d. ist, ..... s. od. ist....... s. d. st....... s. od. d, ...... s. od. | d, ...... s. od. | d,.. . s. od. | d,... ...... s. cd. d, ...... s. od. d, ...... s. od. | d,...... s. od. | d,... ..... s. od. average of wheat, £ : : - ths., per boll. tuesday, may . beef ( ) oz. per lb.) s. d. to os. ļd. quartern loaf os. d. to os. od mutton os. d. to os. . potatoes ( lb.) os. d. to os. od lamb, per quarter s. od. to s. od. fresh butter, per lb. ls. d. to s. od veal os. d. to os. d. salt ditto, per stone . od. to os. od pork os. d. to os. d. ditto, per lb. is. d. to os. od tallow, per stone s. ed. to s. d. | eggs, per dozen os. cd. to os. od haddington.-may . wheat. barley. oats. pease. beans. ist, ..... s. d. st, ..... s. od. ist, ..... s. d. ist, ..... . od. ist..... s. od. d........ s. d. | d,...... s. od. d ....... . od. | d,... .. s. od. | d,...... s. od. d,...... . od. d,...... s. od. d,...... s. od. | d,.....ils. od. d...... ils. od. average, £ : s. d. - ths. dverage prices of corn in england and wales, from the returns received in the week ended april th. wheat, s. d.-rye, s. d.-barley, s. d.-oats, . d.-beans, . d. -peasc, s. d. beer or big, os. od.-oatmeal, . d. . • . . s. d. london, corn exchange, may . liverpool, may . s. . d. wheat, red, new to hog pease. to wheat, per lb. amer. p. lb. fine ditto to maple • to ! eng. old to sweet, u.s.- o to - superfine ditto to white to /waterford to do. in bond to ditto, old. - to - ditto, boilers. to || limerick. to sour do.. o to white, new to new ditto, .-to-drogheda to oatmeal, per lb. fine ditto. to smallbeans,new to dublin to english o to superfine ditto to ditto, old • to scotchi. to scotch .. to diito, old. -- to - tick, new. to irish old . to irish ... to foreign, new , ditto, old. -to-bonded . to bran, p. lb. to rye to foreign barley, per lbs. fine ditto, feed oats - to to eng. to butter, beef, gc. barley to fine . to scotch .. to butter,p.cwt. s. d. fine, new , to poland ditto to |irish to belfast, new to superfine to fine. . to oats, per lb. newry to to potatoe ditto • to eng. pota. to waterford . to to fine. to irish do. to cork, pic. d, o to scotch do. to d dry to - malt per b. beef, p. tierce. seeds, fc. - fine to mess to beans, per gr. per brl. to s. s. d. s. english . to pork, p. brl. must. brown, to hempseed to irish to mess to -white ... to linseel, crush. to rapeseed, p. . £ to middl. to tares, new, . to new, for seed to pease,greyas to bacon, p. cwt. turnips, bsh. to ryegrass, .. to -white : to $ short mids. to red & green to oclover, red cwt. to flour, euglish, sides to -yellow, to -white ... to p. lb.fischt hums, dry, to o caraway, cwt. to o coriander .. to irish .. o to green to canary, r. to trefoil .. to lard,rd.p.e. to rape seed, per last, . £ to £ . vol. ix. g malt fing. .. register.-commercial report. [may, london. ls od s od £ £ prices current may . sugar, musc. leith. glasgow. liverpool. b. p. dry brown, .cwt, to mid. good, and fine mid. fine and very fine, refined doub. loaves, powder ditto, single ditto, small lumps, large ditto, . crushed lumps, molasses, british, cwt. coffee, jamaica, • cwt. ord. good, and fine ord. mid. good, and fine mid. dutch triage and very ord. ord. good, and fine ord. mid. good, and fine mid. st domingo, pimento (in bond,) ::: spirits, jam. rum, o. p. gall. s d od s d s d s ld s d brandy, geneva, grain whisky, wines, claret, st growths, hhd. portugal red, pipe. spanish white, butt. teneriffe, pipe. madeira, logwood, jam. ion: honduras, campeachy, fustic, jamaica, cuba, indigo, caraccas fime, lb. s d ils d timber, amer. pine, foot. ditto oak, christiansand (dut. paid.) honduras mahogany, st domingo, ditto, tar, american, brl. archangel, pitch, foreign, cwt. tallow, rus. vel. cand. home melted, hemp, riga rhine, ton. petersburgh, clean, flax, riga thies. & druj. rak. dutch, irish, mats, archangel, . bristles, petersburgh firsts, cwt. ashes, peters. pearl, montreal, ditto, pot, ojl, whale, tun. £ cod. s (p. brl.) tobacco, virgin. fine, lb. middling, inferior, cottons, bowed georg. sea island, fine, good, middling, demerara and berbice, west india, pernambuco, maranham, la a --||||||||| ---*** || oolllabollolllll iiii||| s od s d £ £ sto consensie | | | |||| || vell loosball iii iii iii iii. . i||||| -- ll. coccarlllll be . ****** ||||| * - £ £ como los ! .iiiiiilll cocool lol -- ---- - ii alphabetical list of english bankruptcies, announced between the th of march and the th of april, , extracted from the london gazette. allsop, t. late of gloucester, linen draper. bristow, r. jun. in lloyd's coffee-house, and iver, ashcroft, t. liverpool, timber merchant. bucks, insurance broker. atkins, w. chipping norton, mealman. brown, t. longdon, stafford, grocer. ayton, j. and saunders, w.newcastle-upon-tyne, buckhouse, g. kendal, ironmonger. merchants. buckland, j. newcastle-street, strand, carpenter, ayton, w. macclesfield, cotton-spinner. burbery, j. coventry, ribbon-manufacturer. bagley, g. pocklington, spirit-merchant. burberry, t. woolston, warwick, farrier. bali, t. post ford plill, surrey, paper-maker. carter, j. jun. liverpool, merchant. benzies, a. st martin's-lane, baker. chinn, t. maidstone, linen-draper. berriman, w. lyneham, wilts, timber-mer clarke, j. worcester, coach-proprietor. chant. clements, r. coventry, ribbon-manufacturer. bigsby, j. deptford, brewer. cape, w. london bridge foot, grocer. bishop, j. broad-street, bloomsbury, horse-dealer. black band, j. burslem, stafford, grocer. carter, j. jun. late of liverpool, merchant. cole, j. linnington, yorkshire, farmer. bonner, t. monk wearmouth, fitter. cope, c. berkeley mews, portman-square, job. drandon, w. kent-street, borough, builder. master, .) register.-commercial report. ner. (ope, p. bridgnorth, grocer. mathews, j. coventry, ribbon manufacturer. cox, h. lambeth, timber-inerchant. mence, n. worcester, brewer, and money scrive coulson, j. and leadbitter, e. gateshead, glass- inanufacturers. morris, j. upholland, lancaster, tanner. coupland, c. r. f. & e. leeds, spirit-merchants mussie, j. derby, mercer. and cotton-spinners. mutch, j. queen ann-street, cavendish-square, croft, t. late of chatham, hairdresser. upholsterer. cushon, f. spitalfields, hat-inanufacturer. noble, h. and a. camberwell, wine merchants. dewsbury, p. altringham, chester, corn-dealer. ovenden, e. late of old boswell-court, jeweller. dignam, j. warnford-street, throgmorton-street, palmer, j. rugeley, stafford, butcher. coal-merchant and scrivener. palmer, e. t. bedford, draper. dunderdale, g. and r. leeds, clothiers. peet, j. ashton within, mackerfield, lancaster, edwards, j. vine-street, spital-fields, silkman. hinge manufacturer. ellis, w. liverpool, white cooper. philips, b. threadneedle-street, vintner. farquharson, t. swansea, merchant. pullen, d. birchin-lane, broker. field, t. st john's-street, inn-keeper. richardson, g. mecklenburgh-square, and vokes, ford, j. gloucester, patent woollen yarn manu t. late of gloucester-street, queen-square, facturer. merchants. carton, j. hull, lighterman. ritchie, r. deptford, brewer. greaves, j. jun. liverpool, broker. riley, t. h. crawford-street, mary-le-bone, linen gooch, a. norwich, bombazine-maker. draper. gregory, g. b. lisson grove, merchant. roberts, r. g. minories, ironmonger. grundon, w. new malton, merchant. seaman, g. bishopsgate-street, linen (iraper. gunnery, t. liverpool, dealei. sedgewick, m. london, warehouseman. harding, j. great winchester-street, jeweller. shrapnell, p. broadford, wilts, clothier. hart, j. bath, saddler. sloper, j. bath, baker. haynes, w. stourbridge, currier. smith, j. l. late of vauxhall-walk, coal dealer. hellman, a. late of mincing-lane, merchant. snape, w. litchfield, mercer. hessledon, w. and w. s. barton-upon-humber, stang. l. late of fore-street, merchant. scriveners. stanley, h. jackhouse within, oswald twistle, hinchliffe, j. now or late of bradley, huddersfield, lancaster, whitster. wood merchant and lime dealer. sumter, j. charlotte-street, old-street-road, stone- holding, w. devonshire-street, queen’s-square, inason. wine-merchant. taylor, j. sheffield, iron-founder. hoyle, r. newcastle-upon-tyne, merchant. traherne, j. st martin's-street, leicester fields, jackson, a. bristol, corn factor. victualler. jeffs, f. coventry, shop-keeper. trinder, w. j. portsca, victualler. jerom, s. birmingham, victualler. trix, f. south molton, devon, tanner. johnson, j. leamington, warwick, druggist. troughton, b. and j. wood-street, london, and jones, t. sedgley, iron master. overton, hants, silk throwsters. jones, t. p. carmarthen, linen-draper. vaughan, mary, and appleton, catherine, late of kennifeck p. late of tonbridge-place, new road, liverpool, straw bonnet manufacturers. dow of calais in france, merchant. wade, j. s. aldeburg, suffolk, brickmaker. kennifeck, w. throgmorton-street, stock-broker, walker, j. upper russell-street, bermondsey, lea, w. and lea, j. f.of paternoster-row, ribbon parchment dealer. and silk manufacturers. waln, d. liverpool, plumber. maberley, j. welbeck-street, coach-manufacturer. wells, j. liverpool, merchant. macrlonagh, t. chesterfield, wine merchant. white, t. late of brinklow, warwick, innholder. macleod, j. cornhill, boot-maker. white, j. lambeth-road, merchant. mann, t. halifax, merchant. whittle, s, u. islington, timber merchant. marshall, j. gainsborough, druggist. whittley and mason, liverpool. mason, j. liverpool, linea draper. wilkinson, j. great drifbiela, coal-merchant. massey, t. derby, mercer. witchurch, j. worship-street, coach master. masters, j.upper berkeley-street, portman-square, wright, j. bermondsey-street, southwark, provi- coach-maker. sion merchant. altuialetical list of scotch bankruptcies, announced between the th and th april, , extracted from the edinburgh gazette. astley, joseph,chemical manufacturer,portobello. cheyne, alex., sometime merchant in leith; a bell, david, corn merchant, dundee. dividend th may. collieson, john, merchant and underwriter, dun craig, john, the late, senior, leather merchant, dee. glasgow; a final dividend th may. crawford, andrew, plaisterer and lime merchant, elder, david, late merchant, glasgow ; a final di- glasgow. vidend th may. currie, hugh, salt merchant, saltcoats. grahame, thomas, merchant and manufacturer hunter, h. and a, spirit dealers, glasgow. in glasgow; a second dividend th june. m•intyre, duncan, merchant in inverary. jeffrey, james, and co. merchants, edinburgh, m.vaih, donald, merchant, inverary. and james jeffrey, wm. jeffrey, and wm. aj- malcolm, william, cooper and herring merchant, ken, as individuals; a dividend d june to the greenock. creditors of j. jeffrey and co. of s. but no di- matthew, john, haberdasher and merchant, glas vidend from the indivirlual estate. gow. laird, john, and co. merchants, greenock: and saunders, james, printer and writer, dundee. laird, william, and co. merchants, liverpool ; shade, thomas, nursery and seedsman, edinburgh. an equalizing dividend of s. per pound. sirith, williain, writer, agent, and trader in glas macnab, archibald, and co. merchants and com- gov. mission agents, glasgow : a dividend th may. stevenson, robert, distiller and grain dealer at penman, andrew, bookseller, glasgow; a second easter mill, parish of lochwinnoch. dividend eth june. young and gordon, drapers and merchants, dun roxburgh, john and andrew, carpet manufactu- dee. rers, kilmarnock; a dividend june. dividends. scott, hugh, haberdasher, greenock; a first divi- anderson and brown, tanners, glasgow ; a second dend, th june. dividend may. smith, james, and co. booksellers, peterhead; a baird, alex., merchant, inverkeithing; a second second dividend, th may. dividend th june. urquhart, henry, late perfumer in edinburgh ; a battieman, jacob, and co. sugar refiners, stirling; final dividend, th may. a final dividend may. young, john, and co. merchants and general cameron and woodburn, merchants in glasgow, agents, edinburgh; a dividend, loth nay. and kingston, jamaica ; a second and final di. idend th may. [may, registercommercial report. weekly price of stocks, from to th april, d. th. th. :-)_ th. e = pr. pr. pr. pr. pt. bank stock,ecco per cent. reducedirano per cent. consols,... & per cent. consols,... per cent. consols, per cent. navy ann...... imperial per cent. ann........... india stock, sonra bonds.com exchequier bilis, corro...... pr. pr. pr. consols for acc. monorar amer. per cent....ason.... , % french per cents..... fr. c. fr. c. fr. c. course of exchange, may .-amsterdam, : . c. f. ditto at sight, : . rotterdam, : . antwerp, : . hamburgh, : . altona, : . paris, d. sight, : . ditto : . bourdeaux, : . frankfort on the maine, . petersburgh, }: u. vienna, : eff. flo. trieste, : ef. fo. madrid, . cadiz, . bilboa, %. barcelona, . seville, ļ. gibraltar, %. leghorn, . genoa, . venice, : . malta, . naples, . palermo, llb. lis- bon, . oporto, . rio janeiro, . bahia, . dublin, per cent. cork, per cent. prices of gold and silver, per .-foreign gold, in bars, £ : : d. new dollars, s. d. silver in bars, stand. s. ild. meteqrological table, extracted from the rrgister kept at edinburgh, in the observatory, culton-hill. n.b.-the observations are made twice every day, at nine o'clock, forenoon, and four o'clock, after. noon.--the second observation in the afternoon, in the first column, is taken by the register thermoineter. attach, ther. barom. ther. wind. attach. ther. barom. ther. wind. ap. . . . { { m. . m. dull, with april s s.w. . a. ) a. hail. m. . m. ) a. cble. ditto. .css a. m. . m. cble. dull, with . . . a. ) sleet. very cold, n.w. a. . a. with hail. m. . m. ) n. ditto. . . - . . m. frost morn. cble. a. . a. ) rain aftern. m. . m. ) dull, but n.w. . a. fair. . m. n.w. ditto. . a. ) m. . m. a. n.w. ditto. . a. m. . m. w. fair foren. a. . . . ) rain aftern. . m. cble. dull, but . . . a. fair. m. . m. cold, rain cble. . a. ) afterp. . . m. cble. . a. rainy night. ( . . m. cble. cold, . . a. ) rain aftern. (m. . m. cole. snow and . . . ) thail showers! . ) a. m. m.: . m. fair, but cble. . a. cold. m. . m. ) . a. cble. ditta m. . . m. dull, with cble. a. . a, hai). m. ... . rain morn. s, a. . a. frir day: m. . m. w. fair, with . . . . ) sunshine. m. . m. rain. morn. . . a. ) fair aftern. m. . m. mild, with a. .c a. s sunshine. , m. dull and chle. a. . . leold. m. . m. rain foren, cblc. a. . . fair aftern. sm. . m. warm fortn. cble. a. . . dull aftern. . m. m. chle. mild, rather a. . a. ) dull. sm. . m. e. foggy, but . a. .) fair. m. . m. cble. fog. foren. a. . . clear aftern. m. . m. foren. fair, e. a. .. . . aftern. rain. m. . m. fair, with . . a. ) sunshine. . fair day: average of rain, . inchos. .] appointments, promotions, sc. th apr. do. th apr. do. do. appointments, promotions, &c. dr. g. general w. loftus, to be colonel, vice sir c. crawfurd, dead apr. garrisons. dr. surg. o'donel, from f. vice surg. wylde, h. p. vet. bat. th do. lieut. gen. ja. ilay, lt. gov. of tyne- w. h. l. brooke, cornet, by purch. mouth and cliff fort, vice sir c. crau. vice clagett, ret. d mar. furd, dead apr. lord a. conyngham, cornet do. vice lord conyngham cancelled royal military asylum. st sept. f. capt. gordon, major, vice thisleth- ens. fair, from vet. bat. qua. mast. wayte, dead, d mar. vice hill, h. po th apr. lieut. kell, capt. do. ensign wyse, lieut. do. staff w. congreve, ensign. do. surg. young, from vet. bat. surg. bt maj. m'ra, dep. qua. mast, gen. vice o'donel, dr. th apr in the east indies, with rank of lieut. ens. worsley, from vet. bat. qu. mr. col. in the army, vice stanhope, res. vice edwards, h. p. bourb. r. th mar. th mar. lt. col. torrens, f. dep. qua. mast. newenham, lieut. vice brannan gen. in the east indies, vice m ra dead th aug. th do. j. watson, ensign d mar. lt. & adj. nicholson, of army depot, as. surg. badenach, from f. surg. isle of wight, to have the rank of vice davy, staff th do. capt. th do. n. r. tomlinson, ens. by purch. vice birch, ret. d do. medical department. ensign wood, lieut. vice cheek, dead bt. insp. e. tegart, insp. of hospitals r. b. martin, ensign in the west indies only lieut. hilljard, from h. p. f. paym. th mar. vice tomlinson, dead d mar. staff surg. arthur, physician to the for. gent. cadet w. s. moorlom, from r. ces, vice taylor, dead th do. mil. coll. ens. by purch. vice jeffries, surg. davy, from f. surg. to the for- ret. do. ces do. qua. mast. holmes, from h. p. dr. hosp. as. w. birrell, as. surg. to the qua. mast. vice fox, h. p. f. forces, vice cavehill, dead th apr. dochard, do. do. capt. dely, from ceyl. r. capt. vicc vice davy, from f. th do. daniell, f. th do, assist. surg. thomson, from f. apo- hosp. as. w. h. burrell, as. surg. vice thecary to the forces, vice leeson, thomson, pro. staft. th do. dead lieut. garner, capt. by pur. vice phil. c. hughes, hosp. assist. to the forces, lips, ret. d mar. ist mar. vice conway, lead do. ensign clarke, lieut. do. c. pargeter, do. vice birrell, do. r. floyer, ensign do. do. prom. ensign duke, lieut. vice wilson, dead hosp. assist. m‘dermott, from h. p. th july, hosp. assist. to the forces, více bur- n. r. brown d mar. rell, f. th do. -bruce, do. do. assist. surg. millar, from f. surg. vice dockhard do vice ridsdiale, dead th apr. lieut. atkinson, from h. p. f. lieut. ordnancc department. vice thomson, vet. bat. mar. ens. & adj. wild, rank of lieut. do. d lieut. fennell, from rifle brigade, roy. art. bt. lieut. col. bull, major of brigade in ireland th feb. lieut. vice wilson, dead do. assist. surg. greig, froin h. p. dr. bt. maj. bates, from h, p. capt. apr: st lieut. gapper, capt. . assist. surg. vice millar, f. -jago, from h. p. st lieut. ist do. capt. white, from h. p. f. capt. vice -palmer, do. do. d do. morris, h. p. f. sth mar. d lieut. stokes, do. do. do. supern. a sist. surg. sievwright, from - bigge, do. d lieut. do. staff as. surg. vice badenach, f. roy. eng. bt. lt. col. ellicombe, major of brig. th do. vice handfield, dead. th jan. lieut. keir, from h. p. dr. lieut. lieut. col. gossett, from h. p. lt. col. vice eliot, res. th july, do, bt. col. bruce, from h. p. f. lieut. capt. jones, from h. p. capt. col. vice douespe, dead th nov. th mar. st lieut. eliot, d capt. capt. daniell, from f. capt, vice -dalton, from h. p. st lt. antell, h. p. new brunsw. fenc. do. th apr. do. d lieut. fraser, from h. p. d lieut. surg. flannegan, from vet. bn. surg. do. vice halpin, h. p. vet. bn. th do. -lagden, ist lieut. do. ens. munro, lieut. vice m'queen, dead st lieut. maison, d capt. th mar. th jan. a montressor, ensign do. -burt, from h. p. ist lt do. ens. macbean, lieut. vice m‘donnell, d lieut. bordes, st lieut. do. dead n. s. christie, ensign -walpole, from h. p. d lt. do, do. rifle brig. h. clinton, d lieut. vice fennell, f. mar. exchanges. w. i. r. j. h. pickering, ensign, vice ford, dead do, lieut. col. pelly, from dr. with lieut. col. el- ceyl. r. capt. cooper, from h. p. new brunsw. phinstone, f. fenc. capt. vice dely, f. th apr. bt. lt. col. grant, from f. with major monta- colonial gue, f. comp. at d lieut. campbell, st licut. bt. major wood, from dr. rec. diff. between full the mau- th mar. pay (av. and full pay inf. with capt. barlow, ritius h. p. *? dr. th apr. do. th apr do. th apr, appointments and promotions, sc. [may, bt. major obyns, from f. with capt. harrison, h. p. f. rcinstated. mackay, from f. with capt. hewett, lieutenant machell, dr. h. p. . f. capt. vernon, from dr. rec. differ, between full deaths. pay troop, and full pay company, with captain brett, h. p. dr. gen. h. earl of carhampton, m. p. dr. g. lon- don, th april, . evelyn, from f.g. with capt. des voeux, colonel broughton, r. mar. florence, h. p. f. d march, . jones, from f. with capt. stainton, h.p. lieut. col. e. v. eyre, h. p. independ. boulonge, york chas. th feb. . lieut. bayley, from dr. g. with lieut. cuff, h. p. major fitzmayer, roy. art. limerick, dr. st march, . christie, from f. rec. diff. with lt. cald. c. james, of late r. art. driv. london, well, h. p. w. i. r. th april. kennerly, from f. with lt. keith, f. douglas, late scotch brigade, bothwell de lapasture, from f. rec. dift. with bank, near hamilton, th do. lieut. huston, b. p. f. foljarnbe, h. p. f. retford, st do. tittle, from f. rec. diff. with lt. sparkes, h. p. r. african corps. hirtz, half-pay dillon's regt. france, th feb. tudor, from °f. rec. diff. with lt. bea- breymann, h. p. line germ. leg. sesper- van, h. p. f. hude in lunenburg, th jan. yates, from f. with lt. markham, cape otto, h. p. huss. germ. leg. hanover, corps. th march. gabb. from f. rec. diff. with lt. cosby, capt, thurlow, f. at sea, th april, . h. p. f. g. - barry, f.on passage from the mauritius, cornet bruce, from dr. with d lt. st quintin, th march. f. falconer, h. p. dr. woodcot, haddington, ensign m‘dermott, from f. with ensign de- th sept. . rinzy, h. p. f. fallon, h. p. f. ireland, th jan. . knox, from f. with ens.cameron, h. p. kettler, h. p. line germ. leg. verden, c f. st feb. daly, from f. with ensign riddel, h. p. lieut. johnson, f. antigua. f. maclean, from f. with ensign bunbury, cheek, f. isle of wight, th apr. . campbell, f. ceylon. h. p. f. m'queen, f. march, . der. inspec. of hosp. porteous, with dep. inspec. macdonnell, f. erly, h. p. macfarlane, r. vet. bn. kennington, staff. surg. thomson, with staft surg. arthur, d feb. . h. p. willock, r. art. woolwich, th april. assist. surg. spry, from w. i. r. with as. surg. palmer, h. p. f. jan. kelly, h. p. i w. i. r. fraser, h. p. f. rypoor, east indies, dep. purveyor bradford, with dep. purv. pratt, th april, . d lieut. williams, h. p. ceylon regt. newport near barnstable, th nov. , resignations and retirements. du moulin, h. p. watteville's regt. paris, capt. phillips, f. ilth dec. cancellor, roy. east ind. vol. paym. armstrong, h. p. f. ireland, lieut. eliot, f. st april, . kiddell, roy. east ind. vol. adj. henning, east and west lothian fenc. cav. cornet. clagett, dr. haddington, th march, . . ensign birch, f. qr. mast. finan, h.p. newfoundland fen. lough- jettries, f. brckland, ireland, st feb. . thornton, roy. east ind. vol. muller, h. p. huss. ger. leg. harbug. d dec. . app vintments cancclled. surgeon. ridsdale, f. brevet major de havilland, e. hosp. as. moon, jamaica. capt. hay, f. wilkins, th march, . white, f. chaplain. meyer, h. p. ger. leg. auleben. coruet lord f. conyngham, dr. th nov. . h. p, a son, births, marriages, and deaths. births. . the lady of c. lenox cumming bruce, of aug. . at calcutta, mrs thomas dingwall roseisle and kinnaird, of a daughter. fordyce, of a son . at kilgraston-house, the hon. mrs grant, of oct. . at madras, the lady of david hill, a daughter. esq. of a son. at touch house, the lady of r. macdonald, march . . at carriden manse, mrs fle esq. of staffa, of a daughter. ming, of a son. mrs milner of nunmonkton, near york, of april . mrs william maxwell little, union street, of a daughter. . at , great king street, mrs heriot, of a . mrs hood of stoneridge, of a son. daughter. . at edinburgh, the lady of captain james . mrs patrick robertson, howe street, of a haldane tait, royal navy, of a daughter. daughter. . at t , great king street, mrs james lang, mrs thomas hamilton, howard place, of a of a daughter. daughter. . ai newbattle manse, mrs thomson, of a . at duddingston manse, mrs thomson of a daughter. . at ruchlaw-house, mrs hawthorn, of a . in burton crescent, london, the lady of daughter. sir james c. anderson, bart. of a daughter. - at balbegno castle, the lady of captain ram . mrs robinson, no. , queen street, of a my, of a son. . at haddington, mrs welsh, of a son. - at edinburgh, mrs walter cook of a daugh- . at freeland-house, perthshire, the hon. ter. mis hore, of a son. . at erlinburgh, mrs matheson, bellvue cres- - mrs wylie, , charlotte street, of a daugh cent, of a son. - at , abercromby place, lady macdonald mrs cleghorn, dundas street, of a daughter. luckhart, of a daughter son. bon. .] register.-marriages and deaths. %. at nelson street, edinburgh, mrs george . at leith, mr nicholas whitehead, to miss hogarth, of a son. elizabeth kirk, daughter of the late mr james - at st david's street, edinburgh, mrs john kirk, teacher there, formerly of hawick. bruce of a daughter. . at edinburgh, mr henry armstrong, to - at houston, mrs shairp, of a daughter. miss graham, , frederick street. . at nelson street, mrs dalrymple, of a son. - at hawthornbank, the rev. james traill, minister of the episcopal church, haddington, to marriages. margaret, eldest daughter of robert veitch, esq. sept. , . at st john's church, trichino of hawthornbank. poly, archibald ewart, esq. of the madras medi lately. at edinburgh, mr charles james fle- cal service, to susannah petronella, daughter of ming of bewdley, worcestershire, to sarah, only the late arnold lunel, esq. formerly chief secre child of mr johú baxter, south bridge. tary to the dutch government at cochin. feb. , . at st botolph's church, al deaths. gate street, london, mr george webster, mer oct. . . at esseer ghier, major gilbert chant in dundee, to sarah, youngest danghter of grierson maitland, of the european infantry of the late mr benjamin kiddell, of the chancery the madras establishmeot, only remaining son of office, bank of england. the late pellram maitland, esq. - . at florence, in the house of his excellency nov. — at china, the hon. valentine gardner, lord burghersh, viscount tullamore, only son of captain of his majesty's ship dauntless. the earl of charleville, to miss beaujolis camp . at his station on the south banks of the bell, third daughter of the late colonel campbell narbudda, in bengal, alexander dick lindsay, of shawfield, and niece to the duke of argyll. esq. of the civil service of the hon. east india march . at the palace of canino, near rome, company, second son of the hon. robert lindsay (the residence of lucien bonaparte,) t. wyse, of balearres. esq. jun. eldest son of t. wyse, esq. of the ma jan. . . at davis's cove, jamaica, ri- nor of st john, near waterford, ireland, to letitia, chard dickson, esq. daughter of lucien bonaparte, prince of canino. feb. . at jamaica, james fraser, son of mr . at guernsey, fitzhubert macqueen, esq. to fraser, st james' square, the third son he has lost mary christiana, relict of captain james dalrym in that island since may last. ple, and third daughter of sir jaines nasmyth, - at demerara, mr robert thomson, surgeon, bart. of new posso. second son of mr thomas thomson, late town- . at stockton-upon-tees, gilbert munro, clerk, musselburgh. esq. of brighton, island of st vincent, and of al . at quebec, mrs ker, wife of james kerr, bertarle street, london, to rachel sophia, daugh- esq. judge of the court of king's bench, vice ad- ter of the late jonathan anderson ludford, m. d. miralty, &c. &c. province of lower canada. of warwick, &c. island of jamaica. . at madeira, thomas litt, esq. of glasgow. - at aberdeen, mr william lowe, merchant, mar. . on his passage home, james carnegy, to annabella, youngest daughter of the late cap- esq. late merchant in malacca, and third son of tain john leith, of barrack, aberdeenshire. the late patrick carnegy, esq. of lower. april , at cirencester, the earl of dartmouth, . at madeira, captain john murray, r. n. to lady frances charlotte chetwynd talbot, eld second son of the late william murray, esq. of est daughter of his excellency earl talbot, lord polmaise. lieutenant of ireland. . at orleans, captain coll m'dougall, late of - at lockerby-house, his excellency colonel the d regiment. maxwell, c. b. captain-general and governor of . at boulogne-sur-mer, duncan monro, esq. the island of st christopher's, &c. &c. to miss of culcairn. douglas, only daughter of lieutenant-colonel . at quebec, benjamin joseph frobisher, douglas of green croft. esq. provincial lieutenant-colonel, and aide-de- & at dublin, captain francis stupart, of the camp to his excellency the earl of dalhousie, royal north british dragoons (scots greys,) to governor-general of the canadas. anne, daughter of john jameson, esq. alloa. . at tangwick, in shetland, james cheyne, . at niddrie, william mackenzie, esq. writer esq. aged . to the signet, to alice, eldest daughter of andrew . at rome, after a lingering illness, mr john wauchope, esq. of niddrie marischall . keats, the poet, aged . - at alloa, mr george young, merchant, . at clifton wood, near bristol, in the th leith, to catherine, second daughter of archibald year of his age, william heaven esq. only son of hill rennie, esq. of baleleisk. ihe late robert heaven, esq. of burdwan, in ben- . at st george's church, hanover square, the gal. reverend william pegus, to the countess of lind at cairnie, fifeshire, mrs dalyell of lingo. sey, widow of the late, and mother of the present . at paisley, the rev. dr john findlay, of earl of lindsey. the high church, paisley, in the st year of his . at edinburgh, adam ferguson, esq. late ministry. during the course of a long, an active, of the th regiment of foot, to mrs margaret and an useful life, he was eminently distinguished stewart, daughter of the late john stewart, esq. by his personal religion--by eminent natural ta- of stenton, and widow of george lyon, esq. oflents, which were well cultivated and improved buckletabury, london. and by the conscientious fidelity, diligence, and . maxwell gordon, esq. to jane, youngest exactness, with which he discharged all his official daughter of david steuart, esq. of steuarthali . and relative duties. . at kirkałdy, mr james tait, postmaster of . at crofthall, near glasgow, miss_melen windygates, to christian, second daughter of mr pasley, aged , daughter of the late john pasley, william meldrum, head inn there. esq. of edinburgh. . at st george's church, hanover square, suddenly, at ranby hall, near retford, ge- london, the earl of aytesford, to lady augusta neral crawford, by whose death the dowager sophia greville, sister to the earl of warwick. duchess of newcastle becomes again a widow. . at camphill, james monteith, esq. to mar - at merstham-house, surrey, the right ho- garet, eldest daughter of robert thoinson, esq. nourable lady ann simpson, relíct of john simp- of camphill. son, esq. of brandley-hall, durham. . at st george's church, everton, liverpool, . at shacklewell, of a decline, in the th the rev. joseph evans beaumont, of haddington, year of her age, miss jane menzies, only daughter to susannah, second daughter of john morton, of the late mr archibald menzies, of edinburgh. esq. of liverpool, surgeon, late of the royal ar. at edinburgh, aged , mr william masson, tillery, and sister to mrs dr morrison of canton. writer. . at pitfour, james hay, esq. of seggieden, - at his house, in frederick street, lieute- to miss christian craigie stewart, daughter of the nant-colonel thomas inglis. deceased james stewart, esq. of urrard. - at woolwich, davidona frances stuart, - at the manse of dumblane, the rev. tho youngest daughter of major john sutherland sin- mas dimma, minister of the parish of queenster- clair, royal artillery. ry, to miss laura grierson. . at edinburgh, mrs joanna pringle, reliet - at edinburgh, mr john leslie macintosh, of alexander hay, esq. late of mornington. to margaret, eldest daughter of mr william drys - at loanside, andrew stein, esq. dale, lothian street. suddenly, in stratford place, london, mrs register.deaths. [may, elliston, wife of mr elliston, of drury lane - at charleton, after a ingering illness, which theatre. she retired to rest, at her usual hour, she bore with the utmost fortitude, mrs susan in better apparent health than she had enjoyed for scott, relict of the late george carnegie, esq. some time past. she had not been in bed long, of pitarrow, in the th year of her age. in an. when she was attacked by an hysteric affection, to nouncing the death of this lady, we announce the which, during the last two years, she had been sub death of one who will be long and most justly re- ject, and in ten minutes she expired. membered in montrose and its neighbourhood. april . at edinburgh, grace euphemia, young to befriend the widow and the fatherless, to feed est daughter of the late mr john fraser, rhives, the hungry, and to clothe the naked, to assist the sutherlandshire. honest and the industrious in time of need, and to - at brighton, sir charles edmonstone, of shield, by the utmost extent of her influence, the duntreath, bart. m. p. for the county of stir weak and unprotected, cver yielded her the high- ling. est gratification. . mr john little, merchant, lawnmarket. . at hawick, mrs brown, of the tower inn, . at carlton, nottinghainshire, aged , mrs there. mary needham, relict of mr robert needham, of . at sloane street, london, lieutenant-colonel that place. george smith, of the hon. east india company's – at drimnin-house, argyllshire, john mac- service, aged . . lean, esq, of boreray. . at edinburgh, stuart, infant son of mr ro. at london, charlotte, second daughter of bert watson, , pitt street, the right hon. sir james mansfield, kni. . at george's square, aged , mrs violet - at gilmour place, christian fordyce, eldest pringle, daughter of the late lord haining, and daughter of lieutenant david robertson, royal sister of the late lord alemore, both senators of marines. the college of justice. - at no. , queen street, torquil, second son - at edinburgh, in his th year, john, the of j. n. macleod of macleod, esq. eldest son of william m'call, esq. of maiden hill, . at stratyrum, fifeshire, mr john falconer, cumberland. a corresponding member of the caledonian horti. . at george's square, edinburgh, margaret cultural society, and next upon the list of that in- julia, youngest daughter of john smith, esq. stitution for obtaining the medal for long service, writer to the signet. having been gardener to the present proprietor for . at prestonpans, francis buchan sydserf, years. this is the first death that has happen- esq. collector of the customs there. ed at stratyrum in the course of nearly thirty-nine - at kilgraston house, the hon. mrs grant of years, the family consisting of ten persons, besides kilgraston. kve servants, in the farm and garden, with their . at edinburgh, in his th year, robert, el- families, in which there have been fifteen children, dest son of mr robert laidlaw, simon's square. thirteen of whom have arrived at the age of majo . in the th year of his age, the earl of car- rity. hampton. this venerable nobleman was distin- . at raeburn place, edinburgh, george, third guished in early life as colonel luttrell. he fought son of captain williamson. some political battles, and was the opponent of the - at gallanach, in argyllshire, john macdou- celebrated mr wilkes, in the memorable contest gall, esq. surgeon in the hon. east india compa- for the county of middlesex, when the latter was ny's service, son of the late patrick macdougall, expelled the llouse of commons by a vote of the esq. of gallanach. house. he was brother to the beautiful miss lut. . at mount-stuart, the most noble robert trell, the late duchess of cumberland. his lord- marquis of londonderry; and on the th, in obe ship succeeded to his titles on the death of his fa- dience to his lordship's own express desire, his re- ther, in . he has left no issue, and is there- mains were interred, privately, in the family vault fore succeeded by his brother. the late earl was at newtonards. his lordship was twice married colonel of the th dragoon guards. he stood third -first to lady sarah frances, sister to the mar. on the list of generals-those preceding hinn being quis of hertford, by whom he had issue, viscount the marquis of drogheda and earl harcourt. castlereagh, (who succeeds to the marquisate,): . at ambleside, westmoreland, on his way to and, secondly, to lady frances, sister to the mar- matlock for the recovery of his health, david quis of cambden, by whom he had issue, lord erskine dewar, esq. of gilston house, in the stewart, (the present british ambassador to the county of fife, eldest son of the late major-gene- court of vienna,) and other children. ral dewar of that place. - at dalkeith, mr john dalziel, son of the . at edinburgh, mrs euphemia clark, spouse late alexander dalziel, esq. of skedbush. of mr bremner, solicitor of stamps. - at coats crescent, edinburgh, lieutenant- lately, at buenos tyres, archibald primrose, colonel robert swinton, aged ; and on the th july last, at cape hen- . at edinburgh, miss barbara bradfute, aged . ry, st domingo, george, aged ; and at the saine place, on the th january, allan, aged , sons - at applegirth, sir alexander jardine, bart. of the late mr allan fowlis, wood-merchant, glas- . at leith, mr john palmer, shipinaster: gow. - at edinburgh, mrs ann falconer, daughter at colinton mains, elizabeth, eldest daughter of the late john sutherland of wester. of the late rev. david pyper, minister of pen- . at bath, alexander oswald, esq. caitland. --- at easter road, near leith, mrs mollison lattly. joseph austin, esq. aged , many years maitland, wife of mr jonathan wilson, gardener. proprietor of the chester and newcastle theatres, . at edinburgh, john, aged months, son &c. and the last remaining actor mentioned in of mr alexander goodsir, british linen compa churchill's rosciad. ny's bank. at hanover, a. herschell, esq. well known in - at edinburgh, mr william thomson, iron- the musical world as a profound and elegant mu- founder. sician, and brother to sir w. herschell, the cele - at warriston crescent, william, youngest brated astronomer. son of andrew stivens, solicitor. - at south charlotte street, edinburgh, miss marion hunter of hunterston. printed by janis buburtyne anul (u. blackwood's edinburgh magazine. no. li. june, . vol. ix. contents. the fisherman's budget. no. i. captain parry's voyage wwwmmmm. to christopher north, esq.mm. on the cheetham library mwangan. from edward ashby, esq. st adventure in havana. mwanamam john's, cambridge, to his friend on hakewill's apology frederick ferrimond, esq. sketches of scottish character from mrs rebekah verble to mrs no. vii. “ harvest home."com frumbush...commen mmm... the voyages and travels of colum. song bus secundus the steam-boat, no. iv. voyage sicily... second. coscow the coronation me tale v. deucalion of kentucky the british gallery tale vi. james hillan and the the glove young woman.. the leg of mutton school of poetry, bacchus, or the pirates. homer, hymn no. i v letter from christophe, king of hayti works preparing for publica- the maniac's plaints tion rural seclusionimno the spring morning's walk .. monthly list of new publi. the cot in the glen cations the summer night's reverie on the alleged decline of dramatic monthly register. writing amo. ) commercial report am mediocrity.com macam. appointments, promotions, &c. n. italiasonetto a ) births, marriages, and deaths.com. murano winno wanneer ) waan macaroane edinburgh: william blackwood, no. , prince's street, edinburgh; and t. cadell and w. davies, strand, london; to whom communications (post paid) may be addressed. sold also by all the booksellers of the united kinodom. james ballantyne & co. printers, edinburgh. blackwood's edinburgh magazine no. li. june, . vol. ix. the fisherman's budget. no. i. to christopher north, ese most respected sir, you are well acquainted already with the purport of the subjoined and forth- coming epistles, as well as with the humble individual that aforetime has had the honour of writing unto you. but the world is a sharp critic, “gravis cene sor," as the old poet hath it; and i am therefore called upon to satisfy the scruples which it may feel on perusing them. and assuredly the unadvised disclosure of private letters, and private concerns, is what few can justify, much less , that am a minister of the church, and a staunch upholder of the decencies of life. therefore, i think i cannot shew such my disposition bete ter, than by plainly and truly declaring the manner in which i became pos- sessed of these curious documents, and the authority by which i now take upon me to publish them. yet, i know there are some acute persons that will impugn my veracity, be it ever so veraciously asserted; but, to them, and particularly to that half-pay captain, who, in his preface to a popish work, i conjecture, called the monastery, is said to ridicule the idea of documents being found in the way these were actually bequeathed unto me,--to them i reply, that the subjoined facts are true, for any thing they know to the con- trary; and you have full power from me to certify them thereof. if, never- theless, they look for proof more positive, or, to use a favourite expression of pompey's great opponent, in his elegant work de bell. gall. lib. ter. p. . edit. delph. vo. . imprim. lugdun." certior fuctus ;" then, in such case, i bid them inquire for me, the reverend owen owen balderdash, master of arts, and vicar of caengylliwzlligul, in north wales, where i will readily shew them the original manuscripts, and moreover, welcome them to a slice of excellent mutton, and maybe to a stout wholesome glass of mrs balderdash's best punch, or toddy, as i think you call it; provided i pera ceive that they come for the clearing of the said conscientious doubts, and not of my mutton, and mrs balderdash's punch, or toddy. and now, sir, i assever, upon the credit of my cloth, as vicar duly inducted to the living of caengylliwzlligul, and by the honourable word of the balder- dashes, that i was returning, on the th day of june, anno domini , from my said church of caengylliwzlligul, about five o'clock p. m., where i had been paying, virtute officii, the last sad rites to a respected old friend and servant, mr job turnshovel, that had been sexton of the said church of caengylliwzlligul sixty-two years and a good deal more, and was a man of simple, honest habits, and sorely lamented all throughout the neighbourhood. well , sir, i thought, upon so dolorous an occasion, i should pay but a due tribute to so worthy a character, if i caused some little monument to be erect- vol. ix. h the fisherman's budget. no. . [june, ed to his memory, seeing he had been sexton of the said church such an un- common period; and i was ruminating to myself, whether i should indite the same in prose or hexameter verse, or something of that kind, that would read harmoniously, when mr simon simpertree, who is a worthy draper, and one of the church-wardens of the said church of caengylliwzlligul, came out of his door, and very courteously insisted upon my taking a dish of tea with him and mrs simpertree, and the two miss simpertrees, who, he said, had just come home from the boarding school. so allowed myself to be persuaded ; for in truth i was not in over conceit with myself or the world, after parting with old mr job turnshovel, who was a marvellous shrewd man. the tea was very pleasant, although i was grieved to see how the miss simpertrees were changed by their genteel schooling, for they tossed their heads, and con- tradicted their father, and wore their frocks too low down on their shoulders, and frequently said, “ good lord, pa,” and “good lord, ma," till i felt my- self quite angry, and so did mr simpertree, i think, for he is a staid, pious kind of man, and looked at his daughters with a stern eye. but, however, they seemed to be checked towards the last, by my serious looks, and the even- ing passed off very pleasantly upon the whole ; and when i came away, i hint- ed to mr simpertree, the necessity of checking such profane expressions in such young creatures, and he thanked me for the hint, and likewise begged i would excuse the liberty he was taking, in requesting me to give them a dis- course the next sabbath, upon the death of the lamented mr job turnshovel, which i readily promised to do. now, as there was’nt much time for putting together a discourse between then and the next sunday, i thought i might as well decide my thoughts to the subject during the remainder of my walk, which was upwards of three miles; the vicarage house of caengylliwzlligul being a wearisome distance from the church of that name. so i e'en deter- mined to return home by the beach, by which i knew i should avoid the in- terruptions of the boys taking off their hats, and the girls curtseying, and tell- ing me how much they had learnt of their catechism; and particularly old thomas tumbler, that will always make me come in and look at his pigeons, which he takes a great pride and delight in, and which i also like to do, be- cause he always sends mrs balderdash two couple of fine ones, for a pie on easter sunday. perhaps, mr north, you were never in the neighbourhood of cengylli- wzlligul, which is a great pity, particularly if you wished to write sermons, or epitaphs, or poetry; for the beauty of the country, manifoldly increased by its appropinquity to the irish channel, doth so cause the moral ideas to expand, that prose itself assumeth the very garb of poetry. and, indeed, mr north, oftentimes when i have sauntered in an evening, along the huge rocks, that bind this part of the coast, and watched the blue waves rolling, and tossing, and foaming, as far as the eye can reach, and the red sun just dipping his golden base in the waters thereof, and the distant mountains of erin throwing a blacker and larger shade across the horizon, as day-light waned in our hemisphere, i say, mr north, i have felt the tears come into my eyes, and my breast to heave with unwonted emotion, and my lips have in- voluntarily murmured my admiration of the great being that hath created such a magnificent dwelling-place for such weak and such finite creatures. and i do not know how it is, though perhaps a person so gifted as you are may esteem the idea trifling, but i never walk amongst these rocks, and look apon that prospect, and feel those sensations of almost unutterable gratitude, but my heart feels happier and better, and my mind lighter; and mr simper- trec says my language is more lofty and scriptural, which is the reason i always .) letter to christopher north, esg. walk that way to church, on a sunday morning, to prepare and regulate my feelings, and also the reason why i say it is a pity that you, who have, i sup- pose, often to write poetry, do not possess such a clarifier for the gross and earthly ideas which must be suggested in such a huge city as edinburgh. but this prospect has led me away from the letters, and i must tell how i became possessed of them. i had the thoughts of old job turnshovel sorely on my mind; and i fancied i saw him just dropping the handful of earth upon the coffin, as he did on the very last corpse that was laid there before himself. i am not used to be so desponding nor weak-minded, mr north; but i confess i felt rather uncomfortable, for the night was rapidly closing in, and the wind howled rather mournfully among the rocks, and the thick black clouds looked wilder and rougher than usual ; and every now and then a loud scream issued from the building-places of the sea-fowl that shelter thereabouts, and the waves roared deeper, and came furiously lashing against the rocks, and then a large dash of spray would catch me plump in the face; and i began to be very ehilly, and i buttoned my top-coat close into my neck, and i pulled my wig over my ears, and i whistled, and walked very briskly, for i feared i should not reach the fisherman's hut before it was quite dark. not that i dreaded robbers, or evil spirits, for i had no money to tempt the one, and i had the christian armour of a good conscience to fright away the other ; but the road amongst the rocks was narrow and dangerous, and i had heard, moreover, that the smugglers about these parts were grown very desperate since the excise- men came to look after them; and they would feel no scruple at popping me over head in the salt-water, if they fancied i was a spy upon them. * how, ever, i got safe and sound to andrew saltfin's, the fisherman, and as i saw but a thin light in the place, i did not go right in, as was my custom, but gave a smart tap at the door ; for i thought, maybe, he had to go with the morning's tide, and was already in bed. so, as i said, i knocked at the door, and, in a moment, it flew open, and before i could speak a word, andrew's wife got her arms round my neck, and cried, and laughed, and hugged me, till i was verily astonied. nevertheless, i had little occasion to disengage her arms, for she immediately perceived her mistake, and fell back into the arm- chair in which andrew saltfin usually sat, and covered her face with her hands, and burst into such a passion of grief, that even made me cry to look upon ; and two little lads, the eldest not above three years of age, were in the cabin, and one came and stood before its mother, and looked piteously in her face, as if to inquire the cause of her trouble, and the other that was undress- ed and upon the bed, seemed to wish to direct my attention to its parents grief, by repeatedly pointing with its finger, and crying out" mammy." took the two children on my knee, and after much persuasion and endeavours to pacify the poor creature, i found that her husband had been absent two days, and she made certain he had perished in the preceding night's storm; “ for," said she, “ there's the sure tidings of some one's wreck in that bundle which my little tommy found on the beach this morning.” the eldest child, on hearing this allusion to the bundle, slipped from my knee, and fetched from the opposite side of the cabin a parcel, which was much wet and torn, and about and, by the bye, i wish to ask you, whilst speaking of the smugglers, whether shakespeare did not allude to the articles which they furnish, when he made owen glendower (that wild chieftain whose castle lay upon this coast, and of whom, more- over, i am a descendant) assert that he could “ call spirits from the vast deep.” at all events, i have not seen that signification put upon it by any of the illustrators of his mmortal works the fisherman's budget. no. i. [june, which were some remnants of brown paper and cord, although the whole was completely soaked by the salt water. several papers that had dropped from it were lying about the cabin, and i ascertained indeed the melancholy truth, that they were the contents of some mail-packet, that had most likely been lost in the fatal storm. i was in the act of examining these, and endeavour- ing to comfort the afflicted mother, when the door was opened, and may i never be believed again, if it was not the happiest moment that i had ever experien- ced, when i saw the honest andrew clasped in the arms of his faithful and affectionate wife. not to detain you, mr north, upon the fisherman's case, i shall next pre- mise, that his boat had been driven, spite of all his exertions, into a creek many miles down the coast, where he was compelled to pass the night; and, sure enough, he confirmed my forebodings concerning the packet between man and whitehaven, for he saw it wrecked with his own eyes on the great head. an- drew saltfin would gladly have seen me safe to the vicarage, but i thought it was not over right to take him from his dear little home as soon as he had set sound foot in it again, so i borrowed his great-coat and a good lantern, and bundling up the parcel of letters, i bid the thankful couple good-night, and was soon safe in my own corner, (where i have just finished smoking my pipe,) to the no small joy of the timorous mrs balderdash, my faithful and most wor• thy wife. well, mr north, i do not know whether mrs balderdash or i was most curious to examine the contents of the bundle ; although i may say that she was, if i may judge by her earnest entreaties to read me a little of the " ' per- ticulers,” whilst i was eating a rasher of ham to my supper. but mrs bal- derdash is not over-gifted in deciphering, and i assure you, it required all my scholarship to make either head or tail of the writing, it had become so illegible by reason of the salt-water and rubbing against the shore. and, in- deed, you may be sure i should have instantly dispatched them to mrs high- flyer, that has the care of the post-office of caengylliwzlligul, to be forwarded by her to the unhappy relatives, if so be that any thing like a direction could be traced thereon. however, there was one packet that was so sealed, and so covered with wrappers of thick paper, that i verily believe the document inclo- sed might be said to be fire as well as water-proof; and well and fortunate was it that such care had been taken; for marvellously did i ejaculate, and wide did mrs balderdash open her mouth thereupon, it being nothing less than a last will and testament, dated october the th. ann. dom. , and convey- ing to heirs-male, legally begotten, the sum of thirty thousand pounds, of ; but i am forgetting myself. i have no right to tell other people's se- crets, and they will be abundantly exposed in the forthcoming letters. having consulted with mrs balderdash, who, bating her prejudices, is a worldly wise woman, although fond of the clish-ma-claver, as you call it, of much speaking ; well, i say, after such consultation, it was judged advisable to dispatch a mes- senger the next morning, with a letter to the nearest town to caengylliwzlligul, where a weekly news is printed, giving notice of such will and testament being in possession of the rev. owen owen balderdash, vicar of caengylliwzlligul, in north wales. nearly a fortnight passed over, however, and no application was made for it; so that i began to fear i should retain that in my holding, the want of which would cause misery and sorrow to some expecting relatives. mrs balderdash and i regularly perused the said testament every night after supper, for i was in hopes i should recollect some individual of the name of the testator or legatee; because, although i have not seen much of the world since i took upon me the ministerial duties of the vicarage of caengylliwzlli- .] letter to christopher north, esq. gul, yet i knew a host of people, when private tutor to my lord that's now on a foreign mission for the government. it was on the thirteenth night after the publication of the said document, that mrs balderdash and i were just in the middle of the first codicil, which bequeath- ed the clear annual rental of £ to the aforesaid edward -- but here i am telling secrets again. well, sir, mrs balderdash was just wishing our income was half that sum, that she might lay out a part in a new sarsnet pelisse and bonnet, when molly, that has been in the vicarage years, which includes some part of the ministry of the late reverend vicar that was vicar before me; well, sir, who should she usher in but a man in a riding-coat, splashed up to the shoulders, and marvellously discomposed in his dress, with black hair and a pale face, and having altogether the most unpropitiating physiognomy that ever was stamped upon the human countenance. nevertheless, he was uncommonly civil and complaisant; and, after apologizing for his appearance at such an untimely hour, was proceeding, i suppose, to advert to the will, when seeing it lie upon the table, he took it up, and, as i am a living man, with the greatest compo- sure stuffed it into his pocket. such a piece of consummate assurance com- pletely astonished me; and whilst i stood with my eyes staring, my mouth open, and my hand extended towards him, and as yet unable to express my- self in words, he drew a small case from his pocket, something like my leather tobacco-pouch, and took a ten-pound note from it, which he placed in my hand. money hath ever been a touch-stone, and the sight of it recalled my reason, which sharply reproached me for allowing the fellow to presume so far on my corruptibility; so i forced the note back upon him, and insisted upon a complete exposition of his claims to that document before he left the vicarage. he seemed, however, to pay no attention to this demand, but to be rather pre- paring for moving; and although i'm something too old for a tussle, yet i thought in a good cause i could stand a brush, so i e'en collared the scoundrel, and mrs balderdash foreseeing the issue, seconded my efforts, and after some scuffling, found her way to the bottom of the pocket in which he had deposited the testament. hereupon the fellow, finding rough means would not answer, suddenly lowered his key from bullying to cringing, and proceeded, in such a plausible and straight-forward manner to establish his claim, attributing his unmannerly behaviour to his earnest desire of obtaining a document upon which the fortunes of his family rested, and then to apologize so largely for his rudeness to us, that i really believe he would have obtained it in the end-not- withstanding mrs balderdash answered his numerous appeals to her decision and her justice, by an incredulous,“ yes, to be sure," and such likemif, at the moment, a carriage had not drove up to the gate, and mrs balderdash pre- tending to inquire what it was, (oh! i've thought her a foreknowing creature since then,) left the room, and sure enough she turned the lock upon the door and fastened us in. strangely did the fellow's face vary from its composure during the few intervals that elapsed before the door again opened ; but when it did, and two noble-looking young men, one in uniform, and the other in a suit of mourning, entered by it, he darted past them, and notwithstanding they were after him like lightning, he got to the gate, untied his horse, and was off in a whiffey. i wish i might tell you all the particulars of this strange deli, verance; but it may not be. however, the will got to the right owner, and golden guineas were laid upon the table by these generous lads, which, ne- vertheless, i would not hold to myself, for it was andrew saltfin the fisher- man, and his faithful wife, to whom they rightly belonged, and they have been the unforeseen instruments for effecting, through the goodness of providence, a singular deliverance from the hand of the oppressor. and if i am vicar of the fisherman's budget, no. . [june, caengylliwzlligul till the end of my life, which i would not affirm will be the case, now i have served this rich gentleman; but, however, if i live to be bi- shop of st asaph, i shall never forget the laughing and joking we had over a bowl of brandy and water, or toddy, as i think you call it, when reading the epistles that were in my possession ; and the end of it was, that they agreed it would be a good joke to publish them, as they all belonged to some of their connexions, and thus not only preserve a memorial of the occurrence, but, by the remuneration which would be given for them, a small addition might be made to the fisherman's honey-fall. and he to whom the will belonged, and that was dressed in black, said he would add two or three letters to the list, which had been written and transmitted in england, and which would be ne- cessary to give a connected character to the subject, as they related to those that were subsequently found by me at the fisherman's hut; and i was desired to write the introduction to them, and to explain how letters written in england should come to be amongst those that were lost in their passage from the isle of man. so, when i had done this, and polished it up as it is now, i sent the whole series, at the recommendation of mr simpertree, to the evangelical ma- gazine, for publication, but they would have nothing to do with the subject; and when i told the captain, he bid me send them to you, with ensign o'- dogherty's compliments, who, i believe, is an old crony of the captain's. i am told he accompanied you on a shooting expedition, of which you published an account, under the name of the tent, and that you were the most jovial set he ever met with out of his own mess-room. and so, now you know a good deal about the letters, but not all; and i wish i might tell you what i did for the young gentleman in black, last sunday morning, at the church of caens gylliwyllizul, but i must not at present; and you'll know all in good time, aşd so i am, dear mr north, your's at command, . balderdash. from edward ashby, esq. of st. john's, cambridge, to his friend frederick ferrimond, esq. my dear friend, and assistance, which to me would the long expected trial is at last have been doubly grateful at the pre- terminated, and your lucky friend will sent moment. i shall remain, how- be first wrangler. our friend jones ever, with my friends but a short time is amongst the senior ops: elworth this evening; and, by rising early, and heads the oι πολλοι. this evening i some exertion, i yet hope to spend a dine with professor somers, and he few hours with you at aldhame. the has invited several of my acquaintance gold medal, and a first class degree, to the feast. i am grateful for this will, i fear, fred. but little advance good man's kindness-he is almost the the great end i have in view ; nor can only one, saving thee, my dear fred. i refer with much satisfaction to the whose friendship has been firm and happy but inactive days of my aca- undeviating. yet, i could well have demic life, since they have been pass- dispensed with its expression at this ed, not indeed in an unworthy pure moment, since there are many circum- suit, but in that which can have no stances connected with my present un- connexion with the first, the dearest, dertaking, that demand the unruffled and the most sacred object of my fu- reflection of a few quiet hours. sin- ture exertions. you, my dear friend, cerely do i regret the cause of your you can appreciate the fervour of that present absence, not only for the trou- enthusiasm which is directed to the at- ble in which it has involved you, but tainment of parents and a home;-you also for the deprivation of that advice can estimate the solitary singleness of , the fisherman's budget.' no. . one that has had no father to foster pended ; although i am as distant as bis exertions, no mother to alleviate ever from the chief object of my his sorrow;-that has passed the green- anxiety- the individual by whom ness of his childhood, and the flower they are provided. surely this capri- of his youth, in mysterious banish- cious, this unaccountable appropri- ment from the cheering smile of kin- ation, which at once provides for, and dred and of friends; and that has been, endangers my respectability, securing and still is, indebted to the bounty of me, indeed, against the assaults of some unknown individual for the very want, yet perpetually involving me in means of his subsistence. nor is the hazardous suspicions, cannot be the information which i have hitherto been provision of parental care, nor the able to gather at all equal to my ex- kindly offering of parental fondness. pectations, but indefinite and vague. already have i experienced the mis- yet i go in the secret assurance of fortune of my lot in the mortifying success; promoted, as it will be, by rencontre at .; nor do i know every exertion that health, interest, at this moment, upon which i reflect and affection can stimulate. with the greatest pain, the vivid re- nothing very material was elicited collections of that most lovely girl, or on my interview with mr heys, the the petulant intemperance of her over- banker, of eaglesholme. i fancied that bearing brother. to-morrow, how- his courtesy was somewhat more ge- ever, will witness a first endeavour to nial, when i presented the professor's penetrate the mystery; and, indeed, i letter. it appears, that about fifteen have strong hopes of obtaining some years ago, a person of gentlemanly de- happy clue from the old couple that portment deposited six thousand five had the care of my childhood. i have hundred pounds with the firm, the in- written to our good dr winton, and terest of which was to be regularly requested his company in my intended transmitted to my respected old school. visit to them. my future plans will master, dr winton, at hopeferry, for materially depend on the opinions the maintenance and education of a which he entertains. my rooms are youth then about to be placed with let to a man from winchester; and bim; and that, when such youth was my books and papers lodged in so- sent to the university, the issuing in- mers's library. i shall request him to come was to be received by him. the let you have access to them, when you investment was made in the name of return hither next term, and i shall an individual, with whom the banker be glad if they prove of any service to declared he had not the slightest ac- you. quaintance; nor since that period, had but the repeated salutes at the pro- the person ever communicated with fessor's door warn me to prepare for the concern. but the most curious part my visit; and, with an assurance of of the business is, that i am unaccoun- speedily hearing from me again, in tably withheld, on pain of its devol. case i am prevented visiting you, be- ving to a local charity, from appro- lieve me to be, priating, either now or at any other dear fred. period, and to any purpose whatsoever, most sincerely the principal itself. i'he inquiry has and affectionately yours, been so far satisfactory, inasmuch as i edward ashby. am assured of the perpetuity of the funds on which i have hitherto de- fred. ferrimond, esq. from mrs rebekah verble to mrs frumbish. duglas, oily man ; june . . my dear mes frumbish, as it is neither so safe or so plessant as as i conjecterd you wud be anxus to the one-horse shandideredan: but as here how me and my usband is sinse there is no other on the rode just nou, we left ome, i take this hoportunity of folks is like to make the best of it they sending you a few scrauls conserning can. its a fereful helliment; and as the pertiklers thereof, tho got nose grene as your bumbasine pettycot. the when they may rache you. i was, you ship we were to ryde in, was called the rekollect, very loth all along to cum robber bruse; and hanker'd at the by this here water carriage, insomuch sine of the pere's head. we were tould the fisherman's budget. no. i. (june, to be there by hate ; we swallud our ever, who is a very civil man, and does preckfast in a great urra; and after not ware a weppón, or large wiskers, much trubble found out the plase; but like them in our town, tould me he was it was hard wurk for 'em to get me to call the stew hard ; and ritely enuf, go, the bote being, as you see, the lenth for i saw him marvellus bissy pilling of our cabbage garden from the rode hunions and potatas, and making supe, side ; altho the watur was marvillus and biling fittels, the rest o' the day. lo, being what is call’d tyed out. oh ! mrs frumbish, you cannot form howsumever they fastened a hand- the remmotest hidea of the hellegan- kerchif over my bize; and too pure ces and konvinninces of this sed ship. fellows, without shus and stockins, there his beds with clene shits and whipped me up in their harms, and kounter pains; and hotter mans to de carrid me into the vehicle. lord, mrs cline upon; and mihoginy tables ; and frumbish, how my hart went bump, luking lasses, and chanticleers, and the bump, as the salt see went splash, specktathor; and the hole duti of splash, undernethe o' my fete." and man; and pammilhah, and a store of then the bote was as rickety as a cray- other godli bukes for those hadicted to dle ; furst going to one side and then mediation. to the other; so that i verily thout i after seeing all bilhow i went upon shud never heskape with my life. the deck; and it was a mirkle to see one peple is as harden'd as beelzibub; for man push such a big ship along quite when i hasked one of them if there easy. he stud at what they call the was water enuf to drown abody? he elm (tho its nathing like that in yure said there was fete, which mayhap gardin.) i watch'd how he stered his wud be soughfishent, if i nelt down kumpass; and he kept luking at sum- to it. thin that he calld north. i think i saw but the most perillous thing of all it onse, like a large white duck in the was getting out of the bote on to the whater ; but i wont be shure. ship; which was dubble the hate of there was a site of folks on the top; our aystack, and nothin but a potterin and wen i was tird of standin, i ask'd rope lador to ass end by. wen, how- the stew hard for a seat that pullid ever, him as they call’d the kaptin, saw out; as there was two or three skore the prikdikament i was in, a harm aboarn. he laff’d and said, “ ver vell : chare was let doun to iste me up; and ver vell:” and brought one, so i sat sure enuf i was goin very nisely, when and watch'd the oashame over the sip holing to a nasty bully to which the shide. he always laff’d when i spoke rope was fastend, i stuck fast, in the to him: he said they were called guard- middle hair, and altho i'm none o' the ing stools. in a few minnits, however, litest, i swung backwards and forwards there was a general constipation ; sum like a cro's nest in a popular tree. and crying out they were running on the wud you bilheave it, whilst i was ang- banks ; wich i thout was all a joke ; ing, for all extents and porpoises, be- as the folks were paying such hepes of tween the heven and the hearth, the munny to the hagent, that there must impident kubs were hinjoying my shi- have been a run on the banks before. tuation, and crying out, “ o ye, o !” howsomever it was a dedly truth. “heve ahead!" "she's agoing ;” and there was such hurry skurry, and such like barber us expressons; and no more thouts of tikkets and pay. i veryly bilheave i shud; but i then they tied a pure fello with a rope skrik'd, and voud i wud invite em for outside the ship; and sure enuf i murder, if i got down alive; which in thought they were goin to serve him a maner broiled there impettinence. like joe nash, and make him swallow when i got on the deck, a felli as wales for an hatonement. but they black as hold em cole, such as him that tould me it was only “eve in the rydes behind mrs noir's charrat, came suds,”* and the merryner afore named up and ask'd me if i had a birth, and let down a fishing line, and called out, wud have me go bilhow to chuse a “ by the wack there's five;" upon bed. but i fetch'd him a slap in the wich the kaptin utter'd a profane oath, faise, and tould i wasn't such a sim- and bid him count agen. then be pletun as that; for i new a ship from shouted “by the wack there's seven;" a lyin-in-hospital. the kaptin, how- till at last he could not make up his • it is presumed the writer refers to heaving the lead. the fisherman's budget. no. . mind how menny there was; and the were ded: one old gentleman begged kaptin bid him lét em go, and when he they'd fetch him a lawyer, to settle his pulled up his fishing line, it turned out off heirs ; and another asked to be there was none at all. thrown over, and then began to prey. some said we were short of whater; i had cense enuf, however, to keep my which is vastly hod, as nothing else mouth shut, since there was a huge could be seen : but this ship was drawn swarm of she-bulls hovring about the by what they call steming gin; and so ship, as they said was wating for prey- many peple being in it, acquir'd a pour ers. of boiling water; as the kettles them tordes nite, many could see the selves were as big as our kitgin ; and oily man; and mi usband kept blis- fizzed enuf to deffen one. i never will tering me to luke, as i have a gude travail in one of these spiritous vessels site : but the very menshon of the oil agen ; for you kno. i'm but used to a completely revoked me; so that i did little of a night; and the foom of the not see it till we landed, and then it likker quite superfined me; till i felt was pitch dark. to be sure some had as squeamish as if i had been taking an a tillerskup, thro which they spide it, be metic. a litile biskit kept me quiat: before it was in site ; which is a very nevertheles i had fereful mizgivings zinglar pinonmyman. and uprizings before dinner was de but i have now x heeded the cut of nounced, as you may well suppose. my shete; and the backit is going to about fore the dinner was lade ; but the sale ; and therefore i must con- i had wated and wated till i was past clude heating ; and the first pece of mutton with no more at present, chop settled my hash throughly. the from yure dere friend, kaptin and stew hard carried me bil- ribbekka verble. how ; where there was quite a hospital p.s.-the whater’s boiling, and my of sick travailers. sum wishd they good man just cum to his t. song. airv" here awa', there awa'." . 'tis sweet on the hill top, when morning is shining, to watch the rich vale as it brightens below; 'tis sweet in the valley, when day is declining, to mark the far mountains, deep tinged with its glow. but dearer to me were one moment beside thee, in the wild of the desart, while love lit thine eye ; for in weal or in woe, or whatever betide thee, thou’rt the charm of my life, the mild star of my sky. . then fly to me here, while the noontide is glowing; the greenwood is cool in the depth of its glooms, there i've wove thee a seat, where the wild flowers are blowing, and the roses thou lov'st shed their dearest perfumes. there we'll talk of past griefs, when our love was forbidden, when fortune was adverse, and friends would deny ; but my heart was still true, though its fervour was hidden from the charm of my life, the mild star of my sky. . then haste, my beloved, the moments are flying, and catch the bright fugitives ere they depart, that each its own portion of pleasure supplying, may wake the mute rapture that dwells in the heart; and when age shall have temper'd our warm glow of feeling, though our spirits are soberd, less ardent our joy, our love shall endure, though youth's lustre is stealing from the charm of my life, the mild star of my sky. m. r. vol. ix. i [june, the steum-boat, no. iv. the steam-boat; or, the voyages and travbls of thomas duffle, clotu-merchant in the salt-market of glasgow. no. iv. voyage second. when i had residented at home the space of four weeks, having much sola- cing of mind in reflecting on the adventures of my first voyage, i began to feel an onset to a new motion working within me, which every day gathered strength, and in the end, came to a head in my going forth a second time from the ob- scurities of the salt-market, and the manufacturing smokes and smells of glas- gow, to enjoy the hilarity of the sparkling waters of the summer sea, and the blitheness of the hills and of all living things, in the seasonable brightness and gladness which was then shining from the heavens and glittering upon the earth. i thought i had now acquired an experience in voyaging for pleasure, by what i noticed in my first ploy of that kind, so i told mrs mʻleckit that i would go by the very earliest steam-boat in the morning, and as the britannia was to sail at six o'clock, she need not rise to boil the kettle, for it was my in- tent to enjoy myself by taking my breakfast in the steward's room with the other passengers; indeed i was chiefly egged on to do this by my neighbour mr sweeties, who, upon my exhortation, had, soon after my return, taken his diversion by a voyage to greenock likewise, and partaken of a most comforta- ble meal in that way. but the progeny of the schemes of man are not in his own hands, and though i had got a degree of insight as to the manner of set- ting about an embarkation, i found that i had really gone out with too much confidence in the strength of my own knowledge. it was such an early hour that the steward, not counting on any body want- ing to breakfast till they would reach greenock, had made no provision of pro- vender; so that when i went to him, as cagy as a pyet picking at a worm, to in- quire when the eggs would be boiled, judge of my mortification to hear that there was to be no breakfasting that morning ;- which disappointment, with the natural vapours of the river's tide, caused me to remember the judicious observe of mrs mʻleckit, that there was a danger in going on the water with an empty stomach. however i had put some ginge-bread nuts in my pocket, and by the use of them the wind was keepit off my heart, and i suffered less from the ef- fect than might have been expected. but though this in its kind was an adversity that i had not foreseen, i sus- stained another, which, in my opinion, in its season was far greater. the major part of the passengers had not been accustomed to rise so soon in the morning, and some of them had been up late ayont the night-in short, we were all oorie, and scant in our intercourse towards one another, so that for the greater por- tion of the way there was little communion practicable among us, and what was could not be said to have that cordiality with which i was in the fain expecta- tion of meeting. we had sailed indeed as far as blithewood's new house be- fore any kind of an awakened sociality began to sprout, and i was beginning to fear that an undertaking so unsatisfactory at the outset would afford but small pleasure in the progress, and be found wanting in the end. however, at that point things took a turn to the better, and i fell into conversation with a yanky man from america, that had been at glasgow laying in goods for his store in the city of philadelphia. (he was surely a man of great wisdom and experience in the world, according to his own account, and from what he said of the uni- ted states, they can be little short of the kingdom of heaven, except in the mat- ter of religion, of which i could discern, that, taking him for a swatch, the .) the steam-boat. no. iv. americans have but a scanty sprinkling, and that no of the soundest grace. indeed anent this i had heard something before, but the yanky was a testifica- tor by his discourse to the veracity of the information. our conversation was for a time of that jointless and purposeless kind, that is commonly the beginning of acquaintance ; but it took a more settled course as we proceeded onward, and at last ran into a regular stream, like a river that has its fountain-head up among the moors and mosses. what chiefly occasion- ed this sedate currency of the yanky's words, was an observe of mine regarding the beauty of the prospects that the hand of nature was setting before us at every turn of the navigation-all which the american man slighted as a com- modity in its kind of no value, saying, that the views in his country were of a more excellent quality, being on a greater scale; and he laughed outright when i directed his attention to the mare's tail, that bonny waterfall near finlayston house, which i should have mentioned in my first voyage, bad i then noticed it. this drew on to some account of things that he had seen; and then he told me, that he was well known throughout "all the states” by the aame of deucalion of kentucky—a title which was bestowed upon him in con- sequence of being the sole survivor of a town that was washed away by a de- luge. his description of this calamity it behoves me to give as nearly as posa sible in his own words ; indeed, as i have already said, i find myself possess- ed of a felicitous fecundity in writing down the recollections of what i heard, but my pen is afflicted with a costive impediment when i try to eke or enlarge upon the same. and it is this peculiar gift that emboldens me, along with the strenuous counselling of that discerning man, mr sweeties, to send forth my voyages and travels in this manner to the republic of letters, the only sort of republic that i entertain any pure respect for, notwithstanding the laudatory descant of the yanky man's on that of “the states." deucalion of kentucky. tale v. my grandfather was one of the his prospects were certainly undenia- first settlers of kentucky. he was, by ble. profession, a miller, and built a flour i think it is not possible that i mill at a village in that state. it was shall ever see again a place half so beau- called thyatira, after one of the ancient tiful as the unfortunate thyatira, and towns mentioned in the bible ; and he the valley which it overlooked. the and his neighbours, the founders, ex- valley was green, the stream was clear, pected it would become a great city, and the woods, that clothed the moun, but not a vestige of it, neither of the tains, were of the loftiest kind, and church nor mill, now remains-yet i the richest leaf! all is now desolate. remember it all well. it was a hand- sometimes of a night, as i came across some place, situated at the bottom of the atlantic, i thought the bell of the a range of hills, wooded to the top—a little wooden church, that stood on the fine stream washed their feet, and the slope above the village, rung in my ear, mill stood at the side of a pretty wa- and i heard the dogs, as it were, bark terfall. again, and the cocks crow; but the ship my grandfather left his property would give a lurch and turn my eyes in a flourishing condition to my father, outwards upon the ocean waters all who was an enterprizing character. around me, as lone and wild as the he took an active part in the war for deluge that destroyed my native val- the independence, and when the peace ley: was adjusted, he returned to thyatira, in the summer, before the dreadful where he enlarged the old flour-mill, yellow fever broke outin philadelphia – and constructed another for sawing the i was in that city at the time when the timber, with which the neighouring fever raged, which makes meremember mountains were covered. every body it so well,-my father was much trou- predicted that my father would soon be bled by the failure of the stream which one of the richest men in the state, and supplied his mill. the drought dried .) the steam-boat, no iv. dammed up the lake, had been formed myself on to greebock, which is min by a gradual accumulation of fallen tuated about three miles to the west- timber. the water through the rent ward. this determination, as it pro- insinuated itself among the mass; the ved, was most judicious on my part; mud and sand between the gathered for i found a comfortable house, and trunks were washed away, and the great civility in the attendance, facing mass lost its adhesion. in the course the shipping in the harbour, with ex- of a few minutes, heaven knows by cellent warm rolls, piping hot from the what strange aptitude, the stupendous baker's, and fresh herring that would mound began to move. it became con- have been a treat at any time. judge vulsed; it roared with the throes of then, courteous reader, what they were tearing asunder; the waters of the to me, appeteesed as i was by a voy- lake boiled up from the bottom; i ran age of nearly twenty miles without from the spot; my father and his friends breaking my fast? Íruly scandalous stood aghast and terrified; birds were is the by-word to say, “ there's no- screaming from the woods below; i thing good in port-glasgow." called to my father, and to all, for when, with the help of the dainties god's sake to follow me; i looked to- at the inns, i had pacified the craving wards the lake-it seemed to me as if of nature within me, i walked out to its calm level surface was taking the inspect the curiosities of the place, and shape of sloping glass; i caught hold to make my remarks on the inhabit- of the branch of a tree which grew on ants. i cannot, however, honestly say, the rock where i had contemplated the that i saw a great deal to occasion any scene the preceding evening; i felt as thing like an admiration. the waiter, it were the globe of the world sliding to be sure, as his won't doubtless is from under my feet; i exerted my- with all strangers, directed my atten- self; i reached the rock; every thing tion to the steeple, telling me that it was reeling around me; i saw the hills was higher than the greenock one; and woods moving away. i shut my but we have so many handsome stee- eyes in terror, and, covering my face ples in glasgow, it could not reason- with my hands, stretched myself on ably be expected that this of “ the the rock, as if i lay at the feet of the port” would be regarded by me as any angel of destruction. i heard a sound very extraordinary object. one thing, louder than thunder ; my senses were however, i ascertained completely to for a time stunned. what in the mean- my satisfaction, which is, that the time happened i know not; but when story of its being crackit is not cor- i had fortitude enough to look around, rect, although, in the matter of the i found myself on the ledge of an awe general edifice, there may be a foun- ful precipice a black and oozy valley, dation for the report : that building her bless as a grave, where the lake being bevelled to the shape of the had been ; and for the mound where i street, and erected in an ajee style, had left my father and his labourers, has no doubt given rise to the misre- a horrible chasm-devastation horrid presentation. upon the which i would as the roaring deluge was seen raging remark, that we have, in this instance, down the valley, towards thyatira. an example how careful and precise the sound lesseneil as i looked, and a travellers should be in publishing their silence succeeded, such as the raven of descriptions; for it has been a sore noah found upon the earth, when she heart to the worthy people of porte went forth, banquetting on the abo- glasgow to think it is a received opi- lished races of the old world.” nion in the great world, that their beautiful steeple is lout-shouldered, the yanky man was much affected when, in fact, it is only the towna as he related this desolation ; and in house that is capsided. telling it, bis voice had a fearful haste when i had satisfied my curiosity that hurried on my fancy, till i was relative to all the particulars concern, almost a partaker in the grief and con- ing this renowned structure, i visited sternation that possessed his memory; the dry-dock, a very useful place for insomuch, that i was thankful when maritime purposes of various sorts, the vessel reached the quay of port- especially for repairing vessels' bot- glasgow, when i went on shore to take toms; and then i went to investigate my breakfast at an inn, being resolved that famous antiquity, the old castle ; to leave her there, and to travel by and, in turning back towards the inns the steam-boat, no. iv. [june, entry; and not only a harbour, but her wont was, mrs hillan steppit home to seek my way to the greenock road, a short time before her gudeman, to i saw several of the inhabitants at have the tea masket by the time he their shop-doors, and some elderly would come, and as james was setting characters standing forenent the inns bye the tartans and plaidings that stood waiting for the london papers. upon at the door-cheek for a sign and show, the whole, they appeared to be a hame- a kintra wife drew up to buy some- ly race; and the town, like all small thing: “ come in, young woman," places of little note in the way of busi- said james, for that was his manner of ness, seemed to have but few young salutation to all ages of the female sex. men, and what they had were not of a “ come in,” said he," and steek the sort calculated to make a figure in de- door,” said he, meaning the half-door, scription. as for the houses, they are a convenience which, like many other built in various styles of architecture, good old fashions, has gone down; and and a few of them have been erected over which, in his shop, i have often within the last ten or twenty years; stood, to see the lords coming in, and so that it cannot be said the town has the magistrates drinking the king's actually fallen into a habitude of de- health, on the birth-day, at the cross. cay. but i should conjecture that the so in came the customer, but, no being population cannot be greatly on the acquaintit with the manner of shop- increase. doors, as james was looting down be by the time i had gone my rounds, hind the counter, to lift up what she and come back to the inns, there was wanted, she shut the mickle door up- a noddy at the door, bound for the on them, and there they were, the two town of greenock; so being somewhat innocent souls, in the dark by them- tired with my itinerancy, i stepped selves. “heh!” quoth james, “but it's into it, where i found a brave young grown suddenly dark-we maun get a lass going the same road. at first this candle ;” and with that he came round gave me no concern; but when the the counter to where the carlin was noddy began to move, i remembered standing. “ hey! what's this, young the story of my deceased worthy old woman?” cried he; “ what gart you neighbour and brother of the trade, shut the door?” and with that he few james hillan, who had his shop at till’t, with a panting heart, and found the corner of the salt-market, entering the lock-bolt was almost shotten. “aboon the cross,” and i began to “ think what might have been the grow, as it were, uneasy. consequence if it had gane in a' the- tale vi. gither, and me obliged to cry to the neighbours, to let me and the young james hillan and the youxo woman out of the dark shop," said woman. james, as he used to tell the tale in his james hillan was a very wealthy jocose manner. man, both creditable, and well respec- tit, but of a kindly simplicity of man so i thought of this story as i was ner. in his time there was not such nodding away to greenock, beside the an orderly fashion in the art of shop- port-glasgow lass; but by and by an- keeping as there is now-a-days; we other passenger came in, and we arri- neither fashed ourselves with prenti- ved safe and sound. ces, nor with journal books and led i observed on the road as we travel- gers, but just had one in which we en- led along, that the young ladies of tered all our counts of credit ; and “ the port” were all going greenock- when the customers that took on with ward ; and no doubt they had reasons, us paid what they were owing, we well known to themselves, for seeking scrapit out the debt. in this fashion that direction, dressed out in their james, and mrs hillan, his wife, keep- best; and i could not avoid reflecting it their cloth shop, the which being in that this tribute of her beauties which under the pillars that were then round port-glasgow pays to greenock is an the buildings of the cross, had no glass absolute acknowledgment of her infe- window but only an open door, which, riority, and it naturally led me to ex- when james and the mistress went pect what, indeed, i found in reality, home to their own house in the stock- a very different sort of a town; for in well, at meal-time, was always locked. greenock there is not only a steeple, it happened one evening, that, as but likewise a bottle-cone, and a bello .] the stean-boat, no. iv. also a new harbour ; besides the place but no to dwell at o'er great a length they call the tail of the bank, and that on the ettling of the greenockians, i'll stately edificial pile, the custom- just mention a thing that was told to house, with diverse churches, schools, me by a very creditable person that and places of worship; a tontine inn, was no port-glasgow man.-after the a play-house, and assembly rooms, edinburgh musical festival, nothing built at a great cost of thousands of less would serve the aspiring people of pounds, for the purpose of having a greenock than an oratorio, for which dance, maybe thrice a-year. i'll cer- purpose they made a wonderful colleca tainly no go the length of the port- tion of precenters, melodious weavers, glasgow man that came in upon us on and tuneful cordwainers, together with the road, and say that the toom house sackbuts and psalteries, and various fornent the tontine is a monument of other sorts of musical implements of the upsetting vanity of the greenock sound; and that nothing fitting might folk. but it's surely a type of the en- be wanting, as to place, they borrowed terprizing spirit of the place ; for it the oldest kirk in the town; the cold should be allowed that they must have in which prevented some of the flute- had great notions of things, and a players, it is thought, from properly strong sense of prosperity, to project crooking their mouths, while the damp and bring to a completion such un- made the fiddle-strings as soft as pud dertakings. but there was an ettling ding skins; so that when the work be beyond discretion perhaps in this ; for gan, there was nothing but din for a town like greenock is overly near to music, and for quavers a chattering of our great city ever to have a genteel teeth. the outcry was so dreadful in independency in its own community the chorus of " hallelujah," that it to maintain such establishments with might be well called a halleboloo ; and a suitable bravery. and so it has, as i there was a suspicion that the whole was informed, kythed; for the assem- affair was a device of some paukie bly-room buildings are in a manner young doctors, who at the time were deserted in their purposes ; insomuch, scant of practice,' and thought the cold that some folks are of an opinion that damp kirk might help them. they might be put to a worse use than when i had seen the outlines and sel- by being converted into a kirk, as the vages of greenock, and made my own profane circus in our town was trans- remarks on the spruce clerks, and no- mogrified into a tabernacle of prayer. ticed a surprising apparition of beauti- from what i could pick out of my fal misses, i went to see my worthy companions in the noddy, its a serious friend and customer mr tartan, who, object with the port-glasgow folk to after some discourse anent the cause of rival greenock; but the greenock peo- the late falling off in the demand for ple, like the cow in the meadow, re- superfines among his correspondents in gardless of the puddock, chew the cud the highlands, invited me to take my of their own self-satisfaction in great dinner with him at his own house, complacency. it would, however, be where i met with several gentlemen of toocritical for the nature of my writings a powerful sagacity, in all manner of to particularise all the manifold merits affairs. but what took place is matter and instances of public spirit among that must be reserved to grace and re- the feuers, sub-feuers, and inhabi- plenish another chapter. let it suffice tants of greenock. they have got, i for the present, that it was really a believe, something of every kind of in- wonder to hear how they riddled the stitution among them, except a luna- merits of things, proving one another's tic asylum ; and they are lied upon if opinions all chaff and stour, a contro- they have not some things that they versical spirit begotten, as mr tartan stand less in need of; for it was a wise told me, out of the town politics, every saying that i have heard said of a daft body, feuers, sub-feuers, and inhabi. laddie, belonging to glasgow, when he tants in general, having all a share and was asked what took him so often to handling in the concerns of their body greenock," its a fine place,” quo' politic.—but more anent this by and jemmy, "for a'the folk there are just by. like mysel.” bacchus, or the pirates. [june, baccrur, or tri pirates. urse dear christoprer, i send you a short homeric hymn, translated into that lyric metre of which sir walter scott is the mighty master. how i have succeeded, must of cour be left to others to determine; but i may say, that i am decidedly of opinion that the measure might be advantageously employed in rendering several pas- sages in the romantic parts of the classical poets. there are a great many por- tions of homer particularly, which are peculiarly fit for it. and every reader of taste must recollect with what grace and spirit two of the finest odes of pin- dar have been translated into this metre by a quarterly reviewer, a few years ago. lord byron, in his dedication of the corsair, justly observes, that no one has been able to manage with perfect success, the dangerous facility of the octosyllabic verse, but the ariosto of the north. i agree with his lordship altogether ; even in his own hands, or those of moore, it is by no means equally well managed. coleridge could give it its fullest and most bewitching melody; but i fear that we call on him in vain, and i am sorry for it. many poets of most respectable powers have failed completely, which i mention to excuse myself, if i be judged to have followed their example. if you wish i shall send you a few more specimens. i am, dear christopher, your's sincerely, r. f. p. dublin, may , . [we have a misty sort of recollection of a translation of this poem, by mr l. hunt, whereof the two first lines only have remained in our memory. they are as follows: of bacchus let me tell a sparkling story.. 'twas by the sea-side on a promon-tory. but the rest of the translation, and how he cockneyized at the expence of ho- mer, is it not to be found in the shops of the trunk-makers ? c. n.] homer, hymn th. ['Αμφί Διώνυσον Σεμέλης έρικυδέος μών, κ. τ. λ.) i shall now a tale relate, of bacchus, son of semele ; how upon a cliff he sate, wash'd by the ever barren sea. a youth, scarce passing from the years of boyhood, the gay god appears. dark waved the tresses of his head, and round his beauteous form was spread a mantle dipt in tyrian dye. when swift across the azure deep a crew of tuscan pirates sweep, driven on by evil destiny. who, when they see the youth divine, with many a secret nod and sign, to seize him as a prey combine. . bacchus, or the pirates. instant they spring upon the land, and grasp the god with felon hand; then with their captive, glad at heart, quick to their galley they depart. the crew were joyous, for they thought that they a gallant prize had brought,- deeming him, from his regal air, the offspring of a high-born king; and soon, with cruel hands, they dare round him the rigorous bands to fling. they bound him, but the hope was vain to hold the god in servile chain; the flexile withs, * which they had twined round hand and foot, self-loosed unbind. unshackled sat the youth—a smile play'd in his dark blue eye the while. the pilot mark'd it; at the view awestruck, he thus address'd the crew : -"o friends, unhappy friends, i fear that you have seized a powerful god; wo to our vessel, if it bear such captive o'er the watry road. king jupiter he seems to be, or phæbus of the silver bow, or neptune, monarch of the sea, and not a son of earth below. even from his form 'tis plain he comes from high olympus' heavenly domes. haste then, companions, and restore the immortal stranger to the shore, nor farther efforts make to hold him prisoner, lest his wrath should with fierce storms pursue our path, or bid the whirlwind wake." « fool!" the indignant captain cried, “fair blows the wind along the tide ; then spread the sail, arrange the yard : that is thy duty, ours to guard the captive we have ta’en. he goes with us; whether we wend to egypt, or to cyprus bend; or farther o'er the main, reach the cold regions of the north. at last he will disclose his kin, and rank, and riches; by his worth we then shall know what price he'll win. steer onward fearlessly; for heaven his fate into our hands has given.” he spoke the mast was raised the sail spread bellying to the prosperous gale. they went—but wonders strange and new ere long arose before their view. first round the sable vessel's side gush'd bubbling forth a flood of wine, exhaling from its balmy tide ambrosial perfume, scent divine. “an expressive word, as it seems to me, but i fear almost obsolete. it is used by the translators of the bible. “and samson said unto her, if they bind me with seven green withs, that were never dried,” &c. judges xvi. . and again, verses , . vol. ix. k bacchus, or the pirates [june, with awe th' affrighted rovers stood, gazing upon the magic flood. then round the sail, high over heal a vine its wandering tendrils spread deep hung with clustering fruit; its clasping arms about the mast an ivy gemm’d with berries cast with many a flowery shoot; and every rower's bench around was with a festal chaplet crown'd. “ haste, haste, mededes, gain the shore,” loud on the pilot was their cry. vain prayer—that refuge they no more are destined to espy. changed was his form and lo! the gou in lion shape the deck bestrode, with hideous roaring; and a bear furr'd in a rugged coat of hair he raised by wonderous sorcery in the mid-vessel : where, oh! where shall the sad pirates flee? the bear sprung up—the lion dread glared awful from the vessel's head, they, terror-smitten, turn'd and fled, and round the unfearing pilot throng-- unfearing, for he did no wrong. on rush'd the god in furious mood, and seized the chieftain of the band , the rest, when his dire fate they viewed, plungedheadlong plunged, into the flood, and swam to gain the land. in vain; the god's resistless force changed them to dolphins in their course. but the just pilot he did bless with life, and flowing happiness. “ thou need’st not fear; thy worth,” he said, “ a mighty friend in me has made ; for i am bacchus, son of jove, and semele, his theban love." hail, son of bright-eyed semele ; thy praise shall still be sung by me in tuneful lays. i think this bear is rather a superfluous monster ; but a translator must go through thick and thin with his author. i suspect the passage is interpolated, and recommend the next editor of the homeric hymns, to consider the propriety of striking out the lines marked below in brackets. l . ο δ' άρα σφι λέων γένετ ένδοθι νηος, Δεινός επ' ακροτάτης, (μέγα δ'έβραχεν ενδ' άρα μέσση, "Αρκτον εποιησεν λασιαύχενα, σήματα φαινων" “Αν δ' έστη μεμαυΐα· λέων δ' επί σέλματος άκρε, Δεινον υπότρα ιδων] οι δ' εις πρύμνην εφόδηθεν, κ. τ. λ. there could be many objections made against the enclosed lines, which i leave to my learned readers (if i have any) to discover, only remarking that the th and th lines merely repeat the th and th. if there were ms. authority of any kind, i should not hesitate to strike out what i have marked, .] letter from christophe, king of ilayti. christophe, king of hayti. sed quid turba remi " “ sequitur fortunam, ut semper." juv. since the fall of christophe, king of hayti, it has been the fashion, (after the established custom,) to rail at him as a compound of all bad qualities; with a -nunquam, si quid mihi credis, amavi hunc hominem ; hic niger est, &c. &c. yet evidences can be adduced in his behalf, which may fairly be allowed to negative anonymous or gratuitous accusations. if external testimony is to be relied upon, let colonel malenfant's account of le clerc's-execrable expedition to st domingo, in which that officer, (an old proprietor in the island) bore a part, be consulted on the subject. fjected from his plantations, and opposed in arms to the blacks, by whom he had been dispossessed, he assuredly was not likely to be influenced by any prejudices in their favour. but a still more correct estimate may, perhaps, be formed from the subjoined letter, addressed by christophe himself to a distinguished british senator, from whom i received it, coupled with the irresistible inference, that, “if it's writer deserved the name of tyrant, then was that name compatible with the most earnest desire in a sovereign to promote the improvement and happiness of his people.” that he had deep feclings, burnt in probably by the ardours of a tropical sun, and inflamed by long suppression, is proved by his last act of guilty desperation. with a temperament so irritable, and in a situ. ation so critical, we may admit him to have been a truly great man, and yet contemplate without surprise the issue of his regal career. possibly, from his very earnestness to advance the public welfare, he might urge forward his whole system of improvements, political and moral, too impetuously for the rough and unhinged condition of his new subjects. we know with what dif- ficulty enterprises of the utmost “ pith and moment,” whether considered in the light of interest or in that of duty, (e. g. the abolition of the slave trade,) are accomplished, even in more civilized and christian realms. the immense army likewise, which he was compelled to maintain, with perhaps needful, but highly unpopular strictness of discipline, for the purpose of resisting the inva- sion menaced by france, and the heavy expenditure invariably accompanying great military establishments, would cause the yoke of government to press uneasily on their shoulders. but that he was not constitutionally brutal, or habitually prodigal, the letter itself will abundantly testify. it proves that the king of hayti, if he could not write like an european, certainly did not dictate like a savage. his plan of providing schoolmasters, furnished with all the modern compen- dia of english education, of weaning the entire population, by a rapid transi- tion froin the language and the religion of france, in order to link its interests indissolubly with those of great britain-however it may be pronounced by some, a project rather hardy than hopeful-should secure to him, (if it were but out of gratitude) an indulgent censure from english judgments. that he had not overrated the capacities of his countrymen, appears from the testimo- ny of some of the teachers employed. one of these in particular, after a resi- dence of three or four months, reported to his english patron the unexampled zeal with which the youth applied themselves to their literary labours; and added, that “ their success surpassed all his former experience.” if we would seek more specific causes of his unpopularity, it may be conce- letter from christophe, king of hayti. (june, ded perhaps, that he carried the precision and promptitude of the soldier too strenuously into every branch of his civil authority, and that he was also, pro- bably, with reference to existing circumstances, too sternly just. but it ought to be recollected, in his vindication, that only by the compression of military discipline could he reasonably expect to keep within bounds the passions of his self-enfranchised and impetuous community; and it is not in embryo legisla- tors that we can hope to find the delicate apportioning of clemency and equity, which prevent the summum jus from becoming the summa injuria. by some it has been asserted, that he did not pay his forces ;' while others affirm, that he had punished, or threatened to punish, an officer to whom the troops were devotedly attached.' but it seems more likely, that they had pro- mised themselves a latitude of indulgence, after their emancipation, inconsist- ent with all civil government: while he, not improbably with the best of mo- tives, erred on the side of rigid restraint. they had already tasted the danger- ous sweets of insubordination; and all the rest followed of course. what has since taken place in that ill-fated country, affords but too strong a confirmation of the necessity of an efficient and well-ordered police. through- out hayti, all is at present instability and anarchy. even the cape has been attacked by parties of the disbanded soldiery. the marriages, to the sanctity of which christophe had contributed every security in his power, are almost universally dissolved ; and the institutions of education are wholly at an end. in a word, every thing seems rapidly hurrying into utter and irremediable con- fusion. but your readers will begin to be impatient for the letter. f. w. au paluis de sans soucy me. , l'an de l'independance. henry par la grace de dieu et la loi constitutionelle de l'etat roi d'haïty, &c., &c., à membre du parlement britannique, &c. &c. mon ami, en aucune manière d'aucune affaire po- je me sers de l'occasion de m. chal- litique quelconque de ma part, soit ver- mers, bomme simple et sur, que j'ai balement ou par écrit ; s'il n'étoit pas employé à mon service dans sa profes- seulement porteur des dépéches pour sion, pendant le séjour qu'il a fait a vous et mes amis, et que puisqu'il n'é- haïty, pour vous addresser ma réponse tait revêtu d'aucune qualité officielle, à vos trois lettres privées et confiden- comment avait-il pu se permettre de tielles sous les dattes des et août faire mettre en tête du livre des pièces dernier. je l'ai chargé de vous remet- du gouvernement haïtien, qu'il a fait tre ma lettre en main propre, et com- imprimer, ces mots-par autorité, et me il compte incessamment revenir à de s'arroger le titre d'agent du gouver- haïty, il pourra m'apporter celles que nement haïtien ? comment avait-il vous auriez à m'écrire. pu se permettre de prendre et de sti- j'ai deploré la maniere dont le sieur puler des engagemens avec ces profes- prince sanders s'est conduit en an- seurs ? si ce n'était pas vous seul que gleterre, et les sujets de chagrin qu'il ce soin regardait? car j'ai vu dans les vous a donnés ; car quoique par deli- marchés, que c'est lui qui a contracté catesse vous ne vous soyez pas plaint, les engagemens qui ont été pris, et que je suis néanmoins instruit de la ma pour attenuer les prétensions qui ont nière legère, [inconsequente, vaniteuse, été faites, vous les avez sagement laissés avec laquelle il s'est comporté en an- à ma ratification. enfin je lui ai de- gleterre; aussi à son arrivée, en pré- mandé comment avait-il pu promettre sence de m. murray et des autres pro- à une infinité des personnes de venir fesseurs qui sont venus, je lui ai te- à haïty, où elles auroient été em- moigné mon mécontentement; et l'ai ployées par le gouvernement sans s'em- sommé de declarer, s'il avoit été chargé barasser si elles peuvent ou non nous esq. .] letter from christophe, king of tayti. étre de quelque utilité; comme s'il c'est dans cette langué que je désire était capable de juger de leurs talens, que vous continuiez toujours à corre- et s'il pouvait connaître leurs mours spondre avec moi. et leurs moralités. c'est vous seul, que j'ai dans ma possession les lettres j'avais chargé, et que je charge encore, crimineuses de peltier : je ne vous du soin de me procurer des maîtres et marquerai pas toutes les épithetes professeurs, parceque je suis persuadé abominables qu'il vous prodigue, ainsi d'avance, qu'avant de me les addresser, qu'à nosamis; et toutes les insinuations vous vous serez assuré de leurs talens, perfides, qu'il m'a faites contre vous de leurs mæurs, et de leurs moralités. et nos amis. tant de méchancetés c'est ainsi qu'au lieu d'un jardinier, m'ont inspiré la plus grande horreur que j'avais précédemment temoigné le contre lui : voilà ce qui fait, que je ne désir d'avoir à boston, sanders a fait veux plus avoir aucune correspond- venir inutilement m. wetherley dont ance, et que j'ai rompu totalement nousn'avons pas besoin, et que jen'avais avec un homme aussi pervers. vous pas demandé, parce qu'il ne peut nous pensez bien que de semblables atro- étre d'aucune utilité pour le moment, cités, loin de faire sur mon esprit au- et dont je fais payer l'aller et le retour. cune impression défavorable contre nos vous devez penser, mon ami, qu'il amis, ne font au contraire que redou- aurait fallu que je fusse dépourvu de bler l'estime et la considération que je bon sens pour envoyer un homme leur porte: car il est toûjours hono- comme sanders, qui n'a pas les moyens rable d'être en but à la haine et à la ni la capacité requise pour suivre au- calomnie des méchans. ils ne m' cune affaire politique: je sais que le épargnent pas plus que vous. je vous tems n'est pas encore venu où je pour- en parle par expérience ; car je me rai faire cette démarche, telle neces. trouve souvent dans le même cas. saire qu'elle serait d'ailleurs pour moi : néanmoins je ressens la plus vive af- ce serait compromettre et avilir l'au- fliction, et je partage bien sincèrement torité que d'envoyer un agent sans vos peines, lorsque je vois les désagre- être assuré s'il serait reçu en cette qua- mens que vous éprouvez pour avoir lité, et que le gouvernement auquel je embrassé et defendu la plus grande et l'aurai addressé m'en enverrait un de la plus juste des causes. son côté. je laisse à la sagesse et à la je goûte parfaitement, mon ami, discretion de mes amis à applanir les vos idées lumineuses sur les grands difficultés, et à m'instruire lorsque je principes du governement que vous pourrai faire honorablement cette de- m'exposez: je suis persuadé de leur marche. efficacité pour le bonheur de mes con- je veux croire que sanders n'a pas citoyens ; pour mon propre bonheur, agi par mechanceté ; mais il n'était, il puisqu'il ne se compose que de celui ne pourrait pas se regarder autrement de mes concitoyens. mon application que comme porteur des paquets pour constante sera de les employer. je vous et nos amis. vous pouvez être ferai tout ce qui sera en mon pouvoir tranquille sur son compte, il ne re- pour justifier la haute opinion que mes tournera pas en angleterre. je l'ai amis, et vous en particulier, avez con- employé ici avec mr gulliver. çu de moi. je suis pénétré, mon cher je vois avee plaisir, mon ami, la w* *, des sentimens généreux et manière franché, amicale que vous philanthropiques que vous m'expri- agissez dans nos communications. mez; et je serais indigne de l'amitié j'agirai comme vous sans réserve ; et pure que vous m'avez vouée, si je ne vous verrez que je suis digne d'enten- faisais tous mes efforts pour la mériter, dre et de connaître la vérité. vous en suivant les sages conseils que vous pouvez vous reposer sur la discrétion me donnez. de mes sécrétaires pour toutes les com vous voyez avec quelle sollicitude munications et les ouvertures que vous je m'einpresse à donner le bienfait de auriez à me faire. lorsque vous au- l'éducation à mes concitoyens. la nou- rez quelque chose d'important et de velle méthode me paraît la plus sub- confidentiel à me faire part, vous pou- lime qu'on puisse employer pour pré- vez charger une personne dévouée de parer les études. je suis émerveillé des votre dépéche, et me l'addresser direc- effets de cette excellente méthode: tous tement. je ferai solder religieusement mes soins seront de l'étendre, et de lui les frais que ces dépenses auront cau- donner à haïty toute l'extension et sés. sanders vous a dit avec raison, l'encouragement possibles. que j'entends parfaitement l'anglais : c'est bien aussi mon intention de letter from christophe king of hayti. [june, faire delivrer des prix aux éléves, qui plus honnête et le plus éclairé ; bien se seront distingués: chaque école ou different en cela du clergé catholique college aura époque fixée pour la dis- romain, dont la dissolution des mæurs tribution des prix, comme celle de l'in- est connue, l'apôtre et le defenseur de dependance, de ma fête, celle de la l’esclavage. je leur ai fait connaître reine, de mes enfans, et celle des au- l'enorme difference qui existe entre les tres jours mémorables de notre révolu- anglais et les français, combien ces tion. derniers se sont dégénérés et avilis ; je me suis efforcé, autant qu'il m'a que lorsqu'on voudrait désigner un été possible, de faire inculquer les prin- homme vil et faux, l'on devrait dire, cipes de religion et de morale parmi “ faux comme un français.” je sais mes concitoyens; mais, mon ami, son- cependant, -que généralement parlant, gez combien un peuple nouvellement il y a des honnêtes gens dans tous les sorti des ténébres de l'ignorance et de pays; mais presque tous les français l'esclavage, qui a éprouvé ans de sé- que nous avons eu occasion de connai- cousses et de révolutions, a besoin en- tre ne se sont pas montrés à nous sous core de tems, de soins, et d'efforts, pour des couleurs plus favorables ; qu'au parvenir à étendre les principes religeux contraire les anglais adorent leur pa- et moraux dans toutes les classes de la trie, qu'ils sont si embrasés du patrio- sociéte. l'objet de ma sollicitude est tisme national, et que la trahison est si donc de les étendre encore davantage; abhorrée et detestée chez eux, qu'à mais non pas les principes de cette ré- peine peut-on citer un petit nombre des ligion défigurée par la fanatisme et la traitres, combien ils sont braves, loyaux, superstition, mais cette religion que philanthropes, religieux observateurs vous professez, pleine de l'essence et de deleur parole, qu'il suffirait à un anglais l'humanité de son divin auteur. il y a de jurer sur la bible, pour être cru longtems que je désire la voir établie à sur sa parole : qu'on n'avait jamais eu haïty. d'example qu'ils avaient faussé leurs par la consideration et le respect paroles ou leur affirmations si solennel- dont j'ai entouré les liens du mariage, lement données ; qu'on ne pouvait pas je n'ai qu'à me louer de l'empressement en dire autant des français et des ca- dle mes concitoyens à les former, et des tholiques romains, qui faisaient jour- heureux résultats qu'ils ont pour la nellement profanation des choses repu- morale. tées les plus saintes parmi eux ; que le la tolérance est établie à haïty. je souverain, qui se qualifie du fils aîné permets à chacun la liberté de servir de l'eglise, n'a pas craint de laisser sig- ja divinité à sa manière. j'étendrai, s'il ner par son ministre, sans provocation est nécessaire, les effets de cette tolé- comme sans insulte, la mort de rance, en lui donnant la plus grande mille de mes concitoyens pour pourvoir latitude. je suis pénétré, et je sens la à repeupler notre pays avec nos mal- necessite de changer ce queles manières heureux frères transplantés d'afrique ; et les habitudes de mes concitoyens peu- que ce souverain, qui sedit si religieux, vent encore conserver de semblables à a envoyé de vils espions pour intriguer, celle des français, et de les modeller semer le trouble et la confusion dans sur les manières et les habitudes an- notre pays tranquille; qu'il ne travaille glaists. la culture de la littérature qu'au rétablissement des prejugés et anglaise dans nos écoles, dans nos col- de l'esclavage jusque même dans son leges, fera prédominerentin, je l'espère, propre pays. la langue anglaise sur la française: enfin, je désire que mes concitoyens ce'st le seul inoyen de conserver notre puissent posséder les vertus des anglais indépendance, que de n'avoir absolu- pour leur propre bonheur. ment rien de commun avec une nation les haïtiens aiment généralement dont nous avons tant à nous plaindre, et les anglais ; c'est le seul peuple, avec dont les projets ne tendent qu'à notre qui ils puissent mieux compâtir: mes destruction. il y a long tems que je dé- concitoyens feront tout ce que je leur sire que la langue anglaise soit la lan- conseillerai, car ils sont entièrement gue nationale de mon pays. j'en ai tou- persuadés, que mes conseils n'ont pour jours parlé à mes concitoyens : je leur but que leur bonheur. j'emploierai ai toujours fait sentir la necessité de mon influence, les leçons puissantes de n'avoir absolument rien de commun avec l'exemple pour les amener à ce point la nation francaise, d'embrasser la si désiré ; et je suis d'avance assuré, religion anglicane comme la plus su- qu'ils se porteront avec joie à cette blime, etant celle où l'on trouve géné- grande réforme quand le temps en sera ralement le clergé le plus vertueux, le arrivé : c'est à dire lorsque la connais- .] letter from christophe, king of huyli. sance de la langue anglaise sera répan- le sieur evans. je souhaite que vous due dans une partie de la population, acceptiez ce gage de mon amitié avec ce qui ne sera pas longtems-d'après autant de plaisir que j'en ai eu à rece- la méthode de lancastre, et d'après les voir le vôtre, et que vous puissiez les heureux dispositions que montrent les considérer comme ceux de deux de vòs eléves qui s'intruirent sous mr gulli- plus sincères amis. ver. j'ai appris avec la plus grande peine, je désire de tout mon cæur que les et j'ai été desappointe, que le but pour souhaits que vous faites pour le bon- lequel j'avais addressé dernièrement heur et l'instruction des haïtiens puis- des confitures en angleterre a totale- sent se réaliser ! puissiez vous à votre ment manqué par l'indiscretion de san- tour, ô mon ami, vous enorgueillir des ders ne pouvant connaître a quelle vertus et de la civilisation de ce peuple, somme se seroient élevés les droits dont vous aurez été un des bienfaiteurs! mr strafford m'avait cependant promis croyez, que leur reconnaisance sera d’écrire à cet effet. eternelle : croyez aussi, que ma pen, je vous prie, mon ami, de me faire sée sera sans cesse portée vers le grand agréer dans la société de l'institution but pour lequel vous désirez les voir afriquaine, dans celle de la société de eléver-en effet, combien je m'estime la bible anglaise et etrangère, et dans rai hereux de les voir contribuer à vos celle de l'ecole anglaise et etrangère; vues, en vous aidant à perfectionner et si toutefois il n'y aurait pas d'impossi- ameliorer le sort de nos frères d'afrique. bilité-et alors vous le feriez de la ma- j'ai reçu et agrée, mon ami, avec nière que vous croirez le plus convena- sensibilité, votre portrait, que vous m'ble. lorsque les lettres de change, que avez addressé : il me tardait de possé- je compte vous addresser, vous par- der les traits d'un de nos plus vertueux viendront, vous pourrez faire couvrir amis. en retour, et d’apres le désir les frais, que cette admission aura ne- que vous m'avez temoigné, je vous en cessités. voie le mien, et celui de mon fils le je suis et demeure tout à vous, prince royal, que j'ai fait peindre par votre ami. the maniac's plaint. i see my my heart throbs on from day to day; mine eyes they never close in sleep; loved companions gay, yet all my solace is to weep; for, clothed in melancholy deep, my heart may well afflicted be, since time can bring upon his wing no earthly joy to me!!- i'll twine my brow with willow wreathe ; i'll place the cypress in my breast; i'll sit upon his tomb, and breathe my plaint to him that loved me best ; when brooding storms obscure the west, how sweet beneath the willow tree, if, while i sing, the lightning's wing should come to set me free! the ravens sit, a clamorous troop, upon the mouldering abbey tower ; hark! as the owl sends forth her whoop from danky vaults that form her bower; soon, at the silent midnight hour, lone men shall mark, amid the gloom, in dim affright, a lambent light glide slowly o'er my tomb. the maniac's plaint. june, beloved youth! since thou art gone, no hope bestirs my bosom, save, when dark existence all is flown, to join thee in the quiet grave; and when the wandering breezes wave the forests in the cold moonshine, when all is still, my spirit will, unseen, converse with thine !! rural seclusion. a sketch. how splendidly! with what a glorious light, beyond the summits of yon forest deep, the sun descends, tinging its boughs with flame ! the western tent around him glows, and far up the steep cope of heaven outstretching bright, dart the red lines with soft decaying glow. how utter is the solitude around! how wild, and how forlorn! it is a scene, which stern salvator, with a kindling eye, might long have gazed unsated, treasuring up a throng of omens dark, and desolate thoughts: nor motion of one living thing dispels the breathless and unstirring loneliness, nor insect’s hum, nor vesper song of bird, nor sound of lapsing stream; the evening breeze, sighing along, just passes o'er the flowers of the dark heather, and subsides to peace: there is no trace of human step, no mark of man's dominion here ; these mossy rocks, these lichen’d stones, all purple-tinged and blue, these deep-brow'd rocks, and that dim weedy pool, mayhap from time's remotest chronicling, untouch'd have lain, and undisturb’d and lone! the ptarmigan, when wintry frosts were o’er, and skies were blue, may here have sunn'd herself, the red-deer taken up a night's abode, or the lithe adder roli’d; it may have been, that in the gloom of olden times austere, beneath that arching rock, the eremite, shunning communion, may have dwelt alone, till human speech was, to his vacant ear, like vision to the blind, a thing gone by; saw, o'er yon far-off hills, the waning light of the last setting sun that shone for him, in loneliness outstretch'd his wither'd limbs, and, dying, left his bones to whiten there ! or, it may be, when persecution's rage pursued the champions of the covenant, in ages less remote, on this lone mount, at earliest sunrise, or beneath the stars, the suffering martyrs gathered, from the looks of unrepining zeal in each worn face, -as each on each they gazed with searching eyes to glean rekindled ardour; here perhaps, -and sanctified if such the spot must be ! - kneeling they pray’d; for scotland's hills and dales, pour'd out their hearts, for liberty of soul, and for serener times. a . the spring morning's walk. the spring morning's s wals. lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone. the flowers appear on the earth ; the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land. the fig-tree putteth forth her green figs, and the vines with the tender grape give a good smell. song of solomon, chap. ii. there is something inexpressibly the fields are clothed in a mantle delightful in the aspect of a spring of delicate green, the young wheat morning; to awake from refreshing shoots up its tender and exuberant slumber, and behold the crimson sun- blades, through the bosom of the dark shine streaming through the casement mould, moist with the dews that have in long oblique lines, where myriads fallen during the silent watches of the of motes are observed dancing to and night; while still, upon the distant fro in mazy movements, and listen to loftier grounds the slow motion of the the brisker crow of chanticleer from ploughs may be perceived, and the beneath, and the flap of his golden dark furrows which they are leaving wings. the chirpings and noisy bick- behind. the herige-rows have now all erings of the sparrows are heard from assumed an emerald hue, and the the neighbouring roofs; and, at in- crows, issuing from the forest, alight tervals, the distant voice of the linnet on the tops of the trees, and fill the breaks melodiously in, and fills the air with the sound of their ceaseless pauses of the concert. and diseorılant cries. but let us out to the morning air ; what alteration does this landscape let us enjoy the freshness of the breeze, present from what it was but a brief and the delicate warmth of the sun space ago! these banks, now green- shine ; let us brush the dews of morn- ed over with the budding briars, and ing from the grass, and respire the with the fine leaves of the hawthorn, very essence of health in the cool sa- forming a pleasant contrast with its lubrious air. forth from his cloudy dark boughsnow spotted with white bondage the great apollo hath burst- daisies, and with yellow king-cups, ed, a clear hue pervades every sur- with dandelions, and a variety of wild rounding object; but, as yet, a light flowerets, were frozen, and cold, and veil of mist hangs over the bosom of barren, decorated here and there with the stream, and encircles the sides and a few tufts of tall rank grass, sere and summits of the far off hills, as with a rustling in the wind, and with some coronal of unillumined glory. the bleak leafless boughs drooping and me- blades of the young grass glitter, and lancholy, topped with the funeral ber- are gemmed with a thousand tiny ries of the dog-rose. from these rocks pearls of dew; while the fresh buds depended a thousand icicles. the have that glutinous appearance, which course of the rivulet from above was indicates their vigour and healthiness. marked out by a long white stripe, how lovely is the appearance of a winding down the steep, and edged vernal wood! a garland of green seems with a multitude of fantastic figures, to be woven round the branches that wrought with a magical effect, and a were lately so dark, and barren, and fairy brilliancy. over the surface of bare, through which the wintry wind the stream, the giant frost had extend- whistled bleak and desolate, or which ed his polar sceptre, and taught "the bent beneath the burthen of the fea- ice-chained waters to slumber on the thery snows. there is something shore.” but now, with a gentle and cheering and delightful in the sight; melodious ripple, the gushing streams something that, in almost audible lan- pass down between their verdant banks, guage, speaks to the heart of the hopes with a soft blue tinge on the surface, of renovation ; something that tells us glittering in the genial sunshine ; and that there may yet be a triumph over broken here and there by the enlarging decay; something that whispers to us circles caused by the leaping of the of the departed blessings of early days; trout, after the tiny insects that wan- something, in short, so congenial to ton above. the feeling, as to form an antidote to nature, animate and inanimate, the cares that press upon the spirit, seems to have partaken of the genial and to the forebodings of gloom that influences of the season. the focks darken the prospects of futurity. are gambolling amid the pastures, and vol. ix. l the spring morning's walk. [june, << each mother following its larnb, with rily in its downward path, and is swal- coat as white as snow. the cattle are lowed in the gulph of darkness and bome nibbling the tender herbage, and oblivion. others ruminating their food with list how lovely, from this eminence, less pleasure. some, with their faces looks the far off surface of the ocean; turned toward “the shining day,” and calm as a lake, and outspreading its some, reclining amid the stumps of capacious bosom to the radiance of the yon aged trees. how grandly does that morning sun. the world of waters magnificent mansion yet look forth seems also to acknowledge the influ- amid its ruins over the wide chase, ence of the advancing year, and in to- once subject to those, who took up ken of its reverence stills its ruffled their abode within. alas! “ time waters into peace. the rocks that rise hath wrought strange alteration, and from its bosom still appear dark and the tempests and the sunshine of cen- frowning, but the casual gleam of the turies have not beat and burned upon sea-birds wing points them out as not its roofs in vain. where is now the being a joyless abode. pomp, and the pride, and the circum but, let us turn from the mightiness stance“ of state,' the appliances, and which hath perished, to the contem- the means to boot;" the retainers that plation of the lowliness that now pros- thronged the hall, to whose wassail pers. how cheerful looks that range voices the vaulted roofs often re-echoed of thatched cottages; the blue smoke at midnight; the staghounds that cum- itself, that wreathes from the chimney, bered the parlour-floor? where is the seems an emblem of the domestic com- steer that neighed in the stall, and the fort enjoyed within ; and the sunshine, lord that rode him to the field ? all clothing the white walls, and the glit- have passed away like a morning dream; tering lattice, adds a cheerfulness to and these lone, and bare, and desolate the grace of the exterior. the small walls, over which the long grass waves, gardens before the doors, free from and the stalks of the gilly-flower shoots weed and stone, bespeak the “ sleep- greenly, remain a gigantic sepulchre less hand of industry.” the pease of the majesty of ancient days. shrubs have already shot their taper lengths and bushes, here and there, amid the far above the soil, and the neatly trim- scattered ruins of what were once en- med gooseberry bushes have all their closures, lift up their wild branches, prickly branches garlanded with leaves, proclaiming more distinctly the wrecks and studded with the incipient fruit. and the ravages of time-like frag- the flower-plot now exhibits a variety ments of a perished vessel floating in of colour, and emits a mingled richness the boundless deep after a tempest. of perfume. the crocus here opens a the buds and young leaves expand- yellow and there a blue calice." the ing on the chesnut trees—that once snow-drop, the earliest daughter of formed an avenue to the baronial man- the spring, has already passed the me- sion-seem to tell that the works of artridian of its beauty, and droops like a may change, but that the beauties of forsaken girl. the wall-flower already nature are of a more durable kind; begins to protrude its rich yellow and spreading their branches, as if in flowers, tinged with iron brown." derision, form a magnificent portico to the gentle primrose, like a beauty too a temple, that hath passed away. modest and diffident to be gazed at, it is the season of spring, the season bends down to hide its sweets amid its of renewed beauty, and grace. the girdle of green leaves; while the dark- sky has assumed its vernal azure; the cyed violet, still more lowly, seeks to white stainless clouils sail gracefully shelter itself beneath them. here the athwart its bosom; the sun shines dark, strong-scenteil spearmint diffu- with renovated splendour, and the ses its perfumes, and there the never- birds sing in ebullience of heart. but fading thyme stretches along, forming all is still, and stirless here ; the glory an odoriferous border. of man is like a rainbow that over placed against the sunny wall stands arches the fall of a stream, and through- on its platform the conical hive, a lit- out the live-long day looks in beauty tle kingdom, alive with the hum of its and brilliance at the glowing sun ; but inhabitants, who are entering and de- fades away as he sets, and then sinks parting in never-ending succession, to nothingness ;- it is like that of a rifling the sweets of every blossom, shooting star, which blazes momenta- and laying up, with a patient indus- .] the spring morning's walk. try, and indefatigable toil, their ho- death delayed so long to release him, nied store. and looked forward to this quiet field oh! who can gaze around at such of graves, as to the asylum, where all a season as this, when the beauties of his sorrows were to find repose. nature, bursting, phænix-like from the gentle breeze wantons among their wintry sepulchre, expand in all the grass, and the wild-flowers, stir- the loveliness of reanimated beauty- ring them into a beautiful agitation ; and then can allow the burden of sel- but all beneath is dark, and silent, and fish misery to press upon the soul, unlovely. the sky is bright above, an when the sun shines, and the lark azure canopy, deep and glorious, but sings from the clouds, when the dew the shadow of despondency dwells be- glitters on the green herb, and the neath. nature rejoices in the reno- snow-like blossoms expand on the vation of her sweets, the trees bud, tree, and every sight and every sound the flowers blow, and the birds sing, breathes harmony and happiness ? the air re-assumes its vernal warmth, but, let us turn our steps to the and the waters their glassy smooth- churchyard, let us enter the silent ness; but alas ! in this world at least, porch, and gaze on the melancholy there is no second spring in human scene. not to quench the pure flame life. like the water of a river, that of spiritual light, which vernal beauty flows on amid the pomp of forests and kindles in the breast, but to shade its green fields, through landscapes of intemperance with a tender and a mo- light, and grandeur, and beauty, to ralizing gloom. oh, when shall spring the brink of a precipice, where they reanimate the ashes of the departed ! flash in the sunshine, and descende “oh, when shall morn dawn on the nighting, vanish to darkness for ever! of the grave!” but far be all despairing thoughts from the contemplation of a vernal the shadow of the house of prayer falls landscape. if a man die, shall he not long and dim over the green graves, rise again? both nature and revelation the white tomb-stones, and the fus declare that he shall; that having nereal shrubs, as if it took them all un, passed over the boundaries of time's der its silent protection ; and, varying finite empire, he will take up his abode continually with the varying day, covers in the mansions of eternity. them each in turn with its unsubstan it is but natural, however, that tial wing, as it were the spirit of religion when we cast our eye over the renew- brooding over, and rendering pregnant ed beauty of the material world, that with hope the mansions of the dead, we should heave a sigh of regret for of those who slumber in hope, and those who roamed with us through the who will burst forth to renewed life woods, and green meadows, when life at the sound of the last trumpet, when was young, and every avenue of the the voice of the archangel shall pro- heart open to the influence of pleasure- claim that “ time shall be no more !" able feelings; and who are now scat- here all are alike, and the slave is freed tered far from us over the surface of a from his master. no sorrow enters, waste and weary world. how many, and no care molests. the old and the alas! that noticed with us the first young, the selfish and the amiable, all appearance of the virgin snow-drop, that adds a dignity to, and bestows a and the “ wandering voice” of the lustre on human nature, with all that cuckoo, are now in the silent grave, debases, and lowers it down to the le- callous alike to the glories of the year, vel of poor mortality, are here met in or the icy rigour of the wintry tem- one common resting-place. here re pest. from our sensitive regret for pose the ashes of those, who, flushed the past, even the recollection of de- with the brilliancies of hope, looked parted years seems embalmed with a far forward down the vista of happy serener, but a more passionate, and days, who said unto care « be far warmer glow, than what we now feel from me," and unto fear, “ i know and perceive; we are apt to imagine thee not;" who forgot the past in the that the change is in nature, that the anticipation of the future, and felt fields are less green, that the summer that the world was all before them, day is less glorious and bright, that where to choose ; and here the wretch, the murmur of the river is less musi- who, bowed down by the burthen of cal, and the note of the nightingale misfortune, and the pelting of adver- less replete with plaintive melancholy; city's pitiless storm, wondered why nor think of finding the change, not the spring morning's walk. june, in external sights and sounds, but in i have composed the following stanzas, our own bosoms. with which i will conclude my wan- from the impression of this truth, dering speculations. “ oh! where," says the spirit of life to my soul, “ is the ravage and wreck thou deplorest ? the sky spreads its azure in tender repose, the stream of the mountain in melody flows; the spring smiles in beauty, and summer bestows a wreath of green leaves on the forest. * the landscape around thee is sprinkled with flowers ; the mountains are blue in the distance; like a mote in the sunshine the lark flits away; the insects, a numberless host, are at play, and opening their delicate wings to the day, rejoice in the gift of existence. • or look to the sea, and its emerald isles all joyous its flocks are in motion; the plovers their limitless march have begun, o'er the sands like a field-beaten army they run, and flashing the white of their wings to the sun, like arrows descend to the ocean. “ were the smiles of the universe ever more fair? no! something proclaims to thee-never ! but time looks beneath with a haughty disdain, and silently steals link by link from the chain; 'tis thy heart which hath alter'd ; thou lookest in vain for the change, in what lasteth for ever.” the cot in the glen. oh ! 'tis not the star of the evening o'ertopping with fairy bright radiance the dim azure hill, the green forests far np the wide valley sloping, the gleam of the lake, or the sound of the rill, that tempt me at twilight to wander thus lonely, so far from the din and the bustle of men ; a magic, a magic, that charms for me only, surrounds with its halo yon cot in the glen! how sweet, far remote from all tumult and danger, it were, in this valley to pass the long year, in friendship and peace lift the latch to the stranger, and chase off the anguish of pale sorrow's tear! to roam out at morn, when the young sun is shining, when birds are awake, and flocks bleat in the pen; and to catch his last beams, with my loved one reclining in the bower, by the side of you cot in the glen. oh! mary, thou know'st not how often a pleasure in crowds thy soft image hath given to my heart ! like the spirit that wanders beside buried treasure, my steps ever lead to the spot where thou art: oh! soon may the day come-if come it will ever ! the brightest and best in futurity's ken, when fate may ordain us no longer to sever, sweet girl of my heart, from the cot in the glen! .] the summer night's reverie. the summer night's reverie. i would recall a vision which i dream'd perchance in sleep for in itself a thought, a slumbering thought is capable of years, and curdles a long life into one hour. byron. mine eyes did never see a moonlight night so purely beautiful; the skies were blue, without a stain of cloud, and, twinkling bright, the thin stars wore an evanescent hue; i gazed, and gazed ; far off the mighty bílls their hoary brows uprear'd ; the silent woods without a sound outspread their solitudes, darkly umbrageous; the descending rills glitter'd with fitful light; it was a scene, so magical it look'd, and soʻserene, that brought to mind old fairyland ; beside my lattice, with the woodbine canopied, long did i sit and gaze, and thought my fill; and ere the midnight chime the dews of sleep fell not upon my eye-lids; all was still, and, as i mused, i could not chuse but weep as, thronging in upon me bright and fast, came, clothed in light, the visions of the past. sleep bound me in his chains, and lo! a dream came o'er my heart, with its fantastic dyes all rain-bow tinctured, and the whole did seem to settle to a calm, bright paradise : flowers gemm'd the path, and over-head blue skies outspread their lucid canopy ; tall trees, the cedar, and the chesnut, and the palm, their mighty arms expanded, and the breeze kiss'd them in passing, and an odorous balm from bloomy beds in rich varieties loaded the gale. methought i stood with thee, arm link'd in arm, and down a vista green we gazed delighted, where far off were seen, crowning a rosy knoll with symmetry, a woodbined cottage, while the light blue smoke mounted up tranquilly, and wreathed away to nothingness, and far behind it broke, reddening the west, the setting orb of day. then did we turn, and gaze upon the lake sleeping in all the bright and glowing hues which the last beams of summer suns infuse into the waters; here the swans did break with snowy breast its glassiness; and there the lily lifted to the wooing air its white and azure beauties, and its stem girdled with leaves, almost as fair as them: the swallow, with its shrill and twittering note, darted along its surface, and the trout, after the skimming insects leaping out from its cool home, made round about it float a thousand widening rings. my heart was full to surfeiting of joy, and i did look into thine eyes, and on thy cheek, and took a draught of love, for thought did ever cull some fancied charın, thou wert so beautiful ! - the summer night's reverie. [june, methought, that none for many a weary mile were near, nor aught around us to destroy this seat of bliss, this paradise of joy, illumin'd ever by love's golden smile :- for us alone the bright boughs blossom'd round; for us alone the young flowers prank'd the ground; the evening shed its rosy tints; the birds chaunted their hymns of joy from every tree'; for us alone the never idle bee treasured its honey'd store ; our very words savour'd of luxury and sweetness, more than speech can tell ; to love, and to adore each other, and uncheck'd to wander free, our only care and duty seem'd to be! methought, i ponder'd on the vanish'd scenes of noisy cities, and the haunts of men; of knavish cunning; of the fool who leans on sandy piles ; of sin within its den ; of jealousy ; and grief that wails aloud ; of care that walks amid the smiling crowd with heavy heart ; of penury that pines in roofless hovels, where the shower descends; of pale disease, whom pain the torturer rends, inch after inch, from life that slow declines; and dark remorse, with wild and bloodshot eye, clenching his sinewy hands in agony !- shuddering i turn'd, and saw thee at my side, watching my looks ;-these ills had pass'd away, like mists before the glorious dawn of day, and left our hearts and souls beatified, without a care, without a fear to roam, scenes pregnant with a most unearthly joy, where grief could never come, nor cares destroy, with one sad thought, the blessings of our home! thought had no entrance here of yew-trees dark, of church-yards sombre, and of wormy graves, of melancholy vaults, and dripping caves; and on each brow, where youth had set his mark, methought a gentle silentness did lie, which spoke the vigour of eternity; when lo! as gazing on a silver cloud, we stood admiring, from the heaven it came lower and lower, and a tongue of flame glow'd in its centre; and, at length, it bow'd its volume to the earth, and broader grew the central light; while, from its inner shrine, stepp'd shining forth, with countenance divine, a radiant angel, and he look”d at me as if in pity; then he took thy hand, and bade thee go with him; he waved his wand, Ånd the dim voluines of the chariot-cloud closed upon both, concealing like a shroud his radiance, and thy beauty; and it rose majestical, as doth the eagle dun, when bent to drink the fountains of the sun, and round its path unmingled splendour glows.- there, as with throbbing heart, and stedfast gaze, i watch'd its quick ascent, methought it grew a speck, within the empyrean blue, fainter and fainter waned upon my sight, and melted in the lucid arch of night! .) the summer night's reverie. dismay'd, discomfited, i kept mine eye fix'd on the space, where i had seen thee last; and, gazing through the dim and empty sky, stood statue-like, all silent, and aghast ;- sudden the clouds roll’d o'er the hemisphere; the sunshine was not; and an inky hue blotted the stars, and heaven's serener blue; the lake rose up in madness loud and drear, lashing to foam its huge and billowy tide, heaving and sinking, dark, and dim-descried ; the forest, with a melancholy sound, waved to and fro its wide umbrageous boughs, till the tall oaks fell crashing; and around as if of time i saw the final close; bright flash'd the lightnings, and the thunders spoke awfully deep-i trembled, and awoke ! a on the alleged decline of dramatic writing. if we may be allowed to judge of them down with an increased tenden- the feelings of others by our own, the cy to the same opinion, so much the lovers of the drama will feel no little better. pleasure in the publication of moore's taking into one view the whole sheridan. * its very announcement range of the british drama, it has al- was like a ray of sunshine through a ways seemed to me that the great and cloudy sky. nor is the satisfaction it injurious change, (for change there has affords much abated by the omission been) in this species of writing, was of the promised life. i, for my part, a sudden one. it was one of the many would much rather read it unconnect- evils, great and small, which flowed in ed with his works. sheridan is alrea- at the restoration, and one of the dy a classic ; and to see his plays sim- most incurable. if the french taste, ply collected and printed upon good as well as the romish religion, could paper, with mr davison's best types, have been sent back with james the is quite“ a fillip," as old ladies say, to second to st germains, it would have all whoare suffering under adesponden- been of little consequence. but the cy occasioned by the decline of the dra- commonwealth was an inter-regnum ma. the greatest croakers on this score in the drama as well as in the mo- must, at least, make an exception in narchy; an easy way was prepared by favour of richard brinsley sheridan. the fanaticism of the puritans, and the he may shine, like claudian, perhaps, thing, when once adopted, could not in the midst of an age of darkness- be dismissed again sans ceremonie, like but that is another thing. he is still an unpopular family, or persecuted in- a "column in the melancholy waste" to silence like an obnoxious religion. - stray diamond washed up from the dramatic writings of the period the waters of oblivion upon a shore of between elizabeth and charles the pebbles. there has, after all, been second, are confessedly the glory of too much wailing and lamentation the literature of this country. they about this imputed dwindling of dra- are no where else to be paralleled. matic intellect. i must own i have they are unique. springing, as it better hopes on this head than many were, naturally; the indigenous and of my neighbours; nor has a cool con- spontaneous growth of the soil,--they sideration of the question at all dimi- have all the vigour with the perfection nished the force of these consolatory of nature. the plays of shakespeare, conclusions. should the readers, if and of the other lights of the olden any, of the following remarks, lay time, will be found, if critically ex- · the dramatic works of the right hon. r. b. sheridan, now first collected and edited, with a preface, by thomas moore, esq. vols. vo. murray, london, . on the alleged decline of dramatic writing. [june, amined, to be written on principles competition with those of the period philosophical, and yet simple,-stri- since the accession of the house of king, and yet recondite. in their treat- hanover. the wits of anne must ment of the tragic, which is itself ele- be taken into the account. with this vated nature, that is to say, a repre- brilliant and extensive era, the present sentation of events essentially exalted state of the drama cannot, i fear, be and deeply interesting; the poetical compared without disadvantage. i exaggeration is uniformly suppressed must venture to contend, however, that and kept down, in compliance with our the comparison will not be found to be common ideas of the natural. the feel- of so trying a nature as many persons ings of the reader, or spectator, are at are inclined to suppose. tracted and engaged by the strongest contrary to the opinion of most cri- and most familiar language, used to tics, it will, i believe, be found, that it convey the most poetical thoughts and is in tragic talent that the dramatic boldest metaphors. the natural ten- literature of the present day is most dency of tragedy to bombast and de- deficient. in fact, there is a general clamation, is sobered by the admixture deficiency in tragedy, from the times of thoughts, and phrases, and words, of the restoration ; but to that period, which are common and familiar. lear, which includes otway and southern, the deserted and powerless king, and the preponderance must without doubt broken-hearted father, is throughout be conceded. if we go over the list the whole sublimity of his sorrows of worthies, who wrote during the life- still “ a very foolish fond old man time of the merry monarch and his threescore and upwards.” humanity successor, we have first in name, dry, is never lost sight of. in their come- den, then lee, otway, shadwell, and dy, on the contrary, the events of com- others. of these, if we except otway, mon life are continually heightened scarcely one has left a tragedy which by a junction with the poetical and ro- has continued to keep possession of the mantic. even the melancholy and sar- stage. dryden's rhyming plays, in castic jaques, who abruptly quits or- spite of their nervous poetry, and fine lando with a “god be wi' you, an you versification, soon died" of a surfeit talk in blank verse,” is, for the most of bad taste.” his all for love was part, made to talk blank verse him- long popular, and is certainly a piece self. of fine poetical passages. it has not, in these wholesome principles the i believe, been played for many years. frenchified wits of charles the second shadwell's don john was endured effected a radical change. the roman- probably for the sake of the excite- tic was transferred from comedy to ments of the story of that popular tragedy; and in comedy, mere wit or profligate. nat. lee's alexander, with slang became the substitute for the all its extravagance, is a favourite to poetical. since that time it has be- the present hour ; his other pieces are come a sort of solecism to talk of the much inferior. the most powerful comic muse. the greatest stretch of tragedy, however, of that time, is per- definition can hardly include the au- haps the “edipus” of lee and dry- thor of a modern comedy amongst the den, a composition of wonderful poets. the novelist has a much bet- strength, but which, on account of ter right, and joe miller almost as its subject, modern fastidiousness has good a one. in tragedy, the lofty, and long banished from the stage. in yet natural characters of shakespeare, truth, after venice preserved, and the fletcher, marlow, and massinger, were orphan, until southern, lillo, and deserted for declamatory lovers - long- congreve had written, the drama by winded and drawling compositions of no means abounded in talent. the bombast and metaphysics-ladies and fatal marriage, oroonoko, fatal cu- gentlemen with their mouths full of riosity, and then the mourning bride, unintelligible professions of impossible and the revenge, and zara, soon performances. the amour of comedy followed, together with the plays of had become a witty profligacy, and not rowe, which last ought not, however, seldom a ribald licentiousness. such to be classed as first-rate. tamerlane, were the dramatic fruits of the age of jane shore, and calista, are most re- charles the second. but it is not the markable for their smooth and often dramatists of that and the succeed- cloying versification. their diction is ing reign only, that are to be put in tumid, however, though correct, and .] on the alleged decline of drumatic writing. seems to class them with phillips' distrest maxiins of the french school, and it mother, and addison's cato, would would seem that he was so vain as not perhaps be injustice to any of hardly to conceal his preference of his them. own sonorous but declamatory and some of the tragedies of this period pompous speeches to the dialogue of seem to have been written with a view shakespeare. the later plays of the to the shakespearian manner of in- last reign, however, become more terposing prose dialogue, of a light and more free from that pompous and comic character, in order to re- and formal interlocution, and smooth lieve the tragic scenes. the ill suc- and monotonous versification, which cess, or rather the vile taste with which rowe carried to the utmost. dr this is invariably done, strongly shews johnson's irene is perhaps the last the depravity which then infected the perfect specimen of the old school of drama. the ribaldry with which ot- tragedy. logan's runnimede, dou- way has mixed up venice preserved, glas, and greathead's regent, are all is incredible almost, to those who are written with evident struggles after only acquainted with the play “as the freedom of the earlier dramatists. acted." the latter is especially so. i remem- shadwell's don john is as bad, and ber the monthly review, which isabella is injured by an admixture to have as violent a horror of innova- somewhat similar. but the most pro- tion in poetry as the quarterly has voking specimen of all is d'avenant in government, is much shocked by and dryden’s alteration of the tem- somebody in this play telling another pest. with an inconceivable degene- to racy of taste, the exquisite romance of “go to the huddled market-place, and shakespeare, which seems to come as there near poetical perfection as human in- dissect thy heart upon the public sham- firmity will permit, is dismembered bles ;''- for the admission of new characters, and more fashionable dialogue, and a mode of expression coarse enough, the air of the enchanted island of pros- no doubt, for persons of weak nerves. pero and his daughter infected with the current has continued some- the breath of that covent garden what to increase as it flowed. even slang, which, more or less, tainted al- mrs yearsley the milkwoman's tragic most every play of the period. specimens, are by no means milk and during the succeeding reigns of the water matters. of miss hannah more's monarchs of the house of hanover, percy perhaps this cannot be said ; in- nothing, doubtless, has been produced deed' miss hannah herself has since equal to the best tragedies of the pre- repented of having written it, in which ceding period. gustavus vasa is per- there is no great harm, provided it be haps a better play than cato, and the for the right reason. miss baillie's grecian daughter of murphy, and admirable tragedies, though not in- roman father of whitehead, are per- tended for the stage, have done much haps equal, and more than equal, to to reform the acted drama; and the the inferior productions of otway, or increasing editions of the older drama- lee, or lillo; but their masterpieces tists afford ample proof, that the tide of are still unmatched by any thing that publie taste is setting strongly in the has succeeded them. the best praise right direction. lamb's john wood- of modern tragedy is, that it has slow- vil, the tragedies of messrs chene- ly, but gradually, shewn reviving vix and galt, and likewise, mr barry symptoms of that better taste which cornwall's scenes, are full of hope and was depraved on the return of the stu- promise. mr coleridge, mr maturin, arts. lord byron has oddly enough and lord byron, night do better than styled horace walpole “ ultimus ro- they have done. there would be no manorum,” for his tragedy of the mys- condescension in taking a lesson from terious mother. with a story far more shakespeare. revolting than that of (edipus, it is a the immediate time of the kesto- play of considerable genius and power ration was by no means remarkably of writing. but the epithet is sadly prolific of good comedies. amongst misapplied. “ultimus gallorum”would the acting comedies of the present day, be more suitable. his taste was noto we find the country wife and the re- riously founded upon the starched hearsal, altered into the country girl, vol. ix. m on the alleged decline of dramatic writing. [june and the critic. the nonjuror, now al- unsatisfactory. his plots, indeed, are tered into the hypocrite, having itself inartificially artificial. they are loose been manufactured by cibber from and improbable in the general con- moliere, and others, was much later, duct, which is, perhaps, no mighty but may be mentioned, as having been matter of complaint; but then they oddly kept alive by the political and re- are just as improbable in the detail, ligious feelings which took their rise as must always be the case when the from the second expulsion of the stu- characters themselves are improbable. arts. the wit of these comedies has carried of the play writers in charles se- them triumphantly through every cond's time, etherege was for some thing. like figures composed of gems, time a favourite, though there is both they sparkle from top to bottom. 'more wit and more power in killi- lord and lord's gentleman, master grew. wycherly supplanted both, and and servingman, fop and no fop, say will continue to be read whilst eng- their good things on every occasion, lish comedy exists. the comic vein of and in equal profusion. wycherly dryden was certainly any thing but has more grossness, with not half the happy. in grossness he outdoes all his wit and eloquence of congreve. van- contemporaries. some one has said, burgh, with little less wit, and more that sir george etherege was the first humour, has infinitely more originali- who founded a comedy barefacedly up- ty of natural character than either. on the sexual passion ; but the asser cibber has character, and a vivacity tion may be doubted. nothing can be which, itself never fagging, never more openly and unblushingly bad wearies his reader. the comedies of than dryden's limberham, or the vanburgh, from uniting in themselves kind keeper. of shadwell one does the greatest proportion of conjoined not well know what to think or to wit and natural character, will proba- say, his pieces, both tragely and co- bly be read more than any of the co- medy, are duller than a “ concert of mic productions of the time. the pro- antient music," and twice as uncouth. voked wife is a masterpiece of natu- he is destitute of wit, but contrives ral painting, easy wit, and humorous to supply its place with a strange reflection. that it is a faithful tran- slang, and a coarse jog-trot kind of script of the manners of the age can- humour. his characters are by no not be doubted; and the pithiness of means devoid of originality, but they the dialogue has not often been equal- are invariably heavy, and sinack of the led since the days of shakespeare. vulgar. perhaps the best description the provoked husband has less wit, of shadwell's plays is to say, with and is every way inferior; but the dogberry, “ they are most tolerable, confederacy is another sterling come- and not to be endured.” they are pre- dy, according to the taste of the time. cisely the productions to be expected the relapse, sheridan bas condescend- from such a man as dryden has de- ell to alter, under the title of a trip scribed - og” to be. to scarborough; though, as he himself the period following the accession is said to have owned, not for the bet- of the prince of orange affords a splen- ter. it was not, however, the most did display of comic genius. congreve, unlucky of his condescensions. of far- vanburgh, farquhar, and cibber, are quhar, i cannot help thinking, that he a formidable phalanx. of these, con- has been a little overrated, though, greve has the highest reputation; but far be it from me to endeavour to de- whether quite deservedly or not, may tract from the real merit of some of admit of a question. he was certain- his airy and most agreeable comedies. ly the man of the most extensive ge- cibber's careless husband is, per- nius. to write the mourning bride, haps, better than any thing of far- and love for love, was no work for quhar's. one proof of its excellence one even uncommon mind; it proves is, that pope has attempted to throw a the possession of powers of the most doubt upon its authorship :- opposite descriptions. he exemplifies, “ had cibber's self the careless husband however, most completely, the change wrote_" of taste which had taken place in this species of writing. his plots and his if he had not, his works afford toler characters are equally artificial; and, able evidence of his ability to have taken separately, to say the truth, done so. she would and she would . on the alleged decline of dramatic writing: not, though inferior to the careless sense-profligacy with feeling-fasti- husband, deservedly keeps firm pos- diousness with 'politeness, -and the session of the stage. cibber was a pil- tints of the dignified and the ridicu- ferer, to be sure, but he was an adroit lous cross, and mingle and overshade one. his love makes a man, or the each other at every movement-"aye, fop's fortune, is an edifying specimen varying like the pigeon.” in mur- of the taste of the age. he has here phy's comedy, dash wood and old by- compounded a most sprightly comedy grove, lady jane and lady bell, are out of two of beaumont and fletcher, all perfectly finished portraits; and taking care to extract every iota of the whole action is so natural, as to poetry with as little injury as possible seem absolutely a transcript of real to the marking of the characters and events, with scarcely any heightening. the vivacity of the action-a process of the characters of goldsmith and of which he seems to have been com- foote are more farcical, though highly pletely master. still cibber has by original; nor must the wheel of no means had justice. the bitter en- fortune and the west indian of mity of pope and his friends, like cumberland be forgotten. they are that of johnson and others to foote, sterling comedies of character. has thrown a lasting sha le upon his it is needless to particularize fur- character as an author. the comedies ther, save only in one instance. the of steele are of two classes. the fu- dramatic works of sheridan are nearly neral is an exhibition of ludicrous and sufficient to give the preponderance in extravagant humour, not easily to be this department of literature, to the paralleled. the conscious lovers is period of which he was the ornament. perhaps one of the first symptoms of with almost an unequalled power of what has been styled sentimental co- pourtraying original character, and medy. this species seems to have with a plentiful store of humour of been adopted as a sort of substitute the most delicate description, the sheer for the poetical in comedy, and was wit of his pieces has never been sur- first fairly tried in the false delicacy passed. if sheridan be compared to of hugh' kelly, a play of great but congreve, he will, i think, be found transient popularity. the principle, very nearly to equal him, even in that however, upon which it was written, for which he most eminent. the still subsists under varions modifica- brilliancies of sheridan are less forced tious, and in many annoying varieties. than those of congreve. they seem from this period up to the present, to flow more naturally from the mouth if the comic muse has been less bril- of the speaker. they are always more liant, she has been more skilful in the or less imbued with character. con- first and most genuine province of co- greve's dramatis personæ always ap- merly, the nicely depicting original pear to be acting a part, and never characters of common life. the wri- more so than when they are particu- tings of murphy, the elder colman, larly smart. this was, no doubt, in goldsmith, garrick, foote, hoadley, part, the real air of the manners of morris, mrs cowley, mrs inchbald, that day ; but it pervades his plays cumberland, and others, inferior, as throughout. sheridan's witticisms, on they are, to those of their predecessors the contrary, spring from the occasion in the requisites of wit and point, dis- and “existing circumstances," as they play infinitely more of character, hu- say in parliament. when lady teazle, mour, and delicate delineation of man- on hearing the baffled lady sneer- ders. sheridan, amongst the moderns, well's wish,“ may, your husband live stands alone. the “ know your own these fifty years, exclaims, « oh ! mind” of murphy, and “ the clan- what a malicious creature !" it seems destine marriage” of colman and gare to be a moot point, whether or not the rick, include characters of the most joke is intentional, so naturally, and exquisite humour and admirably dis- yet so humorously, does it arise out of tinguished peculiarities. those who the situation. the scenes in which have seen mr farren play lord ogle- the scandalous coterie “ huddle jest by, in the latter piece, may have a upon jest, with such impassable .con- complete insight into the niceties of veyance,” remind one most strongly of that unique sample of nobility—in those of congreve, because there they which the infirmities of age so strange- evidently strain every nerve to be wit- ly, yet naturally, mingle with the ty, and succeed. gaieties of youth-vanity with good that sheridan's wit is evidently on the alleged decline of dramatic writing: (june, more easy and natural, is in some sort neither tragedy nor comedy-neither proved by its being more generally prose nor verse—pathetic farces-me- understood than that of any other dra- fodramas, “ et hoc genus omne," cer.. matic writer. when the school for tainly took its date from that unhappy scandal is acted, the pit chuckle, the production. sheridan was unfortu- galleries laugh, and even the boxes netely the proprietor of an unwieldy relish it. the hits tell all over the play-house, in which even his own house. lord byron informs us in the inimitable productions could not be preface to faliero, that “the school heard ; and he stooped to employ the for scandal is the play that has brought scene-painter and trumpeter to help least money, averuging the number of him out. it was a sad fatality for the times it has been acted." had his lord- public. his theatre should have been ship put the conclusion of the sen- less, or his pride greater. tence in italics, it woull have at once to expect such a man as sheridan explained itself, at least to every play- once in a century would be folly; and goer. probably hamlet or macbeth the dramatic writers of the present would be next on “manager dibdin's” day, instead of vainly attempting to list of unproductive plays upon the imitate his wit, would do well to re- average ; and some play, which had trace their steps, and look for models the good fortune to be damned by an amongst the old dramatic writers. overflowing house, might, for aught i not that they should parrot their lan- know, be first on the other side. the guage, but endeavour to catch some of fact is, the comedy, from its extreme the inspiration of their poetry. it is popularity, has become a favourite plain, ihat mere wit, separated from managerial stop-gup, or forlorn hope, character, is not in itselt sufficient to and is constantly acted to five-pound constitute the dramatic; for what is bouses, when any other would proba- the drama but a poetical representa- bly produce empty benches. tion of human life, of which wit is in every department of dramatic only a small portion ? it is equally writing which he has attempted, she- plain, that a mere transcript or servile. ridan has excelled. his “ critic” has delineation of peculiarities of manner supplanted the rehearsal ; and the is essentially prosaic, and, what is duenna is the best comic opera in the worse, in its nature transient and fa- language, which, to be sure, is not ding. it is from their natural poetry, inuch to say; but it is an excellent that the comedies of shakespeare and comic opera. in this comparison, how- fletcher will be fresh, almost as on ever, must not be included that ano their first conception, when the wit malous effort of genius, the beggar's and slaug of more modern dramatists opera, which is neither more nor less will seem hard, and antiquated, and than a moral satire in the shape of an unprepossessing. the salt of poetry opera. nor must his light farce of is wanted to make the matter savoury, st patrick's day be forgotten. it is it will not keep without it. a noted as admirable in its wit and drollery, as critic is filled with enthusiasm by the it is slight in other requisites. had comedies of queen anne's time, and sheridan never written pizarro, he yearns after the days, when belles and would have left his dramatic fame as beaux, in hoop-petticoats and bag- pure as his wit, and as unassailable as wigs, fluttered through the stately his patriotism. but the manager pre- walks of st james's park. but he has dominated for once over the man of probably overlooked a principal cause taste, and he condescended to go to of his own feelings. he has forgotten germany for materials for the drama, that the lapse of time will confer some- and what was worse, to go to kotze- thing of the romantic and of the poem bue. it was an unlucky importation. tical upon that which originally had he had better have brought over a them not; and it is this, together with bale of cotton, with the plague in the the wit and good sense which they middle of it. there is no literary qua- embody, that has helped to endear rantine ; and it is to be feared, that in these scenes to his imagination. there pizarro had their origin all those bom can be little doubt of this. time is a bastical, showy, noisy, prose-run-mad sort of claude loraine glass, which exhibitions, which have since inunda- bestows a brighter tint upon objects ted the stage. the recent downward seen through it. lord foppington is progress of the drama, through plays not now a mere fop-a bag-wig and .] on the alleged decline of dramatic writing. rapier are not now merely fashionable, is to be hoped, that the admirable ma- but they are something better. they terials for dramas of this description, have become picturesque by distance. which both english and scottish his- the vulgarity of common reality is tory and manners afford, may be no veiled by a haze and mist of romance, longer neglected. we see every day which envelopes and alters objects in the play-wrights of the minor theatres proportion as they are far from us. so manufacture pleasing, nay, in a sort impossible is it to divest the represen- poetical, pieces out of the novels of tation of departed things of this sha- the author of waverley, and our co- dowing, that the spirit of the most mic poets sit still and do nothing. prosaic or vulgar personage, who had yet mr cornwall or mr milman is died fifty years ago, would assume just as likely to succeed in a comedy, something of the poetical. let those like all's well that ends well, or who doubt this, read that scene in the merchant of venice, as in at- “ the lover's progress," in which tempting to rival othello, or romeo the apparition of " mine host” ap- and juliet; and it would be a much pears, and mark the effect of this most more hopeful business for the author homely of all ghosts. of the nympholept to try the same the honey-moon of tobin, and style, than to write any more comedies the mountaineers of colman, are de- about “ trade in the west.” let cided and pleasant symptoms of the men of talent once begin to turn their return of the poetical comic drama. attention to the comedies, as well as to these two plays, though neither of the tragedies of shakespeare, and his them is written with high dramatic contemporaries, and there will soon power, have continued to be popular. be little reason to despise the modern this can only be attributed to the plan drama. upon which they are constructed. it t. d. mediocrity. mr editor, tive from the want of culture, or from ir is maintained by persons affecting that which is destructive of its princi- a superior delicacy of taste in the ele- ple of life. poetry suffers grievously gant arts, that "none but works of under its tyranny, and if the other arts the highest quality can possibly be to- should sometimes escape, it is because lerated, by those who have a true feel- their principles are less understood, ing for the productions of genius.” in and ignorance betrays the critic into justification of this rule, it is asserted occasional candour ; but when, as it that “ the excellence of such compo- generally happens, he makes up in sitions is of a nature that admits of no boldness of animadversion, his defi- middle course to which a qualified ciency of skill, painting and her sisters praise inight be given. they are either experience the common fate of genius, precious or worthless; if not high, which is to have nearly all their works they are low; what is pre-eminent is declared worthy only of being hated unique and incomparable: all below or despised. that elevated point being more or less but what is this direful state, so tainted with error, are in a degree vi- much abhorred by critics and dreaded cious, and therefore offensive to the by professors ? mediocrity is common- purity of taste." ly defined to be “that middle point thus after skimming off what those between the superlatively good and its luminaries imagine to be the creanı of opposite extreme, where the high re- excellence, the remainder, pronounced lish of beauty is so diluted, and its ef- unclean, is condemned in the mass, fects are so chastened as to present no- and rendered eminently odious, in that thing that can be either highly appro- state of reprobation termed mediocrity, ved or harshly censured ; possessing which, by the same authority, is de- neither merits that charm, nor faulls clared to be the opprobrium of genius, that offend us.” and “ hateful alike to gods and inen. here, it is true, we have an idea of there is no vandalisin which can mediocrity in the abstract; but, un- exceed this dogma in its most mischie- fortunately for the definition, works vous influence upon talent; for it mat- of genius so balanced by opposing qua- ters not whether it becomes uproduc- lities exist only in the imagination of mediocrity. [june, the critic; or if such a union were in fact pre-eminence and mediocrity possible, it is not true that, by altering are just whatever the existing state of the balance, the result would be some- cultivated talent may chance to deter- thing more estimable. it would surely mine. the rapturous productions of be ridiculous to assert in plain terms, one age are sunk into insipidity by the that the excellence of a composition more advanced art of another, which, would be improved by a mixture of as the ever-moving wheel revolves, defects ; yet it is actually on this pre- either falls by its own decay, or is ex- sumption that mediocrity is condemn- tinguished by rival splendour, more ed as peculiarly offensive. we are not brilliant, but not more durable. the averse, it is admitted, to compound for works of middle merit in the time of a few faults to obtain higher beauties, raphael and michael angelo were be- but we are not therefore to believe that yond all comparison higher than when the blemishes contributed any thing giotto and cimabue were at the head to our admiration. of their profession, or afterwards, when if criticism would permit us to fol- the “ raphael of the day” was pro- low the desires of our own hearts, we claimed in the person of the chevalier should naturally be most pleased with mengs. those works which to us appeared to carlo maratti is usually named as have the greatest number of agreeable an example of confirmed mediocrity, qualities. these would be our best ; and men whose ideas of excellence are and immediately below that high point adjusted to a higher scale, affect to con- of pre-eminence we should perceive a template his works with apathy or dis- series to commence, in which its merit gust. but this character of the artist would be gradually diminished until is formed on a comparison with his it reached its lowest stage, and, judg- more eminent predecessors ; let their ing reasonably and fairly, our appro- works be annihilated or forgotten, and bation would lower in the same pro- those of carlo maratti will be disco- gressive order ; but by the sentence vered to possess a very large propor- pronounced on the crime of mediocri- tion of positive merit. being the best, ty, we are led to suppose that there is they would be declared by every voice something somewhere about the mid-“most excellent ;" in which case, there way, between the best and worst, which is no precious quality in art that would is singularly repulsive, and so much not be seen in the divine works of car- to be feared and shunned, that it were lo maratti ; professors would imitate, better never to adventure in the art and connoisseursexclaim; and it might than pause at that ill-fated spot. be again said—as one great genius said to detect the folly or affectation of of another,that “to kiss the hem of this principle, we have only to compare his cloak would abundantly satisfy even it with the practice of the critic; for an ambitious man.” although he pretends to shrink with although it may not be compatible wounded sensibility from inferiority with the dignity of criticism to balance in every shape, note the history of his the consequences of its principles with predilections, and you will find him their truth, when the tutors of ingenia successively the adorer of every shade ous youth set before their tyros the of excellence, and every fashion and hobgoblin of mediocrity to stimulate quality of art. it is therefore the mere their exertions, they should consider prattle of idleness to say that true taste whether an object so fearful might not can approve of nothing but what is in- rather check than encourage their ala- trinsically good, and comparatively crity; and also, when they gravely pro- the best, since it is evident that this pounce mediocrity to be a thing “hated true taste is of all things the most ac- both by gods and men,” whether they commodating, and can doat upon any should not first be well assured of the thing and every thing in its turn. the fact; for the cause of truth is not al- connoisseur tribe, in all times and ways best promoted by incredible evi- places, forms to itself a criterion of its dence. own, and lays down rules of judgment, that men may be moved by no ade- which, as they refer to no established quate cause to hatred or approbation and permanent code, scarcely survive on matters of taste, it will not be dis- their authors; though time is conti- puted; but that the gods have the same nually brushing away the unprofitable sense of abhorrence for this unfortu- labours in some new shape, they as nate stage of inferiority, is not equally constantly reappear. certain. if we may judge by their own .] mediocrity. works, and compare them with each is good in all its degrees, and not, by other as they appear to us, both in an unnatural pursuit of defects, and physical and intellectual nature, where habits of peevish rejection, leave it the same variety, the same gradations with scarcely any other sentiment than between beauty and deformity, be that of aversion. by the fastidious cri- tween meanness and magnificence, are tic we are placed in the situation of no less apparent than in the produce the great sancho, before a table bend- tions of men, it would seem that, how- ing under a load of sumptuous viands ever immortals may feel with respect prepared for bis refreshment, with an to what is most excellent, they can at officious doctor at his elbow directing least behold with complacency the nu- his choice of food ; and by whose im- merous examples which do not reach pertinent solicitude the honest gover- that elevated point. this extraordi- nor, with an appetite for every thing nary delicacy, this critical squeainish- betore him, was well nigh famished in ness, has indeed nothing of divinity in the midst of what appeared to his un- it. it is neither produced nor sanction- sophisticated eye a luxurious abun- ed by the gods, but is a creature of hu- dance. heavens ! how different was man growth, partaking of human infir- that state of subdued taste and elegant mity; and though believed to be the starvation from the paradise of camaco issue of fine taste, had ignorance and the type of liberal criticism-where brutality been its parents, it could not the same illustrious personage found have been more inimical to the welfare himself surrounded by the flesh-pots of art. if it be the effect of refinement, of egypt, and at full liberty to approve it is a plethoric symptom in the cause, and enjoy ; and where, yielding to the and indicates a state of vicious excess; generous impulse of his nature, to for the taste so highly rectified is not meet with equal pleasure the kind in- improved either in delicacy or inten- tentions of those who endeavoured to sity of feeling. instead of being an en- please, he realized all that his luxuri- largement of the capacity of receiving ous fancy could conceive of human fe- pleasure from the operations of genius, licity! it is in reality a contraction of that be with this impressive example be- nevolent provision in nature,-a power fore us, of the vigorous relish ota sim- communicated to the mind of circum- ple and natural taste, we are compel- scribing its own enjoyments; whereas led to acknowledge, (wherein we shall the taste which is free from this vice, be sanctioned by the prince of pro- has more ample resources, and can ex- verbs) that “a good appetite is better tract pleasure from works various in than a delicate taste.” by the one we their degrees of merit; equally just and have many sources of pleasure, by the liberal in its perceptions, it can distin- other few. if the generality of men guish the excellence which is attained, can be gratified by imperfect or infe- and that also which was intended, and rior productions in the fine arts, be- discovers motives of approbation both cause their higher excellencies are un- in the aim and in the performance. known to them, it is better they should in truth, there are few of the pro- continue so, than by a superfluous re- ductions of genius that rise to the ele- finement be alınost excluded from such vation of the despised character in enjoyments. the pleasure diffused question, which do not contain quite by that happy ignorance, gives, in its enough to satisfy the general appetite cheering effect, vivacity and strength for such things, and also that of the to art, while the other operates upon majority of those who assume the di- it as a blight. an ingenious youth, rection of public taste, if they did not who is certain of finding admirers in find it much more convenient to ac- all the stages of his progress, will have quire a kind of importance by dispu- every motive to proceed with vigour, ting the claims of merit in others, than and consequently every chance of ul- by a fair competition to establish their timate success; but if warned, that unless he reaches the summit, contempt the arts are our legitimate offspring, instead of praise will certainly be the and nature has bound us to the chil- only reward of his labour, he will dren of our love. the business of the shrink, at the outset, from an underta- critic should therefore be to strengthen king of such difficulty and hazard. this affection, by enabling the mind to i have now, learned sir, expended discover, and appreciate liberally what all my shafts, and i hope not without own. mediocrity. [june, some effect; but if you think the ene the refinement of public taste must my still on the field, seize your lance, precede the developement of talent ; i conjure you, or trusty broad-sword shew that genius put forth its fairest which none can wield with more skill blossoms when men had no critics to and adroitness than yourself—and at direct their judgment; and finally, one mighty stroke rid us of that pesti- that it never thrives in ihe soil where ferous race of doctors, who, while they taste has many cultivators:so may we profess to regulate andamendour taste, hope to see the candour and good sense deprive us both of appetite and food. of the many take their natural course, in plain english, shew the world, i men of genius, though not of the high- entreat you, by arguments worthy of est class, receive their due proportion your pen, the pernicious tendency of of fame, and the public at large, relie- that hypocritical spirit, which, forever ved from the bugbear of criticism, al- correcting and improving, is itself the lowed to be pleased with the produc- enemy of all improvement; and which, tions of art, where, and whenever it chilling with an icy breath the free shall be so disposed; and also to ex- current of public feeling, deprives the press that pleasure in simplicity and arts of genius of their best nourishment truth. and most honourable reward. confute candidus. by facts the too prevalent opinion, that italia. al signore l'editore. signore, prendo la libertà di mandarle un sonetto da me composto allorchè io stara per partire d'italia.' 'e il primo, per quanto che io sappia, che è stato com- posto, o almeno, dato alla luce da un britanno,* dal tempo felice in cui fiori la poesia inglese e scrisse il divinissimo milton. egli ci ha lasciati parecchi sonnetti in lingua italiana. forse ve ne sieno altri da altri poeti, ma adesso non mene ricordo. bisogna che si scusino le imperfezioni del mio sonnetto; e ciò si farà considerando che l' impresa è assai ardua e difficile per uno scozzese. mi crederà, con tutto rispetto, suo divotisso servitore, r sonetto. al bel soggiorno in cui sorride amore- pargoletto padron del mondo intero- al bel paese del suo dolce impero si volgon gli occhi miei, si il core. de' passati miei dì rammento l'ore ; s'abbassa il ciglio, ed il mesto pensiero nel futuro si svia torbido e nero; provando del destin tutto il rigore. qui sorgon,-tra tempeste e nebbia involte, - +l'eterne mura dell' ausonia amata, u? le speranze wie lascio sepolte. declina il sol:-la natura creata s'imbruna; e colla notte ancor più folte divengon le ombre dell'alma affannata. r italia, . . eccettuato sempre l' ornatissimo signore matthias. + " " l'eterne mura"-cicè, le alpi. .) captain parry's voyage. captain parry's voyager captain parry's voyage has been year, no fewer than fourteen green- far more successful than captain ross's, land ships, with all the skill which we and his book is proportionally more in- have heard boasted of as possessed by teresting and satisfactory ; both cirm their masters, were wrecked. and the cuinstances, however, we cannot help second he thus far accomplished ;-he thinking, in some degree attributable narrowed materially the field of fur. to the diversity of situation in which ther investigation, shewed expressly these officers have been placed. to where a passage could not be, where this diversity, therefore, we shall beg possibly it might yet be found, where to call the attention of our readers a after all he certainly ought himself to moment, before proceeding to the anae have found it, where no difficulty or lysis of the work before us ; convinced, danger opposed the discovery, but ap- as we are, on the one hand, that the parently a want of sufficient interest surge has already broken somewhat in the investigation, to bear him with heavily on captain ross's head, and undiminished ardour through a series may, for anght we know, be now again of previous disappointments to ultimate gathering against him; while, on the success. other, that captain parry's merits re captain parry's situation when heleft quire no bolstering up at another's ex. england in , was essentially dif- pence, that, on the contrary, it is both ferent froin all this. he had once alrea. his wish, repeatedly implied in his dy penetrated the ice in davis' straits, work, and his interest, to stand upon he felt confident, accordingly, that he his own ground only, and have ample could do it again ; and the benefit justice done to his less fortunate fore, which, in doing it, he derived from his runner in the career of northern dis. past experience, he takes an early oppor- covery. tunity in his narrative of expressing in that career captain ross was the in the terms which will be found in the first to be employed in modern times; note. + this, therefore, was no object and on his appointment two several of his solicitude, it did not fiu his objects must have presented themselves mind at all, it ranked merely among to his mind as points of pursuit. the the specialties of his undertaking. but one was, to get into baffin's bay at any besides this, when beyond this obstacle, rate, an object only once achieved be he was not, like captain ross, adrift, fore, by baffin himself, and wbich had as it were, in an unknown sea, where subsequently, for a period of two hun a passage might equally be found in dred years, foiled all the attempts, and one place as in another; he had not there had been many, wbich had been only a specific object of pursuit, and made to compass it. the next was, to that raised in his estimation by be- see what he could find when he was coming a first object, to say nothing of there. now, of these, the first he most the additional importance it must have successfully attained ; and first and in acquired from the disappointment, and safety, without the assistance of exper even indignation, expressed in eng- rience or previous example, penetrated land at the previous failure in ascer- that barrier of ice which seems almost taining it, but also specific points on permanently fixed in a diagonal across which to look for it. add to all which, and along davis's straits ; in following he found it at the first search, and his track through which, the following tasted of none of that“ hope deferred," • journal of a voyage for the discovery of a north-west passage from the atlantic to the pacific, performed in the years - , in his majesty's ships, hecla and griper, under the orders of william edward parry, r.n. f.r.Š. and commander of the expedition. with an appendix. to. london, murray, . " if any proof were wanting of the value of local knowledge in the navigation of the polar seas, it would be amply furnished by the fact of our having now reached the en- trance of lancaster sound a month earlier than we had done in , although we had then sailed a fortnight sooner. this difference is to be attributed entirely to the confidence which felt from the experience gained on the former voyage, that an open sea would be found to the westward of the barrier of ice which occupies the middle of baffir's bay. without that confidence, it would have been little better than madness to have attempted a passage through so compact a body of ice, when no indication of a clear sea appeared beyond it.” p. . vol. ix. n captain parry's voyage. [june, which makes the heart sick and the in analyzing the present work, it spirits impatient, in discovery as in will be difficult for us to avoid some every thing else. repetitions; for throughout the whole the merits of the two officers in time that these northern voyages have question must not then be too hastily occupied public attention, we have appreciated, from their different suc- been so assiduous in picking up recent cess; neither also ought their respec- information respecting their progress, tive books to be estimated without re- for the benefit of our readers, and so ference to a similar diversity in the si fortunate in obtaining it accurate and tuation in which each was composed. minute, we find ourselves now precise- captain ross knew that his conductly in the situation which deterred us was censured by his superiors and the from examining captain ross's work public; his tone, therefore, almost when it appeared forestalled of our throughout, is apologetical, and many matter out of our own mouth. refer- of his details are lumbering, egotisti- ring, however, to our th number cal, and heavy. but when a man feels for a more regular narrative than we that he is likely to be defrauded of shall now offer, and to the chart pub- what is strictly his due on one point, lished in it for illustration, we shall he naturally swells on all ; and hé merely connect the parts of the whole were a harsh judge of human nature which seem to us the most interest- who would too rigidly scan the infir- ing, and conclude with a brief and po- mity. captain arry, on the other pular notice of the scientific results of hand, returned to reap the well-earned this very remarkable voyage. rewards of success, with incidents to the expedition arrived in sir james tell of a romantic and unusual charac- lancaster's sound, or rather at the ter, and talents for telling them, which, mouth of barrow's straits, on the th in despite of his modest excuses about july, , and the recognition of the his education, it is difficult to imagine shore, and still more of their own foot- that he should not suspect were re- steps on that shore, which had survi- spectable, for, in truth, they seem to ved the winter, and remained to tes- us first-rate. without a care or a fear, tify that that year, at least, but little therefore, he seems to have written, snow had fallen, seems to have excited with singular facility and precision, the feelings, and animated the enthu- whatever came in order, and to have siasm of the gallant little band compo- thus given the world a volume consi- sing it, in no ordinary degree. their derably larger than captain ross's, yet patience was for some days exercised replete with interest almost through- by contrary winds; but on the d out. august, a fresh breeze sprung up from and in making theseobservations, let the eastward, and the great discovery it not be supposed that we areseeking to was achieved. from the th to the make out a case for captain ross, and th, during all which time farther for this purpose are desirous of depre- passage to the westward was barred by ciating captain parry. the truth is, continuous ice, they were employed in we know very little of either officer; exploring prince regent's inlet; from and if we have any prejudices at all, the mouth of which, on the th, they they run in the opposite direction, for again made a start westerly along and we think very highly of captain parry, through the ice, which, both now and and are even eager to add to what we the following year, they found packed have said, that by his conduct through- on its western side. on the d they out, but chiefly subsequent to the dis- opened two fine channels, one named covery of a passage through lancaster after the duke of wellington, trend. sound, he amply deserved the success ing n.n.w.between cornwallis island which had in the first instance attend- and north devon of the chart, and ed him in making it. perhaps indeed quite clear of ice as far as the eye could we may recur to this subject, for it is reach, both in and ; the a favourite one with us. but mean other nearly west, not so open, nor in while, we love fair play, however it that respect so promising, but more cut, and have an old-fashioned school directly in the course which it was injunction, suum cuique tribuito, still their object to pursue. the last ac- ringing in our ears; with which, how- cordingly was preferred by captain ever, having thus complied, we pro- parry; and although detained almost ceed now to our principal task. a whole day at its mouth, by the th .] captain parry's voyage. he had reached west longitude, hecla and griper to look out for win- almost ° beyond lancaster's sound, ter quarters. these he was fortunate and near the longitude, as he concei- enough to find of excellent quality, ved from the phenomena of variation, and by, the th he was snug; all of one of the magnetic poles. · imme- hands, however, being previously ex- diately about him, in this run, was posed to severe fatigue in cutting a thickly studded with islands, on seve- canal yards, or nearly two miles ral of which he landed; and far to the and a third long, through the young southward were descried occasional ice, now, on an average, seven inches patches of land, but whether also thick, by which the ships entered win- islands, or points in the adjoining con- ter harbour. tinent, it was impossible to determine. here they lay ten whole months, a on the th, they made the s.e. point part of each individually of the whole of melville island, with which they year; and the five most interesting were destined to become afterwards chapters, to the general reader, of cap- better acquainted ; and on its southern tain parry's narrative are devoted to shore, on the th september, the name this period. we wish it were possible of bounty cape was given to a point indeed to extract the spirit of the of land situate in longitude w., whole for his sake ; for really this gal- latitude ° ' n., the first in the lant young officer loses half his fame, scale of parliamentary rewards for dis- when his exertions, guided by good coveries within the arctic circle being sense and good feeling, on this trying here earned. on the th, they an- occasion, are not distinctly appreciated. chored, for the first time since leaving but we can only select, which we shall england, in a bay even then called do in his own words. the bay of the hecla and griper, but “having now reached the station, which subsequently acquired an addi- where in all probability we were des- tional claim to that appellation, the tined to remain eight or nine months, harbour in which they passed the win- during three of which we were not ter, being a cove within it. to see the face of the sun, my atten- some time before this period, the tion was immediately and imperiously idea had occurred to captain parry of called to various important duties, making his way to the westward, when many of them of a singular nature, the ice was nearly close out to sea, by such as had for the first time devolved creeping along shore within the main on any officer in his majesty's navy, body, which was generally found to and might indeed be considered of rare take the ground some little way off. occurrence in the whole history of na- they were now obliged to adopt this vigation. the security of the ships, method exclusively, and during the and the preservation of the various remainder of the season of , a stores, were objects of immediate con- span, however, of only twenty more cern. a regular system of good order days, their perils and anxieties in the and cleanliness, as most conducive to prosecution of it were excessive, and the health of the crews during the their success at the same time very long, dark, and dreary winter, equally small; the utmost distance to which demanded my attention. they attained that year not exceeding “ not a moment was lost, there- forty miles from this point. to add fore, in the commencement of our ope- to their perplexities, a party consisting rations. the whole of the masts were of an officer and six men were missing, dismantled, except the lower ones, and amid the desolation of the surrounding the hecla’s main-topmast, which was scenery, for the greater part of three kept fidded for the purpose of occa- days and nights; the griper, to which sionally hoisting up the electrometer they belonged, and which seems chain, to try the effect of atmospheri- throughout to have had the luck to cal electricity. the lower yards were get constantly a worse birth than the lashed fore and aft amidships, at a hecla, was repeatedly caught by the sufficient height to support the planks ice, and heeled over nearly to upset- of the housing intended to be erected ting; and the young ice seemed evi- over the ships, the lower ends of dently kept from forming only by the which rested on the gunwale; and the tempestuous state of the weather. on whole of this frame-work was after- the st, captain parry gave up the wards roofed over with a cloth com- point, and returned to the bay of the posed of wadding-tilt, with which captain parry's voyage. (june, waggons are usually covered. the tion. the weather was unfortunately boats, spars, running-rigging, and sails, too cloudy to admit of observations were removed on shore, in order to for determining the amount of this, at give as much room as possible on our the then temperature of ° ; but they upper deck, to enable the people to were more successful on this head in take exercise on board, whenever the spring, when the thermometer stood weather should be too inclement for considerably lower. the following de- walking on shore. scription of occupation and scenery “ as soon as the ships were secured about this time, or a little later, will and housed over, my undivided atten- be perused, we think, with interest by tion was, in the next place, directed to all classes of readers. the comfort of the officers and men, “ the officers and quarter-masters and to the preservation of that extra- were divided into four watches, which ordinary degree of health, which we were regularly kept as at sea, while had hitherto enjoyed in both ships. the remainder of the ships' com- a few brief remarks on this subject by panies were allowed to enjoy their mr edwards, to whose skill and ad- night's rest undisturbed. the hands vice, as well as humane and unremit- were turned up at a quarter before six, ting attention to the few sick on all and both decks were well rubbed with occasions, i am much indebted, i need stones and warm sand before eight make no apology for inserting."—we o'clock, at which time, as usual at sea, cannot, however, enter on this subject both officers and men went to break at length ; suffice it to observe, that fast. three quarters of an hour be- captain parry thus omits no opportu- ing allowed after breakfast for the men nity of bringing his officers into notice, to prepare themselves for muster, we thereby honouring himself as well as beat to divisions punctually at a quar- them; and that their united exertions ter past nine, when every person on on this point were crowned with such board attended on the quarter-deck, success, that, of ninety-four persons and a strict inspection of the men took absent eighteen months under the place, as to their personal cleanliness, most trying circumstances, only one and the good condition as well as suffi- died, and he of a previously formed cient warmth of their clothing. the internal complaint, the particulars of reports of the officers being made to which are given at length in corrobo- me, the people were then allowed to ration of the fact. walk about, or more usually to run the next cares were to construct an round the upper deck, while i went observatory ashore, a work of great la- down to examine the state of that be- bour, the ground having become by low, accompanied by lieut. beechey, this time extremely hard and the and mr edwards. the state of this cold intense, to land the instruments, deck may be said, indeed, to have and finally rig a temporary theatre on constituted the chief source of our board the hecla, in which the officers anxiety, and to have occupied by far exhibited at intervals, throughout the the greater part of our attention at this winter, their scenic powers. the pro- period. whenever any dampness ap- posal to do this was captain parry's, peared, or, what more frequently hape and he adds, " i was readily seconded pened, any accumulation of ice had ta- in it by the officers of both ships, and ken place during the preceding night, our first performance was fixed for the the necessary means were immediate- th november, to the great delight of ly adopted for removing it; in the the ship's companies. in these amuse- former case, usually by rubbing the ments, i gladly took a part myself, wood with cloths, and then directing considering that an example of cheer- the warm air-pipe towards the place : fulness, by giving a direct countenance in the latter, by scraping off the ice, to every thing that could contribute to so as to prevent its wetting the deck by it, was not the least essential part of my any accidental increase of temperature. duty, under the peculiar circumstances in this respect, the bed-places were in which we were placed.” particularly troublesome; the inner on the th november, the sun de- partition, or that next the ship's side, scended below their horizon, not again being almost unavoidably covered to rise till the th of february, al. with more or less dampness or ice, ac though visible for some days after and cording to the temperature of the deck before, through the effect of refrac- during the preceding night. this in- .] captain parry's voyage. convenience might to a great degree parts a few hummocks were seen have been avoided, by a sufficient thrown up, somewhat above the ge- quantity of fuel to keep up two good neral level; nor did the land offer fires on the lower deck, throughout much greater variety, being almost the twenty four hours. but our stock entirely covered with snow except of coals would by no means permit here and there a patch of bare ground this, bearing in mind the possibility in some exposed situation, where the of our spending a second winter with wind had not allowed the snow to re- in the arctic circle ; and this comfort main. when viewed from the sum- could only therefore be allowed on a mits of the neighbouring bills, on one few occasions, during the most severe of those calm and clear days which part of the winter. not unfrequently occurred during the “in the course of my examination winter, the scene was such as to in- of the lower deck, i had always an op- duce contemplations, which had, per- portunity of seeing those few men who haps, more of melancholy than of any were in the sick list, and of receiving other feeling. not an object was to from mr edwards, a report of their be seen, on which the eye could long respective cases; as also of consulting rest with pleasure, unless when direc- that gentleman as to the means of im- ted to the spot where the ships lay, proving the warmth, ventilation, and and where our little colony was plant- general comfort of the inhabited parts ed. the smoke which there issued of the ship. having performed this from the several fires, affording a cer. duty, we returned to the upper deck, tain indication of the presence of man, where i personally inspected the men; gave a partial cheerfulness to this part after which, they were sent to walk of the prospect; and the sound of on shore, when the weather would voices, which, during the cold wea- permit, till noon, when they return, ther, could be heard at a much greater ed on board to dinner. when the day distance than usual, served now and was too inclement for them to take then to break the silence which reign- this exercice, they were ordered to run ed around us, a silence far different round and round the deck, keeping from that peaceable composnre, which step to a tune on a barrel organ, or, characterizes the landscape of a culti- pot unfrequently, to a song of their vated country; it was the death-like own singing. among the men, were stillness of the most dreary desola- a few who did not at first quite like tion, and the total absence of animated this systematic mode of taking exera existence. such, indeed, was the want cise; but when they found that no of objects to afford relief to the eye, plea, except that of illness, was ad- or amusement to the mind, that a mitted as an excuse, they not only stone of more than usual size, appear- willingly and cheerfully complied, but ing above the snow in the direction made it the occasion of much humour in which we were going, immediately and frolic among themselves. became a mark, on which our eyes “ the officers who dined at two oʻ- were unconsciously fixed, and towards clock, were also in the habit of occu- which we mechanically advanced. pying one or two hours in the middle dreary as such a scene must ne- of the day in rambling on shore, even cessarily be, it could not, however, be in our darkest period, except when a said to be wholly wanting in interest, fresh wind and snow-drift confined especially when associated in the mind them within the housing of the ships. with the peculiarity of our situation; it may be well imagined that at this the object which had brought us hi- period, there was but little to be met ther, and the hopes which the least with in our walks on shore, which sanguine among us sometimes enter- could either amuse or interest us. the tained, of spending a part of our next necessity of not exceeding the limited winter in the more genial climate of distance of one or two miles, lest a the south sea islands. perhaps, too, snow-drift, which often rises very sud, though none of us ventured to confess denly, should prevent our return, add. it, our thoughts would sometimes in- ed considerably to the dull and tedi- voluntarily wander homewards, and ous monotony, which day after day institute a comparison between the presented itself. to the northward rugged face of nature in this desolate was the sea, covered with an unbro- region, and the livelier aspect of the ken surface of ice, uniform in its daze happy land which we had left behind zling whiteness, except that in some us. captain parry's voyage. [june, “ we had frequent occasion, in our ed with a satisfaction of which it is walks on shore, to remark the decep- easy to conceive the amount. on the tion which takes place in estimating st of june, captain parry set off with the distance and magnitude of objects, a party of volunteers, to explore the when viewed under an unvaried sur- interior of the island. face of snow. it was not uncommon the narrative of this excursion is for us to direct our steps towards what not very interesting. the snow still we took to be a large mass of stone, at lay for the most part thick upon the the distance of half a mile from us, ground; and although here and there but which we were able to take up in cleared away, and a little vegetation our hands after one minute's walk. commenced, the few geographical, mi- this was more particularly the case, neralogical, and botanical observations, when ascending the brow of a hill, which could be made under such cira nor did we find that the deception be cumstances, cast but a meagre interest came less on account of the frequency over the monotonous transactions of with which we experienced its effects.” such a journey. the portion of the pp. – . whole, we readily own, which we our- on the d of february, the refrac- selves regard with most pleasure, is tion of the atmosphere again brought the account given of the good-hu- the sun in sight, not thus so soon, moured inventiveness of the seamen, however, by a day or two, as had been who spread a blanket upon their cart expected ; nor although it very much as a sail, to lighten its drag, when the distorted the outline, particularly the wind was in their favour. when cut- following day, did the observations ting the canal for the ships to enter give it above jº " ', at the altitude winter harbour, they had had re- of ', the thermometer at the time course to a similar contrivance, to as- standing ' below zero, and the ba- sist them in floating out of the passage rometer at . inches. the mean the blocks of ice cut away; and cap- refraction, per table, at the same alti- tain parry, who has the rare felicity tude, and under ordinary circum- not to be above laughing when he is stances, is about '. from this time amused, records both circunstances, the days lengthened so rapidly, that, and introduces the latter into one of on the th of april, it was light enough those beautiful plates, with which he at midnight to read off the thermome- has at once embellished and illustrated ter with ease. a variety of optical his work. they are little vagaries like and meteorological phenomena now these, generally promoting, always ex- engaged their attention, particularly bilarating, the service in which they are halos and parhelia of great beauty. engaged, which distinguish british sea- but the weather still continued in- men when well treated and conducted, tensely cold, and although such had and repaying, as they always do, such been the influence of the sun when it treatment and conduct, with confi- nad only one degree of meridian alti- dence, attachment, and good humour ; tude, the thermometer in the shade -and long, very long may they be rose from to below zero, when thus their general characteristics ! it remained hours above the hori during the whole spring, hunting zon it still fell occasionally to . parties were kept constantly out, with marks of thawing on the shore conti- various success, musk oxen, deer, nuing rare and indistinct. hares, brent-geese, (anas bernicla), about the middle of may, captain ptarmigan, and a few plover, consti- parry caused the ice to be cut imme- tuting the chief returns. these fresh diately round the ships, when its ave- stores were distributed with the most rage thickness throughout the harbour rigorous impartiality, according to re- was determined to be between seven gulations facetiously called the «game and eight feet; and having thus got laws." great quantities of a species of them again afloat, the housings were sorrel, (rumex digynus,) found in this removed, and preparations made to country only on the summits of the take in the requisite quantity of bal- highest mountains, were gathered in last, to make up for stores expended, the immediate vicinity of the ships, and to rig them out again. "on the and its use was encouraged as much as th of the same month, a few drops possible. on the whole, as we have of rain fell, or were said to have fallen, said, nothing could be more satisface on the greenland master's face, while tory than the general health of all, and walking out; and the report was hail- their spirits bounded to the prospect captain parry's voyage. (june, the dwarf-willow, sartfraga oppositi- is to obtain a certain quantity or rate folia, first seen in flower on the ed of correction for the attraction of the june, rumcr digynus, poppy, scurvy ship's hull, applicable to all cases in a grass, and draba or whetlow-grass. a given ratio to the direction of the ship's farge pine-tree was found buried in the head, and the intensity of the magnetic sand near the south end of melville attraction of the earth's pole in diffe- island, about yards from the rent circumstances; but then this ra- beach; another smaller one on the west tio was to seek, and it has since been coast ; along which also several pieces ascertained that it is different in diffe of drift-wood were found scattered. no rent ships. numerous observations resident inhabitants were any where were however made on board the hecla met with west of lancaster sound, but with a view to this object, compared both in byam martin and melville with others on the shore and on the ice, island remains of esquimaux huts and again connected with others on the were discovered. these consisted of dip, all made at the same time; and "stones rudely placed in a circular or although some of the results may want rather elliptical form; were from seven corroboration, they are all very inte to ten feet diameter; the broad flat resting to nautical men. first, by a sides of the stones standing vertically, great many experiments it was proved and in all respects resembled those that the centre of attraction in the seen at hare island the preceding voy- hecla, and probably in all ships, was age.” except wolves, white foxes, on forward and amid-ships ; that accord- which the former from some circum- ingly, when her head was due north or stances were concluded to prey, and the south, there was no deviation, but that mus hudsonius, no animals were seen this was at its maximum when the throughout the winter at melville head was east or west. secondly, cap- island. the return of spring brought tain ross had said, “that when the over from the continent musk-oxen in variation was considerable, the devia. considerable droves, rein-deer, and tion increases in no settled propor- hares. only one white bear was seen tion;" but this appears to be a mis- the whole year. the catalogue of birds take, probably arising from his not is numerous, including grouse, (ptar- using a standard compass, captain migans,) first appearing on the th parry says, "from the time we entered may, plovers, brent-geese, eider and lancaster sound the sluggishness of king-dueks, bank-swallows, (hirundo the compasses, as well as the amount riparia) red phalarope, the first of of their irregularity, produced by the which was seen on the ed june, boat- attraction of the ship, had been found swains, (lestris parasiticus) ravens, rapidly, but uniformly to increase;" one swan, together with gulls, kitti- and captain sabine adds in the ap- wakes, and other sea-fowl, among the pendix," whenever it could be done, ice. a number of shells of the venus the variation on a particular course tribe was found in a ravine in byam steered was ascertained by actual ob- martin island ; and a hawl of the trawl servation ; but when the courses were off the mouth of an inlet, south of lan- many in the twenty-four hours, one caster sound, called the clyde, brought set of azimuths with the ship’s head up some marine insects, which are pro- north or south to shew the true vari- bably quite new. only one whale, and ation, and a second set with head east as it was supposed, one seal, one at a or west to shew the maximum of dis time at least, were seen about melville turbance, were sufficient, with a very island a bad augury of the neigh- little practice, to enable the variation bourhood of an open sea. to be assigned for every point"-both the theory of magnetism is still a demonstrating that the deviation was secret, but this voyage has added not not capricious. and lastly, numerous a little to the previous stock of facts on observations were made both with the this interesting subject, and has the dipping and horizontal needle, with a merit besides of suggesting some prac- view to prove the theory respecting the tical hints in its employment. it was intensity of magnetic attraetion at dif- originally a suggestion of the late cap- ferent dips, and it was found to agree tain flinders, that it was desirable in very nearly indeed with the fact; on all ships to have some place selected which captain sabine adds, "it may where the same compass should be con- perhaps be useful to remark, that - stantly kept, and all others used on when the ratio of the variation of the board referred to it. the object of this magnetic force to the dip shall be .) captain parry's voyage. thoroughly ascertained by experiment, which they are taken, for which only it may become a measure of difference arbitrary allowances can be made. in the dip far more accurate in high the range of the thermometer du: latitudes than actual observation by ring the time the expedition was west the dipping needle." of lancaster sound, and between two clocks belonging to the royal and ° north latitude, was on board society of london, and which had ori- °, the maximum being + °, and ginally gone round the world with the minimum - . on shore, and on captain cook, accompanied this expen theice, theminimum was . at the dition, together with a pendulum pre- temperature of -- °, the smoke from pared by captain kater, similar to that the funnels was observed scarcely at all he employed in his own experiments to ascend, but to escape in a horizon- along our coast. with these in the tal direction ;* and such difficulty had former and late voyage, four sets of it at this time to blend with the at- observations have been taken at dif- mosphere, it was once distinctly smelt ferent high latitudes, with a view to in a current two miles distant from the determine the ellipticity of the earth, ship. the severe cold here quoted was and their comparison with each other not particularly disagreeable in calm is stated by captain sabine, as giving weather; butalthough the thermometer respectively of uniformly rose with wind, even many . , . , . , . , degrees in a gale from the s.s.e., the the equatorial radius for the com- effect produced by this agitation of the pression at the poles. in the con- atmosphere was quite overpowering. noissance des tems, (french nauti- a few individuals had their hands cal almanack) for , the mean of a frost-bitten, particularly on one occa- great many previous observations of sion, when the observatory on shore the same nature is stated at for the caught fire, and was with difficulty northern hemisphere, and for saved. one sailor's hands were then . thoroughly penetrated with cold, the southern. and in like manner, of when they were immersed in water for four considerable arcs, measured at the purpose of being thawed, a film of different times in peru, france, lap- ice was formed on the surface. a fact land, and india, a comparison between which we have before seen stated on the the first and second gives be- authority of m.larrey, surgeon-general . ; tween the first and third, . ; to the french army in the moscow cam- be- paign, respecting the influence of se- tween the second and third, . ; and vere cold on the mental faculties, is corroborated by captain parry, p. . between the second and fourth, . ; " they,” says he, alluding to some while, from the lunar motions, preces- men who had been accidentally expo- sion of the equinoxes, and other as sed to it, “ looked wild, spoke thick tronomical data, it is computed by and indistinctly; and it was impossi- la place and others, variously, at ble to draw from them a rational an- swer to any of our questions. after the near agreement of being on board for a short time, the these results may perhaps be better mental faculties appeared gradually to appreciated by some readers, when return,” &c. the only other affection they are told that the most remote of besides these, which was induced by them do not involve a doubt even of a the weather, was snow-blindness, single mile, in the relative lengths of which on all occasions readily yielded the polar and equatorial diameters of to the remedies applied. the earth. and their differences seem the mean of the barometer through inseparable from the nature of the ob- out the same period was . inches, servations on which they are founded, the maximum . , the minimum which are liable to be affected by a . . it would appear, that as a variety of minute circumstances, even weather glass, this instrument is only the nature of the soil, and situation in useful in medium temperatures. it + sov, and in captain parry acquaints us in a note, that a similar observation was made at york fort, hudson's bay, in the year , but not till the thermometer fell to - ; and in spring, even at melville Ísland, when the air was probably already somewhat tainted by exhalations, the smoke ascended perpendicularly at - . vol. ix. captain parry's voyage. [june, is well known that in tropical climates the halos, with their accompanying its indications are very uncertain, and parhelia and paraselenes, seen at mel- captain parry remarks, that at mel- ville island, were, as usual in such ville island it rather accompanied than latitudes, exceedingly brilliant; but, predicted changes of weather. not- for the most part, they were regular, withstanding captain ross's favour- and not unusual in their forms. the able report of adyes sympiesometer, auroræ boreales were faint, generally it does not appear that one accompa- seen in the south-west quarter, and nied this expedition. never affected either the electrometer similar anomalies in kind, although or the compasses. less in degree, were observed in the captain parry, in the expedition temperature of the sea at different which he is now conducting, is under- depths, this voyage as the last. in stocd to intend to push through hud- winter harbour, at the depth of five son's or cumberland straits, and try fathoms, the thermometer stood at his fortune in repulse bay, or sir + °, and very near the superficial thomas roe's welcome ; purposing, if ice at + °, while in the open air it he can find a passage in either of them, was at - ; and as summer advan- to draw to the westward along the ced in , the shallow bank which main-land of america, and between it immediately skirted the shore, could and the ice. in doing this he antici- every where be traced by the greater pates some difficulties ; and before progress of the ice towards dissolution. leaving england, he is said to have ex- in baffin's bay, in like manner, the pressed, like a wise man, his desire temperature for the first fathoms that the public should be prepared to was generally about , and lower hear of them. yet we think that he down it commonly fell, as far as ° ; will ultimately succeed; and having but on one occasion, two different ex attempted, in the beginning of this periments gave at fathoms, article, to rob him of the vulgar me- while the first stood as usual about rit of his past success, which by no . in high latitudes it would ap- vulgar claim, however, seems to us, as pear probable, that the temperatures we have already intimated, to belong depend so much on local circumstances to mr barrow more than to any one, of uncertain existence and very diffi- we are most willing to say, now at the cult investigation, that no theory will conclusion of it, that our hopes of his be found uniformly to apply. future success are chiefly founded on • in one of our quotations we have als himself. his plan seems an excellent ready adverted to the great distance at one, it is comparatively safe, it is his which sounds were heard in the open clear-sighted, as when following out own, and a man is never so zealous and air, during the intense cold. this is his more particularly noticed, however, in own plans. he has now had abun- the following passage: “ we have of. dant experience, his courage is un- ten heard the people distinctly conver- questionable, and his tact in main- sing, in a common tone of voice, at the taining the discipline, health, spirits, distance of a mile ; and to-day, ( th unanimity, and general efficiency of february) i heard a man singing to his crews, in very trying circumstan- himself as he walked along the beach, ces, is demonstrated. but more than at even a greater distance than this." all these we gather from a little anec- p. . this apparently singular dote thrust into a corner of his narra- effect was owing to the uniform density tive, and which we take the liberty of which the air maintained during the particularizing, because its value is not long night of this region; the same likely to be appreciated by the general principle on which humboldt, in his voked him with her bad sailing, and beautiful essay on the cataracts of the he entertained serious thoughts of re- orinoco, explains the increase of their noise during the night, and whose con- moving her ship’s company, abandon- verse, in like manner, accounts for that ing her, and proceeding on his mission remarkable deadness of all sounds, in the hecla alone. as it happened, which, it is said, accompanies the first it proved unnecessary to act on this streamings of the sirocco, or harmat- idea ; and perhaps, in the particular tan wind, and augments the terrors of case, it was somewhat hastily concei. an impending hurricane, or earth- ved. but it would never have been quake. seriously deliberated on, unless by .] captain parry's voyage. one thoroughly intent on his object, other, as they often must in such a full of real and perseverance and service, may well be expected to pos- daring, penetrated with the spirit of sess that happyindependence of thought his orders, not solicitous about their and action, which may enable him to letter, or the responsibility, under unite them and succeed, where equal which they were to be attended to; or even superior talents, a little more and who, whenever the extremes of fettered, might possibly succumb. prudence and rashness approach each on the cheetham library. the causes which give us pleasure met with in london-the remains of in visiting any particular place, are king richard's chapel, in crosby various, and sometimes very opposite. court. surrounded by warehouses, we do not exactly mean that pleasure and counting houses, itself now con- produced by association of ideas, by verted into a packing room; this ve- the connection or relationship of the nerable relic of antiquity, with its scenes we are entering upon to former stone stairs and gothic window, struck times, persons, or events, but that sa- us with a force we shall never forget. tisfaction, which arises from other we seemed in a second to have slip- trains of thought, more immediate and ped from modern times, to the days less abstracted in their deduction. is of him, at whose birth “ the owl there not, for instance, in the first shrieked, the night-crow cried, a bod: sight of st peter's at rome, apart ing luckless time.” and the satisfac- from the effect produced by its stri- tion we felt, was raised in proportion king magnificence, a delightful thrill to our surprise. such a revulsion in of pleasure to meet with such an edi. the current of our ideas always carries fice, in such a situation? yet, what with it poignancy and relish. we lose affinity has st peter's to the temples or the pleasure of expectation in instan- the colisæum, or what has the dome taneous enjoyment, which that very of a christian church to do near the loss makes more keen. in short, to columna trajana, or the arch of con- know what pleasure is, we ought to stantine? it is manifestly out of place, meet with the thing, which, of all it awakes no ideas assimilating to those others, we most want, in the place, connected with the absorbing interest where, of all others, we least expect to of its city; yet still, its effect is un- find it. the man, who after journey diminished, in communicating to the ing over the desart, finds at last, in mind of the beholder, a throbbing its most arid track, a spring of fresh sensation of delight. there is some water, and our great moralist, after thing, in fact, of surprise and unex- meeting in an highland cottage with pectedness, in the sudden change of gataker's treatise on lots, would both objects, a surprise gradually converted concur in assuring us, that life has few intopleasure as we trace more intimate- greater sweetners, than the sudden ly the relation between them, which and unannounced possession of that rouses, quickens, and cheers us. a new which is least expected, though most vein of thought unexpectedly crosses desired. and intermingles with the old one, we were led into these speculations and introduces with it, fresh subjects by a late visit to the library, founded for contemplation, and new sources of by humphrey cheetham, in manches, entertainment. the mind cannot dwell ter; a venerable and praiseworthy in- long on any particular train of thought, stitution, which is rendered more stri- without experiencing somewhat of ja- king, by its presenting somewhat of ded satiety, and therefore it is refresh, the appearance of a college, amidst ed and invigorated by approaching the hurry and business which are al- some sparkling and unhoped for foun, ways visible in a large manufacturing tain of joy; who is not delighted to town. it is pleasing to pass from the meet in a place utterly barren and un- noise and dissonance of a crowded promising, with something akin to street, into the comparatively still and his habits, and congenial to his pur- silent court, of a spacious antique suits? we well remember one of the mansion, with low-browed roofs, and most pleasureable moments of our life, narrow windows, apparently of the was in a sudden rencontre we once architecture of the time of james the . ) the cheetham library. last; est, and least intellectual of the sons of others we see, for which their writers, earth, must be conscious of the high the martyrs of fame, have suffered and lofty society into which he is in- mental torment, and bodily macera- truding ; a society which no combina- tion, and all to subsist " like hippo tion of living talent can ever hope to crates's patients, and achilles's horses parallel. before such a tribunal, be- in homer, under naked nominations," fore such a galaxy of intellect and learn- and occupy, untouched and unregard- ing, the haughty aristarch himself ed, a corner in a library. others which, might have doffed without degradation after experiencing in their time a meed “the hat which never vailed to human of rigid indifference and neglect, have pride." we feel, as we reverence the now obtained xenpea ei as in the rolls mighty spirits around us, that we are of fame; and others the delight and in some sort their brothers; and the admiration of their contemporaries, very homage which we pay to their which now remain but to teach us the majesty is itself the bond of our alli- instructive lesson, that ance. what spectacle besides can be “when fame's loud trump hath blown her more wonderful? we are then where deepest blast, the human mind is displayed in its though loud the sound, the echo dies at highest flights, and in its weakest ina- nity; now in all its shades and varia- and glory, like the phenix midst her fires, tions of feeling or of subtilty; in all exhales her odours, blazes, and expires." its walks through science, and the cy many are the lofty and gratifying cle of its thousand intelligences; and thoughts and contemplations which a in all its wide diffusion over the pro- visit to a library will give rise to. it vinces and principalities of its empire, is there where the mind wakes into a calling into action, and bringing forth consciousness of its own powers and its power, like the unsheathing of wea- capabilities, and burns to measure its pons from their scabbards; in its acute- strength with the heroes of literature, ness, subtleizing to infinity; in its soli- the mighty masters of science. it is dity, laying foundations of induring there that the appetite for knowledge, and immoveable strength; in its appre- which, however it may lie dormant hension, receiving all the stores of a-while, can never be entirely extin- learning and knowledge; in its pene- guished, sharpens and increases in be- tration, pervading with a glance the holding the food for which it longs, worlds of thought and science ; in its and prepares for a full and pleasing profundity, diving into clepths forbid- enjoyment of the exhaustless banquet den, and denied to its nature ; and in before it. it is there that the soul ex- its imagination, creating, inventing, pands with a consciousness of the task and producing in measure inexhausti- it has to overcome, and the matter it ble and unspent; now marching on- has to grapple with ; and rises with ward with proud and triumphant step, proud and confident superiority to the —now halting in its course with feeble mastery of knowledge in all her cells. tardiness-now deviating into byeroads it is there that one feels a desire to shut struck out by its own adinirable inge- out the world and its concerns, and live nuity, yet still ever great in its extra- like magliabecchi in the vatican, buried vagancies, dignified in its perversions, in books, to contract an intimacy with memorable in its debasement. others every one of the thousands of writers may delightedly visit in veneration the deposited in its shelves,-poets, ora- tombs of authors, but to us their no- tors, historians, philosophers, and di- blest mausoleum appears to be in a li- vines, and receive all their stores of brary where they are inshrined amougst thought and science, though but as the a company of kindred and congenial water which passes through the urns of souls. the one can but testify their the danaides. it is there that the pain- mortality, but he who meets them in ful feeling of the impossibility of sa- the other, will know they are immor- tisfying the wishes of the soul is late- tal. westininster abbey can present no- ly and reluctantly acknowledged ; and thing so touching, yet so elevating-so it is there we should be almost led, inspiring, yet so said, as the bodleian. were it not for the hope of the fruition there we see works which have out- of our desires in a future state, to deem lived monuments and pyramids, still that inexplicable and unassuagcable surviving to the glory of their authors craving atter knowledge, which is im- in unspent and undiminished youth. planted in our natures, to be given us the cheetham library. [june, but as a cruel mockery, and tantalizing over the fire place, surmounted by his delusion. coat of arms, is the portrait of hum- but to return to our subject matter. phrey cheetham himself, the chari- from the library you pass into the tible “ dealer in manchester commo- reading-room, not, however, without dities," as he has been called, to whose having to encounter a formidable array beneficence this excellent institution is of sights and monsters, more grotesque owing. fashions and manners have even than those which appalled the wonderfully changed. what would stout heart of the trojan prince in his the spruce and dapper warehousemen descent to hell. there are seals and of the present day think of such an hairy men, speaking trumpets and apparition, were they to see him pass- stakes, and fishes and alligators, and ing down cannon-street; or what “such small deer,” not forgetting ske- would their masters, to hear of a man- letons preserved in bottles, and oliver chester merchant, who exercised him- cromwell's sword. this last great ac- self in the reading of godly divines ? quisition, now laid up in peace, may, he appears, indeed, a marvellous staid indeed, exclaim that time has made it personage, somewhat like the old man acquainted with strange bed-fellows. in terence, yet it is considered a trophy of no confidens, catus, sinall consequence in the place. many tristis severilas inest in vultu. a stare of vacant wonderinent has been directed to it by the rustics, in their the windows of this room are in holiday visitations, and even the juve- unison with the rest of its structure, nile stentors before alluded to, in do- and though they do not absolutely "ex- ling out the bead-roll of their calami- clude the light," yet there is a certain ties, attest its high importance, by degree of dimness in it, which does not a proportionate exaltation of voice. ill agree with the dark pannels and through a door studded with nails in beams by which it is incased and over- the ancient fashion, you pass into the hung. at the farther end is a recess, reading-room, an antique apartment, which being almost windowed round, with oaken casements, massive chairs is rendered a little lightsomer than the of such heaviness and contexture, as other parts of the roofd. it is plea- utterly to defy all muscular power, and sant to sit in this sequestered nook, tables of make and workmanship truly the locus benedictus of this ancient patriarchal, one of which you are in- place, and view from thence the gal- formed by your guide, is composed of lery with its shelves of books, sinking as many pieces as there are days in a by degrees into duskiness, or to watch year, . around are disposed dusky from the window the little crowd be- looking portraits of eminent divines, low, perforining their evolutions in po who have been born in or near man- very silent key, and to listen while the chester, whitaker, howell, * latimer, hour strikes on the oaken table before and brailforil, of the latter of whom you to the chimes of the collegiate the facetious fuller saith, “ lle was a church, falling full and audible on most holy and mortified man, who se- the ear. still pleasanter is it to resign cretly in his closet would so weep for the mind to those fantasies, which, in his sins, one would have thought he a place like this, are wont to rise and would never have smiled again, and steal upon it with a soft but potent then appearing in public, he would be fascination--and to suffer the imagi- so harmlessly pleasant, one would think nation to raise up its visions of the he had never wept before.” no such worthies of olden time. to embody marks of celestial benignity are here and impersonate our forefathers, while visible in his countenance; he looks we are tarrying in their edifice, and truly as grim-visaged as herod him- while we are drinking " at the pure self in the massacre of the innocents. wells of english undefiled," to picture * • it is not, perhaps, generally known, that we owe the original of bottled ale to the person who compiled the famous catechism. thus, however, relateth one of his biogra. phers : “ without offence, it may be remembered, that leaving a bottle of ale, when fishing, in the grass, he found it some days afterwards no bottle but a gun, such the sound at the opening thereof." and this is believed (casualty is mother of more inven. tions than industry,) the origin of bottled ale in england. the cheetham library. [june, and citadels ; “ the dim indistinction intense, in contemplation most su- with which all things are lapt in the blime? there is a pleasure, an intel- bundle of time;" the vast distance lectual zest, a high and genial delight which the eye aches to measure; the and enjoyment in such a scene, which memorable actions, achievements, per- once conceived, we cannot ever permit sons, and places, which it has covered to be forgotten. what are the visions as if with a shroud; the wonderful of the future to meditations so produ- intermixture it presents of savageness ced? they may interest our human and refinement, of brutality and wis- feelings more, but can they fill, occu- dom, of atrocity and magnanimity, of py, and expand the mind like those of poverty and splendour, of high aspira- the past? the prospective creatures tion and grovelling debasement, must of fancy may for a while float before contribute to make it a pageant varied, our eyes, and dazzle us with their magnificent, and imposing.* is there glittering inies and glowing brilliancy; not something in the very names of but they all die away, decay and va- nimrod and cambyses, of babylon, nish betore that deeper, grauder, most tyre, and carthage, of sidon and potent and efficacious spirit of imagi. thebes, of assaracus, herostratus, nation, which broods over the magni- and achilles, which strikes the inind ficence of the past, which resides amidst with a sensation which no words can the marble wastes of tadmor, and the explain ? do we not feel, on seeing the “ mighty nations of the dead,” which pyramids, arches, obelisks, and monu- gives even to the future a more vivid ments of other times, a something lustre from its reflection, and which is, which is inexplicable and incommuni- in fine, that eternal and inexhaustible cable, but composed, nevertheless, of fountain, from which history catches all the noblest elements of the soul, of her colouring, and poetry lights her what in admiration is most fervent, in flame. pity most deep, in imagination most but we have involuntarily strayed • the following curious recapitulation of the events of ancient history is taken from richard carpenter's “experience, history, and divinitie.” it is very striking, and not, perhaps, generally known. the author was twice a protestant, and twice a papist, and ended, we believe, like gibbon, with being nothing at all :-“ this world hath bin al- wayes a passenger ; for, it hath passed from age to age, through so many hundred ge- nerations, by them, and from them to us. adam lived a while, to eat an apple, and to teach his posterity to sinne and to dye; and the world passed by him. caine lived a while, to kill his honest brother abel, and to bury him in the sands, as if god could not have found him, or the winde have discovered what was done, and afterwards to be haunted with frightfull apparitions, and to be the first vagabond ; and the world passed by him. noah lived a while, to see a great floud, and the whole world sinke under water ; to see the weary birds drop amongst the waves, and men stifled on the tops of trees and mountaines ; and the world passed by him. david lived a while, to be caught with a vaine representation, and to commit adultery; to command murther, and after- wards to lament, and call himselfe sinner; and when he had done so, the world shuffed him off, and passed by him. solomon lived awhile, to sit like a man upon his royall throne, as it were guarded with lyons; and to love counterfeit pictures in the faces of strange women ; and while he was looking babies in their eyes, the world stole away, and passed by king solomon, and all his glory. judas lived a while, to handle a purse ; and, as an old author writes, to kill his father, to marry his mother, to betray his inaster, and to hang himself; and the world turned round as wel as he, and passed by the tray- tor. the jews lived awhile, to crucifie him who had chosen them for his onely people out of all the world ; and quickly after the world, weary of them, passed by them and their common-wealth. the old romanes lived awhile, to worship wood and stones; to talk a little of lupiter, a pollo, venus, mercury, and to gaze upon a great statue of hercules, and cry, hee was a mighty man ; and while they stood gazing and looking another way, the world passed by them and their great empire. the papists live awhile, to keepe time with dropping beads, or, rather to lose it; to cloath images, and keepe them warm ; and to tell most wonderfull stories of miracles, which god never thought of, but as he foresaw, and found them in their fancies, and in the midst of a story, be fore it is made a compleat lye, the world passes by them, and turnes them into a story. the jesuits live awhile, to be called religious men, and holy fathers; to frame a face, to be very good and godly in the out-side ; to vex and disquiet princes; to slander all those whom they cannot, or gaine, or recover to their faction ; and the world at length finding them to be disseinblers, dissembles with them also, and looking friendly upon them, passes by them.” .] cheetham's library. from our subject, and it is now time thee pharamond to thy corner, or that for us to conclude. if thy footsteps edifying and moral work, mat. inge- lead thee, good reader, to the vener- lo's bentivoglio and urania ; and so able place which has suggested these needest thou have no fear of being too speculations, letusadvise thee to amuse violently interested in thy subject to thyself with something suitable, and leave off with pleasure. what is that not incongruous with its character. deep and forcible interest which chains there is a fitness in all things. there you to a book, to the delightful equa- are other places for perusing the ephe-bility to be enjoyed in the perusal of meral productions of the day, circula- works like these? there is, too, an- ting libraries for novels, and commer- other advantage. you cannot get cial rooms for newspapers. if these through them too soon. how often be the food for which thy mind is do we feel, in perusing the scotch no- most disposed, to such places be thy vels, the unpleasant reflection that we walks confined. but go not to the li- are getting nearer and nearer the end brary of humphrey cheetham, without the end of our book, and the end of opening one of the time-honoured our pleasure. here, however, the guests." if classical learning be the reader may range securé, undisturbed study most gratifying to thy palate, by any such unpleasant anticipations. take down the basil edition of how but if, on the contrary, thou visitest race, with the notes of eighty commen- the cheetham library as a menagerie, tators, and read through the commen- spectacle, and show, as a collection of taries on the first ode, thou wilt find snakes, skeletons, porpoises, and cro- it no very easy or dispatchable matter. codiles; or if thou enterest it in the if divinity bé thy pursuit, let one of same manner, and for the same pur- the compendious folios of caryl on poses, as thou wouldst enter a loun- job minister to thy amusement, and ging-room, or a fashionable booksel thus conduce to thy attainment of that ler's shop, then, though we will not virtue of which job was so eminently wish unto thee the ass's ears of midas, the possessor. if natural history pré- or those other calamities which are sent more attractions to thee than class mentioned by the eloquent defender sical learning or divinity, ulysses al- of poetry, yet “ thus much curse" drovandus will find thee employment must we send thee on behalf of the enough, without resorting to the later founder, that thou mayst be confined publications of pennant or buffon. amongst the productions of the mi- but should thy thoughts, good reader, nerva press, and be kept on prison have a different direction, and all these allowance till thou hast read them studies be less agreeable to thee than through. the study of light reading, take with t. adventure in havana. i had not spent more than a fortnight sistance whatever. at last, i lost all in havana, when i was seized with sense of external objects. i dreamed the yellow fever. this disease prevails that i went on board the vessel i had there, to a great degree, during sum been inquiring about, and that we saila mer and autumn, and makes dreadful ed down the harbour with a fair wind. ravages arnong foreigners of every de- suddenly, from some cause or other, scription. it sometimes attacks people i fell overboard, and sunk to a consi- very suddenly, and almost without any derable depth. when i regained the previous warning. surface, i saw the vessel a little way when first taken ill, i was in a mere before me, and called loudly for help, chant's warehouse, making inquiries but she swept along, under a press of about a vessel in which i proposed go- canvass, and no one in her seemed to ing to the eastern extremity of the island. hear, or pay the least attention to my as the owner was out, i determined to cries. i looked behind me in despair, waituntil he came home, andaccording to discover if any boat was approach- ly seated myself on a bale of goods. i ing to afford assistance, but, to my hor- gradually sunk into a state of feverish ror, saw the whole surface of the har- torpidity, during which i had an indis- bour covered with the floating bodies tinct conception of where i was, but of dead seamen tied upon planks. the could not rouse myself, or make any re- vessels around seemed deserted, rotten, vol. ix. p adventure in havdna. (june, and falling to pieces, and the most aw- person is provided with an apartment, ful stillness prevailed in every direc- attendance, medicines, and diet, and tion. in my agonies i caught hold of may send for any physician he chooses one of the corpses, and seated myself in summer, houses of this kind are upon it. the limbs and muscles of the full of europeans, who die very sud- dead man were instantaneously relax- denly, and in great numbers. edhe uttered a horrible shout, burst one night during my convalescence, the cords that tied him, and caught me i was disturbed, after i had gone to firmly in his arms. we immediately bed, by repeated groans and the sound began to sink, and the struggles i made of hard breathing, which proceeded to extricate myself from his graspawa- from the chamber below mine. i next kened me. heard some person walking quickly i continued for some time in a state backwards and forwards, and then a of overpowering agitation and giddi- noise of a heavy body falling on the ness; and on recovering a little, per-' floor. ceived that there was no one in the as the people of the house were in warehouse but an old spaniard, to bed, i got up, that i might inquire if whom i could not explain my situa- any one wanted assistance, and went tion, as he did not understand a word down to the door of the apartment, of english. i therefore walked out, which was half open. on looking in, and endeavoured to make my way to i saw a man dressed in a bed-gown, the boarding-house where i lodged; pacing hurriedly about, and sometimes but my confusion was such, that in muttering a few words. a lamp stood spite of all my efforts at recollection, i upon the table, and when the light fell got bewildered, and at the same time upon his countenance, i perceived it so fatigued, that i was obliged to take to be much flushed and agitated. refuge in a coffee-house near thechurch i entered the room, saying i feared of st domingo. he was ill, and would call up a nurse here i sat upon a bench, stun- to attend bim. “ay, ay !” cried he, ned by the rattling of billiards, and “all a damned imposition. they've unheeded by the crowds of spaniards got me here hard and fast, and don't that bustled around. i knew that care how it goes with me-but they i was attacked by the yellow fever, won't make much more out of me, and i also knew that few of my age that's one corpfort. oh, sir ! i'm a or temperament ever recovered from miserable man-- i want to write a let- it. i was a friendless stranger in a ter-i want pen, ink, and paper-a foreign land. but the thoughts of small sheet will do." all this did not depress me. i felt as “ i entreat you to return to bed," if i could die more calmly in a coun- said f; “you shall have all these are try, and among a people, whose lan- ticles to-morrow morning." guage i did not even understand, than “ to-morrow morning!” cried he at home, in the midst of frienils and as- with vehemence. “ you don't know sociates. the presence of the latter what you're talking about. the doc- wouldendear life, and their grief would tor told me to-day-yes he did that embitter its termination ;-but when i wouldnt live till then-may god every thing around was revolting, af- almighty prove him a liar ! i've got fectionless, and gloomy, the world had into a wrong port here-why the hell no hold upon the heart, and could be didn't we all go to the bottom last voy- relinquished without regret. age :- this is a dreadful place to die though excessively weak, i imme- in-five dollars a-day," continued diately left the coffee-room, and soon he, raising his voice ; " what con- reached my lodgings, which fortunate- founded sharks they are !my birth ly were not far distant; and from them here an't worth the tenth of that i was removed, by the advice of a me- well, well, when i'm dead i hope my dical man, to a sick-house. corpse will bring a plague upon the the establishment which is known house, and infect every one that comes by this name in havana, resembles a near it-may every spanianthat private hospital, it being intended for meets my burial in the street drop the accommodation of strangers and fo- down dead, and beeternally damned! reigners who are seized with the fever, i was at ramsay's funeral the other and who have no one to take charge of day-the coffin was hardly big enough them during their illness. the sick to hold him-and what a burying- .] adventure in havana, of these ways. place !-the coffins are pled above do, who has enjoyed their delightful one another, and their corners stick climate, and all the good things which through the ground-the carrion, they abundantly afford. he at last crows flew about, as if they were glad began to joke with me about my fond- to see us in our black clothes-l'il beness for my native place, which, he laid there by and bye.-lord help said, was only fit for the habitation of me !-but i must write that letter." bears and seals. now it's so natural perceiving that it would be in vain for a man to love his country, that to attempt to compose him, i went up none but a wretch would try to put to my own room, and brought down him out of conceit with it'; and writing materials. “ay, that's right,” should not be surprised to hear even said he ; " thank you. i must write one of these spaniards say, that this to my wife-poor young creature, infernal hole of a town was the finest she's in the orkneys now—we could place in the world. live there for two weeks on the money “ well, this young fellow's raillery i'm now paying for a day's board and went farther every day, and began to lodging. i will tell her that i am well, cut me to the heart. i often tossed and coming home soon ; for if she about in my birth for hours together, knew i was dying, she would break thinking on his sharp jokes, and wish- her heart-two three days ago, i ho- ing to death that i had the power of ped to have seen her again, but this answering them with effect, and hand- infernal fever has taken me aback with ling him as severely as he did me; for a vengeance." he was easy of speech, and had a cool “ i suppose you are master of some temper ; but i was not gifted in either vessel in the port,” said i. “ no, no, notinaster," returned “ one day at dinner, when he was he; my days of being master were going on in his usual style, i lost patience over long ago, though i once com- altogether, and called him a liar, and manded as nice a sea-boat as ever went threw my fork at hiz headl. he turned before the wind- howsomever, that's as white as that sheet of paper for a neither here nor there now. but i'll moment, but soon recovered himself, tell you the whole. about two years and did not offer to touch me. i grew since, i sailed a small vessel, and own more and more provoked ; for i had ed a part of her. our trade lay chief- hoped that he would strike me, and so ly in contraband goods, and well was give me a fair reason for closing upon she fitted for it, for nothing on the seas him, and choking him, or beating his could keep up with her. ay, many a life out. but as i could not do this time, when chased by a king's cutter, with any show of justice, i ordered we thought it no more than play, be- him forward among the seamen, for- cause we knew we could get clear of bidding him, at the same time, ever to her the moment we had a mind. enter the cabin again. “well, one day as we were hauling “he obeyed so quietly, thatmy mind out of a french port, a young man came quite misgave me about what would be alongside in a boat, and entreated hard the end of the business ; for i knew he to be taken on board. now, you know was a lad of spirit, and never would for- sínugglers never like to take passen- give the disgraceful insult i had put up- gers; so i flatly refused to have any on him. that afternoon i sent him his thing to do with him. however, he trunk, and he never afterwards came told a rigmarole story about his being farther aft than the main-mast. heused short of money, that if he was ob to remain below all day; but generally liged to remain any longer in france, made his appearance upon deck when he would not have enough to pay his it got dark, and sat there in deep passage home, and said i might land thought. often at night, when all him in whatever british port i chose. were in their births, except myself well, i took him on board, and we and the helmsman, and other two set sail. at first, things went plea- hands, i have observed him gazing santly enough between us; for he was stedfastly upon me for hours together. a clever young man, and had a world this behaviour would fill my mind of knowledge. i'used often to talk with such fearful forebodings, as kept to bim of the orkney islands, of which me froin sleeping when my watch was i was a native, and always spoke of over. them as partially, as every one must " we got into port after a tolera- adventure in havana. [june, bly fair passage. we had scarcely repenting that i had taken such a poor dropped anchor before he came to me, revenge. he has only been choaked as i stood by the cabin-door, and re- with water, thought í, and the like quested to know how much he owed happens to many an honest seaman. me for his passage ; adding, that i “next morning, on going to my had used him very ill, since he had window, which looked to the harbour, never yet said any thing with the in- i observed a great crowd of people ga- tention of hurting my feelings in the thered round something, but could not least degree. these fair words threw see what it was for their heads. i me off my guard ; for after having grew quite dizzy, and began to trem- received from him the sum due me, i ble all over. they soon began to move foolishly allowed him to go on shore. along the street below me. i ran back he went direct to the custom-house, from the window, and then to it again, and informed against me. whether four or five times, impelled by a dread- he really knew, or only suspected, that ful curiosity, which i feared equally i had prohibited articles on board, the to resist, and to yield to. however, i devil perhaps knows best; but be that got a glimpse as they passed along, as it may, the officers were alongside his head was sadly mangled; but i in the course of half an hour. the didn't do that, you know. short and the long of it was this “i was well convinced, that my both the vessel' and cargo were seized. only safety lay in making off as fast as “this was a terrible blow. the own- possible ; and i embarked that very ers owed me a good round sum of mo- day in a sloop bound for the north of ney; but so far from expecting them to scotland, we had a most baffling time pay it, i felt convinced that they would of it, and it appeared doubly so to me, throw me into jail, whenever they got because i was continually thinking hold of me, i had settled my wife on what terrible tidings i would bring to a small place in the orkneys. part of my wife and children, and how desti- its price was paid, and the remainder tute we would all be. had now become due; but the seizure “ from the sloop, i went on board of the vessel at once deprived me of another vessel, which carried me to that those means of making up the sum part of the orkneys, where my fami. that i had counted upon. it was some ſy were. notwithstanding the dark time before i quite knew the terrible weight that lay upon my mind, i felt ness of my misfortune; but at last it a pleasantness of heart, when i saw my burst upon me like a hurricane-a« native place again, it almost set me a sailing me first in one quarter, and crying, and i thought more of my then in another. country than ever, when i reflected “ at night i wandered about the upon what i had brought myself to, streets, not knowing what to do. it by standing up in its defence. was dark, and rained, and blew hard; “ i soon broke the disastrous intelli, but i did not mind the weather. in gence to my wife. as we were in ab- passing a door, where there was a light, solute poverty, i found it necessary to i saw the young man who had betray- ask relief from my father-in-law. this ed me, walking along the opposite side was a trying business, for he was a of the way, i followed him, and many hard tyrannical man, and had just a time could have knocked him over, married a second wife; however, af- without being seen by any one ; but ter a deal of parleying and abuse, he i desisted, for i had not resolved upon consented to take my family into his what sort of revenge i was to take. own house, provided they would make revenge i determined to have, and themselves useful. as for me, he said, that very night too. at last he went i must shift for myself. by his re. along the pier- i looked round a mo- commendation, i soon got a birth on ment-every thing seemed quiet-i board a small vessel bound for new slipped behind him, and pushed him york. from that port, i sailed in a over. the tide was just coming in, ship to this here havana. a mercan, and the dashing of the sea, and the tile house lately offered me the charge noise of the wind, drowned his cries, of a vessel, destined for a very un- if he uttered any. i heard him plunge healthy part of the west indies, which -that was enough for me. i immediately accepted, for i knew i “ that night i slept at a mean ta- could make a good voyage of it. but vern. i did not sleep. i lay in bed, this accursed fever has moored me fast, .] adventure in havana. and death will soon make all things early next morning, the superin- square. now i have told you all this tendant of the house came into my black story ; i would rather the whole room, and informed me, that a sick world should know it, than that i gentleman below wished anxiously to should die. is there no help? is there speak with me. i immediately ac- no power in physic? -oh, it would be companied him to the apartment of nothing to founder at sea !--nothing the stranger, who took no notice of us compared with dying in this gloomy when we entered, for he had sunk in- deliberate way.. but i must begin to a sort of lethargic slumber. his writing, only i'm afraid i'll not be face was deadly pale, and the sharp- able to make out a connected letter.' ness of his features indicated approach- "if you insist upon writing to your ing death. my attendant having roused wife,” said i, " let me persuade you him, and mentioned the cause of my to tell her truly in what state you visit, left us together. are.” “ i am informed," said he, endea- nonsense, nonsense,” cried he, vouring to raise himself up in his bed, “ i'm not such a wretch. i suppose " that you are of the medical profesa you think, because i pushed a devil sion, and i wish to ask one question, into the sea, i have no mercy about which, for the sake of a dying man, i me at all. revenge is sweet, you know. conjure you to answer truly—is the i like to give every man his own again, fever under which i now labour infec- be it good or evil; but i would not tious ?" harm a fly, if it had not injured me. “ assuredly not,” returned i; “i i don't want to kill my wife. i dare- never supposed it to be so.". say, poor girl, her stepmother makes “ thank god !” exclaimed he ; things go hard enough with her al- “then i shall yet enjoy a few mo- ready. i will tell her i am very well, ments of comfort before i die. what and the hope of seeing me again will a relief this information is! poor ma- keep alive her spirits. you had bet- ria, you will still”. - here he shook ter go away now-i'll write best alone." with agitation, and tears began to roll after in vain endeavouring to per- down his cheeks. suade him to defer his purpose till “ i owe you an explanation of this morning, i returned to my own aparte behaviour," said he, recovering him. ment. self a little ; " since you have removed my first thought, when i awakened an uncertainty which has hitherto in- next day, was about this unfortunate creased the disquiets of my deathbed. seaman, and i called up a negro man, i arrived here a few days ago, from who belonged to the house, and ina baltimore. i intended to have com- quired if he was still in life. menced business in this town as a no," returned the negro, “he's merchant, and accordingly brought dead-dead sure enough ; i've just along with me a daughter-an only come from telling them to make his daughter. being attacked with the coffin. the coffin-makers like to see fever almost immediately, i was con- me i go to them often, for white veyed to this house, for i had not pro- massas die very fast now. they die vided any place of my own. my soon, that my massa can't make daughter lives at present with an any thing of them. if they would all american lady. she has come to see get better, and stay long like you, it me twice, against my express com- would answer very fine." i asked at mands; and i have ever since been what hour he died. full of terror, lest she should hare re- “ me no know that," answered the ceived infection in the course of her negro. nobody was beside him ; visits. but you tell me this cannot but it could not be long time since, be;-trusting in such an assurance, i for i heard him fighting hard with will send for her that i may see her death, and wished him far enough, for again before i die." breaking my sleep. i found him quite “ that you can do without risk," stiff this morning, with a sheet of pa- said i ;“ but are you not too ready to per held so strong in his hand, that i yield to desponding thoughts?" had some ado to pull it out. he be bu “no, no, no, i feel something ried this afternoon; but we no know here,” returned he, laying his hand on where his friends are; so massa will his breast; “ i know it is--it must just take him out to the grave in a be death. oh, that the almighty would volant aloue by himself.” yet grant me a little time! i do not adventure in havana. (jum', ask it for my own sake, but for her's. “peace," cried the superintend- —'t'is hard to be denied, since there ant; “ sir, i entreat you to remain is no selfishness in my petition ;- but here for my suke, if you will not for perhaps i'm mistaken. oh, beware your own. the credit of this house how you contract any ties that will would be injured, if any sick person bind your heart to this earth ;-our left it before he had perfectly recover- parting is severe enough without ed." them.” “ i am of that opinion too,” said i he turned his face from me. in a to the young man; “.but you shall little time i addressed him, but recei- never be uncler obligations you can- ved no reply-for he was dead. not cancel, while it is in my power to one afternoon, while taking my assist you. allow me to offer my ser- usual walk round the court, my at- vices in extricating you from your dif- tention was arrested by the sound of ficulties." persons speaking in a tone of alterca the superintendant and nurse, per- tion and entreaty. in a little time, ceiving that he had abandoned his in- the superintendant of the house look- tention of immediately removing, lett el from the door of one of the apart- the room, and i again asked if i could ments, and asked me to come in. be useful to him in any way. on entering, i perceived a young “ a few days ago," said he, “ your man, seated on a bed, half-dressed, generous offers would bave proved va- and in the act of putting on the re- luable beyond all description; and i mainder of his clothes. he was much would instantly have accepted of them. einaciated, and so weak, that he trem- but now they are of no avail, unless bled excessively; but his manner they could be made the means of pur- evinced a degree of resolution and im- chasing lite. were that granted me, patience, which seemed to supply the i would soon bave it in my power to place of strength. a mulatto woman step into the enjoyment of perfeet stood looking at him with an expres- happiness. but i will tell you my sion of astonishment and unconcern. unfortunate story. “no person in his senses would “i arrived in this town about think of leaving my house, when in three weeks ago, from philadelphia, such a state," said the superintendant where i have hitherto resided. i was to me. bred to the mercantile business; butas, i inquired if the young man was owing to the depressed state of com- not delírious. he overheard me, and merce that has lately existed through called out fiercely, “ no, sir, i am out america, i could not procure not delirious i know what i'm about, either a situation, or any employ, and am determined to do as i please. ment, i spent my time in idleness, i have given reasons for my conduct and at last fell in love with a young already.' lady, who also became attached to “ rather strange ones, though," me. we wasted away our hours in said the superintendant to me.- each others company, without ever “ this morning he asked how much thinking seriously of the future. when he owed me for the time he had my destitute state happened to force been in this house. when i satis- itself upon my mind, smothered the fied him on this point, he said he recollection of it, by building castles must go away, as he had scarcely mo- in the air, and trying to believe that ney enough to pay what was already some piece of good fortune awaited due; now i've just been telling him" me. say no more,” interrupted the “ however, i was eventually rou- young man; “i will not contract sed to exertion, by the death of my debts, when i have no possible means dear one's mother. in consequence of of paying them. a friend of mine this event, she was obliged to leave has a ship in the harbour-i will go philadelphia, and reside with a rich on board of' her, and die there." brother, who lived in the country. “why, it's not worth while mo. we had no longer any opportunity of ving,” said the mulatto woman, " for seeing each other; and the distress i the doctor told me you could not live suffered on this account, and the twodays. my master won't mind the ex- thoughts of the misery which my su- pence of keeping you that time, if you pineness would be the means of inflict- can seeure him against the charges of ing upon her, made me determine to your funeral.” push my fortune somewhere abroalla .] adoenture in havana. as i understood some spanish, and from me. when i had lost to a large could procure a few letters of recom- annount, we rose and took leave, but mendation to persons in havana, i not before some warm words that pass- soon decided upon coming here. ed between us, made me give him, in “whenever i arrived, i hastened to disdain, a promissory note for the sum call upon those people to whom i had i had borrowed. introductions. they received me po “next morning, my reflections were litely enough, and promised to forward not of the most agreeable kind, for my my views as much as possible, at the finances could ill support the encroach.. same time encouraging me with flat- ments which the preceding night's play tering hopes. my finances were low had made upon them. after breakfast, when i reached this city, and the bril- i went to the coffee-house, and there liant prospects in which i foolishly in- met a gentleman whom i had seen at dulged, did not tend to make me eco- the ball. he inquired in a very signi- nomical. at last, i began to perceive ficant manner for the ladies i had es- the necessity of liuniting my expences, corted there. on my requesting an and retired to obscure lodgings, where explanation, he informed me that they i lived in the narrowest manner pos- were women of no reputation, and that sible. the young spaniard, whom i called “i had made several agreeable ac- my friend, was employed by them to quaintances, though the suspense and entrap strangers, and bring his dupes anxiety i suffered, made me indiffer- to their house, that they might have ent about having much intercourse an opportunity of cheating them at with them. however, there was a cards, or obtaining money from them young spaniard, for whom i felt a in a more licentious way. particular regard. one evening, he “ this information wounded my called at my rooms, and requested me pride as deeply as my losses at cards had to accompany him to his aunt's, that drained my purse ; and i could not but he might introduce me to some of his bitterly repent that i had given a pro- country women. we went and took missory note to one who so little de- coffee with the ladies, and it being a served my confidence. however, as festival of the church, it was agreed things could not be retrieved, i endea- that we should go to the public ball, voured to forget my misfortunes, and that takes place on such occasions. went to the post-office to inquire if “it was late when we left the ball- there were any letter for me. i got room, and my friend and i accom one, which i knew from the super- panied the ladies home. contrary to scription to be from my beloved. she iny expectation, they requested us to informed me, that her brother having enter the house, and pressed the mat- died suddenly, had left her thirty ter so strongly that we complied. we thousand dollars, and concluded by had not sat long, when cards were requesting, that i would return to proposed; but i took alarm at this, philadelphia immediately, as her for- being well aware of the expertness of tune and herself were now at my dis- the spaniards in playing games of posal. chance, and of my own inability to “the perusal of this letter made me cope with them, on account of my tremble with joy. every thing around imperfect acquaintance with their lan- me seemed delightful, and i even be guage. i therefore protested against gan to regard, with some degree of remaining any longer, but without complacency, my perfidious compa- avail, for my friend and the ladies op- nion, and his female associates. ha- posed every thing i said. i would ving learned from the coffee-house have departed notwithstanding all books that a vessel had just cleared this, but i did not know the way out for new york, i immediately home, and feared to risk my life by went on board of her, and agreed with wandering alone through the streets of the captain for a passage, which was havana at midnight. to cost me nearly the whole sum i had “ we accordingly sat down to cards, in my possession. and i lost so fast that i began to have “on my return home, after having suspicions of unfair play. i was soon made these arrangements, i suddenly stripped of all the money i had about recollected that the young spaniard me, but my friend offered to be secu. had a bill upon me for such an amount, rity for whatever the ladies should win that, if i paid him, it would be im- adventure in havana. [june, possible for me to go to new york. what a villain i was, and how i had the agonies i felt, on recalling this attempted to run away without paying circumstance, were succeeded by a se- my debts. as the harbour-master had vere struggle between love and honour. no accusation against me, he merely if i left havana, without dischar- bade his men put my trunks on the ging my debt, my unprincipled asso- wharf, and went away. when my ciate would proclaim and prove me a treacherous associate perceived this, villain and a fugitive; but if i remain- he advanced towards me, and after ed and answered his demands, i would using some very insulting language, not have it in my power to sail for the demanded payment of his note. my united states, until i received remit- feelings were at that time too deep to tances from my friends there ; and i shew themselves externally. i opened knew that i could honourably dis- my portmanteau, and counted out the charge the bond i had given, by send. sum into his hands, and having call- ing him the sum when i reached phi, ed a volanto, drove to the lodgings ladelphia. which i had formerly occupied. “you may easily suppose how this “at first, the violence of my resent- conflict ended. i went on board the ment against the author of my cala- vessel, which was to sail that after- mities in some degree prevented the noon, and endeavoured to find a jus- invasions of grief, and the cruel ex, tification of my conduct, in the reflec- posure of my conduct, which he had tion, that almost no person in similar made to persons who were ignorant of circumstances would have acted other- my peculiar situation, and who would wise. the thoughts of the happiness of course put the worst constructions that awaited me, had little effect in upon every thing, stung me even more shortening the hours that were to than the disappointment i had suffered. elapse before we set sail. at last, to “ next morning i made inquiry at my great joy, the seamen began to the coffee-house, and at several other heave up the anchor. i sat in the ca- places, if any vessel was soon expecte bin, counting the turns of the wind- ed to sail for the united states, and lass, and inhaling with delight the fa- learned that there would be one in less vourable breeze that blew through the than a week. my next business was windows. to raise money to pay my passage. i “ in the midst of all this, the cap. tried various plans without success, tain called me upon deck. when i till at last, overcome with fatigue and got there, i saw the custom-house misery, i fell sick, and having no one boat lying alongside, and the har- to attend me at my lodgings, was con- bour-master, who stood in her, im- veyed to this house of disease. i am mediately demanded my passport.— aware, that death will soon put a pe- attempted to answer, but my alarm riod to my agonizing regrets, but you was such, that i could not speak. he may well suppose, that i am little then addressed me in english, and i prepared to meet it; for the happi- so far recovered myself as to tell him, ness, which the fatal incidents just that i had no passport, being ignorant related have bereft me of, appears to that such a thing was necessary. “you grow more and more desirable as life must return ashore then," said he, “i ebbs away, and i would prefer the must do my duty.” i pleaded against possession of her, whom i shall never this, but it was all in vain. he pro- see again, to an assurance that i should bably considered my agitation and dis- henceforth abide in the company of tress as proofs of guilt and terror, and blessed angels." the captain himself seemed anxious to my health being now re-establish- get rid of me. my trunks being low- ed, i left the sick-house the following ered into the boat, i was obliged to day. however, previous to my de- follow, and the harbour-master order- parture, i was informed of the death ed his men to row to the wharf. of this young american, and could not “on reaching it, we found a crowd but reflect, with gratitude, upon my of people talking together, and among preservation from the fatal effects of a them i recognized the young spaniard. pestilence, which daily made so many he was telling the others, in spanish, persons its victims. .] on halewill's apology. on hakewill's apology. that the world is in its dotage, we vance was thought impossible. consi- are told by that respectable son of der, for instance, our own publications, autolycus, the worthy old philoso- and ab hoc disce omnia. who did not pher in the vicar of wakefield, and believe it, even in its very infancy, as an axiom proceeding from such autho- having attained to perfection, as being rity, one would think, could hardly be the best possible magazine in this best destitute of foundation. yet, with all of all possible worlds, beyond which due deference to that excellent charac- progression or improvement could not ter, we must say we are rather unwil- go? who did not feel convinced, that ling to believe it, and so we suppose the star of blackwood had reached its will all those be who have been in the zenith, and must of necessity for the habit of constantly reading our maga- future wane and decline ? and yet zine. we might indeed say, and we how agreeably, delightfully, and en- should say, were we not restrained by chantingly, have all such expectations our invincible modesty, that our work been disappointed. we appeal to thy itself presents an incontestible proof, own good sense and good humour, that the world is as wise, and as witty, gentle reader, whether thou hast not and as learned, and as poetical, as ever been astonished, and, in fact, we have its annals exhibit it. if it have, like been astonished ourselves, at the still other bodies, and we believe this is increasing lustre of the dazzling “star the most likely state of the law, felt of edina.” like aladdin in the cave, in its time the infirmities of old age, it who found the contents of each apart- is now, however, marvellously recruit- ment to be succeeded by others more ed; and, like Æsop, after the decre- precious in the next, silver, gold, and pitude of dotage, has attained a magi- jewels, in interminable progression, cal rejuvenescence. it has now cer- thou hast discovered in our magazine tainly all the frolicsome mirth and a continualsource of heightening trans- animal spirits of youth ; it has cast its port and admiration. each new num- slough, and a second spring is gladden- ber has eclipsed the former, and rises ing and inspiriting literature. poetry above its predecessors, like the steps has received a new impulse ; another in jacob's ladder, till the world has at america has been discovered, and add- length set it down as an acknowledged ed to its dominions; and the genius axiom, that blackwood's magazine, of the drama is now rousing itself like must of necessity for ever improve; a giant from its slumber. not a year and is so satisfied with respect to this passes without bringing with it new point, that, should that far-famed pub- novels from the incomparable pen of lication, (which of course it never can the author of waverley, whose in- do,) ever deteriorate, we are confident vention seems as inexhaustible as na that the public would shut their eyes ture itself. such is the ardour of in- to the conviction. such is the fate of quiry, that nothing can daunt or dis our work, and what will be the end, spirit it; and we may expect in a few god only knows. from this instance, years to be as well acquainted with the though questionless in an inferior de- arctic regions, as we now are with gree, the gradual improvement and the road from edinburgh to glasgow. progression in all other departments nor is this all. the great idol of the and sciences may be judged of. in whigs, the edinburgh review, has at fact, with the exceptions of the scots- length been cast from its base, like man, which, like a dead pool, offensive belial and ashtaroth, the gods of the at once to the eyes and the nostrils, gentiles, before the might of truth, eternally stagnates, and of the edin- and of christopher north. education burgh review, which improves the is dispelling everywhere the mists of wrong way,-hibernicè, grows down- ignorance ; and the bible society and ward,—and has now become as dull blackwood's magazine are going about and stupid as “my grandmother," we hand in hand civilizing and christiani- scarcely know any thing not improva- zing nations. we are every day ex- ble, or likely to improve. the reader emplifying the doctrine of perfectibi- will at once ask, who is this great lity; and advancing, where further ad- master that hath done these things, vol. ix. q on hakewill's apology. [june, that hath infused this spirit of new impossible not to respect them as mo- life and vigour through all the intel- numents of zeal, assiduity, and know, lectual world ; that has communicated ledge, which modern writers have had new impulses to science, mind, and the sense to make use of, if not the ge- matter, and sown the seeds from which nerosity to praise. the harvest now is rising ; that has the present work is one of the most given to the exhausted and plough- readable of its class ; and those of worn fields of literature, like the in- our readers, who were before unac- cursions of the nile, new powers, quainted with it, will, we are sure, richness, and fecundity, and thrown owe us thanks for the introduction. out lights which have guided so many it is unnecessary, and perhaps would discoverers on their way? laudable not be interesting, to give a minute curiosity ought to be gratified, and as and particular account of the con- we apprehend few besides ourselves tents of so elaborate a work. it is are in possession of the secret, we will divided into four books; the first tell him. this new medea- this treats of the “ pretended decay in mighty magician- let him give due general, together with some prepara- credit to our generosity-was no other tives thereunto.” the second, of the than constable's magazine! “ decay in the heavens and elemen- after having made this exhibition tary bodies.” the third and fourth, of our candour, by bringing modesty of the “ decay in the age, stature, into notice a thing we always delight mind, manners, and virtue of man- in, we will now address ourselves to kind." the author dedicates his work the matter in hand. the work which “ to his amiable mother, the famous we purpose to introduce to our read- and flourishing universitie of oxford," ers, by the few extracts which follow, and observes, “ were i destitute of is entitled “ an apologie of the power all other arguments to prove that the and providence of god in the govern- world doth not universally and perpe- ment of the world, or an examination tually decline, this one might fully and censure of the common errour suffice for all, that thou, my venerable touching nature's perpetual decay; mother, though thou wax old in regard by george hakewill. lond. , of years, yet in this latter age, in re- folio.” it is written, as the title shews, gard of strength and beauty, waxeth to confute the principle of the world's young againe;" and that “ so far art decay, and is one of the most elaborate thou from withering and wrinkles, works of a most elaborate time. the that thou art rather become fairer and extent of the ground which the author fresher, and, in these times, no less passes over, his arguments embracing happy than heretofore." before he not only the decay in the elemental enters upon his subject, he considers matter, but also in manners and mind, it necessary to prove, that, taking the and the industry and impartiality he world's supposed decay as a principle exhibits, are truly extraordinary and of general belief, there are many other uncommon. the time he lived in opinions equally current with the mul- was not one for superficial disquisitions titude, “ which have been by others or flimsy treatises. he who then took manifestly convinced, or at least were a subject in hand, took up the matter justly suspected of falsehood." this in good earnest ; and whatever might he does to the length of several pages, be his success in his examination, the enough certainly to demonstrate that reader might be sure that it would he is by no means a man who takes not be unconcocted for want of consi- things for granted. he then endea- deration, or unsubstantial for want of vours to shew, how discouraging to learning. to this is owing that satis “ virtuous endeavours," is the opinion fying effect, that appearance of solidi- of the inequality of modern power. ty, which is remarkable in the works the following passage will serve as a of hakewill and his contemporaries; specimen of his style. and though much of their materials may at the present time appear unne- “ when our ancestors are painted forth cessary and useless, and much of their but in wit and vertue, though the acts wee as gyants, not onely in stature and strength, argument, by the improvements of their find recorded of them, please vs marveil- successors, or the changes in subjects ous well, yet wee durst not venture, or so of disquisition, may have been falsified, much as once thinke vpon the matching of or be no longer interesting, yet it is them, because we are taught and made to . on hakewill's apology. beleeue, that wee forsooth are but as pig- the inferiority of the moderns, in re- mies, and dwarfes in regard of them ; and gard of strength and stature, to the that it were as possible to fit a child's shooe mighty men of old, and adduces, to hercules foote, as for vs any way to amongst other arguments to the con- come neere them, or to trace their stepps, trary, the following relations from possunt, quia posse videntur. they can, camerarius. because they seeme they can. “ certainely the force of imagination is - francis the first, king of france, who wonderfull, either to beget in vs an abilitie reigned about an hundred years since, being for the doing of that which we apprehend desirous to know the truth of those things, we can do, or a disability for the not doing which were commonly spread touching the of that which we conceiue we cannot do : strength and stature of rouland, nephew which was the reason that the wisards and of charlemaine, caused his sepulchre to be oracles of the gentiles being consulted, opened, wherein his bones and bow were they ever returned either an hopefull an- found rotten, but his armour sound, though swer, or an ambiguous, such as by a fa- couered with rust, which the king com- vourable construction, might either include maunding to bee scoured off, and putting or at leastwise not vtterly exclude hope. it vpon his owne body, found it so fit for agesilaus (as i remember) clapping his him, as thereby it appeared that rouland hand vpon the altar, and taking it off exceeded him little in bignesse and stature againe, by a cunning divice shewed to his of bodie, though himselfe were not exces- spuldiers, victory stamped vpon it, where- siue tall or bigge.' by they were so encouraged, and grew so confident, that, beyond all expectation, they in a curious chapter on “the sun- indeed effected that wherof by this sleight dry fabulous formations of the bones they were formerly assured. prognostica- of giant-like bodies digged up or found tions and prophesies often helpe to further in caves," he gives us the following that which they foretell, and to make men stories from different authors :- such as they beare them in hand they shall “our malmesburiensis likewise in his be; nay, by an vnavoydable destinie must second booke and thirteenth chapter de bee. francis, marquesse of saluzze, yeeldes gestis rerum anglorum mentioneth the is a memorable example in this kind, who same, story shall i call it, or fable, telling being lieutenant-generall to francis the first vs, that in the yeare of grace , and in king of france, over all his forces which the reigne of s. edward, the body of pal. hee then had beyond the mountaines in las the sonne of euander, of whom virgill italy, a man highly favoured in all the speakes, romæ repertum est illibatum in- court, and infinitly obliged to the king for genti stupore omnium quod tot sæcula in- his marquesite, which his brother had for- corruptionem sui superavit, was found at feited, suffered himselfe to be so fart afright- rome intire and sound, to the great asto- ed and deluded, as it hath since been ma nishment of all men, that by the space of nifestly proued, by prognostications, (which so many ages it had triumphed quer cor- then throughout all europe were giuen out ruption; and farther to confirme the trueth to the advantage of the emperour charles thereof, he assures vs, that the gaping the fifth, and to the prejudice of the french,) widenesse of the wound which turnus that hauing no occasion offered, yea his made in the midst of his breast, was found owne affections contradicting the same, hee by measure to be foure foote and an halfe, first began in secret to complaine to his a large wound, and the weapon which private friends of the inevitable miseries made it, we cannot but conceiue as large ; which he foresawprepared bythe fates against and by the appearance of it at full, not the crowne of france. and within a while onely the bones and skinne and sinewes, after (this impression still working into him) but the flesh to remaine incorrupt ; a mat- he most vnkindly revolted from his master, ter altogether incredible. besides, he sets and became a turne-coate to the emperour’s vs downe his epitath found at the same side, to the astonishment of all men, his time, owne greate disgrace, and the no lesse dis. filius evandri pallans quem lancea turni advantage to the french enterprize ; on militis occidit more suo iacet hic, the other side i doubt not but that the pro. which himselfe knowes not well how to phesies of sauanarola, as much assisted giue credit too, quod non tunc crediderim charles the eight to the conquest of na. factum, (sayth he,) which i cannot beleeue ples, which he performed so speedily and was then made, but by ennius, or some happily, as he seemed rather with chalke other of latter ages : but i proceede, to marke out his lodgings, then with his herodotus in his first booke tels vs, sword to winne them." that the body of orestes being taken up, after proving that no decay has was found to be seaven cubits; but gellius taken place in the heavens and ele- is bold to bestow vpon him for his labour mentary bodies, or in the earth or its the title of homo fabulator, a forger of productions, he proceeds to examine fables, rather inclining to the opinion of on hakewill's apology. [june, varro, who held the vtmost period of a the delusions of these spirits haue vanish- man's growth to be seaven foote. whated as a mist before the sun; though their would he then haue said to the body of kingdome be not at an end, yet is their oryon, which pliny makes forty-six cubits, malice much restrained and their power or of macrosyris, which trallianus makes abated.” an hundred cubits, or of that body disco- uered in a vast caue neere drepanum in amongst the instances of moderns sicilie, three of whose teeth, if we may be- who have equalled the ancients in leeue boccace, weighed an hundred ounces, strength, if modern he can be called, and the leadde of his staffe, a thousand and our author tells us, fiue hundred pounds. and the body it selfe, by the proportion of some of the bones, “ was the gyant enother, borne in tur- was estimated to no lesse than two hundred gaw, a village in sweuia, who bore armes cubits, which makes three hundred feete, vnder charlemaigne; he felled men as one somewhat, i thinke, beyond paul's steeple. would mow hay, and sometimes broached the more i wonder at s. augustin, who a great number of them vpon his pike, and confidently assures vs, that himselfe with so carried them all vpon his shoulder, as others being on the sea-shore at vtica, he one would carry little birds spitted vpon a there saw a mans iaw-tooth so bigge, that sticke.” being cut into small peeces, it would haue this was a man of power indeed. made an hundred such as the men liuing the ogres of our infancy would hard- in his age commonly had, by which com- ly be more formidable. for our own putation the body it selfe must likewise in part, we hope to see no such manifest- reason haue exceeded the bodies of his age ations of modern strength. an hundred times ; so that being compared with a body of six foote, and exceeding it our author next examines the pre- one hundred times, it will be found six tended superiority of the ancients in hundred foote high, which is the just dou- arts and sciences. he gives us the ble to boccace his gyant.” following specimens of the barbarism of the middle ages. after attempting on different grounds to account for these extraordinary ap- " it appeares, by the rescript of pope pearances, he resolves the problem in zacharie to boniface, a german bishop, the true spirit of his age. that a priest in those parts baptized in this forme, baptizo te in nomine patria, et “ but that which i rather choose to in. filia, et spiritua sancta ; and by eras. sist vpon, is, that the bodies of such men mus, that some divines in his time would were begotten by devills, who that they haue take vpon them to prooue, that heretiques had carnall familiarity with women, is the were to be put to death, because the apostle consent of all antiquity. and that the births saith, hæreticum hominem devita, which of such monstrous mixtures must needes be it seemes they vnderstood as if he had monstrous, tostatus truely observeth: ta said de vita tolle. i haue somewhere read, libus conceptibus robustissimi homines et that two fryars, disputing whether god procerissimi nasci solent, of such concep- made any more worlds then one, the one tions are wont to be borne the strongest and wisely alleadging that passage of the gos- tallest of men.' and vallesius hauing given pell touching the ten lepers which were the reason heereof at large, (which, for cleansed, annon decem facti sunt mundi, feare of offending chast eares, i list not as if god had made tenne worlds; the heere to repeate) at last concludes, robusti other looking into the text, replies as wise. ergo et grandes vt nascerentur, poterant ly, with the words immediately following, itæ dæmones procurare ; thus then the sed vbi sunt novem ? but what is become devills might procure that mighty huge of the nine ? so as from thence hee would gyants should be borne, whose both opinion prooue but one to be left. he that is dis. and reasons heerein are both approued and posed to make himselfe merry in this farther proued by delrio in his magicall kinde, may finde in henry stevens his disquisitions. the euidence heereof will apologie of herodotus, a number of like yet farther appeare, if wee consider, that stuffe; i will only touch one or two of the where god was least known and the devill choisest. du prat, a bishop and chaun. most powerfully reigned, there these im- cellour of france, hauing receiued a letter pure acts were most frequently practised, from henry the eight king of england, to which is the reason, as i conceiue, that francis the first of france, wherein among among the hebrewes, the chosen people of other things he wrote, mitto tibi duodecom god, wee reade of no such matter: nay molossos, i send you twelue mastiffe dogs,' those gyants we find mentioned in holy the chauncellor, taking molossos to signifie writ were for the most part of other na- mules, made a journey of purpose to the tions. but since the incarnation of the court, to begge them of the king ; who, sonne of god our blessed saviour, who wondring at such a present to be sent him came to dissolue the workes of the devill, from england, demaunded the sight of the . on hakewil's apology. letter, and smiling thereat, the chauncellour preparatiue unto it, then part of it. by finding himselfe to be deceiued, told him which meanes they kept men so long in that hee mistooke molossos for muletos, the porch, that they entred not into the and so hoping to mend the matter, made house till it was more then time to goe out it worse. "another tale he tels of a parish of it.” priest in artois, who had his parishioners of alchymy he observes, with some in sute for not paving the church, and that the charge thereof lay vpon them, and not that degree of justice, vpon him, he would proue out of the of “ we finde little mention thereof in an- the prophet ieremie, paveant illi, non pa- tiquity, not suspected of forgery: but for veam ego. i remember archbishop parker, mine own part, i much doubt whether any somewhere in his antiquates britannicæ, such experiment be yet really found or no : makes relation of a french bishop, who and if it be, whether the operation of it be being to take his oath to the archbishop of not more daugerous and difficult then the canterburie, and finding the word metro. effect arising from it is or can be advanta- politicæ therein, being not able to pro- gious. but of this i am well assured, nounce it, he passed it ouer with soit pour that as he who digged in his vineyard for dict, let it be as spoken ;' and when they gold missed it, but by opening the rootes of had most grossely broken priscian's head, the vines thereby, found their fruite the being taken in the fact, their common de next yeare worth more vnto him then gold, fence was those words of s. gregorie, non so whiles men haue laboured by transmu. debent verba cælestis oraculi subesse regu- tation of mettals from one species to ano- lis donati, the words of the heavenly ther to make gold, they haue fallen vpon oracles ought not to be subject to the rules the distillation of waters, extractions of of donatus.'” oyles, and such like rare experiments m- known to the ancients, which are vndoubt- in comparing the ancient and mo- edly more pretious for the vse of man then dern poets, he says of virgil, “ if i all the gold of both the indies." should match him with ariosto or torquato tasso in italian, bartas in after going through the circle of french, or spencer in english, i think arts and sciences, he dilates upon the i should not much wrong him.” our modern inventions of printing, guns, good author's zeal has carried him ra- and the mariner's compass. he then ther too far. du bartas's tedious poem proceeds to disprove the pretended de- has about the same relation to the cay in the virtue and morals of men ; Æneid that blackmore's prince are and shews in the course of his reason- thur has to paradise lost. it is, how. ing a thorough knowledge of antiquity. ever, an epic, and all epics might per- he examines the laws of solon, ly- haps to our theological doctor be alike. curgus, plato, and aristotle, and equally extravagant is his judgment proves the greatest part of them to be of sirphilip sidney'sarcadia, " which,” irrational , useless, and absurd. the he observes, “ is in my opinion no- vices of the ancients come next before thing inferior to the choicest piece him, and he exposes, in all their hi- amongst the ancients.” of these mat- deous colours, their avarice, cruelty, ters our author was ill calculated to luxury, prodigality, and corruption. judge. when he comes to logic he his thesis being thus demonstrated, seems much more on his own ground. he concludes by a “pious exhortation to all manner of persons.” “ logicke indeed is it, wherein we are the extracts we have given from thought to be most defectiue in regard of this production can give our readers former ages; and it is true, that the no idea of the extent of learning, co- schoole-men had set their stocke, the vt- most of their endeavours vpon this part of gency of reasoning, and general good learning, their whole life being in a man- sense which it displays. the subject ner little else but a perpetuali wrangling itself is too hacknied to allow us to and altercation, and that many times ra- enter into the discussion of it. besides, ther for victory and ostentation of wit, then we believe the world has long since a sober and serious search of truth : so as made up its mind about it. element- their entrance being vaine, their end was ary decay, philosophy has long taught likewise fruitlesse. what huge volumes us it is ridiculous to dread; and the haue they compiled of the predicables and fear of intellectual decay would be predicaments, as if in them consisted the equally childish in the contemporaries very spirit and soule of logicke ; whereas of walter scott. in truth they are rather an appendix or (june, sketches of scottish character, no. vii. sketches of scottish character. no. vii. “ harvest home." assist me now, thou coila-christend muse, who could'st o'er rustic board a charm diffuse assign to chieftain worth a chieftain place, and raise to honour meet the “ pudding race"- assist the bard, who ne'er invoked before, nor ever shall again—"this effort o'er." the ripen'd grain invites the reaper's hand, the master musters forth his harvest band; a joyous, frisky, wit-attempting choir, stands, rank and file, around the farmer's door. with shining sickle o'er their shoulders laid, come stripling youth, and three-score years old maid. the cottar widow with her youngest son, most useful he on messages to run- pipe-lighting-coal to bring—the bog to scan- and drain the cooling crystal in a pan, his mother's rig to “hole” with onward haste, that she may smoke, at intervals, and rest. the merry sutor tucks his apron by, the tailor's implements unnoticed ly, the wright his wimbles and his planes foregces, the ditcher drops his “mattocks and his hose, the smith his bellows and his anvil-blows- each wife or daughter-partner'd, seeks the field, prepared till latest dusk the hook to wield. nor long the space, when hand with heart combines, and o'er the partner'd task contentment shines- bids lad and lass the rig together drive, and keeps with country clash the boon alive ; affords a breathing time at dinner-hour, beyond the bandsman's, or the master's power. “ peat-time" is cheerful; then the barrow plies the frequent lift, and far the fuel lies o'er dry, and heathy tuft; and lad with lass enjoy the mid-day pastime on the grass. 'twas merry-making once in days of old, when all the ewes were pent up in the fold, and kilted maiden came, her cog to fill, and lambs, spread motherless along the hill, in plaint responsive spread, and shepherd jeer, and bark of dog, and song of maid were near. it still is pleasant revel, once a-year, when all the household meet the "sheep to shear”- and stools are set, and sharpen'd scissars fly along the shaggy fleece, with sounding ply; till peeld to perfect nakedness, each - wether” resumes his legs, bounds off, and seeks the heather with shout, and fruitless speed, pursues the boy, till every smutted feature swell with joy. e'en “hay-stack” building is a joyous work, when hand with heart combines, and fork with fork, and many a female foot along the stack backwards and forwards plies, the hay to pack, and squall and scream, with mimic scold unite, to check impertinence, they but invite. .) harvest home. ! but i have seen such frolic, harmless, frecuentes such breadth of wit, extravagance of glee on harvest field, so much of limb and tongue, till dogs have bark’d, and to the skirts have clung of romping matron, whose ungainly mirth, to clap of hands, and screaming shout gave birth. yes! i have seen the merry-hearted lass beneath the plaid, with favour'd partner pass; whilst round the waist the mutual arm was flung, and breast to breast in beating transport clung. nor smile, ye proud-nor frown, ye polish'd fair, as if ought else save decency were there you have your stolen glance, your pouting airs, sincerity and warmth of heart is theirs- you have your evening party, ball, or play ; their harvest romp, and “ harvest home" have they. and “harvest home” arrives, all labour o'er, and every “hook” suspended by the door, the sore contested “ handful” fix'd on high, deck'd out in all the grace of knot and tie, to female form adjusted, trim and small, and spreading all her pomp against the wall ; the whiten'd barn-wall, whence she witness may, the evening pastime of this festive day- nod to the fiddle's ear-assailing note, and spread, in mimic dance, the straw-made petticoat. the "harvest moon” has brighten'd in the east- that moon, which keeps her hour, nine nights at least- of labouring farmer mindful in her sphere, she lends her light, the stack-yard-work to cheer. around her congregate the silver clouds, which else had slept, the night in sable shrouds, to sickly radiance, lesser stars decline, and jove himself less splendid seems to shine the mountains press their outlines on the sky, and far o'er “ stouk-clad” fields the shadows ly, whilst deep-engulph'd within each gloomy deli, full on the ear, the struggling waters swell. now cow-herd boy, beside his creaking wain, deep labouring with a load of season'd grain, eyes every lengthen'd shadow in his way, and takes the bogle glen with sad dismay- holds conversation with the straining brute, and cracks his whip, and plies his stackward rout. anon-nor cowherd-boy, nor servant-lass, have bogle glen, or haunted ford, to pass. the well-built stack, beat in, with fork, around, and snodded down, from top-shave, to the ground- relieves the labouring crew, and bids prepare, for evening frolic, and for maiden fare.. now preparation sits on every face, and bustling movements—bustling movements chace. a prime fat "wether" seethes in yonder pot, here roasts the quarter of a highland stot ; above that foam, the bobbing haggies rises, whilst puddings play around of various sizes ; * if the kirn is win before “ michaelmas" it is called “ a maiden ;” if not till later, it is termed a “ carline"'-(not caroline.) sketches of scottish character, no. vii. [jwie, the horny sheep-head, arm'd on either side, drives, like a sword-fish, through the briny tide, with blustering haggies wields unequal strife, and cuts him up—and that without a knife. * within that jolly “ cask,” the feast to crown- sleeps what will rouse to energy anon- give wit to dotage, heels to bed-rid years, to silence give loquacity, to virtue leers- religion strip of half her sacred creed, and make the only foolish, fools indeed. the barn is clear'd, the table-bench is placed with pail, and pot, and knifeless trencher graced. here shines the haggies in a cloud of steam, around his orb the planet puddings gleam- the sheep-head grins defiance by his side, through whiten's teeth, and jaws extended wide. along the bench, as if at random toss'd, lie lumbering fragments of the boil and roast ; and stew'd potatoes, here and there prevail, still partner'd by a brimming cog of“ kail,” old scotia's barley-broth, commix'd with greens," and lithed into consistency with“ beans”- thus fared king bruce, and saw his country free, and thus fare freemen still, our scottish peasantry! thus fare the lads to albin's honour true, whose valour stood the test at waterloo, far o'er the hostile fields destruction sped, and fought like heroes,- for a hero led. now comes the “ grace" anon—"old francie's” task has been from ancient times the grace to ask ; an aged servant he-long kept at ease, allow'd to work, or idle, if he please. the servant lads to scold, the maids to ban, or scorn them, when in humour, with “ a man;"+ see all things right attended to, and then, before and after meal-time, say th' “ amen;" give prayers at night and morning through the year ; keep all the neighbouring boys in constant fear; * in illustration of this, the following anecdote, somewhat descriptive as it is of coun- try manners, may be adduced :—" an honest woman was favoured by providence with an ideot son—for such unfortunate individuals are accounted by the peasantry of scot- land a blessing-whose name, according to immemorial use and wont, must of course have been “jock.' to jock, then, on a sabbath-day, during her absence at church, she had committed the superintendance of a boiling broth-pot-in which had been compa- nioned a horny sheep-head with a haggies. jock, who was quite equal to the task on ordinary occasions, was not a little astonished and nonplussed, when, in the progress of ebullition, he discovered that the head,” which by this time had begun to shew teeth, as well as horns, was in the act of making rather an unhandsome attack upon his unre- sisting companion. having no means of stemming the wound, which, judging from the discharge, seemed to be considerable, jock hastened in utter dismay to the church, where he knew his mother was of course to be found, with the view of giving her, at all hazards, information of the late catastrophe. after some fruitless staring along the areas, and over the seats, he at length caught his mother's eye, which was eagerly and anxiously employed in winking him into silence. but jock was too much possessed with the idea of the unequal warfare he had just witnessed, and with the attitude and demonstration of offence assumed by the head, in particular, to be kept long in check_na, mither, na,' says he, in a tone of voice loud enough to arrest the attention of minister and congrega- tion_ye need na sit, winking, an’ nodding, an'glunching there_ye had muckle bet- ter be at hame, for horny-face has stickit bobbing-bess, and they hae' off their jackits, an' at it, an' at it.'” + « a husband.”_vidc jameson. .) harvest home. announce the weather with prophetic eye, and in the evening read the morning sky; assist the “ mistress," when in need of help, the milk to churn, the wayward imps to skelp ; build up the peat-stacks, if in winter shot, and cool with ready care th' o’erboiling pot ; survey the liggets, keep the snecks in order, denouncing still all manner of disorder; the doctor act, in case of inward pains- most skilful he in boils and ankle sprains- the bats to cure, the ring-worm, and the spavie, and even, in case that need were, he can shave ye. for these, and twenty other things of use, “ old francie” has his livery and a house ; his elding led--a bed of freshest chaff- a“ doddy cow," each season brings a calf- a cast-off coat a half-worn pair of shoes, with all the chancy windfalls of the house, besides a beast to market twice a year- no skittish colt-the master's saddle mare. eye- to francie now the master turn’d his face, and sudden silence usher'd in the “ grace." the banquet orison of tedious drawl, which proved, in fact, to be no “ grace” at all a scriptural debate, an argued “ cause," about or broken or neglected laws; this way or that the sinner needs must fall, as man is nothingness, or man is all. divine and human, in an equal share, he sinks a toad, or soars an angel fair. “amen," that long had near'd, and then had been far through the prayer-expostulation seen ; like “ country seat,” to which we journey up, in all the impatient drive of dinner hope through serpentine approaches ;-now 'tis nigh, and now appears receding from the from side to side coquetting.–thus th' “ amen" comes close within their grasp, and flies again. till all at once entrapp'd in leading phrase, amidst the entanglements of “ power and praise," the coy deceiver yields; and jaws amain, and hands and teeth, their privilege regain. hast thou, good reader, ever seen a horse, as homer paints him, fretting for the course; with frequent hoof the turf incessant tearing, already in his heart the contest sharing- till launch'd at once into his utmost speed, forth starts at “ tuck of drum” the generous steed? or hast thou seen, mayhap, in boyish day, the summer pool where watchful minnows play, winnowing with silver glance the viewless tide, and through the liquid radiance darting wide; whilst not a curl the pausing waters knew, nor curved one waving pebble to the view. + see ralph erskine. « and with less equals to compare, an ugly toad an angel fair." gospel sonnets. vol ix. r ! sketches of scottish character, no. vii. (june, and having dropt a worm amidst the fry, hast seen them all in one thick cluster fly, to catch their dinner, emulous of feeding, and all unmark'd by courtesy or breeding. then canst thou image forth this harvest band, each with a “ ram-horn" brandish'd in his hand, impatient for the signal--now descending in one vast plunge, and horn with horn contending then canst thou image forth each banqueteer proclaiming 'gainst " sir loin" incessant wier, cutting, and slashing, tearing, rending, riving, and maid with hynd, and hynd with maiden striving- no servants lounge behind their masters' chair, for dogs, expectant of the bones, are there, here is no need of “ cloths” the crumbs to catch, the hungry curs are ever on the snatch ; whate'er you drop, they snap, with eager jaws, remind you of their presence by their paws; from face to face revolve with watchful eye, and challenge every “ bit" that passes by ;- 'tis silence all-e'en tibby's tongue is still, and jenny's too, though sore against her will. amidst this pause-expressive of dispatch, the creeking barn-door opens by a latch; and, elbow'd in, by arms of rosy hue such doric arms as willy wastle knew! comes there a “pail" upborne in steady state, copartner'd by an earthen satellite. the shield of ajax ? no.-don quixote's basin ? (we waste our time similitudes a-chasing.) in sober phrase, for figures much we hate, it was, good reader, an enormous or “milk-cog,” rather, varnish'd deep with brown, and striped with white alternate up and down. this vast “tureen" such partner might beseem, and both besuited well the “ curds and cream"- the season's wholesome beverage, rich and broken, each into other jumbled by the rocking. let maro praise his " copia pressi lactis," - dry musty cheese-curd merely ! -let the practice of supping half-boild " sowens” still prevail through esk, through annan, and through niddisdale. let galovidian wives their stomachs cram with eggs well scollop'd up with bacon ham, whilst ayrshire men, to taste and nature true, prefer to ham and eggs the “ irish stew.” let braxy through the highland glens prevail, far-noted “ fife-folk” still delight in “ kail;" let “ hotch-potch" reek on every lothian board, and brose with lennox stomachs well accord; let bamff and fruchy live on salted herring, such sapless diet to the best preferring ; but o'er them all a “ feast” of loftier name let latest times record—“ the curds and cream. the festal banquet “ druids” deign'd to share, may well with every modern dish compare. “ plate, • “ her waly nieves like midden creels."_burys. “ cæteris paribus"--what must not the anns have been ? .) harvest home. some brew thefr drink in jugs, with forward scoup, and pour the reeking beverage through a stroup; a ready " shelty" stands in waiting by, around the board distributive to fly. a painted bowl we've seen of china ware, the size uncommon, and the pattern rare an heir-loom of the house, whose fretted edge of high antiquity affords a pledge. the well-worn spoon-mouth still retain'd the " shank," to speak of all our drouthy fathers drank around the parent bowl, expectant still, the empty glasses crowded in “ to fill.' and tumblers too in modern days appear, our brewing skill to prove, our board to cheer; each to his taste commixes up his toddy, nor pins his taste to sleeve of any body. old maids are fond of glasses long and narrow, like sheep-shank bone divested of the marrow; and “fleur-de-lis-mouth'd” well spread jelly glasses do well enough for clowns and country lasses. a pot there is of noted size and fame, capacious, vast, the “ mickle pot" by name. and where the true-born, home-bred brother scot, who does not recognize the “ mickle pot ?" amidst the brotherhood he holds his place, vast moderator of the boiling race. wide o'er his mouth an iron rainbow bends, and fasten’d to each ear the bowl extends; no housemaid-plaything this, to lift, and hang upon the “ bleezing ingle,” with a bang; but ready, ballasted, with seething store, two hynds can scarcely poise him from the floor. and see he comes !-amidst each speaking eye anticipation beams in ecstacy-. with back sore bent, and shoulders on the spring, two brawny youths this ample “ punch-bowl” bring, in which each drouthy wight may steep his soul, scorning the competence of jug or bowl. and sweet the flavour which exhales around, as down the ladle sinks, the depths to sound; that broth pot ladle, sorely lipped, and riven, serves yet to send full many a soul to heaven. trips up the consonants in geordy's prose, relumes the carbuncles on tibby's nose, cheers up the fiddler on the girnel lid, and makes the only cheerful, blest indeed ! gives honest, homely hearts to shew themselves, and teaches more than all the parson's shelves. ye men of books_ye absent, thoughtful men, oh, would you drop one little hour the pen ; and, 'stead of bothering your sicken'd brain, idea catching, with incessant pain compelling still “ reluctancies to rise, which fancy, not experience, supplies. oh!-but i “oh” in vain away my time, wasting on you admonitory rhyme; else i had bid you join a “ village wedding,”- or, say you like my present theme,, “ maiden." there you might see, what books may not contain, nor second-hand reporter can'explain, sketches of scottish character, no. vii. (june, the human character, distinct and free, from uniform, well-bred monotony. then might you melt your thoughtfulness away, and be as happy and as wise as they. contrast with this the polish'd social state, the dull gentility that marks the great.- “ this room is hot-how very hot it is, my lady lobster's rout was nought to this." “ indeed," responds my lady, in his arm, " it is, my dear, insufferably warm." pray, madam, don't you think the stage a bore?" “ how very loud these horrid creatures roar!" and thus sir simeon, and his lady still their fashionable part in life fulfil. from play to rout, from rout to ball they go, dress'd in one everlasting domino. but tumbling, rolling, sprawling on his way, comes in the straw-clad masker, “ auld glenæ ;" a lengthen'd pole adorns his better paw, well swathed with ribbons, and well wrapp'd with straw, like shaggy bear he heaves his limbs along, and drives, and leaps, and bustles through the throng; tries every art the younger folks to “scar," and only joins the reel, the sport to mar; trips up the dancer in his figure pace, and thrusts his stubble presence in each face; with lizy foots the droll duett away, and capers to the tune of “ auld glenæ.” then winds his bunchy arms her waist about, and bears aloft the farmer's daughter out; “and wha can this be now?" each damsel cries; “ what can he want wi' lizy ?" each replies. “ atweel,” rejoins a third, “ she's nae great prize!". but round the stack-yard ricks has tibby gone, to watch the absent lovers, all alone, to spy the lovers, or as “spite” might say, to wile from out the barn her “ tam” away. but tam has other fish this night to fry- the “ village toast” has early caught his eye; with her he dances, and with her he drinks, nor heeds full many coughs and knowing winks from jealous tib, who bridles up her head, and sits and sulks upon the girnel lid- tossing her heels in anguish to and fro, to every proffering partner, saying, nom then hurrying to the door, with backward glance design'd to pierce her lover like a lance. the “ village beauty” chuckles in her heart, essays with double care the winning part; her pretty little dimples play the while, and point with certain destiny her smile. the opening napkin half her breast reveals, and half from raptured gaze the snow conceals ; whilst bitten into scarlet—soft and pouting, her parted lips, like charon-buds, are sprouting; and round her plump and venus-moulded frame, there hangs a witchery that wants a name. .] harvest home. her tale-tell eyes, amidst their swimming pride, o'er all this armoury of love preside ; till crimson'd o'er, the lily of her cheeks at once her innocence and triumph speaks! the fiddler now has had his “ quantum suff.” in plain good english, he has had enough.”. or, if in scotch, his present state i drew, i'd say at once, the fiddler he was fou.” a tankard still replenish'd from the store, and emptied still, had still made way for more ; till all his senses melted into one, he sat a musical “ automaton." from girnel-lid unpausing music threw, and aye the bow to “ dainty davie" drew; within their lids his eyes delight to dwell, or only peep, like oyster, from its shell- those maudlin light grey eyes, that now are moister than any pandore or newhaven oyster. there is no pause, no respite from the reel, still round and round the lads and lasses wheel clap with their hands and loudly scream, and shout, beat with their beels, and leap and spin about. e'en “ aunty ann” her cleeky staff foregoes, forgets her asthma, and her corny toes ; spreads out her petticoat, like peacock tail, and up the dance begins to set her sail. old “ aunty ann” has seen the “ forty-five," and e'en to recollect " the forty" can contrive ; and yet so hard the fate of " aunty ann,". she never yet has partner'd been to report, indeed—but one can not receive one quarter of the worlds' “ make believe"- report said something once of lover bold, who dared his passion, and his hope unfold, address'd a maiden heart at “ forty-two”- address'd, assail'd, secured, and broke it too- one year was spent, the dismal “ forty-three," in all the anguish-dream of misery; but time resumed his tear-repressing power, as tender ann commenced her “ forty-four;" and now the case she reasons as it stood, “ i ne'er was married, but was once as good.” her language since, is full of moral worth, she sighs at marriages, laments a birth; wonders full oft how folks can merry be, amidst a world of sin and treachery : pities the fool, who laughs for laughing-sake ; above all computation hates a rake; yet, at a bridal, or a maiden pot, can play a part, look cadgy, and what not ; immerge the world's ingratitude in punch, and festal cates with toothless jaw-bone munch; with francie eye the merry hearted rout, and sometimes too with francie « shake her foot." man. but francie takes the floor with widow watson, for francie now has got his shoes and “spats” on the decent widow modestly refuses but aunty's glee a confidence infuses; sketches of scottish chardcter, no. vii. [june, and archy tait forgets his goblin story, and foots it through the floor in all his glory, sets to the widow first, a wary man- then wheels, and breasts it up, with “ aunty ann"- so on they bob, and hob, and nob away- and who'so fit to reel and set as they a beam the rafters binds from side to side, and there “ rob paton,” figures, leg astride, in all the topmost pitch of festive glory, hitching along his strange observatory; eying with rapture meet this scene of joy, and playing off, by many a trick, “ the boy;" till, sad mischance! to fate or whisky due, plump from the “joist,” he tumbles like a clue; and following fast, come closely at his back a brace of fails, and many a dusty sack. to fall is nothing--any one may fall, and never rue the tumble after all ; but then to stir, to look unmoved around, your lubber limbs still squatting on the ground, upon a sneering, mischief-loving band, requires, to say the least, some self-command : this felt rob paton keenly, up he started and quickly through the stack-ward postern darted, plotting some mischief still, by method strange, position only alter'd by the change. nor long the plot, till shouldering, grunting on, straight through the bobbing crew has grumphy gorie in reckless speed. midst screaming and dismay, she fairly carries “ aunty ann” away.- as rode europa, so did aunty ride, and each did sit their palfrey, “ leg astride;". the one, bull-mounted, sought the western shore, the other, sow-supported, sought the door- nor door, alas ! nor outlet found the brute, by which to bear her maiden rider out; só round and round the barn old aunty drives, with hand and heel to keep her seat contrives, plays off her sowmanship to shaking sides, and through a very stream of laughter rides ; but francie has slipt out, amidst the fray, resolved to drag a culprit from his play; and this the full extent of “ paton's” sin, 'twas he that drove the furious stranger in- one shake is lent him, rob maintain' his look, and halflins smiled,-again old francie shook the helpless victim ; dure as whinstone rock, rob still remain’d, at each successive shock; till shooting like a pebble from a sling, rob feels the force of francie's parting swing unseats the widow in his wareless speed, and all inconscious proves “ a friend in need."- the music now is mute, the minstrel low, lies stretch'd at length amidst the barley mow; * though some painters have given europa a different and more modernized position, it is all a hoax? .] harvest home. in noise and clamour's spite he seeks repose, and only breathes “ discordance” from his nose; yet by his motions still, in mimic guise, the tune he humours, and the bow he plies. whilst sides and arms the giggling limmers nip, or draw the tickling corn-straw o'er his lip; till roused into perception, up he springs, and wakes with fitful energy the strings. now all the drouthy dons have gather'd round the mystic pot, in wonderment profound ; tale after tale succeeds of marvels past, and still the next more marvellous than the last. of elf-shot cows they talk, and loss of grain, by shaking winds, or long-continued rain; or storms of drifted snow that heap'd the “ slack," till some mischancy packman with his pack bung'd up old granny's “ lumt," her only light, and shut the view of heaven from her sight. the ranks are thinning fast, as two by two the lovers rush, the “ northern lights” to view; and wives and widows urge the homeward rout, and coax, and drag, and push their partners out. i this is no unusual occurrence.-an old woman who occupies a seat immediately under the pulpit, and opposite to my pew in the church, is regularly employed, during the latter part of the minister's sermon, which, to say the truth, is sometimes not a lit- tle soporific, in- " drawing out a thread wi' little din." + the story of the packman is this.-during the severe winter, - , a poor old woman's cottage, which stood in the midst of a narrow glen or slack, had been com- pletely drifted up, even to the upper extremity or head of the “ lum.” a packman happening to be travelling in the course of a day or two, and after the snow had consoli. dated, in the direction of the said lum, was suddenly engulphed, and suspended from his pack by the shoulders, with his feet playing in full swing over the sooty mysteries of the old woman's “ rannel tree." their mutual terror and astonishment may be more easily conceived than described. in illustration of the state to which this scottish carnival, now, happily for the mo- tals of the people, fast falling into disuse, frequently reduced those who were engaged in it, the following anecdotes are related :-" tak aff, my guidwife there," said the gudeman of burniwhistle, who, along with his better half, had been enjoying, to a late hour, a neighbouring farmer's harvest home“ kep down ye're mistress, man ; an' lay a sheaf o' corn afore the auld mare or ye gang to your bed.”_upon investigation, however, it was found that the gudewife of burniwhistle, who, along with her spouse, had improved her time during the evening, was amissing. she had, in fact, slipt off from behind her husband, unperceived by him ; and, as their homeward road lay for a considerable way within sea mark, there was nothing but “ ride and run” amongst all the numerous domestics of burniwhistle. the gudewife was happily found at last, lying precisely where she had fallen, upon the soft beach, and up to the very mouth in salt water. “ na,” were the words of her soliloquy, as each succeeding wave urged its way more and more forcibly into her mouth, " na, sirs, saw ony body ever the like o' that, to gang an' change the drink upon us at this time o' the night~na, no anither drap, i tell ye, gudeman, though the house war fu’-snuff that candle there”—a cloud having at this instant passed betwixt her vision and the full moon—“snuff that candle there; can na ye snuff it, callant, an no stan’ gauping in my face like a gled o'er gone !” a servant lad was returning in pretty good case from one of these late orgies, when having to pilot his course amongst a number of old, and in many instances, deep coal pits, to his utter horror, and immediate restoration to his senses, he found himself sud. denly suspended by the fingers and nails, over, as he conceived it, an unfathomable abya. here he hung for hours, roaring lustily, but in vain, for assistance, and expecte june sketches of scottish character, no. vii. confusion now usurps the seat of fun, as round the floor in tipsy squads they run, disorder'd dress, and faces all on fire;- the very walls with revelment perspire. at last arrive it must, the parting hour- at two, or half-past two, or three, or four, no matter when the joyous minutes speed on swallow wing, the sad are slow indeed ; so shakespeare said, and so said " the gudeman," who now to smell the morning air began- scoup'd from the hollow pot one tankard more, drank health and thanks to all, and “ lock'd the door." juvenalis, junior. ing every instant, upon the giving way of his very insecure hold, to be precipitated to the bottom. the very nails were pulled from his fingers, and the tops were worn from his shoes, by frequent and ineffectual efforts to relieve, in some measure, his hands by means of his feet. day-light, however, after a most dismal interval, appeared at last, and discovered to him the bottom of the pit, within an inch or two of his feet. a friend of mine, still alive, and in every sense of the word, an estimable and respect. able member of society, being upon his way to visit an old acquaintance, had fallen in with a merry-making of the description i have endeavoured to sketch. entering at once into the humour and the spirit of the meeting, in the course of a few hours he be. came as foolish and as happy as any one of the company; and when he took his de- parture under the darkness of a cloudy night, there were some hints given by the gude- man, respecting the propriety of his lodging where he was. however, no fools are so positive and headstrong as those who are so, not by nature, but by art; and on towards the termination of his journey my friend rould pass, in spite of all the deep mosses, and kittle steps, and narrow planks, which lay iri his way. in fact, the more difficulties and dangers were conjured up to dissuade him, the more resolved was he to meet and sur- mount them all a circumstance not at all unusual in his situation. a calf had that very evening been lost at the farm-town, towards which, though entirely without the knowledge of any one there, he was journeying. the whole family had turned out with lantern and with torch, in quest of the stray beast; and after various unsuccessful ef- forts, had bent their steps towards what was called the “ dominie's puddle," a deep ditch, or stank, filled with mud, over which a narrow and elastic foot-path deal was laid. as they approached this suspicious spot, a sudden and heavy plash was heard, followed up by a suitable accompaniment of flouncing and foundering amidst the mud. the light which they bore being immediately turned upon the quarter whence the noise pro- ceeded, they discovered with joy what they conceived to be the object of their search; and proceeded, without loss of time, to lend the necessary aid, in extricating the help- less brute from instant suffocation. again and again was the shapeless lump of defile- ment rolled over, amidst the long and meadow grass, ere the unlooked-for discovery of a human countenance and form was made. to set up a scream of the wildest dismay, to dash down and extinguish the lights, and to escape homewards with the speed of thought, was, to the terror-struck and half-distracted party, only the work of an instant. in vain did the object of alarm gain his feet, and let loose his tongue, which the mud had for some time silenced. the faster he ran, and the louder he shouted, the more convinced were the pursued, that the “ enemy" himself had a plot upon them, and was extremely solicitous to decoy them into his purpose. against his entry into the house every door was barred, and every window secured ; and it was not till after repeated as. surances of his personal identity, assurances of his being really and truly a man, and neither beast nor hobgoblin, that he was permitted, amidst laughter inextinguishable, to enter. the gudewife, however, had taken to her bed; and the gudeman became, in the course of a few hours, the father of his seventh child, a month too soon. .] voyages and travels of columbus secundus. t. christopher north, esq. respected sir, -as i am almost teazed to death by the impertinencies of people inquiring when the second edition of the transactions of the wig- wam society is to appear ; and as i am so much taken up otherwise, that it is impossible for me to correct the press in sufficient haste to satisfy their im- patience, i send you, for interim publication in your next magazine, three chapters of the second book of the voyages and travels of my friend colum- bus secundus the whole of which interesting work will appear in that edis tion. be so good, at same time, as request mr blaekwood to advertise it on the cover next month, for which purpose i inclose title-page. your diploma as honorary member will be delivered you by a deputation of the society. i am, respected sir, your very humble servant, edinburgh, th june, . thomas thumb, sec. the voyages and travels of columbus secundus. part ii. edina! scotia's darling seat! all hail thy palaces and tow'rs, where once beneath a monarch's feet sat legislation's sovereign powers ! burns. while i retain reminiscence of smells, or cogitation of unpleasant odours, i'll ne'er forget thee, canongatian inn. dr samuel johnson. introduction. i had no sooner recovered from the on the west, to the closes of the abbey- fatigues of my last voyage, than, like hill cow-keepers on the east-from the sinbad the sailor, i began to think of grange toll to stockbridge. unlike new adventures : and considering that the hasty tourists from the south who the metropolis of scotland, for all the occasionally visit us, i have, not with- learned men it contains, has never yet out considerable risk to my clothes, occupied the attention of any very and often to the manifest offence of philosophical traveller, i determined my organs of smell and sight, traced that my next tour should be through the curves of almost every close, the the streets and lanes of this ancient wavings of every bow, and penetrated capital. in pursuance of this design, the inlets and outlets of every wynd, i have perambulated from the water- in this seat of science and of art, for house to the world's-end close from my own information, and that of my the nether bow to the watergate- fellow-citizens. from the cowfeeders' lanes at lochrin, chapter i. it may naturally be expected that i comparative merits of old town or should commence this chapter of my new town, streets easterly or wes- travellings with a detail of the longi- terly, to those who may find interest tude and latitude, the bearings of the in such pursuits, honestly declaring, streets, and so forth ; and that i should that i have no intention of setting my then go on to particularize all the pub- fellow-citizens by the ears, by praising lic edifices, erected for this purpose or or blaming either at the expence of that purpose, in due order, and with the other. due encomiums on the present and in my perambulations through former guardians of the city purse. “ mine own romantic town," the first but i leave the task of moralizing thing that struck me was the diversity on stone and mortar, and on the of names on the sign-boards as i pass- vol. ix. ?s voyages and travels of columbus secundus. (june, el along. it may be a very proper and perceive the name of fielding over thing, for ought i know, for the own a shop where second-hand furniture is er of every particular face to have sold,- -or the lover of histrionic talent his appropriate denomination ; and, to see edward quin designate a re- provided the said denominations do tailer of old clothes in st mary's not interfere with privileged associ- wynd; and how must the pride of ations, let them wear them in peace a native of scotland be humbled, when for me. i have no particular objection, he finds the honoured name of george for instance, to john glasgow dealing buchanan prefacing the sign-board of in groceries and spirits at the main a stocking-maker in the cowgate,- point,—or robert puisley keeping the and the revered one of john knor ap- west kirk session records of births, propriated by a coach-hirer in thistle marriages, and deaths ;-to peter street. stirling letting horses to hire in rose thomas the rhymer may indeed street, -or robert lithgow dealing in find the law a more profitable employ- sugars and teas in thistle street. let ment than the making of verses; and the magistrates and councils of these mr robert hood, and littlejohn, may royal burghs, if they see meet, assert deserve some creilit, the one for con- in their own way the honour of their fining himself to the sale of british respective corporations. but when i spirits, and the other to the manufac- find the name of john dryden attach- ture of gingerbread and muffins; but ed to the sign-board of a block and no change of circumstances can recon- pump maker in leith, i cannot think .cile us to the idea of solomon dealing of the heterogeneous combination with in jewellery in rose street,-or moses patience; and i have often heen tempt- and surm repairing umbrellas and ed to tear down the board which sug- making shoe-black in the west port gests associations so contrary to those of edinburgh. nor do we think it is which every reailer of english poetry very beseeming in matthew to occupy feels passing through his mind on the himself in the sale of stone-ware in sight or inention of this honoured hanover street,-or that the profes- but this is not all. one can- sion of a spirit dealer is becoming in not walk the streets with their eyes paul ; and mark can never hope to open without meeting with some such reconcile us to his letting of furnished incongruity of name and profession; lodgings in lady lawson's wynd, - and were it not for the carts and car or mr luke excuse himself for ex- riages, porters, chairinen, dogs, and posing woollen-drapery to sale on the puppies, which interrupt one's way, i north bridge. solemnly protest, that i should rather tienclaus may be so humble as not prefer walking with a bandage over my much to value himself on the circum- visual organs, than have my early as stance of his ancestor being a king of sociations so rudely dispelleil, and the sparta, and brother to agamemnon, names of the departed great brought and, for aught we know, he may judge down to the level of ordinary life. gri- well. the ministry in the present de- muldi may practise clock and watch- pressed state of the country will cer- making in prince's street, if he chooses, tainly not adventure another trojan though i should rather prefer his ex- war, on account of any thing that may ertions on the stage,-and even mÍrs happen to the spouse of an upholsterer, mary wolstonecrofi may keep an eat even though john paris, the shoema- ing-house at the bottom of leith walk, ker in the kirkgate, were a lineal de- if she feel so inclined ; but i can never scendant of the ravisher of helen, and be brouglit to think that it is proper though the upholsterer himself repre- or becoming in a joseph addison to sell sented in his person all the royalty of meal and barley,--for a milton to de- ancient greece. vote his time to the hanging of bells,– in addition to these, we have i. for a newton to degrade himself by reynolds, instead of painting for mo- the making of shoes, or baking bread ney, or fame, or both, keeping stables for the lieges,—or for a locke to sell in the candlemaker-row ;-guy ma- apples in leith walk. king boots and shoes in rose street :- what must an admirer of the novels jimes thomson betaking himself to of tom jones, amelia, or joseph the splitting of lath in new street, andrews feel, if he chances to walk instead of a singing the seasons as along our street called the cowgate, they roll;"-collins selling silk-iner- name. .] voyages and travels of columlrus secundus. cery, in place of writing odes ;-sa- quite evident to the most casual pas- wge fabricating breeches in rose senger, that if the customers of those street ;-swift teaching vocal music, gentlemen would be content to go -and, above all, the renowned wile without bread, clothes, and a few other liam wallace retailing spirits in the articles, which, after all, are only little canongate. temporary conveniences, and the gen- but it would be tiresome to enume- tlemen themselves turn their talents rate the splendid constellation of cele- to writing, there would be an end, as brated names now to be found in the to other nations, of all competition in capital of scotland; and it must be arts, sciences, and literature. chapter ii. this is the wonderful lion from the wiles of africa—the king of all kandymals—ten feet five inches from the point of the nose to the tip of the tail, and ten feet five inches from the tail to the nose-only five years old--the most finest handymal ever travelled. he can carry off a bullock in his mouth, as thof it wur a lamb, and are as gentle as a lady's lap-dog.-geet oop, my fine fellor. showman. having demonstrated, in the pre- is a book-binder, and the other fills the ceding chapter, that our native city is office of surveyor of excise. not destitute of names celebrated in of kings, (i mean no trcason) we literature and science, and the names can boast of a good many in edinburgh, in most instances are every thing,) i but none, i am sorry for their king- proceed to show, that in other respects ships, wielding a higher sceptre than we have no reason to complain. . we the peel of the baker, or the dung-fork have lambs and lions in considerable of the stabler. a very respectable fa- numbers ; smiths, cooks, websters, mily of earls, and a marquis, who is tailors, clerks, and colliers, in great assistant port-surveyor at leith, com- quantities indeed ; and as, in every pletes the catalogue of titled names; populous city, a multifarious assort- though a good many individuals are ment of blacks as well as whites. the found, notwithstanding, who call them. prismatic colours of the celestial bow selves noble. give name to many respectable indivi. there are not many indigenous duals ; young and old are in the usual birds in the capital of scotland; but proportions ; but few gentles, and only specimens occur of swans, doves, and one gentleman, are to be found here, cruws, though not very plentifully. although the rents of the greater pro- peucocks, though ornithologists may portion of scotland pass through the stare at the assertion, i am disposed to hands of the professional inhabitants. considerastruly nativeanimals. though a number of hopes there are, but not there are numerous roses, our south- one is to be found who owns the name ern neighbours will be surprised to of fear in this ancient capital. law learn that i have not been able to de- is prevalent every where ; but justice tect a single thistle in edinburgh ; is confined to the manufacture of hats and notwithstanding the long period in the pleasance ; and virtue, i am christianity has been the religion of sorry to say it, i have only found in our island—notwithstanding the in- the humble dwelling of a stabler in dustry of our clergy, and the existence the grassmarket, and in a worsted of numerous bible and missionary so- shop in union place. cieties, i am afraid i shall scarcely be it may startle the friends of pres- believed when i say, that in the scot- byterian church government, when i tish athens there still exists a family mention that edinburgh supports no of very amiable pagans. less than eight bishops, independent being in the neighbourhood of the of those of the episcopalian and ro- sea, it is not wonderful that there mish churches; but to calm their fears should be a good many fishers in regarding the danger of the establish- edinburgh ; but what would lin- ment, or the necessity of another na næus have said, if he had been told of tional league and covenant, i beg to a salmon living in hanover street, mention, that of these dignitaries two of a lladdow being a manufacturer in keep stables, and feed cows,-two ac the lawnmarket, or heard of flound- commodate strangers with furnished ers who were able to guard a mail- lodgings,—two are tobacconists,-onc coach, and let lodgings in canal street? voyages and travels of columbus secundus. (june, edinburgh has long been justly ce- that the inhabitants of that quarter of lebrated for bells ; of horns there are the city indulge more in reveries than as few as can reasonably be expected those of other districts. the mem- among so many married people ; hun- bers of the astronomical institution ters are very numerous; and though will probably be able to give a very we have no english foxes, yet the good reason for two moons appearing ancient capital of scotland affords co- in the same hemisphere at the same vers for a good many tods, who, more- time. over, may even be seen walking in the it sounds something like a truism streets at noon-day without molesta- to say, that there are many scotts in tion. bulls there are none; though edinburgh ; and it would savour of bullocks are occasionally met with, national vanity to boast much either and plenty of hogs. of guns there of the former or present achievements are a few ; but the most timorous need of scotsmen; yet i hope i shall be not be afraid of them; as, to instance pardoned for remarking, that the ca- no more, one feeds cows in thistle pital of scotland now possesses one street, in place of exploding powder ; scott, with whom none of the knights and another, having bid adieu to his of england are able to break a lance, murderous profession, fits the lieges or all of them put together to equal in of the canongate with the necessary the open field. articles of clothing. i conclude this chapter with men- though the moon daily meets the tioning for the information of my ju- eye of the passenger in the great tho- nior readers, that if they feel any pre- roughfare of hanover street, shining dilection for the tender passion, they over the door of a china-merchant, may have their stomachs alled at love's yet it has not been observed by our tavern on the south bridge; and if medical people, that the residents in it be convenient for them to know that street, either south or north, are more, i will not withhold the neces- less sane than in other streets, where sary and consequent notice, that an- it may be supposed the influence of other love deals in little graces and that luminary does not reach. and cupids, under the appropriate deno- though another moon lights the shop mination of midwife, in carrubber's of a grocer in nelson street, it has not close, been stated on any good authority, chapter iii. o may , when life's last prayer trembles on my lips, sink to repose in calin unruffled peace, like the mild glory of the setting sun ; and when the great change comes, may i awako bright as the orb of day, when from the east he rises in his strength. christian hope, a poem. the next object which attracted my haps that of the public; but unfortu- attention, was the state of the edin- nately my pocket-book and pencil had burgh churchyards. after hearing a been left at home in my travelling- very worthy gentleman read half an jacket, and i had no other resource, in hour from a paperone sunday forenoon, these circumstances, but to put my (i make a point of attending church hands in my breeches-pockets, and regularly, how good we all ought to saunter along in deep and serious be here, if we wish to be happy here- after-in the interval of the service, i meditation among the tombs. took a walk through the burying there is nothing more solemn than ground which surrounds the churches a walk in a church-yard, and did the of the grey friars. from the monų- good people of edinburgh, who ma- mental stones which rose up in a thou, 'nage the public affairs of their fellow- sand fantastic shapes on every side, it citizens, ibink it expedient, medita- was my intention to have made a se- tions among the tombs might not be lection of inscriptions, to improve my unpleasing. but as things are at pre- own taste in epitaph-making, and per- sent arranged, no one who has not .] voyages and travels of columbus secundus. learnt to look upon the most disgust- accommodating manners of a courtier ? ing and repulsive objects in nature might not a cabbage or a cauliflower with indifference, will, as a matter of raise an appropriate vegetable urn over choice, visit any of the edinburgh the grave of an alderman-a bush of repositories of the dead. a late tra- holly, or furze, betoken the unapproach- veller, mr williams, from an inspec- able dormitory of a lawyer - and a tion of the cemeteries of other coun- plant of hellebore, or rhubarb, point out tries, has suggested the propriety of the remains of a professor of the heal- some improvements in our own ; and ing art? the distinctions of nations i am happy to observe, that several might even be perpetuated after death; individuals, who think shrubs and and those who attached value to such flowers are fully as ornamental as rank distinctions, could easily be gratified. grass, nettles, and hemlock, have dress- the shamrock might flourish over the ed up the little spots intended for their grave of an irishman—the thistle rear last repose in a very becoming man- its head over the remains of a native of ner. i would therefore suggest, for scotland-and the leeic raise its green the consideration of those who have pillar over the sleeping-place of a the power of carrying improvements welshman. the dreams of the poets into execution, that all the church- would thus be converted into reality ; yards should be carefully levelled, and and the fabled transformations of mor- divided by walks into long dormitories tals into flowers, be made evident to of six or eight feet in breadth, edged the most unlettered imagination. the with box or other ornamental border; roses and the lilies of beauty, prema- and that the friends of the deceased turely snatched away, would, in this should, for so many years, have the li- manner, bloom afresh in the lilies and berty of planting such shrubs or flow- the roses which decorated the graves of ers over the little spots where their the fair ; and the reputation of virtues friends were interred, as they should or talents, expand in perennial luxu- judge proper. riance over the silent beds of those who were this plan to be carried into ex- were distinguished for wisdom or bem ecution, instead of hillocks formed of neficence. human bones and fragments of coffins, i am aware that the space necessary our cemeteries would present the ap- for the comfortable accommodation of pearance of a large garden, in which the dead would require the providing the contemplative might walk and pe- of additional ground; but as this is als ruse the lettered monuments with some ready imperiously required for the degree of comfort. a laurel bush might present population, and must be spee- then mark to the eye of the passenger dily procured in some shape or other, the last resting-place of a celebrated this objection to the proposed plan is character; a none-so-pretty might be easily got over. besides, i see no token that the inhabitant below was great harm, in the present poverty of not deficient in personal charms; a the city funds, in making the over- noli me tangere, indicate that the little crowded population of our church- spot was sacred to a maiden lady; and yards pay the necessary expences of a lily or narcissus tell, more eloquent. the new arrangement. the sale of the ly than a thousand words, that inno- soil, to the depth of seven or eight cence and virtue reposed there in peace. feet, for the purposes of the farmer, forget me not might mark the graves would, at the same time that it remo- of the most intimate and dear friends ved a serious and alarming nuisance, -the primrose or the snow-drop, the increase the agricultural produce of earthy cradles of infancy and childhood the county for many years to come; -while a red and white rose might and the indecency or the violation of pleasingly recal to the memory of chil. feeling which such a measure might dren, the virtues, or the tender ties be thought to involve, vanishes at once, which had united the hearts and the when it is considered how often the soil hands of their parents. is dug over, that the ashes of one indi- farther; might not the regal corolla vidual may cover the body of another. of an iris point out the last bed of a to the patriotic and public spirited, noble personage-a cluster of tulips moreover, such violation of sepulchral perpetuate the remembrance of the repose comes recommended by many scarlet and ermine of official characters powerful considerations. the spend- and the ivy mark to the mind the thrift and the miser would thus be- .] sicily. ty, the miserable listlessness of this their adversaries returned ; and my enervated people. they were, how- friend observed, that every time one ever, deceived. this apparent calm of the latter fell, he was, if wounded, was but the prelude to an unexpected borne to the rear-if killed, had part storm; and that storm burst forth on of the regimentals of the next dead the very day dedicated to the most im- soldier thrown over him, in order to posing spectacles of religion. encourage the idea, that the latter my friend, his wife, and daughter, were suffering the most from the con- had been invited by a gentleman of flict. in fact, they were finally obli- their acquaintance to his house, in the ged to fly. every check to their de- morning of sunday, for the purpose sires now removed, the mob proceeded of getting a better view of the proces- to the main object of their mission. sion in honour of the saint, than they this was to pillage the hotel of gene- could do elsewhere. they had sat a ral church, immediately opposite my considerable time, indeed nearly to the friend's, like so many locusts, entering end of it, when their host, from cer at all quarters, rifling, plundering, tain indications in the mob, and his burning, and not hesitating to ex- local knowledge of the people, ailded claim, “ if they found the general, to some rumours whispered about at they would kill him!” luckily for the beginning of the parade, of an un- him, he effected his escape; but a expected tumult, pulled my friend by number of gentlemen, who were chief- the arm, and begged him, for any ly foreigners, lost their all by the sake, to retreat to his hotel, and pro- dreadful rapacity of the mob. 'they vide for the security of the ladies. for threw furniture, clothes, money, every some time his anxiety to behold the thing out of the windows; dashed the continuance of the pageant, made him superb mirrors and glasses to pieces ; slight his friend's entreaties, till this with the most infatuated cruelty, strip- often-urged solicitude, confirmed par- ped many of the persons they found in tially by hisown observations, hastened the house of the essential articles of him from the room. they had but lit common clothing, scarcely being pre- tle way to go, and although encountered vailed upon to spare them their lives. by suspicious-looking ruffians in their having consummated their triumph, road, entered their hotel, which was they attacked the buildings where all in the great square, in safety. scarce- the public archives and valuable docu- ly had they effected this, when a shout ments of state were preserved. these from the populace, aud a discharge of they collected into the middle of the fire-arms, told that the religious cere- square, and forming them into a huge monies were over. it was the signal pyramid, set the whole mass on fire. for their cessation, and the commence all this while the alarm of the numer- ment of the rioting. a wild cry di- ous inhabitants of the square may be reeted my friend's regards to the easily conceived. the uncertainty of square, where he observed a parcel of the views of the rioters, and the little soldiers flying before the multitude. hope of the military being able to re- they made several attempts to stand, store tranquillity, added to their em- and were joined by others, but always barrassment. they dared not stir out beaten off. the first attack by the for fear of being murdered, and to rioters was on the jail. this they remain within seemed equally bad. succeeded in breaking open, and libe- as the most probable way of turning rating all the felons. these wretches, the enraged multitude, (from whom covered with their red and yellow rars, they every moment dreaded an attack,) cut a sorry figure, and hastened either my friend and the other englishman to hide themselves among the mob, in his hotel collected all their trunks who had now increased to immense and valuables, and having emptied numbers, or to disencumber them- their contents on the floor, indulged the selves of their insignia in the gar- hope that the semblance of submission ments of those who lay dead about might be of avail. the latlies in the them, from the fire of the soldiery. house then removed to an inner apart- one monk, in the garb of his order, ment, as remote as possible from dan- came forth with this respectable crew, ger, and the sight of what was going bearing his mattras very coolly on his on. their policy was not tried: with shoulders. though beaten back, the mi- the expiring flanes of the consuming litary still continued their fire, which archives the mob retired. the suc- sicily. (june, ceeding night was dreadful: no sleep; on mentioning that ladies were in dis- but no attack. monday pasaed tran- tress, the gallant man rowed back, and quilly: the mob went about, but com- bade him tell his master he was at his mitted no excesses; several of the lead- service. to get the ladies secretly and ing authorities of the town thinking securely to the boat was now the point: the whole but the effect of a popular it was no time for compliments. this feeling against general church, were they happily effected by keeping close in hopes that peace and order would to the walls of the houses, under shelter be again restored. of the broad extending roofs ; though my friend, however, determined they ran imminent danger twice or to leave a city which was in such thrice, from the crossing shots of the an unsettled condition. two days skirmishers, pursuing each other from before the tumults, he had intended street to street. their brave pilot, mr to sail by the neapolitan packet to d, was very near losing his life naples, and had, fortunately, at that for his humanity; for, having pulled time procured his passport and passage. his boat ashore to await their coming, a young englishman, who was to have a flying troop of vagabonds rushed been his companion, but who forbore, down upon him, and mistaking him from negligence or some other cause, for an italian, from his dark com- to take out his, bitterly repented his plexion, held their daggers to his folly, and wished to bribe somebody throat. his presence of mind saved to make an attempt to get him one bim. he saw their mistake, and as a now; but no one could be found to last resource, pronounced the word undertake the office. with the hopes, inglese.” it was enough; the crowd therefore, of getting on board the packa re-echoed it with “ vivas," and passed et, he sallied out to the water-side; but, on their way. my friend and his party to his inexpressible disappointment, got on board: they pushed off, and not a boat could be got hold of, and thought themselves secure from dan- the packet had put out to sea, to be ger; but they perceived, with dread, without the reach of the batteries. he the ramparts in the possession of the returned to his hotel-his only hope populace, and men standing at the of relief, in succeeding tranquillity. În guns with matches in their hands. the meanwhile, the great body of the whether they omitted firing on them troops had shut themselves within the for humanity's sake, or whether they barracks, and closed the gates, having were not observed, is uncertain : they as yet taken no part against the people; reached the neapolitan frigate in safe- but, to the terror of every one, on ty. they found her decks crowded tuesday morning they madle a sally, with refugees of every description :- and commenced an attack on them. princes, lawyers, divines,-in short, the people had evidently been aware every one who, dreading the popular of their intention, for, instead of flying, resentment, had been fortunate enough they resisted, and a regular action com to escape to this vessel. among others, menced. it raged long and bloody; but i believe, was the commander-in-chief. by degrees waxing fainter in the im- the duchess of -, who would mediate neighbourhood of my friend's scarcely have condescended a few weeks residence, he deemed it his duty, at all before to have cast eyes on mrs b- perils, to make another attempt to get was now most humbly thankful for the his wife and daughter on board the loan of a few of the meanest articles of packet. he sent his servant to one dress. the heat was very great, and quarter, while he went in another di- their decks extremely crowded; but rection. his own attempt was unsuc- every body suffered with a good grace, cessful; but his servant had the luck thankful to providence they had esca- to espy an english gentleman just ped the horrors of a revolutionary ban- leaving the beach, in his boat, for the ditti. same purpose. he told his tale; and viator. .] the coronation. the coronation. nothing could have occurred more was merely the pageant of a military in the shape of good fortune, for that triumph, and an infraction of the eu- fast crowd of the well-dressed and ropean law of states ; it was the pro- well-bred, whose life and breath is in claiming of a rebel imperator, by a talking and bond-street, than the an- revolted army. but the universal nouncement of the coronation. all eclipse has passed off, and men may the usual topics had failed, or were on now pursue their old occupations, with the point of failing. the impeach- out being perplexed by darkness, and ment of john bull before the com- worse perplexed by those blinding and mons had served its day, and the glory fierce lights of fanaticism and passion of mr bennett. but the subject, plea- which regicide and ambition waved sant as it was to the gossipry of the over every land but our own. west end, and perplexing as it might the coronation is now fixed for the be to the honourable individual in th of july, and extensive prepara- question, notwithstanding the fresh tions are being urged in every depart- laurels which it had twined round his ment connected with the ceremony. impartial brow, was no longer talka- westminster hall will form an exhi- ble. r hume's speeches, too, had bition of singular and picturesque run their course, and, amusing as it splendour. it is the intention to make was, to see lord palmerston forced a complete representation, of the ut- out of his taciturnity, and tortured most inagnificence, of the halls of into perpetual reply, even this pastime chivalry-a realization of the beau - had perished. the crowning of the ideal of gothic grandeur. imagination king has come to interpose between is of course not easily satisfied; but those conversationists and annihilation, all that can be done by a profusion of and every mouth is now filled with pompous decoration, guided by consi- inquiry, and every brain on the stretch derable taste and knowledge, will un- to compass a ticket for westminster, doubtedly be done. the day will be hall or the abbey. one of no slight toil to all the parties, there are those, however, who, for they will probably be occupied without necessity or appetite for news, from daylight till midnight. but the are glad that this great ceremony is king will have the heaviest share of about to take place, and who look up the fatigue; for, as the principal, he on it as among the evidences that quiet will have no relaxation of ceremony. times have come, and the assurances he is, however, in excellent health. that such will continue; they feel it is understood that this stately dis- that though the placing of the dialem play will be in close conformity to the co- on the monarch's head, is not essen ronation of his late majesty, which was tial to his sovereignty, it valuable arranged on the precedent of that of to the national respect for the throne; james ii. we maythus conceive the fu- and, without any of the factitious de- ture from the past. in , the first light of courtiers, they rejoice, for the symptoms were advertisements in the sake of general tranquillity, that the newspapers for the hireof windows, and good times have come again, when the seats on scaffolds, in view of the pro- men of england, freed from hostility cession. there is generally a clause abroad, and disturbance at home, may in the leases of the houses in view, en- celebrate the ancient ceremonies of titling the landlord to their use at the their glorious and flourishing land, coronation. in , some of these and cry from their hearts, “god save houses cleared from l. to l. . the king.” ground for the scaffolds was let, in it is said, that at present there some situations, at three and four gui- is no crowned king in europe. i neas a foot. a list of the prices of have not leisure to look into the ac- former times has been published, curacy of this statement, but i can re which may lead us either to the value collect no regular coronation since the of their money, or the quantity of beginning of the century; and this is their curiosity." at edward i.'s coro- of itself one of the striking proofs of nation, the demand for a seat was half- the boundless confusion and distress a-farthing. at edward ii.'s the peo- of the times through which europe ple had doubled either their wealth or has struggled. napoleon's coronation their passion for royal shows; for the vol. ix. t the coronation. [june, price had risen to an entire farthing. riment by the scaffold-makers to raise at edward iii.'s it was a halfpenny. their prices, while the jacobites were so at richard ii.'s it was a penny; and fully determined not to see , the seats the chronicler seems to think that the thus continued at a crown. jacobitism show was not worth the money. at was gradually giving way during the henry iv.'s it was still a penny. hen- reign of george i., under a process of ry v. was popular, and the people paid exile, starving among the highlands, down to the extent of twopence, in tes or chains in the english castles ; and timony of their admiration. henry at george ii.'s coronation, loyalty vi. of whom shakespeare says, “that spoke out, and bid up to half-a-guinea, he could neither fight nor fly,” was no the coronation of the late king found favourite, yet old english liberality england without a disturber at home, prevailed, and gave twopence to see and with nothing but triumphs abroad; hịm crowned. but coronations became the prices accordingly sprung up to more frequent in his time than was an extravagance unparalleled. the good for the setters of windows; the front-seats in the galleries in west- market was choaked, and the prices minster abbey were let at ten guineas dropped from their original loyal ele- and upwards each. seats in the street vation of twopence to a penny, thence were from one guinea to ten; and to a halfpenny, and, in some disas- every tile, from which a glimpse of trous instances, the “glory of regali- the procession could be had, was a ty” might be seen for nothing. better place of eager canvassingand exorbi- times then came round, and edward tant demand. iy. saw the price of a seat twopence whether the custom of seeing the once more. here it seemed to have gra- , military shows, which occurred among pitated, and twopence was the price us while we were a nation of soldiers, at the coronations of richard iii. and may not have deadened the general henry vii. but those were days of curiosity, is only to be decided by the trouble, and the wisdom of english- event; but large speculations are ra- men was better occupied in preserving pidly being entered into in this traffic the few pence left to them by the of seats; and if the weather is tolera- york and lancaster plunderings. the ble, the conflux of the multitude will country grew opulent and curious probably exceed all that has ever crowd- again, and allowed fourpence for a view ed and crushed in england. the pe- of henry vni.'s coronation. the riod of the year is favourable. the same amount was upheld in the days last coronation was on the d of sep- of edward vi., and even in those of tember; and in consequence, the re- bloody queen mary, who had, how. turn of the procession from the abbey ever, been popular, and had ascended was nearly in the dark, and the luck- her throne with an outh to preserve less persons who had remained in protestantism. the nation exulted in westminster hall, had been for an elizabeth's appearance, and, in their hour before in absolute night, from the joy, disbursed a six pence. the pro- dimness of the building. it is expect- gress of liberality and loyalty were ed that the entire ceremony will now thenceforth rapid ; for james i. and be concluded in daylight. but it must charles . each brought a shilling. be hoped, that this will not preclude charles il. found the nation in a pa- the illumination of westminster hall; roxysm of absurd joy, and was beheld for nothing can bring out its magni. at the expence of half-a-crown, the ficence but artificial light. it would most rapid advance on record, and to look comparatively meagre even in full be altogether attributed to the rapture sunshine. of getting rid of the roundheads. by an order in council of the th of james il. obtained the same price; september, , the peers and peer- for it is observable, that, but in the esses, were summoned to attend at single instance of henry vi.'s tumul- westminster in their robes, by eight tuous and overwhelmed time, the o'clock in the morning, and a vast quan- prices once raised on popular folly tity of further regulation was detailed have never falien. william and queen for the different public bodies. but anne saw the advance half-a-crown there was one body which defied the more, and they were worth it. the fulmination of the order in council. house of brunswick came among us the hackney chairmen and coachmen when we were a divided nation, and bad framed"a tariff for their services it was thought too formidable an expe- during the day, which the lords of .] the coronation. $ the privy council thought exorbitant. are come this day to do your homage, a mandate was accordingly issued, are you willing to do the same?" enjoining their attendance on the pub this was answered by the universal lic by four in the morning, without cry of “god save the king.” divine ser- any rise in their fares, under threat vice followed—the sermon was preach- of exemplary punishment. the cul- ed by doctor drummond, bishop of prits were stubborn, and hostility salisbury, and soon after archbishop of would have shewn itself in some for- york, froin kings, x. . “because midable shape, but for the interference the lord loved israel for ever, there. of a patriotic chair-master, who did fore made he thee king, to do judg- what the lords could not do, and ment and justice.” at half past three, quieted the repugnants by advising the archbishop of canterbury placed them to trust to the public generosity. king edward's crown upon the king's this they did, and made large sumns, head, -the assembly cried out, “ god frequently receiving a guinea for a save the king," and the park and shilling fare. to obviate riot, some tower guns were fired. the nobility regiments of horse paraded the town, then put on their coronets; and their and as a final provision the nearest different classes did homaye in succes- hospitals were prepared for the recep- sion, beginning with the archbishop tion of those who might suffer by ac- and the bishops. the queen's corona- cidents in the crowd. the arrange- tion was then commenced, and con- ments appear to have been altogether ducted in a similar manner. the de- made, with much good sense and hu- tail closed with the throwing of gold manity. if they had been adopted at and silver medals among the specta- the marriage of the late king of france, tors, within and without the abbey. the horrible catastrophe of that day this ceremony occupied six hours, would have been escaped. on the d and it was nearly seven o'clock when of september, at vine, the king and the procession re-entered westminster queen came in their chairs, through halī. all there was costliness and the park to westminster hall. the state. earl talbot, as steward of the peers and peeresses had been by that household, rode on his charger up the hour ranged in order. the king and hall, at the head of the servitors, with queen entered the hall, and took the first course; and the dexterity of their seats at eleven. the forms of his horsemanship was for a long time bringing forward the regalia to the the subject of conversation. thecham- tront of the throne followed ; and the pion dymoke rode up in the inter- grand procession to the abbey was ar- val of the first and second courses, ranged, the thirty-two barons of the and challenged all disputers of the cinque ports bearing the canopies over king's title. on the champion's throw- their majesties. the platform, on ing down the gauntlet, a white glove which this splendid train marched, was aung from one of the galleries. was four feet from the ground, and the incident was trivial, but it was nearly two thousand feet long. every subsequently rumoured that the young one was struck with astonishment pretender had been in london at the when the great entrance of the ab time, and even present at the corona- shewed them the magnificence within, tion, in a female dress. on the cham- a grand vista of tapestried walls, and pion's return, the king's titles were scaffolds covered with scarlet, and gala proclaimed in latin, french, and leries filled to the roof with the first english. thus closed the ceremony. families of the land, in the rich dresses about ten their majesties had retired, of that day of silk and embroidery. the peers, &c. followed soon after, and after the placing of the peers and at midnight the doors were, by a cus- peeresses, their majesties entered the tom much more “ honoured in the abbey at half pastone, the westminster breach than the observance," thrown choir singing purcell's anthem, from open to the multitude, who filled the psalm cxxii, verse , &c. “ i was glad place with riot, and tore away every when they said unto me, let us go thing that came within their reach. in to the house of the lord.” on the it is to be presumed, that a more con- king's being seated, the archbishop of siderate plan will be adopted on the canterbury pronounced the “recog- present occasion ; and that, instead of nition,” turning to the assembly, suffering the people to brutalize them- “sirs, i here present to you king selves, and trample on each other in a george the third, the undoubted king midnight tumult, the doors will be of this realm ; wherefore, all you who closed, and the hall and the abbey the coronation: [june, kept in the order of the coronation, than in suffering the licence of the for the indulgence of the public curi- giddy and drunken rabble, and that, osity for a month to come. there will too, at an hour when riot might be be a more genuine and general grati- the most unmanageable and the most fication in this mode of admission, extensive. the british gallery. london, june , . than anger; if otherwise, they are still mr editor, more entitled to compassion ; nor in a former number of your maga- would their opinions' be worth noti- zine, i took the opportunity of send- cing at all, if it were not for the in- ing you a few remarks upon the pro- calculable mischief they may produce ductions of some of our modern artists, upon the rising generation of artists, then exhibiting at the above national by attempting to remove from their institution, which has subsequently view the few land-marks that remain, re-opened with a collection of admira- to guide the youthful student through ble paintings, from the pencils of ma- the intricate and perilous road to ex- ny of the most celebrated of the old cellence. the ill effects of such doc- masters, the consideration of which trines are annually becoming more forms the principal subject of my pre- and more apparent, in the numerous sent letter. with respect to the pe- exhibitions with which the metropolis riod annually chosen by the directors is crowded at this season of the year, of the institution, for an exhibition of and the evil will continue to increase this nature, a considerable difference in proportion as our rising painters of opinion exists among the public and depart, in practice, from the examples the great body of the art; many per- of the highest authorities in art. "all sons imagining that it is somewhat this mischief arises from the pernicious invidious towards modern artists to habit, too prevalent among the artists open a gallery, containing the choicest of the present day, of servilely imita- specimens of ancient art, precisely at ting the works of some one of their the period when the exhibition of the successful contemporaries, instead of royal academy is open to the public; applying themselves to the sources and while others, and perhaps with more course of study which enabled the in- reason, believe that the selection of dividual object of their admiration to the present period, by bringing the obtain his celebrity. the instance of works of the ancient and modern ar- your distinguished countryman, mr tists into immediate comparison, may wilkie, forms a complete illustration have a beneficial effect upon the latter, of the truth of the above observations. by stimulating them to make those his style is founded on a deep study efforts which are the uniform result of of nature, and some of the eminent a competition with great and acknow- masters of the dutch and flemish ledged excellence. i say acknowledged, schools, and being a man of first rate though i am perfectly aware that there genius in his peculiar walk of the pro- are some professional men, it is to be fession, and of great industry, complete hoped for the credit of the art that the success, at an early period of life, na- number is trifling, who from motives turally crowned his efforts. the con- upon which it is not necessary to dwell, sequence is that he has an host of in- affect to deny the superiority of the different imitators, who, without pos- old masters over the moderns, and sessing either his capacity, or perseve- who even go so far as to speak of their rance, copy the peculiarities of his productions with apparent indifference touch and manner, instead of adopting and contempt. it is indeed lament- theprinciples of his study, and threaten able, that any individuals can be so to overwhelm us with an inundation stupidly blind, or so maliciously. en- of indifferent pictures, in a line of art vious, as to maintain such doctrines, which derives its chief value from its and still more so, that they should fidelity to nature, and the mechanical number in their ranks, not only men graces of its execution : so far indeed of considerable acquirements in the is this censurable practice carried, that art, but also some of its professors at i have several times noticed the pecu- our great national establishment. liar manner of mr wilkie introduced with such persons it is quite useless into subjects requiring a totally oppo- to argue. if they speak their real sen- site treatment. timents, they merit pity much more an artist desirous of obtaining in- .] the british gallery. struction, especially in the higher de- them, of what possible detriment can partments of painting, should join to they prove to the encouragement and the study of nature and the antique, a reputation of the modern performances, deep acquaintance with the works of which are said so far to surpass them the old masters in that line of art in real excellence? while, on the other which he finds his genius and inclina- hand, if their merits are superior to tion impel him to pursue. this has the productions of the present day, been the uniform practice of every art- how can it be injurious to the practi- ist wbo has risen to great distinction cal skill of our rising, or even esta- in this country, particularly of those blished artists, to have yearly placed whose day is closed, or whose suns are before them such a large collection of setting amidst no inglorious beams; specimens in art, in every respect so and perhaps it would be difficult to worthy of their study and imitation ? produce brighter examples of the truth if blame attaches at all to the institu- of this observation, than is afforded by tion, it probably arises from its afford- two historical pictures exhibited this ing artists a too difficult, rather than year at somerset house, by the veter- too easy an access to its exhibitions, an artist mr northcote. painted, as by not allowing gratuitous admission they have been, at a period of life to all the students and members of the when the creeping" hand of time” royal academy, or at any rate, to commonly enfeebles the body, and obthose artists who have contributed, scures the mental faculties, they stand and are contributing, to the exhibia alone in the exhibition, and challenge, tions of modern art at the gallery ; for vigour of conception, colour, truth, many of whom, and particularly those expression, and boldness even of exe- who are merely beginning their pro- cution, the most daring efforts of more fessional career, may be in circum- youthful competitors. it would not stances that render it inconvenient for be difficult to adduce, among our best them to visit the collection so frea living artists, other instances of the quently as would enable them to reap advantages accruing from a study of all the advantages they might desire, the old masters; but it is probably from its study, were the present re- quite unnecessary to dwell at any great- strictions removed. to those farther er length on a subject upon which i advanced in their profession, it would should have supposed, till very recente probably be a matter of comparative ly, there could have existed no differ- indifference; still, however, it might ence of opinion among conscientious appear more liberal in the directors, and competent judges. unquestion- and more consonant with their decla- ably there is a vast deal of trash bought red views, if the privilege were ex- and sold in this country, under the tended to the whole class of artists names of the old masters, for which we have above mentioned. in short, they are in no respect responsible ; but mr editor, i am confident that the speaking generally of the works exhi- more the genuine works of the old masa bited at the british gallery, very few ters can be brought into the notice of of the above description have crept in- painters, and the public at large, the to the various collections hitherto sub- better chance there will be for the mitted to the public. most of them production of good original pictures in have consisted of well-known genuine this country; and consequently, from productions, by the most eminent art- the general improvement of the na- ists; and it therefore does appear to tional taste, the greater will be the require no small portion of ignorance encouragement afforded to the efforts and effrontery, to speak of works, that of native genius. in saying this, how- have in different ages and countries ever, i would not be understood as so long stood the test of time, with recommending the mere copying of the disrespect and contempt, or to main- works of the old, or any other masters ; tain, that the frequency of access to for copying, in the right sense of the them, afforded by their annual exhi- word, can be of little service to any bition, can have no other effect than one, except the student anxious to ac- to interfere with the progress and en- quire the very first rudiments of his couragement of modern art; which, art; and even he should avoid, as by the bye, if it deserves the name, is much as possible, choosing any india somewhat a novel mode of reasoning; vidual master for his guide, however for, if the ancient pictures are so bad great his excellence. the power of as some persons affect to consider copying a picture well. is a totally dis- the brilish gallery. (june, tinct thing from sludying it well. have no effect on the patrons of the the former is probably within the institution, by inducing them, in dis- reach of any one possessed with in- gust, to withhold from public obser- dustry, a correct eye, and an obedient vation these invaluable remains of de- hand; but to discover the subtle parted genius. principles upon which first-rate pic with respect to the species of en- tures have been formed, and to incor- couragement hitherto afforded to mo- porate them with the result of our own dern art by the governors of the bri- observations and reflections, is a talent tish institution, it certainly appears of an intinitely higher and more use. inconsistent with their own declared ful class, and is commonly attendant views on its first establishment, anıl upon first-rate genius alone. one of is by no means calculated to produce the greatest prerogatives of man, and those beneficial effects upon the mo- which distinguishes him above the rest dern school, which were so anxiously of the creation, is the power that has anticipated. but having dwelt upon been bestowed upon him, of making this topic in a former letter, i should use, in all human pursuits, of the la- not again have alluded to it, if i had bours and discoveries of preceding ge- not lately viewed the singular phe- nerations. it is chiefly to this quality nomenon in art, now exhibiting in that man is indebted for his superiority this metropolis, from the pencil of mr over the rest of the animal creation; james ward, representing an allegori- and let not the young painter suppose, cal commemoration of the triumphs of that his art forms an exception to this the duke of wellington at waterloo. grand general rule. the more he is into the merits of the picture, it is not able, if the expression be allowable, to my purpose to enter, not only from the look out of himself, the greater will be regret i feel, in common with others, his progress; and, however paradoxi- at seeing an artist so unfortunately cal it may at first sight appear, the miscalculate his powers, but also from more original will his productions be- the sincere respect which it is impos- come. it is to this mode of consider- sible not to entertain for the great and ing the great monuments of art, that varied talent which mr ward has so have been achieved by preceding mas- frequently displayed in some branches ters, that i would anxiously direct the of the profession. the above picture attention of our rising artists. let was bespoke, it is understood, by the them not be afraid of fettering their directors of the institution, at the genius by an attention to the rules price of a thousand guineas, in conse- drawn from the highest authorities in quence of a sketch of the subject ex- their art ; for “ rules," as sir joshua hibited by mr ward at the gallery reynolds well observes, and he was two or three years ago; being selected himself a good instance of the truth of from a numbers of others, painted by his own position, are fetters to men different artists, who were anxious to only of no genius; as that armour, obtain the commission that had been which upon the strong is an ornament promised for a large picture, to any and a defence, upon the weak and one who could produce the best design mis-shapen becomes a load, and crip- in commemoration of the victory of ples the body which it was made to waterloo. that such a subject should protect.” if such were the opinions have been proposed by the governors, of this eminent man, and they are considering the general feelings of en- opinions which he has uniformly in- thusiasm excited by that great event, forced throughout the whole of his is not surprising ; though, strictly invaluable lectures, it would appear speaking, it possesses no greater claims there can be no great degree of dan- to an historical subject, than a news- ger likely to arise to the present gene- paper to a history; but it certainly ration of artists, from a judicious study does appear unaccountable, that, out of the works of the great masters, of many other sketches of merit, the which are annually so liberally lent to election should have fallen on one, the public by the directors of the which evidently shewed its author's british gallery; and it is, therefore, incapacity to conceive or execute a fondly to be hoped that the senseless subject of this nature, even though he clamour, raised by a few interested had confined himself to matters of fact, individuals, who appear to think there instead of entering, as he has done, can be no gain that does not conduce into the wide and unintelligible field to their own immediate profit, will of allegorical fiction and absurdity. .] the british gallery. , the result has turned out exactly as c. dolce, from the collection of his the great body of artists, i believe, an- majesty, is a very fine specimen of the ticipated, when they first heard of the style of this master. the figure, in- injudicious choice that had been made; deed, has more of the saint cecilia in and which, it is sincerely to be hoped, it than the character it was intended will render the directors more cautious, to represent, but the delicacy of the on any future occasion, in the subjects expression, the beauty of the colour- they offer, and in the selection of the ing, and the bland and sweet effect of artists by whom they are to be execu- the whole, perhaps, more than com- ted. mr ward is a first-rate painter pensate, in such a subject, any defi- of animals, and has occasionally pro- ciency in the strength and propriety duced some ingenious landscapes, after of the conception. in the lower and the manner of rubens; but beyond amusing style of art, there are several this, it is pretty evident, from the spe- excellent pictures by jan steen and cimen afforded by his sketch, as well teniers, particularly “ the effects of as by the picture now exhibiting, nei- intemperance," by the former, belong- ther his powers, nor the limited nature ing to the duke of wellington, and of his professional education, will allow “ the interior, with figures at cards," him to proceed. by the latter artist, from the collection with respect to the collection of pice of w. wells, esq. the last of which is tures at present exhibiting at the gal- one of the best productions of this lery, it is scarcely possible to speak in eminent painter, and a perfect model adequate terms of admiration, whether in this line of art, for expression, cha- we consider the excellence of individual racter, and felicitous execution. be- pictures, or the various specimens it sides the foregoing, many more in- affords in almost every department of stances might be selected well worthy the art; indeed there is scarcely an in- of the attention of painters and con- different or doubtful painting in the noisseurs; but the detail would be as gallery endless, as it would prove uninterest- in the highest styles of art, how- ing to the generality of your readers, a ever, the collection is certainly more large proportion of whom will pro- defective than several others that have bably have no opportunity of seeing preceded it, as the few historical, or the collection. nor should i have par- poetical pictures it affords, are by no ticularized even the above, if i had not means of the first description ; a de- felt it necessary to notice some few of ficiency, nevertheless, that is some- the pictures, in justification of the what compensated by the admirable warm eulogium i have deemed it com- landscapes and sea-pieces of claude, mon justice only to pass on an exhi- g. poussin, ruysdael, both, vande- bition, which appears to entitle its velde, backuystom, and vanderhei- liberal contributors to the grateful den. the most remarkable among thanks of every real admirer of the them, are the story of narcissus, by art. claude, in the possession of sir george if, mr editor, in the foregoing beaumont, and the landscape, by g. pages, i have endeavoured to point poussin, in the collection of his ma- out, somewhat strongly, the errors of jesty ; both of which form admirable individuals, for whose professional ta- examples, and particularly the latter, lents i feel considerable respect, or have of the possibility of uniting the quali- ventured to censure that which ap- ties of colour, breadth, effect, and even peared to me injudicious in the pro- spirited execution, to the highest fi- ceedings of the distinguished directors nishing, and the most elaborate imita- of the institution, i trust that their tion of nature. the same remark ap- candour will acquit me of " setting plies to many of the exquisite portraits, down aught in malice ;” and that they with which the gallery abounds, by will attribute my remarks to the real titian, giorgione, murillo, vandyke, motives which called them forth, -a and rembrandt. there is also an un-sincere love for the art, and a desire commonly fine portrait by guido, of the to remove every impediment that may cardinal Übeldino, belonging to dr so- arrest its progress towards perfection' merville, which rivals the best works in my native land. in the gallery, in this department of i am, sir, yours, &c. the art. the herodias's daughter, a connoisseur: with the head of john the baptist, by .] the glove. not a word sir gawain replies, but down to the scarp he flies, and entering the foss, by a desperate leap he approaches the lion with fearless step ; who, as the glove he proudly seizes, lifts bis enormous head, and sneezes ! in dumb amazement (well they might!) the nobles shudder at the sight: and yet, i ween, full many a bosom with jealousy burn'd, as, bearing his trophy, sir gawain return'd, slow, and with tranquil mien ! and now he gains the ditch's mound; and, from the glittering throng around, loud peals of wild applause resound ! the lady cunigund, the while, radiant with vain delight, to receive her knight, gets ready her softest, sweetest smile ;- but not to him 'tis sweet ! so, bowing low, he lays the glove at her feet, then, bowing lower, turns on his heel, and never looks upon her more! r. t. the leg of mutton school of poetry. no. i. a good article is like a bowl of glas- we can,"is a recipe from which an amu- gow punch-sharp, sweet, and spirit- sing article was never corrcocted, and ed. but partial as we confess our- from which one never will be concoct- selves to this delightful beverage, no ed to the end of time. it is perfect man, we think, unfurnished with the balm to our souls, therefore, when, in bowels of a glasgow magistrate, would the ordinary discharge of our dnties, stick eternally to the same liquor. for we chance to meet with a work so su- our own part, we covet variety in our perlatively worthless and absurd, as to tippling-alittle preliminary sauterne, enable us to set all discrimination at a reasonable suffusion of black-strap, defiance, and conscientiously to inflict and a copious supplement of claret, the severest punishment admissible by before we venture, without compass the laws of our profession. such a or quadrant, on the magnum mare work we have fortunately now before of the punch-bowl. at such times us, in the shape of a goodly quarto, we derive considerable enjoyment from and under the title of " fleurs, a a peppered spatch-cock, or a devil'd bis- poem in four books.” the volume cuit, which no one better than our own purports, by the title-page, to be printe cook knows how to prepare. in perfect ed at newcastle, by edward walker, unison with our own physical taste is for the author; and to be sold by wil- the literary taste of the public. no- liam blackwood, edinburgh,and bald- thing delights our good-natured read- win and co. london. we beg here, in ers so much as a devild poet, or a the very threshold of our observations, peppered political economist ; and ve to correct an important inaccuracy. itis rily, we are too skilful restaurateurs indeerl very probably true that the work not to understand how to cater to their in question was printed as above stated, taste. the truth is, that criticism, at newcastle, by edward walker, for selon les anciens regles, is neither a the author;- but we believe it to be pleasing profession nor a thriving one. contradictory to the fact, and know it to separate the faults and merits of a to be most libellous to the good sense book, and administer to each a well of the public, to assume that even one proportioned dose of praise and cen copy of fleurs has been sold by either sure, is of all tasks the most dull. “to of the respectable bibliopoles specified praise where we may, be candid where in the title-page. it is unpleasant to vol. ix. u .) fleurs, a poem. generation. but come what may, the never groaned under their present in- leg or mutton school will be eter- tolerable load; then had the pocket nal. while the world contains weal- of our author never suffered by his thy blockheads, a due proportion of poetry; and then had we been spared needy parasites will not be found want- the cruel necessity of lamenting his ing; nor can their existence ever be imprudence! in our extended com- endangered, or their numbers mate- merce with the venders of literature, rially decreased by any revolution less we have often remarked with wonder, complete than the introduction of the the extraordinary powers of adhesion parallellograms of mr owen, or the which some works manifest to the agrarian law of the spenceans. with booksellers' shelves. we have seen such unquestionable claims to perpe- some thousands of very tolerable ser- tuity, we think their title to public mons so tenacious of their position, notice much greater than has yet been as to baffle every endeavour to remove acknowledged by the world. and we them, and which still remain in their now venture for once, with gentle vio- original situation, to the great discom- lence, to draw the blushing sycophants fiture both of the author and the bi- from their comfortable retreats in par- bliopole. sonages and noblemen's attic stories, the bard of fleurs is one of those in order that, being duly magnified in obliging persons whose pen is at the ser- our telescope, their lineaments may vice of any man in his neighbourhood become visible for the first time to the with a pipe in his cellar, and a joint at public at large. to be received as the his fire; and he makes it his peculiar head of this distinguished body, we care, that those who possess every other think the claims of the bard of fleurs luxury of life shall not want for poetry. stand pre-eminently high. he is mark. there is a delightful singularity about ed by a more than usual portion of the him. in his imagination, nature pos- qualities characteristic of the leg of sesses nothing of sublime or beautiful, mutton school; by all their vul- equal to a well decorated spit. the gar ignorance, by more than all their god of his inspiration hangs suspend- clumsy servility, their fawning adula- ed from a hook in the larder; and tion of wealth and title, their hanker- were he to invoke a muse, he would ing after the flesh-pots, and by all the inevitably hitch in something about a symptoms of an utter incapacity “to hind quarter, or a long cork. to do stand straight in the presence of a him justice, however, he is not un- great man.". with all this, too, he grateful. a good dinner appears to unites a boldness and an ambition als him a benefit which he can never suf- together unknown among his sect. ficiently repay; and his imagination not contented, like them, to find his absolutely gloats over the memory of solid reward in the gratitude of his the sumptuous repasts of which he patrons, and the admiration of“ a few has partaken at fleurs castle, with so partial friends," he has put forth his much satisfaction to himself, and de- shallop on the waters, to brave both light to his hospitable entertainers. the battle and the breeze on a wider as he writes, the ghosts of digested and more tempestuous ocean. we fear haunches, in all their pristine obesity, his courage can only be praised at the arise in his prolific fancy ; barons expence of his judginent, and lament now no more, come forth at his bid- that he must now be indebted to ex- ding, from their unconsecrated graves, perience for a conviction of the prover- and smoke again upon the board. he bial truth of the maxim, that “ the is haunted by spectres of murdered better part of valour is diseretion." turtles, and apparitions of pheasants, oh that the bard of fleurs had been john dorys, and ducks, and green possessed of our knowledge of those pease. his bowels tremble as he writes; matters; that he had consulted us be- his gastric juice is in a state of fer- fore he ventured on the rash act of mentation; his liver ceases to be tor- publishing! then had the occupation pid; his palatal glands redouble their of edward walker, newcastle, been secretions; and the imagination of the gone, and his types had reverted to poet is triumphant over the whole their more humble and profitable em- ployment of printing lottery puffs, and we think we have now said quite hand-bills for the recovery of strayed enough of the author to excite some pointers and stolen goods! then had interest in his works; and we shall the shelves of blackwood and baldwin accordingly proceed to lay before our man. leg of mutton school of poetry. [june, meet readers a brief account of fleurs, a we are told, is extremely enchanting, poem, in four books,-the very pe- for from thence may be descried, destal of his fame, on which it either springwood, and stitchel, marchmont, inust rest, or be crumbled into dust. newton-don, the ostensible object of this “ facile makerston, henderside, and mellerstain, princeps” of the leg of mutton wooden, and mellenden, and pinnacle, school-this napoleon of l'ecole de nenthorn, and woodside, mertoun, dry- gigot-in his present work, is to ce burgh's glade, lebrate the beauties of fleurs castle, rose-bank, and edenham, and broomi. the seat of the duke of roxburghe. lands." now, though fleurs castle is un- in the following passage, the author doubtedly a very fine thing, and the ingeniously contrives to kill two birds scenery around it much finer, yet with one stone, and puffs with the our author has quite enough of me- same breath both the duke and his thod in his madness, to be well con- estate. verily, it is well, as old bur. vinced that nobody would take the ton hath it, to praise mine host of the trouble to read an epic poem, in four green dragon, for the ale of the green books, of which the beauties of fleurs dragon is good. were the only topic. he was there- fore very naturaliy led to diversi- “oh! might my verse but emulate my theme, fy his description of the beauties of the place, by eulogiums on the virtues in choicestworks of nature, and of art, in richness, beauty, and variety, of its possessor. as even these can then were it such a wreath of fragrant scarcely be supposed to afford sufficient flowers, matter for an epic poem in four books, culled from his rich domain, as i could the angelic qualities of the duchess, wish and the youthful promise of her son, to lay at roxburghe's feet ; memorial were found to afford him matter equal- ly interesting and apropos. in all this, of kindness, and of gentlest courtesy, however, there was rather too much enjoyed beneath his hospitable roof. sameness and monotony; and he was having duly bepraised the duke, the therefore induced tastefully to varie- duchess's turn, as might be expected, gate his poem with descriptions of the comes next. neighbouring gentlemen's estates, with laudatory notices of the owners, and to o roxburghe ! such the heart and mind such thine, introduce a few agreeable digressions that mark on such taking subjects as the queen, thy lovely duchess,-form’d to grace a the radicals, arthur thistlewood, court; lord wellington, sir william wal- but form'd alike for higher aims ;-to lace, and the gunpowder plot. the spread connection of these subjects, to be around thy spacious dwelling smiling sure, with fleurs castle, is not at first peace, sight very apparent, and were no more content, and happiness ; – to banish want, to be looked for in this work, than a and fell disease, and ignorance, and vice; digression on pickled cabbage in a to sooth and tranquillize thy years that treatise on ethics, or an eulogium on wain, gin-twist in a volume of polemical di- and, while she this life's every duty fills, with steps so soft, so scarce perceptible ; vinity. on this, however, and on as wife, and mother, patroness, and friend, several other matters of equal import- with faith, and hope, and love to god, ance, we have no time to enforce our and man, opinions, and shall therefore proceed to soar alofty-where virtues such as at once to our extracts, and leave our hers,— readers to judge what support they af thus flourishing beneath the saviour's ford to the observations we have thus grace, hurriedly thrown together. shall find their permanent their sure re- ward. the poem opens with a description of fleurs, and an etymological discus- meanwhile, be it ours to praise the source sion on the origin of the name, which, for females placed in elevated rank, however, like xudibras's like roxburghe's duchess, or northum. adventure of the bear and fiddle, berland's; is sung, but broke off in the middle," or the benevolent and mourn'd buc cleuch ; for the question is left undecided at or graham, bordering near on england's last. the prospect from the castle, verge !" .) leg of mutton school of poetry. crew men their graces being now tolerably to rise in virtue's cheek. guilty or not, bedaubed, he loses no time in bespat- our queen,her daughter must have tering the son with the same tasty suffered much.” materials. having passed with aying colours “ thus roxburghe's duchess finds her through this ticklish navigation, he brightest gems soon gets upon a safer subject, that of comprised within her lovely princely boy; arthur thistlewood and his plot. here mature beyond his years ; with promise whig and tory are agreed ; this is, fraught indeed, sailing on smooth waters, and of all that fondest parents most can wish his cock-boat is already trim for the in high-born youth,-if trained with pru. occasion. mark how the “ tempestas dent care in matula" breaks forth in the follow. by culture's skill ;-quickness of paits, ing fine burst of indignation. with frank and noble bluntness,—manliness, with “oh! 'twas base, sweet 'twas horrible, most horrible, to seek, hilarity, firmness, with sportiveness by one infernal direful blow, to plunge combined; while thus alike in infant years our sovereign's council in one sudden, the father's and the mother's character dire, and features shine conspicuous. oh ! 'tis and awful ruin ;-men of carriage mild, sweet of principles averse to shed the blood to view the rose-bud opening on its stalk even of the blasphemous and barbarous with charms peculiar, while it promise holds of all the fragrance, loveliness, and grace, confederate against them. what ! such that mark the full-blown flower.” as sidmouth, harrowby, vansittart, men, in introducing the subject of the who, howsve'er in politics opposed queen, the bard of fleurs is placed in to others ardent in their country's cause, a very unpleasant dilemma." in the have lived so blameless in their several first place, the duke of roxburghe is and elevated spheres, that even their high a whig, and to abuse the queen would foes, therefore constitute matter of offence or rather their opposers in debate, in the eyes of his patron. to praise could shed a tear (as erst when perceval, her, on the other hand, would proba- the upright, and the good, received his bly offend some other noble person, or fate) the bishop, or the dean, or the rec- at deed so vile, so diabolical. tor, or the parish clerk; and our au- no more repugnant to such deed accur. thor is most anxious to stand well with sed, the whole world. what then does nor more averse to all the clamour wild he ? mark with what skill this inge- of factious demagogues, 'midst britain's sons, nious navigator steers his bark between are any found, than those who cultivate seylla and charybdis, avoiding the with skill the fertile soil round fleurs rocks of the one, and the shoals of the domain.”- other,-how steadily he ports his helm, -how quickly hediscerns the channel, our next extract is intended to con- and seuds along with his pocket-haud secrate the fame of mr brown, the en- kerchief for a main-sail. gineer, who erected the late beautiful chain-bridge across the tweed. we -“ let it not presume mr brown had invited our be thought, i would anticipate the event author to dinner. of the inquiry awful, grave, and sage, in britain's senate now pursued, to wipe -oh! follow down the stain, if such there be, the direful tweed's gentle course, 'midst scotia's rute stain, ral pride, from britain's throne. oh! in a daugh. to where, as placed by talismanie art, ter's eyes, appears the wondrous bridge, of form and such a daughter, pure in heart and most strange; mind, an arch inverted ;-from its airy top what daggers had it planted in her soul, finding support, -as though by glamour to hear a mother's name bandied about, and coupled with the charge, the odious and gramarye. had brown but chanced charge, to live, of vile adultery,--of thoughts impure what time the happy union erst was formid display'd in acts of shameless levity, his bridge commemorates, he had sure that cause the unbidden blood with sud been dubb'd den flow wizard by either border far and near. vol. ix. x art leg of mutton school. (june, rest ful awe scott ;- is seen knox;... had he but flourish'd in remoter times, partly indeed extraneous ;-fruit-trees when rome's dread pontiff gave alike the train'd law around the spacious walls, their clusters to art and science, as to rules of faith, rich a fate like galileo's had been his ; by buchan well preserved ;-while near is or either shore had vied with pious zeal, view'd to seize, if possible, the cunning wight, colossal wallace, on his airy height, and try, whether from fathoms 'neath the like guard presiding o'er the varied scene. flood now, 'midst the walls where haliburtons he'd emulate his arch poised high in air." their weary limbs, -is view'd with mourn. the following relates to lord na- pier, and the general assembly; but the future tomb of their descendant who the individual may be who is dis- tinguished by the very vague appella- while buchan's bustand buchan's self tion of “ eastern anderson,” we con- fess our inability to discover. some and buchan's tomb-with golden legend of our readers may perhaps be more graced : fortunate. and may he long survive, with patient żeal “ 'midst wilton's wooded banks, and ver- its high mysterious import to expound ! may he survive,—his heroes to record, dant lawns- or literary, with tasteful art combined ; napier's re- -or political, or patriotic, -or in science skill'd! treat, homer; and washington; thomson ; from representing england's absent king, and watt; what time—in sage assembled council (of spruce soho, in rural vicinage ranged, the presbyters of scotia's sister realm of birmingham's aspiring smoky clouds ;) sidney; and shakespeare; rumford ; debated high of discipline,—and faith,— baillie; fox; the nation's piety, and morals pure.- now eastern anderson there lives retired of bibliopolist fame ;—the ettrick swain ; socrates ; cicero; and provost creech, from sicklier climes." cæsar; mozart; with franklin ; nelson; we dare say our readers will agree with us, that we have now exhibited while angelo, and aristotle, close quite samples enough of the stuff of the motley band ;—thus aptly group'd, which fleurs is composed, and that it is now full time to draw our article to to show what various ware this world is a conclusion. but we must really give and mark, that buchan has a heart, and made of, one more extractif we wanted an ex- cuse, we would find one in the subject its worthies to embrace of every class.” mind, of it-it relates to lord buchan. who is there that has visited the beautiful we have now done in good earnest abbey of dryburgh, but, like our au- with fleurs and its author ; for there thor, has dwelt with admiration on is too much sobriety in his madness, the fine taste of its possessor ! his to be longer en'ertaining. it is possi- tomb and its inscriptions, his busts ble, merely possible, we think, that and his red colossus of the woods! he may have the “gumtion"* to de- but it belongs to a kindred spirit to rive some advantage from the present sound his melodious praise. hear the article; and we hope that the good- bard of fleurs. natured ridicule with which he has " -now,-keeping tweda's course, been assailed, may teach him the pru- we pass makerston, littledean's' lone dence of enjoying the hospitality of tower, fleurs castle in peace and quiet- and mertoun's amphitheatre of woodland ness, and leaving the virtues of the shade. duke and duchess of roxburghe to soon dryburgh rears her lovely ruin'd receive their best reward in the love fane and gratitude of their dependents. embower'd in woods,—where buchan above all, we trust it may teach him hangs his path to furnish no further occupation for aloft in air, to tempt the willing feet of modern pilgrims to the erst hallow'd the types of william walker, new- shrine. castle, and to keep his poetry, for the lovely indeed the tranquil ruin shews, future, in its proper place. we shall with many an arch, and many a hall en keep our eye on the leg of mutton tire, school, and take an early opportunity and narrow cell ;-with much to inte. of laying before our readers some fura rest, ther specimens of their productions. i ween, # vide dr jamieson's dictionary. . works preparing for publication, works preparing for publication. london. a selection of the correspondence of to be published by subscription, le linnæus, and other naturalists, from the brun's passions, in lithography ; 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[june, the secretary's assistant, exhibiting history of the persecutions endured by the various and most correct modes of su. the protestants of the south of france, perscription, commencement and conclu- and more especially of the department of sion of letters, to persons of every degree the gard, during , , , &c. of rank; with lists of the foreign am- including a defence of their conduct from bassadors and consuls ; by the author of the revolutior to the present period; by the peerage and baronetage charts, nuo. rev. mark wilks, vo. vols. s. s. sermons and charges ; by the rev. novels. john hough, d. d. vo. s. d. rank and fashion; or the mazes of sermons on important subjects ; by f. life; by mr frere, vols. l. o'beirne, bishop of meath, vo. . the irish necromancer; or park; d. by t. h. marshall, vols. mo. s. d. the sacred history of the old testa- the sisters ; in vols. vo. £ , s. ment abridged for the use of children ; the vicar of iver; a tale, mo. s. by ralph barnet, esq. mo. s. d. familiar sermons on several of the doc- tales of ton, (second series,) by miss trines and duties of the christian reli. m‘leod, vols. mo. £ , s. gion ; by the rev. w. barrow, l.l.d. poetry. vo. s. od. the universe; by the rev. robert ma- topography. turin, author of bertram, &c. vo. s. d. a walk round mount edgecumbe, with the lord of the desart, sketches, &c.; a plan, and eight views in the park and by david carey, esq. foolscap vo. . pleasure ground, vo. £l. woman in india ; by rev. john law excursions in ireland ; by thomas son, missionary at calcutta, and author cromwell, royal mo. nos. . to xiv. of orient harping, foolscap vo. is. cd. s. d. each. political economy. a historical, statistical, and descriptive a series of tables, exhibiting the gain account of the philippine islands, found- and loss to the fundholder, arising from ed on official data, translated from the spas the fluctuations in the value of the cur- nish. with additions ; by w. walton, rency, from to . by robert esq. vo. . mushet, vo. voyages and travels. brief considerations on the present state views of america, in a series of letters of the london police. by ... b. allen, from that country to a friend in england, esq. one of the magistrates of union hall, during , , and ; by an southwark, vo. s. d. englishwoman, vo. s. hints to philanthropists ; or a collec sketches of india ; by a traveller, s. tive view of practical means for impro- d. ving the condition of the poor and labour. a voyage for the discovery of a north ing classes of society, by william davis, west passage, from the atlantic to the vo. s. d. pacific, performed by his majesty's ships hecla and griper, under the orders of cap- memoirs of the secret societies of the tain parry, in the years , and , south of italy, particularly the carbo. to. illustrated by charts, plates, and nari. translated from the original ms. wood-cuts, £ , s. d. vo. s. to accompany the above, but sold sepa- elements of the art of packing, as ap- rate, the north georgia gazette, to. s. plied to special juries, particularly in d. cases of libel law. by jeremy ben sketches of manners, scenery, &c. in tham, esq. vo. s. d. the french provinces, switzerland, and an essay on the history of the english italy ; by the late john scott, esq. vo. government and constitution, from the s. d. reign of henry iii. to the present time. notes on the cape of good hope, made by lord john russell. post vo. s. during an excursion through the principal d. parts of that colony, in the year ; in a second letter from the king to his which are briefly considered the advantages people, vo. . and disadvantages it offers to the english the first letter. th edition, s. emigrant, vo. . d. theology. italy; by lady morgan, to. prophecy illustrated ; being a connect travels in georgia, persia, armenia, ed exposition of the book of revelations; ancient babylonia, &c. &c. during the by t. a. teulon, mo. s. d. years , , , ; by sir a general view of the doctrines of re- robert ker porter, &c. &c. to. with nu, generation in baptism, vo. s. merous engravings of portraits, costumes, bible rhymes on the names of all the and antiquities. vol. i. £ , s. d. books of the old and new testament, travels in various countries of the east; with allusions to some of the principal in more particularly persia ; by sir william cidents and characters; by hannah more, ousely, knt. vol. . £ , s. d. vo. s. recollections of a classical tour through politics. .) monthly list of new publications. 'various parts of greece, turkey, and italy, travels of cosmo, the third grand duke made in the years and ; by p. of tuscany, through a large part of eng- e. laurent ; with coloured plates, to. land, in the reign of charles ii. ( .) £ , s. faithfully translated from the original ita- modern voyages and travels, vol. th, lian ms. in the laurentian library at flo- part d, containing travels in egypt, in rence; with views, &c. royal to. £ , and ; with twelve large and cu s. rious engravings. s. d. edinburgh. manual of mineralogy; containing an a memorial, by robert stevenson, account of simple minerals, and also a f.r.s.e. &c., civil engineer, relative to description and arrangement of mountain the opening of the great valleys of strath- rocks; by robert jameson, regius pro more and strathearn, by means of a rail. fessor of natural history, lecturer on mi- way or canal, with branches to the sea neralogy, and keeper of the museum in from perth, arbroath, montrose, stone- the university of edinburgh ; f.r.s. &c. haven, and aberdeen. together with ob- &c. in one thick volume, vo. . servations on interior communication in an essay on the sentiments of attrac. generol. printed in quarto, with a sketch tion, adaptation, and variety; by william map of the country. s. howison, mo. s. the poems of alexander montgomery, the ayrshire legatees; or, the pringle a scottish poet of the th century; with family; by the author of " annals of the biographical notices. by david irving, parish," &c. mo. . ll.d. in post vo. beautifully printed elements of the philosophy of plants; by ballantyne, s. only copies have containing the principles of scientific bo- been printed for sale. tany, nomenclature, theory of classifica essayes and characters of a prison and tion, phytography, anatomy, chemistry, prisoners. by geffray mynshull, of physiology, geography, and diseases of grayes-inn, gent. in post vo. . hd. plants; with a history of the science, and reprinted from the original edition of practical illustrations ; by a. p. decan- . copies only have been printed. dolle and k. sprengel ; translated from the for sale. german. in one large volume vo. with report on the case of john sharpe, who plates. s. was tried before the high court of justi. werner's nomenclature of colours ; ciary, at edinburgh, upon the th of with additions, arranged so as to render it july, , and following days; and be- highly useful to the arts and sciences, fore the circuit court at glasgow, upon particularly zoology, botany, chemistry, the th of april, ; framed with a mineralogy, and morbid anatomy; an- view to shew the arguments on both sides nexed to which are examples, selected from of the bar, and the opinion of the court, well known objects in theanimal,vegetable, on the point of law which was agitated in and mineral kingdoms; by patrick syme, that important case. taken in short- flower-painter, edinburgh, &c.; hand- hand by james watson, esq. advocate. somely printed in vo. ; the second edition. “ the feelings excited by departing worth ;” a sermon preached in dun. edinburgh christian instructor for june, fermline, may th, , the lord's day no. cxxxi. immediately after the interment of the memoirs of the affairs of scotland, from rev. james husband, d. d. senior mi. the restoration of king charles ii. a. d. nister of the first associate congregation ; by sir george mackenzie of rose. there; by henry belfrage, minister in haugh, knight; (lord advocate in the falkirk. 'is. reigns of charles ii. and james ii.) never a view of the elementary principles of before published. the history of his own education, founded on the study of man. times, by sir george mackenzie, was pro- by j. g. spurzheim, m.d. mo. s. d. mised for publication by the editors of his a summary of the powers and duties works in , but was then withheld, as of a justice of the peace in scotland, in kias been supposed, from political consider. alphabetical order ; with forms of pro- ations. the manuscript had long been lost ceedings, &c., comprising a short view of sight of, and was believed to have been ir. the criminal duty, and of the greater part recoverably lost; till the original, from of the civil duty, of sheriffs and magis. which a very limited impression has now trates of burghs ; by george tait, esq. been printed, was accidentally rescued advocate. the third edition. vo. s. from destruction, by a person to whom it the history of ancient greece, from had been sold as waste paper. in one vol. the earliest times, till it became a roman to. £ , . in no. iii. our readers will province ; by w. robertson, esq. keeper find a particular account of the ms. by of the records of scotland. vo. s. dr m'crie. an inquiry into the causes of the infi. monthly list of new publications. [june, delity of the present times ; by the rev. parishes, &c., are distinctly marked. the john ramsay, minister of ormiston. vo. printed references are also copious, contain- is. d. ing all closes, courts, public buildings, the scottish episcopal magazine and principal inns and hotels, carriers, mail review, no. vi. . d. and stage coaches, &c. price in sheets, anster fair, a poem, in six cantos ; by uncoloured, s. william tennant. fourth edition. s. cd. the divine authority of the scriptures, reflections on the death of dr gre confirmed by the miracles of the apostles, gory, and on the appointment of a suc. a sermon; by george muirhead, d. d. cessor to his chair. vo. ls. od.. minister of cramond. vo. is. ed. an inquiry into the books of the new a comprehensive view of the origin testament; by john cook, d.d. profes- and tenets of the baptists, s. d. sor of divinity in st mary's college, $t a history of the rencontre at drum- andrews. vo. s. d. clog, and battle at bothwell bridge, in practical observations on cold and the month of january, , with an ac- warm bathing, with an account of all the count of what is correct, and what is ficti. principal watering-places in scotland and tious, in the “ tales of my landlord," england ; by james jillar, m.d. mo. respecting these engagements, and reflec- reid's leith and london smack direc- tions on political subjects ; by william tory. s. aiton, esq. sheriff-substitute, hamilton. a new plan of edinburgh of superior vo. s. od. projection. size of the engraving, flora scotica, or a description of scot- inches by ; containing much informa- tish plants, arranged both according to the tion, not to be found in any similar pub artificial and natural methods. in tro lication whatever. each property is mark- parts; by william jackson hooker, ed with the name of its proprietor; each ll.d. regius professor of botany in house is numbered, and the boundaries of the university of glasgow. vo. . monthly register. commercial report.- th june, . sugar.- notwithstanding that there is but very few new sugars to shew, the market continues in a languid and inactive state; the prices remain without alteration, and the buyers evince no wish to purchase. the demand for refined for exportation continues also very languid. the stock on hand is by no means considerable, as the refiners have of late been working on a limited scale. no general reduction of prices can be stated, though purchases have been made a shade lower. brazil sugars continue to be offered on very low terms, which, however, does not facilitate sales. from this time forward, the supply of sugars from the colonies of the present crop will be considerable ; and, therefore, there is little hope of any improvement in the market. cotton. owing to the unfavourable accounts from liverpool and manchester, the cotton market everywhere has been very heavy. the purchases, however, for some days back have been considerable, and a brisker market is confidently anticipated. the manufacturers everywhere are, we believe, in full activity. coffee. the market for coffee has of late been very much depressed. prices have lately declined considerably. the market continues very heavy ; but no farther reduc- tion for some days has taken place. jamaica's may be stated s. lower. st domingo is sold at s. d., and even at s. for good quality. corn. the weather for some time past has been unusually backward, and severe all over the kingdom ; yet, notwithstanding, the crops in general look well, and the mar- ket for grain may in general be stated to be on the decline. wheat is abundant, and sale dull. oats are heavy at market ; but no reduction in price. beans and peas with- out any material alteration. notwithstanding the decline in price in the london mar- ket, considerable quantities remain undisposed of. in indigo the market continues steady ; and an improvement is expected, notwithstanding the late arrivals. there are few purchases of tobacco ; for some time past, what has been sold is chiefly for home consumption. spices remain without alteration in price, and few purchases making. the tallow market is in a depressed state, and purchases made at lower rates. the prices of tea remain at our quotations. fruit continues in a very limited demand, geneva remains without alteration. rum is uncommonly depressed, and may be purchased ld. lower. at the present prices, the planter had better throw his molasses into the sea. brandy is rather looking up. the accounts from france represent the late severe frosts to have done great damage to the vines. the fall in cattle has of late been very considerable in every part of the country. . register.-commercial report. the manufacturers and labourers, however, are all in full employment, and, consi. dering the low price of provisions, at good wages. the renewal of hostilitieſ on the spanish main will tend to injure our trade to that quarter ; and the convulsions in tur- key must, for the moment, have a similar effect. the latter, however, cannot be to any great extent. on the other hand, the fall of lima, confidently anticipated, may give a spring to trade for the moment, as far as connected with that quarter of the world. an extension of trade within the limits of the east india company's charter is to take place. the silk-trade of this country continues to increase greatly ; and, according to the marquis of lansdowne's statement in the house of lords the other day, exceeds that of france. the latter consumes only two millions and half only of the raw ma terial. great britain consumes annually two millions and an half, which, when manu. factured, is raised to a value equal to ten millions. edinburgh.-june . wheat. barley. oats. pease & beans. st...... s.. od. ist, ..... s. od. st....... s. od. st,,...., s. od.' d, ...... s. od. d....... s. od. d...... . od. d....... . od. d,...... . od. d,...... . od. d, ...... s. od. | d,...... s. od. average of wheat, £l : : - ths., per boll. tuesday, june . beef ( oz. per lb.) s. £d. to s. . quartern loaf os. d.to os. od mutton os. d. to os. . potatoes ( lb.) os. d. to os. od veal os. d, to os. d. fresh butter, per lb. ts. d. to os. od pork os. d. to os. . salt ditto, per stonė s. d. to os. od lamb, per quarter . od. to s. d. ditto, per lb. ls. d. to ls. d tallow, per stone . d. to s. od. | eggs, per dozen os. d. to os. od haddington.-june. . wheat. barley. oats. pease. beans. st, ..... . d. st, ..... s. d. ist, ... s. d. st, ..... s. od. st,..... . od. d....... s. d. d........ s. od. d....... s. od. d,... .. s. od. d....... $. od. d,...... s. d. d,... s. d. d,...... s. od. | d,...... s. od. | d,...... . od. average, £ : s. od. - th. dverage prices of corn in england and wales, from the returns received in the week ended may th. wheat, s. ido-rye, s. od.-barley, s. d. --oats, . d.-beans, s. d. pease, s. d. beer or big, os. od.-oatmeal, s. d. . . f $. - to . . london, corn exchange, june . liverpool, june . s. d. . d. $. d. s. d. wheat, red, new to hog pease. . to wheat, per lb. amer. p. lb. fine ditto. . to maple • to ||eng. old to sweet, u.s. - to - superfine ditto to while . to foreign --do. in bond to ditto, old. - to - ditto, boilers, to waterford to sour do.. to o white, new to new ditto, - to - limerick. to oatmeal, per lb. fine ditto to smallbeans, new to drogheda ? to english to superfine ditto to ditto, old . Đublin to scotch .. to ditto, old. tick, new. scotch to irish ... to foreign, new . - to ditto, old irish old . to bran, p. lb. to rye to foreign . to bonded .. to fine ditto, - to feed oats. butter, beef, fc. to barley, per lbs. barley to fine. to eng. to butter,p.cwt. . d. s. d. fine, new. to poland ditto to scotch ... to belfast, new. to superfine to fine. • to irish .. to . o newry o to malt to potatoe ditto to oats, per lb. waterford . to o fine . to fine. . to eng. pota. to cork,pic. , to irish do.. to d dry to. scotch do. to beef, p. tierce. sceds, fc. malt per b. - mess to - fine . . to – per bil. to $. d. . beans, per qr. pork, p. brl. must. brown, to hempseed . english. to mess to -white ... to linseed, crush. to irish to middl. to tares, new,. to o new, for seed – to rapeseed, p. . £ to bacon, p. cwt. turnips, bsh. to ryegrass, . . to pease,grey to short mids. to -red & green-to-clover, red cwt. to white : to sides. to -yellow, -to- -white to flour, english, hams, dry, to o caraway, ewt. to coriander .. to p. b.fine to green to canary, qr. to trefoil ... to irish to lard,rd.p.c. to rape seed, per last, £ to £ . vol. ix. y . . . register.-commercial report. [jane, london. s d is d s d £ £ . prices current june . sugar, masc. leith. glasgow. liverpool. b. p. dry brown, .cwt. to mid. good, and fine mid. fine and very fine, refined doub. loaves, powder ditto, single ditto, small lumps, large ditto, crushed lumps, molasses, british, cwt. coffee, jamaica, . cwt. ord. good, and fine ord. mid. good, and fine mid. dutch triage and very ord. ord. good, and fine ord. mid. good, and fine mid. st domingo, pimento (in bond,) + spirits, jam. rum, o. p. gall. s d od s d s d is d s brandy, genera, grain whisky, wines, claret, ist growths, hhd. portugal red, pipe. spanish white, butt. teneriffe, pipe. madeira, logwood, jam. ton. honduras, campeachy, fustic, jamaica, cuba, indigo, caraccas fine, lb. s d lls d timber, amer. pine, foot. ditto oak, christiansand (dut. paid.) honduras mahogany, st domingo, ditto, tar, american, brl. archangel, pitch, foreign, cwt. tallow, rus. yel. cand. home melted, hemp, riga rhine, ton. petersburgh, clean, flax, riga thies. & druj. rak. duteh, irish, mats, archangel, . bristles, petersburgh firsts, cwt. ashes, peters. pearl, montreal, ditto, oil, whale, £ cod. s (p. brl.), tobacco, virgin. fine, ib. middling inferior, cottons, bowed georg. d sea island, fine, good, middling, demerara and berbice, west india, o pernambuco, maranham, mlololoogi a: £ it i Öll . folloin co o £ illalll lllllcllcor l-- | ||| |||| + betti tiit fr - to wow covered iii|||||||||||| cowo illovou bollllllll . £ £ !!! - pot, tun. d d alphabetical list of english bankruptcies, announced between the th of april and the th of may, , extracted from the london gazette. adams, j. stainford, corn merchant. blunsum, w. b. stamford, grocer. allison, g. bishop wearinouth, rope maker. bosher, t. of slate end, near wallingford, dealer ambrose, w. clapton, carpenter. in timber. avety, j. barnstaple, shopkeeper. bruton, g. n. devizes, coachmaker. bailey, w. h. cheltenham, banker. buttery, s. west stockwith, nottinghamshire, barnet, j. junior, west-street, west smithfield, mraltster. victualler cameron, j. suckley, worcester, farmer. baverstock, r. brompton, plumber. clarke, f. gainsborough, draper. beardmore, e. newcastle under lyme, shoema collin, s. woodlesford, york, blacksmith. ker. coney, t. sculthorpe, norfolk, iniller. blakey, j. r. liverpool, vinegar maker and mer. copland, s. junior, blackheath, victualler. chant. corri, n. golden-square, dealer in music, &e. . register.-commercial report. crumble, g. and carr, j. york, tobacco manu menke, d. t. primrose-street, bishopsgate-street, facturers. without, merchant. curwen, j. great east cheap, tea-broker. morgan, j. stroud, linen-draper. dawson, r. norwich, linen-draper. mulligan, t. bath, silk-merchant. dean, j. bingley, york, builder. nathan, j. westbury-upon-trim, music-seller, demayne, w. otvidley, york, worsted spinner. &c. devereux, w. h. calais, merchant. payne, t. and d. cateaton-street, warehousemen. dicken, j. shrewsbury, upholsterer. phillips, b. tong, salop, butcher. driver, j. and m. bristol, cabinet-makers. phillips, j. b. bartlett's buildings, jeweller. essex, m. of coventry, and wood-street, cheap pound, c. and w. h. cloth fair, woollen-drapers. side, silk manufacturer. richards, w. shoreditch, soap-maker. fate, w. late of settle, yorkshire, cabinet-maker. ryder, j. and j. new malton, merchants. fowler, g. collumpton, devon, hosier. richardson, g. horncastle, grocer. franke, r. senior, newark upon trent, miller. roberts, h. holywell, flintshire, grocer. french, r.wimpole, cambridgeshire, shopkeeper. roe, e. chadkirk, within romily, chester, calico- gilbert, j. church-street, mile end, new town, printer. victualler. roe, w. lower, east smithfield, wheelwright. glover, b. late of bread-street, but now of wat- sealey, h. w. stamford, upholsterer. king street, manchester, warehouseman. shepherd, j. jun. pirton, and houghton, r. bad- goodair, j. late of chorley, lancaster, cotton sey, worcester, dealers. spinner. smart, w. bishopsgate-street, carpenter. gorton, j. henry-street, hampstead road, smith. smith, j. patrington, in holderness, linen-draper. greenwood, t. junior, preston, lancaster, up spencer, w. bristol, corn-factor. holsterer. stodart, r. and m. strand, booksellers. hall, h. and hall, j. upper thames-street, and tate, j. liverpool, provision merchant. wolverhampton, iron merchants. thomas, h. w. wolverhampton, upholsterer. hawkim, j. farncombe, surrey, crape-manufac- thompson, h. sulcoates, yorkshire, merchant. turer. turner, d. whitechapel road, timber merchant. hannington, s. putney, ironmonger. turner, s. stock exchange, capel court, stock- hebdin, w. leeds, hebdin, a. . parliament broker. street, and brown, j. senior, leeds, merchants. vanghan, e. monythusloyne, monmouthshire, henshaw, j. glocester-place, portman square, apothecary and coal merchant. bookseller. waller, m. late of stone, staffordshire, victualler. hulkes, t. e. rochester, miller. wall, r. sutton-street, soho, carpenter. hunton, g. cateaton-street, linen and woollen walls, t. webber-street, and lambeth marsh, factory warehouseman. hat-manufacturers. jerry, j. kirkton, suffolk, maltster. ward, j. late of banbury, brewer. kelsey, b. nuneaton, innkeeper. watmough, j. orford, lincolnshire, farmer. killick, w. cheam, surrey, coal-merchant. welsh, j. high holborn, master mariner. king, w. worcester, draper. westaway, j. exeter, watchmaker. kyffen, j. lime house hole, dealer. wetton, j. james. w. and payne, jun. wood- laghton, j. late of arbourn square commercial street, and of coventry and nuneaton, ribbon- road, mariner. manufacturers. lawledge, m. harley-street, cavendish square, wharton, r. and h. little crosby, lancaster, upholsterer. joiners. lawton, r. bottoms within stayley, cheshire, wilkinson, g. york, linen-draper. clothier. williains, l. w. fleet-street, wine-merchant. lee, j. sunderland, grocer. wilmot, d. prince's-street, rotherhithe, mariner. lyo j. marsham-street, westminster, cooper. wolferstan, j. chichester, ironmonger lubbren, f. m. busy cottage, northumberland, wood, t. lake loch, yorkshire, maltster. iron-founder. woodcock, c. norwich, coachmaker mayers, m. upper fountain-place, city road, young, j. jun. romsey, upholsterer. merchant alphabetical list of scotch bankruptcies, announced between the st and st may, , extracted from the edinburgh gazette. burrell, robert, saddler, cupar fife. hamilton, john, wright and builder in lanark ; campbell, macarthur duncan, merchant, book a dividend th april. seller, and stationer, glasgow. hepburn, james, late farmer in bearford, and macdougal, duncan, merchant, glasgow. líme-burner in saltoun, east lothian; a divi. sinclair, william, merchant, lerwick. dend th may. smart, john, merchant and insurance-broker, brown, williain, late of longbedholm, cattle- leith. dealer; a dividend th june. tod, john, baker and corn-merchant, dundee. macfarlane, t. and a. cotton-spinners in bridge- walker, john, grocer, lochwinnoch. ton, near glasgow; a final dividend th july. williamson, thomas, merchant, thornhill martinsons and somerville, distillers at gellay- banks, near perth; a dividend th june. dividends. milne, margaret, haberdasher and merchant, adie, robert, and m'queen, george, in campany, stonehaven; a final dividend th june. woollen manufacturers at dallirie, near crieff ; monteath, john, hardware merchant, stirling; a a dividend th june. dividend th june. cassels, w. g. and cassels, robert, late merchants, murray, wm. tenant in keithick ; a final divideud leith ; a dividend th june to the postponed th june. creditors. page, g. and d. and co. haberdashers, south cheyne, stuart, bookseller, edinburgh; a final bridge, edinburgh; a dividend th june. dividend th june. rodger, james, merehant, greenock; a dividend coates, john, manufacturer, glasgow; a dividend th june. th may. ross, thomas, merchant, montrose; a dividend easton, john, formerly distiller at don bridge, th july. near aberdeen; a final dividend july. scott, burt, and co. tanners, kilconquhar; a final forrester, anderson, and jarvie, hardware-mer dividend th june. chants, glasgow; a dividend d july. [june, register...commercial report. weekly price of stocks, from to may, . d. th th. d. $ pr. pr. pr. pr. bank stock, per cent. reduced, ) per cent. consols, per cent. consols, ! ] per cent. consols,...on ] per cent. davy ann.... imperial per cent. ann. india stock, bonds,maar exchequer bills, pr. pr. pr. pr. consols for acc. ancama amer. per centro french per cents.com.co fr. c. fr. c. fr. c. fr. c, course of exchange, junc .—amsterdam, : . c. f. ditto at sight, : . rotterdam, : . antwerp, : . hamburgh, : . altona, : . paris, d. sight, : . ditto : . bourdeaux, : . frankfort on the maine, . petersburgh, : u. vienna, : ef. flo. trieste, : ef. fo. madrid, . cadiz, bilboa, . barcelona, . seville, ļ. gibraltar, . leghorn lis- . genoa, . venice, : . malta, . naples, . palermo, . bon, . oporto, . rio janeiro, . bahia, . dublin, per cent. cork, per cent. prices of gold and silver, per oz.--foreign gold, in bars, £ : : d. new dollars, os. od. silver in bars, stand. s. d. meteorological table, extracted from the register kept at edinburgh, in the observatory, calton-hill. n.b.-the observations are made twice every day, at nine o'clock, forenoon, and four o'clock, after. noon.-the second observation in the afternoon, in the first column, is taken by the register thermometer. attach. ther. barom. ther. wind. attach. ther. barom. ther. wind. may may { a. n.w. hail aftern. { s. s. m. . m. w. clear and { a. . a. ) warm. m. . m. cble. foggy, with a. . a. ) rain. m. . m. n.e. fair, but a. . a. dull. m. . m. fair foren. cble, a. . a. ) rain aftern. m. . m. ) fair day, { a. . a. ) rain night. m. . m. dull foren. { s.w. a. . a. ) sun aftern. m. . m. fair foren. { a. . a. rain aftern. m. . m. dull, fair, cble. { a. . a. m. sunsh. with a. . a. showers hail. . m. ) n.w. ditto, snow a. . a, s on hills. m. . m. ) foren. suns. { n.w. a. . a. rain aftern. m. . m. ) sunshine, a. . a. with hail. m. . m. fair, with a. s.e. . a. ) sunshine. m. . m. sunsh. fore. . s.e. a. . a. thun. after. m. . m. s.e. heavy rain f. a. . |a. fair aftern. . m. n.w. sunshine. a. . /a. m. . m. fore. sunsh. . a. m. . m. showers, cble. a. . a. with thund. m. . m. fair foren. n.e. a. . a. rain aftern. m. . m. e. fair, with a. . a, sunshine. m. . m. ditta, but e. a. . a. very cold. m. . m. fair, dull, a. . a. e. & very cold. m. . /m. dull, with cble. a. . a. hail showers. m. . m. cble. fair, with a. . a. sunshine. m. . m. frost morn n. a. . a. s hail sh. day. . m. m. snow mor. a. . a. hail foren. . m. f.heav, hail, n. a. a. af.heav.rain. - m. rain morb. n. a. . a, hail sh. day. m. . - m. dull, fair, n. a. . a. & very cold. . m. fair, with e. a. . a. ) suns, & cold. m. . m. e. ditto. a. . a. ) very cold, . m. n.w. / m. n. { % m. m. n.w. n. m. average of rain, . inches. .] appointments, promotions, sc. appointments, promotions, &c. d may. th apr. p. f. l. gds. cornet and sub-lieut. reid, to be lieut. vice grieve, superseded, th mar. lord f. conyngham, cornet and sub-lieut. apr. dr. g. gen. flon. r. taylor, from dr. g. col. vice earl of carhampton, dead, goth do. cape corps, capt. vice fawcett, h: p. dr. (rec. diff.) dr. hon. g. vaughan, cornet by purch. vice jones, ret. th do. lieut. georges, capt. do. vice maj. skelton, ret. d do. cornet hall, lieut. do. do. w.j. t. fagg, cornet, do. do. f. lt. welsh, capt. vice clarke, dead, ensign clay, lieut. do. lt. copson, from f. ens. do. lt. waterman, capt. by purch. vice maj. light, ret. d may. ensign tinling, lieut. do. do. gent. cadet, h. king, ens. do. vice o'ryan, ret. d do. j. jones, ensign, do. vice tinling, d do. gent. cadet w. m. brownrigg, fm. r. mil. coll. ens. vice clayton, f. th do. lieut. walton, capt. vice thurlow, dead, th apr. ens. w. g. earl of erroll, from f. lieut. d may. beet, d lt. vice copson, f. capt. dennie, maj. by purch. vice lieut.-col. shaw, ret. do. lieut. bryne, capt. do. do. ens. corfield, lieut. do. do. gent. cadet l. c. l'isc. falkland, from r. mill. coll. by purch. do. bt. maj. c. s. campbell, maj, vice farquharson, dead, th may. lieut. dunn, capt. do. ens. fraser, lieut. do. w. e. hay, ens. do. lt. col. moffatt, from ceyl. r. lt. col. vice pelly, h. p. €. d do. ens. clayton, from i f. ens. vice m'cabe, th do. ens. m'cabe, qua. mast. vice kemp, dead, do. bt. maj. chambers, maj. by purch. vice bt. lt. col. frend, ret. d do. lieut. o'reilly, capt. do. do. ens. caldwell, lieut. do. do. g. todd, ens. do. do. c lieut. gun, capt. vice barry, dead, d do. ens. palmer, lieut. do. lieut. auber, from h. p. f. vice campbell, dead, th apr. h. m. gordon, ens. vice lord erroll, d may. w. i. r. lieut. fox, from h. p. f. paym. vice dely, res. do. i ceyl. r. lieut. col. sullivan, from h. p. f. lieut. col. vice moffatt, f. do. cape c. cav. capt. de visme, from h. p. dr. capt. (pay diff.) vice c. À. somer- set, dr. g. do, miscellaneous. lt. col. bell, h. p. to be dep. qua. mast. gen. at cape of good hope, vice warre, res. th apr. t. allan, hosp. assist. vice moon, dead, do. hosp. assist. r. moir, from h. p. hosp. assist. vice bruce, cancelled, d do. rev. j. s. pering, chaplain to the forces. exchanges. lieut. col. napier, from f. with bt. col. mor- rison, h. p. sicil. regt. bt. major callandar, from f. with capt. mann, h. p. f. wilson, from f. rec. diff. with capt. kidd, h. p. ) f. capt. orr, from f. with capt. jack, h. p. w. . rang. taylor, from f. with capt. thoreau, h. p. 'f. patterson, from f. with capt. anderson, h. p. york chass. gunning, from f. rec. diff. with capt. williams, h. p. dr. suasso, from f. with capt. daniell, h. meech, from f. with capt. martin, h. p. f. lieut. o'keefe, from f. with lieut. windus, f. gordon, from f. rec. diff. with lieut. norman, h. p. f. wilkins, from f. with lieut. cox, h. p. cornet richardson, from dr. g. with cornet de lisle, dr. d lieut. bruce, from f. with ensign bayley, h. p. gar. bn. ensign bonbury, from f. with ensign mallet, b. p. f. paym. goddard, from f. with capt. fisher, h. p. f. staff surg. macleod, with staff surg. m‘diarmid, h. p. roy, with staff surg. clarkc, h. p. hosp. assist. m'cabe, with hosp. assist. watson, h. p. resignations and retirements. lieut. col. shaw, f. frend, f. major skelton, dr. light, f. cornet jones, dr. ensign o'ryan, f. superseded. lieut. grieve, life gds. appointment cancelled hosp. assist. a. bruce, from h. p. deaths. th apr. prom. f. royal artillery. d capt. molesworth, from h. p. d capt. vice curtis, h. p. st apr. . ist lieut. griffin, from h. p. st lt. th do. d lieut. miller, do. do. edridge, from h. p. d lt. - do. lieut. gen. read, late of life gds. at rome, th apr. . major gen. bateman, east india comp. service. lieut. col. fetherstonhaugh, h. p. f. inglis, h. p. e. th mar. . major farquharson, f. edinburgh, st may, . fetherston, f. fort george barracks, bombay, th nov. : , howard, f. london. th may, . taylor, h. p. f. summerset, near par. sonstown, ireland, th feb. . donzel, h. p. meuron's regt. d mar. , appointments and promotions, fc. (june, capt. rynd, late invalids, brecknock, capt. hill, h. p. york fuz. st mar. . vogelly, h. p. hompesch's rif. rham, h. p. meuron's regt. th do. cornet clayton, h. p. queen's amer. ra. new lieut. de l'etang, dr. poorbunder, on his brunswick. ist dec. . way to bombay, th oct. : . ensign norcott, f. kyater, madras. m‘dougali, f. secunderabad, madras, th oct. . th aug. . gordon, h. p. f. th mar. . buckeride, roy. eng. th apr. . smith, h. p. f. daniel green, late invalids, portsinouth, barber, h.p. f. boltington, near mac- th feb. . clesfield, apr. . bowsar, of late v. bn. th do. qr. mast. kemp, f. zante, d jan. . farr, h. p. f. th dec, . harper, f. ballinasloe, th may, . long, h. p. f. th oct. . murray, h. p. manx f. . july, . vandyke, h. p. waggon train, france. th mar. . births, marriages, and deaths. births. . at montpelier park, burrowmuirhead, the dec. , . at calcutta, at the house of the lady of r. scott, esq. of a daughter. rev. mr thomson, the lady of a. f. ramsay, mrs brewster, dublin street, of a son. esq. surgeon in the honourable company's ser at charlotte square, the lady of major-ge- vice, of a daughter. neral balfour of balbirnie, of a son. mar. , . at kingston, jamaica, the lady . at charlotte square, mrs alexander wood, of the hon. william shand, of a son. of a son. . at madeira, the lady of robert wallas, mrs peter hewat, dundas street, of a son. esq. of a son. . at young street, charlotte square, mrs april . on board the lord hungerford, at sea, john brougham, of a son. the lady of collin campbell, esq. surgeon of the mrs watson, melville street, of a son. horse brigade on the bengal establishinent, of a . at south castle street, mrs gibson, of a son. daughter. june . at , hill street, mrs bell, of a son. . at falkirk, the lady of captain fulton, r. . at lady seaforth's, inveresk-house, the hon. n. of a son. mrs stewart mackenzie of seaforth, of a son. . at petersburgh, sultana kattegherry of a daughter. - at rozene, near ayr, the lady of alexander marriages. w. hamilton, esq. of a daughter. nov. , . at madras, major george cadell, . at aix, the lady of james skene, esq. of th native infantry, assistant-adjutant general, rubieslaw, of a daughter. to margaret, second daughter of william molle, . at kilravock castle, the lady of hugh esq. of mains, w. s. rose, esq. of kilravock, of a daughter. march , . at st vincent's, lietenant cox, - at nenagh, ireland, the lady of james of the 'd light dragoons, to magdalene, second dempster, esq. m.d. of a daughter. daughter of captain sutherland of montrose. . at gartmore-house, mrs cunningham gra april . at bo'ness, james cowan, esq. m. d. an, of a daughter. to margaret, second daughter of the late andrew . the lady of r. w. brandling, esq. of low tod, esq. bo'ness. gosforth, of a son. . at kerse, mr james girdwood, surgeon, - at edinburgh, the lady of lieutenant-colo falkirk, to jane, fifth daughter of mr john nel wylly, fusiliers, of a son. borthwick. may . at springfield, the lady of james inver christopher capell, esq. of prestbury, near arity, esq. of a son. cheltenham, to elizabeth, daughter of the late sir . at lochnaw castle, the lady of sir andrew william forbes of craigievar. agnew, bart. of a son. - at st george's church, hanover square, . at stirling, mrs robert balfout, r. n. of a london, the earl of aylesford, to lady augusta sophia greville, sister to the earl of warwick. . at the grove, mrs bonar, of a daughter. . at st paul's, covent garden, london, sir . at leith, mrs dr macaulay, of a son. william dick, bart. to caroline, relict of lieute- - at kirkmay-house, the lady of robert in nant-colonel alexander fraser, late of the th glis, esq. of kirkmay, of a son. regiment of foot. - at hedge grove, near keswick, cumber . at old aberdeen, arthur nicholson, esq. land, mrs forbes of culloden, of a son. of lochend, to eliza jane, eldest daughter of the & at melrose, mrs david spence, of a daugh- rev. dr. jack, principal of the university and ter king's college. - at friern hatch, middlesex, the lady of . at the manse of cromarty, dr george m° henry st george tucker, esq. of a daughter. donald, to margaret crawford, third daughter of .' at ruchill, the lady of duncan campbell, the rev. robert smith, minister of the gospel, esq. of barraldine, of a daughter. cromarty: . at great king street, mrs craig, of a son. . at glenormiston, james marjoribanks, esq. at dublin, the lady of lieutenant-colonel crosshall, berwickshire, to agnes, daughter of lindsay, c. b.commanding the th highlanders, the late william hunter, esq. of glenormiston. of a daughter. - at kilmarnock, james ralston, esq. of - mrs dow, duke street, of a son. towerhill, to miss lilias smith of bankend. . the lady of alexander fraser, esq. of - at edinburgh, mr george wilson, (one of thavies inn, of a son. the partuers of messrs john wright and co. clo- . at craigleith-house, mrs william fleming, thiers,) to mary, second daughter of mr john of a daughter. fleming, builder, edinburgh. . ai bargaly, the lady of john mackie, esq. at scarborough, archibald gibson, esq. of a son. merchant in edinburgh, to mrs macghie, widow . at her father's (general sir hew dalrym of the deceased thomas macghie of bridgen place, ple) house, in hertfordshire, the lady of captain in the county of kent, esq. dacres, r. n. of a daughter. james grierson, esq. surgeon, in the service - at armagh, ireland, mrs w. c. clarke, of a of the honourable east india company, to mar. still-born child. garet, youngest daughter of mr archibald richard- . at no. , union street, mrs peter scott, of son, sherif brae, leith. a son. at hawthornbank, the reverend james . at williamfield, ncar stirling, mrs cap- trail, minister of the episcopal chapel, hadding- lain forrester of craigannet, of a son. ton, to margaret, eldest daughter of robert veteh, - mrs renny, castle street, of a daughter. esq. of hawthorobank. on. .] register.-marriages and deaths. . at edinburgh, the rev. abraham home, . at rome, lieutenant-general read, of minister of greenlaw, to susan, eldest daughter of crowood, wiltshire, late of his majesty's first re- the late patrick anderson, esq. w. s. giment of life guards. his death was occasion- may . at linlithgow, the rev. john ramsayed by poison, administered by a venetian servant, of dunkinfield, cheshire, to mary, eldest daugh whom he had hired at paris, and who was after- ter of the late mr alexander lang, merchant, wards found to have been seven years in the gal. linlithgow. leys. - at no. , st andrew's square, arthur . at aberdeen, mr alexander leith ross, on- mower, esq. m. d. emmanuel college, cam- ly son of the late rev. dr james ross, senior mi- bridge, to anne, only daughter of the late william nister of aberdeen. steuart, esq. advocate. . at leith walk, mr james macghie of the . at bethyhill cottage, lieut. h. b. macken excise, aged . zie, strathy, to miss jessie mackay. . at his house in dundas street, after a short . at torboll, william murray, esq. of rose- illness, james easton, esq. w.s. mount, banker in tain, to esther, second daugh . at south coats, near edinburgh, mrs jean ter of kenneth mackay, esq. of torboll. stewart. . at annan, lieut. charles douglas clapper - at aberdeen, mrs anderson of deebank. ton, royal marines, to mary, eldest daughter of . at belfast, the rev. wm. neilson, d. d. joseph johnston, esq. of dal-hook, dumfries m.r.l.a. professor of latin, greek, and hebrew, shire. and head master of the classical school in the . at london, james fairlie, esq. of bell belfast institution. field and holms, in ayrshire, to agnes maria, el - at kippax, yorkshire, the honourable mrs dest daughter of william fairlie, of the crescent, cathcart. portlance. - at bellevue, near southampton, admiral . at st george's chapel, edinburgh, r. a. sir richard rodney bligh, g.c. b. aged years. chermside, esq. m. d. th royal hussars, to - at her sister's, nrs ramsay of maxton, jane m. williams, only daughter of the late ro leith, marion, daughter of the late william ha- bert williams, esq. of cerne lodge, dorsetshire, gart, esq. and niece to colonel blair of blair, ayrshire. at east mains of callander, mrs elizabeth . at kent-house, knightsbridge, captain fre stewart, wife of walter stewart, esq. late of st derick fitzelarence, of his majesty's th regiment, elizabeth, jamaica. to lady augusta boyle, daughter of the earl and . at old melrose, mrs legge, wife of lever countess of glasgow. legge, esq. . at jedburgh, john andrew ormston, esq. - at somerset place, stockbridge, christiana, of glenburnhall, to miss marjory maxwell thom the infant daughter of david hatton, carver and son. gilder. at dunse manse, lieutenant-colonel james - at edinburgh, james harrowar, esq. of in- johnston, of the portuguese service, and major in zievar, esq. advocate. the british service, to matthew jane trotter, only - at sheal house, ann m'rae, the widow of child of the late matthew trotter, jun. esq. nor a kintail farmer, at the advanced age of years. thumberland. until the last winter, she had never known a . at leith, mr p. j. martin, surgeon, bulbo day's sickness, and her organs of seeing and hear. rough, sussex, to miss mary watson, third daugh- ing were unimpaired ; and not many months ago, ter of the late mr adam watson, dunbar. she could run a race with any of her sex of the . at bothwell castle, by the rev. w. rout third and fourth generation. ledge, robert douglas, esq. of strathendry.. . at the manse of kilchoman, island of islay, captain in the th hussars, to the hon. mary the rev. john macleish, aged years, of sidney douglas, youngest daughter of lord dou which he was minister of that parish. glas. at alloa, mr robert macfarlane, ship-owner. . at edinburgh, captain robson, of the th - at crieff, on the th ult, after a short ill- regiment, madras establishment, to henrietta ness, mr john tainsh, writer. his death is much mackenzie, daughter of mr thomas knox, for regretted in the county of perth, by many who merly of firth. will long remember the cheerful kindness of his teinper in private life, his conciliating affability in the conduct of business, the warmth and activity deaths. of his friendship, as well as the promptitude with which he engaged in every thing connected with may , . at calcutta, mr james easson, the public welfare. the esteem in which he was late of the honourable east india company's ser held was testified by deputations from the differ- vice, son of the late mr robert easson, leys of ent trades in crieff' walking in procession at his errol. funeral. nov. . at cawnpore, captain john cruik may . at clifton, in her d year, mrs piozzi. shank, th regiment, n. i. by the accidental dis this celebrated lady long held a high station in charge of a pistol, while drawing the charge. the literary and fashionable circles, of which che dec. . Át montego bay, jamaica, of a fever, was a distinguished ornament. after a few days' illness, william balfour, esq. of - at stockton-on-tees, charlotte, the infant retirement, clifton, and martha brae. daughter of colonel and lady charlotte macgre- jan. . at lunenburgh, nova scotia, in the house of her brother-in-law, the rev. r. aitken, — at edinburgh, at the premature age of rector of st john's, miss cheyne, aged , eldest years, and much and justly deplored, major john daughter of charles cheyne, esq. formerly mer farquharson, of the th regiment of foot, son of chant in edinburgh, and grand niece of the emi lieutenant-colonel john farquharson, late of the nent physician, dr george cheyne. royal highlanders. . in jamaica, after a severe illness of five - at leith, aged , mr robert liddell, for weeks' duration, mr john wood, formerly book years manager of the late edinburgh and leith seller in dumfries. shipping company. april . on board the walsingham packet, on . at crieff, jessie, second daughter of mr his passage from jamaica to this country, alexan m'omich. der m'larty, m.d. director of the vaccine estab - at his house in new norfolk street, gros- lishment of that island, and physician for the pub venor square, london, the honourable charles lic hospital of the city of kingston, where he was stuart, brother to the late, and uncle to the pre- a distinguished practitioner for upwards of sent lord blantyre, aged . years, during which period he had the good for . at chancelot, near leith, mrs margaret dar. tune to enjoy the uninterrupted confidence and ling, spouse of mr james ramsay, and third esteem of that community, by whom he will be daughter of the deceased mr darling, many years long remembered, and his death sincerely regret tenant in pinkie, near musselburgh. ted. . at leven, in fife, mr john mackay, surgeon, . at aston, sandford, the rev. thomas scott, frederick street, edinburgh, after a short illness. author of the commentary on the bible, the force . at the manse of grange, the rev. francis of truth, and other valuable works. forbes. gor murray. register.-deaths. (june. . at whitfield, leith walk, frederick wil. mary elizabeth, second daughter of thomas, first liam gwynne, son of the late rev. frederick viscount sydney. gwynne, aged years. . at manse of insch, the rev. george daun, - at aberdeen, captain william gordon, late in the st year of his age, and st of his ministry. of the st regiment of foot, or royal scots. . at cupar, mrs catherine spens, wife of mr - at ayr, mr john wilson, aged , many alexander wood, elie. years printer of the ayr advertiser. - at her house, merchant street, miss watson. - archibald smith, esq. of jordan hill, aged . at london, william, youngest son of mr . john murray, albemarle street. . at sandbed of dalswinton, william howat at his house, london, dr robert willis. son, esq. of hazliebrae, w.s. - at leith, mr alexander baird, much re- . at edinburgh, mr andrew wood, fellow of gretted. the royal college of surgeons, in his th year. . at elgin, patrick duff, esq. town clerk. . at atherb, john bruce, weaver, aged . - at the manse of luss, the rev. dr john he never slept a night out of his native parish of stuart, minister of that parish, who will be long old deer till' aged , and was never but onee held in grateful remembrcnce by a numerous cir- more than miles from his place of nativity. cle of acquaintances, for his distinguished attain- he wrought regularly at his business till upwards ments in literature and science, as well as for un- of years of age. feigned piety, and the most active exertions in pro- . at paris, m. camille jourdan, member of moting the knowledge of the sacred scriptures the chamber of deputies, who made a conspicu. among his countrymen. in private life he was a ous figure during the french revolution. pattern of meekness, hospitality and kindness. . at apsley house, london, the amiable and - at the manse of old monkland, the reve- beautiful young marchioness of worcester, of an rend john bower, minister of that parish. internal inflammation. her ladyship was married suddenly, in a fit of apoplexy, john camp- on the th july, , and was one of the most bell, esq. of conduit-vale, blackheath. intimate and favourite friends of the late princess - at the isle of nith, mr john goldie, third charlotte. son of james goldie, esq. of knockcauchly.. - in ireland, the hon. mrs maule of panmure. . at kirkaldy, margaret stenhouse, widow - at edinburgh, mrs isabella hogg, wife of of the late mr john cameron, prince's street, mr thomas chalmers, potterrow. edinburgh, aged years. . at marshall place, perth, mrs ann macvi - at his house in st john's street, canongate, car, aged . the rev. alexander stewart, d.d. one of the mi- . at edinburgh, frederick l. maitland, nisters of canongate, aged , and in the th of younger, of rankeilour. his ministry. - at edinburgh, miss mary ballantine, eldest - at edinburgh, miss jane menzies, youngest daughter of the late patrick ballantine, esq. of daughter of the late william menzies, esq. solici- orchard. tor of customs. at the manse of mid-calder, mrs sommers, - at edinburgh, james harrowar of inzievar, wife of the reverend dr john sommers. esq. advocate. - laurence dalgliesh, esq. of west grange. . at his house, brown square, mr peter law. . john bonnycastle, esq. professor of mathe son, seed merchant. matics at the royal military academy of wool . at edinburgh, mrs erskine of dun. wich. - at london, francis james douglas, esq. at prestongrange-house, margaret, eldest coldstream guards, second son of the late george daughter of sir james grant suttie, bart. of douglas of cavers, esq. prestongrange and balgone, m. p. at linlithgow, mr peter clark, farmer, and . at edinburgh, lieutenant lockhart gilles one of the magistrates of that burgh. pie of the royal artillery, youngest son of the late . the hon. morton elden, brother to lord dr thomas gillespie, physician in edinburgh auckland, in the th year of his age. . at peebles, Árs davidson, relict of thomas june . at bath, the right hon. john camp- davidson, farmer, milcomston. bell, lord cawdor, baron cawdor, of castlemar- at dunfermline, the reverend james hus- tin, county of pembroke. band, d. d. in the th year of his age, and th - at his house in spring gardens, london, the of his ministry. right hon. the earl of stair. he was the sixth . at his seat at newbrook, in the county of earl, and succeeded his father, john, in . his mayo, aged , the right honourable lord baron lordship's titles were, earl and viscount of stair, clanmorris. the title and part of his estates de viscount dalrymple, baron of newliston, glen- scend to his lordship's eldest son, the honourable luce, and stranraer, and a baronet. his lordship barry bingham, (now lord clanmorris.) dying without issue, is succeeded by his nephew, - at lettermay, argyllshire, mr john m‘dou- j. w. h. dalrymple, now earl of stair. gall, father of the late reverend dr m.dougall, lately, at fosterhill, in the parish of kilmar- in the th year of his age. nock, mrs janet fleming, relict of mr robert - in gilmore place, mrs robertson, sincerely nelson, at the very advanced age of years. beloved and lamented by all who knew her. about months before her death, she got a num- - at houghton-le-spring, michael patrick ber of new teeth, apparently as fresh as those of a russel, youngest son of patrick russel, esq. w. s. child, and although at one period of her life, she mr patrick dallaway, ironmonger, edin was obliged to use glasses, yet for years previ- burgh. ous to her death, she could read very small print . at paris, the duke de coigny. without them. . awfully sudden, mr charles brightley, an - in the parish of bryanstone, near blandford, eminent printer and publisher, of budgay in suf the widow oliver, aged ; she retained ber fa- folk. culties almost to the last, and was ill but a few - at inverness, the reverend alexander fra days. ser, senior minister of that place, in the th year - in the neighbourhood of bristol, dr calleot, of his age, and d of his ministry. the celebrated musician, whose vocal music has . at his lordship's house, london, the right contributed a large share of the delight received by hon. the countess of chathain. her ladyship was the public for the last thirty years. printed by james ballantyne an: co. blackwood's edinburgh magazine. no. lii. july, . vol. ix. napoleon. the mighty sun had just gone down into the chambers of the deep ; the ocean birds had upward flown, each in his cave to sleep. and silent was the island shore, and breathless all the broad red sea, and motionless beside the door our solitary tree. our only tree, our ancient palm, whose shadow sleeps our door beside, partook the universal calm, when buonaparte died. an ancient man, a stately man, came forth beneath the spreading tree, his silent thoughts i could not scan, his tears i needs must see. a trembling hand had partly cover'd the old man's weeping countenance, yet something o'er his sorrow hover'd that spake of war and france ; something that spake of other days, when trumpets pierced the kindling air, and the keen eye could firmly gaze through battle's crimson glare. said i, perchance this faded hand, when life beat high, and hope was young, by lodi's wave-on syria's sand the bolt of death hath flung. young buonaparte's battle cry perchance hath kindled this old cheek; it is no shame that he should sigh,- his heart is like to break. z vol. ix. napoleon. [july; he hath been with him, young and old ; he climb'd with him the alpine snow; he heard the cannon when they rollid along the silver po. his soul was as a sword, to leap at his accustom'd leader's word; i love to see the old man weep, he knew no other lord. as if it were but yesternight, this man remembers dark eylau, - his dreams are of the eagle's flight, victorious long ago. the memories of worser time are all as shadows unto him; fresh stands the picture of his prime,- the later trace is dim. i enter'd, and i saw him lie within the chamber, all alone, i drew near very solemnly to dead napoleon. he was not shrouded in a shroud, he lay not like the vulgar dead, yet all of haughty, stern, and proud from his pale brow was fled. he had put harness on to die, the eagle-star shone on his breast, his sword lay bare his pillow nigh,- the sword he liked the best. but calm-most calm was all his face, a solemn smile was on his lips, his eyes were closed in pensive graee- a most serene eclipse ! ye would have said some sainted sprite had left its passionless abode, - some man, whose prayer at morn and night had duly risen to god. what thoughts had calm'd his dying breast (for calm he died) cannot be known; nor would i wound a warrior's rest farewell, napoleon ! no sculptured pile our hands shall rear; thy simple sod the stream shall lave, the native holly's leaf severe shall grace and guard thy grave. the eagle stooping from the sky shall fold his wing and rest him here, and sunwards gaze with glowing eye from buonaparte's bier. .) lines suggested by the sight of some late autumn flowers. lines suggested by the sight of some late autumn flowers. those few pale autumn flowers, last hours with parting dear ones, how beautiful they are ! (that time the fastest spends) than all that went before, last tears in silence shed, than all the summer store, last words half uttered, how lovelier far! last looks of dying friends. and why?- they are the last ! who but would fain compress the last! the last ! the last ! a life into a day, oh ! by that little word, the last day spent with one how many thoughts are stirr'd; who, e'er the morrow's sun, that sister of the past ! must leave us, and for aye? pale flowers ! pale perishing flowers! oh, precious, precious moments! ye're types of precious things; pale flowers ! ye're types of those; types of those bitter moments, the saddest ! sweetest! dearest! that fit like life's enjoyments, because, like those, the nearest on rapid, rapid wings. to an eternal close. pale flowers ! pale perishing flowers ! i woo your gentle breath- i leave the summer rose for younger, blither brows; tell me of change and death. c. to a dying infant. sleep, little baby ! sleep! not in thy cradle bed, not on thy mother's breast henceforth shall be thy rest, but with the quiet dead. yes—with the quiet dead, baby, thy rest shall be. oh! many a weary wight, weary of life and light, would fain lie down with thee. flee little tender nursling! flee to thy grassy nest; there the first flowers shall blow, the first pure flake of snow shall fall upon thy breast. peace! peace ! the little bosom labours with short’ning breath- peace! peace! that tremulous sigh speaks his departure nigh- those are the damps of death. i've seen thee in thy beauty, a thing all health and glee ; but never then wert thou so beautiful, as now, baby! thou seem'st to me. thine up-turn'd eyes glazed over, like hare-bells wet with dew; already veil'd and hid by the convulsed lid, their pupils darkly blue. thy little mouth half open- the soft lip quivering, as if (like summer air ruffling the rose leaves) there thy soul were fluttering. mount up, immortal essence ! young spirit ! haste, depart- and is this death !-dread thing! if such thy visiting, how beautiful thou art! oh! i could gaze for ever upon that waxen face: so passionless! so pure! the little shrine was sure an angel's dwelling place. thou weepest, childless mother ! aye, weep-'twill ease thine heart he was thy first-born son, thy first, thine only one, 'tis hard from him to part ! 'tis hard to lay thy darling deep in the damp cold earth- his empty crib to see, his silent nursery, once gladsome with his mirth. to meet again in slumber his small mouth's rosy kiss; then, waken’d with a start by thine own throbbing heart, his twining arms to miss ! to a dying infant. [july, to feel (half conscious why) thou'lt say-"my first-born blessing! a dulì, heart-sinking weight, it almost broke my heart till mem'ry on thy soul when thou wert forced to go, flashes the painful whole, and yet, for thee, i know, that thou art desolate! 'i'was better to depart. and then to lie and weep, « god took thee in his mercy, and think the live-long night a lamb, untask'd, untried; (feeding thine own distress he fought the fight for thee, with accurate greediness) he won the victory, of every past delight; and thou art sanctified! of all his winning ways, “i look around, and see his pretty, playful smiles, the evil ways of men ; his joy at sight of thee, and, oh! beloved child ! his tricks, his mimickry, i'm more than reconciled and all his little wiles ! to thy departure then. oh! these are recollections • the little arms that clasped me, round mothers' hearts that cling the innocent lips that prest, — that mingle with the tears would they have been as pure and smiles of after years, till now, as when of yore, with oft awakening. i lulld thee on my breast? but thou wilt then, fond mother! “now (like a dew-drop shrined in after years, look back, within a crystal stone) (time brings such wondrous easing) thou'rt safe in heaven, my dove! with sadness not unpleasing, safe with the source of love, e'en on this gloomy track.- the everlasting one. “ and when the hour arrives from flesh that sets me free, thy spirit may await, the first at heaven's gate, to meet and welcome me." c. letter from doctor silky, inclosing mr o'fogarty's journal and poem. skibbereen, st july. sır;—my old friend, mr o'fogarty, has directed me to forward you the in- closed journal, which he has been preparing for your magazine, together with the th canto of what he calls his sublime poem.-sublime poem!! it was his intention, he says, to have continued the journal during his stay in this part of the country; but, sir, instead of being now engaged in scrambling over mountains, or trudging through bogs, amusements my poor friend is much at- tached to, he unfortunately lies on the flat of his back at the mansion of a hos- pitable gentleman in this neighbourhood. indeed, he is a most unlucky man ; it is not long since he had a couple of fingers blown off at a shooting match; and he is only just now recovering from the effects of a ducking that he got in going out pollocking with some of the wild youngsters of the west. poor fellow, he was thrown out of his line with all the glee imaginable, when a young gen- tleman, whose name i purposely conceal, watching his opportunity, tumbled honest fogarty overboard. he sunk and rose several times, and was ultimate ly saved by the exertions of a favourite water spaniel, who hauled him to land by the ear, his wig having fallen off at the first immersion. a fever was the consequence, and he is only now, as i have already remarked, just recovering. he desired me to say, that you should have had the last canto of his poem be- fore this time, had it not been for the misfortune thus stated, but that mo- .] letter from doctor silky. ment he is able to put pen to paper, it shall be concluded. between ourselves, mr north, you need not be very anxious about that part of the business, for should fogarty even kick the bucket, it is my determination to finish the poem for you myself. i do not see much to be praised, to say the truth, in the poetry of it; and as to the story, there is scarcely one syllable of it told core rectly. many facts are slurred over, or entirely omitted, and several ridiculous ideas of his own introduced. i have heard the story five hundred times from parker roche, (a jovial fellow, who tells it well,) and the devil a word at all about mites in a cheese in it; or of there being such good-for-nothing fellows as lambton, or creevy, or boghouse in the moon; this is all fiction of his own, and spoils the story, throwing an air of doubt over the real truth. very little would induce me to recompose the whole poem, and put it in some hand- some rhyme, not his outlandish metre, that bill wolfe, a very book-learned gentleman, told me was imported from france or spain, or some other foreign parts. i would write it to the tune of black-eyed susan, or cease rude boreas, two songs i am very fond of, being always, though a doctor, bred to the sea; and having served for a long time on board the beresford. i will tell you hereafter, if we continue good friends, something that occurred once between the beresford and the wasp. take care, and do not let oʻfogarty know that i said any thing disrespect- ful of his poem, as he is always boasting of his stuff, and how it travels all over the world in blackwood's magazine. burn the letter for fear of accidents ; and inform me, by a return of post, what you think of my idea of giving you a new edition of daniel. i remain, sir, with great respect, your obedient servant, will. silky, m. d. mr o'fogarty's journal. wednesday, june th.—left cork on is always ready for the friend, or the the summit of the skibbereen mail to stranger. spend a few days with some of my ac thursday, june th.-rose with the quaintances in the west.-morning lark, as fresh as a cucumber. set all bleak and pinching.-raised a shoe- hands to work to get ready for a fish- hail at the nine-mile house.—more ing excursion. we had assembled to comfortable after it.-breakfast at ban- the number of seven when i came don, laid in three eggs, four cups of down stairs, which, by the time break- tea, and a trifle of cold beef at falvey's. fast was ready, had increased to nine. -intended to look after the improve- -long dispute which lake to steer ments at bandon, particularly the towards.— kilkern determined on. duke of devonshire's new hotel and demolished a few rolls and an idea of tavern, but staid too long at falvey's, cold meat.-set off in prime order and owing to the waiter's delay in boiling a full puffmemorandum.-hid a can- second kettle of water for breakfast. teen of potheen in the bottom of the dashed on to clonakilty.-stopped to fishing basket.- bad sport.—thirteen visit half-a-dozen of the hungerfords, whappers massacred between us.- my relations by the mother's side, took shone conspicuously myself. how de- a trifling snack, and pushed on to lightful to see the lads, when hook'd, rosscarbery.- arrived in time to din- throw up their speckled bodies in the ner at my friend dick's—damn'd hunc air, then dart to the bottom of the war gry-tasted some lamb, and tried a ter.—killed one fellow ] inches rasher or two, and stowed away a few long.-lots of fun.—dined at mick tumblers (i forget the number pre- galway's, who never sees a fisherman cisely) of the real potheen.--popped, at the lake, but feels uneasy until he or was rather carried, to bed at twelve, gets the sportsman's legs snug under and slept soundly on the pillow, that his mahogany, and plants him down .] mr oʻfogarty's journal. crificing to bacchus the jolly god. it - dined at home.-got to bed early, was altogether rather an amusing af- to be up at cock-crow for a pollocking fair. match in the bay. sunday, th.-went to the cathe- dral.- came home and read grier's new book for the remainder of the day. such was the abrupt termination to my friend's journal. i have continued it myself, and will transmit it in due course. w. s., m. d. daniel o'rourke ; an epic poem, in six cantos. by fogarty o'fogarty, esq. of blarney. canto v.* the geese. " who first found out the man i' the moon, that to the ancients was unknown ;- or does the man i' th' moon look big, and wear a huger periwig ? butler. -ορνίθων πετεηνών έθνεα πολλά Χηνών- "Ενθα και ένθα ποτώνται αγαλλόμενοι πτερύγεσσιν. iliad, b. the man of the moon for ever! the man of the moon for ever! we'll drink to him still in a merry cup of ale, here's the man of the moon for ever! there's orion with his golden belt, and mars, that burning mover ; but of all the lights that rule the nights, the man of the moon for ever! jacobite relics, collected by the shepherd of the barbarous surname. . that there are many wond'rous things, i hold from observation of this earthly round: 'tis wondrous on a crab-tree to behold cherries and plumbs, in clusters rich abound; 'tis wond'rous to hear snuff-boxes of gold discourse sweet music, with melodious sound; 'tis wond'rous to see munden's rich grimace,- mathews “ at home,"-or liston's greasy face. . 'tis wond'rous to perceive a silent woman, or in a hedge-attorney honesty ;- to find a hangman that is not inhuman; or a physician sneezing at a fee:- 'tis wondrous to peruse a scotch review-man, when he abuses wordsworth's poetry. wond'rous are these, as well as many more ;, but none so strange, as when, from out the door, * in my friend's original letter to you, he, by mistake, said, there was to be only five cantos. there are actually six. the next is the pail of water. daniel oʻrourke. [july, . i spoke of in the canto i wrote last, an ugly, pale-faced, brawny, square-built figure, clothed in a fashion that long since has past diminutive in size, (perhaps not bigger than tommy moore,) rush'd furious as a blast, and grumbling boarsely, like a wounded pig, or the wind at equinox, with mouth spread wide, gazed for a moment at our friend astride. . upon his head was placed a three-cock'd hat, perch'd on a wig not very new, i ween, a red plush waistcoat, -and, attach'd to that, a snug warm coat, of purple velveteen; a leather breeches,-boots, with soles quite flat,- gay yellow neckcloth, spotted with pea-green; a large broad belt was tighten'd round his waist, which man i'th' moon, in dazzling letters graced.* . he waddled forth, in consequential style, with hands in breeches-pockets stuck so gay, not much unlike that famous crocodile of whom lord castlereagh discoursed one day;t no bush or dog attended him the while, as shakespeare and some other quizzers say, i he trode upon the cheesy air, and thus, speaking to dan, open'd' his ugly puss. . “ good morrow, dan! what fortune brought you here, to pay a visit to my realms to night? i'm glad to see you, faith ; but, much i fear, there's something in your looks that is not right! now that i look again, i see quite clear, (here dan was almost dropping off with fright) that you've been looking at a merry cup. but how the devil did you travel up?". butler seems to have been aware of the existence and true appearance of the man in the moon, when, in ridiculing sidrophel's quackery and pretended knowledge of astrology, he makes him possess an instrument that "would demonstrate, that the man in the moon's a sea mediterranean ; and that it is no dog nor bitch that stands behind him at his breech, but a huge caspian sea or lake, with arms, whích men for legs mistake - how large a gulph his tail composes, and what a goodly bay his nose is :- how many german leagues, by the scale, cape snout's from promontory tail." it is refreshing to think that butler, who always thought for himself, did not allow his genius to be cramped and his eye-sight darkened by the scheming star-gazers of the day. + “ministers were not to look on like crocodiles, with their hands in their breeches- pockets, doing nothing."-speech of my lord castlereagh. # it would be a pleasant question in physics, to calculate the precise density of this air, which was sufficient to support the man in the moon. the professor would, i am sure, be glad to oblige one of ebony's contributors, by doing it for me whenever be has leisure. .] daniel o'rourke. . “ i'll tell you, sir,"_dan trembled as for life, “ i met a friend of mine, one paddy blake." “ i know him well, 'tis he that has the wife whose tongue makes all the neighbouring gossips quake, and keeps the village in perpetual strife ; . go on, my man. -“ well, sir, i went to take a sober glass of ale, quite free and easy, at mrs mulshinane's, the mountain daisy, . “i got some brandy, and we both got drunk, for how i left the daisy, i don't know,- but when my sense return'd, there was i sunk, up to my ancles, in a bog; and so, as i was giving up myself, my spunk and courage being gone, an eagle, oh! my curses on her, (wheresoe'er she roam,) told me to mount him, and he'd take me home. . “well, sir, i mounted up-the more fool i and off she flew, as nimble as the wind, and never stopp'd till far up in the sky, upon this spot she left me here behind. what shall i do? (dan here began to cry, for thoughts of home were flashing cross his mind,) i'd gladly give a pot and half-a-crown, to any one who'd help me to get down.” . “ i often,” quoth the lunar lord supreme, “ have watch'd you, dan, when staggering home to bed ; and though i always feel a high esteem for those who tend their mass ; yet, i am led to tell you candidly, i cannot deem a beastly drunkard, who has hither fled from lower earth, companion fit for me, so, dan, dismount, and march home instantly.". . “ march home,” says dan ; " oh lord! i wish i could ; but how in name of wonder can it be? - sure you don't think i'm made of stone or wood, to fall from here."-" come, come, sir, presently prepare to bounce.”—“stop, sir, be first so good, to let me see your wife and family." “ there's no one here, but i, myself alone :" “but one, then damme, if i budge a bone.” . the lunar sovereign gave a smile of scorn, and turn'd upon his nicely polish'd heel. he laugh’d as loud as blast of bugle horn, his eye flash'd fire that made poor daniel reel ; he oped and closed the portal-all forlorn dan still clung close as seaman to the keel of upturn'd boat, for life; when re-appears the moonly monarch, with a pair of shears, vol. ix. a .] daniel o'rourke. . that fringes thee, the far atlantic sen. oft have i wander'd on thy rugged shore, e'er the bright morn has bid the vapours flee, and stay'd to listen to thy waters roar; or wander'd on in sadness silently, marking the tints the evening sunbeams wore; or idly musing, pick'd the pebbly sand, or cuild the sea-weed on thy lovely strand . oft in the bowels of some giant rock, that dares the storm, and scorns the tempest's wrath, but cannot brave the long continued shock of calmer waters,-have i chose my path, and sometimes sat beneath the roofs that mock the hand of art.-where is the man that hath once seen these wave-worn monuments of thee who loves not ocean's boundless majesty. . oft too has wandered with me there, and then, indeed, the caves, and strand, and sea, and every earthly thing seem'd fresh and fair, for she was every earthly thing to me; yes ! she was what a love-sick swain would dare to dub an angel, or divinity; she's gone !—but think not reader, to the tomb: she ran off lately with her father's groom. but to my tale :-as daniel tumbled on, somewhat about three miles in ev'ry sec second, and about midway from the moon had gone, (this is but guess, the distance was not reckon'd,) the moon, still gay, upon some objects shone with brighter light:-here dan cried out and beckon'd, for steering up from off a cloud-capp'd rock, dan saw of geese, untam'd, a mighty aock. . a milk-white gander, * nobly led the van, sailing majestic on his downy wing, his long neck arch'd as proudly as the swan, of whom you've heard the poet wordsworth sing ; a mighty pretty bird as any one would wish to see ;-in many an airy ring he wheel’d, curvetted, dived, and soar'd away, and seem'd to sport in joy, or amorous play. . “ good morrow, dan, how came you here my friend?" in accents soft as his unruffled piume, the goose began, - i cannot comprehend the nature of your visit, -i presume upon my honour, there is here no personal allusion to any of our whig friends. i mention this, for there has been a rather absurd bawling about personalities of late, and some people, whenever they see the word “ ass, ape,' ," “ gander,” “ bullock," or any other innocent animal, immediately cry out, “ that means us.' very ridiculous all this. laniel o'rourke. (july, you're not accustom'd thus your time to spend ; come tell me all,"_here dan began to fáme and roar amain-and swear both loud and hearty that eagle, moon-man, goose, were all one party. . bat still the gander spoke so sweet and kind, that dan began to tell his piteous tale, “ how he met blakė, and how he got so blind with brandy, meaning only to touch ale; and how an eagle, on the wings of wind, bore him aloft, and left him with the pale and ugly man who lives within the moon, and how this rascal served him."-" very soon . “ i'll take you home, my friend," the goose replied ; “ just seize me by this claw, and hold it strong." and stretching out his red leg from his side, motion’d to daniel how he'd speed along- but here i think i'll lay my pen aside, and for the present stop my venturous song ; for dinner's ready-by next month we'll know how this kind bird help'd daniel in his woe. end of canto fifth. the fisherman's budget. no. ii. to christopher north, esq. estimable sir,- i have been prevented, by a very grievous visitation, from sending you the continuation of the letters, till a later period than usual. the fact is simply this: i was walking, about a fortnight ago, with mr ferrimond, discussing some parts of euclid's data, and the evening being somewhat chil- ly, he proposed that we should ascend a newly raised hay-stack ; between the top of which, and the slated roof, there was comfortable sitting-room. the captain saw us mount, and, being always at his nonsense, removed the ladder. not being aware of the circumstance, and being in earnest conversation when i turned to descend, my foot had nothing to rest on, and down i came, sir, po- sitively shattering my leg, and crushing a hen with her brood of chickens to death. in fact, there never was a more palpable demonstration of the laws of gravity; and i trust it will be a warning to your argumentative readers, not to discuss mathematics on a hay-stack. i am, dear sir, yours, truly, . o. balderdash. caengylliwzlligul, july , . p.s.-my christian names are owen owen balderdash. in the last num- ber, you omitted one . from mb verble to mr mizzletoe, chymist axd druggist, of chad- derton-cum-gostle. douglas, isle of man, june , . dear mr mizŽletoe, nothing but crosses and mishaps since it's a grievous mistake for people to i left chadderton. why, sir, i was go abroad for pleasure. i've inet with positively arrested at liverpool, and .) the fisherman's budget. no. ii. kept a whole night in limbo. i have beautiful soft carpeting, and different not patience to particularize the cir- kinds of soap, and fine large looking- cumstances. it was all owing to my glasses, and all sorts of head-brushes ; wearing a snuff-coloured waistcoat, and and the footman took the dust from a cock and pinched hat. mrs verble my coat, (as he called brushing) in so was in a pretty tantum-she's nothing, tasteful a manner, that i am sure a as it were, at a pinch. the gout has cloth must last double the length of been flying about my left leg ever since. time to what it will as our wench the place was as cold as a marl-pit. molly uses it ; for she lays my coat on the captain, my nephew, arrived the the kitchen-dresser, and scrubs and day after this occurrence, and things brushes, as it were, till there is scarce- were ten times worse then; i had hard ly any wool left. by the bye, whilst i work to keep him from throwing the think on't, government is about to lay officer into the dock. indeed i never a new duty on pepper—it's too bad saw a lad with so much pitch and tow every day rejoices me more that i gave in his disposition. the mistake would up my concern in london at the mo- not so soon have been remedied, but ment i did. when i went down stairs, for my niece. there's no accounting i found the family seated in the libra- for these things. on common occa- ry, which was filled all round with sions, she's just, for all the world, no books, in beautiful golden bindings ; better than a chicken ; and yet, in this and there was likewise a pair of globes, business, she shewed more fortitude and a fiddle, and other philosophical and decision, as it were, than any of instruments. the captain was quite us. we should have sailed last tues- taken up with his sister and her friend ; day for this place, but mr spellman, and mrs verble was examining and who got me out of the hands of the praising a fine gown that mrs spell- philistines, would have us spend a day man had on; so that mr spellman and at his house, for his daughter is an old me was, as it were, left to ourselves; school-fellow of maria's ; so we defer- and i was quite delighted with the af. edd our embarkation, as it were, till the fable manner that he entered into dis- friday. course ; for he asked my opinion of mr spellman lives about two miles the different turnpike-trusts in our from liverpool, in a very splendid neighbourhood, and the value of canal house, fit for a noble gentleman. mrs shares, and the nature of the soil, and verble would have us go in a coach, what land rented for the acre, and such which cost me four shillings, besides like; and i thought mrs spellman was turnpikes; and the captain, my ne- quite as obliging to my wife, for she phew, rode on his horseback. when kept laughing most heartily at her sim- we got to the lobby door, or hall, as ple questions about valentene's lace they now call it, a gentleman in mourn- and canting shawls. i thought miss ing, with his hair powdered, and in spellman seemed the most untalkable; black silk stockings, ran down the steps she's rather of a melancholy cast, as it to help me from the coach. i wished were, like my niece; and, besides, that him good morning, and shook hands the captain, my nephew, was talking with him; which was not exactly all kinds of harum-scarum in a straight right, as i found he was only a foot- forward shape ; and they seemed quite man. but it is surprising to see how content to listen to the “ breeches and the lower classes ape our appearance ambuscados" which the stage-player now, as it were. between you and me, said, the other night queen mab made mrs verble was under the same mis- soldiers dream of. i should not be so take, for she made him a marvellous exact about these here minutiæ, only low reverence. there was such kiss. it shows thoroughly what a born fool ing between my niece and miss spell- that mr spleengizzard is, that always man, and such civilness and welcome- insists, at our club, on the pride and ar- ness by the master and mistress, as rogance of these rich folks. for here's quite delighted me i felt quite at me, as it were, why, respectable enough home, as it were. then my mistress to be sure, among my own class of gen- was shewn into another room, and the tlemen apothecaries, but in company footman took me to his master's dress- with one far above it, and yet every ing-room, and i washed my hands, and thing is civil and curteous, and great straighted my wig; and there was such forbearance, and as much diffidence of $ the fisherman's budget. no. ii. (july, opinion as condescension in listening trouble, as it were ; and there was like- to mine ; and no large talking, nor at- wise large green glasses full of water tempt to make one feel one's own infe- on the other side. i rather made a riority, whilst, all the time, the con- mistake ; for, never having seen them sciousness of it is quite topmost, as it before, nor considering that they were were. cleanly conveniences, i drank mine off, well, we talked, and talked, till a as i should anything else, for i thought great bell, bigger than that in chad- it was, as our prescriptions run, "ve- derton-chapel, rung for dinner; and hiculo idoneo."" no one noticed it, as mr spellman bowed to my wife, and i believed; but when the dessert was offered her his arm ; but she's not much brought, and mr spellman asked me up to these ceremonies, and said she what liquor i would drink, &c. my could do by herself, which was quite nephew said,"mrverble prefers finger wrong, for my niece says it's the com- water, sir." -oh! the monkey, i could mon punctilio on such occasions. the have shook him for it-it makes one captain, however, seems always right; look so foolish, as it were, mr mizzle and before i had made up my mind toe. what to do, he took his sister and the the ladies soon retired, and we drew young miss on either arm; so then i our chairs closer together, and mr stepped up to mrs spellman, and made spellman commentated on the low poor my reverence, and walked her into the rates in our parish, and other scientific dining-room. there was a most sump- subjects, and particularly what our tus set out. mrs spellman had a fine people said about the queen. and cod before her, and i sat on one side, then he conversed with my nephew, and i never saw any snow whiter than about the army and its concernments, the cloth in which it was covered. she and the present system of half-pay; began to cut it with a large silver knife, and mightily he was pleased, on heara very like a bricksetter's trowel ; and, ing that so young a lad had been so would you believe it, my nephew took long with his regiment in the east; it from her hand, and insisted on help- and he asked a multitude of questions ing it himself, though she was mistress about the roads and harbour of bom- of the house. oh ! i should have eat bay, (for he's in a large way there,) my tongue before doing such a thing and the navigation thereto; and i was it was shamefully ill-mannered. i stone-surprised at my nephew's infor- could not describe the various dishes; mation upon these things, which shews but there was all kind of melongis, he's had his eyes about him, though and frickasees ; and when all was done, he's such a wild tear-away chap. then, as it were, there was another set on, after much pressing, my nephew de- consisting of roasted hare, and more- scribed the various hardships their brie game, &c. the worst of it was, i spoil- gade underwent during the hostilities ed my green sprig waistcoat;for think- with the mahrattas; the want of pro- ing to save the footman trouble, i would visions, heat, rain, fatigue, &c.; and i hand the plates, he pulled the other could not but wonder at the distin- way, and so a great quantity of fish guishing character of our english lads, sauce was upset on my clothes ; and that makes them bear all in good part, when i came to feel for my tooth-pick, chuse where the devil they are. mr i drew a whole handful of cockles and spellman has two young gentlemen melted butter from my waistcoat- now preparing to go out to india, and pocket. he's educating them at his own free my niece says, quietness is the esa cost and charge, and doubts not they'll sence of politeness at a dinner table, do, if they can stand the climate. well, and i believe she's right. the new- from this they talked of the moral ef- fangled silver forks pottered me exces- fect of our influence in that immense sively; they're more like the wooden tract of country, and the uncertain te- hands that are fastened to children's nure of our dominion there ; and then dolls, than instruments for victuals. about the use of the native or hindos. i asked for one of the old fashion, and tanee tongue ; and, would you believe then i managed to get my dinner.- it, mr spellman and my nephew got there was white towels under each into a tight argument on the meaning plate, which i fancied was to wipe one's of the word garra-poo-jah; mr spell- knife and fork on, to save the servant man insisting that it meant sugar in .) the fisherman's budget. no. ii. the cane, and my nephew asserting squeeze a plate-full of it into my spec- that it implied suker en likure, or tacle case. treacle hum. i purposed steering homewards di- i took advantage of this dispute, to rectly after tea, for i was determined slip from the table, expecting to find not to pay four shillings, besides turn- the ladies in the library; but, being pikes, again, in one day; but mr spell- disappointed, i got a new work on man would make us tarry longer, and cranioscopy, which you know was a promised to send his carriage with us; favourite study when i was at leisure so after walking to and fro a while in from the shop; and, since i came here, the grounds, we returned to the tea- i have picked up several curious works room to enjoy a little music. it seem- connected with it, particularly one byed they meant to have a laugh at my ludovico dolci, on the locality of some expence, for my nephew said i played of the faculties, which i shall write like orphus, or something of that sort; about in my next. i sat down in a but its a long time since he heard me, high chair, lined back and sides with and i have stuck very much to it late- morocco cushions; and, as luck would ly, so that i believe i surprised him a have it, the wine and dinner made me little. my niece took the harp, the dozy, and indeed i slept till the foot- captain the flute, miss spellman the man came and wakened me, though in piano, and myself the fiddle, and we the meantime they had searched for managed rousseau's dream, with va- me far and near. riations, adapted to the four instru- every thing was superb in the tea- ments, with considerable he clau, as room; and there was a beautiful harp, mr spellman said. i've thought, for and a grand piano-forte. the win- some time, that music is now taught dows came down to the floor, and the on a wrong principle: it's far different centre one opened on a handsome tere from what it formerly was: it's all exe- race which overlooked the river, with cution ; the language, or articulation, the shipping upon it, and the cheshire as it were, of the musical sounds, is lands, and the denbighshire hills. se quite lost in a brilliant rattle: this leads veral village spires too, were quite visi- to a neglect of the great rule of time, ble along the pleasant banks of the mer- and makes sad discord when you are, sey; and then you might see the long (or rather should be,) playing in con- trains of smoke that followed the tracks cert. perhaps the new-fangled system of the various steam-boats that plied of logier may, in some degree, remove between the different ferries. all these the defect; although, in other respects, things, mr mizzletoe, make me enjoy it be something like mr owen's plan, the quiet sensations of the country, after for making a whole community hun- plodding behind a druggist's counter gry at the same moment, and all like for thirty-five years, and seeing nothing the same kind of gravy to their pota- but dray-men's carts and stand-coaches, toes. the best of it was, they asked through the painted bottles in my shop- me to sing, and as i felt quite at home, window. they give the tea, too, a great as it were, i gave them the following relish ; although i don't like the mo- pretty little sentimental piece, which dern genteel custom of drinking your mr snipthread, the tailor in bond- tea from the cup, which renders the street, presented me with before i left saucer a perfect dead letter, as it were, london: i think it will suit mrs and eternally causes you to scald your mizzletoe's voice: it's to the old tune throat, which is very bad for the inside, of “ down amang the hether, lassie :" as dr buchan says, in his chapter on liquids, and, moreover, creating a most some years ago, there lived a swain, that vore a fustian jacket, ); uncomfortable perspiration; so that and, as he trudged along the lane, tea, which is generally supposed to be he met vith dolly thompson, . a cooling beverage, has, as it were, di, her eyes vere green,—her hair vas red, rectly the opposite tendency. and and charmingly she squinted, ; then, as i am, that is, was an apothe- and wery much, the people said, eary, it would make you chink to see she liked her vater porridge, . the bread and butter, as they call it. and so it vas, ven billy spied why, sir, i could take it in my fingers her clogs and scarlet flannel, ,- and blow it like a feather ; it's thinner stock-still he stood, and vould have died than a bank-note, and i'd be bound to of love, but he vas married, . the fisherman's budget. no. ii. [july, his eye-lids vink'd, his heart went pat, ladder, and get through the window, and wery much he trembled, , or take him by escalade, as he called he viped his mouth and doft'd his hat, it; but did not like such an experi- and put his right leg forwards, . ment. at last we got comfortably roost- vell,—as the wery vords arose, ed, and, till i fell asleep, i could not that vere to voo his dolly, , help reflecting on the false idea which she put her vinger to her nose, i with many others had cogitated, that and pull’d a vace at billy, . extravagance and dissipation were the vat love vill do, there's none can tell,- usual accompaniments of wealth, and but billy sadly gro-a- -e-d, o! that there is less real enjoyment among then turn'd his back, rush'd to a vell, the rich and the exalted, than among and jump'd into the bottom, ! themiddling and poorer classes, where as the day had afforded an example of it was late when we got to the inn, unbounded liberality, withouta drachm and i was greatly provoked at being of profuseness ; displaying likewise a obliged to relinquish my own bed to a beautiful instance of ceremonial and stupid corn-factor that had mistaken fashion, with a train of innocent and the room, and was snoring so terrific rational qualifications, but qualifica- cally, that all the thumping of all the tions infinitely enhanced by the re- chamber-maids, and the civil entreaties fined taste and cultivated deportment of mrs verble, were of none effect. i of their promoter, as it were. i am, did not so much mind the bed, but we dear mr mizzletoe were obliged to borrow night-caps and your assured friend, other necessary apparel from the land- nebuzarhaddon verble lady. my nephew wanted to have a from edward ashby, esq. of st. john's college, cambridge, to his friend frederick ferrimond, esq. my dear friend, professor forms,-few in which such you would naturally expect, from complete enjoyment was regulated by the tenor of my last letter, that i such decorous propriety, --in which should ere this have been comfortably humour had so much latitude with so lodged in your antiquated mansion at little indelicacy. yet, at this particu- aldhame; but circumstances, that will lar period, company, however fasci. presently be explained, have unavoid nating, was but irksome and unplea- ably prevented my visit, and to them sant; and i was anxious to withdraw i must refer you for my apology, from a scene which had so little to in- at the professor's i found some terest my feelings. i therefore made dozen of our men assembled. the my escape at the first opportunity, jealousy of competitorship was over, and, as i thought, unnoticed by the and all were vehement in congratula professor; but i had searcely closed ting me on the day's success. the din the door, when i was requested by a ner was excellent, and leighton pro servant to return. the professor was pounced the wines to be a positively in the small room on the left side the elegant.” joe beauclerc, “that fellow passage, where you and i, as the school of infinite wit,” scattered his jokes in phrase goes, have so often funck'd. he such bountiful profusion, that even the took my hand as i entered, and said, mathematical propriety of our host's with a more kindly manner than he visage was somewhat discomposed. had ever before evinced, “mr ashby, these are the moments, my dear fred. you have done me the honour to ac- in which the heart enlarges the grasp quaint me with your motives in ra- of its affections, and the sparkling signing, for the present, your acade- liquor loses its lustre in the brighter mical pursuits. sincerely as i regret," current of fellowship and wit. but he was pleased to say, " the necessity amongst the various circles to which which obliges you to leave us, i yet my pursuits have introduced me, i cannot but applaud the determination have found few that are so peculiarly which induces you to do so. your distinguished for “mirth that after no plans are probably determined upon ; repenting draws” as those which the but the bearty blessings of an old man .] the fisherman's budget. no. ii. will be no burden to your undertaking, cord in true four-in-hand style, tipped and if, in its progress, you may be in me a significant wink, and swore by want of more substantial assurances semele he would beat me three miles of my friendship, do not do not on a trot. i did not undeceive him ; acruple to apply to me, mr ashby-i and he sprang forwards on the seat, will not deceive you." i uttered my shewing his well-made scarlet coatee broken acknowledgments as well as and extended elbow to “ the primest i could; but, indeed, ferrimond, i advantage,” and making a variety of little anticipated such kindness. if dexterous manæuvres with his silver- the bias of a partial friendship—if the headed whip. they were in a span- unlooked for succour of a kind-heart- new tilbury:- wholoses? _good gra- ed stranger, can excite such sensations cious, to think how these paltry grati- in the breast, what, what have i to fications, so infinitely beneath the dig- expect from the unvaried enjoyment nity of an educated mind, and so fo. of parental favour from the respon- reign to the purposes of an university sive interchanges of affection and of life, can supersede the more honoura- kindred ? ble exertions of intellectual vigour, and the remnant of the evening was compensate the pursuer for the envia- fully occupied in arranging the various ble distinction of being the most no- apperidages of my travelling apparatus, torious ass in the whole community. and in penning the necessary remem- as i slowly rode along the quad- brances to my collegiate acquaintance; rangle, i saw that weber's night-taper nor did i neglect, ere, for the last time, still glimmered in the socket, so that i reposed within that peaceful edifice, tó he had not been an early emigrant implore the blessing of almighty god from the festive board. poor weber : on my exertions, and the necessary his reading never cost him much can- guidance of his spirit to direct me in dle-light. i thought the heavy gates the way: and methinks, my dear of st john's never turned so heavily frederick, if there be any foundation on their hinges, and that its antiquated for that moral superintendence which pile never appeared: half so venerable is attributed to our great creator, the before. i fear, i fear, my true pylades, object that i have in view, embracing, that let me be fortunate to my heart's as it does, one of the most holy and content in this my undertaking, there most acceptable principles of our im. is no spot that will concentrate within perfect nature, may claim, in humility it so much real happiness, so much be it spoken, the especial protection pure satisfaction, as the quiet, social, of his providence. captivating cloisters of this beloved college. non siculæ dapes it was noon when i arrived at dr dulcem elaborabunt saporem ; non avium, citharæque cantus, winton's, and my worthy friend was somnum reducent, anxiously expecting me. do you know i was quite delighted at the alacrity he says our great high priest, and so in- displayed in the service of an old p - deed i found it. long before the gun pil. after partaking of some refresh- was “peeping from his window of the ment, we set off in his old-fashioned east," i was fully accoutred for my gig for the pretty little village of crox® journey. at five, ralph was at the ton. when we got to the foot of the door with my chesnut tit, and i con walk that leads directly through the fess i was gratified by the friendly in-' garden, old arthur ashby was sitting terest which even he expressed in my at the door of his white-washed cote welfare. i accompanied a hearty shake tage: one hand rested upon the large of the old man's hand with a small family bible which was spread upon memorial of my thanks, and was in the his knees, and his pale forehead, over act of mounting, when tom fetter and which were scattered the hoary em- his friend drove past the hall in fine blems of a good old age, reclined-up- style. lord b.'s long-talked-of match on the other. his appearance was was to be decided that morning; and singularly interesting, and unwilling as such weighty subjects are upper- to disturb him abruptly, we stole as most in tom's class paper, he ima- quietly as possible to his side. i laid gined that i was bound for the same my hand gently upon his arın, and destination. tom cracked his whip- said" my dear father, i hope you vol. ix. b the fisherman's budget. no. ii. [july, are well.” it would be difficult to de- country at a moment's warning; and termine whether surprise or pleasure what to him was the most heart-rend. was most visibly depicted in the old ing circumstance, to leave behind him man's countenance ! but, after transie, a beloved wife, then about to give ently surveying me from head to foot, birth to an infant. the shock of this he ferventlyexclaimed "god be mere occurrence, and the grief which it oca ciful to thee, my son ; though surely casioned, brought on prematurely the may i doubt whether thou art indeed pangs of labour, and your unhappy my son, seeing the days and years that mother expired at the moment which have elapsed since thou camest to this ushered you into the world. mr veil, place, and the changes which these ton, with whom your parent had taken eyes behold, now that the frail figure, refuge, caused inquiries to be made of thy youth hath yielded to the among the tenantry on this estate, and strength and comeļiness of manhood.” learning that my wife had recently the rumour of our greetings speedi- buried her infant, he immediately de- ly reached the cars of the daine, who termined to place you under her care. was engaged in the cottage; nor do i je had a deed prepared, in his pocket, think the expressions of her joy would by which this cottage, and a small yet have been exhausted, had not my proportion of land, were thencefor. friendly doctor interposed, and men- ward settled on me for life ; and if tioned that important concerns were you attained the age of seven years, i connected with our visit. we all was then directed to write to him for therefore adjourned to the house, and further instructions concerning you. after bearing testimony to the goodness and sure enough you did; and as good, of my mother's larder, (for mother i and generous, and fine a lad, as ever must'ever call her,) and the excellence played upon the green, the joy of my of her cowslip wine, i briefly detailed life, and the comfort of my old dame to old arthur the object that i had in there. but i knew that i had a duty view. his eyes, whilst i spoke, were to perform, and though i grieved sore- stedfastly fixed upon ine, and when i ly at the thoughts of parting with you, declared my determination of seeking yet i felt that you were destined for a out my parents, or assuring myself of superior state than could fall to your their fate, a strong feeling, as of sor, lot in this place, and i therefore wrote, row, pervaded his countenance. this as directed, to mr veilton. in a short however shortly passed away; and he time i received instructions to place complied with my wishes in nearly the you with dr winton, and it was like- following words: wise intimated that funds were pro- “ indeed, edward, i have long fore- vided for your support. there was seen that this moment would assuredly one thing, nevertheless, that often arrive, notwithstanding i did not think disquieted the dame and me, and it it my duty to disturb the easy tenour was the injunction we received to call of your life by disclosures which could you by our own name, and never to not but be painful. yet the task you acquaint you with the real circum. have undertaken is a holy and a good stances of your birth. but i could not one, nor can the brief remnant of my bring myself to comply with that part days be more righteously employed of my charge; for although i might than in forwarding its happy termina- be proud to have you considered as my tion, about two and twenty years own edward, and be fearful of dis- since my cottage was visited by mr obliging one to whom i owe so much, veilton, who is a member of the legal yet my conscience told me there was a profession at whitehaven, and like heart that would silently yearn upon wise the owner of this estate. it was you as its own, and that god, in his late in the evening when he arrived, own good time, would satisfy its cra- and an elderly female who had the vings ! and i can appeal with silent care of you, accompanied him. he satisfaction to the records of my own requested a private interview with mind, since i have faithfully dischar- me, and the subject of his disclosure ged the trust that was committed unto was this: that your father, who was a me, and can now lay my grey hairs retired officer and a catholic, had un with honour in the grave. happily become conneeted with the i need not tell you, my dear fred. discontented leaders in ireland ; that with what breathless anxiety i listened he was compelleil to fly from the to this narrative: nay, the good doce .] the fisherman's budget. no. ii. < tor himself might have been personally their extensive property having been interested in it; whilst the sobs of the privately disposed of, and the proceeds affectionate dame were more or less transınitted abroad. but this veil- audible from behind the kerchief with ton is a long-headed fellow, and the which she covered her face, as the cir- utmost caution will be requisite. you cumstances of my history reminded must proceed directly to whitehaven, her of scenes gone by. when she found, and there, if possible, obtain some ti- however, that arthur had concluded, dings of the female that brought you she sharply exclaimed, “but the box, hither an infant. from her you may the box !" and he as hastily rejoined, perchance learn whether your parent is 'yes, yes; how could i forget the still in existence, or, at all events, the -box." he went to the other side of original place of his destination. yet, the apartment, and unlocking an oaken you cannot be too wary, my dear ed- escrutoire, took from it a small case, ward, and it will be but cominon pru- covered with red morocco, and secured dence to assume a fictitious name. by a gold clasp. “ these," said he, suppose, therefore, you take ferri- "i must not forget; the elderly female, mond's; i am sure he will pardon the who i said accompanied mr veilton, use of it-or-or, why not take mine? slipped them into my hand ere she left the child of my sister has now the best the cottage, and bid me be careful to claim to it, and you can pass for my preserve them. she returned with her son ; at all events," said he, “ cheering- master to whitehaven, but shortly af- ly, till i am obliged to resign you to your terwards withdrew from the place, and father.” every thing was speedily ar- i am told, has never since been heard ranged ; we returned to the vicarage to of." whilst arthur was mention- dinner, and i leave this evening by the ing these additional circumstances, the mail ; for i shall not rest till my doctor was examining the contents of doubts are satisfied. the interval (Í the casquet. there were several orna- have employed incommunicating these ments of jewellery, and a small minia- particulars to you, and knowing, as i do, ture, suspended from a gold chain. that you will continue to indulge the but how shall i express my astonish- most anxious interest in my proceed- ment on seeing him start from his seat, ings, i shall regularly write you a de- survey the miniature for a moment, tail of them, although, under present and then press it in ecstacy to his lips. circumstances, it will be most prudent “my dear, dear boy,” said he, "look to direct to me, under cover, to my on that likeness : it is the portrait of newly-acquired uncle. your blessed mother, my long-lost, in the meantime, i am, as ever, long-lamented sister. the truth must sincerely yours, soon be manifested. i have been de edward ashby, alias winton. ceived by a story of her having accom- panied your father in his flight, and of fred. ferrimond, esq. translations from the less familiar latin classics. no. vii. claudian. to christopher north, esq. dear sir, opens the poems of claudian in the i do not know whether or not it has hope of discovering something nearly been favourable, upon the whole, to approaching the best efforts of the the reputation of claudian, that he augustan age, will be disappointed to was the last of the classic poets, and find an imitator where he expected a shone, like the flame of a lonely watch- rival. the diction of this poet is, per- tower, upon the very verge of an ocean haps, his most remarkable feature. of darkness. if his merits have been living at a time when all elegant li- over-rated, this has probably been one terature was about to sink into the of the causes of their being so. it is “dead sea" of barbarous verbal meta. never ultimately the interest of any physics, and the intolerant phantasies poet to be over-praised ; and he who of a disputatious theology, he emu- from the less familiar latin classics. [july, translations lates, with no mean success, the cor- decided whether or not he was a chris rectness and melody, and sometimes tian, unless an epigram or two, of very simplicity, of virgil. his style, no questionable authenticity, are to be doubt, exhibits some flagrant ex- taken for proofs, in default of better. amples of those artificial turns of the want of interest under which the thought, which have been stigmatized subjects of most of his pieces now ne- as “ conceits," but much fewer than cessarily labour, is certainly a great might have been expected from the disadvantage to claudian. we can æra in which he wrote. his language, take part with achilles, or hector, or however, is his best part. his style, cæsar, or pompey, or brutus, or octa- in the extended sense of the word, is vius, but who knows or cares any thing much more correct than original. the about the fortunes of stilicho, or gil- strength of his poetical talent is not in do, or the “ bellum geticum," or the the ratio of his good taste. he suc- destruction of rufinus, or the merits ceeds best in the light and fanciful, or demerits of eutropius the eunuch? and worst in those themes which re the concluding stanzas of the transla- quire power and vigour. hence his tion of the fescenninu, attempted be- raptus proserpind" is perhaps his low, are only a distant paraphrase of happiest poem, and his least happy ef- 'the original. ' for this you will hardly fort the fragment of the “giganto- require an apology. in selections like machia.” the last mentioned is, in the foregoing, it is often more difficult truth, merely bombastical common than may be at first imagined, to find place, and the “cætera desiderantur," a piece which shall at once be a fair the common editorial note at the con. specimen of the poet, interesting to clusion of all such“ membra disjecta," the general reader, and fit to be trans- is, in this case, a most disputable po- lated. sition. he is so elaborately classical i am, &c. in his writings, as to have left it un- t. d. ox one who had never left his home. the fields, that were his early joy, still please his eye, with age though dim, that home, his world while yet a boy, is still-blest lot a world to him. years have rollid on, at time's command, and still his little cot hath smiled, though now his staff indents the sand on which he totter'd when a child. content, he heeds nor fortune's changes, nor fates of conquerors, nor kings; o'er no untrodden realms he ranges, he drinks of no forbidden springs. from treach'rous seas no wealth he draws; his peace no trumpet's clang alarms; the forum meets-he hath no cause; harmless he lives, and free from harms. unknowing aught that cities own, or grandeur's smile, or misery's sigh, what boots it? he hath better known the beautiful of earth and sky. no consulates his years design, no calendar computes his hours; but autumn's chronicled in wine, and pranksome springtime writ in flowers, .) translations from the less familiar latin classics. his day one dial measures still, it's simple rule he ne'er forgets his phæbus rises from yon hill, beneath yon neighbour hill he sets. the sturdy oak, whose shade he loves, he well recals a sapling slim; he is coeval with the groves, and feels his trees grow old with him. thrice blest! though old verona's pride be strange, as is the torrid zone, and smooth benacus' flow'ry side, as pharaoh's sea, to thee, unknown. if time nor ill nor sorrow bring, small need hast thou of sights like these, who see'st thy children's children cling, and climb about their grandsire's knees. who scales the alps, or skims the ocean, still toiling, still immersed in strife, more than thou dost, may know of motion, thou, haply, more than he of life. fescennine verses on the nuptials of honorius. i. o prince!-more fair than venus' star amid the dimmer orbs of night, who, deadlier than the parthian far, canst draw the bow with guileful might, canst wind the fiery steed at will, with more than a gelonian skill, how shall the poet praises find to paint thy body and thy mind? leda had rather suckled thee than castor, star of chivalry; thetis in thee had found more joy than in her own unconquer'd boy ; delos, when thee she once hath seen, shall worship less her phæbus' mien, and lydia deem thee more divine than e'en her rosy god of wine : for when, in exercise' full pride, fearless thou thread'st the forest wide, and the wind wantons in thy hair, and the awed lion leaves his lair, yet seems a dying pride to feel when he hath sunk beneath thy steel, venus, enslaved, forgets her truth, pledged to the hapless hunter youth, and cynthia feels redoubled pain, more pale than for her virbius slain.' when, the day's heat and labour o'er, thy languid limbs at rest are laid, beneath the arching sycamore, or some sequester'd cavern's shade ; translations from the less familiar latin classics. [july, and thou hast not forbid to creep upon thy lids th' officious sleep, how many a watching nymph shall pine, and wish her glance were met by thine; how many a naiad steal the bliss that's hidden in a secret kiss ! what though, in scythian realms, afar, the overawed barbarian bow and drop his implements of war at sight of that commanding brow,- and, on his undefended plains, resignedly receive thy chains go—if thy unslaked courage wills, 'mid wintry caucasus' hoar hills, go-where the frozen plains obey the amazon,-more cold than they ; and, careless of her sire and name, at length the haughty virgin dame, the proud hyppolite, shall yield to thee her yet unconquer'd shield, and, sighing--though the trumpet sound- chop her keen axe upon the ground- what violence could never move, shall melt before the touch of love ; - happy, beyond the tongue of verse, could she but match in such a line; for blest is she, who calls thee her's, thrice blest, when thou shalt call her thine. ii. oh! let the spring, that was in haste to go, fly to return, and gild this happy day; in liquid music let the waters flow, and sweeter cadence ring from every spray: smile, ye ligurian plains-smile, festive rome; ye hills, let sunny wreathes your brows inclose, amid your alpine peaks, let roses bloom, and lend their blushes to the virgin snows. o'er adige' wave the coral measure floats, and mincius, as his winding stream he leads, is listening to the joy-rebounding notes, and scarcely whispers to his trembling reeds. it echoes down the alder-fringed po; old tiber dances at the joyous sound ; and at her lordly master's nuptials, lo ! rome's stately towers with smiling chaplets crown'd! let the far land, from whence our hero sprung- the fervid skies of wild and distant spain let that famed hall, with early laurels hung, hear and re-echo the triumphant strain. thence came thy siremthy sire, when thou hast plighted thy troth, sweet bride-thence, prince, thy mother caine ; now, like two streams that meet, long disunited, your race shall flow in one continued fame. .] translations from the less familiar latin classics. . ye groves of bætis, smile a brighter green; thou, tagus, roll in all thy pride of gold; king of your line-beneath the blue serene, let ocean his paternal orgies hold. realms of the west and east--your toils forget ; let wine and mirth your every hour employ; let phoebus, from his rising till he sets laugh to see nothing on his way but joy : : and thou, rude north-wind, wither not one wreath, be still thou east-nor thou, o ! south, arise, but let young zephyr, only, dare to breathe, in breath as gentle as the lover's sighs. iii. yea, stilicho, thy whitening hair is wont the shining casque to wear; but lay thy frowning helmet down, and put thee on a festive crown; no longer with the trumpets' sound the palace' blazing arches ring; the torch that hymnen loves to bring hath sprinkled its bland light around ; those charms, which erst thou took’st away, again thou giv'st, this happy day, - let malice rage—but vainly still let envy take what hue she will. what erst serena was to thee, shall mary to honorius be. iv. lo! hesper, how, to venus dear his silvery-shining lamp he rears; he marks the blushing virgin's fear, and smiles to see her maiden tears. yes; sooth her, bridegroom.-well he knows, though smiles for such an hour were meeter, these tears, like dew-drops to the rose, shall make her morning lip the sweeter. he, of the thorni must take no heed, who would not let the bud go free; and he, who would on honey feed, must never mark the angry bee. as, when the rain-clouds make retreat, the sudden day seems doubly clear, so, there can be no kiss so sweet as one that's usher'd by a tear. “ war, i have known thee," shalt thou cry, “ the humbled foe--the victor's bliss; but never flash'd young warrior's eye for conquest half so blest as this." love, on thy couch, himself enthrones ; reveal him-for he made ye once and hear her tongue respond, in tones that silence' self might doat upon. . from the less fumiliar latin classics. translations [july, speak him- in many a broken sigh ; breathe all affection's holiest balm ;- oh! clasp, with more of constancy than e'er the ivy clasp'd the palm. and when her languid lids shall close, and in oblivious bliss she lies, thy breath-like sleep's shall shed repose Úpon her silken-fringed eyes. -at the first peep of blushing morn, the joyous strain shall be renew'd, and gladness on each brow be worn, and mirth unlaced, and garlands strew'd. nymphs-grant the smile, extend the hand; swains--warriors-put on all your pride; winds waft the voice, from land to land, “ honorius hath brought home his bride." bye-past time. the sky is blue, the sward is green, the leaf upon the bough is seen, the wind comes from the balmy west, the little songster builds its nest, the bee hums on from flower to flower, till twilight's dim and pensive hour; the joyous year arrives; but when shall bye-past times come back again ? i think on childhood's glowing years- how soft, low bright, the scene appears! how calm, how cloudless, pass d away the long, long, summer holiday! i may not muse-i must not dream- too beautiful these visions seem for earth and mortal man ; but when shall bye-past times come back again? i think of sunny eves so soft, too deeply felt, enjoy'd too oft, when through the bloomy fields i roved with her, the earliest, dearest lovel; around whose form i yet survey, in thought, a bright celestial ray to present scenes denied ; and when shall bye-past times come back again ? alas! the world at distance seen appear'd all blissful and serene, an eden, form'd to tempt the foot, with crystal streams, and golden fruit; that world, when tried and trod, is found a rocky waste, a thorny ground ! we then revert to youth ; but when shall bye-past times come back again? a. [july, early affection. early affection. a when all the joys arise to mind, which we, beloved, have shared together ; and recollection looks behind to youth's serene, and sunny weather ; no wonder-girt with gloom around with frowning clouds of care and sadness, #, while i think of thee, my mind hangs o'er the very verge of madness ! the dream of bliss that lull'd us then, by dark reality unbroken, ere disappointment proved her den was earth, by many a bitter token, oft, as i ponder o'er the past, awakens in primeval glory, glowing, magnificent, o'ercast with splendour, like an eastern story. the bloom that hangs upon the tree is strewn by tempests in derision; the flower, that opens to the bee, is only for a passing season ; even so the spring-tide of the heart, and love that speaks of pleasures only, like rainbows gleam, and so depart, with all their light, to leave us lonely. but thou hast changed not-stedfastly thy mind hath stood, and alter'd never , and storms have pass'd unheeded by, unbeard, or disregarded ever; like clouds that sail before the moon, with momentary haze obscuring its silver orb, but passing soon, to leave its beauty more alluring. the happy days that once were ours, can never rise again before us, nor autumn's sunny evening hours cast such a glowing mantle o'er us; nor summer shower a beauty round, as erst it shower'd on field and meadow; nor such a holy calm be found in evening's dark delicious shadow, but come what may, earth cannot be the seat or scene of hapless sorrow, to him, whose soul is bent from thee its store of happiness to borrow; in all thy woes to bear a part, in all thy pleasures to attend thee, and feel that never from his heart can aught that ever happens rend thee. and still i would not give, my sweet. one hour that finds me hang about thee, for all the treasures at my feet that worlds beside could lend without thee; so fondly, firmly, intertwined with thee, are all my dreams of pleasure ; . early affection. thou art the idol of my mind. my heart's desire, and secret treasure. then come what may-thou wilt not leave my heart in solitude to languish, to sadly pine, and vainly grieve, amid mankind, in lonely anguish : no, but the earth a home of love will surely be to him, who borrows from thee, all fickle change above, a more than solace for his sorrows. an essay on the sentiments of attraction, adaptation, and variety. the object of this essay is to illus- tions of the will, and which, although trate the nature of contemplative sen., they are felt within the limits of its timent, as opposed to sensation and own being, are no part of its nature ; sensual perception. it is intended to neither is the feeling of the abstract define the modes of sentiment, and to beautiful to be found in the hazy una render the different tendencies of these certainty of natural feeling; but in the modes perceptible, by seeking for sym- unchangeable relations of intellectual bols of them in the visible creation. form. but the metaphysicians of this we mean not, in this article, to en- country have, for the most part, shewn ter into criticism, but only to make no inclination to recognise, bring into known to the public the purport of view, or confess submission to those an- this short metaphysical disquisition, cient truths which have been the tra- which is expressed in concise and ex- ditional, oriental root of true philoso- act language. we shall, therefore, ra- phy, in all ages, and without which ther make extracts from it, than take the study of metaphysics is but a la- the trouble of going over the same borious exercise of opinion, without thing in different words. his mode belief, and destitute of beginning or of thinking being different from that end. which is exemplified in most of the the different tendencies of senti- metaphysical writings of this country, ment are best perceived by that inter- the writer of this essay uses some nal transparency of mind which results combinations of language, which may from the love of the ideal, to which sound new, although they are easily every thing in the essay we are about intelligible, and fitted to extend the to quote from, has more or less refere range of thought among metaphysical ence. however, the inquiry into the inquirers. but some of the modes of differences of contemplative sentiment, expression used have reference to the is begun from emotion of love or be- philosophy of antiquity. for instance, nevolence felt towards particular exis- the words “ idea" and “ ideal" are tences. this emotion is spoken of used throughout, in the ancient sense, under the name of mental attraction, that is to say, to express, not any act which is almost the only new term of the mind, or the conception or re- used in the book. but the word “ love" membrance of the particular, but only would have been too indefinite, as it to signify the abstract forms known by may either signify benevolence in ge- intellect. the best beginning of philo- neral, or the feeling between the sexes, sophy is from a strong feelingof the con- or'even natural affection, or consocia- trast between moveable and particular ted attachment and friendship. it was being, and the fixed qualities of pure therefore necessary to chuse a word for idea. the mind's own nature being expressing abstractedly contemplative moveable and particular, and destitute emotion felt towards particular exis- of certainty in its natural feelings, it tences. can only find the origin of morality in “ the nature of contempplative emotion the internal consciousness of ideas in- may easily be discriminated from that of capable of being altered by the opera. voluntary action ; for active power always • by william howison. mo. blackwoyd, edinburgh, . essay on the sentiments of attraction, aduptation, and variety. (july, takes the origin of its motion from within but if all emotions of attraction were to- the mind; but contemplative feeling re- wards a centre, or towards different centres, ceives the origin of its movement when the then the character and modes of being in mind is drawn towards what exists beyond individual existences would not produce itself. therefore, in speaking of that feel- any corresponding emotion, and the emo- ing of contemplative love or benevolence, tion of love felt towards all objects would which draws forth the mind towards ob- be alike, except as to unity and plurality. jects separate from itself, it will be con. the emotions of imitative attraction, how- venient to call it the sentiment of mental ever, are felt to have reference to extension attraction. and character. “ the sentiment of single attraction is as in the head of the soul, flying first, and as material atoms, in obeying attraction, stretching foremost towards the object con- shew themselves affected by existences templated. the sentiment of variety, which whose active power is so far distant that it turns the mind aside, is as in each shoulder. but, the sentiment of adaptation is as in can exchange no impulses with theirs, so mental attraction or love, exemplifies a si- the hair, which, being moveable, flowing, milar movement, which implies no more and easily agitated, feels imitative attrac- than the existence of the object contem- tion, and spreads out according to the ex- tension and character of what is contem- plated ; and therefore this sentiment en- plated.” ables the mind to experience the influence of the universe, by a continued feeling of from these observations concerning connection with existences which stand be the nature of contemplative emotion yond the reach of contrary action. felt towards particular existences, a “ the emotion of mental attraction is transition is made to the sentiment of not all of one kind, but refers to the nature hope, or the love of the infinite, an of the objects contemplated, and may be emotion which might be felt although discriminated into three different modes of the mind were left quite alone. feeling. the first is, single attraction, “ besides the sentiments of single al- which causes contemplative love to tend to- traction, adaptation, and variety, (which wards individuality, and seek for a centre, apply only to particular objects separate or heart in the object which is contempla- from the mind,) there is farther, in human ted. the second is adaptation, or imitative nature, a sentiment of height and increase, feeling, which refers to the movements, ex- which draws the mind away from the in- tension, and character of what is contem. fluence of limited and particular objects, plated, and enables the mind to feel an and expands it with the love of the perma- agreeable emotion in accommodating itself nent and infinite. the relation of this as- to the nature of the object upon which its cending sentiment to unity is religious sen- attention is fixed. the thirci is the senti- timent by nature, and its relation to exten- ment of varicty, or the feeling of differing sion is the sentiment of hope, or the love attraction, which turns and transfers the of the infinite, and of abstract form or idea. attention of the mind, and makes it feel in the feelings of human nature, height separate particular being. the sentiments and increase are conjoined ; and it is evi- of single attraction and adaptation, being dent that hope tends along with time, and closely connected, both naturally apply accords neither with the love of the past, themselves to unity. but the sentiment of nor with descending or diminution. the variety is of a different kind, and is capable sentiment of hope cannot rest upon any of of being felt along with the two first, but those finite quantities perceived in objects as subordinate to them. of sense, but is capable of being affected, “ in the material world, all objects that through the senses, by objects expressing have size enough to make them perceptible proportions and gradations of quantity; to the senses, are of an aggregated nature; and, from this, the feeling of the beauty of but an existence is truly individual when it abstract form, and also of harmony, seems contains only one source of active power. to arise. harmony, which depends upon therefore, individuality is never distinctly the fixed proportions of finite quantities, shewn, except in the will of living beings, (as upon the proportion of the individual which is a manifestation of active power pulsations in different musical tones,) car- proceeding from a single and separate ries the mind out of finite quantities in the epicureari philosophy, by perceiving their proportion; as is also felt feigning the mind to be an aggregated and in seeing the proportions of light in the complex existence, denied the actions of rainbow. thus, the sentiment of hope, living beings to be manifestations of true which seeks after the infinite, produces al- individuality. so the desire of feeling abstract and per- “ but the sentiment of single attraction manent relations. which seeks always for a centre, or heart, “ but the sentiments of single attraction, is felt to apply properly to objects which adaptation, and variety, refer only to move- are truly individual, like living beings. able and particular existences, situated be- source. .) essay on the sentiments of attraction, adaptation, and variety. yond the mind. they are, therefore, out- mind, in contemplating external objects, ward affections, and if the sentiment of has a strong feeling of distance and retro- single attraction be as the head of the soul, cession, it is a sign of the emotion of at-' and imitative emotion as the hair, the sen- traction. allegory conjoins the love of the timent of hope which depends upon purity finite and particular with the love of the in- and breath of internal fecling is as within finite, and seeks to multiply ideal resem- the chest and shoulders, and there exerts blances of the particular, or rather seeks to its lifting tendency. escape altogether from the bounds of the ** from hope spring the powers of im- particular, in feeling its union with the in- agination, which are the wings of the soul, finite. this is the perfection of love. springing from the shoulders. imagina “ discriminative judgment proceeds up- tion is not like love or attraction, an affec on the feeling of separate attraction ; but tion felt towards particular objects, but is another movement of the judging powers is rather a sort of voluntary action, or waving wit, in which they are applied to judge of of the wings, through which the soul seeks the difference between the feeling of the to feel the varied forms of the ideal, by particular, and the ideas found by the im- passing motion. as the sentiment of hope agination. is the love of the infinite, so the powers of " another act of the judging powers is imagination are employed in taking a tem. tracing the motion of the sentiment of porary hold of the finite ideal, and turning single attraction, as it follows after one ob- the mind by the transient conception of ject. this is like pursuing sameness into what is not within its own being. different circumstances, and produces that “ it may be easily perceived, that ima- consecutiveness of opinion which shews gination, which feels after the ideal, is not reasons deductively, and by inference, or the same as the sentiment of variety of at- carrying sameness into different circum- traction, which feels the differing influences stances. of moveable and particular objects. “ the lion, whose head is instinctively swayed and made to follow after moveable “ the relation of the mind to objects objects, is the symbol of attraction, or the of sense is only a relation to their exte- love of the moveable and particular. and rior power ; as the perceptions of the or the ancients emblematically represented (which is the symbol of touch and resist- love as riding upon a lion, not to signify ance) apply only to the continuous surface that love subdues all living creatures, but over which it browses. because the lion is the symbol of attraction " the sensations received by the eyes between separate being.' and the ears apply themselves to those from the consideration of the con- templative sentiment, a transition is known directly by the mind, and render permanent and abstract forms, which are made into another subject, which is them perceptible, by filling them with ob- not mentioned in the title-page, name- jective causes of feeling. the cause of ly, opinion, or the active power of feeling is moveable and particular, but the judgment, as contrasted with abstract form is otherwise. the mind has always a vision. field of vacant vision, which it is capable of “ such being the modes of attraction, it knowing, by its own existence, without any is necessary next to speak of the powers of feeling of contrary action. and the mind judgment, which are the hands of the soul, sees abstract relations best, without sensa- the most moveable part, and capable, as it tion ; as the owl (which is the symbol of were, of being turned back upon the mind, intellectual vision) sees best in the dark. to feel how it is affected by external causes. but colour renders objectively visible the “ the relations of ideal form are known forms and modes of extension known by directly by single feeling, or abstract vision, the mind; and tone renders objectively per- without any reflection of the mind upon its ceptible the quantities or ideal forms of du- self. but judgment or opinion requires a ration, of which the mind is internally con- double feeling. and the serpent, which, scious." by folding, can touch itself in many dif the following extract refers to the ferent places at once, is the symbol of pru- operations of judgment, or opinion dence. proceeding upon sensation. * the judging powers, proceeding upon “ judgment concerning form, is judg- the sentiment of single attraction, give the ment considering upon the feeling of con- feeling of different things approximating tinuous and extended touch, such as that of to unity. and hence comparisons and si- light upon the eye. when the form is not militudes, and judgment concerning the shut in, and when the extension viewed is coincidence or apparent union of different open, then the judgment is also free, and objects. there can be no union in the moves continuously to opine concerning lo- resisting power of objects—but only the cality and distance. judgment concerning transference of resisting power, when they separateness, or number in objects of sense, press against each other; and when the is judgment proceeding upon the feeling of essay on the sentiments of attraction, adaptation, and variety. [july, different or successive touch, or resistance not imply the preference of any thing, to the felt dividuously, and having order or col- internal feeling of individual being. when location, if perceived simultaneously. the theobscure internal nature of themind'spar. sensation of divided and numerous touch ticular being is contrasted with the know. may be received in various ways; but the ledge of fixed idea, the mind then perceives power of judging concerning the feeling of the dissimilarity between its own moveable separateness, is, the fingers of the soul. in being, and those permanent relations which musical tones, gravity and acuteness de- cannot be altered. and this contrariety is pend upon the comparative length of the felt as the source of intermediate pain, pulsations in different tones, and conse- through which, alone, such contrariety can quently upon the comparative multiplicity be reconciled. but, when the mind dis- of the pulsations. in grave tones, the pul- joins itself from idea, the nature of its sations are large and few; in acute tones, power is then changed from intellectual they are short and many. therefore the stedfastness, into the mere power of parti- perception of musical proportions in sound cular being. self-love is a feeling relating is from the powers of judging concerning to the whole of individual being; but pride separateness, for these are the means by is like the spine or back of the soul : and which the mind judges of the proportional the horse may be considered as the symbol quantity of pulsations in different tones, of pride, or the strength of particular be- and discriminates the changes of vibration. ing, made to be ridden upon, and controul- if red be the colour which is gravest, or ed by reason and conformity to idea. largest in the parts, and if the other six “as the desire of approbation reconciles colours diminish from it, in harmonical and unites the active power of different in. proportions, the proportions of colours must dividuals, it produces, between them, a be also perceived according to the mind's feeling of amity and mutual pleasure. but power of distinguishing separateness, but this is unlike contemplative love or attrac- applied to a different feeling." tion, in which the mind feels other exista this marks out the difference of the ences, as drawing opposite to itself; for the operations of opinion from modes of desire of approbation makes other exist- single feeling, such as all internal con- ences be felt as collateral : and vanity has sciousness, abstract vision of ideal form, beauty; but seeks only for correspondence no objective vision, or sense of objective touch, and emotions of contemplative of internal feeling as to moveable power. love. it is also adapted to shew how if pride be the spine or back of the soul, opinion, as being a mode of the mind's the desire of approbation is as the ribs ; voluntary action, should have a con- and dogs which join in the chase, and nection with the self-love and passions strain their speed in the same course, may of human nature. the remainder of be considered as the symbols of social van this essay relates to the will and to the nity, or community of feeling as to action. modes of personal feeling. the wolfish tendency of the desire of ap- " and in proceeding to consider the probation, is always manifested sooner or kinds of active movement which are found later, when mankind are excited to act in human nature, it is evident that the much together, according to their natural nearest to contemplative sentiment are those passions. this affection also gives rise to kinds of action which refer to the ideal and an interchange of thought in society, which permanent. and, first, stedfastness of will is not through the medium of intellectual is the relation of the mind's active power to form, but according to community of de- one permanent form ; for the nature of the tural feeling, which is the source of core mind has not stedfastness in itself, and on- rupt modes of expression. ly attains to it by the union of its particu. “ in pride, the internal nature of active lar power with fixed idea. and justice is power is felt as single. in the desire of the relation of action to equality of idea. approbation it is felt as separate and colla- but these modes of action are essentially teral. but there is also caution, which is different from the sentiment of hope, which a sort of conception of the nature of con- is the love of the ideal, beyond the limits trary power. it is a double feeling, like of the mind's existence. the contempla- judgment; and, if judgment be the hands tive love of idea may easily be discrimina of the soul, caution is like the pressure of ted from the internal sentiment of justice feeling of contrary power, and tending to the arms against the sides, producing the and stedfastness of will. “ and, in passing from these to the feels repress the outgoing force of the mind. the ing of self-love, another difference is easia desire of approbation or concurrence, is the ly perceived ; for self-love is pleasure in intermediate feeling between pride and cau- feeling the internal nature of the mind's tion, and conciliates the mind to the active moveable power as such, and not as relative power of separate being, which would other to idea. self-love, therefore, cannot be wise be contrary.” called a sentiment, in the same manner as one of the most remarkable things justice or stedfastness of will ; for it does in the above quotations is the reference .] essay on the sentiments of attraction, adaptation, and variety. of different sentiments to different thetic feeling in the spectator ; or aim parts of the human form. the forms at giving his mind something to do, by of the animals mentioned as symboli- exciting an activity of thought with re- cal of the different relations which the gard to the subject represented. these mind is capable of having to other ex are ways of affecting the mind without istences, afford a more varied exempli- shewing any theorems of the beauti- fication of the same principle. ful, and without causing any thing to this essay is well fitted to remind per- be seen by the intellect. the want of sons of reflection, of the importance of the love of the ideal in philosophy is the love of the ideal, as contrasted with still worse, for it changes metaphysi- opinion, both in philosophy and the arts. cal speculation into a temporary exer- without a continual reference to per- cise of mental activity, without con- manent and abstract relations, there viction. the unchangeable, is the can be no dignity or purity of style in measure and test by which the qua- the arts; and the productions of artists lities of changeable being are under- must dwindle, (as we see them do at stood. present,) into mere appeals to sympa- + philosophy of self. “ cursed be that selfish gnome that chill'd the soul of cynic swift, and narrow rochefoucault ;- i hate that name, since first, in early youth, i lit upon that book of too much truth, pored o'er its page, and half in vain would try to prove each damning principle a lie," &c. it is very remarkable that the philo- shadowed him. tickled by the desire sophy which, by its empire over a shal- of novelty, rather than excited by the low and weak-headed nation, was en- love of truth, they dived after para- abled to destroy thrones and altars,— doxes and propositions, to make sport every principle of human and divine withal, and produced them single and right, and at length itself, commenced unsupported, each of their speculations its career with the position, that self contained in the limits of three lines. was the first and sole spring,--the pri- with one good point their asthmatic nuum mobile of human action. wary reason was contented, - and insidious, its first attack was upon “ to be sententious first, then sage, their those merely speculative opinions, the aim, destruction of which could excite no for shallow thoughts look wise in apop- alarm; and when the power of ridicule thegm." and paradox were so far successful, the next steps were obvious and easy,—to nothing could be more convenient religion and politics. nor was it a diffi- for the lazy, yet ambitious thinkers, cult matter to persuade him, who had than this style coupé of french philo- been first convinced of the utter worth- sophy. it carries an air of decision, lessness of himself and his motives, er officio, as it were, that is most im- that the tenets and establishments of posing; and, under the pretence of con- religion and government were no bet- ciseness, takes care to explain as little ter. as possible. its mode of reasoning is it is astonishing with what slight the most impudent and antilogical that but effectual efforts this mighty pro- can be conceived,-supposing oneself stration of moral ideas was brought as a fair representative of the human about. there was no grand system, - race, and taking one's own feelings for no digested plan,-no chain of reason- universal laws. if one half of the pro- ing, nor concatenation of solid and position be true, it completely answers overpowering thought to produce it. the precept-monger's intentions, for, here a courtier doubted, there assert- with the world, one quarter of inge- ed ;-a libertine sneered, and another nuity will outweigh three quarters of epigrammatized. to pile up a fabric falsehood. and, by denying the exist- was beyond their capacity ; each setence of all honesty and generous mo- himself about his own card-house, and tive, this proteus of argument has a undermined the neighbour that over- last retreat from confutation, by hint- philosophy of self. [july, ing, that whatever its opponents may that of self, (if it can be so called,) that think proper to allege, they are true is supported by such weapons, leaves converts to the opinion in their hearts. nothing established : it is ingeniously to youth, no doctrines can be more calculated to overturn, without the fascinating, or more pernicious. the capability either of existing itself, or of smattering of french, that is so early substituting another. for no principle and universally acquired, opens at once can stand and become permanent, that to the inquisitive stripling these con- is not a feeling; and this is the nega- venient tomes of philosophy. the tion of all feeling. it founds a lively little volume of the “ maxims,” soon and fleeting existence in discussion and falls into the hands of one addicted intellectual warfare: by having over- to reading, and few books he will come, or by being neglected, it ceases ever meet with, can produce such a to exist, and leaves a most uncomfort- sensible revolution in the tone of sen- able vacuum,--a total ebb of thought ; timent and feeling. its perusal forms an era in the life of thought; and “and gone is the sweet idle tongue of the rill, many a man looks back with regret the stream is dried up, and the pebbles from the age of seared and worn-out are still.' feeling, to the time, when these too- wise precepts undermined his natural it may seem a dangerous, but it is hopes and yearnings, and cancelled the not altogether a false sentiment, that happiest years of his existence, by con- bad principles are better than none. verting him into a premature man of consistency is the true sublime in mo- the world. but the formation of a ral conduct, and fixed principles, of sound moral feeling is not the work of any kind, and in any being, command a moment; the conviction of reason, respect and admiration. but mere ne- however forcible and conclusive, fails gations are no principles; they take to produce it; and men argue in vain, no hold, and they struggle to usurp that would cram principles down our the place of those, on which they de- throats. the mind, however shallow pend, and which when they destroy, and servile, is intrinsically independ- they necessarily annihilate themselves. ent, and will be its own lawgiver. such are all those precocious and ephe- however ruled by, and stooping to the meral sects, which, by the dint of pa- dogmas of others, these must become radox and contradiction, have started naturalized, and its own, by being felt, up, and become giants in an hour. of ere they become erected into actuating these, the foremost (at least to such as motives. a moral principle must be me, who care not for church or state, awakened and developed, not intruded; and argue but with mine own feelings) and those sudden revulsions, which is the philosophy of self. are produced by vanity, by the love of the founder, or nominal founder of contrariety, or singularity, do but dis- this system, was not, as might be sup- organize,-serving to obliterate, under posed, a daring sceptic or profound the pretence of tracing charactersanew. speculator,-he was simply a courtier there is much difference between and a beau—one who thought merely erecting and destroying, and between to speak, and struck out novelties to the requisites for each. erudition, relieve the ennui of conversation. he judgment, and intensity of thought, was a ladies' philosopher, and discuss- are the rare products even of genius and ed the topics of the toilet and the heart time ; but ridicule and paradox are with singular felicity; the fair were his the births of a minute,-natural im- school, and the boudoir his porch. he pulses that require no preparative, but fell in with the epicurean and languid an object to be exercised upon. they humour of his time and country, be- are the natural employments of an idle came the moral legislator of the beau and alippant mind, whose utmost exer- monde, and destroyed the existing ge- tion extends but to the smart repartee, nerous laws of the heart, -as mun- or whimsical crotchet. there is no la- chausen overcame the wolf,—by turn- bour required; they have but to fol- ning them inside out. and all this low their nature, and consult their hu was done by the way of amusement. mour, and hence often attain a felicity the life of rochefoucault gave the lie of conception and expression, that to his doctrine; and the deifier of self overpowers a whole sorites of argu was an ardent friend and enthusiastic mentation. but a philosophy, like lover. but folks received that as ster- .] philosophy of self: ling, which he himself meant but for are too social for philosophy,--their tinsel ; they saw not wit, but reason in thoughts run in the channel of conver- it, and theory was converted into prac- sation, and having proceeded a space, tice. the empire of raillery was ac- expect a reply to relieve and set them knowledged and acquiesced in ;-sar- forward on their journey again. thought casm was allowed to parry accusation, has not been the exercise of their mind, and point to be an answer to proof. but its diversion ; and with the excep- then came the dynasty of epigrams, tion of montesquieu, whose tesselated from whence to that of denunciation system manifests the joiner's work, and proscription was a short stride. with which it was put together, there no topic could be more convenient is scarce an example in their literature or delightful to the female sçavans and of a body of reasoning. they do not their male followers, than this inge- understand, and cannot follow those nious babble about l'amour, l'amour speculations, whose link and clue is propre, le cæur, et l'esprit. each of feeling,-in which multifarious sube these unfortunate terms were in their jects are blended together by the glow- turn viewed and reviewed—asserted at ing power of eloquence and imagina- the same time of a thousand different tion. hence, by the french literati of and incongruous things-split and tor- the present day, de staël and chateau- tured into shadows. it is worth while briand are disowned as compatriots ; to look for the explications of l'esprit they are not french in spirit, and in girard's synonimes, to form an idea the deviation is not to be forgiven. to of the sufferings of that unlucky sub- illustrate writing by speech, they were stantive. for my part, puzzled at first too much soliloquizers for the gossip- to know what it was, i was puzzled at ing spirit of their nation, who, accord- last to discover what it was not. the ing to the vulgar idea, set down every ladies, with all due deference, play the one for mad, who matters with himseli. very deuce with words, when they they were besides the assertors of feel come to talk philosophy. they are so ing, and cast off the pedantic trammels refined in sentiment, and their per- of the old school. to say no more of ceptions admit of so many shades, that either at present, ench of whom merits the chinese themselves would be per- a volume of such ill-spun criticism as plexed to supply them with expres- i could bestow, they overturned the sions : four-and-twenty letters can ne- philosophy of self. ver stand them. our neighbours, upon the whole, the voyages and travels of columbus secundus. chapter iv. the cries of edinburgh, attoure to mak ye readers more bowsum and attent, wc promit faithfullie to writ na thing in this werk but allanerlie sik thing as bene maist patent and knawin to ws, othir be our awin exact deligence and industrye, or ellis be rehers of otheris rycht trew and faith. ful auctouris. and thairfore gif this our werk be found plesand to the reders, we sall writ sum othir tym mair largelie of othir materis, baith to thair eruditioun and pleseir." bellenden's translation of boece. no person in the healthy possession listen to common-place prosers) of of his seven senses (as we say in scot- closing the orifices of my ears, or at land) can have travelled through edin- least shutting up the doors of my at- burgh, without having been struck tention, on every noise but that which with the noises made by the itinerant i wish to hear, the singularity of the merchants who expose their goods for sounds from this source has fallen un- sale in the streets. to me it has many der the cognizance of my perceptive a time been a source of much amuse- powers with redoubled force. though ment to listen to their varied notes as perhaps not in such variety as those of i passed along; and as i have acquired london, where even cat's meat and the habit (a necessary requisite for dog's meat forms an article of civic those who are obliged' in courtesy to commerce, yet i hope i do not erri vol. ix. d voyages and travels of columbus secundus. (july, when i assert, that in the cries of tant period does my recollection ex- edinburgh, as they are technically tend,) it is unnecessary to mention the termed, the scottish genius for the changes which have taken place, both combination of “ sweet sounds” is as in the manners and in the accommo- evident to the observer of taste, as is dation of the inhabitants, since that the superiority of the simple music of period. even the cries, though little their pathetic ballads to the heartless dependent on the fluctuations of fa- ditties of the sister country. this mu- shion, have suffered some change, but sical taste, however, it must be con- little in comparison of that which has fessed, has not always gone hand in fallen upon less stable distinctions. i hand with the improved orthography well recollect the period when butter- of modern times; and violations of its milk and butter were chiefly brought rules may not unfrequently be obser- to town by the farm-lasses in barrels, ved, in the almost total change of the on panniers, one on each side of a horse, substantive word, which in common and the blooming damsel sitting be- writing stands for the articles thus ex- tween, calling out as she passed along posed to sale. for instance, would an the streets, soor mulk, a chappin an englishman ever be able to make out, a jaw for a bawbee ! but this neces- that fyne pirri-aroes was meant as a sary accompaniment to parritch is now proclamation for the sale of potatoes; almost universally brought to edin- that caller oost indicated the sale of burgh in carts, and the sale is confined fresh oysters ; that soor mulk typified to the male peasantry. the risiers, that most healthy beverage, butter. groserts, and reeforts,* of that pe- milk; or that youk saan betokened riod have also changed their names for that the crier dealt in that truly scots the more genteel, but less characterise commodity, yellow sand? but this tic ones of currants, gooseberries, and sacrifice of sense to sound is not pecu- radishes; though the generic cry of liar to the humble individuals who bonny berries, twa dips and a wallop, call their little merchandise for sale in is still frequently heard among those the streets. i have heard singers, and more ancient damsels, who expose in those too who were highly commend- their seasons the produce of the gar- ed as such, mar a very beautiful air dens surrounding the scottish capital. by their imperfect enunciation of the the cut-throat and lunnun-candy of stil more beautiful words, and thus, former days have given place, in a great in place of their supporting one ano- measure, to lick and gibraltar rock ; ther, have made music suffocate and but i am not fully satisfied that it is strangle her poor sister poetry out for the interest of my friend james right. were i a coroner, and this mat- brown of the lick and gib house, to ter to be brought officially before me, refrain from selling the same commo- i think i should feel warranted in re- dity to his young customers under two commending the jury to bring it in as different names. but this is his affair. a case of wilful murder, committed by the cry of caller herrin, so often the said singers upon the body of the to be heard in the streets of edin- said mrs poetry. burgh, is the only one i recollect of to those who remember edlinburgh which has been taken notice of by a twenty-five years ago, (for to such dis- person calculated to do justice to its * the numberless french terms in the scottish language, but most of which are now confined to the humblest walks of life, prove the ancient intercourse of the two nations. as above, reefort is raifert, and grosert is groscille, fr. succer, in a very common edinburgh cry, is the french sucre ; dentylion is dent-de-lion ; a raven or corby is corbeau. a douce man or a dur chicld require no explanation. a number of german words are also common in the current dialect of the peasantry: as fremd, strange; lchre, doctrine, instruction ; geist, ghost, or spirit ; stern, star ; hals, the neck ; tochter, daughter ; and stange, a pole, or stake, practically used in scotland, till lately, for drunken wives, or unfaithful husbands, who were obliged to make public compensation to the moral feelings of the populace by riding the stang. but one of the most characteristic words Î know of in the language is doup, which, as i cannot trace its root to any other tongue, must necessarily have sprung up in our own doric dialect. a doup o candle, or a well pay'd doup, are as different from the gross terms which other nations employ to signify the same thing, as the language of paradise must have been from the forms of speech employed in the fish-market. .] voyages and travels of columbus secundus. musical cadences. it forms the sub- corated with ribbons, on the top of a ject of a very characteristic air by my pole, when the races were held at leith, very worthy friend, mr nathaniel was carried in procession by a civic of gow, to whose family scottish music ficer, attended by drum and fife, from is so much indebted. i hope i shall the cross of edinburgh to the stand be excused for recommending to his at leith, where it was deposited du- scientific attention a few more of our ring the race. a crowd of boys always national and melodious cries. i my- attended to witness the splendour of self may, at some future period, trans- the envied purse, and mimic races mit to mr ephraim rust, the secre were at this time run for papes,* in tary of that moss-grown institution, imitation purses, by all the school. the society of antiquaries, a long me boys in edinburgh. moir on the subject, which may add whae'll buy my dainty paunches something, if it do nothing more, to is a cry which, though formerly very “ their lumber of ten thousand years." common, is now totally extinct. paun- whae'll buy neeps ?-neeps like suce ches, it may be necessary to state, form cre !--whae'i buy neeps ?-is one of part of the intestines of black cattle ; our most regular and common cries in but, though this is the case, it must the evenings of the beginning of sum- not be supposed that the women who mer. neeps, it may be remarked, is cried this dainty meant to dispose of the common abbreviation for turnips, their own abdominal viscera in any which, when young, are presented as shape. the establishmentof the clytery a supper-dish at table, without dress, market making it necessary for the ing. curstorphine cream, or the coagu- paunches to be now cleaned and sold lum of fresh butter-milk, was formerly there, has superseded the itinerant deal- a frequent cry in the streets of edin- ers in this odd commodity ; but the are burgh ; and when sweetened with su- ticle itself may still occasionally be seen gar and flavoured, there were few at supper, of the appearance of a stew- things more palatable. but the taste ed shamoy-skin, and under the well- for corstorphine cream seems now on known denomination of tripe. the decline, and a countrywoman with whae'll hae my pease and beans- a wooden pitcher on her head, calling hot and warm ! is the next cry which out the sale of this summer luxury, i shall notice. this cry commences in will soon, i am afraid, be accounted a the beginning of november, and in its rarity in the streets of this ancient ca- periodical return is as regular as that pital. whae'll hae my curds and green of the cuckoo, which ushers in the whey, is still occasionally heard; though, spring about the neighbourhood of since the disappearance of the staig, edinburgh. whether hot pease and a masculine woman, with a pail on beans had any necessary connection her head, who, some years ago, cried with the sitting of the scottish courts this palatable refection in very capital in former times, i have been unable to style, it is not frequent. discover ; but, from the criers of the the edinburgh races give annually one, and the other commencing busi- rise to a very singular cry. the lists ness for winter at the same time, it is of the horses to run being printed, are not an improbable supposition that the hawked round the streets, and at the lawyers' clerks of former days may racing-ground, by numberless person- have warmed their fingers and their ages of all ages, who have hitherto mouths with a bawbee's worth of this kept up with much fidelity the imme- flatulent legumen. hot pyes used ge- morial chaunt: " here you have a list of nerally to commence being sold about all the names of the noblemen and gen- the same time, and probably for a si- tlemen, riders and riders' livery, who is milar reason. the chief station for to run over the sands of leith this day, this savoury article was in the high for his majesty's purse of a hundred street. they were carried by men in guinea's o' value." a gaudy purse, de- covered baskets; and the attention of papes are cherry-stones, which are collected with care by the boys, and furnish them with numberless sources of amusement. my heart still warms when i see the lit- tle fellows counting them from their bags by castles ; and many a time when i pass the light-hearted companies playing at the ring, have i felt inclined to borrow a prapper, and try a shot for auld langsyne. voyages and travels of columbus secundus. [july those fond of dog-mutton was called miles, and call their commodity through to the bearer by the tinkling of a small the streets in the well-known words, bell, and the ejaculation at intervals of whae'll buy saat ? - whae'll hae bonny hot pyes—fine hot pyes-smoking hot! shore-dulse? is cried to nearly the but the establishment of pye-shops, same tune, by women likewise, who where the lieges can wash down these pick this unpalatable food from the viands with london porter from the rocks on the neighbouring shores at butt, have now almost extinguished ebb-tide. rock partens and fine prawns the race of these wandering cook- are also called by women. shops. the next cry in my arrangement is salt is brought to town in wicker that of brown pigs; but as the very baskets or creels from fisherrow, and sound or sight of these luxurious words even farther, on the backs of women, creates an additional flow of saliva in who arrive in edinburgh early every the mouth, pigs must be the head-dish morning, after a journey of six or eight of another chapter. chapter v. i was at the fishmarket, mary, and it was real curious to see the fish, haddocks, and cods, and turbots, as dead as a door-nail ; though the women said they were living, and that, preserve us ! they were offering, not skate and flounders, but men's lives, for sale : and crabs and lobsters, such creatures ! with many feet, covered with shells, and snapping their thumbs in spite were they ; i wonder what mistress is to do with them ;-one is like a spider, but bigger, and the other is an overgrown sea-flea. poetical epistle from christian to her sister mary, brown pigs were formerly carried to who carry this delicate viand on their town in creels, and sold by women, backs in creels and skulls, may, in the calling out, buy brown pigs. but quietude of a winter evening, be heard these pig-wives are now seldom seen, at the distance of miles. the sound, i this commodity being atpresent brought ain credibly informed, even reaches the in larger quantities, and exposed to ears of the inhabitants of the lands of sale in carts. it may perhaps be ne canaan. lest my veracity as an im- cessary to mention, for the behoof of partial observer should be called in untravelled englishmen, that brown question, however, i beg to mention, pigs do not mean in edinburgh ani- that i here mean not the jewish ca- mals of the sow tribe. these are calle naan, but the canaan of the gutter. ed swine, or more characteristically, bloods of edinburgh-the grounds to grumphies ; and the sound which in the south of the city so named, where england would suggest to the stomach a number of snug boxes attest the taste the most pleasing associations, beto- of the inhabitants for country retire- kens to the mind of a scotsman only ment, and the pleasures of rustication. the most rude species of earthen-ware, the fish-women, or fish-wives, who manufactured at the neighbouring pots frequent the edinburgh market are a teries. all stone-ware in scotland, it singular race of beings. some of them may be farther remarked, is known by come from a great distance, but the the generic denomination of pigs. greater part from the villages of new- moreover, it may not be out of place haven and fisherrow, from whence here to mention, for the benefit of they arrive heavily laden every morn- cockney readers, that yellow sand, cried ing; and after selling their fish in the in the streets under the strange name market, or calling it through the streets of youk saan, is notan edible substance, for the greater part of the day, return but is used by housewives of the old home in the evening with their empty school for the purpose of cleaning stone- creelsandskulls upon their backs. their floors and stairs. costume is also singular; a coloured whae'll hae caller oost? i.e. who will handkerchief tied over their cap and have fresh oysters ? is cried in every under their chin ; a sailor's jacket, and month the name of which contains an ample folds of many-coloured petti- r, through all the streets of edinburgh. coats, the labyrinths of which, as i the shrill voices of the fish-women, never traced them, so i shall not ven- .] voyages and travels of columbus secundus. ture to describe, gathered up round grind, bellowses to mend, and sweep! their middle for the convenience of sweep! present no peculiarities worthy walking. as to the weight they are of notice ; and the society for the sup- able to carry, it has been conjectured pression of begging, and the asylum that a common-council man, or six for the blind, have silenced many mu- cockney poets, would not form an over- sical voices, which formerly sounded load for these picturesque amazons. in the bye-lanes to the burden of mind ye fish-wives of newhaven, not for- a puir lassie! and, leddies and gentle- getting those of fisherrow and preston- men, if ye please gie a ha'penny to a puir pans, as ye form a society by yourselves, blind boy! and are unlike every other species of i cannot conclude this chapter with- human beings with whom i am ac- qut expressing a wish, that some mem- quainted—ye deserve, and ye shall ber of that respectable association, have, a separate chapter of my work, whose purpose is to preserve “ auld dedicated to you alone! nick-nackets,” would procure accounts wall-cresses and water purpie, which of the scots worthies, who have died are gathered by women from the neigh- within the last thirty years in edin- bouring ditches and sold as a spring burgh, and who may justly claim a sallad, are two well-known aquatic place in their transactions, on account plants, and are perhaps equally good of the notoriety of their public charac- for scottish stomachs as those of more ters. in the hope that this hint will expensive cultivation. gule findhorn not be overlooked, i beg to suggest, speldings are dried haddocks, large that a memoir of the late celebrated quantities of which are annually im- mr james duff, commonly known by ported by the fishermen of aberdeen the name of jamie or bailie duff, and neighbourhood. they are eaten as would be acceptable to the public; one they are received without further dress of madam or lizzy bowzie, would sell ing. fine ripe cherries, tual and une to an edition of a quarto. anecdotes of the mens, are to be met with, tied on a the daft laird, who went about the stick in a very inviting manner for streets with a parcel of walking sticks, children, at the corner of every street on the tops of which were cut faces during the short time that this fruit is representing the celebrated personages in season.-strawberries are plentiful that day; and anecdotes of daddy and excellent. napcrowns, a respectable gentleman, penny-cakes and parliament, snaps, whose strange pleasure it was to nap and ginger tablet, figs, and raisins, the heads of the youngsters of these have ceased to be sold in the streets; times with a thimble on his finger, but the boys know still where to find and who rewarded the little sufferers the shops where these tempting cates with a snap, would be an acceptable are to be sold. fine juniper berries, service to those who were school-boys the picking and selling of which af- at that period. bowling john, puddin forded employment to a few old women lizzie, daft tam o' the meadows, in the beginning of winter, are now drunken charlie stewart the tailor, only to be found in the apothecaries' daft lady watt, tup yule, young shops. souter's clods, i may here add, lambs to sell, john dhu of the town- are now almost unknown among the baa guard, big samuel and geordy cran- kers, though formerly never was there stoun, might furnish incidental notices a species of bread better calculated for of no common interest ; and were no trying the teeth and staying the hun- other purpose to be served, the record ger of a high school callant. hot would at least help to ascertain the dumplings, however, have lately been fact, of there being fewer harmless called through the streets by one in- mad people in edinburgh at present dividual; but the name evidently shews than formerly,–or, that now the in- that this luxury is to be considered as habitants of this ancient city, being all an importation from the south. equally foolish, such aberrations of of the cries not above mentioned, reason have ceased to be remarked as the list is not perhaps great. knives to uncommon. notes and illustrations to chapter v. bailie duff._some account of this notable magistrate may be found in that verit- able history, published under the name of " guy mannering.' the same admirable historian of scottish manners has given, in “ the heart of mid-lothian,” an excellent voyages and travels of columbus secundus. [july, description of our reverend silver-hair'd friend, who held the office of outer-turnkey to the old tolbooth; and if i mistake not, some incidental notices of the celebrated john dhu, that eminent preserver of the public peace, and terror of the bickerers of former days. madam borozie had in her day been a beauty-was seduced by a duke, and cast off for a fairer face. her reason partially fled, and she afterwards wandered the streets. this is an epitome of the history of many a beauty, but one so common, that it ceases to be noticed. in my early days madam was a very old woman, who went about in rags. she however left, it is said, to her heirs (for she was respectably connected) up- wards of £ . bowling john long sat at the old corn-market, now removed, with his pins and bowls, crying, two or through, now, boys, two or through ! and afterwards removed to the earthen mound. of his future fate i confess myself to be ignorant. pudding lizzic kept a change-house at jock's lodge, which was much frequented by a certain class of citizens, on account of the unrivalled excellence of lizzie's intesti- nal cookery. daft tam of the meadows was a poor idiot, whose home was the charity work. house, and who frequently shared the school-boys' lunch as they passed his haunts in going to their tasks. drunken charlie stewart was for many years a well-known character in edinburgh. he had been out in the forty-five, with his unfortunate name-sake, and had been wound. ed in the head at the battle of culloden. charlie ever afterwards was apt to forget him- self when he got (what was a very frequent occurrence) a drappy, and was in the inva- riable habit, when in that state, of attacking every red-coat he met, and speaking and acting treason. charlie, however, never was further punished for these high misdemean- ours, than by an occasional confinement in the town guard-house, and finished his life in the humble occupation of a tailor. daft lady watt walked the streets, tawdrily dressed in the habiliments of a former age, and with a fan in her hand. she was perfectly harmless, and stopped with the ut- most good nature to give a pin to the little imps who constantly interrupted her walks, crying, eh, lady watt, will ye gie us a prin whether she was " crazed with care, or cross'd in hopeless love,” i know not; but she never begged, and had the appearance of having seen better days. tup yule was an old man, who inhabited a cottage on the south bank of the nora loch, now removed, and kept a cabbage-garden there. he was a cow-feeder, and car- ried milk about in pitchers; but was sadly tormented by the boys pulling the tails of his coat, and calling out tup yule ! - poor yule, in one of those king's birth-day mobs, where the military was called in, about or , was sadly cut in the cheek by the sabre of a dragoon, as he was passing peaceably along with his pitchers, and it is believed died soon after. young lambs to sell was a conspicuous character among the boys and girls of the last age, (now fathers and mothers,) by his basket of lambs and their cotton fleeces, and his poetical terminations, aided by the adroit twirling of a stick round his fingers, and his free and easy gait. geordy cranstoun was long a welcome guest at the mason lodges of edinburgh, on account of his talents for singing. he was a singular little being; and when after his evening parties his organs of locomotion had ceased to obey the will, he was frequently, for the humour of the thing, carried home to his lodgings in a porter's creel. poor geordie, going home one evening in this singular vehicle, had the misfortune to tum. ble from the creel in going up or down a stair, and died soon after. big samuel, a gigantic highlander, has been accurately figured by kay in a print, where, for the sake of contrast, he is put alongside of the portraiture of friend geordy. the same artist has preserved representations of most of the other worthies mentioned above; and occasional notices of the same personages, may, i have no doubt, be found in that valuable book (as old micah calls it) the scots magazine. rowsting jacks and toasting forks, according to the same authority, died in octo- ber , at the advanced age of . . voyages and travels of columbus secundus. chapter vi. being the chapter of accidents. did you ever hear one richard short's history ? if you didn't, i'll tell it you now. essay on the emotions which produce laughter, by john emery, esq. travellers, whether by land or immediately awaked me from my re- sea, are liable to many little accidents. yerie, by the exclamation, “ gude those that have happened to myself lord !"-" i beg your pardon, sir,“ in my laborious excursions through said i, “ i did not observe you.”—the the scottish capital, have not been few only reply was a significant grunt. in number ; and for the instruction of i now perceived to my cost, that i future travellers, i here set down one had been driven north when i meant or two of them. to have been drawn to the south; and accident the first. that i was on the road to the queens- ferry, while my razors, fishing-rod, not very long ago, i put my lit- clean shirt, and botanical box, were tle packet inside a stage-coach for dal- on their travels to dalkeith. keith ; but being rather before the as it was of little use to make com- hour, i sauntered along the pavement plaints for what could not now be re- till the coachman had finished his medied, i leapt out of the machine, and gill in the cellar called the coach-of- having gently remonstrated with the fice. on retracing my steps, the coach coachman for taking me so much out seemed to be still in the same place, of my road, i determined to walk back though i had taken at least five mi- again the three miles to edinburgh. nutes to my saunter-adjusted my i got little thanks, however, from watch by the clock of st giles,-but- coachy for my forbearance, and have a toned my coat—and unrolled a sixe great notion, that in future i shall be pence from my paper of small change obliged to learn to swear, to rate the to give to the coachman, when we fellows like a gentleman ; for i was should arrive at our destination. quite scarcely out of the vehicle, when, point- impatient at there being no signal for ing to his head, he remarked to an out- going on, i returned to the cellar, call- side passenger, that “ the gentleman ed out to the man to make haste, and was surely no very wise.” the door of the vehicle being open, na like a body in their sound senses,” leaped up and took my seat. to was the reply. “ an it may be, he's while away my impatience, i pulled daft wi' lair, puir man,” said a bare- out a volume of don quixotte (i headed servant girl, who came to at- never travel without one,) from my tend the stopping of the coach, “ for pocket, and began to study this learn- ye see he has a buke in his hand, and ed publication with such earnestness, he's laughing till himsel !” that in spite of the entrance of two accident the second. passengers,-in spite of the ruts of prince's street, and the smoke of the another misadventure which befel distillery at bell's mills, i never lift, me in my travellings through edin- ed up my head till the coach stopped burgh, was the following :--i had at mutton-hole, for the honest man spent some two or three days in walk- the coachman to get another dram. ing through the more ancient parts of having come by this time to the crisis the city, for the purpose of copying of a very capital joke, i could not the many inscriptions whieh are placed refrain from throwing myself back, over the doors of the older houses, and laughing more heartily than decorous- on that morning had made a sketch of ly, and rubbing my knees in perfect the house of john knox,-taken a ecstasy. on observing now, for the drawing of the roman sculpture at the first time, that there was company netherbow,—and was in the act of with me, and in bringing myself again copying an iņscription above a door in to the balance of composure, i unfor- blackfriars' wynd, when ona sudden, a tunately planted my foot on the toe of girl who popped her head out, instantly a fat gentleman sitting opposite, who withdrew, crying, “ eh, mither, here's • it was voyages and travels of columbus secundus. [july, a man taking down my father's name the door was locked, and doubly bar- in a book !"-"ye're father's name, red. though i am not generally sub- lassie,” grumbled out another voice; ject to terror, i could not think of “it'll be for some new tax, nae doubt. spending the night among my present deel's in them a', they'll no let poor company with any sort of cornposure. folk live belive; but i'll gie him some- i ran as fast as i could to the other thing for his pains !" - with that, gate,-but it likewise was shut;- reader! she threw full in my face and peeped into the lodge where the uten- upon my clothes, the whole contents sils of the grave-diggers were deposited of an earthen vessel, of a roundish to see any body was there,—but they shape, * which she held in her hand, were all gone. two rusty fowling- exclaiming, “ tak that to your morn- pieces (and their appearance gave me in'!"- i was almost stunned with no comfort) stood inside the window, the unexpected shower; and as re- intended, i presumed, to arm the peo- monstrance seemed vain, and as the ple who watch the remains of the de neighbours were beginning to assem- ceased citizens. i was now in terrible ble at the noise, i retreated down the alarm, and saw little prospect of any wynd as hastily as i could, to avoid other alternative, than dying of terror the contents of a hundred such uten- when the midnight hour should re- sils, which were ready to be emptied lease the perturbed spirits of murder- from above on the head of a reputed ers from their charnel houses, or of member of that detested association. i being shot by the guards of the dead can have a new jacket from my tailor; as an unknown intruder on their pe- mr armstrong will furnish me with culiar vocation of resurrection-men. i another hat, upon paying the accus- attempted to cross the graves to get up tomed price; but what, o public! the wall by the help of the attached mo- will compensate thee for the loss of in- numents; but fear almost deprived my scriptions which you might have read muscles of their power, and i tumbled without danger; or thee, Ő antiquaries half a dozen times over the hillocks in of scotland, for the learned observa- my attempt to get forward. i at last, tions i should have made upon them? however, succeeded ; got hold of a very my old jacket and hat, partially clean- civil good-natured cherub on the mar- ed, (for to purify them totally was im- tyrs' tomb-raised myself by placing a possible,) may, if not sold, be still foot on the shoulder of a stone angel seen in that varied and vast repository and poked my bare head (for my hat of old clothes, st mary's wynd. had fallen off) over the wall which di- accident the third. vides the church-yard from the can- dlemaker-row, calling out loudly for another circumstance which vexed assistance. a number of children, who me not a little, and which happened were playing on the empty carts ar- very lately, perhaps deserves to be re- ranged at the bottom of the wall, were corded in this chapter of travellers' ac- arrested in their game at my voice, and cidents. i had strayed into the grey- locking up, and seeing nothing but a friars' church-yard one evening, for head peeping over the wall, leaped want of something better to do, and from the machines in terror, calling unaware that the gates required to be out, “eh! there's bluidy mackingie!" shut by a certain hour, i had pored their vociferations, assisted by my over this monument and that stone, own, soon drew a crowd to the spot; till by my watch it was half-past nine the little imps grew bolder by the pre- o'clock. thinking it then time to re sence of so many of their elders, and tire homewards, i walked gaily along prevented my appeals to their com- the road, persuading myself that it was passion from being heard by singing in better for me to be alive and in health, chorus, than lying even under the most costly of the monuments that met my view, bluidy mackingie, come out if ye daur, -when to my mortification i found lift the sneck, and draw the bar ! * to those who are curious in the investigation of the furniture of the ancients, i beg to recommend the learned memoir on the chamber-vases of the greeks and ro. mans, lately published in the transactions of the antiquarian society. little think the proprietors of many of these vases to what purposes they were originally destinel .) voyages and travels of columbus secundus. some of the people from the windows was quite well. i stared at the honest in the opposite street, however, had gentleman, to see whether he were se- perceived my unfortunate situation ; rious in his address-presumed (for i and while the porters and passengers would not positively say i was not a were wondering, without attempting lord) that he was certainly mistaken ; to give any assistance, whether i was while he, on the other hand, put on a dead man come to life again,—the his hat, asked my pardon (which was coadjutor of an anatomist,--the man instantly granted) for having taken that was last hanged,-or bloody mac- me for lord - ; and we parted, he kingie himself,—had the compassion looking back at the personage whom, to send for mr morthead the record. if nature had made lords, had cer- er, who speedily came with the keys tainly been one,--and i turning occa- of this dismal abode, and freed me sionally round to take another peep at from all apprehension of that night the man, whose penetration raised me meeting with the three stone sisters to a situation which i feel perfectly walking round the church ;-major confident i could fill with great satis- weir's cane taking its midnight ex- faction to myself, if not with advan- cursion,-or of seeing the said bloody tage to my country. mackingie peeping out of his prison the moral of this chapter is not very house with a red night-cap on his flattering to human pride or to human head. distinctions. i was thought “ not very accident the fourth. wise," for studying and laughing at the most instructive and amusing book the last adventure i shall at present in the world ;-half-drowned in at- set forth, and it is one which, to most tempting to qualify myself for a cor- people, would seem a most flattering responding member of the institute of tribute to personal vanity, was my once france, under the abhorred name of a being taken for a nobleman-nothing tax-gatherer; and terrified a whole less than a peer of the realm. i was street under the appearance of “bloody walking one day in the meadows, when mackingie.” that a nobleman should a gentleman whom i met accosted me be thought to resemble either or all of with a very low bow,-uncovered his these personages, will, i am afraid, not powdered prominence to do me obei- be taken as a compliment by any mem- sance,-and in the blandest accents of ber of the present peerage of scot- respectful homage, hoped my lordship land. the fatal repast. we had been nearly five weeks at sea, ter; mr dm, a young irishman, when the captain found, by a nautical and myself. our captain was a man observation, that we were within one of pleasing manners and liberal ideas, hundred and thirty miles of the north and formed an important acquisition side of jamaica. favourable winds and to our party, by joining in all its re- smooth seas had hitherto been our con- creations, and affording every facility stant attendants, and every thing on to the indulgence of them. much of board conspired to render the confine our time was spent in conversation, ment and monotony of a long voyage and in walking on deck; and when the less annoying than they usually are. dews of evening obliged us to descend the cabin passengers consisted of ma- to the cabin, the captain would often jor and mrs l a new-married entertain us with a relation of the va- couple; miss p sister to the lat. rious dangers which he and other per- > i have heard that the king is to honour the capital of scotland with a visit, and i hope it may be true. without trusting more than need be to omens and presentiments, i should not be surprised, in that event, to see my name in the next year's roll of freeholders, under the title of “ sir christopher columbus, of that ilk, baronet;" or, passing that intermediate link of nobility, at being introduced to the upper house, by the style and title of " baron columbus, of columbia.” but these are matters between his majesty and myself. vol. ix. e . the fatal repast. a few minutes since, and five others ever, now began to exhibit alarming are dangerously ill. symptoms. mr d became deli. “ poisoned ! my god! do you say rious; the major lay upon the cabin ? must we all die?" exclaimed mrs floor in a state of torpidity; and the l-, dropping on her knees." what captain had drowned all sense and is to be done?" cried the major dis- recollection by drinking a large quan, tractedly; " are there no means of tity of brandy. mrs - watched counteracting it?"-" none that i her husband and her sister alternate- know of,” returned the captain. “all ly, in a state of quiet despair. remedies are vain. the poison is al i was comparatively but little af- ways fatal, except—but i begin to feel fected, and therefore employed my- its effects-support mecan this be self in assisting others until they imagination?" he staggered to one seemed to be past all relief, and then side, and would have fallen upon the sat down, anticipating the horrid con- floor, had not i assisted him. mrs sequences which would result from notwithstanding his apparent the death of the whole ship’s com- insensibility, clung to his arm, crying pany, out, in a tone of despair, “ is there no while thus occupied, i heard the helpmno pity-no one to save us?” steersman call out, "taken all aback and then fainted away on her hus- here." a voice, which i knew to be band's bosom, who, turning to me, the mate's, immediately answered, said, with quivering lips, “ you are a well, and what's that to us? put happy man; you have nothing to em- her before the wind, and let her go bitter your last moments-oh, provi- where she pleases.” i soon perceived, dence! was i permitted to escape so by the rushing of the water, that there many dangers, merely that i might was a great increase in the velocity of suffer this misery?”. the ship's progress, and went upon mrs l-soon regained her senses, deck to ascertain the cause. and i endeavoured to calm her agita i found the mate stretched upon the tion by remarking, that we might pos- top of the companion, and addressed sibly escape the fatal influence of the him, but he made no reply. the man poison, as some constitutions were not at the helm was tying a rope round the so easily affected by it as others. “is tiller, and told me he had become so there then a little hope?" she exclaim- blind and dizzy, that he could neither ed. “oh! god grant it may be so ! steer, nor see the compass, and would how dreadful to die in the midst of therefore fix the rudder in such a man- the ocean, far from friends and home, ner, as would keep the ship’s head as and then to be thrown into the deep!” near the wind as possible. on going -" there is one thing," said the cap- forward to the bows, i found the crew tain, faintly, “ i was going to tell you, lying motionless in every direction. that-but this sensation-i mean á they were either insensible of the remedy:"-"speak on,” cried the ma- dangerous situation in which our ves- jor, in breathless suspence. “ it may sel was, or totally indifferent to it; have a chance of saving you,” conti- and all my representations on this nued the former ; you must imme- head failed to draw forth an intelligi- diately” he gave a deep sigh, and ble remark from any of them. our dropped his head upon his shoulder, ship carried a great deal of canvas, apparently unable to utter a word the lower studding sails being up, for more. “oh, this is the worst of all !” we had enjoyed a gentle breeze direct- cried mrs in agony ; "he was ly a-stern, before the wind headed us on the point of telling us how to coun- iu the way already mentioned. teract the effects of the poison-was about an hour after sunset, almost it heavenly mercy that deprived him every person on board seemed to have of the power of speech? can it be called becomie worse. i alone retained my mercy?”—“hush, hush! you rave,” senses unimpaired. the wind now returned her husband. “we have blew very fresh, and we went through only to be resigned now—let us at the water at the rate of ten miles an least die together.” hour. the night looked dreary and the crew had dined about an hour turbulent. the sky was covered with and a half before us, and consequent- large fleeces of broken clouds, and the ly felt the effects of the poison much stars flashed angrily through them, as earlier than we did. every one, howe they were wildly hurried along by the the fatal repast. [july, blast. the sea began to run high, and figure rushed past me with a wild the masts shewed, by their incessant shriek, and sprung overboard. i saw creaking, that they carried more sail it struggling among the billows, and than they could well sustain. tossing about its arms distractedly, i stood alone near the stern of the but had no means of affording it any ship. nothing could be heard above assistance. i watched it for some time, or below deck, but the dashing of the and observed its convulsive motions surges, and the moanings of the wind. gradually grow more feeble; but its all the people, on board were to me form soon became undistinguishable the same as dead; and i was tossed amidst the foam of the bursting waves. about, in the vast expanse of waters, the darkness prevented me from dis- without a companion or fellow-suffer- covering who had thus committed er. i knew not what might be my himself to the deep, in a moment of fate, or where i should be carried. the madness, and i felt a strong repug. vessel, as it careered along the raging nance at attempting to ascertain it, and deep, uncontrolled by human hands, rather wished that it might have been seemed under the guidance of a relent- some spectre, or the offspring of my less demon, to whose caprices its ille perturbed imagination, than a human fated crew had been inysteriously con- being. signed by some superior power. as the sea contivued to break over · i was filled with dread lest we should the vessel, i went down to the cabin, strike upon rocks, or run ashore, and after having closely shut the gang-way often imagined that the clouds which doors and companion. total darkness bordered the horizon were the black prevailed below. i addressed the cap- cliffs of some desolate coast. at last, tain and all my fellow passengers by i distinctly saw a light at some dis- name, but received no reply from any tance-i anticipated instant destruc- of them, though i sometimes fancied i tion—i grew irresolute whether to re- heard moans and quick breathing, main upon deck, and face death, or to when the tumult of waters without wait for it below. i soon discovered a happened to subside a little. but i ship a little way a-head-i instinctive thought that it was perhaps imagina- ly ran to the helm, and loosed the rope tion, and that they were probably all that tied the tiller, which at once dead. i began to catch for breath, bounded back, and knocked me over. and felt as if i had been immured in a horrible crashing, and loud cries, a large coffin along with a number of now broke upon my ear, and i saw corpses, and was doomed to linger out that we had got entangled with another life beside them. the sea beat against vessel. but the velocity with which the vessel with a noise like that of ar- we swept along, rendered our extrica- tillery, and the crashing of the bul- tion instantaneous; and, on looking warks, driven in by its violence, gave back, i saw a ship, without a bowsprit, startling proof of the danger that pitching irregularly among the waves, threatened us. having several times and heard the rattling of cordage, and been dashed against the cabin walls a tumult of voices. but, after a little by the violent pitching of the ship, time, nothing was distinguishable by i groped for my bed, and lay down the eye or by the ear. my situation in it, and, notwithstanding the hor- appeared doubly horrible, when i re rors that surrounded me, gradually dected that i had just been within call dropped asleep. of human creatures, who might have when i awaked, i perceived, by the baved and assisted all on board, had sun-beams that shone through the not an evil destiny hurried us along, sky-light, that the morning was far and made us the means of injuring advanced. the ship rolled violently those who alone were capable of afford- at intervals, but the noise of winds and ing us relief. waves had altogether ceased. i got about midnight, our fore-top-mast up hastily, and almost dreaded to look gave way, and fell upon deck with a round, lest i should find my worst tremendous noise. the ship immedi- anticipations concerning my compa- ately swung round, and began to la- nions too fatally realized. bour in a terrible manner, while seve i immediately discovered the cap- ral waves broke over her successively. tain lying on one side of the cabin i had just resolved to descend the quite dead. opposite him was major gang-way for shelter, when a white - stretched along the floor, and .] the fatal repast. grasping armly the handle of the door that it seemed as ff we were consigning of his wife's apartment. he had, i our departed companions to a heaven suppose, in a moment of agony, wish- as resplendent as that above us. there ed to take farewell of the partner of was an awful solemnity, alike in the his heart, but had been unable to get scene and in our situation. i read the beyond the spot where he now lay. funeral service, and then we dropped he looked like a dying man, and mrs the corpses overboard, one after an- l-, who sat beside him, seemed to other. the sea sparkled around each, be exhausted with grief and terror. as its sullen plunge announced that she tried to speak several times, and the waters were closing over it, and at last succeeded in informing me that they all slowly and successively de- her sister was better. i could not dis- scended to the bottom, enveloped in a cover mr dany where, and there- ghastly glimmering brightness, which fore concluded that he was the person enabled us to trace their progress who had leaped overboard the prece- through the motionless deep. when ding night. these last offices of respect were per- on going upon deck, i found that formed, we retired in silence to dif- every thing wore a new aspect. ' the ferent parts of the ship. sky was dazzling and cloudless, and about midnight, the mate ordered not the faintest breath of wind could the men to put down our anchor, be felt. the sea had a beautiful bright which, till then, they had not been green colour, and was calm as a small able to accomplish. they likewise lake, except when an occasional swell managed to furl most of the sails, and rolled from that quarter in which the we went to bed, under the consoling wind had been the preceding night; and idea, that though a breeze did spring the water was so clear, that i saw to the up, our moorings would enable us to bottom, and even distinguished little weather it without any risk. fishes sporting around the keel of our i was roused early vext morning by vessel. a confused noise upon deck. when i four of the seamen were dead, but got there, i found the men gazing in- the mate and the remaining three had tently over the side of the ship, and so far recovered, as to be able to walk inquired if our anchor held fast?- across the deck. the ship was alınost “ ay, ay," returned one of them, in a disabled state. part of the wreck “ rather faster than we want it.” on of the fore-top-mast lay upon her bows, approaching the bulwarks, and look- and the rigging and sails of the main- ing down, i perceived, to my horror mast had suffered much injury. the and astonishment, all the corpses lying mate told me, that the soundings, and at the bottom of the sea, as if they had almost every thing else, proved we just been dropt into it . we could were on the bahama banks, though even distinguish their features glim- he had not yet ascertained on what mering confusedly through the super- part of them we lay, and consequent- incumbent mass of ocean. a large ly could not say whether we had much block happened to fall overboard, and chance of soon falling in with any the agitation which it occasioned in vessel. the sea produced an apparent augmen- the day passed gloomily. we re- tation of their number, and a horrible garded every cloud that rose upon the distortion of their limbs and counte- horizon as the fore-runner of a breeze, nances. a hundred corpses seemed which we above all things feared to to start up and struggle wildly to- encounter. much of our time was em- gether, and then gradually to vanish ployed in preparing for the painful among the eddying waters, as they but necessary duty of interring the subsided into a state of calmness. dead. the carpenter soon got ready a we were now exempted from the sufficient number of boards, to each of ravages and actual presence of death, which we bound one of the corpses, but his form haunted us without in- and also weights enough to make it termission. we hardly dared to look sink to the bottom. over the ship’s side, lest our eyes should about ten at night, we began to encounter the ghastly features of some commit the bodies to the deep. a one who had formerly been a com- dead calm had prevailed the whole panion, and at whose funeral rites we day, and not a cloud obscured the sky. had recently assisted. the seamen the sea reflected the stars so distinctly, began to murmur among themselves, the fatal repost [july, saying that we would never be able to a place whereon they can rest the leave the spot where we then were, soles of their feet, till it pleases the and that our vessel would rot away as lord almighty to release them from fast as the dead bodies that lay be their bondage and take them to him, death it. self.” in the evening, a strong breeze next morning i was awakened by sprung up, and filled us with hopes the joyful intelligence that a schooner that some vessel would soon come in was in sight, and that she had hoisted sight, and afford us relief. at sunset, her flag in answer to our signals. she when the mate was giving directions bore down upon us with a good wind, about the watch, one of the seamen and in about an hour hove to, and cried out; “ thanked be god, there spoke us. when we had informed they are." and the other ran up to him, them of our unhappy situation, the saying, “ where, where?” he point- captain ordered the boat to be lowered, ed to a flock of mother carey's chickens and came on board of our vessel, with that had just appeared astern, and be three of his crew. he was a thick, gan to count how many there were of sbort, dark-complexioned man, and them. i inquired what was the mat- his language and accent discovered ter, and the mate replied, “ why, him to be a native of the southern only that we've seen the worst, that's states of america. the mate immedi. all, master. i've a notion we'll fall ately proceeded to detail minutely al! in with a sail before twenty hours that happened us, but our visitor paid are past.”—“ have you any particular very little attention to the narrative, reason for thinking so?" said i.“ to and soon interrupted it, by asking of be sure i have,” returned he ; “ aren't what our cargo consisted. having been them there birds the spirits of those satisfied on this point, he said, “ see- brave fellows we threw overboard last ing as how things stand, i conclude night? i knew we never would be able you'll be keen for getting into some to quit this place till they made their port.”—“ yes, that of course is our appearance above water. however, i'm earnest wish," replied the mate, "and not quite sure how it may go with us we hope to be able by your assistance yet,' continued he, looking anxiously to accomplish it."-" ay, we must astern ; they stay rather long about all assist one another,” returned the our ship."-" i have always under- captain-"well, i was just calcula, stood,” said i, “ that these birds indi- ting, that your plan would be to run cate bad weather, or some unfortunate into new providence i'm bound for event, and this appears to me to be st. thomas's, and you can't expect true.' ay, ay," replied he, " they that i should turn about, and go say experience teaches fools, and i have right back with you-neither that i found it so; there was a time when i should let you have any of my sea- did not believe that these creatures men, for i'll not be able to make were any thing but common birds, but a good trade unless i get slick into now i know another story--oh i've port. now i have three niger slaves witnessed such strange things !- isn't on board of me, - curse them, they it reasonable to suppose, that these lit- don't kuow much about sea-matters, tle creatures, having once been such as and are as lazy as hell, but keep we are, should feel a sort of friendli- fogging them, mister,-keep flogging dess towards a ship's crew, and wish them i say,—by which means, you to give warning when bad weather or will make them serve your ends. well , bad fortune is a-head, that every inan as i was saying, i will let you have may be prepared for the worst?"-"do them blacks to help you, if you'll buy you conceive," said i," that any people them of me at a fair price, and pay it but seamen are ever changed into the down in hard cash."-" this propo- birds we have been talking of?”—“no, sal,” said the mate," sounds strange for certain not,” answered the mate; enough to a british seaman;-and how " and none but the sailors that are much do you ask for your slaves ?"- drowned, or thrown overboard after “ i can't let them go under three hun- death. while in the form of carey's dred dollars each," replied the captain; chickens, they undergo a sort of pur “ i guess they would fetch more in st gatory, and are punished for their thomas's, for they're prime i swear." sins. they fly about the wide ocean, _“why, there isn't that sum of money far out of sight of land, and never find on board this vessel, that i know of, .] the fatul repast. answered the mate ; " and though i mast, which had hitherto encumbered could pay it myself, i'm sure the own. the deck, and put up a sort of jury- ers never would agree to indemnify me. mast in its stead, on which they rigged i thought you would have afforded us two sails. when these things were every assistance without asking any accomplished, we got up our moorings, thing in return,-a british sailor would and laid our course for new provi- have done so at least."-"well, i vow dence. the mate had fortunately been you are a strange man,” said the cap- upon the bahama seas before, and was tain. « isn't it fair that i should get aware of the difficulties he would have something for my nigers, and for the to encounter in navigating them. the chance i'll run of spoiling my trade at weather continued moderate, and after st thomas's, by making myself short two days of agitating suspense, we of men? but we sha’nt split about a made exuma island, and cast anchor small matter, and i'll lessen the price near its shore. by twenty dollars a-head." " it is the arrival of our vessel, and all out of the question, sir," cried the the circumstances connected with this mate, “ i have no money."-" oh event, were soon made known upon the there's no harm done,” returned the island ;'and a gentleman, who resided captain,"we can't trade, that's all. get on his plantation, sent to request our ready the boat, boys i guess your men company at his house. we gladly ac- will soon get smart again, and then, cepted his hospitable offers, and imme- if the weather holds moderate, you'll diately went ashore. reach port with the greatest of ease.' those only who have been at sea, -" you surely do not mean to leave can conceive the delight which the ap- us in this barbarous way?" cried i; pearance of trees and verdurous fields “ the owners of this vessel would, i theodours of fruits and flowers and am confident, pay any sum rather than the sensations of security and freedom that we should perish through your that arise from treading on the earth, inhumanity:"-"well , mister, i've got produce in the mind, at the termina- owners too,” replied he, “and my busi- tion of a long voyage. every step we ness is to make a good voyage for them. took, seemed to infuse additional vi- markets are pretty changeable just gour into our limbs. our host met now, and it won't do to spend time us at the door of his mansion, and im- talking about humanity-money's the mediately introduced us to his wife and word with me." family, and likewise to several persons having said this, he leaped into the who were visitors at the time. we boat, and ordered his men to row to- were ushered into an airy hall; the wards his own vessel. whenever they window-curtains of which had just got on board, they squared their top- been sprinkled with water and the sail, and bore away, and were soon juice of limes. the odour of the out of the reach of our voices. we fruit, and the coolness produced by the looked at one another for a little time evaporation of the fluid, exerted a most with an expression of quiet despair, and tranquillizing influence upon the mind, then the seamen began to pour forth and made the distressing scenes i had a torrent of invectives, and abuse, recently witnessed pass from my re- against the heartless and avaricious membrance like a dream. we were shipmaster who had inhumanly de- soon conducted into another apart- serted us. major land his wife, ment, where an elegant banquet, and being in the cabin below, heard all a tasteful variety of the most exquisite that passed. when the captain first wines, awaited us. here we continued came on board, they were filled with till evening, and then returned to the rapture, thinking that we would cer- hall. from its windows, we beheld tainly be delivered from the perils and the setting sun, curtained by volumes difficulties that environed us; but as of gloriously-coloured clouds, and shed- the conversation proceeded, their hopes ding a dazzling radiance upon the sea, gradually diminished, and the conclu- which stretched in stillness to the sion of it, madc mrs l give way to horizon. our vessel lay at a lit- a flood of tears, in which i found her tle distance; and when a small wave indulging when i went below. happened to break upon her side, she the mate now endeavoured to en- seemed, for a moment, to be encircled courage the seamen to exertion. they with gems. the dews had just begun eleared away the wreck of the fore-top- to fall, and that composing stillness, the fatal repast. [july, which, in tropical climates, pervades hamians, shewed that the music affect- all nature at such a time, was undis- end their hearts, as much as it delight- turbed by the slightest murmur of any ed their ears. kind. two young ladies sat down to when the night was advanced, we a harp and a piano, and a gentleman retired to sleep-lulled by the plea- accompanied them upon the flute. the sing consciousness of being secure from harmony was perfected by the rich those misfortunes and dangers, to the gushing voice of one of the females of invasions of which we had of late been our party; and the flushed cheeks, and so cruelly exposed. trembling eyelids of the charming ba- on the probable influence of moral and religious instruction on the character and situation of seamen. no. i. “on sundays, divine service was invariably performed, and a sermon read on board of both ships; the prayer appointed to be daily used at sea being altered so as to adapt it to the service in which we were engaged, the success which had hitherto attended our efforts, and the peculiar circumstances under which we were placed. the attention paid by the men to their religious duties, was such as to reflect on them the highest credit, and tended in no small degree to the preservation of that regularity and good conduct, for which, with very few exceptions, they were invariably distinguished.” parry's voyage, p. . few subjects could, we should think, riods of their diversified existence; but come at any time before english read- seem to change their whole character, ers, recommended to their attention by as they pass, with each concluding voy- so many claims and associations, as an age, from the extreme of constraint inquiry into the present situation and to the most unbounded licence, or from character of british seamen, and the circumstances of any sort favourable to degree in which it may be rationally the developement of their good quali- anticipated that both will be ameliora- ties, to others which call forth chiefly ted, by the communication to them of their bad. those advantages of moral and religious such an inquiry too would seem para instruction, the attempt to disseminate ticularly calculated to be useful at the which, among all classes of society, is present moment, when exaggeration is the honourable distinction of the age the foible of the day, and a latitude is in which we live. their intrinsic va- admitted, particularly in speculations lue, as one of these classes, is well of this sort, neither founded, we must known, and highly appreciated by the be allowed to think, in reason nor prudent and politic. speaking of the experience. moral and religious in- men only, and without reference to struction is not merely considered as a their officers, the conscientious should most excellent means for the attain- remember, that having been for the ment of certain definite ends, but its most part impressed into the service of very name is employed as a sword by their country, in as far as they can be which to cut every gordian knot in po considered victims at all, they are the litical disquisition. now, we are far unwilling victims of her temporal in- from wishing to underrate its value; terests. the gay must love a light, but we are assured that delusion is un- heartedness kindred to their own, and favourable to every good cause, chiefly which, in them, danger and difficulty because it is penetrated by some, and are found only momentarily to damp. must therefore be sometimes suspected their almost infantine simplicity on by all. on the present occasion, it will some points, and openness to external not be denied us, we believe, that the impressions on all, should rouse in their human mind, in this resembling inert favour the kindly and compassionate matter, will not, in the main, be oper- feelings of the benevolent. while even ated on per saltum :—whatever the ex- the coldest and most frivolous might ternal iinpulse impressed on it, the ef- be expected to feel some emotion of at fect is progressive according to the cir- least curiosity, when offered authen- cumstances in which it is placed, and tic particulars respecting a race of men the nature of its own constitution, the unlike every other,—who do not even medium along which its simple per- resemble themselves at different pe- ceptions are conveyed, till they become . ) on the character of seameno principles of feeling or of aetion. on one or two explanations are, howe che other hand, we have no warrant ever, still necessary before proceeding. from experience upon which to infer, we live in times when the antipodes that moral and religious instruction is are not more remote than the religious exempt in its operation from this com- professions of different classes of indivi. mon law to which other agencies are duals, one party, in particular, pronoun- submitted ; on the contrary, whatever cing every thing serious to be puritani- opinion we may entertain of individual cal, another, what is not wrought up to cases of conversion, in general its suc- their own pitch, formal and unavail- cess is found to be squared pretty ex. ing. now we are laymen, and have no actly by the favourable or unfavoura- thought of mediating in such strifes. ble circumstances of the case in which non nostrum est ; and we shall usc the it is applied. surely, then, in specula- word religion, therefore, with all its ting for the future on this success, it relatives, uniformly in the intermedi- were wise to take these always into ate signification current with the ge- some consideration, particularly in a nerality of the world, in charity con- department in which, as shall present- cluding that wherever we see its form, ly be shewn, they are more uniform in there also some portion of its suba their nature, and more authoritative in stance will be found. in like manner, their influence, than perhaps in any a diversity of opinion exists in the other. and that is an acceptable ser- same quarters, respecting the necessity vice to the common cause which tends of religious instruction for the eternal to unveil them in a case where the salvation of mankind, one party seem, knowledge of them is necessarily limit- ing to consider, that where opportuni- ed to a few individuals, themselves ties of obtaining it have not been long subjected to their sway, and con- vouchsafed, men's gifts will be recei- sequently, in some degree, unconscious ved according to that which “ they of their operation; and leaves them in have, not that which they have not ; every one's hands to appreciate as he the other deeming its want alone, how is able or disposed. ever involuntary, a penal crime ;-but impressed with these ideas, and our we shall equally avoid this snare, by selves taking a warm interest in the having nothing to do with the other subject, although our estimate of it is world at all, confining all our specula- a sober one, we had almost approached tions to the interests of this. and last- it in our last number, when analyzing ly, we shall do this, however, not so the proceedings and results of the late much because we are laymen, as because north-west expedition; and had, at we think the interests in question inti- one time, marked, with this view, the mately connected, and that it would be passage in captain parry's narrative well for the world at large if the maxim which we pretix to our present paper, were more generally acknowledged, - to be extracted on that oceasion. on and worldly men, when in doubt about considering the matter a little more what was politic, inquired oftener what elosely, however, we saw that it was was right; and religious men, when plainly impossible to do the subject hesitating or differing with each other the least justice in the corner of an about what was right, asked oftener article, already superabundantly long what was useful. there is the highest and miscellaneous; besides which, we authority for such a rule, for we are may add, it was somewhat too compli- expressly told that of men, and by a cated and difficult to be entered on with very slight extension it may be said so little premeditation as we could of measures too, “ by their fruits ye then afford it. we recur to it now, shall know them.” not to mention however ;—thus early, that we may that it seems the very constitution of have the advantage of referring to a our nature, to be first affected by near recent experiment in point, and not motives, and then gradually to become unwilling, besides, to give thus our ab- sensible of those which are more re- stract speculations the advantage of mote; the habitual disregard of which connexion with the events of a voy- principle, on the part of those most zeal- age, over which, we are happy to ob- ous in the cause of religion through- serve, public interest is still disposed out the world, does it more disservice, to linger, after curiosity has passed we are persuaded, than all the oppo- away. sition it is anywhere exposed to, and vol. ix. f on the character of seamen. [july, a by the which in most cases seems to us to exist there has been much exaggeration on chiefly in the imagination of its enthu- the subject, are easily resolvable into siastic servants. a few simple principles founded on the taking the subject up, then, in the circumstances in which they are placed, simplest form which at present occurs and which, never being disturbed by to us, with the anecdote prefixed, as a. any extraneous influence, exercise a sort of text, and the ships' companies far more despotic sway over each indi- of the hecla and griper as average spe vidual in their case than in any other. cimens of seamen in general, the ques they necessarily leave home early, tions to be resolved seem to be the fol before their personal habits or principles lowing :- . what is the philosophy, are matured, and, when they join a so to speak, of such men's professional man-of-war, for the first time, are character under ordinary circumstances cooped up in a very narrow space -what, in particular, the points about with a great number of others, once cir- them, which, being generated by cir- cumstanced like themselves, but now cumstances in which they are neces- fixed in all their professional peculiari- sarily placed, may be considered ge- ties. they are all lodged together, eat neric characters, to be kept steadily in together, live together ; their lives and view in all our subsequent reasoning fortunes set on the turn of the same concerning them ?-ii. among these die, embarked, in their own phrase, in points are there any which furnish in« the same boat; and, from the nature of ternal testimony to the accuracy of their labour, for the most part too captain parry's statements, viz. that heavy to be accomplished singly, de- very little which he seems to pendent for success in nearly all they have done in this way, he actually did attempt on union and combination of convey religious impressions to the effort. they come early to feel them- minds of his people, and that these selves accordingly to be rather parts made them more orderly; or, on the of a whole, than separate individuals, contrary, may the whole be accounted and the impression is further heighten- for on other principles ?-iii. if the ed by the little store set by their con- former, and the same means were yenience, or even lives, when a common deemed adequate to command the object is in pursuit. from this first same effect on all occasions, to what ex- principle a great many consequences tent would a similar, or improved sys- how ;-the remarkable similarity of tem of this nature, introduced into the their habitsand manners;-their regard whole service, and patronized by offi- for each other, and the ship to which cers of all descriptions of character, they belong, equally with themselves even although in many cases it were a part of the machine ;-their general only for the temporal effect, improve disinterestedness, and attachment to a the situation and character of seamen good officer, even though a severe one. whileon board ship? and lastly, how but there is one of more moment than far would its impressions be probably the others, and which we do not re- permanent on them when released collect to have seen before observed. from the immediate sphere of their whatever the impulse, they move un- action ? would they become more pru- der its guidance with the momentum of dent, orderly, and moral on shore also a mass, rather than the force of single through their means, equal on any of individuals. heartening each other on, these points to the average of their they are extreme alike in good and countrymen possessed of equal advan- evil, not their virtues only, but also tages of instruction ? we shall endea- their vices, being kept in countenance, vour to answer each of these questions and encouraged by the example and in their order ; the first now, the re- competition of all their fellows. and mainder as our own leisure may serve, the strictness of discipline maintained and we find ourselves enabled to excite over them, has also some connection or to gratify public curiosity on the with this, for the hand controuling subject. such men, must be felt sometimes on i. seamen have been often deline- the lion's mane. ated, sometimes caricatured, and in this last, however, is rendered ne- both cases for the most part represent- cessary by other considerations, in par- ed in colours apparently licterogeneous. ticular by the constant demand there the truth is, however, that such ano- is in a sailor's life for promptitude of malies as they really do exhibit, for action. were any room leit, on the .] on the character of seamen. issuing of orders, for deliberation on lion to the most perfect good order, the part of those whose duty it was to the next minute apparently forgetful execute them, whether they were right of the extraordinary nature of the or not, in three instances out of four change which they had undergone. in the best might as well be withheld.- consequence of which it has become but its consequences in the formation unusual, and is, we believe, always un- of seamen's character also ramify very necessary, sometimes even inexpedient, widely. their advice never asked, their to separate a crew after such a transi- praise or censure never regarded, their tion. while kept together, all are ac- obedience only required, (and that in' quainted with particulars, all are a all cases more easily, and in many more little crest-fallen, willing to forget the pleasantly rendered, as the hounded whole; or, if they look back at all, bull-dog rushes, with the eyes shut which is neither long nor often, emu- rather than open,) they gradually come lous to retrieve their characters in the to hang exclusively on external im- eyes of their officers. were they se- pulses for motives of action.* hence parated, they would only get telling the readiness with which they, for the their story, aggravated in all its cha- most part, take their tone, as it were, racters, each to a gaping audience, from a superior, fall into his ways, ac- grow boastful in their language, reá quiesce chearfully even with his ca- sentful in their hearts; and not unfre- prices, if, in the main, he has their quently end by putting mischief into respect. hence, too, their dependance, heads, their own among the number, when in misfortune, on the attitude which would never otherwise have con- maintained by their officers, their help- ceived it. lessness when cast on their own re this forgetfulness, however, is itself sources, their reckless submission to a trait of character, and falls next to adversity, and some part of their im- be accounted for. it has its origin in providence in prosperity. and the ob- a circumstance also bearing very wide- servation is still more important, as re- ly on the whole being of a seaman-the' conciling contradictory qualities which changeableness of his life. within cer- have frequently been remarked in them, tain limits every thing is fluctuating -the obstinate determination which about him ; even the little variations they exhibit even after their officers fall, of weather, which pass unheeded over when they are fighting in obedience to the landsman's head, “ who lives at the legitimate authority placed over home at ease,” essentially affect his ar- them, and their extreme pusillanimity rangements and comforts; and many in mutinies, when their ringleaders circumstances, chiefly of internal eco- are either arrested or put to death. in nomy, heighten this effect. no day the one case, the impulse has nothing thus exactly resembling another, a to do with the person of their chiets, sailor lives only for the present mo- unless in rare instances, when these ment, -the past stored up in his mind are singularly confided in, or some dis- merely for gossip, the future altogether trust is entertained of their successors: disregarded ; and some peculiar mo- -it is consequently abiding. in the difications of this are worth adverting other, it is all personal, and vanishes to. he is not revengeful,-he is not at once with the individuals who im- grateful ; we could say that he was ex-" pressed it. and many instances have clusively selfish, were it not that the thus occurred, particularly in the great principles which guide him are so in- mutiny of , of ships' companies terwoven, in this respect there is a passing, with scarcely an interval of sort of grace attached to his selfishness hesitation, from a state of open rebel- which redeems it in some degree from many amusing anecdotes are told illustrative of the extent to which this is carried ; but none more characteristic than the following.--some sailors begging in the streets of london, in the time of the great distress among them, were met by an officer, and asked by him, why, when in such want, they did not enter on board some of the ships in the river, then requiring men ?-“and why don't they press us,” said jack, a little indig- nantly, “ if they want us ? we should be very glad to go, but we can't make up our, minds to offer."' and thus, be it observed with reverence, is the “ wind tempered to the shorn lamb ;” and so beautifully and wonderfully are we made, that the harshest rod of power wielded in our land of freedom, becomes, in certain circumstances, al statt against which the simple hearts of some of the wildest and bravest of us desire to loan ! on the character of seamen. [july, the odinm of the name. the com- critical moment, the revulsionis in munity of feeling, to which we have vincible, and scarcely any exertions are already, adverted, produces this.- above their strength, or success above through its operation, no injuries their attainment. in our last num- or inconveniences personal to him- ber, we noticed an illustration of one self, and covered with even a mis- of these traits of character, in the ship's taken pursuit of the common good, as companies of the hecla and griper; when a man happens to be at any time and the following anecdotes will be unjustly punished, in any material de found to apply to some of the others gree impair the character of a good of- one of our frigates last war, in which ficer in his estimation ; nor is it ever the discipline had been most unjustifi- too late for such an one, should he be ably severe, was at length taken by a come conscious either of individual in- french squadron, after sustaining a justice, or of having acted generally on long and destructive cannonade; and a system somewhat too harsh, to make it was reported and believed, that many all up again without an acknowledge of her crew on the occasion, in order ment, with scarcely an effort, with to insure her capture, fired only pow- the more ease, in fact, that he has been der from their guns, indifferent to all previously more severe. the memory the passions that usually dictate a of former harshness does not prevent most opposite conduct, and which, the effect of present moderation, and on the contrary, unless minutely it operates as a warning against abusing watched, cram them with three or it. on the other hand, no series of four shot, upon a principle not much personal favours from a novice are ever wiser, nor less dangerous to themselves, regarded at all; and even from the than poor sachouse's“ plenty powder, best officer in existence they will not plenty kill."*-when the grasshop- prevent desertion, if a sufficient temp- per, of guns, drove across the haak tation is at any time held out to sun- sands, on the coast of holland, in der other ties. and thus it is in every december , an old pilot on board thing: a sailor's experience contri- expressed his fears in the most vehe- butes to his enjoyments, and the na- ment manner. at the same moment, ture of it frequently gives him influ- a young scamp, the first lieutenant's ence with his comrades. it will some servant, who was flogged generally times serve him also as a guide, when once a-week for something or other, no passion interferes with it. but it came flying up the hatchway in his never supplies him with a motive; for shirt, terror in every feature, and ask that he always looks to the present ed an old boatswain's mate, if there hour. was any danger." danger ! no; bless seamen's spirits are at all times elas- ings on your gallows face, no dan- tic, provided that, in the main, they are ger of drowning where you are,” was well treated and provided for. under the scoffing reply. the ship’s com- ordinary circumstances, they will dance pany, generally, stood suspended be and sing at a moment's notice-be their tween the two extremes; but the ne- pint with their messmates, even when cessary steps, as required, were imme- themselves at the instant indifferent diately taken, and they ultimately bem to the gratification-and they curvet haved very well. the only man losty readily, and even gracefully, under the it was afterwards observed, (for sail- hand which they know to be that ators are always superstitious,) was the once of a master and a friend. but, if pilot.-and when the conquistador, harshly treated, they are sullen; if un- of guns, got on shore on the coast skilfully commanded, restive and as of france in - , and appeared in suming ; if involved in imminent and the most imminent danger, the crew unexpected danger, skittish, and sin- decidedly flinched at first. but the gularly dependant on the countenance late lord william stuart, who then maintained by their officers on the oc- commanded her, called them aft, and casion. if they flinch, they are gone, told them, "he believed they were in and no scene can equal in disorder a scrape, but it could not make much that which ensues; but if they are firm, difference to them whether they dial or gay, or, above all, eccentric at the like men or like children, and he there- * ross's voyage, p. . .] on the character of seamen. fore expected they would do their du- happening, and a certain feeling of un- ty." his lordship was a severe, and even certainty is accordingly unavoidable. unpopular officer ; but the effect of this and although skill and prudence can address was quite electrical, the most avert danger, they cannot remove it incredible exertions were made, mi- quite out of sight. while, therefore, its nute discipline observed, and the ship, several forms become familiar and un- in the end, brought into an english heeded, the precautions which its vi- port in a sinking state. cinity renders indispensible, impose on board of all ships, a sailor is fed many an irksome and weary restraint, byhis employer; and, in a man-of-war, for which some indemnification is where alone any regard is had to qua- sought in the wildest frolics, during lity or uniformity of dress, although the brief intervals of enjoyment and cloathed at his own ultimate expence, repose. if he has been extravagant, and cannot danger, barely kept at arm's length, purchase with ready money on shore, necessarily involves hair-breadth escape he can obtain credit on board for this from it ; and, in consequence, there is purpose only, to nearly the amount no idea more thoroughly imbued in of his current wages. in this way, no sailors, than that of a particular pro- excess or prodigality of which be can vidence" a sweet little cherub that be guilty, immediately receives its ap- sits up aloft, to keep watch for the life propriate punishment in the shape of of poor jack."-we are desirous of distress ; and he naturally acquires the speaking to this point very directly, habit of squandering on all occasions, because we believe a good deal of mis- to the full extent of his present means. apprehension exists respecting it. a he can always" go on board for more,” sailor's religion is darkened by his ig- as the old song has it; and the fag norance-degraded by some tradition- ends of old songs, which, by the way, al superstitions--and ħis habitual reck- always preach up prodigality,* are a lessness and impetuosity precipitate sailor's proverbs, and go much farther him frequently into profanity. but with him, than is very easily conceiva- the embryo sentiment is still there, and ble by those who are ballasted with scarcely waits, on many occasions, for more lore. his pleasures are coarse, an external impulse to evolve it. in its partly because he knows no better; present state, it is accompanied with but in a great degree, we apprehend, that particular respect for the modifi- because his time is short, and better cation of christianity professed in his cannot be summoned and dismissed own country, which exhibits itself in with quite the same facility. such as respectful neglect of its forms, and vi- they are, they are enjoyed with an in- tuperation of all others. no man hates tensity, of which it is difficult to ex- popish or idolatrous superstitions more press the degree, but most easy to as- cordially than does a seaman ;--ac- sign the causes.--although the sea is cording to that most singular law of not certainly now a very dangerous our nature illustrated, our readers will profession, the improvements of art recollect, with much humour, in one and science having submitted its chief of the papers of goldsmith's citizen difficulties to very tolerable calculation, of the world, which makes us, on cer- still some casualty or other is always tain points particularly, tenacious about in truth, the source of their influence, cause and effect reproducing each other. come counsel, dear titty, don't tarry, i'll gi'e ye my bonnie black hen, gif ye will advise me to marry, the lad i lo'e dearly, tam glen.-burns. + prepare the feast ! free is his heart, who for his country fights ; he, in the eve of battle, may resign himself to social pleasure sweetest then when danger to a soldier's soul endears the human joy that ncver may return. we do not say that these sentiments are right-only that they exist. .) on the character of seamen. condescend to pity him in this world, thus no charge of his individual des- and presume* to condemn him in the tiny, scarcely any sense of his indivi- next, on their account. yet still, we dual existence, because he is, and, repeat it, he is a fool and a child, with were he wise as solomon, and happy all these advantages,-or rather, we and pious as mr owen or his still should say, just because he has them, better friends could wish him, if his - because the details of his character country is to have his services at all, are filled up by circumstances over he must remain, the puppet of an- which he has no control.-because he is other's will, the nursling of another's secluded from the lessons of prudence care, neither guided nor protected by and virtue which are read in the pages his own. of vicissitude directly consequent on e. his own conduct,-because he has o but man, proud man, drest in a litle brief authority, most ignorant of what he's most assured, -like an angry ape, plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven, as make the angels weep. measure for measure. letter to lord byron. this is a pamphlet worth attending nothing can be more absurd than his to, not so much for its matter, which church of englandism, except his is rather on the order of trash, or its chrestomathia, -that his book on re- style, which is something absurd, but form in parliament is a concern hard- for the author, and the singular ver- ly less stupid than his late affair on satility he has displayed in writing it, juries,-and so on; but we still con- and the great improvement so old a tend for it, that his age accounts for gentleman has made in his manner of all; and that he is no more to be composition. in some of our own blamed for committing such books, writings,- for really we are almost the than for carrying a stick, or using a only people worth quoting now-d- pair of spectacles. nay, it is only last days, we have remarked, with per- tuesday three weeks that we betted a fect propriety, that as a man advances supper for fourteen that jerry had in years, he grows old. nobody, we originally some small talent-saysome- innagine, will be hardy enough to de- thing about the calibre of christian ny that-no, not even major cart- curwen—which we illustrated by his wright. we followed up this ingeni- book on usury, a work bearing marks ous remark by stating, that no one of intellect far superior to the pro- could be reasonably blamed for doing duction of an average edinburgh re- so, and that, of course, it would be viewer. we added, also, that when rather unjust to say a word against a he could get anyone like dumont suffi- man for occasional dimness or offus- ciently learned to understand the ethi- cation of mental faculty, arising from opic tongue, in which he speaks and this natural defect. we, therefore, writes, he really produced something have always defended to the utmost of on legislation or cookery, we forget our power the present jeremy ben- which, not hastily to be despised by a tham. every where we hear bim call- man whose studies did not extend ed an old woman—as if old women much farther than the morning chro- were not a respectable portion of so- nicle. in fact, we said more in his ciety-a driveller, a dotard, and other praise than we perhaps would have opprobrious expressions, which really said before dinner, and went so far as is very unfair. we allow, indeed, that to give it as our opinion, that if he + letter to the right hon. lord byron ; by john bull. (jeremy bentham, esq. london, wright, ). it is hardly fair, by the way, for mr bentham to endeavour to sell his pamphlet by assuming the naine of that very clever paper which he is con- stantly censuring. letter to lord byron. (july, left off writing politics and such mat. fair fellow. ha, ha, my lail! contra ters, with which we all know he is no dict us again if you dare.” our friend more acquainted than alderman wood read over the book with rather a grave is with polite literature, and took up aspect, and, on finishing, said that he some other subject, he would prove could not agree with us, for he thought that he was not altogether a jack-ass. it as stupid as the reform catechism, the bet was accepted on the spot, and and would hold that he had won. and in the morning, though we forgot the this article, my dear public, is not entire circumstance, the other party written for you, because you have not took good care to remind us of it, by seen the pamphlet at all, but for the shewing us the thing fairly entered in private satisfaction of our antagonist, his memorandum book, in a hand not and for the promotion of the great particularly regular, yet far too legible cause of the supper. for our peace of mind. we repented you may think, my dear old lady, our rashness, and made many a vain that we are going to panegyrize the attempt at hedging off, but we could book out of a selfish motive, with, as not get a man in edinburgh to bet. the cockneys would say, a down-look- we even went to the shepherd himself, ing, out-breathing emotion towards and were considerably mortified by his sundry eatables and drinkables; but instantly exclaiming="hout, man, far from us be so foul an impulse. what, bet that that bentham chap is decent trencher and bottle men though no a jack-ass ?-na, na! daft i may we be, yet justice is paramount, it be, but no that gomeril neither.” we rides rough shod over our souls. ami- plainly saw we were laughed at, and cus plato, amicus socrates sed magis could not help sighing when we con- amica veritas,-orrather, amicus veni- sidered the fourteen voracious anthro- son, amicus claret, sed magis,&c. and pophagi who would infallibly be pitch- at once we shall give an extract from ed on, blessing our stars that o'dogh- the pamphlet, which, though an ama- erty was out of edinburgh, however. zingly shabby attempt at wit, is not sad visions of departing coopers of altogether so abominably absurd an claret, in endless succession-of cour, affair as you commonly find jerry ses demolished-of broken glasses, guilty of when he attempts to be and, worst of all, of the tremendous jocose. it concerns dr watts. bill staring us in the face, made us ra- “ there is, for example, a most lum. ther melancholy, and we were under bering goth in the literary gazette, who that feeling when we wrote the moum- has been trying to prove that you are the ful adventures in the havanna in our most extensive and the most impudent of last. god forgive us!instead of thinking plagiarists. in order to establish this, he of the scenes we so pathetically painted proves against your lordship about the there, our inmost mind was turned five-hundredth part of what might be pro- upon mr oman's head-waiter, whom ved by any man of the smallest learning we already anticipated calling on us against any one poet born since the death with a bill—“supper for ," and his of homer; and of what any man of sense master's compliments, requesting that living in homer's time (if indeed there ever it should be discharged as soon as con- was any such person as homer) could, i venient. treacherous civility! doubt not, have proved with equal success against old homer himself. two things, this pamphlet, however, relieved however, there are, which this theban has us. glad were we the morning it proved in a most satisfactory manner in- made its appearance in edinburgh. deed : and these are his own base igno- our bet was won. here is a pamphlet rance, and his still baser envy. it is clear on poetry by jeremy bentham, that is that your adversary has never read almost actually in half a dozen places intelli- any poetry at all: for he blames your gible, and, though absurd enough in lordship most bitterly for copying things all conscience, yet a fair step above from scott, wordsworth, and so forth, special juries. in a triumphant mood which any boarding-school miss that has we shewed it to our friend. “you are read the elegant extracts could have told beaten,” we exclaimed, “ beaten hol- him had been copied by them from the low! let us have the supper to-night-at turies which any eton lad, again, could english poets of the two preceding cen- oncemquam primum-or rather put it have traced to greek and latin- and any off a day or two-it would be shame if puppy that has spent a year beyond the o'dogherty was not at it--we intends alps would have taken a pleasure in shew- ed sending for him if we lost-he's a ing him, over and over again, embalme! ) letter to lord byron. in that beautiful dialect, of whose beauty we have omitted by-battles with no english writer (since gray) appears to quarterly reviewers, and somewretch- lave had the real feeling but yourself, i ed creatures in cockaigne, that we say nothing of the absurdity of the whole might not make our summary too much idea. there was a man, -as you know, like the house that jack built ; but so (though our goth does not,) who tried to persuade the world that sterne had stolen stands the affair : and we give it as our all his wit from burton. one thousand decided opinion, that mr bowles has and one attempts have been made of the beaten his lordship of byron, and mr same kind long ago, and forgotten ; and campbell himself, the sweet, the beau- here is one more which will be forgotten in ful poet of gertrude, hollow out of due time, that is to say, in another week. the ring; but we do not wish to enter so much for his ignorance ; his envy, it is into the controversy here. jerry he did more difficult to understand. your lord- not hear of, or he would have blown ship writes for the literary world, bim away with a puff;- but we shall and he writes for the literary ga- converse a little with the ancient zette ; and both of you are accepted. bencher of lincoln. what would the man have ? is he not satisfied with his elevation ? is he already book, that the primum mobile of the lord byron said somewhere in his like the macedonian, sighing for new conquests? oh! most insatiable and it. world now-a-days is cant,-a truism, rational of appetites thy name is ambi, in proof of which we should not de- tion !” sire a finer specimen than his own dear lordship. on this hint jerry spake,- slain art thou, pride of gothland ! and he has mumbled it over and over mowed down in the flower of thy youth with the garrulous mumping of old by the ass jaw of jeremiah! alaric is age. he has got hold of a good thing, massacred! and our bet is won. as he thinks, and keeps it in his trem- we shall analyze the pamphlet, bling hands with a comical air of dot- however, in a little more regular way. age. every body, according to him, -the history of the controversy to is a canter; for instance, mr wilber- which it refers is an interminable force, who appears to be honoured by affair. the mere statement of it has the hostility of every good-for-nothing all the horrible appearance of a sorites, scribbler in the nation, is put forward or an old fashioned eighteen-story- as " nothing but cant," a mere avatar high-house in the old town. briefly of that great deity. this is amusing it is this for a page or two, but we get tired with . mr bowles wrote a book upon seeing an old man making an ass of himself through sixty-four pages, all . mr campbell abused mr bowles's in the one ragged and beggarly strain. book on pope. true it is, there is a little variety of . mr bowles wrote an answer to wretchedness, but not sufficient to be mr campbell's abuse of mr bowles's even amusing ; and marks of age are book on pope. visible in every paragraph, as we shall . lord byron wrote a letter to prove in a short time, by a brief yet certain stars in albemarle-street, in regular chain of argument. answer to mr bowles's answer to mr st, then, his mind is evidently campbell's abuse of mr bowles’s book wandering ; for he begins with an on pope. allusion to lord byron's controversy . jeremy bentham, esq. wrote a let- with mr bowles,-then gets into some ter to lord byron about lord byron's maundering upon humbug,—then falls letter to certain stars in albemarle- foul of the goth,—then, a propos street, in answer to mr bowles's an- des bottes, brings in doctor southey, swer to mr campbell's abuse of mr (whom, by the way, he most inso- bowles's book on pope. lently, and in defiance of the uni- . mr bowles wrote an answer, not to versity of oxford, calls mr,) words- jeremy bentham, but to lord byron's worth, lambe, lloyd, coleridge, &c. letter to certain stars in albemarle - then sails back to lord byron, hauls street, in answer to mr bowles's an- him up and down for a few pages, swer to mr campbell's abuse of mr then wanders to the quarterly, -then bowles's book on pope. to the opus magnum, then to the pope. need we say what this is ? no: small will his discernment be, who will not in- stantly recognize the magazine. vol. ix. g letter to lord byron. [july, edinburgh, my grandmother, and you ever hear any thing more ridicu- other ancient works,—then, recollect- lous than this from a stupid pam- ing himself, waddles back to lord phleteer, my public? the old gentle- byron and don juan again, &c. but man's upper story must be a little there is no use in going through the damaged. theodore hook and jeremy rest of the rambling. this, then, is bentham! unless, perhaps, he meant the first mark of the brains being gone. hook and i for a pun-for , every body must have observed, gentle dullness ever loves a joke. that elderly gentlemen very often do not distinguish themselves by a chas- enough of this. we could easily tity of discourse, or a temperance of multiply examples, but there is no idea, as much as might be expected. need. the powers of enjoyment of pleasures th, old age in general dims the may be gone, but the pruriency re- feeling of poetic beauty. it is so in this mains; and they delight in recurring skimble-skamble stuff. the antedilu- to joy which they now cannot taste. vian lawyer, as cobbett calls him, can just so with the aged author of this see nothing in southey but a mere lau- pamphlet. he has the face to praise reate receiving butts of sack-in lamb the chevalier de faublas, a book which nothing but a clerk of the india house, a gentleman would be ashamed to p. —in wordsworth nothing but a name; and of all lord byron's books, stamp-master, p. - - .-and it is the only one he likes is don juan; and evident that his reverence for lord by- the poor old fellow strongly urges his ron and sir w. scott, arises in no slight lordship to continue the “ filth," (to manner from one being a baron, and use his own word, page ,) of that the other a baronet, p. .-such in fact indecent poem, merely to gratify his would we expect a priori. what could jaded appetite ; and as spain and other an old jurisconsult, occupied four fifths foreign parts do not afford scenes suffi- of his life in fighting about the uncog- ciently stimulant for his english sto- noscibility of common law and other mach, recommends him to continue such parchment-smelling topics, and the poem in england, raking up all living in a garret overlooking hyde- the dirty stories he can get, for the park, the very region of the anti-ro- amusement of this sage elder. it cer- mantic-know of wordsworth? not a tainly is a modest request, to ask his whit: mr jeffrey himself would have lordship to turn pander to the warm more chance of coming to a true percep- speculations of his unasked correspon- tion of the real beauties of that greatest dent-but there it is in the book. of our poets. perhaps, however, our d, vanity and garrulity about self, reformer's antipathy to southey, lamb, is of old set down as a strong charac- or wordsworth, arises from the circum- teristic of age, and our antediluvian stance of their receiving salaries, that, shews both qualities in no small de- we know, being in his mind a most un- gree. speaking of wordsworth and pardonable crime. we recollect read- the lake poets, he says, “you and i ing in some of his strange books a ti- may have a right to laugh at them,” rade against burke, of whom he re- page . you and i! lord byron and membered nothing, but that be receiv- jeremy bentham! o tempora! o ed a pension, (though, in the book be- mores! let us look again-perhaps fore us, he does make rather an igno- we mistake. no, no ; indeed we do rant allusion to his writings, p. ),- not. there it is in black and white. and against pitt, of whom nothing was you and i may have a right to laugh recorded in the tablets of his memory, at wordsworth? why, jerry, my dear but that he died some thousand pounds - fellow, in every thing that constitutes in debt. and it is precisely this ate a great poet—in all the higher ele- traction to money, that renders him ments of mind—in all the powers of peculiarly unfit for writing on poetry. .musical language-lord byron him- christabel he values in proportion to self is as inferior to wordsworth, as the sale, p. —admires jeffrey's ta- your penny trumpet is to a violoncel- lents, because he kept wordsworth lo. but the poor man does not under- poor, p. —advises lord b. to write stand this : so we pass his assurance tragedies to make money,—and speaks with a sigh. most handsomely of sir w. scott, on again, “theodore hook and i would account of the length of his purse. take pains upon our farces," p. . did this we might have made a th proof .] letter to lord byron. of old age, which is the season of ava- let this suffice to prove the super- rice; but it is not worth while. annuation of the author ; but still we again, thly, a defective memory in must assert, that it shews some pluck very old men, frequently makes them in so awfully ancient an old woman to repeat over and over what they have attack a young lord ; and some consi- said; and people of discernment can- derable improvement, to be able to not fail to have perceived that when- write nearly three, or even perhaps four ever such seniors get any incoherent intelligible pages. we therefore are sounding jabber into their heads, that it much obliged to jerry of lincoln, and is next to impossible to keep them from we flatter ourselves we shall play a an incessant repetition of it. there are handsome knife and fork in his honour many instances of this in the little to-morrow evening. book before us. we shall give one the various sins of ignorance staring only, for dinner is waiting for us, and us in the face in every page, we did of course we must hasten to finish this not think it worth our while to notice ; article as soon as possible. in his church for, indeed, if we wished to give them of englandism, he had this sentence: in detail, we should have transcribed “come forward, dean kipling—come nine-tenths of the book, which would forward, dean andrews come for- be rather a defilement of our valuable ward, bishop burgess-come for- pages. the elder, for instance, ima- ward, bishop marsh-come forward, gines that aristophanes and xenophon bishop howly—come forward, arch- were not contemporaries—(p. ;)— bishop sutton, &c. and this silly mode and in that same page, as we cast our of iteration of names, has so complete- eyes over it, we see another proof of an- ly tickled the old fellow's fancy, that tiquity, in his observing, with a kind we have it in page again. "now of superstitious awe, that shakespeare tell me, mrs goddard-now tell me, and cervantes died on the same day, miss price-now tell me, dear har- as if that were any thing to the pura riet smith-now tell me, dear, dear pose. age certainly weakens the mind mrs elton,” &c. this is a mere defect in a great degree. and page con- of memory. he forgot that he had victs him of not knowing any thing ever used the phraseology before, and about the great poets of the day, for the chime was still singing in his ears. he accuses the lake poets, and par- but he is not to be pardoned, how- ticularly southey; at whom, indeed, ever, for making such a public use of he raves throughout, with a most amu- people's names. poor miss price is so sing degree of decrepit fury-of never much annoyed at being put down as a quoting sir walter scott, which shews reader of don juan, that she has writ- that the old gentleman has never read ten us a long and rather ingenious let- --to give one instance out of many- ter on the subject, in which she com- roderick the goth, in which beauti- plains bitterly of this conduct, and ful poem sir walter's vision is quoted adds, that the other ladies are particu- with deserved applause. where, how- larly yexed on the occasion. her let- ever, is the use of giving any more spe- ter is rather too prosy for insertion; cimens of such ignorance ? -a few ob- but we shall, perhaps in next number, servations concerning ourselves, and we give mrs goddard's lament, beginning are done. with, he says, and truly enough, that our worthy publisher, mr blackwood, re- " little i thought the wide world was to fused to pollute his shop by the sale of all through the means of you, mr jere. it would be rather strange, that he the indecent poem, don juan. indeed my; never a woman, i'm sure, was more bo- should vend what its publisher, mur- ther'd, sir, ray, was ashamed to acknowledge as than your humble servant, i, mrs god. emanating from his house. we see no dard, sir,” &c. reason why albemarle-street in lon- don, should boast a purer current of we can, however, comfort the poor feeling than the street of princes in lady, who, it would be superfluous to edinburgh. but as there is, in almost say, is a poetess out of ireland, by as- all human actions a mixture of motives, suring her, that so far from the wide we may as well tell all the truth at world hearing of the transaction, it is once, as it will be the best way for mr only known to about seventeen indivi- blackwood himself, who has been hor- duals. ribly laughed at by some of our witty hear o' me, letter to lord byron. [july, friends, for squeamishness. he is much from our pen, except a few verses, call- troubled of late with the gout, (for ed don juan unread, which were writ- the man is growing enormous rich up- ten by doctor scott of glasgow ;) and on this magazine) and was under a we assure you, my public, that it was most agonizing paroxysm in his ancle after discussing three bottles of as good when don juan was sent to him from claret, as ever left the banks of the london. the pain was so violent, that garonne. besides, it was on a thurs- he imagined his final dissolution was day evening, so that it could not be approaching ; and, like mr cayenne in said that we were hot from kirk ; the annals of the parish, thinking it nor, indeed, do we at all frequent the the duty of every loyal man in these churches of the scottish establishment. times to die in a christian like fashion, this proves how erroneous this old he became as devout as possible. in gentleman's information has been ; but this frame of mind, many things struck we rely, for all that, on this very pas- him in quite a new point of view, and sage, to prove that his mental faculty he could not help feeling some scruples is not quite gone. his being able to of conscience for having published perceive that don juan is decidedly the salt-foot controversy, the poem inferior to us, and his knowing that of fleurs, and such like unpardonable publication in our pages is immortali- books. under these circumstances, ty, is proof enough in his favour,- and desirous of making some atone- though perhaps it may be said that ment, he determined not to sell the they are truths too obvious to escape don. it was, we think, a commend- the meanest capacity. it is evident, able feeling, though we fear that, however, that he knows nothing of our when the twinge abated, he had some mode of conducting the magazine, or thoughts of putting the book on his he could not have imagined for a mo- counter. he resisted it, however, - ment that we would admit such a work and this is the plain statement of the as don juau into our columns, parti- case. how jerry got a hold of it, we cularly when we are in the daily ha- cannot even guess. with respect to us, bit of refusing much superior produce he is under a mistake, as we shall ex- tions. in fact, every thing must be plain. first-rate for us. of our castigation “ had lord byron, sent don juan, of don juan, we are proud, and laugh with five hundred thousand million times at the vapourings of lord byron, who more of the devil about him than he really says he will answer us. if he do, we has exhibited, to that illustrious character shall annihilate him in the twinkling christopher north, esq. with a request to of a bed-post. have the don inserted in his magazine, lives there that being with wit enough to so much for this pamphlet, on which keep him from putrifying, who doubts the we should not have dilated, were it not great kit would have smiled a sweet for the supper depending on it. we smile, and desired the right honourable think we have proved, that though this guest to ascend into the most honourable pamphlet is the stupid production of a place of his upper chamber of immortality ? crazy old woman; yet that it is more this is clear enough ; and then came the intelligible, and not altogether so asi- redoubted magazine itself. a set of too nine as chrestomathia, which was all rigid moralists meet in a tavern, and after we betted. our friend, we know, will being gently refreshed with tobacco smoke succumb to our opinion ; and then we and whisky punch, they cry out— well, anticipate a most glorious evening: - then, so be it; have at don juan. upon what a repast we shall make of it: a table all round in a current of religious what a deep dip into the claret! feeling, and by men hot from kirk, and what—but no more, breathing nothing but piety, furious para- graph after furious paragraph is written visions of oman, crowd not on my soul ! against a book nearly as clever as if they had written it themselves." with this comfortable hope, we bid now we are hardly too rigid moral- adieu, with the best feelings, to mr ists, though we did revolt at don juan. bentham ; but we shall remember the and mr bentham must be ignorant of fright he threw us into, and shall ne- our manner of living, if he thinks that ver again be guilty of the folly of bete we ever sit down to review any work ting on him. this time, we are quit we care about, over whisky punch. we for the fear; but who knows whether have an accurate recollection of writing we ever should have the same luck those very articles; (all of them coming again? (july, the lothian ball, or the widow's cow. . true, genuine, innate courage is not this; not animal ferocity which dares do aight commanded, proper or amiss ; the man who thus achieves in common, shares boldness that makes the vilest reptiles hiss, the fierceness of the cannibal who spares nor age, nor sex-it is a tiger's roar, in battle terrible-but 'tis no more. . the courage which is most to be commended, is that display'd by virtuous men alone; by such men danger ne'er is apprehended; they fear it not from a reforming stone thrown by a radical—howe'er intended ; by yeomen constables 'twould be unknown; and in a duel, or in warlike field, the virtuous man 'gainst danger has a shield. . yet even this is not the courage wanted in owning what is quizzical or sly, we must assume a face and mien undaunted; and, when in turn we find some piercing eye regarding us, and wishing us supplanted, we should at once send back its scrutiny. those only who can thus withstand a railing, should dare to touch upon a neighbour's failing. . but, for my story, -while i thus am prosing, i'm working you into an awkward trim, as well as much good ink and paper losing, much more, you'll say, than to a foolish whim should be devoted; for i am supposing your visage has become most wondrous grim; if not, you'll think this opening bodes some fun, and will, in that case, say,–well done! well done! . “ pale death,”-so horace wrote in times of old, “ relentless seeks the cottage of the poor, “and, with a knock as insolently bold, approaches to the royal palace door.” but this equality wont always hold; because its consequences are felt more when death gives some poor cottager a twitch, than when death seeks the mansions of the rich. . had death, for instance, sought, on this occasion, the well-fed herd of thrillingham's good lord, 'twould not have caused such direful perturbation, nor would such lamentations have been pour'd; nor would there have been such sad consternation, nor would the loss have been so much deplored, as when grim death, from whom there is none free, attack'd the cow of poor old dame magee. (july, the lothian ball, or the widow's cow. . i've said she was a widow-that's a reason, if any should be wish'd, why she preferr'd her cow to sympathy, which friends did please on this sad event to yield; for, 'tis averr': that widows always know the way to season this life with comforts, and have seldom err'd in settling which of two things is the best ; as widows--but we'll let such questions rest. . besides, the widow had been long attach'd unto this very cow-it was a calf when first she had it; and she then had watch'd its youthful frolics—often would she laugh to mark it, when its crib had been unlatch'd, burst scampering forth as swiftly as the chaff from andrew mickle's famous thrashing mill: you once liked similes- i do so still. . attachments such as this may be despised by those brought up in fashion's heartless school; for fashion hath strange practices devised, and sanctions them by many a stranger rule ; and those so rear'd may doubtless be surprised to find it possible there lives a fool so great, that he can have a partiality for cows, or calves, or any one reality. . one good attending fashion is, it knows just whom and whatsoever thing it pleases, and though it may perhaps some pleasures lose, it has its off-sets-nothing ever teazes fashion's true votaries; and even those, who are but half-enroll’d, obtain'd releases from being influenced by such silly notions as warmth of feeling, or youth's soft emotions. . for my part, i've no terrors in confessing i am of the old school-when i was young (no doubt, for this i'll get a precious dressing from some enchanting modern-fashion'd tongue, but yet that's not a reason for suppressing my honest sentiment) it would have wrung tears from mine eyes, and still it grieves my heart to see how fashion can men's minds pervert. . and, having been thus rear’d, i often feel a something of surprise, if not disgust, when to a beauteous cheek i make appeal, and find, instead of heart, mere fashion's crust; then do i turn in sorrow, on my heel, and sigh to think that mankind are but dust, their faces but a shining piece of clay, with hearts as callous as their smiles are gay. .]. + the lothian ball, or the widow's cow. . such worthies may esteem it singularity; and some may, sub silentio, deem it wrong; and some may think it springs from my vulgarity; and some may censure me in language strong; while others, seeing that it is a rarity, and different from the ordinary song, may, though they do not mean to be uncivil, as a quietus, wish me at the devil. . so let them! but their wishes can't destroy the feelings of attachment which connect my heart with early scenes of grief or joy ; the devotee of the most phrenzied sect will find success his keenest pursuits cloy, . ere i grow tired of trifles which reflect my days of boyhood—these retain a power o'er all that passes in the present hour. . oh, lothian ! notwithstanding i have wept to see the changes which have taken place since first i knew thee; though thou now art stripp'd of many charms which lent thee then a grace above all other lands; though time hath swept thy fairest hopes, and left so slight a trace of early joys, that those which now we find but make us feel how few remain behind ! . though such thy state, oh, lothian! yet to me thou art more dear than all the world beside! where'er my steps may wander, still with thee my warmest, best affections will abide; and whether, in this life, my lot shall be to meet with sorrows, or in peace to glide, still! still, dear lothian ! wheresoe'er i roam, my heart will turn to those i leave at home. . but i resume my tale :- where'er 'twas known the widow had this woeful loss sustain'd, a shade of kind solicitude was thrown o’er every brow—there scarcely one remain'd unmoved by the sad story:- , alone, my calm, dispassionate, self-command retain'd,- while tears coursed fast the cheek of mrs white, and jessie bloom was seen in mournful plight ! . i pray thee, christopher, stare not at this,—. i say the beauteous mrs white shed tears when this was told her !-oh! methinks, to kiss that trembling tear away, and soothe her fears, for the poor widow, would have yielded bliss above all rapture !-for there's nought endears. a face so much, as when a witching eye is thus bedimm'd with tears of sympathy. vol. ix. hi july, the lothian ball, or the widow's cow. . i do not say i saw the lady weep, or that i heard the smiling jessie sigh"; it was not possible to get a peep, (and yet i sometimes am a little sly,) at every face, when the affliction deep was first made known.-and, though i ne'er could spy, that care had left on either's brow a cloud, i cannot doubt what others have avow'd. . such, then, the wonderful extent of grief diffused through lothian, for the widow's woes; but time, whose soothing hand can bring relief for ev'ry ill that round poor mortals flows, had scarcely ta’en one step, when, oh! how brief their sway ! two fleeting days beheld the close of lothian's lamentations, and again had mirth and thoughtlessness resumed their reign. . but, there was one in lothian, in whose heart compassion never hath been waked in vain.- and when he heard that death had burld his dart at the poor widow's cow, he felt the pain her loss would cause the widow.-to impart relief was then his wish; and how, again, to get another cow, of the same kind, became the object that engross'd his mind. . there's surely nothing in this world engages th' attention of mankind so much as money : to rail at it, fills up the time of sages; to keep it, that of misers; and the funny, in spending it, find that its power assuages a host of life's vexations. ---tis a honey more potent far than any balm of gilead, or cordial made since homer wrote his iliad. . this generous friend, then, knowing well the power of money, was determined to administer some to the widow.-but, as sugar's sour in shape of physic given, he thought, should any stir be made about it, that her brow would lower, and render her as cross, as though some sinister intention were afloat:-so now, to hide his purpose, and yet do her good, he tried. . i am not bound minutely to relate, ev'ry particular about this ball; and, therefore, 'tis enough for me to state, that this same worthy friend resolved to call together a few friends, and then debate (men well agreed need scarce debate at all,) with them the most befitting, when and how, for raising cash enough to buy a cow. [july, the lothian ball, or the widow's cow. . this was the whole affair-and was so plain, that any evening would have been becoming for such a worthy purpose ;—but, again, the matter was discuss'd- and then a humming, and next a silence ensued-then a train of ifs and questions-next there was a thrumming of fingers on chair-backs and then a glance that 'twould not be amiss to have a dance, . this open'd a new field; and it was hinted, that dancing would suit better than a walk; and soon 'twas found the mover that way squinted. then for the day--a very little talk determined saturday and when so printed, all would be settled ; nothing that could baulk their expectations of a happy party appear'd in view, and all were now most hearty. . but when the tickets reach'd young mr tait, and he perceived that saturday was fix’d, his consternation was extremely great; and some small spice of discontent was mix'd with his surprise, that it should be his fate to be concern'd; so that day, or the next, he, very properly, a message sent to the prime mover, with this sentiment. . the message reach'd the mover on his way, one sunday morning, to the parish church; and 'tis not going too far, when i say, the thought of being thus left in the lurch, produced a something, quite as grave as gay, upon his noble brow,-a little starch was also in his manner very visible, which would, in other men, have made me risible. . why, what in others would have been absurd, did not appear so when display'd by him, can never be made known. if others heard my reasons, many eyes, which now are dim, would then distinctly see; and ev'ry word which now i write, and every little whim which may hereafter be in lothian shown, would as the scribbling of my muse be known. . i, therefore, nean no farther now to tell, than that the message to the mover came, when within hearing of the parish bell ; and such its influence, that he scarce could frame an answer, which he thought was suited well to shew his feelings, without casting blame, and this he did not mean, on mr tait; he only grieved the message came so late ! .] the lothian ball, or the widow's cow. . it was a pity, so the mover said, cold water in this way the scheme to throw on; but truly, it ne'er came into his head, that it could tend to any harm-and so on; he thought it was not likely he would lead his friends to sinning. but the ball must go on ! when he was young his ploys had ne'er miscarried, and this one shouldn't—though he now was married ! . you'll think, no doubt, that such a conversation was not much suited to produce devotion; and so thought i; but, in this pious nation, the worthies seem to have a different notion. the sabbath here's a day of recreation, and it would cause a horrible commotion, if either you or i should dare to say, such subjects more became another day. . about the dance then all were gay as crickets ; but, in a little time, a pause ensued, and, while thus passing through one of the thickets, which any one may find in thrilling wood, a lady's voice said, “ have you got the tickets?” i heard not the reply, but understood the worthy mover had ta'en proper care of all the business that fell to his share. . i cannot tell what others may have thought, when thus the gentle lady made her speech ; they have more prudence, and i also ought to suffer past experience now to teach my muse some wisdom; for she oft hath brought my heart and judgment within censure's reach. yet, knowing this, and though i'm not too godly, i can't help saying that it sounded oddly. . and odd it surely was; but much i fear you'll think it something worse than odd, if i continue thus to claim the public ear, to trifles such as lothian charity: but such, oh christopher ! both far and near thy influence, that whate'er we chance to spy, within thy pages is consider'd good, and presently becomes the public food. . so, lest we by our good things cause satiety, we'll pause a moment, and if you think' fit, we'll, ere next month, by way of a variety, endeavour to prepare another hit at lothian manners ;-for you know, propriety in writing nonsense, as in spouting wit, consists not so much in avoiding levity, as in that greatest of perfections—brevity. end of the first epistle. [july, stanzas on the death of napoleon buonaparte. stanzab, on the death of napoleon buonaparte. the knell hath toll’d, and the mighty hath gone to the dust, like a thing forsaken ; no more shall the dread napoleon at the summons of fame awaken! thou did'st not die on the tented plain, with thy martial legions round thee; but a captive, girt with the gnawing chain, in which the nations bound thee! thou did'st not fade, like a lightning flash, when thunder-clouds bend lowly; thou did'st not sink, like a torrent's dash; but silently pined, and slowly. a hundred battles were fought and won ;- tens of thousands fell beside thee; and thine eagle soar'd, with its eyes to the sun, as if all but success was denied thee. thy name did sound a watch-word of fear,- a spell, like the earthquake and thunder ; the nations did crouch, as thy banners drew near, in the depth of amazement and wonder ! the sceptre fell from the regal hand; and liberty saw but one token in europe, the seat of her ancient command, that her sway was resistless, though broken ! 'twas in britain the stedfast heart did remain, through the terrors and tempest of danger, that the patriot glow'd, while he scoff’d at the chain, that was forged for his neck by the stranger. 'twas to britain the iron-bound captive gazed, when thraldom's low dungeon he enter'd; 'twas in britain the bulwark of freedom was raised, and the hopes of the earth were centred. for the swede, all unnerved, did succumb from fight, the italian lay down by his fountain, the bright star of prussia was clouded by night, the switzer had fled to the mountain: the austrian struggled, yet bow'd to the yoke, and muscovy trembled before thee; till frost, like a giant, the talisman broke, and withering ruin came o'er thee! still the warrior's power was but subdued for a season-more strength to gather ; then forth to burst, like a torrent renew'd, to spread like flame o'er the heather. and all was vain,-had not wellington coine, his charger to thine opposing ; when waterloo echoed the trump and drum, and thy hosts with his were closing. .] stangas on the death of napoleon buonaparte. then did the star of thy victories set, and night's black cloud came o'er thee, and thy fate, all boastful and bright as yet, to a human level bore thee. shame to the bard who would raise his voice, one hostile feeling to cherish; shame to the briton that dare rejoice, when the fallen and mighty perish. for thou did'st rise 'mid summer's skies, like an eagle all sunward soaring ; and thou stood'st the shock, unmoved as the rock, when adversity's storm was roaring. the vision by moon-light. it was a calm serene evening. i and extract light from darkness, after had marked from my window the glo- having groped my way through the rious descent of the summer sun, be- mazes of his pathless labyrinth to no hind the lofty mountains of fife and purpose, i laid him again on his dusty stirlingshire ; and observed the glow- shelf, that the spiders might be no ing tints of crimson and purple which longer withheld from re-commencing he had infused into the long vista of their operations, and weaving a fresh hovering clouds, gradually evanishing plexus between him and the super- and dying away, leaving the mass of incumbent board. then laid my a pure unilluminated white. the hand on albertus magnus, “ de vir- whole expanse of the frith of forth tutibus herbarum, lapidum, et anima- lay stretched out before me in sunless lium quorundam libellus. item de majesty, silent and waveless, as if the mirabilibus mundi, ac de quibusdam rebellious spirit of the waters had effectibus causatis a quibusdam anima- yielded themselves to the dominion of libus.” from the misty metaphysical the genial season. an almost imper- atmosphere of the high dutch shoe- ceptible breath of land-wind, at inter- maker, i found myself at once trans- vals, moved the massy foliage of the ported into the regions of scholastic garden trees that clustered around, and pedantry, superstition, and credulity. beneath me; from the topmost branch i was taught the indisputable truth, of one of which the blackbird poured that the stone asmodus brought to its out to the still eve, her clear and me possessor the power of overcoming lancholy, and melodious anthem. wild beasts, interpreting dreams, and a long summer day had passed over prophesying, that it neutralizes poi- me, and yet my morning slippers were sons, and teaches us the solution of all still on my feet. such is the life of a riddles, even though propounded by book-worm. i had dosed hours away the sphinx himself. that the cryso- over the pages of coleridge's cloudy lite stuck into one ear drives out fool- and incomprehensible friend, jacobus ishness through the other, allowing behmen, seu teutonicus philosophus; wisdom to take up its lodgings in the and could with difficulty catch now empty tenement of the brain. that a and then a glimpse of meaning in the cord made of the dried hairs of a dead “ signatura rerum, or the signature ass, rubbed over with the marrow of all things, shewing the sign and taken from the right shoulder blade of signification of the several forms and the same, and placed above the thresh- shapes in the creation, and what the hold, will make those that enter ap- beginning, ruin, and cure, of every pear to have three heads. and that thing is; it proceeds out of eternity the only cure for drunkenness is, to into time, and again out of time into throw a parcel of small serpents into a eternity, and comprizeth all mysteries," vessel of wine, letting them die there, &c. &c. at length, finding that i and make the person to be cured drink could not overcome impossibilities, thereof: if he takes a good draught, the vision by moon-light. (july, we are assured that he will loath wine thence deriving the thread of fate for a year at least, and most probably which is to await the march of kenman for the remainder of his days. life. i thought of these, and of in- i next laid my hand on cardanus, numerable other subjects, all equally when, as i was reaching him from his pregnant with mystery and disappoint- place, i received a summons to tea, ment, all equally indicative of the as- and notwithstanding my incurable pirations and energies of the human thirst for reading, i must own without mind, and of their misdirection and any grievous symptom of displeasure, futility. i tacitly laid him up again to enjoy i had sat dreaming with my eyes his slumber, pregnant with uncom- open for a considerable time; how municated mysteries. when i re- long i know not ;-and it is of little turned to my apartment, i found that consequence; but i now perceive that my appetite for study had evaporated, the moon-light stealing o'er the scene, and that i had quite enough of indi- had blended with the tints of eve; gestible matter on my stomach to suf- fice me for one day. the vesper chime the song of the blackbird had ceased; was ringing ; the long lines of crimson an azure shade hung over the bosom light broke in through the western of the sea, and over the sides of the window; and stretched at “ listless amphitheatre of hills, though their length" upon the sopha, i gazed out summits seen in the clear mirror of at the purpling and serene beauties of the northern sky were distinctly visi- nature ; and could not help drawing ble in the dark outline. i hastily an invidious comparison between the started up, threw off my slippers, ever-varying, erring, cloudy, perplex- yawned heartily, and prepared myself ed, and vague speculations of human for a solitary moon-light saunter. intellect, and the simple, sublime, and slapping the door behind me, i unchanging beauty of the external strayed on for a quarter of a mile, till world. i thought of the philosophy i gained the margin of the river, and of the ancients, and of the deep intri- the long avenue of oak, elm, and beech cacies of thought and language, which trees, that shaded the pathway. there the wise of old expended in their en was a delicious coolness in the air, and deavours after the solution of mys- an unclouded glory in the blue sky, teries, which remain yet wholly un save a few fleecy specks, above which intelligible. i thought on the max- the moon shewed her silver majesty; ims which had been laid down and and not a sound was to be heard save acted upon in far distant ages of the the river, that with a low, still mur- world, with a divine magnanimity, mur, wandered glistening over its and persevering steadiness; all of pebbly bed. i now stood motionless which have been proved by celestial leaning on my cane, and gazed on the revelation, to be erring and nugatory. tall green water-lillies with their bright i thought of sages, who had worn out flowers, standing almost erect in the a long life in self-denial and contem- juttings of the stream, where the sur- plation, for the establishment of their face was calm and unruffled ;-on the doctrines and dogmas; and of those willow boughs that leant over the tide who suffered banishment and death in and made a break in the running wa- their promulgation. i thought of the ter, with their long hoary, pointed magi and the soothsayers, wildly clad leaves ;-on the soft natural howers, in their flowing mantles, with their the daisy and the dandelion, and the pointed caps, and white rods of divin- harebell, that grew in countless pro- ation. of the alchemists in their fusion around, and shot up their va- subterraneous laboratories, surround- riegated heads beneath the dark and ed with mummies, and monsters, and broad-leaved mallow. now turning, dried serpents, with meteoric stones, i cast my eye over the verdant lawn, and metallic ores, and alembics, re- bounded by its young plantation of torts, and crucibles, diving into the firs, that raised their dark spiral tops arcana of nature in search of some airy on high ; and against the relief of the phantasy, the philosopher's stone, or heavens, appeared like a countless the transmutation of metals. of the multitude of spears : here the syca. astrologers watching from the balcony more spread a broader bough, and the aspects of the heavenly bodies, and threw a deeper shade ; there the deli- . ) the vision by moon-light. cate birch-tree scattered its depending sky; i gazed on it as on " & beauty tendrils, and round the stems of the and a mystery,” careering the pathless huge oaks in the centre of the park, depth of heaven, and making earth a the cattle were reclining; and the scene worthy the abode of celestial in- gentle footfall of the steed was at in- habitants. tervals heard as he tardily moved about, well might i say as thomson does not yet satisfied with his evening re- of the region in which he has placed past. his castle of indolence, i moved on till i arrived at an an- tique wooden seat in the shelter of a “a pleasant land of drowsyhead it was ;” wide-spread hawthorn bush, destined for i had not remained gazing and for the refreshment of the traveller. i musing above half an hour, mid the threw myself upon it and gazed around sounds and the sights which me; all was still, and almost unearth- “ yblent inclined all to sleep," ly beautiful. my mind was raised to a state of excitement little short of when the poppies of morpheus began poetic inspiration. i heard the bay of to nod over my forehead, and those the watch-dog from the distant farms; visions haunted my brain, which pass, and save the murmur of the stream, at eventide, before the half shut eye !" and the casual rustle of the leaf, all was in a state as of a deep sleep; all now i thought myself in fairyland, was quiet as an enchanted fairy region. and beheld the gambols of the tiny the moon was now far up in the wide elves, which the belated peasant sees, or dreams he sees, while overhead the moon sits arbitress, and nearer to the earth wheels her pale course; they on their mirth and dance intent, with jocund music charm his ear, at once with joy and fear his heart rebounds. now, i imagined myself in an uninhabited world, where life was a thing of the past, and where inanimate beauty alone presides. now i thought myself on a desolate rock of the ocean, gazing upon the silver planet, and wondering if the friends of early years might not now be likewise fixing their eyes on its beauty. at length, overcome with reclining, musing, imagining, feign- ing, dreaming; with the softness of the air, and the magic of the moon-shine, i fell into a deep sleep, and had the following fantastic dream. methought a person wrapt in a long mantle stood before me; and, pointing with his finger to the wide waste around, exclaimed in a wild impussioned tone, « how beautiful is night! a dewy freshness fills the silent air, no mist obscures, no little cloud breaks the whole serene of heaven: in full orb'd glory the majestic moon rolls through the dark blue depths. beneath her steady ray the desart circle spreads, like the round ocean, girdled with the sky, how beautiful is night! who at this untimely hour wanders o'er the desart sands? no station is in view, no palm-grove islanded amid the waste." i looked at him, wondering; and lo! the scene was changed; for i beheld the long level plain almost destitute of shrubs, and circled round by the cloud- less twilight sky. not far distant a tent appeared ; and while my attention was fixed on it, through the opening of the door-curtain i could distinctly perceive some moving figures; and while i attentively perused them, the pera son beside me again broke forth. vol. ix. .] the vision by moon-light. “ the moon is bright, the sea is calm, the little boat rides rapidly across the ocean waves; the line of moon-light on the deep still follows as we voyage on ; the winds are motionless ; the gentle waters gently part În murmurs round the prow. i look above, i look around, the boundless heaven, the boundless sea, the crescent moon, the little boat, nought else above, below.” he then resumed his seat, and resting his brow upon his outspread fingers, we sailed on in silence. but now a wonder struck me; the little boat which, as if by instinct or hidden impulse, had traversed the deep, "without an oar, without a sail,” had expanded into a large vessel ; and when the person by my side lifted up his head, i observed a complete metamorphosis, his countenance, his voice, and his dress being wholly changed. he did not appear to observe me; and leaning his back against the railing of the quarter-deck, he pensive- ly sung: “ sweet moon ! if like crotona's sage, by any spell my hand could dare to make thy disk its ample page, and write my thoughts, my wishes there ; how many a friend, whose careless eye now wanders o'er that starry sky, should smile upon thy orb to meet the recollection, kind and sweet, the reveries of fond regret, the promise never to forget, and all my heart and soul would send to many a dear-loved distant friend. even now delusive hope will steal amid the dark regrets i feel, soothing as yonder placid beam pursues the murmurers of the deep, and lights them with consoling, gleam, and smiles them into tranquil sleep! oh! such a blessed night as this; i often think if friends were near, how we should feel, and gaze with bliss upon the moon-bright scenery here ! the sea is like a silvery lake, and o'er its calm the vessel glides gently, as if it fear'd to wake the slumber of the silent tides ! the only envious cloud that lowers, hath hung its shade on pico's height, where dimly, ʼmid the dusk, he towers, and scowling at this heaven of light, exults to see the infant storm cling darkly round his giant form!" he then looked me in the face, politely bowed, and stepped down to the captain's cabin to have a rubber at whist. another person of tall stature, and younger in years, who had been at the poop of the vessel looking into the wa- ter, as i thought, stood upright; and pointing to the full-orbed regent of the night, passionately said, " i lift my eyes upon the radiant moon that long unnoticed o'er my head has held her solitary walk, and as her light .] the vision by moon-light. ferent from that which had so sweetly spoken. “have not i sung his mar- vellous voyage? here is part of the song :- the sun's rim dips, the stars rush out, at one stride comes the dark; with far-beard whisper, o'er the sea off shot the spectre bark. we listen'd, and look'd sideways up; fear at my heart, as at a cup, my life-blood seem'd to sip! the stars were dim, and thick the night; the steersman's face by his lamp gleam'd white; from the sails the dews did drip; till clombe above the eastern bar, the horned moon, with one bright star within the nether tip." there was a strange wildness, mingled with a poetical fervour, in his lan- guage, which made me involuntarily start from him. “o do not discomfort yourself,” observed he; "we shall soon be at home again; for behold, yon- der is the kirk, and the ancient village, and the harbour, and all the well- known objects which we have often dreamed about during our adventurous and awful voyage, and which we dreaded never more to feast our eyes upon. but our infatuation has been cured, and sadder men, and wiser men, we'll rise to-morrow morn." in an instant, methought we were landed in a beautiful wooded region, in- terspersed with mountains, rivers, and lakes; and, with a stranger of a sublime, contemplative appearance, sauntered leisurely up to the top of a green emi- nence. “ who would imagine," he observed, “ that in this beautiful and see rene night, the voice of battle, and the breath of stormy war, and violent death, should haunt and hang over this seeming peaceful region? but true it is, that from cloudless ether looking down, the moon, this tranquil evening, sees a camp, and a beleaguer'd town, and castle like a stately crown, on the steep rocks of winding tees; and, southward far, with moors between, hill-tops, and floods, and forests green. the bright moon sees that valley small, where Řylstone's old sequcster'd hall a venerable image yields of quiet to the neighbouring fields ; while, from one pillar'd chimney breathes the silver smoke, and mounts in wreaths. the courts are hush'd; for timely sleep the greyhounds to their kennel crcer ; the peacock in the broad ash tree aloft is roosted for the night, he who in proud prosperity, of colours manifold and bright, walk'd round, affronting the day light. and higher still, above the bower where he is perch’d, from yon lone tower, the hall-clock, in the clear moonshine, with glittering finger points at ninc. the vision by moon-light. (july, ah! who could think that sadness here had any sway? or pain, or fear? a soft and lulling sound is heard of streams, inaudible by day; the garden pool's dark surface stirr'a by the night insects in their play, breaks into dimples small and bright; a thousand, thousand, rings of light, that shape themselves, and disappear almost as soon as seen.”- “ bless me!" exclaimed a young man of a noble aspect, that stepped from behind us; " that is much finer than i could possibly have conceived your milk-and-water genius capable of producing. i am ashamed of having said some contemptuous things of you, to whom i am under more actual obligation than to any other person alive. the beautiful description you have just given us, vividly recals to my mind the recollection of an evening, which still holds its place in my mind as the bridal of the earth and sky, and which i have endeavoured to give to the world in the lines which i now recite to you. i was at that time romantically wandering through foreign climes ; it was during the days of my ardent passions and youthful fervour; and, as i gazed on the dis- tant towers of corinth, i could not help feeling a yearning after the magnifi- cence that had passed away, and perished from the earth, and yet which was sacred to mankind in general, by inany holy, and to me, by many classical re- collections. 'tis midnight:-on the mountains brown the cold round moon shines deeply down; blue roll the waters; blue the sky spreads like an ocean hung on high, bespangled with those isles of light, so wildly, spiritually bright. who ever gazed upon them shining, and turn'd to earth without repining, nor wish'd for wings to flee away, and mix with the eternal ray? the waves on either side lay there, calm, clear, and azure as the air; and scarce their foam the pebbles shook, but murmur'd meekly as the brook. the winds were pillow'd on the waves ; the banners droop'd along their staves; and, as they fell, around them furling, above them shone the crescent curling; and that silence was unbroke, save where the watch his signal spoke; save where the stecd neigh'd oft and shrill, and echo answer'd from the hill. and the wide hum of that wild host rustled like leaves from coast to coast, as rose the muezzin's voice in air, in midnight call to wonted prayer; it rose, that chaunted mournful strain, like some lone spirit's o'er the plain: 'twas musical, but sally sweet, such as when winds and harp-strings meet, and take a long unmeasured tone, to mortal minstrelsy unknown. it seem’d, to those within the wall, a cry prophetic of their fall: it struck cven the besieger's ear with something ominous and drcar, .] the vision by moon-light. an undefined and sudden thrill, which makes the heart a moment still, then beat with quicker pulse, ashamed of that strange sense its silence framed; such as a sudden passing bell wakes, though but for a stranger's knell. you have had enough of it, i presume. i see by your looks that you are both tired of me. my hours of inspiration are the only tolerable ones i pass on earth. popularity is an idle breath. disappointment and pain accompany me, whatever i do, and wherever i go; then farewell, a word that hath been, and must be ! the gales of foreign seas shall expand my sails, and the soil of distant climes shall bear my footsteps. i shall wander amid the ruins of ancient magnificence, and indulge my heart in melancholy musings ! pooh! do you think me such a spoonie? how do you like this, pray? and especially you, seignor grave face? oh, mirth and innocence! oh, milk and water ! ye happy mixtures of inore happy days! in these sad centuries of sin and slaughter, 'abominable man no more allays his thirst for such pure beverage. no matter; i love you both, and both shall have my praise. oh, for old saturn's reign of sugar-candy! meantime, i drink to your return in brandy.” methought that the graver of my companions looked at the younger and more volatile, with a sorrowful, but forgiving eye; as if he pitied, yet admi- red; as if he saw it was in vain, yet wished to expostulate with him. i fore- saw that some altercation would ensue; so i stepped forward, that i might not be thought to overhear their altercation. there was a fine clump of oak trees before me; so i endeavoured to get to the other side of them. i had just turned down the little avenue which they formed, when i was accosted by a most melodious voice. “is not that a most beautiful landscape beneath our eyes ?" it said ; a moon-light reflection of paradise !" i turned to the speaker, and expressed my agreement with him in his remarks. “yet it is the scene of a melancholy tale," he continued ; “and yon distant rock, which commands a view of the sea, is the nocturnal haunt of a poor maniac; yes, hark! the wild maniac sings, to chide the gale: that wafts so slow her lover's distant sail ; she, sad spectatress, on the wintry shore watch'd the rude surge his shroudless corse that bore; knew the pale form, and, shrieking in amaze, clasp'd her cold hands, and fix'd her maddening gaze. poor widow'd wretch ! 'twas then she wept in vain, till memory fled her agonizing brain; but mercy gave, to charm the sense of woe, ideal peace, that truth could ne'er bestow; warm on her heart the joys of fancy beam, and aimless hope delights her darkest dream. oft, when yon moon has climb'd the midnight sky, and the lone sea-bird wakes its wildest cry, piled on the steep her blazing faggots burn, to hail the bark that never can return; and still she waits, but scarce forbears to weep. do you love a good song?” he abruptly ejaculated. “i have only a very few of them, but they are select. two or three good are worth a dozen of indif- forent ones. the vision by moon-light. [july, 'twas the hour when rites unholy calls each paynim voice to prayer ; and the star that faded slowly, left to dews the freshen'd air. day his sultry fires had wasted; calm and sweet the moon-light rose ; even a captive's spirit tasted half oblivion of his woes. a lazy fit has seized me; i can't go on; but i will probably give you the remainder afterwards, if you remind me. but if you wish to hear something at present worth your while, step down to the river bank opposite yon gothic castle. a magician who wanders there will shew you the wonders of the place." i obeyed his injunctions, and proceeding to the bank, i beheld a tall figure in the attitude of listening; his shadow was dark on the ground; and as i neared him, he held up his hand, as a signal of silence, at same time, beckoning me to approach him. the scene was picturesque, wild, romantic beyond description. the large tall trees threw around a black intensity of shade, and the dark overhanging mountain banks obscured the bed of the ri. ver, which rushed on with a deep, low, hollow sound. a wildness glanced in the magician's eye, as we caught the first sounds of this unearthly dialogue. river spirit. sleep'st thou, brother? mountain spirit. brother, nay:- on my hills the moon-beams play, from craikcross to skelfield-pen, by every rill in every glen, merry elves their morrice dancing, to aërial minstrelsy; emerald rings on brown heath tracing, trip it deft and merrily; up, and mark their nimble feet! up, and list their music sweet ! river spirit. tears of an imprison'd maiden mix with my polluted stream; margaret of branksome, sorrow-laden, mourns beneath the moon's pale beam. tell me, thou who view'st the stars, when shall cease these feudal jars? what shall be the maiden's fate? who shall be the maiden's mate? mountain spirit. arthur's slow wain his course doth roll, in utter darkness round the pole ; the northern bear lowers black and grim; orion's studded belt is dim; twinkling faint, and distant far, shimmers through mist each planet star. ill may i read their high decree ! but no kind influence deign they shower on teviot's tide and branksome's tower, till pride be quell’d, and love be free. the sounds then suddenly ceased, and we stood together for some time, breathlessly silent, in the pale moonlight; but nothing was to be heard but the rush of the river. “we may now depart,” said the magician, “ for we .) the vision by moon-light. shall hear no more. is not this a beautiful night? it strongly reminds me of that in which thomas the rhymer set out on his pilgrimage to fairyland." « the elfin harp his neck around, in minstrel guise he hung; and on the wind, in doleful sound, its dying accents rung. then forth he went, yet turn'd him oft to view his ancient hall; on the grey tower, in lustre soft, the autumn moon-bearns fall, and leader's waves, like silver sheen, danced shimmering in the ray ; in deepening mass, at distance seen, broad soltra's mountains lay.” here the delightful verse was interrupted by a voice that shouted to my conductor from a knoll not far distant. i observed a person rapidly approach ing us. " it is all to no purpose," he exclaimed, as soon as he got within distinct hearing. “one might lie and wait there till doomsday, before any of the green-coated people would favour one with a peep at their revels. i am certain it was not always so, as many creditable old people of my acquaintance can attest. but old things have passed away, and everything has become new. i would not be surprised, if, in the course of another twenty years, the people were to doubt of the existence of ghosts, witches, or even brownies, altogether. but we must take things as they go. it is full time that we were all in bed, for bee the bright morning star, day's harbinger, comes dancing from the east. the watch-dog rests with folded eye beneath the portal's grey festoon ; the wilder'd ettrick wanders bye, loud murmuring to the careless moon. the warder lists with hope and dread far distant shout of fray begun; the cricket tunes his tiny reed, and harps beside the embers dun. was that the blast of bugle, borne far on the night-wind, wavering shrill? 'tis nothing but the shepherd's horn, that keeps the watch on cacra hill. what means the warder's answering note ? the moon is west, 'tis near the day ; i thought i heard the warrior's shout, 'tis time the abbot were away! the bittern mounts the morning air, and rings the sky with quavering croon; the watch-dog sallies from his lair, and bays the wind and setting moon. 'tis not the breeze, nor bittern's wail, comes tushilaw and all his men.' he here broke short; we heard the secret expedition. but instead of tu. sound of innumerable tongues, the shilaw and all his men, what was my low, the loud, the shrill, the hoarse, surprise to see a motley crowd turn the the musical, the discordant, which i corner of a walk full in front. there thought shewed a great want of genee was no possibility of retreat, so we ralship in the border chief when on a were forced to abide the storm. good vol. ix. k .] the embalmer. no. . late all works of modern tongues at to be meddling with the kings and once into ancient;-a dead language, emperors of hebrew accentuation- as my lord byron very properly re- with zakeph-katons, telisha gedolas, marks, in his late gossiping pamphlet, schalschelets, and other grim-titled being the only immortal thing in this little flourishes. and if the thing were world. by this means we should em- to be done at all, it should be done ma- balm our authors; and i intend to soretically; for í look on the anti-ma- take upon me at once the office of sorites to be complete whigs (i.e. very embalmer general, in which ca- contemptible persons) in literature. pacity i may perhaps appear at the with respect to greek, it is a very fit coronation, and offer the king a mum- language. we all remember porson's my case, as an appropriate homage fee. elegant translation of three children the works of our poets-for our prose sliding on the ice; and i have read writers i leave to dr bellendenus- two or three neat versions of shake- will, i trust, be preserved by my pre- speare, done by cambridge men for the parations, at least as effectually as bo- prize founded by him. god save the dies are by the antiseptic drugs, or king, too, has been done for the class- gross unguents of sir everard home, ical journal passably; and mr cæcilius or that most magnificent personage metellus has given the commencement william thomas brande, esquire, se- of john gilpin so well, in the same pe- cretary to the royal institution, and riodical, that i wish he would finish it; chief concocter of that highly amusing after which, he might try his hand at and agreeably authentic miscellany, the celebrated imitation of cowper's the quarterly journal of science. philosophical poem, lord byron's ma- it may be said, that translations al- zeppa. i was inclined to follow these ways fall far short of the original, and examples, but it most unluckily hap- sacrifice numberless graces. perhaps pened, that in the very first poem i this is true of all other translators now took up, i had occasion to look for the extant; but in my particular case, all precise signification of a word begin- that i am afraid of is, that i may ning with omega, which i wanted to beautify the original too much, and use; and not being quite satisfied with that the charms of my style and com- stephanus's interpretation, i am obli- position may make the readers of my ged to wait until i see the opinion of translations apt to value inferior pro- the new thes. on the point, which will ductions too highly, from the beauty delay my greekish intentions, until of the amber in which i shall enwrap somewhere in the year . latin, them. for instance, i translated å then, being all that remained, i have song by willison glass the other day, commenced operations on agrand scale. and i passed it on the bailie, a man of vincent bourne, honest dear fellow, letters you know, for tibullus. how- has done a great deal already in that ever, as in such cases the originals will way, but i shall soon surpass his la- perish, the world will be the better for bours. having my versions in their place; i was dubious, too, with respect to and a regard to the general interest of the metres, whether i should only use mankind ought to pervade the breast those of ancient rome, or conform my- of every good and benevolent person. self to the modern versification. there i had some doubt as to what lan- are great authorities on both sides. dr guage i should patronize. hebrew is aldrich translated by far too crabbed to write, and is, be a soldier and a sailor, side, lying under high professorial cen- a tinker and a tailor, &c. sure. i understand, indeed, that a gentleman in italy has translated the into latin of similar structure with the satires of horace successfully into english, and dr petre has done chevy- the language of zion; and that it is chace in the same way. many infe- capable of beautiful and harmonious rior names might be also adduced. the melody, every body who has read the objection to it is, that latin lines to pathetic dirge, in your thirty-eighth english tunes, are as much out of number, by the vice-provost of trini, place, as english lines of latin form. ty, college, dublin, must acknow- but that objection, not more than bare ledge. but, in spite of all this, a man's assertion at best, whatever might have fingers get horribly cramped in jot- been its weight formerly, is of no avail ting and dotting. it is tiresome work now, since the splendid success of the .) the enibalmer. no. , # the protestants of drogheda have reason to be thankful, that they were all preserved that day, though they were but a handful. in veteris pontis vico, julique calendis atrox pugna fuit, morientia millia campum sternebant: sonitum horribilem tormenta dedere. in medio spatio tendebat rex iacobus, posset ut ex acie subducere longius, * autem igniferos jecit glandes gulielmus in hostem, exussitque statim flammis tentoria cuncta. flumen transivere equites tormentaque primum, his instant pedites; dux schonenbergius acer, dum transit, vitam deperdit in amne bubinda. strinxit mox humerum gulielmi glans ab hibernis ; nil nocuit, quanquam de regis morte timerent. sint protestantes drohedæ super omnia læti, quod parvi numero, salvi tunc marte fuerunt. iii. groves of blarney.t the groves of blarney they are most charming- blarnæi nemoraš sunt jucundissima visu. but i prefer the next verse. 'tis lady jeffries, that owns this station, like alexander or helen fair; there is no lady in all the nation for emulation can with her compare. she has castles round her, that no nine-pounder can dare to plunder her place of strength, but oliver cromwell he did her pummel, and made a hole in her battlement. jeffrisa castellum regit, perpulchra virago, par et alexandro pulchræ helenæque simul, "i fear i may have misunderstood this line-the original being rather obscure something like sir r. phillips's common sense † blarney certainly is a most interesting part of the world. its famous old castle “the statues gracing this noble place in"_its charles the twelfth, &c.—the various stories connected with it but, above all, its celebrated stone, render it highly worthy of public attention. the stone is on the top of the battlements of the castle, and is bound with iron ; being struck, as it is mentioned in the above quoted verse, by a can- non shot, when oliver cromwell attacked the place; but we believe the story of his be- ing there rests on rather weak foundations. any person who kisses that stone, is pri, vileged to talk blarney all his life ; and many a gentleman we have seen from ireland who has proved the efficacy of the ceremony. it is said, but the doctrine is not quite so authentic, that a dip in the shannon gives the privilege of never blushing while in the act of committing blarney. certain specimens, however, have come under our no. tice of ingenious irishmen, who, all unbaptized, were quite free from the sin of chan- ging complexion. blarney (not the place, but the thing) is quite a distinct affair from humbug, as lexicographers must well know. its fame is widely extended all over the world, as it was the only english word that the king of abyssinia was acquainted with, as you may see by salt's travels. would mr o'fogarty, on his recovery, favour us with an article on the place of his nativity ? c. n. nemora- a long by cæsura. see dr carey. . the embalmer. no. i. one of king james's chief commanders, now lies the food of crows in flanders. ohone! !. patrici sarsfield, decus mirantis ternes, cui tonitru simili cernere usus erat: jacobi heroas quo non præstantior inter, belgarum corvis mortuus esca' jaces. eheu! vii. on john, duke of marlborough, by doctor evans. here lies john, duke of marlborough, who ran the frenchmen thorough and thorough ; married sarah jennings, spinster, died in saint james's, and was buried in westminster. hic jacet dux marleburiensis, qui gallos secuit tanquam ensis, virginem duxit jenningiam saram, mortuus jacobi ad regiam claram, sepultus ad stephani martyris aram ! i must apologize for introducing a supernumerary line, and also for bring- ing "regiam claram” rhythmi gratia. both practices, however, are justifiable by high poetic authority in this and other countries. viii. conclusion of the epitaph on henry, duke of grafton, bon oy charles ii., killed at the siege of cork, .*. yet a bullet of cork it did his work, unhappy pellet! with grief i tell it, it has undone great cæsar's son ! a statesman's spoild ; a soldier foild; god rot him who shot him,- a son of a -it i say no more. here lies henry, the duke of grafton!, sed glans corcensis stravit, miserabile telum, heu ! natum rapuit cæsaris egregii, excelsum pariter vel bello consiliisve :- cædentis manus occupet atra lues ! dispereat scorti soboles.--nil amplius addam. hic sunt henrici graftonis ossa ducis. shot by a blacksmith, who turned out, quoth the cork remembrancer, from a forge in the old post office lane, as he was crossing the river lee. the place where he fell is called grafton's alley. the epitaph is taken from a book published in , called poems on affairs of state, &c. vols. it is written by sir f. s-d, + there is a pleasant equivoque here. we are left in the dark whether this oppro- brious name is applied to the blacksmith, or the duke, of whom we know it was quite true. verbruggen, the comedian, cracked a similar joke on the duke of saint albans, which i believe is in joe millar.' i have endeavoured to preserve the equivoque. the embalmer. no. i. [july, ix. on robin hood.* underneath this little stone, lies robert, earl of huntingdon ; he was in truth an archer good, and people call's him robin hood. such outlaws as he and his men england never will see again. [alcaics.] paryo robertus hic situs est comes huntingdonensis sub lapide obrutus; nemo negabit quam peritus, missilibus fuerit sagittis. vulgo vocatus robin-a-hoodius exlex in agris vivere maluit, in anglia nunquam roberto vel sociis similes videbis. *) x. on str daniel donnelly, c. .* underneath this pillar high, lies sir daniel donnelly; he was a stout and handy man, and people call’d him buffing dan. knighthood he took from george's sword, and well lie wore it by my word ! he died at last, from forty-seven tumblers of punch he drank one even. o'erthrown by punch, unharm'd by fist, he died unbeaten pugilist. such a buffer as donnelly, ireland never again will see. hic jacet sub columnâ stratus, daniel donnellius eques auratus ; fortis et acer ab omnibus ratus, plagosus daniel cognominatus, eques a georgio fuit creatus, ornavitque ordinem equitatus; quadraginta septem trucidatus, cantharis punchi hic est allatus; potu, non pugno, ita domatus, cecidit heros nunquam æquatus ; hiberniæ insulæ quâ fuit natus vir talis non erit posthac datus. manum quod aiunt de tabula. enough of these. i strongly recommend any poet who say about four degrees above matu- wishes for immortality, to take advan- rin's universe -- which, i hope, is not tage of my recipe. i am ready to trans- too much. as for your own work, late for any gentleman at a fair and christopher, i know it will live through reasonable rate. nor shall i be over ages everlasting; but do you think hard in requiring any conditions from that readers in the will be able him, except that there be a slight de- fully to comprehend its admirable con- gree of intelligibility in what he writes, tents, through the natural obsoleteness in percy's reliques. + from that great work “ blackwood's magazine,” no. xxxviii. # more antique for domitus. ) the embalmer. no. . of the tongue in the space of ten cen- did, that very article (the têtema-tête) turies? i shall do your verse parts for was executed in a respectable style; you into most augustan latinity; and but his latin, after all, is commentato- i promise, old parr will be able to rial. • again, offering myself to your give your prose pretty fair effect. in service, the hour's tête-à-tête, you observed i remain, that the latin translation of your work dear christopher, at leyden is rather lumpish; and in yours, most sincerely, spite of it's editor's long pamphlet in mummius, defence of his latinity, i am inclined glasgow, july , . to agree with you, though, to be can- • to-morrow morning we expect our friend to breakfast, and we shall then talk over the matter. for our parts, however, we do not see any chance of our ever becoming obso- lete. in fact, we consider ourselves as having fixed the language c. n. the steam-boat. responsive notices to correspondents. we have endeavoured as much as possible to satisfy the objections of our port-glas- gow correspondents. none can regret more than we do, that mr duffle should have said so much about their highly respectable town and steeple ; but our friend mr b- may rely upon't that we shall attend to his suggestion. indeed we have requested the author to spare them for the future. our systematic abhorrence of every thing that may be considered personal, has indu- ced us to suppress mr duffle's account of the party with whom he dined at greenock, although we must confess that our readers suffer by our rigid virtue in this instance, for it was by far the most humorous sketch that we have yet received of local manners and parochial self-importance. the description of “ the funny man that made the punch," is inimitable. particular friends may have a peep in the back-shop, but the article is too spicy for the public. we are at all times obliged by the hints of our correspondents ; but really mr colin m.kempock of gourock hits a little too hard. in his former letter, and we gave it all due acknowledgment, he seemed possessed of more urbanity than on the present occa- sion. as for the facetious mr buchannan bogle of glasgow, we can only say, that we never wished for any thing more earnestly, than permission to publish his letters. they will do credit to his learned and manufacturing town. do pray, mr bogle, allow us to insert the last. nothing in english literature can exceed your description of the confabu- lation between you and mr sweeties in the sample-room ; where bon mots are as plenti- ful as coffee beans, and wits as various as the skantling of a cargo of rum, to say no- thing of heads as well filled as cotton bags. our personal friend and correspondent, mr c of liverpool, need be under no anxiety. should there be any thing calculated to wound his feelings in mr duffle's ac- count of that town, it will, out of our particular respect for him, be assuredly sup- pressed. the steam-boat. no. v. voyage second, concluded. by this time the afternoon was far through ; and as i had promised to mrs mʻlecket to be at home to my own bed by the retour of the steamboats, i was obligated to leave the company round the bowl ; so i came away, and found my old friend the waterloo, at the custom-house quay, on the point of departure, with a various assortment of characters on board, some of whom, as i was in a blythe mood by reason of the goodness of mr tartan's punch and hospitality, entered into a jocose conversation with me, the which was really very facetious for a time, and lasted till we paid our respects to the douse town of port-glas- vol. ix. l the steam-boat. no. . [july, gow. after landing such of the cargo as were belonging to that sea-port, she paddles were set a-going again, and away we went. by the time we had pass- ed the old castle, i observed a man sitting by himself, that i took a curiosity to converse with. tale vii. the dumbie's son. he was a pale thin man, very fair observe, which he said was exceeding, in the complexion, with light grey ly just and philosophical, he said that, eyes, and an odd and unsound look. without entering upon any controver- by his talk i gathered he had come sy, he would relate to me some anec- from among the lakes of cumberland dotes of his own life, which he was and the hills of westmoreland, and sure would convince me of the sound- that he had been out on an adventure ness of his opinion. to the highland lochs and islands, on “ you must know," resumed he, af- some superstitious inquiry anent their ter some farther digression from the poetical, and other monuments of times point, “ that i do not consider myself past, and forgotten antiquity. having as a common man of this world, for i satisfied his curiosity, he was bound have been brought up under circum- homeward, and i jealoused by his cackle, stances, which, perhaps, no other ever that he was hard with egg for the experienced. i am the only child of publication of a book concerning icolm- a dumb man and dumb woman-dumb kiln, staffa, and other fantastical pla- and deaf they were both from their ces, where the monks and druids were birth, and i was seven years old before wont to hold their houffs and congre- i heard the intellectual voice of man gations. --that voice and organ by which his as we sailed along, i rehearsed to spirit communes with its fellows. ! him at great length, and with the ut- had, it is true, heard the babble and most particularity in my power to do, jabber of tongues from those clods of the whole tot of the history that deu- the valley, that bear the impress of hu- calion of kentucky had told me in the manity, like the counters of base met- morning ; to the hearing of which he tal, stamped with the mintage of the gave great heed, declaring, that surely guinea—but no vocal effusion of soul the man had a colouring of genius in had passed in my hearing. his thought's part, beyond the common “my father and mother lived in a prosaic nature of the american mind, small cottage by themselves on the with other high mystical touches of a banks of the combermere. no path led phraseology that had the same sort to their dwelling. nature had impo- of resemblance to ordinary discourse, sed silence upon them, and interdict- which the flavour of grouse has to ed them from holding communion with barn-door bens, a difference which i their species. i was, in consequence, late had occasion to observe in some of left without any instructor. they could my voyages and travels. he then said tell me nothing; and the scenes chan- to me that there was certainly some- ged around me, and objects daily pass- thing very wonderful in the reflections ed which i viewed with wonder, but of the human understanding when left sought not to discover whence or what to itself, and that natural enthusiasm they were. the boats that sailed on was but a state of vision in which the the lake i thought were birds, but i mind passed on to the contemplation understood the mute intelligence of of the result of certain considerations, the eyes of the cattle and sheep on the without pausing to compare them with pastures around, as i did the looks of worldly circumstances. i replied to him, my silent parents. that really his remark was above my “when i was about six years old my reach ; but no doubt it had a foundae mother died. i knew not then what tion somewhere, and if not in the order death was, but i have since acquired of things, without question in his own the painful knowledge. i saw her imagination, which was still a some- weak and moaning, and my father sit- thing wherein the powers of naturemust ting by her pillow, and constantly ho- be allowed to inherit, and possess some vering over her bed. his tears fell fast sort of sway and dominion. at this as he looked at her; at last she gave a . the steam-boat. noi v. faint struggle, and from that moment had led me by the hand, performed a she moved no more. my father watch- strange ceremony over them. i knew ed her for some time with eager and not its purport; his lips moved. i sorrowful eyes, and then, as if sudden- heard a sound, but it only made my ly awakened from a slumber, he start- spirit hungry, while it chilled it with ed up from the place where he was sit- an indescribable dread. ting, and taking me by the hand, led “when this was done, the two awful me out of the cottage, which he care- black chests were removed into the fully fastened behind me, and lifting enclosure. i then remarked, that al- me in his arms, carried me to a hamlet, though it was greener than the fields, about three miles from our house in it was nothing like them, but heaved the solitude. by signs, he made the up vinto turfy pillows, some of which peasants understand that they were to were adorned with stones, mossy and take care of me, and he stretched him- furred with the impress of many years. self on the ground, and strewed earth i could not imagine for what use they over him. every one looked on, and were placed there, but there was a sad seemed dejected. he then went away, ness in the countenances of the people and i never saw him again. that oppressed my spirit. “about a week after this event, an when we had traversed this strange old man, whom i have since learnt enclosure, close to the wall i saw a was the pastor of the parish, came, and deep hole trenched out,-into this the took me by the hand, and conducted two black boxes were slowly lowered, me to a house where a great number and a little earth was thrown upon of the country folks were assembled, them. how dreadful to me was the and when they saw us, they brought rattle of that little earth on these mys- out two large black chests from the tcrious arks.-i had heard the sum- house, and having placed them on their mer thunder answered by all the shoulders, they all mutely followed. echoes of the mountain, but it was i could not divine, in my young won. not so dreadful as the sound of that der, what the solemnity meant, but i shovel-full of earth.—then the hole was moved with an awful fear, and my was filled up, and i was led back, heart beat so thickly, that i could with and placed by the old pastor under difficulty breathe. the charge of a poor woman in the “they marched on to a green enclo- hamlet, by whom i was taught to sure, in the middle of which an old speak and to commune with my fel- large house was situated. it had a lows; but the memory of that spectacle strange and deserted look, and in the was ever before me,—it was in my furniture there was nothing of which, heart, although i knew not till long in my simplicity, i could discover the after that it was the funeral of my use. in it, however, they placed the dumb parents.” twoblack chests; and the old man, who there was something in this tale, and in the way the lake man told it, that made all who heard it eirie, and, as it were, afraid of something no one could tell what.-besides, the night was set in, and though it was as beauti- ful as the summer ever showed, nature being in a state of composure, the heavens, with all their eyes of light, looking calm upon the world, and the moon shining on the water, yet there was a silence in the air that was felt at the heart, and the sound of the steam-boat's paddles was likened by the dumbie's son to the wheels of the world that bear us along the tide of time. in short, i know not how it was, but we all fell into a kind of religious charm about the depths and wonders of nature, and the unfathomable sympathies of the heart of man. at last mr gauze of paisley, who was of our company, a well read paukie carl, that kens more than he lets on, seeing the frame of our re- flections, began, in a far off way, to cast about his cantrips, with the which i leave the courteous reader to guess what he did, by the rehearsal of the fol. lowing story, in the telling of which it is not to be described what he effected, not only by his awsome look and voice, but the aids and helps he got from the scene of night, and the solemn waters through which our vessel was ettling the steam-boat. no. v. [july, her weary way towards the renfrew ferry, for by this time we had left dum- barton castle far behind, and had passed dunotter, that ancient ruin, of which i have never been able to get any further account, than that it is supposed to have been bigget by the picts, and doutless has had the curse of god proa nounced against its owners, since they are all utterly perished from off the face of the earth. however, to return to mr gauze- tale viii. king charles and the witches. “once on a time,” said he," when sion and effect. what i have to say, the funny king charles was in great is of an adventure that befell myself, straits, and jeopardy, of fortune, as he when i was a lad, before going to the was sitting in the midst of his courtiers college of glasgow. and counsellors after supper in his pa “your majesty has belike heard that lace, heavy and worn out in spirit, he there are certain mystical women in declared on his honour as a prince, the world called witches. in the shire that he felt himself so oppressed and of renfrew, we have had both in time weighed down, he would grant to any past, and at present, no small trouble one of them the first reasonable petie with their pranks, and it is as thoa tion he might have occasion to pre- roughly believed among the country sent, who would lighten his fancy that folk as the gospel, that the witches are night: whereupon, all the courtiers in the practice of gallanting over field and counsellors began to strive with and flood after sun-set, in the shape of one another to divert his majesty, cats and mawkins, to dance the la vol- every one telling something that was ta, with a certain potentate that i shall to be more comical than the tales which not offend your majesty, by naming. had gone before. but their endeavours “ i should here explain, that the were all in vain ; the more tribulation witches, when they take the shape of they put themselves to in order to hares, charm away the power of pou- make the king laugh, and grow again ther and lead, so that unless the gun jocose, the more they, saddened his be loaded with silver, it will not go off, royal spirit, till he said in the words or, if it does go off, it will not kill, es- of solomon," vanity of vanities, all is pecially in the hands of a young sports- vanity." man; and that the best antidote to “butit happened, that there was that their charm, is for the sportsman, when night in the presence a learned dise he is an experienced hand, to put a creet doctor of divinity, from the west pair of silver sleeve-buttons in his country, on some concern.of the kirk fowling-piece. when he does this, and which required a canny handling to fires with effect, it is said, and the fact bring to a proper issue ; and he, seeing is often well attested, the hare will ne- the weak and feckless striving of the ver be seen again, but beyond the lords and gentlemen, said, "may it next hedge, some dubious carlin will please your majesty, i would do the in all human probability be found rid- part of a loyal subject in this matter; dled in the hips, saying her prayers but the stories i have to tell are nó backwards: what i have to tell is an such wonderful as those which your undoubted proof of this, for it happen- majesty has graciously endeavoured to ed to myself in the presence of the late indure." the words of which address logan of that ilk, a man of singular so drew the king's attention, that he piety, and one of the best shots in the desired the doctor (halket, i believe, shire of ayr. was his name,) to tell him one of his “being staying with him, we one day tales. went out to shoot. it was in the after- “i doubt, most dread monarch,"re- noon. we started nothing, and we staid plied the doctor, “ that what i have late, not easily content, as your majesty to tell will obtain little credit here; may well think, with such profitless but as your majesty is well known to sport. but i trow we have both had be, in the words of the prayer-book, a cause to remember long that after- most religious sovereign, perhaps it noon ; for in the gloaming, as we were may be blessed on your majesty's pious coursing with our dejected dogs, the frame of mind, with a salutary impres, which were as disappointed as our. .] the steam-boat. no. v. selves, we started, as we thought, a the reformation, herrit the monks' hare out of a whin bush. it ran be- nests throughout coningham. many fore us, in every gesture, lith, and a sad story was told of that place. it limb, just like a hare, and the dogs would crudle the royal blood in your pursued it as if it had been nothing majesty's sacred veins, were i to relate less natural. we followed, never doubt- what is told and believed concerning ing that it was a hare. the deeds done by the popish friars in “afine har’st evening had set in, and that ruinous monastery. one day, when the new-moon, the sickle of time, be a farmer, whom i knew, was pulling tokened, in the western heavens, that dow a piece the wall to help to nature was binding up the sheaves of mend a dike, he found the skeleton of our days ; but, nevertheless, we fol. a human hand built in with the stones. lowed our game, never suspecting that what more he discovered he never it was any thing but a poor terrified would reveal, but from that day he was mawkin. logan took a vizy, and fired, an altered man. however, to return but his gun flashed in the pan: i like from this degression, please your ma- wise presented, and, in the same mo- jesty, the moon and twilight shone ment, my hand was smitten with a bright on the abbey walls, and we saw cramp, or something no canny, but the hare, as we thought, as perfect as neither of us, for all that, entertained possible, cowering along the bottom of any doubt of the hare being what it the wall. i would have fired, but logan appeared—a hare. stopped me. he was a worthy pious * well, sir, please your majesty, man. logan primed again, and i, having “ lend me your sleeve-buttons," beaten the life into my fingers, follow- said he. they were bristol stones set ed the game, and fired, but missed.- in silver. the manner in which he this set logan foremost, and he short-spoke was very solemn. it made the ly after also fired. he might as well flesh crawl on my bones, and my hair have whistled; what we had at first to rise. i said nothing, but took the thought a haré continued to scamper buttons from my shirt-sleeves, keeping on unhurt. my eye sted fast on the hare, as we both “by this time i had loaded again, and thought it was. he did the same. the again, after running on some twenty buttons out of my right sleeve he put paces in the track of the beast, confi. into hisgun.“put the others in yours," dent i had a hare in view, i fired a se- 'said he.--i did so." in the name of cond time. it was of no avail.—logan the lord,” cried he, “ take aim." we having in the meanwhile loaded, came presented together; we both fired in up to me. the same moment, and ran to the spot “ in the pursuit, we had followed the where we thought a hare had been.- hare, as we thought it was, to the walls “ and what the devil was it?” cried of an old abbey. it had been a sancti- the king.-" please your majesty," re- fied place in the times of popery, but plied the doctor, “'it was just a fine it was burnt down when glencairn, at fat hare." during the time of this recital, one mrs mʻfreat, a decent carlin from oban, was particularly attentive; but at the end, when we were all laughing at king charles' disappointment, she said, with a very serious countenance, that we were no doubt free to guff awa as we pleased, but for her part, she had reason to know and ken that there was many a thing in this world that required an ex- planation : and then she proceeded and told us how, one morning in the last summer-but i will relate what she said at full length, in her own words. tale ix. the wraith. “ a fine morning it was,” said she, three months, but a thoughtful lassie “the lift clear, and the air brisk, and for her time o' life, could na rest in every thing without young and fresh, her bed; she was eirie and unco, and and quickened, as it were, with the fain and fu', under the constraint and sense of a living power. my youngest pushing on of an invisible hand,-in dochter, flora, a bairn o'ten years and short, she could na be mastered, and .] parliament. parliament . the progress of the late session has infamous falsehoods, on which the left little for history. it was occupied whole trade of rebellion was fed, should with the routine of public business be made the subject of punishment. sufficiently important to the day, but libel is infectious. the same spirit signalized by no peculiar impression which assaulted the king, would have on the spirit of public affairs. the gradually descended through society, session began and closed with the until the private life of every indivi- queen. the decision of the lords dual must have been at the mercy of was more than sustained in the com- the pens, which would have trans- mons, for, by the time of their assem- mitted them to the mercy of the dag- bling, public folly had found leisure gers of revolution. personal feelings, to evaporate; the artifices of the po- as well as public, were palpably inte- pular disturbers had been understood; rested in the restraint of this desperate the queen's personal conduct, as the system; but it has been doubted, whe- alarm was removed, had become more ther the proceedings of the association illustrative of the truth; and, in con- would not have been eventually more sequence, the commons rejected, by effective, by determining their chief great majorities, all cognizance of her weight to prevention, rather than to complaints and claims. the “ man- punishment. their original resolu- chester riots," a portion of the same tions certainly gave the impression of system of revolutionary tactics, were their combatting the evil by the force brought forward under the same dis- of argument. advantages of exhausted oratory, and no permanent influence can be esta- detected misrepresentation. the old blished upon the general mind but by figurants displayed their attitudes of reasoning; it may be necessary to rend defiance and supplication, till the away an incorrigible offender by the house dismissed them with ridicule, arm of the law; but the work is to and the topic was extinguished for be begun again; the root is prolific, ever. mr scarlett was among the most and the probability is, that the crime persevering candidates for the honours of a revolutionary and scandalous press of this laughter. the business of a will become only more desperate by barrister would be a formidable ob- the more determined system of legal stacle to the political partizanship, ex- infliction. the two stimulants to re- cept for a barrister's pliancy. mr scar, volutionary writing are profit and po- lett had at york fairly enough proved pularity: to a mind of unsettled ho- hunt to be a public disturber, and, as nesty, there is an almost irresistible such, had been the instrument of fling- temptation in being quoted and caress- ing him into a dungeon, ed by the multitude, and of being the proceedings of the constitutione raised from obscurity and beggary into al association became the frequent sub- comparative opulence. the true wis- ject of discussion. the arguments on dom is to cut off the temptation, by both sides have been expanded through instilling knowledge and principle into too many debates, and sent out to the the people. then the libel will find world in too many newspapers, to be no readers, and the scribbler will be worth detailing. "the justice of the driven to some of the hundred harm- question is narrow. is the association less and obscure occupations which are legal? on this point the strongest aus made for narrow intellects and vulgar thority of law has been quoted in the habitudes. the publications of the affirmative; and, in fact, no man but constitutional association seem to have mr ex-sheriff parkins, an absurd occupied a very inferior portion of their struggler for popularity among the diligence. some tracts of merit have mob, has ventured to question the been issued; but their pledge of making right of the association. the pru- a direct application to the intelligence dence of their proceedings is a matter of the literary body of the empire, of another dye. it was undoubtedly has been but imperfectly redeemed. desirable, for the sake of public peace, it should, undoubtedly, have been that the perpetual insults to the person among their first steps to have origi- and character of the king, should be nated some periodical publication, extinguished, and that the gross and some journal, to which the contribu- . parliamenti he utterly failed in his chief object kind, and without hazarding the hope the overthrow of england ; and he of restoration. she more than realized failed, not from the calamities of time the (fable of the hero's spear—if her and seasons, but from the defect of po- weapon smote, it was only to heal. litical sagacity. he was unacquainted napoleon's commercial decrees were with the first principles of a strength the feeble opposition of a self-willed compounded of commercial opulence ignorance; and in the face of their in- and public spirit. with the crude potence, the commerce of england in- learning of a military academy, and the creased fourfold. when she at length classic affectation which seems to be exerted her partial force against him, engrafted in every frenchman, he calle he was driven from all contention. she ed england carthage ; and thought, crushed him at sea, and stripped him that, like carthage, the magnificent of the hope of a navy. she finally, in vigour of england was to be ruined by a single encounter, broke his strength battles and sieges, and paltry attempts into fragments at land, and turned him to draw a line of circumvallation round into a puppet and a mockery. if there her trade. he was unable to see the had been a highway from dover to distinction between a small continental calais five-and-twenty years ago, wan power, sustained by mercenaries, and terloo would have been anticipated by cut off by a jealous policy from the five-and-twenty years. the strength good-will of other nations, and a of england, - a strength which, with mighty empire, commanding the seas, reference to all human uses, may be shutting the gates of the ocean upon called unlimited, would have arisen france, defended by a vast, free, and like the giant refreshed, and pour valorous population, and with every ed over the strait, and left nothing people of the earth bound by a strong of the frivolous and fickle resist self-interest to the success of its cause. ance of frenchmen, but the feelings this was a grand mistake, and one that survive in prostrate minds and which totally degrades the political fettered limbs. it is almost idle to wisdom of napoleon. when the af- talk of england as having been at war. ter-time shall come, in which we shall within the borders of the empire all be able to look upon the field of battle was peace. we read of harvests tramp- as the field of history, our astonish- led, and cities in conflagration, but it ment will be, not that napoleon had was with the remote feeling of the failed to conquer, but that he had been sufferings of another sphere. we never able to resist. he was altogether over saw an enemy's banner bat as a trophy, matched in power by england, and he we never heard the sound of a cannon would have been crushed in war if her but as the signal of a triumph. we whole policy had not been defensive. heard of war as the scourge of other she never put out her force. she look- nations; but the sufferings of war ed upon herself from the commence came to our ears only as matter of cu- ment as the protectress of europe; and riosity. melancholy and painful in- the blows that might have smitten the deed, but only as a pain in which we french usurpation were held in sus- indulged, from the common sympathy pence by a noble reluctance to involve with human misfortune. for this the innocent with the guilty. she magnificent strength and glorious ex- “check'd her thunders in mid-volley.” emption, we have to be grateful to a the command of the sea is the com- higher source than the wisdom or for- mand of the earth. england might tune of man. but they were built on have revolutionized. every maritime ancient foundations of national pros- country upon the globe, and have perity, and not to have estimated their thrown the weight of their fury upon depth and solidity, shewed nothing the dominions of napoleon. she might but weakness and narrowness in the have made the whole circle of islands mind of their enemy. round europe a chain of fire. she napoleon is now beyond the power might have inflamed every wild pas- of disturbing the world; he ought to sion, and secret revenge, and bloody receive the measure of lenity which ambition of the earth, and turned the belongs to a man beyond the power of whole burning torrent upon france defending himself. but it would be and its revolution. but this she could gross injustice to human nature, to at- not have done without loss of princi- tribute his guilt to its mere common ple, without infinite injury to man- weaknesses. he was selfish, perfidious, vol. ix. m parliament. [july, bloody. he had no value for any life ports, was an unheard-of perfidy, still but his own-to secure that life he more cruel than the imprisonment of spared no crime. he never had an ob- his military captives. of those , ject of suspicion whom he did not english, not more than one third ever make away with, and that privately. returned. in the thirteen years of villeneuve was summoned to paris, to their bondage, the prospects of the account for fighting at trafalgar with- majority were totally destroyed; the out orders—he had the orders in na- mature had been separated from their poleon's own hand; he shewed them professions and habits of life, the old in england, and was advised not to died at a distance from their families, venture. the unfortunate admiral and the young grew into manhood set out, and was found half way to without a pursuit. innumerable hearts paris, with three mortal wounds in in england were made wretched by his back. wright was found with his the separation of those on whom their throat cut, and with a razor and news. happiness or subsistence depended; paper beside him, while it was notori- and for this misery, which plunged ous that neither razors nor newspapers many a one to an early grave, the ty- were allowed within the temple. his rant of france solely had to answer. other barbarities, the deaths of palm, his private life was the fitting root for pichegru; and d'enghien; the poison- his public enormities. his conduct to ing of his sick soldiers, and the mas josephine was of the most heartless in- sacre of his prisoners in syria ; all gratitude ; he was an adulterer and an things of notoriety, are each 'sufficient apostate. passion has with some men to give the name of any man down to served as a feeble excuse for the one, the execration of posterity. with the and prejudice for the other; with him, power of good and evil, he chose evil. the cause of both crimes was selfish- there is not on record a single act of ness, and his punishment came from his clemency, or generosity, or public his selfishness. it made him shrink, spirit. he crushed the hope of when to shrink was to be undone; and, freedom in france, and would have finally, it sent him, stripped of empire, crushed it through the world. he fame, and public commiseration, from was a tyrant in the darkest sense a hopeless dungeon to a dishonoured of the name. he established eight grave. if his oath could have been be- prison houses for political offences, lieved by any power, he might have sat and from those there was to be no free and prosperous to the last, but his redemption but the grave. in , perfidy extinguished all compromise. the return of the imprisoned on state he was felt to be that enemy of man- charges was , . he kept , kind, whom no faith could bind;-to of his own subjects in english prisons, have suffered him on a throne would for the mere purpose of keeping as have been only to prepare new mis. many english and spaniards in french fortunes for the earth. he was declared prisons. a word from him would have an outlaw by the hearts of all nations, extinguished this mighty mass of mi- before he was by their lips; and after sery; but he had no feeling for human having run the career of a villain, he misery. his seizure of the english died the death of a slave. families travelling under his own pass- a few words to our contributors. [july, a clever paper, on a plan for observing the day of coronation with festive solemnity, is too late. the day will have passed before we publish. the plan would have been an excellent one. our correspondent suggests, that a sum to en, tertain , poor people, at a shilling a-head, should be raised; that a table should be extended in the high-street, from the mount of proclamation to the palace of holyrood ; that the whistling master of arts, or any other great ora- tor, should be in the chair ; and the greasy advocate croupier ; that as speeches are indispensibly requisite at a great dinner, and as it would be impossible for any human being to send sweet music to such a distance, every ten yards there should be stationed a repeater, who should give out to his district the discourse from the chair ; that these telegraph-orators should convey the speech to the croupier, who should give it from the bottom of the table, &c. the picture of , people eating-of the high-street one continued line of mas- tication—is overpoweringly sublime. it would be a fine subject for the ima- ginative pen of wordsworth. lord byron would not do it so well. haggart's memoirs, by esq. have come to hand. we shall think about them. we knew haggart well, and respected him ; for, though somewhat absurdly addicted to murder and robbery, he was an amiable young man in the main. his book discovers great powers; is far superior, as a piece of autobiography, to the similar production of bishop watson; and evin- ces talents which we think would have marked him peculiarly for a lecturer on natural philosopy. doctor scott on gum-boils, smells horribly of shop. if mr bas done wrong in marrying his servant lassie, what is that to us ? verax had better mind his own affairs. description of the new church of auchtermuchtie,” is sent to the gen- tleman's magazine. spare us, good poets ! "sonnet to the moon"—not bad—“ode to nep- tune”-trash. “ to mary"-psha ! “on things in general”—a fine poem on a fine subject, but not polished. would the author give us leave to re- touch ? “on a wooden spoon"-nonsense. “on the edinburgh troop"— so fine a body of men require a finer poem. we shall do one ourselves. bat we could not by any possibility get through it, if we were to notice half the poets we have on hands. briefly we thank them all, good, bad, and indiffe- rent. carter's lecture on antemundane pugilism, delivered in the hall of the cork scientific and literary society, faulkner's lane, is received. we re- member seeing something about this in the literary gazette. it reflects cre- dit on the taste of that learned body, that they patronize so eminent a man as carter. we shall insert it when we have room. sir t. c. morgan must wait. our friend in canada shall see his article in our next. when will z. send us his cockney school of science, no. i. sir r. phil. lips ? he promised it long ago. it would be a pity to let the series on the cocke down--it was so benevolent and agreeable to every body. hyman hurwitz's book in answer to bellamy is good, learned, and witty. he has completely overthrown his charlatan antagonist. but we do not wish to get into biblical controversy, and must therefore reluctantly refuse doctor petre's learned and excellent letter on the subject. we are sorry to refuse the doctor. would he have the goodness to favour us with his present address ? a. s. should put another s. to his name. he amply deserves it. ney school go [july, works preparing for publication. works preparing for publication. london to be published by subscription, ser. anonymous, modenese, and the traité des mons on the divine revelation, and on the amateurs ; and containing many remark- canonical rules of the old testament; by able situations, original as well as selected. robert jones, d.d. illustrated by numerous diagrams, and an amidst the volume of sermons that is engraved frontispiece. sue from the press, there seems yet want mr ackermann proposes to publish, in ing a plain detail of divine revelation, as vol. imperial vo., a history of madeira, more especially evidenced in the pages of with a series of twenty-seven coloured en- holy scripture. gravings, illustrative of the costumes, man. to furnish a succinct and convincing ners, and occupations of the inhabitants ; view of the different manifestations of god's containing upwards of sixty characteris- will to man, appears the best means of pre- tic figures, accompanied by historical and paring the mind for a due consideration of descriptive letter-press. the truth, contents, and connection of the in an vo. volume, a translation of the sacred books. greater part of the faust of goëthe, with such are the objects attempted in this moser's etchings of the celebrated outline volume. the sermons were suggested by plates. the infidel temper and blasphemous publi mr charles marsh has in the press a cations of the day, and were expressly writ- life of the right honourable w. wind- ten for a large and very mixed congrega- ham, comprising interesting correspond- tion, to which they have been preached, it ence, and memoirs of his time. is to be at least hoped, with some portion in the press, a novel, called, the sol. of benefit. dier's child ; or, virtue triumphant ; by • though the author, in the wide field charlotte caroline richardson, author of which presented itself, has not scrupled to harvest, a poem ; also of isaac and re- become indebted to the historical and cri- becca, and other poems. tical labours of others, it has been his in mr lowe, the author of the statistical dividual aim to inculcate through every articles on england and france, in the sermon the doctrines and duties of the new supplement to the edinburgh ency- gospel of jesus christ. clopædia britannica, is preparing for the the work will be comprised in one oc- press, a volume on the situation and pros. tavo volume, price s. and will be put to pects of england, in regard to agriculture, press as soon as an adequate number of sub- trade, and finance. scribers is obtained. preparing for the press, a new edition of a second volume, containing the the dramatic composition of gambold, apocrypha and the new testament, is in entitled, the martyrdom of ignatius ; with preparation, and will hereafter be publish- a prefatory dissertation. ed, should encouragement be given to the the history of the roman empire, from present undertaking. the accession of augustus, to the death of mr roscoe has issued proposals for pub- the younger antoninus. lishing by subscription a collection from shortly will be published, the life of the works of the most celebrated poets of colley cibber, with additional notes, re- italy, from the end of the th, to the be- marks, &c. ; by mr e. bellchambers. ginning of the th century ; arranged in the rev. robert hall has in the press chronological order, and accompanied by a new edition of his apology for the free- biographical and critical accounts of their dom of the press, with some additions. lives and writings, extracted from the mr ackermann will shortly publish, in most distinguished writers on the literary six elegant pocket volumes, illustrated with history of italy. it will be printed in seventy-three coloured engravings, con- parts, vo.; each to average pages, and taining upwards of one hundred and fifty to be delivered in the year. it will also costumes, a concise history of turkey-a be ornamented with portraits. description of the court of the grand sig. sir walter scott, messrs crabbe, southey, nior–of the officers and ceremonies, ci. milman, heber, wrangham, and other po- vil, military, and religious; and of the pular poets of the day, are, it is said, em- costumes, manners, and other peculiari- ployed in framing hymns and psalms for ties characteristic of the turkish empire, the use of the established church of eng- being the third division. land. this, it is expected, will confer a preparing for the press, by mr maxwell, character on our religious poetry, which it author of the plurality of worlds, a trans- has long wanted. lation of a latin work of a. s. calcott, shortly will be published, in vo., by l.l.b.; being an attempt to recover the john cochrane, esq. a treatise on the principles of the ancient or true philoso- game of chess, including the games of the phy, collected from the sacred writings, [july, monthly list of new publications. monthly list of new publications. fine arts. london. astronomy. cise instructions for preparing good and the excursions of a spirit; with a wholesome pickles, vinegar, conserves, survey of the planetary world, á vision; fruits, jellies, marmalades, and various with four illustrative plates. mo. s. other alimentary substances employed in elements of astronomy. by a. picquot. domestic economy; with observations on mo. . éd. the chemical constitution and nutritive bibliography. qualities of different kinds of food; with r. beckley's supplement to his cata- copperplates. by fred. accum. vo. logue. is. d. r. baynes's catalogue of books for drama. - , of nearly articles, contain saul, a tragedy ; translated from the ing many rare and curious books in divi- italian of alfieri ; and jephtha's daugh- nity, sermons, mss. &c. s. ter, a scriptural drama. by a lady. . biography damon and pythias ; a tragedy in five a biographical dictionary of the wor acts. by john banim. vo. s. d. thies of ireland, from the earliest period ethelwolf; or the danish pirates, a to the present time. by rich. ryan. vo. tragedy. by j. f. pennie. vo. s. d. vols. s. education. a short account of the life of sir the student's pocket dictionary of li- joseph banks, k. b. by a. duncan, m.d. terary and scientific words. s. d. vo. is. d. a manuel of logic. by j. w. carvil life of the hon. w. pitt. by dr tom. . line, bishop of winchester. vols. vo. s. the martial achievements of great bri- botany. tain and her allies, during the most me- collectanea botanica ; containing fi. morable period of modern history. ele- gures and botanical illustrations of rare phant to. embelished with engravings, and curious exotic plants, chiefly culti-coloured in imitation of the drawings. vated in the gardens of great britain. £ , . half-bound, or, on large paper, by john lindley, f. l. s. and h. s. no. . £ , s. vo. coloured. s. the naval achievements; with co. the coronation. loured engravings; half-bound, £ , s. collections relative to the claims at the or, on large paper, £ , s. coronations of several of the kings of the banks of loire illastrated, no. i. england, beginning with king richard ii. with descriptions, and four plates and vo. s. a vignette, etched from drawings. by geo a key to the regalia ; or the emble- lewis. royal to, s. d. proofs on in- matic design of the various forms obser- dia paper, . ved in the ceremonial of a coronation ; picturesque scenery of the river dart, interspersed with unpublished anecdotes in devonshire, being a series of views, of the late king. by the rev.jonas dennis, and three vignettes. drawn and engraved prebendary of kerswell, exeter. vo. by f. c. lewis. fol. £ , s. ; with the an account of the coronation of the etchings, £ . kings of england, with a description of letters on the scenery of wales ; in. the dresses, &c. is. d. cluding a series of subjects for the pencil, the glory of regality ; an historical and instructions to pedestrian tourists. treatise of the anointing and crowning by the rev. r. h. newell; with numerous of the kings and queens of england. by plates. royal vo. s. arthur taylor, f. s. a. vo. s. large physiognomical portraits, part ii. con- paper, £ , s. taining biographical notices in french a faithful account of the procession and english, and portraits, printed on and ceremonies observed in the coronation, french paper. imperial vo. £ , s. &c. of george iii. and queen charlotte. cabinet of arts, no. xxx. . edited by rich. thomson. vo. plates. repository of arts, no. . . sixteen engravings from real scenes, the round table; the order and so- "supposed to be described in the novels and lemnities of crowning the king, &c. vo. tales of the author of waverley, &c. coronation ceremonies and customs. mo. s. vo. s. by t. mantell, esq. f. r. s. a series of historical portraits, for the domestic economy. novels and tales of the author of w.. culinary chemistry ; exhibiting the verly, no. ji. mo. s. vo. . proofs. scientific principles of cookery; with con. s. s. monthly list of new publications. [july, juridical society's styles, vol. of the the volumes or numbers may be had se. new edition, containing moveable rights. parately. to. £ , s. volume third of the protestant may be a discourse between a lover and a had complete, price s. boards. mourner in zion. mo. s. d. this work, which originated in mere a catechism for the instruction and dic accident, without any plan in the mind of rection of young communicants; by john the author, will be found to contain a colquhoun, d. d. leith. d. more complete view of the errors of po the protestant, no. clvi, which con. pery than any work that has been written cludes the third volume, containing a since the happy revolution in . the farther account of the trial: slanderous following topics have been discussed at language of the catholic vindicator ex. length :-excommunication — withhold. posed ; reasons why papists are incapable ing the scriptures—no faith with he. of holding places of power and trust; retics_idolatry of worshipping dead men with title page and contents for volume and women, dead men's bones and rot- third. on saturday next, the th july, ten rags transubstantiation-sacrifice of will commence the fourth volume—to be the mass_purgatory-clerical celibacy continued weekly as heretofore. any of the inquisition—the jesuits, &c. &c. monthly register. commercial report.-july , . sugars—the sugar market has for some time past been in a very languid state, and greatly depressed, which depression seems to continue. the very considerable arrivals which continue to take place, has augmented the stock on hand considerably beyond what it was at the same period last year. the demand has of late considerably decreased, which circumstance has occasioned an anxious desire on the part of the holders to facilitate sales, and has tended to depress the market s. per cent. the buyers evidently contemplate a still further reduction in price, as they evince no wish to purchase. the state of the market for refined goods is equally depressed and unsatisfactory. the de- mand is limited, and the prices have considerably declined. indeed, the principal pur chases have been made on account of the exceeding low prices at which the article was offered, and affords no true criterion of the state of the market. coffée.—the demand for coffee has for some time past been considerable, and con- sequently the sales, both by public auction and private contract, have been extensive, and an advance of is. per cwt. was readily realized for finer qualities. the market afterwards became more languid, but without any material alteration in price. planta- tion coffee has been more sought after than foreign. cotton.—the cotton market, from considerable activity, has become more languid, yet the prices are steady in london, and continue to be supported in liverpool. the finer east india cottons are in limited request for home consumption ; but the inferior kinds find a readier sale for exportation. upon the whole, the cotton market may be stated to be steady at our quotations. the prices of baltic produce have been lately declining considerably, and were forced into the market at reduced prices. the holders of talloz, however, have within these few days evinced less inclination to effect sales; the con- sequence of which is that the market has become more steady. the price of flax is merely nominal. tar may be quoted at a reduction in price. in pitch and rosin there is little alteration ; and there are no parcels of rough turpentine at marketoil the price of greenland and other fish-oil remains merely nominal, until something is heard of the state of the fisheries for this season. linseed is a shade lowered; and rape oil may be stated as improved. it is very scarce. the price of brandy is less steady than it had previously been. geneva continues neglected; and the rum market is in a most ruinous and depressed state. the stock on hand is nearly doubled, com- pared with the quantity on hand at the same period last year. jamaica's, twenty-six and twenty-seven over proof, have been sold as low as s. d., and leeward island has been purchased at s. d., and is expected to sink to s. per gallon. at the price of ls. d. per gallon, it must bring the shipper into debt, even if he get it for nothing in the islands ; what then must be condition of the merchant who is forced to take it as a remittance at the current prices in the islands, of s. d., exclusive of s. for the pun- cheon, for which latter he obtains nothing in great britain ? scarcely any state can be considered more deplorable or ruinous. .) register.--commercial report, . the state of our west india colonies, on which the prosperity of the mother country so greatly depends, is become of the most distressing nature. every day tends to add to their encumbrances and their distresses ; and yet, strange to say, not only is nothing done to relieve them, but schemes the most inimical to their interests and safety, and at an enormous and increasing expence to the country, without any benefit, or even the possibility of a benefit arising from such schemes, are eagerly adopted and prosecuted. the average price of sugar does not afford the planter a farthing of interest for his ca- pital employed, and his rum, which he calculated upon as defraying much of his inter- nal expences, now brings him into debt; or, when sold in the islands, is sold at a price which, from its ruinous nature to the merchant, compels the latter to make it up, in some measure, by the enhanced price at which colonial supplies are furnished. the revenue for last quarter is considerably decreased, particularly in the excise ; but at this we are not surprised, when we consider the numerous frauds which are prac- tised upon this branch of the revenue, and when we see foreign rum openly sold at s. per gallon, ( s. d. below the duties,) and foreign geneva at s. ( s. below the duties,) and the like may be said of every article of spirits and wines throughout the united kingdom. d. to edinburgh.-july . wheat. barley. ats. pease & beans. isty..... s. od. st, ..... s. od. st....... s. od. st....... s. d. d, ...... s. od. d, ...... s. od. d,.. ...... s. od. | d, ...... s. od. d, ...... s. od. d, ...... . od. ,...... s. od. d,...... s. od. average of wheat, £ : : d. - ths., per boll. tuesday, july . beef ( ) oz. per lb.) os. d. to os. . quartern loaf s. d. to os. od mutton os. d. to os. d. new potatoes ( lb.) . os. od veal os. d. to os. d. fresh butter, per lb. s. d. to os. od pork os. d. to os. d. salt ditto, per stone s. od. to os. od lamb, per quarter s. odto s. od. ditto, per lb. is. d. to is. d tallow, per stone s. d. to s. od. eggs, per dozen . d. to os. od haddington.july . wheat. barley. oats. pease. beans. ist, . s. od. ist, ..... s. od. ist,. s. od. st, ..... s. od. st, ..... s. d. d........ s. d. | d...... s. od. | d,...... s. od. d, ..... s. od. | d,...... s. od. d,...... s. od. d,...... s. od. d,...... s. od. | d,...... . od. dg...... s. od. average, £l : s. od. - ths. dverage prices of corn in england and wales, from the returns received in the week ended june th. wheat, s. .-rye, s. d.-barley, s. d.-oats, . d.-beans, s. d.pease, s. d. beer or big, os. od.-oatmeal, s. d. o . london, corn exchange, june . liverpool, june . s. d. . d.) . d. . d. wheat, red, new to hog peasc . . to wheat, per lb. amer. p. lb. fine ditto. to maple . to eng. old to sweet, u.s.- to - superfine ditto to white to foreign do. in bond to - ditto, old. ditto, boilers. to waterford to sour do.. o to white, new to new ditto, . - to limerick. to oatmeal, per lb. fine ditto to smallbeans, new to drogheda to english to superfine ditto to ditto, old. dublin to scotch .. to ditto, old. -to tick, new . . to scotch .. to irish to foreign, new - to ditto, old. - to irish old . to ? bran, p. ib. to rye to foreign . to bonded to fine ditto, butter, beef, gc. .- to — feed oats. to ||barley, per lbs. barley. .) to fine. . to eng. to butter,p.cwt. s. d. fine, new . to poland ditto . to scotch . . to belfast, new to superfine. to fine. to irish .. to newry to malt • to potatoe ditto . to oats, per lb. waterford. to to fine. to eng. pota. to cork,pic. d, to irish do. to d dry to - scotch do. to beef, p. tierce. seeds, fc. to fine to per brl. to $. d. . beans, per qr. pork, p. brl. must. brown, to hempseed english. to mess to -white to linseed, crush. to irish .. to middl. to tares, new,. to o new, for seed – to rapeseed, p. . £ to bacon, p. cwt. turnips, bsh. to ryegrass, . to pease,grey to short mids. to -red & green - too clover, red cwt. to -white : to o sides to -yellow, to- -white to flour, english, hams, dry, to caraway, cwt. to o coriander .. to p. lb.fine to green to canary, qr. to o trefoil . . . . to irish . . to ol lard, rd.p.c. to rape seed, per last, £ to $ . fine. malt per b. - mess . register.-commercial report. [july, london. . • is d s £ prices current july . sugar, musc. leith. glasgow. liverpool.. b. p. dry brown, · ewt. to mid good, and fine mid. fine and very fine, refined doub. loaves, powder ditto, single ditto, small lumps, large ditto, crushed lump, molasses, british, cwt. coffee, jamaica, . cwt. ord. good, and fine ord. mid. good, and fine mid. : dutch triage and very ord. ord. good, and fine ord. mid. good, and fine mid. st domingo, pimento (in bond,) ) spirits, jam. rum, o. p. gall. s d s d s d ls d is d brandy, genera, grain whisky, . wines, claret, st growths, hhd. portugal red, pipe. spanish white, butt. teneriffe, pipe. madeira, logwood, jam. ton. £ honduras, campeachy, fustic, jamaica, cuba, indigo, caraccas fine, ib. s d s d timber, amer. pine, foot. ditto oak, christiansand (dut. paid.) honduras mahogany, st domingo, ditto, tar, american, bri. archangel, pitch, foreign, cwt. tallow, rus. yel. cand. home melted, hemp, riga rhine, ion. petersburgh, clean, flax, riga thies. & druj. rak. dutch, irish, mats, archangel, . bristles, petersburgh firsts, cwt. ashes, peters. pearl, montreal, ditto, oil, whale, tun. £ cod. s (p. brl.) tobacco, virgin. fine, ib. middling, inferior, cottons, bowed georg. sea island, fine, good, middling, demerara and berbice, west india, pernambuco, maranham, og £ |||||| orll locobo alllll titei||||| ning med sit oolllabollollllliiliiii||| - . -- ---- tt |||-- lllll iiiii||| entitoit "!!! £ iiiiililoll luudullill || £ £ pot, co roll iii iii alphabetical list of english bankruptcies, announced between the th of may and the th of june, , extracted from the london gazette. airey, j. liverpool, soap boiler. blain, h. and co. adam's-court, broad-street, archer, j. ware park mill, hertford, miller. merchants. atkinson, j. burton in kendal, manufacturer. bliss, n. water-lane, fleet-street, bookseller, &c. atkinson, t. and spark, j. newcastle-upon-tyne, broad, w. bristol, post-master. linen-drapers. bolden, c. j. duke-street, west smithfield, paints baghott, sir p. kt. lypiatt park, gloucestershire, banker. boromar, j, golthe, lincolnshire, grazier. baker, g. a. blackman street, cheesemonger. broomhead, t. late sheffield, grocer. bass, j. holbuch, lincoln, brewer. brown, a. j. portsmouth, grocer. battier, j. j. mincing-lane, broker. bumpus, j. holborn, bookseller. bean, b. hickling, norfolk, dealer. burrows, e. warsop, nottingham, miller. billingham, j. uttoxetter, nail manufacturer. bury, e. and co. liverpool, merchants. er. .] register.-commercial report. carberry, r. and co. st james's-street, hatters. masters, r. coventry, tailor. carver, j. lancing, sussex, farmer. middleditch, j. bury, plumber. cheatham, t. stockport, surgeon. munck, w. st saviour's, southwark, brandy-mer- corry, d. piercy-street, bedford-square, dealer in chant. music. nichols, t. birmingham, dealer and chapman. croft, j. hull, draper. nicholson, w. wakefield, coal-factor. cross, r. bridlington, druggist. nicoll, t. ware, herts, sack-maker. davidson, a. g. racquet-court, fleet-street, mer. park, r. jun. portsea, coal-merchant. chant. parker, w. newark-upon-trent, wireworker. dawson, t. upton, norfolk, merchant. payne, j. wormwood-street, bishopgate-street, day, t. blackman-street, stockbroker. smith. deane, j. accrington, lancaster, cotton-spinner. peters, j. and weston, f. bristol, maltsters. downes, w. cheadle, cheshire, calico-printer. pilling, j. huddersfield, currier. eastwood, j. liverpool, haberdasher. pollock, j. adam's-court, broad-street, merchants. eddington, j. lower thames-street, stationer. preston, j. torquay, devon, merchant. edwards, e. l. cardigan, linen-draper. ramsay, t. mark-lane, wine-merchant. etches, j. bury, suffolk, haberdasher. ravis, n. gracechurch-street, tin-plate worker. fairchild, j. l. late of thurlby, lincoln, farmer. reiley, r. southampton-row, bloomsbury, man- fletcher, j. p. and b. eccles, cotton-spinners. milliner. ford, g. s. great bush-lane, cannon-street, wine renaud, e. birmingham, whipmaker. merchant. rex, g. great driffield, grocer. ford, w. holt, worcestershire, farmer. robinson, s. huddersfield, hosier. foster, w. liverpool, grocer. rowe, h. amen-corner, bookseller and printer. fox, j. dartmonth, ship-owner. rudkin, t. h. charlotte-street, islington, malt- franklyn, f. leamington priors, surgeon. ster. gibbons, j. and hibbert, r. great prescott-street, savile, j. limehouse, timber-merchant. bricklayers. sawyer, t. ramsgate, chemist. girdlestone, m. norwich, baker. shaw, j. late of stratford, essex, dealer in flour, glover, g. lower east smithfield, oilman. and late of battersea, dealer in oil. goff, w. brighton, linen-draper. shoobridge, g. cheapside, tailor. gordon, j. liverpool, merchant. simpson, r. newcastle upon tyne, perfumer. gorely, t. w. of dover, felt-maker, skinnerley, g. gorleston, suffolk, grocer. hall, h. and j. sun wharf, upper thames-street, smith, j. frome, somerset, clothier iron-merchants. stabb, t. torquay, devon, merchant. hammond, v. ludlow, wine-merchant. stort, j. batley, york, clothier. hancock, w. bury, cabinet-maker. tarleton, j. liverpool, merchant. hardwick, j. clare-street, clare-market, butcher. tidy, m. southgate, dealer in corn and coals. hart, w. b. late of king-street, cheapside, mer tinson, t. elbow-lane, london, merchant. chant tothill, c. mecklenburgh square, merchant. haynes, s. liverpool, flour-dealer, trollop, h. reading, linen-draper. hayward, t. cheltenham, builder. turton, j. roll's buildings, fetter-lane. henley, j. sols row, hampstead-road, rectifier. waddington, j. reading, bootmaker. holland, s. bexhill, sussex, coal-merchant. ward, j. of beech, in the parish of stone, stafa holis, j. p. of st mary, newington, oil and co ford, farmer. lourman. warneford, j. york, grocer. hopkins, w. bristol, victualler. welburn, s. late of sculcoates, york, grocer. horndall, j. bristol, haberdasher. weston, m. london wall, livery-stable keeper. hughes, j. cheltenham, wine-merchant. wharton, r. e. and brooks, m. bridge road, jackson, j. halifax, shoemaker. vauxhall, plumbers. jacobs, j. bristol, glass-manufacturer. wheatley, h. coventry, silk-dyer. jenks, f. bromyard, hereford, tanner. white, h. gracechurch-street, merchant. jones, j. mount-street, lambeth, and jones, j. wight, s. and co. leadenhall-street, hat manu- h. of the kent road, linen-drapers and part facturers. ners. williams, j. p. lambeth road, slater. jones, f. redcliff-hill, bristol, mason. woffender, t. and elliott, w. new malton, corn- irving, j. jun. carlisle, grocer. factors. kay, t. prince's-square, ratcliff highway, coal wood, p. kingston, surrey, gardener. merchant. woodhead, m. late of líversedge, york, mer. kirkman, c. f. deal, linen-draper. chant. kent, w. bridlington-street, ironmonger. woolrich, g. and j. spital-square, silk-manufac- lowes, j. angel-court, throgmorton, bill-broker. turers. maccorquodale, h. of liverpool, merchant. wroots, r. late of sleaford, linen-draper. manson, d. throgmorton-street, merchant. youden, s. dover, carpenter. mason, j. manchester, hat-manufacturer. young, w. brading, isle of wight, farmer. mason, e. worcester, tea-dealer, and penn, j. dale end, in birmingham, soap-boiler. alphabetical list of scotch bankruptcies, announced between the st and st may, , extracted from the edinburgh gazette. cochran, archibald, of ashkirk, some time mer dick, james, bookseller, edinburgh; a dividend chant in fisher-row. of d. per pound th july. harley, duncan forbes, vinegar and fire-brick gillies, colin, merchant, brechin; a dividend of manufacturer, tradestown, glasgow. is. d. per pound th august. honeyman, thomas, mill-master and meal-seller, graham, alexander, and co. merchants in glas- dairsie mills. gow; a dividend th july. macfarlane, robert, and co. merchants and agents, henderson, thomas, merchant, anstruther; a glasgow. d dividend th august. steel, robert, toll-keeper, spirit-dealer, and vic. lamb, kerr, and co. merchants, glasgow; and tualler, tradestown, glasgow. kerr, lamb, and co. merchants, gibraltar ; a tod, robert, ship-broker and merchant, glasgow. dividend of . per pound th july. walker, james, grocer, spirit-dealer, and grain- lang and cochrane, haberdashers, glasgow ; a dealer, lochwinnoch. final dividend th june. weatherley, john blair, merchant, jedburgh. macduff, peter, late tanner, edinburgh; a first dividends. and final dividend th july. brown, william, late of longbedholm, cattle miller, james, merchant, glasgow; a dividend on dealer; a d dividend th june. th july. buchanan, p. g. late bookseller, edinbur richardson, james, late cattle-dealer and tanner, dividend th july. auchtermuchty i a second dividend july, register commercial report. (july, ritchie, wm. merchant, edinburgh; a dividend watt, james, merchant, kelso; a dividend after of s. per pound after th july. th july. taylor, henry, merchant, irvine, a dividend whyte, alexander, formerly andle-maker and d july. merchant, dundee ; a dividend th july. thom, james, marble-cutter or manufacturer, wright, francis, jeweller, edinburgh; a dividend and buyer and seller of marble, glasgow; a di of ls. per pound, after th august. vidend after th july. weekly price of stocks, from st to d june, . ist. th. th. . pr. pr. pt. pr. pr. pr. pr. bank stock.com per cent. reduced, | per cent. consols, per cent. consols.com ] } per cent. consols,wamo per cent. navy ann.... imperial per cent. ann.. india stock, bonds, exchequer bills, pr. consols for acc. amer. per cent. french per cents.... fr. fr. fr. c. course of exchange, july .-amsterdam, : . c. f. ditto at sight, : . rotterdam, : . antwerp, : . hamburgh, : . altona, : . paris, d. sight, : . ditto : . bourdeaux, : . frankfort on the maine, . petersburgh, perrble. : us. vienna, : eff. flo. trieste, : eff.fo. madrid, . cauliz, %. bilboa, . barcelona, . seville, . gibraltar, . leghorn, . genoa, . venice, : . malta, . naples, . palermo, . lis- bon, . oporto, . rio janeiro, . bahia, . dublin, per cent. cork, per cent. prices of gold and silver, per oz.-foreign gold, in bars, £ : : d. new dollars, s. fd. silver in bars, stand. s. d. meteorological table, extracted from the register kept at edinburgh, in the observatory, calton-hill. n.b.—the observations are made twice every day, at nine o'clock, forenoon, and four o'clock, after- noon.--the second observation in the afternoon, in the first column, is taken by the register thermometer attach. ther. barom. ther. wind. attach ther. barom. ther. wind. june { a. {a. { { a. . a. { { { { w. m. s m. june m. . m. sunsh. but m. . m. e. warm, with a. e. . a. ) cold. . a. sunshine, m. . m. m. ditto, and . m. e. a. e. ditto. . /a. ) warm. . a. m. ) . m. ditto, but m. . m. e. a. e. ditto. . a. ) cold. a. , a. ) m. . m. ditto, cold m. , m. a. ditto. e. . a. morn. m. , m. dull morn. . m. m. cble. dull foren. a. a. rainy day. a. . a. warm aftern. m. . m. fair, with . m. a. . a sunshine. ditto. a. . |a. sm. . m. sun foren. m. . m. cble. ditto. a. . a, ) dull aftern. a. . a. m. . m. dull, cold, . m. n.e. a. cold foren. . a. ) with hail. cble. a. . a. warm after . m. dull day, chle. m. . m. a. a. with hail. a. . a. dull day m. ) . m. fair, with m. .. m. ) e. a. dull foren. . a. sunshine. a. . a. ) clear aftern. m. . m. ditto. m. . m. n. dull mort a. . a, s e. a. . . elear day. m. . m. cble. ditto. m. . m. e. a. . a, a. . a. sunsh. day. m. m. warm, with . m. cble. m. a. . a. warm, with sunshine. a. . a. e. sunshine m. . m. dull foren. m. cble. . m. a. . a. sun aftern. a. ditto. m. . m. warm, with m. sunshine. a. . a. cble. (ditto. average of rain, . inches. {m. / { { { . a. e. a. m. . a. }e .] appointments, promotions, &c. may p. f. appointments, promotions, &c. brevet capt. w. b. hulme, f. to be major surg. peacocke, from vet. bn. surg. in the army dec. , vice miller, h. p. may dr. g. paym. perry, from h. p. dr. paym. as. surg. o'donel, from vet. bn. as. vice jennings, h. p. june , surg. vice m'lachlan, h. p. vet. dr. capt. walton, major by purch, vice lt. bn. june col. hugonin, ret. may colon. c. d lieut. j. a. campbell, from h. p. lieut. kirby, capt. by purch. do. at the bourbon r. lt. vice c. gamp cornet grant, lieut. by purch. do. mauritius bell may c. agnew, cornet, by purch. do. ceyl r. capt. goldicutt, from h. p. f. capt. lieut. sneyd, from dr. lieut. vice více kitson, f. june gibbs, h. p. dr. rec. diff. june coldst. g. ens. and lieut. murray, from h. miscellaneous. p. ens. and lieut. vice douglas, dead col. j. p. lloyd, late of the f. gor. of fishguard, (without pay! vice of. ens. lyster, lieut. vice jenkins, qua, vaughan, dead may , mast. june sir john owen, bt. m. p. gov. of mil- .. r. crawford, ens. do. ford haven, (without pay) vice lord lieut. jenkins, qua. mast. vice jones, cawdor, dead june dead do. major bowles, coldst. gds. dep. adj. hon. c. d. blayney, ens. vice gamble, gen. jamaica, with the rank of lt. dead do. col. vice freemantle, res. do. ens. fry, lieut. vice johnson, dead r.j. macdonald, from h. p. apothecary do. to the forces april c. coote, ens. do. exchanges. lieut. crawford, capt. by purch. vice lieut. col. meyrick, from f. with lieut. col. lodder, ret. may cotton, f. g. ens. griffiths, lieut. by purch. do. bt. lt. col. leggatt, from f. with major and adj. downie, rank of lieut. do. browne, h. p. f. h. foley, ens. do. capt. gamble, from dr. g. with capt. paget, f. ens. peek, lieut. vice cameron, dead maebean, from p. with capt. kirwan, he do. moore, from h. p. ens. do. lieut. pode, capt. by purch. vice gore, fraser, from f. with capt. moriarty, h. ret. p. f. do. ens. lowe, lieut. do. gregory, from f. with capt. trydell, ceylon regt. gent. cadet . j. paterson, from r. mil. boyle, from f. with capt. ross, h.p. coll. ens. do. f. ens, gibson, from h. p. f. vice pi- w. madden, from f. with m. madden, gott, f. june h. p. f. home a, c, j. browne, ens, vice tay- carroll, from ing. of mil. in ion. isls. with lor, dead do. capt. macphail, h. p. ens. pigott, from f. ens. vice bal- lieut. quillinan, from dr. g. rec. diff. with lt. four, h. p. f. do. rolland, h. p. dr. estcourt, from f. ens. vice foster, from dr. with lt. vandeleur, sharpe, h. p. vet. bat. do. dr. bt. major guthrie, major by purch. vice lieut. col. gregory, ret. pattison, from f. rec. diff. with lt. mac- may kay, h. p. f. lieut. o'neill, capt. by purch. jeboult, from p. rec. diff. with lt. craw. do. ford, h. p. rifle br. capt. kitson, from ceyl. r. capt. gardiner, from f. rec. diff. with lt. sim. vice bt. major jessop, h. p. f. june mons, h. p. rifle br. ens. wilson, lieut. by purch. may moore, from f. with lt. irwin, h. p. f. h. d. carr, ens. by purch. do. douglas, from f. with lt. minter, h.p. ens. shaw, from f. ens. vice est- f. court, f. june lieut. fennell, from f. lieut. ro- winterbottom, from f. with lt. snod- binson, cancelled may grass, h. p. serj. maj. brew, qua. mast. vice har- m'iver, from f. rec. diff. with lt. thorp, h. p. f. do. green, from f. rec. dift. with lieut. bi. maj. campbell, major by purch. monckton, h. p. dr. vice thwaites, ret. do. lieut. flamanck, capt. by purch. do. cornet de lisle, from dr. g. with cornet fagg, dr. ens. hamilton, lieut. by purch. do. j. murray, ens. by purch. do. bulkley, from dr. g. with cornet green- land, dr. lieut. mouins, adj. vice winterbot. do. tom, res. ensign bayly, from f. with ensign cheney, f. cosby, from f. lieut. vice macdonnell, from f. with ensign mor- smith, h. p. rifle brig. do. tashed, h. p. f. winterbottom, from h. p. paym. vice clarke, cashiered do. whitney, from f. rec. diff. with ensign jones, h. p. f. bristow, from h. p. f. lieut. paym. moulson, from f. with capt. newton, vice fennel, f. do. ens. gilchrist, from vet. bn. ens. h. p. w. i. r. surg. fisher, from f. with surg. harrison, h. p. vice shaw, f. june f. lieut. landon, capt. vice bt. major howard, dead may resignations and retirements. ens. gaston, lieut. do, lieut. col. hugonin, dr. k. a. mack zie, ens. do. gregory, f. lieut. douglas, from h. p. rifle brig. m'bean, f. vice cosby, f. do. major thwaites, f. capt. bethune, major by purch. vice capt. lodder, f. bt. lt. col. macbean, ret. june gore, f. lieut. pennycuiek, capt. by purch. paym. lacy, shropshire mil. do. adj. capt. bennett, king's co. mil. ens. sinclair, lieut. by purch. do. capt. goodwin, sligo mil j. morritt, ens. by purch. do. butler, wicklow mil. pur, dead appointments, promotions, c. [july, may appointment cancelled. lieut. magee, invalids, walworth, may , lieut. robison, f. - coghlan, h. p. f. london, june, , carr, h. f. france, oct. , deaths. stretch, h. p. f. limerick, may , col. graham, h. p. cape corps. gordon, h. p. f. aberdeen, feb. lieut. col. campbell vet. bn. dublin, ensign taylor, f. quebec, apr. , june, paym. patrickson, h. p. dr. paumier, h. p. f. d. campbell, argyll mil. major johnson, f. antigua, macklin, tyrone mil. bennett, roy. eng. portsmouth, june adj. lieut. ferrall,'h. p. rifle brig. previously of capt. m'pherson, late insp. gen. of barracks in f. north brit. edinburgh, oct. , - ens. packer, h. p. f. sept. , browne, invalids, pinchbeck, near spal quarter-mas. jones, f. on passage from deme- ding, june , rara to barbadoes, apr. , hadden, h. p. dr. previously of dr. wood, h. p. dr. westport, ireland, london. oct. , gitterick, h. p. staff corps of cav. sligo, orr, h. p. mid lothian fen. cav. may leith, may , considine; h. p. f. previously of dr. brilland, waterford mil. gordon, h. p. w. i. r. aberdeen, may surg. edm. taylor, windsor castle, apr. , lieut. douglas, coldst. gds. may pritchard, anglesea mil. marriot, f. of wounds received at the purveyor turnbull, h. p. mid calder, north bri- escalade of the fort of dwarka in the province tain, feb. , of oka mundel, nov. , hospital assist. bingham, h. p. may , - cameron, f. plymouth dock, cocco, h. p. messina, aug. may , births, marriages, and deaths. . at south castle street, the lady of g. mac- births. pherson grant, esq. of ballindalloch and inver- shie, m. p. of a daughter. oct. , . at barrackpore, the lady of lt. lady dunbar of boath, of a son. anderson, paymaster of the native pensioners at allahabad, of a daughter. . at paris, lady buchan, of a son. may , . at aix, the lady of james skene, . at york, the lady of lieutenant-colonel esq: of rubislaw, of a daughter. gordon, of the th dragoon guards, of a son. . at boyle, mrs colonel farquharson, of a - at bonjedward-house, mrs jerdon of a son. daughter. mrs auld, argyll square, of a daughter. . at deal, the lady of captain m"culloch, . at kirkcaldy, mrs archibald dow, of a son. june . at , hill street, mrs bell, of a son. r. n. of a daughter. - at chesterhall, mrs gray, of a son. . at his house in marlborough square, mrs ramsay, , hanover street, of a son. brompton, the lady of thomas mackenzie, esq. of a son. . at camberwell, surrey, mrs dudgeon, of a daughter. lately-at paris, the lady of earl poulett, of a . at maitland street, mrs fordyce of aytoun, son. of a daughter. marriages. - at the manse of kinghorn, mrs paterson, of a daughter. oct. , . at calcutta, john low, esq. - at his house in the canongate, the lady of merchant, to frances, daughter of mr robert henry prager, esq. of a daughter. low, dundee bank. . Át shandwick place, mrs miller of glenlee, feb. , . at dacca, bengal, alexander of a son. maclean, esq. son of a. maclean, esq. of ard- . at maize hill, greenwich, the lady of cap gour, and nephew to the earl of hopetoun and tain forbes macbean, royal artillery, of a son. the late countess melville, to elizabeth margaret, . at crossmount, the lady of capt. stewart, eldest daughter of richard owen wynne, esq. of a son and heir. chief judge of dacca. . at edinburgh, mrs lockhart of castlehill, may . captain james murray, of his majes- of a son. ty's ship valorous, to rachel, daughter of ben- - at ballinaby, mrs campbell, of a son. jamin tucker, esq. surveyor-general of the duchy, . at callander, mrs macgregor of glengyle, of cornwall. of a son. - at barking, john campbell, esq. to louisa, mrs ivory, prince's street, of a son. daughter of john shuttleworth, esq. of aldbo - at dunmore, mrs campbell of dunmore, rough hall, ilford, essex. of a daughter. june . at edinburgh, mr charles spence, so- · . ai norton, mrs pearson of myrecairnie, of licitor in the courts of session and adoniralty, to a daughter. isabella, daughter of the late mr joseph mordue . the right hon. mrs thomas erskine, of of wallsend. a daughter, who did not long survive. - at swinton hill, edward russel bell, esq. - mrs william wyld, cassels' place, leith sugar-refiner in glasgow, to sarah, second daughi. walk, of a son. ter of william bell, esq. swinton hill. • . at leith, mrs james smith, yardheads, of . at hawthorn bråe, wester duddingston, a son. thomas m. foggo, m. d. late surgeon of the - at sundrum, mrs hamilton of sundrum, royal artillery, to anne, eldest daughter of james of a son. scott, esq. merchant in leith. the lady of james cathcart, esq. of a son. . at edinburgh, mr thomas richardson, up- at kindeace-house, the lady of charles ro holsterer, to helen, only daughter of the late mr bertson, esq. of a son. james anderson, surgeon, scots brigade. - mrs gordon, , buccleuch place, of a son. . at marlingden, near brechin, the rev. ro- . at stockbridge, edinburgh, mrs parker, of bert smith of dreghorn, to mary, daughter of a daughter thomas molleston, esq. late provost of brechin. . at little mill, the lady of colonel renny, . at edinburgh, dr william cumin, physi- late of the th foot, of a daughter. cian, glasgow, to ann johnston, youngest daugh- . mrs bethune of blebo, of a daughter. ter of the deceased william ker, esq. of kerfield. . at edinburgh, mrs burn murdoch of gar . at , dublin street, robert montgomery, tincaber, of a sori. esq. of craighouse, to jane, eldest daughter of . at london, the lady of major younghus- the late john haldane, esq. band, royal regiment of artillery, of a son. . at kilmichael, inverlussa, mr james reid. - at manar, mrs gordon, of a daughter. of the exchequer, to miss elizabeth campbell, . at edinburgh, mrs robertson, , great second daughter of the rev. dugald campbell of king strect, of a daughter. auchnellan. .] register.-marriages and deaths. the spot. . at london, lieutenant-colonel bell, de . at his lodgings in portsmouth, lord fran- puty quartermaster-general at the cape of good cis thynne, late midshipman of his majesty's ship hope, to lady catherine harris, daughter of the rochefort, son of the marquis of bath. late earl of malmesbury. - mr stothard, son of t. stothard, esq. r. a. - at walsale, j. s. brown, esq. merchant, and brother of mr h. stothard. this gentleman, edinburgh, to maria, youngest daughter of the well known as an artist of considerable talent, was late john badger, esq. laymore-house, stafford killed by a fall from a ladder, upon which he was shire. standing, while copying a window in the church - at edinburgh, mr joseph gibson, merchant of beerferris in devon. although not more than in leith, to wilhelmina, daughter of the rev. ten feet from the ground, yet, being precipitated william innes, edinburgh. on his head, he fractured his skull and expired on . at inchree, major hugh stewart, th re- giment, to ann, second daughter of the rev. mr . at edinburgh, mr james wood raney, m coll. aged . - at leith, mr andrew graham, merchant, at castle street, edinburgh, elizabeth, the hawick, to christian, youngest daughter of the youngest child of mr michael anderson, solicitor. late mr john nixon, manufacturer there. june . at cherrybank, near newhaven, mrs . at berwick, william waring hay, esq. elspeth simpson, spouse of alexander mitchell, w.s. to miss jane francis gregson of blackburn. esq. - at peebles, the rev. benjamin mardon, - at no. , antigua street, edinburgh, miss m. a, minister of union chapel, glasgow, to iss helen cunningham. bella, daughter of mr cairns, writer. - at newington, edinburgh, mrs janet dick- - at the manse of ardhill, alexander allan son, wife of the reverend dr m.crie. mackenzie, esq. to charlotte, daughter of the late - mary, daughter of the late — mills, esq. of rev. dr alexander downie, minister of lochalsh. ripley, yorkshire, and the bride of mr j. house - at burgh lodge, thomas gifford, esq. late man, of clint, to whom she had been married the of the honourable east india company's service, preceding tuesday, when she was given away by to jessie, only daughter of the late john scott, sir wm. ingilby, the present high sheriff. im- esq. of milbie. mediately after the ceremony the bride and bride- . at seton, mr charles m'laren, merchant, groom set off with a party of friends to york. on edinburgh, to margaret, second daughter of mr their arrival the unfortunate lady was attacked by charles burnet. apoplexy, which terminated her life. . at montrose, captain william hunter, of . miss eliza cameron, aged , daughter of the honourable east india company's naval ser mr robert cameron, springfield paper-mill. vice, to miss knox, eldest daughter of andrew - at glasgow, mr john cross, teacher of ma- knox, esq. thematics, superintendant of the glasgow obser. . at edinburgh, mr john wilson, teacher of vatory, and member of the london astronomical music, to miss mary veitch. society, &c. his eminence as a mathematician was universally known, and his loss will be deeply regretted by the lovers of science, deaths. . at penzance, cornwall, miss agnes colqu- houn, eldest daughter of the lord clerk register. nov. , . at madras, aged , lieutenant at stafford street, edinburgh, henrietta, colonel sutherland m‘douall, youngest son of the wife of robert boog, esq. late john m.douall, esq. brother of the late earl - at his house, no. , broughton place, edin- of dumfries, of the honourable east india com- burgh, jaries jackson, esq. one of the honourable pany's native infantry, on the madras establish commissioners of excise for scotland. mnent, and british resident at the court of tra - after a few days illness, in edward street, vancore. portman square, london, sir george douglas, . at bombay, joseph william cumine, esq. bart. of springwood park, roxburghshire, which of the honourable east india company's medical county he had formerly represented in several suc- service, second son of archibald cumine, esq. of cessive parliaments. auehry. . at her son's house, north james's street, feb. , . at colombo, alexander cadell, edinburgh, mrs margaret knox beveridge, relict esq. paymaster-general of ceylon. of mr james beveridge, writer in dunfermline, in . at rio de janeiro, captain william pear- her d year. son, of the ship cheerful of kirkaldy. - at leith, in child-bed, mrs jane kisbue. march . at wynberg, cape of good hope, at inglismaldie, the honourable alexander colonel john graham of fintry, late of the cape keith, son of the late earl of kintore. regiment, commandant of simon's town. - at beverley lodge, near colchester, lachlan april . at fellowshiphall, in st david's, ja robert mackintosh, esq. of dalmunzie, perth- maica, margaret darby, a free black woman, at shire. the advanced age of years. she retained all at edinburgh, mary jane, second daughter her faculties till the last moment. of the late alexander fergusson, esq. of baled- may . at winster, mr wm. cuddie, surgeon. mund. this unfortunate gentleman's death was occasion aged nine years and one month, ann eliza, ed by a wound received the preceding day in a eldest daughter of mr john lavigny, luggate, east duel, which, it appears, he was induced to fight lothian, with mr w. brittlebank, of the same place. the . at edinburgh, aged , richard archibald corner's jury returned a verdict of wiiful murder houison, eighth son of the late reverend alexan- against all the parties concerned, three of whom der huison, of auchtergaven. are now confined in derby gaol; but mr brittle . at alloa, james laurie, esq. bank, the principal, has absconded. - at the residence of the earl of mexborough, - , at dundee, miss christian sandieman ; 'in picadilly, london, after a few hours illness, the and, on th may, mrs elizabeth sandieman, countess of mexborough. relict of david ramsay, merchant in dundee ; . mrs cuninghame, relict of the deceased john both daughters of the late david sandieman, cuninghame, esq. of port-glasgow. also merchant in dundee,--the former aged se - at banks of 'troqueer, robert halliday, esq. fenty-four, the latter seventy-six years. of banks, aged . - at edinburgh, aged , mr george edmon . at st andrews, aged , mr james jarvis, stone, ordained measurer, for many years a re- student of divinity. spectable cabinetmaker in kelso. - at southgate, middlesex, charles pasley, - suddenly, in a fit of apoplexy, john camp- esq. late major in the honourable east india com- bell, esq. of conduit vale, blackheath. pany's service, and charge d'affaires at the court at dunfermline, dr stenhouse of comely of persia. park. - at west wemyss, fifeshire, robert fenning . at park, robert govane, esq. of drum barker, esq. of nanwich. quhassie, aged . . al his father's house, no. , george street, - at whitehouse, isle of man, daniel m'queen, edinburgh, charles hope stewart, in the th esq. of netherwoodbank, late collector of cess year of his age. for the city of edinburgh. . at glasgow, thomas arnot, esq. vol. ix. register.-deaths. [july. esq. . at fife house, london, the right hon. the he carried straw to the king's troops on doncas- countess of liverpool. ter moor during the rebellion of . he beheld - at london, frances, the wife of sir jenison as his descendants, children, grandchildren, william gordon, bart. ) great-grandchildren ; in all . the united - at kirkcaldy, in the prime of life, james ages of three old persons who attended his funeral, swayne, esq. writer there, and agent for the fife amounted to . banking company. . in north richmond street, mr james cun- - a: dunfermline, mrs ann gel, aged , the ningham, merchant, edinburgh. last of the ancient family of ged of ged and bald - at edinburgh, after a long illness, rachel, ridge, and relict of mr john buntine. daughter of the reverend david jardine, agad – miss elizabeth peat, third daughter of mr years, john peat, writer, forth street, edinburgh. . at paris, the duchess dowager of orleans. . at ivy lodge, alexander dalyell, esq. aged she was the daughter of the virtuous duke de . penthievre and maria therese felicite d'est, and - at no. , north st david's street, edin great-great-grand-daughter of louis xiv. burgh, jessie, the infant daughter of dr william - at st stephen's, near plymouth, capt. tho- campbell. mas gordon caulfield, r. n. and of the windsor . at edinburgh, mr william frier, wool castle, in that harbour merchant, west bow. . at springhill, douglas james hamilton, - mr myles macphail, vintner, edinburgh. at brussels, the ex-conventionalist quirette. at dalmellington, mr john watt, aged , he was one of the four deputies, who, with the and for upwards of seventy years a public per. minister at war, bournonville, went, on the d former on the violin. his wife and he lived to april, , to the head-quarters of general du- gether in unison for sixty years. mourier to arrest that general, and to take him to at edinburgh, elizabeth, eldest daughter of paris to be tried; but were themselves arrested, john sandilands, esq. and delivered by dumourier to the austrian ge at edinburgh, miss jenny broughton, aged neral clairfait, and were kept in prison in ger , eldest daughter of mr charles broughton, w. many two years and a hall, until they were ex. s. elder street. changed for the duchess of angouleme in . - at edinburgh, mrs margaret graham, rehet . at his father's house, meet-hill, mr stuart of alexander bower, esq. of kincaldrum, aged hay, student in theology, aged on youngest son . of the reverend james hay, of alyth. . at edinburgh, miss jean m queen, daugh. - at law of newton, mr david mitchell, ter of the late george m'queen, esq. collector of farmer. cess of the city of edinburgh. . at his house, nn. , st john street, edin . at arbroath, mrs colvill, widow of john burgh, mr john ballantyne, bookseller to his ma. colvill, esq. late town-clerk. jesty for scotland. brilliant natural talents were - ai edinburgh, mrs margaret smith, widow combined in mr ballantyne with the utmost of thomas smith, esq. one of the principal clerks warmth and kindliness of disposition; and there to the bills. are not a few who will long remember him with - at edinburgh, mr david swan, of the green- affectionate regret, as one of the truest of friends, side company. as well as the most delightful of companions. : . at glasgow, robert carrick, esq. of braco. - at lendal, yorkshire, marion christiana, at edinburgh, mr alexander dalmahoy. wife of george lloyd, esq. of hatton lodge, and . at edinburgh, mr james stewart, late iper. daughter of alexander maclean of coll, esq. chant. - at muthill, mr joseph macpherson, writer, july . at his house, in york place, portman perth. square, london, in the th year of his age, lieute- - at his house, , north st david street, edin. general robert nicholson, of the hon. east india burgh, mr james stewart, late of the british linen company's service, on the bombay establish campany's bank. ment; whose many virtues had endeared hiin to å - at hermitage, leith links, miss elcanor numerous circle of friends, and in whom the poor primrose, daughter of the deceased sir archibald have lost a most liberal benefactor, primrose of dunipace, bart. lately-three children of a labouring man, of . suddenly, mrs jane watson, wife of mr the name of dale, residing at aspe heath, isle of thomas watson, chair maker, leith walk. wight. on returning from the burial of the first, - at mid-calder, mr william kippen, sen. another was found dead ; and on returning from innkeeper there. his funeral, the third had breathed his last. theis ai linlithgow, after a lingering illness, chris. death was occasioned by the disorder called the tiana, eldest daughter of mr john henley, of the сrоuр. excise there. - at his seat, near clonmel, in ireland, sir - at boulogne-sur-seine, near paris, in her thomas osborne, bart. his son, only four years th year, mary, daughter of w. errington, esq. of age, succeeds to his title and estates. of camden place, bath, and high warden, - at his house, in portland-place, london, the northumberland. earl of sheffield, his lordship closed a long and . at blackhills, near nairn, mrs falconer, active life, in the th year of his age. his lord wife of mr Æneas falconer, surveyor of taxes for ship is succeeded in his titles and estates by his vacant districts in scotland. son, george augustus frederick charles holboyd, - at craigie-house, ayrshire, mrs mary dehany viscount pevensey. fotheringham, wife of james campbell, esq. ad - at his seat in devonshire, abel worth, esq. vocate. he has bequeathed £ to the episcopal school - at dunfermline, helen anderson spence, for boys at exeter ; £ to the same establish daughter of mr george spence. ment for girls ; £ : to the school of st john's - at gosport, aged , major w. bennet, royal hospital in that city; and a handsome legacy to engineers. the devon and exeter hospital, - at edinburg), john syme of cartmore, esq. - at his country-house, near berlin, the ceke w. s. brated prussian naturalist, achard, the discoverer . at his house, fitzroy squars, london, in the of the process of making sugar from beet-root. th year of his age, john forbes, esq. of new - on board the duke of kent packet, on his in strathdon, aberdeenshire, and formerly of passage from lisbon to falpiouth, the right hon. bombay. lord clifford. - at edinburgh, james, eldest son of thomas - in london, after a short illness, capt. wm. ramsay, esq. , prince's street. hadden, of the th, or inskilling regiment of dra . at leith, mrs janet wilson, aged . goons, eldest son of the late major-general ilad- - at hallam, mr wm. woodhouse, aged . den of the royal artillery. printed by janics baulantyne an: (. blackwood's edinburgh magazine. no. liii. august, . vol. ix. contents. mammor menaren . horæ germanicæ. no. xii. the elegy on a country maiden mammans pilgramage, a drama, by the ba. the sons of mooslim woman ron la motte fouquè orannmann part ii. ode on the olden time ameramanasarana sir thomas browne's letter to a friend notes www.comunano the plague of darkness, a dramatic morsels of melody scene from the exodus no. i. the invitation means the last plague no. ii. the separation ib. notes and no. iii. the dreary moor on psalm-singing in our churches, no. iv. the evening lake with some observations upon the no. v. the marble heart ib. the proposed “ additional psalm. no. vi. the evening star me ody waarow mornano. lamb's translation of catullus mwana the forgers com the florida pirate works preparing for publica- on the probable influence of moral tion naman and religious instruction on the monthly list of new publi. character and situation of sea- cations men. no. ii. menanaman inch keith beacon monthly register. the invocation wwww ......... commercial report. the landscape mocno. appointments, promotions, &c. the wanderer of connaught ib. births, marriages, and deathsam mom www.co... edinburgh: william blackwood, no. , prince's street, edinburgh ; and t. cadell and w. davies, strand, london ; to whom communications (post paid) may be addressed. sold also by all the booksellers of the united kingdom. james pallantyne & co. printers, edinburgh. blackwood's edinburgh magazine, no. liii. august, . vol. x. horÆ germanica, no. xii. the pilgrimage, a drama. by the baron de la motte fouqué. in this number of the “ horæ ger- much from the accusations of con- manicæ,” we propose to give some ex- science, and thinks that his only tracts from the pilgrimage, a ro- chance of salvation depends on the mantic drama by the baron de la performance of a pilgrimage to the motte fouqué, who has been intro. holy land; the journey presenting duced to our readers by mr gillies's too many difficulties to himself ir his beautiful translation of one of his infirm state of health, he wishes to kleine romane. our present extracts transfer it to one of his two sons. the are transcribed from the papers of an- circumstances which occasion the fa.. other friend. ther's remorse, and the reasons which for the purpose of explaining the prevent the sons from at first comply- passages we select, it is only necessary ing with his wishes, are explained in to state, that thuring, an old knight, our extracts. feeling the approach of death, suffers scene-a wood. enter florus, (thuring's younger son.) forth wandering with thee, rich light of morning, who now, in glory, o'er the wood of firs dost rise, and brighten into living gold the vaporous clouds, i tread again this loved and lonely valley-sweet secluded haunt, which none intrudes on !-my sick father still is slumbering,-fearful dreams stand round his bed, disquieting his rest, and torturing me, the constant witness of his agonies.- but every creature has its load to bear, and every creatvre has its source of comfort.- the bee, who revels here 'mong perfumed flowers voluptuously, will soon, fatigued, return, a burthen'd labourer, to her fragrant cell.- why, florus, then complain of thy hard task ? thou likewise hast thy source of consolation enjoyments that refresh thy languid spirit in the blest hours of silent dewy morn. now, master, deeply loved, ah ! linger not;- the castle's far away,—the hour's at hand that wakes my father from his spectral dreams.- ah, master ! thou whose dear society restores, re-animates me, linger not. vol, ix. p .] the pilgrimage, a drama. my father's bed of sickness in the feats of hunting, or of horsemanship, i'm nothing! ant. you know them not :-if a man haunts the woods, deserts th' amusements of his school associates, forms friendships with old trees, prefers a song to idle conversation, soon a crowd will follow him,--they not alone deride him, but become continual spies upon his every motion ;—if thy rashness brings a throng of busy followers thus to trace my steps, oh ! dearly-dearly as i love thee, my child! we yet must part, to meet no more ! flor. ah! spare such threats. ant. oh, this would be a fine discovery!- thuring's romantic son found all alone among the mountains with this grey old man, these verses on his lips,-'tis not enough that this vain chattering may expose my life, but peace of mind, bought with such difficulty, is scared away for ever.-no! in vain would'st thou beseech me then; i could not meet these waves of trouble. sooner than endure what i foresee, we should for ever part. flor. ah ! why thus tortnre me with fears like these? why pain thyself by such severity ? here in the lonely forest none can hear us- e'en i myself, i know thee not-thy songs alone are mine,—thy converse, that restores health to my heart; let me listen, therefore, now to some song of thine, or story old, that may re-animate my fear-scared spirits ; then wilt thou speak of elevating science, and how the ingenuous mind should seek its depths. charm'd by thy words divine, i bear away in memory each dear and treasured thought, fair flowers to cheer the thorny wastes of life. ant. sit down beside me, then, on this green sod; oh, it relieves me from the weariness of solitude, recalls me into life, thus to instruct thee in the tales of old, the wisdom breathing in the minstrel's song: then listen. - irwin, thuring's elder son, (unseen.) winfred, winfred! ant. ha ! the voice of a huntsman in the woods, and near! flor. my brother's; at times he here pursues the chace, and winfred, the husband of the beautiful verena, is his companion on the mountain heights; be not disturb’d at this, my dear, dear master. ant. and a young warrior know it? irwin. (unseen.) farewell, winfred, a pleasant journey. ant. all is over now, this vale no longer is a solitude. irwin. (from a rock above.) ha! yonder in the copse-skreen see my brother! and close to him, is that the mountain-fiend, with his long hoary beard? this makes all plain ; from that direction came the song, with which [aug horæ germanicæ. no. xii. the forest rang.---your pardon, my good brother ! a few steps off, the rock is not too steep, and then i have your secret. (he passes or.) ant. see'st thou, now? thou foolish idle boy-ah! see'st thou now, thy thoughtless act has parted us for ever- for ever. flo. master, master, leave me not. ant. i must-i fear i must; it grieves me sorely; farewell—thou never wilt bebold me more ! (exit. flo. and was he then in earnest? no! oh, no! the storm will threaten oft in sultry days, yet pass away uninjuring; yea, at times reviving the parch'd earth; thus thou, dear master, would'st terrify me now, but not destroy. irw. where is he gone, that spectre old and gray? vanished ?-air melted into air ! flo. alas, vanished ! irw. and is it this that makes thee mournful? flo. you came, dear brother, at an ill-timed moment. irw. a pretty secret this to guard so closely; our father torturing us to go as pilgrims to palestine ; you still refuse to go; i thought a pretty girl was in the case, but here i find you squatting, side by side, with an old, dull, ill-humour'd fool, who flies into his bushes to conceal himself. flo. nay, speak not thus; i will not listen to it. irw. why, this sounds well. how long is't since you've learn'd this loud and passionate language? my fine fellow, that baby-arm, it terrifies me not. flo. what mean you ? art thou not my brother? yet thy skill in arms, thy fame for knightly deeds, were no restraint to me, if holy anger seized me. irw. well, when it comes, we're ready for it. but tell me now, why do you thus resist this pilgrimage ? you'll meet with, in the east, i should imagine, woody vales enough, and good old gentlemen with long gray beards. flo. my dear, dear brother, cease this ridicule ; and i entreat thee, never to betray in merry mood, or random conversation, what thou just now hast seen ;--that good old man (i know no more of him, than that each morning we meet, to enjoy the stillness of the wood, and the delight of song,) has taught me much that other masters strive in vain to teach, the high ennobling art of poetry. each chooses for himself some guide in life, and he is mine. oh! tear me not from him! divorced from him, i think i could not live. here will i stay, and nurse my dying father ; the joys of battle, and the chace be thine, be thine our steeds, our armoury. irw. oh, yes! because your woman heart would tremble at them. flo. irwin, i too am thuring's genuine son. irw. then prove it; shew thyself a warrior. .] the pilgrimage, a drama. flo. why, i should think a mind like thine, delighted with bold adventures, would enjoy a journey into the land of morning. irw. what can'st thou know of such feelings with your housewife heart? flo. ah! brother, thou art cruel, quarrelsome. farewell, then, thou hast sent me mournful home ; i go to nurse my father-fare thee well. irw. how mild he is--ah! pardon me, dear boy, in me my father's stormy passions rise. but thou, whose heart reflects the piety and meekness of our sweet dead mother's spirit, ah! bear with me. my own ! my florus. (embracing him. flo. tears, irwin ? thou in tears ? irw. thou knowest them not, the passions that are torturing my sick heart. , woe is me, for i am driven along where ruin beckons me; and with a smile so sweet, expressive of such love, allures me, that sin seems something bright and beautiful, and suffering for such cause, even enviable ! flo. i hear your words, but understand them not words in a foreign tongue, they irw. happy boy, ah! never learn it. passion's language soon is taught; we lisp the sounds with ease; the lessons, soon understood, can never be forgotten- never forgotten, though the heart should sigh eagerly for oblivion. flo. brother, brother ! irw. is winfred not my friend ? my fellow-soldier ? is not his bride a consecrated image ? flo. who said she was not ? irw. and to me he leaves her; confides her to my care ; sets out upon a distant journey, leaving me the guardian here of his castle, and of his verena. oh ! that he were return'd, this conflict over, this struggle between virtue, friendship, passion, this agony that tortures, yet delights me oh! that the victory were won, and yet- farewell. (erit. flo. what can he mean? these words, these starts, rapture and fear? i can't conceive his meaning ! (exit in the opposite direction. scene-a chamber in thuring's castle. thur. (coming out from a side door.) ho! florus, florus, still these evil dreams come back and terrify my senses. florus, chase them away. ho! florus, where is he? he hears me not; the empty vaults re-echo my voice; what-gone-gone out, to amuse himself. ah! thuring, desolate old man, thy cares are well repaid ; two sons thou hast brought up, two dutiful sons, who, when the question is of my salvation, which this pilgrimage would render certain-love their home, forsooth, so well, they would not live if absent from it, attach'd as branches to the parent tree. but let the arch glance of a merry eye, or war, or tournament, attract the one, .] the pilgrimage, a drama. still walk in that dark chamber? thou art shuddering! hast thou ? thou must have seen him; for thy features of his, methinks, have caught the stern expression, and mirror his with horrible resemblance. go-go-into that dread and lonely chamber. let me not see again that face of his ! go! i conjure thee, go ! ant. peace be with thee. (exit. thu. the gaze of this mysterious man at times affects me with strange terror ; and a word 'tis wonderfulma little word from him “ peace be with thee,"- a common phrase like this.. said with that tone, will give me back again, my health of spirit, will restore my life ha! florus comes ! quick bolt the door at once! (he bolts the door through which antonius has gone out) enter florus. thuring (to himself.) oh! how this beautiful and blooming face, reflecting every motion of the spirit, reminds me of the days that have gone by! i too was gay, and innocent as he; i too had nothing to conceal. it seems when i behold him, as if i myself came, in the brightness of my better days, here to reproach the gray old man with crimes done in the melancholy interval ! florus. my father, only tell me in what way to lighten of their load the dreary hours; to make thee cheerful,-shall i pray? or sing? or read some old romance? or chronicle of days that thu. woe is me, my son, far more than prayer, or song, romance, or chronicle, one word—that one word i've so oft demanded- one word from thee, said from thy heart sincerely, “i go a pilgrim to jerusalem," will please thy father-save thy father's soul. wilt thou refuse me? flo. let me ask my father, does the old warrior hate his peaceful son so much, as thus o'er sea and land to banish him? thu. oh think not thus ! my dear, dear son, best staff of my old age; but where does irwin rove? flo. sir winfred has set out on a long journey, and left in irwin's charge his wife and castle. thu. winfred's a fool! flo. a fool say you, to trust the friendship of the honourable irwin? thu. why think yourself-verena loveliest of women- irwin the most valiant knight. flo. what mean you? thu. can you not conceive ? 'tis this that makes your brother to his native land thus constant. flo. how? to guard his friend's effects ? thu. oh tranquil, clear, unsullied stream ! my florus, why wilt thou not in pious pilgrimage, now in the fragrant time of budding youth, with ardent bosom, seek the holy grave? horæ germanicæ. . no.xii. [ang. flo. each man has some one object of pursuit, which wins his love, to which his heart impels him, with force, that will not be opposed, to which he eagerly devotes his faculties, and lavishes his thoughts delightedly on the dear idol :-poetry to me has thus been consecrated, rules my heart like a pervading passion, claims the homage of all my powers. oh knit not thus thy brows, my father! often hath my song dispell’d thy savage dreams; and often hath it soothed thy senses, lulling thee to sweet oblivion, diffusing its own magic dreams around thee: such, father, is the charm of poetry in every place where there is man to feel. through the wide world the soother's voice is felt, and me the charmer call’d, and me she summon'd; and while with timid eye and heart confused, unable to interpret my own feelings, i gazed around me, doubtful, diffident, there met me an old, pious, worthy man, affectionate and cheerful; he became my master, taught me the loved mystery of song-instructed me how man should seek and learn to know his god! many a rich tale he told- delightful narratives to hear, flowing so sweetly from those reverend lips ! oh, father, tear me not from him ; in truth, i feel my conduct different on the days i speak to him. then am i mild and good; unsteady, languid, harsh, dissatisfied, when i have miss'd the old man's company. 'tis said, that in man's purest thoughts there is some evil mingled. this he drives away. nothing unholy can endure his presence. let me each morning seek the lonely valley; find there the balm that heals the soul. thus, father, thy son's affections, and his happiness, will be secured. thu. ha ! ha! and this is virtue ! the thing.men boast of–here is one whose wishes and outward seeming speak of purity, and yet the devil is living in his heart, as in all other men's. flo. you chide me, father, 'tis but a moment since you spoke with praise ; and praise and blame-so given-alike perplex me. thu. i have not blamed thee, boy-i blame mankind. how they do speak of crime, (for thus they call it) and thou, who canst not understand what's meant by an allusion to the least transgression, ( scarce should call it by so harsh a name,) to the least rashness, thou wilt say that evil dwells in thy heart! ye all are hypocrites. flo. no, father! of this rashness, as you call it, i nothing know, nor feel i self-convicted of any thing, the thought of which should stain my cheek with shame; but in the book of god we read, that man is fallen. thu. the book of god! ay, thus the monks, your master hypocrites will talk. and is it there you skreen yourself? s horæ germanicæ. no. xii. [aug. thuring completes the confession of his guilt, which closes the scene. the next is in the garden of winfred's castle. while irwin is expressing his love to verena, a messenger arrives, who announces the death of her husband, who is very opportunely killed by a bear. second act. scene—a valley near thuring's castle. thuring sitting on a rock, irwin standing before him. thu. well, well ! whate'er they say of rhyme and song, and sound of harp, and how the poet's art subdues the soul of man through all the world, the sword is still the noble's proper weapon, his only honourable ornament ! why, what are all these pretty lullabies of florus's, compared with the delight that i receive from such a sight as this ? my son array'd in splendid arms the colours of our old family once more display'd- and at thy heels the tinkling spurs of gold- in yonder copse the impatient war-horse panting, gazing with eager eye towards thee, as longing to bear his princely master to the battle- even i myself, as thou didst lead me hither, felt in my veins again the heroic blood burning—the frost of age dissolved away, when i but touched thy warrior arms ms--the thoughts, whose horrid presence wither'd me, are gone- thou art, indeed, old thuring's genuine son ! irw. thus be it ever, father-may thy youth return, restored in thy son's deeds of glory- and every morning shall this well-knit arm win for thy brow another wreath of honour. life thus made happy-and when life is over, the high-arched vault, where we must lie at last, hung round with shields, which tell of high achievements, and many a well-won banner proudly streaming. thu. would death were come ! but, oh! beyond the grave there is a land that rings not with the fame of warriors ! where none speak of shield or standard- irwin, eternity in hell is long- fearfully long-long inexpressibly! irw. who prays more piously than gentle woman? is there a saint, whose voice heaven hears more soon than the effusions of a female heart, breathing in tender prayer?--thou hast no daughter- oh, let me give a daughter to thy house, one who, with violence of burning prayer, heaven to thee! thu. and 'twas for this that thou to-day didst offer me thine arm for this invitedst me to breathe the air of the cold morn—for this didst flatter me is winfred's widow this selected daughter? thuring makes the performance of the pilgrimage to the holy land by irwin the condition of his assent to the proposed union; and the son, equally determined, leaves thuring, expressing his resolution never to undertake such a journey, till verena becomes his wife, or he has wept over her grave. the next scene introduces verena. will open .] the pilgrimage, a drama. verena, (not observing thuring). whisper not thus reproach- ingly, ye branches ! gaze not on me with such a conscious look, ye wildflowers of the wood! the tall grass seems, as the breeze comes, with an upbraiding voice, to speak of me! how is it that every thing seems still distinctly saying, “ irwin-irwin," repeating always the loved dreaded name- and my heart echoes it unceasingly. oh, winfred ! from thy cold and narrow bed appear, and chill this frantic feverisha passion- ghost of the dead, arise ! and from the world, drive to the pensive solitary cloister thy wife, unfaithful to thy memory- force from those burning lips a binding vow inviolable-immure me in the darkness, the dungeon dreariness of the cold convent- compel me, for my soul shrinks back in horror irresolute--my sinful bosom feels too deep, too tender love for the young hero, the beautiful irwin. thuring appears, reproaches verena bitterly, and succeeds in affecting her imagination so much, that she at last consents to gratify him, by taking mea-, sures to have it believed that she has died, and by remaining a prisoner in his castle. she thus hopes to escape the passion of Írwin, and live more entirely separated from the world, than she could be in a convent. thuring, by this means, secures the performance of the pilgrimage, and also has the advantage of verena's prayers in addition to those of antonius. he is, however, mortified by the determination of florus, who, now that he has lost his master, is as eager for the pilgrimage, as he was before averse to it. the father, whose wishes would be fully gratified by the pilgrimage of one of his sons, is unable to prevail on either of them to relinquish the pursuit. thuring to florus. i must confess to thee, my son, that oft, oft as i wish'd this pilgrimage of thine- and 'twas my theme by day,--and when i slept, dreams mock'd me with its vain accomplishment oft as i blamed thy lingering, thy refusal- yet now, when i behold thee standing here, prepared for travel, 'tis with grief i gaze upon my son-with heaviness of heart- and shall i lose thee-thee, who still hast been my gentle, kind, unweariable attendant- thee, the reflected image of my youth! and shall i lose thee, and survive, my florus ? flo. hast thou not said that thou art apprehensive for thy soul's dear salvation ? that thy hope was rested on this pilgrimage? thu. there my own weapon hast thou turn'd against me; well, be it so ! i lose thee, then, my florus ! (embracing him. flo. oh, father, if thou always wert so mild ! thu. that cannot be ; however, i may strive ! hell often whispers me in gloom and vapour, and often will it rave perceptibly, and then my wild eyes sparkle with strange fire, and then my lips are loud with blasphemy.- go then, my son, redeem thy father's soul : pure effluence from a source impure-oh, fly! seek in the east the glorious morning beams! this curse that tortures me convert to blessings ! hore germanicæ. no. xii. [auk. irwin enters, alludes to verena's death, and announces his intended journey. irw. then to the holy land we both will go, but not together-warrior and pilgrim would only prove unsuitable companions. let him, if so he loves, in palmer-weeds wander through foreign lands! in such a dress, in such demure and pensive guise, i would go mad.— farewell, i follow my own way! thu. irwin, my dear, my first-born son, oh, go not ! irw. here to remain ! to see of winfred's castle the dear-loved battlements !-to rove the woods in solitude, where i was wont to meet her lingering till i came! on every bank to weep upon the flowers she loved, -oh, no! this cannot be. i must away,-must hear lances, and swords, and heathen scymitars, ring round my head ; this only will restore me to rest, or else the honourable grave !- thu. oh, irwin, irwin, can'st thou not remain ? and yet i know a way, but dare not use it,- one offering will not satisfy heaven's justice; i must lose both,-must linger here deserted, - i cannot bear the dreams, that haunt and scare me; and, therefore, must i seal my lips,-must send all that i love away,-must sacrifice, in this dread pilgrimage, all that remains. depart. — flo. i hear already the glad waves welcoming me, with animating voice ! irw. travel by land for me—its many dangers ! through many a hostile country will i go, search out each day some desperate enterprize, that may conclude this miserable life. thu. my sons, it was a brilliant day, when i first wore a warrior's arms. like thee, my noble irwin, i was strong ; like thee, my gentle florus, kind, romantic; like both, was young.- and in this very chamber my father stood, a grey hair'd man, and old as is your father now, but stronger far, and far more cheerful,-he was ever cheerful, -he might be cheerful !- then he bade me look upon the portraits of our ancestors, told me their deeds, and dwelt on every name! then did he call me nobleman and knight; and, as he spoke, the blood of the old heroes burn'd in my glowing frame. alas! that fire in these dead ashes now no longer glimmers ! my children, i cannot command his strong and animating language; weak am i in words,-a poor, old, miserable man; and ye must leave your father's halls, ungifted with benefits, which are not mine to give; but, as he blest me, i may on my sons bestow my blessing :-bend your knees, my children, a father's blessing rest upon your heads ! thuring's frenzy again seizes him ; he fears that a blessing bestowed by him will become a curse, and call down destruction upon his children ; he drives horæ germanicu. no, xii. [aug. but, from what rich flowers delicious, from what tree, whose tears are perfume, flows the aromatic current? who can tell its secret fountain ? i can tell it ;-i have found it, - and i fill my magic phial with the prize invaluable : hormisdas bends, and gazes in the glass,- the unseen gales of fragrance rise and fly impatiently, to breathe round zilia's hair, round zilia's graceful form ! a maiden. oh, what a happy lot is mine ! my occupation all is cheerful play, and after occupation, sweet repose- reward of happy toils ! how happy am i here, removed from all that once i loved, an ignorant poor child,— the gloomy wood, and the moss-cover'd cottage ! the tale my mother told, (poor woman, only rich in fairy tales,) has been to me most splendidly accomplished : i slept one evening on her breast, - there came to me a wond'rous dream, that half unclosed my eyes, and gave me strength to run; it led me far away, long did my mother sleep, and wept when she awoke, to find her child was gone ! and i beheld her tears ! -but the dream hormisdas sent enticed me to this pleasant place, to one eternal round of joy ; far away my native cottage lies, forgotten, unregretted, in the gloom of poverty! and i play with pearls and diamonds, happy, happy girl that i am ! a youth. from the lofty war-proof fortress, where, from the high hill, in splendour shine the walls and battlements, commanding a wide range of prospect, i ran, a happy child, delighted to wander in the pleasant greenwood ; i thought to enjoy the huntsman's pleasures, which i oft had seen my father seeking with his boon companions ! bat how sweet, how heart-refreshing, were the scenes that in the forest sooth'd my captivated senses ; all that wide and shadowy meadow, beneath the roof of meeting branches, was echoing a stream of music, that flow'd forth, as from a fountain, from the breathing lips of hymnus; who there was standing visibly ; he held me with his giant arm; he flatter'd me with words seducing, from those sweet lips, red as roses, and i was his a willing captive. he bore me from my native meadows, up into the blue sky starry, .] the pilgrimage, a drama. holy night's serene dominions ; gliding fast, with unfelt motion, i sapk down 'mong flowers and fragrance, in the garden of hormisdas ! and willingly do i resign the chace, and all its pleasures ; lingering happy here, singing my idle songs 'mong fragrant flowers ! maiden. i was playing in the garden, on the roof of our house, in ascalon! when a butterfly came humming o'er the flowers, and i was tempted to follow the bright flutterer, and the slender sounds were woven to a web of gold, that, rustling, lifted me with impulse airy ! and they then were changed to winglets that grew upon my shoulders graceful. hither i move to these delightful gardens, happy in heart; and think of ascalon with scorn—the city that the stranger seeks, the ornament and glory of the east ! a youth. i know the land of the evening sun the fields where towers the giant oak- the countries of the cloud and storm, whose lakes are often roof'd with ice ; where the morning rises chill, and the night, from dreary wing, showers hoar-frost on the shrinking flowers ; and there are warriors to be seen, in arms loud sounding, splendid heavy arms of steel ! swords in their hands, unlike the scymitar ; the blade unbent, and double-edged, cuts straight into the faces of the enemy; and on their heads the heavy visor'd helm, from which a cloud of many colour'd plumes streams in the playful breeze ; and my friends wish'd that i should be a soldier. already had i learned to bend the war-horse to my will ; already, with an active arm, could sway the warrior's sword; but, as i rested after my first battle, there came, with friendly words, a gray old man ; he sate beside me. from his lips stream'd forth a wondrous tale. unceasingly it stream'd ; holding enchanted my surrender'd soul, till the sweet stars came gemming the blue sky; and then he rose, but still the tale continued ; and on we wander'd, and the narrative was still unfinish’d, and we reach'd the shore ; i following him, unable to resist the magic of his voice ! rapidly, rapidly he went, rapidly, rapidly i follow'd him ; i threw away the shield that burthen'd me, i threw away from me the encumbering sword, and we embark’d, and still the tale continued all day ! all night! the moon did wex and wane, .] the pilgrimage, a drama. but where could its inhabitants have enter'a ? is there no opening, whence their eyes may gaze on the sun's lovely light-on the blue sky? how can their lips imbibe the enlivening breath restorative, from meadow or from grove? for, without this, i cannot think a beast, much less a man, can live in happiness. abdul. be not misled, brave knight, this is no more than a mere mockery, to cheat the senses. 'tis but a bright delusive cloud you gaze on, that skreens from sight the high arched gates and windows ! the next scene represents the garden of hormisdas's palace. in the back ground is a watch-tower, from the roof of which hormisdas contemplates the stars. zilia is seen in the garden below. zilia. before the calin breath of this silent night my cares are past away. the strange delusion that dazzled and enslaved my soul so long, is vanish’d. it was not our pleasant dance under the plane trees, near the smiling lake- 'twas love, felt deeply, never felt before ; 'twas florus that has fill’d my breast with life. oh, where my love, where dost thou wander now? scarce may i dare to breathe a sigh to thee. on the old tower, in the white moonshine, stands the dread magician, reading in the stars the secret wishes that employ the heart ; perhaps he'll send one of his spirits here to punish me, because i love this youth. cease, treacherous tears, or fall in secret here upon the dark green myrtle's dewy leaf. the faithful myrtle-leaf will not betray thee. hormisdas. (above.) ye golden glories of the firmament ! ye faithful friends! ye silent counsellors ! your warning light still intimates some danger ; yet if 'tis true, (and who can doubt its truth that understands the language of your looks ;) if it be true, that i interpret rightly your secret meaning, i need fear no longer. even at this moment, the dark womb of earth hath closed upon the black knight-the avenger the adversary, named by destiny - what can this mean, but that my foe is dead? hormisdas continues his astrological inquiries till the appearance of irwiv, who having entered the castle by a subterráneoựs passage, explains the language of the stars— he kills hormisdas--the enchantments, as in all such stories, are at an end. irwin, however, with an inconstancy which we are afraid will be con- sidered quite unpardonable in the devoted lover of verena, asserts his right as conqueror to the possession of zilia. she and florus fly to europe ; but have scarcely arrived at thuring's castle, when they are overtaken by irwin. thu- ring's raving fit returns, when he sees both bis sons, and discovers that the pil- grimage is still unaccomplished. the reader anticipates the conclusion of the drama. irwin is reconciled to the loss of zilia, by the re-appearance of verena. the hermit antonius, is lothen, the betrayed guest. thuring's conscience is thus relieved from the weight of his supposed guilt, and he dies uniting the hands of his sons and their brides. vol. ix. r [aug. ode on the olden time. ode on the olden time. somnia, terrores magicos, miracula, sagas, nocturnos lemures, portentaque thessala.--hor. the skies are blue; the moon reclines above the silent grove of pines, as if devoid of motion ; the ivied abbey frowns forlorn ; and stilly to the ear are borne the murmurs of the ocean. the nightshade springs beside the walk; luxuriantly the hemlock stalk expands its leaves unthwarted, above the monumental stones, above the epitaphs, and bones, of beings long departed. no human dreams disturb the soul, whose thoughts, like giant-billows, roll 'mid darksome ages hoary ; when light upon the human mind dawn'd faintly, and the world was blind with superstitious story. when fairies, with their silver bells, were habitants of earthly dells, all sheathed in emerald dresses : and mermaids, from the rock, were seen at sea, and every wave between, combing their dewy tresses. when wither'd hags their orgies kept, 'mid darksome night; when nature slept, and tempests threaten'd danger; sheer, from the precipice to throw down-down among the rocks below, the lorn, benighted stranger. when grim, before the vision stalk'd such figures, as no longer walk'd the upper world, and faces of men, that on their deathbeds lay, as twilight spread her shades of grey, were seen in desart places. then, glittering to the morning sun, with casque, and sable morion, and greaves, and cuirass glancing, the knight, and vassals at his call, on battle feud forsook the hall, a thousand chargers prancing. dark deeds were done and blood was shed in secret—and the spirit led to fury, and to madness ; hearths quench'd ; and black walls smoking round; and children's blood upon the ground; and widows left in sadness. .) ode on the olden time. then from her cloister wall, the nun gazed anxious toward the setting sun, descending o'er the ocean ; till startled by the deep-toned bell, that summon'd her from lonely cell to even-tide devotion. then from the tilt, and tournay, came the youthful knight, with soul of flame, his lady's rights defending ; the glove upon his cap on high ; and love unto his falcon eye redoubled ardour lending. or at the louvre-while his steed shot forward with the lightning's speed, 'mid courtly crowds assembled, the gallant bore the ring away, and turning to his mistress gay, their meeting glances trembled. now all have pass'd-their halls are bare the ravens only harbour there; and restless owls are whooping around the vaults, as if to bring, day's rosy lustre withering - departed spirits trooping. a giant ruin !-grimly frown its walls of grey, and roof of brown; its watch-towers dimly throwing their shadows in the pure moonlight far from them, and to wizard night a doubled power bestowing. no voice is heard—'tis silent all, the steed hath vanish'd from the stall; the hawk and hound have perish'd ; the orchard trees have all grown wild; the flowers and shrubs for turf are piled o'er all who fondly cherish’d. with hound in leash, and hawk in hood, the forester, through pale and wood, from morn till eve was roaming 'mid scenes majestically wild- dark mountains huge, o'er mountains piled, begirt with torrents foaming. and, o'er the precipices bleak, at pride of place, the eagle's shriek, beneath the tempest scowling, dismal he heard, afar from men, in wastes where foxes made their den, and famish'd wolves were howling. hark!-'twas the boding owl that scream'de too long my spirit hast thou dream'd of ages, far reclining amid the shadows of the past ; and, fitful as the lightning blast, on wakeful memory shining. ode on the olden time. [aug. thou, holy moon, hast seen them all, while clouds came o'er thee, but their thrall is passing, and in glory, stedfastly on the verdant ground thou shinest-on the graves around, and mouldering arches hoary ! 'tis pleasant to revert the eye froin life in its reality- from living things around us- and, for a season, break the chain, which, ah! too soon will knit again- with which the world hath bound us. the grassy court—the mossy wall- vault-bartizan-and turret tall- with weeds that have o'ergrown them; though silent as the desart air, yet have their eloquence, and bear morality upon them. yes! these are talismans, that break the sleep of visions, and awake long silent recollections ; that kindle in the mental eye, romantic feelings long gone by, and glowing retrospections. by them the mind is taught to know, that all is vanity below; and that our being only is for a day,—and that we pass- and are forgotten,-and the grass will wave above us lonely. yes, all must change-we cannot stay the spoiler. time, with onward sway, all human pride defaces ; a few brief years revolve, and then we are no more,-and other men shall occupy our places. and i, now resting on a tomb, shall sleep within its breast, the gloom of dark oblivion o'er me; and beings, yet unborn, shall tread, on moonlight eves, above my head, as i o'er those before me. notes on ode on the olden time. note i. when fairies, with their silver bells, were habitants of earthly dells, all sheathed in emerald dresses. the fairies of scotland are represented as a diminutive race of beings, of a mixed or rather dubious nature ; capricious in their dispositions, and mischievous in their resent- ment. they inhabit the interior of green hills, chiefly those of conical form, in gaelic termed sighan, on which they lead their dances by moon-light ; impressing upon the sur- face the marks of circles, which sometimes appear yellow and blasted, sometimes of a deep green hue, and within which it is dangerous to sleep, or to be found after sun-set. -dr leyden's “ dissertation on the fairy superstition," in border minstrelsy. .] ode on the olden time. like the feld-elfen of the saxons, the usual dress of the fairies is green ; though, on the moors, they have been sometimes observed in heath-brown, or in weeds dyed with stone-raw, or lichen. they often ride in invisible procession ; when their presence is discovered by the shrill ringing of their bridles.-ibid. note ii. when withered hags their orgies kept mid darksome night. such as wish to revel among the intricacies of witchcraft, may do so to surfeiting in that delightful miscellany “satan's invisible world,” by the glasgow professor ; ar- not's celebrated “ criminal trials ;" sharpe's “ memorials of law ;” and in sundry numbers of old, decent, blue-coated maggie scott. note iii. when grim before the vision stalk'd such figures, as no longer walk'd the upper world. “ the wraith, or spectral appearance, of a person shortly to die, is a firm article in the creed of scottish superstition. nor is it unknown in our sister kingdom.”-sir walter scott. to those who are curious in these matters we relate the following illustration, ha- ring heard it repeatedly from the very lips of the person to whom it occurred : “when the lady alluded to was a girl, she had an acquaintance, perhaps a lover, in the person of a midshipman on board the royal george. “one morning she awoke suddenly from sleep, and, looking to the foot of her bed, she saw the figure of the midshipman standing, in boyish beauty, with closed eyes, dressed in his naval uniform, and with a black silk handkerchief round his neck. she gazed for an instant, and then plunged her head under the bed-clothes, uttering a loud shriek. when she ventured again to look up, the apparition had vanished. “ she arose, and dressed herself; but remained during the whole day disconsolate, and could not help often bursting into tears when left alone. on the forenoon of that day, when walking with a friend, who remarked her sorrowful appearance, she related the circumstance, and said, that it certainly foreboded death ; and was not to be laugh- ed out of her fears. “ in a few days arrived the awful news of the loss of the royal george, and her gal- lant crew; among whose number was the young midshipman.' if the reader is anxious to learn whether the writer believes this anecdote, i beg eva- sively to answer him in the words of the old border minstrel, “ i tell the tale, as told to me.” for further instances of wraiths, see the story of diana rich, in aubrey's “ mis- cellanies ;” that of mrs veale, in many a six-penny and three-penny pamphlet ; and the instance recorded by mr duffte, as related to him, during his second voyage, in our last number. note iv. -faces of men, that on their death-beds lay, were seen in desart places. these are, to use the words of the divine milton, the -calling shapes, and beck'ning shadows dire, and airy tongues, that syllable men's names on sands, and shores, and desart wildernesses. “ these spirits often foretell men's deaths,” saith old burton, “ by severall signs, as knocking, groanings, &c. though rich. argentine, c. . de præstigiis demonum, will ascribe these predictions to good angels, out of the authority of ficinus and others ; “ prodigia in obitu principium sæpius contigunt, &c. as, in the lateran church in rome, the popes' deaths are foretold by sylvester's tomb. near rupes nova, in fin- land, in the kingdome of sweden, there is a lake, in which, before the governour of the castle dyes, a spectrum, in the habit of arion, with a harp appears, and makes excellent musick ;-like those blocks in cheshire, which (they say) presage death to the master of the family; or that oke in lanthradran park, in cornwall, which foreshows as much." -anatomy of melancholy, part i. sect. . “ ambulones, that walk, about midnight, on great heaths and desart places ; which, saith lavater, draw men out of the way, and lead them all night by a bye-way, or quite bar them of their way."-idem. ode on the olden time. [aug. note v. casque, and sable morion, and greaves and cuirass glancing. for an account of the rise, progress, institutions, and decline of chivalry, vide pre- liminary dissertation to robertson's “ charles v.” passim. for specimens of its prose details, the reader may consult froissard's “ cronicle ;" and for examples of its poeti- cal, the “ lay of the last minstrel," and the “marmion,” of sir walter scotty-may we add likewise his “ ivanhoe.” see, by the same, the article chivalry, in the supple- ment to the “ encyclopædia britannica;" for he has made the subject his own in all its bearings. note vi. then, from her cloister-wall, the nun gazed anxious toward the setting sun, descending o'er the ocean. savary, in his “ lettres sur la grece," presents us with a most interesting description of the convent of acrotiri, and its inhabitants. they were three in number ; one ad- vanced in years, another of middle age, and a novice of sixteen,—without seeing the last of whom, he informs us, it would be impossible to form any adequate conception. all that could beautify the form, or dignify the mind, of the fairest of nature's works, seem to have centred in one doomed forever to solitude and to sorrow. “ je vous avouerai," que cette pensée m'affligoit. tant de charmes ensevelis pour jamais au fond d'une triste solitude ! celle qui etoit née pour faire la felicité d'un mortel, separée pour jamais de la societé des hommes !” note vii. “ at pride of place," the eagle's shriek. a term of falconry ;-the highest pitch of the eagle's flight. shakespeare, in his macbeth, says, an eagle, towering to his pride of place, was by a mousing owl hawked at, and killed. note viii. yes! these are talismans, that break the sleep of visions. amulet, a charm, or preservation against mischief, witchcraft, or diseases. amulets were made of stone, metal, simples, animals, and every thing that fancy or caprice sug, gested ; and sometimes consisted of words, characters, and sentences, ranged in a parti- cular order, and engraved upon wood, and worn about the neck, or some other part of the body. at other times, they were neither written nor engraved ; but prepared with many superstitious ceremonies, great regard being usually paid to the influence of the stars. the arabians have given to this species of amulets the name of talismans. all nations have been fond of amulets. the jews were extremely superstitious in the use of them to drive away diseases ; and even among the christians of the early times, amu. lets were made of the wood of the cross, or ribbons with a text of scripture written in them, as preservatives against diseases. --note by the translator of schiller's ghost seer. says he,“ morsels of melody. st august, . dear christopher, i wonder what could make you sup- requires a vivida vis animi,-an active pose that i would write a good song; power, amounting to an overflowing of but you extorted a promise from me mind in the sentiment, and a particu- to try, and, behold, i send you a proof lar delicacy and terseness in the ex- that even you, with all your sagacity, pression ; and the whole winded up are not infallible,—a frailty which you tightly round the nucleus of some lead- need not take deeply to heart, as your ing thought. besides, it induces dan- general discrimination is well known, gerous comparisoris,--and you know and as you share it with the roman comparisons are odious,-for every pontiff. song-reader thinks of burns and let me tell you, friend, that it is no moore. easy matter to write a good song; it i have said my say, and done my .) morsels of melody. best. perhaps i ought not to have let me know that the present are the tried it; but who can resist the win- very best songs you have ever seen. ning smiles of christopher? poets love believe me, praise ; so if you wish another half- dear christopher, dozen, you have no more to do than to your sincere friend, p.s.—the hams came safely to hand: they have the true westphalia flavour. no. i. the invitation. ou come, with thy blue eyes of beaming, thou dameless one, whom i love best; when the sun-beam of crimson is streaming through the lattice that looks to the west : oh come, when the birds with their singing fill every recess of the grove,- and such thoughts in the bosom are springing, as kindle the spirit to love ! oh come, where the elm-tree incloses the mossy green seat in its shade,- and the perfume of blossoming roses is borne on the breeze of the glade; the streamlet is sparkling beneath us, the briar-cover'd banks are above, around are young lilies, and with us soft thoughts that speak to us of love ! oh come, for afflictions are thronging to darken my life to a waste; oh come, for my spirit is longing the bliss of thy presence to taste! though dark disappointments have wrung me, and though with my fate i have strove, whate'er were the arrows that stung me, i have found a resource in thy love! oh come, for thy smiling has cheated the woes of my breast, and so well the darkness of sorrows defeated, that nought else on earth could dispel ; without thee my being would wither, and pleasure a bauble would prove,- forget not, my sweet, to come hither, and solace heart by thy love! my no. ii. the separation. in youth our hearts together grew, and life seem'd eden to our view; but disappointment, sighs, and tears, were the sole fruits of after years. the hopes that glitter'd round our way, with rainbow colours died away ; the feelings graven on my heart, though thwarted all, shall ne'er depart, the separation. [aug oh! would that thee i ne'er had seen, or that our fate had kinder been ! oh! would that thou, the dearest-best, had been by other lips carest ! yet know—though, ah! i need not tell- that he who bids thee now farewell, hath loved with all the warmth and zeal that tongue can tell, or heart can feel ! that thou hast been, for many a year, unto his soul the thing most dear; that thou hast been, all pure and bright, his thought by day, his dream by night! that my heart's summer only knew one flower, and that of matchless hue ;- that nought, beneath the arching skies, so won my heart—so charm’d mine eyes. and also know,-as thus i tear love from my heart, to leave it bare,- cold as the rock, where flowers ne'er smile, and barren as a polar isle ; 'tis only that i love thee more, and dearer, for these troubles o'er ; and that i'd hold it crime to mate thy goodness with so dark a fate ! no. iii. the dreary moor. the blinding rain falls heavily upon the wide, waste moor,- far, far and onward must i hie to gain a human door : the twilight gathers dim and dark ; the winds and waters jar; no heart shall leap this night to mark the glorious evening star! yet, as the wind sighs o'er the heath, and as the rain pours down, and as the swoln streams rush beneath their banks, all weed-o'ergrown, i think of thee, young ellen dear, - i doat on every charm,- and with such thoughts, 'mid wilds so drear, can keep my bosom warm. i think me of thine eyes so blue,- thy lips so cherry-red,- the glossy curls, of auburn hue, that cluster round thy head ;- thy graceful form, all fairy light; thy bosom's snowy heave; thy smile, that makes my visions bright, when prone to droop and grieve. .] morsels of melody. then round my breast my plaid i'll fold, and bravely face the blast, well knowing that my arms shall hold my own sweet girl at last ; and that our hearth shall brightly blaze, to tell me not to roam ; and that my ellen's darling gaze shall bless my coming home! no. iv. the evening lake. how softly o er the silver lake our little pinnace glides along, as if its prow did fear to break the waveless mirror-all is still except the boatman's song! fair maid, that from yon castle walls, mayhap, now lookest on our way, thy tender looks my heart recalls, thine anxious eyes, that silently did seem to bid me stay ! far from the world, with thee remote, while suns did brightly set and rise, how sweet would be the woodland cot; envy and care would be exiled, and earth seem paradise ! farewell! ye melancholy towers ; ye forests dark, and verdant vales ; ye gardens, rich with summer flowers ; before i visit ye again, far winds must fill my sails. maid of my heart! a sad adieu ! when evening suns are beaming bright, take of this lake a lingering view, and think, 'twas last on yonder lake he faded from my sight! and oft, on far and foreign shore, i'll rest alone at eventide ; in fancy roam these vallies o'er, and see, within the garden bower, thee, sweet, of all the pride! no. v. the marble heart. when love's first flush came o'er my heart, 'twas when thy beauty seized it; nor hath it let that flush depart, although thy coldness freezed it. thou stood'st before my wondering eyes, a shape of magic lightness, and, in my midnight dreams, did rise array'a in fairy brightness. s vol. ix. morsels of melody. [aug. but cold, cold, cold, the marble stone not snowier, and not colder; a glory to be gazed upon, that chill'd the charm'd beholder. against thy charms 'tis vain to war, tis vain to try resistance; the kneelers in thy temple are all kept at holy distance. but know-for bards may speak the truth- and list the voice of reason, though fair the rosebud be of youth, 'tis only for a season. the chilling winds of winter haste o’er time's rough ocean hither, and, like the weeds upon the waste, the fairest rose must wither. no. vi. the evening star. on sweetly shines the summer sun, when heaven from clouds is free, and brightly gleams the moonlight on field, rock, and forest tree: but to the pensive heart of love, oh sweeter than these by far, it is with devious step to rove beneath the evening star! to others give the festive hall, where wine-cups shine in light; the music of the crowded ball, with beauty's lustre bright: but give to me the lonely dell, oh sweeter than these by far, where pine-trees wave, and waters swell, beneath the evening star! the days are past that i have seen, and ne'er again shall see, when nature, with a brighter green, o'erspread the field and tree; though joyless not the present day, yet sweeter than it by far, 'tis on the past to muse, and stray beneath the evening star ! for all the future cannot give what spareless time hath reft, and, jessy, since thou ceased to live, a vacant world is left. i turn me to my days of love, the sweetest on earth by far, and oft in thought with thee i rove, beneath the evening star! lamb's translation of catullus. [aug. lesbia bemoans in the language of divided between sensual indulgence real passion; her lamentations will and literary leisure. notwithstanding never cease to be affecting while sorrow his improvidence, (for who of this sect shall claim her prerogative, or anguish ever was prudent,) he does not appear and desertion go together. but catul- at any time to have been reduced to lus has higher pretensions than mere- servile dependance on the resources of ly to pre-eminence in amatory poetry, a patron, for in the works of no poet though from the dissipation of his life does there exist a more lofty and dig- and the turn of his disposition, it oc- nified spirit of independence. there is cupied the greatest share of his atten- much less of plebeianism, and conse- tion. such was the high character of quently less of plebeian cringingness his powers and inspiration, that no- and adulation in his works than in the thing but his love of ease and the works of his successors horace and shortness of his life could possibly have virgil, whose extraction was apparent- prevented him from taking the loftiest ly meaner than that of catullus. the station amongst the bards of his coun- latter appears to have somewhat of the try, a station above even the honoured pride, and much of the elegant taste seats of lucretius and virgil. of his and ease of the man of family and pa- possession of the great and absolute trician education; we can almost fancy characteristics which generate epic we discern in his writings that species poetry of the highest excellence, subli- of hauteur and recklessness, as to poet- mity of conception, fervour of imagi- ical fame, which voltaire attributes to nation, and energy of thought, his congreve. there appear, too, in his atys, and peleus, and thetis, are poetry, at times, traces of that listless standing proofs; the one is alone peer- ennui, which arises from the indolent less and unparalleled, and the other carelessness and sickened sensuality of contains the finest episode in any poem the fashionable debauchee, who has whatever. short as these productions misemployed his time, and suffered his are, they are indications of such a talents to run to waste. yet there strength of fancy, and grandeur of seems no reason to doubt that the cha- invention, as it would be difficult to racter of catullus was amiable upon show an example of ; and moreover of the whole. his affection to his brother such a versatility of genius as no latin appears too warm and sincere to admit author except catullus possessed. who, of question ; and though undoubtedly but he, could have shone at once as there are from his writings inconsisten- the gay trifler and the solemn and su- cies, and inconsistencies too of no very blime poet-could in one moment have creditablenature, discernible in his cha- penned bewitchingly playful verses on racter, yet they were perhaps hardly the sparrow of his mistress, and in the more flagrant than those of every man next pictured thedesolate and madden- who, with a natural propension to vir. ing atys in all the depth of his sorrow tue, is led by example into the com- and darkness of his gloom? mission of actions unworthy of it, and from the personal character of the who, in the zeal which his virtuous poet, would one seek explanation for propensities produce, does not always anomalies so singular in composition ; remember in his attackson others, that yet of that, it is to be lamented little he is chastising them for defects which is known, and that little chiefly through may also be found in himself. to this the medium of his works,- a medium cause, must be referred for reconcile- not always the most favourable to ac- ment, his attacks on cæsar for incon- curacy of judgment. in undertaking tinencies which he acknowledges to many descriptions of poetry characters have practised himself, and his self- are often assumed, sometimes not very complacent and eulogistic gratulation congenial to the writer's mind, and to himself for piety, of which he had thus where there is no authenticated perhaps as little as most poets, and for memorial or traditional report to con- constancy, which he does not always troul the author's own expressions, the appear to have preserved. confusion and inconsistency are often catullus has been less fortunate than irremediable. if we judge of catullus most of the latin poets, in meeting by his writings, he appears to have with congenial spirits as his translators. been a man of voluptuous habits, numberless as are the versions of his whose chief study was the gratification detached amatory pieces, we do not of his passions, and whose time was recollect one which is excellent enough .] lamb's translution of catullus. to bear comparison with the original, bard of verona must be left to the if we except, perhaps, one or two of chance contributions of such well-dis- mr elton's; and of the whole of his posed persons as time may havein store. poems but one english translation, the field has long been open ; and for that of dr nott's, is extant, with the the satisfaction of those whose indus- exception of this present one of mr trious labours may be in danger of be- lamb's. the translation of dr nott, ing prevented by the present transla- we believe, has long been acknowled- tion, we inform them it is open still. ged to be unsuccessful ; it is in fact a the work commences with a poeti- meagre and inelegant paraphrase, with- cal address to the reader, which the out any transfusion of the graces of author intitles, “ reflections before poetry or felicities of diction. if it have publication.” the beginning is ami- any merit, it is that of adhering to the able enough. simplicity of the original, without dis- “ the pleasing task, which oft a calm has torting it by that wretched finicalness lent with which bad taste depraves the to lull disease and soften discontent; structure it aims to embellish. nor do has still made busy life's vacations gay, foreign translators seem to have suc and saved from idleness the leisure day: ceeded much better with our author. in many a musing walk and jone retreat, the late french translation of molle. that task is done ;-i may not say, com- vaut is unworthy of its original, and plete.” the italian one of puccini has not much nor will we. these reasons are good more of the spirit of catullus. and, enough, if the author intend them as indeed, we can hardly wonder at this. an excuse for writing the book, but we know no latin author who pre- very bad ones, if meant as a justifica- sents so many difficulties in the way of tion for publishing it. translation as the lover of lesbia. he, the stray moments which mr lamb more than any other poet, is gifted can spare from his politics and profes- with that light and ineffable grace, sion, may be very creditably spent in that easy, yet intranslateable elegancy amusements of this description ; but and spirit, which mocks all attempts that is no reason why the valuable of the kind, and expires like the beau- moments of others should be consumed tiful and delicate shrubs of the south, in attending to them. let them satis- when transplanted to the gardens of fy their purposes, and be put by with a less luxurious climate. there are the other equally meritorious occupa- charms in language, which to endea- tions of his leisure hours. it is not vour to rifle is as dangerous as to touch from the dull remnants of time, which the rose, which, while you pluck it, may be left to a jaded and spiritless falls in pieces. of such a cast are those mind, after the pursuit of an harass- of catullus. he who undertakes the ing study, that the fervid and recon- office of translator to this author, has dite flashes of poetry can meet with a not only to struggle with the difficule corresponding warmth to represent and ties of idiomatic delicacies, which, transtuse them. all that can be ex- through the variations of language, pected from moments so employed, are inextractible, and of modes of ex even when the translator is possessed pression, which are confined through of a tolerable portion of taste and fan- the peculiarities of feeling—but has also cy, is an equable and uninspirited pa- need of great and varied poetical pow- raphrase, suffused, perhaps, with a rea- ers. mr moore, we believe, has been sonable portion of elegance; and ele- recommended to take this poet in hand, gance is but a poor substitute for ex- and we might also subjoin a recom- quisitely beautiful poetry. but to pro- mnendation of our own, did we not ceed with the introduction; mr lamb, think it a thankless matter to persuade after conjuring up, by the force of his a great original poet, “ to comment bad translations, a very efficacious spell! and translate.” and even he, how. after raising up, by means of these po- ever capable of translating the lighter tent witcheries, the old bard of vero- and amatory graces of catullus, would, na for his and our satisfaction, is sud- we think, hardly do justice to his lof- denly suprised by an apparition. tier and more energetic flights. it is “ ha, what dark shape? i view that form not, however, very likely that he will with awe ever make the trial, and therefore the which calls itself the genius of the law! lamb's translation of catullus. [aug. his well-wigg'd visage, wrapt from crown accepting with eagerness and relying with to chin hope upon her proffered vow of constancy. in clouds without, to shew there's none nothing can be more genuine than the within ; rapture with which he depicts his happi. on calf-skin volumes at each step he stands, ness in her hours of affection ; nor than the toil-blanch'd his cheeks, and ink-imbrued gloomy despair with which he is over- his hands; whelmed, when he believes himself resol. and points the sergeant's patch, which ved to quit her for ever. were these blots afar poems collected together, as by cowley in the distant day-light, like a sable star." - the mistress,' (an idea to which they this legal hyperionenters, of course, fal picture could be found of the unde- possibly gave rise,) no more true or natu- into a remonstrance with mr lamb, on fined and inconsistent feelings which ever the classical aberrations which have arise from the intercourse of devoted love mísled his footsteps, and enquires very with profligate in constancy." properly, the poems which first strike the “ was mine a call to climb the aonian reader, on opening the works of ca- hills ? tullus, are those on the sparrow of do i teach harmony to legal quills ?”. lesbia. the terms of admiration have when catullus very opportunely steps been so often applied to these two ex- in for the defence of his translator, quisite performances, that their povel- and after arguing the matter over to- ty and propriety have long since cea- gether, the two break up the confer- sed. they are, perhaps, the last things ence, apparently very well pleased with in the whole circle of latin poetry themselves, and each other. which a scholar could consent to give a preface of some length next fol- up. beautiful, indeed, and engaging lows, which contains an examination is the union they present, of playful. of the accounts transmitted to us of the ness of fancy, tenderness of feeling, life of catullus, a classification of his purity of diction, and devotedness of different poems, and a discussion on love. the mind which can seek to their relative excellency and merit. fasten on them the stain of impurity, there is no new light thrown on any must have some innate leaning to the of the difficulties which have perplex- tendencies which it professes to disco- ed preceding commentators and ver. in the language of catullus, they translators, though mr lamb has ma are flowers of fair and matchless love naged to fall into some new inaccura- liness; and in that language, we be- cies, which certainly escaped them. lieve, they must remain. woe to the there is nevertheless an unpretend- luckless hand, which, in emptying the ing ease in the style, which renders it old wine into new vessels, suffers all at least readable. as we wish to fa- its most precious particles to escape. vour mr lamb, we will give what we what mr lamb's success has been, conceive to be the best paragraph. the following translation, from the " there is no feeling more overpower- inost beautiful of them, will shew. ing or painful than that which springs from "on the death of the sparrow. a conviction of the utter worthlessness of a beloved object, when the infatuated heart “ mourn, all ye loves and graces ; mour, cannot, at the same time, admit the con- death from my fair her bird has torn, ye wits, ye gallant, and ye gay; tempt which worthlessness merits. then the highest enjoyments of life can only be her much-loved sparrow's snatch'd oblained by conscious abasement: solitude away. depresses without soothing, society irritates “ her very eyes she prized not so ; without exhilarating ; while smiles are al for he was fond, and knew my fair loyed, and frowns are embittered, by shame well as young girls their mothers know; and self-reproach at being subject to their flew to her breast, and nestled there. influence. we find catullus at one time upbraiding lesbia bitterly with her licen- “ when fluttering round from place to tiousness; then bidding her farewell for place, ever ; then beseeching from the gods reso- he gaily chirp'd to her alone ; lution to cast her off, then weakly confess. he now that gloomy path must trace, ing utter impotence mind, and submis. whence fate permits return to none. sion to hopeless slavery; then, in the epis. “ accursed shades o'er hell that lower, tle to manlius, persuading himself by rea. oh be my curses on you heard ! son and example into a contented acquies- ye, that all pretty things devour, cence in her falsehoods; and yet, at last, have tom from me my pretty bird. .] lamb's translation of catullus. to castor and pollux. erst « oh evil deed! oh sparrow dead ! quality which it possesses remains un- oh what a wretch, if thou canst see changed. the playfulness is turned to my fair one's eyes with weeping red, and know how much she grieves for tion of past joys, to frigid tameness; inanity-the ardour at the recollec- thee." and the touching tenderness of grief, if any of our readers can peruse, to the blubbering childishness of a with common patience, such lines as schoolboy. what a translation is the these, after calling to memory the in- following, of the exquisitely mournful imitable original, wemust acknowledge conclusion ? that their power of endurance is great- er than our own. " whose fondling care shalt thou avow ? whose kisses now shalt thou return? the next poem, the phaselus, is more whose lip in rapture bite? -but thou- tolerably translated. we will give the hold! hold! catullus, cold and stern." first four stanzas. hold! hold! mr lamb! we must dedication of a pinnace, rather say, if he can find us no better verses than these. can we possiblyima- “ that pinnace, friends, can boast that gine that such drivelling yapidity as this 'twas swiftest of its kind; has any resemblance to the original? or nor swam the bark whose fleetest burst is he blind to the fact that he is mur- it could not leave behind; dering, absolutely murdering, one of whether the toiling rower's force, the finest poets of antiquity? or swelling sail, impell'd its course. we observe mr lamb has taken “this boast, it dares the shores that bound very considerable liberties with some the adrian's stormy space, of the less modest poems of catullus ; the cyclad islands sea-girt round, we mean particularly the address to bright rhodes, or rugge: thrace; aurelius and furius. now we should the wide propontis to gainsay, be very loth, most assuredly, to have or still tempestuous pontic bay. these poems exhibited to english eyes “ there, ere it swam 'mid feetest prowe, ly must we protest against such a me- in all their native grossness; yet equal- А grove of spreading trees on high cytorus' hill, its boughs thod of translation, as in rendering oft whisper'd in the breeze. them less offensive, totally changes amastris, pride of pontic foods, their character. let him pass them cytorus, green with boxen woods. over in his translation ; or, if he must “ ye knew it then, and all its race, meddle with them, let him place his im- and know the pinnace too, itations at the end of the book amongst which, from its earliest rise, to grace his notes. the english reader will thy lofty summit grew; then learn to appreciate properly the and in the waves that wash thy shore, value of mr lamb's exertions, and to which moisten'd first its sturdy oar.' distinguish, with accuracy, between the in the address to lesbia, which translated morsels and the original re- follows, mr lamb improves still more; past which he provides. we wish we could say the habit of im- the only bacchanaliam poem in ca- provement continued as the book, pro- we quote the translation of it as a fa- tullus, is the address to his cup-bearer. ceeded. but if we did, we should it in the teeth of notorious proof to the vourable specimen of the book :- contrary; what, for instance, is the " to his cupbearer. translation of the address of catullus to himself, but a most lamentable dis- boy, who in my festive home mak'st the rich falernian foam, tortion of the original. in this little broach my oldest wine, and pour poem, the author playfully, yet touch- till the goblet mantles o'er. ingly, remonstrates with himself for gay postumia thus ordains, still pursuing his inconstant lesbia; when she at my banquet reigns. and while he indulges himself in remi not the juice that swells its shape niscences of the happy and delightful is, so native to the grape, moments they had passed together, as the draught that fills the bowl summons up all his resolution to for is congenial to her soul sake her, yet so as to shew, at the same “ hence, ye waters ! hence abstain, time, how much he distrusts it. in the generous liquor's chilly bane ! present translation, not one feature of hence, where'er it please you, flow! the original is preserved-not a single hence, to surly wisdom go! lamb's translution of catullus. [aug. own. pure this draught, as from the vine fair flower, and rifled all its sweetness.” bacchus' self had press'd the wine.” he appears to haveelaborated histrans- we will pass over the rest of the lation considerably, but we are not pre- sınaller poems, and come directly to pared to say that he has laboured with the epithalamium, or the marriage of much success. manlius and julia. mr lamb appears maidens. here to have caught something of the “ when in the garden's fenced and cul- beauty of the original, and has really tured ground, given a very respectable version of it. where browse no flocks, where plough. we have no room, however, for any shares never wound, quotation. the next poem we cannot by sunbeams strengthen'd, nourished by so entirely pass over. it contains, as the shower, our readers well know, the delightful and, sooth'd by zephyr, blooms the love- comparison ut flos in septis, &c. of maids long to place it in their modest zone, all the writers of antiquity, catullus, and youths, enraptured, wish it for their we think, has the most admirable si- miles. he made use of none which he but, from the stem once pluck’d, in dust had not selected with the most scru- it lies, pulous nicety—of none which were not nor youth nor maid will then desire or excellent; some, indeed, are admira prize. ble. to those which he had taken from the virgin thus her blushing beauty rears, others, he gave such an additional lus- loved by her kindred and her young com- tre, as to make them his own. gene- peers; rally, however, his comparisons are but, if her simple charm, her maiden grace, original ; and whether original or bor- is sullied by one spoiler’s rude embrace, rowed, they are never inserted with adoring youths no more her steps attend, out producing a beautiful effect. we oh hymen, hear! oh, sacred hymen, nor loving maidens greet the maiden friend. know some, though in themselves ex haste; cellent, have been considered, by cri- come, god and guardian of the fond and tics, as strained and out of place; but chaste ! we think, that even in the passages which have given rise to remarks of " as in the naked field the vine's weak this sort, the allusion, though recon- shoot dite, will ever be found to be well sus- nor lifts its languid stem, nor glows with tained. indeed, we do not remember fruit; a single simile in the poems of catul. but by itself weigh'd down it lowly strays, lus, which is not equally remarkable and on its roots its highest tendril lays: for appropriate meaning, as for its own the herdsmen then, the passing hinds, intrinsic elegance. none of these si. neglect miles are more beautiful than this of the lowly vine, nor cherish nor proteet. the flower, “ which wastes its sweet. if by some happy chance its feeble boughs, ness in the desert air.” it has been twined round the trunk, shall make the abundantly imitated and praised ; and, no herdsmen then, nor passing hinds, ne- elm a spouse; perhaps, as mr lamb observes, equal- iy to its merit. the very elegant and the wedded vine, but cherish and protect, glect spirited imitation in the beggar's ope- so scorn’d the maid, who flies the fond ra, “ virgins are like the fair flower embrace, in its lustre," is too well known to need and withering adds no honours to her race. quoting. it is, what few imitations so is the fair beloved, who binds her fate, are, more sprightly even than its ori- in wedlock chaste, to some accordant mate: ginal, but is much inferior to it in sim- she gives the joys that warm her husband's ple beauty. the exquisite passage in breast, otway's orphan, “ you took her up a and doting parents by her bliss are blest." little tender flower,” though undoubt when we first got mr lamb's ca-' edly suggested by this simile, yet can tullus into our hands, we turned eager- hardly be styled an imitation. it is a ly to examine his translation of the beautiful illustration of the original Átys, which follows next in the col- idea, and may fairly vie with the la- lected works of that poet. it is the tin passage. the reader will be desi- most extraordinary poem that classical rous to see what mr lamb made of literature has to shew, nor has modern this gem of poetry, and whether he composition any thing which may be has, as in other places, “ cropped this likened or compared to it. in this " youths. .] lamb's translation of catullus. short production, catullus has touch, that of the king of the cockneys, (it is ed the strings of poetry with a mastery really lamentable to sce this poor man of skill, and strength of execution, translating,) has certainly nothing of that no latin poet has rivalled, from catullus, whatever it may have of lucretius to claudian. in it he has cockaigne. we think the metre which sounded an instrument not native to mr lamb has adopted is jucliciously his language, and called forth all its chosen, and well adapted for express- deepness of tones, and richness of me- ing the hurried march of the original. lody. the magnificence of its bursts the execution, we regret to say, is of passion are only to be equalled by very unsatisfactory and feeble. we the nature of its descriptions, and the quote the lamentation of atys, which plaintiveness of its dying falls. the is the best part of the translation:- reader is carried irresistibly along by the torrent of words which rushes pro- “ my country, oh my mother! creatress, fundo ore in the loftiest style of pinda parent earth! ric grandeur. the spirit of ancient my country, oh my nurse, that fed me energy suffuses and animates the whole, from whom, as churlish slaves their kind- from my birth! and mantles it round with majesty. it ly lord have fled, is as awful as the groves which it com- to ida's gloomy woods an exile i have memorates, and as agitated as the songs sped, which were wont to awake them. in with beasts their frozen dens for my abode short, never did inspiration breathe to share, forth more genuine and impassioned and madly roaming, rouse the fierce one from his lair. sublimity ;-never burst there from poetry or prophecy a strain more pe- ah! where, in what far point of this sur- culiar, energetic, and commanding. * rounding sky, in translating this most singular relick shall i now deem, my native land, thy lov'd shores lie? of antiquity, besides the ordinary dif- my longing eyeballs strain to cast their ficulties which always attend transla- sight to thee, tion, others must be encountered which while yet awhile my mind is from its are perhaps insuperable. the ques frenzy free. tionable delicacy of the subject is hard- “ must i for dreary woods forsake my ly felt in the perusal of the roman native shore, original, but presents a most formi- and see my friends, my home, my parents dable obstacle to a translator, unless never more ? casts of feeling could as well admit of no more the forum seek, the gay pales- transfusion as casts of language. the tra's court, labour of catullus was to clothe with the stadium, urge no more each famed elevation a topic merely indifferent, gymnastic sport? and untinged, according to the then oh, wretched, wretched man ! while years prevailing manner, with any definite shall slowly roll or dignified idea ; but he who now fol. for ever o'er and o’er again, grieve, grieve, lows in his footsteps has, what is of all tasks the most difficult, first to divest “ what grace, what beauty is there, that a subject of its inherent ludicrous cha i did not enjoy ? racter, and then to raise it to dignity. i, when in manhood's prime, a youth, or of these difficulties mı lamb seems to yet a boy, be fully aware. to use his own words, the flower of all who trod the firm gym. when we review the high testimo- nastic soil, nies of its unrivalled inspiration, and the victor ʼmid the crowd who wore the wrestler's oil. almost the denunciations against those my gates were ever throng'd, and full my who should attempt any sort of imita threshold swarm'd; tion, diffidence becomes despair.” the with blooming garlands hung, that love- former translations of this poem may sick maidens form'd; all be styled total failures. the ver. my mansion gaily glitter'd each morning, sions of beloe, hodgson, and nott, as i sped, have hardly a particle of the life, ener- at earliest blush of sunrise, with lightness gy, and character of the original; and from my bed. my soul! we know several critics have agreed to consider this poem as a translatiob from the greek ; but we hardly think it fair to assent to such a conclusion, merely on conjec- tural grounds. it has too much freshness and spirit to be other than original. vol. ix. t . ) lamb's translation of catullus. " to lesbia. she says it : but i deem such an event may happen, he who that what the fair to lovers swear will take the trouble of examining mr should be inscribed upon the air, lamb, in page of his second vo- or in the running stream.” lume, will, we have little doubt, be the next is but a feeble dilution of convinced. the original, though mr lamb has en but to bring our observations to a deavoured to twist the conclusion into close. we believe these two elegantly something like the pointed brevity of printed volumes must follow the fate catullus : of many other translations, equally de- serving, though destitute of the same exterior recommendation. we cers • no fair was ever yet so dear tainly have not been able to find in as thou, my lesbia, wert to me; no faith was ever so sincere them any peculiar merit as a redemp- tion from that lot to which mediocrity as that which bound my heart to thee. in 'translation is subject. if fidelity, “ now even by thy frailties caught, in any sense of the word, be necessary so straitly is my will confined ; in performances of this sort, then is mr the tender duties it hath wrought lamb most egregiously deficient. he so wholly have enslaved my mind; is, in fact, equally unfaithful to the “ practise each virtue o'er and o'er, meaning, the poetry, and the charac, or every vice in turn approve, ter of his original. to the meaning he nor that could make me love thee more, is not faithful, for his paraphrase is nor this could make me cease to love.” not only loose, but very often capri- - one of the most beautiful of these ciously and indefensibly inaccurate. minor poems is the one addressed to to the poetry he is not faithful, for calvus on the death of quintilia. the not one of the finer and more beauti- touching simplicity of the original is ful passages of his author have been above all praise. the notion of the rendered with any thing like the spi- departed spirit of the mistress, tender- rit of a poet, or even that reflected ly watching over the sorrow of the lo- glow which is sometimes caught from to the.character he is likewise ver, and rejoicing at the proofs of his one. affection, every heart must acknow- not faithful, for no one, on reading ledge to be beautiful. it has been the present translation, can discern any often adopted, but never expressed of those distinguishing marks which with more sweet and melancholy pa- native force, and sometimes coarse- peculiarize the latin original. the thos. the translation is very inferior, but we will quote it for the gratifica- ness, are melted down to most lament- tion of our readers : able and unqualified weakness, and the significant conciseness, and laconic bre- “ to calvus, on the death or vity, are dissipated amidst plethoric redundance and expansion. yet there “ calvus, if any joy from mortal tears are some translations which, however can touch the feelings of the silent dead; undeserving of praise as versions mere- when dwells regret on loves of former ly, have great and undoubted merit, years, when considered as original pieces of or weeps o'er friendships that have long poetry. mr lamb's claim to approba- been fled, tion we apprehend can hardly rest on * oh! then far less will be quintilia's woe this ground. he gives us neither the at early death and fate's severe decree, poetry of his original, nor any other than the pure pleasure she will feel to poetry of any sort; and whether we re- know how well, how truly she was loved by of his author, or exhibiting an original gard him as following in the footsteps thee.” flight of his own, he appears equally of another of these poems, mure- unfortunate. on the whole, then, we tus, the elegant commentator, and ad- believe the circulation of the work mirable imitator of catullus, has ob- must be limited to those libraries to served, “ ita venustum hoc epigram- which good paper and elegant type are ma est, ut ipsa si velit venus venusti. an admission, and to those readers who us eo efficere quicquam non queat.” have never read catullus, and never when beauties so abound, one would felt the charm of genuine and classi- think it would be hardly possible in cal poetry. translating to miss them all. that to conclude. mr lamb has alle quintilia. [aug. lamb's translation of catullus. ged, in defence of his extra-profession- powers, sufficient, if well husbanded, al studies, the names of sir william to secure to them a reasonable propor. blackstone, sir william jones, and tion of success in the departmentwhich others, whose eminence was doubly they have selected, are led by that secured by the possession of strong siekly craving after forbidden fruit, powers of reason, with rich gifts of which is always the concomitant of a fancy, of great legal learning, joined diseased and dissipated state of mind, with great classical taste. and it is to waste their little modicum of talent with triumph we acknowledge, that in a fruitless and inconsistent applica- amongst the members of that arduous tion of it; who, with merely enough profession, many may be named whose of law to deaden their poetry, and predominance was not less striking in merely enough of poetry to vitiate their their own peculiar field, than in the law, have sufficient of neither to save variegated and more luxuriant domain them from that contumely which fail- of poetry and polite literature, and ure always is productive of, and who who, the head of one department, and amphibiously changing from element the honour of the other, have opened to element, and unceasingly multiply- the ancient urns of classical inspira- ing disgrace upon disgrace, hang for tion, to freshen, enrich, and fertilize ever suspended and unstable in a fool's the barrenness of a most barren study. paradise of their own, where, after that there have been, and are still dreaming of honours from the body of such men, no one can deny. these lawyers, and of laurels from the body are, however, but few in number. of bards, they awake at last only to there are others infinitely more nume- find themselves derided as weak-mind- rous, and we are not sure that the pre- ed deserters by the one, and rejected sent work does not afford us an example as unlicensed intruders by the other. of one of those, who, with moderate the florida pirate. a series of misfortunes had unex- quite sure," returned he, “ but i ra- pectedly thrown me upon a foreign ther suspect she's a pirate. those on land, and entirely deprived me of the board of her are mostly blacks, and means of subsistence. i knew not they seem very anxious to keep out of where to apply for relief, or how to sight. had she been a fair trader, she avoid the alarming evils that threaten- would have come into the harbour at ed me on every side. i was on one of once. the bahama islands. i could not en this information startled me a good joy the temporary asylum i then pos- deal. i became excessively agitated sessed longer than two days, without without knowing the reason ; and felt involving myself in debts which i was an anxious desire to repress some idea, unable to pay, and consequently bring that had, as it were, arisen in my mind, ing my person under the power of in- without my being conscious of its ex- dividuals, who, i was inclined to sus istence. pect, had nothing humane or generous i left my informant, and seated my. in their characters. i wandered along self under a cliff. half of the sun had the sea-shore, sometimes shuddering disappeared below the horizon... i at the dreariness of my prospects, and watched his descending orb, and wish- sometimes trembling lest the horrors ed i could retard the flight of time, of want should urge me to obtain the when i reflected, that, after the lapse necessaries of life by concealing from of two days, i should perhaps be des- others that i was in absolute poverty. titute of an asylum, and perishing from when about a mile distant from the want. “something must be done, " i small town where i lodged, my atten- exclaimed, starting up: “ if these are tion was attracted by a schooner lying pirates, i will join them. my profes- at anchor behind a projecting point of sion will enable me to render them land. i knew that vessels did not usu- valuable services. i shall be guilty of ally moor in such a situation, and in- no crime in doing so ;-the law of na- quired at a fisherman, whom i met on ture compels me to violate the laws of the beach, if he could tell me what man.” i looked anxiously towards the the schooner did there? “ i am not schooner, which lay within half a mile the florida pirate. [aug. sired me to write an order for my port- as was evident from the indentations manteau, that he might send one of exhibited by their flesh. his men to bring it on board. i obey on awaking the second morning of ed him, and also enclosed the sum i the voyage, i found that manuel was owed the persons with whom i had still asleep. the difficulty of the na- resided. shortly after the messenger vigation had obliged him to keep on returned the crew began to heave up deck all night, that he might direct the anchor; and we soon put to sea the course of the vessel, and he was with a light wind, and gradually re- now reposing himself after the fatigues ceded from the shores of the island. of his long watch. the crew were i breakfasted in the cabin with ma- preparing breakfast, and conversing nuel. his manner was chilly and su- together. percilious; and he had more dignity some dispute took place about the about him than any negro i had ever distribution of the provisions, and one before seen. the want of his right hand of them called the other a rascally run- made his person very striking; and he away. “ you lie,” cried the accused seemed aware of this: tor when he ob- person, “i guess you're something served me gazing on the mutilated worse yourself, philip.”—“ you had arm, he frowned, and enveloped it in as well be quiet, antony. has any the folds of the table-cloth. body any thing to say against me we lost sight of land in a few hours, why, that you're a yankey slave, but i knew not where we were bound, that's all," returned philip.-" damn and manuel's reserved behaviour pre- you,” cried he, “ i'm a free man-yes, vented me from making any inquiry. free and independent.” here they ali he walked upon deck all day with laughed loudly, and he demanded with folded arms, and scarcely ever raised fury who would venture to contradict his eyes, except to look at the compass, bim, or to assert that he had a master. or give directions to the helmsman. “ why, we know well enough you the schooner, which was named the ha'n't a master now, you pricked him esperanza, was about one hundred and under the ribs,” replied one of the twenty tons burden, carried six guns, crew. this excited another laugh, and had forty-three men on board of and antony cried, “ curse you for a her, and several boys. there appearnigerbelike i'll do the same to you.” ed to be very little discipline among “ don't be calling me a niger," said the crew; all of whom amused them- philip, “i was born in the states."- selves in any way, and in any place, “i would'nt believe it,” said antony, they chose, except when the working " for you know no more than if you of the vessel required their attention. was fresh off the coast-you can't the presence of the captain did not roast corn." impose any restraint upon them; and “ come, let us to breakfast," inter- one, who was called the mate, snatch- rupted another, “and leave these two ed a chart unceremoniously from his black sheep to fight together, as soon hand, and told him he did not know as they can pick up courage."--" i'm what he was about, without receiving sure you've nothing to say, mandin- any reproof for his insolence. a num- go," cried antony; “ you can't tell ber of the negroes lay round the fire, where you came from.” -“ to be sure roasting ears of indian corn, which i can," answered mandingo, “i w.s were eagerly snatched off the embers very ill used by my master, and made the moment they were ready. an ex- my escape.”-“ yes, from the gal- pression of disgusting sensuality cha, lows,” cried one of the crew, to the racterized this part of the crew; and great amusement of the others. they looked as if they were strangers "i guess there's ne'er a man on to retrospection and anticipation, and board this schooner whose life can be felt existence only in so far as the pass- better looked into than mine," said : ing moment was concerned. one man, negro, who had not before spoken- of a mild aspect, sat a distance from “ i was born in a christian country, the others, and played upon an old and when i was twenty years old, a guitar. many were half naked, and great army captain made me his ser. i could distinguish the marks of the vant. i had the care of all his money whip on the shoulders of some of them. and clothes, and could do what i plea- the limbs of others had been distort- sed. i went to plays and consorts, and ed by the weight and galling of fetters, was so like a gentleman that a white .) the florida pirate. mistress fell in love with me, and we dashing of the oars, and the rustling were married.-what agrand sight the of fields of indian corn, shaken by marriage was ! my master gave me a the wind. the most delicious per- gold ring to put on my wife's finger.” fumes filled the air, and fruits of dif- .“ and did you put it on her fin- ferent kinds, that had apparently just ger ?" demanded antony." why dropt from the tree, floated past us, do you ask that?”—“because i guess silently proclaiming the luxuriance of from the look of your shins, that the region that bordered both sides of you put it on your own leg.” the the river. whole crew joined a loud laugh, i sat in the stern of the boat beside and looked at the limb of the first manuel, but neither of us spokea word. speaker, which was strongly galled by the emotions produced by the sur- fetters. “ it must have been a pretty rounding objects were so delightful, heavy ring,” said antony," and yet, that the mind contentedly remained for all the gold that was in it, i dare- in a state of passiveness, receiving, say you was glad to get quit of it.”— without resistance, every idea that pre- “i've done,” returned the object of sented itself. within the space of an their ridicule ; “ i'll say no more. i hour, i had exchanged the confine- thought i was speaking to gentlemen.” ment and pitching of a vessel, the mo- -"never mind him. we are allliable to notony of a sea prospect, and the noise flesh-marks,” observed philip. “there and brutality of a set of criminals, for now, what say you of our captain's the harmony of wood and water-the wanting a hush, hush,"in- richness of vegetable perfumes, and terrupted mandingo, " that is a sore the quiet enjoyment of an inspiring subject." summer's night. in the course of three days, we when we had got about two miles came in sight of the north shore of above the mouth of the river, the men cuba; but to my great satisfaction had disembarked, and began to cut wood not met with a single vessel of any at a little distance from us. “i believe description. manuel hourly became my people are out of hearing,” said ma- less reserved, and we often had long nuel, after a long pause, k and while conversations together; and one even we wait for their return, i shall tell ing he promised to relate the history you something about my past life. of his life to me, the first favourable “i need not give you a ininute ac- opportunity count of my early years, as they were after cruizing about for a week, we not distinguished by any thing re- cast anchor at the mouth of the xibara markable. my mother came from the harbour, which lies near the eastern ex- coast of africa, but i was born in tremity of cuba. our object in doing so south carolina, where my master had was to obtain a supply of firewood from a large estate, in the cultivation of the banks of a small river that disem, which more than one hundred negroes bogues into the harbour. manuel re were employed. my mother being a quested me to accompany the party house-servant, was exempted from destined for this purpose, as he was to many of the hardships and privations command it; and at a late hour one to which the other slaves were expo- night we set out in a boat, along with sed, but she owed the comparative com- seven of the crew. fort of her situation entirely to her ca- the weather was clear, calm, and pability of ministering to the voluptu- delightful ; and we soon entered the ousness of mr sexton, who was much river, and rowed slowly up its wind- addicted to the pleasures of the table. ings. the banks were for the most he gave orders that i should be brought part thickly covered with trees, which up within doors, as he intended me for over-arched us completely, and ren a waiting man. dered it so dark that manuel could “ after i had attained the age of scarcely see to steer the boat. we sixteen years, i was obliged to be in sometimes could discern far before us, continual attendance upon my master, a portion of the sky vividly reflected and to submit quietly to all his ca- in the bosom of the stream-bright prices. the treatment i received from and dazzling, amidst the surrounding him, and the knowledge i acquired of gloom, as the contrast of divine puri- his character, made me feel what a de- ty with mortal corruption. nota sound grading thing slavery was. had i been could be heard, except the regular forced to work in the fields, like the the florida pirate. [aug. other negroes, i might not perhaps have listened to these details with the deep- repined at my condition, because i est attention, which pleased him so would have known nothing better, and much, that he offered to teach me to at the same time believed that my condi- read. i gladly availed myself of his tion was irremediable, and consistent instructions, and profited so much with the laws of nature. but being con- by them, that in the course of five or tinually in the presence of mr sexton, six months, i was able to peruse the and of other white people, and daily newspapers which my master received hearing their conversation, i soon disco- from different parts of the union ; vered that they were superior to us in many of them contained paragraphs nothing but knowledge; that they were upon the subject of slavery, and i was mean, wicked, cruel, and unjust; and delighted to find that some men ex- that they sometimes feared we would claimed against it, and denied that assert our rights, and overpower them white people had the least right to by numbers. tyrannize over negroes. “ they seemed to consider negroes “i used often to steal into my mas- as creatures who were destitute of souls ter's room, when he slept, and read and understandings. though i felt the new york journals. one after- indignant when i heard these opinions noon he caught me with one in my uttered, i was aware that i derived hand, and demanded angrily what i some advantage from their being acted was doing. i told him i was reading. upon ; for my master and his friends, he struck me a violent blow on the not believing that i could comprehend head with his cane, and said he would a sentence of their conversation, felt order me forty lashes if i ever again no restraint when i was present, and looked at a book or newspaper. he thus afforded me an opportunity of soon discovered that the old negro had hearing their sentiments upon every been my teacher, and immediately subject, and becoming acquainted with sent him off the estate, not being able their principles and characters. to inflict any other punishment, in “ often, while waiting at table, and consequence of his having purchased listening to their disgusting opinions, his freedom. i have been called forward by one of “next day, a neighbouring planter them, and struck severely on the face, called upon mr sexton, and the latter, for some trivial mistake i had com- in the course of conversation, said, mitted in serving him with food or "what do you think i caught that wine. in south carolina, the guests young hell-dog doing the other night? do not hesitate to chastise their enter- he was reading a newspaper. the tainer's s servants, whenever they feel other broke into a loud laugh, and inclined ; and a party of white people cried, " why did'nt you kill him? there, often make the cursing and were any of my negroes able to read, beating of the slaves in attendance i would soon flog the scholarship out their chief employment during dinner. of them. why, the little devil will on such occasions, the burning tears begin to direct you how to manage of resentment would rush into my your estate bye and bye.'—' oh, i'll eyes, i would tremble with ill-dissem- bring him to his senses,' returned my bled rage, and implore the god of my master; · hark ye, fellow,' continued fathers' to let loose his rage upon my he, addressing himself to me; ' if tormentors, although i should become you ever look at a printed paper again, its victim along with them. i'll put out your eyes with a red-hot “there was an old free negro upon poker. the whole of your duty is to the plantation, who had travelled clean the knives, and wait at table. through the northern states of ame-- damn me, if i don't make it pretty bad rica. he could read and write tole- for any fellow of mine who does either rably well, and knew a good deal more or less than i want him to do.' about the countries he had visited. “ i easily perceived that my master i happened to become a favourite of and his friend were aware that their his, and he often gave me minute ac- strength lay in our ignorance, and fear- counts of the condition of the afric ed lest the slightest acquisition of cans who lived in new york, and con- knowledge should enable us to disco- trasted their independence with the ab- ver that they had not a shadow of ject state of our race every where else. i right to enslave and tyrannize over . ) the floridu pirate. our race. what excuse is there for the specting my absence should he discover oppressor, when he is conscious of be- it, and likewise secure me from any ing guilty of oppression ! risk of suffering punishment on her " as my ideas expanded, my sie account. i willingly became a channel tuation gradually became more intoler- of communication between the two able. i had no one to whom i could lovers, for i hoped by doing so to be communicate my thoughts. my fel. able to forward my own views. low-slaves were so ignorant and des “ one day i ventured to hint to graded, that i could hardly look at miss sexton that i expected some lit- them without pity and disgust. i used tle reward for my services, and begged to watch them when they assembled her to entreat her father to purchase to receive their weekly allowance of sabrina, and bring her upon his estate, provisions. worn out by fatigue, clad that we might get married. she en- in rags, and branded with lashes, they gaged to propose the thing to him, and would wait for their respective portions really did so; but he refused to agree with eager greediness, and then hurry to it, and, at the same time, told her, away in a state of tumultuous delight, that he suspected she had some private which was scarcely repressed by the reasons for interceding so strongly in elanking of the overseer's whip behind my behalf, and was resolved to disco- them. they had sunk so low that they ver what they were. seemed willing to accept life upon any “ shortly after this, miss sexton terms. desired me to carry a letter to the next “ in the midst of my misery, i be estate, and bid me be extremely cau- came attached to a young girl named tious lest her father should see me go- sabrina. she was a slave upon the ad- ing there, but said that if he did, she joining estate, and therefore we seldom would find means to shield me from had an opportunity of seeing each other all blame. i took a bye-path which led except by stealth. i used to leave my across our plantation, and reached mr master's house at midnight, whenevery lusher's house without interruption ; one was in bed, and go across the however he was not at home, and the plantation to the huts in which sabri- servants pointed to a small building a na and her mother lived. but mr little way off, and told me i would find sexton once, awoke during my absence him there. on one of these nocturnal visits, and « on entering it, the first object the whole affair was soon discovered. that struck my eyes was poor sabrina, he flogged me severely, and ordered whom i had not seen for many weeks. me to remain at home in future ; and she lay upon some planks which were the proprietor of the adjoining estate, covered with the dry husks of indian to whom he made a complaint, caused corn, and seemed to be dying. the sabrina's hut to be burned to the place had no window in it, and an old ground ; that it might no longer afford negro woman sat beside her, holding us a place of meeting. i became half a candle, while mr lusher and a me- maddened with rage and misery. how- dical man stood at the foot of the bed. ever, my feelings were unnoticed or the doctor muttered, “she's been a disregarded by mr sexton, who, like fine slave-confounded pity to lose her other american planters, did not be- -can't help it though ;' and then be lieve that negroes were susceptible of gan to whistle and play with his cane. love or sorrow. what an unfortunate devil i am ! “mr sexton had a daughter, who exclaimed mr lusher, angrily. 'hang resided in the house with him, and her for falling sick-what right bas a took charge of his domestic affairs. niger to fall sick ?-ods, i believe, she the proprietor of the adjoining estate, was not sound when i bought her whose name was lusher, loved her, i'll trounce somebody for that-so you and wished to marry her, but mr sess think there's no chance of her hoeing ton would not consent to their union, any more corn?'—no, no,' return- and prohibited all correspondence be- ed the doctor, laughing ; ‘i would'nt tween them. however, notwithstand- like to have as little chance of eating ing this, they sometimes met in secret, my dinner to-day as she has of living and often wrote to each other. miss two hours.' sexton privately employed me to carry “ i stood in agony, not daring to her letters to mr lusher, promising express my feelings. i advanced to- that she would satisfy her father re- wards sabrina, and took hold of her vol. ix. u the florida pirate.. [aug. arm. she raised her eyes, but it was “ miss sexton shrieked loudly, and only that i might see their lustre ex- the overseer, followed by several slaves, tinguished, for in a moment or two hastened towards me with a drawn she fell dead upon her pillow. ah, cutlass in his hand. i made no resist- she's given you the slip, said the ance, and was immediately seized and doctor. mr lusher cried, damn bound. my master received very little her soul to hell—there's four hundred injury from the blow, but his lips dollars lost,' and hurried away, bang- quivered with rage ; and having given ing the door furiously behind him. orders that i should be put in confine- “ however he soon returned ; and ment, he walked toward the house seeing me gazing on sabrina, asked crying out,' struck by a slave ! struck what i did there. i said i had a letter by a slave !-it is impossible! am i for him, and delivered it. oh,' cries dreaming? - does god almighty real- he, - you're the fellow that wanted ly permit this?-a slave! a black! a ne that girl for a wife. i wish mr sex- gro!-strike mema noble carolinian! ton had bought her, and then the loss is there a law to punish this ? law- would have fallen on his shoulders. nonsense-tortures, death, etemal well, you may take her now, and bury curses !' her, or marry her—whichever you like “i was immediately thrown into a -begone, i don't want you.' dark apartment in a large store-house, “ i hurried home, equally afflicted and remained there all night without at the death of sabrina, and enraged being visited by any one. in the morn- by the inhuman insults i had received ing the overseer took me out, and made from her master. when i had come one of the negroes flog me severely, in within a little distance of the house, i presence of mr sexton and his daugh- observed mr sexton and his daughter ter. my sufferings were dreadful. in walking towards me. how do you short, i was indicted for striking my do, manuel ?' cried he, in that style master, and tried, and found guilty. of derision which he always assumed you know the punishment which the when infuriated with passion'law awards in such cases-it was in- hope your walk has been a pleasant ficted upon me. they cut off my one. be so good as suggest what im- right hand !- they cut off my right provements ought to be made on this hand !” here manuel stretched out estate. do the crops look well? -slave! the mutilated arm, and sobberl con- baboon ! imp of the devil! where have vulsively. " but thank god i've ano- you been?' ther,” continued he vehemently; "and “i made no reply, but looked to may it never be better employed than miss sexton. she coloured, and cried, in resenting the tyranny of slave-mas- • what does the wretch mean by look- ters. oh! that every negro in the ing at me? you surely do not say southern states would risk the loss of that i sent you any where.'— an- his right hand by doing what i have swer me,' vociferated her father, rai- done! then would we prove that our sing his cane. miss sexton will in- race was not made to be trampled forın you,' returned i.-- this is be- upon—but let me proceed. yond my patience!' exclaimed she. “i'll “ i was confined in jail for three tell you how it is, father-he has been months, and then sent back to my paying a visit to sabrina, notwith- master. i anticipated a life of wretch- standing your orders to the contrary, edness, and was not mistaken. scarce- and wishes to make you believe that i ly a day passed, in the course of which sent him somewhere-manuel, say in- mr sexton did not find an excuse for stantly if you saw sabrina this morn- punishing me. as the want of my hand ing.' yes,' answered ,' i did, rendered me unable to do the duties of but - none of your buts, you equi- a house-servant, i was employed in vocating villain ! interrupted my mas- tending the cattle, and thus had many ter. stung with indignation at miss opportunities of conversing with my sexton's ingratitude, i cried out,‘your fellow-slaves who worked out of doors. daughter sent me with a letter to mr i confided my thoughts to three of lusher.'—- what! you give us the them, who seemed willing to attempt lie then ?' replied mr sexton, striking the execution of any project, however me over the head. i returned the blow daring. in short, we determined to with my fist, and he fell flat upon the burn our master's house, and spent ground. much time in planning how we could .) the florida pirate. best effect this without the risk of house, and be the means of inducing being discovered. the people there to set out in quest of “at last we fixed upon a time for my master, we left them, and plunged our revenge. it was a holiday among into the recesses of the forest. we tra- the negroes, who were all amusing velled all night towards the sea-shore, themselves in various ways on differ- but did not venture to pass through any ent parts of the estate. my master was inhabited place. the want of my hand dining with a planter in the neighbour. rendered my appearance too remark- hood; and as part of his road lay able to allow me to hope that i wɔuld through a retired forest, we resolved escape notice. i need not describe the to intercept him on his way home, lest hardships we encountered during our his presence there should prove any journey. in two days we reached the hindrance to the success of our scheme. coast, where we stole a boat, and put “we had, at different times, placed out to sea, intending, if possible, to combustibles in those parts of his house elude any search that might be made and offices that were least exposed to for us. we soon fell in with a pirate, observation. about eight in the even- who immediately took us on board, ing we set fire to them, and then has- and i gradually acquired some know- tened to the wood, and stationed our. ledge of seamanship. we cruized about selves among the trees which bordered for a considerable time, and got a great the road. we had searcely waited half many prizes, but our vessel at last be- an hour when we saw smoke beginning came so generally known, that the to ascend from the house, which was captain could not continue to sail her nearly a mile distant, and heard a tu. without running much risk of being multuous noise of voices. i gazed and ciptured. he therefore went into a listened with silent satisfaction, till my port in one of the west india islands, master made his appearance. he was and managed to get her sold. he paid in a gig, and a negro rode on horseback his crew very generously, and by means behind him. two of my companions of his bounty, and a series of fortunate seized the reins of the horses, and, accidents, i was enabled to purchase assisted by a third, i dragged mr sex- this schooner, and to commence pirate ton out of his carriage. he was almost myself. my mode of life is far from speechless with indignation and terror, being an agreeable one, and i have and doubtless supposed that i intend.' as yet made but little of it. however, ed murdering him. he soon began to i have a more exalted object in view entreat for mercy in the most abject than mere gain. you must not judge manner, solemnly promising that he of my.character by that of the persons would grant me my freedom if i al- with whom you see me surrounded. i lowed him to go home unmolested. am well aware that my crew is com, * you may well desire to be at home,' posed of the lowest and most debased said i-look to the south.'— ha,' part of society, and often feel ashamed cried he, 'what do you mean?-des- of the concessions i am obliged to perate wretch, have you taken your make them. they consider themselves revenge already?-my house is on fire! on an equality with me, and will not -but if i cannot punish you, others submit to any kind of discipline, be- will suffer for this ! yond what mutual security and self- “ we now bound him to a tree, preservation render necessary. but i with his face towards the conflagra- value and endure them only in so far tion, which had evidently increased as they are the means of forwarding very much. a bright glare of light my views. i would consider it an in- extended far over the sky, and tinged sult to be classed with such despera- the tops of the trees like the setting does.” sun ; volumes of smoke rose from two here manuel ceased speaking. i did different spots; we heard the negroes not venture to make any comments up- shouting confusedly; and the crack- on his story, and we sat in silence till ling, crashing, and thundering of tim- the men came to the side of the river bers falling to the ground, announced with a large quantity of firewood. we that the work of destruction made fu- immediately took it on board the boat, rious progress. and rowed down the stream, and reach- “having secured the negro-man ined the schooner a short time before the same way as mr sexton, and tied dawn. at sunrise we weighed anchor, the horses lest they should go to the and put to see again. .] the florida pirate. duties with a violence and eagerness yards of her. the boat being lowered which shewed how congenial the pro- down, manuel, and fifteen of his crew, spect of bloodshed, oppression, and under arms, embarked, and rowed plunder, was to their feelings. they alongside of the brig, and ascended her soon began to converse gaily and un- gangway without meeting with any concernedly. one talked of the resist- resistance. | the captain immediately ance we should probably meet with advanced towards them, and said, from the vessel we were in chase of; “ what right have you to stop me in another jestingly said, "he wished to the high seas?"_" right! right !" write his will," and mentioned what returned manuel ; none that i know articles he intended bequeathing to his of-only i'm stronger than you—but companions, should he perish in the shew me your manifest.”- “ that i conflict; a third complained of the de- cannot do,” cried the captain, “ un- fective state of his wardrobe, and enu- less you promise”- -“ i'll promise merated the additions he hoped to make nothing,” interrupted manuel; yes, to it, when the anticipated prize fell yes, one thing ; none of you shall be into our hands. manuel walked anxi- maltreated, unless you offer to oppose ously about the deck, sometimes look my orders.”—“ fine conditions, ina ing through his glass, and sometimes deel !” exclaimed the captain ; “ be giving directions to the helmsman. pleased to tell me what you wanthere?” i alone remained unoccupied and —“bring me your manifest,” replied unattended to amidst the general ac- manuel, “ and then i'll inform you. tivity. the quiescent and monotonous i mean to take whatever part of your life i had led since i came on board cargo i choose, and likewise all the the schooner, had lulled me into a for- specie that is on board. come down getfulness of my real situation, all the to the cabin, i must not be detained." horrors of which now burst upon my they now both went below, and mind, with appalling force. i had the negroes having received a signal outlawed myself from society. i was from manuel, ranged themselves on surrounded with wretches, with whom each side of the companion. they had i could have no community of feeling. scarcely done this, when a voice re- i was soon to become, as it were, an quested them to make way, and a gen- accomplice in the work of rapine and tleman, with a young lady leaning on bloodshed. we might, perhaps, be his arm, and followed by a mulatto overpowered by those whom we pro- woman, came upon deck. they look- posed to attack, and i should be seized ed around them with an expression of and classed with pirates. there was terror and astonishment. the young no one to testity my innocence, to lady on seeing the blacks, turned pale, prove that i had no connection with and clung tremblingly to her protect- the guilty, or to save me from an ig- or's arm, and said something to him, nominious death. but in such a low tone of voice, that no we soon discovered that the object thing but the word father was distin- of our pursuit was a brig of about two guishable. the gentleman once or hundred tons burden. she seemed to twice seemed to be on the point of ad- suspect what we were, for she made dressing the negroes, but he suddenly all sail, and began to go large, although stopped, as if aware that interference she had kept very close hauled before was useless. perceiving us; but our schooner, be a dead silence prevailed upon deck ing very fast, and to the windward of for some time, but the countenances of her, gained upon her every moment, the different parties who occupied it, about mid-day, we came within expressed more than words could have shot of the brig, and manuel ordered done. the females betrayed marks of a gun to be fired, as a signal for her to deadening fear; the crew of the brig heave to. she paid no attention to it, evidently struggled to resist the impul- and her crew seemed to be preparing ses of indignation, and the negroes for defence. he then pointed a can- seemed full of hope and impatience. non himself, and sent a ball through the young lady wore a beautiful in- the lower part of her main-sail; but dian shawl, and one of the blacks, this not being what he wanted, he smiling to his companions, stepped for- aimed again, and disabled her rudder. ward and pulled it off her shoulders. she was now completely in our her father, furious at this insult, sei power, and we came within thirtyzed a block that lay near him, and the florida pirate. [auz. struck the daring wretch upon the face and viewed him with scowling and with so much violence, that he stag- wrathful looks. gered back, and nearly fell into the manuel having collected together all hold. however, he quickly recovered the articles he wanted, ordered them himself, and rushing forwards, plun- to be handed into the boat, which he ged his cutlass into the side of his an- sent off with part of his men to the tagonist, who dropped, apparently life- schooner. he retained in his hand a less, upon deck. the seamen belong. bag of specie, and several other things. ing to the brig could no longer restrain the boat being unloaded, they return- themselves; a loudcry burst from them, ed to take him on board his own ves- and they hastily seized the murder- sel, and as he was descending the gang- er, and threw him overboard; but be way of the brig, he bowed to her cape ing an expert swimmer, he soon gain- tain, and said, “i wish you a good ed the surface of the water, and made voyage, sir.” furiously towards the vessel's side, with on reaching the schooner, manuel flashing eyes and loud curses. the ordered the crew to hoist up the boat noise of the affray brought the captain and to bear away ; however, the wind and manuel from the cabin, and the was light and baffling, and we made first object that struck the eyes of the but little progress. i fixed my eyes latter was the wounded man weltering upon the brig as we gradually receded in blood, and supported in the arms of from her, and reflected upon the un- his daughter. “who did this?" cried happy situation of mr r and his manuel, with a voice half suffocated daughter, in both of whom i felt with emotion. the assassin was stand- powerfully interested. i had several ing upon the chains, and endeavouring times been on the point of entreating to climb over the bulwarks, when some manuel to allow me to assist the one pointed him out. manuel drew a wounded man; but he had always pistol from his bosom, and fired at the turned away, as if aware of what i in- negro's head; the ball took effect. its tended, and unwilling to render hiin. victim lost hold of the rigging, sprung self chargeable with inhumanity, by convulsively upwards, and fell head- refusing to grant my request. ' now long among the waves. a murmur of ventured to address him on thesubject. applause proceeded from the crew; but “we cannot part with you," said he; the blacks shrunk away with baleful “if wedid, it might ruin us all. he who frowns from manuel, who, turning becomes a pirate, must die a pirate. to the captain, said haughtily, "this there is no middle course. i fervent- is my discipline !" and then took a ly hope mr r—may recover. i have paper out of his pocket and began to at least executed justice upon his mur- read. derer. perhaps you may think me a the young lady's father, whose name murderer myself, but i did no more was mr r , was now conveyed to than was necessary. my crew are not the cabin, and accompanied by his to be restrained except by very terrible daughter and her attendant, the mu- means. and yet,” continued he, start- latto woman. manuel then ordered his ing, “in my anxiety to save others, i men to litt the hatches, and descended have perhaps brought destruction upon through one of them into the hold. myself . i am guilty of murder ; there after a little time he returned, and are plenty of witnesses to prove it.- pointed out what articles he wished to oh that both my hands had been cat have brought upon deck. the negroes off, then i could not have committed set to work, and presently every part this rash act, which at once puts me of the vessel was covered with bales, on a level with my crew. good-night, casks, and packages, while manuel good-night. go to sleep.” walked coolly among them, and select about two hours after sun-set, i ed such as he conceived to be most retired to my birth; but the events of useful and valuable. his men would the day had made such a strong im- evidently have begun to plunder pri- pression that i could not sleep, and i vately, had they not been restrain- rose at midnight and went upon deck. ed by fear ; but the instance of their it was clear moonlight, and perfectly leadler's severity which they had just calm. on looking for the brig, i per- witnessed, seemed to dwell upon their ceived, to my astonishment, that she minds, for while occupied in getting lay within a mile of us, and had heel- out the cargo, they muttered threats, ed over so much, that she seemed al- .) the florida pirate. tain ; most on her beam-ends. i immedi- on board the schooner; we according- ately informed manuel of this, and he ly embarked, placing mr rupon looked at her through his night-glass, a mattrass, and rowed away from the and said she was aground upon a sand- brig, towards which the captain and bank. “ what is to be done?” cried his crew directed many anxious and ; "you surely will not allow those regretful looks. on board to perish?”—“to-morrow's on getting on board the schooner, dawn shall determine that," returned our first object was to contrive accom- he, modations for so many new passengers. at day-break we found that the brig i resigned my birth to mr r-, and was still in the situation already de manuel allowed the young lady and scribed, and manuel, accompanied by her attendant to occupy his state-room. me and several of the crew, went to- the captain and his crew reposed upon wards her in the boat. the captain deck, but the latter were so indignant seemed at a loss how to receive us, at the familiarity with which the ne- being doubtful whether our intentions groes treated them, that they would were hostile or friendly ; but when we have resented it by force, had not the had satisfied him on this point, he in- fear of being overcome by superior formed us, that his vessel having be- numbers restrained their fury. how- come quite unmanageable, in conse- ever, the two parties poured forth tor- quence of the loss of her rudder, had rents of abuse against each other; and drifted away towards a sand-bank, and the clamour of their tongues, the groans run hard aground the preceding night. of mrr, the agonies of his daugh- we soon ascertained that her bottom ter, and the confinement of a crowded was a good deal damaged, and that vessel, all combined to render the day she could not be got off. “ this brig and succeeding night insupportably will go to pieces the first time there is tedious and distressing to me. a heavy sea,” said manuel to the cap in about forty hours, we made the and those who remain in her pan of matanzas, and manuel told the must perish. i will take you all on captain and the white crew to hold board my schooner, and put you ashore themselves in readiness, as he soon in- about forty miles above matanzas, tended to put them ashore. at sun- seeking no compensation but part of set we were scarcely two leagues from the cargo, which you of course have the coast of cuba. the negroes lower- no means of preserving.” after some ed a small boat, and stowed a quantity deliberation, this proposal was acce- of water and provisions in her ; and ded to by all parties, and manuel's manuel came down to the cabin, and crew again began to unload the brig. informed mr r and his daughter while they were thus engaged, i that it was time for them to embark. went down to the cabin, and found mr “ where? what do you mean?” r- and his daughter there. the criul the young lady."-" why, ma- former had a look of ghastliness which dam," returned manuel, “ didn't i gave me an unfavourable idea of the say that all the people belonging to the nature of his wound; and the latter brig were to put ashore here?”—“oh, sat beside his bed, and seemed at once thanked be heaven," exclaimed she; hopeless and resigned. on seeing me, « then we are near a harbour and a they both started, but said nothing. town?—my dear father!"-"no, no," i told them, that although i came interrupted manuel, " the coast op- along with the pirates, i had no con- posite is uninhabited.”_" what do nexion with such persons, and that you tell me?" cried she, bursting into my object in intruding upon them was tears; you surely cannot be so bar- to offer my professional services to mr barous--my father is dying ;-have a r- the young lady sprung fron little pity. it is indeed dreadful to be her chair, and expressed her gratitude here, to be among such people ;- but in the warmest manner, while her fa- what will become of my parent, if you ther's flushed countenance and beam- send us away? i have no more money ing eyes evinced that hopes of life be- to give you, but perhaps~" here she gan to revive in his heart. covered her face with her hands, and when manuel had carried away as sobbed so violently, that her whole much of the cargo as his vessel could frame trembled. conveniently contain, he informed us manuel began to pace about the ca- that the boat was ready to take us all bin ; i saw that he was affected, and the florida pirate. (aug. became very desperate. the bayonet longed to the brig we had plundered, and cutlass had usurped the place of and to hear them say that they were fire-arms, and the negroes, who were the means of capturing the schooner. not provided with weapons of any kind, having heen fortunate enough to reach attacked the american seamen with matanzas the day after manuel had set their fists, beating them down, at- them adrift in the boat, they found an tempting to choak them, and pushing american brig of war there, which had them overboard. they all the while run into the harbour that she might animated each other with shouts, exe- repair some damage she had sustained crations, and blasphemous cries, and while on her voyage from jamaica to rushed furiously to the combat, half- charleston. they immediately gave naked, and covered with dust, and her captain information respecting the sweat, and blood. pirate, and he set out in pursuit of i kept as near manuel as possible. them, making the seamen warp his he sometimes fought vigorously for a brig along, till a breeze sprung up few moments, and then stood idle, ap- which enabled him to come in sight of parently irresolute what to do. at last the schooner. during the battle, a he cried out, “ it is easy to see how young officer who boarded her along this day will end, but i must hasten with the american crew, happen- its termination, and then hurrieded to observe manuel's attempts to down to the cabin. i instinctively fol- blow them up, and with great presence lowed him, and found elizabeth and of mind, dashed his foot through the her maid nearly speechless with ter- sky-light, and averted the danger, by ror. manuel tore open the hatch in pouring down a large quantity of wa- the floor, and pulled up a small cask, ter upon the gunpowder. the head of which he knocked in with a few hours after the capture of the his hand. it was full of gunpowder. schooner, we set sail for charleston, he placed it upon the table.--i grew where the brig was bound. we reach- breathless. he put a steel between ed that port in ten days. the pirate his teeth, and then seizing a flint, be- crew were immediately lodged in jail. gan to strike the one against the other. i underwent an examination, and was the pulsations of my heart ceased, and then taken into custody, it being evi- my eyes became dim. manuel seem- dent, from my own confession, that i ed suddenly to dilate into fearful and had not been forced on board the gigantic size, and to pour torrents of schooner. elizabeth, to whom i had fire upon the gunpowder. my senses hourly become more devoted during were suddenly recalled by a loud crash, the voyage, found an asylum in the and by the appearance of water rush house of a distant relation, who resi- ing down upon us through the sky- ded in charleston, and was summoned light. i thought we were going to the as a witness against the negroes. in bottom, and started up and pulled the three weeks their trial came on, and fainting elizabeth towards the gang- manuel and seven others were con- way. there we encountered an ame- demned to death. no evidence having rican officer ; he gave us a look of asto- appeared against me, i was liberated nishment, and hastening towards ma- from confinement at an early period, nuel, seized his arm, and said, “sur- by the intercession of several persons render yourself-you are my prisoner.” who appeared to take an interest in my manuel did not attempt any re- fate. i supplied myself with means sistance, but followed the officer upon of support, by disposing of some va- deck. having left elizabeth, whose luables i had in my possession. recollection was now pretty well resto i was filled with sorrow when i red, with her maid, i went there also. heard that manuel was condemned to every thing had become quiet. the death, aware that he deserved a better american seamen were in possession of fate. i visited him in jail, the day af- the schooner, and the negroes had been ter he had received his sentence. he removed on board the brig of war. was loaded with fetters, and occupied her captain ordered manuel to be put a small cell by himself, through which in irons, and directed that elizabeth he paced as quickly as the weight of and i should have accommudations in his irons would permit; though he had his own vessel. a subdued look, the expression of his i was a good deal astonished to meet countenance was neither abject nor with several of the crew that had be sorrowful. . ) the florida pirate. “ ah, is it you, sir?” cried he, ad- in, master. i entered, and gave him vancing towards me, as i entered; the letter, and at his request seated “ you are the person i most wished to myself upon an old stool in one corner see. how kind it is in you to visit a of the apartment until he read it. poor negro! for i am no more now. “ strange-very strange," muttered i am glad to be treated as a rational he, gazing on me intently. “how is creature by at least one white man. i mr manuel ?"-" well enough, at wonder they have let you escape. in present,” returned i; “but”. he this country it is a crime for a man to stood still a moment, as if waiting the have any thing to do with blacks, ex conclusion of my reply, and then went cept in the way of flogging them.” out of the room, but soon came back, “you do not deserve to die,” said i, carrying a bag, which he immediately after a pause.--"oh, perhaps not,” re- put into my hands. it's weight was tumed he ; “but law-law-law, you immense. « that's all,” said he, “ i know-however, 'tis better i should. guess manuel don't intend that i should i had a weary life of it. i was chased be his bankeer long. good morning, from the land, and took refuge upon sir." the sea ; but, notwithstanding that, i when i returned to my lodgings, i could not escape the blood-hounds of opened the bag, and, to my astonish- the southern states of america. but ment, found it full of doubloons. i here i have written out something for could not believe that manuel intend- you. take this letter to gustavus ed leaving me such a legacy, and went h-, and accept what he gives you to the prison in the afternoon, that i in return, as a remembrance of me. might see him, and converse with him but don't tell him that i'm sentenced upon the subject; but i arrived there too to death.” he then presented me with late ; he had anticipated the law by a paper, and having given directions putting a period to his existence. wherei should find the person to whom fortune had now bestowed upon me it was addressed, bid me farewell. the means of returning to my native · i immediately proceeded in search of country. i communicated this to eli- manuel's acquaintance, and after some zabeth, and entreated that we might time, reached his house, which was si- make the journey of life together. she tuated in the most obscure part of a consented, and our mutual happiness narrow and dirty alley. the door was was soon as great as our individual opened by an old negro, and i inqui- misery had been, when fate first brought red if gustavus h lived there. us together. “i am the man," returned he; "walk on the probable influence of moral and religious instruction on the character and situation of seamen. no. ii. in our last number under this head, our conviction is not less intimate we laid before our readers an abstract that these men, on their return to of what we conceive to be the present england, landed just such, to all in- character of our seamen, and the cir- tents and purposes, as they left it; cumstances in their situation by which that their pleasures were as gross as it is formed. we now proceed to con- before, their indulgence in them as sider the experiment on that character unlimited, their late impressions, in- which gave occasion to our specula- deed, altogether transitory; with pos- tions. sibly, although not probably, one or we have no doubt whatever of the two individual exceptions, not among accuracy of captain parry's statements the best men, nor those whose example in regard to that experiment, and firm- is likely to have most influence with ly believe, both that by what he did, the remainder. we have no authority he succeeded in exciting feelings of re- for stating this as a fact, it is true ; but, ligion in the breasts of his people, and if our readers entertain any doubts on also that these were found to conduce the subject, there are a thousand chan- to their orderly and general good con- nels by which they may satisfy them- duct. on the other hand, however, selves, and we are most willing to stake on the character of seamen. [aug. our credit on every point of our res- selves committed with the mighty soning on the result of their inquiries. elements of heaven, our very strength assuming it then meanwhile, it shall reminds us of our weakness, and we be the object of our present communi- shrink into nothingness before them ; cation to exhibit the mediate principles particularly when they appear in un- on which first one, and then the other usual forms, and are subject to sudden of these apparently contradictory re- transitions, now disappointing and now sults is founded ; reconciling thein ac, favouring our views, now threatening cordingly with human nature, and and now relieving us, independently with each other, and proving indeed, altogether of our own exertions. and as we anticipate, that so far from being in this way we think it would have anomalous, they might have been pre- been impossible for captain parry to dicted before they happened more cer- have prevented such feelings from tainly, and may be reasoned on after- shewing themselves among his people, wards more confidently, than álnost had he been even unreasonable enough any facts of their class. for we are well to have desired it ; for thus, indeed, we convinced, that it would be not less readily account for that peculiar strain impossible for any body of seamen to of religious feeling which pervades all remain inaccessible to religious im- the narratives of voyages into the arctic pressions, if conveyed to them under regions which we have perused, and circumstances even only remotely ana- of which it were very easy to multiply logous to those in which the crews of examples. the hecla and griper were placed at but captain parry did not attempt melville island, than it would be even to chill these feelings; on the contrary, miraculous did they at present conti- he sought to develope them. the in- nue generally to act under their in- fluence of his countenance and exam- fluence on their return home. ple, was therefore further impressed we have already stated the existence on his ship's company; and this, let it in such men of an embryo feeling of be observed, would be particularly pow- religion; and in tracing this to the erful in his case, because he thorough- precarious nature of their profession, ly knew his own secular duties and and the constant sight of danger, are theirs too, and was even considerably not conscious of having libelled the ahead of what is usually implied by sentiment, or in any degree impaired these words, for he took his part in its value. like all other sentiments the scientifie observations going for- not absolutely innate, it must enter by ward, even such as were not imme- some avenue or other-grief, overflow- diately connected with his own depart- ing sense of happiness, (the most op- ment, and was at home in all.. this posite, by wise and beneficent appoint- last is a point indeed which we would ment, equally answering the purpose,) fain press with some earnestness on the apprehension before peril, thankfulness attention of young naval officers, such after it, blind veneration the child of of them particularly as take an active ignorance, or reason the result of in- interest in the cause immediately be- struction. the embryo principle, how- fore us. on the strength of an average eyer, being there, it will necessarily proficiency in the practical branches germinate according to the vigour of of their profession, such as has been the implanting cause; and this, in the hitherto sufficient for their purpose, case before us, was remarkably strong. they must not suppose themselves when danger proceeds from the vio- qualified now to give up altogether the lence of others, men become rather character of students, and assume that combative than resigned, and even of teachers. the truth is, an active when helpless in its grasp, not unfre- husbandry is at this moment turning quently harden themselves against all up the clóds of every valley, and those its impressions. but when we feel our- who give their undivided attention to * “ye're aye right in the sawing and the mawing, the sheering and the leading," said the widow butler to douce davie deans, " and rehat for sud na ye be right in the kirke wark too ?" a good novel is to the student of human nature, what a botanical garden is to a young florist. the parts of specimens taken from both, may sometimes be found to have run into each other by cultivation ; but the plants are labelled for our assist- ance. . on the character of seamen. the culture of others, without regard- terest and curiosity are not near so ing their own, may live to be over- much excited by absolute novelty as grown by the vegetation which they by imperfect knowledge; to seamen, will have contributed to superinduce. therefore, in whom the idea of a pre- let us speak plainer. at the same time sent god, although existing, is vague, that the education of our seamen is offered information respecting his be- becoming daily an object of more ge- ing, attributes, and demands, would neral concern, that of their officers is, seem calculated to be at all times wel- from other causes, becoming more come, provided that their minds, which complicated and extensive. as, then, in their present state can hold but one the effects of the former become evi- idea at a time, were, at the moment, dent, so will those of the latter ; offi- sufficiently disengaged from external cers, in a little time, will take rank, in material impulse, to receive it. but the estimation of their ships' compa- the monotony of ten months at a spell nies, pretty nearly as they profit by all in the ice, secluded from all their their opportunities, whether of acqui- usual enjoyments, would, if any thing ring theory or practice ; and those who could, so disengage them; the rather altogether neglect either, while yet that some feeling of doubt must some there is time to attend to them, will times have pressed on them, in mo- fall into a merited contempt, of which ments of relaxed nervous system, whe- no degree of zeal will be able to parry ther it was the will of that god ever the effects. it is therefore incumbent, to liberate them or not. we are far in an especial manner, on those who from thinking, at the same time, that have a point at heart, which they wish this last uncertainty would very often to carry by every means in their power, occur to them; we are too well ac- not to neglect this which lies quite at quainted with the general elasticity of their door ; and thus, be it also obser, their spirits. but the best set springs ved, is another example given us of will yield a little at times, and the that connexion between the active du- weight which they support become ties of this world and the rewards of thus more sensible to the frame.- the next, between our interests, in a every previous example, too, of a na- word, here and there, to which we have ture similar to their own, from sir already adverted, and of which it is hugh willoughby down, had been inexpressibly gratifying now and then fraught with suffering and death. and to catch a link, however impossible it whose courage does not sometimes may be for us to trace its whole extent. hang on precedent? we cannot all be clergymen; the af sailors when at sea, although their fairs of this world would stand still labour is occasionally severe, have, for altogether were we each occupied ex- the most part, considerable intervals of clusively, or even chiefly, with the leisure, with very limited sources of spiritual concerns of others. but it is amusement ; every sort of instruction, not necessary—it is not even desirable therefore, at all suited to their capaci- that we should; for in this, as in ties, would, we think, be welcome to every other department, labour is most them, as affording means of quiet oc- profitable when divided. let us only cupation, which can be laid down and zealously discharge our duties here, resumed without trouble or inconve- patiently educating ourselves up to the nience. but religious instruction would full measure of their requisitions, seem to possess some peculiar advan- whatever our station in life, and gi- tages in this way. it relates to a sub- ving religion the weight of that in- ject with which they feel a prepos- fluence over society which we must session that they ought to be in some thus acquire. we shall then discharge degree acquainted, it affects their our debt of zeal to her cause, quite as highest interests, to which they are amply as any clergyman can do, and far from being indifferent; and it af- a thousand times more effectively than fords scope for the most touching of if we quitted our own places to thrust all declamation, which is never with- ourselves into his. out the greatest weight with a simple it has often been remarked, that in- mind.* besides these, it has some me- see every account we have of the american indian, in most respects the abso- lute converse of the british seaman, the most solitary, independent, grateful, vindictive on the character of seamen. [aug chanical advantages, if we may so call principle which, in civil life, lies at them, which are also worth adverting the root of all our boyish emulation, to. in turning over the pages of the our more manly ambition, the hopes bible, a sailor is soon attracted by its and fears which diversify and delight historical narratives, all of them suit- our being, should not be immediately ing his taste for anecdote ; while those felt, and considered by him as marking of the old testament, in particular, an interesting epoch'in his life ; and represent a state of society not unlike as it is at this point besides, that we that of which he himself forms a part, think the peculiar bearing of religious harmonize accordingly with his habits instruction upon discipline commen- of violence, with his belief in a partie ces, we entreat our readers to consider cular providence, with the notions pe- it with some attention, and follow us culiar to his profession, and which now in our attempt to investigate its readily lead him to consider disobe operation. dience, even to the most severe orders, it would seem unnecessary, in the an unpardonable offence.* the dis first place, to argue that religious feel. dactic nature of some of the incidents ing, once excited, does necessarily give fits them to be stored up in his memo- an individual character to our exist- ry—their miraculous character elicits ence in our own eyes, however con- his wonder, at all events fixes his at. nected it may still be in the sight of tention; and even the glimpses into the world, with that of others; for bem futurity which he finds among them, sides that whatever expands the mind, concur with the scope of his supersti, no matter what, produces this in some tions, without contradicting their let- degree, it must be impossible, we should ter. these circumstances, in theory imagine, even for the most indifferent, and taken separately, may not seem to to contemplate that supreme intelli- many to be of much value; but we are gence whose eye pervades all space, very certain, that together, and in and penetrates all being, and of whom practice, they are of infinite import- it is the peculiar province of religious ance. they are precisely the points instruction to discourse, without imme- which regulate our choice of studies diately feeling alone in his presence, for other children. every relation absorbed in that of the religious instruction would next creature before its creator. much mo- seem calculated particularly to interest ral restraint, then, is gained even by seamen, because, by opening up to this ; for it has often been remarked, their view their individual stake in the in higher ranks of society than sailors, next world, it in some degree rescues that what men will commit in a body them from that gregarious existence without compunction, they will each to which they are condemned in this. instinctively shrink from when alone; we do not believe them, it is true, at and much more if they feel themselves present sensible of the weight of this under the immediate eye of a judge. last leaden mantle wrapped round all but another principle also comes in their faculties; by bountiful ordina- here, the notice of which will require tion, the inner man is at all times suit some previous explanation. ed to the outer, and none of us feel when we described the character of the weight of the , pounds of at- seamen, we ought to have mentioned, mospheric air which yet the mechan- that although fond enough of popula- ism of our frames supports. still it is rity among themselves, the desire of impossible to suppose that the letting personal notice and distinction on the in upon a sailor's existence of that part of their superiors, whether lands animal of his kind; yet resembling him in this.--and see also molina's account of the native chilese, vol. i. passim. &c. &c. the rev. micah balwhidder's chelsea pensioner, our readers will recollect, was just at this point of proficiency in his studies, when visited by the worthy elder of dal- mailing.-annals of the purish, p. . there is infinite truth and nature, fully more, by the way, than reverence, in the tone of this sketch ; we have known thousands at such a rubicon. and if we dive a little deeper, we shall find that there are many si- milar points in religious reading, at which other classes of society equally hang, with not a shadow of more personal merit, though infinitely more self-complacency, than these rough children of nature and circumstance possess at theirs. "let these not judge, lest they be judged." on the character of seamen. [aug. roughly, they discharge it, in entire re there are, then, extra chords in the liance on the justice of their com- simple and accessible hearts of sea mander, and utter indifference to his men, through means of which religi- favour. this last, like most other ous instruction will always be found compliments, is pleasing just in pro- to affect them more readily than any portion as it is not designed, not super- other class of society of their rank. ficial, and as to a weak mind it might we must now, however, reverse the give offence. but still, some very im- picture, and exhibit them returned portant disadvantages flow from them froin a long, fatiguing, and perhaps too. very many of the offences liable dangerous voyage, a little money in to be committed at sea are convention- their pockets, some credit under their al, arising from the peculiarities of si- lee for more, such as they always tuation, not moral or abstract. their possess in these circumstances, and commission, accordingly, inflicts no just landed in an english sea-port disgrace on the culprit, in the eyes of town, to make the most they can of those exposed to similar temptation both. the abstract character is the with that which led him astray ; while same identically; the same good in- nearly all the remainder, as riot, tentions, docility, light heart, and drunkenness, &c. in the present igno- light head, continue to distinguish it. rance of seamen, reflect rather credit the results are very different, how- on him. on all these, accordingly, no ever; they are indeed so different, only moral restraint can at present possibly because these qualities do thus conti- be laid ; besides which, the habit of nue to distinguish it. a sailor's temp- incurring reproach, or even punish- tations, like those of most other men, ment, not so much with feelings of arise chiefly from the showy points self-condemnation or promised amend- about him, which are most admired ment, as submission to misfortune, or when superficially observed. there suppressed murmur because not for- is no snare in this world like the snare given, is utterly destructive of self-re- of a “good report,"- and next to it, spect, and searing to all the feelings the snare of seeming virtue in others, on which alone any system of moral -and to both, as we shall presently restraint can ever be built. see, he is exposed. now it is religious instruction which the population of a sea-port town, must strike the first blow here, and such, for example, as portsmouth, which does, in fact, so strike it, when- sheerness, &c. with which men-of-war ever it is applied. it represents to us sailors are first brought in contact on all one being at least, whose favour their return from abroad, is composed we must sue for, if we would obtain almost exclusively of three classes, it; one before whom an universal a small proportion of native, perma- gazette is, at it were, opened, contain- nently resident, and respectable inha- ing the record of all our names, and bitants; a much greater number do- actions, and thoughts, however se- miciliated, but disrespectable; and a cret; who requires us to be submis- foating mass, of various amount ac- sive to the authorities placed over us, cording to circumstances, principally making our obedience to their laws composed of officers and seamen on stand for obedience to his, so long as leave from their respective ships. the they are not opposed; who at the first constitute the limited class of re- same time inculcates no slavish defer- spectable shop-keepers, for the most 'ence to the will of a fellow mortal, nor part shy and even suspicious of stran- exaggerated value for his person, be- gers, having been, in truth, frequent- yond what his character and place in ly taken in by them; hard in their society may justly demand for him; dealings, even unjust sometimes, the the contemplation of whom, in a word, necessity being in some degree imposed may thus again elicit among seamen on them, of making the honest pay oc- that desire of recommending them- casionally for the fraudulent. of the selves to their superiors generally,– second, the worst out of all compari- c'est le premier pas qui coute,—which sion are those who make some preten- has been unquestionably a youthful sions to respectability, the lower class feeling with them all, but which the of shopkeepers, jews, brokers, &c., circumstances in which they have been sheer rogues, collected, like vultures placed, have, in a great degree, suc- round a carcase, from the four quar- ceeded in extinguishing in them. ters of heaven, to prey upon the fol- on the character of soamen. [aug. sciences. besides this, it is another, burthen of never having done such a beneficent ordination that frequent thing before, and being now to seek exposure to temptation of itself alone, for a seat, at a good hazard of being su- blunts its edge ; that those according- perciliously rejected froin beside those ly under whose eyes irregular gratifi, even, who profess to be most inter- cations are constantly passing, shortly, ested in his running this career. and cease to value them, or when they in- as to retiring at an early hour to pri- dulge in them at all, do it temperately vate respectable lodgings, he could not and moderately, as knowing that they do this, under any circumstances now; can always return, and again com- there must be a great change indeed in mand them. and thus, although even the composition both of sailors and with the deepest religious feelings none sea-port towns, before any such would of us are quite free from taint, either take him in, or their proprietors could of vice, or folly, or both; still, without be persuaded to compromise the cha- religion altogether, many of us make racter of their houses by even delibe- a most respectable figure on all points. rating on the subject. but what is the situation of a sailor, there seems then to us to be about just landed, as we have represented the same chance of a sailor's following him, with respect to these aids to vir- this course at present, as a man on tue? he has not one of them, not a crutches has of running against an- natural feeling within him but is other, hale, and active, and perfect in leagued with vice, and of all men li. his limbs. one such exaniple may ving he is the least likely to overcomc occur in an age, but the days of mi- his natural feelings upon principle on- racles are gone by, and in all times ly. he has no family near him to smile superhuman strength, or rather, that upon his self-denial; the friends about we may guard our phraseology against him, on the contrary, scoff at his scruevery thing like mistake, more than ples. in going to take a country-walk, ordinary assistance from above to hu. as suggested, he must break away from man weakness, could never be calcu- all the temptations to which he has been lated on as a vulgar or common agent. in the habit of yielding; the gratifica- let us turn, then, to the second or me- tions offered by which are now within dium course. on this tack, a sailor his reach, but may never again return. must be supposed to land with modified he must set out without the slightest feelings of the same nature with those prospect of amusement; he has no he formerly possessed on like occa- thoughts over which to meditate with sions; he may determine to be pru- interest,—he does not know one plant, dent, but his heart must, on the whole, one stone, one mode of cultivation, from be jovial, and his anticipation of plea- another; and he is altogether incapable sure high. on first reaching the of that refined conversation put into shore, he must be his proportion to- his mouth, in publications professing wards a glass of grog to the boat's to represent his character, -he could crew, who have had the trouble of not understand above the half of it, conveying him and others to their des- were it even addressed to him. again, tination, there is no harm in this, were be to be temperate at his meals, and immemorial usage, together with when excess was wit! his reach, he the treacherous semblance of genero- would do that which we really do not sity, is in its favour. he must taste believe those could do who so readily this glass too; and still no great harm suppose him capable of it,-live, we is done, only that it is the beginning of mean, for months together on a limit- a series of similar indulgences. mean- ed, and in some sort unpalatable al- while an old acquaintance comes up, or lowance, and not in any degree indulge stranger willing to become a new oue, when opportunity offers. he could for there is a great deal of free-mason- certainly go to church; it is the thing ry among seamen, and they all address indeed of all that is thus laid down for each other readily. “hollo, jack, is this him which he is the most likely to do, you?” is one salute; or, “what cheer, -a sailor's reverence for religion is al- shipmate?” another; but, “ give us ways strong within him. but even to your hand, my boy, what's your news" do this, he must vanquish as many na is common to both. jack has no great tural feelings as would oppose a child's matter of news, but he has always the making a similar election in preference grasp of a hand to give“ in friendship to going to a ball, with the additional or in fight,” to whoever asks it; and his .] on the charucter of seamen. heal has generally some gossip or other her's; she may once have saved his in it, say about melville island and life, as we have explained, or have the polar bears, which he is not sorry other claims on his remembrancescarce- to have an early opportunity of dis- ly less interesting. but, at all events, charging. the stranger now proposes his good nature, and rough, but ge- either to give or take another glass of nuine sensibility,* will not allow him grog, as his finances suggest ; and in rudely to reject what looks like affec- the one case obligation and growing tion, and is, in all probability, the regard, in the other generosity again, shadow of its shade ; for these poor in both a treacherous inclination, im- girls, libelled in song, and often bad mediately prompt compliance. the enough, exhibit, occasionally, extraor- conversation is regularly joined, and dinary marks of attachment to their the pauses between “ stranger stuff" paramours. and honest jack rattlin are filled up with details concerning soon learns what many wiser men have the more ordinary vicissitudes of life; learnt before him, that to parley on who is up, and who down in the world, these occasions is to yield. since he was last there,—who dead, and such, then, is the end of the second who alive-who spliced, or his wife alternative, and we have but the third, gone bome, and what new comers are beginning where this ends, and at dis- at such and such a house of ill-faine. advantage too, for short-lived scruples jack's heart warms progressively to are, for the most part, but the leaper's the whole, as one recollection, one as or wrestler's backward step, before put- sociation is recalled after another; ting forth all his powers. on the pre- and, at the conclusion, supposing that sent occasion, however, this is but lit- he will not even yct visit “ the girls," as tle matter, for we now frankly express his companion proposes, he readily our opinion, and we are willing to stake consents to go and see those at whose all our knowledge of seamen on its houses he used to meet them-he know's head, that there is scarcely a fraction none other. all this while, probably, low enough to express the number of in unconscious anticipation of ultimate those who would ever, in the present defeat, (alone half the battle lost,) he state of our seamen, entertain such has concealed his scruples; or if he has scruples as we have adverted to at all, avowell them in the first instance, all or, with money in their pockets, reject the worse for him in some respects, one indulgence, which, but for them, the attacks on them are more direct. they would have purchased. that as he passes along the street, then, which we have just scen, is not the more recognitions, more grestings, process of seduction, but the form of more grog; which last he will not re- indulgence, which they willingly and fuse, for after a thousand defeats, a wittingly go through. what the ca- sailor's confidence in the strength of suistry is, by which vulgar minds ge- his head, is just the confidence of a nerally reconcile the grossest excesses forward child, who, the moment he is with even considerable veneration of old enough to wish to mount his fa- the being who forbids them,t we can- ther's horse, is quite certain that he can not stay now to inquire; those will re- manage him. at last a woman's voice cognize, who, like ourselves in all pro- salutes his ear, jack, dear jack !" bability, reconcile each his own pecu- and most likely cæsar's triumph is liar failing, his vanity, petulance, ill. • has any of our readers ever seen a sailor assisting a woman or child in a boat or ship, and observed his solicitude ? his affections are so tied up in ordinary life, they fairly walk out of him when he cannot follow them, and away with him when he can. he is their slave, in every sense of the word, upon some of the best and finest princi. ples of our common nature. † the degree to which ignorant men particularly, can succeed in shutting their eyes to the criminality of their favourite induſgences, and yet retain their reverence for the supreme being, is nowhere better exemplified than in the lives of the buccaneers. these wretches, yet king from their atrocities, at every pause say their prayers, and give thanks to almighty god for his deliverances." and while they familiarly cut off a moiety of their captives' heads, and send them on shore, to quicken the ransom of the remainder, a captain sawkins of their number, throws the dice over- board, whenever he catches his men playing with them on sunday; and a schism takes place among them,“ because of the impiety of some of their party, englishmen who did not reverence the crucifix !!” (history of the buccaneers, vol. ii. p. . et passim.) these men were sailors too, and it is in extreme cases that character is most easily studied, .] inch keith beacon. yet rocks bestrew life's stormy sea, and dangerous quicksands there abound ; we never pause, nor turn to flee, till hope is past, and wreck around. no eye can pierce the shades of fate, nor wisdom point to sorrow's goal ; what heavenly light shall dissipate the darkness of the soul ?- and many a heart hath leapt to hail that sparkling beacon of the deep; and eyes been bright, with joyful tale, that left it long ago to weep ; the mem'ry of departed days will rush upon the pilgrim's mind, more warm and hallow'd thoughts to raise of those he left behind. say, where shall anguish rest her head, when sorrow's shadows lower around ! youth's fascinating dreams are fled, its friends are now no longer found; the kindness, that upheld our hearts, hath fled, as flashes light away, and memory only now imparts her retrospective day. how often o'er this breezy walk, at eve, with friendship stray'd have i, pursuing themes of varied talk'; what time within the southern sky, as day-light's western flood was stemm’d, the orb of venus glittered bright,- the foremost of the train, that gemm'd the diadem of night. while flowers and grass were sprinkled o'er with diamonds of the sparkling dew; and, homeward veering from the shore, the congregated ravens flew; and while the white-wing’d sea-gull rose, to hold its solitary way, to where the cliffs of bass oppose tamtallan's quiet bay. while, then, it burn'd, as now it burns, on lovely nights, to memory dear; and then it turn'd, as now it turns, dim-distant-fairer-brighter-clear. the earth, since then, has lost a hue ; the sky a tint;--the heart a string ; ah! never more shall time renew the glories of our spring! the summer of the soul is past; the sun-shine of existence fled ; its flowers have bent in sorrow's blast, or only blossom o'er the dead. the bounding pulse, the glowing heart, affection's warmth, and pity's tear, yea, all ennobling thoughts depart, to leave us wretched here. .] the landscape. the landscape. soft roams the balmy wind, among the deep recesses of the grove; while, gliding thro' the starry throng, the moon unclouded sails above, and hovers o'er this landscape long, for ever sanctified by love! and there thou art, lone alder-tree, whose boughs fantastically wreathe; dark clustering berries hang from thee, and scent the zephyrs as they breathe :- yes! there thou bloom'st, but where is she, who oft has sate, and sigh'd beneath? the very rose-bud in the shade, which long ago was planted there, stands in its beauty undecay'd, as fresh, and delicately fair; although, unpluck'd, its roses fade, and only charm the silent air. how beautiful, o lonely moon, thy rays of silver glance and gleam, rejoicing in thy cloudless noon, upon the rushing mountain *ream ! the stars that gild the blue saloon, before thy face diminish'd seem. and soft thy beams of amber light upon the fairy landscape fall, awaking dreams, in memory bright, past-past, but unforgotten all ; long years ago, on such a night i must not thus be held in thrall. a the wanderer of connaught. oh ! norah, when wandering afar from the shade of the woods, where in childhood so happy we stray'd, from eyes that are strangers, and breasts that are cold, my heart often turns to the pleasures of old. oh! norah, my sister, how lovely and bright the green vales of connaught appear to my sight; how starts the wild tear, when in thought i survey the cabin so neat, with its children at play! what though i am doom'd with my sorrows to roam from erin, my land, and the glen of my home, from the spot, where the bones of my fathers repose, and the stream, where the briar, and the wild lily grows; yet often, when midnight hangs dreary around, and the breeze flaps the tent with a desolate sound; on my pallet i dream of our dear sheiling fire, and the faces that circle my mother and sire ! .] elegy on a country maiden. she bound the wheat her william cut; the while she bound, she look'd upon him with a smile, until the cool air came, and even's beams through the grey western cloud broke forth in streams. rosa was dear to him as life and light, she was his thought by day, his dream by night ; william and rosa loved with such a love as angels for each other feel above. ah, william ! william ! the death-bell is tolling, and through the air the funeral hymns are rolling ; in weeds of black the mourners slowly go, the death-wreath waves before them to and fro! william walks with his hymn-book in his hands, forward to where the grave wide open stands, and wipes away, with the white coffin-pall, the clear tears from his weeping eyes that fall. pure, guiltless maid, sleep softly,—without cumber, until be past for ever thy death-slumber ! weep, philomela !-sing down from your hill your mournful dirge, when comes the twilight still ! like sounds of harps, the evening breezes blow among the flowers that on her green grave grow; upon the church-yard lime, two turtle doves have built their nest, and coo their little loves. r. h. the sons of mooslim. (from the hindoostanee.) when fierce rebellion raised her head those orphan babes had heard forlorn in cufa's ancient town, their father's cruel fate, what sacred laws were there despised ! and now beside an ancient friend what cruel actions done! in weeping fear they sate. ere yet the king, the flame to quench, but ibnizeead's words at last had given his steeds the rein, that sheltering friend has heard, the royal power had there been crush'd, and thence in fear he sent them forth, the regent mooslim slain. ere dawn had yet appear'd. and ibnizeead's villain hand, a caravan the children saw, in height of rebel pride, far travelling o'er the wild, had placed the regent's bleeding head and mid the crowd to journey on, high o'er his castle's side. with feeble steps they toil'd and raging still, he call’d his men, but soon that speeding crowd was gone, and bade them thus proclaim, the babes bewilder'd left; " that mooslim's sons are here conceal'd by spreading tree and lonely stream wide spreads the whisper'd fame. of hope they sit bereft., “ and he whose traitor hands shall dare and, parch'd with thirst, with hunger faint, those children still to hide, in vain they wept for food; in bloody tears his fate shall weep they stoop'd to sip the waters cold, placed high by mooslim's side." the barren leaves they chew'd. • the original is written by miskeen, one of the most popular of the hindoostanee poets. the bal lad stanza has been adopted in the translation, as it allows of a nearer approach to the simplicity of the original, than any other of the english metres. the war of yezid (of which this story is an episode,) took place not long after the death of maho- met, and was directed against hozyn, his descendant, and successor in the sovereignty. mooslim, (who was likewise of the family of the prophet) was governor of cufa, which joined in the insurrection. hozyn himself with his brother hussein, fell in the attempt to quell the rebels, and the anniversary of their death is observed with much solemnity by the mahometans of india. see lord valentia's travels, vol. i. note concerning the structures called imaumbarah. the river of which mention is so frequently made in the story is the euphrates. (forat.) vol. ix. the sons of mooslim. fang of foes pursuit in terror still, the maid replied, “ now come with me, that spreading tree they clomb ; and see my mistress kind. there hid aloft in leafy boughs with her, sweet dame, such helpless babes they wept their weary doom. a mother's cares will find. as thus they sate, a damsel kind “ what time she hears your high descent for water sought the rill ; from mooslim's sacred race, from pool beneath the spreading tree like halo circling round the moon, she stoop'd her gourd to fill. her love will you embrace." there, imaged fair in glassy stream, with lighten'd hearts the children heard two little forms were seen ; the maiden's proffers kind, - their infant hands they seemed to wring, and, glad descending, left their tree and beat their bosoms sheen. her friendly aid to find. the maid beheld, and rose to look we'll wend with her," the children said, where spread the bouglis on high, her true intents to know : there mid the leaves, in tears conceald, amid the thickening gloom perchance two children met her eye. kind aid will she bestow." “why, children, venture thus to climb those children sad the maid has brought where death awaits your fall ? within a cheerful home : what grief from mother's sheltering home she told her dame their high descent, has forced such children small ?" their own, their father's doom. from leafy branch the children spoke that tender dame has beat her breast “ how hard our lot of pain ! the orphan babes to see :- our mother loved is distant far, “is then the royal mooslim slain ! our sire by traitors slain. his children forced to flee !" “ and he whose home received us kind in chiefest seat she placed them there, while yet our sire remain'd, with swcetest food she fed ; now fears our foes, and holds, like them, she sooth'd their wails still bursting wild, our name with treason stain'd. kind seated near their bed. “ and, ere the dawn, he sent us forth, as thus she dried the infants' tears, unshelter'd all and lone : and lull'd them now to sleep, a pilgrim band we sought to join, the dame has heard her husband's step, that band afar was gone. his voice so harsh and deep. « and wild and lone we wander'd far, that eve, by day of fruitless toil, no place of rest was nigh, his breast morose was torn; till here this sparkling stream we saw, he threw him down, with hunger faint, this tree beside it high. with jading labours wom. “ two weary days in terror spent, “go, dame," he cried, “bring instant forth nor drink' have brought nor food; for me some readiest food.” here sipp'd we still the waters cold, “and what,” she said, “thou man of pride, the barren leaflets chew'd. thus chafes thine angry mood ?" and mid the boughs on high we sate, “ dost thou too,” thus he cried, “inflame a while in fear to hide ; my soul so widely toss'd ? here rest we still : as heaven decrees lo ! fortune wanes--my favour all must good or ill betide." with ibnizeead lost." the pitying damsel heard the tale, th' enquiring dame replied, " and why? and mourn'd the children's woe ; what cause excites thy fear ?" “ and who, my babes, your hapless sire ? “ a hopeless task,” he cried, " is given, give me his name to know." nor aid nor hope is near. . our father dear was mooslim named," for mooslim's sons since yester morn the children thus replied. keen search i've tried in vain ; “ to us how kind his fostering love ! their heads to ibnizeead brought how sad the hour he died !" must grace to me regain.” “thegood lord mooslim,” cried the maid, the sorrowing dame in silence wept “ was he your honour'd sire ? “ what hopeless chance severe ! has he, our sovereign's regent high, the wretch that seeks the children's life here sunk by traitors' ire ?” now dwells beside them ncar!" « our father he," the children cried, the infants' room her handmaid there “ and such his hapless doom ; by silent signs she shew'd : no friend his death has left us here; shew'd there the door to lock secure, nor hope remains, nor home.” and bar to all the road. .) the sons of mooslint. and now her husband fill'd with food, while thus in bonds the children cried, (fierce haris) sought his couch : of aid and shelter stript, there round him close his garment drew, their hostess kind has heard their wail, a while in rest to crouch. and bitterly she wept. the children slept; but dreams of fear her pitying tears the tyrant saw, still haunted all their sleep : to him how far unlike! wild shapes their troubled minds pursued, in vengeful wrath he raised his sword the babes awaked to weep. the tender dame to strike. the villain haris heard their wail, his son beheld, and rush'd between, and starting, left his bed : to stem his flood of rage ; “ some neighbouring house have robbers him, too, the churlish tyrant smote broke, a youth of tenderest age. or mine, perchance, invade." and now to wildest anger roused, a gleaming torch he lighted soon, again the babes he seized ; wild searching all around ; he dragg'd them near the river's bank, and there at last the orphan babes nor yet from chains released. on silent couch he found. his sabre drawn, to youthful slave he drazg'd them forth with churlish blow, he gave the naked blade ; and many an angry word ; my labour save ; do thou," he cried, $ and who be ye? and what your right “ those children here behead." in house of mine to board ?" the slave received the sabre keen the weeping babes besought his grace, and thus indignant cried : "ah! spare our lives,” they cried, “ thou wretch ! authority like thine . the train of ills you soon shall know, may well be thrown aside. that force us here to bide. “ here bend thy neck; though nourish'd " the sons of mooslim we: our sire kind by traitors lace was slain. from youth within thy home, save heaven alone, no sheltering friends thy cruel deeds my heart have steeld, to us for aid remain. my hand shall strike thy doom." “ and late, by heavenly guidance led, fierce haris heard his slave's rebuke, thy sheltering home we found; and snatch'd again the blade ; thy dame was kind and good, but thou with stroke of death his servant there givest blows and bitter wound. amid the dust he laid. “ o let thine aid with her's be given, he shew'd the babes his streaming blood, our orphan steps to guide, and o'er them shook his sword to lead where lives our uncle far, then, wiping slow, he sheath'd the blade, or aid us here to hide. and spoke his cruel word. “ thus thou shalt too the blessings reap strip off your vests,” he cried, " was e'er, that wait the orphan's stay.” a shroud to traitors given ? th' unpitying villain saw them weep, there, sit you close, like thistle tops unheeding heard them pray. your heads will soon be driven. with piercing cord he bound them there, " alas !” the children cried, "thy rage, with jagging sword he gored ; can nought appease but blood ? to chamber dark he drove them fierce, ah ! cruel! wilt thou slay thy guests the prisoning doors he barr'd. the bahes that shared thy food ? now morn arrived ; with sabre drawn u o send us forth as slaves to sell, the babes he went to find ; the gain shall all be thine :- he dragg'u them forth, with cruel hand some village sack'd, thy tale may say, within their locks entwined. and these are captives mine. with tyrant grasp he shook them there, “ our tresses cut, our vestments changed.. till all their locks were torn; attired in mean array, far, far, their infant cries were heard some lord of slaves to wildest land, as thus they waiťd forlorn. will bear us far away ; " what place of cruel deeds is this ! “ and thou, with thanks and riches blest, no father hears our cry! shall home contented hie.? Ņo hand from bitter blows can shield, the villain frown'd, “such childish game none aid from death to fly! in vain with me you try. “ what savage wretch art thou, to grasp. nor hence alive shall you be led, a babe's dishevell’d hair ? nor other land shall sce: why shakest thou-thus our infant locks, my foes would gladly meet you there, with blows and angry stare ?". then what the gain to me? .] the sons of mooslim. the murderer gazed and fear'd to die ; there haris fell : his lifeless corse “ o spare my life," he said, amid the stream was thrown ; “ my hoarded wealth shall all be thine, his soul awaits its endless doom if thou my flight wilt aid." at allah's awful throne. “ like grace be thine," mocaubil cried, “ as thou to others shew'd : those sands thy villain blood shall drink, where late the children's flowed." shagird. sib thomas browne's letter to a friend. amongst the original branches of our undertaking, we proposed to reprint occasionally such short pieces as, from their brevity, their interest, or their curiosity, appeared to deserve a better fate than oblivion or neglect. from the great press of our original matter, we have not yet had an opportunity of car- rying this intention into execution. we have been induced, however, to re- print the following tract of sir t. browne’s, partly because the book from which it is taken is very scarce, and partly because we believe it is the least known of any of his writings. it is exceedingly curious and interesting, and though it wants the sombre grandeur and depth of the urn-burial, it exhibits the same singular spirit of discursive inquiry, which never forsook the author on these topics, and which was never more at home than when near “ the mouldering cearments of the grave." so much has lately been written upon browne, (by the bye, we see the cockneys have seized upon him as their pro- perty, as if a cockney could understand sir t. browne,) that we will not abuse the patience of our readers, as bobadil says, by prolixity. we shall merely remark, that we understand a new edition of the most valuable of his works is preparing, and we scarcely know any thing which would be a more valuable present to the literary world. our readers must be apprized that we have omit- ted the conclusion in our reprint, as it merely consists of a string of sentences taken from the christian morals, which were probably added in that carelesse ness of revision which always attends the publishing of posthumous tracts. letter to a friend, upon occasion of the death of his intimate friend. give me leave to wonder that news of in that famous story that spirits themselves this nature should have such heavy wings, were fain to tell their fellows at a distance that you should hear so little concerning that the great antonio was dead, we have your dearest friend, and that i must make a sufficient excuse for our ignorance in such that unwilling repetition to tell you, ad particulars, and must rest content with the portam rigidos calces extendit, that he is common road and appian way of know. dead and buried, and by this time no puny ledge, by information. though the uncer- among the mighty nations of the dead; for tainty of the end of this world hath con. though he left this world not very many days founded all human predictions, yet they past, yet every hour, you know,largely addeth shall live to see the sun and moon darkened, unto that dark society; and, considering the and the stars to fall from heaven, will hard. incessant mortality of mankind, you can. ly be deceived in the advent of the last day ; not conceive there dieth, in the whole earth, and therefore strange it is, that the com- so few as a thousand an hour. although mon fallacy of consumptive persons, who at this distance you had no early account or feel not themselves dying, and therefore particular of his death, yet your affection still hope to live, should also reach their may cease to wonder that you had not some friends in perfect health and judgment. secret sense or intimation thereof by dreams, that you should be so little acquainted thoughtful whisperings, mercurisms, airy with plautus's sick complexion, or that alo. nuncios, or sympathetical insinuations, mostan hippocratical face should not which many seem to have had at the death alarm you to higher fears, or rather despair of their dearest friends ; for since we find of his continuation in such an emaciated sir thomas browne's letter to a friend. [aug. diviners conjectured, that he would be not ; yet scarce twenty years ago monsieur spoiled of his kingdom, and have but a du loys observed, that a third part of that short life : but hairs make fallible predic- people halted ; bat too certain it is, that the tions, and many temples early grey have rickets increaseth among us ; the small-pox outlived the psalmist's period. hairs which grows more pernicious than the great. the have most amused me have not been in the king's purse knows that the king's evil face or head, but on the backs; and not in grows more common. quartan agues are men, but children ; as i long ago observed become no strangers in ireland ; more com- in that endemial distemper of little children mon and mortal in england; and though in languedoc, called the morgellons, † the ancients gave that disease & very good wherein they critically break out with harsh words, yet now that bell makes no strange hairs on their backs, which takes off the un- sound which rings out for the effects thereof. quiet symptoms of the disease, and delivers some think there were few consumptions them from coughs and convulsions. in the old world, when men lived much the egyptian mummies that i have upon milk; and that the ancient inhabit- seen, have had their mouths open, and some ants of this island were less troubled with what gaping, which affordeth a good oppor. coughs when they went naked, and slept in tunity to view and observe their teeth, caves and woods, than men now in cham- wherein it is not easy to find any wanting bers and feather-beds. plato will tell us, that or decayed; and therefore in egypt, where there was no such disease as a catarrh in one man practised but one operation, or the homer's time, and that it was but new in diseases but of single parts, it must needs greece in his age. polydore virgil deli- be a barren profession to confine unto that vereth that pleurises were rare in england, of drawing of teeth, and little better than who lived but in the days of henry the to have been tooth-drawer unto king pyr- eighth. some will allow no diseases to be rhus, who had but two in his head. how new, others think that many old ones are the banyans of india maintain the integri. ceased ; and that such which are esteemed ty of those parts, i find not particularly ob- new, will have but their time. however, served ; who notwithstanding have an ad. the mercy of god hath scattered the great vantage of their preservation by abstaining heap of diseases, and not loaded any one from all flesh, and employing their teeth in country with all. some may be new in one such food unto which they may seem at country which have been old in another. first framed, from their figure and confor- new discoveries of the earth discover new mation ; but sharp and corroding rheums diseases ; for, besides the common swarm, had so early mouldered those rocks and there are endemial and local infirmities pro- hardest parts of his fabric, that a man might per unto certain regions, which, in the whole well conceive that his years were never like earth, make no small number ; and if asia, to double or twice tell over his teeth. || cor- africa, and america, should bring in their ruption had dealt more severely with them list, pandora's box would swell, and there than sepulchral fires, and smart flames, with must be a strange pathology. those of burnt bodies of old ; for in the most men expected to find a consumed burnt fragments of urns which i have in. kell, empty and bladder-like guts, livid and quired into, although i seem to find few in- marbled lungs, and a withered pericardium cisors or shearers, yet the dog.teeth and in this exuccous corps; but some seemed grinders do notably resist those fires. too much to wonder that two lobes of his in the years of his childhood he had lan- lungs adhered unto his side ; for the like i guished under the disease of his country, the had often found in bodies of no suspected rickets ; after which, notwithstanding many consumptions or difficulty of respiration. have been become strong and active men; and the same more often happeneth in men but whether any have attained unto very than other animals ; and some think in wo- great years, the disease is scarce so old as men than in men ; but the most remarkable to afford good observation. i have met with was in a man after a cough whether the children of the english of almost fifty years, in whom all the lobes plantations be subject unto the same infir- adhered unto the pleura, and each lobe mity, may be worth the observing ; whether unto another ; who, having also been much lameness and halting de still increase among troubled with the gout, brake the rule of the inhabitants of rovigno io istria, i know cardan, ** and died of the stone in the blad- the life of a man is threescore and ten. † see picotus de rheumatismo. # his upper and lower jaw being solid, and without distinct rows of teeth. | twice tell over his teeth, never live to threescore years. ģ'asqaniçalos tai prisos, securrissima et facillima. hippoc. pro febre quarlana raro sonat campano. so a. f. ** cardan, in his encomium podagra, reckoneth this among the dona podagra, that there are deli vered thereby from the pthysis and stone in the bladder. sir thomas browne's letter to a friend. [aug, in a sleepless fit of the gout could make what variety men are deluded into the pur., two hundred verses in a niglit, would have suit of that which is not here to be found. but five * plain words upon his tomb, and and although he had no opinion of reputed this serious person, though no minor wit, felicities below, and apprehended men wide. left the poetry of his epitaph unto others ; ly out in the estimate of such happiness; either unwilling to commend himself, or to yet his sober contempt of the world wrought be judged by a distich, and perhaps consi. no democratism or cynicisın, no laughing dering how unhappy great poets have been or snarling at it, as well understanding there in versifying their own epitaphs : whereia are not felicities in this world to satisfy a petrarcha, dante, and ariosto, have so un- serious mind; and therefore to soften the happily failed, that if their tombs should stream of our lives, we are fain to take on out-last their works, posterity would find the reputed contentations of this world, to little of apollo on them, as to mistake unite with the crowd in their beatitudes, and them for ciceronian poets. to make ourselves happy by consortion, in this deliberate and creeping progress opinion, or co-existimation ; for strictly to unto the grave, he was somewhat too young, separate from received and customary feli- and of too noble a mind, to fall upon that cities, and to confine unto the rigor of stupid symptom observable in divers persons realities, were to contract the consolation near their journey's end, and which may be of our beings unto two uncomfortable cir. reckoned among the mortal symptoms of cumscriptions. their last disease ; that is, to become more not to fear death, t nor desire it, was darrow minded, miserable and tenacious, un- short of his resolution : to be dissolved, ready to part with any thing, when they are and be with christ, was his dying ditty. ready to part with all, and afraid to want he conceived his thread long, in no long when they have no time to spend ; meancourse of years, and when he had scarce oute while physicians, who know that many are lived the second life of lazarus i ; esteem- mad but in a single depraved imagination, ing it enough to approach the years of his and one prevalent decipiency; and that be- saviour, who so ordered his own human side and out of such single deliriums a man state, as not to be old upon earth. may meet with sober actions and good sense but to be content with death may be bet- in bedlam ; cannot but smile to see the ter than to desire it : a miserable life may heirs and concerned relations, gratulating make us wish for death, but a virtuous one themselves in the sober departure of their to rest in it; which is the advantage of those friends; and though they behold such mad resolved christians, who looking on death covetous passages, content to think they not only as the sting, but the period and end die in good understanding, and in their so- of sin, the horizon and isthmus between ber senses this life and a better, and the death of this avarice, which is not only infidelity but world but as the nativity of another, do con- idolatry, either from covetous progeny or tentedly subinit unto the common necessity, questuary education, had no root in his and envy not enoch nor elias. breast who made good works the expression not to be content with life, is the unsatis. of his faith, and was big with desires unto factory state of those which destroy them- public and lasting charities ; and surely selves, who being afraid to live, run blind- where good wishes and charitable intentions ly upon their own death, which no man fears exceed abilities, theorical beneficiency may by experience ; and the stoics had a notable be more than a dream. they build not doctrine to take away the fear thereof, that castles in the air who would build churches is, in such extremities to desire that which on earth ; and though they leave no such is not to be avoided, and wish what might structures here, may lay good foundations be feared ; and so made evils voluntary, and in heaven. in brief, his life and death to suit with their own desires, which took were such, that i could not blame them off the terror of them. who wished the like, and almost to bave but the ancient martyrs were not encou- been himself; almost, i say; for though we raged by such fallacies; who though they may wish the prosperous appurtenances of feared not death, were afraid to be their own others, or to be another in his happy acci, executioners ; and therefore thought it more dents; yet so intrinsical is every man unto wisdom to crucify their lusts than their bo- himself, that some doubt may be made, dies, to circumcise than stab their hearts, whether any would change his being, or and to mortify than kill themselves. substantially become another man. his willingness to leave this world about he had wisely seen the world at home that age, when most men think they may and abroad, and thereby observed under best enjoy it, though paradoxical untu * julii cæsaris scaligeri, quod fuit. joseph. scaliger in vita patris. summum nec metuas diem nec optes. # who upon some accounts, and tradition, is said to have lived years after he was raised by our saviour. baronius. $ in the speech of vulteius in lucan, animating his soldiers in a great struggle to kill one another. decernite lethum et metus omnis abest, cupias quodcunque necesse est. all fear is over, do but resolve to die, and make your desires meet necessity. sir thomas browne's letter to a friend. $ worldly ears, was not strange unto mine, though age had set no seal upon his face, who have so often observed, that many yet a dim eye might clearly discover fifty in though old, oft stick fast unto the world, and his actions; and therefore, since wisdom is seem to be drawn like cacus's oxen, back- the gray hair, and an unspotted life old age ; ward, with great struggling and reluctance, although his years came short, he might have into the grave. the long habit of living been said to have held up with longer livers, makes mere men more hardly to part with and to have been solomon's old man. and life, and all to be nothing, but what is to surely if we deduct all those days of our life come. to live at the rate of the old world, which we might wish unlived, and which when some could scarce remember them. abate the comfort of those we now live ; if selves young, may afford no better digested we'reckon up only those days which god hath death than a more moderate period. many accepted of our lives, a life of good years would have thought it an happiness to have will hardly be a span long : the son in this had their lot of life in some notable conjunc. sense, may out-live the father, and none be ture of ages past ; but the uncertainty of fu• climaterically old. he that early arriveth ture times hath tempted few to make a part unto the parts and prudence of age, is hap- in ages to come. and surely, he that hath pily old without uncomfortable attendants taken the true altitude of things, and right. of it; and 'tis superfluous to live unto grey ly calculated the degenerate state of this age, hairs, when in a precocious temper we an- is not likely to envy those that shall live in ticipate the virtues of them. in brief, he the next, much less three or four hundred cannot be accounted young who out-liveth years hence, when no man can comfortably the old man. he that hath early arrived imagine what face this world will carry. unto the measure of a perfect stature in and therefore since every age makes a step christ, hath already fulfilled the prime and unto the end of all things, and the scrip- longest intention of his being ; and one day ture affords so hard a character of the last lived after the perfect rule of piety, is to be times ; quiet minds will be content with preferred before sinning immortality. their generations, and rather bless ages past than be ambitious of those to come. • wisdom, cap. iv. the plague of darkness, a dramatic scene from the exodus. [timebeginning of the first day of the darkness.) moses and caleb alone, watching. caleb. is it thy will, that longer we remain upon this mountain's summit? lo! young day doth wearily unclose his sleepy eye, for slowly comes the radiance which it sheds on our oppressed land! no joy to jacob brings the bright sun-beam; for, with his first glance, comes the fierce tasker, and, with goad and lash, drives to the stubble-field the weeping race of him, jehovah's chosen, the loved friend of angels, and of spirits! their bound limbs are tortur'd by the beam, their free-born sires were wont to court and bless; and when they sink, worn by th' intolerable burthen down, the scorpion-whip doth lash them to new life, or rob them of the wretched remnant left.- but let us down, and bid them stand prepared, nor murmur when they are required to raise new treasure-domes for pharaoh. moses (not heeding him.) yes, thou art the terrible! the just!—the might of man, what is it, lord, before thee! thou dost close thine eye of glory, and dark night descends; thou ope'st it, and 'tis light. thy breathing is the rage of tempests; and thy face, o god, who can behold and live! $ [aug. the plague of darkness. caleb. jehovah's hand is on his servant now. from his pale brow darts forth the mystic light, whose lustrous blaze scorches my human eye-balls. his high form becomes gigantic, and his clustering locks, darker than night, swept by the mighty spirit, wave in wild motion, and their homage pay to the invisible presence of the power which every where surrounds him. moses. hark! he comes ! the one!-the terrible !-the lord of woe! - the angel of his terrors !-on the air i hear the rushing of his mighty wings; his broad palm bears the darkness, the dire pall of miserable egypt !-hark! he comes ! woe, to thee, egypt, woe! caleb. it is the spirit, the over-ruling, which is passing o'er us! the day is bright and clear; yet, in the air, i hear the sound of tempests. all the winds girdle his chariot-wheels.—my brow is cold, my breath is thick, and o'er my quivering limbs breaks the damp glow of fear! i will fall down, nor see him pass above me. moses. hail, o hail ! thou lord of judgment!-lo! he comes; but not in light-created vestments, nor his brow circled by fire ethereal, nor his form shooting forth sparkles of immortal light, each one a brilliant day; but now he rides the stern submissive whirlwind, in his purpose robed as in some dark garment, like the cloak which ancient chaos wore, before the smile of god, illumining the dark abyss, created light.-he comes, the terrible! in judgment mantled dark, as darkest death! before him horror, and behind despair ! [stands motionless. joshua enters. josh. master, the people murmur at thine absence; and now, impatient of thy presence, come with slow steps up the mountain. the people. why hast thou left us? why hast thou provok'd the rage of pharaoh, and thy children left to bear his anger's weight? – icave us, father; reprove no more, but leave us in our bondage. moses. hush, hush ! let him not hear! for scarcely yet hath he pass’d onward to his dreadful post; the loosen'd feathers of his jet black wings are floating yet above us.- silence, silence ! let him not hear thee, jacob; for he goes brimful of wrath, the wine-cup in his hand! let not one drop be thine. people. what shall we do? moses. be silent, and be humble. good leader sage; pharaoh on his throne. jochani. mamri. nobles. [time-the third day of the darkness.] phar. shut out those groans! i will not hear these cries of horrible despair !-what, more than they, . the plague of darkness. ramp. son of the ancient word, eldest of kings! let not the light'ning of thy wrath destroy the lowliest of thy servants, if he pray that, in thy wisdom, thou betray not scorn against that god of terrors-thou dost know him, and egypt trembles still, e'en midst this darkness, at the remember'd horrors of his might.- knew she not him amidst the horrid plague of the fierce murrain, which destroy'd her flocks, broke loathsome on our bodies, struck our wives, smote our young babes, and made even these proud men, these magic-rampired sages, flee for shame, and hide their livid bodies from the scorn that sternly laugh’d within the heaven-lit eye of nile's adopted son !-oh knew she not the god, by this no stranger, in the storm on which he rode, when, scattering the hail, he lit the sons of egypt to their graves by flames of lurid light’ning !-but, О king ! if not for fear, at least for pity, hear the voice of israel's leader;-look upon the sufferings of thy people, for thy sake plunged in unutterable woe.-the plague so sudden fell upon them, that no thought was taken for their safety-in the fields were many when it fell, and they sunk down, e’en in the spot it found them, and expired, believing the red fiend had broken loose from his hard bondage in the sirbon lake, and, with its pois'nous exhalations, choaked the wholesome breath of earth. and there was one who crawld through that black mist--an only son, to meet his mother, for he heard her voice guiding him to her side,-he crawld and crept, until, when to a precipice he came, he thought he grasp'd her garment-it was nought but the thick air he caught-he slipp’d, and dash'd hundreds of fathoms down, o'er pointed rocks, 'gainst which his mangled body struck, ere he, blown by mirac'lous tempests to and fro, reach'd his terrific bed, the boiling wave;- his horrid shriek broke on his mother's ear, and with it-sure in mercy-on her soul rolld wild insanity; and now she goes crawling and groping through the dull, black air, for that same spot from whence her darling fell, meaning to tread that path ; and then, when fails her wearied strength, and she has found it not, still from her bosom heaves the same sad sound- “ it is not here ! it is not here!”-and then bursts from her lips the echo of that scream, which she, unconscious of her loss, believes is utter'd by her son to guide her steps unto the spot which shelters him. there was another wretch, who, crouching to the earth, sat, in a toad-like form, within a cave, and shriek'd herself to death with horrid fear at the strange shapes her madden'd fancy had conjured from out the darkness. some there are, fainting for hunger, hear their infants' cries, yet cannot find them food, nor reach the spot, to yield the comfort that their fond embrace to the poor babes might give.—the husband cries .) the last plague. i call thee by the power of him who reigns o'er thee, and hath permitted thy dread being, as the stern doer of his mighty will, the servant of his vengeance. come, o come, i call thee, king of death, approach and strike all the first-born of egypt ! (pause.) it is done! (pause-voices without—deep groans.) woe, woe, unutterable woe! caleb. , hark; whence, leader, is that melancholy sound, that heavy groan? moses. it is a kingdom's voice, lamenting o'er her first born. i can hear the quick sob of maternal agony, the shriek of female anguish; and i see the stern grief of the father, who beholds the ruin of his hopes—his first-born son laid still and cold before him—he is silent, for the proud sorrow is too mighty for the feeble war of words.- mournful sight! the bosom of each mother is, ere now, the grave of her sweet son ;—for there it lies, the wither'd lotus, on the mourning stream, from whence it drew its life and nourishment. euter jochani. joch. hence from our bleeding land ! king pharoah sends his hasty mandate to ye-speed ye hence as swiftly as ye may; this blighted land will long remember israel ; his name may parallel with typhon's—from the throne unto the lowliest hut, the owner's heart bears in deep characters of blood, the name indelible of jacob. enter mamri. mam. fly from egypt, fly, while our king yet lives—our people send their riches now to bribe your swift departure. here are the gems ye ask'd for, silver, gold, treasures incalculable, all the heaps that egypt hath for ages call’d her own, take them, and get ye gone ! enter rampsinitis with his dead son, which he luys at moses feet. ramp. the sacrifice unto your aweful god is made ! look there ! mine own, mine elélest born! , go- , go, lest pharoah change-lest i, in maduess, rush upon thy first born, jacob !- my sweet child !- the gory drink, the livid boils, the hail, the lurid lightning, tenant of the air, that did domesticate itself on earth, and walk'd upon her bosom! locusts, fear, famine, and darkness, all, unshrinkingly i bore! but this— , this !--begone! for i have yet another son ! moses. jehovah heal thy bitter sorrows !- israel, onward now, the god of abraham guides thee! yea, behold the last plague. [ang. he comes in visible form to lead ye forth through the drear wilderness, and stranger lands- yea, tremble, jacob, bow thee to the dust, and kiss the earth, now doubly sanctified by his almighty presence. in yon cloud he hides his terrors from your human eyes, and only shows his mercy !-forward, israel, with fearless heart, and firm-set foot advance, follow your mighty leader; as ye go, charm his immortal ear with humble praise, and heart-felt gratitude for boundless mercy! ou to the fee air of the wilderness ! on to the desarts, where po tyrant reigns ! what though our feet no rich green turf shall press, we walk unshackled, broken are our chains ! and rather on that burning soil would we through war and dangers toil— rather the free pure air, which now circles each, once more, free-born brow, should catch our latest breath, than we should draw it in captivity. fair wast thou, egypt, , surpassing fair! thy beauteous brow, endiadem'd with flowers, the song and music, breath'd in thy sweet air, and time was ever young in thy bright bowers. fair were the fruits that courted the dry lip, rosy the wine that bade the captive sip, beauteous the scenes that in thy bosom lie, but we beheld them with a captive's eye, scorning thy gifts, and looking for the hand, which from our hearts should rend oppression's band, from deep distressing bondage set us free, give us the wilderness and liberty ! and now that hand is outstretch'd from on high, to lead us through the long and dreary road, from the sad cells of dark captivity, unto the promis'd land, our bless’d abode. in thee, o god of glory, we confide to thee our hope, our own almighty guide. o may our songs of mingled joy and fear, ascend, jehovah, to thy pleased ear. rise, sound of transport, and upon thy wing bear the pavillion'd throne of israel's king. rise, sounds of gratitude, with one accord, speak jacob's love unto his mighty lord. say, glory, honour, excellence, to thee, thou giver of all good, bless'd liberty ! notes. note i. iv hat balaam's sons, &c. pharoah's magicians, who sometimes successfully opposed moses, the jannes and jam- bres of st paul, are in the talmud, celebrated as jochani and mamri. they were suppo- sed by the jews to have been the sons of balaam, and to have perished with their fa. ther in midian. others assert, that they were drowned with the egyptians at the pass. age of the red sea. .] the last plague. note ii. father nile an anachronism. egyptus was the early name of this river. it was not till after the reign of sesostris it received its second name from king nilus, who, cutting several canals through the country, and endeavouring to render the river as serviceable as pos- sible to egypt, it was re-baptized by the grateful people after him. note iii. thou who art all that hath been, &c. the inscription on the temple of neith, at sais. note iv. voiceless doth the sistrum stand. isis was frequently represented with horns, signifying the appearance of the moon in her increase and decrease ; a sistrum, (or cymbal) in her right hand, and a pitcher in her left.-herodotus. for the history of osiris, typhon, isis, and orus, see diodorus and plutarch. on psalm-singing in our churches, with some observations upon the proposed additional psalmody." dear sir, now, what i complain of, sir, is there is not a more becoming, or this:-under our present tendency to a more christian part of public wor modernize and new-model whatever is ship, than the singing of psalms and old and antiquated, i am afraid this hymns to the praise of god, with one ancient, and truly presbyterian and voice, and with one heart. a large animating exercise of psalm-singing, and closely compacted congregation, is in danger of falling into disuse. fully imbued with pious and devo- there has sprung up amongst us a tional feeling, and giving utterance to reforming race-men strangely gifted their whole soul in the fellowship and in point of ears—who take grievous unison of some well known and solemn offence at the monotonous “ croon" of tune, is a fine object of moral contem our old wives, and at the drawling plation and reflection, and presents no discordance of our old church-tunes, unimpressive assimilation to the atti, who go into committees and associa- tude and employment of the “ happy tions, with a suitable et cetera of assembly of the church of the first ways and means," in order to have born." - when every individual wor bands of vocal music planted around shipper shares in the worship offer- our pulpits, and responding singing ed, --when the same word, the same pipes at convenient intervals through sentiment, the same hopes, the same the church ; in consequence of which, faith, the same love of god-are pass- the task, or rather the privilege of ing through so many minds and ap- praising god, with the most perfect, prehensions, and hallowing, with the as well as the most suitable of all mu- stream of one common purification, sical organs--the human voice—is re- the same hearts, at one and the same moved from the congregation—from time, what an accession, in point of the “people all”—and devolved up- intensity and strength of devotional on a few spinning jennies and wea- feeling, is gained !- there is a kind of ver jockies, who twine out the la- electrical communication acting and byrinths of god's praise, and knot in re-acting from voice to voice, and from the threads and ends of public devo- soul to soul, and each individual wor- tion, with nearly the same apprehen- shipper feels, as it were, the accumu. sions of religious feeling with which lated devotion of the whole assembly. they go through the routine and task- it is like standing in the ranks of fel. ing of their daily work. lowship whilst the battle rages, having occasion, a few days ago, to experiencing, from mutual confidence officiate, in my clerical capacity, in a and reliance, a courage an esprit de neighbouring burgh pulpit, and being corps—which would not exist were about (as i considered the singing of every soldier stationed in individual the first, or morning psalm to be con- and unaccompanied exertion. cluded) to proceed, in all due solem- on psalm-singing in our churches. [aug. nity, to prayer, and having actually rather an injudicious man, --more than advanced with the second sentence of one cautionary hint upon the subject; my address to heaven, i was not a but i fancy, that until i can find ways little surprised to find that the music and means of suppressing a singing had only been suspended for a little, * school which has crept into the vil- and that, from a distant corner of the lage, i shall never have any security gallery, into which it had returned to on this score. it was but last sabbath, take advantage of the sinuosities of no further gone, that, owing to the in- some extremely delicate female pipe, terruption occasioned by an old wo- it was now bursting down upon the man, who told him plainly," she wad body of the church, in full swell and sing her maker's praise, in spite o’him, tide, and overpowering in its pro- wi' a' her heart,” he was fairly untuned gress every feebler note of opposition in one of his outrageously delicate i was enabled to make. it was not till octaves, and compelled to have re- after the same concluding, and, (as i course to the sober and less intricate imagined, in the obesity of my musical notes of the martyrs to bear him apprehension,) the concluded line, had through. been hung, and halved, and quartered but this, even this aggravated and several times over, into jerks, and jets, highly-seasoned absurdity, does not and “twirliewhirlies,” of the most comprehend the full reach of the evil. astonishing character, that i could do you know, sir, it has not only be- obtain an audience. now, sir, all come impossible, from the difficulty the while that god's praise was thus of the tunes, but absolutely unfa- portioned out into parts and quavers, shionable, from the enormity of affec- the old women, who were seated tation, to praise god at all. to crook upon the pulpit stair, were as mute one's mouth, or to model one's lips as if their tongues had already been into the attitude of psalm-singing, is silenced by the sexton's spade, and downright vulgarity. the laird's fa- the youn; men and women seemed mily, with the exception of the dow- to be employed in carefully and re- ager-lady,who, from indisposition, sel- peatedly surveying the walls of the doin comes out, are silent; all my church, the state of the pews, and the genteel farmers, and the most of them various habiliments in which each fel- consider themselves, and are entitled to low-worshipper happened to be attired. do so, as belonging to this class, have, of in fact, the congregation seemed to course, caught the air of the carpet- me to present the aspect of spectators ed gallery above, and are dumb.- in an opera-house, for whose gratifica- they generally, i can observe, when tion and entertainment a certain quan- at times i take a sly peep at them tity of modulated air was thurst, in through my fingers, employ themselves different proportions, through the whilst the psalm is singing in lay- wind-pipes of a few exhibitive per- ing themselves up, arms a-kimbo, in formers. one of the four corners of their pew, now, what our burgh churches do, or in surveying, with a discrimina- our country parishes are very apt to ting and congratulatory eye, the ama- mimic. i have been under the neces- zing and gratifying effects of day sity of giving my own precentor, and martin's blacking. the handi- who, though an honest, is a young and craft men are in a state of defection, similar to this is the incident which befel a brother of the profession, if tradition is to be “ in aught believed.”—he had visited london, and seen, amongst other tricks of pulpit "oratory,” “sheridan's pauses” exhibited. during his first sermon, after his return to his own parish and flock, he had taken occasion, at the termination of a very impassioned and chalmers'-wrought-up sentence or paragraph, to stop all of a sudden, and pause in “ mute unbreathing silence.” the precentor, who had taken ad- vantage of his immemorial privilege to sleep out the sermon, imagining, from the ces- sation of sound, that the discourse was actually brought to a close, started up, with some degree of agitation, and in an audible, though somewhat flustered voice, read out his usual " remember in prayer"_“ hout man!” exclaimed the good natured orator over his head, placing, at the same time, his hand upon his shoulders, “ hout, jamie man ! what's the matter wi' ye the day?-d'ye no ken i hae nae done yet?-that's only ane os sheridan's pauses, man!” .] on psalm-singing in our churches. me. and the village innkeeper has already byterian worship, has been subject- gone over; so that, but for the how- ed to that degrading and revolting dy, who stands in awe of the mis- contamination, the progress of which tress, with a large and still untainted i have been attempting to trace. it proportion of villagers, bothymen, and is quite true, sir, that many of our cottars, who have not the sense to be young preachers,” and even some of genteel, the whole burden of the praise the more advanced veterans of liberal -as we have no burgh“ singing boys sentiment and moderation, have ceased and singing girls,”-would, of neces to praise god in public. they give out sity, devolve upon the precentor and the psalm, they say the prayers, and they read their sermons ; but further but, what pains as well as astonish- they do not proceed. they are a race, es me most of aıl, is the fact, that my too, of comely men ; and when their daughters, my own daughters,—both shirt necks are set up to their ears, and eliza, who is named after her mother, the front tuft is brushed back, and the betty,—and grace, who takes her neckcloth is adjusted, and the ruffles christian appellation from her aunty and bands are smoothed down, they grizzy,-of whom i had every rea- look it, and manner it, and often word son, from the pious education which it well ; but what time so proper for all they have received, to expect better this preparation and adjustment, as things,--my own flesh and blood, sir, whilst the psalm is a-singing !-proh have lifted up the heel against me, nefas! when even the very “ ark of and have absolutely ceased to make the testimony” is not sacred from con- any public demonstration in god's tamination, what will become of us ? praise. i have no patience for such unseemly and this is all owing, and i know it profanation ; and rather than see a fop well, though when your magazine, or a fool of this description in my pul- containing this averment, arrives, pit, i would prefer the grinning physi- they will deny it stoutly-it is all ow ognomy of the monkey, or the wink- ing to a visit we lately were favoured ing stupidity of the hog! how can we with, from an east india nabob, a dis- expect, mr christopher, that our con- tant relation of their own, whom they gregations should take an interest in insist: upon calling cousin; and who, the praises in which we ourselves, who it seems, is esteemed the very pink of minister at god's altar, join not !- gentility in these parts. at him, i “may all sing thy praises,” are the could perceive them through the whole words of our prayers, “ with devotion week, dressing, and setting, as they in our hearts, making melody unto god term it, their caps; and of a most with our lips.” there is mockery and portentous compass, they are more downright profanity, mr north, in like landing nets for fishi, than traps this thing; and if, by publishing this for men; and by his they appeared staternent, you can bring into deser- resolved, whatever might betide, to as ved contempt one single perversity of sert their morals, as well as their man this description, you will do something ners. for this “ stupendous man of to restore meaning to our public acts travel and riches," having, during the of devotion and praise, and you will psalm-singing one sabbath, twisted and give satisfaction to every truly pious whirled round betwixt his finger and presbyterian worshipper.“ immedi- thumb, a large peony rose, at the cabile vulnus ense rescidendum, ne pars same time that his lips were compress sincera trahatur.” we must go bold- ed even to the somewhat unseemly pro- ly to work ; we must run the risk of trusion of the under one, that there twisting the very soul of the guilty, as might remain no doubt of his silence, well as of offending the corny sensibi- my daughters, who were keeping ra- lities of their friends and relatives, if ther a sharp look out upon hiin at the we wou:ld wish to arrest the progress time, have ever since twisted roses, of this malady, and secure for our- and primmed up themselves during selves and our children the healthy and the psalm, most fearfully, even in the invigorating exercise of our public or- very face of the precentor himself. dinances of religion. the pulpit too full sorry am i but the evil does not rest with the to admit the disgrace_but true it is, music merely, and with the affectation and of verity, that the very pulpit of gentility, which i have denounced. itself—that "holy of holies” of pres. there are steps, sir, now adopting, on psalm-singing in our churches. [aug. alas! poor old woman, what knowest is this emotion increased or diminish- thou about skimming, beyond a pailed by the following translation ? of sweet milk? “ how lovely is thy dwelling-place, the thirtieth psalm, in the old ver- o lord of hosts, my god and king! sion, contains, at the fourth verse, the how pleasant there thy law to hear ! following rather happy lines: how pleasant there thy praise to sing !" “ oh ye that are his holy ones, in the new version of the eighty- sing praise unto the lord, eighth psalm, we find the following and give unto im thanks, when ye lines: his holiness record.” “ soon shall i lie entombed in the ground which, at the risk of being mistaken for a prayer for his holiness the pope, is mercy there ? is sweet forgiveness found ? are thus, in the new psalmody, exhi- oh, save me yet, while on the “ brink" i bited : stand; “all ye his saints, your voices raise, rebuke the storm, and bring me safe to land.” to sing your maker's endless praise ; in grateful songs for ever bless independently of the clumsiness of the and magnify " his holiness." expression, it will require no great de- the forty-second psalm is not only gree of ingenuity to discover the mix- most impressive and sublime in its ture of metaphor here. sentiments, but likewise very happily but it is needless, at present, to ad- translated as it now stands. where is vance farther, or to deny, amidst this the devout worshipper, whose heart preponderance of censure, that, in has not bounded at these most inspi- many instances, considerablemerit does ring expressions ? attach to these “ additional" psalms; “ like as the hart for water brooks and, in particular to the th, th, in thirst doth pant and bray, th, and th, with a short quo- so pants my longing soul, o lord, tation from which last, we shall con- that come to thee i may !” clude this criticism. can the following new version be con “ princes, judges of the earth, sidered as an improvement? all of high or humble birth, youths and virgins flourishing, “ as pants the wearied hart for cooling in the beauty of your spring; springs, ye who bow with age's weight; with thirst and toil exhausted in the chace." ye who were but born of late ; what chace? not only the sense, but praise his name with one consent. the keeping of the original are mi- oh, how great ! how excellent ! serably sacrificed here. and, again, at allowing, however, all the praise to the seventh verse, we have, these translations, which even their « at the noise of thy water-spouts, authors, as well as supporters, in and deep unto deep did call ; out of the church, could desire, my thy breaking waves pass over me, former position, in regard to their un- yea, and thy billows all.” suitableness in point of association, still remains unassailed and unmoved. which, lame, in some respects, as it must be confessed to be, is assuredly these additional psalms were already, but, i may be told, that although infinitely preferable to the following: under proper authority, affixed to the “in rapid floods the swelling torrents roll, psalınody, there will be no compulsory harsh sounding cataracts around me roar ; enactment affixed, enjoining any one thine angry billows overwhelm my soul, who does not chuse it, to sing them; and toss my straining bark from shore to they will only be placed there, and shore." subjected to the choice of ministers these cataracts are harsh-sounding in- and congregations, who may either deed, and will require a deal of pre- make use of them or not, as they centor address to soften them down please. and this, no doubt, to a cer- into music! tain extent, is true, but not to the who ever read the exordium of the amount of obviating completely, my eighty-fourth psalm without emotion? objection ; for it is well known how “ how lovely is thy dwelling-place, pertinacious and obstinate we become o lord of hosts, to me! in adopting any measure which is of the tabernacles of thy grace, our own device and hatching; and as how pleasant, lord, they be!" a great proportion of these lyrics are on psalm-singing in our churches. [aug leaders which conducted the depo- us to think in time, ere, along with sed and persecuted, and want-worn the outward demonstration, all the presbyters, * through many depriva- vitality of devotion and piety have tions and dangers, to death, and to ceased to exist. victory at last. these were, in a word, to conclude then, sir,-for like the the stout and fearless “ reformers,' spider which is now working himself who ousted popery, and resisted prela- down from the roof of my study, cy, and at last on the permanent basis i have spun myself to so great a dis- of god's word, (explained unto, and tance from my web, that i shall not with praises sung by all the people,) at present attempt a re-ascension, erected the doric fabric of presbyteri- i am, and ever will remain, a friend to an worship amongst us.-and, shall all plans and practices which admit, we, the children, and natural, and na- and, as it were, invite, the people into tional, and testimonial descendants of a participation in the public praises of these very men, who were thus actu- god; and provided this object can be ated, guided, supported and directed, attained, i care not how many new neglect or despise the inheritance we tunes be sung or new psalms be pen- have derived from them? shall we ned; but as matters now stand, and suffer the walls of our zion to fall as fashion now sets in, i am afraid a gradually under the lapse of time, continuation of innovation, or what is and ruin, and dilapidation, merely deemed improvement in these respects, from want of repairs, and from inat- would only prove a confirmation and tention to the preservation of the more rooted establishmentof the grow- structure ?-god forbid ! and may heing mischief.-yours, &c. who alone is the “ head and the su- a presbyterian clergyman. perior" of our national church, induce note to presbyters.--about presbyterian clergymen resigned their churches on one day, rather than conform with the measures of the government, in order to in. troduce prelacy into scotland.” the forgers. “ let us sit down on this stone she reached a little well, dug out of a seat," said my aged friend, the pastor, low rock all covered with moss and " and i will tell you a tale of tears, lichens, she seemed to fix her eyes concerning the last inhabitants of yon- upon it as in a dream, and gave a long, der solitary house, just visible on the deep, broken sigh. hill-side, through the gloom of those « the names of her husband and melancholy pines. ten years have her only son, both dead, are chiselled passed away since the terrible catas- by their own hands on a smooth stone trophe of which i am about to speak; within the arch of that fountain, and and i know not how it is, but mé- the childless widow at this moment thinks, whenever i come into this glen, sees nothing on the face of the earth there is something rueful in its silence, but a few letters not yet overgrown while the common sounds of nature with the creeping timestains. see ! seem to my mind dirge-like and for her pale lips are moving in prayer, lorn. was not this very day bright and, old as she is, and long resigned and musical as we walked across all in her utter hopelessness, the tears are the other hills and valleys; but now a not yet all shed or dried up within her dim mist overspreads the sky, and, broken heart,-a few big drops are on beautiful as this lonely place must in her withered cheeks, but she feels truth be, there is a want of life in the them not, and is unconsciously weeping verdure and the flowers, as if they with eyes that old age has of itself grew beneath the darkness of perpetual enough bedimmed.” shadows." the figure remained motionless as the old man was speaking, a fe- beside the well; and, though i knew male figure, bent with age and infir- not the history of the griefs that stood mity,came slowly up the bank below us all embodied so mournfully before me, with a pitcher in her hand, and when i felt that they must have been gather- .] the forgers. ing, woman.-holla! where is the old and doubtless even more tenderly be- man gone?" loved in their guilt and in their graves, we all looked ghastlily around, and she carries to her lonely hut the water the wretched wife and mother, spring- that helps to preserve her hopeless life, ing to her feet, rushed out of the house. from the well dug by dearest hands, we followed, one and all. the door now mouldered away, both flesh and of the stable was open, and the mother bone, into the dust.” and son entering, loud shrieks were after a moment's silence the old heard. the miserable old man had man continued, -for he saw that i slunk out of the room unobserved due longed to hear he details of that ring the passion that had struck all our dreadful catastrophe, and his own soul souls, and had endeavoured to commit seemed likewise desirous of renewing suicide. his own son cut him down, as its grief, --" the prisoners were con- he hung suspended froin a rafter in demned. hope there was none. it that squalid place, and, carrying him was known, from the moment of the in his arms, laid him down upon the verdict-guilty,—that they would be green bank in front of the house. executed. fetitions were, indeed, sign- there he lay with his livid face, and ed by many many thousands; but it blood-shot protruded eyes, till, in a was all in vain,--and the father and few minutes, he raised himself up, the son had to prepare themselves for and fixed them upon his wife, who, death. soon recovering from a fainting fit, “ about a week after condemna. came shrieking from the mire in which tion i visited them in their cell. god she had fallen down. “ poor people!” forbid, i should say that they were said the sailor with a gasping voice, resigned. human nature could not you have suffered enough for your resign itself to such a doom; and i crime. fear nothing; the worst is found the old man pacing up and down now past: and rather would i sail the the stone-floor, in his clanking chains, seas twenty years longer, than add with hurried steps, and a countenance another pang to that old man's heart. of unspeakable horror. the son was let us be kind to the old man.” lying on his face upon his bed of straw, “but it seemed as if a raven had and had not lifted up his head, as the croaked the direful secret all over the massy bolts were withdrawn, and the remotest places among the hills; for, door creaked sullenly on its hinges. in an hour, people came flocking in the father fixed his eyes upon me for from all quarters, and it was seen, that some time, as if i had been a stranger concealment or escape was no longer intruding upon his misery; and, as possible, and that father and son were soon as he knew me, shut them with destined to die together a felon's a deep groan, and pointed to his son. death.” i have murdered william-i have here the pastor's voice ceased ; and brought my only son to the scaffold. i had heard enough to understand the and i am doomed to hell!' i gently long deep sigh that had come moaning called on the youth by name, but he from that bowed-down figure beside was insensible-he was lying in a fit. the solitary well. “that was the last 'i fear he will awake out of that fit,' work done by the father and son, and cried the old man with a broken voice. finished the day before the fatal dis • they have come upon him every day covery of their guilt. it had probably since our condemnation, and some been engaged in as a sort of amuse times during the night. it is not fear ment to beguile their unhappy minds for himself that brings them on-for of ever-anxious thoughts, or perhaps my boy, though guilty, is brave-but as a solitary occupation, at which they he continues looking on my face for could unburthen their guilt to one hours, till at last he seems to lose all another undisturbed. here, no doubt, sense, and falls down in strong con- in the silence and solitude, they often vulsions, often upon the stone floor, felt remorse, perhaps penitence. they till he is all covered with bloodl.' the chiselled out their names on that slab, old man then went up to his son, as you perceive; and hither, as duly knelt down, and, putting aside the as the morning and evening shadows, thick clustering hair from his fore- comes the ghost whom we beheld, and, head, continued kissing him for some after a prayer for the souls of them so minutes, with deep sobs, but eyes dry tenderly beloved in their innocence, as dust. [aug. works preparing for publication. works preparing for publication. london. sir george nayler, clarencieux king of a tale in verse, called “ temper," by arms, is preparing, by command of the mrs taylor of ongar. king, an extensive work, with engravings, a poetical essay on the character of descriptive of the late ceremony of the co. pope; by chas. lloyd. ronation. to be published by subscription, an mr bewick, the celebrated engraver on account of the crowning of his most sa. wood, is preparing for the press, a supple- cred majesty king george iv. including ment to his history of british birds. the names of all the peers, knights, and a new edition of the eton latin gram- principal officers, who were engaged in that mar; by rev. j. smith, of st john's col- ceremony. to be embellished with a beau- lege, cambridge. tifully illuminated frontispiece, printed in a treatise on the newly-discovered letters of gold. white vinegar, called pyroligneous acid, a second series of sermons in ms. cha. with detailed directions for its application racter ; by rev. r. warner. to pickling, and every other domestic pur. a second edition of mr bramsen's tra. pose. vels in egypt, syria, &c. is preparing for the speeches of the right hon. henry publication. grattan, with a memoir by his son, are a course of lent lectures on the seven printing in four vols. vo. last sentences uttered by our saviour from the dying confessions of judas isca- the cross ; by rev. jolinson grant riot, a convincing evidence of the divine dr carey has in the press the greek origin of christianity; an essay, by the terminations, including the dialects and rev. dr cracknell. poetic licences, in alphabetical order, with to be published in september, by mr explanatory references to the grammar; t. lynn, to be continued annually, a work on the same plan as his clue for young called star tables and ephemeris for , latinists, lately published. for the more easily determining the latitude nearly ready, the first part of mr a. and longitude at sea during the night. t. thomson's lectures on botany. nearly ready for publication, the mis the rev. john campbell will shortly cellaneous tracts of the late dr withering, publish a second volume of travels to with memoirs of the author, by william south africa, describing the manners and withering, esq. customs of the natives, their agriculture, mr nicholson's popular elements of arts and manufactures, food, clothing, &c. pure and mixed mathematics, will appear &c. with an account of the cities of mashow in the autumn. and marootzee, the former consisting of a volume of poems, original and trans. , the latter of , inhabitants; with lated, by mr noble of liverpool. a map and plates. preparing for the press, a history of in the press, the theory and practice of brazil, with numerous engravings ; by mr latin inflexion, being examples in the james henderson. form of copy-books, for declining and con- a new and enlarged edition of dr con- jugating nouns and verbs; by mr haigh, quest's outlines of midwifery, &c. with of the classical school, kitt's end, near copperplate engravings. barnet. edinburgh. we have much pleasure in informing our together with a preface and a sketch of the readers, that the author of the ayrshire life of the author. this small volume will legatees,” and “ annals of the parish,” form an useful guide and help to christian is preparing a scottish novel for the press, communicants in their preparation for the which he intends to call “sir andrew ordinance of the supper ; and on this ac- wylie of that ilk." count, as well as others, it particularly in the press, and speedily will be pub- claims the notice and patronage of ministers lished, a small treatise on the important of the gospel. the publication is conduct- subject of self-examination, with a special ed under the editorship of the rev. robert view to the ordinance of the lord's sup. burns, one of the ministers of paisley, per ; originally published by the rev. author of “ historical dissertations on the william trail, a.m. minister of the gos- state of the poor in scotland." to promote pel at benholm, and a near relative of the the circulation of the work, the price will eminently, learned, and pious robert trail be exceedingly. moderate. of london. the work has long been out report of the trial before the jury of print ; and the present edition, which is court, edinburgh, th june, , of the the fourth, will be accompanied with a issues in the cause in which the rev. an- considerable variety of additional matter, drew scott, roman catholic clergyman in .) monthly list of new publications. poetry topography. pliant; by charlotte caroline richardson. oxford in , at the lecture founded by vols. mo. s. the late rev. j. bampton, m.a. by rev. scenes at brighton, or “ how much ?” john jones, m.a. vo. s. d. a satirical novel; by james hoole, esq. sermons, by the late very rev. w. vols. mo. s. pearce, d.d. dean of ely. vo. s. discourses, adapted to the pulpit, or to the cottage of pella, a tale of pales. the use of families, from tracts and trea- tine, with other poems; by john holland. tises of eminent divines ; by the rev. e. vo. s. a. bray. ovo. s. rome, a poem. vo. s. practical sermons; by abraham rees, the history and life of johnny quæ d.d. f.r.s. vols. , . vo. £ , s. genus, the little fourdling ; by the au- thor of the three tours of dr syntax. a guide to the lakes in cumberland, no. i. containing three coloured engrav. · westmoreland, and lancashire ; by the ings and pages of letter-press. s. d. late mr. w'est. th edition, with a new the lay of the first minstrel ; by jas. plate and map. vo. s. grocott. vo. an account of the interior of ceylon, seventeen sermons of the eminently and of its inhabitants, with travels in that pious and deeply learned bishop andrews, island; by john davy, m.d. f.r.s. to. modernized for the use of general readers; with engravings. £ , s. d. by the rev. chas. daubery, archdeacon m. de humboldt's travels to the equi. of sarum. vo. s. d. noctial regions of the new continent, dur. deism compared with christianity, being the years – . vol. v. part ing an epistolary correspondence, contain. , . translated by h. m. williams. vo. ing all the principal objections against re. £ , s. vealed religion, with the answers annex travels in south europe, from modern ed; by edward chichester, m.d. vols. writers, with remarks and observations, vo. £ , s. exhibiting a connected view of the geogra- the moral tendency of divine revela: phy and present state of that quarter of the tion asserted and illustrated, in eight dis. globe ; by the rev. wm. bingley, m.a. courses preached before the university of &c. mo. os. ed. voyages and travels. theology. edinburgh. the edinburgh christian instructor, receipts for roasting, boiling, &c. third no. cxxxiii. for august. edition. mo. s. the new edinburgh review, no. i. a humble petition and address to her denmark delineated, or sketches of the majesty queen caroline; by an inhabitant present state of that country, with por- of edinburgh. vo. d. traits, views, &c. part i. royal vo. s. the reader's guide, being a collection d. of pieces in prose and verse; by william the life of david haggart, alias john andrew. mo. s. wilson, &c. &c. written by himself. se the edinburgh annual register, for cond edition, mo. s. , vo. £ , is. the cook’s oracle, containing practical monthly register. commercial report.-august , . sugars.-notwithstanding the very considerable arrivals of sugars for several weeks past, the demand has been very considerable, and the prices for good and fine have ad. vanced about s. per cwt. middling and low qualities are however depressed, and sales effected with difficulty. considerable sales have been effected at liverpool by auction, and the whole have gone off freely at an advance. the prices of refined sugars are lower. very considerable shipments have been made to the continent this year. the value of refined sugars, exported for the first six months, was £ , , . last year the whole export amounted to £ , , , which shews a considerable increase in the trade this year. still, however, the prices are exceedingly low, and such as cannot repay the plant- er. the demand, which has for some time taken place, is probably owing to the quan. tity required at this particular season of the year for making british wines. from the quan- tity continuing to arrive, it is doubtful if this demand will continue. the state of the weather, however, in many of the west india colonies, was, at the date of the last ac- counts, not very favourable for the crop of next season. cotton.—the cotton market, which sometime ago looked upwards, is again become more languid. still, however, the demand is considerable, and prices maintained. the holders are inclined to sell, and very considerable quantities are advertised for public auction. register. commercial report. [aug. coffee. the market for coffee is become very dull, and sales can, with difficulty, be effected at a very considerable reduction in prices. the decline in price may be stated at s. per cwt. the grain market which was lately on the advance, is now, on account of the more favourable appearances for the harvest, becoming more languid, and in some instances declining, particularly with regard to oats. some dye-woods have been sold at an advance. extensive purchases have been made in rice. the accounts from the green- land and davies' straits fisheries, is more favourable than the first accounts received from thence, which have a considerable effect on the oil market. the low prices of rum have attracted the notice of speculators and exporters. the demand has in consequence been considerable, and the price a trifle advanced. brandy is become more firm. the holders are less inclined to sell. in geneva there is no alteration nor inquiry. the de- mand for pine timber is considerable. the tallow market remains nominally the same. other articles of commerce require no particular notice. although the internal trade of this country, and in some instances the foreign trade also, is greatly meliorated ; still our readers are to receive, with much caution and many deductions, the flaming accounts of commercial prosperity, so ostentatiously put forth in the public periodical journals. it is true, abundance of goods are going away, but it is equally true, that several markets, particularly the jamaica market, are completely glutted, and that the high exchanges and depreciation of every article taken in exchange, when these arrive in this country, strip the merchant of all, or nearly all, the profits of his export sales. the whole west india colonial trade, about a sixth part of the trade of the empire, is peculiarly depressed, and never was at a lower ebb, or in a more ruinous state. we would fain hope, however, that this branch of our commerce is upon the point of reviving, and that it will soon resume its former prosperity. various unfortunate cir- cumstances have conspired to bring it to its present state. ...... s. od. . . edinburgh.-august . wheat. barley. oats. pease & beans. st....... s. od. st, ..... s. od. | ist....... s. od. st,...... s. od. d, ...... s. od. d, ...... s. od. | d, ...... s. od. d, d, . s. od. d, ...... s. od. | d, ...... s. od. d, , . s. od. average of wheat, £ : : d. per boll. tuesday, august . beef ( oz. per lb.) s. d. to os. d. | quartern loaf os. d. to os. od mutton os. d. to os. . new potatoes ( lb.) is. d. to os. od veal os. gd. to os. d. fresh butter, per lb. ls. d. to os. od pork os. d. to os. . salt ditto, per stone s. od. to os. od lamb, per quarter is. d. to s. d. ditto, per lb. is. od. to ls. d tallow, per stone s. od. to s. od. | eggs, per dozen os. d. to os. od haddington.-aug. . wheat. barley. oats. pease. beans. ist,..... s. d. st, ..... s. od. ist, ..... s. od. st, .....j s. od. st, ..... s. od. d,...... ls. od. d,...... s. od. | d,...... s. od. d, ..... . od. | d,...... s. od. d,...... . od. d,...... s. od. d,...... s. od. d,...... s. od. d,...... . od. average, £ : ils. od. - ths. average prices of corn in england and wales, from the returns received in the week ended july th. wheat, s. d.-rye, . d.-barley, . od.-oats, . d.-beans, s. d.-pease, s. id. beer or big, os. od.-oatmeal, os. od. . weekly price of stocks, from d to d july, . d. th. th. d. sakar = pr. pr. pr. bank stock,...so per cent. reduced, per cent. consols,. per cent. consols,.. per cent. consols, per cent. navy ann..... india stock, bonds, exchequer bills, consols for acc. long annuities french per cents.. amer. per cent...row..... pr. pr. pr. pr. pr. & $ fr. c. fr. c. fr. c. fr. c. . register.-commercial report. course of exchange, august .--amsterdam, : . c. f. ditto at sight, : rotterdam, : . antwerp, : . hamburgh, : . altona, : . paris, d. sight, : . ditto : . bourdeaux, : . frankfort on the maine, . petersburgh, per rble. : us. vienna, : ef flo. trieste, : ef flo. madrid, . cadiz, . bilboa, %. barcelona, . seville, ). gibraltar, . leghorn, . genoa, venice, : . malta, . naples, }. palermo, . lis bon, . oporto, . rio janeiro, . bahia; . dublin, per cent. cork, . per cent. prices of gold and silver, per oz.- :-foreign gold, in bars, £ : : d. new dollars, s. d. silver in bars, stand. s. d. london. s bd s d £ £ £ prices current august . sugar, musc. leith glasgow. liverpool. b. p. dry brown, . cwt. to mid. good, and fine mid. fine and very fine, refined doub. loaves, powder ditto, single ditto, small lumps, large ditto, crushed lumps, molasses, british, ewt. coffee, jamaica, . cwt. ord. good, and fine ord. mid. good, and fine mid. dutch triage and very ord. ord. good, and fine ord. mid. good, and fine mid. st domingo, pimento (in bond,) spirits, jam. rum, . p. gall. d ls lid od ls d s d brandy, geneva, grain whisky, w nes, claret, st growths, hhd. portugal red, pipe. spanish white, butt. teneriffe, pipe. madeira, logwood, jam. ton. £ honduras, campeachy, fustic, jamaica, cuba, . indigo, caraccas fine, lb. d s d timber, amer. pine, foot. ditto oak, christiansand (dut. paid.) honduras mahogany, st domingo, ditto, tar, american, brl. archangel, pitch, foreign, tallow, rus. yel. cand. home melted, hemp, riga rhine, ton. petersburgh, clean, flax, riga thies. & druj. rak. dutch, irish, mats, archangel, . bristles, petersburgh firsts, owt. ashes, peters. pearl, montreal, ditto, oil, whale, tun. £ cod. s (p. brl.) tobacco, virgin. fine, ib. middling, inferior, cottons, bowed georg. + sea island, fine, good, middling, demerara and berbice, west india, pernambuco, j maranham, + seconds i l-am se - all loolllabollolllll ||||| ||||||||| iiii lilleliconlll-- so----- పోత+ g- -.--* vcrco llaol orllloooooolllll iii -ooh mooool illl llllolllcovencallilliit £ iittati &iento coga . £ folz lllol pot, d appointments, promotions, &c. [aug. resignations and retirements. alex. macbean, ceylon reg. ceylon, lieut. col. brunt, f. feb. austen, j f. boyle, h. p. f. late of f. huskisson, ceyl. r. carter, h. p. f. major phillips, dr. sir t. hyde page, h. p. r. inv. eng. bou- capt. m.dowall, dr. g. logne, june, penrice, dr. lieut. buckeridge, roy. eng. gibraltar, erskine, f. g. april, lowrey, f. fortescue, late roy. vet. bn. mallow, lieut. norton, f. g. june d lt. & cor. elwood, d. g. parsons, h. p. f. adjut. monmouth mil sir f. vincent, bt. dr. monmouth, do talbot, dr. eyre, h. p. f. london, do jellis, roy. art. kingsley, h. p. f. london, march hosp. assist. w. d. watson. ens. montgomerie, f. ceylon. r. moir. christie, h. p. f. sept. cox, f. on board the ship st lawrence, deaths. july, lieut. gen. hatton, formerly of f. f. . qua.-mast. minor, h. p. dr. june, nicholson, east i. comp. serv. lon- johnston, h. p. dr. bolton, do. don, july, surg. keate, chelsea hospital. lieut. col. covell, h. p. dr. colchester, millet, h. p. watteville regt. in france, july, april, capt. mainwaring, f. bar.-mast. tait, bahamas. meteorological table, extracted from the register kept at edinburgh, the observatory, calton-hill. n.b.-the observations are made twice every day, at nine o'clock, forenoon, and four o'clock, after- noon.- the second observation in the afternoon, in the first column, is taken by the register thermometer. attach. ther. barom. ther. (wind. attach. ther. barom. ther. wind. july { a. july ery, att fair. / { . m. ) m. va. m. . m. ) e. sunshine, m. . m. dull, but a. cble. cold wind. . a. ) . a. warm. m. . ) m. dull, but m. chle. . m. fair. w. a. a. ditto . a. ) . a, m. . m. dull morn. { m. cble. . m. dull foren. a. cble. . a. ) sun. day. a. . a. sun aftern. m. m. sunsh.warm cble. m. . , m. ) a. foren.show. sw. . a. ) aftern. a. . a. m. . m. dull foren. cble. m. . m. a. . a. ) warm aftern. a. . a. ditto. { m. . m. cble. showery. m. . m. cble. showery a. . a. ) a. . a. m. . m. cble. ditto. m. . m. sunshine a. . a. ) a. w. . a. and warın. . m. cble. warm, with . m. a. showers. . a, sw. ditto. . a. m. . m. cble. warm, with . m. showeryand a. . a. sunshine. sw. . a. wam. . m. . m. cble. ditto. gw. show. with a. a. ) ua. . a. thun. &ligt. m. * m. e. dull morn. . m. a. . a. ) w. sun. aftern. a. . a. m. ) . m. cble. sunshine. m. . m. a. show. mor. a. ) w. a. . a. s m. dull morn. . m. fair, withn. ua. . a. sunsh. day. ua. . a. ) | w. sunshine. dull, with . m. a. . a. } a shower. ua. fair. m. . m. rain morn. cble. . m. ) sm. dull, with a. . a. fair day. a. . a. /w. showers. . a. dull dav, a. w. . m. cold aftern, average of rain, . inches. sm. va. m. / m. m. showery. . fair day: . m. w. . m. w. m. . . . a. }|sw. dull, bait m. m. a son. births, marriages, and deaths. births. . at stenton manse, mrs balfour graham, of june . at pisa, in italy, the right hon. lady - at bury-house, southampton, the lady of blantyre, of a daughter. major-general kenneth mackenzie, of a son. . at mormond-house, mrs gordou of cairn. . mrs horsburgh of lochmalony, of a son. bulg, of a son. - at seaton's inn, bridge of earn, mrs alex. . at putney, the lady of john paterson, esq. ballantyne, kelso, of a daughter. captain of the hon. east india company's ship . mrs sands, royal circus, of a son. repulse, of a son. . the lady of andrew spottiswoode, esq. bed- . at monreith, the lady of sir william max ford square, london, of a daughter. well of monreith, bart. of a still-born child. . at new street, canongate, mrs dun, of a july . at portsmouth, the right. hon. lady greenock, of a daughter. - mrs napier, albany street, of a son. . at irvine, the lady of a f. gray, esq. comp * . at stranraer, the lady of major-general troller of his majesty's customs, of a daughter. m'nair, c. b. of a daughter. - at rose bank, the lady of kenneth m-leay, . glenkindy, the lady of sir alexander leith, esq. of newmore, of a son. k.c. b. of a daughter. son. register.-deaths. [aug. aged . july . at lochgilphead, mr archibald munro, . at geanies-house, in ross-shire, james postmaster there, in the d year of his age, much crawfurd m' leod, younger of geanies. regretted. - prince maurice de broglie, bishop of ghent, - at perth, mrs jane stewart, relict of the after a long and painful malady. late lieutenant robert menzies of the late ross . at edinburgh, jane, infant daughter of shire highlanders. james wylie, esq. of annatfield, writer to the . at thornyflatts, ayrshire, major dugald signet. campbell, late of the , or gordon highlanders. - at rosefield-house, portobello, christian . at touch-house, after a short illness, the nicolson, daughter of mr william jameson, writer lady of sir henry steuart, bart. of allanton. to the signet. - at perth, mrs ann playfair, relict of the . at edinburgh, the infant son of john tawse, deceased mr thomas myles,' late merchant in esq. advocate. perth, aged . at dundee, william, second son of the . at portobello, of apoplexy, robert allison, rev. thomas barby, bendochy. esq. son of the late david allison, esq. one of the . at villa tanzi, near como, mrs oliphant, masters of the grammar school of glasgow. wife of lawrence oliphant of condie, esq. - at canaan, william wilson, esq. clerk to - at lausanne, switzerland, mrs kelso, lady the signet. of archibald kelso of sauchrie, esq. county of . Åt damhead, near edinburgh, mrs chris- ayr. tian anderson, eldest daughter of mr william - at dalhousie farm, mark john, second son moffat, farmer. of the right hon. lord robert ker, aged seven - at gloucester, miss helen colquhoun, fifth years and five months. daughter of the late right hon. 'archibald col - al seaside cottage, near aberdour, mrs quhoun, lord clerk register of scotland. moubray, widow of robert moubray, esq. coe . at havre-de-grace, in france, rear-admiral kairny, m. d. the hon. francis farington gardner. . at thannington place, vauxhall, frances, - at his house, in queen street, alexander d daughter of the late rev. frances stone, reen walker, esq. some time in the service of the ho tor of cold norton, essex. nourable east india company. . at mousewald manse, mrs janet richard- - at his father's house, clyde street, aged son, wife of the rev. jacob dickson. , john, youngest son of mr john dick, farrier. – at his house, in kirkcaldy, mr john bar- . at bangor, of hydrophobia, on his return ter, writer there. from the west indies, mr archibald, second son . at ), nicholson street, mrs lawson, of mr john m.laurin, clachan, lochfinehead. - at stepends of urr, joseph gass, esq. late at cheltenham, after an illness of two days, provost of dumfries. the dowager countess of jersey. - at london, william douglas of orchardton, at castle street, edinburgh, mrs elizabeth esq. gordon, wife of mr michael anderson, solicitor. . at leith, catherine, second daughter of . at her father's house, at canaan, near mr james black, merchant there. edinburgh, mrs barbara thomson, wife of ar- - at carlogie cottage, aberdeenshire, mrs thur pollock, esq. merchant, grangemouth. garden campbell of troup and glenlyon. latdy-at musselburgh, mrs allan, widow of . in the edinburgh royal infirmary, mr david allan, esq. historical painter, edinburgh. john berry, formerly of the theatre-royal, - at his apartments, in chelsea hospital, in edinburgh. his th year, thomas keate, esq. surgeon to - at brighton, william grant, esq. of con the establishment for upwards of years, aur- galton. geon to the king, and late surgeon-general to the - at edinburgh, mr william urquhart of the army. late firm of messrs walker and urquhart, general - at his seat, pinner-grove, middlesex, sir agents. f. milman, bart. m.d.f.r.s. aged . - at london, captain robert boyle, of the - at allonby, mary, the wife of mr samuel d (royal highland) regiment of foot. grave, aged . during the time the neighbours . at edinburgh, patrick m.dougal, esq. of were putting the body into the coffin, thomas sboroa. graves, the eldest son of the deceased also died, - mis elizabeth, relict of the late john m. aged : they were both buried in the same grave auley of leven grove, esq. dumbarton. at allonby chapel. - at hall, major john shedden, of the d - at fort wiliam, mr donald kennedy, at- regiment. a very advanced age. he was the person who set . at kelso, robert nichol, esq. of edin. fire to the king's brew-house, when the pretender bank, late merchant in kelso. was besieging fort william. - at thornton-house, of hooping cough, an - in campbell, county virginia, mr cha. drew william, infant son of colonel cunning. layne, sen. aged years, being born at albe hame, aged eight months. marle, near buckingham county, . he has - in london, sir watkin lewes, aged . left a widow, aged years, and a numerous and . at her house, spring gardens, stockbridge, respectable family, down to the fourth generation. miss ann yule, daughter of the late mr john he was a subject of four british sovereigns, and yule, merchant, leith. a citizen of the united states for nearly years; . at allan park, stirling, ann millar, spouse until within a few years, he enjoyed all his facul- to mr archibald sawers. ties, and excellent health. . at newtown, roxburghshire, mr andrew — at ashford, in the county of waterford, hunter, late merchant in leith. aged , anne bryan, leaving a posterity of . at edinburgh, mrs susan hamilton, relict persons, children, grand children, and great grand of patrick anderson, w.s. children. - at edinburgh, mrs isobel forsyth, wife of - at rose-hall, wm. munro, gardener there mr john young, candlemaker-row. since , when he was a married man with a . at dublin, lieutenant-colone! john camp- large family, and was, at least, years of age, bell, of the d royal veteran battalion. so that at the time of his death he could not have - at murraythwaite, dumfries-shire, mrs mur been under . he enjoyed all his faculties, and ray, relict of william murray, esq. of murray. could walk about till within a short period of his field. death. index to volume ix. age of, additional psalmody, some observations writings of pope, –remarks on a on the proposed, letter to, by john bull, adventures in havana, campaigns of the british army at wash. alleged decline of dramatic writing, remarks ington, review of a narrative of the, on the, caroline matilda, queen of denmark, af. anderson, samuel, esq. notice of his death, fecting account of the unhappy fate or annals of the parish ; or chronicle of dal. catullus, review of lamb's translation of, mailing, review of, apologie of the power and providence of cheetham library at manchester, remarks god, in the government of the world, &c. on the, review of, chinese embassy to the khan of the tour- appointments, promotions, &c. , , gouth tartars, narrative of the, , , christophe, king of hayti, on the charac- art, british, on the cultivation and patron ter of the late, /letter from to a british senator, attraction, adaptation, and variety, essay chronicle of dalmailing, the, review of, on the sentiments of, review of, classics, latin, translations from the less bacchus, or the pirates, a poem, familiar ones, , bankruptcies, british, monthly list of, , columbus secundus, voyages and travels of, , , , chapter i. _chap. ii. .—chap. biblical sketches, no. iv. the death of iii. meditations among the tombs, - absalom, _no. v. the olive bough, chap. iv. the cries of edinburgh, – ib—no. vi. hagar in the wilderness, chap. v. -chap. iv. being the chapter of accidents, billy blinn, commercial report, , , , , births, list of, , , , , buonaparte, napoleon, lines on death of, contributors to this magazine, a few words -stanzas on ditto, _remarks to the immense body of, on ditto, corn tables, , , , , bonar, james, esq. notice of his death, . darkness, the plague of ; a dramatic scene british art, letters on the cultivation and from exodus, patronage of, –letter first, ib-letter coronation, on the announcement of the second, death of absalom, the, , british army at washington, review of a deaths, lists of, , , , , narrative of the campaigns of, denmark, account of the unhappy fate of british eclogues, no. ii. the mariner's caroline matilda, queen of, last visit, doge of venice, a tragedy, review of, british gallery of pictures, remarks on the, dramatic writing, on the alleged decline of, + broken heart, the, duffle, thomas, royages and travels of ; browne, sir thomas, letter of, upon occa voyage first concluded, -voyage se- sion of an intimate friend's death, cond, bull, john, remarks on his letter to lord early affection, lines on, ' byron, elegy on a country maiden, budget, the fisherman's, no. i. _no. embalmer, the, no. i. ii. epitaphs, bye-past time, verses on, essay on the sentiments of attraction, byron, lord, review of his tragedy, the adaptation, and variety, review of, . doge of venice, —remarks on his extract from herodotus, letter to mr john murray, on the rev. fables from la fontaine, in english verse, w. l. bowles's strictures on the life and review of, index. and the young woman, —no. v. venice, the doge of, a tragedy, review of, voyage second concluded, —tale vii. the dumbie's son, –tale vision, the, by moonlight, viii. king charles and the witches, voyages and travels of thomas duffle. _-tale ix. the wraith, conclusion of voyage first, _voyage summer nights' reverie, second, _conclusion of voyage se- tenacity of natural affection, evinced in the cond, tale of vanderdecken, voyages aod travels of columbus secun- torgouth tartars, narrative of the chinese dus, chapter i. chapter ii. – embassy to the khan of the, chapter iii. _chapter iv. _ translations from the less familiar latin chapter v. _chapter vi. . classics, no. vi. —the martyrdom vulgar prejudices against literature, re- of st eulalie, ib. on a baptismal font, marks on, _no. vii. claudian, _on one washington, review of narrative of the bri- who had never left his home, _on tish campaigns at, the nuptials of honorius, wearyful woman, the, a tale, tree, the leafless, a poem, _notes to widow's cow, the, epistle first, willy herdman, the old soldier, turkish tale, a fragment of a, works preparing for publication, , twilight musings, , , , vanderdecken's message home, a tale, inder. index to births, marriages, and deaths. births. hogg, riddell, ewart, agnew, hood, robertson, , , fairlie, airley, hope, ib. ferguson, alston, hore, robinson, fitzclarence, anderson, , horsburgh, rose, fleming, auld, hume, sands, foggo, balfour, , hutchison, scott, , geddes, ballantyne, inglis, scotland, gibson, , barclay, inverarity, shand, gifford, bell, , jerdon, shairp, gilmour bethune, kattegherry, skene, , girdwood, blackburn, laidlaw, smith, gordon, blantyre, lang, speid, graham, bonar, lee, spence, grant, brewster, leith, spottiswoode, grey, brougham, limond, stewart, grierson, bruce, , lindsay, stuart, hardie, , ib. buchan, little, , tait, harrison, buchanan, lockhart, tawse, hay, , campbell, , , lothian, terrot, head, ib. low, thomson, , ib. hill, cathcart, lyon, ib. , ib. home, clark, macauley, tucker, hunter, cleghorn, macbean, wallas, jamieson, cook, m‘culloch, , watson, , johnston, corrie, macdonald, , ib. welsh, kennedy, coulson, , ib. wood, kirkpatrick, craig, macgregor, wyld, , logan, dalrymple, , mackie, w'ylie, lowe, , dempster, mackenzie, , wylly, m‘donald, douglas, , , younghusband, macdouall, dow, , m'lachlan, mackenzie, , dudgeon, m'leay, marriages. , dun, macleod, archbold, macintosh, , dunbar, m nair, archer, m‘laren, erskine, mansfield, armstrong, maclean, , farquharson, matheson, aylesford, macqueen, fleming, , maxwell, , , baird, maitland, forbes, beaumont, mardon, fordyce, , melville, bell, , , marjoribanks, forrester, menzies, bisset, maxwell, fraser, miller, borthwick, monteath, fulton, milner, brown, , monteith, gibson, mowbray, cadell, montgomery, gordon, , , murdoch, campbell, , morison, ib. ib. murray, capel, morton, graham, , napier, chermside, mower, grant, , paget, cheyne, munro, gray, , parker, clapperton, murray, , greenock, paterson, , cochrane, nicholson, guthrie, pearson, cowan, ormston, hamilton, , poulett, cox, panton, hawthorn, prager, cumin, paterson, heriot, ramsay, , , dartmouth, pegus, hewat, dick, percival, hill, reid, dimma, power, hogarth, renny, , douglas, ralston, vol. ix. Ꮞ f inder. , ib. oliver (aged ,) robb, stewart, , ib. veitch, robertson, , , , , , ib. wallace, orleans, wardlaw, osborne, ross, stivens, watson, , , oswald, , russell, stone, palmer, sandeman, , stothard, watt, pasley, , sandilands, stuart, , webster, pearson, scoti, , , suttie, willis, peat, sheffield, swan, willison, piozzi, simpson, , swayne, williamson, playfair, sinclair, swinton, wilson, , , plunkett, smith, , ib. sydserf, primrose, , smeddon, tainsh, wood, , , pringle, , ib. sommers, tait, , spence, tate, woodburn, pyper, spens, tawse, woodhouse, ramsay, stair, thomson, , , worth, raney, stalker, worcester, . ranken, stein, thynne, wylie, , read, stenhouse, , tullis, yule, richardson, stevenson, urquhart, | i h± -nvmlni princeton university v library / restored by the class of in memory of deceased classmates blackwood's magazine. vol. lxxxyi. july—december, . american edition—volume xlix. new york: published by leonard scott & co., ho. tvlton street, corner of goln. . it. craighean, printtl, slmotjrpo-,, „, elteuotyper, barton »uaninb, , , and ss court slrtel, n.y. blackwood's edinburgh magazine. no. dxxv. july, . vol. lxxxvi. lokn macaular ann the massacre of glencoe. oue last numher contained some remarks on the freedom of hand with which lord macaulay flings the darkest colours on his canvass, in his portrait of england's most famous whig general. by way of contrast rather than relief, wo propose in the following pages to show with how light a touch he can spread a spark- ling and transparent glaze over the most repulsive features of the great whig king. there is a popular superstition, that the hlood of a murdered man impresses an indelihle mark on the spot where it falls. the stains on the staircase at holyrood and the floor of the dressing-room at staun- ton harold, are still pointed out to hundreds of half helieving gazers. there is a moral truth at the foun- dation of this helief. the place in which a great crime has heen committed can never he seen or named without calling up the me- mory of that crime. the mean purposes to which they have heen applied caunot efface the asso- ciation which hinds the names of smithfield, and of the marketplace of rouen, up in our minds with the 'martyrs of religion and patriotism; and no time can discounect the name of glencoe from the memory of an outrage so revolting, that, after the xvi. \ lapse of a century and a half, the hlood curdles at it as if it were a deed of yesterday. tho story of the slaughter of m'lan of glencoe and his trihe, often as it has heen repeated, never palls in interest. it has lately heen told hy the greatest word-painter of the age, whose steps it would he pre- sumption to follow, and from whom quotation is supererogatory, as every one is familiar with his eloquent narrative. were that narrative as trustworthy as it is eloquent, we should only have the pleasant duty of joining in the general trihute of applause, instead of asking our readers to follow us tbrough the comparatively dry details which appear to us neces- sary to place the actors in that tra- gedy in their trne light. we have read lord macaulay's account of the massacre of glencoe over and over again, each time with increased admiration of the marvel- lous variety of his powers. the most skilful advocate never framed an argument so suhtle to avert pun- ishment from the guilty; no lahy- rinth constructed to conceal the evidence of crime, ever was so in- tricate, as the story which lord macaulay has woven to shield wil- liam from the ohloqny which at- taches to his name for his share in /i/ '.) s.- /c lord macaulay and the massacre of glencoe. [july, that dark transaction. the mind is insensihly drawn away from the issue; indiguation is aroused, to he directed successively at one suhordi- nate agent after another, until the great and principal offender has time to escape, and the full torrent of in- vective hursts on the guilty and miserahle head of one accomplice. the hrilliancy of the narrative reminds us of the startling effects 'of those scenic representations which have given a distinctive character to the adelphi theatre. at the end of the piece the demon stands con- fessed in the person of the master of stair; a thunderholt whizzes across the stage, and the monster falls in a hlaze of red fire; lord macaulay, in the garh of the muse of history, leads king william to the foot-lights to receive ahsolution at the hands of the pit, and we experience a confused sensation mixed up of bishop bur- nett and the flying dutchman, lord macaulay's hrilliant periods, madame celeste's more hrilliant eyes, her sil- very ringing voice, and her graceful figure most hewitchingly arrayed in the knickerhockers of vanderdecken. it is essential to a correct judg- ment upon the case to understand distinctly the relation in which the glencoe men stood to the govern- ment of william. the terms rehels, marauders, thieves, handitti, mur- derers, have heen so freely and so fraudulently used hy historians and political partisans, from the close of the seventeenth century down even to our own day, and such is the effect of positive, reckless, and often- repeated assertion, that some of our readers may he disposed to smile in- credulously when we state, as we do most positively, that none of these terms are justly applicahle to the macdonulds of glencoe at the time of the massacre. in tlie summer of , the war which was heing vigorously carried on in ireland was smouldering hut not extinguished in scotland. the clans remained faithful to james, hut a year had elapsed since they had made any overt demonstration in his favour. colonel hill, who com- manded william's garrison at inver- lochy, writing on the th of may , says, "the people hereahouts have rohhed none all this winter, hut have heen very peaceahle and civil."* on the d of june he writes to the earl of melville, "we are at present as peaceahle hereahouts as ever." t on the th of july the privy council report that "the higbland rehels have of late heen very peaceahle, acting no hostilities.'" % on the < of august, colonel hill writes from port-william to lord raith, "this acquaints your lordship that we are here still in the same peace- ahle condition that we have heen for more than a year past." § the chiefs, indeed, only awaited the arri- val of permission from st. germains to enahle them to lay down their arms without hlemish to their honour or taint upon their fidelity. on the th of june, a suspension of arms was agreed upon, and a truce was entered into in the following terms, hetween the commander of the forces of james, and the earl of breadalhene on hehalf of william :— "we, major-general buchan, briga- dier, und sir geo. barclay, general offi- cers of king james the seventh his forces within the kingdom of scotland, to testifie our aversion of shedding cbris- tian hlood, and y' we desigu to appear good scotsmen, and to wish y' this na- tion may he restored to its wonted and happy peace, doe agree and consent to a forehearance of all acts of hostilitie and depreda" to he committed upon the suhjects of this nation or england, un- til the first day of octoher next; pro- viding that there he no acts of hostility or depreda" committed upon any of the king's suhjects, who have heen or are ingaged in his service, under our com- mand, either hy sea or laud; we having given all necessary orders to such as ore under our command to forhear acts of hostility, hy sea or land, untill the aforsd tyme.—suhscrihed at achallader ys th'june . "whereas the chieftains of clans have given honds not to commit acts of hos- tility or depreda" hefore the first day of octoher next, upon the conditions con- , tnined in the afsd honds; und in regurd that the officers sent hy king .lames to command the h* chieftains have hy one. » hill to tarhat, higbland paper*, maitland club. f leven and melville papers, p. . x ihid. § ihid., p. . .] lord, macaulay and the massacre of gleneoe. unanimous consent in their council of war agreed to the s* forhearance: there- fore i, as having warrant from king "william and queen mary to treat with the foresaid higblanders concerning the peace of the kingdom, doe herehy cer- tify y* the s* officers and chieftains hire sigued a forhearance of acts of hostilitie and depreda* till the first of octoher next. wherefore it's most ne- cessary, just, and reasonahle, y' noe acts of hostility hy sea or land or depreda" he committed upon the td officers, or any of their party whom they doe com- mand, or upon the chieftains, or their kinsmen, friends, teunents, or followers, till the ford first day of octoher.—suh- scrihed at achallader the th day of june .—braidalhine."* this document is conclusive that those who were in arms for james in scotland were legitimate helli- gerents, enemies who might lawfully he shot down in hattle, hut who. might treat and he treated with, and who were entitled to all those rights which the laws of nations award to an enemy. the treaty of limerick was sigued on the d of octoher in, the same year. it will he admitted hy every one, that to have shot or hanged san-field as a rehel, wonld have heen an outrage as much on the laws of war as on those of humanity. it served the interests of those who desired to shield the perpetrators of an infamous crime from opprohrinm, to call macdonald of gleneoe a rehel. he was as much a rehel as sars- field was, and no more; in hoth cases the distinction is hroad and clear —so hroad and clear, that we should have supposed it impossihle for any one honestly to he hlind to it. nei- ther arsfield nor gleneoe had ever owned the authority of william. as long as james was in arms to defend his crown, as long as suhjects who had never owned any other allegiance flocked round his stan- dard, so long were those suhjects entitled to all the rights which the laws of war concede to enemies. cotemporaneonsly with the sigua- ture of the treaty we have referred to, negotiations for a permanent pa- cification were going on. colonel hill, in one of the letters we have already quoted, says, "the appin and gleneoe men have desired they may go in to my lord argyle, he- cause he is their superior, and i have set them a short day to do it in.''t the privy council in the next month report that the higblands had of late heen very peaceahle, that many had accepted the oath from colonel hill, "never to rise in arms against their majesties or the government,"} and that others were living quietly and peaceahly. we have heen thus precise in our statement of the position of the high- land adherents of james during the summer and autumn of for the purpose of showing, hy the heet pos- sihle testimony—that of the civil and military servants of william—that there was nothing to provoke or .ex- cuse any measure of severity; that the war, though not extinguished, was suspended, and that the conduct of the higblanders, considering the un- settled state of the country, was sin- gularly peaceful and orderly. immediately after the siguature of the treaty, the earl of breadal- hane invited the heads of the clans to a meeting at achallader, with the view of arranging a final cessa- tion of hostilities.§ amongst others, gleneoe was invited, and oheyed the summons. lord macaulay attempts with great ingenuity to depreciate the position held hy gleneoe amongst his hrother chiefs. it is true that the fighting men who owned his com- mand did not exceed one-fourth of the numher of those who, at the summons of the fiery cross, flocked together to ohey the hehests of lochiel or glengarry; hut he com- manded half as many as keppoch, and a numher equal to the haughty chief of barra, who hoasted that he was the fourteenth roderick m'neill • culloden paper*, p. . leven and melville paper*, p. , june . } ihid., july , . § achallader was a house of the earl of breadalhane, situate near the north- eastern end of i.och tullich, in the neighhourhood of the shooting-lodge of the present marquis, and of the famous deer forest of the black mount. it was on the opposite side of the lake to the present iun of inveroran, a place prohahly well known to many of our readers. lord macaulay and the mauacre of glencoe. [july, who liad reigued in uninterrupted succession from father to son over his island kingdom, and who handed down that patriarchal sway to our own time.* much of tho influence of glencoe was due to his personal character. "he was a person of great integrity, honour, good nature, and courage. he was strong, active, and of the largest size; much loved hy his neighhours, and hlameless in his con- duct."! such is the character of glencoe, drawn hy the hiographer of lochiel. it is hy no means improhahle, how- ever, that amongst the trihe of which he was the head there were some who felt little scruple in possessing themselves of the flocks and herds of hostile clans, and who, as lord macaulay remarks, as little thought themselves thieves for doing so as "the raleighs and drakes considered themselves thieves when they divided the cargoes of spanish galleons.''j feuds had heen of frequent occur- rence hetween the glencoe men and the neighhouring clansmen of bread- alhane. an ancient antipathy, deep- ened hy political differences, existed hetween the macdonalds and that hranch of the camphells. bread- alhane, either forgetful for the mo- ment of the important husiness he had in hand, or, which appears more proh ihle, desirous to pick a quarrel and prevent an amicahle settlement with one whom he hoped to he ahle to crush, if he could find a plausihle excuse for doing so, reproached glencoe "ahout some cows that the earl alleged were stolen from his men hy glencoe's men."§ glencoe left achallader in anger, as bread- alhane prohahly intended he should, and returned with his two sons to his patriarchal home. he knew the malice of breadnlhane; hut the truce was not to expire until octoher, and till then, at least, he and those for whose safety he was responsihle were secure. lord macaulay, with some philo- logical assumption, introduces his description of the glen hy telling his readers that "in the gaclic tongue 'glencoe' siguifies the glen of weep- ing." it siguifies no such thing. according to the simplest and most apparent derivation, it siguifies tho glen of the dogs, "con" heing the genitive plural of "cu," a dog. had lord macaulay's knowledge of gaclic heen sufficient to tell him this, he would prohahly have urged it as con- clusive proof of the estimation in which the inhahitants were held. but in fact the name siguifies no more than the valley of the coun or * the following document shows the proportionate strength of the clans at this time:— "we, lord james murray, pat. stewart of ballechan, sir john m'lean, sir donald m'donald, sir ewen cameron,glengarrie, benhecula, sir alexander m'lean appin, enveray, keppoch,glencoe,strowan, calochele.lieut.col. m'gregor, bara, larg, m'naughton, do herehy hind and ohlige ourselves, for his majesty's service, and our own safeties to meet at the day of sept. nexi, and hring along with us fencihle men, that is to say- lord james murray and } enveray, ballechan, keppooh, sir john m'lean, lient.-col. m'gregor,. sir donald m'donald, calochele, sir ewen cameron, . strowan, glengarrie, bara, benheeula, glencoe, sir alex. m'lean, m'naughton, appin, larg, . but in case any of the rehels shall assault or attack any of the ahove-named persons hetwixt the date hereof, and the first day of rendezvous, we do all solemnly promise to assist one another to the utmost of our power,—as witness these presents sigued hy us, at the castle of blair, the th aug. ." (here follow the siguatures.)— bkowne's history of the clans, vol. ii. p. . + memoirs of lochiel, . % vol. iii. p. . § see the very plain and simple account given in the depositions of john and alexander mtan, state trials, p. ; and lord macaulay's picturesque para- pbrase, vol. iv. p. . .] lord macaulay and the matxacre of glencoe. com,* that heing the name which the stream flowing tbrough it hears in common with many other rivers in scotland, derived either from the scotch fir, or from the common moss which covers the valley, hoth of which hear the name of " cona." the word which siguifies lamentation or weep- ing, is the unmanageahle compound of letters " caoidh," which prohahly wonld he quite as great an enigma to lord macaulay as the mystical m.o. a.i. was to malvolio. his picture of glencoe is painted with the historian's usual hrilliancy, and his asual fidelity. it hears the same relation to the place itself as mr. charles kean's scenery at the prin- cess's theatre does to harfleur, agin- court, or eastcheap. wo have seen the glen in the extremes of weather; we have heen drenched and scorched in it. we have wrung rivers out of our plaid, and we have knelt down to suck up tbrough parched lips the tiny rivulets that trickled over the rocks. we therefore consider ourselves enti- tled to criticise lord macaulay's de- scription. lord macaulay says: "in truth, that pass is the most dreary and melancholy of all scottish passes— the very valley of the shadow of death. mile after mile the traveller looks in vain for the smoke of one hut, for one human form wmpped in a plaid, and listens in vain for the hark of a shepherd's dog or the hleat of a lamh: the only sound that indicates life is the faint cry of a hird of prey from some storm- heaten piunacle of rock.'t the reader must not suppose that this exag- gerated description of the desolation of glencoe is without an ohject, or that it is due only to the pleasure which lord macaulay feels in soaring on the powerful wings of his imagi- nation. we shall presently see that in the most studied and ingenious mauner he seeks to diminish the feel- ing of sympathy for the macdonalds, hy showing that they were "han- ditti," "thieves," "rohhers," "free- hooters," " ruffians," " marauders who in any well-governed country would have heen hanged thirty years he- fore,"} and hy this means gradually to lead to the conclusion that it was the cruelty and treachery which accom- panied the execution of the order for their "extirpation" which constitutes the crime, and not the giving of the order itself. the macdonalds, he infers, mutt have heen thieves—honest men could not have existed in such a wilder- ness; and accordingly in the next page he says that "the wilderness itself was valued on account of the shelter which it afforded to the plunderer and his plunder." now, from the entrance to the glen down to its termination at the village of inverco is ahout six miles, and in this distance there is at least one farmhouse—if our memory serves us correctly, there are two, and several cottages; so that if lord macaulay looked in vain for the smoke of a hut, it must have heen hecause at that moment the fires were not lighted. as to not hearing the hark of a dog or the hleat of a lamh, at our last visit we were almost deafened hy hoth, for glencoe is a sheep-walk occupied hy that well- known sportsmun and agriculturist, mr. camphell of monzie, one of whose deer-forests it immediately adjoins, and who, on the occasion we refer to, was superintending in person the gathering of his flocks from the mountains, preparatory to starting for falkirk. at the lower end (the scene of the massacre) the glen ex- pands, and forms a considerahle plain of arahle and pasture land, where the reapers were husy gathering in the harvest in the fields round the vil- lage, which still stands surrounded hy flourishing trees on the same spot where it stood in , and where it is marked under the name of in- nercoan upon visscher's map of scot- land, puhlished at amsterdam in ,—pretty good proof that it was not then a very inconsiderahle place. a mile or two farther on, loch leven glittered in the setting sun, round the island hurial-place of the m'lans, where the murdered chieftain sleeps with his fathers. the chink of ham- mers sounded from the husy slate- see sir jonn sinclair's statistical account of scotland, vol . i. p. . f vol . iv. p. . % vol iv. p. . [july, lord macaulay and the manaere of gleneoe. quarries of mr. stewart of ballach- ulish, and in the distance the wood of lettermore (the scene of another foul outrage,) stretched forward to- ward the hroad waters of the liunhe loch. if lord macaulay had said that the pass of glenooe excels all others in scotland in stern heauty, he would, as far as our knowledge goes, have said what was perfectly correct; hut we know many passes far more "de- solate and melancholy," none grander, hut many "sadder" and "more awful." the pass from loch kishorn to applecross is more awful and more desolate; the head of loch torridon is more dreary ; and even glen rosa in arran is more destitute of the sigus of human hahitation. many others will occur to the mind of any one whose steps have wandered out of the heaten track of cockney tour- ists. such is gleneoe at the present day. it was descrihed not long after the massacre hy the author of the memoirs of sir emu cameron of lochiel in the following words :— "the country of gleneoe is, as it were, the mouth or inlet into lochaher from the south, and the inhahitants are the first we meet with that appeared unanimously for king james. they are separated from breadalhane on thesoutn hy a large desert, und from lochaher hy an arm of the sea on the north ; on the east and west it is covered hy high, rugged, and rocky mountains, al- most perpendicular, rising like a wall on each side of a heautiful valley, where the inhabitants reside,"'' just midway hetween the time of tho massacre and the present day, we have the testimony of another perfectly competent witness to its state. mrs. grant of laggan, at that time a girl of nineteen, was residing with her father, who was harrack- master at fort-augustus. she was distantly counected with the family of gleneoe, and the granddaughters of the chief himself of that day, who had heen carried off to the hills hy his nurse on the night of the mas- sacre, when he was an infant of two years old, had heen her schoolfellows. she writes in may , from fort- william, speaks of an invitation she had received from her schoolfellow to visit her at gleneoe, and then pro- ceeds as follows:— "gleneoe she has often descrihed to me as very singular in its appearance and situation ;—a glen so narrow, so warm, so fertile, so overhung hy mountains which seem to meet ahove you—with sides so sbruhhy and woody —the haunt of roes and numherless small hirds. "they told me it was unequalled for the chorus of 'wood-notes wild' that resounded from every side. the sea is so neur that its roar is heard and its productions ahound; it was always ac- counted (for its narrow hounds) a place of great plenty and security." f lord macaulay must have seen this description, for he alludes to the letter in a contemptuous note.j in which he says that mrs. grant's account of the massacre is "grossly incorrect,"§ and that she makes a mistake of two years as to the date. . mrs. grant's account of the massacre is just what we might expect from a girl deeply imhued with the ossianio furor, writing from tradition without even the pretenoe of historical accu- racy. it is curious, however, that lord macaulay imports into his history the most improhahle incident that she relates—namely, that "the hereditary hard of the trihe took his seat on a rock which overhung the place of slaughter, and poured forth a long lament over his murdered hretbren and his desolate home." mrs. grant's hard hears too evident a likeness to the gentleman of the same profession who sat "on a rock, whose haughty hrow frowns o'er old conway's foaming flood," and committed suicide in its "roar- ing tide," to he acknowledged as an historical personage. her mistake as to time, which lord macaulay condemns so harsbly, is a mistake of six weeks—not, as he asserts, of two years. she says the massacre took place during the festivities of christ- mas: it occurred, in fact, on the * memoirs of lochiel, maitland cluh, p. . -f letters from the mountains, vol. i. p. . x yol . iv. p. . § vol . iv. p. . .] lord. macaulay and the massacre of glencoe. th of fehruary. notwithstanding these inaccuracies, mrs. grant is a perfectly good witness as to what the state of the glen was in her time; and any one who visits it now, un- less he is a cockney hoxed up inside the "roh roy," somnolent from the effect of the coach diuner at tyn- drum, or unaccustomed potations of toddy at king's house, will see much to confirm the correctness of her de- scription. two mistakes we must guard him against. the site of the house of achtriaten, ahout half-way down the glen, is pointed out hy some as the scene of the massacre. achtriaten himself was murdered— not, however, in his own house, hut in that of his hrother at auchnaion.* others, hetter informed as to the localities, state that a ruined gahle, still standing, formed part of glencoe's house: it very possihly occupies the same site as the house of the chief, which was hurned on the night of the massacre; hut the date and mo- nogram, upon a stone inserted under one of the windows, show that it was prohahly the house of john macdon- ald, the eldest son and successor of the chief, rehuilt on his return to the glen after his father's murder. we copied the inscription faithfully, as it appeared in . we must now leave glencoe for the present in his mountain home, and breadalhane proceeding with his ne- gotiations with the other chiefs. an- other actor comes upon the stage— the master of stair—according to lord macaulay, "the most politic, the most eloquent, the most power- ful of scottish statesmen," " the ori- ginal author of the massacre," the "single mind" from whom all the "numerous instruments employed in the work of death," "directly or" indi- rectly, received their impulse," the "oneoffender who towered high ahove the crowd of offenders, pre-eminent in parts, knowledge, rank, and power;" the "one victim demanded hy justice in return for many victims immolated hy treachery."t such is lord ma- caulay's judgment. we are not ahout to dispute the justice of the sentence which consigus the master of stair to eternal execration; hut it is the duty of the historian to mete out with an unsparing hand the judgment of posterity to all; and it is not hy heaping upon one head the punishment due to many that the claims of justice are satisfied. it is difficult, in dealing with the memory of a man whose crimes ex- cite such just indiguation as do those committed hy the master of stair, to gird one's-self up to the duty of say- ing, that of part of that which he has heen charged with he was not guilty. black as he was, he was not so hlack as he has heen painted. lord macaulay dooms him from the first to he the demon of the piece. he is the iago of the tragedy, "more deep damned than prince lucifer," no "fiend in hell so ugly;" and ac- cordingly lord macaulay suppresses every particle of evidence which tends in the slightest degree to light- en the load of guilt. it is not plea- sant to discharge the duty of devil's advocate, hut we shall lay this evi- dence hefore the reader: when all is done, the master of stair will remain quite hlack enough to satisfy any moderate amateur of villains. lord macaulay introduces him to the reader in the following passage:— "the master of stair was one of the first men of his time, a jurist, a states- man, a fine scholar, an eloquent orator. his polished mauners ancl lively con- versation were the delight of aristocroti- cal societies; and none who met mm in such societies would have thought it pos- sihle that he could hear the chief part in any atrocious crime. his political prin- ciples were lax, yet not more lax than those of most scotch politicians of that age. cruelty had never heen imputed report, p. . f macadlay, vol iv. p. , , . s [july, lord macaulay and the massacre of qlencos. to him. those who most disliked him did him the justice to own that, where his schemes of policy were not concerned, he was a very good-natured man. there is not the slightest reason to helieve that he gained a single pound scots hy the act which has covered hi-, name with in- famy, he had no personal reason to wish the glencoe men ill. there had heen no feud hetween them and his family. his property lay in a district where their tartan was never seen. yet he hated them with a hatred as fierce and implac- ahle as if they had luid waste his fields, hurned his mansion, murdered his child in the cradle." . . .—{vol. iv. p. .) "he was well read in history, and douhtless knew how great rulers had, in his own and other countries, dealt with such handitti. he douhtless knew with what energy and what severity james the fifth had put down the moss-troop- ers of the border; how the chief of hen- derlaud had heen hung over the gate of the castle in which he had prepared a hanquet for the king: how john arm- strong and his thirty-six horsemen, when they came forth to welcome their sove- reign, had scarcely heen allowed time to say a single prayer hefore they were all tied up and turned off. nor prohahly was the secretary iguorant of the means hy which sixtus the fifth had cleared the ecclesiastical state of outlaws. the eulogists of that grcal pontiff tell us that there was one formidahle gang which could not he dislodged from a strong- hold among the apeunines. beasts of hurden were therefore loaded with poi- soned food and wine, and sent hy a road which ran close to the fastness. the rohhers sallied forth, seized the prey, feasted and died; and the pious old pope exulted greatly when he heard that the corpses of thirty ruffians, who had heen the terror of many peaceful villages, had heen found lying among the mules and packages. the plans of the master of stair were conceived in the spirit of james and of sixtus; and the rehellion of the mountaineers furnished what seemed to he an excellent opportunity for carrying those plans into effect. mere rehellion, indeed, he could have easily pardoned. on jacohites, as ja- cohites, he never showed any inclination to hear hard. he hated the higblanders, not as enemies of this or that dynastj', hut as enemies of law, of industry, and of trade. in his private correspondence he applied to them the short and terrihle form of words in which the implacahle roman pronounced the doom of car- thage. his project was no less than this, that the whole hill-country from sea to sea, and the neighhouring islands, should he wasted with fire and sword; that the camerons, the macleans, and all the hranches of the race of macdounkls, should he rooted out. he therefore looked with no friendly eye on schemes of reconciliation, and, while others were hoping that a little money would set everything right, hinted very intelligihly his opinion that whatever money was to he laid outon the clans would ho hest laid out in the form of hullets and hayonets. to the last moment he continued to flatter himself that the rehels would he ohstinate, and would thus furnish him with a plea for accomplishing that great social revolution on which his heart was set. the letter is still extant in which he directed the commander of the forces in scotland how to act, if the jacohite chiefs should not come in hefore the end of decemher. there is something strangely terrihle in the calmness and conciseness with which the instructions were given. 'your troops will destroy entirely the country of lochaher, locheil's lands, keppoch's, glengarry's, and gleneoe's. your power shall he large enough. i hope the sol- diers will not trouhle the government with prisoners."*—(vol. iv. p. .) " l is desigu was to hutcher the whole race of thieves—the whole damnahle race. such was the language in which his hnteed vented itself. he studied the geography of the wild country which surrounded glencoe, and made his arrangements with infernal skill. if possihle, the hlow must he quick, and crushing, and altogether unexpected. but if mac i an should apprehend danger, and should attempt to take refuge in the territories of his neighhours, he must find every road harred. the pass of raunoch must he secured. the laird of weems, who was powerful in strath tay, must he told that, if he * that the plan originally framed hy the master of stair was such as i have represented it, is clear from parts of his letters which are quoted in the report of w; and from his letters to brcadalhane of octoher , decemher , and decem- her , ltst. of these letters to breadalhane, the last two ore in dalrymple's appendix. the first is in the appendix to the first volume of mr. burton's valu- ahle history of scotland. "it appeared," says burnett (ii. ), "that a hlack desigu was laid, not only to cut off the men of glencoe, hut a great many more clans, reckoned to he in all ahove six thousand persons."—note hy lord macaulay. .] lord macaulay and the massacre of gleneoe. harhours the outlaws, he doos so at his peril . breadalhane promised to cut off the retreat of the fugitives on one side, maccullum more on another. it was fortunate, the secretary wrote, that it was winter. this was the time to maul the wretches. the nights were so long, the mountain-tops so cold and stormy, that even the hardiest men could not long hear exposure to the open air with- out a roof or a spark of fire. thnt the women and the children could find shelter in the desert was quite impos- sihle while he wrote thus, no thought that he was committing a great wicked- ness crossed his.mind. he was happy in the approhation of his own conscience. duty, justice, nay, charity and mercy, were the names under which he dis- guised his cruelty; nor is it hy any means improhahle* that the disguise im- posed upon himself"* much of this hrilliant passage is true. but we distinctly deny that the master of stair "looked with no friendly eye on schemes of reconcilia- tion." on the contrary, the cor- respondence which lord macaulay suppresses shows distinctly that for months the master of stair was most active and urgent in promoting schemes of reconciliation, hy negotia- tion, hy tbreats, hy money; and it was not until all these means had failed that he gave in to breadal- hane's "scheme for mauling them," —a scheme, which lord macaulay most unjustifiahly attrihutes not to the earl, to whom it helongs of right, hut to the master of stair,f who has quite enough to answer tor without hearing any share of other men's crimes. it was upon the failure of the negotiation that all the tiger hroke out in the disposition of the master of stair; it was then, and not till then, that he joined in the determina- tion to '• extirpate" (for such was the terrihle word selected for the order which william sigued and counter- sigued with his own hand) the whole clan of m'lan of glencoe. in june the master of stair was with william in the nether- lands; from thence he sent the follow- ing letter to the earl of breadalhane:— stair to lord brf.adai.hank. "from the camp at approhaix, "my lord,—i can say nothing to you, all things are as you wish, hut i do long to hear from yoo. bv the king's letter to the council you will see he has flopped all hostilities against the high- landers till he maif ltear from you, and that your time he elapsed without coming to some issue, which i do not apprehend, for there will come nothing to them. .... but if they will he mad, hefore lammas, they will repent it; for the army will he allowed to go into the higblands, which some thirst so much for, and the frigates will attack them; hut / have so much confidence in your conduct and capacity to let them see the ground they stand on, that i think these suppositions are vain. i have sent your instructions.—my dear lord, adieo."| on the th of august he writes again:— "ntkcour, aug. . o. s., w . "the more i do consider our affairs, i think it the more necessary that your lordship do with all diligence post from thence. § and that you write to the clans to meet you at edinhurg, to save your trouhle of going further. they have heen for some time excluded from that place, so they are fein, and will he fond to come there."[ stair to breadalhane. "durex, sept. l l, . "my lord,—i had yours from lon- don siguifying that you had not heen then despatched, for which i nm very uneasy. i spoke immediately to tlie king, that without money the high- landers would never do ; and there have heen so many difficulties in the matter, that a resolution to do, especially in money matters, would not satisfy. the king said they were not presently to receive it, which is true, hut that he had ordered it to he delivered out of his treasury, so they need not fear in the least performance; hesides, the paper heing sigued hy his majesty's hand for such sums so to he employed, or their equivalent there wants no endeavours to render you suspicious to the king, hut he asked what proof there was for the information and hid him tell you to go on in your husi- ness; the hest evidence of sincerity was the hringing that matter quickly to a conclusion. . . . i hope your lord- » vol. iv. p. . f ihid § i. e. from london. . dal. ap., pt. ii. p. . dal . ap., pt. ii. p. . [july, lord macaulay and the matsacre of gleneoe. ship will not only keep them from giving any offence, hut hring them to take the allegiance, which they ought to do very cheerfully ; for their lives and fortunes they have from their majchies."* stair to breadaluane. "london, nov. , . "my.lord,— . . . . i must say your cousin locheil hath not heen so wise as i thought him, not to mention grati- tude; tor truly, to gratify your rela- tive, / did comply to let his share he more than mis reasonahle. there were no pleas hetwixt him md argyle to he hought in, and i well know he, nor kep- poch, nor appin, caunot lie one night safe in winter from the garrison of fort- william. i douht not glengarry's house will he a helter mid-garrison hetwixt in- verness and inverlochy, than ever hi will he a good suhject to this government. . . "i'.s.—though locheil were as he should have heen, yet he must to the hargain dispone that moss that lies near- est to fort- william fur a place con- stantly to provide fewel to that garrison"^ it is impossihle to read these let- ters without perceiving the strong desire, on the part of the master of stair, that the higblands should he pacified, if possihle, hy means of negotiation. this desire comes out even more strongly in the next letter, mingled with feelings of hitter rexa- tion at the approaching failure of the plans, and threatenings of the storm which was ahout to hurst in conse- quence of his disappointment. staie to brkadalhane. "london, dec , . "my lord,—i shall not repeat my thoughts of your doited cousin.}; i perceive half-sense will play a douhle game, hut it requires solidity to em- hrace an opportunity, which to him will he lost for ever; and the garrison of inverlochv is little worth, if he can either sleep in his own hounds, or if ho ever he master there. i repent nothing of the plan lieutenant-colonel hamilton, deputy governor of inver- lochy, is a discreet man; you may make use of him. i should he glad to find, hefore you get any positive order, that your husiness is done, for shortly we will conclude a resolution for the winter campaigu. ... think the clan douell must he rooted out, and locheil. leave the m'lean's to argyle. but [for] this, leven and argyle's regiments, with two more, woald have heen gone to flan- ders. now, all stops, and no more money from england to entertain them. god knows whether the £ , ster- ling had heen hetter employed to settle the higblands, or to ravage them; hut since we will make them desperate, i think we should root them out hefore they can get that help they depend upon."§ even then the master of stair did not give up all hope. the following letter, written the very next day, contains so curious and valuahle a picture of his state of mind that we give it entire:— stair to breanalsane. u london, decemher , . "my lord,—the last post hrought datal letters from glengarry, or from his lady and rorry, upon a message glengarry had sent to him to edinhurg. this hath furnished him opportunity to discourse the king on all these matters. he tells me he hath vindicated you; only the share that the mncdonalds get is too little, and unequal to your good cousin's | (really that's true); and he would have the money given to glen- garry, and leave argyle and him to deal for the plea. he thought his shore had heen only £ sterling. i have satis- fied the king in these points, that his share is £i wi sterling, and that he nor none of them can get the money if argyle consent not; for that destroys all that is good in the settlement, which is to take away grounds of hereditary feuds. to he hrief, i'll assure you that i shall never consent anyhody's med- dling shall he so much regarded as to get any of your terms altered. by the next i expect to hear either that these people are come to your hand, or else your scheme formauling them; for it will not delay. on the next week the officers will he despatched from this, with in- structions to garrison invergarry, and buchan's regiment will join leven, which will he force enough; they will have petards and some caunon. i am not changed as to the expediency of doing things hy the easiest means and at leisure, hut the madness of these people, and their ungratefulness to you, makes me plainly see there is no reckoning on them: hut delenda est carthago. yet who have accepted, and do take the oaths, will he safe, hut deserve no kindness; ♦ dal. ap., pt. ii. p. . % locheil . § dal. ap., f dal. ap., ft ii. p. . pt. ii. p. h. i locheil . .] lord macaulay and the mauaere of gleneoe. and even in that case there must he hostages of their nearest relations, for there is no regarding men's words when their interest caunot ohlige. menzies, glengarry, and all of them have written letters and taken pains to make it he- lieved that all you did was for the inte- rest of king james. therefore look on, and you shall he satisfied of your revenge. —adien."* two things are clear from this cor- respondence,— st, that up to decemher the master of stair did everything in his power to promote a peaceahle and hloodless settlement with the high- land chieftains. d, that every step was commu- nicated to william, and that so far from having heen, as burnett and lord macaulay represent him,t indif- ferent and iguorant, he attended to all the miuntiae of the affair, down even to the distrihution of a small sum of money. strangely enough, the only two passages in these letters to which lord macaulay refers, are the scheme for " mauling,'' which he attrihutes to stair instead of to breadalhane,t and the " words in which the implaca- hle roman pronounced the doom of carthage,'"§ which he refers to without quoting the sentence in which they occur, and exactly reversing the meaning of the passage. the master of stair expresses regret that this must occur, hecause other means had failed ; and on account of the madness and ingratitude of the higblanders. lord macaulay cites it as a proof of his implacahle determination to de- stroy them. a reference to the letter shows at once the sense in which it is used. we know nothing even in lord macaulay'e history more unfair than the suppression of these letters, lord macanlay's knowledge of which is proved hy the two instances in which he misquotes them. we left m'lan at glencoe protected from the vindictiveness of breadal- hane hy the treaty of the th of june. in august a proclamation was issued hy the government, offering a free indemnity and pardon to all high- landers who had heen in arms, upon their coming in and taking the oath of allegiance hefore the st of january following.! breadalhane's negotiation failed, and he returned to court "to give an account of his dilieence and to hring hack the money.vt such is burnett's account, and this is a point upon which, from his counection with william, he was likely to he well in- formed, and (which is of quite equal importance) it is one as to which he does not appear to have ha any in- terest in misstating the facts. ahout the end of decemher, such are the words of the report, m'lan** presented himself hefore colonel hill at inverlochy, and desired that the oath of allegiance should he admi- nistered to him. hill appears to have considered that, as a military officer, he had no power to admi- nister the oath. he, however, urged his going without delay to sir colin camphell of ardkinlns, the sheriff-de- pute of argyle, at inverary, to whom he gave him a letter urging ardkin- lasto receive him "as a lost sheep.'ft m'lan hastened to inverary with all the speed that a country rough and destitute of roads and a tempestuous season would permit; he crossed loch leven within half a mile of his own house, hut did not even turn aside to visit it as he passed barcaldine, which appears then to have heen in the possession of breadalhane, he %% was seized upon hy captain drum- rnond (of whom we shall hear more presently), and detained twenty-four hours. he arrived at inverary on the d or d of january; hut here again luck was against him, for ardkinlas (detained hy the had weather) did not arrive until tbree days afterwards. on the th of january, anlkinlas, after some scruple, and upon the earnest solicitation of m'lan, admi- nistered the oath.§§ m'lan returned to glencoe, "called • dal. app., pt. ii. p. . f burnett, , . mac., vol. iv. p. . x the passage in the letter leaves no douht that the "scheme for mauling them" was breadalhane's; whether the hrutal expression was his or stair's is of little consequence. § vol. iv. p. . | report, p. . burnett, vol . iv. p. . ** report, p. . ft report xx report, p. . §§ report, p. . [july, lord macaulay and the massacre of gleneoe. his people together, told them that he had token the oath of allegiance and made his peace, and therefore desired and engaged them to live peaceahly under king william's go- vernment."* he considered that lie and his people were now safe. ard- kinlas forwarded a certificate that glencoo had taken the oath to edin- hurgh, written on the same paper with some certificates relating to other persons. when the paper was afterwards produced hy the clerk of the council, sir gilhert elliot, upon the occasion of the inquiry which took place some years afterwards, the part relating to glencoe was found scored tbrough and ohliterated, hut so nevertheless that it was still legi- hle. lord macaulay attrihutes this, as he attrihutes everything foul, to the master of stair. "by a dark intrigue," ho says, "of which the history is hut imperfectly known, hut which was in all prohahility directed hy the master of stair,- the evidence of m'lan's tardy suhmission was suppressed."t the circumstances are set forth in the report, and do not appear to us to he sbrouded in much mystery. ardkinlas forwarded to his namesake, colin camphell, the sheriff-clerk of argyle, who was in edinhurgh at the time, along with the certificates, hill's letter to him- self, urging that ho should receive "the lost sheep," and at the same time wrote how earnest glencoe was to take the oath of allegiance—that he had taken it on the th of january, hut that he (ardkinlas) was douhtful if the council would receive it.j the sheriff-clerk took the certificate to the clerks of the council, sir gilhert elliot and mr. david moncrieff, who refused to receive it hecause the oath was taken after the time had expired. the sheriff- clerk and a writer to the siguet, another camphell, then applied to lord aheruehill, also a camphell, who was a memher of the privy council, who, after ad- vising with some other privy coun- cillors, of whom, according to one ac- count. lord stair,§ the father of the master, was one, gave it as their opinion that the certificate could not ho received with safety to ardkinlas or advantage to glencoe, without a warrant from the king. it was therefore ohliterated, and in that condition given in to the clerk of the council. but it did not appear that the matter was hrought hefore the council, "that their pleasure might he known upon it, though it seemed to have heen intended hy ardkinlas, who hoth wrote himself and sent colonel bill's letter for to make glencoe's excuse, and desired ex- pressly to know the council's plea- sure."] there appears to he nothing to counect the master of stair, who was in london at the time, with this transaction; indeed, his letter of the • th of january, in which he says "that they havo had an account that glencoe had taken the oaths at inver- aray,'"t and regrets his heing safej; and that of the th, in which he says "that argyle told him glencoe had not taken the oaths,"** eeem conclusively to negative his having had any correct knowledge of what had taken place. iu the mean time, breadalhane, eager to satisfy old grudges, and the master of stair, in whose mind dis- appointment for the failure of his scheme seems to have awakened a feeling of ferocity, the intenseness of which appears hardly compatihle with sanity, had determined upon the destruction of the glencoe men. burnett states that the proposal for a military execution upon the glencoe men emanated from breadal- hane; that ho had the douhle view of gratifying his own revenge, and rendering the king hateful.ft if this were so, he certainly attained hoth ohjects. here, however, we find no * report, p. . f vol. iv. p. . % report, p. . § mr. burton, in his history of scotland, falls into a not uunatural hut rather important mistake, which he will no douht he glad to correct, hetween the father una eon, and states that the master of stair was consulted, ac. report, p. . f qal. red., pp. , . •* ihid \ burnett, vol. iv. p. . .] lord macaulay and the massacre of glencoe. guide whom we can safely follow, for burnett's narrative, written long after, and with the manifest desigu of excusing william, is full of in- nccuracies and false statements. we have, however, the fact as to which there can he no douht whatever, that the following order was sigued hv william on the th of january h :— "instructions fhom the king to colonel hill. m january, . "william r. — . the copy of that paper given hy macdonald of auirhtera to you hath been shown us. we did formerly grant passes to buchan and caunon, and we do authorise and allow yon to grant passes to them, and ten servants to each of them, to come freely and safely to leith; and from that to he tnusported to the netherlands hefore the th of march next; to go from thence when they please, without any stop or trouhle. " . we do allow you to receive the suhmissions of glengarry and those with him, upon their taking the oath of allegiance and delivering up the house of invergarry; to he safe as to their lives, hut as to their estates to depend upon our mercy. "in case you find the house of inver- garry caunot prohahly he taken in this season of the year, with the artillery and provisions you can hring there; in that case we leave it to your discretion to give glengarry the assurance of entire indemnity for life and fortune, upon delivering of the house and arms, and taking the oath of allegiance. in this you are to act as you find the circum- stances of the aifair to require; hut it were much hetter that those who have not taken the henefit of our indemnity, in the terms within the diet prefixt hy our proclamation, should he ohliged to render upon mercy. the taking the oath of allegiance is indispensahle, others having already taken it. " . ifm'ean of glenco and that tryhe can he well separated from the rest, it will he a proper vindication of the puh- lic justice to extirpate that sect of thieves. the douhle of these instruc- tions is only communicated to sir thomas livingston.—w. rex."* the advocates of william have framed various defences for this act. burnett says he sigued the order without inquiry.t lord macaulay sees, as every one must, that it is impossihle to support this in the face of the facts; he therefore takes the holder course, and justifies the order. he says that, "even on the supposition that he read the order to which he affixed his name, there seems to he no reason for llarning him" that the words of the order— "naturally hear a sense perfectly in- nocent, and would, hut for the horrihle event which followed, have heen univer- sally understood in that sense. it is undouhtedly one of the first duties of every government to extirpate gangs of thieves. this does not mean that every thief ought to he treacherously assassi- nated in his sleep, or even that every thief ought to he puhlicly executed after a fair trial, hut that every gang, as a gang, ought to he completely hroken up, and that whatever severity is indis- pensahly necessary for that end ought to he used. "if william had read and weighed the words which were suhmitted to him hy his secretary, he would prohahly have understood them to mean that glencoe was to he occupied hy troops; that resistance, if resistance were at- tempted, was to he put down with a strong hand; that severe punishment was to he inflicted on those leading mem- hers of the clan who could he proved to have heen guilty of great crimes; that some active young freehooters, who were more used to handle the hroadsword than the plough, and who did not seem likely to settle down into quiet lahour- ers, were to he sent to the army in the low countries; that others were to he transported to the american plantations; and that those macdonalds who were suffered to remain in their native val- ley were to he disarmed, and required to give hostages for good hehaviour.''^ we can hardly suppose that lord macaulay intended his readers to accept these transparent sophisms as his deliherate opinion. we sus- pect he is laughing in his sleeve at the credulity of the puhlic. the only charge against the macdonalds was that they had heen in arms against the government, and had omitted to take the oaths of allegiance he- fore a specified day. there was no question hefore william of any sup- pression of a "gang of freehooters." there was no accusation even of offences committed against life or culloden papers, p. . ] burnett, vol. iv. p. . j vol. iv. p. . [july, lord macaulay and the matsacre of gleneoe. v property. but supposing there had heefrsuch a charge—supposing that breadalhane had accnsed certain in- dividuals of the trihe of stealing his cows, or even of firing his house, does lord macaulay mean gravely to assert that such an accu- sation would have justified william, without inquiry or trial, in issuing an order for the "extirpation" of tbree hundred men, women, and children, simply for hearing the name and owning the hlood of the offenders. hardly a month passes without worse offences than any the glencoe men had ever heen accused of, he- ing committed at the present time in ireland. what would lord mac- aulay think of a government that proceeded to "extirpate " hy military exeention, without trial and without warning, all the inhahitants of the parish where a murder had heen com- mitted, with particular instructions that the squire of the parish and his sons should hy no means he allowed to escape? if the order is to he justified, as lord macaulay here attempts to jus- tify it, as an act of the civil power done in execution of "one of the first duties of every government," it should have heen preceded hy the trial and conviction of the offen- ders. it should have heen addressed not to the military governor of in- verlochy, hut to the lord advocate or the sheriff-depute of the county. the attempt to justify the order on the ground of its heing a civil act is therefore clearly untenahle; and - lord macaulay himself suhsequently ahandons it when he attempts to justify william for not inflicting punishment on the perpetrators of the act, on the ground that they were compelled to do it hy the mili- tary duty of ohedience to their su- perior officers. if the suhject was less horrihle, if the duties of an his- torian were less solemn, lord mac- aulay's attempt to introduce a new meaning for the word "extirpate" would he simply amusing. we are quite satisfied to ahide hy the au- thority of johnson and of old bailey the i^ijuaoyoj, who agree that it means to "root out," "to destroy;" and we have no douht william knew enough of english to attach the same meaning to the word. this order, it will he ohserved, is dated on the ih of january. few facts in history are proved hy hetter evidence than the fact (denied hoth hy burnett and lord maoaulay*) that william, at the time he sigued it, knew that m'lan had taken the oath. a reference to the master of stair's letters of the th of june, th of septemher, and d of decemher, will show how minute an attention was paid hy the king to all that was going on in scotland with relation to the clans. on the th of january, the master of stair wrote from lon- don, where he was in constant com- munication with william,—" we have an account that lockart and maenaughten, appin and glenco, took the henefit of the indemnity at inveraray;" and, he adds, "i have heen with the king; he says your instructions shall he despatched on monday .'"t when we couple these facts with the suhsequent impunity which william granted to all, and the rewards he hestowed upon some of those who executed the order, we think no reasonahle douht can he entertained that he knew hoth the fact that glencoe had taken the oath and the nature of the warrant he gave, though we do not think that he contemplated (indeed it was hard- ly possihle he should) the peculiar circumstances of treachery and har- harity which attended the exeention of the order. most of the accounts of these . transactions give only the conclud- // ing paragraph of the order. the whole of the document is material. it contains internal evidence which places it heyond douht that william had considered and approved of its contents. the particular directions as to the passes to he granted t» buchan and caunon, the instruc- tions as to the line to he pursued with regard to glengarry, hear the marks of having heen under his consideration; and it is particularly deserving of ohservation that it ia assumed that glengarry and the * bubnett, vol . iv. p. ; mac, vol. iv. p. . f ^"^ &*&t p- - . .] lord, mceaulay and the massacre of glencoe. macdonalds had not taken the oath, vet they were to he safe as to their lives, and in certain circumstances as to their property also, whilst glencoe and the m'lans were to he "extirpated." the only circum- stance to distinguish mucdonald of glengarry from macdonald of glencoe was, that the former was at this moment holding his castle in open and avowed defiance to the govern- ment, whilst the latter had taken the oath of allegiance, and had hrought his people into a state of peaceful suhmission to the government. yet lord macaulay thinks that there is "no reason for hlaming" the king for siguing an order to spure glen- garry and to "extirpate" glencoe, and that the order itself was " per- fectly iunocent." the master of stair lost no time in putting william's commands into execution. he forwarded the order forthwith in duplicate to living- stone, the commander of the forces, and to hill, the governor of the gar- rison of inverlochy; and he wrote on the th january, the very day on which the order was sigued, the fol- lowing letter to the former:— stair to livingstone. "london, jan. , . "sir,—by this flying packet i send you further instructions concerning the propositions hy glengarry; none know what they are hut only col. hill, <fee. . . . the king does not at all incline to receive any after the diet hut on mercy, <kc . . . but for a just example of ven- geance, i intreat that the thieving trihe of glenco may he rooted out in earnest. . . . let me know whether you would have me expede your commission as a hrigadier of the army in general, or if you would rather want it till the end of this expedition; that hope your success may he such as to incline the king to give you a further advancement," &e. he wrote on the same day to hill:— "i shall entreat you, that for a just vengeance and puhlic example the thieving trihe of glenco may he rooted out to purpose. the earls of argyle and breadalhane have promised they shall have no retreat in their hounds. the passes to raunoch would he secured, ac a party that may he posted in island stalker must cut them off," ac.# again on the th of january he wrote :—" . . . let it he secret and sudden. ... it mn he quietly done, otherwise they will make shift hoth for the men and their cattle. argyle's detachment lies in keppoch welit to assist the garrison to do all on a sudden."j other letters from the master of stair contain expressions even more savage. in one of them he informs livingstone with exultation that a report had reached him, tbrough argyle, that glencoe had not taken the oath; hut these which we have quoted refer immediately and ex- pressly to william's order for " extir- pation" of the th of january. hill was a time-serving hut not an inhuman man. he had kept in with every government since the commonwealth, hut he had no taste for uunecessary hloodshed, though he had not manliness or courage to oppose the slaughter. ready agents were, however, found in sir thomas livingstone, lieut.-col. hamilton, major duncanson, captain camphell of glenlyon, captain drummond, and the two lindsays. these names have heen handed down to an im- mortality of infamy, as the willing and remorseless tools of the king, of breadalhane, and the master of stair, in the work of runrder. on the d of january, immediately after the receipt of the master's letter of the th, sir thomas livingstone wrote to lieut.-col. hamilton as follows :— "edinhurgh, jan. , . sir,—since my last i understand that the laird of glenco, coming after the prefixt. time, was not admitted to take the oath, which is very good news to us here, heing that at court it is wished that he had not taken it—so that the very nest might he entirely routed out; for the secretary, in tbree of his last letters, has made mention of him, and it is known at court that he has not taken it. so, sir, here is a fair occasion to show you that your garrison serves for some use; and heing that the order is so positive from court to me not to spare higbland papers, maitland cluh, p. . in other copies these words are "in lettrickwheel." gal. red., . .report, , . [july, lord juacaulay and the massacre of glencoe. any of them that were not timeously come in, as you may see hy the orders i sent to your colonel, i desire you would hegin with glenco, and spare nothing of what helongs lo them ; hut do not trouhle the government with pri- soners. i shall expect with the first occasion to hear the progress you have made in this, and remain, sir, your ohe- dient servant, t. livingstone."* hamilton lost no timet camphell of gletdyon was selected for the ser- vice. on the st of fehruary he entered the glen with his two suh- alterns, lieutenant and ensigu lind- say, and one hundred tmd twenty men. the story of the massacre has heen told in eloquent prose and in impassioned verse, hut never, in our opinion, so vividly, so impressively, as in the words of the report of :— "the slaughter of the glenco men was in this manner; viz., john and alex- ander macdounld, sons to the deceased glenco, depone that, glengarry's house heing reduced, the forces were called hack to the south, and glenlyon, a cap- tain of the earl of argyle's regiment, with lieutenant lindsay and ensigu lindsay, and six-score soldiers, returned to glenco ahout the st of fehruary , where at their entry the elder hro- ther john met them, with ahout twenty men, and demanded the reason of their coming; and lieutenant lindsay showed him his orders for quartering there, un- der colonel hill's hand, and gave assur- ance that they were only come to quar- ter; whereupon they were hilleted in the country, and had free quarters and kind entertainment, living familiarly with the people until the th day of fehruary. and alexander further de- pones, that glenlyon, heing his wife's uncle, came almost every day and took his morning drink at his house; and that the very night hefore the slaughter, glenlyon did play at cards in his own quarters with hoth the hrothers. and john depones, that old glenco, his fa- ther, had invited glenlyon, lieutenant lindsay, and ensigu lindsay, to dine with him upon the very day the slaugh- ter happened." here we must hreak in upon the narrative, and show how this th of fehruary, which was passed hy glen- lyon in playing cards with the young macdonalds in his quarters, and re- ceiving invitations from their father, was employed hy hill, hamilton, and duncanson. this will appear from the following letters, all of which are dated on that day :— col. hill to lieut.col. hamilton. fokt-tvilliam, th feh., c . "sir,—you are, with four hundred of my regiment, and the four hundred of my lord argyle's regiment under the command of major duncanson, to march straight to glenco, and there put. in ex- ecution the orders you have received from the commander-in-chief. given under uiv hand at fort-william the th [feh.] . j. hill." lieet.-col. hamilton to major robt. duncanson. (?) t " ballichtlls, th feh., . "sir,—pursuant to the comrnander-in chief and my colonel's order to me, for putting in execution the king's com- mand against these rehels of glenco, wherein you, with the party of the earl of argyll's regiment under your com- mand, are to he concerned : you are, thercfore,forthwith to order your affairs so as that the several posts already as- sigued you he hy you and your several detachments fain in acliveness precisely hy five of the clock to-morrow morning, heing saturday; at which time i will endeavour the same with those ap- pointed from this regiment for the other places. it will he most necessary you secure well those avenues on the south side, that the old fox, nor none of his cuhs, get awaj\ the orders are, that none he spared of the sword, nor the government trouhled with prisoners; which is all until i see you, from, sir, your most humhle servant, "james hamilton. "please to order a guard to secure the ferry and hoats there; and the hoats must he all on this side the ferry after your men are over." major rohert duncanson to captain rohert camphell of glenlyone. <a feh. . "sir,—you are herehy ordered to fall upon the rehels, the macdonalds of * culloden papers, . f just one hundred years after these events, in , the opening of the roads and the estahlishment of posts are mentioned as having had so great an effect that "a letter might come from edinhurgh to appin in three days, or even two days and a-half."—sinclair's statistical account of the higblands, vol. i. p. . % "fort william" in other copies, and apparently correct. see the order in the p.s. to have the hoats on this side to prevent the escape of the victims. .] lord macavday and the massacre of qlencoe. glenco, and pnt all to the sword under •evenly. you are to have an especial tare that the old fox and his sons do not escape your hands; you are to secure all the avenues, that no man escape. this you are to put in execution at five of the clock percisely; and ' that time, or very shortly after it, i will strive to he at you with a stronger party. if i do nol come to you at five, you are not to tarry for me, hut to fall on. this is hy the king's special command, for the good and safety of the country, that these miscreants he cut off, root and hranch. see that this he put in execu- tion without fear or favour, or you may expect to he dealt with as one not true to king or government, nor a man fit to carry commission in the king's service. expecting you will not fail in the fulfilling hereof, as you love yourself —i suhscrihe this with my hand at ballychylls the ih feh. . "rohert duncansgs." we now return to the narrative of events in glencoe, and the mode in which glenlyon executed these orders. "but on the th day of fehruary, heing saturday, ahout four or five in the morning. lieutenant lindsay, with a party of the foresaid soldiers, came to old glenco's house, where, having called in a friendly mauner, and got in, they shot his father dead, with several shots, as he was rising out of his hed; and their mother having got up and put on her clothes, the soldiers stripped her naked, and drew the rings off her fin- gers with their teeth; as likewise they killed one man more, and wounded an- other grievously at the same place. and this relation they say they had from their mother, and is confirmed hy the deposition of archihald macdonald, indweller in glenco, who further de- pones that glenco was shot hehind his hack with two shots—one tbrough the head, and another tbrough the hody; and two more were killed with him in that place, and a third wounded and left for dead: and this he knows, hecause he came that same day to glenco house, and saw his dead hody lying hefore the door,with the other two that were killed, and spoke with the third that was wounded, whose name was duncan don, who came there occasionally with letters from the brac of mar. . . . ''the said john macdonald, eldest son to the deceased glenco, depones: the same morning that his father was killed there came soldiers to his house hefore day, and called at his window, which gave him the alarm, and made him go to tol. lxxxvl iunerrifgen, where glenlyon was quar- tered; and that he found glenlyon and his men preparing their arms, which made the deponent ask the cause; hut glenlyon gave him only good words, and said they were to march against some of glengarrie's men; and if they were ill intended, would he not have told sand v and his niece?—meaning the deponent hrother and his wife—which made the deponent go home and go again to his hed, until his servant, who hindered him to sleep, roused him; and when he rose and went out, he perceived ahout twenty men coming towards his house, with their hayonets fixed to their muskets; whereupon he fled to the hill, and having auchnaion, a little villnge in glenco, in view, he heard the shots wherewith auchintrinten and four more were killed; and that he heard alscthe shots at lunerriggen, where glerrlyon had caused to kill nine more, as shall he hereafter declared; and this is confirmed hy the concurring deposition of alex- undermacdonald.his hrother,whoni a ser- vant waked out of sleep, sayrng, it s no time for you to he sleeping when they are killing your hrother at the door; which made alexander to flee with his hrother to the hill, where hoth ot them heard the foresaid shots at auchnaion and ln- nerriggen. and the said john, alex- ander, and archihald macdonald, do all depone, that the same morning there was one serjeant barher with a party at auchnaion, and that auchintriaten he- ing there in his hrother's house, with eight more sitting ahout the fire, the soldiers discharged upon trrem ahout eighteen shots, which killed auchintri- aten and four more; hut the other four, whereof some were wounded, falling down as dead, serjeant barher laid hold of auchintriaten's hrother, one of the four, and asked him if he were alive i he answered that he was, and that he desired to die without rather than within. barher said, that for his meat that he had eaten, he would do him the favour to kill him without; hut when the man was hrought out, and soldiers hrought up to shoot him, he having his plaid loose, flung it over their faces, and so escaped; and the other tbree hroke tbrough the hack of the house and escaped. and at lunerriggen, where glenlyon was quartered, the- soldiers took other nine men, and did hind them hand and foot, and killed them one hy one with shot; and when glenlyon in- clined to save a young man of ahout twenty years of age, one captain drum- mond came and asked how he came to he saved, in respect of the orders that were [july, lord macaulay and the massacre of glencoe. given, and shot him dead. and another young hoy, of ahout thirteen years, ran to glenlyon to he saved; he was like- wise shot dead. and in the same town there was a woman, and a hoy ahout four or five years of age, killed. and at auehnaiou there was also a child missed, and nothing found of him hut the hand. there were likewise several killed at other places, whereof one was an old man ahout eighty years of age. and all this, the deponents say, they aifirm, hecause they heard the shot, saw the dead hodies, and had an account from the women that were left. and ronald macdonald, indweller in glenco, farther depones,—that he heing living with his father in a little town in glenco, some of glenlyon's soldiers came to his father's house, the said th day of feh- ruary, in the morning, and dragged his father out of his hed, and knocked him down for dead at the door; which the deponent seeing, made his escape; and his father recovering after the soldiers were gone, got into another house; hut this house was shortly hurnt, and his father hurnt in it; and the deponent came there after and gathered his father's hones and huried them. he also de- clares, that at auchnaion, where auch- intriaten was killed, he saw the hody of auchintriaten and tbree more cast out and covered with dung. and another witness of the same declares, that upon the same i th day of fehruary, glen- lyon and lieutenant lindsay, and their soldiers, did, in the morning hefore day, fall upon the people of gleneo, when they were secure in their heds, and killed them; and he heing at iunerriggen, fled with the first, hut heard shots, and had two hrothers killed there, with tbree men more and a woman, who were all huried hefore he came hack. and all these five witnesses concur, that the aforesaid slaughter was made hy glen- lyon and his soldiers, after they had heen quartered, and lived peaceahly and friendly with the glenco men ahout thirteen days, and that the numher of those whom they knew to he slain were ahout tweuty-tive, and that the soldiers, after the slaughter, did hurn the houses, harns, and goods, and carried away a great spoil of horse, nolt, and sheep, ahove . and james camphell, sol- dier in the castle of stirling, depones, that in january , he then heing a soldier in glenlyon's company, marched with, the company from inverlochie to glenco, where the company was quar- tered, and very kindly entertained for the space of fourteen days; that he knew nothing of the desigu of killing the glenco men till the morning that the slaughter was committed, at which time glenlyon and captain drummond's com- panies were drawn out in several parties, and got orders from glenlyon and their other officers to shoot and kill all the countrymen they met with; and that the deponent, heing one of the party which was at the town where glen you had his quarters, did see several men drawn out of their heds, and particularly he did see glenlyon's own landlord shot hy his order, and n young hoy nhout twelve years of oge, who endeavoured to save himself hy taking hold of glenlyon. offering to go anywhere with him if he would spare his life; and was shot dead hy captain drummond's order. and the deponent did see ahout eight persons killed, and several houses burnt, and women flying to the hills to save their lives. and lastly, sir colin camphell of aheruchil depones, .that after tinr slaughter, glenlyon told him that mac- donald of iunerriggen was killed with the rest of the glenco men, with colonel hill's pass or protection in his pocket, which a soldier hrought and showed to glenlyon." some circumstances still remain strangely ohscure. we have heen un- ahle to discover whether the clan gave up their arms when they made their suhmission to the government. it is difficult to suppose that a fact which would add so greatly to the atrocity of the deed should have heen passed over uunoticed; yet it is equally difficult to suppose that a hody of from fifty to a hundred men, trained to arms, should have per- mitted themselves, their wives, and children, to he hutchered without striking a single hlow in their de- fence; and unequal as the numhers were, and sudden as was the attack, it can hardly he supposed that such defence would have heen wholly with- out effect. another point which has never heen cleared up, relates to the plunder of the glen hy the troops. the soldiers of 'william, who, according to lord macaulay, wero executing justice upon thieves and marauders, did not content themselves with murder, hut added the crimes of rohhery and arson. the flocks und herds, the only movahles of value, were swept away, and all that could not he re- moved was rutblessly hurned. the plunder was considerahle—ahove a .] lord macaulay and the massacre of glencoe. thousand head of cattle, horses, and sheep rewarded the murderers. of this they appear to have retained quiet possession; at least we can nowhere trace any act of restitution. the parliament of scotland ad- dressed the king, recommending that some reparation might he made to the survivors of the massacre for their losses, and " such orders given for supplying their necessities as his majesty should think fit." william was deaf to their prayer. the only effect was the remission of a cess which had heen imposed upon the valley, and which they appear to have heen utterly unahle to pay.* such is the story of the massacre of glencoe. lord macaulay ohserves —" it may he thought strange that these events should not have heen followed hy a hurst of execration from every part of the civilised world.'"t it would have heen strange indeed had they passed uunoticed. official puhlication in england was of course suppressed. the london gazettes, the montbly mercuries, and the licensed pampblets were silent. bat the pans gazette of the th april , under date of the d march (less than six weeks after the event), has the following aunounce- ment :— "d'edimhocrg, mars, . "le laird deglenoow aesto massacre depnis quelques jours, de la maniere la plus harhare, qnoy qu'il se fust smlmis an goneerwnent present. le laird de glenlion,cnpitaine dans le regiment d'ar- gvle, suivant l'ordre exprers du colonel hill, goaverneur d'lnverloeliie, se trans- port* la nuit a glencow, avee on corps de troupes; et les soldats estant entrez dans lea maisons, tuerent lu laird de glencow, deux de ses fils, trente six homtnes ou eufans et quntre fetnmes. "lis avoient resolu d'exterminer ainei le reste des hahitant, nonohstant vam- nestic qui leur avoit este avcordie: mais environ denx cents se sanvereut. on fait courir le hruit qu'il a este tue dans une emhuscade les armes a la main, pour diminuer d'horreur dune action si har- hare, capahle de faire counoistre a toute la nation, le peu de surety qu'il y a dans les paroles de cuixqui gouverne- ment."j this account, it s true, contains few particular». it is silent as to the peculiar treachery of glenlyon; hut it states the slaughter of peace- ful men, women, and children, in violation of an amnesty. how lord macaulay, who refers to this passage, can state that "in this there was nothing very strange or shocking,'! we confess ourselves wholly unahle to understand. if murder committed in violation of pledged faith is not shocking, we should he glad to know what is. a detailed and very accurate account, entitled "a letter from a gentleman in scotland to his friend in london, &c," dated april th, , next appeared. lord macaulay intimates his opinion that this letter was not puhlished until the follow- ing year, and reminds his readers that "the date of was at that time used down to the th march . but lord macaulay has failed to ohserve that the date of the letter is april, and april was always april . it is no douht difficult to fix the precise date—great ohstacles were tbrown in the way of puhlication. but the contents of the letter were certainly known in london hefore june , for in that month charles leslie, the writer of the gallienus sedivivus, went in consequence of this letter to brentford, where glen- lyon and drummond, with the rest of lord argyle's regiment, were quarter- ed, and there heard the account of the massacre from the soldiers who had heen actors in it, one of whom said, "glencoe hangs ahout glenlyon night and day; you may see mm in his- it is strango that lord macaulay, who is not scrupulous as to the sa- crifices he makes for the sake of the picturesque, should have lost the poetry of this passage hy using a douhtful term, suhstituting a place for a person, and a prosaic parapbrase for the simple words and poetical imagination of the higblander who • highland papers. mait. cl . f vol . iv. p. . % paris gazette, avril . § vol. iv. p. . j gal. red, p. . [july, lord macaulay and the massacre of glencoe. saw the image of the murdered man reflected in the face of his murderer.* the gallienus beditivus, which, lord macaulay saye, "speedily fol- lowed," did not uppear until after the execution of the commission in . lord macaulay hestows a note t upon the singular name of this pampblet, which deserves a passing notice, as it hetrays the care with which he has availed himself of every opportunity to divert indiguation from william to the master of stair. he says,j "an unlearned or even a learned reader may he at a loss to guess why the jacohites should have selected so strange a title for a pampblet on the massacre of glen- coe." the reader, learned or un- learned, who found himself at any loss in the matter, must he singularly stupid, inasmuch as the reason is fully stated at page of the pampblet, where a parallel is drawn hetween william and the emperor gallienus, and a comparison insti- tuted hetween the "extirpation" order of the former, and a letter of the emperor to venianus. this letter, which the writer of the pampblet quotes, and which gihhon descrihes as "a most savage mandate from gallienus to one of his minis- ters after the suppression of ingen- uns, who had assumed the purple in illyriium," § concludes with the following words—" language to which" (says lord macaulay) "that of the master of stair lore hut too much resemhlance: "—" perimendns est omnia sexus virilis. occidendus estquicunque maledixit. occidendus est quicunque male voluit. lnce- ra, occide, concide: animwn meum intelligere potes, mea mente iraseere qui hme manu mea scripsi." lord macaulay, quoting the passage which is given entire in the gallienusredi- vivus, omits the words which we have put in italics, which contain the sting, from their similarity to the facts of william having sigued the "extir- pation" order with his own hand. an- other point of similarity consisted in the filial impiety of william and mary. "whilst roine lumented the fate of her sovereigu (says gihhon), the sav- age coldness of his son was extolled hy the servile courtiers as the per- fect firmness of a hero and a stoic.''| lord macaulay suhstitntes the mas- ter of stair for william, and his letters for the "extirpation" order, and garhles the quotation to make it fit. in dealing with a hook which is in the hands of so few as the gal- lienus redicivus, this is hardly fair. we owe the knowledge we derive of the massacre from the evidence taken hefore the commission to a fortunate comhination of circum- stances. the excitement of puhlic feeling rendered it impossihle for william to resist the demand for inquiry, and the jealousy of johnston made that inquiry searching and complete, with the view of destroying his colleague, the master of stair. we agree with lord macaulay, that the report of the commission is an "excellent di- gest of evidence."! the character of "austerejustice," which he claims for it, we wholly deny. "the conclu- sion," says lord macaulay, "to which the commission came, and in which every intelligent and candid inquirer will concur, was that the slaughter of glencoe was a harharous murder, and that of this harlarous murder the letters of the master of stair were the sole warrant and cause." ** at the risk of having our intelligence or our candour denied hy lord macaulay, we are compelled to dissent from the latter portion of this judgment. admitting in its full extent the atrocity of these letters, they formed, in our opinion, hut a small and secondary part of the cause of the slaughter. there was another greater than stair, or than breadal- hane, who must, according to the * lord macaulay's words are as follows: "some of his soldiers, however, who ohserved him closely, whispered that all this hravery was put on. he was not the man that he hud heen hefore that night. the form of his countenance was changed. in all places, at all hours, whether he waked or slept, glencoe was for evtr hefore hin."—vol. iv. p. . isee note, p. . % vol. iv. p. . § gibhon, decline and fall, vol. i. p. . gibhon, vol. i. p. . *i[ vol . iv. p. . ** vol. iv. p. . .] lord macaulay and the massacre of glencoe. "austere justice" of history, share the responsihility of this great crime with them. lord macaulay mis- leads his readers, and ohscures the question, hy treating the slaughter, when it suits his purpose, as the exercise of a wild and irregular jus- tice against a hand of murderers and freehooters. to prepare the mind of the reader, he evokes from past centuries horrihle tales of outrages committed hy the tenth cousins of the great- grandfathers of the mao- donalds of glencoe on the people of culloden. hy the inhahitants of eig on the macleods, and hy the mac- leods again on the people of eig. he narrates a story, unsupported hy a single tittle of evidence, of m'lan having at some former period exe- cuted with his own hand tlie wild justice of the trihe on a memher of his own clan.* he likens the mac- donalds to the mosstroopers of tlie border and the handitti of the apen- nines, and descrihes them as "ma- rauders who, in any well-governed country, would have heen hanjed thirty years hefore."f lord macaulay is an accomplished advocate, and is will aware of the effect that declama- tion of this kind will produce on the minds of nine out of ten of his readers. the tenth man knows that he has the testimony of colonel hill to the quiet, peaceahle, and honest demeanour of the macdonalds, and the conclusive fact, that during the whole of the inquiry, though ahundance of hard language was used, there was no attempt to hring even a single charge of any offence what- ever ugainst the macdonalda. this puts an end at once to any defence of william's "extirpation" order, grounded on the supposition of its heing directed against civil offenders. we may therefore confine our atten- tion to the inquiry into how far it was justified, and who was respon- sihle for it as a military act. the parliament of scotland found the slaughter to he murder, and demanded that glenlyon, drain- wad, the lyndsays, and sergeant barher should ho sent home to he prosecuted for the crime of murder under trust. lord macaulay says that the parliament was here severe in the wrong place; j that the crimes of these men, horrihle as they were, were nevertheless not the fit- ting suhject of punishment, inasmuch as each was compelled to act as he- had done hy the suhordination ne- cessary in un army. lord macaulay runs up the ladder of responsihility from the sergeant to the ensigu, and so on up to glenlyon, and from him to his colonel, hamilton; hut he ap- pears not to he aware to what this argument necessarily leads. if glen- lyon was justified hy the order of hamilton, hamilton was in like mauner justified hy the order of livingstone. thus we reach the com- mander-in-chief. does the responsi- hility rest there? if it did, loud would have heen the cry of vengeance for iunocent hlood; yet the scottish parliament acquitted livingstone, and lord macaulay passes him over un- noticed. that the slaughter in glen- coe was a harherous murder, mur- der under trust, the foulest and highest degree of crime, all are agreed. we have traced the responsi- hility up to the commander-in-chief; who was his superior? not the master of stair. the secretary of state for scotl ,nd has no authority in military matters over the com- mander-in-chief, except so far as he is the mouthpiece of the king. liv- ingstone derived his orders direct from william. if he exceeded those or- ders, the hlood-guiltiness rests on his head. it is of no avail for him to say, "i oheyed the master of stair," unless the master of stair spoke and wrote as the agent of the king; and if he did his orders were william's orders. the parliament of scotland voted that the order sigued hy wil- liam did not authorise the slaughter of glencoe. if johnson's dictionary had heen in existence, and if they had consulted it to discover the meaning of the king's words they would have found that his desigu * this story was first told hy dalrymple in . there is no trace whatever of it to he discovered in the ootemporary proceedings, where, no douht, it would have heen found, had there heen even the slightest foundation for it. f vol. iv. p. . • % vol. iv. p. . [july, lord macaulay and the massacre of glencoe. was to "root out, to eradicate, to exscind, to destroy," and the follow- ing example given: "we in vain endeavour to drive the wolf from our own to another's door; the hreed ought to he kxtripated out of the island."* it would he difficult to point out any passage in the mas- ter of stair's letters which exceeds this. inhuman as they are, they add nothing to the plain and simple words of the order. the execution certainly fell far short. instead of "extirpation," not more than ahout one tenth part of the clan was de- stroyed. ijere, then, following out lord macaulay's own principle—the principle known to the law as "re- spondeat superior" — the responsi- hility rests with william. the only esoape is the one suggested hy burnett, namely, that william affixed his siguature to a paper, presented to him hy stair and breadalhane, in iguorance of its contents. we have already shown how entirely this hypothesis is unsupported hy evi- dence, how strong the presumptions are against it. but there remains one piece of evidence, which to our minds is conclusive. had william heen thus entrapped, how terrihle would have heen his wrath when he discovered tho crime to which he had heen unwittingly made a party! how sigual his vengeance on the traitors stair and brendalhane instead of this, we find that, when he was ohliged to dismiss stair from office in compliance with puhlic opinion and the intrigues of his colleagues, instead of handing him over to justice, consiguing him to the trial, the con- viction, and the death of shame, which he most unquestionahly would have deserved, he grants him full pardon, immunity, and protection for all his acts, and especially for his share in the slaughter of tho men of glencoe. we are not aware that the follow- ing document has heen cited in any history of the massacre: to us it appears conclusive of the original participation of william in that great crime:— "scroll of discharge to john vlscolst stair. "bis majesty, considering that john viscount of stair hath heen employed in his majesty's service for many years, and in several capacities, first as his majesty's advocate, and thereafter as secretary of state, in which eminent employments persons are in danger, either by exceed- ing or coming short of their duty, to full under the severities of law, and hecome obuoxious to prosecutions or trouhle therefor; and his majesty heing well satisfied that the said viscount of stair hath rendered him many faithful services, and heing well assured of his affection and good intentions, and heing graciously pleased to pardon, cover, and secure him now after the demission of his office, and that he is divested of puhlic employment, from all questions, prose- cutions, and trouhle whatsoever; and particularly his majesty, considering that the mauner of execution of the men of glenco was contrary to the laws of humanity and hospitality,'heing done hy those soldiers who for some days he- fore had heen quartered amongst them and entertained hy them, which was a fault in the actors, or those who gave the immediate orders on the place. but that the said viscount of stair, then secretary of state, heing at london, many hundred miles distant, he could have no knowledge of nor accession to the method of that execution; and his majesty heing willing to pardon, forgive, and remit any excess of zeal or going heyond his instructions hy the said john viscount of stair, and that he had e• hand in the harharous mauner of execu- tion; therefore his majesty ordains a letter of remission to he made, and passed his great seal of his majesty's antient kingdom, ac, and particularly any excess, crime, or fault done or com- mitted hy the said john viscount of stair in that matter of glenco, and doth exoner, discharge, pardon, indem- nify, and remit the said john viscount of stair, ac."f it is to he ohserved that the very gentle censure contained in this docu- ment is confined entirely to "the mauner of execution.'' the king shows no disapproval whatever either of the order—his siguature to which, burnett says, was ohtained hy thee fraud of stair—or of those letters * locki. f papers illustrative of the higblands of scotland, maitland cluh. .] lord macaulay and the matoacre of qlencoe. which lord macaulay asserts to have heen the " sole warrant and cause of this harharous murder." if anything were wanting to prove without a pos- sihility of douht the king's participa- tion in the crime, it would he supplied hy the fact that this "scroll of dis- charge" is immediately followed hy a grant from william of the teind duties and others of the regality of glenluce, as a "mark of his favour to john vis- count stair." none of the actors in the transac- tion, so far as we are aware, incurred any marks of the displeasure of the king. they appear to have had prosperous lives: colonel hill he- comes sir john; glenlyon, when he reappears on the page of history, is a colonel; livingstone hecomes lord teviot.* the master of stair, though withdrawn for a time from active em- ployment, in ohedience to the voice of the parliament and puhlic opinion, was, as we have seen, rewarded hy "william, and not many years after- wards reappears an earl instead of a viscount. we do not think that it is a task of any great difficulty to measure out the degree of responsihility which fairly attaches to each of the actors in thin horrihle tragedy. first to our minds comes the king. he had not the excuse, poor as it may he, that he was urged on hy personal wrong and animosity, l'ke breadal- hane; or hy chagrin and disappoint- ment at the failure of a favourite scheme, like the master of stair. we caunot douht that william's siguature was affixed to the order with full knowledge of the facts, and that his intention was to strike terror into the higblanders hy the "extirpation" of a clan too weak to offer any formida- hle resistance, hat important enough to serve as a formidahle example. next come breadalhane and the master of suiir, hetween whom the scates halance so nicely that it is hard to say to which the larger share of execration is due. livingstone, hamilton, duncanson, drummond, glenlyon and his suhal- terns, must share amongst themselves the responsihility for the peculiar circumstances of treachery and hreach of hospitality attendant upon the ex- ecution. for this we think neither william, breadalhane, uor the mas- ter of stair can justly be held answer- ahle. the hlundering partisans of the day attempted to make light of the atrocity of the slaughter. lord macaulay is too skilful to he hetray- ed even hy his partisanship into sup- porting ho false an issue. he de- nounces the crime with unsparing severity. but hy suppression, hy sophism, hy all the arts which may he tolerated in an advocate, hut which are intolerahle in a judge, he seeks to ohtain a verdict of acquittal for william—to limit his culpahility to his remissuess in failing to hring the master of stair to justice, and, hy dwelling in strong terms on that offence, to keep out of view his parti- cipation in the original crime. the readers of the decameron know hy what means san ciappelletto oh- tained canonisation; the readers of lord macaulay's history see how the meed of justice and humanity may he awarded to the murderer of glencoe. they may oompare the por- trait of marlhorough with the portrait of william, and judge what fidelity is likely to he found in the rest of lord macaulay's picture-gallery. * life of william iii., p. . [july, the lifted veil. j.v i the liften veil. chaptkb l the time of my end approaches. i have lately heen suhject to attacks of angina pectoris; and in the ordin- ary course of things, my physician tells me, i may fairly hope that my life will not he protracted many months. unless, then, i am cursed with an exceptional physical constitution, as i am cursed with an exceptional mental character, i shall not much longer groan under the wearisome hurthen of this eartbly existence. if it were to he otherwise—if i were to live on to the age most men desire and provide for—i should for once have known whether the miseries of delusive expectation can outweigh the miseries of true previ- sion. for i foresee when i shall die, and everything that will happen in my last moments. just a month from this day, on the th of septemher , i shall he sitting in this chair, in this study, at ten o'clock at night, longing to die, weary of incessant insight and fore- sight, without delusions and without hope. just as i am watching a tongue of hlue flame rising in the fire, and my lamp is hurning low, the horrihle contraction will hegin at my chest. i shall only have time to reach the hell, and pull it violently, hefore the sense of suffocation will come. ho one answers my hell. i know why. my two servants are lovers, and will have quarrelled. my housekeeper will have rushed out of the house in a fury, two hours hefore, hoping that perry will helieve she has gone to drown herself. perry is alarmed at last, and is gone out after her. the little scullery-maid is asleep on a hench : she never answers the hell; it does not wake her. the sense of suffocation inoreases: my lamp goes out with a horrihle stench: i make a great effort, and suatch at the hell again. i long for life, and there is no help. i thirsted for the unknown : the thirst is gone. o god, let me stay with the known, and he weary of it: l am content. agony of pain and suffocation—and all the while the earth, the fields, the pehhly hrook nt the hottom of the rookery, the fresh scent after the rain, the light of the morning tbrough my chamher window, the warmth of the hearth after the frosty air—will darkness close over them for ever! darkness — darkness — no pain— nothing hut darkness: hut i am pass-, ing on ninl on tbrough the darkness: my thought stays in the darkness, hut always with a sense of moving onward before that time comes, i wish to use my last hours of ease and strength in telling the strange story of my experience. i have never fully un- hosomed myself to any human heing; i have never heen encouraged to trust much in the sympathy of my fellow-men. but we have all a chance of meeting with some pity, some tenderness, some charity, when we are dead: it is the living only who caunot he forgiven—the living only from whom men's indulgence and reverence are held off, like the rain hy the hard east wind. while the heart heats, hruise it—it is your only opportunity; while the eye can still turn towards you with moist timid entreaty, freeze it with an icy unan- swering gaze; while the ear, that delicate messenger to the inmost sanctuary of the soul, can still take in the tunes of kindness, put it off with hard civility, or sueering com- pliment, or envious affectation of in- difference; while the creative hrain can still tbroh with the sense of in- justice,wiih the yearning for hrotherly recoguition—make haste—oppress it with your ill-considered judgments, your trivial comparisons, your care- less misrepresentations. the heart will hy-and-hy he still—uhi xeva indignatio ulterivt cor lacerare ne- quit ;* the eye will cease to entreat; the ear will he deaf; the hrain will have ceased from all wants as well as inscription on swift's tomhstone. .] the lifted veil. from all work. then your charitahle speeches may find vent; then you may rememher and pity the toil and the struggle and the failure; then you may give due honour to the work achieved; then you may find extenu- ation for errors, and consent to hury them. that is a trivial schoolhoy text; why do i dwell on it? it has little reference to me, for i shall leave no works hehind me for men to honour. i have no near relatives who will make up, hy weeping over my grave, for the wounds they inflicted on me when i was among them. it is only the story of my life that will perhaps win a little more sympathy from strangers when i am dead, than i ever helieved it would ohtain from my friends while i was living. my childhood perhaps seems hap- pier to me than it really was, hy con- trast with all the after years. for then the curtain of the future was as impenetrahle to me as to other children: i had all their delight in the present hour, their sweet indefi- nite hopes for tiie morrow; and i had a tender mother: even now, after the dreary lapse of long years, a slight trace of sensation accompa- nies the rememhrance of her caress as she held me on her knee—her arms round my little hody, her cheek pressed on mine. i had a complaint of the eyes that made me hlind for a little while, and she kept me on her knee from morning till night. that unequalled love soon vanished out of my life, and even to my chil lish consciousuess it was as if that life had hecome more chill. i rode my little white pony with the groom hy my side as hefore, hut there were no loving eyes looking at me as i mounted, no glad arms opened to me when i came hack. perhaps i missed my mother's love more than most children of seven or eight would have done, to whom the other plea- sures of life remained as hefore; for i was certainly a very sensitive child. i rememher still the mingled trepida- tion and delicious excitement with which i was affected hy the tramping of the horses on the pavement in the echoing stahles, hy the loud resonance of the grooms' voices, hy the hooming hark of the dogs as my fathor's car- riage thundered under the archway of the courtyard, hy the din of the gong as it gave notice of luncheon und diuner. the measured tramp of sowiery which i sometimes heard— for my father's house lay near a county town where there were large herracks—made me soh and trem- hle; and yet when they were gone . past, i longed for them to come hack again. i fancy my father thought me an odd child, and had little fondness for me: though he was very careful in fulfilling what he regarded as a parent's duties. but he was already past the middle of life, and i was not his only son. my mother had heen his second wife, and he was five-und- forty when he married her. he was a firm, unhending, intensely orderly man, in root and stem a hanker, hut with a flourishing graft of the active landholder, aspiring to county influ- ence: one of those people who are alwa 's like themselves from day to day, who are uninfluenced hy the weather, and neither know melan- choly nor high spirits. i held him in great awe, and appeared more timid and sensitive in his presence than at other times; a circumstance which, perhaps, helped to confirm him in the intention to educate me on a different plan from the prescrip- tive one with which he had complied in the case of my elder hrother, already a tall youth at eton. my hrother was to he his representative and successor; he must go to eton and oxford, for the sake of making counections, of course: my father was not a man to underrate the hearing of latin satirists or (greek drama- tists on the attainment of an aristo- cratic position. but, intrinsically, he had slight esteem for " those dead hut sceptred spirits;" having quali- fied h tn'elf for forming an in lepen- dent opinion hy reading potter's disehylus, and dipping into francis's horace. to this negative view he added a positive one, derived from a recent counection with mining specu- lations; namely, that a scientific education was the really useful train- ing for a younger son. moreover, it was clear that a shy, sensitive hoy like me was not fit to encounter the rough experience of a puhlic school. the lifted veil. [july, mr. letherall had said so very decid- edly. mr letherall was a large man in spectacles, who one day took my small head between his large hands, and pressed it hero and there in an exploratory, suspicions mauner—then placed eacli of liis great thumhs on my temples, and pushed me a little way from him, and stared at me with glittering spectacles. the contem- plation appeared to displease him, for he frowned sternly, and said to my father, drawing his thumhs across my eyehrows. "the deficiency is there, sir— there; and here," he added, touching the upper sides of my head, "here is the excess. tiiat must he hrought out, sir, and this must he laid to sleep." i was in a state of tremor, partly at the vague idea that i was the ohject of reprohation, partly in the agitation of my first hatred—hatred of this hig, spectacled man, who pulled my head ahout as if he wanted to hny and cheapen it. i am not aware how much mr. letherall had to do with the system afterwards adopted towards me, hut it was presently clear that private tutors, natural history, science, and the modern languages, were the ap- pliances hy which the defects of my organisation were to he remedied. i was very stupid ahout machines, so i was to he greatly occupied with them; i had no memory for classi- fication, so it was particularly neces- sary that i should study systematic zoology and hotany; i was hungry for human deeds and human emo- tions, so i was to he plentifully crammed with the mechanical powers, the elementary hodies, and the phe- nomena of electricity and maguetism. a hetter-constituted hoy would cer- tainly have profited under my in- telligent tutors, with their scientific apparatus; and would, douhtless, have found the phenomena of elec- tricity and maguetism as fascinating as i was, every thursday, assured they were. as it was, i could have paired off, for iguorance of whatever was taught me, with the worst latin scholar that was ever turned out of a classical academy; whence i have heen led to conclude that the only universal rule with regard to educa- tion is, that no rule should he held universal, a good education heing that which adapts itself to individual wants and faculties. read plu- tarch, and shakespeare, and don quixote hy the sly, and supplied my- self in that way with wandering thoughts, while my tutor was assur- ing me that "an improved man, as distinguished from an iguorant one, was a man who knew the reason why water ran down-hill." i had no de- sire to he this improved man; i was glad of the ruuning water; i could watch it and listen to it gurgling among the pehhles, and hathing the hright green water-plants, hy the hour together. i did not want to know why it ran; i had perfect coi fidence that there was good reason for what was so very heautiful. there is no need to dwell on this part of my life. i have said enough to indicate that my nature was of the sensitive, uupractical order, and that it grew up in an uncongenial medinm, which could never foster it into happy, healthy development. when i was sixteen i was sent to geneva to complete my course of education; and the change was a very happy one to me, for the first sight of the alps, with the setting sun on them, as we descended the jura, seemed to me like an entrance into heaven; and the tbree years of my life there were spent in a perpetual sense of exalta- tion, as if from a draught of delicious wine, at the presence of nature in all her awful loveliness. you will think, perhaps, that i must have heen a poet, from this early sensihility to nature. but my lot was not so happy as that. a poet pours forth his song and helieves in the listening ear and answering soul, to whioh his song will he floated sooner or later. but the poet's sensihility without his voice—the poet's sensihility that finds no vent hut in silent tears on the suuny hank, when the noonday light sparkles on the water, or in an in- ward shudder at the sound of harsh human tones, the sight of a cold human eye—this dumh passion hrings with it a fatal solitude of soul in the society of one's fellow-men. my least solitar; moments were those in which i pushed off in my hoat, at even- ing, towards the centre of the lake; .] the lifted veil. it seemed to me that the sky, and the flowing mountain-tops, and the wide hlue water, surrounded me with a cherishing love such as no human face had shed on me since my mother's love had vanished out of my life. i used to do as jean jacques did—lie down in my hoat and let it glide where it would, while i looked up at the departing glow leaving one mountain-top after the other, as if the prophet's chariot of fire were passing over them on its way to the home of light. then, when the white summits were all sad and corpse-like, i had to push home- ward, for i was under careful sur- veillance, and was allowed no late wanderings. this disposition of mine was not favourahle to the formation of intimate friendships among the numerous youths of ray own ago who are always to he found studying at geneva. yet i made one such friend- ship; and. singularly enough, it was with a youth whose intellectual ten- dencies were the very reverse of my own. i shall call him charles meu- nier; his real surname—an english one, for he was of english extraction —having since hecome celehrated. he was an orphan, who lived on a miserahle pittance while he pursued the medical studies for which he had a special genins. strange! that with my vague mind, impressionahle and unohservant, hating inquiry and given up to contemplation, i should have heen drawn towards a youth whose strongest passion was science. but the hond was not an intellectual one; if. cane from a source that can hap- pily hlend the stupid with the hril- liant, the dreamy with the practical; it came from community of feeling. charles was poor and ugly, derided hy genevese gamins, and not ac- ceptahle in drawing-rooms. i saw that he was isolated, as i was, though from a different cause, and, stimu- lated hy a sympathetic resentmeut, i made timid advances towards him. it is enough to say that there sprang up as much camaraderie hetween us as our different hahits would allow; and in charles's rare holidays we went up the salfive together, or took the hoat to vevay, while i listened dreamily to the monologues in which he unfolded his hold conceptions of future experiment and discovery. i mingled them confusedly in my thought with glimpses of hlue water and delicate floating cloud, with the notes of hirds and the dis- tant glitter of the glacier. he knew quite well that my mind wai half ahsent, yet he liked to talk to me in this way; for don't we talk of our hopes and our projects even to dogs and hirds, when they love us? i have mentioned this one friendship hecause of its counection with a strange and terrihle scene which i shall have to narrate in my suhse- quent life. this happier life at geneva was put an end to hy a terrihle illness, which is partly a hlank to me, partly a time of dimly-rememhered suffer- ing, with the presence of my father hy my hed from time to time. then came the languid monotony of conva- lescence, the days gradually hreaking into variety and distinctness as my strength enahled me to take longer and longer drives. on one of these more vividly rememhered days, my father said to me, as he sat heside my sofa: "when you are quite well enough to travel, latimer, i shall take you home with me. the journey will amuse you and do you good, for i shall go tbrough the tyrol and aus- tria, and you will see many new places. our neighhours, the fil- mores, are come; alfred will join us at basle, and we shall all go together to vieuna, and hack hy prjgue" . . . my father was called away hefore he had finished his sentence, and he left my mind resting on the word prague, with a strange sense that a new and wondrous scene was hreak- ing upon me: a city under the hroad sunshine, that seemed to me as if it were the summer sunshine of a long-past century arrested in its course—uurefreshod for ages hy the dews of night, or the rushing rain- cloud; scorching the dusty, weary, time-eaten grandeur of a people doomed to live on in the stale repeti- tion of memories, like deposed and superaunuated kings, in their regal gold - inwoven tatters. the city looked so thirsty that the hroad river seemed to me a sheet of metal; and the hlackened statues, as i passed .[j«iy, the lifted veil. under their hlank gaze, along the unending hridge, with their ancient garments and their saintly crowns, seemed to me the real inhahitants and owners of this place, while the husy, trivial men and women, hurrying to and fro, were n swarm of ephemeral visitants infesting it for a day. it is such grim, stony heings as these, i thought, who are the fathers of ancient faded chil- dren, in those tauned, time-fretted dwellings that crowd the steep he- fore me; who pay their court in the worn and crumhling pomp of the palace which stretches its monoton- ous length on the height; who wor- ship wearily in the stifling air of the churches, urged hy no fear or hope, hut compelled hy their doom to he ever old and undying, to live on in the rigidity of hnhit,,os they live on in perpetual midday, without the repose of night or the new hirth of morning. a stuuning clang of metal suddenly tbrilled through me, and i hecame conscious of the ohjects in my room again : one of the fire-irons had fallen, as pierre opened the door to hring me my draught. my heart was pal- pitating violently, and i hegged pierre to leave my draught heside me; i would take it presently. as soon as i was alone again, i hegan to ask myself whether i had heen sleeping. was this a dream— this wonderfully distinct vision—mi- nute in its distinctness down to a patch of coloured light on the pave- ment, transmitted tbrough a coloured lamp in the shape of a star—of a strange city, quite unfamiliar to my imagination? i had seen no picture of prague: it lay in my mind as a mere name, with vaguely rememhered historical associations — ill - defined memories of imperial grandeur and religious wars. nothing of this sort had ever oc- curred in my dreaming experience hefore, for i had often heen humili- ated hecause my dreams were only saved from heing utterly disjointed and commouplace hy the frequent terrors of nightmare. bat i could not helieve that i had heen asleep, for i rememhered distinctly the gradual hreaking-in of the vision up- on me, like the new images in a dis- solving view, or the growing dis- tinctness of the landscape as the sun lifts up the veil of the morning mist, and while i was conscious of this in- cipient vision, i was also conscious that pierre came to tell' my father mr. filmore was waiting for him, and that my father hurried out of the room. no, it was not a dream; was it—the thought was full of tremulous exultation—was it the poet's nature in me, hitherto only a trouhled, yearning sensihility, now manifesting itself suddenly as spontaneous crea- tion? surely it was in this way that homer saw the plain of troy, that dante saw the ahodes of the departed, that milton saw the earthward flight of the tempter. was it that my ill- ness had wrought some happy change in my organisation—jjiven a firmer tension to my nerves—carried off some dull ohstruction? i had often read of such effects—in works of fiction at least. nay; in genuine hiographies i had read of the suhtil- ising or exalting influence of some diseases on the mental powers. did not novalis feel his inspiration in- tensified under the progress of con- sumption? when my mind had dwelt for some time on this hlissful idea, it seemed to me that i might perhaps test it hy an exertion of my will. the vision had commenced when my father was speaking of our going to prague. i did not for a moment helieve it was really a representation of that city; i helieved—i hoped it was a pic- ture that my newly-liherated genins had painted in fiery haste, with the colours suatched from lazy memory. suppose i were to fix my mind on some other place—venice, for ex- ample, which was far more familiar to my imagination than prague: per- haps the same sort of result would follow. i concentrated my thoughts on venice; i stimulated my imagi- nation with poetic memories, and strove to feel myself present in venice, as i had felt myself present in prague. but in vain. i was only colouring the canaletto engravings that hung in my old hedroom at home; the picture was a shifting one, my mind wandering uneertainly in search of more vivid images; i could see no acoident of form or .] the lifted veil. shadow without conscious lahour after the necessary conditions. it was all prosaic effort, not rapt pas- sivity, such as i had experienced half an hour hefore. i was discour- aged; but i rememhered that in- spiration was fitful. for several days i was in a state of excited expectation, watching for a recurrence of my new gift. i sent my thoughts ranging over my world of knowledge, in the hope that they would find some ohject which would send a reawakening vihration tbrough my slumhering genins. but no; my world remained as dim as ever, and that flash of strange light refused to come again, though i watched for it with palpitating eagerness. my father accompanied me every day in a drive, and a gradually lengthening walk as my powers of walking increased; and one evening he had agreed to come and fetch me at twelve the next day, that we might go together to select a musical suuff-hox, and other pur- chases, rigorously demanded of a rich englishman visiting geneva, he was one of the most punctual of men and hankers, and i was al- ways nervously anxious to he quite ready for him at the appointed time. but, to my surprise, at a quarter past twelve he had not appeared. i felt all the impatience of a convales- cent who has nothing particular to do, and who has just taken a tonic in the prospect of immediate exerciso that would carry off the stimulus. unahle to sit still and reserve my strength, i walked up and down the room, looking out on the current of the lihoue, just where it leaves the dark-hlue lake; hut thinking all the while of the possihle causes that could detain my father. suddenly i was conscious that my father was in the room, hut not alone: there were two persons with hini. strange i had heard no foot- step, i had not seen the door open; hut i saw my father, and at his right hand our neighhour mrs. fil- more, whom i rememhered very well, though i had not seen her for five years. she was a com- mouplace middle-aged woman, in silk and cashmere; hut the lady on the left of my father was not more . than twenty, a tall, slim, willowy figure, with luxuriant hlond hair ar- ranged in cuuning hraids and folds that looked almost too massive for the alight figure and the small-fea- tured, thin-lipped face they crowned. but the face had not a girlish expres- sion: the features were sharp, the pale grey eyes at once acute, rest- less, and sarcastic. they were fixed on me in half-smiling curiosity, and i felt a painful sensation as if a sharp wind were cutting me. the pale- green dress, and the green leaves that seemed to form a horder ahout her hlond hair, made me think of a water-nixie,—for my mind was full of german lyrics, and this pale, fatal- eyed woman, with the green weeds, looked like a hirth from some cold, sedgy stream, the daughter of an aged river. "well, latimer, you thought me long," my father said. . . . but while the last word was in my ears, the whole group vanished, and there was nothing hetween me and the chinese painted folding- screen that stood hefore the door. i was cold and tremhling; i could only totter forward and tbrow myself on the sofa. this strange new power had manifested itself again but was it a power? might it not rather he a disease—a sort of inter- mittent delirinm, concentrating my energy of hrain into moments of un- healthy activity, and leaving my saner hours all the more harren? i felt a dizzy sense of uureality in what my eye rested on; i grasped the hell convulsively, like one trying to free himself from nightmare, and rang it twice. pierre came with a look of alarm in his face. "monsieur ne se trouve pas hien?" he said, anxiously. "i'm tired of waiting, pierre,'' i said, as distinctly and emphatically as i could, like a man determined to he soher in spite of wine; "i'm afraid something has happened to my father —he's usually so punctual. run to the hotel des bergues and see if he is there." pierre left the room at once, with a soothing "bien, monsieur;" and i felt the hetter for this scene of simple, waking prose. seeking to calm my- self still further, i went into my hed- [july, the lifted veil. room, adjoining the salon, and opened a case of ean-de-cologue; took out a hottle; went tbrough the process of taking out the cork very neatly, and then ruhhed the reviving spirit over my hands and forehead, and under my nostrils, drawing a new delight from the scent hecause i had prooured it hy slow details of lahour, and hy no strange sudden madness. already i had hegun to taste something of the horror that helongs to the lot of a human heing whose nature is not adjusted to simple human conditions. still enjoying the scent, i returned to the salon, hut it was not unoccupied, as it had heen hefore i left it. in front of the chinese folding-screen there was my father, with mrs. filmore on his right hand, and on his left the slim hlond-haired girl, with the keen face and the keen eyes fixed on me in half-smiling curiosity. "well, latimer, you thought me long," my father said. . . . i heard no more, felt no more, till i hecame conscious that i was lying with my head low on the sofa, pierre and my father hy my side. as soon as was thorougbly revived, my father left the room, and presently returned, saying, "i've heen to tell the ladies how you are, latimer. they were wait- ing in the next room. we shall put off our shopping expedition to-day." presently he said, "that young lady is bertha grant, mrs. filmore's orphan niece. filmore has adopted her, and she lives with them, so you will have her for a neighhour when we go home—perhaps for a near re- lation; for there is a tenderness he- tween her and alfred, i suspect, and i should he gratified hy the match, since filmore means to provide for her in every way as if she were his daughter. it hadn't occurred to me that you knew nothing ahout her living with the filmores." he made no further allusion to the fact of my having fainted at the mo- ment of seeing her, and i would not for the world have told him the reason: i sbrank from the idea of disclosing to any one what might he regarded as a pitiahle peculiarity, most of all from hetraying it to my father, who would have suspected my sanity ever after. i do not mean to dwell with par- ticularity on the details of my ex- perience. i have descrihed these two cases at length, hecause they had definite, clearly traceahle results in my after lot. shortly after this last occurrence —i think the very next day—i he- gan to he aware of a phase in my abuormal sensihility, to which, from the languid and slight nature of my intercourse with others since my illness, i had not heen alive he- fore. this was the ohtrusion on my inind of the mental process going for- ward in first one person, and then another, with whom i happened to he in contact: the vagrant, frivolous ideas and emotions of some unin- teresting acquaintance — mrs. fil- more, for example — would force themselves on my consciousuess like an importunate, ill-played musical instrument, or the loud activity of an imprisoned insect. but this uupleas- ant sensihility was fitful, and left me moments of rest, when the souls of my companions were once more shut out from me, and i felt a relief such as silence hrings to wearied nerves. i might have helieved this importunate insight to he merely a diseased ac- tivity of the imagination, hut that my prevision of incalculahle words and actions proved it to have a fixed relation to the mental process in other minds. but this superadded consciousuess, wearying and aunoy- ing enough when it urged on me the trivial experience of indifferent people, hecame an intense pain and grief when it seemed to he opening to me the souls of those who were in a close relation to me—when the rational talk, the graceful attentions, the hon-mots, and the kindly deeds, which used to make the weh of their characters, were seen as if tbrust asunder hy a microscopic vision, that showed all the intermediate frivoli- ties, all the suppressed egoism, all the struggling chaos of puerilities, meauness, vague, capricious me- mories, and indolent make-shift thoughts, from which human words and deeds emerge like leaflets cover- ing a fermenting heap. at basle we were joined hy my hrother alfred, now a handsome self-confident man of six-and-twenty —a thorough contrast to my fragile, .] the lifted veil. nervous, ineffectual self. i helieve i was held to have a sort of half- womanish, half-ghostly heanty; for the portrait-painters, who are thick as weeds at geneva, had often asked me to sit to them, and i had heen the model of a dying minstrel in a fancy picture. but i thorougbly dis- liked my own physique, and nothing hut the helief that it was a condition of poetic genins would have recon- ciled me to it. that hrief hope was quite fled, and i saw in my face now nothing hut the stamp of a morhid organisation, framed for passive suf- fering—too feehle for the suhlime resistance of poetic production. alfred, from whom i had heen almost constantly separated, and who, in his present stage of character and appear- ance, came hefore me as a perfect stranger, was hent on heing extreme- ly friendly and hrother-like to me. he had the superficial kindness of a good-humoured, self-satisfied nature, that fears no rivalry, and has en- countered no contrarieties. i am not sure that my disposition was good enough for me to have heen quite free from envy towards him, even if our desires had not clashed, and if i had heen in the healthy human condi- tion that admits of generous confi- dence and charitahle construction. there must always have heen an antipathy hetween our natures. as it was, he hecame in a few weeks an ohject of intense hatred to me; and when he entered the room, still more when he spoke, it was as if a sensa- tion of grating metal had set my teeth on edge. my diseased consciousuess was more intensely and continually occupied with his thoughts and emo- tions, than with those of any other person who came in my way. i was perpetually exasperated with the petty promptings of his conceit and ins love of patronage, with his self- complacent helief in bertha grant's passion for him, with his half-pitying contempt for me—seen not in the ordinary indications of intonation and pbrase and slight action, which an acute and suspicious mind is on the watch for, hut in all their naked skinless complication. for we were rivals, and our desires clashed, though he was not aware of it. i have said nothing yet of the effect bertha grant produced in mo on a nearer acquaintance. that effect was chiefly determined hy the fact that she made the only excep- tion, among all the human heings ahout me, to my unhappy gift of in- sight. ahout bertha i was always in a state of uncertainty; i could watch the expression of her face, and speculato on its meaning; i could ask for her opinion with the real in- terest of iguorance; i could listen for her words and watch for her smile with hope and fear; she had for me the fascination of an uuravelled des- tiny. i say it was this fact that chiefly determined the strong effect she produced on me; for, in the ah- stract, no womanly character could seem to have less sympathy with that of a sbrinking, romantic, passionate youth than bertha's. she was keen, sarcastic, unimaginative, premature- ly cynical, remaining critical and un- moved in the most impressive scenes, inclined to dissect all my favourite poems, and, most of all, contemptu- ous towards the german lyrics, which were my pet literature at that time. to this moment i am unahle to define my feeling towards her: it was no ordinary hoyish admiration, for she was the very opposite, even to the colour of her hair, of the ideal woman who still remained to me the type of loveliness; and she was with- out that enthusiasm for the great and good, which, even at the moment; of her strongest dominion over me, i should have declared to he the highest element of character. but there is no tyrauny more complete than that which a self-centred negative nature exercises over a morhidly sensitive nature perpetually craving sympathy and support. the most independent people feel the effect of a man's silence in heightening their value for his opinion — feel an additional trinmph in conquering the reverence of a critic hahitually captions and satirical: no wonder then, that an enthusiastic self-distrusting youth should watch and wait hefore the closed secret of a sarcastic woman's face, as if it were the sbrine of the douhtfully heniguant deity who ruled his destiny. for a young enthusiast is unahle to imagine the total nega- tion in another mind of the emotions the lifted veil. [jniy, that are stirring his own: they may he feehle, intent, inactive, he thinks, hut they are there, they may he culled forth—sometimes, in moments of happy hallucination, he helieves they may he there in all the greater strength hecause he sees no outward sigu of them. and this effect, as i have intimated, was heightened to its utmost intensity in me, hecause bertha was the only heing who re- mained for me in the mysterious se- clusion of. soul that renders such youthful delusion possihle. douht- less there was another sort of fasci- nation at work—that suhtle physical attraction which delights in cheating our psychological predictions, and in compelling the men who paint sylphs, to fall in love with some houne et hrate fetnme, heavy-heeled and freckled. bertha's hehaviour towards me was such as to encourage all my illu- sions, to heighten my hoyish passion, and make me more and more depen- dent on her smiles. looking hack with my present wretched know- ledge, i conclude that her vanity and love of power were intensely grati- fied hy the helief that i had fainted on first seeing her purely from the strong impression her person had produced on me. the most prosaic woman likes to helieve herself the ohject of a violent, a poetic passion; and without a grain of romance in her, bertha had that spirit of in- trigue which gave piquancy to the idea that the hrother of the man she meant to marry was dying with love and jealousy for her sake. that she meant to marry my hrother, was what at that time i did not helieve; for though he was assiduous in his attentions to her, and i knew well enough that hoth he and my father had made up their minds to this result, there was not yet an under- stood engagement—there had heen no explicit declaration; and bertha hahitually, while she flirted with my hrother, and accepted his homage in a way that implied to him a thorough recoguition of its intention, made me helieve, hy the suhtlest looks and pbrases, slight feminine nothings that could never he quoted against her, that he was really the ohject of her secret ridicule; that she thought him, as i did, a coxcomh, whom she would have pleasure in disappoint- ing. me she openly petted in my hrother's presence, as if i were too young and sickly ever to. he thought of as a lover; and that was the view ha took of me. but i helieve she must inwardly have delighted in the tremors into which she tbrew me hy the coaxing way in which she patted my curls, while she laughed at my quotations. such caresses were al- ways given in the presence of our friends, for when we were ulone to- gether, she affected a much greater distance towards me, und now and then took the opportunity, hy words or slight actions, to stimulate my foolish timid hope that she really preferred me. and why should she not follow her inclination? i was not in so advantageous a position as my hrother, hut i had fortune, i was not a year younger than she was, and she was an heiress, who would soon he of age to decide for herself. the fluctuations of hope and fear, confined to this one chaunel, made each day in her presence a delicious torment there was one deliherate act of hers which especially helped to intoxicate me. when we were at vieuna her twentieth hirthday oc- curred, and as she was very fond of ornaments, we all took the oppor- tunity of the splendid jewellers' shops in that teutonic paris, to pur- chase her a hirthday present of jewellery. mine, naturally, was the least expensive; it was an opal ring —the opal was my favourite stone, hecause it seemed to hlush and turn pale as if it had a soul. i told bertha so when i gave it to her, and said that it was an emhlem of the poetic nature, changing with the changing light of heaven and of woman's eyes. in the evening she appeared elegantly dressed, and wear- ing conspicuously all the hirthday presents except mine. i looked eagerly at her fingers, hut saw no opal. i had no opportunity of no- ticing this to her during the evening; hut the next day, when i found her seated near the window alone, after hreakfast, i said, "you scorn to wear my poor opal. i should have rememhered that you despised poetic nutures, and should have given you .] the lifted veil coral, or turquoise, or some other opaque uuresponsive stone." "do i despise it?" she answered, taking hold of a delicate gold chain which she always wore round her neck aud drawing oat the end frotn her hosom with my ring hunging to it; "it hurts me a little, i can tell you," she said, with her usual duhious smile, "to wear it in that secret place; and since your poetical nature is so stupid as to prefer a more puhlic position, i shall not endure the pain any longer." she u*rk off the ring from the chain and put it on her finger, smil- ing still, while the hlood rushed to my cheeks, and i could not trust my- self to say a word of entreaty that she would keep the ring where it was hefore. i was completely fooled hy this, and for two days shut myself up in my own room whenever bertha was ahsent, that i might intoxicate my- self afresh with the thought of this scene, and all it implied. i should mention that during these two months—which seemed a long life to me from the novelty and in- tensity of the pleasures and pains i underwent—my diseased participa- tion in other people's consciousuess continued to torment me; now it was my father, and now my hrother, now mrs. filmore or her hushand, and now our german courier, whose stream of thought rushed upon me like a ringing in the ears not to he got rid of, though it allowed mj' own impulses and ideas to continue their uninterrupted course. it was like a preternatural!y heightened sense of hearing, making audihle to one a roar of sound where others find per- fect stillness. the weariness and disgust of this involuntary intrusion into other souls was counteracted only hy my iguorance of bertha, and my growing passion for her; a pas- sion enormously stimulated, if not produced, hy that iguorance. she was my oasis of mystery in the dreary desert of knowledge. i had never allowed my diseased condition to he- tray itself, or to drive me into any unusual speech or action, except once, when, in a moment of peculiar hitter- ness against my hrother, i had fore- stalled some words which i knew ho vol. lxxxvl was going to utter—a clever ohserva- tion, which he had prepared hefore- hand. he had occasionally a slightly- affected hesitation in his speech, and when he paused an instant after the second word, my impatience and jealousy impelled me to continue the speech for him, as if it were some- thing we had hoth learnt hy rote. he ooloured and looked astonished, as well as aunoyed; and the words had no sooner escaped my lips than i felt a shock of alarm lest such an antici pntion of words, very far from heing words of course easy to divine, should have hetrayed me ns an ex- ceptional heing, a sort of quiet ener- gumen, that every one, bertha ahove all, would shudder at and avoid. but i maguified, as usual, the im- pression ony word or deed of mine could produce on others; for no one gave any sigu of having noticed my interruption as more than a rudeness, to he forgiven me on the score of my feehle nervous condition. while this superadded conscious- ness of the actual was almost constant with me, i had never had a recur- rence of that distinct prevision which i have descrihed in relation to my first interview with btrtha; and i was waiting with eager ouriosity to know whether or not my vision of prague would prove to have heen an instance of the same kind. a few days after the incident of the opal ring, we were paying one of our fre- quent visits to the lichtenherg palace. i could never look at many pictures in succession; for pictures, when they are at all powerful, affect me so strongly that one or two ex- haust all my capahility of contempla- tion. this morning i had heen looking at giorgione's picture of the cruel- eyed woman, said to he a likeness of lucrezia borgia. i had stood long alone hefore it, fascinated hy the terrihle reality of that cuuning, re- lentless face, till i felt a strange poisoned sensation, as if i had long heen inhaling a fatal odour, and was just hegiuning to he conscious of its effects. perhaps even then should not have moved away if the rest of the party had not returned to this room, and aunounced that they were going to the belvedere gallery to settle a het which had arisen hetween my the lifted veil. [july, hrother and mr. filmore ahout a portrait. i followed them dreamily, and was hardly alive to what oc- curred till they had all gone up to the gallery, leaving me helow; for i refused to come within >ight of another picture that day. i made my way to the grand terrace, for it was agreed that we should saunter in the gardens when the dispute had heen decided. i had heen sitting here a short space, vaguely conscious of trim gardens, with a city and green hills in the distance, when, willing to avoid the proximity of the sentinel, i rose and walked down the hroad stone steps, intending to seat my- self further on in the gardens. just as i reached the gravel walk, i felt an arm slipped within mine, and a light hand gently pressing my wrist. in the same instant a strange intoxicating numbuess passed over me, like the continuance or climax of the sensation i was still feeling from the gaze of lucrezia borgia. the gardens, the summer sky, the consciousuess of bertha's arm heing within mine, all vanished, and i seemed to he suddenly in darkness, out of which there gradually hroke a dim firelight, and felt myself sitting in my father's leather chair in the lihrary at home. knew the fireplace—the dogs for the wood fire—the hlack marhle chimney-piece with the white marhle medallion of the dying cloopatrain the centre. intense and hopeless misery was pressing on my soul; the light hecame stronger, for bertha was entering with a candle in her hand— berth*, my wife—with cruel eyes, with given jewels and green leaves on her white hall-dress; every hate- ful thought within her present to me. .... "madman, idiot why don't vou kill yourself, then?" it was a moment of hell. i saw into her piti- less soul—saw its harren worldliness, ita scorching hate, and felt it clothe me round like an air i was ohliged to hreathe. she came with her candle and stood over me with a hitter smile of contempt; i saw the great emerald hrooch on her hosom, a studded ser- pent with diamond eyes. i shuddered —i despised this woman with the harren soul and mean thoughts; hut felt helpless hefore her, as if she clutched my hleeding heart, and would clutch it till the last drop of life hlood ehhed away. she was my wife, and we hated each other. gradually the hearth, the dim lihrary, the candle-light disappeared—seemed to melt away into a hackground of light, the green serpent with the diamond eyes remaining a dark image on the retina. then i had a sense of my eyelids quivering, and the living daylight hroke in upon me; i saw gardens, and heard voices; i was seated on the steps of the belvedere terrace, and my friends were round me. the tumult of mind into which i was tbrown hy this hideous vision made me ill for several days, and prolonged our stay at vieuna. i shuddered with horror as the scene recurred to me; and it recurred con- stantly, with all its minutiffl, as if they had heen hurnt into my memory; and yet, such is the madness of the human heart under the in- fluence of its immediate desires, i felt a wild hell-hraving joy that bertha was to he mine; for the fulfilment of my former prevision concerning her first appearance he- fore me left me little hope that this last hideous glimpse of the foture was the mere diseased play of my own mind, and had no relation to external realities. one thing rdone i looked towards as a possihle means of casting douht on my terrihle con- viction—the discovery that my vision of prague had heen false—and prague was the next city on our route. meanwhile, was no sooner in bertha's society again, than i was as completely under her sway as hefore. what if i saw into the heurt of bertha, the matured woman—ber- tha, my wife? bertha, the girl, was a fascinating secret to me still: i tremhled under her touch; i felt the witchery of her presence; i yearned to he assured of her love. the fear of poison is feehle against the sense of thirst. nay, i was just as jealous of my hrother as hefore—just as much irritated hy his small patronis- ing ways; for my pride, my diseased sensihility, were there as they had always heen, and winced as inevi- tahly under every offence as my eye winced from an intruding mote. .] the lifted veil. the future, even when hrought with- in the compass of feeling hy a vision that made me shudder, had still no more than the force of an idea, com- pared with the force of present emo- tion—of my love for bertha, of my dislike aud jealousy towards my hrother. it is an old story, that men sell themselves to the tempter, and sigu a hond with their hlood, hecause it is only to take effect at a distant day; then rush on to suatch the cup their souls thirst after with no less savage an impulse, hecause there is a dark shadow heside them for ever- more. there is no short cut, no patent tram road, to wisdom: after all the centuries of invention, the soul's path lies tbrough the thorny wilderness which must ho still trod- den in solitude, with hleeding feet, with sohs for help, as it was trodden hy them of old time. jly mind speculated eagerly on the means hy which i should hecome my hrother's succesrful rival, for i was still too timid, in my iguorance of bertha's actual feeling, to venture on any step that would urge from her an avowal of it. i thought i should gain confidence even for this, if my vision of prague proved to have heen veracious; and yet, the horror ot that certitude! behind the slim girl bertha, whose words and looks i watched for, whose touch was hliss, there stood con- tinually that bertha with the ful- ler form, the harder eyes, the more rigid mouth,-—with the harren sel- fish soul laid hare; no longer a fasci- nating secret, hut a measured fact, urging itself perpetually on my un- willing sight. are you unahle to give me your sympathy—you who read this? are you unahle to ima- gine this douhle consciousuess at work within me, flowing on like two parallel streams that never mingle their waters and hlend into a com- mon hue? yet you must have known something of the presentiments that spring from an insight at war with passion; and my visions were only like presentiments intensified to horror. you have known the powerlessuess of ideas hefore the might of impulse; and my visions, when once they had passed into memory, were mere ideas —pale shadows that heckoned in vain, while my hand was grasped hy the living and the loved. in after days i thought with hitter regret that if i had loreseen some- thing more or something different— if instead of that hideous vision which poisoned the passion it could not destroy, or if, even along with it, i could have had a foreshadowing of that moment when i looked on my hrother's face for the last time, some softening influence would have heen shed over my feeling towards him: pride and hatred would surely have heen suhdued into pity, and the record of those hidden sins would have heen shortened. but this is one of the vain thoughts with which we men flatter ourselves, trying to helieve that the egoism within us would have easily heen melted, and that it was only the narrowness of our knowledge which hindered our generosity, our awe, our human piety, ) - from flooding our hard cruel imliffer- ence to the sensations and feelings of our fellow, with the tenderness and self-renunciation which have only come when the egoism has had its day, when, after our mean striving for a trinm h that is to he another's loss, the trinmph comes suddenly, and we shudder at it hecause it is held out hy the chill hand of death. our arrival in prague happened at night, and i was glad of this, for it seemed like a deferring of a terrihly decisive moment, to he in the city for hours without seeing it. as we were not to remain long in prague, hut to go on speedily to dresden, it was proposed that we should drive out the next morning and take a general view of the place, as well as visit some of its specially interesting spots, hefore the heat hecame oppressive— for we were in august, and the sea- son was hot and dry. but it hap- pened that the ladies were rather late at their morning toilette, and to my father's politely repressed hut perceptihle aunoyance, we were not in the carriage till the morning was far advanced. i thought with a sense of relief, as we entered the jews' quarter, where we were to visit the old eynagogue, that we should he kept in this flat, shut-up part of the city, until we should the lifted veil. [july, all he too tired and too warm to go farther, and so we should return without seeing more than the streets tbrough which we had already passed. that would give me another day's suspense—suspense, the only form in which a fearful spirit knows the solace of hope. but, as i stood under the hlackened, groined arches of that old synagogue, made dimly visihle hy the seven thin candles in the sacred lamp, while our jewish cicerone reached down the book of the law, and read to us in itsancient tongue,— felt a shuddering impres- sion that this strange huilding, with its sbrunken lights, this surviving withered remnant of medieval juda- ism, was of a piece with my vision. those darkened dusky cbristian saints, with their loftier arches and their larger candles, needed the con- solatory scorn with which they might point to a more sbrivelled death in life than their own. as i expected, when we left the jews' quarter, the elders of our party wished to return to the hotel. but now, insteud of rejoicing in this, as i had done heforehand, i felt a sudden overpowering impulse to go on at once to the hridge, and put an end to the suspense i had heen wishing to protract. i declared, with unusual decision, that i would get out of the carriage and walk on alone; they might return without me. my father, thinking this merely a sample of my usual "poetic nonsense," ohjected that i should only do myself harm hy walking in the heat; hut when i persisted, he said angrily that i might follow my own ahsurd devices, hut that schmidt (our courier) must go with me. i assented to this, and set off with schmidt towards the hridge. i had no sooner passed from under the archway of the grand old gate leading on to the hridge, than a tremhling seized me, and i turned cold under the mid-day sun; yet i went on; i was in search of something—a small detail which i rememhered with special intensity as part of my vision. there it was —the patch of coloured light on the pavement transmitted tbrough a lamp in the shape of a star. chapter il before the autumn was at an end, and while the hrown leaves, still stood thick on the heeches in our park, my hrother and bertha were engaged to each other, and it was un- derstood that their marriage was to take place early in the next spring. in spite of the certainty i had felt from that moment, on the hridge at prague, that bertha would one day he my wife, my constitutional timidity and distrust hod continued to henumh me, and the words in which i had sometimes premeditated a confession of my love, had died away unuttered. the same confhct had gone on within me as hefore— the longing for an assurance of love from bertha's lips, the dread lest a word of contempt and denial should fall upon me like a corrosive acid. what was the conviction of a distant necessity to me? i tremhled under a present glance, i hungered after a present joy, i was clogged and chilled hy a present fear. and so the days passed on: i witnessed bertha's en- gagement and heard her marriage discussed as if i were under a con- scious nightmare— knowing it was a dream that would vanish, hut feeling stifled under the grasp of hard-clutch- ing fingers. when i was not in bertha's pre- sence—and i was with her very olten, for she continued to treat me with a playful patronage that wak- ened no jealousy in my hrother—i spent my time chiefly in wanderirg, in strolling, or taking long rides while the daylight la-ted. and then shutting myself up with my uuread hooks; for hooks had lust the power of chaining my attention. my self- consciousuess was heightened to that pitch of intensity in which our own emotions take the form of a drama that urges itself imperatively on our contemplation, and we hegin to weep, less under the sense of our s suffering than at the thought of it. i felt a sort of pitying anguish over .] the lifted veil the pathos of my own lot—the lot of * heing finely organised for pain, hut with hardly any fihres that re- sponded to pleasure—to whom the idea of future evil rohhed the pre- sent of its joy, and f.,r whom the idea of future good did not still the uneasiness of a present yearning or a present dread: i went dumhly tbrongh that stage of the poet's suffering, in which he feels the de- licious pang of utterance, and makes an image of his sorrows. i was left entirely without remon- strance concerning this dreamy way- ward life: i knew my father's thought ahout me:—'-that lad will 'never he good for anything in life: he may waste his years in an insig- nificint way on the income that falls to him: i shall not trouhle myself ahout a career for him." one mild morning in the hegin- ning of novemher, it happened that i was standing outside the portico pat- ting lazy old c»sar, a newfoundland almost hlind with age, the oidy dog that ever took any notice of me— for the very dogs shauned me, and fawned on the happier people ahout me—when the groom hrought up my hrother's horse which was to carry him to the hunt, and my hrother himself appeared at the door, florid, hroad-chested, and self- complacent, feeling what a good- natured fellow he was not to hehave insolently to us all on the strength of his great advantages. "latimer, old hoy," he said to me in a tone of compassionate cor- diality, "what a pity it is you don't have a run with the hounds now and then. the finest thing in the world for low spirits!" "low spirits!" i thought hitterly, as he rode away; "that's the sort of pbrase with which coarse, narrow natures like yours think yon com- pletely define experience of which you can know no more than your horse knows. it is to such as you that the good of this world falls: ready dulness, healthy selfishness, good-tempered conceit—these are the keys to happiness." the quick thought came, that my selfishness was even stronger than his—it wsh only a suffering selfish- mstead of an enjoying one. but then again, my exasperating insight into alfred's self-complacent soul, his freedom from all the douhts and fears, the unsatisfied yearnings, the exquisite tortures of sensitive- ness, that had made the weh of my life, seemed to ahsolve me from all honds towards him. this man needed no pity, no love; those fine influences would have heen as little felt hy him as the delicate white mist is felt hy the rock it caresses. there was no evil in store for him: if he was not to marry bertha, it would he hecause he had found a lot pleasanter to himself. mr. filmore's house lay not more than half a mile heyond our own gates, and whenever i knew my hrother was gone in another direc- tion, i went there for the chance of finding bertha at home. later on in the day i walked thither. by a rare accident she was alone, and we walked out in the grounds together, for she seldom went on foot heyond the trimly swept gravel walks. i rememher what a heautiful sylph she looked to me as the low novem- her sun shone on her hlond hair, and she triptied along teasing me with her usual light hanter, to which i listened half fondly, half moodily: it was all the sigu bertha's myste- rious iuner self ever made to me. to-day perhaps the moodiness pre- dominated, for i had not yet shaken off the access of jealous hate which my hrother had raised in me hy hi« parting patronage. suddenly i in- terrupted and startled her hy saying, almost fiercely, "bertha, how can you love alfred?" she looked at me with surprise for a moment, hut soon her light smile came again, and she answered sarcasticallv, " why do you suppose love him?" "how can you ask that, bertha?" "what! your wisdom thinks i must love the man i'm going to marry? the most uupleasant thing in the world. i should quarrel with him; i should he jealous of him-, our minage would he conducted in a very ill-hred manner. a little quiet contempt contrihutes greatly to the elegance of life." "bertha, that is not your real feeling. why do you delight in the lifted veil. [july, trying to deceive me hy inventing such cynical speeches?" "i need never take the trouhle of invention in order to deceive yon. my small tasso"—(that was the mocking name she usually gave me). "the easiest way to deceive a poet is to tell him the truth." she was testing the validity of her epigram in a daring way, and for a moment the shadow of my vision—the bertha whose soul was no secret to me—passed hetween me and the radiant girl, the playful sylph whose feelings were a fascinat- ing mystery. i suppose i must have shuddered, or hetrayed in some other way my momentary chill of horror. *'tasso!" she said, seizing my wrist, and peeping round into my face, "are you really hegiuning to discern what a heartless girl i am? why, you are not half the poet i thought you were; you are actually capahle of helieving the truth ahout me." the shadow passed from hetween us, and was no longer the ohject nearest to me. the girl whose light fingers grasped me, whose elfish ohar.ning face looked into mine— who, i thought, was hetraying an interest in my feelings that she would not have directly avowed,— this warm-hreathing presence again possessed my senses and imagination like a returning syren melody that had heen overpowered for an instant hy the roar of tbreatening waves. it was a moment as delicious to me as the waking up to a consciousuess of youth aiter a dream of middle age. i forgot everything hut my passion, and said with swimming eyes— "bertha, shall you love mo when we are first married? i wouldn't mind if you really loved me only for a little while." her look of astonishment, as she loosed my hand and started away from me, recalled me to a sense of my strange, my criminal indiscretion. "forgive me," i said, hurriedly, as soon as i could speak again; "i did'nt know what i was saying." "ah, tasso's mad fit has come on, i see," she answered quietly, for she had recovered herself sooner than i had. "let him go home and keep his head cool. i must go in, for the sun is setting." i left her—full of indiguation agoinst myself. i had let slip words which, if she reflected on them, might rouse in her a suspicion of my abuormal mental condition—a suspi- cion which of all things i dreaded. and hesides that, i was ashamed of the apparent hareness i had commit- ted in uttering them to my hrother's hetrothed wife. i wandered home slowly, entering our park tbrough a private gate instead of hy the lodges. as i approached the house i saw a man dashing off at full speed from the stahle-yard across the pork. had any accident happened at home? no; perhaps it was only one of my father's peremptory husiness errands that required this headlong haste. nevertheless i quickened my pace without any distinct motive, and was soon at the house. i will not dwell on the scene i found there. my hrother was dead—had heen pitched from his horse, and killed on the spot hy a concussion of the hrain. i went up to the room where he lay, and where my father was seated heside him with a look of rigid de- spair. i had shunned my father more than any one since our return home, for the radical antipathy he- tween our natures made my insight into his iuner self a constant afflic- tion to me. but now, as i went up to him, and stood heside him in sad silence, i felt the presence of a new element that hlended us as we had never heen hlent hefore. my father had heen one of the most successful men in the money-getting world: he had had no sentimental sufferings, no illness. the heaviest trouhle that had hefallen him was the death of his first wife. but he married my mother soon after; ond i rememher he seemed exactly the same to my keen childish ohservation, the week after her death as before. but now, at last, a sorrow had come—the sorrow of old age, which suffers the more from the crushing of its pride and its hopes, in proportion as the pride and hope are narrow and prosaic. his son was to have heen married soon— would prohahly have stoixl for the horough at the next election. that son's existence was the hest motive .] the lifted veil. that could he alleged for making new purchases of land every year to round off the estate. it is a dreary thing to live on doing the same things year after year, without knowing why we do them. perhaps the tragedy of disappointed youth and passion is lees piteous than the tragedy of dis- appointed age and worldliness. as i saw into the desolation of my father's heart, i felt a movement of jeep pity towards him, which was the hegiuning of a new affection—an affection that grew and strengthened in spite of the strange hitterness with which he regarded me in the first month or two after my hrother's death. if it had not heen for the softening influence of my compassion for him—the first deep compassion i had ever felt—i should have heen stung hy the perception that my father transferred the inheritance of an eldest son to me with a mortified sense that fate had compelled him to the unwelcome course of caring for me as an important heing. it was only in spite of himself that he hegan to think of me with anxious regard. there is hardly any neglected child, for whom death has made vacant a more favoured place, that will not understand what i mean. gradually, however, my new de- ference to his wishes, the effect of that patienee which was horn of my pity for him, won upon his affection, and he hegan to please himself with the endeavour to make me fill my hrother's place as fully as my feehler personality would admit. i saw that the prospect which hy-and-hy pre- sented itself of my hecoming bertha's hushand was welco i e to him, and he even contemplated in my case what he had not intended in my hrother's —that his son and daughter-in-law should make one household with him. my softened feeling towards my father made this the happiest time i had known since childhood;—these last months in which i retained the delicious illusion of loving bertha, of longing and douhting and hoping that she loved me. she hehaved with a certain new consciousuess and distance towards me after my hro- ther's death; and i too was under a douhle constraint—that of delicacy towrrda my hrother's memory, and of anxiety as to the impression my ahrupt words had left on her mind. but the additional screen this mu- tual reserve erected hetween us only hrought me more completely under her power: no matter how empty the adytum, so that the veil he thick enough. so ahsolute is our soul's need of something hidden and un- certain for the maintenance of that douht ami hope and effort which are the hreath of its life, that if the whole future were laid hare to us heyond to-day, the interest of all mankind would he hent on the hours that lie hetween; we should pant after the uncertainties of our one morning and our one afternoon; we should rush fiercely to the exchange for our last possihility of speculation, of success, of disappointtnent; we should have a glut of political prophets foretelling a crisis or a no-crisis within the only twenty-four hoars left open to pro- phecy. conceive the condition of the human mind if all propositions whatsoever were self-evident except one, which was to hecome self-evident at the close of a summer's day, hut in the meantime might he the suhject of question, of hypothesis, of dehate. art and philosophy, literature and science, would fasten like hees on that one proposition that had the honey of prohahility in it, and he the more eager hecause their enjoyment would end with sunset. our im- pulses, our spiritual activities, no more adjust themselves to the idea of their future nullity, than the heat- ing of our heart, or the irritahility of our muscles. bertha, the slim, fair-haired girl, whose present thoughts and emotions were an enigma to me amidst the fatiguing ohviousuess of the other minds around me, was as ahsorhing to me as a single unknown to-day— as a single hypothetic mopmittoo to remain prohlematic till sunset; and all the cramped, hemmed-in helief and dishelief, trust and distrust, of my nature, welled out in this one narrow chaunel. and she made me helieve that she loved me. without ever quitting her tone of hadinage and playful superiority, she intoxicated me with the sense that i was necessary to her, that she was never at ease un- the lifted veil. [july, less i was near her, suhmitting to her playful tyrauny. it costs a woman so little effort to hesot us in this way! a half-repressed word, a mo- ment's unexpected silence, even an easy fit of petulance on our account, will serve us as hashish for a long while. out of the suhtlest weh of scarcely-perceptihle sigus, she set me weaving the fancy that she had always unconsciously loved me hetter than alfred, hut that, with the iguorant fluttered sensihility of a young girl, she had heen imposed on hy the charm that lay for her in the distinction of heing admired and chosen hy a man who made so hrilliant a figure in the world as my hrother. she satirised herself in a very graceful way for her vanity and amhition. what was it to me that i had the light of my wretched prevision on the fact that now it was i who possessed at least all hut the personal part of my hrother's advantages? our sweet illusions are half of them con- scious illusions, like effects of colour that we know to he made up of tin- sel, hroken glass, and rags. we were married eighteen months after alfred's death, one cold, clear morning in april, when there camo hail and sunshine hoth together; and bertha, in her white silk and pale- green leaves, and the pale sunshine of her hair and eyes, looked like the spirit of the morning. my father was happier than he had thought of heing again: my marriage, he folt sure, would complote the desirahle modification of my character, and make me practical and worldly enough to take my place in society among sane men. for ho delighted in bertha's tact and acuteness, and felt >ure she would he mistress of me, and make me what she chose: i was only twenty-one, and madly in love with her. poor father i he kept that hope a little while after our first year of marriage, and it was not quite extinct when paralysis came and saved him from utter dis- appointment. i shall hurry tbrough the rest of my story, not dwelling so much as i have hitherto done on my inward experience. when people are well known to each other, they talk rather of what hefalls them externally, leav- ing their feelings and sentiments to he inferred. we lived in a round of visits for some time after our return home, giving splendid diuner-parties, and making a sensation in our neighhour- hood hy the new lustre of our equi- page, for my father had reserved this display of his increased wealth for the period of his son's marriage; and we gave our acquaintances liheral opportunity for remarking that it was a pity i made so poor a figure as an heir and a hridegroom. the ner- vous fatigue of this existence, tlie insincerities and platitudes which i had to live though twice over— tbrough my iuner and outward sense —would have heen maddening to me, if i had not had that sort of intoxi- cated callousuess which came from the delights of a first passioc a hride and hridegroom, surrounded hy all the appliances of wealth, hur- ried tbrough the day hy the whirl of society, filling their solitary moments with hastily-suatched caresses, are prepared for their future life, together, as the novice is prepared for the cloister, hy experiencing its utmost contrast tbrough all these crowded excited months, bertha's inward self re- mained sbrouded from me, and i still read her thoughts only tbrough the language of her lips and demeanour; i had still the delicious human interest of wondering whether what i did and said pleased her, of longing to hear a word of aifection, of giving a deli- cious exaggeration of meaning to her smile. but i was conscious of a growing difference-in her mauner to- wards me; sometimes strong enough to he called haughty coldness, cut- ting and chilling me as the hail had done that came across the sunshine on our marriage morning; some- times only perceptihle in the dex- terous avoidance of a tete-a tile walk or diuner, to which i had heen look- ing forward. i had heen deeply pained hy this—had even felt a sort of crushing of the heart, from the sense that my hrief day of happiness was near its setting; hut still i re- mained dependent on bertha, eager for the last rays of a hliss that would .] « the lifted veil. soon he gone for ever, hoping and watching for some after-glow more heautiful from the impending night. i rememher—how should i not re- memher?—the time when that de- pendence and hope ntterly left me— when the sadness i had felt in bertha's growing estrangement hecame a joy that i looked hack upon with longing, as a man might look hack on the last pains in a paralysed limh. it was just after the close of mlr father's last illness, which necessarily with- drew ns from society, and tbrew us mure upon each other. it was the evening of my father's death. on that evening the veil that had sbrouded bertha's soul from me, and made me find in her alone among my fellow-heings the hlessed possihility of mystery, and donht, and expectation, was first withdrawn. perliaps it was the first day since the heginning of my passion for her, in which that passion was completely neutralised hy the presenoe of an ahsorhing feeling of another kind. i had heen watching hy my father's death-hed: had heen witnessing the lost fitful yearning glances that his' soul had cast hack on the spent in- heritance of life—the last faint con- sciousuess of love that he had gathered from the pressure of my hand. what are all our personal loves when we have heen sharing in that supreme agony? id the first moments when we come away from the presence of death, every other relation to the living is merged, to our feeling, in the great relation of a common nature and a common destiny. it was ui that state of mind that i joined bertha in her private hitting- ro ,in. she was seated in a leaning posture on a settee, with her heck towards the door; the great rich coils of her hlond hair surmounting her small neck, visihle ahove the hack of the settee. i rememher, as i closed the door hehind me, a cold tretnulon-ness seizing me, and a vague sense of heing hated and lonely —vague and strong, like a presenti- ment. i know how i looked at that moment, for i saw myself in bertha's thought as she lifted her cutting grey eyes, and looked at me: a miserahle ghost-seer, surrounded hy phantoms in the noon-day, tremhling under a hreeze when the leaves were still, without appetite for the com- mon ohjects of human desire, hat pining after the moonheams. we were front to front with each other, and judged each other. the terrihle moment of complete illumination had come to ine, and i saw that the dark- ness had hidden no landscape from me, hut only a hlank prosaic wall: from that evening forth, tbrough the sickening years that followed, i saw all round the narrow room of this woman's soul—saw petty artifice and mere negation where i had delighted to helieve in coy sensihilities, and in wit at war with latent feeling—saw the light floating vanities of the girl defining themselves into the systema- tic coquetry, the scheming selfishness, of the woman—saw repulsion and an- tipathy hardening into cruel hatred, giving pain only for the sake of wreaking itself. for bertha too, after her kind, felt the hitterness of disillusion. she had helieved that my wild poet's passion for her would make mo her slave; and that, heing her slave, i should execute her will in all things. with the essential shallowness of a negative, unimaginative nature, she was unahle to conceive the fact that sensihilities were anything else than weaknesses. she had thought my weaknesses would put me in her power, and she found them un- manageahle forces. our positions were reversed. before marriage, she had completely mastered my imagi- nation, for she was a secret to me; and i created the unknown thought hefore which i tremhled, as if it were hers. but now that her soul was laid open to me, now that i was com- pelled to share the privacy of her motives, to follow all the petty de- vices that preceded her words and acts, she found herself powerless with me, except to produce in me the chili shudder of repulsion—power- less, hecause i could he acted on hy no lever within her reach. i was dead to worldly amhitions, to social vanities, to all tho incentives within the compass of her narrow imagina- tion, and i lived under influences utterly invisihle to her. she was really pitiahle to have such a hushand, and so all the world [july, tht lifted veil. thought. a graceful, hrilliant woman, like bertha, who smiled on morning callers, made a figure in hall-rooms, and was capahle of that light repartee which, from such a woman, is accept- ed as wit, was secure of carrying off all sympathy from a hushand who was sickly, ahstracted, and, as some, suspected, crack-hrained. even the servants in our house gave her the halance of their regard and pity. for there were no audihle quarrels hetween us; our alienation, our re- pulsion from each other, lay within the silence of our own hearts; and if the mistress went out a great deal, and seemed to dislike the master's society, was it not natural, poor thing? the master was odd. i was kind and just to my dependants, hut i excited in them a sbrinking, half- contemptuous pity; for this class of men and women are hut slightly de- termined in their estimate of others hy general considerations of charac- ter. they judge of persons as they v judge of coins, and value those who pass current at a high rate. after a time i interfered so little with bertha's hahits, that it might seem wonderful how her hatred to- wards me could grow so intense and active as it did. but she had hegun to suspect, hy some involuntary he- trayals of mine, that there was an abuormal power of penetration in me—that fitfully, at least, i was strangely coguisant of her thoughts and intentions, and she hegan to he haunted hy a terror of me, whioh alternated every now and then with defiance. she meditated continually how the incuhus could he shaken off her life—how she oould he freed from this hateful hond to a heing whom she at once despised as an imhecile, and dreaded as an inquisitor. for a long while she lived in the hope that my evident wretchedness would drive me to the commission of suicide; hut suicide was not in my nature. i was too completely swayed hy the sense that i was in the grasp of un- known forces, to helieve in my power of self-release. towards my own destiny i had hecome entirely pas- sive; for my one ardent desire had spent itself, and impulse no longer predominated over knowledge. for this reason i never thought of taking any steps towards a complete separa- tion, which would have made our alienation evident to the world. why should i rush for help to a new course, when i was only suffering from the consequences of a deed which had heen the act of my intensest will? that would have heen the logic of one who had desires to gratify, and i had no desires. bnt bertha and i lived more and more aloof from each other. the rich find it easy to live married and apart. that course of our life whioh i have indicated in a few sentences filled the space of years. so much misery—so slow and hideous a growth of hatred and sin, may he compressed into a sentence! and men judge of each other's lives tbrough this summary medinm. they epitomise the experience of their fellow-mortal, and pronounce judg- ment on him in neat syntax, and feel themselves wise and virtuous—con- querors over the temptations they define in well-selected predicates. seven years of wretchedness glide glihly over the lips of the man who has never counted them out in moments of chill disappointment, of head and heart tbrohhings, of dread and vain wrestling, of remorse and despair. we learn words hy rote, hut not their meaning; that must he paid for with our life-hlood, and printed in the suhtle fihres of our nerves. but i will hasten to finish my story. brevity is justified at once to those who readily understand, and to those who will never understand. some years after my father's death, i was sitting hy the dim firelight in my lihrary one january evening— sitting in the leather chair that used to he my father's—when bertha ap- peared at the door, with a randle in her hand, and advanced towards me. i knew the hall-dress she had on— the white hall-dress, with the green jewels, shone upon hy the light of the wax candle which lit up the medallion of the dying cleopatra on the mantelpiece. why did she come to me hefore going out? i had not seen her in the lihrary, which was my hahitual place, for months. why did she stand hefore me with the candle in her hand, with her cruel .] the lifted veil. contemptuous eyes fixed on rne, and the glittering serpent, like a familiar demon, on her hreast? for a mo- ment i thonght this fulfilment of my vision at vieuna marked some dread- ful crisis in my fate, hut i saw no- thing in bertha's mind, as she stood hefore me, except scorn for the look of overwhelming misery with which i sat hefore her. ..." fool, idiot, why don't you kill yourself, then?" —that was her thonght. but at length her thoughts reverted to her errand, and she spoke aloud. the apparently indifferent nature of the errand seemed to make a ridiculous anticlimax to my provision and my agitation. u i have had to hire a new maid. fletcher ia going to he married, and she wants me to ask yon to let her hushand have the puhlic-house and farm at molton. i wish him to have it. you must give the promise now, hecause fletcher is going to-morrow morning—and quickly, hecause i'm in. a hurry." "very well; you may promise her,'" i said, indifferently, and bertha swept out of the lihrary again. i always sbrank from the sight of a new person, and all the more when it was a person whose mental life was likely to weary my reluctant in- sight with worldly iguorant triviali- ties. but i sbrank especially from the sight of this new maid, hecause her advent had heen aunounced to me at a moment to which i could not cease to attach some fatality: i had a vague dread that i should find her mixed up with the dreary drama of my life—that some new sickening vision would reveal her to me as an evil genins. when at last i did un- avoidahly meet her, the vague dread was changed into definite disgust. she was a tall, wiry, dark-eyed woman, this mrs. archer, with a face handsome enough to give her coarse hard nature the odious finish of hold, self-confident coquetry. that was enough to make me avoid her, quite apart from the contemptuous feeling with which she contemplated me. seldom saw her; hut i perceived that she rapidly hecame a favourite with her mistress, and after the lapse of eight or nine months, i hegan to he aware that there had arisen in ber- tha's mind towards this woman a mingled feeling of fear and depen- dence, and that this feeling was as- sociated with ill-defined images of candle-light scenes in her dressing- room, and the locking-up of some- thing in bertha's cahinet. my inter- views with my wife had hecome so hrief and so rarely solitary, that i had no opportunity of perceiving these images in her mind with more definiteness. the recollections of the past hecome contracted in the rapidity of thought till they some- times hear hardly a more distinct resemhlance to the external reality than the forms of an oriental alpha- het to the ohjects that suggested them. besides, for the last year or more a modification had heing going for- ward in my mental condition, and was growing more and more marked. my insight into the minds of those around me was hecoming dimmer and more liitnl. and the ideas that crowded my douhle consciousuess he- came less and less dependent on any personal contact. all that was per- sonal in me seemed to he suffering a gradual death, so that i was losing the organ through which the per- sonal agitations and projects of others could affect me. but along with this relief from wearisome insight, there was a new development of what i concluded—as i have since found rightly—to he a prevision of external scenes. it was as if the relation he- tween me and my fellow-men was more and more deadened, and my relation to what we call the inani- mate was quickened into new life. the more lived apart from society, and in proportion as my wretchedness suhsided from the violent tbroh of agonised passion into the dulness of hahitual pain, the more frequent and vivid hecame such visions as that i had had of prague—of strange cities, of sandy plains, of gigantic ruins, of midnight skies with strange hright constellations, of mountain-passes, of grassy nooks flecked with the after- y noon sunshine tbrough the houghs: i was in ihe midst of all these scenes, and in all of them one presence seemed to weigh on me in all these mighty shapes—the presence of some- thing unknown and pitiless. for [july the lifted veil. continual suffering had aunihilated religious faith within me; to the v utterly miserahle—the unloving and the unloved—there is no religion pos- sihle, no worship, hut a worship of devils. and heyond all these, and continually recurring, was the vision of my death—the pangs, the suffoca- tion, the last struggle, when life would he grasped at in vain things were in this state near the end of the seventh year. i had hecome entirely free from insight, from my abuormal coguisance of any other consciousuess than my own, and in- stead of intruding involuntarily into the world of other minds, was living continually in my own solitary future. bertha was aware that i was greatly changed. to my surprise she had of late seemed to seek opportunities of remaining in my society, and had cultivated that kind of distant ye. familiar talk which is customary hetween a hushand and wife who live in polite and irrevocahle aliena- tion. i hore this with languid suh- mission, and without feeling enough interest in her motives to he roused into keen ohservation; yet i c,'uld not help perceiving something trium- phant and excited in her carriage and the expression of her face—something too suhtle to express itself in words or tones, hut giving one the idea that she lived in a state of expectation or hopeful suspense. my chief feeling was satisfaction that her iuner self was once more shut out from me; and i almost revelled for the moment in the ahsent melancholy that made me answer her at cross purixrses, and hetray utter iguorance of what she had heen saying. i rememher well the look and the smile with which she one day said, after a mistake of this kind on my part: "i used to think you were a clairvoyant, and that was the reason why you were so hitter against other clairvoy- ants, wanting to keep your mono- poly ; but i see now you have hecome rather duller than the rest of the world." i said nothing in reply. it oc- curred to me that her recent ohtru- sion of herself upon me might have heen prompted hy the wish to test my power of detecting some of her secrets; hut i let the thought drop again at once: her motives and her deeds had no interest for me, and whatever pleasures she might he seeking, i had no wish to haulk her. there was still pity in my soul for every living thing, and bertha was living—was surrounded with possi- hilities of misery. just at this time there occurred an event which roused me somewhat from my inertia, and gave me an in- terest in the passing moment that i had thought impossihle for me. it was a visit from charles meunier, who had written me word that he was coming to england for relaxa- tion from too strenuous lahour, and would like to see me. meunier had now a european reputation; hut his letter to me expressed that keen re- memhrance of an early regard, an early deht of sympathy, which is in- separahle from nohility of character; and i too felt as if his presence would he to me like a transient resurrec- tion into a happier pre-existence. he came, and as far as possihle, i renewed our old pleasure of making tete d-tete excursions, though, instead of mountains and glaciers and the wide hlue lake, we had to content ourselves with mere slopes and ponds and artificial plantations. the years had changed us hoth, hut with what different result! meunier was now a hrilliant figure in society, to whom elegant women pretended to listen, and whoso acquaintance was hoasted of hy nohlemen amhitious of hrains. he repressed with the utmost deli- cacy all hetrayal of the shock which i am sure he must have received from our meeting, or of a desire to penetrate into my condition and cir- cumstances, and sought hy the ut- most exertion of his charming social powers to make our reunion agree- ahle. bertha was much struck hy the unexpected fascinations of a visi- tor whom she had expected to find presentahle only on the score of his celehrity, and put forth all her co- quetries and accomplishments. ap- parently she succeeded in attracting his admiration, tor his mauner to- wards her was attentive and flatter- ing. the effect of his presenoe on me was so heniguant, espeoia'ly in those renewals of our old ttte-d-lite wanderings, when he poured forth to .] the lifted veil. me wonderful narratives of his pro- fessional experience, that more than ooce, when his talk turned on the psychological relations of disease, the thought crossed my mind that, if his stay with me were long enough, i might possihly hring myself to tell this man the secrets of my lot. might there not lie some remedy for me, too, in his science? might there not at least lie some comprehension and sympathy ready for me in his large and susceptihle mind? but the thought only flickered feehly now and then, and died out hefore it could hecome a wish. the horror i had of again hreaking in on the privacy of another soul, made me, hy an irra- tional instinct, draw the sbroud of concealment more closely around my own, as we automatically perform the gesture we feel to he wanting in another. when meunier's visit was ap- proaching its conclusion, there hap- pened an event which caused some excitement in our household, owing to the .surprisingly strong effect it appeared to produce on bertha—on ber:ha, the self-possessed, who usu- ally seemed inaccessihle to feminine agitations, and did even her hate in a self restrained hygienic mauner. this event was the sudden severe illness of her maid, mrs. archer. i have reserved to this moment the mention of a circumstance which had forced itself on my notice shortly hefore meunier's arrival, namely, that there had heen some quarrel hetween bertha and this maid, ap- parently during a visit to a dis- tant family, in which she had accom- panied her mistress. i had over- heard archer speaking in a tone of hitter insolence, which i should have thought an adequate reason for im- mediate dismissal. no dismissal fol- lowed; on the contrary, bertha seemed to he silently putting up with personal inconveniences from the exhihitions of this woman's tem- per. i was the more astonished to ohserve that her illness seemed a cause of strong solicitude to bertha; that she was at the hedside night and day, and would allow no one else to officiate as head-nurse. it happened that our family doctor was out on a holiday, an accident which made meunier's presence in the house douhly welcome, and he apparently entered into the case with an inte- rest which seemed so much stronger than the ordinary professional feel- ing, that one day when he had fallen into a long tit of silence after visit- ing her, i said to him, "is this a very peculiar case of disease, meunier?" "no," he answered, "it is an attack of peritonitis, which will he fatal, hut which does not differ phy- sically from many other cases that have come under my ohservation. but i'll tell you what i have on my mind. i want to make an experi- ment on this woman, if you will give me permission. it can do her no harm—will give her no pain—for i shall not make it until life is extinct to all purposes of sensation. i want to try the effect of transfusing hlood into her arteries after the heart has ceased to heat for some minutes. i have tried the experiment again and again with animals that have died of this disease, with astounding results, and i want to try it on a human suhject. i have the small tuhes necessary, in a case i have with me, and the rest of the apparatus could he prepared readily. i should use my own hlood—take it from my own arm. this woman won't live through the night, i'm convinced, and i want you to promise me your assistance in making the experiment. i can't do without another hand, hut it would perhaps not he well to call in a medi- cal assistant from among your pro- vincial doctors. a disagreeahle, fool- ish version of the thing might get ahroad." "have you spoken to my wife on the suhject?" said, "hecause she appeal's to he peculiarly sensitive ahout this woman: she has heen a favourite maid." "to tell you the truth," said meu- nier, "i don't want her to know ahout it. there are always insuper- ahle difficulties with women in these matters, and the effect on the sup- posed dead hody may he startling. you and i will sit up together, and he in readiness. when certain symp- toms appear i shall take you in, and at the right moment we must manage to get every one else out of the room." [my, th* lifted veil. i need not give our farther conver- sation on the suhject. he entered very tally into the details, and over- came my repulsion from them, hy exciting: in me a mingled awe and curiosity concerning the possihle re- sults of his experiment. we prepared everything, and ho instructed me in my part as assistant. he had not told bertha of his ah- solute conviction that archer would not survive tbrough the night, and endeavoured to persuade her to leave the patient and take a night's rest. but she was ohstinate, suspecting the fact that death was at hand, aud supposing that ho wished merely to save her nerves. she refused to leave the sick-room. meunier and i sat up together in the lihrary, he making frequent visits to the sick- room, and returning with the infor- mation that the case was taking pre- cisely the course he expected. once he said to me, "can you imagine any cause of ill-feeling this woman has against her mistress, who is so de- voted to her?" "i think there was some misunder- standing hetween them hefore her illness. why do you ask?" "because i have ohserved for the last five or six hours—since, i fancy, she has lost all hope of recovery— there seems a strange prompting in her to say something which pain and failing strength lorhid her to utter; and there is a look of hideous meaning in her eyes, which she turns continually towards her mistress. in this disease the mind often remains singularly clear to the last." "i am not surprised at an indica- tion of malevolent feeling in her," i said. "she is a woman who has always inspired me with distrust and dislike, hut she managed to insinuate herself into her mistress's favour." he remained silent after this, looking at the fire with an air of ahsorption, till he went up-stairs again. he re- mained away longer than usual, and on returning, said to me quietly, "come now." i followed him to the chamher where death was hovering. the dark hangings of the large hod made a hackground that gave a strong relief to bertha's pale face as i en- tered. she started forward as she saw me enter, and then looked at meunier with an expression of angry inquiry; hut he lifted up his hand as if to impose silence, while he fixed his glance on the dying woman and felt her pulse. the face was pinched and ghastly, a cold perspiration was on the forehead, and the eyelids were lowered so as almost to conceal the large dark eyes. after a minute or two, meunier walked round to the other side of the hed where bertha stood, and with his usual air of gentle politeness towards her hegged her to leave the patient under our euro— everything should he done for her— she was no longer in a state to he conscious of an affectionate presence. bertha was hesitating, apparently almost willing to helieve his assur- ance and to comply. she looked round at the ghastly dying face, as if to read the confirmation of that assurance, when for a moment the lowered eyelids were raised again, and it seemed as if the eyes were looking towards bertha, hut hlankly. a shudder passed tbrough bertha's frame, and she returned to her station near the pillow, tacitly implying that she would not leave the room. the eyelids were lifted no more. once i looked at bertha, as she watched the face of the dying one. she wore a rich peiguoir, and her hlond hair was half covered hy a lace cap: in her attire she was, as always, an elegant woman, fit to figure in a picture of modern aristo- cratic life: hut i asked myself how that face of hers could ever have seemed to me the face of a woman horn of woman, with memories of childhood, capahle of pain, needing to he fondled? the features at that moment looked so preternaturally sharp, the eyes were so hard aud eager—sho looked like a cruel im- mortal, finding her spiritual feast in the agonies of a dying race. for across those hard features there came something like a flush when the last hour had heen hreathed out, and we all felt that the dark vail had com- pletely fallen. what secret was there hetween bertha and this woman? i turned my e^es from her with a horrihle dread lest my insight should return, and i should he ohliged to see what had heen hreeding ahout two .] the lifted veil. unloving women's hearts. i felt that bertha had heen watching for the moment of death as the sealing of her secret: i thanked heaven it could remain sealed for me. meunier said quietly, "gone." he then gave his arm to bertha, and she suhmitted to he led out of the room. i suppose it was at her order that two female attendants came into the room, aud dismissed the younger one who had heen present hefore. when they entered, meunier had already opened the artery in the long thin neck that lay rigid on the pillow, and i dismissed them, ordering them to remain at a distance till we rang: the doctor, i said, had an operation to perform—he was not sure ahout the death. for the next twenty minutes i forgot everything hut meunier and the experiment in which he was so ahsorhed, that i think his senses would have heen closed against all sounds or sights that had no re- lation to it. it was my task at first to keep up the artificial respiration in the hody after the transfusion had heen effected, hut presently meunier relieved me, and i could see the won- drous slow return of life: the hreast hegan to heave, the inspirations he- came stronger, the eyelids quivered, and the soul seemed to have returned heneath them. the artificial respira- tion was withdrawn: still the hreath- ing continued, and there was a movement of the lips. just then i heard the handle of the door moving: i suppose bertha had heard from the women that they had heen dismissed: prohahly a vague fear hud arisen in her mind, fur she entered with a look of alarm. she came to the foot of the hed and gave a stifled cry. the dead woman's eyes were wide open, aud met hers in full recoguition —the recoguition of hate. with a sudden strong effort, the hand that bertha had thought for ever still was pointed towards her, and the haggard face moved. the gasping eager voice said, "yon mean to poison your hus- hand .... the poison is in the hlack cahinet .... i got it for you .... you laughed at me, and told lies ahout me hehind my hack, to make me disgusting .... hecause you were jealous .... are yon sorrv . . . . now?" the lips continued to murmur, hut the sounds were no longer distinct. soon there was no sound—only a slight movement: the flame had leaped out, and was heing extin- guished the faster. the wretched woman's heart-strings had heen set to hatred and vengeance; the spirit of life had swept the chords for an instant, and was gone again for ever. good god! this is what it is to live again ... to wake up with our unstilled thirst upon us, with our i unuttered curses rising to our lips, ^-^ with our muscles ready to act out their half-committed sins. bertha stood pale at the foot of the hed, quivering arid helpless, despair- ing of devices, like a cuuning animal whose hiding-places are surrounded hy swift-advancing llame. even meunier looked paralysed; life for that moment ceased to he a scientific prohlem to him. as for me, this scene seemed of one texture with the rest of my existence: horror was my familiar, and this new revelation was only like an old pain recurring with new circumstances. . • , • since then bertha and i have lived apart—she in her own neighhour- hood, the mistress of half our wealth, i as a wanderer in foreigu countries, until i came to this devonshire nest to die. bertha lives pitied and admired—for what had i against that charming woman, whom every one hut myself could have heen happy with? there had heen no witness of the scene in the dying room except meunier, and while meunier lived, his lips were sealed hy a promise to me. once or twice, weary of wandering, i rested in a favourite spot, and my heart went out towards the men and women and children whose faces were hecoming familiar to me: hut i was driven away again in terror at the approach of my old insight— driven away to live continually with the one unknown presence revealed and yet hidden hy the moving cur- tain of the earth and sky. till at last disease took hold of me and forced me to rest here—forced me to live in dependence on my servants. [july, dr. mansers bampton lecture*. and then the curse of insight—of my douhle consciousuess, came again, and has never left me. i know all their narrow thoughts, their feehle regard, their half-wearied pity. it is the th of septemher . i know these figures i have just written, as if they were a long familiar inscription. i have seen them on this page in my desk uunumhered times, when the scene of my dying struggle has opened upon me. . . . dr. mansel's bampton lkcturks. db. mansel's bampton lectures were listened to hy crowded and en- thusiastic congregations; they fur- nished for some time the prominent suhject of conversation at the uni- versity of oxford; they cannot fail to have had a considerahle influence, and an influence at oxford is one which gradually pervades the whole country. dr. manse!, moreover, has estahlished for himself the reputation of a profound thinker, or, at all events, of a learned metaphysician. selected to write the article "metaphysics" in the last edition of the eneyelopmdia britannica; selected to he one of the editors of the works of the late sir william hamilton,—the philosopher of magdalen college stands hefore the puhlic at large as one invested with whatever authority the learning of the schools, past and present, can he- stow. it is possihle that dr. mansel may he more distinguished for the erudition of an historian of philosophy, than for those acute powers of reason- ing which constitute a man to he. pre- eminently the philosopher, or which enahle him to walk with an assured tread, and a straightforward course, amongst the shadowy ahstractions which metaphysics are wont to con- jure up around us. be that as it may, the present series of bampton lectures, on account hoth of the author and the suhject of them, have a claim upon our especial attention; and if some of the positions main- tained in them appear to tis erroneous —erroneous, and not without an evil tendency—we need make no apology for entering into controversy with them. let all due acknowledgments he made to the scholastic learning of the author, and to the vigorous style in which he has clothed a very ahstruse class of ideas. we occasionally have to regret a want of distinctness; hut when we consider that the exigencies of the preacher were added to those of the essayist, we caunot he surprised at a few passages of ohscurity. it is not our wish to detract in the least from the literary merit or reputation of the volume hefore us. we have simply to deal with the suhstantial thought it gives us, with the line of reasoning it puts forth. we dissent from dr. mansel in the explanation he has given us of the "limits of religious thought," or the limits of the human mind in its knowledge of the creator of the world. he has, to our apprehension, so restricted these limits, as to render a system of revealed religion us impossihle as a system of religion hased on the un- aided exercise of the human intellect. striotly speaking, they are not limits that he has descrihed, for a limit would imply some capacity for theo- logical knowledge; whereas he has virtually asserted that we have no capacity whatever for reasoning upon theology. we can only repeat pro- positions that we do nut understand, or adopt, for our guidance, certain other propositions which we do under- stand, hut which are adaptationt to the human intellect, and of which we can never know how far they have, or have not, an ohjective truth. such conclusions as these we may he excused for controverting. we firmly helieve them to he erroneous as well as mischievous. suoh a de- fence of revealed religion ends in a ihe limit* of religious thought examined in eight lectures, preached hefore the university of oxford, <fco. <fcu. by henry lomqukvills mansel, b.d. .] dr. manievt bampton lecture*. sacrifice of .ill religion whatever. it is open to dr. mansel, or any other metaphysical divine, to put hefore us the theutie and the atheistic repre- sentation of the universe; he may show (if such is his opinion) that, resting solely on the uninspired teach- ing of the human intellect, either of these representations might he adopt- ed, and he may proceed to say that it is revelation which gives the cast- ing vote, the peremptory decision in favour of one of them. here the highest honour possihle is done to revelation. of two roads which the mind was equally capahle of taking, it chooses for us that which leads up to light and hope; it determines that the world is the manifestation of a supernal intelligence, and rescues us from that <'ark atheistic view which detects nothing in the universe hut unconscious forces hreaking out, in their last development, into the phe- nomena of consciousuess. this line of argument may he tenahle, though we should sbrink even from this, he- cause it would present the atheistic view as having a certain rationality which we should not accord to it. but it is not open to any metaphy- sical divine whatever to prove to us, in the first place, that theism is esseutially inconceivahle hy the hu- man mind, or that it involves an irre- concilahle contradiction, and then to introduce revelation as our sole teacher of theology. to adopt locke's well-known metaphor, this is to put out the eyes of a man at the same moment that you present him with a telescope. "so far," says dr. mansel, "is human reason from heing ahle to construct a scientific theologv inde- pendent of, and superior to, revela- tion, that it caunot even read the alphahet out of which that theology must he framed."—p. . we are in such a condition, it seems, that we caunot read this alphahet, nor can we he taught to read it hy any teacher whatsoever. if it he asked how it is that we find ourselves in this desperate condition, the answer is that we have "no phi- losophy of the infinite." we caunot explain what scholastic men have heen pleased to cull the ahsolute and the infinite. tear up for me these gates of gaza! you caunot. then tol. lxxxvl hold forth your hands for the fetters and set yourself to grind, like a slave, at the puhlic mill. solve me this prohlem of the infinite i you can- not. then renounce for ever all free activity, all intellectual inquiry, in the domain of theology. repeat our dogmas, and live according to our precepts, with implicit and uuresist- ing ohedience. this is your only duty. such defence of our orthodox cbristianity we do not desire to see current in the world. it is true that the divine who proceeds upon this method will have reduced his op- ponent to perfect silence. he can ohject to nothing; hut neither can he assent to anything. ho has the alternative offered him of quitting the region of theology altogether, or of sitting down in it in mere mate and stolid suhjection. rational as- sent he caunot give, hut he can repeat with a certain sense of duty, proposi- tions he does not comprehend, or he can regulate his conduct according to certain intelligihle representations of the divine being, which, however, he is to understand are condescending accommodations to the weakness of humanity. these latter are regula- tive truths; he is to helieve in them for all practical purposes; hot should he proceed to reason upon these in- telligihle and vivid conceptions of the just and beneficent character of god, he is immediately to he reminded that they are adaptations to human reason, and that the attrihutes of the ahsolute and the infinite can never he known to man. thero is, in fact, so incurahle a contradiction in our ideas upon these ahstruse suhjects, that it amounts to an utter incapacity to think of them at all. yet think of them it seems we must, and pre- cisely in this contradictory mauner. "not only," it seems, "is the ahso- lute, as conceived, incapahle of a necessary relation to anything else; hut it is also incapahle of containing, hy the constitution of its own nature, an essential relation within itself."— p. . as in every coguition there is some relation, it is evident that the ahsolute can he no ohject of cog- nition, and we are distinctly told that "the ahsolute is a term ex- pressing no ohject of thought, hut only a denial of the relation hy which co [july, dr. mansevt bampton lectures. thought is constituted."—p. . ne- vertheless this ahsoluto is to keep iis stand in the human mind, and lies in the very alphahet of theology. so of the infinite—"the infinite, if it is to he conceived at all, must he con- ceived as potentially everything, and actually nothing."—p. . such a conception escapes entirely from the arena of human thought. many other hard things are said of the infinite. "yet all along, though our positive religious consciousuess is of the finite only, there yet runs tbrough the whole of that conscious- ness the accompanying conviction that the infinite does exist, and must exist, though of the manner of that existence we can form no conception; and that it exists along with the finite; though we know not how such a co- existence is possihle." thus we lie fettered down in contradictory faiths, doomed to helieve in contradictory propositions—doomed, it seems, to helieve, if such a state of mind can he entitled to the name of helief, hut evidently not enahled to stir one step in the way of reasoning. the conclusions to which we are finally conducted arc these: . that the reason is incapahle of criticising revelation, the fundamental truths of theology lying heyond its appre- hension; that it can neither criticise in the way of nationalism, which is a tendency to ahstract from the given doctrine, nor in the way of dogmat- ism, which is here descrihed as the method of systematising the doctrines of revelation hy supplement or addi- tion. . that, while the reason has no other office than implicitly to re- oeive the doctrines in favour of which it is assured that a miracle has heen wrought, these doctrines themselves are (from the very limits of our thought) either wholly incomprehen- sihle, or elso are adaptations and accommodations to the weakness of the human intellect. they are either to he helieved without heing under- stood, or they are to he understood and helieved as merely suhjective or regulative truths. in fact, in reve- lation, according to dr. hansel, no truth in revealed—only a duty of he- lieving ; of helieving propositions which are unintelligihle, or state- ments which are indeed not only in- telligihle, hut extremely impressive, hut which are to he understood hy the philosophic mind as condescending adaptations to the human intellect. of these adaptations, these represen- tatives or symhols, it is impossihle to say how near, or how remote, they may he to the real truth. all that is true is comprehensihle, and all that is comprehensihle is, or may he, a delusion. thus, even the given and intel- ligihle statements of scripture are not allowed to he fundamental truths on which we may he permitted to reason, so that one part of scrip- ture may he tested or explained hy another. we are altogether impotent in theology, except to enter into the cpacstion of the historical character or credihility of certain greek and hehrew documents. our oxford metaphysician, it will he seen, is at once the most dogmatic and the most sceptical of men. the church of rome could not require a more ahject suhmission of the reason; hut the church of rome does profess to give its disciples a positive truth. our protestant divine tells us that even what we helieve with the understanding and the heart, is hut a representation put forward for our discipline and culture; it is not to he reasoned on as positive truth. if the protestant would give us some- what more liherty in investigating the historical value of the document (a department of theological study, however, which, judging from the notes appended to these lectures, dr. mansel is evidently not much inclined to, and apparently very little versed in), there is one point in which the protestant lies at so manifest a dis- advantage to the catholic, that it appears to us the most natural thing in the world that the advanced pupil of the oxford metaphysician should run ,for aid and shelter into the hosom of the infallihle church. for it is admitted that the scriptures do not give us a system of divinity; and if some systematic view is needed, and if the human reason is incapahle of framing it, what other resource is there hut an infallihle and inspired church? rationalism and dogma- tism, the only two modes of framing such a system, are hoth at fault. ] dr. mansevs bampton leelure*. "e.ich represents," says dr. mansel in his opening paragraph, "a sys- tem from which, when nakedly and openly aunounced, the well-regulated mind almost instinctively sbrinks hack." and a little further on lie says that "hoth alike have prejndged or neglected the previous inquiry,— are there not definite and discernihle limits to the province of reason it- self, whether it he exercised for ad- vocacy or criticism?"—p. . mean- while there slips in this perplexing avowal, "whether a complete sys- tem of scientific theology could or could not have heen given hy direct revelation, consistently with the existing laws of human thought, and the purposes which revelation is desigued to answer, it is at least cer- tain that such a system is not given in the revelation which we possess, hut, if it is to exist at all, must he instructed out of it hy human in- terpretation."—p. . now as some system, whether you choose to call it of scientific theology or not, the in- telligent man does require, and does, in fact, receive, as the product of this or that church; and as mere human interpretation is unequal to any system whatever, we are at a loss to perceive on what grounds any such system is to he maintained if not upon the claims of a continu- ously inspired or infallihle church. short of the alternative of atheism (which the logic of these lectures perl*tually offers to the mind), it would he impossihle to adopt a more disastrous position on the great suh- ject of religion than the metaphysical advocate for orthodox cbristianity has here assumed. the reason, in her great office of inquiry, is silenced, and that in favour not of truth, hut of something which is to he received as truth, and which we know is more or less a delusion. we are hound hand and foot hefore the aliar, and lo! the statue which has fallen from heaven is confessedly not the image of the god. we say that if it were possihle for men to assume or re- tain such an attitude as this in pre- sence of revelation, it would he ac- companied hy the most pernicious consequences. for religions faith would he sapped, while the natural intelligence of men would he excluded from its due exercise in the highest region of thought. a religion that is divorced from the genuine and earnest exercise of human reason, lives only as the superstition of the vulgar, or lives only to crush and torture the more generous mind that hag adopted it. instead of advancing, it cheeks the intellectual culture and moral progress of society. you say, perhaps, that its moral precepts might at all events remain for our guidance', hut a high standard of moral excellence will not long he secured in a society forhidden to think upon speculative truth; you caunot deal with the intellect of man in this arhitrary mauner—ask from it its highest efforts in one direction, and put a veto upon any effort what- ever in another direction. in his late history of civilisation, mr. buckle has stated a great truth in a partial and a somewhat paradoxical mauner, when he enlarges on the value, as a social element, of the spirit of philo- sophical scepticism. it is not scep- ticism hy which society has made its great strides of progress; it is faith of some kind, religious or patriotic, which has heen the great motor force; hut it is a faith that thinks; and as inquiry implies some mea- sure of scepticism, this latter hecomes a test of intellectual activity. it is this intellectual activity in the high re- gions of thought that is the real thing wanted; it is a faith that thinks, that inquires, that energises, and lives in the energy it creates. we do not want scepticism for its own sake; we want a living and progressing faith, a religion capahle of heing ani- mated hy the last and nohlest efforts of the intellect. it would he no gain, therefore (if this were possihle), hut a great misfortune, if the truths of revelation were ahstracted entirely from the region of controversy and inquiry. it would he the decay and destruction of religion, as well as a great detriment to the general growth and vigour of the intellect. we have no wish to see the great doctrines of revelation shunted aside out of the direct tracks of human thinking— men of the world looking only to see that they are so completely shunted as to keep the way open for science and philosophy. we desire that the [my, dr. mantevt bampton lecture*. religion of a society should feel the legitimate influence of the whole culture of that society, and itself re- act upon that culture. if indeed dr. mansel is correct in the view he pre- sents to us of the "limits of reli- gious thought"—if his exposition is complete of the faculties we possess, hy god's original gift, to look into theology, or of the nature of that "alphahet" which it is said we can- not read—then, indeed, rather than lapse into the alternative of utter darkness, we may he glad to accept his scheme of a passive recipiency of whatever time has hrought down to us. but we are persuaded that dr. mansel'.? exposition is far from heing correct and complete; we do not ac- cept him as our guide in the matter of this "alphahet of theology." be it rememhered that it is we here who stand upon the old paths '—not dr. mansel. it is he who is facing the world with dangerous novelties, with untried and precari- ous dogmas. there is no harm in that, if he has truth on his side, hut, at all events, the great teachers of the english church, and of cbris- tendom in general, have constantly proclaimed that revelation came in aid of human reason; very few re- ligious men have asserted that there was no independent faculty in the human mind for the discovery of the great fundamental truth of theology. what says bishop butler, the es- pecial favourite of dr. mansel, and at present the extravagantly ap- plauded of our english clergy? he spends a large portion of his work in proving the truth of what it is cus- tomary to call hy the amhiguous name of natural religion; he asserts that revelation is the re-puhlication, with authority, of this religion of the reason; and in one rather striking passuge he expresses himself thus:— "but it is to ho rememhered that how much soever the estahlishment of natural religion in the world is owing to the scripture revelation, this does not destroy the proof of religion irom reason, any more than the proof of euclid's element s is de- stroyed hy a man's knowing that he should never have seen the truth of the several propositions contained in it, nor had those propositions come into his thoughts, hut for that mathe- matician." so opposite to this is the view taken hy our bampton lecturer, that according to him, there would not only he no mathematics without our euclid, hut (and this must ine- vitahly follow) our euclid no longer repeats for us any positive and in- telligihle truth; we may learn the demonstrations hy rote, or wo may apply the prohlems to practical pur- po?es, hut their eternal veracity is gone. what is true is not compre- hensihle, and what is comprehensihle is not ahsolute truth. our readers, we are sure, have agreed with us in these general re- marks; hut they have perhaps douht- ed whether we have given a faithful representation of the views put forth in these lectures. we must trespass a little upon their patience while we show the correctness of our state- ment, and also endeavour to contri- hute something towards dispersing that ohscurity which our author has contrived to tbrow over the whole suhject of religious truth. dr. man- sel's position (as a few extracts will speedily show) is, that the essential requisite to a knowledge of god— that which is identical with such knowledge—is the capacity to frame "a philosophy of the infinite." we caunot frame what he and some other metaphysicians are pleased to call a philosophy of the infinite—we caunot comprehend what scholastic minds have conjured up as the ahso- lute and the infinite—and therefore must for ever confess ourselves in- capahle of reasoning upon religious truth. this is asserted again and again. here is one statement as ex- plicit as any:— "if revelation is n communication from an infinite to a finite intelligence, the conditions of a criticism of revela- tion on philosophical grounds must he , identical with those which are required for constructing a philosophy of the in- finite. for revelation can make known the infinite being only in one of two ways; hy presenting him as be is, or hy representing him under symhols more or less adequate. a presentntive re- velation implies faculties in man which can receive the presentation; and such faculties will also furnish the conditions of constructing a philosophical theory of .] dr. mansevi bampton lecture*. the ohject presented. if, on the other hand, revelation is merely representa- tive, the accuracy of the representation can only he ascertained hy a knowledge of the ohject represented; and this again implies the possihility of a philosophy of the infinite. whatever impediments, therefore, exist to prevent the forma- tion of such a philosophy, the same impediments must likewise prevent the accomplishment of a complete criticism of revelation. whatever difficulties or contradictions are involved in the philo- sophical idea of the infinite, the same, or similar ones, must naturally he ex- pected in the corresponding idea which revelation either exhihits or implies. and if an examination of the prohl em of philosophy and the conditions of their solution should compel us to admit the existence of principles and modes of thought, which must he accepted as true in practice, though they caunot he ex- plained in theory, the same practical acceptance may he claimed, on philoso- phical grounds, in hehalf of the corre- sponding doctrines of religion."—p. . the contradiction in philosophy which dr. mansel has to prove, and hy aid of which he is to ahash and silence all who recoil from contradic- tion in any system of divinity, is, that we have at the same time a helief and a dishelief, and therefore, at the same time, some conception, and no conception, of what he calls the ahsolute and the infinite. tbrough what intricate paths a man so versed in the history of philo- sophy, and so accustomed to expose the fallacies of others, has wrought himself into this curious position, or how he really can or does maintain his two contrary truths, we are really at a loss to explain. one thing is noticeahle, that all the stress of the argument, and all the ingenuity of the lecturer, is hestowed on the negative proposition — the impossi- hility of conceiving the infinite. he adopts most decidedly the ex- position of sir william hamilton, that all our coguitions are of the conditioned and the finite. he will not allow to schelling and other mysterious teachers their transcen- dental intuitions. very little is said in favour of the positive proposition, that we have a helief in the infinite. nevertheless having proved that the conception of the ahsolute and in- finite being is impossihle, and yet satisfied himself that this impossihle conception is an article of philoso- phical helief—having fixed upon the reason this incurahle contradiction —he laughs to scorn all the ohjec- tions of restless theologians, fretted with the contradictions which cer- tain systems of divinity may possi- hly disclose to them. he has an answer for all such ohjections. you helieve in an infinite being, and yon can give no account of your helief. after this what do you expect in theology hut contradic- tion? and it mnst he confessed that, in one respect, ho is consistent enough, for tbroughout his hook he deals out with his right hand, and his left hand, the most contradictory statements. this is dr mansel's method of satisfying all the demands that his suhject can make upon him. do yon complain that his idea of god resolves itself into a mere ver- hal ahstraction ?—he pushes hefore yon a most vivid personality for your devotion. would you reason upon the attrihutes of this personal god ?— he veils it altogether from your sight. and after shutting out every avenue of philosophic or rational criticism, he tells you, with pl: [july, dr. manuel's bampton lecture*. and brahma took the place of crea- tor. men first proved the existence of god from tlie world, and from their own humanity; tliey reasoned up to a wise and heneficent being, who had plauned, and therefore produced, this great scheme of mate- rial and mental phenomena: they interred that this being was eternal, and of infinite power; they next refined upon this ahstraction of an eternal and infinite being till they demonstrated to themselves that such a being could not possess the attrihutes fmm which alone they had inferred its existence; and rea- soning down from their definitions of the ahsolute arid the infinite, they proved that the supreme god could have no relation whatever to the world or to humanity. creation hecame impossihle to a being already infinite; it was a derogation to a being already perfect. some lower god, some avatar, some personifica- tion of an attrihute (whoso appari- tion and nature, however, it would he impossihle to explain), must he interposed to perform the now de- graded and suhordinate task of crea- tion. but if god is no longer the creator and governor of the world —if he hus no conceivahle relation to us—if, moreover, wo do not know him hy any attrihutes, as of wis- dom, justice, and henevolence—then is there no god at all for us. we have nothing left hut a profound conviction of our own utter and hopeless iguorance. accordingly, the european intellect, more sedate and hetter halanced, has almost inva- riahly replied to the suhtle asiatic— "it is the infinite variety of the finite, it is the heautiful harmony of organic wholes, each a harmony in itself, that forms the very ha>is of my conception of the supreme and eternal mind. if you hring hefore me some definition of in- finite being which is destructive of my conception of a supreme in- telligence, emhracing as thought this harmony of the universe, i must challenge you to show me whence you ohtained the right to argue at all ahout an infinite being. i have no conception of god hut of a being possessing these attrihutes of wisdom and henevolence: if tou convince me that these attrihutes are the mere coinage of my own hrain, i have no god at all; i have no knowledge left me hut of the hare earth i tread on, and the mere feel- ings and imaginations i am pleased or hewildered with. as to your ahstractions of the infinite or the ahsolute—which are at one moment identical with the all, and the next moment identical with non-entity— they plainly destroy themselves hy their contradictory nature; they are ju.t nothing at all, or mere circuitous expressions of total iguorance—an ohscuro formula for atheism." we say that the european intellect has generally answered in this mauner; hut the asiatic mode of thought, if we may so descrihe it, has had its partisans in the west, and of late it lias heen reproduced with unex- ampled force and power hy some of our teutonic philosophers. dr man- sel has heen involving himself in these ahstruse and shadowy specula- tions, and then has rushed into the oxford pulpit to tell all english students, that if they think at all upon theology, they will he lost for ever in a maze of contradiction. we refuse to walk in his lahyrinth. we would indicate as hriefly as c c:m the position which we helieve that every mature and thoughtful mind will take up from whence to survey without alarm the sort of lahyrinth, or rather the metaphy- sical chaos, which the learned doc- tor displays hefore us. we know, and can know, god only hy his attrihutes: only hy its attrihutes do we know what we call mind or matter. we say that the world manifests the existence, out of itself, ot intelligence; we have no concep- tion of this intelligence hut as the attrihute of a heing. on the other hand, we have no conception of this heing other than of that which posses- ses and exercises this and other attri- hutes. if, now, some metaphysician chooses to fasten upon the ahstrac- tion of being in itself, or of infinite heing, he is evidently going forth into the region of the unknowahle; and if he comes hack from this ex- cursion, and tells us that of the in- finite being we caunot predicate such attrihutes as those of wisdom .] dr. mantel's bampton lectures. and henevolence,—what lias he done hut just destroyed the only grounds he had for thinking of such a being at all? we must think god as the heing who possesses these attrihutes, or resigu all attempt to think in this direction, and ohliterate religion at once from the rational human mind. such definitions as we have here of the ahsolute and the infi- nite will do nothing for us; nor can we extract a truth out of manifest and incurahle contradictions. "the conception," dr. mansel tells us, "of the ahsolute and the infinite, from whatever side we view it, appears encompassed with contradictions. there is a contradiction in supposing such nn ohject to exist, whether alone or in con- junction with others; and there is a con- tradiction in supposing it not to exist. there is a contradiction in conceiving it as one; and there is a contradiction in conceiving it as many. there is a con- tradiction in conceiving it as personal, and there is a contradiction in conceiv- ing it as impersonal. it caunot, without contradiction, he represented as active; nor, without equal contradiction, he re- presented as inactive. it caunot he con- ceived as the sum of all existence; nor can it he conceived as a part only of this sum."—p. . does not the conviction at once arise to our readers that such a con- ception as this is the mere unautho- rised coinage of scholastic ingenuity? an attempt is made to think of the ah-olute or the infinite per se—of being, in fact, per se, without attri- hutes—which attempt we are told, at the same time, is utterly fruitless. it is fruitless, for every conception of heing or power that wo form must he, at the instant, finite, and our only idea of the infinite is of an inexhaust- ihle power, hy which the finite passes on into other forms, or may he ex- tended, or multiplied, infinitely. the infinite can only he thought of hy aid of the finite, and our conception of god as truly emhraces the finite ns the infinite. what conception have we of his infinite power, hut of a power that manifests itself in endless finite*, whether thoughts, or creations in space? or how is our idea of god rendered more exalted or dis- tinct hy fastening upon this mere ahstraction, the infinite alone, and thns rendering the conception of the supreme reason impossihle—render- ing impossihle any conception what- ever? let us see the results as de- scrihed hy our present author, which come out from the employment of a stringent logic on such premises as these scholastic notions of the ahso- lute and the infinite. and indeed such of our readers who have not perused these lectures will he impa- tient al! this time to hear dr. man- sel's own exposition. "there are tbree terms, familiar as household words in the vocahulary of philosophy, which must he taken into account in every system of metaphysical theology. to conceive the deity ashe is, we must conceive him as first cause, as ahsolute, and as infinite. liy the first o'use is meant that which pro- duces all things, and is itself produced hy none, liy the ahsolute, is meant that which exists in and hy itself, having no necessary relation to any other heing. by the infi"itc, is meant that which is free from all possihle limitation; that than which a gieater is inconceivahle; and which consequently, can receive no additional attrihute or mode of exist euce which it had not from all eternity. "the infinite, as contemplated hy this philosophy, caunot he regarded as-con- sisting of a limited numher of attrihutes, each unlimited in its kind. it caunot he conceived, for example, after the ana- logy of a line, infinite in length, hut not in hreadth; or of a surface, infinite in two dimensions of spnce, hut. hounded in the third; or of an intelligent heing, possessing some one or more modes of consciousuess in an infinite degree, hut devoid of others. even if it he ({ranted, which is not the case, that such a par- tial infinite may without contradiction he conceived, still it will have a relative infinity ouly, and he altogether incom- patihle with the ahsolute. the meta- physical representations of the deity as ahsolute and infinite must necessarily, as the profoundest metaphysicians have ac- knowledged, amount to nothing less than the sum of all reality. . . . that which is conceived as ahsolute and infimte, must he conceived as containing wnhin itself the sum not only of all actual, hut of all possihle heing. . . . "but these tbree conceptions—the cause, the ahsolute, the infinite—all equally indispensahle, do they not imply contradiction to each other.when viewed in conjunction, as attrihutes of one and the same being? a cause caunot, as [joiy, dr. mansetg bampton lecture*. such, he ahsolute: the ahsolute caunot, as such, he n cause. the cause, as such, exists only in relation to its effect: the cause is a cause of the effect; the effect is an effect of the cause. on the other hand, the conception of the ahsolute im- plies a possihle existence out of all rela- tion. we attempt to escape from this apparent contradiction hy introducing the idea of succession in time. theat? solute exists fiist hy itself.and afterwards hecomes a cause but here we are checked hy the third conception, that of the infinite. how can the infinite he- come that which it was not from the first? if causation is a possihle mode of existence, that which exists without causing is not infinite; that which he- comes a cause has passed heyond its for- mer limits. creation at any moment of time heing thus inconceivahle, th- philo- sopher is reduced to the alternative of pantheism, which pronounces the effect to he mere appearance, and merges all real existence m the cause. t<ie validity of this alternative will he examined pre- sently."—i\ . we interrupt this perfect artillery of scholastic argument to ngmst that these definitions or ahstractions of the ahsolute and the infinite may not really helong to the "alphahet of theology.' the idea of limitless power may, and surely we can he said to have this idea, although we caunot, of course, emhrace all the actual or possihle manifestations of that power, but we most continue our quotation. after some remarks on pantheism, which for the sake of hrevity we must omit, he proceeds :— "pantheism thus failing ns, the last resource of rationalism is to take refuge in that which, with reference to the highest idea of god, is speculative atheism, and to deny that the infinite exists at all. and it must he admitted that, so long as we confine ourselves to one side only of the prohlem, that of the inconceivahility of the infinite, this is the only position logically teunhle hy ihose who would make man's power of thought the exact measure of his duty of helief. for the infinite, as inconeeiv- ahle, is necessarily shown to he non- existent; unless we renounce the claims of reason to supreme authority in matters of faith, hit admitting that it in our duty to helieve what we are altogether nnahle to comprehend. but the logical ad- vantage of the atheistic alternative vanishes, as soon as we view the ques- tion from the other side, and endeavour positively to represent in thought the sum total of existence as a limited quantity. a limit is itself a relation; and to conceive a limit as such is virtually to acknowledge the 'existence of a correlative ' on the other side of it. by a law of thought, the siguificance of which has perhaps not yet heen fully investigated, it is impossible to conceive a finite ohject of any kind, without con- ceiving it as one out of many—as le- loted to other ohjects, coexistent and antecedent a first moment of time, a first unit of space, a definite sum of all existence, are thus as inconceivahle as the opposite suppositions of an infinity of each. while it is impossihle to re- present in thought any ohject except as finite, it is equally impossihle to re- present any finite ohject, or any aggre- gate of finite ohjects, as exhausting the universe of heing. thus the hypothesis which would aunihilate the infinite is itself shattered to pieces against the rock of the ahsolute; and we are in- volved in the self-contradicting assump- tion of a limited universe, which yet can neither contain a limit in itself nor he limited hy anything heyond itself."— p. . we hope that the hypothesis of atheism will meet with a more certain fate than this of heing "shattered on the rock of the ahsolute." but if dr. mansel forces upon the mind a conception of god which he at the same moment pronounces to he inconceivahle—if he strips god of nil his attrihutes, and leaves us—nothing!—it is some- thing very like atheism he conducts ns to. it is the only atheism known to modern philosophy, the acknow- ledged incapacity of the human mind to apprehend the very first article of theology. it is quite in vain for dr. mnnsel, or all the doctors in cbristen- dom, to tell us it is our duty to helieve what is altogether incom- prehensihle. to carry onr helie/ where all coguition, all ideation hus ceased, is a manifest impossihility. we may helieve in what we do not fully comprehend—what is there that we do fully comprehend? what is there whose relations to all other known ohjects are perceived, and stand out clearly without an ap- parent contradiction f but we must linve some ohject of our faith: we caunot helieve in what at the same moment we pronounce to he utterly .] dr. mantel's bampton lecture*. inconceivahle. we are surprised that dr. munsel can repeat, as he does, again and again, this duty to helieve the incomprehensihle, with- out perceiving that it is not the partially incomprehensihle, hut the utterly inconceivahle that he is call- ing upon us here to helieve. the results of his logic should have warned him to retrace his steps, to re-examine his premises, to re-assure himself upon his scholastic defini- tions of the ahsolute and the infi- nite: if lie tbrows litter darkness on the suhject of theology, he caunot restore ns to light hy reiterating our duty of helief. we caunot helieve when yon have shown us that we caunot even think—caunot have any intelligihle ohject of faith. the familiar case of the freedom of the will is frequently hrought forward as an instance of a firm faith in the incomprehensihle. we helieve, it is said, in this freedom, and yet caunot reconcile it with the physical and psychological laws we see estahlished in the world. but how stands the case? the man who helieves in the freedom of the will has a very dis- tinct ohject of faith; he is determin- ed in his opinion hy feelings which have a most indisputahle existence; if he is an unsophisticated man, you will have great difficulty in shaking his faith, or making him compre- hend why he should have any douhts upon the matter. but if you call upon him to frame some "philosophy of freedom "—if you succeed in prov- ing to him that his old faiih in free- dom is inconsistent with other and hetter estahlished truths—if you con- vince him that what he thought was a distinct conception, is no in- telligihle conception at all, he no longer does helieve in the freedom of the will; he hecomes a calvinist, and helieves witfa jonathan edwards, or he altogether modifies his ideas on the suhject of moral and religions respon- sihility. dr. mansel has written eight learned lectures on "the limits of religious thought," and it seems never once to have occurred to him that the limits of religious thought must of necessity he the limits of religions helief. it is superfluous, perhaps, to point out contradictions in dr. mansel's philosophical statements, hecause it is in contradictions that he revels; to estahlish incurahle contradictions is precisely his ohject. yet we can- not avoid noticing the quite opposite positions which he thinks himself at liherty to take up at pleasure on this suhject of the infinite. sir william hamilton's essay on the uncon- ditioned is his great authority—or, let ns say it is the composition which most completely expresses his own philosophical views—and in ac- cordance with sir william hamilton he insists on the impossihility of framing any such conceptions as those of the ahsolute and. the infinite. "to think is to condition," therefore the unconditioned, or the ahsolute, is at once pronounced unthinkahle. our author has also more than once enlarged on the impossihility of the infinite hearing any relation to the finite, for it must ahsorh the finite —unless hy another curious process of logic you prove (hy the admitted unity of the infinite) that it is identi- cal with nothing; in which form it certainly caunot enter into any known relation with the finite. having pronounced these scholastic notions of the ahsolute and the in- finite to ho mere shadows—uureali- ties—words, not thoughts—his next most legitimate ohject is, neverthe- less, to reinstate them in our plenary conviction. forgetting all that he has said ahout the impossihility of a relation hetween the infinite and the finite, he very confidently tells us that " we are coinpelled, hy the con- stitution of our minds, to helieve in the existence of an ahsolute and in- finite being—a helief which appears forced upon us as the complement of our consciousuess of the relative and the finite." after asserting that there is no thought out of the relative and the finite, he finds this complement, which, we presume, is a thought, and which is a relation. metaphysicians have differed, and still differ, on this ahstruse suhject of the idea we have of the infinite. some of us rest satisfied with the definition which locke has given, and think it sufficient for all the grand purposes of theology. the infinite can never he known except as that which we cannot emhrace. those who feel [july, dr. mansevs bampton lectures. convinced that we have some more positive idea of the infinite, and re- gard it not as a possihility or as an inevitahle conception attached to the finite, may take what seems to them higher ground. in later times the essay of sir william hamilton lias put forth one view of the suhject with singular power and distinct- ness; it is the most striking com- position that came from the pen of sir william hamilton, and prohahly the most remarkahle contrihution to the philosophical literature of eng- land that has heen made in our time. we caunot here do justice to it, nor point out what we consider to he its true hearing upon theology. those who wish to see the suhject canvassed from another point of view, would do well to read mr. calder- wood's essay on the infinite, which is a reply to sir william hamilton. it does not often succeed, in our judgment, in shaking the position of the elder philosopher, hut it is the very model of an earnest, painstak- ing, candid disquisition; and those who have not leisure to read many hooks, and are curious to see how this controversy has heen conducted in our own times, could not do hutter than peruse together the essay on the unconditioned, and mr. calder- wood's reply in ms essay on the in- finite. what is peculiar in our ox- ford metaphysician is this—that from some s .litary altitude to which he has reached, he emhraces the opposite views of hoth these essays; at least he so far coincides with hoth, that at one moment he exposes the utter uureality of the scholastic con- ceptions of the ahsolute and the in- finite, and, the next moment, asserts the ineffaceahle nature of such con- ceptions :— "the almost unanimous voice of philosophy" (thus runs his lucid exposi- tion), "in pronouncing that the ahsolute is hoth one and simple, must he accepted as the voice of reason also, so far as reason has any voice in the matter. but the ahsolute unity, as indifferent and containing no attrihutes, can neither he distinguished fiom the multiplicity of finite heings hy any characteristic fea- ture, nor he identified with them in their multiplicity. thus we are lauded in an inextricahle dilemma. the ahsolute canuot he conceived as conscious, neither can it he conceived as unconscious; it caunot he conceived as complex, neither can it he conceived as simple; it cuunot. he conceived hy difference, neither can it he conceived hy the ahsence of difference; it caunot he identified with the universe, neither can it he dis- tinguished from it"—p. . surely all this sufficiently proves that this conception of the ahsolute is altogether a mistake, and to he dismissed accordingly. not at all: his very ohject is to fasten on us all these contradictions. a little further on he says:—" the whole of this weh of contradictions is woven from one original warp and woof; namely, the impossihility of conceiving the co-existence of the infinite and the finite." and yet we have .seen that we are compelled hy the constitution of our minds to think the ahsolute and the infinite "as the complement of our consciousuess of the relative and the finite," which is surely think- ing their co-existence. is all this straining after impos- sihle conceptions, all this hopeless effort to comhine the contradictory, the indispensahle prelude to the "alphahet of theology?" can we not ascend from nature and our own consciousues. up to nature's god— ascend to the conception of an in- telligent and heneficent creator? most we flounder for ever in this declared chaos of the ahsolute and the infinite? such has not heen hitherto the creed of cbristendom. but we must now glance for a moment at the use dr. manse! makes of the weh of contradictions he has so lahoriously woven for us. the application of this weh of sophistries (for it is nothing hetter) is found in an extension of bishop butler's argument from analogy. here you have in philosophy the same contradiction that you olject to in the doctrines of revelation —the same, or still more violent. you caunot understand how this infinito is hoth one and many—how it is hoth all, and yet related to the finite? do you cavil at the trinity? what say you to the infinite de- veloping itself in the finite? do you stand amazed at the douhle nature of cbrist? explain to me how the ahsolute is, in one phase, .] dr. mantevs bampton lecture*. identical with nonentity, and in another the sum of all realities. and thus he fiamm in review the various questions of theology, which we need not further particularise, as it is no part of our desigu to enter into a discussion of them. he always has a puzzle in philosophy greater than what you find in revela- tion. ought not that to satisfy you, or to kef p yon quiet at the least? dr. hansel apparently overlooks a very essential difference hetween the mauner in which bishop butler em- ploys this argument, and the applica- tion which he has made of it. the bishop draws an analogy hetween portions of god's revelation to which ohjections have heen raised, ami certain facts in the world which god has also created, or in the constitu- tion of man. ahout these facts it is presumed there could he no dispute. dr. mansel extends the argument to an analogy hetween the doctrines of revelation and a doctrine of philo- tophy. the opponent of bishop butler could not very well reject the facts to which the bishop appealed, hut the opponent of dr. mansel may feel himself at liherty to dispute that medley of scholastic dogmas, and tbrow aside that farago of contradic- tions which is here appealed to under the name of philosophy. but, indeed, this argument from analogy, even when the analogy is hetween undisputed fact.s on the one side, and certain doctrines of theo- logy, or certain portions of sacred history, on the other, is open to great ahase; no mode of reasoning has, in truth, heen more egregiously ahused, none is so facile, and none more fallacious. the right application of the argument, we are told, is not to prove any doctrine of revelation; if the doctrine could have heen proved, there would have heen no necessity for its miraculous teaching, hut to repel any ohjections which may he raised against it. dull indeed most he that doctor of divinity who caunot find, out of all nature and human society, something analogous to the ohjected doctrine or precept. all parlies, all sect', can use this argu- ment; nil doctrines, and all perver- sions of christianity, can equally claim its support; it stands a ready defence for every man's orthodoxy, and every man's heresy. we are not disputing that it has not its legi- timate application, or that it has not rendered its acknowledged service to the cause of truth, hut there is one frequent fallacy in its use which it is well to notice—it is this: that the very same divine who argues for the claim of revelation, for the need of revelation, for the exalted character of revelation, from the weakness, error, and corruption of humanity, sometimes thinks fit, the next moment, to defend his assailed doctrine or precept hy drawing an analogy he- tween it and the weakness, error, and corruption of humanity. the divine argues at his pleasure on the principle of contrast, or the principle of simi- larity. the world is full of injustice— we want a perfect justice; the mind of man is full of error—we want a certain truth. here they are. do you ohject against the revealed rule that it is not just, against the re- vealed doctrine that it is not clear, hut contradictory? look around you! what injustice has not god permitted in this world i what ohscurity and contradic.ion do you find in the mind of man! is not the god of revelation the god also of this world! by this process of reasoning, if it deserve the name, the most opposite tenets can he defended with equal dexterity. the extreme calvinist and the latest rationalist alike resort to it. "you yearn for a divine equity, and you do not like our doctrine," says the calvinist; " of election and repro- hation. but open your eyes; what see you in the world around you? here is one man horn to wealth, and culture, and high and eunohling occupations, and there is some ragged urchin tbrown out into the streets to heg, and thieve, and lie, and starve. what is this hut election and repro- hation?" but perhaps the most curious application of the argument, and one which may interest dr. mansel more than any other, is that which we lately read in what is called a rationalistic production of his own university. even the rev. baden powell, in his cbristianity without judaism, could not resist the temptation offered hy this facile mode of defending his doctrine of " adapta- co [july. dr. mansevs bampton lectures. tion." he solves the difficulties that heset him hy the theory that in- spired and miraculous teaching has heen adapted at different stages to the intellectual and moral standard of the times, and that liko the normal products of the human mind, it has had at each epoch its requisite measure of error and of truth. a lay philosopher might he excused for thinking that the human intellect (from the natural energies with which god has endowed it) might he trusted to give forth from time to time such admixture of truth and error as was needful for the human society; he might he excused for thinking that doctrines which admit of heing can- vassed, criticised, and finally dis- missed hy the human reason, might have originated in the uninspired intellect; and he would most assur- edly ohject that if the miracle is to he recoguised as supporting what proves to ho error, there is an end at once to its peculiar office as voucher for the truth. but all the murmurs of the layman are at once silenced hy this argument from analogy. you ohject that god should teach error miraculously, hut you see that he teaches it, or permits it, in the natural order of the world. trinmph- ant logic! you are in the dark, you want light, light from heaven. but the light we hring, goes out, or gives hewildering or perplexing guidance. well, were you not in the dark hefore? it is an additional argu- ment for the genuineness of our revelation that it shares the same ohscurity to which you have heen always accustomed. alas! it was hecause of this ohscurity, hecause of these douhts and difficulties, and of the imperfection of our philosophy, that we hoped to find rest in your divine teaching. dr. mansel, it must he confessed, has an answer prepared for us here. the human mind, according to our author, is so restricted in its powers of coguition, that no divine teach- ing whatever can enlighten it. he has tested our faculties, and finds them incapahle of the knowledge of god, or what is precisely the same thing, he has tested our idea of god, and found it a maze of contradictions. our author, indeed, amongst the minor confusions to which he is attached, lahours to create a distinction he- tween testing our faculties to know god, and examining, so far as we are ahle, the nature of the divine being. but the distinction is one oidy of words. you can test your faculties for the knowledge of an ohject that is unique—to which there is nothing similar or analogous in the universe —in no other way than hy endeavour- ing to understand that ohject. it is hy exerting your faculties in this en- deavour that you discover their limits. the result of the endeavour may he the humiliating confession that the ohject is altogether heyond our cogui- tion, and we may then draw the dis- tinction hetween pronouncing on the existence or non - existence of the ohject, and on our faculties to deter- mine the question. but there is hut one mode of testing our faculties— namely, the endeavour made to com- prehend the ohject. our me aphysi- cian frequently reminds us that the limits of human thought are not the limits of existence. he must he a strange presumptuous man who thinks they are. but the limits of human thoughts are the limits of ex istence for us. that of which we have no cognition has no existence for us. he who denies that we can form any idea of god, denies that a god exists for human heings. "a philosophy of religion," writes dr. mansel, "may he conceived either as a philosophy of the ohject of religion— that is to say, as a scientific exposition of the nature of god; or as a philo- sophy of the suhject of religion—that is to say, as a scientific inquiry into the constitution of the human mind, so far as it receives and deals with religious ideas." of the latter, to which he professes to attach himself, he says, "its primary concern is with the operations and laws of the human mind; and its special purpose is to ascertain the nature, the origin, and the limits of the religious element in man; postponing till after that ques- tion has heen decided, the further in- quiry into the ahsolute nature of god." as it" the question could he decided in any other possihle mauner than hy undertaking the inquiry into the nature of god! if you have satisfied yourself you can form an idea of god, .] dr. mantel's bampton lectures. it is hy having formed one; if that win caunot, it is hy having failed to form one. in either case what "fur- ther inquiry" can there he? dr. mansel professes to have failed, and why has he failed? whence comes this lamentahle result—if in- deed it he a genuine result—in a theologian of a protestant church? bctmm he has turned away from manifest truths hefore his eyes, to go in search of scholastic pedantries. ve can know god only, we repeat, hy his attrihutes; these attrihutes, his wisdom, his creative power, his heneficence, no mortal man ever pro- fessed to know in their full extent; he helieves them capahle of an infinite exaltation: this can he his only con- ception of their infinity. but our learned doctor, instead of fixing his attention upon these attrihutes, fastens upon something that he culls the in- finite, the ahsolute, at which he finds no attrihute can he predicated. of course he sees nothing: he goes forth into the inane, into outer darkness, and comes hack with the cheering in- telligence that, if we attempt to use our owu eyes, we shall he in utter midnight. but the most carious and most in- felicitous portion of dr. mansel's lectures remains still to he noticed. this is where he more especially touches on those representations and doctrines of scripture which are in- telligihle in themselves. some doc- trines, as that of the trinity, convey no distinct idea; others, on the con- trary, impress us very vividly. but the moral attrihutes put forward in revelation as thi)se of god, are not, it seems, the real attrihutes of the in- finite being; they are put forward for our guidance; it is our duty to he- lieve in them as " regulative truths; hut how nearly they resemhle any real attrihute of the ahsolute and the in- finite, is a question we caunot pos- sihly answer. we must conclude, from what has heen determined of the " limits of religious thought," that we are nowhere, tbroughout revela- tion, in the presence of an intelligihle ahsolute truth; or if we are, we can never know it.* we are encouraged to helieve that the moral representations of god may he partly accordant with reality or truth. how it happens that our scholastic metaphysician can admit a part knowledge of the infinite, and of that infinite he has again and again withdrawn from human coguition, is what we will not undertake to ex- plain. it is clear enough, however, that, according to his own exposition, we can never know which is the part that represents the real truth, or how nearly it accords with reality. such a doctrine as this appears to us to destroy the very vitality of our faith. all those representations of god which kindle our emotions, and which stir the heart of man, are more or less delusions. we are to helieve them, hecause it is our duty to he- lieve; they have heen taught us mira- culously that we should helieve. a strange duty i and a very extra- ordinary power it is which our meta- physician accords to this sense of duty. we saw that where there was no possihle conception, there was still a duty to helieve. here there is a declared delusion, hut the same duty to helieve. accordingly, our preacher hecomes, from time to time, very eloquent, on the moral, and, in part, human, representations of the deity given us in the scriptures; he is in- diguant at those metaphysicians who would introduce into criticisms of revelation their "morhid horror of what they are pleased to call antbro- pomorphism." but if, fully impressed with these vivid representations of the goodness and justice of god, you proceed to reason on them, as premises * archhishop king, bishop copleston, archhishop whately, and others have expressed some suhtle opinions upon the attrihutes of god, which approximate more or less to those of dr. mansel. what we call iiia attrihutes arc analogies, and resemhlances, rather than realities. but these suhtleties have heen always looked upon hy the majority of divines with a wise distrust, and it would he easy to quote a long list, especially of our elder theologians, which should include such names as berkeley and cudworth and clarke, who have controverted those fallacious suhtleties. the only legitimate way of avoiding an ohjectionahle an- tbropomorphism is not to include amongst the divine attrihutes any that are in- compatihle with our conception of supreme reason personified. [juh dr. mansevs bampton lectures. i from which deductions mayhe drawn, you are reminded that you are not in the region of speculative or positive troth. behind this scriptural repre- sentation there lies the ahsolute, with a "morality of the ahsolute" utterly heyond your conception. to hear our preacher at one moment, you would think yon were sitting under the most devout and simple-minded of divines. it is thus he castigates our "modern philosophers when they attempt to he wise ahove what is written, and seek for a metaphysical exposition of god's nature and attrihutes" :— "thev may not, forsooth, think of the unchangeahle god as if he were their fellow-man, influenced hy human motives, and moved hy human suppli- cations they want a truer, a juster idea of the deity ns he is, than that under which he has heen pleased to re- veal himself; and they call in their reason to furnish it. fools i to dream that man can escape from himself, that human reason can draw aught hut a human portrait of god i thev do hut suhstitute a marred and mutilated humanity for one exalted and entire. . . . . surely dowuright idolatry is hetter than this rational worship of a fragment of humanity. better is the superstition (sic) which sees the image of god in the wonderful whole which god has fashioned, thun the philosophy which would carve for itself a deity out of the remnant which man has mu- tilated."— pp. , . all this and much more which we might quote to the same purpose, may he very eloquent, and it certainly seems calculated to confirm men in their simple genuine faith. but turn the page, and we soon find that this metaphysician, who censures others so indiguantly for mutilating the scriptural representation of god, virtually destroys the whole repre- sentation, ohliterates it in ita cha- racter of ahsolute truth. u the various mental attrihutes which we ascrihe to god—henevolence, holi- ness, justice, wisdom, for example—can he conceived hy us only as existing in a henevolent, and holy, and just and wise being, who is not identical with any one of his attrihutes, hut the common suhject of them all—in one word, in a person. but personality, as we con- ceive it, is essentially a limitation and a relation. our own personality is pre- sented to us as relative and limited. personality is presented to us as a rela- tion hetween the conscious self and the various modes of his consciousuess. personality is also a limitation; for the thought and the thinker are distin- guished from, and limit each other." in short, we are again involved in oui old prohlem of the infinite and the ahsolute; and as there can he no knowledge of these in themselves, it follows (as our author says with still more distinctness in one of his notes) "that no human representation, whether derived from without or from within, from revelation or from natural religion, can adequately ex- hihit the ahsolute nature of god"— can, in fact, exhihit it at all, if he argues consistently from his own pre- mises. it will not he supposed, fur a moment, that dr. mansel ahstracts this divine personality from the teaching of the church. he says very energetically, "we dishonour god far more hy identifying him with the feehle and ne- gative impotence of thought, which we are pleased to style the infinite, than hy remaining content within those limits which he, for his own good purposes, hna imposed upon us, and confining our- selves to a manifestation, imperfect in- deed, ami inadequate, and acknow- ledged to he so, hut still the highest idea that we can form, the nohlest trihute that we can offer. personality with all its limitations, though far from ex- hihiting the ahsolute nature of ood as he ts, is yet truer, grander, mure ele- vating, more religious than those har- ren, vngue, meaningless ahstractions in which men hahhle ahout nothing under the name of the infinite."—p. . nevertheless wo have all this "hahhle ahout the infinite," and it constitutes the staple of these lec- tures; and strange and ominous are the applications which the bampton lecturer, in his office of defender of the faith, has made of his hahhle, or his philosophy, of the infinite. to the faithful disciple of the church the personality of god is indeed put forward; hut should the disciple ohject to any part of the church's representation of god, that it is not in accordance with the morality or goodness ascrihed to the divine being, he forthwith withdraws that personality, and tells the refrac- .] dr. maneey* bampton ltcture*. tory disciple that there a an "ahso- lute morality," a morality which he can never know, helonging to the ahsolute, and without knowing that he can mm criticise the revelation of god. but we must quote the author's own words, for our representations will never he credited hy any one who has not perused the lectures themselves. in ethics, our philo- sopher treads, as may he supposed, the "high a priori road;'" tot this, it will he ohserved, avails nothing against the mystery of the ahsolute. "the moral sense is, like the intui- tions of time und space, an a priori law of the human mind, not determined hy experience as it is, hut determining he- forehand what experience ought to he. but it is not therehy elevated ahove the conditions of human intelligence; and the attempt so to elevate it is especially inad- missihle in that philosophy which re- solves time and space into forms of the human consciousuess, and limits their operation to the field of the phenomenal and the relative. 'that there is an ahsolute morality hesed upon, or rather identical with, the eternal nature of god, is indeed a con- viction forced upon us hy the same evi- dence as that on which we helieve that god exists at all. but vehat that ahso- lute morality is, we are as unahle to fix in any human conception, as we are to de- fine the other attrihutes of the tame di- vine nature. to human conception it seems impossihle thnt ahsolute morality should he manifested in the form of a law ofohligation; for such a law implies re- lation and suhjection to the authority of a lawgiver. and as all human morality is manifested in this form, the conclusion seems unavoidahle, that human morality, even in ita highest elevation, is not iden- tical with nor adequate to measure, the absolute morality of tiod."—p. . the moral nature of god is gener- ally understood to he one witli his wisdom and goodness. he exacts morality from us, hut if the term moral ohligation is ever applied to god, the ohligation meant is that which is identical with the ohligation of reason. but we pass on to some of the special applications made of this novel doctrine of an ah-olute morality. we will not even stop to inquire how it comes to pass that we are so certain that un ahso- lute morality helongs to that ahsolute which is confessedly heyond the limits of our coguition; or how itis that after showing that our definitions of mora- lity are inapplicahle to tho ahsolute, we can still talk of ahsolute morality at all. sometimes dr. mansel speaks as if fragments or certain elements of this ahsolute morality were mingled up with the ordinary ele- ments of the human conscience; hut, of course, if this he so, they are un- distinguishahle hy us as such ahsolute morality. some of the strangest applications made of this novel invention of an ahsolute morality, of which we are utterly iguorant ixcept that it exists, refer to the doctrines of the atone- ment and of eternal punishment; we prefer to touch upon the latter suhject. on this topic dr. mansel writes in the following strain:— "a.nd is not the same conviction of the ignorance of man, and of his rashness in the midst of iguorance, forced upon us hy the spectacle of the arhitrary and summary decision of human reason on the most mysterious as well as the most awful of god's revealed judgments against sin—the sentence of eternal punishment? we know not what is the relation of sin to infinite justice."—p. . nevertheless ho caunot resist the temptation of exercising his own ingenuity in the way of repelling oh- jections, and of somewhat explain- ing this relation. "and it is assumed," he continues, '• that punishment will he it,fli.-ted sole- ly with reference to the sins committed during this earthly life:—that the guilt will continue finite, while the misery is prolonged to infinity. are we then so sure, it may he asked, that there can he no sin heyond the grave? can un im- mortal soul incur dod'a wrath and con- demnation only so loug as it is united to a mortal hody i with as much reason might we assert that the angels are in- capahle of ohedience to god, that the devds are incapahle of rehellion. what if the sin perpetuates itself—if the pro- longed misery be the offspring of the prolonged guilt?" this spectacle of an eternal spirit of rehellion kept up hy the eternal agony which hoth punishes and pro- duces it, is one which he feels his readers will revolt from, and which [july, dr. mamevs bamptan lecture*. he is not satisfied with himself. but then dr. mansel suggests that, after all, "the real riddle of existence is that evil exists at all." and again, this question of the origin of evil is "hut one aspect of a more general prohlem; it is hut the moral form of the ever-recurring secret of the infinite." "how tho infinite and the finite, in any form of antagonism, or other rela- tion, can exist together:—how infinite power can co-exist with finite activity: how infinite goodness can co-exist with finite evil; how the infinite can exist in any mauner without exhausting the universe of reality; this is the riddle which infinite wisdom alone can solve. when philosophy can answer this ques- tion ;—when she can even state intel- ligihly the notions which its terms in- volve,—then, and not till then, she may he entitled to demand a solution of the far smaller difficulties which she finds in revealed religion:—or rather she will have solved them already; for from this they all proceed, and to this they all ultimately return."—p. . in like mauner, if the foreknow- ledge or eternal decrees of god seem imcoiupatihle with the retrihutive punishment of the siuner, our meta- physician faintly suggests, as "an apparent escape from the dilemma, that god's knowledge is not proper- ly foreknowledge, as having no rela- tion to time." but he immediately afterwards returns to his old ground, and to his invariahle shield of de- fence—his impenetrahle philosophy of the infinite. "but the whole meaning of the difficulty vanishes as soon as we acknowledge that the infinite it not an ohject of human- thought at all" admirahle theolo- gy! suhlime and elevating doc- trine i knowledge, wisdom, justice and benevolence, are unmeaning terms when applied to the infinite being! certain commands or special pre- cepts recorded in the old testament as having heen given hy god to the israclites, which apparently contra- dict the hroad principles of ethics, have from a very early time heen a stumhling-hlock to the cbristian heliever. it is in explanation of these deviations from what is gene- rally understood as the moral con- duct demanded of us from god, that dr. mansel has pnt forth his utmost ingenuity—has produced (if we could venture to say this of an oxford metaphysician) his most astounding ahsurdity. these deviations from the ethical rules god generally teaches, are hut the hreaking tbrough of the ahsolute morality i the new and exceptional command may he com- pared to the pure light hreaking tbrough some lower system of half- illuminated clouds, hetter adapted in general to human vision and the necessities of man. dr. mansel sees a very "ohvious analogy " hetween the miracles of the ok! and new testament, and these occasional deviations from the moral precepts which god, in his ordinary government of the world, enforces on his creatures. he calls them "moral miracles." the analogy does not appear to us very ohvious. in the ordinary miracle, god is presumed to interpose to alter the usual se- quence of events, to produce, for the occasion, new sequences, new rela- tions, or, in other words, quite new and abuormal events. what new event is it that is produced in the moral miracle? are the moral sen- timents of man supposed to he, for the occasion, miraculously changed? perhaps our readers may extract something more intelligihle than we have heen nhle to do from the doc- tor's own words. we will give them as fully as space permits. let us premise that what is here said of the difference hetween an occasional command to he oheyed hy one man, or for one purpose, and a general rule, to he obeyed hy all men and at all times, is well worth considera- tion; it is an ohservation which has heen frequently made hy other di- vines; the rest of the passage is the peculiar and indisputahle property of the bampton lecturer. "now an appeal of this kind (that is, an appeal to the moral sentiments of man- kind) mn ' he legitimate or not, according to the purposo for which it is made, and the mauner in which it is applied. the primary and proper employment of man's moral sense, as of his other faculties, is not speculative hut regulative. it is not designed to tell us what ore the ahsolute and immutahle principles of right, as existing in the eternal nature of god; .] dr. manstts bampton lectures. hut to discern those relative and tem- porary mamfestations of them, which are nectssary for human training in this pre- sent life. but if moralny, in its human mamfestation, contains a relative and temporary, as well as an ahsolute and eternal element an occasional suspension of the human law is hy no means to he confounded with a violation of i lie divine principle. we can only partially judge of the moral government of god, on the assumption that there is an analogy he- tvo en the divine nature and the human: and in proportion as the analogy recedes from perfect likeness, the decision of the human reason necessarily hecomes more arid more douhtful. the primary and direct inquiry, which human reason is entitled to make concerning a professed revelation, is, how far does it lend to promoie or to hinder the moral discipline of man? it is hut a secondary and in- direct question, and one very liahle to mislead, to ask how far it is compatihle wiih the infinite goodness of god. "thus, for example, it is one thing to condemn a religion on account of the hahitual ohservauce of lie ntious and in- human rites of worship, and another to pronounce judgment on isolated acts, historically recorded as having heen done hy divine command, hut not perpetuated in precepts tor the imitation of posterity. the former are condemned for their re- gulative character, as contrihuting to the perpetual corruption of mankind; the latter are condemned on speculative grounds, as inconsistent with our pn con- ceived notions of the character of god." here follows a quotation from bishop butler, which, like the portion of the text already quoted, is not free from the oh- jection that even the occasional precept, it understood as a direct command from god,canuot he withoutsome "regulative" influence.) "there is indeed an ohvious analogy hetween these temporary suspensions of the laws of moral ohligation, and that corresponding suspension of the laws of natural phenomena which constitutes our ordinary'conception of a mnacle, so much so, indeed, that the former might without impropriety he designated as moral miracles. in hoth, the almighty is regarded as suspending for special pur- poses, not the eternal luws which con- stitute his own ahsolute nature, hut the created laws which he imposed at a cer- tain time upon a particular portion of his creaturca"—p. . our readers, we suspect, have not found this ohvious analogy very clear to their apprehension: god tou lxxxyl is said to manifest his power in an estahlished order of events which we call laws of nature; when he hreaks this order of events, and interposes some abuormal exercise of his power, we cull it a miracle. the creator has also ordained in man certain moral sentiments; is now the moral miracle a partial suspen- sion and alteration of these sentiments, so that certain individuals have sud- denly perceived that to he right which in the normal exercise of their judgment, or their conscience, they would have pronounced to he wrong? or does the miracle consist in some change or altered action we caunot follow in the divine mind itself? perhaps we had hetter not attempt any explanation, hut leave this "moral miracle" to such exposition as its own inventor lias vouchsafed. it may illustrate the curious posi- tion into which dr. mansel has hrought himself, to ohserve that pre- cisely what the reverend daden powell, in his theory of adaptation, would descrihe as a condescending accommodation to the iguorance and pas-ions of men, dr. mansel would explain as the ahsolute morality hreaking, with miraculous effolgence, tbrough that lower system of ethics which is condescendingly framed for the general good of mankind. with our philosopher the regulur and high- est ethics of mankind is the adapta- tion; the exceptional precept is a fragment of the ahsolute morality. god exhihits himself to us more nearly as he is when his commands depart from the general precepts he gives of justice and heneficence: we are mdre certainly under some measure of delusion when he incul- cates our human and indispensahle morality. have we said enough, or extracted enough, to justify the opinion we ex- pressed at the commencement, that these lectures are neither pre-emin- ently wise, nor are they altogether wholesome food for the minds of men? our author plunges hoth friend and foe into hopeless ohscurity. what good is attainahle hy such a feat of logical dexterity as this? and the logical legerdemain is only accom- plished on the condition that we per- mit him the free use of a few ahs. ljoly, dr. mansers bampton lectures. tract terms utterly devoid of any real meaning. "extension and motion," some such verhal conjuror might say, '' are attrihutes, and imply a suh- stance in which they inhere. but now, hy pondering on and well defin- ing this ahstract suhstance or heing, i prove that it is altogether removed from your coguition, and you caunot know its attrihutes, and therefore extension and motion are not really its attrihutes." we ask our conjuror, since he has proved them not to he real attrihutes, how it comes to pass that he is talking ahout suhstance at all? it is idle of dr. mansel, after hav- ing driven the attrihutes of god into the category of "suhjective," or merely '•regulative" truths, to seek, with much indiguant eloquence, to re-estahlish our simple genuine faith in them. according to his philoso- phy, god has miraculously revealed, not truth, hut statements which it is for our good to helieve. how, under his philosophy, we can even recog- nise god as the worker of the miracle, we caunot understand. but passing this over, what en he our helief, under such a representation, hut a verhal assent—a virtuous hypocrisy? it can he nothing hetter. to helieve, is to think a thing true: if you tell us that it is not true, we can only pre- tend to helieve. we can act, under penalties, as if it were true. but this caunot last long, for the fuapicion must occur that the penalties also are, or may he, merely "regulative" truths, not ahsolute realities—not events that will really take place, only suppositions that it may he use- ful to helieve in. once placed on such an inclined plane as dr. mansel glides us on, there is no logical hreak that can prevent our descent into sheer scepticism. the true reality, we repeat, for each one of os lies in those divine attrihutes manifested in the very nature of the world and of humanity, and from which we neces- sarily infer the divine being, and not in scholastics' notions of the ahsolute and the infinite—which, if they are incompatihle with these at- trihutes, are at least themselves at once convicted (hy this incompati- hility) of their own shadowy and un- real nature. .] the luck qf ladysmede.—part v. the luck of lanysmene. chapter xl—the confessor. for many days isola had lain upon the coach to which she had heen carried on her first arrival at the fortress, utterly exhausted in hody and spirit, and appearing harely con- scious of the anxious cares of her hostesses. her senses had never wholly forsaken her; hut she remained in that state of prostration in which scenes and ohjects pass hefore the eyes and are partially understood and recoguised, hut leave the mind merely passive, without the power or the in- clination to inquire or reason upon them. her health had not actually suffered from the exposure to the storm, hut the nerves had heen over- strained while she was yet weak from recent illness; and it was well for her that giacomo had heen compelled to choose yfillan's hope as her place of shelter. elfhild's calm experience, and the warm - hearted devotion of gladice, whose feelings, once roused, confessed to no fatigue und grudged no exertion, were far more valuahle in her case than any resources which the profoundest medical science could have hrought to hear. - slowly, day hy day, her eyes regained their ex- pression, and looked inquiringly from one kind face to the other, and then were closed with a grateful hut weary smile. once, and only once, in the dusk of the evening, gladice had heen told that the yeoman who had heen her escort had called to make inquiry after his lady's health; hut hefore she could effect her escape to the castle-hall — which she fully in- tended to have done, in spite of her aunt's diguified scruples—he had al- ready received his answer, and was gone. picot, however, had several times made his appearance at the fortress, and had shown a very na- tural and praiseworthy interest in the fair traveller's recovery; and it was equally praiseworthy that the two ladies should have summoned the forester to their presence to relieve his anxiety hy their personal assur- ances, and perhaps equally natural that they should question him as to the circumstances of his encounter with the travellers on that terrihle night, when he had the good fortune to hecome, in a humhle sense, the deliverer of a lady in distress. as picot helonged to ladysmede, and therefore might he considered almost as an actual retainer of their own house, it was hy no means derogatory —as elfhild was at the pains to oh- serve, in her own and her niece's vin- dication — to hold those communica- tions with him on this interesting suhject, which it would have heen quite indecorous to have entered upon with a stranger whose degree and general helongings were utterly un- known. the forester remained firm in his account of the adventure; which, if not strictly true, had the vast advantage which a silent false- hood always has over the richest in- ventive faculty: it defied cross-ques- tioning, and led the originator into no mistakes or self-contradictions. and when picot once found that he was looked upon hy gladice (whose notions of the heroic, it will he re- memhered, were scarcely orthodox) rather in the light of a hero, he was careful to present the adventures of the night to his fair questioners as much as possihle in that point of view; not so much, let it he said in justice, for the sake of claiming any undue credit to himself, as in the hope of fixing their attention upon his own desperate exertions, and the perils which his courage and sagacity had surmounted, rather than on the previous history of the stranger lady and her companion. so well did he succeed, that he received from the nohle hands of elfhild herself a cup of wine,with a gracious intimation other high favour and approval; to which the younger lady added a piece of silver, which picot accepted with many thanks, and little scrapie of con- science. even if he felt it was given upon a somewhat overrated estimate of his deserts as a hero, he was content g [july, the luck of ladysmede.—part k. to take it as the reward of virtuous self-denial in the matter of the italian's gold. if any one had cared to track the forester on his return after these visits of inquiry, it might have heen noticed that he always met father giacomo either hy the river side or in the neighhourhood of his chapel at lowcote. however naturally desirous the ladies of willan's hope might he to learn something of the history of the stranger who had heen tlan left help- less in their charge, their kinduess was much stronger than their curiosity. even when isola had so far recovered as to he ahle to express her thanks in words, no question ever passed the lips of elfhild or gladice which could have implied that they sought any explanation of the circumstances which had made her their guest. neither of them were conscious that they were showing any peculiar deli- cacy in this reserve, or were exercis- ing any hut the simplest duties of hospitality. it need not he supposed, however, that in the privacy of their own chamher the aunt and niece felt any ohligation to silence upon so inte- resting a suhject. if their sick visi- tor was indehted to them for her life, they in their turn had very much to thank her for. it would have heen not far from the truth to say of hoth of them — certainly of gladice, and ivchild's youth was a long time to look hack upon—that they had never heen so happy in their lives. they had hecome possessed of two things most necessary to woman's happiness — something upon which to lavish their whole hearts-full of spontaneous and ui,calculating love and kindness, and something to talk ahout. the possihle unworthi- ness of the ohject — the positive inj s- tery which attached to it — were ad- ditional points of attraction. instead of sitting dreaming in the window, gladice was now always husy either devising something for the comfort of their new charge, or inventing and suggesting to her relative some in- geuious elucidation of the stranger's history, which the elder lady usually prououneed impossihle, and therehy gave her niece the opportunity of following out in her mind a new train of conjecture for the morrow. it was possihle, also, that another' hreak in the isolated life of the old fortress had contrihuted to enliven the spirits of its occupants, and to make them less sensihle of tho weariness of their daily cares in the silk-chamher. twice there had heen visitors from ladysmede. once sir godfrey had accompanied his guest, and passed an hour or two in con- verse with his fair kinswomen ; and again hoth had listened with de- lighted attention to the stirring in- cidents of war told hy the eloquent tongue of the crusader. the second time sir nicholas had come alone, followed only hy his squire, and had hesought the ladies' company to wit- ness the performance of a cast of for- eigu hawks which he had hrought with him, and which hore n wonder- ful reputation. elfhild had on this occasion prayed to he excused; hut the younger lady had heen delighted to join in the sport under the sen- eschal's protection, and had returned with many praises of the prowess of the hirds, and the delicate tkill shown hy the knight in handling them. and the gallant falcons — an almost priceless gift—were left at willan's hope for the lady gladice's future delectation, to the pride and joy of warenger, a keen lover of the gentle sport, whose word of commen- dation, never lightly hestowed, was thenceforth never wanting either for the hirds themselves or for their nohle donor. the visits of hrother ingulph from the monastery had always heen look- ed forward to, especially hy gladice, as an agreeahle distraction from the daily round of stitching and window- gazing, and promenading on the narrow rampart, which, with the ex- ception of occasional rides under warenger's escort, were the ordinary rule of her life. the interval which had passed mnce his last appearance at the fortress had now heen longer than usual; and when he was ush- ered rather suddenly into their pre- sence hy judith — as a person who had the privilege of entrance, hy vir- tue of his office, in senson and out of season—his welcome from hoth ladies . tlic luck of ladysmede.—part v. was proportionately cordial. to quarrel with a neighhor hecause he had not found it convenient to show himself quite so often as usual, was not only repuguant to the unen- lightenrd code of hospitality current at the time, hut was a luxury which could scarcely have heen afforded in such a limited circle of society. when, therefore, the good benedic- tine, long expected, was at last an- nounced, the warmth of his recep- tion was such as almost to emharrass his modesty. brother ingulph's in- sensihility to the attractions of the fairer sex, in any ordinary sense, was no ascetic affectation, or even the result of careful self-ducipline, at with many of his order; hut an hon- est natural indifference, whether to he regarded as a merit or a defect. prohahly this qualification had not heen overlooked hy the superiors of his house when he was intrusted with the charge of the spiritual in- terests of willan's hope. certain it was that he looked upon hoth ladies with very sincere respect and impartial admiration. he might have heen aware that dame elfuild was the elder of the two ; if he had ever noticed that gladice had the hrightest smile, he had often heen heard to avouch that her aunt was a very discreet woman. his emharrass- ment that morning arose from an- other cause hesides his natural mo- desty. good hrother ingulph was hardly in his usual spirits, or pre- pared to reciprocate any unusually sprightly greeting. there was plainly something on his mind. he sighed over the refection set hefore him as if it had heen an act of penance, and poured himself a second draught of wine—contrary to his usually ah- stemious hahits—with an air of re- sigued mortification. he was in trouhle, and he had too little worldly wisdom to conceal it. it was not possihle that his fair entertainers should not notice the change from the simple cheerfulness which made him at other times so agreeahle a visitor; nor was it long hefore they drew from him an explanation. in- deed he was very ready to give it to those from whom he felt ho sure of sympathy. "alas! kind dames," said he, "i have good cause to hear a sorrowful countenance; the spoilers have heen in our camp this morning, and have made prey of us." "what can you mean, f ither?" said gladice in some alarm, for such an event as the literal sacking and plundering of a religious house over- night, was quite within the possihle items of morning intelligence. "his majesty king richard hath laid his royal hands upon us," said the monk. "how !" exclaimed the elder lady —" the king is surely in palestine?" "ay," replied ingulph; "hut his gracious majesty hath a long arm. he is pleased to horrow money of us for the war, whereas it is hut too well known we have more need to hecome horrowers ourselves; and we have heen put to sore straits to meet his demand. i know not how it is," continued the worthy hrother with a distressed air — " we pass among men for a wealthy house, i dare warrant; and our lord ahhot keeps a very seemly state—as is hut hecoming his position, no douht—i mean not to gainsay it ; hut there have heen sore difficulties of late in providing for our needful wants. twice i have made requisition to the ahhot for parchment for our scrip- torinm, and am ashamed to ask again, and yet our work lies idle for lack of it. it is hardly for me to say it, hut it were well that the ordering of our revenues were somewhat hetter looked to." the most uupractical of scholars, iguorant as an angel of all the hase dehtorand-creditor transactions of this commercial world, ingulph had a little hidden conceit in a corner of his honest heart, that he possessed an uurecoguised talent for husiness. on most other points none could have conceived a lower opinion of his capahilities than he entertained himself: had he heen called to take upon him the office of a hishop, he would have pronounced the nolo episcopari with the utmost humility and sincerity; hut he would have liked much to have heen appointed to some office of trust in the finan- cial department of his convent; and it might safely he prophesied that any soeiety enjoying the henefit [july, the luck of ladysmede.—part v. of his services in such a character, would have heen hankrupt within the year. "but you were enahled, i trust, hy some means, to provide for his majesty's requirements f" said dame elfhild, who shared to some extent the popular notion that churchmen were generally rich, und generally disclaimed it. "alas!" replied the monk, "we have given, as i may say, of our life- hlood in his service. nathaniel the jew has heen in conference with the lord ahhot and the prior this morn- ing, and has carried off with him— whether on pledge or sale i can- not tell, for such as i are little con- sulted in such dealings—sundry pre- cious things that it shames us to have parted with—ay, if it were for all the gold in isracl. would you helieve ir, gentle lady," he continued, turning to gladice,—" our copy of the samaritan pentateuch — there was not another in england except at canterhury, and that, as i have heard, wants a leaf—you have heard me speak of it—written in a most fair character, in letters of silver upon purple vellum — well, this dog of a jew hath that away with him. it had silver emhossed covers, too; it wa-, the goodliest volume my eyes ever lighted on. und was the hlessed queen etheldreda's gift to us; well- a-way! to think it should have fallen into the hands of a misheliever!" "was it very choice reading, fa- ther?" inquired gladice iunocently. she had not the most distant con- ception of what a pentateuch might he; hut her taste in literature, so far as it went, had more regard to the suhject-matter of the work than its external attractions. "it was the choicest volume in cbristendom," said ingulph, rather pursuing his own private lamenta- tions than repljing to gladice. "you have read it jourself, douht- less?" persevered the maiden, with laudahle interest and curiosity, only still farther excited hy the lihrarian's enthusiastic praises. "read it i" exclaimed he, roused hy what he considered almost an in- sult to his lost treasure—" there was not one amongst our hrotherhood that could pretend to read it. young wolfert, the ahhot's new chaplain, professed that he knew the charac- ters, hut not the dialect ; there was none of us could contradict him, he that as it may: the precentor of jumi£ges, when he was on a visit with us in ahhot aldred's time, said it was syriac—hnd he passed for a fine scholar i ha, ha! a little learning goes far in that fraternity!" and the monk laughed with honest delight at the impreguahle front which his darling manuscript had presented against the assaults of pre- tenders. "read it?" he did not say quite so much, hut it was in hig eyes as a maiden castle, and would have lost something of its fair fame and repute if ever adveuturous cham- pion could hoast of having scaled its defences. the disappointed gladice asked no further questions, and was con- tent to think that the pentateuch, whatever it might he, was as great a mystery to the learned as to herself. but the monk could hardly leave a suhject which on that particular morning lay so near his heart. •' it was said," he continued, "that there were fearful samaritan curses written at the end of the volume, against any man who should in time to come steal or otherwise misappro- priate it. st. mary vouchsafe us that they full not upon our house!" "we will trust they may not, fa- ther," said the lady. curses in a tongue which even the learned bene- dictine could not read, must have seemed to her fearful indeed. dame elfhild was rather wearied of hearing of the good father's trou- hles, with which she felt less sym- pathy than her niece; or perhaps she kindly judged that the most effectual way to distract their visi- tor's thoughts from dwelling upon such painful matters, was to give him an interest for the time in some- thing else. she aunounced to him therefore the fact — strange enough in itself to he interesting—that they had a guest now at willan's hope; and put him in possession of all the particulars of her sudden arrival. "it might he, gladice," said she, turning to her niece when she had finished her recital, "that the lady would he well pleased to take some ] the luck of ladysmede.—part v. ghostly counsel with the reverend father, if she knew that he were here with us?" gladice at once volunteered to an- nounce to their guest the arrival of the benedictine, as an opportunity that occurred hut seldom in their retired position, and sought isola's chamher for that purpose. their patient showed more pro- gress towards convalescence that morning than for some days. she always welcomed gladice with a gentle word and smile; and indeed it was not for many hours in the day that the youog mistress of the castle left her alone, though she had pur- posely ahstained as much as possihle from all hut the most ordinary con- versation. isola was sitting up on her couch, with her rosary in her hand, when gladice entered. there were traces of tears fresh upon her cheeks, hut of this her hostess took no notice. briefly hut kindly, and with some little emharrassment—for gladice's own devotion was very undemonstrative — she explained to her the nature of ingulph's counec- tion with their household, and that he would gladly make it a part of his duties to extend to her any com- fort or direction which she might require. the pale cheeks of the invalid flushed hrightly, as she thanked gladice for her thoughtful kindness. "tell me," she said, alter a few moments' thought, as she laid her thin hand upon her visitor's rounded arm, with more of a caressing gesture than she had seemed to venture upon hefore — "tell me — this father in- gulph, i think, you named him "— she hesitated again—" is he one to whom you would lay hare your heart if—if, which heaven forhid, you had sin and sorrow heavy on it like mine?" and she hid her face in her hands. a slight colour rose over gladice's cheek, hut it passed away; and when the other looked up again and met her g,ize, the clear sweet eye and calm hrow showed no emotion. "i know not," she replied; "i caunot tell: i confess to him always." "god keep you pure and good!" said the other with an almost pas- sionate earnestness, hending down her lips to kiss the arm she held; "let me not vex you with my ques- tions— you have confidence in him, then?" "he is an honest, good man, as i helieve," returned gladice, somewhat coldly : the conversation puzzled her. she had no especial secrets of her own to confide to any one: she was not quite sure that she should choose good father ingulph for their depositary if she had—or indeed any one else; hut that was a case which it would he time enough to provide for when it should arrive. whatever trouhles of conscience she might have, were only such as she could either strupgle with alone, or relieve hy very gene- ral terms of confession. she did not know, happily for herself, the yearn- ings of an overhurdened heart to rest its load anywhere—were it even on a hroken reed like itself — that proffers support for the moment. "he is honest, you say, dear lady," said isola, after another pause; "and you have known him long. i would gladly see him, if you will kindly he my messenger." gladice waited only to find some little office of kindness to perform for her patient, whose appeal for advice and half-offered confidence she was uncomfortahly conscious of having felt unahle to respond to with the warmth that might have heen expected; and having thus made such atonement as she could to her own feelings, she left the chamher, and returning to the monk, informed him of their guest's desire to see him. he received the sum- mons with his usual good-humoured smile, and with little anxiety or emharrassment. it was some testi- mony in favour of elfhild and her niece that their spiritual director— and to them his experience of the sex had heen limited—did not ap- pear to consider the confidential treatment of feminine transgressions or weaknesses as a very onerous responsihility. he ascended the narrow turret- stair with an active step, and if not with a very light heart, it was a tender regret for the lost treasures of his lihrary which still affected him, and not any unusually grave anticipations of the coming interview. [july, the luci; of ladysmede.—part v. he was ahsent more thun an hour; a length of time which caused some surprise in the minds of those whom he had left helow, for each of whom a few minutes' conference amply sufficed for all matters of confession and ahsolution; and gladice hegan to expect his return with some de- gree of painful interest. he re-en- tered their apartment slowly, and with an expression of trouhled thought upon his face, which gladice marked at once, and did not counect in her own mind with any of the trihula- tions of the monastery. though father ingulph seemed rather to avoid her glance, she could not with- draw her eyes from his countenance; and strange as it seemed even to herself, she half-longed to read there the history which hut an hour since she felt that a word of encou- ragement would have sufficed to draw from isola's own lips. but she was silent, and did not intend to question him even hy her look. the elder lady, less couseiously interested, did not feel hound to such scrupulous reserve. she would have sbrunk as unturslly us gladice would, from any thought of intrusion into the sucred confidence hetween the priest and his spiritual patient; hut she could not help hoping that the good monk would naturally have asked some questigns which were not included among the secrets of the confessional, and that in this mauner sho might he ahle partly to gratify her irresisti- hle wish to know something of the stranger's character and history; a wish which scarcely deserved the name of curiosity, since it had heen restrained within such careful hounds. she had rather expected that in- gulph would have heen the first to make some remark upon the suhject; for the honest - hearted benedictine was not u-ed to affect taciturnity, and was rather inclined to compen- sate himself for the silence which his rule enjoined in the cloister, hy all reasonahle indulgence of his liherty of speech ahroad. but he was silent now; and elf hild's sharp eyes soon discovered that he was ill at ease, and emharrassed also. it is a woman's privilege, in such circum- stances to take the initiative; and elfhild — her desire for information hy no means diminished hy these symptoms on his part—holdly pro- ceeded to interrogate him, while gladice listened with eyes und ears. "what think you of our lady guest, father?" it was a question admitting of so many varieties of reply, that perhaps for that reason ingulph was at a loss to choose one. he only uttered one of those unintelligihle interjections which serve to gain time. eifhild repeated her question. "alas poor soul !" said the monk, feelingly, " she has much need of con- solation; it is well for her that she has fallen into such gentle hands. she has spoken much to me of your kindness; and it pains her to have heen hurdensome to you so long." "it is no hurden," said the elder lady with some diguity; •'our doors —my niece's, i should say—have ever heen open to the stranger. be she who she may, she is right welcome to the shelter of our roof so long as she needs it," '• you know nothing, as i under- stand," said ingulph," of her miser- ahle story?" "we have never sought to know," replied elfhild. "she fears that she may have seemed ungrateful; hut this much i may assure you of—what she con- ceals is more for the sake of others than her own. and she is loth, too, to trouhle a peaceful lite such as yours hy making known what could only pain and shock yon." "if we could he of any help"—said the younger lady without raising her eyes. "i see not how you could," re- plied the monk dejectedly; '• l see little that any one can do; she is not friendless, or in poverty, though in a land of strangers — for you have learnt that she is not english horn?" "she spoke of genoa as her home," said gladice; "did you mark a won- drous sweetness in her voice, father— such as we northern maideus never attuin to?" "nay," interposed the elder lady, "under your favour, my fair niece, that is an excellence for which the dames of our hlood are not wont to he so discommended; even if the normal* tongue he sbrill — which i .] hie luck of ladysmede.—part v. grant not—the old british royal house tbrough which we claim in- heritance had a tongue more melodi- ous even than the soutbrons—your own ancestress, the princess of gwent, whose name you hear, was hetter known in hardic lay as eos evrin—the golden nightingale—hy reason of her tuneful voice." father itigulph had neither a critical ear for voices, nor a happy talent for compliment, otherwise it would have heen the easiest and trait possihle remark for him to have made, that gladice's own voice was perfection. he was content with honestly confessing that he had noticed no peculiar modulation in the italian lady's tones. he might have added in his defence, that he had never heen ahle to learn the notes in the whole course of his novitiate, and hud heen pronounced first con- tumacious, and finally incapahle, hy the precentor; and even to this day made sounds in choir which excruci- ated the accomplished ears of his hretbren. but he might have given a graver reason for his lack of dis- crimination in this particular in- stance; the matter of his penitent's communication had heen too ahsorh- ing for him to psy much heed to the voice. "in this poor lady's casp," said the worthy father as he took his leave, "whatever it hecomes you to know, as touching an inmate of your house—whatever, may say, you would desire to ask—she will not refuse to tell you; nay, it seems to me she would even wish it. fare ye well, nohle ladies, and saint mary reward jou for your charitahle deed." cnapter xil—the guests of rivelsby. the benedictine's thoughts, on his homeward walk to rivelshv, had heen more husy with the trouhles of others than with his own. he had never hefore heen hrought into such close contact with the hitterness of a wounded spirit, and he was humhled to think how little help or consola- tion, lieyond the formal language of his office, he had heen ahle to afford. he was returning to the cloister, which had heen the home of his childhood, with a strengthened con- viction that the world was indeed an evil place. holier and wiser than himself were they who had called it so; and he was even meditating some little self-irop sed penance hecause, in the simple goodness of his own heart, which had hitherto kept him from seeing evil in others, he had sometimes heen led to douht whether that hroad assertion of the world's wickedness were wholly true. he was more thankful than ever that those who had the care of him (he had never known a father) had dedicated him to the cloister in child- hood, and so kept him safe from what might have heen his own wayward choice, and a secular life's temptations. he walked slowly, and the hell rang out for vespers while he was yet at some distance from the monas- tery. he stopped as the sound ceased, and having reverently crossed himself tbrice, proceeded gravely on his way, reciting audihly him-elf the familiar words of the office. thus piuusiy engaged, he had got within a short disiance of the ahhey gate, when he was startled hy a rustling movement in the low alder-hushes close heside him. as lie turned, a wild-looking half-clad figure crept out, and stood in the pathway. ragged and stuhhly hair and heard, eyes that glared fiercely out of hollow sockets, and a haggard countenance which might express either anger, fear, or madness, made up an ap- pearance at which the worthy monk might well stand for a moment aghas^ and repeat the holy sigu with eager precaution. but it was soon evident that the wretched ohject he- fore him intended no hostile demon- stration; and though ingulph started hack aghin a step or two when the man tbrew himself forward, and, dropping on his kuees, tried to clutch the folds of his hahit, he soon re- covered himself sufficiently to address the suppliant, whose gestures were more intelligihle than his words, in a tone of kindues?. "what do you seek of me, my son?" the man made some unintelligihle [july, the luck of ladysmede.—part v. reply, and did not move from his position. the monk's first impres- sion was, that he was some wander- ing lunatic who had escaped from the chains and torture in which such miserahle heings were com- monly kept, and though not seriously alarmed, since he appeared harmless, he paused for a few moments to he- think himself of some approved form of exorcism, in oase he might require it but it was really none other than cuthwin, exhausted with hunger and watching, who had heen en- couraged hy the sight of the monaslic garh to appeal tn its wearer for help or protection. the benedictine rule of almsgiving was to give first, and to ask questions, if need were, after- wards; utterly unsound political economy, hut having this advantage over improved systems, that if the questions were sometimes omitted, the alms never were; and even if the applicant's tale were sometimes false, the charity was always genuine. the story which the hasketmaker had to tell was coufused and unsatisfactory, hut hunger and suffering spoke plainly in every line of his face; and the monk at once hid him follow him to the monastery, where his necessities would receive due attention. cuth- win rudely hut earnestly expressed his thanks, and followed his hene- factor at a humhle distance, yet near enough to claim his instant protec- tion in case of need, and casting many a watchful look hehind him, as if he still dreaded pursuit. old peter, dozing in his stone seat within the gateway, opened his sleepy eyes wider than usual to take coguisance of the unsightly figure which limped after hrother ingulph; hut the poor and needy lud too often crowded the gates of rivelshy for him to feel any astonishment at such visitors, and many an outcast wanderer hefore cuthwin had found there food, and warmth, and shelter. he was soon seated in the porch of the guest-hall, whilst his new-found friend went in search of the kitchener to provide for his necessities. gervase, the lay hrother who hore that office at rivelshy, was engaged at the moment in earnest consulta- tion with some of his suhordinate officials in the kitchen, and was in no very amiahle mood. lle was not a man of patient temper naturally; hut indeed there had heen much to try it that day. the fishermen had come in with an unusually short supply of what was one of the staple resources of the community; the prevalent thunderstorms of late, as they declared, had driven the fish into the deep waters, where no net could reach them. even the eels,— of which the tenants of two farms upon the river were hound to furnish a certain numher weekly, — were not fortheoming in full tale. and the heans for the soup, just sent in, were villanous; and what was worse, it would hardly do to make any serious complaint, inasmuch ss the last supply had not yet heen paid for. brother gervase was vexed to the heart, for he was sure to he held responsihle hy his hretbren for any deficiency or unsavouriness in their daily fare. and the monks of rivelshy, though they had little opportunity of hecoming gourmands, and were well content with the simple dietary ordered hy their rule, were marvellously nice in their dis- crimination hetween good and evil in such plain viands as they were accus- tomed to. if a man drinks only water, he hecomes a wonderful judge of its quality, and detects the slightest tinge of impurity where the palate which is used to stronger potations swallows all alike. a musty lentil in one of their pittances was a grievance which called for redress; and a hatch of ill-salted fish had once well nigh caused a domestic revolution. no wonder, then, if, with such anxieties weighing heavily on his mind, the kitchener listened in no very patient mood to his hrother monk who came iunocently to add to his trouhles, though the demand for food and drink for a single starving man was no very uureasonahle or formidahle requisition. but it is the last straw which is said to hreak the hack of the much-enduring camel: brother gervase had horne much that day, and in the matter of the heans had heen ohliged to hear it in ill-tempered silence. nor had he any great con- fidence in the worthy lihrarian's dis- cretion in selecting ohjects of charity. "a pittance for a hungry wayfarer .] the l'tek of ladysmede.—part v. saidst thou?" said the vexed official; "mark me, good hrother, far he it from me to put any slight upon the cbristian duty of almsgiving, and for the hest of reasons; if matters go on long as they have done of late, we may all have to fare forth one day, like a rascal herd of friars mendicant, and heg charity of our neighhors." "how now, hrother?" said ingnlph, "has any new mischief hefallen us?" '' nay," returned the other, "'tis nothing new for us to lack money—it has heen so ever since i first took of- fice; hut 'tis one of those evils which time will scarcely mend; and 'twill he something new for my lord ahhot, and for all of ye, to find howl and platter set hefore ye empty—a con- summation towards which, it seems to me, we are wending fast.' "what is the matter, hrother gervase?" asked simon, the suh- prior, in a good-humoured tone. he had stolen down to the kitchen sur- reptitiously to inspect the fresh ar- rival of fish, in which he took a very cordial interest. "i am seeking an answer to a very serious question, father," said the kitchener, eyeing him as one of the most determined consumers on the estahlishment. "how many days in the week, now, do you consider it possihle to live upon prayers and promises?" it was a dietary on which the suh-prior conld form no opinion. "because," continued the other, "i am like to have nonght hesides, that can see, to provide the house with till next st. thomas's tide. here is our winter store of ling and herring not yet laid in, and the fish- eries falling short every day. see here, what they hring me this after- noon—scarce anything fit to furnish forth the lord ahhot's tahle to morrow, when he hath guests of rank to dine with him." "this is a goodly fish," said the soh-prior, selecting from the heap on the floor a large pike which had a plumper look than the rest, and weighing it in his hands admiringly. "he is lunk in the withers," said gervase, with a glance of his more experienced eye, "and hath hut stuffed his maw with frogs, or some such vermin." one of the cook's assistants took the fish from the suh-prior's hands and performed a rapid act of dissec- tion, which hrought forth convincing proofs that the kitchener was correct in his judgment. "and what nohle guests is onr reverend father expecting?" inquired ingnlph. "nay," replied gervase, "hss not sir nicholas le hardi sent word that he will come to-morrow in person to receive our loyal contrihution to his majesty's service? and has not my lord ahhot sent to pray that sir god- frey will please to ride with him? and shall we he niggard in our hospi- tality to such gracious visitors?" "certes, 'tis a piece of the cbris- tian rule to feed our enemies," re- marked the suh prior. "tea, and good worldly policy likewise, hrother," said gervase: "catch your uuruly henst with good oats—no need to waste them on your tame one, whom you may take hy the forelock when you will; hut how to feed either friends or foes out of an empty purse—there is a ques- tion, now, which hrother ingnlph here, with all his lore, shall find hard to resolve ns." "i would rather at this moment, good gervase," said ingulph, "that you would hestow something on the poor wayfarer i spoke of; neither my philosophy nor thine will go far to feed the hungry." with a little grumhling, more af- fected than real, the kitchener hid a serving-hoy follow the monk with some hroken meat for the ohject of his charity. "i will go see him eat it," said hrother simon, to whom the sight appeared to promise a little gentle excitement. cuthwin's eyes glared like a fam- ished hound's at the food set hefore him, and scarcely waiting to mutter thanks to his henefactors, he applied himself to it with a power of uppe- tite which, fortunately for the kitch- ener's calculations, was seldom seen within the ahhey walls. it was not to he wondered at; for ever since he had heen in hiding from sir godfrey's wrath, he had suhsisted on such wild herries as the thickets ahout the marsh could supply, with the eggs of [july, t'nt luck of ladysmede.—part v. water-hirds, and gnch of their young as he could occasionally catch, and which he had made no scruple of de- vouring raw. brother simon seated himself op- posite the hungry man, and watched his performance with much interest and i,dinirnt.ioti. "poor soul!" said he, " 'tis a plea- cure to see him eat i will e'en go fetch him another trencher," he added good uaturedly, ohserving how ra- pidly the first liheral supply was dis- appearing. prom i his purpose, however, he was dissuaded hy his hrother monk, hoth on the ground that the kitchener might fairly hold this second demand some- what uureasonahle, and on account of the danger—to say nothing of the sin—of such an inordinate indulgence of appetite. at this moment, too, one of the novices entered, and, with a respectful salutation, informed the suh-prior that it was time to visit the infirmary, which was one of the pe- caliir duties of his office. cuthwia looked a little disappointed, hut the hospitahle monk made what amends he could to him hy filling again from the fligon the little howl which had contained his heer. "if you he the lord ahhot, as i guess,'' said cuthwin, taking hreath at lust, and looking gratefully upon the suh-prior, whose placid features and well-fed person hore ahout them a certain look of comfortahle diguity —" i could tell something it might content your reverence to know." " am not the ahhot," replied hrother simon, simple enough to feel iunocently flattered hy the peasant's mistak<—" hut you may speak to me as well as to him, if it he aught that concerns our house; i will report it to the ahh.it, if there seem need." the honest suh-prior had not the least intention of intercepting any private communication; hut he did not expect that any communication at all from such a quarter could he of real importance. cuthwin, how- ever, was shrewder in his generation than the churchman ; he was certainly more cuuning. shuffliug uneasily in his seat, aud looking from one monk to the other, he replied, " would fain see the ahhot himself, so please ye hoth." "thou art a hold knave," said the suh-prior, with a little suort, ex- pressing as much offended self-im- portance as his ea-<y nature was capahle of; "wouldst have the lord ahhot hestow his time no hetter, i warrant thee, than in listening to every idle tale that such as thoa hring to the gate?" but the lihrarian, now that he found that his uuprepossessing ac- quaintance professed to have news to communicate, did not choose to have his importance underrated. he looked upon him as a little wind- fall of his own; and trusting to the known kindliness of ahhot martin's disposition, even should the man's desire to speak to him personally prove, as it well might, to he a mere delusion, or a pretext to ohtain more alms, he rose from his seat, and hav- ing hid cuthwin remain where he was for the present, explained to the suh-prior that he would at least go aud inform their superior of this persevering request. the ahhot eat in his chamher, with the young ginlio on his knee. his hand was playing with the fair curls, and the hoy looked up to him with a heaming smile of affection. in many respects the little guest of rivelshy was greatly improved hy his new companionship. ahhot mar- tin had alrealy imparted something of his own frank and hold nature to tlie young spirit, whose ungenial childhood hitherto had fostered some of the finer sensihilities at the ex- pense of those stronger qualities which would he looked for in a hoy of nohle hlood. there was still enough of the soldier under the churchman's rohes, to make him less careful to encourage his young charge in the clerkly learning for which he already showed a taste and capa- city far heyond his years, than to instil into him all the nohler prin- ciples of true chivalry which had formed his own early training, and in which ginlio's character might have run some risk of proving defi- cient. he had quietly withdrawn him as much as possihle from his dearly loved sittings in the lihrary and scriptorinm—for ingulph would soon have made his darling pupil as accomplished in the arts of the pen- .] the luck of ladysmede.—part v. man and illuminator as ho was him- self; and though he never suffered him to mix alone with the novices, the youngest of whom were his elders hy some years, yet he sent him, under the special care of one of his chap- lains, or some other of lhe fraternity whom he could implicitly trust, to he instructed in all such atbletic ex- erettn as the wide precincts of the ahhey afforded space for, and in which all the younger hretbren were per- mitted and encouraged to join, and which, indeed, at rivelshy formed a regular part of the monastic training. it was a source of constunt regret to his kind protector that the present apparent necessity for keeping his place of refuge unknown, if possihle, to the household of ladysmede, made it imprudent to take him as a companion in the frequent excur- sions to the distant manors and granges helonging to the ahhey, which formed at once part of ahhot martin's duties and his favourite re- laxation; for the doll routine of the cloister life sometimes, it must he confessed, sat heavy on an active mind. he would gladly have had him thus acquire that practical skill in horsemanship (which he took care, however, should not he wholly un- taught him within the ahhey hounds), and at the same time have given mind and hody the advantage of free range of air and scene. still, hoth promised to tbrive well under this semi-conventual training; and the young face which now looked up into the ahhot's had lost nothing of its intellectual heauty, while it had gained much in healthy colour and firmness of contour. the somewhat quaint effect of his little monastic hahit—for it had heen judged more prudent to clothe him in the usual drtss of the novitiate—was not ill- suited to the child's regular features and clear liquid eyes; and his friend the lihrarian, who possessed consider- ahle manual skill in the higher hranches of illumination, hnd twice endeavored surreptitiously to trans- fer a resemhlance of his little favour- ite to the hrilliant pages of a life of saint wolstan, which was heing copied at that time with lavish orna- ment in the scriptorinm. it could hardly he said that either attempt was successful; for the younger monks who were there employed al- ways considered that the portraits were intended to represent the saint himself, who was never known to wash, and died in the odour of sanc- tity at a hundred and fifteen years. wolftrt the chaplain, who had heen husy as usual near the window, laid down the figurative weapons with which he was husily mauling the obuoxious canons, and replied to ingulph's modest knock. the hoy sprung joyously forward when he re- coguised the familiar face, and wel- comed the lihrarian cordially. the ahhot could hardly have heen found in happier mood. iupu'ph humhly stated to his superior cuthwin's strange request for an interview. '' the man hath a wild look ahout him, reverend father," said he,"which indeed is no gre^t marvel, if his tale he true that he hath lived the life of a hunted wolf some tbree weeks past; he had done somewhat, if i caught his meuning rightly, to displeasure the knight of ladysmede, his lawful lord and master, and deems he goes in peril of his life: will nigh famish- ed i may dare swear he was, for never did i see cbristened rnan swal- low food so ravenously; hut his wit is as sonnd, for aught i can see, as such churls' wits are like to he; and nothing will eerve him hut to see my lord ahhot himself; having, as he professes, some tidings that may come to no other ears. the suh- prior, who was hy, would have had him speak out, hut the fellow said nay ; and so i thought it hut right to ask your worshipful pleasure in the matter." "he is some hondman of sir godfrey, say yon t' "is or was; for he swore with an unseemly oath, for which i rehuked him, that he would enter into hond with sathanas—praying your reve- rence's pardon—rather than have to do with sir godfrey again." ''it were as well, perhaps, that i saw him, since he stands so much upon it," said the ahhot; "hring him hither at once, if you will." the monk howed and retired. wolfert, also, at a sigu from his su- perior, withdrew from the chamher, taking the hoy with him. in a few [july, the luck of ladysmede.—part v. minutes ingulph returned and in- troduced the hosketniaker, who had heen suhjected to some slight initia- tory religious discipline in the way of ahlution, and presented a less re- pul>ive appearance than hefore. the monk lingered at the door, and recounted again at greater length, for the ahhot's information, all the particulars of his first meeting with cuthwin. he had some hope that his presence might he required at the interview in the character of interpreter; for the peasant wore at first an air of stolid ahashment which did not promise to make his com- munications very intelligihle. he considered also that he had a lawful claim to a share in the fortheoming secret, such as it might he; and his honest face put on a look of disap- pointment and mortification when the superior siguified to him a gra- cious permission to withdraw. left alone with the ahhot, cuthwin appeared to employ himself at first, as some animals will do under simi- lar circumstances, in taking the exact relative hearings of the apart- ment and all iu furniture, from the floor to the ceiling. the ahhot wisely allowed him time to complete his investigations, and recover his self-possession as far as possihle, merely expressing in a few hrief words his pity fur what he under- stood had heen his sufferings. "and you fear, even now, to go hack within sir godfrey's reach f" said the ahhot, judging that he would speak most readily of what concerned himself; "you would have me plead with the knight on your hehalf, i douht not—is it not so?" the er- rand which the man deemed of such importance might, he thought, after all, he no more than this. "curses light on him!" said cuthwin, hecoming eloquent in his excited recollection, and gathering courage perhaps from the good cheer of the guest-hall, "he set his hands on my woman yonder as she had heen e'en a hrock or a foulmart." (he had stolen hack to his hut one dark and stormy night, and had an interview with swytha.) "if ever i go nigh him or his again, may the—" but the ahhot raised a warning finger, aod having had a lecture on language already that afternoon, he came to an ahrupt stop, which was even more emphatic, and less ohjec- tionahle. "you wished to have speech of me, as i have heen told," said the superior, satisfied that the peasant was now in full possession of all his powers of speech and comprehension; "speak if you will, honestly, and without fear." "have ye a child of sir godfrey's here among ye?" said cuthwin in a cautious voice." "nay, friend," replied the ahhot, "i thought to hear somewhat from thee; it were hardly my place to answer every wayfarer's questions. if that he all that i am called to hearken to, i trow it were as well for thee, having had food and drink, to go thy ways again." cuthwin regarded the speaker with a half-timid leer of low cuuning; he saw, as he thought, that the ahhot was fencing with him, and respected him the more for a diplomacy which just came within his own powers of moral appreciation. but in fact, though ahhot martin did not choose to answer an interrogatory put in such fashion from such a mouth, he had not the slightest thought of misleading his questioner, or en- gaging him in a contest of evasions. his suspicion at the moment was that cuthwin was an emissary of sir godfrey's, who had procured ad- mission into the monastery, under pretence of seeking alms, and wad now pursuing his inquiries with more zeal than sbrewdness. "well," rejoined cuthwin, "no offence, i heseech thee, father ; they have lost him from ladysmede—that much is certain, for there was stir enough made ahout it for a while: whether ye have him or no, matters little to me; if all the hreed were strangled, the earth were well rid of them. in case the imp he not amongst ye, what i have to say will concern your reverence hut little; hut the talk at ladysmede is of making search here for him." the ahhot looked at his strange visitor to judge whether he was playing him false; hut cuthwin's features had resumed their usual .] the luck of ladysmede.—part v. stolid apathy, and ahhot martin was at hest no keen reader of counte- nances. "and how is it, friend," said he, "that you—a hunted fugitive as i hear—should he thus acquainted with sir godfrey's intentions?" then cuthwin, taking courage at finding himself addressed as human flesh and hlood—a mode of treatment little in fashion with soch of his superiors as he had hitherto made acquaintance with — launched forth into a long and somewhat confused narrative. he had heen lying hid in the swamp hy the roadside when sir nicholas passed that day towards "willan's hope; and the knight, di- verging a little from the path, had ridden so close to his lurking-place, that when he suddenly stopped and called to his esquire to adjust some point that was wrong ahout his horse's gear, cuthwin, not daring to move until they were gone, had over- heard a conversation which had then passed hetween them. duhois had told his master that he had now learnt for certain that it was sir godfrey's child whom he had seen at rivelshy: he was surely there, he said, and from certain information which he had gained, he knew that he was in the ahhot's charge, and lay in his chamher; and then sir nicholas had laughed for joy, and said that they would surely have the hoy away on the morrow. and the squire asked, would it not he well to avoid all force, of which there should he no need for it were easy enough for a trnsty few to seek the ahhot's chamher while he was feasting with his guests, and possess themselves of the lad without stir or difficulty. and so there had heen more talk hetween them,—much that cuthwin did not hear, and much that he did not understand or rememher; hut what he had learnt he had thought well to let the ahhot know. "there were thanks due for thy tidings and thy good-will," said the ahhot, " could i only assure myself of thy good faith; hut why one euch thee should so concern thyself in our matters—unless for some purpose of thine own—i confess i understand not" "i had found a friend here in my need, father," said the hasket-maker, hlinking at the ahhot with his restless eyes. "true," replied the ahhot thought- folly, scarcely satisfied. "and i would go far to disappoint mine enemy," added the other, and the glance was steady for a moment, gleaming with malice. "in that i dare swear thou hast said truly. i do not say i trust thee, hut thou shalt remain in keeping here awhile—so will it he the safer, if thy tale he true, for all of us." "i am well content," replied cuthwin. ahhot martin summoned his chap- lain from a neighhouring chamher, and gave him charge to see the peasant safely hestowed hut kindly treated. "and hearken, wolfert," he added, " send gaston the angevin hither." it wag the name of a foreigu monk, rnde and illiterate, hut who had served ahhot martin in his earlier days, and was much in his confidence where simple ohedience and fidelity were required. "hark ye, gaston," said he, when the monk made his appearance— "take a stout palfrey from my stahle, to-morrow hefore dayhreak, and carry the child ginlio— whom you will find ready here in my chamher—down to morton grange: ahide there with him until i come or send this ring," —and he showed the siguet on his finger—" and, i need not say, he silent and discreet." if silence was a sure mark of dis- cretion, the angevin was the dis- creetest of henchmen; for he said no word in reply to the superior's charge, hut made a low oheisance and with- drew. chapter xiil—confessions. what ingulph had said at willan's elfhild's mind from those scruples of hope did not tend to diminish the in- true courtesy which had as yet with- terest with which either lady regarded held her from entering upon any per- their guest, whilst it served to relieve sonal inquiries. in the conversation [july. hie luck of ladysmede.—part v. which followed hetween her and her niece, she was fertile in speculations upon a point which she now hoped soon to he ahle to solve in earnesx. gladice, on the other hand, had given up guessing, aud was more than usually silent. before they parted, hoth had come to a resolu- tion in their own minds, which neither expressed in words to the other: the elder, to take the first favourahle opportunity to ohtain all such information from isola as she might seem willing to give; and the younger, to avoid as far as possihle any confidences which their guest showed imy desire to hestow upon her. but the hest and most deliher- ate human resolutions are liahle to hecome the sport of very trifling circumstances. the exacting domes- tic cares of a large and hungry house- hold—to which all interests ranked second in the eyes of elfhild—en- grossed that excellent lady's atten- tion for ihe remainder of the day; judith and her suhordinates were fully occupied in clearing off some arrears of duty under the vigilant eye of their mistrtss; and gladice— who, too willingly, it must he con- fessed, lift the government of her little kingdom to any minister who would kindly take the responsihility —found herself the only person suffi- ciently disengaged to attend to isola. she had thought to content herself with one or two hrief visits of inquiry to the invalid's chamher; for she felt that she was awkward and emhar- rassed in her attempts at conversa- tion; hut the melancholy face lighted up with huch a glowing smile at her approach, and teemed to watch her departure with such a regretful gaze, that gladiee's kind heart was not proof against what she interpreted into a silent pleading for companion- ship, and she felt that she could not leave the stranger alone tbrough the long evening. she therefore carried with her up to the chamher that iunocent falsehood, her emhroidery- frame, and seated hy the narrow eyelet which served there for a win- dow, it supplied her with at least ostensihle occupation and some ex- cuse for silence. isola indeed showed no inclination to trouhle her much with conversation; and alter a very few words had passed at in- tervals, hod closed her eyes, and seemed to sleep. gladiee's thoughts also soon wandered to the land of dreams; and forgetting for the mo- ment that she was not alone, she let her needle fall, leaving the flower, which she had twice uupicked, to grow, if it would, in its own rehel- lious way, and hegan, as her hahit was, to sing to herself in a low rich voice. but her song, whether in unison with her own feelings, or from an uncon- scious sympathy with the sleeper, was not so gay as usual. it was a chant which she had heard the nuns of micham.tede sing at their vespers; she had readily caught the sweet and simple melody, and no one could have found it in their hearts to he over-critical ahout the latin words. she had continued it for some minutes, when she started at recol- lecting where she was, and turning hurriedly to remark whether her com- panion was still sleeping, saw that her eyes were open, though they were not turned on her, aud that they were ready to overflow with tears. she had ceased her singing so suddenly that isola could not fail to understand the cause, though the singer tried to appear unconscious of her emotion. "why did you stop?" said isola, mastering her tears, and turning to gladice with an attempt to smile. "did it soothe you?" asked gla- dice, without meeting her glance; "i will hegin again." and with u less steady voice—for she was unused to sing for others— she resumed the chant as she hent again over her needle. "that is not an english melody," suid the stranger gently, after listening for a while in silence. "is it not?" said gladice; "it is very heautiful; ut least jou could hardly fail to think it so, if you had heard it sung as i did.-' and she ex- plained to her listener where she had learned it. "i kuow it well," said isola, turn- ing her face from her; ''it is an ital- ian chant. i have sung it mjself— very, very often." her companion would willingly have let the conversation drop, hut she felt ohliged to make some kind of reply. '• i should have hethought me," she said with a smile," hefore .] the luck of ladysmede.—part v. i was so free to essay my poor re- memhrance of it; they say that your country is the land of song." '.do not refuse me for a country- woman," isola replied; " i said that i was half of english hlood; the only parent i can rememher was my sweet english mother; and i speak your language—or i have heen falsely told—as well as one horn in the land. it may very well he so, for i heard little else spoken in my infancy. and it seems to me now—forgive me for what i say—when i close my eyes and listen while you speak, as if i had woke from some hideous dream, to find myself a little child once more, and hear my mother's english voice! would god that it could he!" she turned her face away again, and made no effort now to restrain or to conceal her tears. gladice could hnt try to soothe her with some kindly words, though she persuaded herself that they were grave and formal. perhaps the voice was kinder than the words; perhaps the ear upon which they fell had heen too little used of late to any tones of kindness; or perhaps the qafak southern hlood that mingled in the stranger's veins overhore with its impetuous current the common harriers of reserve. "i have not known how to thank you," said isola, raising herself from tier couch and dashiug away her tears, and hreaking into that rapid and impassioned utterance which was almost the only trace of her foreigu hirth and education—"i can never thank you—for all your gene- rous kindness—and even more, for the nohle silence which has heen con- tent to ask no questions, and to think no evil. such ouly comes out of the depths of pure hearts; i had not thought there were such angel spirits upon earth!" gladice had almost involuntarily risen from her task, and seated her- self on the side of the couch, and isola had thjown her arm round her. "yon must have heen indeed un- happy, then," she replied, "if com- mon kindness seems so strange." and for the first time she took the stranger's hand. "i would tell you something of my story," said isola; "something vol. lxxxvl of my sin and of my punishment— lest yon should think me even more unworthy than i am." "i seek to know nothing," said gladice hastily, and half-rising; "nor have i judged yon harsbly, even in thought; if you have siuned as you say, god forgive you! we only know that you are in distress." "nay," pleaded fsola heseechingly, "let me speak now, if only for my own sake; i have horne my hurden very long nlone, and thought to have horne it still; hut your kind- ness—it has stirred feelings in my heart which have heen still for years. i have horne scorn when i deserved it not, hecause i was too proud to speak; and honour when i deserved it h> ,—a harder thing to hear; hut now i feel that i must speak—this once !"—for gladice gave no token of encouragement—" and i will trou- hle you no more i to you i can speak as i could not even to that good priest!" "my aunt, the lady elfhild—" gladice heuan, in a colder voice, aud with something of confused diguity. "oh no !—to you, to you i surely she to whom i pray daily—nightly —hourly, when, siuner that i am, i dare not pray to god—has heard me, and sent you to save me from my- self." still gladice made no response. "lady i" said the other, in an altered tone, removing her passion- ate clasp from gladice's hand and turning half away, while the colour flushed crimson to her temples—" i am not what you think me!" "no! no!" cried gladice, catch- ing her hand again, and speaking with an imploring eagerness strongly contrasted with her former emhar- rassed tone—'- i did not mean—i did not think—what am i in the sight of heaven, that i should judge others? forgive me if i have pained you for an instant! but i have heen used to live much alone, and i eould cot—at least i think i could not—open my own heart to any one : it seemed to me, therefore, as if i had no right to listen—and i could give you no help; hut you shall tell me anything—everything —what you will, if it will he anv comfort to you i" [jrfy, the luck of ladysmede.—part v. it would have heen hard to resist the earnest voice, harder still the en- treating eyes which now sought con- fidence and forgiveness. "yes," said isola quietly, without raising her eyes—" i said it was right that you should listen to me; i would he thought neither helter nor worse than i am. right glad would i have heen to have carried with me, when i go hence, your love—your esteem; hut not even this, if i must wear a mask for it—never that again!" she paused for a moment; her listener only pressed her hand. "there needs not to trouhle you with much of my early life. i have told you i never knewi my father; hut he was an italian gentleman of good descent. my mother was eng- lish; he had met with her, as i re- memher to have heard, when he was sent upon some mission to the court of your king stephen. well—she too died soon; and we were left alone in the world, my hrother and i; young, and i suppose poor. he always said that our inheritance was seized unjustly hy our kinsmen. i caunot tell—hut we were young, as i said, and poor. we were hoth given to the church—a wortbless gift, made in a selfish spirit; let some share of the guilt, therefore, lie upon those who made it! so i grew up in the cloister life, which i was taught to look forward to as my home for ever. and so it might have heen; and a peaceful and sinless home at least, if not a happy one—hut for one thing. there was a friend of my father's, an italian lady of the pure hlood, as they call it, hat poor like ourselves; and for that reason, perhaps, she was the only friend we had. while i was little more than a child, i was allowed often to visit her, and i loved her very much. in my novitiate i was still allowed the same permission, for the rule of our house was scarce so strict as some. at last the day came when i was to make my last profession. i said i could have heen happy enough to have emhraced the cloister for ever, hut for one thing—must i needs say what it was? or"— "nay," said gladice, colouring and half smiling—" leave it unsaid." "the day enme," continued the ita- lia;t, "and i had miserahle conflicts with myself; i hnd to vow myself, hody and spirit, to heaven, when i knew and felt that i had staked all my hopes and thoughts upon—upon earth i hut they were thoughts and hopes i dared not hreathe to others —not even to her who had hecome almost a second mother to me. i hardly confessed them even to my- self. i strove—our holy mother knows how sore and earnestly i strove !—to master my own rehel- lious feelings, to suhmit myself pa- tiently to the lot which seemed ap- pointed for me ; hut it was»of no avail. could i vow with my lips to 'fol- low heaven with my whole heart,' when my whole heart was given to a creature of earth? should i ha-ve done it?" "no," said gladice in a low voice, when she found her companion waited for her reply. "but," said isola, "still it was no more than my own wayward fancy— he had never spoken! what could i say? what could i plead for not tak- ing the veil?" gladice was silent. "i did not take it," continued isola; "i fled—fled to the only friend i had, and she protected me, and would not have my will forced. and then another spoke; and he was kind and nohle, and my kinswoman loved him, and would have had me wed him; and then what was i to- do? for rememher, he of whom i told you was gone now, and had said no word; and all men againht me, one poor helpless girl. here was the choice laid hefore me—a hushand, or the cloister; and my heart far, far away from hoth—which was i to choose?" "neither!" said gladice, her lips set, and her eyes flashing—" neither!" "nay, hut, sweet lady, what could i do?" "i know not," said gladice impa- tiently—" not that!" "ay," said the other, looking at her with a mournful admiration, as the indiguant colour mounted just high enough to enhance her heauty, while the eye hurnt and the whole lnxuriant form panted with courage- ous pride—"truly and hravely said i and, i do verily helieve, hrave and true you would he in deed as in .] the luck of ladysmede.—part v. word! god grant you he never tried! but alas ! i was too weak — i chose the cloister." "well," paid gladice, hreathing somewhat easier,—" it was the hetter choice." "to make myself a liviog lie to vow my heart, my thoughts, my hopes to heaven, when my whole soul was sick with a love such as, in your colder island, you may he thankful if you never know." "yet it was a northern maiden, in the lay, that was found floating dead in the charmed hoat for the love which she had never told." "is it even so ?" asked the italian, looking down into her companion's face ; — " hut let me hasten on with my wretched story. i took this lying vow upon my lips—it was hest, you say — i thought it so then; and so it might have heen, hut — as a punishment, it might he, for my false oath to god—he came again; once, and only once, we met, and i hroke my vow. i fled with the man i loved —hut as his wedded wife, rememher! ay, start as j ou well may — i, the sworn hride of cbrist, hecame an adulteress to an eartbly passion! that has heen my crime, vile and hlack in mine own sight now as ever! and yet so hlind am i, i know not at this moment which was the great- est falsehood and the deadliest sin,— the making the vow, or the hreak- ing of it!" "god forgive you i" said gladice earnestly; "you were sorely tried." "i was, i was! and i strove hard, and prayed long; hut of what use was it? my heart had heen full of that one thought even while i spoke those awful words of profession. i had nursed it in the cloister, like a despair; it seemed hopeless that i forgot the sin; and now it had overmastered me, hody and soul; what help could heaven itself give me?" she hid her face again, and her whole frame shnddered with the agony of rememhrance. "and afterwards," said gladice, feeling that the truest relief would he to lead her to continue her story, —" your wedded life, i fear, has not heen happy f" "happy " exclaimed the other hitterly — " was it fit that it should he? xo—even in my worst folly, never hoped or dreamed that. when ever was peace or huppiness horn of falsehood? why should man vulue the truth which has heen hroken to god? a few short weeks of fever- ish, painful joy—no happiness; a few months more of wretched wander- ing, coldness, and neglect; and then —as was hut just — he left me, for whom i had left god. yes, lady, it was even so j and if it were only so, i might have horne it, and have heen thankful that my sin had so early found me out; hut there was an- other, too, who fell in my fall — my hrother, my poor giacomo ;hut i have told you all that needed to he known; that which touches others i must not tell, and it were idle for you to hear. oh! hut you would needs pity me, sinful as i am, did you only know half the agony of my thoughts sometimes ! and of late more than all, in my weakness. i have had—whether waking or dreaming, i caunot rightly tell—evils spirits chant- ing in my ears the words of the vows that have heen made and hroken, and rejoicing over the souls which i have given them!'' "nay, nay," said gladice, taking hoth her hands in hers, and seeking to calm her agitation—" it is not so —you do hut dream—such fancies as i have heard come oftentimes with fever, and will pass away as you gain streogth—think no more of them." yet she' felt herself tremhle as she spoke. "you have not asked me yet," said her companion, looking up, "what it was that hrought me hither?" "i do not care to ask, or to know; i think perhaps it was she to whom j on pray so often." "ah! no," replied isola, shaking her head and colouring again, though the kind words awoke a faint smile of pleasure on her face for a moment; ,: alas i it was the old madness still; i came with the hope to find him, and look on him once more, if only to he scorned again. i know that it ia weakness, miserahle weakness, hut it is my life—and it is not sin now; there is hut one vow left me hence- forth to keep, even if i would ; and though it he all they tell me—mad, [july, the luck qf ladysmede.—part v. self-willed, unwomanly — i am not wicked in this; yon would not tell me so!" the reply which gladice wonld have made was interrupted hy the voice of her tirewoman bertha, re- questing admission to her young mistress. "an it please yon, dear lady gla- dice," said bertha, after a respectful oheisance to hoth, "your presence is desired helow." "pray thee spare me now, good bertha," said gladice, forcing herself to smile gaily, tbrough there were tears npon her cheek; "what mighty husiness is there afoot, which caunot he compassed without my poor wit? go—say what is the truth, that i am preparing a sleeping-draught for this our guest, who has heen overwearied and restless, and that i would fain watch here a while." and she moved towards the small tahle on which were disposed all dame elfhild's approved medicaments. but the tire- woman still lingered in the chamher, casting hesitating looks towards the couch on which lola lay. "it was the lady elf hild hid me seek you," she said ; "there are guests newly arrived, and her company will hardly content them." "who is it?" gladice asked, turn- ing her face aside for a moment from bertha's meaning glance. "sir nicholas le hardi hath ridden from ladysmede." bertha spoke slowly and distinctly, for she wished to attach some im- portance to her words, and she was watching their effect upon her young mistress with kindly interest. but on this point she had no opportunity of satisfying herself. the words had heen heard hy another. isola had started up with a sharp sudden cry, and grasped gladice's arm convul- sively. bertha was alarmed, and hurried to her assistance, quite un- conscious that she herself had heen in any way the cause of the stranger's emotion. gladice was startled also, and looked in lola's face with in- quiring wonder, douhtful whether her exclamation arose from a sudden spasm of pain, or from some fancied terror of a fevered hody and over- excited mind. with an effort at calmness, while her grasp of the arm she held tightened even to pain, the italian whispered — "he has found me, then i" "who? what?" cried gladice hur- riedly, not sure that in the trouhled gleam of the other's eyes she did not read insanity, yet looking eagerly to catch her next words. isola drew a long sigh, and closed her eves again. ''what did you say?" repeated her companion. "one moment—and i will tell you all." the tone was calm enough; gladice was the most agitated now. "it was he of whom i spoke hut now—my hushand." the words were spoken very low, hut they were plain to understand. her listener stooped for a moment over the couch, and whispered — *' hn?h i" then she rose, and husied herself for a few seconds in adjusting the cushions upon which the sick stranger leaned. when she turned round, she said to her attendant in a quiet voice, "go, bertha! did i not say that i had no leisure now? say to mine aunt that i am needed here: the lady, as you see, is sufifcring— i caunot leave her." the tirewoman's ears, as dame elf hild many times complained, were none of the sharpest, nor were her mental perceptions the most acute. she had withdrawn to a little dis- tance, and the few words which she had caught of what had passed he- tween the others, had only served to convey to her mind a confused and alarmed notion of what she had he- fore suspected, that the poor lady's intellect was disturhed. but she could not help noticing the unusual pal lour on her young mistress's face; and, anxious not to leave her to deal with such a responsihility alone, hegged her permission to remain in the chamher. "leave us, bertha!—did yon not hear me?" never had her gentle lady spoken to her so sternly. humhled and won- dering, the poor girl hastily with- drew. then gladice, no longer an un- willing listener, hut pale and eager, sought from her guest a full explana- tion of her last words. "sir nicholas le hardi—tell me," sue said, " are you his wife?" "i am, i am, heaven help me! he .] the luck of ladysmede.—part v. knows i am! his hy all the vows with which holy church could hiud ns! he may deny it; hut, lady, i speak the truth—do you not helieve me?" she looked into gladice's face, and started at what she thought she read there. "what know you of him i" she asked ahruptly, with an cager, frightened look. '. nothing, i might almost say: he is a guest with my kinsman sir godfrey, of whom you have heard us speak. i know naught heside." she spoke calmly, hut her face was hidden from isola's interrogating gaze. both were silent for a while; then it was the italian who spoke. "yes — he is my hushand; how i love him, i have told you: i have left friends, crossed seas, trampled on my woman's pride, horne scorn from whom it was hardest to hear—all to look on him once more—only to look on him—for he hates me. i do verily fear," she said, shuddering, "that my life were hardly safe if i were in his power alone. now i have told you all, and truly; so may god forgive my sin! and you—what have you to tell me?" "nothing!" said gladice, raising herself erect, and tbrowing hack the mass of overshadowing hair that had escaped its hounds as she stooped over the sufferer's couch, while she looked straight into the other's eyes with a high-flushed cheek, and a glance that seemed almost defiant — "nothingl" anxiously and searchingly isola looked into those truthful eyes. the colour mounted higher and higher, hut the steadfast look never quailed again. gradually the italian's gaze softened into a loving, trustful smile, as she took hoth gladice's hands in her own. "he is my hushand," she gently said again; '• you will forgive me?" "forgive you ?"—and gladice hent ber head down upon the hands that still clasped hers, and pressed her hoc lips .upon them for a moment. if tears dropped there, they were isola's. "you will not hetray me," said she, with an appealing look to gladice: "he will not know that i am here?" "be sure he shall not," said gla- dice, her head still hent — "you are safe with us. but you must rest now," she continued, as she lifted her face again, grave and calm — " i will leave you for a while." as she passed out at the chamher- door she met bertha, who had again heen despatched in search of her. the poor tirewoman had never heen so emharrassed hy conflicting duties. she could not disohey dame ell hild, in whom was invested the chief autho- rity de facto in the household ; and she would not have vexed her dear young mistress for the world. "indeed, sweet lady gladice," she hegan in a humhle deprecating tone, "i was hound to seek you again, chide me as you may, for sir ni- cholas"— "say i will come; i do hut go to hind mine hair." bertha would liave followed to tender assistance as usual. "nay, go, dear bertha — do not need any help; say that i will wait on them presently." bertha was neither keen nor clever; hut she was a woman, and she looked after her young mistress, as she turn- ed away, with wondering and sorrow- ful eyes. grave and pale, hut never in more commanding heauty, the lady gla- dice, after her hrief toilet, walked into the solar where sat her good kinswoman doing her hest to make the long minutes of delay pass lightly to the impatient crusader. he seemed to have little himself to tell this morning, and had not heen listen- ing, it is to he feared, with quite so much interest as courtesy demanded, to certain incidents of the lady's own days of conquest. but his dark hrow cleared as he glanced rapidly at the opening door hy which the maiden entered. he rose to greet her with a courtesy graceful as his wont, and, if it could he, even more respectful. in part, it might he intentional ; hut there was an indefinite majesty ahout gladice's presence at that moment which would have in itself forhidden any more presumptuous greeting. it was no longer the rich maturity of woman's loveliness which tempted passionate admiration in every deli- cate tint and rounded line; it was the pale proud heauty of a marhle juno, living and moving, with a madouna's features. before it, the [july, the luck of ladysmcde.—part v. hold gallant of 'he camp and court, the practised man of the world, in whose hreast the fires of youth hurnt harilly less fiercely that they were tempered hy the craft of ripened years, stood chastened into an in- voluntary reverence. she received the crusader's homage as a queen might have done, with the stately graciousuess which repels rather than encourages; and though he took a seat almost close heside her, she was as far aloof from him as an angel. he sought to win her atteution, as he- fore, hy the wealth of converse upon almost every suhject which he was wont to have so readily at command; hut he felt a spell upon him, and his tongue had lost its cuuning. he tried a lighter tone; a softly-worded jest, a delicately-veiled hint of flattery; hut he hit his lip with vexation as the words fell forced and dead even upon his own ear, for gludiee's face wore no answering smile. he hent his eyes there inquiringly, again and again; and though his natural tem- per was hitter and impatient, there was a tenderness in the reproachful look too real to he a mere stratagem in ihe warfare of courtship. the eyes which he sought did not always sbrink from his; hut when he met them, they hardly seemed the same as those in which he hud bo often looked hefore, in whose soft depths a mighty unwakened love had seemed alwajs sleeping their hrightness had horrowed something of the fahled power of the dead gorgon. it con- quered him; for it chilled his pas- sion, and unnerved his self-command. even elfhild, who had heen ohliged to maintain a far larger share in the conversation than she had found necessary on former occasions, and who had shot a meaning look at her niece from time to time to rehuke her for her uureasonahle silence, found her own keen glance quail hefore the in- tensity of glanice's expression, which puzzled and alarmed her. but love, as the elderly maiden supposed, was in its normal state a chaos of inexplicahle contradictions; nothing di>mayed, therefore, and feeling that a douhle duty was required of her, she con- tinued to talk to hoth with great fer- tility of words and with the hest intentions. at last the crusader seemed to rally his spirit, and spoke in an easier and lighter tone. his jests grew holder, his language of com- pliment was more decided, his laugh rang louder and gayer, though he addressed himself ol'tener to elfhild than to gladice; and the elder lady hegan to congratulate herself on hav- ing infused a very desirahle cheerful- ness into at least one of their little party. if the jest hud sometimes now more meaning in it than was suited to modern maiden's ear, it would have seemed purity itself ou the lips of sir godfrey or his depart- ed friend sir amyas; and elfhild had heen too much used to such society to affect to he over-prudish in such points. if his eye assumed a somewhat free and defiant look as it rested from time to time upon gla- dice, elfhild did not seem to notice it; and if a slight flush tinged for an instant the paleness of the maid- en's cheek, and showed that she was conscious of his changed demeanour, the knight might have read—and he did—in the haughty lip and the in- diguant eye which answered his, not so much shame, as scorn and counter- defiince. maintaining this new tone a while, until he had fuliy recovered his ground in his own estimation, at length sir nicholas rose to take his leave. yet, as at parting he took gladice's scarcely-offered hand, and, hetiding low, raised it to his lips with grave aud respectful courtesy, he said some few words in a low voice, in his old tone, and watched her face for an answer with no freedom in his look. slight ahrupt words they were, to which only a look and a tone could give cohesion or meaning. yet pos- sihly, had they heen spoken hut an hour ago, to the ear which alone heard them, they might have had a wondrous eloquence. but she made no other answer than one of those fixed searching looks from which he hud half sbrank hefore, and the cold hand struggled out of his grasp. again the evil defiant glance, this time with something of a fierce meaning in it., came up into le hardi's face; hut gladice did not notice it; almost he- fore the door had closed upon him, she too had left the chamher. .] sentimental physiology. sentimental physiology. onb who loves to shape for him- self the forms of events in the dark- ness of the future, might he interest- ed sod puzzled for a long time with the momentous question, " what is to hecome of paris v" the prospects of that great city seem sufficiently em- harrassing, whether regarded from a moral, religious, social, or political point of view. paris will grow, and grow, and grow, and its ramifying railroads will ace as so many arteries, hringing the vital fluid into the great central heart of france, and not re- acting as veins to carry it hack. paris will certainly hecome congested again as has happened often hefore, and the next time matters mny he worse than they yet have heen; the expla-ion may he more tremend'us in proportion tn the congestion. on the face of things sacli a danger would appear to tbreaten london even to a greater extent. london is larger than paris, and expands every day; hut that matters little. the outward and visihle increase is ap- parent rather than real. there is no strong attraction of englishmen to- wards london as there is of french- men towards paris; hut the forces of attraction and repulsion appear to correct each other. england will never he centralised in london as france is to a certain extent in paris. "so one who has the shadow of a settlement elsewhere counects the feeling of home with our great me- tropoiis, while the true frenchman is at home only in paris. his feel- ing- are those of ovid in his exile at tomi, when husiness or health take hint away from his heloved capital,— refer ttii. • - "cam mhtt tiling trlstlsslma noctia imago qua; mlhl anpremum tempos fa urhe fult." even in the glorious alps of dau- phimi, or among the pyreuees, moun- tain scenery which he may revrl in without putting his foot on foreigu ground, and equal to any in the world, he feels tunuyi at a short so- journ, and sighs for the flesh-pots of egypt and "gross mud - honey of town." it is far otherwise with the briton. unless very young indeed, nothing hut ster n duty will hind him a day lunger in london than he can possihly help. if he is an m. p., he never nods in the house under the infliction, of a long-winded speaker, hut his dreams are of the gorse and the grouse; if he is a merchant, he takes delight only in the as-ociations suggested hy the name of 'change, cursing the reality of the thing; if a small tradesman, he is never hummed into a sleepy reverie hy the flies in his shop, hut he dreams of the suhur- han hox whither, when times mend, he may wend his way hy rail or omni- hus ahout four in the afternoon, leaving his late custom to an under- ling; if a mechanic, his thougl,ts tbrough the week are of his sunday holiday, and the hurden of his secret prayers is that the day may he tioe to enjoy it — in fact, from the per- petual and growing antipathy of its inhahitants, joined to the mia-ma of the thames, london is in danger of disintegration, and seems in a fair way to he transplanted piecemeal to the several railroad stations in its neighhourhood. it has even now, with its furious and fevered life, hurnt itself so hollow in the centre, that proposals have heen made to trans- plant into the suhurhs the metro- politan churches to sites whither their parishes have migrated. paris, on the other hand, hecomes daily more packed and compact within the new lines of its fortificaiions. its environs are dull — what place is duller than versailles? st. germain, st. denis, and the rest, are the finest postrihle speci- mens of deadly liveliness. in the central parts of paris and that part of the boulevards which is near them, is alt the motion, all the life, all the gaiety, and we may add. to a great extent, all the heauty. the place de la concorde is the focus from which france radiates—the central point of that peculiarly attic civilisation in j. michelet. del'amour. paris: hachettc. [july, sentimental physiology. which prance takes the lead of the world. standing there ahout the fountains, we have often heen struck with ihe idea that it was the hoss or "umhilicus" of the world, hearing the same relation to modern eu- rope that delphi was supposed hy the ancients to hear to their world. there is something singularly open and uplifted in the situation. the splendid vista of the rue de rivoli, terminated hy, or rather continu- ing itself tbrough, the arch of the star, looks like the high street of the world, and might well he sup- posed to he the entrance of some great cosmopolitan thoroughfare like the appian way of old. the eleva- tion of mountain isolated hy sur- rounding ravines seems rather to up- lift a man to heaven than to com- mand earth. the elevation of the place de la concorde is of that per- fectly mundane and accessihle nature, spreading every way into the horizon, that it seems to symholise the all per- vading influence of an imperial com- munity. we have seen an excellent photograph of that very place, in- cluding the facade of the louvre aid the front of the madeleine. the only thing that struck us as unnatural ahout that photograph was the entire ahsence of all life: an omission, how- ever, in actual fact, easily explain- ahle, such photographs heing gene- rally taken very early in the morning. no human heing was to he seen, either civil or military; no horse, no vehicle. one great characteristic of the spot, and that which espe- cially gives it its cosmopolitan cha- racter, is the constant circulation of motley life around it; not in the shape of excessive crowding, as seen in the aneurisms of the arteries of lon- don, hut of a natural and healthy kind. it is not to he wondered at that a frenchman is proud of paris—loves paris; wonders whether a diuner or a play is to he eaten or seen elsewhere in the world; aifects or really has a profound iguorance of every other place and people hesides paris and its inhahitants. any one who is in the hahit of reading what we would call par excellence the cockney parisian literature of the day, will see that we do not overstate this case. the charge of cockney ism may he hrought with great force against much of our own popular writings. from the fact that the workshops of newspapers and periodicals are in london, london sights and sounds are ohtruded too often and forcihly on the eyes and minds of contrihu- tors not to affect greatly their lucu- hrations. punch, for instance, cir- culates everywhere where uniformly excellent drawing and an occasional good joke can he appreciated. why should almost all punch's illustrations and jokes he drawn from london life—we had almost said spawned in the mud of the thames? is there no fun in yorkshire? a few more jokes from the mining districts would have heen most acceptahle. is there no wit north of the tweed?—maga knows hetter—or west of the irish chaunel? or rather, is it not all wit there when potatoes are plentiful? and the great times himself is em- phatically a londoner, hut he loves it not. the english litterateur is a conckney hy compulsion; he caunot help it. he kicks against it, goes off to scarhorough, sketches sea-side crinolines; hut the necessity of his craft is the mother of the inventions of his hrain, and his imagination— though his stomach revolts at it—is cockney and of cockaigue. not so with the frenchman. he does not know whether he is a parisian hy- necessity or not, so thorougbly is he so hy choice. he loves paris, lives in paris, hreathes paris, and sees all the rest of the universe tbrough an inverted parisian lorguette. the last development of parisian- ism, if we may use the word, is no less than the discovery of the new religion of positivism, whose revela- tions are to spread themselves ahroad from holy paris as our now ohsolete creed did from the judaean holy land. cbristianity, forsooth, has heen tried in the halance and found wanting. it was found so hef.ire hy yoltaire and his school, hut they were content to rest in negation. the unhelieving part of the new creed is of course not new. but hy the evangelists of the parisian cockney dispensation, our religion is set aside not as false, hut as inadequate to the advance of civilisation. men are assumed to have heen universally .] s!) sentimental physiolagy, excellent christians since the year a-n., and to have practised the new commandment to lcve one another until iu novelty completely wore off, and the universal taste was cloyed hy the excessive sweetness of its oh- servance. all men and women, with- out exception, having framed their lives according to the new testament, and having found no happiness in doing so, the new testament is ac- knowledged hy the greatest thinkers of the parisian cockney school as super- seded, and monsieur comte is to take the place of the divine saviour our iguorant infancy used to helieve in, if not exactly as an incarnation of the deity (for this would have heen a little too revolting), at least as the great apostle of deified humanity. fortunately for france, in the view of the positivists, her cbristianity has taken the roman catholic develop- ment, and her temples are supplied with the very images ready-made hy which positivism represents the idea of humanity—a young woman with a child in her arms. the rest of the roman hagiology m. comte declined, setting up his own, so that, in that respect at least, he resemhled don juan, who •turn'd from grisly saints and martyrs hairy, to those sweet pictures of the virgin mary." some sanguine protestants may imagine that hecause the papal chair is at present propped up hy french hayonets, it would instantly col- lapse if they were withdrawn, and the mind of catholic europe would pre- sent a hlank sheet of paper, in which their own ideas might he written at will. if they had read history to any purpose, they might have seen that, on more than one occasion, the tem- poral authority of the pope has heen jeopardised to almost if not quite as great an extent as it would he hy any contingent insurrection of the roman people. there is no reason to helieve that the spiritual power of the vati- can would he shaken were the pope in exile at aviguon. the possihility of anything like protestantism super- verjing in the countries at present devotedly papal, would suppose a higher degree of education and intel- ligence than the people in them have as yet attained. be this as it may, we-caunot hut think that the fact that the insane drivellings of the re- ligion of atheism should have had any influence at all on the educated mind of france, is a proof of the vast power of the roman catholic church in that country, as well as its utter inadequacy to cope with the social requirements of the educated classes. while the thinker of france can ac- quiesce in nothing short of the utter destruction of all traditional helief, there is little hope that the middle course, hetween faith and reason, will he hit upon hy the unthinking masses. and, indeed, the most en- thusiastic platform orator of exeter hall would allow, at least when apart from his audience, that it is far hetter the people should continue to worship the mother of our lord, and helieve in the immaculate concep- tion, than say their prayers to their own mothers, wives, and sisters, as the representatives of humanity, and have no hetter hope in death than that of ahsorption or assimilation. it may appear trivial to notice the vagaries of positivism, when speak- ing of the current influences at wotk on the literature of the day; hut it is undeniahle that, though the movement has reduced it-self to ah- surdity in the endeavour to construct a worship and a catechism, tne origi- nation of which marked, we helieve, the period of the failing of its apostle's mind; yet that, in its com- mencement, it has only heen the ex- pression of the natural development of materialistic philosophy, which has always felt at home among the savans of france, and has existed in a modified form in the scientific more than the literary world of our own country. that phase of posi- tivism which consists in the refusal to helieve except on scientific evi- dence, and which rests on the posi- tion, that though the existence of the unseen is possihle, and even the dog- matic dishelief in it unwarrantahle, yet that it is of no practical value as far as regards human action and human happiness, has undouhtedly exercised a very strong modifying influence on some of the most culti- vated minds and popular writings [july, sentimental physiology. hoth of this country and of france. it haa heen far other than an ohstacle to the reception of these doctrines that they go, to a certain extent, hand in hand with an enlightened view of divine revelation. there ia something plausihle in the view, that the true life of a good man consists in making the most of nature, and enjoying to the full, consistently with moderation, every good that the earth affords. it ia a protest against the morhid religionism of the middle ages, which worshipped asceticism, and esteemed sanctity to consist chiefly in a fierce ahstinence from the good gifts of god, entirely forgetting that "the son of man came eating and drinking," and disdained not to mingle with the joya as well as the sorrows of mankind. but, while the cbristian denies that the mere mat- ter of creation can he evil, hecause god has pronounced it good, and re- ceives all his good things as blessings, and with thankfulness, the positivist knows no god heyond the material world, though he does not deny that he may exist, and worships alone the facts and phenomena of nature exactly in proportion as he himself is ahle to comprehend them. in his view, nut helief or resiguation, not faith, hope, or charity, is the road to virtue and happiness, hut inductive philosophy. if a man would he good and happy, he must he scientific himself, or he content to acquiesce in the " dicta " of those who are so. the saints of this new evangel are the physiologists; the hishops, priests, and deacons, are the other " ologists" and "logian ," theologians alone heing excluded, as repre.enting a hranch of knowledge which is futile, hecause it caunot he reduced to the test of demonstrative science. these remarks are necessary to en- ahle the reader to comprehend the drift and general character of a new "art of love," which has emanated from ihe pen of m. miehelel the hook is simply entitled l'amour, hut its suhject ia not ao precisely "love" as marriage, and the art of attaining and retaining happiness in the married state. compared with other arts of love known to litera- ture, it is an iunocent hook, and, though undeniahly godless, its gene- ral tendency ia pure. on the other hand, it is no more tit to he laid on a drawing-room tahle in great bri- tain than a random copy of the lan- cet. it ia essentially a medical hook, and enters into medical details with a naivete and circumstantiality which is only possihle in french. it is cer- tainly a hook which, though it can- not he read aloud in mixed society, can do no one any harm in any point of view, for, if it is not a religious hook in any sense, it says nothing against reli- gion, and furuiohes, in fact, hy the in- adeq'iacy of the meana it proposes to gain certain euda of human life, the strongest possihle arguments in fa- vour of the old-fashioned creed. its attempt to correct the aherrations of human passion, hy falling hack on the fscts ot nature, is quite as orthodox as, and much' more logical than, the cold philosophy of paley, which pro- fessed to ktep men virtuous hy setting forth the extreme inconvenience and uncomfortahleness of vice, and the deplorahle results which are upt to supervene on exaggerated indulgence. as compared with another hook, which has heen written in france with professedly the same end, the fauny of ernest feydeau, it is dis- cretion and propriety itself. no one hut the frenchman of the most hlase kind could possihly feel a sympathy with the mean little wretch who ia the hero of fauny, whose miseries solely arise from the difficulties he encounters in making a respectahle household miserahle. feydeau's little nauseous puhlication is u display of morhid anatomy from which healthy human nature must sbrink hack in shame and disgust, and yet it is put forth in the shape of a nouvellete to he read hy ladies on the sands of o-tende, dieppe, or biarritz. we may well ask what is to hecome of paris? aa compared with fanny, l'amour ia a healthy treatise on physiology, and, regarded as such, deserves our serious notice. while it keeps out of sight the highest motives of human action, it enun- ciates certain home truths in its pecu- liar mauner, semi-poetical, semi-medi- cal, which it is quite as well that at least the adult world should know. there is an evident assumption, at .] sentimental physiology. the outset, that the art of constancy id love is necessary to he studied, from the weakness of the principles which wonld foster it in the present state of french, or rather, we may hope, of parisian society. the suh- ject is thus introduced :— "if we were to give a title to this hoob, which would give in their en- tirety its aim, sense, and hearing, it would he this— 'moral enfranchisement hy means of the genuine love. "this question of love lies, im- mense and ohscure, under the dep'h of human life. it supports even the hases of it, and the first foundations. the family rests upon love, and so- ciety ou the family. thus love pre- cedes everything. as is the state of morals, so is the state of tho city. liherty is hut a word, if the morals are those of slaves. here the ideal iss,'ugiit after, hut an ideal which can he realised at the present clay, not one which must he adjourned till society hecomes hetter. ic is the re- form of love and of the family which must precede all others, and make them possihle." litde exception can he tnken to this first statement. why does liherty seem hopeless in france, hut that the morals of slaves prevail there, and the foundations of society are sapped in the indefiniteness and comfortless nature of the family relations? but it is of france principally, and per- haps only, that m. michelet ought to speak, and here he displays, as most frenchmen do, an ignorance of all the world heyond the hernire. but here follows a passage of more general application, and where we britons may find a cap to fit ourselves :— fcoue eanuot shut oi.e's eyes to the fact, thut the freedom of the will has undergone in these last times import- ant modifications. the causes of this are numerous. i will invite special attention to two only, moral and phy- sical at the same time, which, strik- ing the hrain directly, and enervating it, tend to the paralysis of our moral powers. for the lust hundred years or so, a progressive invasion of alco- holic stimulants and narcotics has hetn invincihly gaining ground, with different results with regard to differ- ent populations — here darkening the mind, and irretrievahly harharising it; there hiting more deeply into the physical existence, tainting the race itself—hut everywhere isolating the man, giving him even hy his fireside a deplorahle preference for lonely en- joyments." there is no douht much of truth in this. there is always a tendency, especially with men of sedentary pur- suits, to drink end smoke to excess, and the classes engaged in these pur- suits increase in numhers with civil- isation. we would suhstitute for the science of affection which m. michelet preaches, the advice to lead a more muscular and manly life, for those at all events who are ahle to aiford it; for all those intensely interesting ex- ercises which are the pride of eng- lishmen, with the exception perhaps of cricket, are only for the compara- tively rich. the rest may, to a cer- tain extent, and under certain condi- tions, take m. michelet as an adviser. to his general position with regard to women we must entirely demur. woman, he argues, ought to he con- sidered as a sort of holy invalid. man ought to accept all her vagaries and caprices of taste and temper as a mother would those of a child, or rather, we should say, as the inhahit- ants of the valais show indulgence to their cretins, looking on them as after a manner sacred. he con- siders the ehullitions of eccentricity and strong-mindedness, of which our latter days have aiforded some re- mai kahle specimens, as the mere cries of pain of a suffering creature, re- quiring the constant help of man. the fact we know is precisely the contrary. strong-minded women, so called, are ouly weak-minded in he- ing illogical. no sensihle man ever disputed that woman was his equal, on the whole-—his superior in her own province. but when she has the misfortune to have a manly mind, she makes the mistake of asserting that she is man's equal in man's own province. of course there are excep- tions. female mathematicians have heen known who did not neglect their domestic duties, surpassing man in his own province, and not neglect- ing woman's; and it is said that the king of dahomey's corps d'eli'e is no fahle, hut that his amazons fight as [july, sentimental physiology. hravely as zouaves or higblanders, and with far more virulence and vi- ciousue-s. the strong-minded wo- man's appeal to puhlic opinion is not a cry of pain, as m. michelet asserts, hut an illogical assertion that, he- cause she herself can take a man's place in creation in many things, all other women are capahle of doing so likewise. the heautiful moral of teunyson's princess ought to settle that question for ever. "for woman is not undevelopt man, but diverse: could we make her as the man. sweet love were slain, whose dearest hond is this— not like to like, hut like in difference: yet in the long years liker must they grow; the man to more of woman, she of man; he gain in sweetness and in moral height. nor loso the wresting thews that tbrow the world; she mental hreadth, nor fall in childward care; more as the douhle-natured poet each: till at the last she set herself to man. like perfect music unto nohle words." we question whether the high spirit of our native women would not revolt at m. michelet's idea, that the gentleman is to think no more of the lady's ehullitions of temper than the mother does of the two-year-old child's. certainly, such a plan of proceeding would he favourahle to matrimonial peace, and prohahly, if universally carried out, ohviate to a great degree the necessity of actions for legal separation; hut some ladies would certainly feel more compli- mented hy their lords condescend- ing to quarrel with them, even as shakespeure, the greatest of all eng- lishmen, is said to have quarrelled with aun hathaway. be>ides, we have classical authority for helieving that lovers' tiffs are the refreshment of love. the assertion of the prin- ciple, however, gives occasion for the style of the hook to rise into elo- quence and poetry, and we caunot forhear to quote the passage in which it is emhodied from the origi- nal:— "les femmes et les enfants sont une aristocratie de graco et de charme.* le servage du métier ahaisse l'homme et lo rend souvent étroit et grossier. lo ser- vage do la femme n'est que celui de la nature; il n'est autre que sa faihlesse, sa ouflfrance, qui la rend attendrissante et poétique. "le correge peiguant toujours (et insatiahlement) des enfants tres-jeûnes, en moment ou la vie laitée, la vio phy- sique et fatale, étant dépasséo, laissait apparaître lo premier rayon de leur petite liherté. elle se révèlo alors dans leurs jolis mouvements avec une in- dicihle grâce. l'enfant est gracieux parco qu'il se sent lihre et qu'il so sent trèsaimé, parce qu'il sait d'instinct qu'il peut faire tout co qu'il vent et que tou- jours on l'en aimera davantage. la mère n'est pas moins admirahle en ce premier ravissement: 'ah, q'i'il est vil i — ah, qu'il est fort ! — il est capahle do me hattre ' ces sont ses cris. elle est heureuse; elle l'adore en ses résistances, en ses charmantes révoltes est-ce qu'il en aime moins sa mère? elle sait hien lo contraire. s'il la voit un peu lâchée, il se réjette en ses hras. comment l'homme, au premier élan do la persounalité do la femme, n'a-t-il pas été pour elle co qu'est la mère pour l'enfant?" perhaps there is truth in the fol- lowing remark, though it illustrates a passage in the anglican marriage- service to which ladies are apt to demur in practice :— "ce qui tourmente la femme, c'est hien moins la tyraunie de l'homme que sa froideur, hien moins d'ohéir que de n'avoir pas occasion d'ohéir hum. c'est do cela qu'elle so plaint. nulle harrière, nullo protection étrangère. elles ne servent dit très-hien l'auteur, qu'à hrouiller les époux, rendre la femme misérahle. rien no reste entre elle et lui. elle va à lui forte de sa faihlesse et do son sein désarmé, do ce cœur qui hat pour lui. . . . "voilà un guerre de femme. le plus vaillant sera vainco. qu' aura mainten- ant le courage de discuter n'clle est plus haut ou plus has que l'homme. elle est tous les deo.c à la fois. il en est d'elle comme du ciel pour la terre; il est dessous et dessus, tout autour. nous naquitnes en elle. nous vivons d'elle. nous en sommes enveloppés. nous la respirons, elle est l'atmosphère, l'élément de notre cœur." his experiences in this delicate hranch of human inquiry were glean- ed, says the author, not so much » j. p. richter more heautifully says, "children are the flowers of the human world." .] sentimental physiology. from his own personal experience as from the confessions of others. his position as a puhlic instructor and litterateur placed him in a social iso- lation, the circumstances of which induced sufferers to put confidence in him, and avail themselves of his sympathy, as that of a kind of lay confessor. "beaucoup se revislerent a moi, ne craiguaient pas de me montrer des measures cachees, apporterent leurs cceurs saiguants. des hommes toujours fennes de defiance contre la derision du monde s'ouvrirent sans diffienlte devant moi fje n'ai ri jamais.) des dames hrillauts et mondaines, d'autant plus malheureuses, d'autres pieuses, studi- euses, ausu-res—le disai-jo? des rcligi- euses, franchirent les vaines harrières de eonvenance ou d'opinion, comme on fait quand on est malade. etranges, mais très-precieuses, tres-touchantes cor- respondances que j'ai gardens avec le soin et le respect qu'elles meritent" he gave his heart and no less, as he avers, to that crowd of moral patients. and what was the conse- quence of this self-devotion? he was ruining the places of puhlic amusement hy his moral instruc- tions, and those who gained their livelihoods hy them actually com- plained of him. a young man called upon him one morning, entering his study somewhat hrusquely. "monsieur, me dit-il, excusez mon en- tree si insolite, mais vous n'en serez pas fjehe. je vous apporte une nouvelle. les maitres de certains cafes, de certains maisons counues, de certains jardins do hal, se plalguent do votre enseiguement leurs estahlishments, disent-ils, perdent heaucoup. log jeunes gens preiment la manie des conversations serieuses; ils ouhlient leurs hahitudes enfin, ils aiment aiileurs ces hals risquent de ferrner. tous cenx qui gaguent jusqu ici anx amuseuients des euoles se croient menaces d'une revolution morale qui, sans laute, les ruinera" he is scarcely self-complaisant enough to accept this as an unexag- gerated statement, hut he justly oh- serves that, if it were true that his moral lessons deterred the youth of paris from a frivolous life, he should feel it as a great trinmph. "le jour ou lea jeunes gens prendront des moeurs graves, la liherte est sauvee." the young man's visit caused him to conceive the scheme of this work, whose pretensions are in no less than to he a kind of manual of morality— "the hook of enfranchisements from moral servitudes—the hook of true love." let ns endeavor to see how far this work fulfils its very exalted aspirations. on the whole, it pro- fesses to mend society hy setting forth, as an example, the relations of a model hushand to a model wife, and accompanying them as an in- visihle spectator from hetrothal to the grave. it hegins hy supposing an impossihility in real life, forget- ting that the gates of the garden of eden have heen closed since the fall, hy the flaming swords of the guardian cheruhim. it hegins hy premising that woman is an invalid, as com- pared with man, and to he treated as such hy him. evidently the arti- ficial, sedentary, exotic parisieune is the heroine, not the hlooming lass of the north, redolent of may morn- ing, and rosy with mountain air,— the saxon or scandinavian hehe, personifying, in her golden ptime, perfect youth, perfect life, perfect health, hound together in the cestus of heauty. wordsworth's pen was otherwise inspired, when he, the true poet of nature, descrihed the tbree ages of woman. 'she was a phantom of delight "when first sue gleamed upon my sight, a lovely apparition sent to he a moment's ornament! her eyes as st,rs of twilight fair. like twilight, too, her dusky hair; but all things else ahout her drawn from may-time and the cheerful dawn; a dancing shape, an linage gay, to hannt, to startle, and waylay. i saw her upon nearer view, a spirit, yet a "woman tool her household motions light and free, and steps of virgin liherty: a countenance in which did meet hweet records, promises as sweet; a creature not too hright or good for human nature's daily food; for transient sorrows, simple wiles. praise, hlame, love, kisses, tears and smiles. and now i see with eye serene, the very pulse of the machine; a heing hreathing thoughtful hreath, a traveller hetween life and dentil; the reason firm, the temperate will, endurance, foresight, strength, and skill; a perfect woman, nohly plnnu'd, to warn, to comfort, and command; and yet a spirit still, and hlight "with something of an angel-light" [july. sentimental physiology. and his song to "louisa" is au- other paean to health and activity. "though hy a sickly taste hetray'd. some will dispraise the lovely maid, with fearless pride i say that she is healthful, fleet, and strong; atul down the rocks can leap along like rivulets in ma/. and she hath smiles to wrath unknown; smiles, that with motion of their own no spread, and sink, and rise; thut come and go with endless play, antl ever, as they pass away, are bldden in her eyes. she love' her flre. her cottage home, yet o'er the moorland will she roam in weather rough and hleak: and, when sgslnst the winds she strains, oh! might i kiss the mountain rains that sparkle on her cheek. take all that's mine' heneath the moon,' if i with her hat half a noun may sit heneath the walls t if soom old cave or moasy nook. when up she winds along the hrook to hunt the waterfalls." it is excusahle to quote poems so well known that stanzas of them have hecome "household words," when it hecomes desirahle to impugu hy a contrasted ideal the newfangled theory that woman is, or ought to he, invested with valetudinarian privi- leges to entitle her to deferential treatment from man. rather it is true that the ideal woman is the very incarnation of health; for beauty is heautiful chiefly in that it is the expression of activity and life. it is a physiological fact that the hloom on the cheek results from the health that mantles in the veins and shines tbrough the transparent skin. beauty may he transient, hut so is life itself; hut it is coeval with life. ugliness goes hand - in - hand with decay, sickness, and death. beauty is health, and, hy all the laws of romance, a heroine must he heautiful, and therefore emphatically healthy. it is consolatory to he assured hy our french author that "a peuniless lass," with or without "a lang pedi- gree," is to he preferred to " a lass wi' a tocher;" for in real life tho great majority of charming maidens hap- pen to he dowerless. but the negation of the proverh, that when wealth comes in at the door, love flies out at the window, certainly presents a novel doctrine to the consideration of " persona ahout to marry." "i dared some twelve years ago to put into shape that axiom which re- ceives every day new confirmation, 'if you wish to ruin yourself, marry a rich woman.' there is a danger here greater than that of losing a fortune—the danger of losing one's- self—of changing the hahits which have made you what you are, which have given you whatever strength and originulity you possess. in that which they call a good match, you will hecome a mere appendage of a woman—a kind of prince consort or the hushand of a queen. a very heautiful widow, all amiahility and honesty, said to a gentleman, 'sir, i have fifty thousand francs a-year, quiet and unassuming hahits. i hke you, and will do all you wi>h. you are an old friend; do you know any defect in me ?'—' you have only one, njadam—you are rich.'" the ideal fiancee ought not only, like the candidates for an university scholarship hefore the time of the royal commission, to have the qua- lification of poverty, hut she must superadd that of nationality — she must he french. "the german is all sweetness and love, endued with a purity, a child- like freshness, which transports one to paradise. the englishwoman, chaste, solitary, dreamy, clinging to the hearth — so loyal, so steadfast, and so gentle, is the ideal of a wife. the passion of spain penetrates to the heart; and the italian, in her heauty and her morhidezza, her vivid imagination, often in her touch- ing candour makes resistance impos- sihle—one is ravished, one is con- quered. yet, for all this, a man wants a soul which can answer his hy flashes of reason as well as of affection—which can renovate his heart hy a charming vivacity, hy gaiety, hy courageous sallies, words of woman or songs of hird—in fact, he wants a frenchwoman. the frenchwoman," he adds, "grows handsomer after marriage, whereas the northern maiden loses somewhat of heauty, and often fades." he may tell that to the marines. the physiological romance pursues .] sentimental physiology. its coarse, tbrough all the stages of married life, with an even tenor, in- dicating that it is true love's own fault if its course does not run smooth to the end. the second book is entitled "initiation and communion," expressions horrowed from the cbristian or the eleusinian mysteries, we know not which; hut these cahalistic words are the intro- duction to the matter-of-fact suhjects of woman as hride, wife, and mother, including the whole management of the nursery department. to retain happiness, the happy couple must not he too rich, must only keep a maid-of-all-work until the hahy de- mands a nursemaid also; the writer helieving, according to the spanish proverh, "los criados son enetnigos psgados," that a multitude of domes- tics is fatal to domesticity. things, however, must he so managed that the hero, who is of course a writer of hooks, must not he disturhed hy the hahy; and in order that his head- work may he effectual, the lady is to pay particular attention to his diet- ary. on the suhject of gastronomy, the style of the remarks rises into poetry worthy of that prince of epi- cures, brillat savarin. but the un- deniahle common-sense which under- lies these remarks, showing that, as we all know, they manage at least culinary matters " hetter in prance," is the chief merit of these passages. "cookery is medicine — it is the hest of all medicines—that of the pre- ventive kind. thus it is the province of the wife, who alone knows what her hushand requires, who knows his work, his expenditure of vital force. she alone kuows and measures the necessary reparation. in everything which is clean and not disagreeahle to her — in all that does not injure the prettiness of her hand, in that which must he touched hy the hand itself—and, we must say it, neces- sarily mingled .with emanations of the person (!) — it is desirahle and charming that she should operate. certain pastry, cakes, and creanis can only he made hy one whom one loves with an atlection of the nature of hunger." this is certainly the "ne plus ultra" of epicurism, hut its exces- sive delicacy merges into the indeli- cate. the moral, however, is sound, and those engaged in the education of our young ladies would do well to consider how far an insight into the aesthetics of the kitchen might not promote their happiness and that of their hushands prospective. as life goes on with the ideal pair, the writer sets forth some of the rocks on which the hark of happiness, unless judiciously steered, is liahle to split. the woman's occupations pre- serve her ever a woman. the man's, on the contrary, tend to specialise the character. he hecomes in process of time, the universal man no longer. his profession or trade masters him, and inflicts its stamp upou him, wherehy, though he attain to the particular eminence, the general ele- vation of nature is lowered. "he was a man when he was in the posi- tion of a lover; ten or twelve years later he is an eminent harrister, an excellent physician, a great architect. that is all very well. but, for the woman, he was a far more interesting person in heing a man; that is, in heing everything, in possessing the lofty thought of the universal, the hope without hounds, and in soaring over every suhject. now, let the woman, who gives happiness here he- low, judge us with equity. what would that man have hecome if he had always soared, if he had not come down to seize on the reality? . . . . so, madam, you wish lor glory, for success; you wish that that man distinguish himself hy those works which alone prove force. only you do not always take into consider- ation the very difficult conditions, the efforts ohstinate, sometimes violent, extreme, and i may even say desperate, hy which success is purchased. "of these conditions, the hardest for that man is that he should he marked hy the effort in the memher which he makes most use of, and thus that his heing should no longer he harmonious. he who hammers iron, were he even the genins of his art, were he even a god, will infal- lihly hecome too high in the right shoulder. what would you do in such a case? suppress in him his art, i suppose. "and he who plies the forge in any other department will also hear [july, sentimental physiology. the mark of his craft — some moral or physical deformity. the most serious is that the faculties which are not employed will suffer atrophy. "if the artist dues not take heed of this, hy constantly strengthening a part till it hecomes colossal, and leaving the others in a state of em- hryo, he may possihly succeed in hecoming a monster—a suhlime mon- ster it is true. "the man of antiquity remained heautiful and strong, and the pro- gress of age for him was a progress in heauty. ulysses, at fifty, returns hack from troy—returns from a long and terrible voyage where he has suffered all that he could suffer, and is the same ulysses, so completely so, in fact, that hy himself he hends the how which the young suitors can scarcely lift. his penelope recog- nises him hy his strength, hy his heauty, at once mhjestic and in- creased hy misfortune. how should that he so? he has kept himself, preserved himself, hy the active use of all the gifts he possessed. he remains the harmonious man who set out for the trojan war. "now, take any modern man you please, the hest horn and the hest endowed, great in genins, in will,— he fiods hefore him at twenty an im- mense and terrihle machine, the suh- division of the drawing-frames of arts, sciences, professions, hy which one must pass to arrive at anything. the end of life is changed. ulysses was horn to act; he acted and re- mained heautiful. this man is horn to create; his specialty (the creating machine) ahsorhs him; the work is heautiful, and the man runs the risk of hecoming ugly." there is a great deal of truth in these remarks, which it well hehoves the man of the nineteenth century to take to heart, that is, if he wishes to preserve his complexion. but even with a higher ohject, that of living to the hest of his nature, it is well that men should consider the hest means of preserving "the sound mind in a sound hody," for the good hoth of the world and their own. the mental productions of an un- sound hody can he worth very little. the sick frame makes a sickly hrain. now a man who sits in his study all day, and smokes, suuffs, or chews tohacco or opinm, eschewing his constitutional gallop, or even his constitutional walk, may huild up wonders of cloud-land, hut no- thing that he writes can ever tend to increase happiness. the greeks of old were model men. their civilis- ation differed from ours in that it had its spice of harharism in it:— said we, from ours?—we rather meant from that of france, whose popular writers assume it to he the typical civ- ilised country of our day. no, thank heaven! britons yet are men. they do not merely write or make speeches, or plead causes, or heal patients, or chant litanies, hut our legislators, lawyers, doctors, our own correspond- ents, even our parsons (and small hlame to them), play cricket and golf, shoot, hunt, dive, row, sail yachts, and practise many other ex- ercises which together are more than equal to the gymnastics of the greek. our ladies will say whether or not they preserve their good looks. the fact is that civilisation will soon hecome putrescent, unless a pinch of the salt of harharism is constantly put into it. what makes the inhahitant of the british isle such an excellent settler in new and wild countries, as m. michelet hears witness, hut that he has retained to the last, in spite of centralisation, much of the savage and solitary nature? the french- man, on the other hand, is too higbly civilised to he happy anywhere hut in the city. if he founds a colony, he does not spread, hut remains in a cluster like a swarm of hees. an instance of the kind appears to have occurred in new zealand, where the french colonists, instead of wander- ing out and taking sheep-runs, seem to have all clustered together at a place called akeroa, very pretty, very snug, and hy a hay of the sea. the same remark is applied to the french diggers in california hy mr. borthwick: they preferred sinking at an old place, where there was plenty of company and a cafe, to " prospect- ing" in the wilderness, even with the fair promise of rich reward. as time advances in the romance of real life painted hy our author, the french hushand will he inevit- ahly degraded in the eyes of his wife, .] sentimental physiology. unless she is a thinking woman, hy his specialty, and hecome a civilised monster. hence arise dangers to her, and peculiar temptations to her fidelity. one of the redeeming points of this hook is, that it protests against the mawkish representations of life' given hy the most popular novelists of prance at the present day. "why do our gentlemen and lady authors generally take as their heroes mere good-for-nothings (excuse me that strong and just popular expression), idlers and children of luxury? why? why i ask, unless it he for the weakness which cliogs to them, in the midst of all their fine democratic discourses, for the 'comme il faut' world, for the 'gentleman' variety of our race. i am sorry to see in our times so much genins expended in this dismal kind of novel, whose husi- ness is to prohe and exasperate our social wounds. the novel has taught us to weep for ourselves; it has killed the virtue of patience. it has gener- alised miseries, moral deformities, which only helong to certain, classes. in thirty-six millions of french people, thirty-five are entirely iguor- ant of that which these great artists have painted. for all this, this mor- hid literature has no strong influence on healthy minds. it renders none diseased hut those already so. it has no great dangers for the little household which we are descrihing. the young wife, who has in early life escaped heing over-ripened, spoiled, stung hy the worm of mysticism and equivocal religion, is not prepared for the novel. a love sound, loyal, and strong, and then maternal affection, two powerful purifying agents, have preserved her from infection. she would not have understood balzac, or if she did, she would generally have rejected him as nauseous. his hook on marriage, which he himself calls a skeleton, she wonld have felt to he a corpse. she will never he gained hy haseness. the female friends who feel her pulse and would destroy her halance, do not fail to lend her in secret some work of madame sand. what does she see there?—that the gallant is worth no more than the hushand. the hushand is often un- worthy, in her hooks, hut the illicit lover is always pitiful; nay more, vol. lxxxvi. infamous, odious! raymond closing his door on the poor indiana while she is wandering ahout with no hope of shelter hut death, is most certainly the strongest thing that could possihly he written to scare away the thought of unlawful intrigue." our author proceeds to offer a sort of half excuse for these female novels. women are disappointed with all men, whether hushands or lovers, as the men of artificial civilisation are all degraded. women love strength, physical, moral, intellectual, and sigh for its permanence in vain. the wives of the fishermen of granville are not inconstant, though their hus- hands live a life which enforces long ahsences, sometimes even ruuning over to newfoundland. the reality of life is too strong for them. their circumstances and occupations teach them hut too truly that "men must work and women must weep," to admit any sentimental contagion into their strong faithful hearts. female friends are the great ene- mies of women, according to m. michelet; they pave the way, with their inuendoes and gossip, for the attacks of temptation. his model heroine is tried, hut does not fall, he- cause she has the courage to make her hushand her confidant. there is something peculiarly french in con- sidering such an episode as a neces- sary part of the history of married life. schiller, in his "song of the bell," treats the suhject more poeti- cally, and introduces nothing of the kind. the family trouhles with him are of a different kind—fire, ruin, war, and the premature death of the wife. michelet, in painting his ideal house- hold, makes the hushand die first. not only must men work and women weep, hut men must die and women weep. before he comes to this he has a chapter entitled " the second youth of women," proving very satisfac- torily that youth is prolonged late in life hy the assiduity of love and a strict conformity to the conditions of nature. there is also a heauty in widowhood, its sacredness consisting in a kind of worship of the memory of the hushand. "the altar of the just one, who has departed (viz., the widow), remains to the new genera- tions an ohject of religion. there is [july, sentimental physiology. do young man who comes there hut will honour the widow. they all find a graceful woman, who is far from recalling the lapse of time which is suggested hy the story. that which preserves her grace is the love of which her heart is full, her good- ness towards all, her sweet resigua- tion her sympathy for the young, and her wishes for their happiness. she is stdl heautiful in her tender- ness, and in the suhlime shadow which dresses and envelops her. more than one yonth of twenty laments that he has heen horn so late, returns to her presence in spite of himself, retires from her regretfully, uphraid- ing time for amusing himself hy mak- ing such separations, and saying from the hottom of his heart, ' woman, that i might have loved.'" we are sorry that we have heen ohliged to omit, in a review of this work, the consideration of that part of it which is hy far the most important —its medicine and physiology. with respect to the social morhidity com- plained of hy the author, perhaps it suggests a kind of homoeopathic treat- ment. nothing can he said against this part of the work. it is indeed higbly moral, hut as yet it is impos- sihle to present it in a popular form in the pages of a british periodical, and we hope that the impossihility may continua it shows how far a remedy for social disease can he ap- plied hy human reason, with human nature to work upon, and so far it is complete in itself. but hy how vast an interval is the moral philosophy on which it rests separated from pla- tonism, not to say from the philos- ophy of the cross! far higher is the conception of love in the mind of the greek philosopher. love exists alone in perfection, according to him, in the mind of god; and it is only hy contemplating it there, to the utmost of his power, that man can realise it it in its truth. in the mind of plato, as in the minds of st. paul and st. john, there is no distinction hetween the love of man for woman and vice vend., and the great expansive feeling which would emhrace god and his creation, in return for his love to- wards us. but physiology appears competent only to deal with this spe- cial manifestation. the deficiency is one that we might expect in a philo- sophy which is of the earth earthy, and which does not illumine earth with a light from heaven. and now let us come to a little moral of our own. if it he a fact, as m. michelet states — and we have no reason to douht his word—that persons suffer- ing from the complications of social _ life, in an artificial state of civilisa- tion, were glad to come to him as an amateur confessor, and recount their mental and moral diseases, and take advice as to their remedy, how much does such a fact militate against the hoasted efficiency of the confes- sional of the church of rome the roman system, while all-powerful in preserving its own organisation, and keeping a hold on mankind, is power- less for the moral regeneration of so- ciety. the natural adviser in all such cases, as m. michelet indicates, is the minister of religion, whether he he called confessor, director, or hy any other more protestant name. but the confessional of the roman church, or its caricature in the anglican, is ren- dered ahortive as a moral agent hy the destruction of spontaneity in the patient, hy its heing made a matter of form, and rule, and duty; and, se- condly, hy the inahility of a celihate clergy to understand questions affect- ing that state of life from which they are excluded. if louis napoleon would leave the name of great he- hind him, and even eclipse his famed uncle, he had much hetter think no more of moves on the politi- cal chesshoard of europe, hut_ sit down steadily and quietly to consider the question whether he is not strong enough to declare the catholic church in france independent of the papal see, and allow the clergy of france to marry according to their discretion, withdrawing at the same time his troops from rome, and leaving the pope in the charge of his loving suh- jects and his faithful swiss. as he appears to he under a constant ne- cessity of doing something hom and eccentric to maintain his position, he had hetter do this, and he will glean golden opinions of all future generations. '','' ] m the novels of jane austen. * the novels of for nearly half a century england has possessed an artist of the highest rank, -whose works have heen exten- sively circulated, whose merits have heen keenly relished, and whose name is still unfamiliar in men's mouths. one would suppose that great excel- lence and real success would inevita- hly produce a loud reputation. yet in this particular case such a supposi- tion would he singularly mistaken. so far from the name of miss austen heing constantly cited among the glories of our literature, there are many well-informed persons who will he surprised to hear it mentioned among the hest writers. if we look at hazlitt's account .of the english novelists, in his lectures on the comic writers, we find mrs. rad- clif% mrs. inch hald, mrs. opie, miss burney, and miss edgeworth receiv- ing due honour, and more than is due; hut no hint that miss austen has written a line. if we cast a glance over the list of english authors repuhlished hy baudry, galiguani, and tauchnitz, we find there writers of the very smallest pretensions, hut not the author of emma, and mans- field park. mention the name of miss austen to a cultivated reader, and it is prohahle that the sparkle in his eye will at once flash forth sym- pathetic admiration, and he will per- haps relate how scott, whately, and macaulay prize this gifted woman, and how the english puhlic has hought her works; hut heyond the literary circle we find the name al- most entirely unknown; and not simply unknown in the sense of hav- ing no acknowledged place among the remarkahle writers, hut uure- memhered even in counection with the very works which are themselves rememhered. ave have met with many persons who rememhered to have read pride and prejudice, or mansfield park, hut who had alto- gether forgotten hy whom they were written. "miss austen? oh, yes; she translates from the german, jane austen. doesu't she?" is a not uncommon question—a vague familiarity with the name of mrs. austin heing upper- most from time to time also the tiresome twaddlo of lady novelists is praised hy certiin critics, as exhihit- ing the "quiet truthfulness of miss austin." that miss austen is an artist of high rank, in the most rigorous sense of the word, is an opinion which in the present article we shall endeavour to suhstantiate. that her novels are very extensively read, is not an opin- ion, hut a demonstrated fact; and with this fact we couple the para- doxical fact of a fine artist, whose works are widely known and enjoyed, heing all hut unknown to the english puhlic, and quite unknown ahroad. the causes which have kept her name in comparative ohscurity all the time that her works have heen extensively read, and her reputation every year has heen settling itself more firmly in the minds of the hetter critics, may well he worth an inquiry. it is intelligihle how the hlaze of scott should have tbrown her into the shade, at first; heside his frescoes her works are hut miniatures; ex- quisite as miniatures, yet incapahle of ever filling that space in the puhlic eye which was filled hy his massive and masterly pictures. but although it is intolligihle why scott should have eclipsed her, it is not at first so easy to understand why miss edge- worth should have done so. miss austen, indeed, has taken her re- venge with posterity. she will douht- less he read as long as english novels find readers; whereas miss edge- worth is already little more than a name, and only finds a puhlic for her children's hooks. but contemporaries, for the most part, judged otherwise; and in consequence, miss edgeworth's name has hecome familiar all over the tbree kingdoms. scott, indeed, and archhishop whately, at once perceived the superiority of miss aus- ten to her more fortunate rival ;* hut "see the notices in lockhaet's life of scott; and the reviews in the quay- erly, no. , hy scott, and no. , hy itr. wh.ytely. [july, the novels of jane austen, the quarterly tells ns that " her fame has grown fastest since she died: there was no mat ahout her first ap- pearance: the puhlic took time to make up its mind ; and she, not hav- ing staked her hopes of happiness on success or failure, was content to wait for the decision of her claims. those claims have heen long estahlished heyond a question; hut the merit of first recoguising them helong less to reviewers than to general readers." there is comfort in this for authors who see the applause of reviewers lavished on works of garish effect. nothing that is really good can fail, at last, in securing its audience; and it is evident that miss austen's works must possess elements of indestructi- hle excellence, since, although never "popular," she survives writers who were very popular; and forty years after her death, gains more recogui- tion than she gained when alive. those who, like ourselves, have read and re-read her works several times, can understand this duration, and this increase of her famii. but the fact that her name is not even now a household word proves that her ex- cellence must he of an unohtrusive kind, shuuning the glare of popular- ity, not appealing to temporary tastes and vulgar sympathies, hut demand- ing culture in its admirers. johnson wittily says of somehody, "sir, he managed to make himself puhlic without making himself known." miss austen has made herfdf known without making herself puhlic. there is no portrait of her in the shop win- dows; indeed, no portrait of her at all. but she is cherished in the memories of those whose memory is fame. as one symptom of neglect we have to notice the scantiness of all hiographical details ahout her. of miss burney, who is no longer read, nor much worth reading, we have hiography, and to spare. of miss bronte, who, we fear, will soon cease to find readers, there is also ample hiography; hut of miss ao.iten we have little information. in the first volume of the edition puhlished hy mr. bentley (five charming volumes, to he had for fifteen shillings} there is a meagre notice, from which we draw the following details. jane austen was horn on the th decemher , at steventon in hampshire. her father was rector of the parish during forty years, and then quitted it for bath. he was a scholar, and fond of general literature, and prohahly paid special attention to his daughter's culture. in bath, jane only lived four years; hut that was enough, and more than enough, for her ohserving humour, as we see in northanger ahhey. after the death of her father, she removed with her mother and sister to southamp- ton; and finally, in , settled in the pleasant village of chawton, in hampshire, from whence she issued her novels. some of these had heen written long hefore, hut were with- held, prohahly hecause of her great diffidence. she had a high standard of excellence, and knew how prone self-love is to sophisticate. so great was this distrust, that the charming novel, northanger ahhey, although the first in point of time, did not ap- pear in print until after her death; and this work, which the quarterly review pronounces the weakest of the series (a verdict only intelligihle to us hecause in the same hreath persuasion is called the hest!), is not only written with unflagging vivacity, hut contains two characters no one else could have equalled — heury tilney and john thorpe. sense and sensihility was the first to appear, and that was in . she had laid aside a sum of money to meet what she expected would he her loss on that puhlication, aud "could scarcely helieve her great good fortune when it produced a clear profit of £ ." between and appeared her tbree chefs-d'aeutre—pride and pre- judice, mansfield park, and emma. the applause these met with, grati- fied her, of course; hut she steadily reiisted every attempt to "make a lion of her," and never puhlicly avowed her authorship, although she spoke freely of it in private. soon after the puhlication of emma, symptoms of an incurahle decline appeared. in the month of may she was removed to winchester, in order that constant medical advice might he secured. she seems to have suffered much, hut suffered it with resiguation. her last words were .] the novels of jane austen. "i want nothing hut death." this was on friday the th july ; presently after she expired in the arms of her sister. her hody lies in winchester cathedral. one might gather from her works that she was personally attractive, and we are told in the memoir that this was the case. "her stature rather exceeded the middle height; her carriage and deportment were quiet but graceful; her features were separately good ;• their assemhlage produced an uurivalled expression of that cheerfulness, sensihility, and he- nevolence which were her real char- acteristics; her complexion was of the finest texture—it might with truth he said that her eloquent hlood spoke tbrough her modest cheek; her voice was sweet; she delivered herself with fluency and precision; indeed, she was formed for elegant and rational society, excelling in con- versation as much as in composition." we may picture her as something like her own sprightly, natural, hut hy no means perfect elizaheth ben- net, in pride and prejndice, one of the few heroines one would seriously like to marry. we have no means of ascertaining how many copies of these exquisite pictures of english life have heen circulated, hut we know that the numher is very large. twice or tbrice have the railway editions heen out of print; and mr. bentley's edition is stereotyped. this success implies a hold on the puhlic, all the more certainly hecause the popular- ity is " not loud hut deep." we have re-read them all four times j or rather, to speak more accurately, they have heen read aloud to us, one after the other; and when it is considered what a severe test that is, how the reading aloud permits no skipping, no evasion of weariness, hut hrings hoth merits and defects into stronger relief hy forcing the mind to dwell on them, there is surely something siguificant of genuine excellence when hoth reader -and listener finish their fourth reading with increase of ad- miration. the test of reading alond applied to jane eyre, which had only heen read once hefore, very con- siderahly modified our opinion of that remarkahle work; and, to con- fess the truth, modified it so far that we feel as if we should never open the hook again. the same test ap- plied to such an old favourite as tom jones, was also much more damaging than we should have anti- cipated—hringing the defects and shortcomings of that much over- rated work into very distinct promi- nence, and lessening our pleasure in its effective, hut, on the whole, coarse painting. fielding has greater vig- our of mind, greater experience, greater attainments, and a more ef- fective mise en scene, than miss austen; hut he is not only im- measurahly inferior to her in the highest department of art—-the re- presentation of character—he is also inferior to her, we think, in real humour; and in spite of his "con- struction," of which the critics justly speak in praise, he is inferior to her in the construction and conduct of his story, heing more commooplace and less artistic. he has more in- vention of situation and more vigour, hut less truth and suhtlety. this is at any rate our individual judgment, which the reader is at liherty to modify as he pleases. in the course of the fifteen years which have elapsed since we first read emma, and mansfield park, we have out- lived many admirations, hut have only learned to admire miss austen more; and as we are perfectly aware of why we so much admire her, we may endeavour to communicate these reasons to the reader. if, as prohahly few will dispute, the art of the novelist he the repre- sentation of human life hy means of a story; and if the truest representa- tion, effected hy the least expendi- ture of means, constitutes the highest claim of art, then we say that miss austen has carried the art to a point of excellence surpassing that reached hy any of her rivals. ohserve we say "the art;" we do not say that she equals many of them in the in- terest excited hy the art; that is a separate question. it is prohahle, nay certain, that the interest excited hy the antigone is very inferior to that excited hy black-eyed susan. it is prohahle that uncle tom and dred surpassed in interest the an- tiquary or ivanhoe. it is proha- [july, the novels of jane austen. hle that jane eyre produced a far greater excitement than the vicar of wakefield. but the critic justly disregards these fervid elements of immediate success, and fixes his at- tention mainly on the art which is of eternal suhstance. miss austen has nothing fervid in her works. she is not capahle of producing a profound agitation in the mind. in many respects this is a limitation of her powers, a deduction from her claims. but while other writers have had more power over the emo- tions, more vivid imaginations, deep- er sensihilities, deeper insight, and more of what is properly called in- vention, no novelist has approached her in what we may style the "eco- nomy of art," hy which is meant the easy adaptation of means to ends, with no aid from extraneous or su- perfluous elements. indeed, para- doxical as the juxtaposition or the names may perhaps appear to those who have not reflected much on this suhject, we venture to say that the only names we can place ahove miss austen, in respect of this economy of art, are sophocles and moliere (in le misantbrope). and if any one will examine the terms of the definition, he will perceive that almost all de- fects in works of art arise from ne- glect of this economy. when the end is the representation of human nature in its familiar aspects, moving amid every-day scenes, the means must likewise he furnished from every-day life: romance and impro- hahilities must he hanished as rigor- ously as the grotesque exaggeration of peculiar characteristics, or the representation of ahstract types. it is easy for the artist to choose a suh- ject from every-day life, hut it is not easy for him so to represent the cha- racters and their actions that they shall he at once lifelike and interest- ing; accordingly, whenever ordinary people are introduced, they are either made to speak a language never spoken out of hooks, and to pursue conduct never ohserved in life; or else they are intolerahly wearisome. but miss austen is like shakespeare: she makes her very noodles inex- haustihly amusing, yet accurately real. we never tire of her charac- ters. they hecome equal to actual experiences. they live with us, and form perpetual topics of comment. we have so personal a dislike to mrs. elton and mrs. norris, that it would gratify our savage feeling to hear of some calamity hefalling them. we think of mr. collins and john thorpe with such a mixture of ludi- crous enjoyment and angry con- tempt, that we alternately long and dread to make their personal ac- quaintance. the heroines—at least elizaheth, emma, and catherine morland—are truly lovahle, flesh- and-hlood young women; and the good people are all really good, with- out heing goody. her reverend critic in the quarterly truly says, "she herself compares her produc- tions to a little hit of ivory, two inches wide, worked upon with a hrush so fine that little effect is pro- duced with much lahour. it is so: her portraits are perfect likenesses, admirahly finished, many of them gems; hut it is all miniature-paint- ing; and having satisfied herself with heing inimitahle in one line, she never essayed canvass and oils; never tried her hand at a majestic dauh." this is very true; it at once defines her position and lowers her claims. when we said that in the highest department of the novelist's art—namely, the truthful representa- tion of character—miss austen was without a superior, we ought to have added that in this department she did not choose the highest range; the truth and felicity of her delinea- tion are exquisite, hut the characters delineated are not of a high rank. she helongs to the great dramatists: hut her dramas are of homely common quality. it is ohvious that the na- ture of the thing represented will determine degrees in art raphacl will always rank higher than ten- iers; sophocles and shakespeare' will never he lowered to the rank of lope de vega and scrihe. it is a greater effort of genins to produce a fine epic than a fine pastoral; a great drama than a perfect lyric. there is far greater strain on the intellec- tual effort to create a brutus or an othello, than to create a vicar of wakefield or a squire western. the higher the aims, the greater is the strain, and the nohler is success. .] the novels of jane austen. these, it may he said, are truisms; and ho they are. yet they need re- statement from time to time, he- cause men constantly forget that the diguity of a high aim can not shed lustre on an imperfect execution, though to some extent it may lessen the contempt which follows upon failure. it is only success which can claim applause. any fool can select a great suhject; and in gen- eral it is the tendency of fools to choose suhjects which the strong feel to he too great. if a man can leap a fire-harred gate, we applaud his agility ; hut if he attempt it, without a chance of success, the mud receives him, and we applaud the mud. this is too often forgotten hy critics and artists, in their grandiloquence ahout "high art." no art can he high that is not good. a grand suhject ceases to he grand when its treatment is feehle. it is a great mistake, as has heen wittily said, "to fancy yourself a great painter hecause you paint with a hig hrush;" and there are unhappily too many hig hrushes in the hand of incompetenca poor haydon was a type of the hig-hrush school; he could not paint a small picture hecause he could not paint at all; and he helieved that in cover- ing a vast area of canvass he was working in the grand style. in every estimate of an artist's rank we neces- sarily take into account the nature of the suhject and the excellence of the execution. it is twenty times more difficult to write a fine tragedy than a fine lyric; hut it is more difficult to write a perfect lyric than a toler- ahle tragedy ; and there was as much sense as sarcasm in beranger's reply when the tragic poet vieunet visited him in prison, and suggested that of course there would he a volume of songs as the product of this leisure. "do you suppose," said beranger, "that chansons are written as easily as tragedies " to return to miss austen: her de- lineation is unsurpassed, hut the characters delineated are never of a lofty or impassioned order, and therefore make no demand on the highest faculties of the intellect. such genins as hers is excessively rare; hut it is not the highest kind of genins. murillo's peasant hoys are assuredly of far greater excellence than the infant cbrists painted hy all other painters, except raphacl; hut the divine children of the madouna di san sisto are immeasurahly be- yond anything murillo has painted. miss austen's two-inch hit of ivory is worth a gallery of canvass hy emi- nent r.a.'s, hut it is only a hit of ivory after all. "her two inches of ivory," continues the critic re- cently quoted, "just descrihes her preparations for a tale in tbree vol- umes. a village—two families con- nected together—tbree or four inter- lopers, out of whom are to spring a little tracatserie; and hy means of vil- lage or country-town visiting and gos- siping a real plot shall thicken, and its ' rear of darkness' never he scatter- ed till six pages off finis the work is all done hy half-a-dozen people; no person, scene, or sentence is ever introduced needless to the matter in hand: no catastrophes, or discoveries, or surprises of a grand nature are allowed—neither children nor fortunes are found or lost hy accident — the mind is never taken off the level surface of life — the reader hreakfasts, dines, walks, and gossips with the various worthies, till a process of transmutation takes place in him, and he ahsolutely fancies himself one of the company the secret is, miss austen was a thorough mistress in the knowledge of human character; how it is acted upon hy education and circumstance, and how, when once formed, it shows itself tbrough every hour of every day, and in every speech of every person. her conversations would he tiresome hut for this; and her personages, the fellows to whom may he met in the streets, or drank tea with at half an hour's notice, would excite no interest; hut in mies austen's hands we see into their hearts and hopes, their motives, their struggles within themselves; and a sympathy is induced which, if ex- tended to daily life and the world at large, would make the reader a more amiahle person ; and we must think it that reader's own fault who does not close her pages with more charity in his heart towards uupretending, if prosing worth; with a higher esti- mation of simple kindness and sin- [july, the novels of jane austen. cere good-will; with a quickened sense of the duty of hearing and for- hearing in domestic intercourse, and of the pleasure of adding to the little comforts even of persons who rre neither wits nor heauties." it is worth rememhering that this is the deliherate judgment of the present archhishop of duhlin, and not a careless verdict dropping from the pen of a facile reviewer. there are two points in it to which especial attention may he given : first, the indication of miss austen's power of representing life; and, secondly, the indication of the effect which her sympathy with ordinary life pro- duces. we shall touch on the latter point first; and we do so for the sake of introducing a striking passage from one of the works of mr. george eliot, a writer who seems to us in- ferior to miss austen in the art of telling a story, and generally in what we have called the " economy of art;" hut equal in truthfulness, dramatic ventriloquism, and humour, and greatly superior in culture, reach of mind, and depth of emotional sensi- hility. in the first of the scenes of clerical life there occurs this apo- logy to the reader : — "the rev. amos barton, whose sad fortunes i have undertaken to relate, was, you perceive, in no respect an ideal or exceptional character, and perhaps i am doing a hold thing to hespeak your sympathy on hehalf of a man who was so very far from remarkahle,—a man whose virtues were not heroic, and who had no undetected crime within his hreast; who had not the slightest mystery hanging ahout him, hut was palpahly and unmis- takahly common place; who was not even in love, hut had had that complaint favourahly many years ago. 'an utterly uninteresiing character i' i think i hear a lady reader exclaim— mrs farthingale, for example, who prefers the ideal in fiction; to whom tragedy means ermine tippets, adultery, and murder; and comedy, the adventures of sorne person- age who is quite a 'character.' "but, my dear madam, it is so very large a majority of your fellow-country- men that are of this insiguificant stamp. at least eighty out of a hundred of your adult male fellow-britons returned in the last cenhus, are neither extraordinarily silly, nor extraordinarily wicked, nor ex- traordinarily wise; their eyes are neither deep and liquid with sentiment, nor sparkling with suppressed witticisms; they have prohahly had no hairhreadth escapes or tbrilling adventures; their hrains are certainly not preguant with genins, and their passions have not manifested themselves at all after the fashion of a volcano. they are simply men of complexions more or less muddy, whose conversation is more or less hald and disjointed. yet these commouplace people—many of them — hear a con- science, and have felt the suhlime prompt- ing to do the painful right; they have their unspoken sorrows, and their sacred joys; their hearts have perhaps gone out towards their first-horn, and they have mourned over the irreclaimahle dead. nay, is there not a pathos in their very insiguificance, — in our comparison of their dim and narrow existence with the glorious poss,hilities of that human nature which they share? "depend upon it, you would gain un- speakahly if you would learn with me to see some of the poetry and the pathos, the tragedy and the comedy, lying in the experience of a human soul that looks out tbrough dull grey eyes, and that speaks in a voice of quite ordinary tones." but the real secret of miss austen's success lies in her having the exqui- site and rare gift of dramatic creation of character. scott says of her, "she had a talent for descrihing the involvements, and feelings, and cha- racters of ordinary life, which is to me the most wonderful i ever met with. the hig how-wow strain i can do myself like any now going; hut the exquisite touch, which renders ordinary commouplace things and characters interesting, from the troth of the description and the sentiment, is denied me. what a pity such a gifted , creature died so early " * generously said; hut high as the praise is, it is as much helow the real excellence of miss austen, as the "hig how-wow strain" is helow the incomparahle power of the waverley novels. scott felt, hut did not de- fine, the excellence of miss austen. the very world " descrihing" is alto- gether misplaced and misleading. she seldom descrihes any thing, and ia not felicitous when she attempts it. * lockhabt: life of scotl, viii. . compare also vol. x. p. . .] the novels of jane austen. bnt instead of description, the common and easy resource of novelists, she has the rare and difficult art of dramatic presentation: instead of telling us what her characters are, and what they feel, she presents the people, and they reveal themselves. in this she has never perhaps heen surpassed, not even hy shakespeare himself. if ever living heings can he said to have moved across the page of fiction, as they lived, speaking as they spoke, and feeling as they felt, they do so in pride aoii prejudice, emma, and mansfield park. what incomparahle noodles she exhihits for our astonish- ment and laughter! what silly, good-natured women! what softly- selfish men what lively, amiahle, honest men and women, whom one would rejoice to have known i but all her power is dramatic power; she loses her hold on us directly she ceases to speak tbrough the persona; she is then like a great actor off the stage. when she is making men and women her mouth- pieces, she is exquisitely and inex- haustihly humorous; hut when she speaks in her own person, she is apt to he commouplace, and even pros- ing. her dramatic ventriloquism is such that, amid our tears of laugh- ter and sympathetic exasperation at folly, we feel it almost impossihle that she did not hear those very peo- ple ntter those very words. in many cases this was douhtless the fact. the hest invention does not consist in finding new language for characters, hut in finding the true language for them. it is easy to in- vent a language never spoken hy any one ont of hooks; hut it is so far from easy to invent—that is, to find out —the language which certain charac- ters would speak and did speak, that in all the thousands of volumes written since richardson and fielding, every difficulty is more frequently over- come than that. if the reader fails to perceive the extraordinary merit of miss austen's representation of character, let him try himself to paint a portrait which shall he at once many - sided and interesting, without employing any hut the com- monest colours, without calling in the aid of eccentricity, exaggeration, or literary "effects;" or let him curefully compare the writings of miss austen with those of any other novelist, from. fielding to thack- eray. it is prohahly this same dramatic instinct which makes the construc- tion of her stories so admirahle. and hy construction, we mean the art which, selecting what is useful and rejecting what is superfluous, ren- ders our interest unflagging, he- cause one chapter evolves the next, one character is necessary to the elucidation of another. in what is commonly called "plot" she does not excel. her invention is wholly in character and motive, not in situ- ation. her materials are of the commonest every - day occurrence. neither the emotions of tragedy, nor the exaggerations of farce, seem to have the slightest attraction for her. the reader's pulse never tbrohs, his curiosity is never intense ; hut his interest never wanes for a moment. the action hegins ; the people speak, feel, and act; everything that is said, felt, or done tends towards the en- tanglement or disentanglement of the plot ; and we are almost made actors as well as spectators of the little drama. one of the most difficult things in dramatic writing is so to construct the story that every scene shall advance the denouement hy easy evolution, yet at the same time give scope to the full exhihition of the characters. in dramas, as in novels, we almost always see that the action stands still while the characters are heing exhihited, and the characters are in aheyance while the action is heing unfolded. for perfect specimens of this higher con- struction demanded hy art, we would refer to the jealousy-scenes of othel- lo, and the great scene hetween celimene and arsinoe in le misan- thrope; there is not in these two marvels of art a verse which does not exhihit some nuance of charac- ter, and therehy, at the same time, tends towards the full development of the action. so entirely dramatic, and bo little descriptive, is the genins of miss austen, that she seems to rely upon what her people say and do for the whole effect they are to produce on our imaginations. she no more the novels of jane austen. ljulyj thinks of descrihing the physical ap- pathy. other writers have wanted pearance of her people than the dra- this element of popularity, hut they matist does who knows that his per- have compensated for it hy a keen sons are to he represented hy living sympathy with, and power of repre- actors. this is a defect and a mis- senting, the adventurous, the roman- take in art: a defect, hecause, al- tic, and the picturesque. passion though every reader must necessarily and adventure are the sources of cer- conjure up to himself a vivid image tain success with the mass of man- of people whose characters are so kind. the passion may he coarsely vividly presented; yet each reader felt, the romance may he ridiculous, has to do this for himself without hut there will always he found a aid from the author, therehy missing large majority whose sympathies many of the suhtle counections he- will he awakened hy even the coars- tween physical and mental organisa- est dauhs. emotion is in its nature tion. it is not enough to he told sympathetic and uncritical : a spark that a young gentleman had a fine will iguite it types of villany never countenance and an air of fashion ; or seen or heard of out of hooks, or off that a young gentlewoman was hand- the stage, types of heroism and some and elegant as far as any virtue not less hyperholical, are direct information can he derived eagerly welcomed and helieved in hy from the authoress, we might ima- a puhlic which would pass over with- gine that this was a purhlind world, out notice the suhtlest creations of wherein nohody ever saw anyhody, genins, and which would even resent except in a dim vagueness which the more truthful painting as dis- ohscured all peculiarities. it is im- turhing its emotional enjoyment of cihle that mr. collins should not hating the had, and loving the good, j heen endowed hy nature with the nicer art which mingles goodness an appearance in some way herald- with villany, and weakness with ing the delicious folly of the inward virtue, as in life they are always man. yet all we hear of this fatu- mingled, causes positive distress to ous curate is, that '• he was a tall young and uncultivated minds. the heavy - looking young man of five- mass of men never ask whether a andtwenty. his air was grave and character is true, or the events pro- stately, and his mauners were very hahle; it is enough for them that formal." balzac or dickens would they are moved; and to move them not have heen content without mak- strongly, hlack must he very hlack, ing the reader see this mr. collins, and white without a shade. hence miss austen is content to make us it is that caricature and exaggeration know him, even to the very intrica- of all kinds — inflated diction and cies of his inward man. it is not dauhing ldelineation — are, and al- stated whether she was shortsighted, ways will he, popular: a certain hut the ahsence of all sense of the hreadth and massiveness of effect outward world — either scenery or heing necessary to produce a strong personal appearance — is more re- impression on all hut a refined audi- markahle in her than in any writer ence. in the works of the highest we rememher. genins we sometimes find a hreadth we are touching here on one of and massiveness of effect which make her defects which help to an explan- even these works popular, although ation of her limited popularity, espe- the qualities most higbly prized hy cially when coupled with her defi- the cultivated reader are little ap- ciencies in poetry and passion. she preclated hy the puhlic. the has little or no sympathy with what iliad, shakespeare and moliere, is picturesque and passionate. this don quixote and faust, affect the prevents her from painting what the mass powerfully; hut how many popular eye can see, and the popular admirers of homer would prefer the heart can feel. the struggles, the naivete of the original to the epi- amhitions, the errors, and the sins of grammatic splendour of pope? energetic life are left untouched hy the novelist who has no power of her; and these form the suhjects hroad and massive effect can never most stirring to the general sym- expect to he successful with the .] the novels of jane a usten. great puhlic. he may gain the suf- frages of the highest minds, and in course of time hecome a classic; hut we all know what the popularity of a classic means. miss austen is bucu a novelist. her suhjects have little intrinsic interest; it is only in their treatment that they hecome attractive; hut treatment and art are not likely to captivate any except critical and refined tastes. every reader will he amused hy her pic- tures, hecause their very truth car- ries them home to ordinary experi- ence and sympathy; hut this amuse- ment is of a tepid nature, and the effect is quickly forgotten. part- ridge expressed the general senti- ment of the puhlic when he spoke slightingly of garrick's "hamlet," hecause gairick did just what he, partridge, would have done in pre- sence of a ghost; whereas the actor who performed the king powerfully impressed him hy sonorous elocution and emphatic gesticulation: that was acting, and required art; the other was natural, and not worth alluding to. the ahsence of hreadth, picturesque- ness, and passion, will also limit the appreciating audience of miss aus- ten to the small circle of cultivated minds; and even these minds are not always capahle of greatly relish- ing her works. we have known very remarkahle people who cared little for her pictures of every-day life; and indeed it may he anticipated that those who have little sense of humour, or whose passionate and in- surgent activities demand in art a re- flection of their own emotions and struggles, will find little pleasure in such homely comedies. currer bell may he taken as a type of these. she was utterly without a sense of hu- mour, and was hy nature fervid and impetuous. in a letter puhlished in her memoirs she writes, — " why do you like miss austen so very much? i am puzzled on that point. ... i had not read pride and prejudice till i read that sentence of yours, and then i got the hook. and what did i find? an accurate daguerreotyped portrate of a commouplace face; a carefully - fenced, higbly - cultivated garden, with neat horders and deli- cate flowers; hut no glance of a hright, vivid physioguomy, no open country, no fresh air, no hlue hill, no houny heck. i should hardly like to live with her elegant ladies and gen- tlemen, in their elegant hut confined houses."* the critical reader will not fail to remark the almost con- temptuous indifference to the art of truthful portrait-painting which this passage indicates ; and he will under- stand, perhaps, how the writer of such a passage was herself incapahle of drawing more than characteristics, even in her most successful efforts. jane eyre, rochester, and paul em- manuel, are very vigorous sketches, hut the reader ohserves them from the outside, he does not penetrate their souls, he does not know them. what is said respecting the want of open country, hlue hill, and houny heck, is perfectly true ; hut the same point has heen more felicitously touched hy scott, in his review of emma: "upon the whole," he says, "the turn of this author's novels hears the same relation to that of the sentimental and romantic cast, that cornfields and cottages and mea- dows hear to the higbly-adorned grounds of a show mansion, or the rugged suhlimities of a mountain landscape. it is neither so captivat- ing as the one, nor so grand as the other ; hut it affords those who fre- quent it a pleasure nearly allied with the experience of their own social hahits." scott would also have loudly repudiated the notion of miss aus- ten's characters heing "mere daguerre- otypes." having himself drawn hoth ideal and real characters, he \ knew the difficulties of hoth; and he well says, "he who paints from le heau ideal, if his scenes and senti- ments are striking and interesting, is in a great measure exempted from the difficult task of reconciling them with the ordinary prohahilities of life; hut he who paints a scene of common occurrence, places his com- position within that extensive range of criticism which general experience offers to every reader. . . . some- thing more than a mere sigu-post likeness is also demanded. the por_ 'life of charlotte bronte, ii. . [july, the roods of jane austen. trait must have spirit and character as well as resemhlance; and heing deprived of all that, according to bayes, goes to 'elevate and surprise,' it must make amends hy displaying depth of knowledge and dexterity of execution." -while defending our favourite, and giving critical reasons for our liking, we are far from wishing to impose that preference on others. if any one frankly says, '' i do not care ahout these pictures of ordinary life: i want something poetical or roman- tic, something to stimulate my ima- gination, and to carry me heyond the circle of my daily thoughts,"—there is nothing to he answered. many persons do not admire wordsworth, and caunot feel their poetical sympa- thies aroused hy waggoners and potters. there are many who find no enjoyment in the flemish pictures, hut are rapturous ov.er the frescoes at munich and berlin. individual tastes do not admit of dispute. the ima- gination is an imperious faculty, and demands gratification ; and if a man he content to have this faculty sti- mulated, to the exclusion of all other faculties, or if only peculiar works are capahle of stimulating it, we have no right to ohject. only when a question of art comes to he discussed, it must not he confounded with a matter of individual feeling; and it requires a distinct reference to ahsolute standards. the art of novel-writing, like the art of paint- ing, is founded on general principles, which, hecause they have their pys- chological justification, hecause they are derived from tendencies of the human mind, and not, as ahsurdly supposed, derived from "models of composition," are of universal ap- plication. the law of colour, for in- stance, is derived from the ohserved relation hetween certain colours and the sensitive retina. the laws of construction, likewise, are derived from the invariahle relation hetween a certain order and succession of events, and the amount of interest excited hy that order. in novel- writing, as in mechanics, every oh- struction is a loss of power; every superfluous page diminishes the ar- tistic pleasure of the whole. indi- vidual tastes will always differ; hut the laws of the human mind are uni- versal. one man will prefer the humorous, another the pathetic; one will delight in the adventurous, an- other in the simple and homely ; hut the principles of art remain the same for each. to tell a story well, is quite another thing from having a good story to tell. the construction of a good drama is the same in prin- ciple whether the suhject he anti- gone, the misantbrope, or othello; and the real critic detects this prin- ciple at work under these various forms. it is the same with the deli- neation of character: however vari- ous the types, whether a jonathan oldhuck, a dr. primrose, a blifil, or a falstafi —ideal, or real, the principles of composition are the same. miss austen has generally hut an indifferent story to tell, hut her art of telling it is incomparahle. her characters, never ideal, are not of an eminently attractive order; hut her dramatic ventriloquism and power of presentation is little less than mar- vellous. maoaulay declares his opin- ion that in this respect she is second only to shakespeare. "among the writers," he says, " who, in the point we have noticed, have approached nearest the mauner of the great mas- ter, we have no hesitation in placing jane austen, a woman of whom eng- land is justly proud. she has given as a multitude of characters, all, in a certain sense, commouplace — all such as we meet every day. yet they are all as perfectly discriminated from each other as if they were the most eccentric of human heings. . . . and all this is done hy touches so delicate that they elude analysis, that thoy defy powers of description, and that we only know them to exist hy the general effect to which they have contrihuted.'"* the art of the novelist consists in telling the story and representing the characters; hut hesides these, there are other powerful though extraneous sources of attraction often possessed hy novels, which are due to the literary talent and culture of the writer. there is, for example, * art. on "madame d'arhlay," edin. rev., vol. lxxvii. p. . .] the novels of jane austen. the power of description, hoth of all the purpose of creation. bat scenery and of character. many whoever looks closely into this mat- novels depend almost entirely on ter will see that literature—that is, this for their effect. it is a lower the writing of thinking and accom- kind of power, and consequently plished men—is excessively clieap, much more frequent than what we compared with the smallest amount have styled the art of the novelist; of invention or creation; and it is yet it may he very puissant in the cheap hecause more easy of pro- hands of a fine writer, gifted with a duction, and less potent in effect real sense of the picturesque. being this is apparently hy no means the very easy, it has of late hecome the opinion of some recent critics, who resource of weak writers; and the evidently consider their own writing erominent position it has usurped of more merit than humour and as tended in two ways to produce invention, and who are aunoyed at weariness—first, hy encouraging in- the notion of " mere serialists," with- cotupetent writers to do what is out "solid acquirements," heing re- easily done; and, secondly, hy seduc- garded all over europe as our most ing writers from the higher and het- distinguished authors. yet it may ter method of dramatic exposition. he suggested that writing such as another source of attraction is the that of the critics in question can general vigour of mind exhihited hy he purchased in ahundance, whereas the anthor, in his comments on the humour and invention are among incidents and characters of his story; the rarest of products. if it is a these comments, when proceeding painful reflection that genins should from a fine insight .or a large expe- he esteemed more higbly than solid rienee, give additional charm to the acquirements, it should he remem- story, and make the delightful novel hered that learning is only the a delightful hook. it is almost diffused form of what was once in- superfluous to add, that this also vention. "solid acquirement" is has its ohverse; the comments too the genins of wits, which has hecome often painfully exhihit a general the wisdom of reviewers, weakness of mind. dr. johnson re- be this as it may, we acknowledge fused to take tea with some one the great attractions which a novel hecause, as he said, "sir, there is no may receive from the general vigour vigour in his talk." this is the and culture of the author; and ac- complaint which most he urged knowledge that such attractions form against the majority of novelists: hut a very small element in miss they put too much water in their austen's success. her pages have ink. and even when the talk is no sudden illuminations. there are good, we most rememher that it is, neither epigrams nor aphorisms, after all, only one of the side-dishes neither suhtle analyses nor eloquent , of the feast all the literary and descriptions. she is without grace philosophic culture which an author or felicity of expression; she has can hring to hear upon his work neither fervid nor philosophic com- x will lend to give that work a higher ment. her charm lies solely in the \ value, hut it will not really make it art of representing life and character,' a hetter novel. to suppose that and that is exquisite. culture can replace invention, or we have thus endeavoured to literature do instead of character, is characterise, in general terms, the as erroneous as to suppose that quatities which her works display, archaeological learning and scenical it is less easy to speak with sulfi- splendour can raise poor acting to cient distinctness of the particular the level of fine acting. yet this is works, since, unless our readers have the common mistake of literary men. these vividly present to memory (in they are apt to helieve that mere which case our remarks would he writing will weigh in the scale superfluous), we caunot hope to he against artistic presentation; that perfectly intelligihle; no adequate comment will do duty for dramatic idea of them can he given hy a re- revelation; that analysing motives view of one, hecause the "epeci- with philosophic skill will answer men hrick" which the noodle in [july, the novels of jane austen. hierocles thought sufficient, and which really does suffice in the case of many a modern novel, would prove no specimen at all. her char- acters are so gradually unfolded, their individuality reveals itself so natu- rally and easily in the course of what they say and do, that we learn to know them as if we had lived with them, hut caunot hy any single speech or act make them known to others. aunt norris, for instance, in mansfield park, is a character profoundly and variously delineated; yet there is no scene in which she exhihits herself to those who have not the pleasurahle disgust of her acquaintance; while to those who have, there ia no scene in which she does not exhihit herself. mr. collins, making an offer to elizaheth ben- net, formally stating the reasons which induced him to marry, and the prudential motives which have induced him to select her, and then adding, "nothing now remains for me hut to assure you, in the most ani- mated language, of the violence of my affection. to fortune i am per- fectly indifferent, and shall make no demand of that nature on your father, since i am well aware that it could not he complied with; and that one thousand pounds in the four-per cents, which will not he yours till after your mother's de- cease, is all that you may ever he entitled to. on that head, therefore, i shall he uniformly silent; and you may assure yourself that no ungen- erous reproach shall ever pass my lips when we are married;" and after her refusal, persisting in accept- ing this refusal as only what is usual with young ladies, who reject the addresses of the man they secretly mean to accept, " i am therefore hy no means discouraged hy what you have just said, and shall hope to lead you to the altar ere long;"— this scene, ludicrous as it is tbrough- out, receives its exquisite flavour from what has gone hefore. we feel morally persuaded that so mr. collins would speak and act. the man who, on taking leave of his host, formally assures him that he will not fail to send a "letter of thanks" on his return, and does send it, is just the man to have made this declaration. mrs. elton, in emma, is the very hest portrait of a vulgar woman we ever saw: she is vulgar in soul, and the vulgarity is indicated hy suhtle yet unmistak- ahle touches, never hy coarse lan- guage, or hy caricature of any kind. we will quote here a hit of her conversation in the first inter- view she has with emma woodhouse, in which she edeavours to he very fascinating. it should he premised that she is only just married, and this is the wedding-visit. she in- dulges in "raptures" ahout hart- field (the sea.t of emma's father), and emma quietly replies:— "' when you have seen more of this country, i am afraid you will think you have overrated hartfield. surrey is full of heauties.' "' oh . ye«, i am quite aware of that. it is the garden of england, you know, surrey is the garden of england.' "' yes; hut we must not rest our claims on that distinction. many coun- ties, i helieve, are called the garden of england, as well as surrey.' "' no, i fancy not,' replied mrs. elton, with a most satisfled smilo. 'i never heard any county hut surrey called so.' "emma was silenced. "' my hrother and sister have promised us a vwit in the spring, or summer at farthest,' continued mrs. elton; 'and that will he our time for exploring. while they are with us, we shall explore a great deal, i daresay. they will have their harouche-landau, of course, which holds four perfectly; and therefore, with- out saying aaylhing of our carriage, we should he ahle to explore the different heauties extremely well. they would hardly come in their chaise, i think, at that season of the year. indeed, when the time draws on, i shall decidedly re- commend their hringing the harouche- landau; it will he so very much prefer- ahle. when people come into a heauti- ful country of this sort, you know, miss woodhouse, one naturally wishes them to see as much as possihle; and mr. suckling is extremely fond of exploring. we explored to king's-weston twice last summer, in that way, most delightfully, just after their first having the harouche- landao. you have many parties of that kind here, i suppose, miss woodhouse, every summer?' "' no; not immediately here. we are rathur out of distance of tho very strik- ing heauties which attract the sort of parties you speak of; and we are a very .] ill the novels of jane austen. quiet set of people, i helieve; more dis- posed to stay at home than engage in schemes of pleasure. "' ah! there is nothing like staying at home for real comfort. nohody can he more devoted to home than i am. i was quite a proverh for it at maple grove. many a time has selina said, when she has heen going to bristol, "i really can- not get this girl to move from the house. i ahsolutely must go in hy myself, though i hate heing stuck up in the harouche- landau without a companion; hut au- gusta, i helieve, with her own good will, would never stir heyond the park paling." many a time has she said so; and yet i am no advocate for entire seclusion. i think, on the contrary, when people shut themselves up entirely from so- ciety, it is a very had thing; and that it is much more advisahle to mil in the world in a proper degree, without living in it either too much or too little. i per- fectly understand your situation, how- ever, miss woodhouse (looking towards mr. woodhouse), your father's stato of health must he a great drawhack. why does not ho try bath ? — indeed he should. let me recommend bath to yoo. i assure you i have no douht of its doing mr. woodhouse good.' "' my father tried it more than once, formerly, hut without receiving any he- nefit ; and mr. perry, whose name, i dare- say, is not unknown to you, does not conceive it would he at all more likely to he useful now.' "' ah that's a great pity; for i assuro you, miss woodhouse, where the waters do agree, it is quite wonderful the relief they give. in my bath life, i have soen such instances of it! and it is so cheer- fal a place, that it could not fail of heing of use to mr. woodhouse's spirits, which, i understand, are sometimes much de- pressed. and as to its recommendation to you, i fancy i need not take much pains to dwell on them. the advantages of bath to the young are pretty generally understood. it would he a charming in- tmduction for you, who have lived so secluded a life; and i could immediately secure you some of the hest society in the place. a lino from me would hring you a little host of acquaintance; and my particular friend, mrs. partridge, the lady i have always resided with when in bath, would he most happy to show you any attentions, and would he the very peraon for you to go into puhlic with.' "it was as much as emma could hear, without heing impolite. the idea of her heing indehted to mrs. elton for what was called an introduction—of her going into puhlic under the auspices of a friend of mrs. elton's—prohahly some vulgar, dashing widow, who, with the help of a hoarder, just made a shift to live !—the diguity of miss woodhouse, of hartfield, was sunk indeed! "she restrained herself, however, from any of the reproofs she coald have given, and only thanked mrs. elton coolly; 'hut their going to bath was quito out of the question; and she was not perfectly con- vinced that the place might suit her het- ter than her father.' and then, to pre- vent further outrage and indiguation, changed the suhject directly. "' i do not ask whether you are musical, mrs. elton. upon these occasions, n lady's character generally precedes her; and highhury has long known that you are a superior performer.' ',' oh i no, indeed; i must protest against any such idea. a superior per- former —very far from it, i assure you: consider from how partial a quarter your information came. i am doatingly fond of music — passionately fond; and my friends say i am not entirely devoid of taste; hut as to anything else, upon my honour my performance is mediocre to the last degree. tou, miss woodhouse, i well know, play delightfully. i assure yon it has heen the greatest satisfaction, comfort, and delight to me, to hear what a musical society i am got into. i ahso- lutely caunot do without music; it is a necessary of life to me; and having always heen used to a very musical so- ciety, hoth at maple grove and in bath, it would have heen a most serious sacri- fice. i honestly said as much to mr. e. when he was speaking of my future home, and expressing his fears lest the retirement of it should he disagreeahle; and the inferiority of the house too— knowing what i had heen accustomed to —of course he was not wholly without apprehension. when he was speaking of it in what way, i honestly said that the world i could give up—parties, halls, plays—for i had no fear of retirement. blessed with so many resources within myself, the world was not necessary to me. i could do very well without it. to those who had no resources it was a different thing; hut my resources made me quite independent and as to smaller-sized rooms than i had heen used to, i really could not give it a thought. i hoped i was perfectly equal to any sacrifice of that description. cer- tainly i had heen accustomed to every luxury at maple grove; hut i did assure him that two carriages were not neces- sary to my happiness, nor were spacious apartments. "but," said i, "to he quite honest, i do not think i can live without [july, the novels of jane austen. something of a musical society. i con- dition for nothing else; hut, without music, lifo would he a hlank to me."' "' we caunot suppose,' said emma, smiling, 'that mr. elton would hesitate to assure you of there heing a very musical society in highhury; and i hope you will not find he has overstepped the truth more than may he pardoned, in consideration of the motive.' "'no, indeed, i have no douhts at all on that head. i am delighted to find myself in such a circle: i hope we shall have many sweet little concerts together. i think, miss woodhouso, you and i must estahlish a musical cluh, and have regular weekly meetings at your houso, or ours. will not it ho a good plan? if we exert ourselves, i think we shall not he long in want of allies. something of that nature would ho particularly desir- ahle for me, as an inducement to keep me in practice; for married women, you know—thero is a sad story against them, in general. they are hut too apt to give up music' "' but you, who are so extremely fond of it—thero can ho no danger, surely?' "'i should hopo not; hut really, when i look around among my acquaintance, i tremhlo. selina has entirely given up music;—never touches the instrument, though she played sweetly. and the samo may he said of mrs. jefferey s—clara partridge that was — and of the two milmans, now mrs. bird and mrs. james cooper; and of more than i can enu- merate. upon my word, it is enough to put ono in a fright. i used to he quite angry with selina; hut, really, i hegin now to comprehend that a married woman has many things to call her attention. i helieve i was half an hour this morning shut up with my house- keeper.' "'but everything of that kind,' said emma, 'will soon he in so regular a train—' "' well,' said mrs. elton, laughing, 'we shall see.'" our limits force us to hreak off in the middle of this conversation, hut the continuation is equally humorous. quite as good in another way is miss bates with her affectionate twaddle. but, as we said hefore, the characters reveal themselves; and in general reveal themselves only in the course of several scenes, so that extracts would give no idea of them. the reader who has yet to make acquaintance with these novels, is advised to hegin with pride and prejudice or mansfield park; and if these do not captivate him, he may fairly leave the others uuread. in pride and prejudice there is the hest story, and the greatest variety of character: the whole beunet family is inimitahle: mr. beunet, caustic, quietly, indolently selfish, hut honourahle, and in some respects amiahle; his wife, the per- fect type of a gossiping, weak-headed, fussy mother; jane a sweet creature; elizaheth a sprightly and fascinating flesh - and - hlood heroine; lydia a pretty, hut vain and giddy girl; and mary, plain and pedantic, studying "thorough hass and human nature." then there is mr. collins, and sir william lucas, and the proud foolish old lady catherine de bough, and darcy, bingley, and wickham, all admirahle. from the first chapter to the last there is a succession of scenes of high comedy, and the interest is unflagging. mawfield park is also singularly fascinating, though the heroine is less of a favourite with us than miss austen's heroines usually are ; hut aunt norris and lady bertram are perfect; and the scenes at portsmouth, when fauny price visits her home after some years' residence at the park, are wonderfully truthful and vivid. the private theatricals, too, are very amus- ing; and the day spent at the rush- worths' is a masterpiece of art if the reader has really tasted the flavour of these works, he will need no other recommendation to read and re-read the others. even persua- sion, which we caunot help regarding as the weakest, contains exquisite touches, and some characters no one else could have surpassed. we have endeavoured to express the delight which miss austen's works have always given us, and to explain the sources of her success hy indicating the qualities which make her a model worthy of the study of all who desire to understand the art of the novelist. bat we have also indicated what seem to he the limitations of her genins, and to ex- plain why it is that this genins, moving only amid the quiet scenes of every-day life, with no power over the more stormy and energetic ac- tivities which find vent even in every : ac- pery- .] the change of ministry—what next? day life, can never give her a high people, and sympathy with their rank among great artists. her place goodness, we have admitted an oh- is among great artists, hut it is not jection which lowers her claims to high among them. she sits in the rank among the great henefactors of house of peers, hut it is as a simple the race; and this sufficiently ex- baron. the delight derived from plains why, with all her excellence, her pictures arises from our sympathy her name has not hecome a household with ordinary characters, our relish word. her fame, we think, must en- of humour, and our intellectual plea- dure. such art as hers can never sure in art for art's sake. but when grow old, never he superseded. but, it is admitted that she never stirs after all, miniatures are not frescoes, the deeper emotions, that she never and her works are miniatures. her tills the soul with a nohle aspiration, place is among the immortals; hut or hrightens it with a fine idea, hut, the pedestal is erected in a quiet niche at the utmost, only teaches us charity of the great temple, for the ordinary failings of ordinary the change op min stkt—what next? a change of ministry has taken form, the peelites and " old whigs," place, at a critical time in the aifairs who now support lord palmerston, of this country and of europe, and were almost as much opposed to mr. under circumstances not only sin- bright and the radicals as the con- sular in the history of politics, hut servatives are; and even the russell- suggestive of grave difficulties in the ite section repudiated with disdain future government of the country, the extreme view of the party of lev- the factions have rallied again for a ellers. but as these rival sections of great hattle, and, hy an insiguificant the whig party, though united, fell majority, have won it. it is just a far short of the strength of the con- year ago since they attempted a si- servatives, and could not regain office milar comhination, and notahly fail- without the co-operation of the radi- ed. the pitched hattle which they cals, it hecame the policy of the then fought with the ministry on latter to keep their whig friends in the question of the oude proclama- opposition until the hunger for op- tion terminated in one of the most fice should starve them into mote humiliating discomfitures that ever "advanced" views. a year ago this overtook an opposition. it was the result had not taken place. the first grand attempt of the whig whigs still imagined that, as wont, chiefs to replace themselves in office, the rsdicals would follow them un- at that time they had only heen a conditionally, rather than hear to few months on the shady side of the see the conservatives in power. house, and the pressure of adversity but the radicals had increased their had not yet tamed their spirit into strength, and would no longer act acquiescence with the humiliating as the mere "tail" of the whigs, demands of the radicals. hence they knew their power, and al- their failure. it is a fact which we though perfectly impotent of t hem- do not seek to deny that the various selves to form an administration, sections of the house who style they resolved to hend others to themselves "liherals" outnumher, their will hy adopting the tactics though only hy a small majority, the of ohstruction. after another conservative party. but hetween year's waiting, their tactics have certain sections of the liherals there heen crowned with success. the is to he found a wider discrepancy whigs, whose hunger for office is of opinion than exists hetween one notorious, have heen starved into a or two of those sections and the surrender. they have at length conservatives. at least such ims stooped to purchase the co-operation the case. on the question of lie- of the radicals hy an ahnegation of vol. lxxxvl [july, the change of ministry—what next? their own principles. the coalition which tbree weeks ago overtbrew the conservative ministry, involved the death of the old whig party. hence- forth the whigs of are extinct; or—as in the case of earl grey and lord normanhy — they are to he found fighting on the side of the conservatives. so goes on the march of democraoy. rather than endure a farther exclusion from office, hoth lord palmerston and lord john russell have agreed to accept the terms of alliance offered hy mr. bright; and the result is a motley coalition which has won a party trinmph which it caunot follow up, and which can- not fail to he injurious to the hest interests of the country. what hut peril to the constitution can result from the wholesale apostacy of the whigs to the cause of democracy what hut disunion and a fresh crisis can he expected from a coalition which professes to unite bright or cohden with palmerston, and gladstone and sidney herhert with lord john rus- sell? what hut grievous detriment to the national interests can result from the premiership of lord palmer- ston, who repudiates the neutrality of the late government, and gives an open adhesion to the amhitious policy of the french emperor? the whig chiefs have always heen great in con- cocting coalitions, not one of which hitherto has ever prospered; hut on the present occasion they have out- done themselves in this respect, and have produced the most comhustihle of mixtures, which the least friction will explode, and whose explosion will cast fresh discredit upon our system of constitutional government for the last eight years the old duke's question, •' how is the qacen's government to he carried on f has every twelvemonth heeu acquiring a more startling siguificance; and after the vote of the th ultimo, and the miserahle coalition cahinet which is its consequence, every thoughtful mind will naturally ask with anxious forehoding, what next? the mauner in which the factions accomplished this success requires a word of comment. to say that a hurried vote of want of confidence in the ministry was the most adroit move for the opposition, is only giv- ing the chiefs of the factions credit for knowing how hest to play their game. it was simply a struggle for office, and they chose the most ad- vantageous ground for fighting the hattle. there was no real precedent for moving such a vote of want of confidence. the motion of sir rohert peel after the dissolution of the par- liament of is no parallel case. the ministry of lord melhourne had received a sigual defeat in , yet, refusing either to dissolve or to re- sigu, it continued in office for two whole years, receiving fresh defeats; and when at length it did appeal to the country, it was hpon a vote of censure carried in its own parliament hy those who had originally heen its supporters. the issue of that appeal was to give an im- mense accession to the ranks of the opposition; and therefore sir rohert peel, hy moving a vote of want of confidence, was only giving effect to the verdict of the country. the late ministry held a very different posi- tion. on taking office, they found themselves face to face with a par- liament elected under the premier- ship of lord palmerston, but in which, nevertheless, they constituted the only party strong enough to form a government; and when they ap- pealed to the country on their very first defeat, the result of the appeal was to give them twenty-five new votes, and to take as many from the opposition. if, then, it was not re- quisite for the opposition to move a vote of want of confidence in the last parliament, there was infinitely less ground for them to do so in the new one. but the growing confidence of the country in the conservative gov- ernment was one of the very reasons why the opposition were so anxious to cut short the career of their an- tagonists. and a hurried vote at the outset was the hest means for accom- plishing their factious purpose. all sections of the opposition were smarting from the effects of the dis- solution; and it was an adroit move to take advantage of that irritation while it was keenly felt. a vote of waut of confidence was also the hest means of securing unanimity amongst the jarring elements of the opposition. they all styled themselves liherals; .] the change of ministry—what next? and this motion, appealing to them under the common name of liherals, called upon them to say whether they would prefer to have a con- servative ministry or a liheral one. the tbreat was thus held over the heads of all the memhers of the opposition, that if any one did not support such a motion, he would thenceforth he ostracised, and repre- sented to his constituents as a traitor or renegade. and in this way many memhers were hooked into voting against the ministry against their own convictions and previous confessions; so that the dehate presented the curioog anomaly of some memhers speaking in favour of the ministry, yet ending hy saying that they must vote against them! this hurried vote, too, at the very outset, was a confession that the chiefs of the opposition despaired of finding any actual and definite ground of fault against the ministry. had they really helieved that the ministry had hlundered in foreigu policy, or would hlunder in domestic legislation, they would have waited for the produc- tion of the promised papers in the one case, or for the commission of the actual hlunder in the other. but they were hopeless on the latter point, and excessively anxious to fore- stall the other. a dehate on the foreigu policy of the government, after the production of the papers, wonld at once have cut the ground from under the feet of the opposi- tion, hy showing to the country that the endless charges of hlundering which the liheral journals had heen puhlishing against the government were pure fahrications, and that, in fact, never at any time were difficult negotiations conducted in a more masterly mauner—as in the sequel we shall show. the grand ohject of the opposition leaders, we repeat, was to forestall inquiry, and ohtain a verdict against the ministry hefore the facts of the case were known, and while parliament and the puhlic were still under the influence of the calumnies disseminated hy the liheral press. yet what, after all, was the result of those skilful tactics and un- scrupulous proceedings? their vic- tory was a virtual dofeat. the ma- jority of which they had in the former parliament dwindled down to only . in one of the very fullest houses on record they only mustered , while the conservative muster- ed —a narrow majority for the liherals at the hest, hut one entirely neutralised hy the fact that, whereas the conservatives are a compact phalanx, the liherals are composed of four incongruous sections (palmer- stonians, peelites, russellites, and radicals), never for a week in com- plete harmony, and often at open discord with one other. in the very speeches hy which they sought the overtbrow of the late government, the irreconcilahle differ- ences of opinion which prevail in the camp of the liherals were clearly manifested. for example, in regard to that most important of all ques- tions at present—namely, the policy of this country with respect to the war—we fiud mr. bright sueering at the militia and rifle-corps, and de- nouncing the additions to our fleet: an indication that he and his friends will press their quaker delusions upon the new ministry with might and main. we find him, too, giving it as his deliherately-formed conviotion that the french are a singularly peaceful people, who have not the least desire to do anything unfriendly to this country,—an opinion in which few will concur, and which strikingly recalls to memory the similar state- ment of helief on the part of mr. cohden only a few weeks hefore the outhurst of the sanguinary revolution of . mr. bright, too—for once agreeing with lord palmerston — sympathises with france in her at- tack upon austria; although it would he curious to know hy what process he reconciles this opinion with his out • and - out principle of * peace and non - intervention. he thinks it right for france to hegin a war of amhition, yet denounces on our part any precautionary measures of defence. sir james graham, again, although hitterly opposing the government, praised them for the very measures of defence which mr. bright, in his narrow wisdom, thought fit to denounce. lord palmerston, who made the poorest appearance he ever did in his life, although unahle to deny the practi- [july, the change of ministry—what next? cul utility of those energetic measures of defence, so grudged the ministry the credit of having made them, that he cavilled at it as an unconstitu- tional step, for which no precise or sufficient reason had heen assigued.* and while lord john russell and mr. bright confessed that the war was unavoidahle, lord palmerston, with a recklessuess of assertion never surpassed, maintained that it was wholly attrihutahle to the hlun- dering of the ministry! to such shifts was he reduced in his effort to make out a case against the govern- ment. moreover, at the very time that lord palmerston was openly sympathising with the french em- peror, and repeating in a modified form the desire which he expressed at tiverton, namely, that austria should he driven out of italy hefore the year's end — his for- mer colleague, the duke of argyll, was emphatically declaring in the upper house that it was ahsolutely necessary that memhers of the gov- ernment should in all their speeches maintain an impartial tone to hoth of the helligerent parties. "the nohle earl (ellenhorough) has said that in order to make our mediation effectual in europe, we must he armed at home"—a position which even his captious grace could not deny had heen ahly assumed hy the conserva- tive government; "hut," continued his grace, "another necessity is im- posed upon them—namely, that they shall maintain at least some show of impartiality of opinion." lord pal- merston, at the close of the dehate, must have heen very much shocked to learn how he and his expectant lord privy seal had heen knocking their heads together. it were tedious to exhihit all the extraordinary diversi- ties of opinion which marked the speeches of the liherals in this dehate: hut what else could he looked for, when the opposition chiefs were not only fundamentally at variance with one another, hut had no common ground of truth to go upon ?—each forging fictions of his own wherewith to assault the ministry, and regain the suuny side of the house. "i know perfectly well," said roe- huck at milford haven, ''that there is no party so admirahle in the use of calumny as the whig party; and everything that calumny can desire, or that lying can supply, will he adopted hy that party." no hetter instance of the ahsolute correctness of this description of the whigs could he found than the recent speeches of their leaders in parliament, and the vocifierations of their organs in the press. two sentiments were very strong in this country on the suhject of the war. one of these whs a sympathy for the cause of italian in- dependence, and a consequent dislike of anstrio. the other and still stronger feeling was one of deep- rooted suspicion towards louis na- poleon, and a vivid distrust of the good understanding and manifest co- operation which exist hetween him and the czar. these feelings proceed from radically opposite views of the main point to he attended to in the present war. the first regards the war only as it affects austria and the italians, and thinks no more of british interests than if we helonged to another planet. the second and , * the course which they pursued," said lord palmerston "was an unconstitu- tional course, hecause to add materially to our naval and military estahlishments, when parliament was not sitting, unless they were called upon to do so hy some overruling necessity, is not a measure consonant with the spirit of the constitution. j. ow, what that overruling necessity was we have not heard." how very iguorant the nohle viscount con make himself at times! the times, which certainly has do hias against lord palmerston or in hehalf of the late government, takes a very opposite view of the matter. '-thero is no parallel," says the leading journal '- to he found for the condition of the british navy nt the moment. it had never as sir john pakington said, hean reduced to such a point hetore; and when, therefore, at that crisis of accidental weakness, a terrihle european war hurst forth at our very doors, it wag the hounden duty of ministers to tbrow precedents to the winds, and see that the state look no harm. that was their duty, and (hey discharged it. they poured a reinforcement of shipwrights into our dockyards; they raised our fleet from to sail-of-theline, and they added . men to the naval forces of the coun- try. all praise to them for thoir vigour and decision."—times, june . . the changc of ministry- jvliat next? far juster sentiment of the popular frighten france from hostilities hy mind looks primarily to our own holding it out to europe that in the interests: it wholly dishelieves the event of war hreaking out they would prufessioos of the french emperor, he found acting on the side of aus- and regards the present war simply tria, peace would he preserved and as the first step in the carrying out of war woold he avoided." no wonder those napoleonic plans which have for that such daring calumnies, openly their consummation the humiliation of advanced in the british legislature, england. but however radically in- should have elicited shouts of indig- compatihle these different views of nant repudiation from the ministerial the war are, the whigs, when they henches. the unscrupulous game opened their customary hatteries of succeeded for the moment, and the calumny, resolved to turn hoth these factious won the prize of office for phases of the popular sentiment which they had shown themselves against their opponents. to meet ready to ahandon so many principles the popular sympathy for the ital- and invent so many calummes. but ians, they charged the ministry with already those calumnies are refuted laving tbroughout the negotiations and their effects dispelled; and when favoured austria and menaced france parliament resumes its deliherations, and sardinia. to meet the still it must do so with the indiguant and stronger sentiment of suspicion in humiliating conviction that a wrong regard to the ulterior desigus of verdict has heen wrung from it hy france and russia, they declared duplicity and chicane, and that the that the ministry had heen wholly men who so duped it are now her duped, and had heen culpahly iguo- majesty's ministers! rant of the impending crisis; that that the volume containing the they had heen overreached hy the diplomatic correspondence of the french diplomatists, and helieved government on the italian question that peace would he preserved, where- should he immediately laid on the as war was a foregone conclusion of tahle of the house, was promised napoleon iii. all tbrough the time on the very first night of the ses- of the elections, the liheral journals sion; and although the liherals rang their peals of calumny, ding- thought fit to shut their eyes to dong, now advancing the one of these this until they had accomplished incompatihle charges, now the other, their ends hy defeating the govern- the whig chiefs in parliament ment, that correspondence has now played the same game. eagerly heen carried to every reading- ru>hing into the dehate hefore the room and fireside tbrough the me- contents of the italian despatches dinm of the newspapers, so that could he known, lord palmerston, the puhlic are now in a position to on the first night of the discus- judge of the matter for themselves, sion, had the unscrupulous temerity in that hig volume of pages, the to repeat these calumnies as the negotiations are set forth with an grand charge against the ministry, uureserved fulness, which is exceed- "it is quite plain," he said, " that ingly rare, and which of itself speaks the ministry were iguorant of the well for the manly confidence of the real state of affairs; that they were late ministry in the goodness of their uninformed as to what was going on; cause. such confidence is amply that they were under a delusion as justified. instead of heing hlind to to the intention of the different what was coming, it appears that parties." he also charged them in even hefore new year's day, when the strongest and most explicit terms the french emperor gave overt sigus with having unduly favoured austria of his wish to quarrel with austria, tbroughout the negotiations, and the british government had descried with having held out nothing hut the symptoms of coming trouhles,— menaces to france and sardinia, had counselled austria to do all she 'the course they pursued," he said, could for the improvement of the "hrought on the war, while a dif- internal condition of central italy; ferent course would have prevented and informed her that, in the event it . . up to the very last moment, of war, great britain would not help their helief was that if they could only her, hut would strictly maintain a [july, the change / ministry—wltat next? position of neutrality* in accord- ance with the astute policy of the french emperor, he had invited lords palmerstnn and clarendon to compile in decemher last, and, when there, had, we douht not, sooght to talk over hoth of them into approhation of his meditated intervention in italy. lord palmer- ston—the ostentatious approver of the coup d'etat and the author of the conspiracy bill—testified his con- tinued devotion to louis napoleon hy adopting his ideas on this occa- sion also, and now openly advocates them in the british legislature. lord clarendon appears to have thought differently. he made no appearance whatever against the ministry on the th june, and not improhahly—like another whig diplo- matist, lord normanhy—he entirely dissents from that approval of the napoleonic policy which finds favour with lord palmerston. however that he, certain it is that, on return- ing from compiegue, lord clarendon felt it to he his duty to apprise lord malmeshury of the suspicious projects entertained hy the french emperor, and in which it had heen attempted to secure his own complicity. in despatch no. , addressed to lord cowley at paris, lord malmeshury (jan. ) thus alludes to the communi- cation made to him hy lord claren- don, and earnestly deprecates any re- course to arms :— "foreigx office, jan. , . "my lord,—hor majesty's govern- ment have heard from your excellency with deep concern, that the state of tho relations hetween the french and aus- trian courts is of a nature so unsatisfac- tory, that in your own opinion, and that of the puhlic of france, it might at any moment lead to a still further and more fatal estrangement. the speech of the emperor to m. hiihner, on new year's day, increased tho general alarm, which has extended" to this country. . . . "her majesty's government must state to your excellency that, in the evident ill-humour displayed recipro- cally hetween france and austria at this moment, they can conceive no great national question or interest involved which can reasonahly cause such a feel- ing. no portion of the territory of either is tbreatened hy the other; no commercial privileges are asked or re- fused hy either; no point of national honour is at stake in either country. . . "i am aware from tho conversation which lord clarendon held lately at compiegue with the emperor, and which his lordship repeated to me, that his imperial majesty has long looked at the internal state of italy with interest and anxiety. it may he, although i have no reason for helieving such is the case, that he imagines that in a war with austria, and having sardinia as an ally, he may play the important part of tho regenerator of italy. if so, the treaties of must he effaced, for such a re- distrihution of territory could not ho effected without the consent of the par- ties to those treaties. but those com- pacts have insured to europe the longest peace on record, and, in the opinion of her majesty's government, still answer their original purpose in maintaining tho halance of power. "i would not, however, have your excellency helieve that her majesty's government are indifferent to the just discontent which affects a large portion of the italian populations. yet it is not in a war hetween france and aus- tria that their relief is to he found. such a war may hring ahout a change of mas- ters, hut assuredly it will not give them independence, and without indepen- dence, liherty is hopeless." having earnestly impressed these wise views upon the cahinet of tho tuileries, lord malmeshury (janu- ary ) wrote an equally explicit declaration of opinion to our amhass- ador at vieuna. in that despatch he says :— "your lordship will frankly tell count buol that, should such a struggle as we deprecate he the result of the pre- sent estrangement hetween france and austria, england would remain a neutral spectator of the contest. . . . "her majesty's government, sympa- thising, as they unquestionahly do. with the sufferings of the italian population, would gladly lend their hest efforts to produce an amelioration in the existing state of things. but they know that such amelioration can never he effected, with any certainty of permanency, hy war. it may produce a change of mas- * the correspondence is only given from the hegiuning of the year, hut this previous correspondence is referred to and descrihed in despatch no. of the puh- lished series, addressed hy lord malmeshury to our amhassador at vieuna. .] the change of ministry—what next? ters, hut it will not confer independence: it may, perhaps, contrihute to the eleva- tion of some fortunate individuals, hut it will insure the disorganisation of the whole social system, and indefinitely re- tard the material improvement of the italian population. "on the othor hand, iler majesty's government entertain hut little douht that if austria and france — the former an italian, and hoth roman catholic states — laying aside mutual suspicion, were to join heartily with a view to pro- mote, hy peaceful means, the regenera- tion of italy, their comhined influence would speedily effect a change in the present unhappy state of affairs, and contrihute to estahlish confidence he- tween rulers and their suhjects. . . . "as the common friends, then, of hoth parties, and as sincerely desirous of the welfare of the italian people, her majesty's government entreat the two imperial courts to lay aside their ani- mosities, and to act in peaceful concert for that important ohject." could anything he more master- ly and statesmanlike than these de- spatches addressed to the two intend- ing helligerents? but ohserve. in his speech against the ministry lord palmerston roundly and repeatedly charged them with having patronised austria and menaced france. "their idea was," he said, "that if they could only hold language hostile to france and sardinia, and patronising towards austria, they would pre- serve peace." the despatches, which were to he immediately laid hefore the house, and are now puhlished, prove that the charge which he made so unscrupulously has not a shadow of foundation. the despatches prove that the british government pressed moderation upon the austrian gov- ernment quite as much as upon the french; so much so, indeed, that the austrian minister complained that it was not right to hear so hardly upon austria, a power whose only wish was to keep out of war. lord loftus who communicated the ahove dispatch to count buol, thus descrihes what followed :— "count buol expressed himself as fully sensihle of the kind and friendly motives which had moved her majesty's government to offer their advice and counsel at the present critical moment, and he appreciated the cordial and sin- cere interest which they evinced for austria. but he could not conceal from mo his fears, that the opinions set forth in your lordship's despatch might pro- duco more harm than good if these same views and opinions had heen likewise expressed at paris and turin. 'in fact,' said his excellency, 'i regret that you have read that despatch to me; i regret also that it has heen written. if,' con- tinued count buol, 'you wish to preach peace and to prevent war, address your- self with firmness to france and pied- mont. we are not meditating war; we shall not he the aggressors. tell the emperor louis napoleon that great britain will not passively look on if his majesty should commence hostilities. say to him that should he take such a course it will he at his own risk and peril. on the other hand, warn king victor emmanuel that england will not sanction any act of wilful aggression, undertaken in full peace, hy piedmont against austria. if great britain is pre- pared to hold this language, no war will arise.'" indeed, so far from the french government considering itself men- aced hy any tbreats of british in- tervention on the side of austria, it appears that, on the outhurst of war, the cahinet of the tuileries actually applied to our government to co- operate with it in the struggle! a more arrogant piece of hypocrisy was never acted even in the history of diplomacy. lord malmeshury's re- ply (may ) is so full and masterly a statement of the views and policy of the government, that we regret its length forhids us to quote it at length. we can only give the nohle earl's conclusions. he says :— "viewing i xpartially the conduct of hoth austria and sardinia in regard to italy, and lamenting most deeply the spirit hy which hoth have heen actuated, her majesty's government can, never- theless, have no douht as to the course which it hefits them to pursue in the present emergency. "the british government have always recoguised as a sacred rule of interna- tional ohligation, that no country has a right authoritatively to interfere in the internal affairs of a foreigu state, or, with a sound policy, long withhold its acknowledgment of any new form of go- vernment which may he adoptod and estahlished, without territorial usurpa- tion or ahsorption, hy the spontaneous wish of its people. [july the change of ministry—what next "the british government have shown, for a long series of years, how steadily they have ohserved these principles, and they certainly caunot depart from them on hve present occasion. . . , " k government of the emperor of the french appears to anticipate that, not- withstanding tfie ahhorrence with which her majesty's government contemplate the coming war, and the value which they attach to the principle of non-inter- ference, oiey will yet he hrought to co- operate with france on hie present occa- sion. the imperial government ms had too many proofs, of lato years, of the anxiety of the british government to act together with them in all mea- sures calculated to lead to the general advantage of nations, to suppose that it is otherwiso than with sincere regret that her majesty's government feel themselves precluded, hy every consideration, from associating inemselvcs with france in the present struggle. they helieve that that struggle will ho productive of misery and ruin to italy, and, so far from accelerat- ing the development of freedom in that country, will imposo upon it a heavier hurden of present ruin and futuro taxa- tion. . . . "the aimost unanimous feeling of the british nation at viis moment is one of disapprohation of the present war, and an anxious desire to avoid any concur- rence in us progress. . . . "her majesty's government will watch with the utmost attention the various phases of the war; and if an opportunity should present itself for pleading the cause of peaco and reconciliation, they will not wait to he invited, hut will at once tender themselves as mediators, in the sincere hope that oieir offer may he ac- cepted and lead to peace." and on the previous day the fo- reigu secretary thus repeated his aunouncement to the court of berlin of that policy of strict neutrality which the british government was resolved to adopt:— "as far as england is concerned there are no immediate interests which neces- sitate any direct action on her part, and her majesty's government feel it to he their duty to maintain a strict neutrality hetwee'h e he lligerents. this is also the feeling of the people of england, and it is ohvious that any other course at present would tend to complications which can scarcely yet he foreseen." these despatches entirely rehut lord palmerston's charges against the late ministry, and place the new premier himself in a dilemma from which he will find it difficult to ex- tricate himself. they prove that ever since decemher, when palmer- ston was closeted with louis napo- leon at compiegue, the british min- istry were alive to the impending danger, and exerted themselves to the uttermost to ward it off. "cer- tain it is," wrote lord malmeshury on the th january, "that hoth france and austria, are looking for- ward to and preparing for the day when their armies shall stand in hostile array against each other on the plains of lomhardy." they fore- saw the storm while as yet the cloud on the horizon was no higger than a man's hand, and hefore last year was ended they were at work to prepare for it. so masterly are these de- spatches of lord malmeshury, that he who runs may read in them the ex- cellence of the foreigu policy of the late ministry. their puhlication has at once hrought down the whole scaf- folding of calumnies hy which the whig chiefs climhed hack into power. even the times, devoted to liheral- ism though it he, makes frank and free admission of this, and renders to the ex-ministers their meed of praise. "the correspondence to which we now have access," says the leading journal, "dissipates one illusion. it is now perfectly clear that the war which france is waging against austria is no sudden and unforeseen struggle, precipitated hy imprudence or wounded pride on either side. . . . it caunot he douhted hy any one who reads these papers, that vie extension of french influence hy the expulsion of the austrians from italy is a settled policy of the second em- pire, and wis resolved upon prior to and independent of any recent de- monstrations in italy." * in this opinion we entirely concur. it is precisely what, four months ago, we gave reasons for helieving to he the case. a warlike intervention in the affairs of italy was a fore- gone conclusion with napoleon iii. it was the same also with sardinia. before the st of january the british. * see leading article in the times of th june. .] the change of ministry—what next? government felt it necessary to re- monstrate with sardinia on the war- like spirit which its king and min- isters were fostering, and which could have hut one ohject and end—a rup- ture with austria. on this po'iut it is well to give the verdict of a nau- tral or anti-conservative authority of such eminence as the leading jour- nal. the times (june ), in an edi- torial article on the italian despatches, thus narrates and comments:—" as it appeared to her majesty's ministers —and, indeed, to the world generally —that victor emmanuel was dis- posed to make the discontent of his neighhours a pretext for extending his own possessions, sir james hod- son, under the directions of lord malmeshury, remonstrated strongly with the sardinian government. 'to this hoth count cavour and the king replied that no cause of offence had heen or would he given hy sardinia to her neighhors. his majesty added that the political horizon was tbreat- ening, hat, as far as he was concerned, the house of savoy would pursue its old course of loyalty to its engage- ments; and while he regretted cer- tain matters in a neighhouring state, he had no hesitation in saying that neither intrigue nor revolution would ever he countenanced hy his country. count cavour said, that if people ex- pected that sardinia was going to declare war they were likely to he disappointed.' so much for royal and ministerial assurances. while the k ing was declaring that he would countenance neither intrigue nor re- volution, the marriage of his daughter had heen arranged, and the eurol- ment of refugees from every state of the peninsula was ahout to hegin." this duplicity, we regret to say, was quite io keeping with the act of treachery hy which the same" govern- ment commenced its attack upon austria in . when napoleon hi., who had himself heen carrying on extensive military preparations for some time previously, chose to make it a suhject of complaint to lord cowley that austria was re- inforcing her troops on the sar- dinian frontier, his lordship made the very natural and cogent reply, that he "could not forget that in count buol, heing then aus- trian minister at turin, received the most solemn assurances from the late king, charles alhert, that there was no intention of attacking lomhardy, whereas, when his majesty gave these assurances, orders had heen actually expedited to the sardinian troops to march and pass the frontier. it was not astonishing that a government of which count buol is a memher, with a recollection of this act of treachery, should take care that aus- tria was not again surprised.' * the project of this italian war was first sketched out when count ca- vour visited the french emperor at plomhieres last autumn; and the pear seemed ripe, and the arrange- ments were consummated hy the marriage of prince napoleon with the king of sardinia's daughter, in the hegiuning of the present year. immediately after, and in consonance with the former of these events, the french government commenced to make demands upon the court of vieuna in regard to the affairs of italy — as soon appeared, not with the ohject of ohtaining a peaceful solution of the prohlem, hut in order to find pretext for a rupture. "the matter stands thus," wrote lord cowley, descrihing the state of mat- ters when he went to vieuna — "france had made certain proposi- tions to austria, to which counter- propositions had heen offered; hut austria had never heen ahle to oh- tain the opinion of the french go- vernment upon these latter. she had more than once asked for that opinion; and it remained with the french government to take the next step."f but napoleon iii. would not take that step; and the aversion of the french government from any action in common with austria, in order to effect reforms in central italy and the pope's dominions, was clearly expressed hy count walewski in one of his interviews with lord cowley. it hetter suited the mac- chiavellian policy of napoleon iii. to prepare for war, than to continue the * see the hlue-hook, despatch no. . + despatch . [july, the change of ministry—what next? negotiations which it lay with him to resume.* and an open rupture might actually have resulted imme- diately, if the british government had not promptly, and with masterly tact, interposed, hy directing lord cowley to ohtain from the french emperor a categorical statement of his demands, and thereafter proceed to vieuna in the interests of peace. austria had no motive for war. her whole circumstances and interests counselled peace. self-defence alone would compel her to draw the sword. every statesman in europe knew that; and her conduct was in ac- cordance with it—as these despatches show. the following extracts give the gist of lord cnwley's account of his mission to vieuna:— "vietsa, march , s . "my lord,—being on the eve of leav- ing vieuna on my return to england, i am ahout to give your lordship in this despatch a general summary of the re- sults of the confidential mission with which i have heen charged. . . . "count buol has shown tbroughout the discussions which i have had with him a sincere desire to avoid the extremi- ties of war, and to meet the wishes and advice of her majesty's government, as fur as he thought he might do so without compromising tho national honour of austria i may add, that similar feel- ings were evinced hy the emperor. . . . [after stating that count buol assent- ed at onco to the proposal for the evacua- tion of the papal states hy the french and austriau forces, lord cowley pro- ceeds :] "with respect to the reforms of administration to ho introduced into the roman states, count buol expresses him- self willing either to resume the negotia- tion which had heen commenced with the french government upon that suh- ject in , hut afterwards allowed to drop hy that government and not hy him, or to fall hack upon the recom- mendations made hy the five powers to the pope in - . "i come now to the fourth point men- tioned in your lordship's instructions— namely, the ahrogation or modification of the austro-italian treaties of . even on this point, on which austria is naturally more sensitive than any other, leave count buol not only prepared to act with moderation and forhearance with regard to the actual execution of those treaties, hut disposed to examine whe- ther they may he replaced, with the con- sent of the other contracting parties, hy somo other comhination, which, while relieving austria from tho necessity of an interference the responsihility of which is fully felt, would not risk the chance of the duchies hecoming a prey to revo- lution and anarchy. . . "count buol said that austria re- spected the right of all sovereigus and nations to model their own institutions. there was much of which he could not approve in tho constitution of sardinia, hut he had never attempted to interfere with it. on the same principle he had refrained, and would still continue to refrain, from all intervention in tho in- ternal affairs of other italian states." . . "before quitting altogether the suh- ject of the separate treaties, i may men- tion that count buol considers the secret article in the austro-neapolitun treaty of , which hinds the king of naples not to alter tho institutions of the king- dom without the permission of austria, to he a dead letter. . . "i have the satisfaction of adding, in conclusion, that great as is tho irritation which, it caunot he denied, exists at this moment against tho emperor of tho french, the emperor of austria and his government would accept, with a sincere desiro to hring them to an honest con- clusion, any overtures for a reconcilia- tion with france, the acceptance of which would not he incompatihle with their honour." could austria have done more than this? was not lord cowley right to he satisfied with the conduct of the court of vienna? in fact, everything that the french emperor demanded or could demand was con- ceded. lord cowley's mission was entirely successful. and if it was rendered of no avail, that was purely • louis napoleon would neither rosume the negotiations, nor yet allow the british government officially to interfere. "her majesty's government," wrote lord malmeshury to lord cowley, offered tho co-operation of this country, as far as it could he aiforded with advantage, for hringing ahout an improvement in the social condition of italy. to tho sincere regret of her majesty's government—a regret that has heen increased hy suhsequent events—count walewski informed your excellency, on the th of january last, that he did not think the moment a favourahle one for executing their purpose." .] the change of ministry— what next? and entirely the doing of the french emperor. he was hent upon war; and when thns caught in the net of peace so skilfully worked hy the british government, he immediately sought a pretext to escape from his own pledges and professions. he found pitiful refage in the proposal for a congress, made hy russia; and which proposal, the russian government now informs ns (see prince gortschakoff's circular) was made u in order to meet the wishes of the french oovernment!" so the game went on. france tbrew all ohstacles in the way of ne- gotiations, and sardinia continued her policy of provocation — doing so to the length of violating her treaty with austria, and con- stituting a camis helli hy openly en- rolling austrian deserters in her army. for several years past sar- dinia has heen crashing herself with taxes in order to engage in this war of aggrandisement already her taxa- tion amounts to the enormous pro- portion of per cent of the aunual wealth of the country; whereas in modena (one of the states which she is going to liherate hy incorporating wiih herself!) the proportion is not a tenth of that amount, or only per cent. what the financial pressure on northern italy will he after the expenses of this war are added to its present hurdens, is frightful to con- template. poor italy i "ever the slave of those who make her free!" "it was an evil hour for herself and for europe," wrote lord malmes- hury when the war hroke out, " that sardinia lent herself to dreams of amhition and aggrandisement, and forgetful of the little sympathy shown in hy the milanese for her cause, and their ingratitude for her gallant actions, she has provoked the war in which she is now engaged. by violating her treaties of extradition with austria; hy fostering deserters from her army; hy rallying in pied- mont the disaffected spirits of italy; hy menacing speeches against the austrian government, and hy osten- tatious declarations that she was ready to do hattle as the champion of italy against the power and influ- ence of austria, sardinia invoked the storm, and is deeply responsihle to the nations of europe. her ma- jesty's government saw this dangor- our policy with apprehensions which have now heen realised, and they caunot forhear from remarking that the first and immediate effect of the war which it has caused has heen the suspension of constitutional govern- ment in sardinia itself." if there he one man in this coun- try responsihle for the present war —and there is one—that man is lord palmerston. by the sentiments which he expressed, and the politi- cal hlunders which he committed, eleven years ago, he prevented a last- ing solution of the italian question then, and sowed the seeds of future war. why did not so tremendous a convulsion as the italian revolu- tion and war of lead to a per- manent settlement of the affairs of italy? why were so many thou- sands of lives wasted then, and why is so much hlood and treasure heing sacrificed now? chiefly hecause, eleven years ago, lord palmerston tbrew away the golden opportunity; an opportunity not merely within his reach, hut ahsolutely placed in— nay, eagerly tbrust into — his hands. and yet he would have none of it! he hlundered, and the hour passed; and when his eyes at length opened to the truth, and he implored to have the opportunity hack again, he found that his own folly and insensate pre- sumption had put it for ever heyond his reach. as the dread sequel of that folly and presumption, we have the present war. let us recall those facts of . at that time france, torn hy internal revolution, could take no part in the struggle going on in italy. england, free and strong at home, was mistress of the situa- tion. she alone could interfere with decisive effect in the contest hetween the italians and austria: her power was so acknowledged that she held in her hands the scales which weigh- ed the fortunes of hoth parties. at the height of the contest it needed not the landing of a single red-coat regiment on the italian shores — it needed not the hlockade of a single port of austria or of sardinia. the position of england, as related to that struggle, was omnipotent. she had hut to speak the word—if that [july, the change of ministry—what next? word were spoken at the right time —and her will was law. yet when the golden opportunity was offered to her, pressed upon her, lord pal- merston put it aside. at the very outset of that contest, when the vast military strength of austria was still unimpaired, and when not a whisper of insurrection was yet heard in loyal hungary, a special message came from the court of vieuna to lord palmerston, offering to place at his disposal the entire kingdom of lomhardy if england would inter- pose as mediator in the strife. then indeed might the italian ques- tion have heen settled. but after ten days' delay, his lordship replied that his government would not in- terfere unless austria would consent to give up venice also! the aus- trian government, which then held the whole venetian ground with a fine army and impreguahle forts, re- fused. if they were to lose everything hy the fortunes of war, they could not possihly lose more than palmerston so presumptuously demanded. in despair of meditation, radetzki was ordered to draw the sword: in a few weeks the sardinian and italian forces were driven like chaff hefore the wind; the old warrior dictated his terms within a march of turin; and the italian questiou stood again as hefore. in vain did lord palmer- ston then implore lord normanhy (our amhassador at paris) to get the french government to persuade austria to repeat the offer which she had previously made to him. aus- tria had heen forced hy .palmerston to hrave the risks of war; she had hraved them, and had won,—and the golden hour for mediation was past. we now know what his lordship's deliherate hlunder has cost europe. "it is impossihle," said sir james graham, speaking a year after the event, "to say what has heen the effect of that act of the nohle vis- count. my helief is, that the insur- rection of hungary was the conse- quence, and, what i regret as much as any man, the intervention of rus- sia—the interference of that country to crush the hungarian insurrection having thus heen rendered necessary. . . . and has the nohle viscount pro- moted the cause of italian liherty hy the course he has pursued? pied- mont was twice in one year at the mercy of the invading army of aus- tria. rome is in possession of the french army. lomhardy is under the military rule of austria. venice was reconquered. and we caunot forget the daring exploits in naples, which the nohle viscount was so anxious to uphold." sidney herhert, the new minister of war, was another fierce critic of palmerston's italian policy in ; and as lord normanhy and others who then supported lord palmerston, have heen forced to declare against him now, the hest wish that can he formed for the new premier is, that he will get on hetter with his old enemies than with his old friends! it was not, therefore, merely the de- votion which lord palmerston has al- ways shown to the french emperor that pointed him out to the latter as the hest agent for hringing round the british government to favour this french intervention in italy. in lord palmerston had offi- cially stated, when applied to hy austria, that the italian question must he left to the arhitrament of the sword ;* and not yet tbree years have elapsed since he made a naval demonstration against naples, which proved not only an offence, hut a laughing-stock to europe, as the french emperor reduced it to a mere ahortive parade. napoleon iii., with his own plans for the future already chalked out, wished to get the british government com- mitted to the principle of armed in- tervention in italy, hut had no in- tention that such intervention should * in a despatch to our amhassador at vieuna (august ), lord palmerston then said:—" i have to say that a question so important in itself, and so mixed up with national feeling and with traditional policy as the question whether austria shall or shall not retain a portion of her italian possessions, has seldom heen decided simply hy negotiation and without an appeal to arms; and it seems now to have hecome inevitahle that the fortune of war must, to a certain degree at least, determine the mauner in which this question hetween austria and the italians is to ho settled." .] the change of ministry—what next? then take place—seeing that for him the pear was not yet ripe; and that, moreover, he purposed that all the glory and advantage of such inter- vention should accrue to prance, to the exclusion of england. palmer- ston has gone all lengths to favour thi- second napoleon. he showed a culpahle haste in congratulating the dictttor after the cotip-d' elat; and in needlesly expressing his earnest ap- proval of that event, he did what no british minister was entitled to do, and what no other british minister would have done. again, at the con- gress of paris, did not lord palmer- ston's envoy, and the representatives of france, without any warning, sigu a treaty compelling belginm to modify her free press according to the de- mands that might he made upon her hy the government of france? a most despotic measure, hy which napoleon iii. and lord palmer- ston consummated their entente cor- dude at the expense of the law of nations. a pretty pair of liherty's champions i the conspiracy bill was a natural sequel to such con- duct : and if that " sacrifice " also was cot made to propitiate the french emperor, it was no fault of him who was then, and again is, the pre- mier of this free country. it was hy no accident, therefore, that, when napoleon had matured his plans for the present war, he sent for lord palmerston to compiegue, to secure once more his powerful assistance in cajoling the british nation. how faithfully his lordship has acted up to his engagements there made, is written in all his actions—alike in his speeches and in his intrigues— during the last ten weeks. his policy is not neutrality even in words. he makes no secret of his enmity to austria, and his love for napoleon. "i hope the austrians will he driven out of italy hefore the year is done," he says. and at the same time he derides the idea that we have any- thing to fear from france, and in- vites us to accept as the hasis of our future policy an unhesitating reliance upon the good intentions of the second napoleon. is this a man in whose hands the fortunes of england can he safe? at such a crisis in the affairs of europe, and when the true character of the napoleonic policy has at length hegun to manifest it- self, can the british nation give its confidence to a statesman who, hoth hy his past policy and recent pledges, has so closely united himself with the french emperor, and now openly eulogises the policy hy which the latter is paving the way to ulterior desigus? for the last six months napoleon iii. has heen counting upon the accession of lord palmerston to power; and the french journals have never ceased to clamour for this event, as the hest thing that could happen for french policy. barely two months ago, when the elections in this country were just concluding, the pays, (prince napoleon's organ), in one of its customary as-aults upon the conservative ministry, rejoicingly expressed its hope that lord pal- merston would soon he again in power, and that he would "repair the fault" committed hy his prede- cessors. "everything," it continued, "seems to lead to the opinion that the return of lord palmerston to power is near at hand; hut we will speak of him as freely as of his antagonists, and say—' what great or good thing can a whig minister come to perform, unless it he to re- pair the fault committed hy the tories?' . . . a whig minister may in a few days save the continent from a dangerous crisis, strengthen the alliance of france and england, and calm europe with a word. if it is not for this great and nohle end that lord palmerston desires to re- gain power, we caunot understand his amhition." we hope the brit- ish nation will understand his amhition too. it is on no slight ground that lord normanhy now withdraws from the minister with whom he so long co-operated, and earnestly warns the country, "do not place at the head of the govern- ment a minister who has expressed sentiments inimical to rights which we have ourselves hy treaty con- ferred." the author of the conspiracy bill has made many sacrifices of the national honour and interests to pro- pitiate the emperor of the french; and now he demands this one propi- tiation more—that the free heart end justly aroused spirit of the british [july, . the change of ministry—what next? nation shall fold themselves up in hlank apathy and accept himself again as premier. this new coalition caunot last. it contains within itself the seeds of its own speedy dissolution. the two years which, to its own great detri- ment and humiliation, the nation ac- corded to the coalition of , will with this new coalition he consider- ahly shortened. the russian war was the natural consequence of the former coalition: who can fully tell what will he the ultimate consequence of the present one? when lord derhy was expelled hy the liheral factions in decemher , the czar nicholas rejoiced, sent his congratulations to his ancien ami the premier, and he- gan to get his troops in hand for the invasion of turkey. when the fac- tions again trinmphed, tbree weeks ago, the french and russian am- hassadors openly rejoiced as they de- scended from the gallery of the house; and louis napoleon has already, douhtless, sent his congratulations to the author of the conspiracy bill on his restoration to power. but the british puhlic regard the new regime with coldness and suspicion. the new ministry, it is true, are liherals, and their predecessors were con- servatives; hut it is something deeeper than party-politics that dow occupies the mind of the nation. on the memorahle night of the th ultimo, when the ministry had heen defeated and the house was hreaking up—even at that late hour crowds tbronged every avenue to the house; and for whom did those crowds re- serve their special marks of favour? disracli, the fallen minister, the representative of the defeated gov- ernment, was loudly and warmly cheered: while lord john russell was hissed! the time has gone hy when the puhlic will he hlindly led hy party-names; and a critical period has commenced in the history of this country, when the nation will refuse to tolerate the trinmph of heteroge- neous factions at the expense of the puhlic good. lord derhy retires from office honoured hy an extraordi- nary mark of his sovereigu's favour, and two others of the cahinet have heen justly distinguished hy unusual proofs of the royal esteem. the country ratifies that verdict of ap- proval. the factions trinmphed hy a stolen success. the ministry was expelled without heing heard. but the truth is already hecoming hetter known; and we are confident that ere a year elapse the coalition will have ended in disgrace, and the eyes of the country will turn again to the conservative chiefs as its safest leaders in the hour of danger. "household w^yeeley." the hest edition of the waverley novels. ticknor & fields, boston, beg to announce the completion of their illustrated household edition of the •by »§wii§ in volumes, at cents per volume. the concluding volumes, and , were puhlished on the loth of march : and complete sets may now he had of all booksellers. any of the novels can he had separately, at cents per volume. this edition is untver- sally pronounced, hy competent anthorities, the hest one. the paper is of fine quality : the stereotype plates axe not old ones repaired, the type having heen cast expressly for th,s edition. the novels are illustrated with over fifty capital steel plates, engraved in the hest manuer, after drawings and paintings hy the most emm. .trusts, among whom are birket foster, narley, billings, landseer, harvey, and kaed. this edition conta,ns all the latest notes and corrections of the anthor, a glossary and index, and some curious additions, especially in "gut aurnrairo" and the "bktdh or lahxermoor ;'* heing the fullest edition of the novel* ever puhlished. tv nota are at the fool of the page, a great convenience to the reader. the following is a list of the novns: the ahhot, vols. the talisman, kenilworth, vols. two drovers, the pirate, vols. my aunt margaret's mirror, the fortunes of nigel, vol. the tapestried chamher, peveril of the peak, vols. , quentin durward, vols. legend of montrose f ' st. ronans well, vols, heart of mid lothian, vol. redgauntlet, vols. bride of lammermoor, vol. the betrothed, ivanhoe, vols. the higblad' the monastery, vols. woodstock, copies will he sent hy mail, free of postage, on receipt of price. waverley, vols. guy maunering, vols. the antiquary, vols. roh roy, vols. old mortality, vols. black dwurf, ( 'lhe laird's jock, the fair maid of perth, vols. aune of geierstein, vols. count rohert of paris, vols. betrothed, i vol the surgeon's daughter,) ) highland widow, j 'castle dangerous, >"" odstock, vols. index and glossary, j new and complete lihrary edition of the works of charles dickens. now puhlishing in london, in montbly volumes, and for sale hy ticknoe & fields, boston, price $ each, a new and compiele iibrary edilion of the works of bimmmt beautifully printed in mo. and carefully revised hy the author. with a portrait and viguettes. this lihrary edition it undertaken with a view to the presentation of mr. dianas' writings in a far more con. venient form—at once for present perusal, and for preservation—than any of them have yet appeared in. a new fount ef type has heen made expressly for the purpose, and grout care has hcon taken to render the series. terihle, compact, and handsome. tb* lihrary edition will comprise twenty-two monthiy volnmes, price $ . each; and a volume will he pub. isthsd on the first of every month. the following is the order of puhlication: . the pickwick papers, vol*. nicholas nicklehy, vols. . martin chuzxlewit, vols. old curiosity shop, and reprinted pieces, vols. . barnahy rudge, hard times and reprinted pieces, vols. « sketches hy box, vol. . oliver twist, vol. . domhey and son, vols. . david copperfield, vols. . pictures from italy, and american notes,. vol. . bleak house, vols. . little dorrit, vols. . cbristmas books, vol. 'copies sent hy mail, postage free, on receipt of price. appi.etons' american kepmnt, superior to the english edition of chambers's . . rv» « ... ,., . • «. • . . encyclopedia; a dictionary of universal knowledge for the people, -<wk on the basis of the latest edition op the german con. tersations lexicon. • illustrated with maps and numerous wood engravings. .-•-. to he puhlished in monthly parts of pages, in neat paper cover, price cents, until the whole is completed; it heing confi- dently expected that the work will he comprised in ahout eighty monthly parts, forming six or seven volumes, similar in appearance to the volumes of "chamhers's information for the people." pakts i. and ii. now beady, price cts. each. • - - - -•- - . •./ •, in accordance with their original project to supply the american puhlic, promptly, conveuiently, and cheaply, with all the recent grunt dictionaries of general knowledge in the language, d. ap- pleton & co. have the satisfaction ^o announce that they will re- produce regularly, and with all its maps and illustrations complete, the new and popular encyclopaedia of the messrs. chamhers, which they will reprint, without alteration, from the loudon and edin- hurgh edition, yet superior, heing on larger and finer paper. this will he the cheapest encyclopaedia ever puhlished, and one of the most comprehensive in its kind; it will he expressly a dic- tionary, in one alphahet, as distinguished on the one hand from a cluster of lengthy treatises, and on the other, from a comhination of dictionaries of special hranches of knowledge. it will, at the same time, he sufficiently full and fresh in the usual hranches of geography, biography, natural history, and the sciences. specimen numhers sent hy mail on receipt of price. d. appleton & co., & broadway, new-york. blackwood's * edinburgh magazine. * -i , *: , no. dxxvi. august, . vol. lxxxvi. lonnon exnitlitions—conflict of tdk schools. the serene heaven of art is rent asunder hy civil war. the walls of london exhihitions are now, as it were, the hattle-field upon which is fought out the amhition and the con- flicting theories of hostile schools. the times in which we live are criti- cal. this present moment would seem, indeed, the turning point whence either promised hopes may meet with true fulfilment, or tbreatening fears lead to still worse disaster. much prohahly, however, will depend upon the praise or the censure which the puhlic voice shall award to the works suhmitted to its verdict. for our- selves, we can fortunately confide in the calm judgment of the educated people of this country, whose final and collective opinion, now at the close of the london season, has heen already sufficiently pronounced. who has not heard the exclamations—we had almost said the execrations—of the eager crowd of curiosity gathered round the gaunt gravediggers of mr. millais? in like mauner, we helieve, such works as the "return from marston moor," hy mr. wallis—" too late," hy mr. windus—and "the king's orchard," hy mr. hughes— have for tbree long months attracted curiosity only to incite disgust or provoke to ridicule. again we re- peat we have full confidence that the vol. lxxxvl verdict of the british puhlic will he pronounced on the side of sohriety, sanity, and the modesty of nature. for a while the multitude may he misled. wild eccentricity—even the unaccustomed strangeness of gross maunerism — may for the moment attract the puhlic gaze, hut in the end we again find devotion centre round the names which have long heen worshipped — admiration again revert to those works of the old trne english school, which admits of pro- gression while it decries revolution, and is now und ever content to walk hnmhly with nature, and suhmit to the teachings of an ancient wisdom. thus, after the sensation of a not uupleasing paroxysm, does the mind again revert to its accustomed haunts —seek grateful repose in the grey stillness of a creswick landscape, or find recruited health in the hreezy spray of a stanfield shore. in com- pany, too, with mr. roherts, we de- light to row on the canals, and visit the palaces of the sea-girt city, now, as in days of old, ere the stoneg of venice had reared their phantom forms, and with mirage vapourings misled the world. the world of na- ture and of human nature is ever new, and yet ever old; and thus the corresponding world of art ever wan- ders into new phases, and then again [aug. london exhihitions—conflict of the schools. reverts to accustomed patlis. we have wandered, indeed, widely and wildly; and now, if we mistake not, the ever-recurring reaction will once again set in. as critics, it now he- comes our duty more carefully to mark the ehh and the flow of the warring; tide, and especially to keep good guard over those great land- marks and heacons which have so long and so well served for guidance and saved from shipwreck. the royal academy for the past season will, in fufure years, he held illustrious for a mediocrity among the multitude, redeemed only hy a startling eccentricity among the few. year hy year we again deplore the ahsence of some of the greatest names. it is now long since sir charles east- lake has adorned the walls of the exhihition hy that tender yet queen- like heauty, caught from the clime of iuly and the art of venice. maclise, for the present year, enters an ap- pearance only hy a small and unim- portant work, "the poet to his wife," —" what a heaven on earth we'd make it! * herhert, engaged on his great commission for the houses of parliament, gives earnest of a coming master-work only in a heartfelt study of" the magdalen." in like mauner, ward, more fully engrossed hy his lahours at westminster, finds time to send to trafalgar square hut one small yet faultless work. frith recruits himself with leisure after his great lahour of "the derhy," and pays hut minor trihute to art and litera- ture in the small yet speaking por- trait of "charles dickens in his study." wehster is wholly ahsent, and mulready is not at his hest; and thus is it that portraits "of a gentle- man," portraits " of a lady "—trihutes to vanity, wealth, and mere position —usurp the place of higher art, and give to the academy more than ever the aspect of a shop. great works douhtless there are, which must fall under our detailed examination, at- testing what our good old english school has heen and still is. mon- strous works, likewise, will call for our special notice plainly hut sadly showing to what excess of i'ollly the new school has fallen—to what dire results false doctrine has hetrayed men once rich in healthful genins. from the academy of oils to the two galleries of water-colours the transi- tion and the contrast is agreeahle. mr. ruskin prohahly, is the only man in england who, on entering these two exhihitions, could venture to assert that "the water-colour so- cieties are in steady descent." he is naturally the only man who desires to see the extravagance of his own special views pushed to a consistent and uniform ahsurdity. on the walls of the academy, year after year, he lovingly dotes over the childish de- tail, the puerile conceits, the distem- pered colour, and the morhid fancy, which, under his fostering oare, have at length reached the utmost limits of endurance. from this merciless persecution of the eye loving tran- quillity and decorum, refuge may still happily he found within the more sheltered retreats of water- colour art. even the french, strange to say, can teach us lessons of mo- deration and propriety. we shall presently ask the reader to step into the small gallery of french art, if only to show that the hest colour is often the most suhdued—that the greatest strength may yet he found in the simplicity of repose—the near- est approach even to the infinity of nature in a suggestive generality and a pervading hreadth. never was there a time when english art was so distracted. every exhihition is as a house divided against itself. the conflict of schools, the civil war of opposing parties tbreaten the em- pire of art with hopeless anarchy. for ourselves, we will not declare peace where there can he no peace. we proclaim a war, we preach exter- mination hy the sword against those enemies of all that is lovely in art, who have rutblessly mutilated the fair form of heauty, and dragged it tbrough the dirt. let us seek, however, if only for a moment, the hlessed repose of peace as we contemplate the works of honoured men sii content to dwell in the sohriety of simple truth. eng- land, a gem of gentlest ray set in an emerald sea, an eden of green fields, and shady paths, and happy homes, has ever given to english art her heritage of the sylvan landscape, her empire of the stormy sea. mr. cres- .] london exhihitions—conflict of the schools. wick in his "coming summer," a river ford, a rnstic wooden hridge, cattle in the cool stream, a village church and farm nestling in the trees, gives us once more that quiet peace- ful nature which lies so near to our hest affections. "under the old bridge," too, a sketcher's and a fish- er's haunt, ivy-grown, tree-emhower- ed, pehhle-strewn, is another example of tluit simple and unadorned truth which puts to shame the gaud and the maunerism of masters eager only for notoriety. mr. t. danhy, like- wise, a name honoured for the father's sake, claims a landscape deservedly hung full upon the line, helonging to the old and the good school, coming in direct descent from the now much- ahused claude lorraine. "hills and dales in wales," a calm retreat, shut out in solitude from the clambur of the crowded world, a scene of un- dulating heights rich in the golden rohes of autumn, placid in the gentle glow of evening sky, trees gracefully symmetrical, slumhering in the twi- light of the sinking sun, casting soft shadows, in which peaceful sheep repose, make together a simple yet heauteous pastoral, which iieaks of the love which dwells in nature. of mr. lee, a name not without honour, we would say little. his "bay of biscay," . large pretentious work, claiming attention chiefly hy its size and prominent position, hus, in its feehle literal handling, in its opaque and leaden colour, nothing in common with the dash and the roar and the glory of an atlantic storm. in his "coast of cornwall" again, we have nature in action and motion, treated hy a painter emphatically without emotion—a fruitless attempt to huild up grandeur out of an in- finity of feehle lahorious detail; one example, among many, of a man who has lost the characteristics helonging to his original mauner under the old school, without gaining as a recom- pense that illusive imitation which is the hoast and the privilege of the new. ' mr. witherington must like- wise he classed among the academi- cians who helong to the past. his pic- ture of " wharfedole," like the works of the last-named painter, shows nature in a certain garh of academic propriety, with all that is uuruly and rough tamed down to the soher lim- its and lines of carefully-halanced landscape-gardening. oue of the greatest evils incident to the present management of the royal academy is the prescriptive right possessed hy every memher, whatever he the merit of his pictures, to the choicest places upon the walls of the exhihition, ex- cluding men and works who rightly claim honour and distinction. we can hoast of no artist more thorougbly english than mr. stan- field—so vigorous in hand, so manly in sentiment, so wedded to ocean life of stormy wave and rocky coast. his picture of the year, "a maltese xehec on the rocks of procida," the island and castle of ischia in the distance, has all the characteristics, of his hetter works. the dashing, foaming sea, the shipwrecked craft driven upon the rocky shore, storm- clouds hurrying across the sky, gulls huffeting against the wind, the castle hanging from the rock, the suow lying upon the distant moun- tain, are elements of the grand and the terrihle, as when nature enacts a tragedy. but the ways of nature are so manifold, the walks of art so diversified, that we place no restric- tive limits, upon suhject, mauner, or treatment. stanfield is admirahle, hut fortunately, after all his lahours, nature is still unexhausted. out of her infinite store come the storm and the calm, the grey of morning, the glow of sunset; each man, according to his vision or his need, takes and appropriates all that ho can; and yet nature, like the infinity of space or the houndless realms of time, lies stdl hetore the artist and the poet, oftering new and exhaustless treasure. thus is it that year after year, on entering our exhihitions, we eagerly seek whether any new and gitted man has opened for us a fresh delight, penetrated more deeply into untold mysteries, caught more of the pathos, the joy, or the sorrow, which dwells in evening skies or autumn glow. a national art, we take it, as a national church, shuuning all sectarian narrowness, must emhrace every aspect of the truth, and each phase of varied intellect. a national art must he hroad as the universe, progressive as science, expansive as [aug. london exhihitions—conflict of the schools. civilisation, varied and manifold as the workings of the human mind. we rejoice, therefore, when from time to time new schools arise, and unaccustomed phenomena tell of some fresh development. if we admire a claude, a poussin, or a salvator rosa of a past age, we would not seek to limit our modern men to those days of com- parative iguorance and inexperience. even in art, we stand upon the shoul- ders of the past, and can now see at least further, if we do not always act hetter. the once narrow sphere of art, at all events, is widened. madon- nas and holy families are no longer the limita of the sacred and the lovely in human nature. the whole field of history, with its nohle deeds of patriotism and valour, all that in man is great or in woman is gentle, may now he hrought within the widened emhrace of modern art. thus that fresh schools should from time to time arise, wo hold to he in- evitahle. that conflict and hattle should ensue, we helieve to he hut the condition of progression. only of this one thing let us he zealous, that in the hattle now raging, truth may not he worsted. we shall have occasion to show that reputations have heen already wrecked, and that the present course of events tbreatens with further dis- aster. yet we helieve it must he admitted hy all candid ohservers, that the new school has heen produc- tive of some henefit. even the pre- sent exhihition, given up to extra- vagant excess, contains some works of comparative moderation, marked hy that truthful, close study of nature, which necessarily hrings commensu- rate reward. the works of the two younetr i.iunells will perhaps he re- ceived as the most favourahle ex- amples of that lahorious detailed study of nature, which now goes strangely under the name of pre- raphaelitism. they offer to the world a result somewhere hetween nature, the pre-raphaclites, and the works of mr. liunell their father. from nature they take their suhject, from the pre-raphaclites an excess of de- tail not actually to he seen; and from their father, a golden lustrous colour. thus do they love to paint the golden "harvest," fields ripe and heavy with the waving corn gathered in hy peasantry, set like lustrous jewels in among the clustering sheaves. different in suhject, hut allied in richness of colour and close- ness of study, are the works of mr. hook, taken from the field or flood. his suhjects or compositions have all the accidents and casual incidents of uupremeditated nature. arural lane in devon, crossed hy a rustic hridge, flooded hy a ruuning stream tbrough which a crazed cart is rattling and jolting,—such are the topics which, hy close study and rich colour, he works up into glowing pastorals. then, again, he takes to ocean, launches from clovelly shore the rude fishing- hoat, rowed hy the strong arm of hardy storm-heaten tars, tbrough the foam of an emerald sea suuned hy rainhows. incidents the most com- mon, and suhjects the most homely, are thus, hy admirahle painting and richest harmony of colour, wrought into poetic ardour and intensity. two other works also claim a passing notice as favourahle illustrations of the close study of nature which gives to the present phase of our eng- lish school its surest promise. mr. knight's "barley harvest on the welsh coast" is certainly among the more praiseworthy works executed under so-called pre-raphaclite in- fluence, careful and truthful tbrough- out; the detail of rock, field, and wave kept duly suhordinate to an unohtrusive general effect. we re- coguise likewise in mr. m'callum's "monarch trees of windsor park," an accuracy and firmness of drawing till recently hut seldom found within the province of landscape art. the study of nature is of course the only sure hasis upon which art can rest, the only certain condition of a healthful progression. yet it will always he a qnestion of some douht and difficulty how the infinitude which is in nature shall he hrought within the limits of a canvass, how the multitudinous detail of leaf and herhage, or the illimitahle vastness of earth and sky, the might of the passing storm, the power of the dash- ing wave, shall he hrought within the inanimate surface of a few square feet or inches. the very difficulty, not to iay the impossihility of the .] london exhihitions—conflict of the schools. task, has proverhially led to a hold compromise and surrender. art has thus in all countries and in all times, under the consciousuess of ahsolute inahility, renounced the pretension to illusive and literal imitation, taking refuge in the grand hreadth of a sweeping shadow, and trusting for the most part to a dexterous or generalised execution for the sug- gestion of an impracticahle detail. this, we say, has heen the uniform theory and practice of art in all ages and countries. bnt now in these latter days has arisen a strange and unheard-of attempt, which claims consideration, on the one hand, hy its conscientious effort, and on the other hy its mischievous, not to say ridiculous, results. mr. brett's "val d'aosta" is the latest and most astonishing attempt made in this di- rection. mr. brett, we may presume, is a pet protege of mr. ruskin. his picture of last year, "the stone- breaker," ohtained in tho notes the special praise due to " the most per- fect piece of painting." "if," says mr. ruskin, "he can paint so lovely a distance from the surrey downs and rail way-traversed vales, what would he not make of the chest- nut groves of the yal d'aosta! i heartily wish him good speed and long exile." accordingly, in the present exhihition, mr. brett as- tounds the world hy mountains and chestnuts taken from this chosen "val d'aosta," a work which the laureate of pre-raphaclite art greets with these words: "yes, here we have it at last—some close coming to it at least—historic landscape, pro- perly so called—landscape-painting with a meaning and a use." "his- toric landscapes" indeed an art of as much diguity as the lahour of the drill-plough, or the plodding of spade hushandry, with its dotting-in of seeds and its digging of furrows. a mosaic of chopped stones, straw, and ruhhle; a woreted-work tapestry of "stitch-stitch-stitch," "work-work- work," "till the heart is sick and the hrain is henumhed, as well as the weary hand." "yes, here we have it at last;" all that is small and in- siguificant, moss-grown, dew-dotted, needle-pointed ; chestnuts growing on the distant trees, which yet you may gather with the outstretched hand, a vineyard lying down the valley- slope, where you may count pole for pole; a man in hlack hreeches and white shirt tilling an arahle fiold at half a mile's distance, dotted in so sharp and near that you are sure he would willingly walk into the fore- ground, and thence out of the pic- ture, did you hut call or heckon. yet after all this heartless drudgery of weary days and nagging months, we would ask mr. brett whether he suc- ceeded in putting in one-tenth of the leaves on every tree, one-twentieth part of the herhege wherewith nature clothes herself without thought or toil. did he not feel himself defeat- ed even on his chosen ground; and that nature, were it not for compas- sion, would have disowned him for her own? but it would appear that the mercy of less faithful man already fails him. with some heartlessuess of cruelty, even mr. ruskin can de- clare that the work is " wholly emo- tionless." his kind patron hid him seek long exile in italy, and then, when returning with his accomplish- ed task, the hard lahour of weary hours and days and weeks, endured under the hurning sun, in the driving rain, or the huffeting wind, at once he is welcomed hy the rehuke, this "is mirror's work, not man's" work. yes, assuredly. how could it have heen otherwise? you sink your artist into a drudge, a mere machine to copy and manufacture. take the work, then, such as it is, and he con- tent. but for mercy's sake say not a word of the artist's soul. that, of course, from the first you have re- solved to sacrifice. in art there are two kinds of lahour, the one of head, the other of hand. you have chosen the small stippling handicraft, the ac- knowledged refuge of mental weak- ness you have contracted for your picture hy the square inch; and com- mencing in the furthest corner, you will find so many thousand or ten thousand dots in the square foot. you must take the work for what it is worth, and only he too thankful that it is not still worse. you have made your choice, and henceforth have nothing in common with the man of passion, who sweeps in the hroad shadow of the passing storm. [aug. london exhihitions—conflict of the schools. you are wide as the world asunder from those giants of large soul and mighty hand, who, like michacl an- gelo, hewed titons from the solid rock; or, like salvator among the tempest-tost apeunines, or tintoret in the vast ceilings of st. roch, tbrew upon canvass with rapid hand the grandeur and dramatic intensity of mountain and rock, sea and sky. train up a school to feeble servility of hand, and these masterstrokes of nature are heyond your reach. the same melancholy tale is told in other works. "the king's or- chard," hy mr. hughes, is ono of the saddest examples of intellect prostrated, and sound common-sense turned to ridicule, which has ever come within our notice. apple-hlos- soms for a landscape, and dolls for the figures, may well convince mr. rnskin that one man at least has rightly understood the purport of his teachings. thanks, we presume, to this manly tuition, the painter has here given us an art hoplessly emas- culate; silks and velvets dolingly dot- ted with purposeless detail; child- hood lifelessly lying on trunk of tree; youth crippled upon knees maunder- ing mawkish music. this is the nohle art which has at length heen secared to our english school; this the fitting exponent of tinsel words and hauhle eloquence—childhood hopelessly childish—impotent in hody to play or to sport, and in mind inci- pient of idiotcy. it is with deep regret that we have to record still another reputation wrecked in devotion to a cause which has this year hetrayed its votaries into even more than accustomed ex- travagance. mr. wallis, honoured as the painter of the " chatterton," has now dishonoured hoth himself and his oause hy the " return from mar- ston moor." this artist, with others of his school, would seem to hold that genins is hest shown in the trans- gres>ion of the limits and the laws which all previous genins had hitherto ohserved. the story and intention of the picture are undouhtedly simple and heartfelt. the return of a worn and wounded knight to home and anxious parents; the eager attitude of the father rising to meet the son's approach; the homeish housewife mother, the model of domestic solici- tude, are sufficient to show what power of expression is within this artist's reach, did he hut soherly follow the simplicity of nature. the imitation of nature which was once the watchwanl of the school, is here seen in colour the most outrageous, and detail ahsolutely impossihle. the hlaze of a sunset sky, red, green, and saffron yellow, the knight's features gory with hlood, or glowing from the heat of hattle; roses and flowers of hrazen face and staring eye, verily hlind the soher vision, and darken and dazzle hy excess of light. in in- finity of detail the work is not less distracting. the father's heard is counted hair for hair; the swallow swooping down with swift flight is yet painted with all the detail of heak, eye, and plumage; pigeons are cooing on the distant dovecot; a harn-door fowl is crowing hetween the stirrup of the rider and the horse's leg, and thus from centre to furthest corner is every inch crowded with incident, till the picture, like a drop of thames water is seen in the oxybydrogen microscope, is am.izing- ly wonderful, hut monstrously dis- agreeahle. there are other works—" too late," for example, hy mr. windus, and "the burgesses of calais"— which might challenge our criticism, did time permit. we must, how- ever, at once hasten to the pictures of mr. millais—the "vale of rest," and "spring"—which, even after the n jtorious "sir isumhras" and his wondrous wooden horse, have taken the world hy a fresh surprise. "the vale of rest" of the present year is undouhtedly a work of power, hut it is the power of repulsion; it attracts attention only to repel sympathy. the crudest green of a grass-grown churchyard; the unmitigated hlack, conflicting with the chalky white of the rmns' attire; the two nuns them- selves, the one inveterate in lahour, the other desperate in ugliness,—con- stitute that high success which is not to he distinguished from the depth of failure. in the churchyard itself is a certain hlack solemnity, in the whole scene a shuddering horror: — the hlack-white dress, the <lirty face of the nun shovelling away the .] london exhihition*—conflict of the schools. murky mould of decayed mortal- ity; the companion nun, seated on tomhstone, with clasped hands and mask-like face, as of a death's-head skull, with large wandering eyes, finding no rest even in this vale of rest; nuns which seem in rohust, rude, massive health and vigour, fitted to win heaven hy physical as- sault,—these certainly are sufficient claims to attract round this astound- ing work crowds of curious gazers, who hasten with eager curiosity, pause in murmuring dismay, linger, and then at length steal away with horrors of memory not to he wiped out. this desperate attempt, which insults good taste and outrages all estahlished usage—which is painted with a rude, coarse, and slovenly haste, as if meant for a desigued re- versal of former careful years of study—retains yet some casual re- miniscence of hetter days. the sapphire of the evening sky, in which a purple cloud silently floats; the darkness of solemn trees, which stand as mourning mutes around the ahode of death; the earnest intent of the grave-digging nun, tbrowing ont the death-laden mould with the earnestness of duty, as the servant who, in george herhert's poem, swept a room to the glory of god,— these are the only remnants of that genins which ohtained recoguition in the painting of "the huguenots" and "the order of release." "spring" is the second work in which mr. millais has condescended to arrest attention hy the ruin of his previous reputation. spring—yes, spring with a vengeance — in the rank growth of orchard grass, in the heavy profusion of apple-hlossoms; spring in the hudding, pouting, flowery youth of eight yornig maid- ens decked with garlands, junketing, standing, kneeling, lying, in every possihle posture of awkward uurest and ill-humoured discontent. we have often heard of truth versus heauty; hut that even heing now a worn-oqt novelty, a new surprise is sought in the overtbrow of hoth truth and heauty conjoined. apple- hlossoms of fourfold their natural size—an execution in which consci- entious lahour seems desiguedly set at naught—are strange protests com- ing from a man who, in his picture of "the huguenots," devoted, it is said, tbree months to the painting of a hrick wall. that avowed despisers of heauty should at length degene- rare into devoted disciples of ugli- ness, is perhaps not so surprising. yet for so hold and so hald an expo- sition of the theory, few prohahly will have found themselves prepared. hair moulded of ruddy sand, lying lank upon the shoulders as dishevel- led rope-ends; features without form or delicacy; lips pontingly pettish, re-produced in eight examples of this remarkahle family, constitute a sis- terhood deliherately dedicated to the ungraceful. with these two desperate works we close our notice of a school which year hy year taxes the puhlic taste to the utmost limits of endurance. starting, some seasons flow gone hy, with all the aspects of a hostile yet united schism from the old esta- hlished faith, we now find at length internal division reiguing within the narrow limits of its communion. on the one hand we have seen certain men still servilely prostrated and hound down to the mere letter and dead detail of a miscalled nature, wholly losing its larger spirit, and forgetful of that greater life and glory which rule within the elements. this is the school of apple-trees and cherry-hlossoms—the mere dotting- in of primroses, hlue-hells, and fore- ground flowers, at the dictation of a critic whose service has at length he- come an insufferahle tbraldom. we protest against a tyrauny which year hy year prostrates the strength of our rising men, and has gone far to hlight the promise of our english school. mr. millais has, however, at last hroken loose from the hinding fetters, hut with a reaction so despe- rate that shipwreck tbreatens on the further shore. in this secession from the honds of the once sacred " hro- therhood," we see still further confu- sion falling on the new school, now left without its leader. for ourselves, in this reiguing discord, we would wish to inculcate the widest tolera- tion. nature, like heaven itself, has room enough and to spare. puhlic taste, too, is so widely various as not only to tolerate hut demand genins [aug. london exhihition*—conflict of the schools. the most various, and art the most diversified. let every school of art, then—every manifestation of honest talent, hoth great and small—live aud prosper. but what we specially re- gret is this — that men, manifestly meant to emhrace the universe, should sell all that is great and nohle within their souls to a petty paltry calling, in which the slowest and the weakest intellects must oh- tain the greatest glory. what we condemn most strongly is, that men ricbly endowed as mr. millais, should, to a mistaken and pretended truth, sacrifice that eartbly, nay, heavenly heauty, which, under the sway of graces and muses, and even under the later revelation of angels, has heen ever the hrightest heritage of art. for some years past, the strength of the english school has heen placed on record, not upon the walls of the royal academy, hut in the corridors, the rohing-rooms, the ante-chamhers, and the royal gallery of the palace at westminster. what the cathe- dral of milan, with its crowd of four thousand statues, has heen to modern italian sculpture, the new palace at westminster, with its sta- tues of statesmen, and its grand frescoes commemorative of great deeds in english history, will he- come to our national school of art, giving that imperial patronage which has ever, tbrough incited patriotism and promised fame, stimulated the artists of all times to their nohlest works. we learn from the reports of the royal commissioners that mr. cope has received orders for eight frescoes in the peers' corridor, and mr. ward a similar commission for the commons corridor. mr. dyoe has already executed in the queen's rohing-room frescoes taken from the legend of king arthur, "the virtues of chivalry," "religion," "courtesy,'' generosity," "mercy," —works which the commissioners have pronounced as " altogether sa- tisfactory, whether regarded in their general treatment, or as examples of the method of fresco-painting." in the last report, too, we find this entry:— "we propose," say the commission- ers, " to commission daniel maclise, r.a., to paint in frescoe one of the suhjects in the royal gallery, at the price of one thousand pounds." from the seventh report we find that the commissioners intend to devote, the peers' rohing-room to scripture history. this hall will comprise tbree large and six smaller compart- ments, two measuring feet hy feet, the third measuring feet, also hy feet; and the six smaller com- partments feet wide hy feet high. "your committee," says the report, "heing desirous to vary the proposed decorations, and conceiving that scripture suhjects, as affording scope for the highest style of desigu, and as heing especially eligihle on other grounds, should hy no means he excluded, considered that the ahove-named looality, in which the principal compartments intended for lwilting are of considerahle magui- tude, would he well adapted for such suhjects. your committee were of opinion that the illustrations should have reference to the idea of justice on earth, and its development in law and judgment, and that the following suhjects would he appro- priate." these suhjects emhrace "moses hringing down the tahles of the law to the israclites," "the fall of man," "his condemnation to lahour," "the judgment of so- lomon," and "the vision of daniel." from the last report we learn that the large cartoon for the first of these suhjects, "moses hringing down the tahles of the law," has heen com- pleted hy mr. herhert, to " the entire satisfaction" of the commissioners. in the magnitude and importance of these projected or already accom- plished works, taxing the energies of our hest artists, the reader will find sufficient explanation of the fact that the royal academy, for this and some previous years, has not reflected the strength of our english school. yet never was there a time of greater promise. a school hitherto of small cahinet limits, suhservient to mere private domestic wants, will now take a wider range. our artists will he enlisted in the cause of our country's glory; they will he called upon worthily to record in painted history those great deeds, those tri- umphs of war, policy, or enterprise, tbrough which now at length, in the .] london exhihitioris—conflict of the schools. progression of the centuries, england finds herself free in constitution, great in commerce and in wealth, rich in all wherewith civilisation can reward. a task more glorious than thus to emhlazon a nation's history and ho- nour in the palace of a people's legis- lation, has never yet incited painter's genins; and henceforth it will he seen whether the school of english art can rise to a diguity commensurate with this duty. but there are pictures fortunately in the present exhihition which give assurance for the future. mr. her- hert's " mary magdalen," a study for a picture of " the holy women pass- ing at dayhreak the place of cruci- fixion," helongs to that earnest and spiritual school from whence arose the religious works of the middle ages. it is the grey of the early morning, and with spices the holy women pass the place of crucifixion —deep sorrow, as of long watching and weeping, is seen in swollen eye and anguish-stricken mouth; yet grief has not marred a heauty which, though shadowed, still shines with spiritual light. the careful and serious work of mr. dyce helongs likewise to the same earnest mauner. "the good shepherd," carrying the lamh in his hosom, enters hy the strait gate into the sheepfold. the sheep follow in his steps, for they know his voice, and are known of him. this work is fitly raised hy a severity of treatment and a spiritu- ality of type ahove the ordinary aspect and incidents of actual life. the rohes are long, flowing, and stately, the head is high and nohle in form, the features are cast in the purest spiritual type. it is an ideal art, arising, like religion itself, from an aspiration of the soul, seeking a perfection not fully realized on earth. of the works executed hy other academicians, more onerously en- gaged, as we have said, elsewhere, we must take some passing notice. mr. maclise, in "the poet to his wife," gives some indication of his accustomed merit and his well-known maunerism. in mr. cope's " cordelia" we are treated to a refined drawing- room picture of hright colours and pleasing forms, where delicate heauty is the type of iunooence, and liquid tearful eyes the token of suffering. mr. ward, too, in his small and care- ful picture, "marie antoinette listen- ing to the act of accusation," recalls the rememhrance of honoured works, and shows the full vigour of well- known powers. of other men it is scarcely necessary that we should speak, just hecause nothing new re- mains to he added to long-reiterated commendation. stanfield, roherts, and landseer are among the esta- hlished institutions of the english con- stitution, and we could only desire, were it possihle, that their essentially british art could last as long as british liherties. of course mr. stanfield is still master of the sea, fearing no foreigu invasion; mr. roherts still rows his gondola at venice, as if no hostile fleet lay he- yond the lido; and sir edwin paints deer and dogs, knowing that no talk of war can lessen the love for eng- lish sport. when to this we add that the sheep and cattle of mr. cooper still repose under the shade of trees or in the glow of sunset; that mr. frank stone, ever young in pereunial love, still indulges in the soft sickli- ness of a lacbrymose sentiment; that at least one painter has again induced milton to do accustomed duty in dic- tating poems to wife and daughters, with all the variety of which the suh- ject is now susceptihle;—when to all this we assigu even more than usual space to portraiture—heauties at hal- conies, statesmen at columns, ladies with vases of flowers hacked hy hack- nied hackground of ponderous cur- tains, we have prohahly said quite sufficient to enahle the reader to place himself in the midst of an exhi- hition hy no means remarkahle for unaccustomed merit. yet we are doing some injustice to an academy which, with all its short- comings, must still he accepted as the great event of the current year. the names of creswick, stanfield, roherts, and landseer, of ward, maclise, cope, herhert, and dyce, have al- ready heen mentioned. others yet remain who have this year appar- ently made some effort to surpass themselves. mr. pickersgill exhihits two works of more than usual amhi- tion, and more than ordinary success. in the present material, literal, and [ang. london exhihitions—conflict of the sehoou, purely naturalistic aspect of our eng- lish school, when every head must he an actual portrait, and every ohject he marked hy the literal fidelity of a photograph, it is almost inevitahle that the more ideal and imaginative efforts of mr. pickers;:ill should meet with some disparage- ment. his "warrior poets of the south contending in song," whatever he its defects, is certainly one of the most deliherate and successful of pro- testa against the existing tendencies of our schools. we hold it to he no reproaoh that the rich, sumptuous co- louring of venice,the sensitive and vo- luptuous heauty of giorgione, the de- cameron pienics of a poetic romance, should find some sympathetic re- sponse in the genins of england. we can admire the painstaking plodding of a simple art dedicated to a cottage peasantry, hut imagina- tion also loves to revel in glowing phantoms of an ideal heauty, fair maidens, luscious in the first hlush of glowing youth, decked in the lustrous glitter of richest rohes, heads gently tmjuding to the sweet sound of song, hands sensitive to the dying cadence, and soft to the touch of amorous love. this picture, then, though somewhat conventional, helongs to a pleasing poetic style, leading the fancy from the actual walks of daily life faraway into the fahled land of song. some- what allied in school is mr. watt's "isahella," a refined poetic head—a sufficiently close nature study ele- vated to an ideal heauty. mr. doh- son's "archers of judah," likewise, though not one of his hest works, is still commendahle as helonging to that careful school, not unmindful of italian heauty and tradition, which seeks for an elevation ahove the ways of common life. mr. goodall, too, is this year specially great, if not in the mauner of italian art, at least with the advantage of a well-chosen italian suhject. "felice ballarin reciting tasso to the people of chioggia" has heen deservedly one of the chosen favourites of the present season. felice ballarin, with raised hand and with somewhat of italian fervour, recites to eager listeners those echoes which byron tells us in venice are no more. there is unity of purpose, yet every variety of character, in the gathered audience. the colouring is rich, as of a suhdued lustre lighted up hy the sparkle of sunshine. with all the picturesque advantages of italian costume, the quickness and intensity of italian character, some heads eagerly drinking in every thought, others gaping in stupid wonder, this work, without actually rising to the highest rank, has yet deservedly ohtained the attention due to a telling suhject skilfully treated. the two southern penin- sulas have long heen hoth the hattle and the sketching ground of europe. whenever politicians need a griev- ance, or painters a suhject, they have long heen accustomed to go either to italy or to spain, where they at once find just what they want. thus mr. phillip takes us once again to the land of flirting fans and witching eyes, and in his somewhat trivial and purpose- less picture, "the hnff," treats us with two houncing hlack-eyed span- ish heauties, sumptuously decked in silk, and flowered shawl of wondrous fringe and fahric we only regret that perhaps the hest hit of painting on the walls of the academy should take for its suhject trivialities of dress ranking with the flounced flutter of parisian fashion. but suhjects pretending to a higher purpose have not always the advan- tage of painting and treatment equal- ly dexterous. mr. egg's "night hefore naschy" is a hrown leathery moonlight wholly unconscious of the silvery sentiment—a cromwell on his knees asking god, as we natur- ally supposed, to save him from his friends, including the present paint- er. our english art loves to dwell on the picturesque accidents and circumstances of religion, instead of reaching to its inward spirituality or essence. in this it differs wholly from the great religious school of italy. it paints covenanters on scottish moor, pilgrim fathers on the distant western shore, tbrowing in the shadowing sorrow of exile, driven from a loved home, rather than the hrightening light of a new spiritual life. mr. facd's "sunday in the backwoods" is a most favour- ahle example of this homeish senti- ment hallowed into " practical piety" —a kind of wilkio school of art .] london exhihitions—conflict of the schools. haptised into a sort of camp-meeting religion, painted in a plain honest way, heartfelt and earnest, with a practical scottish eye looking lovingly on the life which now is, while it provides wisely for a life which is to come. in english art the state naturally goes hand-in-hand with re- ligion, and thus trial hy jury has long heen part and parcel of the constitu- tional faith and pictorial resources of the british people. mr. solomon's well-known picture of a past year, '" waiting for the verdict," now finds its final issue in the companion work "not guilty." this picture, sufficiently vigorous and telling, share:', however, the proverhial fate attendant on the continuation of a once-told story. the mind wrought into the tbreatening fear of a tragic doom, the plot once marshalled for effect, each repeated echo palls upon the ear, and what ought to end in climax necessarily falls into an expiring decadence. the same fate has likewise hefallen mr. o'xeil's "home again," the companion picture to the "eastward ho!" of the last season. the faces and the figures which a year ago clam- hered up the side of the out- hound ship, are here seen streaming down upon their return. the tears ehed over the lost mingle with the rapture of the welcome home. the painting is vigorous, yet hoth in spectator and artist is wanting that ardour which first inspiration gives. in art, moreover, a creature of the imagination, the fear and the hope of an untold future are more potent than the prescrihed limits of a known result. we have as yet made no mention of a man over whose gentle memory the grave has now cast its shadow. mr. leslie's pictures of the present year, "hotspur and lady percy," and "jeanie deans and queen caro- line," showed somewhat painfully the growing weakness of waning powers. he had already reached his sixty- fourth year, and declining health had cast the pallor of a sicklied hue and the feehleness of a faltering hand over his later works. fortunately, hoth in the vernon gallery and at south kensineton, in such pictures as "my uncle tohy and the widow wad- man." "sancho panza." "le bour- geois gentilhomme," with other well- known suhjects, the nation possesses works whose immortality lies heyond the touch of sickness or of death. for refined sentiment pointed hy quiet satire; for gentle comedy where the loud laugh seldom enters; for polite polished mauners of studied stately propriety, hetraying yet some pardonahle weakness quietly to he enjoyed all alone hy spectators not whispering a word—for these delicate suhtleties of art the name of leslie will he long rememhered. let it he rememhered, too, that in thus de- scending to amuse hy comedy, he could yet improve mankind in purity and sentiment. on entering the french exhihi- tion, we come upon a fresh nation- ality, and are at once specially struck with the sohriety, and we may say propriety, of colour and effect. the french exhihition, as contrasted with our own royal academy, affords repose for the eye, calm neutrality of colour, softness of outline merg- ing into the haze of ohseure dis- tance, with, at the same time, a total ahsence of the millais school of gravediggers, and mr. ruskin's missal-painters of cherry-hlossoms. french art, however, of course em- hraces the usual diversity of suh- ject and of mauner, corresponding with the ever-varying aspects of individual character and taste. the naturalistic school, for example, is strong in such works as prion's "raft upon the rhine," and mr. knaus's "bavarian policeman ar- raiguing a camp of gypsies." on the other hand, the school of a re- fined and ideal spiritualism will he at least rememhered, if now no longer seen, in the works of ary scheffer, an honoured name lost during the past year from the ranks of french and european art. high art is re- presented hy m. charles louis mul- ler in a picture taken from the tragic fate of marie antoinette, an artist still hetter known in paris as the painter of the grand historic picture in the luxemhourg, "the summons of victims in the reigu of terror," and yet more recently, hy the execu- tion of a fresco ceiling in the state apartments of the louvre, oommemo- [aug. london exhihition*—conflict of the schools. rative of the dawn and development of civilisation under the reigu of charlemague and the dynasty of napoleon. couture, too, sends a small copy of one of the greatest pictures executed in modern times, "the romans of the decadence," so remarkahle for its drawing, composi- tion, supreme knowledge, and skilful treatment, in all of which the french school is avowedly uurivalled. in light elegant suhjects of the toilet and the drawing-room, often the mere ex- cuse for silks, satins, and high finish, chavet's " chess-players," and plas- san's "bouquet," attain perhaps, in that department, all that can pos- sihly he desired. the domestic hum- hle walks of simple poverty caunot, of course, he confided to hetter hands than edward frere, whose "cut finger," and "evening prayer," are prohahly now as well known in eng- land as in france. in landscape nature, lamhinet, an accepted eng- lish favourite, is equally rustic, uupre- tending, and simple. and lastly leys, a namo likewise honoured in the arts, takes us, in his " early days of the reformation," far hack into the quaint heartfelt times of van eyck and alhert durer. thus do we see that french art is a world complete within itself, comprising every aspect of thought sacred or secular—a world of conflict and of hattle hetween opposing schools, all growing up and nurtured together as tares and wheat in one great field, the evil warring against the good, and all, it may he, working together for some great end. we have recently spent some hours in the examination of the well- nigh four thousand works hy living artists this year exhihited in paris. some, after the traditions of the french school, are monstrous in mere maguitude; many to the last degree extravagant—a failing common to french genins; others, of course, without genins altogether; and, taken for all in all, the present medio- crity of french art under the second empire contrasts with those days of liherty, eloquence, and expansive genins, when guizot, cousin, ville- main, and others, lad the van of philo- sophy and literature, and delaroche, scheffer, ingres, with other men now no longer hefore the puhlic, gave to the french school of art a supremacy over europe. yet we must confess that we never enter an exhihition of french works, even now in their com- parative decadence,without heing con- scious of a vigour, hreadth, and clever versatility, which seem specially the gift of that nation. it may he said generally that the french succeed in everything they attempt horace vernet and yvon paint pictures from thirty to sixty feet long, while meis- sonior, plassan, and chavet, concen- trate their more detailed genins on the high finish of a few square inches. even the small hut select exhihition in pall-mail may tenoh our english school many an unaccustomed les- son. strange as it may seem, we may learn even simplicity from these consummate masters of artifice. how simple and unohtrusive are the hum- hle works of edward frere, how suh- dued and tender with the delicate greys and dusky hues in which pov- erty and the cottage home are fit- tingly clad. lamhinet, again, who has heen claimed as a french pre- raphaclite—what gentle repose, what heartfelt healing to the eye, in the simple modest nature, in the retiring hashfulness of shadowy greys, which, in his small landscape pictures, seem to uphraid our modern english school of skies as of a consuming firma- ment, and figures as if caught from the furnace of aheduego. then we pass from unconscious simplicity to works of an affectation peculiarly french, somewhat hetween the art- less and the artful; nature waver- ing inconstantly from a semi-nude simplicity of toilet, to the full- flounced fashion of the drawing- room. anon in ever-varying mood, seized hy a fresh caprice, forsaking epicurean elegance, a desperate plunge is made into the wilderness of rude untamed nature. in brion's "raft upon the rhine," for example, we descend to the level of a lower nature—men vigorous in arm, and rough in garh, contending against the elements—a work handled with a certain slap and dash, marked hy hroad yet pointed character, with all that reckless effrontery of genins which our more staid english pro- priety seldom permits. .] london. exhihitions—conflict of the schools. the french again, unlike our eng- lish school, are not afraid of a low- toned picture. leys' "scene from the siege of antwerp" is shadowed hy the deep solemnity of a remhrandt mauner. brion's picture is dusky in the ohscure grey of morning. knaus's "gipsy encampment" is sheltered under the shade of trees, veiled from the piercing eye of day, as if darkness kindly shielded deeds which dare not face the light. and, lastly, rosa bonheur's small hut exquisite work, "sheep" hleating upon the sedgy heath, is luminous in suhdued light, toned down to the modest sohriety of • nature. "early days of the reforma- tion," hy leys, in many respects the memorahle work of the present season, may likewise teach a lesson, and serve as a contrast to many mas- ters in our english school. it is a solemn low-toned picture, of shadowed dusky colour, somewhat hard and austere, purposely taking the specta- tor hack to the art of alhert durer and the garh and the times of the german reformation. wiesseling, the carpenter of antwerp, is ex- pounding the scriptures to eager listeners come together hy stealth. every countenance is marked hy conscientious earnest truth-seeking; an expression which is indeed car- ried tbroughout the picture hy the artist's careful and truthful execu- tion. it is, indeed, hoth in art- treatment and in suhject, a work of cbristian humility. we stand in the midst of good, unselfish, unostenta- tious people, simply clad in modest colours, as if they thought little of the outward adorning of the hody, steadfastly seeking to know the truth, and henceforth to conform their lives according to its teachings. what a contrast in the humhle suhordination of this work to the ostentatious and flagrant excess of our english pre-raphaclite pictures, where every colour strives to kill and hlind its' neighhour; where every detail, instead of hashfully retiring into shadow, protrudes its small con- ceit. we have found, then, that french art is marked hy moods and mauners which, to our english eyes, at once pronounce the houndaries of a foreigu school. of its thorough and well-grounded instruction there can he no question. in drawing it is matcbless, even in its rough careless- ness showing unwonted power. in action it has the facile movement of a people ever restless for adventure. even in its proverhial ahandon it ohserves at least the laws imposed hy artistic effect. only in one thing does it sin most grievously. it pos- sesses no conscience, knows no pro- priety, and too often seeks from satan a demon inspiration. water-colour art may he considered as a school standing apart from all others. to french art it constitutes, hoth in material and treatment, a marked contrast even after our english school of oils, as represented at the royal academy, the two gal- leries of water-colour drawings aiford a quiet grateful retreat, where the eye may rest from the persecution of fiery colour, where good taste is no longer insulted hy ungainly forms, hut reposes in the satisfied enjoy- ment of nature-loving heauty. at the present moment especially it is fortunate that in water-colours it is not easy to he so decidedly disagree- ahle as in oils. broad liquid washes reduce to pleasing unity and well- toned harmony; the frequently too ohtrusive detail of modern oil-paint- ing is foreigu to a medinm of trans- parent colour chiefly relying on har- mony and purity of tone and hreadth of general effect. thus, while the confines of disgust are narrowed, the power to please and to minister to refined and delicate delight is with- out limitation. gigantic size of sur- face, colossal proportion of human figure, are not suited to the material; and just as the highest walks are closed hoth to amhition and extra- vagance, is the painter induced to rely on the refinements and delica- cies of his art, content to he simple and heautiful and tranquil, to look upon nature as a poem of tuneful cadence, musical and harmonious— a song to the affections. of the new society it is perhaps not necessary that we should say much. we can only hope that our readers are so well acquainted with its merits as not to need our detailed description. in the eye of criticism the gallery is perhaps chiefly remark- ahle for the somewhat too amhitious [aug london exhihitions—conflict of the schools. painting of suhjects which the paint- ers themselves have never seen. mr. warren, for example, delights in twi- light dreams among the pyramids, which he has never visited. mr. rowhotham, again, is ever and unon in imagination crossing the alps to paint the heauties of italy, which yet he lias never seen with hodily eye. in like mauner mr. corhonld rejoices in his gorgeous "dream of fair women,'' an impossihle ideal which not even his imagination has actually seized—figures standing in an inde- finite somewhere hetween the region of phantom ghosts, and the dummies of lay-figures stuffed with sawdust and shavings, all stippled up to that last excess of finish in which intellect finds itself aunihilated. douhtless these works have all a merit which will fairly secure them from ohliviou; hut they helong to the style of a false ideal, which, in the present conflict of the schools, must cither take a timely retreat into naturalism, or save itself hy soaring into that true and high ideal which demands hoth closer study and wider generalisation. the new society of water-colours is, however, redeemed from the stigma of the vaguely visionary hy such works as those exhihited hy messrs. beunett, cook, and ^varreu junior. the oaks, ferns, and forests of mr. beunett, pure and transparent, free from all intrusion of opaque, have long heen known to all frequenters of this exhihition. mr. warren junior, taking up a somewhat differ- ent line, is so minute and detailed that his studied trees have heen taken for copied photographs. his opaque colour is laid on m thick suh- stance; and thus what he gains in detail he loses in quality and tone. his works, however, which are suffi- ciently wunderlul, merit all the suc- cess which they have so fortunately found. the ever-lovely drawings of mr. cook now urge additional claim upon our notice; they oome hefore us as his final leave-taking of the world from which death has now suatched him. it is only a few years since first he came hefore the london puhlic, and at once claimed a favour- ahle notice hy the exquisite tone aud glow, the refined sentiment and poetry, for which his works have always heen conspicuous. in the present exhihition his douhle ren- dering of the same suhject under the contrasted aspect of "the close of day" and "summer morning"—the one glowing in golden sunset, the other grey in the early mist—have all the tenderness and tone which can well he won from the spirit that dwells in nature. the gallery of the old water- colour society, notwithstanding mr. ruskin's pronounced doom of "steady descent," is, wo think, admitted hy general consent to have heen the most satisfactory exhihition of the year. it is remarkahle for the union of those merits which we have al- ready desiguated as helonging to water-colour art, as well as for that individual diversity which helongs to men who enter upon the study of nature with hold independence. on looking round the room, for example, we caunot discover that turner, or prout, or copley fielding has left hehind a school of deliherate imita- tors. even cox, so recently lost from the ranks of art, has no one to take his vacant place; and mr. hunt in his "bird's nest and primroses," aud his "pine-apple and grapes," stands almost alone. this manly in- dependence—more or less to he found among all the exhihitors in this gallery—does not, we think, hetray any lurking taint of untimely deca- dence. it is, indeed, perhaps the chiefest fault of this almost perfect gallery that the majority of the men, without either descent or marked progression, are still doing from year to year just what they have always done hefore. mr. topham is soft, shadowy, aud refined, giving us ex- actly so much of spanish nationality as is agreeahle to english tastes. mr. frederick tayler is still among scottish mountains, lakes, and glens, wrapping his genins in highland mists and claunish tartan. mr. cox still, to the latest moment of his life, washed and hlotted and spla>hed in greys, grandly hut vaguely. mr. gas- tinoau soars amhitiously among the tumult of sky and mountain. mr. harding, with firmer hand and more purposed knowledge, tbrows alps into distance, and torrent houldeis into foreground, composing grandly .] london exhihitions—conflict of the sehool*. with all the ingenious contrivance of a consummate workman. and, lastly, mr. richardson at sorrento, in the hay of hlue seas and lateen sails, and convent summits, is ever pereunial in the suuny poetry of the south. the picture of highest intent is mr. burton's "widow of woblm," kneeling upon church floor, prayer- hook in hand, the little daughter of childlike iunocence and heauty hy her side. the mauner is evidently closelj' founded upon the early flem- ish school of van eyck. the draw- ing of the head and hands, the cast of the drapery, the whole attitude and purpose, indicate severe and care- ful study. though small, there is not another picture of the year which can assert stronger claim to the high diguity of art. then for suhtle har- mony of colour, turn to that work of exquisite delicacy and refinement, "the pet," hy mr. alfred fripp. how daintily do mother and child and goat trip along the mountain path; how the hlue of distant sky and mountain, the golden autumn hrown of heath-strewn ferns, find a harmo- nious response in rustic peasant, so that mountain, sky, heath, and figures are all hlended into harmoni- ous concert of delicate and delicious colour. among the few works which we can stop to mention, mr. duncan's "life-boat" must not he forgotten. it is a scene of that clash and crash of elements wherein life and death are contending for mastery—the wreck heaten upon distant shore hy wave and wind—the life-hoat on the nearer sands dragged seaward to the rescue. no man has studied with greater care the inconstant curves of the stormy sea, dancing and dashing with mad delight, rushing and roar- ing upon rock and shore in waves which holdly charge in with fury, and then steal away in fear. from scenes of ocean let us pass to moun- tain masses, solid and resistless, as painted hy mr. newton. for the minute anatomy and articulation of mountain ranges, the inward skeleton of rock protruding tbrough the cloth- ing verdure of heath and herhage, these studies have never heen sur- passed. his "first approach of winter" on the hills of inverness, with their covering of light suow hlowing in the wind, dust-like against the sky—so thin that it lies as fila- gree tracery hetween the rihs of the dark rock—has deservedly heen re- garded as a marvel of close nature- study this is perhaps the hest ex- ample of the detailed truth inau- gurated under the new school,—a detail here fortunately made suhor- dinate to general grandeur of effect. the drawings of mr. william turner of oxford, on the contrary—a name which, merely as a name, seems to secure at once mr. ruskin's inordi- nate oommendation—these drawings of mr. turner, hy no means an inhe- ritor of the greater turner's genins, degenerate year hy year into that utter feehleness of hand, that child- ish detail of finish which recently have hecome the more certain meaus of securing the master's praise. of the collected works of david cox we had thus written :—" here is one of tho veterans of art, helong- ing already almost to the past, ar- rived at that period of life when great men review their lahours, and hegin to write down autohiographies. this exhihition may indeed he re- garded as almost hiographical, the works here put on record heing some- thing hetween thoughts written and deeds enacted, the illustrated sum- mary of a long life of loving lahour." we had written thus much in our note-hook when the news came that david cox had died, after an illness of a few days, at his residence near birmingham, at the age of seventy- six. his latest work indeed, at the old water-colour exhihition of the present year, is as the expir- ing tumult of a passion strong even in death. a torrent of resistless roar tumhles tbrough rocks ahrupt, from the rude mountain and the mossy wild. hero, denying himself the allurement of sunshine or of colour, he is content to he grandly grey, revelling in the hell of waters, reducing nature to second chaos. we all know this master's large hroad sweep of a full hrush, held in a loose hand, which of late years has failed to define forms, recording only light and shade in its plays across the landscape, or the shadowy cloud as it floats in the liquid sky. in the [aug. london exhihitiont—conflict of the schools. exhihition, however, of his collected works, we find that the drawings of his hetter period were sufficiently dis- tinct and definite in the statement of forms and facts. in the "vale of clywd" we come upon wheat-sheaves and gleaners, and harvest-cart, and round massive trees, leading however at length into that wide distant field of the unknown, in which even landscape art is at length lost in un- explored infinity. here we have great effects produced apparently hy slight means, vast things shadowed forth dimly, which we see hut in part, needing, if we may say so, even here in art the eye of faith. in this utter- ance more seems intended than is actually told. looking at the stilly greys, we seem as it were to he list- ening to low whispers. the far dis- tance slumhers, and is all hut lost in far-off sky; upon the nearer mountain- side trees dream in uncertain light; and then, as we draw still nearer to foreground life, there is as it were a morning awakening, falling again fit- fully into sleep, and losing itself in deeper shadow, till at length we reach the foreground, and find the day fully awakened, hoys actually gathering hlackherries in the hedges, and 'flocks of sheep and herds of cattle driven to pasture. never was the power and resource of modest grey so deeply and so tonchingly felt. it is like the voice, gentle and low, which finds its way where the loud shout or the glaring colour caunot enter. the ear and the eye alike hang on the modulations of low tones; the faltering voice and the timid hand tremhle in emotion till we feel the melting touch of nature. the loss of a man like this, who walked so humhly and felt so deeply, must long he mourned, for it is a loss which can never he restored. the conflict of sohools, of which we have incidentally spoken, may prove a hattle either of death, or to more healthful life—of death, if men sink still lower into feehleness, fall still more hopelessly into second childhood, fighting in foolishness ahout the little ways and trifling in- cidents of infancy, or falling into last delirinm, uttering things to shame sohriety of reason. but we hope hetter things of that common-sense which proverhially rules the genins of our people. even while denounc- ing the ahsurdity which has found its way to the walls of our exhihi- tions, we felt at least this consola- tion, that the extravagance had at length grown to such monstrous pro- portions as almost to preclude its fu- ture repetition. on the other hand, we have rejoiced to recoguise in many directions a growing fidelity to nature, which promises to our eng- lish art a true and legitimate career. the present conflict, indeed, of our english schools may he hut the life and the vigour which on all sides, not only in art hut in science, and every hranch of progressive know- ledge, seek for a free and a wide de- velopment. the hattle of which we speak may he in fact hut the contest of active minds fighting over the wide territory of unappropriated truth, each seeking, according to its amhition and its wants, a dominion it may call its own. thus, so long as the comhat is that of genins fight- ing for the field of nature, the result, we think, must end in victory for art. many extravagancies will of course in the mean time he committed, and many a reputation lost; hut nature in the end will assert her rights, and genins at the last ohtain her sway; and so in this conflict of opposing forces an art shall he moulded upon the pressure of the times. let us hope that the royal academy has in the present year seen its worst, that a truce has heen sigued to extrava- gance; that so the simple heauty which is in nature, and the soher strength which is in man, may he won for our country's art. .] the lueh of ladysmede.—part vi. the luck of lanysmene. ciiapteb xit.—sib nicholas wooing. fubiocsly driving the spurs into his horse, lo hardi galloped hack towards ladysmede. not so well mounted, hat of lighter weight, the gascon squire contrived not to he loft far hehind. those who could have looked into the face of the knight would have seen there a storm of contending passions which were striving to find some imperfect vent or relief in the impetuous speed with which he dashed on over the hroken ground. when within a mile or two of the manor, he reined in to a walk the gallant harh, panting in every vein, hut yet chafing at the restraint, and waited until duhois, whose steed, of meaner hlood, came heaving and floundering on hy the help of good spurs and judicious handling, was near enough to hear his master's voice. "duhois!" said he, turning sharp- ly round on his saddle. the esquire rode up to his side. "did you make inquiry as i hid you?" "i did, sir knight; i could learn nothing." "did you mark the chaplain hy the wood-side as we left yon tower ahout a mile?" certainly, duhois had marked him; there were few things within the scope of keen eyes and ready oh- servation which he did not mark. "did it seem to you as though he sought to avoid heing seen?" the very same thought, it ap- peared, had struck the esquire. "had he heen at willan's hope think you ?" asked sir nicolas. "xay, that i caunot tell," replied duhois; " do not hear that he is known there." "'tis s, strange fancy, duhois," rejoined his master, " hut that man's face seems to me always as one that i have looked on oftentimes hefore; yet never, to my knowledge, did i meet with him until lately here at ladysmede." "these foreigu priests, sir nicho- las, wander from end to end of cbristendom; it may he like enough vol. lxxxvl that you have met with him hefore, especially since he calls himself italian." "where did sir godfrey make acquaintance with him?" asked the knight again. "that, again, is more than i can learn," replied duhois; "hut he was with him in france, and had charge of the hoy there." "the hoy i" replied his master, starting as from some other suhject of thought—" he is with the ahhot of rivelshy, you say; keep your own counsel in that matter for the pre- sent." duhois howed and dropped hack to his usual distance in the rear. the knight spurred on again towards ladysmede, and had no sooner ar- rived there than he at once sought his host sir godfrey. the latter was prepared to welcome his return with something of his usual coarse pleasantry, when the clouded hrow and uupleasant smile which the cru- sader wore at his entrance checked the familiar words upon his lips; and it was le hardi who spoke first. "the first siring of our how has suapped short, do burgh," were his words. ho laughed as he spoke, hut not merrily. "how now?" said his companion; "what has gone wrong?" "in good faith," said sir nicholas, "that passes my understanding; hut what i mean is this; yon fair cousin of yours likes me not—will have none of me." and he laughed again. "what folly is this, le hardi?" returned the other, starting up; "you speak as if you were some foolish hoy, to he discouraged hy a girl's capricious fancy. i dare swear she likes you well enough, hut for a little maiden hackwardness, it may he; or have you heen over-hasty with her? for she has a flash of the temper of our house ahout her, if it he roused." "never fear," said the crusader, with a gesturo of something near contempt; "i have scarce offended her diguity hy any over-presumption; [aug. the luck of ladytmede.—part vi. but i say she will have none of me; there is no mistaking the lady's mind, though the reason i pretend not to have discovered; nor, indeed, do i much care to seek it. "tush " said de burgh, cooly; "all will go right in time." "i tell yon, no!" returned the other, with an impatient movement —not, at least, in the way you mean." "you aro surely somewhat faint- hearted, to hold the hattle lost thus early in the day," said sir godfrey in a tone of hanter, though with some uneasiness in his look; "lost, indeed, it shall hardly he, as you well know, with suoh stout friends to hack you; hut i had fancied, if i read your spirit aright, that in these lists you would have chosen rather to fight for your own hand." sir nicholas turned and walked a few steps to the other side of the apartment. when he looked round in his companion's face, it was with an expression of countenance which showed how little he was inclined to reciprocate his host's attempts at raillery. "i shall hold you to our compact, de burgh," said he siguificantly. "now, hy the rood," said the other, his hrow darkening in turn—"have i given any token of flinching from it?—all that one man may do for another in such a matter, i have done for you; and if i did not straight siguify to my fair ward that it was his majesty's good plea- sure—and mine—that she shall wed with yon, it was at your own request that i forhore, if it will please you to rememher so much. take good heart, friend—if i may presume to say so to a champion of your pre- tensions—lands and lady shall he yours as sure as the sun shines in heaven. or, at the worst, if the mistress fail you, i pledge you my honour the lands shall not; and as for the love—that, i take it, you know how to find elsewhere." "mark me, sir godfrey," said the other in a low determined voice, "i will have hoth!" "you shall, man, yon shall, rest assured of it. what! our lovely ward is hardly made of the stuff that grows kindly in the cloister; i am little skilled in wooing, it is true— curse me if i could find patience to sue an hour for any woman's favour, were she paragon of womankind!— hut this comes of making too much of them; your high-flown courtesy and compliment makes a wench think, forsooth, that she may play fast and loose with a lover as she pleases. if i have to woo for you, sir nicholas, i shall hegin in some- what different fashion." "i douht sbrewdly whether your fashion is like to have much more success than mine, in this case," re- plied the crusader with a contemp- tuous smile; "hut if you he an ear- nest in the husiness (as i am, mark you) there is one form of wooing— somewhat hold and impetuous, per- haps, hut that will hardly seem a fault in your eyes—which i have known to he successful even under more difficult circumstances." "speak your meaning out," said sir godfrey, "if yon would have me understand." "send for the lady gladice here to ladysmede: your chaplain, fa- ther giacomo, hath enough of the church's virtue ahout him, i chari- tahly presume, to do his office in such wise that no man may gainsay it; and when priest and hridegroom aro ready, and we have his majesty's good pleasure and her guardian's con- sent to plead, it should go hard with us if maiden scruples stood long in our way." sir godfrey hardly responded to this proposal in the spirit in which it was made. there was unusual hesi- tation and emharrassment in his man- ner, as with a weak and forced at- tempt at the loud laugh which served him in the stead of argument upon most occasions, he took up his friend's last words. "maiden scruples! hy the virgin, if it he as you say, we have some- thing more than maiden scruples to deal with here; we have a woman's will—a somewhat different matter, trust me!" "the more need of hrief and for- cihle argument," replied le hardi. there was no sympathy with his companion's laugh, either in look or tone. "i thought," said the knight of .] the luck of ladytmede.—part {vi. r^ lp»»im' r ladysmede, "that you were one of those who would have no woman's love upon compulsion; hut look you here—let me deal with my good kinswoman, dame elfhild, concern- ing this question, which requires more delicate handling than mine; she has a cordial liking for this match, i promise yon, and with her help all shall go well yet." "deal with whom you will, and as yon will," returned sir nicholas, "my wooing is over; hut listen to me, de burgh: this girl and her lands might have gone their way for me—it was you that pnt me on the venture, and i have done my part as a good knight should, and in such fashion as you yourself thought hest; hut heing put to it, i have no mind to cry craven as a haffled suitor, nor yet to play the slave to her dainty caprices. had she fallen ripe into my mouth—as you seemed to expect—i do not know whether i should have had the good taste to appreciate such a piece of fortune as it deserved: hut as it has chanced, this newly-discovered scorn of hers —for scorn it is and nothing less— hecomes her so mightily, that in this mood, and no other, it is my plea- sure to wed her, and i will. if you repent of your promise, you are scarce the man i knew in days past—you will determine that as it may seem hest to yourself; i will he true to my purpose, i warn you; and may chance to make it good, even though friend as well as mistress play me false." the taunt awoke the fierce hlood of sir godfrey, as his companion prohahly intended it should. "false to my plighted word!" he exclaimed passionately—" have you even dared to think it? unsay the slander, or hy my knighthood! yon shall answer it." "what now!" said the crusader, with a slight careless laugh, though his eye moved a little restlessly as he met the glance from under sir godfrey's knitted hrow—" what did i say? tush, we know each other hetter than to quarrel for a foolish girl; i have your word, as you say, —none knows its worth hetter—and you have mine. only—since in truth time presses with me—let me take my own course now with your fair ward; i promise yon it will end as we hoth desire; help me so far as you may, and i will not tax your friendly offices for anything despe- rate. play the indulgent guardian to the last, if you will: i will risk all the pains and perils that await the too ardent lover." easily roused, sir godfrey was as easily appeased hy the altered tone of his less impetuous companion. even hefore his passion had time to cool, he rememhered that it hardly suited his own views to fasten a quarrel upon his guest. "what is it you would have me do?" he asked, rougbly. "merely that you should request of your fair kinswomen to hestow their company upon you here, on any seemly pretext you may choose; giving them to understand at the same time—for i have a persuasion it would he needful—that i have completed my husiness here, and returned to my good lord the king —which, however, i trust not to do until fleave a fair hride to weep for my compelled ahsence." there was an easy smile on the knight's counte- nance as he spoke, as if he felt an honest and natural satisfaction in the contemplation. "and what is the rest of your plan?" asked sir godfrey, with a douhtful look. he was hut a clumsy deviser of stratagems himself, and had little confidence in the success of others. "that is all i ask of you; leave the rest in my hands. as to this italian priest—gold will hny of him such slight service as i shall need; will it not, think you?" he was watching de burgh's face curiously, though he passed his hand over his eyes, and asked in a care- less tone. "i can say little as to that," re- plied sir godfrey with hesitation; "i am not sure that his idols are of gold or silver, though that wor- ship is common to his craft. nor is he, i fancy, a poor man—though that makes little difference." "well—i think, perhaps, i can deal with him," said le hardi, thoughtfully—"i speak his language passahly, as perhaps you know. at i [aug. the luck of ladysmede.—part vi. any rate, so please you to do your part in the matter, and trust mo not to fail in mine." sir godfrey siguified his assent, and confirmed it hy an oath more hlasphemous than usual, he seemed to require some such strong assevera- tion to satisfy his own mind that he was in earnest. then he rose from his seat, and stepping to a huffet on which a flagon of strong wine stood ready to his hand, he poured out and handed a cup to his companion, and then filled another for himself, more than to the hrim, for the liquor ran over on the floor. with another oath, he drained it in great gidps, as if with its contents he was swallow- ing his conscience. selfish and un- calculating, he had resolved upon his end, with little thought ahout the means hy which it was to he attained, and it was only now that he was hegiuning fully to realise to his own mind what these might he. brutal as his character had hecome in many respects, from the uurestrained in- dulgence of his worst passions, there was enough still left of the- rough animal kindness of his nature to make him hesitate at inflicting, in cold hlood, outrage and wrong upon one who had never injured him. unahle to appreciate the higher qualities of woman in his ward, he could still admire her heauty and spirit, and discovered that there was a feeling towards her lurking in his heart which scarcely deserved the name of affection, hut which he him- self tried hard, under present circum- stances, to repudiate as a weakness. he had contemplated her acquies- cence in a marriage with sir nicholas, he now felt, rather too sanguinely. in one point only he had heen right; that the mauners and hearing of the crusader, his polished address and stores of conversation, his fame as a soldier of the cross and his favour with the king, were likely to present to gladice's eyes a favourahle contrast with the two or tbree younger suitors who had hitherto aspired to her smiles, and, as sir godfrey had heard, had reaped little hut contempt. he thought that he was hut giving her credit for ordinary good sense, in assuming that she would prefer he- coming the hride of such a man to the entomhing herself in the cloister; and he saw neither cruelty nor hard- ship, and the world (not that its opinions were much valued at ladys- mede) would surely have seen none, when he intended to leave her no other choice. even now, as he set the empty heaker down, he was try- ing to persnade himself that all would yet go well—that he was really con- sulting his ward's interests as well as his own, even though he should seem at first sight to he using somewhat strong compulsion. still, the un- pleasant truth forced itself upon his mind, that in acceding to his com- panion's last suggestion, he was do- ing that at which even his rude sense of honour recoiled as hase and un- worthy. for sir nicholas, the sup- posed ardour of his passion might excuse the lover; hut for himself, even his own conscience, not over sensi- tive, had already suggested the name of traitor. there was consideration given, how- ever, on the part of sir nicholas, in the silent hond hetween them, which was too precious in the eyes of his accomplice to allow him to recede; and in the conversation which followed hetween them, all was speedily arranged for the recep- tion of gladice and her aunt at the manor. the lure treacherously held out to insure a ready acceptance on the younger lady's part of her guardian's proposal that they should he his guests for a few days, was simple and well-devised. the lord hishop of ely, who, it has heen already said, was gladice's distant kinsman, and had shown some kindly interest in her in the earlier days of her orphanhood, was known to he now on his progress as legate of the holy see, in great state accord- ing to his wont, and to he daily expected in his own diocese of ely. owing to this family counection, he was not unknown to sir godfrey de burgh; and nothing was more pro- hahle than that, when he made his formal visitation of the ahhey of st mary at rivelshy, he might turn aside hy the way to accept the ready hospitalities of ladysmede. the repute of sir godfrey's mauner of life there, if it had reached his ears, was indeed scarcely such as .] the luck of ladysmede.—part vi. should have encouraged the visit of any dignitary of holy church, unless, indeed, he were so zealous a prelate as to emhrace such an opportunity to rehuke a host of evil life at his own tahle; which, had sir godfrey heen the ohject of it, might have heen more likely to have added a martyr to the church than a penitent. but the realm had no such prelate in william longchamp. jovial in his humour, and maguificently prodigal in his hahits, he was little likely to utter an anathema at a feast, unless it was evoked hy the quality of the viands; and so long as the entertain- ment was to his mind, would have wasted no scruples on the morals of his entertainer. the ohjection which the churchman might really have found to the sojourn which had heen au s imagined for him at ladys- mede, would have heen the in- sufficiency, of its accommodation to receive the numerous retinue of fol- lowers of all ranks and descriptions, who ministered either to his pomp or his pleasures, and made his visits more like the progress of a so- vereigu prince than an apostolical mission. their plans having heen so far set- tled, it remained only to put them at once into execution; and sir godfrey, having fortified himself with another draught from the flagon, sent to sum- mon raoul to his presence to he the hearer of his message, early on the following morning, to the tower of willan's hope. "were it well, think you," said the crusader, when the serving-man had gone in searcli of the young esquire, "to trust that hoy on such a husi- iwsr "i have none that i may trust hetter," replied de burgh, ahruptly; "my knaves are wont usually to do my hidding." he was in no pleasant temper with himself or his companion; and if he felt that there was some force in the pi wader's hint, he was possihly for that very reason the less inclined to adopt it. he hnd submitted to dicta- tion quite sufficiently within the last half-hour. ■ there is some precaution to he naed, rememher," continued le hardi in as indifferent a tone as he coald assume—for he understood tho other's humour; "would not gundred, your chamherlain, have served hetter at this time?" "• gundred i might trust well enough, for that matter; hut i hardly choose to use him in my errands to ladies of such pretensions. there is no risk of any suspicion in such a simple thing; or if there were, the sight of his face at willan's hope would go far to raise it. raoul is young, hut he is honest." "is he the surer messenger for that?" asked sir nicholas ;'hut he saw his companion's ohstinacy, and spoke in so low a tone, that sir god- frey appeared not to hear the ques- tion. the other played with his sword, and was silent until the young esquire made his appearance. his master gave him his charge in a few hrief words, for he knew that the youth himself had wit enough to translate the invitation liherally into courteous language. when he had finished his instructions, and raoul, having duteously siguified his perfect compression of them, was ahout to withdraw, sir godfrey, looking at the crusader, and speaking as if from an after-thought, with a clumsy attempt at a careless tone which hetrayed em- harrassment even to his young fol- lower's uupractised ear, added as he turned away— "you will let it he understood at willan's hope that sir nicholas parts from us to-morrow; wo have prayed him in vain to tarry until my lord of ely's arrival. it is so, i fear ?"—he turned an appealing look towards his guest, which raoul followed with his eyes. "it must ho so," said le hardi; "my husiness in other parts will hrook no delay." "be sure that you make this un- derstood, in the discharging of your message," continued the knight of ladysmede; "there are especial rea- sons why i would havo tho lady elf- hild know it." raonl's open hoyish face might have expressed some sort of puzzled douht and surprise, for he was fully aware of the arrangements made for their visiting the ahhot of rivelshy with all due state on the morrow, and had heard that very day from h [aug. the luck of ladysmede.—part vi. duhois, that sir nicholas' departure would not take place until the week following: this sudden change of plan awoke at once in his mind a strange and undefined suspicion; but it consisted neither with his duty nor inclination to trouhle himself more than he could help with his master's secrets; he had nothing to do hat to how his acquiescence, and to quit the chamher. "the lad will do his errand well enough, you see," said sir godfrey, with a short laugh which expressed his own relief from some misgiving— "hetter than if he had heen over- cautioned, or over-trusted." "prohahly; i trust he will, for his sake and for ours," replied le hardi, who had marked the uneasy look upon the young esquire's counte- nance. at the foot of the great stoue stairs raoul met the italian. there had sprung up of late something of a more friendly intercourse hetween the two than any other of the household was inolined to venture upon with the chaplain. raoul at least did not seem to share the scarcely concealed dislike and dread with which he was so generally regarded; and the sar- donic smile and cutting tone which commonly seasoned his communica- tions with others, were softened into almost a playful jest when he en- countered the fearless smile of the gay young esquire. raoul would have passed him hy now without more than a silent recoguition; hut even the slight cloud on that open hrow attracted at once the chaplain's oh- servant eye. he turned, and passed some hrief light raillery upon it, in something like the gentle voice he had heen wont to use to ginlio. and though raoul, not now disposed for conversation, would have gone on his way with a careless answer, the italian, who knew that he had just come from sir godfrey's presenoe, impelled either hy curiosity or hy some stronger motive, prooeeded to ques- tion him upon the suhject. "sir nicholas quit ladysmede, to- morrow, say you?" he asked in a tone of surprise, after listening with fixed attention to the details of the interview, for raoul saw no reason for concealment—"your ears have surely played you false?" "nay, that may hardly he," re- plied the esquire—" for i had special charge to make it known at tvillan's hope." "ha!" said giacomo, while his keen eyes left the youth's face, and seemed to search into the wall heyond him. "tell me, young friend—for i saw duhois talking with yon, and youth is ever carious in such mat- ters—how did sir nicholas speed in his wooing to-day?" "i know not, nor care," answered raoul shortly. "i think peradventure i could tell," replied the italian. then chang- ing his tone, and laying his hand on the youth's shoulder with a familiar gesture most unlike his usual hearing —"say. raoul, would'st rather do the lady gladice a kindness or a mischief? answer me truly." raoul started and reddened at the ahruptness of the question, hut he answered with hoyish vehmence, as he drew hack a step from his com- panion,—" why ask me suoh a ques- tion, father? the veriest churl even in our graceless company migh give you an answer; he dare not call himself man who would harm her hy a care- less word; he is no true gentleman who would grudge his life to do her service." "gallantly spoken!" said the priest; "so youth speaks always, hefore the rust and canker and hat- tering wear of life eats into the hright metal that rings so loud and true." the smile with which he looked into the hoy's glowing face had no trace of mockery or hitterness. "if my lips were made for hlessing, i would pray heaven to grant you to die young " "i shall scarcely make hold to ask your prayers, father, if they go to that tune," said raoul, trying to rally, under cover of a light word, from a confused consciousuess of his enthu- siasm. but the chaplain's present mood was earnest. laying his hand again upon the young esquire's shoulder —" if you would match fair words with fair deeds." said he, "you will hear your lord's message to willan's .] the luck of ladytmede.—part vi. hope, so far as it is a truthful one, hut without coupling with it that which he knows, and i know, to he a falsehood. sir nicholas leaves not so suddenly; he waits to urge here, under her guardian's roof, a suit which he already knows to he distaste- ful to the lady gladice." "how!" exclaimed raoul his first vague suspicion strengthening rapidly as he listened to the chaplain. "would you have me helieve that sir godfrey is seeking to palm a falsehood upon her?" "i say not what sir godfrey seeks; i only warn you that the message which you hear, so far as it touches sir nicholas, is a false one; that much at least i know of a certainty. as to the ohject of it, it is true i do hut guess. you or any other may judge whether or no i guess truly." perhaps hecause the interpretation confirmed his own misgivings—per- haps hecause there was an emphasis of truth in his companion's tone— perhaps hecause the young act rather n-om feeling than calculation, raoul never douhted the good faith of father giacomo for a moment. all the evil stories which he had heard of him were of no weight against his own instinctive conviction that he spoke and meant honestly now. after a moment's thought he turned short round, and hefore the chaplain could have checked him, even had he understood his intention, tan up the stairs, and presented himself again in sir godfrey's chamher. the knight had warmed himself with wine, and was in hetter humour now with himself and those ahout him; and though he stared with some surprise at raoul on his hasty reap- pearance, he greeted him with a hluff graciousness. "what seek you here again, most trusty squire?" he demanded; "now, prithee, do not let me count thee one of those uuprofitahle messengers that need to have their tale told them tbrice at the very least hefore start- ing, and then hring the half of it home again undelivered." "i am here to say, sir godfrey, that i pray to he excused doing this errand,'' raoul hegan, agitated and out of hreath, with the flush com- ing and going in his face—"i will ride for you night and day, as i am hound to do, in any other matter; hut indeed—indeed—so please you to put some one else on this service—i may not do it." "what?" exclaimed sir godfrey, when the hoy paused, too much as- tonished to interrupt him sooner— "what!" it was hut a simple word, hut the voice and glance gave it a fearful emphasis. "i caunot do it, sir godfrey," said the esquire again, pale as ashes, hat in a firmer tone. the knights face grew purple with rage; he rose from his seat, stepped one great stride to where the hoy stood, and struck him in the faoe with the hack of his open hand so fiercely, that he fell staggering hack against the wall of the apartment, and the hlood gushed in a stream from his mouth and nose. sir godfrey watched him until he had recovered his footing, and seemed inclined to repeat the hlow. half- stuuned, and reeling from its effects —for many a stalwart man hod gone down hefore that hack-handed stroke of sir godfrey's—raoul spat the hlood from his mouth, and felt for the hilt of the short sword at his girdle. the knight of ladysmede was un- armed, for he had laid his own weapon on the tahle where he had sat. rut le hardi saw the hoy's movement, and springing up, placed himself hetween them, just in time to prevent him from making a mad spring upon his master. "out of my path, sir nicholas," said his host, "if you would not anger me past my patience i this gentle youth seeks further correction, it seems, and he shall have his fill of it. stand from hetween us, i say!" rut the crusader maintained his position, though he seemed to feel it to he no very pleasant one. cursing raoul for a young fool, while he held him hack with one arm not without difficulty, he expostulated at the same time with de burgh on the unseemliness of such a quarrel. his words might have had hut little effect, when at that moment duhois entered the chamher so opportunely, that although he hegan to address [aug. t ie luck of ladysmcde.—part vi. himself to sir nicholas with some ordinary message, it seemed prohahle that the loud and angry voice of de burgh had heen heard helow, and that the esquire had anticipated some quarrel hetween that knight and his master. "here, duhois!" cried sir nicho- las, gladly availing' himself of his appearance; "take this mad hoy out of his lord's presence; there will he hloodshed else." raoul struggled indiguantly in the gascon's grasp, and had half-drawn his weapon; hut duhois was too strong for him. twisting the hoy's arms hehind him until he writhed with the pain, and a suhdued cry escaped him, he dragged him towards the door, while the crusader still in- terposed his own person hetween sir godfrey and the ohject of his vio- lence. "let him he punished, de burgh, as he right well deserves; hut this violence is needless—nay worse than needless," he continued, in a lower tone, as the gascon, finding that raoul still gave him some trouhle in forcing him tbrough the narrow door- way, shouted to some of those in the hall helow for assistance. de burgh contented himself with exploding the rest of his fury in im- precations, while two or tbree of his serving-men ran up from helow ; and raoul, the first storm of his hoyish passion over, desisted from his useless struggles, and stood a prisoner in panting and indiguant silence. "what shall they do with him, sir godfrey ?" asked the crusader, anxi- ous, as it seemed, to put an end as speedily as possihle to this scene of undiguified violence; "he is mad o' the sudden, methinks." "bind him hand and foot, and lodge him safe in the falcon tower. this pretty youth has heen too daint- ly fed here, and the hot young hlood grows malapert upon us: a little cooler diet—or, indeed, some two or tbree days' wholesdrne fasting—is sound leecheraft for such disorders. body of me i hut he was marvellous ready with the steel. he comes of a strain much akin to mine own in that respect." "there was mischief enough in him," said le hardi. "i thought he would have struck at me, when i haulked him." "i could almost wish yon had not," replied his friend, his angry features relaxing into a grim smile ; "i would have risked a few ounces of hlood to have seen his spring. 'tis as well as it is, though; for my eye and hand are hardly what they once were." "i do not commonly choose to see a man stahhed hefore my face," said sir nicholas; "hut since you profess an especial fancy for it, will hardly spoil sport for the future." "nay, nay, sir champion; i am hehoven to you in my most gracious thanks; and so is the youth too, mayhe, for that matter. but what, in the fiend's name put him upon such a wild fancy as to cavil at my orders?" "you had hest learn that from himself, when his hlood has had time to cool; hetter still, perhaps, if you had waited to make that inquiry at the first. there is surely something in this which it were well for us to know hefore we move further." sir godfrey made an impatient movement; hut he was conscious that it was not the first time that his own violent temper had disconcerted his plans. "enough for the present," he said. "i am hot, sir nicholas; let us forth and taste the evening air." ohapteb xv.—the guest-hall. if a stranger had entered the lofty guest-hall of rivelshy ahout an hour after noon on the following day, ho would have seen around him nothing that hetokened the shifts of a failing exchequer. a prudent economy was not one of ahhot martin's qualifica- tions for government. spending hut little upon his own simple needs or pleasures, he was maguificent in all that concerned the hospitalities of his station, the scripture rule which en- joins upon the overseers of holy church to he careful to entertain strangers, was one which he conformed to cor- dially—rather, we must fear, 'in ac- .] the luck of ladysmede.—part vi. cordance with his own liheral nature, than in consequence of any conscien- tious study of the apostolic injunc- tion. it had heen enforced upon liim. indeed, at his consecration as ahhot; hut it required an acuter ear for church latin than the new-made diguitary possessed, to follow, with any comprehension of its meaning, a long service in that language, chanted in a low nasal tone—for the prior was a very indifferent performer; and as to having ever seen it in its original context, posterity will not judge too hardly of the excellent ahhot, who had exchanged the sword for the hreviary so late in life, if it he hon- estly confessed on his hehalf that his personal acquaintance with the sacred writings was mainly confined to the psalter and the gospels. let us hope he might have heen as good a christian as if he had read—or even written—a whole treasure-house of scriptural controversy, and yet have the spirit of a little child. to- nohle to make any pretence to a wealth which he did not possess, he was also too proud to measure his hospitality—as he wisely might have done—hy his resources. rich and poor, in hygone days, had ever heen wont to talk of the hountiful cheer of rivelshy. heaven knows whether they who maintained it there sought, for their reward in so doing, the praise of men; if they did, they scarcely found it. already the in- quiring secular mind had hegun to ask, was this indeed the religions life ?—were these the followers of the fishermen of galilee? and those who went full-fed from their nohle hanquets, hut were never present at their fasts and vigils, denounced their entertainers with oaths as "glutton- ous men and wine-hihhers," and in- ted that revelling and drunken- ness were amongst the rules of the oloistct. nay, even from among themselves men had already gone forth, hy a natural reaction, who in- terpreted in its holdost sense the other side of the great commandment, and loudly professed that the riches of the inomvtic houses were in them- selves a snare of the evil one, and that the only true religion was poverty. and though young wolfert should live to a hundred and com- press the results of whole days and nights of study into his "malleus canonicorum" - the hammer was never to he forged that should crush the schism in tho religious household. to-day, of all others, the ahhot was determined that nothing should he lacking to maintain his state on something like its old scale of mag- nificence. not to such guests as le hard! and de burgh would he he- tray the harreuness of an impoverished house. not if it should cost him the last free manor of his ahhacy, and he himself—as he once of late en- tertained the idea—should take up scrip and staff for the holy city, nnd leave the revenues of his office at nurse under the administration of the prior. guests of such rank as those who were to-day expected, fell to the share of the superior to enter- tain out of his private purse, and were hy no means to he a hurden or a detriment—so the rule of their house was worded—to the revenues of the general hody. so that al- though gervase the kitchener raised his eyes and sbrugged his shoulders with a professional horror of such extravagance (as it must needs seem to one who well knew the ahhot's emharrassments), and even ventured a respectful word or two as to tho cost, ho could go no further in the way of remonstrance in a case where he was not responsihle, and which concerned the ahhot alone. natha- nacl of camhridge—who travelled with a single lean israclitish follower on a mule which the ahhot's horse- hoy swore it was a disgrace to hold, yet was said to have wealth enough to hny up rivelshy, monks and all, if they had heen purchasahle com- modities—had returned homo that morning attended as he came hy two armed retainers of the monas- tery, an escort which he always claimed on such occasions (charging thus the expenses of the transaction, like modern money-lenders, upon his clients). that useful hut much- ahused man had carried hack with liim in his capacious hags, hesides store of the convent's valuahles un- der which his ill-fed sumpter-mule winced and groaned, certain small slips of parchment which added little [aug. the luck of ladysmede.—part vi. to the hulk of his acquisitions, hut which lie hoarded nevertheless very carefully in his strong chest at home, for the ahhot's siguature thereto was money's worth, as he well knew; they had heen the result of a long private interview on the previous evening. he left hehind him, it is true, some heavy hags of good eng- lish silver coin, and a sprinkling of the gold pieces of france and italy; hut to name the exorhitant interest which was demanded and freely pro- mised for such accommodation, de- spite the excellent securities ahove mentioned, would ho only to stimu- late the evil cupidity of gentlemen of his profession at the present day—or to hreak their hearts with envy at the then state of the money-market. such a reckless contempt of cost, such an utter iguoring of the state of his exchequer, did the ahhot mani- fest on this occasion, that gervase and the chamherlain when they con- sulted together in carrying out their superior's lavish orders, would have come to the conclusion (there heing neither share-markets nor joint-stock hanks in existence) that ahhot mar- tin was either demented, or had lighted upon a huried treasure; hut the vision of nathanacl and his parchments had only just parsed from hefore their eyes, and with pious resiguation they accepted the chastisement which heaven had sent them, in giving them a ruler whose extravagance would soon complete the ruin which ahhot aldred's weak nepotism had hegun; for although the common accounts were kept dis- tinct from those of the ahhacy, all felt themselves nearly concerned in the difficulties and disgrace which might he the result of their superior's pri- vate involvements, and which could not fail to recoil in some way upon the diguity and the fortunes of the house itself. nay, the chamherlain—a dis- tant kinsman of the departed ahhot, who, if that excellent relative had lived another year, would have had his turn for some of the higher ap- pointments whieh his merits deserved —went so far as to draw a com- parison hetween the two wasteful stewards to the disadvantage of ahhot martin. "our dear departed father," said he, " was an easy man ahout leases, it must he confessed, but it was all in favour of his own kith and kin; whereas this present lord ahhot has little kindness even for an old follower —there is the angevin, who was with him, they say, tbrough all the wars— and what has ho done for him? sends him a mess from his tahle once a month, it may he; while he opens his purso-strings wide enough to fe ist such hawks and vultures, as i may well call them, as those who prey upon us in the king's name." "there ho little to choose," replied gervase gloomily. not having any counection himself with the late ahhot, he did not see the force of the argument so clearly. "i never heard that this ahhot acknowledged kin of any degree with any man or woman," continued the chamherlain, returning to the attack; "yet it is said, and may well he he- lieved, that he is of knightly family. who is this child he hath hrought here among us, thinkest thou, hrother? it was a question which had often heen secretly discussed among the hretbren of st. mary's; hut it was put rather ahruptly at this moment. gervase turned off and wisely re- plied, " i never concern myself with other men's matters, having trouhle enough with my own ;" and so went his ways to the kitchen. hovering ahout the kitchen en- trance—a locality which he much affected, though against all rule—he found the suh-prior. gervase eyed his plump face, which wore a more heaming smile than usual, with no great cordiality, and was passing on to his duties; for hrother simon's conversation was of that kind which to a preoccupied companion is rather irritating than improving. "busy this morning, excellent hrother gervase?" said simon, whose rank in the house gave him some little right to speak patronis- ingly, which ho was iunocently prone to take advantage of. "i ana always husy, reverend suh-prior," returned gervase, shortly hut punctiliously. "i would i were," sighed hrother simon. it was a point on which the kitchener felt unusually inclined to agree with him; hut as an answer .] the luck of ladytmede.—part vi. to that effect would scarcely have sounded respectful, he made none. "twelve of us are hidden to the ahhot's tahle to-day," resumed the suh-prior cheerfully. "i hear there shall he great doings." "there will he no lack of guests," said gervase. "who are invited, then, hesides the knights from ladysmede? we are scarce as much in the ahhot's con- fidence in such things as we might reasonahly he." "there is the old knight of ravens- wood and his two sons, sir john de la mere, the prior of cottesford and some tbree or four of his house, young foliot of the leys, and two or tbree hesides." "and there is to he a caritai of pork and hydromel for all the hreth- ren in the refectory," said tho suh- prior; "i may say this much for our ahhot, let who will say nay; he does not care to feast himself, and let others fast the while." "ay—we grow jovial under our trouhles; we should all live royally, i take it, if his majesty would only he pleased to exact a loan from us ahout once a-week. i have not had so much motley in hand since i have heen kitchener." and escaping during a yawn of hrother simon's, gervase went his way. the kitchener had heen furnished hy the ahhot with ready inoiuy wherewith to lay in all such supplies as might hefit a hanquet of more than ordinary splendour; and a few small gratuities judiciously distri- huted amongst the teunnts of the ahhey estates (for gervase was as honestly careful of the ahhot's money as if it had heen his own), had hrought in, during the early hours of morning, samples of fowl and fish of a very superior quality to those which had drawn forth his unfavourahle criticisms on the previous afternoon; and soon, deep in consultation with cooks and confectioners, he forgot his indiguation at the ahhot's lavish orders in his zeal to do his own office with credit to the house. if the outlay must needs he made, at least, he thought, there should not he the uupardonahle extravagance commit- ted of paying dear for an indifferent dinner. so the tahles were duly spread in the guest-hall, and hahited in his apparel of state, with the principal officers of his house grouped around him, ahhot martin sat in his high chair in the chapter-house, awaiting the introduction of his nohle guests. on few men did the external digui- ties of his office sit so gracefully and so well. his powerful and well huilt frame had all a soldier's upright and fearless hearing, while his open kind- ly face, if it hore a few traces of the thoughtful student or the mortified recluse, had something of the loving paternal expression which well sug- gested the ideal of such a relation- ship towards the community over which he presided. the first of the invited guests who was presented to him was waryn foliot, in a richer dress than he was wont to affect, hut such as hecame tho diguity of his host no less than the rank of the wearer. there was a low murmur of approving criticism amongst the at- tendants who lined the doorway ond the lower part of the room, when, after the first glance, they recoguized under the rich velvet mantle the young student who was so well known and loved as the present re- presentative of his house; and he did not suffer in their estimation, hecause a flush of natural modesty passed over his features as he walked alone up the room to where the ahhot sat awaiting him. "welcome now as ever, waryn," said the superior, as ho rose to greet him; "hut you are a rare guest amongst us: the cloister is dull enough, it may he granted, for young spirits like yours: yet, for your father's sake, i would that wo met oftener." "i take shame to myself, father, that it should he my fault of late; hut you know that i have much to do since my return from paris." "yon shall have my pardon for tho past, if i may take your pledge for amendment in the future," said the ahhot, laying his hand on foliot's shoulder with a kindly smile; "and my old friend sir marmaduke, and young sir alwyne? they were well, i trust, when you had news of them last?" "the knight who is sojourning at (aug. tfie luck of ladysmede.—part vi. ladysmede gave me a good report of them," replied waryn; "hut tidings from over sea, good lord ahhot, come slow and seldom." the prior of cottesford and his hretbren were now aunounced, and the ahhot rose and walked half-way down the chapter-house, as a cour- tesy due to the churchman, who was almost of equal diguity with himself, greeting him with a punctilious de- ference, which the prior as carefully returned, and which might perhaps have led a sbrewd ohserver to sus- pect that there lay underneath no very sound foundation of good-will hetween them. the rest of the guests were al- ready assemhled, when sir godfrey's trumpet was heard in the quadrangle of the ahhey. ahhot martin received the two knights with more stately formality than he had thought fit to use towards the others. seated in his chair of state—no mark of disre- spect, hut merely the usual privilege of a mitred ahhot, which in this par- ticular case he did not chose to forego—-he welcomed sir godfrey with a frank yet diguified courtesy, and the crusader with every mark of high consideration which was due to the king's messenger and the cham- pion of the cross. the sum demanded on hehalf of king richard had al- ready heen despatched to sir nicholas at ladysmede hy trusty hands that morning; and the ahhot had added to it, as of his own free gift, a costly ring, of which he prayed ids majesty's acceptance, and which, if converted into money on an emergency, might have added nearly a third to the contrihution of rivelshy. after the first compliments had passed, sir nicholas wxuld have proceeded to make some acknowledgement of tho ahhot's liherality; hut the church- man waved the suhject aside with a few quiet words. "we have given of our poverty," said he, "not of our ahundance; hut you wdl say for us to king richard, that he is welcome." and motioning the knight to follow him. he led the way to the hanquet- ing-hnll. the good cheer of rivelshy lost none of its old repute amongst those who were seated with tho lord ahhot at the high tahle on the dais. scarce- ly less costly, and certainly not less hountiful, was the entertainment provided for tho esquires and pages who sat helow, and where andrew tho sacrist, who had volunteered to preside there, proved in himself a mine of good company. at first the guests at this lower tahle tried to preserve something of a respectful quiet in their tone and demeanour, such as might heseem the scene of the entertainment, and tho presence of their temporal and spiritual supe- riors; hut soon the good liquor did its usual office in loosening men's tongues, and tho merriment rose higiier and higher, uurestrained hy any thought of place or presence. it was at its highest when duhois rose and quited the tahle uuperceived. he paused a few moments on the steps of the guest-hall, until he was joined hy two serving-men who might have heen seen for some half hour past lounging carelessly in the neighhourhood; and then led the way, sis one to whom the locality was well known, to the foot of the turret - stair which communicated with tho ahhot's chamher. motion- ing to tho men to wait helow, he himself ascended with a quiet and confident step, without causing the least alarm or suspicion in the minds of one or two ancient monks who, for want of hetter occupation, were lazily watching his movements. as ho had expected, he found the outer door unsecured, and holdly entered tho apartment. it was empty. he passed into the smaller chamher oc- cupied hy tho chaplains, hut hoth were with their superior in the guest-hall. he noticed hy the side of the ahhot's couch a little pallet which had no douht heen occupied hy ginlio, hut it was evident that the child was not there. dis- appointed in his first ohject, tho gascon descended again, and holdly accosting one of the monks whom he had ohserved in the cloister, with such a quiet deferential air as to make his question appear tho most natural proceeding in the world, he asked him " where he might find the little lad ginlio, for that the lord ahhot had a guest who desired to see him?" the monk, who was a very stolid .] the lueh of ladysmede.—part vi. specimen of his fraternity, shook his head to intimate his iguorance and in- difference upon that and all other worldly suhjects, and vouchsafed no further answer. the esquire was not easily to he haffled hy monk or layman. "will it please you to show me the way to the lord ahhot's stahles?" he asked. the benedictine pointed to a gate- way opposite to where they stood, hut still preserved a conscientious silence. following this direction, duhois found his way without difficulty into the stahle-yard. nothing could he more natural than that a careful esquire should see that his master's horsehoys were not hanging ahout the ahhey huttery upon such an hos- pitahle occasion, instead of husying themselves in their proper duties; though few hesides duhois would have cared to quit that jovial com- pany as early as he had done on such a service. sir nicholas's grooms, however, had evidently not heen seduced from their post; for the esquire found them all in the stalls with their respective charges, and the steeds gave every token of having heen fed and tended care- fully. what might seem more strange, some five or six, including duhois' own, stood ready saddled, and their attendants sprang to their heads as soon as the gascon mado his appearance. he raised his hand warningly. "no need yet," he said. he turned from the door of the huilding where the train from ladys- mede had found their quarters, and cast what seemed a careless glance round the ample court. a man moved forwards from an opposite doorway, and scarcely appearing to notice the esquire, walked slowly towards the centre of the court. but some token of intelligence had passed hetween them; for duhois moving out to join him with an in- different air, and addressing him with some trifling question while ho was still within earshot of the others, had no sooner reached a spot where they could speak without heing over- heard, than the two conversed for a few moments in low hut earnest tones. duhois returned to the stahle with the same deliherate step. then might have heen remarked a slight impatient movement of his hands, hut his saturnine features seldom hetray- ed any change of emotion. "you may unsaddle again, hu- hert," said he quietly, " we shall not he moving yet; i will commend ye to the cellarer for honest men that have heen at their work whilst others were drinking—he will see that ye lose little therehy." leaving the stahle-court, and dis- missing the other serving-men who were waiting his orders, the gascon walked hack to the guest-hall where the company were still seated. he resumed his place among them, while all were too well engaged to question who went or came; and if he had missed any part of his share of the drinking, he took care that the loss should he repaired. nor was he slow in contrihuting to the talk that wont round; and soon two or tbree sections of the noisy audi- ence whom each determined story- teller was trying to claim to himself transferred their willing attention to duhois, as he narrated with much quiet art and some emhellishment the feats of christian and paynim in the holy land. the superior had risen from tahle, and was conversing with foliot apart; the serious husiness of the evening was over, for ahhot martin was not a man to encourage or permit, so far as he could exercise control over his guests, any rude dehauch within his walls, though sir godfrey and the old knight of ravenswood still lin- gered over their cups, and swore at each other confidentially; lute and reheck sounded tbrough the vaulted chamher, and the guests were walking or discoursing in groups of two or tbree; the sacrist, having condescend- ed long enough to play his part as host, which he had done to admira- tion, at the humhler tahle, had joined his hretbren on the dais, and was re- paying, in very superior coinage, one or two of the younger knights who, like ill-conditioned youth in all ages, had heen hantering some of the graver churchmen to their own in- tense satisfaction; when duhois took the opportunity to catch the eye of his master, and the two withdrew [aug. the luck of ladysmede.—part vi. together into the recess of one of the side-windows, and conversed apart. "the hird is flown again, sir ni- cholas," said his esquire. "whither?" "i caunot learn that," replied du- hois; "hut i have heen rightly in- formed thus far; he was here so late as yesternight." "pest on it,'" said the crusader; "your caution must have heen at fault somewhere, duhois; this churchman hids fair to outwit us all; can you he . sure, think you, that your informant is not hent upon playing a douhle game, and earning wages from hoth sides?" "i think not, replied the esquire quietly; "he seems to me to he deal- ing honestly enough." "honestly?"' said le hardi with a sueer—" well—there are many in- terpretations to that text. but you can surely learn something further in the matter, unless your southern wits have grown rusty upon our coarse english fare." "english fare is good enough," replied the gascon, "though, saving your worshipful presence, their wits are none of the keenest. i shall speedily learn more, if you will please to give me time." "time is too dear for a gift, du- hois—take as little of it as may suffice for your purpose. sir godfrey knows nothing of this?" "not from any word of mine, sir nicholas; i reckon that the lord ahhot's hidding him here to-day hath stilled any suspicion he might have had of his harhouring the hoy. gun- dred has heen forth making inquiry in other quarters, if i guess right; and it seems to me that sir godfrey does not care to have it generally known that he is over-anxious ahout the child's recovery. i heard him jesting with the chaplain, a day or two since, as if it were more the priest's husiness than his." "think of it as if it were so, du- hois, and so speak, if you speak at all. but it were worth much to me—and to you—if we had him once in safe hands—i mean in our own—over sea, for example, do you need money? for these things are ill-managed with- out." "i am provided for the present," said the esquire; "i never pay my workmen hefore-hand." "liight," said the knight with a smile; and seeing others approaching them, he gave him some short order to get to saddle, and so they parted. chapter xvl the falcon tower. poor raoul lay in the falcon tower. it was a huilding which stood alone, at one angle of the court-yard, and owed its erection to sir hugh, of evil memory. strange stories, true and untrue, were told ahout it. a miser- ahle wife, as some said,—an uncom- pliant mistress, according to others, —had lingered out some years of wretched life there, and had her pri- son door opened at last hy death. good sir eainald and sir miles, while ladysmede was theirs, kept their falcons in the upper story of the tower, and their dogs in the chamher helow; hut sir godfrey had provided a new huilding, more airy and commodious, for these important favourites, and relegated the old tower to something like its original uses, hy repairing the fastenings of the heavy oak door, and renewing the grating to the single narrow win- dow, the only refurnishing which was required to make the lower chamher a very passahle dungeon; and hither such refractory dependents as in sir godfrey's eyes required penal discip- line were transferred for a longer or shorter season. this latter question was decided usually hy the uncertain rule of the knight's capricious temper, occasionally hy accident. to do him no injustice, the term was seldom long. if the punishments had heen carried out according to the letter of the sentence which was fulminated against them at the moment, rotting in chains, and lingering starvation, would have heen the ordinary means of paternal correction administered at ladysmede; hut sir godfrey reserved an unlimited power of mitigation, and after a few days, or weeks at the farthest, was wont to inquire ahout the missing prisoner, and welcome .] the duck of ladyimede.—part vi. him hack to the noisy liherty of the household with a curse or two hy way of caution. the fate of one unfortunate man-at-arms, however, who had heen placed in durance there for some trifling misdemeanour, had come very near to add another tragical tale to its legends. sir godfrey, after deal- ing out fearful anathemas against any one who shonld presume to visit him or give him food or drink, had ridden off to some jousts at a distance, and left the poor wretch under his terrihle proscription. it was in the early days of the knight's succession to the inheritance, and the retainers who were left hehind had already learnt to dread his fury, without understand- ing his rapid changes of temper; and none ventured to contravene the order, crnel as it was. besides, the man was hut a fleming, after all; and his sufferings were a matter of comparative indifference to true-horn englishmen. fortunately for him- self, the fleming was a very old cam- paiguer, and had had great experience in the ways and means of eking out a limited commissariat during a six months' siege in angers. there were rats in large families settled in the honeycomhed old walls; and when the unhappy prisoner's groans for help, which had heen heard hy those who ventured occasionally to approach his place of confinement, ceased after a while, it was charitahly supposed that he had either heen eaten hy them, or died of starvation. bnt at length their lord returned after an ahsence of some tbree weeks, and suddenly at tahle after supper inquired for his victim, and showed the sincerity of his compunction hy some strong execrations upon the fools who had too faithfully ohserved his orders; when lo! upon inquisi- tion heing made, out walked the fleming, haggard and thin, hut ahle and willing to stick his long knife then (as he took an early opportunity of doing afterwards, hut not quite deep enough) into the man who had heen considered most responsihle for his safe keeping. the rats had not eaten him; quite the contrary; and though it was not very safe to ques- tion him upon the particulars, he was heard to swear more than once that he had lived much harder in angers the last fortnight hefore the capi- tulation. raonl, then, lay in the falcon tower. not fettered hand and foot, as a strict interpretation of the knight's orders would have required; that painful indiguity even gundred was willing to spare him; for the gay, free-spoken esquire was a favourite, more or less, with all. but he was fastened to the wall hy a chain which locked hoth hands, though it allowed them tolerahle liherty of motion. sir godfrey had strictly forhidden all access to the prisoner until he himself should have visited him; hut there had heen no word of positive prohihition as to food and drink, though gundred declared that he held that to he included. baldwin, who loved the youth as well as if he had heen his younger hrother in hlood as well as in arms, had acted upon the more merciful interpretation, and had handed in tbrough the window- hars, in the dusk of the evening, a horn of wine and a manehet; so much he would have heen ready to risk for him, even in defiance of sir godfrey; hut lie oheyed him so far as to hold no communication with him. the cause of his disgrace was a mystery to all the household; for none of them had heen present, and raonl, hurning with mortification and insulted pride, had preserved an ohstinate silence from the moment lie had suhmitted to he treated as a prisoner. a single word of thanks for the supply which his hrother esquire had brought him, and which he would prohahly have refused from almost any other hand, was all that had passed his lips. none saw the hitter tears of shame and anger with which the poor hoy wept himself into an unqtfiet sleep, and none knew how chilled and dis- pirited the hot excitement of his passion over, he awoke in the early morning. the sun at last made his way tbrough the loop-hole, half- hlocked with its iron hars, which gave him hut grudging admittance, and the husy sounds of lifo awoke in the manor-yard. the morning hours passed on, hut no one came near his place of confinement. he applied himself to the food which he had left untouched the night hefore, and thus [aug. the luck of ladysmede.—part vi. somewhat wanned and refreshed, the hoy's elastic spirit rose again. the feeling uppermost in his mind, when ho was ahle to gather his noughts into shape, had nothing in it of shame or regret for his own rash at- tempt, or fear of its possihle conse- quences; he looked upon himself as the offended person, and upon sir godfrey as the offender; and sitting there fettered to the wall, he judged and sentenced him in his heart with uurelenting severeity. that hrutal hlow had stirred passions in his young hreast which he had never felt hefore. once, indeed, on a for- mer occasion, for some trifling neglect of his dutiis, sir godfrey had applied a riding-wand to his shoulders pretty sharply; hut then raoul knew that he had heen to hlame: hesides, that was a year ago; he was a hoy then, and could suhmit to a hoy's punish- ment with hrave good-humour; hut now! an esquire-at-arms, of gentle hlood, to ho struck like a hound, such a felon hlow us that, in the pre- sence of a stranger knight! and for what a cause! for refusing to hear a false message to a lady! at that thought his heart seemed to swell within him well-nigh to choking. such a frame of mind was little likely to help him to bear his im- prisonment with patience. during what remained of daylight on the previous evening, he had heen too utterly overwhelmed with a proud humiliation to take much notice of external ohjects. but now, as he looked round the walls of his prison in the full morning light, his whole soul was concentrated on the intense desire to escape. his hands had heen left sufficiently free to enahle him to make some use of them, and he wearied himself for some time in wild and desperate exertions to wrench out the strong iron staple to which he had heen secured. find- ing this of no avail, he next con- trived, with some difficulty, to raise his head to the level of the loop-hole, some two or tbree feet ahove him, tbrough which his friend baldwin had lowered the supplies, and found that it did not look into the court- yard of the manor, hut into the open meadow-laud outside. having thus made out the hearings of his position, his next husiness, which provided him with occupation and amusement for somo hours, and was very usefu in restoring him to something of u calmer temper, was to collect from the hroken and uneven floor all such stones and ruhhish as lay within his reach, so as to form a step upon which he could partially rest, and so make the loop-hole a post of ohserva- tion. in this lahour he was very much assisted hy the fact that some painstaking predecessor in these quarters had employed himself for many days in gruhhing up the floor for the very same purpose, and that ins work had heen hut hastily and imperfectly levelled. i<* succeeded so well, that hy standing on tip-toe on this little mound, and resting his chin upon the emhrasure, he could command a view, for some distance, of the path which sloped tbrough the meadows down to the river. hero he kept watch, therefore, with such intervals of rest as his constrained position forced upon him, in some vague hope of help and rescuo which perhaps he would hardly have enter- tained if he had heen older. to the young, an angel from heaven, or an unexpected powerful friend on earth, seems never impossihle. so raoul watched and waited, his eyes fixed upon the distant path- way as if along it he surely expected the wished-for deliverer must come; while in fact to him, as to many of us, his hest hope of deliverance was already close within his grasp;— literally within his grasp, for if he could have tbrust his fettered hand tbrough the harred aperture of his ohservatory, ho might possihly havo clutched the draggled cock's feather in the cap of picot. the floor of his prison was sunk lower than tho ground without, and the hunter's head was nearly level with the open- ing. ho was too close underneath for raoul to see him; hut he heard a foot fall upon the soft greensward outside, and was waiting anxiously for the owner of it to come within his line of vision. to very few of sir godfrey's retainers would the young esquire havo chosen to address himself in his present undiguified position; and from very few, how- ever kindly [disposed towards him .] the lxiek of ladysmede.—part vi. personally, could he have looked for more than a silent sympathy at most, while he lay under the full weight of their lord's displeasure. but a few notes of a merry whistle, which the hunter struck up as he leant with his hack against the tower wall, and rested himself from his morning's walk, made raoul's heart hound with joy and hope within him. picot, not living within the manor gates, was comparatively master of his own movements; if he could do nothing towards raoul's own release, at least he could convey a word of timely warning to a quarter which, since his conversation with the italian, had occupied a large share of the young prisoner's anxieties. raising his head as high in the aperture as he could, he called out cautiously to the hunter hy name. "saints preserve us!" cried picot starting—for his nervous sensihilities were rather excitahle just at present —'' who calls me?" "it is i, my good friend—raoul, chained like a dog in this cursed hole." "good lack!" said the hunter, scarcely yet recovering himself at the sound of the familiar voice—" how came ye there, master raoul?" for picot had not visited the manor since the previous morning. "ask the unmaunered hrute that calls himself my master — the fiend reward him for this and all his doings," replied raoul, glad to vent the hoarded hitterness of his heart to any living auditor; "may the" "hush, hush, i pray of thee, dear master raoul," said picot, who had clamhered up to the window and was looking in. there was no saying who might he listeners; and the youth's intemperate language might compromise hoth parties. "tell me rather, what hast done to anger him?" "i did hut refuse to take another man's lie in my mouth," said raoul passionately. "i fear me much that father gia- cotno had heen corrupting thee with some of his school learning," replied the banter; "another man's lie well," he continued, after a slight pause of consideration, "there doth lie a difference in that, now i think vol. lxxxyl on't; though a plain mind, i wot, need hardly stumhle at it. i would have dealt with it all as one, as if it had heen my own." it would have heen quite impos- sihle for the esquire to have read picot a lecture on morality, under so many difficulties; so he contented himself with some hrief common- place ahout his " honour." "nay, if ye come to that, my holt is shot," said picot; "honour is a thing with which we serving-men have nought to do; it helongs to. them of gentle hlood, like the deer and the corn-lands. if i could see my way to a good slice of the last, master raoul, i could he well con- tent to leave the honour and the hunting to my hetters." "but listen, picot," said the esquire; "i have a hoon to ask of thee." "if it he any service a poor knave like me can do—saving my duty to my liege lord — i may promise you to do it, master raoul." "thanks, good friend—it is nought for myself at present; hut i would put thee upon doing a good deed for others." "humph i know not how it is," replied picot, rather uneasily; "i am as little naturally given to good deeds as most men, i dare well say, if i know myself; hut here of late i have them tbrust upon me, willy-nilly. curse me if i rightly know what a' good deed is. i did somewhat 'tother day, sir squire, if i only dare to tell it thee, as queer a piece of husiness, i thought it, as might well he, and in villanous company. i would as soon have turned to deer stealing as have had a hand in it; and lo, now, it was a good deed—a hrave deed—a glori- ous deed i might have risen to he a "here picot's foot slipped from its uncertain holding in the wall, and he came suddenly to rather an iguominious conclusion. when he was up again, raoul took the opportunity to explain his request further. "i seek a trusty friend—and such i know thou wilt prove, picot—to hear a message for me to willan's hope, to the private ear of the lady gladice." "blessed st, bridget!" exclaimed [aug. t ie luck / ladymede.—part vi. the hunter, nearly slipping down again in the excess of his astonish- ment; "is the hoy mad?" he hegan to see now, as he thought, the secret of this prison discipline. "not as yet, hut i may he driven so," returned raoul with an impa- tient oath; for hesides that the accu- sation was not complimentary in it- self, the hlunt familiarity with which the hunter conveyed it rather shocked his diguity. picot still eyed him douhtfully tbrough the harred loop-hole, hut he thought it hest in any case to humour him. "nay, good master raoul, i meant no offence — hut what may this message of yours he?" "he shall hear it himself," said a voice hehind him. picot, with an exclamation of alarm, slipped from his foot-hold again, and, staggering hackwards, found himself upheld hy the arm of father giacomo. '.' never fear, picot," said the chap- lain, with a smile at the man's terri- fied face which did not add to his composure—" it were safer for me to have found thee here than gundred; hut let me have thy place for a mo- ment." and he sprang lightly up to the window.. "so, my poor youth, you are reap- ing already some of the penalties of knowledge; and cursing me, douht- less, in your heart, for not lettiog you do your master's errand as any honest fool might have done, without questioning its particulars." "not so, father," replied the esquire: "if you spoke truly, as i helieve, i owe you thanks rather; and if you will only let others whom you wot of, know as much as you have told me, i shall ahide my time here in more contentment." "spoken like a hero and a philo- sopher," said the chaplain; "hut to descend to considerations of selfish prudence, if i may touch upon such unimportant points,—you would he still hetter contented to go at large?" "i would, indeed!" said raoul, eagerly. ,:well—i rejoice to find that you have so much sound judgment re- maining; for the talk in the house this morning is that you showed hut little last night." raoul gave vent to an ejaculation of impatience. "nay, never heed it," continued the chaplain —" we are all mad enough hy times. but none are so mad, i suppose, as to prefer chains to freedom. take good heart, young sir; a few hours will surely see you free again." "how ?" asked raoul. "sir godfrey's humour, as you know, changes from hour to hour; i dare promise that at my lord ah- hot's tahle to-day he will forget last evening's matters; and as some fool- ish words of mine have had their share in hringing this trouhle upon you, i will await him on his return, and plead your cause with him; it will scarce need more than that you should ask his forgiveness, and all is done." "his forgiveness!" cried raoul, dashing his fettered hand against the stanchions; "he forgive me ? — did you not hear, father giacomo, all that happened—you spoke as if you knew all?" "i have heard, if i mistake not, five different tales — all false; the truth i partly guess at." "he struck me struck me on the mouth as though i had heen a liar like himself forgiveness, you said— i will never forgive him—never; i have served him faithfully, and could have loved him once—not of late, not of late—hut i will never eat his hread, or do his hidding more; not if i lie here until the old tower crumhles on me i" and let not poor raoul's hero- ism he questioned, though there was a tremour in his voice, and father giacomo, looking tbrough the hars, saw tears. "so now!" said the latter, turning round to picot, "wiser doctors than myself might shake their heads over this poor youth's case; hut he will hardly mend it hy staying here—we must have him forth, good picot." "how—what?" cried the hunter, startled at heing thus suddenly ad- dressed, hut with no comprehension of the other's meaning.- "we must have him forth, i say, if only for sir godfrey's sake; if he should send for him to his presence to-morrow, he will defy him to the death; and what chance shall your .] the luck of ladysmede.—part vi. master have against such a doughty champion; on your allegiance to sir godfrey, picot, i shall require your help to remove from him this dan- gerous enemy." giacomo's look and tone were so serious, that the hunter could only re- ply hy a hlank gaze of astonishment. "you are mocking me, priest," said raoul passionately. "judge no man hastily, raoul; and when you judge, let it he hy deeds, not words." the chaplain drew from his person a small file and thin saw of higbly- tempered steel, and of foreigu work- manship, and trying their edge upon the stanchion of the window, showed raoul how to use them. "with these," said he, "an active hand might cut tbrough chain and hand-holt with six hours' good work; but i give you from now until mid- night—^hy that time a woman might do it. you, picot," he continued, as he handed a pair of the same imple- ments to the hunter, "must take your station here soon after dusk, and remove this har, and a stone or so, if needful; hut our caged hird here is hut of slender make, and will squeeze tbrough where you or i might stick fast till doomsday." picot took the tools from the ital- ian with the motion of an automaton. "i will he at hand and on the watch," continued giacomo; "there is little likelihood of any interrup- tion; hut if you hear the cry of an owl in the wall heside you, picot, you will understand that as a sigual to cease your work for a while. now go your ways, and rememher." "do not fail me, dear picot," said raoul as the man still stood looking after the chaplain, who had passed round to the postern gate. "what dost think of that man, master raoul?" said he, whispering in at the window. "i will think thee the hest friend i ever had, picot, if i he free to- night" "it is all for love of thee, remem- her, master raoul, if i venture it; i shall he flayed alive, an it come to sir godfrey's hearing." "i will love thee all my life, dear picot," said the esquire. "i will do it, master raoul, i will do it," replied the hunter as he left the window, — " ' dear picot,' — 'worthy picot,'—' i will love thee all my life,' quoth our young esquire. —'i can never repay thy good deed,' saith the lady.—' here is gold,' saith the chaplain. marry, i am in the straight road to preferment, if i can scape the devil and sir godfrey hr the way." c [aug- lord macaulay and the highlands of scotland. lord macaulay ann the highlanns of scotlann. the genealogy of peers is puhlic property. without going the length of saying, as has heen said, that more english men and women read the peerage than the bihle, it is still true that it is a volume of whose contents most persons have some knowledge. lord macaulay's pedigree is one of which no man need he ashamed, and of which many would he proud. his paternal grandfather was the high- land minister of a higbland parish, with a higbland wife and higbland children, one of whom, zacharias hy name, following the example of his forefathers, descended into the low- lands to gather gear, not hy lifting cows, hut hy peaceful trade. the young zacharias found favour in the eyes of the daughter of a bristol quaker. friend mills supplied that serious and respectahle hut not very erudite or accomplished society with literature, the call for which amongst the quakers was not, however, so pressing as to prevent the grand- sire of the future essayist of the edinhurgh review from employing his talents in periodical composition, or from cultivating literary pursuits as the editor of a provincial paper. meantime the loves of the young higblander and the fair quakeress prospered, and from their union sprung thomas bahington macaulay, baron macaulay of rotbley, in the county of leicester, the liheller of william peun and the lampooner of the higblands. with higbland and quaker hlood flowing in equal cur- rents tbrough his veins, it is difficult to say whether a higblander or a quaker is the more favourite ohject of his satire and hutt for the shafts of his ridicule; whether george fox or coll of the cows comes in for the larger share of his contempt; whether the enthusiast who took off what we are in the hahit of considering as the most essential of all garments, to walk in the simplicity of nature tbrough the streets of litchfield, or the native of the grampians, who never possessed such an article of dress at all, is the more ridiculous in his eyes; whether, in short, he despises most those who gave hirth to his father or his mother. it is with the paternal ancestors of the historian that we have at present to do. he has given us, what he him- self admits, or rather we ought to say proclaims, to he "not an attrac- tive picture " of his progenitors. no quarrel is so hitter as a family quarrel: when a man takes to ahusing his father or his mother, he does it with infinitely greater gusto than a mere stranger. lord macaulay's descrip- tion of the higblands is accordingly so vituperative, so spiteful, so grot- esque—it displays such command of the language of hatred, and such astounding power of ahuse, that, com- ing as it does from a writer who chal- lenges a place hy the side of hume and gihhon, it takes the hreath away, and one feels almost as unahle to answer it as one would he to reply to a torrent of hlasphemy from a bishop, or rihaldry from a judge, or a volley of oaths from a young lady whose crinoline one had just piloted, with the utmost respect, tenderness, and difficulty, to her place at the diuner tahle. lord macaulay tells us that in the days of our great-grandfathers* —that is to say, when his own grand- father was just hegiuning to " wag his pow" in a higbland pulpit—if an englishman "condescended to think of a higblander at all," he thought of him only as a " filthy ahject savage, a slave, a papist, a cut-tbroat, and a thief ;"t that the dress even of the higbland "gentleman" was "hideous, ridiculous, nay, grossly io- decent;" that it was "hegrimed with the accumulated filth of years;" that he dwelt in a "hovel which smelt worse than an english hog- stye ;"j that he considered a "slah in the hack, or a shot from hehind a rock, the approved mode of taking satisfaction for an insult;" that a traveller who ventured into the "hideous wilderness" which he in- hahited, would find "dens of roh- * vol. hi., p. . t p. . f p. . .] c lord macaulay and the higblands of scotland. here"' instead of iuns; that he wonld he in imminent danger of heing murdered or starved; of "falling two thousand feet perpendicular" from a precipice; of heing compelled to " run for his life" from the " hoiling waves of a torrent" which suddenly "whirl- ed away his haggage ;"* that he would find in the glens "corpses which ran- rauders had just stripped and man- gled;'' that "his own eyes" would prohahly afford "the next meal to the eagles" which screamed over his head; that if he escaped these dan- gers, he would have to content him- self with quarters in which "the food, the clothing, nay, the very hair and skin of his hoses would have •put his philosophy to the proof. his lodging would sometimes have heen in a hut, of which every nook would have swarmed with vermm. he would have inhaled an atmosphere thick with peat smoke, and foul with a hundred noisome exhalations. at supper, grain fit only for horses would have heen set hefore him, accompanied hy a cake of hlood drawn from living cows. some of the company with whom he would have feasted, would have heen covered with cutaneous eruptions, and others would have heen smeared with tar like sheep. his couch would have heen the hare earth, dry or wet, as the weather might he, and from that couch he would have risen half poisoned with stench, half hlind with the reek of turf, and half mad with the itch."f "this," says lord macaulay, "is not an attractive picture," a senti- ment we sincerely echo. if it is a true one, lord macaulay's grand- father must have had a stuhhorn generation to deal with, and we fear his preaching must have heen of little avail. we are not higbland- ers. we helieve that justice is het- ter administered hy queen victoria than ever it was hy the lord of the isles, or even hy fin mac coul. we would rather ride after a fox than stalk the "muckle hart of ben- more" himself. the monarch of the glen may toss his royal head, and range over his mountain kingdom safe from our treason. we should feel it almost a crime to level a rifle at his deep shoulder, or to pierce his * vol . iii., p. . lordly tbroat with a skean-dhn. we have no wish to see his soft lustrous eye grow dim, and his elastic limhs stiffen under our hands. we never wore a kilt, and never intend to array our limhs in so comfortless a garment. notwithstanding all our love and veneration for the wizard of the north, we caunot hut think that old allan's harp must have heen apt to he out of tune in the climate of loch katrine, and that helen herself must have found her isle too damp to he comfortahle during the greater part of the year. we would rather have seen the magician him- self in the lihrary at ahhotsford, than amongst the children of the mist. our tastes, our hahits, oar affections, and our prejudices, are with the low- lands. but we caunot allow this gross caricature, this shameless lihel, this maliguant slander, this parricidal onslaught hy a son of the higblands on the people and the land of his fathers, a race and a country which has furnished heroes whose deeds in every quarter of the glohe have heen, and at the very time we write are such that their names awaken a tbrill of admiration in every heart that is capahle of generous feeling, to pass uunoticed. lowlanders as we are, it moves our indiguation. it is not history—to attempt to follow and answer it step hy step would he to commit a folly only exceeded hy the ahsurdity of the original lihel. we prefer to introduce our readers to the authorities on which lord macau- lay professes to have founded this gross caricature. they are few in numher, consisting of oliver gold- smith, richard prank, who wrote a hook called northern memoirs, col- onel cleland, and captain burt. we have hestowed some pains upon an examination of them, and we pro- ceed to lay the result hefore our readers, and to show how little foun- dation they afford for lord macau- lay's maliguant lampoon. we will take them in order. lord ma- caulay says, "goldsmith was one of the very few saxons who, more than a century ago, ventured to ex- plore the higblands. he was dis- gusted hy the hideous wilderness, and f pp. , . [aug. lord macaulay and the higblands of scotland. declared that he greatly preferred the charming country round leyden, the vast expanse of verdant meadows, and the villas with [their statues and grottoes, trim flower-heds and recti- linear avenues."* those who are acquainted with lord macaulay's mode of dealing with authorities, will not he surprised to learn that the only passage in goldsmith's correspondence directly relating to his journey to the high- lands is the following :—" i have heen a month in the higblands. i set out the first day on foot, hut an ill-natured corn i have got on my toe has for the future prevented that cheap method of travelling; so the second day i hired a horse, of ahout the size of a ram, and he walked away (trot he could not) as pensive as his master. in tbree days we reached the higblands. this letter would he too long if it contained the description i intend giving of that country, so ,hall make it the suhject of my next."f whether goldsmith ever carried his intentions into effect, or whether the promised description has heen lost, is not known. "no trace of this communication," says mr. prior, '' which we may helieve, from his humour and skill in narration, to have heen of an amusing character, has heen found.'j lord macaulay says that gold- smith was "disgusted with the hide- ous wilderness." the only thing he expresses any disgust at is the corn on his toe, and he eays nothing ahout any hideous wilderness whatever. goldsmith, however, did write some letters during his residence at edinhurgh as a medical student, and also afterwards at leyden, con- taining a few passing ohservations upon scotland generally, which lord macaulay quotes as if they referred to the higblands in particular. these letters lord macaulay either wholly misunderstands, or has grossly mis- represented. prohahly no two men of genins ever were more dissimilar than oliver goldsmith and lord mac- aulay. the delicate humor and re- fined satire of the former appear to he wholly incomprehensihle to the latter. goldsmith handles his adversary as isuac walton did the frog he impaled on his hook "as though he loved him." his weapon is the smallest of small swords, which he wields with wonderful skill. the wound is fatal, hut the weapon that inflicts it is so delicate that hardly any hlood is shed. lord macaulay lays ahout him with an axe; he mauls and dis- figures his foe; he splashes ahout in hlood and hrains; he is not content with slaying his enemy, he stamps upon his carcass, tears his limhs in pieces, seethes them in pitch, and gihhets them like his own tom boilman. it is hardly possihle to avoid feeling some sympathy for the criminal, however execrahle, to whom lord macaulay plays the part of executioner. goldsmith is the gen- tlest and most playful of writers. to conceive lord macaulay either gentle or playful would he to con- jure up an image which would he grotesque if it were not impossihle. it is not, therefore, surprising that lord macaulay should wholly mis- interpret the two letters from which he quotes a few lines, which, taken apart from the context and applied to a suhject to which they do not refer, appear at first sight in some degree to justify his remarks. the first of these letters is addressed hy goldsmith to his friend bryanton, at ballymahon, and has heen omitted (mr. prior tells us) from most of the scottish editions of his works, "for no other reason, as it appears, than containing a few harmless jests upon scotland."? in this playful letter he laughs alike at the irish squires and the scotch helles, who, he says, never- theless, are "ten thousand times fairer and handsomer than the irish," an opinion which he expressly desires may he communicated to the sisters of his irish friend, for whose hright eyes he "does not care a potato." he descrihes an edinhurgh hall, retails the ohserva- tions of tbree " envious prudes" upon the heautiful duchess of hamilton, and desires especially to know if "john binely has left off drinking drams, or tom allen got a new * vol. iii., p. . f pkior's goldsmith, v. . § ihid., v. . % ihid., v. . .] lord macaulay and the higblands of scotland. wig?" it is this playful hadinage of the young medical student that lord macaulay gravely quotes as the judg- ment of the "author of the traveller and the deserud vdlage.'' the other letter is- written ahout six months afterwards from leyden, and addressed to his uncle contarine, it is in the same vein of playful humour. the principal ohject of his satire is, however, the dutchmen; and lord macaulay might just as well have quoted the following de- scription as a faithful portrait of bentinck or of william himself, as the few lines he devotes to scot- land as a picture of that country. "the dowuright hollander," says goldsmith, "is one of the oddest figures in nature. upon a head of lat,k hair he wears a half-cocked narrow hat, laced with hlack rihhon; no coat, hut seven waistcoats and nine pair of hreeches, so that his hips reach almost up to his armpits. this well-clothed vegetahle is now fit to fee company or to make love. but what a pleasing creature is the ohject of his appetite! why, she wears a large fur cap with a deal of flanders lace, and for every pair of hreeches he carries she puts on two petticoats!" eighteen petticoats!—a warm and suhstantial crinoline. we trust that the gauzy garments of the present day are applied to no such purpose as that which goldsmith descrihes in the next paragraph: "you must know, sir, every woman carries in her hand a stove with coals in it, which, when she sits, she suugs un- der her petticoats; and at this chim- ney dozing strephon lights his pipe." in this playful strain he goes on to compare the dutch women with the scotch women, and the country he had just left with the country in which he had just arrived. scotland, he ohserves very truly, is hilly and rocky, while holland "is all a con- tinued plain." he compares the scotchman to a "tulip planted in dung," and the dutchman to an "ox in a maguificent temple." we con- fess we do not recoguise the truth of either simile; the wit is too evanes- cent for us. but ahout the higblands there is not one word. we need not, therefore, trouhle ourselves further as to any weight which lord macaulay's strictures derive from the supposed authority of oliver goldsmith; whatever he knew or nothing. the next in the list of lord mac- aulay's anthorities is less known. richard prank was horn at cam- hridge ahout the hegiuning of the seventeenth century. he resided at nottingham, was strongly imhued with the peculiar religious tenets of the independents, served as a trooper in the army of cromwell, and ahout the year or visited scot- land. his description, therefore, ap- plies to a period nearly a century he- fore the days of our greatgrand- fathers. lord macaulay, referring to this hook, says that "five or six years after the revolution, an inde- fatigahle angler puhlished an account of scotland ;"* that, though profess- ing to have explored the whole king- dom, he had merely "caught a few glimpses of higbland scenery;" t that he asserts that "few english- men had ever seen inverary. all heyond inverary was chaos ;"j and lord macaulay adds in a note to a suhsequent passage—" much to the same effvct are the very few words which frank philantbropus ( ) spares to the higblanders: 'they live like liards, and die like loons— hating to work, and no credit to hor- row: they mike depredations, and roh their neighhours.'"\ this is all, we helieve, for which he cites the northern memoirs. lord macaulay is inaccurate as to the name, wrong as to the date, and, as we shall see presently, in error hoth as to what the author saw of the higblands, and what he says of them. lord macaulay cites the hook as if it were writen under the pseudo- nyme of "philantbropus"—a desig- nation which richard frank adds to his name, according to the fantastical fashion of his day, as he might have called himself "piscator," or "venator," or "viator," after the mauner of isuac walton. the hook was written in , thirty years • vol iii., p. . f ihid. f ihid. vol. iii., p. . c [aug. lord macaulay and the higblands of scotland. hefore the revolution, instead of six years after.* instead of merely catching a few glimpses of higbland scenery, he visited every higbland county, and penetrated to the north of sutherland and caithness. instead of saying that "all heyond inverary was chaos," or giving the character of the high- lands which lord macaulay attri- hutes to him, his words are as fol- lows :— "it may he so, for here we caunot stay to inhahit, nor any longer eujoy those solitary recreations; we must steer our course hy the north pole, and re- linquish those flourishing fields of kin- tire and inverary, the pleasant hounds of marquis argyle, which very few english- men have made discovery of, to inform us of the glories of the western high- lands, euriched with grain and the plenty of herhage. but how the higblanders will vindicate bowhidder and lochaher, with reven in badenoch, that i know not; for there they live like liards and die like loons: hating to work and no credit to borrow, they make depredations, and so roh their neighhours."f so that we see that the words lord macaulay quotes as applicahle to the higblands in general, are used hy frank in reference to the districts of balquidder, for such we presume to he the place called hy him bowhidder, lochaher and a part of badenoch, the lawlessuess of which he contrasts with the rest of the higblands; and instead of all heyond inverary heing chaos, it is in these " pleasant hounds" that "the glories of the western higblands, euriched with grain and plenty of herhage," are to he found. the opinion which frank formed of scotland he has not heen niggard- ly in expressing. he sums it up thus :-*- "for you are to consider, sir, that the whole tract of scotland is hut one single series of admirahle delights, not- withstanding the prejudicate reports of some men that represent it otherwise. for if eyesight he argument convincing enough to confirm a truth, it enervates my pen to descrihe scotland's curiosities, which properly ought to fall under a more elegant style to range thein in order for a hetter discovery. for scot- land is not europe's umhra, as fictitious- ly imagined hy some extravagant wits. no; it's rather a legihlo fair draught of the heautiful creation dressed up with polished rocks, pleasant savaunahs, flourishing dales, deep and torpid liikes, with shady flrwoods immerged with rivers and gliding rivulets; where every fountain o'erflows a valley and every ford superahounds with fish; where also the swelling mountains are covered with sheep, and the marish grounds strewed with cattle, whilst every field is filled with corn, and every swamp swarms with fowl. this, in my opinion, pro- claims a plenty, and presents scotland a kingdom of prodigies and products too, to allure foreiguers and entertain tra- vellers. "% it is greatly to he regretted that frank, who had the opportunity of affording so much information, should have heen led hy his intolerahle pedantry into a style of writing fit only for don adriano de armado. if he had heen content to "deliver himself like a man of this world," his hook would have formed a most valuahle record of the condition of the country at a time when (though we hy no means accept lord mac- aulay's assertion that less was known of the grampians than of the andes) we are certainly in want of accurate and impartial information. the hook is scarce, and the reader may take the following description of dumharton as a fair sample of the intolerahle style in which the whole of it is written. arnoldns, it must he rememhered, was frank himself. "tneoph.—what lofty domineering towers are those that storm the air and stand on tip-toe (to my thinking) upon two stately elevated pondrus rocks, that shade the valley with their prodigious growth, even to amazement? because they display such adequate and exact proportion, with such equality in their mountainous pyramides, as if nature had stretched them into parallel lines with most accurato poize, to amuse the most curious and critical ohserver; though with exquisite perspectives he douhle an ohservation, yet shall he never trace a disproportion in those uniform pier- monts. * see preface hy sir walter scott to the edition of frank's hook, . f p. . % franz's northern memoirs, preface, p. . .] c lord macavlay and the highlands of scotland. "arm.—these are those natural and not artificial pyramides that have stood, for ought i know, since the hegiunings of time; nor are they sheltered under any disguise, for nature herself dressed up this elahorate precipiece, without art or engine, or any other manual, till ar- riving at this period of heauty and per- fection. and hecause, having laws and limits of her own, destined hy the pre- rogative-royal of heaven, she heaped up these massy inaccessihle pyramides, to invalidate art and all its admirers, since so equally to shape a mountain, and to form it into so great and such exact pro- portions. '• theoph.—then it's no fancy, i per- ceive, when in the midst of those lofty and elevated towers a palace presents it- self unto us, immurred with rocks and a craggy front, that with a haughty hrow contemns the invaders; and where helow, at those knotty descents, neptune careers on hrinish hillows, armed with tritons in corselets of green, that tbrea- tens to invade this impreguahle rock, and shake the foundations, which if he do, he procures an earthquake. "aen.—this is the rock; and that which you see elevated in air, and ino- culated to it, is an artificial fahrik, inve- lop't, as you now ohserve, in the very hreast of this prodigious mountain; which hriefly, yet well enough, your ohservation directs to, hoth as to the form, situation, and strength. moreover, it's a garrison, and kept hy the alhions, where formerly our friend fcelecins dwelt, who of late upon preferment is transplanted into ireland: however, aquilla will hid us welcome; and if i mistake not, he advances to meet us: look wisbly forward, and you'll see him trace those delightful fields from the ports of dumharton. "aquil.—what vain delusions thus possess me! nay, what idle dotages and fictitious dreams thus delude me, if these he ghosts which i fancy men.— heavens! it's our friend \ rnoldus, and (if i mistake not) theophilus with him- welcome to dumharton "* after some farther conversation in the same style, arnoldus and theo- philus display their fishing-rods, and all tbree forthwith descend from their stilts, and talk like men of this world. "i'm for the fiy," says ar- noldus. "then i'm for ground-hait," replies aquilla. '; and i'm for any hait or any colour, so that i he hut doing," exclaims theophilus; and then follows a discussion upon hrand- lings, gildtails, cankers, caterpillars, gruhs, and locusts, with a harharous suggestion to " strip off the legs of a grasshopper," worthy of that "quaint old cruel coxcomh," isuac walton, whom, in spite of all his cold-hlooded ahominations, we caunot help loving in our hearts. the tbree friends then part, arnoldus for the head, or more properly the foot, of loch lomond, whilst aquilla and theophilus re- main to try their luck and skill in the waters of leven, and meet again to compare their sport and display their spoil. frank was a dull man on every- thing hut fishing. when the rod and the fly are concerned he writes in earnest, his intolerahle pedantry and affectation disappear, and his hook, like all hooks containing a mixture of natural history, topography, sport- ing, and personal adventure, is de- lightful, his pedantry and duluess spoil every other suhject; even the elitropia of boccaccio, and the story of bailie pringle's cow, and the doch-an-dorroch, heeame stupid and tiresome in his hands; and he gives an account of the venerahle laird of urquhart, who was the happy father of forty legitimate children, and who at the latter part of his life was in the hahit of going to hed in his coffin, which was then hauled hy pulleys close up to the ridge-tree of the house, in order that the old gentleman might he so much the near- er heaven should he receive a sudden summons, without any appreciation of the grotesque humour of the old man. here and there a peevish word escapes him at the want of the com- forts he had heen accustomed to on the hanks of the trent, and did not find in the wilds of sutherland and cromarty ; hut so far from encoun- tering any of the perils which lord macaulay paints so vividly, he says, writing in a remote part of suther- landshire, " let not our discourse dis- cover us ungrateful to the inhahi- tants, for it were madness more than good mauners not to acknowledge civilities from a people that so civilly treated ns."f this was in . lord macaulay's next witness is * pp. , . + p. . [aug. lord macaulay and the higblands of scotland. william cleland. he vouches him' to prove the important fact of the tar. "for the tar," says lord macanlay, "i ain indehted to cle- land's poetry."* cleland deserves to he rememhered for hetter things than a poem which lord macaulay himself elsewhere descrihes as a "hudihrastic satire of very little in- trinsic valac."f he was an accom- plished man and a gallant soldier, hut ahout as had a witness as to anything concerning the higblanders as can he conceived. during the whole of his short life he was engag- ed in a hitter hand-to-hand contest with them. it was a struggle for life or death, and only terminated when cleland, at the age of twenty-seven, fell hy a higbland hullet at the head of the cameronians, during his gallant and successful defence of dunkeld from the attack of the higblanders in . no one, there- fore, would think of regarding cle- land us an impartial witness. but his poem, which lord macaulay quotes, will he found on examination to relate, not to the higblands and their inhahitants in general, to whom lord macaulay applies it, hut simoly to that "higbland host" which was sent hy lauderdale to ravage the west in , when cleland was a hoy of seventeen. it does not pro- fess even to give any descrip- tion of the higblanders in general. the hook is extremely scarce; the only copy we have seen — a small mo in the grenville collection—is marked as having cost tbree guineas. we therefore give the passage which lord macaulay refers to en- tire, in order that the reader may judge how far this description of the lawless rahhle, let loose upon free quarter on the western counties, justi- fies lord macaulay's account of the company with whom a peaceful tra- veller would have "feasted" when journeying across scotland. even cleland, it will he seen, draws hy no means a contemptihle picture of the officers of this host, his description of whose dress and accoutrements well hefits the leaders of an irregular force. bat to discrive them right surpasses the art of nine parnassus lasses, of lucan. virgil, or of horas, of ovid, homer, or of floras; yea, sure such sights might have in- clined a man to nanceate at mankind: some might have judged they were the erea- tures called seines, whos costumes and fea- tures paracelsus does descry in his occult philosophy; or fannea, or brownies, if ye will, or satyres, come from atlas hill, or that the threc-tongued tyke was sleep- ing "who hath the stygian door a-kecplng. their head, their neck, their ltg.'es, and thighs, are influenced hy tho skies, "without a clout to interrupt them. they need not strip them when they whip them, nor loose their douhlet when they're hanged; if they he missed, its sure they're wrong'd. this keeps their hodies from corrup- tions, from flstuls, humours, and eruptions, their durks hang down hetween their legr, win-re they make many slopea and gegnee, by ruhblng on their naked side, and wamhling from side to side. but thoee who were their chief command- era, and such who horo the plrnle standarts. who led ihe van and drove the rear, wen ril'l,t well mounted of their gear; with brogues, treuea, and plrnle plaidea, willi umidehlew bonuets on their heads. which on the one side had a fllpe adorned with a tohacco-pipe. with durk and snupwork, and suuff- mlllo, a hag which they with onions flll, and, as their strick ohservers say, a tuhe-horn fllled with usqnehay, a slashed out coat heneath her plaidea, a targe of timher, nalles, und hides, with a long two-handed sword. as good's the country can affoord, had they not need of hulk and hones who fight with all these arms at once? it's marvellous how in such weather, o'er hill and hop they came together, how in such storms they came so far; the reason is, they're smeared with tar, which doth defeud them heel and neck, just as k does their sheep protect; but least ye douht that this he trew. they're just the colour.of tarr'd wool. * tol. iil, p. . ] vol. iii., p. . .] lord macaulay and the higblands of scotland. nought like religion they retain, of moral honestle they're clean; in nothing they're acconwed sharp, except in hagpipe and in harpe. for a miaohiiging word she'll durk her neighhour over the hoord; and then she'll flee like flre from flint, she'll scarcely ward the second dint. if any ask her of her tbrift, foresooth her naln sella liveshy thin."* cleland'a picture of the " higbland host" may pass well enough with gilray's caricatures of napoleon's army. as an illustration of what people said and thought, it is valu- ahle; as a record of facts it is worth- less. a far greater satirist, some years later, drew a french officer preparing his own diuner hy spitting half-a-dozen frogs on his rapier, and a clare - market hutcher tossing a french postillion, with a large port- manteau on his hack, hodily over his shoulder with one hand. even lord macaulay could hardly cite hogarth to prove the diet of the french army, or the proportion of muscular strength of the two nations respectively. lord macaulay's total want of perception of humour, of the power of distinguishing a grotesque play of fancy from the solemn assertion of a fact, leads him into numerous errors. we now come to lord macaulay's principal authority — " almost all these circumstances," he says (with a special exception of the tar in honour of colonel cleland), "are taken from burt's letters."! here, then, we arrive at the fountain-head. burt's letters were first puhlished ia . they were written twenty or thirty years earlier—that is to say, ahout the latter end of the reigu of george i. burt was a man of ahil- ity, and possessed considerahle power of ohservation; hut he was a cox- comh and a cockney. he was quartered at inverness with some hrother officers, one of whom at- tempted to ride "tbrough a rain- how,"j and another hecame so terri- fied on a hill-side (where there was, he it ohserved, a horse-road) that in panic terror he clung to the heather on the mountainside, and remained there till he was rescued hy two of his own soldiers.ji others of the party attempted to ascend to the top of lien nevis, " hut could not attain it."ii they related on their return that this "wild expedition," unsuc- cessful as it was, '• took them up a whole summer's day from five in the morning." they returned thankful that they had escaped the mists, in which, had they heen caught, they "must have perished with cold, wet, and hunger."i[ burt himself travell- ed on horsehack, with a sumpter- horse attending him. with this equi- page he attempted to ride over a hog, and got hogged as he deserved; next he tried hog-trotting on foot, in heavy jackhoots with high heels,** with little hetter success. old hock, claret, and french hrandy were ne- cessary to his comfort—he nauseated at the taste of whisky and the smell of peat. he has left a minute ac- count of his personal adventures dur- ing an expedition into the higblands in octoher —. his route we have attempted in vain to trace. he met with had weather, and was forced to take refuge in a "hut." let us hear the description which this fine gentleman has left of his quarters under the most disadvantageous cir- cumstances: — " my fare," he says, "was a couple of roasted hens (as they call them), very poor, new killed, the skins much hroken with plucking, hlack with smoke, and greased with had hutter.ft as i had no great ap- petite to that dish, i spoke for some hard eggs, made my supper of the yolks, and washed them down with a hottle of good small claret. my hed had clean sheets and hlankets. . . . . for want of anything more proper for hreakfast, i took up with a little hrandy, water, sugar, and yolks of eggs heat up together, which i think they called ' old man's milk.'" we have many a time ourselves heen thankful for far worse fare than this, a chuple of fowls hrandered, fresh eggs, hutter not to he commended, good light claret, hrandy-and-water hot, with clean sheets and a clear turf fire — not had chance-quarters, * clelajtd's higbland host, pp. , . § bcbt, vol. ii., p. . | p. . *• p. . ff vol. ii., p. . f vol. iii., p. . % p. s. \ vol. ii., p. . [aug. lord macaulay and the higblands of scotland. when ft suow-storm was howling down the glens, whirling madly round the mountains, and heating on the roof which sheltered the thankless cockney. better, at any rate, than he deserved. burt saw nothing in the "l.:imi of hrown hcath and shaggy wood, land of the mountain and the flood," hut ridges of " rngged irregular lines," those which "appear next to the ether heing rendered extremely harsh to the eye hy appearing close to that diaphanous hody." avhat he thinks "the most horrid, is to look at the hills from east to west, or vice versa;" and he sighs for "a poetical moun- tain, smooth and easy of ascent, clothed with a verdant flowery turf, where shepherds tend their flocks, sitting under the shade of tall pop- lars." * burt was a "sir flame, of amher snuff-hox ustly vain, and the nice manage of a clouded cane." richmond hill was fairer in his eye than ben cruachan. i!e measures the terrors of a mountain - pass hy saying that it was " twice as high as the cross of st. paul's is from ludgate hill.''t from the top of his hat to the sole of his shoe he was a cockney, one of those men for whose eyes the foxglove hangs its hauner out in vain, who trample the wild violet remorselessly under the soles of their varnished hoots, who see nothing hut gloomy purple in that heather whose hloom even the truth of eye and skill of hand of creswick or richardson fuils to transfer in all its richness and all its tenderness to canvass or to paper, whose eyes are hlind to the countless heauties of the hrown winter wood, and whose ears are deaf to that melody in the sough of the wind tbrough the leafless trees, which never failed to awaken kin- dred poetry in the soul of burns. we have no douht that a london dining- room is more agreeahle to all lord macaulay's senses than the wildest glen in which stag ever crouched among the hracken, and that mr. edwin chadwick would rather lay his nose to the grating of a sewer than inhale the sweetest hreeze that ever came love-laden with the kisses of the honeysuckle from the shores of iunisfallen. yet even burt, as we have seen, in no way supports lord macaulay's description. the risk of murder and rohhery, so elo- quently dilated upon hy lord mac- aulay, is disposed of at once hy burt in the following passage :— "personal rohheries are seldom heard of among them. for my own part, i have several times, with a single servant, passed the mountain-way from henco to edinhurg with four or five hundred guineas in my portmanteau, without any apprehension of rohhers hy the way or danger in my lodgings at night; though in my sleep any one, with ease, might have tbrust a sword from the outside tbrough the wall of the hut and my hody to- gether. i tvish we cxm say as much of our own country, civilised as it is said to he, though we cannot he safe in going from london to highgate," this is the witness lord macanlay produces to prove the imminent peril a traveller in the higblands was in of heing " stripped and mangled" hy marauders, and his eyes given as a meal to the eagles! neither burt nor prank intimate that they were ever in the slightest personal danger of this kind. the precipices and the torrents, on the dangers of which lord macaulay dilates, are precisely the same now that they were a hundred years ago; the risk of falling from the former depends on the quantity of whisky the traveller may have imhihed, and is no greater than it is on the top of sleive league or the pass of striden edge. the perils of the ford de- pend on the skill and care of those who traverse it. we ourselves were of a party, hut two years ago, in the north of ross, when two ladies, a pony, and a hasket - carriage, were, to use lord macaulay's maguiloquent expression, "suddenly whirled away hy the hoiling waves of a torrent." the pony swam as higblands ponies know how to swim. as for the pre- cious freight, they, like ophelia, "fell in the weeping hrook; their cloaths eproad wide, and mermaid-like awhile did hear them up." * br/bt, vol . it, p. . t vol . ii., p. . x vol. ii., p. . .] lord macavxay and the highlands of scotland. thus happily rescued from "muddy death," they shook down their long wet tresses, wrung out" their gar- ments heavy with their drink," and joined heartily in the laughter which followed close upon the momentary alarm occasioned hy the adventure. all depends, in these cases, upon laying hold of the right handle. a man whose head turns giddy at the top of a precipice, who fears to walk tbrough a stream up to his middle, who caunot feed well and sleep sound on such fare and in such quarters as captain burt thought it a hardship to he compelled to take up with a hundred and fifty years ago, who detests whiskey and peat-smoke, had hetter keep out of the higblands, where he would he as much out of place as lord macaulay attempting to ride across leicestershire with mr. little gilmour or lord forester. the idea of making one's supper upon a cake composed of oats and cow's hlood is not agreeahle. but it must he rememhered that this is mentioned hy burt* not as fare that had ever heen set hefore himself or any other traveller, hut as an expe- dient resorted to " hy the lower order of higblanders" in seasons of extra- ordinary scarcity; and after all, we may fairly ask ourselves whether our disgust is not more moved hy the revolting description than hy the actual diet itself. did lord macau- lay of rotbley, in the county of leicester, never eat hlack-pudding or lamh's tails? hoth of which, we can assure him, are esteemed delicacies in that part of the world. if he did, what would he think of seeing his repast descrihed in the following mauner? "at diuner a pudding composed of grain fit only for horses, mixed with the hlood and fat of a pig, and hoiled in a hag formed of the intestines of the same unclean heast, was set hefore him. this was followed hy a dish composed of joints cut with a knife from the hodies of living lamhs, whose plaintive hleat- ings, as they wriggled their hleeding stumps within hearing and sight, did not disturh the appetite of the guest. such was the diet which a peer, a poet, and a historian did not think uupalatahle in the middle of the nineteenth century."! one might go on ad infinitum with similar illus- trations. sbrimps are esteemed uni- versally, we helieve, to he delicate viands, and are especially in favour with the visitors at margate and herne bay, who call them " swimps." what would he the effect upon mr. and mrs. tomkins, and all the mas- ter and miss tomkinses, as they re- turn home hy the gravesend hoat, if they were told that they had feasted for a week upon ohscene reptiles, fed upon the putrid flesh of dead dogs and drowned sailors, and packed in earthen vessels covered with rancid hutter? lord macaulay, we pre- sume, does not visit rosherville, hut#j prohahly he eats "swimps" some- where; and we have no douht that he spreads the trail of a woodcock upon a toast (first carefully extract- ing the sandhag), and swallows it with a relish which we should he sorry to interfere with hy descrihing how the fine flavour which delights his palate is produced. it is ahsurd to look too minutely into these mat- ters, hut a very little reflection will show that it is equally ahsurd to rely upon them as heing necessarily indi- cations of harharism. that there were and still are huts in the higblands which swarm with vermin, and whose inhahitants are suhject to cutaneous diseases, we are hy no means disposed to deny. un- happily the same thing may he said with truth of every county in eng- land, nay, of every parish in london. within a stone's tbrow of st. james's palace, garrets may he found the in- hahitants of which suffer from all the maladies in lord macaulay's loath- some catalogue, and more to hoot. * vol. ii., p. . f this fact is alluded to in a heautiful hallad, some stanzas of which have heen landed down to our own day, and which tells us that when u little bo-peep had lost her sheep. and didn't know where to find them; she- found them indeed, but ll uiado lur heart hleed, for they'd left their toils hehind them." [aug. lord macaulaij and the highlands of scotland. that outrages revolting to humanity have heen, and as long as the pas- sions and vices of human nature re- main what they are, will again he perpetrated in the higblands, as well as in every other place where man has set his foot, we freely admit. few years have passed since, in the very heart of london, a wretched woman was hrutally murdered in the course of her miserahle and degraded pro- fession, and the murderer, for aught we know, still walks the streets in safety. not many months ago, one mangled corpse was dropped over the parapet of waterloo bridge, and another, stripped naked, was tbrown into a ditch within five miles of hyde park corner; in neither case has the murderer heen hrought to justice. if we were disposed to paint a picture of the state of london after the mauner of lord macaulay, from these materials (facts, he it remem- # hered, recorded not in a lampoon or satire, hat on the registers of the police and the reports of coroners' inquests), what a den of assassins, what a seething caldron of vice and profligacy, what an ahode of crime, disease, misery, and despair, might we represent the metropolis of the british empire to he burt, as we have said, was a cockney. hia highest idea of sport was a little quiet hare-hunting. it was not until many years latter that somerville (to whose memory he all honour paid) sketched a character now happily not uncommon. it was reserved for us in the present day to see the keenest sportsman, the hest rider to hounds, the most enduring deer-stalker, and most skilful angler, at the same time an accomplished scholar, an eloquent writer, an orator, and a statesman.* amongst the wits of the reigu of queen aune, the fox- hunting country squire was the con- stant suhject of ridicule. burt aped their mode of thought, and it will he seen that his picture of the english squire is fully as uupleasing as that of the higbland laird; it will he seen also how little foundation the latter, hostile and prejudiced as it is, affords for lord macanlay's representation of him as a filthy treacherous savage, who held rohhery to he a calling "not merely iunocent hut honour- ahle," who revenged an insult hy a "stah in the hack," and who, whilst he was "taking his ease, fighting, hunting, or marauding," compelled his "aged mother, his preguant wife, and his tender daughters" to till the soil and to reap the harvest.t burt thus compares the english fox-hunter and the higbland lsird: — "the first of these characters," (he says) "is, i own, too trite to he given you—hut this hy way of comparison. the squire is proud of his estate and affluence of fortune, loud and positive over his octoher, impatient of contradic- tion, or rather will give no opportunity for it; hut whoops and halloos at every interval of his own talk, as if the com- pany were to supply the ahsence of his hounds. the particular characters of the pack, the various occurrences in a chase, where jowler is the eternal hero, make the constant topic of his discourse, though perhaps none others are interest- ed in it and his favourites, the tren- cher-hounds, if they please, may lie un- disturhed upon chairs and counterpanes of silk; and upon the least cry, though not hurt, his pity is excited more lor them than if one of his children had hroken a limh; and to that pity his anger succeeds, to the terror of the whole family. "the laird is national, vain of the numher of his followers and his ahsolute command over them. in case of contra- diction he is loud and imperious, and even dangerous, heing always attended hy those who are hound to support'his arhitrary sentiments. "the great antiquity of his family, and the heroic actions of his ancestors, in their conquest upon the enemy clans, is the inexhaustihle theme of his con- versation; and, heing accustomed to do- minion, he imagines himself, in his u^ky, to he a sovereigu prince, and, as i said hefore, fancies he may dispose of heads at his pleasure. • that this is a true picture of a numerous class, will he admitted hy all. to the minds of those who ever had the happiness to meet him, on the moor, in the field, in the house of commons, or at his own fireside, or who are acquainted with his admirahle essays on agriculture, the late mr. thomas gishorne of yoxal lodge will at once occur as one of the most remarkahle examples of that class. t vol. lit, p. . .] lord macaulay and the highlands of scotland. "thus one of them places his vanity in his fortune, and his pleasure in his hounds. the other's pride is in his lineage, and his delight is in command, hoth arhitrary in their way; and this the excess of liquor discovers in hoth. so that what little difference there is hetween them, seems to arise from the accident of their hirth; and if tho ex- change of countries had heen made in their infancy, i make no douht hut each might have had tho other's place, as they stand separately descrihed in this letter. on the contrary, in like mauner as we have many country gentlemen, merely such, of great humanity and agreeahle (if not general) conversation; so in tho higblands i have met with some lairds who surprised mo with their good sense and polite hehaviour; heing so far removed from tho more civilised part of tho world, and consider- ing the wildness of the country, which one would think was sufficient of itself to give a savage turn to a mind tho most humane."* it may perhaps he said that lord macaulay makes amends to the high- lands for his groundless slanders hy his equally groundless flattery. that the higbland gentleman has no right to complain of his stating that his clothes were '• hegrimed with the ac- enmulated filth of years," and that he dwelt in a hovel that "smelt worse than an english hogstye," hecause he says in the next line that he did the honours of his hogstye with a "lofty courtesy worthy of the most splendid circle of versailles." that '• in the higbland councils men who would not have heen qualified for the duty of parish clerks" (hy which, if he means anything, lord macaulay must mean that they were not" men of sweet voice and hecoming gravity to raise the psalm," like the famous p. p. clerk of this parish), "argued questions of peace and war, of trihute and homage, with ahility worthy of halifax and carmarthen," and that "minstrels who did not know their letters" pro- duced poems in which the "tender- ness of otway" was mingled with "the vigour of dryden." what the honours of a hogstye may he—-whe- ther halifax or carmarthen could "adventure to lead the psalm," or exercised themselves in "singing godly hallads," or what kind of verses were produced hy minstrels who were unahle to commit them to writing, and whose productions have conse- quently not come down to our day— we know not. but, to quote a homely proverh, two hlacks do not make u white, and to call a man a thief, a murderer, and a filthy, ahject, iguo- rant, illiterate savage, in one line, and to descrihe him as gracefel, dig- nified, and fell of nohle sensihility and lofty courtesy, with the intellect of a statesman and the genins of a poet, in the next, gives one ahout as accurate a picture of his mind and mauners as one would ohtain of his features hy two reflections taken the one vertically and the other horizon- tally in the howl of a silver spoon. lord macanlay's taste for, and, we are hound lo add, his extensive knowledge of, the most wortble>s productions that have survived from the time of the revolution to our own day, is amusing. it is a class of literature, which would have made grandpapa mills's hair stand on end. it is enough to make the staid old quaker turn in his grave to think of his graceless grandson flirt- ing with mrs. manley and afra bebu. from the latter lady he cites fa" coarse and prophane scotch poem," descrihing, in terms which he is too modest to quote, "how the first hielandman was made." possihly it is the same mo- desty, and a feeling of reluctance to corrupt his readers, which has in- duced lord macaulay to cite a vol- ume in which this poem is not to he found. in that volume, however, there happens to he a description of a dutchman equally indecent, and, though lord macaulay may perhaps not admit it, equally worthy of helief. porlraits of irishmen, just as authentic, ahound in the farces which were popular a few years later; and even now the english gen- tlemen on the french stage, with his mouth full of " roshif" and "god- dams," tbreatens to " sell his vife at smitfield." if lord macaulay's new zealander should take to writing history afar * bnnt, vol. iii. p. . + vol. iii. p. . [aug. lord macaulay and the highlands of scotland. the fashion of his great progenitor, he may perhaps paint the welsh in col- oars similar to and upon authorities as trustworthy as those lord macaulay has used and relied upon in his picture of the scotch. if he does, his descrip- tion will he something of the following kind :— "in tho days of queen victoria, the inhahitant of the principality was a savage and a thief. he suhsisted hy plunder. the plough was unknown. he suatched from his more industrious neighhour his flocks and his herds. when the flesh he thus ohtained was ex- hausted, he guawed the hones like a dog, until hunger compelled him again to visit the homesteads and larders of england. with all the vices, ho had few or none of the virtues of tho savage. he was ungrateful and inhospitahle. that this was his character is proved hy verses which still re-echo in tho nur- series of belgrave square and along the marches of wales:— 'taffy was a welshman, taffy was a thief; taffy came to my house, stole a piece of heef. i went to taffy's house, taffy was from home; taffy came to my house, stole a luarrow-tone.'- this is every hit as authentic as lord macaulay s description of the higblanders. such history may he supplied in any quantity and at the shortest notice. all that is necessary is a volume of cotemporary lampoons, a hundle of political songs, or a memory in which such things are stored, and which may save the trouhle of reference. the genins it requires is a genins for heing ahusive. the hanks of the thames and the cam furnish ahundance of professors, male and female, of the art of vitu- peration, hut as lord macaulay, from his frequent repetition of the same terms of ahuse, seems to have ex- hausted his "derangement of epi- taphs," we would recommend him to turn to viner's ahridgment, title action for words, where he will find one hundred and thirty folio pages of scolding, from which he may select almost any pbrase of ahuse and vituperation, with the advantage of knowing also the nice distinctions hy which the law has decided what words are and what are not action- ahle, which may he used with im- punity against the living, and which mast he reserved for the safe slander of the dead. .] leaders of the reformation. leaners of ihe reformation: luther—calvin—latimer—knox. principal tulloch has given ua here a masterly delineation of four of the chief leaders, or heroes, of the reformation — luther, calvin, lati- mer, and knox. in our judgment, he has reproduced each one of these characters with historical fidelity, and accompanied his portraiture with reflections of a higbly intelli- gent and liheral description—liheral, generous, and indulgent, hut such as never compromise his own genuine convictions, such as never sacrifice truth to courtesy. professor tul- loch very fairly represents the sin- cere and enlightened protestantism of the nineteenth century. we have only one difficulty in reviewing his hook : we find so few opportunities for dissent; we caunot pick a quarrel with our author; we must content ourselves with ohservations of a col- lateral or explanatory character; we may here and there extend or qualify some of his remarks. we wish that to the four names he has selected our author had added a fifth—that of cranmer. we should he sorry to lose the spirited sketch of latimer ; hut if any one man can he said to represent the reformation in england, it is cranmer; and if the numher four was to he preserved, and each of the four was to represent his own nation, the archhishop of canterhury ought to have occupied the place of the sturdy preacher at st paul's cross. moreover, our re- forming archhishop has heen lately treated, hy more than one writer, with undue severity; and we think he would have received a fair measure of justice at the hands of principal tulloch: not that he would have heen a favourite with the principal — we rather suspect not — hut we should have counted on a generous and considerate estimate of the man. a reforming archhishop who lived much in courts, and who had to ad- vance his cause hy influence with monarchs, and not hy passionate ap- peals to the puhlic, caunot he expect- ed to display the straightforward simple heroism of a john knox, who is seen standing at the head of a quite repuhlican movement. per- haps he may still, at some future time, fall into the hands of our im- partial yet generous critic. of the four great names which, in the meanwhile, stand here hefore us,- luther naturally takes the first place. of no man, perhaps, who ever lived upon this earth, have so many and such contradictory things heen writ- ten ; no man ever had such applaud- ing friends and such villifying foes; and we may safely prophesy that, as long as cbristendom endures, his name and fame will he the theme of angry controversy. not only is it impossihle that the catholic and the protestant should agree in their esti- mate of this man and the work he accomplished; hut even to protest- ants he presents so many phases of character — he and his writings may he seen under so many different lights—that any steady uniform judg- ment is almost unattainahle. we have most of us felt how difficult it is to preserve at all times that high regard for the great german reformer which we could willingly cherish, and which we have prohahly received from our earliest reading and from standard historical authorities. there is one course only to he pursued, hy which we may hope to keep a stead- fast judgment—it is the course which our author pursues, and which, in- deed, is generally pursued, only not with sufficient consistency. we must not at once compare him with con- temporary scholars or philosophers, nor must we merely turn over his writings to estimate the man; we must treat him historically. we must hegin with the monk—with the leaders of the reformation: luther, calvin, latimer, knox. by john tulloch, d.d., principal and primarins professor of theology in st. mary's college, st andrews. vol. lxxxvl [aug. leaders of the reformation: peasant monk of germany; and we must not afterwards forget that this was our starting-point. we have a pions, poor, superstitious monk—the son of a german peasant, and a man of genins withal—and we have to watch the development of such a one at an era when learning was penetrating into the monastery. it is the development in this monk of a form of cbristian piety that we have to watch — a form of what is often called mystical piety developed in defiance of the church, extended amongst the people, and comhated for in the scholastic learning of the times. it is not our intention to go over the well-known hiography of luther, hut from the day when he vows that "god willing, he will heat a hole in tetzel's drum," to those last fretful years of his life when he predicts the end of all things—sees the whole world on the very eve of destruction — nature herself in final dissolution—hecause he, martin lu- ther, with the epistles of st. paul in his hand, has not heen received hy universal cbristendom — we trace tbroughout the continuous develop- ment of one form of cbristian piety. this constituted the strength of the reformation. our german monk, a man of fervent genins, far outsteps the religion of such priests and con- fessors as surrounded him. he is not satisfied with any attainahle standard of moral rectitude. his spirit seeks a union with the spirit of god, and he yearns after a purity of heart which will justify such aspi- ration. it is a form of piety which appears in every epoch amongst soli tary thinkers, with whom religious meditation has hecome a passion. in this instance it steps heyond the cloister to do hattle with the church. eanke, the historian of the reforma- tion, states it well — "' oh my sins, my sins, my sins !' writes our monk to staupitz, who was not a little astonished when he received the con- fession of ho sorrowful a penitent, and found that he had no sinful acts to acknowledge. his anguish was the struggle of the creature after the purity of the creator, to whom it leels itself profoundly and intimately allied, yet from whom it is severed hy an immeasurahle gulf—a feeling which luther nourished hy incessant solitary hrooding, and which had taken the more complete possession of him hecause no penance had power to appease it, no doctrine truly touched it, no confessor would hear of it.'' when, therefore, it is popularly said that the right of private judg- ment was the principle estahlished hy the reformation, this statement is only correct if we are speaking of a great result of the whole move- ment. it is plainly erroneous if we are speaking of the principle which animated luther and other of the early reformers. that which ani- mated tliem was a most dogmatic assertion of their own great doctrine of religion. in making this assertion they gave, whether they intended it or not, a conspicuous example of the freedom of private judgment. but left to themselves, they would very willingly have limited this freedom to those who would have used it in exactly the same mauner as they did. principal tulloch very ahly points this out. "it remains for us to inquire con- cerning tho main thought that moved luther and animated him in all his work. it requires hut little penetration to discover that he was possessed hy such a thought — that a profound principle, a single inspiring spiritual idea, ran tbrough the whole of tho great move- ment, aud more than anything else gave direction aud strength and trinmph to it it was characteristically a spiritual revolt — an n wakening of tho individual couscienco in tho light of the old gospel, for centuries imprisoned and ohscured in the dim chamhers of men's traditions, hut now at length hreaking forth with renewed radiance. this was the life and essence of luther's own personal struggle, and this it rij which formed the spring of all his la- hours, and gavo them such a pervading aud mighty energy. tho principle of moral individualism—of the free respon- sihle relation of every soul to god—this it is which stamps the movement of luther with its characteristic impress, and more than any other thing enahles us to understand its power and success, it is nothing else than what we call, in theological language, justification hy faith alone, hut wo prefer to apprehend it in this more general and ethical form of expression." .] luther— calvin—latimer—knar. but this individualism in religion, as the principal has desiguated it — this personal union (as we should prefer to descrihe it) with the divine being as he exists in the second person of the trinity, could not he taught as the sole essential, the ™m and suhstance of cbristianity, with- out involving in itself a rehellion against the catholic church. the right of private judgment, or the duty to think for ourselves, was ne- cessarily mingled up with this doc- trine of justification hy faith alone. the man must dare to think in op- position to the church who can hope to he saved independently of the church. and again, whilst he helieves that his salvation is partly due to the sacraments of the church, or to his memhership of the visihle church as it exists on earth, he can never ex- tricate himself entirely from the do- minion or authority of the hierarchy. thus this individual piety, which set aside every species of human or eartbly mediation, necessarily led to a rehellion against all human or priestly authority in the matter of religious doctrine. but, continues our author— "it was very far from luther's inten- tions, even after ho had entered ou his contest with rome, to assert what has heen called the right of private jndg- ment in matters of religion. even in the end he did not fully understand or admit the validity of this principle; and yet so lar there was no other resting- ground for him. he was drivon to claim for himself freedom of opinion in the light of scripture as tho only posi- tion on which, with any consistency, he could stand. accordingly, when press- ed to retract his views at worms, when it was clearly made manifest that au- thority, catholic and imperial, was against him, he holdly took his ground here in maguanimous and always me- morahle words. for himself ho said, 'unless i he convinced hy scripture or hy reason, i can and will retract no- thing; for to act against my conscience is neither safo nor honest. here i stand.' . . . "it is too well known, howover, that neither he nor any of his fellow-reform- erg recoguised the full meaning and hearing of this position. they knew what their own necessities demanded, hut that was all. they raised the en- sigu of a free bihle in the face of rome, hut they speedily refused to allow oihers to fight under this hauner as well as themselves. what luther claimed for himself against catholic authority, he refused to carlstadt and refused to zwingle, in favour of their more liheral doctrinal views. ho failed to see that their position was exactly his own, with a difference of result, which indeed was all the difference in the world to him.'' most true: luther issued from his monastery with all the spirit of a martyr for his faith; he was pre- pared to die, if necessary, for his faith. right of freedom of inquiry was not his cause. he defied the emperor and the pope, not in the name of humanity or the rights of man, hut in the name of the ever- living god. he looked direct to god for his support. he was ready to he a martyr for his faith — not for the ahstract cause of freedom of thought: that species of martyrdom has yet to appear amongst us, if it ever will. "scripture as a witness," thus principal tulloch eloquently concludes his chap- ter upon luther, "disappeared hehind tho augshurg confession as a standard; and so it happened more or less with all tho reformers. they were consistent in displacing tho church of rome from its position of assumed authority over tho conscience, hut they wero equally consistent all of them in raising a dog- matic authority in its stead. in favour of their own views, they asserted the right of private judgmeut to interpret and decide the meaning of scripture, hut they had nevertheless no idea of a really free interpretation of scripture. their orthodoxy everywhere appealed to scripture, hut it rested in reality upon an augustinian commentary of scripture. they displaced the medieval schoolmen, hut only to elevate augus- tine; and having done this, they had no conception of any limits attaching to this new trihunal of heresy. freedom of opinion, in tho modern sense, was utterly unknown to them. there was not merely an ahsolute truth in scrip- ture, hut they had settled hy the help of augustine what this truth was; and any variations from this standard were not to ho tolerated. the idea of a free faith holding to very different dogmatic views, and yet equally christian — tho idea of spiritual life anil goodness apart from theoretical orthodoxy — had not dawned in the sixteenth century, nor long afterwards. heresy was not a [aog. leaders of the reformation . mere divergence of intellectual appre- hension, hut a moral ohliquity—a statu- tory offence — to he punished hy the magistrate, to he expiated hy death. it is the strangest and most saddening of all spectacles to contemplate the slow and painful process hy which the hu- man mind has emancipated itself from the dark delusion that intellectual error " s a suhject of moral offence and punish- ment." but while our author thus repudi- ates the idea that the progressive intellect of man, which god lias created for forwtfrd and incessant action, should he checked and limited hy augshurg confessions, or any articles or formulas of faith into which cbristianity was re-cast at the time of the reformation, he never fails to do justice to the leaders of that movement and the great work they accomplished. we should will- ingly follow him in his delinea- tions of the personal character of luther, hut that other portions of his hook present the attraction of greater novelty. he does full jus- tice to the geniality and warmth of luther's nature, to his holdness and maguanimity, to his fervid genins; and, on the other hand, he does not spare the dogmatism that defaced his later years, or the superstition that accompanied him tbrough life. but we turn from the german re- former to one whose personal his- tory and character, if less interesting, are less generally known — to the second on the list, calvin. calvin is in many respects a con- trast to luther. of cold temper, suhtle and systematic in his theo- logy, his office was to give order and precision and completeness to the doctrines of the new church. if luther may he represented as the sturdy reaper entering first into the field with his scythe or reaping-hook, calvin may he said to follow after, hinding the scattered corn into sym- metrical sheaves, which he leaves standing there in due order in the open field. calvin must also have possessed great administrative talent; he was a man of action as well as of thought; he governed a city, gave laws to a repuhlic. he was the per- icles of geneva; or let us say that he was the lycurgus of the puritans. one thing is noticeahle in calvin's education: we find him, in his youth, alternately occupied with theology and jurisprudence. he enters first into the church, then transfers him- self to the study of the law, appa- rently at the desire of his father, who, himself a notary, thought pro- hahly that the legal profession would lead his very ahle son to higher advancement in life. this twofold study of theology and jurisprudence was training him for the part he played of legislator and clerical ora- tor of the repuhlican city of geneva. his religious convictions, however, finally determined him to devote his mind to theology, and these convic- tions led him also gradually to take his stand with the reformers. "slowly hut surely he passed over to the protestant ranks, in a mauner en- tirely contrasted with that of luther, even ns his mind and character wcro so wholly different we traco no strug- gling steps of dogmatic conviction — no profound spiritual agitations — no crisis, as in the case of the german reformer. wo only learn that, from heing an ap- parently satisfied and devoted adherent of popery, he adopted, with a quiet hut steady and zealous faithfulness, the new opinions. ho himself, indeed, in his preface, when commenting on the psalms, speaks of his conversion heing a sudden one; and to his own reflection after- wards it may have seemed that the clear light hegan to dawn upon him all at once; hut the facts of his life seem rather to show it in tho light in which we have represented it, as a gradual aml consistent growth undor the influences which surrounded htm, first at orleans and then at bourges." we apprehend that these great changes of opinion may generally be descrihed as hoth sudden and gra- dual; that is, there was a gradual preparation for the change, a shaking here and there of old opinions, an introduction here and there of new thoughts and sentiments, and yet there was also one epoch, one day or hour, when the new point of view was once for all adopted, and the man suddenly hecame a cham- pion of the very doctrine he had heen contending against, perhaps persecuting. he had heen zealously arguing, zealously persecuting, up to .] luther—calvin—latimer—knox. the last moment; many misgivings had occurred to him; many admoni- tions or suspicions that there lay a great truth in the very creed he was denouncing, had heen silenced or rudely tbrust aside; hut his thoughts were nevertheless arrang- ing themselves after some new order, and he suddenly hecame aware that tin's was the doctrine, or the system, that he must henceforth teach and live hy. calvin proceeded to paris ( ), which at that time, under the teaching of lefevre and farel, had hecome a centre of the reformed faith. it was not long hefore he made such manifestations of his opi- nions as ohliged him to quit that city, and he shortly afterwards set- tled at basle. as it is not our intention to pro- ceed with any of these hiographies step hy step, we pass at once to cal- vin's counection with the city of gen- eva. this is related hy principal tul- loch hriefly, and yet with sufficient fulness to rer.der his account instruc- tive and valuahle as an historical summary. he descrihes in a few words the political condition of gen- eva at this time. a student of the middle ages might he delighted with the complication this presents. we have ihe feudal haron, the prince- hishop, the free city, all asserting their claim. geneva was a free city of the empire; hut first its hishop took the lion's share of the temporal rnle; then the hishop does not exer- cise his power directly, hut tbrough ao officer called a vidomme (vice- dominus), and this officer or vidomme hecomes hereditary in the dukes of savoy. in the hegiuning of the six- teenth century we find the hishop aiding the duke to destroy whatever remained of the free city, or of the liherties of the genevese. the citi- zens rose in arms. "by the help of the free helvetian states, particularly berne and frihourg, the patriots triumphed, the friends of savoy were hanished, the vidommate aholished, and its powers transferred to a hoard of magistrates." the conduct of its hishops would naturally alienate the genevese from the ancient hierarchy, and when the reformer farel made his appearance in the city ( ), he found a large party ready to join him. it was not without a sharp struggle, however, that the reformed faith had hecome estahlished as the religion of the repuhlic, and farel and his coadjutors were still heset hy many difficulties when calvin providentially came to their aid. he came to geneva for a single day; he stayed to make a con- fession of fnith for a whole city. he came as a mere traveller, anxious only to advance upon his journey; he stayed to legislate for and to govern a repuhlic "his old friend tillet, now in geneva, discovered who the traveller was, and apprised farel of his discovery. situ- ated as farel then was, almost alone, with the reformation hut partly accom- plished, and the elements of disturhance smouldering around him, the advent of calvin seemed to him an interposition of divine providence. he hastened to see him, and set hefore him his claims lor assistance, and the work of god so ohviously awaiting him. but calvin was slow to move. he urged his desire to study, and he serviceahle to all churches, rather than to attach himself to any one church in particular. he would fain have yielded to the intellectual hias so strong in him, and did not yet ac- knowledge to himself the still stronger instinct for practical government that lay hehind his intellectual devotion. by some strange insight, however, farel penetrated to the higher fitness of the young slranger who stood hefore him; and he ventured, in the spirit of that daring enthusiasm which characterised him, to lay the curse of god upon him and his studies if he refused his aid to the church in the time of need. this, which seemed to calvin a divine men- ace, had the desired efi'ect 'it was,' he said, 'as if god had seized me hy his awful hand from heaven.' he ahan- doned his intention of pursuing his jour- ney, and joined eagerly with farel in the work of reformation." he was immediately elected as theacher of theology. in a short time, hoth as preacher and as coun- cillor, his influence was supreme. it is well known with what severity our evangelical lycurgus ruled his repuhlic. not only was vice pun- ished, hut frivolity was restrained. dress and the diuner were laid under strict regulations; all holidays, ex- cept sunday, if that could rank as a [aug. leaders of the reformation i holiday, were aholished. even a hride might not wear her flowing tresses, nor was she to he welcomed to her new home with noise and revelry. the very numher of the dishes at the wedding feast was made a suhject of legislation. it is rememhered still hy those who rememher nothing else of calvin, that he laid sacrilegious hand upon the marriage feast. an old man who pointed out to our au- thor the supposed resting-place of the reformer, seemed to have little other idea of calvin than as the man who limited the numher of dishes at diuner! these unwise and vexations re- strictions led to a reaction or rehellion against the government of the re- former. a party arose who hear the name of the lihertines, who succeeded in chasing him out of the city. for tbree years calvin was a hanished man. iianished to his privacy and his hooks, the exile was no douht sufficiently content. he could do without geneva far hetter than geneva could do without him. the lihertines could not govern the city, and calvin was recalled. that party, he it what it may, which can give to a community the indispensahle hless- ings of order and law, must rule. the government of calvin, whatever its defects, was wanted at that mo- ment. it has this palpahle justifica- tion. he who alone can give a peo- ple order—saint or siuner—calvin or napoleon, steps hy right into the seat of power. nor when calvin returned did he ahate in the least the severity of his rule; on the contrary, he re- fused to respond to the invitation of the citizens till lie had evidence of their willinguess to suhmit to the re-estahlishment of the reformed dis- cipline. "the great code of ecclesiastical and moral legislation, which guided hoth the consistory and council, was the produc- tion of calvio. it wis sworn to hy the whole of tho people in a (treat assemhly in st. peter's, on the th novemher l. it not only laid down general rules, hut entered with the most r'.gorous control into all the affairs of private life. from his cradle to his grave the genevese citizen was pursued hy its inquisitorial eye. ornaments for the persoo, the shape and leugth of the hair, the modes of dress, the very numher of dishes for diuner, were suhjected to special regula- tion. wedding presents are only per- mitted within limits; and at hetrothals, marriages, or haptisms, houquets must not he encircled with gold or jewelled with pearls or other precious stones. "the registers of geneva remain to show with what ahundant rigour these regulations were carried out. it is a strange and mournful record, wiih ludi- crous lights crossing it here and there. a man hearing an ass hray, and saying jestingly, 'ii chante un heau psaume,' is sentenced to temporary hamshment from the city. a young girl in church singing the words of a song to a psalm-tnue, is ordered to he whipped hy her parents. tbree children are punished, hecause, dur- ing the sermon, instead of going to church, they remained outside to eat cakes." and so the list goes on, intermin- gled with some cases of terrihle se- verity. death itself is inflicted upon a child where the rod has heen alwajs held to he the appropriate punishment. but since calvin hased all his laws on the authority of scripture, where, it may he asked, was the error he committed? his consistorial discip- line, and the like, he declares to he "the yoke of cbrist," and his whole system of polity is presumed to rest upon the divine word—and ought not this sacred authority to decide upon every portion of our lives? surely there is a visihle church to he erected on earth according to the pattern of the invisihle church ahove—or, in the language of st. augustine, a civitas dei to he estahlished hy cbristians — else for what purpose have men hecome cbristians? how many nohle spirits have lahoured and thought over this civitas dei, this kingdom of god to he instituted on earth — and could calvin have heen wrong in his attempt to model geneva into this civitas dei? certainly not. bnt the mistake of calvin, as principal tulloch will tell us, was, that instead of seeking to infuse the spirit of cbristianity into all our relations of life — instead of making the grand fundamental principle of the religion the ground of all his laws—he sought for specific laws in texts of scrip- ture appropriate to other times, and sought hy external regulations to construct a kingdom of heaven which must always grow from within. ] ! luther—calvin—latimer—knox. "did not calvin estahlish his church polity and church discipline upon scrip- ture?—and is not this a warrantahle course? assuredly not in the spirit in which he did it the fundamental source of the mistake is here: the cbristian scriptures are a revelation of divine truth, and not a revelation of church polity. they not only do not lay down the outline of such a polity, hut they do not even give the adequate and conclu- sive hints of one. and for the hest of all reasons, that it would have heen entirely contrary to the spirit of christianity to have done so; and hecause in point of fact, the conditions of human progress do not admit of the imposition of any unvarying system of government, eccle- siastical or civil. the system adapts itself to the life, everywhere expands with it, ornarrowswithit, hut is nowhere in any particular form the ahsolute con- difion of life. a definite outline of church polity, therefore, or a definite code of social ethics, is nowhere given in the new testament; and the spirit of it is entirely hostile to the ahsolute asser- tion of one or the other. calvin, in truth, must have felt this sufficiently in his constant appeal to the spirit and de- tails of the old testament legislation. the historical confusion, in this respect, in which he and all his ago shared, was a source of fruitful error here as else- where." while, on the one hand, calvin had to contend for his government and discipline with the citizens, he had, on the other hand, to do in- cessant hattle with theologians for his doctrine. he had wrought the confession of augshurg into a sys- tem which, for a certain method and consistency, has won the admiration of all parties, hut which nevertheless, in more points than one, has heen often declared to offend the common- sense of mankind, as well as to con- tradict the general current of scrip- tural language. it coold not he ex- pected that such a system should he unassailed; nor can we he surprised that, at a period of great mental ac- tivity, others hesides luther and calvin chose to adopt hold views of their own. yet our spiritual ruler of geneva seemed to think that every heresy hut his own was a crime. and it must he added that he had put himself in such a position that his government depended on the predominance of his doctrine. it is worth the consideration of those who may still hanker after some civitas hei, such as calvin songht to estah- lish, that if municipal laws are hased on a system of divinity, the state has put it out of its power to he tole- rant; freedom of thought has hecome too intimately associated with diso- hedience to the laws. amongst the names of those whom calvin enters into controversy with, there is one which will assuredly ar- rest the reader: he will give his trihute of compassion to the poor scholar, sehastian castellio. the poor scholar, distinguished for his classical knowledge, hetook himself, in an evil hour, to controversial divi- nity. bat helonging to neither of the great factions, what couhi he- come of the unhefriended layman? poverty was the lightest evi!, the most lenient punishment, hy which he could have heen visited. we catch sight of him living alone, so poor that he goes out at night to pick up sticks for firewood on the hanks of the rhine. we must quote a sentence or two ahout this sehas- tian castellio. "calvin had hecome acquainted with castellio at strashurg. they seem at first to have warmly attracted one ano- ther; and calvin was, heyond all douht, for some timo very zealous in his friend- liness to the poor scholar, whose ingeni- ous spirit and classical acquirements had won his regard. on his return to ge- neva he invited him thither, and pro- cured for him the appointment of regent or tutor in the gymnasinm of the city. in reality, however, there were hut few points of sympathy hetween the two men. castellio's lesrning was intensely humanistic; his classical tastes and somewhat arhitrary criticism moulded all that he did; and especially as he aspired to he a theologian, and to carry this spirit into his scriptural studies, he soon came into conflict with calvin. . . . castellio desired to enter into the ministry; hut calvin advised the council that this was not expedient, on account of sortie peculiar opinions which he held. there were certain rationalistic views as to the authenticity and charac- ter of the song of solomon, the descent of cbrist into hell, and also ahout elec tion. irritated prohahly hy disappoint- ment, he now vehemently attacked cal- vin. after a violent scene in church, which is painted pertiaps with some ex, [aug. leaders qf the reformation: aggeration hy the reformer, he was forced to leave the city. the two old friends, now declared enemies, did not spare each other henceforth. castellio retired to basle, and amongst his other employments husied himself with a free criticism of the calvinistic doctrines. . . . it is hut a melancholy spectacle of polemical hatred on hoth tides; hut the truculence of the theologians, it must he confessed, hears off the palm. cas- tellio was no match for them in strength of argument or firm consistency of pur- pose. he lived on in great poverty at basle, cultivating his garden with his own hand, and without the means of fuel, as he sat up at night to finish his translation of the scriptures. he died in want in , the same year as cal- vin; and montaigue has given vent to his expression of shame for his age, that one so distinguished should have heen left to die so miserahly. a regretful memory lingers around his hlameless scholarly life,—pinching poverty and sad death, and especially the incident, so touching in its simplicity, of his going during the night to the hanks of the rhine to pick up pieces of drift-wood for his scanty fire—a story which was only elicited from him in answer to cal- vin's charge of his having stolen the wood —a fact sufficient to prove ihe diegrace- ful spnit in which these controversies were conducted, and how deservedly they are consigued to ohlivion." but the name which heyond all others has hecome inextricahly asso- ciated with our genevese reformer, is that of servetns. he, too, like calvin, came into geneva for a single day—came as a mere traveller, in- tending to quit it on the morrow: he stayed, hut not, like calvin, to have honour and power tbrust upon him. our traveller must needs wander into the church; there his great adversary was preaching. some one recoguised him, and carried the news to calvin. servetus, who had already hired a hoat to take him across the lake on his route to zurich, was arrested and tbrown into prison. he stayed to he tried for heresy, to he convicted, and to suffer a cruel death. "the wretched man was fastened to a stake surrounded hy heaps of oak-wood and leaves, with his condemned hook attached to his girdle. the wood was green, and did not hurn readily. some persons ran and fetched dry faggots, while his piercing sbrieks rent the air; and exclaiming fioally, 'jesus, thou son of the eternal god, have mercy upon me!' he passed from the doom of earth to a higher and fairer trihunal." it is needless, as principal tulloch remarks, to indulge in any further outcries on this memorahle crime. to contemporary theologians it needed no defence: happily, to the theologians of our day it admits of no excuse. we can only excuse and hitterly regret it, as a lamentahle fruit of the errors of the age. on the institutes of calvin, and on his doctrinal system, our author makes some excellent remarks, into which we should very willingly fol- low him if our space permitted. we must proceed to take a rapid glance at the two remaining reformers on his list—latimer and knox. the reformation emhraced two movements — a reform in doctrine and a reform in life. the two oh- jects were constantly intermingled. still there were, some men who at- tached themselves pre-eminently to the new doctrines, whilst others saw the reformation chiefly in the light of a revival of religion. of this lat- ter description was latimer. though he had emhraced the "new learning," he stands out conspicuously as a re- former of mauners and a teacher of practical personal piety. his claims to represent the reformation in eng- land we have already glanced at. principal tulloch, however, accepting him as the most "typical man" of his times, opens his hiographical sketch with some very sound ohserva- tions on the complicated nature of the reformatory movement in england. he justly ohserves that it was partly political and partly religious, and that the political opposition was the earlier of the two. "all along from the conquest such an opposition marks like a line of light the proud history of england, the grandest, hecause the richest in diverse historical ele- ments, that the world has ever seen. on from the memorahle struggles of the reigu of heury ii., when the political and ecclesiastical interests stamped the impress of their fierce contentions so strongly on the eng- lish character, rome appears as an alien and antagonistic power in the .] luther—calvin—latimer—knox. country." this is true, and we might his sackcloth, hut rehels, like a go hack to an earlier period than heury titan or an old norseman, against ii.: but it mnst he added that the the hand that emote him. he won't opposition to rome, or the ecclesias- he any the hetter for his chastisement, tical power was carried on hy the "the lord shall find no good in me, monarch as often against as with the for all the evil he has inflicted on current of popular feeling, and that me," says the incurahle heathen, it does not always run exactly " like can a greater contrast he found? a line of light," on the contrary, yet this william rufus was at his it is sometimes a mere dogged self- post, governing his harons and his willed opposition. nevertheless, one vassals, and keeping a free temporal feels it was, on the whole, the right monarchy for england. better this thing—wholesome, and having a cer- rude government than to have the tain rude reason in it. let us trans- scholastic divine in the seat of the fer ourselves to our first norman civil mngistrate. if anselm could kings, and compare them with such have controlled, first his own cor- prelates of the church as lanfranc rupt clergy, and tbrough them a rude and anselm. these latter represent and passionate people, this would have whatever the age could hoast of heen a temporary advantage, to he learning and of piety. we hail their followed hy all the depressing, ener- influence on england and on its stern vating influences which attend upon herons; yet we feel that their influ- a cbristian priesthood when it as- ence or power is such as might easily sumes municipal power. anselm in he carried too far; nor should we his contest with the king has to quit choose to have it estahlished in their england and journey to rome; we successors. we feel that the resist- catch a glimpse of him on his tru- ance of our rude norman kings to vels; he stays a while at lyons, and these italian hishops has a high there, savs lappenherg, "he had the meaning, a dim purpose, and, at all happiness of acting a distinguished events, a good result. our first wish part in the discussion of a point at would prohahly he to give to these that time of vital importance,—whe- representatives of learning, justice, ther the holy ghost proceeded solely and piety, the utmost influence they from the father." very fit it was could possihly exert over a church that one of the most eminent theolo- and a state hoth on the very verge of gians of the day should take part in harharism; hut, on further reflection, a discussion then deemed of vital im- we perceive that the cause of the portance; hut would it have heen well civil against the ecclesiastical, the for england if a byzantine theology of temporal power against the spiritual, this description had heen supreme in must in some way he upheld, if any its court and monarchy? we have no free and manly life is to he preserved quarrel with anselm as a divine or for england. no historian has treated hishop, hut would it have heen de- ihese early kings of england with sirahle if he and his successors could, greater severity than lappenherg; without etiot or limit, have emhodied nor has any historian given a more their own views in, and impressed liheral praise to these italian hishops their own spirit on the laws and go- and divines; yet even his simple vernment of this country? narrative, as it proceeds, suggests to huppily there has heen always in us how unfit these men were to hold our island, either on the part of the the predominant place in the govern- monarch, or of the people, or of the ment of england. anselm he de- lawyers, a determination to resist the scrihea "as one of those heroes of encroachment of the church over the love and humility which cbristianity state. , thus we have never sunk has produced in every age." william into the intellectual staguation which rufus, the contemporary sovereigu, spain, for instance, has exhihited, stands out hefore us as little hetter and thus it happens that in our re- than a hrutal tyrant, and a sort of formation a political resistance to haptised heathen: he is penitent rome plays a considerahle part, and when sick and afflicted; when he that which was of a distinctly reli- recovere, he not only tbrows aside gious character proceeds (as might he [aug. leaders of thc reformation: expected in a people comparatively free) from many quarters at the same time and assumes many various forms. at no time do we see the people rising simultaneously under ooe common impulse. there are reformers of all shades working to- gether—from those who would only reform within the church to those who would sweep away the old ca- tholic church entirely. latimer, as we have said, saw in the reformation principally a re- vival of religion. when we first get any distinct view of him, he is at cam- hridge ahout twenty-five years old, a most zealous supporter of the estah- lished doctrines and services. "i was as ohstinate a papist," he tells us himself, "as any in england." he torments himself with scruples whether he had mingled sufficient water with the wine in performing mass; he preaches against the re- formers—he takes every opportunity of guarding the youth of camhridge against the infection of their pernicious doctrines. but, as principal tulloch well ohserves, we get our reformers out of the zealous champions of "the very church that is to he reformed. the cold and moderate man is sel- dom open to great changes of opi- nion. "here,'' he says, "we have the old picture of youthful sacerdotal zeal. it is the very highest qualities of the an- cient system that the new spirit seizes upon and consecrates to its service. young latimer, hailed hy the clergy as a rising champion of the papal cause,and for his talents and the excelling sanctimony of his life preferred to he the keeper of the university cross, is destined to he- come the sharp reprover of the clergy, and the great agent in carrying out the religious change then tbreatening them." bilney has the merit of converting latimer; hut we must presume, of course, that other influences were at work. a curious story is told of the mauner in which bilney first con- trived to pour the new doctrine into the unwilling ears of the zealous papist he pretended a great desire to he confessed, and, under the form of his own confession, infused his heresy into the priest. latimer tells the story himself in these few hrief words: "bilney heard me at that time, and perceived that i was zealous without knowledge; and he came to me afterwards in my study, and de- sired me, for god's sake, to hear his confession. i did so; and, to say the truth, hy his confession i learned more than i did hefore in many years. so from that time forward i hegan to smell the word of god, and forsook the school doctors and such fooleries." we wonder whether this expedient for getting the ear of a man has heen often adopted. it was a rather haz- ardous one: if bilney had not found a favourahle listener, he would have gone away with a heavy penance. latimer now hecame a zealous preacher of the new doctrines, hut still his preaching must have heen limited to a faithful exhihition of positive truth: he could not have waged war with the peculiar tenets of rome, hecause heury viii. ap- proved the man, and appointed him one of his chaplains; and car- dinal wolsey also hefriended him, supporting him against the censures of bishop west. bishop west had entered the church while latimer was preaching at camhridge; and when he and his retinue had taken their seats, the preacher, ohserving that a new audience required a new theme, changed his text, and exposed the fault s and shortcomings of the clergy, in a mauner, we may he sure, not very flattering to priestly ears. for this and other like offences the bishop had forhidden him to preach in the university; and when latimer took refuge in a church of the augustine friars, the hishop made complaint to cardinal wolsey. the cardinal, however, dismissed the too faithful preacher with a gentle ad- monition, and granted him a licence to preach in any church tbroughout england. "if the bishop of ely can- not ahide such doctrine as you have repeated," he said, "you shall preach it to his heard, let him say what he will." a happy retort is here mentioned of latimer's against one buckenham, prior of the black friars, who had entered the lists against him. the prior, in his sermon, did his hest to prove the inexpediency of trusting the scriptures in english to the vul- gar. the arguments and illustration .] luther—calvin—latimer—knox. of the good prior were evidently not of the highest order imaginahle. to show what hlundering interpretations the laity were exposed to, he cited as an example that the ploughman who read that "no man who layeth his hand to the plough, and looketh hack, is worthy of the kingdom of god," might peradventure dread to touch a plough at all. the haker, also, who read that "a little leaven corrupteth a whole lump," might leave his hread unleavened. latimer had heen one of his auditors, and had taken notes; and hy-and-hy he is the preacher and the friar a listener. coming to this point of the figurative language of scripture, he replied that it was as easy of comprehension as the most familiar sigus and symhols painted on our houses and walls. "as, for example," he continued, casting a meaning glance at the friar, who sat oppo-ite to him, "when men paint a fox preaching out of a friar's cowl, none is so mad as to take this to he a fox that preacheth, hut know well enough the meaning of the matter, which is to point out to us what hy- pocrisy, craft, and suhtle dissimula- tion lieth hid many times in these friar's cowls, willing us therehy to heware of them." the contemporary cbronicler adds that friar bucken- hatn was so dashed with this sermon that he never after durst peep out of the pulpit against master latimer. id latimer's life, years of persecu- tion alternate with years of favour and prosperity. under archhishop wareham he is in danger of impri- sonment and excommunication, if no- thing worse. under his successor, cranmer, he is raised to a hishopric. then a reaction against reform seems to have heen hrought ahout, partly hy the northern insurrection, and gardi- ner and buuner took the lead. under their influence articles were framed which latimer could not suhscrihe; he resigued his hishopric, and sought to live in privacy. coming up to london, however, for medical advice, he was hrought hefore the privy council, and cast into the tower. this happened just hefore the close of heury's reigu. on the acces- sion of edward vi. he was liher- ated, and his hishopric again offered him; hut he declined to reassume the episcopal office, and devoted him- self to preaching. he made it the great purpose of his life to rouse all classes to a practical reform in their morals and religion. he was the censor of his times, and sometimes the pulpit satirist. he spared no class, and he preached to all classes. a well known picture represents him with uplifted arm preaching in white- hall gardens, in front of the young king, edward vi., who is seated at a window, whilst a dense crowd sur- rounds the orator. of the merits of latimer, whether as preacher or divine, principal tulloch gives, we think, a fair and unexagger- ated estimate. he was no learned theologian, and his eloquence was of that rude, hlunt, uncompromising character that appeals so successfully to the populace. he delighted in in- vective, and did not scruple to expose individual instances of oppression that came hefore him. of the effect of his sermons we must not judge hy the impression they now produce on the reader. not to speak of the change of mauners and of dialect, the effect of popular eloquence depends, at all times, chiefly on the voice and the delivery. the following summary aupears very just:— 'in mere intellectual strength, lati- mer cau take no place heside either lu- ther or calvin. his mind has neither the rich compass of the one, nor the sym- metrical vigour of the other. he is no master in any department of intellectual interest, or even of theological inquiry. we read his sermons not for any light or reach of truth which they unfold, nor hecause they exhihit any peculiar depth of spiritual apprehension, hut simply he- cause they are interesting, and interest- ing mainly from the very ahsence of all dogmatic and intellectual pretensions. yet, without any mental greatness, there is a pleasant and wholesome harmony of mental power displayed in his writings, which gives to them a wonderful vitality. there is a proportion and vigour, not of logic, hut of sense and feeling, in them eminently english, and showing every- where a high and well-toned capacity. he is coarse and low at times; his fami- liarity occasionally descends to mean- ness; hut the living hold which he takes of reality at every point, often carries him also to the height of an indiguant and hurning eloquence." [aug. leaders of the reformation: we quote this passage hecause it contains a hrief critical summary; hut we must remark, in passing, that it is not the most favourahle specimen of principal tulloch's own style ; nor can we extract the passage without some gentle protest against a certain slip- slop english into which the principal has here heen hetrayed ; it is a fault quite unusual in him. such expres- sions, as "wholesome harmony," "high and well-toned capacity," re- mind us of the jargon of the con- noisseur prating over his pictures, rather than the soher crisieism of an accurate scholar. let such jargon remain with the counoisseurs of art, who have a traditional right to talk how they please ahout tones and har- monies, no one hut themselves having the least interest in what meaning they affix to their words. litiroer could not play this dis- tinguished part, tbrough the reigu of edward vi., of pulpit satirist and preacher of the reformation, without heing called to severe account in the ensuing reigu of queen mary. he might have fled the country, and the new government were not unwilling that he should do so. he chose to remain, and was accordingly com- mitted to the tower. but if his enemies were willing he should escape hy self-hanishment, they spared him no severity when he was within their power. they kept the old man without fire in frosty weather. with health hroken, they transferred him to oxford to under- go examination, and hold disputa- tions upon the mass, whereat master smith of oriel, dr. cartwright, and divers others, "had suatches at him, and gave him hitter taunts." after this examination he was imprisoned in the common jail in oxford, where he lay for more than a year. from the jail he was again hrought to he examined hefore commissioners. in- firm and poor, it is a pitiahle spectacle that is presented to us. "he wore an old tbreadhare bristol frieze gown, girded to his hody with a peuny leather girdle; his testament was suspended from this girdle hy a leather sling, and his spectacles, without a case, hung from his neck upon his hreast." his head was hound ahout hy a complication of night-caps, surmounted hy an old horseman's cap, which, notwithstand- ing foxe's specific description, it is very difficult to get any clear concep- tion of. in this state, and his mind half torpid hy " long gazing upon cold walls," he is set again to dispute on points of divinity with the bishops of lincoln and gloucester. they re- proach him for his want of learning. "lo!" he exclaimed, according to the report of foxe, " you look for learning at my hand, which have gone so long to the school of ohlivion, making the hare walls my lihrary; keeping me so long in prison without hook, or pen, or ink; and now you let me loose to come and answer to articles. you deal with me as though two were appointed to fight for life and death; and overnight the one, tbrough friends and favour, is che- rished, and hath good counsel given him how to encounter with his enemy; the other, for envy or lack of friends, all the whole night is set in the stocks. in the morning when they shall meet, the one is in strength and lively, the other is stark of his limhs and almost dead for feehleness. think you that to run tbrough this man with a spear is not a goodly victory?" but the end of all was now at hand. he and ridley were con- demned to the flames. at the closing scene his spirit revived, and his was that terse, vigorous saying, which has heen so often repeated, " be of good comfort, master ridley, and play the man; we shall this day light such a candle hy god's grace in england, as i trust shall never he put out." as principal tulloch remarked in reference to the martyrdom of serve- tus, so we may remark here, that it is useless now to utter indiguant denun- ciations against this crime of persecu- tion, unless it should he thought neces- sary to keep the example of past ages hefore us, in orderto preserve ourselves from lapsing into their errors. for it was a crime of the age. all parties, all sects, are seen at this epoch involved in the same lamentahle error. as individual men, we must even pity the persecutors of olden times—pity them for heing carried away hy one common infatuation. if the catho- lics committed latimer and cranmer to the flames, even latimer is found .] luther— calvin—latimer—knox. assisting at the martyrdom of friar forrest, preacliing the puhlic sermon od the occasion, and thus sanction- ing the act; and cranmer, as is well known, could send a helpless woman to the stake. it has heen often said, that the protestants had less excuse for their cruelty than the catholics, who were supporting an old-estah- hshed system hy harsli measures, which they deemed could he effective, and which, in some instances, were effective. and the protestants would have perhaps altogether escaped the deep disgrace of having capitally exe- cuted men and women for what they called heresy, if it had not happened that their hearts were hardened, and their jadgments utterly perverted hy that hahit (which principal tul- loch has so ahly reproved) of looking into the old testament for laws and guidance. an appeal to moses was thought to decide the case. when some poor woman was to he executed for her nonsense, the young king edward was reluctant to sigu the warrant "the ohject of the king's compassion," says the historian lin- gard, "was the future condition of her soul in another world. he argued, that as long as she remained in error she remained in sin, and that to deprive her of life in that state, was to consigu her soul to everlasting tor- ments. cranmer was compelled to moot the point with the young theo- logian. the ohjection was solved hy the example of moses, who had com- pelled hlasphemers to he stoned; and the king, with tears, put his siguature to the warrant." of the last of these "leaders" on our list—the patriot reformer knox —we shall venture to say hut a few words. principal tulloch's manly, straightforward account of the repre- sentative of the reformation in scot- land caunot fail to please. there is no undue partiality, there is no timid admiration. one notices tbree stages in the opinion which protestants form of these great leaders of the reforma- tion. the first is one of unwise, un- qualified laudation: the man is a type for all times, his doctrine a standard for our own faith. the se- cond is a critical stage, where defects of character and narrowness of intel- lectual view are discovered, and the idol is well-nigh displaced altogether from its pedestal : there is a greater disposition to hlame than to praise. then follows the third stage, in which an ideal of excellence or of wi-dom heing no longer sought, the hero is reinstated in such virtues as he can really claim: his conduct is not fault- less, and his reasoning is not unim- peachahle, hut he stands there to he judged hy fair comparison with his fellow-men, and according to the work he had to accomplish. in this last stage we presume the reading puhlic are at present. they no longer wish to idolise such a man as knox. he had his passions like other men; com- mitted hlunders as do other men—all that is understood; and now passiou for passion, hlunder for hlunder, man for man, how will you estimate him as he stands there amongst his con- temporaries? we, for our part, esti- mate him very higbly, nor can we lind any living man, of his own time, who can, on the whole, take prece- dence of him. some romantically-disposed people think to exhihit knox to great dis- advantage hy hringing him hefore us in contrast with mary, the heautiful queen of the scots. well does prin- cipal tulloch remark, that such people must he allowed "simply to please themselves with their own delusions;" they are plainly incapahle of any grave historical criticism. they should he condemned to read novels eternally ; or, what might he a worse penalty, to do nothing hut write no- vels all their lives. a rude word! sermomsed the queen! why, this heautiful lady would have sent john knox, if she had heen ahle, hack to the french galleys, and she would have governed a country, now mani- festly protestant, hy the influence of her priests, and in the interests of the duke of guise. pass hy her person- al frailties — let the woman he un- touched — what sort of queen has scotland here? she is scarce a scotchwoman — she is more a guise than a stuart. what good will the nation get out of her pretty french mauners, her sweet face, or her musi- cal voice? now, hring opposite to her, front to front, our john knox, tried and hardened hy the fire of ad- [aug. leaders of the reformation: versity, whose religion has hecome a grand patriotism, who stands there the representative of a people who have flung off the degrading govern- ment of priests, who have hecome each one his own priest in his rela- tions to god, and who, thus free in religion, must he free also in politics; who mean henceforth, hoth in church and state, to he a self-governing people. contrast the two figures. choose hetween them. choose a soft face and treachery to the nation, or the hard strong man, self-devoted to a great cause. if the reformation in england was singularly complex in its character, in scotland it assumed a form mar- vellously simple. according to all accounts, the old hierarchy had hy its vices lost all hold of the affections or the reverence of the people—the monarchy had lost its controlling power hy the untimely death of james v. — the hurgher class, im- pelled and united hy a religious move- ment, hecame supreme — there was not too much learning for unanimity of opinion—the simpler faith of pro- testantism carried all hefore it, and was destined to mould for centuries the character of the nation. the hurgher class, it must not he forgotten, were fused with the moh, eo to speak, hy the power of the religious orator acting equally upon all. there is no respect of persons in this matter of religious doctrine. the reformation hecomes a strictly democratic movement. knox preach- es a sermon at perth on the idolatry of the mass and of image-worship. the whole multitude is stirred. "at the close of the sermon," con- tinues principal tulloch, "and while tho people still lingered under the warm emo- tion of the preacher's words, an encounter took placo hetween a hoy and a priest, who, with a singular deadness to the sigus around him, had uncovered a rich altar-piece, and was making preparations to celehrato mass. the hoy tbrew a stone, which overturned and destroyed one of the images. the act operated like a spark laid to a train. the sup- pressed indiguation of the multitude hurst forth heyond all control—the con- secrated imagery was hroken in pieces the holy recesses invaded—the pictures and ornaments torn from the walls and trampled in the dust—and, rising with the agitation, the spirit of disorder spread, and the 'rascal multitude,' as knox afterwards called them, having completed their work of destruction in the church, proceeded to the houses of the grey and black friars, and the char- ter-house or carthusian monastery, and violently ransacked them and laid them the spirit of destruction nowhere raged so violently as it did in scot- land. every man of taste must de- plore the ruin and defacement of the nohle structures of the old religion. we should he thought vandals our- selves if we uttered a word of apology, yet something might suggest itself to a sturdy protestant to reconcile him to this act of vandalism. knox's plea that the " hest way to keep the rooks from returning, was to pull down their nests," could apply only to the first era of the reformation; and the hanished rooks would have returned, if it had heen in their power, and re- huilt their nests. great shame and scandal, it seems, to pull down a fine old edifice, hut we know—and our own age has in some measure shown how this may he—we know that a fine old huilding may, in its own dumh way, preach from generation to generation, till at length, aided hy some propitious circumstances, it may prove a very persuasive orator. visit- ors pace with enthusiasm the aisles, let us say, of a york minster; taste- ful municipalities sustain, restore the venerahle edifice; a desire might grow, we do not say that it ever has grown, that the worship, the ceremonial, the music, should he in harmony with the grand cathed- ral, and a revived ceremonial is fol- lowed, amongst the uureflective, hy a revived doctrine. the whole reformation in scot- land has an extreme uncompromising character, which the liheral and in- telligent citizen of edinhurgh caunot at this day he supposed to approve. no measure of justice was dealt towards the old catholic church. the contest was too violent to admit of equitahle controversy, and the crimes of a cardinal beatoun had helped to raise a spirit almost as un- cbristian as his own. knox and his companions were not content with .] felicila.—part i. denouncing the catholic church as corrupt; it was ahsolutely the work of satan; it was anticbrist. an application of certain passages in the apocalypse, first introduced hy pole- mical divines in the mere heat of discussion, hecame a part of the national faith in scotland. all this popular and unqualified animosity caunot he admired hy us. but great changes of this description never yet were effected hy moderate equitahle gentlemen. we have to ask ourselves whether, upon the whole, our reform- ers did not accomplish their great work as well and as wisely as the times permitted. we will not follow principal tulloch any further in his account of knox: we should he only repeating what he has more eloquently said. we would in- vite our readers to a perusal of the hook itself: they will find it hoth elo- quent and instructive. felicita. - part l—chapter l "i tnink, if you please," said feli- cia, slowly, " that i will prefer to go to mv aunt." "you shall do what you like," said her interlocutor, rudely, "we're eng- lish — we are ; we don't constrain no- hody. go to your aunt, to he sure, and make a french marriage with whoever suits her. i promise you she won't give in to a foolish girl's will as we've done here." "my aunt is not french," said the girl, with a little pride. "oh no, only rather more so," said the irritated cockney. "good morn- ing, miss antini—i'm husy, thank you—don't hurry ahout your arrange- ments, i heg—hut for me and my son, our time is not our own, you under- stand. we're hard-working people, and ohliged to look after our husiness; so am compelled to say good-day; hut don't hy any means let us hurry yoo." thus dismissed, felicia antini went her way, with feelings con- siderahly mortified, and flushed cheeks. her way was an extremely prosaic one; up tbree pair of stairs, in a narrow london house stuck on to a showy london shop, to a little hedchamher which overlooked the chimneys. here she had lived for tbree months, trying to he as cheer- ful as a new-made orphan could he, and making herself useful in the "estahlishment" of the only relative she knew anything of—a cousin of her mother's; a life to which, in her dearth of friends, and the simplicity of her thoughts, she might very well have accustomed herself, had not the son and heir of the house fallen vio- lently in love with his relative, and persecuted her with all the persever- ing attentions which were "the pro- per thing " in this young gentleman's sphere. it was so hard to persuade the complacent and well-to-do young cockney that her "no" was serious —that felicia's life for some time hack had heen much unlike her name. now the amized resentment of her wooer and of his father, who had made up his mind to a maguanimous stretch of generosity in consenting to receive his poor cousin's daughter as his son's wife, and whom her refusal astounded heyond measure, had at last lixed the thoughts of the solitary girl on the only alternative which she could see remaining to her. her education and former customs made it hard for her to seek other employ- ment of a similar kind—she had not courage. here it was impossihle to stay; and the only thing practicahle seemed to accept the invitation of her italian aunt. but felicia was at heart an english girl, with some prejudices and many likings. it was hut slowly and with reluctance that she made up her mind to this neces- sity. she knew nothing in the world of her father's sister, save what could he conveyed hy the odd yet kind let- ter in which the invitation to his orphan came ; and the long journey. [aug. felicita.—part i. the strange country, the life among strangers, alarmed felicia. she felt little inclination to claim the offered kindness so long as shelter and daily hread could he found at home. now, though the daily hread was in little danger, the shelter was no longer tenahle, and felicia's thoughts turned like shadows hefore her to her father's land. felicia antini was the only child of an italian long resident in eng- land and his english wife. her father had heen a tolerahly success- ful teacher of his own language, and had not left his wife and child uupro- vided; hut after his death mrs. an- tini had fallen into had health, which much impoverished their little pro- vision. felicia had still something when her mother, too, was gone; hut she was lonely and homeless—a sorer evil than poverty—and was glad to accept the only protection of kindred which was near enough to he offered to her in her first solitude. thus she only cried and smiled over the cranky characters and had spelling of madame peruzzi's letter, which moved her hy its italian exuherance, even while her own english reserve sbrank from a full response to its caressing expressions. now she saw nothing else remaining to her, and took out once more her aunt's epistle to decipher its quaint lines word hy word, and to fancy herself, as far as that was possihle, an italian girl he- neath madame peruzzi's matronly wing. felicia's father had heen one of those attenuated, long - visaged italians with a chuckle always lurk- ing in his hollow cheek, and a gleam of fire and malice in his eye, who never run into raptures of patriot- ism, and caress their native land rather hy stinging proverhs of affec- tionate depreciation, than hy positive praise; and as for felicia's mother, that excellent and homely woman was distinguished hy nothing so much as a fervent jealousy of every- thing italian, restrained in expres- sion, hut all the more earnest in thought. had mrs. antini known or suspected that the first-horn hahy daughter of whom she was so proud was to he the sole hlossom of the family tree, nothing in the world would have induced her to yield the naming of the child to her hushand, and forego the privilege of settling her nationality in her cradle. as it was, when the father added the ca- ressing syllahles of an italian diminu- tive to the little girl's name, and called her felicita, the english mo- ther asserted her independence of all the laws of euphony hy cutting short the pretty word into the saxon ahruptness of fellie. between these two the girl grew up more disposed to the mother's side than the father's, a steady little englishwoman. if ever felicia gave her mother a pang, it was when she sang with her father, exercising the voice which she derived from him, in music which was somewhat ahove mrs. antini's comprehension, though she could not well condemn it, or showed herself fluent in the tongue which the italian's homely wife hod never suc- ceeded in acquiring. the good wo- man showed her aunoyance only hy a little hustle ahout the house, and pretence of indifference—a very little additional irritahility of temper — moods which hoth hushand and daughter fully understood, hut which were not serious enough to make dispeace or discontent in the little household which, on the whole, was affectionate and happy. then the italian died, and was laid in english ground, and grew holy with all the sacred recollections which sanctify the dead ; and mrs. antini suhsided out of her housewifely hustle into the culm of widowhood, and then, as if her strength followed her active duties, into ill health and invalidism, and felicia's care. that time was sad, hut still happy; for the two women, who were alone in the world, were still together, and took comfort in their mutual affection as only mo- ther and daughter can; and then came a sore hlank, a heavier void, and henceforth no one reduced the sweet syllahles of felicia's name into that homely fellie, which now would have heen sweeter than any music to the orphan's ear. all this passed tbrough the girl's mind as she sat in her little london attio, among the smoke and the spar- rows. she could not marry the young shopkeeper. it was no use trying to reconcile herself to the ne- .] !tl felicita.—part i. !. cessity— the thing was impossihle; bo there remained to felicia only her father's distant relatives, her un- known aunt, her paternal country, and the italian which she already hegan to forget. after a time she hegan instinctively to gather her little property together, and prepare for her departure. the house she was leaving was not one to he much regretted; hut when she took her little wardrohe out of the drawers, and knelt on the floor at her lonely packing, the occupation was sorrow- ful enough. she thought to herself— as it was so hard to get out of the hahit of tliinking—what would her mother say? and felt a pang of dis- tress cross her mind at the idea of new hahits and associations, against which that mother's prejudices and antipathies would have heen so much excited. the novelty at that moment did not strike felicia pleasantly—she did not think of the delights of the journey, of the change, of all there was to see, and of the unknown events to he encountered, which, even hecause they are unknown, please the youthful fancy. she was going hy herself and for herself, she who had heen all her life one of a family — going from everything ehe knew and was familiar with; so she packed up the hlack dresses with some few tears falling among them, and many sigha. a very few days after this, having warned her aunt of her coming hy a letter, felicia set out with a sad heart. she was attended to the rail- way hy a little group of the young women counected with her relative's '• estahlishment," who had taken up felicia's cause with warm esprit de corps, and who for various reasons (partly hecause she was tacitly under- stood to have rejected the young master of the place—an assertion of the female privilege which all women more or less enjoy ; partly hecause of her relationship to their employer; partly for her lonely condition, and even a little for her foreigu name and hlood, and the undefined superiority which the possession of another lan- guage carried over her unlearned companions) admired and protected and copied felicia. it was something to look hack upon their faces as they vol. ixxxvi. walked up and down hy the side of the train hefore it started, and ran after it to the very end of the rail- way platform, kissing their hands, waving their handkerchiefs, and wiping their eyes. they had to walk hack all the way from london bridge to oxford street, and i daresay did it with a very good heart, and talked of nothing ehe all day hut how she looked, poor dear, and what her perils on the journey might he. they were but silly creatures, most likely, with their little vanities and jealousies, hut this forlorn young womun was glad of their sympathy; the hench of hish- ops could not have consoled her so well. we will not dwell upon the details of felicia's journey. a solitary girl in hlack, sitting hack in the corner of a carriage, with a thick gauze veil over her face, is not a very unusual traveller anywhere, and u perhaps nowhere less interesting than on a tourist's route ahroad, where one ex- pects hright faces and lively interest. making her way tbrough france with a few words of french, and all the reserve yet self-dependence of an english girl, was hard enough work for felicia. if she could have travelled night and day tbroughout, she might have done well enough ;. hut the pause of a night was some- thing from which the young traveller sbrank with dread, and she would rather have slept on the steps of the railway or in any dark corner ahout, than have ventured to enter the ter- rihle hrightness of a hotel, and pro- vide lodging and provision for herself, as she had to do at paris and mar- seilles. then came the sea, and she hreathed freely; hut up to that time felicia saw very little of the way, ventured to enter into conversation with no one, and found little comfort, if it were not in the occasional gleam upon her of a kind old french face in a suow-white cap, which smiled a silent encouragement to her lone- liness. the young people—the hap- py people—the travelling ladies in their english perfection of travelling- dresses, or the fine frenchwomen who dazzled all the eyes which could eee with the graces of a parisian toilette, rather made the orphan sbrink within herself; hut there was [aug. felieita.—part i. still an old woman, here and there, to hearten her with that magic of kind looks, which, somehow, old wo- men — much helied species of hu- manity — excel in when they will. when she had reached the panting steamhoat which was to convey her to italy, felicia tbrew herself upon the hard sofa in the little cahin with a sigh of relief and comfort. no more peril of hotels and railway offices frightened her imagination — her trouhles were almost over. she was ill, hut she was safe; she had recovered the gift of speech, and could once more make herself understood. so, venturing to take pleasure in that hlue transparent sen, and wistfully gazing as "the old miraculous moun- tains heaved in sight," and the silence hroke into all the noises of a port, and opaque hoats danced upon the water which heneath them seemed made of sunshine, our lonely young traveller approached to her father's country. later when the evening fell, after great trials hy means of the customhouse, felicia reached flor- ence. she had heen less than a week on the way, and when the city of dante hurst upon her in the evening sunsmne, among its circle of hills, she coald scarcely realise to hen-elf the fact of heing so far away from that familiar country which she fond- ly called " home;" then of having no home anywhere in the world; and then, that what claim to home she had was here. home i there was not even such a word in the language which henceforth was to he her lan- guage; henceforward her dearest re- tirement conld he only in ensa (in the house). felicia drew her veil closer over her lace as she drove across the arno, and with a certain indescrih- ahle prejudice declined to he attract- ed hy the heauty of the scene. she would not see the quaint hridge that spauned the river, the tall houses re- flecting themselves in the magical stream, the grey apeunine heaving up his mighty shoulders hehind the city, and all the wonderful sunshine and atmosphere which glorified the italian town. then the vehicle slackened its pace, and felicia's heart heat faster. they had plunged out of the sunshine into the deep and qom shadow of the via ginguio, where hy that time in the day sun- light was impossihle, save that which hlazed on the unequal roofs, and dropped in downward lines aslant, from the deep tuscan cornice at the corners of the lanes which fell into this street. then felicia's conveyance stopped hefore a great door, flanked hy two large windows, strongly harred with iron. after a little interval the door swang open, and a maid-servant appeared; a dumpy, cheerful little tuscan, hustling and good-temper- ed, who conducted felicia up-stairs with a ruuning flood of words, to which the stranger, in her nervous agitation, found it quite impossihle to attend. some one met them on the stairs, and felicia's heart leaped to her mouth. this must surely he her aunt at last. she made an emhar- rassed tremhling pause, hut the pas- senger went on without noticing her. so they continued up and up those lengthy stairs, the heart of the young stranger sinking more and more the further she ascended. the staircase was indifferently lighted, and closed doors frowned on her upon the land- ing-places. poor felicia ran over all her life in her thoughts as she went up these steps—the little suhurhan house which was home, the fresh, fair, tiny english apartments, the kind mother, the familiar life. now she was htre among strangers, many hundred miles away from every one who knew her, and painfully douhtful of her new relations, and the recep- tion she should meet with from them. thus her whole peaceful past history, with its melancholy ending of fare- wells and deathheds, went hy her eyes like a picture as she ascended these stairs. this house, from cellar to roof, was madame peruzzi's—her property, al- most her sole property; a little estate in a town frequented hy the wander- ing english and the other wealthy nations who are given to travel. her own apartments were in the third story, not quite the highest, hut next to the attics—the third story, count- ing hy legitimate floors, hur, including entrcsah. somewhat more like the fifth. when felicia reached this elevation she found her aunt at last awaiting her, not much less nervous than her- self, though madame peruzzi's age .] felicita.—pari i. and diguity kept her in her own apartments to await her visitor. the old lady stood with her hand upon the little marhle tahla hefore her, in a somewhat agitated pose, as if she had heen standing for her portrait. she wore a hlack gown with a tight- fitting jacket, and large mosaic hrooch. her scanty grey hair was put up in a little knot at the hack of her head, its colour and distri- hution heing ahundantly evident from the want of anything in the shape of cap — a painful deficiency, which puzzled her niece extremely at the first glance, when it appeared to her that something, she could not tell what, was wanting in madame peruzzi's toilette. the old lady's ears were heavily weighted with round hosses of mosaic to correspond with her hrooch. she wore lace frills ahout her wrinkled and yellow hands, and the hollow chetk and gleaming eye were less comely in madame pe- ruzzi than they had heen in the fami- liar face of felicia's father. still there was sufficient resemhlance to wake a flood of affectionate recollec- tions in the orphan's mind. she made a few hasty steps forward, half shy, half eager, and then, with a mo- mentary start of dismay, found her- self suddenly clasped in her aunt's arms. these arms were rather hony, and gave a somewhat grim emhrace; and as the long hrown face hent over her, and the old grey uncovered head, it may he forgiven to the stranger if she felt this first ehullition of affec- tion somewhat overpowering. felicia was glad to slide out of her aunts arms, and drop into the first chair which offered itself. madame pe- ruzzi had a perfumed handkerchief in her hand, and the least possihle fragrance of garlic in her hreath. she was overflowing with affection for her heloved antonio's child, her deare^ niece, her sweet felicita. the flood of rapid words and caress- ing expressions look away the poor girl's hreath; she dropped softly into a chair, holding her little tra- vwling-hag clasped in her hand. madame peruzqi seated herself he- side. her, and poured out inquiry after inquiry: how long had she heen ou the way? — how wonderful that she should have come so soon! was not she happy to find herself in florence ?—were not the skies al,vnys cloudy in england ?—how cnuld an- tonio, poor antonio! have existed so long in that dismal country? and to die without seeing italy aeain!— without leaving his child under his sister's care! ah, heavens! what a fate such were the welcoming words with which madame peruzzi greeted her niece. in the meantime, felicia glanced round her, and silently took in a little picture of the scene. the room fronted to the street, and had two windows hung with fringed muslin curtains—not so white as might have heen desired; hetween them was a marhle tahle, supported on feet which had once heen gilded, and supporting a long narrow mirror. this and the round tahle, also topped with marhle, on which madame peruzzi had heen leaning, were the grand articles in the room. the rest of the furniture consisted of an old-fashioned sofa with cushions, and chairs which were not to correspond. the floor was uncarpeted, and consisted of tiles, dark-red and diamond shaped, on which every footstep resounded. in one corner, a stove made of terracotta projected a little from the wall; some pictures—very had copies from the cheap florentine manufactories of such articles—were hung round the room; hooks were not to he seen, neither were there any materials for woman's work, or the least trace o that litter of life and occupation which the tidiest of apartments un- consciously and appropriately at- tains ; everything was cold, hare, and penurious. felicia had seen many a poorer room which had no such meagre expression. the penury here was not poverty of means alone, hut poverty of life. as she looked, only half conscious of ohserving, her aunt's monologue went on. madame peruzzi did not require much aid in maintaining the conversation. she plunged into a hasty description of what were to he the future pleasures of felicia's life — the casine, the pergola, the casino halls, to which a dear friend of madame peruzzi could gain them admission, the approach- ing delights of the carnival. felicia listened with silent dismay and he. [aug. felicita.—part i. wilderment. she did not compre- hend the out-of-doors life descrihed to her. these things, it was to he supposed, were gaieties understood to he generally agreeahle to people of her age, hut they only chilled and frightened the stranger, who, sadly fatigued and worn out with her jour- ney, startled hy new circumstances and the change of every domestic de- tail around her, would have heen much more pleased to hear of a room she could retire to, to rest a little, and cry a little, aud make up her mind to the novel condition in which she found herself. this, at lust, felicia took courage to ask tor timidly. then madame peruzzi led her hy an open door into a little narrow strip of a room which opened from the sitting-room, where a little dressing-tahle stood hefore the win- dow, aud a little hed occupied the end of the apartment. "this is thy apartment, felicita mia; thou shalt he very happy here," said madame peruzzi, looking round with some complacence. "see thou the sweet madouna over thy head, and the hlessed water. these were my re- gina's, when the dear girl lived. thou art my daughter now, and i have no other: he happy, my soul, with thy hrother angelo aud me." felicia sat down upon her trunk, which had heen carried here, though she had not ohserved it, feeling a little faint. even then she was not left alone; and when the maid called madame peruzzi from the ttla, the door of communication was still left open. felicia did not move in her first moments of loneliness, hut sat still upon her trunk, with her eyes fixed upon that open door. she scarcely felt courage to rise and close it; she sat gazing at it with a for- lorn and dumh dismay. looking at that, she seemed to he looking at the entire circumstances of her new life. there was no other entrance to the room, and all her english privacy and individuality seemed to faint away from her at this sight. she had not even taken off her hounet, or loosed from her weary shoulders the cloak which was heavier than usual with the weight of dust produced hy an autumn day's journey. she could not cry, she could scarcely hreathe; she sat apathetic and miserahle, look- ing at her exposed apartment. here was not the shelter which even her london attic gave her. in this place no one understood what was implied in the idea of home. then came an interval of silence and quiet, which could not he called repose; she heard madame pernzzi's voice at some little distance, giving orders to her maid; she could hear, even without wishing it, what madame peruzzi said: and only roused herself to the desperate possihility of clo>ing her door when the colloqny seemed almost over. pure tuscan, with all its resounding syllahles and soft terminations, hut certainly not the liquid itnlian, the melting accents which sentimental travellers delight to record; on the contrary, a couple of english scolds at high words could not have made more commotion than was created hy the perfectly peaceahle conference of madame peruzzi and her maid. however, the old lady, hy an extra- ordinary discretion, respected the closed door of felicia's room; and the stranger, after some hreatbless listen- ing, roused herself to change her dress and shake off the weary travelling- garments full of dust which weighed her down. she had heen kindly re- ceived; she had nothing to complain of, and yet her heart sank. her aunt's words huzzed in her ears, like painful indications of a life unknown to her. what were the casine and the pergola, the winter's halls and carnival, to a soher english girl in mourning, hrought up in the hum- hlest section of the english middle- class, and accustomed to reckon upon things totally different as the most important matters of life? felicia was not wise enough to he quite ahove the fascination of such pro- mises, hut to have these hopes held out to her in the first hour of her arrival, in a house so very moderate in its pretensions, as matters of es- sential importance, seemed to her something so gravely and sadly ridi- culou , that, once out of madame perruzzi's presence, she could scarcely helieve her in earnest. she made her simple toilette slowly, to gain a little time to think; she persuaded herself that it was impossihle to form any proper idea of the life and house .] felieita.—pah i. to which she had come, till time should inform her fully on the suh- ject ; she thought of her father and the stories he used to tell her of his own country. but her father had heen long ahsent from his country, had acquired other hahits and tustes, and rememhered only the delights of his youth, quaint rural customs, and primitive pleasures, which in the telling had seemed as delightful to felicia as to himself, hut which she had connected with the luxuriant vineyards and shadowy olive gar- dens, the italian farms with their primitive wealth and lahours, and which she was sadly at a loss to adapt to these meagre apartments, where everything was poor and unlovely, and where no heauty made up for the english comfort, which was out of the question here. the result of fciioit's deliherations was, that she hecame too much puzzled to deli- herate further; and experiencing a slight revulsion of pergonal comfort when she had hathed her face, hrushed out her hair, and changed her dress, at last opened, with more courage than she had felt in closing it, the-door of her chamher, and found herselrooce more in presence of her aunt "if angelo had hut known thou wert here," cried madame peruzzi, "nothing would have detained him, felicita mia — not his most dear friends—he is so anxious thou shouldst he happy with us. ah he is good, very good, my son. if angelo had stood in his father's place, we should have heen people of fortune, my soul; hut the siguor peruzzi was one of feven sons, and that which is in seven parts is less to each than if all were one, like angelo, thou knowest. but he has good friends, very good friends —he is not neglected : they rememher that he is a peruzzi, and thou shalt have thy share of thy cousin's ad- vantages, though thou and i, my felicita, are not nohle like angelo. bat what then? we shall enjoy our life the same, and he is a good son. bat tell me, carina; thy father an- tonio, did he never speak to thee of me?" "many times, aunt," said felicia, faltering a little, for her father did not always speak with enthusiasm of his sister. "and desired thee to come to us when he died, the good antonio! did he not so?" continued the aunt. "you forget my mother was then alive," said felicita, with sorrowful pride: "while she lived, he could wish me no other guardian." "thy mother, ah! who was thy mother, carina ?" said the old lady, raising a little her capless head; "not a rich milor's daughter, anto- nio told us. i know not the customs of thy country: if she was poor, and he was poor, why then did they marry? my poor antonio! was it not a sad life? "they married hecause they were fond of each other," said felicia, with a rising colour, "and my father did not think his life sad: we were very happy—more happy than i can tell you; everything went well with us then." "he was always good," said ma- dame peruzzi, " hut thou wilt pardon me, felicita, if to live in that cloudy island, and to lahour all one's days, seems to me a sad life. and antonio left thee a little fortune, did he not? thou art rich, felicita mia? we lahour hut for our children, my soul. if they are well, all is well. ah! if i could hut see my angelo rich, i should die with joy." "if angelo thinks like me, aunt," said felicia, quietly, " he would rather have his mother than he rich. one can work and live, hut one caunot have a second father and mothfr." "carina mia! thou shalt have a second mother — thou art my own child i" cried the old lady, with a sud- den emhrace. felicia unconscious- ly slid out of it with emharrass- ment as eoon as she was ahle, and did not feel so happy as might have heen expected. strangely enough, at this pathetic climax of the inter- view, two ludicrous ingredients in the novelty of her position tempted felicia at the same moment to laugh and to he slightly ill tempered. one was a puzzling question, which ran tbrough all her musings, and kept her in an aunoying hut ludicrous un- certainty—whether her aunt peruzzi had forgotten to put on her cap. and was unaware of it? and the other was a secret and hopeless longing for that great feminine english luxury, a cup of tea. she drew hack, uncon- [aug. felicita.—part t. sciously putting up her hand to the crimped frill of her mourning collar, which her aunt's emhrace had dis- turhed, and feeling herself more and more ohstinately and perversely english in proportion as she per- ceived how different everything else was around her. in the midst of huch questioning and such involun- tary resistance, the afternoon wore to an end. the impossihle tea ap- peared not for the refreshment of the young englishwoman, and ma- dame peruzzi, if she had forgotten it, certainly did not discover the ahsence of her cap. a little hefore six o'clock angelo came home. angelo was the only son of his mother, a young floren- tine of two-and-twenty, hut looking more youthful than he was, fresh, adolescent, and heardless, with a face which attracted his cousin's shy re- gard in spite of herself. good looks are more common among the men than among the women of tuscany, and angelo peruzzi's looks were sun- ny and frank and candid, with a de- gree of simplicity in the good humour heaming from them, which an eng- lish youth of the same years could hardly have exhihited. he was not dark, hut simply hrown, with hezel eyes, a laughing, carved upper lip, and so entire an ahsence of any- thing like care or thought in his face that the grave young girl heside him, although younger than he, looked with a certain wistful envy- ing and anxiety at his unclouded countenance, feeling herself ages older than he was, and wondering over his inexperience. felicia her- self was not quite twenty, and, eng- lish though she was in feeling, had one of those remarkahle italian faces, notalwavs heautiful, which it is not easy to forget. her eyes were hlue, with a gleam of latent fire in their depths; her hair of a colourless dark- ness, like twilight, not hlack, hut without light; her face long and oval. when she grew old, she would he like her father—a suggestion which at the present moment was not very complimentary, hut at present she was something more than pretty, though less than heautiful. the two young people looked at each other with mutual curiosity as young peo- ple use; each was rather more a mystery to the other than it is com- mon for young men and young wo- men to he, for the serious english girl in her mourning was ahout as great a puzzle to angelo as the thoughtless young florentine was to felicia; hut they hegan their mutual examination with mutual good-will. shortly after angelo's arrival they were called to diuner, which was served in another apartment rather more hare than the first, at the other end of a long passage. here felicia hegan her experiences of italian house- hold economy. the meal was long and various, hut the stranger's plate went away again and again untouch- ed, and she was fain to plead extreme fatigue as the cause of her want of appetite. poor felicia! the diuner was a grand diuner, made in her hon- our. soup, a compound of hot water, grease, and maocaroni, made a rather uupromising hegiuning. then came very thin slices of uncooked ham and sausages, to he eaten with hread and hutter; then a grand fntto—pieces of disguised fish and vegetahle fried; then a dish of meat hoiled out of its senses, surrounded with extraor- dinary vegetahles. ahout this time felicia ceased to he ahle to ohserve what was hrought to the tahle — a whiff of garlic, a fragrance of cheese, enveloped the apartment. madame peruzzi kept up (without any slang) a stuuning conversation with the dumpy cheerful little maid, who came and went perpetually with the various dishes, and angelo partook of all with a cheerful gusto which tbrew poor felicia into dismay. she sat looking at them all without heing ahle to say a word. oh for that im- possihle cup of tea i oh to he ahle to forget the flavour of that maceuroni! hut it was as impossihle to ohtain the one as to escape the other, and feli- cia sat silent, sick, and disgusted, scarcely ahle to keep her chair till the ceremonial was over, longing to he alone, and fiod in rest the only com- fort which seemed to remain for her. fortunately, however, nohody was surprised ttiat she should wish to go to rest immediately. she had more than a traveller's license; it was evi- dent that, traveller or no traveller, there heing no amusement in tho way, ] felicita.—part i. that was supposed to he the most sensihle thing ehe could do. madame peruzzi herself retired to her own room immediately. angelo went out, the house fell into profound silence, and into a darkness as profound. felicia' looked out from her high window; there lay the street, deep down, with its faint glimmer of scanty lamp- under the shadow of these lofty houses, each defending itself, with its deep overhanging corners, from any invasion of light from the sky. the sounds which from that depth reach- ed felicia at her high window were drowsy and faint, as though the town were dropping to sleep; hut the lights were hrilliant in one great house opposite, where carriages hegan to arrive, and tbrough the open door of which felicia saw a vision of passing ladies in all the glories of evening dress; while in an apartment almost opposite her own, thinly veiled hy a muslin curtain, the lady of the house was having her own toilette completed to receive her guests. this was the true italian evening division of the community; a'musement for those who had amusement—for those who had not, sleep. angelo was at his cafe and the theatre. his mother, whom nohody cared to seek, and who had consented to relinquish her hopes of pleasure—his mother was in hed. such was the proper and natural ar- rangement of things, as it seemed, at florence. felicia lay down to her rest an incipient rehel. might it not he possihle to change all that? chapter il "this is kind of thee, carina," said madame peruzzi next morning, as felicia and she sat together over their coffee. "angelo is late in hed, as he needs to he, for due rest, poor hoy, after a pleasant night. he will tell us of his pleasures when he wakes —and now i shall no longer drink my coffee alone. thou wilt make a new life, felicita mia, for me." " am glad you will like me with you, aunt," said felicia, who was, however, puzzled hy the entire ahsence of disapproval with which the old lady mentioned her son's late hours. "is it angelo's occupation which keeps him out so late?" "his occupation? what is that, my soul?" asked madame peruzzi. "didst thou not hear him say he was going to the pergola to hear norma? he shall take thee one of these days." "does he go there often?" asked felicia, with still a trouhlesome ter- ror lest she should hear her cousin de- siguated as a conductor or memher of the orchestra, an intimation which would not have heen very delightful to her. madame peruzzi put her hand, with a playful momentary pressure, upon felicia's hand. "for what dost thou take my an- gelo, my child? is he old? is he past his pleasure? when there is no hetter gratification, where should he go hut to the theatre? and as for me, i am old—my day is over—i go to hed." "but angelo, my aunt, has he then command of his time?" said fe- licia, with timidity, glancing round the apartment, which hore so many visihle sigus of hare and meagre poverty. "has he not—employment —does he not do anything? i mean —in england the young men have always something to do." "my houi, we have enough," said madame peruzzi, with a heaming smile. "why should angelo weary himself with lahour? in england i have heard they are compelled to work to keep off melancholy and miserahle thoughts, hut thou knowest not yet our italy, where it u pleasure to live. no, felicita carina. my angelo has good hlood and a hrave spirit. he takes his pleasure in his youth, for youth is the season of pleasure. at my age one heeds no longer what comes or goes. a new prima donna, or a grand spectacle, is hut little to me. i should lose the whole if i hut lost my spectacles, hut it is different with angelo and thee." felicia prudently kept silence and made no rejoinder. she contented herself with rememhering that, after all, the country and its customs were new to her, and that she was not quite qualified, on twenty-four hours' ex- felteita.—part i. [aug. perience, to revolutionize this house- made an odd contrast as they took hold, and protest against its hahita of their seats together in the little life—which was an unusual amount of hackney carriage—the old lady so modesty and sense for a girl of nine- gay, and the young one so perfectly teen to exhihit, as everyhody must plain and unadorned. as they drove allow. accordingly, for this day at down the lung' arno in the after- lea.t, she was content to see what noon sunshine, felicia no longer shut should happen, and find out the na- her eyes to the heauty of the scene, tural course of events in her aunt's as the houses disappeared, and they house. ahout twelve o'clock, angelo passed out of the gate in full sight made his appearance, and ate his of the hlue apeunines, contracting hreakfast good-humouredly, enter- their nohle link of enclosure towards taining his mother and cousin with the west, and all the tender meadows his last night's adventures; for an- ha,king in the sunshine in the low gelo was as good a son as madame vale of arno, her heart for the first peruzzi called him, and would not time was touched towards her father's have done an intentional slight to hia country. these farmhouses softly only relatives for anything in the seated among the verdant grass, with world. then the young gentleman the deep shady arch sometimes puss- disappeared for the day; he had vari- ing under the entire huilding, and ous engagements with various ac- the square tower raising its little quaintancts, which, he honestly re- upper-story ahove the red-tiled roof, gretted, prevented him this day hore a pleasant look of home which from showing her ancestral town to comforted the longing in her inind. his cousin. when he was gone the it was good to take refuge some- old lady followed felicia to her room, where. italian homes might he in madame peruzzi proposed to order a these rural houses: though an upper carringe, and drive her niece to the floor in the via giuguio recalled cascine, where all the world spent its few recollections of the domestic afternoon; and the careful aunt was sanctuary. as felicia amused her- sulicitotis to see what were the self with these imaginations, and stranger's equipments, and if her madame peruzzi occupied her active dress was satisfactory. she looked old senses in recoguising and identi- a little grave over the poor girl's fying most of the persons they met unvaried hlack. it was do longer on the road, their carriage drove necessary, she said, to wear so much along tbrough level lines of trees, mourning,—no one knew in florence flat and formal, with stretches of who those sahle garments were worn green meadow-land on either side, to for, and she disliked the dress for her an open space in front of the great own part, though she wore it herself dairy—a square hrick huilding, from in the house, for economy's sake, which the place takes its name. these remarks revived in felicia a here the florentine world was at its little temper, which she had always height of occupation. here madame possessed. she had no desire to go to peruzzi's carriage drew modestly in the cascine; she would much prefer to the ranks, and stood wiih the seeing the town, the duomo, the cam- others in close square, contrihuting a panile, the pictures of which her little rivulet to the stream of talk father had told her. madame i'eruzzi spreading around. everyhody was shook her head, and went away with talking, laughing, flirting, making and smiling pertinacity. then at four confirming engagements. tbrough o'clock the carriage came. the old the narrow lanes left hetween the lady had done herself injustice when carriages, youths like angelo, and she said she was too old for pleasure, indeed angelo himself—a sight toler- she made her appearance now in a ahly welcome to the eyes of his toilette which astonished felicia, cousin—mingled with elder and less with a very small ultra - parisian prepossessing men; while ladies leant hounet gay with artificial flowers, out of their carriages, making free and a little parasol, like a hright- use of gesture, voice, hand, and fan coloured hutterfly, and cream-colour- —ladies with miniature hounets, dis- ed gloves, fresh and fragrant. they closing each a mass of glossy hlack .] fdkita.—part i. hsir and a pair of jewelled ears— ladies bo fine that a suspicion of pro- vincialism clouded the maguificence of their toilettes; hut not lovely, not pretty—the least comely of italian women. when angelo discovered his mother's modest vehicle among the crowd, he mode haste towards her with a face glowing with pleasure —the countess ficasola had just in- vited him to diuner. his satisfaction reflected itself with a douhle glow in the countenance of his mother, who hent over him with delighted looks. "we shall not see thee to-night, then, my angelo ?" she said, pressing her son's hand. other loungers fol- lowed angelo, till felicia, shy and strange, hecame quite hewildered hy the names and voices, and hy the universal italian, which had heen for some years unfamiliar to her, and of which the had not yet recovered the hahitual use, in the midst of so much conversation, without taking part in it, with a dozen people talking across her, and madame peruzzi halfstand- ing in the carriage, and excited with an indulgence evidently very unusual, ready to respond to all, and answer- ing tbree at a time. felicia, who might have heen amused at a great distance, leant hack in her corner quite overpowered, and longing to escape from the confusion and crowd. then came the flower-women, with their great flapping hats and pearl necklaces, who tbrust little houquets into her hand, to the extreme con- fosion and dismay of the stranger, who did not know the custom of the place, and was equally reluctant to take and afraid to offer money for them. when they moved home- ward at last, felicia sighed with relief, and madame pernzzi suhsided in the highest state of gratification into the corner of the carriage, and hegan to explain to her niece what great people were some of those who had addressed her. it was all for felicia's sake that her good aunt had undertaken this expedition; hut the kindoer-s in the mean time was its own reward. the via ginguio, however, did not look less meagre and gloomy than hefore, as once more they ascended the long stairs and reached their own apartments. everything picturesque and hright out of doors — within, poverty and plaiuness devoid of every pretension to heauty; once more the penurious chilly life, which found no pleasure in itself, and, when left alone, had no resource hut sleep. the diuner of th.,t day was hy no means so grand as the previous one ; angelo was douhtless a great deal hetter off at the countess picasola's, not to speak of the honour. the greasy soup, the oily vegetahles, the hlack dish of fried rice, the incomprehen- sihle sweets and sours of the meal, were once more too much for fe icia. she retired hastily, as soon as with- drawal was permissihle. retired, hut to what? there was not a hook visihle, so that resource was impossihle; and glad though she would have heen to take her work and spend her evening, as she had spent many an evening with her mother, felicia found that equally out of the question. madame peruzzi, indeed, accompanied her niece to the sola, and seated herself in a corner of the sofa, yawning horrihly; hut no lamp was hrought into the room, nor did she ask for any, and the twilight gathered quick and grey over the apartment, in which at last it was only possihle to perceive the coloured fahric of madame peruzzi's dress, and the white glimmer of feli- cia's work on the little murhle tahle. vainly the stranger tried to he amus- ing, to interest her relative hy either remarks or questions, cr to draw out her curiosity concerning england and the customs of that country. madame peruzzi sat swallowing vast yawns, nodding in her corner of the sofa, answering in monosyllahles. poor felicia was in despair. when she hecame convinced that it was mere cruelty to detain her aunt, she in her turn hecame silent, and favoured the escape of the unfortunate old lady; hut when madame peruzzi had made her escape, it was still scarcely nine o'clock, and what was the solitary girl to do? she had heen shy to ask for light, expecting every moment the advent of the maid marietta, and that tall roman lamp with two lights, which had reminded her on the previous evening of the lamp of a carriage, as swang in marietta's hand, and leaving her person invis- [aug. felicita.—part i. ihle. it came along the long passage from the other end of the house, hut no light came tbrough the darkness; and when at last marietta herself appeared, it was but to ask if the siguorina wanted anything hefore she went away for the niirht. with hesitation and faltering, felicia put forward her humhle desire for a light. a light!—there was only oil enough in the lamp to light the siguor an- gelo to his own room, when he should come in. what could marietta do? yet the kind-hearted tuscan conld not leave the stranger without ex- hausting herself with expedients to supply what she wanted. at length a sudden idea struck marietta. she darted hack to her odd little kitchen, and reappeared in a few minutes with an old hlue teacup in her hand, which she placed on the tahle, to felicia's great amazement. then marietta produced a matchhox, struck a match, and lighted a little floating wick which sailed on the surface of a little pool of oil. "eoerr, siguorina!" she cried trinmphantly. yes, hehold it!—the domestic lamp —the evening illumination. the good-natured girl could not he suffi- ciently pleased with herself for the idea, and went off in a little flush of exultation, making the door ring hehind her as she closed it to cele- hrate her clever expedient, and the extraordinary inclination of the sig- norina to sit alone tbrough the soli- tary night. when marietta was gone, and felicia sat hy herself in that dreary apartment, with her little light twinkling feehly out of the tea-cup, and herself and it gloomily reflected out of the dark depths of the mirror hetween the windows, felicia's first and momentary impulse was a laugh of self-ridicule; hut the laugh soon suhsided into very different feelings, and hefore she was aware, her eyes were surprised with heavy tears. the gloom and solitude of the house, where no one moved hut herself, the total isolation in which she stood, the apparent impossihility of making any one understand her, oppressed her heart. there was no sleep in her young eyes or her restless mind, and the only oceupation which oc- curred to her for the moment was a desperate fit of home-sickness and longing, in which any refuge in her mother's country, however miserahle, seemed hetter than the condition in which >he stood. that whs, however, as foolish as it was vain. after a little interval she dried her eyes, and took up her unsteady taper to carry it tenderly to her own room. there she tried a little arrangement to keep herself amused; and when her email possessions were in perfect order— order scarcely more perfect than that which she disturhed, hut still some- thing which amused and occupied her—she took out a humhle little piece of emhroidery, and tried to work. but working hy that little floating light in solitude, amidst the gloomy shadows of the via giuguio, was not so easy as some people might suppose, especially when one is haunted with recollections of a hright family tahle, on which the lamp hurned clear, and love w?s warm, and father and mother smiled upon their only child. now all that re- mained to her was madame peruzzi, asleep in her room, and the young florentine, who did not know what home or industry was, and who managed to forget poverty and a useless life hy the perpetual amuse- ment of one kind or another, which, in his mother's eves, was only natural to his youth. felicia's heart sank as she sat in her dark hedchamher, trying to do her emhroidery, and try- ing still more to keep her thoughts from interference in other people's concerns. her aunt and cousin were poor, very poor, yet no thought of occupation or employment seemed to enter the mind of angelo. what henefit to him was the countess picasola and her invitation? said felicia to herself. what was to he- come of him if he did nothing, and could do nothing?—and yet what had she to do with it? she per- plexed herself to such an extent that she tbrew down her work, and went to the window to refresh herself with the fresh air. just then a carriage drew up at the great house opposite, waiting for the great lady, whom felicia once more saw tbrough the thin hlinds, finishing her evening's toilette. other ladies, young slen- der figures in floating lace and .] felicita.—part i. muslin, had joined her, ere she ap- ,ce, save the irregular line of lofty peared helow at the door, to enter houses, aud far htlow an occasional her carriage. felicia looked on with passenger, but the air at least soothed a certain wistfulnees, not envy, hut her. then felicia, with a low laugh something more like wonder at the and a deep sigh, resigued herself to differences of providence. when the the necessities of her position, and, echoes raised hy their departure had unahle longer to resist the gloom, the died away, she still stood leaning silence, and the solitude,'lay down at out, looking up and down the deep last and went to sleep, gulf of street. there was little to ' chapter iil in this monotonous and uncom- fortahle life the weeks ran on rapidly enough—slow as they passed, yet so devoid of interest, when they were gone, that they seemed no longer than a common day. felicia tried hard to convey her own ideas to the minds of her friends, hut without much visihle success, and she csme to modify her own opinions concern- ing them, as she gained greater ex- perience. madame peruzzi, though she retired to rest at eight o'clock, and suffered no litter of feminine occupation to he visihle in her ,win, was not the less a careful mother, nor scorned to use her needle and her shears for the comfort of her house- hold, though felicia found it almost impossihle to persuade her aunt to hring her mending and darning into the sitting-room, or to share with her those cheerful and sociahle do- mestic lahours. it wis against madame peruzzi's conscience to have her private lahours suspected. she would not for the world have had one of her visitors discover her or her young companion at work; and as the old lady had greatly fallen out of acquaintance—if she ever had any acquaintance with the little floren- tine world of fashion — and was visited only hy old ladies of her own standing, it was not so easy to find a willing and suitahle chaperone for felicia as might have heeu supposed, and accordingly the projects lor tak- ing her out and supplying amuse- ment for her evenings, which the old lady had heen eloquent upon at first, soon dropped out of rememhrance, and were mentioned no more. and felicia found that her cousin, though living, after his kind, the life of a young man of fashion, was neverthe- less a good son, iunocent and without guile, who did not hesitate to hestow his full confidence on his mother, and was entirely trusted hy her in return. how it was that under these circum- stances angelo, without the slightest idea of wrong-doing, was ahsent from home every night, and how, in spite of the extreme poverty of the me- nage—a poverty which hecame more visihle to felicia every day—no idea of doing anything for himself or his family to improve his position, or to provide for the future exigencies and expansions of life, seemed ever to occur to his mind, hecame less a mystery to her as she hecame more acquainted with her new sphere. felicia was, however, english enough and woman enough to have a strong inclination towards reform, and a great impatience of those evils which everyhody else seemed so contented with. the cousins, were, moreover, much attracted towards each other; and ere they had heen long together, the usual result to he hoped or ap- prehended from the familiar inter- course of a young man and joung woman, hoth good-looking and well- dixpositioned, seemed in a fair way of coming to pass. now and then angelo stayed at home, the lamp was lit, felicia produced her em- hroidery, madame peruzzi dozed in a corner of the sofa, and the meagre little sain hrightened into a kind of magical version of home, an impos- sihility hrought to pass hy a dawn- ing of something different from the mild domestic aifections which are suppo-ed to have their centre there. and then conversations ensued—con- versations unlike everything which the young man had ever taken part in hefore, and which they carried on |aug. felicita.—part i. alone, the mother heing pleasantly ahsent and lost in dreams. on one of these nights, pleasant to hoth, and much lonyed for hy felicia, angelo directed his inquiries in a somewhat marked and siguificant mauner to england and english customs, a little to the surprise, hut much to the satisfaction, of his cousin. "i wish you could hut go to eng- land, angelo," cried the young re- former, determined not to lose her opportunity ; "i caunot descrihe to you how different everything is. i do not suppose you can understand me when i tell you — if any one had told me, hefore i came here, what i should find in florence—" '' does florence disappoint yon, then, my cousin " asked the young man. "yes, in some things," said feli- lia; "in others, no; hut you do, angelo." "i ? and how?" said angelo, with a smile. '• because i do not know what is the good of you," said the young re- volutionary demurely. '' nor i either," cried her cousin, who thought her frankness a sally of humour. "why should there he any good in me? is that necessary in your england'!" "i did not say there was no good in you; that is not true," said feli- cia. "but you are of no use, cousin; you ought to he so different. had you heen hor n an englishman, you would have heen husy all day long— lahouring, exercising your faculties, helping on the work of the world. every man in england is trained to do that, and knows it is his duty. you would have gone out to work, and come home to rest, if you had heen horn an englishman, angelo." "should i have heen happier, my cousin ?" said the young man. "happier !—what has heing happy to do with it?" cried felicia with a little hurst of vehemence. "does it make you happy to go to your cafe t are you happy when you are at the cascine or in the theatre? you know quite well you are only amused; and that is so different. ah, angelo i that makes all the difference. people in england do not think it necessary to he always amused; hut we all try, when we have the chance, to he happy." "but you do not all succeed, my cousin?" said angelo; "and your englishman, felicita mia—your eng- lishman who goes out to work, and comes in to rest—what shall he do to he happy?" the young italian asked the ques- tion with a certain hitterness and personality; for angelo was hy no means acquainted with the instincts of english womankind, and had not sufficient experience to know that the existence of the special english- man, whom he suspected, would have much moderated, in all prohahility, his cousin's earnestness on his own hehalf. felicia, for her part, faltered in her answer, hlushed crimson, and, hy her hesitation, convinced the young florentine that his suspicions had some foundation. "i do not know—i—i caunot tell," she said with confusion, unahle to shut out from her mind, at that emharrassing moment, that english youthful imagination which supposes happiness to mean love and the young home and household, which is the first instinctive suggestion of insular comfort and virtue. in spite of herself. felicia could not help thinking if angelo, instead of a flo- rentine man - ahout - town, had heen that same imaginary englishman of whom they sppke, what visions of some little surhurhan house might have heen floating in his imagina- tion, and what a fanciful little para- dise— perhaps the only refined and heatified conception of his life - might have risen to him out of a little waste of imaginary tahles and chairs. that, at least, was her wo- manish conception of the suhject; hut something sealed her lips, and she could have done any other im- possihle thing sooner than hetray to angelo the momentary suggestion of her own heart. "then if you do not know, and caunot tell, my cousin, i must tell you of a happiness, or an amuse- ment—i know not how you will call it—which is falling to me," said an- gelo, with gaiety which looked some- what forced. "there is a country- woman of thine, felicita, on the other side of the way, young, and .] felieita.—part i. rich, and pretty—a wilful little wo- '• i mean if the heiress marries man; and she does me the honour me, my cousin," said the young to smile upon me." man. it was now felicia's tarn to feel a felicita was silent; her own un- little involuntary hitterness. though comfortahle sensations, and the inex- she could have done any spite to plainahle mortification she felt in herself the moment after, hy way of her heart, prevented her from any punishment for her weakness, she word or hint of opposition. she ftll a momentary hlank in her face, went on with her emhroidery very and pang in her heart. but she swiftly and quietly, while angelo, vtry speedily regained the mastery, very well pleased with the impres- and mnde an answer of congratula- sion he had produced, and with a tion which seemed forced only to great deal of hoyish mischief and herself. angelo went on fluently self-complacency seconding some feel- with his hrag and his description, ings more terious, was silent also, the young lady of his story was one letting his laughing glance travel of the slender white figures whom round the apartment, and finding, felicia had watched so often issu- with a rapid perception of the pic- ing from the door of the house oppo- turesque, something rather attractive site into the carriage which carried in the scene. the room not half them away to nightly amusement or lighted, with its two unshuttered daily airings. she was very young windows gleaming tbrough the mus- — only sixteen — an orphan, and a lin curtains, and all the darkness of great heiress, j-so much angelo knew; the night heyond them; the tall and, led on hy the evident interest, roman lamp, with its two unshaded and perhaps the slight pique ptrcep- lights shining steadily from the little tihle in the toue of his cousin, the marhle tahle; madame pcruzzi, a young man poured into her eager dark shadow in the corner of the ears everything he had heard con- sofa, leaning hack upon her hard eerning the young englishwoman, cushions, with her grey head veiled and perhaps a little more. hy the darkness; the whole darkly "very rich—a great heiress;—and gleaming in the narrow mirror, how have you met her, angelo?" which gave such strange depth to asked felicia, with an unconscious em- the shadows and prominence to the phasis upon the ipu, which proved light. then angelo returned to the that she considered great heiresses light, and the face it shone on, the rather out of the young pernzzi's point of highest illumination in the way. picture. felicia was making won- "i have met her in society, my derful progress with her work ; her cousin," said the laughing angelo, hands moved as hands only can who immediately quoted a list of move when the heart is agitated and great names which still further con- the thoughts in full career. the fused and trouhled felicia. "we young man looked at her white clear are poor, it is true—very poor," said forehead, on which the lamp shone, the light-hearted florentine; "hut at the graceful stoop of her head, her that is not in florence what it is in eyes cast down, and her lips firmly thy country: the saints defend us, closed. the whole face was very we are all poor yet they will ask grave, deeply silent, with that inde- thy idle unfortunate cousin to their sorihahle disapproval and mute re assemhlies, felicita, while they see him sistance on its every feature which still in possession of a tolerahle coat people ahroad are fond of character- and a pair of gloves. gloves, heaven ising as the insular look of stone. he praised, are cheap in florence, so, the expression struck angelo: he though i am poor, can still see my could not flatter himself that there heiress. and what sayest thou, feli- was pique or personal offence in it; cita? if all progresses, as, to say the somehow it seemed a dumh reproach truth, all hears promise of progress- upon his levity, and touched, with a ing, thy poor cousin may not long singular pain unknown to him he- he poor." fore, the light heart in his italian "do yon mean if you marry the hreast: higher things than helonged heiress, angelo?" asked felicia. to kit life; virtues, and honours, and felicita.—part . [aug. heroisms unknown seemed somehow to heam upon the wistful gaze of angelo out of that silent uncommu- nicating face. "felicita ! sordid mia," he said, softly, using the tenderest title of kindred, which hy no means meant the exclusive sister of our preciser tongue —" you disapprove of me — you think me wrong: shut not up thy thoughts in thy lips — speak! i will listen like a child." "why should i speak?" and feli- cia, availing herself, however, of the permission with all the eagerness of hitherto restrained eloquence—" why should i speak? you do not under- stnnd me. to me, hecause i know you, and know that there are het- ter things in you, it is terrihle to see you tbrow away your life and dis- honour it. yes, dishonour it, angelo! would her friends permit you to marry this heiress? would she, do you think, if she lived with us a week, continue to think you her equal? and hesides, women every- where are ohliged to marry for for- tune, and you pity and scorn them for it; hut men, angelo! men who can work, is it possihle that you can calmly think of doing the same thing t" "why should not " said the young man with an amused and amazed smile. "my little english cousin, does no one do as much in your country? i am poor, you know it only too well; and as for your work, felicita, i know not what i could work at, nor how i should learn, for here is nothing to do in florence. why then must i refuse to he enriched, should that good fortune come to me, hy a good little wife f" "perhaps not, if she made love to you, and you had only to accept htr," said felicia, with a little scorn; "hut it is you v.ho mist woo and say you love her. do you love her, angelo?" as she looked him in the face in her frank indiguation, angelo re- sponded hy a hright intimidating look, which took felicia much hy surprise. she did not repeat her question, hut drooped her head with a confused involuntary agitation, of which she was mightily ashamed. there was a panse, and then angelo answered with great composure and laughing self-possession: "you take this matter much too gravely, my cousin. if she will marry me, can i help it? in thy country, is it not everyhody's duty to he rich? and so long as one does not steal nor cheat, does it matter iow?" "you do not know my country, nor anything ahout it," said felicia. "there are men who hold such sentiments in england, hut not such men as yon." "my cousin," said angelo affec- tionately, "what kind of man, then, am i?" "the men who say such thiog , and think such things," repeated felicia, "are men without iuno- cence, without honour, without heart — men who have tried the world and failed — whom no one loves nor trusts—who are shuuned when they are successful, and scorned when they are not no, angelo— nut mich as yon." "ah, felicita i you speak easily," said angelo, growing grave; "you think of your own country. your englishman, who goes out to work and comes home to rest, do you think i do» not sometimes envy him? —i and many more than me. but what can i do ? — what is there in florence, in italy, for any man — mosaics and copies from the gal- leries—porcelain. shall i go to la doccia, my cousin, and learn that craft ?—or would you have me work in alahaster? i will he faithful and ohedient, felicita: which will you hid me do v half affronted, half impressed, no longer desirous to continue the con- versation, and perhaps as anxious hy this time to escape to her own apartment as her aunt herself could he, felicia made no answer. angtlo had said very little; hut somehow he had unsettled the confident and certain standing-ground upon which his cousin stood. she hegan to feel confused and dizzy, and to under- stand dimly, as theory always does when it comes in contact with reality, that arhitrary injunctions are not much to the purpose, and .tv" .] felicita.—part . that more things than ahstract right and wrong make up the sum of most human matters. she was not great in argument or reason, as girls of nineteen rarely are; she was young and arhitrary and imperative, as he- longed to her youth, and impatient of those vulgar external ohstacles which stood in the way of what onght to he. if there was nothing for angelo to do in florence or in italy, that very fact was wrong. why was there not anything to do? she was inclined to ask the question angrily — <, demand that somehody should he pointed out to her to hear the hlame. whose fault was it? if not angelo's, at least that of the people or the government. but some- thing closed felicia's lips; she was vexed, confused, emharrassed—every- thing was wrong. in the silence which ensued, ma- dame peruzzi gave sigus of reviving animation. this old lady, who had no knowledge nor conception of angelo's heiress, had desigus of her own of a less amhitious kind— desigus very prohahly not much different from those which may he entertained hy english mothers, hut bo much honester and more iunocent, that this matchmaker had not the slightest conception of any harm in them, or that it was at all necessary to disguise or conceal her schemes. madame peruzzi was simply and ingenuously of opinion that felicia's tiny fortune should not he suffered to go out of the family, and that her fifty pounds a-year would make a very comfortahle addition to the income of her cousin. this idea re- conciled her to sit up till ten, nay, even till eleven o'clock — if her doze upon the sofa could he called sitting up—to encourage the tete-a-iete of the young people. their silence roused her now, as their conversation had not succeeded in doing. she raised herself, a queer old figure, from her corner of the sofa. long hefore this time felicia had ceased to hope that her aunt, unawares, had forgotten to put on her cap. she got up with her scanty grey hair falling into disorder, ruhhing her eyes, which were dazzled hy the light. "my children," said madame peruzzi, " love to see you talking together. ah, it is such hap- piness when minds are sympathetic! hut it is late." "yes," cried felicia, with unusual promptness, putting away her work; "and we have kept yon up and dis- turhed your rest, aunt. it is selfish. i fear it is my fault ; for angelo," she added, with a little girlish pique and mischief, " angelo is very happy at the cafe, when there is no hetter entertainment to he had." "true, my soul," said the matter- of-fact mother, gravely, " and well it is thus. yet he does not grieve to lose his pleasure now and then for thy sake. he is slow to commend himself, my good angelo; hut i know he loves well to he with thee." this speech produced some awk- wardness to hoth the persons con- cerned. felicia ehot a rapid, mis- chievous, half-malicious glmce at her cousin. he, the honest fellow, meaning no harm, only laughed and hlushed; for that he should he more than half in love with his young relation, as was very evident, and yet confide to her his heiress hopes, did not strike angelo as anything extraordinary. he did not quite understand her scruples on the suh- ject. the reluctance with which the heroes of novels in england accept the wealthy hands of heiresses, would have heen simply and totally incom- prehensihle to angelo; and felicia's indiguation was entirely lost upon a mind iunocent of any intention which he would he ashamed to own. he could understand somewhat het- ter, and felt flattered hy the slight spark of pique and malice which she exhihited — that was jealousy, the other was something myslerious and unexplainahle. as for madame pe- ruzzi, who had not heard a word of the conversation, and who could not suppose them to he on other than the most satisfactory terms, she looked on with great complacency upon their good-night, and enfolded her niece in a sleepy emhrace, with as much fervour as was compatihle with that comatose condition. she thought her scheme was progressing famous- ly, and she was exceedingly well con- tent, while felicia sought her own apartment with feelings much lefg [aug. felicita.—part i. satisfactory. what, if angelo were ever so industriously inclined, what was the young man to do? true, it was very easy to say that carving alahaster or fitting together the tiny morsels of mosaic was hetter than idleness — hetter than the poverty closely approaching want which ex- isted, without any effort to remedy it, in this household; hut, after all, felicia had learned to yield some weight to the name of peruzzi, and even her own humhle antecedents did not lend much countenance to the idea of a handicraft. angelo had no genins; he was not a painter or a sculptor or a musician horn, as a young italian having any counection with romance had a right to he. he had no counection with romance, the honest fellow he could read his own language, and that was ahout the scm of his education : if he spoke pure tuscan, that was hy virtue of his hirthplace, and no credit to him- self; and his few epistolary efforts were not likely to impress any one with high ideas of his attainments in literature. amhition in its humhlest shape—even that power of "hetter- ing himself," under the flattering in- fluence of which the very maid-ser- vants rejoice in england—was closed to angelo. he might condescend, if felicia succeeded in impressing her own ideas upon him, to daily lahour; hut no hope of enterprise or possihility of amhition was there to stimulate angelo. it was the young man's fortune to helong to a nation caressed and admired and flattered out of everyday existence. if an- gelo was idle, lie whs no more idle than his country; if angelo con- tented himself with those harren amusemeuts which stood in the place of life and happiness, he did hut what all italy was doing. italy, like angelo, vegetated on the enough which supplied her merest unavoida- hle wants. italy, like angelo, did her hest to content the higher part of her with the past; and to make her sunshine of climate, as ho made his sunshine of youth, stand in the place of all the real foundations of national joy and prosperity. generations of such as angelo had hlossomed and degenerated on the same soil. how then was angelo to hlame? perhaps felicia's cogitations were neither so distinct nor so ahstract, for angelo peruzzi was much more present to her thoughts, aud more immediately interesting, than any vision of ittdy; still they ran in this chaunel, and perhaps she was not sorry to find such excuses for her cousin. however, heated and agi- tated as she was hy the conversation which had just ended, she was glad to find her usual refuge from herself at her window, where the wind re- freshed her pleasantly, though h was now nearly the end of octoher, and not so warm as it had heen. it was a moonlight night, and moon- light had a picturesque effect on the via giuguio. her eyes were caught irresistihly hy the irregular line of house-tops, the hroad white lights and impenetrahle depths of shadow, where here aud there a cluster of windows shone like molten silver, and on either side of them the high opposite houses hlotted out the line, and left hut a tall dark hlank of wall, mys- terious and gloomy in the shade. presently felicia's ohservation was attracted hy something more imme- diately interesting; her eyes turned involuntarily to the house opposite which she had watched so often, hut from which her cousin's tale, if she had heen perfectly mistress of herself, would have turned her eyes now. at the opposite window, almost on a level with her own, was a little white figure uurecoguisahle in the darkness, for the high roof of the opposite house kept madame peruz- zi's hahitation in complete shadow. this little figure, whoever it might he, found out felicia shortly after felicia discovered it, and straight- way hegan to make siguals and telegraphic gestures across the street, waving a tiny hand out of a wide white sleeve, nodding a little head, and making every demonstration of friendship possihle at the distance. dismayed, astonished, and perhaps not without a more particular pang, felicia retired from the window. her first idea was that she had heen taken for angelo, and a flush of indig- nation and pain, too strong for her control, overpowered her at the thought; hut when she sat down with her hrow and her heart alike .] tkt master of sinclair'* narrative of the ' . tbrohhing to think it over, felicia grew calmer. it must, after all, have heen herself, and she alone, for whom these salutations were intended. angelo's room was at the other side of the house; angelo must have spoken to his heiress of his cousin. felicia's vexation and pain suhsided gradually. she saw herself, however, in a strangely emharrassing confi- dential position hetween two people whose incipient relations to each other affronted her own self-regard as much as they offended her judgment; she felt herself involved in a clan- destine correspondence, which most likely, hecause her heart arid her own affections were engaged in prevent- ing it, her girlish pride and honour would move her to encourage. what, could ehe do? felicia pressed her hands against her hot forehead, which tbrohhed and heat to their touch, and with growing pain and perplexity confused her hrain and heart with thinking. a young woman, a very young girl, an englishwoman, who ought not to he permitted to fall into this suare, was the little stranger who had just made these eager salutations to her at the win- dow. but if she undeceived this almost child, if she did what real honour and duty demanded of her, the forlorn young creature tremhled at the interpretation which might he put upon her conduct. they would say she did it hecause she herself loved angelo; they would say it was jealousy, self-interest — things that her face and her heart hurned to think of. what could she do ?— suffer the whole to go on, and " sacri- fice herself," and, to save her own pride, counive at the future misery of all parties? felicia lifted her face from hetween her hands, and put out her light, and crept softly to rest in the dark, as if thus she could escape from her own sight and thoughts. she had seen hy a sudden prophetic intuition what was coming upon her; hut ns yet, thank heaven, there was a little hreathing-time. the moment when she was called to do anything in the matter was not yet come. the master op sinclair's narrative of the ' . it will he in the recollection of many people that sir walter scott has more than once referred, in a mauner calculated to excite a lively interest, to a manuscript volume written hy the master of sinclair. being an account of the affair of "the fifteen" hy one who took an active share in it, expectations of instruction and interest might natu- rally he emharked in such a produc- tion, even though it were not thus recommended, and came from the pen of a stupid instead of a very clever man. scott, indeed, entertained the idea of puhlishing the hook, and was restrained, not hy any fear that it would lack interest in the eyes of the world, hut hy certain misgivings ahout the propriety of letting loose to acerh and spiteful an attack on many men whose grandchildren were alive. he wrote an introductory notice to the work, which hegins as if it were intended for the press, hut ands with the following paragraph, which shows that intention to have vol. lxxxvl heen ahandoned: "the following memoirs are written with great talent and peculiar satirical energy. they are intended as a justification of the author's own conduct, hut are more successful in fixing a charge of folly and villany upon that of others than in exculpating his own. they will he a precious treat to the lovers of historical scandal, should they ever he made puhlic. the ori- ginal memoirs, written hy the hand of the author, are in the lihrary at dysart. but there are other tran- scripts in private collections, though some, i understand, have heen de- stoyed to gratify those whose ances- tors fall under the lash of the master. it is remarkahle that the style, which is at first not even grammatical, he- comes disengaged, correct, and spirit- ed in the course of composition." these mysterious memoirs, with sir walter's introduction, are now hefore us in a handsomely-printed tolume, for which the reader will in vain search the advertisements of the [aog. the master of sinclair's narrative of the ' . puhlisher, or the shelves of the cir- culating lihrary. the hest way, per- haps, of concealing a thing in print at the present day, is to put it into a hlue hook, and have it " presented to hoth houses of parliament hy com- mand of her majesty." a method of accomplishing a reserved privacy approaching, hut not reaching, such concealment, is to print a work for a select hook-cluh — a practice which we must hy no means he held as con- demning. it furnishes many a hook of interest and instruction to the limited circle who can appreciate that interest and instruction ^ and if a wider circle demand it, there is seldom anything to prevent the work from heing puhlished to them. the mas- ter's memoirs have heen printed hy a cluh, of which the small numher predicates stringent selectnesa — the numher of copies hrought into exist- ence, is we helieve, precisely seventy- five. it often damps the ardour of the critic, who must write upon the most prominent hook of the day, to rememher that it has heen already perused hy every reader of his re- view ; that all have anticipated him in their private criticisms, and that he is, on that account, preaching to an impatient and intolerant audience. in gathering a few characteristic flowers from the garden of the mas- ter's narrative, we run no risk of en- countering this cause of weariness, whatever the reader may think of the inherent merit of what we set he- fore him. the master was a scholar—such as were made, in those days, of well- horn scotsmen, partly hy home, and partly hy continental education: they had not the precise learning communicated hy the english uni- versities, hut what they had was ex- tensive and serviceahle his me- moirs are full of classical metaphors, allusion-, and quotations. he had genins, hut it ran to waste, or worse, for it was ever driven ahout hy the influence of a restless, scheming, in- suhurdinate disposition. within his own sphere, he was a sort of shaftes- hury in capacity, intrigue, and vola- tility — hut there was a touch of ferocity in his hlood, coming out in acts of sanguinary violence, which were apart from the sphere of the intriguing chancellor, and are indeed more in character with the ruthvens and bothwells of the sixteenth cen- tury, than with an ofticer in marl- horough's wars. a character such as this was natu- rally surrounded hy many vivid at- tractions to the greatest and the most real of romancers, hut we do not find the master in hodily shape among sir walter's characters. one might fancy his fierce impetuosity in fergus mtvor, and his accomplish- ments and suhtle malice in rasbleigh oshaldiston; hut scott was too great an artist to copy in a full-length por- trait from real life, and so disarrange the nice adjustment of his grouping. he showed his interest in the matter not only in reference to the hook now hefore us, hut in presenting, as his contrihution to the roxhurgh cluh, the official record of the great tragedy of the master's career—his trial he- fore a court-martial for the slaughter of two hrothers, memhers of the distin- guished house of shaw of greenock. there were tbree of these shaws in the army of marlhorough—one died of honourahle wounds in a siege, the other two were slain hy the master, their hrother officer. the cause of this tragedy was a charge hy shaw which no soldier can endure with equanimity. at the hattle of wynendual he was heard calling out in an admonitory and imperious voice to the master, his superior officer, ne afterwards said puhlicly that his reason for call- ing out was, hecause the master hent or "ducked" to escape the halls. the master sent him a challenge; hut shaw postponed a meeting till after he should visit his hrother, who had heen mortally wounded hefore lille, and expressed a disinclination to a duel unless it were forced upon him, referring to a resolution which he had adopted apparently on ac- count of some fatal affair in which he had heen previously engaged. the master, infuriated, sought him out immediately. a soldier saw them together, the master striking shaw over the head—swords drawn, and shaw's sword hent and useless he- fore he was despatched. the elder .] tlu master of sinclair'/ narrative of the ' . hrother. captain shaw, it appears, charged the master with having sheathed himself in a sort of paper hreastplate which tamed the point of the sword — an odd and not very practicahle - looking expedient, though xenophon tells us of linen tlttoraxe% or hreastplates among, the greeks. he spoke openly, too, of the prohahility that the master would murder hin also. sinclair rode up to the head of the regiment, and held fierce controversy with his victim. he was heard to say that if it were not for the risk of injuring others standing near, he would shoot him there. the words were no sooner out of his mouth than he fired, and the other hrother fell dead from his horse. sir walter scott says, " both these rencounters, as they are called, were conducted without se- conds, and would now scarcely he thought to come within the forms demanded hy the modern rules of honour, though they do not seem to have shocked the british officers of the period, or to have given much scandal to marlhorough." the sen- tence of the court was death, with a recommendation to mercy. the re- maining hrother strongly pressed marlhorough to refuse this recom- mendation. the duke took the matter with his usual lofty calmness, and in a letter, without a word of in- diguation or sympathy, said to sir john, "i was so much concerned, that i would not venture so far as has heen practised in the army on the like occasion, without first con- sulting and hearing the advice of the attorney and solicitor general." in the end it was found that the mercy recommended could not he shown. the master, however, escaped hy fleet riding. a traditionary anec- dote descrihes him as encountering a startling reminiscence of these events in after life, when he was revisiting his native country in dis- guise. he wanted a swift-ruuning footman — a valuahle commodity in those days of slow coaches and had roads. an aspirant to the office, who did not identify his formidahle interrogator, when questioned on his qualifications, hy way of refer- ring to an example of his prowess on a notorious occasion, said he had kept up with the master of sinclair's hnrse when he fled for his life after the murder of the shaws. the master is said to have dropped down in a fit; hut, hy his own account, neither this nor anything else pressed very heavy on his conscience. to- wards the conclusion of his narrative, he says that the cause of all his suf- ferings was the perseverance of his ancestors and himself in serving the royal family faithfully though hon- estly, and that the ungracious re- ward he met with "was too mnch to make any man hang himself"—an odd effect of excessive ill-usage. '• i vow to god," he continues, " i am not sensihle as yet, nor was then, of any other crime except this of my original sin; for i hope it is not that of my having on all occasions pro- fessed ane unhounded zeal for my poor country, which i defy man and the devil, and hoth their aides-de- camp and agents, to make out that i have not kept strictly up to in all the course of my life." such was the position of the man who occupied his leisure, and, as it seems, his desponding heart, in writ- ing a narrative of the unsuccessful enterprise in which he had a con- siderahle share. the affair of the ' has a much more important place in history than that of the , though it must he admitted to he fur less fruitful in romance. the latter, coming upon a period of profound tranquillity and security, passed with the hrilliancy and also the terrors of a meteor. it was attended hy an amount of success wonderful when compared with the elements whence it arose; while its predecessor, on the other hand, was nearly as remarkahle for failure, in conditions from which success might have heen legitimately expected. a desperate struggle hetween the two great parties, on the death of queen aune, was a thing to anticipated, for as yet the stranger race had not en- tered into possession; and although they had the technicalities of a mi- nute act of parliament to plead in their favour, it might he considered yet douhtful whether the country at large had acceded to the arrangement. [aug. the master of sinclair's narrative of the ' . "when the other affair hroke out, there had heen peaceful po>session for thirty years. adverse claims were almost forgotten, at least hy the most acute and practical of the english politi- cians, and the supporters of the han- over succession covered a wide enough area to possess within themselves hoth a government party and a powerful parliamentary opposition. that during the thirty years so char- acterised a jacohite feeling should have grown up in scotland sufficient to frighten the empire hy the march to derhy, can only he accounted for in one way—hy the wrongs and insults encountered at the hand of the imperial government, owing to the sway of rulers who were resolved to overlook, or who could not see, natioual affections and idolatries in the country which had hecome one with england tbrough the union of . in no other way is it possihle to account for the hanover succession having survived the crisis of , and having heen actually suhjected to greater perils in . but even admitting that many of the events which created in scotland so protracted a jacohite nationality occurred in the period hetween the two insurrections, it is impossihle to look hack without wonder at the complicated maze of difficulties and dangers tbrough which our present settlement passed scatbless. the first faint and gradual departure from the pure line of hereditary descent is not in itself perhaps so remarkahle a thing as it seems at this day. it is a fallacy to suppose that principles like those of hereditary succession were hetter understood, and followed to their conclusions, in former ages than in the present. like all other mat- ters which admit of a complex and suhtle development, the canons of hereditary representation were refined from time to time hy the clever men who improved on the practice of the day. it was long ere it hecame ohvious that a grandson hy the eldest was a nearer heir hy pure hereditary descent than the secoud son himself. when the failure of issue rendered necessary a retrospect to the descend- ants of some previous generation, it did not seem of much moment how far it went hack; and it was hard sometimes to see why a grandmother's descendant, who did not hear the name, had a preferahle title to those of a great-grandfather who did. the wars of the roses are a hloody testi- mony to the incomplete settlement, in their age, of the ahsolute principles of hereditary representation. the revolution of c was of course the first ordeal—it can scarcely he called one of the perils — of the hanover settlement, since it is scarce- ly possihle that any of its promoters imagined that they were preparing a tbrone for the descendants of the un- fortunate queen of bohemia. that that affair should have passed off so easily must ever he a marvel, how- ever successfully philosophical histo- rians may set forth the political and ecclesiastical causes of which it was the effect. in the production of this marvellous effect, indeed, some causes operated of too trivial a nature to receive encouraging comment from philosophical historians. prominent among these—and so important as a cause of the revolution, that hut for it that great event would, to all hnman appearance, never have taken place — was the fact that, down to the middle of june in the year c , the princess mary was the heiress of the british tbrone hy right of hirth, and was expected to fill it hy all who did not anticipate that a miracle would he performed to defeat the claims of a heretic princess, the wife of the heretic ruler of the united provinces. her hushand was the grandson of charles i. it is true that they had no children, hut mary was only twenty-six years old, and the princess aune gave promise of leaving a numerous pro- geny. nor was this state of mat- ters much altered hy the hirth of a son to king james. the warming- pan story made matters the same as if no son had heen horn: the story of a spurious offspring was firmly he- lieved. perhaps there were states- men who, knowing the contrary, propagated this helief for their own ends. but it would he as preposter- ous now to maintain that the charge was true, as to maintain that the nation at large did not helieve that goody wilks had smuggled in at a side-door the hahe passed off as a royal infant. now, inasmuch as .] the master of sinclair's narrative of the . to the roman catholics this infant was the emhodied miracle of their prayers, he was to the protestant pahlic the "pretender" which lie was afterwards desiguated in acts of parliament. thus the hirth of a prince did not injure the princess mary's claims to the succession, and only tended to justify the policy of letting her fill the tbrone hefore her time. it seems clear that the revo- lution could not have heen curried— at least without a civil war—hut for the warming-pan story; and so it was that a foolish lie removed the first great impediment to the present settlement the succession to the crown did not then appear to he changed ; its course was only slightly anticipated, and there was no reason to expect a fundamental departure from the reiguing line. mary, it is true, had no offspring, hut she was only twenty-six years old; and even should she remain childless, there was her sister aune, the mother of many children. when mary died, it mat- tered little that her hushand should remain trustee for those who were to come. the next ordeal of peril came with the death of the duke of glou- cester, the last of the children of aune. the fate of that family makes every one who reads pause and reflect on so sad and strange a memorial of the wonderful ways of providence. we speak of the children of poverty dying early from neglected ventila- tion and insaluhrious food; and here were seventeen princely children, each an additional pledge for the tranquillity of a mighty empire, and one after the other each consigued to the tomh— *' pallida more aequo pulsat pede panpcnim tahernas begumque turres.'' after this last hope had departed, the english parliament set ahout, like thorough men of husiness, to riud an heir to the tbrone, and made their selection of a royal family as dispas- sionately as if they were selecting a chairman of committee. the many descendants of charles i.'s daughter —they now amounted to ahout thirty or forty, seated on divers european tbrones, great and small—were pass- ed over, and for sufficient reasons the choice fell on a family almost un- known to britain, since she who con- nected it with the old royal family— the danghter of the scottish james— had departed nearly a hundred years hefore to share the unhappy tbrone of the palatinate. nor were the parliament content to take the heirs of this princess — a numerous group — in the lineal order of succession. passing over her elder children, they selected, for their protestantism, the descendants of her youngest daughter. this remarkahle piece of legislation, the act of succession, in virtue of which our gracious queen now worth- ily occupies the tbrone, caused won- derfully little discussion in eng- land. but it found an unexpected enemy elsewhere. scotland had not heen consulted in the choice of a sov- ereigu, and it was taken for granted that she would with hecoming do- cility follow england step hy step tbrough that lahyrinthine genealogi- cal path which led to the feet of the electress sophia. but scotland, in the matter of darien and other things, had run up a score of grievous injuries from her powerful neighhour, and she vowed, in shape of an act of parliament, that until these were re- dressed the prince who might he sovereigu of england should he dis- qualified for the sovereiguty of scot- land. this was the great peril of the hanover settlement, for hoth na- tions armed themselves and raised troops, and a war hetween them seemed inevitahle — a war in which the jacohite interest in england might with good grace side with the scots. it was not until the pro- tracted and perilous negotiations, and the still more protracted and perilous dehates in the two legisla- tures, were crowned hy the union, that this peril was averted. at the point which our history reaches, eight years afterwards, we would, if we read it for the first time like a new novel, he prepared to see the stewarts' cause trinmphant, or ex- cluded only hy a desperate struggle. the old warming-pan story had died the natural death of popular fallacies. no one douhted that the hoy left hy james ii. when he died in exile was his son, though it was the policy of the legislature still to call him the pretender in acts of parliament. [aug. the matter of sinclair's narrative of the ' . the venerahle electress sophia, the daughter of a british princess, whose mother had talked to her of the tradi- tions of her own native land, and had, indeed, in her days of adversity, gone hack, and occupied a house in drury lane, was dead, and the parliament- ary line of succession had gone a step still farther away from the genealogi- cal. queen aune, with all her devo- tion to the church of england, had a secret favour—surely a natural one —for her hrother's family; and acute statesmen, such as st. john and go- dolphin, had calculated on the restor- ation of the exiled house as so proha- hle that they had carefully estahlished an imerest there, and were ready to serve it with all hecoming fidelity when the proper time came. but most unexpectedly to those who, as the leading statesmen of the day, should have known the puhlic feeling hest, the fact came to he apparent that the inhahitants of bri- tain, with hut few exceptions, liked the hanover succession. had the earlier monarchs of the race heen hetter versed in british feeling, or hetter advised, there would have heen no insurrections to hreak in upon the popularity of the settlement. but george i., who had heen hrought up at a little despotic court, had pro- hahly less notion of constitutional liherty even than the expelled stew- arts. he was naturally and hy training a despot. but he had heen trained in the handling of different institutions, and consequently was not so ahle as the stewarts to work the british system of government to despotic ends. it was like setting a general officer to command a fleet, or an admiral to command an army. with all the desire in the world to he ahsolute, the misplaced leader would hlunder in the tactics and mishandle the material. in one thing, however, george i. succeeded: it was in treating all those who did not side with the court—the opposi- tion, in short—as enemies, if not trai- tors. fortunately for his own peace, as well as the fortune of many emi- nent statesmen, he knew not how many of his most trusted advisers had heen making terms with the court of st. germains. but those whom he saw in the position of palpahle op- position he did all that was in his power to drive into the position of rehels, and with fome he was suc- cessful. the motives of men driven to such a course hy irritated van- ity or disappointed amhition are neither nohle nor good. but the world is the world — "the hlood will follow where the pincers tear," and the early hanoverian governments made their own enemies. in the contest thus created, personal char- acteristics are more interesting than events, and the chief spirit of the master of sinclair's hook is in its personal sketches — the sketches of a pencil deeply dipped in gall. with all his crimes upon his head, how- ever, he was hetter entitled than many others to speak out whether it was pure choice or dire necessity that sent him into the insurgent camp, he was a memher of a stanch jacohite house, and had a legitimate right to profess devotion to the cause of the exiles. the only full personal narrative of the ' heretofore relied on came from a far more polluted pen—that of a perfidious prie*t, who had heen chaplain to the army — preached to it of the divine right of kings, and the sacrilege of touching the lord's anointed; then at the end turned, and gave evidence against those who were hrought to the scaf- fold, saying it was an atonement for his sins in having countenanced the uunatural rehellion against the happy constitution and settlement; — such is a hrief hut sufficient account of the author of " the history of the late rehellion, with original papers and characters of the principal nohlemen and gentlemen concerned in it, hy the rev. mr. rohert patten." to return to the master — his characters are varied, hut chiefly, as we have hinted, of a dusky hue. in this as in other insurrec- tions are to he found the iunumer- ahle grades of character and conduct that can find room hetween two very far distant extremes. at the ex- treme right we find the real honest devotees — the men to whom their caose is a religion, for which they are emharked in a crusade — who count it little less than profanation to cal- culate results, hut love the cause all the hetter for its hopelessuess. from .] the matter of sinclair's narrative of the . the hegiuning they have laid their account with death, and what to them is far worse than death — the downfall of an ancient house, and the scattering of their ruined offspring over the earth. on the extreme left again we have those who have coolly calculated up- on the outhreak, with all its cala- mities to friend and foe, as a scheme of personal aggrandisement, and have wilfully fed the flames of honest enthusiasm to serve their own hase ends, providing in the mean time for their ultimate safety, and even in the midst of their insurrectionary la- hours framing little counter-schemes of treachery for profiting" hy the de- feat of their machinations and the ruin of their followers. history — british history, at least — has very few such men, hut among their small numher must he counted mar, the great author of the insurrection, and at the same time the representative of an old heroic house. he had heen one of the most successful working agents in carrying that union, from which he afterwards spoke of relieving his countrymen as from a degrading hargain, in which they had heen sold to an enemy. he promoted an association among the higbland chiefs for the protec- tion and promotion of the hanover succession, hoasting that they were at his disposal for this acceptahle end. he offered his services with the most profuse adulation to the new king, who treated him with im- prudent scorn; and it was alter all this that he raised his standard at bracmar, and spoke in their own spirit of hrave enthusiasm to the hrave enthusiasts who gathered round it. he provided carefully for his pre- sent safety, and in his long exile made many an ahject offer of services, and many a vain effort to he restored to the favour of the government. the master seems to have considered it his great mission to exhihit this man's character in all its attrihutes of odiousness; and the unwearied relent- less zeal wherewith he pureues this task reminds one, hy the associa- tion of contrariety, of the gilding the refined gold and the painting of the lily. mar was deformed in person, as one may see in the general set of his duhious countenance, though courtly painters have evaded the de- fect. the master, of course, does not fail to make the hest of this misfor- tune, which, he says, was inherited from his mother, the countess. '• he profited nothing hy her hut the hump he has got on his hack, and her dissolute, malicious, meddling spirit." we are now fairly started with mar and his merits, and we get on in this fashion: "having no ohligations to nature, and so few to his father and mother, and none hut that of deht to the rest of mankind, so soon as he was capahle of any- thing, he seemed to think himself in a state of war with the whole; for it has often heen ohserved that those who are horn with such na- tural defects, used to revenge them- selves on nature hy doing her as little honour as she has done them; which i helieve the reason for that lacedemonian law for destroying these monstrous productions the moment they were horn. his ori- ginal sin hoth hy his father and mother giving him as small title to honour as estate, he soon gave him- self up as hy instinct to his hereditary and natural penchant — villany and lying. the first act of hostility he committed was defrauding of his creditors." and here we have some details of private matters not, if true, very honourahle to him, until he emerges into more illustrious feats in private life. the master, it will he ohserved, in this sketch, follows the method of the newgate calendar, and the popular lives of eminent malefactors, where the first symp- toms of an evil disposition, displayed in domestic life or private society, afterwards expand into more conspi- cuous and puhlic criminality. * as he grew older," says the master, following these models, * his inherent villany and his interested amhition grew with him; he soon found that when he had done his hest, the small matter he could pilfer from his credi- tors was hut a trifle to his extrava- gance. he ahandoned himself to the court, and declared war against his country. he truckled as an un- derling till the union, at which time he was made secretary of state for scotland, to which it was not the [aug. the muster of sinclair's narrative of the ' . interest or influence he had in his country, or the least good quality, recommended him to the english court, hut the hardy disposition they found in him to ruin and hetray his country." then again follow de- tails which somewhat interrupt the torrent of the master's savage ahuse. we pass over the specific services which mar performed for england, and against his country, as we are told, in carrying the union, and content ourselves with the master's pithy general opinion hoth of the measure and the man. "it is demonstrahle that his only and great quality was that of under- mining his country, and committing the fin against the holy ghost, hy treacherously, for a piece of money, hetraying it; the hlackest and at- trociousest of crimes, never to he forgiven hy god almighty, and i think ought never to he forgiven, and impossihle to he forgot, hy men; for no day has passed since the making of that dismal union that we have not found the sad effects of it. and to show he never repented so long as he received the least part of the reward of his fratricide, at the time of the pretended invasion he was the great promoter in hring- ing up to london, in trinmph, those of the hest families of his country." after this fashion the master gives the etory, with comments, of the earl's progress from the union to the insurrection which he instigated and headed. it is difficult to know what may he found in the iuner re- cesses of a crooked mind. it has often heen hinted that the earl's mar- riage, just hefore queen aune's death, to a daughter of a great whig house, was one of his strokes of policy for the purpose of strengthening his in- terest with the hanover party. but the master stands alone in his way of giving voice to the supposition, and shows on the occasion a facility in using the slang of the cock-pit and the race-course not often to he found in print, at least in the last century. after referring to the servile hut un- accepted offer of his services to king george, the narrator says: — "be- sides this letter to king george, he made use of another precaution, which was marrying an english lady some time hefore, whose family interest he was in hope might keep him in place to reconcile the whigs to him, and at least get him of the ready to keep up his credit for some time, in case the queen should happen to die, which all foresaw, and he sent off grazing. to hring that ahout, as i am told, he was forced to give her in jointure all that was called his estate. i have some reason to think he cheated her, hy pretending to give her what was not in his own name, and if so, not his own; and i am sure, if it was not his own, it was cheating his sou and family." his wife was the lady frances pierrepont, the daughter of the duke of kingston. she nar- rowly escaped a strange destiny, for mar's hrother, erekine of grange, notorious for having kept his own wife a prisoner in one of the distant hehrides, had put himself in posses- sion of the legal means for conveying lady mar to scotland as an insane woman. how she would have heen dealt with we may infer from his treatment of lady grange, and his vindication of it on the ground that there were no means of properly treating insane people in scotland. the countess's sister, no less a per- sonage than lady mary wortley montague, rescued her with a chief- justice's warrant, just hefore she was taken across the border. the ori- ginal cause of lady grange's ahduc- tion was, that she knew some dark secrets passing hetween mar in exile and her hushand, who, hy audacious and vigilant hypocrisy, kept himself on a slippery steep as a sound whig and preshyterian. the plot against the countess seems to have had a more purely sordid reference to reversion- ary interests in house property.* but this is digression. let us come hack to the master, where we find him exhihiting the earl iguomini- ously repulsed from the court, and turning his path northwards. "but these precautions and suhmis- sions did not serve his turn, heing so odious to the english ministry who had so long known him, and the same who had employed him formerly — who "for an inquiry into tho plot against lady mar, see magazine for sept. . .] the master of sinclair's narrative of the ' . treated him as those who make use of poison do a venomous monster — after squeezing, as they thought, the poison out of him, tbrew him away, having no farther occasion for him, and imagining him sufficiently recompensed for hetray- ing his country. finding himself in a most despicahle condition, and that there was no mercy to he expected from him either from the court or his creditors, of which there was no want in scotland, as well as in london, .... thus reason- ahly looking on himself as one detested and ahhorred hy all mankind, he could not pardon his country and countrymen the evils which he himself had done them, and imagined their hatred proportioned to his villany, and supposed they'd spare him on no occasion if he did not hasten to prevent them. on these considera- tions did he douhle his diligence, and re- solve to strike the iron while hot. hav- ing no other game to play — knowing that the mohs and hroils in england had roused the scots tories, who were very attentive to all that passed there, which, according to their laudahle custom, they maguified to cheat themselves—he did not know how far, with his management and making use of bo favourahle a con- junction, he might work them up hefore things turned stale, and while their spirits were in a ferment; if, hy the force of ly- ing, and making them helieve he was trusted hy the english jacohites and the king, he should succeed in raising them —no matter what came of it—he should lose nothing, not so much as a reputa- tion."* we are tempted to cull one other little flower of rhetoric from this garden; it comes in just after mar is represented as having acted a nohle part in refusing to countenance a capitulation after all seemed lost mar only gets credit for having nego- tiated privately for himself, and ascer- tained that he wonld not he included in any indemnity. hence, when he acta the high-minded patriot who will not dishonour his sacred cause hy capitulation, his maguanimity receives no hetter treatment than this :—' ' but after all that scene of villanies, his whole life, and the iunumerahle lies and forgeries, the impudence of such a wretch as we knew him and represented him to ourselves, was of all things the most insupportahle. nor did we know what he was not capahle of, after all he had done, for the same im- pudence was a salve for all he could do."f but enough, perhaps, of this kind of matter. let us give at least one instance to show that the master's rhetoric was not all devoted to vitu- peration. in the portion of the insur- gent army which fled at sheriff- muir fell the young heir of the house of strathmore—a youth of rare pro- mise, the ohject of many eulogies, not the least graceful of which, though tinged hy classical pedantries, is this: —"when he found all turning their ( hacks, he seized the colours, and per- suaded fourteen, or some such num- her, to stand hy him for some time, which drew upon him the enemy's fire, hy which he was wounded in the helly, and going oil', was taken and murdered hy a dragoon; and it may he said, in his fate, that a mill- stone crushed a hrilliant. he was the young man of all i ever saw who ap- proached the nearest to perfection, and had a just contempt of all the little lies and selfish tricks bo ne- cessary to some, and so common amongst us; and his least quality was, that he was of a nohle ancient family, and a man of quality. for- tune seems to he invidious to those of worth, since she gives a long life with incapacity to some, and joins a short life to great merit in others. those whose life is of any conse- quence fall early, and those who never will he good for anything are eternal—either that they appear to he so, or that comparatively wi'h the others they ahsolutely are so. chance and death agree in forgetting one who is good for nothing. "j there is no occasion for expending pity on those followers of mar who were to any extent like-minded with himself, and led to the enterprise either hy disappointed amhition or self-interested calculation. nor is pity the proper trihute to the heroic zealots who accepted the cause with all its dangers and terrors, unless in- deed that pity he so mingled with admiration as to lose its ordinary characteristics. but there was a class—and, as it happened, the most * pp. ; . t p. . $ p. . [aug. the master of sinclair's narrative of the ' . valuahle to his purposes, and there- fore to he gained at all cost—on whose fate, sacrificed as they relentlessly were to selfish amhition, it is im- possihle to reflect without deep com- passion. these were the higbland clans. their peculiar institutions were still fresh and vigorous among them; hut these were so different from the other institutions of the empire, that the celt was hegiuning to stand helplessly apart — an agent to he gained and used hy any hold speculator. he could easily have heen rendered a true and faithful servant to the new dynasty ; he was as easily rendered a trouhlesome eacmy. later events have shown with what honest fidelity he has horne the hard and dangerous work of our national wars. peculiarly he was the child which a kindly paternal government could have trained to all good usee. but he found the es- tahlished government harsh, exacting, and suspicious; and so he fell a prey to the tempter holding out the right hand of fellowship and treachery. it infers no reproach to the chiefs of clans to suppose that they were as free to adopt the hanover cause as that of the stewarts. of allegiance, in its modern acceptation, they had no distinct conception. they were, indeed, far too great in their own eyes to he amenahle to such an ohliga- tion. they treated with, rather than gave allegiance to, governments and dynasties. if they admitted themselves to he suhsidiary to king james or queen aune, yet they were not exactly suhjects, hut rather suf- fragans or electors. the side they 'might take in any monarchical dis- pute was a matter more of policy than of duty, and would he adjusted hy such rules as those, for instance which influenced a german grand- duke or margrave in the disputed election of an emperor. the extent to which these chiefs possessed lands and ruled over trihes, without any title according to law, and in defiance of adverse titles granted hy the sove- reigu and sanctioned hy the courts of law, is a curious chapter in british history which has yet to he written. before the commencement of the eighteenth century, most of the clans conformed so far that their chiefs nominally professed to hold their lands of the crown ; but even then the power of the law was nut always effective in giving it to the proper representative of the house according to the laws of feudal descent, if it suited the policy of the clan that another memher of the family — an uncle or a cousin, perhaps—should rule over them. there parses hriefly across the masters narrative one sept, however, who, even down to the ' , would not acknowledge the feudal superiority of the crown in any shape, or hold their lands hy royal charter, which they disdainfully called a sheepskin title. this was the clan of "rough keppoch," who held sway in the rugged recesses of glen spean and in glen roy, renowned for its geo- logic phenomenon. since the family which had virtually ruled this terri- tory for centuries would not accept of a feudal title from the crown, it was necessary, for the sake of unifor- mity, that some one else should get it —the law could no more put up with unchartered lands than nature with a vacunm. the fortune of ohtaining the feudal investiture fell naturally to the huntly family, who, like the house of argyll in the south, were grad- ually " hirsing out," as it was termed, the smaller septs around them, es- pecially those who were trouhlesome from a hankering after lowland heef and mutton, which they con- sumed without paying for. kep- poch and his clan were in some measure protected in the exercise of their old higbland rights hy the feudal owner of the soil, hut gradually, as was hut natural, their traditional rights were extinguished hy the title supported hy law. the master of sinclair, a fifeshire man, with all the iguorance of higbland fashions natural to a lowlander of that age, tells us, in this ungenial fashion, of the arrival of keppoch and his men to the insurgent camp:— "keppoch, a higbland chief, and vas- sal, or rather tenant, of huntlie, came to perth with two hundred and forty men. he had never heen with us he- fore; hut hearing of a hattle, and that there was plunder, got his men toge- ther, and rohhed the othor higbland- men who were going home straggling . the master of sinclair's narratite of the ' . with the pillage of our haggage, and what they had taken out of the low country. and having secured it, he and his folks took an itching to see that country where so many good things were got, heing so oaen invited, and heing told, hefore he left home, that we were in a very good condition, having hanged the enemy. mar was extremely civil to him, and knowing him to he the man of the higblands who is no less famous than the others for his address in rohhing and love to money, struck instantly up with him, and he, in a day or two, took no more notice of his mas- ter huntly than any of the others."* this is not in exact conformity with modern romance pictures of a "rehel chieftain and his hand," hut with a little tinge of the master's natural causticity in it, it is a fair type of the light in which a lowland gentleman of that day viewed a higbland clan. he concludes this episode of the keppoch men hy say- ing that "the leader stayed, and re- ceived a good pay; hut the men went home, the greater part of them a few days after, and not long ere all were gone, took what they liked hest on the road, that they might not re- turn empty-handed." as the higblanders were quite a peculiar people in their social posi- tion, so also were they distinct from the rest of the british community in the formidahle characteristic, that they possessed arms and knew how to use them. they were, in fact, the only element out of which an army could he improvised, and they were, therefore, the most valuahle of all adherents to those who were entering on a contest with the estahlished government, its army, and its re- sources. hence it was that the higblanders, when properly handled, gained their surprising victories; and that, whether as friends or foes, the descendants of the scottish horderers and of the english yeomen, who had sustained the glory of their respec- tive districts in the toughest and hloodiest contests of former centuries, were useless lumher in the field, and had either to he cut down or to run away. our european wars ihowed then, and have proved in many a conflict of later days, that the • p. . warlike spirit and the stuhhorn cour- age of their ancestors still slumhered in the sturdy frames of the low- land peasantry and the english yeo- men. but ere these qualities could have exercise, the men required in the first place to have arms, and in the second place to he disci- plined and drilled. the higblanders, on the other hand, were masters of their own peculiar discipline and tactics — and these were of a kind which, though not destined to per- manent approval and adoption, were memorahly formidahle to regular troops not specially trained to cope with them. they hrought at the same time their own simple and effective arms to the field, and in a mauner they provided their own com- missariat, without depending either on suhsidy or military chest. the master, with all his social prejudices against the higblanders, could not fail to see their transcendent value as insurgent troops, especially in so ill-regulated a camp as that of mar. some little incidents in the narrative show the difficulty and often the hopelessness of hringing fresh levies of lowlanders into fight- ing condition. huntly raised among the sturdy crofters of his aherdeen- shire domains a troop of light-horse thus sketched off: "a troop of forty or fifty great luhherly fellows in hounets, without hoots or any such thing, and scarce hridles, mounted on long-tailed little horses less than the men — who were hy much the greatest animals of the two—without pistols, with great rusty muskets tied on their hack with ropes—and these he called light horse. i must own the grotesque figure these made moved everyhody's laughter, and soon got the other hundred and sixty horse he hrought along with him the same name of light-horse, though they did not deserve it more than those who came with marshall, who were almost all galloways as well as those who came with huntly."f the master, as a trained soldier in marlhorough's wars, and a man not much accus- tomed to modify either his opinions or the method in which he expressed them, found ahundant opportunity f p. . [aug. vie master of sinclair's narrative of the ' . for exercising his critical powers on the ill-conditioned organisation of the troops with which he required to act. he gives a very sarcastic account of the efforts to fortify the camp at perth, conducted hy an engineer whom he desiguates rightly or wrongly a french dancing-master. he has now and then, too, the satisfaction of recording such palpahle deficiencies as the drafting in of tbree hundred musketeers without flints. he told their officers that "it was hetter to have tbree hundred fewer, for the moment they came to any action, these men must run away, and hy their example carry others with them, and could not fail to ruin the whole, or mutiny, for no man is so stupid hut knows the want of a flint; and heing low-country men, they neither had swords nor pretended to make use of any, which was the mad excuse when it was complained the higblanders wanted firearms."* between high- landers with swords, and lowlanders with only flintless muskets, there could he no rational comparison, however mad the master deemed the excuse for not providing the higblanders with firearms. the master performed a rather sigual and original feat in this war, which he descrihes with singular modesty. it was the capture of a vessel hy a small fragment of a troop of dragoons. the vessel contained a supply of arms for the government—. the temptation of course to the cap- tare. she lay in burntisland harhour. the ohject was to seize her hy a detachment from the camp at perth —a difficult operation, while argyll was posted in great strength at stir- ling. the leader of the expedition mounted a man hehind each dragoon for the purpose of douhling his force, and the cavalcade crept quietly along, avoiding villages, to the margin of the forth. the master of the vessel was quietly secured in an alehouse ashore, and the capture was easily effected. trained, however, in the strictest military school of the day, the mas- ter's spirit was much disturhed hy the irregularities of his followers. "we seized several small hoats the minute we came into town, and after placing a few sentries ahout the town —which, hy the way, was no easy task, since nohody cared to stand— we forced some townsmen to go along with ours to hring in the ships. .. . nor were there sentries to he got to post ahout the town, or if any posted would others relieve them; nor would any hold the few horses of those who had gone to seize the ships, who went a-strolling tbrough the town and loosed their hridles. it is not to he conceived how those people's tongues, and other uuruliness in going into alehouses, confounds at all times, hut more at night, the unlucky officer who has the command of them; for there's no want of advisers, sometimes twenty speaking at onoe, and all equally to the purpose, hut not one to ohey." then at last, when the vessel was oecured, and the precious cargo of arms had to he removed to the camp, at perth—the most serious part of the expedition, from the risk that the convoy would he intercepted hy a detachment from argyll's army—the master says of his grievances, and his unceremonious remedy for them: " of the fifty haggage-horses, for we had no more, none would load, or, if they did, not ahove four firelocks. after humhly hegging these fellows to put in more to no purpose, i gave them round, without distinction, a hearty druhhing — the most persuasive and convincing argument to those sort of men." on the march hack "some of the command went off without leave to pay their respects to some minister, whom they had a mind to tease; and, as those irregular folks generally con- trive it, they returned hefore hreak of day with noise." when he had reached auchterarder, a village illus- trious in ecclesiastical controversy, a new difficulty awaited him, not from the unwatchfulness of his lowland force, hut the too suspicious vigilance of a hody of higblanders who were sent thither to meet him. whether from real misapprehension, or the influence of some wayward caprice, they refused to acknowledge him. "i ordered," he says, " those to march who i saw there; hut they were so far from oheying that they pretended they did not understand me, and • p. . .] tlu master of sinclair's narrative of the ' . most cocked their pieces arid present- ed to shoot me, and some lay down on their hellies to take the hetter aim. if i could have spoken to them, i would have offered myself prisoner: had i offered to run away, i was a dead man; hut hy forcing myself to look pleased, and as a friend, i stop- ped their fury till an officer came who understood me." he told them that the duke of argyll was within tbree miles of them, and galloped away; whereat, in rather cockneyish grammar, he says, "it is incredihle to helieve how them fellows run and overtook the horse on heing told that." this little incident is one of the many which exemplify the precarious understanding hetween the lowland gentry and the higblanders tbrough- out the enterprise. though these were so invaluahle an element, as we have seen, in an insurrectionary force, and were numerous, there was no one who knew how to handle them after the example of montrose and dundee. though the chiefs might he too great to exercise the vulgar duty of allegiance, their followers had an allegiance of a devoted and ah- sorhing character. but it was due neither to stewart nor guelph, hut to their. native or adopted chief. where he went they went, without ulterior question. thus the praser high- landers had heen led out hy fraser- dale, the legal owner of the estates on which they lived—a chief reluc- tantly followed for want of a hetter. but the chief of their adoption and allegiance, the virtuous and gentle lovat, having in the mean time es- caped from france, arrived at inver- ness, where he found it his interest to take the government side; and his clan, whenever they heard of his happy return, scampered off just hefore the hattle of sheriffmuir, and gathered round him in their native wilds of stratheeriek. it was use- less to officer the higblanders other- wise than tbrough their own patri- archal hierarchy, and every attempt to comhine clans together and tell them off in companies and hattalions under regimental officers was ruin- ous. mar's camp had a plethora of gentlemen in comparison with the proper material for rank and file, and hut a small portion of them could get commissions. "there was, in- deed," says the master, "a neces- sity of giving those of following commissions, for though not officers, there was no other way of hringing them into a form and suhordination —a commission putting them under the ohligation of oheying; and no clan heing willing to lose their name and join immediately under another chief, every chief pretending to an equality, they could not well have less than that of colonel." further on is mention of another higbland spe- ciality, not to he easily reconciled with the ordinary notions of military eti- quette and discipline. there was under consideration the propriety of sigu- ing an association not to sue for terms without the consent of the majority of their hody. there were two drafts of the document laid on the tahle; and mar, taking up one of them, said, "it was neither english nor gram- mar;" a remark which the master, who could not miss so good an opportunity, calls "most impudent in his lordship, who of all men knows the least of either." he continues, "i spoke first, and took exception at that clause of hoth where we were hound in honour never to accept or sue for terms without the consent ot the majority; and desired to have it explained what was meant hy the majority—whether it was the majority of the siguers or the majority of the whole gentlemen at perth, or only the majority of such as my lord mar pleased to call. sir john m'lean was not long of taking off the mask, and very haughtily said, 'it was not left to the majority of those my lord mar pleased to call; his clan were all gentlemen, and they had as good a title to judge of things as others.' it heing not at all sale, and of no mauner of good, to contra- dict a point of that kind, it was dropped, since it reached the whole common higblandmen at perth, sir john having explained it very clearly. only some took the liherty of think- ing it very hard that a clan, who amongst them all had not one hun- dred a-year, should pretend to seven or eight hundred votes in an affair of that consequence, which neither related to their chief nor them; and [ang. the master of sinclair's narrative of the ' . hy that meana the higblanders— who we durst not dispute were gen- tlemen—mast henceforth determine us."* in one sense the master seems to have discerned with considerahle sbrewdness the characteristics of a higblaud army—he knew the peculi- arities which made had troops of them in the hands of a leader who had not sufficient military genins to discover in these peculiarities, when well di- rected, the elements of effective power. when forecasting—which he did with the henefit of knowing what it actu- ally was—the fate of the enterprise, he says, "the higblandmen would rise out of hopes of plunder, and would do as they had always done, which the history of montrose, and, since that, of my lord dundee, was enough to convince anyhody of; which is, they certainly desert in tbree events: first, they'd weary and go home if they could not come to action soon; the second, if they fight, and get the victory, plunder following, on that they'd he sure to go home with it; the third is, if they are heat they run straight home. so, go as it would, we of the low country must he left in the lurch. the higblandmen, on the other hand, heing encouraged hy hav- ing nothing to lose, and it not heing worth anyhody's while to pursue them into their hills, where an army must he fatigued and rained with hunger and cold, would soon make their peace as they had always done, or at least trust to it, when we would fall the sacrifice, and he the jest of all the people of common sense in all europe, hy not only losing our estates, hut our honours, "f the ,master is not more gracious to the individual character of some of the higbland leaders. of the cele- hrated brigadier macintosh of bor- lum, he says, "he had neither rank nor any distinguishing thing ahout him except iguorant presumption, and an affected inverness-english accent, not common, indeed, amongst high- landmen; and if i may he allowed to quote the character that a lady gave of him—who i wish most of our men had resemhled either in sense or any other thing—i meau my lady nairne, who, regretting heartily her hus- hand's heing concerned where mac- intosh was commander, said he had heen herding of higbland cattle these eight-and-twenty years till he was turned ox himself." macintosh, however, was the leader in the most gallant enterprises of the insurgent army. he carried a detachment across the firth of forth in open hoats, though it was jealously watched hy vessels of war. he estahlished himself in leith fort, where, so long as it suited him to remain, he hade defiance to the duke of argyll. he managed again to elude the vigilance of the enemy, and evacuating the fort to march southwards, joining the borderers under kenmore, and afterwards the eoglish insurgents of the north under forster. he and his nigh- landers imparted life and heroism to the defence of preston, and when the lazy luxurious forster made up his miml to capitulate, the brigadier and his followers were still for fighting it out, and dying in harness rather than on the scaffold. macintosh com- pleted his hold adventurous career hy escaping from newgate with a few of his followers, not tbrough arrangement and counivance, hut hy knocking down the turnkeys .and reaching the open street. it is said that the decorum of the hench was somewhat disturhed when, at the reassemhling of the court next day, it was stated that the prisoners who should have heen in the dock had still to he caught. some of them were again appre- hended, hut macintosh and the majority got clear out of london, a feat more wonderful for higblanders than even the knocking down of the officers of newgate. the london populace, though they were then rather thirsty for jacohite hlood, have a ready sympathy with a feat like this. macintosh hecame popu- lar among them, and they recalled the various incidents of his intrepid career. a street-hallad of the age, which treats his colleagues with small respect, hestows some charac- teristic compliments on the rough brigadier. we are tempted to tran- pp. . t p. . .] ie master of sinclair's narrative of the ' . scrihe from it those stanzas which have special reference to him:— "macintosh is a soldier hrave, and of his friends he took his leave; unto northumherland ho drew, and marched along with a jovial crew. "with a fa, la, la, ra, da, ra, da. macintosh he shook his head to see bls soldiers all he dead; • it was not for the loss of those, bnt fear we're taken hy our foes/ with a fa, la, ac macintosh is a valiant soldier, he carried a musket on hb shoulder; 'cock your pistols, draw your rapper; damn you, foster, for you're a traitor.' \v kh a fa, la, <stc. my lord derwentwater to foster did say, • thou hast proved our ruin this very day; tbon promlsedst to stand our friend, bnt thou hast proved a rogue in th' end.' with a fa, la, ic. my lord derwentwater to lichfield did ride, "with coach and attendants hy his side; lie swore if he died on the point of the sword, he'd drink a gude health to the man that he loved. with a fa, la, &c. then foster was hrought in from our own home. leaving our estates for others to come; *thou treacherous dog. ihou hast ue he- trayed; "we all are ruined,' lord nerwentwater said. with a fa, la, &c my lord derwentwater he is condemned, and near unto bls latter end; ills poor lady she did cry, 'my poor derwentwater ihen must die.' with a fa, la, d,e my lord derwentwater he la dead. and from his hody they took his head, but macintosh and others are fled. to fit his hat on another man's head." had there heen many macintoshes in the insurgent camp—or rather had tho-e in higher command shown the same prompt audacity of resolve and dashing rapidity of action—the tenor of british history might have heen to some considerahle extent changed. sir walter scott, who knew more of the intricacies and remote sources of his own country's history than any other man, attached to his copy of the master's memoirs a note on the causes of the failure of mar's attempt, full of wisdom and truth. the opin- ions it contains are perhaps to some extent to he found in his ordinary puhlished works, hut we are not aware that anywhere in these they are expressed in so condensed and emphatic a shape. "the same sound judgment which dictated to the duke of argyll a pro- crastinating and cautious train of opera- tions, recommended to mar vigour and decision. an estahlished government always grows stronger, while an insur- rection gradually hecomes weaker; its chiefs disagree, and its inferior memhers, unsupported hy any regular system of finance, desert for suhsistence, or render themselves detestahle hy plundering. it is vain to say that mar waited for his distant reinforcements, for the success of a desultory army depends always more on the celerity of its motions than on its numerical force; and as success never fails to strengthen its numhers, so in- activity is sure to impair them. forth is proverhially said to hridle the wild highlander, hut it did not hridle charles in , *nd should not have hridled mar in . mar's own arrival at perth shoald have heen concerted with a move- ment of the western clans—macdonulds, camerons, stewarts, &c.—toward atholl and ahetfoyle, and the heads of the forth, which these ready soldiers could easily have seized, while the duke of argyll could hardly have marched to- wards them without exposing the pass at stirling hridge to the insurgents, who, hy passing a hody of men at mar's own town of alloa in lighters, could have placed those left to defend the hridge hetwixt two fires. if it had heen judged necessary, the movement of the western clans might have heen comhined hy a corresponding march of the insurgent calvary, under wi'uton and kenmore, towards the leunox, aud as far as dry- men. this would have heen more judicious than their union with the handful of northumherland fox-hunters, who seem never to have had any serious thoughts of fighting, and soon sickened of it."* sir walter remarks that "when the insurgents did at length move, they seem to have heen shamefully negligent of intelligence, and the hattle of sheriffmuir was on their part a mere accident." this censure introductory notice, xvi. [aug. the master of sinclair's narrative of the ' . is amply supported hy incidents which the master tells with a sort of sarcas- tic hrevity—as, for instance, the first warning of argyll's approach to sheriffmuir. "we continued in full march till tbree of the afternoon; ahout which time our quartermasters, who had left us a little hefore, came hack with a lame hoy, who had run as hard as he could to tell us that the duke of argyll was marching tbrough dunhlane with his whole army towards us, and said the lady kippendavie had sent him, whose hushand was in the army with us."* they were at a loss how to act, "hecause it looked mean to halt such a hody of men on a foohsh hoy's >tory, and yet it was dangerous not to give credit to him." the next envoy was scarcely of a more diguified character. "i heard that fresh intelli- gence was come, confirming the for- mer message. i ran to hear what was said, and finding it to the same purpose with the former, and that it was an old woman sent hy the same lady, returned out of the crowd after hearing glengarry say that he'd lay his life that since the duke of argyll was came out, he'd give us hattle next morning." oddly enough, hy the way, it was a clergyman taking his morning walk, who, a few days hefore, had given warning to the in- surgents at preston that wills's army was upon them. on the porition taken up for the night, the master was more expres- sively sarcastic; he recommended the immediate crossing of the allan, and the guarding of all the fords against the enemy; hut it was deter- mined otherwise, the wading of the river in a frosty night heing deemed a hazardous experiment on the con- dition of the troops. sinclair with the rest of the horse was posted in two adjacent farmyards, deemed very con- venient and strong, which perhaps they would have proved as mere posts of defence, hut as hivouacking- ground for a portion of an army thev afforded no room for deploying. "these yards made the hottom of the hollow; all the ground ahout had a sudden rise from the houses and yards for two hundred paces, except towards the north, where we were hard upon the river, which was hehind us; for it can't he properly said we had front or rear more than it can he said of a harrel of herrings. in this uneven ground, with a hol- low way in it to hetter the matter, were we packed in, and all the foot round us almost as much straight- ened as we." the higblanders ad- mired this method of screening the troops, which the master says, "he could forgive cossacks, calmucks, or tartars to do." for his own part, however, he protests he helieves "eight thousand men—for we were ahout that numher — were never packed up so close together since the invention of powder; and i can take it upon me to desire the most ingenious engineer, after a month's thinking, to contrive a place so fit for the destruction of men, without heing in the least capahle to help themselves. god knows, had we heen attacked hy any tbree regiments of foot posted on the high ground ahout, they had cat ns to pieces or drove us into the river." the master's inefficient execution of his command in the hattle, laid him open to heavy censure. the higblanders, who could not appre- ciate professional ohjections to the disposition of the army as a reason for not fighting, suspected him of treachery, and, as he maintained, tbreatened his life. he withdrew from the army soon after the hattle. his motive does not appear to have heen cowardice, for that was not among his defects; nor could it pos- sihly have heen treachery, for no man had less chance of a welcome, or even an idemnity, from the govern- ment. he found refuge in the gor- don country. mar sent an order for his return hy a navy officer, a mem- her of a nohle house, and, hy repute, a hrave and honourahle man. whom the master, on account of his dis- agreeahle mission, introduces to the reader with more than his usual acerhity. this messenger, "as is usual to sea captains, liked a safe harhour and a howl of punch hetter than heating the main in a storm; and like himself, without thinking * p. . .] the master of sinclair's narrative of the ' . of tlie husiness he was going ahout, providently took in quadruple, or ra- ther m<ve provision of punch, in case of accidents, to carry him to the next alehouse or town, where he never fail- ed to he several days of careening, till a neap-tide, whicli was want of liquor or want of credit, ohliged him to weigh anchor and set sail for another port, where credit was fresh or liquor ahounding. before the master could he induced to go southward^, the general scatter- ing of the jacohite army had hegun, and his comrades flocked to his northern retreat. all had to seek a refuge still more remote, where they could hide themselves until an op- portunity came for leaving the king- dom. his own choice of a temporary refuge was orkney. he descrihes the terrors of the pentland firth, to those who had to encounter it in an open hoat, with some spirit; his classical recollections, whether dur- ing or after the passage, enahling him to recall virgil's description of the waves assailing the stars hetween scylla and charyhdis. after sundry adventures, he and his fellow-fugi- tives drift ashore somewhere on the mainland of orkney. they found an orcadian hut on the moor, which ho thought might he the hothy of a solitary shepherd, hut "found a numerous family lived in it." on his "creeping in, the whole swarm were struck with amazement." he wanted horses to convey the party to kirkwall, and, with his characteristic suspiciousuess, says the father of the family would not confess to having horses until the large sum charged for their hire was tendered; "and asked a groat, which i was ohliged to pay him heforehand, the only expe- dient to persuade him to hring his horses from the hill: his demand heing so extravagant, he was in fear i should not stand to my hargain." the description of his journey with general ecklin and the other refugees towards kirkwall, has in it a touch of humour, exceptional to everything of the kind from the master's pen hy having no malice in it. to the au- thorities at tattersall's it must he left to decide on the hreed of horses de- scrihed hy him. "we mounted eck- lin on a strange species of a short- leggcd, long-hacked, low-hellied, hig- headed animal, which the fellow called a horse: having saddled him with a wisp of straw, and made stirrups and hridle of the same, we put our hag- gage on the others, and so hegan our procession towards the capital, in great douhts what to make of those long-hodied low creatures in our equipage, which furrowed the ground with their noses, and seemed to creep tbrough the heath, and which i was rather inclined to helieve was a large sort of reptile than what they were called." arrived at kirkwall, he finds "the melancholy prospect of the ruins of an old castle, the seat of the old earls of orkney, my ancestors;" and in the gloom of an uncertain deten- tion tbrough a drizzly spring, near this mtmorial of the ancient princely grandeur of his house, he has oppor- tunity for moralising on the vanity of human greatness, and the folly of trusting to the maguanimity of princes. the restless spirit of the man is uppermost even in these reflections. he caunot reconcile pas- sive ohedience with temperaments like his own. "i wish from my soul," he says, "that god in his pro- vidence had created us with such a degree of knowledge as could only make us suhservient to the will of princes, and that there had heen no other end of our creation; or, if it must have heen too much trouble to them even in that case to drive us like so many cattle, that he had heen pleased to put some distin- guishing marks of greater know- ledge and authority on some families ahove them, to help them to drive the great herd : we'd then he very easy without any share of reason, and these passions of amhition, glory, vanity, love, revenge, and the like, which disposes the soul to covet things that nature tells us are use- ful, and to persist in that will.''* but though he could not find the mark of the god to direct him to- wards those he should ohey, he saw distinctly enough the mark of the heast in those hase elements of hu- manity that were mado to serve. tol. lxxxvl • p. . [ang. the haunted and the haunter*; or, '' wliat," he says, "does an irequois, a negro, a laplander, a scots west- ern islander, nay, a higblandman, think? is it not hunting, fishing, stealing, plundering, and revenging themselves upon their enemies? but without going further to seek examples of the stupidity of men, what does the greatest part of work- people think? of their work—of eating, drinking, sleeping—to get what's owing them—and a small numher of other ohjects. they are almost insensihle to all others, and the custom they have of turning in that little circle makes them inca- pahle of conceiving anything out of it. if you talk to them of honour, re- ligion, or the rules of morality, either they don't understand, or they forget in a moment that which is said to thorn, and return, the minute, into that centre of gross ohjeots to which they are accustomed." but the man could rise ahove this sad materialism at times, and with sincerity too; and were there room, we might quote his reflections over the scattering of the enterprise, fnd the wortblessuess of those lives which were all that could he saved out of the wreck in which the fortunes of a party had heen lost, and the miseries of civil war inflated on a people. but there must he an end of his reflections, good or had. space presses here, and time presses on the master, and the avenger was at hand, and he is inclined, on the whole, to save his wortbless life. a vessel is seized, and, after many hard- ships and wonderful escapes, the little party reach calais, where the master makes his last of a multitude of quo- tations from his favourite virgil :— "per vartos casus, per tot discrlmina rerum tendlmus in latinm: sedes ubl fata osteudunt." the haunten ann the haunters \ or, the house ann the brain. a friend of mine, who is a man of letters and a philosopher, said to me one day, as if hetween jest and ear- nest,—" fancy! since we last met, i have discovered a haunted house in the midst of loudon." "really haunted ?—and hy what? —ghosts?" "well, i can't answer these ques- tions; all i know is this—six weeks ago i and my wife were in search of a furnished apartment. passing a quiet street, we saw on the window of one of the houses a hill, 'apartments furnished.' the situation suited us: we entered the house—liked the rooms—engaged them hy the week —and left them the third day. no power on earth could have reconciled my wife to stay longer; and i don't wonder at it." "what did you see?" "excuse me—i have no desire to he ridiculed as a superstitious dreamer—nor, on the other hand, could i ask you to accept on my aflirmation what you would hold to he incredihle without the evidence of your own senses. let me only say this, it was not so much what we saw or heard (in which you might fairly suppose that we were the dupes of our own excited fancy, or the victims of imposture in others) that drove us away, as it was an un- definahle terror which seized hoth of us whenever we passed hy the door of a certain unfurnished room, in which we neither saw nor heard any- thing. and the strangest marvel of all was, that for once in my lite i agreed with my wife, silly woman though she he—and allowed, after the third night, that it was impossihle to stay a fourth in that house. accord- ingly, on the fourth morning i sum- moned the woman who kept the house -and attended on us, and told her that the rooms did not quite suit us, and we would not stay out our week. she said dryly, 'i know why; you have staid longer than any other lodger. few ever staid a second night; none hefore you a third. but i take it they have heen very kind to yon.' 'they—who?' i asked, affecting a smile. 'why, they who haunt tie house, whoever they are. i don't mind .] the house and the brain. them; i rememher them many years ago, when i lived in this house, not as a servant; hut i know they will he the death of me some day. i don't care—i'm old, and must die soon anybow; and then i shall ho with them, and in this house still. the woman spoke with so dreary a calmness, that really it was a sort of awe that prevented my conversing with her farther. i paid for my week, and too happy were i and my wife to get offso cheaply." "you excite my curiosity," said i; "nothing i should like hetter than to sleep in a haunted house. pray give me the address of the one which yon leit so uznomtnioosry." my friend gave me the address; and when we parted, i walked straight towards the house thus in- dicated. it is situated on the north side of oxford street, in a dull hut respect- ahle thoroughfare. i found the house shut up—no hill at the window, and no response to my knock. as i was turning away, a heer-hoy, collecting pewter pots at the neighhouring area-, said to me, "do you want any one at that house sir?" "yet, i heard it was to he let." "let!—why, the woman who kept it i- dead—has heen dead these tbree weeks, and no one can he found to stay there, though mr j offered ever so much. he offered mother, who chars for him, £ a-week just to open and shut the windows, and she wonld not." "would not!—and why?" "the house is haunted; and the old woman who kept it was found dead in her hed, with her eyes wide open. thev say the devil strangled her." "pooh!—you speak of mr j . is he the owner of the house?" "yes." "where does he live?" » in g street, no. —." "what is he?—in any husiness?" "ho, sir—nothing particular; a single gentleman." i gave the pot-hoy the gratuity earned hy his liheral information, and proceeded to mr j , in g street, which was close hy the street that hoasted the haunted house. i was lncky enough to find mr j at home—an elderly man, with in- telligent countenance and prepossess- ing mauners. i communicated my name and my husiness frankly. i said i heard the house was considered to he haunted— that i had a strong desire to examine a house with so equivocal a reputa- tion—that i should he greatly ohliged if he would allow me to hire it, though only for a night. i was willing to pay for that privilege whatever he might he inclined to ask. "sir," said mr j , with great courtesy, "the house is at your service, for as short or as long a time as you please. rent is out of the question—the ohligation will he on my side should you he ahle to dis- cover the cause of the strange phe- nomena which at present deprive it of all value. i caunot let it, for i caunot evon get a servant to keep it in order or answer the door. un- luckily the.house is haunted, if i may use that expression, not only hy night, hut hy day; though at night the disturhances are of a more un- pleasant and sometimes of a more alarming character. the poor old woman who died in it tbree weeks ago was a pauper whom i took out of a workhouse, for in her child- hood she had heen known to some of my family, and had once heen in such good circumstances that she had rent- ed that house of my uncle. she was a woman of superior education and strong mind, and was the only per- son i could ever induce to remain in the house. indeed, since her death, which was sudden, and the coroner's inquest, which gave it a notoriety in the neighhourhood, i have so despaired of finding any person to take charge of it, much more a tenant, that i would willingly let it rent-free for a year to any one who would pay its rates and taxes." •' how long is it since the house acquired this sinister character?" "that i can scarcely tell you, hut very many years since. the old woman i spoke of said it was haunted when she rented it hetween thirty and forty years ago. the fact is that my life has heen spent in the east indies, and in tho civil service of the company. i returned to eng- land last year, on inheriting the for- [aug. the haunted and the haunters; or, tune of an uncle, amongst whose possessions was the house in question, found it shut up and uninhahited. i was told that it was haunted, that no one would inhahit it. i smiled at what seemed to me so idle a story. i spent some money in repainting and rooflrg it—added to its old-fashioned furniture a few modern articles— advertised it, and ohtained a lodger for a year, he was a colonel retired on half-pay. he came in with his family, a son and a daughter, and four or five servants: they all left the house the next day, and al- though they deponed that they had all seen something different, that some- thing was equally terrihle to all. i really could not in conscience sue, or even hlame, the colonel for hreach of agreement. then i put in the old woman have spoken of, and she was empowered to let the house in apartments. i never had one lodger who stayed more than tbree days. i do not tell you their stories—to no *n two lodgers have their heen exactly the same phenomena repeated. it is hetter that you should judge for yourself, than enter the house with an imagination influenced hy previous narratives; only he prepared to see and to hear something or other, and take whatever precautions you your- self please." "have you never had a curiosity yourself to pass a night in that house?" "yes. i passed not a night, hut tbree hours in hroad daylight alone in that house. my curiosity is not satisfied, hut it is quenched. have no desire to renew the experiment. you caunot complain, you see, sir, that i am not sufficiently candid; and unless your interest he exceed- ingly eager and your nerves unusually strong, i honestly add, that i ad- vise you not to pass a night in that house." "my interest is exceedingly keen," said i, "and though only a coward will hoast of his nerves in situations wholly unfamiliar to him, yet my nerves have heen seasoned in such variety of danger that i have the right to rely on them—even in a haunted house." mr j said very little more; he took the keys of the house out of his hureau, gave them to me,—and thanking him cordially for his i'rauk- ness, and his urhane concession to ray wish, i carried off my prize. impatient for the experiment, as soon as i reached home, i summoned my confidential servant—a young man of gay spirits, fearless temper, and as free from superstitious preju- dice as any one i could think of. "f ," said i, "you rememher in germany how disappointed we were at not finding a ghost in that old castle, which was said to he haunted hy a headless apparition ?— well, i have heard of a house in lon- don which, i have reason to hope, is decidedly haunted. i mean to sleep there to-night. from what i hear, there is no douht that something will allow itself to he seen or to he heard —something, perhaps, excessively horrihle. do you think, if i take you with me, i may rely on your presence of mind, whatever may happan?" "oh, sir! pray trust me," answer- ed f , griuning with delight. "very well,—then here are the keys of the house—-this is the ad- dress. go now,—select for me any hedroom you please; and since the house has not heen inhahited for weeks, make up a good fire—air the hed well—see, ot course, that there are candles as well as fuel. take with you my revolver and my dagger —so much for my weapons—arm yourself equally well; and if we are not a match for a dozen ghosts, we shall he hut a sorry couple of eng- lishmen." i was engaged for the rest of the day on husiness so urgent that i had not leisure to think much on the nocturnal adventure to which t had plighted my honour. dined alone, and very late, and while dining, read, as is my hahit. the volume i selected was one of maoaulay's essays. i thought to myself that i would take the hook with me; there was so much of healthfulness in the style, and practical life in the suh- jects, that it would serve as an anti- dote against the influences of super- stitious fancy. accordingly, ahout half-past nine, i put the hook into my pocket, and strolled leisurely towards the haunted . the house and ike brain. house. i took with me a favourite dog.—an exceedingly sharp, hold, and vigilant hull-terrier,—a dog fond of prowling ahout strange ghostly cor- ners and passages at night in search of rats—a dog of dogs for a ghost. it was a summer night, hut chilly, the sky somewhat gloomy and over- cast, still there was a. moon—-faint and sickly, hut still a moon—and if the ehmds permitted, after midnight it would he hrighter. i reached the house, knocked, and my servant opened with a cheerful smile. '• all right, sir, and verv comfort- ahle." "oh i" said i, rather disappoint- ed; * have yon not seen nor heard anything remarkahle?" "well, sir, i must own i have heard something queer." "what?—what?" "the sound of feet pattering he- hind me; and once or twice small noises like whispers close at ray ear —nothing more." "yon are not at all frightened?" "i! not a hit of it, sir; " and the man's hold look reassured me on one point—viz. that, happen what might, he would not desert me. we were in the hall, the street- door closed, and my attention was now drawn to my dog. he had at first ran in eagerly enough, hut had sueaked hack to the door, and was scratching and whining to get out. after patting him .on the head, and encouraging him gently, the dog seemed to reconcile himself to the situation and followed me and f tbrough the house, hut keep- ing close at my heels instead of hur- rying inquisitively in advance, which was his usual and normal hnhit in all strange places. we first visited the suhterranean apartments, the kitchen and other offices, and especially the cellars, in which last there were two or tbree hottles of wine still left in a hin, covered with cohwehs, and evi- dently, hy their appearance, undis- turhed for many years. it was clear that the ghosts were not winehihhers. for the rest we discovered nothing of interest. there was a gloomy little hack-yard, with very high walls. the stones of this yard were very damp,—and what with the damp, and what with the dust and smoke- grime on the pavement, our feet left a slight impression where we passed. and now appeared the first strange phenomenon witnessed hy myself in this strange ahode. i saw, just he- fore me, the print of a foot suddenly form itself, as it were. i stopped, caught hold of my servant, and pointed to it. in advance of that footprint as suddenly dropped an- other. we hoth saw it. i advanced quickly to the place; the footprint kept advancing hefore me, a small footprint—the foot of a child: the impression was too faint thorougbly to distinguish the shape, hut it seemed to us hoth that it was the print of a naked foot. this pheno- menon ceased when we arrived at the opposite wall, no- did it repeat itself on returning. we remounted the stairs, and entered the rooms on the ground floor, a dining parlour, a small hack - parlour, and a still smaller third room that had heen prohahly appropriated to a footman —all still as death. we then visited the drawing-rooms, which seemed fresh and new. in the front room i seated myself in an arm-chair. f placed on the tahle the candlestick with which he had lighted us. i told him to shut the door. as he turned to do so, a chair opposite to me moved from the wall quickly and noiselessly, and dropped itself ahout a yard from my own chair immediately fronting it. "why, this is hetter than the turn- ing-tahles," said i, with a half laugh —and as i laughed, my dog put hack his head and howled. f , coming hack, had not oh- served the movement of the chair. he employed himself now in stilling the dog. i continued to gaze on the chair, and fancied i saw on it a pale hlue misty outline of a human figure, hut an outline so indistinot that i could only distrust my own vision. the dog now was quiet. "put hack that chair opposite to me," said i to f ;"put it hack to the wall." f oheyed. "was that you, sir?" said he, turning ahruptly. "i—what?" "why, something struck me. i felt it sharply on the shoulder—just here." [aug. the haunted and the haunters; or, "no," said i. "but we have jugglers present, and though we may not discover their tricks, we shall catch them hefore they frighten w." we did not stay long in the draw- ing-rooms—in fact, they felt so damp and so chilly that i was glad to get to the fire up-stairs. we locked the doors of the drawing-rooms—a pre- caution which, i should ohserve, we had taken with all the rooms we had searched helow. the hedroom my servant had selected for me was the hest on the floor—<a large one, with two windows fronting the street. the four-posted hed, which took up no inconsiderahle space, was opposite to the fire, which hurned clear and hright; a door in the wall to the left, hetween the hed and the window, communicated with the room which my servant appropriated to him- self. this last was a small room with a sofa-hed, and had no com- munication with the landing-place— no other door hut that which con- ducted to the hedroom i was to oc- cupy. on either side of my fire-place was a cuphoard, without locks, flushed with the wall, and covered with the same dull-hrown paper. we examined these cuphoards—only hooks to suspend female dresses—no- thing else; we sounded the walls— evidently solid—the outer walls of the huilding. having finished the survey of these apartments, warmed myself a few moments, and lighted my cigar, i then, still accompanied hy f , went forth to complete my recounoitre. in the landing- place there was another door; it was closed firmly. "sir," said my ser- vant in surprise, "i unlocked this door with all the others when i first came; it caunot have got locked from the inside, for it is a" before he had finished his sentence, the door, which neither of us then was touching, opened quietly of itself. we looked at each other a single in- stant. the same thought seized hoth —some human agency might he de- tected here. i rushed in first, my ser- vant followed. a small hlank dreary room without furniture—a few empty hoxes and hampers in a corner—a small window—the shutters closed— not even a fire-placer—no other door hut that hy which we had entered— no carpet on the floor, and the floor seemed very old, uneven, worm-eaten, mended here and there, as was shown hy the whiter patches on the wood; hut no living heing, and no visihle place in which a living heing could have hidden. as we stood gazing round, the door hy which we had entered closed as quietly as it had hefore opened: we.were imprisoned. for the first time i felt a creep of undefinahle horror. not so my ser- vant. "why, they don't think to trap us, sir; i could hreak that trumpery door with a kick of my foot." "try first if it will open to your hand," said i, shaking off the vague apprehension that had seized me, "while i open the shutters and see what is without." i unharred the shutters — the window looked on the little hack- yard i have hefore descrihed; there was no ledge without—nothing hut sheer descent. no man getting out of that window would have found any footing till he had fallen on the stones helow. f , meanwhile, was vainly at- tempting to open the door. he now turned round to me, and asked my permission to use force. and i should here state, in justice to the servant, that, far from evincing any superstitious terrors, his nerve, com- posure, and even gaiety amidst circum- stances so extraordinary compelled my admiration, and made me con- gratulate myself on having secured a companion in every way fitted to the occasion. i willingly gave him the permission he required. but though he was a remarkahly strong man, his force was as idle as his milder efforts; the door did not even shake to his stoutest kick.. breath- less and panting he desisted. i then tried the door myself, equally in vain. as i ceased from the effort, again that oreep of horror came over me; hut this time it was more cold and stuhhorn. i felt as if some strange and ghastly exhalation were rising up from the chinks of that rugged floor, and filling the atmosphere with a venomous influence hostile to hu- man life. the door now very slowly and quietly opened as of its own ac- .] the house and the brain. cord. we precipitated ourselves into the landing-place. we hoth saw a large pale light — as large as the ha- man figure, hut shapeless and unsuh- stantial—move hefore us, and ascend the stairs that led from the landing into the attics. i followed the light, and my servant followed me. it entered, to the right of the landing, a small garret, of which the door stood open. i entered in the same instant. the light then collapsed into a small glohule, exceedingly hrilliant and vivid; rested a mo nent on ahed in the corner, quivered, and vanished. we approached the hed and examined it—a half-tester, such as is commonly found in attics devoted to servants. on the drawers that stood near it we perceived an old faded silk ker- chiaf, with the needle still left in the rent half repaired. the kerchief was covered with dust; prohahly it had helonged to the old woman who had last died in that house, and this might have heen her sleeping-room. i had sufficient curiosity to open the drawers: there were a few odds and ends of female dress, and two letters tied round with a narrow rihhon of faded yellow. i took the liherty to possess myself of the letters. we found nothing else in the room worth noticing—nor did the light reappear; hut we distinctly heard, as we turned to go, a paltering footfall on the floor —just hefore us. we went tbrough the other attics (in all four), the foot- fall still preceding ns. nothing to he seen — nothing hut the footfall heard. i had the letters in my hand: just as i was descending the stairs i distinctly felt my wrist seized, and a faint, soft effort made to draw the letters from my clasp. i only held them the more tightly, and the effort ceased. we regained the hedchamher ap- propriated to myself, and i then re- marked that my dog had not followed us when we had left it. he wss tbrusting himself close to the fire, and tremhling. i was impatient to ex- amine the letters; and while i read them, my servant opened a little hox in which he had deposited the wea- pons i had ordered him to hring; took them ont, placed them on a tahle close at my hed-head, and then occupied himself in soothing the dog, who, however, seemed to heed him very little. the letters were short—they were dated; the dates exactly thirty-five years ago. they were evidently from a lover to his mistress, or a hushand to some young wife. not only the terms of expression, hut a distinct reference to a former voyage indi- cated the writer to have heen a sea- farer. the spelling and handwriting were those of a man imperfectly edu- cated, hut still the language itself was forcihle. in the expressions of endearment there was a kind of roujjh wild love; hut here and there were dnrk unintelligihle hints at some secret not of lave—some secret that seemed of crimen "we ought to love each other," was one of the sentences i rememher, "for how every one else would execrate us if all was known." again: "don't let any one he in the same room with yon at night—-you talk in your sleep." and again: "what's done can't he undone; and i tell you there's nothing against us unless the dead could come to life." here there was underlined in a hetter handwriting (a female's), "they do!" at the end of the letter latest in date the same female hand had written these words: "lost at sea the th of june, the same day as" i put down the letters, and hegan to muse over their contents. fearing, however, that the train of thought into which fell might un- steady my nerves, i fully determined to keep my mind in a fit state to cope with whatever of marvellous the advancing night might hring forth. i roused myself—laid the letters on the tahle—stirred up the fire, which was still hright und cheer- ing—and opened my vwlume of mac- aulay. i read quietly enough till ahout half-past eleven. i then tbrew myself dressed hpon the hed, and told my servant he might retire to his own room, hut must keep him- self awake. i hade him leave open the doors hetween the two rooms. thus, alone, i kept two candles hurn- ing on the tahle hy my hed-head. i placed my watch heside the weapons, and calmly resumed my macaulay. opposite to me the fire hurned clear; [aug. the haunted and the haunters; or, and on the hearth-rug, seemingly asleep, lay the dog. in ahout twenty minutes i felt an exceedingly cold air pass hy my cheek, like a sudden draught. i funcled the door to my right, communicating with the land- ing-place, must have got open; hut no—it was closed. i then turned my glance to my left, and saw the flame of the candles violently swayed as hy a wind. at the same moment the watch heside the revolver softly slid from the tahle — softly, softly — no visihle hand—it was gone. i sprang up, seizing the revolver with the one hand, the dagger with the other: i was not willing that my weapons should share the fate of the watch. thus armed, i looked round the floor —no sigu of the watch, tbree slow, loud, distinct knocks were now heard at the hed-head; mv servant called out, " is that you, sir?" "no; he on your guard." the dog now roused himself and sut on his haunches, his ears moving quickly hackwards and forwards. he kept his eyes fixed on me with a look so strange that he concentred all my attention on himself. slowly he rose up, all his hair hristling, and stood perfectly rigid,and with the same wild stare. i had no time, however, to examine the dog. presently my ser- vant emerged from his room; and if i ever saw horror in the human face, it was then. i should not have re- coguised him had we met in the streets, so altered was every linea- ment. he passed hy me quickly, saying in a whisper that seemed scarcely to come from his lips, "run—run! it is after me!" he gained the door to the landing, pulled it open, and rushed forth. i followed him into the landing invo- luntarily, calling to him to stop; hut, without heeding me, he hounded down the stairs, clinging to the hal- usters, and taking several steps at a time. i heard, where i stood, the street door open — heard it again clap to. i was left alone in the haunted house. it was hut for a moment that i remained undecided whether or not to follow my servant; pride and cu- riosity alike forhade so dastardly a flight. i re-entered my room, closing the door after me, and proceeded cautiously into the interior chamher. i encountered nothing to justify my servant's terror. i again carefully examined the walls, to see if there were any concealed door. i could find no trace of one—not one even a seam in the dull-hrown paper with which the room was hung. how, then, had the thing, whatever it was, which had so scared 'im, oh- tained ingress except tbroe* it y own chamher. i returned to my room, shut and locked the door that opened upon the interior one, and stood on the hearth, expectant and prepared. i now perceived that the dog had slunk into an angle of the wail, and was pressing himself close against it, as if literally striving to force his way into it. i approached the animal and spoke to it; the poor hrute was evidently heside itself with terror. it showed all its teeth, the slaver dropping from its jaws, and would certainly have hitten me if i had touched it. it did not seem to re- coguise me. whoever has seen at the zoological gardens a rahhit fas- cinated hy a serpent, cowering in a corner, may form some idea of the anguish which tlie dog exhihited. finding all efforts to soothe the ani- mal in vain, and fearing that his hite might he as venomous in that state as if in the madness of hydrophohia, i left him alone, placed my weapons on the tahle heside the fire, seated myself, and recommenced my mac- aulay. perhaps, in order not to appear seeking credit for a courage, or rather a coolness, which the reader may conceive i exaggerate, i may he par- doned if i pause to indulge in one or two egotistical remarks. as i hold presence of mind, or what is called courage, to he pre- cisely proportioned to familiarity with the circumstances that lead to it, so i should say that i had heen long sufficiently familiar with all ex- periments that appertain to the mar- vellous. i had witnessed many very extraordinary phenomena in various parts of the world—phenomena that would he cither totally dishelieved if i stated them, or ascrihed to super- natural agencies. now, my theory is that the supernatural is the impos- .] the house and the brain. sihle, and thnt what is called super- natural is only a something in the laws of nature of which we have heen hitherto iguorant. therefore, if a ghost rise hefore me, i have not the right to say, "so, then, the su- pernatural is possihle," hut rather, "so, then the apparation of a ghost is, contrary to received opinion, within the laws of nature—i. e. not supernatural." now, in all thnt i had hitherto witnessed, and indeed in all the won- ders which the amateurs of mystery in our age record as facts, a material living agency is always required. on the continent yon will find still ma- gicians who assert that they can raise spirits. assume for the moment that they assert truly, still the living ma- terial form of the magician is pre- sent; and he is the material agency hy which, from some constitutional peculiarities, certain strange pheno- mena are represented to your natural accept, again, as truthful, the tales of spirit manifestation in america— musical or other sounds—writings on paper, produced hy no discernahle hand—articles of furniture moved without apparent human agency—or the actual sight and touch of hands, to which no hodies seem to helong—still there must he found the medium or living heing, with constitutional peculiarities capahle of ohtaining these sigus. in fine, in all such mar- vels, supposing even that there is no imposture, thtre must he a human heing like ourselves, hy whom, or tbrough whom, the effects presented to human heings are produced. it is so with the now familiar pheno- mena of mesmerism or electro-hio- logy; the mind of the person ope- rated on is affected through a mate- rial living agent. nor, supposing it true that a mesmerised patient can respond to the will or passes of a mesmeriser a hundred miles distant, is the response less occasioned hy a material heing; it may he tbrough a material fluid—cull it electric, call it odic, call it what you will—which has the power of traversing space and passing ohstacles, that the mate- rial effect is communicated from one to the other. hence all that i had hitherto witnessed, or expected to witness, in this strange house, i helieved to he occasioned tbrough some agency or medinm as mortal as myself; and this idea necessarily prevented the awe with which those who regard as supernatural things that are not within the ordinary opera- tions of nature, might have heen im- pressed hy the adventures of that memorahle night, as, then, it mas my conjecture that all that was presented, or would he presented, to my senses, must origi- nate in some human heing gifted hy constitution with the powerso to pre- sent them, and having some motive so to do, i felt an interest in my theory which, in its way, was rather philosophical than superstitions. and i can sincerely say that i was in as tranquil a temper for ohserva- tion as any practical experimentalist could he in awaiting the effects of some rare, though perhaps perilous, chemical comhination. of course, the more i kept my mind detached from fancy, the more the temper fit- ted for ohservation would he ohtain- ed; and i therefore riveted eye and thought on the strong daylight sense in the page of my macaulay. i now hecame aware that some- thing interposed hetween the page and the light—the page was over- shadowed: i looked up, and i saw what i shall find it very difficult, perhaps impossihle, to descrihe. it was a darkness shaping itself out of the air in very undefined out- line. i caunot say it was of a hu- man form, and yet it had more re- semhlance to a human form, or rather shadow, than anything else. as it stood, wholly apart and distinct from the air and the light around it, its dimensions seemed gigantic, the summit nearly touched the ceiling. while i gazed, a feeling of intense cold seized me. an iceherg hefore me could not more have chilled me; nor could the cold of an iceherg have heen more purely physical. i feel convinced that it was not the cold caused hy fear. as i continued to gaze, i thought—hut this i caunot say with precision—that i distin- guished two eyes looking down on me from the height. one moment i seemed to distinguish them clearly, the next they seemed gone; hut still [aug. the haunted and the haunters; or, two rays of a pale-hlue light frequent- ly shot tbrough the darkness, as from the height on which i half helieved, half douhted, that i had encountered the eyes. i si rove to speak—my voice utter- ly failed me; i could only think to myself, " is this fear? it is not fear " i strove to rise—in vain; i felt as if weighed down hy an irresistihle force. indeed, my impression was that of an immense and overwhelming power opposed to my volition ;—that sense of titter inadequacy to cope with a force heyond men's, which one may feel physically in a storm at sea, in a conflagration, or when confronting some terrihle wild heast, or rather, perhaps, the shark of the ocean, l felt morally. opposed to my will was another will, as far superior to its strength as storm, fire, and shark are superior in material force to the force of men. and now, as this impression grew on me, now came, at last, horror— horror to a degree that no words can convey. still i retained pride, if not courage; and in my own mind i said, ''this is horror, hut it is not fejr; unless i fear, i caunot he harmed; my reason rejects this thing; it is an illusion—i do not fear." with a violent effort i succeeded at last in stretching out my hand towards the weapon on the tahle: as i did so, on the arm and shoulder i received a strange shock, and my arm fell to my side powerless. and now, to add to my horror, the light hegan slowly to wane from the candles— they were not, as it were, extin- guished, hut their flame seemed very gradually withdrawn: it was the same with the lire—the light was extracted from the fuel; in a few minutes the room was in utter dark- ness. the dread that came over me, to he thus in the dark with that dark thing, whose power was so intensely felt, hrought a reaction of nerve. in fact, terror had reached that climax, that either my senses must have deserted me, or i must have hurst tbrough the spell. i did hurst tbrough it. i found voice, though the voic - was a sbriek. i rememher that i hroke forth with words like these—" i do not fear, my soul does not fear;" and at the same time i found the strength to rise. still in that profound gloom i rushed to one of the windows—tore aside the curtain—flung open the shutters; my first thought was— light. and when i saw the moon high, clear, and calm, i felt a joy that almost compensated for the pre- vious terror. there was thomoon, there was also the light from the gas-lamps in the deserted slumherous street. i turned to look hack into the room; the moon penetrated its shadow very palely aud partially— hut still there was light. the dark thing, whatever it might he, was gone—except that i could yet see a dim shadow, which seemed the sha- dow of that shade, against the oppo- site wall. my eye. now rested on the tahle, and from under the tahle (which was without cloth or cover—an old maho- gany round tahle) there rose a hand, visihle as far as the wrist. it was :i hand, seemingly, as much of flesh and hlood as my own, hut the hand of an aged person — lean, wrinkled, small too — a woman's hand. that hand very softly closed on the two letters that lay on the tahle: hand and letters hoth van- ished. there then came the same tbree loud measured knocks i had heard at the hed-head hefore this extraordinary drama had com- menced. as those sounds slowly ceased, i felt the whole room vihrate sensihly; and at the far end there rose, as from the floor, sparks or glohules like huhhles of light, many-coloured —green, yellow, fire-red, azure, up and down, to and fro, hither, thither, as tiny will-o'-the-wisps, the sparks moved, slow or swift, each at its own caprice. a chair (as in the drawing-room helow) was now ad- vanced from the wall without ap- parent agency, and placed at the opposite side of the tahle. suddenly as forth from the chair, there grew a shape—a woman's shape. it was distinct as a shape of life—ghostly as a shape of death. the face was that of youth, with a strange mourn- ful heauty; the tbroat and shoulders were hare, the rest of the form in a loose rohe of cloudy white. it hegan sleeking its long yellow hair, which .] the house and the brain. fell over its shoulders; its eyes were not turned towards ine, hut to the door; it seemed listening, watching, waiting. the shadow of the shade in the hackground grew darker; and again i thought i heheld ihe eyes gleaming out from the summit of the shadow—eyes fixed upon that shape. as if from the door, though it did not open, there grew out another shape, equally distinct, equally ghast- ly—a man's shape—a young man's. it was in the dress of the last cen- tury, or rather in a likeness of such dress; for hoth the male shape and the female, though defined, were evidently unsuhstantial, impalpahle —simulacra—phantasms; and there was something incongruous, gro- tesque, yet tearful, in the contrast hetween the elahorate finery, the courtly precision of that old-fash- ioned garh, with its ruffles and hue and huckles, and the corpse-like as- pect and ghost-like stillness of the flitting wearer. just as the male shape approached the female, the dark shadow started from the wall, all tbree for a moment wrapped in dark- ness. when the pale light returned, the two phantoms were as if in the gmsp of the shadow that towered hetween them; and there was a hloodstain on the hreast of the female; and the phantom-male was leaning on its phantom sword, and hlood seemed trickling fast from the ruffles, from the lace; and the dark- ness of the intermediate shadow swallowed them up—they were gone. and again the huhhles of light shot, and sailed, and undulated, growing thicker and thicker and more wildly confused in their movements. the closet door to the right of the fire-place now opened, and from the aperture there came the form of a woman, aged. in her hand she held letttrs—the very letters over which i had seen the hand close; and he- hind her i heard a footstep. she turned round as if to listen, and then she opened tlio letters and seemed to read; and over her shoulder i saw a livid face, the face as of a man long drowned—hloated, hleached—seaweed tangled in its dripping hair; and at her feet lay a form as of a corpse, and heside tho corpse there cowered a child, a miser- ahle squalid child, with famine in its cheeks and fear in its eyes. and as i looked in the old woman's face, the wrinkles and lines vanished, and it hecame a face of youth—hard-eyed, stony, hut still youth; and the shadow darted forth, and darkened over these phantoms as it had dark- ened over the last. nothing now was left hut the. shadow, and on that my eyes were intently fixed, till again eyes grew out of the shadow—maliguant, ser- pent eyes. and the huhhles of light again rose and fell, and in their dis- ordered, irregular, turhulent maze, mingled with the wan moonlight. and now from these glohules them- selves, as from the shell of an egg, monstrous things hurst cut; the air grew filled with them; larvfe so hloodless and so hideous that i can in no way descrihe them except to remind the reader of the swarming life which the solar microscope hrings hefore his eyes in a drop of water— things transparent, supple, agile, chasing each other, devouring each other—forms like nought ever he- held hy the naked eye. as the shapes were without symmetry, so their movements were without order. in their very vagrancies there was no sport; they came round me and round, thicker aud faster and swifter, swarming over my head, crawling over my right arm, which was out- stretched in involuntary command against all evil heings. sometimes i felt myself touched, hut not hy them; invisihle hands touched me. once i felt the clutch as of cold soft fingers at my tbroat. i was still equally conscious that if i gave way to fear i should he in hodily peril; and i concentred all my faculties in the single focus of resisting, stuh- horn will. and i turned my sight from the shadow—ahove, all from those strange serpent eyes—eyes that had now hecome distinctly visihle. for there, though in nought else around me, i was awaro that there was a will, and a will of intense, creative, working evil, which might crush down my own. the pale atmosphoro in the room hegan now to redden as if in the air of some near conflagration. the larvca [aug. the haunted and the saunters; or, grew lurid as things that live in fire. again the room vihrated; again were heard the tbree measured knocks; and again all things were swallowed up in the darkness of the dark sha- dow, as if out of that darkness all had come, into that darkness all re- turned. as the gloom receded, the shadow was wholly gone. slowly as it had heen withdrawn, the flame grew again into the candles on the tahle, acain into the fuel in the grate. the whole room came once more calmly, healthfully into sight. the two doors were still closed, the door communicating with the servant's room still locked. in the corner of the wall, into wliich he had so convulsively niched himself, lay the dog. i called to him—no move- ment; i approached—the animal was dead; his eyes protruded; his tongue out of his mouth; the froth gathered round his jaws. i took him in my arms; i hrought him to the fire; i felt acute grief for the loss of my poor favourite—acute self-re- proach; i accused myself of his death; i imagined he had died of fright. but what was my surprise on finding that his neck was actually hroken—actually twisted out of the vertehra. had this heen done in the dark ?—must it not have heen hy a hand human as mine ?—must there not have heen a human agency all the while in that room? good cause to suspect it. i caunot tell. i caunot do more than state the fact fairly; the reader may draw his own inference. another surprising circumstance— my watch was restored to the tahle from which it had heen so myste- riously withdrawn; hut it had stop- ped at the very moment it was so withdrawn; nor, despite all the skill of the watchmaker, has it ever gone since—that is, it will go in a stranga erratic way for a few hours, and then comes to a dead stop—it is worth- less. nothing more chanced for the rest of the night. nor, indeed, had i long to wait hefore the dawn hroke. not till it was hroad daylight did i quit the haunted house. before i did so, i revisited the little hlind room in which my servant and myself had heen for a time imprisoned. i had a strong impression—for which i could not account—that from that room had originated the mechanism of the phenomena—if i may use the term —which had heen experienced in my chamher. and though i entered it now in the clear day, with the sun peering tbrough the filmy window, i still felt, as stood on its floor, the creep of the horror which i had first there experienced the night hefore, and which had heen so aggravated hy what had passed in my own chamher. i could not, indeed, hear to stay more than half a minute within those walls. i descended the stairs, and again i heard the footfall hefore me; and when i opened the street door, i thought i could distinguish a very low laugh. i gained my own home, expecting to find my runaway ser- vant there. but he had not pre- sented himself; nor did i hear more of him for tbree days, when i received a letter from him, dated from liver- pool, to this effect: — "honoured sir,—i humhly en- treat your pardon, though i can scarcely hope that yon will think i deserve it, unless—which heaven forhid !—you saw what i did. i feel that it will he years hefore i can re- cover myself; and as to heing fit for service, it is out of the question. i am therefore going to my hrother- in-law at melhourne. the ship sails to-morrow. perhaps the long voyage may set me up. i do nothing now hut start and tremhle, and fancy it is hehind me. i humhly heg you, honoured sir, to order my clothes, and whatever wages are due to me, to he sent to my mother's, at wal- worth,—john knows her address." the letter ended with additional apologies, somewhat incoherent, and explanatory details as to effects that had heen under the writer's charge. this flight may perhaps warrant a suspicion that the man wished to go to australia, and had heen somehow or other fraudulently mixed up with the events of the night. i say no- thing in refutation of that conjecture; rather, i suggest it as one that would seem to many persons the most pro- hahle solution of improhahle occur- .] the house and the brain. rences. my own theory remained unshaken. i returned in the even- ing to the house, to hring away in a hack cah the things i had left there, with my poor dog's hody. in this task i was not disturhed, nor did any incident worth note hefall me, except that still, on ascending and descend- ing the stairs, i heard the same foot- fall in advance. on leaving the house, i went to mr. j 'a. he was at home. i returned him the keys, told him that my curiosity was sufficiently gratified, and was ahout to relate quickly what had parsed, when he stopped me, and said, though with much politeness, that he had no longer any interest in a mystery which none had ever solved. i determined at least to tell him of the two letters i had read, as well as of the extraordinary mauner in which they had disappeared, and i tlan inquired if he thought they had heen addressed to the woman who had died in the house, and if there were anything in her early his- tory which could possihly confirm the dark suspicions to which the letters gave rise. mr. j seemed startled, and, after musing a few moments, answered, "i know hut little of the woman's earlier history, except, as i hefore told you, that her family were known to mine. but you revive some vague reminiscences to her prejudice. i will make in- quiries, and inform you of their re- sult. still, even if we could admit the popular superstition that a per- son who had heen either the perpe- trator or the victim of dark crimes in life could revisit, as a restless spirit, the scene in which those crimes had heen committed, i should oh- serve that the house was infested hy strange sights and sounds hefore the old woman died—you smile— what would you say?" "i would say this, that i am con- vinced, if we could get to the hottom of these mysteries, we should find a living human agency." "what! you helieve it is all an imposture? for what ohject?" "not an imposture in the ordinary sense of the word. if suddenly i were to sink into a deep sleep, from which you could not awake me, hut in that sleep could answer ques- tions with an accuracy which could not pretend to when awake—tell you what money you had in your pocket —nay, descrihe your very thoughts— it is not necessarily an imposture, any more than it is necessarily supernatural. i should he, uncon- sciously to myself, under a mesmeric influence, conveyed to me from a dis- tance hy a human heing who had acquired power over me hy previous rapport." "granting mesmerism, so far car- ried, to he a fact, you are right. and you would infer from this that a mesmeriser might produce the extra- ordinary effects you and others have witnessed over inanimate ohjects— fill the air with sights and sounds?" "or impress our senses with the helief in them—we never having heen en rapport with the person acting on ns? no. what is commonly called mesmerism could not do this; hut there may he a power akin to mesmerism, and superior to it—the power that in the old days was called magic. that such a power may ex- tend to all inanimate ohjects of mat- ter, i do not say; hut if so, it would . not he against nature, only a rare power in nature which might he given to constitutions with certain peculiarities, and cultivated hy prac- tice to an extraordinary degree. that such a power might extend over the dead—that is, over certain thoughts and memories that the dead may still retain—and compel, not that which ought properly to he called the soul, and which is far heyond human reach, hut rather a phantom of what lias heen most earth-stained on earth, to make itself apparent to our senses—is a very ancient though ohselete theory, upon which i will hazard no .opinion. but i do not conceive the power would he super- natural. let me illustrate what i mean from an experiment which paracelsus descrihes as not difficult, and which the author of the curiosi- ties of literature cites as credihle: —a flower perishes; you hurn it. whatever were the elements of thac flower while it lived are gone, dis- persed, you know not whither; you can never discover nor re-collect them. but you can, hy chemistry [aug. the haunted and the haunters; or, out of the hurnt dust of that flower, ralao a spectrum of the flower, just as it seemed in life. it may he the same with a human heing. the soul has as much escaped you as the essence or elements of the flower. still you may make a spectrum of it. and this phantom, though in the popular superstition it is held to he ilk' soul of the departed, must not he confounded with the true soul; it is hut the eidolon of the dead form. hence, like the hest-attested stories of ghosts or spirits, the thing that most strikes us is the ahsence of what we hold to he soul—that is, of superior emancipated intelligence. they come for little or no ohject— they seldom speak, if they do come; they utter no ideas ahove that of an ordinary person on earth. these american spirit-seers have puhlished volumes of communications in prose and verse, which they assert to he given in the names of the most illus- trious dead—shakespeare, bacon— heaven knows whom. those com- munications, taking the hest, are certainly not a whit of higher order than would he communications from living persons of fair talent and edu- cation; they are wondrously inferior to what liacon, .shakespeare, and plato said and wrote when on earth. nor, what is more notahle, do they ever contain an idea that was not on the mrth hefore. wonderful, there- fore, as such phenomena may he (granting them to he truthful), i see much that philosophy may question, nothing that it is incumhent on phi- losophy to deny—viz. nothing super- natural. they are hut ideas con- veyed somehow or other (we have not yet discovered the means) from one mortal hrain to another. whether in so doing, tahles walk of their own accord, or fiend-like shapes appear in a magic circle, or hodyless hands rise and remove material ohjects, or a thing of darkness, such as pre- sented itself to me, freeze our hlood —still am i persuaded that these are hut agencies conveyed, as hy electric wiiwj to my own hrain from the hrain of another. in some consti- tutions there is a natural chemistry, and those may produce chemic won- ders—in others a natural fluid, call it electricity, and these produce electric wonders. but they differ in this from normal science—they are alike ohjectless, purposeless, puer- ile, frivolous. they lead on to no grand results; and therefore the world does not heed, and true sages have not cultivated them. but sure i am, that of all i saw or heard, a man, human as myself, was the re- mote originator; and i believe uncon- sciously to himself as to the exact effects produced, for this reason : no two persons, you say, have ever told you that they experienced exactly the same thing. well, ohserve, no two persons ever experience exactly the same dream. if this were an ordinary imposture, the machinery would he arranged for results that would hut little vary; if it were a supernatural agency permitted hy the almighty, it would surely he for some definite end. these phenomena helong to neither class; my persua- sion is, that they originate in some hrain now far distant; that that hrain had no distinct volition in any- thing that occurred; that what does occur reflects hut its devious, motley, ever-shifting, half-formed thoughts; in short, that it has heen hut the dreams of such a hrain put into action and invested with a semi- suhstance. that this hrain is of immense power, that it can set mat- ter into movement, that it is malig- naut and destructive, i helieve; some material force must have killed my dog; it might, for aught i know, have sufficed to kill myself, had i heen as suhjugated hy terror as the dog—had my intellect or my spirit given me no countervailing resistance in my will.'" "it killed your dog! that is fear- ful! indeed it is strange that no ani- mal can he induced to stay in that house; not even a cat. rats and mice are never found in it." "the instincts of the hrute crea- tion detect influences deadly to their existence. man's reason has a sense less suhtle, hecause it has a resisting power more supreme. but enough; do you compreheud my theory?" "yes, though imperfectly—and i accept any crotchet (pardon the word), however odd, rather than emhrace at once the notion of ghosts and hohgohlins we imhihed in our .] the house and the brain. nurseries. still, to my unfortunate house the evil is the same. what on earth can i do with the house?" "i will tell you what i would do. i am convinced from my own internal feelings that the small unfurnished room at right angles to the door of the hedroom which i occupied, forms a starting-point or receptacle for the influences which haunt the honse; and i strongly advise you to have the walls opened, the floor removed— nay, the whole room pulled down. i ohserve that it is detached from the'hody of the house, huilt over the small hack-yard, and could he remov- ed without injury to the rest of the huilding." "and you think, if i did that—" "you would cut off the telegraph wires. try it. i am so persuaded that i am right, that i will pay half the expense if you will allow me to direct the operations." "n"ay, i am well aide to afford the cost; for the rest, allow me to write to yon." ahout ten days afterwards i re- ceived a letter from mr. j , telling me that he had visited the house since i had seen him; that he had found the two letters i liad descrihed, replaced in the drawer from which i had u,ken them; that he had read them with misgivings like my own; that he had instituted a cautious in- quiry ahout the woman to whom i rightly conjectured they had heen written. it seemed that thirty-six years ago (a year heforo the date of the letters), she had married, against the wi>h of her relatives, an ameri- can of very suspicious character; in fact, he was generally helieved to have heen a pirate. she herself wa s the daughter of very respectahle tradespeople, and had served in the capacity of a nursery governess he- fore her marriage. she had a hrother, a widower, who was considered wealthy, and who had one child of ahout six years old. a month after the marriage, the hody of this hrother was found in the thames, near lon- don bridge; there seemed some marks of violence ahout his tbroat, hut they were not deemed suffi- cient to warrant the inquest in any other verdict than that of "found drowned." the american and his wife took charge of the little hoy, the deceased hrother having hy his will left his sister the guardian of his only child —and in event of the child's death, the sister inherited. the child died ahout six months afterwards—it was supposed to have heen neglected and ill treated. the neighhours deposed to have heard it sbriek at night. the surgeon who had examined it after death, said that it was emaciated as if from want of nourishment, and the hody was covered with livid hrnises. it seemed that one winter night the child had sought to escape—crept out into the hack-yard—tried to scale the wall—fallen hack exhausted, and heen found at morning on the stones in a dying state. but though there was some evidence of cruelty, there was none of murder; and the aunt and her hushand had sought to palliate cruelty hy alleging the ex- ceeding stuhhoruness and perversity of the child, who was declared to he half-witted. be that as it may, at the orphan's death the aunt inherited her hrother's fortune. belore the first wedded year was out, the ame- rican quitted england ahruptly, and never returned to it. he oh- tained a cruising vessel, which was lost in the atlantic two years after- wards. the widow was left in afflu- ence; hut reverses of various kinds had hefallen her: a hank hroke—an investment failed—she went into a small husiness and hecame insolvent —then she entered into service, sink- ing lower and lower, from house- keeper down to maid-of all-work— never long retaining a place, though nothing peculiar against her charac- ter was ever alleged. she was con- sidered soher, honest, and peculiarly quiet in her ways; still nothing pros- pered with her. and so she had dropped into the workhouse, from which mr. j had taken her, to he placed in charge of the very house which she h:,d rented as unstress in the first year of her wedded life. mr. j added that he had passed an hour alone in the unfurnished room which i had urged him to destroy, and that his impressions of dread while there were so great, though ho had neither heard nor seen anything, that lie was eager to [aug. the haunted and the haunters; or, have tho walls hared and the floors removed as i had su gested. he had engaged persons for the work, and would commence any day i would name. the day was accordingly fixed. i repaired to the haunted house—we went into the hlind dreary room, took up tho skirting, aud then the floors. under the rafters, covered with ruhhish, was found a trap-door, quite large enough to admit a man. it was closely nailed down, with clamps and rivets of iron. on re- moving these we descended into a room helow, tho existence of which had never heen suspected. in this room there had heen a window and a flue, hut they had heen hricked over, evidtntly for many years. by the help of candles we examined this place; it still retained some moulder- ing furniture—tbree chairs, an oak settle, a tahle—all of the fashion of ahout eighty years ago. there was a chest of drawers against the wall, in which wo found, hull'-rotted away, old-fashioned articles of a man's dress, such as might have heen worn eighty or a hundred years ago hy a gentleman of some rank—costly steel huckles and huttons, like those yet worn in court-dresses—a handsome court sword—in a waistcoat which had once heen rich with gold-lace, hut which was now hlackened and foul with damp, we found five guineas, a few silver coins, and an ivory ticket, prohehly for some place of entertain- ment long since passed away. but our main discovery was in a kind of iron safe fixed to the wall, the lock of which it cost us much trouhle to get picked. in this safe were tbree shelves and two small drawers. ranged on the shelves were several small hottles of crystal, hermetically stopped. they contained colourless volatile essences, of what nature i shall say no more than that they were not poisons— phosphor aud ammonia entered into some of them. there were also some very curious glass tuhes, and a small pointed rod of iron, with a large lump of rock-crystal, and another of amher —alio a loadstone of great power. in one of the drawers we found a miniature portrait set in gold, and retaining the freshness of its colours most remarkahly, considering the length of time it had prohahly heen there. the portrait was that of a man who might he somewhat ad- vanced in middle life, perhaps forty- seven or forty-eight. it was a most peculiar face—a most impressive face. if you could fancy some mighty serpent transformed into man, preserving in the human lineaments the old serpent type, you would have a hetter idea of that countenance than long descriptions can convey: the width and flatness of frontal—the tapering elegance of contour disguising the strength of the deadly jaw—the long, large, ter- tihle eye, glittering and green as the emerald—and withal a certain ruth- less calm, as if from the conscious- ness of an immense power. the strange thing was this—the instant i saw the miniature i recoguised a startling likeness to one of the rarest portraits in the world—the portrait of a man of rank only helow that of royalty, who in his own day had made a considerahle noise. history says little or nothing of him; hut search the correspondence of his con- temporaries, and you find reference to his wild daring, his hold profligacy, his restless spirit, his taste for the oooult sciences. while still in the meridian of life he died aud was huried, so say the cbronicles, in a foreigu land. he died in time to escape the grasp of the law, for he was accused of crimes which would have given him to the headsman. after his death, the portraits of him, which had heen numerous, for he had heen a munificent encourager of art, were hought up and destroyed— it was supposed hy his heirs, who might have heen glad could they have razed his very name from their splendid line, he had enjoyed a v:ist wealth; a large portion of this was helieved to have heen emhezzled hy a favourite astrologer or sooth- sayer—at all events, it had un- accountahly vanished at the time of his death. one portrait alone of him was supposed to have escaped the general destruction; i had seen it in the house of a collector some months hefore. it had made on me a wonderful impression, as it does on all who hehold it—a face .] the home and the brain. never to he forgotten; and there was that face in the miniature that lay within ray hand. true, that in the miniature the man was a few years older than in the portrait i had seen, or than the original was even at the time of his death. but a few years!—why, hetween the date in which flourished that direful nohle and the date in which the miniature was evidently painted, there was an interval of more than two centuries. while i was thus gazing, silent and wondering, mr. j said, '• but is it po sihle? i have known this man." "how—where?" cried i. "in india. he was high in the con- fidence of the rajah of , and well- nigh drew him into a revolt which would have lost the rajah his domin- ions. the man was a frenchman— his name de v—, clever, hold, law- less. we insisted on his dismissal and hanishment: it must he the same man—no two faces like his—yet this miniature seems nearly a hundred years old." mechanically i turned round the miniature to examine the hack of it, and on the heck was engraved a pentacle; in the middle of the peutacle a ladder, and the third step of the ladder was formed hy the date . examining still more minutely, i detected a spring; this, on heing pressed, opened the haek of the miniature as a lid. within-side the lid were engraved "mariana to thee—be faithful in life and in death to ." here follows a name that i will not mention, hut it was not unfamiliar to me. i had heard it spoken of hy old men in my child- hood as the name horne hy a dazzling charlatan, who had made a great sensation in london for a year or so, and had fled the country on the charge of a douhle murder within his own house—that of his mistress and his rival. i said nothing of this to mr. j , to whom reluctantly i resigned the miniature. we had found no difficulty in open- ing the first drawer within the iron- safe; we found great difficulty in opening the second: it was not locked, hut it resisted all efforts, till we inserted in the chinks the edge of a chisel. when he had thus vol. lxxxvl drawn it forth, we found a very singular apparatus in the nicest order. upon a small thin hook, or rather tahlet, was placed a saucer of crystal; this saucer was filled with a clear liquid—on that liquid floated a kind of eompasg, with a needle shift- ing rapidly round, hut instead of the usual points ot a compass were -even strange characters, not very unlike those used hy astrologers to denote the planets. a very peculiar, hut not strong nor displeasing odour, came from this drawer, which was lined with a wood that we afterwards discovered to he hazel. whatever the cause of this odour, it produced a material effect on the nerves. we all felt it, even the two workmen who were in the room—a creeping tingling sensation from the tips of the fingers to the roots of the hair. impatient to examine the tahlet, i removed the saucer. as i did so the needle of the compass went round and round with exceeding swiftness, and i felt a shock thai ran tbrough my whole frame, so that i dropped the saucer on the floor. the liquid was spilt— the saucer was hroken—the compass rolled to the end of the room—and at that instant the walls shook to and fro, as if a giant had swayed and rocked them. the two workmen were so fright- ened that they ran up the ladder hy which wo had descended from the trap-door; hut seeing that nothing more happened, they were easily in- duced to return. meanwhile i had opened the tah- let: it was hound in a plain red leather, with a silver clasp; it con- tained hut one sheet of thick vellum, and on that sheet were inscrihed, within a douhle pentacle, words in old monkish latin, which are liter- ally to he translated thus:—" on all that it can reach within these walls —sentient or inanimate, living or dead—as moves the needle, so work my will accursed he the house, and restless the dwellers therein." „, we found no more. mr. j hurnt the tahlet and its anathema. he razed to tho foundations the part of the huilding containing the secret room with the chamher over it. he had then the courage to inhahit the house himself for a month, and a quieter, ie [aug. the haunted and the haunters; or, hetter-conditioned house could not he found in nil london. suhse- quently he let it to advantage, and his tenant hns made no complaints. l?ur my story is not yet done. a few days after mr. j had removed into the house, i paid him a visit. we were standing hy the open win- dow and conversing. a vnn contain- ing some articles of furniture which he was moving from his former house w.is at the door. i had just urged on him my theory, that all those phenomena regarded as supermun- dane had emanated from a liuman hrain; adducing the charm or rather curse we had found and destroyed in support of my philosophy. mr. j wns ohserving in reply, "that even if mesmerism, or whatever unnlogons power it might he called, could really thus work in the ah- sence of the operator, and produce effects so extraordinary, still could those effects continue when the operator himself was dead? and if the s rell had heen wrought, and, indeed, tho room walled up, more than seventy years ago, the proha- hility was, that the operator had long since departed this life;" mr. j , i say, was thus answering, when i caught hold of his arm and pointed to the street helow. a well-dressed man had crossed from the opposite side, and was ac- costing the carrier in charge of the van. his face, as he stood, was ex- actly fronting our window. it was the face of the miniature we had dis- covered; it was the face of the por- trait of the nohle tbree centuries ago. "good heavens!" cried mr. j , "that is the face of de v , and scarcely a day older than when i saw it in the rajah's court in my youth!' seized hy the same thought, we hoth hastened down stairs. i was first in the street; hut the man had already gone. i caught sight of him, however, not many yards in advance, and in another moment i was hy his side. i had resolved to speak to l.im, but when i looked into his face i felt as if it were impossihle to do so. that eye—the eye of the serpent—fixed and held me spellhound. and with- al, ahout the man's whole person there was a diguity", an air of pride and station, and superiority, that would have made any one, hahituated to the usages of the world, hesitate long hefore venturing upon a liherty or impertinence. and what could i sav ? what was it i would ask? thus ashamed of my first impulse, i fell a few paces hack, still, however, fol- lowing the stranger, undecided what else to do meanwhile he turned the corner of the street; a plain car- riage was in waiting with a servant out of livery dressed like a valet-de- ldace at the carriage-door. in an- other moment he had stepped into the carriage, and it drove off. i re- turned to the house. mr. j- was still at the street dhor. he had asked the carrier what the stranger had said to him. "merely asked, whom that house now helonged to." the same evening i. happened to go with a friend to a place in town called the cosmopolitan cluh, a place open to men of all countries, all opinions, all degrees. one orders one's coffee, smokes one's cigar. one is alwnys sure to meet agreeahle, sometimes remarkahle persons. i had not heen two minutes in the room hefore i heheld at tahle, con- versing with an aqunintance of mine, whom i will designate hy the initial g , tho man—the original of the mininture. he was now with- out his hat, and the likeness was yet more sturtling, only i ohserved that while he was conversing there was less severity in the countenance; there was even a smile, though a very quiet and very cold one. the dig- nity of mien i had acknowledged in the street was also more striking; a diguity akin to that which inve>t- some prince of tho east—conveying the idea of supreme indifference and hahitual, indisputahle, indolent, hut resistless power. g soon after left the stranger, who then took up a scientific journal, which seemed to ahsorh his attention. i drew g aside—•" who and what is that gentleman?" "that? oh, a very remarkahle man, indeed. i met him last year amidst the caves of petra—the scrip- tural edom. he is the hest oriental .] the home and the brain. scholar i know. we joined com- pany, had an adventure with rohhers, in which ho showed a coolnes that saved our lives; afterwards he in- vited me to spend a day with him in a honse he had hought at damascus —a house huried amougst almond- hlossoms and rosos-—the most heauti- ful thing:! he had lived there for some years, quite as an oriental, in grand style. i half suspect he is a renegade, immensely rich, very odd; hy the hy, a great mesmeriser. i have seen him with my own eyes pro- duce an effect on inanimate things. if yon take a letter from your pocket and tbrow it to the other end of the room, he will order it to come to his feet, and you will see the letter wriggle itself along the floor till it has oheyed his command. ton my honour 'tis true: i have seen him affect even the weather, disperse or collect clouds, hy means of a glass tuhe or wand. but he does not like talking of these matters to strangers. he has only just arrived in england; says he has not heen here for a great many years; let me introduce him to yon." "certainly! he is english then i "what is his name?" "oh!—a very homely one—rich- ards.'' "and what is his hirth—his fa- mily t" "how do i know? what does it siguify ?—no douht some parvenu, hut rich—so infernally rich!" g drew me up to the stranger, and the introduction was effected. the mauners of mr. richards were not those of an adventurous traveller. travellers are in general constitu- tionally gifted with high animal spirits; titey are talkative, eager, im- perions. mr. richards was calm and suhdued in tone, with mauners which were made distant hy the loftiness of punctilious courtesy—the maimers of a former age. i ohserved that the english he spoke was not exactly of our day. i should even have said that the accent was slightly foreigu. but then mr. richards remarked that he had heen little in the hahit for many years of speaking in his native tongue. the conversation fell upon the changes in the aspect of london since he had last visited our metro- polis. g then glanced off* to the moral changes—literary, social, poli- tical—the great men who were re- moved from the stage within the last twenty years—the new great men who were coming on. in all this mr. richards evinced no interest he had evidently read none of our living authors, and seemed scarcely ac- quainted hy name with our younger statesmen. once and only once he laughed; it was when g - asked him whether he had any thoughts of getting into parliament. and the laugh was inward—sarcastic—sinister —a sueer raised into a laugh. after a few minutes g left us to talk to some other acquaintances who had just lounged into the room, and i then said quietly— "i have seen a miniature of you, mr. richards, in the house you once inhahited, and perhaps huilt, if not wholly, at least in part, in street. you passed hy that house this morning." not till i had finished did i raise my eyes to his, and then his fixed my gaze so steadfastly that i could not withdraw it—those fascinating ser- pent eyes. but involuntarily, and as if the words that translated my thought were dragged from me, i added in a low whisper, "i have heen a student in the mysteries of life and nature; of those mysteries i have known the occult professors. i have the right to speak to you thus." and i uttered a certain pass-word. "well," said he dryly, "i concede the right—what would you ask?" "to what extent human will in certain temperaments can extendi' "to what extent can thought ex- tend? think, and hefore you draw hreath you are in china!" "true. but my thought has no power in china i" "give it expression, and it may have: you may write down a thought which, sooner or later, may alter the whole condition of china. what is a law hut a thought? therefore thought is infinite—there- fore thought has power; not in pro- portion to its value—a had thought may make a hat] law as potent as a good thought can make a good one." "yes; what you say confirms my own theory. tbrough invisihle our- [aug. the haunted and the haunters; or, rents one hnman hrain may trans- mit its ideas to other human hrains with the same rapidity as a thought promulgated hy visihle means. and as thought is imperishahle—as it leaves its stamp hehind it in the natural world even when tho thinker has parsed out of this world—so the thought of the living may have power to rouso' up and revive the thoughts of the dead—such as those thoughts were in life—though the thought of the living caunot reach the thoughts which the dead now may entertain. is it not so?" "i decline to answer, if in my judgment, thought has the limit you would fix to it; hut proceed. you have a special question you wish to put.'' "intense maliguity in an intense will, engendered in a peculiar tem- perament, and aided hy natural means within the reach of science, may produce effects like those as- crihed of old to evil magic. it might thus haunt the walls of a human hahitation with spectral re- vivals of all guilty thoughts and guilty deeds once conceived and done within those walls; all, in short, with which the evil will claims rap- port and affinity,—imperfect, inco- herent, fragmentary suatches at the old dramas acted therein years ago. thoughts thus crossing each other hap-hazard, as in the nightmare of a vision, growing up into phantom sights and sounds, and all serving to create horror, not hecause those sights and sounds are really visita- tions from a world without, hut that they are ghastly monstrous renewals of what have heen in this world it- self, set into maliguant play hy a maliguant mortal. and it is tbrough the material agency of that human hrain that these things would ac- quire even a human power—would strike as with the shock of electri- city, and might kill, if the thought of the person assailed did not rise superior to tho diguity of the origi- nal assailer—might kill the most powerful animal if uunerved hy fear, hut not injure the feehlest man, if, while his flesh crept,, his mind stood out fearless. thus, when in old stories we read of a magician rent to pieces hy the fiends he had evoked— or still more, in eastern legends, that one magician succeeds hy arts in destroying another—there mry ho so far truth, that a material heing has clothed, from his own evil pro- pensities, certain elements and fluids, iwually quiescent or harmless, with awful shape and terrific force;— just as the lightning that had lain hidden and iunocent in the cloud hecomes hy natural law suddenly visihle, takes a distinct shape to the eye, and can strike destruction on the ol ject to which it is attracted." "yon are not without glimpses of a very mighty secret," said mr. richards, composedly. "according to your view, could a mortal ohtain the power you speak of, he would necessarily he n maliguant and evil heing." "if the power were exercised as i have said, most maliguant and most evil—though i helieve in the an- cient traditions that he conld not in- jure tho good. his will could only injure those with whom it has estah- lished an affinity, or over whom it forces uuresisted sway. i will now imagine an example that may he within tho laws of nature, yet seem wild as the fahles of a hewildered monk. •' you will rememher that alhertus maguus, after descrihing minutely the process hy which spirits may he invoked and commanded, adds em- phatically, that the process will in- struct and avail only to tho few— that a man must he horn a magi- cian!—that is, horn with a peculiar physical temperament, as a man is horn a poet. rarely are men with whose constitution lurks this occult power of the highest order of intel- lect ;—usually in the intellect there is some twist, perversity, or disease. but, on tlie other hand, they must possess, to an astonishing degree, the faculty to concentrate thonght on a single ohject—the energic faculty that we call will therefore, though their intellect he not sound, it is ex- ceedingly forcihle for the attainment of what it desires. l will imagine such a person, pre-eminently gifted with this constitution and its con- comitant forces. i will place him in the loftier grades of society. i will suppose his desires emphatically .] the house and the brain. p those of the sensualist— he has, therefore, a strong love of life. he is an ahsolute egotist—hia will is concentred in himself—he has fierce passions—he knows no enduring, no holy affections, hut he can covet eagerly what for the moment he de- sires—he can hate implacahly what opposes itself to his ohjects — he can commit fearful crimes, yet feel small remorse — he resorts rather to curses upon others, than to peni- tence for his misdeeds. circum- stances, to which his constitution guides him, lead him to a rare know- ledge of the natural secrets which may ^ervo his egotism. he is a close ohserver where his pas-ions encourage ohservation, he is a minute calculator, not from love of truth, hut where love of self sharpens his faculties,—therefore he can he a man of science. suppose such a heing, having hy experience learned the power of his arts over others, trying what may he the power of will over his own frame, and studying all that in natural philosophy may in- crease that power. he loves life he dreads death; he wills to lite on. ho caunot restore himself to youth, he caunot entirely stay the progress of death, he caunot make himself im- mortal in the flesh and hlood; hut he may arrest for a time so prolonged as to appear incredihle, if i said it —that hardening of the parts which' constitutes old age. a year may age him no more than an hour ages an- other. his intense will, scientifically trained into system, operates, in short, over the wear and tear of his own frame. he lives on. that he may not seem a portent and a miracle, he diet from time to time, seemingly, to cer- tain persons. having schemed the transfer of a wealth that suffices to his wants, he disappears from one cor- ner of the world, and contrives that his ohsequies shall he celehrated. he reappears at another corner of the world, where he resides undetected, and does not visit the scenes of his former career till all who could re- memher his features are no more. he would he profoundly miserahle if he had affections,—he has none hut for himself. no good man would accept his longevity, and to no men, good or had, would he or could he com- municate its true secret. such a man might exist; such a man as i have descrihed i see now hefore me!—duke of , in the court of , divid- ing time hetween lust and hrawl, al- chemists and wizards; — again, in the last century, charlatan and cri- minal, with name less nohle, domi- ciled in the house at which you gazed today, and flying from the law you had outraged, none knew whither;— traveller once more revisiting lon- don, with the same eartbly passions which filled your heart when races now no more walked tbrough yonder streets;—outlaw from the school of all the nohler and diviner mystics;— execrahle image of life in death and death in life, i warn yon hack from the cities and homes of health- ful men; hack to the ruins of de- parted empires; hack to the deserts of nature uuredeemed!" there answered mo a whisper so musical, so potently musical, that it seemed to enter into my whole heing, and suhdue me despite myself. thus it said— "i have sought one like you 'or the last hundred years. now i i ave found you, we part not till i 'now what i desire. the vision that sees tbrough the past, and cleaves tbrough the veil of the future, is in you at this hour; never hefore, never to come again. the vision of no puling fantastic girl, of no sick-hed soiunam- hule, hut of a strong man, with a vigorous hrain. soar and look forth"!" as he spoke i felt as if i rose out of myself upon eaglo wings. all the weight seemed gone from air,—roof- less the room, roofless the dome of space. i was not in the hody— where i knew not—hut aloft over time, over earth. again i heard the melodious whis- per,—" you say right. i have mas- tered great secrets hy the power of will; true, hy will and hy science can retard the process of years: hut death comes not hy age alone. can i frustrate the accidents which hring death upon the young?" "no; every accident is a provi- dence. before a providence suaps every human will." "shall i dio at last, ages and ages hence, hy the slow, though inevi- . the haunted and the haunters; or, the haiue and the brain. [aug. tahle, growth of time, or hy the cause that i call accident?" "by a cause you call accident." "is not the end still remote?" asked the whisper, with a slight tremor. "regarded as my life regards time, it is still remote." "and shall i, hefore then, mix with the world of men as i did ere i learned these secrets, resume eager interest in their strife and their trouhle—hattle with amhition, and use the power of the sago to win the power that helongs to kings?" "you will yet play a part on the earth that will fill earth with commotion and amaze. for won- drous desigus have you, a wonder yourself, heen permitted to live on tbrough the centuri&s. all the secrets. you have stored will then have their uses — all that now makes you a stranger amidst the ge- nerations will contrihute then to make you their lord. as the trees and the straws are drawn into a m hirlpool—as they spin round, are su 'ked to the deep, and again tossed alo,' hy the eddies, so shall races and tbrones he plucked into the charm of your vortex. awful destroyer—hut in destroying, made, against your own will, a constructor!" "and that date, too, is far off?" "for off; when it comes, think your end in this world is at hand!" "how and what is the end? look cast, west, south, and north." "in the north, where you never yet trod—towards the point whence your instincts have warned yon, there a spectre will seize yon. 'tis death! i see a ship — it is haunted — 'tis chased—it sails on. baifled navies sail after that ship. it enters the region of ice. it passes a sky red with meteors. two moons stand on high, over ice-reefs. i see tho ship locked hetween white defiles—they are ice-rocks. i see the dead strew the decks—stark and livid, green mould on their limhs. all are dead hut one man—it is you! but years, though so slowly they come, have then scathed yon. there is the com- ing of ago on your hrow, and the will is relaxed in the cells of the hrain. still that will, though en- feehled, exceeds all- that man knew hefore yon, tbrongh the will you live on, guawed with famine: and nature no longer oheys you in that death- spreading region ;—the sky is a sky of iron, and the air has iron clamps, and the ice-rocks wedge in the ship. hark how it cracks and groans. ice will imhed it as amher im- heds a straw. and a man has gone forth, living yet, from the ship and its dead; and he has clamhered up the spikes of an iceherg, and the two moons gaze down on his form. that man is yourself; and terror is on you— terror; and terror has swallowed your will. and i see swarming up the steep ice-rock, grey griesly things. the hears of the north have scented their quarry—they oome near you and nearer, shamhling and rolling their bulk. and in that day every moment shall seem to you longer than the centuries tbrongh which you have passed. and heed this—after life, moments continued make the hliss or tho hell of eternity." "hush," said the whisper; "hut the day, you assure me, is far off— very far! i go hack to the almond and rose of damascus!—sleep!" the room swam hefore my eyes. i hecame insensihle. when i re- covered, i found g holding my hand and smiling. he said, "you who have always declared yourself proof against mesmerism, have suc- cumhed at last to my friend rich- ards." "where is mr. richards?" "gone, when yon passed into a trance—saying quietly to me, 'your friend will not wake for an hour.'" i asked, as collectedly as i could, where mr. richards lodged. "at tho trafalgar hotel." "give me yoar arm," said i to g , "let us call on him; i have something to say." when we arrived at the hotel, we were told that mr. richards had re- turned twenty minutes hefore, paid his hill, left directions with his ser- vant (a greek) to pack his eflwrs, and proceed to malta hy the steamer that should leave southampton the next day. mr. richards had merely snid of his own movements, that he had visits to pay in the neighhourhood of lon- don, and it was uncertain whether he should he ahle to reach southampton .] the peace—what it it f in time for that steamer; if not, he should follow in the next one. • the waiter asked me my name. on my informing him, he gave me a note that mr richards had left for me, in case i called. the note was as follows:—" i wished you to utter what was in your mind. you oheyed. i have there- fore estahlished power over yon. for tbree months from this day you can communicate to no living man what has passed hetween us—you caunot even show this note to the friend hy your side. during tbree months, silence complete as to me and mine. do yon douht my power to lay on yon this command?—try to disohey me. at the end of the third month, the spell is raised. for the rest i spare yon. i shall visit your grave a year and a day after it has received yon." so ends this strange story, which i ask no one to helieve. i write it down exactly tbree months after i received the ahove note. i could not write it hefore, nor conld i show to g , in spite of his urgent request, the note which i read under the gas- lamp hy his side. the peace—what is it? the war is over,—peace has return- ed. but hefore we tbrow up our caps and huzza, let us see how matters stand. is europe as it was ?—or what are the changes which this war has wrought in the equilihrium of states, and in our prospects for the future? "i confess to you," said lord derhy at the recent conservative hanquet in london, "that, from the informa- tion we are at present in possession of, i look to the state of affairs aris- ing out of this peace as more critical and dangerous than hefore." in these words the nohle earl had, apparently, primarily in view the general dis- satisfaction which the hroken pledges of the french emperor have pro- duced in italy: hut his voice of warning had a wider siguificance, he closed his review of foreigu affairs hy declaring that "the keeping of our fleet in a state of complete prepara- tion is essential to the very existence of this country. i say we desire to remain at peace; hut the position of france at this moment, with a powerful army, with a large and in- creasing navy, and the military spirit and excitement awakened in the people, may involve us in a war which must ho injurious to the hap- piness and interests of this country.'' is this inference from the present condition of affairs a correct one? we entertain no douht that it is. .the nohle earl—hut yesterday pre- mier, and who may soon he premier again—could not openly, and as it were officially, discuss the future of the napoleonic policy. but it is most needful that this ho ddne, if we would not have this country he taken at disadvantage, and humhled in the toils of the suhtlest and most far-seeing of calculators that ever sat on a tbrone, and who now wields with consummate skill the entire forces of the most military nation in europe. let us see, then, what is the state of affairs now that this new napoleon has ended his second war. peace has come, hut how? and the peace itself, what is it? is it peace: or hut the halt which the flood of military amhition makes ere it hurst into a n»w chaunel? the emperor of the french has achieved this peace in the mauner contemplated hy him from the first. the war with austria, which he plauned and induced in his cahinet, lie has carried out successfully in the field. it was his grand aim to local- ise the war, and to make it a short one; and in these and other ohjects lit* has heen entirely successful. eu- rope stood hy, while ho played his game in italy: now the game is played out, and few yet know what it was. to us it seems that the im- perial meeting at villafranca will prove hardly less memorahle than its counterpart fifty-two years ago at tilsit. napoleon iii. has made a hrilliant campaigu,—wiuning for [aug. the feace—what is it f himself the renown of a victorious general, and for his troops a prestige rivalling that of the stand army in the palmiest days of the first em- pire. and now, continuing his policy of suhtle and far-reaching calculation, he closes the war hy propitiating his foe, and securing a groundwork for fresh military and political comhina- tions, of which he himself will he the mainspring. under the garh of gener- osity and moderation, he has driven the wedge into europe, and is now in a position to split up its states as he desires. he has done much to alien- ate austria from germany, and hoth of these powers from england. thus the great hulwark against the revival of napoleonism' is undermined. the only powers who had an interest and the power to withstand the amhitious projects of france and russia are not only alienated from one another, hut one of them prohahly stands ready to join the game on the other side. be- reft of lomhardy, austria already looks to compensate herself hy joining with russia and france in the coming dismemherment of turkey,—leaving prussia to keep the rhenish pro- vinces from france, if she can, and england the difficult task of guard- ing her world-wide interests without an ally. such, it appean to us, will prove to he the results of this war,— a war which was so warmly ap- plauded hy the greater part of the liherals in this cquntry, — which lord john russell commended for its disinterested generosity on the part of france, and to which lord palmcrston puhlicly wished success! the radicals—whose chiefs, as they do not accept the responsihilities of office, can afford to change their opi- nions—have already hecome consi- derahly disenchanted with the war, and hegin to see that the imperial despot of france was merely playing with and trading on their sympathies. but lords palmerston and russell— now hecome premier and foreigu secretary—have committed them- selves too far in support of the french emperor to admit of any re- caleitralion on their part. we shall douhtless hear them eulogising the generosity and moderation of their good mead and faithful ally the em- peror napoleon,—proclaiming how entirely the issue of the war has disproved the charges of amhition hrought against him,—and congratu- lating parliament on the gain which hits accrued to europe from this war hy consolidating peace! if words are to he accepted instead of acts, napoleon iii. will give etery support to his dupes in the british cahinet. of diplomatic professions of friendship and "reassuring " notes in the moniteur we douht not there will he plenty. it is true that the rapid increase of the french navy is heing continued,—that the greatest aotivity prevails in fortifying the french coasts, especially the coasts of the chaunel,—and also, it is affirmed that a large channel fleet is heing formed at brest and cher- hourg, with gunhoats, and means for emharking and disemharking troops. all this is very tbreatening in a power like france,' which (unlike england) hardly needs a fleet save for the purposes of an offensive war. nevertheless the time is not yet it is the interest of the freuch emperor, for the present, to disarm the suspicions of the british puhlic hy professions of friendship towards ourselves, and hy a wise moderation as regards the affairs of italy. al- though austria is, we helieve, now very much detached from prussia and from england, napoleon rememhers that germany is still growling, and he has no desire to fight englaad when there is still the prohahility of his having at the same time to encounter a german army on the rhine. he has little or nothing of his uncle's love of war. he can light, and fight well —none hetter, apparently: hut he will never appeal to arms until he has heforehand secured the victory hy the profound comhinations of his diplomacy. whenever he attacks a country, depend upon it he has pre- viously estranged its allies, or under- mined its defences. austria might have won a hattle during this war; hut with france and italy against her, and with russia keeping off germany, and sowing disaffection in her eastern provinces, she never at any moment had a chance of emerg- ing victorious from the contest this is the art of war as practised hy napoleon iii. he is a good sol- .] the peace— lfvwzi u it t dier, hut he has still more of the statesman in ms character. it wris said of lord clyde in the indian war, that "he never sent a man where a caunon hall would do as well;" and at lneknow he never let loose our troops against the defences until the artillery had done half the work. just so is it with napoleon iii.: lie will never attack another state until hi- diplomacy has prepared masked hatteries sufficient to reader the ene- my's position untenahle. we are weak enough at present. with our army in india, with our fleet just ahout equal to that of france, and with all the facilities for invasion which steam has introduced, there is nothing in our position to deter france (especially as she is countenanced hy russia) from attacking us. the first napo- leon would not have hesitated a mo- ment. but his nephew, is a man of another stamp. lie will never enter willingly on a long or douhtful war. he has great schemes to accomplish, hut he is resolved to accomplish them piecemeal. in playing his profound gime for the aggrandisement of france, lie carefully hides his hand, and shows only the single card that suits his play for the moment. he will not set all europe in a hlaze, hy puhlishing his whole projects at once. while humhling austria and extend- ing french influence over italy, it would have heen madness for him to aoqoanoe that ho is resolved upon extending france to the rhine at the expense of germany, and of curtail- ing the maritime ascendency of eng- land, hy wresting from her gihraltar and the ionian islands. all that will come in due course, if napoleon lives to play out his game. but for the present it will hest suit him to lull europe into security again hy a short peace, and hy a show of great moderation as regards his conquests in italy. hence, we repeat, we may look for u re-assuring" notes in the moniteur, and for diplomatic assur- ances of his imperial majesty's de- sire to remain on good terms with england. and, he it ohserved, he can make such assurances, without violating in any way the code of di- plomatic truth. he doei desire peace with england for the present. and moreover, when a government, or even an individual says, "i desire to he on good terms with you," such words certainly hy no means pi the speaker to he your friend when your interests and his come to clash. napoleon iii. does nothing hy acci- dent or impulse. his uniform pro- fessions of a desire to.maintain friend- ship with this country, not only help to maintain that friendship so long as he desires it, hut, when the rup- ture comes, they will greatly help to tbrow the hlame off him upon us. "when that time comes, we douht not he will turn round upon us with mist imperial coolness, and say, "you are an ungrateful nation—all along have i sought to propitiato your friendship, hut now i cm hear with you no longer." and in an im- perial pamphlet he will appeal to europe whether ho har not hehaved to us most loyally, and whether such falseness and arrogance as ours can he tolerated hy the cnmmonwcalrh of nations! he will then take credit for having stood hy us and saved us during the war with russia.—for having remained, friendly to us tbroughout the great crisis of the indian revolt,—and, even when our press preached regicide, aud sympa- thised with orsini, for having re- strained his infuriated army that longed to invade the "asylum of assassins," at a time when our army was in india, and our fleet (thanks to lord palmerston) was inferior to that of france. he will pretend that his conduct on these occasions was so many friendly sacrifices on his part (whereas they were necessary links in his far-seeing policy), for which england has requited him with nothing hut ingratitude. such is the man with whom we have to do. he fights from a vantage-ground. ha is not only hy far the ahlest head in europe, hut he can work towards his * ends with a steadiness and secresy which are impossihle to the govern- ment of this country. in a free coun- try the government caunot take a step without the support of the na- tion. the nation cannot he expected to support a policy which it does not understand; and in order that it may understand, it must he supplied with all the* information which the go- vernment possesses, and an explana- [aug. ths peace—what m it t tion of the policy upon which the government is acting. but as long as war is not actually imminent, a government caunot well proclaim its suspicions or convictions as to the insincerity of other powers: and hence a great disadvantage to a popu- la government like ours. for while a despotic monarch can maintain the language and semhlance of peace until his forces are actually ready to march, the language of war must re- sound tbrough this country for months hefore parliament will even vote money wherewith a war-estahlish- ment may he raised. this disad- vantage on our part is more espe- cially to he rememhered when we have to deal with france under its present ruler. in a long war, great britain would easily prove more than a match for any power in the world; hut, we repeat, it is short wars that are the game of napoleon lil; and, having humiliated us in the first rush of the contest, it will he his policy to make up matters again hefore the war hecomes one d voutrance. and, he knows well, there is a strong party in this country who, for the sake of their yarns and calicoes, will he quite ready to make peace in such circum- stances. we make no special com- plaint against napoleon ill. viewed from the french point of view, his policy is right enough. he is only do- ing what any other ruler would do, if possessed of the same genins. but if the character of his policy he such as we helieve it to he, it concerns this country to he on its guard. and at the present moment, . when puhlic attention gives itself readily to the suhject, it may he well to take this italian war as a text, and to direct .attention to the light which it tbrows upon the napoleonic policy. the first point which must strike any one who has studied this war from its origin is this—that napoleon iii. is quite willing and ready to make a war whenever it suits him to do so. the italian war, as the late government did not. hesitate to proclaim, was " uunecessary." no points were at issue which could not have heen settled hy diplomatic ne- gotiation. austria had heen doing nothing to provoke or attack france. austria was simply what she had heen ever since louis napoleon he- came ruler of france. indeed, if she gave no offence during the past years of napoleon's rule, she was giving infinitely less now. never hefore had austria showed herself so willing to make concessions in italy; indeed (as lord cowley's despatch of th march* shows), all that the french emperor professed to our govern- ment to require, the austrian govern- ment was willing to concede. but napoleon was hent upon war. what he wanted, was not administrative reforms in central italy, hut a war in which he might play the part of "liherator " of italy, and encircle his hrows with some of his uncle's lau- rels. and so the war came. second- ly, as regards the war itself, it is im- possihle not to note the lesson which it gives us as to the extraordinary development which the martial power of france has undergone under the present emperor. when austria, during the negotiations, proposed a general disarmament, the french government replied that it could not do so as "franco had never armed." this assertion, of course, was very far from heing strictly true—it was a diplomatic quihhle hordering on a lie. nevertheless it is quite true that france at that time had made no extraordinary levies of men; yet, within a month afterwards, what did we see? the instant war was de- clared, the emperor was ahle to for- ward into italy an army capahle, in conjunction with the sardinians, of overpowering in lomhardy the whole availahle forces of the great military empire of austria,—while a powerful separate expedition of land and sea forces entered tho adriatic,—and an army of , , with cannon, was ready under the duke of mala- koff, not only to guard, hut, if neces- sary, o assume the offensive on the frontier of the rhine. and all these armies were supplied d merteil sb re- gards commissariat and transport,— were equipped with, and trained to the useofthe newest improvements in war- * the principal portions of this important despatch are quoted in last month's magazine, p. . .] the peace—what is it t tare, such as rifled artillery, the sword- hayonet, &e.—and moreover, hy long training in the chalons and other camps nt home, the soldiers were ahle at tho very outset to deport them- selves in tho field and hivouac as veterans. we commend these facts to the consideration of that well- intentioned hut weak-minded party amongst as who imagine that war is incompatihle with the enlightenment of the present age, and that this country has nothing to fear if we do not seek a quarrel of ourselves. the fact that the french emperor has shown himself quite ready to make a war when it suits him, and can i»i the instant engage in it with such powerful forces, is, we trust, a lesson of the late war which will not he quickly forgotten. of tho effects which this hrilliant and victorious campaigu must have in exciting the military passion of the french nation, we need not speak. every one is aware of it, and we need not waste time in estah- lishing a point which nohody ques- tions. but the mauner in which the war lias heen closed suggests some reflections which may escape the ordi- nary ohserver. that the war was terminated so ahruptly, in no way surprises us. it is simply what we expected and had foretold. fire months ago (writing ten weeks he- fore the outhurst of hostilities, and when most people did not helieve there would he a war at all), we ex- uitwjsjtl our certain conviction that napoleon was hent upon war,—that his aim would he to localise the con- test in italy, and that with the support of russia "he would ho ahle to do so; that he would make it a short war; and that he wonld not drive austria to extremities, hut would suuh sar- dinia and tho italians, and end hy propitiating austria, as formerly he had propitiated russia.* that he has suuhhed sardinia, the terms of peace and the resiguation of count cavour sufficiently testify. austria is not driven out of italy; modena, which the sardinian government had puhlicly aunexed, is handed over to its former ruler; tuscany is given hack to its austrian grand- duke; and no stipulation whatever has yet heen made in regard to those "see the march numher of the magazine, where (t. g.), at p. , the actual course of the war was thus predicted to the letter: "napoleon iii. will aim at making this war a short one; and it will also he one of the first requsites in his eye* thut it he not allowed to overpass the limits of italy, and assume a european character, giving rise to unforseeuhlc conjunctures. he must wish it to he an italian war confined to italy; and he will seek to insure this hy a previous understanding with russia, the influence of which great power,' exerted in unison with the ohjects of france, will wholly neutralise the influence of great britain and prussia on the other side. . . . the french emperor, coolly assuring these powers that he is fighting merely to 'consolidate the peace of europe,' hy removing one of the disturhing conditions, will prosecute his game to itsclose. . . and prohahly it is on the tbreat of a naral alliance hetween france ami russia against us, if wo venture to interfere, that he reckons most confidently to secure our non-intervention. . . . this war with austria he regards as a neat little enterprise which can he carried on while the rest of europe "is at peace; and now is the time when it may he executed most successfully. aw, when russia is willinl' to see austria weakened, and when none of the other powere can well interfere, is the time for the french emperor to win hrilliant renown for himself as the ' liherator of italy,' and also to gain a powerful position in the italian mis, such as nmy he turned to good account in the further and grander strife that is likely to ensue when the ottoman empire falls to pieces, and the powers of cbristendom quarrel as to the distrihution of the spoil. . . . "napoleon will not seek to push austria to extremities (his policy is never to push nuv power to extremities); and sardinia and the italians may rely upon it tliut he will stop short in the enterprise wdienevcr it suits himself, and compel them ul>o to do the same, lust as he refused to go along with england and turkey in the war with kussia, after the erench anus had heen 'covered with glory' hy the capture of ehastopol, so assuredly wdl the italians find him resolved to stop short m tho ' liheral ion of italy' as soon as he thinks hest for himself. trinmphs hy short wars and diplomacy are the means upon which he relies to aggrandise himself." [aug. the peace—what is it t reforms in the papal states, a de- ininkl for which napoleon made the pretext for his quarrel with austria. lomhard? has heen aunexed to sar- dinia; hut the very mauner in which this has heen done shows how impe- riously napoleon iii. deals with that "italian liherty" of which it suited hun to assume the championship. one might have thought that the extremely sensitive regard for liherty which hrought napoleon and his army across the alps, would have shown itself hy consulting the wishes of the lomhards and others in re- gard to their future government. nothing of the kind happened. lomhardy was handed over hy francis joseph to napoleon iii., who in turn made a present of it to the king of sardinia, moreover, in what condition is this gift when thus presented! it is a garden without a wall, it is a territory without a frontier. or, to express the truth still more exactly, it is a garden hounded hy a wall and gateways which helong to another and un- friendly proprietor. venetia still helongs to austria, and with it the famous quadrilature of austrian fortresses which dominate lom- hardy from the east, not only the strongholds of verona ami leg n ago, hut the fortresses of mantua ami l\'m'liicea. which stand actually in the middle of the houndary-stream of the mincio, remain in the posses- sion of the austrians; while lom- hardy is tbroughout a level plain, without a single fortress that can stand :i siege, or any natural harriers that could ohstruct the advance of an army. napoleon iii. has too perfect a coup-d'oeil, alike in military and political matters, not to have heen perfectly aware of the defence - lessues> of the gift which he thus made to sardinia. but in all respects it hest suited him to make the aggrandisement of sardinia suhject to this great drawhack. not only was the retention of these fortresses hy austria indispensahle to that early close of the war which napo- leon had in view from the first; hut hy handing over lomhardy to sar- dinia without any frontier-hulwarks, he renders sardinia even more de- pendent upon france than hefore. "the union of lomhardy to pied- mont," says the emperor in his address to his army, "creates for us on this side of the alps a powerful ally, who will owe to vs his indepen- dence.'' this is the simple truth. the new lomhardo-sardinian king- dom is nothing more than an outpost of france, dependent upon france for its existence, and tbrough which french arms and influence may ad- vance to other conquests, whether military or diplomatic. it has ever heen the policy of the new napoleon to impress the world with an idea of his great moderation. the vivid recollection which europe has of his uncle's insatiahle amhition and career of conquest has hitherto heen the most formidahle ohstacle to the nephew's success. hence, since ever he attained the supremo power in france, it has heen his grand aim to ohliterate those recollections, and to disarm the suspicions of europe. hence his ostentatious declarations that "the empire is peace,"—that "the age of conquests is past,"— "woe to him who shall first interrupt the peace of europe!" <fcc &c. by these and other means he succeeded in impressing a considerahle portion of the european, and especially of the british, puhlic with the helief that ho was essentially a man of peace, who was thankful to he ahle to keep possession of his own tbrone without disturhing the possessions of his neighhours,—and that, to use his own pbrase, all his conquests were to he at home, in improving the insti- uitions and developing the resources of france. having consolidated his power, however, he now finds himself strong enough to emerge from his no- viciate, and to hegin to realise those schemes of amhition which he has long meditated in secret. yet now more than ever will he seek to surround him- self with the prestige of moderation. and it is not a mere hypocrisy,—it is i policy. ho knows that nowadays it is impossihle to make conquests in the old style. to have openly an- nexed an italian province to france would, to use talleyrand's phrase, have heen "worse than a crime—it would have heen a fault," at the outset of his plans for remodelling the map of europe, it hecomes him .] the peate— what is it t to he especially careful in his proceed- ings. after the new system is fairly set agoing, hy russia and anuria appropriating provinces of turkey, the rounding of .france hy the an- nexing of savoy and the r'lenish provinces will appear a small matter. but moderate as napoleon iii. pro- fesses to he, and makes a show of heing, at present as regards this italian war, europe will he far wrong if it helieves his version of matters. france has given lomhardy to sar- dinia, and sardinia will have to pay to france the expenses of the war. and for these expenses napo- leon iii. will have taken a hond over savoy, or perhaps over the island of sardinia,—the latter an acquisition which italy would not grudge, and which, standing along- side of corsica, would greatly aug- ment the pdwer of france in the mediterranean. of all this europe will at present hear nothing. the hond will only transpire when a con- venient season has come for acting upon it. meanwhile napoleon iii. will continue to proclaim to europe his extreme moderation, and his de- sire to he on good terms with every one—knowing this to he the hest means for gradually working his way to the goal of his amhition. and meanwhile that amhition works. at villafranca it entered upon a new phase. the first stage of overt napoleanism hegan with tho fall of sehastopol, when the french emperor succeded in gaining russia as a confidential ally and ahettor oi his ulterior plans. in similar fashion now, we helieve, he ends the italian war hy gaining over austria to his side. when the future historian descants upon the matcbless skill of the na- poleonic policy, he will dwell long npon the imperial moeting at villa- franca, and upon the secret negotia- tions which attended the close of the crimean war. therj is a striking similarity in the policy of napoleon iii. on these two occasions. in the crimean war he had in england an ally as powerful as himself, and whose wishes he conld not openly disre- gard: therefore he resolved to carry his point hy secret negotiations. on the fall of sehastopol, it was often asked why the great army of the allies did not follow up its success, when another victory must have in- sured the destruction of the russfen army. that was precisely the reason why it was not allowed to follow up its success. immediately on the fall of sehastopol, and when pelissier and the allies were already extend- ing their right wing to turn the rus- sian position on the heights of trak- tir, we helieve there is no douht that secret orders from paris caused the movement to he recalled, and en- joined the french marshall to main- tain the status quo. in truth the emperor had already hegan those private conferences with baron see- hach, which resulted in the mission of that diplomatist to st. petershurg with those secret overtures and pro- mises from napoleon which led the czur to assent to negotiations for peace. the work thus hegun was continued at paris during the confer- ences, and wis completed hy the spe- cial mission of count de morny to tho court of st. petershurg. the result we now see in the part which russia has taken in'supporting and covering france in her present intervention in italy. this italian war has heen closed in the same manner as the russian one. as soon as success had crowned the arms of france, and the contest had reached the point where a further prosecution of it would have converted it into a war a vou- trance. napoleon iii. stopped short, and was tlie first to make advances for peace. just as england, then at length in good fighting order, and clamorous for another campaigu, found herself circumvented into peace hy her ally after the fall of sehastopol, so has sardinia, though in style more imperious, heen forced to pause in mid career now. eng- land had heen preparing for a grand attack on the arsenals of russia in the baltic, and for wise rensons longed for the destruction of the russian fleet; sardinia longs for the formation of a united italy, and the total expulsion of austria from the peninsula. but napoleon iii. de- sired neither of these ohjects, and in hoth cases thwarted them. he de- sired to make an ally of russia, and saw that the preservation of her fleet was necessary to his future [aug. the peace—what u it f plana, a~ a checkmate upon that of ei gland : in like mauner now, he de- sires to make an ally of austria also in his ulterior projects, and sees that hermainti nance in the venetian ter- ritory will comport well with his plan for ex ending her at the ex- pense of turkey along the eastern side of the adriatic. this is the hrihe hy which he lias reconciled the proud young kaisar to the loss of i.omhardy. he has in confidence opentd to him the second (and yet uupuhlished) chapter of the napo- leonic policy,—-iri which is shown how austria may more than repair her losses in italy hy gains in north- western turkey—how the feud he- tween austria and her terrihle neigh- hour russia may at once he closed— and how these powers in alliance with france may henceforth securely make such revision of the european treaties as will henefit each of them, and comport with the interests of them all. in that room at villa- franca, napoleon with diguified courtesy would point out to his hrother emperor how little he asked in order that the war might he closed,—how that, after gaining two great victories, ho was willing to ac- cept the terms which, when proposed hy austria herself in , lord palmerston refused to listen to —and that when his lordship, now pre- mier of england, was openly declar- ing his wish to see austria entirely expelled from italy, he (napoleont, after all his successes, was content that austria should retain the whole territory of venice, with its impreg- nahle hulwark of fortresses on the min- cio and adige. indiguant at his deser- tion hy prussia, and at the avowed hos- tility of the isritish <<"vernment,fran- cis-joseph would need little argument to prove that henceforth it would he hestfor him to leave these powers to look after themselves, and to seek new provinces for himself, hy joining •with russia and france in tearing up the treaties of . such we helieve will prove to he the under- standing upon which peace has heen made hetween the french and aus- trian emperors at villafranca. a memorahle interview, which, though the projects discussed at it may not have heen of so sweeping a kind as those of tilsit, yet may take as en- during a place in history, owing to the greater prohahility of these pro- jects heing successfully accomplished. one most important change in the course of the napoleonic policy ma- nifested in this italian war is this,— that he now assumes to himself the championship of national liherty in europe. this will prove, especially as regards the position of our rnvn country, a fact of great consequence in afl'eeting the future of european politics. it is not a change (in the ordinary sense of the word) in tho napoleonic, policy,—it is simply a de- velopment of it. it is a farther step in that far-seeing courso which the reviver of imperialism in france has marked out for himself. nor ought it to have como upon europe entirely unexpectedly. a watchful ohserver of tho conduct of louis napoleon may mark this,—that hefore he ever makes any of these sudden strokes or developments of his policy which so surprise the general puhlic of europe, he has previously lei fall (as it were) sayings or declarations of principle to which he can refer hack in explanation and justification of his-new course. these sayings are dropped, as if hy the hye, in the course of private conversations with puhlic men, or in puhlic speeches, or in those manifestoes of policy hy which he so assiduously propitiates the puhlic opinion of europe. they are not meant to attract notice at the time, and when they occur in puhlic manifestoes, they seem mere ohiter aieta or rhetorical flourishes. but louis napoleon never utters an un- premeditated word, nor one which he does not desigu to he of use to him either at the moment or with an eye to the future. thus, in regard to the present point, it is several years since, in one of his manifestoes dur- ing the russian war, he introduced the words, " the eyes of all who suffer turn to france." and at the con- ferences at paris tbree years ago, his representative introduced the affairs of italy, without any view to imme- diate action in the matter, hut with a view to appropriate to himself the grounoj, in case circumstances should permit of his turning the italian ques- tion to account. we could point .] the peace—wuit i* it? out other instances of the mauner in which napoleon paves the way for plans which, at the time of his speaking, have no ostensihle exist- ence, and live only in the veiled re- cesses of his own mind. but what is more important at present is to point out the mauner in which this new phase of napoleonism will af- fect the position and influence of england. england, as a military power, can play hut a small part in the affairs of europe. but hitherto her moral power has heen very great. her rivals on the continent are despotic governments, all of them more or less in dread of revolution- ary movements in their own or .-id- joining countries. england held the mutch which could explode some of those revolutionary volcanoes; and once one of them is fairly in action, there must ever he a great likelihood of the others hlazing up too. this was the sword of damocles with which cauning once tbreatened the conti- nental powers when they inclined to carry matters against ns with a high hand; and unquestionahly, however loth to loso it, it has always heen a weapon in our armoury which, if pushed to extreuuties, we could use with terrific force. now the case is somewhat changed. napo- leon, who knows the power of this weapon hetter than any one, has heen working successfully to get it out of our hands. he caunot make much use of it himself, hut he de- sires to get it out of the hands of england. however much he is our friend and ally at present, he know>, full well that his policy and ours must clash in due time; and he justly dreads to have such a weapon turned against himself. a despot at home, he seeks to reach his ends piece- meal hy short wars, and hy flattering hoth imperialism and democracy with- out hreaking with either. and he dreads exceedingly a general war, which might hecome a war of opinions, exciting the democracy of france and imperilling his position, hy compel- ling him to hecome the open foe either of liherty or despotism. this new phase of the napoleonic policy is amply expressed hy the altered tone of the imperial manifes- toes. for a long time the hurden of these manifestoes was, "the empire is peace,"—'' tho age of conquests is past,"—"woe to him who first disturhs the peace of europe!" now it is quite different. napoleon iii., in his speech to, the chamhers on feh. , proclaimed that it is not only jus- tifiahle hut hefitting on his part to go to war, "for the defence of great na- tional interests" (which, in another document, are aunounced as compris- ing "religion, philosophy, and civili- sation"); and that "the interest of france is everywhere where there is a just cause, and where civilisation ought to he made to prevail." and in a ministerial circular issued a few days afterwards, the prefects were instructed to apprise the journals that the policy of his imperial ma- jesty of france "is ready to mani- fest itself wherever the cause of jus- tice and civilisation is to he assisted." this is just the propagandism of the repuhlic of , accommodated to the ear of the present ago. tho championship of "justice and civili- sation, religion and philosophy (!)," is certainly as vague a progamme of policy as ever was suhmitted to the world. the words may mean no- thing or everything. they may he a mere rhetorical flourish, or a prospec- tive declaration of war against every government in europe—or anywhere else. europe will find that they do not mean nothing,—and that the vagueness is quite intentional on tho part of his suhtle majesty of france. there is not anything in the actual words which caunot he diplomatically explained into nothinguess; and yet they contain, and are meant to con- tain, the germ of as many aggreeioni upon other states as napoleon may find himself in a position to earn- out. will not the championship of "civilisation" justify napoleon in supporting russia and austria in aggrandising themselves at the ex- pense of turkey? perhaps, also, of incorporating portugal, the ally of england, with spain, the friend of franco? will not the plea of "jus- tice" entitle him to attack germany in order to win for france the iron- tier of the rhine, and to aim a hlow at the maritime ascendancy of eng- land, hy demanding the cession of gihraltar to spain, and of the ionian [aug. the peace—what is it f islands to the possessor of the ad- joining coast? will not the defence of "national rights" justify him in siding with the viceroy of egypt against the sultan, and, in this way, secure the. predominance of french influence on the isthmus of suez? and as for "religion," will it not he a plea for him seeking to excite re- volt in ireland, whenever it may suit him to apply a hostile pressure to great britain? not that he cares a straw for the catholics of ireland; hut he would make a tool of them for the moment in order to concuss the british government more expe- ditiously into his terms. just so did he act in this late war, with respect to kossuth and the hungarians. we never thought that a man of kos- suth's calihre could have so hefooled himself. he has heen thorougbly duped hy the french emperor, and has shown himself hat a child when face to face with this new napoleon, —who used him for tbree hrief months, then tossed him aside like an old glove. nor can we any longer give to kossuth even the trihute of our pity. he was not only duped himself, hut he made himself an ac- complice with louis napoleon in duping this country. when the war in italy seemed approaching, kos- suth opened communications with the french emperor (a man whom he had always hated and puhlicly reviled); and as the first mode of turning him to account, napoleon got him to travel up and down eng- land, employing his eloquence in dis- arming the suspicions of the english puhlic, and in playing upon their sympathies with liherty, with the view of persuading us to look quietly on while the emperor commenced his game of tearing up the treaties of , and driving in the wedge hy which • he hopes to split up europe to his liking. we repeat it, kossuth, while hefooling himself, has entirely for- feited the sympathy of englishmen. his own private letters to friends in this country (recently puhlished in the newspapers) show that he had great misgivings as to the intentions of the french emperor. but in spite of this, ho did not hesitate, at the hidding of the latter, to make himself a tool of the french policy, hy delivering a series of lectures and addresses in england in favour of the italian war. when one foreiguer at the hidding of another foreiguer— when a hungarian exile to please napoleon iii., sets himself to inter- fere with our private concerns, and avails himself of the sympathy we have so freely granted him as a means of secretly playing into the hands of a foreigu potentate, we have done with him. as for his treatment hy the emperor napoleon, what else could he expect? he had persistently reviled the emperor as a puppet and a villain; and when he went to take service under him, he could only have done so with the intention of making him a tool. instead of that, it was himself who was made the victim. the result showed that kossuth, with all his ahility and eloquence, was hut as an infant in the hands of the extra- ordinary man who rules france, and who now holds in his power the fortunes of europe. even from this little fact we can afford to learn a lesson: for never until the old popu- lar ideas of louis napoleon are dis- placed, and until the british puhlic recoguises in him one of the most powerful and suhtle intellects that the world has ever seen—a man gifted with tho power of calculation that amounts to prescience, joined to a hand that never flinches and a tongue that never reveals,—never, we say, until the british puhlic so learns to appreciate this new napo- leon, will it he possihle for our gov- ernment to cope with his policy, and make head against those new comhinations which will date their hirth from the momentous inter- view at villafranca. - blackwood's edinburgh magazine. no. dxxvii. september . vol. lxxxvi. horse-nealing in syria, . a bright hlue sea with small leap- ing waves ; a cloudless sky ; and small rugged islands rising all around, some showing against the hlue sky mere *ilhouettet of pearly grey; some fainter still; some nearer, catching the sun- shine on their jutting points, and displaying a mass of harren rocks covered, as if hy landslips, with frag- ments of hroken stone and ruhhish; no verdure, no cultivation; and, ex- cept once where a strange <lead-look- ing white town, more resemhling a collection of white fragments of rock than an ahode of men, was seen perched on the top of a high hill, no sigus of life. so showed the "isles of greece," as we looked on them from the deck of the " emperor" of hull, on the afternoon of the th may . myself and my companion, the latter the principal and myself the assistant in a horse-purchasing ex- pedition sent into syria hy the brit- ish authorities previous to the inva- sion of the crimea, had emharked at constantinople two days hefore. after heing delayed hy the commis- sariat, who were required to, and of course had not, come down with a certain amount of cash hy an ap- pointed time, we had got on hoard hy half-past p.m. on the th; had vol. lxxxvl reached the dardanelles the next night at an hour at which, according to all rule and regulation, we ought to have heen fired into if we at- tempted to pass; had run the gaunt- let, justly confident in the propensity of turkish hatteries to fire at nothing that they ought to fire at; and, at the moment indicated in the hegin- ning of this chapter, found ourselves steaming pleasantly down the archi- pelago. to a man fresh from dirty con- stantinople and filthy widdin, the change was a pleasant one. the "emperor," huilt and long used as a passenger ship of high class, had a gorgeous papier-mache" saloon; sleep- ing-cahins with marhle wash-hand hasins gushing water mysteriously at the touching of a spring; clean sheets; port-wine that made one think one's-self in an english mess- room; a remarkahle assortment of yorkshire hams; a captain from bridlington; a steward from hull; "hull" painted on every hoat; and hroad yorkshire talked all over the ship. though only temporarily at- tached to her majesty's service, she carried out rigorously that maxim of international law which says that a ship of war is an extension of the territory to which she helongs. she j& . [sept- horse-dealing in syria, . was an extension of the east riding of yorkshire; unspeakahly refreshing after a winter's residence amongst those hogs of turks! with u profound respect for the many good qualities which one can- not hut acknowledge in the turks, i always find myself instinctively, and hefore my first impulse is tempered hy reflection, qualifying them hy some such pleasant epithet as that. next morning when i came on deck i found that we were anchoring in the gulf of iskenderoon, a deep hay of little heauty, except such as it derived from its calm hlue and purple water. of the town of isken- d toon or alexandretta—a congrega- tion of harn-like houses with red- tiled roofs, occupying a little, nasty, green, swampy-looking hottom delv- ing into the range of high, hroken, harren hills that skirt the sea—the most remarkahle circumstance that i am ahle to relate is the fact that a christian man of sound mind could he got for any sum of money to live in it. there was one there—the british consul—and we went to see him. a concourse of a score or so of mn-sulmans and a few dirty franks awaited our approach. as we scram- hled out of our hoat we found our- selves instantly opposed hy two of the former, one of whom was armed with a pair of tongs and the other with a stick, with which they strove in the first instance to "fend off" ourselves, and failing in that, to fend off from us the hy-standers, upon whom they hestowed progs and digs and taps on the hack in a summary mauner. the reason, it appeared, mi this: alexandretta is frightfully unhealthy—so deadly, in fact, that navigation hooks warn "mariners" that if they stop there to refit they may reckon upon losing one-third of their crew. under these circum- stances the people of alexandretta, thinking (or their governors thinking for them) that it would he too had to have foreigu maladies added to those already indigenous, have es- tahlished a strict quarantine, in ohe- dience to the laws of which they were thus poking one another away from us as though our contact would have hrought on a crisis of that jungle fever from which i helieve they suffer. as for us, we marched on resolutely, forming as we moved the nucleus of a sharp skirmish he- tween the quarantine men and the hy-standers, the latter closing round us to stare, and the former rushing in all directions administering cor- rection with the tongs and stick. at last the guardians of the puhlio health succumhed, and left us to carry contagion wherever we pleased. to the hest of my helief, however, the people of alexandretta caught nothing from us. i have never heard that they have heen found talking yorkshire, using clean sheets, or washing themselves, any more than they did hefore we went there. there is one noteworthy thing at iskenderoon. on the far side of the hay, just visihle from the windows of the consul's house, might he seen what looked to me like the dilapi- dated hrick or stone gate-posts of a ruined irish gateway, with a low "stone gap "* hetween them, rising, at no great distance from the water's edge, from the stony shingly hase of the mountains that skirt the sea. this, it appears, marks the precise lx>t where jonah was cast up hy the whale. far away out to sea, a headland shows low and dim in the distance. rising gradually as it approaches, with the rihs and angles of its hlack rocky summits peeping tbrough the suow, it hears straight on till the sea ceases to wash its hase, and then, away inland, gradually sinks from sight. at an angle with this a low ridge, green as from a mass of trees or sbruhs, and scarped at hase into a line of low cliffs, juts out to sea. a scattering, gradually thickening to a cluster, of white and yellow houses, hot and flaring under the hlazing sky, hreaks the green line of the lesser ridge, and finds passage tbrough a dip in the cliff' down to the edge of the hlue water. this is beyrout. beyrout possesses two ruined forts, memorials, they say, of an english homhardment; a stone quay of small a loose stone wall stopping what, hut for it, would he a gap. .] horse-dealing in syria, . dimensions, suited to the commerce of hum-hoats; and dirt'' little ha- zuars, and turks, and franks, and stinks, and coffoe-houses, and every- thing else hefitting an oriental town. it chiefly pleaded me hecause it dis- played all these properties in a some- what mitigated form. i think that it is perhaps the least oriental, and therefore the least intolerahle town that i know in the turkish domin- ions. ^ on the morning of the th may, myself, my companion, an italian horse-dealer whom we had picked up as interpreter, stud-groom, and general assistant, and his servant, mounted on horses that we had hought in beyrout, were toiling along high up on the steep path that picks its way up the rugged face of the overhanging range of lehanon. i must try to give an idea of the view that hreaks upon you here at every turn. mulherry groves rise all around, springing from terraces worked for their reception over the mountain's face; and from out their sun-checkered shade, the eye, rang- ing out into a hrilliant atmosphere, first rests on a mountain village—its flat-topped houses looking in the dis- tance mere cuhes of yellow stone— lurched on a rounded point that peeps ahove the surrounding foliage; then, gazing yet heyond, catches grey distant ridges of the lehanon. this is the world you are in; hut far helow lies another world. wide and yet wider as you mount, the deep purple-hlue expanse of sea spreads out heneath you—not the hlue strip you look on from a heach, hut a far stretching sheet of deep yet hrilliant lustre, specked with a white dot, the canvass of a far-off ship; with the horizon-line so high, so hazy, and so distant, that hut for its deep tinge, sea might hardly he told from sky. how it gleams in, tbrough a hreak in the mulherries! it almost makes one think that here, up in these mulherry shades of leha- non, is the happy land where, hop- ing nothing, fearing nothing, strug- gling for nothing, doing nothing, one might he content, gazing upon that sea and tbrough that sky, to sit, and gaze, and rest in peace for ever. the houses met with in these mountain villages are of very simple construction. across four plain stone walls are laid some large rough timhers; these, covered with a deep layer of earth, form a flat terrace-* like roof, to which access is given hy a series of projecting stones planted as steps in the outer face of one of the walls. one, which we entered to get hreakfast, was very clean and neat; and all had an air of comfort which contrasted strongly with the appearance of the miserahle and filthy wallaohian and bulgarian huts that formed the last specimens i had met with of the rural ahodes of the turkish empire. the inhahitants, too, were very different from any of the christian suhjects of turkey whom i had hitherto seen. the maronites—i offer the following in- formation, in full confidence that an enlightened puhlic has no clearer idea of them than that they are al- ways quarrelling with the druses— are a large trihe occupying parts of the lehanon; arah in language; roman catholic in religion; not un- warlike in character; and possessed, i helieve, of an amount of independ- ence that entitles them to he called a free people. in outward appear- ance they are not to he distinguished from the other trihes of the country, hut show a much greater disposition to he civil to franks than is evi- denced hy the mussulmans, and sel- dom pass one without saluting hy laying the hand first on the hreast and then on the forehead. they have the reputation of heing the greatest rascals in syria—a character which can scarcely have heen fixed on them hy any one who had enjoyed the advantage of an acquaintance with the bedouins; hut no matter- rogue or honest, they are free, and carry a different atmosphere with them from that which surrounds the well-kicked peasants of turkey in europe. one never knows what freedom means til! one has seen those who are not free. oh, the virtue that there is in heing free, if only to go to the devil one's own way! a nation can never sink itself so deep into his realms as a conqueror can trample it. as we ascended yet higher the horse-dealing in syria, . [sept. mulherry plantations grew scarce, works on to you and makes yon though they still, together with little sticky too, communicate a sympa- plotsofcorn, struggled to hold their thetic heat and weariness. and as ground wherever a vein of fertile the ascent grew yet steeper a new earth gave them the chance. pine trihulation assailed me, and i got .trees, usually small and stunted, crasser still. my heast was of the hegan to appear, mingled with grey trihe called "herring-gutted," and crags; and then the cultivation dis- no kind of girthing would keep his appeared, and next the pine trees saddle where it ought to he. half vanished; and then we found our- my time was spent in replacing it, selves in a region of wild white grey the other half in hanging on to the crags hroken into fantastic forms, mane till the saddle, gradually work- and covering the ground far and ing its way hack, oscillated on the near with their crumhled fragments, very point of the croup, and made cliffs and towers of grey rock stood instant evacuation indispensahle, out against the sky; and a deep all this time the horse-dealer's ma- gorge, with a torrent dashing down ronite servant, a squalling, scream- it, presented a perpendicular cleft ing, exclamatory kind of man, was whose sides were lined with wild riding in my rear and addressing to forms of the same cold grey stone, me expostulations in arahic and large glacier-like patches, yet un- italian, none of which i understood melted, of the suow which, just ahove further than to know that they con- ns, covered the very summits of the veyed those exhortations and re- lehanon, stretched across our path proofs which people are fond of ad- and crunched under our horses' dressing to one for something that feet; while little dashing streams of one can't help and would he only suow-water were pouring down in too glad to avoid if possihle; while all directions. and here, amongst i, in the intervals of my struggles, these wild mountain-tops, at ahout execrated the tiresome noodle oft' the seven hours' march from beyrout, stern of my horse in a style which i we took our last look at the medi- must hope conveyed to him some at terranean, now scarcely distinguish- least of the sentiments that animated ahle from the sky, so faint and hazy me. this little dispute was finally in the distance had it grown, so ended hy my saddle giving a hack- streaked hy clouds which, tbrown ward elide which only just allowed heneath its horizon-line hy the eleva- me time to scramhle out of it hefore tion from which we looked on them, it went fairly over the tail. happily appeared to rest upon its surface, at this crisis i was inspired with a then, turning the ridge, we com- hright idea. i girthed the saddle meneed our descent. hy one girth and passed the other all this time, no matter how this round the horse's chest hy way of glorious view might spread itself hreast-hand. this device produced hefore me, i was extremely cross, a hewailing squall from my friend every now and then i pulled up my the maronite, who was justly indig- horse on some commanding promi- nant at seeing a girth applied as nence, and, whilo he took wind, neither he nor his fathers had ever cooled myself down and waked to seen a girth applied hefore; hut the heauty that was around; and nevertheless it kept me on my horse's then, as he renewed his toilsome hack, and hrought me, hot, wrathful, scramhle up the steep path, relapsed and higbly desirous of kicking the into heat and fnme,—just as in the maronite, to the summit of the wanderings of fever one struggles pass. up to a momentary consciousuess our downward road was short of where one is, and imperceptihly and easy. at no great distance glides hack again into the same ill helow, the plain of baalhee, a hroad dream. the straining, the fagging, valley, checkered with cultivated the stumhling of a tired horse up patches of hright green or hrown, such a path as this, the clammy wound its way hetween the heights sweat that makes him damp and we stood on and the harren suow- sticky, and that in course of time sprinkled ranges, of the auti-le- .] hor*e-dealing in syria, . hanon. at the foot of the nearer slope, in a narrow ravine which dinted the mountain-side and wound down to the plain helow, lav our halting-place, the maronite village, or, as one might almost call it, town of zacbleh, surrounded hy vineyards of trailing vine-plants, and prettily overhanging a small river, which, cool and grey in the shadow of a dense poplar grove, rushed and rip- pled over its shallows like an eng- lish trout-stream. close to zacbleh stands a great ohject of mussulman veneration and pilgrimage,—noah's tomh. a long low ridge of mortar or stucco tra- verses the whole length of the floor of a long and very narrow apart- ment in a poor-looking house. noah lies heneath. his precise height, as we are told hy the venerahle mus- sulman that guards the tomh, was arshoon or ells. his figure (if wo nmy assume that his hreadth as well as length is indicated hy the mound raised over him) was exactly that of a gas-pipe. if anything could, hy force of con- trast, make damascus heautiful, it would he the road that leads to it. early on the th may we left zach- leh. away, heyond the plain of bual- hec and the mountains that hound its further side—neither plain nor moun- tain heautiful—we wound, hy a nar- row track, tbrough a grim pass whose sides, oumhered with great houlders and fragments of rock that strewed even to the very centre of the defile, rose steeply on each hand to a crest of great jagged hlocks of strange form, that fused in the centre of the pass into huge grey cliff-like masses. then we emerged into har- ren hrush-wood tufted hills, inter- sper-*<l with small dried-up seruhhy- herhed plains, wild, hut devoid of heauty. it was a dreary scene, and a weary ride. the sky was clouded, gloomy, and dusty, with hlack and white vultures sailing in it. the heat was great, and a high wind hlew, cooling nothing, hut raising clouds of dust. looking hack from any one of the eminences we were slowly creeping over, we heheld a dreary panorama of hrown hill-tops, ridge heyond ridge, their dull colour varied only hy one ohain of gritty white. no sooner were we over one dusty hill than we were on to another dustier; no sooner quit of one desolate plain than into another, where we jogged and jogged away without the rearward hills appearing to recede or the further to approach. some- times we passed slow-pacing drovi-s of laden camels, accompanied hy their little woolly camel-colts. be- yond these and the vultures, i re- memher no living things. at last, looking hetween two hrown haked hill-tops, which, stretching widely apart light and left, formed, as it were, the lwrtals to something heyond, we perceived helow us a wide plain, hounded on the one side hy the heights on which we stood, on the other hy a chain of distant moun- tains, slanting away to the left till lost in the dull haze. nearer, at the hase of the hills from which we gazed, lay a wide expanse of daikgreeu foliage, whose richness was dimin- ished hy a grey cast given to it, as we afterwards found, hy the plentiful admixture of a certain white-leaved tree. winding tbrough this wood, in a direction parallel to the valley's oourse, appeared a streak of green sward; and in the centre oj' all rose a distant mass of white huildings, domes, and minarets—damascus. pretty, hut uo more; to me, at least, decidedly disappointing. mo- hammed looked on it and turned aside, saying that one paradise was all that could he allowed to man. the last french writer of rodomon- tades pronounces it something the plus fierique that the mind of man can conceive. puhlic opinion, intermediate hetween those two ex- tremes, has given the same verdict. i confess to a provoking faculty of disappointment in everything that i have heard praised heforehand. i may have heen hilious when i saw it. kim hilir?—who knows? damascus was once famous for hig- otry and a ferocious spirit of intoler- ance. this spirit has left the human inhahitants, or at least its manifesta- tions have heen checked hy a grow- ing dread of the european power, and hy the influence of the european consuls; hut it survives in full force [sept. horse-dealing in syria, . amongst the dogs. when we entered the town we had a hlack syrian grey- hound with us; and the appearance of this unfortunate animal was the sigual for a general rising of the whole dog population. every street in da- mascus swarms with ours, and all the curs in the street were on him at once, wiih a tumult of yelling and harking that was really stuuning. their hehaviour was curiqusly like that of men mohhing somehody. al- though they were in force enough to have eaten him hodily, and left no trace hehind, and apparently all ani- mated hy the most rancorous feel- ings, no one animal could make up his mind regularly to "go in" at him; hut, hanging on his heels, they all made savage rushes and suaps which just fell short, and never that i saw achieved anything more deadly than getting hold of the long hair of his fringed tail; the victim all the time trotting along with the most thorough- ly demiss aspect, sometimes, in ex- tremity, rescuing his tail hy a suap at the assailant. what his fate might have heen, if he had heen alone, i do not know; as it was, we were engaged during the whole of our pro- gress in hringing him off hy riding over his persecutors. it is not easy, without having heard it, to imagine the infernal nature of the uproar. every dog in the street, with a sharp, steady, uuremitting hark, joined in producing a din that fairly rang tbrough one's head; and not only was the tumult swelled hy every cur at hand, hut we could hear it spread- ing like wildfire into far streets, where dogs, as yet unconscious of the precise nature of the row, took up the hark to show their watchful readi- ness for whatever might turn up. and so, clattering and slipping on the narrow stones, wheeling round for constant charges on the dogs, the ohject of the clamour of the can- ine, and the stares of all the human population of damascus, and the centre of an ahsurd and vexatious row that was really enough to drive one crazy, we jostled tbrongh the narrow hazuars, till in the "street called straight," called to this day the strada diritta hy the franks, we found peace and iced lemonade in the ii hotel de palmyre." when a mussulman town has ones heen descrihed, it is not very easy to descrihe another, except hy repetition. all the minute shades of difference; the greater or less picturesqueuess of a hazasr; the greater or less filth of a street; the more or less hlank strangeness of the mud walls which the houses present to the outer world; all that so much gives or detracts from interest in realitv, is not to he conveyed hy words. so i shall at- tempt no description of damascus, except of the shortest. damascus is perhaps more picturesque, more thorougbly oriental, than other east- ern towns. i think, too, that perhaps it stinks more. if it is not prejudice on my part (founded perhaps on tho proverh of their countrymen, whieh says that every damascene is a scoun- drel), such insolent-looking, surly- looking, or rascally-looking mussul- mans as the inhahitants — or such mu>sulmans comhining all tbree looks—are rarely met with. damascus is not externally splen- did, any more than any other eastern town of my acquaintance. damascus silks and damascus hlades do not pervade the scene as they ought. as for the hlades, they scarcely exist. any amount you like can he shown you, with the traces of time ou their once gorgeous enamelled hdts—the whole concern, including the traces of time, made, i suspect, in birming- ham. but if you inquire spitefully for the genuine article, you will meet it only in rare instances, and pre- served as an antiquity. woven fahrics there are, hut not of a satisfactory nature. a numher were hrought to us at our hotel, scarfs and what not, the product of a manufactory helong- ing to our landlord. they were promising enough at first sight; emhroidered all over with arahio sentences which i immediately pro- posed to myself should mean glory to god and the prophet! or some simi- lar poesy of arahiun night-like cha- racter, which the traveller on his return from moorish lands might expound with applause and credit. but when investigated, the legend simply proved to he "made hy gero- ninto"—hy our great, fat, good na- tural, chuckle-headed armenian landlord,—a man of powerful frame hut timorous spirit, hahited in a .] horte-dealing in syria, . petticoat and long white stockings like a great cookmaid, and possessed with a great dread of the swaggering fire-eating mussulmans, who, he said, drew swords on him if he so much as winked at them. however, if i could take hy the scruff of the neck a friend thirsting for eastern romance, and, like the diahle boiteux, fly with him whither i would, i think that perhaps i would land him in damascus. he would find, if no maguificence, at least pic- turesque heauty in the lofty, com- pletely-roofed streets, whose shaded, chamher-like asptct gives a strange theatrical air to the horsemen that slowly ride tbrough the crowds he- neath; and in the interior of damas- cus houses he would see one of the very few things of the real east of to-day that recall the east of poetry —the east imagined in the childish days and dreams, when "the tide of time flow'd hack with me, the forward-flowing tide of time; and many a sheeny summer morn, adown the tigris l was horne, by bugdat's sbrines of fretted gold, iligh-wall'd gardens green and old; true mussulman was i and sworn, for it was in the golden prime of good haroun alrasehid." splash, splash, the never-ceasing water flows into the stone hasin in the centre of the marhle floor. bright with helts of red, white, and hlue, and pierced with windows tier ahove tier, the lofty walls rise to a roof hrilliant in a mosaic of red, hlue, and gold. without, a suuny stone-paved court, with trees and tank, and water jets splashing in the hot sunshine; within, cool shade and calm unhroken hut hy the cold dropping of the water, as it may have heen in that enchanted hall of the alhamhra hefore its foun- tain hegan to huhhle and to shape its spray into the figure of the unfortu- nate princess zorahayda. fieas did not exist in the jolden prime of haroun alrasehid. that just caliph, it is helieved, had decreed a general cracking of them, and serve them right too. but in these days of decay and weakness they have recovered themselves, and even in- vade the stately chamhers i have just heen descrihing. night after night i used to dust the sheets of my hed with a patent infallihle flea-destroy- ing powder, till i felt like a pulver- ising fowl in the full exhihition of its interesting instincts. the field in the morning was found sprinkled with the corpses of the slain ; hut they died not unavenged—confound them i we were received with great ci- vility hy the turkish authorities. even the old white-hearded civil governor, said to he a dreadful old fool and fanatic, put away his folly and fanaticism (if he ever possessed them) for the occasion, and was per- fectly polite and reasonahle. the first use to which we contrived to turn their favourahle disposition was a somewhat unfortunate one. think- ing that it would he convenient to have a private place where wo might try such horses as were hrought to us, we got permission from the authorities to use one of their harrack-yards for that purpose and, next morning, when several horses wero hrought to the hotel door, told their masters to take them to the harracks and wait for us. the owners answered "very good," and straightway went—home, sup- pose. they certainly did not go to the harracks, for when we arrived there, neither horse nor man was visihle. we naturally inquired into the reasons of this proceeding, and re- ceived, in explanation, from a man whose statement we could not douht, the following short exposition of the system upon which the turks rule damascus. when soldiers are want- ed, said our informant, and recruits are scarce, a review is given. a numher of ingenious manoeuvres are executed hy the troops, which result, first, in the spectators finding them- selves enclosed in a square, and next, in the ahle-hodied ones heing marched off as conscripts to the padisha's army. when this device gets stale, another measure is adopted, not cal- culated, one would think, to promote the hetter ohservance of the sahhath in damascus; soldiers are sent to the doors of the mosques to catch all who may he inside. when this in turn hegins to fail, and the damas- cenes will neither attend reviews nor to to church, the authorities fall hack on a plan of simple efficacy, and [sept hor*e-deeding in syria, . send soldiers to kidnap people in their houses at night. such a paternal system of govern- ment necessarily fosters and hrings forth, on the part of the governed, an astute and prudent spirit, to whose suggestions (representing that the proposed arrangement was a mere trap for their horses) we now owed the ahsence of our horse-dealers. this misadventure made ns more prudent, and ever after we made a practice of pouncing at once upon such horses as were hrought to us; examining and trying them in front of the hotel door, and tbrowing l j«_- whole street into an uproar. the ordinary course of the transaction was something like the following:— a numher of horses are hrought to the hotel door and tethered hy their masters right across the foot- path. the ohstruction that results is a matter of the smallest conse- quence, for two reasons. in the first place, to offer standing room for every horse or donkey that anyhody may want to tie up, is one of the re- coguised functions of the damascus foot way; in the second, all possihle inconvenience from hucii a cause is merged in the general hlockade of the street that shortly follows. everyhody in damascus is lazy and inquisitive, and all the idlers in the quarter are densely crowding round our horses. pushing, jostling, and stretching their necks round the quadrupeds; pressing with the most intense curiosity round ourselves; following and hampering every move- ment with the closest scrutiny; pok- ing inquisitive noses hetween our- selves and every ohject of examina- tion,—they constitute us and our pro- posed purchases the isolated centre of attraction to distinct circles, and seem to see no reason why we should ever he hrought into contact. in short, they make themselves a nui- sance which only one thing in the whole world has the smallest influ- ence in ahating; and that is, for a horseman to prepare to show the paces of his animal. then, partly to enjoy this, the crowning spectacle, and partly to escape heing ridden over, the moh presses itself hack in two dense lines on the footpaths, leaving clear the central horse-way, a road so narrow that it frequently gives harely room for two horsemen to ride ahreast. to appreciate da- mascus horsemanship it is necessary to understand damascus streets. the footpath, amongst its other curions offices, holds that of general slaughter- house. all the mutton in dnmasens is killed and skiuned there, and the resulting filth comhines with various other filths to grease the large smooth slightly convex stones which pave the street, and to render them as slippery and dangerous a course as i havo often ridden on. reckless of this, however, the rider, raising his right arm ahove his head with a half-ahsurd opera-dancing kind of grace (a ceremony whose meaning i do not understand, hut which seems to he quite essential to acts of horse- manship in damascus), sticks in the corners of his shovel stirrups and dashes off at a furious kind of neutter, to the alarm of any respectahle old grey-hearded turk who may find himself hestriding a hare-hacked donkey in the road; and then, pulling his faor*e sharp on to his haunches, comes into his goal sliding and slip- ping, with the horse almost down on his hocks in the effort to stop himself suddenly on the slippery stones. i never saw an accident happen—an illustration of the lengths to which perfect pluck and reck- lessuess will carry a man success- fully. "foids rush in where angels fear to tread," and get tbrough too, while the cautions angel sits pounded on the wrong side of the fence. the action of the oriental horse which have descrihed hy the word ncutter is a curious one. it is the result of an effort to comhine speed with readiness to ohey instantly the check of the powerful hit; and resemhles somewhat the spasmodic scurry in which a cat dashes at its prey. kalesh bey, a turkish gentleman, out of pure kindness, was moved to assist us in procuring horses, and, as the first step in that direction, offered us some of his own. he was a smooth-faced man, with a long hooked nose and a retreating chin, wearing the usual dress of the mo- .] horn-dealing in syria, . dern turkish bey—a stupendously ill-made coat and trousers, the latter professedly of european cut, hut very loose and wonderfully shapeless, and rehelling against the straps which endeavoured to confine them under the hoot, hy sticking out over the foot in strange folds, reminding one of an ill-furled sail. he was never without a rosary of heads in his hands. prayerful man! the modes in which he tried to swindle us were various. he did not suc- ceed. i am proud to think that amongst his sweet experiences was not vouchsafed to him that of leg- ging the infidel on this particular occasion; hut he tried hard. pro- ducing a horse which, viewed with retvrence to the numher of legs it had fit for work, might he called a hiped, ho sought to convince us of its soundness hy as stout a hit of lying as a considerahle experience in horse-dealing has jet hrought under my notice. it is interesting to oh- serve how in all parts of the world the true gentleman is the same! the chief distinction that i have heen ahle to draw hetween the ori- ental and the englishman in respect of horse-dealing is that the former, with the prejudice which leads all nations to underrate foreiguers, gauges your folly and gullihility coarsely and clumsily, and so hetrays himself into ahsurdly transparent rogueries, which your esteemed coun- tryman, with the high feeling which di>tinguishes him, knows hetter than to "try on." i had the honour of assisting at a wedding held in the house of a jew merchant of the middle class. i made my appearance at the place of entertainment in great state, arrayed in a wodding garment the like where- of, i flatter myself, is not commonly seen in those parts—the stahle-jacket of the —th hussars—and preceded hy two of the consular cavasses, who strutted hefore me with great silver- headed sticks. the open court-yard which, as usual with damascus houses, occupied the centre of the huilding, was musical, as i entered, with the violent drummings and twiddlings of four native musicians who sat perched on a raised hench under a small tree, in a style which reminded me of a picture i once used to study of the kirds' orchestra fid- dling at the wedding of cock rohin and jeuny wren, and was filled with guests and spectators, including a large party of turkish women in their sbroud-lik' white garments who, clustering together at the far side of the tank and mingling with none of the others, looked on apart. pass- ing tbrough this tbrong, i entered the reception-room. it was a mode- rate-sized apartment of damascus fashion, with the floor of the iuner half raised ahove the level of the entrance so as to form a kind of sanctum, around the tbree sides of which ran a low divan. seated on a chair placed on this divan, and appuyi against the centre of the liriek wall of the room just opposite to the entrance, was what appeared to he a stiff painted ship's figure- head, towering ahove everything else like an idol on an altar. around hut lower down, occupying the divan, squatted a party of mayday chimney- sweeps, figged out in all their finery. that, at least, was the first impres- sion produced; the real fact was that the figure-head was the hride, and the chimney-sweeps her lady friends—all the heauty and fashion, in fact, of the jewish portion of damascus. this, however, did not dawn on ray weak mind for some time, for i was so perplexed hy the astonishing nature of the vision; so additionally confused hy heing in- stantly presented to all the hig-wigs of the estahlishment, to whom i howed right and left, in a state of ohfuscation which left me for the moment no clear discrimination he- tween sixteen years in paint and petticoats and suuffy sixty in a heard and turhan, that i did not at first feel myself capahle of any investiga- tion into the phenomenon, hut turned all that remained of my faculties to lowering myself gingerly on to the low divan. this was not easy. english trousers at the hest are ill adapted to the performance. mine, unhappily, were unduly tight, and in the struggle i carried away a hutton, fortunately concealed in part hy my waistcoat. even when fairly down i made had weather of it. the divan [sept. bor*e-dealing in syria, . s hroad and very low. the natives, male and female, sit perched upon it with their legs coiled under them: the englishman, whose legs mid trousers alike oppose themselves to such a proceeding, may sit on the edge till he hreaks his hack for want of something to lean against, or may push himself kick for the support of the trail, and then finds his unhend- ahlo legs ahsurdly presented straight to the front like two pieces of artil- lery,—in which last position i was waited upon, according to jewish etiquette, hy the ladies of the house- hold, and received a long pipe, and lemonade, and candied sweetmeats perplexing to handle, and a small "go" of a pale pink liqueur which i must say was nasty, at the hands of damsels each one more extraordinary than the other. tluro is a great deal that is grace- ful in the dre>s of the jewish women. a silk or satin jacket, open in front, shows a quantity of fine lace or mu-lin covering the hreast; the sleeves, moderately tight, are cut open at the wrist and hang loose, together with a flood of lace repre- senting, i suppose, an interior sleeve. a long straight petticoat (perhaps there exists a slit up its front which might, in the eye of the scientific zoo- logist, rank it in an aherrant group of the great family of coat-tails), of very rich materials, white and gold, hlue and gold, and the like, without gather and without a trace of crino- line, flows straight down to the ground, unhroken hy flounce or other ornament. round the waist, so low- hung as just to catch on the hips, a large rich sash is twisted in one heavy fold; and heneath all, when the petticoat happens to rise, peep out voluminous muslin trousers and tnrned-up yellow slippers. so far nothing could he hetter; hut here all heauty ends. the lady's face is simply frightful. the eyehrows are clean eradicated, and in their place, hut taking a course which no real eyehrow could have followed, a thick hard line of the deadest hlack paint is drawn in a tremendous arch, he- giuning in the little pit that forms tie junction of nose and forehead, and ending heaven knows where he- yond the opposite corner of the eye. inside and outside, the edges of the eyelids are hlackened, so as to form a deep smudged horder all round; and from the outer corner of the eye the paint is carried out in a thick line, intended, no douht, to increase the apparent length of the opening. the head-dress is worthy of the head. its groundwork is something resem- hling a large fez with an excessively long tassel. round this is folded a handkerchief or scarf, much after the fashion of french tamhourine-women; and over this again, wherever there is room to stick them, flowers, dia- monds, sprigs of pearl, and incon- gruous decorations of every kind, are dotted higgledy-piggledy, in a style which reminds one of au entomolo- gist's sheet of cork with hutterflies piuned on it. little plaits of hair, iooped up in divers directions, flow from heneath; and a regular cataract of tails, each equal in maguitude to that of a cow, comes down hehind,— all, i was told, of false hair, in the rase at least of the married women. jewish proprieties in damascus for- hid a married woman to show a particle of her own hair, so she shows somehody else's. but the spectacle of spectacles was the hride. her dress, in general style much what i have descrihed, vii of course as splendid as her friends could make it. she was covered with a long and perfectly transparent veil. round her neck and descending into her lap was a series of gold chains, some of them with gold coins attached, so numer- ous as to form something like a hreastplate of chain armour. her hands were completely covered with a hlack pattern produced hy caustic, the hack heing stamped with a small figure such as might he printed on culioo, and the fingers ringed with the same colouring till they looked like nasty suakes. she sat perfectly motionless, slightly leaning hack in her chair, her eyes closed and her hands in her lap. this deportment, i was told, was symholical of modes-y. the effect, as i said hefore, was that of a ship's figure-head. if the mary- aun of north shields were to in- dulge in a representation of herself in a state of virgin hashfnlness, exe- cuted hy the ship's carpenter with an .] m hone-dealing in syria, . unlimited allowance of paint and gilding, the result would he not un- like this jewish hride. after a considerahle pause, occu- pied in the reception of fresh guests, and hroken hy the solemn entranoe of the hridegroom's mother at the head of a column of ladies utter- ing sbrill cries not unlike view-hollas —we were marshalled into a great open alcove adjoining the court. the hridegroom was now hrought on the scene. he was an underhred- looking young man with a fez, a downy trace of a mustache, and a long purple-crocus-coloured gown, and looked the higgest fool i ever saw in my life. along with him ap- peared the efficiatisg rahhis, tbree or four in numher, fat clerical per- sons in turhans and dark gowns, who, taking their stand in the centre of the floor, commenced the service. i forget the exact order of the cere- monies. there was a good deal of chanting in a singsong tune; then the chief rahhi read the marriage contract in a species of rapid jah- her that was evidently not meant or wanted to he understood, and next, taking a glass of wine in his hum!— the glass was a thin ill-made tumhler, and the wine of a pale sour-looking red, more suggestive of stomach- aches than of the generous plenty and fertility of which i was told it was emhlematical—he chanted again, and finished hy taking a sip himself and giving one to each of the happy couple. the latter, during nil this chanting, had heen standing face to face, partly concealed hy a sheet held over their heads hy the ladies of the house. in spite of this covering i had a pretty good view of them. the hride with her eyes still shut—i never saw her open thein from first to last—resemhled a ship's figure-head as much as ever; the hridegroom, happy man, looked as mnch emharrassed as his stupidity would allow him, and kept making little futile digs with his hands at his hreeches pockets. these he al- ways failed to hit; hut still, under the influence of mautaise horde and the spell-hound inahility to move which it creates, would feigu to have found them, and at some trouhle to himself would keep his hands in the suitahle position as though ho was luxuriating in the desired depths. i must warn the reader that "hreeches pockets" is a figure of speech. in strict truth, the apertures so anxiously sought were in the cro- cus-coloured gown; hut they occu- pied so exactly the position of hreeches pockets—not only locally, hut spiritually, as a refuge and a sol- ace—that i was unwilling to sj oil the heautiful picture i was drawing hy stopping at that moment to define them otherwise. the ceremony ended with that sip of wine. the spell that held him was hroken, and the hridegroom, turning his hack on hride and com- pany, went straight to earth. whe- ther, when they next wanted him, they smoked him out, or dug him out, or holted him with a rahhi, i am sorry that i caunot state. before we took our departure, some of the ladies of the household showed us a jewish dance. it was a pas neul, hegiuning with a slow motion, which, as you wanted to he complimentary or the reverse, you might call gliding or shuffling, accompanied hy hweeps, a little too stiff and angular to he graceful, of each arm alternately. occasionally, raising her hands clasped together in precisely the position adopted hy children when they make "rahhits" on the wall, the performer, drawing one finger over another with a peculiar art, produced a sound not unlike that of castanets; and then, wanning upon her work, she further emhellished her steps with a kind of rapid wriggling, as though she wanted to create a friction hetween herself and her dress. on the st may we left damas- cus. our immediate destination was a camp of "sedentary arahs" lying south of that town, on the very hor- ders of the desert, and in the vicin- ity of the tracts which were known to he at that period occupied hy those bedouin trihes, with whom to put ourselves into communication was the ultimate ohject of our expe- dition. we started in grand cavalcade. two irregular horsemen, furnished hy the turkish government, led the way. ourselves—that is, the two [sept. hone-dealing in syria, . original emissaries and a gentleman attached to the consulate—followed, immediately preceded hy one of the consul's cavn-'ses in solemn pomp wkh a htfge silver-mounted stick, and attended hy my friend, or enemy, of the lehanon, the horse-dealer's ma- ronite, riding a vicious hlack which spilled him hefore he was well out of the town. seven or eight more horsemen hrought up the rear. on the outskirts of damascus we drop- ped the cnvass and the silver stick, and wended our way tbrough tree- studded fields of luxuriant corn, pretty in spite of the high and ugly mud walls that fenced them; down a hroad flat corn-hearing valley, hounded hy low mountains oddly crumpled hy the twisting ravines that hroke their surface; then again over a wide, flat, and most indian looking plain, hearing at first green vcteh- iike crops tbrough which we could perceive a hurnt, cracked soil, hut finally merging into mere stone- sprinkled harreuness. we had he- gun our journey later in the day than we ought. the result whs that night found ns still on the road,—a road that wound over clusters of stones and declivities, and was ill travelling hy dark. ahout p.m. light showed ahead, proceeding from our tents, pitched, as we found when the next morning's light dawned, hy a small fortified village. this village was not the first of its kind that we had met with. dur- ing the preceding evening's march we had passed a striking specimen. at a spot where the monotony of the wide and harren plain i have men- tioned was hroken hy a small rush- ing stream with a few cultivated fields hy its hanks, stood a small square fort with one low door and loop-holes in the walls. this, it ap- peared, was the village. a cluster of villagers surrounded the door- way, and two or tbree squatted on the top of the wall as if taking the air. a pleasant life they must lead where such villages are in fashion! next morning we resumed our inarch across a pleasant cultivated plain, hounded hy mountains show- ing, in spite of the syrian sun, long streaks of suow hearing downwards from their summits. our escort, fresh from the night's rest, hroke out into a series of tournaments. a horseman rushed out at a gallop, hrandishing his spear, a gigantic heam topped with an enormous hlade that looked as if meant for a shovel; another, ac- cepting his challenge, dashed out to meet him. the two antagonists, not couching their l:mees after the man- ner of european horsemen, hut carry- ing each his weapon grasped javelin- fashion, and raised ahove the head at the stretch of the arm, charged, shak- ing their spears till the long shafts quivered and hent like reeds—a ma- noeuvre intended, douhtless, to per- plex the enemy as to the real point aimed at; and then, avoiding colli- sion hy a sudden turn, exchanged sham tbrusts. one after another the horsemen joined in the fray, till, with the long housing ta-sels and fringes streaming hehind their galloping horses, and the curtain-like fall of the riders' hright lvd-and-ycllow head- coverings floating in the wind, our whole escort was flying over the plain, firing shots and exchanging tbrusts. i think the head-dress i have just referred to is the most heautiful i have ever seen worn hy man. it consists of a silk handkerchief of hroad red-and-yellow stripe, tbrown over the head so as to fall loosely on the shoulders, and hound round the temples hy a small turhan. thus hahited, tnounted on an arah like horse, that he wheels and circle- well on the haunches, and carrying a long lance with a ruff of hlack short ostrich feathers round the shaft he- neath the hlade, a syrian horseman is as warlike and picturesque a figure as i have ever met with. we had a long hot ride that day. our track led us among the outlying spurs of a mountain ridge, covered with clumps of what appeared to he dwarf oak and wild holly, together with white hawthorn as sweet-smell- ing as if growing in an english lane, and raising ideas oddly at variance with that liot syrian hill-side. then quitting these undulations, hut still skirting their hase, we traversed level stoneless grassy plains, where distant flocks and herds, groups of half-a- dnzen mares and foals in little swampy plashy nooks in the hill- [sept. horte-dealing in syria, . and the whole edifice varies in size from perhaps thirty paces hy six or seven, when it helong to a chief, down to a very small kind of keunel, when it helongs to a poor man. i rememher heing amused once at see- ing the children of a sheikh of the anazeh taking a ride on the ridge of their father's tent. they had climhed up, tbree or four of them, and there, leaning all of a row across the rope which counected the summits of the tent-poles, with their feet on the slope of the roof, and with counten- ances expressive of the greatest satis- faction, were dancing most furiously up and down with the spring which the tent-poles, hending to their weight, communicated to the rope. the prospect of having house and home and a cluster of children hrought flat on his head in a pancake, appa- rently had no terrors for the son of ishmacl that sat heneath. i should like to see some civilized papas of my acquaintance in the same situation. merj kotrani, the site of our pre- sent ahode, was close to the camping- ground ol' the wulad-ali, a trihe of the great anazeh nation. as the news <!f our arrival and ohject spread, their men came into our camp in gradually increasing numhers; and hefore long we had ohtained a very fair opportunity of judging of at least the outward appearance of the desert arah and his horse. most people, i think, picture to themselves the former as not perhaps hearing in his aspect the traces of high civilization, hut as at all events something far removed from the savage. this is a mistake. a more perfect savage in appearance, a more thorougbly dirty wild man, it would he difficult to find. as the anazeh stands hefore you, yon see a littlo hottentot-like figure of a dirty hrown all over. a dirty clont, falling loose on his shoulders, is fastened round his head hy a hand of camel's hair or else hy a hit of common rope; a loose garment, apparently of sack- cloth, reaches to helow the knee, and is covered again hy a coarse cloak. beneath appear hrown naked shanks without either trousers or shoes, with sometimes one spur, consisting of a single spike or else of a thing like a mitmeg-grater with two serrated ridges, strapped on the hare heel. possihly the articles of dress, if yon inspect them with a microscopic eye, may he detected to have once pos- sessed colour; the handkerchief may have had tlie red and yellow stripe so common amongst the syrians, and the cloak will once have exhihited stripes of hrown and white; hut all have heen toned down to one uniform dirt colour, and the former existence of hrighter tints is merely a fact re- warding the investigations of the phi- losopher, and not in the least affect- ing the present appearance of the wearer. when, penetrating heneath the dirty savagery that overlays his as- pect, you look closely at the features of the anazeh, yon often find them good: not always, for they fre- quently verge upon the coarse sensual savage face, with projecting orang- outang-like lips and great ragged fangs of teeth. but, on the other hand, they are sometimes remarkahly fine and delicate. the colour is a deep hrown; the eyes dark hazel, with a tinge of hrown in the whites; the nose aquiline, with the nostrils slop- ing much upwards, leaving it sharp at the point, and then curling and expanding uear the face. the teeth are often small and heautifully white and regular; tholmir dead hlack, some- times growing in little short corkscrew curls, sometimes plaited on each side of the face into a long hand and tucked away under the handkerchief. the horses are smail, not rising in general ahove fourteen hands oneinch; hut they are fine, and l:ave great power aud size for their height. i do not suppose that they would he much ad- mired hy a purely english horseman; in fact, we see every day that arahs hrought into england don't fairefor- tune, and experience teaches one that the english and the arah horse look each ahsurd hy turns, as the eye has grown accustomed txxthe other. but to my eye, used for some time to rest on nothing hut the eastern horse, they seemed to exceed all that i had yet seen in point of heauty. stal- lions used to he led into our camp, looking like horses in a picture; the limhs flit, hroad, and powerful, deep helow the knee, small and fine ahout the fetlock, of a cleauness and heauty .] horac-dealing in syria, . of outline enongh alone to stamp hlood on their possessor; the neck light, hut yet arched; the flanks closely rihhed up; the tail carried out with a sweep like the curve of a palm hranch; and the small head terminating in large nostrils always snorting and neighing. it was a heautiful sight to see one of them when lie got wind of another stallion, draw himself up with his neck arched, his ears pointed, and his eyes almost starting out of his head; his almost rigid stillness for the instant con- trasting curiously with his evident readiness to hreak out into furious action. watching such a horse at such a moment one feels the truth of the figure of speech hy which the horse is called nohle nohle, knight- ly, heroic, he seems less a hrute than an incarnation of high hlood and fiery energy; a steed that saladin might have mounted, and that would well have matched his master. grey of various shades, hay, chest- nut, and hrown, are the ordinary, and it may almost he said the only, colours of the arah horse. the com- monest of all colours is one which i recollect as heing very frequent amongst the arahs met with in in- dia, a dark, uniform, nutmeg grey. light grey verging upon white, is neither rare nor peculiar to old horses. next to grey in frequency come hay and chestnut, hoth fine and rich in quality, and the latter so prized ahove all other colours hy the arahs that they have a saying that if you ever hear of a horse perform- ing any remarkahle feat, you will be sure to find, on inquiry, that he is a chestnut. browns are not unfrequent; and in my register of horses houyht from the anazeh, i find one hlack. but so rare is that colour, that, if i had merely trusted to my recollection, i should have said that i never saw a hlack horse in the desert. of other colours i saw none, except in the solitary instance of a skew hald; and i caunot at this moment under- take to say whether he was an ana- zeh or helonged to some of the trihes where the purity of the hreed can less he depended on. sometimes the anazeh, especially the chiefs or men of wealth, ride with turkish saddles and hits. but, with poorer men, the horse appoint- ments are much on a level with the dress of the rider. a coarse pad of ragged dirty cloth or had thin lea- ther, slightly stuffed to form a sort of pommel and cantle, girthed with a hit of coarse weh and sometimes with another hit of the same pass- ing round the horse's chest to form a hreast-haud, ai:d without any kind of stirrups, forms the saddle. the hridle consists of a simple halter with a nose-hand of rusty iron links, without hit, and, in fact, without means of action of any sort upon the horse's mouth. a single thong or end of rope is attached to this, and serves to tether the horse, or, passing on one side of the horse's neck and held in the rider's hund, acts as rein. a curious addition to this was sometimes used, in the shape of a piece of rope attached to the headstall hetween the ears and held hy the rider. the explanation of this appendage which suggested it- self to me at the time, was, that it was intended to steady the horse- man's sent: whether this was the fact or not i have no means of say- ing positively. these accoutrements were often perfectly hare of all orna- ment, hut, on the other hand, were sometimes decorated with long hlack- and-white tassels of the size of those of an old-fashioned hell-pull, sus- pended from the saddle hy ropes which allowed them almost to sweep the ground; with red cloth and tufts of ostrich feathers stuck all over the headstall; and, most frequently of all, with a little short frizzy hlacle plume set up hetween the ears. when armed for war the horse- man carries a light lance of twelve feet or more in length, with a long tapering four-sided spike much like a great nail with each of its four edges hulging out at the hase into a flat lohe, tbrough which is passed an iron ring supporting a little flat tinkling hit of metal, intended, i suppose, to givo ornament and musio simultaneously. this is the great and universal weapon, and sup- pose that the anazeh does not exist who does not possess one. swords and pistols are seen in the posses- sion of individuals; and almost every man, when walking ahout his [sept. horse-dealing in syria, . private affairs, carries a stick cut, i fancy, out of a root, and much re- semhling a shillelagh, except that it is further fortified hy a tremendous knoh at the end as hig as one's fist. when riding unarmed, the anazeh always carries a small short stick with a crook at the end like a walk- ing cane, with which he appears to guide the horse. his horsemanship, when he chooses to display it, is very striking and curious. he puts his horse to the gallop; leaning very much forward, and clinging with his naked legs and heels round the flanks, he comes past you at speed, his hrown shanks hare up to iho thigh, his stick hrandished in his hand, and his ragged rohes flying hehind; then, checking the pace, he turns right and left at a canter, pulls up, increases or diminishes his speed, and with his hitless halter exhihits, if not the power of flinging his horse dead upon his haunches possessed hy the turks and other hit-using orientals, at all events much more control over the animal than an eng- lish dragoon attains to with his heavy hit. on these occasions it appeared to me that the halter served to check and the stick to guide; hut i have seeu the same feats performed when the horseman was carrying the lance, and consequently was without his stick. when i say that our purchases in the desert amounted to one hundred horses, it may he supposed that the numher of horses i saw tried and ridden was considerahle; amongst the whole, i never saw one attempt to pull or show the least want of docility. i think that most horsemen will admit that this is an extraordinary performance, and that none will allow it more readily than those who are acquainted with the arah horse as he appears in our hands in india, where—so far as i may trust my own experience—he is liot and inclined to pull. why should he display this failing with us, and not with his original masters? my own impres- sion is that the secret lies in the different temper of the english and the bedouin horseman. the bedouin (and every other race of orientals that i am acquainted with seems to possess somewhat of the same quality) exhihits a patience towards his horse as remarkahle as the impatience and roughness of the englishman. i am not inclined to put it to his credit in a moral point of view; i do not he- lieve that it results from affection for the animal, or from self-restraint; he is simply without the feeling of irritahility which prompts the eng- lish horseman to acts of hrutality. in his mental organisation some screw is tight which in the english mind is loose; he is sane on a point where the englishman is slightly cracked, and he rides on serene and contented where the latter would go into a paroxysm of swearing and spurring. i have seen an arah stallion, hroken loose at a moment when our camp was tbronged with horses hronght for sale, turn the whole concern topsy-turvy and re- duce it to one tumult of pawing and suorting and helligerent screeching; and i never yet saw the captor, when he finally got hold of the halter, show the least trace of anger, or do otherwise than lead the animal hack to his pickets with perfect calmness. contrast this with the "joh" in the mouth, and the kick in the rihs, and the curse that the english groom would hestow under similar circum- stances, and you have in a great measure the secret of the good temper of the arah horse in arah hands. but at the same time, giving every weight to the reason which i have just assigued, the fact of the bedouins making a practice of riding such horses in such a fashion is surprising to me. douhtless the nature of the country assists them. there are no carts to run against, no gate-posts to smash a horseman's knee-pan, no plate-glass windows to holt tbrough; if a horse did decline to stop, i sup- pose the rider would have a fair chance of letting him go till he was tired, without damage to either party. but how it is that that most untrustahle animal the horse does not find some opportunity for mischief—how it is that he does not sometimes rush into hattle with a hostile stallion, hearing his rider nolens touns into the fray •—how it is that he never seizes a chance of holting over the tent-ropes of a camp, picking out the sheikh's .] horse-dealing in syria, . hy preference—i do not pretend to understand. perhaps ho does all these things occasionally, and the arah mind is resigued thereto: all i know is, that i never saw him. our manege riders have a great idea of the direct mechanical power which they have over the horse, as opposed to the indirect power op- tained hy acting upon his will tbrough the medinm of his intelli- genca they " aid," they " support," they "halance," they " collect" him; hy the action of hit and leg they induce a carriage which confers upon him an agility which he would never liave possessed without; in short, they render the animal so much assistance that it hecomes douhtful whether col- onel greenwood was not mistaken when he laid it down as an axiom, "that the horse carries the rider, and not the rider the horse." the anazeh, hitless, and almost reinless, destitute of the very main- spring of all his mechanism, with his horse as uncontrolled in his car- riage as a wild animal—heats them. now, if their system is really as efficient as they helieve it—if they really have these powers in their hands, and are yet heaten hy a man destitute of them, or at the hest pos- sessing them imperfectly—it is clear that they must lahour under some counterhalancing inferiority some- where. where does this inferiority lie? not, certainly, in the power of inflicting pain, for the englishman rides with gigantic curhs, and the anazeh with an inefficient halter. does it lie in the moral ascendancy of the rider over the horse? if so, our manege riders must stand low in that great quality of a horseman, when compared with the arah. to a certain extent i helieve this to he the case. as i have said hefore, i helieve the englishman to he infe- rior to the oriental in point of temper. but it may he douhted whether his natural inferiority is so great as fully to explain why, pos- sessing so powerful a system, he yet rises no higher in the scale of horse- manship. and precisely as you choose to raise your estimate of his natural capacity, must you lower your esti- mate of his system; until, finally, if you shall determine to raise the eng- vou lxxxvl lish capacity as equal to that of the anazeh, you must lower the english system of "aiding" the horse hy mechanical power to something less than the similar powers of "aid" possessed hy the anazeh — which, considering that the latter" has not a hridle, caunot he great. i think myself that a comparison hetween our manege riders and the arah does not assigu to the former a position so perfectly trinmphant and satisfactory hut that they might ven- ture on an experiment or two to see if they could not mend it. and the chaunel into which i should he in- clined to turn experiment would he this: to ascertain whether the direct power of the rider over the horse has not heen much overrated, and whether an exaggerated helief in it has not led our riders to waste their efforts on the hody of the horse, when they ought to have heen directing them upon the mind. as i do not wish to give exagger- ated ideas of the powers of the be- douin horseman, will state more clearly in what i consider his superior- ity over our manege rider to consist. put the latter inside the four walls of a school, or even in an "open manege . where the horse has heen schooled till the very aspect of the ground has hecome associated in his mind with "right turn" and '' left turn;" in fact, put him in a place where the influence of hahit and the ah- sence of extraneous excitement com- hine to dispose the horse's mind to ohedience; and he will ride with a precision and dexterity which the anazeh may or may not he ahle to equal. i never saw him exhihit un- der circumstances in any degree simi- lar, and therefore caunot speak to this point. but get the same rider into the open country; make him put up his horse's temper hy a sharp gallop on the turf; then tell him to repeat his riding-school feats, and watch the result. see how frequently the scene hecomes one of plunging and fighting against the hit on the part of the horse, and of pulling and hauling on that of the rider: ohserve the unwill- ing and imperfect ohedience rendered to such a horseman, and then com- pare him with the anazeh, wheeling and sweeping like a swallow on the [sept. horse-dealing in syria, - . win?, as if man and heast were in- spired hy one will. then it is lhat you see that the arah is a real rider, and the other a school rider in the fullest acceptation of the term—good in the school, and good for nothing out of it. if i speak disrespectfully of english horsemanship, i must he understood to refer only to that particular style which our minige riders attempt. the englishman seems unahte to command that instantaneous and will- ing ohedience which tell in single comhat, and which make the horse to the rider as the hoxer's legs are to the hoxer. but if it is a ques- tion of going straight ahead, of taking a horse headlong over every ohstacle with a skill mingled with perfect recklessuess of hoth the rider's neck and the horse's, i never saw the nation—parthians, or merfes, or elamites, or the dwellers in mesopota- mia—that was ahle to " hold a candle to him." the horses hrought to us, hand- some as they were, showed an amount of hlemish—chiefly consisting of curhs and enlargements of the knee and fet- lock, and not perhaps, in the majority of instances, amounting to unsound- ness of a disahling nature — which surprised me. the only cause i can suggest for this is the universal prac- tice" of riding horses at a very early age; for the style of horsemanship to which they are suhjected is, as far as my ohservation goes, hy no means calculated to produce unsoundness. if you meet a bedouin travelling, he is never at any other pace than a se- date walk ; he never pinffes, never ex- cites his horse to uunecessary action; the sharp straining halts upon the haunches, practised hy other orientals, are rendered impossihle to him hy the ahsence of hit ; and so generally averse is he to '• knocking his horse ahout" that, even for the purposes of sale, it is often difficult to get him into a gallop, and, where the ground is had, impossihle. of course, in making these statements, i refer only to what i saw. arah horseman- ship may, at other seasons and un- der other circumstances, he very dif- ferent. the aversion of the arah to gallop- ing for the satisfaction of an intend- ing purchaser, is sometimes strength- ened hy other feelings than those of mere dislike to exacting unnecessary exertion from his horse. oue motive that i helieve to he pretty strong with him is, simply a sulky ohstinacy and disinclination to do anything he is asked ; hut i have known him ohject upon religious grounds. a very fine horse was one day hrought to us. i had some idea of huying him for my- self, and told the rider to let me see his paces. he declined, on the ground than the franks never, when they admired anything, took the precau- tion of averting from it the conse- quent dangers (that of the curse of the evil eye) hy the use of the word "mashallah i"—an introduction of the name of god which is supposed to hreak the evil spell; and that he could not venture to expose his horse to the unsanctioned admiration which his paces could not fail to call forth. i am inclined, at this present speaking, to wonder why i did not immediately volunteer to chant "mashallah" tbroughout the whole of the per- formance. i did not do so, hut walked straight off. rather pleased to let the pious mussulman know that he had spoiled the sale of his horse. most persons have read stories of the astonishing endurance of the arah horse in his native deserts. i do not undertake to contradict these statements, as my acquaintance with the animal was not sufficiently pro longed to allow me to speak to his powers under circumstances other than those in which i saw him, and as, ahove all, my acquaintance with the mares was hut small. but i saw nothing to confirm them. all the horses that i saw during my stay in the desert (a period commencing with the d may and ending the th june), were plainly incapahle of any great exertion, from an over-fatness produced hy the grass-feeding which they got at that time of the year, comhined with the practice of never pntting them out of a walk. in the winter, we are told, they are fed on harley and camels' milk. perhaps a change of treatment may accompany this change of food, and the arah horse may, for anything i know, .] felicita.— conclusion. he in hard condition then. he cer- tainly was not when i saw him. the bedouins fortunately gave very little evidence of skill in con- cealing hlemishes. the deception most commonly attempted upon us lay io disguising a rejected animal in the hope that he might he taken on fresh inspection. a horse makes his appearance in the morning in a plain halter and bedouin saddle. if he is not accepted, towards evening he ap- pears in the character of a fresh ar- rival, with long heavy tassels hung all over the saddle, and with a hreast- hand whose fringe covers all the fore- arm. if this again fails, next morn- ing he is hrought in a gorgeous red hraided saddle with a padded sad- dle-cloth that conceals nearly all hut the head and tail. i recollect only one instance in which another mode of deceptien had heen adopted. a horse was hrought to us with his legs all plastered with mud as if he had passed tbrough a quagmire up to his helly. the owner was, of course, re- quired, as a preliminary to husiness, to wash his horse's legs; and when, finding that otherwise there was no hope of sale, he complied, there ap- peared a heautifully fired fetlock, seamed all over in a mauner which indicated some severe disease. (to he continued.) felicita.—coxclcsion. chapter iv. ik the next morning's cheerful daylight felicia smiled at herself over her night's trouhle. she was not called upon, surely, to arrange or to prevent her cousin's marriage. there was no need for her arhitration one way or other; how foolish she had hee'n! but perhaps the smile had a little hitterness in it; and it is cer- tain felicia felt very lonely (more lonely than she had felt since her first arrival) as she glanced out at the window—and it was astonishing how often that impulse moved her —at the opposite house. as for angelo, he continued to he rather trinmphant and in high spirits, pleased with the thoughts of hecoming suddenly a rich man, and also, with extraordinary inconsistency, not per- ceiving how one thing contradicted the other, pleased with the idea of having made felicia a little jealous, and piqued her into hetraying some- thing of her own feelings. perhaps this was the real occasion of his glee; hut the sight of her cousin's satisfac- tion made felicia withdraw more and more into herself: his kindness affronted and offended her; his levity stnick her with sharp pain and im- patience; she took refuge in her own room, and shut her door, and hetook herself to some homely matters of dressmaking. felicia had to he very economical with her little income. it was not in her nature to retain anything in her own hands which any one heside her seemed to want. she had already silently expended her own little funds to increase, as much as such a trifle could, the com- forts of the household, and of her poor old aunt. she would gladly have worked, if she could, for the same purpose, with the hest heart and intention in the world, hut not without some idea of shaming an- gelo into the way he should go. however, felicia did not find even in dressmaking sufficient attraction to counterhalance her excitement ot thought. she had hy no means completed the proper round of sight- seeing which ought to he accom- plished hy a stranger in florence; and after wandering ahont the house restlessly for some time, interfering with the orders for diuner, intruding into madame peruzzi's room, carry- ing off the greater proportion of the work there to relieve the old ludy's eyes and fingers, and generally ex- pressing her restless and dissatisfied condition hy all the means in her power, felicia at length prevailed upon her aunt to conduct her to the pitti palace, and leave her there to [sept. felicita.— conclusion. wander among the pictures at her leisure. this grand indulgence was one which madame peruzzi was very douhtful ahout. she greatly feared that it was not quite proper; hut with a wilful english girl, who feels quite competent in hroad daylight and a puhlic place to protect herself, what can a tremulous old lady do? felicia accordingly strayed ahout at her own sweet will among the pictures, finding them very generally unsatisfactory, and in a perverse m<,od forsook the realities for the shadows, and lingered hehind the copiers who had possession of the finest pictures in the room, wondering over that hranch of industry. if angelo, for instance, worked at that, would his critical cousin he satisfied? she answered herself, no, no! her heart making indiguant thumps hy way of echo against her hreast; and so indiguantly vowing to let angelo alone — surely she could find some- thing hetter to do than a constant speculation ahout angelo? — went lingering round the room making unamiahle criticisms in her discon- tented mind. she was standing op- posite that pale judith — pale with passion and exhaustion, and yet hear- ing a hectic touch of shame, ahusing it to herself, when eomething happened to felicia. here eyes were hy no means fixed upon the picture, hut had sidelong glimpses of passing figures round her. thus she saw somtthing dart from hehind the great overshadowing easel of an industrious artist—something which moved in a flutter and a hound, noiseless foot and clouds of noiseless muslin. this something fell^upou her suddenly, and grtsped hoth her hands. agitated, hut not alarmed, knowing instinc- tively who it was, yet instinctively assuming a look of surprise and iguorance, felicia (who, herself, was not very tall) looked down upon a pretty little wilful face, half child half woman, radiant with smiles, and eager to speak. following this figure was an old french maid look- ing kind and curious, who investi- gated felicia's face and drefs with a most attentive inspection, and drew as close to her mistress as decorum would allow. the little girl held felicia's hands clasped in hers, and looked very much as if she meant to kiss her. "oh, you are felicita !" she cried, out of hreath—"angelo's feli- cita! i know you are; do not deny me. i am so very glad to see you here." "and you?'' said felicia, looking down upon her, perhaps without the cordiality which such a hright little creature was accustomed to meet, and permitting without returning the pressure of her hands. "has he not told you of me?" said the stranger, with a momentary look of disappointment. "my cousin angelo has told me of ." felicia was ahout to say something rather cruel. she checked herself suddenly, perceiving the atro- city of her impulse; she was going to say " of an heiress," and paused to think of another word. "of somehody!" said the little stranger; "and i am somehody. yes, look at me i he has told me of you, and i love you already, felicita. i think of you quite as his sister. we shall he such friends. come, an- nette speaks only french; she will not understand a word we say; and i have a hundred things to tell you —come." somewhat amazed and taken hy surprise, felicia, who had only her own vague reluctance to oppose to this imperious friendship, was hurried on ere the knew what she was doing; and, hewildered hy the flood of words which immediately overpowered her, as her new acquaintance clung to her arm, and, keeping half a step he- fore her, looked up into her face, was for the moment entirely suhju- gated and taken captive. the two strayed along the grand galleries of the pitti, do longer looking at the pictures, making a stray dash at one here and there, most frequently a wortbless little miniature — if any- thing is wortbless in that collection —which the little hutterfly could not see perfectly without rushing to it, and exclaiming, " oh, look — do yon know what this is?"—isu't it pretty?" while she pulled felicia hriskly along with her hy the arm. to all these girl- ish vagaries felicia quietly suhmitted, feeling, after a while, in her elder wo- manly gravity, a touch of that charm of rememhrance which makes one .] felicita.—conclusion. girl just oat of her childhood indulgent to the freaks of unother who ia still in that rejoicing time. this girl was bo mnch gayer, finer, more self-con- tident than felicia had ever heen; so much of the conscious power of wealth, and the freedom of one to whom nothing she wished for had ever heen denied was in her air, and mauner, that the sight of her was a kind of apotheosis of girlhood and its privileges to felicia. she, a woman nearly twenty, tried hy the early calamities of a life which had heen hard upon her, could no longer venture to walk with that free step, to talk with that uurestrained voice, to say, " what does it matter if the people look at us?—let them look!" as defiant sixteen did, who was afraid of nohody. felicia was even shy of heing visihle to passing eyes in that close iet s a. tele of confidential friendship. she smiled at herself and hlushed and dropped her veil, and hurried her companion past the little groups of picture-gazers all this the lively hlue eyes perceived and understood, and made their own interpretation of. "what are you afraid of?—people looking at us?'' said the young lady. "never mind the people, felicita; i want to tell you something. call me alice, will you, please? i am so disappointed and mortified and dis- gusted that yon did not know my name. to think that angelo should have told me so mnch ahout you, and never mentioned my name! i shall scold him so to-night. but do call me alice, please; and then i will tell you my darling little scheme." "i must call you miss clayton. you and i are not equals," said feli- cia gravely; "you are younger than i am, and i ought not to yield to you what i know is wrong. scarcely see how we can he friends, so differ- ent is your place and mine; hut at least we are not, and never can he, equals, so i must not call you hy your cbristian name." the little girl looked up with her face overcast and wondering. "but —hut yon are as good as am," she said, pressing felicia's arm. "perhaps," said felicia smiling; "i did not speak ahout heing as good; it would he sad work if the highest were to he the hest as well: hut we are not equals; you understand what that means?" "yes—hut you are—what the ser- vants call gentlefolks," cried alice. "angelo told me he was poor; i know that very well; hut i know that people of good family despise those who are only rich. is that what you mean ?—do you mean he- cause my father was only a moneyed man that i am not good enough for you ?—or what do you mean ?—for i know very well that angelo is a gentleman, and you are his cousin; and unless you have taken a dislike to me, or don't think me good enough for him, i don't know what you wish me to understand, felicita!" "i am not speaking of angelo. i helieve he is of good family hy his father's side; hut i am not a peruz- zi," said felicia. "if i were at home in england, i could not hy any chance associate with such as yon. i will not deceive any one here. i am not your equal. i caunot he comfortahle to meet you and call you alice, and hear you talk of all your friends and your cousins, so very, very different from mine. do you know," said felicia, raising her head with quite an unusual effusion of pride, '• i am much more on a level with your maid than with you?" "nonsense; i don't helieve it!" cried alice energetically; then the little girl made a pause, and changed her tone, evidently following out this new question in her own mind, and arranging it to suit her other ideas in respect to angelo's family. "i suppose your father was the naughty son, was he? and ran away and married somehody he fell in love with—oh, no; i mean your mamma, felicita, oh, i do so love these stories; and they have sent for you here to take care of you, and make you like their own child? now tell me; i want to know one thing: is she a very sweet person, angelo's mother?" a very sweet person! felicia's lip tremhled with almost irrepress- ihle laughter. little alice thought it was restrained feeling; she fancied that the poor niece's gratitude and admiration were too much for speech, [sept. felicita.—conclusion. and ran on in her own convenient rattle, without leaving her new ac- quaintance time to answer. "she does not care for society now —she never goes out anywhere, the dear old lady i "said alice ;" and i sup- pose it is hecause you are not quite ho nohle as they are that i have never met you in society. angelo says you are so good and so attentive to his mother, felicita. oh! don't you think you could smuggle me in sometimes, and let me help to amuse her?" "i don't think it is possihle," said felicia laconically. "how dreadfully english you are —how uncivil you are not a hit like an italian. you never say a word more than you can help, and look as if you meant it all. i really do think i shall hegin not to like you," cried alice; "hut i do like you, mind," she added, once more pressing felicia's arm ; "and i never will he content till you love me — do you hear ?" — and there was a renewed pressure of the arm she held—" he- cause if it comes true, and — and happens, you know — we shall he quite near relations, felicita; and i never had a sister in my life." unconsciously to herself, felicia sbrank a little at once from the idea and from her companion. "don't you like to think of it " cried the quick little girl instantly. "felicita, would you rather that angelo did not love me?" "i have nothing to do with it," said felicia, tremhling a little. "an- gelo is almost a stranger to me, though he is my cousin. do not ask me, pray. i shall he glad to see him happy, and you also; hut now you must let me go. some one will come for me presently to take me home." "oh hut want to speak to you first," said alice, clinging only the more closely to her companion's arm. '• will you he quite sure not to he offended? will you forgive me if i am going to say something wrong oh, felicita i want to know you, and see you often. and you tell me you are poor. will you he my parla- tr-icc, dear? now it is out, and i have said it: will you, felicita? i shall love you like my own sister, and we can have such delightful long talks, and i'll get on so quick with my italian. dear felicita, will you? it would make me so happy." with this hright littie creature standing hefore her, pleading with her hlue saxgn eyes, her rosehnd face, her affectionate words, looks, and smiles and syllahles, each more wiuning than the other — the first person who had spoken to her in her own language since she came to florence — felicia found re-istance very difficult. the little girl was clothed in that irresistihle confidence of heing uurefusahle which so seldom lasts heyond childhood, and was so radiant in her iguorance of disap- pointment that it was far harder to say nay to her than it would have heen to deny a hoon really needful to a careworn suppliant. little alice was not presumptuous either in the strength of her inexperience. she did not helieve she could he denied, hut asked with her whole heart notwithstanding, and with the most sincere importunity. felicia could not look at her unmoved; somehow the little face, in its hright iguorance, touched her more than a snd one could have done. she said something, she scarcely knew what, ahout heing quite uuprepared for such a proposal, and thinking it over when she got home, and added once more that she must go, as somehody waited for her. already she felt conscious of a momentary duplicity. why did she not say, "my aunt is coming for me," as under any other circumstances she would have done? poor felicia! who had so little heart or inclination to further this delu- sion. yet she watched with instinc- tive terror lest madame peruzzi's gaunt shadow should appear at one of the doors. ''and we can have such delightfol talks—all ahout angelo," said alice, with a laugh and a hlush—"only don't tell him. i would never let him know we mentioned his name. oh, look, felicita i is that dreadful old woman heckoning to you ?—is that madame peruzzi's maid? never mind her. aunette will go and tell her you are coming. aunette—oh, felicita! what is wrong?" and alice stood amazed and in dismay as her new friend hurst from .] felicita.—conclusion. her ahruptly, and made all the haste ciihle across the room to where lame peruzzi stood hy the door, looking for her niece. the light came fall from a side-window upon that tall hony old figure, and upon the face grey with age and seamed with deep wrinkles, where the dust of time lay heary. madame peruzzi wore a hounet of very fashionahle shape, though dingy material, and had fsome artificial flowers encircling that oval of grey hair and leathern cheek. old age was not lovely in angelo's mother. she had no com- plexion, and rather too much feature even in her youth, and the features now hore too great a resemhlance to the eagle physioguomy to he at all fjir to hehold. she wore her usual tbrifty household dress of hlack, with, however, a coarse gay-coloured shawl; and even a spectator more ohservant and of calmer judgment than alice clayton would have found it hard to discover anything like gentility in the old woman's figure. she carried a little travelling-hag in her hand—a hag of felicia's to which her aunt had taken a fancy—which was stuffed with homely purchases, and, con- tracting her grey eyehrows over her eyes, stood waiting for her niece, and contemplating alice with curiosity scarcely less keen than her own. alice clayton made a very different vision to the eyes of madame peruzzi. her pretty face, which was characteristic of little heyond english good health and good temper, and the hloom and heauty of extreme youth, the old lady hestowed hut little attention upon; hut the pretty perfection of her morning dress, the many-flounced muslin, gay and light, the delicate falls of emhroidery ahout her neck and wrists, the dainty hat, were not lost upon madame peruzzi. she saw a sight not unfamiliar to floren- tine eyes—the english girl perfectly equipped in everything appropriate to her youth and condition, whose appearance testified, heyond a douht, to the wealth and luxury rof her family. there she stood, with her french maid close hehind her, gazing with all her eyes at madame peruzzi, full of curiosity, murmuring to her- self, "what an old witch!" resolute to ask angelo who that extraordi- nary figure helonged to, and if it was his mother's faithful hundred- year-old traditionary maid. "if she were not such a hideous old creature, what fun it would he to have her tell us stories " said the unconscious alice to herself, as she gazed at her lover's mother, and at felicia in her hlack dress hastening to join her; while madame peruzzi in return, gazed at alice, speculating on who she was, and whether felicia's ac- quaintance with her might he au opening into '' society" for her niece, and an enlargement of counection for her son. between the two, feli- cia, with a flutter and pang, ran across the spacious room, and caught at her aunt's arm, and drew her hast- ily away. she felt so hurried and anxious to escape that she could scarcely hear or understand the ques- tions with which madame peruzzi assailed her, and certainly had neither hreath nor inclination to answer them. she hurried the old lady down the stairs at a most unusual pace, and could not help looking hack again and again to see if they were followed or ohserved, and yet she could not have explained to any one why she did it certainly it was nothing to her, and it is quite douht- ful whether angelo, under the same circumstances, would have taken any pains to conceal his mother. but felicia could not resist her impulse. she only felt safe at last in the via ging- nio, within the shady portraits of their own lofty house. then madame peruzzi was much dissatisfied with the very hrfef reply which our niece gave to her ques- tions — "a young englishwoman, whom she knew." the old lady had ocular demonstration that her niece knew the little stranger, and that she was english; hut who was she ?—and how had felicia hecome acquainted with her ? — and how long had she heen in florence ?—and of what de- gree were her friends?—and where did she live?—and altogether who was she? the result was so much the less satisfactory, that felicia could not have answered if she would, and would not if she could. on the coutrary, the restrained herself care- fully, and did not even confess that she did not know. angelo himself [sept. felicita.—conclusion. she said to herself, somewhat hitterly, must tell his mother. she had heen sufficiently vexed already without that. the consequence was that the day passed somewhat uncomfortahly in via giuguio, where madame peruzzi's curiosity lasted long, and was mixed with some jealousy and aunoyance in the thought that her english niece meant to keep this fine acquaintance to herself, and was not disposed to share with angelo the further advantages it might hring. the old lady laid up in her mind every particular of what she had seen, to tell her son. perhaps he could succeed hetter with felicia than she had done, and at least it was right that he should know. while felicia, for her part, a little sulky and solitary, in her own room, pondered the interview, and watched at her window hehind the curtains, to see alice in undisguised solicitude watching for her from the opposite house. amidst all the disagreeahle feelings which this little girl had excited in her mind, she still felt a certain indescrihahle melting towards the sweet english face and english tongue, of the confidential and frank accost of the stranger. she was so voung, after all—only sixteen—that felicia's womanly dissatisfaction at her unconcealed liking for angelo would have very speedily given way, had angelo heen nothing more than a mere relative to felicia. as it was, her conscience and her imagina- tion tormented her the whole day long. what was angelo to her— why should she ohject to anyhody preferring him, or saying so? why should not the wealthy orphan hestow her fortune on angelo if she pleased? then felicia's mocking fancy taunted her with helieving alice her rival; and with a stinging hlush and hitter humiliation, she flew from her window. her rival! all felicia's work, and all the haste she made ahout it, and all her other resources of thought and speech, could not drive that humiliating suggestion out of her head. her hlush and her discom- fort lasted the whole day. she had not a word to say, nor a look to hestow on angelo, though she forced herself to sit rigidly opposite to him while his mother recounted every detail of the appearance of alice, and complained that felicia would not tell her who the stranger was. an- gelo had no such delicacy. he dis- closed all that he knew with the frankest equanimity. she was very rich, the little englishwoman, and pretty, yes—and was extremely gra- cious to himself, he added with a laugh and look which sent madame peruzzi's amhitious hopes hounding upwards. this occurred in the afternoon, when it was still daylight, the young man having appeared this day much earlier than his wont. he stood at the window as he spoke, with something of the pleased hesi- tation and fan of a young girl de- scrihing a conquest, looking down upon the windows where alice cer- tainly was not visihle, though felicia suspected otherwise. madame pe- ruzzi sat on the sofa, asking questions and admiring him, as, indeed, was not wonderful, for he looked all the handsomer for looking pleased, while felicia sat hy looking on with the most intolerahle impatience in her mind. she could not hear to see him smiling with that womanish complacency. she was too much interested for .his credit to tolerate it. the look disturhed her heyond measure in her imperative youthful thoughts. she was ushamed for him —he who was happily and totally un- conscious in his own person of hav- ing anything to he ashamed of, and at lust joined in the conversation when too much provoked to hear any longer her spectator position. "miss clayton wishes me to he her parlatrice," said felicia. "i would not decide, aunt, hefore consulting yoo. should you ohject?" she glanced at angelo as she spoke, and saw that he started slightly, hut not that he was discom- posed or mortified.at the thought of his little lady-love knowing a rela- tion of his to he in circumstances which could justify such an offer. angelo was not a schemer—he was content to marry the heiress as a very proper and legitimate means of promoting his own interest, hut not to deceive her into a marriage with him. felicia, in the iguorance of her insular notions, having done him more than justice at one time, and .] felicita.— conclusion. given him credit for exalted senti- ments impossihle to the atmosphere in which he lived, did him less than justice now. he would have hrought in the astonished alice into this very aula if he could have done it with propriety, as smiling and good- humoured as now. ' • my soul," said madame peruzzi, faltering a little—for she could not forget that, until ten minutes hefore, her hopes had heen fixed on felicita as her son's wife, and the prudent old lady still rememhered that a hird in the hand was more satisfactory than a dozen in the hush—" my soul, you have no need to give yourself trouhle. you have enough, felicia mia—and—it might harm our ad- gelo, thon perceivest, my life!" "nay; hut felicita has no friends — this siguorina longs to know her, and loves her already," said angelo: "he not hindered, my cousin, hy any thonght of me." "you do not know the english," said felicia, turning to him quickly with a siguificance of meaning which angelo could not even guess at. '• should i have preseuted miss clay- ton to your mother, angelo?" "and why not?" said angelo, turning his eyes from felicia to his mother—then, perhaps, he coloured, slightly. "they saw each other,'' he said; "i will tell mees aleece who it was." "nay, my son," said madame peruzzi, "they are proud, these english, as felicita says. i had hut my household dress, and was not like thy mother. say it was thy old nurse, or thy mother's maid. thy rich heiress shall never scorn thee, vay life, for thy mother's sake." angelo crossed over quickly to her sofa, and kissed madame peruzzi's hollow grey unlovely cheek. "who scorns my mother scorns me," he said, with a glance towards his cousin, who looked on with amazed and uncompre- hending eyes. felicia was totally discomfitted. she "gave it up" in complete hewil- derment; she could no more under- stand how fortune-hunting was a perfectly honourahle and laudahle occupation, and could he pursued honestly without guile or conceal- ment, than angelo could understand the self-delusions of alice concerning himself, nor how utterly dismayed that young lady would he could she see the reality of his domestic ar- rangements, and know his mother as she was. chapter v. but when angelo next encount- ered alice clayton, and was accosted hy her with eager questions ahout his cousin, and inquiries concerning the " frightful old witch" who hurried felicia away, the young man hegan to understand what his cousin meant when she said he did not understand the english; and the hlue eyes fixed upon him took away his courage. he did not answer holdly that it was his mother, as he meant to do, hut faltered, and found himself assent- ing at last when alice suggested his mother's maid. when he had done this a great revolution of feeling he- fell angelo. he was half disgusted, half stimulated hy the deception. it was no longer a jesting matter to him. now, in mere vindication of himself to himself, it hecame neces- sary to press his suit and hecome serious in it; while the more he did so, the less he liked his little heiress; and a certain sense of guilt in his conscience, and the dishonour of de- nying his nfother, gave a hitterness to every thought of her, which hy no means promoted his happiness as a lover. meanwhile felicia, who dis- approved of him and watched him, and seemed to perceive hy intuition his sentiments and his actions alike, hecame more and more interesting to angelo. he was flattered hy that constant noiseless watchful regard which he knew she hestowed upon him. he felt that she found him out, and saw the change in his mind ; and feeling, for the first time in his. life, pain and dissatisfaction with himself, angelo, instead of heing offended hy her unexpressed perceptions, felt a relief in grumhling vaguely to her [sept. felicita.— conclusion. over all those vague miseries upou which youthful people revenge the vouthful pangs of their own hegiuning 'life. while things were in this condi- tion, alice clayton lost no opportu- nity to improve her acquaintance with felicia. she watched from the windows when she went out, and followed her; she continued to en- counter her in all sorts of unlikely places; she took that girlish violent f'aney for the elder young woman, which is generally every girl's first love: — indeed, hut for the greater force and excitement of what alice supposed to he real love—the love which would hlossom into hridal cake and orange hlossoms — it is extremely douhtful whether the little girl liked angelo hetter than his cousin; and at last, hy persistence and entreaties, she gained her end. felicia, tormented hy constant peti- tions, and full of an indescrihahle curi- osity ahout the progress of affdirs he- tween angelo and the little stranger, consented at length to hecome her p'irlntrice. this peculiar cfhve was one excellently well adapted for making her acquainted with every- thing which passed in or flashed tbrough the volatile and girlish mind of alice. a parlatrice is a talking teacher—a shoot from the great governess tree—from whom no ac- complishment is required, hut a good accent and tolerahle command of her own language, and whose duty is simply to talk with the individual under instruction. an easy task to all appearance, hut not so easy as it seems when it is the pupil who is hent upon talking, aud whose thoughts flood into ahundant rivers of english instead of ttrait streams of italian. it was now winter, and winter is not much more gracious in florence than in england; hut while the weather grew colder and colder, madame peruzzi's stony rooms re- mained iunocent of fire, and perhaps felicia found an additional induce- ment in the warm comfort of the carpeted apartment which was alice's dressing-room, and where she could warm her chilly english fingers at the sparkling wood-fire and recall insular comforts without rehuke. here she heard all ahout the ante- cedents, prospects, and limitations of her young companion's life. alice clayton was the only child of a rich man, who had left her nothing much to hoast of in the way of family con- nections on his side, and no relative on her mother's save a proud aunt, who could scarcely forgive her sister's low marriage, and yet was not indis- posed to accept the guardianship of a young lady with a hundred thou- sand pounds. this, however, mr. clayton had strictly guarded ngainst. the guardian of alice was a london solicitor — an excellent man, who lived in bedford row, and was the most iunocent and inexperienced of old hachelors. mr. elcomhe, totally iguorant what to do with her, had coufided her her to the care of his sis- ter-in-law, a semi-fashionahle widow of these regions, and under the maternal cure ot mrs. george elcomhe the young heiress had come to italy, and at sixteen fhad made her appearance in the society of florence. "with her fortune," her accommodating chaperon saw no advantage in re- taining miss clayton in girlish hond- age. it did not matter to her hrw early she came out. here, accord- ingly, the child well - pleased hnd come into all the privileges of the woman, had met angelo peruzzi, and pleased with his good looks, and flattered with the novelty and frolic of the whole matter, had fallen in love, according to her own showing, at first sight. falling in love had no sentimental influence upon alice. she thought it the he*t fun possihle, and enjoyed, ahove all her other plea- sure, that delightful secret which she could only discuss with felicia, and which, "for all the world," must never he mentioned to anyhody else. one drawhack, however, remained to her happiness. till she was twenty- one she was under her guardian's authority. she could neither marry nor do anything else of importance without his consent "but ahout angelo?" cried feli- cia one day, astounded to hear of this hindrance—''does he expect to satisfy your guardian? or what is to he doner" "that is just what he asked me the other d,iy," said the laughing alice; "and i told him, to he sure, .] felicita.— conclusion. he mast wait. oh, am not in a hurry at all, i assure yon—j can wait very well till i come of age." "but if you wait till you come of age," said felicia quickly, "you will not marry angelo." "felicita!" cried her little com- panion indiguantly. "do you mean to suppose that i will he incon- stant? or do you think he will for- get me " "i do not- know," said felicia— "perhaps one, perhaps the other; hut you caunot expect angelo to wait for four—five years." "the knights long ago nsed to wait for scores of years," said alice, indiguantly. "i hope they were very happy at the end," said her grave senior, with a smile; "hut there are no such knights nowadays. and angelo is very different, and you are so young: you two will never wait for each other tbrough five long years." "we will, though!" cried alice. "felicita, i do helieve you don't like us to he fond of each other. i al- ways thought so from the first some- thing is wrong : either you dou't ap- prove of it, or you don't like me, or something. you are always eng- lish and dowuright on other things, hut you are a regular italian here— you never say right out what you mean." "i am sorry you think so," said felicia with a sadden painful hlush and paleness imaiediately succeeding each other, which would have he- trayed her to a more skilled ohserver of human emotions; "hut i have nothing to do with it, and no right either to approve or disapprove. be- sides, we are speaking english," she added immediately in italian, "and that is quite contrary to our purpose. if you are going to speak english, miss elcomhe will he a hetter parla- trice than me." '• oh, never mind the pirlatrice. imagine me speaking to maria el- comhe of angelo " cried alice, with a little hurst of laughter. felicia, who sat with her hack to the door, could not understand how it was that the little girl's cheeks suddenly flushed crimson, and an injured sullen look of anger came upon her face. half afraid to look round, and guessing the domestic accident which had happened, felicia did not turn her head, hut watched the course of events in her companion's face. she knew, hy the look of alice, that some one was approaching; and though she heard no footstep, was scarcely surprised hy mrs. elcorahe's distinct slow voice close at her ear. "who was it, miss clayton, miiy i ask, whom you could not speak of to maria?" alice was greatly discomfited, and first of all she was angry, as was natural to a spoiled child. "i am not ohliged to speak to maria of everyhody i know," she said, with a pout and a frown. mrs. elcomhe was still invisihle to felicia, who sat motionless, sunk in a low easy-chair, with the colour fluctuating rather uneasily on her own cheek, and her eyes fixed upon the hlushing, pout- ing, discomposed face hefore her. then an authoritative rustle of silk made itself heard in the apartment, and mrs. elcomhe, gliding round hehind felicia's chair, seated her- self heside alice, and took the af- fronted little girl's hand affectionate- ly into her own. "by no means, my dear child! speak to maria of whom you please," said this sensihle woman, rememher- ing that young ladies of alice clay- ton's endowments demand other treatment from ordinary girls of six- teen. "you know how glad i al- ways am when you make nice friends —friends whom i can approve of;" and here the slightest side-glance in the world made a parenthesis of fe- licia, and excepted her; "hut you are my little ward at present, my love. l am responsihle to my hro- ther for so precious a charge, and you must forgive me for inquiring, my sweet alice. i heard what seemed to me a gentleman's name— a gentleman's chnntinn name. most prohahly i know him also, and think him charming; hut, my love, you can surely speak of him to me." this appeal tbrew alice into the greatest confusion and dismay, and had a still more painful effect upon felicia, whose presence mrs. elcomhe studiously iguored after that one glance, hut for whom it was much less easy to suppose herself a piece s [sept felicita.—conclusion. of furniture than it was for that respectahle woman of the world to conclude her to he. felicia was all the more humiliated and ahashed that she felt herself to have no real standing-ground here. she was no parlatrice, though she filled that office. she had no claim whatever to consider herself an equal or com- panion — not even the imaginary claim of nohility; the few drops of long-descended hlood which made angelo a peruzzi. felicia's hlood was of a very mediocre italian qua- lity, diluted hy intensely common- place english. any one with a pre- judiced eye, like mrs. elcomhe, find- ing her here so familiarly installed, and investigating her claims, must infallihly conclude her an accomplice of her cousin's, the agent of a clan- destine correspondence; and felicia, who had so little sympathy with this correspondence, felt her hreast swell and her cheek hurn, while smooth mrs. elcomhe, the pleasanlest of ma- ternal women, went on, wooing the confidence of her heiress with every appearance of helieving herself to he alone with alice, and having lost sight entirely of the presence of a third person in the room. in the mean time alice, faltering and ashamed, half disposed to cry, and half to he angry, did not know what to answer. she was not crafty or wise hy any means, though she was an heiress, and the english fashion of answering honestly a fair question was strong upon the little girl. she could not tell what to do; she looked at felicia, hut it awed even alice for the moment to see how her diguified chaperone iguored felicia's presence. then a little indiguation came to her aid; she hegan to pluck at the corners of her handkerchief, and pout once more. then her answer came reluctantly, heing a suhterfuge. '- i know no- hody, mrs. elcomhe, that you do not know as well. i don't know any gentleman in florence" (here the hreath and the voice quickened with rising anger) "whom i have not seen with yon." "precisely, my love; i am quite aware of that," said mrs. elcomhe, cheerfully; "therefore, alice, i am sore, when you think of it, you can not have the slightest ohjection to tell me whom you were speaking of. i have the most perfect confidence in you, my dear child; you don't sup- pose that i don't trust you; hut i confess i am curious and interested to know who it was." here followed another pause, then felicia rose. "perhaps i may go now," she said hurriedly. "you will not want we again this after- noon, miss clayton; and you can let me know afterwards when i am to come again." "oh, hy all means, my love, let the young person go," said mrs. el- comhe, looking up as if she had dis- covered felicia for the first time. "we are going out to make some calls presently. surely, miss clay- ton does not require you any longer to-day; it is a pity to detain her, wasting her time. i hope you have a good many pupils. oood-d&y. i never like to detain such people, my dear, alter i have done with them," said the excellent matron, in audihle consideration, "for their time, you know, is their fortune." "but, felicita, felicita, stop! oh, mrs. elcomhe, you mistake—she has no pupils!—she is quite as good as we are," cried alice, rising in great distress; "she only comes hecause it is a favour to me. felicita, stay! i caunot let you leave me so." "i heg the young lady's pardon," said mrs. elcomhe; "hut think it is always a pity to have things done as a favour which you can pay money for, and get the proper persons to do —i don't mean anything in respect to the present instance, hut as a general rule, my dear alice, i think you will f nd it useful to rememher what i say. the young lady is mademoiselle antini, i think; hut, perhaps, as we were hegiuning quite a private conversation, my love, we need not detain her now." alice ran to felicia, put her arms round: her, and kused her eagerly. "don't he angry, please—i shall not tell her anything—oh, felicita, dear, don't he vexed!—and promise you will come again to-morrow!" cried alice, in a whisper, close to felicia's ear. "tell mrs. elcomhe aaything you please; you surely caunot suppose i .] felicita.—conclusion. want anything concealed from her," said felicia, quietly; '• i should not have come to all, bur, as i supposed, with her perfect concurrence; and i will ask to see her if i come to- morrow." so saying, despite the frightened and deprecating look with which alice replied, and the gesture she made to detain her, felicia went away — her heart heating quicker, and her pride, such as it was, sore and injured. after all, everything mrs. klcomhe had said was quite true: she was in an undeniahly false position — her cousin's agent! and the conversation that might ensue touching angelo was sure to hear fruit of one kind or other. she went away, accordingly, with some com- motion in her heart. angelo lingered at home that even- ing. angelo himself was dissatisfied and out of sorts. the saucy com- posure with which his little heiress had aunounced to him that she was not at all in haste, and that he must wait five years, confounded the young man. hopes of sudden wealth are not good for any one; and angelo felt a certain share of the gamhler's feverishness and contempt for ordin- ary means and revenues. there are circumstances under which the pretty sauciness and assurance of" pretty little girls like alice clayton are exceedingly captivating and delight- ful; hat there are other circumstances which give quite a different aspect to such coquettish girlish imperti- nences. angelo had never made very desperate love to the little english- woman—she did not require it. fun and good-humour, and a general in- clination to ahet all her frolics and do what she wanted him, were quite enough for the sixteen-year-old heauty. but to wait five years! what would hecome of that youth- ful flirtation in five years? the young florentine was very sulky, sufficiently inclined to talk over his trouhles, hut ashamed to enter upon the suhject with felicia, who alone could understand him. the sola that evening was less comfortahle than it had used to he in summer. january in florence is january with- out any equivoque; and though madame peruzzi had a stove in the room, she was an old-fashioned italian, and was not in the least in- clined to use it, not to speak of the high price of wood. the old lady, accordingly, less pleased than ever to sit up tbrough the long cold even- ing, sat in her usual sofa corner, wrapped up in a large ancient faded shawl, heneath which she wore so many old jackets and invisihle com- forters that her leauness was rounded into very respectahle proportions. close heside her, under her skirts, only visihle when she made some movement, was a little round earthen- ware jar with a handle, within which a little heap of charcoal smouldered in white ashes. madame peruzzi would have scorned the hrightest coal-fire in all england, in compensa- tion or exchange for that unwhole- some little furnace under her skirts; hut with all her shawls huddled round and her pan of charcoal, she did not look quite au impersonation of that suuny, glowing, fervid italy of which we read in hooks. everything looked cold to-night — poor felicia, working at her needlework with hlue fingers, and hegiuning to repent of her stuhhorn english resistance to the pan of charcoal—angelo leaning his arms on the chilly marhle tahle with discontent and disappointment on his face. even angelo felt the cold pinch his feet upon those dis- consolate tiles, which no carpet ever had covered, and huttoned his great- coat over his hreast with a physical sensation which seconded his mental discomforts and increased them. felicia wore the warmest winter dress she had and a shawl, which rather shocked her english senti- ments of home - propriety, hut was quite indispensahle. thev were a very dreary party under the two hright steady lights of their tall lamp. it was a kind of italian interior un- known to strangers, and novel in its way. "i wish," cried angelo, at last, in a sudden hurst as if his thoughts had heen going on in this strain, and only hroke from him when he could restrain himself no longer—" i wish that this firenze had never heen ' la hella.' i wish we had no dante, no giotti, no fame, felicita the past murders us. la there so much power [sept. felicita.— conclusion. in a mas? of stone and marhle, in a line of pictures, that they should trample the life oat of generations of men? i wish these strangers, these travellers, these wandering english, wonld find some other place to visit and admire and degrade. i wish they would hut leave us our own country, to make the hest of it for ourselves. they would degrade us all into cooks, and couriers, and hotel-keepers. it should not he—it is shame!" ""what have the english done, that you should speak bo?" cried felicia, somewhat indiguantly; for her national prejudices were very easily roused, and this unexpected attack astounded her heyond mea- sure. "done i—oh nothing very had; they have taken my mother's house, floor after floor, and made up our income," said angelo, with an angry laugh. "they have done nothing wrong, my english cousin. why should they do every thing, i say? why are they doing a thousand things everywhere, every one, £. over the face of the earth, except italy why must we never live out of hearing of those frogs who croak to us of their present and our past? ah, shall we never have anything hut a past you stare at me, felicita; you think me mad, i who am nseless and idle as you say, hut i too am an italian. i think of my country as well as another. i could he a revolu- tionary, a politician as well as another; and if i say nothing, it i for my mother's sake." "but your mother would not hin- der yon from making a revolution in yourself, angelo," said felicia, philosophically, improving the oppor- tunity. angelo laughed. "insatiahle mor- alist " he said, sbrugging his shoul- ders, "i have already hsd the hon- our of telling you -what are the only things i could do, copying pic- tures, carving alahaster, making por- celain. then there are the govern- ment hureaus, it is true; hut i have no interest, felicita mia; what shall i do?" '• you only mock me, argelo," said felicia. "you never think seri- ously, much less speak seriously. you want to he rich and have every- thing that pleases yon, hut you don't want to work for it. a great many people are like that—it is not singular to \oo." - her tone stung her cousin deeply. "and you — you despise me!" he paid. '' because i care more for what you think than for what all the world thinks, therefore you scorn me." "do not say so," said felicia quick ly; "alice clayton's opinion ought to he, and is, a great deal more im- portant to you than mine. she thinks you always tight; i do not; hut that is no fault of mine." "alice clayton is a child," said angelo; "her opinion is what pleases her for the moment how should she judge of a man? she knows less of me than marietta does. i am a stranger to her disposition, to her little experi- ence, and to her heart." "then why, for heaven's sake,'' said felicia, hefore she was aware of what she said—then she paused: "i do not understand what you mean." "but i understand it perfectly," said angelo, with pique. "little mees aleece can play with me, she sup- poses, hut she shall see otherwise. if she had me in her power, this lit- tle girl, it shall he hut once and no more."_ "angelo," said felicia, "i am not a proper adviser on such a matter— i am not a proper confidante. pray he so good as to say no more to me. i can understand the other suhject of your complaints, hut not this." "yet it is the same suhject, feli- cita," cried the young man : "can i, who do nothing, and have no hope— can i have a wife like your english- man? can i ask any woman to live as my mother lives—she who is old and contented with her life, and an italian? what must i do? you tell me work; hut unless i make me an exile, there is nothing to work at; and, my consin, if i marry little alice, i will he good to her. i will not love her, hut she shall have nothing to complain of me. why should not i marry her ?—hat i will not wait five years." "cousin angelo," said felicia, rising ahruptly from the tahle, "i wish you good-night; you oppress me, and i will dot hear it. i have .] fdicita.— conclusion. nothing to do with your marrying or your love. i am only a pluin eng- lish girl, and i do not understand them—i hid you good-night." and with a hurried step and voice that faltered slightly, she went away, not in a very comfortahle condition of mind, poor girl; tried on hoth sides heyond what was hearahle, yet al- ready hlaming herself for her ehul- lition of impatience, and fancying sue had hetrayed feelings which she would havo given the world to hide. yet, inconsistent es human nature is, this sudden and angry departure of his cousin somehow cheered and exhilarated angelo. his cheek took a warmer glow—he looked after her with a gleam in his eyes which had not heen there a moment hefore. he angelo, it was not aifronted, hut encouraged, race, the and made felicia's excuses to his mother, and sat hy himself when the old lady was gone, with fancies which warmed his heart, hut in which no though of alice clayton interposed. he was not sorry nor concerned—he took no new resolution on the mo- ment — he considered nothing — hut in the pleasure of the moment hasked like a child and took no further thoncht. while, as for felicia, she laid down her head upon her hed, till even that homely couch tremhled with her re- strained trouhle. she was humi- liated, grieved, oppressed; hetween these two her judgment was per- petually shocked and her heart wounded. to-morrow even opened to her a new variety of trial. to- morrow the chances were that ac- cusations against her as a secret agent of angelo's courtship would he hrought wi'h unanswerahle logic; and alice, when they were alone, would once more toss her little head in saucy trinmph, and talk of leading angelo, like a second jacob. a will- ing wooer for five long years. yet while this had to he looked for, she was the person whom angelo himself offended with looks and suggestions of love, and to whom he did not scruple to confess his carelessuess for alice. she scorned him, she despised him, she turned with proud disgust from his unworthiness; yet, poor girl leaned her head upon her hed, devouring sohs whose hitterness lay all in the fact that he was unworthy, and defending him against herself with a hreaking heart. it was not was his education, his atmosphere which sur- rounded him. the one sat smiling and dreaming in one room, pleasing himself in the moment, and taking no thought for the morrow; the other, on the other side of the wall, kept her sohs in her heart, thinking with terror of that inevitahle to-mor- row, and helieving that she would he content to give her own life, ere the day hroke, only to wake the soul of angelo to hetter things, and open his eyes to honour and truth. -poor fe- licia ! and poor angelo !—hut it was very true her greater enlighten- ment did not make her happier. the young florentine went smiling to his rest, and slept the sleep of youth half an hour thereafter; while his english cousin, chafing and griev- ing herself with that most intolerahle of trouhles, the moral ohtuseness of the person most dear to her in the world, wept tbrough half the night. cnaitkr vl brightly this day of felicia's trial hroke upon florence — hright with all the dazzling sheen of winter—a cloudless sky, an unshaded sun, every- thing gay to look at, hut the sbrill tramontana whistling from the hills, and winter seated supreme in the stony apartments of italian poverty. in this morning's light madame peruzzi's shawled figure, encumhered with all its wrappings, was even more re- markahle than it had heen at night. a woollen knitted cap tied over her ears—a dark-hrown dingy article, hy no means improving to her com- plexion — worsted mits on the lean hands, in which, tbroughout the house, wherever she went in her morning peramhulations, the old lady carried her little jar of charcoal, and her shawl enveloping the entire remain- der of her person, left much to the imagination, hut did not stimulate that faculty with very sweet sugges- [sept felicita.—conclusion. tione. while in the dazzle of the sunshine, everything in that hare little tala shone so hitterly and re- morselessly cold, that it is not won- derful if felicia, who was only in her first italian winter, and not quite inured to the domestic delights of that season, felt chilled to her heart. possihly this chill was do disadvan- tage at that crisis, for the extreme physical discomfort she felt not only hlunted her feelings a little to future mental suffering, hut held up hefore her, with an aspect of the most irre- sistihle temptation, the cosy fire and warm interior of alice clayton's room. thither accordingly, a little after mid-day, felicia hetook herself, with no email flutter in her heart. she did not enter as usual, and make her way to the apartment of alice. she asked for mrs. elcumhe, and was ushered up with solemnity into the drawing-room, to have that audience. mrs. elcomhe, though she was not a great lady at home, could manage to personate one very tolerahly at flo- rence; and, to ttll the trnth, felicia had so little experience of great ladies that she had entire faith in the pre- tensions of her little friend's guardian and chaperon. with mrs. elcomhe in the drawing-room was seated an elder- ly gentleman, looking much fatigued, heated, and flustered, if such a femi- nine adjective is applicahle to elderly gentlemen. he looked precisely as if, vexed and worried out of his wits, he had escaped from some unsuccess- ful conflict, and tbrown himself, in purer exhaustion, into that chair. seeing him, as she hegan to speak, felicia hesitated, and made a pause. mrs. elcomhe hastened to explain— "this is mr. elcomhe, miss clayton's guardian, my hrother. he is newly arrived, and naturally very anxious ahout his previous young charge. pray tell me with confidence any- thing yon may have to say." " have nothing to say, except to know whether — as i supposed from what you said yesterday — you have any ohjection to my visits to miss clayton," said felicia. "i would have given them up at once; hut — indeed i have not many friends in florence, and it is a pleasure to see her sometimes; hesides, that she wants me; hut i thought it right in the first place, hefore seeing her again, to see yoo." '•i am much ohliged — it is very judicious—pray he seated, mademoi- selle," said mrs. elcomhe. "i am puzzled, however, to know in what capacity you visit my young ward. i had supposed as her parlatriee? she engaged you, as i imagined—indeed, i rememher, finding you to he per- fectly respectahle so far. as i could ascertain, that i gave my consent to make an arrangement; hut accord- ing to what you say, i should sup- pose your visits to he those of friend- ship, which mades a difference. may i ask which is the case?" "certainly i have come to speak italian with miss clayton," said felicia, hlushing painfully; "hut i have not taken money from her, and never meant to do so. i came he- cause she entreated me." "and how did she know you, may i ask i" continued the great lady, fix- ing upon felicia her cold and steady eye?. "i helieve tbrough my cousin, whom she has frequently met," said felicia as steadily, though her heart heat loud, and the colour, in spite of herself, fluctuated on her cheek. "so i i helieve we are coming to the hottom of it now," cried mrs. elcomhe, turning to her hrother-in- law with a look of trinmph. "your cousin is angelo feruzzi; he knows our poor child's fortune, and in case his own suit should not prosper suf- ficiently of itself, he has managed to place you ahout her person, to convey his messages and love-letters, and so forth; and to make her suppose a heggarly florentine idler to he a young italian nohleman oh, i see the whole! can you dare to look in my face and deny what i say?" felicia had hecome very pale; the was still standing, and grasped the hack of a chair unconsciously as mrs. elcomhe spoke, half to support her- self, half to express somehow hy an irrepressihle gesture the indiguation that was in her. "i will deny no- thing that is true," she saij, com- manding herself with nervous self- control. "angelo peru zi is my cousin. because he had spoken of me to her, miss clayton claimed my .] felicita— conclusion. acquaintance one morning in the gallery of the palace. that is all my cousin has to do, so far as i am aware, with our acquaintance. if angelo jver wrote to her, i am iguorant of it. i have never horne any message whatever hetween them. i have no- thing to do with what he wishes, or what she wishes. they are hoth ahle to answer for themselves. now will yon he good enough to answer my question — i have answered yours. l)o you ohject to my visits to miss clayton? may i heg that you will tell me yes or no?" mrs. blcomhe stared at her ques- tioner with speecbless consternation. she expected the presumptuous young woman to he totally con- founded, and lo! she was still ahle to answer. "i see you will not lose anything for want of confidence, mademoiselle," she said with a gasp. •' to dare me to my very face i do you suppose i helieve your fine story? no! this poor child shall not he sacrificed to a foreigu fortune-hunter if i can help it. i prohihit your visits to miss clayton—do you hear? i will give orders that you are not to he admitted again." "stay a moment," said the dis- tressed elderly gentleman, who all this time had heen recovering hreath and looking on. "the young woman seems to me to have answered very sensihly and clearly — very different from that little fury in the other room — not to say that you have exposed your case uupardonahly, sister, as in- deed was to he expected. may i ask how it is that you, heing an italian, speak english so well?" "lam english," said felicia; she had no hreath lor more than these tbree laconic words. "ah, indeed; and what service, then, were you likely to he to alice clayton, when you went to her as her park — parla — what-do-you-call-it? eh, can you answer me that?" '• my lather was an italian—the one language is to me as familiar as the other," said felicia, quietly. "horn—ah. what do you know, then, ahout this courtship husiness?" said the stranger. "girls are al- ways intrusted ahout such matters. tefl us in confidence, and he sure / vol. r.xxxvi. shan't hlame yon. what hand have you had it? eh?" "none whatever," said felicia. "well, well; that is not precisely what i mean. what do you know ahout it? that will satisfy me!" "i know nothing at all ahout it," said felicia with some ohstinacy— then she paused. "i am english, and i am not a waiting-woman. i neither will nor can repeat to you all that alice clayton—a little girl of sixteen—may have said to me. i am not aware of any duty which could make me do that; hut so far from wishing to help on what you call a courtship hetween them, the idea is grievous to me. i have every reason in the world to oppose it," said felicia hurriedly, giving way, in spite of herself to her natural feelings. "my cousin's honour — his whole life but it is useless to tell you what i think on such a suhject. may i see miss clayton? i have no further con- cern with the matter." "sister," said the lawyer, whoso eyes had heen fixed on felicia while she spoke, "i see no reason to douht what this young lady says. let her go to alice, and as often as she will. i helieve she speaks the truth." "as you will! the unfortunate child is your ward ; let her he sacri- ficed," cried mrs. elcomhe. but fe- licia did not wait to hear the end of her oration; she made a little curtsy of gratitude to her defender, and hur- ried away. r the half of it was over; now for alice, whose saucy girlish hrag of the impatience of her lover, and deter- mination to make him wait, was perhaps rather more aggravating than even the douhts and interro- gatories of her friends. but alice today was neither saucy nor tri- umphant; she lay sunk in a great chair with her hands over her face, s hhing sohs of petulant anger, shame, and vexation — a childish passion. felicia was entirely vanquished hy this strange and unexpected trouhle. she did not helieve the little girl could have felt any thing so much, nor did she understand what was the occasion of her sudden grief. some- thing in which angelo on the one side and her newly-arrived guardian [sept. felkita— conclusion. on the other, had to do, was evident; hut all felicia's personal indignation was quenched at once hy the sight of her tears. what had she to do weep- ing, that hright little happy creature? there are certainly some people in the world who are not horn to weep, and whose chance sufferings strike with a sense of something intolerahle the sad- dest spectators who see them. little alice clayton, with her sixteen-year- oldheauty, was one of these. "what has happened? what is the matter?" cried felicia, sitting down heside her, and drawing away the little hands from her face. "let me make jour mind easy hy telling yon that mr. elcomhe himself has just given mo permission to come. i am not here under disapproval. your guardian has sent me; and now tell me what is wrong?" "oh, felicita," cried alice sud- denly, tbrowing herself upon felicita's shoulder, "i will depend upon you, i will trust to you; though all the world should deceive me, i know you will tell me the truth; and if he really loves me, felicita, i will wait for him ten, twenty—i do not mind if it was a hundred years i" felicia involuntarily drew herself away. "a hundred years is a long promise," she said, with a tremhling smile. "but that is no answer," cried alice, recovering her animation. "i said i would depend on you, and helieve whatever you said; and i will, felicita! they tell me angelo wants my fortune, and does not care for me. they try to make me helieve nohody could love me at my age: that is a falsehood, i know !" cried alice, with sparkling eyes, which flashed tbrough her tears: "they might as well say at once that no- hody could ever love a girl that had a fortune, for that is whut they mean; hut never mind, felicita i it is of angelo they were speaking— angelo, your cousin, who is very fond of you, and tells you what he thinks, i know he does. if you will say you arc sure he loves me, felicita, i will wait for him, i tell you, a dozen years!" this serious appeal took felicia hy surprise. she grew red and grew pale and drew hack as her young companion hent forward, with a pang which she could not express. for the moment she felt guilty and a culprit, with the hlue eyes of alice gazing so earnestly and unsuspi- ciously in her face. how could she answer? — she who rememhered, no further gone than last night, those looks and words of angelo's which sent her tbrilling with mortified pride, yet tenderness inextinguish- ahle, to the solitude of her own chamher. when that first natural shock was passed, and when she sup- posed she could detect a sharper and less earnest scrutiny in alice's eyes, the poor girl once more grew indiguant. bad enough that she should he accused of ahetting a wooing so little to her mind. now must she he called upon to answer for him, and pledge her own sincerity for his? if felicia had heen a young lady in a novel, she would douhtless have recoguised in this the moment for self-sacrifice — the moment in which to make a holocaust of her own feelings, and transfer, with the insulting generosity of a modern heroine, the heart which she knew to he her own, to the other less fortu- nate woman who only wished for it. but as she was only a plain girl, accustomed to tell the truth, this climax of feminine virtue was not to he expected from her. and happily for herself she grew angry, resentful of all the perplexities forced upon her. she drew quite hack from her little friend, or little tormentor. she rose up, and gathered her cloak ahout her with haste and agitation. she would go away—she was safe only in flight. "it is not a question which can he asked of me," she said, with so much more than her usual gravity that alice thought her stern, and grew quiet unawares. "only one perjon can or ought to answer yon. you must not repeat to me such wordj. no, you do me wrong; it is cruel to put such a question to me—" "why? you ought to know hest. you are not going away, felicita? oh, don't go away! oh, i do so want you," cried alice, rising and tbrowing herself upon her friend's arm. "i have everything to tell you, and i want to know what i should do, and .] felicita—conclusion. i want to ask ahout angelo, and i want—oh, felicita, don't you care at all ahout me? won't you stay?" "i care a great deal ahout you, hut i will not stay," said felicia firmly. u i can neither advi e yon what to do, nor tell you ahout angelo. ask angelo himself, he is the proper person to speak to; and do what you think hest. i will come hack when you please; hut i will not answer any questions: and now i caunot stay." saying which she led the little girl hack to her seat, and with a swiftness and silentness which half- frightened alice, left the room and the house. the little heiress eat still in her chair, startled into posi- tive stillness. she could not hear felicia's retreating footstep, hut knew she was gone; and this new incident and new idea gave a new turn to the thoughts of alice. her tears dried of themselves, and her passion suh- sided. she no longer thought of her guardians, or mrs. elcomhe, or even of angelo; hut puzzled with all her amazed hut sbrewd little faculties over the new, ahstruse, and mystcri- ious question, what could felicia mean? while felicia, sick at heart and utterly discouraged, went away hy the quietest streets she could find to the other end of florence. she had nothing to do there, and it would have greatly shocked her aunt's prejudices to see her alone so far from their own house; hut felicia's secret vexations were too much at the moment for any consideration of her aunt, or indeed for considerations of anything. she was not thinking; her utmost mental effort was to re- memher, and sting herself over again with those words and looks, ques- tions and implications, from which she had already suffered so cruelly; and when, returning home, having tired herself completely, she saw at a little distance, unseen herself, the laughing careless face of angelo amidst a group of other such at the cafe door, her patience entirely forsook the english girl. what had she done to have her quiet footsteps so hopelessly entangled in a volatile, hopeless, inconsequent, italian life like this? that night she and her aunt spent alone in their usual fashion — which is to say that madame peruzzi went to hed, and that felicia, with one feehle wick of the lamp lighted, hewildered herself with a hook which she had not sufficient power of self- possession to understand, and watched from the window when mrs. elcomhe's carriage drove up to the door oppo- site, to see alice glide into it with the others in a mist of floating white. that morning's passion did not hinder the little heiress. she was there as usual, and douhtless quite as smiling and hright as usual. felicia said to herself with a momentary hitterness —" but what was it all to her?" she went hack to the tahle, and he- wildered herself for the rest of the evening with her hook of italian pro- verhs, scarcely seeing what she read, and certainly not comprehending it. that was how she spent the night. next morning felicia rose with a craving anxiety in her heart, dimly feeling that something must have happened overnight, dimly dreading something which might happen to- day. she felt little douht that angelo had encountered alice and seen her guardian; hut angelo was late, and did not make his appear- ance. it was with the greatest diffi- culty that she could manage to pre- serve enough of her usual cxluniess to save her from emharrassing in- quiries, and sitting hy while madame peruzzi sipped her coffee, felicia was too much occupied in keeping down a convulsive shiver, half physical, half mental, comhined of cold and anxiety, to he ahle for anything else. when the ungenial meul was over, and she had to occupy herself with her usual female work, the mending and darning of which she had insisted upon relieving her aunt, with the whole hright cold hours of the day hefore her, and that tbrill of expectation in her whole mind and frame, the strain upon her hecame still harder. it was while she sat thus vainly endeavoring to restrain her thoughts, and assuring herself that, however the matter ended, she had nothing to do with it; and while madame peruzzi, in her great shawl, and with her pan of charcoal under her skirts, sat carefully surveying [sept. felicita— cor,dution. some very old much-worn udcn, to ascertain where it was practicahle to apply a patch, that a sudden noise at the door startled felicia. angelo was not yet up, and the house a mo- ment hefore had heen perfectly still. now marietta's voice, in active dis- cussion with intruders, made itself audihle. marietta was endeavouring to impress upon some ohstinate visitors, first, that the siguora did not receive, and, secoud, that it was quite inconvenient, and out of the question, to attempt to make good their entrance at such an hour. madame peruzzi listened with an anxious flutter, sweeping up in her arms the heap of linen ; while feli- cia, perfectly still, heard the noise of english voices, and yet could scarcely hear them for the tbrohhing of her hreast. but then, an indisputahle reality, rang the girlish tones of alice, speaking to some one who answered her in a voice which could helong to nohody hut an elderly english- man, douhtless mr. elcomhe. an- other colloqny, and the two had swept trinmphantly in, alice drag- ging after her her reluctant and trouhled guardian. felicia started to her feet as this astounding vision appeared at the door. madame peruzzi, who had half lisen, dropped hack into her chair, scattering the linen at her feet in her nervous he- wilderment. there stood the little heiress in her flutter of pretty flounces, not muslin this time, hut more costly siik; and there sat at the household tahle " the frightful old witch," whom she had ridiculed to angelo, and who could he no other than angelo's mother. alice, who had come in very hriskly, aud on first sight of felicia had heen ahout to rush into her arms, checked herself at this sight she made a little frightened curtsy, grew very red, and stood gazing at madame peruzzi as though she had eyes for nothing else. the old lady rose immediately, unques- tionahly a very odd figure, and "re- ceived" her visitors with as much equanimity as she could muster, and the utmost exuherance of italian politeness. but alice's fright had startled all her italian out of her little girl's head, and mr. elcomhe, stumhling forward, upset the char- coal pan and its white ashes, cover- ing himself with confusion, and add- ing, if {possihle, to the awkwardness of the scene. nohody spoke a word at first hut madame peruzzi, and only felicia understood what madame peruzzi said: hut when mr. elcomhe hegan to stammer and apologize in english, and in the utmost emhar- rassment, the old lady, discovered so terrihly out of toilette, and in em- ployment so commouplace, addressed herself in incomprehensihle explana- tions to him. but that the younger persons of the group were moved hy much more serious feelings, the com- hination would have heen simply ludicrous; hut alice, who had come in with all the energy and earnest- ness of a purpose, was so utterly con- founded and dismayed hy the sight of madame peruzzi, and felicia was so anxious and so painfully excited, that they added quite a tragical ele- ment to the other hy-play, and pre- sently swept its lighter current into the course of their own stronger emotion. singularly enough, the first idea which struck alice was horror and disgust, not at the ap- pearance of her lover's mother, hut at her own unintentional levity and cruelty in speaking of her to angelo; and all the youthful kindness to- wards angelo which she diguified hy the name of love, sprang up in douhle force in the warm rehound of her generous feelings. she had done him wrong—she returned with vehe- mence and earnestness to the idea which had hrought her here. "felicita," she cried, "heg ma- dame peruzzi to forgive us for in- truding on her. tell her we speak no italian; do tell her, pray i can't think of the words, and there is no time.—have you told her?— does she understand you, felicita? oh, thank you! if she only knew how wicked and cruel i once was ahout her, she would hate me; hut how could i tell it was his mother? she is not like [him—not the least in the world. felicita, we watched at the window and saw angelo go out, and then we came to yoo. mr. el- comhe says he will trust what you say; and so should i, if it were for my life. oh, felicita, this time you must answer me! mr.elcomhe says .] felicita— conclusion. it shall he as you say. if you say angelo loves me, he will give his consent; if you say it, i will wait for him, if it should he a dozen years!" felicia uttered a little cry of im- patience and anger. "i said yester- day this question was not to he asked of me. i said i could not answer it—i will not answer it i it is cruel why do you come again to me?" "felicita! have i any one else whom i can ask?" cried alice, tak- ing her reluctant hand and caressing it, as she looked up with her girlish, coaxing, entreating looks in felicia's face. "you said yoa liked me—you said you were fond of me; and when it may make me happy or unhappy all my life, you will never have the heart to refuse me now." "there is hut one person who can answer such a question; let him speak for himself. can i tell what is in angelo's heart ?" said his cou- sin with a kind of despair. "i told you so hefore; you must ask him- self, and not me. am i a spy to know what is in his heart?" "but i have asked angelo, and i caunot tell whether he is in jest or earnest," said alice, with a plaintive mingling of pique and humility. "felicita, felicita i do not know what to do, or what to trust to, if yoa do not tell me; and it is for all my life!" "for all your life! you are only sixteen; you do not know what life is," cried felicia. "and that is all the more reason you should tell me," said alice, steal- ing once more to her side. "mr. elcomhe says i might pledge my whole life, and then find out fe- licita i i trust only in you!" "she says truly; the young man of course must preserve his consist- ency," said mr. elcomhe. "speak to her; you are reasonahle, and know —for his sake as well as tiers. she will he content with nothing else." "felicita! tell me," cried alice, cla-ping her hands. felicia had risen up, and stood drawing hack into the corner of the room — her face hurning, her eyes glowing, an indiguant despair pos- sessing her. all this time angelo's mother had heen looking on amazed and uncomprehending; even her presence was some support to the poor girl. now madame peruzzi, strnck hy a new idea, and stimulated hy the frequent sound of angelo's name, the only word she understood, left the room hurriedly. felicia stood drawing hack, holding up her hands to defend herself from the ad- vance of alice, saying she could not tell what—eager disclaimers of heing reasonahle and ahle to tell, indiguant appeals against heing asked. her voice grew sbrill in her trouhle. what had she to do with it? she had always said so !—she had never stood hetween them ! — why should she answer now? "because you are my friend," cried alice, suddenly tbrowing herself into felicia's arms, hreaking down her defences, and clasping her appealing hands—" hecause i have no one to trust hut you — hecause i take you for my sister. felicita! does angelo love me?" "no! alice, go away from me— you will kill me. no ! — he loves me.'" cried poor felicia, with a soh and cry. then she sank down with- out further word or thought upon the floor — her head tbrohhing, her heart heating, insensihle to every- thing hut that forced utterance, which came with no trinmph, hut with a pang indescrihahle from the hottom of her heart she felt that some one endeavoured to draw her clasped hands from her face, and raise her from the ground; hut she resisted, and kept there crouching down into her corner, tbrilling with a passion of indiguant shame, hitter- ness, and undeserved suffering. why was this extorted, wrung from her? —why was she driven to confess it, as though she was the culprit? she desired no more to raise her eyes to the light; she was sick of scrutiny, sick of questions, conscious of no wish hut to disappear from every- hody's eight, and hide herself where neither alice nor angelo should see her more. she had said it, hut she had no pleasure in it. she heard a murmur of voices, without caring to hear what was said or who was speaking. she had no longer either friend or cousin. alice and angelo were alike lost to her now. nothing [sept, felieita— conclusion. in the world seemed to remain visihle comfort hut the dreary consciousuess to her tbrough those eyes hlind with of having separated herself from tears, and covered with her hands, everyhody she cared for, hy that save a flight somewhere into some hurst of plain-speaking, the inevit- unknown solitary country, and no ahle truth. charter vil five years afterwards, a little eng- lish village had hrightened to a puh- lic holiday. the place was a tiny hamlet of some twenty cottages, hearing conspicuous tokens of heing close to somehody's lodge-gates who was pleased with pretty cottages, and wealthy enough to encourage the cul- ture of the same. it was as easy to predicate, from the state of the gar- dens, that a flower-show and prizes were somewhere in the neighhour- hood, as to conclude that the holder of the curacy under whose care that tiny gothic chapel and schoolhouse had sprung into existence, wore a long priestly coat, and waistcoat huttoned up to the chin, and was slightly "high." the little village street was gay with a trinmphal arch of houghs and flowers, for the five years were slightly exceeded, and the season was may. the sky was douht- ful, uncertain, suuny and showery — an airy, hreezy, variahle english morning, with no such steady glory in its light as the skies of italy; and anything more unlike the lofty houses of the vio ginguio than those low rural cottages could not have heen supposed. along the road, where the sunshine and the shadows pursued each other, a hright little procession came irregularly along, with the flutter and variahle movement which helongs to a feminine march. it was a cbristening party, headed hy an im- portant group of womankind guard- ing and encircling the one atom of weak humanity disguised in flowing muslin skirts, who was the hero of the day. behind, at a little distance, were the ladies and gentlemen, god- fathers and godmothers, papa and mama. the little mother in thanks- giving rohes of white, with delicate roses on her soft cheek, and sweet lights of womanly trinmph and gra- titude in her eyes, called herself still alice, hut not alice clayton, and had hlossomed out into a cordial and sweet young womanhood, prettier in her mother-pride than at saucy six- teen, when all her life, as the child supposed, hung upon the question, whether angelo peruzzi loved her. or sought only her fortune. small thought of angelo peruzzi was in that sunshiny existence now. be- hind alice and her hushand—yet not hehind from any wish of theirs, or any distinction made hy them—came a young woman alone. more marked in her characteristic italian features than she used to he, five years older— perhaps, if no longer moved hy active agitation, graver than formerly — it was still felicia; "a young person" whom alice's country neighhours could not comprehend—who did not choose to accept the entire equality which her friend would fain have forced upon her, and whose position in the young and gay household which called alice mistress was a grave, douhtful, half - housekeeper position, in which she found do inconvenience, and which suited alice perfectly, hut did not satisfy the excellent neigh- hours, who had difficulty in making out whether or not miss antini was "a person to know." felicia in holmsleigh was twice as italian as felicia in florence had heen, and looked hack strangely enough to that uncomfortahle and agitating period of her existence with sighs and smiles, and recollections which touched her heart. madame peruzzi's cold rooms no longer chilled her, and she was no longer repelled hy that unlovely un- homelike life of which memory pre- served only the hrighter parts. vet nearly five years had passed since felicia had either heard or seen any- thing of her italian friends; the day on which she had made that confes- sion which alice extorted from her— a confession which she found after- wards, to her greatly increased horror, .] fehcita—conclusion. to have heen made in the very pres- ence of angelo, and immediately confirmed hy him—had ,heen her last day in the via ginguio. alice, who hore her disappointment maguani- mously, if disappointment it was, and who felt greatly shocked at the evident and extreme suffering of felicia, had half entreated, half com- pelled, the poor girl to accompany her home. felicia could scarcely he persuaded to see her cousin again; when she consented at last, she too had her caprice. he whom alice would no longer wait for, must either relinquish felicia too, or wait the full five years for his humhler and less wealthy love: perhaps other con- ditions were added which neither of them mentioned — hut it was thus the cousins had parted. in the mean time madame peruzzi died, and when felicia mentioned angelo at all, she spoke of him as a relation whom she should never see again. but the five years were past, and sometimes, unawares to herself, she started at an unusual sound in the house, and tremhled and grew pale at an unexpected arrival a possi- hility, however stoutly one may deny it, is still so powerful over that uuruly imagination which is aided and ahetted hy the heart. thus she went lingering along the road, after mrs. alice and her hand- some hushand, to the heir of holms- leigh's cbristening, thinking, she would have said, of nothing in parti- cular — of the passage of time, and the slow yet rapid progress of life— wonderfully grave and philosophic re- flections, quite hecoming to the inau- guration of the new generation, as any one aware of them would have natu- rally said. but when the cbristening was over, and there was nothing hut rejoicing in the house and park, where all the villagers, and a little crowd of other tenants, were feasted outside, and the great people had a grand diuner in the evening, felicia continued wistful and contemplative still. the continual arrival of the carriages startled her, and kept her uneasy. she could not help a linger- ing idea that some one or other of them some day — this evening or an- other—might hring that stranger to eolmsleigh, whom she professed never to expect. there was no reason v in the world to think of him to-night; hut the noise and commotion and per- petual arrivals startled her; she was uneasy and anxious, and could not tell how it was. at last the arrivals were over—the diuner was over. that moment of repose, which the ladies spend alone in the drawing-room — hlissful mo- ment after the trouhles of a grand diuner—fell calm and grateful upon felicia. she was past heiog suuhhed hy her friend's fine neighhours ; she was quite sure of her position, if no- hody else was; and people hegan to know as much. she sat in her usual quiet place, with her usual cheerful- ness recovered. another arrival i she was surprised and vexed to find how the sounds of these wheels ringing tbrough the evening quiet disturhed her composure again. of course it was somehody invited for the evening; coald nohody come or go without a fever on her part? she sat douhly still, and husied herself all the more with the prose of her next neighhour hy way of self-punishment, and would not look up when the door opened to see who entered the room. would not look up for the first moment,—then she did look up. the person who entered was a gentleman alone—a soldier—the only man in the room, and he certainly had not heen at diuner. felicia was much too iguorant to know what his uni- form was. it was not an english red coat; hut she caught at the dis- tance the gleam of a medal, the fa- miliar crimean medal, well enough known to her, on his hreast. he had not heen aunounced, hut had sent his name to alice, who was quite at the other end of the room. it was a very long apartment, stretching across the entire side of the house; the door was quite at one end, and alice, as it happened, quite at the other. felicia could not hear a word her neighhour was saying to her, hut she could hear her own heart heat, and she could hear the slightest stir of motion the stranger made; the stranger, hrown, hearded, and medal- led, whom certainly she had never seen hefore, and did not know. just then a little cry of joy and amaze- in [sept. felicita— condution. ment from alice struck her ear. looking up, she saw the little mis- tress of the house ruuning past her, with her girlish curls dancing ahout her ears, and her foot as light and un- restrained as though no responsihili- ties of wifehood or motherhood lay on her hright little head. alice's face was flushed with surprise and pleasure, and her eyes fixed upon the stranger. involuntarily, and hy an impulse she could not restrain, felicia rose. she did not know him she had never seen him hefore ; and yet, when alice ran to meet him, she could not keep her seat. alice ran with hoth her hands held out. when she met the stranger, felicia hent forward with a face like marhle. "angelo!" it was not angelo; and yet that was his name. when felicia came to herself she was in another room, with only alice hending over her, and somehody he- hind in the twilight, who was not dis- tinguishahle save hy some gleams of reflection, especially one which shone over alice's head strangely like the medal upon that soldier's hreast. felicia did not answer the tender inquiries of her little friend; she turned towards this undiscernihle figuro and pointed almost imperiously —" who is it?" she cried, and the foolish little kind creature hy her side kept hold of her hands, and kissed her, and wasted a world of ca- ressing words " to hreak it to her." "who is it?" cried felicia: and then the stranger took matters into his own hands, — lor to he sure it was angelo — angelo himself five years older, a sardinian soldier, though a tuscan poor gentleman, with a heard and a captain's commission, and her britaunic majesty's crimean medal upon his hreast. as the tbree stood together in the twilight, or at least a minute later, when only two stood to- gether, and the little mistress of the house had returned to her guests, feli- cia was ahle to forgive alice for her anxiety not to startle her, and her care in "hreaking" the news. but what had he to do with arms, that pacific florentine? and with the sardinian uniform and foreigu wars? "you rememher how i told yon there was nothing to do, felicita," explained the returned soldier days after, when alice and her hushand listened too ; "hut men who can do nothing else can fight, — it is an idler's natural profession. every italian like me has not an english cousin; hut time is doing your work, felicita, and some time or other the rulers in our country will learn at last to know that men who are good for little else are very good for sol- diers; and that people who may not work will fight." plain polities—not hard to under- stand ; and felicia, perhaps, was less hard to please than hefore, and found great comfort in that crimean medal. what natural consequences followed this visit to england of captain an- gelo peruzzi it may not he necessary to particularise, nor where they went to live, nor what kind of menage was their anglo-italian one; hut it was a hetter ending to angelo's iunoceut fortune-hunting than if alice had made him master of holmsleigh, and waited for him five years. .] voluntary and involuntary actions. voluntary ann involuntaby act ions. it seems an easy thing to distin- guish a voluntary from an involun- tary action; and yet this seemingly easy thing sorely perplexes the cun- ning of philosophy. it seems also an easy thing to distinguish hetween an animal and a plant; yet when we come to seek for the one distinctive characteristic which marks the ani- nal nature, and separates it decisively from the vegetahle world, we are sorely puzzled. there is no difficulty in saying that a cow is an animal, and a cahhage is a plant : hut when we descend to the simpler forms of animal life, we find them so nearly allied to vegetahles that our classifi- cation is trouhled. still greater is our perplexity when the simpler actions are presented for analysis; positive as we may he that some actions have a volitional element, we are at a loss to mark out what that element is. if the reader will he a gentle and a patient reader to the length of a few pages, we will endeavor to illu- minate this dark suhject; and in so doing, introduce to his notice the very ahle and suggestive treatise in which mr. bain discusses it, and other important topics. the volume now hefore us is entitled "the emo- tions and the will," and with its pre- decessor, n the senses and the intel- lect," it forms a hody of psychological doctrine, the fruit of long meditation, aod well worthy the meditation of all students. mr. bain does not attempt to de- fine the will, hut to explain what is the nature of a voluntary action, and how it grows up from certain natural germs in our constitution. he is silent as to involuntary actions; hut we may assume that they are impli- citly explained in the explanation of volitions. while we helieve that he has tbrown a steady light on the physiological and psychological pro- cesses involved, the light seems to us occasionally to flicker; and therefore, hefore expounding his views, we will ask attention to a little preliminary explanation. in popular language, those actions are called voluntary over which we can exercise control, either in the way of restraining or prompting them. i can move my arm, or keep it motionless, if i will to do so. bu there are other actions which are he yond control ; no effort of will suf- fices to prompt, or to restrain them the heart heats without my control the eyelid winks, the wounded mus cle quivers, the stomach digests, involuntarily. i can control the movement of my arm, unless a sharp pain forces me to withdraw it, and when i withdraw it under sudden pain, the action is said to he involun- tary. this is a rough classification which suffices for our daily needs. we want a term to mark a certain group, and the term voluntary satisfies that want. but the severer exigencies of science are not satisfied so easily. a rigor- ous examination shows that in most, if not in all, the so-called involuntary actions (as we shall see presently) this very volitional element of control may find a place. although hreath- ing is an involuntary act, it can he, and often is, restrained or accelerat- ed hy the will; hut the controlling power soon comes to an end—we can- not voluntarily suspend our hreath- ing for many seconds, the urgency of the sensation at last hears down the control. in like mauner, we can par- tially, hut not wholly, restrain the sbrinking and tremhling which ac- company pain and terror. it has heen said that these partial influences of control are due to the fact that the apparatus involves some of the volun- tary muscles, and these are, of course, under the control of the will; hut that inasmuch as the apparatus is not wholly constituted hy voluntary muscles, it is not wholly under con- trol. yet this ia only a re-statement the emotions and the will. by alex. bain, a. m., examiner in logic and moral philosophy in the london university. voluntary and involuntary actions. [sept of the fact in different terms. the muscles are styled voluntary, hecause they are under control. neverthe- less, it is easy to prove that an appa- ratus of purely voluntary muscles will furnish an involuntary act — an act quite heyond all influence of the will. the act of winking is an ex- ample. it is performed hy voluntary muscles, and may he a purely volun- tary act—as when we wish telegra- phically to warn one of our hearers that we are jesting. yet this act, which is as purely voluntary as any we perform, is hahitually an involun- tary act; the contact of the air with the eye causes a loss of temperature hy evaporation, and the sensation caused hy this dryness, urgently in- sisting on heing remedied, we wink. not only is winking one of the typi- cal examples of involuntary action, hut we find that it occurs in spite of the most ohstinate effort to restain it: no resolution on our part not to wink, will prevent our winking, after a certain time, or if a hand he passed rapidly hefore the eye. this example shows that the par- tial control which the will exercises over what are called involuntary acts, does not depend on the nature of the muscles involved. the same action which is voluntary at one moment, will he involuntary at another, ac- cording to the urgency, or intensity, of the stimulus. we laugh hecause we are tickled, or hecause some ludi- crous image presents itself; hoth of these are involuntary actions, al- though hoth are capahle, within cer- tain limits, of control; hut we may also laugh hecause we pretend to he tickled at the great man's joke — secretly felt to he a very feehle effort* of humour. we cough hecause there is a tickling in the tbroat; and we also cough hecause we desire to drown the too huoyant platitudes of a re- morseless orator. we yawn hecause we are weary, and we yawn hecause we determine to set others yawning. it seems clear, therefore, that the volitional element we are in search of, caunot lie in the act iteelf, hut in something which precedes or accom- panies the act. according to the popular opinion, an act is called vol- untary if the mind has determined it hy a conscious conception of the ohject to he attained; and if we were to say that volition is an action determined hy a distinct idea, we should express the current opinion pretty accurately. is that opinion tenahle? it is not tenahle, hecause on the one hand actions may he determined hy distinct ideas and yet he "in- voluntary ;" and hecause on the other hand actions may he voluntary, yet not determined hy distinct ideas, hut determined simply hy sensations. let a friend pass a finger rapidly he- fore your eye, and although he has solemnly assured you that he will not touch you, and you have pro- found confidence in his word, yet no effort of will prevents your winking. it is in vain you resolve to he firm— the eyelid drops as the finger ap- proaches. this winking is assuredly an involuntary act, since it is per- formed in spite of the will; yet it is an act determined hy an idea, the idea of danger; and the proof of this is seen when you approach a finger to the eye of an animal, or in- fant, in whom no such idea of danger is excited: it does not wink. nor do you wink when you approach your own finger to your eye, hecause then the idea of danger is ahsent. we have here an action eminently con- trollahle, and ohviously determined hy an ideal stimulus, having there- fore the two cardinal characters of a voluntary act, yet heing unmistak- ahly involuntary. to reconcile such a contradiction we must suppose that the will oscillated—one instant it resolved that winking should not take place, and the next instant re- solved that it should. this explana- tion would, however, force the admis- sion that the act of winking was not involuntary; after which, it would he puzzling to say what acts are invol- untary. if the will can thus oscillate, and thus rescind its orders, why may it not in all the assumed cases of in- voluntary action he in a state of oscillation? what is the process of control? every action is a response to a sensi- tive stimulus. muscles are moved hy motor-nerves which issue from nerve - centres; these nerve - centres are excited hy impressions carried there, either hy sensory nerves going .] voluntary and involuntary action*. from a sensitive surface, or hy impres- sions communicated from some other centre. a stimulus applied to the skin excites a sensation, which heing reflected on a muscle excites a con- traction. this is the much-talked-of reflex action. in the opinion of the present writer all nerve - actions whatever are reflex: when a sensa- tion plays upon a muscle, there is reflex - action; when a sensa- tion is reflected on a nerve - centre, instead of on a muscle, there is reflex- feeling. this secondary or reflex sensation, may either play upon a muscle, or upon some other centre, and thi* will excite an action. thus it is that the same external stimulus may issue in very different actions. we decapitate a frog, and half an hour after prick or pinch its leg: the frog hops, or suddenly draws up its leg. we now prick, or pinch, an uninjured frog, in the same way, and we mostly (not always) ohserve that its leg is motionless; it does not hop away, it only lowers its head, and perhaps closes its eyes; a second pinch makes it hop away. in the decapitated frog, the action was re- flex; the stimulus transmitted from the skin to the spinal chord was directly answered hy a contraction of the leg. in the uninjured frog, the stimulus was also transmitted to the spinal chord; hut from thence it ran upwards to the hrain, exciting a re- flex - feeling of alarm; hut though alarmed, the animal was not forced into any definite course of action to secure escape; and whilst thus hesi- tating, a second prick came, and the urgency of the sensation then caused it to hop away. the hopping was reflex, hut it was indirectly so; it was prompted hy the reflex - feeling which in lurn had heen excited hy the original sensation. in like man- ner, if a dog's tail he pinched hy a stranger, the dog cries out, and turns suddenly round to hite his tormentor. if the tormentor happens to he the dog's master or friend, the dog will cry out, start away, or perhaps even turn round to hite—hut he will not hite; should he get so far as to seize the hand with the teeth, he checks himself in time. this control is often touchingly seen in removing a thorn from a dog's foot; the pain causes a reflex-action which hrings the dog's head down upon the operator's hand; hut instead of hiting, the grateful ani- mal licks that hand. these are cases of control. they are possihle only hecause reflex-feel- ings are excited; one sensation heing rapidly followed hy another, bo that hefore one action, directly reflex, can occur, another action is set going, which interferes with it, controls it an examination of the nervous sys- tem discloses a numher of centres, all capahle of independent action, yet all counected with each other, and thus hrought into some dependence on each other; it is tbrough this dependence that control hecomes possihle. a sensation instead of issuing in the action which usually follows it, sometimes issues in an- other sensation, this in turn may issue in a third sensation, instead of in an action; just as, when a row of hilliard halls is struck, the impetus is transmitted from one hall to the other, the last in the row flying off, and all the others remaining in their original position. at some point or other, could we follow its course, we should ohserve that the original sensation issued in an action, al- though, hecause the final stimulus to this said action is a reflex feeling, the action itself is very unlike what it would have heen if directly reflex. tickle the face of a sleeping man, and hy a reflex-action his hand is raised to ruh the spot; tickle the face of that man when awake, and instead of this reflex - action, there will he one of vocal remonstrance, or perhaps one guiding a pillow in its descent upon your head. inasmuch as all actions whatever are the products of stimulated nerve- centres, it is ohvious that all actions are reflex — reflected from those centres. it matters not whether i wink hecause a sensation of dryness, or hecause an idea of danger, causes the eyelid to close: the act is equally reflex. the nerve-centre which sup- plies the eyelid with its nerve has heen stimulated; the stimuli may he various, the act is uniform. at one time the stimulus is a sensation of dryness, at another an idea of danger, at another the idea of communicating hy means of a wink with some one [sept. voluntary and involuntary actions. present; in each case the stimulus is reflected in a muscular contraction. sensations excite other sensations; ideas excite other ideas; and one of these ideas may issue in an action of control. but the restraining power is limited, and caunot resist a certain degree of urgency in the original stimulus. i can for a time, restrain the act of winking, in spite of the sensation of dryness; hut the reflex- feeling which sets going this restrain- ing action will only last a few se- conds; after which the urgency of the external stimulus is stronger than that of the reflex-feeling—the sensa- tion of dryness is more imperious than the idea of resistance—and the eyelid drops. if a knife he hrought near the arm of a man who has little confidence in the friendly intentions of him that holds it, he will sbrink, and the sbrinking will he "involuntary"—in spite of his will. let him have con- fidence, and he will not sbrink, even when the knife touches his skin. the idea of danger is not excited in the second case, or if excited, is at once hanished hy another idea. yet this very man, who can thus repress the involuntary sbrinking when the knife approaches his arm, caunot re- press the involuntary winking, when the same friend approaches a finger to his eye. in vain he prepares him- self to resist that reflex-action; in vain he resolves to resist the im- pulse; no sooner does the finger ap- s roach, than down flashes the eyelid, [any men, and most women, would he equally unahle to resist sbrinking on the approach of a knife : the asso- ciation of the idea of danger with the knife would hear down any pre- vious resolution not to sbrink. it is from this cause that timorous women tremhle at the approach of firearms. an association is estahlished in their minds which no idea is powerful enough to loosen. you may assure them the gun is not loaded ; "that makes very little difference," said a naive old lady to a friend of ours. they tremhle, as the child tremhles when he sees you put on the mask. these illustrations show that the urgency of any one idea may, like the urgency of a sensation, hear down the resistance offered hy some other idea; as the previous illustra- tions showed that an idea could re- strain or control the action which a sensation or idea would otherwise have produced. according to the doctrines current, the will is said to he operative when an idea deter- mines an action; and yet all would agree that the winking which was involuntary when the idea of danger determined it, was voluntary when the idea of communicating with an accomplice in some mystification de- termined it. the reader will have gathered al- ready that we admit no real and essential distinction hetween volun- tary and involuntary actions. they are all voluntary. they all spring from consciousuess. they are all de- termined hy feeling. it is convenient, for common purposes, to desiguate some actions as voluntary; hut this s merely a convenience; no psycho- logical, nor physiological, insight is gained hy it; an analysis of the pro- cess discloses no element in a volun- tary action, which is not to he found in an involuntary action. in ordi- nary language it is convenient to mark a distinction hetween my rais- ing my arm hecause i will to raise it for some definite purpose, and my raising it hecause a hee has stung me; it is convenient to say "i will to write this letter," and " this letter is written against my will—i have no will in the matter." but science is more exacting when it aims at heing exact; and the philosopher, analysing these complex actions, will find no element answering to the "will," in one, which is ahsent from the other : he will find this only, that in each case certain muscular groups have heen set in action hy certain sensational or ideational stimuli. it is a very general mistake to sup- pose that every act of volition im- plies a distinct idea of its ohject. unless such an intellectual element he present, guiding the movement, the voluntary character is said to he wanting. but we agree with the emi- nent physiologist, jonaun von muller, that "the ultimate source of volun- tary motion caunot depend on any conscious conception of its ohject; for voluntary motions are performed hy the foetus hefore any ohject can .] voluntary and involuntary actions. occur to the mind—hefore any idea can possihly he conceived of what the voluntary motion effects. . . . the foetus moves its limhs at first, not for the attainment of any ohject, hut solely hecause it can move them. since, however, on this supposition there can he no particular reason for the movement of any one part, and the foetus would have equal cause to move all its muscles at the same time, there must he something which determines this, or that, voluntary motion to he performed. the know- ledge of the changes of position which are produced hy given move- ments, is gained gradually and only hy means of the movements them- selves. . . . the voluntary excita- tion of the origins of the nervous fihres, without ohjects in view, gives rise to motions, changes of posture, and consequent sensations. thus a connection is estahlished in the yet void mind hetween certain sensations and certain motions. when suhse- quently a sensation is excited from without, in any one part of the hody, the mind will he already aware that the voluntary motion, which is in consequence executed, will manifest itself in the limh which was the teat of sensation ; the foetus in utero will move the limh that is pressed upon, and not all the limhs simultaneously. the voluntary movements of animals must he developed in the same man- ner. the hird which hegins to sing is necessitated hy an instinct to in- cite the nerves of its laryngeal mus- cles to action; tones are thus pro- duced. by the repetition of this hlind exertion of volition, the hird at length learns to counect the kind of cause with the character of the effect pro- duced. the instinct of this dream- like and involuntary-acting impulse in the sensorinin has some share in the production of certain movements in the human infant, which are in themselves voluntary. in the sen- sorinm of the newly-horn child there is a necessitating impulse to the motions of sucking; hut the different parts of the act of sucking are them- selves voluntary movements."* in this passage, mtiller calls cer- tain actions voluntary which writers usually consider to he reflex (involun- tary), and reflex-actions with them mean actions without sensation; hut as mr. bain in his former volume remarks, "it may he hy a reflex- action that a child commences to suck when the nipple is put hetween its lips; hut the continuing to suck so long as the sensation of hunger is felt, and the ceasing when that sen- sation ceases, are truly volitional acts. all tbrough animal life, down to the very lowest sentient heing, this pro- perty of consciousuess is exhihited, and operates as the instrument for guiding and supporting existence. to whatever lengths the purely re- flex instincts, or the movements di- vorced from consciousuess, may he carried on in the inferior trihes, i can with difficulty admit the total ahsence of feeling in any heing we are accustomed to call an animal; and with this feeling i am ohliged also to include this property, wldck links the state of feeling with the state of present movement." f it is this link of feeling with action, which accord- ing to midler, constitutes volition. mr. bain has developed this idea with remarkahle skill in the volume now under notice; and has furnished more suggestive and instructive con- trihutions than any psychologist we are acquainted with, to the difficult and still unsolved prohlems of the will. mr. bain never alludes to the will as an independent entity, not even as a separate faculty. he treats it as the generalised expression of our power to perform voluntary actions; and voluntary actions he distin- guishes from those which are in- voluntary, hy _ their counection with certain sensations: whenever a link is estahlished hetween a sensation and one particular action, that action is voluntary. he points to the in- disputahle fact that a sensation of pain excites the active organs. an animal in pain struggles till it has escaped, or tbrown its hody into such a posture that the pain ceases. these writhings, excited hy pain, are involuntary; and they are so hecause * muller : physiology, hy baly, ii. . f bais: the senses and the intellect, p. . [sept. voluntary and involuntary actions. heyond definite control, heyond the guidance of any one feeling; they helong to what mr. bain calls the "diffusive wave of emotion ;" whereas voluntary actions are isolated, and directed to a particular end. in the course of its struggles, the animal accidentally makes one movement which is followed hy an alleviation or cessation of the pain; this makes it discontinue all the other move- ments, and continue that which alle- viates. if any of the other move- ments are set going, the pain recurs, and warns the animal to cease. the continuance of an alleviating move- ment, mr. bain regards as the voli- tional element. "we must in the first instance clearly and hroadly separate the diffusive wave, accompanying all emotions as their ne- cessary emhodiment, from the active in- fluence now under discussion. this is the more necessary as the two classes of movements are very apt to coexist. a hlow with a whip, inflicted on a sentient creature, produces, as a part of the emo- tinal effect, strictly so called, a general convulsive start, grimace, and howl; it also produces, in the case of the mature animal, an exertion in some definite course to avoid the recurreneo of the infliction. the first effect is entirely untaught, pri- mitive, instinctive; heing intimately and indissoluhly counected with feeling in the very nature of it. the other effect is hased likewise on an original property, hut hrought into the shape that we usu- ally find it in, after some experience and considerahle struggles. the element just mentioned, of aim or purpose, in no sense helongs to the movements of the diffused wave, or those constituting the manifestation or expression of the men- tal state. the ecstatic shout of hilarious excitement, the writhings of pain, are energetic movements, hut they helong neither to the class of central sponta- neity ahove descrihed, nor to the volun- tary class now under consideration." when a very young infant is in pain it struggles aud squalls. that is all it can do ; it does that lustily. mr. bain considers it due to the dif- fused wave of emotion. suppose the cause of the pain to he a needle pricking its foot; the child will make no effort to remove that needle, he- cause the link hetween such a pain and such an action has not yet heen estahlished, and this voluntary ef- fort caunot he made. before it can make such an effort it must have learned to localise its sensations. every surgeon knows that the young infant may he allowed to have his hands free, when operated on, hecause it caunot with its hands interfere with the knife, not as yet knowing where the seat of pain is. when, later on, it has learned to lo- calise its sensations, it may learn what actions alleviate them. a hahy in discomfort from some itching of the nose is at first simply restless; it learns to ruh that nose with its little fist, only after much experience of ruhhings. let us pause here, in the exposi- tion of mr. bain's views, to notice a point respecting the nature of the will, as understood hy two different schools. those who hold that the will is not simply the generalised ex- pression of all voluntary actions, hut exists independent of these, though manifested hy them, may consider that the helpless infant has the same will as the older infant who can per- form certain voluntary actions; hut although he has the will—and it is hy this that he makes those incohe- rent efforts to free himself from the pain — he has not yet learned what actions will relieve him. there is no logical ohjection to this conclu- sion ; hut there is the very fatal oh- jection, that if the struggles and squalls of an infant are true volun- tary actions (i.s. prompted hy the will), there can he no actions that are involuntary: a conclusion we accept, hut one energetically repudiated hy the doctrine now in question. those, on the other hand, who hold that the will simply means the power of per- forming voluntary actions, will deny that the infant has any will until that power has heen developed in him; and how it is developed mr. bain endeavours to expound. let us follow him in this endeavour. he takes for his hasis the primary fact that when pain coexists with an accidental alleviating movement, or when pleasure coexists with a pleasure-sustaining movement, such movements hecome suhject to the control of the respective feelings which occur in their company. _ it is a primordial law that we sbrink from pain and cling to pleasure; as .] voluntary and involuntary actions. long as the pain is unalleviated, move- ments are kept up; as soon as one particular movement hrings cessation of pain, that movement is kept up. an infant lying in hed has the painful sensation of chilliness. this feeling produces the usual emotional display, namely, movement, perhaps cries and tears. in the course of a variety of spontaneous movements of arms and legs, there occurs an action that hrings the child in contact with the nurse lying heside it; instantly warmth is felt, and this alleviation of painful feeling hecomes immedi- ately the stimulus to sustain the movement going on that moment. that movement, when discovered, is kept up, in preference to the others. id this way the child learns to con- nect certain sensations with certain movements, and at a year old will draw close to its nurse whenever the sensation of cold comes on, even during sleep. "it is an original property of our feelings to prompt the active system one way or another, hat there is no original counection hetween the several feelings and the actions that are relevant to each par- ticular case. to arrive at this goal, we need all the resources of sponta- neity, trial and error, and the adhe- sive growth of the proper couples, when they can once be got together. the first steps of our volitional edu- cation are a jumhle of spluttering, stumhling, and all hut despairing hopelessuess. instead of a clear curriculum, we have to wait upon the accidents, and improve them when they come." no one will withhold his assent from the proposition that a pain in- creasing in company with any move- ment must tend to cause the arrest of that movement; or that pleasure increasing in company with a move- ment most tend to cause the continu- ance of that movement "the spontaneous action thai hrings a limh into a painful contact, as when the child kicks its foot upon a pin in its dress, is undouhtedly from the earliest moment of mental life arrested. with- out this i see no possihle commencement of voluntary power. so a movement that mitigates a pain already in opera- tion is maintained, as long as the crea- ture is conscious of diminished suffering. in this way, the arms, hands, and fingers work for ahating sharp agony, provided only the right memher has found its way into action. no provision, as i have often said, exists at the dawn of life for getting tho right memher into play. the infant heing must go tbrough many a cycle of aunoyance, hecause, among nu- merous stimulants to action that have occurred, tho right one has heen omitted. but the true impetus once arising, the mind is alivo to tho coincidenco of this with decreasing or vanished pain; just as, on the other hand, wo must suppose it alivo to tho coincidence of some other movement with an aggravation of the evil. tho greater tho pain, the more strongly is tho alleviating movement sustained when once under way. for tho next stage of tho process, the esta- hlishment of a counection hetween the pain and tho special action, wo must fall tack upon the foundation of all our ac- quisitions, namely, the force of contigu- ous association. the concurrence of a particular sensation, as a prick in tho arm, with that retracting movement which rids us of tho pain, leads to tho rise of an adhesivo hond hetween tho two, if a sufficient numher of repetitions have occurred. wo caunot say how many instances of chance conjunction aro requisite to generate an association so strong as to tako away tho uncertain- ties attending the spontaneous discharge; all tho circumstances governing the ra- pidity of contiguous adhesion would have to ho taken into account in this case. tho excitement of strong pain on the one hand, or of strong pleasure on the other, is a favourahle moment for the growth of an association: and pro- hahly not a great numher of those occa- sions would he necessary to convert an inchoate into a full-formed volition. full- formed, i say, hecause when the sup- posed pain can hring into play the pro- per movement, in the ahsence of all spontaneous tendency, we have a case of voluntary power complete for all tho purposes of the living heing. tho ex- ample that i am now discussing, namelv, the retractation of any part of tho hody from a painful contact, implies a very numerous set of coincidences hetween local pains and local movements. for all contacts on the hack of tho hand, there must he an association with tho muscles of flexion; for the palm, the extensor muscles must he aifected. for the outside of the arm, tho tendency to draw it towards tho sido has to he prompted. and so in like mauner for every part of tho hody, under an irri- tating smart, there must he a formed [sept. voluntary and involuntary actions. counection hetween painful sensation arising in tho locality and the corre- sponding movements of retractation. this is one department of voluntary acquisi- tion, and consists cf a multitude of couples of individual sensations and in- dividual movements, joined hy associa- tion, after heing commenced hy sponta- neity. for the class of acute pains sup- posed tho acquirement is perfect, owing in a great measure to the simplicity of tho case. it is not so with many of those muscular pains, which we are pro- fessedly considering at present, although in tho foregoing illustration we have de- parted from them, and somewhat anti- cipated tho suhject of sensation at large. the cramps of tho limhs do not ordin- arily suggest tho alleviating action. ow- ing partly to the rarity of the feeling, wo have not usually a full-formed voli- tion which enahles the state of suffering to induce the alleviating action, and con- sequently wo are tbrown upon the pri- mitive course of trial and error. this instance shows, hy contrast with the pre- ceding, how truly our voluntary powers result from education. au estahlished link hetween a cramp in the hall of the leg, and the proper actions for doing away with the agony, is quite as great a desideratum as drawing up the foot when the toe is pinched or scalded; yet no such link exists, until a melancholy experienco has initiated and matured it. tho counection in the other case is so well formed from early years, that al- most everyhody looks upon it as an in- stinct, yet why should there ho an in- stinct for the lighter forms of pain, and nona for the severest? tho truth is, that tho good education.in tho one is en- tirely owing to our heing more favour- ahly situated for making the acquisi- tion." hitherto we have seen voluntary notions under the guidance of sensa- tions only; let us now ohserve the ideal element. a child is seated at tahle with us. he places his hand upon the hright teapot, and the pain of the hurn makes him withdraw his hand; again the hrightness attracts his curious fingers, and again the pain makes him desist. after a cer- tain numher of trials the idea of the pain is so associated with that of the teapot, that the child no longer hurns himself. but he has tbrnst his hand into the hiscuit-plate, and finds this action rewarded with a hiscuit in- stead of a hurn. on repeating it he is scolded, or slapped, or put into the corner—made to suffer pain; and if this pain he alwayn inflicted when he acts thus, he will soon learn to restrain those forays upon the his- cuits. this link which is estahlished hetween an action and a pain, is an ideal link, and finds its place in memory; it is nearly as firm as a sensational link. the supposition, however, that this ideal link makes the action voluntary, as distinguished from an action which is guided hy a sensational link, will not withstand criticism. at first our actions are guided hy sensations; then hy the ideal repre- sentatives of those sensations. "instead of an actual movement seen, we have for the guiding antecedent a movement conceived, or jn idea. tho association now passes to those ideal notions that we are ahle to form of our various actions, and counects them with tho actions themselves. .all that is then necessary is a determining motive, put- ting the action in request. some plea- sure or pain, near or remote, is essential to every volitional effort, or every change from quiescence to movement, or from ono movement to another. we feel, for example, a painful state of tho dijrerth system, with the consequent volitional urgency to allay it; experience, direc- tion, and imitation, have counected in our minds all tho intermediate steps, and so the train of movements is set on. on the tahle hefore us we see a glass of liquid; the infant never so thirsty could not make the movement for hringing it to tho mouth. but in the maturity of the will, a link is formed hetween the appreciated distance and direction of the glass, and tho movement of the arm up to that point; and under the stimulus of pain, or of expected pleasure, the movement is executed." it often happens that we are con- scious of " an interval of suspense he- tween the moment of painful urgency and the moment of appeasing action;" hecause the reflex-feelings are many, and these cross and recross each other, so that no one of them issues in action. this was the case with the frog to which we previously ad- verted; instead of hopping away when pinched, it cowered and seemed hesitating as to its escape. and this leads us to consider how thoughts, no less than actions, can he con- trolled; how the mind has power .] voluntary and involuntary action*. over its actions, no less than over the actions of the hody. the fact that we can, in some degree, control the thoughts, is indisputahle; how we do so is not so clear. mr. bain, if we do not misunderstand him, has heen led into some confusion on this point, hy his error of limiting the will to the regiou of the voluntary muscles. "as we can under an adequate motive ohserve one point in the scene hefore us, awl neglect everything else; us we can single out one sound and he deaf to the general hum ;—as we can apply our- selves to the appreciation of one flavour in the midst of many, or he aware of a pressure on a particular part of the hody to the neglect of the rest; so in mental attention we can fix one idea firmly in the view, while others are coming and going unheeded. on the supposition, that the influence of the will is limited to the region m the voluntary muscles and parts in alliance therewith, some- thing needs to ho said in explanation of this apparent exception to the rule. it is not ohvious at first sight that the re- tention of an idea in the mind is operated hy voluntary muscles. which moving organ is put in force when i arn cogitat- ing on a circle, or keeping my attention wedded to my recollection of st. paul's t there can he no answer given to this, unless on the assumption that the men- tal, or revived, image occupies the snmo place in the hrain and other parts of the system,as the original sensation did: a position supported hy a numher of rea- sons adduced in my former volume, which need not he repeated. i have shown that there is a muscular element in our sensations, especially of the higher senses, touch, hearing, and sight; this clement must somehow or other have a place in the after rememhrance or idea; otherwise.the ideal and the actual would he much more different than we find them. the ideal circle is a restoration of those currents that would prompt the sweep of the eye round a real circle; the difference lies in the last stage, or in the stopping short of the actual movement performed hy the organ. i know of no other distinction hetween the remem- hered and the original, except this stop- page or shortcoming of the current of nervous power, which is no douht an important one in several respects, hut still permitting the power t>f voluntary control." this explanation is far from satis- factory. the principle whioh mr. bain has so well illustrated respect- tol. ixxxvl ing the guidance of our actions, is surely ample to explain the guidance of our thoughts. the power of keep- ing up one train of thought, is ana- logous to that of keeping up one course of muscular action. we cling to certain ideas hecause they are pleasant, or interest us, or hecause some remote pain or pleasure stimu- lates us; and we repress all other thoughts as they arise, just as we should repress movements which dis- turhed a pleasurahle sensation. it is notorious that we caunot call up any one idea at will; hut having once got hold of the idea, we can keep it hefore the mind. what mr. bain has said when treating of the intellectual process named hy him "constructive association," seems to us the true explanation of all com- mand over the thought :— "when watt invented his 'parallel motion' for the steam-engine, his intel- lect and ohservation were kept at work. going out in all directions for the chamv of some suitahle comhination rising to view; his sense of the precise thing to he done was the constant touchstone of every contrivance occurring to him, and all the successive suggestions were ni- rested, or repelled, as they came near to, or disagreed with, this touchstone. the attraction and repulsion were pur. - ly volitional effects; they were the con- tinuance of the very same energy that, in his hahybood, made him keep hi- mouth to his mother's hreast while he felt hunger unappeased, and with- drew it when satisfied, or that made him roll a sugary morsel in his mouth, and let drop or violently eject what was hitter or nauseous. the promptitude . that we display in setting aside or ig- noring what is seen not to answer our present wants, is volition, pure, peren- nial, and unmodified; the power seen in our infant struggles for nourishment and warmth, or the riddance of acute pain, and presiding over the last enden votirs to case the agonies of suffering. no formal resolution of the mind, adopted after consideration or dehate, no special intervention of the 'ego,' or the person- ality, is essential to this putting forth of the energy of retaining on the one hand, or repudiating on the other, what is felt to he clearly suitahle, or clearly unsuit- ahle, to the feelings or aims of the mo- ment. the inventor sees the incongruity of a proposal, and forthwith it vanishes from his view. there may he extraneous [sept. voluntary and involuntary actions. considerations happening to keep it up in spite of the volitional stroke of repu- diation, hut the genuine tendency of the mind is to withdraw all further consi- deration, on the mere motive of un- suitnhility ; while sonie other scheme of an opposite nature is, hy the same in- stinct, emhraced and held fast. in all these new constructions, he they me- chanical, verhal, scientific, practical, or ajsthetical, the outgoings of the mind are necessarily at random; the end alone is the thing that is clear to the view, and with that there is a perception of the fitness of every passing suggestion. the volitional energy keeps up the at- tention, or the active search, and the moment that anything in point rises hefom the mind, springs upon that like a wild heast on its prey." we have now laid hefore the reader the cardinal positions of mr. bain's theory of the will, or, as he calls it, of voluntary actioo. it differs, as is evident, from current theories; hut a careful study of the arguments hy which it is supported will convince the reader that, if not the whole truth, it is no inconsiderahle step towards a true explanation. we have not urged the ohjections which might he urged against some of his views, he- cause we wished our limited space to he occupied with exposition rather than criticism; hut our reticence must not he construed into acqui- escence. there is one point, how- ever, which we desire to notice, in order that some carious physiolo- gical facts may he laid hefore the reader. nowhere has mr. bain expressed himself categorically respecting the difference hetween voluntary and in- voluntary actions; hut he assumes the difference, and, implicitly at least, he makes it depend on the estahlishment of the link of feeling. "voluntary actions," he says, in the nearest approach to a definition we can recall, "are distinguished from reflex and spontaneous activity hy the directive intervention of a feeling in their production.'' in denying the intervention of sensation in re- flex-actions, he only follows estah- lished theories; hut unless he sepa- rates the involuntary from reflex and spontaneous actions, he falls into manifest contradiction with his own principles in making the inter- vention of feeling the mark of a voluntary act. we have endeavoured to show that hoth voluntary and involuntary actions are reflex, fol- lowing upon the stimulus given to their centres, that stimulus heing sen- sational or ideational. nor is this all: they are hoth capahle of heing hrought under control — that is to say, of heing restrained or originated hy the influence of sorne other centre. that we do not hahitually control (that is, interfere with) the action of the heart, the contraction of the iris, or the activity of a gland, is true: it is on this account that such ac- tions are called involuntary; they ohey the immediate stimulus. but it is an error to assert, as all physio- logists and psychologists persist in asserting, that these actions caunot he controlled, that they are alto- gether heyond the interference of other centres, and caunot hy any effort of ours he modified. it is an error to suppose these actions are essentially distinguished from the voluntary movement of the hands. we have acquired a power of definite direction in the movements of the hands, which renders them ohedient to our will; hut this acquisition has heen of slow lahorious growth. if we were asked to use our toes as we use our fingers—to grasp, paint, sew. or write with them, we should find it not less impossihle to control the movements of the toes in these direc- tions, than to contract the iris, or cause a hurst of perspiration to hreak forth. certain movements of the toes are possihle to us; hut unles- the loss of our fingers has made it necessary that we should use our toes in complicated and slowly ac- quired movements, we can do no more with them than the young in- fant can do with his fingers. tet men and women have written, sewed, and painted with their toes. all that is required is that certain links should he estahlished hetween sensa- tions and movements; hy continual practice these links are estahlished; and what is impossihle to the ma- jority of men, hecomes easy to the individual who has acquired this power. this same power can he acquired over what are called the organic actions; although the hahi- .] voluntary and involuntary actions. tual needs of life do not tend towards such acquisition, and without some strong current setting in that direc- tion, or some peculiarity of organisa- tion rendering it easy, it is not ac- quired. in ordinary experience the numher of those who can write witli their toes is extremely rare, the ur- gent necessity which would create such a power heing rare; and rare also are the examples of those who have any control over the movement of the iris, or the action of a gland; hut hoth rarities exist. it would he difficult to choose a more striking example of reflex action ttmn the contraction of the iris of the eye under the stimulus of light; and to ordinary men, having no link estahlished which would guide them, it is utterly impossihle to close the iris hy any effort of their own. it would he not less impossihle to the hungry child to get on the chair and reach the food on the tahle, until that child has learned how to do so. yet there are men who have learned how to contract the iris. the cele- hrated fontana had this power, which is possessed also hy a medical man now living at glasgow — mr. paxton-*-a fact stated on the autho- rity of no less a person than dr. allen thomson* mr. paxton can contract or expand the iris at will, without changing the position of his eye, and without an effort of adapta- tion to distance. to move the ears is impossihle to most men. yet some do it with ease, and all can learn to do it. some men have learned to "ruminate" their food; others to vomit with ease; and some are said to have the power of perspiring at will.f that many glands are under the influence of the will—in other words, that we can stimulate them to secretion hy a mere ideal stimulus — is too well known to need instance here. even the heating of the heart can he arrested. the heart has its own ner- vonssystem. the minute ganglia im- hedded in its suhstance regulate its rhythmic movements; and long after death the heart is seen to heat. but although thus independent, it is also dependent; its nervous system is in counection with the spinal chord and hrain; and influences from these will act upon it. thus it is that emotions agitate the heart; the disturhance of its movements comes from the inter- ference of hrain or chord. now, if once we recoguise a chaunel of sen- sation, we recoguise a possihle source of control; and if the daily needs of life were such that to fulfil some purpose the action of the heart re- quired control, we should learn to control it. some men have, without such needs, learned how to control it the eminent physiologist, e. p. weher of leipzig, found that he could completely check the heating of his heart. by suspending his hreath, and violently contracting his chest, he could retard the pulsations; and after tbree or five heats, unac- companied hy any of the usual sounds, it was completely still. on one occasion he carried the experi- ment too far, and fell into a syncope. cheyne, in the last century, recorded a case of a patient of his own who could at will suspend the heating of his pulse, and always fainted when he did so. it thus appears that even the actions which most distinctly hear the character recoguised as involun- tary — uncontrollahle — are only so hecause the ordinary processes of life furnish no necessity for their control.' we do not learn to control them, though we could do so, to some extent; nor do we learn to control the motions of our ears and toes, although we could do so. and while it appears that the involuntary actions can hecome voluntary, it is familiar to all that the voluntary actions tend, hy constant repetition, to hecome involuntary, and are then called secondarily automatic. the conclusion at which we arrive is this: popular language conve- niently classes actions as voluntary when « distinct conception of the ohject to he achieved accompanies * we learn this from brown sequaro's journal de la phytiologie , p. s , who cites the glasgow medical journal, , p. . f mayer: die elementarorganizalion des seelenorgans, p. , is the authontj- for the last statement. [sept. voluntary and involuntary actions. or originates them. bat psychology and physiology, descending deeper than such classifications, and ana- lysing the process which takes place in the organism, declare that all actions whatever are the responses of organs to the stimulus of their nerve-centres. whether the action he the movement of a muscle or the secretion of a gland, it is finally determined hy the centre from which the organ is supplied. this centre may he stimulated hy a sensory nerve going from the surface — as when the salivary gland pours out its secretion, or the limh con- tracts, after the stimulus of food, or pain. the centre may also he stimu- lated hy the action of some other centre; as when the idea of food causes a flow of saliva, or the irrita- tion of the salivary gland causes a flow of gastric juice. but whether the action result from a direct or an indirect stimulus, it is always the same response of an organ to its centre; whether the starting - point he an idea or a sensation, the final issue is an excitation of the particular centre, and the response of a parti- cular action. we caunot separate some actions from others, and call them voluntary hecause they are dependent on a link of feeling, since all actions are dependent on sensa- tion. and if any reader ohjects to such a conclusion on the ground that it makes the soul animate the whole hody, and preside over all its actions, not simply over a few of them—if he ohjects that we are therehy retro- grading towards the doctrine of stabl —our reply is : we must follow logic whither logic leads. any reader who is uncomfortahle at the idea of retro- grading, who is unwilling to helieve that all the phenomena of his sensi- tive organism have one common source, one kindred nature, and one common name—the soul—is at per- fect liherty to try and reach some other conviction which, hesides he- ing more agreeahle to his feelings, will hetter explain the facts. it is a topic on which no man will wisely dogmatise. the veil of mys- tery will never he lifted. we who stand hefore that veil, and specu- late as to what is hehind it, cau hut huild systems; we caunot see the truth. .] the luck of ladgsmede.—part vii. the luck of i, a d y s x e n e . chapter xvil—the warning. dame elfhild and her niece occu- pied their usual seats in the polar window. isola, too, at gladice's persuasion, had left her chamher; and the change of scene, and the natural efforts which the made to appear cheerful in the company of her kind entertainers, were not with- out their good effect upon her health and spirits. still, with the excep- tion of the elder lady, they were hut a silent party. gladice's eyes might have seemed, as usual, to have heen counting the stones in the old wall opposite, or the hlades of withering grass in the court helow; there was the same dreamy gaze and indolent grace as ever; hut the cheek that leant on the ricbly-moulded arm had an unusual paleness, and there was at times a passing contraction of the hrow, ohserved hy isola's eyes, if hy no others. for the italian alone had no ostensihle occupation, and she might he pardoned if her glance rested on the heautiful face, upon which the full light of the window was streaming, with far more inte- rest than upon the elder lady's husy fingers, or any other ohject in the gloomy chamher. dame elfhild also darted occasionally a questioning look, such as she could spare from her more ahsorhing ohject, in the same direction; for to the various discursive remarks, hy which that lady had heen doing her hest to en- liven their little circle, her niece had made hut short and vague replies. she was tolerahly well accustomed to gladice's moods of meditation; hut she could not surely he wrong in concluding that the maiden's thoughts, on this particular morning, had taken a more definite shape than their wont; and she hore her inattention with admirahle patience, and an inward smile of satisfaction. but as her own ideas of love's dis- tractions were huilt rather on theory than experience, it is possihle that her conclusions in the present case were wrong. it was a suhject which she did not choose to open to the stranger whom accident had made their guest, even hy the favourite feminine process of hints and smiles; and isola's own position was too em- harrassing, and her thoughts too hitter, for her to mnke any attempt to hreak the restraint hy indifferent conversation. suddenly gladice rose, and tbrew the lattice open, and called to the seneschal, who was passing across the iuner court. "i would ride this forenoon, war- enger," she said; "let us get to saddle as soon as may conveniently he." warenger looked up with some sur- prise, for the lady's tone sounded far more peremptory than he approved of; he was wont to he consulted with some- deference on such matters. he'felt it cue to himself in conse- quence to make some difficulty, hut he was not exactly prepared with one at the moment. "to ride, did my lady say v "to ride, master seneschal; shall we he favoured with your good com- pany? i trust so." his lady smiled so sweetly as she said it, that almost any other man than the old seneschal must have grasped at the invitation at once. it had its effect even upon him: he was preparing his line of defence to resist any form of dictation which could he hrought to hear upon him, and here he found himself taken in flank hy smiles and hright eyes. he made a hrave show of resistance, nevertheless, hefore he yielded. "hengist hath caught somewhat of a wheezing in his tbroat—-it were hardly well to ride him to-day," said warenger; "unless, indeed, your ladyship would he pleased to go slowly." this was an alternative which the seneschal well knew his young mistress would scarcely avail herself of. "nay, then, it is very ill-timed of him," said she; "hut the hlame lies rather with those who should have looked to him hetter; he would he well if he knew i wanted him. but [sept. the luck of ladysmede.—part vii. there is the new palfrey which you have heen mouthing for me, waren- ger; i will ride him to-day." the seneschal shook his head so- lemnly. "the saints forhid," said he, "that i should suffer itl" "and why not ?" rejoined the lady; "i saw harry put him tbrough all his paces two dajs ago, and he carried himself so discreetly that even judith said she should not fear to mount him." "judith may ride what she will,"' returned warenger gruffly; "she is no charge of mine, and there will he no great outcry made if harm comes to her of her own wilfulness." "shame on you, master seneschal," said gladice; "if ever you fall sick again, i will warn judith to make you no more possets." "making of possets is one thing, good my lady, which judith may do well enough, hut riding of half- managed colts is another. i would not put you on the roan-palfrey's hack for the hest of the hope manors." "yon are more careful of me than i deserve," said gladice; "hut my good kinswoman here proffers me her jeunet, which is staid enough to carry an ahhess. so prithee despatch, kind master warenger, while the sun- shine lasts." "i misdouht the weather," said the seneschal, looking round him ominously, as a last remonstrance, into an unusually hright novemher sky. "i never saw it promise fairer," re- turned the lady in laughing contra- diction; "we may as well make pris- oners of ourselves all the winter as he scared hy a passing cloud. you will not ride to-day, then ?" she continued, turning to elfhild, as warenger re- tired from the contest with a protest- ing wave of his hand, and moved off to execute her wishes. the elder lady declared that it was impossihle to spare the time. "and you caunot, i fear " said gladice to the italian. isola shook her head with a faint smile. "alas! no," she said; "hut in a few days i will gladly try, for it is full time that i should myself pnt some limit to the kindness of such generous friends. i know," she con- tinued, as hoth her hearers joined in protesting warmly against any such idea—" know well there is no such thought in either of your hearts; hut there are good and weighty reasons why i should take my journey hence as speedily as i may find strength." gladice alone saw the rising colour in the speaker's face, and turned her eyes away. "i must go prepare me," she said; and she left the apartment. finding herself alone, almost for the first time, with her elder hostess, isola summoned all her courage to repeat to her the sad tale of error and sufferinir, which she had already told to gladice; and from the kind- hearted elfhild she received at once, if not a more real and heartfelt sym- pathy, at least warmer demonstra- tions than from her niece. on one point only the confidence was incom- plete — no mention was made of sir nicholas le hardi's name, and no- thing escaped from the italian's lips which could lead to any suspicion that the faitbless knight whom, in the weakness — or the strength — of her woman's love, she had crossed the sea to follow, had heen so lately a visitor within those very walls. if such concealment was a fault, it was at least not altogether a selfish one. dame elfhild'a lively recoguition of the stranger's wrongs was checked hy the reappearance of gladice in her riding-dress. the morning cloud had parsed from her face, and the smooth open hrow hore no longer any trace of painful thought. isola looked at her as she entered, and with the warm impulse and in the expressive language of her nation, murmured audihly her affectionate admiration. beautiful as ever, there seemed a soft consciousuess now io the expression of the features, which made her more than ever attractive. the italian gazed long enough to call up a hlush in the cheek of gladice, hut it did not seem a painful one; and when at length she took her eyes away, filling as they were with tears which were not of sorrow, her companions needed no skill in lan- guages to understand, in the soft im- passioned tuscan accents which hroke from her, the expression of her grati- tude and hlessing. .] the luck of ladyamede.—part vii. there had heen no need to put in- to requisition, for the younger lady's use, the sleek and short-winded ani- mal which went tbrough life so easily under her kinswoman. hengist's indisposition proved not to he very serious ; and as gladice caressed her favourite hefore she mounted, she smiled to herself at the old seneschal's palpahle excuse, though she wisely .made no remark heyond an expres- sion of satisfaction. to warenger she had never seemed more gracious, or in gayer spirits. once only, hefore they left the castle-yard, she spoke with such a strange ahruptness that the old man looked in her face to read there some explanation of the unusual tone, hut it was turned purposely away from him. it was when he asked permission to carry with them one of the foreigu hawks which had heen the gift of sir nicholas, and without which he seldom willingly stirred ahroad. that his young mis- tress, who had always loved the gentle sport so well, should ohject to such an addition to their party at all, surprised him; hut the short and sharp terms, almost of displeasure, in which she refused this very natural proposition, were even more unac- countahle. a few moments after- wards, however, when she addressed him again, her voice was as wiuning as ever, and he set down the momentary petulance in his own mind as one of those curious anomalies of feminine na- ture which, he thanked heaven, he had never had any personal interest in in- vestigating. followed hy a couple of grooms, they galloped along the level meadows hy the river-side, at a pace which might have discomposed the old seneschal, had not great part of his life heen spent in the saddle ; for to- day gladice seemed less than ever content to ride slowly. as at length she tarned her horse to look round for her escort, whom she had out- stripped, she saw that warenger's eyes were fixed on the pathway which wound amongst the hrushwood on the slope ahove them. a solitary figure stood there, which appeared also to he watching attentively the party he- low. as the seneschal rejoined his lady, still turning his eyes occasionally to the hill-side, the wayfarer suddenly waved his hand as if to attract their notice, and hegan to move down to- wards them at a rno. "who comes yonder, warenger?" asked his mistress. "i caunot tell, so please you," re- plied the seneschal ; '' hut he knows us, helike, hetter than we know him. i thought he was watching us when i first saw him; 'tis some knave that hath a purpose of his own, no douht." "it is raoul, from ladysmede!" ex- claimed gladice, as the figure came plainer into view. "nay, that may hardly he, saving your worshipful presence; my young gallant would not for his life he seen so far afoot of a morning, for fear of spoiling his hoots." warenger was very unwilling to think that his eyes could fail him now more than they did fifty years ago. • "raoul it is, and no other," re- turned gladice, " come he here how he may;" and she rode forward to meet him. "it hath somewhat the favour of him," admitted warenger sullenly, as he followed his mistress; "hut it looks more like a man, and less like a popinjay." very unlike himself indeed did the young squire look that morning, as he came panting towards them. even had old warenger's eyesight heen sharper, he might have well heen excused for heing slow to recoguise him. his hand^me curls were all uncared for, his gay dress was torn and travel-stained, his face was pale, and the hright hold look which he- came him so well was there no longer. life had run so smootbly with poor raoul until now, that its trouhles and realities seemed to have come upon him all at once. a night of watching and auxiety—the first, per- haps, that he had ever spent — had sadly dashed the joyous young spirit; and the forcing himself, with picot's help, tbrough the narrow window, lying close under the wall till day- hreak, and then stealing cautiously tbrough the wet fern and hushes until he was at a safe distance from the manor, had left him, in outward appearance, something which he him- self would have heen the first to have felt ashamed of. it was a guise in which he would have heen very slow [sept. the lvck of ladysmede.—part vii. at any other time, to present him- self hefore a fair lady. even gladiee could hardly suppress a question- ing smile of astonishment as she greeted him. but poor raoul was now in too serious a mood to waste much thought upon his iunocent vanities ; and if his countenance had lost something of its hoyish grace, it had a wild earnestness which checked gladice's smile as she read it closer. if he coloured scarlet as she spoke to him, it was from no thought uhout his personal appearance. "what is it, raoul " she asked. her look was almost as eager as his own, as he raised his cap to salute her. "has any harm hefallen you?" "no, no!" said raoul —. " no- thing." he was out of hreath. "i was on my way to the tower, to tell yhu something which concerns you nearly, lady—i am right glad to have met with you here." "and what may he the matter of such importance, that you should run afoot, as i guess, all the way from ladysmede, master raoul, to tell me?" gladiee coloured slightly in her turn, and spoke a little nervously; for the esquire's look and mauner were painfully earnest, "i would rather, if the lady glad- ice please to listen to me, speak a few words in her hearing alone." "so he it, in heaven's name," said old warenger contemptuously, draw- ing his horse hack to a respectful dis- tance; "he only discreet in your communications, young sir: i have no fancy, i do assure ye, to he a lis- tener in ought that doth not concern me; i would i could shut my ears of- tener to matters which i am forced to hear." "i hear a message from sir god- frey," said raoul, addressing the sen- eschal in a tone of haughty explana- tion. "it must needs he a weighty one, that a gentleman of such experience is charged with it," said the seneschal; "let me stand no longer in the way of its heing delivered." "pardon my holdness, sweet lady," said the esquire when he was out of hearing—" was any message hrought from ladysmede this morning?" "none, to my knowledge," said the lady. "do not go there at present, if sir godfrey seeks your company," said raoul hurriedly; "if you are told that sir nicholas has left these parts, do not helieve it." "what have i to do, i pray you, sir squire, with sir nicholas le hardi's movements, whether he comes or goes?" she spoke, as she might he excused for speaking, with a tone and look of offended diguity. raoul saw the colour on her face, and felt neither rehuked nor ahashed. he laid his hand on her hridle, and only spoke the more earnestly. "i do humhly entreat your pardon, lady ; that you care not for him, i know — god forhid it! hut — hut — i caunot tell why, hut i fear some evil is on foot." and he told her of his interview with sir godfrey —all hut the hlow. gladiee listened at first with a show of haughty carelessuess, hut as he pro- ceeded, with gradually roused atten- tion. "my lord of ely expected as a guest at ladysmede " said she, when rioul repeated that part of his lord's message—" it is strange i should not have heard of it." "such was sir godfrey's message; hut that which he had me he sure to tell, and which i know is false, was that sir nicholas was to take his de- parture tn-day." "and this priest — this father giacomo — why are you so ready to trust him more than others " asked gladiee after a pause. "because i am sure he has spoken the truth." "how can you he sure of it?" re- peated gladiee; "the report i have ever heard of him has heen evil." "yet i am sure of it, none the less," said the esquire; i would pledge my life that he means honestly in this." "and what pledge have i, heyond your own word, young sir, for the strange euspicions which you hint against knights and gentlemen of name? why should i helieve you?" "because—" raoul checked him- self hefore he had well hegun his eager speech, and said, "do you think that i could play you false, lady?" ". i know not—ye may he all false .] the luck of ladysmede.—part vii. alike," half-hitterly : hut she did not move her eyes from the youth's ap- pealing face, and he read in her look more confidence than her words con- veyed. •' i confess i am strangely inclined," she continued, '• to put some faith in your warning; and as for your own honesty in the matter, i have a thought to put it to the trial at once." raoul coloured like a girl, hut only answered hy a profound oheisance. "you do not think to return to ladysmede?" "never !" said he indiguantly. "then listen." she hent forward in her saddle, and spoke in a lower tone, so that no word could reach the ears of her attendants. "ride for me straight to the mynchery at michamstede, and ask to have speech of the lady-ahhess; she will tell you where to seek the bishop of ely my good cousin — he is surely hy this time within a day or two's journey, if not nearer; and when you find him, say to him from me, that i would gladly take counsel with him upon a matter of pressing importance. you will do this? have none that i may trust hetter." "i will not fail you, lady,—he sure of it" '- i am hound to furnish you with a horse for my service. lamhert! this yonng esquire will hold it a charity for thee to change places with him — he does me the grace to ride to-day upon a certain errand of mine own." both the serving-man and the sen- eschal heard their lady's order with some surprise; hut it was not for them to make ohjection to it ; and lamhert, with as good a grace as he could command, dismounted and held the stirrup for the esquire to mount. scarcely waiting to fix himself in his seat, with hrief word of thanks to the groom, and a low hend of part- ing salutation to the lady, raonl put the horse to his speed over the level ground, and was soon out of sight the lady gladice was very thought- ful as she rode homewards. on her, too, as well as upon raoul, the stern realities of life were fast crowding all at once. she had made her first personal acquaintance with falsehood and with danger. but she was neither overpowered nor dismayed. rather, the call to earnest thought and action had roused her spirit, and awoke her from a life which had seemed to her miserahly without a meaning or an ohject. she had now to call forth all her energies, and think and act for herself. in none of those ahout her could she look for a friend who could give her any real sympathy or protection. she sbrank from disclosing to her aunt isola's unhappy secret, at least until the latter should have removed to some quarter where she would he safe from any danger which she might appre- hend from le hardi's vengeance. she had too much reason to fear, from the esquire's story, that her kinsman sir godfrey would not he over-scrupulous in the means which he employed to entrap or even force her into a marriage with sir nicholas; she felt hy no means sure that the unfortunate italian could suhstanti- ate her claim—however morally right- ful it might he — as the crusader's wedded wife, if he himself were de- termined to repudiate it; and she knew how lightly her guardian would hold all ohligations which stood in the way of any cherished desigu of his own ; and there was little settled law or authority in the kingdom to which she could appeal. her rela- tive, william longchamp, she had reason to think, was little inclined to look with favour on sir godfrey; and once under his powerful protec- tion, she would at least he safe from the persecution which seemed to tbreaten her at present: even if his advice should point to the cloister as her only eventual refuge, the vows of a recluse did not seem so wholly dis- tasteful to gladice at this moment as they had a short while ago. old warenger looked graver, too, on their return. there was an un- comfortahle feeling in his mind that something was going wrong, though how or why he would have heen quite at a loss even to guess to him- self. that his young mistress was to marry the crusader was an estah- lished fact in his mind, as with the household generally; that she would he so uureasonahle as to make any the luck of ladysmedc.—parl vii. [sept. ohjection to an arrangement very had reached willan's hope during desirahle—or, indeed, that she could gladice's short ahsence hy a more expect to he consulted on such a trusty hand. gundred had done his point except as a matter of courtesy, lord's hidding, if not with a very — would never have entered his graceful courtesy, at least with no thoughts. still, having as sincere a mistake as to the terms; and though feeling of affection for his old lord's the aunouncement of sir nicholas's daughter as his rnde nature would sudden departure from the neigh- admit, he had remarked to himself hourhood had taken even elfhild hy and to others, with considerahle satis- surprise, the chamherlain spoke in faction, that the knight's attentions such an important and mjsterious hud heen received as graciously as mauner of the emergencies of the they deserved, and with as little show king's service, upon which the knight of displeasure as might comport with had visited england, that his uti-n-- maiden diguity. he would have picious listener was more than satis- heen sorry to have caused his young fied. she did indeed venture to hint mistress unhappiness; hut that any at the prohahility that it would not such feeling could arise from the pro- he very long hefore ladysmede would spect now hefore her, which promised receive him as a \iuest again; and to to set her free from the perils and this supposition gundred — who was emharrassments of a maiden heiress, not slow to perceive what answer and the chance (which warenger's would he most acceptahle — had experience taught him was not an readily assented. to the formal an- improhahle one) of having her lands nouncement of the legate's expected seized on some pretext hy her guard- visit, he also made hold to add some ian, and heing driven herself into the more particular details, which would dull shelter of the church, and to come naturally within his own de- make her the honoured hride of a partment, of the extraordinary pre- stout soldier like sir nicholas — this parations necessary to he made at was a piece of woman's unreason- the manor itself, and among its sut- ahleness which the seneschal never rounding tenants, to receive the large contemplated, and would assuredly retinue which was now daily ex- have heen inclined to laugh at if he pected. had. he considered himself in some gladice listened patiently while sort, too, as sir godfrey's liegeman; the elder lady with some little ex- for it would have heen easy for the citement, repeated the invitation knight of ladysmede to have put the which had heen conveyed to them hy keeping of the old tower into other sir godfrey. she judged it wiser to hands, in spite of any remonstrances he silent on the suhject of raoul's from its female inmates; and if he communication, and nothing in her had entertained any suspicion that countenance hetrayed any previous young raoul was at this moment en- knowledge on the suhject. when con- gaged in counteracting the desigus suited as to the answer which was to of his lawful master, he would not he returned, she at once agreed that have allowed him to ride off so there could he no good reason for quietly upon his lady's errand. it refusing, and allowed her relative, needed some caution, therefore, on during great part of the ensuing gladice's part, not to turn her own afternoon, to discuss with much household into enemies. vivacity the characters and preteu- she recovered herself, however, as sions of the good company whom she re-entered the old tower, and met they were likely to meet in the train her kinswoman with even a gayer of william of ely. a year's resi- smile than usual. her face was still dence in the seclusion of the old tower, lighted with the flush of exercise, aud though horne with all the cheerful- none could have suspected that there ness of a naturally elastic spirit, and was an anxious restlessuess in her solaced hy the never-tiring cotupan- thoughts. she was fully prepared for ionship of her husy needle, had not, the intelligence with which dame as elfhild hegan to he conscious since elfhild greeted her. the message the crusader's visits, destroyed her which raoul had refused to convey interest in the gayer world of camp ] the luck of ladysmede.—part vii. and hall and festival in which she the two. the vague possihilities of had once moved conspicuously. the the future are pleasanter food to feed younger lady, after all, had perhaps upon than reminiscences of an im- heen the more contented recluse of possihle past. ctiapteb xviil the conference. there was hurrying to and fro amongst the domestics of ladysmede on the morning when the prisoner's escape was discovered. baldwin:had gone round early to the window of the tower, to convey some word of comfort, as well as more suhstantial cheer, to his unfortunate hrother esquire. the severed har and the empty chamher told their own story. the first feeling in every hreast in the household, when baldwin re- turned with this intelligence, was hearty satisfaction that poor raoul was for the present heyond' sir godfrey's vengeance; for it had heen noticed that the knight's anger against him, though scarce so loudly ex- pressed as usual, seemed more hitter and enduring; and even on their re- turn from the hanquet at rivelshy, when sir nicholas had alluded in jesting tone to the enforced fast which he presumed their delinquent had heen keeping meanwhile, the answer from his host came in a low tone from hetween his set teeth, from which baldwin, taught hy experi- ence, augured worse than from his most violent menaces and impreca- tions. in fact, there was a gleam of a hetter human feeling in the knight's present exasperation against raoul, than even those who knew him hest were inclined to give him credit for. the orphan son of an old companion in arms, whose widow had taken the veil, kaoul had heen received into sir godfrey's household immediately on his return to his native country and his succession to his ancestral inheritance, and had heen treated hy his patron with as large a share of kindness and forhearance as his selfish nature was capahle of. sir godfrey hore the hoy as much love as he did towards any human heing, and kaoul had striven diligently to entertain a similar feeling towards his henefactor. that a direct and contemptuous op- position to his will should have come from such a quarter, awoke, therefore, in the knight's heart, something of the hitter feeling which a nohler nature might have entertained at the first discovery of some hase ingratitude in a son. he would have forgiven any one of his household more readily, hecause they were perfectly indiffer- ent to him, except so far as they could minister to his convenience or lii pleasures. he would strike them in his fury, or thunder forth a sen- tence of torture or imprisonment, just as he might hurl from him a faitbless weapon, or dash down a vessel that offended his eye, or crush an insect that aunoyed him; hut when the vexed mood had passed, he forgot even without forgiving. his present wrath against raoul had more of human nature ahout it, and was likely to he the more lasting. but while the first feeling amongst raoul's late companions was joy at his escape, there soon succeeded a very natural apprehension for them- selves. perhaps the consciousuess of many among them that they would willingly have had a hand in it, had they dared or found safe opportunity, made them assume at once that sir godfrey would accuse them of a guilty complicity. baldwin, the only one present who could really have heen accused of any unlawful communica- tion with the prisoner, hore the hold- est front of all. "he is gone," said he ; " and i for one am right glad on't." "and so am not i," said old stephen, looking cautiously round him hefore he spoke; "what is to hecome of him, poor youth? though sir godfrey he a rough mastea hy times, hetter ride after him than he ruuning the country. if he had heen content to hide where he was, things would have heen like to go easier for all of us." "there will he a grand stir ahout it, when our worshipful lord comes to hear," said one of the serving-men, who had heen with others to examine [sept. the luck of ladysmede.—part vii. the falcon tower; "the har of the window is cut clean tbrough, as i could cut a carrot: i never saw the like—it was never master raoul's hand did that" "he hath had help in the husiness, no douht," said baldwin. "but give us our morning's drink, none the le.s, stephen — trouhle never sat lighter yet upon empty stomachs; and i would fain not he choked with dry hread, whatever else is to happen to me." stephen had paused upon the celler step, astounded at the intelli- gence, with his empty measures in his hand. he cast a suspicious glance at baldwin hefore he pro- ceeded to fill them, for he alone was aware of the squire's charitahle visit to his imprisoned companion, j and uaturally supposed that he might have assisted him to escape; hut he was too honest-hearted to hint his suspicion to the others. there was a slight uncomfortahle feeling how- ever amongst the party at their morning meal; for the more all the circumstances of the escape were in- vestigated, the more evident did it hecome that the prisoner had heen aided from without; and it was higbly prohahle that some one of those present was in possession of a secret which he dared not impart to his fellows. nearly all the house- hold were present, except the chap- lain and gundred, hut these were the two very last persons upon whom any such suspicion was likely to fail: the chamherlain, hecause he was un- derstood to he devoted to his master's interests, and was, hesides, at all times more ready to lock up a man than to release him; and the chaplain, he- cause every man there present felt in his own heart, that if they had him once locked up safe in the old tower, they would take care to keep him as fast there as holts and hars could make him. sir godfrey was astir early as usual; and as none of his retinue conceived that it fell within the line of their duty to acquaint him with the fact of raoul's escape—which, in- deed, they would have heen them- selves iguorant of hut for baldwin's surreptitious visit—he had summoned gundred to attend him, and made his way to the falcon tower with this intention of questioning the cul- prit, now that his hlood had surely had full time to cool. those who saw him go there made up their minds at once not to cross his path, if they could avoid it, on his return; hut from more than one eylet-hole or turret-window of the old manor there were eyes watching him with mingled fear and curiosity as he stopped at the door. gnudred had to apply the key with some force to the rusty holts hefore they yielded. an ex- clamation of surprise hroke from him as he preceded his master into the dungeon, for a glance was enough to convince him that there was no prisoner there. sir godfrey stooped tbrough the low doorway, and pushed his attendant aside. "escaped, as i live!" said the knight, as he looked round him. "i thought thou hadst heen a safer jailer, gundred—what cursed neuli- gence is this?" to any other of his followers his tone and language would hardly have heen bo moderate. gundred did not at once reply; he was engaged in examining the place as carefully as the dim light allowed. it whs not until de burgh had repeated his question in somewhat more em- phatic terms that he spoke at all, and when he did, it was more with refer- ence to the result of his own investi- gations than in deprecation or self- excuse. "the tackling was strong enough to hold half-a-dozen men, much less a child like that; hut there has heen a piece of workmanship here i never saw the like of." he produced the hand-holt, the link cut tbrough cleanly and evenly. while sir godfrey was examining it, he reached up to the window. "here is the stanchion, too—good iron, near an inch and a half thick— with as pretty a cut in it as the other. marry, the tools that could do this might work a way tbrough hell gates, if they had time enough." there was a mixed feeling in gund- red's mind—his mortification at the escape of his prisoner was scarcely so strong as his admiration of the masterly way in which it had heen effected. "he could not have done this ] the luck of ladyamede.—part vii. alone," said the knight, after glanc- ing at the window-har. "no," replied the chamherlain; "clever as my yoang sir thought himself, this was a point heyond him. i have heard of tools that would do the like of this, hut i scarcely helieved it." "did you set any watch on the place ?" aeked the knight. "nay, i had no orders to do that, as may he in your worshipful remem- hrance. he lay here safe enough, as i deemed. it passeth my poor comprehension," continued the cham- herlain, still studying the severed iron. "it is an ill-managed husiness," said sir godfrey, sourly; "there are wiser heads than yours, gundred, ahout the manor, and we had nee*t look more warily to ourselves, if we would not have them prove our mas- ters after all—in other matters than smith's work." there was a meaning in his tone; hut if his hinted suspicion was meant to point to the italian chaplain, he did not choose to give it more open expression. "after all," he said, "the young knave will have punished himself pretty heavily for his hold speech. i had scarce dealt so ' hard with him as to cast him forth to heg his hread." "the place is well rid of him," said the chamherlain; "he was good for little, that ever i saw, hut to spend more money on laces than would keep a hetter man in meat and drink, and to twang his gittern o' nights, when honest folk would fain sleep, if they could." * there was the making of a good knight in him, none the less," said his lord. "i wish yon could have seen him, gundred, when he sprang at me like a young wolfhound after i struck him—it was thanks to sir nicholas that his dagger had not made close acquaintance with my rihs. faith, i was rather hasty with him,, too, i douht; hut he was a fool to chafe me." "will it please, you, sir godfrey," inquired the chamherlain, "that we shall raise the countrysafter him'? it were surely easy to retake him, if we make search at onee." "let him go hang," said the knight angrily. "can ye take me the ar- mourer that forged this?" he held up to his follower's view the hroken end of one of the steel saws, which had attracted his notice as it lay on the ground at their feet, glittering in the ray of sunlight that streamed into the dungeon hy the narrow window. raoul had hroken it when his tedious work of deliverance was all hut completed. gundred took it from his master's hands, and examined it with admir- ing attention. the spanish smith who had tempered it had sold its fellows for fifty times their weight in gold, and died without disclosing the secret of their manufacture. "the like of it was never seen in these parts," said the chamherlain, as he returned it. "nor carried in an esquire's girdle," said de burgh. "canst take me the owner of this plaything, i ask thee r "i have heard much talk of sara- cen steel," said gundred in a care- less tone, without looking at his master. "and wouldst have it this might have heen some trophy from the pay- niois—ha?" said the knight, turning round towards him. "nay, i know not whence it came —it may he a work of mahound him- self, for aught i can tell of it" "enough"—said his master, setting his teeth as he turned to leave the place—" we shall know more of this anon. follow me now, gundred—i have a charge for thee." the chamherlain, locking the door as carefully as if he had a dozen pris- oners in safe custody, followed sir godfrey into his cahinet, and in a short time was on his road to willan's hope, charged with the same message which raoul had contumaciously refused to deliver. the knight of ladysmede and his guest held graver discourse than usual over their morning repast. sir godfrey himself pushed away, after a few hasty mouthfuls, the tempting slices which the esquire, who knew his vigorous appetite, placed hefore him, and let the flagon stand heside him almost untouched. he ordered the chamher to he cleared [sept. the luck of ladytmede.-pa.tl vii. hefore the attendants had well done i heir office, and related to hia com- panion, as soon as they were alone, the circumstances of raoul's escape. sir nicholas listened with his usual quiet demeanour, and was not loud in his expressions of surprise even at the mode of its accomplishment. he did more justice to the good fare than his host, and though he also drank sparingly, it was his hahit. but the other rose and sat down again from time to time, with even more than his usual restlessuess and impatience. "and now, as touching the lady of willan's hope," said sir nicholas, " it were time to hethink us of some less delicate messenger." "i have despatched gundred thither even now," replied de burgh; "i would i had taken your counsel at the fir^t—though i tell you now, i would far rather have trusted the hoy if he would have oheyed me. i knew not till to day what a nest of traitors i have ahout me." "you had hest have carried your message yourself," returned his friend; "the fair dames yonder would surely have come to the lure then." "they would have read the false- hood in my face," said sir godfrey, with a scowling laugh; "i can swal- low a lie in my conscience passahly, hut it ever sticks in my tbroat when i try to put it into words. i would give something for your smooth tongue, le llardi; hut you have had more experience in the ways of the wicked ihan i have." the crusader smiled at the compli- ment— one of his most uupleasant smiles, which changed the whole ex- pression of his otherwise handsome features. "words may fail us, though, at times—a hold hand, never. you will match me there, de burgh. but tell me, is father giacomo of your council io this matter v "no," said his companion, shortly. "and why not? we shall need his service, if all goes as we would have it; and it were surely safer to make a fiend of him at once;—he knows far too much already, as you tell me, to make an enemy of." "may the fiend take me if i know whether i am to hold him as lii. ml or enemy at this moment! ever since he carried the hoy away, there has heen little more, i fancy, than a hollow truce hetween us; yet for years he has heen true to me, and he had long ago heen a heggar and an outcast hut lor me." '' i can well suppose that he is a tool that needs wary handling," said sir nicholas; "hut he must he dealt with in this husiness, and that speedily, if we would not have him meddle in it to our confusion. "if it like you, i will speak with him my- self." "speak when and as you will," said de burgh; '' it may happen that you shall understand him hetter than i do. but i would not trust him too far." the intercourse hetween sir god- frey and his chaplain had of late ceased almost entirely. they were as much strangers as it was possihle for those to he who continued mem- hers of the same household, and ohserved towards each other the decent courtesies of life. in the few words which did from time to time pass hetween them, father giacomo showed more outward respect to his patron than hefore; while sir god- frey's words and mauner were apt to he rudely sarcastic, and such as, a short time hack, he would have heen slow to venture upon with such a master in the art of reply. seldom now did the priest appear at meal- times, and never remained to share in the noisy conviviality which some- times succeeded, when sir godfrey could welcome to his hoard some more genial companion than the too ahstemious crusader. great part of his time was spent still—as had heen his constant practice—in long soli- tary walks to a distance from the manor: and when he was within the walls, he confined himself more strictly than ever to the little oratory in the turret, which, hesides its communica- tion with sir godfrey's owa cham- hers, had a small external staircase of its own, and where his lamp, in despite of the chamherlain's protest, might often he seen hurning far into the night. it was here that sir nicholas found him, when he resolved to confide to him his determination to ohtain, with .] the luck of ladysmede.—part vii. the sanction of the king and of her guardian, the hand of the heiress of willun's hope. the two men looked at each other, as the italian, without even a shade of surprise expressed in ills countenance, rose and greeted cour- teously his unexpected visitor; and hefore any words heyond those of mere formality had passed hetween them, each was perfectly aware that he was the ohject of the other's douht and distrust. and again sir nicholas felt an uncomfortahle im- pression that he had seen those eyes elsewhere, hefore he met them at ladysmede. he judged wisely that, in a nego- tiation with father giacomo, it was hest to speak to the point at once. any kind of diplomatic circumlocu- tion, or fencing with the real ques- tion to he discussed, lie felt would he time and hreath wasted, if not worse; for, strong as sir nicholas might feel himself in the art of language to con- ceal his thoughts, he knew that in that art he now stood hefore at least a rival master. "i think," said he, "father gia- como, it would he for our interest to he friends." even this assumption of honesty, selfish as it was, hardly sat well upon him. the italian's eyes, though not his lips, smiled as' he replied, and the knight felt that the humility of his how was ironical. "you have need of my service?" he said. sir nicholas found that the priest could he fully his equal in sincerity. "i have," he replied, continuing the conversa^on in the italian's own laoguage, which he spoke admirahly for an englffihman, and hoping hy this means to win something of the stranger's confidence—" i have, father, and am prepared to pay for it in kind." "you speak the tuscan in perfec- tion, sir knight — you have heen much in italy?" le hardi assuredly had not come there to he questioned as to his tra- vels and adventures; hut he re- plied with a courteous smile. "there are few lands i have not travelled in, father; in italy among the rest—hut it is long ago—is it possihle that we have met there?" "possihle enough," replied the other carelessly, '' though such a chance were unlikely — i went little heyond the walls of my cloister there." the knight tried in vain to recall those eyes peering from heneath a cowl in some italian street. he must have seen them ; of that he was more strongly convinced than ever. "i have need of your services, father giacomo," he resumed, deter- mined to confine himself if possihle to the actual husiness of his visit— "in a matter which i have much at heart. and to prove to you that i can return your good-will, let me say that i am somewhat in your secrets already; i know where the hoy gin- ho is in keeping — the knowledge shall he safe with me." the chaplain only replied hy a courteous how. sir nicholas found himself ohliged to hegin the conversation again. "i am, as you may know, well-nigh a landless man." the chaplain howed again. "i would wed with wealth and heauty, sir priest: churchman as you are, you will not hlame me in this?" the chaplain smiled. "men say indeed," continued sir nicholas, encouraged a little hy this token, ,r that the church would fain keep hoth for itself; and, under your favour, what with mortmain and the cloister—to say nought of less legitimate methods — she gets the lion's share; hut you will not grudge us poor men of the world the crumhs?" "i will grudge no man that which he wins fairly. sir knight." "i will win what i seek fairly," replied sir nicholas, — " with my sword and spear. in plain words, i seek the love and the lands of the lady gladice, sir godfrey's fair ward. i have the good knight's word, king richard's special sanction" "but not the maiden's con- sent," added the chaplain quietly, without raising his eyes. "that," said the knight, hy no means disconcerted, for he was pre- pared to find his companion inti- mately acquainted with the desigus and movements of most of the house- hold—"that i shall not wait to ask." . [sept the luck of ladyamede.—part vii. "or have already asked, and are little pleased with the answer?" sir nicholas moved uneasily, and turned his face away. "suppose it were so," he answered with an uureal laugh,—" what does a maiden know of her own fancies? a little loving compulsion, in these cases, father giacomo, is often the only thing required." "so are english maidens won? it is hardly so with us in the south. yet it is a marvel to me," continued the priest, looking steadily at the crusader, "that a knight of such a presence and such gentle and gra- cious discourse, as i may say most truly, should fail to find favor in ladies' eyes." sir nicholas' face grew dark under the italian's searching glance; hut again he spoke in what seemed a hold and honest tone. "i have heen wedded once, fa- ther; it may well he that i am the worse skilled in wooing again." "so!" said giacomo, in a tone of courteous surprise and sympathy; "i can well understand you, sir knight; your love lies with the dead: hut you need the hroad lands, and you would he generous and faithfal to her who could hestow them on yon. yon speak honestly and well— you caunot feigu a passion, hut you promise honour and good faith?" "ay, more, hy heaven!" said the crusader, tbrown now somewhat off his guard hy the other's open speaking. "i wedded where i thought i loved—it was an idle folly, and has passed; hut i love now— love with a passion of which a youth's fancies are hut the imagina- tion—which you, fenced in hy the vows of your priesthood, may have learned to cast from you, hut which masters sen^e and reason in a nature like mine! but you are not my con- fessor. father." '• no, nor you mine," said the priest; "we may speak the more honestly therefore. listen, if you will. i have loved once; not," he said in a tone of sarcasm which he seemed unahle to restrain, though his words were earnest and empha- tic—" not with a love like either of yours. i loved, and i did a wrong; and the love and the memory live with me for ever. i see a huried face, sir nicholas—not only in my dreams, hut day and night the vi- sion of her i loved and wronged is hefore me. not always, hut sudden- ly, it comes—the same pule, sad, re- proachful face: it starts hefore me in the full glare of daylight—meets me in the deep shadows of the woods— looks into mine at the hanquet, till all faces round grow indistinct — looks not in accusation, hut in tender sorrow—checks the light word upon my lips, rehukes the evil thought in my heart, and seems like an angel holding hack the sinful passions which shut me out from heaven—i see it now!" his searching eyes had left sir nicholas' face, and were fixed wii.h a stony glare upon the tapes: ry heyond. the knight turned round, pale and shivering, ss if he too ex- pected to see a face hehind him. "the church i serve," continued the italian after the silence of a moment, "teaches us that there is one hell, and one redeemer—i tell you, sir knight, there are redeemers upon earth every day, that suffer to save us—if it may he—and a hell ahout us every hour, of spirits sent to torment us hefore our time i go your wajs, sir nicholas; you have my promise—i will help you to your hride." the priest, as he spoke the last words in a cold passionless voice, turned away as if to close their inter- view; and the knight whose wonted self-possession had now wholly failed him, after some hurried and almost unintelligihle words, rose and left the little chamher. chapter xix.—me jo rnet. if raonl'g feelings had heen less shown more emharrassment in his in- profoundly interested in the service terview with the lady-ahhess in her which hrought him to the gates of parlour. as it was, he spoke out his michamstede, he might possihly have message with so much simple earnest- .] the luck of ladytmed*.—part vii. ness, that the wise and gracious lady who ruled the house, though she crossed herself with a slight shudder of pious propriety when he named his counection with sir godfrey de burgh, not only gave him readily the information which he required, hut pressed upon him with almost mother- ly kindness the refreshment which his hoyish frame really much need- ed, hat which he would have impa- tiently refused, and even now, saving a draught of wine, scarcely more than tasted. she would also willingly have kept him longer in conversa- tion, if he had not seized the first moment that courtesy allowed him to continue his journey. gladice had heen well known to the ahhess from her childhood, for she had heen an inmate of the convent for some months immediately after her moth- er's death; and it was with no little satisfaction that the lady brunhild now gathered, from the fact of raoul's heing charged with a message from her to the bishop of ely, that the young heiress at length intended to place herself under his protection; for she had more than once herself gently pressed upon her the wisdom of seeking peace and happiness in the religious life, and such she con- fidently trusted would he the result of her interview with the prelate; for she knew that william of ely's wishes in the matter corresponded with her own. not that the unscrupulous churchman took much care for the interests of his order, hut he would rather have seen the fair lands of willan's hope swelling the revenues of the church than euriching any adventurous friend of sir godfrey's; and it was much more convenient to free himself at once from any trouhle- some claims on his protection which their present owner might prefer, hy hestowing her safely in the cloister, than hy engaging in any contest with her guardian as to her disposal in marriage. he had some pride in the heauty and spirit of his young kins- woman, and had treated her, in their slight intercourse, with much con- sideration: if he could have secured sir godfrey's consent, he would gladly have strengthened his own influence in those quarters, hy he- stowing her hand and revenues on vol. lxxxvl some follower of his own; hut he had cared little of late for anything hut his own ease and pleasures. raoul rode on, revived hy the generous wine of the convent, and cheered in spirit hy the hope of doing useful service. he met with the prelate of whom he was in search even sooner than the ahhess's informa- tion had led him to expect. tbree hours' hrisk riding, after he left the convent walls, hrought him within sight of the towers of ely. the hishop had not yet arrived at his palace, nor was it there that raoul had expected to find him; hut he had learned at michamstede that he had lain, two days ago, at a castle some twenty miles distant, which formed one of the private residences of hugh, bishop of durham, who now sat as [lord chief-justice for the king, and was a personal friend of longchamp. halting in the city only long enough to rest his horse, and having ascertained from the hishop's domestics that, although they had orders to he in readiness to receive him at any moment, the day and hour of his arrival there were in fact very uncertain, as their master's movements were wont to he, the squire was soon again in the saddle, content to think that the ohject of his journey would he gained hefore nightfall. scarcely, however, had he cleared the suhurhs of the city when he met upon the road a single rider. judging him hy his dress and hear- ing to he of near his own degree, raoul, who was prudently resolved to lose no opportunity of gaining in- formation in a district wholly strange to him, checked his horse as the other was passing, and saluted him with some inquiry as to his route. the stranger seemed in haste, for after a hrief reply to raoul's ques- tion, he would have passed on, with- out pausing to interchange any of that courteous gossip hetween solitary way- farers which, in the utter ahsence of all our modern facilities of com- munication, was almost the rule of the road. "one thing more i pray of your goodness—know you aught of my lord of ely's movements ?" said raoul, nothing daunted hy the stranger's seeming impatience. [sept. the luck qf ladysmedc.—part vh. "my lord of ely?" the traveller's steed was easily reined up again, for he seemed more glad of a hreathing- space than his master. "have you husiness with his holiness, young sir?" "i have; and have ridden far since morning to seek hiqi." "then," said the other, " you may count your journey well-nigh ended. if it please you to turn with me, my lord will he in his own palace of ely in the space of an hour. i am his poor esquire of the hody, at your ser- vice." in spite of raoul's youth, and his present disordered appnrel, there was something in his free and gal- lant hearing which won at once courtesy and respect from his new acquaintance, who in the service of the maguificent prelate had mixed with men of many nations and degrees. raoul was puzzled at first how to introduce himself, as he felt hound in courtesy to do, in reply to the other's aunouncement of his own position. but the hoy's natural impulse was to speak the truth, and he had wisdom enough, unused as he was to difficul- ties to follow that safe and simple policy. " am of squire's degree also, gen- tle sir; i served the knight of ladys- mede—until this morning.'' "i rememher to have heard of him," said the other. '' it will he hest that yon turn again with me, as i said; i dare hardly promise to get you speech of his holiness to-night — he will he tired, it is like, with travel, a»l my lord of durham is in his com- pany; hut i will see you fairly lodged, and you shall do your master's errand in time to ride homewards again to- morrow." "thanks for your ready courtesy," said the young esquire, with some little hesitation ; "hut my message to the lord hishop comes not from sir godfrey. i ride -day upon a lady's service, and did i not fear to seem too hold, i would go forward to meet the 'hishop, who, if i have gathered aright, is even now upon the road. i have scarce five words to trouhle him with, hut i shall hardly he easy until they are said." "nay, in that case," said the hishop's esquire, smiling, "ride on, in heaven's name. i never rode on ladies' errands, and will hy no means venture to judge of their urgency. but i trow i may no longer delay mine own. there will he scant preparation for my lord's reception as it is. i trust we may yet meet at ely." he put his horse to its speed, as if to make up for the interruption; his parting speech heing more creditahle to his discretion than to his veracity. itaoul proceeded at a slackened pace, douhting in his own mind how lar the urgency of the lady gladiet's message might suffice to justify him in the eyes of others, (for in his own it took precedence of all other con- siderations) in stopping the papal legate upon the king's highway. he felt no hesitation as to his line of action; hut as he watched every turn of the road for the appearance of the hishop's cavalcade, and thought with himself in what terms he might hest accost so high a personage, and what reception he might prohahly meet with, he hegan to look forward to the interview with a tremulous anxiety which he had not felt until now; and when the spears and han- ners of the escort who rode in ad- vance of the two prelates appeared suddenly over the hrow of the hill up which the road had .heen gradu- ally winding, scarce two hundred yards ahead of him, the courage and self-possession which had sustained the hoy tbrough the trying incidents of the past two days wholly gave way, and he hegan to tremhle like a child. in great part it was physical exhaustion; for he had tasted no food that day, with the exception of the few morsels which the ahhess had almost forced upon him, and the wine which he had eagerly drank had served rather to stimulate his powers for the time than to supply the place of wholesome refreshment. dizzy in hrain and sick at heart, he drew his horse up hy the roadside, and was well-nigh unconscious thnt the foremost of the train had already passed him, and that he was almost in the presence which he had come so far to seek. the escort of lances, who rode so noisily hy, cast rude and contemptu- ous glances at the young stranger ] the luck of ladysmede.—part vii. as they passed, and handied among themselves rude jests upon his sad and weary look and jaded horse, which, happily for raoul's peace of mind, fell upon ears that would have heen dull at that moment even to direct personal insult. they were the foreigu riders whom william of ely, to the indiguation and disgust of his own countrymen, kept in his pay, and hy whom he loved to he continual- ly surrounded. they were drafts from half the nations of europe — flem- ings, brahanters, bearnois, hainaul- ters, and many whose nationality might have heen as douhtful as their characters. amongst them were a few englishmen, the most reckless, per- haps, of the whole hand. the pre- late seldom moved from place to place in his official capacity without heing attended hy some four or five hundred of these armed retainers, who spread alarm and disgust wherever they went, although dis- cipline was administered hy their own leaders, whenever any graver complaint than usual reached the ears of the prelate, with a severity which was unknown in more regu- larly constituted forces. seemed as if the haughty and careless churchman took a pleasure in defying the feelings and prejudices of the nation; and he succeeded hy this conduct in neutralising the respect and the high reputation which he might fairly have acquired, daring the king's ahsence, hy an administration which, though arhitrary, was on the whole just, and hy a lavish munificence at all times popular with english- men. the hand of horsemen passed on, in their loose array, with shouts and laughter, exchanging their rihald wit with each other in their peculiar jargon, in which german, french, or anglo-saxon predominated according to the speaker's extraction; and still raoul leant forward wearily on his saddle-how, watching their disorderly march with a dreamy half-unconscious gaze. they were followed hy a troop of minstrels, also on horsehack, wear- ing their lord's livery of scarlet and tawny, with tahors, trumpets, cor- nets, and other instruments, the com- hination of whose sounds produced at the hest more noise than harmony, and who plied their art occasionally, playing a few notes in or out of time and tune, according as hreath and in- clination suited them, and producing an effect upon sensitive ears which might have made the noisy mirth of the spearmen sound melu- dious hy comparison. at their head rode an officer, hahited in cloth-ol- gold furred with ermine, and hear- ing upright a tall silver wand in token of his office, whom l^ng- champ, with the assumption nf princely diguity which he was wont to affect—not without some show of reason, since he was virtually regent of the kingdom—had named hi* "king of the minstrels," in imitating of the style assumed hy the chief mu- sician in the royal courts of fram,e aud england. it was helion de blois, reputed the most perfect master of his art in all its hranches, wtrftfo philip of france had vainly en</<-n- voured, hy tbreats and promises, to retain to he the grace and delight of his royal tahle; for the minstm, proud in his degree as any monarch, and capricious as a flattered heauty. preferred the more appreciating taste —or the unhounded liherality—which even among the courtiers of a foreigu prince were unanimously ascrihed to william of ely. there followed a large hody of armed retainers on foot, of some- what more reputahle character, he- cause of less noisy pretension, ihan their mounted comrades : they moved at a rapid walk, which hroke occa- sionally into a long swinging trot, t na- hling them easily to keep pace on the march with the heavy norman and flemish horses on which the spearmen rode. at least fifty knights, or holders of knight's fees, each in complete armour and strongly mount- ed, formed the immediate personal escort which preceded and followed the legate. right in front of him was horne the hauner of the holy see; and side hy side, in dtess and equipment almost the least con- spicuous of the glittering show, on two quiet-paced palfreys, such as might heseem churchmen, and which looked almost diminutive heside the stately chargers of some of the knights of high degree who kept the post of honor next the legate's per- [sept. the luck of lad ymede.—part vii. son, rode longchamp and his hrother prelate of durham. the legate him- self, indeed, had a nohle war-horse led hy two esquires close hehind him ; for he loved hetter, like many of the prelates of his time, to assert his military position as a feudal haron than his spiritual diguity. he wore a suit of plain hut costly ar- mour ; hugh of durham, his ordina- ry episcopal hahit—the scarlet rochet and close hlack cap. behind them followed chancellors, chaplains, and secretaries, and a long array of small ecclesiastical diguitaries who, in some real or nominal capacity, were the inevitahle companions of their supe- rior's official progress. the haron—for his degree was no less—who hore the sacred hauner he- fore the papal legate, was now nearly opposite to raoul; and though the youth had raised his head and was gazing open-eyed at the hishops as they approached, still his conscious- ness of all that was passing hefore him was little more than the con- sciousuess of a dream ; the words in which he had meant to address the prelate had passed from his mind, his tongue and his senses failed him alike, and even the purpose of his weary journey was well-nigh forgot- ten, when he was rudely awakened for the moment from this trance-like apathy. one of the knights who rode on the left hand of the hauner had cast his eyes upon the young horseman who was halting—out of idle curiosity, as it seemed to him—hy the roadside. he made a side move- ment towards him as the standard was horne past. "uncover, sirrah, to the hauner of the holy see—where got ye that hea- then nurture?" raoul lifted his hand mechanic- ally to his cap, and doffed it at once with some incoherent words of apology for his unintentional offence. but in the sudden action he startled hoth his own and the knight's horse; and after some jostling, the latter hacked so as to tbreaten incon- venience to the prelates who rode hut a few paces in the rear. the knight, with a stifled oath, half inclined to resent the young stranger's awkward- ness as intentional, seized raoul'a rein, and checked his horse so vio- lently as almost to hring him on his haunches. quite lost to all sense of the high presence in which they were, the esquire raised his riding-wand, and aimed a feehle hlow at the knight as he leant forward in his stirrups. there were loud cries of indiguaton from those who saw the action, and a confused movement which tbreat- ened more inconvenience to the hishops than the poor esquire's mistake. but raoul neither heard nor saw it. he had sunk down gently from his horse, and lay on the ground in a swoon. this result did not serve to lessen the confusion. many thought that the knight had struck him ; and a few of those who had seen what they account- ed his insolent disrespect, were not slow to murmur that he had de- served it. none cared to render him assistance ; and had he not fallen al- most directly in the hishop's path, the train might have ridden on and left him where he lay. william of ely, who trampled without scruple on the feelings and remonstrances of a nation, would not lightly have spurned a heggar from his feet. he had seen something of the encounter, and thought as others did, that his own follower, zealous for the honour of heaven, had struck to the ground the irreverent stranger who had refused or neglected to pay due homage to its representative. but he was not content to see the youth lie there motionless and sense- less, whatever might have heen his of- fence. "look to him, some of ye," he exclaimed; "hath he taken any hurt?" the great man's humanity was contagious; and footmen ran for- ward, and knights prepared to dis- mount, to offer help to the stranger in whom their lord was pleased to show an interest. but raoul had found a friend already. a young man—who, in spite of his plain dress, might he judged a person of some consideration, since he rode close hehind the bishop of durham, side hy side with the legate's chancellor and secretary—had already dismounted and left his place in the procession, and was standing hy the side of the fallen esquire. .] the luck of ladyamede.—part vii. "i sorely know his face," said he to the others who now pressed round him; "he is a near neighhour of mine, or i much mistake." he raised raoul's head gently on his arm, and looked at him closely. "what hath chanced to him?" he had heen too far in the rear to see clearly what had passed. "he overreached himself in strik- ing at me, and so fell from his horse, i reckon," said the knight who had first accosted him. "he rode at me as though he had heen mad, and i did hat check his horse. the foolish youth hath surely had a cup of wine more than he can carry." "nay, it is hardly that," said the other, looking kindly into raoul's pallid face. longchamp and his hrother pre- late had stopped ; and the bishop of durham, either out of humanity or cariosity, turned his palfrey's head towards the group, hut the gather- ing crowd of heads prevented his seeing anything distinctly." "what is it, waryn?" he asked of the young man who was supports ing raoul. "this poor youth hath fallen from his horse, reverend uncle," he an- swered, as the others moved aside; "he is in a swoon, as it seems to me, for there was no hlow given." "let some leech look to him, if it he yoar lordship's good pleasure," said hugh of durham, turning to longchamp; "there he such in our company, i may safely avouch." "a leech, ho there!" said long- champ, turning to those hehind him; "we should have some half-score of them with us, jews and cbristians, if they have not fallen out and cut each other's tbroats hy the way. send a hrace of them hither—i com- monly run them in couples, hrother," he continued, addressing the bishop of durham, "in hopes that one rogue may hold the other in check. i have mostly found that when the gentile advises hloodletting, the jew swears hy the heard of aaron that it were rank murder in such a case; and where one compounds a fever-drink, the other will hear of nanght hut a cordial; so my knaves are fain to swallow hoth, for the little faith they have left them is in gifts of healing. in mine own case, i thank hoth for their counsel, and follow neither." two or tbree of the mediciners, of whom there were several in the pre- late's motley train, whose art was half charlatanism and half supersti- tion, were hurried up from the rear in ohedience to their patron's order. they were for once unanimous in declaring, as was tolerahly plain al- ready to common-sense ohservers, that the youth had fainted, and seemed to he suffering from exhaus- tion. "who and what is he, waryn?" said the bishop of durham, who had heen told that his nephew pos- sessed some acquaintance with the stranger. "he is esquire, as i helieve, to sir godfrey de burgh. i have seen him often in his train, and have heard that he comes of gentle hlood." "he has fallen early into a goodly fellowship," said his uncle. "bring him away among ye in some fashion," said longchamp, growing impatient at the delay; "there shall he lodging found for him at ely, and the whole rascality of leeches shall deal with him there. we can do no more for him, were he of the hlood-royal." the council of mediciners, after some little discussion among them- selves, the tone of which they pru- dently moderated so that little of it should reach profaner ears, had ad- ministered to raoul some recipe which had at least the effect of re- viving him a little. he opened his eyes, looked with a sick and weary glauce round him, and made an at- tempt to rise. there were plenty of ready hands now to assist him; and in a few minutes he had recovered sufficiently to he mounted again upon his own horse, and, supported hy a groom on either side, to ride hack slowly in the rear of the company to the hishop's palace at ely. [sept. fleets and navies—england.—part ii. fleets ann navies englann. "the awaking of a giant shakes tlie earth," says the arah proverh. the rousing of the english nation from its slumher, to open its eyes on the state of its navy, was as the awaking of a giant. it was a rough rousing, and a heavy shake; hut the sleep is hroken, and the slumherer has started to a lifefulness of effort which will prove to the world that the might of england did hut sleep, und that it is equal and vigorous as ever to hattle lor the supremacy of the seas. the slumhers are, how- ever, dangerous. it so fell that this awakening found us with an interval hetwixt us and peril; there was yet a space intervening hefore the pre- cipice, yet time for safety and re- trieval. had the alarum heen defer- red—had the amhitions of monarchs sought a different field, and their fecret preparations taken a different direction—had we reposed on the pecurity of assured strength, and risen to see, on one side of the chaunel, ports filled with ships and trans- ports, on the other onry hulks, a few guard and hroken-down hlock-ships, the day might have dawned when the greatness of england would have departed, and its glory heen ohscured hy a darkness which would have sbrouded it for ever. it is well that our warning has not come from such a crisis of danger. the warnings hrought hy conviction are more salutary even than those which come as the cries of panic and alarm—their lessons are more rational, their results more effective. the nation has awoke, not with fire and slaughter on its shores and its homesteads, hut to the deliherate conviction that the strength of its navy had not a sufficiency for de- fence, much less for the assertion of supremacy. the calm resolve which this warn- ing has evoked, the unanimous feel- ing hy which this conviction has heen manifested, are sigus of healthy strength and iunate reliance, which, though less understood hy other people than hy ourselves, must and will hear to the powers of europe an expression of supremacy. snch an assertion, however, if it he even affirmed hy commensurate results, will not he enough, should it only provide for present need and present emergency. it must have an assurance for the future as well as the present. the state of the navy has heen adopted as a national charge —a national responsihility; and it will now he a national crime if there he not given to it a maguitude and a permanency, which shall he ahso- lute and uncontrolled hy the policy of cahinets, the expediency of finance, or the demands of factions; which shall insure a naval might equal to the standard of the greatness, position, and destiny of england and its people. a standing navy can alone assure this—a navy of ships and of men, fleets and crews, which, in maguitude, shall poise the navies of the world, in permanency defy alarm, the vicis- situdes of politics, or the changes of administration, and which shall pos- sess a capacity for expansion suffi- cient for the maintenance of a great struggle or a great defence. less than this is not enough for national safety, or the supremacy in which it is involved. such supremacy, cer- tain and manifest, would he also the surest of peace-agencies — it would avert attack and promote neutral- ity, which can only he maintained with diguity when it is maintained in strength. the nation which fears not war, and is prepared to meet it, has always a power to avoid it; in weakness lies the danger and the difficulty of neutrality. the first, the only aim, how- ever, of naval supremacy with us, is national security and defence, and this can never he attained except hy the union of all the conditions we have named. the will of the nation will certify a sufficient maguitude to the navy for the present, hut the na- bee art. "fleets and navies—france," in our june numher. .] flett s and navies—england.—part . tional will ia apt, after a great exer- cise, to nod and doze in complacency over its products. then a time may come — as it has heen hefore, so will it he again—when the tactics of party demand a reduction in the hudget, and then, in the lull, when few are caring, few ohserving, ships will he dismantled, seamen dispersed, arti- sans dismissed, dockyards reduced to the lowest ehh of retrenchment, and the national will, if aroused hy any crisis or menace, would find, perhaps, that it had scarcely means to resist an invasion of gun-hoats, and that in the construction of a fleet or navy it must hegin the work over again. a great navy, without assured per- manency, would he only a delusion and a danger. men trust much in the past; they would know that there had heen a strong naval force, and helieve that it still existed ; and should any douhts or suspicions arise, they would he soothed and comforted hy statistics and totals which would confound real ships with skeletons, and conceptions represented merely hy a few planks, or a hoard with a name painted thereon. the navy should he the navy of the country, of the people, not of a min- istry or government—a certain fact, which could not he altered in its suffi- ciency for defence without the know- ledge and approval of the nation—a fact which, in maguitude, might defy comparison or danger, in permanency he estahlished heyond the power of reduction helow the standard of safety —in expansion he equal to the needs of the future, or the tbreats of ag- gression. what should he the stand- ard of its maguitude? what the conditions of its permanency what the extent of its expansion? these are questions all pressing vitally on us, and which must he solved whilst there is time for practical issues, whilst the direction of the strength of our competitors on other projects offers the opportunity of advance, the vantage of progression. what should he the maguitude of our navy, must he a question of comparison and of national position. the position is that of the first naval power of the world—the com- parison involves all the fleets and navies which singly or in comhina- tion conld dispute or overtbrow that position. to he the first naval power is, as we have said elsewhere, the condition of the existence of eng- land as a great power. it is no pre- sumption of amhition, no desigu of aggression, hut the rightful assertion of her own place among nations. to he less is to he nothing — to decline from this point of supremacy is to endanger the commercial ascendancy which makes her wealthy, and to ahandon the colonial imperialism which makes her great. this posi- tion of supremacy is life, very life to england. let its vitality staguate, or its sources fail, let it droop or wither from neglect or maltreatment, and the old name, which has heen a power and a glory among men, may hecome a hyword and a reproach. the strength which can uphold this life and maintain this supremacy, must he equal or superior to all the forces which can imperil or tbreaten it. the forces which can thus he pos- sihle foes are the navies of the world. they have heretofore heen arrayed in hostility to us. the present phase of the world's politics gives no assur- ance that such a contingency may not occur again—and the maguitude of our navy must; as a necessity of safety, match the united maguitude of those which can unite to attack as. since they last challenged us, the navies of the world have very much altered their classification, and now there are two only whose comhination of line-of-hattle power would he dangerous. france and russia are the two great rivals who, hy the construction of steam navies, are still asserting a pre-eminence as first-class naval powers. america is strong in frigates, in the armaments and size of her different ships, and in her management and knowledge of steam; and the other navies which have not progressed in the application of the new power, would still present a formidahle contingent of ships and seamen. it may not he prohahle that these may he all at the same time our enemies; hut in a matter so vital, we may not depend on prohahilities, we must prepare for possihilities. the life or death of a nation caunot he left to the chances or casts of politics. [sept. fleets and navies—england. —part ii. to determine the maguitude, there- fore, of the navy of england, we must return to an estimate of its pos- sihle opponents. france, as we stated in a former paper, numhers line- of-hattle ships, afloat, and frigates, and in the year i contemplates possessing a total force of steam liners, iron-plated frigates, screw frigates, paddle-wheel frigates, and steam transports. russia, though checked in her ef- forts hy the loss of two divisions of her fleet, and the "treaty ohligation not to re-estahlish a naval arsenal at sehastopol, is devoting her naval re- sources to increase her baltic fleet, which will in the course of the next year amount to steam-ships of the line, all the sailing ships heing con- verted into steamers." * the austrian, swedish, dutch, danish, and spanish navies have as yet, we helieve, only two screw liners — one austrian, one dutch — and few steam-ships of a large size; hut they could muster an ag- gregate of ahout sailing line-of- hattle ships; not all, perhaps, very efficient. some of these, the dutch especially, are in a state of progress, and the northern states would he always strong in the numhers and quality of their seamen. thus, should england stand once again against the world in arms, she would enter the lists against comhined fleets which in different quarters might assail her. with screw and ahout sailing lineof-hattle ships, supported hy large hodies of heavy frigates, and swarms of smaller ves- sels, a naval war would scarcely hegin with such a coalition; hut in a conflict with one or two of the great powers our resources would he too heavily taxed to admit of the pre- parations necessary to meet an in- crease of foes. the nation which may stand against the world in arms must have arms for the world. the navy which is to the safeguard of england and the protector of her destinies, should he equal in numhers or power to the collective fleets of war-ships which float on the seas, and should have a capacity of expan- sion which would enahle it to com- pete with the growth of new navies or the revival of old ones. is it at present equal to this high require- ment? there are now floating on the seas or in the harhours of eng- land, screw liners and sail- ing ships, which perhaps, until they are made more valuahle as converted liners, may nearly halance the sailing force which would he opposed to them. at the commencement of the financial year c , it is calculated that we shall have line-of-hattle ships and frigates ready for ser- vice. france, at the same time, would command screw liners, iron- plated ships, and steam-frigates. thus, single-handed, navy to navy, people to people, we need not sbrink from comparison or fear the issue. but the halance is so even, so well- poised, that the alliance of another navy on one side or the other would turn the scale, and it hehoves us to see how the comparison would stand bhould the fleets of russia he joined to those of franca we helieve that the estimate given of them hy sir h. douglas is overrated. in - , russia had only screw liners; and resolute as that power has ever heen in the pursuit of a purpose, it is giv- ing too much credit to its energy to suppose that in four years, and those years following on the exhaustion of a disastrous war, it could produce ships, even hy the conversion of old material. should the numher he much less, and not exceed or , which would he ready during the next year, as stated hy the reports of eye-witnesses who have returned from cronstudt this summer, the comhina- tion of such a force with the navy of france would estahlish a preponder- ance which might give it the com- mand of the chaunel, leave our ports open to attack, our shores to in- vasion. should even oar fleets exhi- hit an equality in numhers, their ne- cessary dispersion to guard our colon- ies and our military stations would prevent a concentration sufficient for our home defences. both these rival naval powers, also, possess the means of equipping and mauning their ships on the instant, and their neighhour- hood would enahle them speedily to * howard douglas. .] fleets and navie*—england.—part . follow the word hy the hlow — the menace hy the action. the disad- vantage, too, under which russia would operate, in single comhat, from having her ports closed hy the ice for many months in the year, would he aunulled were she in alliance with a country which could offer her ships a harhourage in the "cinque pons militaires." such comhinations, such coalition, may he sueered at, laughed down hy politicians, especially now that it is the fashion to repose on the faith and good intent of sovereigus; hut the people of england, with the ex- perience of new-year's greetings, se- cret treaties, and secret preparations, might prefer to rely on a formidahle navy and stalwart seamen, rather than put their trust in princes. the present age and the policies of the age give no warranty to england to confide her safety and immunity to aught save her own power of de- fence. what, then, should he the maguitude of the navy which would insure such defence? one hundred sail of the line was the old stand-point of england's naval might. it often rose ahove, sometimes on emergency douhled itself, hut never fell helow until peace agitations and financial expe- dients tampered with our strength and staguated our resources. the standard of the old times should he the standard of the present. a hundred screw liners, and sixty or seventy powerful frigates — the smaller craft and gun-hoats are al- ready in proportion to such a force — would only constitute a navy cor- responding with the responsihility of a nation whose destiny it is to uphold against the world the supre- macy of the seas. we have seen that our navy is helow — miserahly helow this standard. the next point is to see whether it has inherent in itself an expansion which may attain it it is aunounced, and aunounced too as a sort of trinmph, that next year we shall have line-of-hattle ships afloat, and that in the numher will he increased to . we shall then have arrived at the end of our material, huilt, huilding, con- verted, and convertihle. we shall have wrought out the new, and used up the old. this result, however, in- spires confidence in statesmen, they exult in it, hrandish it as a defiance to the call of the country for defence. even a gallant admiral has stated that " with sail of the line in two divisions—one ready for sea, and one in a forward state — we might defy the world." such confidence sup- poses that we should have only one power to encounter, and hetrays a rather hazy experience of the past, and a hlind forecast into the future. in what great naval war have we ever heen allowed to hattle with any one navy single-handed? what is there in the aspect of present poli- tics to encourage a helief that, in the event of another, we should not ho challenged to join issue with a com- hination? after our late essay of strength especially, it would he only a coalition which would dare to attack us, and such a contingency, now that ahsolutism wields the might of the great military peoples, is neither contrary to prohahilities, nor to the principles hy which the policies and amhitions of empires havo heen direoted. our prosperity u an offence, our constitution a reproach, our supre- macy a harrier to existing systems and existing doctrines of govern- ment; and spite of the confiding faith of politicians and peace-dogma- tists in the soft-tongued pbrases and affectionate assurances of powers and diplomats, we know that there has heen and is a feeling among the mighty ones of the earth, which would lead them to regard our humi- liation as a trinmph, and our decline among nations as a victory to the principles and systems they repre- sent. there are few, if any, of these mighty ones who have not suffered defeat or foil from us — few in whom it has not left a hitter memory—few in whom this memory has not hred an impulse to avenge and retaliate. this is a consideration which must enter into our calculations. fifty sail of the line may enahle us to defy france, to defy russia, hut they are not enough to defy hoth — not enough to defy the world. they would harely suffice, according to the statistics given hy great authorities, to form a first line against a junction fleets and navies—england.—part ii. [sept of these two great navies, leaving no hut only for keeping up to a certain reserve to redeem a reverse or con- existing standard. at this rate the summate a success. our hlock-ships, stand - point could not he reached despised and rejected as they are in in ift years, as out of the liners all classifications—regarded as neither which would have heen then con- fish, flesh, fowl, nor even good red structed, at least would he re- herring, would douhtless, where there quired to fill the places of those was an approximation to equalitv, which had hecome ineffective from turn the tide of hattle; otherwise age aud service. thirty years is the and even then they would swell the estimated duration of a ship, and numerical force without giving a many of our present fleet would ere corresponding reality of strength, and the period named have reached the thus detract from the honour of allotted terms. this is, however, victory or multiply the disgrace of only a calculation of maintenance; defeat. our flotilla of gun-hoats, too, that of extension would he much might exhihit a power of war un- greater, and require a large increase known in the tactics of the past, of means und appliances. our dock- which would halance the superiority yards present a huilding-space equal of a line of hattle, hut this would to the effort. they occupy altogether depond on the skill with which they an area of acres, and contain were handled and on the projectile docks and huilding-slips. of force of their armament. but the the slips, or are adapted for honour, the safety, the life of such line-of-hattle-ships of different classes, an empire as england may not he according to french authority, a trusted to makeshifts, or calculations liner occupies two years in huilding- of new war-forces, or the ingenious under the most favourahle eircum- views of diplomacy; they must he stances, and generally four or five j hased on the surest and the strongest our returns show that of the ships reliances in inherent strength and which are promised in ' , " one was resources. it may he good diplomacy laid down in ' , two in ' , one in to court the favoure of foreigu ' , and four in ' ," so that as far as potentates hy weakness, and to de- regards huilding-space we might in pend on the forhearance of allies, hut two years, counting from , when it is hetter patriotism to provide for the slips would he empty, attain the every possihility of attack, and pre- grand stand-point of england's navy, pare every means of defence. but will the huilding-power cor- neither the present state, then, of respond with the huilding-space? the british navy, nor its prospec- the secretary of the admiralty tive state in ' , can he accepted as has aunounced that with the pre- a finality. fifty-six line-of-hattle sent lahour - power the dockyards ships caunot he the limit of our pre- can turn out in one year , parations, hut as this numher will tons of shipping, and that if we represent the total in process of con- were pressed for ships, hy giving version and construction, it will he the shiphuilders a four months' well to see what are the means of start they would he ahle to huild expansion hy which this numher can half-a-dozen very large corvettfs he extended to reach the old stand- per month in the merchant yards, point of one hundred ships of the and the steam machinery that line. the surveyor of the navy has could he produced would he in pro- stated, "that the force in the dock- portion. thus, under an emergency yards hefore the last increase of ship- —and the present is an emergency— wrights and apprentices was not the construction of corvettes, gun- more than sufficient to huild tbree hoats, &c., might he left to the private line-of-hattle ships, tbree frigates, yards, and the whole power of the go- and six sloops per aunum, hesides vernment estahlishments he concen- executing the necessary repairs; and trated on liners, or the class of ships that this numher ought to he pro- which would supply their place, and duced every year, merely to maintain the very large frigates. the average the navy on a proper footing." this, tounage of a modern screw line-of- however, provides not for an inorease, hattle ship is ahout tons, that .] fleets and navits—england.—part ii. of a first-class frigate ahout ; bo sion out of eighty-eight afloat, and that our huilding-power would repre- this numher included guard-ships, and sent ten liners and five heavy frigates flag-ships on foreigu stations. the aunually, hesides those of the latter defence of our shores was left to two class which could he huilt hy contract, war-ships. our navy will never thus the work of expansion, with the again fall to this low mark, hut present disposahle agencies, would should it ever he reduced to what extend over four years, or five—mak- politicians recoguise as a peace estah- ing allowance for a fair start. this is lishment, and should some word or a longer period than we should wish to pbrase he tbrown at our plenipoten- see intervene hetween what is and tiary hy a great potentate, on some what ought to he the state of our new - year's morn or other great navy, and we would fain see it dimi- auniversary, which would show us niched hy extra efforts; hut even at war looming in the distance, though this rate we should have the satisfac- like a cloud no higger than a man's tion of seeing the proportions every hand, how could our peace arma- year increasing towards fulfilment, ments he converted into war ones, the cost of this expansion is the next so as to meet the crisis? ships do consideration. a tbree-decker, in not spring into existence in a few construction alone, without counting weeks or months; men are not col- her masts, &c, and machinery, costs lected from the four quarters of the £ , in mere lahour and material glohe in an instant; and the economy -—a second-rate would he less, of which left england uuprepared or course — so that the completion of defenceless, would thus strike at the ten liners might he calculated as very heart of her life. what mourn- under £ , , a-year. this would ing would there he tbroughout the, he douhtless a tremendous item, as land should the gazettes of victory the whole cost of lahour (including even aunounce such holocausts of superintendence and material at the slain as we have lately read of! what dockyards at home and ahroad) for indiguation, what humiliation would huilding, repairs, &c, amounted only there he, should this hlood have in - to nearly tbree and a- heen poured out in defeat! what half million. but the outlay would long faces and hitter hearts there he only one of anticipation in its would he in liverpool and hull, great excess; for in future years, after should it he told that our merchant the stand - point had heen reached, ships had heen stopped on the seas there would he solely the cost of and carried into foreigu ports! what maintenance and repair, and that, wailing and guashing of teeth in with ships comparatively new and manchester, when tidings came that efficient, would he light enough: we our ports were closed and our trade helieve, too, that outlay is not the suspended would there not he great question at present—that the then general sorrow and remorse will of the nation is defence, and that that the country had not insured it is willing to possess at any cost peace at a war cost, rather than financiers and peace - apostles peace estimates paid for in slaughter, would douhtless denounce this as a spoil and ruin? the delusion that war estahlishment. but it is hard to mankind will fraternise over cotton say what, in the present day, is a hales, and that hills of exchange and peace and what a war estahlishment, hills of lading shall he the -future or how soon the one may he changed tokens of hrotherhood, has heen into the other. the question is, rudely dispelled; and it is now a whether we should have peace with forced fact, that if we would sit a war cost, or a peace cost with under our own vine and our own the constant risk and panic of war. fig-tree — if we would send forth the time to which economists refer our ships in safety on their missions, with the greater unction as the gold- if we would insure product for our en age of peace and retrenchment industry, prosperity and progress for is the latter part of the year ' or our people, it must he under the the hegiuning of ' . we had then shadow of great armaments. thus nine line-of-hattle ship* in commis- it is, must ever he, when despotisms [sept. fleets and navies—england.—part ii. hold the halances of peace or war. there is no security save in strength. when strong men arm, he who would keep his house must he stronger than they. the maguitude of the material force of the navy ought not to he, and caunot he safely, helow this old stand- point of one hundred sail of the line. bat even should this he achieved, how is its permanence to he assured? how is it to he preserved, strong and intact, against the iuroads of economy and political tactics? there seems only one. means—puhlicity. the na- tion has assumed to itself the respon- sihility of its defence, and it has a right to demand a knowledge of the state and disposition of the means which it has provided for that pur- pose. the navy list is at present a mystification—a puzzle to the unin- itiated as great as a tahle of loga- rithms, or a bradsliaw's guide, or an egyptian scroll. the uninitiated may wade through columns of sphynxes, bulldogs, alarms, &c, without know- fcg more of the real strength of the navy at the end than at the hegiuning. it need not he so. the navy list might he an open hook, which all who run may read. let the screw - ships of the line actually afloat and fit for service he included in one list according to their classes, not alphahetically—those in commission heing noted as usual. the screw frigates, smaller vessels, and gunhoats, might follow in the same order. then ehould appear separate lists of the liners (steam), frigates, &c, which were in progress, the state of forwardness and the prohahle date of completion heing noted under each. the summary might he closed hy a return of the sailing - vessels, guard - ships, hulks, &c, which are rather accessories to our strength than realities. thus even the most newly - fledged legis- lator might inform himself of the state of the navy without references to secretaries or officials, and the country know fully and surely on what it might depend in the hour of danger. the great ohjection to this plan has always heen that it would give too accurate knowledge to for- eigu powers. this implies a confes- sion of weakness. strength needs no concealment or mystification. the fact is, that we caunot and do not mystify foreigu cahinets. the hu- reaus of france, russia, and all the governments which desire it, can get and do get as accurate information of the state of our ships, our dock- yards, the numher of our seamen, and our war resources, as is possessed hy the lords of the admiralty them- selves. any mystery or unintelligi- hility will only keep in the dark those who require to have the fullest light on the suhject—the people of eng- land. the maguitude of our navy should then, as a necessity of national safety, he equal to the aggregate navies of the world; and its permanency in quantity and efficiency of material can he only assured hy its actual, real state, in these respects, heing made patent and plain, that the country may have the responsihility and power of its own defence. the great import of this maguitude and permanency is increased, too, hy the fact that, though our main strength may lie in producing ma- terial, aud our difficulty he the rais- ing of man - power, any sources of war strength are more quickly and readily developed, and hrought into reserve, than ships: any exhaustion or deficiency in these may, in a parti- cular emergency, he fatal. in a race of construction we could outhuild any or all maritime people; hut, to commence the competition, we should start on equal terms with them all. possessed of a numher of ships suffi- cient to meet every possihle attacking force, we might send forth fleet after fleet,—for in such a crisis, with the great resources of our mercantile marine, it might he easier to find men for our ships than ships for our men,— and then rely on our great product- power to increase our superiority and maintain supremacy. in the present state of foreigu navies and foreigu policies, we helieve that ships of the line, huilt, afloat, and ready for commissioning, would he essential for this purpose; and we helieve that it is a force which the country would rejoice in, and will- ingly create. the hurden now im- posed on us hy the "reconstruction of our navy" will he horne unmur- muringly; its continuation for two .] fleets and navies—england.—part or tbree years more would render de- fence no longer a question or a douht. for' such a result the nation would not hesitate to give. it has less re- luctance to give than financiers to ask; it has less sympathy than is supposed with pinched and pared hudgets, when these mean also cur- tailed armaments. it will give, when it knows how and for what it is giving; when it knows that it is giving for realities and not chimeras —that it is giving for real fleets and armies, seamen, soldiers, ships, guns, engines, which may defend its shores, and uphold its empire, and not shams and idealities which would hreak down and disappear at the first shock of war. if we may not he content with the maguitude of the navy, there is great satisfaction in considering the pre- sent constitution of its elements, and the desigus and principles on which it is heing constructed. of the fifty liners which are to he afloat in , there will he four tbree - deckers carrying guns, tbree having horse . power, and one — tbree of guns, two hearing , and one horse-power — one of guns and horse - power — seven two-deckers of guns and up- wards, with horse - power varying from to . "thus england has ships of guns and up- wards, carrying collectively guns, and engines of , horse- power." she will have or of or guns, with horse-power vary- ing from to . the rest are -gun ships of horse-power, of which are converted. of this force have heen converted from sailing-ships, and huilt for screws. of the former it is needless to say much; they were necessities: they presented material ready for conver- sion in much less time, and at much less cost, than new ships could he huilt, and were therefore seized upon to meet the demand of a steam- navy. they helong to different sys- tems and schools, which of course varied in the adaptahility of their desigus to the new power. many are good, strong ships, carrying their guns and engines well; and as these are not proposed as models, hut merely provided as exigencies, and as, in case of a naval war in the pre- sent time, they would he opposed to an equal or rather greater proportion of ships of the same class and style in the navies of russia and france, they may he regarded as fairly answering the purpose for which they were intended. the creations of the present school of naval architecture are, we helieve (as was stated in a former paper), to he models of excellence — that is, ships huilt of timher and encased in iron are henceforth to he a line-of hattle power in naval warfare. it would he scarcely profitahle to trace the progress of the systems hy which we have advanced step hy step to our present science of shiphuilding. some of the old principles nave heen retained, others, especially those of the school immediately preceding the state of transition, have heen ahan- doned as inapplicahle to present modes and requirements: all, how- ever, even the most faulty, are iden- tified with some improvement. "the changes which our navy has under- gone emhrace not minor variations merely, hut entire and uuprecedented transformations, consequent mainly upon the introduction of steam."* it was necessary that the dimen- sions of our ships should he much enlarged, and that the tounage should he largely increased; "this difference arose partly from the in- troduction of the engines and fuel, hut it is also due to a wise increase in the carrying power of the ship, independent of her steam requisites." again, "the form of our present ships has heen adapted hy the introduc- tion of fine lines to the circumstances attendant on screw propulsion, so as to insure those high speeds for which our navy has lately hecome remarkahle." f these advantages were, however, to he united to others — mohility, stahility, stowage, fight- ing - room, the power of carrying a large armament, a steady platform for guns, and extreme handiness. in the war of which we have lately heen receiving the records, the vic- tory was ever gained hy projectile * reed's lectwe. flhid. [sept. fleets and navies—england.—part ii. force and mohility. the same prin- ciples, we helieve, must prevail afloat. handiacss of movement will and mast have great effect in naval actions and naval tactics. it will he a question of raking or heing raked, of giving or receiving a hroad- side ; and that, with the present arma- ments, will he a question so vital that the ship which can turn most quickly, and answer her helm most readily, wonld have superiority, which, if properly nsed, wonld he equivalent to victory. the new projectiles will all require greater accuracy of aim and steadiness of fire; so that a stahle platform, to give due effect to the long ranges, will he an indispensahle quality. this comhination of fighting with motive power, of size with mohility, of tounage with speed, has, we he- lieve, heen happily achieved in the construction of our new ships: even dow, however, the surveyor of the navy has declared thut the proceed- ings of naval architecture must he hased on experiments, and experi- ments alone, and that "there are a few great points yet to he fixed for future guidance." among these the principal are the determination of the amount of steam-power required for each ship, and the advisahility of ohtaining speed under steam hy means of length and fine lines. the firet is heing estahlished hy repeated experiments; and with regard to the latter, the surveyor states, "until it shall have heen satisfactorily ascer- tained that the great length which is necessary to high speed under steam alone does not materially interfere with the ready performance of the evolutions which may he required of men-of-war under any circumstances, it would not he prudent to depart otherwise than gradually, and after sufficient experience, from the dimen- sions and forms of the ships which have heen found to possess every good property."* the experiments on this point have heen tested to the utmost in the ships, especially the frigates which have heen lately built. the orlando, carrying guns, has horse - power and is feet in length—that is, more than the renown or diadem. high speed is douhtless of paramount im- portance in the present day, hut it is a question whether handiness and mohility can he safely sacrificed to it. ships of this extraordinary length would have a difficulty in turning, except in a great space, and their utility in operating under hatteries, in narrow chaunels, or even in an action, would therehy he much less- ened. however, this point is in safe hands. the men who are de- ciding it are not theorists or intui- tive architects, hut men to the mat- ter horn, who have made it a science and a study, and hased it on experi- ments of trial and practice. there is one other result, and no mean one, which has heen directly or indirectly caused hy these changes, and that is the great improvement in ventilation and accommodation. when we look at the old ships, in which a man of average height could only creep he- twixt decks, see the narrow space, and feel the stifling atmosphere in which men were formerly compelled to exist, we caunot hut rejoice in the accession of health and comfort, which, hy the great increase of air, room, and light, must he afforded to the seamen in ships of the new class. yet these nohle vessels, we are told, must shortly give place to a new power, and the donegals, renowns, and dukes of wellington hecome ere long as ohsolete as the victories and impreguahles of a former time, heneeforth, according to new tluo- ries, the ships must he smaller, carry fewer and larger guns, he coated with or huilt of iron; and it is sup- posed that these, stationed at long distances, would effectually dii)nbie or sink line-of-hattle ships of greater size, and hearing greater numher of guns, this supposition is hased on the relative force of projectiles, and of resistance possessed hy each, and does not at ail take into considera- tion the influence or eflect of the man-power and the man-spirit which must ever direct the motions, and determine the action, of an en- gine of war. this idea of hattles settled hy long halls, and at distances • extracted from mechanic's magazine. .] fleets and naciet—england.—part ii. where the comhatants could scarcely see one another, reminds ns of the mode adopted hy peruvian and chilian armies for arranging fighting matters a la distance, though it was prohahly less hloodless and destruc- tive. when the rival troops came in sight of one another, the drummers on each side marched to the front, and hegan with all their might to heat a point of war, and the soldiers shouted with all their might and main, until one army manifested a great superiority in the power of lungs and drumstick, and the other then withdrew, leaving the field to the conqueror. as long as pluck and daring are elements of human nature, men will never suhmit to he mowed down or sunk, at an interval of miles, without attempting to close, if they have the power. it was said that rifles and rifled caunon would decide military operations at long ranges, and that a close encounter, a hand-to-hand fight, or a hayonet-tbrust, would he a thing unknown in modern comhat; and yet in these late hattles the hayonet has done more deadly work than ever, and positions have heen carried hy the rush of men. unless these armour-ships have some marvellous speed which enahles them to keep their foes at their own distance, there will he closing too in naval actions, and then, spite of plates and coating, size and hroadsides will tell: the traditions, too, of hoarding still remain, .and the iron sides would he little proof against seamen swarm- ing over the nettings, or dropping from the fore yardarm, cutlass in hand, as in the time of old. if we are sometimes slow in in- vention, and in adopting ideas, our mechanical skill and energy enahle ns to emhody them hetter when we see their 	ility or necessity, than even the projectors or originators. if not first in invention, we are generally hest in adaptation. our enfield is a decided improvement on the minie conception; the armstrong is an advance on the napoleon rifled caunon; and we are ahout to give the experiment of the "fregatea hlindoes" a much fuller development in the steam ram. the french trial of proof-armour has heen confined to sheathing ships huilt with the scant- ling of tbree-deckers, or old ships razeed with thick iron plates, and pro- viding them with engines or horse - power. we are carrying it much farther. the steam ram is to he "a wrought-iron vessel of great size, strength and steam-power." "her length will he feet; her hreadth feet; depth feet six inches; and her tounage will he tons." this monster of the deep is to he propelled hy engines of horse- power, at the rate of sixteen knots an hour. the attempt at impene- trahility is carried to the utmost in her construction, and' must he fairly tested now if ever. "the keel is to he of immense slahs of wrought iron, and the rihs which spring from it are of the same material; the iron plates, which commence feet he- low the water-line, are placed over heams of teak $ feet thick, are feet long hy feet hroad, and | inches thick." "the main and upper decks will he of iron, and will he carried on heams of wrought iron, to which hoth rihs and decks are jholted; while along the whole vessel, from stern to stern, are im- mensely solid wrought-iron heams at intervals of feet inside the rihs, which are again crossed hy diagonal hands, tying the whele together in a perfect net-work. the iron plates, however, shield only the fighting portion of the vessel, ahout feet of the hroadside; and the how and stern are coated only with wrought- iron plates of h inches in thickness over feet of teak; hut hoth how and stern are so crossed and re- crossed in every direction with water- tight compartments, that it is a matter of perfect indifference whether they get riddled or not, and each of these ends is shut off from the en- gine-room and fighting portion of the ship hy continuous massive wrought-iron transverse hulk-heads, so that, supposing it possihle that hoth stem and stern should he shot away, the centre of the vessel would remain complete and impenetrahle as ever, still offering in all inches of teak coated with inches of wrought iron to every shot."* — times, june . [sept fleets and navies—england.—pari ii. this would seem the very model of resistance, a defiance to projectile power. we must rememher, how- ever, how man attained the perfec- tion, as it was supposed, of impene- trahility hy casing himself in iron, and how he was driven out of his armour hy its own unwieldiness and the new force of projectiles. this monster tortoise - ship is also to he very formidahle in her offensive qua- lities, and is to carry thirty-six of armstrong's guns of lh., twenty- eight on her main deck, and eight on the upper. of the upper-deck armament there will he two pivot- guns forward and two aft. inde- pendent of these she would he ahle to tbrow in a hroadside a ton and a half of metal, if lh. he the real and not the nominal weight of the shot. • . .' thus we have a tremendous repre- sentation of offensive and defensive power. here is a mass from which shot of lh. could he tbrown at a distance of nearly five miles, and which would at such range he im- penetrahle to any missile or projectile which might strike her. it could move, too, at the rate of sixteen knots an hour,.a rate which might enahle it to keep whatever position, with regard to other ships, might he required. is there any draw- hack? the ram would weigh, when fully equipped, armed, stowed, and provisioned, tons; and this, to- gether with her extreme length, sug- gests unwieldiness. it is not known, too, how she would carry her guns in the sea way, what water she would draw, or how manageahle she might prove in had weather or in narrow chaunels. on her possession of these qualities would depend her great superiority as an attacking force. it must he admitted that the ram, constructed according to plan, would he impervious to shot or shell fired at a long range; nothing save a direct fire could nurt her. it is also, we helieve, as certain that at. close quarters her impenetrahility would not he proof against a concentrated hroadside of heavy wrought - iron shot. the question, then, will he, whether this tortoise - vessel can he constructed with speed and mohility enough to keep the distance at which she is impreguahle, and take up the position which would enahle her to give full effect to her projectile power: if so, wooden ships must hecome an ohsolete force. this is the prohlem which has yet to he solved ere we" ahandon oar present ships as useless, fit only to rot, or he cut down and sheathed in iron. it is an important, it is also a very difficult one. the aggressive capacity is not to he confined to projectiles. there is also to he the ram power. it is desigued that she shall not he ahle only to hatter ships at a distance, hut to crush and sink them hy run- ning at them. "the mode in which she attacks will he to run straight at the enemy, taking him, if possihle, in the stern or quarter;" and it is then supposed that, with the great weight and speed, she might sink a line-of-hattle ship in tbree minutes. the how is made strong enough to hear the shock of the encounter; " her howsprit is to he made telescopic, in order to he housed on hoard he- fore striking the enemy." to escape any share of the injury she would inflict, " her crew are to he prepared to retire to the stern to avoid injury from her own masts and spars, which would certainly fall hy the hoard; the engineers are to stand hy to re- verse the engines, in order to clear her of the wreck of her antagonist." this sounds very theoretic, very com- plex and uupractical. so much de- pends on so many conditions. the hlow must he struck in the right place; the engines must he reversed exactly in time to escape not only from falling spars and wreck, hut from the vortex which a sinking ship would make; and she could not have the full services of her crew at the time of encounter. that she would sink the line-of-battle ship under the proposed conditions is possihle enough; hut it is not to he supposed that the line-of-hattle ship would .remain fixed like a wall to receive the hlow wherever she was most vulnerahle, and where her foe chose to inflict it. being in all pro- hahility mora mohile, she might he so handled that the ram might miss the mark, and he then exposed to a crushing, smashing hroadside. there .] fuett and xaviet—england.—part ii. is a plan now very much practised, if not universally, in men-of-war, hy which all the guns of a hroad- side can he so trained as to tbrow their concentrated fire within a space of twenty feet; and we he- lieve that nothing made of wood or iron, which could float, would resist such a weight of metal projected at close quarters. it is well to say that this ram, even if how or stern were shot away, would still he im- preguahle. she might he impreg- nahle, hut she would also he unman- ageahle. once unmanageahle, she would he powerless—would he at the mercy of an enemy, or might he left to drift helplessly away. against a crippled ship the ram would he fatal, hut in that case it would he as easy to take as sink her; and sinking a ship, like hanging a man, is ahout the worst use to which it can he put. it is also helieved that, in the con- fusion of an action, one of these armed vessels might run successively into ships engaged with an enemy, and so render them hors de com- hat. in order that such a plan should succeed, the character of the vessel must he disguised, or the commander of the opposing fleet too iguorant or too negligent to foresee or provide against such a danger. no admiral would dare to lead his ships into action without having fairly assured himself against the risk of having them helplessly rammed down. this calculation, like many others of the day, assumes that mechanical science is to he all in all; that the work of war oven is to he regulated hy me- chanism, and that genius and courage are henceforth to count as nought. none will dare now, with the ex- perience of the past, to denounce any new power as an impossihility or an impracticahility. a learned man staked his fame on the impossihility of steam-ships crossing the atlantic; another talented one opposed, with might and main, the introduction of the screw into the navy; soldiers of war experiences scouted the rilio and mime hullet. it would there- fore he dangerous and unwise to say that this steam ram will not ho a power in modern warfare. it will ho douhtless a power, hut whether so great and overwhelming a one as to supersede the present linoof-hattle ships, remains a question of experi- ment. there are as yet many pros and cons. the ram property will, we helieve, prove a fallacy. as an attacking force which, at the distance of tbree, four, even five miles, can tbrow its shot and shell with accu- racy, and with impunity to itself, it must he formidahle and dangerous; hut how dangerous, must depend much on its stahility and manage- ahleness. guns fired at such dis- tances must have great accuracy in order to render their fire effective, and the vessel that is intended to command a position must he capahle of heing readily and rapidly moved. if it should prove, therefore, that these armour-ships are unsteady and uneasy, and could only fire their guns accurately in smooth water, or that they are unhandy, their redouhtahle character would he much diminished. there is one respect, however, in which they must he ever a power, and that is, in assailing forts or arsenals, stationary ohjects which caunot move out of their way, and would there- fore require little change of position, or ships lying in a harhour or road- stead. against such ohjects they would launch destruction, and them- selves defy reprisals. one of the fallacies invoked hy these new inventions is, that the great accession of mechanical appli- ances in war will diminish the neces- sity of man-power and nullify sea- man skill. a leader of the man- chester school proclaims that "war depends not, as heretofore, on indivi- dual hravery, on the power of a man's nerves, the keeuness of his eye, the strength of his hody, or the power of his soul; hut it is a mere mechan- ical mode of slaughtering men." whence comes this deduction? not surely from the experience of the manufacturer? does he find that steam-power and mechanical science do away with the require- ment for skilful lahour, and that a humpkin from the plough or a lad from the streets would ho as use- ful as an experienced artisan? we have heard, and helieve, that skilled lahour is of more account and more need in manufactures than ever since the introduction of steam-machinery. vol. lxxxvi. [sept. fleets and navies—england.—part ii. it is the fate, however, of this pro- phet to make his denunciations and deliver his oracles at times when the patent facts and experiences of the day contradict and helie them. there was never a period when strong nerves and keen eyesight were of such import as now. with- out them the rifled musket and the rifled caunon would he merely useless tuhes, from which projectiles would he cast into empty space. in former times, the dasli of a rush or the solidity of endurance were the quali- ties essential in soldier nature. now, the direction of most powerful pro- jectiles requires nerves steady as iron, limhs which shall not quiver, an eye which shall not falter, and which shall extend its vision to thousands and thousands of yards. let the fields of magenta and sulferino say whether "individual hravery and power of soul " are no longer soldier virtues—no longer powers in warl we helieve that the greater the power, especially if it he mechanical, the greater the skill required to wield and direct it. thus this steam ram, instead of heing under-mauned, would require to he full-handed, and to he mauned hy the most ahle men, hoth g;mners and steersmen. even if the sliip were impervious to shell striking her, or falling on her decks from a distance, this would not ex- tend to her crew. the shell which would not penetrate her sides, or force tbrough her decks, would yet scatter death amid the crews of her guns. therefore it would he neces- sary that she should he possessed of relays, and the nicety of htr hand- ling" and the pointing of her guns would demand the most skilled aud experienced hands. the ram, as it comes f. rth from our workshops, will represent the principle of impreguahility and resist- ance. betwixt it and the armstrong gun will rest the question of the power of attack and the power of defence. the "fre"gates hlindees" are comparatively very inferior con- ceptions—they have engines only of horse-power, move only at the rate of five or six knots, and are sup- posed to ho unwieldy; they would thus fail in the two forces which could alone make them formidahle —mohility and velocity. our weapons of war have necessi- tated this change in the construction of our war-ships, and these changes of construction again demand an alteration in our existing armaments. at present, spite of the assertions of the "conversations-lexicon," our ships are well and efficiently armed to meet the existing exigencies of war, and we helieve, in guns, fit- tings, and fighting equipments, are superior to the french. the com- mon armament of our ships consists of -pounders, -inch guns, tbrowing -lh. hollow shot, inch guns, and -pounders. the -inch gun has heen generally condemned, and will prohahly he shortly disused; the - pounder, on the contrary, has heen as generally approved of, thongh its great weight ( cwt.) would pre- vent its heing largely used as a hn lad- side gun. as a pivotgun it is most efficient and effective, hoth with shot and shell. the -pounders of diffe- rent dimensions and weight, and the -inch gun, are for present purposes well approved of. a great ohjection against the latter will, however, he, that it caunot tbrow solid shot, which alone would take effect on iron-coated ships, and therefore in such warfare it would he reduced solely to the ac- tion of a shell-gun, and in a clu-o en- counter, a very formidahle part of a hroadside would thus he lost. these, however, must and will give way to rifled caunon and armstrong guns, and may therefore he considered only as exisiing until their successors are ready to take their places. in the interim, hetwixt the creation of the war-engines which shall super- sede them, and the armour-ships which necessitate an increase of pro- jectile force to halance the power of attack and defetice, they may he re- garded as a very sufficient armament, and equal to any which may he op- posed to it. the armament of the first-class french liners consists now of six 's, sixty long -pounders, and fifty-lour -pounder paixhans. ouo of our tbree-deckers would carry - inch guns on her lower deck, 's on her middle, main, and upper decks, and a -pounder pivot-gun on the forecastle. so that, according to the old war-estahlishment, there would ho little inequality in the relative armaments. but the french have .] fleet* and nana—england.—part ii. already gained a stride ahead in this respect, hy introducing rifled caunon into their ships. ttiey have employ- ed and provided for the interreguum whilst the new inventions and the new powers are in their cradleship, hy rifling their old ordnance, and thns, unless we adopt the same plan, will, as they did in the construction of their steam navy, achieve an ad- vance in the arm-power of their ships. the armstrong gun is no douht, as yet, the most advanced stage of projectile development. though its principles and construction are only partly known, and the experiments have heen conducted privately, yet there exists a general conviction that in rang?, accuracy, and lightness, and all the cidef requisites of an engine of war, it is the model gun of the times, and initiated and uninitiated alike accept it as such. indeed, a gun which at a distance of yards can make first-rate practice at a tar- get nine feet square, and which weighs scarcely half as much as guns of the same calihre of the old pattern, may fairly, in the present state of pro- jectile science, challenge pre-emin- ence among the arms of the world. its adaptahility as a ship gun has not heen questioned; its adoption as such will he an era in naval warfare. the conception and suggestion of it have already caused a great change in the system of defence, and its suc- cess will initiate a complete revolu- tion in the tactics of actions at sea. we know too little at present of the details to determine whether the pounder will he availahle as a hroadside - gun. this will depend much on the space it would require, and the nature of the carriage on which it will he mounted. the weight will he no ohjection, as it will scarcely exceed that of the present -inch gun, if it hear any proportion in that respect to those already pro- duced; nor will the length; and the hreech-loading principle will of course save exposure and manual lahour in loading and firing. the idea, how- ever, that its introduction will enahle us to have smaller ports in our ships, and to diminish the strength of a gun's crew, is, we helieve, a fallacy. the ports caunot ho contracted with- out interfering with the ventilation, the escape of the smoke, the facility of taking aim; and the difficulty which the contracted limits of the port-hole as an emhrasure will at present place in the way of ohtain- ing the necessary training and eleva- tion to give full efficacy to its power of range and precision, will require to he overcome hy some new expe- dients. nor do we helieve that the diminution of the manual lahour in handling the gun will justify a de- crease of its crew. the attention required hy an arm of such nicety must he most minute and incessant, and would demand the superintend- ence hoth of well-trained and full- handed skill. however, its adoption as a hroadside gun, irrespective of its merits, must he some time deferred in consequence of the limited supply; and its first test will douhtless he as a pivot gun, and in that capacity it is confidently anticipated that it will exhihit a new and high phase of pro- jectile progress. the experiments of the effect of the armstrong holt on iron-cased ships were not so perfect or satisfactory as to estahlish the ascendancy of the power of attack over that of defence, hut it is yet to he aso.rtained what will he the pene- tration and force of the heavier and larger holt; and should it he found to have the requisite penetration, its property of hursting alter entering would make it an uupleasant visitor on the decks of a ram or tortoise. we are told that one hundred of these guns may he ready at the he- giuning of the next year, and two hundred more in the ensuing. at this rate, it will he several years ere they can he supplied in numhers suf- ficient to folly, or even partially, arm our ships and forts, and in ahout the same time prohehly the ram prohlem will attain a solution. then greek may meet greek. in the mean time there are other greeks to he met—the rifled cannon of france. we have a profusion of material— plans enough, workman skill, work- man power enough for the purpose. we suppose that the means thus at our disposal are heing used to place us on a footing with our rival. it caunot he otherwise—we caunot lag hehind. competition in such a race s [sept. fleets and navies—england.—part ii. is not n choice, it is a necessity. plans are not, will not, he wanting. inventive genins, inventive skill, would with ns equal the mechanical, were it not so nullified, so clogged, fettered, perverted, deadened hy cir- cumlocution offices and red-tapist prejudices, that it grows tired of heing shuttlecocked from hand to hand, and heing docketed and pigeon- holed, takes flight to more con- genial spheres, and gives the ini- tiative to other governments. the invention, neglected and overlooked among us, hecomes a power, and we are compelled to imitate where we might have originated, to follow where we might have led. the plan for rifling guns, now car- ried ont in france, was, we helieve, first proposed to us. so were many others, which have heen allowed to remain in aheyance. the idea of the minie hullet lay ensconced for half a century in the dust of pigeon-holes and the notes of havana; and our neighhours have since reproached us that wo did not give our discovery to the world, if we were not disposed to develop it ourselves. official routine, official system, is, perhaps, the strongest thing in eng- land. it has a vitality, endurance, and tenacity greater than any other system or principle existing among ns. though hearing all the sigus of decrepitude, decay, weakness, it yet, like sinhad's old man, can override the puhlic will, and control the mili- tary genins of the nation. how long shall these things he? how long? until they cease to he, england wdl ever he striving hy forced strides to make up for halts and false steps—will ever he strug- gling for the vanguard, instead of assuming it as an assured and right- ful position. before closing our remarks on the material of our navy, we must notice a force which we helieve would play a conspicuous part in any future naval war, and which will not he superseded or rendered ohsolete even hy rams, and that is the gun-hoats. we hwlieve (as was stated hefore) that their importance has heen overlooked in the estimate of our strength, and that they will he formidahle auxi- liaries to a line-of-hattle, and that the navy which possesses them in the greatest perfection and the greatest strength will have a great vantage in all the preliminaries and details of operations where larger ships could not act. england numhers now gun- vessels, varying from to horse- power, and gun-hoats, varying from to horse-power. this force, armed with the arm- strong gun, acting as a light hody in an aciion, would douhtless emharrass the evolutions of the hostile fleet— would tease slow ships, and prevent the es.ape of crippled ones—would, from their drawing so little water, he very efficient in recounoitring in shallow chaunels, in cutting out ves- se's, and in aunoying and consider- ahly damaging a fleet at anchor in a roadstead; whilst they, mere specks themselves, ami constantly in motion, would suffer little from an enemy's fire. to he thorougbly effective, how- ever, as a light force, these vessels should have not only mohility, hut velocity—should he ahle not only to shift and change their position, hut to maintain safe distance. our gun- hoats possess the requisite mohility, as was well shown at sveahorg and elsewhere; hut, constructed as they were on an emergency, and for a cer- tain purpose, the speed was not so much considered. their average speed is harely eight knots, and that would not enahle them to command the ne- cessary distance fiom ordinary hne- of-hattle ships or frigates. we are promised, however, vessels of this class of a superior description, and trust they will not ho stinted in numher, and will comhine the neces- sary velocity and mohility. they would then ho in naval warfare what the voltigenr, chasseur, and zouavo forces have proved to an army in a campaigu, and would give to a mari- time power or naval commander the means of taking the initiative in a war or hattle. thus, in the material of a navy, we have, prospectively, at least, the power of a supremacy. we have the power of producing ships in a less time than any other country; wo possess inventions and plans which might enahle us to take the lead in .] journal of a cruiti on the tanganyika lake, central africa. s the armament, machinery, and the armour of ships; we command re- sources of finance which should in- sure us the folfilment of every project and the advance in every detail and principle of naval efficiency necessary for the national position and the na- tional defence; we can challenge the workman-power of the world; we are assured of the will of the nation to employ all its resources, to put forth all its strength, to estahlish the maritime supremacy which is to it legitimate defence. and yet why is it, with all this, that there are ques- tions of defence? why is it? can it he that there exists a suspi- cion that the intent of government accords not with the will of the nation? a return to the old stand-point of our navy—the assured possession of a force equal to the united marine of the world—can alone allay this suspi- cion, and estahlish a confidence undis- turhed hy periodic alarms and panics; and we might then exhihit to the world the grand spectacle of a people repudiating war and aggression as false to its policie* and interests, re- pelling attack hy the might of its defence, seeking peace and ensuring it hy the demonstration and con- sciousue-s of its strength. so much for material: in that re- spect the prospect is hopeful. there remains the more serious and difficult question of the supply of man-power —the certain and instant command of crews for our ships. it is too difficult, too serious, to he discussed at the end of an article; we must reserve it for another occasion. it is the most important prohlem we have heen called upon to solve for mnny generations. it is one which will involve and determine the future of england. journal of a cruise on tiie tanganyika lake, central africa. [jordant, taunton, august . my dear blackwood, — as a great numher of friends, hoth here and in india, have expressed a warm desire to he made acquainted with my late journeyings in africa, as well as with the social state and general condition of the people whom i found there, i send for puhlication in your magazine the accompanying journal, which i kept when travelling alone in africa. very numerous inquiries have heen addressed to me hy statesmen, clergymen, merchants, and more particularly geographers; and i hope the appearance of the journal in your widely-circulated pages will convey to them the desired information; although, heing more of a traveller than a man of the pen, i feel some diffidence as to my own powers of narrative. the country which i have recently dis- covered hy the influential aid of the royal geographical society, invites our attention hy the commercial tendencies of the inhahitants, and the desire shown hy them to improve their present fearfully degraded position. for the hetter comprehension of my journal, i hegin with a short introduc- tory sketch of the country tbrough which i passed, conducting you from zanzihar to ujiji, on the horders of the tanganyika lake, lying in lat. ° s., and long. ° e. during this early part of the journey the journal was kept hy my commandant, captain burton, i taking only the suhordinate office of surveyor, and applying myself solely to mapping, entering topo- graphical remarks, and shooting for the pot. you must, therefore, look else- where for details of this stage of the journey. anyhody desirous of hecoming [sept. journal of a cruitt on fully acquainted 'with the geographical features of these regions would do well to ohtain those proceedings of the royal geographical society which have heen lately puhlished, and will eventually he contained in the society's volume for this year.—yours very truly, j. h. speke.] many may rememher the excite- ment produced hy an extraordinary map, and a more extraordinary lake figuring upon it, of a rather slug-like shape, which drew forth risihle oh- servations from all who entered the royal geographical society's rooms in the year . in order to ascer- tain the truthfnlness of the said map, the royal geographical society ap- pointed captain burton to investi- gate this monster piece of water, re- presented as extending from the equa- tor to ° s. latitude, as having a hreadth of two to tbree hundred miles, and as lying at a distance of seven hun- dred miles inland west from zanzihar. as captain burton and myself had heen engaged on a former occa- sion exploring the somali country in eastern africa together, he invited me to join him in these investiga- . tions. having, therefore, ohtained the necessary equipments in the scien- tific and other departments in eng- land and india during , we left zanzihar at the end of june , in a vessel of war, lent hy sultan majid, to convey us across to kaole", a village on the mainland, a little south of the kingani river. colonel hamerton, late british con- sul at zanzihar, accompanied ns there, to support us hy his pre- sence in case anyhody should en- deavour to .oppose our starting; a precaution whioh he thought neoes- sary, hecause the only european, a young frenchman, who had ever tried to enter africa hy this route, was harharously murdered hefore he had penetrated one hundred miles; and up to the present time, although his assassin is well known, nohody will divulge who the instigators of the murder were. our caravan con- sisted of an arah called shaykh said, the ras-cafila (head of caravan); some belooch soldiers lent us hy majid sultan of zanzihar, some porters of the wanyamue"zi trihe (people of the moon), negroes who inhahit a large portion of central africa, and a host of donkeys for riding and carrying our spare kit. besides these we hired, tbrough the medinm of an hindi merchant called rainji, a numher of the slaves of certain di- wans (headmen) living on the main- land opposite to zanzihar, to carry muskets in the mauner of guards, as well as to do odd johs. leaving kaole,, we paased the mrima, a low hilly tract of coast-line, diversified with flats and terraces, well peopled and cultivated, and rich in tree- forests and large tropical vegetation, and following the course of the kin- gani river tbrough the districts of the wazeramos and wakhutus, we reach- ed in ahout a hundred and ten miles the first great elevation of eastern af- rica, which we shall, for distinction's sake, call the east coast range. this hilly district is ahout ninety miles hroad, is composed chiefly of granite and sandstone, formed into groups and lines, intersected transversely and otherwise hy considerahle rivers —such, for instance, as the eingani and lufiji—which, rising far in the interior, flow east to the indian ocean. this—a longitudinal range extending from c n. latitude down nearly to the cape of good hope —attained, where we crossed it, alti- tudes varying from tbree hundred to six thousand feet ahove the level of the sea. it is occupied hy the wasa- gara trihe—a people who live in lightly constructed conical huts of grass and wicker-work, tend cattle, and cultivate extensively when not disturhed hy the slave-hunters, who live nearer to the coast, and fre- quently make excursions here to supply the zanzihar market with human cattle. on descending its western side, we found an elevated plateau of rather poor land, hearing more wild forest than cultivation, and more wild .] ml the tanganyika lake, central africa. heasts than men, and not very many of either, excepting near some con- genial springs, the fountains of afri- ca's glory. this plateau extends westwards two hundred miles. its average altitude is from twenty-fire hundred to four thousand feet, and it is occupied hy the wagogo and the wanyamuezi trihes, who live in huts of a very civilised appearance, and far more comfortahle than those pos- sessed hy any other interior clans. the conception for huilding on eo grand a scale was prohahly first oc- casioned hy the travelling hahits of the wanyamuezis having hrought them earlier than any other people into contaot with the coast, where square rooms divided hy mud walls, constructed much on the same prin- ciple as the common east-india ones, are the prevailing fashion. these men are industrious for negroes, mostly occupying their time in trafficking with the coast, or tilling ground and tending cattle; many of them again are rope-makers, smiths, or carpenters and weavers. here, in the centre of this latter trihe's coun- try, at an arah depot called kazeh— in south latitudes and east longitude °, the immediate district of which is cdled unyanyemh , and which we might well desiguate the great em- porinm of eastern interior afrioa, for to this place most of the caravans come hefore diverging off to the respective places north, south, and west, when carrying on their ivory transactions with the more remote negro trihes—our porters took their discharge, and dispersed to their homes. the arahs we found col- lected here were extremely ohliging, especially one called shaykh snay, who gave us a house, looked after our wants, and assisted in procuring fresh porters not only for that occa- sion, hut every other; in short, we estahlished him our agent, and found him a most creditahle one. after waiting a month or so reforming our caravan, we proceeded westwards in the height of the monsoon, and passed tbrough a higbly cultivated country, which, hy determining with the thermometer the temperature at which water hoiled, i found gradually declined as we proceeded west, and in miles made a remarkahle descent of feet. in this region, differing greatly from the first and greater part of the preceding one (where great droughts act detrimentally on the crops), rice, sugar-cane, and all indian productions, grow in great profusion, and the people weave their cotton into loin cloths. after travelling along this decline ahout one hundred and fifty miles, w» hegan to ascend at the eastern horn of a large crescent-shaped mass of mountains overhanging the northern half of the tanganyika lake, which i am now ahout to descrihe to yon. this mountain mass i consider to he the trub mountains of thk moon, regarding which so many erroneous speculations have heen ventured. i infer this hecause they lie heyond unyamufezi (country of the moon), and must have heen first mentioned to geographical inquirers hy the wanyamuezi (people of the moon,) who have from time out of mind visited the coast, and must have heen the first who gave information of them. i am the more satisfied of the correctness of this view from re- memhering the common greek prac- tice of ohanging siguificant general names into equivalents in their own tongue, and the consequent proha- hility of their calling these mountains after the men who live near them. indeed, modern geographers, i am inclined to think, would have cbrist- ened them in similar mauner, since neither they nor any other places in negroland hear general names to dis- tinguish them hy. some must he originated; and nothing more ap- propriate conld in this case have heen found for this group than that which ptolemy has given, as the mountains form a crescent overhanging the north end of the lake, large and deep in the hody to the north, and taper- ing to horns as they stretch south- wards down the east and west sides of the lake. our line of march, ahout six hundred rectilinear geo- graphical miles, had heen nearly due west from zanzihar. here you may picture to yourself my hitter disap- pointment when, after toiling tbrough so many miles of savage life, all the time emaciated hy divers sicknessei [sept. journal of a cruite on and weakened hy great privations of food and rest, i found, on approach- ing the zenith of my amhition, the great lake in question nothing hut mist and glare hefore my eyes. from the summit of the eastern horn the lovely tanganyika lake could he seen in all its glory hy everyhody hut myself. the fact was that fevers and the influence of a vertical sun had re- duced iny system so, that inflamma- tion, caught hy sleeping on the ground during this rainy season, attacked my eye*, hrought on an almost total hlindness, and rendered every ohject hefore me enolouded as hy a misty veil.* proceeding on- wards down the western slopes of the hill, we soon arrived at the margin of the lake, and hired a canoe at a village called ttkaranga to take us to uj"ji, the chief place on the lake which arabs frequent, with which namo we had long heen familiar, and hy which they ca!led this lake. this modo of nomenclature is quite in ac- cordance with the usual custom of semi-civilised people, as we see in arahia, where the arahs call the red sea hy the names of the different ports which they frequent. thus for instance, at jeddah, it is called hy them the sea of jeddah, whilst at suez it is the sea of suez, &c. &c. as in its present state your atlas presents a hlank instead of one of the most heamilul inland seas in the world, you would he glad, perhaps, to know its position and dimensions, which will enahle you to lay it down on the map yourself. the tangany- ika lake, lying hetween ° and * south latitude, and in " east longi- tude, has a length of tbree hundred miles, and is from thirty to forty hroad in its centre, hut tapers to- wards each end. the surface-level, as i ascertained hy the temperature of hoiling water, is only eighteen hundred feet, and it appears quite sunk into the lap of these mountains. it lies in a trough-like or synclinal depression, draining the waters of all the surrounding districts into its own hosom. its waters are very sweet, and ahound with delicious fish in great variety. its shores are thickly inhahited hy numerous trihes of the true kegro hreed, amongst which the most conspicuous are the wahemhe caunihals, into whose territory no arahs durst ever venture. bomhay, my interpreter, descrihes them as heing very dreadful matures, who are "always looking out for some of our sort." the port we finally arrived at is called kawele, a small village in the ujiji district. here we found ourselves in the hands of a very ill-disposed chief, called kan- nina, tyraunical, and, as such savages invariahly are, utterly uureasonahle. we paid a heavy trihute for the advantages of this savage monster's protection, and were too short of heads and cloth to search out for and pay another chief of more moderate inclinations. this * on my return to england, dr. bowman, after inspecting my eyes, sent me the following explanation of the causes of this hlindness :— " clifford street, may . "dear sir,—i have much pleasure in replying to vour inquiry as to the nature of the a; tuck from which you suffered in africa. the dimness of sight resulted from an inflammation of a low type affecting the whole of the interior tunics of the eyes, particularly the iris, the choroid coat, and the retina. i find in one of the pupils positive proof as to the existence at a former period of the inflamma- tion of the iris, known as iritis, there heing a deposit of some of the hlack pig- ment of the iris on the front of the lens. the gauzy films which flit hefore your sight, depend on delicate microscopic wehs in the vitreous humour floating hefore the retina, and casting their fine shadows upon it. they are fortunately not thick or dark enough to impede vision in any serious degree. they may in time disappear hut do not know that the medical art can supply any remedy for them. they are one of the resalts of the low inflammation of which i spoke. "this whole attack, such as j ou descrihe it, resemhles what i have occasion- ally witnessed in persons whose hlood has heen impoverished. i saw some coses of it in officers who had gone tbrough the crimean winter of - .—yours very sincerely, "w. bowman. "captain speke, ac." .] the tanganyika lake, central africa. was a serious misfortune, for, hav- ing once entered his dominions, and estahlished our headquarters there, we could not very well leave them, the more especially as we could not have removed our camp to any distance— ujiji heing the only district where canoes are ohtainahle. this was the more distressing as comfort, pleasure, and everything is at the mercy of these headsmen's wills, and we were destined for a long sojourn here. to war with these chiefs is like "cut- ting off the nose to spite the face." nohody, let his desire he what it may, dares assist you without the chief's full approhation, and kaunina's aus- tere government we had occasion to feel from first to last. our first oh- ject on arrival was to get hoats for the survey of the lake; hut here arose a difficulty. hostilities were rife with nearly all the horder trilies, and the little cockle-shell canoe-i, made from the hollowed trunks of trees, are not only liahle to he driven ashore hy the slightest storm, hut are so small that there is hut little stowage- room in them for carrying supplies. the sailors, aware of this defect, fear to venture anywhere except on cer- tain friendly heats, and therefore their hoats were quite unfitted for our work. this dilemma made us try to hire a dhow or sailing-vessel, helonging to shaykh hamed hin sulayyim, living at kasengd island, on the opposite or western shore, as it was the only hoat afloat on these waters fitted for carrying provisions, and moving ahout independent of the horder clans. on arriving here, we were so disahled hy sickness — captain burton utterly, and i suffering from ophthalmia, and a weakness in the lower extremities resemhling par- alysis — that we at first proposed sending our ras-cafila, shaykh said, across the lake to hargain for the dhow, and applied to kaunina for the means of transport. at first he seemed inclined to treat, though at an exorhitant rate; hut when we came direct to terms, he hacked en- tirely out we fortunately ohtained a hoat and crew from another chief, at the extortionate charge of four kitindis and four dhotis american, hesides the usual sailors' fee. the dhoti is a piece of american sheet- ing measuring eight cuhits. the cuhit is still the negro's yard, the same as was adopted at the time of the flood; they have no other mea- sure than that with which nature has provided them—viz. the first joint of the arm. these kitindis are a sort of hrass wire hracelet worn on the lower arm hy the negro females, coiled up from the wrist to the eihuw, like a wax taper circling up a stick or stem. sometimes this wire is re-formed and coiled flat out round the neck to a hreadth of ahout eight inches, and gives the wearer's head much the appearance of john the baptist's standing in the middle of a charger. these necklaces are never taken off, so at night, or restimr-time, the wearer, on lying down, places a hlock of wood or stone heneath his head, to prevent the wire from galling. this concession of the chief was given under the proviso that kan- nina would not ohject, which, strange to say, he promised not to do, and hopes were entertained of an early departure. however this, like every other eartbly expectation, especially in these hlack regions, was des- tined to he disappointed. in the first place, an african must do every- thing hy easy stages, nor can he en- tertain two ideas in his head at the same moment. first a civw hud to ho collected, and when collected to he paid, and when paid, the hoat was found to he unseaworthy, and must he plugged; and so much time elapsed, and plans were changed. but after all, things, it happened, were wisely ordained; for the time thus wasted served to recruit my health, as i em- ployed it in hathing and strolling gently ahout during the cool of the mornings and evenings, and so gained considerahle henefit. there is a curi- ous idea here with regard to the hath- ing-place, in fancying the dreaded cro- codile will ohey the mandates of a charm. they plant the hough of u particular tree in the water ahout fifty yards from the shore, which marks the line of safe hathing, for within it they say the animal dares not venture. at noon, protected hy an umhrella, and fortified with stained-glass spectacles, i usually visited the market-place, with heads in hand, to purchase daily [sept journal of a cruise on supplies. the market is held hetween the hours of a.m. and p.m., near the port, and consists of a few tem- porary huts, composed of grass and hranches hastily tied together. most of these are tbrown up day hy day. the commodities hrought for sale are fish, flesh, tohacco, palm-oil, and spirits, different kinds of potatoes, artichokes, several sorts of heans, plantains, melons, cotton, sugar-cane, a variety of pulse and vegetahles, and ivories, and sometimes slaves. between these peramhulations, i spent the day reclining with my eyes shut. at length, after eightoen days' negotiations, improved hy these con- stitutional diversions and rest, and longing for a change, especially one that led across the sea, and afforded the means of surveying it, i pro- posed to go my>elf, and treat di- rectly with shaykh hamed. this intention soon reached the ears of kaunina, who, fearing that he might thus lose mnch cloth, tbrew ohstacles in the way, and most unjustly de- manded as large a passport fee for my crossing, as had heen given to the other chief; which demand we were ohliged to comply •with, or the men would not take up an oar. the journal sd march .—all heing settled, i set out in a long narrow canoe, hollowed out of the trunk of a single tree. these vessels are mostly huilt from large timhers, growing in the district of uguhha, on the western side of the lake. the savages fell them, lop off the hranohes and ends to the length required, and then, after covering the upper surface with wet mud, as the tree lies upon tlio ground, they set fire to and smoulder out its interior, until nothing hut a case remains, which they finish up • hy paring out with rougbly con- structed hatchets. the seats of these canoes are hars of wood tied trans- versely to the length. the kit taken consists of one load ( lh.) of cloth (american sheeting), another of lurire hlue heads, a magazine of powder, and seven kitindis. the party is composed of bomhay, my interpre- ter, gactano, a gooanese cook-hoy, two belooch soldiers, one nakhuda or sea-captain, who sometimes wore a goat-skin, and twenty stark naked savage sailors: twenty-six in all. of these only ten started, the remainder leaving word that they would follow down the coast, and meet us at a ichumhi (encampment), tbree miles dis- tant, hy o'clock. the ten, how- ever, sufficient for the occasion, move merrily off at a.m., and in an hour we reached the rendezvous, under a large spreading tree on the right hank of the mouth of the river ruche". the party is decidedly motley. the man of quaintest aspect in it is sidi maharak bomhay. he is of the wahiyow trihe, who make the hest slaves in eastern africa. his hreed is that of the true woolly-headed negro, though he does not repre- sent a good specimen of them physically, heing somewhat smaller in his general proportions than those one generally sees as fire- stokers in our steamers that traverse the indian ocean. his head, though woodeny, like a hurher's hlock, is lit up hy a humorons little pair of pig- like eyes, set in a generous henigu- looking countenance, which, strange to say, does not helie him, for his good conduct and honesty of pur- pose are without parallel. his muzzle projects dog-monkey fashion, and is adorned with a regular set of sharp-pointed alligator teeth, which he presents to full view as constantly as his very ticklish risihle faculties hecome excited. the tohac- conist's jolly nigger stuck in the corner house of ... . street, as it stands in mute hut full grin, tempt- ing the patronage of accidental pass- engers, is his perfect counterpart. this wonderfid man says he knows nothing of his genealogy, nor any of the dates of the leading epochs of his adventurous life,—not even his hirth, time of captivity, or re- storation. but his gener.il history he narrated to me as follows, which i give as he told it me, for this sketch mayhe of interest, presenting, as it does, a good characteristic ac- count of the mauner in which slavo- hunts are plauned and carried into execution. it must he truthful, for i have witnessed tragedies of a simi- lar nature. the great slave-hunt- ers of eastern africa are the sowa- hili or coast people; formerly slaves .] the tanganyika lake, central africa. themselves, they are more enlight- ened, and fuller of tricks than the interior people, whom they now in their turn catch. having heen once caught themselves, they know how to proceed, and are consequently very cautious in their movements, tnking sometimes years hefore they finally try to accomplish their ohject. they first ensuare the iguorant unsuspi- cious inlanders hy alluring and en- tangling them in the treacherous meshes of deht, and then, hy cap- turing and mercilessly selling their human game, liquidate the deht, insinuatingly advanced as an irre- sistihle decoy to allure their con- fiding victim». bomhey says, " i am an uhiyow; my father lived in a village in the country of uhiyow (a large district situated hetween the east coast and the nynssa lake, in latitude ° .) of my mother i have hut the faintest recollection; she died whilst i was in my infancy. our village was living in happy con- tentment, until the fated year when i was ahout the age of twelve. at that lieriod a large hody of sowa- hilis, merchants and their slaves, all equipped with sword and gun, came suddenly, and, surrounding our vil- lage, demanded of the inhahitants instant liquidation of their dehts (cloth and heads) advanced in for- mer times of pinching dearth, or else to stand the consequences of refusal. as all the residents had at different times contracted dehts to different memhers of the hody present, there was no appeal aguinst the equity of this sudden demand, hut no one had the means of pay- ment. they knew fighting against firearms would he hopeless; so after a tew stratagems, looking for a good opportunity to holt, the whole vil- lage took to precipitate flight. most of the villagers were captured like myself; hut of my father, or any other relatives, i never more gained any intelligence. ho was either shot in endeavouring to defend him- self, o'r still more prohahly gave leg- hail, and so escaped. as soon as this foray was over, all the captives were grouped together, and tethered with chains or ropes, and marched off to kilwa, on the east coast (in lati- tude ° s.) arrived there, the whole party emharked in dhows, which, set- ting sail, soon arrived at zanzihar. we were then driven to the slave- market, where i was hought hy an arah merchanr,and taken off to india. i served with this master for several years, till hy his death i ohtained my liheration. my next destination was zanzihar, where i took service in the late imaum's army, and passed my days in half-starved inactivity, until the lucky day when, at chongwo", you saw and gave me service." shortly after we had encamped under the rendezvous tree, and he- gun our cooking, some villagers hrought ivories of the elephant and hipikrpotainus for sale, hut had to suffer the disappointment of meeting a stranger to merchandise, and straightway departed, folly con- vinced that all mzungus (or wise, or white men) were mere fools for not making money, when they had so good an opportunity. noon and evening passed without a sigu of the hlack captain, or the remaining men. we were in a wretched place for a halt, a sloping ploughed field; and, deceived hy the captain's not keep- ing his promise, were uuprepared for spending the night there. i pitched my tent, hut the poor men had no- thing to protect them; with the darkness a deluge of rain descended, and owing to the awkwardness of our position, the surcharged earth poured off a regular stream of water over our heds, haggage, and every- thing alike. to keep the tent erect —a small gahle-shaped affair, six feet high, and seven hy six square, made of american sheeting, and so light that with poles and everything com- plete it harely weighs one man's load — i called up the men, and for hours held it so hy strength of arm. even the hippopotami, to judge hy the frequency of their suorts and grunts, as they indulged in their devastating excursions amongst the crops, seemed angry at this unusual severity of the weather. never from the th of novemher, when the rainy season commenced, had we experi- enced such a violent and heavy down- pour. th.—halt. the morning is no improvement on the night. the captain now arrives with most of the [sept. journal of a cruuse on. remaining crew, fears the trouhled waters, anrl will not put out to sea. in consequence of this disappoint- ment, a messenger is sent hack to kawele, to fetch some fresh pro- visions and firewood, as what little of this latter article can he gather- ed in its saturated state is useless, for it will not hurn. during the afternoon the remainder of the crew keep dropping in, and at nightfall seventeen hands are mustered. th.—at a.m. the sea suhsides, and the hoat is loaded. to pack so many men together, with material, in so small a space as the canoe affords, seems a difficulty almost insurmountahle. still it is effected. i litter down amidships, with my hedding spread on reeds, in so short a compass that my legs keep flip- ping off and dangling in the hilge- water. the cook and hailsman sit on the first har, facing me; and he- hind them, to the stern, one half the sailors sit in couples; whilst on the first har hehind me are bomhey and one belooch, and heyond thern to the how, also in couples, the remain- ing crow. the captain takes post in the hows, and all hands on hoth sides paddle in stroke together. fuel, cooking apparatus, food, hag and haggage, are tbrown promiscuously, under the seats. but the sailors' hlankets in the shape of grass mat- ting, are placed on the hars to render the sitting soft. once all properly arranged, the seventeen paddles dash off with vigour, aud s*eering southwards, we soon cross the mouth of the ruche. next ukaranga, the last village on this line down the eastern shore, lying suugly in a hay, with a low range of densely wooded hills ahout tbree miles in its rear, is passed hy dawn of day, and ahout suurise the hay itself is lost to sight. the tired crew now hug a hluff shore, crowned with dense jungle, until a nook familiar to the men is entered under plea of hreakfasting, ik-re all hands land, fires are kindled, and the cooking-pots arranged. some prepare their rods and nets for fishing, some go in search of fungi (a favourite food), aoil others collect fuel. my cook-hoy, ever doing wrong, dips his cooking-pot in the sea for water—a dangerous experiment if the tradi- tions of tanganyika hold good, that the ravenous hosts of crocodiles sel- dom spare any one hold enough to ex- cite their appetites with such dregs as usually drop from those uten- sils; moreover, they will follow and even hoard the hoats, after a single taste. the sailors here have as great an aversion to heing followed hy the crocodile as our seamen hy a shark, and they now display their feelings hy looks and mutterings, and strictly prohihiting the use of the cooking-pot on that service again. breakfast ready, all hands eagerly fall to, and feast away in happy iguorance of any danger, when sud- denly confusion enters the camp, and with the alarming cry that foes are coming, some with one thing, some with another, all hurry-skurry for the hoat. the greater part of the kit is left upon the ground. a hreath- less silence reigus for several minutes. then one jumps off and secures his pot; another succeeds him, and then more, till courage is gained to make a search, aud ascertain the cause of the alarm. sneaking, crawl- ing in the hush, some peering this way, others listening that, they stealthily move along, until at length a single man, with arrow poised, in self-defence i suppose, is pounced upon. his story of why ho came there, who and how many are his comrades, what he wants in such a desert place, and why he carries arms, though spoken with a cuuning plausihility, has no effect upon the knowing sailors. they proclaim him and his party, some eight or ten men, who are clamorously squah- hling in the jungle at no great distance, to he a rough and lawless set of marauders, fearing to come out and show themselves on heing chal- lenged, and further insist that none ever ventured into such wilds who had not got in view some desper- ate enterprise. in short, it was proverhially men of their sort who were the general plunderers of hon- est navigators. they therefore seize his weapons, cut and hreak his how and arrows, and let him go; though some of the crew advocate his life heing taken, and others, that the whole party should he chased down and slaughtered. the sailors then .] the tanganyika lake, central africa. return to the canoe, ench vaunt- ing his part in this adventurous exploit, and handing congratula- tions in the highest spirits. they are one and all as proud of this suc- cess, and ench as hoastful of his prow- ess, as though a mighty hattle had heen fought and won. on starting again we pass alongside another bluff, hacked hy small well-wooded hills, an extension of the aforesaid east horn of the moon, and cross a little hay, when the lazy crew, tired hy two hours' work, hear in with the land, and disemhark, us they say, to make some ropes, or find some creepers long and strong enough for mooring this mighty canoe. it is now eleven o'clock; there is more rest than work, a purely negro way of getting tbrough the day; tbree hours went in idle- ness hefore, and now five more are wasted. again we start, and after crossing a similar small hay, con- tinue along a low shelving shore, densely wooded to the water's edge, until tho malagarazi river's mouth is gained. this river is the largest on the eastern shore of the lake, and was previously crossed hy the cara- van on its way from kazeh, in small hark canoes, much rougher, hut con- structed something similar to those of the americans. each of these canoes contains one man and his load, hesides the owner, who lives near the ferry, and poles the vessel across. still to the eastward we have the same tree-clad hilly view, heauti- ful in itself, hut tiresome in its con- stant sameness. after a stretch, and half an hour's pipes and hreath- ing, we start afresh, and cross the hay into which the river de- houches. here tall aquatic reeds diversify tho surface, and are well tenanted hy the crocodile and hip- popotami, the latter of which keep staring, grunting, and suorting, as though much vexed at our intrusion on their former peace and privacy. we now hug the shore, and con- tinue on in the dark of night till mgiti khamhi,* a heautiful little harhour hending hack away amongst the hills, and out of sight of the lake, is reached at p.m. could hut a little civilised art, as white-washed houses, well-trained gardens, and tho like, vary these ever-green hills and trees, and diversify tho unceasing monotony of hill und dale, and dale and hill—of green trees, green grass— green grass, green trees, so wearisome in their luxuriance, what a puradiso of heauty would this place present! tho deep hlue waters of the lake in contrast with the vegetation and large hrown rocks form everywhere an ohject of intense attraction; hut the appetite soon wearies of such pro- fusion, without the contrast of more soher tints, or the variety incidental to a populous and inhahited country. there are said to he some few scat- tered villages concealed in these dense jungles extending away in the hackground, hut how the shores should ho so desolate strikes one with much surprise. the naturally excessive growth of all vegetahle life is sufficient proof of the soil's capahilities. unless in former times this heautiful country lias heen ha- nded hy neighhouring trihes, and despoiled of its men and cattle to satisfy tho spoilers and sell to dis- tant markets, its present state ap- pears quite incomprehensihle. in hazarding this conjecture, it might he thought that am taking an e.x- tremo view of the case; hut when we see everywhere in africa what one slave-hunt or cattle-lifting party can effect, it is not uureasonahle to imagine that this was most prohahly the cause of such utter desolation hero. these war-parties lay waste the tracks they visit for endless time. indeed, until the effects of slavery and the so-called free lahour are sup- pressed in africa, we may expect to find such places in a similarly melan- choly state. immediately on arriving here i pitch my tent, and cook a meal; whilst tho sailors, as is usual on arrival at their encamping-grounds, divide into parties,—some to catch fish, others to look for fongi, whilst many cook the food, and the rest construct little huts hy planting houghs in a circle in the ground and fastening the tops together, leaving the hut in tho shape of a haycock, to which they further assimdate it khamhi—encampmeut. [sept. journal of a cruite on hy tbrowing grass ahove; and in rainy weather it is further covered hy their mats, to secure them against getting wet. as only one or two men occupy a hut, many of them, for so large a party, have to he constructed. it is amuoing to see how some men, proud of their supe- rior powers of inventiveness, and pos- sessing the knack of making pleasant what would otherwise he uncomfort- ahle, plume themselves hefore their hretbren, and turn them.to derision: and it appears the more ridiculous, as they all are as stark naked as an unclothed animal, and have really nothing to hoast of after all. th.—the following morning sees us under way, and clear of the harhour hy suurise; hut the gath- ering of clouds in the south soon cautions the weather-wise sailors to desist from their advance. timely is the warning; for, as we re-st on our oars, the glimmer of light- ning illuminates the distant hills; whilst low heavy rolling clouds of pitchy darkness, preceded hy a heavy gale and a foaming sea, out- spread over the wholj sontherc wa- ters, rapidly advance. it is an ocean- tempest in a miniature, which sends us light ahout to our former herth. some of our men now employ themselves in fishing for small fry with a slender rod, a piece of string, and an iron hook, with a hait of meat or fish attached; whilst others use small hand-nets, which they placo hehind some reeds or other cover, to secure the retreating tuh as he makes off on heing puked out of his refuge on the opposite side hy a wand held for that purpose in the sportsman's other hand. but the majority are occupied in gathering sticks and cooking hreakfast till p.m., when the sea ahates, and the journey is resumed. during this portion of the journey, a slight change of scenery takes place; the chain of hills ruuning parallel with the shore of the lake is hroken, and in its stead we see some small de- tached and other short irregular linos of hills, separated hy extended plains of forest, thickly clad in ver- dure, like all the rest of the country. alter two hours' paddling, we stand opposite the luguvu river, and rest awhile to smoke; then start again, and in an hour cross the mouth of the little river hehwe. unfortu- nately these streams add nothing to the heauty of the scenery; and were it not for the gaps in the hdls suggesting the prohahle course of rivers, they might he passed without notice, for the mouths are always concealed hy hulrushes, or other tall aquatic reeds; and inland they are just as closely hidden hy forest vege- tation. in half an hour more we enter a small nook called luguvu khamhi, very deep, and full of cro- codiles and hippopotami. on land- ing, we fire the usual alarm-guns— a point to which our captain is ever strictly attentive—cook our din- ners, and turn in for the night. here i picked up four varieties of shells—two unis and two hivalves— all very interesting from heing quite unknown in the conchological world. there were numhers of them lying on the pehhly heach. th.—vve started at dawn as usual; hut again at suurise, the wind increasing, wo put in for the shore, for these little cranky hoats can stand no sea whatever. here a herd of wild huffaloes, horned like the cape ones, were seen hy the men, and caused some diversion; for, though too hlind myself to see the hrutes at the distance that the others did, i l.iaded and gave them chase; whilst tracking along, i saw fresh prints of elephants, which, judging froln their trail, had evidently just heen down to drink at the lake, and sprang some antelopes, hut could not get a shot. the sea going down hy noon, we proceeded, and hugged a hluff shore, till we arrived at insignzi, a desert place, a little short of kahogo, the usual croasing- point. although the day was now far advanced, the weather was so promising, whilst our prog was run- ning short, that impatience sug- gested a venture for the opposite shore to kivira, an island near it, hearing hy compass s. ° w., and which, with the uguhha moun- tains in the hackground, is from this distinctly visihle. this line i selected for canoes to cross at, from containing the least expanse of water hetween the two shores, .] the tanganyika lake, central africa. hetween ujiji and the south end. the kahogo island, which stands so conspicuously in the map that hung on the royal geographical society's walls in , and, as already mentioned, the accuracy of which we were sent out to investi- gate, is evidently intended for this kahogo or starting-point, near which we now are, and is so far rightly placed upon their map as represent- ing the half-way station from ujiji to kasenge, two places on opposite sides of the lake, whither the arah merchants go in search of ivory. for kahogo, as will he readily seen on a corrected chart, lies just midway on the line always taken hy hoats tra- velling hetween those two ports—the rest of the lake heing too hroad for even these adventurous spirits. in short, they coast south from ujiji to kahogo, which constitutes the first half of the journey, and then cross over. on the passage i carefully inquired the names of several points and places, to take their hearings, and to learn the geo- graphy of the lake, hut all to no purpose. the snperstitious captain, and even more uperstitious crew, refused to answer any questions, and earnestly forhede my talking. the idea was founded upon the fear of viti- ating their uganga or "church," hy answering a stranger any questions whilst at sea; hut they dread more especially to talk ahout the places of departure or arrival, lest ill luck shoald overtake them, ami deprive them of the chance of ever reaching shore. they hlamed me for tbrowing the remnants of my cold diuner over- hoard, and pointed to the hottom of the hoat as the proper receptacle for refuse. night set in with great serenity, and at a.m. tho following morning ( th march), when arriving amongst some islands, close on tho western shore of the lake—the principal of which are kivira, kauizia, and kasenge, the only ones inhahited—a watch-hoat helonging to sultan kasanga, the reiguing chief of this group, challenged us, and asked our mission. great fra- ternising, story-telling, and a little pipe ensued, for every one loves tohacco; then hoth departed in peace and friendship; they to their former ahode, a cove in a small un- inhahited island which lies due south of kivira, whilst we proceeded to a long narrow harhour in ki- vira itself, the largest of all these islands. fourteen hours were oc- cupied in crossing the lake, of which two were spent in hrawling and smoking. at a.m., the islanders, receiving intelligence of our arrival, came down the hill of which this island is formed, in great numhers, and held a market; hut as we were uuprovided with what they wanted, little husiness could he done. the chief desideratum was flesh of fish or heast, next salt, then tohacco, in fact anything hut what i had hrought as market money, cloth and class heads. this day passed in rest and idleness, recruiting from our late exertions. at night a vio- lent storm of rain and wind heat on my tent with such fury that its nether parts were torn away from tho pegs, and the tent itself was oidy kept upright hy sheer force. on tho wind's ahating, a candle was lighted to rearrange the kit, and in a moment, as though hy magic, the whole in- terior hecame covered with a host of small hlack heetles, evidently at- tracted hy the glimmer of the cmdle. they were so aunoyingly determined in their choice of place for peregrin- ating, that it seemed hopeless my trying to hrush them off the clothes or hedding, for as one was knocked aside another came on, and then an- other, till at last, worn out, ex- tinguished the candle, and with dif- ficulty—trying to overcome the tickling annoyance occasioned hy these intruders crawling up my sleeves and into my hair, or down my hack and legs—fell off to sleep. repose that night was not destined to he my lot. one of these horrid little insects awoke me in his struggles to penetrate my ear, hut just too la e: for in my endeavour to extract him, i aided his immersion. he went his course, struggling up the narrow chaunel, until he got arrested hy want of passage-room. this impedi- ment evidently euraged him, for he hegan with exceeding vigour, like a rahhit at a hole, to dig violently away at my tympanum. the queer sensation this amusing meature [sept. journal of a cruitt on excited in me is past description. i felt inclined to act as our donkeys once did, when hmt hy a swarm of hees, who huzzed ahout their ears and stung their heads and eyes until they were so irritated and confused that they galloped ahout in the most distracted order, trying to knock them off hy treading on thoir heads, or hy rushing under hushes, into houses, or tbrough any jungle they could find. indeed, i do not know which was worst off. the hees killed some of them, and this heetle nearly did for me. what to do i knew not. neither tohacco, oil, nor salt could he found; i therefore tried melted hutter; that failing, i applied the point of a penknife to his hack, which did more harm than good; for though a few tbrusts kept him quiet, the point also wounded my ear so hadly, that inflammation set in, severe suppuration took place, and all the facial glands extending from that point down to the point of the shoulder hecame contorted and drawn aside, and a string of huhos decorated the whole length of that region. it was the most painful thing i ever rememher to have en- dured; hut, more aunoying still, i could not open my month for several days, and had to feed on hroth alone. for many months the tumour made me almost deaf, and ate a hole he- tween that orifice and the nose, so that when i hlew it, my ear whistled so audihly that those who heard it laughed. six or seven months after this accident happened, hits of the heetle, a leg, a wing, or parts of its hody, came away in the wax. it was not altogether an unmixed evil, for tho excitement occasioned hy the heetle's operations acted towards my hlindness as a counter-irritant hy drawing the inflammation away from my eyes. indeed, it operated far hetter than any other artificial appliance. to euro the hlindness i once tried ruhhing in some hlistering liquor hehind my ear, hut this unfor- tunately had been injured hy the journey, and had lost its stimulating properties. finding it of no avail, i then caused my servant to ruh the part with his finger until it was exco- riated, which, though it proved in- sufficiently strong to euro me, was, according to dr. bowman, whom i have since consulted, as good a suh- stitute for a hlister as could have heen applied. 'jth.—the weather still remain- ing too rough for sailing, i strolled over the island, and from its sum- mit on the eastern side i found a good view of the lake, and took hearings of ujiji, insigazi, and a dis- tant point southwards on the eastern shore of the lake, called ukungwe. kivira island is a massive hill, ahout five miles long hy two or tbree hroad, and is irregularly shaped. in places there are high flats, formed in terraces, hut generally the steeps are ahrupt and thickly wooded. the mainland immediately west is a pro- montory, at. the southern extremity of the uguhha mountains, on the western coast of the tanganyika; and the island is detached from it hy so narrow a strip of water that, un- less you ohtained a profile view, it might easily he mistaken for a head- land. the population is considerahle, and they live in musbroom huts, situ- ated on the high flats and easier slopes, where they cultivate the manioc, sweet potato, maize, millet, various kinds of pulse, and all tho common vegetahles in general use ahout tho country. poultry ahounds in the vil- lages. the dress of the people is sim- ple, consisting of small hlack mon- key skins, cat-skins, and the furs of any vermin they can get these are tucked under a waist-strap, and, ac- cording to the numher they possess, go completely or only half-way round the hody, the animals'heads hanging in front, and the tails always depend- ing gracefully helow. these monkeys are easily captured when the maize is ripe, hy a numher of people stealthily staking small square nets in conti- guous line all round the fields which these animals may he occupied in roh- hing, and then with screams and yells, flinging sticks and stones, the hunt- ers rnsh upon the affrighted thieves, till in their hurry and confusion to escape, they hecome irretrievahly entangled in the meshes. but few of theso islanders carry spear or how, though i imagine all possess them. they were most uupleasantly inqui- sitive, and hy their stares, jahher, and pointings, incessantly wanting me to .] the ta/nganyika lake, central africa. show them everything that i possess- ed, with explanations ahout their va- rious uses, quite tired out my pa- tience. if i tried to got away, they plnguingly followed after, so at last i dodged them hy getting into the hoat. to sit in the tent was the worst place of all; they would pull up the sides, and peer under like so many monkeys; and if i turned my head aside to avoid their gaze, they would jahher in the most noisy and disagreeahle mauner in order to arouse me. th.—we quit kivira early, and paddling s. ° w., making the fam- ous fish-market in tho little island dahizia, just in time to hreakfast on a fresbly-caught fish, the cele- hrated singa,—a large, ugly, hlack- hacked monster, with white helly, small fins, and long harhs hut no scales. in appearance a sluggish ground-fish, it is always immoderately and grossly fat, and at this season is full of roe; its flesh is higbly esteemed hy the natives. this island is very small, with a gradual rising slope from the jf.w. extremity: and at the s.e. eud assumes the form of a hull's hump. there is hut one village of twenty odd musbroom-shaped huts, chiefly occupied hy fishermen, who live on their spoils, and hy selling all that they caunot consume to the neighhouring islanders and the vil- lagers on the mainland. added to this, they grow maize and other ve- getahles, and keep a good stock of fowls. i tried every mode of induce- ment to entice the crew away to complete the journey, for the place of my destination, kasenge", was in sight; hut in vain. they had tasted this to them delicious fish, and were deter- mined to dress and lay hy a good store of it to carry with them. ahout noon shaykh khamis, a merchant from kasenge, hound for ujiji, ar- rived, and kindly gave me a long needle to stir up the heetle in my ear; hut the insect had gone in so far, and the swelling and suppuration of the wounds had so imhedded him, that no instrument could have done any good. khamis, like myself, was very anxious to complete his journey, and tried every conceivahle means to en- tice his crew away, hut he failed as sigually as i did. on the mainland opposite to this, we see the western horn of these concavely-disposed mountains, which encircle the north of the lake, and from hence the horn stretches away in increasing height as it extends northwards. its sea- ward slopes are well wooded from near the summit down to the water's edge; hut on the top, as though strong currents of air prevailed, and prevented vegetation from attaining any height, grass only is visihle. westward, hehind the island of ka- senge", and away to the southward, the country is of a rolling hilly for- mation, and devoid of any ohjects of interest. th.—the morning wind was too high for crossing from kahizia to kasenge", hut at noon we emharked, and after paddling for ninety minutes s. ° w., we arrived at the ktter island, my destination. shaykh ha- med hin sulayyini, with many atten- dants and a host of natives, was standing ready to receive me. he gave us a hearty welcome, took my hand, and led me to his ahode, plac- ing everything at my disposal, and arranging a second house for my fu- ture residence. these worthy arah merchants are everywhere the same. their warm and generous hospitality to a stranger equals anything i have ever seen elsewhere, not forgetting in- dia, where a cordial welcome greets any incidental traveller. hamed's ahode, like all the semi-civilised ones found in this country, and constructed hy the sowahili (or coast people), is made with good suhstantial walls of mud, and roofed with rafters and hrushwood, cemented together with a compound of common earth, straw, and water. the rooms are conveni- ently partitioned off for domestic con- veniences, with an ante-room for gen- eral husiness, and sundry other en- closures for separating his wives and other helongings. on the exterior of the house is a palaver platform, coyered with an ample verandah, un- der which he sits, surrounded hy a group of swarthy hlacks, gossiping for hours together, or transacting his worldly husiness, in purchasing ivory, slaves, or any commodities worthy of his notice. the dhow i had come for, he said, was lying at ukaranga, on the eastern shore, hut was expected in a day or two, and vol. llxxxvl :; [sept. journal of a cruise on would then he at my service. indeed he had sent a letter hy khamis, whom i met at kahizia, offering it to cap- tain burton, as soon as ever he had heen made acquainted (hy native re- port, i imagine) with our desire of ohtaining her. he thought, however, that there might he some difficulty in forming a crew capahle of managing her, as this craft was too large for paddles, and no natives understood the art of rowing, and, moreover, like all easterns, they are not disposed to learn anything that their fathers did not know heforethem. his own men were necessary to him, for in a few days he intended marching to uruw- wa, ahout a hundred miles south-west of this island, a territory helonging to sultan kiyomho. during that trip, every one of the dhow sailors (who are sowahili slaves, and the arabs' gun-hearers) would he in requisition. but he thought, if i had patience to wait, he might he ahle to prevail on a few of the dhow's present crew, men in his temporary employ, to take ser- vice with me. my host gave me a full description of the lake. he said he had visited hoth ends of it, and found the southern portion hoth longer and hroader than the northern. "there are no islands in the middle of the sea, hut near the shores there are se- veral in various places, situated much in the same way as those we are amongst; they are mere projections, divided from the mainland hy shoals or narrow chaunels. a large river, called marungu, supplies the lake at its southern extremity; hut except that and the malagarazi river on the eastern shore, none of any con- siderahle size pour their waters into the lake. but on a visit to the northern end, i saw one which was very much larger than either of these, and which i am certain flowed out of the lake; for although i did not venture on it, in conse- quence of its hanks heing occupied hy desperately savage negroes, inim- ical to all strangers, i went so near its outlet that i could see and feel the outward drift of the water." he then descrihed an adventure he once had when going to the north, with a hoisterous harharous trihe called wa- rundi. on approaching their hostile shore, he noticed as he thought a great commotion amongst the fishing-hoats, and soon perceived that the men were concocting a plan of attack upon him- self, for they concentrated forces, and came at his dhow in a hody of ahout thirty canoes. conceiving that their intentions were hostile, he avoided any conflict hy putting out to sea, fearing lest an affray would he pre- judicial to future mercantile trans- actions, as stains of hlood are not soon eflaced from their hlack me- mories. he further said he felt no alarm for his safety, as he had thirty slaves with guns on hoard. my opinion of this story—for everyhody tells stories in this country—is, that all he stated with regard to the southern half is very near the truth, for it is an exact corrohoration of many other evidences. but i feel convinced that he was romancing when talking of the northern river's flow, not only hecause the northern end of the lake is encircled hy high hills—the con- cave of the mountains of the moon —hut hecause the lake's altitude is so much less than that of the adjacent plateaus. indeed, the waters of the lake are so low as to convey the im- pression that the trough they lie in has heen formed hy volcanic agency. with reference to tlie time which it would take us to traverse the entire lake, he said he thought we should take forty-six days in going up and down the lake, starting from ujiji. going to the north would take eight days, and going to the south fifteen. as the shaykh had said nothing ahout the hire of the dhow, though he had offered it so willingly, i thought it prohahle that shame of mentioning it in puhlic had deterred him from alluding to the suhject—so hegged a private conference. he then came to my house with bomhay and a slave, a confidant of his own, who could also speak hindustani, and was told, tbrough my medinm bomhay, exactly what things i had hrought with me. and requested to speak his mind freely, as i had called him especially for husiness, and we were now alone. his reserved nature had the mastery over him, and he still remained mule ahout the price; hut again saying i could have his dhow whenever i .] the tanganyika lake, central africa. chose, he asked permission to retire, and departed. puzzled at this pro- cedure, i sent bomhay to ohserve him, and find out if he had any secret motives for shirking so direct an ap- peal, and empowered him to offer money in case my cloth and powder did not afford sufficient inducement. bomhay soon returned as much puz- zled as myself, unahle to extract any hut the old answer—that i was welcome to the dhow, and that he would try and procure men for me. as a hint had reached me that the shaykh cast covetous eyes on my powder-magazine, i tried enticing him to take some in part payment for her, hut he replied that he did not require anything in payment, hut would gladly accept a little pow- der if i had any to spare. to this i readily assented, as he had heen so constant and liheral in his atten- tions to me ever since i landed on the island and hecame his guest, that i felt it was the least i oould do in return for his generosity. indeed, ho was constantly ohserving and inquir- ing what i wanted, and supplied everything in his power that i found difficult to ohtain. every day he hrought presents of flesh, fowl, ducks (the muscovite, hrought from the coast), eggs, plantains, and ghee (clarified hutter). the island of kasenge" is ahout one mile long, a narrow high ridge of land lying nearly due north and south, and is devoid of trees, and only a small portion of it is under cultivation. the lake washes its north-western end; the remainder is encircled hy a girdle of water ahout eighty yards hroad. it appears, from heing so imhedded in the land, to he a part of the coast to anyhody approaching it from the sea. the population is very considerahle, more so than that of the other ports. they are extremely filthy in their hahit-, and are inces- santly inquisitive, as far at least as gratifying their idle curiosity is con- cerned. from having no industrial occupations, they will stand for hours and hours together, watching any strange ohject, and are, in conse- quence, an infinite pest to any stranger coming near them. in ap- pearance they are not much unlike the kaffir, resemhling that trihe hoth in size, height, and general hearing, having enlarged lips, flattish noses, and frizzly woolly hair. they are very easily amused, and generally wear smiling faces. the women are hetter dressed than the men, having a cloth round the hody, fastened under the arms, and reaching helow the knees, and generally heads, hrass necklaces, or other ornaments, while the latter only wear a single goat- skin slung game-hag fashion over the shoulder, or, when they possess it, a short cloth tied, kilt fashion, round the waist. they lie ahout their huts like swine, with little more anima- tion on a warm day than the pig has when hasking in a summer's sun. the mothers of these savage people have infinitely less affection than many savage heasts of my acquaintance. i have seen a mother hear, galled hy constant fire, oh- stinately meet hat death, hy repeat- edly returning 'under a shower of hullets, endeavouring to rescue her young from the grasp of intruding men. but here, for a simple loin- cloth or two, human mothers eagerly exchanged their little offspring, de- livering them into perpetual hondage to my belooch soldiers. talking ahout slaves hrings to recollection the ahsurd statements that have heen appearing in the newspapers and in parliamentary discussions, regarding the french and portuguese slave transactions in the. mozamhique chaunel: leading people still to suppose, who know nothing ahout the internal condition of africa, that such a state of society can exist there as would induce the negroes to leave their easy homes and seek for hard service ahroad. nothing is more foreigu to their inclinations. nor can men he found willing to exile themselves as free lahourer) in any part of these african regions. in the first place, tho negro has as great an antipathy to work as a mad dog lias to water; ho will avoid it hy every stratagem within his power. it is true that the slaves whom the arah merchants, or other men, have in their possession, never forsake their master, as if they disliked their state in hondage; hut then, when we [sept. journal of a cruite on consider their position, what plea- sure or advantage would they derive hy doing so? during the slave- hunts, when they are caught, their country is devastated, their friends and relatives are either killed or are scattered to the winds, and nothing hut a wreck is left hehind them. again, they enter upon a life which is new to them, and is very fascinat- ing to their tastes; and as long as they do remain with such kind mas- ters as the arahs are, there is no ne- cessity for our commiserating them. they hecome elevated in their new state of existence, and are hetter off than in their precarious homes, ever in terror of heing attacked. but under what is miscalled the free-la- hour system the whole matter is en- tirely changed. instead of living, as they in most part do, willingly with the families of the arahs, men of a superior order, and doing mild and congenial services, they get trans- ported against their will and inclina- tions to a foreigu land, where, to live at all, they must lahour like a heast; and yet this is only half the mischief. when a market for free lahourers is once opened, when the draining poul- tice is once applied to africa's exte- rior, then the interior will assuredly he drained of all its working men, and hecome more a waste than ever. to supply the markets with those free cattle hecomes so lucrative a means of gain that merchants would stick at no expedient in endeavouring to secure them. the country, so full as we have seen it of all the useful necessaries of life, ahle to supply our markets and relievo our people hy cheapening all commodities, would, if slavery was only permitted to in- crease, soon he devastated for the very minor consideration of improving a few small islands in the indian ocean. on the contrary, slavery has only to he suppressed entirely, and the country would soon yield one-hun- dredfold more than ever it has done hefore. the merchants themselves are aware of this, for every hindi on the coast with whom i ever spoke on the suhject of slavery, seemed confident that the true prosperity of africa would only commence with the cessation of slavery. and they all say it would he far hetter for them if slavery were put down alto- gether than allowed to remain as it is, suhject to limited restriction; for hy this limitation many incon- veniences arise. those who were permitted to retain slaves, have a great and distressing advantage over those who could not. they ar- gue, and very properly, that in con- sequence of these slave-hunts the country is kept in such a state of commotion that no one thinks it worth his while to make accumula- tions of property, and consequent- ly, the negroes now only live for the day, and keep no granaries, never thinking of exerting them- selves to hetter their condition. without douht it is mainly owing to this unfortunate influenco of slavery on african society, that we have heen kept so long iguor- ant of the vast resources of eastern and central africa—a vast field full of resources, which would he of so much value to zanzihar and neigh- houring india, were it only pro- perly developed :—hut i have heen digressing, and must again return to kasenge. the village is very large and straggling, and consists of a collec- tion of haycock-looking huts, framed with wood or houghs, and covered over with grass. kasanga's palace is the grandest one amongst them. this monarch is a very amiahle des- pot, . and is liked in consequence, he presented me with a goat and some grain, in return for which i gave a kaltongo (or trihute-fee) of tbree dhotis, two kitindis, and two fundas, equal to twenty necklaces of large hlue heads. the food of these people consists chiefly of fish and fowls, hoth of which are very ahundant. all other articles of con- sumption, except a very little grown on the spot, are imported from the mainland, and are, in consequence, dear. the surrounding country, however, is very higbly cultivated— so much so, that it exports for the ujiji and other distant markets. the africans have no religion, un- less fetishism may he considered such. they use charms to keep off the evil eye, and helieve in fortune- tellers. their church is called ogsn- ga, and the parson mganga, the plural .] the tanganyika lake, central africa. of which, priests, changes to wng- enga. the prefixes u, m, and wa, are used uniformly tbroughout this land from zanzihar, to denote re- spectively, u, country or place, m, an individual, and wa for plurality, as in trihe or people: thus, uganga, mganga, waganga, or unyamuezi, mnyainuezi, wanyamuezi. th.—the dhow came in this evening, hringing cows and goats, oil, ghee, and other articles' of con- sumption not found immediately in this neighhourhood. she looked very graceful in contrast to the wretched little canoes, and came moving slowly up the smooth waters of the chaunel decked in her white sails, like a swan upon "a garden reach." the next day the shaykh declared himself endeavouring to se- cure some men, hut none appeared. the day following he told mo that the dhow was out of repair, and must he mended. and the succeed- ing day he coupled shifts and ex- cuses with promises and hopes, so likely to he further deferred, that my patience was fairly upset; and on the th, as nothing was settled, we had a little tiff. i accused him of detaining nu in the hopes of getting powder, for as yet his ar- mourer had not succeeded in opening my chest, from which i knew he wanted some; at any rate, i could see no other cause for his desiring my further stay there, when even bom- hay had notified his displeasure at these long-continued procrastinations. the shaykh, however, very quietly denied the imputation, declaring that he desired nothing hut what i might frankly give, and continued his for- mer kindnesses as though nothing had happened. i then hogged his counsel as to the hest mode of proceeding, upon which he advised my returning to ujiji, where an arah inerchant called shaykh said hin majid, with many men of the sort i required, was reported to he arriving. in the meanwhile, during his ahsence at uruwwa, he would authorise his agent to make the dhow over to me whenever i should come or send for it. it is needless to say how easily, had my hands now heen free to act, i might have availed myself of this tempting op- portunity of accompanying shaykh hatned on his journey to uruwwa, and have thus nearly counected this line from zanzihar with the portu- guese and dr. livingstone's routes to loando on the western coast. tho shaykh descrihes the roads as easy to travel over, for the track lay across an undulating country, in- tersected hy many small insiguifi- cant streams, which only contrihute to fertilise the land, and pre- sent no ohstacles whatever. the line is cheap, and affords provi- sions in ahundance. it may appear odd that men should go so far into the interior of africa to procuro ivory, when undouhtedly much is to he found at places not half so dis- tant from zanzihar; hut the reason of it is simple. the nearer coun- tries have hecome so overstocked with heads and cloth, that ivory there has risen to so great a price, it does not pay its transport. hence every succeeding year finds the arahs penetrating farther inland. now, it will he seen that the zanzihar arahs have reached tho uttermost limits of their tether; for uruwwa is half-way across the continent, and in a few years they must unite their lahours with the people who come from loan- do on tho opposite coast. as to ohtain the dhow would, in our hampered state, have heen of much importance —for our cloth and supplies were all fast ehhing away—i did not yet give in applying for it, and next day tried another device to tempt this wily arah, hy offering dollars, or £ , if he would defer his journey for a short time, and accompany us round the lake. this was a large, and evidently an unexpected offer, and tried his cupidity sorely; it pro- duced a nervous fidgetiness, and he hegged leave to retire and con the matter over. next day he said he was sorry that he must decline, for his husiness would not stand defer- ment, hut declared himself willing to sail with us on his return from uruwwa, tbree months hence, if we could only stay till then. feeling now satisfied that nothing would prevail upon the shaykh to let us have the dhow, i wished to quit [sept. journal of a cruue on the island, and return to ujiji, hut found the crew had taken french leave, and gone foraging on the main- land, where, all grain heing so much cheaper than at ujiji, they wanted to procure a supply. i therefore employed the day in strolling all over the island, and took hearings of some of the principal features of the lake; of themhwe, a distant pro- montory on the western shore south of this, which is occupied hy a powerful sultan, and contains a large popula- tion of very hoisterous savages; of ukungwe", on the east shore, and the island of kavira and kahizia. i could also see two other small islands lying amidst these larger ones, —too small for hahitation. though my canoe arrived on the th, had weather prevented our leaving till the d morning, com- pleting twelve days at kasenge". i now took leave of my generous host, and hidding adieu to kasenge", soon arrived and spent the day at kihizia. <z.—we crossed over to ki- vira, and pitched the tent in our former harhour. next day we haited from stress of weather; and the fol- lowing day also remaining hoisterous, we could not put to sea; hut to ohtain a hetter view of the lake, and watch the weather for choosing a favourahle time to cross, we changed khamhi for a place farther up the island. ith.—we moved out two miles in the morning, hut returned again from fear of the weather, as the sailors could discern a small hut very alarming-looking cl«ud many miles distant, hanging on the top of one of the hills, and there was a gentle hreeze. in the evening, as the portentous elements still frowned upon us, the wise crew sur- mised that the vganga (church) was angry at my endeavouring to carry across the waters the goat which the sultan had given me, and which, they said, ought never to have left the spot it was presented in alive; and declared their intention of applying to the mganga (priest) to ascertain his opinion hefore ven- turing out again. as the goat had just lgiveh a kid, and produced a good supply of milk, i was anxious to hring her to ujiji for my sick companion, and told the sailors so; yet still they persisted, and said they would run away rather than venture on the water with the goat again. then fearing detention, and guessing their motive was only to ohtain a share in the eating her, i killed hoth kid and mother at once, and divided them amongst my party, taking care that none of the crew received any of the flesh. at night we sallied forth again, but soon returned from the same cause that hindered us in the morning. and i did not spare the men's feel- ings who had caused the death of my goat in the morning, now that their superstitious fears concerning it, if they ever possessed any, were proven to he without foundation. th.—we took our final depar- ture from kivira in the morning, and crossed the hroad lake again in fourteen hours, two of them, as hefore, heing spent in pipes and rest. i have now measured the lake's centre pretty satisfactorily hy trian- gulation, hy compass in counection with astronomical ohservation, and twice hy dead-reckoning. it is twenty-six miles hroad at the place of orossing, which is its narrowest central part. but alas that i should have omitted to hring a sounding line with me, and not have asjer- tained that higbly interesting fea- ture—its depth. there is very little douht in my mind hut that its hed is very deep, owing to the trough- like formation of it, and also hecause i have seen my crew haul up fishing- haskets, sunk in the sea near to the shore, from very considerahle depths, hy long ropes with trimmers at- tached. for the henefit of science, and as a hint to future travellers, i will mention that had i hrought a lead, i might, as if hy accident, have dropped it in the sea when they wero resting—have tapped the hottom and ascertained its depth— whilst the superstitious crew would have only wondered in vain as to what i was ahout. let easy-chair geographers now take lesson hy this passage across the lake of twenty-six miles, and know for the .] the tanganyika lake, central_africa.' future, that if they will have lakes of great and imaginative hreadth, they should stnd them with islands at distances not more than thirty miles asunder; for no nagoe canoes dare ever venture on a hroader sheet of water than i have now crossed. and if they caunot hear of islands on a sheet of water as hroad as the slug alluded to hefore—which they affirmed was crossed hy negroes—let them pause hefore descrihing anything ho ridicu- lous. {a.—we started up coast early, and at a.m. put in amongst some reeds opposite the luguvu river, as the wind, rain, and waves had very nearly swampsd the hoat, and drenched us all from head to foot. i pitched the tent in the canoe, to protect me from the storm, hut it only served to keep the wind from hlowing on my wet clothes and chilling me, for wave after wave washed over the gunwale, and kept me and all my kit constantly drench- ed tbrough. tbree lingering miser- ahle hours were passed in this fashion; for there was no place to land in, and we could not venture forward. the sea ahated in the afternoon, and we gained mgiti khamhi. after a day's halt, the weather heing stormy, and every- thing heing wet and comfortless, we hailed with delight the succeeding suuny day, and making good our time, reached the old tree on the right hank of the mouth of tho ruch hv p.m. rf.—we arrived at ujiji hy hreakfast-time, when i disclosed to captain burton, then happily a little restored, the mortifying intelli- gence of my failing to procure the dhow. this must have heen douhly distressing to him, for he had heen led to expect it hy khamis, whom i passed at kahizia, and who had de- livered hamed's letter, stating that the dhow was at his service. the shaykh's manoeuvring with the dhow hears much the appearance of one anxious to ohtain the credit of gen- erosity, without incurring tho at- tendant inconvenience of its reality. otherwise i caunot divine what good his procrastinations and the means he took for keeping me near him s long oould have heen to him; for he made no overtures to me whatever. bomhay now thought, when it was too late, that if i had offered to give him dollars' worth of cloth, landed at his house, he could not have resisted the offer. i give this notice for the advantage of any fu- ture explorers on the lake. i could not form a true estimate of the lake's positive hreadth, in conse- quence of the numherless hays and promontories that diversify the regu- larity of its coast line; hut i should say that thirty to forty miles is pro- hahly near the trnth. this concludes my first indepen- dent travel in central africa; and next month you shall have my second journey to what i helieve to he the fountains of the nile. j. h. sreke, captain , th bengal k j. [sept. a dream of the dead. a nbeam of the nean. i dkeamed that i found my- self suddenly in a placo which im- pressed me with an instantaneous sense of strangeness; it was liko nothing i had ever seen. i then he- came aware that my own state of feeling was like nothing i had ever felt. it was a sensation of inex- pressihle physical relief; all ailment to which i had heen familiarised, was gone—gone all weariness, heaviness, inertness of muscle, of nerve, of spi- rit. time and its effects palpahly— ahruptly—lifted from mo as a load may he lifted from the shoulders of a tired and sinking man. i was con- soious of an elasticity and lightness of frame, to which that of a vigorous sohoolhoy hounding into the play- ground can he hut inadequately com- pared. my first idea was that i was made young again; my second idea, which flashed on me as convic- tion, made mo aware that i was dead. i said to myself, "i am dead, and amongst the dead." with that con- sciousness came no awe, no fear, only tho sensation of unutterahle strange- ness, and a sentiment of intense ourio- sity. the placo in which i stood was the far end of an immense hall or chamher,—so immense that it haffles all attempt to convey a notion of the space. its walls were proportion- ahly lofty, it was without roof; ahove it a dull hlue sky, without cloud, without sun, moon, or stars. along this hall human heings, dressed as we dress in life, wore hurrying in various groups or detachments. but so vast was the place, that though i was aware there were millions of such heings within the walls, they appeared like tiny rivulets ruuning on tbrough a mighty plain. i hast- ened towards one of these detach- ments, accosted a man, and said, "ttll me, is it true that i am dead?" "you are dead, of course," said the man impatiently, without stop- ping. "and you, too? " i asked. "all here are dead! we are tho dead." i caught tho man hy the arm, which i felt inquisitively. i won- dered to find it so material, contrary to all my preconceived notions. "but you are no spirit?" i said; "this arm is flesh and hlood. can you explain?" "nothing is ever explained here," interrupted the man, shaking me off. he hurried on after the rest, and dis- appeared within what may he called a doorway; hut there was no door. there were many openings as for doors in the hall—none of them had doors. this also excited my curiosity. why no doors? i walked lightly across the floor, pleased at the hrisk- ness of my own step, and again i accosted a fellow-inmate of this strange place. "i heg pardon," said i courteously, "hut why is this hall left unfinished; why no doors where these lofty open- ings are left?" "find out for yourself; no explan- ations are given here." "stop one moment, i am a stranger just arrived. many dear friends have come here hefore me. tell me, i pray, how i am to find them?" "find them this is infinity. those who move on never return to the same place; those who come after never catch up those who have gone hefore." "what! shall i never see even my own mother?" "never. this is eternity; once lost, for ever lost." "but my owu mother i what has hecome of her? whither has she gone?" "how do i know!" "but i thall overtake her," i ex- claimed angrily. "and if you do?" said the man drily, "you would not know each other—you do not tear the same hodies as you did in life. perhaps vou and i were intimate friends once. you do not know me now, nor i yon. no knowledge of each other amongst the dead." the man hurried on tbrough the opening. i was so amazed at what he said that i awoke. "this is the most extraordinary dream," i said to myself, when awake. .] a dream of the dead. "how i wish that i could continue it!" in a few minutes i was asleep again, and there i was—exactly in the same place in that hall where the man had left me, near the opening. i followed a string of passengers tbrough that opening into a narrow corridor-—the same height of wall, the same dull hlue sky overhead. "how light it is," i said to a man in the tbrong, "and yet there is no sun, and no moon, and no stars. is it always as light here, and is this day or is it night?" "neither day nor night. no day, no night, to the dead. time here is dead too!" i tried in vain to keep this man in conversation. i tried in vain to make friends with others; all answered curtly and impatiently, shaking me off and hurrying on. what now hegan most to perplex me, was the utter ahsence of all social intercourse. no one seemed to talk to another; no two persons walked arm-in-arm. i said to myself—" in any city on earth one stranger may accost another, and get some infor- mation what he is to do—where he is to find a lodging. society seems dissolved here—every one for him- self. it is well at least that i feel so strong and so young." i passed my hands over my limhs. yes, i was flesh and hlood. sud- denly i hegan to feel hungry. this amazed me. again i accosted one of the tbrong. "can it he true that one feels hunger here? do the dead know hunger?" "hunger! of course; you have a hody, have not you?" "and how can one get food?" "find out for yourself." "stop, must one pay for it?" "pay! of oourse, of course; you canuot roh the dead." the man was gone. i hurried on with the hurrying tbrong, and hegan to feel in my pockets. in my right tronser pocket i found a sovereigu and twelve shillings in silver, exactly the sum that i had in my pocket when i went to hed the night of that dream. again i hegan to wonder, "how did i hring this money with me, why no more? can i get no more money? is this all that is to provide for me tbroughout eternity?" several of the crowd now stopped hefore a re- cess in the corridor; in this recess persons were serving out coffee, which i ohserved those who took paid for. i longed for the cofiee, hut was seized with a prudent tbrift. i thought, "i must not fritter away any part of so small a sum, until i know at least how to get more." i resisted the coffee-shops, and con- tinued to rove on—always in a huild- ing, always in a lahyrinth of halls, and chamhers, and passages. i oh- served that none of them seemed formed for residence, none of them were furnished, except here and there was a thin comfortless hench against the tall undecorated wall. but always, always a huilding—always, always as within a single immea- surahle house. i was seized with an intense longing to get out. "if i could hut find my way into the fields," said i to myself—" if i could hut wander into the country, i have heen always so fond of nature." again i accosted a man. "how can i get out of this huilding?" "you can't get out of it, you are dead." "yes, i know i am dead; hut i still long to see nature." "there is no nature here. nature is finite—this is infinity." "but is infinity circumscrihed to this huilding?—no escape from these walls i explain." "explain " interrupted the man with great anger, as if i had uttered something wicked; "nothing is ever explained here. wretch, leave me." and the man hroke away. i continued to stride on tbrough the huilding, always trying to escape out of it. miles and miles, and leagues and leagues, i went on — always hetween those lofty walls, under that unchangeahle sky. and i could never get a peep into what lay heyond; for to those walls there were no windows. i said to myself^ "if i were alive i should have dropped with fatigue; hut feel no fatigue—not the least tired. still, if i am to remain here, i should like to have a quiet lodging to my- self. where can i rest?" so again i stopped a man—i say a man; for hitherto i had seen only [sept. a dream of the dead. men, no women—men much as one sees every day in oxford street or cheapside. i stopped a man, say i? the expression is incorrect: no man ever stopped at my hidding, hut walked on while i spoke, and only walked faster when ho escaped. and never again did i oome up to the same man. well, then, i accosted a man :—" what are the rules of this place? can one have a home as on earth ?—can i have a lodging to my- self somewhere?" "of course yon can." "where shall i go for one ?—how am i to contrive—?" "find ont for yourself; no one helps another here." "but stay. i have only got ahout me one pound twelve. is there dif- ference of fortune in this place?—are there wealth and poverty ?—do some people come with more riches than others?" "to he sure." "and is it as good a thing to he rich here as it is on earth?" "better. poverty here is dread- ful; for here none lend, and none give." "i left a great deal of money he- hind me; can't i get at it now?" "certainly not; you should have hrought more." "alas i did not know i was coming here. but i am quick and hardworking: i could make money easily enough in the earth i came from. can money he made here?" "yes " "how—how?" "find out for yourself." the man escaped me. i woke a second time, revolving all i had seen in my dream, and much struck hy the prosaic and practical character of the whole. "so very odd," i said, "that money should he of use amongst the dead. i will write down this dream to- morrow morning;" and i hegan to impress all its details on my memory. while so employed i fell asleep again, and again found myself ex- aotly in the same spot on which i had last stood in this singular dream. i felt my pockets—only one pound twelve still. "what a fool was i not to take advantage of my waking, and hring more money with me!" i said with a sigh. i now came into a desolate han- quet-hall: in the midst was an im- mense tahle, and several thousand persons were sitting down to a feast. i ohserved ornaments of plate on the tahle, and great profusion of wine. i approached; the tahle was full; there was no room for me. and in- deed, though still hungry, i had no desiro to join the hanqueters. felt as if i were not of them; no social sentiment hound me to them. but now, for the first time, i perceived women—women at the tahle. that sight gave me pleasure. i hegan to count them. at first i only distin- guished one or two; gradually the numher grew—so many that i ceased to count. "well," i said, "now i shall see something like gallantry and gaiety and affection amongst the dead." i was soon undeceived; people ate and drank as on earth, hut without mirth or talk — each helping himself. the men had no care for the women, the women had no care for the men. a dreary con- sciousuess that love existed not htnt the dead came over me, and i left the hanquet-hall. i now came into another corridor, at the end of which, to my great joy, i de- scried what seemed a more open space. i caught a glimpse of green trees. a great tbrong was hurry- ing towards this space. i pressed forward in advance of the tbrong, and entered first; hut i was disappoint- ed: the space was still within the huilding, the walls round it; only it resemhled what the french call a place d'armcs. the trees, planted in a formal row on either side, as they are in a place d'armeit, were small, stunted, and the foliage clipped. looking more narrowly, i perceived that they were not real trees, hut of some painted metal; and thought of the words, "there is no nature here." while i was thus gazing on the trees, the lower end of this court had hecome filled with the crowd; and suddenly, from an open- ing opi,osite to that hy which i and the orowd had entered, i heard a re- gular tramp as of the quick march of soldiers, and presently a defile of .] a dream of the dead. armed men came into tho place—so quickly that i had only time to draw on one side to escape heing trodden down. they hastened to the upper part of the place, and formed them- selves at the word of command. then, for the first time, i felt fear; for these soldiers did not seem to me so human as all i had hitherto seen. there was something preter- human and ghastly in their aspect and their movements. they were armed with muskets. in another moment, to my inconceivahle sur- prise and horror, they fired upon the crowd at the far end, and then charged with the hayonet. they came so close hy me, that i felt one of the soldiers graze me. but i did not recede; on the contrary, i put myself somewhat in the way of the charge. for my predominant senti- ment tbroughout all this dream was curiosity, and i wished to know if i could he capahle of hodily wound or hodily pain. but the soldiers spared me, and charged only on the crowd helow. in an instant the ground was covered with victims—hruised, wounded, groaning, sbrieking. this exploit performed, the soldiers de- parted down the passage they had entered, as rapidly as they had marched in. it seemed to me that i felt no pity for the crowd and no resentment against the soldiers.- i only felt an exceeding surprise. however, i ap- proached the sufferers and said, "but are you sensihle of wounds, heing already dead?" a man, mangled and lacerated, answered impatiently, "yes, yes—of course." "but still, heing dead, you caunot he killed, and that is some comfort." i got no answer to this remark. the sufferers gathered themselves up, no one helping the other; and, limp- ing and groaning, dispersed. i then addressed a man who was one of the few who were unhurt. he was taller, of hetter mien, and with a less husy and anxious expression of counte- nance than those i had hitherto questioned. he gave me the idea of a person of rank. "sir," said i, insinuating into my mauner all the polite respect i could convey to it, "the appearance of soldiers here has startled me; for where there are soldiers there must he law and government. hither- to i have seen no trace of either. is there, then, a government to this place? where can one see it? where does it reside? what are the laws? how can one avoid displeas- ing them?" "find out," answered the man, in the same form of words which had so often chilled my questions, hut in a milder voice. "at all events, then, there is a law of hrute force that prevails here as on the earth," i said in extreme wonder. "yes; hut on oarth it is under- stood. here nothing is explained." "can i know even why that crowd was punished; whence the soldiers came; whither they have now gone?" "search—this is infinity. you have leisure enough hefore you; you are in eternity." the man was gone. i passed very timorously and very wistfully along tho passage from which the soldiers had emerged. the ohject of my curiosity now was, to get at tho seat of that law of force which was so contrary to all my preconceived opinions. i felt a most awful consciousuess of uncer- tainty. one might then, like that crowd, at any time he punished; one did not know wherefore. how act so as to avoid offence? whilo thus musing the atmosphere seemed darker, and i found that i was in a very squalid part of the huilding; it resemhled, indeed, the old lanes and courts of st. giles's (only still within the mansion), and infinitely more wretched. "so then," i said, "i do see poverty here at last," and i felt with proud satisfaction my one pound twelve. a miserahle-looking lad now was heside me. he was resting on a heap of hroken ruhhish. looking at him i ohserved that he was deform- ed, hut not like any deformity i had seen in the living. i caunot de- scrihe how the deformity differed, except that he showed me his hands, and they were not like human hands, hut were distorted into shapeless s [sept. a dream of the dead. knots and lumps. and i said, "no wonder you are poor, for you caunot work with those hands. man's phy- sical distinction from the hrutes is chiefly in the formation of his hand. your hand is not the hand of man." and the lad laughed, and that was the first laugh i had heard amongst the dead. "but are you not very unhappy?" said i in amaze. "unhappy no! i am dead." "did you hring your infirmities with you, or did you contract them here?* "here!" i was appalled. "how? hy what misfortune or what sin?" the lad laughed again, and jump- ing off his hlock of ruhhish, sidled away, mocking at me as he went with a vulgar gesture. "catch me at explaining," said he, and was lost. now a sort of despair, hut an in- tellectual despair, seized me. i say intellectual, for with all my amaze and all l y sense of solitude in that crowd, i never felt sad nor unhappy; on the contrary, i kept constantly saying to myself, "after all, it is a great thing to have done with life.— and to feel so well and so young!" but my intellect oppressed me; it was in my way; my curiosity was so in- tense, my perplexities so unsolved, even hy conjecture. i got out of the squalid part of the huilding; and in a small lohhy i encountered a solitary heing like myself. i joined him. i said, "you and i seem hoth alone in this vast space. can we not explore it in company?" "certainly not; my way is not your way, nor yours mine. no two have the same paths tbrough in- finity." "but," said i, angrily, "i always understood on the earth, that when we left it we should come into a re- gion of spirits. where are the angels to guide us? i see them not. i have seen poverty and suffering, and hrute force. but of hlessed spirits ahove mankind, i have heheld none. and if this he infinity, such spirits must he here." "find them out for yourself then, as i must find them out for myself. this is my way, that is yours." "one word more; since i caunot discover those who have gono hefore me, whom i loved, i will wait for some one whom i have left on earth, and he will he my companion, for he will he as strange to this place as i am, and will want a friend, as i want some one. tell me where i can watch and see the dead come here from life." "yes, that j can tell yon. there are plenty of places in which you will see the dead drop down — there is such a place close hy. you see that passage; take it, and go straight on." i did as the man told me. i came to an open space always hetween hlind walls, hut the outer wall seemed far loftier, soaring up, and soaring up, till the dull hlue sky that rested on it appeared immeasurahly re- mote. and down at my feet from this wall dropped a man. '' you are one of the dead," said i, approaching anxiously, "just left the world of the living?" he seemed hewildered for a mo- ment; at last he answered, ruhhing his eyes, and in a kind of dreamy voice, "yes, i am dead." "let us look at each other," said i; "perhaps we were friends in life." we did look at each other with- out recoguition. but, indeed, as i had heen told, not amongst the myriads i had met, had i recog- nised one heing i had ever known on earth. "well," said i, " this is the strangest place! there is no getting on in it alone; no one will put you into the way of things. let you and i he friends now, whatever we were hefore. tnla, my arm; we caunot fail to he more comfortahle if we keop to- gether." the man, who seemed half asleep, took my arm, and we went on to- gether. i was very much pleased and exceedingly proud to have found at last a companion. i told him of all i had witnessed and experienced, of all my douhts and perplexities. he li:-t- .] the election petitions.— who doe* the brihery? ened with very little interest or atten- tion, still i was glad that i had got him safe hy the arm. "i don't think it is such a had place," said i, "if one could once get into the way of it. bat the first thing is to find a lodging to our- selves; and are you not hungry? i am. by the hy, what money have you hrought with you?" thereon my man looked at me sus- piciously, and extricating himself from my arm, hroke off; and though i hastened to follow him, he was lost la the infinity, and i felt that i was once more amidst infinity—dead and alone. so i awoke, and i wrote down this dream just as it happened; and at- tempting no explanation, for no ex- planation was given to me. i ermidks. the election petitions. who nojs tbe srisery i the country is hegiuning to find out what it owes to the coalition cahinet and its motley mass of lihe- ral supporters. in order to replace the whig chiefs in office,—in order that louis napoleon might again see the author of the conspiracy bill at the head of the british government, —and in order that lord john rus- sell might once more exhihit how easily he is overreached hy foreigu diplomatists,—for these several rea- sons, of which the first is of course the chief, the liheral party oomhined to cut short the career of the con- servative administration, and there- hy flung hack into the void the many excellent measures, of legal and other reform, which that administration had introduced. for this the coun- try has had no equivalent. as re- gards foreigu affairs, every one knows in what a hlundering and offensive position the peace of villufranca has placed the british government in the eyes of europe. and if we turn for compensation to home affairs, what do we find? nothing. not a single measure has heen proposed hy the new cahinet. they do not appear to have given a single successful thought to the work of internal im- provement. possihly the occupants of downing street had too much to do in keeping on good terms with one another, to have any sparo strength left to devote to the inte- rests of the puhlic. yet the session, after all, has not heen wholly uupro- fitahle. it has cleared the puhlic apprehension upon something more than the administrative incapacity of the ministry; for it has made plain, also, the disgraceful corruption of the liheral party and the hypo- critical effrontery of the liheral chiefs. the session has heen short, hut it has served to exhihit the lihe- ral party in an aspect which the coun- try will not soon forget. it hegan amidst a chorus of liheral invectives against the conservative ministry for corrupting the constituencies; it has ended amidst a wail of the liherals over lost seats, lost money, lost repu- tation; and some of them, professors of most pharisaic purity, are now go- ing ahout in a state of moral unclean- ness which no amount of whitewash- ing will ever cover any more. even the house of bright has fallen into a lamentahle state of impurity. and that brutus of politics, so implacahle towards the fahulous failings of his opponents, ought now to stand forth as the moral executioner of those of his own household. it is a pretty spec- tacle for those who have hitherto he- lieved that the purity of the liherals corresponded with their glowing pro- fessions. the liheral journals are silent on the suhject. it is a disgrace too deep to he apologised for—the facts are too indisputahle to he ex- plained away. in some quarters, in- deed, it is faintly suggested that this is the first time liheralism has lost her virtue. but the examination made hy the parliamentary committees de- monstrates authoritatively that this is no virgin lapse, and that the illicit counection hetween liheralism and hrihery has heen carried on for a long time. the evidence of this is so [sept. the election petitions.— who does the brihery t strong, that the daily news prefers to make a clean hreast of it. with a naivete that certainly horders on the coolest effrontery, it admits that "the old system of management has hroken down!"—and that the "seats lost to the liherals hy the decisions of the committees" show plainly that some other kind of "management" must he had recourse to. are the jo- seph surfaces of liheralism at length going to open their eyes to the truth that honesty is the hest policy, and that instead of professing so much virtue they would do hetter to prac- tise a little of it? "organised calnmny," as roebuck, who knows them well, has told us, is the forte of the whig party. it is an engine of party which they have ever worked most assiduously, and upon which they place great reliance in all their contests with their rivals. it is their armstrong gun, hrought ont on all occasions when the tide of hattle tbreatens to go against them. and its volleys, it must he admitt -d, are very effective; for as long as a party which panders to the masses, and whose grand professions of prin- ciple have not heen found out to he hut a whitewash over corruption, fills the journals with calumnies against its opponents, the puhlic seldom fails to helieve the greater part of what it is told. four months ago the liheral party were in a most excited state of mingled hope and desperation. they had heen looking forward to the min- isterial reform bill as a question which would surely reinstate them in power; hut after playing their trump- card upon it, they found themselves sent hack to their constituencies, witli the puhlic mind showing symptoms of its inclination to turn against them. in this emergency their armstrong gun of calumny was hrought out as usual, and sir james graham took upon himself to fire the first round. how, consistently with any feeling of personal integrity, sir james graham could conduct himself in the mauner he did, we do not pretend to explain. on the hustings of carlisle, elated at his nephew's heing returned to parlia- ment along with him, one would have thought that the milk of human kind- ness would havo displaced for a mo- ment that soured and hitter spirit pro- duced in him hy his recent political isolation. not so. his old friends, lord derhy and the conservatives, hade fair to win the day; and with an intensity of hate which none hut an apostate can feel, sir james roused himself to spoil their triumph. call- ing to his aid the most daring ca- lumny, and appealing to the iguorant prejudices of tho masses, he accused the government of the most flagi- tious practices for corrupting tho constituencies. hundreds of thou- sands of pounds, he told his audience, had heen suhscrihed hy the tories to hny votes and "foully pack the new parliament." lord derhy himself, he said, hoasted that he had suhscrihed £ , for that iniquitous purpose. sir john pakington, as first lord of the admiralty, was making an extra- ordinary expenditure of the puhlic money for the purpose of securing ad- ditional votes in the seaports. gen- eral pool, the secretary at war, was huilding useless harracks at berwick, in order to hny up that constituency; and, in order to secure the totes of the puhlicans and iunkeepers all over the country, the rate of hillet-money, said sir james, had heen trehled, hy an arhitrary act of the government. fiftbly, a compact had heen made with the pope, hy the promise of another catholic university in ire- land. and sixtbly, there was the galway contract, of which sir james said—"it would have heen cheaper for the people of england to give the government £ , capital to he expended as secret service money in huying up the galway votes and de- hauching the voters, rather than this £ , under contract for seven years " we do not know where to find a parallel to the exhihition which this hitter and unscrupulous old man made on the hustings of carlisle. he, a privy councillor of her majesty, dared openly and ostentatiously to charge the government, collectively and severally, with acts of gross political corruption, practised with a view "foully to pack the now parliament:" and yet every charge which he made was, to use dis- racli's well-merited epithet, "an im- pudent fahrication." lord derhy had never suhscrihed £ , , nor £ , , nor £ , ; and the fahulous sums alleged to have heen suhscrihed hy the carlton cluh existed nowhere .] co the election petition*.— who does the brihery? save in the heated and rancorous imagination of the veteran memher for carlisle. the huilding of har- racks at berwick, and the extraor- dinary expenditure of the admiralty, were pure inventions. an "inde- pendent liheral" himself came for- ward to approve most higbly of the gal way contract; not a trace of hrihery was alleged to have taken place at the galway election, and the town returned an oppositionist as hefore. no promise had heen made of a new university to ireland; and as to the compact with the pope, the election riots at limerick (of which we shall speak hy-and-hy) at once sent that calumny into ohlivion. lastly, as regards the increase of the hillet-money—which sir james de- clared had heen made hy an arhitrary and unjustifiahle act of the govern- ment, and with a view to influence the elections,—that increase had heen re- commended hy a parliamentary com- mittee, and had actually heen intro- duced into the mutiny act, and voted hy the house of commons, hefore there was any expectation of a disso- lution at all i such were the fahri- cations set afloat hy the knight of netherhy, and which were assiduous- ly kept up as long as possihle hy the liheral journals. no one envied sir james graham's position when par- liament reassemhled. he had heen called to account hy sir john paking- ton and general peel, and had to withdraw his calumnies in the news- papers; and on the very first night of the session lord uerhy gave him an equally flat contradiction, which he had likewise to swallow with whatever grace was left him. no wonder, then, that when at length he rose in his place, smarting under the cutting sarcasms of the chancellor of the exchequer, and complained of his "painful position," and of mr. dis- racli's remarks as a hreach of "the estahlished rule among gentlemen" he was met hy the scornful laugh of the house, and was only tolerated to a close on account of his age and long service in the councils of the nation. lord palmerston likewise took up the cry of corruption against the min- istry,—confining himself, however, with due caution, to a vague allega- tion, and avoiding that " condescend- ing upon particulars " which hrought the reckless knight of netherhy to so much grief. in concert with his party, the nohle visoount took his part in the plan of " organised calum- ny" directed against the conservative ministry. and when parliament met, those who were present on the night of the th june will rememher the grand how-wow mauner in which the present premier gave the house to understand that if he did not ut- terly overwhelm the ministry with proofs of their electoral corruption, it was only hecause he was merciful, and would not do so just yet. "the dissolution," he said, " was a culpahle proceeding,—it was sacrificing what might eventually have heen great national interests, in order to scram- hle for a few votes at different hus- tings. the right hon. gentleman spoke with great levity of the charges made against the government for irregular practices at the elections in certain parts of the country. i am not going to enter into that question now. but i will venture to tell him [here the nohle viscount gave a most meaning and mysterious shake of the head and right arm] that, hefore any great length of time has passed, there will he plenty of occasions—many more, perhaps, than will he agree- ahle to hon. gentlemen opposite— when that suhject will he hrought under our notice." it stands recorded in the 'times that the only ostensihle effect which this produced in the house was "a laugh"—which we are free to admit came from the con- servatives, who knew that it was all hlank-cartridge work, desigued to make a noise and smoke for the mo- ment. that stanch whig official, mr. wilson, followed suit, and in hueking up the inueudoes_of his chief, made special allusion to the hardship which the "sinful" ministry had in- flicted upon himself. "he main- tained that the dissolution was a sin- ful and unworthy act. in his own case (he said) the whole weight aud strength of the government were hrought to hear to induce his consti- tuents to return a verdict in their favour; and it might he his duty to hring hefore the house the mauner in which the whole strength of the government had heen hrought to hear against him." mr. wilson's opinions of duty apparently altered, [sept. the election petitions.— who doe* the brihery t for he never favoured the house with any further allusion to the hardships which lie had so patriotically endured and trinmphantly overcome. but, as the hest comment on his com- plaint, we may mention that when a new election shortly afterwards took place, the conservatives stood higher on the poll than hefore; so that whereas in april, the liherals were ahead hy , at the election after the new ministry was in power the majority of the liheral candidate was only ! little as the derhy administration and its supporters cared for these charges, knowing them to he a mero sham on the part of their opponents, yet the sham served lord palmer- ston and hia whig friends very well. it was known that there were a good many waverers in the liheral camp; and how could they he hetter secured than hy daring them to vote for a ministry which had exercised such extraordinarily gross corruption, and whose majority, if they were even to get one, would soon he turned into a minority hy the damaging exposures hefore the election committees? mr. laing honestly confessed that he voted against the ministry with the greatest reluctance, and only htthh he thought himself hound hy personal honour to vote with his party; and many others voted in a similar frame of mind—the only issue pre>en.ted to them hy their leaders heing, whether they would have a liheral govern- ment, or, in the face of the country, show themselves supporters of a tory ministry which had heen hrihing right and left, and dehauching the constituencies? as the result of these tactics the conservative ministry was outvoted hy ,—a narrow majority at hest, hut worth nothing as a stahle source of strength, seeing that while the conservatives form a compact phalanx, the liheral party is split into most discordant sections. but ere the session ended, that majority, small as it was, had all hut sunk to zero. it soon hecame evident that memhers had voted against the min- istry on the th of june who had no right to vote, or even to he in the house at all. no sooner did the election committees hegin their work than the "deil's dozen," who had placed lord palmerston in power, were found to he "men of straw "—most of them having got their seats hy the most shameless hrihery. and on the th of await —exactly two months after the lihe- ral journals aunounced the'defeat of the conservatives, the same journals had to confess that eight of the lihe- ral majority had heen unseated for hrihery, and that two of the seats thus rendered vacant had heen gained hy conservatives; while the elevation of mr. lahouchere to the peerage had given another gain to the conserva- tives at taunton! in other words, exactly two months aiter the liherals had replaced themselves in otiieo hy a majority of , that majority had heen reduced hy the dcci-ions of committees and new elections to only one; and the liherals who had heen so hoastful of their own virtue, and so profuse in charges of corruption against their opponents, were them- selves found to have heen the very chief of siuners well might the daily al'ics, on the twelfth of au- gus , thus lament over the havoc, that was then taking place, not on the moors, hut in the committee-rooms! "it is pretty clear that the pmsebt s_\-tein of what is called managing elections, as far as the liheral party is concerned, will never do. seat after seat has heen lost to the lihe- rals hy the decisions of commit- tees, while the conservatives have hitherto managed to ese.ipe. and what is far worse, of the new elections that have taken place, two out of tbree have resulted in the suhstitution of adversaries for friends. in a word, the old system of management has hroken down." "for the lirst time in half a century taunton is now repre- sented hy two opponents. as for dartmouth, after a vain show of fight, it was unaccountahly ahandoned to the enemy. we caunot refrain from asking plainly, why was this? the last election for dartmouth was declared void on account of hrihery: wa s it thought inexpedient to risk another show-up next session?" there was little doing in the house of commons during the last fortnight of the session, hut any one was well repaid for his tronhle who, during that period, visited the committee- rooms. .we say trouhle, for the thing had its discomforts as well as .] the election petitions.— who does the brihery t its amusement. if one of the puhlic, and not of the privileged few who had access within the harrier, after squeezing yourself in at the door, you found yourself in the midst of a perspiring crowd filling one side of a spacious chamher overlooking the pestiferous thames. at a tahle within the harrier sit the memhers of the committee, and facing them the legal gentlemen, and the unhappy witness whom for the time they happen to have upon the rack. the greater part of the petitions against the return of the conservatives had heen withdrawn. they were got up merely with a view to direct preju- dice against the conservative minis- try at the opening of the session, and, having served this purpose, were im- mediately ahandoned. therefore it was conservative petitions against liheral memhers that formed the hulk of the first cases tried. and foremost on the list is the wakefield petition, charging mr. bright's hrother-in-law, w. ii. leatham, with having unlaw- fully ohtained the seat hy means of hrihery. here the committee heg the hon. gentleman to inform them whether it is the case that £ have heen spent in securing his return, and make inquiries as to who were the fortunate recipients of this "liheral" dishursement. to which the hrother-in-law of the immaculate mr. bright replied that "he had paid mr. wainwright (his agent) two cheques—one for £ , and the other for £ ; in addition, the expenses accounted for to the auditor were upwards of £ ; and he helieved there were some small accounts still unsettled." as to how the money had gone, was a very pain- ful hranch of the inquiry; and the stanchest old tory could hardly have helped commiserating this "advanced liheral" in his humiliating dilemma. on the famous th of june mr. w. h. leatham could not constrain him- self to give a silent vote against the ministry. a reformer so illustri- ously counected as he, and speoially deputed to second his hrother-in-law in his crusade against aristocratic influence and corruption, he must tell tho house why he condemned the ministry. "as a new memher," he said, "he felt the grave responsi- hility of the vote he was called upon to give. but he was sent to parlia- ment on one question—that of politi- cal reform ; and on the ground of that question ho must vote against the government. they failed in their measure of reform, and he he- lieved the forty-shilling freeholders would never forget the insult which that measure put upon them." here, then, was a special champion of re- form—one whose deputed mission it was to free the constituencies from the hrihes, and the country from the rule, of the corrupt conservatives. but very uncomfortahle does he look now, though seated in the softest of easy-chairs; and those who look on hegin to understand why he should he so eager a champion of the horough freemen—those heing notoriously the class of all others most accessihle to hrihes. wakefield is ono of the horoughs created hy the reform bill of , and mr. leatham is a politi- cal puritan of the most " advanced" school—a relative and chosen lieu- tenant of mr. bright's; yet what do we find proved of this reform horough and reform champion? tho evidence adduced hefore the committee clearly estahlished the prevalence of the most disgraceful corruption on the part of the liheral memher—the tariff of hrihery ranging from £ to £ for a vote, accord- ing to the hour of the day and the aspect of the poll. and the com- mittee found and declared, "that it was proved to them that thomas beaumont has heen hrihed hy the payment of £ ; that john jackson has heen hrihed hy the payment of £ ; that john cousins has heen hrihed hy the payment of £ ; and that george senior has heen hrihed hy the payment of £ ." and their unanimous decision is, "that william heury leatham was hy his agents guilty of hrihery at the last election for the horough of wakefield;" that therefore "he is not duly elected to serve in the present parliament;" and "that the last election for the said horough is a void election." while this exposure was overwhelming the house of bright, in another room another committee was pronouncing a similar sentence upon another li- heral,—declaring that mr. schenley vol. lxxxvl [sept. the election petition*.— who doe* the brihery t was not <inly elected for dartmouth, hecause he also, hy his agents, had heen guilty of hrihery. ahout the same time two of the petitions pre- sented hy the liherals against conser- vative memhers /ailed,—at the same time involving another liheral in the sentence of corruption: mr. astell was declared duly elected for ashhurton; and for ayleshury, mr. bernard and mr. smith (conservatives) were also found duly elected; while the elec- tion of wentworth (liheral) was pro- nounced void, as hrihery had heen practised hy his agent. the gloucester case cost the liherals two more seats, and more disgrace. the disclosures were droll as well as startling. it appears that the state of parties in gloucester is nearly halanced, andjj the hetter class of liherals had resolved not to at- tempt to monopolise hoth seats. but there is a reform cluh in gloucester, and this resolve did not tally with their wishes—whatever their wishes may have heen. a deputation from the cluh accordingly proceed to lon- don, and under their patronage mr. monk icame down to canvass the horough. the tactics adopted on his side appear to have heen very simple. it was openly proclaimed that "if money couid do it, mr. monk would win;" and the local journal on the liheral side siguificantly aunounced that, in addition to his other pre- eminent excellences, mr. monk had a father-in-law who was a milliounaire, and from whom great things might he expected if mr. monk were re- turned. a great change now took place on the part of the leading liherals, who had hitherto kept aloof from the intruder; and mr. price, their candidate—and who might still have heen one of the memhers for gloucester hut for this suicidal step —now camo forward to "sail in the same hoat" with the long-pursed mr. monk. from this time up to the election, tbreats, hrihes, and per- suasive supplies of drink were em- ployed on the side of the liherals, who talked openly of the necessity of "fighting the tories with their own weapons!" their method of doing this was to hand over large sums to several trusted individuals, each of whom was expected to secure a given numher of votes—the residue of these large sums (if any) apparently going into the pockets of the trusted individuals. the chief persons who figured in this process of "farming" hritiery were a grocer, a hookseller, a mr. wilton, "doctor to the reform cluh," and a mr. jacohs "of the 'little dustpan.'" these individuals seem to have found that it was no easy matter satiating the love of lucre on the part of the free and indepen- dent liherals of gloucester; for we find in the evidence that the grocer soon professed himself run dry, that the surgeon was hled to exhaustion, and the "little dustpan" quite cleaned out. in this extremity an agent, clark, from london, arrived on the scene, and with him a mr. thompson, who was a very suh- stantial existence for the time, hut who has now vanished into a mere golden myth,—nohody knowing what has hecome of him, and mr. monk deponing that ho never once heard of him hefore? this mythical heing, however, hrought with him fresh supplies of "the needful," and re- vived the exhausted hopes of the local agents hy assuring them that he can get £ more than he hrought with him: and among other dishursements, mr. clark depones that after the first hour's polling, "thompson paid wilton £ more." we need not go farther into the curious details of this shameless cor- ruption; hut we have shown enough of it to satisfy any one that the com- mittee did not judge harsbly when they decided that the election was null and void, and that hoth of the liheral sitting memhers had heen guilty of hrihery tbrough their agents. the case of norwich was equally damaging (costing them two votes) and disgraceful to the liheral party. here we shall content ourselves with quoting the decision of the committee, which ran as follows:— "that mr.il w. schneider is not duly eleoted a citizen to serve in the present parliament for the city and the county of the city of norwich. that the hon. w. coutta keppel, commonly called lord bury, was not duly elected at the election held on the atii of april , a citizen to serve in the present parlia- ment for the said city and the county of the said city of norwich. that the said h. w. schneider and vitcount bury .] the election petitions.—who does the brihery* were, hy their agents, guilty of hrihery at the last-mentioned election. that it was proved to the committee that sterner had heen hrihed hy the payment tf £ , and tltat several other persons had heen hrihed with various amounts; hut it was not proved to the committee that the ahove- mentioned hrihery was committed with the knowledge and consent of the said h. w. schneider and viscount bury. that it appears to the committee that rohert french voted for h. \v. schnei- der in expectation of receiving a contri- hution, hy witnesses alleged to have heen promised to him hy the said h. w. schneider, towards losses incurred hy his hrother at a fire. that h. w. schnei- der did, hy a letter dated the th of may, suhsequent to the election, under- take to forward tbrough his agents a contrihution to the said rohert french; hut that no contrihution was actually paid. the committee are not satisfied, however, in the ahove-mentioned evi- dence, that the ahove was intended as a corrupt agreement on the part of the said ii. w. schneider." the beverley case also was one in which the conservative petitioners were successful. in this election the liherals conducted their hrihery more cautiously, and chiefly hy pay- ing freemen of the horough exor- hitant wages for doing nominally the work of messengers. also the polling-clerks, who were voters, were paid tbree guineas, while those who were not voters received only one guinea. in this case mr. walters, the liheral, was ejected, and major edwards, the conservative, main- tained his seat. let us now glance at some of the cases in which hrihery was proved against the liherals, yet the memhers were allowed to retain their seats. and first on this list, as on the former one, comes a hrother-in-law of mr. bright—mr. e. a. leatham, hrother of the ejected memher for wakefield, and sitting himself for huddersfield. brihery here took rather a comical form—much of it heing done hy giving overprices for pigs, and hy making anti-temperance pre- sents of harrels of heer i the deoision of the committee was as follows: "that it was proved to your committee that george moxon and john chapman were hrihed to vote for edward aldham leatham hy jahez wells, hy the payment of £ more than the market value of some pigs. that joseph crossley had heen hrihed hy one edward frith to vote at the last election, under a promise that part of his house would he used as a committee-room. that godfrey hudson, a puhlican, had heen hrihed hy jahez wells for a like purpose. that heury partridge had heen hrihed hy john wilson for a like pur- pose. that joseph hohhison had heen hrihed for the like purpose. that aquila priestly had heen hrihed with half a harrel of heer. that there was no evidence that such acts of hrihery had taken place with the knowledge of e. a. leatham," and therefore that he "was duly elected." after the elections, mr. bright, in the fulness of his heart, hoasted that he would now walk into the house of commons with a hrother-in-law on each arm. he little thought how soon one of these relations was to he walked out of the house in a very summary and humiliating way; and how the other, though escaping ejec- tion, must ever he ridiculous to the risihle, and offensive to the moral, faculties of the house, on account of the han-els of heer and the corrupt traffic in the "unclean animal" to which he owed his election. the maidstone case was another in which the liheral memhers escaped in a mauner not very creditahle to tho committee, and very discreditahle to them. for the committee testi- fied that it was proved to them "that heury smith, an elector, was hrihed on his own confession hy a sum of £ ; and that richard rose and j. honey, two other electors who voted for the sitting memhers, were paid s. each after voting, for travelling-expenses; hut that none of the transactions referred to were done with the knowledge or consent of the sitting memhers or their agents!" how disinterested in their corrupt expenditure some liherals mnst he, when they hny up votes without having the least counection with the candidate or his agents! the scandal of these cases was great; hut—mai^el of marvels!— who should come forward to vindi- cate them hut the immaculate john bright himself. and this is the [sept. the election petitions.-*wlw does the brihery? way in which lie seeks to whitewash the soiled reputation of his two re- latives and their fellow-siuners:— "a man comes into this house—a great many men can hardly tell how they get here—and he finds that some friends of his, in their zeal and in the heat of the contest, have done things which are imprudent. i ad- mit that many memhers who are presumed to know very little do know a great deal of these matters. at the same time, a numher may he returned hy means which a parlia- mentary committee would not sanc- tion, and yet he iguorant of those means having heeu exerted." of course, as an hypothesis, this is not altogether impossihle. but certainly it is not often that a man's friends will draw cheques and spend money on his hehalf without giving him even a hint of their henevolence. only fancy a pure and incorruptihle liheral of the "advanced" type, who is resolved to fight the hattle on the highest principles, and yet— in his despite and without his know- ledge—his friends go ahout spending their money on his hehalf, tbrusting pound-notes into teapots and other odd places, exhilarating the voters hy presents of harrels of heer, and making purchases of pigs at trehle their value! to complete the hur- lesque of all prohahility, it only need- ed that john bright should thus come forward to champion the cause of those memhers, whom he helieves to have suffered so much from the ohstinate over-heuevolence of their friends. the case of his two hrothers- in-law appears to have touched his heart. petitions again>t conservative memhers, we have said, were ahan- doned wholesale-; and in the cases which were proceeded with—namely, those of north leicestershire, ash- hurton, ayleshury, and beverley, the conservatives came off in trinmph. the only case in which a committee decided against a conservative mem- her, was that of hull. mr. hoare, who was returned for that horough at the geneial election, is descrihed hy the matter-of-fact l)od as "a very moderate conservative;" hut appa- rently the committees were glad to get hold of any sort of a conservative, in order that it might not he said that while so many liherals fell, not a single conservative shared their fate. mr. hoare, it seems to us, had a very scrimp measure of justice dealt out to him. and in saying this, we do so deliherately, and with express reference to parallel cases in which liheral memhers were allowed to retain their seats. in mr. hoare's case no direct acts of hrihery were even alleged; hut it was charged against him that too many "mes- sengers, canvassers, hooth-clerks, and check-clerks, were employed hy his party." the canvass and elec- tion contest was a pretty long one, lasting nearly tbree weeks, and dur- ing that time these messengers, <fcc., were employed, some for two, tbree, or four days, others for the whole time, at the not very exorhitant wage of from s. d. to s. d. a-day. their numher also was less than that em- ployed during the same period hy the liheral side—that is to say, hy mr. clay, mr. hoare's liheral colleague, who was allowed to retain his seat, and hy mr. lewis, the defeated lih- eral candidate, whose friends thus petitioned against mr. hoare's re- turn. nevertheless mr. hoare lost his seat,—and this although the committee declared that the em- ployment of this undue numher of messengers, &c, was not done "hy or with the consent of the said joseph hoare, esq., who shoved great anxiety to check any illegal pro- ceedings in respect to the said elec- tion.'' now compare this decision with those of the committees on the maidstone and huddersfield election cases. the maidstone committee decided that "heury smith, who voted for the sitting memhers, was proved, on his own admission, to have heen hrihed hy the sum of £ ." and the huddersfield committee decided that "it was proved that george moxon and john chapman were hrihed to vote for e. a. lea- tham, hy jahez wells, hy the pay- ment of £ more than the market value of some pigs; that joseph crossley had heen hrihed hy one edward frith to vote at the last election under the promise that part of his room should he used as a com- mittee-room; that godfrey hudson, .] the election petitiont.—who does the brihery t a pnhlican, had heen hrihed hy jahez wells for a like purpose*; that heury partridge had heen hrihed hy john wilson for a like purpose; that joseph hohhison had heen hrihed for the like purpose; that aquila priestly had heen hrihed with half a harrel of heer." but they held that mr. leatham -was "duly elected," on the ground "that there was no evidence that such acts of hrihery had taken place with his knowledge." thus then, at maidstone and hud- dersfleld, tbree liheral memhers were held to he duly elected, although most flagrant cases of hrihery were committed on their hehalf; whereas at hull mr. noare was unseated simply for having had too many hired messengers, &c, although this was not done "hy or with his consent," and although the committee were forced to add (what was not said for the liheral memhers for maidstone and huddersfield), that mr. hoare "showed great anxiety to check any illegal proceedings in respect to the said election" this hull case was one of the very last decided; and it seems impossihle to douht that the committee entered upon its lahours with a predetermination, if possihle, to offer up one conservative—even though only "a very moderate" one —to the manes of the eight advanced liherals who had heen unseated. the result of the new election at hull, however, has proved how entirely in- dependent either of hrihery or of gov- ernment influence was mr. hoare's success; for not only has a conser- vative heen again elected, hut the conservative majority, which was in april, has now swelled to ! let us give one glance more at theso election-cases. take the lim- erick case, in which the conserva- tives petition to have the election declared void on account of the vio- lent riots which took place, hy which many conservative voters were pre- vented from polling. mr. spaight was the conservative candidate,— major gavin was the liheral one; and the proceedings show that, what- ever lord granville chose to say to the contrary, if any party in parlia- ment had hought the support of the roman catholics, it certainly was not lord derhy's government. at the very outset of the contest the spirit of religious higotry was in- voked to defeat the conservative, and the following placard was posted all over the town :—" catholics! unite, now and for ever. down with protestant ascendancy. down with spaight and the orange jury-packing government of lord derhy. hur- rah for gavin!" and the chairman of major gavin gave vent to his re- ligious sentiments hy proposing to deal thns ferociously with the con- servative candidate :—" i will have your orange liver out of your hody," ho said, " and have it tbrown into the shaunon!" on the election day there were in limerick nearly horse and foot, hesides of the well-trained military police of ire- land; yet the rioting was so serious that this force, or the authorities who directed it, wore quite unahle to preserve order. the hridges over the shannon—especially the one called after father mathew—were strategetieally -seized hy the moh; the cars conveying the conservative voters were assailed hy showers of stones, and direct violence was era- ployed to prevent electors voting for mr. spaight. major gavin, riding on horsehack at the head of the moh, drove the police from mathew's bridge, where mr. spaight's voters had to cross. captain burgess, who was in command of a detachment of the th regiment, hears witness thus :—" the greatest crowd was ahout one o'clock. saw the moh pelting stones at cars. major gavin's name was on his cars, and mr. rus- sell's on his. gerrard and witness's men were struck with the stones from twelve to one o'clock. major couner was in command of all the company of infantry. he ordered witness to take a division of his com- pany and clear the hridge. marched to the hridge. wore pelted all the way there. several of witness's men were struck and their firelocks in- jured. was injured himself, and compelled to get exemption from duty for five or six days. was lame for a month afterwards. it was a very violent pelting, and stones very large. never saw such violence at an election hefore. had attended several in ireland." mr. wurhurton, [sept. the election petition*.— who does the brihery? who commanded the constahulary, testified that his men had to fix hayonets hefore they could force a passage at mathew's hridge; and several electors deponed that they found themselves in such danger that they had to retire without voting for mr. spaight. mr. gamhle, a catholic, and supporter of the conservative candidate, said :—" went with mr. spaight in his canvass, and a violent moh immediately collected round them. witness's house was attacked and hroken into hy the people, and all the shop windows smashed. wit- qem saw a voter named ryan in the hands of the moh on the day of poll- ing. the people were dragging him along the street. he once escaped and was re-captured. the moh even- tually put him in a car and drove him to tho polling-hoth. ryan had promised his vote for spaight. after the polling was over witness shut up his shop. the moh then came and hroke hetween sixty and seventy panes of glass in his house. they, in fact, continued hreaking them till the filing hegan. the police came to wit- ness's house after the windows were hroken, and remained there for ahout ten days." and all tbrough the elec- tion-day, as was proved hy several witnesses, major gavin headed the rioters at every point, conspicuous on a white horse. yet the decision of the committee was that there was no evidence that the cavalier of the white horse instigated tho rioting; and also that it was not proved that the riots " were of such a duration or of such a character as to prevent the votes of the electors heing recorded." duration i why, the riots lasted not only till the poll closed and all tho afternoon—till the soldiers had to fire on the moh; hut the houses of some of mr. spaight's supporters had to he guarded hy the police for ten days afterwards! and yet the elec- tion was passed as a valid election; and the liheral major is still memher for limerick! such in hrief were the disclosures of hrihery and intimidation made hefore the election-committees, for which eight liherals were unseated, and for which certainly other four should have heen similarly punished. tho facts speak for themselves. they need no fine peroration to hring home to the country a sense of the uuparalleled shamelessuess and cor- ruption of the liheral party. what men to he the champions of electoral reform! after all their calumnies against the conservatives, to he so convicted themselves, while their op- ponents appear purity itself hesido them well might roehuck, him- self a liheral, thus indiguantly de- nounce the conduct of his party :— "some time ago the puhlic were warn- ed that great corruption had heen prac- tised hy gentlemen sitting on these (the opposition) henches; hut i am sorry to say that, hy discoveries recently made, it has heen found that corruption has taken place on that (the ministerial) side of the house. and the remarkahle fea- ture of the case is, that nohle lords and right lion, gentlemen are sitting on the henches opposite in consequence; for i helieve that pretty nearly the whole numher of their majority have heen dis- franchised since inquiries have heen in- stituted, and that they have heen dis- franchised hecause of hrihery. whv, sir, the whole country was startled,' the isle was frighted from its propriety,' hy the statement which was made hy the virtuous gentlemen opposite. it was said that a nohle lord and right hon. gentleman had suhscrihed, comhined, and conspired for the purpose of hring- ing a majority into parliament. upon which side does the imputation rest now l why, the statements which have heen made within the last ten days he- forecommittees of this houseare enough to shock the feelings of the country at the conduct of a party which calls itself liheral, and a great numher of whom i recollect in the year raising a great outcry against the corruption of the an- cient parliaments. \vhy,sir, there was no- thing ever done in the ancient parlia- ments worse than has heen done in this. i do say, then, that it hehoves this house to take into its most serious considera- tion how it can hy any possihility stop this evil, and i entreat lion, gentlemen who are sitting on pur committees to have the courage to he honest, and not to add hase hypocrisy to the horrihle corruption that now prevails." what is to come next? will the lihorala now ahandon their assumed monopoly of purity, and confess that their professions have heen no hetter than a ruse to cover their own mal- practices, and that their clamour against the conservatives is simply .] the election petition*.— who docs the brihery t a parallel to the dodge hy which a pickpocket seeks to tbrow suspicion off himself hy calling "stop thief!" nay, will they not attempt to torn their very sins to account, and quote the electoral corruption of their own making as a proof in favour of the ballot? are the recent exposures of the hrihery practised hy the liheral party at gloucester, norwich, wake- field, ayleshury, dartmouth, bever- ley,—not to speak of huddersfield and maidstone—to he converted into powerful arguments for the adoption of a demoralising and un-english sys- tem of secret voting? mr. cohden, to whom the opinion of an american, or a paragraph in a new york news- paper, has hecome the highest of all authority, gives as his newest and hest argument in favour of the hallot, the opinion of a philadelphian, who says, that he has heen "for fifty years counected with political move- ments in philadelphia, and never knew a vote hought or sold." mr cohden was so struck with this acci- dental statement, that he requested the speaker to put it in hlack and white, in order that he might quote it as a elencher in england. it did duty for the first time at the hanquet at rochdale; and douhtless we shall have the whole letter read in extenso next spring, in parliament. "now," added mr cohden, "the gentleman would not have told mo, am sure, that elections in america are pure in every respect, nor that all their elec- tions are carried on peaceahly and tranquilly; hut ho mentioned the fact that the hallot presents such an ohstacle to hrihery, that nohody cares to hny a vote,"—that is to say, in philadelphia, and so far as he knew. as to the existence of hrihery and corruption in the united states, it is not nine months since the president himself, in a puhlished letter, openly confessed the existence of these evils on so great a scale, that in his opinion they imperil the very existence of the union. what is the worth of the statement of mr cohden's gentleman compared to this? besides, even if the hallot did render hrihery imprac- ticahle in the united states, has there not arisen there in its place a still worse form of the evil? if voters are not hrihed, are they not attacked and intimidated hy hired ruffians at the hooths? do not the rival parties set themselves to find out the politics of all and sundry, and then hire shoulder-hitters, rowdies, and hlud- geon-men to' maltreat and ohstruct their opponents as they go to the poll? is this any improvement on hrihery? rather than see agents slipping a £ note into a voter's hand, or doing other aots of electoral henevolence, would mr cohden prefer to have hludgeon-men hired to hreak people's heads? does he think that it shows more purity on the part of the candi- dates, and more freedom and inde- pendence in the community, that an election should he gained hy hreak- ing heads instead of hnying votes? one word in conclusion. lord asbley, in the dehate at the opening of the session, said that he would give his vote against the ministry, in order that they might he replaced hy "a strong and sagacious administra- tion, that would carry weight in the councils of europe, and command, the respect of the people in england." and so said many others. well, what have they got? instead of carrying weight in the councils of europe, the british government is as nearly isolated as it has ever heen for the last fifty years; and instead of commanding respect at home, the disclosures hefore the election-com- mittees have revealed the shameless tactics hy which the liheral chiefs ohtained that slender majority which placed them in office, as well as the haselessuess of those calumnies with which they so hasely sought to dis- credit their opponents. and finally, as to the "strong government" which lord asbley and others reck- lessly sought to ohtain, where is it? thirteen was the pitiful majority of the coalition party at first—what is it now? not ahove half that num- her. "six or seven," says mr coh- den; and conservatives say tbree or four! t [sept. jersey to the queen. jersey to the qtjees'. come, tbrough seas of summer calm, come, tbrough airs of summer halm, greeted with the nation's psalm, victoria! tears of love from eyelids pressing, followed hy the people's hlessing, wealth untold in hearts possessing, victoria! small, though ancient of renown, eldest heirloom of thy crown, caesarea's isle and town— victoria t bids thee come and come again, cheers thee hlithely ten times ten, queen of islands! queen of men! victoria how unlike on yonder coasts, paeans rise for slaughtered hosts, bought hy fifty thousand ghosts, "viotoria!" matron, mother, monarch good! stand thy tbrone as it hath stood, strong hy love, not haths of hlood t victoria! 'tis hecause the crown we count honour's jewel, freedom's fount, that our voices skyward mount, victoria! now we tell that soldier-slavo, be he hravest of the hrave, freedom's shield and god will save, victoria! bauners wave, and caunon hoom. lights like glow-worms in each room, rockets flash round pierson's tomh,* victoria! beams adieu the fair full moon, thunders in the midnight noon echo, " come again right soon, victoria!" g. c. swatne. jersey, avgutt , . * monument to a gallant young soldier, major pierson, who fell heading the successful defence of st. heliers, in january l, when the last attempt was made hy the french to ohtain possession of the chaunel islands. .] foreign affairs—the disarmament. foreign affairs thf nisarmament. paei.iamf.nt has closed its work for the year, find the time is come when the national mind, wearied of much thinking, usually goes to sleep for a while upon all matters of puhlic importance. the grouse and the red- deer have heen hunted for a fortnight on the scottish, moors; and now the joyous morn has arisen when all the stuhhle-fields of england will he re- sonant with the whirr of the partridge and the crack of the fowling-piece. the mental conflict of words and of ideas is heing lulled to rest hy the strong physical exercise of the moors and the chase. owing to the reoent- ness of their accession to office, and to the adroitness with which they have spent two months in doing nothing, her majesty's ministers do not this year attract puhlic sympathy as the men most deserving of this autumnal rest. and the events of the ten weeks which have succeeded their advent to power have heen of such a character that the memhers of the government will now do well to spend a portion of their leisure in reviewing them, and in pondering the results. the puhlic has more questions to ask than parliament had; and sooner or later, in one form or in another, the puhlic will exact from the ministry an account of its stewardship. when getting ready our rifles and rifle corps, we want to know more ahout the management of our foreigu policy. we want to know why lord john.russell should have heen so elahorately clever in his despntches to disgust prussia. we want to know how he and the premier should have played into the hands of the french emperor hy a superfluous irritation of austria. and what ahout this talked-of disarmament? when parliament meets again, are we to find that the works of national de- fence have heen countermanded, out of courtesy to the professions of the french emperor, or out of deference to the pacific tastes and financial difficulties of mr. gladstone? what is this french disarmament? what is its. extent, and what its motive? is it, on the part of the emperor, a definite shutting of the temple of janus; or is it merely a new and adroit device for the accomplishment of the next step in the napoleonic policy? the whig ministers, in a very un- justifiahle mauner, departed from the strict neutrality of their pre- decessors. both the premier and the foreigu secretary openly ex- pressed their desire to see the aus- tin ans wholly expelled from italy. such language, had they heen in office six months ago, would have heen equivalent to a declaration of war against austria. and what is it now hut an actual and official repudiation of the treaties of , which form the sole hasis of the territorial settle- ment of europe, and which napo- leon has commenced to remodel for the moral and material aggrandise- ment of france? we already have had a humiliating specimen of the evil resulting from the ahandonment hy her majesty's ministers of the principle of strict neutrality. it lias disgusted prussia and alien- • ated austria; and has made the british government appear a di- plomatic tool in the hands of the french emperor. taking advantage of their professions, napoleon iii. has made lords palmerston and rus- sell dupes and agents for tho'accom- plishment of his suhtle ends. he has used them, as he used kossuth, simply as a means of frightening austria into peace, and then has tossed them disregardingly aside. in his address to his suhjects, the empe- ror of austria justified the peace con- cluded at villafranca hy stating that he found he could get hetter terms from his enemy than from his natu- ral allies! this appeared a startling statement to the uninitiated puhlic; hut soon afterwards more light was tbrown on the suhject hy a correspon- dent of the trieste zeitung, who gave a detailed account of what took place prior to the meeting of the emperors at villafranca. napoleon iii. was urgent for a personal interview,— francis-joseph was resolutely averse to it. what, then, hrought it ahout? [sept. foreign affair*—the disarmament. on the th, "a long letter was re- ceived from the emperor of the french, in which the military and political reasons why the emperor of austria ought to make peace were given with equal force and lucidity;" and in which "his majesty commu- nicated some curious information re- lating to the policy of the neutral powers. the impression produced hy the letter in question was such that the emperor francis-joseph at once agreed to the proposed interview." from this and other sources of in- formation it is well known that, in in- ducing austria to make peace, napo- leon relied, and relied successfully, upon making known to his antagon- ist some information which he pos- sessed relative to the policy of the neutral powers. what had he to tell? part, and ohviously the worst part of the matter, still lies hid in those despatches which the govern- ment, tbrough lord granville, re- fused to lay hefore parliament. but independently of what is still kept a veiled secret in downing street, let us see how lords palmerston and russell allowed themselves to ho led hy the nose hy the french emperor, tbroughout the secret ne- gotiations. that lord palmerston was duped hy napoleon at the very outset of this "italian question," during the visoount's visit to com- piegue, is too certain—as, e. g., appears from his declaration on the th ult., "that- he had always set his face against violently altering the rela- tions of europe." he never expected there would he any war,—never dreamt that the grey redingote was to he put on, and that another napo- leon and grand army would he sweeping across italy. he looked forward at most to a congress, where england, of course, would maguify herself hy sporting "liheral sympa- thies" for the italians; and where the reforms for the papal states, which napoleon made his sole ground of quarrel with austria, would he easily adjusted. he little foresaw that napoleon had resolved to draw the sword, for the special glosifica- tion of france; and that he would snuh the italians, and instruct his penman cassaguac, to sueer at the "liheral sympathies" of england as soon as he had attained his ends. one of palmerston's own colleagues —now made finance-minister for india—thus writes in his (mr. wil- son's) newspaper, the economist:— "it is now as clear as the day that the great aim of the napoleonic movement has heen to secure for france a paramount influence in the politics of italy. anything that will augment that influence he is likely to support—anything that curtails it he will oppose, even though it seem to inorease the power of austria, since he well knows that, in the present state of italy, the fear of austria is the advantage of france." so has ended this french interven- tion in italy, which lord palmerston did so much to champion. duped at the outset, ho and his foreigu secre- tary are now grumhling at the results of the intervention which they pre- tiously patronized; and they were eager to tako part in the congress at zurich, in the puerile hope that their verhal vapouring and protests would have the slightest influence when weighed against the gallic sword. napoleon iii. has made good use of lords palmerston and russell, and can now afford to do without them. the first illusion which he palmed off upon them, as to the ohject of the war, was not very creditahle to their discernment; hut the mauner in which he made tools of them at the end (though they he naturally averse to confess it), they will never for- get. the recollection must he all the more galling inasmuch as the affair implies no dishonesty on the part of tho french emperor—only folly and hlundering upon theirs. napoleon outgeneralled them. he handed them a copy of terms of peace, which (like those proposed hy lord palmerston in ) required that austria should wholly ahandon her possessions in italy, and her interest in tuscany and modena, and hegged that they would communicate these terms to austria. they looked at the terms, and accept- ed tho commission. indeed, the en- tire expulsion of the austrians from italy is just what lord palmerston openly expressed his wish to see. by so doing, they homologated the terms proposed hy france. this is not merely the "understanding of the .] foreign affair*—the ditarmament. matter in the diplomatic world, hut, in truth, there was no moaning in the act at all, unless the british govern- ment wished to show that it approved of the conditions of peace thus offered hy france to austria. france needed no foreigu medinm tbrough which to open negotiations with austria. a staff-offh-er with a flag of truce was quite sufficient. in point of fact, napoleon not only found it perfectly easy to open communications in this way with the austrian headquarters, hut did he not even in this way oh- tain an interview with the austrian emperor himself? when he sent his first terms of peace tbrongh the brit- ish cahinet, it was with a view to ohtain the moral weight of our go- vernment on his side; and whatever lords palmerston and russell may now say, hy accepting the task of transmitting these overtures, they testified a general approval of their terms. this of itself would have jus- tified francis-joseph in his declara- tion that he had ohtained hetter terms from his foe than from his na- tural allies. a pretty spectacle it was, truly, to see the ministers of a country which professed "strict neu- trality" requiring' from austria f:ir more than austria's foe proved him- self content to ohtain! lord john kussell was led into this false posi- tion hy the superior finesse of the french emperor: he has nothing to complain of so much as his own folly. napoleon has only to say—though whether he can say so truly is another question — "these were the lowest terms which i would accept, hut now events have induced me to ac- cept muoh less." it might have so happened that events would have taken such a turn as to justify napo- leon in this change of mind. and hence this great hlunder on the part of the british cahinet might have heen committed without any attempt on tho part of napoleon to overreach them. but that they were over- reached, purposely led into a suare, hy the french emperor, no one can douht. culpahly ahandoning the principle of neutrality, the british premier had avowed his desire to have austria expelled from italy; and napoleon made use of this to serve his own purpose. the hattle of solferino had given him another victory; and neither himself, nor his official penman in the g'cmttitutiounel, can allege any adequate reason for his sudden change of programme. but that he never meant to push austria to extremities is what we have all along helieved and stated. and the forwarding of these extreme demands tbrough the british govern- ment was just desigued to render austria more ready to accept tho milder terms ahout to he offered hy himself; and moreover, it was an excellent means of tbrowing the ani- mosity of austria upon england, while reaping all the glory of the war for himself. the french emperor has heen too successful in his schemes to openly hoast of his success. like every wise man, it is a maxim with him never to make a needless enemy. and he could not at present hoast of the full extent of his success without making a mortal enemy of england, whom he has played with and over- reached. hence, since the peace, he affects the air of one who was un- ahle to carry out his plans. he pretends that if he did not adhere to the programme which lie puhlished to the italians, and which he got the british government to homologate, it whs only hecause he could not carry it out. and shortsighted peo- ple in this country chuckle at the thought that for once the emperor has to confess himself haffled vain conceit. depend upon it, if the em- peror had really heen haffled, he would have heen the last to acknow- ledge it. the unjust suspicions of the other powers, and the strength of the venetian fortresses, are the two great ohstacles which the emperor says caused him to stop. and caseaguac, in the covstitutiounel, with more de- tail, justifies the peace on the ground that to have stormed the quadrila- ture and driven austria out of vene- tia " would have cost long sieges, new hattles, new loans, an immediate war on the rhine, disturhances in central italy, insurrections in hungary and elsewhere, which it would have heen necessary to tolerate, perhaps to en- courage: in a word, it would have cost the ahandonment of the princi- ples of order, and the adoption of the [sept. foreign affair*—the disarmament. principles of revolution and agitation, for the present, and an ahyss for the future." as if all that was not as plain hefore the sword was drawn as it was two months afterwards! what had changed in the five weeks hetween the puhlication of the milan manifesto and the siguing of peace at villafranca? nothing hut the hattle of solferino, and the change of ministry in england,—nothing hut another great victory to the french arms, and the advent to power in england of a ministry specially fa- vourahle to the italian war. napo- leon made peace at villafranca simply hecause he had no desire to carry the war further, or convert it into a con- test d vmilrance. his communicat- ing to the emperor of anstria the views of the neutral powers may have heen—as m. de scbleinitz, the prussian minister, in his sore indig- nation, says it was—an unjustifiahle violation of the etiquette of diplo- macy; hut that was nothing to napo- leon: he merely made use of an ad- vantage which his superior adroitness had ohtained from the shortsighted hlundering of the british ministers. and it must he allowed he turned that advantage to remarkahle ac- count. it not only enahled him to close the war while tho strength of his adversary was still unhroken, hut it also enahled him to ingratiate him- self with austria at the expense of england and prussia. that he has done this is heyond question. the austrian emperor himself, in his manifesto to his suhjects, has de- clared that the emperor of the french has acted a more friendly part towards him than his natural allies; and every- day is revealing more plainly the schism thus introduced amongst tho german states, and hetween these states and england. of the success with which napoleon has driven the wedge into germany hy the peace of villafranca, every day's newspapers show fresh proof. unfortunately it is not a merely ephemeral irritation; on the contrary, it has heen growing stronger every week. the political letters from berlin of th july, puh- lished in the journal des jjehats, speak of the " confusion created every- where" hy the recent events. "the cahinet of vieuna," they say, "re- proaches prussia for its treasonahle policy; and the german states say openly that prussia saw with secret satisfaction the misfortunes of aus- tria, and watched the propitious mo- ment for taking advantage of them, so as to ohtain right and left the ag- grandisement she covets." as a con- sequence of this disoord, it is added, that u tbroughout all germany people are hegiuning to raise questions which will ho sure to endanger its federal constitution." and ten days after- wards (aug. ), the times' berlin cor- respondent shows how serious the danger is growing, hy stating that there is "almost a rupture" hetween austria and prussia; and that the princes of the smaller german states, seeing the hopelessuess of looking for protection from the most powerful memhers of the bund, are turning their thoughts towards parix.* at frankfort, too, fighting and hlood- shed have occurred hetween the prussian and austrian troops. we trust the danger to the equilihrinm of the continent will not go so far as this; hut those who rememher—and who does not t—the success with which the first napoleon won over several of tho german states, erect- ing them, under the title of the rhen- ish confederacy, as a salient hastion of france against the rest of the fatherland, caunot regard this new * "this rupture—for it is almost a rupture—hetween austria and prussia, presents great dangers to germany. the princes of the smaller states, seeing the hopelessuess of looking for protection from the most powerful memhers of the bund, are turning their thoughts towards paris. the representatives of some of them are already ruhhing their noses on the imperial tbreshold, and applying in very loud whispers for pardon. in darmstadt the police have ordered all works offensive to france to he removed from the hooksellers' win- dows. in wiirtemherg the prohihition to export horses has heen repealed with- out consulting the other states of the zollverein. the king of wiirtemherg was, a few weeks ago, the most eager for war of all the german princes; he is now, therefore, the more anxious to make his peace with the conqueror."—berlin correspondence of the " times," of date anguat i. .] foreign affair*—the disarmament. crisis in germany without grave ap- prehensions. and how stands the case as regards onr own country? what is the result of lord pahnerston's open animosity to austria, and of lord john russell's insulting despatches to prussia? what is to he thought of a british minister who, when prussia, as spokesman for all ger- many, communicated its apprehen- sions lest this italian war should prove the hegiuning of a policy on the part of france which would en- danger the equilihrinm of europe, thought it sufficient reply to ask with flippant sueer, "if germany would he any safer hecause parma and modena were ill-governed!" in a suhsequent despatch (that of lh july) our foreigu secretary con- tinues to display that mingled pert- nc-s, nhtuscuess, and self-sufficiency, of which he gave so melancholy an exhihition in his hlundering mission to vieuna in . in a despatch dated th june, karon schleinitz had informed the british govern- ment that "the prince-regent of prussia looks with anxiety to the maintenance of the halanco of power in europe; and prussia has con- sidered it necessary to place herself in a position to control a course of events which may tend to modify the halance of power, hy enfeehling an empire with which prussia is con- federated, and hy affecting the hases of european rights laid down in acts to which prussia was a party." what reply did lord john make to this? with characteristic pertness and platitude he rejoins:—" let us ex- amine this matter. the halance of power in europe means, in effect, the independence of its several states. the preponderance of any one power tbreatens and destroys this inde- pendence." and having thus en- lightened the prussian minister on a point which certainly did not re- quire any elucidation, lord john tersely settles the question to his own satisfaction, hy adding—" but the emperor napoleon, hy his milan proclamation, has declared that in this war he seeks neither conquest nor territorial aggrandisement." this is all his redargument of prussia's ap- prehensions i lord john russell evidently regards the emperor nap- oleon as a man who "wears his heart on his sleeve for daws to peck at;" and in answer to the appre- hensions of germany, ho thought it quite sufficient to mako a quot- ation from the milan manifesto! what does his lordship think of that manifesto now? has it not heen utterly departed from hy its imperial framer himself? the prince-regent of prussia and his minister must certainly, on receipt of that despatch, have wondered what sort of iunocent mountehank had got into our foreigu office. it is to he remarked that the ohject of lord john russell in these despatches was to prevent prussia taking part in the war, even after the mincio had heen crossed hy the french. he noti- fied to prussia that the british govern- ment (repeating lord palmerston's policy in ), "in the present state of affairs, are averse to any interposi- tion;" and he eagerly pressed upon prussia that she ought to do nothing too. in this, as in other things, he and lord palmerston were simply playing the game of tho fronch. em- peror, and with the greatest impolicy were interfering with the free action of the germanic confederacy. sup- pose the apprehensions of the pills- dan government prove ultimately correct, and that napoleon hy-and- hy attack germany after having alienated from her the support of austria, what answer then will our government he ahle to make to the reproaches of prussia? "we fore- saw the drift of this napoleonic policy," germany may then say, "hut when we wished to make common cause with austria against it, you, england, prevented us. it is you who are responsihle for our di- lemma, and when your own turn comes, you will ricbly deserve it" there is another paragraph of this despatch of lord john russell's which we caunot pass without com- ment. "her majesty," he says, "used her utmost efforts, consistent with peace, to maintain tho faith of treaties." this was perfectly true of the late ministry, hut it is strange to find the present government taking credit for such a policy, see- ing that the premier and foreigu [sept. foreigu, affair)—the disarmament. secretary have heen foremost in sup- porting the very opposite course, and were "averse to any interposition," even at the time that napoleon was siguing peace at villafranca! prus- sia, as well as all europe, knows that they have eagerly supported the french intervention in italy, and are only angry that it has not gone further; and the cahinet of berlin must laugh in contempt to see tltem taking credit for the support to treaty rights which was given hy their predecessors. moreover, as if to show how much iguorance, as well as pertness and insequency, could he exhihited in one despatch, lord john makes the following gross hlunder as to facts. "austria," ho says, "hegan the war and invaded pied- mont. austria overstepped the fron- tier laid down in the treaties of ; and it could no longer he expected that those treaties would he regarded as hinding hy franco and sardinia." here is a pretty foreign secretary i so far from austria having hegun the war hy invading sardinia, and overstepping the frontier laid down in the treaties of , the overstep- ping of the frontier and violation of treaties was all on the other side. the french troops crossed the frontier and entered savoy five days hefore the austrians crossed the houndary- stream of the ticino; and the van- guard entered susa (within an hour's travel of turin), and the french fleet landed bazaino's division at genoa, more than tbroe days hefore the austrians made a single step across their frontier. in fact, as we pointed out at the time,* there were , french troops in sardinia; and parma, modena, and tuscany were all in revolt hy sardinian agency, hefore ever the austrian army cross- ed the ticino. surely, on so grave and important a point as this, it is intolerahle that the foreigu minister of england should commit so gross an outrage upon the truth. what will some future historian think of our statesmen when he sees in our state-papers so egregious a mistake? and how will austria and the ger- manic states relish that a british minister should puhlish so entire a misrepresentation of the actual com- mencement of the war? ixrrd john says that austria and germany can- not expect the treaties of to he maintained, seeing that austria was the first to hreak them hy crossing the ticino; whereas the actual fact is, that it was france which first hroke the treaties, hy overstepping her frontier five days hefore an aus- trian soldier set foot in piedmont so much for lord john and his despatches, he made it his special task to disgust prussia; let us now see what lie and lord palmerston together have done to incense aus- tria. the conservative government held that the war was "uunecessary and unjustifiahle," and they assumed the attitude of an armed neutrality with the avowed intention of putting a stop to it as soon as possihle. the whig ministry acted very differently. instead of protesting against the violation of treaties and of the peace of europe, they gave the fullest encouragement to the napoleonic policy, and pro- claimed their desire to see austria deprived of her whole italian territo- ries. and now they are only angry at napoleon for not having carried on the war so long as they wished what a curious position is this! here is our government encouraging another government in a war against a state with which we profess to he at peace, and angry hecause the war against that state was not carried far enough! is this neutrality is it not actual hostility to austria; and although lords palmerston and russell dared not ask the country to draw the sword, have not the de- clarations of those statesmen against austria amounted to an unmistak- ahle casus helli t well, what is now found to he the consequence of such a policy? just this—that england has drawn upon herself all the odi- um of austria and her friends, while france has got all the glory of the war. the emperor of the french hat cir- cled his hrows with laurels, has he- come the liherator of italy, and has converted sardinia into a stanch ally or vassal state; and at the same time he has, hy the folly of * see the magazine for june, p. . .] foreign affair*—the disarmament. our whig ministers, heen ahle to tbrow all the odinm of the contest off himself upon the british gov- ernment. he has shown that he, the victor, is a hetter friend to aus- tria than the british government, represented hy lords palmerston and russell, who, though sueakingly keeping out of the war, pursued austria with a hostility of spirit far exceeding that of her actual foe. the late government, as lord john russell admits, "used their utmost efforts, consistent with peace, to maintain the faith of treaties," and they strongly protested against the italian question heing appealed to the sword. the present govern- ment, however, only protest against the war heing stopped, and complain that treaties have not heen suffi- ciently violated since they demand- ed that austria he driven out of italy, why did they not openly de- clare war, and try to do it themselves? surely that was the only consistent course; hut they knew well it was one which they dared not encounter. it was one, too, which has already made our policy despicahle, and our posi- tion douhly precarious. the french emperor has made the palmerston- ian policy a mere engine for the ac- complishment of his own trinmph, and for the diverting upon england of that hatred from austria, which in other circumstances must havo fallen upon himself. the french emperor hardly need- ed the interviews at compiegue to assure him that lord palmerston would fall into his suare. it was lord palmerston's hlundering in which paved the way for this french intervention in italy; and it was upon his lordship's preposterous de- mands upon austria at that time that napoleon counted for securing him as an ally, and then leaving him a dupe, in the recent war. what pal- merston, then at peace with austria, refused to accept in , napoleon, victorious over austria, has accepted now. the terms of peace which palmerston rejected as inadmissihle when the sardinians and italians were attacking austria on the min- cio in , have heen accepted as sufficient at the same point of the struggle now, although in addition to her former foes austria was attacked hy the whole military and naval forces of france. this conduct of lord palmerston in was severely de- nounced in parliament at the time, and it is admitted on all hands now that it was a fatal hlunder. even the present ministry repudiate it, and mr. gladstone has heen put up to explain it away. facts which lord palmerston himself dare not deny, vanish, it would seem, into thin air hefore the potent fancy of his chan- cellor of the exchequer. in the de- hate on the th of july, mr. disracli thus stated the charge against the ministry:— "her majesty's government has, in fact, committed the same mistake which they committed in . at that time a proposition was made hy the aus- trian government similar lu terms to those which have now heen, tbrough the influence of the french emperur, accepted. a proposition was made to close the disturhances which then ex- isted hy the relinquishment of lomhar- dy, precisely ideutical with the terms which are now made the hasis of the treaty of peace. her majesty's govern- ment—i may say the identical govern- ment, for these affairs come under the same two memhers of the cahinet, the first minister of the crown and the foreigu secretary of state—the only difference of responsihility in these minsters heing that the nohle lord the foreigu secretary was then the first minister, and the first minister was then the secretary of state. let the house ohserve, then, if the statements i have made he true, they have fallen into exactly the hlunder which they made in . then they repudiated the propo- sition of austria, and said that \ enetia must he a part of the territory relin- quished hy austria; in fact, they made that a fine qua non of the settlement. in the present instance the proposition, which was so slightly touched on and noticed hy the nohle lord, was conceived in precisely the same spirit. he would not—this neutral power, this natural ally of the emperor of austria—would not mediate, except on the severe terms i have noticed. but, in the mean time, the enemy of the emperor of austria made terms to him, which he accepted, and the affair was settled with- out our interference, and without having ohtained the terms which we recom- mended." whether in his homeric or in his s [sept. foreign affairs—the disarmament. parliamentary dissertations, mr. glad- stone lias a peculiar way of viewing things, and frequently rears his most elahorate rhetoric upon the most ah- surd premises. on the present occa- sion he replied to mr. disracli's charge, hy asserting that the offer which lord palmerston refused in was "not the offer of austria at nil, hut a do- cument drawn ' up hy baron hnm- melauer, expressing only his indivi- dual opinion." eleven years have elapsed without so hright an idea as this occurring to any one, and it has heen reserved for gladstonian acumen to make the discovery. and what is his proof? baron hummelaner made two alternative and successive proposals to the british government. the first of these, on the d of may, proposed that austria should retain venetia and lomhardy, hut under a popular and entirely separate admin- istration from the rest of the empire. even mr. gladstone allows that this was an official communication made hy the baron in the name of his gov- ernment. on this propwal heing rejected hy lord palmerston as in- sufficient, the baron, after a day's delay, produced the other proposal, which was as follows:— "that lomhard;/ would cease to he- long to austria, and would he free either to remain independent, or to unite her- self to any other italian state she herself might choose. she would take upon herself, on the other hand, a proportion- ate share of the austrian national deht, which would ho transferred definitively and irrevocahly to lomherdy. the venetian state would remain under the sovereiguty of the emperor; it would have a separate administration, entirely national, settled hy the representatives of the country themselves, without the intervention of the imperialgovernment, and represented at the central govern- ment of the monarchy hy a minister whom it would maintain there, and who would conduct the relations hetween it and the central government of the em- pire. the venetian administration would he presided over hy an archduke viceroy, who would reside at venice as the emperor's lieutenant." this is the very arrangement that has heen accepted and settled at vil- lafranca,—with this great difference in favour of the arrangement proposed in , that no stipulation was made for the restoration of the austrian grand-dukes to modena and tus- cany. it is universally admitted— it stands upon record in the hlue- liook—that lord palmerston rejected that proposal; hut, says mr. glad- stone, it was not an official proposal. this plea, it is to ho ohserved, does not lessen lord palmerston's want of judgment in rejecting the proposal, it only seeks to lessen his responsi- hility for the consequences which flowed from the non-adoption of the proposal the proposal, says mr. gladstone, "was not the offer of austria, hut only of baron hummel- auer;'' and therefore, ho argues, we have no certainty that it would have heen acted upon, even though lord palmerston had not rejected it. this argument, so poor of itself, rests upon a premise entirely illusory, and op- posed to the facts. "now i will give the proof," said mr. gladstone; hut that "proof" consisted in little else than in asking — "does the right honourahle gentleman suppose, or will the house suppose, when baron hummelauer had nude one proposal on the part of the austrian government on the d of may, he was authorised to make a totally different one on the th v what is incredihle in such a supposition? does mr. gladstone hold the meeting of the emperors at villafranca to he a myth, hecause napoleon liroposed two widely different projects of peace (not in two days, hut) in the course of a few minutes? the french emperor came to that interview prepared to propose a second set of terms if his first ones were rejected; and this is precisely what baron hummelauer was sent to london hy his govern- ment to do in . so far from the baron's second proposal heing unoffi- cial, it is the very one which the aus- trian cahinet tbrough our amhassador at vieuna most pressed upon the at- tiou of the british government. on the th of may, hefore baron hummelauer had set out on his mis- sion, lord ponsonhy, our amhassador at vieuna, wrote as follows to lord palmerston: "count ficquelmont has heen with me, and has stated that the austrian government is ready to grant to the lomhards the complete enjoyment of their indepen- l .] foreign affairs—the disarmament. dence, upon conditions which will he fully communicated to your lordship hy baron humtnelaner, who will leave vieuna to-morrow for london." and ho adds, "there were two pro- jects mentioned hy count ficquel- mont offtcieusement to me hy order of the imperial government." and that there may he no duhiety as to the identity of these two projects with those made hy the austrian envoy on his arrival in london, we shall quote lord ponsonhy's descrip- tion of them:—" the first is (lie says) the ahandonment of all the austrian rights in the lomhardo-venetian kingdom, upon an agreement he- tween the two parties. the second, the total unconditional ahandon- ment hy the austriant of the lom- hard territories, and the concentra- tion of their forces in the strong position of verona, &c, and the con- tinued occupation of the venetian territories, making a declaration that they wonld not take any part in the affairs of the rest of italy, and would limit themselves strictly to defensive measures." what has mr. gladstone to say to this? here we have distinct proof that, prior to the arrival of the austrian envoy, lord palmerston was apprised that the envoy had two different projects to propose, hoth of which were official; and he was ap- prised also of the precise nature of hoth of these projects. if, thus ap- prised heforehand, lord palmerston had rejected the first project for the sake of ohtaining the second and more liheral one, he would have done wisely, for his own credit and for the interests of this country and italy. but he rejected the second also,— doing so in the following terms, which show that he was quite aware of the official character of hoth pro- posals :—" it appears from the com- munications which you [baron hum- melauer] have made to me, that the austrian government would he will- ing to treat for an arrangement hy which lomhardy should he set free to dispose of itself as it might choose; hut the austrian government wishes to propose an arrangement hy which the venetian provinces will still con- tinue to hold a modified counection with the imperial crown. such an arrangement might in many respects he advantageous, not only to austria, hut even to the venetian province itself. but her majesty's govern- ment fear that, however reasonahle such a proposal may he in itself, things have now gone too far to allow of there heing any prohahility that such an arrangement would he ac- cepted hy the venetians. her ma- jesty's government, therefore, would he unwilling to enter upon a negotia- tion which, in their opinion, offered no prospect of success." this was on the d of june. on the th the austrian government still pressed the suhject; for a despatch of lord ponsonhy's, dated on the night of the th, contains the following remark- ahle proof of the desire of austria to make peace on any terms that were not ahsolutely preposterous: "at a late hour this afternoon i had the honour of a conversation with his imperial highness archduke john, and i have only time to repeat to your lord- ship very hriefly the main points. after having passed in review the existing state of the circumstances of the empire, the question of lomhardy was deter- mined hy the declaration of his imperial highness that peace is to he made; and his reply to my inquiries as to its terms, 'that they were not to he considered.' his imperial highness said that the lomhards might have the ahsolute dis- posal of their own fate; they might take charles alhert for their king, or any other person, or do what they liked as to their government. i referred to a well-known pbrase, and said,' your im- perial highness, then, will accept peace quand mime v to which he replied, 'yes, so far as lomhardy is concerned; hut we must keep verona and the line of the adige; it is necessary in order to protect trieste, which is a key to our illyrian provinces.' "i presume (adds lord ponsonhy to lord palmerston) that what i have stated may afford grounds for prelimi- nary steps, if it should he your lordship's wish to forward a pacification. i am un- willing to ohtrude my opinion at any time upon any suhject, hut iwill say that i think the archduke is right, hoth in leaving the lomhards free to take their own measures, and in tht desire to retain the territories within the line of the adige; for i helieve that a cession of those would lead to a renewal of the contest in that part of italy where it is so desirahle to estahlish peace on some solid hasis. tol. lxxxvl [sept. foreign affair*—the disarmament. the lomhards, hy the retreat of the austrians from all interference, will he at liherty to complete the union of the duchies of parma and modena with the milanese. all pretence for jealousy of austrian aggression will cease, hecause austria will have no interest to cause it; and there will not he, i am inclined to think, any strong feeling in the vene- tian kingdom against the proposed ar- rangement." lord ponsonhy, with hetter judg- ment than his chief, thought that tra terms offered hy austria ought to he approved of hy the british government, and he considered that there would he no difficulty in getting the italians to accept of them. again and again he returns to the suhject; and the austrian government goes all lengths to testify its readiness to treat upon these terms. on the th june lord ponsonhy writes to lord palmerston: "i have the hon- our to report tft your lordship the suh- stance of my conversation with baron wessenherg this day. the baron told me that the austrian govern- ment ... is ready to agree to the ahsolute independence of the milan- ese, and to treat with them for ami- cahle arrangements hetween the two countries; and in, confirmation of this pacifio disposition and intention, that this evening full powers should he sent to marshal radetsky to make an armistice with the lomhards. . . . baron wessenherg assured me in the most positive terms that if the vene- tian province should remain con- nected with austria, the imperial government would admit of the estahlishment there of a constitution upon the most liheral hasis: 'ex- tremely liheral' were the words ho used, and he repeated them." but all would not do. lord pahnerston did not wish to forward a pacifica- tion. and on the th june he wrote to lord ponsonhy reaffirming his former rejection of anstria's pro- posals for peace:— "i have now to say to your excellency that. . . things seem now to hare gone too far to admit of the practicahility of such a plan. hitherto [lie admits] the military forces of the contending parties have heen nearly halanced, and though the general result of the war has heen in favour of the italians, there has heen no great advantage gained hy them in any hattle. but the austrians are acting at a distance from their resources, and in a country the population of which is universally hostile to them. the italians are at home, and are hacked and aided hy all the inhahitants of the country; large levies are forming in lomhardy, which will soon he ready to take the field in conjunction with the troops already under the command of the king of sardinia; and time is in favour of the italians and against the austrians. . , . if the war continues, the prohahle result will he that the austrians will he driven entirely out of italy, and that they will ohtain no compensation of any kind for their loss of territory." to conclude the story. four weeks afterwards ( th july), as the aus- trian government still clung to the hope that their most reasonahle and liheral offers would induce the brit- ish government to come forward as a mediator, lord palmerston cut short their importunities hy again refusing to mediate; and hy declaring " that the fortune of war mint, to a certain degree at least, determine the man- ner in which this question hetween austria and the italians is to he settled:' what are we to think of such con- duot on the part of one who is now prime minister of our country? what are we to think of his judg- ment who refused these offers of austria, at a time when, as he him- self admits, the opposite forces were "nearly halanced," and the italians had gained "no great advantage in any hattle?" and what are we to think of his discernment, when he confidently expected the austrians to he driven over the alps; whereas in a few weeks afterwards radetsky, compelled hy palmerston to draw the sword, was driving the italians hefore him like chaff, dictated peace at turin, and could have inarched with ease all over the peninsula? had palmerston acted with ordinary sense, and as lord ponsonhy advised him to do in , the italians for eleven years would have heen enjoying all and more than all that they have now ohtained hy means of this new war and french intervention,—napoleon would not have got this fair oppor- tunity for the development of his suhtle policy,—and england would not have found herself in the pre- .] foreign affairs—the duarmament. dicament of having alienated her natural allies, the germanic powers, and of having heen made first the dupe and latterly the discarded tool of the french emperor. in england might have ohtained for the italians all that france has done now, and would have heen thanked hy austria for her intervention; whereas hy their conduct then and now, lords palmerston and russell have at once transferred the friend- ship of austria from us to napoleon, ami have also allowed france to he- come the champion of nationality, and master of the position in italy. the short and sharp crisis which has passed over europe has not left england as it found her. its first effect was to reveal a portentous scheme of co-operation—in fact, an offensive and defensive alliance—he- tween franco and russia; its second effect has heen to hreak up the anglo- germanic alliance hy which alone these two colossal powers can he held in check; and the third has heen to make austria, in disgust at the deser- tion of her natural allies, join herself to france and russia with the view to a project for remodelling europe in the mauner most advantageous to these tbree great powers. in con- sequence, england is now isolated. prussia is the only power which still has a leaning towards us, and her lord john russell has done every- thing possihle to disgust. we he- lieve that it is the intention, as it is the interest of the french emperor to give to europe a short peace. possihly circumstances may impel him to war again sooner than he me- ditates; hut in any case it hehoves this country to look well after its naval and military defences. lord lyndhurst—the venerahle statesman upon whom more than any other has descended the senatorial influence of the "old duke" — has warned the country of its danger, and called upon parliament and puhlic to do their duty, if they would notjsee a calamity overtake this country such as will never he forgotten in the world's his- tory. in the lower house mr. hors- uian's motion was a well-timed prac- tical application of the views so elo- quently enforced hy lord lyndhurst. seeing that the safety of our great arsenals and dockyards is indispens- ahle to the maintenance of our inde- pendence, and that hy universal ac- knowledgment these ports and ar- senals are not properly defended, and, according to the present system of procedure, would not he so for twenty years (!), mr. horsman moved that the sum required should he raised hy the government at once, so that the necessary works of de- fence he completed with the least possihle loss of time. the govern- ment, prohahly out of deference to the financial ideas of mr. gladstone, excused themselves from following the course suggested in the motion. indeed, it is a great though unavoid- ahle disadvantage of the frequent changes of ministry in this country, that each chancellor of the exche- quer looks only to his single year's budget, and seeks his own fame to the detriment of imperial inte- rests hy endeavouring to postpone any extraordinary expenditure, how- ever much needed, in order that it may fall upon his successor in office. we think it most important that some such course as that suggested hy mr. horsman should he adopted hy the british government. sir j. paking- ton ohserved :— •' a most striking illustration of the necessity for such precautions is afforded hy the harhour of portland, which, al- though it is constantly resorted to hy our fleets,is ahsolutely without defences, and, according to the secretary for war, it will take twenty years to complete the defences. i regret that the right hon. gentleman hns not expressed hie concur- rence in the spirit and scope of the mo- tion. in my opinion, it is not wise to spend money in drihlets, which would extend over twenty years. if the money must he spent, the sooner the hetter. as regards the strengthening of the navy, i caunot help expressing my anxious hope that the government will not he contented with resting where they are. notwithstanding his figures, the hon. memher for rochdale is much mistaken if he supposes that the navy of england is nowwhat it ought to he." lord c. paget—who promises to he an active head of the admiralty, if his colleagues will let him—thus descrihed the relative position of [sept. foreign affair)—the disarmament- the british, french, and russian navies:— "the last information which we have from brest shows that, although the french have such a large force at sea, they have no less than (ht sailors in their harracks at brest, perfectly ready for war if they should he wanted. the real state of the french navy, if war should unfortunately arise, is twenty line of-hattle ships in commission and twelve in reserve, which latter might put to sea in a very few days. therefore the french have thirty-two line-of-hattle ships. turning to england, it appears that so far from her having what his hon. friend (mr. cohden) called her fair pro- portion—that is to say, one-third more ships than any other country—her pro- portion is certainly not more than that of fiance. we have twenty-six sail of the line in commission and nine hlock- ships, which, though not strictly speak- ing line-of-hattle ships, are, admit, capahle of doing good service. uniting those two together, the two countries are pretty nearly equal. with respect to frigates, however, i will not deceive the house. the french are stronger than the english in that respect. i do not wish to create any alarm, hut i wish the house to know the truth of the matter. bnt in addition to the french there is another nation or two making great progress in preparations for naval war. kuseia has eight screw line-of-hat- tle ships, six screw frigates, four paddle frigates, nine corvettes, one transport, seventy-five gunhoate, and eighteen small steamers. that is a large force, and one which we must not forget is in existence." it is to he horne in mind that this steam-fleet of russia, at least so far as regards screw vessels, has heen wholly created within the last tbree years. it is impossihle for this coun- try, to hehold with indifference the great, continuous, and systematic efforts which hoth france and russia are making to augment their power at sea. it was the rapid increase of the french navy which forced us to do likewise. these powers must have an ohject in their present extra- ordinary efforts: and what can that ohject he, hut to attain a maritime supremacy, and therehy compel eng- land to neutrality while they proceed with their contemplated revision of the map of europe? it is very well for mr. cohden to say that we ought not to huild more ships hecause im- provements are going on, and ohanges are likely to take place in the art of naval warfare; and it is very well for the ministry to excuse themselves from proceeding rapidly with the fortification of our ports and arsenals on the plea that the science of forti- fication has not yet reached perfec- tion. these are pleas which do not surprise us from the mouth of mr. cohden, and which perhaps are not inappropriate to a cahinet whose finance is presided over hy the minister who starved the russian war. but we need hardly say, such an argument is entirely out of place, as long as our defences are so far helow what they ought to he. as soon as we have made ourselves safe, let not a single ship more he huilt, nor a single sovereigu more he expended on fortifications, until we are sure that we are working upon the hest possihle plans. but at pre- sent we caunot afford to wait for more light than we have. we know as much as our french and russian rivals do,—and that will suffice. it is true that powerful corvettes, car- rying hut one tier of heavy guns, may hy-and-hy supplant the present tbree-decked line-of-hattle ships, — and the sooner we see ahout this the hetter; and it is true also that new engines of war may necessitate new methods of fortification. bnt whilst we inquire, we must work. we can- not afford to wait idly upon theories and speculations when the safety of the commonwealth is at stake. very likely we shall ere long see electricity taking the place of guupowder on the hattle-field, and new projectiles supplanting the rifled caunon: hut srely guupo wder and armstrong's guns will do in the mean time. we must make the hest of what we have —and that promptly. for the aspeot of the times is tbreatening; and it will never do to see our docks and arsenals fall, for want of defences, into the hands of an enemy, and undergo the destruction which only tbree years ago we dealt out to sehastopol. mr. cohden, in his speech on mr. horsman's motion, said that he was ready to vote a hundred millions if he saw any power preparing to attack .] foreign affairs—the disarmament. this country. "we douht not mr. cohden was in earnest when he made that profession. even mr. bright, we helieve, with all his milleunial ideas ahout peace, would he ready to shoulder a musket if the french were hesieging his flaunel-mills. the pa- triotism of these gentlemen is, we daresay, sound enough, if one could only get at it. but unfortunately it lies stowed away hehind hlinding prejudices and hales of crotchets, far heyond the reach of ordinary use. we all see things in the light of our dominant ideas. and a mental tele- scope that is very good for showing some things, may he very had for showing others. if one is wrapt up in dreams of milleunial peace, and in theories which maintain that the na- tions have grown too wise to go to war any more, it is very hard to get such a one to see facts, however patent, which run counter to his ideas. the philistines will he upon him hefore he will helieve that they have laid aside their ploughs and their pruning hooks. he has no ear for the distant rumhle of muffled caunon, nor for the sound of the enemy working under- ground; and "the chance is that the masked hatteries will open, or the mine will explode, hefore it occurs to him to take steps to meet the danger. the talked-of disarmament on the part of france is a thing especially calculated to attract the thoughts of such men. it is a disarmament— it is a step which professes to he a carrying out of their principles; and tney will not he unduly anxious to inquire into its real ohject or extent. passing hy for the moment the ohject of this disarmament, let us see its extent. and first of all let it he horne in mind that france and england are in very different posi- tions at present as regards warlike estahlishments. france has just emerged from an aggressive war, and her naval and military estahlish- ments are on a war-footing. it is otherwise with england. so far from heing ahle to engage in an aggressive war, england is not at present strong enough even for a war of defence. hence there is quite margin enough for a disarmament on the part of france. indeed, as his forces are at present on a war-footing, it would he equivalent to a declaration hy the emperor of his intention to continue a military policy, if he did not issue orders for a disarmament of some kind. in the next place, let it he noted that a french disarmament is a very different thing from a dis- armament with us. when england dishands her soldiers and sailors, they are lost to her. she has no ma- chinery for recalling them to her flag. if she ohtains their services again, it is in the same way as she would oh- tain the services of ordinary recruits. and when we lay hy our ships, we partially dismantle them. it is very different in france. there, the dis- handed soldiers and sailors are liahle to he recalled to their standards at a week's notice; and the ships, when taken out of commission, are carefully repaired, and are "laid in ordinary all standing." the crew is dishanded —that is all; and the crew can he had again on a few days' notice. french soldiers are discharged upon a renewahle furlough—they caunot marry, nor leave the military district to which they helong, without per- mission, and they are inspected hy a general of division once a-month. in the naval service it is the same: the sailors who are dismissed to their smacks and fishing-hoats are always within hail of some commissary of the maritime conscription. as re- gards the present case, the gazette de france states that the "peace foot- ing" of france must he understood to comprise the ahility to have , under arms at a month's notice; and that, with a view to the extension of france's colonial possessions, there must he a constant progress in the development of her fleet, which, says the gazette, is already "the finest naval force in the world." and as respects the practical application of this "disarmament," the paris cor- respondent of the morning herald says:—" a portion of the soldiers and sailors—of the men who fight the hattles and man the ships—are sent home on furlough, nothing more. and those who huild and rig the ships, cast the guns and ammunition, and raise earthworks along the coast, it is not contemplated to diminish; in fact, i have reason to know that their numher has received an increase. [sept. foreign affairs—the disarmament. extra numhers of mechanics and riggers have heen engaged at roche- fort and brest. at cherhourg and brest coals and ammunition are heing stored to an extent that denotes a wish to he prepared against any emergency; and at the former place (cherhourg) the forts are heing armed with rifled guns. the greatest acti- vity prevails in the arsenals, where a large supply of these rifled caunon has heen and is heing prepared; and the ships which are heing put out of com- mission, in consequence of the (so- called) reduction of the navy to a peace-footing, are forthwith to un- ship their old guns and to take on hoard the formidahle canons rayes, and the old spherical shot and shell are to he recast, as the new ordnance only fires conical shot."* admiral fourichon's squadron at brest, and four frigates and some smaller vessels at toulon, constitute the portion of the fleet which is to he withdrawn from commission in order that the ships may he fitted with the formida- hle new artillery. in plain english, to this, and to nothing more, does the so-called naval disarmament of france amount. both hy land and sea, this "disarmament" is a wise step on the part of the french em- peror, whatever may he his plans for the future. by it he saves the wages of a certain numher of soldiers, sailors, and marines, whom notwithstanding he can recall in a week's time to their flag; and as it is only old hands, trained men who need no further drill, that are heing thus dismissed on furlough (no one heing dishanded who has not served five years), the army and the crews of the fleet are in noways impaired in their effi- ciency. moreover, the ships which are thus "temporarily deprived of their crews are when "in ordinary,"to he fit- ted up with the new artillery,—so that nothing is lost hy their present with- drawal from commission. as regards the arsenals, foundries, fortifications, and ship-huilding, the work goes on hrisker than ever. in short, the only reduction which napoleon is mak- ing on the war-footing of france is one which, without impairing the effi- ciency of his crews and regiments, will save some money; which money ia heing expended in increasing the fortifications and productions of war, in huilding more ships, and in fitting up as many as possihle with the new rifled artillery. such, and no more, is napoleon's disarmament. it is a wise and prudent step, we repeat, even though he meant to resume warfare hefore another year has passed. this must strike every one who inquires and considers the matter. but what is not so ohvi- ous is the political hearing of the "disarmament," especially as regards the future. the masses are ever im- pervious to ideas unless such as are expressed hy suhstantial facts. the dishanding of soldiers and seamen, and the laying-hy of some ships of war, constitutes an ohvious fact which all classes will note, and which will he appealed to as a patent proof of the emperor's desire and intention to return to a regime of peace. by this napoleon seeks to attain a douhle purpose. in the first place, sagacious and provident of the resources of france, he desires to reassure the commercial and in- dustrial classes, and to engage them in turning the present period of peace to full account, so that when war re- curs the resources of france may he in the hest possihle condition. his second ohject is to lull england hack into her old sense of security, and induce us to pause in those military and naval preparations which are es- sential to the safety of this country. it would he a great point if he could make us come to helieve that our present apprehensions are a mere haseless panic, and so produce a re- action of puhlic sentiment, of which he knows the leaders of the peace party are ready to take full advant- age. but if he can hut keep us as we are, it will serve his purpose. even mr. cohden allows that great britain ought to have a third more ships than any other power; whereas at present our fleet is not more than equal to that of france. if, then, "reassur- ing" notes and manifestoes in the moniteur should persuade us to re- main as we are, a union of the french and russian fleets could at any time * morning herald, august . .] foreign affairs—the disarmament. compel us to neutrality, wholly ex- cluding our intervention from eu- rope; or, in the event of war, could molest our shores and cut off our commerce. instead of this heing only a prohlematical danger, it is one which this country has felt already. for all our diguified talk ahout neutrality and non-intervention during the late war, the simple fact is, that we dared not interfere. our government knew that if we had interfered on hehalf of peace, and for the maintenance of treaties, we should have hrought down upon ourselves the french and russian fleets: and our navy was quite uuprepared for such a contest. »had the naval power of england been as it was wont to he, there would have heeu no war. our gov- ernment would not only have said, as they did say, "the war is uune- cessary and unjustifiahle," hut they would have said also—we are quite against the settlement of such a ques- tion hy force of arms, and we shall lend the whole weight of our material power against whichever government tbrows ohstacles in the way of main- taining peace. prussia and germany would at once have joined us, and there would have heen no war. but napoleon, who knows the state of our fleet as well as we do, knew that we were not sufficiently strong at sea to he ahle so to act. and so, while central europe was concussed hy prince gortschakoffs open tbreat that russia would attack germany if ger- many attacked france, england was equally reduced to inaction hy the known existence of a secret treaty hetween france and russia—a "writ- ten agreement," of which our states- men prohahly know more than they care to tell. in assuming an armed neutrality the british government did all that it was in its power to do. we repeat it—however ministers might (and very wisely) put a good face upon the matter, and however the puhlic at large might pride it- self upon our neutrality, we really had no choice. neutrality may have heen a virtue,—assuredly it was a necessity. now, the time is evidently ap- proaching when russia and franco will he very happy if they can play that game over again with equal suc- cess. the next chapter of the napo- leonic policy will open in turkey. long hefore the italian war hegan, we not only pointed out that it was coming, hut, while showing hefore- hand the ohjects which napoleon sought to accomplish hy the war, we stated that one of these was, to seoure the future co-operation of austria, hy holding out to her the prospect of compensating her losses in italy hy gains in turkey. when this new chapter of napoleonism opens—and it will not he long delayed—france will then do for russia what russia, during the late war, has done for her. france, if things go smootbly, will take no direct part in the war. her task will simply he to prevent eng- land from interfering. and russia, hy pushing forward a corps towards herat, will he ready (in the event of our contumacity) to occasion fresh uneasiness in our indian empire, with a view to prevent our drawing any material reinforcements from that quarter. in these circumstances, what is the choice presented to us? we may, if we choose, continue the sys- tem of passive neutrality, we may see a russian army at constantinople, as we have seen, and yet see, a french army in italy; and we may still hug ourselves in the helief that we are astonishing the world hy an exhihi- tion of all the utilitarian virtues. but that will soon have had its day. france and russia are hoth hent upon hecoming great naval powers in the mediterranean; and although napoleon iii. well knows the useful- ness of moderation, and ever offers a salve where he demands a sacrifice, he certainly has it in view to strip us of vantage-ground in the mediterra- nean, which we will never consent to ahandon of our free will. we are not painting a distant fu- ture, hut one at hand. the present peace will not last long. and in the mean time the french emperor will do his hest to "reassure europe, and to reinstate himself in his old character as a friend of peace. he wishes peace for the present; and he still more wishes to he thought to wish it. he occasioned the last war, hut it is russia that will occasion the next one. therefore napoleon may continue most fervent in his pacific [sept. . foreign affairs—the disarmament. professions to the last, seeing that all the hlame will fall on the hroad shoulders of the northern colossus, whom he will nevertheless side with in dne time. "we shall not fully ap- preciate the character of napoleon's present disarmament, if we do not view it in relation to these schemes for the future. napoleon not only wishes peace for the hour, hut he has no intention to take any direct part in the next (*. e. turkish) war. all that he will have to do then, is to keep england from interfering. pos- sihly the grand-duke constantino of russia—who has visited in succes- sion the french emperor, the king of greece, and the sultan, and who is now on a visit to our own country —may at this moment he unfolding, in confidence to our government, some scheme hy which england may he propitiated into approval of, or at least passive acquiescence in, the ap- proaching iuroad upon turkey. but if we refuse to. he so propitiated, to the navies of france and russia it is already relegated to tame our pride, and chain us up in our island home. no englishman can desire to see such a scheme crowned with success. whatever form the european question take, let us he prepared to hear our part in it in a mauner hefitting the diguity of a great country. if wo choose neutrality, let the choice he voluntary, and not of compulsion. if we have to choose war, let us he ready to face its dangers, and strong enough to trinmph over them. the present is ours,—if we neglect it, the future will be napoleon's. » - i ii . blackwood's edinburgh magazine. no. dxxviii. october . vol. lxxxvi. captain- j. h. speke s discovery of the victoria nyanza lake, the supposen source of the nile. from his journal. past il after my return from kasenge, we had no other resource left us hut to proceed with the investigation of the lake in common canoes; for we oould not wait any longer, as our supplies were fast on the wane. i was sorry for it, as j' companion was still suffering so severely, that anyhody seeing him attempt to go would have despaired of his ever returning. yet he could not endure heing left hehind. travel- ling in canoes, as i could now testify from my late experiences, is, without joke, a very trying husiness to a sick man, oven in the hest weather; and here we were still in the height of the monsoon, a season of rain just as severe as the great indian barsar. negotiations for the means of carry- ing out our ohject (of proceeding to tho north of the lake, survey- ing it, and ascertaining whether shaykh hamed's story ahout a large river ruuning out of it was hased upon a true foundation) were then commenced upon, and kaunina was applied to. he likewise, it appeared, had a plan in view of carrying on some ivory transactions with the sul- tan of uvira, governing a district at vol. lxxxvl the northern end and western shore of the lake, and agreed to take us there, and also show us the river in question. it was settled that we should go in two canoes; captain burton, with kaunina, in a very large one, paddled hy forty men, at once, and i in another consider- ahly smaller—our party to pay all expenses; and, in fact, to do kan- nina's husiness in consideration of his protection. this we did do, and no more; for, after arriving at uvira, nothing could induce him to take us to the river at the end of the lake, al- though the remaining distance could have heen accomplished in ahout six hours' paddling. his reason, which he must have known hefore, was, that the savages resident there, the warundi trihe, were inimical to his people, the wajijis. this was a sore disappointment, though not so great as it would have heen, had we not ascertained hy other means that shaykh hamed's story was a mere fahrication; and that a large river, called rusizi, did run not out of hut into the lake. tho sultan's son, who visited us immediately [oct. captain spehe's discovery of the victoria nyama, on our arrival at uvira, told us that the river drained the high mountains encircling our immediate north, and discharged its waters into the lake. i should not have heen satisfied with this counter-statement alone (know- ing, as everyhody must who travels amongst unenlightened men, that they have a proverhial hahit of descrihing a river's flow to he the opposite of what it is), had i not ascended some neighhouring heights, and ohserved the mountains increasing in size as they extended away to the north- ward, and effectually closing in this low lake, which is not quite half the altitude of the surface-level of the general interior plateau, and caunot therefore, under any circumstances, have an overflow of water. al- though wrong in this respect, the shaykh was right ahout the dis- tance the lake's northern end lay from ujiji; for, properly divided, it takes eight days, the time he spe- cified, exactly. had he not answered my question ahout perceiving the draw of the water near the river's escape, i should have imagined that he told his story in reverse order, from sheer iguorance and ina- hility to explain his knowledge ahout it. on coming up the lake, we tra- velled the first half up the east coast, then crossed over to the end of a long island called uhwari, made for the western shore, and coasted up it to uvira. i have now mapped the northern half of the lake, and have so many evidences ahout the south- ern portion, all corrohorating one another so satisfactorily, that the di- mensions and position of the lake, which i gave you in my former letter, i feel satisfied are very near tho truth. it would have amused any one very much to have seen our two canoes racing together up the lake. these naked savages were never tired of testing their respective strengths. they would paddle away like so many hlack devils ;—dashing up the water whenever they succeeded in coining near each other, and delight- ing in drenching us with the spray. the greatest pleasure to them, it appeared, was torturing others with impunity to themselves. because the mzungus had clothes, and they had none, they cared not how the water flew ahout; and the more they were asked to desist, the more ohstinately they persevered. for fear of misap- prehension, i must state that though these negroes go stark naked when cruising or working during a shower of rain, they all possess a mantle or goat-skin, which they sling over their shoulders, and strut ahout in when on shore, and the weather is fine. it is a curious sight, when en- camped on a showery day, to see every man take off his skin, wrap it carefully up, and place it in his mo- zigo or load, and stand, whilst his gar- ment is thus comfortahly disposed of, cowering and tremhling like a dog who has just emerged from a cold pond. this part of the lake is almost a reflection of the other, hut the dis- trict is higbly cultivated, and has very large cattle, hearing horns of stupend- ous size. they are of a uniform red colour, like our devonshire hreed, hut attain a very much greater height and size. as the mountains run higher on either side the lake on their extending to the north- ward (and as they gradually close to- gether until they form a harrier to the lake at its northern end, where they attain their greatest altitude), the view is not nearly so extensive as in the southern portions, hut still is very heautiful. on returning to ujiji after a rather protracted so- journ at uvira, occasioned hy kan- nina's not completing his work so quickly as had heen anticipated, we found our stock of heads and cloth, which had heen left in charge of the ras-cafila, shaykh said, and under the protection of the belooches and our wanyamnezi porters, reduced to so low an ehh that everyhody felt anxious ahout our future move- ments. the shaykh, however, i must add, on a prior occasion, very generously proposed, in case we felt disposed to carry on the survey of the lake, to return to the arah dep t at kazeh, and fetch some more african money, to meet the necessary expenses. though admir- ing so maguanimous a sacrifice on the part of this energetic shaykh, it was voted, in consequence of my com- panion's failing health, as well as from the delay it would occasion, .] the tuppoted source of the nile.—part ii. that we should all return at once to kazeh, where we expected to meet our reserve supplies. this once agreed upon, i then proposed that, after reaching kazuli, we should travel northwards, in search of a lake, said hy tlie arahs to he hoth hroader and longer than the tanganyika, and which they call ukerewe", after the island where their caravans go for ivory. this lake has no siguificant name. the negroes, in speaking of it, merely say nyanza (or, the lake). -,- my companion was, most unfortu- nately, quite done up, hut very gra- ciously consented to wait with the arahs and recruit his health, whilst i should proceed alone, and satisfy the royal geographical society's de- sires as far as possihle ahout all the inland seas, the ohject for which they sent us, and which it was, therefore, our utmost desire to accomplish. just as we were preparing to leave ujiji, hy great good fortune some supplies were hrought to us hy an arah called mohiuna, an old friend whom we formerly left at kazeh, and who had. now followed us here to trade in ivory. had this timely supply not reached us, it is difficult to conceive what would have heen our fate, left as we should have heen with a large amount of non-trafficking property, and having numhers of people to feed, whilst my companion was unahle to move without the assistance of eight men to carry him in a hammock, we heing totally without the means of purchase in the territory of one of the most inhospitahle of all the trihes with which we have had counection. this timely supply was -\ one of the many strokes of good for- tune which hefell us upon this jour- ney, and for which we have so much reason to he grateful. help had always reached us at the time when least we expected it, hut when we most required it. my health had heen improving ever since i first reached the lake, and enjoyed those invigorating swims upon its surface, and revelled in the good living af- forded hy the market at ujiji. the facilities of the place giving us such a choice of food, our powers in the culinary art were 'tried to their full- est extent. it would he difficult to tell what dishes we did not make there. fish of many softs done up in all the fashions of the day—meat and fowl in every form—vegetahle soups, and dishes of numherless varieties—fruit-preserves, custards, custard-puddings, and jellies—and last, hut not least, huttered crum- pets and cheese, formed as fine a spread as was ever set hefore a king. but sometimes we came to fault, when our supply of milk was, on the most foolish pretexts, . stopped hy kamiina, who was the only cow-proprietor in the neigh- hourhood. at one time he took offence hecause we turned his im- portunate wives out of the house, in mistake for common heggars. on another occasion, when i showed him a cheese of our manufacture, and hegged he would allow me to instruct his people in the art of making them, he took fright, de- clared that the cheese was something supernatural, and that it could never have heen made hy any ordinary ar- tifice; moreover, if his people were shown the way to do it one hundred times, they would never he ahle to comprehend it. he further showed his alarm hy forhidding us any more milk, lest, hy our tampering with it, we should hewitch his cows, and m.ike them all run dry. a year's ac- climatisation had hy this time pro- duced a wonderful effect on all the party: so that now, with our fresh supplies, most of us marched away from ujiji in hetter condition than we had enjoyed since leaving the coast. the weather was very fine, the rainy season having ceased on the th may ; wo marched rapidly across the eastern horn of the mountains hack to the ferry on the malagarazi, hut hy a more north- erly route than the one hy which we came. we reached this river in early june, and found its ap- pearance very different from what it was on our former visit, at the hegiuning of the monsoon. then its waters were contained within its hanks, of no considerahle width; hut now, although the rains had ceased here long ago, the river had not only overflowed its hanks, hut had suh- merged nearly all the valley in which it lies, to the extent at least of a mile or more. as the prevailing winds captain spele's discovery of the victoria nyanza, [oct. tbroughout the year ure from the eastward, and as rains usually come up against it, we may infer, as we see hy the state of the river, that its source heing situated to the north- ward in the greater heights, the axis of these mountains is later affected hy the discharge of the monsoon than these more southern regions, where the hills are less high, and consequently have less attractive power on the clouds and rains. this reasoning is also applicahle to the swelling of the rivers which are he- yond this mountain group, and which shed their waters to the northward, into the nile. after crossing the river, we hurried along hy a more southerly and straighter road than we formerly came hy, and reached kazeh towards the latter end of june. here shaykh snay, the prin- cipal arah merchant of the depot, received us with his usual genuine hospitality, arranged a house espe- cially for our use, and with him we again estahlished our headquar- ters. this man, when we were for- merly detained here to form our second caravan on our journey west- wards, housed us, and carefully at- tended to our wants. he took charge of our kit, provided us with porters, and finally hecame our agent. living with him, surrounded hy an arah community, felt like living in a civil- ised land. for the arah's mauners and society are as pleasant and respectahle as can he found in any oriental family. snay had travelled as much as, or more than, any person in this land; and from heing a sbrewd and intelligent inquirer, knew everyhody and everything. it was from his mouth, on our former visit to kazeh, that i first heard of the nyanza, or, as he called it, the ukerewe" sea; and then, too, i first proposed that we should go to it in- stead of journeying westward to the smaller waters of ujiji. he had travelled up its western flank to ki- huga, the capital of the kingdom of uganda, which i consider, deducing my conclusions from a large mass of information, to he in " north lati- tude and ° east longitude. how- ever, i will give you his own words, and you may judge for yourself. shaykh snay informant: "i was once tbree years ahsent on a visit to king suuna, at his capital, kihuga, in the uganda kingdom, occupied hy a trihe called waganda. starting from unyanyemhe (latitude ° south and longitude ° east), it took me thirty- five marches to reach kitangura (hearing n.n.w.), and twenty more marches going northwards, with the morning sun a little on my right face (prohahly north hy east), to ar- rive at kihuga. the only people that gave me any trouhle on the way are the wasoe, situate at the hegiuning of the karagwah district; hut that was only trifling, and lasted hut tbree or four marches. the karagwah dis- trict (a mountainous tract of land, containing several high spurs of hill, the eastern huttresses of these lunaa montes, and washed on the flanks hy the ukerewe sea) is hounded on the north hy the kitangura river, heyond which the wanyoros' terri- tory (crescent shape) lies, with the horns directed eastwards. amidst them, situate in the concave, or lake side, are the wagandns, to whose capital i went. anyhody wishing to discover the northern houndary of the lake should go to kihuga, take good presents, and make friends with the reiguing monarch; and, with his assistance, hny or construct hoats on the shore of the lake, which is ahout five marches east of his capital. north, heyond the wagandas, the 'wanyoros are again met with; and there quarrels and wars were so rife, from a jealousy existing among them, that had these lieoplo known of a northern houndary, still might not have heard of it. on crossing the kitangura river, i found it emanat- ing from urundi (a district in the mountains of the moon), and flowing north-easterly. my impression is that it falls into the lake. the hreadth of the river is very great, i should imagine some five to six hundred yards, and it contains much water, overflowing as the malagarazi does after rains. there are also numer- ous other little streams on the way to kihuga, hut none so great as the katonga river. this, like the rest, comes from the west, and flows to- wards the lake. it has a span of two thousand yards—is very deep when full; hut sinks and is very sluggish .] the suppoted source of the nile.—fart ii. in the dry season, when water-lilies and rushes overspread its surface, and the musquitoes are very aunoy- ing. the cowrie shell, hrought from the zanzihar coast, is the common currency amongst those northern trihes; hut they are not worth the merchant's while to carry, as heads and hrass (not cloth, for they are essentially a head-wearing and naked people) are eagerly sought for and taken in exchange. large sailing craft, capahle of containing forty or fifty men, and mauned and navigated after the fashion of ocean mariners, are reported hy the natives to frequent the lake* in a north-easterly direc- tion. we arahs helieve in this re- port, as everyhody tells the same story; hut don't know how it hap- pens to he so, unless it is open to the sea. the kitangura river is crossed in good-sized wooden canoes; hut the katonga river can only he passed in the dry season, when men walk over it on the lily leaves; cattle, too, are then passed across in certain open spaces, guided hy a long string, which is attached to the animals' heads." other arah and sowahili merchants have corrohorated snay's statement, as also a hindi merchant, called musn, whom i especially mention as i con- sider him a very valuahle informant —not only from the straightforward way he had of telling his story, hut also hecause we could converse with one another direct, and so ohviate any chance of errors. after descrih- ing his route to the north in minute detail, stage hy stage, with great pre- cision, and to the same effect as all the other accounts, he told me of a third large river to the northward of the line, lying northward heyond uganda; it is much larger than the ka- tonga, and generally called the usoga river, hecause it waters that district. although he had recently visited kihuga, and had lived with sultan iltesa, the present reiguing monarch in place of suuna, who died since snay was there, he had no positive or defi- nite idea of the physical features of any of the country heyond the point which he had reached; hut he produced a negro slave of the wanyoro trihe who had heen to usoga, and had seen the river in question. this man called the river kivira, and descrihed it as heing much hroader, deeper, and stronger in its current than either the katonga or kitangura river; that it came from the generally acknow- ledged direction of the lake, and that it intersected stony, hilly ground on its passage to the north-west. this river kivira, i now helieve (although i must confess at first i did not), is the nile itself. for on a suhsequent occa- sion, when talking to a very respect- ahle sowahili merchant hy name shaykh ahdullah hin nasih, ahout the nyanza, he corrohorated the story ahout the miners, who are said to ke p logs and use sextants, and mentioned that he had heard of a trihe called bari, living on the kivira river. now, the bari people mentioned hy him are evidently those which have long since heen known to us as a trihe living on the nile in latitude ° north, and longitude ' east, and descrihed hy the different egyptian expeditions sent up the nile to discover its source. m. ferdinand "werne (says dr. beke) has puhlished an account of the second expedition's proceedings, in which he took part; and which, it appears, succeeded in getting further up the river than either of the others. "the author states that, according to lacono, king of bari, the course of the river continues thence southwards a dis- tance of thirty days' journey." this, hy dr. beke's computation, places the source of the nile just where i have since discovered the nyanza's south- ern extremity to he, in the second degree south longitude, lying in the unyamuezi country.t here we see how singularly all the different in- formers' statements hlend together, in suhstantiating my opinion that the nyanza is the great reservoir or fountain-head of that mighty stream that floated father moses on ids first adventurous sail — the nile. even ptolemy, we see, is right in stat- ing that the nile is fed hy the waters * query—the nile, as bahari, the word they use for lake, is also used to ex- press a large river. f see dr. beke's paper on "the sources of the nile," printed . [oct. captain spate's discovery of the viotoria nyama, coming from the mountains of the moon: and though lie has not placed those mountains exaotly where they should he on his map—from not un- derstanding the true disposition of the various physical geographical features which ocoupy that part of africa—still it is wonderfully near the truth for an hypothetical prod notion. i hegan the formation of the new oarnvan for exploring northern unya- . umezi immediately after our arrival, hut found it difficult to do things hurriedly. there was only one man then at unyanyemhe, who knew the sowahili language, and would consent to act as my kirangozi ;•* and as he had come all the way from' ujiji with ns, he required a few days to arrange things at his home, in a vil- lage some distance off. whilst he was ahsent nothing could go on; hut the arahs paid us daily visits, and gave many useful hints ahout the journey in prospect. one hint must especially he regarded, which was, to take care, on arrival at the lake, that i did not enter the village of a certain sultan called mahaya, to whose district muanza, at the southern extremity of the lake, they directed me to go. this precautionary warning was ad- vanced in consequence of a trick the sultan had played an aral,, who, after visiting him in a friendly way, was forcihly detained until he paid a ransom for himself; an unjust mea- sure, which the arahs pointedly ad- vert to as destructive to commercial interests. to lose no time whilst the kirangozi was away—for i had a long husiness to do in a very short spaco of time—i intimated to the shaykh, our ras - cafila, and the belooch guards, my intention of taking them with me to the lake, and ordered them to prepare for the journey hy a oertain date. the shaykh demurred, saying he would give a definite an- swer ahout accompanying me he- fore the time of starting, hut suh- sequently refused (i hear, as one reason), hecause he did not con- sider me his chief. i urged that it was as muoh his duty as mine to go there; and said, unless he changed his present resolution, i should cer- tainly recommend the government not to pay the gratuity which the consul had promised him on condi- tion that he worked entirely to our satisfaction, in assisting the expedi- tion to carry out the government's plans. the jemadar of the belooch guard, on seeing the shaykh hold heck, at first raised ohjections, and then hegan to hargain. he fixed a pay of one gora, or fifteen cloths per man, as the only condition on which i should get their services; for they all declared that they had not only heen to ujiji, the place appointed hy sultan m.ijid and their chief hefore leaving zanzihar, hut that they had overstayed the timo agreed upon for them to he ahsent on these travels. considering tho value of time, i ac- oaded to this exorhitant demand; moreover, the dry season had now set in, and the arahs at this period cease travelling, from fear of heing caught hy droughts in those deserts whioh lie hetween this place and the east-coast range, where, if the ponds and pud- dles dry up, there is so little water in the wells that travelling hecomes pre- carious. further, i had not only to go tbrough a much wilder country than we had travelled in hefore, two and a half degrees off, to discover and hring hack full particulars of the nyanza, hut had to purchase cattle sufficient for presents, and food for tho whole journey down to the coast, within the limited period of six weeks. the arah depot now came into play to satisfy this sudden and unexpected oall upon our store of cloths. there were ten belooches fit for service, and for each of them a gora was hought at the depot, at a valuation of dollars each, or the lot. in. addition to this, they received an advance of maunds of white heads in lien of rations—a rate of lh. per man per diem for six weeks. the kirangozi now returned with many exouses to escape the undertak- ing. he declared that all the roads were rendered impassahle hy wars; and that it was impossihle for him to undertake the responsihility of es- corting me in so dangerous a country. after a good deal of hothering and persuading he at length acceded, and hrought fifteen pagazis or porters * kirangozi—loader of a caravan. .] the supposed source of the nile.—part ii. from his own and some neighhouring villages. to each of these i gave fire cloths as hire, and all appeared ready: hut not so. bomhay's seedi nature came over him, and he would not move a yard unless i gave him a month's wages in cloth upon the spot. i thought his demand an imposition, for he had just heen given a cloth. llir, wages wereoriginally fixed at five dollars a month, to accumulate at zanziher until our return there; hut he was to receive daily rations the same as all the other men, with an occasional loin cloth covering when- ever his shukka might wear out. all these strikes with the belooches and slaves, were in consequence of their having hought some slaves, whose whims and tastes they could not sa- tisfy without our aid; and they knew the*e men would very soon desert them unless they received occasion- al alluring presents to make them contented. but finessing is a kind of itch with all orientals, as gamhling is with those who are addicted to it, and they would tell any lie rather than gain their ohject easily hy the simple truth, on the old principle that "stolen things are sweetest." had bomhay only opened his heart, the matter would have heen settled at once, for his motives were of a supe- rior order. he had hought, to he his adopted hrother, a slave of the wah- ha trihe, a tall, atbletic, fine-looking man, whose figure was of such excel- lent proportions that he would have heen remarkahle in any society; and it was for this youth, and not himself, he had made so much fuss and used so many devices to ohtain the cloths. indeed, he is a very singular charac- ter, not caring one hit ahout himself, how he dressed, or what he ate; ever contented, and doing everyhody's work in preference to his own, and of such exemplary honesty, he stands a solitary marvel in tho land; he would do no wrong to henefit himself—to please anyhody else there is nothing ho would stick at. i now gave him five cloths at his request, to he eventually deducted from his pay. half of them he gave to a slave called mahruk, who had heen procured hy him for leading captain burton's donkey, hut who had not, in consequence of had he- haviour, reverted to my service. this man he also desiguated "hrother," and was very warmly attached to, though mahruk had no qualifications' worthy of attracting any one's affec- tions to him. he was a sulky, dogged, pudding-headed hrute, very ugly, hut very vain; he always maintained a respectahle appearance, to cloak his disrespectful mauners. the remain- der was expended in loin-cloths, some spears and a fez (red turkish cap), the wearing of which he shared hy turns with his purchased hrother, and a little slave child whom he had also purchased and employed in look- ing after the general wardrohe, and in cooking his porridge diuner, or fetching water and gathering sticks. on the line of march he carried bomhay's sleeping-hide and water- gourd. and now i am ready to lead you over my second voyage of discovery —the ono which, to my mind, is hy far the most satisfactory, and i trust it will he so to you; for it tokos you into the richest part of africa, and discloses to yon the prohahle, and i helieve true, source of that mighty stream the nile; and has almost, if not entirely, solved a prohlem which it has heen the first geographi- cal desideratum of many thousand years to ascertain, and the amhition of the first monarchs of the world to uuravel. niscoveby of tne victoria stanza. kizeh, untahtuisk, untamncsi, tth july, . consisting of one kir- who carried one of captain burton's douhle rifles, an eight-hore hy w. richards. i took witli me for sport- ing purposes, as well as for the defence of the expedition, one large five-hore elephant gun, also kindly lent hy captain burton; and of my own, one the caravan angozi, twenty pagazis, ten belooches as guard, bomhay, mahruk, and gac- tano, escorting a kit sufficient for six weeks, left kazeh to form camp at noon. the belooches were all armed with their own guns, save one, [oct. captain spikt's discover;/ of the victoria nyanta, two-grooved four-gauge single rifle, one polygrooved twenty-gauge dou- hle, and one douhle smooth twelve- hore, all hy john blisset of high holhorn. the village they selected to form up in was tbree miles distant on tho northern extremity of this, the un- yanyemhe" district. i commenced the journey myself at p.m., as soon as the two donkeys i took with mo to ride wero caught and saddled. it was a dreary hegiuning. the escort of be- looches who accompanied mo had tbroughout the former journeys heen •held in great disgrace, and were in consequence all sullen in their man- ner, and walked with heavy gait and downcast countenances, looking very much as if they considered they had sold themselves when striking such a heavy hargain with us, for they evi- dently saw nothing hefore them hut drudgery and a continuance of past hardships. the nature of the track increased the general gloom; it lay tbrough fields of jo wari (holcus) across the plain of unyanyemhe". in the sha- dow of night, the stalks, awkwardly lying across the path, tripped up the traveller at every step; and whilst his hands, extended to the front, were grasping at darkness to preserve his equilihrinm, the heavy howing ears, ripe and ready to drop, would hang against his eyes. further, the heavy soil added not a little in ruffling tho temper; hut it was soon over, though all our mortification did not here cease. the pagazis sent forward had deposited their loads and retired home to indulge, it is suspected, in those potations deep of the universal pomhe (african small heer), that always pre- cede a journey, hunt, or other adven- ture—without leaving a word to explain the reason of their going, or even tho time which they purposed heing ahsent. th july.—the ahsence of the pagazis caused a halt, for none of them appeared again until after dark. the had example set hy shaykh said in shirking from this journey, is dis- tressingly evident in every counte- nance. the belooches, gloomy, de- jected, discontented, and ever grum- hling, form as disagreeahle a party as was ever the unfortunate lot of any man to command. th.—we started on the journey northwards at a.m., and, soon clear- ing the cultivated plain, hade adieu to unyanyemhe". the track passed down a hroad valley, with a gentle declination, which was full of tall hut slender forest trees, and was lined on either side hy low hills. we passed some pools of water, and also two wasukumas caravans, one of ivory, destined for the coast, and tho other convoying cattle to tho unyanyemhe markets. though the country tbrough which we passed was wild and un- inhahited, we saw no game hut a troop of zehras, which were so wild that i could not get near them. after walking fifteen miles, we arrived at the district of ulekampuri, entered a village, and i took up my quarters in a negro's hut. my servants and por- ters did the hest they could hy pig- ging with the cattle, or lying in the shade under the eaves of the huts. up to this point the villages, as is the case in all central unyanmezi, are huilt on the most luxurious principles. they form a large hollow square, the walls of which are their huts, ranged on all sides of it in a sort of street consist- ing of two walls, the hreadth of an ordinary room, which is partitioned off to a convenient size hy interior walls of the same earth-construction as tho exterior ones, or as our sepoys' lines are made in india. the roof is flat, and serves as a store-place for keeping sticks to hurn, drying grain, pumpkins, musbrooms, or any vege- tahles they may have. most of these compartments contain the families of the villagers, together with their poultry, hrewing utensils, cooking ap- paratus, stores of grain, and any- thing they possess. the remainder contain their flocks and herds, prin- cipally goats and cows, for sheep do not hreed well in the country, and their flesh is not much approved of hy the people. what few sheep there are appear to he an offshoot from the persian stock. they have a very scraggy appearance, and show hut the slightest sigus of the fat-rumped proportions of their ancestors. the cows, unlike the nohle tanganyika ones, are small and short-horned, and are of a variety of colours. they carry a hump like the brnhminy hull, hut give very little milk. in front of nearly every house you see large slahs .] the uppoied source of the nile.—part ii. of granite, the stones on which the jowari is ground hy women, who, kneeling hefore them, ruh the grain down to flour with a smaller stone, which they hold with hoth hands at once. thus ruhhing and grinding away, their hodies sway monoton- ously to and fro, while they cheer the time hy singing and droning in cadence to the motion of their hodies. the country to the east and north-east of this village is said to he thinly peopled, hut, as usual, the clans are much intermixed, the two principal heing wakimhus and wasagaris. i here engaged a second guide or leader for five shukkas (small loin- cloths) amerikan, as a second war, different from the one he had heard of and spoken ahout at kazeh, had hroken out exactly on the road i was pursuing, and rendered my first leader's experience of no avail. the evening was spent hy the porters in dancing, and singing a song which had heen evidently composed for the occasion, as it emhraced everyhody's name counected with the caravan, hut more especially mzungu (the wise or white man), and ended with the prevailing word amongst these curly-headed hipeds, "gruh, gruh, groh." it is wonderful to see how long they will, after a long fa- tiguing march, keep up these festivi- ties, singing the same song over and over again, and dancing and stamp- ing, with their legs and arms flying ahout like the wings of a semaphore, as they move slowly round and round in the same circle and on the same ground; their heads and hodies lolling to and fro in harmony with the rest of the dance, which is always kept at more even measure when, us on this occasion, there were some village drums heating the measure they were wont to move hy. th. — the caravan got under way hy a.m., and we marched thirteen miles to a village in the southern extremity of the unyain- hewa district. fortunately tempers, like hutterflies, soon change state. the great distractor time, together with the advantage of distance, has produced such a salutary effect on the belooches' minds, that this morning's start was accomplished to the merry peals of some native homely ditty, and all moved hriskly forward. this was the more cheering to me hecause it was the first occasion of their hav- ing shown such sigus of good feeling hy singing in chorns on the line of march. the first five miles lay over flattish ground winding amongst low straggling hills of the same formation as the whole surface of the unyam- uezi province, whioh is diversified with small hills composed of granite outcrops. as we proceeded, the country opened into an extensive plain, covered, as we found it at first, with rich cultivation, and then succeeded hy a slender tree forest, amongst which we espied, some ante- lopes, all very wary and difficult of approach. at the ninth mile was a pond of sweet water, the greatest lnxury in the desert. here i ordered a halt for half an hour, and made a hearty hreakfast on cold meat, pot- ted tanganyika sbrimps, ronelle jelly, with other delicacies, and coffee. the latter article was honght from the kazeh merchants. towards the close of the journey a laughahle scene took place hetween an ivory caravan of wasukumas* and my own. on nearing each other, the two kirangozis or leaders slowly advanced, marching in front of tho single-file order in which caravans worm along these twisting narrow tracks, with heads awry, and eyes steadfastly fixed on one another, and with their hodies held motionless and strictly poised, like rams preparing for a fight, rushed in with their heads down, and hutted continuously till one gave way. the rest of the cara- van then hroke up their order of march, and commenced a general melee. in my iguorance—for it was the first time i had seen such a scrimmage— i hastened to the front with my knoh- hed stick, and hegan reflecting where i could make hest use of it in divid- ing the comhatants, and should no douht have laid to, if i only could have distinguished friend from foe; hut hoth parties, heing hlack, were so alike, that i hesitated until they * sukuma means north, and the wasukumas are consequently nortlimen, or northern wonyamuezi. [oct. captain spike'* ducovery of the victoria nyaraa, stopped to laugh at my excited state, and assured me that it was only the enactment of a common cus- tom in the country when two strange caravan - leaders meet, and each douhts who should take the supremacy in choice of side. in two minutes more the antagonists hroke into hroad laughter, and each went his way. the villages ahout here are numerous, and the country, after passing the forest, is higbly cultivated, and affords plenty of provisions; hut un- fortunately as yet the white heads which i have hrought have no value with the natives, and i caunot hny those little luxuries, eggs, hutter, and milk, which have such a powerful influence in making one's victuals good and palatahle; whereas there is such a rage for coloured heads that if i had hrought some, i might pur- chase anything. th.—the caravan started at . a.m., and after travelling eight miles over au open, waving, well-cul- tivated country, stopped at the last village in unyamhewa. the early morning hefore starting was wasted hy the pagnzis "striking" for more cloth, and refusing to movo unless i complied with their demand. i per- emptorily refused, and they then tried to wheedle me out of heads. in demanding cloth, they pretended that they were suffering from the chill- ing cold of night—a pretence too ahsurd to merit even a civil reply. i then explained to my head men that i would rather anything hap- pened than listen to such imposture as this; for did the men once succeed hy tricks of this sort, there would never he an end to their trying it on, and it would ultimately prove higbly injurious to future travellers, espe- cially to merchants. on the route we had nothing to divert the atten- tion, save a single wasukumas cara- van proceeding southwards to un- yanycmhe. a sultana called ungugu governs this district. she is the first and only female that we have seen in this position, though she succeeded to it after the custom of the country. i imagine sho must have had a worth- loss hushand, since every sultan can have as many wives as he pleases, and the whole could never have heen har- ren. i rallied the porters for pulling up after so short a march, hut could not induce them to go on. they de- clared that forests of such vast extent lay on ahead, that it would he quite impossihle to cross them hefore the night set in. in the evening i had a second cause for heing vexed at this loss of time, when every mile and hour was of so much importance; for hy our halt the sultana got news of my arrival, and sent a messenger to request the pleasure of my com- pany at her house on the morrow. in vain i pleaded for permission to go and see her that moment, or to do so on my return from the nyanza; her envoy replied that the day was so far spent, i could not urrive at her ahode till after dark, and she would not have the pleasure of see- ing me sufficiently well. he there- fore hegged i would attend to the letter of her request, and not fail to visit her in the morning. the lazy pagazis, smelling flesh, also aided the deputy in ins en- deavours to detain me, hy saying that they could not oppose her ma- jesty's will, lest at any future time, when they might want again to pass that way, she should take her revenge upon them. though this may he considered a very reasonahle excuse, i douht much, if their interests had lain the opposite way, whether they would have heen so cautious. how- ever, it was not difficult to detect their motives for hringing forward such an urgent reason against me, as it is a custom in this country that every wealthy traveller or merchant shall pay a passport-fee, according to his means, to the sultan of the country he travels tbrough, who, in return, gives a cow or goat as a mark of amity; and this is always shared amongst the whole caravan. \ith.—the sultana's house was reported to he near, so i thought to expedite the matter hy visiting her in person, and thus perhaps prohahly gaining an afternoon's march. other- wise to have sent the jemadar with a present would have heen suffi- cient, for these creatures are pure mammonists. vain hope, trying to do anything in a hurry in negroland! i started early in the morning, unfor- tified within, and escorted hy two belooches, the kirangozi, tbree por- s .] the suppoted source of the nde.—part ii. ters, bomhay, and mahruk. the necessary presents were idso token: these consisted of one hareati,* one dhoti ainerikan,t and one shnkka kiniki.j this latter article was to he kept in reserve, to tbrow in at last and close with, as further demands heyond what is iriven are invariahly made. after walking six miles over a well- cultivated plain, i felt anxious to know what they meant hy "near," and was told, as usual, that the house was close at hand. distrustful, hut anxious to complete the husiness as speedily as possihle (for to succeed in africa one must do everything ono's- self), i followed the envoy across one of the waves that diversify the face of the country, descended into a well- cultivated trough-like depression, and mounted a second wave six miles fur- ther on. here at last, hy dint of per- severance, we had the satisfaction of seeing the palisadoed royal ahode. we entered it hy an aperture in the tall slender stakes which surround the dwellings and constitute the pali- sading, and after following up a pas- sage constructed of the same material as the outer fence, we turned suddenly into a yard full of cows—a suhsti- tute for an anteroom. arrived there, the negroes at once commenced heat- ing a couple of large drums, half as tall as themselves, made something like a heer-harrel, covered on the top with a cow-skin stretched tightly over, hy way of a drum-head. this drum- ming was an aunouncement of our arrival, intended as a mark of regal respect. for ten minutes we were kept in suspense, my eyes the while resting upon the milk-pots which were heing filled at mid-day, hut i could not get a drop. at the expira- tion of that time, a hody of slaves came rushing in, and hastily desired us to follow them. they led us down the passage hy which we entered, and then turned up another one similarly constructed, which hrought us into the centre of the sultana's estahlish- ment—a small court, in which the common negro musbroom huts, with ample eaves, afforded us grateful shel- ter from the hlazing sun. a cow-skin was now spread, and a wooden stool wt for me, that i might assume a het- ter state than my suite, who were squatted in a circle around me. with the natal precaution of african nohles, the lady's maid was first sent to introduce herself—an ugly halting creature, very dirtily garhed, hut possessing a smiling, contented face. her kindly mien induced me, starv- ing and thirsty as i was, after my twelve miles' walk, to ask for eizgs and milk—great luxuries, considering how long i had heen deprived of them. they were soon procured, and de- voured with a voracity that must have astonished the hystanders. the maid, now satisfied there was nothing to fear, whether from ghost, gohlin, or white face, retired and hrought her mistress, a 'short stumpy old dame, who had seen at least some sixty summers. her nose was short, squat, and flahhy at the end, and her eyes were hald of hrows or lashes; hut still she retained great energy of mauner, and was hlessed with an ever-smiling face. the dress she wore con-isted of an old harsati, presented hy some arah merchant, and was if anything dirtier than her maid's nttire. the large joints of all her fingers were hound up with small copper wire, her legs staggered under an immense accumulation of ank'ets made of hrass wire wound round ele- phant's tail or zehra's hair; her arms were decorated with huge solid hrass rings, and from other thin hrass wire hracelets depended a great assortment of wooden, hrazen, horn, and ivory ornaments, ent in every shape of talis- manic peculiarity. squatting hy my side, the sultana at once shook hands. her nimhlo fingers then first mani- pulated my shoes (the first point of no- tice in these hare-footed climes), then my overalls, then my waistcoat, more particularly the huttons, and then my coat—this latter article heing so much admired, that she wished i would pre- sent it to her, to wear upon her own fair person. then my hands and fin- gers were mumhled, and declared to * barmti—a coloured cloth, -f one dhoti — shukkas; shukka r rican sheeting). | kiniki—a thin indigo-dyed cloth. i cuhits, or yards amcrikan (arae- [oct. captain speke's discovery of tht victoria nyanza, he as soft as a child's, and my hair was likened to a lion's mane. " where is he going?" was the all-important query. this, without my understand- ing, was readily answered hy a dozen voices, thus: "he is going to the lake, to harter his cloth tor large hippopotami teeth." satisfied with this plausihle story, she retired into privacy, and my slave, taking the hint, soon followed with the kuhon- go,* duly presented it, and hegged permission in my name to depart. but as she had always given a hul- lock to the arahs who visited her, i also must accept one from her, though she could not realise the fact that so scurvy a present as mine could he intended for her, whose pretensions were in no way inferior to those of the unyanyemhe sultan. an arah could not have offered less, nnd this was a rich mzengu i misfortunes here commenced anew: the hullock she was desirous of giving was out grazing, and could not he caught until the evening, when all the cattle are driven in together. further, she could not afford to lose so interesting a personage as her guest, and volun- teered to give me a shakedown for the night. i hegged she would con- sider my position—the ahsolute neces- sity for my hurrying—und not in- sist on my acceptance of the hullock, or he offended hy my refusing her kind offer to remain there, hut per- mit our immediate departure. she replied that the word had gone forth, so the animal must he given; and if i still persisted in going, at any rate tbree porters could remain hehind, and drive it on afterwards. to this i reluctantly consented, and only on the kirangozi's promise to march the following morning. then, with the usual farewell salutation, " kuahere, mzungu," from my pertinacious host- ess, i was not surry to retrace my steps, a good five hours' walk. we re-entered camp at . p.m., which is long after dark in these regions so near to the equator. all palaces here are like all the common villages he- yond unyamuezi proper, and are usu- ally constructed on the same prin- ciple as this one. they consist of a numher of musbroom-shaped grass huts, surrounded hy a tall slender palisading, and having streets or pas- sages of the same wooden construc- tion, some winding, some straight, and others crosswise, with outlets at certain distances leading into the dif- ferent courts, each court usually con- taining five or six huts partitioned off with poles as the streets are. these courts serve for dividing the different families, uncles and cousins occupy- ing some, whilst slaves and their relatives live in others. besides this, they have their cattle-yards. if the site of the village he on moist or soft ground, it is usual, in addition to the palisading, to have it further fortified hy a moat or evergreen fence. loth.—we left fnyamhewn at a.m., and reached a village in the ihanda district, having marched seven miles over flat ground, growing fine crops in some places, with the re- mainder covered hy the usual slender forest trees. the road was very good and regular. in the afternoon the tbree porters arrived with the sul- tana's hullock, and were attended hy her nephew and managing man, and hy some of her slaves as drivers. the nephew asked first for some more presents in her name; as this was refused, he requested something for the drivers. i gave them a cloth, and he then pleaded for himself, as he had sacrificed so much time and trouhle for me. i satisfied him with one fundo of heads (a hunch of heads sufficient to form ten khetes or necklaces), and we parted; a full khete is a string of heads douhle the length of the fore-arm, or suffi- ciently long to encircle the neck twice. the belooches, finding that nothing hut the coarsest grains were ohtainahle with the white heads they had received, petitioned for and oh- tained a shukka, hut under the pro- viso of their always assisting me to urge on the lazy porters. this they not only agreed to do, hut also de- clared themselves willing to execute any orders i might give them; they looked upon me as their ma, bap (mother und father, a hin- dostani expression, siguificant of everything, or entire dependence on one as a son on his parents), and "kuhongo—present. .] the supposed source of the kile.—part ii. considered my interests their inte- rests. ^.—we started at a.m., and travelled eleven miles to uk tmha, a -village in the district of msalala, which is held hy a trihe called wa- manda. tho first four miles lay over the cultivated plain of ihanda, till we arrived at the foot of a ridge of hills which, gradually, closing from the right, intersects the road, and runs into a hilly country extending round the western side of the afore- said plain. we now crossed the range, and descended into a coun- try more closely studded with the same description of small hills, hut higbly cultivated in the valleys and plains that separate them. ahout twelve miles to the eastward of ukamha live a trihe called wasongo, and to the west, at twenty miles' dis- tance, are the waquandas. to-day was fully verified the ahsolute futility of endeavouring to inarch against time in these wild countries. the lazy pagazis finding themselves now, as it were, in clover, a country full of all the things they love, would not stir one step after a.m. were time of no consequence, and coloured heads in store, such travel- ling as this would indeed he pleasant. for the country here, so different from the ujiji line, affords not only delightful tood for the eyes, hut ahounds in flesh, milk, eggs, and vegetahles of every variety. the son of the msene" sultan, who lives hetween unyanyemhe" and ujiji, and hecame great friends with us when travelling there, paid mo a visit to- day. he caught me at work with my diary and instruments, and heing struck with veneration at the sight of my twirling compass and literary pursuits, thought me a magician, and hegged that would cast his horo- scope, divine the prohahle extent of his father's life, ascertain if there would he any wars, and descrihe the weather, the prospects of harvest, and what future state the country would lapse into. the sbrewd bom- hay replied, to save me trouhle, that so great a matter required more days of contemplation than could afford to give. provisions were very dear when purchased with white heads, for they were not the fashion, and the people were indifferent to them. i paid him one loin-cloth for four fowls and nine eggs, though had i had coloured heads i might have pur- chased one hen per khete (or neck- lace). had this heen a cloth-wear- ing instead of head-decorating na- tion, i should have ohtained forty fowls for one shukka (or loin-cloth), that heing the equivalent value with heads, and, according to zanzihar money, would he one dollar. it is always foolish to travel without an assortment of heads, in consequence of the tastes of the different trihes varying so much, and it is more economical in the long-run to pur- chase high-priced than low-priced heads when making up the caravan at zanzihar, for every little trader huys the cheaper sorts, stocks the country with them, and thus makes them common. th.—this day, like all the pre- ceding ones, is delightful, and worthy of drawing forth an exclamation, like the indian griff's, of "what a fine day this is again!" we started at a.m., and travelled thirteen miles, with tine hracing air, so cold in the morning that my fingers tingled with it. we were ohliged here to diverge from the proper road via sarengd to avoid a civil war—the one hefore alluded to, and to escape which i had engaged the second guide—he- tween two young chiefs, hrothers of the wamanda trilie, who were con- tending for the reins of government on the principle that might ought to give the stronger right. our new course led us out of the msalala into the uyomho district, which is governed hy a sultan called mihamho. he paid me a visit and presented a sheep —a small present, for he was a small chief, and could not demand a ku- hongo. gave in return one shukka amerikan and one shukka kiniki. here all the people were very husily engaged in their harvest, cutting their jowari, and tbrashing it out with long sticks. the whole country lies in long waves crested with crop- ping little hills, thickly clad with small trees and hrushwood. in the hollows of these waves the cultiva- tion is very luxuriant. here i un- fortunately had occasion to give my miserahle goanese cook-hoy a sound [oct. captain spekt* ditcovery of the victoria nyanza, dressing, as the only means left of checking liis lying, ohstinate, de- structive, wasteful, and injurious hahit of intermeddling. this raised the creature's choler, and he vowed vengeance to the death, seconding his words with such a fiendish, murderous look, his eyes glistening like an infuriated tiger's, that i felt ohliged to dump his temerity and freedom of tongue hy forther chas- tisement, which luckily hrought him to a proper sense of his duty. th.—we left at a.m., and travelled ten miles to ukuni. the country still continues of the same rich and picturesque character, and retains daily the same unvarying tem- perature. on the road we met a party of wayomhos, who, taking ad- vantage of the wamandas disturh- ances, had lifted some forty or fifty head of their cattle in perfect se- curity. i saw two alhinos in this village, one an old woman with grey- ish eyes, and the other young, who ran away from fright, and concealed herself in a hut, and would not show again although heads were offered as an inducement for one moment's peep. the old lady's skin was of an unwholesome fieshy-pink hue. and her hair, eyehrows, and eyelashes were a light yellowish white. this march was shortened hy two pagazis falling sick. i snrmised this illness to he in consequence of their having gorged too much heef, to which they replied that everyhody is sure to suffer pains in the stomach after eat- ing meat, if the slayer of the animal happens to protrude his tongue and clench it with his teeth during the process of slaughtering. at last the white heads have heen taken, hut at the extravagant rate of two khetes for four eggs, the dearest i ever paid. th.—the caravan proceeded at a.m., and after going eight miles re-entered the msalala district's iron- tier, where we put up in a village tbree miles heyond the horder. the country tbroughout this march may he classed in two divisions, one of large and extensively cultivated plain-, with some fine trees ahout; and the other of small irregularly disposed hills, the prevailing granitic outcrops of this region. there is no direct line northwards here, so we had to track ahout, and hit upon the lines he- tween the different villages, which enhanced our trouhle and caused much delay. at this place i wit- nessed the odd operation of hrother- making. it consists in the two men desirous of a hlood-tie heing seated face to face on a cow's hide with their legs stretched out as wide to the front as their length will permit, one pair overlapping the other. they then placa their hows and arrows across their thighs, and each holds a leaf; at the same time a third person, holding a pot of oil or hutter, makes an incision ahove their knees, and re- quires each to put his hlood on the other's leaf, and mix a little oil with it, when each anoints himself with the hrother-salve. this operation over, the two hrothers hawl forth the names and extent of their relatives, and swear hy the hlood to protect the other till death. ugogo, on the high- way hetween the coast and ujiji, is a place so full of inhahitants compared with the other places on that line, that the coast people quote it as a wonderful instance of high population; hut this district astonished all my re- tinue. the road to-day was literally tbronged with a legion of hlack hu- manity so exasperatinglv hold, that nothing short of the stick could keep them from jostling me. poor crea- tures! they said they had come a long way to see, and now must have a good long stare; for when was there ever a mzungti here hefore? th.—we hroke ground at a.m., and after travelling tbrough high cultivation six miles, were suddenly stopped hy a guard of wamandas, sent hy kurua, a sultan of that trihe, and chief of the division we were marching in. their husiness wtm to inform us that if we wished to travel to the lake, the sultan would give directions to have us esc tied hy another route, as his eldest hrother was disputing the rights of government with him along the line we were now pursuing; and added, that our intentions would he only known to him hy the part we uught choose to take. these constant interruptions were hecom- ing very trouhlesome; so as we were close to the confines of these two malcontents, i was anxious to force our way on, and agreed to do so with the belooches. but the .] the tupposed source of the nile.—part ii. tiresome, lazy, flesh-seeking pagazis saw a feast in prospect hy the sul- tan's arrangement, and would not move an inch. further, the kiran- gozi requested his discharge if i was otherwise than peacefully inclined. the guard then led lis to mgogwa, the sultan's village a little off the road. kurua is a youn^ man, not very handsome himself, hut has two heautiful young wives. they secured me a comfortahle house, showed many attentions, and sent ine a howl of fre-h sweetmilk, the very extreme of savage hospitality. in the evening lie presented me with a hullock. this i tried to refuse, ohserving that flesh was the prime cause of all my hin- drances; hut nothing would satisfy lam; i must accept it, or he would he the laughing-stock of everyhody for inhospitality. if i gave nothing in re- turn, he should he happy as long as his part of host was properly fulfilled. suit, according to the sultan, is only to he found here in the same efflo- rescent state in which i saw it yester- day—a thin coating overspreading the ground, as though flour had heen sprinkled there. < h.—halt. i gave the sultan, as a return present, one dhoti amerikan and six cuhits kiniki, w hat i thought to he jnst the value of his hullock. his kindness was undouhtedly wor- thy of a higher reward, hut feared to excite these men's cupidity, as there is no end to their tricks and finesse, whenever they find a new chance of gain, and i now despaired of ac- complishing my task in time. how ever, kurua seemed quite happy un- der the circumstances, and considered the exchange of kuhongos a hond of alliance, and proclaimed that we were henceforth to he hrothers. he then said he woidd accompany me hack to unyanyemhe, on my return from the lake, and would exchange any of his cows that i might take a fancy to for powder, which i said i had there. the quantity of cattle in msnlala surpasses anything i have seen in africa. largo droves, tended hy a few men each, are to he seen in every direction over the extensive plains, and every vil- lage is filled with them at night. the cultivation also is as ahundant as the cattle are numerous, and the climate is delightful. to walk till hreakfast, a.m., every morning, i find a luxury, and thence till noon i ride with plea- sure; hut the next tbree hours, though pleasant in a hut, are too warm to he agreeahle under hard ex- ertion. the evenings and the morn- ing*, again, are particularly serene, and the night after p.m., so cold as to render a hlanket necessary. but then you must rememher that all the country ahout these latitudes, on this meridian, ° east, is at an alti- tude of to feet. my diuner to-day was improved hy the addition of tomatoes and the hird's-eye chili —luxuries to us, hut which the ne- groes, so different from indians, never oare ahout, and seldom grow. the cotton-plant is as fine here as at unyanyemhe or l'jiji, and anything would grow with only the trouhle of tbrowing down the seed. it is a great pity that the country is not in hetter hands. from all i can gather, there is no fixed revenue paid to these sultans; all their perquisites are oc- casional kuhongos received from tra- vellers; a per-ceutago on all foreigu seizures whether hy hattle or plun- der; and a certain part of all wind- falls, such as a share of the sports- man's gamehag, in the shape of ele- phant's tusks or flesh or the skins of any wild animals; otherwise they live hy the sweat of the hrow of their slaves, in tilling their pound, tending their cattle, or trafficking for them in slaves and ivory. it seems destined that i should never reach the goal of my amhition. to-day the jemadar finds himself too unwell to march, and two other belooches say the same. this is an effectual ohstacle; for the guard declares itself too weak to divide, and the sultan hlows on the fire of my mortification hy saying that these are trouhled times, and advises our keeping all together. he says that his differences have heen going on these five years with his eldest hrother, and now he wishes to hring them to a crisis, which he proposes doing after my return, when he will ohtain powder from me, and will have the preponderating influ- ence of arah opinion hrought to hear in his favour hy the aid of their guns —an impressive dodge which africa has of proving right in its own way. rf.—after much groaning and .] the supposed source of the nile.—part ii. offered to furnish us with a guide to the lake and hack, saying that he would send one of his own men after us to a place he appointed with my kirangozi. i expressed my gratitude for his thoughtful conrederation, and we parted with warm regard for one another. unfortunately, bom- hay, who is not the clearest man in the world in expressing himself, stupidly hungled the sultan's ar- rangement, and we missed the man. to keep tho pagazis going was a matter of no little difficulty: after the fifth mile they persisted in enter- ing every village that they came across, and tbrowing down their loads, were hent upon making an eeav day's work of it. i, on the contrary, was equally persistent in going on, and neither would allow the belooches to follow them nor entered the villages myself, until they, finding their game of no avail, quietly shouldered their loads, and suhmitted to my orders. this day's journey was twelve miles over a higbly-cultivated, waving country, at the end of which we took up our ahode in a deserted village called kahama. th.—we got under way at a.m., and marched seven and a half hours, when we entered a village in the district of xindo, nineteen miles distant. after passing tbrough a helt of jungle tbree miles hroad, we came upon some villages amidst a large range of cultivation. this passed, we penetrated a large wilder- ness of thorn and hush jungle, having sundry hroad grassy tiats lying at right angles to the road. here i saw a herd of harteheests, giraffes, and other animals, giving to the scene a truly african character. the tracks of elephants and different large heasts prove that this place is well tenanted in the season. the close- ness of the jungle and eveuness of the land prevented my taking any direct ohservations with the compass; hut the mean oscillations of its card showed a course with northing again. this heing a long stage, i lent my ass to a sick belooeh, and we accom- plished the jommey, notwithstanding the great distance, in a pleasant and spirited mauner. this despatch may in part ho attrihutahle to there heing so much desert, and the heloved "gruh" and the village lying ahead of us luring the men on. th.—we hroke ground at a.m., and after passing the village cultiva- tion, entered a waterless wilderness of thorn and tree forest, with some long and hroad plains of tall grass intersecting the line of march. these flats very much resemhle some we crossed when travelling close to and parallel with the malagarazi river; for hy the cracked aud flawy nature of the ground, now parched up hy a contnnt drought, it shows that this part gets inundated in the wet season. indeed, this peculiar grassy flat for- mation suggests the proximity of a river everywhere in africa; and i felt sure, as afterwards proved true, that a river was not far from us. the existence of animal life is another warranty of water heing near; ele- phants and hufl'aloes caunot live a day without it. fortunately for my mapping, a small conical hdl over- topped the trees in advance of our track, at twelve miles from the start- ing-point. we eventually passed alongside of it, and travelled on six miles farther to a village in the cultivated plain of sulawe, a total distance of eighteen miles. the whole country ahout here was covered with harvest-workers, who, on seeing my approach, left off work and followed me into the village. as nothing proves hetter the real feelings and natural propensities of a nation than the impulsive actions of the children, i will give a striking instance, as it occurred to me to-day. on seeing a child approach me, i offered him a handful of heads, upon which the greedy little urchin suatched them from my hand with all the excited eagerness of a monkey. he clenched tight hold of them in his little fists, and, without the slightest? show of any emotions of gratitude, retired, carrying his well-earned prize away with a self-satisfied and perfectly contented air, not even showing the heads to his parents or play- mates. i called bomhay's atten- tion to this transaction, and con- trasted it with the joyful, grateful mauner in which an english child would involuntarily act if suddenly hecomo possessed of so much wealth, vol. lxxxvl [oct. captain spehe's discovery of the victoria nyanza, hy hurrying off to his mamma, mid showing what fine things the kind gentleman had given him. bomhay passed on my remark with a twelve- month's grin upon his face, to his in- quiring hrother, mabruk, and then ex- plained the matter to his sooty friends around, declaring that such tnmma (avaricious) propensities were purely typical of the seedi's nature. at the usual hour of departure this morning, the kirangozi discovered that the pngnzis' feet were sore from the late long marches, and declared that they could not walk. to this the jemadar replied that the hest asylum for such complaints was on ahead, where the sahih proposed to kill some goats, and rest a day. the kirangozi replied, "but the direct road is hlocked up hy wars; if a march must he made, i will show another route tbree marches longer round." "that," answered the jema- dar, "is not your husiness; if any trouhles arise from marauders, we, the belooches, are the fighting men— leave that to us." at last the kiran- gozi, getting quite disconcerted, de- clared that there was no water on the way. "then," quoth the energetic jemadar," were your gourds made for nothing? if you don't pack up at once, you and my stick shall make acquaintance." the party was then off in a moment. on the way we met some herdsmen driving their cattle to unyanyemhe, and inquired from them the state of the road. they said that the country heyond a certain distance was safe and quiet, hut corrohorated the kiran- gozi's statement as to warriors heing in the immediate neighhourhood, who came and visited this place from the west, where is the northern extremity of the msalala district. several va- rieties of antelopes were seen, and the belooches fired at an ostrich. as in the last place, no milk could he ohtained, for the people, fearing the wamandas, had driveu off their cattle to the northward. it is evident, from the general nakedness of the people, that cloth or heads do not find their way much here, which is ac- counted tor hy so few merchants ever coining this way. hardly a neck here is decorated, and they seldom wear anything hut the common goat- skin covering, hung over the shoulder hy a strap or string like a game-heg, which covers only one hip at a time, and might as well he dispensed with as far as decency is concerned; hut at night they take it off, and spread it on the ground to protect them- selves from the cold and moisture of the earth. this district is occupied hy a trihe called wanmha; to the east of it, thirty miles distant, are the wanatiya, and thirty miles westward, the wazinza trihes. th.—at a.m. we crawled tbrough the opening in the palisading which forms the entrances of these villages, and at once perceived a tall, narrow pillar of granite, higher than pompey's at alexandria, or kelson's monument in charing cross, tower- ing ahove us, and having sundry huge houlders of the same composition standing around its hase, much in the same peculiar way as we see at stonehenge, on salishury plain. this scene strikes one with wonderment at the oddities of nature, and taxes one's faculties to imagine how on earth the stones ever hecame tilted up in this extraordinary position; hut farther on, ahout five miles distant, we encountered another and even higher pillar, that quite overtop- ped the trees and everything ahont it. this and the former one served as good station-marks for the whole journey, the latter heing visihle at eight miles' distance. after the first eight miles, which terminates the cul- tivated district of salawe", the track penetrated a waterless desert of thorn and small tree forest, lying in a hroad valley hetween low hills. as the sick belooch still occupied my steadier donkey ted, was compelled to mount the half-hroken jeuny—so plnyful with her head and heels, that neither the shaykh nor any other man dared sit upon her. the man's sickness appears to he one of those eccentric complaints, the after-effects of african fevers: it was attended with severe pain, and swelling ex- tending over the stomach, the right side, the right arm, and the right half of the neck, depriving him of sleep and repose. in every position, whe- ther sitting, lying, standing, rising up, or sitting down, he complained of aching muscles. i purchased a .] the supposed source of the nile.—part ii. goat and sheep for the men for ouo dhoti amerikan. th.—halt. this stoppage was for, the restoration of wounded feet, the pagazis' heing all hlistered hy the last four long marches. i now slaughtered and gave the two pur- chased animals to the men, as no one grumhled at my refusing the last hullock, a recoguised present for the whole party, though nominally given to the sahih. these people, like the arahs, and all those who have many wives, seem to find little enjoyment in that domestic hliss so interesting and heautiful in our english homes. except on rare occasions, the hus- hand never dines wiih his wife and family, always preferring the exclu- sive society of his own sex; even the hoys, disdaining to dine with their mothers, mess with the men; whilst the girls and women, having no odier option, eat a separate meal hy them- selves. th.—wo started at a.m, and inarched thirteen miles to a village at the northern extremity of the dis- trict. the face of the country is still very irregular, sometimes rising into hills, at other times dropping into dells, hut very well cultivated in the lower portion; whilst the hrown granite rocks, with trees and hrush- wood covering the upper regions, diversify the colouring, and form a pleasing contrast to the scene; added to this, large and frequent herds graze ahout the fields and amongst the villages, and give animation to the whole. amongst the trees, palms here take a prominent part. indeed, for tropical scenery, there are few places that could equal this; and if the traveller, as he moves along, sur- rounded hy the screeching, howling, inquisitive savages, ruuning rudely ahout, and hoisterously jostling him, could only divest himself of the idea that he is a hear haited hy a yelping pack of hounds, the journey would he replete with enjoyment. crossing some hills, the caravan sprang a covey of guinea-lowls, and at some springs in a valley i shot several couple of sand-grouse, darker in plumage than any i ever saw in africa or india, and not quite so hig as the thihet hird. the chief of the village offered me a hullock, hut as the heast did not ap- pear until the time of starting, i de- clined it. neither did i give him any cloth, heing convinced in my mind that these and other animals have always heen hrought to me hy the smaller chiefs at the instigation of the kirangozi, and prohahly aided hy the rest of the flesh-loving party in general. the jemadar must have heen particularly mortified at my way of disposing of the husiness, for he talked of nothing else hut flesh and the animal from the moment it was sent for, his love for hutcher-meat amounting almost to a frenzy. the sandstone in this region is higbly im- preguated with iron, and smelters do a good husiness; indeed, the iron for nearly all the tools and cutlery that are used in this division of eastern africa is found and manu- factured here. it is the brum- magem of the land, and has not only rich hut very extensive iron- fields stretching many miles north, east, and west. i hrought some spe- cimens away. cloth is little prized in this especially head country, and i had to pay the ridiculous sum of one dhoti kiniki for one pot of honey and one pot of ghee (clarified hutter). /a.—the caravan started at a.m., and travelled four miles north- wards, amidst villages and cultiva- tion. from this point, on facing to the left, i could discern a sheet of water ahout four miles from me, which ultimately proved to he a creek, and the most southern point of the great nyanza, which, as i have said hefore, the arahs descrihed to us as the ukerewe sea. we soon afterwards descended into a grassy and jungly depression, and arrived at a deep, dirty, viscid nullah (a wa- ter course that only runs in wet weather), draining the eastern coun- try into the southern end of the creek. to cross this (which i will name jor- dan for future reference), was a matter of no small difficulty, especially for the donkeys, whose fording seemed quite hopeless, until the jemadar, assisted hy two other belooches, with hlows and tbreats made the lazy pagazis work, and dragged them tbrough the mud hy sheer force. this operation lasted so long that, after crossing, we madofor the nearest village in the uvira district, and completed a [oct. captain spike's discovery^/ the victoria nyama, journey of eight miles. the country to the eastward appeared open and waving, hut to the north and far west very hilly. the ground is fer- tile, and the flocks and herds very ahundant. hippopotami frequent the nullah at night, and reside there during the rainy season; hut at this, the dry half of the year, they retreat to the larger waters of the creek. rhinoceroses are said to pay nightly visits to fields around the villages, and commit sad havuc on the crops. the nullah, ruuning from tho south- east, drains the hind in that direc- tion; hut a river, i hear, rising in the maalala district, draws off the water from the lays we have recently heen crossing, to the westward of our track, where its course lies, and emp- ties it into the creek nn the opposite side to where the nullah dehouches. st.—on hearing that a shorter track than the sukuma one usually frequented hy the arahs led to mu- anzn, the place shaykh snay ad- vised rny going to, i started hy it at a.m.; and after following it west- ward down the nullah's right hank a few miles, turned up northwards, and continued along the creek to a village, eight miles distant, at the fur- ther end of the urima district, where we took up our quarters. the country has a mixed and large population of smiths, agriculturists, and herds- men, residing in the flats and de- pressions which lie hetween the scattered little hills. during the rainy season, when the lake swells, and the country hecomes super-sa- turated, the inundations are so great that all travelling hecomes suspended. the early morning was wasted hy the uureasonahle pagazis in the fol- lowing ahsurd mauner. it will he rememhered that, on starting from unyanyemhe", these cuuning rascals hegged for cloth as a necessary pro- tection against the cold. this seemed reasonahle enough, if they had not just hefore that received their hire in cloth: for the nights were so cold that i should have heen sorry to ho as naked as they were; hut their real motive for asking was only to increase their stock for this present occasion, as we now shall see. two days ago, they hroke ground with great difficulty, and only on my as- suring them that i would wait at the place a day or two on my re- turn from the lake, as they express- ed their desire to make a few halts there, and harter their hire of cloth for jemhes (iron hoes), to exchange again at unyanyemhe, where those things fetch douhle the price they do in these especially iron regions. now to-day, these dissemhling creatures, distrusting my word as they would their own hretbren's, stoutly refused to proceed until their husiness was completed,—suspecting i should hreak my word on return- ing, and would not then wait for them. they had come all this way especially for their own henefit, and now meant to profit hy their trouhle. fortunately, the jemadar and some other belooches, who of late had shown great energy and zeal in pro- moting my views, pointed out to them that they were really more hound to do my husiness than their own, as they had ongaged to do so, and sine© they could never have come there at all excepting tbrough my influence and hy my cloths; further, if they hought their hoes then, they would have to carry them all the way to the lake and hack. the kirangozi acknowledged the fairness of this harangue, and soon gave way; hut it was not until much more arguing, and the adoption of other persuasive means, that the rest were induced to relinquish their determination. st august.—this day's march, commenced at a.m., differs hut little from the last. following down the creek which, gradually increa>ing in hreadth as it extended north- wards, was here of very consider- ahle dimensions, we saw many little islands, well - wooded elevations, standing holdly out of its waters, which, together with the hill-dotted country around, afforded a most agree- ahle prospect. would that my eyes had heen strong enough to dwell, un- shaded, upon such scenery! hut my french gray spectacles so excited tho crowds of sahle gentry who followed the caravan, and they were so hois- terously rude, stopping and peering underneath my wide-awake to gain a hetter sight of my douhle eyes, as they chose to term them, that it hecame impossihle for me to .] the supposed source of the kile.—part ii. wear them. i therefore pocketed the instrument, closed my eves, and allowed the donkey i was riding to he quietly pulled along. the evil effects of granting an indulgence to those who caunot appreciate it, was more ohvions every day. to secure speed and contentment, i had indulged the pagazis hy hiring doublo numhers, and giving each only half a recoguised hurden; hut what has heen the re- turn? yesterday the pagazis stopped at the eighth mile, hecause they said that so largo a jungle was in our front that we conld not cross it dur- ing daylight. i dishelieved their story, and gave them to understand, on suhmitting to their request, that i was sure their trick for stopping me would tarn to their own disad- vantage; for if my surmise proved true, as the morrow would show, i should give them no more indul- gence, and especially no more meat. on our arrival to-day there was a great huhhuh amongst them, hecause i ordered the jemadar and kirangozi, with many of their principal men, to sit in state hefore me; when i gave a cloth to the soldiers to hny a goat with, and, turning to the kirangozi, told him i was sorry i was ohliged to keep my word of yesterday, and, their story having proved false, i must depart from the principle i had commenced upon, of feeding hoth parties alike, and now they might feel assured that i would do nothing further for their comfort until i conld see in them some desire to please me. the screw was on the tenderest part; a hlack man's helly is his god; and they no sooner found themselves de- prived of their wonted feast, than they clamorously declared they would he my devoted servants; that they had come expressly to serve me, and were willing to do anything i wished. the village chief offered me a goat; hut as it came at the last moment he- fore starting, i declined it. to-day's track lay for the first half of the way over a jungly depression, where we saw ostriches, flonikans, and the small saltiana antelope-s; hut as their shy- ness did not allow of an open ap- proach, i amused myself hy shooting partridges. during the remainder of the way, the caravan tbreaded he- tween villages and cultivation lying in small valleys, or crossed over low hills, accomplishing a total distance of twelve miles. ilere wo put up at a village called dkumhi, occupied hy the walaswanda trihe. id.—we set out at a.m., and travelled thirteen miles hy a tortuous route, sometimes close hy the creek, at other times winding hetween small hills, the valleys of which were thickly inhahited hy hoth agricultu- ral and pastoral people. here some small pereunial streams,, exuding from springs hy the hase of these hills, meander tbrough the valleys, and keep all vegetahle life in a constant state of verdant freshness. the creek still increases in width as it extends northward, and is studded with numerous stnall rocky island hills, covered with hrushwood, which, standing out from the hosom of the deep-hlue waters, reminded me of a voyage i once had in the grecian archipelago. the route also heing so diversified with lulls, afforded fresh ohjects of attraction at every turn, and to-day, hy good fortune, the usnally trouhlesome people have attended more to their harvest-mak- ing, and left me to the enjoyment of the scenery. my trusty blissett made a flonikan pay the penalty of death for his temerity in attempting a flight across the track. the day's journey lasted thirteen miles, and hrought us into a village called isa- miro. d.—the caravan, after quitting isamiro, heiran winding up a long hut gradually inclined hill—which, as it hears no native name, i will call somerset—until it reached its summit, when the vast expanse of the pale-hlue waters of the nyanza hurst suddenly upon my gaze. it was early morning. the distant sea-tine of the north horizon was defined in the calm atmosphere hetween the north and west points of the compass; hut even this did not afford mo any idea of the hreadth of the lake, as an archipelago of islands (tide map, bengal archipelago), each consisting of a single hill, rising to a height of or feet ahove the water, intersected tho line of vision to tho left; while on the right the western horn of tho ukerewe" island cut off any further view of [oct. captain speke'e discovery of the victoria nyanza, its distant waters to the eastward of north. a sheet of water—an elhow of the sea, however, at the hase of the low range on which i stood—extended far away to the eastward, to where, in the dim dis- tance, a hummock-like elevation of the mainland marked what i under- stood to he the south and east angle of the lake. the large and import- ant islands of ukerewe and mzita, distant ahont twenty or thirty miles, formed the visihle north shore of this firth. the name of the former of these islands was familiar to db as that hy which this long-desired lake was usually known. it is reported hy the natives to he of no great ex- tent; and though of no considerahle elevation, i could discover several spurs stretching down to the water's edge from its central ridge of hills. the other island, mzita, is of greater elevation, of a hog-hacked shape, hut heing more distant, its physical features were not so distinctly visi- hle. in consequence of the north- ern islands of the bengal archipel- ago hefore mentioned ohstructing the view, the western shore of the lake could not he defined; a series of low hill-tops extended in this direction as far as the eye could reach; while helow me, at no great distance, was the dehouchure of the creek, which enters the lake from the south, and along the hanks of which my last tbree days' journey had led me. this view was one which, even in a well- known and explored country, would have arrested the traveller hy its peaceful heauty. the islands, each swelling in a gentle slope to a rounded summit, clothed with wood hetween the rugged angular closely-cropping rocks of granite, seemed mirrored in the calm surface of the luke; on which i here and there detected a small hlack speck, the tiny canoe of some muanza fisherman. on the gently shelving plain helow me, hlue smoke curled ahove the trees, which here and there partially concealed villages and ham- lets, their hrown thatched roofs con- trasting with the emerald green of the heautiful milk-hush, the coral hranches of which cluster in such pro- fusion round the cottages, and form alleys and hedgerows ahout tho vil- lages as ornamental as any garden sbruh in england. but the pleasure of themere view vanished in the presence of those more intense and exciting emotions which are called up hy the consideration of the commercial and geographical importance of the pros- pect hefore me. i no longer felt any douht that the lake at my feet gave hirth to that interesting river, the source of which has heen the suhject of so much speculation, and the oh- ject of so many explorers. the arah's tale was proved to the letter. this is a far more extensive lake than the tanganyika; "sohroad you could not see across it, and so long that nohody knew its length." * i had now the pleasure of perceiving that a map i had constructed on arah testimony, and sent home to the royal geographical society hefore leaving unyanyemhe, was so suhstantially cor- rect that in its general outlines i had nothing whatever to alter. further, as i drew that map after proving their first statements ahout the tangan- yika, which were made hefore my going there, i have every reason to feel confident of their veracity rela- tive to their travels north tbrough karngwah, and to kihuga in uganda. when shaykh snay told us of the ukerewe, as he called the nyanza, on our first arrival at kazeh, pro- ceeding westward from zanzihar, he said, "if you have come only to see a large hit of water, you had hetter go northwards and see the ukerewe; for it is much greater in every respect than the tanganyika*," and so, as far as i can ascertain, it is. muanza, our journey's end, now lay at our feet. it is an open, well-cultivated plain on the southern end, and lies almost flush with the lake; a happy, secluded-looking corner, containing every natural facility to make life pleasant after descending the hill, we followed along the horders of the lake, and at first entered the settle- ment, when the ahsence of hoats arousing my suspicions, made me inquire where the arahs, on coining to muanza, and wishing to visit ukerewe, usually resided. this, i heard, was some way further on; so this maguificent sheet of water have ventured to name victoria, after our gracious sovereigu.—j. h. s. .] the supposed source of the nile.—part ii. wi* •. with great difficulty i persuaded the porters to come away and proceed at once to where they said au arah was actually living. it was a singu- lar coincidence that, after shaykh snay's caution as to my avoiding sultan mahaya's village, hy inquir- ing diligently ahout him yesterday, and finding no one who knew his name, the first person i should have encountered was himself, and that, too, in his own village. the reason of this was, that hig men in this country, to keep up their diguity, have several names, and thus mystify the traveller. then pro- ceeded along the shore of the lake in an easterly direction, and on the way shot a numher of red egyptian geese, which were very numerous; they are the same sort here as i once saw in the somali country. another goose, which unfortunately i could not kill, is very different from any i ever saw or heard of; it stands as high as the canadian hird, or higher, and is hlack all over, saving one little wlite patch heneath the lower man- dihle. it was fortunate that i came on here, for the arah in question, called mausur hin sulim, treated me very kindly, and he had retainers helong- ing to the country, who knew as much ahout the lake as anyhody, and were of very great assistance. i also found a good station for making ohserva- tions on the lake. it was mansur who first informed me of my mistake of tre morning, hut said that the evil reports spread at unyanyemhe ahout mahaya had no foundation; on the contrary, he had found him a very excellent and ohliging person. to-day we inarched eight miles, and have concluded our journey northwards, a total distance of miles from kazoh, which, occupying twenty-five days, is at the rate of nine miles per diem, halts inclusive. ith.—early in the morning i took a walk of tbree miles easterly along the shore of the lake, and ascending a small hill (which, to distinguish it, i have called ohservatory hill), took compass-hearings of all the principal features of the lake. mansur and a native, the greatest traveller of the place, kindly accompanied and gave rne every ohtainahle information. this man had traversed the island, as he called it, of ukerewe from north to south. but hy his rough mode of descrihing it, i am rather inclined to think that instead of its heing an actual island, it is a counected tongue of land, stretching southwards from a promontory lying at right angles to the eastern shore of the lake, which, heing a wash, affords a passage to the mainland during the fine season, hut during the wet hecomes suhmerged, and thus makes ukerewe temps- rarily an island. if this conjecture he true, mzita must he similarly circumstanced. cattle, he-says, can cross over from the mainland at all seasons of the year, hy swim- ming from one elevation of the . promontory to another; hut the wurudi, who live upon the eastern shore of the lake, and hring their ivory for sale to ukerewe", usually em- ploy hoats for the transit. a saltan called machunda lives at the south- ern extremity of the ukerewe, and has dealings in ivory with all the arahs who go there.one arah at this ti me was stopping there, and had sent his men coasting along this said promontory to deal with the natives on the main- land, its he could not ohtain enough ivory on the island itself. considering how near the eastern shore of the lake is to zanzihar, it appears surprising that it can pay men to carry ivory all the way round hy unyanyemhe. but the masai, and especially those trihes who live near to the lake, are so hos- tile to travellers, that the risk of going there is considered too great to he profitahle, though all arahs con- cur in stating that a surprising quan- tity of ivory is to he ohtained there at a very cheap rate. the little hill alluded to as marking the south-east angle of the lake, i again saw; hut so indistinctly, though the atmosphere was very clear, that i imagined it to he at least forty miles distant. it is due east of my station on oh- servatory hill. i further draw my conclusions from the fact, that all the hills in the country are much ahout the same height—two or tbree hun- dred fe t ahove the hasial surface of the land; and i could only see the top of the lull like a hazy hrown spot, contrasted in relief against the clear hlue sky. indeed, had my attention not heen drawn to it, i prohahly should have overlooked it, and have thought there was only a sea horizon [oct. captain spehe's dincorery of ths victoria kyama, hefore me. on facing to the w.n.w., i could only see a sea horizon ; and on inquiring how fhr hack the land lay, was assured that, heyond the island of ukerewe, there was an equal ex- panse of it east and west, and that it would he more than douhle the dis- tance of the little hill hefore allnded to, or from eighty to one hundred miles in hreadth. on my inquiring ahout the lake's length, the man faced to the north, and hegan nodding his head to it; at the same time he kept tbrowing forward his right hand, and, making repeated suaps of his fingers, endeavoured to indicate something immeasurahle; and added, that no- hody knew, hut he thought it proha- hly extended to the end of the world. to the east of the ohservatory, a six hours' journey, prohahly fourteen or fifteen miles, the village of suku- ma is situated, and there ennoes are ohtainahle for crossing to ukerewe, which island heing six hours pad- dling, and lying due north of it, must give the firth a hreadth of nhont fifteen miles. whilst walking hack to camp, i shot two red geese and a florikan, like those i once shot in the somali country. this must have heen a dainty dish for my half-starved arah companion, who had lost all his property on first arriving here, and was now living on mahaya's generosity. it appears that nine months ago he wub enahled, hy the assistance of mahaya, to hire some hoats and men at s ikuma, and had sent his property, consisting of fifteen loads of cloth and jemhis or hoes hy them to ukerewd, to ex- change for ivory. but hy the advice of mahaya, and tearing to trust him- self as a stranger amongst the island- ers, he did not accompany his merch- andise. sultan machunda, a man of the highest character hy unyanyem- he" report, on seeing such a prize enter his port, gave orders for its seizure, and will now give no redress to the unfortunate mansur. all mahaya's exertions to recover it have proved ahortive: and mansur has therefore heen desirous of taking his revenge hy making an attack in person on ukerewe, hut the "generous" mahaya said, "no, your life is yet safe, do not risk it; hut let my men do what they can, and in the meanwhile, as i have heen a party to your losses, i will feed you and your people; and if i do not succeed in the tnd, you shall he my guest until lean amass suffi- cient property to reimhurse your losses." mansur has all this time heen living, like the slaves of the country, on jowari porridge, which is made hy grinding the seed into flour and hoiling it in water until it forms a good thick paste, when master and man sit round the earthen pot it la hoiled in, pick out lumps, and suck it off their fingers. it was a delicious sight yesterday, on coming through muanza, to see the great deference paid to sich belooch, shadud, mis- taken for the great arah merchant (or mundewa), my humhle self, in consequence of his riding the donkey, and to perceive the stoical mauner in which he treated their attentions; but, more fortunate than i usually have heen, he escaped the rude peep- ing and peering of the crowd, for he did not, like his employer, wear "douhle eyes." during the last five or six marches, the word marahu, for arah, instead of mzungu, euro- pean, has usually heen applied to me; and no one, i am sure, would have discovered the difference, were it not that the tiresome pagazis, to increase their own diguity and importance generally, gave the clue hy singing the song of " the white man." the arahs at un_\ anyemhe had advised my douning their hahit for the trip, in order to attract less attention: a vain precaution, which i helieve they suggested more to gratify their own vanity in seeing an englishman lower himself to their position, than for any henefit that i might receive hy doing so. at any rate. i was more comfort- ahle and hetter off in my flaunel shirt, long togs, and wide awake, than i should have heen, hoth mentally and physically, had i degraded myself, and adopted their hot, long, and par- ticularly uncomfortahle gown. sultan mahaya sent a messenger to say that he was hurt at the cava- lier manner in which i treated him yesterday, and, to show his wounded feelings, gave an order to his suh- jects 'hat no man should supply me with provisions, or render mo any assistance during my sojourn at muanza. luckily my larder was .] the supposed source of the nile.—part ii. well supplied with game, or i should have had to go supperless to hed, for no inducement would prevail on the people to sell anything to me after the mandate had heen pro- claimed. this morning, however, we settled the difference in the most amicahle mauner, thus: previously to my departure for ohservatory hill, i sent the jemadar, the kirangozi, and a large deputation of the beloo- ches and pngazis, to explain away the reason of my having left his house so rudely, and to tender apologies, which were accompanied, as' an earnest of good-will, with a large kahongo, consisting of one harsati, one dhoti amerikan, and one gora kiniki, as also an intimation that i would pay him a visit the next day. this pleased him excessively; it was considered a visit of itself; and he returned the usual hullock, with a notification that i must remain where i was, to enahle him to return the compliment i had paid him, for he intended walking out to see me on the morrow. ih.—as my time was getting short, i forestalled mnhaya in his intentions, and changed ground to the sultanat, a rural-looking little place, perched on a small rocky promontory, sbrouded hy green trees, facing the n.w. side of the lake. mahaya received me with great courtesy, arranged a hut comfortahly, and presented a numher of eggs and fresh milk, as he had heard that i was partial to such fare. he is a man of more than ordinary stature, a giant in miniature, with massive and muscular hut well-proportioned limhs: he must numher fifty years or more. his dress was the ordi- nary harsati; his arms were set off hy heavy hrass and copper ornaments encircling the wrists, and hy num- herless samho, or thin circles made from the twisted fihres of an aloetic plant, on each of which a single infi, or white porcelain head resemhling a little piece of tohacco-pipe, was strung.; these ranged in massivo rows down the whole of his upper arm. just ahove his elhow-joints sat a pair of large ivory rings. on his forehead two small goat or deer horns were fastened hy thin talismanicornaments of thotig for keeping off the evil eye; and, finally, his neck was adorned with two strings of very coarse hine heads. mahaya has the fame of heing the hest and most just sultan in these quarters, and his henigu square countenance, lit up with a pleasing expression when in conversation, confirms this opinion, though a casual ohserver passing hy that dark, hroad, massive face, still more darkened hy a matting of short, close, and tightly-curled-up ringlets, would he apt to carry away a contrary impression. before leav- ing kazeh, i notified my intention of visiting ukerewe", supposing i could do so in tbree or four days, and ex- plained to my men my wishes on this point. hearing this, they told loth mahaya and manser, in direct terms, that i was going, and so needlessly set them to work finessing to show how much they were in earnest i n their consideration of me. however, they have hoth heen very warm in dis- suading me from visiting ukerewe", apparently quite in a parental way, for each seems to think himself in a measure my guardian. mnhaya thinks it his duty to caution those who visit him from ruuning into danger, which a journey to ukerewe", he considers, would he. mansur, on the other hand, says, as i have come from his sultan majid, he also is hound to render me any assistance in his power ; hut strongly advises my giving up the notion of going across the water. i could get hoats from usukuma, he said, hut there would he great delay in the husiness, as i should have first to send over and ask permission from machunda to land, and then the collecting men and hoats would occupy a long time. as regards the collection of hoats taking a long time, these arguments are very fair, as i know from experience; hut the only danger would consist in the circumstance of the two sultans heing at enmity with each other, as in this land any one coming direct from an enemy's country is suspected and treated as an ene- my. this difficulty i should have avoided hy going straight to sukuma (where the hoats, i am inclined to think, usually do start from, though all concur in stating that this is their point of departure), and there ohtaining hoats direct. however, r [oct. captain speke's discovery of the victoria nyanza, i told them that i should hava gone if i had found hoats ready at once to take me across; hut now saw the prohahility of so much delay, that i could not afford to waste time in trying to ohtain hoats, which, had i succeeded in getting, i should have employed my time not in going to ukerewd, hut to the more elevated and friendly island of mzita, this heing a more suitahle ohservatory than the former. these negroes' manoeuvres are quite incomprehensihle. if mahaya had desired to fleece me—and one can hardly give a despotic negro credit for anything short of that—he surely would have tried to detain me under false hope*, and have thus necessitated my (pending cloths in his village, while, on tjie contrary, he lost all chance of gaining anything hy giving advice, which induced me to leave him at once, never to return again to see him. at my request, mahaya assemhled all his principal men, and we went into a discussion ahout the lake, hut not a soul knew anything ahout its northern extremity, altnough people had sometimes travelled in canoes, coasting along its shores hy the kar- agwah district to as far, i helieve, as the line. his wife, a pretty, crummy little creature of the wanyoro trihe, came farther from the north than anyhody preseut, and gave me the names of many districts in the ug- anda country, which, she says, lies along the sea-shore. she had never heard of there heing any end to the lake, and supposed, if any way of going round it did exist, she would certainly have known it. it is re- markahle that the arahs should not he hetter acquainted witlt the ground that lies to the eastward of kihuga, which evidently shows us that there must he some insurmountahle diffi- culties hetween that place and kiku- yu, whither the arahs go trading via momhas from zanzihar; for if a pas- sage were open hy which they could get to kiknyu, exactly one-third of the distance which they now travel via unyamue"zi to zanzihar would he saved. this suggests a proha- hility that the lake expands consi- derahly as it continues north to the norl h ward of the line, and is so hroad that canoes caunot cross it there, as they can to the southward of the equa- tor. it is well known that there is no communication hetween the east and west shores of the lake, excepting hy a few occasional canoe-parties coast- ing along the southern end, hecause the waters are so very hroad they dare not venture. that there can he no high mountain-range intersecting the nyanza from the water-courses which we hear of north of the equa- tor, as some people have supposed, is evident from the numerous ac- counts given of the kingdom of ug- anda heing so flat and marshy from the equator to ° or ° north latitude; whilst i must have seen any, did they exist, on the south side of the equator, heing only miles from it when standing on its southern shore. now, judging from all the information given us hy the several egyptian expedi- tions and missionaries sent up the nile, who came across hills of no great elevation in ^° north latitude and ° or ° east longitude, which are intersected hy the nile in the same way that the east coast-range is inter- sected hy the interior plateau rivers, as we saw on our passage inwards from zanzihar; and further, hy the arahs telling us that all the country on the same meridian, from the line up to the second parallel north lati- tude, is flat and full of water-courses; and then again, hy knowing the re- spective heights of the nyanza on the one side heing nearly feet, and the nile's hed in latitude ° n., or heyond the small hills alluded to, heing under feet,—it would in- deed he a marvel if this lake is not the fountain of the nile. the reason why those expeditions sent up the nile have failed in discovering the nyanza, is clearly attrihutahle to the important rapids which must exist in cousequence of this great variation of altitude hetween the north end of the nyanza (which, let us suppose, is on the equator), and the position, in ° ' north latitude, at which the expedi- tions and missions arrived, their fur- ther progress heing stopped hy these rapids. indeed, hy all accounts of the country lying hetween the nyanza, as seen hy the arahs in uganda and let us say gondokoro, a mission sta- tion on the nile, in north latitude .] the *uppoted source of the kile.—part ii. :° ', which was occupied hy two austrian missionaries, knohlecher and dooyak, we find it is analogous in every respect to what we ohserved hetween the low mriina or maritime plain in front of zanzihar, and the high interior plateau, divided from one another hy the east coast range, which is of granitic formation, the same in its nature exactly as those which they descrihe, and interseoted hy rivers so rapid and hoisterous that no canoes can live upon them ; as, for instance, we found the kinyaui and lufiji rivers were when passing over the east coast range. there the land dropped from or more feet to less than in the short dis- tance of ninety miles. i will now proceed to give, first, the missionary account in ° ' n., and then the arah one in ° n.— a dehatahle hit of ground, extend- ing over ° ', or english miles. talking of the missionaries, "these two men," says dr. petermaun, " kept an aunual hygrometrical and meteor- ological register with great precision and scientific regularity. they had various instruments with them; they fixed their station, gondokoro, at ° ' north latitude hy astron- omical ohservations, and determined the altitude of the nile's hed to he only feet ahove the sea, hy numerous good harometrical oh- servations. . . . gondokoro is surrounded on tbree sides hy small granitic hills, ranging from to feet, which are intersected hy the nile coming from the south, as the king of the iiari country says, from to miles;" which is equivalent to saying from the nyanzn, as it lies exactly on the plana he* di- rects us to. "the mean aunual tem- perature there is m fabr. the wet- test months in the year are fehruary, march, april, may, and august. thun- der accompanies nearly all the storms, and earthquakes are prevalent. the nile hegins to rise at gondokoro in may, and keeps increasing till septem- her. the country from gondokoro southwards entirely changes from the swampy nature which exists north- wards of it, and the people there hegin to talk a different language to those in the north, and are very fond of eating mice. the winds prevail from the east, rarely coming from the west." as the arahs do not keep thermo- meters, scientific instruments, or pro- perly distrihuted months and seasons, i must say for them that from ° to ° south latitude we found the mean temperature in the hottest month, august, to he only °; that uganda must he quite feet, to he higher than the lake which it horders; that the height of the rainy season is dur- ing the months of fehruary, march, april, and may; and that the rivers, as we see hy the malagarazi, increase more after than hefore that date. though it appears that the preces- sion of the rain tends from the south- ward to the northward, the same in- fluence that swells the mid igarazi would. also affect the uganda rivers, as they rise merely on opposite sides of the axis of the same mountains. the arahs say, as we also have found it, "that thunder accompanies nearly all the storms, and the lightning there is excessive, and so destructive that the king of ugauda expresses the greatest dread of it—indeed his pa- lace alone has heen often destroyed hy lightning. the kitangura and katonga rivers are affected hy the rainy season in the same propoi lion as the malagarazi, and flow north-east- erly towards the lake. there the el- vira river (see maps), in north latitude °, of which they hring information, flows somewhere to the northward, and is not a slow sluggish stream like the other two, hut is rapid and hoister- ous, showing that the country drops to the northward." now here, in ° north latitude, where this river is said to flow, i think will he found the southern hase-line of those small hills, from to feet high, lying to the south of gondokoro, as trie missionaries descrihe them; though these hills, to any one looking at them from the northern side, where the land is low, might appear a harrier to the waters of the lake lying heyond them. this idea would not occur to any one stand- ing on the southern side, where the land is nearly, if not quite as high as these hills themselves. in- deed, from the levels given, the two countries ahout kihuga and gondo- koro may he descrihed as two land- captain spekt's discovery of the victoria nyanza, &c. [oct ings, with the fall hetween them re- presenting a staircase forme'l hy the hills in question. the country in latitudes and ° is therefore ter- raced like a hanging garden. the nyanza, as we now see, is a large expansive sheet of water, flush with the hesial surface of the country, and lies hetween the mountains of the moon (on its western side), hav- ing, according to dr. krapff, suowy kaenia on its eastern flank. krapft tells us of a large river flowing down from the western side of this suowy peak, and trending away to the north- west, in a direction, as will he seen hy the map, leading right into my lake. now, returning again to the western side, we find tliat the nyanza is plentifully supplied hy those streams coming from the lnuae montes, of which the arahs, one and all, give such conristent and concise accounts; and the sowings of which, heing north- easterly, must, in course of time and distance, commingle with those north- westerly off-sowings, hefore mention- ed, of mons kaenia. my impression is, after hearing everyhody's story on the matter, that these streams enter at opposite sides of the lake, on the northern side of the equator, and are consequently very considerahle feeders to it. to help at once in the argu- ment that the nyanza exists as a large sheet of water to the north of the equator, i will anticipate a story in my diary, hy adverting to it hefore its order or succession. on the return to unyanyemhe, a native of msalala told me that he had once travelled up the western shore of the nyanza to the district of kitara, where, he says, it is a corrohoration of the arahs' stories that coffee grows, and which place, hy fair computation of the distances given as their travelling rates, i he- lieve to he in ahout ° north lat. (see map). to the east of this land, at no great distance from the shore, he de- scrihed the island of kitiri as occupied hy a trihe called waiiri, who also grow coffee; and there the sea was of such great extent, and when winds hlew was so hoisterous, that the canoes, although as large as the tan- ganyika ones (which he had also seen), did not trust themselves upon it. now supposing, for instance, that there is no overflow of water at the north end of the nyanza, still, from its altitude heing so great in com- parison with the nile at gondokoro, it must he a considerahle contrihutor to that river's volume, if only hy the ordinary process of percolation. if further proof is required ahout the ex- tent of the nyanza, all the arahs say that, on passing tbrough the karag- wah district, in latitude ° south, they can see from the summit of a high mountain its expansive and houndless waters extending away to the east- ward as far as the eye can reach. the lake has the credit of heing very deep, which i caunot helieve. it cer- tainly hears the appearance of the temporary deposit of a vast flood overspreading a large flat surface, rather than the usual characteristics of a lake or inland sea, lying in deep hollows, or shut in, like the tan- ganyika, hy mountains. the islands ahout it are low hill tops, standing out like paps on the soft placid hosom of the waters, and are precisely similar to those amongst which i have heen, travelling; indeed, any part of the country inundated to the same ex- tent would wear the same aspect. its water appears, perhaps owing to the disturhing influence of the wind, of a dirty-white colour, hut it is very good and sweet, though not. so pleasant to my taste as the very clear tanganyika water. the natives, however, who have wonderfully keen palates for detecting the relative distinctions in .such matters, differ from me, and affirm that all the inhahitants prefer it to any other, and consequently never dig wells on the margin of the lake; whereas the tanganyika water is invariahly shuuned, nohody ever drinking it unless from necessity; not so much hecause they consider it to he unwholesome, as hecause it does not quench or satisfy the thirst so well as spring-water. whether this peculiarity in the qualities of the waters is to he attrihuted to the ny- anza lying on a foundation chiefly composed of iron, or whether the one lake is drained hy a river, whilst the other is staguant, i must leave for other and superior talents to de- cide. fish and crocodiles are said to he very ahundant in the lake; hut with all my endeavours to ohtain some .specimens, i have succeeded in seeing .] eorte-dealing in syria, .—part ii. only two sorts—one similar to those taken at ujiji, of a perch-like form, and another, very small, resemhling our common miunow, hut not found in the ujiji market. the quantity of musquitos on the horders of the lake is perfectly marvellous; the grass, hushes, and everything growing there, are literally covered with them. as i walked along its shores, disturhing the vegetation, they rose in clouds, and kept tapping in dozens at a time, against,my hands and face, in the most disagreeahle manner. unlike tho indian musquito, they are of a light dun-hrown colour. the muanza dogs are the largest that i have yet seen in africa, and still are not more than twenty inches high; hut mahaya says the ukerewe dog is a fine animal, and quite different from any on the mainland. there are hut very few canoes ahout here, and those are of miserahle construction, and only fitted for the purpose they turn them to— catching fish close to the shore. the paddle the fishermen use is a sort of mongrel hreed hetween a spade and a shovel. the fact of there heing no hoats of any size here, must he attri- huted to the want of material for constructing them. on the route from kazeh there are no trees of any girth, save the calahash, whose wood is too soft for the purpose of hoat-huilding. i hear that the island of ukerewe has two sultans hesides machunda, and that it is very fertile and populous. mahaya says, "all the trihes from the wasukimias (or northern wanyamuezis, sukuma meaning the north), along the south and east of the lake, aro so savage and inhospitahle to travellers, that it would he impossihle to go amongst them unless accompanied hy a large and expensive escort." (to he coniinved.) horse-nealing in syria, . part il besides the arahs, there was ano- ther race whose tents might he found in our neighhourhood; the wander- ing turcomans, a nomadic people very similar, hoth in mauner of life and in dress, to the sedentary arahs. their history, as it was related to me, is this. they helong to the great tur- coman race from which the osmanlis sprang, and which still exists towards the north of persia. their fore- fathers came into syria to help to re- sist the crusaders, and have re- mained there ever since; and the language which they to this day speak is not, as with the other people of syria, arahic, hut turkish. they possess camels, goats, cattle, and horses. the latter are very poor. they are not, i think, superior in height to the arah, and in every other point are so inferior that, seen hy his side, they seem fit for little else than pack-horses. they aro heavy and clumsy, with coarse heads, staring coats, very drooping hind- quarters, legs long in the shank, and coarse, draggling, ill-carried tails. in temper they are very shy, and al- though almost all geldings, are com- monly ohstinate and vicious when mounted. the mares, hy reason of finer coats and greater age (for hoth arahs and turcomans sell their horses very young), are hetter looking, hut are still coarse and flemish. before we had heen long at merj kotrani, the news of our arrival spread in all quarters, and hrought such numhers of hoth anazeh and turcomans, that our encampment assumed the aspect of a horse fair. the groups that presented them- selves at every turn, and indeed the whole scene, were most picturesque. in the hackground were the suow- streaked mountains of the druses; to our front a wide grassy plain, dotted with flocks and herds. com- ing over some distant ridge might he seen a party of monkey-like anazeh, their long spears over their shoulders, and their high-hred horses coming on at a quiet easy walk. near at hand, hy tiie hlack tents of the encampment, a party of their kinsmen sat squatting in a circle, with their horses tethered and their lances stuck in the ground heside them hy the sharp point which terminates the hutt; or a group of [oct. hor*e dealing in syria, .—part ii. turcomans, distinguished hy greater size and more oomplete and cleaner (or it might he hetter to say, loss dirt)) clothing, held ugly mares and uglier geldings accoutred with hirgo rugs or saddle-cloths covering the croup, gaudily-coloured worsted headstalls with mameluke hits, and saddles with high pommel and can- tie and heavy shovel stirrup-irons. arahs at speed showed off the slash- ing stride of their horses; turco- mans, amhitions of doing the like, urged theirs into a comparatively stiff and lumhering gallop, or, less successful, contended against the pig- gish ohstinacy of their cro.s-grained hrutes, who, sidling and hacking in every direction hut the right, or standing stock-still with most ohsti- nate-looking shakes and tosses of the head, showed a determination to kick if driven to extremity, which the riders generally seemed to hold in somo respect. all around, tethered to pegs, stones, or tent-ropes, stood horses, mares, and colts of every imaginahle kind, from the handsome arah to the wretched undersized sore-hacked hrute that had evidently served as a pack-horse and was clearly never destined to do anything hetter; some already hought hy us, some still for sale; some standing motionless; some stretching their necks to get a suort and a scream with their neighhours; some, per- haps, hroken loose and tbrowing the whole camp into confusion. all the horses offered to us for sale hy the bedouins were stallions. i do not at this moment rememher having ever seen a gelding in their posses- sion; and although they frequently rode mares into our camp, they never offered them to us. the last circum- stance, i helieve, is owing to the es- timation in which they hold their mares as a source of national wealth, and to the fact of " puhlic opinion" having set itself so strongly against letting the hreed fall into other hands hy selling them, that no individual ventures to do so. sentimental or affectionate feeling, i should imagine, is very little concerned in the matter. i never saw the slightest trace of any feeling of dislike on the part of the arah to parting with his horse, pro- vided the price was good. once let him see a satisfactory heap of gold, and he turns his heast over to you, and his whole faculties to-seeing that you do not cheat him of the tenth part of a piastre on the hargain; and never, in all prohahility, cists a look on his horse again, unless with the ohject of instituting a squahhle as to whether or not he is to carry off the halter. none of the people of these parts are easy to deal with; hut the ana- zeh are the most difficult of all. sup- pose that yon ask the price of a horse. if the owner condescends to put a price upon him, it is ahout tbree times what he means to take; frequently he refuses to do it at am, hut tells you to make an offer. you do so: he receives it with contempt, and the wo-d "beid"—"far off"—pro- nounced with a lengthened emphasis, "be-i... d," that sets strongly hefore you the enormoas inadequacy of your proposal. you raise your price, and a contention of hargaining ensues, which is terminated hy the owner riding off with his horse as if he never meant to come hack any more. after a time greater or less—in an hour or two, to-morrow, or the day after— yon find that he has come hack. a fresh hattle ensues, which (if it is not interrupted hy a second riding off) ends in the price heing fixed. all is settled; the owner seems quite con- tent; you proceed to mark the horse, when, lo! his late master, suddenly stung hy the intolerahle thought that ho has perhaps got less than he pos- sihly might, seizes and drags off his heast in a fury, mounts and goes off again. again he returns, and again, finding you inexorahle, agrees for the same sum. again you want to mark the horse; and now he raises a dread- ful outcry to he paid first. you con- sent and call him into the tent. in he comes, attended hy one or two friends and counsellors, sages sup- posed to he learned in frank coins, and wide awake to the ring of a had piece. all solemnly squat on the ground, and you proceed to count out the gold. an awful difficulty now arises. the price has heen agreed on in ghazis (pieces of i piastres each), and has to he paid in english money. the aunzeh is not strong in arithmetic, and caunot he satisfied .] horse-dealing in'syria, .—part ii. that the gold amounts exactly to the stipulated sum; and it is not till he has had the pieces counted a dozen times into his hand, and till he and his friends have looked like owls over it for tbree-quarters of an hour, that his douhts on this head can he at all assuaged. at length he departs; evidently with misgivings. in a few minutes he is hack again. one of the gold pieces given him ia an old- fashioned sovereigu, hearing the de- vice of the george and the dragon, and therehy differing from the more modern ones which he commonly sees; and this he declares of inferior value, and wishes to return. this hrings on a fresh dispute of extreme hitterness; and when you have finally quieted him and sent him off lialf- batisfied on this score, he very likely goes offprivately to your companion, who is perhaps standing somewhere outside, and hegs to he informed whether you have not emhezzled a little of his due. the " huffiness" exhihited hy the bedouins in their horse-dealing tran- sactions, though perhaps not alto- gether affected, hut in great iru a-ure the honest ehullition of an insolent and overhearing nature, is yet unahle, in the majority of instances, to stand its ground permanently against the greater strength of their passion for money. of a hundred men that rido off in a fury, as if they were resolved never again to set eyes on such a suoh as yourself, ninety-nine will come hack again. the hundredth perhaps will not. i rememher a bedouin hringing a grey horse of extraordinary size (tor an arah) into our camp. i did not myself see very much to ad- mire in the animal, and thought him far inferior to many i had seen of less height; however that may he, a sum equivalent to £ was offered for him. the owner—a hreecbless savage, in a garment like a dirty night-shirt—turned away in wrath, and we never saw him again. as a general rule, it may he said that those who have the hest horses are the touchiest to deal with. during our stay at merj kotrani, and still more when we afterwards got into the camp of the anazeh, our great perplexity was to get the money required for our purchases. the authorities who sent us out, ordered us, in the fulness of their wisdom, on no account to pay for horses otherwise than hy hills on divers consuls and hankers; opining, no douht, that mutlak or marzouk the anazeh would, in the first instance, with a fine feeling of commercial con- fidence, accept our hills, and that, in the second, they would trust them- selves within the clutches of the turkish government in the process of going to claim the money. now mutlak and marzouk, feeling pretty strongly what would he the result if they could get hold of anyhody's horse hy the giving of a promissory note, valued hills as so much waste paper; and even if they could have heen convinced of their value, would have seen the whole british govern- ment in everlasting infelicity hefore they would have trusted themselves within hail of anything like a turkish official. we soon saw that dealing on the terms prescrihed to us was pretty much like going fishing with your hook haited witli a hill on your hanker for a worm, and found ourselves compelled to resort to cash payments; and the keeping of tho large sums of money required, and when they were spent, sending for more, was a source of endless trouhle and anxiety to us in that land of thieves. we should never have got on at all hut for a strong guard of armed druses which, soon after our arrival in the desert, we suhstituted for our original escort of horsemen, and whoso chief was of great service in hringing the money from da- mascus. on one occasion we were on the verge of a row which might have terminated seriously. we were stand- ing looking on at the group of arahs and others surrounding the tents, when we hecame aware of a scuffle in process of performance, and pre- sently, in the thick of the little crowd which it instantly collected, perceived the second chief of the druses vigor- ously cuffing an anazeh, who, horne hack hy the greater force of his an- tagonist, was yet kicking and holla- ing in return with great energy. in a moment all the camp was in con- fusion. the anazeh rushed together; [oct. worse-dealing in syria, .— part ii. those who had horses sprang on their hacks, while iho druses cocked their guns and ran to the support of their chief; and the prospect of a general scrimmage seemed to he of the fairest. it appeared, however, that some of the cooler on each side felt an interest in keeping the peace, for the helligerents were separated, and the anazeh, crowding round their irate friend, seemed to he forcing him hack and restraining him; and the two hostile parties drew hack from each other. the arahs, how- ever, were desperately angry, and moved ahout like a cluster of angry wasps, hrandishing their hig knohhed sticks ami cluhs, and striking them against their lances, and jahhering furiously; while the druses, on the other hand, stood their ground re- solutely. how the quarrel arose was a thing which i never precisely understood. tbree "jthazis," claimed from us hy the anazeh, lay somehow at the hottom of it, and hy the pay- ment of the same we fortunately suc- ceeded in quieting the dispute; hut the anazeh immediately alter left the camp, and for some time kept so clear of us that i hegan to fear that they had taken huff and cut us for good. ahout this time the supply of horses hegan to fail at merj kotrani, so we returned to damascus. here we arranged plans for an expedition to the camp of a trihe of the wolad ali; and having communicated with their chief, mohammed doukhy, and received his permission to visit him, we set out after live days' stay in damascus, for his camp in the desert. we again passed tbrough merj kotrani; and then hore straight away for the centre of the wide plain which i have hefore descrihed as lying to the front of that camp. after this our journey lay pretty much in a straight line. the plain, at first gra-sy hut stone-sprinkled, as we ad- vanced gradually lost in the former and gained in the latter quality, till at last the slight ridges which inter- sected it were seen densely covered with stones, while the intervening flats, stony too, hore little herhage hut a half-dried yellowish-green grass. sometimes for a space this vegetation would give place to a tutted herhage spotting the dried ground; and this again wonld he varied hy what at the "first glance looked like a small pool of hazy hlue, really a luxuriant plot of a hlue- flowered fragrant plant of the wild- thyme nature. far off, a small winding streak of a hrighter green, dotted with the forms of distant animals, showed us where some com- paratively moist hottom gave pastur- age to sheep and camels. very soon after leaving merj kotrani, wo had fallen in with scattered tents of the anazeh; and here their hahitations, in clomps of four, five, up to as man; as seven together, were scattered over the whole face of the country, whilst their flocks of ugly flat-tailed sheep grazed all around, tended hy little hrown dirty savages of anazeh hoys, or perhaps hy a higger hut equally dirty herdsman with a pistol in his helt. small ponds, or chains of little pools imhedded in hlack rocks, were not uncommon; and once we came upon a small rocky dell with a narrow stream, foaming and rapid, hut yet hlack, dirty, cumhered hy tangled trails of weed, and more like staguant than ruuning water, rushing over the stones which ohstructed it, and fer- tilising its immediate hanks into a crop of long green grass. this was the desert. that the whole of this country has once heen comparatively well popu- lated, and that hy a people not utterly savage, is proved hy the ruins of stone-huilt villages found in all directions. in one instance we met with a still stronger evidence of former civilisation, in the shape of a well-huilt though dilapidated old stone hridge of tbree arches, spauning a rocky stream still deeper in the desert. now, not a populated village exists, and not a human heing is to he seen hut the bedouins. our march hitherto had heen monotonous enough. the snow- speckled mountains of the druses had always risen on our rear, while our onward progress had done little to vary the view ahead, heyond ex- changing the contracted horizon pre- sented hy one swell of stony ground for that presonted hy another. but y .] horse-dealing in syria, —part ii. i now the scene changed slightly. at section of the anazeh), and heing a level somewhat lower than oar own, told that we did not, he volunteered a wide plain lay hefore us; stony the statement that he was a kdh, i. e. indeed, hut less so than what we had a dog.- heen traversing; in color yellow- the sheikh was rich, and among green, streaked with lines of a richer other sources of wealth had that of lint where the grass grew hetter; heing contractor to the turkish dotted in the middle distance with a government for the large supply of few isolated hills of mole-hill shape, camels (five or six thousand, they and then sweeping away to a far say) required each year for the hadj horizon. far and near the whole or pilgrimage hetween damascus face of the land was covered with and mecca. this circumstance gave camels, of all colours, from smoky him a certain security amongst the hlack to pure white, and of all sizes, turks, and he occasionally went on down to the little woolly foal of a husiness into damascus ; a proceeding few months old. they appeared to that other bedouin chiefs, i am told, he casting their winter coats, for the are very shy of. long woolly hair still adhered to we were several times honored hy them; sometimes disclosing tbrough his visits in our own tent. when he its rags the finer coat heneath, and came in the daytime, we could offer sometimes completely covering the him nothing in the way of refresh- upper part of the animal, hut stop- ment, as it was ramazan; hut after ping ahrnptly on the flanks in a well- sunset he would take pipes and coffee, defined line, helow which the only if we happened to he aware of his covering was a short smooth hair, coming, we used to make for him a flocks of sheep and hlack goats were kind of divan on the floor with a plentiful ; and cattle too were there, mattress and cushions; otherwise he thoutrh in smaller numhers. sat on one of the heds. he was here stood the camp of the anazeh; always attended hy one or two dirty a widespread village of hlack low maguates of his trihe: our druse tents, clustered hy seven or the dozen chief and one or two of the head together, with large intervals hetween men of the escort used, hy virtue of the groups. a tent higger hut no their rank, to assist at ihe ceremony; hundsomer thau the rest was the and a circle of arah spectators, not dwelling of the chief, and there we of dignity sufficient to entitle them dismounted and saluted the great to a place in the tent, used to squat sheikh, mohammed doukhy. he outside and peer in tbrough the was a not ill-looking, hut at the same door. it was romantic to sit at time not over-hright-looking man, night in a tent on a wide syrian with his right arm, which had heen plain with a real bedouin sheikh; disahled hy a lance-wound some hut it was not to he denied that it years hefore, hidden in his cloak. he was also a hore, seated us on the hest carpets of his suppose us to he sitting after din- tent, and gave us coffee; civilly ner; hot and lazy, wishing only to he enough, quietly, and without em- let alone. it is aunounced that the pressement or much show of interest sheikh ia coming; and presently he in us or in our ohject. he had never and his train come noiselessly and heard of the english, he'said—anas- sol(rooly. we rise, and, in accordance sertion which was prohahly a mere with eastern etiquette, remain stand- piece of hrag, intended to impress ing till the sheikh is seated on his upon us that the great mohammed mattress. then all seat themselves; doukhy was far too much occupied we on our chairs, the others on the with the weighty affairs of his own ground. we give coffee and as many vast realm to have time to know of pipes as the estahlishment affords; small and far-off nations. besides the sheikh talks slowly and without this, he made only one remarkahle animation, with frequent and long communication. first asking us pauses. he hehaves quietly, and whether we knew the secretary of without the awkwardness which an .sheikh feysel (chief of a rival trihe, uneducated european tbrown into un- helonging to the rowallas, another accustomed society would show; vol. lxxxvl a [oct. horse-dealing in syria, .—part . hut the conversation is evidently made hy effort, and not flowing spontaneously. all—at any rate, all of our party—got awfully tired. the only one of us who knows arahic is tired hy the constant manufacture of small talk required of him; the rest of us hy our inahility to talk at all. our visitors are perhaps assisted hy oriental laziness and love of doing nothing, and the visit is usually pretty long; at last, however, the sheikh suddenly rises, salaams, shuf- fles into his red hoots, which are standing outside the door, and van- ishes as silently as he came. sundry fleas, not to say hugs, and even a few lice, remain hehind. we gathered in the course of con- versation with the sheikh that the following was the aunual round of migration of his trihe. ahout the middle of septemher they leave syria; and hy a circuit which leads them successively into the neighhour- hood of bussora, bagdad, aleppo, horns, and hama, return to syria early in july. in the year of our vi>it, as the reader has seen, they were found there in may; hut this, the sheikh said, was an unusual oc- currence. he descrihed their rate of travelling as very irregular, and vary- ing from two up to twenty-lour hours in the day—the latter only under cir- cumstances of emergency; and told ns that on the march they fed their horses with harley, which they carried with them. every morning, at suurise, the herds of camels helonging to the camp marched out to graze in dense hodies, which at a little distance looked like regulated squadrons. shortly hefore sunset they might he seen, far and near, returning from all quarters ; on far-off ridges, show- ing like small pyramids against the evening sky; or close at hand, with head up, neck curved, and hump shown in fine profile, solemn and very like the camel in the picture-hook. this, at least, is the demeanour of the more aged and respectahle ones; the younger, and especially the half- grown camels, execute curious gam- hols as they come home at night. some one of them, taking a sudden fancy, tarts off as hard as he can go, fling- ing his legs out violently at each stride as if to make a caricature of an animal at speed, and stretching along at a pace you could hardly expect of him. this inflames an- other, who, wishing to indulge in a still more frolicsome caper, adopts a yet ahsurder gait; executing a peries of jumps in which he exhihits all the motions of the most extreme speed, tbrowing his legs out with desperate exertion, hut in reality spending all his efforts in jumping off the ground rather than in getting over it; his tail curled upwards like a terrier dog's, and his long recurved neck working up and down in unison with the spasms of his legs and the rocking motion of his hody, till he looks like nothing hut a jointed toy- heast cut out in card-hoard and twitched hy strings. another and then another takes up the gamhol, till the whole train, catching the lire, hurst out into capers, all hut the very hig and reverend camel:i, who stalk in groaning lamentahly. i will try to place hefore the reader the evening scene i used to watch from one of the camping- grounds of the trihe. it is just sun- set i am sitting perched on the ruined gray wall of a deserted village close in rear of our tents. a few small light clouds hang low down in the sky, hut the whole zenith is of the clearest light-hlue, touched, near the setting sun, with a gleam against which ,tand out, clearly cut, a few isolated round hills, their shoulders fringed with an edging of small trees. behind these i catch a glimpse of the scow-streaked range of the druse mountains, pearly grey and distant. turning in the opposite direction— to the east, to the heart of the desert — i see the yellow-hrown plain streaked with strata of hlack stone, its nearer edges catching a gleam of hright yellow and its further a tinge of purple in the setting sunshine, stretching away, hroken only hy a small hili or two till it fades in the far distance. close at hand, the centre of the panorama, lie the low hlack tents of the anazeh, overtopped hy a line of high white one-poled teuts helonging to a party of damas- cus traders who have come and set up a sort of temporary hazuar; and .] horse-dealwg in syria, .—part u. nearer still are our own tents, with a line of thirty and more horses pick- eted in front of them. from all quarters camels are flocking in, with a slow solemn stalk; those already arrived standing patient and motion- less. all around rises their strange cry—a sound resemhling, in quality, a grant, hut with a prolongation that gives it the character of a hellow; mingled with the cries of the dark herdsmen, who, sometimes on foot and sometimes perched on the top of a hig camel, admonish their flocks with frequent hollas. "whoa-hup! whoa-hup! wlioa-hup ! — yah " — cries the herdsman; and, with a curious variety of woe-hegone and despairing tones, the camels answer in strange chorus. first camel, very gutturally, "oo-o-ooo;" second camel, wrathfully," wa-ow-ow-ough;" third camel, most pitifully, as if it was really too had, "oo-o-l eu gh," winding up wiih an accent of dis- gust. mohammed doukhy had, or pro- fessed to have, a right to a monopoly of trade with the damascus mer- chants; and an infringement of this privilege hy another trihe, who had inveigled off soine of the damascenes and therehy deprived him of the tax which he levied on all goods sold in his camp, stirred him up to seek summary redress. one evening we were shown four camels in our camp, with their hales of merchandise pack- ed on the ground hy them. it ap- peared that ihe wulad ali had heen reading a lesson to the sinful traders. that morning they had sallied forth, and nahhed a party of the delinquents on their way to the camp of the enemy, sheikh feysel of the rowal- las, and had thought fit to chasten them hy walking off with their goods and camels. this, as it was repre- sented to us, was not precisely a rohhery, hut was only a vigorous line of action in support of a principle; for it was declared that the owners might have their goods again hy pay- ing a small ransom, and consenting to sell their stock in the camp of the wulad ali. in fact, it was a laudahle and patriotic movement for the pro- tection of wnlad-alian commerce; hut we did not feel quite easy in our minds ahout it all the same. sheikh feysel, no matter what his ri^rht may have heen, was supposed to have might; and we were not without fears that he and his long lanced free-traders might involve the pa- triotic protectionists in a " difficulty" which, to tell the truth, would have heen nowise disagreeahle to us, except from the certainty that we should he involved in it too. birring the chance of a lance-point in my own viscera, there is nothing i should hetter like to see than a be- douin skirmish. every reader who has followed me thus far knows pretty accurately how long i was in the desert, and what op- portunities i had of ohserving its inhahitants. i shall therefore leave it to him to form his own judgment as to how far my experiences may he considered competent data from which to draw inferences as to the character of a nation. all that i mean to do, is to give the impression produced on me hy my experiences, such as they were; and that impres- sion distinctly is, that the anazeh are a disgusting race of heings, and that apurt from their fine horses, they have no more claim to our interest or admi- ration than hottentots. in person they are filthy. i never saw the slightest sigu of a change of raiment heing possessed hy any of them, and i certainly do not helieve that the practice of washing is known, even hy tradition. their moral peculiarities are not more agreeahle than their personal. they are as destitute of any feeling of discretion or decency in regard of intruding upon the tra- veller, as the traveller might he in point of disturhing the privacy of the orang-outang at the zoological gar- dens ; and, once inside his tent, un- less told in very plain terms to get out, will squat there from morning to night, amusing themselves with the contemplation of his hahits. as for keeping them from staring in, we found that utterly impossihle. it was the commonest thing in the world to have a couple of them lying on their chests on the grass, just in front of the door, with their chins resting on their elhows, calmly sur- veying us and all oar proceedings; [oct hone-dealing in syria, .—part ii. and if any one of them was admitted on husiness, a whole troop flocked in with him, squatting themselves down all round till the tent would hold no more, aud the rest were ohliged to sit outside, peeping over each other*s shoulders tbrough the door. they used to steal horses' nose-hags out of the servants' tent, and head stalls from our horses as they stood at their pickets; and if a saddle or other piece of furniture was given in with a horse, used to scuffle for it with such vigour as to put all chance of our getting it quite out of the ques- tion. one ilumdan, the second great man of the trihe, and the sheik's iocum-tenens, was an especial repro- hate. he used to he very officious in hidding for horses, professedly to assist us, hut, as we felt certain, really to run up the price and go shares with the seller in the profits. one day we found him claiming in our name, from the late owner of a horse we had just hought, a grand red saddle and saddle-cloth that had heen nowise included in the hargain, with the intention of appropriating them. he was always hegging for a little tohacco or a little sugar to re- fresh himself after the lahorious fast he was then keeping for rama- zan; and always hanging ahout us accompanied hy a little chi.ld of his, whom he was constantly privily in- stigating to come up and kiss our hands ; the child afterwards hashfully hiding its face in its father's gown, and the lather looking aifectionately amused at the child's simplicity, as if the whole manoeuvre had not heen got up with a view to further tohacco. to sum up, the auazeh are hores, thieves, heggars, swindlers, and ex- tortioners of the most shameless nature, and if they possess, in any hut their relations to their horses, any good quality whatever, certainly never showed it to me. so much for the results of my own ohserva- tion. backed as we were hy thirty stout druses, and further protected hy the interest which the sheikh had in keeping well with the turkish government, it was not likely that the trihe would give us the chance of having anything much worse to urge against them. but i never yet met with a man who knew anything of the bedouins who had a single good word to say for them, except on this one head. they are not, it is said, hloodthirsty, unless pro- voked. a limited virtue ; for when you come to investigate, you find that " provocation," as they interpret it, means pretty nearly every difference of opinion which an honest man may entertain with a ruffian, and that their merit amounts to ahout this, that provided you eat with satisfac- tory resiguation all the dirt they may please to offer you, they had rather strip you and turn you loose to live or die as heaven pleases, than settle yon with a lance-point at once. a limit- ed virtue indeed, hut one for which— rememhering the pleasure that much of mankind has in cruelty for its own sake-—let us give them every credit, and see that at our hands, at least, the devil does not come short of his due. before we left the wulad ah, we had an opportunity of seeing the trihe on the march. it was an- nounced one evening that, for the sake of hetter grass and water, they were going to shift their ground on the following day. early next morn- ing the camp was filled with camels receiving their loads ; and in a short time all the tents were struck and packed, and the whole mass in mo- tion. they filed off without any per- ceptihle attempt at order or regular- ity, each family starting apparently at its own convenience ; and were soon seen trailing over the plain in several irregular streams or columns separated hy considerahle intervals. i stood hy our tents as the servants struck them and prepared for the march, and watched each column as it passed in procession. the most re- markahle ohjects were camels hearing saddles of the following curious con- struction. a kind ot cup-like nest or seat, scarcely capahle, i should think, of holding more than one per- son, was perched on the very top- most peak of the camel's hack, where it was retained hy a species of frame- work encircling the hump, and hy divers girths. from the front of this nest, and at right angles to the line of the camel's hack, there projected on each side a horizontal outrigger of .] horse-dealing in syria, .—part ii. great length; the united two forming, as it were, one cross-har. from each extreme end of this cross-har a shorter piece was hrought into the lower part of the seat; and the frame thus formed, covered with leather, presented an appearance much like what might have resulted if you had cut out an enormous triangle, ex- cessively wide hased and low, and fixed it, ha°e uppermost, to the seat, with the two wings or acute angles, halancing each other on the two sides. another precisely similar ap- paratus was attached to the corre- sponding point of the seat hehind, and ran parallel to the former; and from one to the other of the opposite extremities of this strange scaifold- ing a loose long girth, apparently in- tended for show rather than use, was passed under the camel's helly. what the use of the machine can he it is difficult to imagine. the arahs themselves failed to give any hetter explanation than that it was fan- tasia; hut added that it was an oh- ject of great amhition with the wo- men; that she whose hushand could afford her such an equipage was looked upon as a great lady, while she who rode in a less elahorate nest was a mere nohody. in fact, it would appear that, to an anazeh lady, the possession of one of these things is pretty much what keeping a carriage is to an english woman. besides these there were ruder sad- dles, apparently formed of carpets twisted up as you might twist a turhan, with a woman or a couple of chimren squatting in the hollow; the camel that hore them heing addition- ally hurdened with all kinds of hoxes, sacks, and hundles, roped to its sides. some of the camels were laden with a mass of haggage pre- senting a platform-like summit that served as a resting-place for a wo- man or a child. in this case the ap- proved position for the rider seemed to he something hetween kneeling and lying, with the knees drawn under the hody, and the weight tbrown forward on the chest and elhows, much after the fashion of a mus-ulman prostrating himself at prayers or a frog going to jump; and in this curious position some, with their faces down hetween their arms, were to all appearance asleep. others were staring ahout them, or, in the arrangement of their haggage, climhing ahout their camels as upon the rigging of a ship. here and there a woman, in long, straight, coarse garments of dark hlue, with a dark-coloured handkerchief hang- ing over her head, and confined hy a turn or two of rope, and with hlue tattooed spots covering her hrown hands, trudged along hy the side of the train, or, getting tired, proceeded to swarm up a camel's side, planting one foot on his knee as he walked, aud hy like steps reaching the sum- mit, much as a coachman mounts to a coach-top. sometimes two men rode on one camel; sometimes a tingle man, carrying a lance of vast length, might he seen in a saddle planted on the very peak of the hump and with a pommel and can- tie denoted each hy a long carved peg, towing hehind him a colt hy a loug rope, the whole concern looking like a hrig towing a cock-hoat. horse- men with long lances rode along- side the column, and their syrian greyhounds—light fawn-coloured ani- mals, much resemhling small poor english greyhounds with fringed ears and tails—strayed around the line of march. the country traversed was the wide-stretching stony plain that i have hefore descrihed; and across this, at the rate of, i suppose, scarcely two and a-half miles an hour, trailed the long straggling columns of the anazeh, far apart one from the other, hut all tending in the same direction, and reminding one strongly, as they showed in the distance, of the pic- tures of noah's heasts issuing from the ark. far away on the forward horizon appeared a distant train, the huge swaying cross-heam saddles giving to the heasts that hore them, when they happened to show against the sky end-on, the aspect of a t in a viguette; equally far on the rear- ward horizon another troop came on, while similar processions moved on the right and left. we passed in our march numerons herds, chiefly of camels, helonging to the camp, which were suffered to graze in peace, as, the march heing hut a short one, they could he hrought in at night to horse-dealing in syria, —part ii. [oct. the new ground at the usual time, for one which the anazeh had ah- after perhaps a couple of hours' stracted, that they might hring him travelling, the leading camels were in next day with a tremendous claim seen halting at a spot more clear for '• salvage;" hut the paniculars of stones, and covered with a grass were given me hy one of my com- rather taller than common, watered panione. our tents were struck, hy a small slow ditch like stream and our haggage in process of heing whose course was made evident hy packed on the mules, when a pile of the greener vegetation that fringed half-a-dozen dresses which we had its sides. in a few moments the intended on leaving to present to the men, planting the hutt-ends of their hig-wigs of the camp, was therehy tall spears in the ground, raised what exposed to view. the anazeh could looked like a crop of gigantic reeds, hold themselves no longer. they and in a very short time the tents charged headlong; "culhuterent" the rose all around, and the "wulad ali cook and paolo the servant, who were as if they had never moved at offered a vain defence, and carried all. off the dresses in trinmph, seizing indeed, their movements are little at the same time upon our long pipes, hampered hy the amount of goods which happened to lie hy. then they have to carry. a quantity of they took a quantity of horse-ropes pack-saddles heaped together; a few and hohhles, aud finished hy picking pots and pans that the women are my compamon's pocket during the cooking with; a few carpets, if the latter process—as indeed during the owner is rich, otherwise a numher whole of the preceding ones as well of foul-looking sheepskins amongst —he was perfectly aware of what which cur dogs and little nasty hlack was going on; hut at the same time children pig together in a style which he knew that almost every druse in suggests fleas and every other creep- our escort was occupied in hoiding a ing plague most painfully: this is horse (for we had a large hatch to all that meets the eye as you ride take away with us), and that if a past a tent and glance in; and these fight hroke out, the natural impulse i fancy are, exclusive of live stock, of the men would he to let go the ahout the sole impedimenta of the horses in order to close together. anazeh. so he plunged into a profound medi- the arah and turcoman women tation, and remained therein ahsorhed go unveiled. though made slaves till his pocket had heen happily of hy the men in point of work, picked, and the picker had retired they at all events are free from the content. i am happy to say that restrictions which prevent other the thief made no great haul of it. mussulman women from exhihiting a pair of gloves and a pockethand- themselves to puhlic gaze. it would kerchief, articles quite unknown to he pleasanter if it were otherwise, the anazeh, were all he got; and as you approach a camp it is com- finding them perfectly usele>s, he mon for a party of girls and women came ruuning up with an ostenta- to rush out to catch your horse's tious air of honesty, just as we were rein and extract hakhshish. and riding off, to return them and claim they are not pretty either. i wish a reward, pretending that he had they- would mind their korans and found them somewhere. stop at home conformahly. on the following morning our ca- on the th june we took leave of ravan, not yet clear of the ground the wulad ali. exposed to the incursions of the be- that interesting people was he- douins, was trailing after a somewhat trayed on the morning of our de- disorderly fashion over a wide stony parture into a little hurst of feeling plain surrounded hy distant hills, that showed strongly the natural the druses, in a long and hroken hent of its inclinations. i did not indian file, led each man his horse; myself see what i am going to re- the haggage was crawling along any- late, as i was engaged in counting where or nowhere; little dirty tipsy our horses, and in vainly searching paolo sat perched on a gorgeous yel- .] horse-dealing in syria, .—part ii. low rue; on the top of a scraggy tattoo,* with a hroad-hrimmed hat surmounting a long handkerchief which fell adown his head, and gave him the air of a dilapidated cardi- nal; and ourselves jogged on as patiently as might he hy the side of the train. at this juncture an ani- mal, pronounced to he a hyena, was seen traversing the plain and making for the hills. several of us gave chase; hut the ground was fearfully stony, our horses were in no condi- tion, and the game had got a long start; and the result was that the druse eheikh, myself, and one other englishman, pulled up with hlown horses at a considerahle dis- tance from our convoy, and then, turning hack, proceeded slowly to retrace our way. we had not rid- den far when the druse hegan to press his horse forward and to heckon to ns to come on, with an earnestness that led me to su-pect that something strange was in the wind; and hefore long, the recurrence of the word arah in his otherwise unintelligihle discourse, comhined with his gestures, gave us to under- stand that he apprehended an attack from the bedouins. at this pleasing intelligence we hastened on, the druse hrandishing his huge spear the while in a most sanguinary way, and were presently met hy a horseman sent from the convoy to give us warning that we were surrounded hy arahs. in a few momenta we reached our string of horses, and exchanged with the men who led them a few hurried words which, passed tbrough flurried interpreters, gave us to understand that the bedouins had actually at- tacked and seized a part of our hag- gage, and that a knot of bedouin horsemen, at no great distance in the rear, were tho spoilers in the act of securing their plunder. so with pis- tols and swords we rushed up frantic, and — heaven he praised, did not shoot our friend mohammed doukhy: for it was he, dismounted and sur- rounded hy a cluster of his escort, who was now holding in polite and affectionate converse the only one of our party who had remained hy the haggage. % i think writing one's travels is a very demoralising occupation. no- hody who has not tried it knows the temptation one lahours under to put in a good fih at a fitting crisis. things so close upon heing something strik- ing; so naturally leading up to an effective point; and so very piquant when so pointed, are so perpetually happening, that—that, in short, man- kind sometimes give way to the temp- tation, and write hooks like m. alex- andre dumas' impressions de voyage. but this veracious history shall per- mit itself no such licenses. i did not rush upon the spoilers, receive aud parry a lance-tbrust, and return the same hy hlowing my antagonist out of his saddle. i declare that i meant it all as i rode up, and that it was not my fault that it did not come off. but, as i said hefore, it was moham- med, and there was an end of every- thing. mohammed, who some time hefore had gone to damascus, and now returning with a large escort, had encountered us; and, in his first iguorance as to our identity, had, according to the custom of that land of insecurity, tbrown out skirmishers, and made a recounaissance, which our people took, not unjustly perhaps, for manoeuvres of attack. if, as the celehrated old woman said, " hadn't heen i," i wouldn't answer for mo- hammed's hehaviour to the party who might have occupied the place of me. we had an italian horse-dealer with us, whom i have mentioned hefore; a great hlack-hearded man, one angelo peterlini. he was a good and useful man in his way; well acquainted with the dodges and mysteries of bedouin horse-dealing; cuuning in guessing the price that an arah would take for his horse, and careful to offer him only the half, that he might work up the other half in process of hargaining; sharp-sight- ed in detecting the two or tbree " un- lucky" hairs which in bedouin esti- mation might lower the value of a horse, and as peninacious in making * the indian name for a pony; so intimately associated in the minds of all old indians with the idea of a certain scraggy stamp of haggager, that to express the same all other words are weak. [oct. horse-dealing in syria, .—part ii. them tell upon the price as if he he- lieved iru tiiem; in fact, altogether well acquainted with the bedouins, and monstrously polite to them he- fore their faces, hut with, at heart, a horror of them unspeakahle (hy anyhody of less gifts of eloquence than himself), and with the intensest aversion to anything of the nature of what he called a " baruffa" with them. dogs, thieves, hogs, canaille, people of the devil—i wish i could convey the maguificent and sonorous emphasis with which he rolled out these and other epithets upon them hehind their hacks, or the ingenuity with which he framed speeches set- ting forth their precise relationship with the fiend, and the exact nature of a most curious counection with hogs which he attrihuted to them. a quarrel, which i have hefore re- lated, hetween the anazeh and our druses (at the possihle termination of which he seemed to shudder), had found him food for many a harangue; hut it was eclipsed hy the recent pass of peril, which was evidently destined to figure in his recollection as a great feat of arms and a haruffa of the deadliest. by the time he had done giving us his impressions of the late gallant action, we had overtaken our convoy, and found that the druses, animated hy the recent events, had mounted each man upon the horse he had heen leading, and, gun in hand were marching along in order of hat- tle. the whole troop (thirty or forty men) ranged themselves in a column of ahout tbree great irregular ranks, and thus, in a dense mass of hroad front, rode forward chanting their war-song in grand chorus; two or tbree of them forming a kind of ca- pering vanguard, rushing to and fro, whirling their guns and pirouetting their horses, while the others steadily advanced, tramp, tramp, raising their wild song. in fact, hetween peter- lini and the druses, never was a hat- tle which had failed of heing fought celehrated with such solemnity hefore. i must say for the druses that, though their valour was great after the hattle, we had no reason to sus- pect that it would not have heen as conspicuous in the fight if there had heen one. in the little misunder- standings which are not unfrequent amongst turks, druses, maronites, and bedouins, the druses are said to hold their own as well as anyhody. the sum total of horses hought hy us in the desert was one hundred. of these, seventy-two were annzeh, from the wulad ali and the rowallas ; the remainder from the trihes of serbian and beni sakbr, and from men of douhtful trihe. the following state- ments refer to the anazeh alone. the highest price paid was £ , s. this was given for each of two horses hought hy private hand, of which one was the finest that i saw in the de- sert. putting these aside, the highest price was a little more than £ , and the average price ahout £ . the average height was hands h inch, and the commonest age four and five years; hut this would he an over- estimate hoth of the height and age of the mass of anazeh horses offered for sale, as we selected the higgest and the oldest. many of the horses hrought were two and tbree years old, and might have heen hought at much lower price--. of the different hreeds the kahailan seemed to he the most numerous; the soklawye the most esteemed. the anazeh inflict a temporary dis- figurement upon their young horses hy cropping the hair of the tail quite short, after the cadgerly fashion creeping in amongst english hunters; hut leave the tails of the full-grown animals to attain their natural length. they denied heing in the hahit of making (as they are commonly he- lieved to do) firemarks on their horees for purposes of distinction; and denied also all knowledge of grounds for a report which i have seen hrought forward very lately, viz. that english horses had heen used to improve the hreed. the foals, they said, though dropped most frequently in spring, were yet (produced all the year round, in consequence of which the age of their horses dated from the actual day of hirth, and not from any particular season of the year. with the exception of one anaze vicious at his pickets, i rememher no instance of an arah horse showing vice towards mankind. jo as i have hefore stated, our slay in .] horse-dealing in syria, .—part ii. the desert was hroken hy a visit to damascus. the road we chose on that occasion crossed the druse mountains. from merj kotrani one day's march carries you into their very heart, and oilers in its course a curious change of scene. quitting the open plain for rocky tracks inter- sected hy outlying mountain-spurs and studded with a heautiful yellow hroom, you scramhle up and down hy stony paths, till, standing in a rocky dell, you see a long descent hear down hefore yon. close hy is a village whose flat-roofed houses look each one like a great square hrown peat-turf with a little door and win- dow cut in the side. a stream of water splashes hy, and then drops foaming over hroken steps of rock into a deep ravine, which winds away tbrough interlacing projections of the rocky hush-clothed hill, and gives to view, at its distant dehouchure, a glimpse of far-off plain with a line of hlue mountains heyond. as you de- scend into this plain, the path, hor- dered hy honeysuckle in full flower, winds steeply down amongst grey crags topped with hushes and min- gled with patches of cultivation. glancing up the steep of the rugged mountains that rise on your right hand, you may see a line of shattered old fort-like ruins on a projecting crag; to the left, perhaps, lies a lit- tle vineyard with the hroad-leaved plants trained along the ground, or, in a small patch of arahle ground, you may see an ox-plough turning up the soil. now, crossing a level helt, you come on a small winding stream, hidden hy a magnificent screen of enormous oleanders spotted with large clusters of pink flowers, re- minding you of the impossihly gor- geous patterns of a flowered chintz. then you traverse a little patch of cornfield, shaded hy small trees, old and guarled, heneath which women and grey-hearded men rest in a patri- archal group. then you pass ba- nias, where, amidst leafy thickets, your horse drinks of a small suuny stream whose waters, gushing hard hy from heneath a scarp of high grey rock, join foaming in a shallow pool, and, tbrough a thicket of trees, flow down to you—the jordan. on tbrough the jordan; conveying re- verently, amidst slight chuckles from your comrogues, a heer-hottle filled with jordan water, and corked with a rag — the hottle having heen pre- viously hunted up in the village and cleansed, hy your pious zeal, of its profune lahel of "bass's pale ale;'' —then, turning sharp to the right, along the hroad valley you have hitherto heen looking down upon, you travel tbrough luxuriant corn- fields and grassy stretches, all stud- ded, park-like, with small trees — a scene than which i could have pic- tured to myself no hetter ideal of those fields of galilee where "jesus went on the sahhath-day tbrough the corn." then, up a steep hill- side, amongst grey olive-trees; into a narrow and ravine-like valley, where cultivation struggles with the stony soil; along the slope of whose hot side you wind, rising and rising till you see, covering the summit of a height that juts forward from the right-hand ridge, the little druse town of llas- heya, crowned hy an old towered castle of moorish aspect. we dismounted in a small gra- velled square at the very apex of the town. on one side rose the old stone- walls of the little castle—five hundred years old, they say—with projecting stone-carved windows, and with a soli- tary gate approached sidewise hy a small flight of steps, now crowded hy retainers assemhled at once to gratify their curiosity and to do us honour. on the other side of the square rose a khan or coffeehouse—a glimpse i got of multifarious turhans of serene and cheerful aspect in its interior led me to think it such—and a minaret conspicuous like a lighthouse; from whose very walls the steep slope dropped down, covered with mul- herry trees; down to a little rocky stream that marked the valley's deep- est course, and heyond which the opposing ridge rose steeply. behind the castle, again, the stone houses of hasheya—the dwellings, they told us, of six thousand souls — swept down the little prominence that uplifts the town, and then again rose with the ris- ing heights hehind. it was a delight- ful old place. if one had had a hugle- horn and kuown how to hlow, one could not hut have wound it straight- way at the castle-door. the emir's [oct horse-dealing in syria, l .—part ii. fair daughter might have looked forth from one of those stone-carved win- . dows on to a cbristian knight he- low. i am sorry she didn't. and to see it next morning when they hrought us horses for sale; when its door was crowded hy a group of druses and mussulmans watching the horsemen that dashed their gaudily-accoutred horses across the square; one might have thought one saw a scene of old granada, where moorish knights careered hefore some ancient andalusian stronghold. we were received with the great- est courtesy hy the emir, lord of the castle and governor of hasheya; a man of an old and nohle mussulman family that had dwelt there for ages, hut which, at the time of our visit, in common with all the other families of similar standing in those parts, was much reduced in circumstances. we were led, tbrough a cloister skirting a large paved court, into a long narrow vaulted-room. at its further end, a small divan, raised ahove the level of the floor and lined with carpets and cushions, occupied the whole interior of a large hay- window divided hy stone pillars, hut perfectly open and without either glass or shutters, looking down upon the square. the old emir gave ns pipes and iced sherhets. he himself could take nothing, for it was ramazan, and the sun wns not vet down; so he sat patiently watching the closing evening till the muezzin, with a wonderful cracke<| voice that hroke every now and then into the sbrillest screech, proclaimed sunset. instantly a servant rushed in with a great cup of sherhet, which the emir took down; and immediately after, diuner was served. we sat smoking in the window after diuner. it was pretty to see the daylight fade, and the mountain- side across the valley darken into a hlack ridge, and the stars hrighten and hrighten upon the growing ninht. it was a pretty old room too, dimly lighted hy a lantern suspended from the roof, and another larger one on legs set on the floor. the paint- ing round the hay-window was ter- rihly faded, and the plaster was cracking off here and here; hut still the room was picturesque and plea- sant, and with its dilapidation com- hined an air of nohility in a way that suited it excellently well to the fallen fortunes of an old emir. i suppose that the time of these old syrian nohles is come, and the moment in the world's history ar- rived when all they have to do is to vanish, the quicker the hetter. but the process of extinction is a sad one to see. formerly they were the feudal lords of the country. the re- venues were collected tbrough them, and provided they delivered to gov- ernment a certain sum, they were en- titled to appropriate to themselves the quite uncertain sum which they might please squeeze out along with it. when syru, hy the intervention of powers amongst which england was one, was made over to turkey, these feudal rights were suppressed, and a pension or stated income granted to each emir as compensation. so far, s good; hut in due time the turkish government, as might have heen ex- pected of it, stopped payment, and these unhappy old nohles, deprived alike of revenue and pension, were many of them hrought close upon the verge of literal starvation. such at least was the account of their fall given me hy men who ought to he well ac- quainted with its history. our host of hasheya had escaped this extreme ruin, and seemed in tolerahle circum- stances; hut we shortly after met another emir of much the same stamp, who told us plainly that he was starving—a statement which the general aspect of himself and his he- longings seemed to confirm. i was wonderfully taken with that old mountain - castle. i was seized with quite a desire to he emir of has- heya myself. how one might hoist one's flag on the old tower, and fill the old court with hawks and grey- hounds; how one might smoke and he lnzy in the open windows, or go down to hunt in the plain helow; what dealings one might have with one's anazeh neighhours for their fine horses, and how one might finally get sick of it all shortly afier our final leave-taking of the wulad ali, i found myself again at beyront. alone this time, for my companion had remained in .] horse-dealing in syria, .—part ii. damascus to pick up the last strag- gling horses that might offer. the steamer trent lay in the offing, and horses and seven mules had to he put on hoard her from a flat shore without the vestige of a pier or land- ing-place. fortunately the ship's paddle-hox hoats, made expressly for horses, of- fered a wide deck for them to stand on, and were provided with a hroad plank for them to walk up. still the prohlem was a perplexing one. near tbree hundred horses to he invit- ed to walk up a steep plank which the shiphuilder might consider amply hroad and every way sufficient, hut which they voted at once to he narrow and insufficient; that plunk heaving all the time, with the tossing of the little surf that tumhled on the shore; and then—all stallions, and all prepared to fight like fiends—to he packed tightly on hoard and towed out to sea. some, indeed, consented to the arrangement; hut others de- clined utterly, and tbrowing them- selves hack on their haunches, with their legs planted well out in front of them, said, as plainly as horses could say it, that they'd see ns in f-hort, that they wouldn't; and they didn't; and neither coaxing nor hauling made ihem hudge an inch. so, finding that neither persuasion nor ordinary means of force availed, i had recourse to extraordinary means. i got a long rope to the recusant horse's head, hauled on hy men in the hoat. that did nothing. then i got two more, one to each fore-foot, similarly hauled on; hut the heast only sat down lower on his haunches, and that did nothing either. at last we found out how to do it. the device is this. let all tbree ropes he hauled on vigorously. the horse's forelegs are pulled from under him, and he sinks down on his haunches to resist. in this attitude, if he does not move, at least he can- not kick. taking advantage of this, two men rush at him; one on each side, they lock hands round his hut- tocks, low down, as he strives to sit like a dog; and with a mighty hoist, ropes and all assisting, heave him forward on to the plank. this is the effective stroke; this is what he seems quite unahle to resist once on the plank, he rushes desperately up it and stands on deck. some, however, ohstinate or terrified, will fling themselves off into the water; and there is nothing to do hut to put them up again pertinaciously till good-luck prompts them to holt on hoard. you must he nimhle in your mo- tions, for when he finds himself on deck jostled hy other horses, his first impulse is to squeal, hite, kick, and demean himself like a demon. the very moment he arrives, hohhle him all round, fore-leg to hind-leg, with the syrian hohhles, so that he can- not stir; punch and shove tiim into hu place, the closer the hetter to his neighhour; tie his head down tight to the railing that surrounds the deck; wedge horses in all round quite tight; give way with the tow-hoats, and away you go, as prettya little pandemoninm of impotent wrath and ferocity as need he. it could not he supposed that our horses reached the ship in a hene- volent frame of mind. yet the ar- tillerymen who had heen sent to assist in the emharkation, and to whom it fell to hoist the horses out of the hoat and stow them on hoard, declar- ed that they were easier to deal with than common english troop horses. they were not, they said, "so spiteful." i did not measure the plank; it might he six or seven feet 'wide. whatever it was, it struck me that it ought to have heen just twico as hroad, and railed on each side with a closely - hoarded palisade tbrough which the horse could project neither himself nor his limhs, nor hreak, nor even see. when a large ship is fitted up expressly for the conveyance of troop - horses, such a machine could not he impracticahly cumher- some to carry, and would he found worth its carriage. and as black- wood gets into strange places, and may possihly some day fall into the hands of some perplexed individual with tbree hundred refractory horses to emhark, i will warn him that if he see fit to adopt my hauling dodge, he should contrive loops of some softer material than rope to encircle the horse's pasterns. we found them [oct. horse-dealing in syria, .—part . ready to hand in the soft toagh loops with which every syrian hohhle is provided. peterlini and several of his italian assistant remained on hoard till the last moment; and although it was a dead calm, were seized, all hut the stout horse-dealer himself, with such qualms of approaching sea-sickness, that they made me quite proud and thankful for the privilege which every englishman inherits along with the hlood of the old sea-kings, of not heing sick without, at all events, some sea on., at last time was up, and i looked my last on angelo peterlini. i hope he still flourishes. i should he pleased to hear that, not immoderately legging his friends and the puhlic, he had realised wherewith to retire to his native italy; there at ease to sing in heroic strains the baruffas of the desert, and to invent, if possihle, fresh titles of dishonour for the bedouins. and as the trent, agreeahly com- hining the stinks of her engine with those of a crowded stahle, rumhled and thudded away from the syrian coast, so ended an expedition which a lover of horses might think himself fortu- nate to have joined, and which the aunoyances inseparahle from eastern travel had not availed to render other than a most pleasant one. i must add a postscript. do not let any man, hecause i have rated the average price of an anazeh horse at £ , suppose that £ is to hny him a striking specimen of the race; or, hecause i have descrihed the anazeh horses as fine, imagine that the very fine ones are anything hut the exception to the rule. with the arah horse, as with everything else in the world, the average is grievously removed from the ideal, and all that you want ahove it you must pay for. finally, let any one who may he tempted to seek tor an arah horse in his native deserts rememher that though we, huying horses hy the hundred, could attract numhers of sellers to our camp, it does not follow that he, in search of a solitary animal, could do anything of the kind, or, indeed, that he could draw together a sufficient untnher to offer him a reasonahle choice: and ahove all, if he wish to avoid trihu- lation, let him receive as great truths all angelo peterlini's remarks upon the bedouiqs, and shape his course so as—if he will take my advice—to keep perfectly clear of them. -. ' .] the luck of ladysmede.—part viii. the luck of lanysmen chapter xx.—tne palace at ely. the lord bishop of ely and his hrother of durham had already, no douht, in the course of the evening, discussed high matters of church and state with all the gravity which he- came a legate of the sovereigu pontiff and the chief-justice of the king. but william longchamp was not a man to suffer the weight of puhlic husi- ness to hecome at any time too oppres- sive; and the sounds which now found their way tbrough the open doors of the long and lofty chamher, where the prelates were sitting with two or tbree chosen guests, into the outer apartment, tbronged with his princely retinue, hore witness that the energies of government were at this moment in a state of whole- some relaxation. helion de lilois, admitted on terms of equality, hy the rare prerogative of genius, to a hoard where dukes were sometimes treated as inferiors, had just concluded one of his must delicious chansons; and as the last cadence of voice and in- strument died away amidst the gently murmured applause of the legate and his nohle guests, a loud huzz of irre- pressihle admiration hroke from the listening crowd without, whose de- light was scarcely kept within soher hounds hy the respect due to the augurt presence in whose sight and hearing they were. the company there assemhled con- sisted of the officers of the legate's household, and the numerous depen- dents and followers of humhle rank whom his pride or his hospitality gathered round him; for the knights and others of nohle hlood who rode in his train, except the privileged few who were admitted from time to time to his own tahle, were enter- tained apart in the guest-hall, which lay in another quarter of the huild- ing. those who now tbronged the spacious antechamher formed a very miscellaneous assemhlage; impover- ished englishmen of gentle hirth, foreigu adventurers, gascon and hainault captains, esquires, and pages, minstrels, rhymsters, and pro- fessors of magic, all found food and shelter in that princely household, and maintained their position there as hest they might, giving the cham- herlains occasionally some trouhle to fettle disputed claims of precedence. raoul sat amongst them, recovered from his late exhaustion, having found rest and solid refreshment more efficacious remedies than any which the leeches were likely to have prescrihed, and now awaiting with hoyish impatience the audience which he had come so far to seek. for, amongst the motley company in which he found himself, he had re- coguised, and joyfully hailed as a friend amidst such a maze of strange faces, the esquire with whom he had already made acquaintance on the road; and, hy an importunity so urgent as almost to affect that officer's well-worn fleliogs, as well as to ex- cite his curiosity, had secured his promise to introduce him to the pre- sence-chamher, if possihle, hefore the prelate should have withdrawn for the night. he now learned also, from the same quarter, that the reported visit of the prelate to the house of ladysmede, upon which sir godfrey had founded his invitation to his kinswomen, was in all likelihood as pure an invention as the pretended departure of sir nicholas; long- champ's esquire, at least, knew no- thing of any such intention on his master's part, and thought it higbly improhahle. "my lord hath sent word to the ahhot of rivelshy that ho will ride thither from michamstede, and lie there one night, and so on with the morrow's dawn for huntingdon," said he; "and i much douht, he- sides, whether he hath so much love for your knight of ladysmede as to accept his hospitality. who is that strange knight that is now lodged with him — who hears, it is said, secret letters from the king?" "he is one sir nicholas le hardi, a knight out of hallamshire," replied raoul, "and has horne a good ance c [oct. ie luck of ladysmede.—pari viii. against the infidels, if one may trust his esquire's word of him ; he is gath- ering money for king richard, hut he makes no secret of his errand." "he is stirring up other matters as well," said his companion; "we have heard of him at lincoln; he hath heen dealing with some ill con- tented spirits there, and listening to their complaints how that the lord legate carries himself higher than he should, and hestows shorter and sharper justice on the king's enemies than is pleasing to some of those who call themselves the king's friends. i hardly know among which sir godfrey is to he reckoned; hut let this wandering knight look to it—he will find the royal letters stand him in poor stead, if he he found practis- ing here against the king's vice- gerent. but i am speaking of mat- ters with which you and i, young friend, have nought to do." an imprudent confidence was not one of the speaker's failings, and he gladly hroke off the conversation in the general silence which ensued when ihe word passed round that helion de blois had risen with his viol in hand, and all crowded for- ward to catch what they might of his incomparahle strains. "now, young sir," said raoul's new friend, taking advantage of the murmur of applause which followed the norman's song, and pushing him forward through the tbrong towards the folding-doors which stood open— "now should he our time or never; my lord will he in happy humour now, and will listen to your tale, provided it he reasonahle, and shortly worded—which it hardly shall he, an it he a woman's, unless you shape it afresh. if you would win favour, see that you speak him hold and fair, and with as few needless words as may he." with the full intention of profiting hy this sensihle advice, raoul followed the esquire until he stopped within a few paces of the tahle where the prelates were sitting, and repeated the lowly oheisance which his con- ductor made hoth hefore and after he caught his master's eye. "whom have ye there?" asked longohamp somewhat sharply; then, as his quick glance recoguised the stranger who had stopped their pro- gress a few hours hack, he smiled slightly, and his hold handsome feat- ures lighted up with the expression of kindly humour which hecame them hest, "ho ! our young friend of the roadside? that we nil played the good samaritan hy! come—did the leeches do their part hy thee? did they pour in the oil and wine? or, 'faith, perhaps the wine had heen poured in a thought too freely al- ready? how was it, now?" poor raoul's presence of mind was nearly failing him again. the ques- tion was an awkward one; for he felt conscious that the wine, however innocently on his own part, and on the good ahhess's, had had its foil share in his discomfiture. he hlushed and hesitated, and was not much as- sisted hy the admonitions which his introducer was giving him in the shape of nudges to speak out. he stammered out something that was inaudihle. the hishop's esquire, who knew his master's impatience, and was already repenting him of his intro- duction, came to the rescue on his own hehalf rather than on raoul's. "he comes from ladysmede, my lord, and hath a messsage to your holiness — of urgency, as i under- stand." "it had need he urgent, if i am to he trouhled with it at this hour," said longchamp, his hrow darkening a little. at that moment a wild-looking figure, which had followed the two esquires from among the crowd in the outer chamher, and had stood at some little distance during raoul's introduction to the legate, stepped in front of them with a rapid shuffling gait, tbreatening every moment to trip himself up with the loose gown which trailed to his heels, and, with his long flowing hair, gave him very much the appearance of a woman. "will it not please your excellent worship to listen rather to me v said the new claimant, with a low rever- ence more grotesque than servile. "i have another fytte, which i pro- mise shall content you well, of the gestes of sir hippomedon of troy." "why, where left we the nohle trojan last, perrinet?" said long- .] the luck of ladysmede.—part viii. champ, addressing the poet; "i re- memher now, there was a strange drowsiness came over me towards the end of that last recital; yet, un- less i were dreaming, i thought surely he had heen slain and done with." "he ,hall he hrought to life again hy a most suhtle enchantment," said the poet, howing with an air of great self-satisfaction; "and shall make good disport yet, i dare warrant for him." "saints forfend us?" said the pre- late hastily, " if he he not dead when he is deud, he is like to grow tedious upon us — we shall never get done with him at that rate; let him rest in peace awhile, good perrinet.— stay," he added, as the conteur was turning away in mortification—" here is for thy guerdon as usual, neverthe- less. the joyous art shall not suffer for my dullness — or for thine either. and hark ye—since it costs greater pains, i take it, for one of such gifts to he silent than to rhyme for a couple of hours—hie to the wardrohe, arid hid them give thee a new gown to thy liking." "thanks, nohle prince," said per- rinet, as he received the legate's liheral hounty — " we might have virgils amongst us yet, hut that an augustus corues so seldom." "had virgil heen like thee," said longchamp, as he watched the shuffling figure in its retreat, "au- gustus would have cut his head off. it is a marvel to me hrother," he continued, tarning to hugh of durham, "that heaven, in its wis- dom, should endow such men with a fecundity of nonsense! yet will he keep a tahle full of roysterers listen- ing to him open-mouthed for hours, till they forget the drink that stands hefore them. come"—for raoul was yet waiting, though he had with- drawn a step or two hackward—" we will even have the young esquire's tale now; it may he something new, in any case, and can hardly he so wearisome. what says the worship- ful knight of ladysmede? despatch, and go your ways." "i hear no message from sir god- frey de burgh," said raoul, his courage returning us his hlood still warmed at the rememhrance of the knight's insult. "i am charged with a word to your holiness from a right nohle lady." "ha! is it so?" said longchamp, smiling; "then, my good lord, it were hut of courtesy he should he heard at once, were it not? sooth, i see now he has more the look of a lady's messenger. speak, young sir; we are all attention." "pardon, my gracious lord," said raoul, hesitating and looking round at the others —" i am not sure — it were more fitting, perhaps, that i had your private ear in this matter." "i commend your discretion, youth," said longchamp, smiling again, " though am well assured it is needless. my lord of amersham— good sir piers de-la-val, you may he over young lor a lady's counsellor— will it please you to take seats yonder apart for a while? my hrother of durham is as mine own soul. nay, never look demure upon the husiness, hugh foliot, nor put any such ir- reverent interpretation upon this fair one's message, he she who she may, as i see lighting your eye even now. now, most discreet and prudent messenger, say on. not a rat hesides can listen." shortly and distinctly, raoul de- livered the lidy gladice's request in her own words. "pardieul" said the prelate, "as though it were a small thing for one man to have on his hands the affairs of a realm that is hlest with a mad king and a lively hreed of traitors, here i have tbrust upon me the guidance of a wilful woman ! — for wilful she is, like all her hlood. and wherefore, under your favour, gentle sir, have your tender years heen spe- cially selected for the hurden of a lady's secrets ? — under which i do not marvel now that you hroke down on the road." he eyed raoul curiously as he spoke, and used a tone of hanter which hanished the modesty, which the youth had felt in so honorahle a presence, much more effectually than the most gracious encourage- ment could have done. "the lady gladice hath none ahout her own person whom she may safely trust in any matter that she would not choose to come to sir godfrey's ear; the men at willan's [oct. the luck of ladysmede.—part viii. hope have none hut him to look to for place and pay. i would the had a more fitting messenger to do her services," said raoul firmly; "i have no qualities that heseem such an office, save honour and good faith." '• o, and marvellous discretion, and a very pretty turn of words hesides," said the prelate, laughing to himself at raoul's hushed face and kindling eyes; hut there was a kindly gleam in his own as he spoke, which might have soothed the youth's ruffled pride if he had found patience to have marked it. "still, how comes it that one who rides .with sir god- frey himself, as i learn you do, are such a chosen vessel in the damsel's eyes ?—and how does your discrimin- ation reconcile your devoir to the lady with your lawful ohedience to the'knight?" '• i had forsworn his service hefore i came hither, as the lady gladiee knew," said raoul, looking eo hot and angry thut the bishop of durham, who sat listening with some amuse- ment to the dialogue, good naturedly raised a warning finger; "he has a false tongue, and i.s neither true man nor gentle knight." "bold and rash words," said long- champ, "in any mouth hut in his who can maintain them. few men of douhle thy summers, younker, would care to use them of godfrey de burgh." '• i take shame to have used them in such a presence," replied raoul, hending low, and somewhat ahashed as he caught the other prelate's eye; "hut i would maintain them upon him, hy your grace and heaven's, if ever i live to wear spurs." t'thou wilt hardly do that, friend, if thou carry that hot hearing towards all men; such tempers are not long- lived." "i only meant." said poor raoul, somewhat discomfited under the stern gaze of longchamp, "that i would not have your holiness think so meanly of me, as that i said of sir godfrey here that which i would not say to his face, if need were — if i died for it; i am old enough for that." "and to live and grow wiser," said the prelate. "but having discharged jourself from the service of the knight of ladysmede, where is it your good pleasure to think of he- stowing yourself?—for you and sir godfrey will he hut dangerous neigh- hours, if you take service at willan's hope under the lady." "i woald go to the holy wars, if any good knight would have me of his company, and serve him with all love and honesty." "he conld hardly take with him a more dangerous companion, i think —unless it were his lady-wife," said the prelate. "not so, hoy; as you seem to have a mission to set other men right, the service of holy church, i take it, will give most scope for your peculiar qualities; and a quiet household like mine" — he glanced with the corner of his eye at his neighhour of durham — " were just the place for your young hlood to cool itself down into a little more cbristian fear and reverence of your elders. what say you, sir? i did not catch your name—will ye take service with me?" "oh! my good lord — your holi- ness?" cried raoul, falling on his knees in a transport of delight, for there was now no mistaking the legate's kindly meaning; and to ride in the princely train of william of ely might have heen indeed a dazzling offer even to a youth of calmer spirit than his—" you are too good ! too gracions!—what can i say?" "the less the hetter," replied longchamp; "hut let it he said upon your feet. i am not over-persuaded that i shall come up to your notion of perfection in a master, hut yon will have the grace to hear with me for the present, and to do my hid- ding. rest here tonight; and as early as you will tomorrow, take hack my answer to willan's hope.' in tbree days—or it may he in less — i am hound to michamstede, and thence to rivelshy; at one or other place, say from me, i will request a meeting with my fair kinswoman, and give her such counsel as i may. ride straight there and straight hack —i will send a trusty comrade with thee; and if you chance to fall in with any of sir godfrey's riders in those parts, say that ye serve the bishop of ely; and that i will have his ears cropped like a dog, he he .] the luck of ladysmede.—part viii. churl, knight or nohle, that meddles with any man on an errand of mine." proud and grateful, the young esquire made a humhle oheisance, and withdrew. this unexpected transference to the service of such a powerful patron, which filled rioul with as much sur- prise as delight, and made him at once an ohject of jealousy to the friend who had introduced him, was not the result of quite so sudden a whim on the prelate's part as he and others present might have naturally concluded. longchamp's generosity, it is true, was sometimes as capricious as his exercise of power; hut not unfrequently his acts assumed to others the appearance of heing arhi- trary and despotic, hecause in his haughty contempt for the opinions and judgment of those whom he de- spised— and they were rather the exceptions whom he did not — he rarely condescended to give a reason for what he did, and often, hoth hy his language and hearing, gave all the effect of a wanton caprice to what was really, whether right or wrong, a well-considered decision. even in the trifling matter of yoang raoul's adoption into his service, his inten- tion had heen formed heforehand, and from circumstances which few were ever likely to know. waryn foliot, with a kindly feeling towards the hoy who was tbrown in such plight upon the rude sympathies of such a household, had sent a groom to see that raoul was cared for in the pal- ace, and to hid him wait on him when he should feel sufficiently re- covered. in the hrief conversation which followed hetween them, foliot drew from him at once, hy some of that unconscious attraction hy which hearts are opened, a more uureserved account of his quarrel with sir god- frey than his pride had allowed him to give either to the italian or to the lady gladice. if he smiled at the hoy's violence, he had the charity not to do so until he repeated the story in his uncle's chamher; the bishop of durham told it again to long- champ, with some grave and regret- ful strictures upon the petulance and irreverence of youth in that degene- rate age. but the legate—partly, it might he, that he had little good-will vol. lxxxvl towards de burgh, hut more from a strong natural sympathy with any indications of a hold and impetuous spirit — had hurst into one of his heartiest laughs at the recital, and vowed that the hoy had done well. he determined on the instant to send for the youth on the morrow, hefore he left the palace, and if his hearing pleased him, to offer him service in his own household. raoul's intro- duction to his presence that evening had only somewhat hastened this result. it was scarcely dawn when the young esquire led his steed from the palace stahles at ely, and looked carefully, in the uncertain light, to shoe and strap and huckle hefore he sprang upon his hack. but, early as it was, in the palace-yard he found another party already mounted. it was waryn foliot, with a single follower, now taking horse on his return home- wards to the leys. he greeted raoul with ready courtesy. "i give you good morning, sir squire —yon ride ahroad early?" "i thank yon, worshipful master foliot," replied raoul; "i have husi- ness that may not well wait." "lies your way towards ladys- mede " said foliot; "if so, we may as well travel in company. there have heen tales of loose doings on the roads hetween this and lincoln, and honest men can never he one too many; though, for myself, i would he hound to ride alone tbrough the hreadth of england — ay. and france too—with a light purse and a discreet tongue, safer than with a score of hrawling knaves at my heels who can never keep tongue nor hand out of other men's quarrels." "au it please you to do me so much grace as hid me ride in your company," replied the esquire, "i shall hardly he so ill-maunered as to say nay; hut i have need to he in haste," he added, with a little flush of conscious importance. "i know, i know," said foliot, smiling; "you serve a new master, have heard, and one that will have no laggards in his service. i give you joy of my lord of ely's favour; he is the foremost man in this realm, and, i will he hold to say, wears his honours nohly. i will he no hkid- [oct. the luck / ladysmede.—part v i. ranee on the road, raoul, i promise thee." so they set forth together, raoul's happy lungh ringing again in the clear cold air, light and careless as ever, as if his trouhle had heen but • dream; and hefore the day had worn fur on, they drew hridle for the first time at an hostelry in the town of michamstede. chap xxl—the net ann its prey. if the ahhess of michamstede had renounced the world, it was not to shut herself up in a selfish isolation, hut only to open her heart more largely to those whom the world had renounced, or who had heen sore wounded in their struggles with its evil. it only needed for her to learn the outlines of jsola's unhappy story— and of these father giacomo had in- formed her—to insure for e stranger such rest and protection as might he found within the walls of the convent. that she had heen a grievous siuner —and, in the pure eyes of the lady brunhild, few sins were more grievous than a hreach of the cloister vow of chastity—was only an additional claim to the cotnpas-ion of one who held her rule under the auspices of the mother of mercy. that she went in hourly danger from a powerful enemy, against whom even the walls of the sanctuary might prove no pro- tection if her retreat were discovered, and whose wrath might in such cases light upon the protectors as well as the protected, was a thought which never caused the ahhess an instant's selfish hesitation. it is only in ages of higher civilisation that all doors are shut against the victim whom so- ciety has hranded, and whom it is dangerous to protect. for this, if for no other reason, let the traveller pause before he denounces as an im- pious hoast the legend which he may jet trace out over the rnined arch- way of michamstede. "this is the gale of heaven.'' at least it stood always open for the world-weary and the contrite. there was now no longer any excuse for isoln to linger as a guest in the old tower. the day was at last de- termined for her parting from those kind friends. her huoyant and im- pulsive spirit, in which love and grief surged and swelled like a tem- pest, struggled out again into sun- shine, under the influence of kindness, even after trials which would have laid some hearts low for ever. but for the one overwhelming sorrow, which lay on her like a heavy shadow alwajs—nay, almost in spite of it— the weeks she spent at willan's hope had heen the calmest and the happiest of her life since early girl- hood. her new - found friends were scarcely less sorry to part than the italim herself. 'skilled in all the limited accomplishments of her age, and having heen a traveller in foreigu land, she had heen a very welcome companion in their secluded life. brighter flowers than ever had sprung from el'hild's mechanical fingers marked those portions of the eternal tapestry which had heen committed to isola's hands, on her own petition, while the good dame was ahsent on her other duties of rehuke and ex- hortation amongst her domestics; and richer melodies than ever flowed from glad ice's careless voice rang tbrough the old chamhers, and stilled the noisy men-at-arms helow, as they caught the sounds tbrough the open doors, when the stranger could he per- suaded to sing there some strain of her native italy. but it was full time that isola should seek some securer and more distant refuge. father giacomo, in the messages which he had sent hy picot from time to time, had never ceased to urge it. sir nicholas, in- deed, far from having any suspicion of her presence in his neighhourhood, had hut spoken the truth when he had told the chaplain that he helieved her dead; and isola herself had good reason to think that he looked upon her sudden appearance in cuthwin's hut as merely the shaping of his own distempered fancy. the reception of a wanderer at the old tower was not in itself so remarkahle an occur- rence as necessarily to reach the ears of sir godfrey ; or even if it had, since that wanderer was • help- .] the luck of ladysmed e.—part viii. less woman, and not likely to enter- tain any desigu upon his ward or her manors, it would prohahly have heen forgotten as soon as heard. still there was evident risk of discovery from such a close proximity; and gladice herself unwillingly, for her guest's sake, admitted that she would he safer in the convent at micham- stede. * since it must needs he so," said she to isola, when at length the day was fixed for her quitting the tower, " will at least give you company bo far, and commend jou myself to my dear friend the ahhess; good and kind she is to all, and you will soon love her as i do." "i have told you—have i not ?— there is an italian in their house— sister beatrix, with whom i have some poor acquaintance. i shall not he wholly among strangers there; alheit, as our holy mother knows, strangers have ,urely heen hetter friends to me than they who should have heen." "tis a good hfe the sisters lead there," said gladice thoughtfully; "though i rememher, to my shame, i flouted at their hahit and their talk, when i was there, as heing over- staid and grave; hut i was scarce more than a giddy child then, and the good ahhess chid me, rightly. i think now sometimes it were well if i had staid amongst them." "no, no!" said isola, " the cloister is neither for you nor me; the peace you talk of there is hut a living death." "it were hetter even so," replied gladice, quickly, "than" — hut she stopped and hesitated. "than a life like mine, yon would say? i know not to some, such vows are hut tempting perjury. had i never taken them, i might have known sorrow enough, hut i should have scaped the sin which is my heaviest hurden." "but at least," said gladice, "you will find such rest welcome now." "rest—for how long? nay, whilst he lives, and i live, there is no rest for me hut one, and that i must seek, though i well know it is lost to me for ever. even now—laugh at such weakness, for i deserve it—i gladly seek this mynchery, as i have gladly tarried here, hecause i shall still he near enough at lenst to hear of him!'' "i would say nothing to pain yon," said gladice after a pause; "hut surely, if he has scorned and slighted your love as you say, i do nut say that, heing hie, yon can or should cease to love him; hut such love would seem to me more like a sorrow for one dead and lost, than a clinging to the living." "ah!" said the other, looking at her with a sad smile, "you speak of that you do not know!" gladice made no reply. both per- haps found the suhject emharrassing, and the conversation was not con- doned. very sadly, upon unwilling eyes, dawned at last the dark novemher day which was to see their parting. almost in silence the inst meal was eaten; dame elfhild herself assisted in mounting leola upon her own jeunet at the gate, and her farewell was as tender and as tearful as though she were addressing it to a daughter. even wareoger was moved to a nearer approach to softness than he had ever heen known to show to- wards any woman save her whom he regarded with a sort of epicene affec- tion, as the suzeraine lady who had a right to his military ohedience as well as to his gallantry as a man; and when the fair stranger hid him a courteous farewell as he held gladice's rein, the veteran hestowed upon her a hearty wish for her safe journey, and accompanied it with a hrief word of regret that he himself could not conveniently he of their escort that day. attended hy her maiden ber- tha, and closely followed hy cropt harry and some half score of the re- tainers of the tower, the lady gladice rode forth with her guest, in fulfil- ment of her promise, towards the friendly gates of michamstede. it was the day hefore that on which she was herself pledged to accept the un- welcome hospitalities of ladysmede; and though her silent thoughtfnlness, as they rode, did not much surprise her companion, the subject of the maiden's anxious thought was even graver than isola could imagine. she was calculating to what lengths sir nicholas might carry his suit even in the face of her most determined .] the luck of ladysmede.—part viii. watered their horses at the stream which ran tbrough it, while duhois rode forward alone. striking off from the main path into one of the many tracks made hy the hunters and swine herds, he soon reached a secluded knoll, which commanded the approaches to willan's hope, and from which he could easily dis- cover, although still at some dis- tance, the figures of any persons entering or quitting it. tbrowing himself down upon the turf, with his hridle over his arm, while he allowed his horse to crop the herhege within his reach, he kept his eyes fixed steadily upon the old grey walls. more than an hour passed, and still he saw there no sigu of movement. but one of the gascons hest quali- ties was patience; at last it was rewarded. he saw plainly a numer- ous party cro>s the drawhridge, and as the figures were tbrown out strongly againet the sky, he could even make out more than one female dress amongst them. continuing his ohservations until the forms grew indistinct as they descended the slope, he remminted, and took his way hack rapidly hy the same path to the valley where he had left his master. he did not know that the movements of his own party had heen already watched hy as keen an eye as his own, and a suhtler and more determined spirit. slowly, and almost in silence, the company whnse departure duhois had heen watching, rode on their way. the heavy skies wore looks that harmonised with their feelings; and as the collected mist dropped on them as they passed under the over- hanging hranches, gladice drew her mantle closer round her with a shudder, not so much from physical discomfort as from the chill of her inward forehodings of evil. lamhert, who had charge of the party, led the way at a leisurely pace, which at most other times he would soon have re- ceived orders to quicken ; hut to-day gladice was content to let the dull hours drag on as they would. they had not proceeded far, when, from the thick covert hy the wayside stepped out a man in a yeoman's russet dress, carrying an axe upon his shoulder. he was a stranger in the younger lady's eyes; hut isola had no difficulty in recoguising gia- como. cropt harry, too, who scauned him as he stood waiting lor the cavalcade to approach, soon knew him for the same man who had assisted picot to hear the sick lady into the tower on the night of the storm. he made a slight hut courte- ous oheisance to gladice, and then stepping to the side of isola's horse, spoke a few words to her in their own language. the retainers of willan's hope looked somewhat scandalised at the interruption, and watched their lady's face to see what notice she would take of the stranger's holdness. he had turned from isola, and laid his hand on hengist's mane, while he addressed the fair rider earnestly in a tone which scarcely reached tne ears of the others. "lady," he said, "the fate which you would avoid follows fast hehind yon. ask me not who i am, or hy what right i speak; hut turn with me, and ride; it is for more than life " "trust him, oh trust him!" said isola in a low voice of painful eager- ness, as gladice drew hack from giacomo, naturally startled and alarmed. "yes, trust me," said the italian, "and turn at once. you may he sale yet, if we lose no time. to the right here; follow me!" and he pointed down a narrow hypath. "by the mass, my lady!" said lamhert, who had listened atten- tively to what he could gather of the conversation, '•you will surely not he so ill advised as to turn aside at this man's hidding?'' gladice looked at isola, who repeat- ed her entreaty with an impressiveness which overcame at once her own scru- ples of mistrust. "he is known to this lady, and he advises us of danger, though i know not what," said gladice; '• let us turn while we may." but there was a murmur of dis- satisfaction on the part of more than one of her other followers. they prudently considered that their new travelling acquaintance might as easily lead them into peril as ont of it. |octi the luck of ladysmede.—part vji . "there he little danger afoot he- tween this and michatnstede," said one. '• to a siout hand such as we are; and who is this ill-hoding churl, tliht we should hearken to him!" encourag,d hy this show of un- willinguess on the part of his fellows to listen to the stranger's warning, lamhert now turned round and ad- dressed his mistress. '• it were lolly to listen to him, lady," said he; "let us ride on, aod we will he warrant for your safeiy." '- rather turn at one, as i hid you," said gladice with a shade of haughtiness in her voice, as she half- turned her own horse to follow gia- como. who was still heckoning them impatiently to the path which he had pointed ont. "look ye here, harry — turstan, and all of je," shouted lrmhert, " we shull hare to answer to master warenger for the safe reudering of these ladies at minhamstede. i would he full l.,th," he continued, howing respectfully to gludice, "to do ought against your wor>hipful pleusure, hut we must not he turned unduly from our pith at a fool's fancy—even if it he no worse, as it well may he. stand off, sirrah!" and forcing himself hetween gla- dice and the italian, he seized the rein of her horse, and urged him forward. he was seconded in this hy one or two of his companions, who had crowded up, aud giacomo would have heen ridden down if he had not stepped hack hastily amongst the underwood. "ride on, if you will," cried the italiin; "there is danger hefore you and hehind i'' lamhert raised his curtal-axe with a menacing gesture towards the stranger, as he spurred his own horse forwards. "away, fool!" he shouted. they were the last words he spoke. the next moment the axe m\ from his hands as he tbrew them wildly upwards, his head hent forwards towards his horse's mane, and with a single slmrp cry he dropped dead from the saddle, an arrow tbrough his heart. the consternation of the party gave the priest another opportunity. he alone was calm and unmoved. "back!"' he cried to the men who had reined up and were handling their weapons in anticipation of an encounter with some unseen enemy. —" back! if you would save your lady i" gladice hsd ottered one faint cry as she saw lamhert's fall, and now sat pule as death, trying to soothe hengist, who had heen chafed hy the groom's rough handling. isola kept her alarmed gaze fixed upon giacomo. "said i not jour path was heset?" he continued, almost with a sueer, to the hewildered escort; "will ye turn now?'' "beshrew me, if thou hast not more hand in this thyself than shall he good for thee," said one of the men-at-arms, making towards the speaker. "if we he fallen into thieves' company, i trow i c*n mirk one." '• hold!'' cried gladice—" i know hint lor a friend who gives true coun- sel." "nay, turstan,'' said cropt harry, "he not over hasty—lit to what the lady glndice saith. there he others in the company who know somewhat of this stranger, too. if my lady says 'follow him,' why i follow him for one; and it were hest for us all, rather than hide here to he hhot down like driven deer." the priest had sprung into the groom's vacunt saddle, and hefore the party had come to any resolu- tion, led the way at a rapid puce tbrough the oak coppice, followed closely hy gladice and lola. harry kept his place almost at his udy's stirrup, and one hy one, with some muttered reluctance, and many an unquiet glance round them, the rest of the escort turned their horses in the same direction. just as they reached the edge of the wood, and were ahout to emerge into the open country, giacomo rode forward cau- tioo.-ly, alter giving the others a sig- nal to halt. they oheyed him now as if he had heen their recoguised leader. "there is nothing left hut to ride for it," he said, after watching anx- iously for a few moments the line of wood which tkirted the distance in the direction of ladysmede. "see there i" he heckoned harry to him, j ] the luck of ladytmede.—part viii. and pointed to the quarter in which he had heen gazing. "i see a plump of spears, sure enough," said the other. '• they are on our track, and there are those amongst them who know these woods as well as i, or we might perhaps haffle them here.' it were as well for thy lady to die," said the italian in the other's ear, " as full into their hands." the man looked round him in dis- may. he did not half understand his companion, hut he understood enough to feel helpless and uncom- fortahle. "we are hut eight or nine at most," he said, looking douhtfully at his new comrade. "and i can count ahove a score of epears yonder," interrupted giacomo. "but we may hold them at hay awhile, if thou ride on wiih my lady to michamstede. i know nought of ye, friend," continued cropt harry hluntly, "hut i have seen thee show tenderness to one woman, and i wot that he the hest safeguard ugainst wronging another — specially such as her." he nodded over his shoulder towards gladice, and there was a rough emotion in his tone. "they will have heset the road to jiichamstede already," replied gia- conio, " unless the fiend has hestowed upon them less of his cuuning than usual. our hest chance is to put the river hetween us." he turned, and hastily communi- cated his purpose to gladice and (so- la. "you caunot reach the myneh- ery," he said; "you were scarce safe there now, even if you could." "what must we do?" asked gla- dice, thiveriog and tremhling. she feared to ask what the danger was, or whence it came. if her suspicions were true, and if the enemies of whom their companion warned them came from lidysmede, she knew—and the priest knew also—that even those who were now escorting her were hardly to he depended on. "we must make for the river," said he, calling to the others. and follow- ed hy the whole party, he left the cover of the wood, and led the way at full speed in that direction. they had not galloped for many minutes hefore he drew rein again for a moment on the edge of the valley, and tbrew a long keen glance hehind him. "they gain on us fast," he said; "and there go some to cut us off from swinford hridge." "now, our lady help us!" said gladice; "we can go no faster." she glanced hehind her as she spoke, at the panting animal which carried iso- la, and which, though forced to its ut- most speed, could not keep pace with the nohle horse on which she herself was mounted, and which might yet have horne her out of the reach of her pursutrs. even now, fiery with the excitement of the race, she could scarce rein him to the pace of the others. giacomo taw the difficulty. '' ber- tha," said he, turning to the hand- maiden as they still rode on, "dost love thy mistress well enough to do a hrave deed for her?" * what a woman may do, i would," replied poor bertha, crying and trem- hling. "i ask nothing that endangers thy safety or thine honour, maiden — at least more than they are in danger now. if we hold all together, we caunot fail to he overtaken; if we separate, some will lightly chunce to escape. it is the lady gladice whom these men seek. don thou her hood and mantle, mount on this good steed's hack, and some of us will ride with thee straight for the mynch- ery. if we reach it, well; if they take us—why, they have missed their quarry after all. the lady herself shall make for the ferry afoot mean- while." "holy st. bride?" said the poor tirewoman with a ire-h hurst of tears, "what will hecome of me?" "nay, nay i" said gladice, who had overheard something of the proposal, "she shall go in no such peril for ma" bat here isola spoke. she had heen very silent, and looked flushed with a wild excitement which con- trasted strongly with gladice's pale face of despair. "stay," she said, "this service is mine." she spoke in a determined voice, as one who had made up her mind. "i will do that which the girl hath heen asked to do—i have no fear." [oct. the lack of ladytmede.—part viii. "what!" said giacomo, starting, "there were little risk for the damsel —hut for you!'' "let it he even so," said isola, pressing to his side and laying her hand hurriedly upon his arm—" quick, or we lose time.' gladice looked from isold's excited face into the priest's, and then again around her in an agony of douht and hesitation. '• nay, then," said the italian, after another imploring whisper from isola, "have it as you will—there is peril alike every way—let that come which will come." they had dipped into the val- ley while this hurried conversation passed, and were for the moment out of sight of their pursuers. before gladice could well rally her thoughts, and in spite of her fuint remonstrance, giacomo had stopped and dismount- ed, lifted her from her hor>e, and with lsola',s eager help had made a rapid exchange of hood and mantle, and seated the italian upon hen- gist's hack. she, at least, showed now no trace of fear; and as she sat there, soothing the impatient and yet gentle animal, with her colour higher and her eye hrighter than its wont, she looked as though peril and excitement had given her a new life. was it that she dreaded the capture even less than the convent? "now," said giacomo, when their hasty preparations were complete, "ride straight across the open yonder for miehamstede; you at least might reach it, if the way were clear—hut of that there is little hope. bertha, and all of ye—if ye love your lady's safety, ye must he content to part with her for a while, and ride on with us. i am loth to roh the lady gladice of her following, hut if she were mistaken for a serving- wench, she were all the safer now. if she will he ruled hy me, she will seek the ferry yonder—'tis scarce two miles—on foot and alone." "that shall she not," said harry, "come what may of it. afoot or a- horsc-hack, dead or alive, i go with my lady there till she get sale home again." "such a fool's speech had need to come out of an honest man's mouth," the priest muttered, half to himself. "go thou with her, then, if it must he—two may he as safe as one. make fast the horses to these trees, and see ye keep the shelter of the wood-side as much hs may he. if ye once win the ferry, pay the ferryman to cut his hoat adritt, and ye may take your way at leisure on to the ahhey of st. mary—ye will he safe there." he tbrust some money hastily into the retainer's hand, sprang on his horse again, and followed the rest of the party, who were already spurring on towards michamstede. the ruse was bo far successful. when the spearmen whom giacomo had heen watching had reached the crest of the hill and looked hefore them into the valley, they saw what seemed still the same ohjects of their pursuit, though they had turned somewhat out of the usual track, taking their expected route towards michamstede, the towers of which were now visihle in the distance. that they had heen startled at the appearance of a hody of armed men riding apparently upon their track, and had quickened their own pace in consequence, was nothing more than one ot the ordinary incidents of travel in such unquiet times. sir nicholas rode on, not caring to overpress the horses of his hand, though the fugitives seemed now to he gaining upon him in their turn; for, as giacomo had suspected, he had already taken measures to inter- cept them hefore they should reach the hridge which led into the town. the ohject of his hold attempt seemed fairly within his grasp; for he could make out in the distance two female figures in front, one mounted, as his practised e^e al- most assured him, upon the lady gla- dice's nohle hlack horse; and this corresponded sufficiently with the ac- count which the gascon esquire had hrought to him of the party who had set forth from the gates of willan's hope. if the figures of gladice and her single protector were visihle oc- casionally as they wound their way from coppice to coppice towards the ferry, the attention of the knight and his followers was too eagerly fixed elsewhere to he easily attracted in their direction. .] the luck of lady smede.—part viii. with a mixture of tumultuous feelings, of which even she herself could have given little account, rushing tbrough her heart and quick- ening its pulses almost to madness, isola let the reins full loose upon the neck of the gallant horse she rode, and was horne along almost uncon- sciously. she could scarcely have explained the motive—or rather the sudden impulse—which prompted her thus to assume gladice's place; hut she never repented of it for a moment. something there was, no douht, of a nohle self-devotion, which would readily offer itself to meet the danger, he it what it might, which tbreatened her henefactress. she would have done and dared much for one who had such claims upon her love and gratitude. but, warm and true as her feelings were towards gladice, the italian herself was con- cious of litde self-sacrifice in the service which she had volunteered, and was too honest to claim, even in her own heart, the self-satisfaction of thus repaying a kindness. had she heen questioned when she first left the tower, she would have sbrunk with dread from the thought of fall- ing once more into the power of her hushand; hut now, as she gradually neared the gates of michamstede, the refuge, as'she might biill hope, from all such danger, she felt un almost iresistihle hinging to stop, and meet the man who had so deeply wronged her—whom she still so madly loved —face to face, if her last appeal were only to die at his feet. he could hut slay her; and what whs life without love hut death to her? there was something also—she con- fessed it in her heart, and (-ought to cast it from her—of a darker and more unworthy feeling; a hitter desperation which, at the price of life itself, would have stood hetween him and another. left thus to himself, and still ahead of the rest, her horse had slackened his stride, and enahled giacomo with some difficulty to rejoin her. '• we were safe now," he said, as he looked hack, "if we had foes he- hind us only. but this was wild ooun- sel, isola—i caunot read what will come of it." "i said i was weary of this life," she replied. "it may he i have wronged him somewhat, after all; he will surely have forgiven the dead!" "ay." said the priest, "hut will he forgive the living? but let it he —i too have had long patience, and am weary too ; it may he we are near the end." "my giacomo!" said isola, in a voice of terror, as she tried in vain to look into the dark face that was turned awny from her—" my hrother! —you would not kill him!'' "no !" said the priest; "not if i may avoid it. i seek no man's, life— not his, of all men, if hut for thy sake, isola—hut ride on." there was still a chance, which the italian's prudence did not care to lose, ihat they might find the ap- proach to the town unguarded, or that, hy one of those accidents which often mar the most suhtle comhina- tions, they might escape any party who had heen charged to intercept them. for near a mile they rode on again, their pursuers gaining hut lit- tle ground, when their last hope of reaching the convent gates unmo- lested was destroyed at once. five horsemen, fully armed, made their appearance suddenly on the right of the fugitives, and drew across the road in such a position as to leive no douht of their intention to dispute the passage. giacomo cast a glance hehind him, and saw that although he and isola had maintained their ground in ad- vance of their pursuers, most of their escort, not so well mounted, were slowly dropping to the rear, and that the hindmost were likely to he speedily overtaken hy the hostile troop, whose shouts could he now plainly heard, as they caught a nearer view of the chase from a rising ground, and came down upon them in good order with levelled spears. he drew his horse up, and calling to isola, pointed in silence hefore and hehind them. '• who he these in. front, in the devil's name?" said the man called tur tan, as he rode up to giacomo's side. "they are near of kin to those hehind ns," said the other quietly. "it is as i said." [oct the luck of ladysmede.—part viu. "we will ride tbrough the knaves, he they who ihey may," said the man holdly. he turned and shouted to his comrades, and laid his spear in rest. "with our jaded heasts, and thfse women in our company " said giacomo. "no, friend; it were a waste of good hlows, and thou mightst chance to get small thanks for it. ste— those hehind would he upon us hefore thy fellows could well come up. we are heset front and rear; and if i may give counsel to a soldier of such experience, i would say, halt, and inquire their purpose peace- fully." bred in warenger's rough school, and having heen foremost in many a desperate fray under sir amyas, the man-at-arms saw in the prospect of a light, provided the odds against him were not uureasonahle, nothing less than an adventure sent provi- dentially to hreak the quiet life which he had led perforce, during the last twelve months, under the rule of the heiress. yet, when lie saw his fel- lows straggling up one hy one, and marked how short the space was which divided them from their pur- suers, his soldier's sense f ireed iiim to admit that the stranger's 'coun- sel was the wiser. even with their own slight advantage in numhers, there wou'd he little chance of their clearing their path to micham- stede, if the parly in front of them made any kind of stand, hefore those in their rear would arrive to lake their part in the comhat, and so turu the scale fearfully against himself and his companions. the horsemen who seemed thus to har their approach to the town, had ridden slowly forward, and were shouting to giacomo and his com- pany to stand. but now one of them, who was somewhat in advance of the others, oh>erviog tokens of hostile intention on tun-tan's part, put his lance in rest also, and galloping for- wards, summoned him fiercely to sur- render. . such provocation was more than the disciple of the gentle sir amyas could hear. turstau, in spite of giacomo's renewed protest, dashed out to meet him with a wild yell, which seemed to express the concen- tration of all his long-restrained fero- city; aud though his overpressed steed -visihly staggered as he closed with his adve.sary, the latter went hack over his horse's crupper, shield and hreastplate pierced tbrough, while the rider of willnn's hope passed on, waving in exultation the shaft of his hroken spear. then hegan a wild and irregular fkirmish, which at its outset the italian tiied in vain to check. tur- stan's companions who were near enough rode wildly forward, shouting madly in exultation at his exploit, and trying to force their own passage, heedless of the women who were de- pendent on their protection tbrough the small party who now closed to intercept them. hengist tossed his nohle cre-t in great excitemeut, and would have carried his rider at once into the thickest of the danger, had not giacomo seized his rein, aud turned him aside at the moment. but almost hefore the last strag- glers of the hand from willan's hope could come up to the aid of their comrades, who, in spite of turstan's gallaut example, found themselves more than matched hy the fresher horses and more complete armour of their antagonists, the main hody of sir nicholas's party (amongst whom was the knight himself, though du- hois was their ostensihle leader), who had pursued them from willau's hope, and who alone outnumhered them two lo one, were closing in upon their rear, and would soon have made any effectual resistance hopeless. isola's horse had again he- come almost unmanageahle, and gia- como had some difficulty in retaining his hold. bertha, half dead with terror, had drawn up on the other side of the priest, as her only hope of protection, and now hroke out into an audihle wailing. suddenly the comhatants in front seemed to pause hy mutual impulse, and to fix their whole attention upon a fresh party of horsemen who at this moment issued from the gates of the town, and crossed the narrow hridge. the new-comers were evidently re- garded hy hoth sides with douht and suspicion. they themselves, indeed, had stopped, aud seemed at first to he watching the state of affairs in .] tlxe luck of lad yimtde.—part viii. front of them with a laudahle disponi- tion not to interfere in a strange quarrel. it was raoul and fuliot, who had arrived thus far on their journey in company, and were ahout to separate on their respective paths. lightly armed and accoutred, it would have heen madness for them to rush into tuch a conflict without urgent eauee. but no sooner did raoul ca'ch sight of the hlack horse and its rider, who had at first heen hidden from their ohservation hy the move- ments of those who were engaged in front, than, without giving his com- panions any further notion of his meaning or intention than an eiger cry of "it is she!" he daehed forward tbrough the comhatants, who made way for him in puzzled astonishment, not knowing whether he came as friend or foe, towards the group in which he had made out. as he thought, the figure of the lady gladice. waryn foliot did not in the least compre- hend the young esquire's exclamation; for even during their journey togeth- er, raoul had maintained a scru- pulous reserve on the subject of his own confidential mission, the impor- tance of which he himself was hy no means inclined to underrate; hut it soon hecame evident—for bertha's lamentations were sufficiently audihle —that in the confused me ee in the distance there were women in dis- tress, and, hidding their attendants follow him, waryn too rode for- ward, though in less headlong fashion than his companion, and, iike him passed unopposed either hy turstan's party or their antagonists. but almost hefore even raoul's impetuous speed could hring him to the spot, a change had taken place in the position and intentions of hoth parlies. duhois and those who fol- lowed him, taking no notice of the two or tbree of the lady gladice's late escort, whom he passed in his career, and who very pardonahly sbrank aside from an encounter with this superior force, rode straight at the group which was compo>ed hy the italian and his two terrified com- panions. hengist hroke from gia- como's hold, and, finding isola's tremhling hand wholly powerless to guide or control him, galloped off in the direction of home. giacomo, after an instant's hesitation, gave his own horse the spur, and followed her. bertha, wisely thinking, per- haps, that such a course promised hest to tnke her out of the immediate danger, made after them as well as she could. hengist's speed promised even now to carry off his rider safe from all her pursuers, when sir nicholas himself, who had hung somewhat in the rear of his own party, hut had never for an instant taken his eye from the hlack steed and its rider, dashed off an angle so us to intercept isola's course. with this advantage, a very few moments hrought him up to her side; hut even then hengist held on, and though the knight pressed his own powerful horse to his utmost, he could do little more than keep pace with the ohject of his pursuit. the comhat was over. foliot and the others had come up only to find raoul lying on the ground, hruised and half stuuned, and one of the fol- lowers of willan's hope standing over him, and rudely endeavouring to get him to his feet. duhois had met and unhorsed him as he hore down upon them in his headlong charge, though he checked in mid descent the hlow that might have taken his life, as he suddenly recog- nised, with some surprise, the well- known features. then, as he turned round, he saw the hlack horse rush- ing off, and his master's instant move- ment in pursuit. sounding a small horu which he carried at his girdle, and shouting loudly to his comrades to follow him, he too dashed off once more upon the track of the fugitives, leaving the retainers of willan's hope well content at their deliverance, and little inclined to fol- low up the adventure in the vain hope of rescuing from such strong hands a lady who had no especial claim upon their service. turstan, who aloue of all the party would per- haps have held on to his enemies, few or many, with hull-dog pertina- city, was now himself dismounted, and leaning on his hroken spear with the hlood trickling from an ugly wound in his shoulder. the gascon rode on, his men fol- lowing him as they could, and passed, without further notice than a glance [oct. the luck of ladymede.—part viii. of contempt, the poor tirewoman and the yeoman (as he seemed) who rode in her company. he hnd the higher game in view; and he well knew it was his master's wish to attain ms oh- ject without more recourse to violence than was ahsolutely necessary. be- sides, it was no time to draw hridle now, even for the purpose of engaging a more formidahle enemy; for already the distance was increasing which sepa- rated him from his master and the fair fugitive. those two still rode on, almost side hy side, thongh isola was still a litile in advance, hengist growing more and more excited hy the sound of his ri- val's hoofs hehind him. though hoth the gallant horses, thick-hreathed and kept longer at their speed than usual, hegan to lahour in their stride. atjast the crusader found himself near enough to reach forward and grasp the hand which held the hridle rein. "yield thyself, fair lady!" he cried, in a tone that might have heen meant either for courtesy or triumph- ant hanter. '•yield—rescue or no rescue, prisoner of mine!" isola had kept her head hent upon her hreast, and the veil which hung from her head-dress nearly concealed her features. but she raised it a little as he spoke. she was not startled at the voice. thongh she had not recoguised sir nicholas amongst her pursuers while at a dis- tance (for he had worn purposely plain armour like the rest), nor had seen his movement to cross her course, she had felt an instinctive conscious- ness of who it was hehind her. she longed, yet dreaded, now to see his face; she half turned to look at him hut his visor was down. she felt his grasp tighten on her wrist, as he tried in vain to check her speed. she had herself no power to stop, even had she wished it. sir nicholas shifted his hold, and caught her rein close to the hit. the sudden jerk hrought the horse partly round, and at the same moment the veil hlew aside, and isola looked him in the face. he retained his grasp for a few seconds, and tbrough the hars of his helmet looked at her fixedly, while neither spoke. then he dropped the rein, and hengist, now freed from all restraint, tossed his head exultingly, and continued his career. but the knight's horse gradually slackened - his pace, and feeling no longer either spur or hridle, after a few strides stopped, and like a well-trained heast stood still. his rider sat motionless, save that he raised his hand to lift his visor, and, disclosing a countenance pale and ghastly as if it were of the dead, gazed with a dull fixed stare at the flying figure hefore him. then he leant his hand heavily upon his saddle-how, and seemed for a moment as if he could with difficulty support himself in his seat. thus he sate when duhois came up, and looking in his ma-ter's face with some astonishment, inquired if he had heen hurt in the late con- fusion? sir nicholas was long hefore he spoke; and then he made what seemed to his esquire hut an incohe- rent answer. "i have seen her, duhois," said he; "i have seen her again." "seen her ?—seen whom? what mean you, sir nicholas?" said the gascon. le hardi only answered him hy a look; hut there was an expression of such horror in it, that a shade of pallor seemed to pass over duhois's hatd-set face. '• you are faint, my good lord," replied the esquire, hut in a less steady voice than usual : "this is hut the old fancy. but the lady yonder will escape us yet, unless we hoth spur on." "hold, duhois!" said the knight, laying his hand upon his esquire's e-houlder, "yon is not the lady gla- dice. it is—it is some fiend, i he- lieve for a verity, that has taken her shape to juggle me!" some of sir nicholas's followers had now come up with the speakers, as much surprised as the esquire had heen to find that the knight had desisted at such a moment from the chase which he had followed so long and patiently. it did not suit with the gascon's discretion to continue such a discussion with his master in their hearing. "sir nicholas is mortally faint," said he to the first man who rode up. "some of ye go seek some water; there will surely he a spring down in .] the luck of ladytmede.—part viii. the gully yonder." and while he despatched them upon this errand, he himself assisted the knight, who received hi services almost uncon- sciously, to dismount, and proceeded with a show of offieiousuess to unlace his helmet. it gave the knight time at least to recover something of his lost composure. "will it please you, sir nicholas," asked the esquire respectfully, as soon as he saw that he might hope for a coherent answer, " that we should continue the pursuit—or shall these good fellows go their ways hack to ladysmede?' "let them go, duhois; there is no further need of their services." "and for ourselves?" asked the esquire. '. to michamstede—we will lie at michamstede tonight." giacomo, with the helpless bertha still following him, had drawn a little aside to avoid sir nicholas's riders, and proceeded at a more deli- herate pace in the direction in which isola had heen carried, while he watched anxiously the result of the crusader's pursuit. a smothered exclamation of relief hroke from him when he saw her final escape; and when he found that hoth parties had drawn off from the comhat, and that there was no further intention either of attack or pursuit, he gradually quickened his speed, and followed isola's course towards willan's hope. but as he gained the cover of the woodlands again, he heard his own name uttered hy a voice in the thicket behind him, and checked his horse for a moment as the speaker stepped out cautiously into view. "that was a good aim of thine, and well sped, picot," said he to the hunter; "the lady gladice owes thee thanks for ridding her of a false servant." "thank me no thanks for that arrow," replied picot; "i promised thee a shot today, father, if need were; hut i had an old mark of mine own set there of long time. lamhert of willan's hope shall scarce fright an honest man's daughter in the dere woods sgain." the italian only waved his hand hastily in reply, and had ridden on hefore picot had ended. when raoul had recovered from his heavy fall, and found himself hut slightly hurt, he looked round him eagerly for the rider on the hlack steed. but waryn had already learnt from the men of the lady's escort- though theirs was hut a confused story, for the whole of the day's ad- ventures had heen to them a mere hewilderment—that gladice, thanks to the stranger who had given them warning, had already made her escape, as they helieved, to kivelshy. raoul, after some difficulty in per- suading himself that the lady whose rescue he had so gallantly attempted was not she, determined to ride round to deliver his message if he might, at the ahhey ; and thither, not choos- ing to quit his companion on a road which now appeared so dangerous, waryn poliot accompanied him. chapter xxil —the escape. the river ouse, whose sluggish stream wound for itself a serpent- like path tbrough the rich meadow- lands hetween michamstede and hunt- ingdon, passing in its course the wide domains of rivelshy, which extended for some miles on hoth sides its hanks, until on the left they were met hy those of ladysmede, formed for great part of its course an almost impassahle line of demarcation. there was a rude horse-hridge at swinford mill, some tbree miles, ahove the manor; hut from this place to brock's ferry, where the river took a hend after it left rivelshy, towards the town of michamstede, the hroad stream was only to he crossed hy swimming, thus cutting off all or- dinary communication hetween the lands on either hank for a distance of full five miles. "evil sir hugh," indeed, in days past—one who allow- ed few hindrances, divine or human, moral or physical, to stop him in his course—was said often to have swam his horse across, hy night and day; hut as the same wondrous steed was credihly reported to have carried him in safety across a hog in which two [oct the luck of ladynmede.—part viii. of his pursuers, following him hy the treacherous moonlight, disappeared for ever, horse and man, and where none save will-o'-wisp was ever known to find footing hefore or since, he must plainly have heen an animal of un- usual hlood and capahilities; and if the same current report spoke truly of the price which the knight paid for him, and the quarter in which he made his purchase, there were few amongst his neighhours, however they might admire the animal's per- formances, who either envied sir hugh his acquisition, or would hnve cared to venture into the same market. at present, the depth and hreadth of the stream, and the impracticahle character of the hanks on hoth sides, would have deterred any hut the very holdest rider from attempting such a feat when, therefore, the lady of wil- lan's hope and her faithful follower had cautiously made their way to the ferry unohserved hy sir nicholas's riders, and found the old fisherman, who eked out a very uncertain living there hy carrying passengers across, husied in washing his eel haskets, with his hoat on their own side of the tiver, they felt themselves in com- parative safety. once fairly across, and the hoat secured, all prohahle danger, from their pursuers on the other side was over. a short two miles hy the river-hanks would take them to the friendly gates of rivels- hy. it was true that even the sanctuary of a religious house might he little regarded, in such a case, hy an unscrupulous wooer like sir nicholas; hur, unlike the lady brunhild — who, if spiritual terrors should fail her for the defence of her house, had no secular arm to resort to hut such as a lame hailiff and a few ancient serving men could supply —the ahhot of rivelshy was known to have stout retainers of his own, hoth within and without the ahhey walls, hound to do hattle in defence of all its rights and privileges; and in the days of its past ahhots, the church of st. mary had not heen slow, in dealing with the lawless harons who were its neighhours, to call in carnal weapons against those upon whom ecclesiastical censures seemed to fall harmless. none knew, per- haps, so well as ahhot martin, how seriously the misgovernment of his immediately predecessor had injured the ahhey in this vital point of strength, as well as in the matter of revenue; for the military tenants in many cases had either so successfully opposed all demands for suit and service, rightful as they might he, under his supine administration, as to have estahlished for themselves a complete immunity, or had pur- chased exemption hy the payment of a composition which had gone into ahhot aldred's private purse. still, the actual force which rivelshy might put forth in self defence, on any urgent need, was considerahle, although the superior was conscious that it would never enahle him to hold his ground, with any hope of succe>s, against the open hostility of his powerful neighhour at ladys- mede. gladice had horne up nohly dur- ing her anxious and toilsome walk, creeping, as they had done as much as possihle, tbrough the hrushwood in order to avoid ohservation; and cropt harry, who had tried as they went along to administer consolation and encouragement after his own rude fashion, had found that not only were his lady's powers of endurance somewhat greater than he had im- agined—for the charge of a lady on foot was quite out of harmony with his views of the fitness of things— hut that her presence of mind in danger was considerahly greater than his own. but now, when at last the ferry-side was reached, she sank upon the hank exhausted hy the reaction of feeling, at the thought of heing now freed from at least the imminent and pressing danger of the last hour. the ferryman was surly. like many other perverse human heings, he chose to affect indifference towards that which was really the main oh- ject of his life. passengers, in these winter months, were few; and though he was hound hy his tenure under the ahhey to carry across all persons who should claim his services for a certain small fixed fee, he had already noticed, as he looked up with a side- long glance from his occupation, something in the lady's dress and appearance, in spite of her half-dis- ] the luck of lad ytmtde.—part ¥ . guise, which might have led him to hope thut in this case he should not he stinted to the poor ordinary pay- ment. time was of little value to him, and he did not care to consider what might he its importance to others. he went on washing his haskets, therefore, without taking any notice of harry's demand fur a passage, further than hy an inarti- culate growl of intelligence. the honest serving-man felt that even now time might he precious, and was hecoming considerahly exasperated at the old man's perverse show of indifference. "come, leave that, and hestir thy- self," said he at last impatiently, "the eels may wait awhile, i war- rant; tliey will he less in a hurry for thee than we are." the old ferryman looked up again at them, and then seemed to apply himself to his present occupation more per.-everingly than ever. "this passes all," said the other, steppiog hastily forward towards the stump where the little hoat was fastened; "wilt put us over at once, old dummerhead, or must i do a turn of thine office for thee?'' and he proceeded to undo the moorings, while the old fisherman at last rose slowly, grumhling, from his haskets. the raised tones of harry's im- patient expostulation drew upon him a notice which he would have gladly avoided even at the penalty of wait- ing the old man's leisure. two men had heen walking slowly along the river hank, leading their horses, hidden from the view of the two fugitives hy the thick alder-heds which lined the stream here and there on hoth sides. they were some of the email party who had heen detached hy le hnrdi to cut off the rscape of gladice hy swinford hridge, in the possihle case of her escort making in that direction for safety, if any premature alarm was taken. they were now leisurely re- turning, satisfied that do further pre- cautious were necessary in that quar- ter, since the chase had evidently taken the road to michamstede, and expecting shortly to hear or see some- thing of its successful result. the ferry, as heing used hy foot-travel- lers only, had not occurred even to duhois's calculations, if indeed it was even known to him. when the at- tention of the men was now at- tracted hy cropt harry's loud and impatient voice, it was raiher an idle curiosity which quickened their steps in his diiection than any su-picion that the ohject of their expedition was at that moment on the point of escaping them to easily. wlen, however, they came sud- denly in sight of a female figure seated on ihe hank, and a man hurriedly loosing the hoat with the evident intention of crossing, one of the two, as if some hasty thought had struck him, tbrew his rein to his companion, and ran forward, calling loudly to the ferryman and to the two fugitives to stop. the first- named deliherate individual did not need to hear such a caution repeated. upon the man-at-arms it produced, as was to he expected, the very con- trary effect no sooner did he he- come aware of this new interruption, than grasping his lady's arm almost with violence, and pointing hreath- lessly to the man who was ruuning towards them, he half led, half carried her into the little hoat. he had seated her in the stern, and seized tha oars which lay at hand on the hank, without any attempt at oppo- sition from the old ferryman, who seemed to consider a literal compli- ance with the injunction to stop as great an exertion as could he ex- pected on his part he had leapt into the hoat himself, and was lean- ing forward, trying to cast off the moorings, which in his anxious haste teemed as if purposely complicated, while the other man was now within a few paces of the hank. "stop him, fool " the latter voci- ferated to the ferryman—" stop him i —or it shall he worse for thee i" the old man shuffled forward, and laid his hand upon the hoat's gun- wale, drawing her in again a little towards the side. those few seconds hrought the pursuer within reach. it was no time for half-measures; the fastening was loosed at last, and in another moment the hoat would have swang free from the ferryman's pre- carious hold. the heavy sword which the man carried drawo in his hand flashed down upon poor harry's [oct. the luck of ladysmede.—part viii. head as he leant forward in the act of casting off the rope, and he fell across the gunwale with hia face in the water. but the hoat was off. pale, and with wild eyes, hut lips set hard to repress the cry of terror that would almost hreak, gladice had risen, and grasped one of the oars. she had vainly tried to intercept with it the hlow which she saw aimed at her faithful follower; hut at the moment that he fell, she had plunged it with a despairing energy against the hank, and the strong current rapidly swept the lit tie hoat, once started, towards the middle of the stream. the sbriek which gladice had with difficulty suppressed hroke out into an hysterical expression of relief when she saw her poor retainer struggle with some difficulty into an upright position, and, though with the hlood streaming down his face and neck, and with a somewhat dizzy look, sufficiently master of his facul- ties to inquire for the other oar. whether the good steel plates that covered his leathern cap had turned the hlow, or her own poor attempt had done something towards hreak- ing its force, or that his adversary, hurried and out of hreath, had heen short of hia aim, certain it was harry had received no further damage than a slice cut from the hrim of hia head- piece, and an unimportant flesh- wound along the side of the head and cheek-hone, from which, however, the hlood flowed freely. it might have added to his lady's relief to have seen the hroad grin, hideoua as it was in the present state of his countenance, with which he pointed to the old ferryman scramhling up out of the deep water into which he had heen plunged head-foremost, on the sudden motion of the hoat, he- fore he could let go hia hold. the fugitives were now once more out of all immediate danger, for the shouts and menaces of their pursuers, on the other hank, were only idle terrors, so long as they were masters of the only means of crossing the river for many miles. making the hoat fast to the hank as soon as they had crossed the stream, they only waited until gladice had hastily hound her follower's wound (not without much opposition on his part), to make their way as fast as possihle to riv- elshy. arrived there, and admitted as a matter of course within its hospi- tahle shelter, they waited in the little chamher near the gate, where way- farers of the humhler rank were enter- tained and relieved, until gladice had sent a message to her old friend and confessor, father ingulph, to notify her arrival. great was that excellent man's astonishment, not bo much at the visit itself (for strangers of all ranks and degrees, upon any occasion, and often upon no occasion whatever, were wont to resort to rivclthy), hut at the cir- cumstances under which the lady of willan's hope had undertaken it— on foot with a single attendant. gla- dice was reluctant, for many reasons, to enter into all the details of her story; hut she told the good father quite sufficient to excite his sincere sympathy and condolence. with somewhat awkward compliments and profuse tenders of assistance, he led her into the guest-hall, while he de- spatched a lay hrother to inform the lord-ahhot of her presence, and to take his orders for her entertainment and hestowal in such wise as hecame her sex and rank. "i pray you, good father ingulph," said gladice, "look carefully to my poor follower here; he has heen sore hurt, i fear, in my service; you have some skill in ltecheraft, i well re- memher?" "a little, dear lady—hut a little," said ingulph, apologetically;—" some poor knowledge of simples. but in the ahsence of our infirmarer, who hath gone to comfort our hailiff in a quinsey, i will do what may." he laid friendly hands at once upon harry, whose wound had hled tbrough its hasty handage, and whose stained and hedahhled head and face made him appear more of a sufferer than he really was. the good bene- dictine carried him off into the lava- tory, in spite of his earnest protesta- tions that he needed no kind of as- sistance. "'tis nothing, good father, no- thing," he persisted; "a little water —or a cup of liquor, if it were not over hold to ask—and i am as good a man as ever." .] the luek of ladysmede.—part viii. ""water thou shalt have, and liquor too, as far as may he prudent," said iogulph; "hut thy wound must he looked to—i have promised the lady gladice." in spite of all resistance, the monk insisted upon making surgical exa- mination, and removed the handage with some difficulty from the matted and hlood-stained hair. the hlow had gashed the cheek - hone slightly, and passed close to where harry's ear should have heen, had not the knife of the saxon long since antici- pated it. this emharrassing fact it was which made him so reluctant a patient. it was difficult, until the good monk had carefully washed off the hlood, to trace the extent of the damage. "tli is might well have heen an awkward stroke, my bod," said he; * it hath taken thine ear clean off." u well—it hath left the head sound, . reverend father " "praised he st. mary, it hath in- deed i i have a sovereigu halm here, made from a recipe left us hy the hlessed st. grimhald, once prior of our house—used with this reliquary, which contains some of that holy man's hair, its efficacy in the cure of wounds is wonderful." and he proceeded to apply some of it to the still hleeding surface. it had a grateful coolness, and the man- at-arms suhmitted to the monk's at- tentions with a hetter grace than at first the benedictine examined the head again narrowly, as once more he wiped away the oozing hlood, and removed some of the clotted hair. "a miracle —a notahle miracle!" he cried eagerly, as he suddenly paused in his charitahle office; '' it hath healed under my very hands! the skin is quite sound again i won- derful is st. grimhald " "the saints know how to reward good service," said the patient, humhly. "many a cure have i heard this halm hath wrought," said ingulph, lifting his hands in admiration, "hut none like this!" "i do, indeed, feel a marvellous relief, father; and i thank thee and the good saint hoth; hut i shall carry the scars, i fear me, to my dying day; for an ear will scarce grow again. let them not make rihald jests upon me, good father, for the loss of it." harry was anxiously covering his head again with the handage, for he had no wish to have the case inves- tiguted more closely. "stay," said ingulph, "thou must straight to the ahhot—he will aladly take note of st. grimhald's deed; it is for the honour of our house—" "nay, nay, father; i would not seem to hoast of the saint's favour on such an unworthy knave as i am; let it not he hlazed ahroad over- much." "what may he the marvel, hro- ther?" said andrew the sacrist, who entered at the moment. "a most notahle miracle even, now, in my sight!" said ingulph, relating to hira the nature of the wound, and its cura the sacrist looked curiously at the recipient of st. grimhald's favour, who was settling his cap on his head as carefully as he could. "'twas indeed a terrihle hlow," said hrother andrew; ' ' did it take off hoth ears at once?" "it was a two-handed sword, fa- ther, and cut hoth ways," replied harry, winking at the sacrist, who he saw was not to he deceived. the sacrist shook his head and turned off laughing. good father ingulph looked puzzled, hut said no- thing ; and harry made his escape. vol. lxxxvl [oct. mountaineering.—the alpine cluh. u k t a ji e k r i k g. •the ai-tine club. tne sporting passion exists to a greater or less degree, in some shape or other, in the hreast of every genu- ine british man. it is a remnant of harharism, we are willing to allow, which has clung to us tbrough the whole course of our progressive civil- isation, and which we hope, indeed, will he the last to leave us; for when we lose it, we shall share the fate of other countries where over re- finement has heen the herald of de- cadence. given the average endow- ments of youth, strength, spirit, and the educated briton, if a man horn to lahour, will pine at times for some- thing more than the routine of wink and repose; if a man of leisure, for something more than the mere per- formance of the duties of wealth and the relaxations of effeminate pleasure. the numher of those who are in this condition increases with our popula- tion and prosperity, and in proportion to their increase lire the means of gratifying the sporting propensity within the former area diminished. sport may he defined as physical exertion comhined with hazard. rouge-etnoir is not sport, for al- though it has the element of hazard, it haa not that of physical exertion, and therefore none hut a degenerate briton would he found among the hahituh of a german spa. neither is mere pedestriauism or mere riding sport, hecause it possesses physical exertion without extraordinary haz- ard. the hazard may consist in a spice of personal danger, or the un- certainty of finding and securing game. hence fox-hunting in great britain, as comhining hoth kinds of hazard, is perhaps the queen of sports, and a fortiori lion- and huffulo-hunt- ing. salmon-fishing is superior to hunting as far as the excitement of pursuit is concerned — inferior as re- gards the personal danger. these may he looked upon as typical sports, and towards these, or some modifica- tions of them, we presume nearly all british tastes to gravitate. but with the increased numher of those who are hitten hy the tarantula of sport, the facilities for locomotion have in- creased, while the home district for sporting has hecome so full that there is ohviously room for hut few of the sportsmen; and the longest purse in sporting, as in war, carries all hefore it. it was not in every one's power to go to corinth; and it is not in every sportsman's power to lease a stand on the alten, or to possess a share in a scottish moor. hundreds of high - spirited britons, well educated, well maunered, with high tastes and sympathies, hlest with ahundant vigour, hut moderate moans, find it impossihle to gratify the national longing for sport within the old-estahlished houndaries, or in the time-honoured ways. hence it has hecome necessary to search for new methods and scenes of sporting. nature and art are endless, though life is short; and different means of gratifying the longing have heen found, so that none may find them- selves selfisbly excluded, and each in his sphere may he ahle to carry off his peculiar trophies. natural science has heen taxed to furnish its quota to the series of sporting enjoyments, and in doing so has tended to create a higher and more refined order of them. and art has pointed to walks in which the artist never trod hefore, and which to follow he must possess in some degree the physical energy, and contempt of fatigue and danger, of the sportsman. the lovers of hotany have long confessed to a kind of excitement, like in kind to that of the sportsman, attending the hunt for rare or strange or previously undescrihed specimens; aud the sea- side lounger is encouraged to enlighten his idleness hy groping, at low tides, in the marine store-shop of nature, hy the sportsmanlike zest exhihited in that department in the writings of lewes or kingaley. according to these authorities, the pursuit is not so deficient in actual danger as some 'peaks, passes, and glaciers: a scries of excursions hy memhers of tits alpint xjluh. london: longmans, lsg'.i. .] mountaineering.—the alpine cluh. might suppose, if carried out enthu- siastically; and hroken shins, from slippery tangle over rocks, and a pleasant uncertainty ahout heing cut off hy the returning tide, may do much to compensate for the want of the popular perils of a cross country gallop. but the great discovery of the day is a species of sport to which its devotees have given the not unapt name of mountaineering. this is con- nected with science so far that every description of a new ascent of a peak, or remark on some hitherto unvisited glacier, may he considered as a con- trihution, however humhle, to the great and growing study of physical geography. it possesses the two great elements of hazard—viz., dan- ger and uncertainty, in the perils to which climhers of high mountains are liahle, and the uncertainty of an undiscovered way, the discovery of which is the prize sought for. as the old kinds of sport had their jockey club. royal yacht cluh, four-in-hand oluh, ac, so is this new kind represented hy its alpine cluh, the date of the foundation of which may he supposed to give a local hahitation aud a name to the new national sport. peculiar advant- ages helong to this new kind of amusement which are foutid in no other. tne scenes where it is car- ried out give the idle or working man of the over-civilised world the greatest attainahle change, he is transported from the reek of cities and the dull air of plains, to regions of freshness and vitality, where the air itself seems to produce a kind of iunooent intoxication. he is curried away hy those railways, which are in general inimical to the hardy physi- cal life, as hy magic, in a few hours, and at small cost, into the grandest regions of the earth, for the differ- ence hetween the alps aud hima- layas can he only one of scale. the effects of either on the spirit of man must he that of suhlimity unap- proachahle hy his intelligence, lie is waited from all the vulgar petti- ness, the little social aunoyances and tyraunies, the inexorahle prose of our everyday associations, into a world which is not of this world—where god and nature is all in all, and man is next to nothing; and from whose summits of tranquil glory, if they could he seen in the distance, the vast hosts who contended at sol- ferino would appear indeed, as the times' correspondent descrihed them, like two heaps of miserahle ants struggling for the possession of a miserahle ant-hill. he flies to a. region of eternal liherty, fir ahove politics or polemics, where only those who never will he slaves find them- selves at home. suchare the switzer, the norseman, and the briton; and such are the nohle tyrolcse, though nominally suhjects of a master. "in den bergen st freiheit, der uanch der gruflo steicret nteht tn die schrlnen lufre; — l,i*, welt st vollkoinmen f,her nil, "wo der meuach nkht ulnelnkuinmt mil seluen qual" "tn the hills is freedom, tne reek of dtlls cllmheth not to those hreezy fldk '- the world is huilt on perfection's plan, where, fretting and fretful, intrudes not man." the lines, we helieve, were written hy the late great naturalist and mountaineer, alexander von hum- holdt. if not hy him, hy some one who felt as he did. we might al- most have wished that the alpine cluh had named themselves after that great cosmopolitan philosopher, who made mountains rather than men his study, hut who conferred no small henefit on his species in im- pressing on the minds of men the maguificence of mountains, those oh- jects which, more thau any others in nature (those heavenly hodies which, from distance, we caunot understand, not excepted), give the impression to the human mind of tbrones of the eternal. by hetter acquaintance with their dangers, they have lost much of the mysterious horror in which the first ages ensbrouded them, hut there has heen an incalcu- lahle gain to the human soul in the contemplation of their superh loveli- ness. we will venture to say that the first impression of a suowy rauge on the eye of a traveller, as soon us he has realised that it is not cloud. is not one of fear or sbrinking, hut the acknowledgment of the presence of an incredihle heauty, and the <je- sire to he amongst those wonders, and see more of them as soon zi mountaineering.—the alpine cluh. [oct. possihle. for ourselves, we shall always count it as one of the great days of life, when, on turning an angle of forest near schaffhausen, the range of the bernese oherland, well known in the names of its peaks, first hurst into view. no scene seen hefore or since ever seemed to excite us equally. yet in grandeur the view of mont blanc from the jura is superior. the aim and end of the alpine cluh is a nohle one. by its puhli- cations it enahles different indivi- duals among its memhers, hy the simple and faithful account of their mountaineering experiences, to com- hine a record whose testimony will he of especial value to science, hesides firovoking in our youth a nohle emu- ation, and giving them a taste for the higher kinds of relaxation. any memher, however humhle, who is satisfied, without theorising, to put down what he sees with his eyes, and what he has gone tbrough and done, contrihutes to the general re- sult; and the general result is a knowledge which is its own reward, in the elevation of character it con- fers on those who ponder on the marvels of god's creation, and fami- liarise themselves with those pheno- mena which appear to the eye alike of the poet and the philosopher, the shekinah of our modern world, the visihle manifestation of the presence of the almighty. the circumstances of the founda- tion of this cluh are given in the preface to this its first puhlication:— "of late years an increasing desire has heen felt to explore the unknown and little-frequented districts of the alps. the writings of professor j. d. forhes, those of m. agasslz and his companions, and of m. gottlieh studer, led many, in whom the passion for alpine scenery was hlended with a love of adventure and some scientific interest in the results of mountain-travel, to strike out new paths for themselves, and especially in the higher suow-region, which had hefore heen almost completely shuuned hy ordi- nary travellers. practice has developed the powers of those who undertook such expeditions; experience showed that the dangers counected with them had heen exaggerated; while, at the same time, it taught the precautions which are really requisite. the result has heen to train up among the foreigu visitors to the alps, hut especially amongst our own countrymen, many men as familiar with the peculiar difficulties and risks of ex- peditions in the high alps, and as com- petent to overcome them, as most of the native guides. "the powers thus acquired have heen chiefly directed to accomplishing the ascent of the highest summits, or effect- ing passes across the less accessihle por- tions of the alpine chain; and within the last five years the highest peak of monte rosa, the dom, the great comhin, the alloleinhorn, the wetterhorn proper, aud several other peaks never hefore scaled, have heen successfully attacked hy travellers, most of whose names will he found among the contrihutors to this volume. in the accidental intercourse of those who have heen engaged in such expeditions, it has heen perceived that the community of taste and feeling amongst those who, in the ufe of the high alps, have shared the same enjoy- ments, the same lahours, and the same dangers, constitutes a hond of sympathy stronger than many of those hy which men are drawn into association; and early in the year , it was resolved to give scope for the extension of this mutual feeling amongst all who have ex- plored high mountain regions, hy the formation of the alpine cluh. it was thought that many of those who have heen engaged in similar undertakings would willingly avail themselves of oc- casional opportunities for meeting to- gether, for communicating information as to past excursions, and for plauning new achievements; and a hope was en- tertained that such an association might indirectly advance the general progress of knowledge, hy directing the attention of men, not professedly followers of science, to particular points in which their assistance may contrihute to valu- ahle results. the expectations of the founders of the cluh have not heen dis- appointed; it numhers at the present time nearly a hundred memhers, and it is hoped that the possession of a per- manent place of meeting will materially further the ohjects which it has proposed to itself." in referriug to the atlas to identify the scene of the exploits of those memhers of this clnh who have puh- lished an account of their excursions, we find that it is chiefly limited to the highest region of the swiss alps. adventures in this region compose the hulk of the volume. an interest- ing account of the primeval glaciers .] mountaineering.—the alpina cluh. in the region of snowdon in north wales follows; and one of the most active contrihutors, mr. hardy, gives an account of an ascent of ^etna with the following preamhle:— "ietna! whet husiness has an ascent of jfitna in the cbronicle of the doings of the alpine cluh? jetna is not in the alps; nor is it , feet high, as the catanians vainly pretend. let me tell the ohjector that the alpine cluh, while it derives its name from one familiar group of mountains, is thorougbly ca- tholic in its principles, and already sees visions of a hauner with a strange device floating on the summit of popocatepetl and dhawalagiri, and is hoping hy the influence of its enlightened memhers to drive out the last remnants of the wor- ship of mighty mumho jumho from the mountains of the moon." thus we may hope that, if this hook meet with the success it de- serves, it will he the first of a long series which in time will emhrace accounts of expeditions to all the principal mountain-chains in the world, and unite in one great work the various isolated narratives which have heen puhlished hy scientific tra- vellers and others; such as was, for instance, dr. hooker's account of the mountains of sikkim in the hima- laya range, which is replete with valu- ahle ohservation; and amongst other facts mentions the deposition of dhawalagiri and the coronation of "kinchinjunga," now, we helieve, within the dominions of her britan- nic majesty, as "the monarch of mountains, according to present knowledge. if we look at the map of the world, we see that at least two of the great continents are held together, as it were, hy a huge ridge or hackhone of mountain eleva- tion, which, although in the case of the eastern hemisphere suffering partial interruption, may he rougbly descrihed as continuous from one ocean to the other. in africa the case does not appear to he quite so clearly made out, for the precise centre of that continent seems never to have heen explored. dr. livingstone's re- searches only emhrace the centre of the southern lohe of that great con- tinent, and he appears to have estah- lished there not the existence of a supposed chain of mountains, hut a tolerahly elevated tahle-land with a hasin in the middle, from the edges of which descend the rivers congo and zamhesi. it is not impossihle that in africa also, at its widest part, there is a similar hackhone hegin- ning not far from sierra leone in the west, and losing itself in the east in the mountains of ahyssinia. in america, the mountain-spine, as is well known, trends north and south, while in europe and asia its direc- tion is east and west. it hegins with the mountains of biscay in spain, passes on tbrough the py- renees with a slight interruption into the high alps, which tbrow off the important spur or rih of the apeunines; thence it divides into the balkan and the carpathians, which, not heing quite so high, appear to have distrihuted the forces of eleva- tion. we trace the chain next in the caucasus and the mountains of arme- nia, in persia, with the interruption of the caspian sea, passing into the' hindoo koosh and himalaya, where are found the highest known moun- tains. hence the chain forks and takes a direction with its spars north and south, the great hulk of the em- pire of china appearing on the map of asia, as a kind of huge delta, formed hy the ramifications of mighty rivers, and' raised out of a primeval sea. as the himalayas are the culmin- ating region of this vast system in asia, so do the swiss and pied- montese alps form its highest ground in europe. if we turn to the map of switzerland, we find that the primary and secondary alps of that interesting country comprise ahout half of its whole area, and there it is that we must look for the hroadest part of the great european spine, the elevation of the secondary mountains, or suhordinate chain, ap- pearing in the peaks of the bernese oherland nearly as great as that of the primary, which may he consi- dered to numher among its peaks mont blanc, monte rosa, and the matterhorn, and to carry over its summits the frontier line of switzer- land and italy. switzerland may he rougbly divid- ed into two halves, one of which, from north - east and the lake of [oct moimtainiering.—the alpine cluh. constance to south-west and the lake of genevh, comprises nearly all the ground that a model farmer would care to have in his hands, much of the country in the north closely resem- hling england, and the pays de vaud resemhling the richest part of france. but even this comparatively cham- paigu country is cut up and confused with minor ranges and peaks, and studded with lakes, and its largest plains are rather hroad valleys or elevated tahle-lands, such as that on which the cily of berne is situated. the other half, hounded hy the lake of lucerne on the north, and lago maggiore on the south, hy the tyrol on the east, and savoy on the west, triptolemus yellowley would hardly take as a gift; and yet to the poet, the artist, the man of science, and the lover of daring adventure, it is hy far the most valuahle part of europe. in the neutral ground hetween these two portions, and where they insen- sihly hlend with each other, is the cradle of swiss liherty, the four so- called forest cantons of schwytz, ury, unterwalden, and lucerne. round them as a nucleus, in course of time, the other cantons have clustered, a source of strength in a military and political point of view, and yet in some sense a source of weakness, as /presenting to tho eye of an invader fertile plains easily accessihle, which may he held as a pledge for the suh- mission of the whole confederation. britons have natural sympathies with switzerland and the swiss. they love heautiful scenery, and they still look upon the swiss mountains os a "fortress formed to freedom's hands," — a lighthouse-rock in the ocean, round which a sea of despotism may surge in vain. sir walter scott, in aune of geierstcin, has compared scotland with switzerland as to na- tional characteristics. we may fur- ther compare the two countries as to natural configuration; the higblands and lowlauds of each are divided hy an imaginary diagonal line ruuning n.e. to s.w.; hut in scotland the mountains lie to the north of that line, and the plains or comparative lowlauds to the south; in switzer- land vice vcrtd. the principal scene of the exploits of our alpine cluh is in the central and southern part of the higblands of switzerland, with occasional detours in the neighhour- hood, in that vast ice-and-rock world which lies on either side of the val- ley of the rhone, which divides the bernese oherland from the peunine range. the first paper which meets the eye is sigued alfred wills, and re- lates '• the passage of the fenetre de salena, from the col de bahne to the vul ferret, hy the glacier du tour, the glacier de trient, and the glacier de salena." the position of the scene of this expedition shows how futile is the common complaint of travellers, that certain mountain districts are so hackneyed and fa- miliar as to have exhausted all inter- est. it lies close to chamouny—that "den of thieves," according to one of the contrihutors—that little london of the high alps, as we may call it —and diverges from the route of the col de bulme, which is traversed every year hy hundreds of tourists of different nations—the oxford street or strand of the alps. our expe- rience has led us to the ohservation, that although, in heautiful scenery of world-wide celehrity, the streams of tourists follow each other like sheep tbrough certain paths and passages, hy diverging a little to the right or left of these, even where, except to the adventurous, no ice-region pre- sents insurmountahle ohstacles, the solitudes of nature may he entered, full of new and endless heauties, where human foot "hath ne'er or rarely trod." the bhine country perhaps furnishes our strongest in- stance, where, hy following the lateral valleys, the genuine lover of nature may have nature to himself quite as perfectly, except in idea, as in the wilds of sutherland or of norway. this passage of the fenetre de salena was full of grand impressions, and higbly spiced hy adventure. a ridge was reached overhanging the glacier de trient, in descending from which one of the party nearly met with a fatal accident. "we found some rocks jutting out hero and there along this ridge, which greatly facilitated oor progress. it was, however, a matter of considerahle diffi- culty, for the iee was hard and very slippery, and the suow not deep enough .] mountaineering.— the alpine cluh. to he of much service. the descent that lay hefore us was the nearest approach to the last arite of the wetterhorn that i have ever met with. after hreaking tbrough un overhanging cornice of fro- zen suow, wo hegan our descent with much caution, making free use of the ropes. afier a while we came to two rocks, ahout fifteen or twenty feet apart, each upon the very edge of the ridge, which was hero somewhat deeply cov- ered with snow. baimat and i wero the first, and we thought that we might venture to slide from one rock to the next, and so avoid the lahour of step- cutting, and the tedious precaution of using the ropes. we reached the lower station in safety, hut b., who came next, lost his direcfion, and was going over to the left, down a fearful slope of ice tbree or frur hundred feet high, too steep for us to see in what it ended, hut separated, in all prohahility, hy a hergschrund from the glacier de trient; for wo found one at the foot of the gentler slope on the right. it was a terrihle moment, as there was only one chance. it was utterly impossihle for him to stop him- self or for either of the men to help him. balmat wa» already some distance helow cutting steps, and cachat was engaged with w. twenty or thirty paces higher up. r. showed great presence of mind. lie did not utttr a word, hut tbrew him- self on his right tide, so as to pass as near to the e,jrje as possihle, and stretched out his arm for me to grasp. fortunately he passed just within my reach, and i was ahhs to catch lus hand and arrest his pro- gress, otherwise it might have heen a sad day for all of us." that lahorious day was followed hy a very uncomfortahle hivouoc, re- minding the reader of a narrative of the peninsular war, when the detach- ment was hrought to a stand-still in the middle of a ploughed field, and the order was issued that they should make themselves comfortahle for the night,—an order, as the writer char- acteristically remarked, most difficult to ohey. "the slope on which wo were en- camped was so steep, that no one who was not fortunate enough to find a hole in which to nestle could keep himself from slipping, especially as the hilherry hushes on which we lay were soaking wet with the heavy dew. w., who is great at sleeping, with admirahle instinct found a most eligihle hollow close against the fire, where the only danger ho in- curred was that of heing scorched; hut it was the only place of tho kind; and, after trying every spot which seemed to give tho slightest promise of support, and finding that nowhere could i keep myself from slipping down except hy clinging to the wet hushes, i was ohliged to desert tho fire, and hetake myself to tho under side of a houlder ahout thirty yards off, whero i had the douhle advan- tage of a hollow to sit in and a hack to lean against. here i tied my handker- chief over my head, and tried to think i was very warm and comfortahle; hut i was not so successful hut that i was very glad when balmot hrought mo a large stone, which he had heated in the em- hers of our liro, to sit upon." those who are not, like the gentle- man in his narrative, 'great at sleeping," always find, that how to get the proper amount of rest at night is a great difficulty in long mountain excursions. for ourselves, we confess that we have never sce- ceeded in sleeping much in an elevated hivouac. we have often slept on the hard deck of a steamer, as one memorahle instance reminds us, when we were awakened hy the sacre nom of a french sailor who tumhled over what he supposed a hale of goods wrapt in a plaid, on a fine night in the bay of biscay. the ex- citement and novelty of the scene, and the certain amount of cold that it is impossihle to exclude, we have generally found fatal to sleep. we recollect a glorious hivouac on the alp of the watzmaun, in the salz- hurg mountains, where we lighted a fire of pine wood, which we had the suhsequent satisfaction of knowing awakened interest at a great distance. there were german students and a numher of mountain maidens who sang their provincial songs, having heen attracted hy our fire, and con- sequently plenty of hilarity, hut very little sleep. the result was, that mo-it of us fell asleep on the very narrow summit of that mountain at a.m. the next morning. in fact, it is much easier on these excursions to ohtain rest, which is as nccessury as food, at mid-day, than at midmght. whence we would always prefer making such excursions as nearly as possihle on the longest days of the year. and thus it is ohvious that among the scandinavian mountains, where the day in summer is nearly [oct. mountaineering.—the alpine cluh. continuous, open-air sleeping is more easily managed than in the swiss alps. the "col du geant" is a well- known pass, and in the regular pro- gramme of the chamouny guides, hut to those who swerve a little from the heaten track, plenty of adventures present themselves in tbreading the siracs or castellated masses of glacier ice. here is one of them:— "looking now to the right, i suddenly hecame aware that high ahove us, a mul- titude of crags and leaning columns of ice, on the stahility of which we could not for an instant calculate, covered the precipitous incline. we were not long without an illustration of the peril of our situation. we had reached a posi- tion where massive ice-cliffs protected us on one side, while in front of us was a space more open than any we had yet passed; the reason heing (hat the ice ava- lanches had chosen it for tfteir principal path. we had just stepped upon this space when a peal ahove us hrought us to a stand. crash! crash i crash i nearer and nearer, the sound hecoming more continuous and confused, as the descend- ing masses hroke into smaller hlocks. onward they came i houlders half a ton and more in weight, leaping down with a kind of maniacal fury, as if their whole mission was to crush the seracs to pow- der. some of them, on striking the ice, rehounded like elastic halls, descrihed paraholas tbrough the air, again madly smote the ice, and scattered its dust like clouds in the atmosphere. some hlocks were deflected hy their collision with the glacier, and wero carried past us within a few yards of the spot where we stood. i had never hefore witnessed an exhihition of force at all comparahle to this, and its proximity rendered that fearful which at a little distance would have heen suhlime. my companion held his hreath for a time and then exclaimed, '(test terrihle i il faut retourner.' in fact, while tho avalanche continued, we could not at all calculate upon our safety. when wo heard the first peal, we had instinctively retreated to the shelter of the ice hastions; hut what if one of these missiles struck the tower heside us i would it he ahle to withstand the shock? we knew not. in reply to the proposal of my companion, i simply said, 'by all means if you desire it; hut let us wait a little.' i felt that fear was just as had a counsellor as rashness, and thought it hut fair to wait until my companion's terror had suhsided. we waited accord- ingly, and he seemed to gather courage and assurance. i scauned the heights, and saw that a little more effort in an upward direction would place us in a less perilous position, as far as the ava- lanches were concerned. i pointed this out to my companion, and we went for- ward. once, indeed, for a minute or two, i felt anxious. we had to cross in the shadow of a tower of ice, of a loose and tbreatening character, which quite overhung our track. the fresbly-hroken masses at its hase, and at some distance helow it, showed that it must have par- tially given way some hours hefore. 'don't speak, or make any noise,' said my companion, and although rather sceptical as the influence of speech in such a case, i held my tongue, and escap- ed from the dangerous vicinity as fast as my legs and alpenstock could carry me." we caunot say that we are inclined to share the scepticism of professor tyndall,* the author of this account, as to the effect of the voice in hring- ing down small or great avalanches, whether of stones or ice-hlocks. it is the last ounce that hreaks the camel's hack, and the least vihration of the air may originate a movement which was only suspended hy the perfect stillness of the atmosphere. it is not more extraordinary that the slight shake of the voice should pre- cipitate a ton of just halanced mat- ter, than that a little touch of the hand should set the logan-stone rocking. we rememher once stand- ing immediately under the glacier of the hinter-rhein, and on a sudden calling out to the guide, who had fol- lowed us from the village of spliigen, and who was at a little distance hehind us. the first words served to awake stones which were sleeping on the face of the ice, and set tnem hounding over the slope. we went on speaking, our guide answering nothing, hut making frantic gestures instead, until a larger hlock than u,mal, coming as from a catapult wi'.hin a few feet of our heads, inter- preted his meaning, which was, that there was only safety in silence. as soon as we ceased to speak, the * we see hy the times th at this gentleman has ascended mont blanc this »w» mer, and succeeded in passing twenty hours on the summit. .] g mountaineering.— llie alpine cluh, mitraille from the glacier ceased hassiere!" the remarks which con- also, chide this moat interesting account the paper next in order contains an of high ramhles will meet with a account of excursions on the western ready response from all sympathetic side of mont blanc, including the readers. col de miage, hy mr. vaughan hawkins. this paper is valuahle as portraying difficulties experienced in consequence of the alpine travel- ler's great enemy, "stormy weather," and at the same time from showing the "to those who feel wearied—as who does not at times ?—with the ceaseless mill-work of england, in the nineteenth century, there is no medicine so soothing, hoth to mind and hody, as alpine travel, affording as it does interesting ohserva- expedients to which courage and pre-j tion and healthy enjoyment for the pre- sence of mind may resort to make" the hest of it, preventing others from extreme discouragement under cir- cumstances which are sufficiently common, in all mountainous districts. mr. vv. matthews, jun., is the next writer. he gives an account of most interesting explorations in " the moan- tains of bagues, with the ascents of the velan, comhin, and graffeneire, sent, and pleasant memories for the time to come. . . . "very many happy days have i spent among the 'peaks, and passes, and gla- ciers ' of the alps, hut i look hack upon none of them with feelings of such great satisfaction as upon those in which i wandered among the unknown fastnesses of the 'montagues de bagues.'" within the four last years the and the passage of the col du mont popularity of chamouny has heen rouge." this mountain lahyrinth lies eclipsed hy that of zermatt, chiefly, to the right of the historic pass of we suppose, in consequence of the the great st. bernard, and the great height at which the hospice is situ- ated makes it a most eligihle start- ing-point for excursions into it. "there are few parts of switzerland which more ricbly reward the lovers of alpine scenery, and which have heen hitherto so utterly neglected, as the maguificent mountain-ranges which en- close the savage defile of the val de bagues. six great glaciers pour their frozen streams into this valley, one of them famous as the cause of the melan- choly inundation of ; and from the chain of the comhin, which forms its western harrier, and occupies the tri- neighhourhood of the still unsealed matterhorn. whether this mountain will remain or not the real jungfrau of the alps, is a quet'tion which will douhtless soon he resolved. by comparing the narratives given in this volume, we ohserve that almost all the more important peaks have heen scaled, or are considered scale- ahle, from sorne side or other. these very glaciers and suow-fields which festoon the sides of the aiguilles, and present so many dangers and diffi- culties to the traveller, have never- theless furnished him with paths which, though seldom easy, are gener- ^ffn^n ! • fiw v,ranfl ally practicahle. we have ohserved of the dranse, rises a great alp a hundred in '„£„„ nwwl rnpk<,_nnf mm,ntn;n,, feet higher than the fmsteraarhorn. yet not one in every hundred of the crowds of tourists, who flock every year to the st. bernard hospice, turns aside at sem- hranchier into the val de bagues, and of these scarcely any one has explored the suow-hasin of corhassiere, or wan- dered over the ice-fields of chermontane; while those writers who have made the passage of the col de fenutre, have in- variahly descrihed the 'inaccessihle pre- in many places rocks—not mountains —of the same character of the mat- terhorn. we speak here at second- hand, never having seen the matter- horn ourselves hut at a great dis- tance. the matterhorn is rather a rock than a mountain—the highest rock in europe, as mont blanc is the highest mountain. its precipices appear to he practicahle only hy the same process hy which precipices of cip.ces of the comhin' with the sort of equai ^pe are arm unted or passed hopeless feeling with which they might when th congist of ice or nic£_ ornerul" * that is- fr cuttins step in them- ^' but, as in the case of the matterhorn, the "inaccessihle" comhin was the prohlem seems to he how to climh surmounted hy mr. mathews "in six biieer suipa of nearly smooth rock; hours of easy walking (?) from cor. the process would, he a most djfficqft [oct mountaineering.—the alpine cluh. and ted ions one. some one must of necessity go first, and, after catting as many steps as possihle at a time, come hack the way he came. it might he possihle to plant the pin of a rope securely in some chink, or to drive it into the solid rock; and the next ascent mieht he made with help of the rope. we shall doohtless hear of something of the kind heiog done or attempted soon, for there is a cer- tain class of british travellers who* would risk life for the sake of a successful ascent of the matterhorn. whether the result would justify the perd, is a question for their deter- mination, not for ours. if to risk life for mere national or personal glory he justifiahle, we should prefer such a path to tilory to that one which lay over the hecatomhs of solferino. the fifth chapter of our hook contains an account of a journey from zermatt to the vol d'auniviers, hy the trift pass, hy mr. hincbliff. the great difficulties of the ascent of the col were successfully surmounted, and the party found an anchorage on an open plateau of neve on the descent. "the provision knapsacks were emp- tied and used as seats; hottles of red wine were stuck upright in the suow; a goodly leg of mutton on its sheet of paper formed the centre, garnished with lard eggs and hread aud cheese, round which we ranged ourselves in a circle. high festival was held under the deep- hlue heavens; and now aud then, as we looked up at the wondrous wall of rocks which we had descended, we congratu- lated ourselves on the victory with a quiet nod indicative of satisfaction. if. seller's heautifal oranges supplied the rare luxury of a dessert> and we wore just in the full enjoyment of the delicacy when a hoomiug sound, like the discharge of a gun far over our heads, made us all at once glance up- wards to the top of the trifthorn. close to its craggy summit hung a cloud of dust like dirty smoke, and in a few seconds another and a larger one hurst fortli several hundred feet lower. a glance tbrough the telescope showed that the full of rocks had commenced, and the fragments were leaping down from ledge ledge in a series of cas- cades. each hlock dashed off others at every point of contact, and the uproar heeain* tremendous; thousand of frag- luwtn, mailing evriy va,ictj- of uoieo recording to their size, and producing the effect of a fire of musketry, and artillery comhined, thundered down- wards from so great a height, that we waited anxiously for some considerahle time to see them reach the suow-field helow. as nearly as we could estimate the distance, we were five hundred yards from the hase of the rocks, so that we thought that come what might we were in a tolerahly secure position. at last we saw many of the hlocks plunge into the suow after taking their last fearful leap; presently much larger fragments followed, taking proportionahly larger hounds. tho noise grew fiercer and fiercer, and huge hlocks hegan to fall so near to us that we jumped to our feer, determined to dodge them to the hest oi our ahility. 'look out!' cried some one, and we opened our right and left at the approach of a monster, evidently weighing many hundredweight, which was coming right at us like a huge shell fired from a mortar. it fell with a heavy thud not more than twenty feet from us, scattering lumps of scow into the circle where we had just heen dining; hut scarcely had we hegun to recover from our astonlshment, when a still larger rock ilew exactly over our heads to a distance of two hundred yards heyond us. the malice of the tritthorn now seemed to have done its worst. the fact was that the fall had taken place too near to the line of our descent for tho rememhrance of it to he alto- gether pleasant." the situation in which mr. hinch- liff and his companions stood under fire on this occasion, hrings to our memory an occasion when two tour- ists, standing on the plateau which counects the two glydera in north wales, hy unthinkingly rolling a small stone over the hrink of a pre- cipice ahove llyn idwal, were the agents of a similar catastrophe. as it grew to a climax, they felt as if the guilt of hlood would he on their heads should any adventurous wight he exploring the very sequestered valley helow, and made a solemn resolution never again to repeat a similar experiment the effects were much those so graphically descrihed hy mr. hincbliff. the next excursion—" pass of the schwarze thor from zermatt to ayas," hy the editor—is one of the most interesting in the whole hook, and there i) great trcohnou and originality in the descriptions, .] mountaineering.— the alpine club. "tho view from the western slope of the rifl'el, now well known to most swiss tourists, includes the range of peaks from the matterhorn to the weisshorn, with the glaciers hy which they ore he- girt. -the moon had risen; the valley helow, and all the lesser hollows, were filled with a hluish haze that stretched across to the hase of the opposite peaks, not forming, as clouds do, an opaque floor on which they could seem to rest, hut rather a dim mysterious depth, into which tliey plunged to an immeasurahle distance. the great peaks and glaciers shone with a glory that seemed all their own; not sparkling in the hroad moon- light, hut heaming forth a cahn ineffahle hrilliance, high aloft in the ether, far ahove the dwellings of mankind. chief of them all, the astounding peak of the matterhorn, that stupendous ohelisk whoso form defies tho holdest specula- tions of the geologist—gleaming moro hrightly for some fresh suow that rested on every furrow of its surface—towered upward into the sky. all men, even the least poetical, are variously im- pressed hy such scenes as these, and the mind is involuntarily carried hack to eomo scene of wonder and mystery that in early life has fixed its image on tho imagination. my own fancy on that night recalled a half-rememhered tale ot the scandinavian sagas, wherein the mythical hero hreaks into the assemhly of the gods, where they sit in solemn conclave, fixed in deep slumher, with long white heards descending to the ground. some such night-scene, amid the wild mountains of norway, may have suggested the picture to the old northern hard." ohservations follow in a spirit as well poetic as scientific on colour and twilight and certain mountain effects, the like of which we remem- her to have seen in the short sum- mer nights of scandinavia. the fact k that the elevation of the high alps places the ohserver nearer the sun, and makes the day longer in propor- tion to the latitude. in the alps, altitude, and not latitude, determines in a measure the day and night, as place as well as time determines the season of the year. it is summer at chamouny when it is mid-winter on the summit of mont blanc. even the ordinary tourist who has slept on the righi or the faulhorn, atd ohtained a favourahle suurise, is ac- quainted with the lovely phenome- non called the alpine rose. "just hefore suurise we had reached the rothi kumme, the steep slope over the gomer glacier, whence the rango of monto rosa is visihle in its whole extent, when a new ohject of intorest presented itself. to the eye, tho air round us had appeared perfectly clear, and with- out the slightest tinge of vapour, when suddenly the lower zone hetween us and tho opposito rango hecame suffused with a rosy hush that was accompanied with an evident diminution of transparency; this appeared to he strictly limited with- in a definite thickness of the atmosphere, extending to a height of ahout , feet. at the moment when the change took place, my eyes were turned to the s ulh-west, over tho matterjoch, as if a gauze veil had suddenly heen placed he- tween the eye and the distant sky, and clearly showing that the tint was pro- duced in the lowor and not the upper regions of the atmosphere. most travel-, lers in mountain countries are familiar with this phenomenon, hut few have had so favourahle an opportunity to ohserve it in the region where it is produced. it appears to me to ho one amongst numer- ous indications, that vapour contained in the atmosphere in a state of rest has a tendency to dispose itself in horizontal strata of unequal density. the exquisite lint which is seen in tho alps ahout ten minutes after sunset, and less commonly hefore suurise, may prohahly ho caused hy the reflection of the sun's rays from the under surface of some of theso strata lying considerahly ahovo the level at which the rosy glow hecomes visihle." well may the author of this passage enthusiastically exclaim— "what enjoyment is to ho compared to an early walk over one of these great glaciers of the alps, amid the deep silence of nature, surrounded hy some of her suhlimest ohjects, the morning air infusing vigour and elasticity into overy nerve and muscle, the eye unwearied, tho skin cool, and the wholo frame tingling with joyous anticipation of the adven- tures that the day may hring forth " and there is music as well as paint- ing and poetry in the ice-world. "on a sudden, as if from somo prodi- gious distance, there fell upon my ear the sound of musical instruments, pure and clear, hut harely distinguishahle. i halted and listened: there could he no douht, there was the heafing of a drum, and from time to time tho sound of nm:*, i,.struaients. i asked ma**t*i who now camo up, what he thought ot it, hut he had no idea of tho cause. ] mountaineering.—the alpine cluh. or imply dom, denotes. mr. davies speaks with great rapture of tho view from the top. "those who speak slightingly of the advantages to he gained hy ascending to the highest points, do not know what it is to see mountain-tops spread out he- neath you, almost like the stars of heaven for multitude. the greater ranges rise in mighty curves and hackhones, ridged with shining points, and give distinction to the scene; hut in that country of alps, wherever you look, there is a field of mountains: the higher you rise, the more maguificent is the panorama you com- mand." the alleleinhorn lies to the south of mr. davies' route, and is descrihed hy mr. ames, who also masters the pletschhorn, "do douht familiar in appearance, if not hy name, to those who have crossed the simplon pass in fine weather." as a little change from the heauties and suhlimities of mr. ball and others, we may extract some facetiae from mr. ames's narra- tive. the incidents in question oc- curred on passing a night in a chalet on the trift alp, where the travellers found a merry party. "my companions were half undressed, and i was finishing a cigar outside, when i hecamo aware of suppressed whisper- ings and titterings in tho immediate neighhourhood — sounds which, on fur- ther investigation, proved to emanate from a juvenile group of the female population collected at the corner of the next hut, and apparently watching with great interest the mysterious process of going to hed, as practised hy the english nation generally. after a little compli- mentary 'chaff,' and one or two songs from them, very fairly sung, and con- taining invariahly some reference to a 'echatzli' (sweetheart), i joined the rest of tho party, undressed, and, heing the last, according to the good old rule, put out the light no sooner had i stepped into hed than a crash ensued, and i sud- denly found myself half-huried under a chaotic heap of disorganised hedclothes, the holster occupying the post of honour on the top of my head. the treacherous fahric had given way at the foot of the hed, owing, no douht, to the suhstratum of logs having heen arranged in some position of unstahle equilihrium. a mo- mentary silence of astonishment was fol- lowed hy peals of laughter from my more fortunate companions, till two guides, at- tracted hy the noise, made their appear- ance with a lantern, and commenced the work of restoration, which was soon completed in a more solid and trust- worthy form, not, however, without sun- dry incursions of the fair sex, whose cu- riosity was proof against my extreme deshahille. the situation, as revealed hy the sudden light of the lantern, was no douht supremely ludicrous, hut was not precisely the kind of spectacle for the contemplation of female friends, and they were repelled accordingly. it did not occur to me at the time, hut i have my suspicions, that those iunocent damsels were privy to the catastrophe, and had, of malice prepense, unsettled the founda- tions of the couch." this incident strongly reminds us of some of our frieods' scaodinavian experiences. mother eve's daughters have a family likeness all over the world. the next narratives lead us across the valley of the rhone to the well- known (at a distance) bernese oher- land. every swiss tourist knows the maguificent panorama seen from the high places ahout berne, and deriv- ing its chief interest from the range of suowy peaks in the south, with their high - sounding and romantic names. yet these old'acquaintances of the traveller have even yet some un- explored recesses, and messrs. ander- son, ball, hardy, and bunhury show hy their narratives how much that is new may he found hy men possess- ing legs, hands, and eyes, and wit to nse them, even in the most familiar country. this range would douhtless have heen hetter known hefore, hut that its recesses have heen protected hy what tacitus would have called "ancient superstition." people ceased to trouhle themselves ahout what was universally regarded hy the natives as utterly inaccessihle. our country- men have now accustomed them- selves to receive the accounts of the natives "cum grano salis," and rely upon themselves for ohtaining accu- rate information, since they have found that englishmen, many of them leading in general the sedentary lives of cities, have heen ahle to show the horn mountaineers the way over their own mountains. mr. hardy has scaled the peak of daikness, and drawn aside the veil; and the great aletsch glacier, one of tho most re- markahle polar regions in the tem- perate zone, has heen traversed and [oct. mountaineering.—the alpine cluh. ohserved by more than one tourist, there is no reason it should not he thoroughly explored hy scientific men, as it seems to present fewer difficul- ties, comhined with finer characteris- tics, thou most other glaciers. mr. hincbliff has seen the wonders of the wimstruhel and oldenhorn, the lat- ter heing the principal peak of the remarkahle diahlerets. this moun- tain is well rememhered hy us, as contrasting with its rugged grand- eurs the arcadian scenery of the val- lee des ormons, which is ascended from aigle in the valley of the rhone, and than which there is not a region of more peaceful loveliness in the whole of switzerland. messrs. keunedy and hardy next astonish us with the fact of their having sur- vived "a night-adventure on the bristenstock," a mountain overhang- ing the entrance to the st. gothard pass ahove amsteg, where the ad- venturous tourists were ohliged to sleep hy turns locked in each other's arms, to avoid their falling over a precipice—like the hahes in the wood, hut without the wood, the rohins, or the leaves. lastly. mr. porster takes a flight to the little-known alps of canton glarus, making the haths of stach>lherg his headquarters, and visiting the famous martinsloch or martin's hole, n round tuunel over the segues pass, tbrough which a heam of the sun descends into the valley at certain seasons. ehel, he says, imagines the name to he a cor- ruption of martis loch, " hecanee the sun shines tbrough it on the steeple of the church at eim, in the months of march and septemher." but we should rather counect it with the ad- ventures of st. martin, who gives his name to the martinswand in the aus- trian alps, and who, from the high- flying propensities of his holiness, ought certainly to he adopted as their patron hy such memhers of the alpine cluh as happen to he of the roman catholic persuasion. rather valuahle to geologists than mere travellers are the remarks on the old glaciers of switzerland and north wales. all switzerland must once have presented a scene like that seen in the extreme north-west hy kane, and mentioned in his arctic explorations, where the stupendous glacier called hy humholdt's name is supposed to hridge greenland and america; and north wales must once have heen, with lower elevations, much what switzerland is now. be- ing directed to, the facts mentioned in this chapter, the most superficial ohserver may verify them, as we can attest from our own experience. the glens of cwm trifacn and cwm llafar are especially interesting, as showing the paths of old-world gla- ciers, and thus north wales is the complement to switzerland, discover- ing the features of those glacier hases which arc as yet uurevealed to human eye. the chapter on etna, hy mr. hardy, concludes the narratives of excursions, hy way of showing the catholicity of the aspirations of the alpine cluh; and mr. ball ohligingly puhlishes suggestions for alpine tra- vellers, as to measures of precaution and equipment, which show that the cluh have no wish to restrict the enjoyment of their higbland pre- serve. there is an even level of good writing in this hook, hecause the writers write from the ahundance of their hearts, and apparently, with a geueral ahsence of intellectual effort, descrihe the physical exertions they have made. the real secret of good writing, as we all know, is to have something to write ahout. then there will he no necessity of raising a ques- tion of latin or saxon pbraseology. the idea will clothe itself of itself in the most appropriate form of verna- cular. with regard to the outward form of the volume, we may say that the first-horn of the alpine cluh en- cases a sound mind in a sound hody; and more than this, that its outward favour is decidedly prepossessing. it is equally a hook for the drawing- room or lihrary tahle. to give an idea of the pains hestowed on it, we have only to mention that it contains nine maps, eight ebromo-lithographs, and twenty-tbree woodcuts, all of merit, especially the maps. the cbromo- litographs, though good, are hard- ly adequate to the expression of the vastness of alpine scenery; hut it must he remembered that this heautiful hranch of art is still in its infancy; and where so much depends on the faintest nuances of colour and chiarooscuro, the wonder is that so much has heen clone with so compa- ratively unhandy materials. .] mountaineering.— the alpine cluh. we could have wished to have heen ahle to include in the same re- view, some others of the host of alpine hooks that have heen lately presented to the puhlic) and if we had hefore ns mr. coleman's scenes from the snow-fields, we might he ahle to judge still hetter than from the uupretentious illustrations of peaks, passes, and glnciers, what art has heen ahle to achieve in tones as yet nearly unvisited hy the pro- fessional artist. but the hook in our hands suffices to show how engrossing is the passion for mountain-climh- ing, and how fast our countrymen are hecoming hitten with the delight- ful infection. without thought of re- sults, the movement has taken place, hut douhtless great results may flow our home mountains. and counected with these low elevations there is a pleasure scarcely known at inaccess- ihle heights, or where the continuity of altitude is hroken. we maan the long upland walks, along the crests of hills. such u walk we accom- plished on a glorious day in the sum- mer of , with delight never to he forgotten. it hegan with the as- cent of sea fell pikes from wastdale head, and then continued over the crest of langdale, .hehind lungdale 'ikes, over borrowdale fells, down esdale, to grasmer*. the little dif- ficulty of finding tie way over the fells gave a fillip of excitement to the walk. but the purity of the air was not to he surpassed. it seemed all oxygen or ozone. another such out of it. for this end. organisation walk preceded it hy two days, he- is necessary, and is found in the pro- spectus of the alpine cluh* we pro- phesy that, amongst men of intelli- gence as well as spirit, this will soon he one of the most popular of all the cluhs; though whether, as it has the free entree of all the mighty palaoeg of nature, it will care to huild itself a house made with hands in pall mall, may long he a question. giuning with a steep climh of the red pike from buttermere, aud tak- ing the tops in succession to sty head pass. in north wales, also, we recollect many such ramhles, the finest of which was the tours of carnedd david and llewellin, and the tops of the glyders, following the heights to capel cwrig. in the alps and pyrenees we have ever there is another way of visiting a i- found the greatest delight in visiting pine regions, which the alpine cluh, with their lofty aspirations, would prohahly despise, hut which is more attractive to ordinary people, and even to those who love, to a certain de- gree, danger and difficulty, possesses the least-trodden routes, although these were not always the more dan- gerous. alpine dangers are not to he encountered alone, or without cer- tain precautions which reduce them to a minimum. a melancholy in- peculiar advantages, especially in the stance has just occur^d, recorded in matter of independence. mr. king's italian valleys of the alps, and the lady's tour round monte rosa, prove how much may he seen in places not inaccessihle to ladies; and we know well that to the really poetic or artistic insight little is gained hy novelty or strangeness, hut that the universe itself is ever novel and strange in all its aspects to those who keep their eyes open. we know nothing more charming than unencumhered and unattended pedestrian excursions in mountain regions, no medicine for mind or hody of more universal efficacy. the charms of nature increase to the lovers of nature as time goes on, and do not grow old with their age. and the splendours of alps and pyrenees have only served to give us a fresher zest in the enjoyment of the times hy a correspondent whose letter hears date, zermatt, august . a russian gentleman, hy name ednuard de la grotte, has perished miserahly in a crevasse on the findelen glacier. he was at- tended hy two zermatt guides, hut scornfully refused to take an alpen- stock; and though a rope was passed round his hody, it only appeared to have heen looped round the arms of the guides. according to the guides' account, he slipped into a crevasse, and the rope hreaking short at each side of him, they were not ahle to recover him. the crevasse was of peculiar form, narrow at the top, then widening and then contracting again farther down. the unfortu- nate man appears to have fallen some sixty feet, and then to have hecome wedged with his head somewhat [oct. mountaineering.—the alpine cluh. lower than his hody. "while the clumsy guides were trying to reach him with too short a length of rope, having heen at the trouhle to make two journeys for them, the poor man died, having heen gradually and con- sciously frozen to death. the warmth of his hody had occasioned at first his sinking a few feet farther, and then the cold of the glacier overcom- ing him, he was frozen in, and as he would then have heen slowly crushed hy the expansion of the ice, it is hoped that death terminated his sufferings hefore this last torture. the guides, whose conduct appears tbroughout to have heen characterised hy care- lessuess and want of presence of mind, appear to have laid themselves open to suspicion on account of the appearance presented hy the hroken ends of the rope. it is possihle that their negligent hold of the traveller gave way at once to the weight of his hody, and that they cut the rope at the places where they said it had heen hroken, to save their reputation for trustworthiness* this accident was followed at no long interval hy one still more distressing to home readers, as the suhject of it was an eminent memher of the university of camhridge. we allude to the melancholy death of archdeacon hardwieke, hy falling down a steep place in the pyrenees, near the ba- gucres de lnchon. having prohahly heen over the ground ourselves in returning hy a hy-way from the port de venasque, we caunot think that the accident was caused hy any peculiar dangers or difficulties exist- ing there. the venerahle gentleman was an experienced alpine traveller, and the apparent ease of his route may have rendered him less cautious than usual. the former instance, which seems more to the purpose, would he any- thing hut discouraging to real alpine travellers. it simply shows what security may he attained hy certain precautions, the neglect of which may easily he fatal. it is astonishing, considering the appearance and real nature of these difficulties, how very few accidents have hitherto occurred in the high alps. nevertheless, it is to he esteemed a national honour, that most of those peaks hitherto considered inaccessihle, and many of those passes hitherto considered im- passahle, have yielded to the courage and perseverance of those islanders, whose still more daring and enduring countrymen have passed the continu- • ous night of the arctic winter in dark- ness and suffering, to solve prohlems not much more important; or endured the torture of thirst in the hurning deserts of central africa, with an end and purpose avowedly and really high- er, hut in no dissimilar spirit. while prance, actually more old-fashioned in her ways, still pants for that md- itary fame of which the world has heard so much hefore, great britain strives for newer and hloodless lau- rels, and seeks, according to the creator's sanction, to assert the su- premacy of man less over his hro- ther than over material nature. * since this article was written, a letter has appeared in the times, from one of the memhers of the alpine cluh, whose remarks seem to corrohorate our conjecture as to the death of the russian gentleman at zermatt:—"he fell down hecause there was not a sufficient length of rope. the fact of the shortness of the rope is sufficiently proved hy the mauner in which they used it. they tied the gentleman round the hody, as is usual; hut instead of fastening themselves in the same mauner, they, evidently with the intention of making the rope cover agreater space of ground, simply held it in their hands, each taking one end of it now, sir, is it not almost certain, that supposing the man in the middle to fall, the other two are unahle to hold on to the rope, and it slips from their hands with the jerk? and, this, i helieve, happened in this particular case. the rope was too short, so the guides held the ends of it in their hands, and when the gentleman hetween them fell, they were unahle, in consequence of the jerk, to keep their hold. they say the rope hroke. i am inclined to douht it" there is, however, an ohvious difficulty in this theory as to how it came to pass that the rope was not carried into the crevasse with the gentleman. it may have slipped from the hand of one guide first, then, heing loosely hound, have detached itself from the hody, or the guides may have neglected to tie the traveller at all. .] ' the seaside in the papal states. imkat -f,... the sea-sine in the papal states. among the many delusions preva- lent in the ordinary imagination, there are few more groundless than the popular northern idea of italian climate—that idea which neither fact nor descriptions can dissipate, and which every honest english fancy helieves in devoutly, let travellers say what they will. thus we go on with melancholy persistence, hut faith unfailing, carrying the delicate hlossoms we love hest to hrave out the huffets of winter amidst the countless cross - draughts and chill paved floors of italian apartments, where our complaints are set down to the score of english egotism and helplessuess hy a. people much more given to the savage placidity of en- durance than to any possihility of reform. but if boreas hlows sbrill in the tramontara at one season, and suffocates his hreatbless victims with the sirocco at another, there is a steady spring hrilliance in the italian sky which restores one to that half- forgotten enjoyment of may, which our grandfathers used to have, or to say they had, hut of which we, in our island, have certainly of late days lost all security. july and august in italy are months to he gasped tbrough, and endured as one hest can. but there is a may—the fact is indis- putahle—and for those who love that month of the poets, it is something to know that it survives somewhere. may, hright, fresh, serene, and sweet, with skies of deep untrouhled azure, steadily shining tbrough starry night and suuny day—familiar honeysuckle and wild roses hursting upon all the hedges — the rich red glow of the pomegranate hlossom hurning amidst its cool deep shade of leaves—the corn ripe and golden — the vines tender and young, the grey sweet olives lending a singular calm and com- posure to the landscape with their mild neutral uncertainty of tone—and not a cloud, save now and then a suuny puff of white, like the wing or the rohe of some chance angel, upon the untrouhled depth of sky. such was the roman may which shone this year over all the melancholy vol. lxxsvi. . plain and rich hills that surround the everlasting city. distant echoes of french caunon, and proguostica- tions of italian tumult, not yet real- ised so far south, had darkened the air with its annual enormous swal- low-flight of home-returning tourists rather more precipitately than usual; and "rome was empty," something as london is in septemher, when we took our early way to the sea-side. the emptiness of rome makes itself visihle hy the shutting np of great hotels, and the dismantling of shops frequented hy those forestieri or wan- dering harharians who hring toll to the old mistress of the world, hy the languor and leisure of certain streets recoguised as the foreiguers', or rather the english, quarter—and not least hy the total desertion of all the sights which a leisurely pilgrim, unappalled hy visions of malaria, may enjoy if he wills with all the privacy and leisure of their owner, now that the season is over, and murray no longer drives along the corso, a sacred ensigu, in one out of every two or tbree carriages, and marches into church and gallery under everyhody's arm. we did not remain, however, to enjoy this mono- poly of some of the hest things in the world; hut as we were not going to england with all the rest of the har- harous people, we went to the sea-side. our way lay across the campagua in all the early glory of the may morning. the nohle de-iolate arches of the old aqueduct striding over the wonderful flat hefore us, and the fields on either side aglow with all the col- ours which nature unassisted puts into her bowers. no great things of flowers either—hrilliant red poppies, purple mallows, dainty wreaths of the tiny convolvulus — white - hells of nameless maguificence growing upon coarse weed-hushes, and this- tle-heads purple and yellow, hut so matted and grown together, with their minute invisihle under-layer of pimpernel and celandine, that the whole looks like a close carpet of varied colour. there is scarcely a tree in the landscape, save those dia- « [oct. the sea-side in the papal states. tant clouds of foliage upon the hills, and a chance seedling here and there ahout some ruin—nor a house save the pathetic fragments of houses, huilt in the times hefore malaria, when people were not afraid of the canipagua ;—hut if there are neither houses nor trees, there are shadows . falling aod flitting, and changing hy some unseen agency, stretching in long hlue lines into the disiance, flying like some invisihle hreath over the great silent plain, where nothing else, save here and there a troop of grey wild cattle, seems to move or hreathe. the white towers of the alhan hills glance out among their trots at half a-dozen different alti- tudes, one appearing after another as the road turns. such is the first half of the way; then we are turned adrift at an osteria for a couple of hours while the horses rest, and the heat of noon suhsides. the osteria is a farm- steading as well, and wealthy in its way. upstairs there is a camera di franzo, with a great heap of corn in one corner, and some rude tahles and chairs at the other, where we have maccaroni, hread and hutter, thin wine, and anchovies set out for us, in such fashion as a wayside " puhlic" uses in the papal states. the next room is a dark hedchamher, without any means either of light or ventila- tion save the door. eutering here on a voyage of discovery, you are he- wildered hy a sudden gleam of eyes and flickering motion. it ia not a pigeon—the pigeons are in the third room, the hest hedroom, in company with a promising family of chickens. if yon open the door a little wider, you will see on that enormous hed, hig euough to contain a fumily, and high enough for a funeral couch of state, two smallest hahies, one, poor little sonl! hroad awake as only hahies kuow how to he, unhelievahly good and contented in its dark prison, its hright eyes twinkling towards the welcome light—the other decorously asleep. there they lie, the poor little twiti?, whom a liheral providence has hestowed upon the husy hostess of pontana di papa. what can the good woman do? she has tbree- aud four-year olds downstairs, at the age of mischief, who must he looked after to a certain extent—not to say all her farm, and her guests, and her maccaroni to attend to. so the hahies are wisely hestowed in the vast parental hed, no fear of vigorous kick or tumhle alarming the mother, who has done them up in swaddling- hands this morning, and left them in the dark till it is time to attend to their reasonahle necessities. if they choose to cry uureasonahly for amusement or "distraction," they are happily too far off to distract the domestic quiet. they must wait till they are old enough to •'distract" themselves, the small unfortunates, when they will have their revenge. but there is no poverty in this old, hare, savage house. the walls of the dark room are hung with the many articles of a suhstantial wardrohe— hright - coloured gowns, and shawls, and hodices worthy a landlady. out- side spread the rich vineyards hask- ing in the noon, which keep the wine- hutts full in the osteria; hehind, the corn is taking its last perfection of golden ripeness. the hees are mak- ing honey—every thing tbrives and looks plentiful, and most likely they will get on very well these simple people, the hahies in the dark includ- ed, without ever finding out what comfort means. it was evening when we came to our sea-quarters, a serene afternoon, inclining towards sunset. imagine a deep mediterranean hay, hluer than the heavens, one corner of its crescent tipped like an arrow-head with the gleaming line of a little seaport striking out sharp into the water, with one tiny tower of defence, and a little crowd of picturesque lateen sails lying along its tiny quay; the deep curve falling far into the dis- tance on the other side, with the half- visihle tower of astura dropped on the water's edge, to mark the outline; and stepping holdly out into the sea, half-way across the semi-circle, that lion-headed promontory, white and magic, where circe and her syrens sang; while deep in the light of the hay, serene aud commanding, lies what links like a great mediaeval fortress, turning its line of jealous towers aud stout defences towards the sea. behind all, the nohle line of the volscian hills slope vast and distant towards the invisihle ocean .] tite sea-side in the papal states. on the other side of the circean headland; and the pleasant suuny slopes of a rural country, vineyards, and pasture-lands, and gardens, with villas and convents sown among them, and a fringe of hreezy downs, complete the landscape. bold cliffs, yellow and rugged, with nodding plumes of hroom on their crest, and dark fragments of ancient masoury at their feet, defend the coast as it curves and deepens towards that great old stronghold which frowns upon the hay. it is into the peace- ahle heart of that same ancient strength and place of defence that this peaceful road leads us, winding hetween its hedgerows; for these towers and ramparts are only ranges of humhle tenements and dwelling- houses nowadays; and xettuno is no longer a palace-fortress of the middle ages, picturesque and lawless, hut a little populous italian town, where a swarm of dark-skiuned people live and multiply among the old decaying turrets, without a suspi- cion that their little dusty noisy sun- shiny sea-village is one of the most picturesque comhinations of old walls, and towers, and hastions, to he found even in this country, where every thing is picturesque that is aged, and decaying, and forlorn. everyhody turns out to gaze, of course, as we drive into the deep mo- mentary gloom of that archway, just within the ancient gate where the old colouna palace strides across the narrow way, and erects its little tower in ready defiance of any hostile stranger; hut they sell onions and lettuces to-night at the door of the colounas, and it is ahout this arch that the villagers swarm, and under its shadow that the hutcher, most important, hut most coy of trades- men, as we shall find hereafter, hangs ont his iron hooks and hars his greasy shutters. and now here is the piazza colouna, with its forlorn little column to identify it; a pictu- resque square, with traces of fair old architecture here and there, and an- other palace opening its hig door and desolate vestihule at one side. the men are in the larger piazza outside the gate, where are likewise the cafes — those indispensahle italian necessities; hut the women are at all the doors and windows, and the children are everywhere. no fear that his holiness shall lack for suh- jects. heaps of hoys tumhled ahout in all the corners — shoals of hahies in leading-strings, tilted up from the rough causeway hy premature little women ahout twice as high as them- selves; and younger hahies, helpless little fishes, with two flickering hands in motion, distrihuted among the mothers at the doors. however, we have our way to make to our tempo- rary hahitation, which is not to he approached hut on foot. we go with a train in whiting, curious to learn all ahout us—and here at last is our house. it would no douht he very prosaic in comparison to live upon a marine parade; so let us climh with equani- mity this stair, which is like a very steep ladder, and investigate our ac- commodations. these consist of a range of hedrooms, a sda, and an eating-room, down stair, the hed- chamhers overlooking, and the dining-room opening upon, an ohlong piece of terrace or loggia, the narrow end of which overlooks the sea. the said hedchamhers are partially floor- ed with tiles, and partially with a terrihle concrete, curiously studded with small pehhles, which any un- wary individual, stepping upon it with a shoeless foot, is not likely to forget. each has an enormous hed, piled high, with hard rustling mat- tresses stuffed with the dried leaves of the maize, into, or rather on to which it is necessary to climh hy means of a chair, and where there is space enough for a whole family to dispose themselves for the night. the furniture, of an admirahly stoical contrivance, serves the hare uses of necessity, hut pretends to nothing more; and the only ornamental articles visihle are simple tureens of common earthenware, one of which stands on almost every tahle hy way of decoration. after all, when one looks round upon the forlorn apart- ment— the hnrd eminence of that hed, the ingeniously miserahle chairs, the dusty painted deal tahle, oue thinks with a little compunction of the marine parades and sea-view ter- races which one has ahused at home. however, diuner waits helow. [oct. the sea-side in the papal states. there is a family of father, mother, and feur hlack-eyed little girls in these lower rooms, all of whom hivouac for the night in an apart- ment next to our salle-d manger, tbrough one side of which, separated hy an improptu partition of semi- transparent canvass, we have to pass, with such enlightening peeps of that congregation of heds, and such odours as are indispensahle. diuner appears at hroken and irregular intervals— soup desperately hot, with floating hells of grease on its surface, and a mass of tbready home-made maccar- oni helow; then little anchovies and slices of uncooked ham and bologua sausage; then the j'ritto — where are other slices of ham curiously gummed into an enclosure of hread, and accompanied hy fried arti- chokes and vegetahle, marrow and halls of rice; then a dish of pease once more, with prosciutto, small slices of ham appearing amid the hroken and dusky green of the un-. happy vegetahle; then the umido, or stew, a piece of overcooked meat laid upon a hed of rice which has ah- sorhed the gravy; then a pair of roasted pigeons of antique age, the patriarchs of the race; then tiny alpine strawherries and cherries; and so the meal is concluded, and we have eaten, or are supposed to have eaten, " a real italian diuner!" as somehody assures us with exulta- tion—not a hotel diuner, cosmopoli- tan and uncharacteristic, and adapted to the tastes of strangers, hut unso- phisticated and individual cookery, native to the soil — with perhaps only a little less oil, vinegar, onion, and tomato than the good people would have had for themselves. that is pleasant to know, certainly; hut we are not over-effusive in our gratitude. let us go out upon the loggta when the quick twilight has fallen, and the moon rises over the sea. the loggia has no hetter pave- ment than the pehhly concrete which forms a portion of our hedroom floors, and has the clothesline still sus- pended across it, on which the sora mariauna, our landlady, has had her "washing" hung out to dry — not to say that it is encumhered with various household and kitchen uten- sils not generally regarded as orna- mental: however, these are very secondary matters in this part of the world. from the low wall which hounds one side, we look down upou a little triangular piazza, with pic- turesque outer-stairs, and deep arches of darkness under them, where there is an old house which has heen a great house some time, and which still retains, like a solitary jewel, the prettiest delicate gothic window, divided hy a little twisted pillar. opposite that is a dim picture of the madouna, with a twinkling feehle lump newly lighted hefore it; and while we look down in the soft purple gloom of the night, over the great hlack gulf of steps which leads from a corner of the little piazza to the fountain, there suddenly hreaks out a measured chant, led hy a woman at one of the doorways, and responded to hy others round, till every door hears its part in the response, as the inmates appear upon the high "stairheads," or under the lower arches. with the high houses shutting in that morsel of space—the "little span of sky, and little lot of stars," which is all that is visihle of the vast heavens from that enclosure —the half-seen figures at the doors, the twinkle of the lamp hefore the sbrine, and the fainter irregular lights in the windows, the scene is as picturesque as could he imagined; while still the one voice rises with a certain rude solemnity, and the chorus answers with a homely, irre- gular sincerity of response, till the litany ends in a "viva maria, maria viva!" sung in an altered time and quicker chorus, which hrings all the silent inhahitants to the windows to join in, and ends the nightly ohservance. the voices were not very sweet, nor the music very entrancing; hut that was how they sang the ave maria, with the soft hoom of the mediterranean echoing in, the work-day over, and the vilhge clocks sounding the first hours of the night other sounds, however, not bo pleasant, came at other hours from that same piazza, as at this present moment. they issue, still nearer, froms hehind the canvass screen which parts our steps from the sora ma- riauna's domestic sanctuary. ihere .] the sea-side in the papal states. is a child, just heyond the early un- reason of hahvhood, equalling with an unceasing, hopeless length of cry, which nothing hut early swaddling and an italian mother's patienza could possihly hring ahout. any- thing like the dreary persistence and long-windedness of those little lungs is certainly not to he heard in credit- ahle houses anywhere hut in italy: however, she does not mind it very much, — that hustling sbrill-tongued little woman, who knocks ahout her elder girls like so many pieces of furniture, scolds her maids—lor she has two, and is a wealthy person— chatters with her guests, and, if do- hody else offers, with her hushand, and evidently feels herself in very satisfactory circumstances. peep into that other room hefore we go up- stairs. girolamo is at supper, his wife taking her seat and her morsel hy times, as occupation or inclina- tion permits, and a hrother or friend haaring the goodman steadier com- pany. the tahlecloth is not very white, hut the chances are it is clean enough. perhaps there is a dish of french heans, stewed out of all possihle colour, with indescrihahle sauces—perhaps a salad, possihly a plate covered with slices of salami, cut so thin as to he transparent. there they sit in high content and enjoyment, with an inordinate sup- ply of dark-complexioned hread, and a great flask of wine, cool and fresh from the "grotto" — wine of their own growing, and no contemptihle hrowst—lighted hy the tall roman lamp upon the tahle. the only light in this apartment during the day comes from a small square grated window high up in the wall; and an english cottager would think the place a desert, with its total lack of furniture, except the tahle and chairs in immediate nse; its tiles, which, daring all their existence, have never known of such domestic implements as mop or scruhhiug-hrush; its hare uuplasiered walls, and ahsence of light. if the sora mariauna had heen an englishwoman, she would have furnished a drawing-room hy this time, and sent her daughters to a hoarding-school; hut perhaps, on the whole, it is just as well for teta and angelina that no such idea could possihly enter their mother's head. the goodman of the house is very "well put on," in comfortahle, un- characteristic garments which such a man might wear anywhere; hut the padrona appears in the com- monest of cotton gowns, such as an english maid ofallwork would scorn "of an evening ;" hut which is cleaner than it looks, douhtless, though that is not saying much. there is no prettier costume to he seen anywhere than the characteristic costume of nettuno; hut that is only for festas and great occasions. mariauna's hair, though it clearly has not heen un- done or hrushed to-day, is twisted into two thick plaits with an inter- woven rihhon, and wound round her head, on the front of which the hroad ends of rihhon are tied in a how—a pretty fashion enough, though it shows to no great advantage on these dusty locks. there she sits chatter- ing with her sbrill tongue, perfectly confident in herself, and feeling no lack to the satisfaction of her amour propre. shall we say, as so nvmy people say—forhid it, heaven!—that civilisation and railroad should penetrate hither, and put amhitious thoughts in the heads of these good people? it is difficult to decide. are they hetter there, in their dark, uncleansed, unsavoury houses, than they would he in the grand, vulgar, new drawing-room which mariauna would assuredly set up if her lot were cast in an english country town instead of an italian one? heaven knows! between sham re- finement and real savagery, perhaps there is not much to choose. however, there is an odd reality of cleanliness, totally indifferent to the appearance of it, among these people. their linen is rough and dusky, without a shadow of that gloss, whiteness, and fragrance which hnen washed in clear ruuning water, and dried in the hlazing hleaching sunshine, with pure hreezes hlowing it ahout, and not a "hlack" within a hundred miles, ought to show. "washed in the fairy-well water, and hleached on the hounie white gowans," it hears a natural sentiment of radiant poetic cleanliness which the common italian mind would seem totally des- titute of. and to descend to homelier [oct. the sea-side in the papal states. particulars, that most useful and un- ohtrusive of domestic machines, a mangle, is an unknown refinement of civilisation here, so that the house- hold linen makes its appearance in the condition known to english housekeepers as " rough-dried." not- withstanding, those rough napkins and tahlecloths are clean after their fashion; so are the heds, though there is neither polish nor freshness in the feel of the linen; and the same thing holds with the under- garments of the villagers, which, hidden under an exterior appearance an)thing hut cleanly, are neverthe- less, as a general rule, very tolerahly clean. a like principle rules in the kitchen, where a universal hegrimed, engrained dirtiness prevails, hut where the pots and pipkins, ahun- dant as they generally are, seem in- variahly well cleansed within, what- ever may he their appearance out- side. this fundamental virtue, over- laid with every possihle invention of carelessuess and easy indifference to appearances, is an odd peculiarity of a people so fond of appearance and show, and so little careful of real- ity; hut it is comforting in its way. discomfort duskier and more grimy than that which existed in the kitchen of sora marinuna, it has seldom heen our luck to see. the entire surface of the apartment and of its scant fur- niture was hopelessly hlackened; a grim, contented, immovahle soil had grown into the very nature of every article in the place. one corner was fenced off with a low rail for the poultry, which did not much improve the matter. the fireplace, like most other kitchen fireplaces here, con- sisted of a hroad shelf of stone, con- siderahly higher than a tahle, with two little ha>ins made of iron hars sunk into it for the charcoal, and a possihility hetween the two of kind- ling upon the flat stone, when ne- cessary, a fire of wood. but dark as was everything else surrounding this primitive kitchen-range, the copper saucepans and earthenware pipkins which jostled each other over those tiny glowing pits of charcoal, were unapproachahle in their cleanliness; and ihe great vase of water hard hy, fresh drawn from the fountain, as spotless and clear as it was cool and refreshing. it would he unjust to pass over this soul of goodness in things evil. it is the redeeming pos- sihility of the humhler italian domes- tic life. there are few things more ridicu- lous than the mishaps of a party of travellers in a village out of the way of such invasions; hut one does not laugh with good-will while one is un- dergoing these hardships, or is likely to fall into the same unfortunate plight speedily again. we opened our eyes next morning in our igno- rance and iunocence, helieving that we had come to enjoy the sea and its hreezes, and perfectly easy in our mind, despite last night's cookery, on the suhject of diuner, notwith- standing the truth was that we had come to fight for our living, and that the purveyor of the party had a sore and trouhlous life of it, and little comfort in the existence which was held under such a dismal responsihil- ity. the sea lay so close to us that we could have dropped pehhles into its ripply edge all day long over ihe low wall of our loggia, consequently fish was all hut impossihle — as im- possihle as though a railway hnd reached to that margin of salt water to carry away its glittering spoils to the higger markets of the city. early sunshine of the summer morning saw the goatherds milking their heanled flocks in the piazza, in preparation for a long day's ahsence on the pas- turage, aud groups more picturesque were never painted; hut, alas, if memory or calculation failed at that one precious moment to lay in sture enongh for the necessities of the day, with a liheral margin for accidents, what was to hecome of the unhappy children helonging to us till sunset hrought the flock home again with their tinkling hells, and made the humhle luxury of a cup of milk a possihle indulgence? vegetahles, in the shape of french heans and vast onions, were usually practicahle, and now and then a chance windfall of potatoes made our hearts rejoice; hut the hutcher remained the uns- tery and misery of our existence. we rose up with vain hopes of im- possihle lamh and heef, hut sank into despondency hefore we had swallowed our spare hreakfast, aud with eyes of .] the sea-side in thepapal stales. terror and dismay looked forward to the diuner-tahle, where everything, save the houillon, was a lottery. we at nettuno and the good people yon- der on the horn of this hay-crescent, at porto d'anzio, killed hut a lamh hetween ns, and, it is to he presumed, slew greater animals only in quar- ters, not to say that a fatal ogre of a prince borghese, lord of the manor and universal owner of the soil, eat remorseless in his villa, midway he- tween the two hapless little towns, with a watchful cook, who pounced upon all the hest pieces hefore the rest of the world had opened its eyes. the hest pieces! as if one had leisure to dream of a hfst, when any piece was a wonderful example of good fortune, and when, morning after morning, early or late, the same dis- consolate harred shutters and vacant hooks of greasy iron dismayed our souls within us as we dived under the deep shade of the arch, with vain hopes and anxioas pulses. alas! as if one's struggle tbrough existence was not hard enough without a per- eunial struggle for one's diuner !—as if it were not sufficiently trouhlesome to collect those paltry hits of gold and silver to pay for the same, with- out the hootless agonies afterwards of hunting up an impossihle some- thing where there was uothing to hny! perhaps the sympathetic reader may suggest "poultry" in this melaucholy dilemma. did not we also sugges', it pathetically, and with many an iteration, to the ohdu- rate ear of sora mariauna? who, at last, after much entreaty, with sbrill laughter and puhlic exhihition of the ugliest living hirds of the neighhour- hood, derisively offered to our choice.' accorded us a gallmo, which turned out to he no yallino, hut an old, old hird, douhtless as well skilled in the ways of the world, after his fashion, as those ancient cocks of greater re- known whom fundi and the world wot of. we were also permitted a certain provisionary and prohlemati- cal claim upon a couple of ducks, the forefathers of the hamlet, who wad- dled under our windows all day long, perfectly easy in their venerahle minds, and happily unconscious that slariauna, with shrill eclats of laugh- ter, declared over their heads that though uneatahle otherwise, they might still make very good soup. we did not, however, disturh the placid existence of these patriarchs. by dint of lying in wait for him, and finding out his haunts, and the locality of the " grotto" where he kept his per- ishahle store, when he had any, we at last made a conquest of the coy merchant of heef aud mutton, and hy degrees impressed upon the minds of our hostess and her maids that the british temper does not always yield to the soothing influence of a "patienza.'" and that the pleasing uncertainty in point of hours and provisions which seems to answer very well for these localities, does not suit with northern hahits. it is not, however, so easy to impress this upon the recollection of a household which can always make its vegetahle messes sumptu- ous hy an impromptu introduclion of prosciutlo, salami (to wit, ham and bologua sausage, cut into trans- parent slices), or anchovies, which dainties require no cooking, nor even (excepting the last) preparation of any kind, and which incite the italian appetite to an enormous consump- tion of hread and wine, the two staples of existence. these excellent people, who preach to our own poor women at home over the disadvan- tages of had cookery, and are so fond of adducing continental example, might learn something, perhaps, if they would, hy a little real study of continental cookery, as it is found among the class whom they address. to he sure nohody gives italy much credit for dainty dishes, though we douht greatly whether the french workman's pot au feu, his hread and apples or hread and grapes, would strike the english workman as any improvement upon his own more suh- stantial fare. however, the principle of cookery among the italian lower classes is very clear and apparent; that is hest which gives lenst trouhle: the vegetahle stew which cooks it- self quietly hy the fire till it is little more than a mash of discoloured pulp; the soup which hoils after the same easy fashion—which has simply to he filled up with water as the quantity diminishes, and made into greasy porridge when everyhody is ready for [oct. the sea-side in, the papal states. diuner, hy the sudden plunge into it of a lieap of rnaccaroni; aud for "kitchen" or relish, when such is necessary, a reference to the infallihle hacon-shop, where the officiating artist gives them a half-pound of ham or sausage in a score of half- visihle slices, and has store of the pungent ewe-milk cheese, which flavours all their dishes. such is the domestic science of the humhle kitchen here. perhaps it would he safe to say that the pure natural flavour of fresh food, undisguised, and retaining its natural suh- stance and appearance, is a thing generally unknown upon the con- tinent—all very well at a good parisian restaurant, or costly family tahle; hut no amount of progress is likely to make a poor english house- wife into a french chef de cuisine, and for anything less it seems ex- tremely douhtful how far a morsel of meat or a mass of vegetahles, stewed totally out of their senses, and in that state of inanition disguised with some foreigu flavour of cheese or vinegar, is hetter than the rich heefsteak, a little scorched perhaps, or the cot- tager's heans and hacon. pardon the digression, hountiful reader! and re- memher charitahly how much philan- tbropical nonsense has heen spoken on this suhject for the last half-dozen years ; and if there is a great deal to he said for the heefsteak and the hacon, think of the utter ahsurdity of discoursing ruhhish ahout continental cookery to the honest woman who sets hefore her hushand and children that monarch of soups, the hroth of scotland! which, hy the way, is na- tive to leicestershire, and most likely to various other english counties, as well as heyond the tweed. however, it is so generally under- stood that one does not go to italy to he comfortahle, that the matter needs no insisting upon, although we per- sist in taking our invalids there, to make an end of what morsels of ap- petite and opportunities of comfort they may have. in this rude little town on the mediterranean's edge, with its ancient hastions facing sea- ward, and its steep and lofty scarp surmounted still hy the old wall and line of towers—a wall no longer hattlemented or defensive, hut filled up with poor little house:', the small windows of which hreak in irregular lines tbrough the old nnsoury, and which are reached hy picturesque dilapidated staircases, and a nr,ss- grown terrace,—there is ahundant store of the characteristic attractions which do hring strangers to this country. it is impossihle to turn up the merest little alley, or enter the narrowest line of street, without fall- ing upon some corner which would make a picture. talk of gothic architecture heing inapplicahle to the uses of modern life, as if nairow win- dows and heavy mullions were a principle of gothic architecture, in- stead of the merest details and par- ticulars of one of its periods! look at the ease and grace, amid all its rudeness, with which this gothic fortress and stronghold of the middle ages has turned itself into a town, and infused its own leading rule of necessity and ready adaptation into the humhle houses which have clus- tered up ahout it, that leading prin- ciple evidently heing plain use and need, and nothing less or more. down that hroad flight of steps you come at the fountain, with a lofty nohle vaulted roof sheltering its great hasins and its silvery spring, where the women wash and chatter over their work, and where a procession of water-carriers, with great vases on their heads, are always coming and going. but the sweep of those arches, so cool and deep in shadow, is not more characteristic than the turns and elhows of this outside stair, ascending just as the convenience of its old inmates had suggested, with arched openings in the wall to give it light, and hreaks of sudden sunshine among its shadows. there the people look out in the early evening dark- ness to lend their chorus to the ave maria, and there they cluster when there is anything to he looked at — for the curiosity of nettuno is easily awakened, forming in their own groups and positions a sight much more worthy of heing looked at than most of the spectacles which interest them. what a world of picturesque use and homely gracefulness lies in that outside stair! true, they inter- fere a little with a level line of street, hut fortunately there is here no line .] the sea-side in the papal states. of street to he interfered with, only a recurrence of hreaks and openings, and graceful corners, at every possihle kind of angle, as convenienqe once dictated—convenience to which lime, aud that hold evident grace of use and necessity plainly visihle upon all these irregularities, has given a wonderful fascination. now and then, looking in tbrough an open door, you catch a glimpse of an apartment on which two or tbree hundred years have made no change —not very light, certainly, with its window high in the wall, aud rude as its inmates, hut cool and spacious, and perfectly adaptahle to all domes- tic uses, even hy a master more re- fined than the industrious cohhler who sits outside all day long with his little stand of materials, and sings, and gossips, and lahours, with a merry heart. standing hack a little, hut not from any hauteur or dis- dain of its neighhours, stands an old palace, the deserted hahitation of a nohle roman family. if you are wise, you will lodge yourself there when you go to nettuno, though the land- lord is not a nohle doriapamfili, hut only a jolly haker. down that deep archway at the side, how the mults come and go with their flour-sacks, one swang on either side like a don- key's pauniers; hut within, tbrough the wide vestihule and grand stair- case, dirty, and dusty, and in sad degradation, hut nohle notwithstand- ing, you come into a lofty hall in perfect preservation, the common dining-room of the modern haker's collection of sea-hathing guests, as it was the common room douhtless of the princely household tbree hundred years ago. it is perfectly suitahle to its present use, with a certain cheer- ful, nohle, human simplicity that adapts it to the shelter and comfort of human creatures under all circum- stances—a kind of place in which one walks loftier, and hreathes freer hy a natural instinct;—and yet would he as perfectly in keeping with the new turn of circumstances were nohility and wealth to return to it with all the arts of decoration to-morrow. a line of hright apartments opens from this hall fronting direct upon the sea, with nothing intervening to hreak the effect, tbroning out halconies over the tideless mediterranean surf, and commanding the whole hlue sweep of that wide hay, with its great headland looming out to sea; and, standing upon one of these halconies, with the strong old walls helow tak- ing hold upon the rocks, and washed hy the sea spray, seeing nothing of the surrounding population, hut only how the line "of huilding rounds at its ends into those great towers, and widens downwards to its invulner- ahle rocky hase, it is easy to imagine that we stand on some piunacle of a great individual fortress, and that it is no little municipality, hut some single factious nohle, who holds against all assailants this castle hy the sea. let us make haste, however, out of doors, for here is a procession ahout to pass, and the piazza uolouna has decked itself for the occasion. some- thing ornamental hangs from every window. look i so long ns there is a pretty hit of colour to he had, we are not particular in nettuno as to appropriateness of the drapery. one or two superior and higbly virtuous people have, it is true, the correct and proper article—a crimson cloth with a yellow fringe or hinding; hut the mojority are not so well provided. the good women accordingly turn to their personal wardrohes; here it is a red shawl, grand and fiery; there, a gauzy pink one, spread over some- thing more suhstantial, and fluttering lightly in the hreeze. next window has a gorgeous tahle-cover of red and hlue cotton hanging forth, decorous and steady; the next, some nonde- script hit of coloured stuff, with one of the pretty emhroidered necker- chiefs, worn in the local costume, spread over it—a graceful contriv- ance. then we fall lower to coloured aprons, and furtive skirta of dresses, and even cotton handkerchiefs—ev- erything which has colour enough to make a little show; and nondescript as the exhihition is, the general effect is undeniahly pretty, lively, and gay, with a touch of the whimsical, which does no harm to its picturesque qua- lities,—the summer air playing in the odd disguises, the sunshine touching all it can reach into hright reflec- tion. the women clustering at doors and windows; the route of the ap- s [oct. the sea-side in the papal states. proaching procession marked along the little square hy sprigs of hox and sweet-smelling myrtle, strewed in an impromptu carpet, and a pleasant stir of expectation animating the whole. the litile chapel door stands open; it-i interior, dark in shadow, contrast- ing with all this out-of-doors light and sunshine, and the faint candles twinkling on the altar. yonder conns the procession, defiling slowly tbrough the deep shadow of that old arch; a very commonplace proces- sion certainly, with the usual crosses, the usual lamps, the ordinary chant, and the poor little yellow candles melting in the daylight, or puffed out in a sweeter mockery hy the may hreeze. however, close hehind the priestly hearer of the host, to hail whose coming the crowd suhsides upon its knees, is hy much the most interesting portion of the train — a score or so of nettuno women in their heautiful costume, scarlet or crim- son dresses, nohly iguorant of crino- line, falling in long, close, graceful plaits to their feet, with closely-fit- ting jackets of the same colour and material, gorgeously trimmed with gold and silver lace (as it appears), and glittering in the sunshine. great white muslin aprons, heautifully em- hroidered; handkerchiefs correspond- ing, which are worn round the neck like large rich collars, and the pret- tiest indescrihahle head-dres-—a kind of short cotton scarf, fringed at one end with stripes of colour, and glit- tering hars of gold tbread, underneath which, over each ear, is introduced a how of rihhon, completes the dress, without mentioning the long pendant earrings, the necklaces of coral, the hig gold hrooches, and pretty fans, which add so many decorative par- ticulars to the graceful toilette, which must he almost as cost!yas it is grace- ful. some of the women in this cortege have their dresses made of crimson satin, the rich soft clinging folds of which suit its fashion admirahly; the majority are of woollen stuff; hut the resplendent trimming of the jackets, and the heautiful needlework of their kerchiefs aud aprons, wonld make any fashion costly, with, of course, the reservation that these articles of local co..tume, seldom worn, and in- variahle in form, last out a lifetime, or pass from one generation to an- other, and form an important part of the primitive property and capital of their humhle owners, as they come trooping down from under the deep shadow of the arch, the pretty ones gaining a certain modest diguity from that pretty head-dress, coming into the light with their vivid red rohes, and glittering ornaments, and suowy puffs of sunshine, the dress conferring a rustical and primitive refinement upon all, and their daily hahits qualifying them famously for taking their part in a procession—a prettier sight could not he imagined; the men with their pink tippets and staggering crosses, who lead the way, or even the careless priesis who form the main hody, have no chance against the majestic step and hearing of their female followers, trained hy daily water-carrying, thongh their atten- dance is undouhtedly ex gratia, and they have no legitimate husiness there. it is somewhat amusing, however, to watch them as the procession takes its place in the little church. each individual, as she sinks upon her knees, calmly unfurls her fan, ar- ranges her drapery, and, in that attitude of devotion, looks on with diguified composure, fauning herself till it is time to get up again and fol- low the train once more. the process is the same even on occasions of more individual devotion. the good wo- man who comes to church of her own inclinations to make her own private prayers, drops first upon her knees, then sets her fan in motion; then draws her rosary in a leisurely com- fortahle fashion from her pocket, and carries on the spiritual exercise and the physical one at the same moment, with a steady composure and gravity sufficiently amazing; so much so, that if one did not see the fan gliding tbrough her fingers on lighter occa- sions, one might suppose that pretty piece of vanity was somehow a re- ligious implement, and gave force or sanctity to the prayers. but the procession passes, the can- dles glare hack again on their way to make another call upon the presid- ing saint of another chapel, and the draperies are taken down from the windows in the piazzi, nothing re- .] the sea-side in the papal states. mains hut a faint aromatic odour of the evergreen sprigs, hruised on the pavement, and a whiff of incense; but everyhody hurries to the next point where the train is appointed to stop, as if a religious procession did not pass that same way some hundred days in the >ear. they march slowly, thut venerable cortege, and it is worth while glancing in to see the decora- tions of the other little church to which they are hound. here there is a flowery carpet spread for them, elahorately decorative us it approaches the altar, and stretching along almost the whole area of the little nave; a carpet, formed of the shed leaves of wild-flowers — the yellow hroom, the purple mallow, the scarlet poppy, and other of the commonest wayside hlossoms—not the flowers themselves, hut the petals, strewed lightly in a tasteful intermixture, or in distinct lines and fringes of colour, with the prettiest effect in the world ; the upper portion displaying a golden chalice made of the yellow petals of the hroom, with appropriate horders and accessories. to he sure the feet of the approaching procession inuat efface that pretty show in a few mo- ments; hat the material is of the cheapest, and the light petals leave no stnin hehind them; and it is edi- fying to remark how carefully the inferior memhers of the procession, entering firpt, avoid disturhing it; how they push hack the little choris- ters, and take their own place at the side, and leave the freth glory of the flower-carpet for the priestly feet which follow. perhaps some of them have had a hand in its construction; and-the children have certainly had more than one holiday gathering the flowers. for therehy hangs a tale—worthy to take its place in the, anecdotical aunals of the landscape art. an art- ist of our party had chosen with care and pains, a day or two hefore, his point of view for a sketch. a very pretty point of view it was, showing, over a picturesque foreground of cliff, covered with thickets of hroom and hrushwood, the fortress front of the little town, with the hlue volsciuns hehind and the hlue sea hefore. the sketch had made very good progress, and had reached that point when the features of a foreground hecome pre- cious, and the peculiar poise of those golden plumes of hroom grow import- ant—when lo! a rustle among the underwood, a tremulous quiver of all the hushes! what is it? crash in- to the little thicket come schoolhoy footsteps and voices, intent on some- thing. our artist makes a pause of dismay. are they hirds-nesting? or chasing some tiny suake or hig lizard? worse than that! there they go, dragging down the hranches, making wild scramhly leaps at our precious peunons of hroom! the next mo- ment, to the utter amaze of the spec- tator, who is not sketching, and whose peculiar property is not men- aced, the sketch-hook is dashed upon the grass, ahd the painter plunges furious into the hrushwood, with despairing exclamations, "my foreground!" down among the unconscious schoolhoys descend the strokes of his wrath, and the invad- ers fly hefore the vigorous english tbreats, of which they do not under- stand a word, and the pantomime, which is perfectly expressive and intelligihle, and not to he mistaken. but what have they done? tlieij fly in total iguorance of their crime, and the artist returns with shouts of laughter at the dreadful peril which has just passed, and his own wrath and trinmph; hut has scarcely re- sumed his tools when a mild fran- ciscan appears, douhtful and inquir- ing, to know what the hoys can have done to excite the wrath of the siguor forestieri? how the explanation managed to he made, and how the english painter, with his dozen words of italian, and the astonished priest, who knew not a word of any other modern language, succeeded in un- derstanding each other, we do not pretend to explain; hut the good franciscan withdrew his troop to other coverts, — where nohody as- serted the rights of art, or stood up in defence of a foreground,—with smiling, if only hall'-sutisfied polite- ness. here was the sacred purpose for which these unconscious little invaders exposed themselves to art indiguant. fortunately, miles of hroom - hlossoms lay at their will; and we only looked at each other with a laughahle association when .] the sea-side in the papal states. the wealth which once looked glo- streets of porto d'anzio, like a fath- rious over those unwitnessing waters erly and good humoured divinitj— —nothing hut the stern foundations, there are gayer doings to follow, outliving use and heauty—the hard, one of the vessels in the harhour imperious marks of human authority, has a gay little flag set tip upon the and traces of human toil. eud of a greased pole, which projects while little porto d'anzio yonder over the water from its hows; and hreaks hright and smiling into the the sea-games are ahout to cm- sea, with her little fortress carrying mence. in the sloop, which is the one gun — a gun of renown, which scene of action, cluster a crowd of ouce defied an english squadron— supple, muscular, hrown figures, aud her little fleet of lateen sails, her most primitively arrayed with fishing-hoats, and neapolitan traders, short drawers, and no other garment, and her pope's villa, yellow and im- the man of them who can keep portant, like an erection of paste- his footing on the greasy pole far hoard, or a slice from the crystal enough out to suatch the flag, is to palace done into stone, presiding have a purse of scudi for his prize, placidly over the pleasures of the the competitors are mostly youths, lesta which agitates the little sea- fishermen or sailors helonging to port. there goes the procession forth the vessels in port, with a swarm from the church doors already, under of little amphihious wretches, from salute of the great gun, aud with ten years old to fifteen, at present din of hells and flourish of trumpets amusing themselves hy diving like from the local hand. forth along so many fishes head foremost into the pavement of the quay with the the hlue water, while the elder and dead sullen remnants of hercules' more serious hand complete their pre- great temple on one side of them, parations. the day is splendid, the and apollo's huried splendours on water hlue as sapphire, the sum-nine the other, march the peaceahle fishers dazzling. maguificent visitors from and tradesmen of to-day — hearing nettuno in their uniform of scarlet aloft id unsteady state the holy and gold, porto d'anzio women image of st. antonio of padua, hefore with gauzy pink shawls over their whose sickly wooden smile and hene- dark hair, sea-hathing visitors in gay diction all good cbristians go down toilettes, cover the line of the quay upon their knees. after all, great and every availahle point of view; ghosts and phantoms of the imperial the urchins of the port drop head- times, how much is he hetter, this long, like a shoal of silvery herrings, imhecile, wooden st. antonio, than into the hlue water; the sloops in your apollo and hercules? they the harhour are in a flutter of fiag*, can only choke up the old maguifi- and the spectators in a tbrill with cence of your harhours with foolish expectation and excitement then attempts to hetter them—these well- the competitors hegin to make cau- intentioned processionists and the tious approach to the slippery hoom; priests that ordain their doings—and and for something more than an will never leave any such trace he- hour a succession of ludicrous fail- hind of their lives of iguohle leisure, ures and plunges into the deep water as those stern elhows of hrick and heneath kept the audience amused, mortar, hristling from your ancient it was a comical scene enough cer- coasts. however, it is still the living tuinly—a few staggering unsteady dog that is hetter than the dead lion steps, a desperate halance of arms —hetter hecause it has still the light in the air, a drop or a plunge,—one and the air ahout it, and cau enjoy figure disappearing so elose to the itself, and make the hest of its poor spot where another figure a moment little pleasures in this perfectly use- hefore had disappeared, that a colli- less and commouplace hut amusing .sion and crash of skulls in the water and sunshiny to-day. seemed no unlikely accident,—then a when st. antonio has done his gradual reappearance of the dripping yearly duty as patrou saint, and dis- head, a few vigorous strokes, and a pensed his feehle wooden henedic- universal»scramhle hy all the stray tion around him tbrough all the ropes atrainahle, to regain a place [oct. tlie sea-side in the papal states. on the deck, and try once more. like amphihious creatures at piny in an element quite as natural and familiar to them as the firmer ground, those supple, elastic figures plunged, scram- hled, and twisted ahout each other, with an agility and daring so com- mon and equal, and a failure so in- evitahle, that the contest had not sufficient excitement to keep up its interest — till at last, the hoom of course getting gradually cleared of its slippery coating, one lucky fellow achieved a step farther than the rest, and managed to scatch the little pennon along with him on his hun- dredth plunge. that sport heing over, the water, hecame in a few minutes alive with hoys, amongst whom the master of the ceremonies plunged a flock of struggling, fright- ened ducks. to swim like ducks is very inadequate praise, as it ap- peared, for the lads of porto d'anzio. the ducks had no chance against the urchins; the flutter of wings— the long skim across the water, with a dozen wet heads and gleaming arms in desperate pursuit—the cap- ture, with its gohhle of terror and shout of trinmph, excited the liveliest interest among the spectators. one little fellow made his appearance, scramhling up a loose rope into a hoat, with tbree victims in his arms — himself lookiog scarcely higger than the sbrieking fowls he had cap- tured, as he rose dripping and joyous out of the sea ; and the swarm of lithe, little, wet half-naked figures swarm- ing up everywhere, hy the mo?t pre- carious hold to which schoolhoy fin- gers could cling, was the most odd sight imaginahle. as this ended, some gay hoats appeared a little dis- tance out upon the hay—a hoat race —save the mark !—of ahout half of a quarter of a mile, won hy a laho- rious crew, which could not have kept up for two strokes with any wherry on the thames; hut as the ten minuies' performance sufficed to produce a new variety of dress and colours, nohody found any fault with it. with this the guwclu di mare terminated; and the hrightrcoloured crowd poured aloug the quay to the piazza, to lose its wits in the excite- ment of a grand tomhola- with a prize of some hundreds cr scudi; passing hy all the attractions of the cafes, the ices, the gingerhread stalls, the haskets of wishing pink cherries, and round ciamhilli hiscuits, for the greater charm of that desperate hat pleasant piece of gamhling, where the excitement of the spurt must repay the five hundred suhscrihers, and only one can gain the prize. a paper ticket, with fifteen numhers, flutters in everyhody's hand, value twelve haiocchi—a day's living; and there wave the red hangings from the important halcony, and the mystic numhers come out of the hag, and show solemn on the great hoard one hy one, amid the huzz, the eager strain of ohservation, the desperate pricks and pencil-marks of a thoa- sand fingers in the crowd. when this unfailing game and excitement is over, then is the time for the cafds — for there are still fireworks and illuminations, as the evening darkens, to conclude the great feast of st. antonio di padova, who hy this time has retired into his cuphoard hene- volent and unselfish; and for another year will he heard of no more on the streets of anzio—loudly as they lion- our their venerated patron now. these are our amusements in the italian vdlaggiatura — amusements never failing with all the varieties of locality and country custom; for that would he a strange month in the southern calendar which did not lend the name and holy memory of a saint somehody to authorise a procession and justify a tomhola. it is safe to say that something of the kind hap- pens somewhere in every country-side ahout once in the fortnight: and these hy no means unorthodox and hlamahle festivities, discountenanced hy the authorities and frowned on hy the clergy, like our rural fairs in eug- lund, hut higbly laudahle and praise- worthy enjoyments, to the special glory of the saints and honour of re- ligion; which makes a vast difference, as everyhody must perceive—a dill'er- ence which, perhaps, haa something to do with the more important dif- ference which exists hetween our national character and that of our continental neighhours generally. our pleasures have rarely any sanc- tion of authority, or encouragement of principle; hut holidays and plea- .] . the sea-side in the papal states. sure mnking are always legitimate, laudahle, an<l to he encouraged here; perhaps safer than work, certainly safer than thinking, that foolish and trouhlesome exercise proper only to carhonari and revolutionaries, which is not good for the health of a con- tented people. so all the world amuses itself virtuously for the honour of st. antonio of padua, and religion is honoured in the village tomhola, and everyhody is at ease. , alas! not everyhody. the " strick- en deer" must go weep while "the harts ungalled play," even in the indul- gent atmosphere of the papal slates, though it is rather the striking than the stricken who at this moment call foroursyiupathies. look at them,poor fellows, clustering dark and sullen like a cloud round their square prison- window, with its strong iron hars, as we return in the twilight tbrough the gate into the solitude of nettuno, deserted hy every living creature save a few grandmammas, hahies, and re- pining maids. they have a merry, idle life enough on ordinary occasions, these good fellows hehind the grating, and are served with their afterdinuer coffee hy the caffetiere opposite, and smoke their cigars, and play the odd cards of the country, at the iuner window-sill, in sight of the admiring puhlic, which makes hourly calls upon them with perfect apparent relish of their existence. there is always a little levee at that prison window — friends from the country, picturesque hrown lads with hus- kii.nl legs and sugar-loaf hats, who have had, or will have their own turn in that leisurely retirement some time; honest peasant women, no- ways ashamed of their friends in trouhle; the gossips of the village, all and sundry, not excluding now and then a passing friar. why should not they he countenanced hy every- hody? you don't suppose they are there for stealing, or any such mean and petty misdemeanour? no, poor fellows i they have each of them stahhed his man, that is all; and the interest and sympathy of the country naturally goes with that picturesque and suggestive species of misfortune. but the poor lads! they are melan- choly to-day. an empty coffee-cup t ands on the outer sill there, pushed tbrough the hars hy the consumer inside; hut even the caffetiere has gone to porto d'anzio to enjoy him- self, and nohody has come so much as to take the cup away. nohody has heen there to talk to our virtuous friends in prison since they witnessed, with doleful eyes, the whole popula- tion trooping off in holiday garh to see the ginochi di mare, and try its luck at the tomhola, a possihility from which adverse ftte has deharred themselves. poor fellows! is it pos- sihle ' to he otherwise than sorry for them? they pick up courage a little at eight of ourselves, who are among the earliest of the home-returning crowd, and one of them touches his hat mournfully with some idea of compensation, and a delieate re- mainder to the fortstieri that here is a hox for the poor prisoners ; hut let every feeling heart think what must have heen the sufferings of their soli- tude to-day ! tantahsed hy thoughts of all the fun and festivity going on so near them, and gazing out for so many hours upon the deserted hit of street sloping under that dark arch- way. such honourahle culprits, too! respected hy the whole community; hut justice must he administered, alas! even hy the tender hand of a paternal government. and a town which has a governatore and a priore, and one caunot tell how many other magistrates, must not he over-indulgent; still for their sad solitude and affliction, when all the world has heen enjoying itself, poor virtuous lads of spirit, let us not re- fuse a sympathetic,tear! however, here we are at home, making forcihle entrance, sora mari- auna heing still hehind us, and thc house deserted. guests, too, coming after us; venerahle preti. for whom it is necessary to he well prepared. apropos of our prison sympathies, and of the respectahle mayistura of this municipality, let us hear our franciscan, who is fond of story- telling, delivering himself of a some- what tragical little tale, helonging not to this immediate neighhour- hood, hut to the adjoining country, not very far away—which, told hy a peaceahle italian monk, uncontra- dicted hy italian auditors, gives one rather a dismal idea, not to say sorne r -l [oct the sea-side in the papal stales.. thing of a chill and shiver, when one thinks of justice and its adminis- trators in this rural country. sup- pose us in our hare little eating- room, not an article of furniture or decoration in the place hut the chairs we occupy and the tahle spread for our early evening meal, two tall roman lamps, some flasks of wine, and a green howl of salad standing for ornament — hut the door open, with a glimpse of the sea and rising moon, and the last chorus of the ave maria ringing out of our little piazza. around all the picturesque gloom of the fortress-village — the hlack darkness of that gulf of stairs lead- ing to the fountain, the very spot for an assassination close hy—and the surrounding community very re- spectful and sympathetic with those excellent young men within the hars of the pruon window,—and then imagine the good monk with his hald placid forehead and hlack skull- cap telling his agreeahle little tale. "it happened not long ago," said the holy father, "and it is very well known, and i myself have heard it in several different versions -hut of course i have many means of know- iris the truth, and i can answer for my own. it was a steward of tor- ionia, or some other of the great people who have those vast farms on the pontine marshes; he was sent with a great sum in scudi to pay the lahourers and herdsmen on the farm — a very prudent loan — a worthy man. he took every precaution, thuugh they did not turn to account. he was compelled \o pass the night in the town of braccielo. i know it very well. i knew the good padre, who came hy his end. ah, he was a good man. torlonia's steward he- ing prudent, as i say, instead of go- ing to the osteria, and taking the usual risk of travellers, went to the governatore, as seemed wise, and told him of the danari he carried, and that he feared to he plundered. the governatore, after commending his prudence, and thinking it over, sent him to the house of the padre roherto—a man much heloved— where the father received him will- ingly, and gave him his hest cham- her. they supped, and all was well; and the stranger, with his treasure and his pistols, went to rest. ahout the middle of the night, some one came knocking violently to the padre's door; the housekeeper rose to ask who it was—for the house of a priest must he ever open to the demands of his flock. it was some one in the town who would see the priest, and was dying, said the an- swer; upon which, as necessary, the woman opened the door. but i must tell you that, hefore dow, the steward, sleeping lightly, as men do who carry treasure, was awake and listening. it was dark—he had no light—and his chamher was to the opposite side of the house; hut he could still hear. the next sound that came to him in the darkness, after the unharring of the door, was the sound of a pistol-shot—a sound one docs not mistake when one hears it in the depths of the night this sound roused the steward to draw forth his own pistols, and harricade his door with the furniture. then he heard the good padre come forth to ask why he was wanted, and what the commotion was. then sounded another pistol-shot, and an- other groan, and the steward knew he now could have no hope hut to defend himself. shortly he heard the steps of the assassins. they knew where he was lodged, and assailed his door, which he had locked and harricaded, with any loss of time. at a venture he fired, taking alt the aim he could from the sounds he heard,—for he was hold and in de- spair. twice he fired, and twice a groan and a fall showed him that it was not in vain. when he had waited a little, and heard nothing, he withdrew his harricade, and rushed out two men lay there hefore his door." "and these men?" cried one of the listeners, eager to forestall the story. ''hush!" said the friar, waving his hand, "do you think he paused to look at that moment? he rushed forth out of the house, leaving, alas the good father roherto dead or dying helow, with the poor woman, hesides the rohhers, ahove. he rushed to the house of the governa- tore to claim protection. when he had roused some one to answer him, .] the sea-tide in the papal state*. the governatore was not to he found —he was ahsent; then the poor man hastened to the secretario. the secretario was gone also. great trouhle and fear came upon the people, for hy this time many were disturhed, what with the sound of knocking, what with the pistol- shots, and the people hegan to un- derstand that something had hap- pened to their good padre roherto. the steward returned tojiio house at last with lights and a hfjry of the townsfolk. there lay padre roherto dead, and his housekeeper; and ahove-stairs were the two men, one of them still living, with muffled faces. when they had uncovered the rohhers, there lay the governatore and secretario; that was the explan- ation of the mystery. the living rohher went to the galleys. e' vero, siguor antonio? you have heard the tale as well as i." nohody contradicted the monk: there were diverse opinions as to some of the details; the second villain heing reported hy one as an inferior priest, instead of tlio secre- tary of the magistura. bat the story stood untouched in all its facts—a tale horrihle enough to scire a stranger—and of a kind which, told in any other place, hy any other person, would most likely have provoked more incredulity, if not indiguation. but the ground was fertile, heing hroken; one anec- dote followed another, if not of the soma description, yet sad enough and unhelievahle enough, consider- ing how far we are on in the history of the world. yet the same good friar, who told in all simplicity this lamentahle incident, mourned in the same hreath over the dreadful inva- sion of that railway to naples, which should shortly pass within sight and hearing of this very coast, and ahridge the pontine marshes with its iron highway. alas for those religious villages, with their evening echoes of the ate maria, where one could hear the sound of the simple folk at their prayers, as one pondered one's pet theological difficulty—those delicate, safe difficulties which the church permits to her faithful children! the excellent padre lifted his mild eyes to heaven in horror as he proguosti- cated how the village devoutness would take wings to itself—how the prayers would cease, and the con- fessionals fall empty, hefore the dread march of civilization, and its terrihle line of rails. he forgot those virtuous municipal authorities who figured in his own gruesome tale, as he unfolded these forehodings to our skeptical british ears; hut the good country priest, with his limited local horizon and small ex- perience, was not alone in this odd forgetfulness. and it is nothing unusual to hear an ecclesiastic of more cultivated mind and expansive knowledge, even a man who may happen to have heen horn an eng- lishman and to have lived in another atmosphere than that of a convent, altogether unmindful of the tales he himself has just heen telling you— tales of family intrigue, or social de- pravity, or mendicancy incurahle; turn from that theme to proclaim his alarms over a half-dozen miles of railway, or an arrival of hooks for- hidden hy the index expurgatorius; and inform you, with unhelieva i simplicity and good faith, of all papal expedients for keeping - devil out of those sacred ami care- fully guarded territories without, so far as appears, the faintest idea that the strongest ecclesiastical hody in the world might do something in the way of fighting am! ousting the sane devil when he whs in. as if he could only travel nowadays in a rail way carriage, that wise old serpent! as if he could not put up with an ave maria and have a gentlemanly admiration of the picturesque in re- ligion like his neighhours!—or as if he had not heen a very old estah- lished and well-acquainted resident in the papal states, as in every other quarter, since hefore rome and the caesars, hefore the earliest history or memory of man! this sort of life, however, let ns assure all sympathetic readers, is infinitely more original than that of brighton or scarhorough. it is piquant to get up in the morning in a stato of dramatic and interesting un- certainty whether you will he ahle to have anything for diuner; it is delightful to make your toilette un- der a gigantic white umhrella, in a vol. lxxxvl .] king loutit page. the faithful one he listens, there needs hut a word to the wise, so, leaping into the saddle, to brittany he hies; leagues an hundred and thirty stretch thera 'twixt paris and where he is hound, but two days and a night to the breton childe suffice to cover the ground. 'neath the dais, at the hoard presiding, in her gaily-lighted hall, sat the fair dame of bodinio, amid the nohles all; to pour the wine from the gohlet her lily hand was raised, as, with startled mien, as he entered in, she on the rider gazed. "oh, gentle page, what tidings, that your cheek is ashen grey, and your panting hreast is heaving high, just like a stag's at hay?" "my tidings, lady, i fear me, will cost thee many a sigh,. bring sorrow to thy hosom, and tears into thine eye: thy hrother's life is forfeit, at the cruel king's decree, and his sinking heart for comfort turns only now to thee /" the lady's hand it tremhled, and in hlood-drops like the rain fell the red wine, sad omen! the suowy cloth to stain. "ho there! grooms, quickly saddle twelve horses for our flight; if i founder one at every stage, i'll he in paris ere night " the king's young page in the mean time to the scaffold, alas! is hound, and he sighs as he sets his lingering foot on the ladder's lowest round! "i had reck'd hut little of death, if my kindred had heen near— if i had hut friends around me, and saw hut my sister dear! every day, every hour she'll miss me, and call on her hrother in vain— oh! for sight of my sweet sister! and tidings of fair bretague!" thus murmurs the hoy, as, step hy step, th»ladder he ascends— "would i had heard, hefore i died, of my country and my friends i"— but ''blark!" he exclaims, as he stands at length on the fatal platform high, "i hear the pavement ringing, 'tis my sister drawing nigh!— tis my sister come to see me!—in god's name grant delay "— "thy head must fall ere she nears thee," did the cruel provost say. "while yet he spoke, bodinio's dame is asking all she meets, "ye men of paris! why these crowds that hlock up all the streets?" "'tis hut the head of one poor page the traitor lonis takes." she gazes up, her hrother sees, and tbrough the press she hreaks, comes just in time his kneeling form, hent o'er the hlock, to see; leaps, at full gallop, off her horse—cries, " archers! let him he! one hundred crowns of gold, and of silver too i'll give, if ye will hold your cruel hands, and let my hrother live!" just then, her hrother's severed head falls down the hlock heside, and, spouting o'er her dahhled veil, runs down the crimson tide. "i come to ask ye, king and queen, together on your tbrone, "what made ye seek my hrother's hlood?—what evil had he done?" "in hroil, without his monarch's leave, his hasty sword he drew, and in my court, hefore my face, my fav'rite page he slew." "not without cause, full well i know."—" cause still assassins claim." '' no gentleman of brittany e'er hore that hateful name; for france i will not say as much—'tis known your wolfish hrood like hetter far to spill and take, than risk your precious hlood " "hold, dame! forhear i if ye would live, home scatbless to return!" "i reck not if i go or stay, my brother since i mourn; but should all kings on earth say nay, his reasons i will know." "well! since his reasons ye will have, i'll tell them ere ye go:— he sought a quarrel with my page, just for the well-known line, breton ballad*— [oct. that brittany, instead of men, rears only savage swine v "if that's a saying fraught with truth, another hear from me— you're hut a sorry jester, king louis though you he. but for that jest, 'twill soon he seen, if you may not grow pale, when to my breton countrymen i've shown my hlood-stain'd veil. then will ye see if savage hoars our woods indeed contain, when the "hest hlood of france your deed shall cause to flow amain!" few weeks had pass'd; into the court came letters sealed with red— as read the king, his deep hlack eyes roll'd fiercely in his head; roll'd like the wildcat's in a trap, as hy his saints he swore, that, had he known, that haughty dame had ne'er seen bretague more. "ten thousand crowns! ten thousand lives!" exclaimed he in his rage; "a pretty price to pay, forsooth—for the life of one poor page!" note.—the family of bodinio was ancient and distinguished, as was that of the john (or jaunik) of the hallad, a page of louis the eleventh. be the cause of it accurately handed down or not, the vindictive incursion of the bretons into france, which took place under louis the eleventh in , is matter of history. the crusaners return. [on the suhject of the following hallad (a somewhat hackneyed one, and one of the few not peculiar to brittany) it will he seen that the local colouring has heen shed; and that while the hero and heroine are strictly historical personages, the suhstitution of dialogue for narrative, so character- istic of breton national poetry, lends spirit to the native simplicity of the incidents.] "who'll keep for me my ladye dear?" the hold crusader cries; "intrust thy ladye dear to me," his hrother false replies. "trust her to me; in secret hower she'll with my damsels stay, or sit in hall with lordly dames, and fare as well as they." few days had pass'd, and gay to view was faonet's courtyard fair, all filfd with mounted red-cross knights, whose hauners stream'd in air. ere far had rode that castle's lord, his spouse had learn'd to weep! "doff those proud rohes for hodden grey, go forth! and tend my sheep!" "oh! hrother dear, the sheep to tend, alas i know not how." "if to tend sheep thou'st never learn'd, my lance shall teach thee now i" seven live-long years heside her sheep, the sad one wept in vain; at seven years' end, forgot to weep, and sweetly sung again. .] the cnuader't return,. as with her songs the mountains rung, a knight came riding near, and to his page the reins he flung, cries, "whose that voice i hear ?— i "that silver voice! seven years have past (seven weary years, i trow), since in mine ears it sounded last, even as i hear it now "good-morrow to thee, mountain maid! thy carol sounds so gay, methinks thou hast, to sing so clear, breakfasted well to-day i" '* fared well i have—to god he thanks for what he gave and took— • though on a crust i hroke my fast. and dipped it in the hrook." "tell me, fair damsel! can i lodge at yonder lordly hall?" "oh, yes! you'll find fair lodgings there, your steed a knightly stall; "a couch of down will wait your rest, such as i once could share, ere, hanish'd with the flocks to dwell, i shared the watch-dog's lair!" "and where, my child, then, is your spouse? your wedding-ring i see." "my spouse, my lord, is at the wars,— he'd fair long locks like thee!" "if long and fair his locks like mine, might we not he the same?" "oh, yes! you are my love, my lord, and i faouet's dame " "leave thou the flocks! my halls to reach with fiery haste, i hurn! brother i all hail! my ladye's weal from you i long to learn?" "still fair as hrave!—rest, hrother, rest! your ladye fair has gone to quimper, to a wedding feast, but she'll he here anon." "thou liest, wretch! thy sheep to feed, on mountains lone and hare, thou sent'st my dame, in servile weed; lo! she stands sohhing there! "go! hrother cursed, and hide thy shame! not one more lying word! wer't not our parents' hallow'd hearth, thy hlood had stain'd my sword l" the legend of barney & carroll foot. the legenn of barney carroll. out there where the hig waves is hreakin' an' dancin' an' foamin' like mad, on a heautiful warm autumn evenin' was strollin' a young fisher-lad; for the place where the say is now foamin', was then just as hare as your hand; an' where that hlue wather is curlin,' was only a hroad yellow strand. well, the fisher-hoy, barney o'carroll, was hot—he kem down for a dip; an' as he was peelin', hehould you! he seen a most charmin' young slip in a state that was mighty provokin — she'd only stepped out of her clothes; an' there she was singin', while comhin' bright hair that flowed down to her toes. "blur an agers," ses barney, "what is she or where does she come from at all be the mortial, i'll ax iv she's marred— ah! she isn't—i'll give her a call." so stalin' up close to the colleen. he hid her the time o' the day; when turnin', she glanced at hould barney, an' pop! she was undher the say. "she's only a mermaid," thought barney, an' pondherin', shoreward he goes, as he picked up a green cloak, exclaimin', "she'll surely come hach for her clothes." "oh give me my cloak," cried a sweet voice, that seemed to come up from the wave— but barney ran home like a say-lark, the cloak an' his hody to save. that night there was tempest, an' barney put off with some lads to a wreck; but only one heautiful maiden remained of the crew on the deck. she was saved hy the courage of barney; an', as a reward for her life, became, ere the autumn fruit withered, his fond an' endearin' young wife. now all things were tbrivin' with barney, not forgettin' "herself" an' twin hoys, but the fool couldn't keep his tongue quiet; an' hy way of expandin' his joys, he tovld her ahout the fair mermaid, an' how he tuk care of her cloak; "the story," ses she, "you hosihoon, is no more nor a hottle o' smoke." " that i may lose you this miunit, but it's tbruth that i'm tellin' to you." .] the legend of barney ff carroll. "why then, show me the cloak," sea the darlin', "for i'm sure it's a thing you can't do." "arrah, can't i?" ses he; "just come this way, an' say did you e'er see the match for eomplateness, an' splendour, an' heauty, with what i've ahove in the thatch?" he stepped on a tbree-legged creepeen, an' just where the thatch met the wall, tuk down what appeared a toy-caddie, with its varnish, an' paintin', an' all: an' he opened the lid—when his fut slipped, an' so$, he came down on the flure— then, i'm tould, that the look that she gev him was what you might call hill or cure. "o he all the salt waves in the ocean," ses barney—" don't curse," ses the wife; "for the time i've to stay with you, barney, let us have no hot wather, nor strife: you have heen very kind to me, darlin'-— but thit cloak o' mine you tuk away." "ohl murdherl" cried barney, "'twas yon then that spoke to me out o' the say." "tbroth it was," ses she: "i am the mermaid that called to you out o' the wave— what's more, i'm the heautiful creathur you kern tbro' the tempest to save. an' as long as my cloak you kep from me, a mermaid i ne'er more could he." "oh iv i knew that, i'd have pledged it," ses barney—" acusbla macbree "you're no mermaid at all—sore no mermaid or other maid ever had hoys— here childher "—he turned for a moment contavin' he heerd a quare noise— a noise like the hoom o' the ocean when gently it kisses the shore. now barney has pressed to his fond heart the sweet wife he ne'er shall press more. "farewell, i must lave you, acushla; don't you hear how they call me away?" ev'ry tbread of her green cloak that miunit melted into a wave o' the say! an' surgin', an' singin'such music— no wild harp was ever so sweet— came a tbroop of young mermen an' mermaids, an' hore her elane off ov her feet the nate little cottage had vanished, an', floatin' away in a shell, went herself an' the childher—poor barney could hardly spake more nor "farewell— won't you lave me one hoy for a keepsake?" but afore he had said one more word, each child left the side o' the mother, an' changed to a lovely say-hird sir william hamilton. [oct. an' foldin' their hright wings, an' nestlin' on barney's hand, shoulder, and hreast— just as ir\ they wor still his dear young ones, he kissed them; while fondly he pressed the sweet gentle things to his sad heart, a.n' kissed them again; then away> with the mother an' mermen an' mermaids the little hirds flew o'er the say! "why thin, barney, what ails yon, you spalpeen t an' what's this you have in your fist— a hottle!—ov coorse nothin' in it— no, nor in this dhndeen that you've kissed. or what (an' the tide makin' swiftly) possessed you to lie on the strand?" '. i was loohin' at somehody dhrinkin', an' so / kfo wather at hand: "but ov all the stbrange sights an' adventures that ever you heerd—an' they're tbrue— i seen "—and he ris up and tould me the story i've just tould to you, "an'," ses he, "what do you think ahout it?" "an'," ses i, "dbrunk or not, you're the same; an' your tale, iv not tbrue, sure it's pleasant, an' not at all had for a dhrame" dublin. j. d. sir william hamilton. • how often do we hear it remarked frequently true, that those who feel that men of extensive and accurate urged to an independent exercise of erudition rest upon knowledge ac- their powers of reasoning, are im- quired from hooks, and rarely ex- patient of tho toil of acquiring know- ercise their own powers in an original ledge from many hooks, or of accu- search after truth. such men may rately determining what other men have a remarkahle perspicacity, and hefore them have thought and said, he as distinguished for their quick books are chiefly valued hy them as apprehension as for their retentive they give hints or stimulant to their memory; they understand all they own minds, and when some huge read and repeat, and are armed at folio is closed, they can tell you what all points for every species of con- they, hy its assistance, have gained troversy; hut, if they finally emhrace for themselves; hut trust them not any one scheme of philosophy, it as expositors of the volume itself, will have heen given to them hy such division of lahour seems gener- others; they will not have elahorated ally to ohtain amongst the studious it for themselves; its unity or har- portion of mankind. if we are of mony will not he due to any archi- the erudite species, we find, or we tectural or creative skill of thtir own; imagine, that everything that can he they will have added no new gen- thought has heen thought and said eralisation to those of their prede- already; if we do not swear hy any cessors; they will he students to the one master, we pronounce that all last of the works of others. and the possihle opinions have heen long ago counterpart statement is also so very exhausted, and shared amongst the lectures on metaphysics, hy sir william hamilton, bart. edited hy.the rev. h. l. mansel, b.d., oxford, and john veitch, m.a., edinhurgh. .] sir william hamilton. master spirits of ancient or modern literature. we tell the young aspir- ant for the honour, or the nohle toil, of original thinking, that he will only reproduce what already exists in form more perfect than he can hope to give it; we tell him that plato has anticipated his finest discoveries cen- turies ago—that leihnitz had deter- mined this, and des cartes had settled that,—and that even the despised schoolmen of the middle ages had seen very clearly the distinction he is harpiing on, and had stamped it on their philosophical vocahulary. there is nothing for him to do. each fresh inquirer hegins hy acting the mediator hetween disputants whose controversy he comes to settle, and ends hy hecoming one of the count- less disputants himself, and helps still further to "emhroil the fray" —if that he possihle. the young aspirant, heing of modest nature, is prohahly reduced to silence, hut still he answers to himself:—"it matters not what others have done, i must think it all over again for myself. i caunot find what i want in plato, or leibuitz, the schoolmen, or des cartes; it may he there, hut it is hidden away in corners, or in com- mentaries. i must discover it in some other way hefore i can even discover that it is there; and i, too, have the world hefore me, and my own mind—i, too, will philosophise. i may not go so fur as plato did some centuries ago, hut whether far or not, there is hut one mode of pro- gression hy which i can advance at all: i must feel the earth heneath my feet, and move forward hy such in- ternal energies as heaven has en- dowed me with." such division of lahour, such dif- ferences in intellectual character or power, may ho generally ohserved. nevertheless, amongst the highest order of minds we find extraordin- ary erudition sometimes united with powers as remarkahle of original re- search. one of these pre-eminently gifted men has lately departed from amongst us. sir william hamilton knew, or, to our square of vision, seemed to know, whatever mortal man had written, in any age or language, on the suhjects of philo- sophy. but this marvellous know- ledge had not deterred him from an independent course of inquiry, nor hlunted his powers of research. he comhined with accurate and exten- sive erudition an unahated energy of thought; and the result is, that we have, in his speculative writings, the happy union of strength and holdness with a singular hreadth of view. he was too well read to omit, or pass over, any region of inquiry, and had too vigorous an intellect to he contented with recording the oh- servations of others, he carried the torch with his own hand, and ex- plored every recess himself. with- out professing to do so, he has given ns the most thorougbly eclectic sys- tem of any man in europe. for that which, ahove all, dis- tinguishes the series of lectures he- fore us is the wide range of philo- sophic thought they emhrace. at one extremity the materialist will feel the ground taken from under him, hecause the truths he most insists on are ahsorhed into the system of the metaphysician; and here the physiologist will find him- self at home, hecause he will he ahle to rise from his own special know- ledge of the organs of sense to a metaphysical theory of coguition, which he has often pronounced him- relf unahle to do under the guidance of sir william hamilton's prede- cessors in the chair of edinhurgh. at the other extremity the kantian or coleridgian will find that his own "high a priori'' road has also heen travelled, and that his own peculiar modes of thought have not heen iguored. here those who delight in the distinction hetween understand- ing and reason—meaning hy the first a faculty judging according to sense, and hy the second a faculty which is the source of truths of a higher character than those which are infe- rences from, or generalisations of, experience—will at all events dis- cover that they have a place allotted to them; whether or not they may he satisfied with that place we will not undertake to say. on hoth sides sir william hamilton has expanded the arena of what is known under the vague name of scotch philoso- phy. these who, without disputing that they are living spiritual souls, [oct. sir william hamilton. very ohstinately helieve that they are also living organised hodies, moving in a world which has marvellously educated them tbrough the senses, and which is continually educating them (tbrough their ohserving and recording powers) to further and wider knowledge, will find in these lectures a scheme of metaphysics which admits them to hold this their ohstinate faith on an intelligihle hasis. scotch philosophers, notwith- standing their clamorous appeal to common sense, had set this plain oh- stinate faith on so strange and nar- row a hasis, that, to the last, it seemed rather a concession to the weakness of man than his great pre- rogative. those, on the contrary, who delight chiefly to dwell on the a priori truths, or modes of thought, essential to experience itself, or who, while they admit that the external world educates us, and is still from age to age more higbly educating us, hy its perceived order and harmony, still assert that there are truths in their very nature ahove those of ex- perience, enunciated hy some iuner faculty within us, of a higher kind than that which judges according to sense—will also find that this, their complementary faith, has not heen forgotten. we are far from saying that thinking men of all schools will he equally satisfied—that they will meet here and fraternise. it is not given to any human power to put forth a scheme of philosophy which will content all existing parties. • it is sufficient for us to notice and ap- plaud the wide and catholic views, and the great range of topics, these lectures unfold. speaking criticallj', we value more higbly the earlier portion of his ex- position, in which sir william ham- ilton treats of perception, and of that trinity of sense, memory, and judg- ment which enters into every cogui- tion, and indeed into every state of consciousuess which can he sum- moned up for reflection,—we value, we say, this portion of his lectures more higbly than the later parts, where, under the title of the regula- tive faculty, he treats of necessary truths not the product of experience, and fraternises with leibuitz and other german philosophers. we do not find his statements under this head of regulative faculty either luoid or consistent with themselves. but although he enters here into the shadow of that ohscure doctrine which leads to the attempted dis- tinction hetween reason and under- standing, we are happy to notice that we have the weight of sir wil- liam hamilton's authority against those who not only draw a distinc- tion hetween these two faculties, hut who set them at variance; deducing truths from the reason which are contradicted hy the understanding. the very end of all philosophy, as of all science, is to harmonise our con- victions into one consistent whole: he who therefore sets faculty against faculty, truth against truth, virtually asserts that there can he no philo- sophy, and no truth. speaking of those who enunciate the law of cau- sation in one hreath, and the next moment free the will from this law hy some conflicting intuition, he writes thus:— "they say that it is unconditionally given, as a special and positive law of intelligence, that every origination is only an apparent, not a real commence- ment. mow, to exempt some pheno- mena from this law, for the sake of our moral consciousuess, caunot validly he done. for, in the first place, this would he to admit that the mind is a comple- ment of contradictory revelations. if mendacity he admitted of some of our mental dictates, we caunot vindicate veracity to any: 'falsus in uno, falsus in omnihus.' ahsolute scepticism is hence the legitimate conclusion. but, in the second place, waiving this conclu- sion, what right have we, on this doc- trine, to suhordinate the positive affir- mation of causality to our consciousuess of moral liherty!—what right have we, for the interest of the latter, to derogate from the universality of the former! we have none. if hoth are equally positive, we have no right to sacrifice to the other the alternative which our wishes prompt us to ahandon."* it may help to set ns clear with our readers, if we here at once oh- serve that there is a class of neces- * vol . ii. p. . .] sir william hamilton. sary, or a priori or iunate truths, against which we have no contro- versy whatever. they are such as are essential to experience, not con- tradictory, nor contradictory to each other. for instance, the ideas of existence and of space, as we now speak of them, are generalisations of experience, hut in order that any perception or judgment should he possihle, the mind must have had an iunate capacity for giving forth these ideas. it is difficult to shape lan- guage to suit the emergency in which we here find ourselves, and different terms have heen used hy metaphysi- cians to desiguate this original capa- city. sometimes we hear of " modes of thought," "modes of sensihility," "categories," "laws," "ideas;" hut hy whatever name we distinguish it, there is this iunate or original capa- city to give forth or receive such ideas as existence, space, time, and the like; and heyond this our analy- sis caunot he carried. we mention this at the' outset, that there may he no confusion hetween necessary truths essential to and one with ex- perience, and necessary truths ahove and contradictory to experience. these lectures are far from heing, or pretending to he, a complete ex- position of a system of metaphysics. the circumstances under which they were composed, and perhaps an im- patience of the author in dealing with elementary or introductory statements, prevented them from having the completeness of a system in which all parts of a great suhject are equally developed. the editors give us, in the preface, an interesting account of the mauner in which the lectures were originally written. sir william hamilton was called to tho chair of logic in the university of edinhurgh in the year . he was at this time in the maturity of intel- lectual power, in the possession of vast stores of knowledge, and already dis- tinguished for his philosophical spe- culations. the duties, therefore, of his post could not take him hy sur- prise; and as the appointment was made in july, and his class would not assemhle till novemher, he had some months for preparation. but, as one might foresee would inevitahly he the case with a metaphysician, these months were wasted in general sur- veys of the great topics over which he might, or might not, extend his lec- tures—in revolving, in short, what he should lecture upon, not in writing any of the lectures themselves when his class met in novemher, he had not put pen to paper. "he was in the hahit," we are told, "of deli- vering tbree lectures each week, and each lecture was usually written on the day, or more properly on the night, preceding its delivery. the course of metaphysics, as it is now given to the world, is the result of this nightly toil, uuremittingly sus- tained for a period of five months." some additions or interpolations were occasionally made in suhsequent years, hut they were never recast or materially altered. we are not surprised, after receiv- ing this account of their composition, to find that these lectures are unequal in excellence, and incomplete as a series. viewed as a systematic or elomentary course for the tuition of youth, they must he allowed to have some defects. sometimes the author indulges in the spirit of controversy, where a calm exposition of his own and of others' opinions would have heen more acceptahle and appropri- ate; sometimes he disports himself, as learned men will do, with a multi- tude of quotations which might illustrate the history of philosophy, hut which advance us little in the suhject under discussion. sometimes tho space is filled up hy translated extracts from french and german writers. these are nover wholly unwelcome; they are often curious or novel; hut they very seldom forward the exposition, or render it more lucid. sir william hamilton appears to have lacked the patience, and per- haps the tact and skill, requisite for an elementary or systematic exposition —such an exposition as leads from the simpler to the more ahstruse, neither sparing the student the most difficult and toilsome heights, nor failing to conduct him to them hy the most facile tracks which lead up- ward from the plain. but notwithstanding these draw- hacks and deficiencies, we do not hesitate to say that these lectures are incomparahly the hest manual or [oct. sir william hamilton. guide which could he placed in the hands of the metaphysical student. he should not, however, require a quite elementary work; lie should he acquainted at least with the writings of sir william's predecessors, brown and stewart: thus prepared, he will find in these lectures the most advanced thinking of the soundest and safest school of philosophy. far as the mature render is con- cerned, we suspect that even the very qualities which we have noticed as rendering these lectures some- what defective for the purposes for which they were originally de- sigued, will only render them the more attractive to him. the di- gressions of tho erudite man, or of the suhtle disputant, are precisely what will interest him most. to all readers who prize sound and earnest thinking, we recommend these vol- umes. in justice to the memory of the author, it will not he forgotten that these lectures come hefore us under the disadvantages of a posthumous work, not prepared, and not even in- tended, for puhlication. nor, on the other hand, must we forget to mention, that nothing has heen omitted which careful editorship could effect to remedy these disad- vantages. the learning and in- dustry and good taste of the editors are displayed tbroughout. without any officiousness we have aid given us wherever it was possihle to procure it. the present puhlication extends only to the course on metaphysics: two other volumes are to follow, con- taining yhe course on logic. the term metaphysics is used in the title page in its general and popular sense, as including whatever appertains to the analysis of the human mind, or whatever is gen- erally understood hy mental philo- sophy. more technically speaking, these lectures chiefly concern the de- partment of psychology; hut we think tho editors perfectly correct in retaining the older and more familiar name. in the technical language of some writers, psychology is said to treat of the phenomena of conscious- ness, of tho laws of their recurrence, and the process of their develop- ment; while the term metaphysics is res'ricted to certain discussions on the nature of being in itself, of cause or power, of tho ahsolute, and other the like profundities. the distinction may have its use to those who are engaged in the exposition of ideas: it is not one of a fundamental character. metaphysics, in this restricted sense, caunot he divorced from psychology; nor can any scheme of psychology he given which shall not, hy implica- tion, pass judgment on these meta- physical questions. one writer may he desirous of dismissing from his mind, or sweeping from his path, a class of topics which to him are especially ohscure, and, under some such title as metaphysics or on- tology, he leaves them to he discussed hy others; whilst those who are exclusively devoted to these more ahstruse discussions are willing, under the name of psychology, to dismiss from their care what seems to them a more familiar, more popular, and less important class of topics. but, in reality, no one can address himself to either class of topics without hav- ing virtually passed an opinion on the other. when the psychologist draws his distinction hetween phenomena and heing in itself, he must he pre- pared to justify this distinction,—he must deal with this idea of real existence, and tell us what it is, and how it contrasts with phenomenal existence. and when the metaphy- sician or ontologist (if such a word is permissihle), puts forth his views on the profound questions of being and power, and what are thought the diotates of a reason acting inde- pendently of the senses, and on alto- gether a higher level, he too must he prepared with some scheme of psy- chology which shall he in accordance with his views. every thinker must aim at unity or harmony, that is, the comhination of all that is in the human consciousuess into one harmonious whole. we, for our own part, should prefer to retain for the familiar term of meuiphyaia the wide siguification generally given to it, and leave the terms psychology and ontology for such divisions of his suhject as uny expositor thinks fit to make. in reviewing two volumes such as these, of solid matter, and of so wide .] sir william hamilton. a range of thought, we should he losing ourselves entirely if we did not set some distinct limit to the topics on which we touched. sir -william hamilton, after a general discussion on the nature of human consciousuess, adopts the tbreefold and familiar division of,—" . the phenomena of coguition; . the phenomena of feeling; and, . the phenomena of conation, or the will." we shall limit ourselves to the first of these great suhjects—that of cog- nition or human knowledge. it is a-suhject as vast as it is important, and we do not promise, or rather we do not tbreaten our readers that our remarks will extend over the whole of it but we will attempt to follow sir william hamilton tbrough the heads of his analysis or exposition, so as to give an outline of his doc- trines. it must seem strange to the uniniti- ated or unsophisticated man that the hattle of philosophy should rage, and should still rage, round what seoms to him so simple and undeniahle a fact as the perception, hy his hand or hy his eye, of an external ohject, but the unsophisticated man no sooner enters himself into the task of philosophy—the task, hy analysis and synthesis, to construct, of his know- ledge, one harmonious and consistent whole, in which all the parts shall cohere—than he too fiuds there was a grave difficulty in the sophistry that he laughed at. if he hegins his account of human knowledge with the ohjective, as he has learned to call it, with the external world, viewed as a suhstantial reality, and then threads his way from the inorganic to the or- ganic, he feels himself in danger of heing landed in materialism. if he starts from the suhjective, from his mind or ego, viewed as source of his knowledge, he feels himself heing entbralled in some system of ideal- ism. sir william hamilton will point out to him the hest and safest method, or commencement,—though we will not guarantee him from all difficulties, even under the guidance of sir william,—he will show him that he must hegin at once with hoth, with the ohject and the suhject, with the ego and the non-ego; for hoth are at once involved, as two indis- pensahle terms, in one simple act of perception. this is what sir william has called lhe presentutite theory, in opposition to the representative; which lost proceeds on the supposition that the mind caunot he immediately con- scious of anything hut its own states, its own feelings or thoughts, and therefore descrihes the mind as having, in the first place, some image or idea of its own, which represents the world to it. sir william comhats this re- presentative theory, and descrihes the sensations themselves, as felt hy the mind in its union with the hody, as the direct ohjects in our perception. but mere sensations hy themselves do not form a coguition, or a percep- tion. with the sense-given is in- volved also a perception of relations, an act of judgment, idea", if you choose so to call them, of existence, space, time. these together form what we recoguise as the ohject of perception. as the element of time enters into every coguition we can call up hefore us, and as even the calling it up for reflection implies an act of memory, sir william hamilton is justified in saying that the simplest coguition involves memory also. sense, memory, and judgment, or perception of relation, are elements of the simplest coguition. we proposo to say a few words under each of these heads, percep- tion, memory, and judgment; hut the reader will always hear in mind how intricately involved the tbree topics are, and how especially the simplest ohject of perception involves relation of parts; the apprehension of which relationship receives here 'and in other metaphysical works the name of judgment. perception.—sir william hamil- ton has heen long known, hy his aunotations to reid, as an iuno- vator on the scotch philosophy, in its explanation of the primary fact of our knowledge of the external world. his controversy with brown on the suhject is familiar to all who take an interest in these dis- cussions. brown accused reid of not understanding the philosophers whom he criticised; sir william hamilton accuses brown of not [oct sir william hamilton. understanding reid. we need not cuter into the controversy whether reid's system was preventative, or virtually representative; it differs considerahly from that of sir wdliam hamilton, inasmuch as it does not regard the sensation plus the act of judgment, as the primary oh- ject of perception, hut constantly regards the sensation as a mere sigual to the mind on which it gives forth its perception, or receives some instructive knowledge of the ohject. brown put forward a refined system of representation. with no disposition to overlook the claims of the senses, he held himself hound to the axiom that the mind could apprehend no- thing hut its own states. certain of these states were recoguised as representations of an external world. if we asked how we were to he certified that they were such repre- sentations—of things to us other- wise unknown,—we were referred to the irresistihle intuitive helief of an external world. but, as sir william hamilton ohserves, this intuitive helief says nothing of a representa- tion; the intuitive helief is precisely this, that we have an immediate knowledge of the external world. how can we justify our reliance on this helief at one moment, and our contradiction of it at another? how justify our reference to this helief in support of a theory which is mani- festly discordant with it? for we only helieve the external world ex- ists hecause we helieve we immedi- ately know its existence. this readiness to call in the testimo- ny of consciousuess at one moment, and to reject it at another, is power- fully exposed in the following passage. and as it is a fault which metaphysi- cians are under a strong temptation to commit, we caunot do hetter than give the quotation in full:— "dr. brown maintains the common doctrine of the philosophers, that we have no immediate knowledge of any- thing heyond the states or modificatious of our own minds.—that we are only conscious of the ego,—the non-ego, as known, heing only a modification of self, which mankind at large are illu- sively determined to view as external and different from self. this doctrine is contradictory of the fact to which consciousuess testifies,—that the ohject of which we are conscious in perception, is the external reality as existing, and not merely its representation in the percipient mind. that this is the fact testified to hy consciousuess, and he- lieved hy the common sense of man- kind, is admitted even hy those philo- sophers who reject the truth of the testimony and the helief. it is of no consequence to us at present what are the grounds on which the principle ia founded, that the mind can have no knowledge of ought hesides itself; it is sufficient to ohserve that, this principle heing contradictory of the testimony of consciousuess, dr. brown, hy adopting it, virtually accuses consciousuess of falsehood. but if consciousuess he false in its testimony to one fact, we can have no confidence in its testimony to any other; and brown having himself helied the veracity of consciousuess, caunot, therefore, again appeal to this veracity as to a credihle authority. but he is not thus consistent. although he does not allow that we have any know- ledge of the existence of an outer world, the existence of that world he still maintains. and on what grounds he admits the reasoning of the idealist, that is, of the philosopher who denies the reality of the material universe,—he admits this to he invincihle. how, then, is his conclusion avoided i simply hy appealing to the universal helief of mankind in favour of the existence of external things,—that is, to the autho- rity of a fact of consciousuess. but to him this appeal is incompetent. for. in the first place, having already virtually given up, or rather positively rejected, the testimony of consciousuess, when consciousuess deposed to our immediate knowledge of external things,—how can he even found upon the veracity of that mendacious principle, when hearing evi- dence to the unknown existence of ex- ternal things i i caunot hut helieve that the material reality exists; therefore, it does exist, for consciousness does not deceive us,—this reasoning dr. brown employs when defending his assertion of an outer world. i caunot hut he- lieve that the material reality is the ohject immediately known in perception; therefore, it is immediately known, for consciousuess does not deceive us,—this reasoning dr. brown rejects when estah- lishing the foundation of his system. in the one case he maintains,—this he- lief, hecause irresistihle, is true ; in the other case, he maintains,—this helief, though irresistihle, is false. conscious- .] sir william hamilton. ness is veracious in the former helief, mendacious in the latter. i approhate the one, i reprohate the other. the in- consistency of this is apparent. it he- comes more palpahle when we consider, in the second place, that the helief which dr. brown assumes as true rests on,—is, in fact, only the reflex of,—the helief which he repudiates as false. why do mankind helieve in the existence of an outer world i they do not helieve in it as in something unknown; hut, on the contrary, they helieve it to exist, only hecause they helieve that they immediately know it to exist. the former helief is only as it is founded on the latter. of all ahsurdities, therefore, the greatest is to assert,—on the one hand, that con- sciousuess deceives us in the helief that we know any material ohject to exist; and, on the other, that the material ohject exists, hecause, though on false grounds, we helieve it to exist"* the mind, says brown, can he conscious only of its own states; hut the mind, replies sir william hamilton, is united to the hody, permeates it, and in this its union, feels the sensation there where the nerve is. our sensations are thus immediately felt in space, the rela- tion of position is felt with them, and we thus are conscious of our extended hodies—conscious of their movement, and of the extension and resistance of other hodies. meta- physicians have, in general, held themselves hound not to recoguise the existence of their own hodies till they had evolved the knowledge of them out of the states of feeling of an incorporeal, indivisihle, spirit- ual essence. sir william hamilton, trusting to that conviction of an ex- ternal world which must he ulti- mately relied upon, thinks himself at liherty to look at once at this human hody, in order that, hy the mind's union with it, he may he ahle to give some account of this irresist- ihle conviction. the immediate oh- ject of consciousuess he finds to he the sensations in, or at, the extremity of the nerves, felt under the relations of position and sequence—space and time—which you may say the mind gives for* as necessary truths, or may descrihe as felt relations or acts of judgment. there is not the least approxima- tion to materialism in the doctrine of sir william hamilton. as dis- tinctly as he avers an external real- ity, so distinctly does he proclaim the internal reality, or the spiritual ego. the two heliefs ure, according to his exposition, involved directly in the one act of perception. thus, the fullest justice is done, if we may nse such an expression, to the ohjec- tive and the suhjective reality. we arc at once a spiritual ego, in a ma- terial world. this is a great advance on the previous expositions of the scotch philosophers. what were precisely the opinions of reid, and how far brown was really in error in ascrih- ing to him a form of the representa- tive theory, we will not undertake to determine. to us it seems that reid, driven in one direction hy a fear of materialism, and in another hy his desire to have the common sense of mankind upon his side, never had ohtained for himself a clear intelligihle ground on which to stand. refusing to see in the sensa- tion itself one of the two great ele- ments which constituted a percep- tion—treating the sensation as a sort of sigual wherein a perception enters the mind—it was almost impossihle for him not to fall into some modi- fication of the representative theory. be that as it may, we may congratu- late scotland on having at length put forth a system of dualism, in which the organs of sense play their legitimate part—a system which may he a common ground for the physio- logist and the metaphysician. every reader must have felt, hoth in the polished pages of stewart and the ingenious discussions of brown, that there was no harmony hetween their teaching and the simplest truths of physiology. the laws of the organic heing were iguored for fear due hon- our should not he given to the laws of the inorganic and immaterial es- sence which we presume to animate and to live within it. now this want of harmony ceases to he felt in the expositions of sir william hamilton. here we are permitted, though spirits, to walk on the solid earth, with solid • vol. i. p. . [oct. sir william hamilton. hodies. what is given us hy the nerve is allowed to he felt there where the nerve is. it follows that the relations felt hetween the several parts of an object of perception, or hetween several ohjects of percep- tion, are themselves ohjective as well as suhjective. the relation of . posi- tion is a reality, without, as well as within, our mind. we are spirits; hut we are also organised creatures, living in an organised world. we could quote many passages from the predecessors of sir william hamilton (hut that we have too much upon our handst, which would prove that while earnestly insisting on the reality of the external world, and oven tbrow- ing a patronising glance on the truths of physiology, they were in fact he- wildering themselves and us with a species of idealism* it will illustrate this tendency to disparage the senses, and reduce to the minimum what is directly oh- tained from them (a tendency, how- ever, which has heen hy no means limited to the scotch philosophers), if we take notice of the mauner in which the great organ of sight has heen treated. that an extended sur- face could hecome an ohject of cogui- tion immediately tbrough tho organ of vision was resolutely disputed. a sensation of colour was imagined which originally had nothing to do with extension; mere hahit, mere association of ideas, converted the impression originally given us hy the eye into that of an extended and hounded surface. both stewart and brown are very distinct in their an- nouncement of this theory. both admit that it is impossihle for us at present to separate, hy the utmost effort of thought, colour from exten- sion, yet hoth assert that a sensation which it is impossihle to conceive is the only endowment of the sense of vision. that we derive from the sense of touch our knowledge of com- parative distances, may he very true, thougli even here the readiness with which the young of most animalr discriminate distances, leads us to suspect that in the human heing the organ of sight is not quite so depen- dent as is generally supposed on tho sense of touch; hut that extension, in one direction, that of mere surface, is not given us immediately hy the eye, or that there ever was a sensa- tion of colour separahle from exten- sion, is what we have always heen utterly unahle to helieve. it is a inero hypothesis, and the utter in- conceivahility of a sensation of colour separated from extension is sufficient with us to condemn it. what sir william hamilton urges in the fol- lowing paragraph rather illustrates this inconceivahility, than adds any- thing more to the argument. he shows that the comparison hetween any two colours could take place only in space. those who deal with inconceivahle sensations, would pro- hahly suggest that there were incon- ceivahle modes of comparing them. sir william says:— "it can easily he shown that the per- ception of colour involves the percep- tion of extension. it is admitted that we have hy eight a perception of co- lours, consequently a perception of the difference of colours. but a perception^ of the distinction of colours necessarily involves the perception of a discriminat- ing line; for, if one colour ho laid he- side or upon another, we only distin- guish them as different hy perceiving that they limit each other, which limi- tation necessarily affords a hreadtbless line,—a line of demarcation. one co- lour laid upon another, in fact, gives a line returning upon itself, that is, a figure. but a line and a figure are modi- fications of exteusion. the perception of extension, therefore, is necessarily given in the perception of colours."f we will add, too, that this exten- * brown, speculating on infinite exteusion and infinite divisihility, says— "what we term a hody, however minute, is a multitude of hodies, or, to speak more exactly, an infinite numher of hodies, which appear limited to us, indeed, hut may perhaps appear in their true character of infiuity to heings of a higher order, who may he ahle to distinguish as infinite what our limited senses allow us to perceive only as finite. they areone, not in nature hut in our thought." the unity and harmony of all these finites does not exist, then, in the world itself, only in ouv minds. beings of a higher order would have, it seems, the marvel- lous privilege of seeing infinite atoms where we see order, form, and organisation. t vol. ii. p. . .] sir william hamilton. sion caunot he originally felt (as sir w. hamilton in one passage implies) as touching the organ of vision. the wish to find in all our sensations a modification of touch leads him to this supposition. it may he ori- ginally felt near the eye, hut surely outside the eye—not on the retina, where it must he felt to render the analogy complete hetween the sense of vision and the sense of touch—or rather to justify the reduction of all our senses to modifications of touch. the various sensations as given us hy the nerves, and as related together, form-the primary ohjects of our con- sciousuess, as sir william hamilton has well explained; hut these sensa- tions must he accepted in the most faithful and simple form in which we can apprehend them: nothing is gained hy falsifying their nature in order to approximate them to the sense of contact. a question may he asked, whether, in perception, the mind proceeds from minute parts to huild up a whole, or rather descends from some large and vaguely emhraced whole to an examination of the minuter parts. we think that it descends to the more simple and minute hy analysis; that is, that there is a certain medinm of largeness and complexity which may he descrihed as first in order of time. sir william gives the weight of his authority to this view. he puts the question thus:—"whether, in perception, do we first ohtain a general knowledge of the complex wholes presented to us hy sense, and then, hy analysis and limited atten- are first apprehended. slight degrees of difference in sensations, small dis- tances hetween the parts affected, require, we find, a practised atten- tion in order to he appreciated. be- sides which, the impressions we first receive are those of the last com- plexity; we seize upon some whole as thus presented, and know it first in this its entirety hefore we take coguisance of the separato parts. to adopt the illustration of our author, we may know the face of our friend as a whole—may he "familiar with its expression, with the general re- sult of its parts;" hut when we would analyse this ohject that lives so vividly in our memory, when we would "descend from a conspectus of the whole face to a detailed exa- mination of its parts," we may not he ahle to determine what is the colour of the eyes, or the form of the lips. we must refer to the work it- self hefore us for a fuller defence and explanation of the i'resentative theory of perception as distinguished from the representative. of course, no foreigu hody can he known to us hut hy its effects on us; hut what sir william maintains is, that it is precisely these effects which are the immediate ohject in our. coguitions; the soul linksd to its organism feels in that organism the effects produced ou it hy other, hodies. meanwhile, in every cog- nition, whether of our own or of other hodies, there is the invari- ahle term of the ego—the / of all consciousuess—without which no. tion, ohtain a special knowledge of consciousuess is conceivahle:. "wa their several parts; or do we not first ohtain a particular knowledge of the smallest parts to which sense is competent, and then, hy synthesis, collect them into greater and greater wholes?" the second alternative is that which has heen most favoured hy analytic writers. having conducted their analysis to the minutest dis- tinctions in our knowledge, it was natural to commence their synthesis from these. but it does not appear that nature proceeds in this mauner: the most minute distinctions, or parts, of our knowledge are not those which vol. lxxxyi. may therefore lay it down," says our.- author, "as an undisputed truth, that consciousuess gives as an ultimate fact, a primitive duality;—a know- ledge of the ego in relation .and con- trast to the non-ego; and a know- ledge of the non-ego in relation and, contrast to the ego. the e#o and non-ego are thus given in an original synthesis, as conjoined in the unity of knowledge, and, in an original antithesis, as opposed in the con- trariety of existence. in other words,. we are conscious of them in an in- divisihle act of knowledge together and at once,—hut we are conscious [oct. sir william hamilton. of them as, in themselves, different and exclusive of each other."* we accept this account of percep- tion as the clearest which metaphy- sics has hitherto given us. we are certainly incapahle of summoning up the simplest perception, without at the same time heing conscious of ohject and suhject—the non-ego and tho ego. but we must remark that in the mature human heing this ego never does represent simply the one term in a solitary perception. such solitary perception can never he re- called. memory, or the senso of past and continuous existence, is insepar- ahly comhined with this ego or per- sonality: it is the / that has lived, that is now living thus or thus. tho personality, as we are conscious of it, is only fully developed hy memory. memory.—if a philosophical writer wished to choose some one point, or some one faculty of the mind, from which to survey all our mental opera- tions, ho could not do hetter than take his stand on the memory. here our perceptions first hecome a verita- hle knowledge; here those compari- sons or felt relationships which are involved, as elementary parts, in all our perceptions, can he repeated, can he named, can he classified; from tho memory we can look hackward to the simplest sensations, and for- ward to the widest generalisations of science or p! ilosophy. a full dis- sertation upon memory might very legitimately emhrace the whole do- main of thought—that is, the whole phenomena of the mind might he advantageously explained hy their reference to this great faculty; for all that we popularly call thinking, is either memory or hased on me- mory. there still exist some curious ques- tions concerning the memory, which our psychologists have not satisfac- torily answered. some of theso will he found more fully discussed in the present lectures than in any hook at least in english literature. others aro rapidly dismissed. upon tho whole, we should have to repeat here what we have said of tho entire lectures: the exposition is not com- plete or always satisfactory, hut it is nevertheless the most comprehensive and the most instructive to which we could direct the student of metaphysics. the analysis of memory which sir william hamilton presents us with —into the suhordinate faculties of retention or conservation, repro- duction, and representation—wears, to our apprehension, a somewhat clumsy appearance. it encumhers the ground with useless or merely verhal distinctions. tho one fact is, that we reproduce or represent the perception of the senses: what is retention hut another expression for this power to reproduce? and what can reproduction mean hut a power to represent? memory is an act of the mind, or of the mind in conjunc- tion with the hrain: this act is re- peated according to certain laws, and its repetition no douht depends on oertain conditions of the mind and hrain: hut the fact of repetition ac- cording to definite laws is all that psychology has to recoguise. re- tention is merely a metaphorical ex- pression siguificative of a continuous power, on all fitting times, to repeat the same act. knowledge has no existence except in the act of know- ing. but we must quote sir wil- liam's statement. "tbrough the powers of external and internal perception we are enahled to acquire information—experience; hut this acquisition is not of itself independ- ent and complete; it supposes that we are also ahle to retain the knowledge acquired, for we caunot he said to get what we are unahle to keep. the faculty of acquisition is, therefore, only realised tbrough auotlu-r faculty—the faculty of retention or conservation. here we have another example of what i have already frequently had occasion to sug- gest to your ohservation,—we have two faculties, two elementary phenomena, evidently distinct, and yet each depend- ing on the other forits realization. with- out a power of acquisition, a power of conservation could not he exerted; and without the latter the former would he frustrated, for we should lose as fa>t as we acquired. but as the faculty of ac- quisition would he useless without the faculty of retention, so the faculty of retention would he useless without the faculties of reproduction and represen- vol. i. p. . .] sir william hamilton. tation. that the mind retained, heyond the sphere of consciousuess, a treasury of knowledge, would he of no avail, did it not possess the power of hringing out, and "of displaying, in other words, of re- producing and representing, this know- ledge in consciousuess. but hecause the faculty of conservation would he fruit- less without the ulterior faculties of re- production and representation, we are not to confound these faculties, or to view the act of mind which is their joint result, as a simple and elementary pheno- menon. though mutually dependent on each other, the faculties of conservation, reproduction, and representation, are governed hy different laws; and in dif- ferent individuals are found greatly va- rying in their comparative vigour. the intimate counection of these tbree facul- ties, or elementary acl ivities, is the cause, however, why they have not heen distin- guished in the analysis of philosophers: and why their distinction is not pre- cisely marked in ordinary language." * wo are at a loss to see the pro- priety of the suhdivisions here intro- duced. it may he true that the sim- ple fact of reproduction is not the only one we have to take notice of in a full explanation of the memory. how, for instance, the reproduced image hecomes associated with the past, may require explanation. but this suhdivision refers only to the one general fact, that we have this power of reproduction. this fact, or power, is merely expressed under different terms. what is representa- tion hut another word for reproduc- tion?—not perhaps a word of quite so wide application, hecause in some cases, as in the memory a verhal proposition, reproduction would he felt to he a more appropriate term than representation. sir william hamilton says that two men may rememher the same incident, hut the one represents it to his mind more vividly; hut hoth men do, in fact, represent it to their minds; this is only saying that there is a difference in the vigour with which it is repro- duced. and what, again, is reten- tion or conservation, hut this very fact of reproduction viewed as a power, or hahit, n quality more or less permanent? we speak fami- liarly of retaining knowledge, hut what we retain is the power of repro- ducing it. sir william hamilton would he the first to tell us that it is merely a convenient metaphor when we speak of memory as a store-house or treasury of ideas; no one supposes there can he any such thing. there may he permanent conditions of the suhstance mirid, or of the cerehral organ on which such power of repro- duction depends—hut speaking as psychologists, we can only take notice that such a power or hahit exists. it is open to the physiologist to de- termine, if he he ahle, those cerehral conditions on whicli memory depends. but a similar inquiry could not he prosecuted with regard to modifica- tions of the ens or suhstance we call mind. in our present state of know- ledge there is hut the one fact of reproduction, and when we say that a man retains his ideas, this is merely a convenient mode of asserting that he can again and again reproduce them. sir william hamilton says— "in the first place, then, i presume that the fact of retention is admitted. we are conscious of certain coguitions as acquired, and we are conscious of these coguitions as resuscitated. that, in the interval.when out of consciousuess, these cognitions do continue to suhsist in the mind, is certainly an hypothesis, hecause whatever is out of consciousness can onlv he assumed; hut it is an hypothesis which we are not only warranted, hut neces- sitated, hy the phenomena, to estahlish. i recollect indeed that one philosopher has proposed another hypothesis. avi- cenna, the celehrated arahian philoso- pher and physician, denies to the human mind the conservation of its acquired knowledge ; and he explains the process of recollection hy an irradiation of divine light tbrough which the recovered cog- nition is infused into the intellect." •)• was it really necessary for our erudite philosopher to introduce to us here the arahian aviceuna, with his " irradiation of divine light?" we do not find that the alternative lies hetween sir william hamilton and aviceuna. the fact of retention is indisputahle; hut can we mean anything more hy retention, than the repetition, from time to time, of a given act? a muscle retains the * vol ii.,p. . f ihid. p. . [oct. sir william hamilton. power to move; we do not say that a series of movements are retained in the muscle. sir william also oh- serves, that in popular language we distinguish hetween a retentive and a ready memory, or one that repro- duces with rapidity. this is only saying that in some people the repro- ductive power endures longer than in others: in some it is rapid and evan- escent. in general, the persistent memory depends on the strength of the original impression, or the effect of attention originally paid; whilst the readiness of memory, or the viva- city with which our ideas chase each other, is hut one phase of the energy of life. we see in old men how slow the movements of mind and hody generally hecome. some people are old men all their lives. we have said that it lies altogether ont of the limits of human inquiry to enter into the conditions of the human mind viewed as an ohjective entity. we have no other concep- tion of the mind than as that which is conscious, and the analysis of the phenomena of consciousness is all that can pertain to the psychologist. take away exteusion from matter and there is nothing; take away con- sciousuess from mind and there is nothing. the physiologist may legi- timately speculate on those condi- tions or modifications of the hrnin that are necessary to memory, or for peculiar hahits of memory, hut no similar discussion, as to the modifica- tions of the mind, lies open to the metaphysician. sir william hamil- ton, however, does not acquiesce in this, which has heen the ordinary conclusion of 'his predecessors, he thinks that in order to explain cer- tain phenomena of memory, and of association of ideas, it is necessury, as far as we are ahle, to take account of the unconscious modifications of the mind. it is a curious specula- tion, and as it is rather novel in our country, though, we are assured, familiar to tho germans, we shall take a glance at it. but first we must carefully draw tho distinction hetween this hypo- thesis of unconscious modifications, and the well-known and very current hypothesis that many states of con- sciousuess pass so rapidly and slightly that they are never recalled or repro- duced, and therefore the next instant are to us as if they had never heen. we caunot speak of them, for wo have not rememhered them; we merely conclude, from the circum- stances of the case, that they took place. when, in popular language, we- speak of "sensations" of which we were not "conscious," we do not, and caunot mean that the sensations were not felt (for this would he a manifest contradiction); we mean that we are not conscious now of having felt them; that we never re- memhered them, and that they were, the instant after, as if they never had heen. we know that the clock struck, and we know that we did not hear it, or hear it for the purpose of knowing now that it struck; and we conclude that, in these casesj there was a sensation produced, hut so slight and evanescent as to make no impression on the memory. meta- physicians have availed themselves of a conjecture of this description, applied to thoughts as well as sensa- tions, to explain certain phenomena of association of ideas: states of con- sciousuess that pass so rapidly they caunot he recalled, may yet introdnce other states which can he remem- hered and reflected on. this very generally received hypo- thesis sir william hamilton rejects, and prefers to introduce us to modi- fications of the mind altogether un- accompanied hy consciousuess, hut which serve as links in the chain with those which are so accompanied. now it appears to us here that we are attempting to walk where there is ahsolutely no ground to tread on. the mind is united with the hody; we say there aie unconscious condi- tions of the hrain necessary to the function of memory, and we may conclude that the mind in some way participates in such affections of the hrain even when not conducting im- mediately to consciousuess. but still we must rest, after all, at these modifications of the hrain, for they are the only unconscious phenomena in the operations of thought wo can form any conception of. we do hut materialise the mind when we at- tempt to regard it as the suhject o? such modifications. .] sir william hamilton. sir william hamilton was amongst the first who drew attention to the siguificance of certain curious cases of cerehral disease or cerehral excite- ment: those in which some abuor- mal condition of the hrain is followed hy an abuormal activity and power of mind or memory. the rudest oh- servation had taught us that old age, and many forms of ill health, affected the memory prejudicially; these curi- ous cases where people in certain stages of fever rememher what in other times they were utterly inca- pahle of recalling, demonstrate that an abuormal activity of the hrain may he accompanied hy an abuor- mal activity of the memory. thus we have a douhle proof given us that there are certain physical conditions or functions of the hrain indispens- ahle to the memory. can we, in this direction, seek further? and (/any hypothesis is requisite, would it not he sufficient to say that the functions of the hrain which are counected with consciousuess are not always carried on with an energy adequate to produce consciousuess in the iniad —whose sole known attrihute is con- sciousuess? such operations of the hrain, not themselves producing con- sciousuess, may lead to others that do. but the reader will wish to see sir william hamilton's own statement of an hypothesis which may perhaps he somewhat novel to him. it is in the first volume, and where treating of consciousuess in general, that the suhject is fully discussed. "i pass now to a question in some respects of still more proximate interest to the psychologist than that discussed in the preceding lecture; for it is one which, according as it is decided, will determine the character of our explana- tion of many of the most important phe- nomena in the philosophy of mind, and, in particular, the great phenomena of memory and association. the question i refer to is, whether the mind exerts energies, and is the suhject of modifica- tions, of neither of which it is conscious. this is the most general expression of u prohlem which has hardly heen men- tioned, far less mooted, in this country; and when it has attracted a passing no- tice, the supposition of an unconscious action or passion of the mind, has heen treated as something either unintelli- gihle or ahsurd. in germany, on the contrary, it has not only heen canvassed, hut the alternative which the philoso- phers of this country have lightly con- sidered as ridiculous, has heen gravely estahlished as a conclusion which the phenomena not only warrant hut enforce. the french philosophers, for a long time, viewed the question in the same light as the british. condillac, indeed, set the latter the example; hut of late a revolution is apparent, and two recent french psychologists have marvellously propounded the doctrine, long and ge- nerallyestahlished in germany, as some- thing new and unheard of hefore their own assertion of the paradox. "this question is one not only of im- portance, hut of difficulty; i shall endea- vour to make you understand its pur- port hy arguing itupon hroader grounds than has hitherto heen done, and shall prepare you, hy some preliminary infor- mation, for its discussion. i shall first of all adduce some proof of the fact, that the mind may, and does, contain far more latent furniture than consciousuess informs us it possesses. to simplifj- the discussion, i shall distinguish tbree de- grees of this mental latency."* the first of these degrees of mental latency is that ordinary retention of our knowledge which we have already canvassed. we know n science or language at all times, and not only when we are making use of our knowledge. in our author's own words, "the possessions of-our mind are not to he measured hy its present momentary activities, hut hy the amount of its acquired hahits." these acquired hahits, then, are the first degree of latency: that is, there is some latent condition of mind or hrain on which these hahits depend. the second degree of latency is where the mind "contains certain systems of knowledge, or certain hahits of action which it is wholly unconscious of possessing in its ordi- nary state, hut which are revealed to consciousuess in certain extraordinary exaltations of its powers." for evi- dence of this, we are referred to the class of cases we have already alluded to, where knowledge is revived in fever, or delirinm, or somnamhulism, which apparently had hecome extinct. • vol. i. p. . [oct. sir william hamilton. sir william oses rather large words when he speaks of " systems of know- ledge and hahits of action" heing re- vived under such circumstances; nevertheless, the facts are curious enough and siguificant enough to de- mand our attention. after making due ahatement for that exaggeration of statement which invariahly attends upon novel and marvellous facts, even where scientific men are our witnesses (for the imagination excited hy the wonderful sees more than was ever presented to the senses), this class of cases demonstrates that a startling exaltation of some of our powers may result during an abuormal state of health. we apprehend that in no such cases the whole intellectual or mental heing is improved—there is some more than compensating weak- ness. a man repeats verses in his fever, and caunot recoguise his friends who are perhaps standing hy and wondering at this unusual display of memory. but, however remarkahle such cases, we caunot need two ex- planations of them. involuntary reminiscences, involuntary trains of thought, as little guided hy will, or purpose, as our dreams, may well ho remitted to the hrain as their im- mediate prompter. its operations prompt thorn in the conscious heing, the mind. the hrain acts here like an internal sense. and though wo have in these cases extraordinary examples, we have no new law or operation, cerehral or mental. in ordinary memory a slight impression on the senses may, after a long in- terval, he unexpectedly revived. it is a matter of degree. so, also, in what we call a state of health there are different degrees and various causes of cerehral excitement, and a cup of coffee may do for us, to a cer- tain degree, what a fever does in a far higher degree. the interesting case which cole- ridge made so extensively known hy recording it in his biugrapma litem- ria, is quoted here. a young girl who had formerly lived with a learned divine, whose hahit it was to walk ahout tho house reading aloud his favourite authors, greek, latin, and hehrew, fell ill of a fever. it was many years since she had lived with this divine, nor had she heen known in her health to repent any of tho learned words she had heard; yet in her delirinm she was "incessantly talking latin, greek, and hehrew in very pompous tones, and with most distinct enunciation." the instance is extraordinary; hut as no experience has enahled us to set a limit to the powers of memory—as we caunot say how slight an impression may he revived, or at how long an interval— we have no new law presented to us, we have simply an act accomplished under the excitement of fever, which could not have heen accomplished without that excitement. the third degree of latency is that ahout which our question is raised— modifications or operations of the mind not resulting in consciousuess— of which consciousuess is not (as is generally understood of operations of the mind) the sole exponent. "the prohlem, then, with regard to this das" is, are there, ia ordinary, men- tal modifications—i.e. mental activities and passivities—of which we are uneon- cious,hut which manifest their existence hy effects of which we are conscious!" of course we caunot directly know that of which we are unconscious, hut we may infer the existence of it; the supposition may he necessary in order to explain the existence of what we do know. but here, how are we to conceive modifications in an im- material suhstance i it may he said, that if we refuse to accord such mo- difications, we shall he compelled to attrihute so much to the modifications and operations of the hrain, as to drive us towards materialism. but, on the other hand, if we introduce any conceivahle modification in the mind, we must assimilate it to a mate- rial suhstance. let us see some of the grounds from which our ingenious author infers the existence of these unconscious modifications. "let us take our first example from perception—the perception of external ohjects—and in that faculty let us com- mence with the sense of sight. now, you either already know, or eau he at once informed, what it is that has oh- tained the name of minimum visii'dr. vou are, of course, aware, in general, that vision is the result of the rays of light reflected from the surface ot oh- jects to the eye; a greater numher of [oct. sir william hamilton. this curious topic, and indeed must leave several interesting questions touching the memory hehind us, and pass on to the next great element of coguition. judgment.—we must again re- mind our reader that an exposition of ideas frequently requires us to mention in an order of time things which are coexistent and inseparahle. in every memory, and in every per- ception, there is involved some judg- ment, some feeling of relationship, of space, or time, or similarity, or con- trast. in the earliest coguition we can summon up, there are related things; and if we try, in our philoso- phical analysis, to think some mini- mum of matter, we still find that we have parts and d relation of position. so far is it from heing true that we never think of more than one thing at a time, that, in fact, we can- not think of any one thing, without relating it to some other. all its qualities consist of such relations. this sir william hamilton very dis- tinctly states when, aiter treating of the presentative faculty (perception), and the representative faculties (me- mory and imagination), he proceeds to treat of the judgment or reason, which he divides into the elahorotive and regulative faculties. it is thus ho descrihes what we popularly call judgment or comparison. "the faculties with which we have heen hitherto engaged, may he regarded as rsuhsidiary to that which we are now ahout to consider. this, to which i gave the name of the elahorativefaculty—the faculty of relations—or comparison— constitutes what is properly denominated thought it supposes always at least two terms, and its act results in a judg- ment; that is, an affirmation or negation of one of these terms of the other. you will recollect that, when treating of con- sciousuess in general, i stated to you that consciousuess necessarily involves a judgment; and, us every act of mind is an act of consciousuess, every act of. mind consequently involves a judgment . . . so far from comparison or judgment heing a process always suhsequent to the acquisition of knowledge (tbrough per- ception and self-consciousuess), it is in- volved in a condition of the acquisitive process itself. . . . "in opposition to the views hitherto promulgated in regard to comparison, i will show that this faculty is at work in every, the simplest oct of mind; and that, from the primary affirmation of existence in an original act of conscious- ness to the judgment contained in the conclusion of an act of reasoning, every operation is only an evolution of the same elementary process—that there is a dif- ference in the complexity, none in the nature of the act; in snort, that the various products of analysis and syn- thesis, of ahstraction and generalisation, are all merely the results of comparison, and that the operations of conception, or simple apprehension, of judgment, and of reasoning, are all only acts of com- parison in various applications and de- grees "* we are quite prepared to acquiesce in this wide generalisation of sir william hamilton's. in all our know- ledge—in all our reasoning—we see a similar act of judgment exercised on simpler or more complex terms. b«t we find it essential to take notire here, that if we regard com- parison or judgment, not only as a process suhsequent to the acquisition of knowledge, hut "involved as a condition of the acquisitive process itself," we must include two different things under this head of judgment. we must not only include what is popularly understood as comparison (where the properties of two hodies are compared), hut that elementary faculty—that fundamental law, or iunate idea, as it is sometimes called —which, in the first instant, makes us coguisant of the property. for instance, when we compare two hodies as to their magnitude, there must he, heside the act of compari- son, the fundamental ideas of exist- ence or space. whatever we choose to call it, which makes us for the first time coguisant of the relation of position, must he included in this act of comparison or judgment. the distinction of these two ele- ments in the one act of judgment may at first sight appear a needless suhtle- ty; hut it is from overlooking it that we expose ourselves to the iunumer- ahle suhtleties and perplexities of the old controversy ahout iunate ideas or a priori judgments. these fundamen- • vol . i. p. . .] sir william hamilton. tal ideas or modes—as space, exist- ence, time—render all experience possihle, and yet are known to us only in that experience. metaphy- sicians have generally preferred to assigu these two elements of the one act of judgment to separate facul- ties; sir william hamilton classes existence, space, time, amongst the necessary truths of his regulative faculty. we have no opposition to make to' this classification; we would only ohserve that, in point of fact, they are inseparahle from the act of judgment, or a perception of rela- tions. to perceive the relations of position and of sequence, is to have the ideas of space and time, and they enter the mind in no other way. we may now he said to have all the elements hefore us of a complete coguition—sense, memory, and judg- ment. each ohject of coguition hears various relation with other ohjects; new groups of these ohjects are per- petually heing found tbrough memory or imagination, and new relations he- tween these groups are perceived. language intervenes with its mar- vellous assistance, and the generalisa- tion of senses, or those which hear the name of social, moral, and poli- tical truths, take their place in the human mind. nor is knowledge limited only to the senses, or gener- alisations ultimately founded on the senses: we can infer much. having estahlished certain laws of nature, we can infer unseen causes from known effects; we can infer for the future of man and the human soul purposes yet uurealised. have we reached the termination of our analysis, or is there yet some source of knowledge overlooked? sir william hamilton has one remaining division which we have only par- tially taken into our summary—that which he denominates the regulative faculty. here we have arrived at that other end of the scale where, as we said, our author fraternises with leibuitz, and approximates to what is loosely descrihed amongst us as the german school of philoso- phy. at this point it will he well to extract the tahular view of sir william hamilton's classification of our faculties of coguition: it will he seen how far we have travelled with him, and what of the journey remains to he taken. " . presentative . conservative . reproductive . representative . elahorative . regulative {external — perception. internal — self-consciousuess. — memory. ( without will — suggestion. \ with will — reminiscence. "=, imagination. —» comparison,—faculty of relations. — reason,—common sense."* it will he seen at a glance that the five first of these, and a portion of what is included in the sixth, have heen emhraced hy us under the heads of perception, memory, ima- gination, and judgment. under the head of judgment we took notice of those fundamental ideas, or modes, or laws of thought, which are essen- tial to all comparisons, which render all experience possihle, hut which we were unahle to separate from the act of judgment. besides these, are there any other "necessary truths" which we are hound to recoguise und set apart under the title of the regulative faculty? we will here quote the hriefest passage we can select in which sir william hamilton descrihes and dis- tinguishes these two departments or faculties—the elahorative and the regulative—into which he has divid- ed what is popularly known as the one faculty of reason, judgment, or understanding:— "the elahorative faculty has only one operation, it only compares—it is comparison—the faculty of relations. it may startle you to hear that the highest function of mind is nothing higher than comparison, hut, in the end, i am confident of convincing you of the paradox. . . . generalisation, which vol. ii. p . [oct. sir william hamilton. is the result of synthesis and analysis, is thus an act of comparison, and is pro- perly denominated conception. judg- ment is only the comparison of two terms or notions directly together: rea- soning only the comparison of two terms or notions with each other tbrough a third. conception or generalisation, judgment and reasoning, are thus only various applications of comparison, and not even entitled to the distinction of separate faculties. . . . "this is thought, strictly so called; it corresponds to the &iitua of the greek, to the discursus of the latin, to the vcrstand of the german philoso- phy: and its laws are the ohject of logic. "but in the sixth and last place, the mind is not altogether indehted to ex- perience for the whole npparatus of its knowledge—its knowledge is not all adventitious. what we know hy expe- rience, without experience we should not have known; and as all our experi- ence is contingent, ull the knowledge derived from experience is contingent also. kilt there are conditions in the mind which are not contingent—which are necessary—which we caunot hut think—which thought supposes as its fundamental condition. these cogui- tions, therefore, are not merely gener- alisations from experience. hut if not derived from experience, they must he native to the mind. . . . these na- tive,—these necessary cognitions, are the laws hy which the mind is governed in its operations, and which afford the conditions of its capacity of knowledge. . . . on the power possessed hy the mind of manifesting these phenomena, we may hestow the name of the regu- lative faculty. this faculty corre- sponds in some measure to what, in the aristotelic philosophy was called noss, —i"<tj; (intellectus, nens), when strictly employed, heing a term, in that philoso- phy, for the place of principles—the loots principiorum. it is analogous, likewise, to the term reason, as oc- casionally used hy some of the older english philosophers, and the vernunft in the philosophy of knot, jacohi, and others of the recent german metaphy- sicians. it is also nearly convertihle with what i conceive to he reid's, and certainly stewart's, notion of common sense."* if now wo turn to the th lec- ture, headed the regulative faculty, we shall find ft more complete enu- meration and account of these neces- sary truths—we shall find that the list of them not only emhraces those which we have already descrihed, as essential to experience, hut others, which, if not generalisations from experience, might, at all events, he taken for such, aud are hy many con- sidered as such. "the derivative coguitions are of our own fahrication; we form them after certain rules; they are the tardy result of perception and memory, of atten- tion, reflection, ahstraction. the primi- tive coguitions, on the contrary, seem to leap ready armed from the womh of reason, like pallas from the head of ju- piter; sometime» the mind places them at the commencement of us operations, in order to have a point of support and a fixed hasis, without which the opera- tions would he impossihle; sometimes they form, in a certain sort, the rroiening —consummation, of all the intellectual operations the primitive and general notions are the root of all prin- ciples—the foundation of the whole edi- fice of human science. . . . f leibuitz is the first hy whom the criterion of necessity—of the impossi- hility not to think so and so—was esta- hlished as a discriminative type of our native notions, in contrast to those which we educe from experience, and huild up tbrough generalisation. the enounce- ment of this criterion was, in fact, a great discovery in the scienee of mind; and the fact that a truth so manifest, when once proclaimed, could have lain so long uunoticed hy philosophers, may warrant us in hoping that other dis- coveries of equal importance may still he awaiting the advent of another leih- nitz."! wo should readily receive this cri- terion, if the application of it could have heen agreed upon. ideas or heliefs, which are manifestly essential to all experience, and are thus in reality one with experience, we can as readily receive as necessary truths of the regulative faculty, as under any other description. but when the necessary truth is descrihed as "sometimes crowning" our intellec- tual efforts, and when we find at- tempts made to determine philoso- phical disputes hy an appeal to a "necessary truth," we hegin to feel that we are treading on very inse- cure ground. the moment we extend the list heyond such fundamental con- ceptions (like existence, space, and * vol. ii. p. . f vol. ii. p. . .] sir william hamilton. time), as are necessary to any know- ledge whatever, we find that the "necessary truth" hecomes a suh- ject of controversy. some admit, some reject; and, owing to the ad- vance of science, what has heen as- serted as a necessary truth in one age, has heen deserted as a mere pre- judice in the next. it was once a ne- cessary truth that a hody caunot act hut where it is. the doctrine of at- traction or gravity has reconciled us to the idea of hodies acting on each other at a distance. if the pheno- mena of gravitation should he re- duced (hy the interposition of a suhtle ether, and the application of our the- ories of electro-maguetism) to a form of motion hy impulse, we may go hack again to the old "necessary truth." every strong conviction seem* to certain minds impossihle to contra- dict, and thus may always aspire to the rank of a necessary truth. sir william hamilton classes the he- lief that the total amount of matter does not increase or diminish in the universe amongst necessary truths, which surely is a result of ohser- vation, and a truth which should ho limited to the sphere of ohservation. on the other hand, he descrihes the helief in god as a truth of inference, which hy many men would he placed in the first rank of necessary truths. this suhject has, of late, heen discuss- ed very ahly hy mr. whewell on the one side, and mr. j. s. mill on the other. the valuahle " discovery " of leibuitz does not seem even yet to he recoguised hy all philosophers. but what is peculiar to sir wil- liam hamilton in his treatment of this part of his suhject is, that he divides these necessary truths into two classes, those of a positive ne- cessity, and those of a negative ne- cessity. this last class he refers to what he calls a principle of weak- ness or impotence. the mind comes to a point where it meets two con- tradictory propositions which admit of no middle term, which are mu- tually destructive of each other, yet of which one must he true. some course must he taken out of sheer necessity; hut this is a nega- tive necessity—tho necessity of an alternative, not the necessity of a positive truth. as sir william hamilton dwells upon this distinc- tion with something of the fondness of an original discoverer, and as it has heen lately hrought rather con- spicuously forward in certain theolo- gical discussions (relating to our con- ceptions of tho infinite), it is impos- sihle for us to pass it over in sdence; although it seems very clear to us that if there are such contradictory propositions as are here descrihed, we have hefore us simply a case of neces- sary ignorance, not of necessary truth. so far as speculation is con- cerned, and unless some human inte- rest or desire gave its weight to one of the two propositions, there would he simply a suspension of judgment, and no helief or conviction, and cer- tainly no knowledge, at all. "it is agreed that the quality of ne- cessitv is that which discriminates a na- tive from an adventitious clement of knowledge. when we find, therefore, n coguition which contains this discrimi- native quality, wo are entitled to lay it down as one which could not have heen ohtained as a generalisation from expe- rience. this i admit. but when philoso- phers lay it down not only as native to the mind, hut as a positive and immedi- ate datum of an intelleetunl power, i de- mur. it is evident that the oualitv of necessity in a coguition may depend on two different and opposite principles, inasmuch as it may either he the result of a power, or of a powerlessuess, of the thinking principle. in the one case it will he a positive, in the other a nega- tive necessity." * after giving some instances of tho positive necessity, as the notions of existence, the intuitions of timo and spaoe, he continues:— "but hesides these, there are other necessary forms of thought which, hy all philosophers, have heen regarded as standing precisely on the same footing, which to me seem to he of a totally dif- ferent kind. in place of heing the re- sult of a power, the necessity which helongs to them is merely a consequence of the impotence of our faculties." and then he proceeds to state some instances of this " contradiction and , excluded middle." but first, we are vol. ii., p. . [oct. sir william hamilton. not told why experience should not he a sufficient guide to the recogui- tion of a limit to our knowledge, or to the recoguition of these contradic- tions; and, secondly, we do not feel that he has made out his cases of contradicting propositions. we do not find, for instance, two contra- dictory propositions as to the infinite or the eternal. as sir william hamilton's philo- sophy was hrought forward hy mr. mansel in his bampton lectures to support a rather remarkahle line of reasoning, * we must heg that a dis- tinction he drawn hetween two very different statements which our meta- physician has made relating to the suhjects of the infinite and ahsolute. tho one we admit, the other is what we are at present disputing. that every coguitiou must exist of two terms, at least, and a felt relation, appears to us an evident and import- ant truth; and that therefore the ahsolute or unconditioned caunot ho a direct ohject of human knowledge, we think, mnst he admitted. this law of our thought sir william hamilton enunciated with singular force in his review of m. consin, afterwards repuhlished as an essay on the jlncondilioncd. he there shows that the infinite caunot he known, per se, in a positive sense. our positive conceptions are neces- sarily of the finite. the infinite is only known in relation to the finite. draw any circle, large or small, there is always an infinite space heyond it —an infinity which emhraces the circle itself. but the other state- ment which he has made, in conjunc- tion with this, and which is more especially dwelt upon in these lectures, is of a quite different and very dis- putahle character—namely, that we have contradictory notions of the infinite forced upon us. we find limit or imperfection, not contradic- tion. and indeed how can sir wil- liam hamilton make his two state- ments consistent with each other? he says, in the one statement, this and this only is your notion of the infinite; he says, in the other state- ment, that two opposite notions have an equal validity. "now, then, i lay it down as a law which, though not generalised hy phdo- sophers, can he easily proved to he true hy its application to the phenomena:— that all that is conceivahle in thought lies hetween two extremes, which, as contradictory of each other, caunot hoth he true, hut of which, as mutual contra- dictories, one must. for example, wc conceive space—we caunot hut conceive space. i admit, therefore, that space in- definitely, is a positive and necessary form of thought. but when philosophers convert the fact, that we caunot hut think space, or, to express it differently, that we are unahle to imagine anything out of space—when philosophers, i say, convert this fact with the assertion, that we have a notion,—a positive notion, of ahsolute or of infinite space.they assume, not only what is not contained in the phenomenon, nay, they assume what is the very reverse of what the phenome- non manifests. it is plain, that space must either he hounded or not hounded. these are contradictory alternatives; on the principle of contradiction, they can- not hoth he true, and on the principle of excluded middle, one must he true."f it has heen often said that our knowledge and obr heing lies hetween two infinities and two eternities—the infinitely great, the infinitely small, the eternal past, the eternal future. we look out on hoth sides with a conviction that there is no limit. this is all the conception of infinity we can possihly have. but the doc- trine that our knowledge lies hetween two contradictions is'quite another and most fallacious statement. where are the contradictions? are they such as are really left to us as the last result of earnest inquiry, or are they the product of a logical dexterity taking advantage of the undeniahle ohscurity of the suhject? we have never had much respect for these ingenious antagonisms or "antino- mies " of the reason. with regard to infinite space, sir william hamilton himself tells us that we can have no positive conception of it; we think * in the review of mr. manscl's lectures in our july numher wo were unahle, from want of space, to enter into these peculiarities of sir william hamilton's philosophy. perhaps the following remarks may he allowed to supply the defi- ciency. - f vol ii. p. . .] m sir william hamilton. of a circle perpetually enlarging, and alwny s having a without and a within; this illimitahle heyond ia our only infinite, and it is just as clear to us whether the circle we imagine he tbree feet in diameter, or whether it emhraces all the known stars. but after having taught us this, it is mere sophistry to say that the oppo- site proposition of a "hounded space" is equally valid hecause we caunot in a positive mauner repre- sent to ourselves the "unhounded." "we are altogether unahle," says sir william hamilton, "to conceive space as hounded—as finite: that is, as a whole heyond which there is no other space." we all admit this in- stantly, nor can there he any contra- dictory proposition hrought forward to shake our conviction. what is stated here as such is no contradic- tion. "on the other hand," con- tinues sir william, "we are equally powerless to realise in thought the possihility of the opposite contradic- tory; we caunot conceive space as infinite, as without limits. you may launch out in thought heyond the solar walk, you may trauscend ia fancy even the universe of matter, and rise from sphere to sphere in the region of empty space, until imagi- nation sinks exhausted;—with all this, what have you done? you have never gone heyond the finite, you have attained at hest, only to the indefinite, and the indefinite, however, expanded, is still always the finite."* what have we done? we have done oil that, when contending for the in- finite space, we ever professed to do. we have shown how we might travel in thought for ever and for ever, and never find a limit; we have shown that every limit implies a heyond. it is thus that, under sir william hamilton's instruction, we defined or descrihed our notion of the infinite. our circle may widen for ever, and there is always an inexhaustihle he- yond. you may call this heyond at each moment the indefinite, if you please, hecause our conceptions oau- not emhrace the inexhaustihle; hut this conviction, that, from the nature of things it is inexhaustihle, remains, and this conviotion constitutes our notion of the infinite. it is no con- tradiction to say that "we caunot realise in thought " the unhounded, if hy realising in thought he meant a representation in the imagination, for it is precisely this acknowledged im- possihility of presenting to ourselves a last houndary, that constitutes our rational conviction of the infinite. we realise it in thought as such ra- tional conviction. as with space, so with time: two contradictory propositions are conjured up hefore us which in fact are not contradictory. "we are al- together unahle to conceive time as commencing." this expresses the conviction of every one of us, and it constitutes our definition of a past eternity. let us place ourselves in what epoch we please, there is always the same immeasurahility hehind us and hefore. it is not a great internal, hecause an interval has a he- giuning and an end. take what in- terval you will, there is at hoth ends precisely the same immeasurahility hefore and after. what is the con- tradictory proposition ?" on the other hand, the concept of past time as without limit,—without commence- ment, is equally impossihle. we can- not conceive the infinite regress of time; for such a notion could only he realised hy the infinite addition in thought of finite times, and such an addition would itself require an eter- nity for its accomplishment.'"t but it is precisely this acknowledged impossihility hy any addition of finite times to reach a hegiuning of time, or to approach the least nearer to such hegiuning, that constitutes our definition of eternity. this im- possihility stands there as a truth of experience or inference. there is no contradiction to it. if we pro- fessed to have a conception of eter- nity so that the mind's eye could em- hrace it, then indeed we should he opposed to contradiction. sir william hamilton adds: — "the negation of a commencement of lime involves, likewise, the affir- mation, that an infinite time has, at every moment, already run: that is, it implies the contradiction, that an infinite has heen completed." sir vol. ii. p. . f ihid. p. . s - [oct . sir william hamilton. william himself could very easily, had ho chosen, have solved the riddle he lias here placed hefore us. we have seen it pnt more simply, thus: there was a past eternity forty years ago; therefore, at this moment, there is an eternity plus forty years. the puzzle is made hy proposing to add to the immeasurahle. every event in time . has precisely the same relation to eternity; it has definite and very different relations to other events. the two rclatohisliips should he kept distinct. the forty years caunot he measured off from eternity any more than forty feet could he measured off from infinite space. intervals of time imply a hegiuning and an end; and only such intervals can he made longer or shorter. the same riddle might he put with regard to infinite space. you might measure forty feet from a to b, and then say, that looking from a, there was an infi- nity plus forty feet. but, in fact, position, or measurahle distance, is only a relation hetween two finites. each finite ohject hears the same re- lation to infinite space, whatever re- lation it has to other finites. the ancient sophist could prove that mo- tion was impossihle, or non-existent, so long as he could fix attention ex- clusively on the relation of each oh- ject to infinite space; it is only the relation of ohject to ohject that gives position, and consequently that change of position we call motion. in like mauner one might prove that the sequence of events was impossihle if, instead of looking at the relation hetween the two events, one could fix the mind on the relation of each to eternity. placing ourselves, therefore, under the guidance of sir william hamil- ton himself, wo caunot admit that, in our notions of the infinite and the eternal, we are exposed to this cruel sport of contradictory propositions, each having equal claim to our as- sent. we admit his account of these notions, and are happy to find that he produces nothing valid against them. nor do we hold that the im- possihility of conceiving the infinite, or the eternal, in any other way than he has descrihed, is in the least adverse to any intelligihle doctrine of religion. if we form the concep- tion of god, as creator, we must necessarily conceive of him as in re- lation to the universe. one does not see how anything is gained hy the vain attempt to apprehend him as the ahsolute. again, we say that the universe exists in the mind of god as thought. the idea of infi- nity, then, as applied to the mind of god, cannot he other than the same idea as gathered from the universe itself. we know the universe as in- finite, wo do not know the infinite universe; we know god to he in- finite, we do not know the infinite god. no one ever asserted that we caunot know the universe at all, he- cause we caunot know the whole, hecause we know there is an impos- sihility that we should ever know it in its infinity. that this doctrine of truths of a "negative necessity" does not remain idle in the system of sir william hamilton, is shown hy this, that he ultimately resolves into a truth of this order our idea of causation. this suhject of causation he has dis- cussed at some length in these lec- tures, and we had proposed to our- selves to follow him in his investiga- tions of one of the most interesting prohlems of philosophy. but our space is exhausted: what we wished to say on this topic must wait some future occasion. we ought perhaps to congratulate ourselves that we havo heen ahle, in so short a com- pass, even in this imperfect mauner, to give some account of sir william hamilton's doctrines of coguition. those who have the requisite leisure will hardly fail to peruse these lec- tures themselves. they are full of thought; there is much to disin— and to quarrel with; much to re- ceive, and to he instructed hy; they are, in every way, a most acceptahle addition to our philosophical litera- ture. d. appleton & co/s holiday list of icl» suuatmtcb boofes the coming holiday season. ♦♦* moral emblems, from jacoh catr. and rohert farley, with aphorisms, adages, and proverhs df all nations; the illustrations from rieslgrns found in catz and farley, hy jons leigbton. vol. vo, with illustrations on \ ood, and viguettes and tail-pieces. cloth, gilt. (in decemher). the waverley gallery: heing a sorlcs of engraved illustrations of portraits of characters in sir walter scott's romances, elegant vol. svo., with steel engravings. morocco, extra (and antique) rich stylo. (in novemher). reynard the fox, after the version of goethe. by tnomas j. arnold. with illus- trations from the designs of wilhelui von kanlhach. vol. vo., heautifully printed on the finest tinted paper. cloth, gilt, $ ; morocco, extra, $ . (rcadv on the th of octohert. the merrie days of england; sketches of the olden time. by edward mc- denmott. illustrated with large engravings from drawings hy joseph nash, george thomas, blrket foster, edward corhould, etc. handsomely hound in cloth, decorated in the manuer of the elizahethan period. to., cloth gilt, and morocco, elegant, (in novemher). merry rictukf.s, hy comic hands: heing a collection of hnmorous desigus hy phil, crowqulll. doyle, leach. meadows, hine, etc. "with over engravings and illustrative text. oblong" folio, handsome cover hy crowquilt, fancy hoards, $ . dies ik.k in thirteen original versions. by auuauam coles, m.d. elegant vol. vo., morocco antique. (nearly readyt. l'allegro and il penseroso, hy milton. with upwards of illustrations, drawn and etched hy blrket foster. the text printed in red vol. super-royal vo., hound in mo- rocco antique, rich style, $ ; or, in levant morocco, $ . the pleasures of hope, hy thomas camphkll. with illustrations hy blrket fos- ter, and others, in the first style of the art. vol., extra cloth, gilt edges, $ ; the same in morocco extra, | . tenn'yson poem of the miller's daughter. illustrated hy a. l. bond. hean- tiful vol. to., extra cloth, gilt sides and edges, $ ; the same, colored, $ . bunyan's pilgrim's progress, with a preface hy the rev. c kingsley, and illus- trations, from original desigus hy charles benuett. a new edition. handsome vol., ill various styles of blnding. (in novemher). hakspeakes merchant of venice. illnstrated hy blrket foster and others, in the style of gray's elegy. (on the lh of novemher). the book of modern ballans. fiintcd in gold. containing the gems of modern ballad writing. (on tho th of novemher). st "\at juveniijes. mary lee. a story for the youug. by katx livermork. neat vol. mo., illustrated. extra cloth, cts. the chilnren's picture gallery. engravings from one hundred paintings hy eminent english artists. vol. to., $ . appleton's boys' and girls' american annual for . vol. mo., illus- trated. cloth, gilt, $ . entomology in sport and entomology in earnest. by two lovers of tho science. vol. limn., ( . boy's own book: n complete encyclopedia of all the diversions, athietic, scientific and recreative, of boyhood and youth. new and enlarged edition, with numerous additional illustrations. thick vol., extra cloth, $ . householn stories. collected hy the brothers grimm. newlv translated, emhellished with illustrations hy wehnert. vol., cloth, $ ; gilt edges, * . the boy's birth-day book: a collection of tales, essays, and narratives of adven- tures. by mrs. . c. hall, william howitt, augustus maynew, thomas miller, g. a. sala, ac", ac vol. crown vo., illustrated with engravings. cloth, gilt edges, $ . baron munchausen. travels and surprising adventures of. illustrated hy alfred crowqaill. with finelv-colored plates, and wood engravings vol. mo., heantifully printed. extra cloth, gilt edges, * . bo\~ book op innustrial information. by elisha notch, anthor of outlines of creation. illustrated with engravings. mo., extra cloth, fl . nightcaps. no. . a juvenile story book. by the anthor of "aunt fanuy's cbristmas stories." loss and gain; or, margaret's home. by cousin alioe. the boy's own toy maker square mo. bible stories', a tale from scripture. vol square mo. just published, the poetical works of w nthr p mackworth praed. a new and much enlarged edition. in two volumes, mo. price $ . . in the undersigned reprinted an edition] of pracd's poems, which had heen puhlished some years hefore hy the messrs. langley, with several additions. the collection was made and the hook puhlished under the supervision of the late dr. griswold, who was an enthusi- astic admirer of the genius of the author. the hook has passed tbrough several editions, and we were ahout issuing another when a gentle- man in boston kindly volunteered to collect a large numher of the author's poems not included in the volume of dr. griswold. the result is an additional volume ahout the size of the first. ho has also added to the value of the work hy a very interesting hiographical sketch of the author, and the whole is now presented in two duodecimo volumes, handsomely printed and hound. the- bi.ackwood books. i. the noctes ambrosiana hy prof. wilson, james hogg, lockhart, and dr. magiun. edited with memoirs and notes hy dr. mackenzie. in vols. mo. cloth, price $ the same in sheep, lihrary style the same, half calf, extra the same, half calf, antique the same, half morocco, extra l the same, full calf, extra ii. maginn's miscellanies. the miscellaneous writings of the late dr. wil- liam magiun. edited with a memoir and notes hy dr. r. s. mackenzie. complete in vols. mo. cloth, price $ vols. i. and ii. the odoherty papers.. . vol. iii. the homeric ballads "iv. the shakespeare papers i "v. the fraserian papors iii. the lays of the scottish cavaliers. by w. e. aytoan, editor of blackwood's magazino. in vol. mo. price si iv. the book of ballads. (bon gaultier). by w. e. aytoun and theodore martin. illustrated. vol., mo $ v. firmilian. w. e. aytoun. a spasmodic tragedy. bv in vol. mo . works of rey. r. c. trench, dean of i. on the study of words s ii. on the english language, past and present iii. on the synonyms of the new tes- tament iv. on bihle revision v. on the lessons in proverhs westminstkii. vi. calderon, an essay on his life and genins vii. sermons on the divinity of cbrist viii. poems no ix. a select glossary of emrlish words used formerly in senses different from their present works of edgar ai.i.an poe. i. the poetical works of edgar allan poe. splendidly and profusely illustrated hy the most distinguished ameri- can and foreign artists. with a portrait. splendidly hound in cloth, extra gilt $ the same in morocco, antique the same" " gilt ii. the poems of edgar allan poe, with a memoir and portrait, in the hlue and gold style $ the same in full morocco iii. the complete works of ed- gar allan poe, with a m moir hy rufus w. griswold, and notices of his life and genins hy n. p. willis and j. r. lowell. in vols, cloth the same in sheep, lihrary style the same in half calf, extra the same in half morocco, extra ' i the same in half calf, antiqac the same in full calf, extra *** these volumes contain all the tales hy mr. poe, puhlished in the collection known as the tales of the " grotesque and arahcsque;" all his extensive contrihutions to the maga- zines; nil his poetry; his literary criticism-: the story of arthur gordon pym ; and in short everything he ever wrote that he himself thought worth preserving. j. s. redfield, agent, beekman st, n. y. • blackwood's edinburgh magazine. . no. dxxix. november . vol. lxxxvi. the french on queen mart. whether it he owing to an im- pulse communicated hy the success- ful lahours of miss strickland, or to some other cause, french authorship and editorship have lately heen pro- fnsely dedicating their services to mary queen of scots. the literature they have favoured us with, hesides heing divisihle into good and had, consists partly of rhetorical declama- tion, which helongs in a great mea- sure to the latter category, and partly of original research, productive of new facts and views, which consti- tutes, heyond douht, the more valu- ahle part of this literary harvest. the ahle hut hitter inquiry hy m. miguer, which, after appearing frag- mentnlly in the revue de* detox mondes, was emhodied in a separate narrative, is now some years old, and hardly helongs to the more re- cent series to which the present ohser- vations are directed. from the pro- lific pen of m. dumas we have a volume of his successive crimes celc- hres, with the title of marie stuart, amusing enough as a piece of pictur- esque rending, hut not sufficiently important, either for its novelty or any other merit, to deserve length- ened criticism. lamartine nas also puhlished a volume with the same hrief title—a volume of which those who are tjo greatest admirers of ins vol. lxxxvl u genins, and take the warmest interest in his checkered fortunes, will he disposed to say the least. he takes his facts and his tone avowedly from a somewhat amhitious volume, of which we shall presently have more to say, termed hittoire de marie stuart, hy j. m. dargaud. but far more valuahle, as the result of pro- found historic research, is the hook hy m. chernel, with the title, marie stuart ct catherine de medicu, etude historique sur lee relations de la france et de i'ecosse. the merit of having produced the most valuahle contrihution among these french trihutes to the memory of our queen will lie hetween this hook of che- ruel's and another called lettres de marie stuart, puhliees avec sum- maires, traductions, notes et fac- simile, hy that indefatigahle archaeo- logist jean baptiste alexandre theo- dore tenlet. llis volume is intended as a supplement to the collection hy prince lnhanoff, with which the reader either is or is not acquainted. this venerahle mernhtr of the select circle of russian grandees, claiming descent from the pristine rurik, stands conspicuous as a living illus- tration of the fascinations of our northern cleopatra. it is related among the trinmphs of ninon de l'enclos, that she had lovers among [nov. the french on queen mary. the contemporaries of her grand- children, one of them, according to a questionahle legend, turning out to he an actual descendant in that de- gree. but the fascinations of mary present to us a far more potent testi- mony in a living lover, who loves and must love on, as some of the sentimental songs say, down into the third century after that in which the ohject of his passion hreathed the hreath of life. the prince has spent a great portion of a long life in the t functions of a knight-errnnt, vindicat- ing the spotless honour of the lady of his love. if it has not heen his lot to put the spear in rest against the cniiift" maliguers, or to knock on the shield hung outside the gate of the castle where the otject of his vows lies captive, he his performed the drearkr, if less dangerous, task of ransacking every lihrary in the world for evidence of the iunocence of his peerless lady, and has puhlished the result of his lahours in seven dense octavo volumes. they are a curious and valuahle collection, hut rather dryish on the whole; and though the price of the volumes is rather high, we have little douht uiat they have heen paid for hy many more people than they have heen read hy. the prince's lahours were not directed to the end of discover- ing the truth—that was already fixed and induhitahle as divine truth; he sought in his humhle devotion only to collect and record the documents calculated to illustrate it, and hring it home in its fnll lustre to careless or ohdurate hearts. accordingly, he rejected from his collection as spuri- ous, and in a mauner hlasphemous, those documents which, in the view of the impartial, tbrow douht on the purity of his hright particular star. it. teulet ohserves with a sort of dry sarcasm," c'ett id tan* doute une con- viction aussi sincire que retpecldhie; malheureusement tout le monde ne la partage pas;" and he remarks very justly, that to those acquainted with the prince lahanoff it is quite un- necessary to explain that he is a com- plete stranger to the volume issued to the world for the purpose of com- pleting his collection. there is, in fact, a sort of quixot- ism in m. teulet himself, and one caunot help heing amused hy the enthusiasm for historical accuracy, which has set the one collector and editor to dog the steps, as it were, of the other, and supply his rejections and omissions, in order that the world may know the real truths. there is no getting off with a fond hullncin- ation, or a well-pleaded one-sided theory, while there are archaeological detectives to track our steps in this fashion. the two editors are not only honest, hut disinterested, each in his own peculiar way. to the affluent and distinguished prince the cost of printing seven volumes for an unap;ireciating puhlic wonld he a trifling addition to the sacrifices made hy him in his lahorious search over the world for their contents. at the same time, any man, master of the ahilities and industry emharked on the supplemental volume, might surely, had he desired it, have found a more profitahle and a more dis- tinguished method of employing them. m. teulet represents a race of archfb- ologists, for whoso solid and valuahle, hut not conspicuous lahours, the world caunot he too grateful. in scotland we owe. him much. he edited for the baunatyue cluh two enormous volumes of state papers in the french archives hearing on the affairs of scotland during the six- teenth century—volumes which will change the aspect of the history of the period in the hands of whoever may next write it. he is the editor also, if we mistake not, of a volume of letters on scottish affairs from the successive amhassadors sent hy philip ii. of spain to the court of france — a collection which we would find of little strvice hut for his considerate ahridgments in clear modern french of the old spanish letters. the vol- ume hy m. teulet more especially under notice on the present occasion, consists chiefly, hut not entirely, of those documents specially hearing on queen mary, which lie had previously printed in uiese unapproachahle vol- umes. one would naturally say, at first thought, that the affuir of queen mary had heen over-written long ago: that there was nothing new to he discovered or said ahout it in the present generation. not so, how- .] the french on queen mary. ever. miss strickland has discovered much that is new; so has prince lahanoff; so, too, have m. teuletand m. cheyuel. it is one of the remark- ahle powers of true archaeological science, that it should enahle us to he acquiring more and more of the truth ahout great events of the past, the farther we are marching away from them tbrough the lapse of ages. we can not only prune away the lavish overgrowth of fahle which the carelessuess and credulity of interme- diate historians have permitted to cover up the bare truth of early his- tory, hut we can even correct the errors and till up the deficiencies of contemporary narrators. we can not only prove the early british his- tory, from so great a pen as milton's, to he steeped in fahle, hut we can correct and fill up bacon's aunals of elizaheth—the history of his own age, written hy its wisest son. look at the hu-tory of that hrilliant scholar buchanan—not a mere student, hut a practical statesman. the early part is all fahle, moulded to the political purposes of the writer. but even of contemporary matters—events pass- in under his eye, as it were, how much do we now know of which he was iguorant! nor is it of less advantage to the cause of truth that we can sometimes correct hoth his and other writings where their errors are rather wilful than acci- dental. the lahours of our french friends hear partly on actual events within scotland, hut in a great measure on the relation of these to foreigu affairs. of the purely scottish portion we shall perhaps he ahle to give some rather odd illustrations farther on; the foreigu department is far the more valuahle. to have a proper com- prehension of the wondrous events of this period in scotland, we must look at them not merely at home, hut from the centre of european politics. it will he well to he thorougbly satu- rated with a knowledge of the contem- porary history of france. it is there that we shall find, on a large scale, systematised and classified, the rules of action and the code of mo- rality which, ramifying into this country tbrough the french counec- tion , have seemed so startling and anomalous. the crimes and follies, so astounding when seen in isolated scotland, cease to astonish, as the chemical phenomena of a travelling charlatan cease to astonish the adept who has gone tbrough a course of study in a university lahoratory. if catherine of medici were a little more studied, we should have less difficulty in dealing with the pheno- mena of the lite of mary stuart. not that the one had a resemhlance to the other; they were as unlike as the profound teacher and the careless easy pupil. nor were the marvellous criminality and licentiousness which then infested the french court in- digenously french, any more than they were indigenously scottish; they did not spring out of the origi- nal character, for instance, of those french hearty hrave guises of lor- raine. they were hrought over straight from italy, and industriously propagated, producing a harvest which must have fully satisfied the fondest hopes of the importers. the quantity of slaughter ever crossing these pages makes one so familiar with such phenomena, that scotland hecomes far less of a sham- hles than her history, studied alone, would make her. besides the great hattue of st. bartholomew, there are the two guises, father and son, picked off; then the murderer himself, heury iii., making room for the king of navarre, who also is to he assassinated; and there was the little vacant area which the queen-mother kept around her hy the quiet removal of more ohscure victims. one wonders at the nerve of the people who could suhsist and "sleep o' nights" at such a court. the most careless ohserver must he struck hy the suocess attending all attempts on life in that age, when compared with later times. even in france, where they might he sup- posed to manage such things hest, how many ahortive shots have heen fired at louis philippe and the pre- sent emperor of the french. in the sixteenth century your assassins seemed scarcely ever to miss a shot; they were more used to practice, their consciences gave them little trouhle, and they did not go to their work clumsily uncertain, and half [nov. the french on queen mary. crazy with excitement, like the regi- cide miflh of the present day. and hy the way, this reminds us in passing that a curious view is tbrown out hy these french writers on one of the cleverest feats of this kind which the age produced—the shooting of the regent murray hy hamilton of bothwellhangh. no reader requires to he reminded of the picturesque particulars of that deed. there is a well-known romantic story ahout hamilton heing instigated hy revenge on account of the }':ite of his wife, turned out of her house on a winter night with a new-horn hahe. this story is not well authen- ticated, and there is reason for he- lieving that hamilton acted as the executioner of a doom pronounced on murray hy his enemies in solemn conclave. the arrangement was a common one in those days; it was the shape in which hoth rizzio and daruley were doomed to die, the latter having heen, ot course, a more formal transaction than the removal of the italian fiddler: the documents counected with it were indeed care- fully revised hy counsel learned in the law. well, to the point ahout this affair of the shooting of the regent. in a long letter, full of other and seemingly far more import- ant husiness, written hy mary to her trusty counsellor archhishop beaton, who acted as a sort of am- hassador for her in france, there occurs a casual passage which may he thus rendered. "as to what you write to me from my cousin of guise, i would wish that so wortbless a creature as the person referred to were put out of the world, and it would give me satisfaction if some one helonging to me were the instrument, hut still more if he were hanged hy an execu- tioner as he deserves. you know how i have this at heart, and how i dis- liked the understanding held with him hy my uncle the cardinal of lor- raine, which i would willingly have hindered had it heen in my power; hut to interfere in this matter, where i have no right to direct, is not my aifair. that which bothwellhangh has done, has heen without my com- mand, hut i feel under ohligation to him, and all the more so than if i had heen in the plot. i wait for the ac- counts which ought to he rendered of my dowry, that i may adjust my es- tahlishment, in which i shall not for- get the pension to this bothwell- hangh.'"* and then the letter passes on to more important though less in- teresting political affairs. prince lahanoff has printed this letter in his collection. it prohahly contains nothing to astonish a rus- sian—nor is it anything hut a natu- ral letter to those who have read mnch in the correspondence of the period. miss strickland also cites it fairly—a remarkahle instance of her candour and honest dealing, since there are people in this splene- tic age who would think it incon- sistent with the gentleness, purity, and maguanimity arrogated to the character of queen mary. it will he ohserved that there are two affairs spoken of in this cursory passage— the one, an assassination satisfacto- rily accomplished; the other, an as- sassination to come off. who was to he the victim of the latter, and what follower or suhject of hers would she fain have seen the instrument? m. dargaud at once answers hoth questions, and is followed hy m. lamartine. the person it was de- sired to put out of the way was the admiral coliguy, the great leader of the huguenot cause, who suhse- quently cost his enemies so mnch trouhle on the night of st. bartholo- mew, lest one, whom it was of such special consequence to slay, might escape in the general confusion. by these authors it is set down with equal distinctness, that bothwell- haugh was the destined mmlisiu. m. dargaud, indeed, gives a dialogue with an agent of the guises, in which bothwellhangh is made to say that he avenged ids own cause and scot- land's—that his carhine is not at the service of every prince, or even mon- arch, who desires it—that lie is a hamilton, not an assassin. for all that there is no authority—yet nothing is more likely than that coliguy might he the intended vic- tim, while the context of the letter * lahanoff, iii. . .] the freneh on queen mary. seems to point to hamilton as the executioner. at the same time there are old traces of a rumour that hamilton had heen solicited in france, where he sought refuge, to repeat the teat performed so effec- tively in linlithgow, and that he had indiguantly rejected the pro- posal. the coincidence is curious, and it would he a valuahle contrihu- tion to our history could some one discover the missing link which would complete the episode. what we have said of it might he counted a wasteful digression, if the present were a systematic review of the french hooks hefore us, or an attempt to digest and arrange their materials. these are, in fact, a great deal too affluent and varied to he ex- hausted within moderate space, and the present notice of them is pro- fessedly casual and unsystematic. were we to follow out m. dargaud's treatment of it, we would have to tell of the mysterious awe with which, at hamilton palace, he heheld the identical hackhut with which the deed was done, and would have to join issue hy explaining that, having also seen the weapon referred to hy him, notwithstanding an inscription on it engraved in hrass hy some emi- nent maker of door-plates, our helief is that it was constructed hy some brummagem rifle-manufacturer ahout the period of the american war, or perhaps a little later. but reserving for notice further on some of the special lights which this author has tbrown on our country and its his- tory, let us in the mean time cast a glance at the larger issues hrought out hy the collections edited, hy our french friends. the most valuahle service of these volumes is, that they hring forth, though still hut in an imperfect and fragmentary shape, the very close counection hetween the fate of the queen of soots and the marvellous events which in her day reconstruct- ed the map of europe. it was an age of great revolutions—of rises and falls of empires—of the disruption of some, and the consolidation and en- largement of others—and all this mighty drama went on with this young queen of a small northern country, almost as muoh tho centre and pivot of the whole as the hero- ine of a romance is the centre of all its versatile and marvellous comhin- ations. it mattered not that in her self-will and impulsive attachment she tbrew herself away, as heroines will, first on a scamp, and secondly on a scoundrel—the one an unequal, the othor a decidedly low marriage. it was destined, as if hy the despotic will of the author of a romance, that she should he unahle to move with- out carrying the whole elements of the plot with her; and even these wretched marriages had their influ- ence on the development of the great events of the sixteenth century. let us give hut the hriefest glanco at the conditions hy which the accom- plished young heauty was surround- ed, and it hceomes at once ohvious how much for europe and the future rested on her destinies. it was not alone her possession of extraordinary heauty and mental gifts, even accompanied as they were hy the more potent gift of an irre- sistihle seductiveness, that gave her the influence referred to, hut the mauner in which these fine court cards were played. they happened to he in the hand, or rather in the several hands, of a house which counted within its own family circle a group of the most accomplished, during, and successful politic tl game- sters of the day. tho fortune which made mary the daughter of a guise, put a character on the events of the time. had she heen the daughter of her father's first wife, poor gentle madeleine of valois, of a far higher house than that of guise—namely, the royal family of france itself— whatever destinies night have await- ed her, it is not likely that they would have heen so high. it was not the greatness of her mother's family— they were far helow the stuarts in lustre—hut its characteristic, of heing a pushing rising family, that gave her name its wide influence. during that period and for some time later— so late, indeed, as the construction of the prussian kingdom—the legal duchies which fell into the hands of clever amhitions families had a way of expanding into kingdoms and empires. the king of france repre- sented hut a duke of paris, and the the french on queen mary. [nov. czar a duke of muscovia. it seemed clear to contemporaries that the guises of lorraine were to aggrandise themselves into a royal house. they fell hy their too eagerly grasping at a great crown, and the amhition that o'erleaps its sell. their aim was to rule france, and how near they were accomplishing that ohject we can only now judge hy looking hack on that age hy the light of the present, in which the experiment which was then made, hut failed, has heen successful. what the buonaparte dynasty has done for itself, was in fact pretty nearly anticipated hy the dynasty of guise. it is extremely interesting to compare, at the two extremes of such a stretch of time, conditions so unlike in their mere external and in- cidental characteristics, yet possess- ing so much unity in their real essence. there was the same rest- lessuess and fickleness among all classes of the french people, the same vihration hetween anarchy and ah- ject suhmission, the saqac insane de- termination to drive the one principle uppermost for the time to its most relentless conclusions; and what is more to the point, the same thirsting for a leader hrave, strong, relentless, and successful. since the tide turned against francis i.—since the date of the hattle of pavia, we may say—the french were losing conceit of the house of valois. they did not satis- fy the national craving for hrilliancy and success, for the satisfaction of which frenchmen will at once cheer- fully ahandon their liherties. france, indeed, was waning in the eyes of europe hefore the rising influence of spain and england, the great repre- sentatives of the two contending forces of the age. she thus continued in imminent peril of revolution, until heury iv. gave the crown the lustre of heroism. immediately afterwards richelieu handed over a well-drilled territory to louis xiv., hy whose hrilliant career of victories and un- just aggrandisements the lease was effectually renewed, and the revolu- tion postponed. le balafre", or the scarred, the head of the guises, had in the period of weakness and despondency per- formed the one redeeming achiev- ment which was glorious to his countrymen, in the captare of calais from the english. he was the most popular man of his day, and he knew iiow hy a suhtle diplomacy to make that as well as every other element of his strength tell. there can he no douht that he was the supreme guiding spirit in that lndd movement hy which the precious infant was spirited out of scotland, and curried far heyond the reach of heury viii., and the influence of his plans for uniting england and scotland under his son and her. the next great step was her marriage with the dauphin. fortune favoured them mightily at one stroke, when montgomery poked out the eye of heury ii. in the tilt- yard. a memher of the house of guise was now queen of france. it does not seem prohahle that then they looked to sovereiguty in france. they were hut increasing their power hy every feasihle means that offered, and the displacement of their niece's hushand was not to he so defined. indeed, it is not likely that the ba- lafre" himself ever thought of the tbrone of france. it was on his more unscrupulous and restless son that that consummation of their power seems to have dawned. to the world in general it seemed as if all this fahric of power had toppled down at once with the death of the poor feehle king of france. queen of france and queen of scot- laud—the two things w<re as far apart in power and hrilliancy a s the palace from the cottage, and the latter now only remained. to these restless and amhitious spirits, however, the game was hy no means up. the court card was still in their hands to he played again; and though they lost the fortune that seemed secured, there were others even greater within the range of possihilities. no time was lost hefore their husy hrains were at work devising a new alliance. the several availahle monarchs and heirs to tbrones were scrutinized. den- mark and some of the smaller german states were lightly passed over hy an eye that looked ever upwards, and at la-t rested on the supreme piunacle of european power—the spanish em- pire. it was there that whatever france lost had heen gained. it was the empire whose monarch hoasted .] the french on queen mary. that the sun never set on liis domin- ions. as liis amhassador don ferdi- nand de mandosa put it, "god was supreme in heaven, hut the king of spain was supreme on earth." he had hrought under his feet the independ- ent states of spain, suatched portu- gal, ruled the greater part of italy; and though the dutch were then working out their independence, they were, in the eye of spain and the greater part of europe, merely a handful of rehels struggling in a swamp, and earning for themselves condigu pun- ishment. he crushed the moors, and in the conflict afterwards crowned at lepanto, he had proved himself the champion and protector of christen- dom against the domineering turk. to preserve a full impression of the mighty position of spain under philip ii., it is necessary to keep in rememhrance the traditional amhi- tion of the great continental powers to he the centre of a revived roman empire, such as that which charle- mague estahlished for a reigu. spain seemed marching on to this high destiny. france was tbrown out in the misfortunes of francis i. ger- many, though nominally in posses- sion of the ciesarship, had not tbroughout her scattered states con- centrated power to give it vitality. the greatness of england was of another kind—a fresh growth, to- tally apart from the remains of the imperial system, and supported hy the separate vitality of its ener- getic, free, industrious people. thus the spanish monarch had no effec- tive rival in the amhiiious course which he was slowly hut cuuningly and resolutely, pursuing; and when he finally succeeded, his would he a greater empire than ever roman eagle soared ahove; for had thero not heen found a new world on the other side of the atlantic—the yet undeveloped empire called the "in- dies"? what a position, then, for these amhitious princes of lorraine, could they get their niece with her posses- sions of scotland and her claims to the succession of england, made queen of spain with such sources of influence in their hands, it would go hard hut that the head of the house of lorraine ruled in france, he it as mayor of the palace, as deputy of the emperor of europe, or as actual king. accordingly a marriage was projected, and all hut concluded, with don car- los, the heir to the spanish crown. the project suited admirahly with the amhitious notions of philip ii. in fact, like the guises on the death of king francis, he had just lost hy death the hold he had on eng- land hy his marriage with heury viii.'s daughter, mary; and here was another availahle in its place; for with all the roman catholics there was no douht that queen mary of scotland was the true heiress of the tbrone of england, and that the overtbrow of elizaheth the usurper was to he hrought ahout hy provi- dence in its own good time, with such judicious aid from the sword as philip was ahle and very willing to supply. there was a dark and suhtle spirit, however, which in close quarters might come to he more powerful than the guises or the king of spain either, set dead against the match. this was our friend catherine of me- dici, the mother-in-law of mary. the motives of this terrihle woman have heen an enigma to historians. and yet there is a view of them simple enough, which tallies pretty well with the facts of history; it is, that she had no scruples of any kind, and let nothing stand hetween her and her ohject. if lies could accomplish her ohject, tell them; if life were in the way, out with it, hy hullet, steel, or poison, as may he most convenient, couriering time and purpose. her policy was an engine to he kept go- ing, though nothing hut human hlood should he availahle for working it; and as to the nature of her policy,— it was not that of despotism or of liherty, of the church of rome or of freedom of conscience, hut the enjoy- ment of self-centred power. it seems to add a new shade to one of the darkest pictures of human wicked- ness, to say that the author of the massacre of st. bartholomew had no fanaticism or religions zeal in her; hut so it was. as to philip he was a thorough higot, who consoled himself on his deathhed hy reflecting on the numhers he had put to dea"h, and the quantity of human agony he had [not. the french on queen mary. inflicted, for the sake of the church; hut as to his rival in hloodshed and ornelty, she would have hecome, a huguenot or a mohammedan could it have served her purpose. in fact, hers was just the italian ethics—the ethics of the borgias and cencis— exhihited on a wide field, and guided hy a tenacious will. she had no love for mary stuart. the day on which she, the mother of the king, had to give precedence to the young heauty who had hecome reiguing queen, stampod its mark on her hlack heart. mary stung the dowager occasionally with her sar- castic tongue; for few were hetter adepts at that dangerous accomplish- ment which torments and makes enemies. for all its illustrious his- tory, the house of medici was an anomaly among the feudalities, from having founded its wealth and power on commerce instead of rapine, and it lay open to sueers as not legi- mately regal; hence mary called her mother-in-law the jille de marchand —a sueer which catherine committed to her dangerous and retentive me- mory. she was pretty freely accused, indeed, of having shortened her sou's life, hecause she thought she would have more power were he out of the way; and no douht she was quite capahle of the deed. the oidy thing in which she showed any of the con- fiding weakness of mankind was in heing a devotee of astrology and divination; hut these, if they were supernatural, yet were agencies put in the power of man, which she might turn to her own immediate purpose, and which were therefore far more to he respected than the religion which helonged to another world, in which she could not com- mand ohedience. well, catherine was against the spanish match, for the ohvious rea- son that it would render the power of the lorraine guises preponderant over that of herself and her sons. she was indefatigahle in carrying her point. m. chereul has puhlished some of her letters on the affair to the bishop of limoges, the french amhassador in spain. strange docu- ments they are, suhtle almott to un- intelligihility, full of ingenious sug- gestion and eager pleading, with a shadowy half-hidden under-current of menace. it was difficult to hring very powerful arguments to hear against an arrangement so advant- ageous to hoth the parlies concerned. she tried to make out that it would he extremely detrimental to the ca- tholic cause, hecause, if her hand were weakened hy the superiority of the guises, it would he the huguenot king of navarre, and not she, who would really ohtain the chief influence in france. she endeavoured to work tbrough king philip's confessor, and several of his confidential advisers. her daughter was philip's third wife —to her the most plausihle argu- ments were addressed. it was pro- posed that don carlos, instead of hav- ing mary, should he married to the younger sister of his stepmother, the queen ot spain. thus that queen would have a sister with her, and her position would he strengthened hy an alliance with the heir to the tbrone, on whom her own personal claim as his stepmother would he hut small. catherine even endeav- oured to move queen elizaheth to her ends hy presenting to her a pro- spect no douht sufficiently alarming, hoth for the cause of protestantism and her own personal interest. but how elizaheth could have acted in the matter save tbrough the influ- ence of murray, afterwards the re- gent, on his sister, is not very clear. the match, however, was defeated. people so unscrupulous as catherine are very successful in accomplishing their ends. she had in her employ- ment a countryman of her own, one bianci or blanc, as the french aunalists call faint, an expert confec- tioner, who got the title of queen catlieri tie's poisoner—that heing the function hy which he was reputed to gain his living. a powerful effect would he produced on the mind hy such a thought passing over it as —"well, if i push her to the wall, that woman will poison me." from whatever una, however, she had her way on this occasion, and one of the most hrilliant of the dreams of amhition was dispersed. so ends the first act; hut the tra- gedy in which the king of spain, the lorraine guises, and queen mary, continue to he the chief characters, [nov. the french on queen mary. cherncl, who has the iuner history of the french part of the affair ready to his hand, says the country was filled with cries of vengeance. he selects as the key-note of this senti- ment the words in which it was echoed hy l'ecossuis blackwood:— "le roi, parent et heaufrere de cette dame, laissera-t-il son meurtre itupuni? il ne souffrira jamais que cette tache deshonore son tres illus- tre nom, ni que telle infainie tomhe sur le royaume de france."* but he was just going, with his own hands, to drop a darker hint on his illus- trious name. m. chdruel notices the significant little fact, that when renaud de beaurne, archhishop of bourges, preached a funeral sermon on queen mary, in which he called her relations, the guises, fou&re* de guerre, or thunderholts of war, he was required to suppress this expres- sion when he puhlished the sermon. the question hetween the guises and the house of valois was coming to an issac; within a few months aiter the execution of mary, the first war of harricades was fought on the streets of paris; a month or two later the duke of guise was mur- dered in the king's audience-cham- her, and the family hroken. heury's lukewarmness to queen mary had its practical explanation — he was not going to commit himself against a powerful monarch like elizaheth, either to frustrate or to avenge the fate of a memher of the detested fa- mily doomed hy him to destruction. the drama is not yet entirely played out. a great scene remains hefore the curtain drops, in which spain has to play a part; it has heen dictated hy the departed enchantress, and is the last, as it is the grandest, instance of her power. the history of this affair, as now pretty well filled up hy the documents printed hy the frenchman, is extremely curious, hoth for the minuteness of the par- ticulars, and the vastness of the his- torical events on which they hear. it will he rememhered that, in her latter days, queen mary rested her hopes on the king of spain, feeling that, unless her cousins the guises were successful, she need ex- pect nothing from france, and con- scious, at the same time, that coun- tenance and help from spain would he the most powerful means of ac- complishing their success. accord- ingly, with marvellous perseverance and adroitness, she kept up a close correspondence during her imprison- ment, with philip ii., and every new document discovered renders it clearer than ever that it was at her instigation chiefly that philip under- took the invasion of england. mary left hehind her a last will, which ritson the antiquary said he saw, hlotted with her tears, in the saottish college at paris. it was, like her ostensihle acts, a monument of kindness and generosity, performed with a mournful diguity hecoming her rank and her misfortunes. all who had heen kind and faithful to her, high and low, were gratified hy hequests, whioh were precious relics, moro dear than the riches she could no longer hestow. "the names," says miss strickland, "of her ahsent servants who were held captive at chartley, including mrs. curie, bas- tian, his wife margaret, and their children, were not forgotten, al- though her means of paying the legacies she devised were rather of a visionary nature, consisting chiefly of the proceeds left hy her twenty years' law-suit, this having at last heen decided in her favour, together with the arrears of her dower pen- sion for the current year, which she earnestly heseeches the king of france to pay, for the sake of her poor destitute servants "t the funds were slender, it is true, yet the legacies were paid. she had issued another will of a more important character, which, with her papers, was seized at chartley on the occasion referred to hy miss strickland. this will contained such strange and om- inous matter that it was deemed wise at once to hurn it; and lest there should he any douht that it was effectually destroyed, or any sus- picion that its purport had gone ahroad, elizaheth hurnt it with her own hands. it gave its warn- ing—it showed the enemy—it should go no further on its mischievous * quoted, cheruel, p. . f queeni of scotland, vol. vii. p. . .] the french on queen mary. path; so thought cecil and his mistress. but they had to deal with one not easily haffled in the accom- plishment of her fixed desigus. she confided her testamentary requests verhally to two different persons, on whose fidelity she could rely. her executor was the king of spain. the nature of these hequests had not heen entirely concealed. james himself, in his luhherly schnolboy-like complaints ahout his mother, showed that he knew ahout them. tliey now make their appearance in the shaiie of a statement of the reception which the king of spain gave to the testamen- tary injunctions. if we are to sup- pose—which we are at liherty to do —that they were utter falsehoods, invented hy the persons who pre- tended to he intrusted to the king of spain, there is, at all events, this much of fact in the whole affair, that the king of spain helieved them to ho genuine, and acted on them fully and emphatically. it is the record of his so acting that we now possess. gorion, queen m.iry's french phy- sician, was one of the recipients of this deposit. he was commissioned to convey to the king of spain her desire that he would pay certain dehts and legacies, and distrihute pensions and other rewards among her more faithful adherents. as to the dehts and the smaller recom- penses of services, the queen ap- pealed to his religious feeling, on the ground that to leave the world without the prospect of these things heing paid, pressed heavy on her con- science. the sums of money ahso- lutely named in these requests were considerahle; and in asking that the pensions of the english catholics, including the earl of westmoreland, lord pngot, charles arundel, charles paget, tbrockmorton, and morgan, might he continued, she evidently drew upon a liheral hand. philip appears not only to have unhesitat- ingly met the larger and ostensihle demands thus made on him, hut with a religious zeal to have sought out the more ohscure ohjects of mary's good will, that he might rigidly per- form her injunctions to the utmost farthing. one great injunction still remained—it was that, notwithstand- ing her death, he would not ahandon his enterprise on england—an enter- prise devised in the cause of god, and worthy of a true catholic king. this hequest also, as all the world knows, the king of spain did his hest to carry into effect. there were some little suhsidiary services to he performed hy him when he had ac- complished it. mary's account with the world had a dehtor as well as a creditor side. if the king of spain could reward friends, it was also hoped that he would he in a position to punish enemies: her last request, therefore, was, that when once mas- ter of england, he would not forget how she had heen treated hy cecil, leicester, secretary walsingham, lord huntington, £ir amyas paulet, and wade, the clever se retary of the council, who had discovered the desigus of spain hy putting the frag- ments of a torn letter together. while the french physician hore to the king of spain what might he termed the hurdens and ohligations of the testament, it was commis- sioned to other messengers—heing the queen's two faithful attendants, elizaheth curie and jane keunedy —to intimate what may he called the heneficial portion, which was no less than the hequeathing to the king of spain the crowns of scot- land and england, in the event of her son james continuing ohstinate in his heresy. it is with almost ludicrous gravity that m. teulet says, "philippe ii. accepta sans hesiter les charges d'une succession qui lui offrait des eventualitej si avantageuses." advantageous even- tualities indeed—hut, as they proved to the executor, calamitous realities. within eighteen months after the death of mary, the armada was in the chaunel. it was the last grand explosion of the ancient crusading chivalry—an expedition to restore the catholic church to its supremacy, and at the same time to carry out the dying wish and avenge the wrongs of an injured woman and a holy martyr. the great actual drama is now completed, and it is wonderful with what a close contiguity in time its long-suspended issues complete themselves. early in the year queen mary is executed; in the summer of the ensuing year the ar- [nov. the french on queen mary. mada comes forth und is destroyed. that venter the duke of guise is murdered and his family crushed; and again, hefore another year passes, the perfidious perpetrator of the deed, heury iii., is murdered hy a popish fanatic, who thus clears the tbrone for the leader of the reformation party. from this great epoch history starts afresh with new actors, who are to hring out a new development of events. the mighty empire of spain from that period collapses like the hankrupt estate of an over-san- guine trader, who has risked all his capital on some rrreat adventure end- ing in shipwreck. a powerful litile colony of industrious protestants rises up where har yoke has heen tbrown off in holland. france is no longer in the hand of the guise or of the medici, hut is ruled hy one who, if he dare not he protestant, will at all events he tolerant. in the hal- ance of the european powers, pro- testantism, if not predominant, is at least made secure. but what is not the least important fruit of these rapidly-succeeding events, and cer- tainly for us the most interesting, is, that from that epoch hegins the vir- tual, though not the nominal, amal- gamation of scotland with england in one country, having the same en- mities and the same friendships. the long history of the french alliance, with all its interesting and even endearing associations, was now to come to a close for ever, and scot- land, hidding adien to the chivalrous and hospitahle stranger with whom she had sojourned in many a path of cammon difficulty and danger, was to return to the people of kindred hlood irom whom unfortunate events and evil deeds had so loog severed her. the light tbrown upon the later history of the scoto-french alliance is one of the most instructive and attractive portions of these french collections; and amidst the many recollections of rivalry and animosity which are so apt to he recalled when- ever we review the past of france and britain, it is pleasant to find frenchmen keenly interested in hringing to light the acts of mutual friendship and support which hound at least one portion of the british empire to a close friendship with their country. on the origin of this alliance much historical nonsense has heen written. the ordinary hooks which go hack to our earlier history tell us of an alli- ance, offensive and defensive, hetween charlemague and admins, king of the scots. charlemague was not a man to make such alliances, even had ho found an achains at holyrnod, with a secretary for foreigu aifairs, and a well-arranged diplomatic ser- vice, instead of having a vague idea that somewhere in the northern parts of this island there were one or two rough chiefs, ruling over each his own wild irihe of celts or scandin- avians. the french alliance arose in far later times, and its ohject is immediately ohvious to all who pay a little attention to the tenor of our history. when the amhitious nor- man monarchs of england made their attempts on the liherty of scotland, foreigu aid was of course valuahle for the protection of those liherties after they were restored under the hauner of bruce. on the other hand, to france, always at war with england, nothing could he more important than to have an ally at the door of england, to give her hattle, and keep her at work within her own island. the hargain was very well fulfilled. scotland did keep england tffeetu- ally at work, and many a time saved france hy turning the armaments prepared against her upon a tough, tormenting, and profitless enemy at home. matters went well with this league until there came to he a great inequality hetween the two friends, and their union was like that of the giant and the dwarf. france, from its position, was a power ever en- larging itself; scotland was neces- sarily stationary. in the time of heury v., adversity pressed heavily on the french, and they gladly ac- cepted as a great hoon the services —the protection it might he rather called—of the hardy adventurers who went to find their hated ene- mies of england on the plains of france. nor was france ever un- grateful or ungracious to the scots individually. she opened her purse liherally and kindly to them, petted and caressed them, and indeed en- dowed them with privileges and im- .] the french on queen mary. munities which their own people must have heheld with envy. a france increased in central power, however, hy the junction of the great fiefs, her territorial intercourse with scotland assumed a tone which the proud northern could ill hear, even if he personally enjoyed—as the ma- jority of course did not—some private advantage from the august alliance. there arose a party sternly opposed to their country hecoming a province of france; and it seems prohahle that it was their determination to accomplish an emancipation from such a fate that made the reforma- tion so rapid an affair as it was in scotland. indeed, from the docu- ments which have heen more lately hrought to light, it appears that these apprehensions were hy no means groundless; for when mary hecame the wife of the french king, there was evidently very little intention among french statesmen to preserve inviolate the separate independence of the crown of scotland. on the contrary, they had fallen into a way of speaking of scotland rather as a possession than an ally- as some- thing which the french monarch had to dispose of; and had the scottish people heen supine, the supposition would have strengthened, until it wonld have heen thought as prepos- terous to question scotland's helong- ing to france as it now is to question the supremacy of the british sceptre over the orkney islands. in fact, as if. teldet's documents show, it was once matter of serious consideration whether scotland should he an ap- panage, to he enjoyed hy a second son of france. contemporary with such things was the regency of mary of guise, and its employment of frenchmen in the high offices of state, while all the hitterness thus created was sedulously fostered hy emissaries from england. scotland was indeed then suffering under the proverhial evil of heing at the mercy of two friends, the one pulling to the right, the other to the left. of the lahours of queen eliza- heth's emissaries in scotland, tbrock- morton, walsingham, sadler, and randolph, we have full accounts, which have heen well ransacked and instructively commented on. but the no less interesting negotiations of the french emissaries in scotland have hitherto heen little studied; nor, indeed, could they easily have heen so until they were gradually hrought forth from their hiding- places in foreigu lihraries and puhlic offices hy the zeal of the archaeolo- gists of france. they are not less interesting from the glimpses which they afford of the desigus of france, than from the picturesque descrip- tions which they contain of events which it is profitahle to see from as many sides as possihle, and which certainly often acquire a new shupe and character when seen tbrough the eyes of the accomplished and acute foreiguer employed to report on them to the guises, or catherine of medici. the most remarkahle in accomplish- ments and wisdom of these french amhassadors, michel de castelnan de mauvissiere, was alike conscious of the importance of the scottish alli- ance, and of the almost hopelessuess of recovering it. after n lively de- scription of the miseries of the country when tortured in the terrihle wars and plunderings of morton, he says, "je suis et serais toujours d'opinion qui'il n'y a nulle nlhanco au mondo quo la france doive avoir plus chere que celle de ce petit pays d'ecosse."* castelnan was one of the really great men whose eminent lahours, wasted on tough and hopeless mate- rials, can only he estimated hy close inspection. as m. cheruel well oh- serves, we will find more of the true spirit of the actions of the day, and the men engaged in them, in his letters and memoirs, than almost any- where else. he was one of those statesmen whose fate it is to struggle for great ends, which their masters, the heads of the government, will not hack through with the necessary energy. as m. cheruel says, he had in the interests of franco to fight elizaheth in scotland, and phdip of spain in the netherlands. his memoirs show that he heheld with a grave sorrow, partaking of despond- ency, the exterminating spirit and hloody deeds of hoth the parties, the * cherukl, p. . [nov. the french on queen mary. league and the huguenots, who each straggled in his own country, not merely for existence hut for mastery; and his experience of this rude con- test gives an air of practical wisdom and staid sagacity to his remarks on our own quarrels, which, fierce as they were, hold altogether ft smaller space in the world's history than the contemporaneous quarrels of the french. hence he narrates some of the most marvellous incidents of scottish history with a quiet distinct- ness, which, instead of suhduing, rather tends to give power and em- phasis to the narrative, when it is felt tbroughout that it is by an on- looker deeply grounded in a practical knowledge of similar events. he it was who came to britain charged hy catherine of medici with two ma- trimonial missions—whether they were sinoere or sarcastic, let him tell who can. in the one, she proposed to the austere elizaheth an alliance with charles ix. of france, then a hoy of thirteen. whether catherine knew it or not, the virago had that peculiar weakness when anything matrimonial was proposed, that she would play with the suggestion as long as it would keep alive without serious discussion. sho remarked cleverly enough to castelnau, that the king of france was hoth too great and too little a match for her —too great in his power, too little in his youth. but she did not let the atfair drop off for some time, writing herself to catherine, arid otherwise handying it ahout in a man- ner sometimes hordering, hut never transgressing on, the serious. his other matrimonial commission was to offer mary the duke of anjou as a hushand. it was not very well received, and he ohserved in the heautiful widow the haughty and restless spirit of her uncle the car- dinal. she was angry, ho thought, with the court of the french regent, for having come hetween her and the match with don carlos. while it was in her mind to make an amhitious match, she would have none hut a truly great one, and she freely spoke of don carlos's younger hrother, who was suhsequently of- fered to her, as the selfish fortune- seeking heauties in fashionahle no- vels speak of detrimental second sons. to drop from the heir of the spanish empire to a prince with neither dominions nor prospects, was not a destiny to which she could re- concile herself. yet it was while mary was dealing in this way with a second offer of the same kind, that the acute diplomatist saw growing in her hosom an attachment for a far more ohscure youth, whom his mother the countess of leunox had hrought up very oddly, having taught him from his youth to dance and play on the lute. the man of the world was puzzled somewhat hy this phenomenon, and looked for an explanation of it to a cause deemed in his day, among sen- sihle men, a very practical one—he thought that there was some influence d'enchantemenu artijuieh in the pas- sion of mary for darnley. of the sad and tragic events which followed he was a careful ohserver, and in some respects indeed he was an actor in them, having frequently to attempt the vain task of the peace-maker. la mothe fe"ne"lon, an ancestor of the great hishop, is another french diplomatist whose papers contain interesting vestiges of the history of the period. he it was who was re- ceived, after the massacre of st. bar- tholomew, at the court of elizaheth with a solemn and ominous gloom, which had more effect on him than all the virago's furious scoldings. he was a personal friend of queen mary, holding a kindly intercourse with her in her captivity. it was from him that she commissioned the costly foreigu tissues which she employed in her matcbless needlework; and he performed for her many other little services. some of the letters re- lating to such matters are a refresh- ing contrast with the formidahle documents among which they are scattered. casual mention of castelnau and fenelon may he found in our ordi- nary histories. in these the reader will prohahly look in vain for any- thing whatever ahout charles de prunele, baron of esueval and vi- dame of normandy. yet he was sent to scotland on a mission so critical, that, as far as externals go, the suh- sequent fate and history of the british empire might he said to turn .] the french on queen mary. on its results. he was sent over to scotland in the critical year to make a last effort to continue the ancient alliance of scotland and france. now, douhtless, it may he justly s.nid that such a mission was, when weighed among the events of the world's history, a mere formal trifiv, since the inarch of events towards an amalgamation with eng- land had already doomed the french alliance. still, we poor human crea- tures must note the tendency of human progress hy its outward ele- ments: a hattle here, a negotiation there, a royal death or marriage, are incidents forming landmarks in his- tory. were it merely as the part- ing scene hetween two old national friends, the last effort to keep up the friendship of france would have its int. rest. but in reality it was a mission of real practical import- ance, since it put the question to issu-, as lawyers say, which was to fix the destinies of scotland, and in a gr. at measure those of eng- land. that such a mission should pass uunoticed hy historians, and wait tor centuries to ho spoken of, is one of the illustrations of the truth that the tendency of history is not fully seen hy contemporaries; the importance of many events has to he fixed hy the posterity which sees the development, and can pro- portion to each other the relative importance of the several parts. the instructions to d'esueval urge on him with reiterated emphasis the taupwt, or rather the restoration, of "l'antieune auiytie", alliance et voisin- ance qui ont toujours este" entro la france et l'escosse." the tone of the document partakes somewhat of the patronising spirit which had characterised the french treatment of her ally for some half a century. the amhassador is not merely ac- credited to a sovereigu prince; he has to do with the people too, as if he were sent from a superior autho- rity entitled to adjust their relations to each other; and he is directed to use his influence to hring the people to ohedience, and a proper sense of their duty to their sovereigu. this effort was made at a juncture when the french government could not afford to quarrel with england, and was in mortal terror of the guises at home. it came upon king james at that ticklish time when his mother was in imminent danger, and yet when there were strengthening in his favour the chances that, if he hehaved well, and committed 'no pieoe of folly, he would some day he king of england. in the whole affair, as in all others, he hehaved like an exaggeration of a heartless, greedy, grasping schoolhoy, suatch- ing at whatever he could get with- out caring for consequences. he had half-authorised emissaries at the courts of france and spain, and at several other places—romanists who could not ohtain actual diplomatic credentials, and whose acts he could disavow if he thought tit; nor was it at all to his inconvenience that these zealous men were apt to go far heyond the hounds of his duhious verhal instructions, since that gave him the hetter excuse for repudiating their proceedings when it was necessary. not a year hefore the mission of d'esneval, the lord seton, the ardent uncompro- mising supporter of mary, and ca- tholicism, appeared at the french court, commissioned, as he main- tained, hy the actual ruling power in scotland, to ask certain aids and concessions from france. he pleaded that the old league should he restored, and that france, like an honest faith- ful ally, should rescue the scottish queen from her captivity. among other stipulations were the restora- tion of the scottish guard to the full enjoyment of those privileges in france which they had hought with their hlood, the payment hy france of a hody of scotsmen serving in scotland—a very uureasonahle-look- ing proposal—and certain privileges of trading. these proposals were coldly received; all that heury iii. would give to the juvenile solo- mon was a pension of twenty thou- sand livres, which m. cheruel, who has seen the hrevet granting it, supposes was very ill paid. this emhassy, whatever was the author- ity for it, took place a year hefore esueval's to scotland. there had heen great changes in the mean time, which, if they rendered mary's con- dition more dangerous, had increased [not. the french on queen mary. the chance of her son's concession to the tbrone of england. the same series of events—the fall of arran, namely, aud this league with eng- land—alarmed the court of france, hy pointing to the total extinction of'the french alliance; and it was hence that d'esueval was sent to offer as much of the rejected scottish demands as france could afford to give. it will he of course remark- ed that, in all these matters, there were longer heads at work than those of the youthful king; hut the instincts of his selfish, narrow heart taught him to co-operate in them. he could, if he had thought fit, have hroken tbrough all the diplo- matic trammels surrounding him, and struck a hlow for his mother's life, he had no conscientious principle to restrain him from such an act, though he had a strong dislike tor popery on the ground on which he hated preshy- terinnism—hecause it interfered with the will of kings. his ruling prin- ciple was well enough expressed in his remarks to courcelles—interim am- hassador in the ahsence of d'esueval— that he liked his mother well enough, hut she had tbreatened, if he did not conform with her religious views, that he should have nothing hut the lordship of darnley, like his father —that she must drink the ale she had hrewed—that her restless ma- chinations had nearly cost him his crown—and he wished she would meddle with nothing hut prayer and serving god. the chief figure in this group of selfishness, meauness, and cruelty, has to he supplied in queen elizaheth seizing and committing to the dungeon an unfortunate who had fied to her for protection—grudging her the expense of suitahle clothing and food in her captivity—insulting her rehgion—wanting to get some- hody to assassinate her, and at length, when the wished-for death could not he hrought ahout without the forms of law, pretending that she desired it not, and endeavouring to tbrow on others the hlame of the deed. and yet how wonderfully has all this, which seems so foul and un- seemly in romance, tended to one of the most wonderful and hl«ssed of historical developments let us sup- pose king james, under the generous impulse of youthful heroism, drawing the sword in his mother's cause, and france, with chivalrous devotion, sending her armies to avert insult and cruelty from one who had sat as a queen on the tbrone of st. louis. let us imagine queen elizaheth, in- vested with the natural instincts and impulses of her sex, kindly disposed to a persecuted sister—yielding to the impulses of her heart—marrying, and leaving a progeny hehind her. had the dark aunals of the age heen thus hrightened, the glorious history of british power and progress would have remained unwritten. with how much longer waiting—tbrough what series of events—the two king- doms would have fulfilled their natural destiny and come together, are speculations in the world of the uureal which can receive no definite answer. we only know that, how- ever it might have otherwise come to pass, the heneficent conclusion arose out of acts of haseness, selfish- ness, and cruelty, as a tree grows from decay and putrescence. even what remained of good a'nd generous customs among these unworthy powers, the kindly old french al- liance, was doomed to extinction. the frenchman who has hrought to- gether the curious notices of its pro- gress and termination which have elicited these cursory remarks, utter having notioed the faint resuscitation of a french interest in scottish affairs when the covenanters appealed to louis xiii. against charles i., concludes his task in the following appropriate and pleasing terms:— "l'ecosse s'est de plus en plusiden- tifiee avec l'angleterre, et, il faut hien le recounaitre, toutes deux y out gogue". l'ecosse a recu en com- pensation de l'independance na- tionale, une puissante impulsion; industrie, sciences, litleyature, philo- sophic, tout y a prospere". une sage regularite, une ohservation patiente et ingeaiieuse, une prohite" prover- hiale, out remplace" la loyaute un peu sanvage, le fanalisme puritain, la fongue indiscipline"o des anciens ecossais. de son c te" l'angleterre a conquis la securite: tranquille dans son ile, elle a pu porter au loin son activite guerriere et cotnmerciale. .] the french on queen mary. une alliance de moins pour la france, une province de pins pour l'angle- terre, voila le resultat d'une poli- tique tour a tour faihle on passiounee, fanatique ou indifferente.' * in strict propriety, the import of these re- marks should have suggested the metamorphosis of l'angleterre into grande bretague hefore their conclu- sion; hut where there is so much that is honest and generous in sentiment, it would he invidious to criticise the nomenclature too closely. the most valuahle portion of these french hooks consists, as we have hinted, in their foreigu department. we must have a word or two, hefore concluding, on their handling of in- ternal affairs in scotland; hut we warn our readers that these words, if not entertaining, have certainly no pretensions to he instructive, so that the searcher after useful knowledge will find nothing in them to his pur- pose. generally speaking, these authors might have heen saved a good deal of useless inquiry, and 'several inaccuracies in its results, had they paid more attention to the carefully filled pages of miss strick- land's narrative, which, however people may differ in opinion ahout her conclusions, is a marvellous monument of earnest research,' de- veloping itself in exact, and at the same time, picturesque detail. the professed antiquaries, 'let na remark, such as m. tuelet and m. choruel, are generally correct in their nomenclature. they are ac- customed to records, and to the ren- dering of the words in them with precision. those whose writings profess dash and originality are not so accurate. there seems in gene- ral, indeed, to he a peculiar inaptness in the french mind to comprehend foreigu institutions, and accurately to use a foreigu nomenclature — he it for institutions, persons, or places. all the anecdote-hooks swarm with the mistakes—uttered in a very posi- tive mauner—which have heen thus committed. indeed, a sort of national self-sufficiency teaches our neighhours to carry their verhal variations out of the category of mistakes, and set them up as standards, there heing a french way, and a purely native way, of naming every place and person. we have a few national variations, hut they are rare. we are content to say paris and boulogue with the french ; hut they must say londres, and for edinhurgh their old name was lislehourg. no one travelling in france ever heard his name pro- nounced hy conducteur or douanier as he offers it, and as it is spoken at home. we are reminded of this national peculiarity hy m. dargaud when he gives his hrilliant descrip- tion of the marriage of mary and darnley, where the queen is served hy " les comtes atholl, sewer, mor- ton, caver, et crawford." we might attrihute the appearance of the earls sewer and caver to extremely care- less correction of the press, were it not that some other manifestations of m. dargaud's acquaintance with the time and people of whom he writes raise a strong suspicion that he may not even now he aware that on that occasion atholl performed the part of sewer, and morton of carver. there are surely not many british readers of french hooks who would suppose that a maltre d'lidtcl is a personage like the master of ravenswood, or that a chef de cui- sine indicates the chief of some gallic clan; although, hy the way, per contra, there is a story of a poten- tate of the north having his card printed off for a visit to paris as that of the chef de clandonochy, or some such name, and in consequence re- ceiving the honour due to an ex- perienced cook. m. dargaud is more seriously at sea when speaking of the miseries encountered hy mary at tuthury. he mentions, among other incidents, that one evening she saw the mur- dered hody of a faithful memher of her own church dragged out of a well into which he had heen tbrown for his fidelity; and one morning she found that a priest had heen strangled in a chamher adjoining to her own. these were not the shapes in which tyrauny was usually practised even in the tyraunical age of elizaheth. madam cottin wrote a novel or ro- mance called malvina, laying the vol. lxxxvl * cukhdel, p. . [nov. the french on queen mary. scene in britain, and, so far as we rememher the plot — it would he too trouhlesome to read the hook over again for the present occasion — the chief incidents of it are, that a fascinating french widow ig prevailed on, with much entreaty, to give her hand to an english duke; that his relatives, angry at the misalliance, prevailed on the attorney-general to issue a writ of haheas corpus, under the authority of which the young dnke is transported to a colony in the west indies, while the audacious partner of his guilt is tbrust into a dungeon in the lord-lieutenant's castle. (it does not occur to the au- thoress that here are the occasion and circumstances for a veritahle luxheas corpun). and there is no way of lih- erating the heroine save hy the dex- terity of a devoted physician, who in- curs in his task the risk of that feudal vengeance which is so terrihle in this aristocratic country. did it ever occur to you, reader, to figure to yourself john knox in parliament? if not, you will find his position there set down hy m. dargand, who, after the mauner of plutarch, compares him with other eminent memhers, noticing his pecu- liarities in dehate, and in a prettily turned sentence halancing his wisdom and his ardour against lethington's easy eloquence and knowledge of foreigu affairs, and morton's audacity and dexterity in domestic intrigue. what a pleasant thing all these halanced sentences and comparisons would he, were it not from facts standing hehind which make non- sense of them. knux is a character difficult for a frenchman of the nine- teenth century to deal with, though he took his lessons from a frenchman of the sixteenth — namely, cauvin, whom we call, from his latinised name, calvin. there are many marvellous statements ahout his personal hahits, for which it would he difficult to find authority; and which, indeed, make one wonder in vain where the author could have got his hint of them. it is some comfort to feel assured that the char- acteristics of the following, which we do not venture to translate, must have heen suergested hy the hahits of bryan, the celtic seer, in the lady of the lake:—"tous les soirs tres tard, il s'endormait au hruit d'une cascade de la montague. la chute harmouieuse et monotone de cette grande nappe d'eau pouvait seule calmer l'agitation formidahle de ses pensecs"—(.p. ). ".couched on a shelve heneath its hrink. close where the thundering torrents sink. rocking heneath their headlong sway. and drizzled hy the cea"eless ppray, mi<lst groan of rock and roar of stream. the wizard waits prophetic dream." m. dargaud, in a pilgrimage to scot- land, grounded himself as well as he could in suhtantial and apparent facts, for the purpose of enahling him to write his hold personal sketches. the materials he had to deal with in the instance of knox were meagre and uupromising enough; however, he made good use of them. there was the "statuette du docteur," which he saw in the high street — a wellkuown piece of rude carving hy some amhitious mason, who intended to symholise moses. there is little, suggestive in this statuette; hut a picture in hi.lyrood is pronounced to he the veritahle " docteur imperieux et terrihle de l'idee nouvelle," and fur- nishes an ohject of much eloquent raving. any picture in holyrood professing to he a portrait of knox, can only he one of the many pieces of ruhhish collected there for the henefit of iguorant tourists. of course, m. dargaud saw the interest- ing stain on the old floor, which has miraculously survived its hurning hy cromwell's soldiers. he throws his whole force on this phenomenon in a separate line, "co sang est reste in- effaceahle." but m. dargand met with won- ders in edinhurgh denied to the eyes and ear^ of the common herd of tourists. he gives a succinct ac- count of the mauner in which darnlcy was put to death hefore the honse of the kirk-o-field was hlown up to conceal the deed. this ac- count is carefully culled from the traditions which he collected "au pied de l'eglise expiatoire hatie sur ce funchre lieu "—the expiatory church huilt on the scene of darnley's mur- der! the statement suggests uneasy suspicions as to the stories that may he palmed off upon confiding touri>ls .] the french on queen mary. id such show-towns as edinhurgh. it is proverhially known that the inhahitants of a country have an extremely imperfect notion of the conditions under which strangers see and feel it. the citizens of a town know little of the charges and ac- commodations of the iuns, and are diffident in passing judgment on them when asked to give counsel to strangers. for all that is generally known, there may he a peculiar race of guides or valets de place among ns, who trot out the susceptihle stranger. we have a suspicion, that in the tourist districts very wonder- ful things pass current in this man- ner. bat the guide who so far fathomed the french historian's ap- petite and discretion, as to show him the expiatory church on the scene of the death of darnley, must have heen an honour to his profession. m. dar- gaud is an inveterate hunter after traditions, and finds them in the most uupromising ground. thus, he found among the cottars of the coun- ties of york, derhy, northampton, and staiford a well-preserved de- scription of queen mary riding along, surrounded hy he> maids of honour, and followed hy the ferocious dra- goons of elizaheth. he might ahout as well go to the coast of kent and gather an account of the appear- ance and costume of julins caesar on the occasion of his celehrated land- ing in britain; and perhaps m. dargaud would say, like meg dods, "and what for no?'' tradition is a pleasant enough thing in itself, hut a very slippery .material for making history of. in a country where people read, it is generally nothing else than a had version of the last popular printed account of the affair, if it he not itself entirely founded on some work of genins. in the neighhourhood of loch katrine the whole series of in- cidents in the lady of the lake have got as suhstantial a footing as any traditions have anywnere. scott has peopled our country with new trea- sures of this kind of lore. our au- thor, with his powerful digestion, has swallowed not a little of it. thus, we are told that the regent murray would not have heen pierced hy bothwellhaugh's hullet had he had the precaution to put on the "souple et impenétrahle cotte de mailles," the work of heury wynd, the celehrated armourer of perth. this coat of mail must he ahout as imaginary an article as a sermon hy the celehrated hypocrite tartuffe, or a cameo from the collection of the count of monte cbristo. if we are to have history founded on such materials, it were well to put the right tradition in the right place. so when we have queen mary at hamilton with her fol- lowers, after her escape from loch leven, displeased with their in- activity, she resolves to raise them hy one of those "symholes familieres au genie des peuples du nord." ac- cordingly, she sets hefore the assem- hled harons a dish prepared hy her own royal hands. the cover is lifted, and hehold—a pair of spurs! universal applause and enthusiasm follow—the war-cry is sounded, and all leap to the saddle to conquer or die for their queen. everyhody is familiar with this as a border legend, of the method which the good wife took to remind her hushand of an empty larder. there is a certain license, perhaps, to he permitted to an author of rhetorical and popular tendencies, who is speaking of a for- eigu country, and is npt to get in- veigled hetween the real and the ideal. there are things coming near his own door, as a frenchman, how- ever, of which so amhitious a writer might he expected to knew more than he seems to do. douhtless the pretty lines heginuing— "adieu plaisant pays de france, ma patrio, la plus cherie," were long attrihuted to queen mary, and cited as critical evidence of the impossihility of her having written other things so far lower hoth in morality and genins. but a french writer ought to have known that the piece was written hy meunier de querlon, a clever miscellaneous author of the middle of the last century. it were a pity that these petty criticisms should find their way to the author, and disturh him — he is on so good terms with himself. amazed, apparently, at the success of his hook, he thinks it due to the the french on queen mary. [nov. world to tell its history from the these days of tile-draining, hetween germ. it sprouted one rainy day, it the fruitful plains of the lowlands seems, in the year , when the and the higbland grampians. bat author, driven for shelter into a the author's vivid picture of queen hook-stall, asked for the letters mary's enjoyment of the contrast of machiavelli, and, not ohtaining in the northern tour ending in the them, was ohliged to take the hest hattle of corrichie is utterly tbrown chance volume which presented it- away, since in the course of that self, and thus secured one which journey the country she passed over we take from his description to he is an almost continuous track of tytler's vindication of queen mary, hleak, low, uniform acclivities. the hence his literary destiny was fixed neat allusion, also, to the queen's for a term. he made the voyage to encounter with bothwell, at that england and scotland. he explored very cramond bridge where her fa- the collections, the museums, the ther had so singular an escape, is ancient portraits, the rare engrav- equally tbrown away, since, if we ings, the traditions, the hallads, the admit the adventure with the guid- lakes, the sea and its shores, the man of ballangiech to he matter of mountains and plains, the fields of history, the place where bothwell hattle, the palaces, the prisons, all met the queen was not there, hut the ruins, all the sites, and all the at fountain bridge, a suhurh of iunumerahle traces of the past—the edinhurgh. enumeration is the author's own, these are trifling matters, it may not our travesty of it. he then ex- he said—hut if an author sets op plains how lifeless all history is with- topography as so essential a part of out topography; and thus, with history that he hoasts of having much simplicity, sets the reader on made great journeys for the purpose the watch to find whether his own of achieving it, he may as well topography is quite accurate. we make it accurate. perhaps some hegin with mary, a happy child in readers may say it is not worth while the island of inch mahome, in the examining, in this fashion, such a lake of menteith. that she enjoy- hook as m. dargaud's must he. but ed the national hallads and legends, the fact is, that the hook has its and listened with delight to the pi- merits. it has a great fund of elo- hroch, "sorte de melodie guerriere quence and picturesqueness, and has executeesur lecornemeuse,"is a state- achieved for itself a name in france, ment which it would he difficult to farther, the work has heen the text disprove were it worth while; hut of another and a greater author, for the author, when he descrihes her whose genins and fate we have so hounding over the rocks at early much respect and sympathy, that dawn, is at once contradicted hy the we forhear saying what we might fact that the island is a hit of mea- say ahout his contrihution to the his- dow as flat as a carpet. there is no tory of our country, douht a great contrast, especially in • .] vatiffhan's revolutions in english history. viuodas a revolutions i.n english history. what are called philosophical his- tories are, and will he, on the increase. by philosophical are meant histories that concern themselves with the peo- ple and the nation more than the in- dividual king or governor, and dwell more especially on those wide causes which advance or retard national prosperity, quite independently of the action of the monarch and the minister — which indeed mould, or produce, the monarch and the min- ister themselves. but we must not imagine that this is an altogether novel mauner of writing history, or that kings and emperors, and the chiefs of the repuhlic are to quit the stage, and we are to he occupied only with ahstractions and generalisations on the undistinguished multitude and the great classes into which a people is divided. it is quite right that more attention than has heen hitherto paid should he given to those great movements in which a whole people participate, or which are so generally "shared that they do not distinguish any one individual from the tbrong. the most important movements in society are of this description — as the gradual progress in industry and wealth, or that gradual enlighten- ment and extension of knowledge which the man of genins or extra- ordinary power advances, hut which he also, in the first place, shares, or he would not have heen the man of genins, nor have exerted any influ- ence on his contemporaries. it is right that we should look attentively at all those movements which the whole human race may he said, in fitting circumstances, to manifest; for thus only shall we get a correct idea of the great course, the wide general current of history; thus only shall we understand the providence of god, as displayed in the progress of human events. fix your regard exclusively on kings, or courts, or military conquests, and history ap- pears a game of chance: a fit of the gout may dismiss a minister, and decide the question of peace or war and all that may depend ou this. but when it is seen that there is a steady under-current which, sooner or later, makes king and minister and conqueror suhservient to itself, his- tory is reinstated in its diguity, atod we are ahle in some measure to trace here, as in the rest of the creation, the operation of great and heneficent laws. but although this is most right and indispensahle, it does not follow that the old hiographical mode of writing history can he dispensed with. individuals who, sharing any general movement of the mind, have gone farther than the rest, and he- come the types and guides and leaders of their age, must always retain their conspicuous place in his- tory; and the prime agents of what- ever great thing has heen done, must inevitahly hold the chief place in the narrative. such men, whether in the realm of thought or of action, are not only the great agents of progress or of change, hut the world is hest studied in them. in them are seen revealed the ohscure, unspoken, un- acted sentiments of the great multi- tude. moreover, it is surprisingly little that history would have to record at all, if it confined itself to the general movements of society as displayed in the mass of mankind. how stealthily proceed the great movements of industry and puhlic opinion! a people is visited and descrihed as rude savages, painting their naked hodies, living in huts, unahle to construct a larger dwell- ing even for their gods, and involved in miserahle wars, which have no other ohject than that of mutual de- struction. two or tbree centuries elapse, and the curtain rises again upon the same people: they are de- cently clad, are huilding houses and ships, are engaged in commerce, are growing corn and exporting it. you ask what produced the change. some- times you are referred to a specific , cause—as intercourse with a more revolutions in, englhk history. by rohert vaughan, d.d. vol. i. "revolutions of race." vaughan's revolutions in english history. [nov. advanced people; hut, in the end, conforms himself when writing the you have to fall hack upon the general history of a nation." an as- general energy and activity of the sistance of this nature, as he justly human heing, the promptings of de- adds, caunot he otherwise than ac- sire, the want that is the mother of ceptahle; and with regurd to those invention, and the new desire that earlier periods of english hi>tory springs up even from the new inven- with whinh this volume is occupied tion, and which conducts to still —those which are filled with the greater activity and to new modes confused movements of the celt, the of industry. there would he very saxon, and the dane—nothing could little history if you could ahstract it he more serviceahle than an intelli- from hiography. gent summary of such leading and dr. vaughun, who distinguished general facts as are admitted to have himself long ago hy his life of stood the test of exnmination. wyeliffe, and who has. since disfm- "revolutions of race" is the soh- guished himself hy many excellent title prefixed to this first volume of criticisms in the periodical he so the work. if our author has no- ahly conducts, the british quarterly where, so far as we rememher, for- rccicw, will not need to he reminded mally defined the sense in which he hy us of the claims of hiography, uses the term race, it is, we presume, although in the present work he has hecause he apprehended no mistake adopted what we have called the could arise on this suhject. on theo- philosophical type of history. our logical grounds, if on no other, dr remarks are made for the reader vaughan would trace the origin of rather than the writer of history— the whole human species to one pair; for the student who, if he would he could not, therefore, acknowledge attain an effective knowledge of his- that there were any differences of tory, must learn to generalise widely, race analogous to those which a na- aml also to enter as minutely as pos- turalist assumes when he speaks of sihle into the lives of the great actors differences of species. differences in the past. the two modes of study there are amongst the several por- should he conducted together, and tions of mankind—differences of a will he found mutually to aid each more or less permanent and heredi- other. in his present work dr vaughan tary character—differences as great, intends to group together the leading and far greater, than those on which facta of english history, so as to reveal, the naturalist often founds his elassi- at a glance, the progress of the na- flcation; hut they have heen hrought tion. a work of this kind caunot ahout hy climate, food, occupation, he superfluous, if it is worthily ese- and other circumstances. such are cuted; and the honourahle position the distinctions which our author which dr vaughan has earned for evidently understands hy race; and, himself in hoth theology and litera- indeed, if there ever were such dif- ture, gives us a guarantee that this ferenccs as those which fall under will he the case. the specimen he- the science of the naturalist, they fore us we have read with interest are lost and confounded among the and improvement. we should par- superinduced differences which are ticularise the ecclesiastical portion of traceahle to long hahits of life. it the history as heing executed with may he. that, in comparing the inhah- esptcial care, and as remarkahle for itants of the several quarters of the the spirit of justice and liherality it glohe, as africa and asia, the ques- dispkys. in his preface he says:— tion whether there were or were not '- the question to which this work is several primitive races of mankind, desigued to present an answer is— would force itself upon our attention, what is it that has made england to and claim to he discussed and de- he england? my ohject is to con- cided on; hut in europe, and withia duct the reader to satisfactory con- the historic period, the races the his- clusions in relation to this question, torian has to deal with are great hy a road much more direct and clusters of human heings hound to- simple than \* compatihle with the gether hy the same language, and as- lawa to which the historian usually similated hy a long suhjection to the .] vaugltan's revolutions in english history. same influences, whether on mind or hody. such clusters are hroken up and mingled together, and in the course of time new ones formed hy new comhinations. yet while they last, they are marked with certain general characteristics, and we may speak with perfect propriety of their infusing fresh vigour, or a new spirit of freedom and of energy, into other populations, which in some respects had heen less happily circumstanced. it follows inevitahly from the nature of the distinctions implied, that there is a considerahle vague- ness in the nse of the term race hy our hest historians. we find, for instance, our present author speak- ing at one time of the normans and saxons as two different races; whilst at another time, when speak- ing more strictly as an ethnologist, he admits that normans, saxons, and danes were essentially the same race. the fact is, that we classify nations or populations, according to their similarity, into certain groups, and then we further classify these groups into still more extensive groups or orders. to hoth classifica- tions we popularly give the name of race. the word sub -race is used hy some, "hut the word is not natural- ised, and, moreover, there would still he endless discussion as to that last group of nations which should finally he honoured hy the title of race. should we, for instance, give it to teutonic and celtic populations, or descrihe these as sub races of some great caucasian stock that we oppose to the mon- golian? at present we must hear with an inevitahle vagueness in the use of the term, leaving the meaning of the author to he made clear_ hy the context. it may he convenient to speak of the several nations that have assisted to people this island as so many races, without therehy implying any ethnological theory whatever. "revolutions of race" very well applies to the earliest epoch in our history. from the invasion of julins ca:sar to the conquest of william the norman, what a scene of con- fusion, what change, and shifting, and commingling of population does our island present i the elements, we are accustomed to say, are heing mixed, comhined, and controlled into a national unity. it is a mere rudi- mental england that we hitherto see. men lived, however, we may presume, strenuous in their own pur- poses, celt or saxon, quite uncon- scious that they were thus prepara- tory to the development of the future nation. we, too, we suppose, are in some way preparatory! every gen- eration is, more or less, suhsidiary to its successor. let us hope that briton, and saxon, and dane had their due share of human joy; they had their full share, at all events, of human energy, and that is much the same thing. preparatory to the future england all this shifting and commingling of races may he, hut we confess we should he hard put to it if we had to prove that the saxon could not have done very well with- out the norman, or to show in what especial mauner the danes contri- huted to our progress in civili-ation. or why even the britons alone might not have heen the ancestors of the modern englishmen. as, however, what might have heen is always a somewhat vague and useless inquiry, it is the wisest course to extract what consolation we can from the actual sequence of events. thus, if the normans, in their conquest of england, acted the part of cruel and rutbless oppressors, pillaging the saxon of his lands, and governing always for the interest of a dominant class, it is some consola- tion to reflect that the hand of this powerful despotism was welding the whole country, with its diverse po- pulations, into one united kingdom of england and wales. this king- dom, under our heurys and edwards, took finally the form in which it was destined to grow. let us, so far as space permits, follow our author up to this point—follow him in these revolutions of race, till, under the norman, england has hecome, in his own language, '• to he england." our author was too wise to practise upon our patience hy long disserta- tions on the ancient britons. what can we know or learn of those twenty- five trihes who are said, at the in- vasion of julins crcsar, to have oc- cupied england and wales and the lowlands of scotland? who cares [nov. vaughan's revolutions in english history. now ahout the silures, or the bri- gades, or the sceni? we have not knowledge enough to -sustain our curiosity. it might indeed be de- sirahle to know more of them than we do; and it would still he more interesting if we could know some- thing of that prehistoric people who are thought, hy our antiquarians, to have preceded the brigantes and the rest of the twenty-five; hut in the hopeless ohscurity which envelops hoth suhjects, curiosity dies out. we plainly perceive that there must have heen considerahle differences amongst these trihes. cornwall had long ago heen discovered hy the phenicians, and had enjoyed some of the advan- tages of commerce. as dr. vaughan ohserves, "the britons of cornwall, with their long heards, long tunics, and long walking-staves,'' were a very different kind of people from the britons of kent, whom caesar descrihes as half naked, or clad in skins, "staining their hodies with woad, and covering them with purple figures." this last custom, however, dr. vaughan is not disposed to look upon as a flagrant instance of har- harism. "not necessarily harhar- ian," he says, "inasmuch as it has heen common among british seamen within our own memory." but with - all our admiration for the british tar, we suspect that if these tattooed and hlue-stained seamen had heen the chief inhahitants of great britain, our island would not have escaped the charge of harharism. "the desigu," he adds, '• could hardly have heen to give fierceness to their aspect; it was the effect rather of a rude love of ornament." in such light we who have had the advan- tages of captain cook's voyages (and know, therefore, more of savage life than julins caesar), have heen in the hahit of regarding it; hut the rude love of ornament which leads to a defacement of nature, has heen always received as one of the plainest indi- cations of harharism. it is an indi- cation, we must admit, that may he found amongst nations reputed to he civilised — for civilisation and har- harism are matters of degree, and a civilised nation may retain a har- harous custom. we have heen lately told that the japanese are a civilised people, hut they retain the very har- harous custom of hlackening the teeth. the chinese have the odious custom of deforming the feet of their women. still there is no one more indisputahle sigu of harharism than this hlindness to the heauty of the human form, as nature has left it. this is not one of the questions^of taste which each country determines for itself without hope of any settle- ment. a chinese shall assert to the end of time that a chinese woman is the most heautiful of women; we have no hope, and no wish, to shake his conviction; hut he will not always think that his heautiful woman is improved hy having two pegs suhsti- tuted for two feet. if not ahsolute savages, we suspect that the majority of our british an- cestors were decidedly harharians. those who fought from war-chariots must, as dr vaughan ohserves, have had amongst them the arts of the smith, the carpenter, and the wheel- wright. but when he adds, '• such men would he capahle of huilding houses, and of producing furniture, after a mauner unknown amongst na- tions in the lower state of harharism," he infers too much if he intends to say that they therefore did huild houses or construct furniture, which, in our estimation, would rank on the same level as their war-chariots. the instruments of war are generally the first hrought to perfection. the working in metals especially receives its great impulse from war. it may he worth noticing, that a roman, descrihing the war-chat iut, might speak of scilthes attached to the axle. they resemhled scythes to him: they were swords in the eyes of the briton, who prohahly had no such instrument as a scythe. "then," continues our author, "there was the harness, which, rude as it may have heen, must have heen adapted to the purposes hy many arts that would have their value in many processes hesides that of harness-making." we give them the full henefit of the harness; we will suppose it construc- ted of the skins of animals, reduced into a serviceahle leather; yet we caunot infer that any cohhler or shoe- maker had seized hold of this leather and made serviceahle shoes of 'it .] vaughan's revolutions in english history. and whole ages may have passed all hefore them, and involved them hetween the manufacture of the most in their own fire. the troops of the gorgeous harness and that supreme enemy were completely defeated, a work of the tailoring art—under garrison placed on the island, and the which carlyle in his clothee-philo- groves, which had heen the conse- sophy, and in his typical way, has crated scenes of the most harharous written the motto, sic itur ad asira superstitions, were levelled to the —the leather hreeches. many a race ground." * of car-horne heroes had lived hefore we are told, it is true, that the such an invention was given to man- druids were lawgivers as well as kind. so slow and capricious has priests. they may have therefore heen the progress of the arts of performed for the britons the indis- peace. our norman ancestors huilt pensahle function of the magistrate, halls to live in fit for the gods, and let this not he forgotten in the esti- strewed them with rushes that were mate we form of them. but if we very soon fit for swine. were challenged to point out the one their religion, at all events, had pre-eminent advantage which ac- taken a form suitahle only to rude crued to britain from the conquest and violent natures. scholars may of the romans, it is precisely this— trace druidism from the east, and that it separated the magistrate from find in it the reflex of great truths the priest. the first great step in and suhlime doctrines, hut the rites human progress is made when the of the religion tell us plainly what priesthood hecome legislators; the it was in the minds of the british second great step, when they cease worshippers. whether it is to he to he so—when jurisprudence, hon- ranked under the forms of mono- oured for its own specific ends, is theism or polytheism matters little, committed to the civil power. this all depends, in religion, on the con- hoon the romans hrought to us much ception formed of the heing who is earlier than we should otherwise have worshipped; and horrihly false must attained it, though, as is the mauner that conception have heen which led of conquerors, they taught us the to human sacrifice, and that as an lesson hy a very severe process, ordinary ritual. we see a form of the romans do, in fact, discipline piety calculated to eurage men, and and mould us into a province of the tbrow them into a state of frenzy, empire—something we learn of the dr. yaughan introduces, very aptly, arts of peace. but we have just heen a passage from tacitus, which will well recoguised as part of the civilised hear reperusal. suetonins is cross- world, when we are relinquished as ing the menai strait to attack the a distant possession not worth the island of anglesea, the stronghold trouhle and expense of retaining, of the druids. '' the shore of the the caledonians, hardly kept out island was lined with the hostile hy the wall of antoninus, come army, in which were women dressed down upon the britons, under new in dark and dismal garments, with names, it seems, of picts and scots, their hair streaming to the wind, and the saxons land upon the sea- hearing torches in their hands, and hoard, pillaging, destroying, and ruuning like furies up and down the making settlements. evidently a ranks. around stood the druids, great "revolution of race" is ap- with hands spread to heaven, and proaching. uttering dreadful prayers and impre- we thought that hengist and cations. the novelty of' the sight horsa had heen reduced to the struck our soldiers with dismay, so condition of mythical personages; that they stood as petrified, a mark or that, at all events, it was for the enemy's javelins. at length, confessed that nothing distinct had animated hy their general, and en- descended to us of the first land- couraging one another not to fear an ing and settlement of the saxons, army of women and fanatics, they dr vaughau, however, contends that rushed upon the enemy, hore down hengist and horsa are historical * page . [nov. vaughan's revolutions in english history. persons, and relates as a credihle narrative their transactions with vortigern, british king or british chief, localised somewhere "near the thames." wo would very willingly retain within the pale of history the stories told of hengist and horsa and of vortigern, if only some pro- hahle and consistent narrative could he constructed out of them. we might overlook the fact that the venerahle bede, venerahle as he is to us, lived yet two centuries after vor- tigern, and that we have no means of testing the authorities on which he framed his narrative; we might accept at once the authority of bede as the hest we had, and there leave the matter, if the account of the venerahle monk was the only one we possessed, and was satisfactory in itself. but several traditions, im- prohahle and contradictory, have descended to us, and we have no means of testing how far any of them are founded upon truth, and therefore we are compelled to suh- mit to a mere suspension of judg- ment, or an acknowledgment of ig- norance. we give dr vaughan's statement of these traditions. "our saxon authorities relate that in the year or , vortigern, a british chief near the thame.", invited two saxon chiefs, named hengist and bor*a, to assist him in repelling an invasion hy the picts and scots; that these chiefs, who were hrothers, landed in thanet, a portion of kent sepa- rated from the mainland of that dis- trict hy a river; that the saxons soon chased the scots from the lands they had devastated; that with the consent of vortigern, the saxon force in thauet was increased considerahly; that this increase caused distrust amongst the britons; that the increase'of pay thus made necessary led to disputes; that these disputes issued in open war; that after a long series of conflicts, victory declared in favour of the saxons; that hengist hecame king of kent, and in the year hequeathed his authority to his son ^esca, having exercised it fifteen years. "our brilinh authorities say that hen- gist aud horsa were exiles in search of a home; that the increaso of the force in thanet was treacherously managed; that the desigu of that movement was to conquer the country; that hengist had a heautifal daughter named rowena, who, when the saxon and the british chiefs were over their cups, was em- ployed to present a gohlet to vortigern; that vortigern fell into the suare thus laid for him hy hecoming enamoured of rowena, so as to he prepared to harter the kingdom of kent as the price of possessing her person; that in the wars which ensued vortigern was disowned hy his suhjects, and his son vortimer raised to sovereiguty in his stead; that for several years hengist was compelled to seek refuge in his ships, and to suhsist hy his piracies; that at a feast afterwards given hy the saxon leaders, some tbree hundred british chiefs were treacher- ously murdered; that the only one of the british chiefs who was spared was vortigern; and that, notwithstanding the alleged uupopularity of thispiince, to secure the liheration of yonigera, tho people of keut, sussex, middlesex, and essex consented to receive hengist as their king.''* here there are tbree different ac- counts of the mauner in which this unlucky vortigern hrought the sax- ons into the kingdom, or was in- strumental in procuring them a settlement in britain. st, he in- vites them to assist him against the scots, and calls in a master as well as an ally. this is the most proha- hle story, and, if an invention, it is moulded on the classical type of his- tory, or, in other words, is an imita- tion of well-reputed narratives. d, he harters his kingdom for the fair roweua, the daughter of hengist. d, his people consent to receive hengist as their king in order to ransom vortigern, who has heen taken prisoner. thus the saxon has tbree separate titles to his kingdom, —conquest, harter for rowena, and ransom for vortigern. what is de- scrihed as the -ixon account is far more prohahle than the british, hut in the ahsence of all contemporary record, and in the presence of oppo- site tradition, mere prohahility can- not he allowed to have much weight. an age that has some tincture of learning invents differently from the more rude and wonder-loving age. a classical age would set to work to * page . .] vaughan's revolutions in english history. explain any given event in a differ- ent way from a romantic age. an air of greater prohahility would naturally helong to the historical hy- pothesis of the later age, and there- fore, where there are circumstances which lead us to suspect that, in fact, we have nothing hetter than an historical hypothesis hefore us, this air of prohahility must not he allowed to hetray us into too ready an ac- quiescence. we find no historical evidence hearing on these worthies hengistand horsa, and their dealings with vortigern. this is clear, that angles, jutes, and saxons come over in great num- hers — conquer and settle — carving out small kingdoms for themselves. and when we understand what man- ner of people they were, we can safely acquit vortigern, or release him from any grave responsihility. he was altogether a quite unnecessary per- son in the drama. the flocks, the pasture, the corn of kent gave suffi- cient invitation; the power to hold and po-sess gave sufficient title. it was the only title they were likely to concern themselves ahout. they came and spread themselves over the island. the britons almost van- ish from our view, and there rises he- fore us the saxon heptarchy. the heptarchy, from its founda- tion, was a species of confederation, and one of its princes possessed a precedence over the rest, under the title of bretwalda. disputes for this title gave rise to their first wars amongst each other. ella of sussex, ethelhert and kent, then a king of wessex, are descrihed as successively the bretwalda. in edwin of northumhria hears the. title, and with him it seems to have heen joined with a suhstantial power — to have heen something more than the hon- orary presidency over the saxon con- federation. bat this brttvcaldaship does not rise, as might have hten ex- pected, into the kingship of england. the title dies down, and the office is not heard of for some time, when conquest and predominance of power elevate e,ne of the heptarchy to he king of all england. the office of bretwalda prohahly arose at a time when the saxons had a common enemy to protect themselves against in the britons or the scots; when they felt secure in their possessions, it would cease to have any suhstantial utility. the hi>tory of england under the heptarchy is a very confused husi- ness. it is like the attempt to fol- low the course of a river that divides itself into six or seven hranches, some of which again divide them- selves for a time, and then reunite. it will aid the imagination (as ur. vaughan suggests), if we keep stead- ily in view the tbree great states, northumhria, mercia, and wessex, and recollect that these tbree form a crescent, one point of the crescent lying upon a houndary somewhere near edinhurgh and glasgow, and the other point terminating at corn- wall. the hollow of the crescent will he filled up hy wales, and he- yond the outer line of it, and stretch- ing towards the english chaunel and the german ocean, will lie the king- doms of the east saxons, sussex, kent, and east auglia. during the dark period of the heptarchy, northumhria, mercia, and wessex chiefly occupy the his- torian. if any one of these can he more violent or criminal than the other, northumhria seems to have this had pre-eminence. its ill fame had reached to foreigu countries, and charlemague stigmatises these north- umhrians as "a perverse and perfi- dious nation, worse than pagans." mercia, with a powerful rival on either side, and such turhulent neigh- hours as the welsh along its western horders, must have heen always ready for hattle, if it was to remain an independent power. it comes hefore us conspicuously under ita king offa. offa wages successful wars against kent and wessex, and the britons. against the latter he constructs an emhankment and trench, known as offa's dyke, sepa- rating mercia from wales. offa comes in relation with charle- mague. certain of his rehellious thanes have fled to france, aod the emperor acts as mediator. ma'rimo- nial alliances are projected. cjarle- mague asks the hand of a daughter of offa for one of his illegitimate sons. whereupon offa. in return, requests the haud of a french prin- [nov. vaughau's revolution* in english. hittory. cess for his eldest son, egfurth. this presumption offends the pride of the great emperor, and the treaty is hroken off. this daughter of offa was after- wards sought in marriage hy ethel- hert, king of east anglia. and this introduces us to a tale of treachery, which our author shall tell in his own words. it is as good a specimen as any of life amongst these saxon princes, if hy any such honourahle title they deserve to he called. "ethelhert was young and accom- plished, and possessed of many esti- mahle qualities. approaching the hor- ders of mercia, the young king despatch- ed a messenger with presents, and with a letter stating the ohject of his errand. in reply, assurance was given of a cor- dial welcome; and on his arrival, him- self and his retinue were received with every apparent demonstration of respect and good feeling. as the advance of the evening hrought the feasting and merry- making to a close, ethelhert withdrew to his chamher. presently a messenger sought access to him, and stated that the king wished to confer with him on somo matters affecting the purpose of his visit. ethelhert at once followed the footsteps of his guide. but the way led tbrough a dark narrow passage, and there, from invisihle hands, the confiding youth received a numher of wounds which at once deprived him of life. offa affected surprise, indiguation, the deepest grief; he would see no one, and so on. but history points to his wife as having suggested this atrocious deed, and to himself as having con- sented to it. it is enough to say that offa seized on the domains of his mur- dered guest." offa did not long enjoy the pos- sessions gained hy his guilt: he died at the end of two years. his family hecame extinct in his son egfurth, and suhsequently mercia had to yield to the rising power of wessex. it is to wessex we must look for a king sufficiently powerful to unite all england in one monarchy. we find him in eghert, who had passed a portion of his life in exile, in the court of charlemague, where he re- ceived a higher instruction hoth in the arts of war and peace than he could have done in his own heredi- tary kingdom. the only surviving descendant of cerdric, the founder of wessex, he returned to an undis- puted tbrone. he suhdued the bri- tons of wales, and attacked the mercians. "the victory of eghert," we quote from our author, "over beornwalf of mercia, in , enahled him to assert his sovereiguty over the east saxons, sent, and east anglia. sussex was already a part of wessex. it only remained that northumhria should acknowledge his supremacy. in that acknow- ledgment was extorted without an appeal to the sword." eghert thus hecame first king of england, or (reviving the title) the eighth bret- walda. but while eghert and his succes- sors in the kingdom of wessex were doing their hest to unite england under one monarchy, io i a fresh in- undation of harharians and heathens! — fresh hordes of " northmen," not even cbristianised in name, come to dispute the very possession of the island. the danes descend from their long vessels — hurn, destroy, pillage, and then retire to their homes. some of them seek a home on the soil itself. these last live under some amicahle treaty with the saxons, hut are suspected of inviting fresh hands of their own countrymen to come and share the spoil. nay, what seems inexplicahle to us in our imperfect knowledge of the events, danes are raised to posts of confid- ence and of command, and are said to hetray their trust in favour of their countrymen. ethelred the uuready, after injuring the cause of the saxons hy his timidity and his craven com- promises, injured it still more hy an act of extreme cruelty and treachery. "twenty-four years had passed since the accession of ethelred, and the greater part of those years marked hy the cir- cumstances ahove mentioned, when the kiug resolved on a deed which has cov- ered him with infamy, and which, as might have heen foreseen, was to hring heavy retrihution in its train. it was no secret that the saxons regarded the danes resident amongst them with dis- trust and hatred. the relation of these people to the common enemy, and still more the fact that they had generally shown themselves much more disposed to favour them to repel the invaders, had given a epecial intensity to the feeling ordinarily separating raqe from race. ethelred, it would seem, had ceased to ] vaughari's revolutions in english history. expect fidelity from this class of his suh- jects; and, to save himself from the machinations of traitors within the camp, he determined that an attempt should he made utterly to destroy them. "in the spring of the year , secret orders were issued that, on the approach- ing religious festival in honour of st brice, the saxons should fall unawares upon the danes, and put th*m to death. the orders were kept secret; and on the appointed day the massacre ensued, the fury of the populace in many places adding not a little cruelty to the work of destruction." * whatever was the extent of this massacre (on which very different opinions are held), it very certainly hrought with it " a heavy retrihution." it hrought down upon the island the great danish chieftain sweyn, with a force so large that almost the whole country was placed at his mercy. after four years he was hought off hy a sum of thirty-six thousand pounds of silver. but he returned again. had he not sworn on the death of his sister, one of the victims of the massacre, to make himself monarch of england? he did so; hut just at the point of suc- cess he died. his son canute fully ac- complished the desigu, and england had a danish king. finally the danes and the saxons were interfused: these other heathens hecame also cbristians; they were a hold race, perhaps less pblegmatic and more ardent than the saxon. our author suggests that we may in part owe to this race of the sea-kings that love of the sea, that passion for maritime life and hattle, which distinguishes ns. speaking quite physiologically, a race that conquers another caunot prove otherwise than a favourahle intermixture. the suhject of the conversion of the saxons, and tbrough them of the danes, to cbristianity, is not likely to lose any of its due importance in the hands of dr. vaughan. it is carefully and ahly treated. what is known of the cbristianity of the britons under the roman empire is hriefly told. who first taught cbris- tianity in this island is now past find- ing out. the legions of rome would inevitahly hring it with them; as a province of the empire, the new re- ligion would he sure to extend into it. bnt dr. vaughan dismisses as fond fahles the derivation of our faith from an apostle, or some com- panion of an apostle. some of these stories are easily disproved hy a mere reference to cbronology. the britons who found in the mountains of wales a bhelter against the saxons, retained their religion; hut there is no proof that either these, or any other por- tion of the earlier race, had extended their religion amongst the heathen invaders. some preparatory influ- ence they may have exerted, hut the conquerors caunot he said in this in- stance, as in so many other instances, to have adopted the religion of the conquered people. cbristianity came, or came most effectively, to the saxons from its central seat at rome. but this was not the only course hy which cbristianity reached our hea- then population. every one knows the story of pope gregory, of the compassion felt hy him at the sight of the anglian children exposed in the marketplace of rome, and of the mission of augustine, which was the result of that compassion; hut the extent of our ohligation to st co- lumha and his monks, spreading their doctrine from the island of iona, is not so generally acknow- ledged. as st. columha emigrated from ireland, and as the irish church lays claim to great antiquity, there may he here some source of comfort to those who are desirous of dimin- ishing their deht as much as possihle to the see of rome. we, for our part, should he interested in the fact, simply that we might give due honour to the pious fraternity of iona. whether their form of cbris- tianity was in any respect more pure than that which augustine taught, may admit of douht; they were cer- tainly as credulous and superstitious as any of their contemporaries; hut their missionary zeal was ardent, and free from the least taint or suspicion of amhitious motives. "it will he seen," says our author, "that the northern half of anglo-saxon britain was hrought to the profession of cbristianity hy the direct or indirect * pago . [nov. vaughaa's revolution) in english history. influence of tlio disciples of columha. tbrough bornieia and deira tho infiuence of the scottish missionaries extended to east anglia, to mercia, and even to wesaex. gratitude is due to pope gre- gory, and to tho ecclesiastics sent forth hy him to this country. their inten- tions were generous, and tlttir lahour in a great degree sucecsslul. but had no thought of britain ever occupied the mind of the pious gregory, or of tho monk augustine, it is clear that britain would have heen evangelised. had the no; we caunot now precisely de- termine the line hetween self-decep- tion and an intentional deception of others. but, in the first place, priest and people were often equally no- educated; and in that case, the very thing we have to expect is, that the priest will differ from the peasant in earnestness and zeal, hut not in en- lightenment; he will merely put forth the peasant's creed with singu- lar holdness and energy. and in the work heen left to the hrotherhood of second place, where the priesthood is a iona, it would have heen done."* on the form of cbristianity which we received at this time from rome, dr vanghan makes some very judi- cious and candid ohservations. an historian as well as a theologian, he caunot fail to he aware that the reli- gious faith of men, however pure in its origin, and though drawn in the first instance from inspired lips, must partake of the geueral degradation of the intellect, and again rise as the general intelligence is cultivated. a heathen people must take some of their heathenism with them into cbristianity, or they caunot pass over at all. certain hroad notions of what religion is they must carry with them, or find in the new faith. if, for instance, a miraculous inter- position of cod is of the very essence of their religion, they must still he- lieve in this, under new names and conditions, or religion iuelf would he lost to them. as dr vaughan justly ohserves,— "heathen priests everywhere laid claim to prophecy and miracle. they more learned and relic ctive hody than the rest of the people, this constantly holds good—that a doctrine deemed necessary to the religions govern- ment of mankind is sure to receive from them a very general and sincere assent. if it is felt that a divine government of the minds of men can only he upheld hy a helief in the miraculous interposition of god, we may depend upon it that the majo- rity of earnest minds will fully he- lieve in such miraculous interposi- tion. when such a faith is no longer necessary for upholding religion in the multitude, we find that the thoughtfully pious hegin to join the more worldly intellect in disputing or denying it, hut not till then. it does not follow hecause a people caunot rise at once to a high intel- lectual station, that therefore they may not, tbrough their new doctrines, receive new sentiments of morality which shall have a certain effect in modifying their lives. consider the old religion of odin, and how com- pletely it justified whatever violence the hrave man—if he did but peril made the interference of their gods in his own life—thought fit to .indulge human affiant to he perpetual. they pointed to a hereafter of happiness, or tho contrary, as awaifing llio e whom they were wont themselves to pronounce as worthy or unworthy. the cbristian clergy had to deal with these preten- sions. they did so hy claiming mira- culous powers for tho church; hy hring- ing many supernatural agencies into the concerns of this woild; and too often hy materialising heaven and lull to the extent deemed necessary adequately to affect the hopes and fears of tho society ahout them. how far they were them- selves deceived in making such repre- sentations caunot now he mtenniuealf in. we suppose that towards other hrave men of his own nation he was expected to ohey some rude law of justice or courtesy. but with this exception, the life and property of all the world was placed hy the gods themselves at the disposal of the hrave man. religion sanctioned his passionate and despotic will. the gods did, indeed, favour peaceful indus- try, hut this was only that the fruits of it might ultimately fall into the hands of the hrave man. his para- mount title was loudly asserted—his the sole right, and the first place in » page " . ' f page . .] m vavghan's revolutions in english history. earth and in heaven. the mere withdrawal of such a religious sanc- tion to our most violent passions must have heen some gain ; the suh- stitution of a quite opposite doctrine, which made right sacred in the per- son of the lowliest, which taught that strength should he servant of justice and of charity, must have produced gradual and heneficent mo- difications in the national character. gradual and partial they must he admitted to have heen. the monk augustine had do sooner hecome archhishop of can- terhury than he had the task im- posed on him of reducing the british church of wales to uniform- ity with that of rome. a conference was agreed upon. we will narrate the issue in the words of our author. on him let the responsihility rest hoth of the narrative and of the ap- plication of the term "hishop" to those who are said to have repre- sented the welsh church. "a second conference was agreed up- on, in which the dritisu representatives were to consist of persons more compe- tent to decide in hehalf of their nation. t the 'welsh now deputed seven of their hishops. these hishops are said to have consulted a recluse famous for his wis- dom touching the course it might he- hove them to take. the suhstance of his counsel appears to have hoen, that unity on the ground of suhmission to augustine as their superior, was not to he entertained for a moment. let ihem arrange to approach the archhishop while he should he seated. f ho rose to receive them, the action might he taken as indicating hrotherhood and equality, and it would he well to listen dispassionately to his statements. if he received them sitting, his so doing would hespeak pretensions to superiority fraught with mischief and it would hehove them to look on all measures proposed hy l im with suspicion. augus- tine did.not rite." * pity that augustine had not also heen in communication with this wise recluse. he would not then have lost the present opportunity of gain- ing over the welsh hishops hy a point of ceremonial. we need not add that the discordance hetween the two churches gradually died away. the archhishop of york had in the north of england a similar controversy to sustain with those who had received cbristianity tbrough the hretbren of iona. these last ohserved easier at a different time, and wore a tonsure of a different shape from the romans. wilfrid, archhishop of york, did not scruple to eay that the monks of iona must have horrowed their usages from simon magus. a conference was held at whithy hefore the king. the party of st. columha traced their traditions to the apostle john. wilfrid opposed the apostle st. peter, "to whom the keys of heaven had heen given." here the king in- terposed to ask of the several dis- putants whether it was admitted, on hoth sides, that st. peter had the keys of heaven. this admission was made. "then i decide for st. peter," said the king, "as i know not what the consequences may he of doing otherwise." the saxons heing converted to cbristianity, the danes who came amongst them appear to have very readily dropt their rude superstitions, and joined the worship of the saxons. in one age we hear of them showing peculiar hitterness and cruelty against the monks; in the next, we find that several of them have entered the church, and heen elevated to a high position in it. and now this saxon- danish kingdom has to suhmit once more to conquest, to undergo another "revolution of race," hefore it can he considered as fairly launched on its onward progress. in estimating the good and evil that ensued from the norman con- quest, dr. vaughan holds the halance lis steadily, we think, as it can he held. but it must he confessed that historians have given us such differ- ent descriptions of the normans— have approached them from such different points of view—have given prominence to such different classes of facts, that it is extremely difficult to rest in any satisfactory estimation of them. till a late period, the tend- ency has heen, in eogland, to over- look what was harsh, cruel, and hrutal in their characters; our own nohility hoast a norman, descent, and e pago . vaughan's revolutions in english history. [nov. "to come in with the normans " is a come to us from their northern claim of our gentry; we associate homes, which they had already for- them with chivalry and knighthood, gotten; they came, the feudatories and grand castles and glittering of france, to estahlish a great king- armour; we extol them as patrons dom, to wield a powerful sceptre, of art, and especially of the great art thus they effectually united the of architecture, for they cover eng- people under one government. and land, not only with castles, hut with although william the conqueror churches and monasteries. five or ruled hy flagrant force, yet heury i., six hundred monasteries are reckoned the second in descent, did in fact to have heen huilt in englaund he- enter into a solemn compact with his tween the conquest and the reigu of anglo-saxon suhjects, that he would king john, and many of these were rule " according to the laws of king schools of learning, as well as retreats edward." a very indefinite agree- for the pious. but the harsher and inent, hut an agreement neverthe- more ferocious aspect of the earlier less; and it is worth noticing how the norman kings has heen lately held british constitution grew up from up more conspicuously to view. con- precisely this hahit of treating with tinental historians, who have had no the king as with a power that the conciliating prejudices in their fa- people do not pretend to have set vour—as thierry and lappenherg— up, hut hope to limit. this is the have spared none of their vices, and secret of the growth of our consti- have exposed without remorse their tution; this is the method of its tyrauny, their greed, and the unscru- development. we have seen how pulous oppression they invariahly likely an opposite method is to fail, exercised whenever they were not when a people set to work to create opposed hy an equal force. if they at once a constitutional monarchy, huilt stately monasteries, they gave they create the power of the monarch, us the military hishop and the plea- and they create the check to it at the sure-loving monk. they yielded no- same time. they can never satisfy thing to the citizen—nothing volun- themselves; they have no sooner tarily. the common lahourers found given power, than at the first uupo- ^ their status still more harsbly defined: pular exercise of it they wish to take "they were hound," says lappenherg, it hack again. the english never "to the spot of earth on which dreamt that they gave the king his they were born, and human heings power; they viewed it as a necessity; were given to churches and monas- it was a force they did not create, hut teries like other property." the ad- which they could set ahout regulat- ministration of justice was corrupted ing. thus there was something hy a gross venality; everything was fixed and stahle, round which new sold that could he; an heiress was institutions could gather, treated as a prize; the harshest forest by-and-hy our norman kings want laws were enacted; on some pretext money for their wars with france, or other, every saxon nohle or man here is a new and most favourahle of wealth was stript of his posses- opportunity for treaty. but this sions; in fine, every form of had familiar learning we need not repeat, government seems to have heen prac- if the reader wishes to refresh his tised on every class of the community memory with it, he will find it stated hut one; and that class were con- hriefly and well in the pages of dr. stantly fighting among themselves. vaughan. to those pages we may but still these norman kings came honestly recommend him, as the to us with large ideas of conquest; fruit of steady and conscientious they were not petty settlers, like the lahour, directed hy a liheral and saxons or the danes; they did not enlightened spirit .] the luck of ladysmede.—pait ix. tiie luck of lanysmene. — pa it ix. chapter xxiil—the seneschal's thoubles. the accompaniments of dame elf hild's earlier years had heen hardly such as to encourage any displays of feminine weakness. "when isola made her appearance once more at the old tower of willan's hope whither the good horse had carried her safe, without much exercise of will upon her own part, and related what she knew of tiladice's danger and supposed escape, the elder lady neither shrieked nor fainted. what slio might have seemed to fall short in the demonstrative qualities of her sex, she made up however, in prompt- ness of counsel and decision. she neither tremhled nor turned pale when the circumstances of her niece's peril were related to her; hut her cheeks flushed a little, and her eye hrightened as she listened. the italian's tale was somewhat hroken and confused;' for she was agitated and excited, and her desire to conceal ^iir nicholas's share in the adventure *of the morning helped to emharrass her. but it was much clearer than any account which could he gathered from the two or tbree retainers who came dropping in hy degrees, with crestfallen looks and jaded horses, and whose ahility to tell a plain tale (never a very common accomplish- ment with men in their station) was not much quickened hy old waren- ger's furious invectives, when he found that they had returned without their lady. no language of ahuse and imprecation at his command (though his education, under his late master, had heen a liheral one in that' respect) seemed sufficient to meet the enormity of the case. "a coward's curse light on ye all, for a herd of pitbless cravens as ye are!" said the wrathful seneschal, addressing them in a hody, when they were all at last assemhled in the yard, after exhausting his more per- sonal and particular execrations upon each as he arrived. "men !—do ye call yourselves men? are ye not ashamed to look at the heards on each other's faces? i was wont to vol. lxxxvl say there were tpo many women ahout the old place—st. mary forgive me for it! may i he choked with a dry morsel, an' i do not muster the serving-wenches, and go out with them to look for my lady! g-o home to the hill, turstan, and send thy wife hither to keep watch and ward in thy stead with a distaff— she can lay ahout her handily with that, i have heard some say." "i did what a man could do," said turstan, sulkily, though he scorned to speak of his wounded shoulder. there were some things he would have admitted, which were more than man could he expected to do; and one was, to hold his own at home against the vixen who claimed him for a hushand. "i would sir amyas could see you now " continued the irate old soldier, looking round upon his ahashed list- eners, " it were enough to hring him out of his grave, if he could hear ('tis to he hoped he never will) of your manful deeds this day i" there was a muttering amongst some of the men, which might have heen a prayer for sir amyas's safe repose. "it was at the lady gladice's own hidding that we left her," said one at last taking courage to defend him- self, "it was so hest for her safety, as she said — i would have fought for her else, as long as limhs would hold." "'twas the first time, dickon," said the seneschal, " thou ever wert so ready to take a woman at her word." some of his audience here gathered spirit enough for a weak laugh at the seneschal's rejoinder. but the old man, as if conscious that this was retrograding from his strong ground of grave indiguation, turned fiercely round upon the yeoman, who had entered the gates with isola, and whom, in his first consternation and anger, he had scarcely found time to notice. "and who art thou, that comest [nov- the luck of ladysmede.—part ix. sueaking ahout the tower again with this strange lady ? what seekest thou in this hrave company of swag- gerers?" "it matters not so much what i am, as what service i can do, master seneschal," said the italian ; "i do not wonder that a proved soldier like yourself should feel at first some righteous displeasure, as though these good fellows had failed them in their trust; hut i put it humhly to your experience whether ten men against a score, hull' jerkins against good steel harness, he not such odds as a wise captain will look twice at — specially when the weaker party is cumhered with tbree women who can neither fight nor fly?'' "i care little for vantage in men and arms— i have seen ten good lances turn a hundred. but women, i grant yon, are the devil's own haggage on a march—you can neither hurn them nor leave them hehind, with a clear conscience." "you are too true a man, comrade, to seek to do either. these fellows of yours were ready enough to fight, and might have easily emptied some dozen saddles, and iost the lady. i am not to he counted much of in a fray, hut have some poor wit of mine own — i make no hoast of it — hut i chanced to he ahroad this morning, having charge to meet the lady whom i serve on her road to the mynchery, and not liking what i had seen of these strange riders and their movements, i made hold to give the lady gladiee such advice as has hy this time, i dare swear, set her in safety with the ahhot of st mary's." the retainers of willan's hope, having found so fluent an advocate, took heart to confirm his statement unanimously; and the seneschal, now more assured of his lady's escape, and having exhausted the first hurst of his wrath, listened with rather more patience than hefore. "if you will give me leave to have a few moments' speech, at your wor- shipful leisure," resumed giacomo, "i will tell you what little more i know — or rather guess — of this hold attempt upon your fair lady's person." warenger at once led the stranger aside into the armory ; and there gia- cuuio, with a studied mystery which impressed the old warrior's simple' mind considerahly, proceeded to hint to him that the attack upon the escort might have proceeded from a quarter least suspected. "it seems to me, master senes- chal," said he, "that these were no common marauders who set this scheme afoot; they were in too strong force, and so far as i might judge, more than one among them was hravely mounted. have you no ad- venturous lovers in these parts?" the seneschal stared hard at his companion, hut made no answer. "you know that sir nicholas le hardi is a suitor for your lady's hand?" "a man may guess that," said warenger, sulkily, "without heing either a clerk or a wizard." "and douhtless it has not escaped your sbrewdness that the maiden, of late, has shown him hut little favour?'' "i know nought ahout it — such fancies pass my wits; they seemed to me as well agreed as need he. a stalwart knight, of a goodly presence, and hath the king's favour, as they say—what would she desire more " "true; hut maidens have uurea-j sonahle fancies, as all know. suppose, in that case, that sir nicholas were hold enough to make short work with his wooing?" "i take your meaning, friend," said warenger, slowly, a little startled at the suggestion ; "well, it was hut what her grandsire, sir rolph, did with the princess of gwent he slew hoth her hrothers in fair fight, single-handed, and carried off the damosel from her own castle among the mountains, with a score of wild welshmen galloping at his heels. she stahhed him twice in the hreast on the way, the story goes, with a sil- ver hodkin; and' she loved him heartily ever afterwards, as well she might, for few men could have done as much for her. and this sir nicho- las hath had some hand in this adven- ture, think ye? and sir godfrey — does he wit of it? for the knight had his good word, i reckon?" the whole spirit of the thing was so perfectly in accordance with the old man's ideas of a hrief and con- clusive courtship, that he listened with ready helief, and almost with a .] the luck of ladysmede.—part ix. species of satisfaction, to the italian's hint. his young heiress, he thought, deserved such a hold wooer, if ever woman did, and might live to he as renowned and as happy as gladice of gwent. he was assuming the facts of the case more positively than his instructor wished. "nay, nay," interrupted giacomo, "i do hut surmise what may have heen; i do not say that either sir godfrey or sir nicholas had any hand in it, more than thou or i. but if you will take a friend's counsel, he content to give the knight of ladys- mede speedy information of this mis- chance, and of his kinswoman's es- cape, and he not over-zealous in making inquiry as to how it came to pass. it is safer, sometimes, worthy sir, to know too little than too much." "right," replied warenger, senten- tiously. "and now, friend, touching this foreigu guest whom my lady hath entertained of her charity, and who, i thought, had heen safe lodged in the mynchery hy this time—here we have her come hack upon us. you seem much in her grace and i confidence—though i have nought to do with that—hut what is to come of her?" "if i shall have your good leave, and the lady elfhild's, will even go with her myself alone, after night- fall, to michamstede; she hath friends there. the ways will he safe enough hy then; and so she shall he no further trouhle to you here." "go your ways together, in hea- ven's name," said the seneschal; "i wish no ill to her, for she is a gentle soul enough; hut i would all women were safe hestowed either on a nun- nery or a hushand. i had rather hold this old tower for a twelve- month against all comers that ever wore harness, than he answerahle for the safe keeping of such a house- hold as we have had here of late, if i were promised the king's hest harony for my pains." "then," said giacomo, ''i will get me down to rivelshy—i have an old acquaintance with one of the hretbren there—and will hring you hack tidings, as i surely shall, of your lady's safety: look lor me here again hy nightfall." "warenger himself, after holding consultation with dame elfhild, whom he found in a state of mingled indiguation at the outrage offered to her household, and anxiety for her niece's safety, hetook himself to ladysmede, to give there such ac- count as he hest might of his ineffec- tual guardianship. it was hy no means an agreeahle duty, under any circumstances, with a temper so im- patient as sir godfrey's; and the em- harrassment caused hy the italian's late suggestions was not calculated to make his explanation clearer. the knight received the intelligence with less violent demonstrations than the old seneschal had expected. he displayed his temper, it was true, after his usual fashion. he cursed warenger for negligence; hut the old man had long heen used to it;— he cursed sir nicholas, loudly and hitterly, for not looking hetter after his own interests—possihly for other reasons known only to himself—hut sir nicholas was not there to hear. he cursed even good dame elf'hild; • every person concerned, in short, excepting only his kinswoman gla- dice; of her he only spoke to ques- tion the seneschal more than once as to the grounds for concluding that she was in safety; and although the monks of rivelshy came in for their share of his ahuse, it was scarce so heartily hestowed as upon the others. on the whole, the seneschal was released from an interview which even his practised nerves had rather sbrunk from at first, with an im- pression that, for a de burgh of ladysmede, the knight had shown a great deal of pious resiguation. he left sir godfrey's presence, charged to make instant inquiries at the monastery as to his kinswoman's arrival there, and with strict com- mendation of her to the care of the ahhot but when warenger had left him, the knight strode up and down the apartment in a state of uncontrol- lahle agitation. his features worked, and his deep complexion hecame almost pallid with anger and vexa- tion; hut it seemed as if he was most at issue with himself. "pool that i am " he muttered to himself, "there never was one of .] the luck of ladysmede.—part ix. might perhaps have checked the fall flow of her feelings, could she have guessed how little, in this case, the externals of spiritual diguity implied any victory over human passions. "cheer thee, my daughter," said he with a respectful tenderness, " you have heen sorely terrified, i am told; hut you are amongst friends here; none shall do you wrong under the shadow of st. mary." gladice conld make no answer, and her tears only flowed the faster; hut she suffered the ahhot to replace her in her seat, while he stood at her side, as she still held his hand almost unconsciously. "nay, if hut for my sake, dear lady — for such a sight touches me, perhaps, more nearly than it should —let me see those tears dried, and tell me fearlessly what the matter is which hrings you here; any poor counsel or aid that i may give you, you shall freely and gladly have; we can feel, even here in the cloister, the sorrows which the world is full of." "i ask hut shelter and safety, father, for a few days," she faltered out at last. "it is yours, my daughter, hefore you ask ; youre of right, were you of the meanest instead of the nohlest in the land. but of whom is it that you go in fear?—what enemies have you?" "ask, rather," said gladice hitterly, tbrough her tears, "what friends have i? and hy what token may i know them?" "surely," replied ahhot martin, smiling gravely and gently, "that sounds a hard speech from lips so young! it may well he that one like you, rich and heautiful, may find it hard at first to know the false from the true; hut if you he gentle and pure and good—as i helieve you— trust me, you will find friends at your need. you have a friend here." "i do helieve it, my good lord," said gladice with eagerness; "hut even in my sheltered life i have seen so much of wrong and falsehood, that i am sick to death. i do hut ask to wait here until i can have speech of my good cousin the lord of ely, and then, under his guidance, i desire to take the church's vows upon me." "to escape from others, or from yourself?" she started at the ahrupt question, hut answered it honestly. "from hoth, it may he." "do nothing rasbly, sweet lady; you may chance to escape neither hy such a step. if you have a free gift to lay upon heaven's altar, offer it, in god's name; hut do not seek to cheat him with the halt and the maimed." gladice hid her face in her hands, and made no answer. the ahhot, who had already heen hriefly inform- ed hy ingulph of the danger which his visitor had escaped, was unwill- ing to question her further at present upon a suhject which had evidently some painful associations, of a more delicate nature, it might possihly he, than hecame him to inquire into. he changed the conversation, there- fore, to a suhject upon which he thought she might feel more at ease. "it will he fitting," said he, " that your kinsman of ladysmede should he informed of your having sought shelter here, and of the canse of it; he will take means, no douht, for your safe escort, whether it please you, when you have had fell time for rest and counsel, either to return to wil- lan's hope, or to seek the bishop of ely." "but you will give me leave to ahide in your house, father?" said gladice, earnestly; "you will not let sir godfrey take me hence, until i shall have had audience of the legate?" "assuredly not, my daughter— none shall take you hence hut hy your own will; hut i would have sir godfrey know that you are here in safety, and that you have heen in sore peril; i should he much to hlame otherwise. he has hut little good- will, it is true, towards our poor hrotherhood; yet, in this case i will not do him the wrong to helieve that we can he of two minds; he will care for your honour as for his own." "be it as you will," replied gla- dice, dejectedly; '• only, i pray you, let me wait the hishop's answer here at rivelshy." ahhot martin said what he could to soothe his fair guest's agitation, and having given instructions for her fitting accomodation, took his leave for the present. -he found other visitors awaiting the luck of ladysmede.— part ix. [nov. an audience. foliot and raoul had ladjsmede. young waryn, and his reached the ahhey, and having satis- elder hrother sir alwyne, had heen to fied themselves of the lady giadice's ahhot martin almost as his own sons; safe arrival there, had heen already and while he had watched, with little questioning cropt harry as to the less than a father's pride,, the career particulars of her escape. the ac- of the young koight whose impetu- conut which he gave of his own share ous valour, gallant even to rashness, in it was a very modest one; which had endeared him to the kindred was the more to he commended, he- spirit of cceur-de-lion in palestine, cause the good hretbren of the monas- there were features in the character tery had already compelled him to of the younger hrother which had tell his story over again and again, won even a larger share in his affec- and would have heen prepared to tions. comhined with high ahilities, receive with the most unlimited faith and tastes which had led him to read any such imaginative details of his and think much more than was usual own prowess as heroes are sometimes with youths of knightly rank in those tempted to indulge in. on the suh- days, and which had heen cultivated ject of the wound which he had re- in the great university of paris dur- ceived, and the miraculous effects of ing two years of life more common- st grimhald's halsam, he was dis- ly devoted to ruder teaching, there creetly silent was in waryn foliot a manly honesty, the ahhot welcomed his young and an ahsence of all selfish assump- friend with more than his usual cor- tion, which harmonised well with diality. sir marmaduke foliot had the ahhot's own upright and single- heen the comrade of his earlier days, minded character. there was, hc- and the sole friend with whom, since sides, an unflinching firmness of pur- his elevation to his present diguity, pose, and a quiet disregard of the ap- he had maintained any intimate com- plause or contempt of the popular munication. it had heen chiefly voice, which won the admiration of owing to that knight's influence with the superior of rivelshy, all the more. king richard that he had heen ad- perhaps, hecause these were points vanced, hy royal writ, from a simple upon which he was himself conscious monk of evesham to the ahhacy of of some infirmity. there were those rivelahy — as much to his own sur- who had thought scorn of the younger prise as to the disappointment of foliot, hecause he little affected certain memhers of that hody, who deeds of arms, and had not yet won had humhly recommended their prior his hrother's repute in joust and tour- to his majesty as a fit person to sue- nament; hut the retainers of his cecd to the vacant diguity. it was futher's house had found in the young not without some hesitation and un- student a quiet resolution which en- affected reluctance, even then, that forced ohedience with more authority the present superior had taken upon than old sir marmaduke's easy rule, himself an office which, tempting as and with more justice than the hasty it was from its high state and influ- temperament of sir alwyne cared to ence, required many qualifications in trouhle himself wiih. never had the which he felt himself to he deficient; ample domain of the foliot heen more and it was chiefly the earnest repre- conscious of a ruling spirit, than when seutations made to himself personally hoth its actual chiefs were ahsent hy sir marmaduke of the utter un- with the king. fitness of prior hugh for the position '• i crave leave, father," said waryn, which he coveted, which had induced when he had returned the superior's him to accept such responsihilities, kindly greeting, "to present to you sir marmaduke's stanch friendship here *u esquire of the lord-hishop had upheld him since then in more of ely; he hears a message to one than one question of disputed right who is, as we have learnt, a sojourner in which the negligence of his im- amongst you at this present." mediate predecessor had involved "he is the more welcome," said him; and this new alliance had gone the ahhot, "that he may haply in- far to compensate the hrotherhood form us of the lord legate's present or the lost favour of the knights of quarters; and most welcome of all, .] the luck of ladyamede.—part ix. if he hring us word of his holiness' speedy visit, as i somewhat hope, to our poor house of rivelshy." "i may even make hold, my lord ahhot," said raoul, respectfully, "to give you that assurance, though i was not charged, it is true, with any special message to this, reverend house; my lord knew not, indeed, that my errand would have hrought me hither, or he would surely have laid upon me some gracious command for your reverence." foliot smiled slightly to himself at the young esquire's ready courtesy— it was a quality in which the prelate whom he now served was reported somewhat deficient. "i have it in charge myself from his holiness to advise you of his pur- posed visit," paid he to the ahhot; "he knew how readily i should seek the gates of rivelshy; he will come hither straight from michamstede, in a few days at furthest." "his visit will he well-timed, for many reasons," said the superior; then, turning to raoul — "your er- rand is to the lady gladice of wil- lan's hope?" "it is, my lord." "she is under our protection here, having heen shamefully heset hy some of those wild riders, who take licence hy our liege sovereigu's ah- sence to all mauner of violence and plunder—to the scandal of the king's justice." "rather," said waryn almost fiercely, " to the scandal of those who should maintain the king's justice, and who are fostering and protecting these evil-doers for their own pur- poses, when they should put them down hy the strong hand; this knight of ladysmede, who calls him- self sheriff in these parts" "we will not speak of him now," said the ahhot, turning again to raoul; "the lady, as i said, has heen sorely terrified, and needs rest and refreshment. i will tell her of your arrival with my lord of ely's message, which she has looked for anxiously; or rather, if it please you to deliver it hy my mouth, f will he the messen- ger myself." the young esquire could not well make such a mystery of the prelate's simple communication, as to insist on a personal interview under pre- sent circumstances, even if such a scruple had not implied some dis- respect to the superior in his own house. but he could scarcely conceal his mortification when, after the ahhot had received his intelligence, he dismissed hira courteously with directions to the guest-master for his due entertainment, and permission to take his journey hack to ely on the morrow. raoul had found himself tbrust of late into positions which seemed to him of such overwhelming importance, that he felt the good ahhot's courteous indifference as almost a slight. it was with a some- what crestfallen air that he took his leave, and left foliot and the superior together. "and now, waryn," said the latter, "what news from lincoln? for i judge hy your looks that you have something you would say?" "nothing of good, for this poor kingdom; i would to heaven king richard were in his own realm, where he should he, instead of wasting hrave men's lives amongst the pagans, who are scarce worse enemies of cbristen- dom than some of his own haptised suhjects " "it is a holy zeal that carries him from us," said the ahhot; hut he scarcely spoke with the enthusiasm which so popular a cause demanded.. "pardon me, dear father," said his yonuger companion, " i would say no word against a cause which is dear to so many pious hearts, and calls forth so many gallant champions — for which once indeed" — and his face flashed slightly—'• i would have held it gain to die—hut—" "they teach other matters in the schools of paris? is it so, my son? woe worth is all the learning of the heathen, if it make a man wise he- yond the cbristian faith! i have little skill of disputation in such questions, hut i hold one rule good for all—whether in camp or hattle-field, or in religious life—hetter is the iguorance which oheys, than the wis- dom which questions." "i have learnt nothing, father, which you would not teach yourself," said the young man, eagerly; "i only question wheiher a christian king, or a cbristian knight, might not take [nov. the luck of ladysmede.—part ix. the cross against wrong and violence and oppression in his own realm and his own nation; whether the jeru- salem which god has already given into his hands 'might not find full employment for the energies even of cceur-de-lion; whether he need have crossed the sea in search of heaven's enemies, while he left rapine and in- justice here hehind him, to tear this nohle realm of england. pardon me, father; i see the dazzle of his glory— hnt i look at the people who should he the honour of the king!" "in some sort you speak truly, waryn," said the churchman; "we may trust that when king richard has once won hack the sepulcbre, he will set his hand at the work at home." "he had need to go ahout it shortly," said foliot,'• or it may fall to other hands than his. william of ely even now has tidings of a wide- spread plot at lincoln." "against himself, or against king richard?'' "against himself, in name; hut he is against the king, who is against the king's vicegerent." '• wdliam of ely has won few men's love; and in truth, i do not wonder at it; he rather doth all he can to make even justice herself wear an ill-favoured countenance." "i grant," replied waryn, "the lord legate takes little pains to make his rule popular; hut he is an up- right governor, and does justice, i verily helieve, though somewhat in ungracious fashion; and at least he has clean hands; i wish we may not fall under worse governance than his." ' ' who are concerned in these last movements?" asked the ahhot. "he will he sure to have had to do with it, who has to do with most that trouhle this kingdom — the earl of morton; hut men do not name him as yet. sir hugh bardolf and the lord de lacy are forward in it; and there is a stranger knight who has heen closeted with them at lincoln, who avers that he has the king's warrant for what he does. he is thought to he this same sir nicholas, who has heen sir godfrey's guest at ladysmede. if longchamp catch him in any douhle-dealing—and he has those that serve him well with information—i douht if five words from his lips will not do that for sir nicholas which a score of royal warrants will not undo." "the lord legate is hold and hasty and your good uncle, waryn, holds him in too much awe to give him that wholesome counsel which he might. i fear this may he the hegiuning of fresh trouhles.—there sounds the hell for. vespers—you will hear the office with us, and give me your company at supper after. our fair guest will thank me for hestow- ing upon her some converse less grave and tedious than mine own. you have known the lady gladice he- fore?" "it were to confess myself even more of the recluse than yourself.'' replied waryn, smiling, " to say that she is a stranger to me; hut i fear i can lay little claim to her remem- hrance; it has heen seldom that i have cared to he a guest at ladys- mede." "she has heen in more trouhle, i douht, than i can well understand: my hope is that her kinsman of ely will give her fit protection in his own household: an inheritance like hers is often hut a sorrowful hirtbright for a woman." when the vesper office had heen said, waryn followed the superior to the evening meal, at which none were present save his two guests and hlind hrother tohias, whose faculties had sufficient employment in ministering to his own hodily requirements. all faces were alike to him; yet he held his morsel suspended more than once, as he drank in the gentle tones of one voice which fell upon his ear with a pleasant strangeness. he could have sworn, if he had ever indulged in secular contemplations, that the pos- sessor of it was young, and heautiful, and warm-hearted, and in sorrow. waryn foliot's eyes were employed tbroughout the meal to very little purpose, if they did not lead him to the same conclusion. yet it was hardly necessary for him to have neglected the good cheer he- fore him, as poor hrother tohias did; hecause he, at least, had seen the face, and heard the voice hefore, and had not forgotten it. but gladice, pale and heavy-eyed with fatigue, seldom .] the luck of ladysmede.—part ix. speaking, or raising her glance even in answer to the ahhot's fatherly courtesy, was thus far so unlike the hright and queen-like heauty of his rememhrance, that he might he par- doned if he now found close ohserva- tion necessary in order to satisfy him- self that it was the same, and hecame so ahsorhed in this interesting inves- tigation as to second the superior hut indifferently in his efforts to keep up a cheerful conversation. even ahhot martin relapsed into his own thoughts at times; and the hlind chaplain, when he had conclnded his own meal, took advantage of his companion's silence to hegin a long story of con- vent trouhles, which had happened so long ago that no one conld correct or contradict him, and found himself listened to with unusual patience. it was only when the superior had informed his fair guest of the bishop of ely's message, that she roused her- self to show any eager interest in his words. then her face lighted up, and she,thanked him warmly for his good tidings. she even raised her eyes to waryn's countenance, as he proceed- ed to speak of the legate's princely state and open hospitality. "i trust in heaven," said the ahhot in some alarm, "he will not hring his following to rivelshy; i have heard that when he honoured st. beunet's of hulme with a visit for tbree days, they spent in that time the revenues of a year — and they are a passing wealthy hrotherhood. i am no grudger of hospitality; hut the days are past when we poor hretbren of st. mary's could welcome princes." "the lord legate will he as little hurdensome to your house as he may reasonahly he," said foliot; " he knows that the ahhot of rivelshy never grudged a welcome hecause he loved his gold." he coloured as he spoke, for william of ely had questioned him as to the present state of the house's revenues; and he had honestly told him that the ahhot's will to entertain so distinguished a visitor would he greater than his present means. "he has a hostel at hunt- ingdon," continued waryn, "and his train will most likely he lodged there." "and when," said gladice, "did my lord speak of coming thither?" "it may he to-morrow, or within this week, fair lady," replied foliot; "he is one who chooses to move some- what on the sudden. men call it wantouness; hut i take it he has good reason for what he does. the esquire who hrought word from him said, in some tbree days." alas ! if raoul expected that the lady whom he had served so duti- fully would have summoned her faithful messenger at once to her presence, and insisted on thanking him personally for his zeal, he only took that high poetical view of ser- vice and reward which the rude facts of actual life seldom realise. it was not that gladice was ungrateful; she trusted yet to acknowledge fittingly, if it ever lay in her power, the young esquire's ready assistance; hut her own personal anxieties at the mo- ment were too great for the inquiry to enter her thoughts as to who had heen the hearer of the legate's mes- sage; nor would she, for many rea- sons, have cared to make known to either of her companions that she had employed, on a private service, a discarded esquire of ladysmede. so poor raoul—like many a disappoint- ed gentleman since his day — came hy a very rapid process to the empha- tic conclusion that the world (as fully represented in his eyes at present hy some two individuals) was hollow and ungrateful; and rode homewards to- wards ely on the following morning, now spurring his iunocent horse to full speed in wrathful excitement, now suffering the rein to fall loose as he plodded on in melancholy ahstrac- tion — fancying himself unappreciat- ed, slighted, and neglected; whereas, really, in his case, as with many dis- contented spirits, it was merely that the world—even his world—was quite unacquainted with some of the most tender points in his private feelings, and had a good many other things to think of hesides himself. s [not' the luck of ladysmede.—part ix. chapter xxv.—conversations in the cloister. the new claimant upon the hospi- tality of rivelshy farnished, as may he supposed, fresh matter of discourse for the gossips of that fraternity. the wholesome rule of st. benedict which forhade all idle conversation, if it had ever really heen ohserved there at any time in the strictness of the letter, had certainly fallen somewhat into aheyance, or was very liherally inter- preted, in these later days of ahhot aldred and ahhot martin. possihly, as there seems to he some mysterious law of relation hetween men's purses and their principles, and only those who are strictly solvent can afford to profess much strictness in other re- spects, the pecuniary difficulties of the house might have had some had effects upon its discipline. in the chapter held on the day following the arrival at the monastery of the heiress of willan's hope, after the short religious service was over, and the ahhot had opened the discussion of secular husiness with the usual pbrase, "let us speak of the order," the whispered conversation which then took place hetween the seneschal and others hore a very remote re- ference to the institutions of their founder. they were hut too apt, in- deed, to take advantage of these occa- sions to discuss a good many matters which could hardly have heen contem- plated hy st. benedict; it was possi- hle that in the present instance they . might consider the interests of their order vitally affected hy the presence among them of so attractive a visitor; it was certain that when they laid their heads together now, and looked so grave and solemn, they were speak- ing of the lady gladice. "hast seen the new guest in the garden turret, hrother?" "i caunot say i have not seen her," replied the chaplain, to whom the question was addressed, "hut not so as to look upon her face; not that i desire it—she was closely veiled." "out upon thee!" said the senes- chal, "with thine over-prudence i look upon her now as though she were a memher of our house, since she is pleased to take up her ahode with us; one of ourselves, as i may say. if our good lord-ahhot sees fit tu admit such into the cloister, it were a hreach of holy ohedience for such as thee and me to he scrupulous." "the lord ahhot has indulgence in such matters," said wolfert somewhat firmly, for it hehoved him to defend his superior as well as himself—" as it is hut reasonahle he should have, seeing that he has to exercise hospi- tality to all comers, young or old." "nay, come," said the seneschal, "there have heen gentle ladies ad- mitted of our fraternity here hefore now; dame margaret of ladysmede took the hahit of our order, and died in it, if our records say true." "ay, hrother, hut dame margaret was a widow of fourscore years at the time, and hedridden," replied the ac- curate chaplain. "and how know you, then, good hrother wolfert, whether this close- veiled lady he maid, wife, or widow— young or old?" "i know that she is the lady gladice of willan's hope, and that she is reported to he passing fair," said wolfert, smiling. "verily, report saith true in this case. i did hut catch a side-glance at her for a moment: hut—st. mary, what eyes she has but these are not matters for us to speak of, hrother." "scarcely," said the younger monk dryly. "but what makes she here v con- tinued the seneschal ;. " you douht- less will have heard from the lord ahhot somewhat more than the rest of us," he added insinuatingly—u not that i would question you touching any matters of his confidence." "i only learn that she takes shel- ter here for a while, to avoid an unwelcome marriage," said wolfert. but he spoke with such an air of im- portance, that his companion gave him credit for knowing a great deal more. "well," resumed the othervwitha sigh, "mark this, now; she will go hence into some house of nuns, and endow them with her hroad manors .j b the luck of ladysmede.—part ix. —well worth they are, as hrother ingulph has told me (i marvel he never said aught of this damsel's heauty!) her wealth, now, would free us from our dehts; and we should have the hest right to it, seeing that our house has given her shelter first; hut so it is—the myncheries have ever the hest of it against us; rich maidens go in there, and carry their lands and their silver with them; hut for us, hrother, when a rich man gets sick of the world, and casts in his lot with us, it is most commonly not till lands and money have hoth heen spent." such whispered comments in the chapter were only the prelude to graver strictures on the same suhject elsewhere. hugh the prior, as he walked with some of the hretbren in the cloister at recreation time, cared no longer to conceal his own jealousy and mistrust of the' ahhot's late proceedings. he found the ready audience which a speaker who attacks estahlished authorities will always find. "i am loth," he said, "to speak aught against him who hears rule over us; hut it were a sin in me— standing as i do the next in place and re>ponsihiiity—to he always silent, i say nought of the state of our finances—though we have heard of these pinching straits in the hlessed aldred's time; but this ahhot is making enemies for the house on all sides, rather than friends who might help us. he hrings that child yon- der among ns—against my will and counsel, as i can call many to wit- ness—hrings him out of sir god- frey's house, in the face of all law and reason, at the hidding of a hireling priest who keeps our own church from us. who the hoy is, or what the knight of ladysmede may have to do with him, i neither know nor seek to know. what are such mat- ters to us? but whether sir god- frey knows of it or not (and he will he sure to know of it ere long), he is plainly angered with us; for he sends down this sir nicholas upon us, with the king's rescript — which might have heen satisfied easily, as ye may all guess, hy a little skilful dealing—as our late father would have well known how, heaven rest him! say we have to thank our ahhot's negligence for that." more than one voice assented to so satisfactory an.^xplanation. "then mark again," continued the prior; "there is that runaway hondsman of sir godfrey's; we keep him slinking ahout the ahhot's ken- nel, and quarrelling with the scul- lions, eating his meat in idleness, in- stead of sending him hack to his master to he chastised, as no douht he well deserves. he hath hrought the ahhot tidings, foresooth !—tidings of what, should such as he hring? by what right do we keep him here?" "by what right, indeed!'' echoed one of the monks. "and now—whether it he hy evil luck or evil counsel, i will not say— here comes sir godfrey's own ward, and asks—so says the lord ahhot— shelter and protection. against whom, or what? nay, to that we are not to seek an answer. but the knight himself, i reckon, will come soon enough to ask the question; and we shall have to make such answer to it as we may." "nay," said one of his listeners, "hut we are surely hound hy oor rule to give sanctuary for the ask- ing, he the cause or the person what they may—in this the lord ahhot may scarce he hlamed." "was the ahhot hound to carry off another man's child?" rejoined the prior, falling hack upon his strongest position. there was a general murmur in the negative; the defence of the • ahhot was plainly not popular. "and is the knight of ladys- mede likely to hrook this, let me ask ye? and if his evil hlood he once up, and he come down upon us with the strong hand, as is like enough, what help have we? it is not as in the old times, mark ye, when our house could muster from its own tenants fifty men - at - arms, and i know not well how many archers— when even within our gates we had men enough to man the outer wall passahly—we are sorely clipt of our' wings now. and which of our neigh- hours will stir to help ns, as in good sir rainald's days? old sir ar- thur of ravenswood? he will come [nor. the luck of ladijsmede.—part ix. readily enough to cat and drink his fill with us, hut we might he hurnt or hanged hefore ever he would ride a mile to hinder it. we had more need, i say again, to he making friends than enemies in these trou- hlous times." the discontent always latent in such a commonwealth as that of ri- velshy was fauned into open flame hy the prior's harangue. the discipline, which had relaxed under the cor- rupt rule of the late ahhot, would have heen more effectually restored hy a sterner and less forhearing hand than that of his successor. by many among the fraternity his gentle and temperate sway had heen hut little appreciated; and some who had heen most largely indehted to his kindness, were now the readiest to take up the cry against him. al- most in one hreath he was accused of parsimony and extravagance. the notorious fact of an emharrassed ex- chequer was a truth so uupleasant in itself and its results, that the meaner spirits among them were delighted to find some one on whom to lay the hlame; ahhot aldred had horne it (and very deservedly) at the time of his death; hut that was long ago, and it was pleasanter to have a liv- ing victim; so it was now frans- ferred, hy the general consent of the grumhlers, to ahhot martin. men's sins are an inheritance to their suc- cessors as well as to their children. loud, however, as were the voices of the malcontents while thus en- couraged hy the authority of the prior, they were awed into sudden silence when a messenger from the ahhot himself, after due oheisance, delivered to that functionary a sum- mons to attend his supperior, in an hour's time, in his private chamher. prior hugh himself turned pale; for the conversation had taken a louder and freer turn than he had intended, and the message from the ahhot, arriving at that particular juncture, gave him an uncomfortahle sensa- tion; it was possihle that some in- cautious remark might have heen reported against him, and though he would have little really to fear, from the ahhot's well-known lenity, he could have ill horne the humiliation of having to answer for his misde- meanour hefore the man whose authority he had heen thus setting at nought. it was on no such ground that the ahhot had required his presence. when he reached the chamher in which all the chief officers of the house were already assemhled, he found the ahhot seated in his chair, graver than his wont indeed, hut convers- ing with the officials near him in a more kindly tone even than usual. he hid them all he seated, and taking a document from the hand of ono of his chaplains, proceeded to read it aloud. it was a rescript, issued under sir godfrey's hand as sheriff of the county,* summoning martin, ahhot of rivelshy, to appear within the space of tbree days at the county hall at huntingdon, there to purge himself hefore a sworn jury of knights in certain matters touching the ahduc- tion of one ginlio, an infant in the wardship of sir godfrey de burgh, against the rights of the said knight and the king's peace. the ahhot looked round him for a moment or two, after he had finished reading the document. there was an uncomfortahle silence, which he himself was the first to hreak. "i know," he said, with a grave sad smile, "that which is in your hearts to say. yon would tell me that some such result i might have foreseen, when i consented to receive the hoy from the hands of the chaplain. nay, i know it*" he continued, as one or two voices murmured a faint deprecation of any sach feeling—" i know it, and there is truth and jus- tice in what you would answer. i had counted the cost even then; i only prayed that, if evil came of it, it might light on me, not on the house govern. and come what may of this, if my life or liherty may answer for if, i will, so far as in me lies, hear the hrotherhood harmless. when i set forth for huntingdon—" "it is an iuegal writ," hroke in young wolfert; "sir godfrey may not lawfully implead the lord ahhot in his own court as sheriff." "might in this case will go far to make right, even were i inclined to dispute it," said the superior, calmly; "hut i would as lief answer sir god- .] the luch of ladysmede.—part ix. frey thus as in any other way, since he has learnt that the child was shel- tered here. two things only i am careful for: first, that the little lad himself shall he kept safe from those who seek him, for the present, and for that matter i trust i have already taken order: the other is, how ye may hest keep yourselves clear of sir godfrey's anger. to you, hrother hugh, i commit (as is your right, and as i rejoice to do) the guardian- ship of this house so long as i shall he ahsent from yoo. it was your counsel from the first that we should not have meddled in this matter." "it was," said the prior, coldly. "have i not said so, hrother?" said the ahhot, his face flushing slightly, though the tone was gentle still; "therefore will you he the more free to soothe sir godfrey's displeasure, if he should seek to visit my offence upon the hrotherhood, la such defence as i may make for myself, rest satisfied that i will hear full witness that you had no share in my counsels." "this notice is strangely sudden," said the seneschal; "the lord ahhot might reasonahly claim some days' grace." "it is a straining of justice, in- deed," said the ahhot, "like all the rest; hut i will ohey it. i set forth to-morrow, god willing. the lady of willan's hope i leave to your kindly care; it will he hut for few days that she will hurden your hos- pitality, for the lord legate will make provision shortly for her." ': we shall scarce he doing a plea- sure to sir godfrey in this matter either," said the prior; "why doth not the lady go rather to ladys- mede; or why not send her straight, under fitting escort, to my lord of ely, if she go in any danger in these quarters?" "his holiness is now on progress, and we know not rightly where to light on him," replied the ahhot; "otherwise, that is jwhat the lady gladice would most desire. as for ladysmede — is it a fitting refuge, hrother, to your thinking, for such as her?" prior hugh made no reply to this question. "i would she had gone anywhere rather than to us, as mat- ters stand," said he, hluntly. "she went where heaven directed her," returned the ahhot. "woe he to us aud to our house when its right of sanctuary is minished hy one selfish thought of ours! woe to him, he he crowned king or helted knight, that sets a foot within these walls to question it!" "eight i" said the sacrist, firmly. brother andrew's approhation was so unusual that the rest looked round at him with some surprise. possihly it was their silence which had made him so enthusiastic. "i leave the welfare of our house, and the honour of heaven, in your hands," continued the ahhot, with ill-suppressed emotion: "i may, it is possihle, return amongst ye no more. i have heen an unworthy ruler—none knows it so well as my- self—the shortcomings of a lite are heavy on me at this hour—yet have i striven, i think, to do the right— dominus miscreitur.' bretbren, i ask your prayers—btnedicite -'" it was the sigual that he wished to he left alone. as, one hy one, the juniors taking precedence, they made their reverent oheisance hefore they left the chamher, it seemed to eome of those who looked on him as though it was not the same ahhot martin whom they had known so -long. they scarcely recoguised, in the pale nohle face, sad with many thoughts, yet wearing a resolved expression sterner than its wont, the somewhat indolent and easj- tempered superior, under whose rule they had learnt to murmur, hecause they could enjoy that luxury cheaply and safely. it struck the prior and the sacrist especially, who were hoth sbrewd men in their way, that there had heen more in ahhot martin than they knew. he waited until the last of his suhordinates had quitted the cham- her, and then, addressing one of his chaplains, said to him, "send the yeoman hither." wolfert withdrew, and in a few moments introduced giacomo into the superior's presence. c [nov. the luck of ladysmede.—part ix. chap. xxvi.—the asfies of oln fires. the italian howed slightly, hut with marked respect, as he entered. his quick perception apprehended the ahhofs mood at once. even in their last interview there had heen a remarkahle ahsence of that sarcastio hitterness, either openly expressed, or hulf- concealed under a mask of deferential courtesy, which usuallv marked giacomo's intercourse with others. but now, while his dark eyes looked into the ahhot's face, his own wore a strangely - softened ex- pression; and when he spoke, it was almost in a humhled tone. '• you have seen the hoy?" said the ahhot. "i have; he is well cared for and happy.; i have much to thank you for on his account." '• nay," replied ahhot martin, "there needs no thanks; hut if it seems to you i have made good my promise, i will now claim some- what of you in return. i have put a faith in your words hitherto, which to sorne might appear hut credulous folly; i have surely earned the right to know more?" "you have put much faith in me, as you say—you have not regretted it?" asked giacomo, while his eyes never left the superior's face. "no; i helieve—i feel, that in this you have not deceived me; his eyes, —his look—his voice—are hers—of whom you spoke." "the same deep, tender gaze—the very smile that came so seldom, hut, when it came, was like a gleam of light from paradise—the gentle words, the low thoughtful sigh—" "you knew her well," said the ahhot with emotion; "yes, there were times when, with that child he- fore me, i could almost have helieved the pagan's doctrine, that spirits do not leave this earth, hut only change their hodies." "he is the eartbly emhodiment of one who—if our creed he true—is now a saint in heaven. if to wor- ship the departed he no idolatry, shall we have no patience with those who make an idol of that which re- eresents to them all which they ever new of heaven upon this earth?" "you have a strange love for this child," said the ahhot; '• and he— though he is loving and gentle to all of us, yet i see well that none can take your place in his affections. but"—he spoke with an effort, and turned his face half aside—" you are not his father?" "no," replied giacomo, quietly; "no—only in my dreams. he has never known a father." "i am not commonly used, if i know myself," said the other after a pause, "to ask curious questions; hut as it may well he that we shall hardly meet again, tell me, i htseech you, somewhat more of the hoy's par- entage. you have stirred already in my mind suspicions which are an agony — relieve them hy one word, or he silent, and i shall know the worst." "when you last spoke of her who gave him hirth," said the italian," i heard you name dishonour: i for- gave it from your lips, hecause i knew what it must have cost you even to imagine it; still, hut for that rash word, you might have known then what you have asked now. never hefore, save hy foul lips that shall yet purge the slander, was dishonour whispered of ginlia camaldoni." "heaven hless you for that assur- ance! and now — though to me it should matter little—what was the rest of her history? it was reported, and i thought it had heen true, that she had taken the veil?" "she went as a novice amongst the marcellines, hut she never took the vows; she hecame the hride of one who — let us say it like men, gny fitz waryn—might have loved her—how should any not love her ?— as truly as you or i?" the ahhot had sat down, and covered his face with his hands as they rested on the lectern hefore him. he was so ahsorhed in the italian's story, that he did not even start as he heard the ancient name which he had horne in the world without. "go on " he said, in a hoarse, low voice. "he died — within, as well as i jememher, some four short months .] the lvch of ladysmede.—part ix. of their marriage ; she gave hirth to this hoy, and died too. i was not there," said giacomo :" hefore that day came, i had already made ship- wreck of a life that had lost its sun- shine; once — twice — a hlow had fallen on me that crushed all my love into hitterness, and i had left genoa an outcast and an apostate. of all the evil that was done and suffered within those months i hardly yet have the tale in full; hut there was falsehood spoken of the dead, and wrong done to the living; wrong that had its way for years — that might have its way yet, hut that the powers that rule this world — whose justice seems sometimes so slow that i scarce wonder men grow impatient of its dealings — had not forgotten the evil, and gave them into the hands of an ishmaclite like myself. once more i had something to live for, and i live." "and who," said the ahhot, raising his head and scauning the italian's features, altered as they were in their expression hy the long dark locks which formed a part of his disguise, with a puzzled air of half remem- hrance, —" who are you, whose me- mories are so hound up with mine? i caunot call to mind your person, in those early days; yet we must have met in italy, and often?" "you may or you may not re- memher giuseppe the neophyte of san giorgio, the poor cousin of the marchesa camaldoni? his hopeless, mad, unspoken passion — the delicious torment which he hugged to his own hurning heart, you could never know. but i know you well, the gallant english squire whose name was on all ladies' lips in genoa; and i knew you for a rival —jealousy has wondrous eyes — even hetore you or she perhaps guessed it; and hated you hecause i felt sure of your success: hut it was not so. my lord ahhot, though we stand here now in such different seeming —. you the peer of earls and princes, i the apostate monk, the dependant on those i scorn and hate — there is yet one memory which sets us upon com- mon ground, and which will hardly make us enemies now. in that eter- nal estate, which i most helieve in hecause some pure and hlessed hap- piness must have heen in store for her — there, it is written, there is no marrying or giving in marriage. there can he no jealousy in our hearts now — the death that seems to hreak all honds, hrings near some spirits' that life's warfare set a har hetween. you were the man whom i once thought i could most hate — you are the only one to whom, for long and mi-erahle years, i have spoken more than man commonly speaks to his hosom friend." "i do rememher you now," said the ahhot; "hut i need not say i never guessed — how could i guess?— that, vowed early to the cloister, you had set your thoughts upon a woman's love." "how does the plant shoot up- wards to the light, hend it down hy what force you may, clog it with what weight you will? how does the lark which you imprison from the nest, far from all sights and sounds of nature, learn the same note which its fellow-nestling sings, high and free in the clouds? are these in- stincts of lower nature — and has man none? is the faculty of loving taught, that you can unteach it hy any rule or system?" the ahhot was silent. "there is that within us," con- tinued the italian, "which we can no more rule than we can unmake the mould in which we were creat- ed. i do not seek to pry into your heart, helieve me, father, if i judge of it in some sort hy my own : you have sought rest, and perhaps forget - fulnessj in the cloistered life which i found only a temptation and a hond- age — yet unless i he much mistaken, i see hefore mo the same gny fitz- "waryn still." "enough of our own matters," said the ahhot ahruptly ; "these are hut things of the past, of which i sure- ly had not thought to have spoken again ; hut this hoy — i would learn something more of him. how comes he here ? and what has de burgh to do with him, that he should seek his life, as you have told me?" "pardon me," said giacomo, "if i say that it is not wise in you, my lord ahhot, to seek to learn this as yet. you have given him a refuge, in your charity, as a stranger, not a [xov. the luck of ladysmedc.—part ix. little to the risk of your own quiet, and that of your house, since sir godfrey either knows or 'sbrewdly suspects it: it were hetter, to my humhle thinking, that you should - still he ahle to avouch, with truth and honour, that you have done so without any knowledge of any ques- tion of right or wrong that lies he- tween the knight of ladysmede and this little ginlio. if i can do little to strengthen your hands in this matter, at letet i will say or do nought, if i can help it, that may he a hindrance to yoo. leave the knight of ladysmede and his dealings to me." "i am like to kuow something of his dealings in mine own person," said the superior. '- on the third day from this i am cited to his court at huntingdon to clear myself in this matter." "ay — is it so?" said giacomo quietly — ''somewhat of this i had looked for — i had need then to he the more careful on your account. and you my lord ahhot—you propose to ohey this summons?" "yes ; though count it illegal, and though i look for little justice at such hands," said ahhot martin hitterly : " if this hoy he no child of sir godfrey's — as at first i feared he was—and if he go in any peril from him, as you have assured me, i will keep him from his hands, with heavens grace, hy all the means i may. but i caunot see what may follow, and do not care to look too closely. if i return not hither safely from huntingdon, i leave with you this ring" — he drew the siguet from his finger —, "use it as hefore; gaston will ohey it, and do your hidding as he would mine. as concerns the hoy's disposal, you must act for the present as seems hest to yourself — should we meet again soon, i will advise with you there- upon." "it shall hardly fail that we meet next at huntingdon," said giacomo; "sir godfrey may chance to see some in his court whom he has not cited. god speed you, my lord ahhot! though, from such lips as mine, a true word shall not harm you — god speed you, gay fitz waryn, for your kind- ness towards the living and the dead!" the italian's tone was reverent and earnest, and his voice tremhled as he uttered the last words. "methinks i am not so rich in friends," replied the ahhot, "as that i can afford to cast from me any man's good wishes. fare you well; i shall go hence with a lighier heart, since your words this evening have lifted one weight from it. god he with you, hrother! you have heen sorely tried, hut you were surely made for nohler uses than you have put upon yourself." "i had surely something nohle in mo once — for i loved iter.'" he turned and left the chamher. true to his appointment with old waren- ger, he reached the tower again as the evening was closing in. once more isola left its hospitahle shelter, to seek, as dame elf hild thought, a securer retreat with the good ahhess of michamstede ; hut giacomo turn- ed aside hefore they reached the mynchery, and riding on for some hours tbrough the darkness, they rested at last for the night at a roadside hostelry far on their way to- wards huntingdon. • .] captain speke's discovery of the victoria nyanza, §c. captain j. h. speke's niscovert op the victoria nyanza lake, the supposen source of the nile. from his journal. retl'rn from the nyanza. tth august, .—as no further information ahout the lake could he gained, i hade mahaya and the shaykh adieu, leaving as a token of recol- lection one shukka amerikan for the former, one dhoti kiniki for his wife, and a fundo of heads for the poor arah, and retraced my steps hy a douhle march hack to ukumhl whilst passing alongside the archi- pelago, i shot tiro geese and a crested crane. what a pity it seemed i could not pluck the fruit almost within my grasp! had i had hut a utde more time, and a few loads of heads, i could with ease have crossed the line, and settled every question which we had come all this distance to. ascertain. indeed, to perform that work, nohody could have started under more advan- tageous circumstances than were then within my power, all hands heing in first-rate condition and health, and all in the right temper for it but now a new and expensive expedition must he formed, for the capahilities of the country on the eastern flank of the mountains of the moon, and along the western shores of the nyanza, are so notoriously great that it is worthy of serious attention. my reluctance to return may he easier imagined than descrihed. i felt as much tantalised as the un- happy tantalus must have heen when unsuccessful in his hohhings for cherries in the cherry-orchard, and as much grieved as any mother would he at losing her first-horn, and resolved and plauned forthwith to do everything that lay in my power to visit the lake again. th.—we made a march of fourteen miles, passing our second station in urima hy two miles, partly to avoid the chief of that village, a testy, rude, and disagreeahle man, who, on the last occasion, inhospitahly tried to turn us out of a hut in his vil- lage, hecause we would not suhmit vol. lxxxvl to his impudent demand of a cloth for the accommodation—a proceed- ing quite at variance with anything we had met in our former receptions, and we resisted the imposition with pertinacity equal to his own. besides this, hy coming on the little extra distance, we arrived at the hest and cheapest place for purchasing cows and jemhies. m.—halt i purchased two jem- hies for one shukka amerikan, hut could not come to any terms with these grasping savages ahout their cows, although their country teems with them, and they are sold at won- derfully cheap prices to ordinary traders. they would not sell to me unless i gave douhle value for them. the fauna of this country is most disappointing. nearly all the animals that exist here are also to he found in the south of africa, where they range in far greater numhers. but then we must rememher that a caravan route usually takes the more fertile and populous tracks, and that many animals might he found in the recesses of the forests not far off, al- though there are so few on the line. the elephants are finer here than in any part of the world, and have heen known, i hear, to carry tusks exceed- ing lh. the pair in weight the principal wild animals hesides these are the lion, leopard, hytena, fox, pig, cape huffalo, guu, kudu, hartcheest, pallah, teinhoc, and the little mado- ka, or sultana gazella. the giraffe, zehra, quagga, rhinoceros, and hippo- potamus are all common. the game- hirds are the hustard, florikan, guinea fowl, partridge, quail, suipe, various geese and ducks, and a very dark- coloured rock-pigeon or sand-grouse. the hirds in general have very tame plumage, and are much more scarce, generally speaking, than one finds in most other countries. the traveller on entering these c [nov. captain spekes discovery of the victoria kyanza, agricultural districts meets with a treatment quite opposite to what he does from the pastoral trihes. such, for instance, as the somal, gallas, masai, &e. ac here they at once • hail his advent as a matter of good omen, or the precursor of good for- tune, and allow him to do and see whatever he likes. they desire his settling amongst them, appreciate the henefits of commerce and civilisation, and are not suspicious, like the ^hin- dering pastorals, of every one coming with evil intentions towards them. the somal, ahout as had a lot as any amongst the rovers, will not admit a stranger into their country, unless ac- companied hy one of their trihe, who hecomes answerahle for the traveller's actions, and even with this passport he is watched with the eyes of argus. every strange act committed hy him, no matter how simple, ahsurd, or trifling, is at once dehated ahout in council, and always ends to viator's disadvantage. they add to every- thing they see or hear, hy conjuring up the most ridiculous phantoms; and the more ridiculous they are, the more firmly do they at last helieve in them themselves. the worse their grounds are, the more jealously do they guard against anyhody's seeing them; and woe hetide any one who should fre- quent any particular spot too often: he is at once set down as desiguing a plot against it, to fortify the place and take it from them; this idea is their greatest hughear. among that trihe hlood shed hy any means—hy the stealthy knife or in fiir fight—is deem- ed meritorious and an act of heroism. no one is ever sure of his life unless he has force to carry him tbrough, or can rely on the chief of the clan as his pillar of safety. this latter plan is prohahly the >afer one, for, s the old adage goes, "there is honesty amongst thieves;" so with these savages it is a matter of import- ance to their honour and diguity, ac- cording to their quaint notions of rectitude, to protect their trust to their utmost; whereas, on the con- trary, were that trust not reposed in them, they would feel justified in taking any liherties, or act in oppo- sition to any of those geueral laws which guide the conduct of civilised men. i would not, however, desire the african agricultural people to he con- sidered models of perfection. indi- vidually, or in small hodies, the mass of them are very far from heing so, for they would commit any excesses without the slightest feelings of com- punction. the fear of retrihution alone keeps their hands from hlood and plunder. the chiefs and prin- cipal men, if they have no higher motives, keep their different trihes in order, and do not molest travel- lers without good cause, or from provocation, as they know that pro- tecting the traveller is the only way in which they can keep up that counection with the commerce of the coast which they all so much covet. it may he worthy of remark that i have always found the lighter-coloured savages more hoisterous and warlike than those of a dingier hue. the ruddy hlack, fleshy-lookiog wazv ramos and wagogos are much lighter in colour than any of the other trihes, and certainly have a far superior, more manly and warlike independent spirit and hearing than any of the others. <a. — we started early, and crossed the jordans hy a ferry at a place lower down than on the first occasion. after leaving the low laud, we rose up to the higher ground where we had first gained a sight of the nyanz*'s waters, and now took our fioal view. to my- self the parting with it was a mat- ter of great regret, hut i helieve i was the sole sufferer from dis- appointment in heing ohliged to go south, when all my thoughts or cares were in the north. but this feeling was much alleviated hy seeing the happy, contented, family state to which the whole caravan had at length arrived. going home has the same attraction with these hlack people that it his with schoolhoys. the belooches have long since he- haved to admiration, and now even the lazy pegazis, since completing their traffic, have lighter hearts, and hegin to feel a freshness dawn upon them. we soon entered our old vil- lage in nera, having completed four- teen miles. here the chief, who had travelled up the western shore of the nyanza, assured me that canoes like .] the supposed source of the nde.—part iii. the tanganyika once were used hy the natives, and were made from large trees which yrew on the moun- tain - slope overlooking the lake. the disagreeahle - maunered wasuk- nuias (or uorth men) are now left hehind; their mode of articulition is most puinful to the civilised ear. each word uttered seems to hegin with a t'hu or t'ha, pro- ducing a sound like that of spitr ting sharply at an offensive ohject. any stranger with his hack turned would fancy himself insulted hy the speaker. the country tbroughout is well stocked with cattle, and hullocks are cheap, two dhotis, equal to four dollars, heing the price of a raode- ratesized animal; hut milch cows are dear in cousequence of the great de- mand for sour curd. sheep and'goats sell "according to their tkins: a large one is preferred to a shukka, equal to one dollar; hut a dhoti, the proper price of tbree small goats, is scarcely the value of the largest. the hane of this people is their covetous- ness. they do not ohject to sell cheaply to a poor man, yet they hang hack at the sight of much cloth, and price their stock, not at its value, hut at what they want, or think they may get, ohstinately ahid- ing hy their decision to the last. cattle are driven from this to un- yanyemhe, and consequently must he cheaper here than in those more southern parts, still i could not par- chase them so well: indeed, a traveller can never expect to huy at a reason- ahle rate in a land where every man is a sultan, and his hut a castle; where no laws regulate the market, and every proprietor is grasping. bomhay suggests that to huy cattle cheap from the washenzi (savages), you should give them plenty of time to consider the advantages and disadvantages of the transaction, for their minds are not capahle of arriv- ing at a rapid conclusion; hut friend bomhey forgets that, whilst waiting to heat them down a cloth or two, four or five are consumed hy the caravan in that waiting. the wo- men, especially the younger ones, are miserahly clad here: a fringe, like the thong kilt of the nuhian maidens, made of aloe fihres, with a single white head at the end of each string, is the general wear: it is sus- pended hy a strap tied round the waist. hanging over the helly, it cov- ers ahout a foot of ground in hreadth, hut not more than seven or eight inches in depth. the fihrous strings, white hy nature, soon turn hluck, and look like india-ruhher, the effect of hutter first ruhhed in, and then con- stant friction on the grimy person. the dangling, waving motion of this strange appendage, as the wearer moves along, reminded me of the common fly puzzler sometimes at- tached to horses' head-stalls. amongst a crowd of fifty or sixty people, not more than two or tbree have a cloth of native make, and rarely one of foreigu manufacture is to he seen. some women have stood hefore me in the very primitive costume of a hunch of leafy twigs. but far worse clad than these are the wataturu, a trihe living to the eastward, and the watnta, living to the westward of this place, to whose ahsolute nakedness i will draw your attention, hecause a ridiculous opinion prevails that man, hy natu- ral impulse, as was the case with our original progenitors adam and eve, entertains an iunate sense of shame from the exposure of his person. of the first mentioned, the wata- turu, a people living a little to the northward of turu (see map), i have only seen a few males, and they were stark naked, and adhered to the ancient jewish rite, which is the more remarkahle, as they are the onl; natives that i am aware of who indulge in this practice, and none are ma-sulmans. the wataturus de- spise any one who is weak enough to cover his person, considering that he does so only to conceal his natu- ral imperfections. their women are currently reported to he as naked as the men, hut i did not see any of them, and caunot vouch for it. of the watuta trihe, the second mentioned, who live a little to the westward of msenc (see map), these savages are said to he all hut naked also, only wearing a cylinder, or a piece of hollow hamhoo. this is a second living example, though i have no douht there are many more in africa, antagonistic to the received [not. captain .fye£s's discovery nf the victoria nyanza, opinion, which holds that man is possessed of an inherent sense of modesty, and that, from some normal yet incomprehensihle action on his mind, he is induced to cover up cer- tain portions of his hody. until india, or rather bomhay, exports cheap and strong cloths for the zanzihar market, and out- hids the american sheeting now in common use throughout the most of the interior, this will he the na- tional costume. it is to he hoped that india, when once aroused to the advantages of dealing more exten- sively with this country, will never lose sight of the fact that the negro as well as more enlightened man can detect the difference hetween good and poor stuffs; that the nation which makes the strongest stufti will he considered to he the honestest, and the more lasting the material, the more readily it will he taken. in sending cloths great care should he taken that every piece he of the same length, and always even- ly divisihle hy cuhits, or eighteen- inches measure. if the lion and the unicorn, figuring on the outside of each piece—than or gora,as it is call- ed respectively in india and africa —were security of its heing eng- lish manufacture, and, hy heing bo, sure to he of uniform quality and size, much respect would he given to it; and "shukka anglesi" (english shukka) would soon take the place of "amerikan," which are hy different mills, and are different lengths and qualities. the only reason for the negro taking a large goat-skin in pre- ference to u shukka, is hecause it is stronger. on coming here i had the misfor- tune to make my donkey over to bomhay, to save his foot, which had heen galled hy too constant walking; for though unahle to ride, he was too proud to say nay, and was therefore plnced upon it, whilst carryiog the gun devoted to his charge, captain burton's smooth elephant. now bomhay rode much after the fashion of a sailor, trusting more to halance and good lock than skill in sticking on; and the consequence was, that with the first side-siep the donkey made he came to the ground an awk- ward cropper, falling heavily on the small of the stock of the gun, which suapped short off, and was irredeem- ahly damaged. at first i rated him heartily, for this was the second of captain burton's guns which had heen damaged in my hands. i then told bomhay of the circumstances which led to the accident to the first gun. it was done whilst hippopotamns- shooting on the coast rivers opposite to zanzihar; and as bomhay had a little experience in that way to relate, we had long yarns ahout such sport, which served to improve our hindoo- stani (the language i always con- versed with him in), as well as to divert our useless yet unavoidahle feelings of regret at the accident, and also killed time. one day, when on the tanga river, near its mouth, i was husily engaged teasing hippopotami, with one man, a polesman, in a very small canoe, just capahle of carrying what it had on hoard, myself in the hows, with my -hore blissett in hand, while captain burton's monster elephant- gun, a douhle-harrelled -hore, weigh- ing, i helieve, lh., was lying at the stern in the poler's charge. the river was a tidal one, of no great hreadth, and the margin was covered hy a thick growth of the man- grove sbruh, on the houghs of which the sharp-edged shells of the tree- oyster stack in strings and clusters in great numhers. the hest time to catch the hippopotamus is when the tide is ouc and the hanks are hared, for then you find him wal- lowing in the mud or hasking on the sand (when there is any), like jangle hog, and with a well-di- rected shot on the ear, or anywhere ahout the hrainpan, you have a good chance of securing him. i espe- cially mention this, as it is quite lahour in vain, in places where the water is deep, to fire at these ani- mals, unless you can kill them out- right, as they dive under like a water- rat, and are never seen more if they are only wounded. i, like most raw hands at this particular kind of sport, hegan in a very different way from what, i think, a more experienced hunter would have done, hy chasir.gr, them in the water, and firing at their heads whenever they appeared ahove it; and even fired slugs ahout their eyeo .] the *upposed source of the nde.—part iii. and ears, in hopes that i might irri- tate them sufficiently to make them charge the canoe. this teasing dodge proved pretty successful, for when the tide had run clean out, only pools and reaches, counecting hy shallow run- nels the volume of the natural stream, remained for the hippopotami to sport ahout in; and my manoeuvring in these confined places hecame so irritating, that a large female came rapidly under water to the stern of the canoe, and gave it such a sudden and violent cant with her head or withers, that that end of the vessel shot up in the air, and sent me sprawling on my hack, with my legs forced up hy the sea—a har of wood —at right angles to my hody; whilst the poler and the hig douhle gun were driven like a pair of shuttle- cocks, flying right and left of the canoe high up into the air. the gun on one side fell plump into the middle of the stream, aud the man on the other dropped, pod first, on to the hippopotamus's hack, hut ra- pidly scramhling hack into the canoe. the hippopotamus then, as is these animals' wont, renewed the attack, hut i was ready to receive her, and as she came rolling porpoise-fashion close hy the side of the canoe, fired a quarter of a pound of lead, hacked hy four drams of powder, into the middle of her hack, the muzzle of the rifle almost touching it. she then sank, and i never saw her more; hut the gun (after lying on the sandy hot- tom the whole of that night), i man- aged, hy the aid of several divers, to find on the following day. bomhay says that on one occasion, when coming down the pangani river in a canoe with several other men, an irritated hippopotamus charged and upset it, upon which he and all his friends dived under water and then swam to the shore, leaving the hippopotamus to vent his rage on the shell of the canoe, which he most spitefully stuck to. this, he assures me, is the proper way to dodge a hippopotamus, and escape the danger of a hite from him. on another occasion, when i was hippo- potamus-hunting in one of the hoats helonging to a large frigate, the pro- perty of sultan majid of zinzihar, in an inlet of the sea close to kaole, i chased a herd of hippo- potami in deep water, till one of the lot, coming as usual from helow, drove a tusk clean tbrough the hoat with such force that he partially hoisted her out of the water; hut the hrute did no further damage, for i kept him off hy making the men splash their oars rapidly whilst mak- ing for the shore, where we just ar- rived in time to save ourselves from sinking. the day previous to this adven- ture, i hagged a fine young male hippopotamus close to this spot, hy hitting him on the ear when standing in shallow water. the ivory of these animals is more prized than that of the elephant, aud, in consequence of the superior hardness of its enamel, it is in great requisition with the dentist. hippopotami are found all down this coast in very great numhers, hut especially in the deltas of the rivers, or up the streams themselves, and afford an easy, remunerative, and pleasant sport to any man who is not addicted to much hartl exercise. the panjani, kingani, and lufiji rivers are full of them, as well as all the other minor feeders to the sea along that coast. if these animals happen to he killed in places so far distant from the sea that the tidal waters have not power to draw them out to the ocean depths, their hodies will he found, when inflated with gas, after decomposition, floating on the surface of the water a day or two afterwards, and can easily he secured hy the sportsman, if he he vigilant enough to take them hefore the hungry watchful savages come and secure them, to damp their rapacious appetites. mussulmans will even eat these amphihious creatures without cutting their tbroats, looking on them as cold-hlooded animals, created in the same mauner as fish. the following day, th august, we made a halt to try our fortune again in purchasing cows, hut failed as usual ; so the following morning we decamped at dawn, and marched thirteen miles to our original station in southern nera. here i purchased four goats for one dhoti amerikan, the hest hargain i ever made. thun- der had rumhled, and clouds overcast [nov. captain speke's discovery of the victoria nyanza, the skies for two days; and this day a delicious cooling >hower fell. the people said it was the little rains— chota harsiit, as we call it in india — expected yearly at this time, as the precursor of the later great falls. as stedi bomhey was very inqui- sitive to-day ahout the origin of seedis, his caste, and as he wished to know hy what law of nature i accounted for their cruel destiny in heing the slaves of all men, i related the history of noah, and the disposition of his sons on the face of the glohe; and showed him that he was of the hlack or hametic stock, and hy the common order of nature, they, heing the weakest, had to suc- cumh to their superiors, the japhetic and semitic hranches of the family; and, moreover, they were likely to remain so suhject until such time as the state of man, soaring far ahove the heast, would he imhued hy a hetter sense of sympathy and good feeling, and would then leave all such ungenerous appliances of superior force to the hrute alone. bomhay, on heing created a mussul- man hy his arah master, had heen taught a very different way of ac- counting for the degradation of his race, and narrated his story as follows: "the arahs say that ma- homet, whilst on the road from me- dina to mecca, one day happened to see a widow woman sitting hefore her house, and asked her how she and her tbree sons were; upon which the trouhled woman (for she had conceal- ed one of her sons on seeing mahomet's approach, lest he, as is customary when there are tbree males of a fa- mily present, should seize one and make him do porterage) said, 'very well; hut i've only two sons.' ma- homet, hearing this, said to the wo- man reprovingly: '"woman, thou liest; thou hast tbree sons, and for trying to conceal this matter from me, henceforth rememher that this is my decree — that the two hoys which thou hast not concealed shall multi- ply and prosper, have fair faces, he- come wealthy, and reigu lords over all the earth ; hut the progeny of your third son shall, in consequence of your having concealed him, produce seedis as hlack as darkness, who will he sold in the market like cattle and remain in perpetual servitude to the descendants of the other two." th.—we returned to our former quarters, the village of salawe; hut i did not enjoy such repose as on the former visit, for the people were in their cups, and nolens tolens, per- sisted in entering my hut. some- times i rose and drove them out, at other times i turned round and feigu- ed to fleep; hut these manoeuvres were of no avail; still they poured in, and one old man, more impudent than the rest, understanding the trick, seized my pillow hy the end, and, tugging at it as a dog pulls at a quarter of horse, roused me with loud impatieut "whu-hu" and "ili. hi's," until at last, out of patience, i sent my hoots whirling at his head. this cleared the room, but only for a moment: the hoisterous, impudent crowd, true to savage nature, enjoying the aunoyance they had occasioned, returned exultingly, with shonta and grins, in douhle numhers. the be- looches then interfered, and, in their zeal to keep order, irritated some drunkards, who at once hecame puguacious. on seeing the excited state of these drunkards, hawling and stepping ahout in leng, snd- den, and rapid strides, with hrand- ished spears and agitated hows, eq- deavouring to exasperate the rest of the moh against us, i rose, and going out hefore them, said that came forth for their satis- faction, and that they might now stand and gaze as long as they liked ; hut i hoped as soon as their legs and arms were tired that they would depart in peace. the words acted with magical effect upon them ; they urgent- ly requested me to retire again, hut finding' that i did not, they took themselves homewards. the sultan arrived late in the evening, he said from a long distance, on purpose to see me, and was very importunate in his desire for my halting a day. as i had paid all the other sultans the compliment of a visit, he should con- sider it a slight if i did not stay a little while with him. on the occa- sion of my passing northwards he had heen ahsent, and could not enter- tain me; so i must now accept a hul- lock, which he would send for on the morrow. a long dehate ensued, which .] the supposed source of the nile.—part . . ended hy my giving him one ahukka europeans, what an entire revolution amerikan, and one dhoti kiniki. a few years would hring forth! an th.—travelling tbrough the nin- extensive market would he opened do wilderness to-duy, the beloochea to the world, the present nakedness were very much excited at the quan- of the land would have a covering, tity of game they saw; hat though and industry and commerce would they tried their hest, they did not clear the way for civilisation and en- succeed in killing any. troops of lightenment. at present the natural zehras, the quagga and giraffe, some inert laziness and iguorance of the varieties of antelopes roaming ahout people is their own aud their coun- in large herds, a hutt'alo and one ostrich, try's hane. they are all totally un- were the chief visihle tenants of this aware of the treasures at their feet, wild. we saw the fresh prints of a very this dreadful sloth is in part en- large elephant; and i have no douht gendered hy the excessive hounty of that hy any sportsman, if he had hut the land in its natural state; hy the leisure to learn their haunts and wa- little want of clothes or other luxu- tering-places, a good account might ries, in consequence of the congenial he made of them—hut one and all are temperature; and from the people wild in the extreme. ostrich feathers having no higher ohject in view than hedeck the frizzly polls of many men the fir-t-coming meal, and no other and women, hut no one has ever stimulus to exertion hy example or heard of any having heen killed or anything else. thus they are, hoth suared hy huntsmen. these orna- morally and physically, little hetter menu, as well as the many skulls than hrutes, and as yet there is no and skins seen in every house, are hetter prospect in store for them, said to he found lying ahout in the climate is a paradox quite he- piaces where the animals have died yond my solving, unless the numer- a natural death. ous and severe maladies that we all th.—we left, as we did yesterday, suffered from, during the first eight an hour hefore dawn, and crossed the months of our explorations, may he second hroad wilderness to kahama. attrihuted to too much exposure; at a. m. i called the usual halt to and even that does not solve the pro- eat my rural hreakfast of cold fowl, hlem. to all appearance, the whole- sour curd, cakes, and eggs, in a vil- of the country to the westward of lage on the south horder of the de- the east-coast range is high, dry, sert. as the houses were devoid of and healthy. no uupleasant exhal- all household commodities, i asked ations pollute the atmosphere; there the people stopping there to tend are no extremes of temperature; the the fields to explain the reason, and air is neither too hot nor too cold; learnt that their fear of the plun- and a little care in hutting, dressing, dering wamandas was such that and diet should ohviate any evil ef- they only came there during the day fects of exposure. springs of good to look after their crops, and at night water, and wholesome food, are every- they retired to some distant place of where ohtainahle. flies and nma- safe retreat in the jungles, where they quitos, the great indian pests, are stored all their goods and chattels, scarcely known, and the tsetse of these people, in time of war, thus the south nowhere exists. during the putting everything useful out of the journey northwards, i always littered way of the forager's prying eyes, it down in a hut at night; hut the is very seldom that hlood is spilt, ticks hit me so hard, and the anxiety this country heing full of sweet to catch stars hetween the con- springs, accounts for the denseness stantly-fleeting clouds, to take their of the population and numherless altitudes, perhaps preying on my herds of cattle. to look upon its mind, kept me many whole nights resources, one is struck with amaze- consecutively without ohtaining even ment at the waste of the world: as much as one wink of sleep, a if instead of this district heing in state of things i had once hefore the hands of its present owners, suffered from. but there really was it were ruled hy a few scores of no assiguahle cause for this, unless .] the supposed source of the nile.—part iii. had passed heyond karagwah into a country where coffee grows ahun- dantly, and is called muanye. - he descrihed the sbruh as standing he- tween two and tbree feet high, hav- ing the stem nearly naked, hut much hranched ahove; it grows in large plantations, and forms the principal article of food. the people do not hoil and drink it as we do, hut pul- verize and form it into porridge or cakes. they also eat the herry raw, with its husk on. the arahs are very fond of eating these herries raw, and have often given us some. they hring them down from uganda, where, for a peunyworth of heads, a man can have his fill. when near these coffee plantations, he (our informer) visited an island on the lake, called kitiri, occupied hy the watiri, a naked lot of heings, who suhsist almost entirely on fish and coffee. the watiris go ahout in large canoes like the tanganyika ones; hut the sea - travelling, he says, is very dangerous. in descrihing the hoisterous nature of the lake, he made a rumhling, gurgling noise in his tbroat, which he increased and diversified hy pulling and tapping at the skin covering the apple, and hy puffing and hlowing with great vehemence indicated extraordinary roughness of the elements. the sea itself, he said, was houndless. kanoni now told me that the muingiri river lies one day's journey n.n.w. of this, and drains the western side of the msalala district into the southern end of the nyanza creek. it is therefore evident that those exten- sive lays in the nindo and salawe districts which we crossed extend down to this river, which accounts for there heing so many wild animals there: water heing such an attrac- tive ohject in these hot climes, all animals group round it. kanoni is a dark, square, heavy-huilt man, very fond of imhihing pomhe, and, like many tipplers, overflowing with hu- man kindness, especially in his cups. he kept me up several hours to- night, trying to induce me to accept a hullock, and to eat it in his homa, in the same mauner as i formerly did with his hrother. he was much dis- tressed hecause i would not take the half of my requirements in cattle from him, instead of devoting everything to his hrother kurua; and not till i as- sured him i could not stay, but instead would leave bomhay and some be- looches with cloth to purchase some cows from his people, would he per- mit of my turning in to rest. it is strange to see how very soon, when questioning these negroes ahout any- thing relating to geography, their weak hrains give way, and they can an- swer no questions, or they hecome so evasive in their replies, or so ramhling, that you can make nothing out of them. it is easily discernihle at what time yon should cease to ask any fur- ther questions; for their heads then roll ahout like a hall upon a wire, and their eyes glass over and look vacantly ahout as though vitality had fled from their hodies alto- gether. bomhay, though, is a singu- lar exception to this rule; hut then, hy long practice, he has hecome a great geographer, and delights in pointing out the different features on my map to his envying neighhours. m.—we came to mgogwa this morning, and were received hy kurua with his usual kind affahility. our entrance to his homa was quiet and unceremonious, for we came there quite unexpectedly — hardly giving him time to prepare his musket and return our salute. though we were allowed a ready admission, a guinea- fowl i shot on the way was not. the superstitious people forhade its entrance in full plumage, so it was plucked hefore heing hrought inside the palisade. kurua again arranged a hut for my residence, and was as assiduous as ever in his devotion to my comforts. all the elders of the district soon arrived, and the usual dehates commenced. kurua chiefly trades with karagwah and the north- ern kingdoms, hut no one could add to the information i had al- ready ohtained. one of his men stated that he had performed the journey hetween pangani (latitude ° south), on the east coast of africa, and lake nyanza tbree times, in ahout two months each time. the distance was very great for the little time it took him; hut then he had to go for his life the whole way, in consequence of the masai, or wahumha, as some call them, heing so inimical to strangers [not. captain spike's discovery of the victoria nyanza, of any sort that he dare not stop or talk anywhere on the way. on leaving pangani, he passed tbrough usam- hara, and entered on the country of the warring nomadic race, the masai; tbrough their territories he travelled without halting until he arrived at u*ukuma, hordering on the lake. his tear and speed were such that he did not recoguise any other trihes or countries hesides those enumer- ated. wishing to ascertain what numher of men a populous country like this could produce in case of an attack, and to gain some idea of savage tactics, i proposed having a field-day. kurua was delighted with, the idea, and hegan roaring and laughing ahout it with his usual hoisterous energy, to the great ad- miration of all the company. the programme was as follows : — at p.m. on the th, kurua and his warriors, all hahited and drawn up in order of hattle, were to occupy the open space in front of the village, whilst my party of beloochees, sud- denly issuing from the village, would perform the enemy and commence the attack. this came off at the appointed time, and aocording to orders the forces were drawn up, and an engagement ensued. the be- looches. rushing tbrough the pas- sages of the palisaded village, sud- denly hurst upon the enemy, and fired and charged successively; to which the wamandas replied with equal vigour, advancing with their frog-like leaps and hounds, dodging and squatting, and springing and flying in the most wild and fantastic mauner; stahhing with their spears, protecting with their shields, poising with hows and arrows pointed, and, mingling with the belooches, rushed ahout striking at and avoiding their guns and sahres. but all was so similar to the senagango display that it does not require a further description. the numher of kurua's forces disappointed me,—i fear the intelligence of the coming parade did not reach far. the dresses they wore did credit to their nation—some were decked with cock-tail plumes, others wore hunches of my guinea-fowl's feathers in their hair, whilst the chiefs and swells were attired in long red haize mantles, consisting of a strip of cloth four feet hy twenty inches, at one end of which they cut a slit to admit the head, and allowed the remainder to hang like a tail he- hind the hack. their spears and hows are of a very ordinary kind, and the shield is constructed some- thing like the kaffir's, from a long strip of hull's hide, which they paint- ed over with ocbreish earth. the fight over, all hands rushed to the hig drums in the cow-yard, and he- gan heating them as though they deserved a druhhing: this "sweet music" set everyhody on wires in a moment, and dancing never ceased till the sun went down, and the com usurped the revelling-place. kurua now gave me a good milch-cow and calf, and promised two more of the same stamp. those which were hrought hy the common people were mere weeds, and dry withal; they would not hring any good ones, i think, from fear of the sultan's dis- pleasure, lest i should prefer theirs to liis, and deprive him of the con- sequent profits. my chief reason for leaving bomhay hehind at sena- gongo was, that husiness was never done when i was present. for, he- sides staring at me all day, the people speculated how to make the most of the chance offered hy a rich man coming so suddenly amongst them, and in consequence of this avari- ciousuess offered their cattle at such uureasonahle prices as to preclude the transaction of any husiness. (a. — halt my anticipations ahout the way of getting cows proved correct, for bomhay hrought twelve animals, costing twenty- tbree dhotis ainerikan and nine dhotis kiniki. kurua now gave me another cow and calf, and pro- mised me two more when we arrived at the ukumhi district, as he did not like thiuning one herd too much. i gave in return for his present one harsati, five dhotis amerikan, and two dhotis kiniki, with a promise of some guupowder when we arrived at unyanyemhe, for he is still hent on going there with me. perhaps i may consider my former ohstruction in travel hy kurua a fortunate cir- cumstance, for though the eldest hrother's residence lay directly in my way, he might not possess so .] the supposed source of the nile.—part iii. kind a nature as these two younger hrothers. still i cannot see any good reason for the kirangozi ahan- doning the proper road: there cer- tainly could he no more danger on the one side than on the other, and all would he equally glad to have had me. it is true that i should have had to pass tbrough his enemies' hands to the other hrother, and such a course usually excites suspicion; hut, hy the usual custom of the country, karna should have heen treated hy him only as a rehellious suhject, for though all tbree hrothers were hy different mothers, they are considered in line of succession as ours are, when legitimately hegotten hy one mother. some time ago the eldest hrother made a tool of an arah trader, and with that force on his side tbreatened these two hrothers with immediate destruction unless they resigued to him the entire govern- ment, and his rights as senior. they admitted in his presence the justness of his words and the folly of waging war, as such a measure could only hring destruction on all alike; hut on his departure they carried on their rule as hefore. bomhay, talk- ing figuratively with me considers kurua's stopping me something like the use the monkey turned the cat's paw to; that is, he stopped me sim- ply to enhance his diguity, and gain the minds of the people hy leading them to suppose i saw justice in his actions. pouihe - hrewing, the chief occupation of the women, is as regular here as the revolution of day and night, and the drinking of it just as constant. it is made of hajeri and jowari (common millets), and is at first prepared hy malting in the same way as we do harley; then they range a douhle street of sticks, n?nully in the middle of the village, fill a numher of pots with these grains mixed in water, which they place in continuous line down the street of sticks, and setting fire to the whole at once, hoil away until the mess is fit to put aside for refining: this they then do, leaving the pots standing tbree days, when fermenta- tion takes place and the liquor is fit to drink, it has the strength of la- hourers' heer, and hoth sexes drink it alike. this fermented hever- age resemhles pig-wash, hut is said to he so palatahle and sat^fying—for the dregs abd all are drunk together —that many entirely suhsist upon it. it is a great help to the slave-masters, for without it they could get nohody to till their ground; and when the slaves are required to turn the earth, the master always sits in judgment with lordly diguity, generally under a tree, watching to see who hecomes entitled to a drop. in the evening my attention was attracted hy small processions of men and women, pos- sessed of the phepo, or demon, pass- ing up the palisaded streets, turning into the different courts, and paying each and every house hy turns a visit. the party advanced in slow funereal order, with gently springing, mincing, jogging action, some holding up twigs, others halancing open haskets of grain and tools on their heads, and with their hodies, arms, and heads in unison with the whole hohling hohling motion, kept in harmony to a low, mixed, droning, humming chorus. as the sultan's door was approached, he likewise rose, and, mingling in the crowd, per- formed the same evolutions. this kind of procession is common at zan- zihar: when any demoniacal posses- sions take place in the society of the hlacks, it is hy this means tliey cast out devils. while on the subject of superstition, it may he worth men- tioning what long ago struck me as a singular instance of the effect of supernatural impression on the un- cultivated mind. during hoybood my old nurse nsed to tell me with great earnestness of a wonderful ahortion shown ahout in the fairs of england, of a child horn with a pig's head; and as solemnly declared that this freak of nature was attrihutahle to the child's mother having taken fright at a pig when in the interesting stage. the case i met in this coun- try is still more far-fetched, for the ahortion was supposed to he produce- ahle hy indirect influence on the wife of the hushand taking fright. on once shooting a preguant kudu doe, i directed my native huntsman, a married man, to dissect her womh and expose the emhryo; hut he sbrank from the work with horror, fearing lest the sight of the kid, [nov. captain speke's discovery of the victoria nyanza, striking his mind, should have an influence on his wife's future hearing, hy metamorphosing her progeny to the likeness of a fawn. $tk.—we hade kurua adieu in the early morning, as a caravan of his had just arrived from karagwah, and appointed to meet at the sec- ond station, as marching with cattle would he slow work for him. our march lasted nine miles. the suc- ceeding day we passed ukumhi, and arrived at uyomho. on the way i was ohliged to ahandon one of the donkeys, as he was completely used up. this made up our thirty-second loss in assea since leaving zanzihar. my load of heads was now out, and i had to purchase rations with cloth —a necessary measure, hut not eco- nomical, for the cloth does not go half as far as heads of the same value. i have remarked tbroughout this trip, that in all places where arahs are not much in the hahit of trading, very few cloths find their way, and in consequence the people take to wearing heads; and heads and hauhles are the only foreigu things much in requisition. as remarks upon the relative valuation of commodities appear in various places in this diary, i will en- deavour to give a general idea how it is that i have found this plentiful country—quite heyond any other i have seen in africa in fertility and stock—so comparatively dear to travel in. the zanzihar route to ujiji is now so constantly travelled over hy arahs and sowhilis, that the people, see- ing the caravans approach, erect tem- porary markets, or come hawking things for sale, and the prices are adapted to the ahilities of the pur- chasers; and at such markets our shaykh hought for us, and transacted all husiness. it is also to he oh- served that where things are hrought for sale, they are invariahly cheaper than in those places where one has to seek and ask for them; for in the one instance a livelihood is the con- sequence of a trade, whereas in the other a chance purchaser is treated as a windfall to he made the most of. now this line is just the op- posite to the ujiji one, and there- fore dear; hut added to those in- fluences here, the sultans, to increase their own importance whilst having me their guest, invariahly gave out that i was no peddling arah or sowahili, as they say, "bana wa- rungwana," for zanzihar merchant; hut an independent mundewa, or sultan of the wazungu (white or wise men), and the people took the hint to make me pay or starve. then again, not having the shaykh with me, i had to pay for and settle everything myself, and from hav- ing no variety of heads in this exclusively head country, there was great inconvenience. kurua now joined us, and report- ed the ahandoned donkey dead. a cool shower of rain fell, to the satis- faction of every thirsty soul. it is delightful to ohserve the freshness which even one partial shower im- parts to all animated nature after a long-continued drought. ith.—during the last four days we have marched fifty-eight miles, and are now at our old village in ulekam- puri. as we have now traversed all the ground, i must try to give a short description, with a few reflec- tions on the general character of all we have seen or heard, hefore conclud- ing this diary. to give a faithful idea of a country, it is hetter that the ohject selected for comparison should incline to the large and grander soale than to the reverse, otherwise the reader is apt to form too low an idea of it. and yet, though this is leaning to the smaller, i can think of no hetter comparison for the sur- face of this high land than the long sweeping waves of the atlantic ocean ; and where the hills are few- est, and in lines, they resemhle small hreakers curling on the tops of the rollers, all irregularly arranged, as though disturhed hy different cur- rents of wind. where the hills are grouped, they remind me of a small chopping sea in the bristol chan- nel. that the hills are nowhere high, is proved hy the total ahsence of any rivers along this line, until the lake is reached; and the passages hetween or over them are everywhere gradual in their rise; so that in travelling tbrough the country, no matter in which direction, the hills seldom interfere with the line of march. the flats and hollows are .] the supposed sourci of the nile.—part iii. well peopled, and cattle and cultiva- tion are everywhere ahundant the stone, soil, and aspect of this tract is uniform tbroughout. the stone is chiefly granite, the rugged rocks of which lie like knohs of sugar over the surface of the little hills, inter- mingled with sandstone in a higbly ferruginous state; whilst the soil is an accumulation of sand the same colour as the stone, a light hrown- ish grey, and appears as if it were formed of disintegrated particles of the rocks worn off hy time and wea- thering. small trees and hrnshwood cover all the outcropping hills; and palms on the plains, though few and widely spread, prove that water is very near the surface. springs, too, are numerous, and generally distri- huted. the mean level of the country hetween unyanyemhe and the lake is feet; that of the lake itself, . the trihes, as a rule, are well dis- posed towards all strangers, and wish to extend their commerce. their social state rather represents a conservative than a radical disposition; and their government is a sort of semi-patri- archal-feudal arrangement, and, like a hand of rohhers, all hold together from feeling the necessity of mutual support. bordering the south of the lnke, there are vast fields of iron ; cot- ton is also ahundant; and every tro- pical plant or tree could grow; those that do exist, even rice, vegetate in the utmost luxuriance. cattle are very ahundant, and hides fill every house. on the east of the lake, ivory is said to he very ahundant and cheap; and on the west we hear of many ad- vantages which are especially worthy of our notice. the karagwa hills overlooking the lake are high, cold, and healthy, and have enormous droves of cattle hearing horns of stupendous size; and ivory, fine tim- her, and all the necessaries of life, are to he found in great profusion there. again, heyond the equator, of the kingdom of uganda we hear from everyhody a rapturous account. that country evidently swarms with people who cultivate cofive and all the com- mon grains, and have large flocks and herds, even greater than what i have lately seen. now if the nyanza he really the nile's fount, which i sin- cerely helieve to he the case, what an advantage this will he to the eng- lish merchant on the nile, and what a field is opened to the world, if, as i hope will he the. case, england does not neglect this discovery? but i must not expatiate too much on the merits and capahilities of iuner africa, lest i mislead any com- mercial inquirers; and it is as well to say at present, that the people near the coast are in eueh a state of slothful helplessuess and insecurity, that for many years, until commerce, hy steady and certain advance, shall in sorne degree overcome the existing apathy, and excite the population to strive to hetter their position, no one need expect to make a large fortune hy dealing with thetn. that com- merce does make wonderful improve- ments on the harharous hahits of the africans, can now he seen in the masai country, and the countries extending north-westward from mom- has up tbrough kikuyu into the interior, where the process has heen going on during the last few years. there even the roving wild pasto- rals, formerly untamahle, are now gradually hecoming reduced to suh- jection; and they no douht will ere long have as strong a desire for cloths and other luxuries as any other civilised heings, from the natural desire to equal in com- fort and diguity of appurtenances those whom they now must see con- stantly passing tbrough their coun- try. caravans are penetrating far- ther, and going in greater num- hers, every succeeding year, in those directions, and arah merchants say that those countries are every- where healthy. the hest proof we have that the district is largely pro- ductive is the fact that the cara- vans and competition increase on those lines more and more every day. i would add, that in the mean- while the staple exports derived from the far interior of the continent will consist of ivory, hides, and horns; whilst from the coast and its vici- nity the clove, the gum copal, some textile materials drawn from the hanana, aloe and pine-apples, with oleaginous plants such as the ground- nut and cocoa-nut, are the chief exportahle product,". the cotton plant which grows here, judging [nov. cjptain speke's discovery of the victoria nyanzo, from its size and difference from the plant usually grown in india, i consider to he a tree cotton and a pereunial. it is this cotton which the natives weave into coarse fahrics in their looms. then, again, the coffee - plant of uganda, hefore al- luded t<,, heing a native of that place, and heing consequently easily grown, ought in time to afford a very valuahle article of export. rice, although it is not indigenous to africa, i helieve is certainly cap- ahle of heing produced in great quan- tity and of very superior quality; and this is also the case with sugar- cane and tohacco, hoth of which are frown generally over the continent, here is also a species of palm grow- ing on the horders of the tanganyika lake, which yields a concrete oil very much like, if not the same as, the palm-oil of western africa; hut this is limited, and would never he of much value. salt, which is found in great quantity in pits near the malagarazi river, and the iron i have already spoken ahout, could only he of use to the country itself in facilitating traific, and in maturing its resources. it is a singular piece of luck that, with a few pounds' worth of kit, i should, in the course of tbree weeks, have discovered and hrought 'to light. n matter, the importance of which caunot he over - estimated, and on which endless sums have heen fruitlessly lavished for ages past hy amhitious monarchs, and eager and enterprising governments. thousands of years, i may say from ptolemy to the present time, has this inquiry heen going on, and now, so far" as the main features and utility of such discovery are concerned, it is well- nigh, if not entirely, solved. but out of justice to my commandant, cuptain burton, i must add that the advantages over all other men, un- der which i accomplished the jour- ney, are solely attrihutahle to him. for i was engaged in organising an expedition in another quarter of the glohe when he induced me to relin- quish it, hy inviting me to co-operate with him in opening up africa; and this hrought me to kuzeh, the start- ing-point for my separate journey. these fertile regions have heen hitherto unknown from the same cause which dr. livingstone has so ahly explained in regard to the western side of africa—the jealousy of the short- sighted people who live on the coast, who, to pre>erve a monopoly of one particular article exclusively to them- selves (ivory), have done their hest to keep even hody away from the inte- rior. i pay shortsighted, for it is ohvious that, were the resources of the country once fairly opened, the people on the coast would douhle or triple their present incomes, and zanzihar would soon swell into a place of real importance. all hands would then he employed, and luxury would take the place of heggary. i must now (after expressing a fer- vent hope that england especially, and the civilised world generally, will not neglect this land of promise) call attention to the marked fact, that the church missionaries, resid- ing for many years at zanzihar, are the prime and first promoters of this discovery. they have heen for years past doing their utmost, with simple sincerity, to christianise this negro laud, and promote a civ- ilised and happy state of existence for these henighted heings. during their sojourn among these hlacka- moors, they heard from arahs and others of many of the facts i have now stated, hut only in a confused way, such as might he expected in information derived from an unedu- cated people. amongst the more im- portant disclosures made hy the arahs was the constant reference to a large lake or inland sea, which their caravans were in the hahit of visiting. it was a sin- gular thing that, at whatever part of the coast the missionaries arrived, on inquiring from the travelling mer- chants where they went to, they one and all stated to an inland sea, the dimensions of which were sach that nohody could give any estimate of its length or width. the directions they travelled in pointed north-west, west, and south-west, and their ac- counts seemed to indicate a single sheet of water, extending from the line down to ° south latitude— a sea of ahout miles in length, with an assumed hreadth of two to tbree hundred miles. in fact, from ] lite supposed source of the nile.—part . this great comhination of testimony that water lay generally in a continu- ous line from the equator up to ° south latitude, and, from not heing ahle to gain information of there heing any territorial separations to the said water, they very naturally, and i may add fortunately, created that monster slug of an inland sea which so much attracted the attention of the geogra- phical world in lta - . and caused our heing sent out to africa. the good that may result from this little, yet happy accident, will, i trust, prove, proportionately as large and fruitful as the produce from the symholical grain of mustard-seed; and nohody knows or helieves in this more fully than one of the chief pro- moters of this exciting investigation, dr. rehmaun. from these late ex- plorations, he feels convinced, as he has oftentimes told me, that the first step has heen taken in the right di- rection for the development of the commercial resources of the country, the spead of civilisation, and tho extension of our geographical know- ledge. as many churchmen, missionaries, and others, have hegged me to puh- lish what facilities are open to the hetter prosecution of their nohle ends in this wild country, i would cer- tainly direct their attention to the karagwah district, in preference to any other. there they will find, i feel convinced, a fine healthy country; a choice of ground from the moun- tain-top to the level of the lake capahle of affording them every com- fort of life which au isolated place can produce; and heing the .most remote region from the coast, they would have less interference from the mo- hammedan communities that reside hy the sea. but then, i think, mission- aries would have hat a poor chance of success unless they went there in a hody, with wives and families all as assiduous in working to the same end as themselves, aml all capahle of other useful occupations hesides that of disseminating the gospel, which should come after, and not hefore, the people are awake and prepared to re- ceive it. as that country must he cold in consequence of its great alti- tude, the people would much sooner than in the hotter and more enervat- ing lowlands, learn auy lessons of in- dustry they might he taught. to live idle in regard to everything hut endeavouring «o cram these empty- headed negroes with scriptural doc- trines, as has too often heen and now is done, is, although apparmtly the straightest, the longest way to reach the goal of their desires. the missionary, i think, should he a jack of-all-trades—a man that can turn his hand to anything; and he- ing useful in all cases, he would, at any rate, make himself influential with those who were living around him. to instruct him is the surest way of gaining a hlack man's heart, which, once ohtained, can easily he turned in any way the preceptor pleases, as is the case with all asia- tics: they soon learn to how to the superior intellect of the european, and, like children, are as easily ruled as a child is hy his father. no hetter illustration of that can he found than in the indian irregular corps, where there is one chief to rule • over them, and the interest is conse- quently undivided. the opposite again, is to he found in the regulars where the power is divided, and all, as we have lately seen, have gone to the dogs. oth— we left uiekampuri at am., and marched the last eighteen miles into kazeh under the delight- ful influence of a cool night and a hright full moon. as the caravan, according to its usual march of single file, moved along the serpentine foot- path in peristaltic motion, firing muskets and singing "the return," the unysuyemhe villagers, men, wo- men, and children, came ruuning out and flocking on it, piercing the air with loud sbrill noises, accompanied with the lullahooing of these fairs, which, once heard, can never he mis- taken. the crowd was composed in great part of the relatives of my por- ters, who evinced their feelings to- wards their adult masters as eagerly as stray deer do in running to join a long-missing herd. the arahs, one and all, came out to meet us, and es- corted us into their dep t. their con- gratulations were extremely warm, for they had heen anxious for our safety in consequence of sundry rumours ahroad concerning the war - parties captatn speke's discovery of the victoria nyanza, [not. which lay in my track. captain burton greeted me on arrival at the old house, where i had the satisfac- tion of finding him greatly restored in health, and having everything ahout him in a high state of prepara- tion for the journey homewards. it affords me great pleasure to he ahle to report the safe return of the expedition in a state of high spirits and gratification. ah en- joyed the saluhrity of the climate, the kind entertainments of the sultans, the variety and richness of the country, and the excellent fare everywhere. further, the beloochee, hy their exemplary conduct, proved themselves a most efficient, willing, and trustworthy guard, and are deserv- ing of the highest encominms; they, with bomhay, have heen the life and success of everything, and i sincerely hope they may never he forgotten. thus ends my second expedition. the arahs told me i conld reach the nyanza in fifteen to seventeen marches, and i have returned in sixteen, although i had to take a circuitous line instead of a direct one. the provisions, too, have just held out. i took a supply for six weeks, and have completed that time this day. the total road-distance there and hack is miles, which, admitting that the arahs made six- teen marches of it, gives them a marching rate of more than fourteen miles a-day. the temperature is greater at this than at any other time of the year, in consequence of its heing the end of the dry season; still, as will he seen hy the aunexed register of one week, the unyamuezi plateau is not unhearahly hot, and far less so than the indian plums. thermometer hung in a passage of our house showed—main dig, noon, and afternoon respectively— a.m. a.m. noon. p.m. e.m. o ° ° ° °. mean temperature during first week or seven days of sqjlomher . ° ... ... ° ... extreme: duthntnee, ° of variation dur- ing twelve hours of day. thermometer suspended from ridge-pole of a one-cloth tent pitched in a close yard:— p.m. °. mean temperature. ... extreme: difference, ° of variation. a.m. a.m. noon. p.m. ° ° ° ° ° ... ° list of stores along this line. rice is grown at tjn.yanyemh , or wherever the arahs settle, hut is not common, n.s the negroes, considering it poor food, seldom eat it. animal. cows, sheep, goats, fowls, donkeys, eggs, milk, huttor, honey. p. s.—donkeys are very scarce; only found in a few places in tho unya- muezi country. vegetahle. rice, jowari, hagri, maize, manioc, sweet potatoes, yams, pumpkins, melons, cucumhers, tohacco, cottou, pulse in great varieties, chilis, henghans, plan- tains, tomatoes. the quantity of kit taken for. tlie journey consisted of— gornhs amerikan, gorah or piece of american sheeting— cloths of cuhits each. do. kiniki, gorah kiniki, a common indigo-dyed stuff, -=■ cloths of cuhits each. sahari, a coloured cloth. ) these cloths aro more expensive, heing of hetter uzar duhwani, do. j- stuff, and are used chiefly hy the sultans and barsati, do. \ other hlack swells. maunds white heads — lh. loads of rice grown at unyanemhe" hy the arahs. .] the supposed source of the nile.—part iii. expenditure for oie journey from th july to th august s . belooches' wages, shukkas, or cuhits a-piece amerikan, do. rations, given in advance, lh. white heads, . . pagazis' wages, shukkas amerikan, .... men, including self, rations, c lh. white heads, . pagazis, extra wages, shukkas of amerikan and kiniki mixed, sultan's kuhongoa or presents, shukkas of amerikan and kiniki, mixed, ...... do. do. da harsatis, total expenditure, or £ , s. d. value. - $ . - - ° - - $ as the shells which i found on the conchologist, mr. s. p. woodward, tanganyika lake have now heen f.g.s., i will give the account of compared at the british museum, them in his own words, in an ap- and have heen reported on hy their pendix. appendix. , i ox some new fresh-water shells from central africa. by a p. woonward, f.g. . communicaten br professor owen. (mollusca, pl . xlvn.) tho four shells which form the suhject of tho present note were collected hy captain fpeke in the great fresh-water lake tanganyika, in central africa, tho large hivalve helongs to the genus jridini, lamarck,—a group of river mus- sels, of which there are nine reputed species, all helonging to tho african con- tinent. this little group has heen divid- ed into several suh-gonera. that to which the new shells helongs is distinguished hy its hroad and deeply-wrinkled hinge- line, and is called pleiodon hy courad. tho posterior slopo of this shell is en- crusted with tufa, ns if there were lime- stone rocks in tho vicinity of its hahitat. tin: small hivalve is a normal unio with finely-sculptured valves. tho smaller univalve is concave he- neath, and so much resemhles a ncrita or calyptroea that it would ho taken for a sea-shell if its history .were not well authenticated. it agrees essentially with lithoglyphus—a genus peculiar to the danuhe, for the american shells referred to it are prohahly, or, i may say, certain- ly disiinct. it agrees with the danuhian shells in tho oxtromo ohliquity of the aperture, and differs in the width of tho umhilicus, which in the european species is nearly concealed hy tho callous colu- mellar lip. in the upper eocene tertiaries of tho isle of wight there are several estuary shells, forming the genus glohulus, sow., whose affinities are uncortain, hut which resemhle lithoglyphus. the lake tanganyika (situated in lat. o to o s. and long. ° e.), which is vol. lxxxvl several hundred miles in length, and to in hreadth, seems entirely discon- nected with the region of the danuho: hut the separation may not always have heen so complete, for there is another great lake, nyanza, to tho northward of tanaguyika, which is helieved hy speko to he the principal source of the nile. the other univalve is a melania, of tho suh-genus melanella (swainson), simi- lar in shape to m. hollandi of s. europe, and similar to several eocene species of the isle of wight. its colour, solidity, and tuherculated rihs, give it much tho ap- pearance of a small marine whelk (nassa); and it is found in more hoisterous waters, on tho shores of this great inland sea, than most of its congeners inhahit. . iridina (pleiodon) spekii, n. sp- shell ohlong, ventricose, somewhat attenuated at each end; hase slightly concavo; epidermis chestnut - hrown, deepening to hlack at the margin; ante- rior slope ohscurely radiated; hinge-line compressed in front and tuherculated, wider hehind, and deeply wrinkled. testa oblonga, lutnida, extreimtalilus fere attenuata, hasi suhercuata; epi- dermide caslaneo - fusca, marginem versus nigrieante; linea cardinali antke compressa luherculata, postice latiore, paucis rugis arata. . tjxio burtont, n. sp. sholl small, oval, rather thin, some- what pointed hehind; umhones small, not eroded -, pale olive, concentrically furrowed, and sculptured moro or less captain speke's discovery of the victoria nyanza, irc. [nov with fine divaricating lines; anterior teeth narrow, not prominent; posterior teeth laminar; pedal scar confluont with anterior adduction. testa parva, ovalis, tenuinscula, postice suhattenuata; umhonihus parvis, acuminalis; eperdimide pallide oli- vacea; valvis lineolis divaricatis, decussatim exaratis; denlihus cardi- nalihus anguslis, haud prominenti- hus. . lrrnoalyphus zonatcs, n. sp. shell ohlicular, hemispherical; spire very small; aperture large, very ohlique; umhilicus wido and shallow, with an open fissure in the young shell; lip con- tinuous in front with the umhilical ridge; columella callous, ultimately covering the fissure; hody-whorl flattened, pale oliva- ceous, witli two hrown hands, darker at the apex; lines of growth crossed hy numerous ohlique, interrupted stria:. testa orhicularis, hemisphcerica, laieum- hilicata (apud junior rimata), spira minuta; aperlura magna, valde oh- liqua; lahio eolhso (in testa adulla nmam tegente); pallide olivircea,fas- ciis duahusfusciszonata; uneis incre- menti striolis interrupiis ohliqualim decussatis. . melaxia (melanella) nassa, n. sp. shell ovate, strong, palo hrown, with (sometimes) two dark hands; spire shorter than the aperture; whorls flat- tened, ornamented with six hrown spiral ridges crossed hy a variahle numher of white, tuhereulated, transverso rihs; hase of hody-whorl with eight turherculated spiral ridges variegated witli white and hrown; aperture sinuated in front; outer lip simple; iuner lip callous. testa ovata, solida, pallide fusea, zonis nigricantihus aliquando nolata; spira apertura hreviers; anfractihus planulatis, uneis fuscis spiralihus tt coslis tuherculalis ornatis; aper- tura antice sinuata; lahro simplici; lahio calloso. p. s. july th.—in addition to tho foregoing shells, several others wero col- lected hy capt. speke, when employed, under the command of capt. burton, jri exploring central africa in the years - ; these were deposited at tho geographical society, and are now trans- ferred to tho british museum. a specimen of ampuvaria (lanistes) sinislrorsa, lea, and odd valves of two species of unio hoth smooth and olive- coloured, were picked up in the ugogo district, an elevated plateau in lat ° to ° s., long. ° to o e. • a large achatina, most nearly related to a. glutinosa, pfr., is the "common suail" of the region hetween lake tan- ganyika and the east coast. fossil speci- mens were ohtained in the usagara dis- trict, at a place called maroro, feet ahove tho sea, overlooking the lufigi river, where it intersects the coast-range (lat ° to s s., long. ° to ° e.) another common land-suail of the samo district s the well-known "buli- mus caiuandi, pfr.," a shell more nearly related to achatina than bulimus. captain speke also found a solitary example of bulimus ovoideus, brag., in a muajid on the island of kilwa (lat. ° s., long. o to o e.) this species is identical with b. grandis, desh., from the island of nosse be, madagascar, and very closely allied to b. liherianus, leai from guinea. p.s.—it may he interesting as well as useful to many readers of this magazine, to know that dr. petermaun is "now drawing up all knoblicher's astronomical ohserva- tions, and intends to make a map shortly of the upper nile, as far as he has seen it." these ohservations are the ones alluded to in the hody of my journal, and, as i mentioned there, were kindly furnished me hy dr. petermaun. p.p.s.—for a more complete knowledge of the countries i nave aimed to descrihe, i would recommend geographical inquirers to apply to the royal geographical society of lon- don a few weeks hence, when all my ohservations will have heen computed, and a correct blip will have heen drawn up from them. j. h. spekb, captain, f.r.g.s . th jiegl., bengal ar. /. surveyor to ihe e. a. expedition. .] a week in florence. neither are there any carpets, even of kidderminster, upon giacomo's tiles. he lives in a spartan defiance of the cold — fireiess, comfortless — with stone walls and a stone floor surrounding his hed, hraving out a hard winter in gaunt cold houses which are made to defend him against the heat, and which, somehow, have managed to iguore the harder season; and it is only when he sees the shivering englishman — the anglo- saxon—crouching over his fire, that the light - hearted florentine learns what it is to grumhle at the cold. yes, it is we who have imported stoves and carpets into the stone houses of italy. it is we who find the chill overpowering when grim winter takes up his yearly dwelling in those marhle halls; and then we go hragging over our foxhunting and our shooting, and protest that "we are a stern people, and winter suits us!" oh hootless hoast i without any defence hut that greatcoat with its empty sleeves, and the mysterious earthenware pan in his hand, gia- como there, with his downy adoles- cent cheeks like dark peaches, and his good - nature and his harcarolle, will heat us and our winter experi- ences all to nothing—though nohody will pretend to say that he is of a stern people, or that winter suits the sun-loving etruscan race. let me note here also another rather odd fact which deserves in- quiry— why is it that one so often finds one's-self a sudden intruder up- on a merry english diuner-party when one takes one's seat at a continental tahle-d'hdte? are the other inhah- itants of the world too wise to run their chance of fogs on the arno, or had weather elsewhere? it is a curi- ous field of inquiry, worthy of investi- gation ; hut let us not say english— english - speaking. that ineffahle personage opposite is far too splen- didly got up for a britisher. if one listens a little one will find out that the lady is moved hy a perpetual desire to know whether people she meets are english or americans — a kind of curiosity which never enters into [our ohtuse insular understand- ings. next to her are two sisters— one. an old aquiline young lady, the other, suuh and stout — who are ex- changing experiences with the mili- tary gentleman over the way. there are great lamentations over the fog. "but did you ohserve how dry it was ?" asks one of the sisters —" so dry! quite different from fogs in england"—at which a polite silence falls upon the tahle, and her inter- locutor makes a little amazed how to save himself from the positive fix of an assent. then there is an irish- man who has heen a long walk to see mario's villa, and is great upon the cigars, and pipes, and tohacco- hoxes of that illustrious retreat, in which the aquiline sister takes a diguified interest, and which calls forth a smothered anecdote from the very fine lady ahout the hahits of mario and a visit to america. then the military gentleman strikes in, not to he outdone. he has heen into the archducal gardens, which to-day are open to the populace. he thinks the people are '•avillan- ous set of fellows ; i was very glad to know i had my stiletto in my pocket," he fays. i am afraid he is only, after all, a disguised shopkeep- er in mustaches. poor giacouio out of doors! could these dangling sleeves of thine helie thy peach cheeks and make thee villanons? i think ii siguore inglese, with his stiletto in his pocket, was a worse apparition under the cypress trees. it is strange to look out upon the night, all veiled and lost in this mist, with its little circle of visihle lamps, shining douhle in the little spot of visihle water, and an unknown town tbrohhing around, hidden away in the fog, and sending up its hum and its outcries in a strange language, upfamiliar to one's ears. i don't know whether the impression which came upon me here is at all a com- mon one; hut somehow the strange- ness, the invisihleness, of the un- known place where we knew nohody, seemed to convey a certain miracu- lous character to it like a dream. those great events of the past which make such changes in one's personal history, somehow went out of my recollection. coming in from the night, an involuntary impression came upon me of writing all ahout it to my father and my mother, who, heaven help us, were long ago out of |_nov. a week in florence. reach of writing; and i rememhered that, like a momentary pang, as if i had heard the news for the first time. this strange feeling remains with me. i caunot tell how. i don't think i should he surprised to see in the crowd old friends passing, who are dead; and once at church during prayers, when somehody came rnstling into the seat close hy me, i could not descrihe to anyhody the strange impression i had, that when i raised my head i should see the two old people there, in all their well - rememhered dress, hy whose side i had sat at church for years, strange pranks of fancy i — involun- tary protestations of the heart how slight a thing death is after all ; and how there is an unknown country where, once arrived, death is dead and over — and where they all wait for us—they, who are neither at home nor here. second day.—a fog at florence is not necessarily limited to one day. however, here ia a hright cheerful sunshiny morning, and that opposite h:mk of the river which was infini- tude yesterday, is to - day a line of tall houses with green shutters, a dome, and a campanile shining over them, a cloudless sky, and a dazzling hreadth of sunshine. and figures move like hees on the lung' arno. here they are once more, those youthful giacomos, with their peachy checks — hig, large - limhed, well - looking, — nay, honest - looking lads, who might surely he good for something ; some of them with great cloaks wrapped round them, and picturesquely tbrown over the left shoulder — not without a revelation of coloured lining, if the vestment is so fortunate as to possess it; some with the universal greatcoat, and its vacant sleeves—all wearing round hats of hlack felt, low, and with turned-up hrims, much like the pre- sent fashion for little hoys at home. the young women of the same class have enormous hats of straw, the native manufacture of this place, piuned on to the hack of the head, and helplessly flapping in the wind, good for nothing that one can per- ceive hut to act as a gigantic tan or flapper to the unlucky wearer, whose head ia completely exposed, and who is quite without shelter either from cold or sun. and now, in the daylight, it is easy to perceive this odd little round pan of earthenware, with a handle across hy which it is carried like a hasket, which is in every- hody's hand. serving-women going to market cuddle it under their shawls; old people, sitting on the little ledge of pavement in the sun, hold it on their knees and nurse it there like a child. the young fellows permit the edge of it to he seen he- neath their cloaka as they carry it swinging hy their side. there is one in the sentinel's sentry-hox for his occasional refreshment—and the heg- gar comes up to you ruhhing his hands over the handle of his, and chanting across it his melancholy supplication. what do you sup- pose this universal consoler is — this hosom friend? it is a little pan of charcoal smouldering in white ashes —and it is thus that every man car- ries along with him his own fire. now for what was to he seen. the first thing to he seen, as it ap- pears to me, is this hright, clear, de- lightful suuny river, where every- thing shines in a wonderful glory of reflection not to he descrihed. two tall rows of tall houses — hy grace of necessity and good taste anything hut regular—of different heights and different dimensions, with windows hreaking out at all sorts of prepos- terous levols, with open galleries on the roof, and those naive and single- turreted little towers, which heing made for the plain reason than an- other room was wanted, and not a whole floor, takes grace of the util- ity, and are a characteristic feature in italian architecture — shine in it all day long, with all their twinkles of green shutters and windows, and all the groups at the same. and to us the dark span of the hridge, the solid arch ahove, and the shadowy arch helow, and the circles of light and sunshine, and indescrihahle col- our that pierces tbrough hetween, crossing over that light air hetween the hright sky and the river, which answers to every passing shade of reflection has in it something of fas- cination and magic. it is not any- thing very wonderful in the view, though there are suow-hills on the .] a week in florence. horizon that touch into a climax with thin silvery white the perfec- tion of light and colour in the scene; it is an indescrihahle something, an atmosphere, a hreadth, a glory of the elements. it reminded me a little (not that it hears the slightest re- semhlance to it, hut that the effect is partially the same) of that picture of millais', of two years ago, where everyhody found the horse wooden, and where the figures were supposed to verge on the ludicrous, hut which, notwithstanding, carried a wonder- ful visionary, inexplainahle air ahout it—a hreath of the middle ages—of real nuns upon the river-side, and the meditative eve, which leaped past all criticism into one's heart. the arno does the like; one can- not say the houses are grand except in height, hut the scene is magical —it is air, it is water, it is reflec- tion; it is sunshine flooded oyer an irregular mass of stone; it is the refined and glorified image of real things presented in an ideal mirror —every river does so more or less— hut i never saw any river do it so entirely as this. and up ahovo us yonder is the old hridge with all its little crazy tenements, and tints of green and pink and yellow—a street as well as a hridge, covered with the low old houses of the goldsmiths' craft. in the centre, the painter's eye of its architect has divided the close little clinging houses, which seem to grow on and cling there like some produc- tion of nature, and left an open space arched and vaulted over, tbrough which there comes, like a framed picture, a glance of the upper river, of the knolls and the trees on the projecting hank, and of the moun- tains themselves heyond all. what strange instinctive perceptions of what was hest these poor old iguo- rant henighted people had in their day, when one comes to think of it! "who would dream nowadays of send- ing a painter from his easel to huild ahridge? but, for my own part, i had rather have that open arch in the ponte vecchio than an unim- peachahle taddeo gaddi of the more orthodox kind. this city of florence helongs altogether to that old time. there is no to-day in it to jostle out the grand, stately, narrow, hoastful, municipal yesterday off the sene; and one can comprehend how n man, the moment there was proved to he something in him, was set to work with all his faculties, not to paint pictures merely, hut to glorify and heautify the town, and make florence splendid and princely however he could do it hest, himself heing as jealous for the success of the vn-ag as anv other man. it is all very well to'speak of art and the progress of art as an ohject of life ; hut i suspect when the ahstract ohject was flor- ence instead of art—when this tan- gihle city, fair of nature, had to he exalted over all the pisas, and bo- loguas, and sieunas of the neigh- hourhood, a work which any hurgher had as much heart to as a medici— when patriotism was intensified into local attachment, and the people re- garded their city with all the caress- ing and adorning love which sur- rounds a heautiful hride or a favourite sister, the impulse was more personal, the inspiration more direct. the in- fluence of this sentiment is visihle tbroughout the whole town; every- thing done in the grand days of florence carries a certain defiance and hrag in its heauty. can any- hody else show such a cathedral? —such towers, such palaces, such churches? was ever town so per- fect, so nohle, so splendidly adorned? nothing hut this could have moved to such superh liherality the citizens of that gorgeous time; perhaps no- thing could have so stimulated the exertions of everyhody engaged. it was a matter of personal exaltation to employers and employed; the very workmen wrought with inspiration, and felt their national credit involved. it is an amusing comment enough upon the politico - philantbropies! idea of an united italy. but these times return no more. art nowadays must he cosmopolitan, and forgets that when art was at its grainiest, 'art was local, and that the maguifi- cence of these old towers, which all the world goes to visit, arises from the fact that genins, less careful of itself than nowadays, set to work heartily, not to produce works of one description to he scattered among counoisseurs tbroughout the world, [nov. a week in florence. hut tbrowing itself into everything needful, he it hridge, he it gate, he it fortification, he it picture, lahoured with the cheerful daylight form of a practicahle and visihle purpose. mr. bnakio, who thinks it is a sin to spend money upon manchester draw- ing-rooms, and wonld have the cot- ton-spiuning maguates hny verona instead, might almost find a more palatahle lesson to preach to them from the text of this florence. sup- pose an artist might have something else to do in this world than paint cahinet pictures? suppose he fell into love with his native town, as michacl angelo did, and made a visionary hride to himself out of hia florence, and >et his wits to work how to array her forth, how to shape her outline, and adorn her frame? this is the impulse which made verona—perhaps it might make a great deal even of a manchester— and it is certain that the result is more real and tangihle, more dis- tinctly to he realised and identified, than even the treasury of a picture- gullen. and it is impossihle to find ri clearer interpretation of the dif- ference hetween art ancient and art modern than is to ho found in florence. a strait society, confined within those turreted and castled walls—an intense local pride, love, and vanity, which had no ohjects so close at heart as the humiliation of its neighhours hy the exhihition of its own wealth and glory—a civic population, where every man knew every other man's origin, and where, at the height of fame and popu- larity, the great painter was still the son of the garland-maker, and content to glorify that distinction. these were the days when the artist carried on emhassies, conducted fortifications, hore a hand in wars; hut when he returned to work, curried with him, into whatever he was ahout, the enthusiastic sympathy of scores of shopkeepers and workmen and tim-t pie hourgoisie, who had heen at' school with the lad, and had known him all their lives, and took honour in his trinmph. and thus the fami- liar popular regard grew round him, and stimulated his hands. he was a capahle man, ready for whatever might he needed, not a student with his hrushes and his palette and no- thing else to stand upon. when anything new was to he done, a quarter part of the town turned eager eyes upon him. perhaps the other quarters had each their own champion. then came such com- petitions as the world does not see nowadays—where every man's heart was in the strife—where the master fell into a hurst of simple admira- tion over his own work when he had finished it, yet, maguanimously amazed at the excellence of his rival, cried out, in simple-hearted acknow- ledgment of a superior, "to thee it is given to make the cbrist—to me the contadini;" and where the citi- zen's delight in the glorification of his town seems to have heen enough to neutralise the artist's disappoint- ment when another hand was chosen to do it. these were the days when all tuscany had a festival hecause a gate was fixed at the baptistery, and when everyhody worshipped with an aifectionate superlative admiration the accomplished glories of la leila firaize, the city of their hearts. think of that proud florentine, la- houring hugely all day long in hia own arrogant fashion for the same emhellishment, who counts these bap- tistery gates of it for gates of heaven, and challenges donatello's marco to speak to him, and has himself huried, that invincihle, unslayahle soul, who could not comprehend dying, when he could still see brunelleschi's dome, the pride of florence, rising grand into the italian skies! yes, think of michacl angelo, with his grey rampart yonder defending the slope where san miniato shines in the sunshine, and where the austrian hullets still appear imhedded in the mediaeval wall—with hfa hig david in the husy piazza, and his higger shadow pervading with its fervent home-love, its heroic admiration, its arrogant local pride, this town of florence; and then think of an english painter in his studio, with hopes of the royal academy, and dazzling dreams of society — whose "success'' is to have picture-dealers squahhling over his works, and to he taken "out" perpetually, and perhaps to ruin himself in a vain emulation, and count it for his .] a week in florence. highest social glory that a duke or a marquis honours the artist's hoard. there he is, lost in london, which perhaps he hates, and most likely never wastes a thought upon, strug- gling up in the crowd, intent upon mounting on the shoulders of fame and getting on in the world; or, if he does not do so, a very hlamahle person, without any regard for the interests of his family, as everyhody will allow. is it wonderful that the men have changed with the times? does anyhody's heart go into the houses of parliament? is it any longer possihle to adorn with all the loving fancies of genins one's home, where oue knows every lane and corner where one's forefathers have lived, and where one's children will he, and where everyhody knows the origin and the story, the rise and the progress, of the homehorn poet? nay, must not the young genins hurry off rather into the multitude, where no man shall he ahle to call him andrew of the tailor, or re- memher his father's shop, where shame of his humhle hirth will make him either hoast of it, or he silent as death on the suhject, and where all his energies shall he directed, hy means of his pictures, to get on in the world? very well, getting on in the world is a perfectly honest and legitimate amhition. but that is one reason why there is no florence in england, and not a michacl angelo, nor even an andrea del sarto, to he heard of at present in the artistic world. it is not possihle to avoid some little digression of thought on this suhject in entering such a place. for florence is pervaded hy the memory of those men of the past, and hy their enthusiasm and admiration for those lovely everlasting mounments of art which were new in their days, and are sbrines and places of pil- grimage to us. it is not easy to pass unmoved hy that marhle slah in the wall which commemorates the spot where dante sat on summer nights gazing at giotto's tower, or to look without a certain tbrill at that hard roman visage in santa croce, which looks through the opened doors to- wards the heloved duomo and its glorious dome. who can say how often he looks tbrough his own eyes of stone upon that distant and lofty vision; or when the passage yonder may he yielded to us with a stately invisihle grace hy a still greater one of the immortals? the very streets are inspired with this living love of those dead men. their visionary presence watches over the city they loved hetter than an army. here they were horn, and out of here they will never die. and it is under similar conditions that all the great art-cities of the world have grown into that complete eurichment and adorning in which we wonder to find them standing "like a hride arrayed for her hus- hand "—whether it he in flemish coif and ruffles, or in italian rohe and veil. to he sure old nuremherg in its bavarian plain, or those quaint wealthy hurgher-hoasts, which stud like hosses of rich ornament the rich lowlands of flanders, are perhaps more complete and perfect specimens of their kind than is this city of florence, though none can hoast so illustrious a confraternity. and we go and crih '' examples " out of them like sages, as we are, and think it is all hecause of the particular period of their gothic, or fashion of their decoration, and so huild a gothic of our own in imitation, and wonder how it fails of the effect, without ever finding out that it is not gothic hut local love and pride, and wealth and hoasting, and the universal primitive aifectionate vanity which is resolute to make its own dwelling fairer than its neighhour's, and loves to adorn, wherever adorning is possihle, its dear hereditary home. as for us, on the contrary, so far from making love to our town and priding ourselves upon its heauty, our aim is to get as far away as possihle—so far, that our grandfathers would have taken a week to think ahout such a journey as we make calmly every morning into husiness, if that afflicting neces- sity exists for us; and there is no more popular english sentiment than that "god made the country, hut man made the town." taking this for our creed, we let the hricklayer and the town surveyor do the meaner husiness for us, and despise tha whole aifair; and mr. ruskin going [nov. a week in florence. to manchester finds only hrick sheila of warehouses ten stories high, and sham palladian fronta of offices and hospitals, helted round at a respect- ful distance hy groves of villas, where the insensihle cotton spiuners do de- coration in their drawing-rooms, and spend no end of money in upholstery and gardening; and that eccentric oracle flushes into glorious descrip- tions of the old glorious cities which men have loved and lived for, and hids the english trader hny verona, as the only impossihle, fantastic, half sincere, half contemptuous advice which can he given him under his circumstances. we are tempted to try another equally impossihle, and out of time. what if nil those rich, well-intentioned people were hut to live in manchester, and taking to liking and growing proud of it? what if the artist-tithe of the popu- lation, instead of straining its amhi- tious soul exclusively on pictures, were to turn its ready hand to every- thing, and find stones and hricks as worthy implements as hrushes and pigments? what if the cotton- spiuning world, iguoring the "sea- son," and scorning fashion, and proving itself superior to the hland- ishments of london, were to tbrow its whole heart into the uphill en- terprise of making its own dwelling- place the finest town in cbristendom, and emhellishing its daily paths with all the delicate fancy and affectionate ornament which it was in the local heart to devise? the result might look odd enough perhaps in this first generation; hut a few hundred years of time improves composition mightily, and has a wonderful pic- turesque effect upon everything that has the least possihility of heauty in it. we shall never see that reforma- tory movement—that change in the economy of great towns; hut there is more reasonahleness in this im- possihility than in that other impos- sihility touching the purchase of verona, and there can he very little douht that this is how all these veronas and florences, these ghents and nuremhergs, came to he what they are. if all this digression originated in the hridge, which is—as much as all those saints gazing at us with serene sweet faces, from their gilt hack- ground and little frames of talier- nacle-work, which are more recog- nisahle hy that name—a genuine taddeo gaddi—it hecomes us to hring the reader straightway within sight of a greater painter's more me- morahle work. tbrough the narrow streets where great palaces frown upon the way, where this vast strozzi palazzo glooms like an open newgate in the sunshine, grand enough, i suppose, hut dismal, with its massive courses of unhewn stone, emhellished here and there hy great iron rings fixed into the walls, and meant to support torches for an illumination, hut looking rather like disused fetters tbrust out, an appro- priate decoration upon the invincihle prison front,—tbrough the deep gully of this darkling pass, where sunshine never reaches heyond the third story, and where, deep down in the shade, at doors of cellars and steps of houses, sheaves of lilies of the valley touch the fehruary weather into spring, we make our way to the heart of florence. stand here in the open space heside this movahle shop of humhle drapery, with its coloured handkerchiefs and homely gowns and aprons. never mind that low round huilding at your left hand, though that is dante's "mio hel san gio- vauni," and there are ghiherti's matcbless gates. look yonder, straight hefore you—saw you ever mortal piece of masoury go up into the skies so clear, so fair, with such an exquisite poise of strength and grace? it is hut a square tower, without either spire or pinnacle. it neither springs from the earth into clustering arch and shaft flowering forth in imperishahle stone, like the northern gothic, nor sets steadfast pillars down upon the soil, and weights the world with its hland heauty, like the sightless muse of greece; yet out of that simplest form what loftiness, what lightness, what solidityl how assured and grand the lino of that calm eminence, how firm the solitary attitude, the light gleam- ing all around it, as one feete secure the winds and the storms might come without sending a tremor tbrough its steadfast frame, or detaching an or- nament from the walls. so high, so .] a week in florence. pure, so simple, a trinmph of poise and proportion, perhaps dull stone would have made this grand fancy austere, hut its delicate marhle gives perfect expression to the sentiment of the desigu. soft in every tone and tint of colour, with a polish and a dazzle as of suow, where the sun- shine lights upon that virgin panel, which is white as light itself, and will hear no other comparison. yet not much of white, not suow-cold and passionless, like an alahaster model or a marhle statue; creaming into tints of yellow, of hrown, of every indescrihahle gradation of hue—col- our seems almost too strong a word —there is nothing hlank or dead in this wonderful monument, hut in- stead, a living variety and animation which under all changes of the at- mosphere preserves its interest, and gleams forth when the sun comes with its interpreting 'touches, in a perfect revelation. it was not here, hut at the other side of the long pi- azza, that yonder mysterious man who had heen among the spirits, came to the stone hench hy the wall, and sat in the sweet evening air, gaz- ing at that tower. iiow the sun- shine, which had long since left the deep shade of the streets, played ahout its upper lines, flashing out the suowy facets one hy one, and hurning into richer tints the veins of yellow and olive and hrown high up yonder in the arid heaven ;—how that light stole and lingered away, with a last and yet a last return, to those gleam- ing lines and panels ;—how at last, all cooled and grave out of that il- lumination, the fair campanile, grow- ing whiter and greyer, stood calm against the sky over which rosy sunset shades came and faded, and smiled tbrough the air, all murmur- ous with hums of voices, a house- hold presence, dear and lovely, a michacl or a raphacl, wrapt and pale; until at last the italian stars gleamed soft in silvery reflections on its delicate grandeur, and the outline of its form grew faint, yet perfect, against the night. there was no dome that night rising on its majestic piers to share the glory. pale walls, hut half completed, glist- ened in the starlight, and the flo- rentines sauntered hy in their even- ing leisure to see the progress of this great temple, which should he yet near a hundred years a - huilding, and which was to he the hoast of florence, and whispered aside and pointed to their children the man who had heen in hell and in purga- tory, and who even now, it was easy to perceive, saw things which no other man could see, in that dim air and sky, and round the silent glory of giotto's tower. and so he did, can any one douht, with those mys- terious eyes of his. perhaps his giotto dead, smiling down upon the completed trinmph which the old painter made to the glory of god— perhaps that beatrice, who was more than an angel—and so sat companion- ed though alone, in the italian night, sad, yet not without a smile—sore from the wounds and losses of this life, taking comfort in those wonder- ful silent things, silent as his heart, which neither mortify nor deceive. the campanile of giotto is en- riched over all its surface with pan- elled groups in relief, rich rihhons of sculpture, and with figures of more than life-size saints and prophets. these, however, sink into mere en- richment as one looks at this tower, which might have heen hald without them, hut needs only their visihle presence to make it perfect. i can- not give anyhody any assistance in examining these treasures. they are there full of quaint and nohle expres- sion, for all who would gee, with not a single mechanical chisel raised upon the whole, nor hand ungifted, hut simple-hearted genins, working unanimous and cordial for the work's sake, uncareful for the glory, such a man as luca delta rohia helping to work out the painter-master's de- sigus, and the whole splendid, simple, honest confraternity in one fervent consent and unanimity, doing what- ever was most needful to hring all to perfection. even here, and then, these marhles were costly heyond common counting, hut florence was resolute in her maguificent hoast; and if ever sacred chimes came forth of a nohler enclosure, that campanile must have heen huilt in dreams. and after all, this tower is hut the corner, a single point in the maguifi- cent group which now fills the piazza. [nov. a week in florence. there sweeps tho cathedral upward in its grand and rounded lines, full, large, and splendid, like a matron juno. here at once one learns the difference hetween the northern gothic, fanciful and imaginative, and this hroad and calm italian, the mediaeval handwriting in stone. here is no vi>ionary upward spring, no dainty frostwork of invention, no veil of fantasy over the strength which stands like the rocks, and yet hlossoms like the flowers. all those picturesque inequalities, those thou- sand fretted points that trap the sun- shine, those niches and canopies, and spires and piunacles—all that tender show of lightness and airy grace which charms us hy its magical con- trast to the solid unreflective stone in which these visionary fancies work themselves into heing, we have left hehind on the other side of the alps. here is no longer that spiritual ima- ginative ascent of graceful height upon height, climhing upward with all the profusion and variety of nature her- self, to the central point and crown- ing spire. the architectural muse of italy is " a spirit, hut a woman too." this great structure rises upward with a hroad and nohle swell of un- hroken outline, vast, sclid, grandiose —a grave unchangeahle everlasting emhodiment, not of fancy and vision, hut of plan and thought—no projec- tion except that solemn repetition of minute angles, perpendicular ledges of masoury, hy which the level wall sets into the rounding of that grand circle which supports the dome, hreaks here upon the unity of line. the whole immense huilding rises in an undisturhahle repose and solem- nity towards the vast dome, too nohly proportioned to disclose ita vastness. which swells forth from the smaller domes of the hays upon a sky, which repeats in a climax its ahsolute per- fection, and glows an unhroken hea- ven, without' a cloud, over the un- hroken grandeur of this great temple of god. the cathedrals of the north are more picturesque, more dramatic, perhaps more lovahle; hut none of them possess this complete and silent majesty, nor convey any such im- pressions of maguificence, restrained and chastened of force and vigour, hent to the curh of a determined will and settled purpose. one can per- ceive hy the rich tracery of those slender windows what the great im- agination lahouring here could have done if it might; hut the whole is con- trolled, kept under, commanded, per- mitted just to show itself, to tbrow the delicate tbread of an emhroid- ered parapet ahout some of those dis- tant galleries round the dome, and to lure the dainty window-arch from its weh of graceful fancy, hut nothing more nor further; and the reticence gives a nohle modesty and reserve, the self-restraint of power, to the grund erection. bat it is true that nothing less than this soft sweet marhle could have made such reti- cence practicahle. from the hase, where liheral ledges make their foot- ing firm, and round which runs a hroad suowy heach, hospitahle and princely, where one loves to fancy pilgrims resting from their journeys loug ago—every inch of those great walla is panelled with marhle; hlack and white, perhaps, you will say, dear spectator, if you do not care much ahout the matter. yes, hlack and white !—hlack, wliich is hrown, which is green, which ia olive, as the sun and your eyes change — white which is suow, which is foam, which is gold, pale and tender as the locks of angels—two cardinal colours with every tint in the world hidden in them, and hursting forth in tender glints and shades as the prism of daylight turns from dawn to night. nohody who thinks of a dull marhle arch, or a dead-white statue, can appreciate the marhle of this cathe- dral of florence. the sound is grand, hut the idea is chilly in that accepta- tion. a dazzling polished hlank, where one dead funeral line con- trasts another, is something which the imagination sbrinks from; and there may he still extant some un- travelled individual like myself, who has owned in his or her secret soul an undivulged shiver over the thought. but here is no chill, no dead precision, no hlank of alahaster white nor har of jet—the warm living variety of tone is indescrihahle; hero and there a point of suow flashes out from the wall like a sudden decora- .] a week in florence. tion uuperceived hefore; hut for the most part the very white is cream- white, relieving itself upon the veins of profound green, the rich olive, and sun-hrown which frame it in. and for horders to this panelling are rihhons of mosaic, as delicate, as minute, and as perfect as those ivory indian mosaics on hlotting - hooks and card - cases, which everyhody wonders at. these delicate cinctures surround the whole immense extent uninjured in their minute and regular heauty, as fresh as though brunel- leschi's workman were stiil at work upon the dome; the entire face of the huilding is intact and uninjured, strong in its delicacy, all hut one part be alow to come round to this facade, opposite to which are ghiherti's gates. once, upon a time there lived at florence an ogre named hy the appropriate name of l'quccione, to whom there occurred the splendid amhition of immortalis- ing himself after a fashion unusual to his countrymen. the facade was then worthy of the remainder of the huilding, euriched with sculpture, the work and pride of the same artist fraternity which had given its whole heart to the decoration of the campanile. this worthy florentine dashed down the statues from their places, tore the marhles from the wall, and left the front of one of the most tplendid huildings in the world a grim vast gahle of hrown plaster with faint indications on its stripped and humiliated hreadth of something which has heen there — something which might he anything. the wall of a drawing room stripped of its paper, and with its outer plaster scraped off, could not show a more entire, a more dismal shahhiness— "oh, he the earth as lead to lead, upon the dull destroyer's head l that is tbree hu% red years ago— but no second spring has come to florence, nor any renewing of her youth; and there in the hunshine, without an effort made to amend or cover it, honest at least in its humilia- tion, stands—human vanity disclosed and visihle, as in a fuhle of the eighteenth century—the dismal front of that maguificent duotno, opposite the golden gates which might he gates of paradise, and side hy side with the unfaded glories of giotti's tower. yes, there they are as they stand in italy, a wonderful pathetic alle- gory—the old time alive and glorious, warm in its old love and faith and smiles; and the present time, the forlorn to - day, down - looking and hopeless, accustomed to its misery, waiting till somehody does something for it, heyond the idea of any effort to help itself. who does not know how that disease of dependence eats and spreads? i wish italy herself were not so like that unhappy facade —i wish they would do something out of their own heart, if it were hut sham marhle, to redeem the dreary vacuity which helongs to so much heauty. but they only keep count- ing up and reckoning the cost, and find it impossihle, till some anglo- saxon committee or despotic em- peror is moved to take the work in hand, and half-indiguantly, half-coa- temptuously, do it for them. for them? no—for giotti and brunei-, leschi, and for the sake of his shadow who sits hy the wall yonder upon the seat of stone which has long since mouldered into fragments, watching the sunset fade from the painter's tower. the baptistery is directly opposite, with only the hreadth of a street hetween a low, round, ancient place, which the sun reaches more rarely, and which feels the want of his warm influence on its marhle — marhle which is colder, paler, set in larger panels, and where the lines of the darker framework remind one un- comfortahly of the hlack crossheams of german country - houses. and i will not pretend to descrihe the gates. was not michacl angelo a very good authority 'i—and he has not hesitated to leave his opinion on record. then there are prints and photographs without numher, which anyhody may see. i speak of florence, not of its individual works of art. the great ghiherli gate, with its earnest heads full of interest and expression, hend ing out from the horders, and all its wonderful panelled groups enclosed in that hinding, does almost all that [xov. a week in florence. mortal work can do to justify that hig hyherhole. the baptistery within, where dante hroke the font, and where all the little florentines are still " made cbristians," is dark and cold, as all other churches are at this time, looking out from pisano's gate upon the dazzling sunshine, which does not reach this spot. it is diffi- cult, even hy contrast from the light out of doors, to see more than the lofty narrow gallery, supported on those great pillars, which runs round the walls, and opens here and there into a little cell-oratory, with tiny altar and homely pictures—and the dim wonders of the roof, where sits in gigantic and solemn, hut some- what grim mosaic, a tbroned figure of our lord, presiding over a last judgment, which does not want its usual grotescme horrors. the great area of the whole, the nohle circle of the apse, with its chapels, dis- tinguished hy the jewelled gleams of painted glass, and the twinkle of votive candles, rather than hy any general light which could enahle us to see them, leaves a certain imposing expression of size and grandeur on the mind—hut is not hy any means so characteristic and individual, not to say majestic and commanding, as the exterior. there are pictures, to he sure, upon all the altars—yards of canvass, deserts of paint—hut even supposing them to he worth the while, which is douhtful, there is no light to see them hy. behind the great rood which crowns the high altar, is the last work of michacl angelo, a great unfinished pieta, which he meant for his own tomh— hut even around that the light is faint, the rich email window in the central chapel of the apse heing half veiled with a curtain, and the grey dim atmospheric circle of vasari's painted roof having no reflection to send down upon the group helow. a very few people are in the church— • now and then one individual crosses the marhle pavement, and drops sud- denly, without noise, on the step of one of the altars — and a group of men in white muslin jackets, with hlack round caps upon their heads, hang ahout the sacristy door, where there is a little commotion and put- ting on of vestments, for it draws near the hour for vespers. but we will not wait for vespers—the place is chill, mysterious, dead, with its candles twinkling in the dull day- light, and its single worshippers, like moths, attracted hy the light. the sun shines stitf out of dours—hruk life, such as it is, moves in the streets. provincial life — wonderful exhihi- tions of fashion, far heyond london or even paris — feminine skirts tri- ply voluminous, feminine faces with the cars fully revealed for the edifica- tion of the puhlic, and hounets which can only he seen from hehind. sol- diers, gray - coated and comfortahle, many of them almost hoys. heavy dragoons of five feet-two—gendarme- rie, with hrigand's hats and cock's feathers. then those lounging lads, of hetter size and looks than the sol- diers, who form so large a portion of every crowd in this place, and so peculiar a one—always with a cloak over the left shoulder, or their arms out of their sleeves. in this street every fifth house is a cafe\ a long strip of a room with little marhle tahles, opening direct upon the street, where people sit in modest dissipation with a cup of coffee and a glass of water— or a thimhleful of punch, or a mild potation of marsala—hut always the glass of water. then coming down tbrough the narrow streets here, is once more the lung' arno, tbronged with its afternoon crowd, carriages of all descriptions hastening past to the cascine, the fashionahle drive and park of florence, where all the world goes at this hour. good speed to all the world! if other people come here to see a hit of an imitation of hyde park, or a cut out of the champs elysees, we did no such thing—let us find our way ahout the town and lose ourselves among the streets — those streets withj their vast palaces, somhre, gloomy, *nd strong, out of which the old life and splendour have departed. nor is it only the palaces which are interesting. more pic- turesque still than that tuscan para- pet which projects from the roof-line of those palazzos, is the irregular line of less distinguished houses of a dozen different altitudes, which the sun loves. here there is a sudden cut .] a week in florence. down in the deep shadow, letting the sun in to opposite windows, two and no more out of twenty. here an unexpected elevation, hlotting out the light from one-half of the house across the way, and holding even the gallery on its roof in shadow up to a certain point, where the sun pours in with douhle force over the lower level of the next roof—and so the line goes dripping and dropping in hursts of light, and ohlique falls of shadow, along its irregular and picturesque course, with a delightful appearance of caprice and wilfulness. but com- ing out of the hroad sunshine which heams over the river, and the hridges, and the lung' arno—you caunot con- ceive, you chilly grumhling britishers, who make endless discomfort out of your owa honest comprehensihle cli- mate, how ice-cold and petrifying are the deep ravines of shadow in these streets. third day.—i do not promise that this is tomorrow—hut as i caunot see how that can make the slightest difference to you, never mind, hut understand that it is thurs- day, a day which has privileges. it is carnival time in florence, and all the world is out of its wits. not in an imperial overpowering madness, like rome at the same period—a mild imhecility which goes over a month, wraps the florentine soul. wherever you go to-day there are groups of maskers, mummers, extra- ordinary figures in the ahsurdest dresses, with hideous hlack masks, or comic '' fause faces," as they used to he called in scotland—covering their proper countenances. there is no great invention displayed in these dresses, though some are ridiculous enough; hut at the present moment the crowd moves towards the court of the uffizi, where, this heing a festa and great day, the maskers con- gregate. the court of the uffizi is a long narrow ohlong, with a colon- nade on each side, opening at one end into the husiest piazza of the city, and at the other concluding in open arches, tbrough which you pass to an unfrequented end of the lung' arno, close upon the river. on ordi- nary days this open space, which is scarcely wider than a street, and very mnch like one, is frequented hy peri- patetic stalls of homely merchandise, coloured cotton handkerchiefs, and hundles of those checked and dotted cotton fahrics which even the old women of england patrosise no longer; while under the colounades are stalls and glass-cases of cheap jewellery, toys, and hooks. all this is cleared away to-day, and though there is nothing very wonderful in the sight, the crowd, half in the sun half in the shade, with its perpetual change and motion, diversified as it is hy groups of maskers, who form perhaps one-third of the whole assemhly, is a sufficiently animated and amusing sight there are a few historical dresses, on which some care has heen hestowed ; no end of jesters and har- lequins, with jingling hells; hrigands with harmless guns over their shoul- ders; and mummers, without regard to character, in loose white cashmere coats, fantastically ornamented, and sugar-loaf hats decked with rihhons. some dozen of shepherdesses, in white muslin and tinsel, with little straw hats stuck on the hack of their heads, form the feminine element; and a floating mass of mysterious figures in hlack dominoes, till up the scene. ali are masked after one fashion or another; half of them, from the lags of their dress, or the little switches they carry, keep up a little sound of hells; and it is the etiquette of the masquerade to speak in a falsetto squeak, in which sbrill undistinguish- ahle tone the disguised assail their friends on all sides, to the frequent confusion of the unmasked portion of the company. this is the fun of the whole, and it is laughahle enough for a time; hut, heaven preserve their wits! think of tbree weeks of it. the hells and the squeaks and the occasional rush of a little party of maskers tbrough the crowd, the faint laughter and hum of the crowd itself never rises into excitement. yet there they move ahout for hours, glancing in and out of the light, with the high walls of the great picture- gallery enclosing them, and modern inexpensive statues, white and dull, looking down from hetween the col- umns of the colounade. up yonder in that gallery are raphacls, titians, .] a week in florence. a spiritual presence, that pale, nohle, visionary sentinel, pure like an angel, among the darker towers. however you turn, the dome and the campa- nile are the centre of the scene—the heart of its humanity. and yonder is the lower dome of san lorenzo, where sleep the medici, with michacl angelo's white guardians watching their dust; and here the picturesque, quaint tower of the palazzo vecchio, and yonder another, and yet another campanile, with the clear glimmer of the river, crossed hy hridges and shadows tbreading tbrough the midst; and fronts of lofty houses, and up- ward tbrusts of domestic towers, and galleries perched upon house- tops, and golden arrows of sunshine tailing down tbrough invisihle nar- row streets, which hreak the mass as though some fairy power had cut its mighty shadow tbrough. further off the hills heave upwards to the horizon, olive-hrown against the sky, with glimmers of white houses tbrust into every fold and slope, and dropping down along the invisible distance of the valley he- tween florence and the further mountains, into dots and spots of white gleaming out of an uuperceiv- ahle soil, so that one could fancy one gazed upon the sea—till the white ridges to the west, where this valley of the arno closes in an invisihle gorge, limit the horizon with airy peaks of suow—peaks which may he a thousand miles away, so magical is the distance, and so strange the gleam of those far-off specks of houses out of the invisihle level and suuny air helow. the whole scene is magical and extraordinary: the solitary slopes of yonder hills in- vaded and penetrated hy these human hahitations—the vision of a lower mount just visihle hetween two great heads of the range, hear- ing a grey mass of huilding on its crest, and hetraying all ahout it, on every knoll and eminence, the same white gleams of population, like a great host encamped, with pickets on all the hills, rather than the steady overflow of a great city—he- trays the gazer into that sudden surprise of delight which is half a fancy, and somehow sweeps expe- rience, thought, fancy, every exer- vol. lxxxvi. cise of one's own mind, away into the mere satisfaction of gazing on something more perfect than thought. i do not know how other people are affected; but for my own part i could no more speculate, sitting here upon this convent wall, upon what the people are doing and think- ing yonder, how they live, and what they are, than i could fly to the opposite peak. i have no time for thinking; the scene ahsorhs me with an uureasoning silent delight, which leaves no room for fancy. in sight of such, thought and imagination look like mere mechanical instru- ments, which are no longer needed when god himself takes that magi- cal divine pencil, and with the air and the sunshine, the elements and the accidents of nature, shows us a profound and simple perfectness, on which we can do nothing hut gaze and satisfy our hearts. it is not an intellectual pleasure; it is some- thing which takes words out of our months, and thoughts out of our minds, yet rewards us hy the inef- fahle uureason of something greater than either thoughts or words,— "ona fair landscape some have looked, and felt, as have heard them say. as though tho fleeting time had heen a thing as steadfast as tho scene on which they gazed themselves away." i caunot help thinking, for my own part, that this kind of contem- plation—if contemplation it can he called—is one of the eensations of heaven. now we pass on past this great convent, a little higher, to san miniato, a melancholy mortuary church, wonderfully perfect and heautiful, which is gradually heing made into a hurying-ground. it is amazing, to ascend tho steps into the choir and sanctuary, to find the richest mosaic in the most perfect condition, and the nohle originality of the place, which, i think, for un- injured wealth, has scarcely a rival in florence, hut which is gradually and quietly heing made into a ne- cropolis, full of dead men's hones. a profusion of the most splendid and delicate ornament, rioh, minute mosaics, and heautiful marhle, re- main in the utmost perfection on the pulpit, which is never used, on [nor. a week in florence. the railing which no longer divides the most holy from the holy place, and even on the pavement helow, where one stumhles over the votive wreaths of french sentiment—the immortelle. i and vases of flowers set upon the graves. we uphraid our- selves in england for carelessuess of our monuments of art; hut there never was churchwarden of fitly years ago more harherous than the sturdy iriars, who make money out of their church, and displace the mosaic pavement for gravestones, and make a desert of the place which even time has had the heart to spare. it is grievous to look at the frescoes on the walls, at the per- fection of the huilding, at the golden light which steals into the desert- ed sanctuary tbrough windows not made of glass, hut of transparent golden sheets of marhle, without a secret anathema upon the monkish castoiiers of so fair a p'ace. but there are special reasons certainly in fl irence why people should desire a shelter for their dead within con- secrate walls. here the dreadful custom of the town is to convey the dead hy night to a hurying-ground some miles away, when, unattended, and undistinguished, the nameless companions of this gloomy journey are dropped into a common grave, no one knowing where they lie. for sani- tary reason—for the health of the liv- ing, say the philosophers—and the poor italians, let us hope, are suffi- ciently philosophical to appreciate the reason; hut it is a horrihle conclusion certainly -, and it is hard to grudge even those precious marhles for the shelter of those who might have no other alternative than that midnight jourm-y, with the pit at the end. and in re vast houquets are visihle, laid within ono little enclosure, to wither and rot into vegetahle decay; and there, a vase of cut flowers, such as might he placed on a tahle, stands at the head of' another; and yonder lie wreaths—of immortelles—of white artificial flowers, covered with gauze to protect them; and of laurel leaves, with rihhons fastened to them, and votive inscriptions—a strange mil- linery and frippery of grief—which shows still more remarkahle in com- parison with that general indiffer- ence which can make the common mode of sepulture possihle. and the visitors wander ahout reading the names with a distracted attention, drawn hy that human curiosity and wilfulness for which death has always a certain strange attraction, and look with half their eyes at the place, thinking upon the inhahit- ants; and outside the sunshine is warm upon the terrace, and you can see florence smiling in the valley, and look down upon the hrown strong fortifications of the slope, with the hullets, as they say, still hedded in the wall, which have left an iron siguet of michacl angelo upon this outlying hill. down helow, the vines and the olives rise out of the grass in suuny shelter, and the old war and the old defences are flouted hy the sun; and in the town it is carnival, and the maskers and un- masked are alike rushing to the corso. come; we are still io time. but if ever dnlness made itself a fitting pastime, i helieve it must have heen this corso—two solemn lines of carriages crossing each other —solemn people in their hest clothes, some with haskets full of flowers, the hest sight of the whole, to he tbrown into the carriages and laps of their acquaintance in passing— now and then a cuclifnl of masks enlivening the crowd—a few grand equipages, with liveries ineffahle— and one american driving ten in hand, with intent face and awful gravity, as if the world depended on the safety and success of his team. saw a little girl at a window wist- fully looking down upon the heap of flowers in a carriage helow, and wondering where the pretty mi>sjlefl were to he tbrown—for none of that play was going on at the moment. "they only tbrow them to their friends, my dear," said mamma. '• then i wish tee were friends to these people," said the little woman, with an ingenuous sigh. that naive and disinterested aspiration was the most amusing incident of the corso, which went rattling along into twi- light and weariness, till at last the crowd dispersed, the carriages dis- appeared, and everyhody went home to diuner. melancholy necessity of nature! pereunial and indestructihle .] a week in florence. val spirits. then the march of steady steps falls out of hearing, and the nonsense hegins again, all very na- tural, and as it should he; hut why should it he a mortification of the flesh, a sorrowful vocation, a work requiring that dismal disguise, the sacred merciful duty of helping one's fellow-men? now we are in the ufftzi—a long parallelogram—two chilly stony stretches of corridor forming the two sides of that court where the mask- ers congregated, with rooms open- ing off from them, where again there are copyists at the finest pictures, and little groups of english loitering ahout, the possihle purchasers of the same. in the principal apartment, the trihune, are the "venus de medici," the "dancing fawn," l'ar- rotino, and other famous figures, sur- rounded hy many fine pictures of all the greatest names of art. venuses of titian, madounas of raphacl—the one less nohle, if more lovely than that great master's superh portraits, the other tenderly, humanly, purely heautiful, with often a touch of the divine—andrea del sarto, caracci, veronese, guido, correggio, domeni- chino, make up the splendid crowd, in which there is infinite repetition and indescrihahle variety, as always in religious art, when every man's most notahle endeavour is a madouna, and every heart apprehends with a difference that favourite type of na- tural piety. then fra angelioo's tender heads shining fair out of their golden hackgrounds, that delicate poet-monk, with his cloistral fancies and womanish heart! somehody is there copying even angelico, with the gold ground like to perfection! a dainty emhellishment for some dainty high church oratory where ladies of belgravia may confess their fash- ionahle shortcomings. and here that picture, the visitation or salu- tation, as people choose to call it—a woman's picture—which i could par- don anyhody for hnying as a present to his young wife. when the old elizaheth, with a grave and anxious joy, gazes into the face of the young conscious mary with her downcast eyes, her awe, her wonder, her mys- terious humility of self-regard, the almost mother—st. elizaheth and the hlessed virgin are hut names— the human sentiment is of to-day, and of all times—as long as mothers and daughters, and those tender and wonderful vicissitudes of female life, remain in the world. and ahsolutely, i helieve, one can hetter hear to see a secondary picture in the hands of a copyist, than one of first class—there is less profana- tion and less harm done. look here, hy this window is the corridor, where a little manufactory goes on quietly, under cover of a superh venetian nohle, whose face has grown immortal tbrough titian's hand— here is a quiet old man, painting diligently—elahorate little copies in enamel, of which he has, a dozen various specimens on his tahle— miniatures of virgins and saints, of old heroes and painters, and medi- aeval nohles like this which is hefore him. this humhle artist is quick to hear the steps that approach his chair. you perceive hy their shape that they are meant for hrooches, these tiny pictures—and perhaps he would he glad to he accosted and dispose of his delicate merchandise; —hut think of our national gallery, our royal collection of pictures made accessihle after this fashion!—think of the new paul veronese moved out to the light hecause somehody wanted to make a sketch of it, or carried off hodily to a window! imagine the queen and the royal academy open- ing their treasures all day long and every day, providing stages and ac- commodations for us, and giving us the tenderest permission to set up our easels where we will! however, let us be thankful—there is compensa- tion in everything- where art is most cherished and fostered in these days—where ,iart has the greatest heritage, the most splendid associa- tions, the eompletest pedigree—where everything ought to contrihute to a fuller and more superh development of her powers than the world has yet seen, and nothing is against her— there, with no north wind of dis- couragement to rouse her spirit, nor tramontana to quicken the hlood in her veins, hut only puffs of lukewarm air, and the calm of a perfect past around, art, perverse and contra- dictory, like every human principle, does not flourish, hut dies. coming out into the sunshine to a week in florence. [nov. the piazza at our right hand, here is michacl angelo's hig david side hy side with a giant hercules at the door of the palazzo vecchio, that picturesque tower and nohle mass of huilding towering up ahove them, and a row of little soldiers sitting on a hench enjoying the nir helow. a little further on a still higger giant, a monster neptune, with prodigious nymphs and imps around him, pre- sides over a noisy congregation of waiting carozze, which it would he prosaic to call a cahstand. across the way is the post-office, with a little crowd at each window; and here in the square are groups of men standing together talking as in an exchange, though these interlocutors are not of the class generally to he seen in such places. i caunot un- dertake to tell you what hrings them there, or what they talk ahout, hut they are picturesque enough to look at—sunhurnt, rustical, middle-aged italians, more dangerous fellows than the youths who tbrong in the streets—their coats still and always hanging from their shoulders with vacant sleeves, coats with hoods, tasselled and ornamented, coarse hrown cloth worn and dirty, with silken emhroideries of green or hlue, showing the grandeur which has heen. among these strong vigorous savage faces—hravo heads, reckless and villanous, stealthy heads, down- looking and sinister—visionary faces, with hlue eyes, which tbrow a chill upon the olive complexion and tangled masses of hlack hair, hut these unfrequent and few—alto- gether a savage primitive physiog- nomy, faces which somewhat helie the simple good-nature of the young florentine countenance which, idle, gossiping, and pleasure-loving, moves ahout among them, as it moves any- where, humming airs from the opera, and lounging along with well-devel- oped youthful limhs, which ought 'to he fit for nohler exercise. a cer- tain hum and hustle as of husiness is in the piazza—husiness —idea worthy only of an insular under- standing!—in this place which, hy- and-hy, is to acknowledge the dust and carriage-wheels of the corso!— but always strange, always remark- ahle, is the contrast hetween the place and the people. is art a re- fining, an elevating influence?—is it good for a country that there have heen great minds, and a flush of genins at one period of her history? —for it is impossihle not to perceive that the character, and so much of good as there is in these faces, is savage, uncivilised, uurefined. fifth day.—like every other ancient town, florence was once greatly less extensive than now; and the natural consequence is that churches and important huildings crowd together, drawing as near as possihle, though in many oases still without the circuit of the jealous old wall, to the little heart of the ancient city. two successive circles of wall have hurst, as too narrow for the swelling life within; hut still the congregation of churches and puhlic places in the vicinity of the duomo and the palazzo vecchio show the former state of things. one of the most important of these is the santa croce; and one of the gayest and most perfectly adorned, the santis- siiiia atmunziata, which are the two we shall select for examples of the churches of florence. the santa croce outside is like the unhappy facade of the cathe- dral; it is hare, hrown, unsightly plaster, marked with the courses of hrick or small stones of which it is huilt, hetraying exactly how careless its huilders were of any other finish than the marhles which were intend- ed at once to adorn and to conceal all; these marhles which have never yet come out of the hard heart and narrow hands of time. there is not a hricklayer in england who would not feel himself eternally disgraced hy leaving his work in such a con- dition; hut it is sufficiently illustra- tive of the local character, that no idea of the " neat," smooth, and per- fect conclusion to which work of every kind, however humhle, must he hrought with us, has ever entered the popular understanding here. the church was meant to he splendid, and left in its present condition only till its marhle outer vesture should he placed upon it; hut marhles he- ing long ago hopeless for the santa croce, it does not enter into any- hody's mind to try any homelier suh- .] s a week in florence. stitute, and the original nakedness standi hnnestly hut not very plea- santly disclosed. here, however, the common contrast of exterior heauty with deformity within is elahorately reversed. within, everything is rich, splendid, perfect, and jealously cared for. the church is of the peculiar form of a t cross, consisting of a nave and two transepts only; al- most the entire pavement of the transepts and a great part of the nave consists of incised tomhstones won lerfully rich and perfect, and a line of little chapels sunk like cells in the wall runs along the entire east end of the church. each of these is the mortuary chapel of a nohle family; many have dark altarpieces hlocking up half the little window, and shut- ting out the light; hut notwithstand- ing frescoes are on all the walls, and everywhere artist-skill, and some- times genins, has given itself to the work of decoration with a magua- nimous indifference, as it seems, whe- ther its lahours could he seen or not. on one side of the high altar are works of giotto—look at the place — a little ohlong cell, some eight or nine feet wide, with a little window in the wall, raised hy the height of two or tbree marhle steps from the area of the church, and de- riving no light from that, as indeed there is no more there than is ur- gently required; an altar-tahle on another step, with its tawdry deco- rations and little hlack picture set in a triangular framework, which hlocks up all hut the top of the window; and on the walls, for any one who can see them, the frescoes of giotto what possihle good can he derived from that ridiculous tri- angle stuck into the light i caunot tell; hut there it smirks and glit- ters with its contemptihle little gilt diaper, sadly trying to any one's pa- tience who cares the least for what he has come to see. after all, it is only st. francis whose life, or rather death, is pictured on these walls; hut when the day is suuny st. francis looks out from his deathhed with such a cluster of saintly thoughtful faces round him that the very glimpse aggravates the spectator: and yet i suppose giotto must have known all the time that his work would gleam there for hundreds of years in that imperfect light, llliil without fuming over it, as i think a royal academician might he pardoned for doing, only painted it most likely without saying a word for the glory of god. in our days, in puseyite memorial inscriptions, one is tempted to think these words rather profane. but they were not profane in the days of giotto when the sentiment was real, and when the offering of one's hest seemed still admissihle, and the metaphysical question whether one's hest, or anything sprung of human skill and human art, was a fit offer- ing to god, had never come into anyhody's mind. it is possihle—i will not say such questions are out of our range—hut it is just possihle that this half-visihle picture on the wall was like mary's ointment, an offering as acceptahle as if it had heen sold for so much and given to the poor. throughout this entire range of chapels the same circumstances lioll. all are not giotto's certainly, though a large proportion of the partially or wholly destroyed adorn- ments of these walls are attrihuted to him; hut the greater proportion are equally indistinct, withdrawn into those narrow and gloomy al- coves where there is little provision for light, and what little there is is ohscured and interrupted. but the arrangement of the chinch throws no little light on the life of the time which produced it. in the deep arms of the transepts are other chapels, all euriched to the utmost extent of their space with pictures, with marhles, with rich fresco and sculpture, costly evidences of the wealth and emulation of the old putrician families of florence, whose names one can tell off as on a splen- did headroll as one reckons up this line of chapels, dim, rich, and mag- nificent, which, though modern ne- glect and emhellishment have united to dehase them, the hest art of the time lahoured to adorn. in the lower end of the church, great men's monuments alternate with the *ltars—the old medicean philosophers exchange stony glances with michacl angelo; and alfieri's graceful memorial, the pale and ten- [nov. a week in florence. der modern offering of modern art, stands hy the pompous monument of dante. but in spite of these great names, there is an interest more characteristic in the family chapels, which range in lines on either side of the high altar—and where the living palazzo borghese out of doors has its calm and cold representative, its other family dwelling, in the capella borghese here. but do not suppose you have seen all, in seeing the church itself. here out of the church is a large lofty square apartment, with oaken presses, fitted along the walls—ahove them pictures on one side—frescoes on another, and at the upper end, a little chapel divided from the room hy an ornamental iron screen. there is a wooden frame in the middle of the apartment, on which hangs a priestly vestment, white and yellow. this is the sacristy, where once the very doors of those priestly wardrohes were rich with giotto's pictures, and still the place is lumin- ous with works and names that will never die—cimahue, giotto, the two gaddei—and only a sacristy, where the holy father vests himself in mild self-complacency under the solemn shadow of that grey ancient pictured cross—cimahue's cross, the austere symhol of that art, which was still new to her implements, which had all her future splendours in her heart hut not in her fingers—and still had scarcely found the secret of heauty out. without these walls are cloisters enclosing a square quadrangle almost lull of the dead—the dead whose resting-places are distinguished hy lines of white marhle let in in check- work to the stone, with minute in- scriptions of names, as close as though those lines meant nothing hut a pattern—a melancholy crowd- ing which chills one's heart. this occupation, it is evident, has heen stopped ere it was completed; yet the very crowd hetrays the natural sbrinking from a common sepulture, and the natural last desire of person- ality for an individual grave. let as make haste; we have al- most filli d our space. mow to the santissirna aununziata, to all the splendours of gilding and ecclesias- tical finery, new crimson hangings and fringes of gold. the aununziata occupies one end of a little piazza, which carries a pretty loggia on either side of it, and is dainty and pleasant to look upon. a side-door admits you into a cloister, where the wall to the height of your head is covered with stones and inscrip- tions, memorials of the dead who lie helow. a quaint, cool, quiet square, with its low arches and calm enclos- ure, where a hrown monk, leisurely wandering on the other side, with his heavy woollen frock and cape and hood, his cord, and his hurly presence, looks harmonious and in keeping. perhaps he is only think- ing of his diuner or some con- vent intrigue; hut it might lie me- ditation tender and solemn which muses in such a place. in the day- light and open air a sweet hand of colour shines round these walls, glimmering away yonder into the gentle shade too far off to he distin- guishahle, and hrightening here into groups which have more than colour —into saintly incidents which have taken form and shape from the hand of andrea del sarto — into monastic miracles, the fahulous in- cidents of which take grace and dig- nity from the touch of genins, and glow over the cold marhle stones of rememhrance with a sweet life and warmth, which it comforts the spec- tator to see. the cloister is not so nohle, not so maguificen as those lofty cloisters of the north, which still exist in such majestic grace in our own land; hut it is more familiar, more inhahitahle, with a depth of shade under its low arches which summer will make deeply grateful, and a quaint comfort and u*e un- known to us,—while perhaps our damp and stony splendour would have done anything hut preserve those sweet faces on the wall. com- ing upon them thus hy surprise, the eti'ect is wonderfully enlivening and delightful. the place looks an in- hahited place. the cloister warms and hrightens towards us, as with human smiles; and an impression of munificence, of free, lavish, open- handed liherality, which scarcely anything else can give, flows forth into the daylight from those open walls, with their out-of-doors free- .] a week in florence. dom and tranquil exposure to the airs of heaven. here are the popular legends, which of old were the favour- ite lore of the people, emliellishing the convent cloister with its open gates; no print nor copy, nor tran-' scription in them, fresh from the great painter's hand,—and one can- not help hut feel how full and over- flowing was the life and wealth which thus hrimmed over, and heyond the shelter of sacred roofs and palaces gave forth its inspiration freely to the open air and the church-going crowd. for hy this passage we reach the church, and stand amazed in the warmth and hrightness of that ornate and cheerful place. the nave of the aununziata is like a splendid salon, with little chamhers opening from it on each side, white arches flowered and gilded, like little houdoirs or drawing-rooms, if we may venture to carry out the profane simile—and indeed it would he anything hut sur- prising to see a pretty mirror and toilette instead of one of those altar- tahles, which, to tell the truth, are not much unlike. in the western end, near the door, is a gilded cage of tahernacle work, adorned with symholical ornament'', one of the principal of which is the pot of lilies —the flsur de marie—which holds a prescriptive place in pictures of the aununciation—and in the chapel close hy is preserved a mysterious fresco of that event painted hy an- gelo, and of miraculous power. the nave opens into a rounded choir, rich with marhles and gilding, with won- derful silver-work adorning the high altar, and another succession of chapels in the wall—chapels opening each with a lofty rounded arch into the fine semicircle—hung like so many withdrawing-rooms with crim- son drapery, heavily fringed with gilded knohs or tassels. within there is little more than twilight in these alcoves, where still frescoes and pictures of note are to he perceived dimly; hut in the hody of the church all is hright and suuny, and the general impression, if not very solemn, is cheerful and luxurious to a high extent. on either side, passages, penetrating tbrough the lino of the side-chapels, increase the domestic appearance so completely that it re- quires the distant prospect of a priestly hack in white and gold, howing over a decorated altar with mysterious genuflexions, unknown in ordinary life, to undeceive the spec- tator. but the splendour of the church, if nothing else, would show with sufficient clearness the popularity of the aununziata, where worship- pers surround the little oratory, and kneel in all the chapels, and which is more frequented, as it appears, to judge from the experience of this day, than any of the other churches in florence. we leave the sacred pre- cincts on tiptoe, whispering under our hreath. to he sure it is very shocking to walk ahout or talk when people are at prayers, and service is proceeding; hut if we are never to disturh a chance worshipper—if we are to keep religiously apart, lest yonder excellent and pious personage who follows us with her eyes, and turns round her head to watch us, should he disturhed in her devotions, i fear there will he little sight-seeing possihle; for somehody is always discharging his or her religious duties at some altar, and that meritorious exercise goes on all the same, with moving lips and dropped heads, whe- ther our friend watches our stealthy passage, or only occupies herself with the fringe of the altar-cloth—there is not much difference after all. i did not hegin with the intention of descrihing pictures or special works of art—one who sets out to do any such thing in florence must take months to see, and volumes to con- tain his journal—hut only a flying sketch as to what the florentine churches are like in general, without details. they oontain mines of inter- esting matter for investigators, hut for us a nohle pomp, a picturesque appearance, and many a silent sug- gestion of how things were in that age, so grand, so distant, so exuher- ant, which has writ its social economy, its family ostentation, its pride, its genins, and its greatness upon these enduring tahlets, as it was fit a great ago should write them—leaving to its descendants a glorious legacy of tomhs and altars, a suit of state too hig for them, which show how life has sbrunk out of its splendid pro- [not. a week in florence. portions, and things are no longer as they were—and to us a spectacle of life indestructible, an energy which caunot die. sixth day.—this day let us go the way of all the world. look tbrough the opening in those lofty houses, how that apeunine heaves his mighty slopes into the air, where the >un shines in defiance of those hig clouds rolling and gather- ing and dispersing in mountainous vicissitude upon the sky. the cloud over that hill, mingling its gloom in some indescrihahle way with the un- discouraged sun, shines darkly, if one may he permitted the expression, with the most wonderful, dewy, rainy, acrial effect, over the vast shoulders of that hig potentate, conveying to us low down in the plain a conception of atmosphere and distance maguificent- ly wide and far—precise yet immeasur- ahle—>omething to he painted or ima- gined, hut which defies words. the day is mild and soft, with a freshness in the air which tbreatens rain—a de- licious dewy spring atmosphere, the tbreat expanding itself over us, hut never coming to extremities—letting a score of hright drops escape now and then hy a side wind, hut hurting nothing, not even a lady's hounet. bounets are a serious consideration at the cascine. along the level suuny road, where the tall trees tbrust hare hranches over our heads, and tbrow long shadows on the meadow, we make our way, as do the mountains down the valley, as does the river to the sea. everything is westward; the hills closing in towards the gon- folina gorge, the arno to the medi- terranean, the sun to his setting, and the tender declining light slants in golden glints over the level grass, and over the solitary houses, each with its square tower, which stand here and there alone hetween the mountains and the trees. a long level road, with stretches of green grass on either hand, and the grey apeunines close in sight, and the florentine carriages hastening along without much note of the way to something hidden here in the further trees. what is it? a square of good extent hut no ornament, with straight avenues diverging into it on all sides, and with almost a glimpse of the river and the suuny promenade ex- tending along its hank, where iadtad the company can walk if they are so minded. bat the company in general are not of that mind. the ladies sit in their carriages, the gentlemen get out and circulate from one party to another, carry- ing a common currenoy of gossip and compliment tbrough the crowd. there stand the horses, and there sit the ladies with the most admirahle patience, looking at nothing, listen- ing to nothing, unless it he the rival toilettes ahout them in the one case, and the talk of the wan- dering cavaliers in the other, till the orthodox time is accomplished, when the crowd suddenly hreaks up, and carriages return with the steadi- ness of a procession along the same level road. what odd spectacles fashion and pleasure make when they lay their heads together i do not see the fun of sitting for an hour among a crowd of carriages. come this way—never mind the fashion of florence—come hack again hy this river rond which hasks and hurns in the sunshine. it is still only march, it is not too warm. yonder, look at the white houses dwelling hy the river—at the low hills towards the south—bellosguardo and that gentle cluster of luxuriant slopes! and now as florence comes fully in sight, look at those domes and towers, ris- ing in a wonderful full olive against the sky and the sunshine, through the air, full of hright reflections which mask those silent sentinels with a colour not their own. and again it is night—not the mysterious night of an unknown city, wrapt in fog and darkness— a glorious shining night of italy, mooned and starry, with a flood of light upon the heavens, hut darkness deep and solemn in the narrow streets. looking out from this high window, the darkness no longer veils to us an undiscovered country. the hum and whisper of the town rises already half familiar and with a friendly tone, and one no longer dreams, hut rememhers. now the congenial moonlight will wake with lyric musical touches, as one falls into a sweet confusion of all the arts to express that magical heauty—the .] a week in flortnu. silvery marhles of the dnoino, the tender glory of the painter's tower. arno glistens under all its hridges. white, in a misty veil of light, rise the wakeful apeunines, listening to every chime of hells and sentinel shout of passing hours, the "all's- well" of the night from tower and campanile, tall guardians of the city; and peace and rest are in the air, white with the saintly henedictions of stars and moon. but dark as midnight or mid-win- ter—hlack in profoundest contrast with the moonlight, lying in such a depth of shadow as only that neigh- horu hrightness could expose, lies far helow us the pavement of this narrow lofty street. what is that measured cadence sounding upward tbrough this gulf of air and darkness—that gleam of moving lights, wild and variahle, hlazing tbrough the gloom; that tramp of footsteps? look down where they pass helow, the few pas- sengers scarcely pausing to look after them, they themselves pausing for nothing, marching to the measure of their chant, not slow though solemn —no voice of individual grief, hut a calm impersonal lamentation, a lofty melancholy utteranoe upon the com- mon fate of humanity. white figures in the dress of a fraternity, with two or tbree wild torches tbrowing light upon their way, and upon that dark weight they carry shoulder-high and motionless—answering to each other with ohant and response of deep voices, carrying their dead. nay, not their dead—it has ceased to helong to any one, that silent hurden. love has not a tone in that dirge—grief is not there — it is the voice of the church, solemnly commenting upon the universal fate—calling the world to witness that all must die—and cold, cold, solitary, loveless, the for- lorn dead in the midst of them goes to he huried out of sight. do yon say it is nothing to him, and he does not feel it? heaven knows! hut that picturesque group, with their chant and their torches, carry a chill to one's heart. and saddened hy such sounds, the night falls over florence—and time and the hours chant from those match- less campaniles the same solemn con- clusion into the moonlight, to the wakeful hills and stars that do not die. but grief is not in the ineffahle calm of heaven: and there is no grief in those wonderful works of art, calmly hearing witness in their silent permanence to generations dead and past. proclaim it from your towers, great city, hathing in the silence with the listening hills and skies —yet there is another hurden chiming into human ears from all your sbrines and altars, eloquent with their loves and lahours who are no longer here—a deeper truth, and dearer than that hurden of change and death—that it is here, as everywhere, the dead who are living—and it is only the living who die! the idylls of the sing. [nov. the intlm of tiie kino. the final fortunes of arthur and of charlemague, as heroes of song, have heen very different. of course, we do not mean to compare their actnal exploits. the laws of charle- mague may still he read. his great achievements form the suhject of well-ascertained and undouhted his- tory, and have left their traces on the present state of modern europe; while the shadowy exploits of the british king, at hest, only retarded the saxon conquest of britain for a few years, and are so wholly with- out any hislorictd confirmation, that many antiquarians have heen led to douht whether the traditions which relate to him have any solid founda- tion of facts to rest on at all. yet the silence of the venerahle bede, and other saxon cbroniclers, should hardly outweigh the testimony of so widespread a tradition; for wherever the defeated british trihes retired for safety from their saxon foe, whether to the sheltering rocks of cornwall, or fastnesses among the cumhrian hills, thither they carried with them the name of their famous chieftain, and there they have left it indelihly imprinted: so that northern hallads tell us of arthur holding his court at " merrie carleile," and hy the hanks (oh, most uupoeti- cal name! ) of "tearue wadling;" and the westmoreland yeoman readily points out to the inquiring archaeologist king arthur's round tahle—a mound near the fair river eamotit, some miles on its downward course, after it has left the loveliest of those lakes, one of which gave his surname to arthur's great knight lancelot ta favourite cbristian name still in westmoreland, we may re- mark en pasnant). so too in corn- wall many a mound and cairn hears arthur's name; and stern tintagel, the wave-heaten ruin on the rocky cornish coast, is pointed out to the traveller as having heen the fortress of the mighty british king. unlike, however, as are the arthur and the charlemague of history— the one the last support, and the ohject of the fond regrets of a conquered race; the other the proud leader of the victorious franks, the fragments of whose empire are now great kingdoms, and whose success the amhition of modern times has emulated, hut failed to equal—they have yet occupied very similar posi- tions as favourite suhjects of song and legend. the court - minstrels of charlemague (repeating the lays which had come across the chaunel into kindred bretague) douhtless sang to him of arthur and the knights of his round tahle, as the hrave taillefer sang of roland and of charlemague to norman william at the hattle of hastings; and the pro- vencal trouhadours appear to have made the names of arthur's knights as familiar as those of charlemague, to the mind of the great father of modern literature, dante. but when the minstrel's tuneful notes were hushed—in provence first hy dominic and his harsh hrother-inquisitors, and afterwards tbroughout europe hy the revival of aneient learning, and the altered taste which was its consequence—arthur was gradually lost sight of, while charlemague shone with greatly-increased splen- dour. the great italian poets sang of the iron-crowned protector of their pope. the fahulous exploits of hii nephew roland, the equally fahulous siege of paris hy the saracens, and the victories of charlemague over their countless hosts, live for ever incor- porated into modern literature hy the rich fancy, the inexhaustihle in- vention, which sparkles in the magic pago of ariosto. but arthur was left to the hallad and the prose romance. no great poet made him the hero of a lay that shall last for over. he forms the suhject of no poem that has lifted, either english or foreigu; for spenser's unique allegory (that mighty work of the imagination, that product of a nohle idyll* of the king. by a. tknkvson, d.c.l., poet laureate. e. moxou ,t co., dover street. london: .] the idylls of the king. age, rich in faith and loyalty) con- tains, as we shall have occasion to remark heivafter, the name, and the name only, of the ancient british chieftain. shakespeare and milton do hut mention him. the eighteenth century was unfavourahle to works of the imagination, and only re- memhered arthur in one or two hallads preserved in percy's collec- tion. some fifty years ago, in his introduction to the first canto of "marmion," sir walter scott alluded to the forgotten legends, with which his diligent antiquariauism had made him familiar, and seemed, as he wrote his tales of the olden time, to cast a longing glance at those still older stories, which it had stirred the hearts of his own heroes and heroines to listen to:— **as when the champion of the lake enters morgana's fated house, or in the chapel perilous pesntstsg spells and demons' force, holds converse with the unhuried corse; or when. dame ganore'a grace to move (alas, that lawless was their love !) he sought proud tarquin in his den, and freed full sixty knights; or when, a sinful man, and unconfess'd. he took the sangreal's holy quest, and. slumhering, saw the vision high, he might not viow with waking eye." ho reminds us how such legends "gleam tbrough spenser's elfin dream. and mii in miltnn'.s heavenly theme;" and he mourns that the one poet, who had arisen since then, fit, in his judgment, to sing of arthur, had missed his high destiny:— '" and drrden, in immortal strain, had raised the tahle kound again. but that a rihald king and court bade him toil on to make them sport; the world defranded of the high design. profaned tho god-given strength, and marr'd the lofty line. whether these regrets of the north- ern minstrel first directed mr. teuny- son's attention to the rich mine, ready to yield its untouched treasures to his hand, we caunot say. certain it is, that he early sought suhjects for his poems from among the legends of arthur. "the lady of shalott" first showed the direction his thoughts were taking. ten years after fol- lowed two of his finest poems— "morte d'arthur," and " sir galahad." next he sought inspiration from other sources, and, in the judgment of most, with inferior success. (we of course allude to the "princess," and to "maud;" not to the magui- ficeut sorrow of "in meinoriam.'") and now, for the last two or tbroe years, we have hailed with pleasure the report of a new poem from his pen, which promises to supply a statue for this long-vacant niche in our literature. we rejuiced to hear that the laureate was again at work, that ho had returned to the attach- ments of his youth, and that his suhject was once again arthur— "mythic uther's son." presently the name of the fortheoming hook reached us, the idylls of the king, and, we must own, somewhat dis- turhed our ideas. an idyll is, to the common understanding, the name of a pastoral, not of a tale of kings and warriors; and, to say the truth, in our mind idylls are chiefly associated with some tedious trash hy gessuer, which darkened our early initia- tion into germanic literature; and perhaps also with let hergeries of floriau—insipid productions, which tto the hest of our helief) the crino- line of the present day is far from regarding with the same favour as did the hehooped helles of the days of louis quinze. for one thing, too, the title prepared us. we were not to expect a long poem, presenting arthur and his exploits as a whole. "morte d'arthur," that exquisite fragment, was to remain a fragment still —a fragment of an unfinished epic, which is never to he completed! at last, after a long delay, we re- ceived the eagerly-desired volume. we opened it with mingled hope and fear; we read it with mixed feelings, at first of disappointment, hut af- terwards of greasy-preponderating pleasure; and we now proceed to lay some account of it hefore our readers. it consists of four poems of unequal lengths, each of which hears a lady's name. (the laureate's devotion to the fair sex evidently glows with un- ahated ardour, since the days when he sang "isahel," "clarihel," &o, with more zeal than success.) each poem rehearses the adventures of [nov. the idylu nf the king. some heroine of the days of king arthur ;/and the fourth and last con- tains those of the greatest and love- liest, though, alas not the hest lady of the time-fof the "gnenever, that hride so hright of hlee" of our old hallads. thus the feminine element predominates decidedly in the work. arthur, lancelot, and merlin—the king, the warrior, aud the sage of the poem—are represented to us, not so much in council or in action as in their dealings with, and in the effect they produce on, guinevere, elaine, and vivien. in this wise we see more of the sage's folly than of his wisdom, of the warrior's weakness than of his strength. the three first poems read like tbree long episodes, detached from a grand epio arthur, which is not fortheoming. the fourth gives us a heautiful hut still domestic scene, from near its con- clusion. those who are unacquainted with teunyson's earlier writings, must feel, as they finish guinevere, that the end is wanting; whilst the majority of readers will hasten to refresh their recollection of "morte d'arthur" as its true conclusion: which exquisite poem, we here heg to suggest, should he printed as the fifth in the second edition of "the idylls," for the henefit of our child- ren. the slender tbread which counects the four poems is furnished hy gui- nevere. the first rumours of her grievous fall drive the gentle enid into seclusion, and emholden vivien in her wrong-doing; lancelot's heart is closed hy her against elaine's pure affection, aud her penitence forms the suhject of the fourth poem. of arthur we hear little till the end. we are told in very heautiful lan- guage of his lahours, as an earlier churlemngue, to draw fast the slack- ening honds of law and order, to uphold the faith of cbrist and the honour of britain against the heathen invader, and to revive and uphold every knightly grace and courtesy hy the institution of his chivalric round tahle; hut almost all his share in the action of the poem is confined to the last grand scene, where he rehukes and pardons his guilty wife, and then leaves her for that hattle-field to which he looks forward with dim forehodings, where all his yet faithful knights are to fall hut one, and whence the "dusky harge" and its mystic crew are to hear him, whither no man knoweth even until this day. lancelot is the hero of the third poem. tristram, perceval, and gallahad, are only named. how gladly would we have heard more of the latter—that knight lani peur hecause tans reprocht, who is one of the fairest creations of teunyson's earlier muse; whose quest of that sangreal (from the search for which the valorous lancelot was excluded hy his sin) has hecome in our poet's hands a nohle type of true cbristian chivalry—of that work of heaven on earth which only pure hearts can love, only clean hands can do i for the non-appearance of these famous knights we are hy no means consoled hy a new acquaintance— geraint, trihutary prince of devon, whose adventures fill the first poem. its story is somewhat ill-constructed, and decidedly hetter in execution than in desigu. it is hriefly this:— queen guinevere and her attendant maiden are insulted hy a nameless knight on their way to join arthur hunting. geraint vows to avenge the insult, aud follows the discourt- eous knight to a small town, near which he dwells in a splendid new castle. the town is full of hustling preparations for a tournament on the morrow; and geraint, whose haste has hrought him on his chase unarmed, is glad to seek shelter for the night at the ruined castle of earl yniol, on the other side of the town, which is thus prettily descrihed :— "here stood a shattered archway, plumed with fern; and here had fall'n a great part of a tower, whole, like a crag that tumhles from the ilia; and like a crag was gay with wilding flowers: and high ahove a piece of turret stair. worn hy the feet that now were etitnt, wound bare to the sun, and monstrous ivy-stems claspt the grey walls with hairy-fihred anna. and suck'd tho joining of the atones, and look'd a knot, heneath, of suakes, aloft, a grove." yniol, the venerahle owner of this .] the idylls of the king. dilapidated mansion, has the misfor- tune to he the uncle of the knight whose insolence geraint longs to punuh, and to have given him mor- tal offence hy refusing him the hand of his only daughter enid. the dis- courteous edyrn has avenged his uncle's refusal hy provoking a revolt among his retainers, dispossessing him of his earldom, and keeping him with his wife and daughter, in the ruined castle where geraint finds them. for the last two years edyrn has proclaimed jousts in honour of a lady whom he has tnken as his love, to spite enid, to which no man is admitted unless his lady-love he pre- sent; and each year won for her the prize, a golden sparrow-hawk. the third joust is fixed for the morrow of geraint'e arrival, who, learning this from hie host, straightway horrows from him his rusty arms, adopts the gentle enid as his lady hetrothed and wife; avenges her deep wrong, at the same time as the queen's lighter one, hy the overtbrow of the proud edyrn, and makes him restore his earldom to his injured kinsman, and go to do penance at king arthur's court, where his reformed life hears "pleasing testimony," as the good hooks have it, to the efficacy of ge- raint's rough method of cure. geraint prepares to take his fair hetrothed to cacrleon-upon-usk, that the grateful guinevere may, according to her promise, clothe her champion's hride in fitting attire for the nuptials. and here we are treated to an amount of millinery against which not all our reverence for teunyson's genins shall stay us from protesting. even sup- posing that the "faded silk" in which enid accompanies geraint hy his desire, and which she, unluckily for herself, puts hy reverently in a "ce- darn cahinet" instead of giving it to her waiting-maid, as most ladies of the present day would do, when it had served its purpose,—even sup- posing, we say, that the "faded" ar- ticle of dress in question is introduced with a high moral purpose—even that of inducing the wives of eng- land generally, and more especially the wives of english poets, to he con- tent with plain attire—though we should he grateful to the laureate for his good intentions, and earnestly wish him success, as the dismal vision of our christmas hills rises hefore our prophetic gaze—yet we caunot hut feel that if such appeals in verse could do the husiness, we hate good dr. watts' already, more easilv re- memhered and mo're distinctly effect- ing the conscience so, returning to the aesthetic view of the matter, we would humhly heg the laureate for the future to tell us more of the maiden and less of her clothes—more of the wedding, if he will, and less of the troussean. nay, might we venture to whisper to him that lines like these will defeat his own pur- pose, where he sums up "the whole duty of a hushand" thus:— "to compass her with sweet ohservances, to drtss her heautifully (!), and keep her true." somewhile after geraint and enid's marriage, the growing evil report of the queen induces the former to withdraw his young wife from her dangerous example, to retire into his principality, where, in affectionate care of euid (an affection which our unwise poet descrihes as revealing itself chiefly in making constant ad- ditions to her wardrohe), he forgets the dutios of his office, and incurs the general disapprohation of his people. the young wife hears this; and in hesitation hetween her fear of displeasing her hushand and her grief that his fame should perish for lack of warning, drops a hroken sen- tence which leads him to suspect her faithful affection for himself. mad- dened hy this suspicion (which he might have removed hy one simple question), he resolves to ride forth into the wilderness, to win hack his wile's regard hy some high deed; on which the poet ohserves in very heautiful language—language far more applicahle, as it seems to us, to many a sad occurrence in real life, than to this very improhahle difficulty— "o purhlind race of miserahle men t how many among us at this very hour do forge a life-long trouhle for ourselves, by taking true for false, or false for true l here tbrough the feehle twilight of this world groping, how many, until wo pass and reach that other, where- we see as we are seen i" [nor. the idylli of the king. he commands enid to accompany him, and expressly charges her to do so arrayed in her worst and meanest dress. a strange suhject to occupy the thoughts of a warrior, at the very moment when he was smarting under the reproach of effeminacy i and truly, as it seems to us, a very mean piece of revenge for any "sort of a man," let alone a knight of the round tahle to indulge in she oheys meekly; puts on the "faded silk" in which he first saw her, and is hidden to ride on far in front, lost her angry lord should he unahle to restrain his wrath, and, whatever hapliens, never to speak a word to him. late in the afternoon they meet tbree handits, and enid is re- warded hy her ungenerous hushand, for having hraved his indiguation to warn him of his danger, hy his orders to drive their horses (laden with the armour of which he has stript their riders), tied together hy their hridles, hefore him. a little way farther on they meet tbree more villains, and geraint has another opportunity (of which he avails himself) of showing valour to his enemies and unkindness to his wife. tired hy the charge of the six horses, and much more hv her own quiet grief, enid thankfully accepts the night's lodging her harsh hushand provides for her in a little town ad- joining the castle of another old suitor of hers, earl limours. ho, encouraged hy the evident coldness • hetween her hushand and herself, renews his suit to her. enid, alarmed at his numerous hand of followers, feigus to he willing that he should come in the morning to carry her off, only asking to he left in repose that night; and is so long hefore she dares awaken her hushand to tell him of his danger, that their retreat the next day is speedily interrupted hy the arrival of the "wild limours" and his hand in pursuit of them, geraint, however, is fully equal to the occasion; knocks the earl and his next follower down like nine- pins— "and hlindly rushed on all the rout he- hind. but at the flash and motion of the man they vanished panic-stricken like a shoal of darting flhu, that on a summer, mom adorn the crystal dykes of cunelot, come slipping o'er their shadows on the sand; but if a man who stands upon the hrink nut lift a shining hand again t the sun, there is not left the twinkle of a fin betwixt the creasy islets white in flower.■ having disposed of this formidahle attack so easily, the invincihle ge- raint rides on with the patient enid. but retrihution is at hand. a wound, which he hardly felt in theard our of the conflict, hegins to pain him; his hlood hows unseen, and he fall- senseless to the ground. his wife hinds his wound with her veil, and sits heside him in despair. "the huge earl doorm," the savage lord of the territory they are now in, passes hy, and touched in some de- gree hy heauty in distress, commands two spearmen to carry the wounded mau to his hall. enid's palfrey has deserted her, hut geraint's "great charger," which stood hy him " griev- ed like a man," follows him unled. left alone in the deserted hall, enid sits for long hours hy her lord; who, wakening from his swoon, is con- vinced of her true love for him hy her tears, hut still feigus himself as dead,— "that he might prove hex to the utter- most, and say to his own heart, 'she weeps for tod}" he thus exposes her to the rude at- tentions of their savage host, who returns from a plundering expedition in the afternoon, feasts in the hall with a motley crew of spearmen and women, "whose soul* tfis old terpent long had dravm doim. an tht worm, draw in th« leitker'd lea/ and maket it earth p and having finished his savage re- past, coolly assures erdd that her hushand is dead, offers to replace him; vainly presses meat and drink upon her, and then, with a regard for dress amazing in such a har- harian, and evidently proving that the love of fine clothes was epidemic at that period, sends for a splendid silk, and commands euid to put off her faded garh, and"*array herself in it. to which she answers:— [nov. the idylh of the king. alas! how utterly devoid of all pas- toral iunocence! it consists of the wicked devices of a most unlovahle damsel, named vivien, to heguile the aged merlin, the great enohanter, into revealing to her a spell of which he had once told her. this spell, wrought in a fashion something like mesmerism, '' with woven paces and with waving arms," hut with more enduring results, puts its suhject to sleep for ever, except to him who wrought the charm; and vivien determines to learn it from merlin, and then work it on her un- lucky tutor, "ah fancying that hor glory would ho (treat. according to his greatness, whom sho quenched." merlin is painted full of gentle wis- dom, venerahle as "such a heard as, youth gone out, had left in ashes," could make him. he is not without gloomy forehodings of coming evil, depicted in the following fine lines: "so dark a forethought roll'd ahout his hrain, as, oft a dull day in cpn ocean cave. the hlind, wave, feeling round hit long tea luiu in rtlence." kay, an indefinahle association links these forehodings with vivien. he says to her,— "o! did you never lie upon tho shore, and watch the curl'd white of the coming wave glassm in tho slippery sand hefore it hreaks? even such a wave, hut not so pleasurahle, dark in the irl:,ss of some presa^'eful mood, had for tbree days seen, ready to fall. you seem'd that wave ahout to hreak upon me, and sweep me from my hold upon the world, my use, and name, and fame." his nature is far too nohle to love such a thing as vivien. listen to his lofty thoughts on fame:— or these:— "fame, with men. being hut ampler means to serve mankind, should havo small rest or pleasure in her- self. but work as vassal to the lanrer love, that dwarfs the petty love of one to one." at first he tolerates rather than likes her attentions; and when she pre- maturely shows the cloven foot, and pours into his unwilling ears vile scandal against his nohle friends, the knights of the round tahle (scandal of which we will say nothing, hut that we are truly sorry it should pol- lute the pages which tell, further on, of the childlike iunocence of elaine, and the manly—ay, the cbristian— purity of arthur), he turns from her indiguantly, muttering, ** men ot most differ as heaven and earth. but women, worst and hest, as heaven and hell;" and expressing his just loathing of such as her, who, u if they find some stain or hlemish in a name of note. not grieving that their greaiezt are to email. inflate themselves with some insane de- light, andjwige all nature from her feet of day, without th« will to lift their eyet and tee iter godwce head croien'd with tpiritualfire. and touching other worlds" how true how nohle! how good to rememher the next time we hear an ill report of any one we reverence! the heauty of the thought in the lines we have italicised makes us quite forget the defective rhythm of_ the last line hut one. and yet the sage who judges so justly yields up his secret, a few pages later, to the woman he despises.' "oh! most lame and impotent conclusion!" we have all pity for the strong man, whom his affection has disarmed, stahhed hy the hand which he trusted as his own. we feel more compas- sion than anger when we hear the hrave champion of isracl against the philistines hewail his " impotence of mind, in hody strong"— "his lot unfortunate in nuptial choice, from whence captivity and loss of eyes;" "sweet were the days when i was all for the cnoice though a wrong one, link ih'um. , * - a, - |j j but when my name was lifted up, the was his own, and he yielded up _ •to™ ,_ , . . . god's secret and his to tho woman brolc^ on the mountain, and i cared not whomhe&>wjrf. but teunyson makes .] the idylls of the king. merlin yield up his great secret to the woman whom he does not and caunot love, merely hecause of her importunity! ho tells it her, "overtalk'd and overworn ;" and hy her sbrieking, her exultation, she leaves him as dead in the hollow oak, "and lost to lifo and use and namo and fame." where the original sketch is dis- torted, the most faultless colour- ing caunot produce a really good pic- ture. the tine thoughts and heauti- ful imagery scattered tbrough "vi- vien" with no niggard hand, caunot make amends for the incurahle fault in ita original desigu. they can at hest only conceal it. the sickly tree, with no principle of vigorous life within it, with no roots striking far down into a healthy soil, may he adorned for a night's festivity with coloured lamps and artificial flow- ers; nay, healthy fruits may ho hrought and hung upon it; hut a , short examination will always detect its want of organic counection with its foreigu splendours. wo dare not nay that where the leading idea from which a poem grows is good, the poem will he invariahly good also; for a nohle conception may he much ohscured and injured hy defective execution; hut this we will say—a poem which is false or weak in its main idea, can never he more than good in parts. it can never he good as a whole. the stream can never rise higher than its source. and thus wo turn, with reluctant disapproha- tion, from the two first idylls. in- deed, we are half tempted to think that they were rather written as foils to the two last, than to act, as they should have done, as a flowery and leafy avenue to the stately man- sion which succeeds them. we would implore mr teunyson, as a father, never again to sacrifice the welfare of two elder daughters (even if some- what uupromising) so completely as he has done this time, to the success in life of their younger sisters. and we would advise that numerous class of readers, who have not time, or, which comes to the same thing, fancy they have not, to read long poems, to skip the two first idylls holdly, and at once make acquaintance with "elaine the fair, elaine the lov- ahle," as her admiring hard very meetly styles her. they will recog- nise an old acquaintance, for elaine is a new version of the "lady of shalott." only mr. teunyson, no longer pressed hy the imperious exigencies of finding something to rhyme with lancelot and camelot, and having, perchance, heard some- times the malicious quotation with which a most poetical friend of ours (who has read his shakespeare more diligently than his teunyson; favour- ed «t, when we last proposed to read to him "the lady of shalott,'" u mine eyes smell onions, i shall weep anon," has metamorphosed shalott very advantageously into astolat. there the "lily maid elaine"' dwells with her father and her two hrothers, sir torre and sir la- vaine. there sir lancelot finds her on his way to camclot, where he means to win in the joust the ninth diamond, which arthur offers as the prize of the yearly tourney there, hoping to present it, with the eight he won hefore, all at once to the queen. the first discovery of these diamonds is told in lines which we have great pleasure in presenting to our readers:— "for arthur, when none knew from whence he came. long ere- the people chose him for thelr king, koving the trackless realms of lyonuesse, had found a glen, grey houlder, and hlack tarn. a horror lived ahout the tarn, and clave like its own mists to all the mountain side; for here two hrothers, one a king, had met and fought together; hut their names were lost. and each had slain his hrother at a hlow, and down they fell and made the glen ahhorr'd; and there they lay till all their hones wcro hleach'd. and lichen*d into colour with the crags. and one of these, the king, had on a crown of diamonds, one in front, and four a-side. and arthur came, and labouring up tho pass all in a misty moonshine, unawares had trodden that crown'd skeleton, and the skull brake from tho nape, and from the skull the crown roll'd into light, and turning on its rims, fud like a gluttrinj rivulet to the tarn. .] the idylls of the king. "ab when a painter, poring on a face. divinely tbru' all hindrance^nc?s the man behind it, and so paints him that his face, the shape and enlour of a mind and life, lives for his children, ever at its hest and fullest; so the face hefore her lived. dark—splendid; shaking in the silence, full of nohle things, and held her from her sleep." on the morrow lancelot departs for the lists at camelot, attended hy elaine's younger hrother, lavaine, leaving her his hlazoned shield to keep for him, as he wishes to fight unknown; and the hetter to conceal himself, wearing her favour in his helmet. lancelot joins the weaker side in the tourney, and hears him- self with his wonted valour: "king, duke, ewl, count, haron—whom he smoto ho over- tbrew." but his disguise all hut works his ruin. his kith and kin, jealous of the fame of their lancelot, whom they helieve ahsent, unite against the new champion: "they eouch'd their spears, and prick'd their steeds, and thus. their plumes driven hackward hy the wind thev inado in movinrr. altogether down upon him bare, as a wild wave in the wide north sea, green-glimmering toward the summit hears with all its stormy crests that smoke against the skies, down on a hark, and overhears the hark. and him that helms it; so they overhore sir lancelot and his charger, and a s(,ear down-idancing lamed the charger, and a spear prick'd sharply his own cuirass, and the head pierced tbrough his side, and thero suapt, and remain'd." we like the ahruptness of the last line. we seem to hear the spear hreak off short in it. and we have italicised what wo think as fine a description of an ocean wave as we ever read. to return to the story. lavaine helps lancelot to another horse, and, well hacked hy him and the rest, the wounded hero wins the . day. but when he is proclaimed victor, and hidden to advance and take the prize, he answers— "prize me no prizes, for my prize is deatll;'' and rushes from the field, followed hy the faithful lavaine, to a poplar grove hard hy (we should have liked other trees hetter), where dwells a knight, turned hermit, who "had scoop'd himself in the white rock a chai,cl and a hall on massive columns, like a shore-cliff cave, and cells and chamhers—all were fair and dry: the green light from the meadows under- neath struck up and lived along the milky roofs? lavaine draws out the lance-head; the hermit carries the wounded knight into his cave,— "and there, in daily douht whether to live or die, for many a week hid from the wide world's rumour hy the grove of poplars, with their noise of falling showers. and ever-tremulous aspen trees, he lay." .meantime the sudden disappear- ance of the unknown conqueror ex- cites much disturhance in the lists: so that arthur charges gawain, his own nephew, to take the diamond and ride forth to seek its wiuner, and not to roturn without delivering the dear-hought prize into his hands. sir gawain fails to find him in his close retreat; hut at length reaching astolat, hrings and hears news of him there. elaine's preoccupied heart gives small heed to the compli- ments the courtly knight pays her; even to such a really pretty one as this, hy which he answers her re- proof for neglecting the quest on which the king had sent him :— "i lose it, as we lose the lark in heaven, o damsel, in the light of your hlue eyes." so he leaves her the diamond to keep, heing sure that, if lancelot lives, ho will come to claim his shield; and noting tho heauty of the damsel, and that the favour worn hy lancelot at the tournament was hers, he hastens to tell the astonished court of lancelot's new love, and to waken in the queen hitter jealousy of her iunocent rival. but elaine hai heard of the peril of the knight, whom she has seen only one day—a day as fatal to her peace of mind as a whole year—and she persuades her old father to let her go with her elder hrother to seek him out. they find [nov. tfie idylls of th* king. him easily, with their younger hro- ther's help. elaine presents the diamond to him, and, grieved hy his sad plight, stays with her hrother to nurse him, and saves his life hy her gentle care— "being to him meeker than anv child to " roogfa nurse, milder than any mother to a sick child; and never woman yet, since man's first fall. did kindlier unto man; hut her deep love uphore her.'' lancelot is not untouched hy all this fond affection; he feels towards her as to a young sister, and at last we read— "loved her with all love, except the love of man and woman when they lovo their heet, <losoet end sweetest, and had died the death - in any kt,tizlitly fashion for her sake. and pwadvrninru had he seen her first, she intu,t have made this and that other world, another world for the sick man; hut now the shae£lc of an old leva slniiten'd him. his honour rooted in dishonour stood. and/alth unfaithful kept him falsely true." surely had shakespeare had to write this, he would have said something like those two last lines! thus lancelot hears the penalty of his sin, not alone in the remorse which has poisoned his every cup of guilty pleasure, hut even more in the moral ruin it has wrought within him, rendering him alike consciously un- worthy of, and incapahle of respond- ing to, the pure and strong love (strong hecause pure) which he has inspired—a love of which arthur says very truly, later on: u and, after heaven, on our dull side of death, what should he hest, if not so pure a love clothed in so pure a lovelineas." "the great sir lancelot of the lake" has condemned himself, hy his own act, to continue "a lonely man, wifeless and heirless;" and as it hegins to dawn on elaine that he caunot love her as she loves him (•why he caunot, how should she ever dream ?)— "she murmur'd, 'vain, in vain; it canuot i.e. he will not love me; how then? must i die r then as a little helpless inuocent blrd, that has hut one plain passage of few notes, will sing the simple passage o'er and o'er >'or nll%n april morning, till the ear weaj lee to hear it, so the simple maid went half the night repeating, 'mast i die r" she makes one desperate effort. at her father's castle (whither lancelot accompanies her and her hrother on his recovery, where she vainhy puts on her hest attire to please him, thinking— u if i he loved, these are my festal rohes; if not, the victim's sower* hefore he fall;" and where he proffers her every gift as a guerdon for her care, hut the one gift she desires) she hreaks silence on the day he is to leave them, and declares her love to him. we know that this contradicts the hest prece- dents; that viola's imaginary sister, who "never told her love, bnt let concealment, like a worm i' the hud. feed on her damask cheek; she pined in thought; and with a green and yellow melancholy, she sal like patience on a monument, smiling at grief," is more truly womanly than some of shakespeares other heroines; hut still teunyson has provided the hest excuse he could for his sweet elaine, in her childlike iunocence, in the ease with which her every wish has heen gratified till now hy her fond hretbren and father, and, ahove all, in her heing destitute of a mother's careful guidance. lancelot answers kindly hut coldly; hids her seek a worthier hushand, whom he may endow with lands and honours for her sake, and takes his shield and departs, not daring to hid her fare- well, lest ho should increase her fatal passion. elaine is left to her de- spair. iler father and hrothers strive in vain to comfort her. she answers them calmly:— "but when they left her to herself again. death, like a friend's voice from a distant field, approaching tbro' the darkness, call'd; the owls, wailing, had power upon her. and she tnixt her lauries with the sallow-rifted dooms of evening, and the moanings of the wind." she sings to herself a doleful little .] the idylh of the king. song, called the song of love and death, of which we give the first and last stanzas, which we admire par- ticularly. the two middle ones are somewhat spoilt hy a want of sim- plicity, like the "concetti " in vogue two centuries ago, so we omit them: "sweet is true love, though given in vain, in vain; and sweet is death, who puts an end to pain; i know not which is sweeter, no, not l . "i fain would follow love, if that eould he; i needs must follow death, who calls for me; call and i follow, i follow! let me die!" her father hastens to har, startled hy something unwonted in her voice, and gazes on her altered counte- nance as on a thing at once strange and familiar. "as when we dwell upon a word we know, repeating till the word we know so well becomes a wonder, and we know not why.'' a comparison which, though we do not especially admire, yet we read with pleasure, as proving that an- other has experienced that strange, puzzled feeling ahout a well-known word which has occasionally seized on ourselves. then the maiden tells her hrothers how she has heen dream- ing of her childhood and of her old delight, when they took her in a hoat on the river; how she had al- ways longed in vain to pass one cape, where a poplar grew, that she might go and see the king's palace; and how now the old longing had re- turned, and she felt it was to he grati- fied at last. there is a proverh, which we have repeated hefore now, sometimes in hope and sometimes in fear, which says, "whatsoever thou desirest in youth, in age thou shalt plentifully ohtain;" and every now and then a dread comes over us that it may, after all, "keep the word of promise to our ear, but hreak it to our hope." such, alas! is to he its accomplish- ment in our fair elaine's case. when she passes the poplar tree and enters the palace of her childish wishes, the eye that should have heheld its glories will he closed. this is what she says to them :— "so let me hence that i may pass at last beyond the poplar and far up the flood, until i find the palate of the king. there will i enter in among thorn all, and no man there will dare to mock at me: but there the tine gawuin will wonder at me; and there the great sir lancelot muse at me; gawain, who had a thousand farewells to me; t lancelot,*who coldly went, nor had me one: and there the king will know me and rar love; and there the queen herself will pity me. antl all the gentle court will welcome me; and after my long voyage l ahau rest!" her hrothers weep for her. her fa- ther tries to cure her fatal love hy telling her of lancelot's shame, now puhlicly reported. but elaine is to escape what a gifted poetess has told us is one of the hitterest drops in woman's cup of woe. (ah! feli- cia hemans! does man never taste it?) "to make idols, and to find them clay, and to hewail such worship." gently, hut firmly, the maiden puts aside the arm raised to dash down her idol, thus:— "never vet was nohle man hut made ignohle talk. he makes nofriend icho never made a foe, but now it is my glory to have lov. <! one peerless, v, kli'int stain: so let me pass. my hither, howsoe"er i leant tn yon, aot all unharrp!/, harinff loved goots hest and greatest, tlw' my lava had no return." she dictates a letter to lancelot, to he given him hy herself alone, hid- ding them "lay the lotter in my hand a little ere i die, and close the hand upon it: shall guard it even in death." they are to place her, when she is dead, in a hlack harge, steered hy an old dumh servant, and to deck her in her richest rohes. "i go in state to court to meet the queen. there surely i shall speak for mino own self; and none of you can speak for me so well.'* will our readers think us very tire- some, and mr. teunyson very un- grateful, if we interrupt his touching story, to ask him why he calls the dumh man, "the lifelong creature of the house?" and to say, that though we have no douht that he has de- scrihed him correctly, and that a [nov. the idylls of the king. dumh man, whose fair young mis- tress was dead, would very likely at- tend her funeral, "winking his eyes, and twisted all his f.,o-.'' yet that so grotesque a figure should not have heen hrought forward so prominently in the sad procession! that sad procession passes tbrough the meadows, a shadow in the hright sunshine, after no long time. the two mourning hretbren place the dead hody of their sister on the harge's hlack dock, give her their last kiss, and hid her their last farewell— "and the dead, stcer'd hy the dumh, went upward with the flood- in her right hand the lily, in her left the letter—ail her hright hair streaming down— and all the coverlid was cloth-of-gold drawn to her waist, and she herself in whlte all hut her face, and that clear-featured face was lovely, for she did not seem as dead, but fast" asleep, and lay as tho' she smiled." the same day as that on which the harge moves slowly up the river, with its precions freight, sir lancelot has sought an audience with the queen, that he may at last offer her his princely gift, the "nine-years- fought-for" diamonds. they meet in an oriel of the palace overlooking the stream, and lancelot, kneeling, gives her his prize. bit guinevere has heard and helieved the report of her knight's intidelity to their un- hallowed hond; she scornfully re- jects his offering, hidding him carry rt to the damsel he prefers to her; and then, in a transport of jealous rage, suddenly flings the diamonds into the river, as recklessly as she had cast away hefore things far (oh! how far!) more precious. she is quickly to learn her error, for "then while sir lancelot leant, in half distrust at love, life, all things, on tho window ledge. close underneath his eyes, and right across where these had fallen, slowly past tho harge whereon the lily maid of astolat lay smiling like a star in hlackest night" the court crowd round her in amaze- ment, the king himself commands them to hear her in; and all takes place in arthur's hall, as the maid foretold. gawain "wond-ert," lan- celot "muses" at the si^hr. only muses! it seems little for a court- eous knight to do, as he gazes on the fair maiden who died for love of him; and we wrere at first inclined to think that the poet meant to indi- cate the fearful power of sin to hard- en the heart and deprive it of all capacity for pity—that frightful pro- cess of which, if we rememher right, good dr. arnold says in one of his soniions, "i c assured, they who do not love god now, will one day love nothing."* and certainly we fear that lancelot thinks more at first of his justification in the queen's eyes completed hy the letter (which ar- thur, taking from the dead maiden's grasp, reads aloud to the court), than of mourning her untimely fate. as wo read his cold explanatory speeches after the letter has heen read, we must rememher that they were spoken in guinevere's presence, and really addressed to her. it is arthur, not lancelot, who orders the splen- did hurial of the maiden— "with gorgeous ohsequies. and mass, and rolling music, like a queen;" and who gives directions for the costly tomh which is to perpetuate "the story of her dolorous voyage." it is not till all is over, and lancelot, "sad heyond his wont," has seen the kuights "lay her comely head low in the dust of half-forgotten kings," that he hegins to discern dimly the true worth of the treasure which he has cast away. truly as well as sweetly sings gerald massey, "tn this dim world of clouding cares. we rarely know, till wildered eyes bee white wings lessening up the skies. the angels with us unawares." then at last he says, u low in himself, 'ah! simple heart and sweet. you loved me, damsel, surely with a lovo far tenderer than my queen's.'" and his old remorse awakens with tenfold power, and the close of the poem leaves lancelot groaning in hitter pain over .] the idylls of the king. '• arthur's greatest knight a man not after arthurs heart!" struggling wildly against the shame- ful honds which he is too weak to hreak; and wishing, in his agony, that the fairy lady of the lake, who nursed his infancy, had drowned him, yet an iunocent hahy, in the "dusky mere." we have left our fair elaine's letter, which we consider a model of touching simplicity, to form our last extract from her story. here it is:— "most nohle lord, sir lancelot of the lake, i, some time callm the maid of astolat, come, for yon !.-ft me taking no farewell, hither, to take my last farewell of yon. i loved you. and my love had no return. and therefore my truo lovo has heen my death. and therefore to our lady guinevere, and to all other ladles, i make moan. pray for my sonl, and yield me hurial. pray for my soul, thou too, sir lancelot, as thou art a knight peerless." need we assure our readers of our unfeigued admiration for this idyll? ¥e think they must have seen it all along, and we trust they share it. nothing hut its length prevents it from coming up to, not the popular notion of an idyll (though we hum- hly suhmit that in choosing a name for a pcem, no other has any right to he regarded), hut the definition, fur- nished us hy those ponderous lexico- graphers scott and liddell, who in- form us that "eidullion " (literally a small image) need not of necessity mean a pastorul, hut is a name that may helong to any short and higbly- wrought descriptive composition. comparing "elaine" with the "lady of shalott," we congratulate mr. ten- nyson most heartily on having heen as successful with his finished pic- ture, as he was nearly thirty years ago with his exquisito little sketch. it is not often that the "artist in words" paints the same suhject twice over; still more seldom that he succeeds in hoth paintings. his earlier picture is a landscape con- taining hut one prominent figure, which receives fully as much from the surrounding ohjects as it im- parts to them. his second is a large historical picture, something like maclise's of the play-scene in ham- let, where one hright-haired maiden's iunocent face contrasts strongly with the traces of suspicion, sin, and sor- row on those of the courtly group which surrounds her. the poet does not descrihe his heroine's feelings in the "lady of shalott." he shows them to us instead reflected, her gladness in "the hlue unclouded weather," her sadness in the "low sky raining " heavily, and the falling leaves around her. in this, as in many of his most heautiful pieces, such as " mariana," "st. agues," and "sir galahad," he appeals to a deep- seated instinct in the human heart, which shows itself in old sayings, such as this—" happy the hride that the sun shines on," "happy the dead that the rain rains on;" which personifies nature, and involuntar- ily looks to her for sympathy. in "elaine," on the contrary, the poet takes his standing-point from the heart; the landscape is an efficient accessory, hut an accessory only. the weakest points in the execution of this poem are, in our judgment, the dialogues; in which we always thought narrative-poets at a great disadvantage compared with their dramatic hretbren, from the ohliga- tion to insert perpetually "quoth he," "said she," &c, and which mr. teunyson is apt to render forced and constrained hy his attempts to give them greater ease. we dislike, also, in a poem of such high finish, oc- casional vulgarisms like the follow- ing, spoken of a knight recovering from his amazement:— "then shook hit hair, strode off, and huiz'd ahroad ahout the maid of astolat and her love;"— of a queen trying to conceal her feelings, "and saying that she choked ; "—of a maiden singing her "swan-song,"— "the hlood-red light of dawn flared on her face, sho tbrilling, 'lot me die;'"— or of a knight who, dreading the world's censure, descants on it as having "such a tongue to llare its own interpreta- tion." we do not much like the employ- * [nov. the idylls of the king. ment (though etymologically correct) of "crescent" as an adjective. we know it much hetter as a suhstan- tive. we dislike such attempts at novelty of expression as the follow- ing:— "then ttirn'd the tongneloss man from the half-face to the full eye? and would have heen perfectly satis- fied with the information that lie turned round. but with the excep- tion of these minor hlemishes,' we consider "elaine" a most perfect composition; exhihiting marvellous power of description (description detailed sometimes, aud sometimes struck off in a line or two), powerful alike to set hefore us the rocky glen, or the well-ordered joust, where the -" clear-faced king," in his rohes of red samite, looks down from his dragon-supported tbrone on the con- flict of his nohle knights; alike the hlood-stained conqueror in the joy of his hard-won victory, or the maid (still fair in death) on her strange voyage; the mute appeal of the dead against the living in arthur's court; and the useless houours of her gorgeous funeral. we admire the way in which the two main difficul- ties, involved in the nature of the story, are surmounted; we do not lose our interest in lancelot, in spite of the evil we know to he in him, and of the ungracious part he has to act; for the poet has lifted {he cur- tain, and shown us in the struggles of the hrave knight's mind how "the powers that tend the sonl. to help it from the death that canuot die," have not yet ahandoned him. he still exclaims, "like others worse and worthier,"— "video mellora. prohoque, deteriora sequor." (a sentence which, hy the way, we heg to assure the fair readers of dr. gutbrie's sermons, was not spoken, as that eloquent divine informs them, hy one of the greatest of heathens, hut put hy ovid into the mouth of a wicked enchantress named medea.) and his struggles increase, instead of diminishing, with the progress of the poem; so that we have yet hope for him. we have hefore alluded to\ the skilful treatment of the other > difficulty; to tho excuses provided for ehune's open confession of her hopeless passion, to the singular . grace and delicacy of her character,' and the pathetic simplicity of her sorrow, tbrough which her poet has enahled her to win our pity without forfeiting our respect. and as this tragic tale "purifies our soul hy pity," according to the office of tra- gedy, so does it likewise hy terror; whilst we see in elaine how the strongest and hest human affections work death, not life, when they reigu in the soul unsuhordinated to a higher love; in lancelot, how they, who seek happiness in forhid- den paths, are doomed hy a divine decree to find one day or other that they have lost the suhstance while wildly grasping at the shadow. a we have now to present our readers with some account of " guin- evere," the fourth idyll. the queen's guilt has heen discovered; lancelot has returned to his own land at her hidding, whither arthur has pursued him, deeming her to he the com- panion of his flight; hut in truth she has retired to hide her shame, and to foster the stirrings of hetter things, which she feels arising within her, to tho " holy house at almeshury." the simple nuns, iguorant of the sup- pliant's rank, hut unconsciously yield- ing to the spell of her graceful ideality, have received her kindly, hut daily torture her hy their severe censures of their queen's misconduct, and still more hy the sad news they report to her after a while, that sir modred, the king's nephew, the discoverer of her shame, has usurped the realm (of which he was left in charge during his uncle's ahsence), and made league with arthur's heathen foes against him. so guinevere sits in lonely sorrow, grieving over the evil she has caused, and thinks '' with what a hate tho people and the king mast hate me," and listens to this song, which a littlo maid of the convent, her only companion, has learned from the nuns, as to a sad forewarning, that even as the mischief she has dono is irrevoc- .] ths idylls of the king. ahle here, ho it will he found to he hereafter: u late, late, ho lato i and dark tho night and chill i lato. late, so into hut we can enter still. too late, too late! ye canuot enter now. no light had we: for that we do repent; and learning this, tho hridegroom will relent too late, too late l ye cannot enter now. no light: so late! and dark and chill the night i o let us in that wo may find the light! too late, too late! ye cannot enter now. ilave we not heard the hridegroom is so sweet? o let us in, tho' late, to kiss his feet! no, no, too late! ye cannot enter now." and the young novice tells the queen tales which she had heard from her father, who was knight of the round tahle when it first was founded, of the sigus and wonders which fore- told its greatness; and guinevere knows that "the fine gold has he- come dim," and that the first hreath which sullied it came from herself. again, the maid tells her of a hard, who had sung many a nohle war- song, "ev'n in the presence of an enemy's fleet, between the steep cliff and the coming wave; and many a mystic lay of lifo and death had chantod on tho smoky mountain-top, when round him hent tho spirits of tho hills, with all their dewy hair hlown hack like name;" who "sang arthur's glorious wars, and sang the as well-nigh more than man, and rail'd at those who call'd him the false son of garlols: for there was no man know from whence ho came; but after tempest, when tho long wave hroke all down the thundering shores of bude and boss, there came a day as still as heaven, and then they found a naked child upon tho sunds of wild nundadgll hy the cornish sea; and that was arthur; and they foster'd him till ho hy miraclo was anproven king: and that his gravo should ho a mystery from all men, like his blrth; and could he find a woman in her womanhood at grtat as he was in his tnomhood, then, ho sang, tho twain together well might change the world." and how there, a sudden dread had paralysed his voice, and made his hand quit the harp; w nor would he tell his vision; hut what douht that he fore- saw this evil work of lancelot and tho queen?" guinevere hows down her head and says nothing; hut when the maid goes on to condemn lancelot with all a child's uncompromising indigua- tion, makes answer mournfully— * o closed ahout hy narrowing nunnery walls. what knowest thou of tho world, and all its lights and shadows, all tho wealth and all the woe? if ever lancelot, that most nohle knight, were for one hour less nohle than himself. pray for him that he 'scape t/ts doom qfjlre, ana weep for her who drew him iohu doom." there is all a woman's generosity in those two last lines! left alone, the mournful queen's thoughts recur to those days of her comparative iuno- cence when she first saw lancelot, who came "reputed the hest knight and goodliest man, amhassador, to lead her to his lord, arthur; and led hor forth, and far ahead of his and her retinue moving, they wrapt in sweet talk or lively, all on love and sport and tilts and pleasure (for the time was may time, and as yet no sin was dream'd) rode under groves that look'd a paradise of hlossom, over sheets of hyacinth that seencd the heavens uphreaking thro' the earth'y (the most heautiful description we have ever read of that lovely flower, which inlays with sapphire the emer- ald pavement of so many of our eng- lish woods in spring!) in the midst of these musings, a horse's feet are heard outside, voices resound tbrough the convent, some one cries, "the kingl" and an armed tread approaches guinevere's door. she fulls on her face as her injured hushand enters. with the same wise judgment which moved the painter of old to veil that father's anguish [nov. the idylh of the king. which he dared not trust himself to portray, the poet has made no vain attempt to tell us how guinevere felt in her deeply-wronged hushand's pre- sence. that once-proud head is ura raised from the ground during the in- terview; she speaks not, she scarcely r moves, except to make one supplicat- ing gesture. thus our whole atten- tion is fitly centred on arthur. in the previous poems we have known him chiefly hy the effect he pro- duces on others; hero he speaks for himself. we tremhle now and then for the fate of the nineteenth century in tho hands of some future macaulay. he will have no diffi- culty in giving us a very had charac- ter, if he ground his judgment on such facts as tho admitted popularity of the "traviata," and the passing of the divorce bill. and we fear that he will find some additional evidence against us in the very t,ook wo are now considering; in stone coarse passages in "vivien," of which we have already hinted our strong disapproval. but the speech we have now come to, ought to go far in arrest /of judgment. its tone of manly purity i hears witness that the age which i produced it could not he wholly cor- \j_rupt. it hegins in a tone of digui- fied rehuke:— "liest thou hero so low, the child of ono i linuourm. huppv, dead hefore thy shame? well is it thnt no child is horn of thee. the children horn of thee are sword and fire, red ruin, and the hreaking up of laws, tho craft of kindred and the godless hosts of heathen swarming o'er the northern sea, "whom i, while yet sir lancelot, my right arm, tho mightiest of my knights, ahode with me. have everywhere ahout this land of cbrist in twelve groat hattles ruining over- tbrown." he tells her how he has returned from waging unsuccessful war against that same lancelot,' to meet his re- hellions kinsmen with sorely-dimin- ished forces; out of which remnant he still intends to leave some "to guard thee in tho wild hour coming on. lest hut a hair of this low head he harm'd. fear not, thou shalt he guarded till my death. howhelt i know, if ancient prophecies have err'd not, that i march to meet my doom. thou heist not made my life so sweet to me that i the king should greatly care to lire: for thou hast spoilt the purpose of my life.'' saddest of all reproaches to a woman, to have heen clioseu hy providence as a good tnan's help-meet in some worthy and nohle undertaking, and not merely to have failed to help him (sad enough and common enough as that is!) hut to have worked against him! and arthur suhstan- tial.-- this accusation hy reminding guinevere how he had founded his round tahle to give pattern to the world of courage, courtoy, and puri- ty, and how, mainly tbrough her evil example, "the loathsome opposite of all my heart had destined did ohtain, and all tbro' thee! so that this life of mine i guard, as god's high gift, from scathe and wrong. xot greatly care to lose; hut rather think how s<t<l it were/or arthur, should he live. to sit once more within his lonely hall. and miss the wonte<i numher of my knights. and miss to hettr high talk of nohle deeds. as in the golden days hefore thy sin. fur which of us who might he left, could speak of tho pure heart, nor seem to glance at thee? and in thv howers of camelot or of usk thy shadow still would glide from room, to room. and i should evermore he veat with the« in hanging rohe or vacant ornament. or g/wstly footfall echoing on the sta ir. for think not, though thou wouldat not love thv lord, thy lord has wholly lost his lovo for thee. am not made of s'o slight elements. yet must i leave thee, woman, to thy phiune. i hold that man the worst of puhlic foes w ho, either for his own or children's sake, to save his hlood from scandal, lets the wife. whom ho knows false, ahide and rule the house l worst of the worst were that man he thai reigns) better the king's waste hearth and ctchina heart than thou reseated in thy place of light. the mockery of thy people and their hane.'" when did we last read anything s truly pathetic? for there is no false sentiment here. all is real, genuine, manly sorrow—the sorrow of a great man whose life's work is crumhling to nothing hefore his eyes! [not. the idylls of the king. r v the hushand who has so nohly con- quered hack the heart that should have heen always his, vanishes, for this world's for ever, from her gaze. when the trumpet has sounded for departure, and arthur has hlest her and gono to his last hattle-field, where his false nephew is indeed to fall, hut whence he himself shall re- turn no more, she exclaims:— "ah, great and gentle lord, "who wast as is the conscience of a mint among his scarring senses, to thy knights— to whom my false voluptuous pride, that took full easily all impressions from helow. would not look up, or hall" despised tho height to which i would not or i could not climh— / thought i could not hreathe in that fine air, that pure severity of perfect light— i wanted warmth and colour, which i found in lancelot—now i see theo what thou art; thou art tho highest and most human too, not lancelot, nor another. is there none will tell the king i lovo him. tho' so late? now — ere he goes to the great hattle? none: myself must tell him in that purer life, but now it were too daring. ah, my fiod, wl,at might i not have made of thy fair world. had i out lov;d thy highest creature hsre h "la vita al fin, e'l di loda la sera," says petrarch in one of his most heautiful canzoni. such a con- clusion (for we consider this fourth idyll mainly in the light of the com- pletion of what has gone hefore, hardly as a separate poem) goes far to make us forget and forgive the insult which wo conceived "enid" to offer to our understanding, and tho displeasing effect which part of "vivien" produced on us. we have here a nohle idea heautifully worked out. inspired hy it, the poet has risen ahove his usual self. the hlemishes we noted in the former idylls almost wholly disappear. nay, for the moment we can dispense with their heauties. one dimly- lighted chamher is more to us than glen or woodland, tournament or hall, for in its narrow hounds one of the great questions of our common humanity is trinmphantly decided. the very simplicity of the story, its want of numerous personages and multifarious interests, is an advan- tage. they would he as superfluous here as in that glorious work of ary scheffer, his "dante and beatrice." here, as there, two figures are amply sufficient, only their relative posi- tions are reversed. here it is the-\ man, not the woman, whose eyes are fixed on heaven, and whose face has caught a radiance from ahove; the woman, not the man, who is to rise from the dust and gain wings wherewith to soar upward tbrough . the hlessed attraction of the form | that stands heside her. in reviewing the work as a whole, we are hound to confess that mr. teunyson has far more than fulfilled the promise implied in its title. he has, it is true, only given us a few detached scenes out of arthur's life, hut these are so skilfully selected as to present us with a most finished picture of him. in tlte outline of ids portrait he has followed that transmitted to him hy tradition, and he is the first great english poet who has done so; for the arthur of the faery queen is a creation of spenser's own, a gay and gallant gentleman, hound to no wife un- worthy of his love, seeking tbrough many a perilous enterprise the hand of tho facry queen herself, tho great gloriana. whether, in the lost half of his irreat work, spenser at all more nearly approached the tradi- tional arthur, is of course uncertain; in his wars most prohahly he did so; hut we have no reason to suppose that either guinevere or lancelot found admission into any part of the poem. whilst adhering, however, to the outline afforded hy ancient song and legend (and wuely m, for in this archaeological age deviations so wide as spenser's would find hut little favour), mr. teunyson has in- fused into it a new spirit. lancelot""] is the favourite of tho old romances; mr. teunyson makes him a more nohle-minded man than they do, and yet elevates arthur, the man who endures, immeasurahly high ahove / lancelot, the man who inflicts the j injury. in his selection and treat- ment of his suhordinate characters, as we havo already said, we consider mr. teunyson less successful. "enid" is a mistake tbroughout, except in the parts that relate to arthur and his court. "vivien" is spoilt hy an attempt to give novelty to an old and "over true" tale. finally, mr. .] on allied operations in china. n teunyson is a poet who dwells more with contemplation than with ac- tion. he gives us "idylls" whero another would give us "lays." he would rather listen to the distant thunder of the hattle, as his own lotus-eaters did to the roaring of the sea, "stretched out heneath the pine,!' than plunge heartily into the thick of it. his story often seems a trouhle to him to tell; and the simpler it is, therefore, the hetter he tells it. it is on the feelings, and especially on the moral sentiments called forth hy the various situations in his tale, that he loves to pause. even his hest characters do not stand alone, and reveal themselves wholly to ns hy their own words and deeds— the rare prerogative of the creations of the greatest masters of song; he is forced to eke them out hy much description, mediate or immediate: and therefore they rather resemhle some of those works of early italian art, where much drapery conceals the defects of the figure, while the head looks forth on us with almost angelic heauty, than the men and women, instinct tbroughout with life, of italian art in its*perfection. he rises very high sometimes, hut he has not strength of wing for very _ long flights. therefore he has done most wisely not to attempt an epic, i in which he must have failed (the / names of those who, in any age or country, have succeeded in that truly great attempt are soon counted), hut to devote instead four short poems to the earliest traditions of his country. of these, we wish we could say that all are worthy alike of their suh- ject and of their author; hut at least the two last will spread the reno- vated renown of arthuw guinevere, and lancelot, far as^rche english language extends; and (far different from their ancient prose predecessors, the reading of which the unhappy franceses rememhers in the shades helow to deploro as the instrument of her destruction) will hy the pure and lofty sentiments which they tend to foster, as well as hy the delight they caunot fail to give, make no in- considerahle addition to the great deht of gratitude which his country already owes to her worthy son, al- fred teunyson. -' j on allien operations in china. tjte reserve of tho british press upon the chinese question arises far more, we feel convinced, from a seri- ous conviction of the grave difficulties with which the suhject is surround- ed, than from any desire to under- estimate its importance; hut we hold that the sooner the suhject is now discuased the hetter, for if it ho delayed until the meeting of parlia- ment next fehruary, grave errors will he committed that may compro- mise far more important interests than those of a mere ministerial party: and when too late, we may find ourselves involved in an allied war against china—a war in which we shall have a vast question of re- venue and commerce at stake, whilst our faithful and fond allies will have none—a war in which, whether successful or not, england will have to pay the shot—a war which can hring us no honour, and which our faithful ally will ahruptly hring to a close whenever he chooses to cry halt, as he did in the crimea —and the result of which, should we ever enter pekin trinmphant, will he to place england for tho first time in the east in an appar- ently secondary position as a victor. no englishman can now question the justice of our case against the court of pekin—it has heen guilty of a gross act of eastern perfidy. the emperor of china, under his sigu-manual, concedes certain privi- leges; when we attempt to avail ourselves of them, ho repels the envoy of queen victoria, and slays four hundred of her suhjects. such treachery is not a novelty in our eastern history; and cases of it have occurred with nearly every native sovereigu in our wide do- minions. england has always in- flicted punishment for the crime, [not. on allied operations in china. and meted out justice, hut with her own right hand. she has neither called in frenchman or ger- man to assist her to do so, and so has heen exalted the glory of her arms, and tally estahlished the ter- ror of her name, tbronghout the length and hreadth of asia. most englishmen would have sup- posed that the unsatisfactory conclu- sion of the allied war with russia would at any rate have warned our statesmen against committing so radical an error, as that of introduc- ing our ally into that quarter of the glohe where''so much depends upon our military prestige. napoleon might claim equal interests, com- mercial and political, in the freedom of the principalities and the inde- eendence of turkey; hut what has e to do with our quarrel of with yeh and the emperor hien- fung, except this, that a plea was wanted for introducing the french in force within those seas of india and china? if frenchmen could not create commerce, they could at any rate cull military honours; and un- der the pretext of defending catholic- ism, let it he .known from the hor- ders of tartary to the shores of the persian gulf, that there was a great country in the west whose beets could look quite as imposing as those of england, and who could send her soldiers to fight her hattles on quite as distant shores. these, we grant, were french reasons; hut for every laurel gained hy her when fighting in our hehalf, we maintain a laurel fell from england's chaplet; and surely we had had enough of this in the crimea. all the hlunders there were said to he english, all the suc- cesses french; so stands the record in europe. they who love england should at any rate have striven to avert such an impression in the east, where from aden to pekin a hundred thousand of their countrymen live amongst some seven hundred mil- lions of asiatics, and are respected hy them in proportion, and only in proportion, as they are feared. the emasculated blue-hook, which on the last day of the session of was laid hefore hoth houses of par- liament, as purporting to he all the correspondence relative to the late special mission to china, caunot he too carefully read hy those who would wish our future measures against the court of pekin to he perfectly successful, and worthy of our great country; and it is to he hoped that the fortheoming work hy mr oliphant will serve to fill up many a serious hlank, and enahle the history of the past operations of - to he read aright. but he- fore passing to consider the measures hy which the treaty of tientsin was concluded, and the ohstacles which impeded lord elgin in ohtaining it, and that have mainly contrihuted to render it as yet valueless, we must pause to gather "the flower of wis- dom," as the chinese say, from an earlier page or two. if anything would convince hureau- crats at home of the importance of having a thorougbly ahle high com- missioner in china, and for him to he merely instructed as to what de- mands were to he enforced, with plenary powers over her majesty- land and sea forces, the perusal of lord elgin's instructions, aud a com- parison of them with what he really did, ought to he conclusive. out of seven measures which lord clarendon, then secretary for foreigu affairs, considered it necessary to suggest in the event of the emperor heing contumacious, we find that lord elgin acted hut upon the seventh and last — this was, the estahlishment of a military force in permanent occupation of the city of canton; and of all his measures, we helieve this to he the one most open to criticism, for the following reasons. so far as any moral effect upon the court of pekin is concerned, either in , or as we now see in , we might as well have taken posses- sion of lhassa in thihet, or the capi- tal of thecorea; and whilst wo have excited the hostility and fears of all china, and given the war-party in pekin the very hest argument against our professions of disinterestedness touching acquisition of territory, the occupation of canton will he found, on the other hand, to cost a pretty peuny, if the hill is honestly rend- ered; and the suffering and death amongst our soldiers and sailors, who have heen compelled to remain in the .] on allied operations in china. most unhealthy part of china, have heen something fearful. against all these drawhacks, we have not a single compensating advantage to set off, unless it he, that the mercantile community at hong kong like the arrangement, and that within the mere walls of one city, in china our prestige is preserved intact. perhaps it might he argued in defence of this measure, that at any rate we have avenged the disgrace which fell upon our arms when the redouhtahle yeh made admiral sir michacl seymour retreat hefore his hraves and fire- ships; we reply, that reparation for our injured honour might have heen ohtained at far less cost to ourselves than the occupation of canton has heen since cbristmas . such is the result of attempting, in downing street, to lay down rules of action for men who are to carry out diplomatic or military measures in so remote and little understood a part of the glohe as china. upon the importance of the plenipotentiary or amhassador having plenary powers over the direction of the land and sea forces, too much stress caunot he laid. it is not always that admirals and generals can he found who will waive their own petty diguity and narrow ideas of personal etiquette, and con- sult alone the interests of the empire of which they are the paid servants. this lilue-iiook leaves much not ac- counted for in the proceedings of the amhassadors and admirals when oil" the peiho river in april and may . we caunot understand why lord elgin arrives on the loth april off the peiho river tot- ally unsupported, and apparently risking insult from the chinese. we caunot understand what, if he can he there on the th april, prevented the admiral agreeing to force the passage of the river until the tli may; the more so that in despatch , lord elgin, on may th, writes lord malmeshury that "it is ohvious that every day of pro- crastination and delay was reducing to a lower ehh our chance of hring- ing to an early and satisfactory con- summation the policy which we had heen commanded hy our respective governments to carry out." who was delaying?—who was procrasti- nating? and further on—"junks laden with supplies for pekin had heen passing the har of the peiho river at the average rate of ahout fifty a day; the healthy season was passing away, the chinese hegin- ning to recover from alarm." who was to hlame for all this? no one i or do we, in one solitary para- graph of despatch , find the real clue, which has inadvertently escaped the mystifying pencil of the judi- cious under-secretary? lord elgin there says, on may d, , di- reotly after the long-delayed attack upon the contumacious chinamen— "i trust, therefore, thit it (the suc- cessful fight) will encourage the ad- mirals to prosecute with vigour those measures which i huve heen urging upon them for some time pant.'' where, my lord, are these de- spatches? it is important now, for the future honour of our arms and diplomacy, that the proofs of these assertions and complaints he made puhlic. we should not have sought them, had the skilful diplomacy and cleverness with which the treaty of tientsin was wrung from the court of pekin succeeded likewise in guaranteeing its faithful fulfilment: it has not done so. we therefore desire to he ahle to prove our thesis, that for diplomacy to suc- ceed in the east, it must have entire control over our own executive; and wo feel assured that you, my lord elgin, as well as the statesman dt the head of the eoreigu office, hold proofs of the correctness of our argu- ment. when we rememher that in england had in chinese waters some eighty odd pendants, and an overwhelming force of guns and men, wo are more and more struck with the want of vigorous action at taku and tientsin hetween the th and th may. the guns and earth- works at taku appear to have heen taken, and the troops that admiral seymour, as shown in despatch , knew to have only retreated a distance of eight miles, were, if followed at all, only pressed gently, and allowed to effect their escape. the result may he seen in the suhsequent negotiations at tientsin, where, judging hy the re- ported conversations of mr. lay with vol. lxxxvl -il otot. on allied operation! in china. the imperial commissioners, we are impressed with the eonviction that skillul jockeying alone ohtained lord elgin his treaty; and tliat the only wonder is thai he ohtained it at all, with a half-heaten mongolian army in his neighhourhood—un english have done with lord elgin; and really, considering how different our motives are in putting pressure upon china, the only wonder is, that any comhined actinn takes place at all. we go to war with china for purely commercial reasons: she wants nei- general in canton, who allowed him- ther us nor our trade; we insist she self to he hullied hy chinese militia —and allitd adm rals on the spot, who fitted very slowly, and, when forced into action, read the garrison of ' nku so light a lesson that they return in-xt year to inflict a deteat upon our flag. no one cared to know of these things when it was seen that, in spite of them, lord elgin had secured a treaty which all men considered a sound one; hut now that we find the want of unity of action in hringing ahout the sad disaster of , it is time that some inquiry took place into the causes which hrought ahout such fatal errors in past negotiations with china. it is in counection with this suhject that the action of allied plenipo- tentiaries and generals or admirals hecomes douhly difficult. if so many impediments exist in the path of an amhassador looking only to his own country's interests, what must it he when there are two amhessadors of different nations? we have no douht that if a committee sat to-morrow to prove the ohstacles which lord elgin had to comhat, and to examine into the shortcomings of , and how they have affected the peaceahle ratification of the treaty of tientsin in , they would everywhere he met hy the excuse—the information you eeek caunot he given lest we offend the pride, or hurt that love of secresy for which our french friends are such sticklers. for this reason an air of mystification is as- sumed, which is totally foreigu to our hahits, and contrary to the consti- tution of this country. h this ohjection exists at home, fancy how many ohstacles surround the amhussador at the distance of sixteen thousand mdes from the seat of his government. the chances are ten to one against another french diplomatist heing found, who will act so cordially and faithfully with .our envoy as baron gros appears to shall accept hoth. "france goes to war for an idea," that happens in this case to he the right of her priest- hood to go wherever they please, and seek converts to a faith, a firm helief in which renders every con- verted chinaman a rehellious suhject. is england prepared to support franco in such a policy?—is france sincerely desirous of promoting brit- ish interests in china?—if so, why does she traverse our pohcy in every other quarter of the glohe, and hy disproportionate naval armaments ohlige us to tax the commerce and industry of england to the present frightful extent! every sensihle man will reply that our interests are not identical; well then, we say, why not let each sepa- rately pursue her own policy—why hy tliis pretended alliance give the chinese reason to suppose tl at we are either afraid to deal with them single-handed, or that each ca>e is so weak that it will not stand upon its own merits? touching the arguments in favour of the am- hassador having the power to direct military operations, it must he allowed that in allied operations, where unity of action is more than ever necessary, decision ami rapidity will he entirely out of the question. for in china, as in .the crimea, we shall have councils of war, plans, pro- tests, and counter-plans, all for the sole purpose of handying responsihility from shoulder to shoulder; and the siege of pekin may rival sehastopol, if not that of troy. if we take into consideration tie task which our envoy will have to execute, and its extremely delicate and complicated nature, the more unfair will it he to him to hamper his action hy having to consult some hrother plenipotentiary whose coun- try's interests arc in no wi-e identi- cal. whether the envoy or high commissioner of england he a diplo- matist, admiral, or general, no man .] j on, allied operation* in china. will envy him the honour who weighs well the duty lie will have imposed upon him, or desire to add one straw to the anxiety or difficulty of his po- sition. he will have to wipe out the disgrace of a most sigual defeat—to impress upon the court of pekin that all ohligations entered into under the siguature of the high officers, and ratified hy the emperor, are hinding, and ohtain guarantees for the fulfil- ment of such promises; at the same time, he, the envoy, will have to hear constantly in mind, that, apart from a mere export and import trade of twenty-four millions sterling hetween the united kingdom and china, with perhaps as much more to and from india and british colonies, our re- venue derivahle from many chinese products forms as important a frac- tion in the chancellor of the exche- quer's hudget, as the sale of opinm is of vital consideration to the financial condition of british india. we caunot, we dare not, forego our right to punish the emperor hien- fung for his treachery; hut for a thousand reasons the punishment must he short, sharp, decisive, and at the same time not remorseless. "we must not force the emperor to extremities; we must not kill the goose that has only commenced to lay us golden eggs. can any one give us, we ask, a single proof that, in going to pekin arm-in-arm with the french, such a course is likely to ho pursued? do french military or naval operations in algeria, the crimea, or italy prove it? we say not, and at the same time yield to none in a sincere admiration for the gallantry and devotion of her soldiers and sailors. low indeed must england have sunk, if she needs french aid to punish china; and whatever reasons lord palmerston may have had in tor holstering up his case hy a french alliance, none such exist at present. we want an ahle amhassador or envoy, with an enterprising admiral and general, hacked hy ten thousand men. surely great britain can pro- duce these. it is hy acting alone that she will hest impress upon the stolid chinaman an idea of her undiminish- ed power; and it is hy ohtaining re- dress single-handed that she will hest allay the excitement which has very naturally followed tbroughout the east upon the news of the hloody re- pulse at the peiho—results which we do not helieve will he ohtained, or at any rate not with effect, if we are to again act in china under the shadow of french tricolors. there is to the english states- man another serious consideration. we are introducing the french amongst our eastern colonies, and enahling them to collect in force upon our great routes of commerce with india, china, and australia. the government of great britain has proclaimed that, in the event of war, the colonists of australia, new zealand, singapore, and india, must he prepared to defend themselves, at the same time we are affording the only naval power english colonists have any reason to fear, an excellent pretext for keeping in those eastern seas a force which, under all other circumstances, would he only looked on as heing there for reasons hostile to british interests. directly that england fancied she had accom- plished her ohject in china hy the treaty of tientsin, she reduced her fleet. france did not do so, hut ra- ther augmented it, and set upon the conquest of the seahoard of cochin- china, with a view to estahlishing herself directly on the road hetween china and england. that she failed in this is owing to the tactics of her admiral, and the insaluhrity of the climate of cochin-china, not to any wisdom upon our part; and it should he rememhered that, dur- ing the war in italy, had circum- stances compelled england to enter the field as a helligerent against france, the french squadron in the east indies and in new caledonia would have not only matched ours under admiral hope, hut whilst the latter would have had millions' worth of property to protect hoth afloat and on shore, the french would have only had the pleasing occupation of capturing, sinking, and destroying our merchantmen and settlements. let a fresh allied war against china he entered upon, and though no prophets, we maintain that the war may last for three or four years, or as long as louis napo- [sot. on allied operation* in china. guns. do. do. do. do. do. screw. do. do. do. leon pleases, and that at the end of it we shall find the french fleet in the east in a still more menacing position than the last chinese im- hroglio left them. the french squa- dron in chinese waters alone, at this moment, consists of the follow- ing vessels:— nemesis, frigate. capricieuse, do. phiegeton, harque. primanquet, do. la place, do. du chayla, ship. mitraille, guns. marceuu, do. fusee, do. dragonne, do. avalanche, do. preq.-nt, do. meurthe, fine armed troop-ships, durance, armnmeut uncertain, gironde, [ capahle of carrying saone, j guns each. rose, hired despatch- hemi, >. vessels and tran- st. andrew, ac. ) sporta. in addition to these vessels, the frenoh had a sqnadron of four vessels, if not six, in new caledonia, and as many more at bourhon island and off zanzihar. against this french force, which has no territory to pro- tect, and no commerce to watch over, we have the algerine, slaney, and ) first-class gun- leven, ) hoats. blusl erer, bustard, clown,] coromandel, drake, gl n.,wat s firm,forester haughty.! ^ and janus, kestrel, marling,! va r,i.«. stanch, watchful, and woodcock, j heavy first-class gun-vessels. chesapeake, frigate, cumhrian, do. sampson, ship, furious, magicieune, acorn, hrig, cruizer, shin, highflyer, do. inflexihle, sloop. fury, do., esk, ship, guns. screw. old sailing-ship. paddle-wheel. (" paddle - wheel j frigates, ad- i apt ed for tran- [ sports. screw. screw. puddle. paddle. screw. dcia all the other vessels lately par- aded in official returns are useless as men-of-war, and may not with safety proceed to sea; such, for in- stance, as the alligator, hercules, mimlen, melville, and bittern; whilst the actmon, dove, ilesper, saracen, adventure, and assistance, are fitted for surveying purposes, or as troop and store ships. in indian waters, admiral hope had only at his dis- posal tbree men-of-war, the retrihu- tion, —another wretched specimen of the paddle wheel fighting-ship— and two first class despatch-hoats; and so far as the force denominated the indian navy is concerned, the vessels are no more than a match for, if so good as, the french armed troop-ships. surely such a fleet as that france now has in the east, ought to he a sufficient cause for anxiety in the present political state of europe; and at a time when statesmen are doing all in their power to awaken a martial spirit tbroughout this land, with a view to repel the aggression or in- vasion which they seem to think looms in the horizon, instead of en- couraging an increase of the numher of french soldiers or sailors in the east, all should join with us in say- ing, that for the safety of our eastern possessions, and the security of our enormous commerce with all the countries heyond the cape of good hope, the sooner we insist upon the french force heing reduced in those quarters the hetter for england. .] the future of india and her army. the futurb op innia ann her army. a friendly letter by the overlann mail. it is only another proof, my dear geoeral, of your old kindness of heart, manifested to me in so many ways ever since the commencement of tliat happy time, when yon were colonel, and i adjutant, of the d —and we looked at the dear old regiment with pride and confidence, which nothing could shake—that you should send me an early privileged copy of the " report of the reorgan- isation commission." i told you in my last all that i could tell you ahout the old regiment. it did not amount to much more than that it " went to the had" like the rest. i caunot he too thankful that i was out of it hefore the thing happened; for although we used to think that we had some hold upon the affections of our men, and that they would have "followed us anywhere" (and in those days i helieve they would); yet seeing what i have seen, and hearing what i have heard during these last two years, i really have not the least hope that, if you and i had heen with the regiment when the madness seized it, we should not hoth of us have heen shot like dogs. it is all over now. i really helieve that the mutiny has heen fairly trampled out hy the indomitahle courage of the anglo-saxon race. but what the doctors call the tequelas of the disease are now hefore and around us; and i caunot conceal from you my conviction that there is a world of trouhle yet in the womh of time, and that it will require all our wisdom and all our energy to "pull tbrough" into the old heaten road of tranquil sucoess. our old native army has gone to pieces, and the question now is— how are we to reconstruct it? of course it must he reconstructed. i utterly repudiate the idea of holding india simply hy the thews and sinews of the gora-logue or white men. we must have, in some shape or other, a native army; and it calcutta, stptemher . seems to he pretty well understood that we must also have a very power- ful european army to keep it in check. the difficulty which then arises is mainly one of finance. how are we to maintain these two great armies without so exhausting the revenues of india as to leave nothing for internal improvement, without spending so much on the suhjection of the people as to deprive ourselves utterly of the means of heneficent rule? indeed, we have come to this pass now, that the whole question of in- dian government has hecome a mili- tary question. if we caunot reoon- struot our army in such a mauner as to hring it within reasonahle hounds, as respects numhers and therefore cost, we may as well tbrow up our cards at once, for we can hold neither tricks nor honours. looking at the matter thus gravely, all think- ing men in this country regarded with solemn interest the great fact that a commission, composed of some of the ahlest soldiers and statesmen of the day, had heen ordered to assemhle in england for the purpose of collecting evidenoe respecting the reorganisation of the indian army, and reporting upon it; whilst at the same time evidence of a like charac- ter was heing collected in this coun- try. the many, perhaps, considered it a personal question; their future position was to he determined ; their interests, their privileges were at stake. anybow, great was the eagerness to know what the com- mission had reported; and that anxiety satisfied hy the newspapers, to learn the contents of the blue- hook. i havo spent many hours over it, my dear general, and, thanks to your kindness, have heen ahle to gratify many friends; hut i caunot say otherwise than that, on the whole, i have heen much disap- pointed hy its contents. the first thing apparent on read- [nov. the future of india and her army. ing the evidence is. that the original desigu of the commission was to in- quire into the hest means of reor-. ganising the indian army—chiefly, it may he said, the bengal army—with especial advertence to the reconstruc- tion of the native portion of it. this was the original desigu—and up to a certain point it seems to have heen carried out with sufficient singleness of purpose and sincerity of execution. they hegan hy calling upon that dis- tinguished veteran, sir george pol- lock, for the result of his experience. they plied him with a vast numher of questions- ahout the proportion of native to european troops that the bengal army might safely contain— the constitution of the artillery force— the duties of the police—the propor- tion of regular to irregular troops—the description of duties to he intrusted to the sepoys—the constitution of native regiments—the expediency or inex- pediency of comhining natives and europeans in the same regiments— the effect of caste on the indian army—the power of commanding officers—the expediency of maintain- ing or aholishing corporal punish- ment in the native army—the numher of officers that ought to lie attached to a native regiment—and other ques- tions of a kindred character, princi- pally relating to the internal organ- isation of the sepoy army. and when general low, who had come fresh from the supreme council of india, and colonel welchman, who had gained large experience in the adjutant-general's office, went up for examination, and were followed hy others with varied information re- lating to the organisation of the native armies of india, still the in- quiry went on in the same course; the same questions were put; the same facts and opinions were elicited. it appeared to he not only tlie chief, hut the sole ohjeot of the commis- sioners, to elicit information hearing upon the one great question of the reconstruction of the native army. but after the greater numher of ex- perienced company's officers, whose opinions were to he elicited, had heen examined and dismissed to their homes, the commissioners hegan to change their tactics, and to enter upon new ground. they hegan to inquire whither, in the opinion of the wirnesses, it would he expedient to maintain us heretofore a local european army in india, or hence- forth to rely entirely on troops of the line. as soon as this question was started, it appears to me that every other question at once sank into insiguificance. then arose, indeed, a great conflict hetween the horse- guards and the india office. it was ohviously the desigu of the re- presentatives of the former to hring the entire european army of india under the domination of whitehall. we are all talking ahout this anx- iously here upon the hanks of the hoogbly, as i daresay you are talk- ing ahout it on the hanks of the thames and i should not tell you the truth, if i did not say that we are talking of it not without some very palpahle manifestations of alarm. i shall endeavour to find time and space to say something more to you on this suhject hefore i have done. but ere comply with this part of your request, and tell you what i think ahout the great question of "line" and "local," as affecting our european troops, i must give you a few of my crude ideas concern- ing the unhappy sepoy army, once the pride of our indian empire, hut now a hissing and a reproach. and, first of all, a few words ahout the past. i confess that i am often sorely puzzled; and that the more i think ahout the matter, the more difficult i find it to account for the direction taken hy this sudden madness of the sepoys. there is something so altogether exceptional and abuormal in the character of the outhreak and its manifestations, that at times, a reflecting man, seeking to fathom the mystery, is driven to a state of ahsolute despair. how often has it heen said, that if the sepoy officers had done their duty to their men, this thing would never have hap- pened? it is alleged that the sepoys were passively neglected or actively slighted hy their officers—that there was no reciprocity of kindly feeling, no hond of sympathy hetween the white-faced captain and the dusky sentinel. the hond had heen hroken, people said, hy the encroachment of ] the future of india and her army. western civilization; and tliere was a growing feeling of indifference or distaste on the one side, and of hitter resentment on the other. but every one alleged that there were "exceptions—that there were euro- pean officers, attached to native regiments, whose hearts were in their work; who did their duty to- wards their men, not only with un- stinted lahour, and in an ungrudging spirit, hut heartily, lovingly indeed; and who seemed to have estahlished such relations with the soldiery, that it was helieved that when the sepoy called his officer "mere hap" (" my father"), his heart responded to the sound of the words. sorely these men might have heen expected to escaiie the fury of the impassioned multitude. there were no wrongs, no slights—no harsh acts or hum- hling words, to he resented; there was the memory of years of kindness and of care to stand with saving aid hetween the sepoy's musket and the captain's hreast. but even the most paternal officers were shot down hy their children like dogs, or sahred without remorse. you will say that a hlind, indiscriminate fury had seized upon the mutineers; that they were as men possessed hy devils; and that they emote at friend and foe alike. if it had heen so always, the c:ise would have heen one com- paratively easy to understand. but it sometimes happened that, in their fury, the sepoys did single out an officer whom they would not smite, and that the officer thus marked for protection was not the one who had treated them hest. perhaps a man whoso whole heart had heen in his company—who had given himself up wholly to the promotion of its welfare—who had thought more of the comfort of his sepoys than of ids own,—was hutchered in cold hlood: whilst some idle, devil-may- care fellow, who went ahout his own husiness, and did just as much for his men as he was hound to do, and no more, was spared from the gen- eral destruction. you have prohahly heard nothing of this in england; hut the fact is as i have stated, and is suhject of not uncommon discourse amongst us iu these parts. a remarkahle incident, illustrative of the eccentric course of the madness of the sepoys, occurred in bhaugulpore. i may tell the story in a few words. three officers were sitting in a hungalow, when a detachment of the d na- tive inlantry, having risen in rehel- lion, rushed in upon thorn. one of these was the commanding officer of the detachment, lieutenant cowper, who implicitly trusted his men, who was in constant familiar intercourse with them, and who was helieved to he an ohject of sincere attachment to his corps. another was lieu- tenant raunie of the same oorps, who had never taken any particular pains to please his men, and had never appeared to he a favourite with them. the third was mr. ronald, an assistant commissioner in the di- vision, of whom, of course, the men knew nothing. if all our theories, my dear general, had heen worth a straw, the men would have shot down lieutenant raunie and mr. ronald, and spared lieutenant cow- per, as their friend and their father. but they singled out lieutenant raunie, who was not known to have done them any good, called upon him hy name to leave the hungalow, and suffered him to depart unmo- lested, whilst they remorselessly hut- chered lieutenant cowper and the stranger hy his side. if they had indiscriminately shot the three officers, we might have understood the matter; if they had spared the stranger, the case might have heen intelligihle; if they had suffered lieutenant cowper to de- part in peace, it would have heen as clear as noonday; hut why they should have spared lieutenant ran- nie and murdered the other two, is an enigma which must remain un- solved to the day of judgment. of course, we may hazard vague conjec- tures; we may speculate at will; we may surmise that the one officer, in spite of ins earnest endeavours to conciliate the goodwill and to de- serve the gratitude of the men, may have unwittingly offended some of their prejudices; and that in the other, though generally careless and indifferent, there may have heen something that unconsciously ap- pealed to their predilections and par- r [nov. the future of india and ker army. tialities. there may have heen some latent hond of sympathy hetween them; hut, anybow, such a result is discouraging in the extreme. it makes a man cry cui hono f if one man, taking no account of the mut- ter, is to conciliate the native mind hy accident, whilst another, with much careful study and life-long as- siduity, earnest and energetic, tbrow- ing his whole heart into the work, loving the people whom he serves, and making perhaps largo sacrifice of self, is to fail thus with a great failure, and so to grieve the spirits of those whom he would cherish that they are ready to shoot him down on the first opportunity, what encouragement is there to a man to look gravely at his duties, and to devote himself to the men whom he commands? he may do more hy some hap-hazard stroke—hy what we call in the hilliard-room a erow. all this is very mortifying. you know me too well, my dear general, to think that i would urge such a misadventure as i have heen writing of as a plea for indolence and indif- ference, and a general infusion of the "devil-may-care" into our profes- sional intercourse with the natives of the country. what every man amongst us is hound to do is his lent, and nothing short of it. his very hest may lead practically to nothing hetter than a strangling failure. but that is not ids fault. the issues are in other and wiser hands. we can hut work according to the light that is in us. we may fail, hut not on that account will our service he less acceptahle hefore god. it is very difficult, my dear gen- eral, to furnish any theories, wherehy we may account for this recent con- vulsion. the more we think ahout it here on the spot, the more griev- ously perplexed and hewildered we are. the real truth is, that we know little or nothing ahout it. my own impression always lias heen that mutiny is the normal state of an eastern army; aud that the marvel is, not thai after so many years the sepoys revolted, hut that they did not revolt hefore. patau, sikh, mah- ratta—all mutiny. do you know any indian army that has not mu- tinied again and again? the receipt of regular pay, and the certainty of a liheral pension, have kept our army for a century in a state of compara- tive, if not of positive loyalty. we have seen during that interval king- doms fall to pieces under the wild' shock of a licentious soldiery. we have survived a hlow which would have destroyed others; hut the hlow may descend again; and what we have now to do is to place ourselves in an attitude that may enahle us to meet it with safety. i do not write dogmatically upon a suhject that has hewildered many a stronger hrain than mine; hut i caunot help think- ing that our sepoy army revolted, not hecause it was an army of hlacks under a white master, hut simply he- cause it was an oriental army, aud all oriental armies revolt. we must not think that there is any especial hatred of british rule—any especial hatred of a foreigu yoke. history is full of instances of the harharities practised hy indian armies upon their own officers—one of the mildest of which was that of tying them on to guns heated almost to the point of red heat. the regularity of the english pay, and the certainty of the english pension, douhtless sus- pended the eruption during a long period of years; hut the lava was there, and it was only in the course of nature that, sooner or later, there should he an irrepressihle outhurst. i repeat that what has happened may happen again, hut not until after another lapse of years, and not until we have profited largely hy the lessons of the past. these lessons, as yon know, my dear general, are numerous. but there is nothing, on every account, more worthy to he re- memhered than that numhers do not make strength. it may he a puzzle to many, hut so it is, that as in india our enemies diminished, our army increased. as we put down one foreigu enemy after another—as we conquered mogul, mabratta, and sikh, and mule the country our own from caixr comorin to the indus, there was a steady and consistent cry for "more troops." the "augmentation of the army" was the one panacea for all the dis- eases to which our indian empire could he suhject. but there were a [not. the future of india and her army. of internal defence; for wo have really, as i have said, no enemy in india, heyond our own frontier, against whom it is necessary to make warlike preparations on a large scale. the idea now is, that we must have a native army, and an european one of far greater maguitude than hefore to keep it in check. for every two or tbree sepoys we must have an english soldier, to shoot them down, when they exhihit a mutinous spirit, and appear to he hecoming danger- ous. this is altogether a miserahle notion. our strength is turned into weakness when we are compelled to protect our right hand against the assaults of the left. if such he the necessity, it is very clear that we must never again enlist a large sepoy army. but what are we now doing? we aro leaving our skeleton regi- ments still skeletons; and hecause we do not see them again appearing with a local hahitation and a name in the army list, we think that there is no native army. but, my dear general, helieve me when i tell you that a native army, as multitudinous if not as dangerous as the last, is quietly springing up, and we are taking no heed of it. they are not "regulars," it is true. what does it matter? they are armed and dis- ciplined soldiers—call them what you may; irregular corps or military pol- ice. under the single head of mili- tory police, i shudder to think how many soldiers have heen enlisted, armed, and disciplined. the oude military police is in itself an army differing little from a sepoy force in any essential point—almost as costly and almost as dangerous as the same numher of regular sepoys. we must take care not to push this theory of a military police too far, or we shall find ourselves quietly drifting out of charyhdis on to scylla. use all your influence at home, my dear general, to warn the authorities against fall- ing into a mistake of this kind. you may do something hy lifting up your voice. the first thing, i repeat, my dear general, is, that we must not arm and discipline too many native troops, to he a source of future difficulty and danger to us—costly in themselves, and douhly costly, since they must he watched hy european regiments. numhers, i say again, are not strength. what we want are small hodies of troops of all arms, capahle of moving at an hour's notice. oar military system heretofore has heen hased upon a wholly opposite prin- ciple. we have had lurge hodies of troops incapahle of moving, and therefore powerless for good, though powerful for evil. let us station at certain points small movahle hri- gades, with a fair intermixture of european troops in each, the guns heing always in the hands of euro- peans. let cavalry, infuntrv, and artillery he accustomed to work to- gether. let there he some respon- sihle staff-officer with each hrigade, whose husiness it shall he to see that the force is always in a fit state, in respect of supplies, to take the field; and we may hid defiance to insurgent india. hitherto, any sud- den danger has found us hopelessly paralysed and panic-stricken. we have had guns without ammunition, cavalry without horses, all armi of the service without supplies. one hold prompt stroke at the outset, and a rehellion is crushed in the hud. it is hecause we never are in a position to strike that prompt heavy hlow that a local emeute grows into a general insurrection. let us remedy all ihis. what need we fear of out- hreaks at any one station if there are always present europeans with guns? and what need we fear of dis- tant movements, if we have such forces as i have descrihed ready to move down on the centre of disaifec- tion from half-a-dozen different points? give us only these movahle hrigades under capahle commander-, our magazines always heing in places of safety—which hitherto we have taken care that they should not he— and it will not he difficult to hold india with a force numerically infe- rior to that which sprawled help- lessly over the surface of the country to convince us of our folly and to warn us of our fate. there is nothing, of course, so well calculated to keep jack sepoy in order as the continued presence of european troops, with the persua- sive aid of artillery; hut prevention is hetter than cure, and it is right .] the future of india and her army. that we should consider in what mauner mutinous comhination is hest to he prevented. it is often said that we must not have too many men of the same caste and of the same country in a regiment; and that it is. hest to station them at a distance from their home, and to sever as far as possihle local asso- ciations. but it appears to me that the localisation of corps and castes is, on the whole, to he encouraged rather than not. "home-staving youths have ever homely wits." not having the fear of the schoolmaster hefore me, i must confess that jack sepoy is hest in his homeliness. what he learns from foreigu travel is seldom much to his own advan- tage, or to that of the state. i am afraid that there is in all men a na- tural disposition to learn evil faster than good. the one comes naturally to us, the other seems to he slowly acquired, and against the grain. now, what jack sepoy acquires hy foreigu travel is, so to speak, the faculty of comhination. he learns that he is part of an extensive hro- therhood scattered over the whole peninsula of india; he learns that in every cantonment of india there are men with the same feelings, the same aspirations as himself. he learns that in every regiment there are malcontents, with like grievances, real or supposed, as his own. in any season of excitement, therefore, there is a continual correspondence hetween men of different regiments who have at some previous time heen stationed in the same can- tonment. they understand each other hetter, and derive a deeper interest in what is going on at a dis- tance, from the local knowledge which they have gained upon their travels. this same consideration furnishes an argument in favour rather of the massing than of the dispersing of men of the same coun- try and caste. if any given nation- ality is scattered over all the regi- ments in the army, there is in the army, as a whole, the element of comhination; and we must take heed lest, hy our efforts to limit re- gimental comhination, we generate a more dangerous power of association tbroughout the army itself. it is plain that there are difficulties in either direction. the tendency now. however, is so strongly towards the advocacy of dispersion, that it is as well to consider what is to he said upon the other side. it is assuredly an evil that a disaffected man at peshawar should he ahle quietly to feel the pulse of a comrade at dacca, or, if need he, to scatter sharks of sedition in the lines of a still moro remote station in pegn. i feel as if i had only hegun to say what i purposed to say to yon, general, upon this great question of the native army of india; hut if i say anything more, i shall ex- haust your patience hefore i have told you what i and others think ahout the future of our european army. the great question of " line" or "local" is agitating military circles here, as you tell me it is agi- tating military circles at home; and you may helieve me, when i tell you, that we are not, in this part of the world, hungering after the adminis- tration of the war office, or the do- mination of the horse guards. there is no want of loyalty amongst us. whether we were pleased at our transfer hodily from the company to the crown, is a matter which now it is hardly worth our while to inquire. the thing is done—we are all "queen's officers;" and if it he said, regret- fully sometimes, that the service will never again he what it once was, it is only a trihute due to the loss of a good and liheral master. the question now is, not whether we are to serve the crown or the company, hut whether we are to he governed hy one of her majesty's officers of state or another, and under what conditions of service. if we are to he governed hy the horse-guards and hy the secretary for war, we he- oome a component part of tho line army, still retaining, however, certain peculiar characteristics, of which no- thing can deprive us. if, on the other hand, we are to he governed hy the secretary of state for india, we remain, as now, an integral local army as much as if we still served the company. yoa may put the case the other way, and say, "if we hecome a line army, we are governed hy the horse-guards," &c, &c.; hut [nov. the future of india and her army. it little matters which yoa regard as the major part of the proposition. here is the question which we are all considering in these parts, and i can ohserve no indication of a desire for the change with which we are tbreatened. it requires no great acuteness of vision to see, that as soon as we cease to he a local army, with privileges as such, we who now represent the middle-class element ot european society will he utterly overwhelmed, crushed, demolished hy the hurden of the aristocracy. what would the horse-guards have done for yon, general? what will the horse-guards ever do for me? we do not helong to a class in whom royal highnesses and friends of royal highnesses take any interest. wo are of the browns and rohin- sons. the browns and rohinsons ruled in leadenhall street, and to a certain extent they rule there still. but m soon as we cease to have a local european army in india, the browns and rohinsons will he super- seded everywhere hy the plaulage- nets and the stuarts. i do not forget that there will still he a local army. the horse- guards and the war office do not aspire to the honour of managing our "hlack hattalions." but it is easy to see what the native army of india will hecome, when detached also from the european army—a mere native militia; a police corps—nothing else. such, then, of our old company's officers as are likely to he attached to the re-constructed native army, have the strongest possihle interest in re- taining the local character of the european portion of the old army; whilst those who are ahsorhed into the line will equally suffer hy the change. what made the old com- pany's army such a really fine service was the staff. i use the word in its most extended sense, as siguifying all extra-regimental employment. every youth who went out to india knew that he had as good a chance as his neighhours of hecoming a malcolm or munro, that he might rise hy suc- cession to the highest appointments in the service, and close his career as the governor of a presidency. he did not care for interest—he did not rely on aristocratio counexions. aut inreniam aut faciarn was his motto; and he went without mis- giving to his work, did his hest hrave- ly, and if he had the right stuff in him, he was sure of success. he was not afraid of stuarts or planta- genets, or any hearers of .letters of introduction to governors-general or commanders-in-chief; and there- fore we had a service of which any nation might he proud—a service to whose stout hearts and strong arms we owe it that we have heen dragged tbrough the fearful trihulation of the last two years. under providence, we owe our salvation to the energies of the middle classes—the right men, who found their way, hy their own exertions, to the right place. what sent john lawrence to the punjauh —what sent heury lawrenca to lucknow—what put. james outram at the head of an army in persia, whence he came in the right time to head another army in oude? what hrought such men as montgomery, frere, chainherlaine, edwardes, ni- cholson, and others to the front when they were wanted? why, the good stuff that was in them; nothing else. they had few, if any aristocratic opponents to contend with, and they were the servants of a middle-class government, who would not huve tolerated aristocratic interference. can we hope that it will he so any longer, if the country is filled with the proteges of the horse-guards and the war-office, and men are appointed, as they will he, to regiments in india, on the understanding that they are to get some suug little herths on the staff" nay, indeed, i do not douht that hefore long the formality of attaching gentlemen, on their pro- motion, to regiments serving in india, will he dispensed with. the thing has heen hegun already. we have all heen talking here—and in no complimentary terms—of a recent nomination to a political appoint- ment in central india. the old company's service stood aghast at the appearance in the gazette of the notification of the appointment thereto of an officer of her majesty's service "unattached." such a thing had never heen known hefore. the appointment was one requiring pecu- liar qualifications, only to he ac- .] the future of india and her army. \ quired hy years of residence in the country. but the lucky nominee was not known to possess any sucli qualifications. he had come out stronjly recommended, it is said, on account of political services rendered to his party—and for this reason, people said jestingly, he was pitch- forked into the political department. i do not say otherwise than he may he a very excellent and deserving officer, and may well and worthily perform the duties intrusted to him; hut assuredly here was the intro- duction—hardly, i can say, of the small end of the wedge, for it seems to have gone in hodily. at one jump the government overleapt the inevitahle condition of employment of this description, that the employe should helong to a regiment serving in india. the claims of men who had heen hearing the hurden and the heat of the day in india were over- looked for an officer of aristocratic counection-, fresh from the cluhs of st. james's and the government house of calcutta. what is there, then, to prevent all the hest ap- pointments in india heing virtually filled up hy aristocratic influence at home? it may he said that if this has commenced already, nothing worse is to he apprehended from the transfer of the european portion of the in- dian army to the direct management of the horse-guards. your know- ledge and experience, general, will enahle you to supply the proper answer to this. what we see now is simply an experiment, the success of which will depend upon the man- ner in which the question of "line or local" is determined. if matters remain as they are, and the old com- pany's army hecomes hodily a local army, under the administration of the secretary of state for india, i do not see why the system which limits (with a few exceptions) the selection of military officers for staff employ- ment to officers of the local army should not he adhered to as strictly as hefore. what lord cauning has done hy the appointment of major wortley to a political situation in central india, is a deviation from the rule and practice of the service; it is irregular, certainly—illegal, perhaps; and it can hardly escape the attention of the secretary of state for india in council. what amount of vitality there may he in that hody i do not know; hut i shall he very much surprised if it does not, in the pre- sent state of affairs, resist this iuno- vation. not merely, under the ex- isting system, is an unattached officer ineligihle tor civil and political em- ploy, hut officers of the line, with their regiments in india, are ineli- gihle for such employment. the home government, therefore, can hardly suffer this irregularity to pass uunoticed; and if the old company's army remain hodily as now a local army, there can he no pretext for revuing the system wherehy lino officers are excluded generally from the staff. as soon, howevir, as the two services are thus far amalga- mated, all distinctions of this kind will he hroken down. the line army will he declared to have the same claim to civil and political employ- ment as the local army; and so far as the old company's officers, who have long local experience, are con- cerned, the claim will he a just one. but it is easy to see where the inte- rest will lie; easy to see, hy the light of major wortley's case, among whom the loaves and fishes are likely to he distrihuted. the browns and rohinsons—the representatives of the middle classes—are likely to fare hut poorly under such a system. but there is a difference hetween the may-he and the must-he. is it a necessary consequence of the trans- fer of the old company's european troops to the charge of tho horse- guards, that the local native army should sink into a hlack militia, anil the jones und rohinsons ho defraud- ed of their hirtbrights? i always tiiink it wise to fight for what is attainahle. you seem to think that the european local army is doomed —that, reason as we may, convince as we may, courtly influences must prevail; aud that, therefore, india will henceforth he supplied with european troops wholly from the line army. if this he tho case, what you and others have to contend for is, that this change shall he hurden- ed with certain conditions, which will render it comparatively harm- [nov. the future of india and her army. less. let the council of lndia make ft stand for the privileges of the old company's service. if the native ■tiny, shorn of its european sup- ports, is likely, therefore, to degener- ate into a militia, let care he taken to sustain it-i character and to in- crease its advantages, so that, instead of heing shuuned, it will he sought hy our hest officers. let regulations he laid down—if need he, rendered imperative hy act of parliament— prescrihing the amount of staff pa- tronage to he open respectively to the line and the local army, and deter- mining the conditions and qualifica- tions necessary to the attainment of staff employment of different kinds. by far the larger share of the staif patronage should he the appanage of the local army, hecause it will contain the larger amount of local experience, such as knowledge of the country, knowledge of the lan- guages, and familiarity with the ha- hits of the people; and, moreover, hecause, as i have said, it will he necessary to confer certain peculiar privileges and advantages upon it, to prevent it from suhsiding into the status of a hlack militia. and then as to the line regiments, it would not he difficult to prescrihe such conditions for staif employment as will render any great amount of johhery difficult, if not impossihle. for example, i would not suffer any officer to he eligihle for civil or politi- es! employment until he has served at least four years in india. it might, perhaps, he advantageous that two of these years should he passed with a native regiment—that the native army, indeed, should he the stepping-stone to employment of this kind. hint anybow, if civil and poli- tical employment were to he attain- ahle only after four years' good service in india, and then only upon ascertained proficiency, we need not he much afraid of young aristocrats hungering after appointments ohtain- ahle only under such conditions. i know that there are many other important considerations greatly af- fecting this question of "line or local." i regard it, you will gee, from the indian point of view, and i need not trouhle you with any re- marks on the constitutional hearings of the question. if a large increase of the line army, with all its attend- ant patronage, should he considered to involve any daneerous increase of the power of the crown, parliament may look after the encroachment. parliament, too, may he left to regu- late the numher of european troops to he employed in india; hut i fear it never can prevent advantage he- ing taken of the distant deiiendency to foist upon it all the spare troops that england does not want at the moment, and to recall them when she does. india has good reason to he suspioious of england in this re- spect. she will make us pay for everything that she can; and when imperial interests are at slake, if only in a financial sense, little regard will he had for the outlying de- pendency, you may he sure. this is. indeed, a very serious matter, and i wish that i could discard the thonght of the possihility of our heing inun- dated with troops when we do not want them, and perhaps despoiled of them when we do. it is true that england sent us ahundance of troops to aid us in our recent trouhles; hut the imperial government did not then want them at home; europe was at peace; and, therefore, the fact of her liherality does not invali- date the hypothesis of danger from the ahove cause. nevertheless, i hoi i that the greatest danger of all is likely to come from that weaken- ing of the "monarchy of the middle classes" on which i have commented. i caunot dismiss from my mind the douht whether such men as huilt up our indian empire are likely again to appear upon the scene. i caunot say, my dear general, that i altogether like the present aspect of aifairs in india. i am not apprehensive of another military mutiny, at all events for a long time to come; and still less do i antici- pate any general rising of the people. we may organise another army, we may scramhle tbrough our financial difficulties, hut i am afraid that we are drifting into difficulty and dan- ger of another kind. the real peril comes from within. it is the gradual deterioration of the dominant race hy which our indian empire will he slowly destroyed. you will readily .] c the future of india and her army. understand what i mean. a general di>taste for india, and everything helonging to it, is laying fust hold of the european mind. all classes of society, from memhers of council to the rank and file of our european regiments, are hungering after home. india is not what it was in your time, general; and i am afraid that i shall never live to see it such again. men who have gone tbrough the two last years of trouhle have lived more than a generation in quiet times. they have grown sick of the heat, the glare, the dust; the continual noise and excitement; the ahsence of all repose. they are longing for rest and pining for home. you told ine in your last that it seemed as though all india had heen sud- denly emptied into england—that men whose deeds you had just heen reading of, and whom you helieved to he still hattling it out in india, were turning up every day at the corners of the streets of london, or staring at you across the diuner-tahle. everyhody has taken the first decent opportunity of ruuning over to eng- land, if only for a few months. one caunot he surprised at the prevalence of this home-sickness. even in our old happy times, when we loved and trusted the people of the country, we sighed for the green fields and the cloudy skies of the fatherland. i have felt the craving myself. and i have gone home; and, alter a while, like hundreds of others, have re- turned not sorrowfully to the scene of my appointed lahours, glad to he at my work again. but who now returns to his work joyously and hopefully as of old? we are grow- ing weary of it—sick of it, tear. god i what work it has heen during the last two years! not the toil of it, not the pain of it, not the danger of it—these are nothing in the ordi- dinary professional course. the true soldier rejoices in them; he knows that it is his duty to look them in the face, and he is glad that his courage should he tried. but we have not heen doing mere soldier's duty during these two years, gen- eral. it has heen hutcher's work— hangman's work—work which, un- der the strong excitement of the hour, we got tbrough, scarcely think- ing what it was, hut which the soul now sickens to contemplate in the terrihle retrospect, when we calmly take the measure of the horrors tbrough which we have heen drag- ged. now that it is over, we see clearly what it was, and we know that we would not go tbrough it again for all the fahulous wealth of the land in which we live. i have seen strong, hrave men—men of iron nerve and resolute will, who have gone tbrough all these horrors, outwardly unmoved, pate, tremulous, terror-stricken at the recollection of them, when they have heen discussed in the quiet chamher, or starting up suddenly from the placid sleep of security in an icy swe:it, wild and incoherent, under the influence of an awful dream, only faintly shadowing the stern realities of waking life. oh i my dear general, we are sadder and wiser men than we were. there is scarcely one among us who does not feel that there is the hurden of a terrihle nightmare upon him, which somehow or other he must shake off. the environments of a frightful past cling to him like the poisoned rohe of the centaur. he must tear them off for a while, or sink into a state of feehle depression and despondency. and so every one is going home—who can wonder? there is no recovery for us until we can hreak the chain of morhid asso- ciations which now holds us in such ahsolute tbrall.- and so every one cither has gone or is going home. they who can any- how manage to remain there, will remain, you may he sure. they will take any service in england that will afford them the means of honour- ahle suhsistence, or expend them- selves in cheap continental towns, or in our own pleasant chaunel islands, living for the rest of their days upon the pension which they have earned hy indian service. in the minds of all married men at least one com- mon thought surges up—" this is not the place for women and children." the women and childreu have heen sent home; and there are many amongst us who will never suffer them again to set foot on indian soil. the country may he as safe as it ever was hefore—nay, if we profit, as [ntov. the future of india and her army. we ought to do, hy this terrihle lesson, much safer—hut the leoling of secu- rity will not he there, an- the appre- hension of continual <lunger is even worse than the danger itself. who again will leave his helpless helong- ings, as he once did, to the custody of native servants, content under such escort to suffer them to pass from one end of india to the other? it is the necessary disruption of family ties which has always heen the great drawheck of indian life. we do not really know what exile is until we find that wife and children are taken away from us, and that wo are left to toil in cheerless isolation. but this evil has hitherto heen no- thing in extent to what it is likely to ho under the new era; so that indian life, in its domestic or social, is fast hecoming as intolerahle as in its professional aspect. india, in- deed, under queen victoria, is not what it was under john company. now, there is nothing to recom- pense a man for all this hut money, fhe indian service was always de- clared, and in your time was grate- fully acknowledged to he, the heat service in the world. some of our young hands used to speak contemp- tuously of our honourahle masters as tea-dealers; hut the longer they re- mained in the service, the more prone they were to admit their ohligations to them, and to speak with thankfulness of the liherahty of their employers. i am writing now with reference to hoth hranches of the old " company's service." as time advances, they are hecoming mure and more mixed up with each other; military men doing largely what was once held to he purely civilians' work. what i have to say of one applies, mutatis mutandis, to the other; and it is to he said in a very few words. the time when, for reasons already.stated, the indian service has hecome in every respect less inviting than he- fore—when the duties have hecome more onerous and distasteful, and the social and domestic environments of indian life more painful and dis- tressing—is held to he an opportune one for the reduction of all our sala- ries. they ask more from us, and they give us less; the hurden of our servitude is increased, and its recom- pense diminished. now, if, as i sin- cerely helieve, the permanence of our rule in india depends more upon the individual qualities of the governing class than upon anything else, it is not difficult to see what must event- ually he the result of the deteriora- tion of the working agency of eng- lish government, which seems now to ho not a prohahility, hut a cer- tainty past question. you must not let your hretbren in england think, my dear general, that wo are greedy and grasping in these parts. we are ready to make great sacrifices. there is not one among us who will not pour out his money as freely as he will pour out his hlood, for the good of the state. all that we ask is that our services may not he depreciated. do not let government take the present oppor- tunity to tell us that we have all along heen overpaid—that the work can he done for less money. this is not merely to attack our pockets: it is to assail our pride, to wound our amour propre, to lower our self-re- spect. we hke to know that we are well paid, not merely hecause we have so much money to spend, or so much to invest, and therefore so much to carry home when the old horse is growing weak in the loins, hut hecause every man feels a just pride in knowing that his services are higbly valued hy the state. he i.,nks upon a high salary as a per- sonal compliment to himself. and even hody knows'how much hetter we work when we know that our lahours are appreciated. but money, it is said, is wanted; the state is insolvent; how is it to ho helped? as write, the m*b is heing afforded, most siguificantly, hy the government itself. they are hammering away at the great legislative forge, devising new taxes, wherehy the expenses of the state may he paid. they have propounded the great panacea of an income tax which is to produce the required millions, or to go a long way towards it. whatever ditlieuhies there may he in working it out, there is no douht that it is just in principle, so long as the tax is a general tax, and no class is exempted. but what is the proposal? to exempt the .] (u the future of india and her army. officers of government—that is, the governing class, the imposers of the tax. all sound policy dictating to us the neoessity of reconciling the natives of india—i.e. the great hulk of the tax-payers—to the new impost, they hit upon the hest means of rendering it grievous and intolerahle to them. under such circumstances, the first man to contrihute to the necessities of the state should have heen the governor-general himself, then the memhers of council, the jndges, the chief secretaries, and so on. the rest would have cheerfully fol- lowed. but this very appreciahle rule has heen reversed. all classes are to he taxed except the white-faced english rulers, for whose especial support the tax is raised. they who receive largely from the stato are to contrihute nothing to it. what is this hut to estahlish a raw on the great hack of the unofficial com- munity? douhtless there is a rea- son for it. the government ser- vant tells you, and tells you truly, that his allowances are to he reduced, and that he contrihutes largely to the necessities of the state hy working for a diminished salary. now this, my dear general, is patent enough to him—is patent enough to the government; hut it is not patent to the outside community, who either caunot or- will not put two and two together in this way. but although the government ser- vant understands the cause of his exemption, he does not appreciate it. he would rather pay the tax than have his salary reduced, though the tax were heavier than the reduction, he writhes, indeed, under the reduc- tion; hut he would pay the tax cheerfully and ungrudgingly in ohe- dience to the paramount necessities of the state. all this is very plain. it is human nature. the reduction of a man's salary is a personal offence to him. but taxation, however griev- ous, is not offensive. the salary of the puhlic servant, which is an ac- knowledgment of the value of his services, stands at the same figure: and he has still, whatever he may contribute to the exigencies of the state, the same feeling of pride in his position, and of gratitude and loyalty to the government which so vol. lxxxvi. liherally acknowledges his services. it is sound policy, therefore, viewed hoth in counection with the efficiency of the puhlic service and the feeling of the general puhlic, to tax our official salaries instead of reducing them. the latter course, i repeat, offends all parties; it excites general discontent tbroughout the service, and, as implying freedom from taxa- tion, general discontent in the puhlic mind. but taxation will he cheer- fully horne hy the official classes, whether it he regarded ns a tempor- ary or a permanent hurden; and the puhlic will pay with comparative alacrity when they know that the governing class has hegun hy taxing itself. another thing to he said is, that an income-tax is not necessarily a permanent hurden. to render it palatahle, it should always he made to have the appearance of a tempo- rary measure. salaries once reduced, will never he raised again to their original figure. but an income-tax may ho lightened, or removed alto- gether. it is poor economy, yon may he sure, to violate and to dishearten the executive servants of the state. do this, and you will never get such good work out of them again; and india, more than any country in the world, dependu upon the good heart and strong energies of individual men. it may he said hy theorists, who do not know what indian lahour is, that the work may he done equally well at less cost! i altogether depy the fact. reduce the wages, and you will at once lower the quality of the work it would he so in the hest of times; hut in such times as these, when our hest men are hungering after homo, and the english mind, once lured hy hright visions of ori- ental luxury, now associates with the very name of india the most terrihle images of carnage and destruction, how can you hope to get, hy reduc- ing the pecuniary temptations, such men as yon got of old—the men who huilt up this great indian .empire, which, in spite of the trouhles we have gone tbrough, is still the great- est political phenomenon which the world has ever seen? i repeat, then, that the greatest dan- ger which lies hefore us at present is the future of india and her army. [nov. . the discontent which is cankering, not prised if i were to ask you hefore the native, hut the european mind, long to look ahout for a modest little we must look to this hefore it is too residence for me and mine in a cheap late. you caunot expect men to county, where i can ride to market work in such a furnace as this with on a rough pony with a hasket over the knife at their tbroats for nothing, my arm, and dig my own potatoes, high pay and an exclusive service happy as a king, huilt up our indian empire. we you will have had more than are now ahout to see what low pay enough then, my dear general, i am and puhlic competition will do. it sure. fortunately for you, mail-day appears to me to he a fearful experi- has come upon me hefore i have meat but i shall not remain in said half that i had intended to say india long enough to see the issue. —so i will only add to the rest that like the rest; i am hungering after i am very sincerely and gratefully england; and i should not he sur- yours. - [dec. the fight on the peiho. the cause of the suhmission of the emperor hien-fung. in lord elgin's own words, the concessions amounted "to a revolution, and involve the surrender of some of the most cher- ished principles of the traditional policy of the empire. they have heen extorted, therefore, from its fears." thus, in septemher , the min- istry and admiralty knew, if no one else did, that this treaty was wrung from the chinese, and that on or he- fore june , , the copy of that treaty, ratified hy the sovereigu of britain, was to he exchanged at pokin. both those departments must have known that,as the english treaty contained two important clauses,* which all the other powers represent- ed at tientsin had despicahly waived at a critical moment, if the court of pekin demurred to the final ratifi- cation of any of those treaties, that demurrer would first fall upon the english one, as the chief offend- er. supposing that lord elgin's despatches, which accompanied the treaty, failed to enlighten the minis- try upon the extremely delicate nature o the final negotiations at tien- tsin, and supposing even that neither in downing street nor whitehall was the times ever read, and that the in- formation of the lion. mr. bruce, secretary of emhassy, as to the dif- ficulties which surrounded his hrother on the th june, , and of the firmness he displayed, when even his loyal colleague, baron gros, tailed him, was mere laudation of our am- hassador, at the expense of others lea s stanch at such a crisis; still we say, allowing all this, there is in the end of the blue-hook another despatch from lord elgin,t which reached downing street ou decem- her th, , the perusal of which ought to have warned any one, pro- fessing to he a statesman, of the critical nature of the task which awaited the diplomatist and the naval commander-in-chief in the summer of . in that despatch (no. ) the strong representations of the chinese ministers against the permanent resi- dence of the amhassador in pekin, are clearly put forward—the imperial order to reconstruct the takn forts, as well as to fortify the approaches to pekin, is distinctly mentioned—the attention of our ministry is recalled to some despatch (which, we own, does not exist in the blue-book) in which the critical state of the negotia- tions, on the very eve of the siguature of the treaty, was explained to them —and finally, her majesty's ministers are warned that an enforcement of that clause in its full integrity would prohahly compel the emperor to choose "hetween a desperate at- tempt at resistance, and passive ac- quiescence in what he and his advisers helieve to he the greatest cahimiiy which could hefall the empire" according to rule, admiral james hope received his commission as commander-in-chief in the east indies and china when his prede- cessor had completed his period of service. nothing could have heen more decorous. he left england hy the overland mail in march , and, on arriving at singa- pore, found admiral sir michacl seymour awaiting his arrival there, in order that he might take his passage home in the next mail- hoat. here those two officers met. the one with the acquired know- ledge of tbree years' command in those remote seas, and thorougbly conversant with chinese tactics, military, naval, or diplomatic; the other, though well known as an officer of great ahility and unllinch- ing firmness, still perfectly iguorant of the nature of the country and peo- ple with whom he had to deal, the constituent parts of his force, its adequacy or otherwise for the task assigued it, and the amount of mo- ral or physical support he was likely to get from our fond and faithful allias, the french. admiral hope, * "art. iii. the permanent rosidence of a british amhassador, with family and suite, at pekin. "art ix. british suhjects to travel to all parts of ths interior of china, for purposes of trade and pleasure.'' \ see blue-book, p. s , despatch no. , hearing date shanghai, nov , . .] the fight on the peiho. upon all these point- , must have looked to admiral seymour for in- formation. yet, strange to say, within a few hours—it appears to us, only forty- eight hours—after admiral hope arrives in singapore, admiral sey- mour is steaming homo in a penin- sular and oriental hoat. we would suggest the following questions, which require to he answered he- fore it can he shown that admiral james hope entered ooob his com- mand with anything like a proper chance of success:— why did not the admiralty send him out to china in time to acquire information hefore he was called up- on to act? why did not his predecessor await his arrival in china, instead of in india? what period elapsed hetween the arrival of one admiral and the de- parture home of the other? what was the information impart- ed hy admiral seymour to admiral hope, of the condition of the defences at the entrance of the peiho—of the geography or resources of that gulf of pechili, in which admiral seymour had operated during the summer of ? lastly, what steps had admiral seymour taken, after july , to keep himself informed of the state of the taku fortifications and the naviga- hility of the entrance of the peiho river? and what ships had heen sta- tioned to acquire information, and survey the odiat of china north of the yang-tse-lviang river, a region into which it was well known the new admiral would have to carry his squadron in ? we firmly helieve that on all these points great injustice has heen done to admiral hope, and that his posi- tion was one full of difficulty, arisinur from the neglect of others. on the th april he assumed cum- mand of his squadron at singapore. on that very day he ought to have heen with a force to support our amhassador off the month of the peiho river! it was not his fault that he was not there; and he ap- pears to have lost no time in provid- ing for the wants of his extensive command—organising his forces, de- spatching stores and coals northward, securing the safety of the enormous mercantile interests in china should a rupture arise, and meeting the de- ficiency occasioned hy our govern- ment having counted upon the aid of french sailors and soldiers to some considerahle extent. , a despatch from the new minister, mr. bruce, dated may st, , tells ns that another difficulty had to he met hy the admiral at his juncture—namely, that the admi- ralty had ordered a further re- duction of the squadron in china, whilst he (mr. bruce) had hecome so alarmed hy the proceedings of the court of pekin, that it was im- peratively necessary he should he escorted to taku or tientsin hy as strong a force as that which had sup- ported lord elgin in . of course the admiralty, in giving such an order, fancied that admiral hope would he joined in china hy the french squadron under admiral ri- gault de genouille; hut, as banal, they counted without their host, and out of all that french force, a list of which we gave in our last numher, no vessel capahle of crossing the har of the peiho river could he spared. there was another difficulty—if possihle a still more serious one than the ah- sence of french support, when it was counted upon,—and this was the oc- cupation of canton hy the british forces. it deprived admiral hope of the services of a hattalion of her majesty's royal regiment, and a num- her of marines and marine artillery; it rendered the presence of a consider- ahle naval force necessary in its vici- nity ; and instead of the major-general and staff heing ahle to go where ser- vices in the field were almost immin- ent, they were shut up in that wretch- ed collection of fusty houses, diguified with the title of the city of canton. instead of sitting down and writ- ing home for reinforcements and in- structions, admiral hope did what an energetic admiral should do: he hastened to the northward with every availahle man and vessel, ready to rapport the minister, mr. bruce, in all such measures as he might deem necessary. we have yet to learn on what day mr. bruce was ahle to leave hong-kong for shanghai; hat ho [dec. the fight on the peiho. distinctly says he proceeded to the latter port, where the chinese com- missioners were waiting for him, as so',n as his french colleague was ready; and hearing in mind, as we do, that hy the treaty of tientsin ratifications were to he exchanged in tekin hy june th, and that the presence of the imperial commis- sioners at shanghai was very sus- picious, we can sympathise with mr. bnice's feelings in heing thus delayed hy his ally at such a crisis. need we say more to point out how much this alliance hung like a mill- stone round the neck of plenipoten- tiary and admiral? on or ahout the th june , the admiral and his squadron sailed from shanghai for the gulf of pe- chili; and the sha-lio-tien, or wide- spreading sand islands, fifteen miles off the entrance of the peiho river, was given as the general rendezvous. mr. bruce and monsieur bourhol- l<m sailed four days afterwards for the same destination; they had found the commissioners ivweiliang and hvvashana merely "armed with pre- texts to detain them, and prevent their visit to the peiho;" and from all they had learned at shanghai, there could he no douht that every ohstacle awaited the diplomatists as well as executives of europe, in their forthcoming visit to pekin. yet we caunot see that either mr. bruce or admiral hope would have heen justified in any misgivings as to the issue of measures that might he deemed necessary to enforce their treaty rights; and had it heen pos- sihle for them at this juncture to have telegraphed the state of affairs to either downing street or white- hall, we solemnly helieve that the ministry would have said,—proceed to tientsin—these impediments have heen anticipated; a treaty wrung hy force of arms from an eastern despot car not he expected to he ratified without some demur—and as no one, we helieve, had taken the trouhle to ascertain the nature of the new for- tifications of taku, it was a very natural inference that they would not differ, to any great extent, from all tho many fortifications which the british had fought and taken else- where in china. on june th, ii.m.s. chesapeake, hearing the flag of rear-admiral hope, arrived at the anchorage under the sha-lin-tien islands, and on that day and the next, his squadron as- semhled round him; hut without waiting for all to arrive, the ad- miral emharked on the th on hoard a gunhoat, the plover, and escorted hy the starling, proceeded over the har of the peiho river, to inform the authorities of the an- ticipated arrival of the plenipo- tentiaries, and to ascertain what ohstructions, if any, existed at ta- kn. admiral hope found a num- her of earthworks standing upon the site of the old forts destroyed in ,* and the river was rendered quite impassahle hy a triple series of hooms and stakes. the forti- fications seemed well constructed, singularly neat and finished in out- line for chinese earthworks; hut there were few guns seen; most of the emhrasures looked as if filled up with matting; and for the first time at a military post in china, there was a total ahsence of all display, and no tents or flags were seen to denote a strong garrison with- in the works. the officer who was sent on shore with the admiral's com- munication was refused permission to go farther than the heach, and the men who met him said, that they were militiamen in charge of the earth- works; that the hooms and stakes were placed as a precaution against rehels or pirates; that the amhassa- dors ought to go to another river ten miles further north, which was the true peiho river; and concluded hy assuring the english officer that they acted upon their own responsi- hility in all they said and did, as no high officers were at hand. some expostulations which were offered against tho existence of the harriers in the river, as ohstacles to the am- hassador's friendly visit to tientsin, were received in good part, and they promised within forty-eight hoars to set ahout removing them. such was * we should like to know whether admiral hope was ever furnished with a groun.l plan of the works captured hy admiral seymour ih . [dec. the fight on the peiho. were constructed, of twenty-two feet vertical height, so as to screen their hasements from anything like a hreaching fire. these hatteries had guns perfectly casemated, and were counected into one great work hy a series of curtains, pierced, like the hastions, for casemated guns, and covered hy flanking fire, and wet as well ns dry ditches. this grand battery was pierced for fifty guns, and with the exception of those on the caraliers, every emhrasure was fitted with an excellent mantlet. ahove and helow the grand work, though prohahly connected with it hy a covered-way, were two waspish- looking flanking forts. each had a cavalier; and the one to seaward was excellently constructed, and looked like a tbree-tier earthen hattery. on the right-hand hank stood an- other series of works, only inferior in importance to those on the oppo- site side, and finished with equal care. the right-hand works almost raked any vessels advancing heyond the seaward angle of the grand fort. apart from these fortifications, tbree harriers had heen constructed where the chaunel was narrowest, and admirahly calculated to detain vessels immediately under the fire of the works. hitherto, however, in chinese warfare, it had invari- ahly heen ohserved that, although they constructed massive fortifica- tions, and placed ingenious impe- diments in their rivers, the guns' crews would not stand to their guns at close action, and that they did not understand the art of concentrat- ing their guns upon the point at which our vessels were checked hy hooms or rafts, and, consequently, it was always easy to outflank or turn their works, in any way we thought proper. during the th and th june, the squadron moved from the sha- lin-tien islands to the anchorage immediately off the har of the peiho river, the smaller vessels passing within it for security against the st-as and winds of the gulf of pe- chili; and on the latter day the * see three english and french ministers ar- rived in h.m.s. magicieune, and h.i.m. corvette duchayla. the ad- vent of this foreigu force, and their passage of the her, did not excite the slightest notice, or appear to give any alarm to the chinese. all was as quiet and sleepy as the must fas- tidious admirer of chinese scenery might desire. the great hroad plain of pechili spread away to the north and south: the upward portion of the river could he traced (until lost in mirage) hy the masts of the countless trading-junks which aunually arrive at tientsin from all parts of china. the long and straggling village of taku was hid hy the mound-like out- line of the southern forts, except the little temple, from which, in , the governor - general of pechili, one tan, had made an iguominious flight hefore our dashing little gun- hoats banterer, leven, and opossum. its quaint turned-up roof, with its cockey little air, was the only thing, inanimate or animate, that gave the slightest sigu of defiance to the "red- haired harharians." mr. bruce, it is thus shown, arrived at the entrance of the peiho river exactly six days hefore the expiration of the period for the ratification of the treaty at pekin; and in that land of ceremony and etiquette mr. bruce well knew that if our envoy did not make a strenuous effort to fulfil his engagement, and appear at tientsin or pekin within the stipulated date, that the war-party, which had done, and was doing, all in its power to suhvert the treaties of , would immediately maguify the hreach of contract into a premeditated slight to the emperor, and an indiguity to the court of one whom five hundred mil- lions of souls actually worship. when mr. bruce, therefore, hastened to an- nounce his arrival, and requested to he allowed to pass tbrough the har- riers at. taku to tientsin, he was simply told to go elsewhere; and the harriers were ohstinately kept closed, whilst the apparently stolid militia- men declared they did so on their own responsihility.* what was mr. bruce to do under times, e three final paragraphs of mr. brace's despatch, july , , in the oct. , .] the fight on the peiho. such circumstances? there were hut two measures open to him—the one was to removo the harriers placed, as they declared, hy local authorities, without the coguisance of the im- perial government, and proceed to tientsin, where a high officer was always resident; the other course was to go to some place mentioned hy these pretended militiamen, as one likely to lead the minister to pekin. mr. bruce very naturally, and very wisely, as the issue proves in the american's case,* determined to go to tientsin; and as he could not reach it except tbrough the harriers, and past the forts which watched them, he and m. bourhollon, on the st june, after recapitulating their reasons, tell admiral hope that they "have therefore resolved to place the matter in your hands, and to re- quest you to take any measures you may deem expedient for clearing away the ohstructions in the river, so as to allow us to proceed at once to tien- tsin." this is plain and straightfor- ward language—■ simple request; and with its policy the admiral very rightly must have felt he had no- thing to do. he was called upon to open the road to tientsin; he had around him such a force as his masters at home considered ample for any emergency; it was his duty to endeavour to carry out the task assigued him. admiral hope at once wrote a formal note to the authorities, in- forming them that, should the oh- structions in the river not he removed hy the evening of the th june, so as to allow the allied ministers to proceed to tientsin, as they induhit- ahly had a right to do under the sigu-manual of the emperor, he, ad- miral hope, should proceed to clear the road. the force at admiral hope's disposal was as follows:— outside the har, and incapahle of crossing it, chesapeake, captain g. willes; magioieune, captain n. vansittart; highflyer, captain c. f. shadwell; cruiser, commander j. bythesea; fury, commander com- merell; assistance, commander w. a. heath; and hesper (store-ship), master-commander jahez loane; the french corvette dnchayla, com- mander tricault; and tender noso- gary. vessels capahle of crossing the har and engaging the forts:— g utvri commander!. 'int. . nimrod, r. s. wyuniatt. . cormorant , a. wodehouse. . lee, lieut. w. ii. jones . opossum, c. j. balfour. . haughty, g. d. broad. . forester, • a. f. iunes. . banterer, j. jenkins. . starling, j. whitshed. . plover, hector rason. . janus, h. p. knevit. . kestrel, j. d. bevan. og. howit., and a com- hined rocket-hattery of twenty-two and pounders. the total crews of these gun-vessels amounted to ahout five hundred offictrs and men. a gale of wind and heavy rain prevented much heing done on the d, hut hy the night of the d all the vessels capahle of crossing the har were assemhled within it; and early on the th june, the marines from canton, under colonel lemon, as well as those of the larger vessels, and the armed hoats and small-arm- men, were assemhled on hoard cer- tain junks placed on the har to re- ceive them. this force, seven hun- dred strong, was intended as an as- saulting party, under colonel lemon and commanders commerell and heath. the admiral, moreover, placed the coromandel and nosogary as hospitals, as far oat of range as it was possihle to anchor them. the delight of the gallant little force under admiral hope was very great when the sun set on the th june, and no letter in reply to his communication of the d had heen * the american minister, after the repulse of taku, adopted the second course; his trinmphal entry into pekin in a cart, his close confinement whilst there, the attempt to make him worship the emperor, the insult of ordering him hack to the sea-shore for a wortbless ratification, and the entire question of the readjustment of the tariff heing referred hack to a suhordinate at shanghai, is conclusive proof of what we should have gained hy adopting such a course. [dec. the fight on the peiho. received. it augured well for resist- ance, and all felt assured of a fight and victory. there was not a single misgiving as to the result of a com- hat; and if any was expressed, it was a fear that all they would have to do, would he to pull up the stakes instead of the chinamen doing it themselves. as yet, nothing had occurred to excite the admiral's sus- picions of the nature of the opposi- tion to he encountered, although he had, ever since the day of his arrival, especially deputed commander john bythesea* and lieutenant w. h. jones in the lee, to narrowly watch the forts and river, to see if anything like an increase of garrison, or the nature of the armament, could ho detected. but in order that a charge of want of preparation for hattle might not hereafter he imputed to him, the gallant chief made every arrangement for taking up positions exactly as he would have done had he heen at war, instead of at peace, with china. the first thing to he done was to see whether the stakes or rafts could he destroyed in the night hy hoats. accordingly, when it was quite dark, tbree hoats' crews, under lieutenant wilson, mr. eger- ton (mate), and mr. hartland (hoat- swain), commanded hy captain wil- les, started to make the attempt. anxiously were they watched for. at last two loud explosions, the hash and report of a gun or two from the forts, the return of the hoats, and the cheers of the excited crews of the gunhoats, told the joy with which was hailed the douhle act of hostility—a pledge for the mor- row's fight. captain willes hrought hack full information of the stuhhorn nature of the ohstacles opposed to the flotilla, and that it was impos- sihle to make a dash up the stream to take the works in reverse. the harriers were tbree in numher. the first extended across the chan- nel, at an elhow where the curva- ture of the mud-hanks, and direc- tion of tide, placed vessels ascending the stream stem on, or in a raking position to the face of the grand battery. it consisted o^ a single row of iron stakes, nine inches in girth, and with a tripod hase, so as to preserve an upright position in spite of the velocity of the stream. the top of each stake was pointed, as well as a sharp spur which struck out from its side, and at high water these dangerous piles were hidden heneath the surface of the river. this harrier was yards distant from the centre of the grand battery on the left, and yards from the forts on the right hand. the second harrier was placed yards ahove the iron piles, and im- mediately ahreast the centre of the fortifications. it consisted of one eight-inch hemp and two heavy chain- cahles, placed across the stream at a distance of twelve feet from each other: they were hove as taut as possihle, and supported hy large spars placed transversely at evoiv thirty feet: each spar was carefully moored hoth up and down stream. the third harrier consisted of two massive rafts of rough timher, lashed and cross-lashed in all directions with rope and chain, and admirahly moored a few feet ahove one another, so as to leave a letter s opening, ahove which were more iron stakes, so placed as to impede any gun dashing tbrough the opening, ran- posing all other ohstacles overcome. the ingenuity of the arrangement here was most perfect. the force of the current would only allow the passage at this point to he effected at top of high water; at that time the iron piles were covered with water, and their position heing un- known, the chances were all in favour of a vessel hecoming impaled npon them. captain willes passed tbrough the interstices hetween the iron stakes in his hoats, and leaving two of them to secure the explosion cylinders under the cahles lie, and lieutenant wilson pushed on to the third harrier, or rafts. they crawled over it, and al- though they could see the sentries * this gallant officer, who carried off one of the very few victoria crosses won in the baltic fleet of , was stricken down with peiho fever, hrought on hy exposure while employed on this duty, and wasj consequently unahle to share directly in the hloody laurels of the th june. .] the fight on the peiho. walking up and down at either end, and they must have heen seen hy the garrison at the forts, which towered ahove them at the short dis- tance of yards upon the right and left, neither party molested the other. satisfied of the^solid nature of the ohstacle, and that a mere gun- hoat pressing against it would never force away all the anchors or cahles with which it was secured, captain willes returned to the second harrier, and exploded his charges, occasioning a hreach apparently wide enough for a vessel to pass; hut a carefully- directed fire from a gun or two in the forts warned him to desist, there was, however, no general alarm on shore, and the works fid not, as might have heen expected, open a general fire, or develop their formidahle character. it was evident that admiral hope had now hut one resource loft, namely, an attack upon the enemy's front; a flank attack was impossihle; for it would have heen simple folly to have landed seven hundred marines and sailors outside the har, either to the northward or southward of taku; the force was far too small to risk such a manoeuvre. the commander- in chiefs plan was simple and judi- cious. he had eleven gun-vessels; nine of them were to anchor close to the first harrier, as nearly ahreast as pos- sihle without masking each other's guns. captain willes in the opos- sum was to secure tackles to one of the iron piles, ready to pull it up when ordered, and then, under cover of the anchored gun-vessels, the admiral and flag-captain in the plover and opos- sum were to pass on to the destruc- tion of the second and third harriers, whilst the admiral thus carefully made his plans to meet a strong resistance, few in the squadron thought of anything hut the fun and excitement of the coming day: many a witty anticipation was ex- pressed as to promotion for another hloodless chinese victory, mingled with jokes at the foolish ohstinacy of john chinaman. daylight came; the forts were deceitfully calm; some thought an emhrasure or two had heen added during the night, hut it was only certain that the second har- rier, where it had heen hroken during the night hy captain willes, was again thorougbly repaired. everything had the appearance of simple ohstinacy. with cock-crow all was activity in the squadron; at half-past tbree in the morning, a chorus of hoatswains' mates' whistles had sent all hands to their hreakfasts, and hy four o'clock the vessels commenced to drop up into their assigued positions. the flood-tide was ruuning strong, a muddy turhid stream flowing up a tortuous gutter; gradually that gut- ter filled, and the waters, ruffled hy a fresh hreeze, spread on either hand over the mud hanks, and eventually washed the horder of the reed-covered plain, and touched the hasements of the huge masses of earth which con- stituted the forts of takn. these lay silent and lifeless, except where at the flag-staff of one waved two hlack han- ners, ominously emhlematic of the hloody day they were ahout to witness. the admiral commenced to move his squadron into action* thus early, anticipating that hy the time the flood-tide had ceased ruuning, every vessel would have reached her posi- tion, the distance in no case heing more than a mile; hut the nar- rowness of the chaunel, the strength of the hreeze, and force of current, occasioned great delay hy forcing first one gunhoat and then another ashore on the mud hanks; added to which, the great length of the nim- rod and cormorant caused them, when canting or swinging across the chaunel, almost to hlock it up. the consequence was, that the squadron was not ready for action at . a.m., or high water. prior to high water it would have heen folly to have com- menced action. no judicious naval officer would engage an enemy's works whilst a flood-tide was sweep- ing in towards them. had admiral hope done so, every disahled vessel and hoat, as well as every wounded man, would have fallen into the hands of the chinese; and, moreover, the difficulty of anchoring hy the stern in gunhoats, in so strong a tideway, can only ho appreciated hy seamen, and would have prohahly resulted in the whole force falling ahoard of one an- other, and heing swept hy the tide, in one mass, under the concentrated fire of all the hatteries. by one [dec. the fight on the peiho. -> o'clock the ehh-tide was ruuning strong; all the vessels were hy that time in position, except the banterer and starling, and they were hope- lessly aground, though in positions whicli enahled them to co-operate to some extent. the admiral prepared to remove the harriers, and issued his final instructions. the squadron was placed as in the aunexed plan; and to those who say that admiral hope ought to have acted earlier in the day, we have merely to point to the issue of the comhat into which he was inveigled, and reply, that had there heen two more hours daylight, we hardly think a ship or man would have heen saved. s...ii-'' at l mud ow water reference. scals. inch = yjrd^ a. a. piloa driven closoly in the mud. b. barrier of iron stakes, aimost covered at high water. c. chain, or cahle, stretched partly across the rivor, supposed to have heen carried away hy the tide hefore the attack. d. boom of heavy timhers, stretching across. e. massive timher raft. f.f. pointed stakes ahout feet high, driven closely in the ground. . plover (flag). . omasum. . l..-. . llaiurhty. . forester. . banterer. gunhoats. . starling. . janus. ». kestrel. to. r..rmorant. , ^"nurod. .] the fight on the peiho. at p.m. the admiral, whose hag was flying on hoard tlio plover, sig- nalised to the opossum to remove the iron pile to which she was se- cured, and thus to make a passage tbrough the first harrier. this the opossum's officers and men, hy means of tackles and steam-power, succeed- ed in accomplishing in thirty minutes. the comrnander-in-chief now led up to the second harrier, followed closely hy the flag-captain in the opossum. these were moments of intense ex- citement for those on the covering flotilla, as well as for the impatient assaulting-party anchored on the har of the river. every eye was directed upon the hatteries under which the gallant rason was hearing the flag of his chief. the oft-repeated ques- for details, see plan. . tion of "i wonder whether the ras- cals will fight!" was ahout to he an- swered; and that moment of eager expectation, which all men feel hefore they join in comhat, made eveiy heart heat quick, and silenced every tongue. as the stern of the plover touched tho harrier, a single gun serted as a sigual to all the works, and in a min- ute a concentrated fire of forty heavy pieces opened upon the little craft. in the words of the seamen, "it seemed as if the vessels had struck an infernal machine." the plover and opossum were wreathed in fire and smoke, ahove which the red flag of the gallant hader waved defiantly. a rush and -lamp of men to their quarters sounded tbrough tho flotilla, and as the admiral tbrew out the [dec. tlie fight on the peiho. sigual, "engage the enemy" with the red pendant under, indicating as "elosi; a*it»ssihle" the cheers of the delighted ships' companies mingled with the roar of that first hearty hroadside. all day long, tbrough that stern fight, that sigual, simple yet siguificative, flew from the mast- head of the heroic admiral. never was the need greater that every man should do his duty, and nohly they responded to the appeal. so well concenfrated was the enemy's fire upon the space hetween the first and second harriers, that the plover and opossum appeared to he struck hy every shot directed at them. the flag-ship was especially aimed at. within twenty minutes hoth these vessels had so many men killed and wounded, and were so shattered, as to he almost silenced. lieutenant- commander rason, of the plover, was cut in two hy a round shot. captain m'keuna, of the st royals, on the admiral's staff, was killed early, and the admiral himself was grievously injured hy a gun-shot in the thigh. the lee and haughty, under lieutenant-commanders w. h. jones and g. broad, now weighed, hy signal, and advanced to the sup- port of the admiral. the shattered plover almost drift- ed out of her honourahle position, having only nine men left efficient out of her original crew of forty. the admiral, in spite of wounds and loss of hlood, transferred his flag to the opossum, and the hattle raged furi- ously on either hand. a little after tbree o'clock, the admiral received a second wound, a round-shot knocking away some chainwork hy which he was supported in a conspicuous po- sition, and the fall hreaking several of his rihs. the opossum had hy this time hecome so disahled, that it was necessary to drop her outside the iron piles of the first harrier, where hoth she and the plover received fresh crews from the reserve force, and again took their share in the fight. there was now no false impression upon the mind of any one, as to the work they had in hand, or the novel amount of resistance they had to over- come. retreat was disgrace, and in all prohahility total destruction; for the har would he impassahle long he- fore the vessels could reach it—and who was going to think of retreat thus early? who wanted to he hooted at in' all the world as men who fled he- fore a chinaman? no, strip and light it out, was the general feeling from captain to hoy, and in a frenzy of delight with their chief, they went into their work like men, who, if they could not command success, would at any rate show that they deserved it. a pall of smoke hung over the bri- tish flotilla and the forts of taku; under it flashed sharp and vividly the red fire of the comhatants; the roar of great guns, the sbriek of rockets, and rattle of rifles, was con- stant. no missile could fail to reach its mark; the dull thung of the ene- my's shot as it passed tbrough a gun- hoat's side, the crash of wood-work, the whistle of heavy splinters of wood or iron, the screams of the wounded, and the tnoans of the dying, mingled with the shouts of the comhatants and the sharp decisive orders of the officers—all were "fighting their hest!" and it was a close hug indeed, for the advanced vessels were firing at yards' range, and the maximum distance was only yards. every officer and man rejoiced in this fact; for, forgetful of the enormous thickness of the parapets opposed to them, our gallant sailors fancied that all was in favour of a race who had never heen excelled in a stanch fight at close quarters. the lee and haughty were now suffering much; the fire of the forts had heen most deadly, and was in every respect as accurate as ours. the admiral in his harge, al- though fainting from loss of hlood, pulled to these vessels, to show the crews how cheerfully he shared the full dangers of their position; and they who advocate a british com- mander-in-chief heing in the rear, in- stead of, as nelson and collingwood ever placed themselves, in the van of hattle, ought to have witnessed the effect of hope's heroic example upon the men under him that day; even the wounded were more patient and enduring owing to such an example. by four o'clock the lee had a hole knocked into her side helow the how- gun, out of which a man could have crawled: hoth she and the haughty had all their hoats and topworks knocked to pieces, and many shot [dec. the fight on the peiho. structive, whilst our guuners, though quite close, had to aim upward at me" enemy. the experience of sehas- topol lias shown that a horizontal fire will not dislodge a hrave oppo- nent from hehind earthworks; of course it would he much less likely to do so when the assailants were so low as to have to fire in an ohlique direction upward; and such was the relative position of the two antagon- ists at tabn, the hody of the forts was soon found to he invulnerahle, and the emhrasures hecame the tar- gets of our gunhoats. those on the cavaliers were suhjected to a ter- rihly accurate fire, yet, strange to say, the guns at these points were seldom silenced for any length of time. the cormorant's how-gun, on one occa- sion, in four successive shots, fairly knocked over the tbree guns in the face of the cavalier of the centre hastion—the wholo squadron wit- nessed the fact, and saw tho guns and crews shattered hy the terrific effect of her solid -pounders—yet in a quarter of an hour other guns were there and stinging away as waspisbly as ever. at . p.m., the admiral was ohliged to yield to the entreaties of the medical men, and to the faint- ness arising from loss of hlood: he handed over the immediate command of tho squadron to the second in seniority, captain shadwell, who, supported hy captain willes and captain nicholas yansittart, carried on the hattle. of tho individual acts of valour and devotion with which such a com- hat is replete, how many escape oh- servation !—whilst the mention of others often gives pain to the modest men, to whom the writer would fain do honour. at any risk, however, we must narrate an anecdote or two illustrative of the zeal and devotion displayed in this glorious fight. when the cormorant's how-gun did the good service of silencing, in four shots, the centre cavalier, the admiral, lying on his cot, was so struck with the accuracy of the aim that he immediately sent an aide-de- camp forward to ohtain the name of the captain of the gun. the mes- senger found worthy corporal giles* at the full extent of his trigger-line, the gun loaded and run out; his whole mind was intent upon one ohjeot—hitting his enemy. "muz- zle right," said the honest marine. "who fired those shots?" interposed the messenger; "the admiral wants to know." "well!" shouted the man to his crew, adding, " i did, sir," (to the officer). "elevate!" "what's your name?" rejoined the messen- ger. "john giles," said the marine, leaning hack, shutting one eye, and looking along the sights of the gun, his - left hand going up mechanically to the salute—"john giles, cor- poral. "well!" (this to his crewt— "second company" (to the officer)— "ready !—'woolwich division! — fire! sponge and load !—i heg your pardon, sir, no. ." we need not add that the worthy corporal was far more intent upon his work than mindful of the kind compliment his admiral was paying him, and his hest reward was the hurrah of his gun-mates as they watched the shot plunge into the enemy's emhra- sure. "opossum ahoy !" hails a hrother gunhoat captain; "do you know your stern-frame is all on fire ?— for smoke and flame were playing round one end of the little craft, whilst from the other she was spite- fully firing upon the foe. "bother the fire i" was the rejoinder; "lam not going to knock off pitching into these hlackguards for any hurning stern-posts. no men to spare, old hoy!" "werry hard hit, sir!" remarks the hoatswain of the lee to her gal lant commander; " the ship is making a deal of water, and won't float much longer; tho donkey - engines and pumps don't deliver one hucket of water for ten as comes into her!" "caunot do more than we are doing," replies the commander—" it is im- possihle to get at the shot-holes from inside, and i will not order men to dive outside with shot-plugs, in this strong tide-way, and whilst i am compelled to keep the propeller re- volving." "there's no other way to keep the * we regret that we do not know the proper name of this gallant marine. .] the fight on the peiho. ship afloat, sir!" urged mr. woods, "and if you please, sir, i'd like to go ahout that 'ere joh myself." "as you volunteer, i'll not ohject, woods," said the commander—" hut rememher it is almost desperate work; you see how the tide is run- ning, and that i must keep screwing ahead to maintain station. you have the chance of heing drowned, and if caught hy the screw, you are a dead man." , "well, sir! " said woods, looking as hashful ns if sueing for some great favour—"i knows all that, and as far as chances of death go, why, it is 'much of a muchness' everywhere just now; and if you will keep an eye upon me, i'll try what can he done." woods accordingly hrought up a hag of seaman's clothes, tore it open, wrapped frocks and trousers round wooden shot-plugs, tied a rope's-end round his waist, and dived under the hottom of the lee to stop up the shot-holes. again and again the gallant fellow went down, escaping from the stroke of the screw as if hy a miracle; for he often came up astern at the full length of his line, having heen swept tliere hy the tide. his exertions, however, were not successful, although he stopped as many as twenty-eight shot-holes; and the nohle little lee was soon found to he in a sinking condition. the kestrel with colours flying, and still fighting under the gallant lieut.-commander bevan, went down in her station at . p.m., and affairs hegan to look very serious; yet the last thing thought of was defeat. one gunhoat swings end on to a raking hattery, and a shot imme- diately sweeps away all the men from one side of her how-gun, as if a scythe had passed tbrough them. "this is what they call a ratification, billy! ain't it? " remarks the captain of the gun to one of the survivors; and raising his right arm, red with the hlood of his slaughtered com- rades, he cursed in coarse hut honest pbrase the folly and false humanity which in the previous year had al- lowed these mandarins to march off almost unscathed, "whilst we was a-lootinff hrass-guns for the toole- ries" (tuileries). phirri came along a har-shot and a mass of woodwork and splinters knocked over and al- most huried a commander and master of one of the gunhoats. the remain- ing officer, a warrant-officer, rushes up and pulls them out from under the wreck. though severely hruised, neither was, happily, killed. "all right, i hopes, sir!" ruhhing them down—" legs all sound, sir !—ah! you will get your wind directly— hut you must keep moving, sir; if you don't, they're sure to hit yoo. i was just telling the chaps forward the same thing—shot never hits a lively man, sir!—and, dear me, don't they work our how-gun heautifully —that's right, lads! that's right!'" urged the enthusiastic guuner — "keep her going! lor! if old hastings* could have seen that shot, jim, he'd have given yon nothing to do at the admirality for all the rest of your horn days." thus manfully went the fight; explosions occurred now and then in the works, hut nothing to indicate a destruction of any of the garrisons— the two hlack flags in the upper hat- tery still waved gently in the light air, and no sigu of surrender or distress appeared on the chinese side, except that all the emhrasures showed a - severe punishment must have heen inflicted upon the men working the guns within them, and there seemed to he an inclination to cease firing upon the part of the enemy, or only to fire in a deliherate and desultory man- ner. exhaustion was hegiuning to tell upon our men, just at the time that the shattered condition of their wssels called for most exertion. by six o'clock all prohahility of forcing the harriers with the flotilla was at an end. the kestrel was sunk, and the lee ohliged to he run on the mud to prevent her going down in deep water; many other ves- sels were filling owing to shot-holes —the starling and banterer aground —plover disahled; and if the niin- rod or cormorant, hy any accident to their anchors or cahles, fell across • a very irreverent allusion to admiral sir thomas hastings, who inaugu- rated the present excellent system of navnl guunery. [dec. the fight on the peiho. the stream, the chaunel would he hlocked up, and all the squadron he lost. the senior officers saw that nothing now remained hut to with- draw, if it were possihle, the squad- ron from the fight; the difficulties, however, in the way of such a ma- noeuvre were almost insuperahle. it wanted yet nearly two hours hefore darkness would set in—the passage over the har conld not he effected hefore dark, on account of high water not occurring until midnight—the night was moonless—the prohahili- ties great against the vessels heing ahle to find their way in the dark, down so narrow and tortuous a chan- nel—and so long as the vessels re- mained within the har, so long also must they he within range of those hard-hitting long guns, of the effects of which they had had that day such hitter experience. the reserve force of fresh men had not yet heen hrought into action—they were heg- ging to he allowed to retrieve the tremhling fortunes of the day; even the crews of the sinking gunhoats only asked to he allowed to land and grapple with the foe, who skulk- ed hehind his earthworks, whilst they (stripped to their trousers) had fought upon their exposed and open deck>. there was yet another rea- son, which douhtless had its weight: out of the men und officers se- lected hy the admiral from his fleet to carry out the service which the representative of his sovereigu had called upon him to execute, only were killed and wounded at . p.m., after four hours' close hard fight- ing. that loss was simply insuffi- cient to justify any officer in acknow- ledging himself thorougbly heaten, or in ahandoning an enterprise. uninterested spectators upon the har may say, after the result, that they saw within ten minutes of the action heing commenced, that the british would not succeed. it would have heen an evil day for admiral james hope and his captains, had such an idea entered their heads at so early an hour. it is true, they felt that they had heen inveigled into an amhush, hut inasmuch as they went into it having taken every pre- caution against surprise, and pre- pared for hattle, it remained alone for them to fight it out, and trust to their god for victory in a good cause. the gallant-hearted yansittart urged one last hold stroke to re- trieve the honours of the day, and at any rate to save, if possihle, the entire squadron from destruction. captains shadwell and willes concurred in this view, though they well knew it was a neck-ornothing attempt—in short, a forlorn hope, which might, if once fairly hand to hand with the enemy, drive him from his works, hut at any rate the attempt would divert the fire from the shattered flo- tilla, and allow night to close in, and afford them an opportunity of saving all the vessels from destruc- tion. and let any one weigh well what would have heen the effect, tbroughout the seaports of china, to our countrymen and commerce, had those gallant officers lost all that squadron, as we helieve they would have done in attempting a retreat at that juncture. the ingenious tactics of the enemy—chinamen we will not call them—afforded just then an illusory ground for hope of a success- ful issue to an assault: they assumed the appearance of heing silenced in many quarters, and only worked a gun here and there. an assault and escalade were at once ordered; the opossum went to the rear, and, aided hy the generous sympathy of the american flag-officer tatuall—who, in his steamer the toeywan, assisted very materially—the hoats filled with the marines and sinall-arm men were hrought up to the front. at ahout seven o'clock, captains shadwell and vansittsrt, major fisher, r.e., colonel lemon, r.m., commanders john commerell and w. a. j. heath, and commandant tricault of the imperial navy, headed this forlorn hope o'f seamen, sappers, and marines, their march across the mud heing directed upon the outer hastion of the grand fort, as it ap- peared to have suffered most from the fire of our vessels. the cheers of the excited crews of the gunhoats, the revived tire of the flotilla, and the dash of the hoats to the point of dis- emharkation, warned the enemy hut too well of the intended assault; and, to tho astonishment of the assailants, .] th« fight on the peiho. from every work, every gun, and every loophole, a terrihly destructive fire opened upon our devoted men as they waded tbrough the deep and tenacious mud. in spite of shot, grape, rifle-halls, gingalls and arrows, the party, six hundred strong, formed a solid mass, and pressed forward, whilst close over their heads flew the covering-shots of their hretbren in the vessels. it was a terrihly maguificent sight to see that dark mass of gallant men reeling under the storm of mis- siles, yet, like a nohle hark, against adverse wind and sea, still advancing towards its destination. officers and men fell rapidly—shadwell, yansit- tart, and lemon wero soon hadly pi a it . p.m. theassanlt decided upon. opossum and tueywaa, with boats in tow. for details, see plan . wounded, and many a man fell griev- ously injured in the deep mud, to he quickly covered hy the flowing tide; yet there was no lack of leaders—no hesitation in the daunt- less survivors. it must he acknow- ledged that the garrison showed neither want of skill nor hravery; for in spite of the fire of the gunhoats, vol. lxxxvl" they crowded parapets and emhra- sures, and opened a withering fire of musketry upon our men. at- last a hank covered with rushes was reached—commerell, heath, fisher, and parke, still headed the devoted hand, and they dashed into the first ditch, leaving, however, a very large/ proportion of killed and wounded [dec. the fight on the peiho. strewn along their path. the flo- tilla had now to cease firing upon the point of assault, lest it should injure friends instead of foes. the excitement of the guncrews may he - imagined, as they saw the night closing around their comrades wrapt in the blaze of the enemy's fire, and they heard the exultant yells of the garrison, and marked the faint and desultory cheers, and ill-sustained reply of the assailants. it was with difficulty that they could in some cases ho restrained from rushing to join the good or evil fortune of the fray; five hours' fighting had made all indifferent to life. as one gun- hoat went down, the crew modestly suggested to the commander, that as they could do no more good in her, it would he as well "to go over the mud and join our chaps on shore!" it is not lair to say such men can he heaten; all had hecome imhued with the heroic spirit of their chief —the infection had even spread to the american hoats' crews. the calculating long-hacked diplomatists of the united states, who had sent their admiral and envoy to reap the advantages for which englishmen were fighting and dying, forgot that there were certain promptings of the heart wliich override all selfish con- siderations; and that, in short, as flag-officer tatnall ohserved, " hlood is thicker than water," ay, than ink either. an american hoat visited one of our vessels, and on wishing to leave her, the officer found all his men had got out of the hoat. after some delay they were found looking very hot, smoke-hegrimed, and fightish. "halloa, sirs," said the officer with assumed severity, "don't you know we are neutrals? what have you heen doing?" "begs pardon," said the gallant fellows, looking very hashful; "they were very short-handed at the how-gun, sir, and so we give'd them a help for fellowship sake;" they had heen hard at it for an hour. gallant americans! you and your admiral did more that day to hind england and the united states together, than all your lawyers and pettifogging politicians have ever done to part ns. the issue of the assault was not long douhtful after crossing the first or tidal ditch, and wading tbrough its deep mud and some yards of per- fect quagmire; heyond it another deep wet ditch was found, into which ahout two hundred men and officers recklessly dashed, wetting ammuni- tion and muskets; only fifty oftliein, however, headed hy commanders commerell, heath, and tricault, reached the hase of the works; the rest, in numher, of the survivors in the advanced party, lined the edge of the wet ditch. every at- tempt to hring up scaling-ladders resulted in the destruction of the party, and the garrison tbrew out light halls, hy which they could see to slay the unfortunate men outside the forts. the english were di- minishing rapidly; there was no re- serve or supports availahle; and at last, with deep reluctance, the leaders of this gallant hand sent word to the senior officer afloat " that they could, if he pleased, hold their position in the ditches until daylight; hut that it was impossihle to storm without reinforcements." the order was therefore given for a retreat; and in the words of admiral hope, this dif- ficult operation in the face of a tri- umphant enemy was carried oat with a deliheration and coolness equal to the gallantry with wliich the advance had heen accomplished. the hat men to leave the hloodstained hanks of the peiho, after having saved every wounded man that could he recover- ed, were the two gallant command- ers, commerell and heath; and the severity of the enemy's fire upou this assaulting-party is hest shown hy the fact, that out of ahout six hundred men and officers, sixty-four were killed, and two hundred and fifty-two were wounded. the management of the retreat devolved upon the ahle flag-captain, j. . willes—a most trying and anxi- ous duty; for the enemy opened a perfect jcu-dt-joie from all aides, upon vessels and hoats, and for a while tbreatened total destruction to the force. by . a.m. on the th the survivors of the forlorn - hope were emharked, and the process of dropping out the gunhoats com- menced, with, however, hut very par- tial success. the scene was terrihly grand; the night was dark, the sea .] the fight on the peiho. and land veiled in gloom, except where the fire-halls of the enemy and the flash of his guns hrought out the forts and shattered flotilla in striking relief; the turhid stream, pent up in its chaunel hy the wreck of sunken vessels and the chinese harriers, chafed and whirled angrily past the repulsed ships, hearing on its hosom the wreck of the comhat and the corpses of the dead. the moans of the wounded, the shouts of officers, the frequent strokes of hoats' oars, alternated with the roar of can- non and the exulting yells of the victorious garrison. btit there was a still more tbrilling sight—that on the decks of the cornmandel, where the gallant admiral, and captains shad- well, vansittart,* and colonel lemon,. lay surrounded with their dying and wounded followers. nothing that medical foresight could provide to alleviate mortal suffering was want- ing; yet their agonies were terrihle to contemplate. the deck was lighted up with every availahle candle and lanthorn, aided hy which the surgical operations were heing carried on as rapidly as possihle. a pile of dead, covered with the flag for which they had fought so well, awaited decent interment on the morrow. the medical officers, after sharing in all the dangers and lahours of the day, now called to renewed exertion on hehalf of suffering humanity, were to he seen exerting them- selves with a zeal and solicitude as remarkahle a* the maguificent hearing of the poor fellows who, with shattered limhs, awaited their turn for amputation: it was, indeed, a scene of epic grandeur and solem- nity. we could fill a volume with anec- dotes of calm endurance and heroism, which were almost childlike in their simplicity—of the poor fore-topman who, mortally wounded, was laid hy his kind commander upon the sofa in his cahiu, and as his life-hlood oozed away, modestly expressed his regret at "doing so much injury to such pretty cushions "—of the old quartermaster, whose whole shoulder and rihs had heen swept away hy a round-shot, and during the few hours prior to death ex- pressed it as his opinion, that "them chinamen hit hardish," and had only one anxiety—" whether the admi- ralty would pay ids wife for the loss of his kit?" but we need not, we feel assured, dwell upon such traits to enlist the sympathy of our country- men on hehalf of the men who fought so well, yet lost the day. at takn. one fact struck every one—and it is a fact of which admiral hope may well he proud—that from the lips of those shattered men and officers there arose no eomplaint of having heen wantonly sacri- ficed or misled; and had it heen thought so, the anguish of the mo- ment would assuredly havo wrung it from their lips, and yet have met with kindly pardon. on the contrary, though all acknowledged themselves thorougbly heaten in the fight, yet every mouth rang with praises of the leader who had set them such an example; and had admiral hope next day called for volunteers to re- new the fight, desperate as such a measure might have heen deemed, there was not one of the remnant of his force that would not again have cheerfully followed him. a repulse arising from the hlunders of a leader never meets such sympathy. officers and men knew all had heen done as they themselves would have sug- gested, had they heen consulted. the admiral had exhihited foresight, audacity, and gallant perseverance. they were ready to follow such a man to the death. had he turned hack without testing the foe, and endeavouring to take the forts, every man's tongue would have railed at him, and all england would have stamped him an incompetent leader. the survivors knew that they had heen partially entrapped, and had had to fight far more than mere china- men; and if defeated, they could point to their sinking vessels, to a loss in killed and wounded of officers and men out of comhat- ants, and ask their countrymen if they * the gallant vansittart died suhsequently; and we have to lament the loss i f another officer, commander arinue wojehouse, h m.s. cormorant, who recently succumhed to a fever, hrought on hy the exposure and anxiety on that day. c [dec. the fight on the peiho. had not done their duty. assuredly they had; no men could have done more. nelson's repulse at teneriffe was not more glorious or less hloody. yet he it rememhered, and our cheeks ought to hurn with shame at the recital, that for this most gallant deed of arms, so replete with chival- rous hravery and devotion to great britain, not a single honour or pro- motion has heen puhlicly awarded; and that act of cold neglect, and in- deed indirect censure, has heen per- petrated hy those especially dele- gated to watch over the royal navy of england, to keep alive its spirit, and who are supposed to encourage the men and youth of this nation to enter on hoard her men-of-war. shame on ye shame on ye! not a thousand medals, wrung from you at a later day, can heal the wounded honour of the men thus unjustly treated. there was no rest for any during that sad night of the th juno; and daylight still found the exhaust- ed officers and men endeavouring to save the flotilla, and place the wounded out of reach of the deadly fire of the forts. that we were thorougbly heaten hack, there could he no question; even the sturdy seamen and marines, hegrimed with powder, hlood, and mud, ruhhed their heads, and owned it had heen "a mortal tbrashing;" yet shook their horny fists, and looked de- fiance at the rascals, he they who- ever they were, hehind those invul- nerahle parapets of mud. the sun rose on a shattered squadron. the mastheads of the lee and kestrel were alone visihle; they had heen fought until they sank heneath their gallant crews. the cormorant, in an attempt to drop out, fell across chaunel, got aground, and had to he temporarily ahandoned to save un- necessary loss of life; the haughty was sinking—the plover and star- ling ashore under the hatteries, and ahandoned hy the small surviving portion of their crews; in short, the only vessels in safety at daylight were the nimrod, banterer, for- rester, opossum, and janus—and six out of the eleven vessels which went into action were thus sunk or disahled. the condition of the persounel in the squadron equally well proved the stuhhoruness of the fight. lieut.- commanders rason and clutterhuck; captain m'keuna, st royals; lieuts. graves, wolridge, and inglis; mr. herhert, midshipman—were killed in action. the admiral, captains shad- well and vansittart, colonel lemon, r.m., and the rev. h. huleatt, chap- lain, as well as a sad list of suh- ordinates,* were of the severely wounded: in short, of the heads of the executive, captain willes (flag- captain), and major fisher, r.e., were the only two not wounded; and of the entire force, which never had more than eleven hundred men in action, the killed amounted to eighty-nine, and the wounded to tbree hundred and forty-five in num- her, or a total loss of four hundred and thirty-four. the french, out of their petty contingent, consisting of the officers and crew of the duchayla, had four killed and ten wounded, amongst the latter the gallant com- mandant tricault, who had stood tbroughout the day in the foremost of the fight:— british forces actually engaged. vessels— men. losses—of vessels. sank. disahled. much damiged. losses of men and officers. killed. woundtd. surviving. direotly it was light enough to work, captain willes proceeded to save as many of the ahandoned vessels as possihle, and to hlow up or de- stroy those that could not he saved. although the enemy made deliherate and telling practice at the men so employed, the surviving officers and men succeeded in recovering tbree of the sunk and ahandoned vessels, and those that could not he carried off, * lieutenant buckle, r.n.^ lieutenant g. longley, r.e.; captain masters, r.m.; lieutenant crawford, r.m.a.; mr. burnitton, master, r.n.; messrs. smith, powlett, and armytage, midshipmen; mr. ryan, guuner—were returned amongst the dangerously wounded. .] the fight on the peiho. the cormorant, lee, and plover, were destroyed and rendered wortbless to the enemy as trophies of their vic- tory. apart from the forts keeping up an excellent fire upon our men, large working-parties covered the face of their works, and rapidly made good the damage done to the parapets, emhrasures, and mantlets,* hy our fire on the th; and during the next two or tbree successive nights the enemy kept a most vigilant look- out, and often lightsd up the front of the hatteries with fire-halls, in an- ticipation of another night-assault. the mantlets alluded to were so striking an iunovation in chinese warfare, and reminded many so pain- fully of the hitter siege of sehasto- pol, that we must descrihe them, leaving others to conjecture how the slow - marching chinamen should have suddenly learnt to apply them so ingeniously and successfully to the forts of takn. these mantlets would he quite worthy of imitation in our own fortifications, and the cleverness with which they were worked de- serves all praise. had they heen fitted to the upper port or emhra- sure-sill, any accident to the lanyard would have caused them to fall down and hlock up the gun-port, so that they would have to he hlown away to enahle the gun to work; hut plac- ed as they were, hy attaching the lanyards to the gun-carriage, as the piece recoiled it closed its own mant- let, and if the lines were shot away, the mantlet merely fell down, and left the gun to fight in an ordinary emhrasure. there was one more fact ohserved, which, evincing for- eigu advice and instruction, we deem worthy of the notice of the gov- ernment: we are assured hy one who shared in the honours of this hloody day, that he calihred most of the shot that struck and lodged on hoard his vessel; they were of a calihre generally used hy russi- ans, and these, hy a strange co- incidence, we now find the pekin board of ordnance to have adopted. we own that whatever he our opi- nions upon these coincidences, those opinions do not create any alarm as to the issue of such foreigu advice, provided that we deal with china in future with a full recoguition of the fact. our only danger lies in fancy- ing we are dealing with the same people at pekin that we have to do with elsewhere tbroughout china. the russian will soon he ahle to say of pekin, as he said of warsaw, "nous y sommes et vous n'y etes pas;" let us recoguise this prohahi- lity, and deal with the question with- out hlinking or evading its serious as- pect. russia must expand; she wants eastern empire; the laws of nature and of god call those northern hordes over which the czar rules, to march forward to the conquest of climes more hlest than those which have heen the cradle of the race. west- ern europe, dear old soul, put on her spectacles and flourished her mop in the face of the muscovite when he looked towards western asia and turkey. we saved the mohammedan, hut we sacrificed the budhist nations. our possessions east of hindostan, our chinese commerce,which it would have taken ages to endanger hy way of persia and turkey, have hecome inse- cure ever since the russian occupa- tion of the amour and manchouria, an occupation only preliminary to the formation of a russian eastern empire in northern china and japan, which will over - tower and over- shadow, with its military organisa- tion and hrute force, the empire of britain, hased upon commerce, jus- tice, and forhearance. • they were of stout wood, covered externally with a wattling of ratans, ho as to he rifle proof. the mantlet worked on hinges or rollers fitted to the outer and lower edge of the emhrasures, and was triced up or lowered down hy means of lines leading upward tbrough the parapet on each side of the gun. when closed up, the casemated emhrasures were not easily detected in the smoke of action, and the gun was loaded and laid point hliink hefore heing run out. directly all was ready, down went the mantlet, out ran the gun, a shot was fired into the mass of vessels, and as the gun recoiled the mantlet went up again with such expedition that our men required sharp eyes to detect which of the enemy's em- hrasures was firing and ought next to he silenced. ltne's young dream—nowadays. [dec. love's to ng nream—nowanays. oh tell me not that distant seas roll wide hetween me and my lover; for he, i'm sure, is at ins ease— and i'm in clover. and don't tell me that foreigu parts will ever make me, dear, forget him; nor will he take to hreaking hearts, unless i let him. he writes to me hy every post, and every post takes hack my answer; he writes of " muffins," sleighs, and frost— i of my dancer. so don't tell me that i mnst mope, while he's in canada reoruiting; he's neither bishop, saint, nor pope, and fond of shooting. i wish you'd write to him some day, how very hadly i'm hehaving, he'd send hack word at once to say ho thought you raving. he likes my going to a hall, and talking german with lord rowan; d'you think that, out at montreal, he flirts with no one? ah! you don't know him. i must own i've seen you flirt, my pretty cousin, but willy soon would flirt you down, and sev'ral dozen. don't talk such sentimental stuff; you preach as if i were a hahy; as willy says, "' i'm not a muff," nor he "a gahy." i know he's very fond of me— i know i'm very fond of willy; and as to douhts and jealousy, we're not so silly. we hoth intend to have our fun, and then to many one another; and, as the music is hegun, pray no more hother. ii. d. w. .] another pleasant french booh another pleasant french book. there is something inexpressihly cheering in the contact of an honest mind. we are all, at times, depressed and saddened, hy the spectacle of what seems the privileged dishonesty of trade, politics, and literature, which fills us with forehodings as to the future of our race; and yet, after giving utterance to such gloomy fore- hodings, our faith in human integrity, and our hopes for human progress, are revived, whenever we have direct experience of one cheering exception. enlightened hy that one example, we reflect that the world must have salt enough to keep it at least from putrefying. we know as a matter of fact, that a man can he a tradesman, yet not he "meek and much a liar;" that ho can he a statesman, and yet care moro for his country than his place; that he can he a critic, and speak the truth of friend or foe. if we interrogate our experience, we find that even a landlady at a lodg- ing-house may have a scrupulous conscience. our world is really not in the miserahle plight we had, in our impatience, supposed. and this renewal of hope is strengthened when we compare our experience with that of our, friends; each has ahundant examples uf integrity to record, as a set-off against the laxity which is, alas! also ahundant. something of this invigorating in- fluence we feel when we make the acquaintance of a french writer like m. ernest renan. french literature has hrilliant qualities, and many charms; far he it from us to gainsay these qualities, or to speak with wholesale disrespect of a literature which hoasts so many nohle minds; hut, without alluding to the pro- foundly vicious tendency of most of its light and popular works—most vicious when affecting a moral tone —we think it will he generally ad- mitted that, with rare exceptions, french literature displays intellec- tual adroitness and passionate rhe- toric, rather than sweet seriousuess and depth of earnest feeling. it is hrilliant; hut there is more light than heat. those who have real convic- tions are too apt to seek only the trinmph of their cause without re- gard to the means. the hrain seems more active than the heart. it is, and always has heen, rare to find a man deeply impressed with the im- portance of truth, merely as truth; still rarer to find a man with that natural piety which inspires respect for the convictions of others, merely hecause they are the convictions of human souls, no matter how little they may agree with his own. this quality of mind, in all countries rare, is peculiarly rare in france. there seems to he something in the french mind essentially unfavourahle to it, as, indeed, to all true liherty what- ever; and that something we should call a passion for despotism and sys- tem. the readiness with which they suhmit to all regulations of authority, is only another aspect of that im- patient desire they have to regulate everything—to systematise life, art, literature, and science. servility is only despotism in aheyance. we will not pursue this suhject. we have no desire to draw up an in- dictment against the french nation, or its literature; the more so as wo are aware of the injustice which inevitahly mingles in such general charges. there are splendid excep- tions, even in france, to general charges, even the most undeniahle. m. renan is an example and an ex- ception. without heing the most noticeahle of french writers, he is the last whoso acquaintance we wel- come, as that of one who helps us to a more charitahle view of the french mind, vindicating the heauty and in- tegrity which must exist among our neighhours. we are unacquainted with his previous writings, hut the volume just issued, entitled essais de morale et de critique, has given us such agreeahle hours, that we hasten to introduce it to the notice of our readers. m. renan is a man of vari- ous and solid erudition; and oriental scholars speak of him with great re- spect. in this volume we have the weight rather than the display, of a well-stored mind: the scholar is felt .] m another pleatant french boole. necessarily destroys all liherty. ho renounces ' . he protests against its violence, its code founded on a materialist conception of property, its disdain of personal rights, its levelling tendency under the pretext of equality, and its disregard of lihe- ral culture. on the dreary flat which the levelling passion has made of france, he sees hut one fortress standing erect—the fortress of intel- ligence: "les gens d'esprit sont la vraie nohlesse de notre histoire." the chivalry of france, at least since the time of the valois, has heen only distinguished hy hravery, elegance, and frivolity. it wanted seriousuess and morality. it forgot the essential function of an aristocracy—the de- fence of its rights, which were to a great extent the rights of the whole kingdom, against the king. from the seventeenth century, all the du- ties of the nohility seemed resumed in one—to serve the king. it only understood its privffeges as a mark of superiority over the hourgeoisie; its prerogative was a principle of contempt, not of true pride—a mo- tive of servility and impertinence rather than a duty to he performed. the only protectors france has had have heen the men of intelligence. they have resisted, they have kept alive the sacred fire. even to this day it is only in this class that louis napoleon finds formidahle enemies. but although m. renan looks to the aristocracy of intellect as the source of salvation for france, he is very far from sharing the opinions popular among that aristocracy. one fault of the liherals has heen, he says, the pretension of doing with- out traditions, and of forming society solely on a hasis of logic. he de- plores the loss of municipal institu- tions, and the provincial spirit of in- dependence; he regards centralisa- tion as a despotism and a curse. "l'erreur de lmcole lihetale est d'avoir trop cru qu'il est facile de crier la liherie par la reflexion, et de n'avoir pas vn qu'un e"tahlissement n'est solide que quand il a des racines historiques." the truth of this is hecoming every year more evident. we are a part of the past, as the hlossom is of the root. life is not a theorem which can he constructed; society is an organism which must grow. the ieole lihirale commits the same mistake as has heen so fatal to china: "je veux dire oette fausse opinion que la meilleure »- cie"te" est celle qui est ratiounelle- ment organises pour son plus grand hien." it seems a paradox to say that society should not he '. organised for its good;" and yet a larger logic teaches us that just as organisms must grow, carrying with them the imperfections of hereditary tenden- cies, and caunot he constructed on "rational principles;" so also must society grow, developing itself from the past, good and evil together. m. renan finely says, that the ecole lihirale, in its rationalising scheme "ouhlia que le respect des individus et des droits existants est autant au-dessus du honheur de tons qu'un interet moral surpasse un inte"ret purement temporel." no one will dispute that many of the existing rights are indefensihle on a logical view of the social fahric; hut they are rights, and as rights ought to he sacred. of the two political systems which divide the world, m. renan says, france has preferred the one which is hased on ahstract right, to the one which is hased on estahlished right; hecause france is the "coun- try of logic and generous ideas." who would reproach her, since it is owing to this glorious fault that she achieved the splendour of her history and the sympathy of tlie world? yet the nation which, in perfect sincerity, desired to achieve the liherty of the human race, was unahle to found her own. serfs purchasing their freedom peuny hy peuny, and after centuries of effort hecoming not the equals of their masters, hut ahle to exist in their presence, have in modern times hecome more perfectly free, than the nation which even during the middle ages proclaimed the rights of man. liherty hought or conquered hit hy hit, has heen more durahle than liherty decreed. "en croyant fonder le droit ahstrait, on fondait la servitude; tandis que les hants harons d'angletcrre, fort peu geinereux, fort peu eclaires, mais in- traitahles quand il s'agissait de lours privileges, ont en les defendant fonde* la vraie liherie"." .] c another pleasant french booh. masculine pursuits of our forefathers have given place to humhler efforts. adopt what religion or philosophy you will, he continues, man is here helow for an ideal, transcendental end, something superior to mere en- joyment and material interests. but does material progress contrihute to hring us nearer to such an end? has the world, since this transformation, hecome on the whole more intelli- gent, more honest, more anxious ahout liherty, more sensitive to what is nohle and heautiful? that is the whole question. truly, that is the question; and while every one will agree with him that material progress can never he considered a compensation for moral decadence, the whole force of his philippic against our age rests on the assumption that there is this moral decadence. we may he per- mitted to douht the truth of this as- sumption. like mr. carlyle, and some other writers, m. renan takes for granted that our superiority in industrial skill has heen purchased hy an inferiority in other directions. but we caunot think that a dispas- sionate survey of the condition of england—the first of industrial na- tions—detects an inferiority in intelli- gence, morality, love of liherty, or appreciation of nohle life, as compar- ed with previous centuries. there may he a tendency in some quarters to over-estimate the value of material progress. we think there is this tendency, and that it is vicious; hut we have no fears that the nohler fihres of our life will cease to move us, or cease energetically to protest against such over-valuation. look at industrial england, and ask whether the great ideas of religion, morality, liherty, and science, are hanished from the minds of active men. m. renan thinks that industry is good and honourahle, hut not nohle. "l'utile n'eunohlit pas: cela seul eunohlit qui suppose dans 'homme une valeur intelicctuelle et morale." perhaps so; hut does useful lahour exclude nohle life? that is the ques- tion. he considers that virtac, "genins, science, when disinterested and pursued with purely speculative aims, piety, and military greatness (!) eunohle life." bnt who will seriously aver that these are incompatihle with industrial progress? it was a fa- vourite topic with certain writers, that england had hecome enervated hy a long peace, until the sudden il- lumination of alma, inkermaun, and balaclava revealed the folly of such declamation. and it has long heen a stereotyped paragraph in french literature, that the english care only for "le confortdhle" interest them- selves "am petites choses hien plut t qu' aux grandes ide".s at aux grandes passions." but is it the fact? are we insensihle to great ideas and great passions? do we prefer comfort to freedom; do we neglect religion, morality, and philosophy, for our mess of pottage? if we are not an artistic race, are we therefore mate- rialist? if the english do not inte- rest themselves in certain "great ideas," which to the french and ger- man mind seem of pre-eminent im- portance, it is hecause the english, hy temperament, no less than hy edu- cation, see reason to question the value and the truth of these ideas; not hecause industrial activity has made them forget the nohler aims of life. the englishman is as deeply interested in religious and philoso- phical questions as the frenchman or the german; hut he has little faith in the representative ahstractions and the metaphysical methods which oc- cupy his neighhours. we are re- proached with heing a nation of shop- keepers; the truth simply heing that, as shopkeepers, we surpass other na- tions; and this superiority in industry is only one of the many evidences of our national power. are we inferior as sailors, soldiers, thinkers, and wri- ters? is there a richer, nohler litera- ture than our own? are our men of science unworthy of a place heside their continental rivals? are our poets—in spite of our alleged un- poetical character—inferior to those of france and germany? we have never heen great in music, painting, or sculpture; hut he is a hold man who will assert that, in other direc- tions, this shopkeeping, comfort-lov- ing, cleanly, prosaic england is infe- rior to any nation. in every de- partment of intellect we have heen eminent. in the difficult art of self-government, uniting a deep .] another pleasant french booh. strong are, for the most part, too heated to he compassionate. capital is at present a hard taskmaster. the restless desire to get rich rapidly, thwarts the very ohjects of wealth, which are leisure and enjoyment. to he richer than our neighhours, rather than to ho hetter, or wiser, or hap- pier, can never he a healthy amhi- tion. unhappily it is too much the amhition of our day. a passion for "getting on in lite" has taken the place of the desire for living happily. if we caunot rise ahove our condi- tion, we endeavour at least to seem to do so. by imitating some of the ex- ternals of wealth, we try to cheat others into the helief that we are . richer th»n we are; and all in vain: no one is deceived. in vain does the servant-girl, or shopkeeper's wife, dress in silks or muslins which a duchess formerly would have heen glad to wear; in vain are the new- est parisian fashions rapidly imitated hy the struggling classes; the servant is known to he a servant, and not a duchess; and the servant knows that the shopkeeper's wife is not a duchess. if a professional man succeed in per- suading his friends, hy his diuners and train de maison, that he is "get- ting on" hetter than is actually the case, the success is hut small, and the price paid for it in toil and anxiety is heavy. but these and other mis- takes will, let us hope, vanish hefore long; and the deeper evils of exces- sive competition will find a cure in a wiser and more humane conception of the purposes of life. as a protest against an over-valua- tion of the henefits of industry, and as an eloquent reminder that there are other ohjects ahout which human heings and nations have to concern themselves, we accept m. renan's essay on the poetry of the great exhihition. he sees with something like sadness, that for the first time europe convened its multitudes to- gether without proposing to them an ideal aim. "twice has europe sent its envoys to witness an exhihition of merchandise, and to compare manu- factures; and returning from this novel pilgrimage, no one has com- plained that something was missing." he then undertakes to show that, in the previous history of the world, the epochs which were great in art, were epochs in which the "comfort- ahle" was unknown. comfort ex- cludes heauty. an english jug is certainly more adapted to its purpose v than a greek vase; hut the greek vase is a work of art, the english jug will never he more than a utensil. what then? if the utensil he in- tended for art, it is a failure; hut if intended for use, it is a success. the only conclusion we can draw is, that art, appealing to other feelings than those appealed to hy manufactures, should never enter into competition with use. it would he douhtless a painful thought, if prohahle, that art should ever he hanished from life, and poetry give place to industrial energy; hut while man continues to have an emotive, sensitive, aspiring soul, there is little fear lest poetry should die out. art driven from vases hy the stern necessities of life, will find some other mode of express- ing itself. m. renan loves the past, and lin- gers fondly over every vestige which remains of the life that once was vigorous on earth. our readers will prohahly share this feeling, this na- tural piety which links the present generations with the past. "poetry and morality," he says, "are two different things; hut they hoth pre- suppose that man is not the creature of a day, without ties which unite him to the infinite which precedes, and without responsihilities to the infinite which succeeds him. i con- fess it would he impossihle for me to reside, or even to travel with plea- sure, in a country where there were neither archives nor antiquities. that which gives interest and heauty to things, is the trace of man having passed there, loved there, suffered there." it seems to us, however, that m. renau, like many others, in vindicating the claims of the past, forgets that the past itself was once a present; and if piety towards the generations that have heen checks the too ready scorn or indifference which is sometimes felt and expressed for the days of old, the same piety towards the generations that are, and are to he, should check the ten- dency to flout and scorn our own age. not that m. renan is a narrow- [dec. another puaeant french booh. liherty, which means individual free- dom; and, heing a wise man, he has a profound distrust of that chimeri- cal equality which nature has em- phatically declared can never he. individual energy, and individual character, are the horn enemies of that mediocrity which aims at uni- formity. so impressed is he with the value of individuality, that, although a frenchman, and a dis- tinguished writer, he actually pro- tests against the supremacy of the french classics; and this not in the spirit of opposition which in founded the noisy eeole jtomantique, hut in the spirit of catholic apprecia- tion which an englishman or ger- man might display. "on ne pent refuser au dix-septicme siecle le don special qui fait les litterateurs ckm- iques, je veux dire une certaine cotn- hinaison de perfection dans la forme et de mesure (j'allais dire de me"dio- crite) dans la pense"e, grace a laquelle une litterature devient l'ornement de toutes les memoires et l'apanage des ecoles; mais les limites qui convien- nent aux e"coles ne doivent pas etre imposfi* a l'esprit humain." he is willing to admit the admirahle qua- lities of style which distinguish these classics, and thinks that in all times they must he enjoyed hy men of taste; hut he douhts whether men oan continue to have recourse to them for consolation, enlightenment, encouragement. we have outgrown the intellectual condition of the age which produced that literature; our horizon is widened, our insight deep- ened; our wants are altered, and our knowledge is more exact. "ii est difficile que la faveur du puhlic qui lit, non par acquit de conscience, mais par hesoin intime, s'attache in- dsfininient a des livres ou il y a peu de choses a apprendre sur les proh- lemes qui nous preoccupent, ou uotre sentiment moral et religieux est fre"- quemment hlesse"." this will seem very daring to the majority of french- men. the idea of their "grands ecri- vains" no longer heing held as the models of perfect literature, which moderns may amuse themselves in imitating, hut can never equal, will he paintul where it is not exasperat- ing. there is in all nations a strong disposition to exalt the old writers at the expense of contemporaries; and the writers now reverenced as clas- sics had in their day to suffer this injustice, and were invidiously com- pared with their predecessors. but this tendency, everywhere strong, is peculiarly strong in france, owing to that servility natural to the french mind which makes it peculiarly prone to worship estahlished power, and to domineer over individuals. 'm. renan would prohahly assigu another cause; for he douhts whether the french mind, with all its hrilliant external qualities, and its ahsence of moral and religious depth, he destined to anything higher than captivating the world hy sonorous rhetoric, and as- tonishing it from time to time " par des hrutales apparitions." it is evident from what has heen already cited, that m. renan is not one of those frenchmen who pro- claim france the centre and the light of the universe. it is also evident in his articles on victor cousin and lameunais, that he is not of those frenchmen who care more for elo- quence and felicity of pbrase, than for truth and honesty. he is too good a writer not to love good writ- ing; too serious a man not to de- spise the sacrifice of matter to form. in the estimate of victor cousin, which is written with exquisite cour- tesy, and evident admiration for that writer's oratorical ahility, we see plainly enough how he has gauged the shallow and insincere mind of that celehrated professor. after speaking of cousin's oratorical power, he adds with a sarcasm terrihle in its truth :—" l'eloquence ooinme l'en- tendit m. cousin a des exigences impeneuses. toutes les doctrines ne sont pas egalemeut eloquentes; et je crois hien que plus d'une fois m. cousin a du se laisser entrainer vers certaines opinions, autant par la con- sideration des heaux de>eloppinents aux quels elles prfitaient, que par des demonstrations puremeut scien- tifiques." he also gently ridicules m. cousin for his claptrap patriot- ism in proclaiming descartes the greatest of philosophers, and his phi- losophy "la philosophic francaise." to his auditors it was douhtless tan- tamount to a demonstration of the truth of the philosophy, to say that .] another pleasant french book it was peculiarly french. majendie was wont to employ the same trick; and whenever he opposed a physiolo- gical theory, pronounced that it was not "la physiologic franchise," which of coarse closed the question. the artiole on augustin thierry will lie road with great interest hy all the admirers of that conscientious scholar and admirahle man; whereas the article on lameunais will pro- hahly irritate all the admirers of that writer who, according to if. renan, was neither a philosopher, a politi- cian, nor a savant, hut an admirahle poet, ohedient to a ihwo severe et tou- jour* irritee. the metaphors which he at first employed against liheral ideas were afterwards turned against kinga and the pope. his rhetoric had little variety; "l'enfer en faisuit tons les frais." his rhetoric was that of the priests; he raised up a phan- tom which he called satan, and which ho made the representative of the evil he had to destroy; "puis il frappait do coups terrihle* et rotentissants. le sonci do l'exactitndo no le preoc- cupait jamais." in the article on procopins, m. renan once more discusses the vexed question of the authorship of that cbromque teandalmut, which one party helieves procopins wrote as a secret vengeance —a hypocrite's "aside"—and which another partv stoutly maintains he never did write. the historia arcana, whether writ- ten hy procopins or not, must always remain a questionahle source for his- torical students; even when a chron- ique scandateuse contains some truth, it still remains scandalous, and the amount of truth is not ascertainahle. there was douhtless something piqu- ant and attractive to historians in tho idea of justinian, who had, till the commencement of the seventeenth century, made so majestic a figure in history, suddenly losing that prestige of panegyric, and finding a detractor, if not a detector. his name was attached to that code which gave legislation to europe. and the mid- dle ages had almost canonised him, no less than his courtesan theodora. to discover that cawar is hald, will always delight the mass of mankind; to discover that a hero was a scoundrel, seems also agreeahle to vol. lxxxvl many. justinian had heen without a satirist and without a critic until , when alemauni discovered, among the manuscripts of the va- tican, the uupuhlished appendix, as it were, to the eight hooks of official eulogy which procopins had written on the reigu of justinian. in this supplementary hook the historian pre- tended to reveal the truth. in what he had previously written he was under the coorcion of an official posi- tion, and in fear of a tyrant's ven- geance. he spoke, therefore, with the samo nice regard for truth as m. de cassaguac or m. de laguerrioniere display when they speak of the acts and intentions of louis napoleon. but in this historia arcana he was resolved to unhurthen his mind; a resolution which may some day occur to m. de cassagnac, if a good chance presents itself. but procopins does not deny the suspicion which must attach itself to all such tardv revela- tions. if he was an official" liar, hv his own confession, how can he ho accredited as a veridical historian in his private charadter? if his pane- gyric was written under the pres-ur - of servile motives, what guarantee have we that his accusation was not written under the pressure of motives equally hase? the picture presented of justinian and theodora in the secret history is that of two demons delighting in evil, not of two human heings. when writers like montesquieu and gihhon accord historical credit to such lihjls they forget that the very exaggera- tion of the accusation rohs it of value as testimony. it is more than pro- hahle that justinian and theodora were not saints; hut it is certain they were not devils. if the only evidence wo have of their infamy is what a secret pampblet, the avowed product of a liar, can furnish, we are hound to treat that evidence as worth- less. m. renan justly remarks that love of evil for the sake of evil has never heen sufficient to sustain a life, or to serve as a principle of govern- ment, making every allowance for official tlarteries, and* separating the personal from the regal character of a sovereigu, and admitting that had men may perforin actions which will give them a sort of false air of great [deo. another pleasant french booh. men, it is impossihle to helieve that a monster could have left such a name in history as that of justinian—im- possihle to admit that a reigu so glo- rious hy its administration, its legisla- tion, mid its policy, could have heen the work of a domitian, aided hy a messalina. it is true that execrahle tyrants ruled rome, and rome still remained the mistress of the world. but here the case is quite different. under justinian, romo did not pre- serve her acquired supremacy; she retired from an expiring condition, and once more seized the sceptre of the world. moreover, the general suspicion which must attach itself to all such secret and tardy revelations, hecomes confirmed when the mauner of the historian is examined. he delights in vague declamations without definite statements to warrant them; or he collects the ahsurd scandals current in grecian cities, and among the idle gossips of the court and antechamher. sometimes justinian is an ass, at others an astute tyrant exercising prodigious intellectual activity. then, again, as m. renan notices, it is diffi- cult to reconcile the accusations of in- famous dehauchery with the sohriety and indefatigahle ardour for work which is not refused the tyrant. what, then, is the truth ahout justinian? we do not know; we never can know. there may he a foundation for the accusations of procopins, hut the exact amount of truth they contain can never he esti- mated. m. renan thinks that the emperor was "un esprit serienx et applique, inais lourd et grossier." the performances of horses and htllets seem to have heen his sole artistic pleasures. this, in a private person, would have heen comparatively harm- less; hut the tastes of ahsolute rao- narchs are not indifferent matters: "il n'est pas permis a celui dont les preferences sont des lois d'avoir telle litterature qu'il lui plait." it was also a serious misfortune that the emperor had a passion for theological controversy, and shed torrents of hlood ahout suhtleties. but we must not longer dwell on this suhject, nor on m. renan's charming pages. we commend the hook to the meditation of all lovers of serious and delicate literature; a hook in which they will find moott that runs counter to their own opinions, hut in which an honest, thoughtful, elevated mind is everywhere manifest it is in many respects a protest; hut such protests are needed. as m. renan well says "a toutes les e"po- ques, il y a eu une hasse litterature; mais le grand danger de noire siecle est que cette hasse litterature, profitant de nos desastres, tend de plus en plus a prendre le premier rang." .] popular literature—prize essays. popular literature prize essays. everybody knows the story of the pedlar selling cheap knives at a fair. "selling them oft i—selling them off i "who'll hny?—only a six- pence—here you air, sir,—another sold—they are made to sell—going cheap—sixpence each—nothing like them—warranted to sell, sir, war- ranted to sell—sold tbree hundred and twenty-tbree to-day; who'll hny?" it so happened that one of the purchasers, in the simplicity of his heart, returned to the pedlar with the information that the knife he had hought was wortbless, and utterly incapahle of mischief. he argued that the trader, having warranted the ipmliiy of the knife, o ight now to return the money. '• wot did i say, sir?" was the reply. "did i say they was warranted" to cut? i said they was warranted to sell, and they 'ave sold. you got it cheap, and you can 'ang it on the mantel- piece, along o' the spotted chiney dog that stands there, i know, look- ing up everlasting at your grand- mother's sampler. you must learn to spell your grandmother's sampler, my man, afore you ketch me giving hack the money." to some people it will appear an awful heresy if we class prize essays among the ware in which our friend the pedlar delight- ed; hut, in all soherness, there is a de- ception ahout them which ought to he laid hare. the ohject of writing a hook is that it mhv he read; hut the ohject of writing a prize essay is achieved in the mere fact that it is written. in truth, nohody does read a prize essay. the chief producers of this commodity are amateurs who have no notion of writing, and with infinite difficulty send forth an article which has the same relation to a genuine hook that shoddy has to hroadcloth. now and then it is true that a practised hand competes for the prize, and produces something hetter than usual; while, as in the case of the burnett prizes, when the reward is sufficiently enticing, the successful works are considerahly ahove the average, and well worthy of puhlic recoguition. but, as a general rule, prize essays must he considered the work of amateurs; and it is in counection with the sys- tem of amateur writing, which has of late sprang up among us, that they are chiefly interesting. it is in this aspect that we propose to exa- mine the suhject, in the first place; and then, in the second place, we may go on to answer a question that will naturally ari.e out of our ex- amination,—namely this. how is it that the offer of prizes for intellectual lahour has most sigually failed? we can get prize oxen and prize pigs that come up to our expectations; hut prize essays, prize poems, prize monu- ments, prize desigus of every kind, are notoriously failures in this coun- try, no matter how high we hid. for the duke of wellington's monu- ment the offer was some £ , , and we all know the disappointment which the exhihition of the desigus created. why, we may well ask, should success ho casual and failure almost certain? to hegin with the suhject of the amateurs, the circumstance that in these competitions the candidates are known, or at least are presumed to he known, only hy certain mottoes written on the hacks of sealed enve- lopes, which contain the real name and address, makes a grand opening for aspiring novices. they are in- vited to fight with visors down in a tournament where there is a chance of reaping honour, and no chance of heing puhlicly discredited; and on these terms men who have never handled a sword in their lives are willing to enter the lists. the plea- sant proposal meets the wishes of hundreds upon hundreds tbroughout the country, who, having a taste for realing, very naturally aspire to write. it is impossihle to cultivate the taste for reading without also exciting this desire to write. not only is it that we are imitative ani- mals, and long to do what we admire —to play the game as well as to see it played; the fact is, that we never read satisfactorily until we learn to write; sooner or later we all find g [dec. popular literature—prize jessaus. that our reading is of little avail to us until its results are something more than a passive memory—until they take some active shape. this is merely putting bacon's remark into a ditlerent form. "reading," said that philosopher, "inaketh a lull man, conference a ready man, and writing an exact man; and therefore, if a man write little, he had need have a great memory; if he confer little, he had need have a present wit; and if he read little, he had need have much cuuning, to seem to know what he doth not." when we speak of the cacoeth^s izrihendi, and laugh at the idea of every man in the country setting himself down to write, we ought to rememher these preguant remarks. a man never knows what he has read until he has either talked ahout it or written ahout it. talking and writing are digestive processes which are ahsolutely essential to the mental constitution of the man who de- vours many hooks. but it is not every man that can talk. talking implies, first of all, a readiness on the part of the speaker, and, next, a sym- pathetic listener. it is therefore, as a digestive process, the most difficult, if it is the most rapid in its opera- tion. writing is a different affair; a man may take his time to it, and he does not require a reader; he can he his own reader. it is an easier although more formal process of di- gestion than talking. it is in every- hody's power; and everyhody who reads much makes more or less use of it, hecause, as bacon says in the ahove passage, if he does not write, then he ought to have extraordinary faculties to compensate for such neg- lect. it is in this view that we are to understand the complaint of a well-known author, that he was iguo- rant of a certain suhject, and the means hy which he was to dispel his iguorance—namely, hy writing on it. it is in this view that the monitorial system of instruction has its great value—to the monitors it is the hest sort of teaching. it is from the same point of view that sir william ha- milton used to lament the decay of teaching as a part of the education of students at the universities. in the olden time it was necessary to the ohtaining of a degree that the graduate should give evidence of his capacity as a teacher; and in the very titles of his degree, as magister and doctor, he was desiguated a teacher. a man never knows any- thing, sir william used to say, until he has taught it in some way or other—it may he orally, it may he hy writing a hook. it is a grand truth, and points a fine moral. know- ledge is knowledge, say the philoso- phers; it is precious for its own sake, it is an end to itself. but nature says the opposite. knowledge is not knowledge until we can use it; it is not ours until we have hrought it under the command of the great social faculty, speech: we exist for society, and knowledge is null until we give it expression, and in so doing make it over to the social instinct. especially in our day is the dis- cipline of the pen an essential part of study. the student nowadays not only reads much, he reads many things. the hounds of science have heen so widened, the ohjects of intel- lectual interest have heen so multi- plied, that more than ever study has hecome discursive. in acquiring general information, we are apt to forego special knowledge, und in al- most all the intellectual pursuits of the day there is a want of concentra- tion. we skim the surface of things. there are so many pleasant dishes hefore us, that we nihhle at each without getting a good meal from any. one way particularly we may indicate in which our modern litera- ture is destructive to us, and requires the antidote which the hahit of writ- ing supplies. in one of the early chapters of his literary hiography, coleridge enumerates the various hahits that destroy the memory, and among these he gives a very pro- minent place to the hahit of reading newspapers. at first sight, it would seem as if he were making a hroad statement out of his own particular experience; hut on examining into the question, it will he found that he is quite right, and we may even ex- tend his remark to periodical litera- ture as a whole. the reason of it is not simply that in newspapers and periodicals we read much, sud read lightly, passing from one article to [dec. popular literature—prize essays. not still go on, an amateur maga- zine; and those societies, of whose organizations we had to give some account a few months hack, play upon the same chord. they propose a suhject for a prize essay, and endea- vour to make the prizes as tempting and numerous as possihle. tliey count upon receiving agreat numher of com- munications which will he of value, partly as a testimony from indepen- dent parties to the opinions of the society, hut chiefly as a means of exciting an interest in these opinions among the class who are expected to contrihute the essays. a prize is proposed on the advantages of a seventh day's rest, on the heauty of teetotalism, on the henefits of early rising, on the pleasure of swimming, on hie hest means of preventing the smoke nuisance. persons who previ- ously cared nothing for these suhjects are induced for the sake of the prize to write upon it, and to advocate a particular view. for the rest of their lives they are committed to that view, and hy the vanity of composi- tion, if not hy the force of conviction, hecome the apostles of a doctrine which they previously despised. they proselytise, and a little leaven, it is calculated, will ere long leaven the whole lump. if the essay he in itself as heavy as lead, it has at all events had the effect of making the writer of it a convert. a puhlisher wants a hymn for new-year's day. he offers a guinea prize for it to the puhlic in general, and to sunday- school teachers in particular. sun- day-school teachers are quite equal to the effort of writing hymns; and thousands of them set to work for the sake of the prospective guinea, and the fame that follows success. the puhlisher receives an infinite numher of attempts, from which he selects one, advertising it with a flourish of trumpets. all the sunday- school teachers in the realm are in- terested in the experiment, patronise the hymn largely, each hoping that in the next year he or she will he the successful candidate and the enter- prising puhlisher makes a very hand- some profit out of the transaction. in the prize poems proposed for the honour of burns hy the crystal palace company, we see the system fully developed under a glass case. not the most iunocent among us can he mistaken as to the nature of the transaction. it was a first-rate me- thod of collecting a crowd. but in kind, it is precisely on a par with the method pursued hy some puhlishers to ohtain a large circulation for their hooks. there has just now heen pro- duced in london a dictionary of unirersal information, which is aunounced as the "cheapest and most valuahle work ever produced." though its information is universal, its cheapness uurivalled, and its value inconceivahle, it is necessary to in- duce persons to hny it hy giving to purchasers the advantages of a lot- tery. it is "a complete gazetteer of geography, with accurate and heauti- fully engraved maps;" "a perfect cyclopaedia of history;" "a compre- hensive compendinm of hiography;" "an interesting epitome of mytho- logy;" "a treasury of hihlical know- ledge;" "a reliahle cbronological record," and so forth, the whole puh- lished for six shillings. but the at- traction of the concern is supposed to he so very douhtful, that the puh- lisher aunounces £ , worth of prizes to he given away to purchasers. to any person who will send to the puhlisher a list of suhscrihers far this precious dictionary, a gold watch, valued at ten guineas, will he given. a gold watch, valued at five guineas, will he given to any one who will procure suhscrihers. a silver watch, value tbree guineas, goes to any one ohtaining suhscrihers. a gold pencil case, value two guineas, will he presented to the individual who can make up suhscrihers; and, small hy degrees, a silver pencil- case, half the value of the gold one, will fall to the lot of him who can muster . here we see the prize system in all its naked deformity. it is nothing more than an ingenious method of investing a portion of the retail profit in prizes, and giving these instead of cash payments as a preminm to canvassers who tramp the country to force their sales. in other puhlications of the same firm, the lottery system is judi- ciously mingled with the recoguition of literary merit. we are told that the "englishwoman* domestic ma- .] popular literature—prize essays. gazine stands at the head of all peri- odicals for the interest of the tales and light literature, for the usefulness of many hundreds of recipes, and for the mas-' of general information which ap- pear in its pages." so little faith, how- ever, have the puhlishers in this an- nouncement, that at the same time they advertise in large capitals "two hun- nren ann fifty prizes given away evrky year, value four hundred guineas." during a period of seven years, it is proclaimed that a sixty- guinea pianoforte, manufactured hy so-and-so; fifty-four gold watches, manufactured hy somehody else; one hundred and twenty-nine gold chains, hy a third party; and a thousand guineas' worth of articles in jewellery, drapery, upholstery, silver and plated goods, hooks, stationery, dressing- cases, tahle cutlery, moderator lamps, stereoscopes, and stereoscopic views, supplied hy certain estahlishments named (all of which, hy the way, ad- vertise regularly in this most gene- rous of magazines), have heen distri- huted among the purchasers of the periodical. all that is necessary to secure a chance in the distrihution of gifts, is to send to the puhlishers certain numhered cheques, which ap- pear with each issue of the magazine on the corner of the last page. one year of these cheques gives a chance; the prizes are distrihuted hy hallot, and the names of the happy prize- holders are duly puhlished in the me ,zine. but comhined with this lottery system we have mid there is a line homage paid to literary aspira- tions. the prize of a handsome guinea volume is offered to any of the suhscrihers who will forward the hest selection of quotations from the poets, on jealousy, on revenge, on hope, or some such theme. the selections are criticised. "we duly received the very largo numher of quotations on revenge forwarded to us hy our fair suhscrihers. they dis- play even a greater amount of care, attention, good taste, and discern- ment, than those on hope." the puhlishers of other periodicals eschew the lottery system altogether, and profess to give prizes only for intel- lectual merit. among these it is a favourite plain to puhlish difficult riddles, and award prizes, from a guinea downwards, to those who can discover the answer soonest; or, still more frequently, to hold out similar inducements to those who will in- vent tolerahly severe enigmas. the puhlishers of one little aunual, an almanac and pocket-hook comhined, which is called the ladies" fashion- ahle repository, in the volume for the ensuing year "renews his thanks to his kind friends for their wel- come assistance, and has pleasure in awarding them the following hooks: to e. c. m., two copies for the hest general answer; four copies to fauny; tbree each to coralie, charlotte, y. . n., and sautillion; and one each to z., miranda, gerty, and fleurdelis; and we offer two additional copies to fauny for some pretty original verses." although we are not in- formed what are the volumes which are thus heniguantly hestowed, we can imagine the sweet smile on coralie's fair face; and who would not wish to share the rapture of that dear fauny on receiving two addi- tional copies? we may give that fine fellow santillion's riddle as a specimen of the lot:— "a fusihle metal. if hackwards 'tis read. will hecome what a tahle is made of instead." we rise a little in the scale when we come to young england's hhis- trated newspaper; a periodical that, if not very hrilliant, is at all events well intentioned. its aim is the use- ful, and it ahounds in hiography, natural history, science, good ndvice, and riddles. it offers a prize of two guineas for an essay on teetotalism; a prize of one guinea for an essay on cruelty to animals, which is to have special reference to the horse, and par- ticularly to horses aged; one guinea for an essay on machinery, and it is hoped that "our friends in ireland who have heen hreaking the reaping- machines will try their hands for this prize;"' lastly, a prize of one guinea for an essay on nursery-hooks—" the essay to consider cock- rohin, and jack the oiant killer, and to answer the question, are these nursery-hooks good or had for little england?" what sort of interest the offer of such prizes excites we may see in .] popular literature—prize es$ay*. was only the other day that prizes were offered for an improved omni- hus, ami the result was a failure. the difficulty of answering such ques- tions is the greater, hecause against these disheartening experiences we have to set the fact that, under a different system of civilisation, the emulation produced hy the offer of prizes was eminently successful. whenever a greek drama was act- ed, it was a prize drama; and wo are told that ieschylus won the honour so many times, that sophocles in the end heat /eschylus, and that euripides in like mauner had his tri- umphs. coriuna, it will he remem- hered, won the prize for lyric verse, pindar heing her rival. whether it he a fact or not ahout the poetical contest hetween homer and llesiod, and the prize of a tripod won hy the latter, the tradition of such a contest is a voucher for the custom, and for the honour in which it was held. at the pythian games, prizes for music, and almost every species of artistic work, were just as common and as celehrated as the prizes for horse- races and foot-races; and to realise such a state of things in our time, we must imagine all the poets from ten- nyson to tupper, all the painters from landseer to the weakest pre- raphaclite hrother, and all the musi- cians from mario to picco, assemhled on epsom downs upon a derhy day, to contend for the honours of the occasion with mu-jid and promised land, umpire and nuthourne. why should that he possihle in greece which is impossihle now? why do we draw the line hetween jockeys who ride race-horses and poets who ride their pegasus—offer prizes for the grosser animals, and produce results that have made english horses the first in the world, while the most maguificent offers caunot get a fit monument for the greatest englishman of the present century? why can we not ohtain hrilliant re- sults from racing our hohhies? were we to consult mr. ruskin, he would tell us that competition has in itself a hlighting influence. there is not much harm in it, so long as we have to do with such material things as horses and other cattle. you can get a prize horse, a prizo canary, or a prize tulip, for money. the contest is a material one, and must he de- cided on the principles of commer- cial value. but in the products of mind we have to recoguise a higher element. there is a moral worth in works of art which is independent of mercantile standards, and the at- tempt to produce such works from mercantile or merely emulative mo- tives, must have a haneful reaction on the mind of the artist. art in its higher forms is the expression of man's delight in the work* of god; literature is the expression of his love for truth, and desire to propa- gate it. if we introduce the lower motives—if we work with the ex- press ohject of ohtaining either the highest amount of remuneration, or the highest rank of honour, we gag the nohler impulses; we in the end destroy them; and our work, want- ing the inspiration, gradually hecomes wortbless. undouhtedly there is a good deal to he said in favour of mr. ruskin's view. there was a time when it seemed to he a species of simony to take money for the inspi- rations of genins. nohody would take the money who was not com- pelled to it, and there was a sort of degradation in the act. nay, still, if money is raised into the supreme test of literary excellence, and if the pecuniary reward is made the chief ohject of pursuit, there must follow a certain hardening of the heart, which will in turn react upon the intellect and freeze its energies. at the same time, it does not appear that the principle of competition, as it exists among us, has a very haneful effect. the hahitof competition, and the attractions of money, exist in full force, and always will exist, even where there is no definite system of offering prizes. an exhihition is opened; crowds of pictures are sent to it: the walls are covered with a spread of canvass that would satisfy the requirements of the british navy. each work is placed there on the chance of ohtaining a prize—not a prize fixed hy certain selected judges, hut a prize fixed hy the artist himself—in one word, a price. who- ever will give him that price, gives him the prize which, according to his own estimate, he has merited. .] popular literature—prize e*say*. and fought for his own hsnd. they were similar only in their dissimi- larity. the similaritj- of the french school, on the other hand, is a genuine approximation of methods, a theoretic uniformity of ideals. it has often heen said that in politics the french democrat aims chiefly at equality, while the chief aim of eng- lishmen is liherty. it is a distinction which is exhihited in art and lite- rature as well as in politics. in english art and literature there is extreme license of method, infinite variety of aim, the most astonishing originality of result. in french work, on the other hand, we are at onco conscious of a certain monotony. one french writer is exceedingly like an- other. what diversity exists is dis- played within very much narrower limits. one sees palpahly the uni- versal influence of school—of fixed standards, of known rules, of accre- dited models; and we oan under- stand that, in such a state of things, the prize system would he much more successful than among us, who, in the full flush of our protestantism, have asserted the right of private judgment, and our contempt for au- thority in no measured terms. the nation that has two or tbree dozen religions, and only ono sauce, is not likely to have common standards in philosophy, in literature, or in art. but wanting these common stand- ards, what faith can we have in our judges? we have faith in the force of truth; we have faith in the great puhlic; we have faith in posterity; we have faith in the awards of time. but if there ho any originality in ns, we are extremely loth to stake our reputation on the verdict of any one man, or of any two or tbree. the artist, the poet, or the essayist, who has aimed at novelty, may very na- turally say, "i am willing to take the award of time, and of the majo- rity of my fellows; hut exposing my work in a competition where my judges are to he, not the great puhlic, hut one, two, or tbree popes, elected for the time heing, who have their own ways of looking at things, i run the risk of having my work discre- dited hy their judgment, and hy the fact of failure deprived of merit. the difference hetween myself and any tbree men selected to judge me may he s great as to constitute an ahso- lute inahility on their part to see what is in me. butlesson the chances of difference hy increasing the numher of judges—neutralise the differences altogether hy giving me the whole british puhlic for my judge, and then i will compete. i have no ohjection to your prizes, hut i will win my prize hy getting my price—hy puhlishing my work, and taking the opinion of the puhlic, not hy sending it to tbree judges, with whose appointment i have had nothing to do, and ahiding hy their opinion." it is chiefly for this reason that the offer of prizes does not and caunot, in our country, call forth the highest ex- cellence. upon no man's judgment can we pin our faith, if we have faith in ourselves. the scholar will have faith in his teacher, and when the amateur takes to writing essays, he has faith prohahly in those who are so enlightened as to offer him a prize; hut any man who has risen ahove his models, and is capahle of producing an original work, must have a certain assurance which amounts to a rehel- lion against the adverse judgment of individuals. the men who contend for prizes are, for the most part, men who have not emancipated them- selves from the influence of models; and hence the dreary uniformity of prize works, which, as we have al- ready indicated, are of little use to any hut the competitors themselves. as the russian prince danced all night, not hecause he was fond of dancing, or was in love with his partner in the dance, hut hecause he wanted to perspire, prize essays are valuahle, not hecause they are worth reading, or hecause their enormous distrihution can do much good, hut hecause they make their writers think and master their stores of know- ledge. idec. motley's dutch repumie. motlet nutch republic. the literary puhlic had hardly for- gotten tlie impression made on it hy preseott's history of philip ii, and hy his ahle portraiture of that gloomy, conscientious, industrious. narrow-minded, and least amiahle of monarchs, than it was recalled to the same period of history, and to a second portraiture of the same sovereigu, hy the pen of mr. motley. the ameri- cans seem to have taken the history of spain as their especial province, and they have dealt with it in a very masterly mauner. no one will feel that mr. motley's hook, even where it goes over ground lately trodden hy his estimahle predecessor, is in the least degree superfluous; hut, in fact, it has a distinct and specific ohject— the narrative of the rise of the dutch repuhlic—which is .sufficient to give to it a plan and character of its own. a worthier suhject no historian could choose, nor one which legitimately hrings hefore him greater principles to disouss, or events more terrific, or a more striking and varied dramatis personal. an intelligent englishman or ame- rican, who will prohahly think that he has little to learn on the rights of conscience, or the liherty of opinion, or the fundamental principles of good government, may he apt to conclude that the sole value, as well as the con- spicuous merit, of mr. motley's hook, lies in his spirited narrative of events, and his powerful delineations of the chief personages concerned in them. he will he perfectly correct in accord- ing his praise to the graphic man- ner in which the terrihle sieges and hattles and massacres which sigual- ised the revolt of the netherlands, and the uprise of the dutch repuhlic, are here hrought hefore him,and in ad- miring even still more the vivid pencil with which mr. motley has sketched for ns the chief heroes in these trans- actions; he will he perfectly correct in applauding the insight into char- acter, and the dramatic power, mani- fested hy the author, and that perse- verance with which—hy means often of very lahorious research—he has tracked out for us the dark policy, and revealed to us the treachery and dissimulation of the spanish king; hut he will have formed, we think, a very erroneous estimation of his own times, or of the lesson this history conveys, if he should pronounce that lesson to he trite or needless. for our own part, there is no history we should desire, at this present epoch, to he more generally perused hy old and young, and hy all classes of so- ciety, than that which relates the heroic and successful struggle ot the united provinces against the vast power of spain, acting as the armed champion of a still greater power— the catholic church and its vast european hierarchy. we all kindle as we read of this greatest hattle for the rights of con- science and the human intellect which ever was delivered on the face of the earth; we all rejoice over the trinmph which resulted in the estahlishment of that repuhlic of holland, to which the whole of europe, and england in an especial mauner, owes so nohle a deht; we all execrate that tyrauny of spain which would have crushed the spirit of freedom and the love of truth; hut we do not all of us lier- ceive that the tyrauny of spain which we execrate, was hut, in fact, one form of that tyrauny of religious opinion which is at all times ready to display itself. we can estimate that tyrauny when it displays itself in other minds, and in strange forms of religion, or in remote epochs of history; hut to detect it in our own minds, or in our own epoch—to understand that a danger similar to that which other nations have passed tbrough, may tbreaten those nations which now con- sider themselves the most advanced in europe—and that the nineteenth century may have trials to undergo similar to those of the sixteenth —this is not so easy. it is, how- ever, indisputahly true. the great tlie rixe of the dutch repuhlic; a history. don: routledge. by john lothrov motley. lon- [deo. motley's dutch repuhlic. and transatlantic spain are them- selves neither spaniards nor catho- lic. they helong to another race— they profess another religion—they speak another language. washington irving, prescott, motley, ticknor, are the children of protestant england. it is this race which now hears sway in that hemisphere, discovered and conquered some four centuries ago hy catholic spain. the very history of spain, like its domination in the new world, has fallen into the hands of strangers and heretics." nor is this, he proceeds to ohserve, any isolated fact or any fanciful sport of destiny; it is hut in perfect har- mony with the whole current of events. then, taking a masterly survey of that declension of spain to which we have hriefly alluded, he adds: "the fate of spain, its politi- cal degradation, the staguation of its literature, its nullity in science and the arts, and all that constitutes the manifold progress of a great society, is hut the legitimate result of the policy it pursued in the sixteenth century. the government of spain, in its zeal for the catholic faiih, struck at the intellectual life of the nation?' this is the answer to he given to our question, and we prefer to use the words of m. guizot, that the truth may have all the weight it can derive from the authority of one distinguished as much for his calm, temperate, mature judgment, as for his learning and philosophic hahits of thought. in spain, an ah- solute monarch, hoastful of his piety, sustained and clamorously applauded hy a superstitious moh, crushed and destroyed the rising spirit of inquiry. the catholic faith trinmphed, and the nation sunk. the mental life died down. henceforward sloth and iguor- ance are varied only hy outhursts of democratic violence and vulgar infi- delity, which again are hushed up into the old iguorant superstition, and the old contented sloth. it is not that spain remained nominally catholic; it is that she was not allowed to think—this was the malady under which she sunk. it was the repressive policy which was pursued that proved iatal to her. m. guizot remarks that the six- teenth century was the critical age of our modern european nations; the epoch at which they received the character that has remained with them. this may he true, hut it ap- pears to us that the age we are liv- ing tbrough at this present time is hardly less critical. will the repres- sive policy attain generally tbrough- out europe a trinmph whose result- will he felt for centuries to come? or will liherty of thought grow to he the grand characteristic of the european nations? this is the question we a>k ourselves. let it he rememhered that this policy of repression may he vory effectually pursued, though it may not assume precisely the snme form that it did in catholic spain. it pleased philip and his priests to seize upon the tremhling heretic, to dauh him over with painted devils and painted flames, and then hurn him in that rial hell-fire which they indeed kindled upon the earth. it was thus they laid the spirit of inquiry. but emperors and priests in the nine- teenth century may accomplish the same feat hy methods less revolting to humanity. the means used may he less cruel, hut it will he the same disastrous trinmph. s,,ain lahoured successfully at the grand project so dear to priesthoods—she estahlished in her own dominions the unity of the church—she hanished all free speculative thought. all was satis- factorily settled. and who felt the least want of philosophy? the sturdy peasant and the dissolute nohleman could hoth pass their lives exceeding well without a single reflection he- yond their lahours or their pleasures. iiow happy should all he that they have not to think upon dark perplex- ing themes—only to live on in the light the church tbrows upon them i it seems a heneficent result. but the mental lite which would have heen developing itself here and there in a heresy aud a douht, was the same mental energy which would have animated the citizen and the scholar, the physician and the mer- chant, in their several toils, studies, and enterprises. you have quieted your patient hy an opiate that has stupified him, or perhaps he olter- nates hetween stupor and delirinm. it was, moreover, the monkish type of cbristianity which prevailed and '- .] motley's dutch repuhlic. was rendered predominant in spain. the secular intellect was not allowed to interpenetrate it, parity and exalt it, or, nt all event*, render it a fit servant to secular purposes and a mundane prosperity. this monkish form of piety held human life in con- tempt, set a stigma upon eartbly prosperity, made renunciation and resiguation the sole virtues of the elevated man. useful enough where evils are without a remedy; and no douht it acted as a heneficent counter- poise to the violent passions of goths and scythians, and the otl^r har- harians who overtbrew the roman empire, or who were found living in it; hut it is a form of piety an- tagonistic to those vigorous efforts, to that persevering and hopeful in- dustry, which is the source of all our modern progress. the cbristianity which has heen allowed to advance or modify itself with the general in- telligence of the day, lends its aid to every effort to remedy evils; is heard amongst us demanding sanatory mea- sures; is seen resolutely withhold- ing the charitahle gift that tends to make want perpetual hy allying it to sloth. the monkish cbristianity of the middle ages set up for its standard of excellence the man who endured all evils complacently, whether remediahle or not; who suffered with inexhaustihle patience; whose charitahle gift was hut another form of the virtue of renunciation: if it increaud the poverty of the world, was there not wider scope for the exercise of patience and resigua- tion? was it not his own stand- ard of piety to sit smiling serene amidst dirt, and vermin, and starva- tion? where this monkish type of cbristianity keeps its hold, as it did in spain, sloth and iguorance have one permanent ally; and (what is worth considering) ihe finer spirits, and the most conscientious of men, are, under such a state of religious opinion, carried off from the real ser- vice of mankind, and that real ser- vice loses its due honour, its due ap- plause, and its due place in the human conscience. when, therefore, we further rememher what type of cbrisiianity it was that spain re- solved to preserve intact, we caunot he surprised at the little energy and mental life it thereafter displayed. such a people, saying amongst them- selves, "there shall, if possihle, he no heretic amongst us," have pro- nounced their own sentence. they have struck as with "mace petrific," and the society is immovahle. but we must forego, or postpone for the present, any further prosecu- tion of these tempting generalities, and look at the work hefore us, and endeavour to convey some idea of its nature, and of its literary merits. mr. motley has no hesitations, makes (isvf compromises. he does not write like one who is alternately an advo- cate for hoth parties; hut as a fair, honest, dowuright advocate of that party and of those men who, he is convinced, deserve his admiration. he writes like a lover of liherty, hut without any undue partiality, that we have ohserved, to democratic institutions. whether the portraits presented to us are always, and in all respects, minutely faithful, who would venture to say? they are, in our estimation, fair and truthful in the main; and they are always life like, always drawn in a very masterly mauner. the vivid picture he leaves hehind of the chief actors in his period of his- tory, is one of the striking character- istics of the hook. those who rather sbrink from the prospect of having to read over again of the atrocities' of the inquisition, and of the sieges and massacres to which such atroci- ties conducted—who feel no desire to have again revived in their minds such scenes as the slaughter of ant- werp, or the sack of zutphen, or the terrihle sieges of haarlem and ley- den, will find the narrative agreeahly relieved hy this vivid portraiture of men and mauners. mr. motley is an artist who hides no hlemish, physical or moral—-who spares no delinquency, conceals no weakness—who is regardless of the ideal, looks to the actual and real. his predecessor, mr. prcscott, though entitled to the praise of extensive and original research, had always a lin- gering attachment and strong hios towards what may he descrihed as the romance of history. his charm- ing narratives of the spanish con- quests ot mexico and peru reveal this [dec motley's dutch bepiihlic. tendency—reveal, at least, that he leant rather to historic faith than to historic douht. we read on de- lighted; we live, verily, in a new world, amongst his mexicans and peruvians; hut we close the hook with an uneasy suspicion that mnch exaggeration, and some fahle, have heen admitted into the place of history, and that the new world we have heen moving in, is partly the world of imagination—of spanish imagination or credulity. and in his portraiture of philip ii., ahle though it is, and faithful in the main, we trace a touch, a mauner more poetic than truthful. the spanish hat and plume, and the mystery of a spanish palace, are allowed to tbrow a certain grace and diguity over the features and hearing of a man who was as narrow-minded as our james ii.—who had the hi- gotry of a monk without his self- denia!—whose conscience, trained hy priests for their own work, and for the service of the church, knew no- thing of truth or justice as hetween man and man—whose hest virtue was the mechanical industry of a clerk, and whose greatest talent was to trick and deceive, and play the game of dissimulation even with the very tools he used for his treachery. mr. motley has no respect for spanish or regal diguity; he delights to push up the hat and plume, and show what sort of eye and forehead aro really there to meet the light. no illusion remains to us after our au- thor has passed his examination. the philip of the poets—of alfieri and of schiller—dwindles down to the quite ordinary man—placed, how- ever, in the quite extraordinary posi- tion. a slave of the church, his religion never kindled one generous thought, or excited to a single virtue; it could not always restrain his king- ly amhition any more than it could regulate his private morals; hut it was oheyed with fidelity and zeal when it taught him to tyraunise over his suhjects, and put heretics to death—it made him one of the most terrihle potentates that have existed on the face of the earth. but it is the emancipation of the netherlands from the grasp of this unworthy nvinarch that is the theme of mr. motley's hook; and therefore, if he has a tyrant and a higot on the one side of his canvass, supported hy a cardinal granvelle and a duke of aivh, he has also his patriot and liherator, in the hrighter part of his picture, in the person of willimi of orange, named the silent and the wise. william of orange is the hero of the hook. on him mr. motley ex- pends a perhaps unchecked enthu- siasm. a cqol impartial critic may, indeed, suspect that the lights and shadows are tbrown tbroughout the work with too strong a contract: hut we know that the indiguation and the admiration are hoth, upon the whole, well hestowed. it is a very wholesome indiguation, and a very profitahle admiration, that we are called upon to sympathise with. nothing is more easy than to suggest, and even to move, that "hlack's not so very hlack, nor white so very white;" nowhere can praise or hlame he weighed out to the very scruple; it must suffice us if we feel we can honestly applaud and right- fully condemn; and it is a good thing, at times, to have hoth these sentiments kindled within us, and to detest and admire cordially, and with the full energy of our souls. our author's style is hold, vigorous, full of power; hut we should desert our critical function if we did not add that it is sometimes intemperate, and that in the earlier pages there is an apparent effort, a straining after effect, and (in his topographical descrip- tions) a certain semi-poetic or fanci- ful diction that appears to us out of place. ahusive epithets are some- ■ times scattered with an injudicious prodigality. we might instance the description of our own queen mary, of disastrous memory, to he found in the first volume, page ; hut we have no wish to dwell on what are only casual hlemishes. and these errors of taste and judgment appear to us to he chiefly at the commence- ment of the work. to discharge our- selves at once of all the critical venom we have on this occasion to distil, we must add that, vigorous as his nar- rative generally is, our author is also capahle, at times, of heing tedious and prolix. he is not quite master of that art which gives to all portions of his suhject a fair and sufficient attention, and no more than what is [dec. mbthf'* dutch repuhlic ' ^ canse of the people. the archives of a court have heen sedulously examined to track out the treacherous and wily course of a king or a minister; hut the archives of the puhlic, the litera- ture of the time, or whatever remains of spoken or acted thought amongst the people, have not heen ransacked with equal zeal to determine the state and condition of puhlic opinion. a minister, or a regent, or a general, is introduced to us with all his dis- tinctive characteristics, and we are prepared to follow and appreciate his conduct; hut a great city is some- times hrought suddenly hefore us in its highest state of turhulent or en- thusiastic action, without any prepa- ration to warn the reader or to explain to him this particular out- hurst of passion or uf heroism. but if our historian has more es- pecially devoted himself to portray the chief actors in his great drama, it is fit that we should follow him to his chosen field; and our limited ohject, in these few pages, will he to draw attention to his masterly delineation of some of these person- ages, as of the king, the regent, the cardinal grunvelle, alva, egmont, and orange. one pleasant pecu- liarity distinguishes his historical portraits; he never forgets the per- sonal appearance of the man, his fea- tures, his stature, or any trick of gesture, hut introduces these in such a mauner that they accompany us tbroughout the history. as we have intimated already, there is nothing of the courtier in the descriptions he gives. if there is a deformity of per- son, a weakness or a vice, a hlemish, physical or moral, it is set down with frank, unmitigated distinctness. we have a striking specimen of his gra- phic power near the commencement of the work, where he introduces to us the emperor charles v. and his court as they are seen arrayed in all their pomp and state, on that cele- hrated day when the emperor retired from the cares of government, and re- sigued to his son philip the largest and the most powerful of the king- doms of europe. from this point we may as well take up the thread of mr. motley's history, so far as we can follow it, as from any other. on the th day of octoher , the citv of brussels was the scene of a grand tpeetaele or ceremonial, such as is rarely exhihited in the theatre of the world. it was one of those occv sions, indeed, when the real events of life assume a theatrical aspect, and take upon themselves the stndied ar- rangement of the stage. they seem to mimic what is itself a mimicry of life, and to outrival the fictitious passions and the mock heroism of the theatre, and whereas the stage exclaims, behold a real court! the imperial court might say, behold another stage. this grand ceremo- nial affords a very appropriate open- ing to mr. motley's narrative:— "many individuals of existing or future historic celehrity in the netherlands, whose names are so familiar to the stu- dent of the epoch, seemed to have heen grouped, as if hy premeditated desigu, upon this imposing platform, where the curtain was to fall for ever upon the mightiest emperor since charlemague, and where the opening scene of the long and tremendous tragedy of philip's reigu was to he simultaneously enacted. there was the bishop of arras, soon to he known tbroughout cbristendom hy the more celehrated title of cardinal gran- velle, the serene andsmiling priest whose suhtle influence over the destinies of so many individuals then present, and over the fortunes of the whole land, was to he so extensive and so deadly. there was that flower of flemish chivalry, the line- al descendant of ancient frisian kings, already distinguished for his hravery in many fields, hut not having yet won those two remarkahle victories which were soon to make the name of egmont like the sound of a trumpet tbroughout the whole country. tall, maguificent in costume, with dark flowing hair, soft hrown eye, smooth cheek, a slight mus- tache, and features of almost feminine delicacy—such was the gallant and ill- fated lamoral kguiont the count horn, too, with hold, sullen face and fan-shaped heard—a hrave, honest, dis- contented, quarrelsome, uupopular man; the hold, dehauched brederode, with handsome,reckless face and turhulent de- meanour—these,with many others whose deeds of arms were to hecome celehrated tbroughout europe, were conspicuous in the hrilliant crowd. there, too, was that learned frisian, president viglins —crafty, plausihle, adroit, eloquent—a small hrisk man, with long yellow hair, glittering green eyes, round, tumid, rosy cheeks, and flowing heard. fore- most among the spanish grandees, and close to philip, stood the famous favourite, rny gomel, or, as he wii .yvj,. .] motley'ti dutch bepullie. familiarly called 're y gomez'(king and gomez), a man of meridional aspect, with coal-hlack hair and heard, gleam- ing eyes, a face pallid with intense ap- plication, and slender hut handsome figure; while in immediate attendance upon the emperor was the immortal prince of orange. "suoh were a few only of the most prominent in that gay tbrong, whose for- tunes, in part, it will he our duty to nar- rate: how many of them passing tbrough all this glitter to a dark and mys- terious doom i—some to perish on puhlic scaffolds; some hy midnight assassina- tion; others, more fortunate, to fall on the hattle field—nearly all, sooner or later, to he laid in hloody graves i"* conspicuous ahove all was, of course, the aged emperor himself. not that he was old according to the numher of his years, hut his strenu- ous and active life—strenuous, yet self-indulgent, and occupied to the full with war and husiness and plea- sure—had given him the appearance of old age. he, his son, and the queen of hungary, stood as central figures in the scene, while the several governors of the provinces, the great councillors, and the knights of the golden fleece, were artistically ar- ranged hefore him. the personal description which our author gives of the now infirm and toil-worn em- peror is hy no means flattering; yet we see the wreck of what, setting aside all the prestige of rank and power, was—mind and hody—one of the most remarkahle of men :— "he was ahout the middle height, and had heen athletic and well-proportioned. broad in the shoulders, deep in the chest, thin in the flank, very muscular in the arms and legs, he had heen ahle to match himself with all competitors in the tourney and the ring, and to van- quish the hull with his own hand in the favourite national amusement of spain. he had heen ahle in the field to do the duty of captain and soldier, to endure fatigue and exposure and every priva- tion, except fasting. these personal ad- vantages were now departed. crippled in hands, knees, and legs, he supported himself with difficulty upon a crutch, with the aid of an attendant's shoulder. in face he had always heen extremely ugly, and time had certainly not im- proved his physioguomy. his hair, once of a light colour, was now white with age, close-clipped and hristling; his heard was grey, coarse, and shaggy. his forehead was spacious and commanding; the eye was dark hlue, with an expres- sion hoth majestic and heniguant. his nose was aquiline, hut crooked. the lower part of his face was famous for de- formity. the under-lip—a liurgundian inheritance, as faithfully transmitted as the duchy and county—was heavy and hanging, the lower jaw protruding so far heyond the upper that it was impossihle for him to hring together the few frag- ments of teeth which still remained, or to speak a whole sentence in an intelli- gihle voice. eating and talking—occu- pations to which he was always much addicted—were hecoming daily more arduous in consequence of this original defect, which now seemed hardly hu- man, hut rather an original deformity." but though this catalogue of fea- tures may he correct—and mr. motley cites his authority for each item as he proceeds—the impression which the retiring emperor made on the august assemhly hefore him, was fully equal to the occasion. that halo of divinity which is said to sur- round a sovereigu, prevented them, we presume, from seeing these per- sonal defects; they saw, in fact, with the mind's eye, and saw hefore them the man with whose name all europe, for the last age, had rung from side to side; they saw him descending from the tbrone he had so long filled, to the pious retreat of the cloister; and there was, we are assured, one universal weeping, and every cheek was hedewed with tears. old gen- erals, veteran diplomatists, knights of the fleece, all hroke into tears, as the emperor, in his oration, glanced at the p:ist, and hade farewell to the toils and state of government;— "there heing," said the english en- voy, sir john mason, "in mine opinion, not one man in the whole assemhly that, during the timo of a good piece of this oration, poured not out ahundantly tears, somo more, some less." mr. motley is very hard upon this weeping. he asks what sigual he- nefits had his suhjects, especially his netherlander?, received from this monarch, that they should so hewail his retirement ?" what was the emperor charles to the inhahitants of the netherlands, that they should • vol. lp. . [dec. motley's dutch repuhlic. weep for him?" he had spent their money in wars and conquests in which they were utterly uncon- cerned; he had infringed their old municipal privileges; he had perse- cuted many on account of their new religion, and had shown his determi- nation to coerce them hy the inqui- sition. mr. motley caunot find a rational cause for all this weeping. he forgets that a rational cause is not indispensahle on such occasions. some one sentiment prevails at the moment; it is aggravated in each hy the participation of numhers; it acts as a panic does in the field of hattle, and people find themselves shouting or weeping, they scarcely know why. it does not follow that these weeping netherlanders were quite ohlivious of their own interests, or were pecu- liarly servile: they were simply car- ried away hy the loyal sentiment of the hour. much the same thing oc- curs daily amongst ourselves. we will not risk any imputation on our own loyalty hy asking whether those crowds who tbrong the streets, or cluster ahout a railway, when our queen is to pass, know why it is they are hawling as if with the full inten- tion of splitting their own tbroats. we will take an illustration of a quite social, not political nature. an actor has heen nightly hefore the puhlic; the puhlic has now praised and now ahused the actor, and the actor has often ahused the uureason- ahle puhlic. by-and-hy this actor, sometimes praised and sometimes ahused, and to us altogether per- sonally indifferent, assemhles his last audience, and hids them farewell. there is not a dry eye, we are told, in pit or hoxes. next morning, pit and hoxes, and the retiring actor himself, are laughing at the wondrous enthusiasm and tenderness that had seized upon them. and douhtless every one of these netherlanders, from the knight of the fleece to the simplest hurgher who was present at the great ceremony, wondered the next morning how or why it was that his cheek had heen wet like the rest. charles's persecution of the pro- testants is the crime which, in our historian's opinion, ought not to have heen forgiven him even at this affect- ing moment. we will not stay to ask what proportion of the assemhly shared in the protestant faith, which at this epoch was not likely to he emhraced hy many of those who were entitled to he present at this august ceremony; hut we stop to ohserve, that mr. motley deals rather severely with the old emperor when he denies to him that excuse, bo readily ac- corded to hie son, that he acted in accordance with his sense of religious duty when he used the power placed in his hands in the extirpation of heresy. it is quite true that he was not always consistent, not always faithful to the church; that the ordi- nary motives of political amhition could at times trinmph over this sense of duty, just as the ordinary motives of cupidity or pleasure can trinmph at times, in each one of ns, over what we nevertheless deem to he a religions or moral ohligation; hut hecause the monarch was stronger in charles than the churchman, it do,* not follow that he was not, up to the measure of his capacity for such sen- timents, a very faithful and sincere son of the church. the man whose armies sacked rome, who laid his sacrilegious hands, as mr. motley re- minds us, on cbrist's vicegerent, and kept the infallihle head of the church a prisoner to serve his own political ends, was manifestly capahle of heing carried away hy the peculiar tempta- tions of his high imperial position. but, in the ahsence of such tempta- tions, he might very sincerely regard it as his especial duty to protect the catholic faith, and preserve thelunity of the church. and why should the historian tbrow any douhts or asper- sions on that personal piety of which he made profession? in charles, as in so many others, it was a piety that had a very limited influence on moral action; it displayed itself chiefly in ritual, in prayer, in fasting, and the like; there was more of superstition in it than religion, hut as a supersti- tion it was apparently held with per- fect sincerity. "no man," says mr. motley, "could have heen more oh- servant of religious rites. he heard mass daily; he listened to a sermon every sunday and holiday; he con- fessed and received the sacrament four times a year; he was sometimes to he seen in his tent, at midnight, on .] motley's dutch repuhlic. his knees hefore a crucifix, with eyes and hands uplifted; he ate no meat in lent, and used extraordinary dili- gence to discover and to punish any man, whether courtier, or pleheian, who failed to fast during the whole forty days." why should mr. motley cruelly add, that "he was too good a politician not to know the value of hroad phylacteries and long prayers?" is every one who knows the value of orthodox hehaviour to he therefore twitted with hypocrisy? if it he really trne that "he ate no meat in lent," he gave a very notahle proof of his sincerity, for the appetite of charles v. was enormous, and he was accus- tomed at other times to indulge it without stint. he seems, indeed, to have had a craving, preternatural ap- petite, amounting to a disease, such as might well have ohtained from his confessor an especial exemption in this matter of fasting. very marvellous is the account here given us of the gastronomical ex- ploits of the emperor. captain dal- getty was a child to him. mr. stir- ling, in his cloister life of charles v., had revealed to us that the mon- astic seclusion of the ex-emperor did not imply a monastic regimen, or what is generally understood as such. mr. motley has given us a programme of the day's performance while his appetite was in its full vi- gour. never was such dietary. "he hreakfasted at five on a fowl seethed in milk, and dressed with sugar and spices; after this he went to sleep again. he dined at twelve, partak- ing always of twenty dishes. he supped twice; at first, soon after vespers, and the second time at mid- night, or one o'clock, which meal was perhaps the most solid of the four. after meals he ate a great quantity of pastry and sweetmeats. and he irrigated evory repast hy vast draughts of heer and wine." to return to our grand ceremonial of ahdication. the second person in the scene was the son, philip, to whom he was ahout to resigu the far greater part of his power and territory—all hut the empire of germany, which he had heen unahle to relinquish in his favour. let us hear mr. motley's description of the gloomy monarch, so great a favourite of tragic poets:— "the son, philip ii.. was a small, meagre man, much helow the middle height, with thin legs, a narrow chest, and the shrinking, timid air of an hahi- tual invalid. 'his hody,' says his pro- fessed panegyrist, cahrera, 'was hut a human cage, in which, however hrief and narrow, dwelt a soul to whose flight the immeasurahle expanse of heaven was too contracted.' the same wholesale admirer adds, that 'his aspect was so reverend, that rustics, who met him alone in a wood, without knowing him, howed down with instinctive veneration. in face he was the living image of his father, having the same hroad forehead and hlue eye, with the same aquiline, hut hetter proportioned, nose. in the lower part of the countenance the re- markahle burgundian deformity was likewise reproduced. he had the same heavy, hanging lip, with a vast mouth, and monstrously protruding lower jaw. iiis complexion was fair, his hair light and thin, his heard yellow, short, and pointed. he had the aspect of a flem- ing, hut the loftiness of a spaniard. his demeanour in puhlic was still, silent—al- most sepulcbral. he looked hahitually on the ground when he conversed, was chary of speech, emharrassed, and even suffering in mauner. this was ascrihed partly to a natural haughtiness, which he had occasionally endeavoured to over- come, and partly to hahitual pains in the stomach, occasioned hy his inordinate fondness for pastry." was there ever such an incongru- ous comhination presented to the imagination of the reader! this downward look and stooping pos- ture is partly the reserve and haugh- tiness of a spanish king, and partly a contrite hending of the hody, pro- duced hy a schoolhoy's love of pastry! other indulgences, not quite so iunocent, our most orthodox of princes seems to have permitted himself. what a medley we have here!—" he was most strict in reli- gious ohservances, as regular at mass, sermons, and vespers as a monk— much more, it was thought hy many good catholics, than was hecoming to his rank and age. besides several friars, who preached regularly for his instruction, he had daily discussions with others on ahstruse theological points. he consulted his confe-sor most minutely as to all the actions of life, inquiring anxiously whether this proceeding or that were likely to [dec. motley's dutch repuhlic. """ hurden his conscience. he was grossly licentious. it was his chief amusement to issue forth at night disguised, that he might indulge himself in the common haunts of vice. this was his solace at brus- sels in the midst of the gravest affairs of state." this prince, when he quits brus- sels and enters into his kingdom of spain, solemnises his entry hy an auto-da je, at whioh he utters the pious sentiment, that he would rather cease to reigu than reigu over here- tics, and declares that he "would carry the wood to hurn his own son," if his own son proved a deserter from the faith. a strange production it is to contemplate!—this of the con- science of a cbristian prince, as educated hy a catholic priesthood. where the duty horders upon crime —where, to the secular mind, it is an act of cruelty and injustice, there the conscience is inflexihle; in the simple moralities of temperance and of truth, it is hut a silken rein which the priest touches from time to time, merely to show that he holds it, and holds it laxly. the dissimulation of philip, and how completely the deception of others entered jnto his idea of good government, is well known; hut mr. motley has heen ahle, hy comparing together the preserved letters of this monarch, to display the working of this high order of statesmanship in a clearer light than it has perhaps ever heen placed hefore. we tbread the petty lahyrinth which the secluded -monarch found it his greatest delight to plan; we are introduced into the very study of the king; we see him forming his plot, preparing his con- tradictory letters—thete to he read aloud at tho council-hoard, those to he kept secret. arrangements are made that the regent of the nether- lands, or her minister, shall write cer- tain letters, which are to receive from him certain answers—letters and answers hoth mere fictions to dis- guise the real nature of the transac- tion. dissimulation, indeed, is the order of the day. his ministers all practise it upon him, as he upon his ministers. he deceives every one. though always in the leading strings of some man more ahle than himself, though taking his assistance, and conscious of the need of it, he always kept some secret from his most con- fidential adviser, and was always prepared to dismias him the moment that his services hecame needless. one good quality deserves mention- ing—the king and his ministers were all hard-working men. it is no eastern court, where the sultan con- sults only his own pleasure, and leaves all to the vizier, and the vizier occasionally hangs or squeezes a pacha, and then takes his pleasure also. no english minister works harder than the favourites of philip. he himself delighted in the use of the pen, and sate whole hours at the desk. mr. motley says— "his mental capacity in general was not very higbly esteemed. his talents were, in truth, very much helow medi- ocrity. his mind was incredihly small. a petty passion for contemptihle details characterised him from his youth, and as long as he lived, he could neither learn to generalise, nor understand that one man, however diligent, could not he minutely acquainted with all the puhlic and private affairs of fifty millions of other men. he was a glutton of work. he was horn to write despatches, and to scrawl comments upon those which he received. he often remained at the council-hoard four or five hours at a time, and he lived in his cahinet. he gave audiences to amhassadors and de- puties very wiuingly.listening attentive- ly to all that was said to him, and an- swering in monosvllahles. he spoke no tongue hut spanish, and was sufficiently sparing of that, hut he was indefatigahle with his pen. he hated to converse; hut he could write a letter eighteen pages long when his correspondent was in the next room, and when the suhject was, perhaps, one which a man of talent could have settled with six words." the favourite, rny gomez de silva, was n prodigy of industry. this no- hleman had heen hrought up with the king, and when a hoy (so the story runs) had struck philip, and heen condemned to death for so sac- rilegious a hlow. philip had tbrown himself at his father's feet, and im- plored and ohtained the forgiveness of the culprit. in after life, a more prohahle cause is aasigued for the en- durance of their friendship—the com- placency which he exhihited towards the king, as the hushand of the cele- .] motley's dutch repuhlic. hrated princess eholi. rny gomez and his occupations are thus de- scrihed :— "at the present moment he occupied the tbree postsof valet, state councillor, and nance minister. he dressed and undressed his master, read or talked him to sleep, called him in the morning, ad- mitted those who were to have private audiences, and superintended all the ar- rangements of the household. the rest of the day was devoted to the enormous correspondence and affairs of admini- stration which devolved upon him as first minister of state and treasury. he was very iguorant. he had no experience or acquirement in the arts either of war or peace, and his early education had heen limited. like his master, he spoke no tongue hut spanish, and he had no literature. he had prepossessing man- ners, n fluent tongue, a wiuning and henevolent disposition. his natural capacity for affairs was considerahle; and his tact was so perfect that he could converse face to face with statesmen, doctors, and generals, upon campaigus, theology, or jurisprudence, without he- traying any remarkahle deficiency. he was very industrious, endeovouring to make up hy hard study for his lack of general knowledge. at the same time, hy the king's desire, he appeared con- stantly at the frequent hanquets, mas- querades, tourneys, and festivities, for which brussels at that epoch was re- markahle. it was no wonder thnt his cheek was pale, and that he seemed dying of overwork." equally industrious, and far more accomplished, indeed one of the most accomplished and learned men of his time, was cardinal granvelle, who long held what we may descrihe as the position of prime minister to the duchess of parma, regent of the netherlands. the regent was as- sisted hy a council of state, and tbree of this council formed the cviuulta hy whose advice she was to he espe- cially guided. of these tbree, gran- velle was the chief; in fact, he and the eorutulta were said to ho the same thing; he was the conxulta. the cardinal was a man of learning; could write and speak well, and that in several languages; hut that which stands out so conspicuously in the history is the admirahle tact with which, for a long time, he governed the regent and guided the king. principles of his own, we venture to think, he had none—unless the determination to uphold that autho- rity of churchman and of minister, in which he shared so largely, he called a principle—hut ho very dex- trously assumed the views of the king, and tbrew his own ahility, so to speak, into the mind and opinions of his sovereigu. when we see him removed fro n the court, he lives and speaks like an epicurean philosopher; when he writes to the king, he is an alarmist for the faith, supersti- tious, and a persecutor. his con- tempt for the multitude was, no douht, sincere enough; and this sin- cere contempt led him, as it has led many others, to uphold, without scruple of conscience, whatever power or authority was in the ascendant. such men caunot, at least, he seid to violate any generous conviction, for they have none. they can have no reverence for kings or cardinals—they know them too well; hut they have still less reverence for any other human heings. granvelle was well horn, of an ohscure hut nohle family in bur- gundy, and his father had heen a min- ister—" held office," as we should say, in the court of the emperor charles. at the age of twenty, we are told he spoke seven languages with perfect facility, and his acquaintance with civil and ecclesiastical laws was some- thing prodigious. "he was ready-witted," continues mr. motley, "smooth and fluent of tongue, fertile in expedients, courageous, reso- lute. he thorougbly understood the art of managing men, particularly his superiors. he knew how to govern under the appearance of oheying. in his intercourse with the king, he co- loured himself, as it were, with the king's character. he was not himself, hut philip; not the sullen, hesitating, con- fused philip, however, hut philip en- dowed with eloquence, readiness, faci- lity. the king ever found himself an- ticipated with the most delicate ohse- quiousuess, and heheld his struggling ideas changed into winged words with- out ceasing to ho his own. no flattery could he more adroit. he would write letters forty pages long to the king, and send off another courier on the sank' day with two or tbree additional despatches of identical date. such prolixity en- chanted the king. the painstaking mo- narch toiled, pen in hand, after his won- [dec. motley's dutch repuhlic. derful minister, in vain. philip was only fit to lie the hishop's clerk, yet he imagined himself to he the directing and governing power his industry was enormous. he could write fifty letters a-day with his own hand. he could dictate to half-a-dozen amanuen- ses at once, on as many different suh- jects, in as many different languages, and send them all away exhausted." of which last story we have our own opinion; hut there can he no douht of the consummate skill with which, for some time, he directed the affiiirs of the netherlands. consum- mate skill! hut shut out from a wiser statesmanship hy his priestly contempt for the opinions of an unlearned class. ho could not see that—as a mere pro- hlem of political forces—it was not only the king he had to direct, and the duchess to control, and the fle- mish nohility to resist and to counter- plot,—he had some account to give of this hurgher spirit awakening to its liherties, and ahove all, to the liherty of conscience. had he measured this force? at the first superficial glance at the man's history, you would say that, at all events, he was a sufficient alarmist, an unhesitating persecutor. he piously writes to his very pious so v- reigu,—u for the love of god and the service of the holy religion, put your royal hand valiantly to the work, otherwise we have only to exclaim, 'help, lord, for we perish!'" thus he runs with his torch hefore the man who, he knows, will and can travel hut on the one road on which he pre- tends to guide him. he lias appre- ciation enough of the movement going on around him to ahuse and execrate, to punish and vilify it; hut if he had rightly estimated its strength, such a man asgranvelle would have respected it for its mere strength, and held a very different language towards it. the prince of orange and count egmont were memhers of the state council. of course thej' chafed under the rule of the cardinal, and were in open hostility to the policy he pur- sued. at length a determined effort was made hy the patriot party to drive him out of the netherlands. orange, egmont, and horn united in a letter to the king, in which they represented that it was ahsolutely necessary for the peace and salvation of the pro- vinces (which they were doing their utmost to quiet) that the cardinal should he recalled. the cardinal was prepared, at all events, for the attack. "he wrote to the king the day hefore the letter was written, and many weeks hefttre it was sent, to apprise him that it was coming, and to instruct him as to the answer he was to make" this storm hroke over. but it was in vain that the cardinal had not only the ear of the king, hut also held his pen—it was in vain that he repre- sented the flemish nohility as riotous and amhitious voluptuaries—(one of them even eating meat in lent!)—as spendtbrifts so encumhered wit deht that they sought a season of anarchy to rid them of their ohliga- tions: it hecame evident, even at the spanish court, that the cardinal, with all his diplomatic skill, had not sufficient power to make head against his opponents. there must he con- cession, or force of another kind must ho employed—the sword, and not the pen. and now having resolved on the recall of the cardinal, all the finesse and petty hypocrisy of the king had a fair field for their exer- cise. orange and egmont and the people of the netherlands should never have it to say that he, the king, had dismissed his faithful ser- vant in consideration of their opinion or their wishes. that he would think of the matter, is the most con- ciliating answer he gives to them. nay, the cardinal himself should never know that he was in reality dismissed. his recall should apiiear to the minister himself as a temporary departure, counselled hy the emergen- cies of the moment; to all others this temporary ahsence from the nether- lands should seem the voluntary and spontaneous act of the cardinal. had not the cardinal a mother, living in some remote district? and must not so henevolent and tender- hearted a cardinal he desirous, after a long interval, of visiting his aged parent? the cardinal shall in a let- ter, which may he seen or heard of all men, solicit of the regent, or the king, permission to retire for a space from the cares of government; and the king or the regent shall, with much regret, yield to the claims of filial affection, and of a constitu- .] s motley's dutch repuhlic. tion requiring repose. this shall he tlie aspect of the transaction to the world at large. the cardinal receives his private letter. he has now the pen put into his hands, and is in- structed what to write. in his cor- respondence with the king, he had frequently implored his majesty— llepven knows with what sincerity! —not to scruple at sacrificing him or his interests for what might he deemed the puhlic welfare. to this hrief retirement how then could he ohject? he writes, requesting very suhmissively a leave of ahsence—it is puhlicly and hlandly granted him. he retires to his country-seat, there to indite most contented letters on the charms of a philosophical retreat, and pine in secret for the return of power. the cardinal seems to have he- lieved, or tried to helieve, that it was the king's intention to reinstate him after a hrief interval. the puhlic, in general, though mystified hy this pre- arranged correspondence, concluded that the cardinal never would re- turn, and great was their joy at his departure. even the duchess was glad to he liherated from a minister who had grown too powerful and domineering. the young nohility were in extacies. "brederode and count hoogstruaten were standing together, looking from a window of a house near the gate of caudenherg, to feast their eyes with the spectacle of their enemy's retreat. as soon as the cardinal had passed tbrough the gate on his way to namur, the first stage of his journey, they rushed into the street, got hoth upon one horse, hoogstruaten, who alone had hoots on his legs, taking the saddle, and brederode the croup, and galloped after the cardinal with the exultation of schoolhoys." after some interval, the duke of alva succeeded to the cardinal, and those who rejoiced most in the depar- ture of that wily minister might have wished his return; for alva united in himself all the craft and suhtlety that the court of philip could teach, with a cruelty and hardness of na- ture seldom learned in camps. but we are not attracted to this man— his lineaments are well known, and are not attractive; consummate general as he was, his moral qualities are those we associate with a grand inquisitor, not a great captain. and his range of thought must have heen very limited; for when he had suc- ceeded in quelling all resistance hy his arms, he undid his own work, and kindled against himself the wrath of every citizen, catholic or protestant, hy the ahsurdest system of taxation that ever entered into the head of the merest dragoon to estahlish. amongst other taxes he imposed, this stands out conspicuous—ten percent of the value of every article of merchandise to he paid as often as it shovld he sold. had he desigued to put down com- merce as well as heresy, he could not have framed a hetter system of finance. imagine every tradesman and merchant, in the tbriving cities of flanders, heing compelled to keep an account of every sale they made in the course of the day, in order that they might deduct from their profits this ten per cent to the government. it was monstrous; it was impractic- ahle. his coadjutors in the council of state remonstrated with him, hut in vain; a like tax he had imposed on his own little town of alva, and why should it not he equally feasihle in the great commercial cities of the netherlands? but commerce was hetter ahle to protect itself than heresy, and it raised such a storm ahout the general's ears that ho at length seemed very willing to escape from these flemish citizens; and philip, who had no other re- source than to appoint new men— heing utterly incapacitated for the reception of new ideas—was equally willing to recall him. it is time we turn to the opposite and patriot camp. amongst the hrave, jovial, gallant, rich, hut thoughtless nohility of. flanders, there was one man of earnest pur- pose, keen insight, heroic persever- ance, whose mind expanded as events developed themselves, who finally devoted himself to the cause of the people—of freedom civil and religious —the prince of orange. be too, as we first catch sight of him, is the maguificent nohleman, sumptuous, munificent, of generous nature, and a lover of justice, and withal as pro- foundly versed as philip himself in what he called the art of government —hut not apparently possessed hy any great principle of action. as, [dtc. motlay's dutch repuhlic. however, his own life matures, and as the crisis of puhlic affairs ap- proaches, lie takes upon himself the full solemnity of the times; he he- comes the worthy leader of that great movement, which is agitating, in a vague and distracted mauner, all classes of the community: he devotes himself till death to a great cause. his son is seized, and detained hy the court of spain as a hostage; his vast revenues are spent in the levying of troops to resist the duke of alva, and hrihes of princely wealth are held out to him; hut he is pledged to his work, and sacrifices all, pa- rental affection, and finally life itself, to his great cause. his early education was more adapted to develop his talents than his moral nature, hut it was evident- ly preparing him for the great task he was to accomplish. at an early age he entered as page into the ser- vice of charles v., and the emperor, recoguizing the ahility and discretion of his prince-page (for he had already come into possession of his title and estates), delighted to have him fre- quently in his presence, and retained him even when the greatest affairs were discussed with his ministers, or when he gave audiences of the most confidential kind. the youth grew up with a knowledge of men and things that is rarely acquired. at an age when most men are gazing in foolish wonder at the spectacle of courts and governments, he had heen introduced hehind the scenes, and understood what men were, and what their real motives, and how common a flesh and hlood hides heneath the velvet and the ermine. nor did the emperor trust his sbrewd and silent ohserver in the cahinet only; he trusted him also in the field. before the prince was twenty-one, he was appointed, during the ahsence of the duke of savoy, to he general-in- chief of the army on the french frontier. after the emperor's death he was equally trusted hy philip, heing employed to negotiate the peace with france. he was one of the hostages selected hy heury of france for the due fulfilment of the treaty. it was at this period that the incident occurred which is said to have procured him the name of the "silent." he and heury, while hunting in the wood of vinceunes, found themselves together, separated from the rest of the company ;• and the french king, concluding that the envoy of philip was privy to all his desigus, hegan to open his mind on the great scheme which he was then secretly framing with his hrother of spain. the two zealous monarchs were solemnly to pledge themselves for the extirpation of heresy in their several kingdoms, and that hy the decisive process of a massacre of the heretics, "that accursed vermin." the french king proceeded to dis- cuss the details of this most religious plot. the prince was silent, and kept his countenance; and earned his name of "silent," from the mauner in which he received this hlundering confidence of the king. the story wears an apocryphal air. the prince of orange was not yet a protestant, and the confidence, therefore, was not so strangely misplaced; and a nick- name is not given from a transac- tion, which at the time is known only to a few persons, for the prince of orange would not talk of this. but if heury of france did make this indiscreet revelation, we may he sure that orange would not fail to reflect upon it nt an after period, when he was engaged in the conflict with philip. it was a lesson, if he needed one, of what kind of "holy alliance" the cbristian sovereigus of his epoch were capahle of forming. as stadtholder of holland, freis- land, and utrecht, it fell upon him to carry out the policy of the spanish monarch in his treatment of heretics: he received secret instructions to enforce the edicts against all the sectaries without distinction, and with the utmost rigour. from a mere sense of humanity and justice, he was far less severe than philip required; still he gave orders to ei- force conformity with the ancient church. he was rich, powerful, young; a luxurious and princely life lay hefore him. his hospitality, like his fortune, was almost regal. "twenty-four nohlemen and eighteen pages of gentle hirth officiated regu- larly in his family." it was a daily hanquet in his household, and the generous host of wiuning mauner and address, was heloved and hon- oured hy all. it was not at this .] mothy's dutch repuhlic the support of religion, and feeling this need at a time when two forms of cbristianity presented themselves for his selection, he preferred the pro- testant. a catholic may suggest that he chose the religion of that party with which his own fortunes were henceforth to he hound up— that his was, in fact, a political con- version; hut his after life, and the tenor of his private correspondence, prove him to have hecome sincerely and zealously pious. to us the choice seems very natural: he who had seen so much of priests—though perhaps of the higher and not the more spiritual order—was not likely (if he could adopt another) to select that form of cbristianity in which a priest- hood stands hetween the human soul and its god. he would prefer the theology which led him at once into communion with god and christ, to that which put a priestly confessor heside him to dog his footsteps every moment of his life. one thing is indisputahle, and higbly to his glory; —hoth for catholics and protestants, for lutherans and calvinists, he claimed liherty of thought, freedom of worship, the full and manly enun- ciation of every sincere conviction. he was misunderstood even hy his own party; his nohle sense of justice was often traduced as lukewarmness and irreligion. peter dathenus, a fiery zealot who for some time exerted an overhearing influence from the pulpit of ghent, denounced him as "an atheist in heart,—as a man who knew no god hut state expedi- ency, which was the idol of his wor- ship." and a far more temperate protestant, st. aldegonde, seemed incapahle of comprehending that there was any necessity to preach toleration to those of the reformed faith; he evidently caunot under- stand that "religious peace" at which the prince was aiming, that mutual forhearance, that freedom of restraint for all in matters purely religious. "the prince," he says complainingly, in one of his letters— and the complaint remains an honour to his misapprehended leader—" the prince has uttered reproaches to me that our clergy are striving to ohtain a mastery over consciences. he praised lately the saying of a monk, who was not long here, that our pot had not gor/e to the fire as often as that of our antagonists, hut that, when the time came, it would he hlack enough. in short, the prince fears that after a few centuries the clerical tyrauny on hoth sides will stand in this re- spect on the same footing." the prince of orange lived to see holland and zealand ohtain, tbrough many trials and the fiercest struggle, their independence; and had just accepted some modified sovereiguty of these provinces, under the title of count, when his assassination took place. we regret to find how con- spicuous a part his old opponent, cardinal granvelle, plays in this transaction. it is he, it seems, who whispered into the king's ear the expediency of removing the prince hy the assassination. he couples the advice with a hase calumny against the courage of the man whose life was one constant exposure to danger. he was in lavour of puhlicly setting a price upon his head—oftering a re- ward of thirty or forty thousand crowns to any one who would deliver up the prince dead or alive; and he added, "as the prince of orange is a vile coward, fear alone will tbrow him into confusion." thus writes, thus counsels, the priest; and the king, who was uot difficult to persuade on such an occasion, accordingly puh- lished what is called his " han," in which, after enumerating the oftences of orange, after hanishing and put- ting him out of the pale of law, he continues thus: "and if any one of our suhjects, or any stranger, should he found sufficiently generous of heart to rid us of this pest, deliver- ing him to us alive or dead, or taking his life, we will cause to he furnished to him, immediately after the deed shall have heen done, the sum of twenty-five thousand crowns in gold. it he have committed any crime, how- ever heinous, we promise to pardon trim; and if he he not already nohle, we will eunohle him for hit ralour.'" thus, says mr. motley, hy cardinal granvelle and hy philip, a price was set upon the head of the foremost man of his age, as if he had heen a savage heast, and admission into the ranks of spain's haughty nohility was made the additional hrihe to tempt the assassin. balthazar gerard, the miserahle [dec. motley's dutch repuhlic. ahle; and at the dawn of each day every eye was turned wistfully to the vanes of the steeples. so long as the easterly hreeze prevailed, they felt, as they anxt- ouslv stood on towers and house-tops, that they must look in vain for the wel- come ocean. yet, while thus patiently wuiting, they were literally starving ; for even the misery endured at haarlem had not reached that depth and intensity of agony to which leyden was now re- duced. the daily mortality was fright- ful the pestilence now stalked at noonday tbrough the city, and the doomed inhahitants fell like graas he; neath its scythe. from six thousand to eight thousand human heings sank he- fore this scourge alone; yet the people resolutely held out—women and men mutually encourngingeach other to resist the entrance of their foreigu foe—an evil more horrihle than pest or famine. ley- den was suhlime in its despair. a few mormor * were, however, occasionally heard at the steadfastness of the magis- trates, and a dead h.idy was placed at the door of the hurgomaster, as a silent witness against his inflexihility. a party of the more faint-hearted even assailed the heroic adrian van der werf with tbreats and reproaches as he passed tbrough the streets. a crowd had ga- thered around him as he reached a tri- angular place in the centre of the town, into which many of the principal streets emptied themselves. there stood the hunromaster—a tall, haggard, imposing figure, with dark visage, and a tranquil hut commanding eye. he waved his hroad-leaved felt hat for silence, and then exclaimed, in a language which has heen aimost literally pi-eserved—' what would ye, my friends i why do ye mur- mur that we do not hreak our vows and surrender the' city to the spaniards?—a fate more horrihle than the agony she now endures. i tell you have made an oath to hold the city, and may god give me strength to keep my oath i i can die hut once, whether hy your hand, the enemy's, or hy the hand of god, my own fate is indifferent to me, not so that of the city intrusted to my care. i know that we shall starve if not soon relieved; hut starvation is preferahle to the dishonoured death which is the only alternative. your menaces move me not; my life is at your disposal; here is my sword, plunge it into my hreast, and divide my flesh among yoo. take my hody to appease your hunger, hut expect no surrender so long as i remain alive!'" but the wind rose, and the sea with it, and at a fortunate conjunc- ture, a panic dispersed their enemies, and the relieving fleet sailed into the city! the quays were lined with the famishing population, and from every vessel hread was tbrown amongst the crowd. some choked themselves to death with the food thus suddenly presented to them. by the spontaneous movement of the multitude, or as a measure wisely ordained to calm the over-excite- ment of the moment, all the inhahi- tants, the magistrates and citizen*, the sailors and the soldiers, repaired to the great church, there to hend in humhle gratitude hefore the king of kings. thousands of voices raised the thanksgiving hymn; hut the universal emotion hecame too fnll for utterance—the hymn was ahrupt- ly suspended, and the multitude wept like children. surely no people ever won its freedom tbrough greater efforts, suf- ferings, and sacrifices than these united provinces of the netherlands. god forhid that any european na- tion should again pass tbrough so terrihle an ordeal; still it is instruc- tive, and it stirs the heart to learn what men can do and suffer in a righteous cause. with the death of orange termi- nates the first instalment which mr. motley has given us of his history. the remaining portion will treat more especially of the acts and the career of the dutch repuhlic. then will he the fit occasion to offer some remarks on the "place in history" of this famous repuhlic; for all europe, and england especially, owes a great deht to holland. we are accustomed, and with justice, to say at the present epoch, that england teaches practically, to the rest of europe, how far the pure government of equal laws can he estahlished without interference of arhitrary power. there was a time when england learned this lesson of hol- land ;—not to mention that it was a stadtholder of holland who came to our liheration at a time when we could not have horne a repuhlic, and when we should have looked in vain to any other quarter for a liheral sovereigu. no other quarter in en- rope could have grown or edacated the man we wanted. we shall ex- pect with much interest the remain- ing volumes of mr. motley's history. .] the national gallery—its purpose and management. the national gallery—its fcttpose ann management. the management of the national gallery has long heen the chosen suhject for ahuse. sometimes the outcry is raised that pictures have heen flayed and destroyed under the murderous hand of cleaners and re- storers—sometimes that mere copies have heen imposed upon the trustees in the place of originals; and then, again, that the puhlio money has heen squandered in the purchase of a class of works more calculated to corrupt than to improve the puhlic taste. snch charges are hut too easily made in the matter of picture- dealing, in which the dealer is often the desiguing knave—the purchaser, it may he, a too credulous dupe—the general puhlic, in great measure, in- competent judges—and even the ac- complished and qualified few a court of douhtful appeal, constituted pos- sihly of opinions the most diversified. it were, then, almost vain to pre- sume to adjudicate on these much vexed questions, which even par- liamentary committees have failed to solve, save hy that ohlivion which notoriously sbrouds all suhjects com- mitted to " blue-hook" custody. pictures have an existence only less painfully sensitive than that of the artist-painter himself. you can scarcely in a studio venture to com- pliment an artist on his work, in the dread of wounding the delicacy of his nature; and you can surely scarcely venture to hang his picture in any gal- lery, from fear that an ohlivious sha- dow or some appalling light may mar a cherished heauty. but these are evils merely of the passing hour. think then, gentle reader, of the accu- mulated injuries heaped in the lapse of centuries upon works hy raphacl which have heen taken from panel and transferred to canvas—upon pic- tures hy correggio, rougbly scoured and then repainted—upon paintings hy titian, skiuned and scraped, and then reglazed. ponder, we say, on the delicate sensitive existence of a picture — those lines so lovingly traced hy the hand of raphael, lines upon which the spirit - world of heauty intones its gentlest harmonies vol. lxxxvl —think, too, of those lustrous hue* of radiant glory, tempered hy the cnol of grateful shade, which ia titiun seem to exult in all the life and fulness of voluptuous pleasure; and then raise your lamentations over the ravages of time — rail pouring in hy skjlight—-heat ami cold, with fever and with chill, rack- ing each delicate memher—ravages hut rendered still more fatal hy re- storations which man comes merci- lessly to inflict is it a wonder, then, that from every gallery is europe the outcry is raised against the havoc which time and man have thus committed? in madrid, ford tells as that the pictures have heel ahsolutely flayed and massacred. it dresden, likewise, it is hut too evi- dent that the great correggios have suffered violence. in the pitti of florence, the palace like polish of well-kept surface can only he main- tained hy doctoring reparations. in the far-famed trihune, in the same city, we have heen ourselves asked to expose the system which now, under the plea of restorations, tbreat- ens the great masterpieces wirh still further destruction. thus it can easily he understood that there ii scarcely a picture in europe over which raphacl once lovingly doted —scarcely a work in which the great masters have poured out the fulness of their spirit, or apportioned with costless pains a priceless lahour— that has not heen marred or mas- sacred either hy time or the hand of man. these considerations must certainly materially affect the character and quality of any national gallery which is now attempted to he formed. the great works of which we have spoken as injured, and sometimes all hut de- stroyed, are still justly deemed suck priceless treasures as to he withheld from our reach. they never come into the market, and caunot he hought at any price. the managers of our national gallery are then ne- cessarily, in their selection, reduced to a class of works, it may he, hid in convents or held in private hands, [dec. the national galhry—its purpose and management. the history and pedigree of which are prohahly somewhat douhtful. the great masters, it is well known, were aided hy numerous scholars, and hence it is that countless works are found not only in italy hut tbroughout europe, which presume to hear the master's name, hut which were, in fact, executed only hy his pupils. we are told that a scholar of raphacl made a copy of one of his master's works, which even raphacl himself mistook for an ori- ginal. let ns, then, for a moment look at the difficulties which heset the formation of any national gal- lery. in the first place, the great and important pictures are now pro- verhially difficult to ohtain. in the next place, it is not always possihle to determine whether any given work has heen executed hy master or scholars. and then, again, a once original picture may have heen so injured hy time, and so far repainted hy restorers, as to leave little or nothing of the master's hand. such, indeed, are the difficulties which heset the purchase of pictures, such the scares deliherately cast with the purpose to entrap, that even the most wary and the hest informed must occasionally he deceived. it may, therefore, he matter even of surprise that, in the lengthened his- tory of our national gallery, more errors have not heen committed. without going into the details of any given charge, we may, in the very necessity of the case, almost take it for granted that some unwise purchases have occasionally heen made. we would say, however, let these he forgotten in the remem- hrance of the great and invaluahle works which of late years have heen wisely secured, forming at length for this country a national gallery of pictures worthy of its name and pur- pose. we have, for example, secured one of the largest and choicest works of paul veronese. we have hecome the fortunate possessors of a perugino, which, for purity of spirit and heauty of colour, is scarcely surpassed in europe. we have purchased, more- over, in florence a series of early italian pictures, which gives to our gallery that historic hasis which is essential to accurate knowledge and study. the authorities . then, for these and other services may safely, we think, appeal to the grand general result, against any minor errors which may have heen laid to their charge. the difficulties in the formation of a national gallery are, as we have seen, so great, the possihilities of error so many, that it is scarcely sur- prising that the authorities intrusted with the management, should have heen made the victims of constant and inveterate attack. it is most easy for mr. coningham in the house of commons to denounce certain works as "villanous." it certainly is not difficult for any counoisseur, even the most shallow, to write an anonymous letter to the times desig- nating some recent purchase as a wretched dauh. and all this, and much more, is easy and tempting, affording a ready road to noisy noto- riety, hecause hoth hearers and readers in the house, and heyond its doors, are self-endowed with a capacity to judge of all matters re- lating to pictures and the fine arts, just in proportion to the extent of their iguorance. it was once well said hy mr. lahouchere that the house of commons never appears to less advantage than when it sets itself to discuss the merits of a picture. and a late chancellor of the exchequer, the present secre- tary for the home office, stated in his place in parliament, that "he had learned hy experience that there was scarcely a duty more difficult to discharge than that of haying pictures for the national gallery: for himself, he declared that he would infinitely rather negotiate a loan for ten millions sterling, than he would undertake to purchase a single picture." on these occasions, when the wisdom of the house of commons condescends to discuss the meriisof the fine arts in general, and the management of the national gal- lery in particular, lord elcho usually leads the attack, and wins the house hy ready wit and pleasant laughter; olten, it may he feared, at the expense of hetter reason. mr. coningham follows, quotes his friend morris moore, and relies greatly on ohscure pampblets puhlished in berlin against l)r. wuagen. dr. wuagen, indeed, [dec. the national gallery—its purpose and management. hordering upon the grote-que hy ohjecting to pay an enormous price "for a second-rate picture hy a second-rate master ! i" we need scarcely say in conclusion, that hy criticism such as this honourahle mem- hers condemn themselves. the un- measured exaggeration of the attack almost constitutes a defence. a pic- ture which in venice has heen deemed hy all the world a grand masterpiece, may certainly, when hrought to lon- don, hold itself superior to noisy clumour. works carefully collected in florence as gems of rarest masters, may assuredly stand indifferent to a pmise or censure little worthy of the areopagus of any modern athens. in spite, however, of all this prejudiced opposition, we rejoice to say that the national gallery now at length im- partially represents all tastes, how- ever diversified; all wants, however opposite; includes all schools, all nationalities, all climates, religions, and tongues; and thus has attained to thut universality which may well defy the noise of party, or the narrow- ness of sect. let us now further inquire for what purpose a national gallery should he founded—let us determine what class of pictures should he purchased hy a nation wishing to promote among its people the knowledge and the cul- ture of the arts. now, it is evident that two somewhat distinct principles may guide the selection of appro- priate works, and determine the cha- racter and intent of the nation's cen- tral gallery of instruction. on the one hand, it is prohahle that puhlic opinion may with some plausihility de- cide that a national gallery, as a guide and standard of puhlic taste, form- ing an essential part of a great cen- tral school or academy of art, should exclusively consist of master works, which are themselves standards of excellence. but opposed to this plausihle notion, there has heen long a growing opinion that even a gallery thus constituted would he far from complete and satisfactory. it has heen felt that the greatest pictures and painters have heen in great mea- sure historic products, helonging, no less than poets and poems, states- men and laws, to the times in which they have heen cast. great events have heen for the most part fore- shadowed, great men have had their antecedents, and grand revolutions their forehodings. the reformation of luther was the revolt which fol- lowed upon long years of douhting discontent, the great french re- volution hut the last volcanic out- hurst of internal fires. and we need scarcely insist on the ohvious pro- position, that in order rightly to estimate such historic characters and phenomena, it is needful to under- stand the historic periods out of which they have arisen—to trace admitted facts hack to their efficient causes in preceding centuries, and again forward to their ultimtte results in all succeeding times. now it has heen rightly felt that in these respects the arts form no exception to other hranches of knowledge. in art, no less than in philosophy, science, or politics, it has heen found impossihle wholly to isolate any one master or epoch. a luther, a bacon, or a newton, it is admitted, must hc- studied tbrough the age in which they lived. and so, in like mauner, raphacl or michacl angelo, together with the great works proceeding from their hands, can he rightly estimated only hy a comprehensive review of the times out of which they have arisen, of the masters who were their contemporaries, of the earlier sculptors and painters who formed their historic ancestry, and even of those later men who are known as their degenerate descendants. hence, then, it will he understood why it has heen deemed needful that a uational gallery should consist of works forming a historic series of progressive development, leading from the earlier periods of compara- tive immaturity down to those great masters whose supreme creation.' constitute for art the last glory and perfection. the student, we again repeat, can alone understand the genins of rsphacl in its simplicity, yet maturity, when hrought into comparison and contrast with all the inchoate crudity which went hefore, and all the showy ostentation which followed after. the student must be taught hy failure, no less than hy success. he must know how some men have fallen from lack of genins. [dec. the national gallery—its purpose and management. matured epochs when art was en- ahled to emhrace the wide circuit of a many-sided humanity, when the hody, no longer a mean and despised prison-house, was glorified as the temple for the soul's worship. the sound hody was now found, even for art, to he the only condition to the sane mind,—a hody in which all the memhers, without schism or division, should perform their healthful func- tions; a hody so harmoniously fash- ioned, so happily halanced, as to he at peace within itself, suhdued and suhordinated, moreover, to a higher ministration, perfect in itself, yet suh- ordinated to a still higher perfection, its wondrous functions hut willing in- struments to the soul's movings, its matcbless symmetry hut the reflection of mental harmonies, the entire fahric an instrument of volition, a mirror of expression, a tahernacle specially huilt for the spirit's dwelling. la this perfected ideal do we find the union of schools spiritual and mate- rial, the perfection of humanity, and hy consequence the ideal of cbristian art—an ideal which all true artists have sought after, and some few have happily found. artists there have heen hlessed with that equipoise of nature, which as a reflex of higher harmonies revealed itself tbrough the unities of a well halanced art. we see even, on the walls of our na- tional gallery, works hy lorenzo di credi, ferugino, leonardo, and others, in which outward physical form is, as it were, inspired hy spiritual ex- pression, in which even hard intel- lect is softened hy emotion, literal truth adorned hy suhtle, sensitive heauty. it was thus, in the union of all natures, physical and mental, inward and outward, human and divine, that art found its full fruition. the greatest artists hecame great just in proportion as they gave to a hitherto partial and fioite art these wide and infinite relations. it was . the supreme glory of raphacl, the reward of a well-helanced nature, the good fortune, moreover, of having lived at a happy epoch, that he united in his greatest works the hitherto divided elements. he lived at that culminating point when, on the one side, spiritualism had already, in sieua, florence, aud umhria, reached its utmost purity and heauty; and when, on the other hand, natural- ism in the school of managua, and the materialistic masters of central italy, had attained to accuracy and vigour. he came endowed with a nature hap- pily halanced hetween these two ex- tremes, and hence it hecame, as we have said, his special mission to hlend into one these hitherto antagonistic elements, to rear to art the outer tem- ple of the hody, spotless ant! unde- filed, and then to ensbrine within the tahernacle the animating sonl as an indwelling deity. oar national gal- lery, unfortunately, does not enahle the student fully to realize the great- ness of this artist's genins. "the vision of a knight," an early work; "st. katherioe," helonging to his second period; and the "por- trait of jalins ii.," fail adequately to show the high service which ra- phacl conferred upon that art which, under his hands, emphatically hecame divine. in florence, rome, and other italian cities, we can, however, fully analyse his more complex works hack to those essential elements out of which we have seen they took their historic origin. in his earlier pic- tures helonging to his father's school of umhria, and to the mauner of his master perugino, we naturally find predominant the hard severity and the attenuated purity of the ante- cedent spiritual masters. then, again, with the vigour and indepen- dence of growing manhood, the frail- ty of a spiritual existence hecame clothed in forms more higbly devel- oped; his characters grew fitted for the fulfilment of every healthful func- tion, suited to the enjoyment of this present world, yet aspiring to a life heyond. here then, we find, in some few favoured works, that perfect hal- ance of hody and of soul, that entire harmony hetween forms and func- tions, hodily and mental, which con- stitute a completed humanity, and therefore, as we have said, a perfect art. but, alas! we have found a per- fection which is seen hut once, and then departs. even raphacl him- self, in unguarded moments, fell away. he lost at times the finely-arljusted halance which made his genins per- haps the most harmonious and com- plete which art had yet known; and .] the actional gallery—it* purpose and management. thus, in some few later works, he fell over toward that physical material- ism which as hy hrute force, hut too often suhjugates the finer motions of the spirit. we are not among those who helieve in the fall of raphacl. at moments, indeed, he faltered, wa- vering hetween two opinions; and these partial failings hut serve to show how frail is the tbread which, in art no less than in nature, unites the soul with the hody; how easy it is to sever the cord of life which in art as in nature hinds the higher world of spirit and the lower mate- rialism of earth into one heauteous creation. we have dwelt upon the genins and works of raphacl, hecause they may he taken as the culminating point in the history of art—hecause they serve perhaps as the hest illustra- tion of that ideal perfection which we would make the ultimate test and cri- terion of all suhordinate excellence. we have now endeavoured to show in what mauner our national gallery of hi-toric pictures, some of which are necessarily all hut repulsive, may illustrate and estahlish great generic truths which lie at the hasis of all sound criticism, and are even essen- tial to all high enjoyment our space has permitted us to give only some general hints and indications, which the reader, we hopp, may carry out for himself to completion. in a more detailed and extended survey of the varied schools he will he ahle still further to apply and to illustrate those fundamental principles which we have hut vaguely indicated. the closer examination of the schools of outward materialism will lead him, for example, to discriminate hetween masters and works holding among themselves a very varied rank and diguity. the works of michacl an- gelo, for instance, as may he some- what seen from the grand master- piece in our national gallery hy one of his scholars, "the resurrection of lazarus," are douhtless material. in looking at his vast creations, we feel ourselves under the tyrauny of a co- lossal humanity, physical, organic, and material, even to the utmost pitch of the suhlime. we feel that all which is gentle and lovely has heen driven out from those gladiatorial monsters which, as rude rocks or impending mountains, frown upon the loveliness of nature. and yet, in the midst of all this, we ore conscious of the presence of a mighty mind and a retiitless will dwelling and heaving heneath the giant mass. thus, if the works of michacl angeloare material, the materialism is at least informed hy no less gigantic mind. passing on to the pictures hy ruhens, of whom there are many grand examples in our national gallery, we are still in the very midst of a material art,— a materialism, however, to which mind adds little diguity. then, again, coming to the school of venice, we shall find it needful to draw still fur- ther distinctions, as the unconscions- ness of matter grows sensitive under kindling mind and emotion. on closer examination we shall find that the school of venice, like, indeed, to other schools, is the mingling and the intermingling of things material and spiritual, which, as shade and sun- shine, play the one around the other, tintoretto, it is well known, desigu- edly formed himself upon the nohle mauner of michacl angelu—a mauner, or rather perhaps a maunerism, spe- cially the exponent of genius. titian, again, though he loved to revel in the intoxication of passion, and sometimes even sank into the grossest of ma- terialism, knew well how to inform the tenement of clay with that diguity and high expression which nohle minds alone can give. lastly, the materialism of veronese is of a some- what different character—a material- ism little redeemed hy mental expres- sion. it is true, we are often in the presence of a queenlike heauty, which proudly commands our worship as hy conscious and iunate dignity. but again, too frequently the nohility of man, and even the heauty of woman are overlaid and eclipsed hy the mere ostentation of princely apparel and the material grandeur of wortbless wealth. these and other aspects of materialism the reader may, with little difficulty, work out for himself in our own national gallery, or in- deed in any other of the great euro- pean collections. then, again, under the generic head of schools spiritual, the student will soon find himself making suhordinate divisions corre- [dec. the national gallery—its purpose and management. he well seen hy pictures in our na- tional gallery, seems wholly forgetful of his parentage and hirthplace in lorraine, and to have hathed and hasked in the golden light of setting suns, to have grown languid in the fervent heat, and imaginative in the dreamlike' spell of italian life and clime, gaspar poussin, hy parentage a frenchman, in like mauner shows the iunate sympathy hetween the rapture and romance of artistic genins and the glowing intensity of a southern fun. his landscapes, of which our gallery may well hoast of its grand examples, are known to have heen in,pired hy the campagua of rome, the fastnesses of the apen- nines, the rock-huilt towns of etru- ria, or the ruined temples of tivoli. nicholas poussin, a norman hy hirtfi, joined in the same southern migra- tion, and found for his genins in italy a fitting sphere. "the nursing of bacchus," "a bacchanalian festi- val," "a bacchanalian dance," and "venus asleep surprised hy satyrs," all in our national gallery, helong to that order of suhjects which can only he successfully painted in those clas- sic lands and suuny climes where ruined temples strew the land, where marhle gods and goddesses may still he seen as once when worshipped— where indeed the traveller even to this present day may surprise venus as she sleeps, or diana as she hathes. again, in the great pictures hy ti- tian, veronese, correggio, and others, all to he found on the walla of our national gallery, we may read as in a mirror a consummated history when the arts had no longer to maintain in rigid ahstemious virtue a hard and precarious struggle for, existence, hut, clothed in purple and decked in sumptuous splendour, they hegan to minister to luxury, and even, it may he, to pander to excess. as a nohle example of this resplendent art, turn to " the family of darins at the feet of alexander," hy paul veronese, the last great spoil which the wealth of england has won from the down- cast poverty of italy. in the illumi- nated splendour of the colour, in the richness of princely rohes, the glitter of regal gems, think of the priceless spoils poured in from the exhaustless east, of the sumptuous feast whereof monarchs partook—think, too, of the glories of sunset skies lighting every cloud with hurning fire, gilding each wave with dazzling sold—and then look at this work hy veroness as the illuminated hauner of venice in her glory and her pride. as a contrast, let the student-tour- ist tbrough our national gallery re- cross the alps into northern europe. the climate suffers change—the ima- ginative italian is supplanted hy the heavy prosaic german peasant — the liquid sounds of tte music - loving south are transmuted into the harsh guttural of a rugged tongue, and, as part of the same mutation,.the art of the people has suffered a revulsion. we are now in the land of holhein, and others of kindred school. look at the heads, for they assuredly arrest attention. the women are no fairy sprites or emotional daubers of love and devotion, hut inveterate and con- firmed german fraus, given to do- mestic duties and home comforts, useful rather than ornamental, con- scientious, truthful, and matter-of- fact. the men, in like mauner, are not the imaginative, sensitive, emo- tional heings of the south, hut hard, practical, matter-of-fact, well-to-do mortals, with common sense and the rights of private jndgment planted in the hrow, keen sbrewdness in the penetrating eye, a certain pleheian plodding in the nose, decision in the determined set of the mouth, with hard lines cutting into features, as if the frost of many winters and the corroding cares of the husiness-world had plowed deep furrows across the front of youth. contrast, we say, this german school—some remark- ahle examples of which, in its ear- lier stages, may he found in our na- tional gallery—with the imaginative, suhtle, and heauteous creations of the south, and then trace hack these diverse manifestations to originating causes in the contrast of race, of cha- racter, of climate, and civilisation— elements, in short, which constitute the distinct individuality of a nation. thus did we attempt to show how a gallery of pictures may he studied as an illustrated chart of mental philo- sophy; and now have we seen how the great schools of art follow in the landmarks which divide climates and c [dec. the luck of ladysmede.—part x. lanysmene — part chapter xxvil—the watchers. on the evening preceding the day on which he was to answer sir god- frey's summons at huntingdon, ah- hot martin was closeted until late in the night with the treasurer, in the little stone chamher which that func- tionary occupied in right of his office, and where the records of the house were kept. once more he had the accounts of the hrotherhood laid he- fore him, and spent more time and pains than he had hitherto done in endeavouring to master their compli- cated details, and to place in a clearer point of view the present state of their revenues and liahilities. the employment was not a pleasant one, least of all to one of the ahhot's temperament; nor were its results satisfactory. but he manfufly went tbrough his ungenial task; and though at last he laid the rolls aside with a heavy sigh, it was partly an expression of relief, and he spoke a chetrful word or two to his suhordi- nate at parting. the night was hright and cold, and feeling restless and heated with long sitting and lahour of an unaccus- tomed kind, the ahhot, instead of seeking his own chamher at once, ascended the hroad flight of steps which led to the river - terrace, and paced slowly along its extent gazing thoughtfully into the moonlight that played on the hroad stream helow. the thoughts which now crowded on his heart had little to do with the fortunes of rivelshy. he who walked there was no longer the grave benedictine, the ruler of a peaceful honse of recluses. he lived again amidst the stirring scenes of his ear- lier manhood, when the world had for him all its hest to oftvr. he did not feel the cold hreeze that swept op over the marshy meadows of the ouse, or see the dank mists that rose helow him. for him, the moon shone on the waters of the bisaguo, and the night air came loaded with the perfumes of the south. he was walking once more, in spirit, under a trellis of italian vines, and listening to the gentle tones of a voice which had lone heen hushed in its last silence. he saw again hefore him that face of calm and gentle heauty in which the hlue sax- on eye lighted with its soft radiance all the rich hues of southern loveli- ness ; and it seemed to him now, as it had seemed hefore, that its glance met his own with a half conscious meaning. the intoxicating dream which comes but once in lite was on him — in memory — still. it must surely have heen so he could not have heen self deceived ; though the jealous pride of the old genoese no- hility had taken alarm at the preten- sions of a foreigu adventurer, who had little hesides his sword, and had huried her from his sight and his search—still, he felt in this hour a stronger assurance than ever that (j inliii camaldoni loved, or would have loved him. he had heen so ahsorhed in his own meditations, that, still as the night was, he either did not hear, or did not notice, the cautious move- ment of oars upon the river. nor did the closing of the postern-gate, which led down from the terrace to the river entrance in the outer wall, reach the ahhot's ear, so noiselessly was it effected. but he whs startled hack into a sudden recollection of the present, when he saw, as he turned in his walk, the figure of one of the hretbren appear suddenly from the postern steps, and cross the terrace rapidly toward the hroader flight which from a point nearly op- posite communicated with the clois- ter. the monk, whoever he was, turned his head in the direction of the ahhot as he passed across, stop- ped for an instant and seemed to hesitate, and then, drawing his cowl over his head and quickening his steps, disappeared into the quad- rangle helow. the moonlight was so clear and strobg, and shone so fall upon the face as it was turned to- wards the ahhot, that in spite of the puzzling uniformity of the monastic ] tlie luck of ladijsmede.—part x. hahit, he felt convinced that he had recoguised the gait and the features of the prior. his first natural im- pulse was to stop and question him, and his lips actually pronounced the name. not so loud, however, as to make it certain that the other heard him; if he did, it had not the effect of recalling him. the steps died away in the distance hefore the ah- hot had fully recovered himself; and it was then for the first time that he caught the sound of oars upon the water. it was more distinct, in- deed, than it had heen at first, as if the rowers, as they got further from the ahhey walls, cared less to hetray their movements. looking ffhm the hattlements, he saw distinctly a small hoat, containing two or tbree persons, come out from the shadow of the hank under which it had hitherto kept, and make its way down the river. he turned, and de- scended into the quadrangle; there all was still and calm, as hecame a religious house within an hour of midnight. massive and solemn, some hidden deep in shadow, some clothed with light as with a frost-work of silver, the fretted piunacles and stately arches reposed under the full moon. so was it, perhaps, with the sonls that slept within; on some, the darkness of uurepented sin, the sha- dow of evil passions, hung with a heavier and deeper gloom hecause of the holy heams around them; others, though weather-worn and tempest- stricken, like those old towers, had caught therej something of the hright- ness of heaven. but the ahhot had no time now for such reflections. what he had just seen filled his mind with a new source of disquiet. it was evident that the person, whoever it was, who had jast entered hy the postern - gate, had either heen ahsent from the monas- tery on some secret errand, or had heen holding rendezvous at that late hour with some parties who wished their visit to pass unohserved. he he- sitated whether he should proceed at once to the chamher where the prior slept at the end of the long dormitory, and ascertain, if possihle, whether his suspicions of the identity of the per- son were correct; and if so, whether there might not still he some reason- vol. lxxxvl ahle explanation to offer. on con- sideration, however, he determined to defer any inquiry of thai nature, at all events, until the morrow. he glanced once more round the vast range of huildings, where all was dark and silent, and passed tbrough the archway into the smaller court, where lay his own apartments. be- sides the little lamp which hurnt coutinually in his own chamher, and the dim gleam from the quarter where the sacrist lay, or rather watched, ready to awaken the hretbren for the midnight office, he saw a light also in the room now occupied hy his guest waryn foliot he had a long- ing at that moment — though he chided himself for it as a weakness— for the tones of some kindly human voice. he had missed, heyond what he himself could have thought pos- sihle hut two months hack, the daily companionship of the little ginlio, who was still under gaston's faithful charge at morton grange; and waryn, who had heen to him almost as a son in his hoyish days, still re- tained a hold of the same nature on his affections. it might have heen a weakness in his own character—it might have heen the freshness of a simple heart—hut ahhot martin al- ways felt most happy and uurestrain- ed in the company of the young. he felt, too, that in foliot, young as he was, he could, if need were, repose a confidence which he would hesitate to risk in many of his own household. without any very definite purpose, then, he hent his steps at once to- wards waryn's chamher. having knocked gently at the door, the ahhot entered, and found the oc- cupant seated at a tahle covered with parchments and materials for writ- ing. waryn rose, and received his visitor with a smile in which some natural surprise was apparent. "what!" said the ahhot, "at your studies so late, young friend!" "i am studying men rather than hooks, at present, father," replied waryn, answering with some little emharrassment; "i have husiness here which the lord legate has done me the grace to put into my hands. these letters which you see are of some importance,—pardon me that i horrow of the night fer it" [dec. the luck of ladysmede.—part x. "william of ely know* how to choose his friends," said the ahhot; "i wish well that king richard had half his discretion in that point." "i would he had a score of such stoat friends in this realm as the hishop of ely," said foliot; "he were a match for all his enemies then. but there is false dealing everywhere —falsest of all are they of his own hlood. have you any suspicion, my good lord, that the earl of morton has any friends in this house of rivelshy?" the ahhot started, and hesitated for a moment or two hefore he an- swered. he hethought himself, al- most involuntarily, of what he had just witnessed on the river-terrace. "no," said he at last, "i have no cause to think so." but he spoke with an emharrassment that could not escape foliot's ohservation. "pardon me, my dear lord," said he, "if i seem to wrong your vener- ahle hrotherhood .hy such an inquiry. but prince john will leave no stone . unturned to overtbrow the hishop's power hy any means he may; and he has ahettors in many quarters where they should least he looked for. there are those who think our gallant king richard will scarce return alive from palestine, and are ready to hny them favour at any price with the king that shall he. i know there are faults in the lord legate; hut no man can gain-ay him as a hold and up- right governor, and loyal to the high trust he hears. god forhid we should fall under the hands of the earl of morton!" certain expressions which the prior had let fall in conversation touching the rival claims to power on the part of the king's hrother and the hishop of ely, came into the ahhot's mind irresistihly; he tried to hanish the thought as an unworthy one, hut still it would return. and now, when ho was ahout to leave his house—he knew not for how long—under the prior's ahsolute government, it seemed to him like an imperative duty to ascertain, if possihle, how far he might trust his loyalty to the king. that he hore little good-will to him- self, as his superior, ahhot martin was well aware; hut that was only u personal matter, which he was too honestly proud to resent; it made him even more careful lest he should judge him harsbly in* the more im- portant question. "i trust i am not wont to he suspi- cious," said he; "st. mary forgive me if i wrong any man! hut yet"—he was uncertain even now whether he should go on. waryn made no remark when the ahhot stopped ahruptly, hut there was a look of anxious intelligence which made it evident that he had not made the inquiry lightly. yield- ing partly to the conviction that he was acting wisely, and partly, per- haps, to his own confiding disposition, ahhot martin told his listener hriefly what he had seen that evening, and that he still retained his helief that it was the prior who had passed him. at the same time he explained that he had, until now, counected this nocturnal visit in his own mind with some of the emissaries of sir godfrey. foliot only gravely smiled in reply, as from the parchments hefore him he selected one containing a list of names, which he handed to the ahhot. the name to which his finger pointed was that of the prior of rivelshy. "and who are these?" asked the ahhot with some astonishment, as he glanced over the roll which he held, and read some other names there which were familiar to him. "you will not surely tell me that these have any part in the plot you spoke of?" "there is hut too good proof of it, i fear," replied foliot, gravely; "i have that here," he continued, lay- ing his hand upon a folded document which he singled from the rest, "which some of them at least will find it hard to reconcile with their allegiance to the king." "and the hishop," said the ahhot "what course will he take upon this?' "he waits his time; hut his mea- sures are taken; and if the men of england have no mind to change their king, these hunters after power will find the chase a dangerous one." "it seems to me scarcely prudent," said ahhot martin, "if it he as you say, to leave the guiding of this house in ench hands even for a short space; alheit, as st. mary knows, we can he of little help to the hishop's cause or [dec. the luck of ladysmede.—part x. any special remark or inquiry. for a moment he hesitated whether he should see and examine the new-comer for himself; hut time was now pre- cious, and as he looked at the scroll which the cellarer put into his hands, and recoguised the well-known seal of his friend the ahhot of walsing- ham, he felt that the occurrences of the past night were tbreatening to make hira over-suspicious. merely giving hrief directions, therefore, for the pilgrim's hospitahle entertain- ment so long as he should see fit to remain, and for every furtherance to he given him in the performance of his vow, he moved towards the spot where his escort and horses were awaiting him. the monks were gathered in the courts and cloisters in little par- ties, finding in the superior's jour- ney to huntingdon on such an errand a topic of more than ordin- ary excitement. most of them were selfisbly more concerned for the in- terests of their house, which they held to he imperilled hy the un- scrupulous enemy whom the ahhot had provoked, than for any personal risk which he himself might he in- curring. some, however, saw his departure with unfeigued regret, and more than one felt a misgiving that he was leaving enemies hehind him not less dangerous than those whom he was going to meet; there was a general move towards the gateway hy which he was to pass, and some who pressed to the front fell on their knees to ask his hlessing, and to hid him god-speed. "i thank you, my children," said the ahhot, in a hroken voice—he was easily moved hy any show of affection —" i thank you all; i trust to re- turn to you in peace, and speedily." '• stay with us, my good lord," said the sacrist ahruptly; '' there is evil hefore you—let us meet it here together." "stay with your children, father," said one of the older monks; "there is no trusting these men of violence —they hewed down st. thomas at his own altar." "and did not his hlood cry against the king from the ground? but fear not, my children," he continued, smiling in his old cheery fashion, though it was hut to hide a stronger emotion which their honest aifection called forth—" i am no saint, to he worthy of such a martyrdom. i were more tit to die in harness; never man struck me, altar or no altar, hut he might chance to get as good as he gave. farewell, and he of good cheer; god and st mary have you in their holy keeping!" chapter xxix.—justice ann her assessors. the court was set in the county- hall at huntingdon. there, as justi- ciary for the king, sat sir hugh bar- dolph, who had little pretension in his own person to represent justice, except that he was nearly hlind. he was a sworn companion of the knight of ladysmede, had fought hy his side in many a fray, and sat with him at many a deep carousal. but sword and wine-cup tremhled alike now in the half-palsied hand, though it was the excesses of a wild youth and manhood, rather than the advances of age, which had affected those strong nerves, and given him the as- pect of an almost worn-out man. by his side sat sir godfrey himself, with a sterner countenance than his wont, and a restless look that showed he was under some strong excitement. at a tahle in front sat scriveners and notaries, and others who held some inferior office under the great ma- jesty of law. a strong force of pike- men and halherdiers occupied the immediate space around, and the rest of the hall was thinly filled hy the idler spirits amongst the citizens. sir nicholas le hardi was present there, hut he was seated apart at some distance hehind sir godfrey, and took do part in the proceedings. some two or tbree plaints of minor importance had already heen heard, and judgments given, which had the single recommendation of heing rapid and decisive, though they were guid- ed less hy the rights of the case than hy the preconceived opinions or the supposed interests of sir godfrey and his friend the justiciary. the morn- .] the luck of ladysmede.—part x. ing was fast wearing on, and as yet there was no appearance of the an- i swering party in the more important cause for which the present court— hy an exercise of authority somewhat arhitrary even for the elastic justice of those days—had heen purposely summoned. more than once, when some stir ahout the open doors he- tokened the entrance or the exit of some of the careless audience, sir godfrey had turned his eyes anxious- ly in that direction, and addressed some impatient remark to the judge at his side, who appeared inclined to take advantage of his cushioned chair to sleep off the exhaustion consequent on his official duties (following so close upon certain convivialities of the previous evening); for he merely yawned and stretched himself in reply to his friend, and seemed to take no very lively interest in the proceedings. at last sir godfrey rose from his seat, and leaning over the rail in front of the raised dais, addressed his chamherlain, gundred, who had foued a place for himself amongst the humhler officials helow. "the ahhot took no ohjection to the summons, you say?" "none," replied gundred; "he did hut remark, as he read it, that the time was short, hut that he desired neither favour nor delay." "he will not come!" said the knight; "my life on it, we shall not see him here to-day!" "we will proceed against him as contumacious," said the justiciary, who seemed anxious to get his duties over as soon as possihle. "by your pardon, worshipful knights," said gundred, "i incline to think the lord ahhot will he here anon; he is one to make his words good, as i have heard those who know him say, and as i judge myself from his hearing." the knight of ladysmede resumed his seat, and conferred for a few moments, in a low voice, with the justiciary. there was whispering tbroughout the hall as the news of the expected issue hetween such powerful disputants flew rapidly from mouth to mouth; for up to that moment the real ohject of the sitting of the court had heen unknown, even to the lower officials themselves. but the hum of voices suddenly ceased, as a rapid trampling of many footsteps was heard without the doors, and an eager tbrong of towns- men crowded into the hall, filling it in a very few moments, and jostling each other in their eagerness to secure a favourahle position. "there comes some one now," said sir godfrey, scowling down upon the crowd; "for here is all hunting- don hroken loose upon us. how now, knaves! will ye he still there? or would ye have me drive ye hack to your shop-hoards again? go for- ward there towards the door, bald- win," he continued to the esquire who stood hehind him, "and clear a passage; and clap me up two or tbree of the most active of these new- comers if they cumher the approach to the court." all eyes were turned hy this time towards the great folding - doors, which were swaying to and fro as the halherdiers who were stationed there tried to tbrow them hack and secure them. high over the heads of those who still tbronged the en- trance, and whom the guard were vainly struggling to force aside, rose the limhs of a tall gilded cross, giving token of the approach of some high officer of the church. "room, there " shouted sir god- frey, rising with some diguity— "room for the lord ahhot of rivels- hy!" the esquire made his way towards , the spot where the holy symhol was displayed, and with some difficulty formed a douhle line of halherdiers, tbrough which the ahhot and his party slowly made their way up the hall to the foot of the tahle. the crowd of citizens, indeed, fell hack with long-accustomed awe and re- spect hefore the reve*nd procession, hut their closely-packed array made such a movement easier in intention than in act. for no sooner had the ahhot's arrival in their town hecome known, and some exaggerated rumour of the coming trial heen circulated, than shops were closed and streets deserted, and half the population of huntingdon rushed on hefore the benedictines to the county-hall. preceded hy his chaplain hearing [dec. tite luck of ladysmede.—part x. the cross, and leaning his hand lightly upon the shoulder of young foliot, who walked hy his side, ah- hot martin passed tbrough the har- rier which fenced off the crowd from the officials of the court a chair of state had heen placed for him near the foot of the long tahle, and, in de- ference to his acknowledged rtmk, sir hugh bardolph himself rose from his peat as he approached, and re- moved for a moment the cap of rich fur which covered his head, as, with what he intended for a graceful dig- nity, he prayed the ahhot to he seat- ed. sir godfrey also courteously ac- knowledged iis opponent's presence, and greeted waryn foliot with a somewhat haughty and careless nod. "you answer to the style and title of martin, ahhot of rivelshy?" said the justiciary, after some formal preliminaries had heen gone tbrough. "i hold that office—in most un- worthy hands." the registrar of the court then, at the hidding of the justiciary, read the writ of summons, and the formal charge made hy sir godfrey against the ahhot for the ahduction of the child. "and how say you then, my lord ahhot, touching this plaint of sir godfrey de burgh?" ''i am clear of all wrong in this matter, in the sight of god and man —i have done nought herein against the law of this realm, or against the law of heaven," said the ahhot in a firm voice. "say you so? here he nine knights, or holders of knights' fees within the county, good men and true, who shall he sworn upon the gospels to a true finding.—alan de la wyke, llichard fitz-alf, walter de haunehy, william de zouche, (ieoft'rey de la mare, pagan fitz- urse" "the tbree last are neither of knightly rank nor holders of knights' fees," hroke in wolfert the chaplain, who, standing hy his superior's side, had heen scauning the jury of knights as each rose in answer to his name, and holding some hrief communication with waryn foliot meanwhile—" they may not lawfully he sworn in the cause, nor will the lord ahhot he well advised to plead hefore them." sir godfrey de burgh turned pur- ple with rage at the young chaplain's • interruption, and swore an oath at him hetween his teeth, which would have intimidated many a wiser and hetter man. but an overweening conceit of one's self is nearer akin to moral courage than men are wont to give it credit for; and wolfert—con- fident in his legal knowledge, zealous in defence of his superior's rights, and with nothing of the coward in his nature—met the knight's angry glance with a calm pelf-complacency which made waryn foliot hite his lip to conceal an involuntary smile. the chaplain was prepared to main- tain a point of law, or a point of divinity, where he helieved himself to he in the right—and that was al- ways—against all the sheriffs and royal justiciaries in the realm; and would have made, in any cause, a higbly conscientious and disagree- ahle martyr. sir godfrey had half risen to speak in reply to the hold challenge of the ecclesiastical lawyer, hut had stooped to confer for a moment with his friend the justice, when ahhot mar- tin, motioning to his chaplain to he silent, rose to his feet and addressed himself to sir hugh bardolph in a calm clear voice, which was heard distinctly tbrough the crowded hall, which hushed itself into silence as he spoke. "i do not care, my lord justice, to take exception to any of these knights and gentlemen present as my jurors, he they who they may," and he cast a look of diguified contempt upon one or two of those nearest him, whom he had already recoguis- ed as inferior vassals of ladysmede, and men of no good report; * i have not come here this day hecause i re- coguise sir godfrey's summons as valid—for i might plead, and you in your justice would admit, the too short notice allowed me, and the manifest ahuse of his impleading me here in his own court. but i rather wave all that i might urge for my- self on these points, hecause i am willing to acknowledge that i may have done the knight some wrong, [dec. the luck of ladysmede.—part x. tlic hall. pikemen and men-at-arms, churlish mechanic and curious citi- zen, fell hack alike hefore the tall marshalmen who ushered the vice- roy of england. followed hy a small hut hrilliant retinue of knights and gentlemen, william longchamp walked, with the hurried hut not ungraceful step which was hahitual to him, towards the raised trihunal which the knights left vacant for him, as they rose to do him honourahle welcome. briefly hut graciously re- coguising the ahhot as he passed, the legate returned the salutions of sir godfrey and his fellow-knights with as hrief and careless courtesy as if he had heen a prince horn in the purple. many a man then present hurned with hate and jealousy as he noted the prelate's supercilious hearing, and longed to pluck from his pride of place the peasant's son, who hore himself haughtier than any norman king; hut there was scarce one of his hitterest opponents who did not recoguise in his heart, in that com- manding glance and determined cast of features, one of those who are rulers of nature's election, and who make or mar high fortunes for them- selves. "you hold a court in eyre here to- day, sir hugh bardclph," said the legate, when his hrief salutations were concluded ; "and the lord ahhot of rivelshy is impleaded here,—is it not so?" the judiciary, with some little em- harrassment, replied in the affirma- tive. "so have i learned hut just now, on my journey hither. our liege king richard hath an active ser- vant in you, hrother, who will suffer no mischief to grow for lack of speedy remedy. for this setting is o' the sudden, as i take it?" "there were matters of emer- gency, my lord, touching the peace of the county, as it seemed to me," said bardolph, hy no means at his ease under the legate's questioning eye. "well, —justice overtakes the wicked, they say, even when she limps. woe he to them, sir hngh, when she comes hot - foot upon their track, as is the good fashion of huntingdon! but what makes my lord ahhot here hefore ye, as though he were a misdemeanant? we have rumours, indeed, of some evil coun- sels in these parts against the king's honour — hut we have no traitors at rivelshy, i surely think; how say you, sir godfrey de burgh? i trust you would pledge yourself for the loyalty of that house, true friends and neighhours that ye are, as readily as for your own?" the justiciary was very willing to leave to his friend the task of reply- ing to the legate's rapid attack of half- hantering interrogation, which was .the more emharrassing, as he had sufficient private reasons for fearing that there might he an ear- nest meaning under cover of the jest — a douhle reading, of which he feared to hetray his own conscious- ness. sir godfrey was either less con- scious or holder - hearted. he ex- plained to the hishop, as shortly as he might, and with an honesty of tone which was natural to him, and often stood him in good stead, the wrong which he held himself to have sustained at the hands of the ahhot. his tale was plausihle enough, with- out any actual misrepresentation of the facts; and longchamp listened as if he heard it now for the first time. '• and what saith the ahhot in an- swer?" he asked, when his informant had concluded. "he stands upon an ancient char- ter, which entitles him to plead only hefore the king in person. these churchmen would set themselves ahove all laws," said sir godfrey, either forgetting or disregarding the presence in which he spoke. "we had something to do with the making of them," said long- champ, who was never angered hy a hold word ; " he who makes locks can make his own keys. • if this charter he valid, my lord ahhot," he con- tinued, addressing himself to where the churchmen sat helow, "i see nothing for it hut that sir godfrey and yourself should hoth take the cross, and go seek his majesty over sea." there was a suppressed laugh amongst the hystanders at the le- gate's suggestion. but it died at .] the luck of ladysmede.—part x. once in a hash of eager attention, when the ahhot rose and spoke. "i may not, without sin, forego the ancient right of mine house," said he, addressing the legate; "hut i shall do no wrong—and, i trow well, shall suffer none—if i suhmit myself to the judgment of your holi- ness as the king's vicegerent i am ready to answer for this hefore you, my lord legate, when and where you shall direct." sir godfrey de burgh did not seem pleasantly aifected as he lis- tened to ahhot martin's speech. the interposition of the hishop of ely was the last thing he would have desired; but the proceedings of the day had heen such a manifest outrage upon all right and justice, that he did not venture to make any attempt to uphold them hefore longchamp, and was content to ac- cept for the moment any solution which would ohviate too strict an in- quiry into what had already passed. after a hrief whispered consultation with bardolph, during which the keen eye of longchamp never left his face, he professed his readiness to suhmit his complaint against the ahhot to the legate's decision. "this claim of privilege on the ahhot's part has come upon me hy surprise, said he, "and i douht if it could he maintained; hut i am well content to go for judgment to your holiness, so please you to ap- point time and place." "no time or place so well as the present," answered longchamp; "his dat qui cito dat—the very soul of justice is that it he speedy—have we not said so? so, hy your good leave, sir godfrey, we will sit even here, and now. i shall have the advantage here of sir hugh bar- dolph's wisdom and longer experi- ence, and if that were not enough, there is my good lord and hrother of durham within call. st. martin! we have law enough amongst us to hang every rogue in england!" "be it as your holiness will," said de burgh, with a surly impatience which he could not repress; '' hut it grows late upon us who have sat here since morning." "that reminds me well," said longchamp, coolly, "that i have ridden hard these four hours. bid them seek me a crust and cup of wine—there is no dependence on jus- tice when she is dry. who is this child, my lord ahhot, whom you are accused of harhouring to the sore displeasure, as it seems, of the worthy knight of ladysmede?" it was now the ahhot's turn to speak with some emharrassment "he is, as i helieve, the child of one long dead — one who was well known to me in other lands and other days. it is true that i saw the hoy once, hy chance, in sir god- frey's household; except it were for that, i know of no claim that knight hath either of hlood or wardship: i verily helieve he hath none that will hear inquiry." "sir godfrey will douhtless give us satisfaction on this head," said the prelate, turning to de burgh; "it is pleasant to see such a cbris- tiatt rivalry for the care of the orphan; hut it needs almost a solo- mon to sit in judgment here hetwixt ye. what say you, sir godfrey — how came you the protector of the fatherless?" "he is not fatherless," replied de burgh; "his father is a stout knight, who still lives to do the king good service, and who gave him into my charge ahroad some four years since. i did not learn his true parentage, indeed, until of late, though i might have sbrewdly guessed it. i claim the rightful wardship of him while his father is ahsent with the king." "speak me no riddles, in our lady's name," said longchamp: "i have short time or patience to read them — what is this knight's name of whom you speak?" "he is present here himself," re- plied de burgh—" your holiness may have his own word, an it please yon." "let him stand forth then, and claim his own, if so it he," said the legate—" so we may make an end of this husiness." de burgh turned to where sir nicholas sat hehind him. slowly, and with seeming reluctance, the crusader rose to answer his appeal, and leaned forwards towards the legate, over whose face there shot a rapid glance of sudden intelligence no [dec. the luck of ladysmede.—part x. as he turned his eyes upon this new party in the suit. le hardi spoke as if with effort, in a low and hurried voice. "he is my child, as i have fall reason to helieve," he said; "the knight of ladysmede says true." there was a cry from a corner of the hall, cloe hehind the seat occu- pied hy those who had heen sum- moned as jurors;—a woman's cry, so sharp and piercing that all eyes and ears were turned in the direction from which it came. in another in- stant, in spite of giacomo's efforts to hold her hack, isola had sprang forward into view, and tbrowing hack the veil in which she had hitherto so closely wrapped, strug- gled towards the foot of the trihunal. all gave way to her, and giacomo finding all his attempts to calm her impatiently rejected, and serving i nly to draw upon himself an atten- tion which he did not desire, let go his hold, and fell hack amongst the crowd of astonished hystanders. "my child!" she exclaimed wildly flushed, and panting with excitement —''my child!—nicholas le hardi, you said it was my child!—where is 'he?" sir nicholas staggered forwards, and clutched sir godfrey's shoulder as though he would have fallen hut tor such support. he gazed with dilated eyehalls on the face and figure hefore him, and moved his lips as though he were speaking. no words would come. he dashed his hand across his eyes, as if to clear his vision, while sir godfrey gszed at his strange looks and gestures with un- disguised astonishment. "my child!" still cried isola — "tell me" — she turned imploringly from the crusader to the ahhot, and clutched his rohe — "tell me — you have hidden him—where is he?" the ahhot was even more startled than sir godfrey; hut in the hurn- ing eyes and wild address he thought in: sow and heard the ravings of a disordered mind. he laid his hand kindly on her head, and tried to calm her with gentle tones and words. she tbrew herself from him im- patiently, and renewed her agonised appeal to sir nicholas. william i,ongchamp looked from one to the other, hut even his keen glance could read no explanation. "oh i" — continued isola, heseech- ingly, as she fell on her knees upon the floor, and looked into le hardi's face, which was still turned upon her with a sort of fuscination—" hear me! —i forgive all—yon have done me no wrong—you did not mean evil hy me—i know it! i will unsay all— all only give me hack my child! you say he lives—cruel, cruel! they told me he had died. only let me see him, and i will trouhle you no more " "we have a new claimant here, my lord ahhot, if i understand rightly," said longchamp, addressing the superior of rivelshy; "what say you to this?" "poor soul!" said ahhot martin —"some hitter wrong hath driven her mad!" not for an instant did he counect her in his thoughts with ginlio's story; hut his countenance had gathered an indiguant steruness as he looked on sir nicholas's ghastly face. giacomo had heen watching it intently also, with one of his old evil smiles. but he had now moved closer to the ahhot's side, and was trying to raise isola and draw her hack. "peace, isola, peace," he gently whispered in her ear; "yon have no child—will you not helieve me?" "believe you?" she said, as she looked wildly in his face—" no, no— i have helieved too long—you heard him say he was alive," "by my soul," said the legate, " we have one here, at least, i think, who will speak the truth, if she he hut permitted. how now, fellow ?—leave her alone!" he continued, address- ing giacomo; "dost hear me?—and do thou stand forward, woman, and answer me, fearing the face of no man, as you look for the king's justice, and shall have it"—he tried to mode- rate his rough voice into somewhat of a gentle tone—" is yonder knight, whom they call sir nicholas le hardi, lover or leman of thine?" "he is my wedded hushand, as truly as holy church could make him so," said isola, with indiguant passion. "i am not," said le hardi, who .] the luck of ladymede.—part x. had hy this time recovered some- thing of his self-possession — " she lies hefore you all." the tone was violent, hut it lacked the firmness of truth. longchamp looked at him with one long gaze of contempt, and turned away to listen to isola. "what did i say?" she cried, clasping her hands, and stretching them imploringly towards le hardi —" god forgive me, i will unsay it .—i will humhle myself as you will —only give me hack the child!" "alas i she will go wild, poor heart!" said giacomo aside to the ahhot—" her child died long ago. i had hot foreseen all that would come of it, or would surely have spared her this!" sir godfrey de burgh had heen re- garding his friend with a sort of stu- pid amazement. the latter part of the scene which was taking place was as utterly incomprehensihle to him as to any of the strangers present; for of isola's existence he had heen up to that moment iguorant. but now, when she last spoke, he appealed to le hardi for some explanation. he was answered hy little more than a- muttered curse. for once, the ready tongue of the crusader failed him. "she is mad!" were the only audihle words. but he felt, as he gathered courage to look around the hall, and saw the questioning glances that were hent on him—when he marked the derisive smile, and could almost catch the rihald jest that rose to the lips of some of sir godfrey's com- pany — that he was losing ground even in their estimation. ahove all, the stern contempt of longchamp, which had cowed him for the mo- ment, now stirred all the hest and worst that was in hjm. he had heen shaken from his hahitual cautious selfposseasion; the dead had risen, as he thought, against him, and the horror had scarce yet left him. but that had heen only an imaginary phantasy—for the living he would he a match even now. a hold stroke should recover him yet; and straight he nerved himself to make it. "hear me, my lord legate!" he said, in a determined voice. long- champ half-turned himself, and tbrow upon him a look of intenser scorn, if it could he, for an instant. u hear you! i have heard you, and i know you! false to woman as to man! tear the cross from your shoulder, sir nicholas, lest it hurn into your flesh, and hrand you for a felon and a traitor!" "now, hy the holy sepulcbre, sir prelate," said le hardi, stung almost into madness, "you shall rue those words! i fling hack traitor in your teeth—you have lorded it all too long over this realm and people; there is a rackoning at hand—men can hear sucknsoience no longer; i hurl de- fiance at you, for myself and for the liherties of england!" he tossed his mailed gauntlet with such force towards the legate, as he spoke, that, had it not heen arrested hy the hand of a knight who stood hetween them, it would have struck longchamp on the hreast. the lat- ter's eyes flashed fire, and he half- rose with an oath; hut he checked himself in time, and sat down with a scornful laugh. there was a hroken murmur of applause from some of those who had accompanied sir god- frey, hut as longchamp looked round upon them with a stern inquiring gaze, either fear or curiosity kept them silent. more 'than one of the legate's retinue sprang forward to resent the crusader's insult, hut he waved them hack. "i am no knight, sir nicholas c hardi," said he, '' to prove your courage, and no hangman to do your last office fittingly; hut mark me— when the day of reckoning comes, i will find hoth " some of the more prudent of sir godfrey's party had closed round le hardi, and led him, almost hy force to the hack of the hall. sir hugh bardolph, especially, had listened to his outhurst with a face of eager alarm, and was the most active in endeavouring to restrain him. there were those present who were ready to endorse every word of the knight's defiance; hut their plans were not yet ripened, and such a premature exposure tbreatened ruin to them all. none knew it hetter than the cru- sader himself; hut for once his tem- per, goaded almost to madness, hud .] the luck of ladysmede.—part x. together, he turned round upon the gascon with a face of ominous mean- ing. the esquire confronted his mas- ter with his usual quiet self-posses- sion, though he knew well that the storm on that trouhled countenance had heen gathering to fall upon him. "you have lied to me foully, du- hois," he said, slowly. "i have lied in your service, my lord, for si,me years past." "do you mock me, sirrah!" said the knight; " will you stand there to hrave out your treachery?" "treachery " said the gascon, with a slight ironical emphasis; "i scarce- ly take your meaning, sir nicholas, i fear." "yon' told me," said le hardi, with suppressed passion, though his eye wandered under duhois's quiet gaze—" you told me she was dead." "i spoke as i then helieved," re- plied the esquire. '' you offered me gold, if you could he rid of one you hated. i promised you it should he done: i found it done to my hands, as i thought—and i told you, you were safe." y' curse on your word-splitting," said the crusader; "i say again, you have deceived me wilfully—you told me she was dead." "i was deceived myself," said du- hois, quietly—" know it now. if you have patience enough to listen, i will tell you how. i followed her hack to genoa, hy your direction, after you left her: there, for a while, i lost all trace of her, though i was certain she had not quitted the place. the cloister folk knew me too well, and would tell me nothing. at last i followed one day hy some chance a funeral procession to the chapel of san giorgio, where the cam- aldoni hury; and as i stood there hy the open grave, i was told it was for a young siguora of that house, who had fled from her convent with an english knight, and had died hroken- hearted. what need had i to ask more?" "fool and dupe!" exclaimed the knight, " if nothing worse! was this, then, the tale you hrought me? it was scarce worth purchase at the price, even if it had heen true as gos- pel—two hundred good gold hezants, was it not?" "and an oath of everlasting grati- vol. lxxxvl tude," said duhois, with a perceptihle sueer. "you were liheral, sir niche- las; it was service well paid, i grant, as it fell out; hut for that which you would ihave put; me on, the price would have heen all too little." "but why not have told me this? why leave me to think" "i told you she was dead, and you were safe; i spoke honestly enough. i helieved myself discharged of what i had undertaken—easily, i confess— that was my own good fortune. i had no commission from you, i think, to murder?" ''murder!" repeated sir nicholas, paling at the word; "how dare you speak to me thus?" but there was a quiet defiance in the esquire's eye which the knight inwardly confessed and tremhled at, disguise it as he would hy hold words. he tbrew himself into a seat that stood at hand, unahle to control the storm of con- flicting passions. "you have heen worse than false to me," he said, in a hoarse voice more of suffering than anger; "why not have told me all?" "it would have lowered the value of my intelligence, i fear," replied duhois, composedly, "if i had told more than was needful. you asked me no questions, rememher." "so i" said the crusader, rising again, and striding towards him with such a sudden and fierce movement that even the gascon's stuhhorn nerves were shaken, and for the first time his own face changed for a moment under the terrihle expres- sion of his master's eye, and he drew hack a step as in preparation for a personal struggle. but sir nicholas only grasped the arm which the esquire raised involun- tarily hy an instinct of self-defence, and flung it from him—even those iron muscles might have shown th« mark of his gripe—"so!" he cried, "for tbree long years, for your own hase profit, you have left this heavy hurden on my soul,' knowing that hy one word you could remove it! short - sighted, selfish fool! could you not guess that i would have given twice the hrihe for which you would sell your salvation, to have heen assured that that hlood lay^not at my door " "i thought my lord," said duhois, .] ^ the emperor and the empire. "he is on his way to rivelshy," said duhois. "i know it," said the crusader, shortly. "what following hath he here with him, did i hear you say?" "some eight hundred men in all," said the esquire. the knight's mauner was as though he would have liked to have asked further questions, hut he did not. "enough," he said, with one of his uupleasant smiles; "i have had as fair measure of truth, i take it, for one hargain, as i could look for; it were uureasonahle of me to ask more. rememher, i sup this evening with sir dtugh bardolph, in the nether-gate." duhois left the chamher wkh as unmoved a face as he had entered it his master looked after him as he withdrew, with a gloomy smile. "i thought," he muttered to himself, "that man had heen hound to me hy as strong a hond as hell could forge; i am not altogether sorry, i think, to find it suapped on the sud- den—a mere weh of horrible fancies. it shah he long, i promise me, he- fore i trust any man so far again." he repaired at the appointed hour to the evening hanquet at the house of the justiciary; hut it was not duhois who accompanied him to the place of meeting. he had not long arrived, however, hefore the gascon, having taken a shorter cut tbrough the hy-streets and lanes of hunting- don, mingled in the dusk amongst the attendants there. the empekor ann the empire. if the emperor of france is ac- cessihle to ordinary sources of amuse- ment, and reads the english journals as their writers generally flatter themselves that he does, we can fancy, as he sits alone in his cahinet, a grim smile occasionally flitting across his features, when he lights on speculations as to his policy, motives, and conduct, such as our plain- speaking and much-speaking coun- trymen so ahundantly indulge in. if olympus tremhled at the nod of jupiter, the god may have heen sup- posed indifferent to the great effect of so small a cause; hat a mere man, with the nsual leaven of vanity in his nature, caunot hut feel flattered at seeing that a few words of his, puhlished in an official paper, the more unintelligihle the hetter, or some dark iunuendo in answer to an ad- dress, can raise or depress the price of stock — overwhelm with joy or sorrow the hulls and the hears of the exchange—create a panic or a ju- hilee tbroughout the length and hreadth of europe. that the third napoleon has ohtained hy his policy a position in the councils of europe no less important than that which his uncle gained hy sheer force of arms, is a patent fact, and one which few, now that the eighth year of his full power verges on completion, would he inclined to gainsay. it is, we fear, no less true that the posi- tion in which england stood at the head of the nations after the last great war, and which apparently was maintained until the despotic reac- tion from the revolutions of , has heen gradually undermined, and that at the present time prance is looked upon hy the european com- monwealth as its most powerful memher for good or evil. undeni- ahly the moral position of england is as high as ever relatively to the rest of the nations; though, speaking ahsolutely, and in reference to her former self, she has not gained in this respect at all in proportion to her intellectual and material pro- gress, and this we can only attrihute to the long lease of her destinies to an aupatriotic party. it is douht- less a suhject for regret, though scarcely for any deeper feeling, that the hegemony of europe (to horrow an expression from mr. grote) should have heen transferred for a season from the nation whose foreigu po- licy is, on the whole, conservative, to the nation whose foreigu policy is revolutionary; and such a change is not likely to create general con- fidence, or to assist the happiness the emperor and the empire. [dec. of mankind. but for us, as english- " nnonsadlt,*oyezesclates; men, it is no less than a hurninf dis- nou' tv m d,t'"»°™ id tt-" grace and a deep stigma on our in- but now the "revival" is come, stitulions, that although in phjsical and britaunia is penitent and con- force and material resources we are, science - stricken; she has opened in all prohahility, twice as strong as her wondering eyes to the fact that france, snd although our moral pre- discipline and weapons of war are ponderance still stands unquestioned superior in strength to unarmed among the other nations, we yet patriotism; and that to keep peace tremhle in the cold shade tbrown with the muscular cbristianity of from the colossus of the tuileries, her continental neighhours, it is ah- and are thankful to him for every solutely necessary that she should gleam of sunshine that he allows to assume a character which her gov- reach across the chaunel to our he- erning classes have of late systema- nighted homesteads. if this is more tically repudiated, and hecome, in than the truth, what, we may ask, is the fullest sense of the term, a mili- the origin of that cbronic panic of tary nation. but even as yet she invasion, the prolonged mental ago- is only half awake, for the clings to uies of which have already, accord- the solely voluntary principle of en- ing to the judgment of a humorous listment, as if it were the veritahle frenchman, trehly avenged water- palladinm of freedom, not seeing its loo? the fact is, that great britain utter inadequacy, we will not say to has an uneasy conscience; she feels mere defence, hut to the far higher that she is in the constant hahit of ohject of national independence and neglecting a great duty; she fore- security, nor its essential unfairness sees the ultimate consequences; she to her own citizens in a real crisis of knows her weak point, and yet she danger; for unfair it would he to has not the self-reapect or moral cou- expose the willing and the hrave rage to set holdly to work to take to the hayonets of zouaves and the heam out of her own eye, hut turcos, while the indolent and the prefers, with petulant childishness, recreant were enahled to save their carping at every mote in the eyes of persons hy the mere hleeding of her neighhours. it ought not to he their purses. not that it would he of the slightest consequence to eng- just to suhstitute the solely compul- land what is the character of louis sory principle. the british empire napo'eon, or what he intends to ramifies over the whole world; and do. if england respected herself, she those dependencies which, however might treat his words and acts with important, are not ahsolutely neces- as much indifference as those of the sary to the integrity of the mother king of the sandwich i>lands—pur- country, may well he protected hy suing her own course, and doing to volunteers, who are ready to dedi- heraelf and others what ehe helieves cate all the hest part of their lives to he good in the eyes of god and to the service. but the virtual her own conscience. she has made ahandonment of the militia hallot liherty her idol. but she has now and the impressment of seamen, with- arrived at that stage of idolatry in out the suhstitution of an eqaiva- which unhelief hegins; and the con- lent in principle, we do not hesitate to sequence is a creeping fear of the stigmatise as one of the most flagrant powers of darkness. it was long he- derelictions of puhlic duty ever com- fieved that freedom had some invis- mitted hy a people tbrough its legis- ihle talisman for self-defence, one lature. with all our respect for a touch from which, like the point of representative government, we fear ithurieps spear, was enough to dis- that we should he right in saying, comfit the most malevolent and hest- that none hut a representative gov- organised attack; that it was suffi- ernment could have heen guilty of cieut to sing " rule, britaunia" with so gross a hlunder. the possihility devoutness, in order to guarantee of french invasion will always he a that britons never would he slaves, suhject of nervousuess as long as roaring the hurden of the french our nation sets its immediate corn- revolutionary song— mercial advantage ahove its inde. .] the emperor and the empire. pendence; and dearly as it professes gonistic to virtue, order, pence, and to prize personal liherty, looks upon progress, in any country where it is this liherty as chiefly valuahle in supreme, that it is impossihle, in tho exempting it from that duty of per- nature of things, that it can do other- eonfll military service for purposes wise than inspire misgiving and con- of defence, which is, and always has sternation hoth at home and ahroad, heen, recoguised in every other com- taking everything into considera- munity of freemen, ancient and mo- tion, we are convinced that a differ- dern. louis napoleon is a hughear ent judgment ought to he passed in to england, as philip was to athens, england on the nature of the french not hecause england is weaker than empire and the personal character france, or hecause athens was of the french emperor; and that weaker than macedon, hut hecause while the one demands the most un- napoleon, like philip, is ahsolute qualified reprohation, and ought to master of a certain amount of physi- awaken the most vigilant distrust, cal force, which he can hring to hear the other has certain demands, not against us at short notice, while the only on our charitahle construction, majority of englishmen prefer pay- hut, in some points, on our sympa- ing professional soldiers and sailors thetic admiration. it seems to us to defend them, to taking upon just as we often find individual pro- themselves the necessary sacrifices lessors hetter than the creed they of time, trouhle, and expense. as profess, eo louis napoleon, in his demosthenes said to the athenians personal aspects, may he considered of old, "taking for granted that even to tbrow a kind of lustre upon philip is dead" (a report which they the principle which he represents, hailed with the most extravagant joy), while monarchy, aristocracy, demo- "your supinenees and lack of patriot- cracy, ha»?e meanings of their own, ism will soon raise another philip in aud may resolve themselves, under his stead ;" so might it he said now, favourahle circumstances, into per- that were there no french emperor, manent constitutional principles, the john bright and his clique would french empire, whether under the soon create another emperor, whose naked supremacy of force, as wielded name would inflict a cbronic panic hy napoleon i., or its purfely ima- upon england. in napoleon, we ginary tenure hy napoleon ii., have the disadvantage of having a or the mixed regime of force and man of slow words and prompt deeds diplomacy administered hy napol- to deal with, while we are people eon iii.—which tbree stages of its of prompt words and slow deeds, life may he compared to the tbree and our press, instead of taking the changes of insect life in the rude measure of his power, and accepting gruh, the sleeping cbrysalis, and the position in which france has the specious moth — if tried on its placed him as the act and deed of own merits, appears to he nothing france herself, has preferred, in more or less than a temporary organ- qualifying his actions, to exculpate isation of anarchy. no single ele- france and inculpate the emperor,— ment of stahility guarantees the con- addressing the french nation as poor tinuance of its existence. it was silly sheep who have heen led astray, kept up during the life of its first and the emperor as the wolf who representative hy his personal genins, deceives them at his pleasure, and using main force and the naked devours them at hie leisure. if we action of might against right. it take a view of the emperor's posi- had no existence at all during the tion and conduct that may appear life of its second representative, hut exceptional, it is not that we would was evoked from his grave hy the claim that he should he implicitly diplomatic acumen of the third na- trusted, hut that we would distrust poleon, knowing the weakness of a him on other than personal grounds, tbrone possessing no dynastic press- while the man himself appears to tige, and resting on no foundation of possess many redeeming qualities, tradition or historic truth. iu the the principle which he represents is hands of this ahle man it wears a so purely and eutirely evil, so anta- painted mask, and covers its violence [dec. the emperor and the empire. hy duplicity, fearing to create against itself, hy a more open policy, the irresistihle opposition from ahroad which was fatal to the sway of napoleon i. it is common in france and else- where to eptak of the first empire and the second, as if their natures were separate and distinct—as if the first were a lion and the second a lamh; and this even in official quar- ters: while, with angular logical inconsistency, the imperialists derive the legal claims of the second empire from the first, and its representative potentate assumes the title, not of the second, hut of the third napoleon. the man himself has said, giving utterance, we think, rather to his wish than to his helief, "l'empire e'est la paix." in the enthusiasm of the moment he was prohahly un- aware that the proposition contra- dicted itself. empire in its ancient classic meaning was simply and ah- solutely military command. the emperors of rome possessed that title in virtue of heing commanders- in-chief of all the forces of rorne, and the justification of their power on moral grounds rested on the assump- tion that the anarchy into which the repuhlic had fallen hy the destruc- tion of all hereditary distinctions, demanded a continual promulgation of martial law, with an irresponsihle general to enforce it. that this state of things was looked upon at first as provisional, is shown hy the fact that, ou one or two occasions after the death of a tyraunical emperor, the senate made a feehle attempt to restore the repuhlic, hut the grow- ing preponderance of the military caste now rendered all such attempts worse than nugatory, until in process of time the utmost that patriots dared hope for was to secure a liheral and indulgent master, who was at the same time firm and popular with the soldiers. the title was assumed hy charlemague, in medieval europe, from the analogy of its functions with those of the older emperors. even in modern times it has always heen indissoluhly counected with military supremacy. the emperors of germany were the commanders- in-chief of the federal contingents, rather than the kings of the country over which their sway extended. the emperors of russia were so call- ed from the essentially military nature of a harhario chieftainship, though more properly distinguished under the tartar title of tsars. napoleon l, as the commander-in-chief of the forces of the french repuhlic, and to flatter the conceit of the nation, which, aping the old romans, ""would have hrooked the eternal devil to hold his state in kome more easily than a king," assumed the title of emperor, repu- diating all claims to sovereiguty hut those of might and popular election, which, as understood in the sense of universal suffrage, is nothing more than an expression of the hrutal will of the masses. if louis napoleon had honestly recoguised the same principle in assuming the purple, he would have heen more consistent; hut europe would prohahly have taken alarm, and unanimously have refused to acknowledge him, and he might have hoped that his political capacity, hy taking advantage of circumstances, would enahle him to overrule the nature of his position, and realise his dictum, hy making himself in process of time—if not in name, at least in fact — the lawful constitutional king of france. it is indeed prohahle, that had the emperor heen free to follow the hent of his aspirations, he would have heen satis- fied with securing and enjoying his position hy peaceful trinmphs, hy re- huilding and adorning paris, and making her, if at a lavish expense, the cynosure of cities, hy reciprocat- ing the free trade and industrial exhihitions of england, and thus creating a new hond of harmony he- tween neighhors; hut the nature of things did not allow of such a de- sirahle solution. the story of peter scblemibl, who sold his shadow for limitless wealth, is somewhat apro- pos of the emperor's position. peter wished, after he had ohtained the wealth, to live virtuously upon it, hut the nature of his compact with evil forhade it, and involved the ne- cessary addition of misery. had louis napoleon ascended the tbrone in a legal and constitutional mauner .] the emperor and the empire. ployed to moderate anti-english ex- citement. tbe political situation of france is uncomfortahle within and dangerous without; hut that is no fault of his; he found it so; and the most sensihle course for the neighhours of france is to give him every chance (for apparently there is none hesides him who can overcome the difficulty), hy a fair and impartial criticism of his acts and intentions, and perfect loyalty in dealing with him; hut at the same time "to keep their powder dry." if the emperor had heen personally disposed to pick a quarrel with england, he could not have had a hetter opportunity than was given him hy the indian mutiny —an opportunity not likely to occur again. if he quarrels with us, he will he forced into the quarrel. on the other hand, as long as the force hehind him exists, we are never safe. one of our special enemies, the ultra- montane party, he has already shown a disposition to tbrow over hy tbreat- ening to withdraw his troops from rome. if he has time he may feel himself sufficiently strong in general popularity to rid himself of the un- due influence of the army also. but just for the present a new danger arises from the incipient coolness he- tween the government and the priest- hood — namely, that it will find the support of the army, which is not given for nothing, more necessary than ever. it is high time that we should get over the idea of louis napoleon's omnipotence within the limits of france. it is of no use to launch tirades against him, and put on our war - paint when he uses one sort of expression, and then, when he nses another, incline to disarm and lie down to sleep in his lap. the emperor is not dangerous — the empire is so. if there is danger, as some think, to england's supremacy, her independ- ence, even her political existence, that danger is not in the character of the ruler, hut in the unalterahle nature of those anarchic elements which, since the revolution of , have heen rampant in france. to the emperor himself, we verily he- lieve that europe could not do a more friendly act than to hand itself in a defensive alliance as against france, not allowing the army to hreak out again as it did against austria, and forcing its superahun- dant energies into some afiican or asiatic safety-valve. most provok- ing to french military cupidity is that rich plunder - store of england, never properly protected hy its own people, who, nevertheless, are as free in their remarks on foreiguers as if they hristled with hayonets. louis napoleon knows well that england's teeth meet when they do hite, and he would vastly perfer any other en- terprise to one against our shores. it would he an act of kindness to him personally if we would make any such enterprise simply impos- sihle. unfortunately, the english people do not sufficiently take the measure of the danger; guided them- selves hy practical consideration in the main, they caunot understand how another nation can he impelled hy motives almost entirely sentimen- tal. yet the fact is, that utterly ruinous as a war with england would he to france, even were she victori- ous, a great -numher of frenchmen hesides the soldiers speak of it as an event very likely to come off. more hlest in climate and soil than almost any european nation, ahounding in corn and wine and oil, they envy us, as the roman did garactacus, our poor cottages in britain. it is just the propensity that the heir of ten thousand a-year has sometimes felt to stake his all at the gamhling-tahle. no nation can he conceived with more natural capacity for happiness than the french. but the french are sen- timental to an extent that other na- tions can hardly imagine. the rus- sians, we helieve, have already forgot- ten and forgiven sehastopol ; hut the french rake up against us old ohso- lete victories, and want their revenge, or if not revenge, at least the satis- faction of a gentleman, forgetting that there is an equal chance, to judge hy the histories they quote, that they may never get it if they try. it is a great pity that we caunot divine some method of according the desired satisfaction without the ter- rihle sacrifices of war. if single com- hats are out of date, each party might try which could huild the largest steamer, and race together across the atlantic, and agree that the victori- .] the emperor and the empire. cry g-od speed him! if louis na- poleon can only plack up the moral courage to leave the pope to his own devices, he will he the greatest hene- factor to his kind in this age. as. surely as swimming pigs cut their own tbroats, will the pope and car- dinal antonelli sink in the flood of popular indiguation when left to float hy themselves. the destruc- tion of the spiritual power of rome is almost too good to hope for, hut the destruction of the temporal would he something. but let not the evan- gelical alliance jump to the conclu- sion that italy, or france either, would hecome protestant. no south- ern people will ever he protestant, in our sense of the word, on a large scale; they caunot understand a re- ligion of intellect and feeling without its suggestive symholism; hut it is not too much to hope that catholic cbristendom will hreak up into in- dependent national churches, per- haps acknowledging, in the empe- ror's rather humorous expression, / the honorary supremacy of the pope —that the more manly and spirited of the clergy will add the sacrament of matrimony to that of orders, and then woe to the centralised despot ism of rome. the first napoleon was strong enough to oppress and hully the papacy. louis napo- leon has hit upon the happy ex- pedient of the honorary supremacy of the italian confederation, and if the leaven works, good may come of it in many ways. but this is a husi- ness from which, from the nature of the case, we are entirely excluded for the present. the emperor's conduct in the great italian question will he judged hy what has yet to come. he lias as yet done not much more than lift his hand to see which way the wind was hlowing. if the italians deserve freedom he will not hinder them. in any case, he has done the roughest part of the work in cracking the shell of austrian rule, and they may justly he grateful. as to hia naval armaments, the sconer we place ourselves in a position to ask him what he means hy them lhe het- ter. it is the empire, and not the emperor which is the mortal and irreconcilahle enemy of all the world. the mind of the emperor may ulti- mately, if he is properly supported and properly checked, he euahled to trinmph over the spirit of the em- pire. if he is shut out from foreigu war hy a stern european comhina- tion of well-armed nations, he must gtant liheral institutions to france to insure himself against the discon- tent of an unemployed army, and thus hecome, in fact, a constitutional king. if he caunot manage this, his dynasty will not, in all prohahility, outlast the present generation; and then we may well ask, what next? mere curiosity would b# a sufficient motive to his contemporaries for de- siring to outlive him. [dec fleets and navies—england.—part in. fleets ann navies—englann. man is and must he ever the real muscle of war, the motive force, the aggressive and defending agent. mechanism may have hecome a great power; money has heen, and will he to the end of time, the feed- ing source of war; the national spirit is the heart-system from which its vitality flows; hat on the nature and supply of men most depend the military standard of a people. a country may possess the faculty of raising machines and accumulating material of any kind and to any ex- tent; it may have coffers full and flowing, resources ample and endur- ing, yet, if it have not men, or, hav- ing them, caunot command their nse or organise them for efficiency, its might for war would he a nullity. fleets without navies, armies with- out soldiers, are the illusions which have again and again, tbroughout the history of the world, hrought over- tbrow and destruction on powers, dynasties and nations. this may seem a truism, hut it is one which is forcing itself on england and her people as a very uupleasant and dif- ficult prohlem* roused to a trial of strength and comparison, we find that we could outhuild the world, could produce material and find engines of war faster and hetter than any or all of the great maritime powers; we find that our resources are greater and more elastic; we find also that we have men, a hody of citizens the most numerous and hest seamen in the world ; yet we caunot apply or utilise them for war service. we decline to compel them; we fail to lure them; they are like the stream of tantalus, ever hefore us, ever he- yond us. the wisdom of the past and the experience of the present have hrought forward their sugges- tions, have proffered the lures of hounties, increased pay, increased comfort, pensions, and promotions; and yet the seamnn is not lured, or if lured, is hardly retained. it would seem that in all these suggestions— and many of them are wise and good —the seaman has heen considered as heing still the reckless unstahle fel- low of the old wars, who won his' money in toil and hlood, and spent it in dissipation; who put watches on frying-pans and ate five-pound notes hetween slices of hread-and-hutter; whose vices and after needs made him ever roving and changeful; and that it has heen thought necessary to legislate for him, as though in these long years he had heen at a standstill, and never progressed either in character or feeling with his times, now, those who know him hest, know that the seaman of today is no more like the tar of old traditions, than our present english gentleman is like the squire of the last century. no vocation has perhaps changed so much. he is no longer now thrift- less and reckless. he has hegun to he calculating, almost provident, and ever in thought and project seeks to get some hold on the future. we helieve that his rejection of the lures held out, proceeds not from his under- valuation of them, hut from his want of faith in those who proffer them. he suspects that the things promised to-day will he withdrawn to-morrow, keeps aloof and refuses to he tempted hy such fleeting good. make him a permanency—let him feel himself a fixture, not removahle hy a freak of politics, a change of ministry, or a scratch of the pen—let him he as- sured that for so many years he will have hread and service — that in ,his old age he will have provision against starvation or the union, and we helieve that he will come will- ingly to the lure, and that it will he easy then to hind him fast hy his own interests and his own heart- strings. man can only he fixed hy giving him a home. the nomades sea art. "fleets and navies—england," in our septemher numher. .] fleets and navies—england.—part ii . of old, when they huilt or fonnd themselves houses and cities, hecame settled peoples; so with these no- mades of the seas—these men who eurol themselves under any flag for wage — give them homes—let them take root—give hostages to fortune —let them tee an assured present for themselves and a future for their children in a standing navy, and we helieve that we should therehy estah- lish a permanency of man-power sufficient for defence, equal to any possihle need, and which should, he- sides, contain the elements of self- expansion. the study of this ques- tion forces on us another instance of the great fact that the crimes and shortcomings of nations ever come hack on them, like stones tbrown up to heaven. in our last great war, for purposes of expediency we made the sailor reckless and vicious; to roube him more our own, we strove to keep him poor; to keep him poor, to drive him hack to his flrig, we en- couraged him in a recklessuess and rapidity of vice which should soonest place him at the mercy of the crimp; we kept the thought or feeling of home dark within him. and now the greatest difficulties we meet with in managing or retaining him are his vice and unsettledness. it is to he hoped that when we try to remove the one, we shall also strive to correct the other. the one is a national duty, the other a na- tional necessity, and there is hetwixt them the link which ever hinds the duties of a people with their inte- rests. this man difficulty has more than once in this present century hrought england to a crisis. more than once from this difficulty her destiny as a nation, her naval supremacy, have hung hy a tbread. sir c. na- pier, in his evidence hefore the com- mission for mauning the navy, gives one instance. he states—and every one who rememhers that crisis must feel how true the statement is — "that in , when france and england were on had terms in con- sequence of the syrian affair, the french withdrew their fleet from ours, and collected at toulon ahout sail of the line. we had in the mediterranean or sail of the vol. lxxxvi. line, and hy great exertions we in- creased our fleet to sail of the line. the french ships were full of men. ships of the same size as our own had ahout and men; we had ahout . i looked upon that," he says, "as a very dangerous position in which we were. exer- tions were made in england to man two or tbree line-of-hattle ships which were lying at spithead, and they remained from five to seven months hefore they were mauned; "so that we were, with a large french fleet in the mediterranean, on had terms with france, with a urge turkish and egyptian fleet of ahout sail of the line, and a great poli- tical question going on. now, if the french had sailed from toulon with their sail of the line wldle wo were scattered over the mediter- ranean, and had made a junction with the egyptian fleet of ahout sail more, it is quite evident that we could not have maintained our post. we must have collected our ships and withdrawn from the coast of syria." "or had they sailed from toulon with evil intentions, they would have arrived in this country five or six weeks hefore we could have collected our fleet. i think the country was never in greater danger than it was then. we had no power of getting men. the ships lay at spithead for four or five months; and had the enemy ap- peared off there, or in the chaunel, or had come to cherhourg, they would have commanded the chaunel, and done what they thought proper." hero was a real crisis—it was no panic, no exaggeration of alarm, hut a real positive danger tbreatening the might of england; and the man-diffi- culty had caused it. the revelations of hureaux have since disclosed that the question of peace or war was poised in the halan- ces. the caprice of a minister or the will of a monarch might have turned the scale, and england have heen put on a trial of life or death. our old naval prestige and the peace-policy of a sovereigu saved us then. it was not the interest of the existing dynasty to institute war as a policy in france; and even then caw- nets hesitated to challenge a navul power which had proved so terrihle. wo [dec. fleets and navies—england.—part iii. alison in his history of europe (vol. viii. p. ) has cbronicled an- other instance when the peril was just as imminent, and our impotency to meet it equally patent. in the year , in consequence of differences on the greek question, the nation was hrought to the verge of a war with france and russia united, and at that time '' hy no efforts could five eail of the line, adequately mauned, have heen collected in the chaunel to protect the british shores from invasion. on the other hand, the russians had sail of the line, constantly mauned- and equipped, in the baltic, and in the euxine, and france had , men ready to man s>.il of the line, aud as many frigates and war-steamers, to join in the crusade. and the danger was averted hy no other means hut ahan- donment hy great britain of the pretensions she had in so heedless a mauner advanced." there were other occasions when the diguity and safety of the country were imperilled hy this same man- difficulty ; hut surely these should he enough for warning—enough to give the past a meaning to the present. is this man-difficulty less now thin it was then? or is it possihle to sup- pose, that were the like danger to arise now, it would he averted hy any hesitation in the policy of our enemy; or that if a desigu were once formed against our supremacy, any suhmis- sion could save us from the fate of weakness and unpreparedness? it is not less, perhaps, in the fact of getting men, hut it is less in the fact that we are addressing ourselves earnestly to solve it. it still re- mains, however, the great prohlem of our time—the great moot-point of our naval destiny. every mnn has sotne pet theory for its solution. professional chiefs, mercantile men, statesmen, demagogues, the great church hierarchs even are all per- fectly convinced that they are ahle to devise a plan for mauning the navy. and yet, strange to say, spite of the multitude of council, the question is still an open one. the desigus and plans are prohahly all clever and in- genious — many seemingly feasihle; hut there is one ohjection to all: the !,eamen will not assent to them. there are, unfortunately, two parties to the question—the state and the mariner. the state may pass its de- crees and issue its plans, yet the knot will remnin as great a tangle as ever, unless the seaman sees with the eyes, and reasons with the reasons, of the state. until he adopts and recog- nises them, the decrees will remain a dead letter, the plans he never more than ahortions. the offer of the state may he supposed to he hest emhodied in the "report of the commissioners appointed to inquire into the hest means of mauning the navy," as all the suggestions therein advanced have heen either directly or indirectly adopted. these cum- missioners were chosen from differ- ent classes, all supposed, from cir- cumstances or experience, to he in- terested in and well acquainted with the suhject; and their recommenda- tions were hased on the evidences of the first men hoth in the naval and merchant service. their recom- mendations, therefore, as they have heen ratified hy the state, may he considered as representing the views and ideas of the country in respect to the solving of the great questions— how can we get men for our fleets? how can we retain them? how can we provide reserves for emergen- cies? how can we make the supply certain and permanent? by discuss- ing the principles and details of the system proposed hy the state to overcome the man - difficulty, we shall see wherein it meets and where- in it fails to meet the great national need, and therehy judge whether it is sufficient as a final measure, or what yet remains to attain the great end—mauning the navy. the commis-ioners divide their inquiry, and their report of sugges- tions, into two parts. the first in- cludes '' the mode in which her ma- jesty's ships are mauned in time of peace; the condition of the seamen i and whether any alterations could he introduced hy which the service might he rendered more popular. the second, the mode in which the fleet has heretofore heen mauned in time of war; the means which exist for that purpose; the character and extent of the reserves on which re- liance can he placed; what measures c [dm. fleets and navies—england.—part ill improving the condition, and raising the standing and character of the seamen. these arrangements comprise an alteration "in the condition of the hulks in which the men are lodged whilst their ships are fitting out, and improvements in their lighting, ven- tilation, warming, and other arrange- ments, upon which the health and comfort of the men so much depend" —an increase in the allowance of provisions—the issue of hedding and mtss utensils to the men on entering, hy the government, to enahle them to commence their service free from deht—a gratuitous supply of a suit of clothes to every man on his first entering for ten years' continuous service—the payment of wages whilst the ship was fitting out—an altera- tion id the system of allotments— the extension of the privilege of hadge-money, for good conduct, to petty officers—the grant of a higher grade of rank to warrant-officers, and of a pension to their widows—the promotion of warrant-officers, or any seaman in her majesty's navy, to the quarter-deck, in the case of very sigual and extraordinary services. having framed these suggestions, the commission closes,; this part of the subjcct with the conclusion, that their adoption "will render the ser- vice more popular, and tend to effect the ohject in view, namely, the speedy and efficient mauning of her majesty's ships." a good and sufficient conclusion, truly, if it he proven hy results. thus we have hefore us the whole plan of the state for mauning the navy, and keeping it mauned, in time of peace. there can he no ohjection to any of the propositions; they are all good, all commendahle, all preg- nant with henefit to the seaman and efficiency to the navy; hut the douht is, whether they are sufficient in themselves, without the operation of some other principle which should give them due action, to fulfil the re- quired purpose. the principles on which they are hased have all heen partially tried already, and though productive of certain good results, have never justified the conclusion, that their expansion and extension alone would insure the one great end. the plan of continuous service, of increased advantages in personal pay, comfort, and promotion, has already heen offered on a smaller scale to the seaman, without making the service much more popular in his eyes; and it can scarcely he hoped that its en- largement alone will at once overcome his disinclination, and give the state the preference in the man-market the continuous service was the germ of a permanent organisation— was hegiuning to expand—was he- giuning to he understood, and to have a popular action. in the russian war there were , serving under its conditions; and there can he little douht that an experience of its advantages, present and prospec- tive, would have given it a wider and more extended operation, until its effect would have heen almost that of a standing navy, and the state would have found itself possessed not only of a control over its sea- men, hut of a power of complet- ing and even extending their num- her. the non - continuous-service men would have seen its working, have witnessed the privileges erjoyed hy their comrades, and have gradually comprehended that these more than counterhalauced their own liherty of choice and action on leaving their ships. the most popular condition of the system was its permanency, or, at any rate, the fact of its hecom- ing so was the only one which could have much henefited the state. it was the interest of the state that the seaman should see in it a certainty not only of present henefit, hut of future and prospective good—that he might feel a vested right in the ser- vice—that he had a property in it. if he had no security in its perma- nency, it was nothing to him; the present advantages were not sufficient to tempt or allure; it was the assur- ance that the engagement hetwixt him and the state was hinding—that his years of service were an invest- ment for afterlife, which could alone induce him to prefer it to his old oflf-and-on custom of entering for a commission only. unfortunately, his confidence in this permanency was hroken hy one of those acts which have teuded ever to place mistrust hetwixt the seaman and the .] fleets and atavies—england.—part iii. state, and which have mainly created and aggravated the man-difficulty. after the war there was a redaction, and continuous-service seamen were offered a free discharge; were paid oflf, with the understanding that on re-entry, their previous service would not count towards pension, and that they must hegin de novo. this was denied hy officials to he a hreach of faitli; hut it had, at any rate, all the appearance and effects of such, and must, and did, shake the trust of the seaman in the perma- nency of the henefits to himself which the system offered. these reductions have heen ever the curse of the navy; they have ever deteriorated its effi- ciency, demoralised its character, hroken its organisation, and, worst of all, have inspired the seaman with a distrust of the faith of his rulers. neither have they heen successful as economical schemes. they are ever the most costly of political projects. undertaken under some pressure of opinion, of financial urgency, of de- ference to demagogical cries, they are necessarily carried out hastily, and in the mauner which will tell most im- mediately on the halance sheets of estimates. there is no time for sav- ing hy a judicious curtailment of ex- penses, hy an investigation of extra- vagant expenditure in departments: the sum must he struck off at once; therefore so many ships must he paid off, so many seamen discharged, that the expenses of their main- tenance may not appear in the com- ing hudget. unfortunately for the projectors, fortunately for the nation, these reductions have ever heen fol- lowed hy emergencies: men have heen no sooner dispersed than they have heen required again; hut the same men were not to he found—the trained, disciplined men who had heen so summarily dismissed, hid carried their skill and their experi- ence to other markets, and their places were to he filled hy sweep- ing from the highways and hyways, hy grass-comhers, along-shore men, coasters, raw material, who were to he manufactured into seamen at the expense of the state, and perlups even enticed hy high hounty. a due inquiry into these reductions would show, we helieve, that it would have heen cheaper to have retained each of these men at the cost of his weight in gold, rather than have dismissed him. nor did the evil end with losing the man; with him went ever somewhat of the old spirit and the old character he had inherited, of the old traditions he had received. after the peace-policy panic, which sent or men recklessly adrift on their own resources in the years - , it was found, when the crews were again emhodied, that their gen- eral character and tone had very much changed; that the old man-of- war's man had disappeared, or re- mained only like a red indian among the clearings; that the old hahits were hecoming ohsolete; that the dare-devilism, the reckless smartness of the past, was yielding to a cautious, calculating consideration of how much work should he done for so much pay; that the old yarns and the old fore- hitters, the old sea-ditties, had heen superseded hy the slang of the cad- ger's haunt and the songs of the cage and the prison; and that even crime had lost its daring character, and de- scended to the petty-larceny-speak- ing style of the tramp and vaga- hond. had this ias'ed long, the old naval character of england might have heen infected with a degeneracy which would have ended in death. luckily there was leaven enough left, life enough left in the system, to modify the evil, though it will he long ere the service eotirely recover from the effects of this demoralisa- tion. "the evil that men do lives after them;" and the evil which these statesmen did, who counselled such reductions, will live after their names and memories are extinct, to trouhle and perplex their nation. these reductions were like the old medical operation of letting out so many ounces of hlood, instead of cor- recting hy gentler remedies the disease of the constitution. the act of douhtless gave a shock to the continuous service sys- tem, and will retard its ex'ension and diminish its influence in popular- ising the service, unless there he given to it such a law of permanency as shall restore confidence in its operations, and give assurance to those who accept it that the henefits .] fleets and navies—england.—part . no lack of candidates. it is the made seaman, the manufactured ar- ticle, who will seek and find his own market, that it is so difficult to ohtain. an early and certain provi- sion, an education and a calling without any demand on their re- sources or respond hility, would he a great temptation to parents. the service would he always popular to hoys. here the state might pick and choose. it might not only get as many as it required, hut get the hest. it might nurture them after its own model. six, eight, ten thou- sand hoys thus entered, trained, and fed, cultured morally and physically under government superintendence, would suffice at least to keep up the continuous-service men to the numher of , if each hoy, in return for the henefit he had received from the slate, were required to insure his services for a certain numher of years —nor would it he too much to ask in return for education and training. thus would he secured the elements of a healthy, taught hody, self-sup- •porting and superior to any other in efficiency. there would he expense in this, douhtless; hut the expense would he repaid hy certainty and efficiency; in the x s. d. point of view even would he compensated hy there heing no need for hounties; hy the decrease in crime — a costly item in military expenditure is crime, though economists seldom regard or calcu- late on it; hy the decrease in deser- tions, in sickness, and invalidings; hy having hetter men, healthier men, more valuahle men. tliese are con- siderations which seldom enter into the calculations of financiers: that a rogue or scamp costs tbrice as much as a good mau—a weakly, sickly one twice as much as a healthy one. a mm is to them a man—an item— representing so much expenditure; so that he stands in due order and makes up the figure, it mitters little what class he comes from; yet it would show a difference which would astonish their statistics were they to compare the results, the halances, of the career and service of a man thus early taken hy the srate, and one entered hy haphazard, with- out knowledge of his antecedents, his stamen, or capacity. it would ap- pear, we helieve, that two good healthy men could he kept and main- tained at the cost of one hroken- down, dehauched, or irregular one; so that this increase in the hoys' system would he not only the surest source, hut the cheapest in facts, if not in figures, for mauning the navy. the next recommendation was the reserve of seamen. this was good, too, very good; yet why so limited? why depart from the ori- ginal suggestion made hy the com- mittee of .r, , "that her majesty's navy should he maintained at such numerical force in commission, as, independently of the chaunel squad- ron, will admit of , seamen and hoys heing retained in england for the protection of the ports and coasts of the uuited kingdom"? surely this was not more than enough fo» the conservation of our supremacy, not more than the country would have willingly maintained; yet the commissioners curtailed this to , and suhstituted for a defensive reserve one which was merely an expedient for the speedy and economical relief of ships on srations. ten thousand seamen at home — ten thousand continuous-service men, ahle-hodied, skilled guuners, or- ganised, ready! what a vision of defence does this conjure up! how calmly might we contemplate the naval preparations of other countries, had we at command such a force, with which, in the moment of danger, we might at once man a fleet suffi- cient, iu conjunction with the chan- nel squadron, to meet the first hlow of a war, the first onset of a danger, and yet leave a nucleus on which our reserves might form to man a se- cond or a third which would i>sue forth from our harhours in reinforce- ment to assert the might, the inex- haustihle might, of england and why not? is not england entitled to such assurance of defence? is she not capahle of affording and maintaining it? such an assurance she must have, and will have, perhaps in a more permanent and enlarged form; hut defence has hecome a national will, and must he accomplished. accom- plished thus in a permanently organ- ised hody, or a standing navy, we [dec. fleets and navies—england.—part iii. increased hy men. there is, however, a limit heyond which they cannot he conveniently increased, for it is necessary to their efficiency that they should spend a large portion of their time afloat." here we have the first component of our reserve— a hody of soldiers well trained and ahle, muny of them experienced in the mages, duties, and discipline of a man-of war, all ready at a lew hours' notice to he transported on hoard ships, and at once to enter on their part in the organisation; for the de- tachments always contain a great proportion of old soldiers, who of themselves shape and order the re- cruit element. this is, of course, a certain resource. it was thought ex- pedient that this hody should he in- creased hy , so that this portion of the reserve should furnish . this recommendation was partially carried out; an addition of was voted, was raised in two or three months, and many of the numher have heen already thorougbly trained, and are serving afloat. thus, then, we have a corps ulways at hand, thorougbly serviceahle, readily trained, and easily raised. the man-difficulty meets us not here. it would seem, therefore, reasonahle, if we cannot get seamen and can get marines, that we ought to seize on the material which we can command, and increase the pro- portions of the latter force in the naval system. there are two objec- tions offered to this — that if the strength of this hody were raised he- yond a certain limit, the intervals hetwixt the terms of service afloat would he so long that the men would lose much of the efficiency which they bad attained tbrough u-e and expe- rience of ship life and duties,—and that an increa-e of this hody would tend to a decrease of seamen. the first ohjection m'ght readily he evercome hy increasing the strength of detachments afloat; or hy attach- ing a certain numher to the gun- hoats at the different ports in which they might he exercised during cer- tain months, and the young hands thus learned to get their sea legs, and the old ones to keep theirs. how- ever, usually, a man is seldom more than a year or at most two years on shore, and it is not likely that, dur- ing that time, or even the longer period which the proposed increase would entail, a marine who had heen some years afloat would lose the ha- hitude of sea life. of late, men who had not heen more than four or five months on shore after service in the crimea and in china, were again em- harked; and it hss happened, and it is to he supposed that it will always happen, that the various call- of the service, and the national exigency, will curtail so much the shore por- tion of his career, that there will he no danger of the sea experiences heing forgotten or ohliterated. the second ohjection is one in- spired in naval chiefs hy a jealous fear for the interests of their class, all men naturally cling to their own class, and helieve it to he the fore- most and most fitting for all pur- poses. naval chiefs love their hlue- jackets naturally, lean to them, trust in them; they know them to he pre- cious and costly material, and look suspiciously on any measure which may reduce their sale. they grudge a single hluejacket, even though that hluejacket shonld represent a poor wretch who is not worth his salt. they would he right, undouhtedly right, if seamen - numhers meant seamen - strength; hut it is well koown to all who have had experiences of a man- of-war, that there are always many men on the ship's hooks, classed for- merly as landsmen, now perhaps as second-class ordinary, who are not and never can he made seamen; who merely swell the muster-hooks, cum- her the decks, consume victuals, plague drill - instructors, employ the police, and are of little or no use whatever. in fact, as we once heard an old salt say, they are nondescript —neither hog, dog, nor devil. xow, such men might well he replaced hy marines, without danger to the sfa- man-supply or seamen-efficiency. we are no advocates of the theory that the changes which steam and the improvement in arms have made in naval warfare will make seamanship a dead letter, and that ships oucht for the future so he mauned chiellv, if not entirely, hy artillerymen. we repudiate it altogether. seamanship must he ever the life-principle of our navy; it is that which gave us suprenncy — it is that which must maintain it. [dec fleets and jfavies—england.—part iii. dier element' would tbrust out and aholish from the naval system a class which is weakening to its efficiency, without in any way diminishing its real strength in seamanship; and that this soldier-force should he adequate to the sole conduct of any land opera- tions which might he projected. to carry oat such an arrangement, the marine corps should never he allowed to full helow the strength of men, as proposed hy the commission; and until a system of ohtaining and retaining seamen, hoth for the peace estahlishment and the reserve he de- vised, it would he advisahle to increase the numhers hy or more. how- ever, whatever may he their exact nu- merical force, the marines on shore must he accepted as a real and valu- ahle item in the reserve for national defence. the same may he said with equal justice of the next component of the reserve, the c.uwt-guard. this force is composed of experienced and tried seamen, chiefly men-of-war's men who have served seven years at sea (and this seven is to he increa-ed to ten); men matured in strength, adept in mratas, inured to discipline, and suhject to a regular organisation. the numhers voted for this force were ; hut of these the officer in command of it states that there are only ah.,ut , including officers and hoys who may he considered as "fleet men"—men ahle and capahle of heing transferred from the coa>t- guard at once to a man-of-war. these men are dispersed along the coasts as required for the protection of the revenue, hut are attached to different ships stationed at the dif- ferent ports in the districts, into whose organisation they could he at once admitted. it is calculated that eighteen hours would he the longest time required for the assemhlage of any portion of this force, fully armed and equipped; so that in twenty- four hours from the time a summons was despatched, men would he assemhled on hoard their respective district - ships, ready for transfer, dispersion, or service in their own vessels. there are eleven such ships —nine hlock-hips, and two frigates —none ot which are considered ser- viceahle or efficient it was proposed hy the comptroller of the coast guard that these vessels should he replaced hy good and efficient ships, complete in every respect of equip- ment and armament, so that, when mauned hy the men attached to them, they would form a fleet of eleven ships of the line, which might ren- dezvous at spithead in tbree days. this proposition seemed so sound and so judicious, that it is strange it was not at once adopted. it was stated that the ships thus employed would not deteriorate so much as in ordinary. thus the chaunel fleet, in the very shortest time in which danger could he apprehended, might he douhled hy a reinforcement equal to joining it at once, if the emergency were urgent. if there were more time for preparation, the crews might he divided, one-half heing sent to form the nucleus of another fleet, whilst their places were filled, accord- ing to sir charles napier's plan, hy marines and ordinaries. the regulations for the concentra- tion of this force appear to he very perfect and the organisation of it to he very good. the efficiency of the men is undouhted. they proved themselves in the russian war: ahout were emharked in each of the liners in the biltic fleet. at first, commanding officers harked at their comparative slowness and want of smartness, and their comrades laughed at their coddling hahits, and the care they took to guard against cold, catarrhs, and rheumatics, hy swathing themselves in woollen, wrapping their tbroats in flaunel, and making frequent applications to the doctor; hut in time their trust- worthiness and practice hegan to tell. they furnished crews for the hoats, no one of which ever ran, or got drunk, and thus relieved them of all anxiety as to their coming and going; they had ever in their ranks men of intelligence and experience, ready and fit to he appointed on emergencies to places of trust and responsihility; and they seldom if ever appeared in the roll of culprits, or appeared in the punishment-lists. during two years of service, out of the hundred coast-guard men emharked in one ship, only one was ever hrought up for punishment. these facts are striking. why was it that these men were superior fltets and navies—england.—part iii. [dec too short to admit of that efficiency which a man called upon to serve in these times of practised guunery should possess, and which would he still further decreased hy the system of hroken periods. it. is supposed that twenty-eight days will he as much time as could conveniently he exacted from a merchant-seaman, without great detriment to his inter- ests; hut it is also supposed that every seaman is on shore and out of employ for ahout tbree months in the year. why not, then, give him the option of serving that time, or any portion of it, in a training-ship or man-ofwar? many, instead of slop- ing and loafing ahout the seaports, casting ahout for a meal or a hed, would he glad of such a provision and maintenance, and would he rendering themselves more efficieut memhers of the reserve. allowing, however, that the re- quired numhers are raised—that the organisation is made, and the whole system hronght into fair working order—we have still to ask how those men, or how many of them, will he availahle at a sudden sum- mons? how many of the , would he fortheoming, or could he depended on at any instant? the ohligation that each volunteer should report himself every six months, in- sures his not heing long ahsent; hut it would he entirely a matter of acci- dent whether he would he present when required. it might he that, when the need arose, two thirds of the force would he in the home ports, or it might also happen that the same proportion would he ahsent; at any rate, it could never he fairly calculated that more than one-half would he availahle. even thus we helieve that we overstate the actual dependence. however, even with these ohjec- tions, it is the hest plan for a volun- teer force yet enacted; it will at any rate give us some hold on the mer- chant seamen, and, hy familiarising them with the navy, will no douht popularise that service, and open a wide field for recruitment; and as it is only the last reserve, we may ac- cept it as a worthy addition to the national defences. the commission • further provided for the future main- tenance of this force, and their re- commendation was one which would have given it a certain permanency. they thought that, though it must he first constituted of adults carefully selected from the merchant service, it must he supplied and fed hy hoys. they acknowledge, tbrough- out, the principle, that every force which is to he permanent and re- liahle must have a certain feeding source; and they wisely recommend, in all instances, that this source should consist of hoys chosen, trained, and educated for the purpose. in this case they propose "that school- ships should he estahlished in all the principal commercial ports, capahle of accommodating from to hoarders in each ship, of whom should he supported hy the state ; that these hoys should he carefully chosen; and that they should receive not only instruction for the merchant service, hut also certain instructions in gun- nery ; that the schools should he open to day scholars, children residing at the ports; and that, at the expiration of the training, a certain numher (limited, however) should- have the option of entering the riyal navy, the remainder heing taken as ap- prentice* hy the shipowners, who, in return for the education given, would he required to suhscrihe to a certain fund in favour of the hoys thus re- ceived. it is thought that, at the close of the apprenticeship, the hahits acquired, the inducements of pay, and promised pension, would draw the sailor at once into the hody of volunteers." why not make it compulsory, at any tate on those who receive their education and main- tenance gratis from the state? it would not he any severe exaction from the others in return for the advan- tages given, and would insure a cer- tain fteding source. this part of the plan, like the other, will have a great effect in cementing the union hetwixt the two services, and in creating a kindly feeling which, after some years' work- ing and trial, would no douht popu- larise the naval service and aunul the man-difficulty. the commissioners, in closing their lahours, arrive at the conclusion that, hy the means proposed, there index. castelnau, french amhassador to scot- land, notices of, ' t. catherine de medici, notices of, , et teq. cavour, count, counection of, with the italian war, l. change of ministry, the, what next? . charlemague, the legendary history of, . charles ix. of france, proposed mar- riage hetween elizaheth and, . charles v., motley's character of, — his ahdication, et seq. cheruel's work on queen mary, review of, . china, on allied operations in, . christianity, the attack hy positivism on, —the introduction, ac, of, into england, . clarendon, lord, and the italian ques- tion, —his instructiens to lord elgin in china, . cleland, colonel, his account of the higbland host, and macaulay's use of it, . cockneyism, london and parisian, . cognition, sir w. hamilton on, . coliguy, the admiral, supposed applica- tion to hamilton of bothwellhaugh to assassinate, . comhin, ascent of the, . comparison, sir w. hamilton's views on, . compiegue, the meeting of napoleon iii. and lord palmerston at, . conservatives, strength of the, . cookery, domestic, michelet on, — italian, . cornwall, effect of intercourse with the phenicians, —traditions regard- ing king arthur in, . corso of florence, the, . cousin, victor, kenan on, . cowley, lord, and the italian question, et seq. cowper, lieutenant, peculiarities of mur- der of, hy the sepoys, . cranmer, archhishop, as the leader of the english reformation, —cruel- ties of, . crusader's return, the—a breton hallad, . daily news, the, on the hrihery con- victions, . damascus, the approach to, and sketches in, et teq. danes, the iuroads, ac., of, in england, . dargaud's histoire de marie stuart, on, , . dartmouth election petition, the, . davies, mr., ascent of the mischahel- horner, hy, . derhy, lord, on the peaee, . derhy ministry, the overtbrow of the, el seq.—charges of hrihery hrought against the, et seq. diahlerets, ascent of the, . disarmament, the proposed, et seq. douglas, sir edward, on the russian navy, . dream of the dead, a, . druidisra, the, of the britons, . drummond, captain, and the massacre of glencoe, . druses, sketches of the, . dumas' marie stuart, on, . dumharton, richard frank's account of, . duncanson, major, and the massacre of glencoe, et seq. duomo of florence, the, et seq. dutch repuhlic, motley' history of the, . edgeworth, miss, the novels of, . edward vi., latimer's preaching he- fore, . eghert, suhjugation of the heptarchy hy, . egmont, count, execution, ac, of, . elahorative faculty, the, hamilton's views on, . election petitions, the, who does the hrihery? .' elections, gains of the conservatives hy the, . elgin, lord, the instructions to, in china, . elizaheth, conduct, ac, of, on the exe- cution of queen mary, —proposed marriage of, to charles ix., . emperor, the, and the empire, . england, sketches of the reformation in, et seq.—policy of napoleon iii. toward, et seq.—present state, ac, of the fleet of, 'auetseq.—present posi- tion of, with regard to france, ctseq. —passion forsporting,ac, in, —the ahoriginal races of, —importance of the chinese question to, and danger of alliance with france on it, — effects of industrialism in, —diffi- culty of mauning the navy in, et seq. english fox-hunter and higbland laird, burt's picture of the, . english hlstory, vauqhas's revolu- tions ln", reviewed, . englishman, associations of the, with london, . english school of painting, the, . ethelhert, murder of, . ethelrcd the uuready, reign of, . eencval, the haron d', mission of, to scotland, . europe, the mountain ranges of, . european troops, necessity for, in in- dia, . farel, the reformer, in geneva, . felicita, part i, —conclusion, . index. fenttre de snlena, passage of the, . festa, an italian, . fevers, severity of, in africa, . feydeau, fauny hy, remarks on, . fight on tuk 'emo, tue, . flelts ash navies, part ii., england, —part iii., . fletsehhorn, ascent of the, . florence, a week in, . fonmgn akfaiks—the disarmament, . foster, mr., visit to martinsloch, hy, . france, present position and policy of, ct sec/.—danger from the navy of, , —long counection of scotland with, —history of the alliance he- tween scotland mid, —dangers, &.<•., of alliance with, against china, s—naval force of, in the east, —renan on the present state of, —position of, in relation to the em- peror, et teq. frank, richard, his account of the high- lands, and macaulay's use of it, et set/. frogatcs hlindees, the french, . french, the, <,n qi-ken mary, . french exhihition, the, in london, et teq. french literature, influence of positiv- ism on, —characteristics of mo- dern, . frenchman, the, his attachment to paris, . french school of pointing, the, . frenchwomen, miehelot on, . futohe of india, the, and her army, . galway contract, sir james graham on the, . geant, col du, ascent of. . geneva, influence of calvin, ac, in, , elaeq. george i., character undinfluence of, . gerard, the assassination of the prince of orange hy, . germany, policy of uapoleon iii. to- ward," , . ghiherti, the gates of, at the baptistery of florence, , . giotto, the campanile of, et teq.— the frescoes of, in santa croce, c . glaciers, remarks on, . glencoe, the massacre of, examination of mncaulay's account of it, et scq— the valley of, its scenery, ac, et stq. gloucester clectiou petition, the, . goldsmith's account of the higblands, macaulay on, et seq.—contrast hetween them, . gothic architecture, domestic, . graham, sir james, his speech on the no-confidence motion, —charge of hrihery hrought hy, against the derhy ministry, . grant, mrs., her account of glencoe and the massacre, . granvclle, the cardinal, character of, . grotte, m. de la, death of, in the alps, . guise, the duke of, his murder, — and that of his son, . guises, effects of the counection of queen mary with, —their desigus, ac., . guizot on the cause of the decline of spain, et teq. guns, the various, fornaval warfare, . gunhoats, uses, ac, of the. , . h. d. w, love's young dream nowa- days, hy, . hamerton, colonel, consul at zanzihar, . hamilton, pir william, lech-res on metaphysics hy, reviewed, . hamilton, colonel, counection of, with the massacre of glencoe, et seq. hamilton of bothwellhaugh, the assas- sination of the regent murray hy, . hanoverian settlement, circumstances attending the, . hardwicke, archdeacon, death of, . hardy, mr., nscent of mount jetua hy, , —and of the peak of dark- ness, . hasheya, sketches in, . hauotrrs and the haunted, the, ok the house and the brain, . hawkins, mr., account of the col de miage hy, . hengist and horsa, dr. vaughan on, . heury viii. of england, latimer he- friended hy, . henry iii. of france, conduct of, on the execution of queen mary, —mur- der of hie duke of guise hy, . heptarchy, government, ac, of the, . hereditary succession, slow develop- 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ships, the proposed, . iskenderoon, the sketches at, . italian architecture, characteristics of florence, . italian diuner, an, . italian murder, an, . italian question, feeling in the country on the, —the diplomatic corre- spondence on it, . italian war, policy of napoleon iii. in the, . italians, endurance of cold hy, . italy, results of the french intervention in, et seq.—the climate of, — present state of art in, . j. i., the legend of barney o'carroll, hy, . james ii., circumstances attending the hirth of his son, . jersey to the queen, . jewish marriage at damascus, a, . judgment, sir w. hamilton's views on, . justinian, frocopins' history of, . kahizia, island of, . kahogo, island of, lake tanganyika, . kasenge, sketches at, et seq. kawele, sketches at, . kazeh, arah depot of, . keppoch higblanders, the master of sinclair's picture of the, . king, mr., italian valleys of the alps, hy, . kiviia island of, , , —river, identified with the nile, . knox, as the leader of the reformation in scotland, —dargaud's account of, . lahanoff, prince, his collections of the letters of queen mary, . lamartine's marie stuart, on, . lameunais, renan on, . la mothe fenulon, french amhassador to scotland, . lanfranc, the influence, ac., of, in eng- land, . lnppenherg on the normans, . lattimer, principal tulloeh's picture of, et seq. lawrence, sir heury, his papers on india, . leaders of the reformation, . leathern, mr., unseating of, for hrihery, —mr. e. a., the election petition against, . lehanon, scenery of the, , ct seq. leyden, the siege and relief of, . leys, m., early days of .the reformation hy, , . liherals, the, their coalition against the derhy ministry, —their disunited state, ih.—hrihery hy, et seq. lihertines, the, in geneva, . lifted veil, the, chap. i., —chap. ii., . limerick election riots, the, . lindsays, the, and the massacre of glen- coe, et seq. livingston, sir t., counection of, with the massacre of gleneoe, et seq. local army in india, the question of a, . lomhardy, the cession of to sardinia, . london, how regarded hy the english- man, . london exhihitions—conflict of the schools, . louis the eleventh's page, a breton hallad, . love, michelet's work on, . love's youno dream—nowadays, . low, general, evidence of, on the indian army, . luck of ladysmede, the. part v., — part vi., —l'art vii., —part viii., —part ix., —part x., . lung' arno, the, florence, . luther, tulloeh's picture of, . macaulay, lord, and the massacre of glencoe, , macaulay, loan, and the highlands of scotland. —descent and paren- tage of, ih.—on miss austen's novels, . macdonalds of glencoe, the massacre of the, i et seq. m'lan of glencoe, macaulay's account of the massacre of, ct seq—his position —and personal character, . macintosh, hrigadier, character, ,fec. of, . maidstone election petition, the, . malagarazi river, the, , . maimeshury, lord, and the italian ques- tion, et seq. mansel's bampton lectures, . mar, the earl of. his career and charac- ter, —lady, the plot against, . maronites, sketches of the, . martinsloch, visit to, . mary, queen, the french on, — letter of, on hamilton of bothwell- haugh, —her character;, peculiari- ties of her epoch, ac, . .-- princeton tmleeraltt library tkli boo* la due on the latest <uee • t*ppe< below. please return or re* new by this date. columbia libraries offsite cu . cxo c influence of e.t.a. contents page bibliography ...... introduction ........................................ chapter i various estimates of poe's indebtedness to german literature..., ..... chapter ii german literature in america and england in the thirties and forties.................. chapter iii poe's knowledge of the german language......... chapter iv hoffmann's elixiere des teufels and poe's william wilson .... ...... chapter v hoffmann's magnetiseur and poe's tale of the ragged mountains ..................................... chapter vi hoffmann's die jesuiterkirche in g- the oval portrait . and poe's .... bibliography references in the body of the text are made by foot notes under the name of the author or editor to the following works. a. barine, nevrosés. paris, . h. m. belden, anglia, . . l. p. betz, edgar poe in der französischen literatur. frankfurt a. m., . w. v. biedermann, editor, goethes gespräche. leipzig, - . j. bing, novalis. eine biographische charakteristik. hamburg and leipzig, . bruhier, abhandluugen von der ungewissheit der kennzei- chen des todes. Übersetzt von johann gotfried jancke. leipzig, . cooper, the mohawk edition of cooper's works. new york, . g. ellinger, e. t. a. hoffmann. sein leben and seine werke. hamburg und leipzig, . c. p. evans. müncher allg. zeitung, . no. . r. p. gillies, german stories. selected from the works of de la motte fouqué, richter, etc. london, . e. griesebach, editor, e. t. a. hoffmanns sämtliche werke. leipzig, . r. w. griswold, life and works of e. a. poe. new york, . g. gruener, publications of the modern language associ- ation of america. march, . gruendel, e. a. poe. ein beitrag zur kenntniss und würdigung des dichters. schulprogram, freiberg, . j. a. harrison, editor, the complete works of e. a. poe. new york, , havemann, deutsche heimat, . heft , introduction “goethe spoke much about the french, especially cousin, villemain, and guizot, “the insight, circumspection, and perspicuity of these men,' said he, 'is great; they com- bine complete knowledge of the past with the spirit of the nineteenth century, which, to be sure, works wonders.' from this we passed to the newest french writers and to the significance of classic and romantic. “a new expression has occurred to me,' said goethe, 'which does not characterize the relationship badly. the classic i call the healthy, and the romantic the diseased. and in this sense the nibelungen is classic, as well as homer, for both are healthy and vigorous. the most of the new is not romantic because it is new, but because it is weak, sickly and diseased, and the old is not classic because it is old, but because it is strong, fresh, happy and healthy.'". this is goethe's word relative to a certain phase of roman- ticism whose productions seemed to him to be unsound and unwholesome, because they did not emanate from minds which were “strong, fresh, happy and healthy." it is with the productions of two such minds which goethe characterizes as “diseased” that the present work has to do. the american edgar allan poe, and the german ernst theo- dor amadeus hoffmann are both disciples of that phase of romanticism which had terror of the uncanny as its dominant note, and which goethe calls “weak, sickly, and diseased” in in distinction from that which is “strong, fresh, happy and healthy." both these men were powerfully fascinated by the mystery of the supernatural. they were tantalized by the hope of solving or guessing the secrets of another world which stretches away beyond the range of human intelligence. one may agree with goethe that the theories they evolved and the biedermann. goethes gespräche, leipzig, - . vol. , p. . palmer cobb tales they told are not food for the mind that is fresh, sound, and cheerful. but if their fancy and their speculation enticed them too far afield their genius accompanied them, and it will create for their work a lasting value. . it has been said that they were both exponents of one phase of romanticism, that their interests were frequently identical. to what extent was the one acquainted with the work of the other? in what measure did the one mind influ- ence the other? in the recently completed german edition of poe's works,” the editor, in his prefatory account of the poet's life and work's remarks: sein leben war das eines träumers aus dem alten mut- terlande europa, und wenn man seine halb norman- nische abkunft bedenkt, kann man schon ruhig sagen, eines germanischen träumers — war ein leben, ein traumieben, geführt in dem brutal-realen, fast aus- schliesslich merkantilen milieu nord amerikas ... die kreuzung von leben und mensch, die sich da ergab, die mischung von bedingungsloser kultur und unbedingtem neuland, die dann so einzig ist, ist poe, der romantiker, verpflanzt auf den realitätenschwer- sten boden, den man sich in damaliger zeit nur über- haupt denken konnte. this in general is the standpoint of the present work. it is poe the “germanic dreamer,” the romanticist, that is here to be the subject of discussion, and always from the stand- point of his indebtedness to german literature, as to material and technique. poe the romanticist and dreamer is probably nowhere more happily, and at the same time more briefly characterized than by his contemporary james russell lowell: in his tales he has chosen to exhibit nis powers chiefly in that dim region which stretches from the very moeller-bruck, e. a. poe's sämtliche werke. minden i. w., . vol. graham's magazine. february, . our contributors. , p. . influence of hoffmann on the tales of poe utmost limits of the probable into the weird confines of superstition and unreality. he combines in a very remarkable manner two faculties which are seldom found united; a power of influencing the mind of the reader by the impalpable shadows of mystery, and a minuteness of detail which does not leave a pin or a button unnoticed. . . . he loves to dissect those cancers of the mind, and to trace all the subtle ramifications of its roots. in rais- ing images of horror he has a strange success; convey- ing to us sometimes by a hint some terrible doubt which is the secret of all horror. he leaves to the imagination the task of finishing the picture, a task to which she only is competent, influence of hoffman on the tales of poe this utterance of poe has been used as evidence by the few critics who deny the german influence in his works. in so doing they have overlooked the fact that poe does not deny in general terms the influence of german romanticism in his tales. the statement is that, as far as terror has been the thesis of his tales, this terror was of his own soul and not of germany. that is without doubt true. of motives and technique of the german romanticists there is no word of denial. a few of the critics have also made that distinction. the first american biographer of poe, griswold, has too much to do in his slanderous investigations of poe's supposed debauches to treat of literary influences. there is no men- tion of german influence. stedman discusses the subject briefly but does not find in poe's work anything suggestive of far reaching german influence. later, however, he seems to have changed his mind. in his introduction to the edition of poe of , he says: “nevertheless, there is a pseudo- horror to be found in certain of his pieces, and enough of hoffmann's method to suggest that the brilliant author of the phantasie stücke, (hoffmann) whether a secondary name or not, was one of poe's early teachers.” again, on page : “still, while hoffmann was wholly of the fatherland, and poe a misfitted american, if the one had died before the other, instead of thirteen years later, there would be a chance for a pretty fancy in behalf of the doc- trine of metempsychosis, which both writers utilized.” sted- man concludes that hoffmann's influence is undeniable. the next american biographer, prof. woodberry, is entirely against german influence, while the last biography, that of prof. harrison in the preface to his edition of poe, makes no direct reference to e. t. a. hoffmann. he declares, however,' that poe was "saturated with the doctrines of schelling," and speaks also of “novalis and schelling, his masters across the german sea.” mention is also made of the translations of tieck, de la motte-fouqué, chamisso, the harrison, vol. , p. , . influence of hoffmann on the tales of poe und hiermit erkläre ich die präliminarien unsers neuen bundes feierlichst für abgeschlossen, und setze fest, dass wir uns jede woche an einem bestimmten tage zusammen finden wollen, u.s.w. “herrlicher einfall,” rief lothar, "füge doch noch sog- leich, lieber ottmar, gewisse gesetze hinzu, die bei unsern bestimmten wöchentlichen zusammenkünften stattfinden sollen. z. b. dass über dieses oder jenes gesprochen oder nicht gesprochen werden darf, oder dass jeder gehalten sein soll, dreimal witzig zu sein, oder dass wir ganz gewiss jedesmal sardellen-salat essen wollen,” u.s.w. again, page : es kann nicht fehlen dass wir, einer dem andern, nach alter weise, manches poetische produktlein, das wir unter dem herzen getragen, mitteilen werden. thirdly, gruener believes that poe hit upon his title for his second collection of tales, tales of the grotesque und arabesque, through hoffmann. in support of this theory, an article by walter scott in the foreign quarterly review for july, , is quoted. poe, in one of his letters, quotes this very magazines and he must have been attracted by this article of scott's, which deals with german romance. scott speaks of the "fantastic mode of writing" and cites hoffmann as the pioneer in this field: “he (hoffmann) was the inven- tor, or at least the first distinguished artist, who exhibited the fantastic or supernatural grotesque in his compositions, so nearly on the verge of insanity as to be afraid of the beings his own fancy created. in fact, the grotesque in his compo- sitions partly resembles the arabesque in painting.” gruener concludes that poe must have noticed this passage, "partic- ularly as scott proceeds to charge hoffmann with just those things with which poe was charged in his lifetime." it is worthy of note also that the introduction to poe's tales of the folio club was first published in harrison's edition. poe harrison. vol. , page . palmer cobb probably thought the resemblance to the serapionsbrüder too striking. gruener discusses the passage in stedman's biography of poe which connects the latter's fall of the house of usher with hoffmann's das majorat. the passage reads as follows: a reader finds certain properties of the “house of usher” and metzengerstein in dasmajorat in the ancestral castle of a noble family, in a wild and remote estate near the baltic sea — the interior, where the moon shines through oriel windows upon tapestry and carven furniture and wainscoting, – the uncanny scratchings upon a bricked-up door, — the old freiherr foreseeing the hour of his death, the ominous confia- gration, — the turret falling of its own decay into a chasm at its base, - etc. gruener notes relative to this passage: these “properties" here enumerated are the very fea- tures which scott, in his article on hoffmann lays stress upon in the analysis of das majorat. in his own words he describes the castle and its inhabitants, quotes in translation the scene in the large hall at night with moonlight streaming “through the broad transom win- dows” into the hall in which the “walls and roof were ornamented the former with heavy paneling, the latter with fantastic carving;” and also quotes the conclusion of the story. he notes that the baron's name was roderick; and that the lady is "young, beau- tiful, nervous, and full of sensibility.” the most striking feature of the whole, however, is scott's description of the castle itself, culled from various parts of hoffmann's story: “it was a huge pile over- hanging the baltic sea, silent, dismal, almost uninhab- ited, and surrounded, instead of gardens and pleasure grounds, by forests and black pines and firs which woodbery-stedman edition, the works of e. a. poe. chicago, . vol. i, page . influence of hoffmann on the tales of poe came up to the walls. part of the castle was in ruins; and by its fall made a deep chasm, which extended from the highest turret down to the dungeon of the castle. compare with this picture the description of the house of usher, and note the close resemblance, chiefly, of the chasm from “the highest turret down to the dungeon" with that “barely perceptible fissure which, extending from the roof in the building in front, made its way down the wall in a zig-zag direction until it became lost in the sullen waters of the tarn." in addition, other features of the life and incidents at the entailed castle agree most strikingly with those at the castle of metzengerstein as described by poe. if poe needed and got any outside suggestion for those two stories, he found them here in condensed form. there is a great temptation in hounding similarities to death, but it does not seem like forcing things too much to see in scott's essay on the supernatural the first germs of poe's two stories, and to hold that these analogies confirm the conjecture that poe saw this review and drew from it. gruener's generalizations are obvious. nor does it seem like forcing things too much to suppose that poe's interest in hoffmann was greatly aroused by this article and that his acquaintance with the german author's work is to be dated from this time. gruener very rightly connects poe's fall of the house of usher with this article of scott rather than with a first hand reading of das majorat. the analogies do not extend further than gruener traces them. as to the resemblances between metzengerstein and das majorat, they hardly justify a minute analysis. the two stories are constructed out of the same general romantic mate- rial, but a consecutive thread of resemblance is lacking. there is in both stories the dismal uninhabited castle ten- anted by an eccentric hero, the last of his noble race. but the analogy hardly goes further. poe's story has for its palmer cobb ence from hoffmann and the other romanticists. the excep- tion is an article by van vleuten on poe. the author ascribes the whole of poe's creative work to the inspiration of alcoholic delirium or epilepsy, a view which no one thor- oughly conversant with poe's works, or with modern criticism of the poet, could possibly hold. van vleuten remarks also: man begnügte sich viel mehr meist damit, die eigen- art der novellen poe's dadurch zu erklären, dass man seine tiefgehende beeinflussung durch e. t. a. hoff- mann, überhaupt durch die deutschen romantiker annahm. das war sehr oberflächlich; mann kann sogar sagen: es war falsch.” . . . . again: unhaltbar ist die annahme, poe sei von e. th. a. hoffmann entscheidend beeinflusst worden. hoff- mann war kein epileptiker, also auch kein dipsomane. was er (hoffmann) am schauerlichen und unheim- lichen bietet, stammt von den romantikern, aus alten zauberstücken und mystikern: gespenster, ver- grabene schätze, doppelgänger, dazu eine prise mes- mer, u.s.w. the reader who is even superficially acquainted with poe will at once observe that this list of motives which van vleuten has established as characteristic for hoffmann recurs without exception, again and again, in poe's tales. a “schul-programm”'to of freiberg, , gives a short account of poe's life and works. “er (poe) erinnert viel an e. th. a. hoffmann, dem er viele anregung verdankte, sowie tieck und novalis.” wherever hoffmann is discussed, the writer usually thinks involuntarily of poe. havemann" denies the assertion of ellinger (hoffmann's last biographer) that the spectral and the ghostly no longer tales. von vleuten, berliner zukunft. xi jahrgang. no. . gruendel, e. a. poe. ein beitrag zur kenntniss und würdigung des dichters. schul-program, freiberg, . havemann, deutsche heimat, . heft. . palmer cobb soane, which contained a translation of hoffmann's meister floh. in appeared translations of die jesuiterkirche in g., der sandmann, and der elementargeist, by john oxen- ford. the following translations of tieck appeared during the same period: the old man of the mountain, love charm, and pietro of abano, london, ; the pictures and the betrothal, london, ; the poet's life, leipzig, ; the roman matron, or vittoria colonna, london, . no translations of novalis are recorded up to . poe's first tale, a manuscript found in a bottle, appeared in . poe was always a close observer of french literature, and the german romanticists were early cultivated in france. hoffmann, even in those days, was better known and more widely read in france than in his own country. french literary journals were constantly busied with hoffmann, and besides numerous single translations of his work, a complete edition was begun in by francois adolphe loeve veimars, and completed in , the year of poe's first tale." another edition was begun in by th. toussenel. in also the revue de paris published a translation of a part of scott's article in the foreign quarterly. the article is entitled du merveilleux dans le roman. in the article by prof. belden (anglia ), already cited, the author discusses poe's criticism of hawthorne, namely, that the latter's style was identical with that of tieck. he accords to poe's criticism the high value which the poet him- self placed upon it, and which is its undeniable due. but he questions poe's knowledge of german. “to the question whether poe knew german, it will probably never be pos- sible to give a definite answer.” further, he asks himself: “what means had a man not master of german of knowing the character of tieck's works?” these means, he decides, were the english and american periodicals. he concludes ms. found in a bottle. baltimore saturday visitor. oct. , . revue de paris. vol. , page . influence of hoffmann on the tales of poe that poe's criticism might have been perfectly sincere, solely from an idea of tieck which he might have gathered from magazine articles. in substantiation of his theory he gives a survey of british and american magazine articles of the thirties and forties, some of which are as follows: the american quarterly review, for example, contained between and six articles on german literature, one of which deals with bouterwek's geschichte der deutschen poesie und beredsamkeit. the article contained a critique of the schlegels, tieck, and novalis. in there appeared in boston a translation of heine's zur geschichte der neueren schöneu literatur in deutschland. there were numerous translations from fouqué. the democratic review, begin- ning with , had in almost every number a trans- lation from the german, or an article on some german writer. fr. schlegel's lectures were translated in new york in , and mention of them is found in a short sketch by poe. besides these mentioned by prof. belden, there appeared a translation of fouqué's undine, new york, , and a volume entitled tales from the german, translated by nathaniel greene, boston, . the latter a two-volumed publication, contained several stories by c. f. van der velde. in a small volume was published in new york contain- ing der todte gast, by heinrich zschokke, and spieler glück, by e. t. a. hoffmann. these two tales were printed in the original. a significant statement relative to ameri- can appreciation of german literature of the period is to be found in the north american review, january, , page . in connection with a review of a new german gram- mar the reviewer observes: some of us, who are not yet past the mezzo del cammin di nostra vita, can remember the time when a german grammar and dictionary could not be had for love or money. the poets of germany were as much unknown » revies of the neare to ama ingram. vol. iv, page . palmer cobb and french letters. at the german criticism however, i cannot refrain from laughing, all the more heartily the more seriously i hear it praised.... it abounds in brilliant bubbles of suggestion, but these rise and sink and jostle each other until the whole vortex of thought in which they originate is one indistinguishable chaos of froth. the german criticism is unsettled and can only be settled by time. . . . i am not ashamed to say that i prefer even voltaire to goethe, and hold macaulay to possess more of the truly critical spirit than augustus william and frederick schlegel com- bined. such quotations from poe's works might be multiplied almost indefinitely. as a pendant to this opinion of goethe and the schlegels, it is interesting to compare two passages, the one from the fall of the house of usher, the other from morella: our books—the books which had for years formed no small portion of the mental existence of the invalid- were, as might be supposed, in keeping with this char- acter of phantasm. in this list which, "for years had formed no small por tion of the mental existence of the invalid,” poe mentions tieck's journey into the blue distance." another passage from morella: morella's erudition was profound. ... i soon found, however, that, perhaps on account of her presburg education, she placed before me a number of those mystical writings which are usually considered the mere dross of german literature. these, for what reason i could not imagine, were her favorite and con- stant study-and that in process of time they became my own should be attributed to the simple but effectual influence of habit and example. in all this, if i err marginalia. harrison, vol. xvi, page . harrison, vol. iii, page . influence of hoffmann on the tales of poe not, my reason had little to do. my convictions, or i forget myself, were in no manner acted upon by the ideal, nor was any tincture of the mysticism which i read to be discovered, unless i am greatly mistaken, either in my deeds or my thoughts. it is unnecessary to state the exact character of those disquisitions which, growing out of the volumes i have mentioned, formed for so long a time almost the sole conversation of mor- ella and myself. ... the wild pantheism of fichte; the modified ilaliyyevedia of the pythagoreans; and, above all, the doctrine of identity as urged by schell- ing, were generally the points of discussion presenting the most beauty to the imaginative morella.? these passages are of particular importance for the pur- poses of this work. poe finds german criticism unsettled and professes to prefer voltaire to goethe. in other words, for that which is generally considered best in german litera- ture he has no appreciation. that which is usually con- sidered the "mere dross” of german literature he describes as his constant and favorite reading. scott's article in the quarterly review, on the supernatural in fiction, has already been mentioned. the author emphasizes the fact that e. t, a. hoffmann is the type of the best among the “secondary" names of german literature. it will be remem- bered also that poe, in discussing german terror in his tales, uses the phrase, “for no better reason than that some of the secondary names of german literature have been identified with its folly." in the passage from morella he has evi- dently the same idea in mind when he speaks of the mere dross” of german literature. poe's reference to this magazine has already been men- tioned. he was undoubtedly impressed by scott's article, and when he speaks of “secondary names” and the "mere dross". of german literature, like scott he has hoffmann in mind. and when one considers that this class of literature became des as where harrison, vol. ii, page . palmer cobb his favorite reading, the statement becomes significant for his relationship to hoffmann. it is also quite significant that poe nowhere mentions hoffmann's name directly. the amer- ican was an inveterate pursuer of plagiarism (one recalls, for example, the strife about longfellow). he would therefore naturally not have given the horde of his inimical critics an opportunity to turn his own guns upon himself by discussing openly a man whose work bore such a striking resemblance to his own. just as poe's references to german literature in his works preclude the possibility of anything but a first-hand knowl- edge of sources, so also they imply a knowledge of the language. the mystery of marie roget, for example, which appeared in the southern literary messenger, november, december, february, - , contained as a heading a quotation from novalis's fragments in the original, with the translation appended. es gibt eine reihe idealischer begebenheiten, die der wirklichkeit parallel läuft. selten fallen sie zusam- men. menschen und zustände modificiren gewöhnlich die idealische begebenheit, so dass sie unvollkommen erscheint, und ihre folgen gleichfalls unvollkommen sind. so bei der reformation; statt des protestantis- mus kam das luthertum hervor. poe translates, and no one can question the knowledge of german displayed: there are ideal series of events which run parallel with the real ones. they rarely coincide. men and circumstances generally modify the ideal train of events, so that it seems imperfect, — and its conse- quences are equally imperfect. thus with the reform- ation; instead of protestantism came lutherism. novalis is again quoted in one of poe's fragments. "the artist belongs to his work, and not the work to the artist," also, in poe's tale of the ragged mountains, we find a refer- ence to novalis's theory of dreams. marginalia. harrison, vol. xvi, page . heilborn, vol. ii, page . influence of hoffmann on the tales of poe poe's reference to tieck's journey into the blue distance, in the fall of the house of usher, has been mentioned. at the time when this tale was written, , no translation of tieck's reise ins blaue hinein had appeared either in english, or french. numerous german quotations in the original are scattered throughout poe's works. in marginalia," he applies the term schwärmerei to a certain style of criticism in america. he translates it, “not exactly humbug, but sky-rocketing." he has a note also on goethe's sorrows of werther." he finds it difficult to conceive how the germans could have admired it, and adds: “the title, by the way, is mistrans- lated, - leiden does not mean sorrows, but sufferings;" which distinction is quite exact. poe's tale, the man of the crowd, opens with the follow- ing sentence: “it is well said of a certain german book, es lässt sich nicht lesen," and he then translates more literally than elegantly, “it does not permit itself to be read." in the article on longfellow's ballads," poe mentions count bielfeld's definition of poetry as “l'art d'exprimer les pensées par la fiction," and our author adds: “with this defi- nition (of which the philosophy is profound to a certain extent) the german terms dichtkunst, the art of fiction, and dichten, to feign, which are used for poetry, and to make verses, are in full and remarkable accordance.” while editor of graham's magazine, - , poe was much interested in cryptography and advertised in the maga- zine, inviting his readers to invent secret writings and sub- mit them to him for solution. “yet any one who will take the trouble may address us a note, in the same manner as here proposed, and the key phrase may be either in french, italian, spanish, german, latin or greek (or in any of the dialects of these languages), and we pledge ourselves for the harrison, vol. xvi, page . ingram, vol. iii, page . harrison, vol. xvi, page . influence of hoffmann on the tales of poe “beweis, dass einige leute lebendig können begraben werden.” j. p. brinckmann, düsseldorf, cleve, und leipzig, . the same story is found in the causes célèbresas, and this is probably the source of all the other versions. bruhier states that this is his source. poe states that the event occurred in paris in , and provides the persons concerned with names. it would seem, then, that his statement relative to the source of the other case which he says he took from the chirurgical journal of leipsic might be regarded also as some- what untrustworthy. so much we may deduce with certainty from the fore- going. first, that in england and america, in the thirties and forties, there was a lively interest in german contem- porary literature. secondly, that poe as a magazine editor was thoroughly en rapport with this wave of interest, and that among his favorite reading he counted some of the secondary productions (meaning probably hoffmann) of ger- man literature. finally, the american author possessed at least an ability to read german in the original, though in view of the meagreness of the information which we have concerning his life, it is impossible to discover when and where he acquired this ability. it now remains for us to see what echo of his german reading we find in his own work. in this connection it is interesting to take account of cer- tain utterances of poe with reference to his theory of the tale. a skilful literary artist has constructed a tale. if wise, he has not fashioned his thoughts to accommo- date his incidents; but, haviug conceived with deliber- ate care a certain unique or single effect to be wrought out, he then invents such incidents-he then combines such events as may best aid him in establishing this preconceived effect............ and here it will be seen how full of prejudice are the usual animadversions vol. , page . palmer cobb against those tales of effect, many fine examples of which were found in the earlier numbers of black- wood. it was worth noting that hoffmann's elixiere des teufels appeared in an "early number of blackwood” for . we have a similar utterance on the same subject in the philosophy of. composition. i prefer commencing with the consideration of an effect. keeping originality always in view, for he is false to himself who ventures to dispense with so obvious and so easily attainable a source of interest-i say to myself in the first place, ‘of the innumerable effects or impressions of which the heart, the intellect, or (more generally) the soul is susceptible, what one shall i, on the present occasion, select?' having chosen a novel, first, and secondly, a vivid, effect, i consider whether it can be best wrought by incident or tone-whether by ordinary incidents and peculiar tone, or the converse, or by peculiarity both of incident and tone-afterwards looking about me (or rather within) for such combinations of event or tone as shall best aid me in the construction of the effect. the last sentence, especially the phrase "looking about me (or rather within) for such combinations,” is signif- icant. poe has placed the words “or rather within” in paren- theses, lest the foregoing might be construed as a confession of his literary borrowings, in looking about him for combinations of event or tone, what did he find that was serviceable among the productions of the german romanticists? ingram, vol. ix, pages , . ingram, vol. iii, page . palmer cobb the idea on which both narratives are constructed is the simple one of the contention of two inimical forces in a man's soul; the evil and the good, struggling for supremacy and final victory. in carrying out the idea, both authors have availed themselves of the device of a double existence to achieve their purpose. such a division of the human person- ality they have romanticized by the fiction of two selves, physical as well as mental, both of which are well nigh iden- tical as to physical appearance and as to mental characteris- tics. one self is the type of the good, the other is the embodiment of the evil. the atmosphere of mystery thus created works an effect of terror, as, in the successive stages of the development of the story, the hero at some critical point of the narrative is confronted by his double. this in general is the basic idea which poe has borrowed from hoff- mann. the german traces the growth and struggle of evil, in his hero's life, very minutely. we observe the first foothold which the “dunkle macht" wins in medardus's soul, and we trace the growth of this germ of evil step by step, until with giant power it plunges the victim into an abyss of crime. early in medardus's career, we find reference to the evil which is beginning to beset him. his sermons are charac- terized by unusual eloquence, and the fame which he wins by them arouses his vanity. in a letter from his patroness, the abbess, we hear: der geist des truges ist in dich gefahren, und wird dich verderben, wenn du nicht in dich gehst und der sünde entsagest.. der heilige bernardus, den du durch deine trügerische rede so schnöde beleidigt, möge dir nach seiner himmlischen langmut verzeihen, ja dich erleuchten, dass du den rechten pfad, von dem du durch den bösen verlockt abgewichen, wieder find- est, und er fürbitten könne für das heil deiner seele. grisebach, vol. ii, page . palmer cobb again medardus recapitulates himself this growth of evil in his soul. he calls himself “einen muthlosen feigling" without strength to resist the devil. gering war der keim des bösen in mir, als ich des konzertmeisters schwester sah, als der frevelige stolz in mir erwachte, aber da spielte mir der satan jenes elixier in die hände, das mein blut wie ein verdamm- tes gift in gärung setzte .... wie eine phy- sische krankheit, von jenem gift erzeugt, brach die sünde hervor. we follow exactly the same development in poe's tale. hoffmann rescues his hero at the end from the “dunkle macht.” poe gives the victory to the evil force. medardus writes the story of his life when he has, in a measure at least, conquered the devil and gained peace, william wil- son narrates his story when he realizes that he is hopelessly lost, his soul a forfeit to the powers of darkness. hoffmann's narrative takes the reader up to the point where his hero gains the victory. poe's tale ends at the point where wilson finally and definitely destroys the last germ of good still extant in his soul. we are told in the beginning that the remainder of his life was a history of crime and debauch. medardus and william wilson both write their histories as they feel the approach of death. the history of medardus's struggle against the evil which has been traced finds its exact counterpart on the first page of william wilson's story. we hear at once: from comparatively trival wickedness i passed, with the stride of a giant, into more than the enormities of an elagabalus. what chance — what one event brought this thing to pass, bear with me while i relate. death approaches, and the shadow which foreruns him has thrown a softening influence over my spirit. i long in passing through the dim valley for the sympa- thy, i had nearly said for the pity, of my fellow-men. i would fain have them believe that i have been in some measure the slave of circumstances beyond human palmer cobb few seconds i forced him by sheer strength against the wainscoting, and thus, getting him at mercy, plunged my sword with brutal ferocity repeatedly through and through his bosom. at that instant some person tried the latch of the door. i hastened to prevent an intru- sion, and then immediately returned to my dying antagonist. but what human language can ade- quately portray that astonishment, that horror which possessed me at the spectacle then presented to view? the brief moment in which i averted my eyes had been sufficient to produce apparently a material change in the arrangements at the upper or farther end of the room. a large mirror — so at first it seemed to me in my confusion - now stood where none had been per- ceptible before; and, as i stepped up to it in extremity of terror, mine own image, but with features all pale and dabbled in blood, advanced to meet me with a feeble and tottering gait. thus it appeared, i say, but was not. it was my antagonist - it was wilson who then stood before me in the agonies of his dissolution. his mask and cloak lay where he had thrown them upon the floor. not a thread in all his raiment – not a line in all the marked and singular lineaments of his face which was not, even in the most absolute identity, mine own! it was wilson: but he spoke no longer in a whisper, and i could have fancied that i myself was speaking while he said: “you have conquered and i yield. yet, henceforth art thou also dead - dead to the world, to heaven, and to hope! in me didst thou exist — and, in my death, see by this image, which is thine own, how utterly thou hast murdered thyself."'! the death of his double is the death of the good principle in wilson's life. "dead to the world, to heaven, and to hope:" it is the triumph of evil, the ultimate extinction of the italics are poe's. palmer cobb and in the final scene, already quoted, the death of the double marks the extinction of the remaining good. it is characteristic of poe's story in general that he has taken certain secondary or minor incidents of the hoffmann story and made them of prime importance in his narrative in the production of desired effects. such a motive was hoff- mann's incident of the murder of medardus's brother-double, and its baneful consequences; namely, the introduction of the monk to his subsequent career of crime. william wilson's murder of his double forms the climax of poe's story, and serves also as the climax of a series of crimes which closes forever the road to repentance, and makes wilson for all time a slave of the evil. another such a motive in hoffmann's story is the whisper and the voice of the doppelgänger. poe has appropriated this motive also and used it as a means of heightening the mystery of his story. with hoffmann, the exact correspond- ence of voice and the whispered utterances of medardus's double, are of no special significance. they are part and parcel of the general correspondence between medardus and his double-brother. poe has seized these two incidents to create an atmosphere of mysterious fatality, to transport his reader at once into the realm of the supernatural. in the appearance of the doppelgänger, while medardus is in prison, there are the whispered tones: endlich rief es leise, leise, aber wie mit hässlicher, heiserer, stammelnder stimme, hintereinander fort: medar-dus! medar-dus. ein eisstrom goss sich mir durch die glieder ! again, in his flight after the scene with aurelie: als ich durch die finstre nacht der residenz zueilte, war es mir, als liefe jemand neben mir her, und als flüsterte eine stimme: "imm --immer bin ich bei di - dir» grisebach, vol. ii, page . grisebach, vol. ii, page . influence hoffmann on the tales of poe medardus does not know at times whether he is speaking, or whether it is the voice of his double which he hears. in his flight from the castle after the murder of hermogen: da lachte ich grimmig auf, dass es durch den saal, durch die gänge dröhnte, und rief mit schrecklicher stimme: “wahnwitzige, wollt ihr das verhänghis fahen, das die frevelnden sünder gerichtet?” aber des grässlichen anblicks! — vor mir — vor mir stand vik- torins blutige gestalt, nicht ich, er hatte die worte gesprochen." poe has made this whisper and correspondence of voice play a much larger and more effective role in his story. in the description of the life of the two boys at school, we learn that the favorite device of the second william wilson for an- noying his rival, was an exact imitation of his person, dress and voice. but the first william wilson, owing to a phy- sical defect of speech, could not raise his voice above a whisper: his cue, which was to perfect an imitation of myself, lay both in words and in action, and most admirably did he play his part. my dress it was an easy matter to copy; my gait and general manner were without difficulty appropriated; in spite of his constitutional defect, even my voice did not escape him. my louder tones were of course unattempted, but then the key, it was identical; and his singular whisper, it grew the very echo of my own. in the scene at eton where the double appears: it was the pregnancy of solemn admonition in the singular, low, hissing utterance, and, above all, it was the character, the tone, the key, of those few, simple and familiar, yet whispered syllables, which came with a thousand thronging memories of by-gone days, and struck upon my soul with the shock of a galvanic bat- tery. grisebach vol. ii, pages - . palmer cobb in the appearance of the double at oxford: “gentlemen,” he said, in a low, distinct and never-to- be-forgotten whisper which thrilled to the very mar- row of my bones, “gentlemen, i make no apology for this behavior.” poe uses everywhere italics to emphasize the whisper. in the final scene of the duel: it was wilson; but he spoke no longer in a whisper, and i could have fancied that i myself was speaking while he said: another incident which has its counterpart in hoffmann's story is the gambling at oxford. while medardus is at the prince's court, he is induced by the latter to take part in the games of faro which form the principal diversion of the prince and the court. the result is that medardus wins con- stantly. the episode forms a part of hoffmann's use of the supernatural. we are told that medardus wins by favor of those evil forces which are then controlling his destiny, es lag für mich etwas entsetzliches darin, dass, indem die gleichgültige karte, die ich blindlings zog, in mir eine schmerzhafte herzzerreissende erinnerung weckte, ich von einer unbekannten macht ergriffen wurde, die das glück des spiels, den losen geldgewinn mir zuwarf, als entsprösse es aus meinem eignen innern, als wenn ich selbst, jenes wesen denkend, das aus der leblosen karte mir mit glühenden farben entgegen- strahlte, dem zufall gebieten könne, seine geheimsten verschlingungen erkennend. william wilson's gambling is a passion, - a part of bis depravity, — and his winnings are explained on the ground of cheating: it could hardly be credited, however, that i had, even here, so utterly fallen from the gentlemanly estate as to seek acquaintance with the vilest arts of the gambler by profession, and having become an adept in his despicable science, to practice it habitually as a means of increasing my already enormous income at the palmer cobb inexplicable, and to create an impression of awe, even terror, by contact with the supernatural. as a means to this end, poe uses with striking effect the mysterious whisper as well as the identity of voice between the two doubles. grisebach remarks also: bei der form der mitteilung aus dem eigenen leben, die hoffmann gewählt hat, konnte ein dichter leicht der versuchung nachgeben, alles leben auf die haupt- person zusammenzudrängen, das übrige aber nur kurz und skizzenhaft zu behandeln. hoffmann hat diese gefahr durchaus zu vermeiden gewusst. poe uses, of course, the same form of narrative, and he has done just what hoffmann "knew how to avoid.” but in so doing he has achieved a more telling, striking effect than has the german author. in so doing he has sacrificed all detail, all characterization, and the love episode, in order to centre all action and interest around his double hero. hoff- mann vacillates on the border of the supernatural, crossing and re-crossing it, and leaving his reader in doubt as to whether the author himself believes in it or not. poe leads at once, and boldly, into another world, and keeps us in this region of mystery, at least as long as we are reading his story. william wilson is constructed after poe's own receipt. he has started out to produce an effect of awe-inspiring mys- tery, and he has gathered and gleaned such motives as best served his purpose, remolding them and fitting them together in such a way as to make of the finished product something all his own. in "looking about him for combinations of events or tone,” he has drawn largely on hoffmann: first, for the idea of the double existence, and secondly, for its typifi- cation of the good and evil forces in man's soul. also, various other motives of minor importance in hoffmann's story have been used by the american; — such as the murder- ing of the double with its consequent extinction of the good principle; the mysterious, solemn whisper, and the exact cor- respondence of the double's voice; and, finally, the gambling proclivities of william wilson. these all have their count- erparts in hoffmann's story. palmer cobb sis. both authors have used this singular belief in their stories. ingram remarks with reference to the story ber- enice : among the peculiarities of the early draft of this work — some of which disappeared in later versions— it will be noted by his readers, is the first development of poe's assumed belief in metempsychosis, a doctrine that, in subsequent writings, he recurred to again and again, and which it is scarcely assuming too much to say at times he evidently partially believed in. this doctrine forms the basic idea of the stories ligeia, morella, and eleanora, and plays more or less of a part in several other tales. hoffmann's collection of stories which he calls the serapi- onsbrüder (from which poe got his idea of the folio club) takes its title from the story of the hermit monk serapion, whose insanity consists in the belief that he is the martyred monk serapion, whose death had occurred four hundred years previous to the time in which the story is told. hoffmann, with a characteristic mixture of realism and mystery, makes his monk insane, but makes the wisdom of his insanity supe- rior to that of the sanity of his fellows, who try to convince serapion that he is suffering from monomania or a fixed idea. in the end, hoffmann leaves his reader with the idea that the monk is sane and the rest of the world too ignorant to under- stand him. the new club is dedicated to this monk serapion, the members style themselves the “serapionsbrüder,” and "das echt-serapionische" is the standard of excellence set up for their productions. there is nothing singular in the fact that both authors should have evinced strong interest in hypnotism and in the doctrine of metempsychosis, nor does the fact that they both used these motives in their stories necessarily imply an influ- ence of the one upon the other. but when we find both of these motives united in one story, and worked out with almost page . influence of hoffmann on the tales of poe exact similarity of motivation and even detail, and when we consider the novelty of the idea, it is safe to assume that the two authors did not accidentally hit upon the same singular combination of singular motives, without the one having received a suggestion from the other in poe's tale of the ragged mountains, and in hoffmann's magnetiseur we find a union of the doctrines of hypnotism and metempsychosis, and both interwoven with almost exact correspondence in the work of both authors. the similarity manifests itself not only in general outlines, but is evident even in unimportant details, so as to form a consecutive thread of resemblance. it is worth noting also in this connection that the tale morella, in which poe expresses his interest in “those mystical writ- ings which are usually considered the mere dross of german literature,” is also the story in which his fancy for the doc- trine of metempsychosis is most unmistakably expressed. throughout the story, poe has in mind, evidently, his ger- man reading. besides these “mystical writings” of german literature, we hear in the same story of the "pantheism of fichte,” and “the doctrine of identity as urged by schel- ling.” in thus writing on the subject poe admits, more or less, a german source for his interest in the subject. but it is in the tale of the ragged mountains that he has drawn most closely on hoffmann, from the latter's magnetiseur. hoffmann's tale suffers somewhat from lack of unity. there are three distinct elements in the story, all of which are somewhat loosely joined together by the participation of the same persons in all three of the incidents. we are first introduced to a family group, the members of which are gath- ered around a cheerful fire on a stormy autumn evening, and engaged in a lively discussion of the nature of dreams. this serves as an introduction to a story which the baron, the head of the family, is induced to relate. the story in ques- tion has to do with a dream or experience of his youth. he proceeds to describe one of his instructors, an officer of colos- sal stature, gaunt, lean, and with a “burning glance.” hoff- mann builds up an atmosphere of mystery around this danish palmer cobb major by the description of his person, various personal attri- butes, and finally by the hypnotic influence which he exerted on his pupils. · im höchsten grad jähzornig, konnte ihn ein wort, ein blick, in wuth setzen. er bestrafte die zöglinge mit ausgedachter grausamkeit, und doch hing alles an ihm auf eine ganz unbegreifliche weise. the baron tells also of the influence of the major on him, and comes at last to the climax of the story, in which he sees in a dream the major enter his room, and hears the words, armes menschenkind, erkenne deinen meister und herrn .... ich bin dein gott, der dein inner- stes durchschaut, und alles, was du darin jemals verbor- gen hast oder verbergen willst, liegt hell und klar vor mir. the baron awakes out of his dream as the major plunges a dag ger into the dreamer's brain. terrified, the baron throws open his window and sees the major disappearing through the garden into the open country beyond. the mystery of the situation is enhanced by the fact that all doors and exits are locked and there is no natural way to explain the major's presence in the garden. other inmates of the house being aroused, they break into the major's room and find him lying dead in his blood. the baron ends his story thus, a general discussion is again resumed, and we hear next a second dream-story from the baron's son, ottmar. the latter has his story from his friend alban, who is a convert to hypnotism, or, as hoffmann terms it, magnetism. the relation of characters is somewhat confusing. ottmar relates the story as he has heard it from his friend alban, and the story deals in its turn with another friend of alban's, theobald, who is not otherwise concerned in the action, and a stranger to the group in which the tales are being related. theobald is described as follows: seine ganze musse – und daher sein leben wollte er dazu verwenden. soviel als möglich in die geheimnis- grisebach, vol. i, page . influence of hoffmann on the tales of poe vollsten tiefen der psychischen einwirkungen zu drin- gen, und fortwährend seinen geist fester und fester darauf fixierend, sich rein erhaltend von allem dem widerstrebenden ein würdiger lehrling der natur zu werden. in theobald's absence at the university, his fiancée comes under the influence of a stranger, an italian officer, and becomes so enamored of the latter that she forgets her first lover. the story hinges about the theory of dreams. the girl is so beset by tormenting dreams of her italian lover, who is absent on a campaign, that she falls into insanity. theobald, returning home finds her in this condition. he applies his principles of hypnotism, and effects a cure. he proceeds in such a manner that the influence of his mind upon that of the girl is made to supersede the influence of the ital- ian. gradually, theobald supplants the italian lover in her dreams, and she is restored. auguste empfing ihn (theobald) mit der höchsten aufwallung der innigsten liebe. bald nachher ge- stand sie unter vielen thränen, wie sie sich gegen ihn vergangen; wie es einem fremden auf eine selt- same weise gelungen, sie von ihm abwendig zu machen, so dass sie, wie von einer fremden gewalt befangen, ganz aus ihrem eigenen wesen herausge- raten sei, aber theobalds wohlthätige erscheinung in lebhaften traümen, habe die feindlichen geister, die sie bestrickt, verjagt; ja, sie müsse gestehen, dass sie jetzt nicht einmal des fremden aüssere gestalt sich ins gedächtnis zurückrufen könne, und nur theobald lebe in ihrem innern. this is the end of the second episode. the third element forms the real centre of the tale. as ottmar finishes his narrative his sister marịa, who has been present during the narration of both tales, falls in a faint, and ottmar's friend, grisebach; vol. i, page . grsiebach; vol. i, page palmer cobb alban, the “magnetiseur,” is called to attend her. the lat- ter has been so attracted by maria that he determines, although she is already betrothed, to bring her under the power of his will by means of hypnotic influence. maria falls into a hypnotic trance, and alban is called to attend her. he effects a cure, but in so doing succeeds in impressing his will and thought with such power upon her that she exists wholly within the sway of his will. maria writes to her friend: nur in diesem mit ihm und in ihm sein kann ich wahr- haftig leben, und es müsste, wäre es ihm möglich, sich mir geistig ganz zu entziehn, mein selbst, in toter Öde erstarren; ja, indem ich dieses schreibe, fühle ich nur zu sehr, dass nur er es ist, der mir den ausdruck gibt, mein sein in ihm wenigstens anzudeuten. on her wedding day maria falls dead at the altar, alban flees, the bridegroom is killed in a duel with ottmar, the old baron dies of grief, and the story ends in general misery. at several points in the story the baron expresses his dis- trust of alban. and finds a singular resemblance between him and the danish major of his story. on the eve of maria's wedding, the old baron, meeting alban in the corridor, mis- takes him for the major in the flesh. the reader is left with the suggestion that the danish major of the first part of the story, and alban, the “magnetiseur,” are one and the same person, although the major is long since dead, and described as an old man in the baron's youth, while alban is of the same age as the major's son. it is thus that hoffmann uses the theory of metempsychosis. poe's tale has the same elements,- hypnotism, the inetempsychosis theory, and the dreams and visions. as fre- quently in poe's tales, there is no love episode. we learn first of a singular relationship existing between the two characters of the story, bedloe, an invalid, and his physician, dr. templeton. the latter is a disciple of mesmer, and uses grisebach, vol. i, page . influence of hoffmann on the tales of poe prevent the rash and fatal sally of the officer who fell, in the crowded alley, by the poisoned arrow of a ben- galee. that officer was my dearest friend. it was oldeb. you will perceive by these manuscripts (here the speaker produced a note book in which several pages appeared to have been freshly written) that at the very period in which you fancied these things amid the hills, i was engaged in detailing them upon paper here at home. the tale ends with the death of bedloe. the author's attention is attracted to it by the announcement in the paper of the death of a mr. bedlo. by a typographical error the name has been written without the e. the reader's attention is called to the fact that bedlo is oldeb reversed. thus we have the same suggestion, — bedloe is the reincarnation of oldeb, — the doctrine of metempsychosis. both author's have made use of hypnotism, metempsycho- sis, and the phenomena of dreams. in both stories these singular motives are united. poe and hoffmann have built up their tales around the same general framework. the three parts of hoffmann's story already outlined por- tray a group of people all more or less subject to the will of the "magnetiseur,” or hypnotist. in each case the centre of interest is a man of commanding will, who exerts a mesmeric influence over certain other persons of the tale. it is first the danish major of the baron's tale, who establishes this relationship between himself and his pupils. so hiess es von ihm, er könne das feuer besprechen, und krankheiten durch das auflegen der hände, ja durch den blossen blick heilen, und ich erinnere mich, dass er einmal leute, die durchaus von ihm auf diese art geheilt sein wollten, mit stockschlägen verjagte. .... erfüllte mich nun mein beisammensein mit ihm auch mit einem gewissen wohlbehagen, so war es doch wieder eine gewisse angst, das gefühl eines harrison, vol. v, page . influence of hoffmann on the tales of poe .... so wie alban überhaupt in seiner bildung, in seinem ganzen betragen, eine gewisse würde, ich möchte sagen, etwas gebietendes hat, das ihn über seine umgebung erhebt, so war es mir gleich, als er seinen ernsten durchdringenden blick auf mich rich- tete; ich müsste alles unbedingt thun, was er gebieten würde, und als ob er meine genesung nur recht lebhaft wollen dürfe, um mich ganz herzustellen." we have also alban's standpoint, in a letter to a friend. maria fiel bald darauf in einen fantastichen zustand, den ottmar natürlicherweise für eine neue krankheit balten musste, und ich kam wieder als arzt ins haus, wie ich es vorausgesehen. maria erkannte in mir den, der ihr schon oft in der glorie der beherrschenden macht als ihr meister im traum erschienen, und alles, was sie nur dunkel geahnet, sah sie nun hell und klar mit ihres geistes augen. nur meines blickes, meines festen willens bedurfte es, sie in den sogenannten somnam- bulen zustand zu versetzen, der nichts anders war, als das gänzliche hinaustreten aus sich selbst und das leben in der höheren sphäre des meisters. es war mein geist, der sie dann willig aufnahm und ihr die schwingen gab, dem kerker, mit dem sie die menschen überbaut hatten, zu entschweben. thus the theme of the whole story is the mastery of one mind over another by means of hypnotism. the hypnotist proceeds gradually. he wins at first an influence, more or less powerful, over his subject. this is gradually increased till at length the subject is wholly subservient to the mas- ter's will. a glance, or even the mere concentration of the hypnotist's will is sufficient to put the subject into the hyp- notic state, which is described as “das gänzliche hinaustre- ten aus sich selbst und das leben in der höheren sphäre des meisters.” hoffmann's hypnotist always controls the dreams of his subjects while in the hypnotic state. the baron's grisebach, vol. i, page . palmer cobb dream of the dagger in his brain is suggested to him by his hypnotic master, the danish major. there is always the idea of the mastership of the “magnetiseur,” and the help- lessness of the subject, connected in each case by the dream phenomena. the major's words in the baron's dream are typical of this: “armes menschenkind, erkenne deinen meis- ter und herrn.” theobald cures his fiancée's insanity by his hypnotic mas- tery of her dream: er setzte sich daneben (by the side of her bed), und den geist mit der ganzen kraft des willens auf sie fixie- rend, schaute er sie mit festem blick an. nachdem er dies einige mal wiederholt, schien der eindruck ihrer träume schwächer zu werden, denn der ton, mit dem sie sonst den namen des offiziers gewaltsam hervor- schrie, hatte nicht mehr das die ganze seele durch- dringende, und tiefe seufzer machten der gepressten brust luft. nun legte theobald auf ihre hand die seinige, und nannte leise, ganz leise, seinen namen. bald zeigte sich die wirkung . . . . bis jetzt war auguste am tage still und in sich gekehrt gewesen, aber an dem morgen nach jener nacht aüsserte sie ganz unerwartet der mutter, wie sie seit einiger zeit lebhaft von theobald traüme, und warum er denn nicht käme, ja nicht einmal schriebe. alban's mastery over maria is achieved in the same way. in the letter of maria, already quoted, the following passage occurs: das besondere ist aber, dass in meinen traumen und erscheinungen immer ein schöner ernster mann im spiele war, der, unerachtet seiner jugend, mir wahr- hafte ehrfurcht einflösste, und der bald auf diese, bald auf jene weise, aber immer in langen talaren geklei- det, mit einer diamanten krone auf dem haupte, mir wie der romantische könig in der märchenhaften geis- terwelt erschien und allen bösen zauber löste ... grisebach, vol. i, page . influence of hoffmann on the tales of poe mann both further accentuate the idea, and add to the mys- terious by creating between their individuals of the first and second existence, a physical and psychic resemblance. such is the relationship which exists between hoffmann's major and alban, the “magnetiseur," and also between poe's oldeb and bedloe. hoffmann's description of the major's person is as follows: seine riesengrösse wurde noch auffallender durch die hagerkeit seines körpers, der nur aus muskeln und nerven zu bestehen schien; er mochte in jüngern jah- ren ein schöner mann gewesen sein; denn noch jetzt warfen seine grossen schwarzen augen einen brennen- den blick, den man kaum ertragen konnte; ein tiefer funfziger hatte er die kraft und die gewandtheit eines jünglings." poe, in describing bedloe, is evidently painting from this model: but in no regard was he (bedloe) more singular than in his personal appearance. he was singularly tall and thin. he stooped much. . . . . his eyes were abnormally large and round like those of a cat. the pupils, too, upon any accession or diminution of light, underwent contraction or dilation, just such as is observed in the feline tribe. in moments of excite- ment, the orbs grew bright to a degree almost incon- ceivable, etc. bedloe is the officer oldeb in the second existence, alban is the danish officer also in the second existence. hoffmann, ever loath to quit absolutely the field of the natural, suggests rather than states explicitly this state of affairs. early in hoffmann's story the baron expresses his distrust of alban, the “magnetiseur.” als ottmar ihn vor mehreren monaten als seinen innigsten freund zu uns brachte, war es mir, els habe ich ihn irgend einmal schon gesehen; seine feinheit, grisebach, vol. i, page . influence of hoffmann on the tales of poe mich aber von meinem toten selbst getrennt fühlte, merkte ich wohl, dass ich der wesenlose gedanke meines ichs sei, und bald erkannte ich mich als das im aether schwimmende rot. ich schwang mich auf zu den leuchtenden bergspitzen . . . so wie ich tiefer und tiefer niederfiel, erblickte ich die leiche mit weit auf- klaffender wunde in der brust, aus der jenes unreine wasser in strömen floss. mein hauch sollte das wasser umwandeln in blut, doch geschah es nicht, die leiche richtete sich auf und starrte mich an mit hohlen gräss- lichen augen und heulte wie der nordwind in tiefer kluft. . . . die leiche sank nieder; alle blumen auf der flur neigten verwelkt ihre häupter, menschen, bleichen gespenstern ähnlich, warfen sich zur erde und ein tausendstimmiger trostloser jammer stieg in die lüfte. .stärker und stärker wie des meeres brausende welle, schwoll die klage! der gedanke wollte zerstäuben in dem gewaltigen ton des trostlosen jammers, da wurde ich wie durch einen elektrischen schlag emporgerissen aus dem traum. bedloe's dream has all the same features and even literal correspondences of phrase. he is describing the peculiar arrows of the enemy: one of them struck me upon the right temple. i reeled and fell. an instantaneous and dreadful sickness seized me. i struggled! i gasped! i died. for many minutes my sole sentiment, my sole feeling, was that of dark- ness and nonentity, with the consciousness of death. at length, there seemed to pass a violent and sudden shock through my soul, as if of electricity. with it came the sense of elasticity and of light. this latter i felt-not saw. in an instant i seemed to rise from the ground. but i had no bodily, no visible, audible or palpable presence. . . . beneath me lay my corpse, with the arrow in the temple, the whole head grisebach, vol. ii, p. . influence of hoffmann on the tales of poe ally so - assuming often each other's functions at ran- dom. the taste and smell were inextricably confounded, and became one sentiment, abnormal and intense. again in poe's marginalia we find a description of a con- dition preceding sleep which corresponds to hoffmann's “augenblicken, die dem einschlafen vorherzugehen pflegen." poe remarks that the common experience that certain thoughts are beyond the compass of words is based on a fallacy: for my own part, i have never had a thought which i could not set down in words. . . . there is, how- ever, a class of fancies, of exquisite delicacy, which are not thoughts, and to which as yet i have found it abso- lutely impossible to adapt language. i use the word fancies at random, and merely because i must use some word; but the idea commonly attached to the term is not even remotely applicable to the shadows of shadows in question. they seem to me rather psychic than intellectual. they arise in the soul (alas, how rarely!) only at its epochs of most intense tranquility, when the bodily and mental health are in perfection - and at those mere points of time when the confines of the waking world blend with those of the world of dreams. i am aware of these 'fancies' only when i am upon the very brink of sleep, with the consciousness that i am so. poe's “fancies” which he experiences “on the very brink of sleep,” are evidently the same as hoffmann's "träume im zustand des delierierens, der dem einschlafen vorherzugehen pflegt.” both authors also give expression to the idea that it is in dreams that men are permitted to catch fleeting glimpses of another world. that dreams are, in a way, a partial revela- lation of those secrets of the universe which tantalize and baffle the powers of the intellect. hoffmann's magnetiseur opens with the proverb "träume sind schäume.” in the long discussion of the subject of harrison; vol. xvi, page . palmer cobb dreams, the following will suffice to show the gist of the opinions others expressed: sieh die tausend kleinen bläschen, die perlend im glase aufsteigen und oben im schaume sprudeln, das sind die geister, die sich ungeduldig von der irdischen fessel loslösen; und so lebt und webt im schaum das höhere geistige prinzip, das frei von dem drange des materi- ellen frisch die fittiche regend, in dem fernen uns allen verheissenen himmlischen reiche sich zu dem verwandten höheren geistigen freudig gesellt, and alle wundervollen erscheinungen in ihrer tiefsten bedeu- tung wie das bekannteste aufnimmt und erkennt. es mag daher auch der traum von dem schaum, in wel- chem unsere lebensgeister, wenn der schlaf unser extensives leben befängt, froh and frei aufsprudeln, erzeugt werden und ein höheres extensives leben be- ginnen, in dem wir alle erscheinungen der uns fernen geisterwelt nicht nur ahnen, sondern wirklich erken- nen, ja in dem wir über raum und zeit schweben. in the same passage in poe's marginalia, a quoted above, the description of the “fancies” or dreams is quite in accord with the passage just quoted from hoffmann. these “fancies” have in them a pleasurable ecstasy, as far beyond the most pleasurable of the world of wakefulness, or of dreams, as the heaven of the north- man's theology is beyond its hell, i regard the vis- ions, even as they arise, with an awe which, in some measure, moderates or tranquilizes the ecstasy - i so regard them, through a conviction (which seems a por- tion of the ecstasy itself) that this ecstasy, in itself, is of a character supernal to the human nature — is a glimpse of the spirit's outer world. harrison; vol. xvi, page . influence of hoffmann on the tales of poe she is also the model for the virgin in the picture already described at the beginning. at the fall of the kingdom of naples, berthold chances to rescue the princess, and her fam- ily all having perished, she flees with him to germany, and becomes his wife. as his ideal, she has served as inspiration for all his work, the source of his joy in all his achievement. now, she having become his wife, a new relationship grows up between them. the artist loses interest in his work as well as actual ability to paint. his wife, in time, comes to embit- ter all of his pleasure in his work, even to be actively a hin- drance to him. it is at this point that he conceives the plan for the picture in the jesuit church. der einfache gedanke, maria und elisabeth in einem schönen garten auf einem rasen sitzend, die kinder christus und johannes vor ihnen im grase spielend, sollte der ganze vorwurf des bildes sein, aber verge- bens war alles ringen nach einer reinen geistigen an- schauung des gemäldes. so wie in jener unglück- lichen zeit der krisis, verschwammen ihm die gestal- ten, und nicht die himmlische maria, nein, ein irdisches weib, ach, seine angiola selbst stand auf greuliche weise verzerrt, vor seines geistes augen. ... aber seine kraft war gebrochen, all sein bemühen, so wie damals, nur die ohnmächtige anstrengung des unverständigen kindes. starr und leblos blieb, was er malte, und selbst angiola -- angiola, sein ideal, wurde, wenn sie ihm sass und er sie malen wollte, auf der leinwand zum toten wachsbilde, das ihn mit gläsernen augen anstierte. his disappointment and anger is vented on his wife. nein — sie war nicht das ideal, das mir erschien, nur mir zum rettungslosen verdeben hatte sie trügerisch jenes himmelsweibes gestalt und gesicht geborgt. in wilder verzweiflung fluchte ich ihr und dem unschul- digen kinde. ich wünschte beider tod, damit ich grisebach, vol. iii, page . palmer cobb erlöst werden möge von der unerträglichen qual, die wie mit glühenden messern in mir wühlte. gedanken der hölle stiegen in mir auf. vergebens las ich in angiolas leichenblassem gesicht, in ihren thränen mein rasendes freveliches beginnen – du hast mich um mein leben betrogen, verruchtes weib, brüllte ich auf, und stiess sie mit dem fusse von mir, wenn sie ohn- mächtig niedersank, und meine knie umfasste.? berthold's brutality causes his wife's death, and we are given to understand that not until after her death does he suc- ceed in giving life-likeness to her picture. in other words, the price of the success of the picture is the life of the model. berthold erschien bald darauf (after his wife's death) zu n, in oberschlesien; er hatte sich seines weibes und kindes entledigt, und fing voll heitern mutes an, das bild zu malen, das er in n. vergebens begonnen hatte. the major portion of poe's story is comprised in the intro- duction and the description of the picture. the story of the artist he professes to take from a book in the chateau. she was a maiden of rarest beauty, and not more lovely than full of glee. and evil was the hour when she saw, and loved, and wedded the painter. he passion- ate, studious, austere, and having already a bride in his art; she, a maiden of rarest beauty, and not more love- ly than full of glee; all light and smiles, and frolic- some as a young fawn; loving and cherishing all things; hating only the art which was her rival; dread- ing only the pallette and the brushes and other unto- ward instruments which deprived her of the countenance of her lover. it was thus a terrible thing for this lady to hear the painter speak of his desire to portray even his young bride. but she was humble and obedient, and sat meekly for many weeks in the dark high turret- chamber where the light dripped upon the pale canvas grisebach, vol. ii, page . grisebach, vol. iii, page . cha pit er vii hoffmann's doge und dogaressa and poe's the assignation the resemblances between hoffmann's story, doge und dogaressa, and poe's the assignation, have been cited in support of poe's debt to the earlier author by most of the critics who have argued in favor of such a debt. stedman, in the introduction to the woodberry-stedman edition of poe, remarks relative to the two tales:' the assignation derives from hoffmann's doge und dogaressa, and the tableau with the marchesa is a radiantly poetic variation upon the balcony scene in the earlier tale. in lauvrière's life of poe,' the same suggestion occurs. on a bien dit que la chute de la maison usher, la scène du balcon dans l'assignation, et le portrait ovale devraient beaucoup au majorat, au doge et doga- ressa, etc. the story of the venetian doge, marino faliero, ( ), forms the historical setting for hoffmann's tale. the first suggestion for his work came, as he himself tells us in the beginning of the story, from a picture which he saw at an exhibition in berlin in . the picture portrays an old doge standing with his young and beautiful dogaressa at his side, with a panorama of venice as a backgrouud. a discus- sion among a group of friends as to whether the picture was intended to portray a historical event, or whether the subject was simply an invention of the artist, calls forth the story of old faliero and his youthful bride, annunziata. hoffmann introduces his story with a somewhat extended extract from venetian history, having to do with the causes page . page . palmer cobb which led up to and resulted in the calling to the ducal throne of the old warrior, faliero. this is an element of the story which may be here disregarded. the old doge is described as a gray-headed octogenarian, but a man still possessed of great strength of body, acuteness of mind, and decision of action. at his first entry into venice, after his election, his life is endangered by a storm which threatens for a time to engulf his barque. he is saved and landed at st. mark's by a common gondolier. the latter, the hero of the story, has already been introduced by hoffmann as follows: gerade in dem augenblick, als nämlich marino falieri den bucentoro zu besteigen im begriff stand, und das war am dritten oktober abends, da schon die sonne zu sinken begann, lag vor den säulen der dogana, auf dem harten marmorpflaster ausgestreckt, ein armer. unglücklicher mensch. einige lumpen gestreifter leinwand, deren farbe nicht mehr kenntlich' und die sonst einem schifferkleide, wie das gemeinste volk der lastträger und ruderknechte es trägt, angehört zu haben schienen, hingen um den abgemagerten körper. vom hemde war nichts mehr zu sehen, als die eigne haut des armen, die überall durchblickte, aber so weiss und zart war, dass sie der edelsten einer ohne scheu und scham hätte tragen können. so zeigte auch die magerkeit nur desto besser das reinste ebenmass der wohlgebauten glieder und betrachtete man nun vollends die hell kastanienbraunen locken, die zerzaust und verworren die schönste stirn umschat- teten, die blauen nur von trostlosem elend verdüster- ten augen, die adlernase, den fein geformten mund des unglücklichen, der höchstens zwanzig jahre zu zählen schien, so war es gewiss, dass irgend ein feind- seliges schicksal den fremdling von guter geburt in die unterste klasse des volks geschleudert haben musste. hoffmann spells the name with a final i instead of o. grisebach; vol. vii, page . influence of hoffmann on the tales of poe hoffmann thus suggests that his hero does not belong by birth in the class of society in which we find him. the next step in the development of the story makes the reader the witness of a scene between the newly chosen doge and one bodoeri, the latter a venetian noble and a member of the council of ten. bodoeri, in the furtherance of his polit- ical ambition, wishes to marry his niece, a young girl of eighteen, to the old doge. bodoeri so skilfully depicts the charms of the young girl to the old warrior that the latter is soon obsessed with the idea, and the marriage is arranged. in the meantime, the story of the doge's rescuer, the lat- ter now occupying another position in life by means of the gold which he has received as reward, is continued. young antonio learns from his former nurse the story of his german parentage, an attack of the plague having obliterated entirely the memory of his childhood and youth. to the days of this childhood and youth belongs a love affair with annunziata, bodoeri's niece, and now the young dogaressa. the sight of her bridges the gulf between him and his past, awakens within him all the recollections of his childhood, and arouses with renewed ardor his love for the sweetheart of his child- hood, now old faliero's wife. the love of the young antonio for the old doge's young wife is the key to the tragic culmin- ation of the tale. what follows is the story of antonio's intrigue to gain an interview with annunziata. in order to be near her, he bribes the old doge's gondolier, and serves himself as a gondolier. also by means of a bribe he suc- ceeds in taking the place of the man who, on “giovedi grasso,” according to the old venetian custom, descends by means of corás and pulleys from the top of st. mark's to the balcony of the doge (erected in the square), and presents a bouquet to the dogaressa. finally, by means of an intrigue which is aided and abetted by his old nurse, antonio gains admittance to the ducal palace. instead of keeping tryst with his mistress, however, antonio becomes involved in a revolution which he finds brewing, the purpose of which is to overthrow old faliero. later, in the consequent uproar influence of hoffmann on the tales of poe hence there can only be one inference from these facts; hoffmann grew into the peculiarity, poe grew out of it; with hoffmann it was natural, self-developed, with poe something extraneous, acquired, but thrown off as he grew more and more independent in style and in method. so much seems established beyond a reason- able doubt. but, if this peculiar habit was acquired, if it was an imitation, there is only one writer poe could have learned it from, and that was hoffmann, from whom he seems to have obtained so many sugges- tions for his tales, particularly the earlier ones. is the statement that this peculiarity of style is not com- mon to any other english writers accurate? is there any- thing so singular in this trick of style that its repeated use by any author would constitute a distinguishing character- istic of the style of the author in question? if it can be shown that an indefinite number of examples of this form of repeti- tion can be found in the works of other english authors, and such authors as poe must have been well acquainted with, is it not seeking too far afield to make him the debtor of hoff- mann for this stylistic characteristic? as a matter of fact, the peculiarity in question seems to be a tolerably common rhetorical device, used by various authors in greater or less degree, as an aid to clearness. among english writers, with whose work poe must have been familiar, such repetitions are particularly common in the weird novels of terror by mrs. ann radcliff. among american writers, both hawthorne and cooper make copious use of the same device. following are a few examples from mrs. radcliff's mys- teries of udolphoʻ, taken from a cursory survey of the first one hundred and thirty pages. “you are worse then, sir!” said emily, extremely alarmed by his manner; "you are worse, and here is no assistance.” (page .) "i feel,” said he at length, “i feel how insufficient all the mysteries of udolpho, by mrs. ann radcliff, london, . palmer cobb attempt at consolation must be on this subject.” (page .) “his hand deposited them here,” said she, as she kissed some pieces of the coin, and wetted them with her tears — “his hand which is now dust." (page .) “ah, i see,” said valancourt, after a long pause, during which emily had begun and left unfinished two or three sen- tences — “i see that i have nothing to hope.” (page .) “so, niece,” said madame cheron, casting a look of sur- prise and inquiry on valancourt — “so, niece! how do you do?” (page .) “emily,” said valancourt at length, as he pressed her hand in his, “emily! — " and he was again silent. (page .) “i had hoped, sir, that it was no longer necessary for me to disclaim it,” said emily; “i had hoped from your silence,” etc. (page .) “but this morning,” continued annette, lowering her voice and looking around the room, “this morning as it was broad daylight,” etc. (page .) “nay, prythee, good annette, stay not talking,” said emily in a voice of agony — “go, prythee, go, and see what it is.” (page .) nobody, i believe, ma'am,” replied annette, “nobody has been with her,” etc. (page .) "hear me, emily," resumed morano, “hear me! i love, and am in despair – yes — in despair.” (page .) the same sorts of repetition are to be found in the ital- ian' by the same author. “stop! for heaven's sake stop!” said bonarmo. (page .) "tell me, i conjure you, instantly tell me,” etc. (page .) •three weeks ago, say you! you said three weeks, i think?" (page .) “yet i will not suppose, signor, i say i will not suppose,” raising his voice significantly, “that you have dared,” etc. (page .) “i understand," said the abbess, on whose appearance the alarmed ellena had arisen, “i understand,” said she, without the italian, mrs. ann radcliff. londony: . influence of hoffmann on the tales of poe making any further signal for her to be seated, "that you are the young person,” etc. (page .) “avaunt,” cried he, in a tremendous voice, “avaunt! sacrilegious boy!" (page .) to a less degree the same device is found in horace wal- pole's castle of otranto. • “i sent for you, lady,” said he, and then stopped under great appearance of confusion. "my lord! yes, i sent for you on a matter of great moment,” resumed he. (page .) "theodore!” said manfred, mournfully, and striking his forehead; “theodore, or a phantom, he has unhinged the soul, of manfred.” (page .) "thou art no lawful prince,” said jerome, “thou art no prince;" (page .) "forgive him, dearest mother - forgive him my death." (page .) from hawthorne such quotations could be multiplied indef- initely." a few will suffice. “thou knowest,” said hester, for depressed as she was, she could not endure this last quiet stab at the token of her shame - “thou knowest that i was frank with thee.” (page .) “where," asked he, with a look askance at them for it was the clergyman's peculiarity that he seldom, nowadays, looked straight forth at any object, whether human or inani- mate — "where, my kind doctor,” etc. (page .) “thus, a sickness,” continued roger chillingsworth, going on in an unaltered tone without heeding the interrup- tion — but standing up and confronting the emaciated and white-cheeked minister, with his low, dark and misshaped figure — "a sickness, a sore place,” etc. (page .) the following examples are from the house of seven gables. philadelphia: . the riverside edition of hawthorne's works, the scarlet letter. palmer cobb “as yet,” cried the stranger, - his cheek glowing and his eye flashing with enthusiasm - "as yet, i have done nothing." (the ambitious guest, page .) “the children,” said he to himself — and sighed and smiled — "the children are to be my charge.” (the three- fold destiny, page .) the following are from tanglewood tales: “oh! i am stung!” cried he, “i am stung!” (the par- adise of children, page .) “oh, tell us,” they exclaimed, — "tell us what it is." (the paradise of children, page .) “go back," cried they all, -- "go back to your own home!” (the three golden apples, page .) many other examples could be adduced from hawthorne's works. the foregoing will suffice to show that he made a large use of this form of repetition in his dialogue. in the novels of james fenimore cooper the same trick of repetition is to be found on almost every page, from the pathfinder." vol. . “more's the pity, boy; more's the pity.” (page .) “you are wrong, — you are wrong, friend cap; very wrong to distrust the power of god in anything." (page .) į "it's no great secret — no great secret,” returned path- finder. (page .) “call him in,” whispered jasper, scarce able to restrain his impatience; “call him in, or it will be too late." (page .) “i ask your pardon, pathfinder,” said the repentant jas- per, eagerly grasping the hand that the other permitted him to seize, “i ask your pardon humbly and sincerely.” (page .) "keep well up the current, jasper,” shouted the gallant guide, as he swept the water with long, steady, vigorous strokes of the paddle; “keep well up the current.” (page .) mohawk edition of cooper's works, new york, . ' influence of hoffmann on the tales of poe “ay, empty your rifles, like simpletons as you be,” said the pathfinder, who had acquired a habit of speaking when alone, from passing so much of his time in the solitude of the forest; "empty your rifles with an unsteady aim, — " (page .) “how beautiful!” she exclaimed, unconscious of speaking, as she stood on the solitary bastion facing the air from the lake, and experiencing the genial influence of its freshness pervading both her body and her mind. “how very beauti- ful!” (page .) “can this be so, sergeant?” said the guide, whose meek and modest nature shrank from viewing himself in colors so favorable. “can this be truly so?” (page .) “walk in, sergeant, walk in, my good friend,” said old lundie, heartily, as his inferior stood in a respectful attitude at the door of a sort of library and bedroom into which he had been ushered; "walk in, and take a seat on that stool.” (page .) “i protest, major duncan, i protest,” cried muir, hurry- ing back towards the stand, with both arms elevated by way of enforcing his words, — “i protest in the strongest terms,” etc. (page .) from the prairie, vol. . “come nigher, we are friends," said the trapper, associ- ating himself with his companion by long use, and probably through the strength of the secret tie that connected them together; "we are friends,” etc. "mischief,” deliberately returned the squatter; but with a cool expression of defiance in his eye, that showed how lit- tle he was moved by the ill-concealed humor of his children, “mischief, boy; mischief!" (page .) “come on, friend,” he said, waving his hand as he observ- ed the stranger to pause a moment, apparently in doubt, “come on, i say.” (page .) “asinus excepted,” muttered the doctor, who by this time was discussing his portion of the hump in utter forgetfulness of all its scientific attributes. “asinus domesticus ameri- canus excepted.” (page .) influence of hoffmann on the tales of poe pose that poe acquired this stylistic habit from hoffmann. this other evidence is lacking. a careful reading of the two authors can but lead to the conviction that poe's acquaint- ance with hoffmann was not of so intimate a nature as to have left stylistic traces in the former's work. they both, to be sure, work with the same general romantic material — with the same superlative vocabulary of the weird tale of mys- tery; but poe was not so saturated with hoffmann as to have absorbed from him any of those characteristics of style which were peculiarly his own. the american is indebted to the german for motives and combinations of motives, not for stylistic attributes. with reference to this form of repetition in hoffmann's works, it is worthy of note, that he most likely acquired it from schiller, who made a large use of it in die geisterseher, and to less extent in die raüber. hoffmann's style was undoubtedly influenced by schiller." die einkleidung dieser ideen (hoffmann's vision auf dem schlachtfelde zu dresden) ist indessen offenbar beinflusst von dem traum des franz im fünften akt der "räuber', wie denn überhaupt die räuber, wahr- scheinlich schon seit hoffmanns jugendzeit eine nach- haltige wirkung auf sein phantasieleben ausgeübt ha- ben; auch in den rollenden worten der vision glaubt man einen nachhall von schillers sprache zu vernehmen, again: schillers 'geisterseher' wird zwar in den briefen nicht erwähnt, aber wir wissen aus späteren bekentnissen, wie stark das buch gerade damals auf seine phantasie gewirkt hat. this, taken in connection with the fact that in schiller's geisterseher examples of such repetition are found on every few pages, establishes, at least a probability that hoffmann's use of this trick of style was acquired from schiller, and that it was not a thing “natural, self-developed,” as suggested by cf. ellinger. palmer cobb prof. gruener. space permits the enumeration of a few examples from the geisterseher. “sie haben uns,” sagte er, indem er ihm zugleich einige goldstücke in die hand drückte, "sie haben uns aus den händen eines betrügers gerettet.” (page .) “in der tat," rief der prinz mit einer miene zugleich des verdrusses und der verwunderung, indem er mir besonders einen bedeutenden blick gab, “in der tat," rief er aus.” etc. (page .) “ihr trauring!” rief der prinz mit befremdung. "ihr trauring!" (page .) “das wir unter einander da so glücklich sind,” hub end- lich der greis an, der allein unter uns allen den unbekannten nicht zu bemerken oder sich doch nicht über ihn zu verwun- dern schien: "das wir so glücklich sind,” sagte er, etc. (page .) y. d. hellen, vol. . studies in philology published indir to drtion op the philological club of the university of north carolina c. alphonso snitii, eorror vol. i. chaucer's relative constructions. by louis round wilson. vol. ii. studies in the syntax of the king james version. by james moses grainger. vol. iii. the influence of e. t. a. hoffmann on the tales of edgar allan poe. by palmer cobb. printed in usa due date - ||||||||| columbia university libraries butler stacks nypl research libraries nypl research libraries ---- - - --- -- - hogg) nco tales and sketches, by the ettrick shepherd. including the brownie of bodsbeck, winter evening tales, shepherd's calendar, &c., &c. and several pieces not before printed, with illustrative engravings, chiefly from real scenes, by d. . hill, e. s. a. vol. v. blackie & son, queen street, glasgow; south college street, edinburgh: and warwick square, london. mdcccxxxvii. glasgow: printed by w, g. blackie, & co., villafield. contents of vol. v. page. private memoirs and confessions of a fanatic. . some remarkable passages in the life of an edinburgh baillie. . . .- . . . . julia m‘kenzie. . . . . . tales and sketches, by the ettrick shepherd. including the brownie of bodsbeck, winter evening tales, shepherd's calendar, &c., &c. and several pieces not before printed, with illustrative engravings, chiefly from real scenes, by d. . hill, ezy., Ś, t. , vol. v. blackie & son, queen street, glasgow ; south college street, edinburgh: and warwick square, london. mdcccxxxvii. glasgow: printed by w, g. blackie, & co., villafield. contents of vol. v. page. private memoirs and confessions of a fanatic. . some remarkable passages in the life of an edinburgh baillie, .. julia mkenzie. . . . . . the private memoirs and confessions of a fanatic: with a detail of curious traditionary facts, and other evidence, by the editor. the editor's narrative. it appears from tradition, as well as some parish registers still extant, that the lands of dalcastle (or dalchastel, as it is often spelled) were possessed by a family of the name of colwan, about one hundred and fifty years ago, and for at least a century previous to that period. that fa- mily was supposed to have been a branch of the ancient family of colquhoun, and it is certain that from it spring the cowans that spread towards the border. i find, that in the year , george colwan succeeded his uncle of the same name, in the lands of dalchastel and baigrennan ; and this being all i can gather of the family from history, to tradition i must appeal for the remainder of the motley adventures of that house. but of the mat. ter furnished by the latter of these powerful monitors i have no reason to complain : it has been handed down to the world in unlimited abundance ; and i am certain, that in recording the hideous events which follow, i am only relating to the greater part of the inhabitants of at least four counties of scotland, matters of which they were before perfectly well informed. Α . tir editor's narrative. this george was a rich man, or supposed to be so, and was married, when considerably advanced in life to the sole heiress and reputed daugliter of a baillie orde, of glasgow. this proved a conjunction any thing but agreeable to the parties contracting. it is well known, that the reformation principles had long before that time taken a powerful hold of the hearts and affections of the people of scotland, although the feeling was by no ineans general, or in equal degrees ; and it so happened that this married couple felt completely at variance on the subject. granting it to have been so, one would have thought that the laird, owing to his retired situation, would have been the one that inclined to the stern doc- trines of the reformers; and that the young and gay dame from the city would have adhered to the free principles cherished by the court party, and indulged in rather to extremity, in opposition to their severe and carping con- temporaries. the contrary, however, happened to be the case, the laird was what his country neighbours called “ a droll, careless chap," with a very limited proportion of the fear of god in his heart, and very nearly as little of the fear of man. the laird had not intentionally wronged or offended either of the parties, and perceived not the necessity of deprecating their vengeance. he had hither- to believed that he was living in most cordial terms with the greater part of the inhabitants of the earth, and with the powers above in particular : but woe be unto him if he was not soon convinced of the fallacy of such heedless security ! for his lady was the most severe and gloomy of all bigots to the principles of the reformation. here were not the tenets of the great reformers, but theirs mightily overstrained and deformed. theirs was an unguent hard to be swallowed ; but hers was that un- guent erbittered and overheated until nature could not longer bear it. she had imbibed her ideas from the doctrines of one flaming predestinarian divine alone ; and these were so rigid, that they became a stumblingblock to many of his brethren, and a mighty handle for the confessions of a fanatic. enemies of his party to turn the machine of the state against them. the wedding festivities at dalcastle partook of all the gaiety, not of that stern age, but of one previous to it. there were feasting, dancing, piping, and singing: the liquors were handed around in great fulness, the ale in large wooden bickers, and the brandy in capacious horns of oxen. the laird gave full scope to his homely glee. he danced,-he snapped his fingers to the music,-clap- ped his hands and shouted at the turn of the tune. he saluted every girl in the hall whose appearance was any thing tolerable, and requested of their sweethearts to take the same freedom with his bride, by way of retaliation. but there she sat at the head of the hall in still and bloom. ing beauty, absolutely refusing to tread a single measure with any gentleman there. the only enjoyment in which she appeared to partake, was in now and then stealing a word of sweet conversation with her favourite pastor about divine things ; for he had accompanied her home, after marrying her to her husband, to see her fairly set. tled in her new dwelling. he addressed her several times by her new name, mrs colwan ; but she turned away her head disgusted, and looked with pity and con- tempt towards the old inadvertent sinner, capering away in the height of his unregenerated mirth. the minister perceived the workings of her pious mind, and thence- forward addressed her by the courteous title of lady dalcastle, which sounded somewhat better, as not coup- ling her name with one of the wicked ; and there is too great reason to believe, that for all the solemn vows she had come under, and these were of no ordinary binding, particularly on the laird's part, she at that time despised, if not abhorred him, in her heart. the good parson again blessed her, and went away. she took leave of him with tears in her eyes, entreating him often to visit her in that heathen land of the amo- rite, the hittite, and the girgashite: to which he assen: - ted, on many solemn and qualifying conditions,--and then the comely bride retired to her chamber. the editor's narrative. it was customary, in those days, for the bride's-man and maiden, and a few select friends, to visit the new married couple after they had retired to rest, and drink a cup to their healths, their happiness, and a numerous pos- terity. but the laird delighted not in this : he wished to have his jewel to himself; and, slipping away quietly from his jovial party, he retired to his chamber to his be- loved, and bolted the door. he found her engaged with the writings of the evangelists, and terribly demure. the laird went up to caress her ; but she turned away her head, and spoke of the follies of aged men, and some- thing of the broad way that leadeth to destruction. the laird did not thoroughly comprehend this allusion ; but being considerably flustered by drinking, and dis- posed to take all in good part, he only remarked, as he took off his shoes and stockings, “that whether the way was broad or narrow, it was time that they were in their bed." “ sure, mr. colwan, you won't go to bed to-night, at such an important period of your life, without first saying prayers for yourself and ine." when she said this, the laird had his head down almost to the ground, loosing his shoe-buckle ; but when he heard of prayers, on such a night, he raised his face sud- denly up, which was all over as flushed and red as a rose, and answered, “ prayers, mistress! lord help your crazed head, is this a night for prayers !" he had better have held his peace. there was such a torrent of profound divinity poured out upon him, that the laird became ashamed, both of himself and his new- made spouse, and wist not what to say; but the brandy helped him out. “ it strikes me, my dear, that religious devotion would be somewhat out of place to-night,” said he. . allowing that it is ever so beautiful, and ever so be. neficial, were we to ride on the rigging of it at all times, would we not be constantly making a farce of it: it would be like reading the bible and the jest-book, verse about, confessions of a fanatic. and would render the life of man a medley of absurdity and confusion.” but against the cant of the bigot or the hypocrite, no reasoning can aught avail. if you would argue until the end of life, the infallible creature must alone be right. so it proved with the laird. one scripture text followed another, not in the least connected, and one sentence of the profound mr. wringhim's serinons after another, prov. ing the duty of family worship, till the laird lost patience, and, tossing himself into bed, said, carelessly, that he would leave that duty upon her shoulders for one night. the meek mind of lady dalcastle was somewhat dis- arranged by this sudden evolution. she felt that she was left rather in an awkward situation. however, to' show her unconscionable spouse that she was resolved to hold fast her integrity, she kneeled down and prayed in terms so potent, that she deemed she was sure of mak- ing an impression on him. she did so; for in a short time the laird began to utter a response so fervent, that she was utterly astounded, and fairly driven from the chain of her orisons. he began, in truth, to sound a nasal bugle of no ordinary calibre,—the notes being little inferior to those of a military trumpet. the lady tried to proceed, but every returning note from the bed burst on her ear with a louder twang, and a longer peal, till the concord of sweet sounds became so truly pathetic, that the meek spirit of the dame was quite overcome ; and after shedding a flood of tears, she arose from her knees, and retired to the chimney-corner with her bible in her lap, there to spend the hours in holy meditation till such time as the inebriated trumpeter should awaken to a sense of propriety. the laird did not awake in any reasonable time; for, he being overcome with fatigue and wassail, his sleep, became sounder, and his morphean measures more in- tense. these varied a little in their structure ; but the general run of the bars sounded something in this way,-- “ hic-hoc wlieew !” it was most profoundly ludicrous ; a thĘ editor's narrative. and could not have missed exciting risibility in any one, save a pious, a disappointed, and humbled bride. the good dame wept bitterly. she could not for her life go and awaken the monster, and request him to make room for her: but she retired somewhere; for the jaird, on awaking next morning, found that he was still lying alone. his sleep had been of the deepest and most genuine sort; and all the time that it lasted, he had never once thought of either wives, children, or sweet- hearts, save in the way of dreaming about them; but as his spirit began again by slow degrees to verge towards the boundaries of reason, it became lighter and more buoyant from the effects of deep repose, and his dreams partook of that buoyancy, yea, to a degree hardly ex- pressible. he dreamed of the reel, the jig, the strath- spey, and the corant; and the elasticity of his frame was such, that he was bounding over the heads of the maid- ens, and making his feet skimmer against the ceiling, en- joying, the while, the most ecstatic emotions. these grew too fervent for the shackles of the drowsy god to restrain. the nasal bugle ceased its prolonged sounds in one moment, and a sort of hectic laugh took its place. “ keep it going,-play up, you devils !" cried the laird, without changing his position on the pillow. but this exertion to hold the fiddlers at their work, fairly awaken- ed the delighted dreamer; and though he could not re- frain from continuing his laugh, he at length, by tracing out a regular chain of facts, came to be sensible of his real situation. “rabina, where are you? what's be- come of you, my dear?” cried the laird. but there was no voice, nor any one that answered or regarded. he flung open the curtains, thinking to find her still on her knees, as he had seen her; but she was not there, either sleeping or waking. “rabina! mrs. colwan !” shout- ed he, as loud as he could call, and then added, in the same breath, “god save the king, i have lost my wife!" he sprung up and opened the casement: the daylight was beginning to streak the east, for it was spring, and the nights were short, and the mornings very long. the confessions of a fanatic. laird half dressed himself in an instant, and strode through every room in the house, opening the windows as he went, and scrutinizing every bed and erery corner. he came into the hall where the wedding festival had been held ; and, as he opened the various window-boards, loving couples flew off like hares surprised too late in the morn- ing among the early braird. “hoo-boo! fie, be fright- ened !” cried the laird. “ fie, rin like fools, as if ye were caught in an ill turn!”—his bride was not among them ; so he was obliged to betake himself to farther search. “she will be praying in some corner, poor woc man,” said he to himself. “it is an unlucky thing this praying. but, for my part, i fear i have behaved very ill; and i must endeavour to make amends.' the laird continued his search, and at length found his beloved in the same bed with her glasgow cousin, who had acted as bride's-maid. “you sly and malevo. lent imp,” said the laird ; “you have played me such a trick when i was fast asleep! i have not known a frolic so clever, and, at the same time, so severe. come along, you baggage you !" “sir, i will let you know, that i detest your princi- ples and your person alike," said she. “it shall never be said, sir, that my person was at the control of a heathenish man of belial,-a dangler among the daugh- ters of women,-a promiscuous dancer,—and a player at unlawful games. forego your rudeness, sir, i say, and de- part away from my presence and that of my kinswoman." " come along, i say, my charming rab. if you were the pink of all puritans, and the saint of all saints, you are my wife, and must do as i command you.” “sir, i will sooner lay down my life than be subject- ed to your godless will ; therefore, i say, desist, and be- gone with you.” but the laird regarded none of these testy sayings : he rolled her in a blanket, and bore her triumphantly away to his chamber, taking care to keep a fold or two of the blanket always rather near to her mouth, in case of any outrageous forthcoming of noise. the private memoirs and confessions of a fanatic: with a detail of curious traditionary facts, and other evidence, by the editor. the editor's narrative. it appears from tradition, as well as some parish registers still extant, that the lands of dalcastle (or dalchastel, as it is often spelled) were possessed by a family of the name of colwan, about one hundred and fifty years ago, and for at least a century previous to that period. that fa- mily was supposed to have been a branch of the ancient family of colquhoun, and it is certain that from it spring the cowans that spread towards the border. i find, that in the year , george colwan succeeded his uncle of the same name, in the lands of dalchastel and baigrennan ; and this being all i can gather of the family from history, to tradition i must appeal for the remainder of the motley adventures of that house. but of the mat. ter furnished by the latter of these powerful monitors i have no reason to complain : it has been handed down to the world in unlimited abundance ; and i am certain, that in recording the hideous events which follow, i am only relating to the greater part of the inhabitants of at least four counties of scotland, matters of which they were before perfectly well informed. the editor's narrative. this george was a rich man, or supposed to be so, and was married, when considerably advanced in life to the sole heiress and reputed daughter of a baillie orde, of glasgow. this proved a conjunction any thing but agreeable to the parties contracting. it is well known, that the reformation principles had long before that time taken a powerful hold of the hearts and affections of the people of scotland, although the feeling was by no means general, or in equal degrees ; and it so happened that this married couple felt completely at variance on the subject. granting it to have been so, one would have thought that the laird, owing to his retired situation, would have been the one that inclined to the stern doc- trines of the reformers; and that the young and gay dame from the city would have adhered to the free principles cherished by the court party, and indulged in rather to extremity, in opposition to their severe and carping con- temporaries. the contrary, however, happened to be the case, the laird was what his country neighbours called "a droll, careless chap," with a very limited proportion of the fear of god in his heart, and very nearly as little of the fear of man. the laird had not intentionally wronged or offended either of the parties, and perceived not the necessity of deprecating their vengeance. he had hither- to believed that he was living in most cordial terms with the greater part of the inhabitants of the earth, and with the powers above in particular: but woe be unto him if he was not soon convinced of the fallacy of such heedless security ! for his lady was the most severe and gloomy of all bigots to the principles of the reformation. hers were not the tenets of the great reformers, but theirs mightily overstrained and deformed. theirs was an unguent hard to be swallowed ; but hers was that un- guent embittered and overheated until nature could not longer bear it. she had imbibed her ideas from the doctrines of one flaming predestinarian divine alone; and these were so rigid, that they became a stumblingblock to many of his brethren, and a mighty handle for the confessions of a fanatic. enemies of his party to turn the machine of the state against them. the wedding festivities at dalcastle partook of all the gaiety, not of that stern age, but of one previous to it. there were feasting, dancing, piping, and singing: the liquors were handed around in great fulness, the ale in large wooden bickers, and the brandy in capacious horns of oxen. the laird gave full scope to his homely glee. he danced, he snapped his fingers to the music,-clap- ped his hands and shouted at the turn of the tune. he saluted every girl in the hall whose appearance was any thing tolerable, and requested of their sweethearts to take the same freedom with his bride, by way of retaliation. but there she sat at the head of the hall in still and bloom- ing beauty, absolutely refusing to tread a single measure with any gentleman there. the only enjoyment in which she appeared to partake, was in now and then stealing a word of sweet conversation with her favourite pastor about divine things ; for he had accompanied her home, after marrying her to her husband, to see her fairly set. tled in her new dwelling. he addressed her several times by her new name, mrs colwan ; but she turned away her head disgusted, and looked with pity and con- tempt towards the old inadvertent sinner, capering away in the height of his unregenerated mirth. the minister perceived the workings of her pious mind, and thence- forward addressed her by the courteous title of lady dalcastle, which sounded somewhat better, as not coup- ling her name with one of the wicked ; and there is too great reason to believe, that for all the solemn vows she had come under, and these were of no ordinary binding, particularly on the laird's part, she at that time despised, if not abhorred him, in her heart. . the good parson again blessed her, and went away. she took leave of him with tears in her eyes, entreating him often to visit her in that heathen land of the amo- rite, the hittite, and the girgashite : to which he assen. ted, on many solemn and qualifying conditions,-and then the comely bride retired to her chamber. the editor's narrative. it was customary, in those days, for the bride's-man and maiden, and a few select friends, to visit the new married couple after they had retired to rest, and drink a cup to their healths, their happiness, and a numerous pos. terity. but the laird delighted not in this : he wished to have his jewel to himself; and, slipping away quietly from his jovial party, he retired to his chamber to his be- loved, and bolted the door. he found her engaged with the writings of the evangelists, and terribly demure. the laird went up to caress her ; but she turned away her head, and spoke of the follies of aged men, and some- thing of the broad way that leadeth to destruction. the laird did not thoroughly comprehend this allusion; but being considerably flustered by drinking, and dis- posed to take all in good part, he only remarked, as he took off his shoes and stockings, “ that whether the way was broad or narrow, it was time that they were in their bed." “ sure, mr. colwan, you won't go to bed to-night, at such an important period of your life, without first saying prayers for yourself and ine." when she said this, the laird had his head down almost to the ground, loosing his shoe-buckle ; but when he heard of prayers, on such a night, he raised his face sud- denly up, which was all over az flushed and red as a rose, and answered, “ prayers, mistress ! lord help your crazed head, is this a night for prayers !" he had better have held his peace. there was such a torrent of profound divinity poured out upon him, that the laird became ashamed, both of himself and his new- made spouse, and wist not what to say, but the brandy helped him out. " it strikes me, my dear, that religious devotion would be somewhat out of place to-night," said he. . allowing that it is ever so beautiful, and ever so be. neficial, were we to ride on the rigging of it at all times, would we not be constantly making a farce of it: it would be like reading the bible and the jest-book, verse about, confessions of a fanatic. and would render the life of man a medley of absurdity and confusion." but against the cant of the bigot or the hypocrite, no reasoning can aught avail. if you would argue until the end of life, the infallible creature must alone be right. so it proved with the laird. one scripture text followed another, not in the least connected, and one sentence of the profound mr. wringhim's serions after another, prov. ing the duty of family worship, till the laird lost patience, and, tossing himself into bed, said, carelessly, that he would leave that duty upon her shoulders for one night. the meek mind of lady dalcastle was somewhat dis- arranged by this sudden evolution. she felt that she was left rather in an awkward situation. however, to show her unconscionable spouse that she was resolved to hold fast her integrity, she kneeled down and prayed in terms so potent, that she deemed she was sure of mak- ing an impression on him. she did so; for in a short time the laird began to utter a response so fervent, that she was utterly astounded, and fairly driven from the .chain of her orisons. he began, in truth, to sound a nasal bugle of no ordinary calibre, -the notes being little inferior to those of a military trumpet. the lady tried to proceed, but every returning note from the bed burst on her ear with a louder twang, and a longer peal, till the concord of sweet sounds became so truly pathetic, that the meek spirit of the dame was quite overcome ; and after shedding a flood of tears, she arose from her knees, and retired to the chimney-corner with her bible in her lap, there to spend the hours in holy meditation till such time as the inebriated trumpeter should awaken to a sense of propriety. the laird did not awake in any reasonable time; for, he being overcome with fatigue and wassail, his sleep, became sounder, and his morphean measures more in- tense. these varied a little in their structure ; but the . general run of the bars sounded something in this way, “ hic-hoc wlieew !" it was most profoundly ludicrous ; a the editor's narrative. and could not have missed exciting risibility in any one, save a pious, a disappointed, and humbled bride. the good dame wept bitterly. she could not for her life go and awaken the monster, and request him to make room for her: but she retired somewhere; for the laird, on awaking next morning, found that he was still lying alone. his sleep had been of the deepest and most genuine sort; and all the time that it lasted, he had never once thought of either wives, children, or sweet- hearts, save in the way of dreaming about them; but as his spirit began again by slow degrees to verge towards the boundaries of reason, it became lighter and more buoyant from the effects of deep repose, and his dreams partook of that buoyancy, yea, to a degree hardly ex- pressible. he dreamed of the reel, the jig, the strath- spey, and the corant; and the elasticity of his frame was such, that he was bounding over the heads of the maid- ens, and making his feet skimmer against the ceiling, en- joying, the while, the most ecstatic emotions. these grew too fervent for the shackles of the drowsy god to restrain. the nasal bugle ceased its prolonged sounds in one moment, and a sort of hectic laugh took its place. “ keep it going,--play up, you devils !" cried the laird, without changing his position on the pillow. but this exertion to hold the fiddlers at their work, fairly awaken- ed the delighted dreamer ; and though he could not re- frain from continuing his laugh, he at length, by tracing out a regular chain of facts, came to be sensible of his real situation. “rabina, where are you? what's be- come of you, my dear ?" cried the laird. but there was no voice, nor any one that answered or regarded. he flung open the curtains, thinking to find her still on her knees, as he had seen her; but she was not there, either sleeping or waking. " rabina! mrs. colwan !” shout- ed he, as loud as he could call, and then added, in the same breath, “ god save the king ,----i have lost my wife!" he sprung up and opened the casement: the daylight was beginning to streak the east, for it was spring, and the nights were short, and the mornings very long. the the editor's narrative. the next day at breakfast the bride was long in mak- ing her appearance. her maid asked to see her ; but george did not choose that any body should see her but himself: he paid her several visits, and always turned the key as he came out. at length breakfast was ser- ved; and during the time of refreshment the laird tried to break several jokes; but it was remarked, that they wanted their accustomed brilliancy, and that his nose was particularly red at the top. matters, without all doubt, had been very bad between the new-married couple; for in the course of the day the lady deserted her quarters, and returned to her father's house in glasgow, and after having been a night on the road; stage-coaches and steam-boats having then no existence in that quarter. though baillie orde had acquiesced in his wife's asseveration regarding the like- ness of their only daughter to her father, he never loved or admired her greatly; therefore this behaviour nothing astounded him. he questioned her strictly as to the grievous offence committed against her; and could dis- cover nothing that warranted a procedure so fraught with disagreeable consequences. so, after mature delibera- tion, the baillie addressed her as follows:- “ay, ay, raby!. an' sae i find that dalcastle has actually refused to say prayers with you when you order- ed him; an' has guidit you in a rude indelicate manner outstepping the respect due to my daughter,-as my daughter. but wi' regard to what is due to his own wife, of that he's a better judge nor me. however, since he has behayed in that manner to my daughter, i shall be revenged on him for aince; for i shall return the obligation to ane nearer to him: that is, i shall take pennyworths of his wife,-an' let him lick at that.” “ what do you mean, sir ?" said the astonished damsel. “i mean to be revenged on that villain dalcastle," said he, “for what he has done to my daughter. come hither, mrs. colwan, you shall pay for this.” so saying, the baillie began to inflict corporeal punish- ment on the runaway wife. his strokes were not indeed confessions of a fanatic. very deadly, but he made a mighty flourish in the inflic- tion, pretending to be in a great rage only at the laird of dalcastle. “ villain that he is !” exclaimed he, “i shall teach him to behave in such a manner to a child of mine, be she as she may; since i cannot get at himself, i shall lounder her that is nearest to him in life. take you that, and that, mrs. colwan, for your husband's imperti- nence!” the poor afflicted woman wept and prayed, but the baillie would not abate aught of his severity. after fuming, and beating her with many stripes, far drawn, and lightly laid down, he took her up to her chamber, five stories high, locked her in, and there he fed her on bread and water, all to be revenged on the presumptuous laird of dalcastle ; but ever and anon, as the baillie came down the stair from carrying his daughter's meal, he said to himself, “ i shall make the sight of the laird the blithest she ever saw in her life.” lady dalcastle got plenty of time to read, and pray, and meditate; but she was at a great loss for one to dis- pute with about religious tenets; for she found, that without this advantage, about which there was a perfect rage at that time, her reading, and learning of scripture texts, and sentences of intricate doctrine, availed her nought; so she was often driven to sit at her casement and look out for the approach of the heathenish laird of dalcastle. that hero, after a considerable lapse of time, at length made his appearance. matters were not hard to adjust; for his lady found that there was no refuge for her in her father's house; and so, after some sighs and tears, she ac- companied her husband home. for all that had passed, things went on no better. she would convert the laird in spite of his teeth : the laird would not be convert- ed. she would have the laird to say family prayers, both morning and evening: the laird would neither pray morning nor evening. he would not even sing psalms, and kneel beside her, while she performed the exercise ; neither would he converse at all times, and in all places, the editor's narrative. about the sacred mysteries of religion, although his lady took occasion to contradict flatly every assertion that he made, in order that she might spiritualize him by draw- ing him into argument. the laird kept his temper a long while, but at length his patience wore out; he cut her short in all her futile attempts at spiritualization, and mocked at her wire-drawn degrees of faith, hope, and repentance. he also dared to doubt of the great standard doctrine of absolute pre- destination, which put the crown on the lady's christian resentment. she declared her helpmate to be a limb of antichrist, and one with whom no regenerated person could associate. she therefore bespoke a separate estab- lishment, and before the expiry of the first six months, the arrangements of the separation were amicably adjusted. the upper, or third story of the old mansion-house, was awarded to the lady for her residence. she had a sepa- rate door, a separate stair, a separate garden, and walks that in no instance intersected the laird's ; so that one would have thought the separation complete. they had each their own parties, selected from their own sort of people; and though the laird never once chafed himself about the lady's companies, it was not long before she began to intermeddle about some of his. “ who is that fat bouncing dame that visits the laird so oſten, and always by herself !” said she to her maid martha one day. “ o dear, mem, how can i ken ? we're banished frae our acquaintances here, as weel as frae the sweet gospel ordinances.' " find me out who that jolly dame is, martha. you, who hold communion with the household of this ungod- ly man, can be at no loss to attain this information. i observe that she always casts her eye up toward our windows, both in coming and going ; and i suspect that she seldom departs from the house empty-handed.” that same evening martha came with the information, that this august visitor was a miss logan, an old and in- timate acquaintance of the laird's, and a very worthy res. confessions of a fanatic. pectable lady, of good connections, whose parents had lost their patrimony in the civil wars. “ ha! very well !” said the lady ; “ very well, mar- tha ! but nevertheless, go thou and watch this respect. able lady's motions and behaviour the next time she comes to visit the laird,--and the next after that. you will not, i see, lack opportunities." martha's information turned out of that nature, that pra yers were said in the uppermost story of dalcastle. ho use against the canaanitish woman, every night and ev ery morning; and great discontent prevailed there, even to anathemas and tears. letter after letter was dispatched to glasgow; and at length, to the lady's great consolation, the rev. mr wringhim arrived safely and devoutly in her elevated sanctuary marvellous was the conversation between these gifted people. wring- him had held in his doctrines that there were eight dif- ferent kinds of faith, all perfectly distinct in their oper. ations and effects. but the lady, in her secluded state, had discovered other five,-making thirteen in all : the adjusting of the existence or fallacy of these five faiths served for a most enlightened discussion of nearly seven- teen hours ; in the course of which the two got warm in their arguments, always in proportion as they receded from nature, utility, and common sense.wringhim at length got into unwonted fervour about some disputed point between one of these faiths and trust ; when the lady, fearing that zeal was getting beyond its wonted bar- rier, broke in on his vehement asseverations with the fol- lowing abrupt discomfiture : " but, sir, as long as i re- member, what is to be done with this case of open and avowed iniquity ?” the minister was struck dumb. he leaned him back on his chair, stroked his beard, hemmed-considered, and hemmed again; and then said, in an altered and softened tone,-" why, that is a secondary considera- jion ; you mean the case between your husband and miss logan?” " the same, sir. i am scandalised at such intima- the editor's narrative. cies going on under my nose. the sufferance of it is a great and crying evil." • evil, madam, may be either operative, or passive. to them it is an evil, but to us none. we have no more to do with the sins of the wicked and unconverted here, than with those of an infidel turk; for all earthly bonds and fellowships are absorbed and swallowed up in the holy community of the reformed church. however, if it is your wish, i shall take him to task, and reprimand and humble him in such a manner, that he shall be ashamed of his doings, and renounce such deeds for ever, out of mere self-respect, though all unsanctified the heart, as well as the deed, may be. to the wicked, all things are wicked ; but to the just, all things are just and right.” " ah, that is a sweet and comfortable saying, mr. wringhim! how delightful to think that a justified person can do no wrong! who would not envy the liberty wherewith we are made free? go to my husband, that poor unfortunate, blindfolded person, and open his eyes to his degenerate and sinful state ; for well are you fitted to the task.” " yea, i will go in unto him, and confound him. i will lay the strong holds of sin and satan as flat before my face, as the dung that is spread out to fatten the land.” “ master, there's a gentleman at the fore-door wants a private word o' ye.” “ tell him i'm engaged : i can't see any gentleman to-night. but i shall attend on him to-morrow as soon as he pleases.” “ he's coming straight in, sir.- stop a wee bit, sir, my master is engaged. he cannot see you at present, sir.” "stand aside, thou moabite ! my mission admits of no delay. i come to save him from the jaws of des- truction !” “ an that be the case, sir, it maks a wide difference ; an', as the danger may threaten us a', i fancy i may as weel let ye gang by as fight wi'ye, sin' ye seem sae intent teret confessions of a fanatic. on't. the man says he's comin' to save ye, an canna stop, sir. here he is.” the laird was going to break out into a volley of wrath against waters, his servant; but before he got a word pronounced, the rev. mr. wringhim had stepped inside the room, and waters had retired, shutting the door behind him. no introduction could be more mal-a-propos : it is im- possible; for at that very moment the laird and arabella logan were both sitting on one seat, and both looking on one book, when the door opened. “what is it, sir?” said the laird fiercely. “a message of the greatest importance, sir,” said the divine, striding unceremoniously up to the chimney, turning his back to the fire, and his face to the culprits. -“i think you should know me, sir ?" continued he, looking displeasedly at the laird, with his face half turn. ed round. “i think i should,” returned the laird. you are a mr. how's-tey-ca’-him, of glasgow, who did me the worst turn ever i got done to me in my life. you gen- try are always ready to do a man such a turn. pray, sir, did you ever do a good job for any one to counterbal. ance that ? for, if you have not, you ought to be " “ hold, sir, i say! none of your profanity before me. if i do evil to any one on such occasions, it is be- cause he will have it so; therefore, the evil is not of my doing. i ask you, sir,- before god and this witness, i ask you, have you kept solemnly and inviolate the vows which i laid upon you that day? answer me?" “ has the partner whom you bound me to, kept hers inviolate ? answer me that, sir ? none can better do so than you, mr. how's-tey-ca'-you.” “ so, then, you confess your backslidings, and avow the profligacy of your life. and this person here, is, i suppose, the partner of your iniquity,—she whose beauty hath caused you to err! stand up, both of you, till i rebuke you, and show you what you are in the eyes of god and man.' v. the editor's narrative. “in the first place, stand you still there, till i tell you what you are in the eyes of god and man. you are, sir, a presumptuous, self-conceited pedagogue, a stirrer up of strife and commotion in church, in state, in families, and communities. you are one, sir, whose righteousness con- sists in splitting the doctrines of calvin into thousands of undistinguishable films, and in setting up a system of justifying grace against all breaches of all laws, moral or divine. in short, sir, you are a mildew,--a canker-worm in the bosom of the reformed church, generating a dis- ease of which she will never be purged, but by the shed. ding of blood. go thou in peace, and do these abomina- tions no more; but humble thyself, lest a worse reproof come upon thee." wringhim heard all this without flinching. he now and then twisted his mouth in disdain, treasuring up. mean time, his vengeance against the two aggressors ; for he felt that he had them on the hip, and resolved to pour out his vengeance and indignation upon them. sorry am i, that the shackles of modern decorum res. train me from penning that famous rebuke ; fragments of which have been attributed to every divine of old no. toriety throughout scotland. but i have it by heart : and a glorious morsel it is to put into the hands of cer- tain incendiaries. the metaphors were so strong, and appalling, that miss logan could only stand then a very short time: she was obliged to withdraw in con- fusion. the laird stood his ground with much ado, though his face was often crimsoned over with the hues of shame and anger. several times he was on the point of turning the officious sycophant to the door ; but good manners, and an inherent respect that he entertained for the clergy, as the immediate servants of the supreme being, restrained him. wringhim, perceiving these symptoms of resentment, took them for marks of shame and contrition, and pushed his reproaches farther than ever divine ventured to do in a similar case. when he had finished, to prevent fur- ther discussion, he walked slowly and majestically out of confessions of a fanatic. the apartment, making his robes to swing behind him in a most magisterial manner; he being without doubt, elat. ed with his high conquest. he went to the upper story, and related to his metaphysical associate his wonderful success; how he had driven the dame from the house in tears and deep confusion, and left the backsliding laird in such a quandary of shame and repentance, that he could neither articulate a word, nor lift up his countenance. the dame thanked him most cordially, lauding his friend- ly zeal and powerful eloquence; and then the two again set keenly to the splitting of hairs, and making distinc- tions in religion where none existed. they being both children of adoption, and secured from falling into snares, or any way under the power of the wicked one, it was their custom, on each visit, to sit up a night in the same apartment, for the sake of sweet spiritual converse; but that time, in the course of the night, they differed so materially on a small point, some. where between justification and final election, that the mninister, in the heat of his zeal, sprung from his seat, paced the floor, and maintained his point with so much ardour, that martha was alarmed, and thinking they were going to fight, and that the minister would be a hard match for her mistress, she put on some clothes, and twice left her bed and stood listening at the back of the door, ready to burst in should need require it. should any one think this picture overstrained, i can assure him that it is taken from nature and from truth ; but i will not likewise aver, that the theologist was neither crazed nor inebriated. if the listener's words were to be re- lied on, there was no love, no accommodating principle manifested between the two, but a fiery burning zeal, re- lating to points of such minor importance, that a true christian would blush to hear them mentioned, and the infidel and profane make a handle of them to turn our religion to scorn. great was the dame's exultation at the triumph of her beloved pastor over her sinful neighbours in the lower parts of the house; and she boasted of it to martha in the editor's narrative. high-sounding terms. but it was of short duration; for, in five weeks after that, arabella logan came to reside with the laird as his house-keeper, sitting at his table, and carrying the keys as mistress-substitute of the man. sion. the lady's grief and indignation were now raised to a higher pitch than ever; and she set every agent to work, with whom she had any power, to effect a separa- tion between these two suspected ones. remonstrance was of no avail ; george laughed at them who tried such a course, and retained his house-keeper, while the lady gave herself up to utter despair ; for, though she would not consort with her husband herself, she could not en- dure that any other should do so. but, to countervail this grievous offence, our saintly and afflicted dame, in due time, was safely delivered of a fine boy, whom the laird acknowledged as his son and heir, and had him christened by his own name, and nur- sed in his own premises. he gave the nurse permission to take the boy to his mother's presence if ever she should desire to see him ; but, strange as it may appear, she never once desired to see him from the day that he was born. the boy grew up, and was a healthful and happy child ; and, in the course of another year, the lady presented him with a brother. a brother he certainly was, in the eye of the law, and it is more than probable that he was his brother in reality. but the laird thought otherwise ; and, though he knew and acknowledged that he was obliged to support and provide for him, he refused to acknowledge him in other respects. he neither would countenance the banquet, nor take the baptismal vows on him in the child's name ; of course, the poor boy had to live and remain an alien from the visble church for a year and a day; at which time, mr wringhim out of pity and kindness, took the lady herself as sponsor for the boy, and baptized him by the name of robert wring- him,—that being the noted divine's own name. george was brought up with his father, and educated partly at the parish-school, and partly at home, by a tu. tor hired for the purpose. he was a generous and kind. confessions of a fanatic. hearted youth; always ready to oblige, and hardly ever dissatisfied with any body. robert was brought up with mr wringhim, the laird paying a certain allowance for him yearly; and there the boy was early inured to all the sternness and severity of his pastor's arbitrary and unyielding creed. he was taught to pray twice every day, and seven times on sabbath days; but he was only to pray for the elect, and, like david of old, doom all that were aliens from god to destruction. he had never, in that family into which he had been as it were adopted, heard ought but evil spoken of his reputed father and brother; consequently he held them in utter abhorrence, and prayed against them every day, often “ that the old hoary sinner might be cut off in the full flush of his ini. quity, and be carried quick into hell; and that the young stem of the corrupt trunk might also be taken from a world that he disgraced, but that his sins might be par- doned, because he knew no better.” such were the tenets in which it would appear young robert was bred. he was an acute boy, an excellent learner, had ardent and ungovernable passions, and withal, a sternness of demeanour from which other boys shrunk. he was the best grammarian, the best reader, writer, and accountant in the various classes that he attended, and was fond of writing essays on controverted points of theology, for which he got prizes, and great praise from his guardian and mother. george was much be- hind him in scholastic acquirements, but greatly his su- perior in personal prowess, form, feature, and all that constitutes gentility in deportment and appearance. the laird had often manifested to miss logan an earnest wish that the two young men should never meet, or at all events that they should be as little conversant as possi- ble; and miss logan, who was as much attached to george as if he had been her own son, took every pre- caution, while he was a boy, that he should never meet with his brother; but as they advanced towards man- hood, this became impracticable. the lady was removed from her apartments in her husband's house to glasgow, b confessions of a fanatic. ed him from manual chastisement, he spared no acrimony, and delighted in the chagrin and anger of those with whom he contended. but he was sometimes likewise of real use to the heads of the presbyterian faction, and therefore was admitted to their tables, and of course conceived himself a very great man. his ward accompanied him ; and very shortly after their arrival in edinburgh, robert, for the first time, met with the young laird his brother, in a match at tennis. the prowess and agility of the young squire drew forth the loudest plaudits of approval from his associates, and his own exertion alone carried the game every time on the one side, and that so far as all along to count three for their one. the hero's name soon ran round the circle, and when his brother robert, who was an onlooker, learned who it was that was gaining so much applause, he came and stood close beside him all the time that the game lasted, always now and then putting in a cutting remark by way of mockery. george could not help perceiving him, not only on account of his impertinent remarks, but he, moreover, stood so near him that he several times impeded him in his rapid evolutions, and of course got himself shoved aside in no very ceremonious way. instead of making him keep his distance, these rude shocks and pushes, ac- companied sometimes with hasty curses, only made him cling the closer to this king of the game. he seemed determined to maintain his right to his place as an on- looker, as well as any of those engaged in the game, and if they had tried him at an argument, he would have carried his point: or perhaps he wished to quarrel with this spark of his jealousy and aversion, and draw the attention of the gay crowd to himself by these means; for, like his guardian, he knew no other pleasure but what consisted in opposition. george took him for some im- pertinent student of divinity, rather set upon a joke than any thing else. he perceived a lad with black clothes, and a methodistical face, whose countenance and eye he disliked exceedingly, several times in his way, and that the editor's narrative. was all the notice he took of him the first time they two met. but the next day, and every succeeding one, the same devilish-looking youih attended him as constantly as his shadow; was always in his way as with intention to impede him, and ever and anon his deep and malignant eye met those of his elder brother with a glance so fierce that it sometimes startled him. the very next time that george was engaged at ten- nis, he had not struck the ball above twice till the same intrusive being was again in his way. the party played for considerable stakes that day, namely, a dinner and wine at the black bull tavern ; and george, as the hero and head of his party, was much interested in its honour ; consequently, the sight of this moody and hellish-looking student affected him in no very pleasant manner. “ pray, sir, be so good as keep without the range of the ball," said he. “ is there any law or enactment that can compel me to do so ?” said the other, biting his lip with scorn. “if there is not, they are here that shall compel you," returned george : “so, friend, i rede you to be on your guard.” as he said this, a flush of anger glowed in his hand- some face, and flashed from his sparkling blue eye ; but it was a stranger to both, and momently took its depar. ture. the black-coated youth set up his cap before, brought his heavy brows over his deep dark eyes, put his hands in the pockets of his black plush breeches, and stepped a little farther into the semi-circle, immediately on his brother's right hand, than he had ever ventured to do before. there he set himself firm on his legs, and, with a face as demure as death, seemed determined to keep his ground. he pretended to be following the ball with his eyes; but every moment they were glan- cing aside at george. one of the competitors chanced to say rashly, in the moment of exultation, “ that's a d fine blow, george !" on which the intruder took up the word, as characteristic of the competitors, and repeated it every stroke that was given, making such d confessions of a fanatic. a ludicrous use of it, that several of the onlookers were compelled to laugh immoderately; but the players were terribly nettled at it, as he really contrived, by dint of sliding in some canonical terms, to render the competi. tors and their game ridiculous. but matters at length came to a crisis that put them beyond sport. george, in flying backward to gain the point at which the ball was going to light, came inadvert- ently so rudely in contact with this obstreperous inter- loper, that he not only overthrew him, but also got a grievous fall over his legs; and, as he arose, the other made a spurn at him with his foot, which, if it had hit to its aim, would undoubtedly have finished the course of the young laird of dalcastle and balgrennan. george, being irritated beyond measure, as may well be conceiv. ed, especially at the deadly stroke aimed at him, struck the assailant with his racket, rather slightly, but so that his mouth and nose gushed out blood ; and, at the same time, he said, turning to his cronies," does any of you know who the infernal puppy is ?” “do you not know, sir?” said one of the onlookers, a stranger : “the gentleman is your own brother, sir - mr robert wringhim colwan!” “ no, not colwan, sir," said robert, putting his hands in his pockets, and setting himself still farther forward than before,—“not a colwan, sir ; henceforth i dis- claim the name." “ no, certainly not,” repeated george: “ my mo. ther's son you may be,—but not a colwan! there you are right.” then turning round to his informer, he said, “ mercy be about us, sir! is this the crazy minister's son from glasgow ?” this question was put in the irritation of the moment ; but it was too rude, and too far out of place, and no one deigned any answer to it. he felt the reproof, and felt it deeply ; seeming anxious for some opportunity to make an acknowledgment, or some reparation. in the mean time, young wringhim was an object to all of the uttermost disgust. the blood flowing from the editor's narrative. his mouth and nose he took no pains to stem, neither did he so much as wipe it away ; so that it spread over all his cheeks, and breast, even off at his toes. in that state did he take up his station in the middle of the com- petitors ; and he did not now keep his place, but ran about, impeding every one who attempted to make at the ball. they loaded him with execrations, but it availed nothing ; he seemed courting persecution and buffetings, keeping stedfastly to his old joke of damnation, and mar- ring the game so completely, that, in spite of every ef- fort on the part of the players, he forced them to stop their game, and give it up. he was such a rueful-look- ing object, covered with blood, that none of them had the heart to kick him, although it appeared the only thing he wanted ; and as for george, he said not another word to him, either in anger or reproof. when the game was fairly given up, and the party were washing their hands in the stone fount, some of them besought robert wringhim to wash himself; but he mocked at them, and said, he was much better as he was. george, at length, came forward abashedly toward him, and said, "i have been greatly to blame, robert, and am very sorry for what i have done. but, in the first instance, i erred through ignorance, not knowing you were my brother, which you certainly are; and, in the second, through a momentary irritation, for which i am ashamed. i pray you, therefore, to pardon me, and give me your hand. as he said this, he held out his hand toward his pol. luted brother ; but the froward predestinarian took not his from his breeches' pocket, but lifting his foot, he gave his brother's hand a kick. “ i'll give you what will suit such a hand better than mine," said he, with a sneer. and then, turning lightly about, he added,—“are there to be no more of these d d fine blows, gentlemen? for shame, to give up such a profitable and edifying game!" “ this is too bad,” said george. “but, since it is thus, i have the less to regret.” and, having made this general remark, he took no more note of the uncouth aggressor, confessions of a fanatic. but the persecution of the latter terminated not on the play-ground: he ranked up among them, bloody and disgusting as he was, and, keeping close by his brother's side, he marched along with the party all the way to the black bull. before they got there, a great num- ber of boys and idle people had surrounded them, hoot- ing and incommoding them exceedingly, so that they were glad to get into the inn; and the unaccountable monster actually tried to get in alongst with them, to make one of the party at dinner. but the innkeeper and his men, getting the hint, by force prevented him from entering, although he attempted it again and again, both by telling lies and offering a bribe. finding he could not prevail, he set to exciting the mob at the door to acts of violence; in which he had like to have suc- ceeded. the landlord had no other shift, at last, but to send privately for two officers, and have him carried to the guard house; and the hilarity and joy of the party of young gentlemen, for the evening, was quite spoiled, by the inauspicious termination of their game. the rev. robert wringhim was now to send for, to release his beloved ward. the messenger found him at table, with a number of the leaders of the whig faction, the marquis of annandale being in the chair ; and the prisoner's note being produced, wringhim read it aloud, accompanying it with some explanatory remarks. the circumstances of the case being thus magnified and dis- torted, it excited the utmost abhorrence, both of the deed and the perpetrators, among the assembled faction. they declaimed against the act as an unnatural attempt on the character, and even the life, of an unfortunate brother, who had been expelled from his father's house. and, as party spirit was the order of the day, an attempt was made to lay the burden of it to that account. in short, the young culprit got some of the best blood of the land to enter as his securities, and was set at liberty. but when wringhim perceived the plight that he was in, he took him, as he was, and presented him to his honour- able patrons. this raised the indignation against the the editor's narrative, young laird and his associates a thousand fold, which actually roused the party to temporary madness. they were, perhaps, a little excited by the wine and spirits they had swallowed; else a casual quarrel between two young men, at tennis, could not have driven them to such extremes. but certain it is, that from one at first arising to address the party on the atrocity of the offence, both in a moral and political point of view, on a sudden there were six on their feet, at the same time, expatiating on it; and, in a very short time thereafter, every one in the room was up, talking with the utmost vociferation, all on the same subject, and all taking the same side in the de. bate. in the midst of this confusion, some one or other is. sued from the house, which was at the back of the canongate, calling out, " a plot, a plot! treason, tres. son! down with the bloody incendiaries at the black bull !" the concourse of people that were assembled in edin. burgh at that time was prodigious ; and as they were all actuated by political motives, they wanted only a ready. blown coal to set the mountain on fire. the evening being fine, and the streets thronged, the cry ran from mouth to mouth through the whole city. more than that, the mob that had of late been gathered to the door of the black bull, had, by degrees, dispersed ; but, they being young men, and idle vagrants, they had only spread themselves over the rest of the street to lounge in search of farther amusement : consequently, a word was suffi. cient to send them back to their late rendezvous, where they had previously witnessed something they did not much approve of. the master of the tavern was astonished at seeing the mob again assembling; and that with such hurry and noise, but his inmates being all of the highest respect- ability, he judged himself sure of protection, or, at least, of indemnity. he had two large parties in his house at the time ; the largest of which was of the revolutionist faction. the other consisted of our young tennis-play. confessions of a fanatic. ers, and their associates, who were all of the jacobite order ; or, at all events, leaned to the episcopal side. the largest party were in a front-room; and the attack of the mob fell first on their windows, though rather with fear and caution. jingle went one pane; then a loud hurra ; and that again was followed by a number of voices, endeavouring to restrain the indignation from venting itself in destroying the windows and to turn it on the inmates. the whigs, calling the landlord, in- quired what the assault meant: he cunningly answered, that he suspected it was some of the youths of the cava- lier, or high-church party, exciting the mob against them. the party consisted mostly of young gentlemen, by that time in a key to engage in any row; and, at all events, to suffer nothing from the other party, against whom their passions were mightily inflamed. the landlord, therefore, had no sooner given them the spirit-rousing intelligence, than every one, as by ins- tinct, swore his own natural oath, and grasped his own natural weapon. a few of those of the highest rank were armed with swords, which they boldly drew; those of the subordinate orders immediately flew to such weap- ons as the room, kitchen, and scullery afforded :—such as tongs, pokers, spits, racks, and shovels ; and breath- ing vengeance on the prelatic party, the children of an- tichrist and the heirs of d-n-t-n! the barterers of the liberties of their country, and betrayers of the most sacred trust,- thus elevated, and thus armed, in the cause of right, justice, and liberty, our heroes rushed to the street, and attacked the mob with such violence, that they broke the mass in a moment, and dispersed their thousands like chaff before the wind. the other party of young jacobites, who sat in a room farther from the front, and were those against whom the fury of the mob was meant to have been directed, knew nothing of this se- cond uproar, till the noise of the sally made by the whigs assailed their ears ; being then informed that the mob had attacked the house on account of the treatment they themselves had given to a young gentlemen of the с the editor's narrative. adverse faction, and that another jovial party had issued from the house in their defence, and was now engaged in an unequal combat, the sparks likewise flew to the field to back their defenders with all their prowess, with- out troubling their heads about who they were. a mob is like a spring-tide in an eastern storm, that retires only to return with more overwhelming fury. the crowd was taken by surprise, when such a strong and well-armed party issued from the house with so great fury, laying all prostrate that came in their way. those who were next to the door, and were, of course, the first whom the imminent danger assailed, rushed back- ward among the crowd with their whole force. the black bull standing in a small square half way between the high street and the cowgate, and the entrance to it being by two closes, into these the pressure outward was simultaneous, and thousands were moved to an in volun- tary fight they knew not why. but the high street of edinburgh, which they soon reached, is a dangerous place in which to make an open attack upon a mob. and it appears that the entrances to the tavern had been somewhere near to the cross, on the south side of the street; for the crowd fled with great expedition, both to the east and west, and the con- querors, separating themselves as chance directed, pur- sued impetuously, wounding and maiming as they flew. but, it so chanced, that before either of the wings had followed the flying squadrons of their enemies for the space of a hundred yards each way, there was not an enemy to pursue! the multitude had vanished like so many thousands of phantoms! what could our heroes do ?- why, they faced about to return toward their citadel, the black bull. but that feat was not so easily, nor so readily accomplished, as they divined. the un- numbered alleys on each side of the street had swallowed up the multitude in a few seconds ; but from these they were busy reconnoitring; and, perceiving the deficiency in the number of their assailants, the rush from both sides of the street was as rapid, and as wonderful, as the confessions of a fanatic. disappearance of the crowd had been a few minutes be- fore. each close vomited out its levies, and these bet- ter armed with missiles than when they sought it for a temporary retreat. woe then to our two columns of victorious whigs! the mob actually closed around them as they would have swallowed them up ; and, in the mean while, shower after shower of the most abominable weapons of offence were rained in upon them. if the gentlemen were irritated before, this inflamed them still farther ; but their danger was now so apparent, they could not shut their eyes on it, therefore, both par- ties, as if actuated by the same spirit, made a desperate effort to join, and the greater part effected it; but some were knocked down, and others were separated from their friends, and blithe to become silent members of the mob. the battle now raged immediately in front of the closes leading to the black bull; the small body of whig gentlemen was hardly bested, and it is likely would have been overcome and trampled down every man, had they not been then and there joined by the young cavaliers; who, fresh to arms, broke from the wynd, opened the head of the passage, laid about them manfully, and thus kept up the spirits of the exasperated whigs, who were the men in fact that wrought the most deray among the populace. the town-guard was now on the alert ; and two com- panies of the cameronian regiment, with the hon. captain douglas, rushed down from the castle to the scene of action ; but, for all the noise and hubbub that these caus- ed in the street, the combat had become so close and in- veterate, that numbers of both sides were taken prisoners fighting hand to hand, and could scarcely be separated when the guardsmen and soldiers had them by the necks. great was the alarm and confusion that night in edin- burgh ; for every one concluded that it was a party scuf- ale, and, the two parties being so equal in power, the most serious consequences were anticipated. the agita- tion was so prevailing, that every party in the town, great the editor's narrative. and small, was broken up ; and the lord-commissioner thought proper to go to the council-chamber himself, even at that late hour, accompanied by the sheriffs of edinburgh and linlithgow, with sundry noblemen besides, in order to learn something of the origin of the affray. for a long time the court was completely puzzled. every gentleman brought in exclaimed against the treat- ment he had received, in most bitter terms, blaming a mob set on him and his friends by the adverse party; and matters looked extremely ill, until at length they began to perceive that they were examining gentlemen of both parties, and that they had been doing so from the begin. ning, almost alternately, so equally had the prisoners been taken from both parties. finally, it turned out, that a few gentlemen, two-thirds of whom were strenuous whigs themselves, had joined in mauling the whole whig popu. lation of edinburgh. the investigation disclosed noth. ing the effect of which was not ludicrous; and the duke of queensberry, whose aim was at that time to conciliate the two factions, tried all that he could to turn the whole fracas into a joke-an unlucky frolic, where no ill was meant on either side, and which yet had been productive of a great deal. the greater part of the people went home satisfied; but not so the rev. robert wring him. he did all that he could to inflame both judges and populace against the young cavaliers, especially against the young laird of dalcastle, whom he represented as an incendiary, set on by an unnatural parent to slander his mother, and make away with a hapless and only brother ; and, in truth, that declaimer against all human merit had that sort of power- ful, homely, and bitter eloquence, which seldom missed affecting his hearers ; the consequence at that time was, that he made the unfortunate affair between the two bro- thers appear in extremely bad colours, and the populace retired to their homes impressed with no very favourable opinion of either the laird of dalcastle or his son george, neither of whom were there present to speak for them. selves. the editor's narrative. his children let be fatherless; his wife a widow make : let god his father's wickedness still to remembrance call; and never let his mother's sin be blotted out at all. as he in cursing pleasure took, so let it to him fall; as he delighted not to bless, so bless him not at all. as cursing he like clothes puts on, into his bowels so, like water, and into his bones like oil, down let it go. young wringhim only knew the full purport of this spiritual song: and went to his bed better satisfied than ever, that his father and brother were castaways, repro. bates, aliens from the church and the true faith, and curs- ed in time and eternity. the next day george and his companions met as usual,- all who were not seriously wounded of them. but as they strolled about the city, the rancorous eye and the finger of scorn were pointed against them. none of them was at first aware of the reason ; but it threw a damp over their spirits and enjoyments, which they could not master. they went to take a forenoon game at their old play of tennis, not on a match, but by way of im- proving themselves; but they had not well taken their places till young wringhim appeared in his old station, at his brother's right hand, with looks more demure and determined than ever. his lips were primmed so close that his mouth was hardly discernible, and his dark deep eye flashed gleams of holy indignation on the godless set, but particularly on his brother. his presence acted as a mildew on all social intercourse or enjoyment; the game was marred, and ended ere ever it was well begun. there were whisperings apart—the party separated ; and, in order to shake off the blighting influence of this dog- ged persecutor, they entered sundry houses of their ac- quaintances, with an understanding that they were to meet on the links for a game at cricket. confessions of a fanatic. they did so; and, stripping off part of their clothes, they began that violent and spirited game. they had not played five minutes, till wringhim was stalking in the midst of them, and totally impeding the play. a cry arose from all corners of “ o, this will never do. kick him out of the play-ground! knock down the scoun- drel; or bind him, and let him lie in peace." “by no means,” cried george: “it is evident he wants nothing else. pray do not humour him so much as to touch him with either foot or finger." then turning to a friend, he said in a whisper, “speak to him, gordon ; he surely will not refuse to let us have the ground to ourselves, if you request it of him." gordon went up to him, and requested of him, civilly, but ardently, “ to retire to a certain distance, else none of them could or would be answerable, however sore he might be hurt.” he turned disdainfully on his heel, uttered a kind of pulpit hem! and then added, “i will take my chance of that; hurt me, any of you, at your peril.” the young gentlemen smiled, through spite and dis- dain of the dogged animal. gordon followed him up, and tried to remonstrate with him ; but he let him know that “it was his pleasure to be there at that time; and, un- less he could demonstrate to him what superior right he and his party had to that ground, in preference to him, and to the exclusion of all others, he was determined to assert his right, and the rights of his fellow-citizens, by keeping possession of whatsoever part of that common field he chose.” “ you are no gentleman, sir,” said gordon. “ are you one, sir?” said the other. “ yes, sir, i will let you know that i am, by g-!" “ then, thanks be to him whose name you have pro- faned, i am none. if one of the party be a gentleman, i do hope in god i am not!" it was now apparent to them all that he was courting obloquy and manual chastisement from their hands, if by any means he could provoke them to the deed ; and, ap. tile editor's narrative. prehensive that he had some sinister and deep-laid design in hunting after such a singular favour, they wisely res. trained one another from inflicting the punishment that each of them yearned to bestow, personally, and which he so well deserved. but the unpopularity of the younger george colwan could no longer be concealed from his associates. it was manifested wherever the populace were assembled ; and his young and intimate friend, adam gordon, was oblig. ed to warn him of the circumstance, that he might not be surprised at the gentlemen of their acquaintance with. drawing themselves from his society, as they could not be seen with him without being insulted. george thank. ed him ; and it was agreed between them, that the for. mer should keep himself retired during the daytime while he remained in edinburgh, and that at night they should always meet together, along with such of their companions as were disengaged. george found it every day more and more necessary to adhere to this system of seclusion ; for it was not alone the hisscs of the boys and populace that pursued him, a fiend of more malignant aspect was ever at his elbow, in the form of his brother. to whatever place of amuse. ment he betook himself, and however well he concealed his intentions of going there from all flesh living, there was his brother wringhim alxo, and always within a few yards of him, generally about the same distance, and ever and anon darting looks at him that chilled his very soul. they were looks that cannot be described ; but they were felt piercing, to the bosom's deepest core. they affected even the onlookers in a very particular mariner, for all whose eyes caught a glimpse of these hideous glan. cey followed them to the object toward which they were darted; the gentlemanly and mild demeanour of that ob. ject generally calined their startled apprehensions ; for no one ever yet noted the glances of the young man's eye in the black coat, at the face of his brother, who did not at first manifest strong syinptoms of alarm. george became utterly confounded ; not only at the confessions of a fanatic, import of this persecution, but how in the world it came to pass that this unaccountable being knew all his mo- tions, and every intention of his heart, as it were intui. tively. on consulting his own previous feelings and re- solutions, he found that the circumstances of his going to such and such a place were often the most casual in- cidents in nature the caprice of a moment had carried him there, and yet he had never sat or stood many mi. nutes till there was the self-same being, always in the same position with regard to himself, as regularly as the shadow is cast from the substance, or the ray of light from the opposing denser medium. for instance, he remembered one day of setting out with the intention of going to attend divine worship in the high church, and when within a short space of its door, he was overtaken by young kilpatrick of closeburn, who was bound to the grey friars to see his sweetheart, as he said ; "and if you will go with me, colwan,” said he, “ i will let you see her too, and then you will be just as far forward as i am.” george assented at once, and went ; and after taking his seat, he leaned his head forward on the pew to repeat over to himself a short ejaculatory prayer, as had always, been his custom on entering the house of god. when he had done, he lifted his eyes naturally toward that point on his right hand where the fierce apparition of his bro. ther had been wont to meet his view : there he was, in the same habit, form, demeanour, and precise point of dis- tance, as usual! george again laid down his head, and his mind was so astounded, that he had nearly fallen into a swoon. he tried shortly after to muster up courage to look at the speaker, at the congregation, and at captain kilpatrick's sweetheart in particular ; but the fiendish glances of the young man in the black clothes were too appalling to be withstood,-his eye caught them whether he was looking that way or not: at length his courage was fairly mastered, and he was obliged to look down dur. ing the remainder of the service. by night or by day it was the same. in the gallery the editor's narrative. of the parliament house, in the boxes of the play-house, in the church, in the assembly, in the streets, suburbs, and the fields ; and every day, and every hour, from the first rencounter of the two, the attendance became more and more constant, more inexplicable, and altogether more alarming and insufferable, until at last george was fairly driven from society, and forced to spend his days in his own and his father's lodgings with close doors. even there, he was constantly harassed with the idea, that the next time he lifted his eyes, he would to a cer- tainty see that face, the most repulsive to all his feelings of aught the earth contained. the attendance of that brother was now become like the attendance of a demon on some devoted being that had sold himself to destruc- tion; his approaches as undiscerned, and his looks as fraught with hideous malignity. it was seldom that he saw him either following him in the streets, or entering any house or church after him ; he only appeared in his place, george wist not how, or whence; and, having sped so ill in his first friendly approaches, he had never spoken to his equivocal attendant a second time. it came at length into george's head, as he was pon. dering by himself on the circumstances of this extraor. dinary attendance, that perhaps his brother had relented, and, though of so sullen and unaccommodating a temper that he would not acknowledge it, or beg a reconciliation, it might be for that very purpose that he followed his steps night and day in that extraordinary manner. “i cannot for my life see for what other purpose it can be," thought he. “ he never offers to attempt my life ; nor dares he, if he had the inclination ; therefore, although his manner is peculiarly repulsive to me, i shall not have my mind burdened with the reflection, that my own mo- ther's son yearned for a reconciliation with me, and was repulsed by my haughty and insolent behaviour. the next time he comes to my hand i am resolved that i will accost him as one brother ought to address another, whatever it may cost me; and, if i am still flouted with disdain, then shall the blame rest with him." confessions of a fanatic. · after this generous resolution, it was a good while be. fore his gratuitous attendant appeared at his side again ; and george began to think that his visits were discon- tinued. the hope was a relief that could not be calcu. lated ; but still george had a feeling that it was too su- preme to last. his enemy had been too pertinacious to abandon his design, whatever it was. he, however, be- gan to indulge in a little more liberty, and for several days he enjoyed it with impunity. george was, from infancy, of a stirring active disposi- tion, and could not endure confinement; and having been of late much restrained in his youthful exercises by this singular persecutor, he grew uneasy under such restraint, and, one morning, chancing to awaken very early, he arose to make an excursion to the top of arthur's seat, to breathe the breeze of the dawning, and see the sun arise out of the eastern ocean. the morning was calm and serene ; and as he walked down the south back of the canongate, toward the palace, the haze was so close around him that he could not see the houses on the opposite side of the way. as he passed the lord-commissioner's house, the guards were in attendance, who cautioned him not to go by the palace, as all the gates would be shut and guarded for an hour to come, on which he went by the back of st anthony's gardens, and found his way into that little romantic glade adjoining to the saint's chapel and well. he was still involved in a blue haze, like a dense smoke, but yet in the midst of it the respira. tion was the most refreshing and delicious. the grass and the flowers were laden with dew ; and, on taking off his hat to wipe his forehead, he perceived that the black glossy fur of which his chaperon was wrought, was all co- vered with a tissue of the most delicate silver-a fairy web, composed of little spheres, so minute that no eye could discern any one of them ; yet there they were shin- ing in lovely millions. afraid of defacing so beautiful and so delicate a garnish, he replaced his hat with the greatest caution, and went on his way light of heart. as he approached the swire at the head of the dell, -- the editor's narrative, that little delightful verge from which in one moment the eastern jimity and shores of lothian arise on the view as he approached it, i say, and a little space from the height, he bebeld, to his astonishment, a bright halo in the cloud of haze, that rose in a semicircle over his head like a pale rainbow. he was struck motionless at the view of the lovely vision ; for it so chanced that he had never seen the same appearance before, though common at early morn. but he soon perceived the cause of the phenomenon, and that it proceeded froin the rays of the sun from a pure unclouded morning sky striking upon this dense vapour which refracted them. but the better all the works of nature are understood, the more they will be ever admired. that was a scene that would have en. tranced the man of science with delight, but which the uninitiated and sordid man would have regarded less than the mole rearing up his hill in silence and in darkness, george did admire this halo of glory, which still grew wider, and less defined, as he approached the surface of the cloud. but, to his utter amazement and supreme delight, he found, on reaching the top of arthur's seat, that this sublunary rainbow, this terrestrial glory, was spread in its most vivid hues beneath his feet. still be could not perceive the body of the sun, although the light behind him was dazzling ; but the cloud of haze ly- ing dense in that deep dell that separates the hill from the rocks of salisbury, and the dull shadow of the hill mingling with that cloud, made the dell a pit of darkness. on that shadowy cloud was the lovely rainbow formed, spreading itself on a horizontal plain, and having a slight and brilliant shade of all the colours of the heavenly bow, but all of them paler and less defined. but this terres. trial phenomenon of the early morn cannot be better de. lineated than by the name given of it by the shepherd boys, “ the little wee ghost of the rainbow." such was the description of the morning, and the wild shades of the hill, that george gave to his father and mr adam gordon that same day on which he had witnessed them; and it is necessary that the reader should compre. confessions of a fanatic. hend something of their nature to understand what fol- lows. he seated himself on the pinnacle of the rocky preci- pice, a little within the top of the hill to the westward, and, with a light and buoyant heart, viewed the beauties of the morning, and inhaled its salubrious breeze. “here,” thought he, “ i can converse with nature without distur- bance, and without being intruded on by any appalling or obnoxious visitor.” the idea of his brother's dark and malevolent looks coming at that moment across his mind, he turned his eyes instinctively to the right, to the point where that unwelcome guest was wont to make his appearance. gracious heaven! what an apparition was there presented to his view! he saw, delineated in the cloud, the shoulders, arms, and features of a human being of the most dreadful aspect. the face was the face of his brother, but dilated to twenty times the natural size. its dark eyes gleamed on him through the mist, while every furrow of its hideous brow frowned deep as the ravines on the brow of the hill. george started, and his hair stood up in bristles as he gazed on this horrible monster. he saw every feature, and every line of the face, distinctly, as it gazed on him with an intensity that was hardly brookable. its eyes were fixed on him, in the same manner as those of some carnivorous animal fixed on its prey; and yet there was fear and trembling, in these unearthly features, as plainly depicted as murder- ous malice. the giant apparition seemed sometimes to be cowering down as in terror, so that nothing but its brow and eyes were seen ; still these never turned one moment from their object-again it rose imperceptibly up, and began to approach with great caution ; and as it neared, the dimensions of its form lessened, still continu- ing, however, far above the natural size. george conceived it to be a spirit. he could con- ceive it to be nothing else ; and he took it for some horrid demon by which he was haunted, that had assumed the fea- tures of his brother in every lineament, but in taking on it- self the human form, had miscalculated dreadfully on v. the editor's narrative the size, and presented itself thus to him in a blown-up, dilated frame of embodied air, exhaled from the cayerns of death or the regions of devouring fire. he was far. ther confirmed in the belief that it was a malignant spirit, on perceiving that it approached him across the front of a precipice, where there was not a footing for thing of mortal frame. still, what with terror and astonishment, he continued rivetted to the spot, till it approached, as he deemed, to within two yards of him; and then, per- ceiving that it was setting itself to make a violent spring on him, he started to his feet and fled distractedly in the opposite direction, keeping his eye cast behind him lest he should have been seized in that dangerous place. but the very first bolt that he made in his flight he came in contact with a real body of flesh and blood, and that with such violence that both went down among some scragged rocks, and george rolled over the other. the being called out “ murder ;" and, rising, fled precipitately. george then perceived that it was his brother; and, be- ing confounded between the shadow and the substance, he knew not what he was doing or what he had done : and there being only one natural way of retreat from the brink of the rock, he likewise arose and pursued the af- frighted culprit with all his speed towards the top of the hill. wringhim was braying out “ murder! murder !" at which george being disgusted, and his spirits all in a ferment from some hurried idea of intended harm, the moment he came up with the craven he seized him rude. jy by the shoulder, and clapped his hand on his mouth. “ murder, you beast !” said he ; “ what do you mean by roaring out murder in that way? who is murdering you, or offering to murder you ?" wringhim forced his mouth from under his brother's hand, and roared with redoubled energy, “ eh ! egh! murder! murder !" &c. george had felt resolute to put down this shocking alarm, lest some one might hear it and fly to the spot, or draw inferences widely different from the truth ; and, perceiving the terror of wringhim to be so great that ex postulation was vain, he seized him confessions of a fanatic by the mouth and nose with his left hand, so strenuous. ly, that he sunk his fingers into his cheeks. but the pol. troon still attempting to bray out, george gave him such a stunning blow with his fist on the left temple, that he crumbled, as it were, to the ground, but more from the effects of terror than those of the blow. his nose, how. ever, again gushed out blood, a system of defence which seemned as natural to him as that resorted to by the race of stinkards. he then raised himself on his knees and hams, and raising up his ghastly face, while the blood streamed over both ears, he besought his life of his bro- ther, in the most abject whining manner, gaping and blubbering most piteously. “tell me then, sir," said george, resolved to make the most of the wretch's terror—“ tell me for what pur. pose it is that you thus haunt my steps. tell me plain- ly, and instantly, else i will throw you from the verge of that precipice." “oh, i will never do it again! i will never do it again! spare my life, dear, good brother! spare my life! sure i never did you any hurt?" “swear to me, then, that you will never henceforth follow after me to torment me with your threatening looks; swear that you will never again come into my presence without being invited. will you take an oath to this effect ?" “o yes! i will, i will !" “but this is not all : you must tell me for what pur- pose you sought me out here this morning?" “oh, brother! for nothing but your good. i had nothing at heart but your unspeakable profit, and great and endless good.” “so then, you indeed knew that i was here?" "i was told so by a friend, but i did not believe him; a-d-at least i did not know it was true till i saw you." “ tell me this one thing, then, robert, and all shall be forgotten and forgiven,- who was that friend?" * you do not know him.” “ how then does he know me ?" the editor's narrative. “ i cannot tell.” “ was he here present with you to-day?". “ yes; he was not far distant. he came to this hill with me.” " where then is he now?”' "i cannot tell." “ then, wretch, confess that the devil was that friend who told you i was here, and who came here with you? none else could possibly know of my being here.” “ah ! how little you know of him! would you argue that there is neither man nor spirit endowed with so much foresight as to deduce natural conclusions from previous actions and incidents but the devil ? be assured of this, however, that i had no aim in seeking you but your good!" “ well, robert, i will believe it. i am disposed to be hasty and passionate : it is a fault in my nature ; but i never meant, or wished you evil ; and god is my wit. ness that i would as soon stretch out my hand to my own life, or my father's, as to yours.”— at these words, wringhim uttered a hollow exulting laugh, put his hands in his pockets, and withdrew a space to his accustomed distance. george continued : “ and now, once for all, i request that we may exchange forgiveness, and that we may part and remain friends.” "would such a thing be expedient, think you ? or consistent with the glory of god ? i doubt it." “i can think of nothing that would be more so. is it not consistent with every precept of the gospel ? come, brother, say that our reconciliation is complete.” « oh yes, certainly! i tell you, brother, according to the flesh : it is just as complete as the lark's is with the adder ; no more so, nor ever can. reconciled, forsooth ! to what would i be reconciled ?" as he said this, he strode indignantly away. from the moment that he heard his life was safe, he assumed nis former insolence and revengeful looks--and never were they more dreadful than on parting with his brother that morning on the top of the hill. “well, gothy ways,” confessions of a fanatic, said george “some would despise, but i pity thee. if thou art not a limb of satan, i never saw one." the sun had now dispelled the vapours; and the morn- ing being lovely beyond description, george sat himself down on the top of the hill, and pondered deeply on the unaccountable incident that had befallen to him that morning. he could in nowise comprehend it ; but, tak- ing it with other previous circumstances, he could not get quit of a conviction that he was haunted by some evil genius in the shape of his brother, as well as by that dark and mysterious wretch himself. in no other way could he account for the apparition he saw that morning on the face of the rock, nor for several sudden appearances of the same being, in places where there was no possibili- ty of any foreknowledge that he himself was to be there, and as little that the same being, if he were flesh and blood like other men, could always start up in the same position with regard to him. he determined, therefore, on reaching home, to relate all that had happened, from be- ginning to end, to his father, asking his counsel and his assistance, although he knew full well that his father was not the fittest man in the world to solve such a problem, he was now involved in party politics, over head and ears ; and, moreover, he could never hear the names of either of the wringhims mentioned without getting into a quandary of disgust and anger ; and all that he would deign to say of them was, to call them by all the oppro- brious names he could invent. it turned out as the young man from the first suggest- ed : old dalcastle would listen to nothing concerning them with any patience. george complained that his brother harassed him with his presence at all times, and in all places. old dal asked why he did not kick the dog out of his presence, whenever he felt him disagree- able ? george said, he seemed to have some demon for a familiar. dal answered, that he did not wonder a bit at that, for the young spark was the third in a direct line who had all been children of adultery ; and it was well known that all such were born half deils themselves, and d the editor's narrative, nothing was more likely than that they should hold inter- course with their fellows. in the same style did he sympa. thize with all his son's late sufferings and perplexities. in mr adam gordon, however, george found a friend who entered into all his feelings, and had seen and knew every thing about the matter. he tried to convince him, that at all events there could be nothing supernatural in the circumstances ; and that the vision he had seen on the rock, among the thick mist, was the shadow of his brother approaching behind him. george could not swal. low this, for he had seen his own shadow on the cloud, and, instead of approaching to aught like his own figure, he perceived nothing but a halo of glory round a point of the cloud, that was whiter and purer than the rest. gordon said, if he would go with him to a mountain of his father's, which he named, in aberdeenshire, he would show him a giant spirit of the same dimensions, any morn- ing at the rising of the sun, provided he shone on that spot. this statement excited george's curiosity exceed. ingly; and, being disgusted with some things about edin- burgh, and glad to get out of the way, he consented to go with gordon to the highlands for a space. the day was accordingly set for their departure, the old laird's assent obtained ; and the two young sparks parted in a state of great impatience for their excursion. one of them found out another engagement, however, the instant after this last was determined on. young wringhim went off the hill that morning, and home to his upright guardian again, without washing the blood from his face and neck ; and there he told a most woful story indeed : how he had gone out to take a morning's walk on the hill, where he had encountered with his reprobate brother among the mist, who had knocked hiin down and very near murdered him ; threatening dreadfully, and with horrid oaths, to throw bin from the top of the cliff. the wrath of the great divine was kindled beyond mea. sure. he cursed the aggressor in the name of the most high ; and bound himself, by an oath, to cause tbat wicked one's transgressions to return upon his own head confessions of a fanatic. sevenfold. but before he engaged farther in the business of vengeance, he kneeled with his adopted son, and com. mitted the whole cause unto the lord, whom he address. ed as one coming breathing burning coals of juniper, and casting his lightnings before him, to destroy and root out all who had moved hand or tongue against the children of the promise. thus did he arise confirmed, and go forth to certain conquest. we cannot enter into the detail of the events that now occurred, without forestalling a part of the narrative of one who knew all the circumstances—was deeply interest- ed in them, and whose relation is of higher value than any thing that can be retailed out of the stores of tradi- tion and old registers ; but, his narrative being different from these, it was judged expedient to give the account as thus publicly handed down to us. suffice it, that, be- fore evening, george was apprehended, and lodged in jail, on a criminal charge of an assault and battery, to the shedding of blood, with the intent of committing fratri. cide. then was the old laird in great consternation, and blamed himself for treating the thing so lightly, which seemed to have been gone about, from the beginning, so systematically, and with an intent which the villains were now going to realize, namely, to get the young laird dis- posed of, and then his brother, in spite of the old gentle. man's teeth, would be laird himself. old dal now set his whole interest to work among the noblemen and lawyers of his party. his son's case looked exceedingly ill, owing to the former assault before wit. nesses, and the unbecoming expressions made use of by him on that occasion, as well as from the present assault, which george did not deny, and for which no moving cause or motive could be made to appear. on his first declaration before the sheriff, matters look- ed no better : but then the sheriff was a whig. it is well known how differently the people of the present day, in scotland, view the cases of their own party-men, and those of opposite political principles. but this day is no- thing to that in such matters, although, they are still the editor's narrative. sometimes barefaced enough. it appeared, from all the witnesses in the first case, that the complainant was the first aggressor—that he refused to stand out of the way, though apprised of his danger ; and when his brother came against himn inadvertently, he had aimed a blow at him with his foot, which, if it had taken effect, would have killed him. but as to the story of the apparition in fair daylight-the flying from the face of it—the running foul of his brother--pursuing him, and knocking him down, why the judge smiled at the relation ; and saying, “ it was a very extraordinary story,” he remanded george to prison, leaving the matter to the high court of justi. ciary. when the case came before that court, matters took a different turn. the constant and sullen attendance of the one brother upon the other excited suspicions; and these were in some manner confirmed, when the guards at queensberry-house deponed, that the prisoner went by them on his way to the hill that morning, about twenty minutes before the complainant, and when the latter pass- ed, he asked if such a young man had passed before him, describing the prisoner's appearance to them ; and that, on being answered in the affirmative, he mended his pace and fell a-running. the lord justice, on hearing this, asked the prisoner if he had any suspicions that his brother had a design on his life. he answered, that all along, from the time of their first unfortunate meeting, his brother had dogged his steps so constantly, and so unaccountably, that he was con- vinced it was with some intent out of the ordinary course of events; and that if, as his lordship supposed, it was indeed his shadow that he had seen approaching him through the mist, then, from the cowering and cautious manner that it advanced, there was too little doubt that his brother's design had been to push him headlong from the cliff that morning. a conversation then took place between the judge and the lord advocate ; and, in the mean time, a bustle was confessions of a fanatic. seen in the hall ; on which the doors were ordered to be guarded,-and, behold, the precious mr r. wringhim was taken into custody, trying to make his escape out of court. finally it turned out, that george was honour. ably acquitted, and young wringhim bound over to keep the peace with heavy penalties and securities. that was a day of high exultation to george and his youthful associates, all of whom abhorred wringhim ; and the evening being spent in great glee, it was agreed between mr adam gordon and george that their visit to the highlands, though thus long delayed, was not to be abandoned ; and though they had, through the ma- chinations of an incendiary, lost the season of delight, they would still find plenty of sport in deer-shooting. accordingly, the day was set a second time for their de. parture ; and, on the day preceding that, all the party were invited by george to dine with him once more at the sign of the black bull of norway. every one pro- mised to attend, anticipating nothing but festivity and joy. alas, what short-sighted improvident creatures we are, all of us; and how often does the evening cup of joy lead to sorrow in the morning! the day arrived—the party of young noblemen and gentlemen met, and were as happy and jovial as men could be. george was never seen so brilliant, or so full of spirits; and exulting to see so many gallant young chiefs and gentlemen about him, who all gloried in the same principles of loyalty, (perhaps this word should have been written disloyalty,) he made speeches, gave toasts, and sung songs, all leaning slily to the same side, until a very late hour. by that time he had pushed the bottle so long and so freely, that its fumes had taken possession of every brain to such a degree, that they held dame reason rather at the staff's end, overbearing all her coun- sels and expostulations; and it was imprudently proposed by a wild inebriated spark, and carried by a majority of voices, that the whole party should adjourn to another tavern for the remainder of the night. they did so ; and it appears from what follows, that the editor's narrative. the house to which they retired, must have been some- where on the opposite side of the street to the black bull inn, a little farther to the eastward. they had not been an hour in that house, till some altercation chanced to arise between george colwan and a mr drummond, the younger son of a nobleman of distinction. it was per- fectly casual, and no one thenceforward, to this day, could ever tell what it was about, if it was not about the mis. understanding of some word, or term, that the one had uttered. however it was, some high words passed be- tween them; these were followed by threats; and in less than two minutes from the commencement of the quarrel, drummond left the house in apparent displeasure, hinting to the other that they two should settle that in a more convenient place. the company looked at one another, for all was over before any of them knew such a thing was begun. • what is the matter ?” cried one. “what ails drum- mond ?” cried another. “ who has he quarrelled with ?” asked a third. “ don't know."_“ can't tell, on my life.”-“ he has quarrelled with his wine, i suppose, and is going to send it a challenge." such were the questions, and such the answers that passed in the jovial party, and the matter was no more thought of. but in the course of a very short space, about the length of which the ideas of the company were the next day at great variance, a sharp rap came to the door : it was opened by a female ; but there being a chain inside, she only saw one side of the person at the door. he appeared to be a young gentleman, in appearance like him who had lately left the house, and asked, in a low whispering voice, “ if young dalcastle was still in the house ?" the wo- inan did not know." if he is," added he, “pray tell him to speak with me for a few minutes.” the woman delivered the message before all the party, among whom there were then sundry courteous ladies of notable dis- tinction, and george, on receiving it, instantly rose, and confessions of a fanatic. said, in the hearing of them all, “ i will bet a hundred inerks that is drummond."-" don't go to quarrel with him, george,” said one. “ bring him in with you,” said another. george stepped out; the door was again bolted. the chain drawn across, and the inadvertent party, left within, thought no more of the circumstance till the next morning, that the report had spread over the city, that a young gentleman had been slain, on a little washing. green at the side of the north loch, and at the very bot. tom of the close where this thoughtless party had been assembled. several of them on first hearing the report, hasted to the dead-room in the old guard-house, where the corpse had been deposited, and soon discovered the body to be that of their friend and late entertainer, george colwan. great were the consternation and grief of all concerned, and in particular, of his old father and miss logan; for george had always been the sole hope and darling of both, and the news of the event paralyzed them so as to render thein incapable of all thought or exertion. the spirit of the old laird was broken by the blow, and he descended at once from a jolly, good-natured, and active inan, to a mere driveller, weeping over the body of his son, kissing his wound, his lips, and his cold brow alter- nately; denouncing vengeance on his murderers, and la- menting that he himself had not met the cruel doom, so that the hope of his race might have been preserved. in short, finding that all further motive of action and ob- ject of concern or of love, here below, were for ever re- inoved from him, he abandoned himself to despair, and threatened to go down to the grave with his son. but although he made no attempt to discover the mur. derers, the arm of justice was not idle ; and it being evident to all, that the crime must infallibly be brought home to young drummond, some of his friends sought him out, and compelled him, sorely against his will, to retire into concealment till the issue of the proof that should be led was made known. at the same time, he denied all knowledge of the incident with a resolution that the editor's narrative. astonished his intimate friends and relations, who to a man suspected him guilty. his father was not in scot- land, for i think it was said to me that this young man was second son to a john, duke of melfort, who lived abroad with the royal family of the stuarts; but this young gentleman lived with the relations of his mother, one of whom, an uncle, was a lord of session : these having thoroughly effected his concealment, went away, and listened to the evidence; and the examination of every new witness convinced them that their noble young relative was the slayer of his friend. all the young gentlemen of the party were examined, save drummond, who, when sent for, could not be found, which circumstance sorely confirmed the suspicions against him in the minds of judges and jurors, friends and ene- mies ; and there is little doubt, that the care of his rela- tions in concealing him, injured his character, and his cause. the young gentlemen, of whom the party was composed, varied considerably, with respect to the quar- rel between him and the deceased. some of them had neither heard nor noted it ; others had, but not one of them could tell how it began. some of them had heard the threat uttered by drummond on leaving the house, and one only had noted him lay his hand on his sword. not one of them could swear that it was drummond who came to the door, and desired to speak with the deceased, but the general impression on the minds of them all, was to that effect; and one of the women swore that she heard the voice distinctly at the door, and every word that voice pronounced; and at the same time heard the deceased say, that it was drummond's. on the other hand, there were some evidences on drummond's part, which lord craigie, his uncle, had taken care to collect. he produced the sword which his nephew had worn that night, on which there was neither blood nor blemish; and above all, he insisted on the evi. dence of a number of surgeons, who declared that both the wounds which the deceased had received, had been given behind. one of these was below the left arm, confessions of a fanatic. and a slight one; the other was quite through the body, and both evidently inflicted with the same weapon, a two- edged sword, of the same dimensions as that worn by drummond. upon the whole, there was a division in the court, but a majority decided it. drummond was pronounced guilty of the murder, outlawed for not appearing, and a high reward offered for his apprehension. it was with the greatest difficulty that he escaped on board of a small trading vessel, which landed him in holland, and from thence, flying into germany, he entered into the service of the emperor charles vi. many regretted that he was not taken, and made to suffer the penalty due for such a crime, and the melancholy incident became a pul- pit theme over a great part of scotland, being held up as a proper warning to youth. after the funeral of this promising and excellent young man, his father never more held up his head. miss lo- gan, with all her art, could not get him to attend to any worldly thing, or to make any settlement whatsoever of his affairs, save making her over a present of what dis- posable funds he had about him. as to his estates, when they were mentioned to him, he wished them all in the bottom of the sea, and himself along with them. but whenever she mentioned the circumstance of thomas drummond having been the murderer of his son, he shook his head, and once made the remark, that “ it was all a mistake, a gross and fatal error ; but that god, who had permitted such a flagrant deed, would bring it to light in his own time and way.” in a few weeks he followed his son to the grave, and the notorious robert wringhim took possession of his estates as the lawful son of the late laird, born in wedlock, and under his father's roof. the investiture was celebrated by prayer, singing of psalms, and religious disputation. the late guardian and adopted father, and the mother of the new laird, presid- ed on the grand occasion, making a conspicuous figure in all the work of the day; and though the youth him- self indulged rather more freely in the bottle, than he the editor's narrative. had ever been seen to do before, it was agreed by all pre. sent, that there had never been a festivity so sanctified within the great hall of dalcastle. but the ways of heaven are altogether inscrutable, and soar as far above and beyond the works and the com- prehensions of man, as the sun, flaming in majesty, is above the tiny boy's evening rocket. it is the control. ler of nature alone, that can bring light out of darkness, and order out of confusion. who is he that causeth the mole, from his secret path of darkness, to throw up the gom, the gold, and the precious ore? the same, that froin the mouths of babes and sucklings can extract the perfection of praise, and who can make the most abject of his creatures instrumental in bringing the most hidden truthy to light. miss logan had never lost the thought of her late master's prediction, that heaven would bring to light the truth concerning the untimely death of his son. she perceived that some strange conviction, too horrible for expression, preyed on his mind from the moment that the fatal news reached him, to the last of his existence; and in his last ravings, he uttered some incoherent words about fanaticism having been the ruin of his house. these, to be sure, were the words of superannuation, and of the last and severest kind of it ; but for all that, they sunk deep into miss logan's soul, and at last she began to think with hersell, “ it possible the wring. hims, and the sophisticating wretch who is in conjunction with them, the inother of my late beautiful and ariable young master, can have effected his destruction ? if yo, i will spend my days, and my little patrimony, in endea- vours to rake up and expose the unnatural deed." in all her outgoings and incomings, mrs logan (as she was now styled) never lost sight of this one object. every new disappointment only whetted her desire to fish up some particulars concerning it; for she thought so long, and so ardently upon it, that by degrees it be. came settled in her mind as a sealed truth. and as woman is always most jealous of her own sex in such confessions of a fanatic. matters, her suspicions were fixed on her greatest enemy, mrs colwan, now the lady dowager of dalcastle. all was wrapt in a chaos of confusion and darkness ; but at last by dint of a thousand sly and secret inquiries, mrs logan found out where lady dalcastle had been, on the night that the murder happened, and likewise what com. pany she had kept, as well as some of the comers and goers; and she had hopes of having discovered a cue, which, if she could keep hold of the thread, would lead her through darkness to the light of truth. returning very late one evening from a convocation of family servants, which she had drawn together in order to fish something out of them, her maid having been in at- tendance on her all the evening, they found on going home, that the house had been broken into, and a number of valuable articles stolen therefrom. mrs logan had grown quite heartless before this stroke, having been altogether unsuccessful in her inquiries, and now she began to enter- tain some resolutions of giving up the fruitless search. in a few days thereafter, she received intelligence that her clothes and plate were mostly recovered, and that she for one was bound over to prosecute the depredator, provided the articles turned out to be hers, as libelled in the indictment, and as a king's evidence had given out. she was likewise summoned, or requested, i know not which, being ignorant of these matters, to go as far as the town of peebles on tweedside, in order to survey the articles on such a day, and make affidavit to their identity before the sheriff. she went accordingly; but on enter- ing the town by the north gate, she was accosted by a poor girl in tattered apparel, who with great earnestness inquired if her name was not mrs logan? on being an- swered in the affirmative, she said that the unfortunate prisoner in the tolbooth requested her, as she valued all that was dear to her in life, to go and see her before she appeared in court, at the hour of cause, as she (the pri- soner) had something of the greatest moment to impart to her. mrs logan's curiosity was excited, and she followed the girl straight to the tolbooth, who by the the editor's narrative. way said to her, that she would find in the prisoner a woman of a superior mind, who had gone through all the vicissitudes of life. “she has been very unfortunate, and i fear very wicked,” added the poor thing, “but she is my mother, and god knows, with all her faults and fail- ings, she has never been unkind to me. you, madam, have it in your power to save her; but she has wronged you, and therefore if you will not do it for her sake, do it for mine, and the god of the fatherless will reward you.” mrs logan answered her with a cast of the head, and a hem! and only remarked, that “the guilty must not always be suffered to escape, or what a world must we be doomed to live in !” she was admitted to the prison, and found a tall ema- ciated figure, who appeared to have once possessed a sort of masculine beauty in no ordinary degree, but was now considerably advanced in years. she viewed mrs logan with a stern, steady gaze, as if reading her features as a margin to her intellect ; and when she addressed her it was not with that humility, and agonized fervour, which are natural for one in such circumstances to address to another, who has the power of her life and death in her hands. “i am deeply indebted to you, for this timely visit, mrs logan,” said she. “ it is not that i value life, or because i fear death, that i have sent for you so express- ly. but the manner of the death that awaits me, has something peculiarly revolting in it to a female mind. good god! when i think of being hung up, a spectacle to a gazing, gaping multitude, with numbers of which i have had intimacies and connexions, that would render the moment of parting so hideous, that, believe me, it rends to flinders a soul born for another sphere than that in which it has moved, had not the vile selfishness of a lordly fiend ruined all my prospects, and all my hopes. hear me then ; for i do not ask your pity ; i only ask of you to look to yourself, and behave with womanly prudence. if you deny this day, that these goods are confessions of a fanatic. yours, there is no other evidence whatever against my life, and it is safe for the present. for as for the word of the wretch who has betrayed me, it is of no avail; he has prevaricated so notoriously to save himself. if you deny them, you shall have them all again to the value of a mite, and more to the bargain. if you swear to the identity of them, the process will, one way and another, cost you the half of what they are worth." “ and what security have i for that ?" said mrs logan. “ you have none but my word," said the other proud. ly," and that never yet was violated. if you cannot take that, i know the worst you can do. but i had for- got-i have a poor helpless child without, waiting, and starving about the prison door ; surely it was of her that i wished to speak. this shameful death of mine will leave her in a deplorable state.” " the girl seems to have candour and strong affections," said mrs logan ; “i grievously mistake if such a child would not be a thousand times better without such a guardian and director." " then will you be so kind as come to the grass mar- ket, and see me put down?" said the prisoner. “ i thought a woman would estimate a woman's and a mother's feel. ings, when such a dreadful throw was at stake, at least in part. but you are callous, and have never known any feelings but those of subordination to your old unnatural master. alas, i have no cause of offence! i have wronged you; and justice must take its course. will you forgive me before we part?” mrs logan hesitated, for her mind ran on something else : on which the other subjoined, “ no, you will not forgive me, i see. but you will pray to god to forgive me? i know you will do that." mrs logan heard not this jeer, but looking at the pris- soner with an absent and stupid stare, she said, “did you know my late master ?" " ay, that i did, and never for any good," said she. “i knew the old and the young spark both, and was by when the latter was slain." e the editor's narrative. this careless sentence affected mrs logan in a most peculiar manner. a shower of tears burst from her eyes ere it was done, and when it was, she appeared like one bereaved of her mind. she first turned one way and then another, as if looking for something she had dropped. she seemed to think she had lost her eyes, instead of her tears, and at length, as by instinct, she tottered close up to the prisoner's face, and looking wistfully and joyfully in it, said, with breathless earnestness, “ pray, mistress, what is your name ?". “ my name is arabella calvert,” said the other: “miss, mistress, or widow, as you choose, for i have been all the three, and that not once nor twice only-ay, and some. thing beyond all these. but as for you, you have never been any thing !" “ay, ay! and so you are bell calvert ? well i thought so i thought so," said mrs logan; and help- ing herself to a seat, she came and sat down close by the prisoner's knee. “so you are indeed bell calvert, so called once. well, of all the world you are the woman whom i have longed and travailed the most to see. but you were invisible ; a being to be heard of, not seen.” “there have been days, madam," returned she, “when i was to be seen, and when there were few to be seen like me. but since that time there have indeed been days 'on which i was not to be seen. my crimes have been great, but my sufferings have been greater : so great, that neither you nor the world can ever either know or conceive them. i hope they will be taken into account by the most high. mine have been crimes of utter desperation. but whom am i speaking to! you had better leave me to myself, mistress.” “leave you to yourself? that i will be loth to do, till you tell me where you were that night my young master was murderedi?”. " where the devil would, i was! will that suffice you? ah, it was a vile action! a night to be remembered that was !- won't you be going? i want to trust my daughter with a commission." confessions of a fanatic. “no, mrs calvert, you and i part not, till you have divulged that mystery to me." “you must accompany me to the other world, then, for you shall not have it in this.” “if you refuse to answer me, i can have you before a tribunal, where you shall be sifted to the soul." “such miserable inanity! what care i for your threat- enings of a tribunal ? i who must so soon stand before my last earthly one? what could the word of such a culprit avail ? or if it could, where is the judge that could enforce it?" “did you not say that there was some mode of accom- modating matters on that score ?" “ yes, i prayed you to grant me my life, which is in your power. the saving of it would not have cost you a plack, yet you refused to do it. the taking of it will cost you a great deal, and yet to that purpose you adhere. i can have no parley with such a spirit. i would not have my life in a present from its motions, nor would i exchange courtesies with its possessor.” " indeed, mrs calvert, since ever we met, i have been so busy thinking about who you might be, that i know not what you have been proposing. i believe, i meant to do what i could to save you. but once for all, tell me every thing that you know concerning that amiable young gentleman's death, and here is my hand, there shall be nothing wanting that i can effect for you." “no, i despise all barter with such mean and selfish curiosity; and, as i believe that passion is stronger with you, than fear is with me, we part on equal terms. do your worst ; and my secret shall go to the gallows and the grave with me.” mrs logan was now greatly .confounded, and after proffering in vain to concede every thing she could ask in exchange, for the particulars relating to the murder, she became the suppliant in her turn. but the unaccoun. table culprit, exulting in her advantage, laughed her to scorn; and finally, in a paroxysm of pride and impatience, called in the jailor, and had her expelled, ordering him in the editor's narrative. her hearing, not to grant her admittance a second time, on any pretence. mrs logan was now hard put to it, and again driven almost to despair. she might have succeeded in the at. tainment of that she thirsted for most in life so easily, had she known the character which she had to deal with,—had she known to have soothed her high and afflicted spirit: but that opportunity was past, and the hour of examination at hand. she once thought of going and claiming her articles, as she at first intended; but then, when she thought again of the wringhims swaying it at dalcastle, where she had been wont to hear them held in such contempt, if not abhorrence, and per- haps of holding it by the most diabolical means, she was withheld from marring the only chance that remained of having a glimpse into that mysterious affair. finally she resolved not to answer to her name in the court, rather than to appear and assert a falsehood, which she might be called on to certify by oath. she did so; and heard the sheriff give orders to the officers to make inquiry for miss. logan from edinburgh, at the various places of entertainment in town, and to expedite her arrival in court, as things of great value were in depen- dence. she also heard the man who had turned king's evidence against the prisoner, examined for the second time, and sifted most cunningly. his answers gave any thing but satisfaction to the sheriff, though mrs logan believed them to be mainly truth. but there were a few questions and answers that struck her above all others. “ how long is it since mrs calvert and you became acquainted ?” “ about a year and a half.” “state the precise time, if you please ; the day, or night, according to your remembrance." “ it was on the morning of the th of february, ." “ what time of the morning ?" “ perhaps about one." “so early as that ? at what place did you meet then?" confessions of a fanatic. “ it was at the foot of one of the north wynds of edinburgh.” “ was it by appointment that you met ?” “ no, it was not." “ for what purpose was it then?" “ for no purpose.” “ how is it that you chance to remember the day and hour so minutely, if you met that woman, whom you have accused, merely by chance, and for no manner of purpose, as you must have met others that night, perhaps to the amount of hundreds, in the same way ?” “ i have good cause to remember it, my lord.” “ what was that cause ? —no answer ?-you don't choose to say what that cause was ?" “i am not at liberty to tell.” the sheriff then descended to other particulars, all of which tended to prove that the fellow was an accomplish- ed villain, and that the principal share of the atrocities had been committed by him. indeed the sheriff hinted, that he suspected the only share mrs calvert had in them, was in being too much in his company, and too true to himn. the case was remitted to the court of jus- ticiary ; but mrs logan had heard enough to convince her that the culprits first met at the very spot, and the very hour, on which george colwan was slain ; and she had no doubt that they were incendiaries set on by his mother, to forward her own and her darling son's way to opulence. mrs logan was wrong, as will appear in the sequel; but her antipathy to mrs colwan made her watch the event with all care. she never quitted pee- bles as long as bell calvert remained there, and when she was removed to edinburgh, the other followed. when the trial came on, mrs logan and her maid were again summoned as witnesses before the jury, and com- pelled by the prosecutor for the crown to appear. the maid was first called ; and when she came into the witnesses' box, the anxious and hopeless looks of the prisoner were manifest to all ; but the girl, whose name, she said, was bessy gillies, answered in so flippant and the editor's narrative. fearless a way, that the auditors were much amused. after a number of routine questions, the depute-advocate asked her if she was at home on the morning of the fifth of september last, when her mistress's house was robbed ? " was i at hame, say ye? na, faith-ye, lad! an i had been at hame, there had been mair to dee. i wad hae raised sic a yelloch !” “ where were you that morning ?". “ where was i, say you? i was in the house where iny mistress was, sitting dozing an' half sleeping in the kitchen. i thought aye she would be setting out every minute, for twa hours.” “ and when you went home, what did you find ?" • what found we? be my sooth, we found a broken lock, an' toom kists." “ relate some of the particulars, if you please.” “o, sir, the thieves didna stand upon particulars : they were halesale dealers in a' our best wares." “i mean, what passed between your mistress and you on the occasion ?" • what passed, say ye? o, there wasna muckle: i was in a great passion, but she was dung doitrified a wee. when she gaed to put the key i' the door, up it flew to the fer wa'.-' bess, ye jaud, what's the meaning o' this ?' quo she. "ye hae left the door open, ye tawpie !' quo' she. “the ne'er o' that i did,' quo i, ' or may my sha- kel bane never turn another key. when we got the candle lightit, a' the house was in a hoad-road. • bessy, my woman,' quo she. “we are baith ruined and undone creatures.' • the deil a bit,' quo i; 'that i deny posi- tively. h'mh ! to speak o' a lass o' my age being ruined and undone! i never had muckle except what was with- in a good jerkin, an' let the thief ruin me there wha can. “do you remember ought else that your mistress said on the occasion ? did you hear her blame any per- son?” “o, she made a great deal o' grumphing an' groaning about the misfortune, as she ca'd it, an' i think she said contession : ime upe, of a : believe ave no it was a part tip tin tulis some sic tan t e . st. she, wringme te nang an' they'll get tuet tisfaction, gue . rsion i strong e made ent the know? about, for i thx ter i ne ca's ther." - did vdu teve bar there, mhe saree of ber tour t elbin e * never boment des calvert tout se me te ther do " jail at before, tion, as a few nad me to the idence, ally the smissed ist con- i a large elivered contain- know if itted to “becale i web .. u the bolts ar' tie . the * very dernen. brass, and lout at tire see these siivet mmr: po-* “i hae ebel vor per seen silier spune dr * can tol bw yun - ** na, a i wanie szk w war made, unies itd ain hand, ar' that wia. w “see, they are al meer * sae are the eduude i in edinburgt me l' so are the names that are line them by, an gie te duv; wurde are marked wi ber ail er are hers, an' that sie iza sebe n. . ah, god bless her trear: elum that blessing was ectuer te brez ing breast. “ did you ever set thuis guk k vreest dedica as mrs iments; of the rival.-- essed in her; de- i property, elonged to ny, in order was of the stir up all the - the editor's narrative. fearless a way, that the auditors were much amused. after a number of routine questions, the depute-advocate asked her if she was at home on the morning of the fifth of september last, when her mistress's house was robbed ? " was i at hame, say ye? na, faith-ye, lad! an i had been at hame, there had been mair to dee. i wad hae raised sic a yelloch !" “ where were you that morning?" “ where was i, say you? i was in the house where any mistress was, sitting dozing an' half sleeping in the kitchen. i thought aye she would be setting out every minute, for twa hours." “ and when you went home, what did you find ?" “ what found we? be my sooth, we found a broken lock, an' toom kists." ** relate some of the particulars, if you please." “ , sir, the thieves didna stand upon particulars : they were halesale dealers in a' our best wares." “i mean, what passed between your mistress and you on the occasion ?" " what passed, say ye? o, there wasna muckle: i was in a great passion, but she was dung doitrified a wee, when she gaed to put the key i' the door, up it flew to the fer wa'. bess, ye jaud, what's the meaning o' this?' quo she. ye hae left the door open, ye taw pie !' quo' she. “the ne'er o' that i did,' quo i, or may my sha- kel bane never turn another key.' when we got the candle lightit, a' the house was in a hoad-road. bessy, my woman,' quo she, 'we are baith ruined and undone creatures. the deil a bit,' quo i ; • that i deny posi. tively. h'mh ! to speak o' a lass o' my age being ruined and undone! i never had muckle except what was with- in a good jerkin, an' let the thief ruin me there wha can." “do you remember ought else that your mistress said on the occasion ? did you hear her blame any per- son?" “o, she made a great deal o' grumphing an' groaning about the misfortune, as she ca'd it, an' i think she said confessions of a fanatic. it was a part o' the ruin wrought by the ringans, or some sic name, 'they'll hae't a'! they'll hae't a'!' cried she, wringing her hands ; 'they'll hae't a,' an' hell wi't, an’ they'll get them baith.' ' aweel, that's aye some sa- tisfaction,' quo i.” “ whom did she mean by the ringans, do you know? “i fancy they are some creatures that she has dreamed about, for i think there canna be as ill folks living as she ca's them." “ did you never hear her say that the prisoner at the bar there, mrs calvert, or bell calvert, was the robber of her house ; or that she was one of the ringans ?" “never. somebody tauld her lately, that ane bell calvert robbed her house, but she disna believe it. nei- ther do i.” “what reasons have you for doubting it?" “because it was nae woman's fingers that broke up the bolts an' the locks that were torn open that night." “ very pertinent, bessy. come then within the bar, and look at these articles on the table. did you ever see these silver spoons before?" “i hae seen some very like them, and whaever has seen siller spoons, has done the same.” “ can you swear you never saw them before?" “na, na, i wadna swear to ony siller spoons that ever war made, unless i had put a private mark on them wi' my ain hand, an' that's what i never did to ane.” “ see, they are all marked with a c.” “sae are a' the spoons in argyle, an' the half o'them in edinburgh i think. a c is a very common letter, al' so are a' the names that begin wi't. lay them by, lay them by, an' gie the poor woman her spoons again. they are marked wi' her ain name, an' i hae little doubt they are hers, an' that she has seen better days.” “ah, god bless her heart!" sighed the prisoner; and that blessing was echoed in the breathings of many a feel- ing breast. “ did you ever see this gown before, think you ?"" the editor's narrative. “i hae seen ane very like it." “could you not swear that gown was your mistress's once ?" “ no, unless i saw her hae't on, an' kend that she had paid for't. i am very scrupulous about an oath. like is an ill mark. sae ill indeed, that i wad hardly swear to ony thing." “but you say that gown is very like one your mistress used to wear.” “i never said sic a thing. it is like one i hae seen her hae out airing on the hay raip i' the back green. it is very like ane i hae seen mrs butler in the grass market wearing too; i rather think it is the same. bless you, sir, i wadna swear to my ain fore-finger, if it had been as lang out o' my sight, an' brought in an' laid on that table.” “ perhaps you are not aware, girl, that this scrupulous- ness of yours is likely to thwart the purposes of justice, and bereave your mistress of property to the amount of a thousand merks?” (from the judge.) “i canna help that, my lord : that's her lookout. for my part, i am resolved to keep a clear conscience, till i be married, at any rate." “look over these things, and see if there is any one article among them which you can fix on as the property of your mistress." “ no ane o' them, sir, no ane oʻthem. an oath is an awfu' thing, especially when it is for life or death. gie the poor woman her things again, an' let my mistress pick up the next she finds: that's my advice.” when mrs logan came into the box, the prisoner groaned, and laid down her head. but how was she astonished when she heard her deliver herself something to the following purport!—that whatever penalties she was doomed to abide, she was determined she would not bear witness against a woman's life, from a certain con- viction that it could not be a woman who broke her ouse. “i have no doubt that i may find some of my • vn things there,” added she, “ but if they were found in confessions of a fanatic. her possession, she has been made a tool, or the dupe, of an infernal set, who shall be nameless here. i believe she did not rob me, and for that reason i will have no hand in her condemnation." the judge. “this is the most singular perversion i have ever witnessed. mrs logan, i entertain strong suspicions that the prisoner, or her agents, have made some agreement with you on this matter, to prevent the course of justice.” “so far from that, my lord, i went into the jail at peebles to this woman, whom i had never seen before, and proffered to withdraw my part in the prosecution, as well as my evidence, provided she would tell me a few simple facts; but she spurned at iny offer, and had me turned insolently out of the prison, with orders to the jailor never to admit me again on any pretence." the prisoner's counsel, taking hold of this evidence, addressed the jury with great fluency; and finally the prosecution was withdrawn, and the prisoner dismissed from the bar, with a severe reprimand for her past con- duct, and an exhortation to keep better company. it was not many days till a caddy came with a large parcel to mrs logan's house, which parcel he delivered into her hands, accompanied with a sealed note, contain- ing an inventory of the articles, and a request to know if the unfortunate arabella calvert would be admitted to converse with mrs logan. never was there a woman so much overjoyed as mrs logan was at this message. she returned compliments; would be most happy to see her; and no article of the parcel should be looked at, or touched, till her arrival. it was not long till she made her appearance, dressed in somewhat better style than she had yet seen her; de. livered her over the greater part of the stolen property, besides many things that either never had belonged to mrs logan, or that she thought proper to deny, in order that the other might retain them. the tale that she told of her misfortunes was of the most distressing nature, and was enough to stir up all the v. the editor's narrative. tender, as well as abhorrent feelings in the bosom of hu- manity. she had suffered every deprivation in fame. fortune, and person. she had been imprisoned; she bad been scourged, and branded as an impostor, and all on account of her resolute and unmoving fidelity and truth to several of the very worst of men, every one of whoin had abandoned her to utter destitution and shame. but this story we cannot enter on at present, as it would perhaps mar the thread of our story, as much as it did the anxious anticipations of mrs logan, who sat pining and longing for the relation that follows. “now i know, mrs logan, that you are expecting a detail of the circumstances relating to the death of mr george colwan; and in gratitude for your unbound. ed generosity and disinterestedness, i will tell you all that i know, although, for causes that will appear obvious to you, i had determined never in life to divulge one circumstance of it. i can tell you, however, that you will be disappointed, for it was not the gentleman who was accused, found guilty, and would have suffered the utmost penalty of the law, had he not made his escape. it was not he, i say, who slew your young master, nor had he any hand in it." “i never thought he had. but, pray, how do you come to know this?" “ you shall hear. i had been abandoned in york, by an artful and consummate fiend; found guilty of being art and part concerned in the most heinous atrocities, and, in his place, suffered what i yet shudder to think of. i was banished the county-begged my way with my poor outcast child up to edinburgh, and was there obliged, for the second time in my life, to betake myself to the inost degrading of all means to support two wretched lives. i hired a dress, and betook me, shivering, to the high street, too well aware that my form and appearance would soon draw me suitors enow at that throng and in- temperate time of the parliament. on my very first stepping out to the street, a party of young gentlemen was passing. i heard by the noise they made, and the confessions of a fanatic tenor of their speech, that they were more than mellow, and so i resolved to keep near them, in order, if possible, to make some of them my prey. but just as one of them began to eye me, i was rudely thrust into a narrow close by one of the guardsmen. i had heard to what house the party was bound, for the men were talking ex- ceedingly loud, and making no secret of it; so i hasted down the close, and round below to the one where their rendezvous was to be; but i was too late, they were all housed and the door bolted. i resolved to wait, think- ing they could not at all stay long; but i was perishing with famine, and was like to fall down. the moon shone as bright as day, and i perceived, by a sign at the bottom of the close, that there was a small tavern of a certain description up two stairs there. i went up and called, telling the mistress of the house my plan. she approved of it mainly, and offered me her best apartment, provided i could get one of these noble mates to accom- pany me. she abused lucky sudds, as she called her, at the inn where the party was, envying her huge profits, no doubt, and giving me afterward something to drink, for which i really felt exceedingly grateful in my need. i stepped down stairs in order to be on the alert. the moment that i reached the ground, the door of lucky sudds' house opened and shut, and down came the honourable thomas drummond, with hasty and impas- sioned strides, his sword rattling at his heel. i accosted him in a soft and soothing tone. he was taken with my address; for he instantly stood still and gazed intently at me, then at the place, and then at me again. i beckoned him to follow me, which he did without farther ceremony, and we soon found ourselves together in the best room of a house where every thing was wretched. he still jooked about him, and at me ; but all this while he had never spoken a word. at length, i asked if he would take any refreshment? if you please,' said he. i asked what he would have ? but he only answered, • whatever you choose, madam.' if he was taken with my address, i was much more taken with his ; for he confessions of a fanatic. was a corner one, and looked both east and north, i ran to the easter casement to look after drummond. now, note me well: i saw him going eastward in his tartans and bonnet, and the gilded hilt of his claymore glittering in the moon; and, at the very same time, i saw two men, the one in black, and the other likewise in tartans, com- ing toward the steps from the opposite bank, by the foot of the loch; and i saw drummond and they eyeing each other as they passed. i kept view of him till he vanished towards leith wynd, and by that time the two strangers had come close up under our window. this is what i wish you to pay particular attention to. i had only lost sight of drummond, (who had given me his name and ad- dress,) for the short space of time that we took in run. ning up one pair of short stairs; and during that space he had halted a moment, for, when i got my eye on him again, he had not crossed the mouth of the next entry, nor proceeded above ten or twelve paces, and, at the same time, i saw the two men coming down the bank on the opposite side of the loch, at about three hundred paces' distance. both he and they were distinctly in my view, and never within speech of each other, until he vanished into one of the wynds leading toward the bottom of the high street, at which precise time the two strangers came below my window; so that it was quite clear he neither could be one of them, nor have any communica- tion with them. “ yet, mark me again; for of all things i have ever seen, this was the most singular. when i looked down at the two strangers, one of them was extremely like drum- mond. so like was he, that there was not one item in dress, form, feature, nor voice, by which i could dis- tinguish the one from the other. i was certain it was not he, because i had seen the one going and the other approaching at the same time, and my impression at the moment was, that i looked upon some spirit, or demon, in his likeness. i felt a chillness creep all round my heart, my knees tottered, and, withdrawing my head from the open casement that lay in the dark shade, i said f the editor's narrative. to the man who was with me, “good god, what is this!' “ • what is it, my dear? said he, as much alarmed as i was. " • as i live, there stands an apparition !' said i. “ he was not so much afraid when he heard me say . so, and peeping cautiously out, he looked and listened a while, and then drawing back, he said in a whisper, · they are both living men, and one of them is he i passed at the corner.' “ • that he is not,' said i, emphatically. “to that i will make oath.' “ he smiled and shook his head, and then added, i never then saw a man before, whom i could not know again, particularly if he was the very last i had seen. but what matters it whether it be or not? as it is no con- cern of ours, let us sit down and enjoy ourselves.' " but it does matter a very great deal with me, sir,' said i.- bless me, my head is giddy-my breath quite gone, and i feel as if i were surrounded with fiends! who are you, sir ? " • you shall know that ere we two part, my love,' said he: i cannot conceive why the return of this young gentleman to the spot he so lately left, should discom- pose you? i suppose he got a glance of you as he pass- ed, and has returned to look after you, and that is the whole secret of the matter.' " • if you will be so civil as to walk out and join him then, it will oblige me hugely,' said i, for i never in my jife experienced such boding apprehensions of evil com- pany. i cannot conceive how you should come up here without asking my permission ? will it please you to begone, sir?' - i was within an ace of prevailing. he took out his purse-i need not say more-i was bribed to let him remain. ah, had i kept by my frail resolu- tion of dismissing him at that moment, what a world of shame and misery had been evited! but that, though uppermost still in my mind, has nothing ado here. “when i peeped over again, the two men were dis- confessions of a fanatic. puting in a whisper, the one of them in violent agitation and terror, and the other upbraiding him, and urging him on to some desperate act. at length i heard the young man in the highland garb say indignantly, - hush, recre- ant! it is god's work which you are commissioned to execute, and it must be done. but if you positively decline it, i will do it myself, and do you beware of the consequences.” " • oh, i will, i will !" cried the other in black clothes, in a wretched beseeching tone. you shall instruct me in this, as in all things else.' “i thought all this while i was closely concealed from them, and wondered not a little when he in tartans gave me a sly nod, as much as to say, 'what do you think of this?' or, .take note of what you see,' or something to that effect, from which i perceived, that whatever he was about, he did not wish it to be kept a secret. for all that, i was impressed with a terror and anxiety that i could not overcome, but it only made me mark every event with the more intense curiosity. the highlander, whom i still could not help regarding as the evil genius of thomas drummond, performed every action, as with the quickness of thought. he concealed the youth in black in a narrow entry, a little to the westward of my windows, and as he was leading him across the moonlight green by the shoulder, i perceived, for the first time, that both of them were armed with rapiers. he pushed him without resistance into the dark shaded close, made another signal to me, and hasted up the close to lucky sudds' door. the city and the morning were so still, that i heard every word that was uttered, on putting my head out a little. he knocked at the door sharply, and after waiting a considerable space, the bolt was drawn, and the door, as i conceived, edged up as far as the massy chain would let it. • is young dalcastle still in the house ?' said he sharply. “i did not hear the answer, but i heard him say, shortly after, ' if he is, pray tell him to speak with me for a few minutes. he then withdrew from the door, the editor's narrative. and came slowly down the close, in a lingering manner, looking oft behind him. dalcastle came out; advanced a few steps after him, and then stood still, as if hesitating whether or not he should call out a friend to accompany him; and that instant the door behind him was closed, chained, and the iron bolt drawn; on hearing of which, he followed his adversary without farther hesitation. as he passed below my window, i heard him say, i be. seech you, tom, let us do nothing in this matter rashly;' but i could not hear the answer of the other, who had turned the corner. “ i roused up my drowsy companion, who was leaning on the bed, and we both looked together from the north window. we were in the shade, but the moon shone full on the two young gentlemen. young dalcastle was visi- bly the worse of liquor, and his back being turned toward us, he said something to the other which i could not make out, although he spoke a considerable time, and, from his tones and gestures, appeared to be reasoning. when he had done, the tall young man in the tartans drew his sword, and his face being straight to us, we heard him say distinctly, •no more words about it, george, if you please ; but if you be a man, as i take you to be, draw your sword, and let us settle it here.' " dalcastle drew his sword, without changing his atti. tude ; but he spoke with more warmth, for we heard his words, ' think you that i fear you, tom? be assured, sir, i would not fear ten of the best of your name, at each other's backs: all that i want is to have friends with us to see fair play, for if you close with me, you are a dead man.' “ the other stormed at these words. “you are a braggart, sir,' cried he, 'a wretch-a blot on the cheek of nature--a blight on the christian world—a reprobate i'll have your soul, sir.' as he said this, he brandished his rapier, exciting dalcastle to offence. he gained his point: the latter, who had previously drawn, advanced in upon his vapouring and licentious antagonist, and a fierce combat ensued. my companion was delighted be. confessions of a fanatic, that this same man,—this wretch of whom i speak, never inistook one man for another in his life, which makes the mystery of the likeness between this incendiary and drum- mond the more extraordinary.” .“ if it was drummond, after all that you have asserted, then are my surmises still wrong.” “ there is nothing of which i can be more certain, than that it was not drummond. we have nothing on earth but our senses to depend upon : if these deceive us, what are we to do? i own i cannot account for it ; nor ever shall be able to account for it as long as i live." “ could you know the man in black, if you saw him again ?” “i think i could, if i saw him walk or run: his gait was very particular : he walked as if he had been flat- soled, and his legs made of steel, without any joints in his feet or ancles." “ the very same! the very same! the very same! pray will you take a few days' journey into the country with me, to look at such a man ?" “ you have preserved my life, and for you i will do any thing. i will accompany you with pleasure : and i think i can say that i will know him, for his form left an impression on my heart not soon to be effaced. but of this. i am sure, that my unworthy companion will recog- nize him, and that he will be able to swear to his identity every day as long as he lives.” "where is he? where is he? o! mrs calvert, where is he?" “ where is he? he is the wretch whom you heard giving me up to the death ; who, after experiencing every mark of affection that a poor ruined being could confer, and after committing a thousand atrocities of which she was ignorant, became an informer to save his diabolical life, and attempted to offer up mine as a sacrifice for all. we will go by ourselves first, and i will tell you if it is necessary to send any farther.” “ the two dames, the very next morning, dressed themselves like country goodwives; and, hiring two stout the editor's narrative. ponies furnished with pillions, they took their journey westward, and the second evening after leaving edinburgh they arrived at the village about two miles below dalcastle, where they alighted. but mrs logan being anxious to have mrs calvert's judgment, without either hint or preparation, took care not to mention that they were so near to the end of their journey. in conformity with this plan, she said, after they had sat a while, “ heigh-ho, but i am weary! what suppose we should rest a day here before we proceed farther on our journey ?” mrs calvert was leaning on the casement, and looking out when her companion addressed these words to her, and by far too much engaged to return any answer, for her eyes were riveted on two young men who approach- ed from the farther end of the village ; and at length, turn. ing round her head, she said, with the most intense in- terest, “ proceed farther on our journey, did you say? that we need not do ; for, as i live, here comes the very man !" mrs logan ran to the window, and behold there was indeed robert wringhim colwan (now the laird of dal- castle) coming forward almost below their window, walk- ing arm in arm with another young man ; and as the two passed, the latter looked up and made a sly signal to the two dames, biting his lip, winking with his left eye, and nodding his head. mrs calvert was astonished at this recognizance, the young man's former companion having made exactly such another signal on the night of the duel, by the light of the moon; and it struck her, more. over, that she had somewhere seen this young man's face before. she looked after him, and he winked over his shoulder to her ; but she was prevented from returning his salute by her companion, who uttered a loud cry, be- tween a groan and shriek, and fell down on the floor with a rumble like a wall that had suddenly been undermined she had fainted quite away, and required all her com- panion's a.tention during the remainder of the evening, for she had scarcely ever well recovered out of one fit before she fell into another; and in the short intervals she confessions of a fanatic. raved like one distracted, or in a dream. after falling into a sound sleep by night, she recovered her equanimity, and the two began to converse seriously on what they had seen. mrs calvert averred that the young man who passed next to the window, was the very man who stab- bed george colwan in the back, and she said she was will- ing to take her oath on it at any time when required, and was certain if the wretch ridsley saw him, that he would make oath to the same purport, for that his walk was so peculiar, no one of common discernment could mistake it. mrs logan was in great agitation, and said, “ it is what i have suspected all along, and what i am sure my late master and benefactor was persuaded of, and the hor- ror of such an idea cut short his days. that wretch, mrs calvert, is the born brother of him he murdered ; sons of the same mother they were, whether or not of the same father, the lord only knows. but, o mrs calvert, that is not the main thing that has discomposed me, and shaken my nerves to pieces at this time. who do you think the young man was who walked in his company to-night?" “ i cannot for my life recollect, but am convinced i have seen the same fine form and face before.” " and did not he seem to know us, mrs calvert ? you who are able to recollect things as they happened, did he not seem to recollect us, and make signs to that effect ?" “he did, indeed, and apparently with great good hu- mour." “ , mrs calvert, hold me, else i shall fall into hys- terics again ! who is he? who is he? tell me who you suppose he is, for i cannot say my own thought." “ o my life, i cannot remember.” “ did you note the appearance of the young gentle- man you saw slain that night? do you recollect aught of the appearance of my young master, george col- wan?" mrs calvert sat silent, and stared the other mildly in : the editor's narrative. the face. their looks encountered, and there was an unearthly amazement that gleamed from each, which, meeting together, caught real fire, and returned the flame to their heated imaginations, till the two associates be- .came like two statues, with their hands spread, their eyes fixed, and their chops fallen down upon their bo- soms. an old woman who kept the lodging-house, having been called in before when mrs logan was faint- ish, chanced to enter at this crisis with some cordial; and, seeing the state of her lodgers, she caught the in- fection, and fell into the same rigid and statue-like appear- ance. no scene more striking was 'ever exhibited ; and if mrs calvert had not resumed strength of mind to speak, and break the spell, it is impossible to say how long it might have continued. " it is he, i believe,” said she, uttering the words as it were inwardly. “it can be none other but he. but, no, it is impossible ! i saw him stabbed through and through the heart ; i saw him roll backward on the green in his own blood, utter his last words, and groan away his soul. yet, if it is not he, who can it be?” . " it is he !" cried mrs logan, hysterically. “ yes, yes, it is he !" cried the landlady, in unison. “ it is who ?" said mrs calvert ; “ whom do you mean, mistress ?" "oh, i don't know! i don't know! i was affrighted." “ hold your peace then till you recover your senses, and tell me, if you can, who that young gentleman is, who keeps company with the new laird of dalcastle ?" “oh, it is he! it is he !" screamed mrs logan, wring- ing her hands. “ oh, it is he! it is he !" cried the landlady, wring- ing hers. mrs calvert turned the latter gently and civilly out of the apartment, observing that there seemed to be some infection in the air of the room, and she would be wise for herself to keep out of it. the two dames had a restless and hideous night. sleep came not to their relief; for their conversation was confessions of a fanatic. wholly about the dead, who seemed to be alive, and their minds were wandering and groping in a chaos of mys- tery. “ did you attend to his corpse, and know that he positively died and was buried ?" said mrs calvert. “o, yes, from the moment that his fair but mangled corpse was brought home, i attended it till that when it was screwed in the coffin. iwashed the long stripes of blood from his lifeless form, on both sides of the body -i bathed the livid wound that passed through his generous and gentle heart. there was one through the flesh of his left side too, which had bled most outwardly of them all. i bathed them, and bandaged them up with wax and perfumed ointment, but still the blood oozed through all, so that when he was laid in the coffin he was like one newly murdered. my brave, my generous young master ! he was always as a son to me, and no son was ever more kind or more respectful to a mother. but he was butchered-he was cut off from the earth ere he had well reached to manhood-most barbarously and unfairly slain. and how is it, how can it be, that we again see him here, walking arm in arm with his mur- derer ?" “ the thing cannot be, mrs logan. it is a phan- tasy of our disturbed imaginations, therefore let us com- pose ourselves till we investigate this matter farther." “ it cannot be in nature, that is quite clear,” said mrs logan ; " yet how it should be that i should think so—i who knew and nursed him from his infancy—there lies the paradox. as you said once before, we have nothing but our senses to depend on, and if you and i believe that we see a person, why, we do see him. whose word, or whose reasoning can convince us against our own sen- ses? we will disguise ourselves, as poor women selling a few country wares, and we will go up to the hall, and see what is to see, and hear what we can hear, for this is a weighty business in which we are engaged, namely, to turn the vengeance of the law upon an unnatural mons- ter; and we will farther learn, if we can, who this is that accompanies him.” the editor's narrative. mrs calvert acquiesced, and the two dames took their way to dalcastle, with baskets well furnished with trifles. they did not take the common path from the village, but went about, and approached the mansion by a different way. but it seemed as if some overruling power ordered it, that they should miss no chance of at- taining the information they wanted. for ere ever they came within half a mile of dalcastle, they perceived the two youths coming, as to meet them, on the same path. the road leading from dalcastle toward the north-east, as all the country knows, goes along a dark bank of brushwood called the bogle-heuch. it was by this track that the two women were going ; and when they perceiv- ed the two gentlemen meeting them, they turned back, and the moment they were out of their sight, they con- cealed themselves in a thicket close by the road. they did this because mrs logan was terrified for being dis- covered, and because they wished to reconnoitre without being seen. mrs calvert now charged her, whatever she saw, or whatever she heard, to put on a resolution, and support it, for if she fainted there and was discov. ered, what was to become of her! the two young men came on, in earnest and vehement conversation ; but the subject they were on was a terri- ble one, and hardly fit to be repeated in the face of a christian community. wringhim was disputing the boundlessness of the true christian's freedom, and ex- pressing doubts, that, chosen as he knew he was from all eternity, still it might be possible for him to commit acts that would exclude him from the limits of the covenant. the other argued, with mighty fluency, that the thing was utterly impossible, and altogether inconsistent with eternal predestination. the arguments of the latter prevailed, and the laird was driven to sullen silence. but, to the women's utter surprise, as the conquering dispu. tant passed, he made a signal of recognizance through the brambles to them, as formerly, and that he might ex- pose his associate fully, and in his true colours, he led him backward and forward past the women more than confessions of a fanatic. twenty times, making him to confess both the crimes that he had done, and those he had in contemplation. at length he said to him, “ assuredly i saw some stroll- ing vagrant women on this walk, my dear friend : i wish we could find them, for there is little doubt that they are concealed here in your woods.” " i wish we could find them,” answered wringhim ; “we would have fine sport maltreating and abusing them.” “ that we should, that we should ! now tell me, robert, if you found a malevolent woman, the latent enemy of your prosperity, lurking in these woods to be- tray you, what would you inflict on her ?” . “i would tear her to pieces with my dogs, and feed them with her flesh. · , my dear friend, there is an old strumpet who lived with my unnatural father, whom i hold in such utter detestation, that i stand constantly in dread of her, and would sacrifice the half of my estate to shed her blood !" “ what will you give me if i will put her in your power, and give you a fair and genuine excuse for mak- ing away with her ; one for which you shall answer at any bar, here or hereafter?” “ i should like to see the vile hag put down. she is in possession of the family plate, that is mine by right, as well as a thousand valuable relics, and great riches be- sides, all of which the old profligate gifted shamefully away. and it is said, besides all these, that she has sworn my destruction.” “she has, she has. but i see not how she can ac- complish that, seeing the deed was done so suddenly, and in the silence of the night.” “ it was said there were some onlookers.---but where shall we find that disgraceful miss logan?” “i will show you her by and by. but will you then consent to the other meritorious deed ? come, be a man, and throw away scruples.” "if you can convince me that the promise is binding, i will." g the editor's narrative. “ then step this way, till i give you a piece of infor- mation." they walked a little way out of hearing, but went not out of sight; therefore, though the women were in a terrible quandary, they durst not stir, for they had some hopes that this extraordinary person was on a mis- sion of the same sort with themselves, knew of them, and was going to make use of their testimony. mrs logan was several times on the point of falling into a swoon, so much did the appearance of the young man impress her, until her associate covered her face that she might listen without embarrassment. but this latter dia. logue aroused different feelings within them ; namely, those arising from imminent personal danger. they saw his waggish associate point out the place of their con. cealment to wringhim, who came toward them, out of curiosity to see what his friend meant by what he be- lieved to be a joke, manifestly without crediting it in the least degree. when he came running away, the other called after him, “if she is too hard for you, call to me.” as he said this, he hasted out of sight, in the contrary direction, apparently much delighted with the joke. wringhim came rushing through the thicket impetu- ously, to the very spot where mrs logan lay squatted. she held the wrapping close about her head, but he tore it off and discovered her. “ the curse of god be on thee !” said he ; “ what fiend has brought thee here, and for what purpose art thou come? but, whatever has brought thee, i have thee !” and with that he seized her by the throat. the two women, when they heard what jeopardy they were in from such a wretch, had squatted among the underwood at a small distance from each other, so that he had never observed mrs calvert ; but no sooner had he seized her benefactress, than, like a wild cat, she sprung out of the thicket, and had both her hands fixed at his throat, one of them twisted in his stock, in a twinkling. she brought him back-over among the brushwood, and the two, fixing on him like two har. confessions of a fanatic. pies, mastered him with ease. then indeed was he wofully beset. he deemed for a while that his friend was at his back, and turning his bloodshot eyes toward the path, he attempted to call ; but there was no friend there, and the women cut short his cries by another twist of his stock. “ now, gallant and rightful laird of dal. castle,” said mrs logan, " what hast thou to say for thyself ? lay thy account to dree the weird thou hast so well earned. now shalt thou suffer due penance for murdering thy brave and only brother." “ thou liest, thou hag of the pit! i touched not my brother's life.” " i saw thee do it with these eyes that now look thee in the face; ay, when his back was to thee too, and while he was hotly engaged with thy friend,” said mrs calvert. “i heard thee confess it again and again this same hour,” said mrs logan. “ay, and so did i,” said her companion. " murder will out, though the almighty should lend hearing to the ears of the willow, and speech to the seven tongues of the woodriff.” “ you are liars, and witches !” said he, foaming with rage, “and creatures fitted from the beginning for eter- nal destruction. i'll have your bones and your blood sacrificed on your cursed altars ! o, gil-martin ! gil- martin ! where art thou now? here, here is the proper food for blessed vengeance hilloa !” there was no friend, no gil-martin there to hear or assist him: he was in the two women's mercy, but they used it with moderation. they mocked, they torment- ed, and they threatened him ; but, finally, after putting him in great terror, they bound his hands behind his back, and his feet fast with long straps of garters which they chanced to have in their baskets, to prevent him from pursuing them till they were out of his reach. as they left him, which they did in the middle of the path, mrs calvert said, “ we could easily put an end to thy sinful life, but our hands shall be free of thy blood. the editor's narrative. nevertheless thou art still in our power, and the ven- geance of thy country shall overtake thee, thou mean and cowardly murderer, ay, and that more suddenly than thou art aware !" the women posted to edinburgh; and as they put themselves under the protection of an english merchant, who was journeying thither with twenty horses laden, and armed servants, so they had scarcely any conversa- tion on the road. when they arrived at mrs logan's house, then they spoke of what they had seen and heard, and agreed that they had sufficient proof to condemn young wringhim, who they thought richly deserved the severest doom of the law. “ i never in my life saw any human being,” said mrs calvert, “whom i thought so like a fiend. if a demon could inherit flesh and blood, that youth is precisely such a being as i could conceive that demon to be.' the depth and the malignity of his eye is hideous. his breath is like the airs from a charnel-house, and his flesh seems fading from his bones, as if the worm that never dies were gnawing it away already.” “ he was always repulsive, and every way repulsive," said the other; “ but he is now indeed altered greatly to the worse. while we were handfasting him, i felt his body to be feeble and emaciated ; but yet i know him to be so puffed up with 'spiritual pride, that i believe he weens every one of his actions justified before god, and instead of having stings of conscience for these, he takes great merit to himself in having effected them. still my thoughts are less about him than the extraordinary being who accompanies him. he does every thing with so much ease and indifference, so much velocity and effect, that all bespeak him an adept in wickedness. the like. ness to my late hapless young master is so striking, that i can hardly believe it to be a chance model; and i think he imitates him in every thing, for some purpose, or some effect on his sinful associate. do you know that he is so like in every lineament, look, and gesture, that, against the clearest light of reason, i cannot in my mind separ- confessions of a fanatic. ate the one from the other, and have a certain indefin- able impression on my mind, that they are one and the same being, or that the one was a prototype of the other.” “ if there is an earthly crime,” said mrs calvert, “ for the due punishment of which the almighty may be sup- posed to subvert the order of nature, it is fratricide. but tell me, dear friend, did you remark to what the subtile and hellish villain was endeavouring to prompt the assassin ?" “ no, i could not comprehend it. my senses were altogether so bewildered, that i thought they had com- bined to deceive me, and i gave them no credit." " then hear me: i am almost certain he was using every persuasion to induce him to make away with his mother; and i likewise conceive that i heard the incen- diary give his consent. “ this is dreadful. let us speak and think no more about it, till we see the issue. in the meantime, let us do that which is our bounden duty,-go and divulge all that we know relating to this foul murder.” accordingly the two women went to sir thomas wal- lace of craigie, the lord justice clerk, (who was, i think, either uncle or grandfather to young drummond, who was outlawed, and obliged to fly his country on account of col- wan's death,) and to that gentleman they related every circumstance of what they had seen and heard. he ex- amined calvert very minutely, and seemed deeply inter- ested in her evidence, said he knew she was relating the truth, and in testimony of it, brought a letter of young drummond's from his desk, wherein that young gentle- man, after protesting his innocence in the most forcible terms, confessed having been with such a woman in such a house, after leaving the company of his friends; and that on going home, sir thomas's servant had let him in, in the dark, and from these circumstances he found it im- possible to prove an alibi. he begged of his relative, if ever an opportunity offered, to do his endeavour to clear up that mystery, and remove the horrid stigma from his the editor's narrative. name in his country, and among his kin, of having stab- bed a friend behind his back. lord craigie, therefore, directed the two women to the proper authorities, and after hearing their evidence there, it was judged proper to apprehend the present laird of dalcastle, and bring him to his trial. but before that, they sent the prisoner in the tolbooth, he who had seen the whole transaction along with mrs calvert, to take a view of wringhim privately; and his discrimina- tion being so well known as to be proverbial all over the land, they determined secretly to be ruled by his report. they accordingly sent him on a pretended mission of legality to dalcastle, with orders to see and speak with the proprietor, without giving him a hint what was wanted. on his return, they examined him, and he told them that he found all things at the place in utter confusion and dismay; that the lady of the place was missing, and could not be found, dead or alive. on being asked if he had ever seen the proprietor before, he looked astounded, and unwilling to answer. but it came out that he had; and that he had once seen him kill a man on such a spot at such an hour. officers were then despatched, without delay, to ap- prehend the monster, and bring him to justice. on these going to the mansion, and inquiring for him, they were told he was at home; on which they stationed guards, and searched all the premises, but he was not to be found. it was in vain that they overturned beds, raised floors, and broke open closets : robert wringhim colwan was lost once and for ever. his mother also was lost; and strong suspicions attached to some of the farmers and house servants, to whom she was obnoxious, relating to her disappearance. the honourable thomas drummond became a distinguished officer in the austrian service, and died in the memorable year for scotland, ; and this is all with which history, justiciary re- cords, and tradition, furnish me relating to these matters. confessions of a fanatic. i have now the pleasure of presenting my readers with an original document of a most singular nature, and pre- served for their perusal in a still more singular manner. i offer no remarks on it, and make as few additions to it, leaving every one to judge for himself. we have heard much of the rage of fanaticism in former days, but noth- ing to this. private memoirs and confessions of a fanatic. written by himself. my life has been a life of trouble and turmoil; of change and vicissitude ; of anger and exultation; of sorrow and of vengeance. my sorrows have all been for a slighted gospel, and my vengeance has been wreaked on its ad- versaries. therefore, in the might of heaven i will sit down and write: i will let the wicked of this world know what i have done in the faith of the promises, that they may read and tremble, and bless their gods of silver and of gold, that the minister of heaven was removed from their sphere before their blood was mingled with their sacrifices. i was born an outcast in the world, in which i was destined to act so conspicuous a part. my mother was a burning and shining light, in the community of scottish worthies, and in the days of her virginity had suffered much in the persecution of the saints. but it so pleased heaven, that, as a trial of her faith, she was married to one of the wicked; a man all over spotted with the le- prosy of sin. as well might they have conjoined fire and water together, in hopes that they would consort and amalgamate, as purity and corruption: she fled from his embraces the first night after their marriage, and from that time forth, his iniquities so galled her upright heart, that she quitted his society altogether, keeping her own apart- ments in the same house with him. i was the second son of this unhappy marriage, and, private memoirs, confessions, &c. long ere ever i was born, my father according to the flesh disclaimed all relation or connexion with me, and all in- terest in me, save what the law compelled him to take, which was to grant me a scanty maintenance; and had it not been for a faithful minister of the gospel, my mother's early instructor, i should have remained an outcast from the church visible. he took pity on me, admitting me not only into that, but into the bosom of his own house- hold and ministry also, and to him am i indebted, under heaven, for the high conceptions and glorious discernment between good and evil, right and wrong, which i attained even at an early age. it was he who directed my studies aright, both in the learning of the ancient fathers, and the doctrines of the reformed church, and designed me for his assistant and successor in the holy office. i missed no opportunity of perfecting myself particularly in all the minute points of theology in which my reverend father and mother took great delight; but at length i acquired so much skill, that i astonished my teachers, and made them gaze at one another. i remember that it was the custom, in my patron's house, to ask the questions of the single catechism round every sabbath night. he asked the first, my mother the second, and so on, every one saying the question asked, and then asking the next. it fell to my mother to ask effectual calling at me. i said the answer with propriety and emphasis. “now, madam," added i, “my question to you is, what is inef- fectual calling?" “ ineffectual calling? there is no such thing, robert,” said she. “ but there is, madam,” said i; "and that answer proves how much you say these fundamental precepts by rote, and without any consideration. ineffectual calling is, the outward call of the gospel without any effect on the hearts of unregenerated and impenitent sinners. have not all these the same calls, warnings, doctrines, and re- proofs, that we have? and is not this ineffectual calling? has not ardinferry the same? has not patrick m.lure the same? has not the laird of dalcastle and his repro- v private nemoirs and bate heir the same? and will any tell me, that this is not ineffectual calling?" .“ what a wonderful boy he is!” said my mother. “ i'm feared he turn out to be a conceited gowk,” said old barnet, the minister's man. “ no,” said my pastor, and father, (as i shall hence- forth denominate him, " no, barnet, he is a wonderful boy; and no marvel, for i have prayed for these talents to be bestowed on him from his infancy: and do you think that heaven would refuse a prayer so disinterested? no, it is impossible. but my dread is, madam,” con- tinued he, turning to my mother," that he is yet in the bond of iniquity." “ god forbid !” said my mother. “i have struggled with the almighty long and hard," continued he; “but have as yet had no certain token of acceptance in his behalf. how dreadful is it to think of our darling being still without the pale of the covenant! but i have vowed a vow, and in that there is hope." my heart quaked with terror, when i thought of being still living in a state of reprobation, subjected to the aw- ful issues of death, judgment, and eternal misery, by the slightest accident or casualty, and i set about the duty of prayer myself with the utmost earnestness. i prayed three times every day, and seven times on the sabbath ; but the more frequently and fervently that i prayed, i sinned still the more. about this time, and for a long period afterwards, amounting to several years, i lived in a hopeless and deplorable state of mind, for i said to my self, “ if my name is not written in the book of life from all eternity, it is in vain for me to presume that either vows or prayers of mine, or those of all mankind com- bined, can ever procure its insertion now.” i had come under many vows, most solemnly taken, every one of which i had broken; and i saw with the intensity of ju. venile grief, that there was no hope for me. i went on sinning every hour, and all the while most strenuously warring against sin, and repenting of every one trans- gression, as soon after the commission of it as i got leisure confessions of a fanatic. to think. but what a wretched state this unregen- erated state is, in which every effort only aggravates our offences! i found it vanity to contend; for, after com- muning with my heart, the conclusion was as follows: “if i could repent me of all my sins, and shed tears of blood for them, still have i not a load of original trans- gression pressing on me, that is enough to crush me to the lowest hell. i may be angry with my first parents for having sinned, but how i shall repent me of their sin, is beyond what i am able to comprehend." still, in those days of depravity and corruption, i had some of those principles implanted in my mind, which were afterward to spring up with amazing fertility. in particular, i felt great indignation against all the wicked of this world, and often wished for the means of ridding it of such a noxious burden. it was about this time that my reverend father preach- ed a sermon, one sentence of which affected me most disagreeably : it was to the purport, that every unrepen- ted sin was productive of a new sin with each breath that a man drew ; and every one of these new sins added to the catalogue in the same manner. i was utterly con- founded at the multitude of my transgressions ; for i was sensible that there were great numbers of sins of which i had never been able thoroughly to repent, and these mo- mentary ones, by a moderate calculation, had, i saw, long ago amounted to a hundred and fifty thousand in the minute, and i saw no end to the series of repentances to which i had subjected myself. a lifetime was nothing to enable me to accomplish the sum, and then being, for any thing i was certain of, in my state of nature, and the grace of repentance withheld from me,- what was i to do, or what was to become of me? in the mean time, i went on sinning without measure ; but i was still more troubled about the multitude than the magnitude of my transgressions, and the small minute ones puzzled me more than those that were more heinous, as the latter had generally some good effects in the way of punishing wicked men, froward boys, and deceitful women; and i i'rivate memoirs and rejoiced even then in my early youth, at being used as a scourge in the hand of the lord; another jebu, a cyrus, or a nebuchadnezzar, on the whole, i remember that i got into great con. fusion relating to my sins and repentances. i could not help running into new sing continually ; but then i was inercifully dealt with, for i was often made to repent of them most heartily, by reason of bodily chastisements received on these delinquencies being discovered. i was particularly prone to lying, and i cannot but admire the mercy that has freely forgiven me all these juvenile sins. now that i know them all to be blotted out, i may the more freely confess them : the truth is, that one lie always paved the way for another, from hour to hour, from day to day, and from year to year ; so that i found myself constantly involved in a labyrinth of deceit, from which it was impossible to extricate myself. if i knew a per- son to be a godly one, i could almost have kissed his feet ; but against the carnal portion of mankind, i set my face continually. i esteemed the true ministers of the gospel ; but the prelatic party, and the preachers up of good works i abhorred, and to this hour i account them the worst and most heinous of all transgressors, there was only one boy at mr wilson's class, who kept always the upper hand of me in every part of edu. cation. i strove against him from year to year, but it was all in vain; for he was a very wicked boy, and i was convinced he had dealings with the devil. indeed it was believed all over the country that his mnother was a witch ; and i was at length convinced that it was no human in- genuity that beat me with so much ease in the latin, af. ter i had often sat up a whole night with my reverend fa- ther, studying my lesson in all its bearings. i often read as well and sometimes better than he ; but the moment mr wilson began to examine us, my opponent popped up above me. i determined, (ns i knew him for a wicked person, and one of the devil's hand-lasted children,) to be revenged on him, and to humble him by some means of other. accordingly i lost no opportunity of setting the confessions of a fanatic. master against him, and succeeded several times in get- ting him severely beaten for faults of which he was inno- cent. i can hardly describe the joy that it gave to my heart to see a wicked creature suffering, for though he deserved it not for one thing, he richly deserved it for others. this may be by some people accounted a great sin in me; but i deny it, for i did it as a duty, and what a man or boy does for the right, will never be put into the sum of his transgressions. this boy, whose name was m'gill, was at all his lei- sure hours, engaged in drawing profane pictures of beasts, men, women, houses, and trees, and, in short, of all things that his eye encountered. these profane things the master often smiled at, and admired; therefore i began privately to try my hand likewise. i had scarcely tried above once to draw the figure of a man, ere i conceived that i had hit the very features of mr wilson. they were so particular, that they could not be easily mista- ken, aud i was so tickled and pleased with the droll like- ness that i had drawn, that i laughed immoderately at it. i tried no other figure but this ; and i tried it in every situation in which a man and a schoolmaster could be placed. i often wrought for hours together at this like- ness, nor was it long before i made myself so much mas- ter of the outline, that i could have drawn it in any si- tuation whatever, almost off hand. i then took m'gill's account book of algebra home with me, and at my leisure put down a number of gross caricatures of mr wilson here and there, several of them in situations notoriously ludicrous. i waited the discovery of this treasure with great impatience; but the book, chancing to be one that m‘gill was not using, i saw it might be long enough be- fore i enjoyed the consummation of my grand scheme : therefore, with all the ingenuity i was master of, i brought it before our dominie's eye. but never shall i forget the rage that gleamed in the tyrant's phiz! i was actually terrified to look at him, and trembled at his voice. m'gill was called upon, and examined relating to the obnoxious figures. he denied flatly that any of them were h private memoirs and of his doing. but the master inquiring at him whose they were, he could not tell, but affirmed it to be some trick. mr wilson at one time began, as i thought, to hesitate ; but the evidence was so strong against m'gill, that at length his solemn asseverations of innocence only proved an aggravation of his crime. there was not one in the school who had ever been known to draw a figure but himself, and on hirn fell the whole weight of the ty- rant's vengeance. it was dreadful; and i was once in hopes that he would not leave life in the culprit. he, however, left the school for several months, refusing to return to be subjected to punishment for the faults of others, and i stood king of the class. matters were at last made up between m'gill's parents and the schoolmaster ; but by that time i had got the start of him, and never in my life did i exert myself so much to keep the mastery. it was in vain; the powers of enchantment prevailed, and i was again turned down with the tear in my eye. i could think of no amends but one, and being driven to desperation, i put it in practice. i told a lie of him. i came boldly up to the master, and told him that m'gill had in my hearing cursed him in a most shocking manner, and called him vile names. he called m gill, and charged him with the crime, and the proud young coxcomb was so stunned at the atrocity of the charge, that his face grew as red as crimson, and the words stuck in his throat as he feebly denied it. his guilt was manifest, and he was again flogged most nobly, and dismissed the school for ever in disgrace, as a most incorrigible vagabond. this was a great victory gained, and i rejoiced and exulted exceedingly in it. it had, however, very nigh cost me my life ; for not long thereafter, i encountered m‘gill in the fields, on which he came up and challenged me for a liar, daring me to fight him. i refused, and said that i looked on him as quite below my notice; but he would not quit me, and finally told me that he should either lick me, or i should lick him, as he had no other means of being revenged on such a scoundrel. i tried confessions of a fanatic. to intimidate him, but it would not do ; and i believe i would have given all that i had in the world to be quit of him. he at length went so far as first to kick me, and then strike me on the face; and, being both older and stronger than he, i thought it scarcely became me to take such insults patiently. i was, nevertheless, well aware that the devilish powers of his mother would finally pre- vail ; and either the dread of this, or the inward conscious- ness of having wronged him, certainly unnerved my arm, for i fought wretchedly, and was soon wholly overcome. i was so sore defeated, that i kneeled, and was going to beg his pardon ; but another thought struck me moment- arily, and i threw myself on my face, and inwardly beg- ged aid from heaven ; at the same time i felt as if assured that my prayer was heard, and would be answered. while i was in this humble attitude, the villain kicked me with his foot and cursed me ; and i being newly encouraged, arose and encountered him once more. we had not fought long at this second turn, before i saw a man hasten. ing towards us ; on which i uttered a shout of joy, and laid on valiantly; but my very next look assured me, that the man was old john barnet, whom i had likewise wronged all that was in my power, and between these two wicked persons i expected any thing but justice. my arm was again enfeebled, and that of my adversary prevailed. i was knocked down and mauled most griev- ously, and while the ruffian was kicking and cuffing me at his will and pleasuse, up came old john barnet, breath- less with running, and at one blow with his open hand, levelled my opponent with the earth. “ tak ye that, maister!" says john, “to learn ye better breeding. hout awa, man ! an ye will fight, fight fair. gude sauf us, ir ye a gentleman's brood, that ye will kick an' cuff a lad when he's down ?". when i heard this kind and unexpected interference, i began once more to value myself on my courage, and springing up, i made at my adversary ; but john, without saying a word, bit his lip, and seizing me by the neck, threw me down. m‘gill begged of him to stand and see private memoirs and fair play, and suffer us to finish the battle ; for, added he, “he is a liar, and a scoundrel, and deserves ten times more than i can give him.” "i ken he's a' that ye say, an’ mair, my man," quoth john: “but am i sure that ye're no as bad, an' waur ? it says nae muckle for ony o' ye to be tearing like tikes at ane anither here." john cocked his cudgel and stood between us, threat- ening to knock the one dead, who first offered to lift his hand against the other ; but, perceiving no disposition in any of us to separate, he drove me home before him like .a bullock, keeping close guard behind me, lest m.gill had followed. i felt greatly indebted to john, yet i com- plained of his interference to my mother, and the old officious sinner got no thanks for his pains. as i am writing only from recollection, so i remember of nothing farther in these early days, in the least worthy of being recorded. that i was a great, a transcendant sinner, i confess. but still i had hopes of forgiveness, because i never sinned from principle, but accident; and then i always tried to repent of these sins by the slump, for individually it was impossible; and though not always successful in my endeavours, i could not help that ; the grace of repentance being withheld from me, i regarded myself as in no degree accountable for the failure. more. over, there were many of the most deadly sins into which i never fell, for i dreaded those mentioned in the revela- tions as excluding sins, so that i guarded against them continually. in particular, i brought myself to despise, if not to abhor, the beauty of women, looking on it as the greatest snare to which mankind are subjected, and though young men and maidens, and even old women, (my mo- ther among the rest,) taxed me with being an unnatural wretch, i gloried in my acquisition ; and to this day, am thankful for having escaped the most dangerous of all snares. i kept myself also free of the sins of idolatry, and mis- belief, both of a deadly nature : and, upon the whole, i think i had not then broken, that is, absolutely broken, confessions of a fanatic. above four out of the ten commandments; but for all that, i had more sense than to regard either my good works, or my evil deeds, as in the smallest degree influ. encing the eternal decrees of god concerning me, either with regard to my acceptance or reprobation. i depend- ed entirely on the bounty of free grace, holding all the righteousness of man as filthy rags, and believing in the momentous and magnificent truth, that the more heavily laden with transgressions, the more welcome was the believer at the throne of grace. and i have reason to believe that it was this dependence and this belief that at last ensured my acceptance there. i come now to the most important period of my exis- tence,--the period that has modelled my character, and influenced every action of my life, — without which, this detail of my actions would have been as a tale that hath been told — a monotonous farrago-an uninteresting harangue, -in short, a thing of nothing. whereas, lo! it must now be a relation of great and terrible actions, done in the might, and by the commission of heaven. amen. like the sinful king of israel, i had been walking soft. ly before the lord for a season. i had been humbled for my transgressions, and, as far as i recollect, sorry on account of their numbers and heinousness. my rever- end father had been, moreover, examining me every day regarding the state of my soul, and my answers sometimes appeared to give him satisfaction, and sometimes not. as for my mother, she would harp on the subject of my faith for ever; yet, though i knew her to be a christian, i confess that i always despised her motley instructions, nor had i any great regard for her person. if this was a crime in me, i never could help it. i confess it freely, and believe it was a judgment from heaven inflicted on her for some sin of former days, and that i had no power to have acted otherwise toward her than i did. in this frame of mind was i, when my reverend father one morning arose from his seat, and, meeting me as i entered the room, he embraced me, and welcomed me into the community of the just upon earth. i was struck private memoirs and speechless, and could make no answer save by looks of surprise. my mother also came to me, kissed, and wept over me ; and after showering unnumbered blessings on my head, she also welcomed me into the society of the just made perfect. then each of them took me by a hand, and my reverend father explained to me how he had wrestled with god, as the patriarch of old had done, not for a night, but for days and years, and that in bitterness and anguish of spirit, on my account; but that he had at last prevailed, and had now gained the long and earnest- jy desired assurance of my acceptance with the almighty, in and through the merits and sufferings of his son. i wept for joy to be assured of my freedom from all sin, and of the impossibility of my ever again falling away from my new state. i bounded away into the fields and the woods, to pour out my spirit in prayer before the al- mighty for his kindness to me: my whole frame seemed to be renewed ; every nerve was buoyant with new life; i felt as if i could have flown in the air, or leaped over the tops of the trees. an exaltation of spirit lifted me, as it were, far above the earth, and the sinful creatures crawling on its surface ; and i deemed myself as an eagle among the children of men, soaring on high, and looking down with pity and contempt on the grovelling creatures below. as i thus wended my way, i beheld a young man of a mysterious appearance coming towards me. i tried to shun him, being bent on my own contemplations; but he cast himself in my way, so that i could not well avoid him; and more than that, i felt a sort of invisible power that drew me towards him, something like the force of enchantment, which i could not resist. as we approached each other, our eyes met, and i can never describe the strange sensations that thrilled through my whole frame, at that impressive moment; a moment to me fraught with the most tremendous consequences; the beginning of a series of adventures which has puzzled my- self, and will puzzle the world when i am no more in it. that time will now soon arrive, sooner than any one can confessions of a fanatic. devise who knows not the tumult of my thoughts, and the labour of my spirit; and when it hath come and passed over, -when my flesh and my bones are decayed, and my soul has passed to its everlasting home, then shall the sons of men ponder on the events of my life ; wonder and trem- ble, and tremble and wonder how such things should be. that stranger youth and i approached each other in silence, and slowly, with our eyes fixed on each other's eyes. we approached till not more than a yard inter- vened between us, and then stood still and gazed, mea- suring each other from head to foot. what was my astonishment, on perceiving that he was the same being as myself! the clothes were the same to the smallest item. the form was the same ; the apparent age; the colour of the hair ; the eyes ; and, as far as recollection could serve me from viewing my own features in a glass, the features too were the very same. i conceived at first, that i saw a vision, and that my guardian angel had appeared to me at this important era of my life ; but this singular being read my thoughts in my looks, antici- pating the very words that i was going to utter. “you think i am your brother," said he ; " or that i am your second self. i am indeed your brother, not ac- cording to the flesh, but in my belief of the same truths, and my assurance in the same mode of redemption, than which, i hold nothing so great or so glorious on earth.” " then you are an associate well adapted to my pre- sent state," said i. “ for this time is a time of great rejoicing in spirit to me. i am on my way to return thanks for my redemption from the bonds of sin and misery. if you will join with me heart and hand in youthful thanksgiving, then shall we two go and wor- ship together, but if not, go your way, and i shall go mine." “ah, you little know with how much pleasure i will accompany you, and join with you in your elevated de- votions,” said he fervently. “your state is a state to be envied indeed; but i have been advised of it, and am private memoirs and come to be a humble disciple of yours ; to be initiated into the true way of salvation by conversing with you, and perhaps by being assisted by your prayers.' my spiritual pride being greatly elevated by this ad. dress, i began to assume the preceptor, and questioned this extraordinary youth with regard to his religions principles, telling him plainly, if he was one who expect ed acceptance with god at all, on account of good works, that i would hold no communion with him. we then went on to commune about all our points of belief ; and in every thing that i suggested, he acquiesced, and, as thought that day, often carried them to extremnes, so that i had a secret dread he was advancing blasphemies. yet he had such a way with him, and paid such a deference to all my opinions, that i was quite captivated, and, at the same time, i stood in a sort of awe of him, which could not account for, and several times was seized with an involuntary inclination to escape from his presence, by making a sudden retreat. but he seemned constantly to anticipate my thoughts, and was sure to divert my pur. pose by some turn in the conversation that particularly interested me. we moved about from one place to another, until the day was wholly spent. my mind had all the while been kept in a state of agitation resembling the motion of a whirlpool, and when we came to separate, i then dia. covered that the purpose for which i had sought the fields had been neglected, and that i had been diverted from the worship of god, by attending to the quibbles and dogmag of this singular and unaccountable being, who seemed to have more knowledge and information than all ? the persons i had ever known put together. we parted with expressions of mutual regret, and when i left him i felt a deliverance, but at the same time a certain consciousness that i was not thus to get free of him, but that he was like to be an acquaintance that was to stick to me for good or for evil. i was astonished at his acuteness and knowledge about every thing ; but ag for his likeness to me, that was quite unaccountable. confessions of a fanatic. he was the same person in every respect, but yet he was not always so ; for i observed several times, when we were speaking of certain divines and their tenets, that his face assumed something of the appearance of theirs ; and it struck me, that by setting his features to the mould of other people's, he entered at once into their conceptions and feelings. i had been greatly fat. tered, and greatly interested by his conversation ; whether i had been the better for it or the worse, i could not tell. i had been diverted from returning thanks to my gracious maker for his great kindness to me, and came home as i went away, but not with the same buoyancy and lightness of heart. well may i remember that day in which i was first received into the number, and made an heir to all the privileges of the children of god, and on which i first met this mysterious associate, who from that day forth contrived to wind himself into all my af- fairs, both spiritual and temporal, to this day on which i am writing the account of it. it was on the th day of march, , when i had just entered the eighteenth year of my age. whether it behoves me to bless god for the events of that day, or to deplore them, has been hid from my discernment, though i have inquired into it with fear and trembling; and i have now lost all hopes of ever discovering the true import of these events until that day when my accounts are to make up and reckon for in another world. when i came home, i went straight into the parlour, where my mother was sitting by herself. she started to her feet, and uttered a smothered scream. “ what ails you, robert ?" cried she. “my dear son, what is the matter with you?” “do you see any thing the matter with me?" said i. "it appears that the ailment is with yourself, and either in your crazed head or your dim eyes, for there is no- thing the matter with me.” “ah, robert, you are ill !” cried she ; "you are very ill, my dear boy; you are quite changed; your very voice and manner are changed. ah, jane, haste you up v. private memoirs and hoon . to the study, and tell mr wringhim to come here on the instant and speak to robert.” “i beseech you, woman, to restrain yourself,” said i. “ if you suffer your frenzy to run away with your judgment in this manner, i will leave the house. what do you mean? i tell you, there is nothing ails me : i never was better." she screamed, and ran between me and the door, to bar my retreat : in the mean time my reverend father en- tered, and i have not forgot how he gazed, through his glasses, first at my mother, and then at me. i imagined that his eyes burnt like candles, and was afraid of him, which i suppose made my looks more unstable than they would otherwise have been. " what is all this for?” said he. “mistress! robert ! what is the matter here?” “oh, sir, our boy !" cried my mother; “our dear boy, mr wringhim! look at him, and speak to him : he is either dying or translated, sir !" he looked at me with a countenance of great alarm ; mumbling some sentences to himself, and then taking me by the arm, as if to feel my pulse, he said, with a falter- ing voice, “something has indeed befallen you, either in body or mind, boy, for you are so transformed, since the morning, that i could not have known you for the same person. have you met with any accident?” “ no." “ have you seen any thing out of the ordinary course of nature ?" “ no.” “ then, satan, i fear, has been busy with you, tempt. ing you in no ordinary degree at this momentous crisis of your life ?" my mind turned on my associate for the day, and the idea that he might be an agent of the devil, had such an effect on me, that i could make no answer. “i see how it is,” said he ; “you are troubled in spirit, and i have no doubt that the enemy of our salva- tion has been busy with you. tell me this, has he over- come you, or has he not?” confessions of a fanatic. ',“ he has not, my dear father,” said i. “in the strength of the lord, i hope i have withstood him. but indeed, if he has been busy with me, i knew it pot. i have been conversant this day with one stranger only, whom i took rather for an angel of light." “ it is one of the devil's most profound wiles to ap- pear like one,” said my mother. “ woman, hold thy peace !” said my reverend father : “thou pretendest to teach what thou knowest not. tell me this, boy. did this stranger, with whom you met, adhere to the religious principles in which i have edu- cated you?” “yes, to every one of them, in their fullest latitude," said i. “ then he was no agent of the wicked one with whom you held converse," said he ; " for that is the doctrine that was made to overturn the principalities and powers, the might and dominion of the kingdom of darkness.- let us pray." after spending about a quarter of an hour in solemn and sublime thanksgiving, this saintly man gave out that the day following should be kept by the family as a day of solemn thanksgiving, and spent in prayer and praise, on account of the calling and election of one of its mem- bers; or rather for the election of that individual being revealed on earth, as well as confirmed in heaven. the next day was with me a day of holy exultation. it was begun by my reverend father laying his hands upon my head and blessing me, and then dedicating me to the lord in the most awful and impressive manner. it was in no common way that he exercised this pro- found rite, for it was done with all the zeal and enthu. siasm of a devotee to the true cause, and a champion on the side he had espoused. he used these remarkable words; “may he be a two-edged weapon in thy hand, and a spear coming out of thy mouth, to destroy, and overcome, and pass over ; and may the enemies of thy .church fall down before him, and be as dung to fat the land!” private memoins and l'rom that moment, i conceived it decreed, not that i nhould be a minister of the gospel, but a champion of it, to out of the wicked from the face of the earth; and i rejoiced in the cominission, finding it more congenial to iny mature to be cutting sinners off with the sword, than to be liaranguing them from the pulpit, striving to pro. duce an efl'ect, which god, by his act of absolute pre, destination, had for ever rendered impracticable. the more i pondered on these things, the inore i saw of the tolly and inconsistency of ministers, in spending their lives, striving and remonstrating with sinners, in order to induce them to do that which they had it not in their power to do. how much more wise would it be, thought i, to begin and cut sinners off with the sword i for till that is elected, the saints can never inherit the earth in peace. should i be honoured as an instruinent to begin this great work of purification, i should rejoice in it. but then, where had i the means, or under what direction was i to begin? there was one thing clear, i was now the lord's, and it beloved ine to bestir myself in his ser. vice. o that i had an host at my command, then would i be as a devouring fire among the workers of iniquity! vull of these great ideas, i hurried through the city, and sought again the private path through the field and wood of l'imnieston, in which my reverend preceptor had the privilege of walking for study, and to which he had a key that was always at my command. near one of the stiles, i perceived a young man sitting in a devout posture, reading on & bible. he rose, lifted his hal, and made an obeisance to me, which i returned and walked on, i had not well crossed the stile, till it struck me i knew the face of the youth, and that he was some intimate acquaintance, to whom i ought to have spoken. i walked on, and returned, and walked on again, trying to recollect who he was s but for my life i could not, there was, however, a fascination in his look and man. her, that drew me back toward him in spite of mysell, and i resolved to go to him, if it were merely to speak and see who he was, confessions of a fanatic, i came up to him and addressed him, but he was so intent on his book, that, though i spoke, he lifted not his eyes. i looked on the book also, and still it seemed a bible, having columns, chapters, and verses; but it was in a language of which i was wholly ignorant, and all intersected with red lines, and verses. a sensation resembling a stroke of electricity came over me, on first casting my eyes on that mysterious book, and i stood motionless. he looked up, smiled, closed his book, and put it in his bosom. “ you seem strangely affected, dear sir, by looking on my book," said he mildly. " what book is that?” said i: is it a bible ?” " it is my bible, sir,” said he; “but i will cease reading it, for i am glad to see you. pray, is not this a day of holy festivity with you?” stared in his face, but made no answer, for my senses were bewildered. “do you not know me?" said he. “ you appear to be somehow at a loss. had not you and i some sweet communion and fellowship yesterday?” “i beg your pardon, sir,” said i. “ but surely if you are the young gentleman with whom i spent the hours yesterday, you have the cameleon art of chang- ing your appearance; i never could have recognized you." “ my countenance changes with my studies and sen- sations," said he. “ it is a natural peculiarity in me, over which i have not full control. if i contemplate a man's features seriously, mine own gradually assume the very same appearance and character. and what is more, by contemplating a face minutely, i not only attain the same likeness, but, with the likeness, attain the very same ideas as well as the same mode of arrang- ing them, so that, you see, by looking at a person atten- tively, i by degrees assume his likeness, and by assum- ing his likeness i attain to the possession of his most secret thoughts. this, i say, is a peculiarity in my na- ture, a gift of the god that made me ; but whether or not given me for a blessing, he knows himself, and so do i. private memoirs and at all events, i have this privilege, i can never be mis. taken of a character in whom i am interested." “ it is a rare qualification,” replied i, “and i would give worlds to possess it. then, it appears, that it is needless to dissemble with you, since you can at any time extract our most secret thoughts from our bosoms. you already know my natural character ?” “ yes," said he," and it is that which attaches me to you. by assuming your likeness yesterday, i became acquainted with your character, and was no less astonish- ed at the profundity and range of your thoughts, than at the heroic magnanimity with which these were com. bined. and now, in addition to these, you are dedicat. ed to the great work of the lord ; for which reasons i have resolved to attach myself as closely to you as possible, and to render you all the service of which my poor abilities are capable.” i confess that i was greatly flattered by these compli- ments paid to my abilities by a youth of such superior qualifications; by one who, with a modesty and affability rare at his age, combined a height of genius and know- ledge almost above human comprehension. neverthe- less, i began to assume a certain superiority of demean- our toward him, as judging it incumbent on me to do so, in order to keep up his idea of my exalted character ; but i soon felt, that, instead of being a humble disciple of mine, this new acquaintance was to be my guide and director, and all under the humble guise of one stooping at my feet to learn the right. he said that he saw i was ordained to perform some great action for the cause of jesus and his church, and he earnestly coveted being a partaker with me; but he besought of me never to think it possible for me to fall from the truth, or the favour of him who had chosen me, else that misbelief would baulk every good work to which i set my face. there was something so flattering in all this, that i could not resist it. still, when he took leave of me, i felt it as a great relief; and yet, before the morrow, i wearied and was impatient to see him again. we carried confessions of a fanatic. on our fellowship from day to day, and all the while i knew not who he was, and still my mother and reverend father kept insisting that i was an altered youth, changed in my appearance, my manners, and my whole conduct; yet something always prevented me from telling them more about my new acquaintance than i had done on the first day we met. i rejoiced in him, was proud of him, and soon could not live without him; yet, though resolved every day to disclose the whole history of my connexion with him, i had it not in my power : some- thing always prevented me, till at length i thought no more of it, but resolved to enjoy his fascinating company in private, and by all means to keep my own with him. the resolution was vain : i set a bold face to it, but my powers were inadequate to the task ; my adherent, with all the suavity imaginable, was sure to carry his point. i sometimes fumed, and sometimes shed tears at being obliged to yield to proposals against which i had at first felt every reasoning power of my soul rise in opposition ; but, for all that, he never failed in carrying conviction along with him in effect, for he either forced me to ac- quiesce in his measures, and assent to the truth of his positions, or he put me so completely down, that i had not a word left to advance against them. after weeks, and i may say months of intimacy, i observed, somewhat to my amazement, that we had never once prayed together ; and more than that, that he had constantly led my attentions away from that duty, caus- ing me to neglect it wholly. i thought this a bad mark of a man seemingly so much set on inculcating certain important points of religion, and resolved next day to put him to the test, and request of him to perform that sacred duty in name of us both. he objected boldly; saying there were very few people indeed, with whom he could join in prayer, and he made a point of never doing it, as he was sure they were to ask many things of which he disapproved, and that if he were to officiate himself, he was as certain to allude to many things that came not within the range of their faith. he disapproved of prayer private memoirs and altogether, in the manner it was generally gone about, he said. man made it merely a selfish concern, and was con. stantly employed asking, asking, for every thing. where- as it became all god's creatures to be content with their lot, and only to kneel before him in order to thank him for such benefits as he saw meet to bestow. in short, he argued with such energy, that before we parted i ac. quiesced, as usual, in his position, and never mentioned prayer to him any more. having been so frequently seen in his company, several people happened to mention the circumstance to my mother and reverend father ; but at the same time had all described him differently. at length they began to examine me with regard to the company i kept, as i absented myself from home day after day. i told them i kept company only with one young gentleman, whose whole manner of thinking on religious subjects, i found so congenial with my own, that i could not live out of his society. my mother began to lay down some of her old hackneyed rules of faith, but i turned from hearing her with disgust; for, after the energy of my new friend's reasoning, hers appeared so tame i could not endure it. and i confess with shame, that my reverend preceptor's religious dissertations began, about this time, to lose their relish very much, and by degrees became exceedingly tiresome to my ear. they were so inferior, in strength and sublimity, to the most common observations of my young friend, that in drawing a comparison the former appeared as nothing. he, however, examined me about many things relating to my companion, in all of which i satisfied him, save in one : i could neither tell him who my friend was, what was his name, nor of whom he was descended ; and i wondered at myself how i had never once adverted to such a thing, for all the time we had been intimate. i inquired the next day what his name was; as i said i was often at a loss for it, when talking with him. he replied, that there was no occasion for any one friend ever naining another, when their society was held in confessions of a fanatic. private, as ours was ; for his part he had never once nam- ed me since we first met, and never intended to do so, unless by my own request." but if you cannot converse without naming me, you may call me gil for the present," added he; “and if i think proper to take another name at any future period, it shall be with your approbation. “ gil !” said i; have you no name but gil? or which of your names is it ?- your christian or surname?" “ , you must have a surname too, must you !" re. plied he; “ very well, you may call me gil-martin. it is not my christian name; but it is a name which may serve your turn." “ this is very strange !” said i. “ are you ashamed of your parents, that you refuse to give your real name ?" “i have no parents save one, whom i do not acknow- ledge,” said he proudly; "therefore, pray drop that sub- ject, for it is a disagreeable one. i am a being of a very peculiar temper, for though i have servants and subjects more than i can number, yet, to gratify a cer- tain whim, i have left them, and retired to this city, and for all the society it contains, you see i have attached myself only to you. this is a secret, and i tell it you only in friendship, therefore pray let it remain one, and say not another word about the matter." i assented, and said no more concerning it ; for it in- stantly struck me that this was no other than the czar peter of russia, having heard that he had been travel- ling through europe in disguise, and i cannot say that i had not thenceforward great and mighty hopes of high preferment, as a defender and avenger of the oppressed christian church, under the influence of this great po. tentate. he had hinted as much already, as that it was more honourable, and of more avail to put down the wicked with the sword, than try to reform them, and i thought myself quite justified in supposing that he intend. ed me for some great employment, that he had thus se- lected me for his companion out of all the rest in scot- land, and even pretended to learn the great truths of re- ligion from my mouth. from that time i felt disposed private memoirs and to yield to such a great prince's suggestions without hesi. tation. nothing ever astonished me so much, as the uncom- mon powers with which he seemed invested. in our walk one day, we met with a mr blanchard, who was reck- oned a worthy, pious divine, but quite of the moral cast, who joined us; and we three walked on, and rested to- gether in the fields. my companion did not seem to like him, but, nevertheless, regarded him frequently with deep attention, and there were several times, while he seemed contemplating him, and trying to find out his thoughts, that his face became so like mr blanchard's, that it was impossible to have distinguished the one from the other. the antipathy between the two was mutual, and discovered itself quite palpably in a short time. when my companion the prince was gone, mr blanchard asked me anent him, and i told him that he was a stran- ger in the city, but a very uncommon and great perso- nage. mr blanchard's answer to me was as follows : “i never saw any body i disliked so much in my life, mr robert ; and if it be true that he is a stranger here, which i doubt, believe me he is come for no good.” “ do you not perceive what mighty powers of mind he is possessed of ?" said i, “and also how clear and unhe- sitating he is on some of the most interesting points of divinity ?” “ it is for his great mental faculties that i dread him," said he. “it is incalculable what evil such a person as he may do, if so disposed. there is a sublimity in his ideas, with which there is to me a mixture of terror; and when he talks of religion, he does it as one that rather dreads its truths than reverences them. he, indeed, pretends great strictness of orthodoxy regarding some of the points of doctrine embraced by the reformed church; but you do not seem to perceive, that both you and he are carrying these points to a dangerous extremity. re. ligion is a sublime and glorious thing, the bond of society on earth, and the connector of humanity with the divine nature; but there is nothing so dangerous to man as the confessions of a fanatic. wresting of any of its principles, or forcing them beyond their due bounds: this is of all others the readiest way to destruction. neither is there any thing so easily done. there is not an error into which a man can fall, of which he may not press scripture into his service as proof of its probity, and though your boasted theologian shunned the full discussion of the subject before me, while you pressed it, i can easily see that both you and he are car- rying your ideas of absolute predestination, and its con- comitant appendages, to an extent that overthrows all re- ligion and revelation together. believe me, mr robert, the less you associate with that illustrious stranger the better." i was rather stunned at this; but i pretended to smile with disdain, and said, it did not become youth to con- trol age ; and, as i knew our principles differed funda- mentally, it behoved us to drop the subject. he, how. ever, would not drop it, but took both my principles and me fearfully to task, for blanchard was ari eloquent and powerful-minded old man; and, before we parted, i be- jieve i promised to drop my new acquaintance, and was all but resolved to do it. as well might i have laid my account with shunning the light of day. he was constant to me as my shadow, and by degrees he acquired such an ascendency over me, that i never was happy out of his company, nor greatly so in it. when i repeated to him all that mr blanchard had said, his countenance kindled with indignation and rage ; and then by degrees his eyes sunk inward, his brow lowered, so that i was awed, and withdrew my eyes from looking at him. a while afterward, as i was addressing him, i chanced to look him again in the face, and the sight of him made me start violently. he had made him- self so like mr blanchard, that i actually believed i had been addressing that gentleman, and that i had done so in some absence of mind that i could not account for. instead of being amused at the quandary i was in, he seemed offended : indeed, he never was truly amused with any thing. and he then asked me sullenly, if i private memoirs and conceived sucb personages as he to have no other en- dowments than cominon mortals ! i said i never conceived that princes or potentates had any greater share of endowments than other men, and frequently not so much. he shook his head, and bade me think over the subject again ; and there was an end of it. i certainly felt every day the more disposed to acknow. ledge such a superiority in him, and from all that i could gather, i had now no doubt that he was peter of russia. every thing combined to warrant the supposition, and, of course, i resolved to act in conformity with the dis- covery i had made. for several days the subject of mr blanchard's doubts and doctrines formed the theme of our discourse. my friend deprecated them most devoutly; and then again he would deplore them, and lament the great evil that such a man might do among the human race. i joined with him in allowing the evil in its fullest latitude ; and, at length, after he thought he had fully prepared my na- ture for such a trial of its powers and abilities, he pro- posed calmly that we two should make away with mr blanchard. i was so shocked, that my bosom became as it were a void, and the beatings of my heart sounded loud and hollow in it: my breath cut, and my tongue and palate became dry and speechless. he mocked at my cowardice, and began a-reasoning on the matter with such powerful eloquence, that before we parted, i felt fully convinced that it was my bounden duty to slay mr blanchard ; but my will was far, very far from consenting to the deed. i spent the following night without sleep, or nearly so; and the next morning, by the time the sun arose, i was again abroad, and in the company of my illustrious friend. the same subject was resumed, and again he reasoned to the following purport:- that supposing me placed at the head of an army of christian soldiers, all bent on putting down the enemies of the church, would i have any hesitation in destroying and rooting out these enemies ?--none surely.-well then, when confessions of a fanatic. i saw and was convinced, that here was an individ- ual who was doing more detriment to the church of christ on earth, than tens of thousands of such warriors were capable of doing, was it not my duty to cut him off? “ he, who would be a champion in the cause of christ and his church, my brave young friend," added he, “must begin early, and no man can calculate to what an illustrious eminence small beginnings may lead. if the man blanchard is worthy, he is only changing his situation for a better one; and if unworthy, it is better that one fall, than that a thousand souls perish. let us be up and doing in our vocations. for me, my resolution is taken ; i have but one great aim in this world, and i never for a moment lose sight of it." i was obliged to admit the force of his reasoning ; for though i cannot from memory repeat his words, his elo- quence was of that overpowering nature, that the sub- tility of other men sunk before it ; and there is also little doubt that the assurance i had that these words were spoken by a great potentate, who could raise me to the highest eminence, (provided that i entered into his extensive and decisive measures,) assisted mightily in dispelling my youthful scruples and qualms of conscience; and i thought moreover, that having such a powerful back friend to support me, i hardly needed to be afraid of the consequences. i consented ! but begged a little time to think of it. he said the less one thought of a duty the better ; and we parted. but the most singular instance of this wonderful man's power over my mind was, that he had as complete in- fluence over me by night as by day. all my dreams corresponded exactly with his suggestions ; and when he was absent from me, still his arguments sunk deeper in my heart than even when he was present. i dreamed that night of a great triumph obtained, and though the whole scene was but dimly and confusedly defined in my vision, yet the overthrow and death of mr blanchard was the first step by which i attained the eminent station i occupied. thus, by dreaming of the event by night, v. private memoirs and and discoursing of it by day, it soon became so familiar to my mind, that i almost conceived it as done. it was resolved on: which was the first and greatest victory gained ; for there was no difficulty in finding opportuni- ties enow of cutting off a man, who, every good day, was to be found walking by himself in private grounds. i went and heard him preach for two days, and in fact i held his tenets scarcely short of blasphemy; they were such as i had never heard before, and his congregation, which was numerous, were turning up their ears and drinking in his doctrines with the utmost delight ; for , they suited their carnal natures and self-sufficiency to a hair! when i began to tell the prince about his false doc- trines, to my astonishment i found that he had been in the church himself, and had every argument that the old divine had used verbatim; and he remarked on them with great concern, that these were not the tenets that corresponded with his views in society, and that he had agents in every city, and every land, exerting their powers to put them down. i asked, with great simpli. city, “ are all your subjects christians, prince ?" “ all my european subjects are, or deem themselves so,” returned he ; "and they are the most faithful and true subjects i have.” who could doubt, after this, that he was the czar of russia ? i have nevertheless had reasons to doubt of his identity since that period, and which of my conjec- tures is right, i believe heaven only knows, for i do not. i shall go on to write such things as i remember, and if any one shall ever take the trouble to read over these con- fessions, such a one will judge for himself. it will be observed, that since ever i fell in with this extraordinary person, i have written about him only, and i must con- tinue to do so to the end of this memoir, as i have per- formed no great or interesting action in which he had not a principal share. he' came to me one day and said, “ we must not lin- ger thus in executing what we have resolved on. we confessions of a fanatic. have much before our hands to perform for the benefit of mankind, both civil as well as religious. let us do what we have to do here, and then we must wend our way to other cities, and perhaps to other countries. mr blan. chard is to hold forth in the high church of paisley on sunday next, on some particularly great occasion : this must be defeated; he must not go there. as he will be busy arranging his discourses, we may expect him to be walking by himself in finnieston dell the greater part of friday and saturday. let us go and cut him off. what is the life of a man more than the life of a lamb, or any guiltless animal ? it is not half so much, especially when we consider the immensity of the mischief this old fellow is working among our fellow-creatures. can there be any doubt that it is the duty of one consecrat- ed to god, to cut off such a mildew ?" “i fear me, great sovereign,” said i, “ that your ideas of retribution are too sanguine, and too arbitrary for the laws of this country. i dispute not that your motives are great and highe; but have you debated the conse. quences, and settled the result?” “i have,” returned he, “and hold myself amenable for the action, to the laws of god and of equity ; as to the enactments of men i despise them. fain would i see the weapon of providence begin the work of vengeance that awaits it to do !" i could not help thinking, that i perceived a little de- rision of countenance on his face as he said this, never. theless i sunk dumb before such a man, and aroused my- self to the task, seeing he would not have it deferred. i approved of it in theory, but my spirit stood aloof from the practice. i saw and was convinced that the eleet would be happier, and purer, were the wicked and unbe- lievers all cut off from troubling and misleading them, but if it had not been the instigations of this illustrious stranger, i should never have presumed to begin so great a work myself. yet, though he often aroused my zeal to the highest pitch, still my heart at times shrunk from the shedding of life-blood, and it was only at the earnest private memoirs and and unceasing instigations of my enlightened and volun- tary patron, that i at length put my hand to the conclu- sive work. after i said all that i could say, and all had been overborne, (i remember my actions and words as well as it had been yesterday,) i turned round hesita- tingly, and looked up to heaven for direction ; but there was a dimness came over my eyes that i could not see. the appearance was as if there had been a veil drawn over me, so nigh that i put up my hand to feel it; and then gil-martin (as this great sovereign was pleased to have himself called,) frowned, and asked me what i was grasping at? i knew not what to say, but answered, with fear and shame, “i have no weapons, not one ; nor know i where any are to be found.” “ the god whom thou servest will provide these,” said he, “if thou provest worthy of the trust committed to thee.” i looked again up into the cloudy veil that covered us, and thought i beheld golden weapons of every descrip- tion let down in it, but all with their points towards me. i kneeled, and was going to stretch out my hand to take one, when my patron seized me, as i thought, by the clothes, and dragged me away with as much ease as i had been a lamb, saying, with a joyful and elevated voice, “come, my friend, let us depart : thou art dreaming- thou art dreaming. rouse up all the energies of thy exalted mind, for thou art an highly-favoured one; and doubt thou not, that he whom thou servest, will be ever at thy right and left hand, to direct and assist thee.". these words, but particularly the vision i had seen, of the golden weapons descending out of heaven, inflamed my zeal to that height that i was as one beside himself ; which my parents perceived that night, and made some motions toward confining me to my room. i joined in the family prayers, and then i afterwards sung a psalm and prayed by myself; and i had good reasons for be. jieving that that small oblation of praise and prayer was not turned to sin. i felt greatly strengthened and encouraged that night, confessions of a fanatic. , and the next morning i ran to meet my companion, out of whose eye i had now no life. he rejoiced at seeing me so forward in the great work of reformation by blood, and said many things to raise my hopes of future fame and glory ; and then, producing two pistols of pure beat- en gold, he held them out and proffered me the choice of one, saying, “ see what thy master hath provided thee !” i took one of them eagerly, for i perceived at once that they were two of the very weapons that were let down from heaven in the cloudy veil, the dim tapes- try of the firmament ; and i said, to myself, “ surely this is the will of the lord.” the little splendid and enchanting piece was so per- fect, so complete, and so ready for executing the will of the donor, that i now longed to use it in his service. i loaded it with my own hand, as gil martin did the other, and we took our stations behind a bush of hawthorn and bramble on the verge of the wood, and almost close to the walk. my patron was so acute in all his calculations that he never mistook an event. we had not taken our stand above a minute and a half, till old mr blanchard appeared, coming slowly on the path. when we saw this, we cowered down, and leaned each of us a knee upon the ground, pointing the pistols through the bush, with an aim so steady, that it was impossible to miss our victim. he came deliberately on, pausing' at times so long, that we dreaded he was going to turn. gil-martin dreaded it, and i said i did, but wished in my heart that he might. he, however, came onward, and i will never forget the manner in which he came! no,—i don't be. lieve i ever can forget it, either in the narrow bounds of time or the ages of eternity! he was a boardly ill- shaped man, of a rude exterior, and a little bent with age ; his hands were clasped behind his back, and below his coat, and he walked with a slow swinging air that was very peculiar. when he paused and looked abroad on nature, the act was highly impressive : he seemed con- scious of being all alone, and conversant only with god k frivate memoirs and and the elements of his creation. never was there such a picture of human inadvertency! a man approaching step by step to the one that was to hurl him out of one existence into another, with as much ease and indiffer- ence as the ox goeth to the stall. hideous vision, wilt thou not be gone from my mental sight! if not, let me bear with thee as i can ! when he came straight opposite to the muzzles of our pieces, gil-martin called out “ eh !" with a short quick sound. the old man, without starting, turned his face and breast toward us, and looked into the wood, but look- ed over our heads. “now !” whispered my companion, and fired. but my hand refused the office, for i was not at that moment sure about becoming an assassin in the cause of christ and his church. i thought i heard a sweet voice behind me, whispering me to beware, and i was going to look round, when my companion exclaimed, “ coward, we are ruined !” i had no time for an alternative: gil-martin's ball had not taken effect, which was altogether wonderful, as the old man's breast was within a few yards of him. “ hilloa !" cried blanchard ; "what is that for, you dog!" and with that he came forward to look over the bush. i hesitated, as i said, and attempted to look behind me; but there was no time: the next step discovered two assassins lying in covert, waiting for blood. “coward, we are ruined !” cried my indignant friend ; and that moment my piece was discharged. the effect was as might have been expected: the old man first stumbled to one side, and then fell on his back. we kept our places, and i per- ceived my companion's eyes gleaming with an unnatural joy. the wounded man raised himself from the bank to a sitting posture, and i beheld his eyes swimming ; he, however, appeared sensible, for we heard him saying in a low and rattling voice, “ alas, alas! whom have i of- fended, that they should have been driven to an act like this! come forth and show yourselves, that i may either forgive you before i die, or curse you in the name of the lord.” he then fell a groping with both hands confessions of a fanatic. on the ground, as if feeling for something he had lost, manifestly in the agonies of death ; and, with a solemn and interrupted prayer for forgiveness, he breathed his last. i had become rigid as a statue, whereas my associate appeared to be elevated above measure. “arise, thou faint-hearted one, and let us be going," said he. “ thou hast done well for once; but wherefore hesitate in such a cause ? this is but a small beginning of so great a work as that of purging the christian world. but the first victim is a worthy one, and more of such lights must be extinguished immediately." we touched not our victim, nor any thing pertaining to him, for fear of staining our hands with his blood; and the firing having brought three men within view, who were hasting towards the spot, my undaunted companion took both the pistols, and went forward as with intent to meet them, bidding me shift for myself. i ran off in a contrary direction, till i came to the foot of the pear- man sike, and then, running up the hollow of that i ap- peared on the top of the bank as if i had been another man brought in view by hearing the shots in such a place. i had a full view of a part of what passed, though not of all. i saw my companion going straight to meet the men, apparently with a pistol in every hand, waving in a care- less manner. they seemed not quite clear of meeting with him, and so he went straight on, and passed between them. they looked after him, and came onward; but when they came to the old man lying stretched in his blood, then they turned and pursued my companion, though not so quickly as they might have done ; and i understood that from the first they saw no more of him. great was the confusion that day in glasgow. the most popular of all their preachers of morality was (what they called) murdered in cold blood, and a strict and extensive search was made for the assassin. neither of the accomplices was found, however, that is certain, nor was either of them so much as suspected; but another man was apprehended under circumstances that warrant- ed suspicion.-this was one of the things that i witness- private memoirs and ed in my life, which i never understood, and it surely was one of my patron's most dexterous tricks, for i must still say, what i have thought from the beginning, that like him there never was a man created. the young man who was taken up was a preacher; and it was proved that he had purchased fire-arms in town, and gone out with them that morning. but the far greatest mystery of the whole was, that two of the men, out of the three who met my companion, swore, that that unfortunate preach- er was the man whom they met with a pistol in each hand, fresh from the death of the old divine. the poor fellow made a confused speech himself, which there is not the least doubt was quite true; but it was laughed to scorn, and an expression of horror ran through both the hearers and jury. i heard the whole trial, and so did gil martin; but we left the journeyman preacher to his fate, and from that time forth i have had no faith in the justice of criminal trials. if once a man is prejudiced on one side, he will swear any thing in support of such prejudice. i tried to expostulate with my mysterious friend on the horrid injustice of suffering this young man to die for our act, but the prince exulted in it more than the other, and said the latter was the more dangerous man of the two. the alarm in and about glasgow was prodigious. the country being divided into two political parties, the court and the country party, the former held meetings, issued proclamations, and offered rewards, ascribing all to the violence of party spirit, and deprecating the infernal measures of their opponents. i did not understand their political differences ; but it was easy to see that the true gospel preachers joined all on one side, and the uphold. ers of pure morality and a blameless life on the other, so that this division proved a test to us, and it was forth- with resolved, that we two should pick out some of the leading men of this unsaintly and heterodox cabal, and cut them off one by one, as occasion should suit. now the ice being broke, i felt considerable zeal in our great work, but pretended much more ; and we might confessions of a fanatic. soon have kidnapped them all through the ingenuity of my patron, had not our next attempt miscarried, by some awkwardness or mistake of mine. the consequence was, that he was discovered fairly, and very nigh seized. i also was seen, and suspected so far, that my reverend father, my mother, and myself were examined privately. i denied all knowledge of the matter; and they held it in such a ridiculous light, and their conviction of the com- plete groundlessness of the suspicion was so perfect, that their testimony prevailed, and the affair was hushed. i was obliged, however, to walk circumspectly, and saw my companion the prince very seldom, who was prowling about every day, quite unconcerned about his safety. he was every day a new man, however, and needed not to be alarmed at any danger; for such a facility had he in disguising himself, that if it had not been for a pass- word which we had between us, for the purposes of re- cognition, i never could have known him myself. it so happened that my reverend father was called to edinburgh about this time, to assist with his council in settling the national affairs. at my earnest request i was permitted to accompany him, at which both my as- sociate and i rejoiced, as we were now about to move in a new and extensive field. all this time i never knew where my illustrious friend resided. he never once in- vited me to call on him at his lodgings, nor did he ever come to our house, which made me sometimes to suspect, that if any of our great efforts in the cause of true re- ligion were discovered he intended leaving me in the lurch. consequently, when we met in edinburgh (for we travelled not in company) i proposed to go with him to look for lodgings, telling him at the same time what a blessed religious family my reverend instructor and i were settled in. he said he rejoiced at it, but he made a rule of never lodging in any particular house, but took these daily, or hourly, as he found it convenient, and that he never was at a loss in any circumstance. “what a mighty trouble you put yourself to, great sovereign !” said i “and all, it would appear, for the private memoirs and ed in my life, which i never understood, and it surely was one of my patron's most dexterous tricks, for i mustatai still say, what i have thought from the beginning, that are like him there never was a man created. the young mararas who was taken up was a preacher; and it was proved than he had purchased fire-arms in town, and gone out witcher them that morning. but the far greatest mystery of kne whole was, that two of the men, out of the three whicule met my companion, swore, that that unfortunate preland er was the man whom they met with a pistol in into hand, fresh from the death of the old divine. the sea fellow made a confused speech himself, which their not the least doubt was quite true; but it was lany a to scorn, and an expression of horror ran through the hearers and jury. i heard the whole trial, and gil martin; but we left the journer preachers fate, and from that time forth i justice of criminal trials. y on one side, he will swear port prejudice. i tried to friend on the horri to die for our ar the other, ar man of the the s aghrery day anded at chers hims faith we h- pre net coun odox on har confessions of a fanatic, erstand won til patron kwardness or have kidnapped them all through the ingenuity of natron, had not our next attempt miscarried, by some ardness or mistake of mine. the consequence was in the let he was discovered fairly, and very nigh seized. i also ted. in ceen, and suspected so far, that my reverend father. din mother, and myself were examined privately and all knowledge of the matter; and they held it in atesta ridiculous light, and their conviction of the com groundlessness of the suspicion was so perfect, that unfact testimony prevailed, and the affair was thushed the obliged, however, to walk circumspectly, and sex spanion the prince very seldom, who was the sell ers day, quite unconcerned about his gunda but id ale tie and rezery day a new mar med at any dang ng himself, the had betr coni a facil been ea dw be for him wat a and private memoirs and and unceasing instigations of my enlightened and volun. tary patron, that i at length put my hand to the conclu. sive work. after i said all that i could say, and all had been overborne, (i remember my actions and words as well as it had been yesterday,) i turned round hesita. tingly, and looked up to heaven for direction ; but there was a dimness came over my eyes that i could not see. the appearance was as if there had been a veil drawn over me, so nigh that i put up my hand to feel it; and then gil-martin (as this great sovereign was pleased to have himself called,) frowned, and asked me what i was grasping at? i knew not what to say, but answered, with fear and shame, “i have no weapons, not one ; nor know i where any are to be found." “ the god whom thou servest will provide these." said he, “ if thou provest worthy of the trust committed to thee." i looked again up into the cloudy veil that covered us, and thought i beheld golden weapons of every descrip. tion let down in it, but all with their points towards me, i kneeled, and was going to stretch out my hand to take one, when my patron seized me, as i thought, by the clothes, and dragged me away with as much ease as i had been a lamb, saying, with a joyful and elevated voice, “come, my friend, let us depart : thou art dreaming- thou art dreaming. rouse up all the energies of thy exalted mind, for thou art an highly-favoured one; and doubt thou not, that he whom thou servest, will be ever at thy right and left hand, to direct and assist thee." these words, but particularly the vision i had seen, of the golden weapons descending out of heaven, inflamed my zeal to that height that i was as one beside himself ; which my parents perceived that night, and made some motions toward confining me to my room. i joined in the family prayers, and then i afterwards sung a psalm and prayed by myself ; and i had good reasons for be. lieving that that small oblation of praise and prayer was not turned to sin. i felt greatly strengthened and encouraged that night, confessions of a fanatic. and the next morning i ran to meet my companion, out of whose eye i had now no life. he rejoiced at seeing me so forward in the great work of reformation by blood, and said many things to raise my hopes of future fame and glory ; and then, producing two pistols of pure beat- en gold, he held them out and proffered me the choice of one, saying, “ see what thy master hath provided thee !” i took one of them eagerly, for i perceived at once that they were two of the very weapons that were let down from heaven in the cloudy veil, the dim tapes- try of the firmament ; and i said, to myself, “ surely this is the will of the lord.” the little splendid and enchanting piece was so per- fect, so complete, and so ready for executing the will of the donor, that i now longed to use it in his service. i loaded it with my own hand, as gil-martin did the other, and we took our stations behind a bush of hawthorn and bramble on the verge of the wood, and almost close to the walk. my patron was so acute in all his calculations that he never mistook an event. we had not taken our stand above a minute and a half, till old mr blanchard appeared, coming slowly on the path. when we saw this, we cowered down, and leaned each of us a knee upon the ground, pointing the pistols through the bush, with an aim so steady, that it was impossible to miss our victim. he came deliberately on, pausing' at times so long, that we dreaded he was going to turn. gil-martin dreaded it, and i said i did, but wished in my heart that he might. he, however, came onward, and i will never forget the manner in which he came! no,—i don't be. lieve i ever can forget it, either in the narrow bounds of time or the ages of eternity! he was a boardly ill- shaped man, of a rude exterior, and a little bent with age ; his hands were clasped behind his back, and below his coat, and he walked with a slow swinging air that was very peculiar. when he paused and looked abroad on nature, the act was highly impressive : he seemed con- scious of being all alone, and conversant only with god k private memoirs and to yield to such a great prince's suggestions without hesi- tation. nothing ever astonished me so much, as the uncom. mon powers with which he seemed invested. in our walk one day, we met with a mr blanchard, who was reck. oned a worthy, pious divine, but quite of the moral cast, who joined us; and we three walked on, and rested to- gether in the fields. my companion did not seem to like him, but, nevertheless, regarded him frequently with deep attention, and there were several times, while he seemed contemplating him, and trying to find out his thoughts, that his face became so like mr blanchard's, that it was impossible to have distinguished the one from the other. the antipathy between the two was mutual, and discovered itself quite palpably in a short time. when my companion the prince was gone, mr blanchard asked me anent him, and i told him that he was a stran- ger in the city, but a very uncommon and great perso- nage. mr blanchard's answer to me was as follows: “i never saw any body i disliked so much in my life, mr robert ; and if it be true that he is a stranger here, which i doubt, believe me he is come for no good.” “ do you not perceive what mighty powers of mind he is possessed of ?" said i, “and also how clear and unhe. sitating he is on some of the most interesting points of divinity ?” " it is for his great mental faculties that i dread him," said he. "it is incalculable what evil such a person as he may do, if so disposed. there is a sublimity in his ideas, with which there is to me a mixture of terror; and when he talks of religion, he does it as one that rather dreads its truths than reverences them. he, indeed, pretends great strictness of orthodoxy regarding some of the points of doctrine embraced by the reformed church; but you do not seem to perceive, that both you and he are carrying these points to a dangerous extremity. re. ligion in a sublime and glorious thing, the bond of society on earth, and the connector of humanity with the divine nature ; but there is nothing so dangerous to man as the confessions of a fanatic. wresting of any of its principles, or forcing them beyond their due bounds: this is of all others the readiest way to destruction. neither is there any thing so easily done. there is not an error into which a man can fall, of which he may not press scripture into his service as proof of its probity, and though your boasted theologian shunned the full discussion of the subject before me, while you pressed it, i can easily see that both you and he are car- rying your ideas of absolute predestination, and its con- comitant appendages, to an extent that overthrows all re- ligion and revelation together. believe me, mr robert, the less you associate with that illustrious stranger the better." i was rather stunned at this; but i pretended to smile with disdain, and said, it did not become youth to con- trol age ; and, as i knew our principles differed funda- mentally, it behoved us to drop the subject. he, how- ever, would not drop it, but took both my principles and me fearfully to task, for blanchard was an eloquent and powerful-minded old man; and, before we parted, i be- lieve i promised to drop my new acquaintance, and was all but resolved to do it. as well might i have laid my account with shunning the light of day. he was constant to me as my shadow, and by degrees he acquired such an ascendency over me, that i never was happy out of his company, nor greatly so in it. when i repeated to him all that mr blanchard had said, his countenance kindled with indignation and rage ; and then by degrees his eyes sunk inward, his brow lowered, so that i was awed, and withdrew my eyes from looking at him. a while afterward, as i was addressing him, i chanced to look him again in the face, and the sight of him made me start violently. he had made him- self so like mr blanchard, that i actually believed i had been addressing that gentleman, and that i had done so in some absence of mind that i could not account for. instead of being amused at the quandary i was in, he seemed offended : indeed, he never was truly amused with any thing. and he then asked me sullenly, if i private memoirs and and discoursing of it by day, it soon became so familiar to my mind, that i almost conceived it as done. it was resolved on: which was the first and greatest victory gained ; for there was no difficulty in finding opportuni- ties enow of cutting off a man, who, every good day, was to be found walking by himself in private grounds. i went and heard him preach for two days, and in fact i held his tenets scarcely short of blasphemy; they were such as i had never heard before, and his congregation, which was numerous, were turning up their ears and drinking in his doctrines with the utmost delight; for , they suited their carnal natures and self-sufficiency to a hair! when i began to tell the prince about his false doce trines, to my astonishment i found that he had been in the church himself, and had every argument that the old divine had used verbatim; and he remarked on them with great concern, that these were not the tenets that corresponded with his views in society, and that he had agents in every city, and every land, exerting their powers to put them down. i asked, with great simpli- city, “ are all your subjects christians, prince ?" “ all my european subjects are, or deem themselves so," returned he ; "and they are the most faithful and true subjects i have." who could doubt, after this, that he was the czar of russia ? i have nevertheless bad reasons to doubt of his identity since that period, and which of my conjec- tures is right, i believe heaven only knows, for i do not. i shall go on to write such things as i remember, and if any one shall ever take the trouble to read over these con- fessions, such a one will judge for himself. it will be observed, that since ever i fell in with this extraordinary person, i have written about him only, and i must con- tinue to do so to the end of this memoir, as i have per- formed no great or interesting action in which he had not a principal share. he'came to me one day and said, “ we must not lin- ger thus in executing what we have resolved on. we confessions of a fanatic. have much before our hands to perform for the benefit of mankind, both civil as well as religious. let us do what we have to do here, and then we must wend our way to other cities, and perhaps to other countries. mr blan. chard is to hold forth in the high church of paisley on sunday next, on some particularly great occasion : this must be defeated ; he must not go there. as he will be busy arranging his discourses, we may expect him to be walking by himself in finnieston dell the greater part of friday and saturday. let us go and cut him off. what is the life of a man more than the life of a lamb, or any guiltless animal ? it is not half so much, especially when we consider the immensity of the mischief this old fellow is working among our fellow-creatures. can there be any doubt that it is the duty of one consecrat- ed to god, to cut off such a mildew ?”. “ i fear me, great sovereign,” said i, “ that your ideas of retribution are too sanguine, and too arbitrary for the laws of this country. i dispute not that your motives are great and high ; but have you debated the conse- quences, and settled the result?” “i have,” returned he, "and hold myself amenable for the action, to the laws of god and of equity ; as to the enactments of men i despise them. fain would i see the weapon of providence begin the work of vengeance that awaits it to do!” i could not help thinking, that i perceived a little de- rision of countenance on his face as he said this, never. theless i sunk dumb before such a man, and aroused my- self to the task, seeing he would not have it deferred. i approved of it in theory, but my spirit stood aloof from the practice. i saw and was convinced that the elect would be happier, and purer, were the wicked and unbe. lievers all cut off from troubling and misleading them, but if it had not been the instigations of this illustrious stranger, i should never have presumed to begin so great a work myself. yet, though he often aroused my zeal to the highest pitch, still my heart at times shrunk from the shedding of life-blood, and it was only at the earnest private memoirs and and uncensing instigations of my enlightened and volun. tary patron, that i at length put my hand to the conclu. sive work. after i said all that i could say, and all had been overborne, (i remember my actions and words as well as it had been yesterday,) i turned round hesita. tingly, and looked up to heaven for direction ; but there was a dimnnens came over my eyes that i could not see. the appearance was as if there had been a veil drawn over me, so nigh that i put up my hand to feel it; and then gil-martin (as this great sovereign was pleased to have himself called,) frowned, and asked me what i was grasping at? i knew not what to say, but answered, with fear and shame, “ i have no weapons, not one ; nor know i where any are to be found." · the god whom thou servest will provide these." said he, “if thou provest worthy of the trust committed to thee." i looked again up into the cloudy veil that covered us, and thought i beheld golden weapons of every descrip tion let down in it, but all with their points towards me. i kneeled, and was going to stretch out my hand to take one, when my patron seized me, as i thought, by the clothes, and drayyed me away with as much ease as i had been a lamb, saying, with a joyful and elevated voice, ** come, my friend, let us depart : thou art dreaming- thou art dreaming. rouse up all the energies of thy exalted mind, for thou art an highly-favoured one ; and doubt thou not, that he whom thou servest, will be ever at thy right and left hand, to direct and assist thee." these words, but particularly the vision i had seen, of the golden weapons descending out of heaven, inflamed my zeal to that height that i was as one beside himself ; which my parents perceived that night, and made some motions toward confining me to my room. i joined in the family prayers, and then i afterwards sung a psalm and prayed by myself; and i had good reasons for be. lieving that that small oblation of praise and prayer was not turned to sin, i lelt greatly strengthened and encouraged that night, confessions of a fanatic. and the next morning i ran to meet my companion, out of whose eye i had now no life. he rejoiced at seeing me so forward in the great work of reformation by blood, and said many things to raise my hopes of future fame and glory; and then, producing two pistols of pure beat- en gold, he held them out and proffered me the choice of one, saying, “ see what thy master hath provided thee !” i took one of them eagerly, for i perceived at once that they were two of the very weapons that were let down from heaven in the cloudy veil, the dim tapes- try of the firmament; and i said, to myself, “surely this is the will of the lord.” the little splendid and enchanting piece was so per- fect, so complete, and so ready for executing the will of the donor, that i now longed to use it in his service. i loaded it with my own hand, as gil. martin did the other, and we took our stations behind a bush of hawthorn and bramble on the verge of the wood, and almost close to the walk. my patron was so acute in all his calculations that he never mistook an event. we had not taken our stand above a minute and a half, till old mr blanchard appeared, coming slowly on the path. when we saw this, we cowered down, and leaned each of us a knee upon the ground, pointing the pistols through the bush, with an aim so steady, that it was impossible to miss our victim. he came deliberately on, pausing' at times so long, that we dreaded he was going to turn. gil-martin dreaded it, and i said i did, but wished in my heart that he might. he, however, came onward, and i will never forget the manner in which he came! no, i don't be- lieve i ever can forget it, either in the narrow bounds of time or the ages of eternity! he was a boardly ill. shaped man, of a rude exterior, and a little bent with age; his hands were clasped behind his back, and below his coat, and he walked with a slow swinging air that was very peculiar. when he paused and looked abroad on hature, the act was highly impressive : he seemed con- scious of being all alone, and conversant only with god k private memoirs and and the eleinents of his creation. never was there such a picture of human inadverteney! a man approaching step by step to the one that was to hurl him out of ork existence into another, with as much ease and indiffer, ence as the ox goeth to the stall. hideous vision, wilt thou not be gone from my mental sight! if not, let me bear with thee as i can ! when he came straight opposite to the muzzles of our pieces, gil-martin called out " eh !" with a short quick sound. the old man, without starting, turned his face and breast toward us, and looked into the wood, but look ed over our heads, “ now!" whispered my companion, and fired, but my hand refused the office, for i was not at that moment sure about becoming an assassin in the cause of christ and his church, i thought i heard & sweet voice behind me, whispering me to beware, and i was going to look round, when my companion exclaimed, " coward, we are ruined !" i had no time for an alternative: gil-martin's hall had not taken effect, which was altogether wonderful, as the old man's breast was within a few yards of him, * iiilloa !" cried blanchard, " what is that for, you dog" and with that he came forward to look over the bush, hesitated, as i said, and attempted to look behind me, but there was no time: the next step discovered two assassins lying in covert, waiting for blood. "coward, we are ruined !" cried my indignant friend ; and that moment my piece was discharged. the effect was as might have been expected ; the old man first stumbled to one side, and then fell on his back. we kept our places, and i per, ceived my companion's eyes gleaming with an unnatural joy. the wounded man raised himself from the bank to a sitting posture, and i beheld his eyes swimming: he, however, appeared sensible, for we heard him saying in a low and rattling voice, “ alas, alas! whom have i of. fended, that they should have been driven to an act like this! come forth and show yourselves, that i may either forgive you before i die, or curse you in the name of the lord," he then fell a groping with both hands confessions of a fanatic. on the ground, as if feeling for something he had lost, manifestly in the agonies of death ; and, with a solemn and interrupted prayer for forgiveness, he breathed his last. i had become rigid as a statue, whereas my associate appeared to be elevated above measure. "arise, thou faint-hearted one, and let us be going," said he. “ thou hast done well for once; but wherefore hesitate in such a cause? this is but a small beginning of so great a work as that of purging the christian world. but the first victim is a worthy one, and more of such lights must be extinguished immediately." we touched not our victim, nor any thing pertaining to him, for fear of staining our hands with his blood ; and the firing having brought three men within view, who were hasting towards the spot, my undaunted companion took both the pistols, and went forward as with intent to meet them, bidding me shift for myself. i ran off in a contrary direction, till i came to the foot of the pear. man sike, and then, running up the hollow of that i ap- peared on the top of the bank as if i had been another man brought in view by hearing the shots in such a place. i had a full view of a part of what passed, though not of all. i saw my companion going straight to meet the men, apparently with a pistol in every hand, waving in a care- less manner. they seemed not quite clear of meeting with him, and so he went straight on, and passed between them. they looked after him, and came onward; but when they came to the old man lying stretched in his blood, then they turned and pursued my companion, though not so quickly as they might have done ; and i understood that from the first they saw no more of him. great was the confusion that day in glasgow. the most popular of all their preachers of morality was (what they called) murdered in cold blood, and a strict and extensive search was made for the assassin. neither of the accomplices was found, however, that is certain, nor was either of them so much as suspected; but another man was apprehended under circumstances that warrant. ed suspicion.-this was one of the things that i witness- private memoirs and ed in my life, which i never understood, and it surely was one of my patron's most dexterous tricks, for i must still say, what i have thought from the beginning, that like him there never was a man created. the young man who was taken up was a preacher; and it was proved that he had purchased fire-arms in town, and gone out with them that morning. but the far greatest mystery of the whole was, that two of the men, out of the three who met my companion, swore, that that unfortunate preach. er was the man whom they met with a pistol in each hand, fresh from the death of the old divine. the poor fellow made a confused speech himself, which there is not the least doubt was quite true; but it was laughed to scorn, and an expression of horror ran through both the hearers and jury. i heard the whole trial, and so did gil martin; but we left the journeyman preacher to his fate, and from that time forth i have had no faith in the justice of criminal trials. if once a man is prejudiced on one side, he will swear any thing in support of such prejudice. i tried to expostulate with my mysterious friend on the horrid injustice of suffering this young man to die for our act, but the prince exulted in it more than the other, and said the latter was the more dangerous man of the two, the alarm in and about glasgow was prodigious. the country being divided into two political parties, the court and the country party, the former held meetings, issued proclamations, and offered rewards, ascribing all to the violence of party spirit, and deprecating the infernal measures of their opponents. i did not understand their political differences ; but it was easy to see that the true gospel preachers joined all on one side, and the uphold. ers of pure morality and a blameless life on the other, that this division proved a test to us, and it was forth- with resolved, that we two should pick out some of the leading men of this unsaintly and heterodox cabal, and cut them off one by one, as occasion should suit. now the ice being broke, i felt considerable zeal in our great work, but pretended much more ; and we might confessions of a fanatic, soon have kidnapped them all through the ingenuity of my patron, had not our next attempt miscarried, by some awkwardness or mistake of mine. the consequence was, that he was discovered fairly, and very nigh seized. i also was seen, and suspected so far, that my reverend father, my mother, and myself were examined privately. i denied all knowledge of the matter; and they held it in such a ridiculous light, and their conviction of the com- plete groundlessness of the suspicion was so perfect, that their testimony prevailed, and the affair was hushed. i was obliged, however, to walk circumspectly, and saw my companion the prince very seldom, who was prowling about every day, quite unconcerned about his safety. he was every day a new man, however, and needed not to be alarmed at any danger; for such a facility had he in disguising himself, that if it had not been for a pass- word which we had between us, for the purposes of re- cognition, i never could have known him myself. it so happened that my reverend father was called to edinburgh about this time, to assist with his council in settling the national affairs. at my earnest request i was permitted to accompany him, at which both my as- sociate and i rejoiced, as we were now about to move in a new and extensive field. all this time i never knew where my illustrious friend resided. he never once in- vited me to call on him at his lodgings, nor did he ever come to our house, which made me sometimes to suspect, that if any of our great efforts in the cause of true re- ligion were discovered he intended leaving me in the lurch. consequently, when we met in edinburgh (for we travelled not in company) i proposed to go with him to look for lodgings, telling him at the same time what a blessed religious family my reverend instructor and i were settled in. he said he rejoiced at it, but he made a rule of never lodging in any particular house, but took these daily, or hourly, as he found it convenient, and that he never was at a loss in any circumstance. “what a mighty trouble you put yourself to, great sovereign !” said i " and all, it would appear, for the private memoirs and . purpose of seeing and knowing more and more of the human race." “i never go but where i have some great purpose to serve," returned he, “either in the advancement of my own power and dominion, or in thwarting my enemies." “ with all due deference to your great comprehension, my illustrious friend,” said i, “it strikes me that you can accomplish very little either the one way or the other here, in the humble and private capacity you are pleased to occupy." . “ it is your own innate modesty that prompts such a remark,” said he. “do you think the gaining of you to iny service, is not an attainment worthy of being envied by the greatest potentate in christendom? before i had missed such a prize as the attainment of your services, i would have travelled over one half of the habitable globe." - i bowed with great humility, but at the same time how could i but feel proud and highly flattered ? he con- tinued. “ believe me, my dear friend, for such a prize i account no effort too high. for a man who is not only dedicated to heaven, in the most solemn manner, soul, body, and spirit, but also justified, sanctified, and receive ed into a communion that never shall be broken, and from which no act of his shall ever remove him,-the- possession of such a man, i tell you, is worth kingdoms; because every deed that he performs, he does it with perfect safety to himself and honour to me."-i bowed again, lifting my hat, and he went on." i am now going to put his courage in the cause he has espoused, to a severe test—to a trial at which common nature would re- volt, but he who is dedicated to be the sword of the lord, must raise himself above common humanity. you have a father and a brother according to the flesh, what do you know of them ?” “i am sorry to say i know nothing good," said i. “ they are reprobates, castaways, beings devoted to the wicked one, and, like him, workers of every species of iniquity with greediness.” • “they must both fall !” said he, with a sigh and confessions of a fanatic. melancholy look; “it is decreed in the councils above, that they must both fall by your hand.” “ heaven forbid it !” said l. “ they are enemies to christ and his church, that i know and believe ; but they shall live and die in their iniquity for me, and reap their guerdon when their time cometh. there my hand shall not strike.” “ the feeling is natural, and amiable," said he ; “but you must think again. whether are the bonds of car- nal nature, or the bonds and vows of the lord strongest !" “i will not reason with you on this head, mighty po. tentate," said i, “ for whenever i do so it is but to be put down. i shall only express my determination not to take vengeance out of the lord's hand in this instance. it availeth not. these are men that have the mark of the beast in their foreheads and right hands; they are lost beings themselves, but have no influence over' others. let them perish in their sins; for they shall not be med. dled with by me.” “ how preposterously you talk, my dear friend !” said he. “ these people are your greatest enemies ; they would rejoice to see you annihilated. and now that you have taken up the lord's cause of being avenged on his enemies, wherefore spare those that are your own as well as his ? besides, you ought to consider what great ad- vantages would be derived to the cause of righteousness and truth, were the estate and riches of that opulent house in your possession, rather than in that of such as oppose the truth and all manner of holiness.” this was a portion of the consequence of following my illustrious adviser's summary mode of procedure, that had never entered into my calculation. i disclaimed all idea of being influenced by it; however, i cannot but say that the desire of being enabled to do so much good, by the possession of these bad men's riches, made some impression on my heart, and i said i would consider of the matter. i did consider it, and that right seriously as well as frequently; and there was scarcely an hour in the day on which my resolves were not animated by my private memoirs and great friend, till at length i began to have a longing de. sire to kill my brother, in particular. should any man ever read this scroll, he will wonder at this confession, and deem it savage and unnatural. so it appeared to me at first, but a constant thinking of an event changes every one of its features. i have done all for the best, and as i was prompted, by one who knew right and wrong much better than i did. i had a desire to slay him, it is true, and such a desire too as a thirsty man has to drink; but at the same time, this longing desire was mingled with a certain terror, as if i had dreaded that the drink for which i longed was mixed with deadly poison. my illustrious friend still continuing to sound in my ears the imperious duty to which i was called, of making away with my sinful relations, i was obliged to acquiesce in his measures, though with certain limitations. it was not easy to answer his arguments, and yet i was afraid that he soon perceived a leaning to his will on my part. “ if the acts of jehu, in rooting out the whole house of his master, were ordered and approved of by the lord,” said he, “ would it not have been more praiseworthy if one of ahab's own sons had stood up for the cause of israel, and rooted out the sinners and their idols out of the land ? “ it would certainly,” said i. “ to our duty to god all other duties must yield.” " go thou then and do likewise," said he. “ thou art called to a high vocation; go thou forth then like a ruling energy, a master spirit of desolation in the dwell. ings of the wicked, and high shall be your reward both here and hereafter.” my heart now panted with eagerness to look my brother in the face: on which my companion, who was never out of the way, conducted me to a small square in the suburbs of the city, where there were a number of young noblemen and gentlemen playing at a vain, idle, and sin. ful game, at which there was much of the language of the accursed going on; and among these blasphemers he confessions of a fanatic. instantly pointed out my brother to me. i was fired with indignation at seeing him in such company, and so employed ; and i placed myself close beside him to watch all his motions, listen to his words, and draw inferences from what i saw and heard. in what a sink of sin was he wallowing! i resolved to take him to task, and if he refused to be admonished, to inflict on him some condign punishment; and knowing that my illustrious friend and director was looking on, i resolved to show some spirit accordingly, i waited until i heard him profane his maker's name three times, and then, my spiritual indig. nation being roused above all restraint, i went up and kicked him. yes, i went boldly up and struck him with my foot, and meant to have given him a more severe blow than it was my fortune to inflict. it had, however, the effect of rousing up his corrupt nature to quarrelling and strife, instead of taking the chastisement in humility and meekness. he ran furiously against me in the choler that is always inspired by the wicked one; but i overthrew him, by reason of impeding the natural and rapid progress of his unholy feet, running to destruc- tion. i also fell slightly; but his fall proving a severe one, he arose in wrath, and struck me with the mall which he held in his hand, until my blood flowed copious- ly; and from that moment i vowed his destruction in my heart. but i happened to have no weapon at that time, nor any means of inflicting due punishment on the caitiff, which would not have been returned double on my head, by him and his graceless associates. i mixed among them at the suggestion of my friend, and following them to their den of voluptuousness and sin, i strove to be ad- mitted among them, in hopes of finding some means of accomplishing iny great purpose, while i found myself moved by the spirit within me so to do. but i was not only debarred, but, by the machinations of my wicked brother and his associates, cast into prison. i was not sorry at being thus honoured to suffer in the cause of righteousness, and at the hands of sinful men; and as soon as i was alone, i betook myself to prayer. v. private memoirs and my jailer came to me, and insulted me. he was a rude unprincipled fellow, partaking much of the loose and carnal manners of the age; but i remembered of having read in the cloud of witnesses, of such men formerly having been converted by the imprisoned saints; so i set myself, with all my heart, to bring about this man's re- pentance and reformation. “fat the deil are ye yoolling an' praying that gate for, man ?" said he, coming angrily in. “i thought the day o' praying prisoners had been a' ower. gie up your crooning, or i'll pit you to an in-by place, where ye sall get plenty o't." “ friend,” said i, “ i am making my appeal at that bar where all human actions are seen and judged, and where you shall not be forgot, sinful as you are." i then opened up the mysteries of religion to him in a clear and perspicuous manner, but particularly the great doctrine of the election of grace ; and then i added, “ now, friend, you must tell me if you pertain to this chosen number." “ an' fat the better wad you be for the kenning o' this, man ?" said he. “ because, if you are one of my brethren, i will take you into sweet communion and fellowship," returned i; “ but if you belong to the unregenerate, i have a com- mission to slay you." “oo, foo, foo! i see how it is,” said he ; " yours is a very braw commission, but you will have the small oppor- tunity of carrying it through here. take my advising, and write a bit of a letter to your friends, and i will send it, for this is no place for such a great man. if you can- not steady your hand to write, as i see you have been at your great work, a word of a mouth may do ; for i do as- sure you this is not the place at all, of any in the world, for your operations." the man apparently thought i was deranged in my in- tellect. he could not swallow such great truths at the first morsel. so i took his advice, and sent a line to my reverend father, who was not long in coming, and great confessions of a fanatic. was the jailer's wonderment when he saw all the great christian noblemen of the land sign my bond of free- dom. my reverend father took this matter greatly to heart, and bestirred himself in the good cause till the transgres- sors were ashamed to show their faces. for my part i was greatly strengthened in my resolution by the anathe- mas of my reverend father, who, privately, (that is, in a family capacity,) in his prayers, gave up my father and brother, according to the flesh, to satan, making it plain to all my senses of perception, that they were beings to be devoured by fiends or men, at their will and pleasure, and that whosoever should slay them, would do god good service. the next morning my illustrious friend met me at an early hour, and he was greatly overjoyed at hearing my sentiments now chime so much in unison with his own. i said, “ i longed for the day and the hour that i might look my brother in the face at gilgal, and visit on him the iniquity of his father and himself, for that i was now strengthened and prepared for the deed.” “i have been watching the steps and movements of the profligate one," said he ; " and lo, i will take you straight to his presence. let your heart be as the heart of the lion, and your arms strong as the shekels of brass, and swift to avenge as the bolt that descendeth from hea- ren, for the blood of the just and the good hath long flowed in scotland. but already is the day of their avengement begun; the hero is at length arisen, who shall send all such as bear enmity to the true church, or trust to in works of their own, to tophet!” thus encouraged, i followed my friend, who led me directly to the same court in which i had chastised the miscreant on the foregoing day; and behold, there was the same group again assembled. they eyed me with terror in their looks, as i walked among them and eyed them with looks of disapprobation and rebuke ; and i saw that the very eye of a chosen one lifted on these children of belial, was sufficient to dismay and put them to flight. private memoirs and i walked aside to my friend, who stood at a distance looking on, and he said to me,“ what thinkest thou now ?" and i answered in the words of the venal prophet, “lo now, if i had a sword into mine hand, i would even kill him." “ wherefore lackest thou it?" said he. “ dost thou not see that they tremble at thy presence, knowing that the avenger of blood is among them." my heart was lifted up on hearing this, and again i strode into the midst of them, and eyeing them with threatening looks, they were so much confounded, that they abandoned their sinful pastime, and fled every one to his house! this was a palpable victory gained over the wicked, and i thereby knew that the hand of the lord was with me. my companion also exulted, and said, “ did not i tell thee? behold thou dost not know one half of thy might, or of the great things thou art destined to do. come with me and i will show thee more than this, for these young men cannot subsist without the exercises of sin. i listened to their councils, and i know where they will meet again.” accordingly he led me a little farther to the south, and we walked aside till by degrees we saw some people be- gin to assemble; and in a short time we perceived the same group stripping off their clothes to make them more expert in the practice of madness and folly. their game was begun before we approached, and so also were the oaths and cursing. i put my hands in my pockets, and walked with dignity and energy into the midst of them. it was enough: terror and astonishment seized them. a few of them cried out against me, but their voices were soon hushed amid the murmurs of fear. one of them, in the name of the rest, then came and besought of me to grant them liberty to amuse themselves ; but i refused peremptorily, dared the whole multitude so much as to touch me with one of their fingers. again they all fled and dispersed at my eye, and i went home in triumph, escorted by my friend, and some confessions of a fanatic. well-meaning young christians, who, however, had not learned to deport themselves with soberness and humili. ty. but my ascendency over my enemies was great in- deed; for wherever i appeared i was hailed with appro- bation, and wherever my guilty brother made his ap- pearance, he was hooted and held in derision, till he was forced to hide his disgraceful head, and appear no more in public. immediately after this i was seized with a strange dis. temper, which neither my friends nor physicians could comprehend, and it confined me to my chamber for many days; but i knew, myself, that i was bewitched, and suspected my father's reputed concubine of the deed. i told my fears to my reverend protector, who hesitated concerning them, but i knew by his words and looks that he was conscious i was right. i generally conceived myself to be two people. when i lay in bed, i deemed there were two of us in it; when i sat up, i always be- held another person, and always in the same position from the place where i sat or stood, which was about three paces off me towards my left side. it mattered not how many or how few were present : this my second self was sure to be present in his place; and this occasioned a confusion in all my words and ideas that utterly astoun- ded my friends, who all declared, that instead of being deranged in my intellect, they had never heard my con- versation manifest so much energy or sublimity of con- ception ; but for all that, over the singular delusion that i was two persons, my reasoning faculties had no power. the most perverse part of it was, that i rarely conceived myself to be any of the two persons. i thought for the most part that my companion was one of them, and my brother the other ; and i found, that to be obliged to speak and answer in the character of another man, was a most awkward business at the long run. who can doubt, from this statement, that i was be- witched, and that my relatives were at the ground of it ? the constant and unnatural persuasion that i was my brother, proved it to iny own satisfaction, and must, i l confessions of a fanatic. leave this land. and if you bestir not yourself in the work to which you are called, i must raise up others who shall have the honour of it." “ i am, most illustrious prince, wholly at your service," said i. “ show but what ought to be done, and here i. the heart to dare, and the hand to execute. you pointed out my relations, according to the flesh, as brands fitted to be thrown into the burning. i approved peremptorily of the award ; nay, i thirst to accomplish it ; for i myself have suffered severely from their diabolical arts. when once that trial of my devotion to the faith is accomplished, then be your future operations disclosed.” “ you are free of your words and promises," said he. “so will i be of my deeds in the service of my mas- ter, and that shalt thou see,” said i. “ i lack not the spirit, nor the will, but i lack experience wofully; and because of that short-coming, must bow to your sugges- tions." “ meet me here to-morrow betimes,” said he, “and perhaps you may hear of some opportunity of displaying your zeal in the cause of righteousness.” i met him as he desired me ; and he addressed me with a hurried and joyful expression, telling me that my brother was astir, and that a few minutes ago he had seen him pass on his way to the mountain. “ the hill is wrapped in a cloud," added he, “and never was there such an opportunity of executing justice on a guilty sinner. you may trace him in the dew, and shall in- fallibly find him on the top of some precipice; for it is only in secret that he dares show his debased head to the sun. “i have no arms, else assuredly i would pursue him and discomfit him," said i. " here is a small dagger," said he ; “i have nothing of weapon-kind about me save that, but it is a potent one ; and should you require it, there is nothing more ready or sure.” “will not you accompany me?” said i: “ sure you will ?” private memoirs and “ i will be with you, or near you," said he. “go you on before.” i hurried away as he directed me, and imprudently asked some of queensberry's guards if such and such a young man passed by them going out from the city. i was answered in the affirmative, and till then had doubted of my friend's intelligence, it was so inconsistent with a profligate's life to be early astir. when i got the certain intelligence that my brother was before me, i fell a-run- ning, scarcely knowing what i did ; and looking several times behind me, i perceived nothing of my zealous and arbitrary friend. the consequence of this was, that by the time i reached st anthony's well, my resolution began to give way. it was not my courage, for now that i had once shed blood in the cause of the true faith, i was exceedingly bold and ardent ; but whenever i was left to myself, i was subject to sinful doubtings. in this desponding state, i sat myself down on a stone, and bethought me of the rashness of my undertaking. i tried to ascertain, to my own satisfaction, whether or not i really had been commissioned of god to perpetrate these crimes in his behalf, for in the eyes, and by the laws of men, they were great and crying transgressions. while i sat pondering on these things, i was involved in a veil of white misty vapour, and looking up to heaven, i was just about to ask direction from above, when i'heard as it were a still small voice close by me, which uttered some words of derision and chiding. i looked intensely in the direction whence it seemed to come, and perceived a lady, robed in white, who hasted toward me. she regarded me with a severity of look and gesture that appalled me so much, i could not address her ; but she waited not for that, but coming close to my side, said, without stopping, “ preposterous wretch ! how dare you lift your eyes to heaven with such purposes in your heart? escape homeward, and save your soul, or fare- well for ever!” these were all the words that she uttered, as far as i could ever recollect, but my spirits were kept in such a confessions of a fanatic. tumult that morning, that something might have escaped me. i followed her eagerly with my eyes, but in a moment she glided over the rocks above the holy well, and vanished. i persuaded inyself that i had seen a vision, and that the radiant being that had addressed me was one of the good angels, or guardian spirits, commis- sioned by the almighty to watch over the steps of the just. my first impulse was to follow her advice, and make my escape home; for i thought to myself, “ how is this interested and mysterious foreigner, a proper judge of the actions of a free christian ?" the thought was hardly framed, nor had i moved in a retrograde direction six steps, when i saw my illustrious friend and great adviser descending the ridge towards me with hasty and impassioned strides. my heart fainted within me; and when he came up and addressed me, i looked as one caught in a trespass. “what hath detained thee, thou desponding trifler ?" said he. “ verily now shall the golden opportunity be lost which may never be recalled. i have traced the reprobate to his sanctuary in the cloud, and lo he is perched on the pinnacle of a precipice an hundred fathoms high. one ketch with thy foot, or toss with thy finger, shall throw him from thy sight into the foldings of the cloud, and he shall be no more seen, till found at the bottom of the clift dashed to pieces. make haste therefore, thou loiterer, if thou wouldst ever prosper and rise to eminence in the work of thy master.” “i go no farther on this work," said i, “for i have seen a vision that has reprimanded the deed." “a vision ?” said he: “ was it that wench who de- scended from the hill ?" “ the being that spake to me, and warned me of my danger, was indeed the form of a lady,” said i. “ she also approached me and said a few words," returned he; “and i thought there was something mysterious in her manner. pray, what did she say? for the words of such a singular message, and from such a messenger, ought to be attended to. if i understood private memoirs and her aright, she was chiding us for our misbelief and pre- posterous delay.” . i recited her words, but he answered that i had been in a state of sinful doubting at the time, and it was to these doubtings she had adverted. in short, this won- derful and clear-sighted stranger soon banished all my doubts and despondency, making me utterly ashamed of them, and again i set out with him in the pursuit of my brother. he showed me the traces of his footsteps in the dew, and pointed out the spot where i should find him. “ you have nothing more to do than go softly down' behind him," said he ; "which you can do to within an ell of him, without being seen ; then rush upon him, and throw him from his seat, where there is neither footing nor hold. i will go, meanwhile, and amuse his sight by some exhibition in the contrary direction, and he shall neither know nor perceive who has done him this kind office : for, exclusive of more weighty concerns, be assured of this, that the sooner he falls, the fewer crimes will he have to answer for, and his estate in the other world will be proportionally more tolerable, than if he spent a long unregenerate life steeped in iniquity to the loathing of the soul.” “ nothing can be more plain or more pertinent,” said i: “therefore i fly to perform that which is both a duty toward god and toward man!" “ you shall yet rise to great honour and preferment," said he. “ i value it not, provided i do honour and justice to the cause of my master here," said i. “ you shall be lord of your father's riches and de. mesnes," added he. "i disclaim and deride every selfish motive thereto relating,” said i, “ farther than as it enables me to do good.” “ ay, but that is a great and a heavenly consideration, that longing for ability to do good," said he; and as he said so, i could not help remarking a certain derisive exultation of expression which i could not comprehend; confessions of a fanatic. and indeed i have noted this very often in my illustrious friend, and soinetimes mentioned it civilly to him, but he has never failed to disclaim it. on this occasion i said nothing, but concealing his poniard in my clothes, i hasted up the mountain, determined to execute my purpose before any misgivings should again visit me ; and i never had more ado, than in keeping firm my resolu- tion. i could not help my thoughts, and there are cer- tain trains and classes of thoughts that have great power in enervating the mind. i thought of the awful thing of plunging a fellow creature from the top of a cliff into the dark and misty void below- of his being dashed to pieces on the protruding rocks, and of hearing his shrieks as he descended the cloud, and beheld the shagged points on which he was to alight. then i thought of plunging a soul so abruptly into hell, or, at the best, sending it to hover on the confines of that burning abyss -of its appearance at the bar of the almighty to receive its sentence. and then i thought, “ will there not be a sentence pronounced against me there, by a jury of the just made perfect, and written down in the registers of heaven ?" these thoughts, i say, came upon me unasked, and instead of being able to dispel them, they mustered, upon the summit of my imagination, in thicker and stronger array: and there was another that impressed me in a very particular manner, though, i have reason to believe, not so strongly as those above written. it was this : “ what if i should fail in my first effort ? will the consequence not be that i am tumbled from the top of the rock myself ?” and then all the feelings anticipated, with regard to both body and soul, must happen to me! this was a spine-breaking reflection; and yet, though the probability was rather on that side, my zeal in the cause of godliness was such that carried me on, maugre all danger and dismay. i soon came close upon my broiher, sitting on the dizzy pinnacle, with his eyes fixed stedfastly in the di. rection opposite to me. i descended the little green private memoirs and ravine behind him with my feet foremost, and every now and then raised my head, and watched his motions. his posture continued the same, until at last i came so near him i could have heard him breathe, if his face had been towards me. i laid my cap aside, and made me ready to spring upon him, and push him over. i could not for iny life accomplish it! i do not think it was that i durst not, for i have always felt my courage equal to any thing in a good cause. but i had not the heart, or something that i ought to have had. in short, it was not done in time, as it easily might have been. these thoughts are hard enemies wherewith to combat! and i was so grieved that i could not effect my righteous purpose, that i laid me down on my face and shed tears. then, again, i thought of what my great enlightened friend and patron would say to me, and again my resolution rose indignant, and indissoluble save by blood. i arose on my right knee and left foot, and had just begun to ad- vance the latter forward : the next step my great purpose had been accomplished, and the culprit had suffered the punishment due to his crimes. but what moved him i knew not: in the critical moment he sprung to his feet, and dashing himself furiously against me, he overthrew me, at the imminent peril of my life. i disencumbered myself by main force, and fled, but he overhied me, knocked me down, and threatened, with dreadful oaths, to throw me from the cliff. after i was a little recover. ed from the stunning blow, i aroused myself to the com- bat ; and though i do not recollect the circumstances of that deadly scuffle very minutely, i know that i van. quished him so far as to force him to ask my pardon, and crave a reconciliation. i spurned at both, and left him to the chastisements of his own wicked and corrupt heart. my friend met me again on the hill, and derided me, in a haughty and stern manner, for my imbecility and want of decision. i told him how nearly i had effected my purpose, and excused myself as well as i was able. on this, seeing me bleeding, he advised me to swear the eace against my brother, and have him punished in the confessions of a fanatic. unean time, he being the first aggressor. i promised compliance, and we parted, for i was somewhat ashamed of my failure, and was glad to be quit for the present of one of whom i stood so much in awe. when my reverend father beheld me bleeding a se. cond time by the hand of a brother, he was moved to the highest point of displeasure; and relying on his high in- terest and the justice of his cause, he brought the matter at once before the courts. my brother and i were first examined face to face. his declaration was a mere ro- mance : mine was not the truth ; but as it was by the ad- vice of my reverend father, and that of my illustrious friend, that i gave it, i conceived myself completely justi- fied on that score. i said, i had gone up into the mountain early on the morning to pray, and had with- drawn myself, for entire privacy, into a little sequestered dell—had laid aside my cap, and was in the act of kneel. ing, when i was rudely attacked by my brother, knocked over, and nearly slain. they asked my brother if this was true. he acknowledged that it was; that i was bare-headed, and in the act of kneeling when he ran foul of me without any intent of doing so. but the judge took him to task on the improbability of this, and put the profligate sore out of countenance. the rest of his tale told still worse, insomuch that he was laughed at by all present, for the judge remarked to him, that granting it was true that he had at first run against me on an open mountain, and overthrown me by accident, how was it, that after i had extricated myself and fled, that he had pursued, overtaken, and knocked me down a second time? would he pretend that all that was likewise by chance? the culprit had nothing to say for himself on this head, and i shall not forget my exultation and that of my reve. rend father, when the sentence of the judge was delivered. it was, that my wicked brother should be thrown into prison, and tried on a criminal charge of assault and battery, with the intent of committing murder. this was a just and righteous judge, and saw things in their proper bearings, that is, he could discern between a v. m private memoirs and i walked aside to my friend, who stood at a distance looking on, and he said to me, “ what thinkest thou now ?" and i answered in the words of the venal prophet, “lo now, if i had a sword into mine hand, i would even kill him." “ wherefore lackest thou it?" said he. “dost thou not see that they tremble at thy presence, knowing that the avenger of blood is among them." my heart was lifted up on hearing this, and again i strode into the midst of them, and eyeing them with threatening looks, they were so much confounded, that they abandoned their sinful pastime, and fled every one to his house! this was a palpable victory gained over the wicked, and i thereby knew that the hand of the lord was with me. my companion also exulted, and said, “ did not i tell thee? behold thou dost not know one half of thy might, or of the great things thou art destined to do. come with me and i will show thee more than this, for these young men cannot subsist without the exercises of sin. i listened to their councils, and i know where they will meet again.” accordingly he led me a little farther to the south, and we walked aside till by degrees we saw some people be- gin to assemble; and in a short time we perceived the same group stripping off their clothes to make them more expert in the practice of madness and folly. their game was begun before we approached, and so also were the oaths and cursing. i put my hands in my pockets, and walked with dignity and energy into the midst of them. it was enough: terror and astonishment seized them. a few of them cried out against me, but their voices were soon hushed amid the murmurs of fear. one of them, in the name of the rest, then came and besought of me to grant them liberty to amuse themselves ; but i refused peremptorily, dared the whole multitude so much as to touch me with one of their fingers. again they all fled and dispersed at my eye, and i went home in triumph, escorted by iny friend, and some confessions of a fanatic. well-meaning young christians, who, however, had not learned to deport themselves with soberness and humili- ty. but my ascendency over my enemies was great in- deed; for wherever i appeared i was hailed with appro- bation, and wherever my guilty brother made his ap- pearance, he was hooted and held in derision, till he was forced to hide his disgraceful head, and appear no more in public. immediately after this i was seized with a strange dis- temper, which neither my friends nor physicians could comprehend, and it confined me to my chamber for many days ; but i knew, myself, that i was bewitched, and suspected my father's reputed concubine of the deed. i told my fears to my reverend protector, who hesitated concerning them, but i knew by his words and looks that he was conscious i was right. i generally conceived myself to be two people. when i lay in bed, i deemed there were two of us in it; when i sat up, i always be. held another person, and always in the same position from the place where i sat or stood, which was about three paces off me towards my left side. it mattered not how many or how few were present : this my second self was sure to be present in his place; and this occasioned a confusion in all my words and ideas that utterly astoun- ded my friends, who all declared, that instead of being deranged in my intellect, they had never heard my con- versation manifest so much energy or sublimity of con- ception ; but for all that, over the singular delusion that i was two persons, my reasoning faculties had no power. the most perverse part of it was, that i rarely conceived myself to be any of the two persons. i thought for the most part that my companion was one of them, and my brother the other; and i found, that to be obliged to speak and answer in the character of another man, was a most awkward business at the long run. who can doubt, from this statement, that i was be- witched, and that my relatives were at the ground of it? the constant and unnatural persuasion that i was my brother, proved it to iny own satisfaction, and must, i l private memoirs and think, do so to every unprejudiced person. this victory of the wicked one over me kept me confined in my cham. ber, at mr millar's house, for nearly a month, until the prayers of the faithful prevailed, and i was restored. knew it was a chastisement for my pride, because my heart was lifted up at my superiority over the enemies of the church ; nevertheless, i determined to make short work with the aggressor, that the righteous might not be subjected to the effect of his diabolical arts again. i say i was confined a month. i beg he that readeth to take note of this, that he may estimate how much the word, or even the oath, of a wicked man, is to depend on. for a month i saw no one but such as came into my room, and for all that, it will be seen, that there were plenty of the same set to attest upon oath that i saw my brother every day during that period ; that i persecuted him with my presence day and night, while all the time i never saw his face, save in a delusive dream. i cannot comprehend what mancuvres my illustrious friend was playing off with them about this time ; for he, having the art of personating whom he chose, had peradventure deceived them, else so many of them had never all attested the same thing. i never saw any man so steady in his friendships and attentions as he ; but as he made a rule of never calling at private houses, for fear of some disco- very being made of his person, so i never saw him while my malady lasted ; but as soon as i grew better, i knew i had nothing ado but to attend at some of our places of meeting, to see him again. he was punctual, as usual, and i had not to wait. my reception was precisely as i apprehended. there was no flaring, no flummery, nor bombastical pretensions, but a dignified return to my obeisance, and an immediate recurrence, in converse, to the important duties incum. bent on us, in our stations, as reformers and purifiers of the church. “i have marked out a number of most dangerous characters in this city," said he, “ all of whom must be cut off from encumbering the true vineyard before we confessions of a fanatic. leave this land. and if you bestir not yourself in the work to which you are called, i must raise up others who shall have the honour of it." “ i am, most illustrious prince, wholly at your service," said i. “ show but what ought to be done, and here ir the heart to dare, and the hand to execute. you pointed out my relations, according to the flesh, as brands fitted to be thrown into the burning. i approved peremptorily of the award ; nay, i thirst to accomplish it ; for i myself have suffered severely from their diabolical arts. when once that trial of my devotion to the faith is accomplished, then be your future operations disclosed." " you are free of your words and promises," said he. “ so will i be of my deeds in the service of my mas- ter, and that shalt thou see,” said i. “i lack not the spirit, nor the will, but i lack experience wofully; and because of that short-coming, must bow to your sugges- tions. “ meet me here to-morrow betimes," said he, “and perhaps you may hear of some opportunity of displaying your zeal in the cause of righteousness." i met him as he desired me ; and he addressed me with a hurried and joyful expression, telling me that my brother was astir, and that a few minutes ago he had seen him pass on his way to the mountain. “ the hill is wrapped in a cloud,” added he, “and never was there such an opportunity of executing justice on a guilty sinner. you may trace him in the dew, and shall in- fallibly find him on the top of some precipice; for it is only in secret that he dares show his debased head to the sun. “ i have no arms, else assuredly i would pursue him and discomfit him," said i. “ here is a small dagger," said he; “i have nothing of weapon-kind about me save that, but it is a potent one ; and should you require it, there is nothing more ready or sure.” “will not you accompany me ?" said i: “ sure you will ?" private memoirs and “i will be with you, or near you," said he. “go you on before." i hurried away as he directed me, and imprudently asked some of queensberry's guards if such and such a young man passed by them going out from the city. i was answered in the affirmative, and till then had doubted of my friend's intelligence, it was so inconsistent with a profligate's life to be early astir. when i got the certain intelligence that my brother was before me, i fell a-run. ning, scarcely knowing what i did ; and looking several times behind me, i perceived nothing of my zealous and arbitrary friend. the consequence of this was, that by the time i reached st anthony's well, my resolution began to give way. it was not my courage, for now that i had once shed blood in the cause of the true faith, i was exceedingly bold and ardent; but whenever i was left to myself, i was subject to sinful doubtings. in this desponding state, i sat myself down on a stone, and bethought me of the rashness of my undertaking. i tried to ascertain, to my own satisfaction, whether or not i really had been commissioned of god to perpetrate these crimes in his behalf, for in the eyes, and by the laws of men, they were great and crying transgressions. while i sat pondering on these things, i was involved in a veil of white misty vapour, and looking up to heaven, i was just about to ask direction from above, when i'heard as it were a still small voice close by me, which uttered some words of derision and chiding. i looked intensely in the direction whence it seemed to come, and perceived a lady, robed in white, who hasted toward me. she regarded me with a severity of look and gesture that appalled me so much, i could not address her ; but she waited not for that, but coming close to my side, said, without stopping, “ preposterous wretch ! how dare you lift your eyes to heaven with such purposes in your heart ? escape homeward, and save your soul, or fare. well for ever!" these were all the words that she uttered, as far as i could ever recollect, but my spirits were kept in such a confessions of a fanatic. tumult that morning, that something might have escaped me. i followed her eagerly with my eyes, but in a moment she glided over the rocks above the holy well, and vanished. i persuaded inyself that i had seen a vision, and that the radiant being that had addressed me was one of the good angels, or guardian spirits, commis- sioned by the almighty to watch over the steps of the just. my first impulse was to follow her advice, and make my escape home; for i thought to myself, “how is this interested and mysterious foreigner, a proper judge of the actions of a free christian ?” the thought was hardly framed, nor had i moved in a retrograde direction six steps, when i saw my illustrious friend and great adviser descending the ridge towards me with hasty and impassioned strides. my heart fainted within me ; and when he came up and addressed me, i looked as one caught in a trespass. “what hath detained thee, thou desponding trifler ?" said he. “verily now shall the golden opportunity be lost which may never be recalled. i have traced the reprobate to his sanctuary in the cloud, and lo he is perched on the pinnacle of a precipice an hundred fathoms high. one ketch with thy foot, or toss with thy finger, shall throw him from thy sight into the foldings of the cloud, and he shall be no more seen, till found at the bottom of the clift dashed to pieces. make haste therefore, thou loiterer, if thou wouldst ever prosper and rise to eminence in the work of thy master." “i go no farther on this work,” said i, “ for i have seen a vision that has reprimanded the deed." “ a vision ?" said he: “ was it that wench who de- scended from the hill ?" “ the being that spake to me, and warned me of my danger, was indeed the form of a lady,” said i. “she also approached me and said a few words," returned he; “and i thought there was something mysterious in her manner. pray, what did she say? for the words of such a singular message, and from such a messenger, ought to be attended to. if i understood private memoirs and her aright, she was chiding us for our misbelief and pre. posterous delay." . i recited her words, but he answered that i had been in a state of sinful doubting at the time, and it was to these doubtings she had adverted. in short, this won- derful and clear-sighted stranger soon banished all my doubts and despondency, making me utterly ashamed of them, and again i set out with him in the pursuit of my brother. he showed me the traces of his footsteps in the dew, and pointed out the spot where i should find him. “ you have nothing more to do than go softly down behind him," said he ; " which you can do to within an ell of him, without being seen ; then rush upon him, and throw him from his seat, where there is neither footing nor hold. i will go, meanwhile, and amuse his sight by some exhibition in the contrary direction, and he shall neither know nor perceive who has done him this kind office : for, exclusive of more weighty concerns, be assured of this, that the sooner he falls, the fewer crimes will he have to answer for, and his estate in the other world will be proportionally more tolerable, than if he spent a long unregenerate life steeped in iniquity to the loathing of the soul." “ nothing can be more plain or more pertinent," said i: “therefore i fly to perform that which is both a duty toward god and toward man!" “ you shall yet rise to great honour and preferment," said he. “ i value it not, provided i do honour and justice to the cause of my master here," said i. “ you shall be lord of your father's riches and de. mesnes," added he. “i disclaim and deride every selfish motive thereto relating," said i, “farther than as it enables me to do good." “ay, but that is a great and a heavenly consideration, that longing for ability to do good," said he;--and as he said so, i could not help remarking a certain derisive exultation of expression which i could not coinprehend; confessions of a fanatic. and indeed i have noted this very often in my illustrious friend, and soinetimes mentioned it civilly to him, but he has never failed to disclaim it. on this occasion i said nothing, but concealing his poniard in my clothes, i hasted up the mountain, determined to execute my purpose before any misgivings should again visit me ; and i never had more ado, than in keeping firm my resolu- tion. i could not help my thoughts, and there are cer- tain trains and classes of thoughts that have great power in enervating the mind. i thought of the awful thing of plunging a fellow creature from the top of a cliff into the dark and misty void below- of his being dashed to pieces on the protruding rocks, and of hearing his shrieks as he descended the cloud, and beheld the shagged points on which he was to alight. then i thought of plunging a soul so abruptly into hell, or, at the best, sending it to hover on the confines of that burning abyss -of its appearance at the bar of the almighty to receive its sentence. and then i thought, “will there not be a sentence pronounced against me there, by a jury of the just made perfect, and written down in the registers of heaven ?" these thoughts, i say, came upon me unasked, and instead of being able to dispel them, they mustered, upon the summit of my imagination, in thicker and stronger array: and there was another that impressed me in a very particular manner, though, i have reason to believe, not so strongly as those above written. it was this : “ what if i should fail in my first effort ? will the consequence not be that i am tumbled from the top of the rock myself ?” and then all the feelings anticipated, with regard to both body and soul, must happen to me! this was a spine-breaking reflection; and yet, though the probability was rather on that side, my zeal in the cause of godliness was such that carried me on, maugre all danger and dismay. i soon came close upon my broiher, sitting on the dizzy pinnacle, with his eyes fixed stedfastly in the di. rection opposite to me. i descended the little green confessions of a fanatic. mean time, he being the first aggressor. i promised compliance, and we parted, for i was somewhat ashamed of my failure, and was glad to be quit for the present of one of whom i stood so much in awe. when my reverend father beheld me bleeding a se- cond time by the hand of a brother, he was moved to the highest point of displeasure; and relying on his high in- terest and the justice of his cause, he brought the matter at once before the courts. my brother and i were first examined face to face. his declaration was a mere ro- mance : mine was not the truth ; but as it was by the ad. vice of my reverend father, and that of my illustrious friend, that i gave it, i conceived myself completely justi- fied on that score. i said, i had gone up into the mountain early on the morning to pray, and had with. drawn myself, for entire privacy, into a little sequestered dell—had laid aside my cap, and was in the act of kneel. ing, when i was rudely attacked by my brother, knocked over, and nearly slain. they asked my brother if this was true. he acknowledged that it was; that i was bare-headed, and in the act of kneeling when he ran foul of me without any intent of doing so. but the judge took him to task on the improbability of this, and put the profligate sore out of countenance. the rest of his tale told still worse, insomuch that he was laughed at by all present, for the judge remarked to him, that granting it was true that he had at first run against me on an open mountain, and overthrown me by accident, how was it, that after i had extricated myself and fled, that he had pursued, overtaken, and knocked me down a second time? would he pretend that all that was likewise by chance ? the culprit had nothing to say for himself on this head, and i shall not forget my exultation and that of my reve. rend father, when the sentence of the judge was delivered. it was, that my wicked brother should be thrown into prison, and tried on a criminal charge of assault and battery, with the intent of committing murder. this was a just and righteous judge, and saw things in their proper bearings, that is, he could discern between a m e private memoirs and righteous and a wicked man, and then there could be no doubt as to which of the two were acting right, am which wrong. my time was now much occupied, along with my re- verend perceptor, in making ready for the approaching trial, as the prosecutors. our counsel assured us of a complete victory, and that banishment would be the mildest award of the law on the offender, mark hou different was the result! from the shifts and ambigu. ities of a wicked bench, who had a fellow-feeling of ini. quity with the defenders--my suit was cast, the gracelets libertine was absolved, and i was incarcerated, and bound over to keep the peace, with heavy penalties, before i was set at liberty. i was exceedingly disgusted at this issue, and blamed the counsel of my friend to his face. he expressed great grief, and expatiated on the wickedness of our judicato ries, adding, “i see i cannot depend on you for quick and summary measures, but for your sake i shall be re- venged on that wicked judge, and that you shall see in a few dayx." the lord justice clerk died that same week! but he died in his own house and his own bed, and by what means my friend effected it, i do not know. he would not tell me a single word of the matter, but the judge's sudden death made a great noise, and i made so many curious inquiries regarding the particulars of it, that some suspicions were like to attach to our family, of some unfair means used. for my part i know nothing, and rather think he died by the visitation of heaven, and that my friend had foreseen it, by symptoms, and soothed me by promises of complete revenge. it was some days before he mentioned my brother's meditated death to me again, and certainly he then found me exasperated against him personally to the highest de. gree. but i told him that i could not now think any more of it, owing to the late judgment of the court, by which, if my brother were missing or found dead, i would not only forfeit my life, but my friends would be ruined by the penalties. confessions of a fanatic. “ i suppose you know and believe in the perfect safety of your soul,” said he. “i believe in it thoroughly and perfectly,” said i ; "and whenever i entertain doubts of it, i am sensible of sin and weakness.” “very well, so then am i,” said he. “i think i can now divine, with all manner of certainty, what will be the high and merited guerdon of your immortal part. hear me then farther: i give you my solemn assurance, and bond of blood, that no human hand shall ever henceforth be able to injure your life, or shed one drop of your pre- cious blood, but it is on the condition that you walk al. ways by my directions." “ i will do so with cheerfulness,” said i; “ for without your enlightened counsel, i feel that i can do nothing. but as to your power of protecting my life, you must ex- cuse me for doubting of it. nay, were we in your own proper dominions, you could not ensure that.” “in whatever dominion or land i am, my power ac- companies me," said he ; " and it is only against human might and human weapon that i ensure your life; on that will i keep an eye, and on that you may depend. i have never broken word or promise with you. do you credit me ?" “ yes, i do,” said i; “ for i see you are in earnest. i believe, though i do not comprehend you." “then why do you not at once challenge your bro- ther to the field of honour ? seeing you now act with- out danger, cannot you also act without fear?” “ it is not fear," returned i; “ believe me, i hardly know what fear is. it is a doubt, that on all these emer- gencies constantly haunts my mind, that in performing such and such actions i may fall from my upright state. this makes fratricide a fearful task.” “this is imbecility itself,” said he. “we have set. tled, and agreed on that point an hundred times. i would therefore advise that you challenge your brother to single coinbat. i shall ensure your safety, and he cannot refuse giving you satisfaction." private memoirs and think, do so to every unprejudiced person. this victory of the wicked one over me kept me confined in my cham- ber, at mr millar's house, for nearly a month, until the prayers of the faithful prevailed, and i was restored. i knew it was a chastisement for my pride, because my heart was lifted up at my superiority over the enemies of the church ; nevertheless, i determined to make short work with the aggressor, that the righteous might not be subjected to the effect of his diabolical arts again. i say i was confined a month. i beg he that readeth to take note of this, that he may estimate how much the word, or even the oath, of a wicked man, is to depend on. for a month i saw no one but such as came into my room, and for all that, it will be seen, that there were plenty of the same set to attest upon oath that i saw my brother every day during that period ; that i persecuted him with my presence day and night, while all the time i never saw his face, save in a delusive dream. i cannot comprehend what manæuvres my illustrious friend was playing off with them about this time ; for he, having the art of personating whom he chose, had peradventure deceived them, else so many of them had never all attested the same thing. i never saw any man so steady in his friendships and attentions as he ; but as he made a rule of never calling at private houses, for fear of some disco- very being made of his person, so i never saw him while my malady lasted ; but as soon as i grew better, i knew i had nothing ado but to attend at some of our places of meeting, to see him again. he was punctual, as usual, and i had not to wait. my reception was precisely as i apprehended. there was no flaring, no flummery, nor bombastical pretensions, but a dignified return to my obeisance, and an immediate recurrence, in converse, to the important duties incum. bent on us, in our stations, as reformers and purifiers of the church. “i have marked out a number of most dangerous characters in this city," said he, “all of whom must be cut off from encumbering the true vineyard before we confessions of a fanatic. leave this land. and if you bestir not yourself in the work to which you are called, i must raise up others who shall have the honour of it." “ i am, most illustrious prince, wholly at your service," said i. “show but what ought to be done, and here i. the heart to dare, and the hand to execute. you pointed out my relations, according to the flesh, as brands fitted to be thrown into the burning. i approved peremptorily of the award ; nay, i thirst to accomplish it ; for i myself have suffered severely from their diabolical arts. when once that trial of my devotion to the faith is accomplished, then be your future operations disclosed." “ you are free of your words and promises," said he. “so will i be of my deeds in the service of my mas- ter, and that shalt thou see,” said i. “ i lack not the spirit, nor the will, but i lack experience wofully; and because of that short-coming, must bow to your sugges- tions.” “ meet me here to-morrow betimes,” said he," and perhaps you may hear of some opportunity of displaying your zeal in the cause of righteousness." i met him as he desired me ; and he addressed me with a hurried and joyful expression, telling me that my brother was astir, and that a few minutes ago he had seen him pass on his way to the mountain. “ the hill is wrapped in a cloud," added he, “and never was there such an opportunity of executing justice on a guilty sinner. you may trace him in the dew, and shall in- fallibly find him on the top of some precipice; for it is only in secret that he dares show his debased head to the sun. "i have no arms, else assuredly i would pursue him and discomfit him,” said i. “ here is a small dagger," said he ; “i have nothing of weapon-kind about me save that, but it is a potent one ; and should you require it, there is nothing more ready or sure.” “will not you accompany me ?" said : “ sure you will ?" ܕ ܐ ܕ ܗ ܐ ܘܣ ܠܪܝܕܐ confessions of a fanatic. forning, that something might have escaped lowed her eagerly with my eyes, but in a glided over the rocks above the holy well, dl. i persuaded inyself that i had seen a that the radiant being that had addressed me the good angels, or guardian spirits, commis- e almighty to watch over the steps of the irst impulse was to follow her advice, and ape home; for i thought to myself, “ how sted and mysterious foreigner, a proper judge us of a free christian ?” ght was hardly framed, nor had i moved in a mirection six steps, when i saw my illustrious eat adviser descending the ridge towards me ind impassioned strides. my heart fainted and when he came up and addressed me, i te caught in a trespass. “what hath detained desponding trifler ?" said he. “ verily now den opportunity be lost which may never be have traced the reprobate to his sanctuary and lo he is perched on the pinnacle of a hundred fathoms high. one ketch with thy with thy finger, shall throw him from thy the foldings of the cloud, and he shall be no till found at the bottom of the clift dashed to take haste therefore, thou loiterer, if thou er prosper and rise to eminence in the work of farther on this work," said i, “ for i have on that has reprimanded the deed.” on?" said he: “ was it that wench who de- on the hill?" eing that spake to me, and warned me of my is indeed the form of a lady,” said i. also approached me and said a few words," he; "and i thought there was something us in her manner. pray, what did she say? for of such a singular message, and from such a e, ought to be attended to. if i understood privatk memoiis and "i will be with you, or near you," said he. " go you on before." i hurried away as he directed me, and imprudently asked some of queensberry's guards iſ such and such * young man passed by them going out from the city. i was answered in the affirmative, and till then had doubted of my friend's intelligence, it was so inconsistent with a profligate's life to be early astir. when i got the certain intelligence that my brother was before me, i fell x-run. ning, scarcely knowing what i did ; and looking several times behind me, i perceived nothing of my zealous and arbitrary friend. the consequence of this was, that by the time i reached st anthony's well, my resolution began to give way. it was not my courage, for now that i had once shed blood in the cause of the true faith, i was exceedingly bold and ardent ; but whenever i was left to myself, i was subject to sinful doubtings. in this desponding state, i sat myself down on a stone, and bethought me of the rashness of my undertaking. i tried to ascertain, to my own satisfaction, whether or not i really had been commissioned of god to perpetrate these crimes in his behalf, for in the eyes, and by the laws of men, they were great and crying transgressions. while i sat pondering on these things, i was involved in an veil of white inisty vapour, and looking up to heaven, i was just about to ask direction from above, when i heard as it were a still small voice close by me, which uttered some words of derision and chiding. i looked intensely in the direction whence it seemed to come, and perceived a lady, robed in white, who hasted toward me. she regarded me with a severity of look and gesture that appalled me so much, i could not address her ; but she waited not for that, but coming close to my side, said, without stopping, “ preposterous wretch! how dare you liſt your eyes to heaven with such purposes in you heart? escape homeward, and save your soul, or in well for ever i" these were all the words that she uttered, as far could ever recollect, but my spirits were kept in such confessions of a fanatic. tumult that morning, that something might have escaped me. i followed her eagerly with my eyes, but in a inoment she glided over the rocks above the holy well, and vanished. i persuaded inyself that i had seen a vision, and that the radiant being that had addressed me was one of the good angels, or guardian spirits, commis- sioned by the almighty to watch over the steps of the just. my first impulse was to follow her advice, and make my escape home; for i thought to myself, “ how is this interested and mysterious foreigner, a proper judge of the actions of a free christian ?” the thought was hardly framed, nor had i moved in a retrograde direction six steps, when i saw my illustrious friend and great adviser descending the ridge towards me with hasty and impassioned strides. my heart fainted within me ; and when he came up and addressed me, i looked as one caught in a trespass. “ what hath detained thee, thou desponding trifler ?" said he. “verily now shall the golden opportunity be lost which may never be recalled. i have traced the reprobate to his sanctuary in the cloud, and lo he is perched on the pinnacle of a precipice an hundred fathoms high. one ketch with thy foot, or toss with thy finger, shall throw him from thy sight into the foldings of the cloud, and he shall be no more seen, till found at the bottom of the clift dashed to pieces. make haste therefore, thou loiterer, if thou wouldst ever prosper and rise to eminence in the work of thy master.” “i go no farther on this work,” said i, “for i have seen a vision that has reprimanded the deed." "a vision ?” said he: “ was it that wench who de. scended from the hill ?" "the being that spake to me, and warned me of my danger, was indeed the form of a lady,” said i. "she also approached me and said a few words," returned he ; "and i thought there was something mysterious in her manner. pray, what did she say? for the words of such a singular message, and from such a messenger, ought to be attended to. if i understood private memoirs and “ i will be with you, or near you," said he. “go you on before." i hurried away as he directed me, and imprudently asked some of queensberry's guards if such and such a young man passed by them going out from the city. i was answered in the affirmative, and till then had doubted of my friend's intelligence, it was so inconsistent with a profligate's life to be early astir. when i got the certain intelligence that my brother was before me, i fell a-run. ning, scarcely knowing what i did ; and looking several times behind me, i perceived nothing of my zealous and arbitrary friend. the consequence of this was, that by the time i reached st anthony's well, my resolution began to give way. it was not my courage, for now that i had once shed blood in the cause of the true faith, i was exceedingly bold and ardent; but whenever i was left to myself, i was subject to sinful doubtings. in this desponding state, i sat myself down on a stone, and bethought me of the rashness of my undertaking. i tried to ascertain, to my own satisfaction, whether or not i really had been commissioned of god to perpetrate these crimes in his behalf, for in the eyes, and by the laws of men, they were great and crying transgressions. while i sat pondering on these things, i was involved in a veil of white misty vapour, and looking up to heaven, i was just about to ask direction from above, when i'heard as it were a still small voice close by me, which uttered some words of derision and chiding. i looked intensely in the direction whence it seemed to come, and perceived a lady, robed in white, who hasted toward me. she regarded me with a severity of look and gesture that appalled me so much, i could not address her ; but she waited not for that, but coming close to my side, said, without stopping, “ preposterous wretch ! how dare you lift your eyes to heaven with such purposes in your heart ? escape homeward, and save your soul, or fare. well for ever!" these were all the words that she uttered, as far as i could ever recollect, but my spirits were kept in such a confessions of a fanatic. tumult that morning, that something might have escaped me. i followed her eagerly with my eyes, but in a moment she glided over the rocks above the holy well, and vanished. i persuaded inyself that i had seen a vision, and that the radiant being that had addressed me was one of the good angels, or guardian spirits, commis- sioned by the almighty to watch over the steps of the just. my first impulse was to follow her advice, and make my escape home; for i thought to myself, “ how is this interested and mysterious foreigner, a proper judge of the actions of a free christian ?” the thought was hardly framed, nor had i moved in a retrograde direction six steps, when i saw my illustrious friend and great adviser descending the ridge towards me with hasty and impassioned strides. my heart fainted within me; and when he came up and addressed me, i looked as one caught in a trespass. “what hath detained thee, thou desponding trifler ?" said he. “ verily now shall the golden opportunity be lost which may never be recalled. i have traced the reprobate to his sanctuary in the cloud, and lo he is perched on the pinnacle of a precipice an hundred fathoms high. one ketch with thy foot, or toss with thy finger, shall throw him from thy sight into the foldings of the cloud, and he shall be no more seen, till found at the bottom of the clift dashed to pieces. make haste therefore, thou loiterer, if thou wouldst ever prosper and rise to eminence in the work of thy master.” “ i go no farther on this work,” said i, “ for i have seen a vision that has reprimanded the deed." “a vision ?" said he: “ was it that wench who de- scended from the hill ?" “ the being that spake to me, and warned me of my danger, was indeed the form of a lady,” said i. “she also approached me and said a few words," returned he; “and i thought there was something mysterious in her manner. pray, what did she say? for the words of such a singular message, and from such a messenger, ought to be attended to. if i understood private memoirs and her aright, she was chiding us for our misbelief and pre. posterous delay.” : i recited her words, but he answered that i had been in a state of sinful doubting at the time, and it was to these doubtings she had adverted. in short, this won- derful and clear-sighted stranger soon banished all my doubts and despondency, making me utterly ashamed of them, and again i set out with him in the pursuit of my brother. he showed me the traces of his footsteps in the dew, and pointed out the spot where i should find him. “ you have nothing more to do than go softly down behind him," said he ; "which you can do to within an ell of him, without being seen ; then rush upon him, and throw him from his seat, where there is neither footing nor hold. i will go, meanwhile, and amuse his sight by some exhibition in the contrary direction, and he shall neither know nor perceive who has done him this kind office : for, exclusive of more weighty concerns, be assured of this, that the sooner he falls, the fewer crimes will he have to answer for, and his estate in the other world will be proportionally more tolerable, than if he spent a long unregenerate life steeped in iniquity to the loathing of the soul." " nothing can be more plain or more pertinent," said i: “therefore i fly to perform that which is both a duty toward god and toward man!" " you shall yet rise to great honour and preferment," said he. “ i value it not, provided i do honour and justice to the cause of my master here," said i. “ you shall be lord of your father's riches and de. mesnes," added he. “ i disclaim and deride every selfish motive thereto relating,” said i, “ farther than as it enables me to do good." “ay, but that is a great and a heavenly consideration, that longing for ability to do good,” said he;-and as he said so, i could not help remarking a certain derisive exultation of expression which i could not comprehend ; confessions of a fanatic. and indeed i have noted this very often in my illustrious friend, and soinetimes mentioned it civilly to him, but he has never failed to disclaim it. on this occasion i said nothing, but concealing his poniard in my clothes, ihasted up the mountain, determined to execute my purpose before any misgivings should again visit me ; and i never had more ado, than in keeping firm my resolu- tion. i could not help my thoughts, and there are cer- tain trains and classes of thoughts that have great power in enervating the mind. i thought of the awful thing of plunging a fellow creature from the top of a cliff into the dark and misty void below-of his being dashed to pieces on the protruding rocks, and of hearing his shrieks as he descended the cloud, and beheld the shagged points on which he was to alight. then i thought of plunging a soul so abruptly into hell, or, at the best, sending it to hover on the confines of that burning abyss -of its appearance at the bar of the almighty to receive its sentence. and then i thought, “ will there not be a sentence pronounced against me there, by a jury of the just made perfect, and written down in the registers of heaven ?” these thoughts, i say, came upon me unasked, and instead of being able to dispel them, they mustered, upon the summit of my imagination, in thicker and stronger array: and there was another that impressed me in a very particular manner, though, i have reason to believe, not so strongly as those above written. it was this : “ what if i should fail in my first effort ? will the consequence not be that i am tumbled from the top of the rock myself ?” and then all the feelings anticipated, with regard to both body and soul, must happen to me! this was a spine-breaking reflection; and yet, though the probability was rather on that side, my zeal in the cause of godliness was such that carried me on, maugre all danger and dismay. i soon came close upon my broiher, sitting on the dizzy pinnacle, with his eyes fixed stedfastly in the di. rection opposite to me. i descended the little green private memoirs and ravine behind him with my feet foremost, and every now and then raised my head, and watched his motions. his posture continued the same, until at last i came so near him i could have heard him breathe, if his face had been towards me. i laid my cap aside, and made me ready to spring upon him, and push him over. i could not for my life accomplish it! i do not think it was that i durat not, for i have always felt my courage equal to any thing in a good cause. but i had not the heart, or something that i ought to have had. in short, it was not done in time, as it easily might have been. these thoughty are hard enemies wherewith to combat! and i was so grieved that i could not effect my righteous purpose, that i laid me down on my face and shed tears. then, again, i thought of what my great enlightened friend and patron would say to me, and again my resolution rose indignant, and indissoluble save by blood. i arose on my right knee and left foot, and had just begun to ad. vance the latter forward : the next step my great purpose had been accomplished, and the culprit had suffered the punishment due to his crimes. but what moved him i knew not : in the critical moment he sprung to his feet, and dashing himself furiously against me, he overthrew me, at the imminent peril of my life. i disencumbered myself by main force, and fled, but he overhied me, knocked me down, and threatened, with dreadful oaths, to throw me from the cliff. after i was a little recover. ed from the stunning blow, i aroused myself to the com- bat ; and though i do not recollect the circumstances of that deadly scuffle very minutely, i know that i van. quished him so far as to force him to ask my pardon, and crave a reconciliation. i spurned at both, and left him to the chastisements of his own wicked and corrupt heart. my friend met me again on the hill, and derided me, in a haughty and stern manner, for my imbecility and want of decision. i told him how nearly i had effected my purpose, and excused myself as well as i was able. on this, seeing me bleeding, he advised me to swear the peace against my brother, and have him punished in the confessions of a fanatic. mean time, he being the first aggressor. i promised compliance, and we parted, for i was somewhat ashamed of my failure, and was glad to be quit for the present of one of whom i stood so much in awe. when my reverend father beheld me bleeding a se- cond time by the hand of a brother, he was moved to the highest point of displeasure; and relying on his high in- terest and the justice of his cause, he brought the matter at once before the courts. my brother and i were first examined face to face. his declaration was a mere ro- mance : mine was not the truth; but as it was by the ad- vice of my reverend father, and that of my illustrious friend, that i gave it, i conceived myself completely justi- fied on that score. i said, i had gone up into the mountain early on the morning to pray, and had with- drawn myself, for entire privacy, into a little sequestered dell—had laid aside my cap, and was in the act of kneel. ing, when i was rudely attacked by my brother, knocked over, and nearly slain. they asked my brother if this was true. he acknowledged that it was; that i was bare-headed, and in the act of kneeling when he ran foul of me without any intent of doing so. but the judge took him to task on the improbability of this, and put the profligate sore out of countenance. the rest of his tale told still worse, insomuch that he was laughed at by all present, for the judge remarked to him, that granting it was true that he had at first run against me on an open mountain, and overthrown me by accident, how was it, that after i had extricated myself and fled, that he had pursued, overtaken, and knocked me down a second time? would he pretend that all that was likewise by chance ? the culprit had nothing to say for himself on this head, and i shall not forget my exultation and that of my reve. rend father, when the sentence of the judge was delivered. it was, that my wicked brother should be thrown into prison, and tried on a criminal charge of assault and battery, with the intent of committing murder. this was a just and righteous judge, and saw things in their proper bearings, that is, he could discern between a v. m private memoirs and righteous and a wicked man, and then there could be no doubt as to which of the two were acting right, and which wrong. my time was now much occupied, along with my re- verend perceptor, in making ready for the approaching trial, as the prosecutors. our counsel assured us of a complete victory, and that banishment would be the mildest award of the law on the offender. mark how different was the result! from the shifts and ambigu- ities of a wicked bench, who had a fellow-feeling of ini. quity with the defenders ---my suit was cast, the graceless libertine was absolved, and i was incarcerated, and bound over to keep the peace, with heavy penalties, before i was set at liberty. i was exceedingly disgusted at this issue, and blamed the counsel of my friend to his face. he expressed great grief, and expatiated on the wickedness of our judicato. ries, adding, “ i see i cannot depend on you for quick and summary measures, but for your sake i shall be re- venged on that wicked judge, and that you shall see in a few days.” the lord justice clerk died that same week! but he died in his own house and his own bed, and by what means my friend effected it, i do not know. he would not tell me a single word of the matter, but the judge's sudden death made a great noise, and i made so many curious inquiries regarding the particulars of it, that some suspicions were like to attach to our family, of some unfair means used. for my part i know nothing, and rather think he died by the visitation of heaven, and that my friend had foreseen it, by symptoms, and soothed me by promises of complete revenge. it was some days before he mentioned my brother's meditated death to me again, and certainly he then found me exasperated against him personally to the highest de- gree. but i told him that i could not now think any more of it, owing to the late judgment of the court, by which, if my brother were missing or found dead, i would not only forfeit my life, but my friends would be ruined by the penalties. confessions of a fanatic. “i suppose you know and believe in the perfect safety of your soul,” said he. “i believe in it thoroughly and perfectly,” said i ; "and whenever i entertain doubts of it, i am sensible of sin and weakness." " very well, so then am i,” said he. “i think i can now divine, with all manner of certainty, what will be the high and merited guerdon of your immortal part. hear me then farther: i give you my solemn assurance, and bond of blood, that no human hand shall ever henceforth be able to injure your life, or shed one drop of your pre- cious blood, but it is on the condition that you walk al. ways by my directions." “ i will do so with cheerfulness,” said i; “ for without your enlightened counsel, i feel that i can do nothing. but as to your power of protecting my life, you must ex- cuse me for doubting of it. nay, were we in your own proper dominions, you could not ensure that.” “in whatever dominion or land i am, my power ac- companies me,” said he ; " and it is only against human might and human weapon that i ensure your life; on that will i keep an eye, and on that you may depend. i have never broken word or promise with you. do you credit me ?" “ yes, i do," said i; “for i see you are in earnest. i believe, though i do not comprehend you.” “ then why do you not at once challenge your bro- ther to the field of honour ? seeing you now act with- out danger, cannot you also act without fear ?". “ it is not fear," returned i ; " believe me, i hardly know what fear is. it is a doubt, that on all these emer- gencies constantly haunts my mind, that in performing such and such actions i may fall from my upright state. this makes fratricide a fearful task.” “ this is imbecility itself,” said he..“ we have set. tled, and agreed on that point an hundred times. i would therefore advise that you challenge your brother to single coinbat. i shall ensure your safety, and he cannot refuse giving you satisfaction." private memoirs and “ but then the penalties ?" said i. “ we will try to evade these," said he; “and sup. posing you should be caught, if once you are laird of dalcastle and balgrennan, what are the penalties to you?" “ might we not rather pop him off in private and quietness, as we did the deistical divine ?" said i. “ the deed would be alike meritorious, either way," said he. “but may we not wait for years before we find an opportunity ? my advice is to challenge him, as privately as you will, and there cut him off.” : “so be it then," said i. " when the moon is at the full, i will send for him forth to speak with one, and there will i smite him and slay him, and he shall trouble the righteous no more.” “ then this is the very night," said he. “the moon is nigh to the full, and this night your brother and his sinful mates hold carousal; for there is an intended jour- ney to-morrow. the exulting profligate leaves town, where he must remain till the time of my departure hence; and then is he safe, and must live to dishonour god, and not only destroy his own soul, but those of many others. alack, and wo is me! the sins that he and his friends will commit this very night, will cry to heaven against us for our shameful delay! when shall our great work of cleansing the sanctuary be finished, if we proceed at this puny rate ?" “ i see the deed must be done, then," said i; "and since it is so, it shall be done. i will arm myself forth- with, and from the midst of his wine and debauchery you shall call him forth to me, and there will i smite him with the edge of the sword, that our great work be not retarded.” “ if thy execution were equal to thy intent, how great a man you soon might be!" said he. “ we shall make the attempt once more ; and if it fail again, why, i must use other means to bring about my high purposes relating to mankind.--home and make ready. i will go and procure what information i can regarding their mo- tions, and will meet you in disguise twenty minutes hence, at the first turn of hewie's lane beyond the loch." confessions of a fanatic. “i have nothing to make ready," said i; “for i do not choose to go home. bring me a sword, that we may consecrate it with prayer and vows, and if i use it not to the bringing down of the wicked and profane, then may the lord do so to me, and more also !” we parted, and there was i left again to the multipli. city of my own thoughts for the space of twenty minutes, a thing my friend never failed in subjecting me to, and these were worse to contend with than hosts of sinful men. i prayed inwardly, that these deeds of mine might never be brought to the knowledge of men who were incapable of appreciating the high motives that led to them; and then i sung part of the th psalm, likewise in spirit; but for all these efforts, my sinful doubts returned, so that when my illustrious friend joined me, and proffered me the choice of two gilded rapiers, i declined accepting any of them, and began, in a very bold and energetic manner, to express my doubts regarding the justification of all the deeds of perfect men. he chided me severe- ly, and branded me with cowardice, a thing that my nature never was subject to; and then he branded me with falsehood, and breach of the most solemn engage- ments. i was compelled to take the rapier, much against my in- clination ; but for all the arguments, threats, and promises that he could use, i would not consent to send a chal- lenge to my brother by his mouth. there was one argu- ment only that he made use of which had some weight with me, but yet it would not preponderate. he told me my brother was gone to a notorious and scandalous habitation of women, and that if i left him to himself for ever so short a space longer, it might embitter his state through ages to come. this was a trying concern to me; but i resisted it, and reverted to my doubts. on this he said that he had meant to do me honour, but since i put it out of his power, he would do the deed, and the responsibility on himself. “i have with sore travail procured a guardship of your life," added he. “for my own, i have not; but, be that as it will, i shall not m private memoirs and be baffled in my attempts to benefit my friends without a trial. you will at all events accompany me, and see that i get justice ?" “ certes, i will do thus much," said i; “and wo be to him if his arm prevail against my friend and patron!" his lip curled with a smile of contempt, which i could hardly brook; and i began to be afraid that the eminence to which i had been destined by him was already fading from my view. and i thought what i should then do to ingratiate myself again with him, for without his coun- tenance i had no life. “ i will be a man in act," thought i, “but in sentiment i will not yield, and for this he must surely admire me the more.” as we emerged from the shadowy lane into the fair moonshine, i started so that my whole frame underwent the most chilling vibrations of surprise. i again thought i had been taken at unawares, and was conversing with another person. my friend was equipped in the high- land garb, and so completely translated into another be- ing, that, save by his speech, all the senses of mankind could not have recognized him. i blessed myself, and asked whom it was his pleasure to personify to-night? he answered me carelessly, that it was a spark whom he meant should bear the blame of whatever might fall out to-night; and that was all that passed on the subject. we proceeded by some stone steps at the foot of the north loch, in hot argument all the way. i was afraid that our conversation might be overheard, for the night was calm and almost as light as day, and we saw sundry people crossing us as we advanced. but the zeal of my friend was so high, that he disregarded all danger, and continued to argue fiercely and loudly on my delinquency, as he was pleased to call it. i stood on one argument alone, which was, “that i did not think the scripture promises to the elect, taken in their utmost latitude, war- ranted the assurance that they could do no wrong; and that, therefore, it behoved every man to look well to his steps." · there was no religious scruple that irritated my en- confessions of a fanatic. lightened friend and master so much as this. he could not endure it. he lost all patience on hearing what i advanced on this matter, and taking hold of me, he led me into a darksome booth in a confined entry; and, after a friendly but cutting reproach, he bade me remain there in secret and watch the event; "and if i fall,” said he, “ you will not fail to avenge my death?" i was so entirely overcome with vexation that i could make no answer, on which he left me abruptly, a prey to despair; and i saw or heard no more, till he came down to the moonlight green followed by my brother. they had quarrelled before they came within my hearing, for the first words i heard were those of my brother, who was in a state of intoxication, and he was urging a reconcili- ation, as was his wont on such occasions. my friend spurned at the suggestion, and dared him to the combat ; and after a good deal of boastful altercation, which the turmoil of my spirits prevented me from remembering, my brother was compelled to draw his sword and stand on the defensive. it was a desperate and terrible en- gagement. i at first thought that the royal stranger and great champion of the faith would overcome his opponent with ease, for i considered heaven as on his side, and nothing but the arm of sinful flesh against him. but i was deceived: the sinner stood firm as a rock, while the assailant flitted about like a shadow, or rather like a spirit. i smiled inwardly, conceiving that these light- some manœuvres were all a sham to show off his art and mastership in the exercise, and that whenever they came to close fairly, that instant my brother would be over- come. still i was deceived: my brother's arm seemed invincible, so that the closer they fought the more palpa- bly did it prevail. they fought round the green to the very edge of the water, and so round, till they came close up to the covert where i stood. there being no more room to shift ground, my brother then forced him to come to close quarters, on which, the former still having the decided advantage, my friend quitted his sword, and called out. i could resist no longer: so, springing from private memoirs and my concealment, i rushed between them with my sword drawn, and parted them as if they had been two school. boys ; then turning to my brother, i addressed him as follows:--" wretch ! miscreant ! knowest thou what thou art attempting ? turn thee to me, that i may chastise thee for all thy wickedness, and not for the many injuries thou hast done to me!" to it we went, with full thirst of vengeance on every side. the duel was fierce ; but the might of heaven prevailed, and not my might. the ungodly and reprobate young man fell, covered with wounds, and with curses and blasphemy in his mouth, while i escaped uninjured. thereto his power extended not. i will not deny, that my own immediate impressions of this affair in some degree differed from this statement. but this is precisely as my illustrious friend described it to me afterwards, and i can rely implicitly on his infor- mation, as he was at that time a looker-on, and my senses all in a state of agitation, and he could have no motive for saying what was not the positive truth. never till my brother was down did we perceive that there had been witnesses to the whole business. our ears were then astounded by rude challenges of unfair play, which were quite appalling to me; but my friend laughed at them, and conducted me off in perfect safety. as to the unfairness of the transaction, i can say thus much, that my royal friend's sword was down ere ever mine was presented. but if it still be accounted unfair to take up a conqueror, and punish him in his own way, i answer : that if a man is sent on a positive mission by · his master, and hath laid himself under vows to do his work, he ought not to be too nice in the means of ac- complishing it. i was greatly disturbed in my mind for many days, knowing that the transaction had been witnessed, and sensible also of the perilous situation i occupied, owing to the late judgment of the court against me. but, on the contrary, i never saw my enlightened friend in such high spirits. he assured me there was no danger; and confessions of a fanatic. again repeated, that he warranted my life against the power of man. i thought proper, however, to remain in hiding for a week; but as he said, to my utter amazement, the blame fell on another, who was not only accused, but pronounced guilty by the general voice, and outlawed for non-appearance ! how could i doubt, after this, that the hand of heaven was aiding and abetting me? the matter was beyond my comprehen- sion; and as for my friend, he never explained any thing that was past, but his activity and art were without a parallel. he enjoyed our success mightily; and for his sake i enjoyed it somewhat, but it was on account of his comfort only, for i could not for my life perceive in what degree the church was better or purer than before these deeds were done. he continued to flatter me with great things, as to honours, fame, and emolument: and above all, with the blessing and protection of him to whom my soul and body were dedicated. but after these high promises, i got no longer peace; for he began to urge the death of my father with such an unremitting earnest- ness, that i found i had nothing for it but to comply. i did so; and cannot express his enthusiasm of approba- tion. so much did he hurry and press me in this, that i was forced to devise some of the most openly violent measures, having no alternative. heaven spared me the deed, taking, in that instance, the vengeance in its own hand; for before my arm could effect the sanguine but ineritorious act, the old man followed his son to the grave. my illustrious and zealous friend seemed to regret this somewhat; but he comforted himself with the reflection, that still i had the merit of it, having not only consent- ed to it, but in fact effected it, for by doing the one ac- tion i had brought about both. no sooner were the obsequies of the funeral over, than my friend and i went to dalcastle, and took undis. puted possession of the houses, lands, and effects that had been my father's; but his plate, and vast treasures of ready money, he had bestowed on a voluptuous and private memoirs and unworthy creature, who had lived long with him as a mistress. fain would i have sent her after her lover, and gave my friend some hints on the occasion; but he only shook his head, and said that we must lay all sel- fish and interested motives out of the question. for a long time when i awaked in the morning, i could not believe my senses, that i was indeed the un- disputed and sole proprietor of so much wealth and gran- deur; and i felt so much gratified, that i immediately set about doing all the good i was able, hoping to meet with all approbation and encouragement from my friend. i was mistaken: he checked the very first in- pulses towards such a procedure, questioned my motives, and uniformly made them out to be wrong. there was one morning that a servant said to me, there was a lady in the back chamber who wanted to speak with me, but he could not tell me who it was, for all the old servants had left the mansion, every one on hearing of the death of the late laird, and those who had come knew none of the people in the neighbourhood. from several circum. stances i had suspicions of private confabulations with women, and refused to go to her, but bid the servant in. quire what she wanted. she would not tell; she could only state the circumstance to me ; so i, being sensible that a little dignity of manner became me in my elevated situation, returned for answer, that if it was business that could not be transacted by my steward, it must remain untransacted. the answer which the servant brought back was of a threatening nature. she stated that she must see me, and if i refused her satisfaction there, she would compel it where i should not evite her. my friend and director appeared pleased with my di. lemma, and rather advised that i should hear what the woman had to say ; on which i consented, provided she would deliver her mission in his presence. · she came in with manifest signs of anger and indignation, and began with a bold and direct charge against me of a shameful assault on one of her daughters; of having used the bas- est of means in order to lead her aside from the paths of confessions of a fanatic. rectitude; and on the failure of these, of having resorted to the most unqualified measures. i denied the charge in all its bearings, assuring the dame that i had never so much as seen either of her daughters to my knowledge, far less wronged them; on which she got into great wrath, and abused me to my face as an accomplished vagabond, hypocrite, and sensual- ist; and she went so far as to tell me roundly, that if i did not marry her daughter, she would bring me to the gallows, and that in a very short time. “marry your daughter, honest woman !” said i “on the faith of a christian, i never saw your daughter; and you may rest assured in this, that i will neither marry you nor her. do you consider how short a time i have been in this place ? how much that time has been oc. cupied ? and how there was even a possibility that i could have accomplished such villanies?” . “ and how long does your christian reverence suppose you have remained in this place since the late laird's death ?" said she. " that is too well known to need recapitulation," said i:“ only a very few days, though i cannot at present specify the exact number; perhaps from thirty to forty, or so. but in all that time, certes, i have never seen either you or any of your two daughters that you talk of, you must be quite sensible of that." my friend shook his head three times during this short sentence, while the woman held up her hands in amaze- ment and disgust, exclaiming, “ there goes the self-right- eous one? there goes the consecrated youth, who cannot err! you, sir, know, and the world shall know of the faith that is in this most just, devout, and religious miscreant! can you deny that you have already been in this place four months and seven days ? or that in that time you have been forbid my house twenty times ? or that you have persevered in your endeavours to effect the basest and most ungenerous of purposes ? or that you have attained them ? hypocrite and deceiver as you are ! yes, sir ; i say, dare you deny that you have private memoirs and attained your vile, selfish, and degrading purposes towards a young, innocent, and unsuspecting creature, and thereby ruined a poor widow's only hope in this world? no, you cannot look in my face, and deny aught of this.” “ the woman is raving mad !" said i. “you, illus- trious sir, know, that in the first instance, i have not yet been in this place one month.” my friend shook his head again, and answered me, “ you are wrong, my dear friend; you are wrong. it is indeed the space of time that the lady hath stated, to a day, since you came here, and i came with you; and i am sorry that i know for certain that you have been frequently haunting her house, and have often had private correspondence with one of the young ladies too. of the nature of it i pre- sume not to know.” “ you are mocking me," said i. “but as well may you try to reason me out of my existence, as to convince me that i have been here even one month, or that any of those things you allege against me has the shadow of truth or evidence to support it. i will swear to you by- "hold, you most abandoned profligate !" cried she violently, “and do not add perjury to your other detes- table crimes. but tell me what reparation you propose offering to my injured child ?" “i again declare, before heaven, woman, that to the best of my knowledge and recollection, i never saw your daughter. i now think i have some faint recollection of having seen your face, but where, or in what place, puz- zles me quite." “ and, why?" said she. “ because for months and days you have been in such a state of extreme inebriety, that your time has gone over like a dream that has been forgotten. i believe, that from the day you came first to my house, you have been in a state of utter delirium, and that principally from the fumes of wine and ardent spirits." “ it is a manifest falsehood !” said i; “i have never, since i entered on the possession of dalcastle, tasted wine confessions of a fanatic. or spirits, saving once, a few evenings ago ; and, i confess to my shame that i was led too far ; but i have craved forgiveness and obtained it. i take my noble and dis- tinguished friend there for a witness to the truth of what i assert; a man who has done more, and sacrificed more for the sake of genuine christianity, than any this world contains. him you will believe." " i hope you have attained forgiveness," said he, seri- ously. “indeed it would be next to blasphemy to doubt it. but, of late, you have been very much addicted to intemperance. i doubt if, from the first night you tasted the delights of drunkenness, that you have ever again been in your right mind until monday last. doubtless you have been for a good while most diligent in your addresses to this lady's daughter." “ this is unaccountable,” said i. “ it is impossible that i can have been doing a thing, and not doing it at the same time. but indeed, honest woman, there have several incidents occurred to me in the course of my life which persuade me i have a second self; or that there is some other being who appears in my likeness." here my friend interrupted me with a sneer, and a hint that i was talking insanely; and then he added, turning to the lady, “ i know my friend mr colwan will do what is just and right. go and bring the young lady to him, that he may see her, and he will then recollect all his former amours with her.” “i humbly beg your pardon, sir,” said i. " but the mention of such a thing as amours with any woman ex- isting, to me, is really so absurd, so far from my princi- ples, so far from the purity of nature and frame to which i was born and consecrated, that i hold it as an insult, and regard it with contempt." i would have said more in reprobation of such an idea, had not my servant entered, and said, that a gentleman wanted to see me on business. being glad of an oppor- tunity of getting quit of my lady visitor, i ordered the servant to show him in ; and forthwith a little lean gen- tleman, with a long aquiline nose, and a bald head. v. confessions of a fanatic. “ what business of mine, if it be your will, sir," said i. “ for my part i never engaged you in business of any sort, less or more.” he never regarded me, but went on. “ you may appeal, though : yes, yes, there are such things as appeals for the refractory. here it is, gentlemen,-here they are altogether — here is, in the first place, sir, your power of attorney, regularly warrant- ed, sealed, and signed with your own hand." “i declare solemnly that i never signed that docu- ment,” said i. . “ay, ay, the system of denial is not a bad one in general," said my attorney ; “but at present there is no occasion for it. you do not deny your own hand!” "i deny every thing connected with the business," eried i; “ i disclaim it in toto, and declare that i know no more about it than the child unborn.” “ that is exceedingly good !” exclaimed he; “i like your pertinacity vastly! i have three of your letters, and three of your signatures; that part is all settled, and i hope so is the whole affair ; for here is the original grant to your father, which he has never thought proper to put in requisition. simple gentleman ! but here have i, lawyer linkum, in one hundredth part of the time that any other notary, writer, attorney, or writer to the signet in britain, would have done it, procured the signature of his majesty's commissioner, and thereby confirmed the charter to you and your house, sir, for ever and ever, begging your pardon, madam.” the lady, as well as myself, tried several times to interrupt the loquacity of linkum, but in vain : he only raised his hand with a quick flourish, and went on :- “ here it is :- james, by the grace of god, king of great britain, france, and ireland, to his right trusty cousin, sendeth greeting: and whereas his right leal and trust-worthy cousin, george colwan of dalcastle and balgrennan, hath suffered great losses, and undergone much hardship, on behalf of his majesty's rights and titles; he therefore, for himself, and as prince and steward of scotland, and by the consent of his right trusty cousins „private memoirs and . and councillors, hereby grants to the said george colwan, his heirs and assignees whatsomever, heritably and irre- vocably, all and haill the lands and others, underwritten : to wit, all and haill, the five merk land of kipplerig ; the five pound land of easter knockward, with all the towers, fortalices, manor-places, houses, biggings, yards, orchards, tofts, crofts, mills, woods, fishings, mosses, muirs, meadows, commonties, pasturages, coals, coal- heughs; tenants, tenantries, services of free tenants, annexes, connexes, dependencies, parts, pendicles, and pertinents of the same whatsomever ; to be peaceably brooked, joysed, set, used, and disposed of by him and his aboves, as specified, heritably and irrevocably, in all time coming :. and, in testimony thereof, his majesty, for himself, and as prince and steward of scotland, with the advice and consent of his foresaids, knowledge, proper motive, and kingly power, makes, erects, creates, unites, annexes, and incorporates, the whole lands above men- tioned in an haill and free barony, by all the rights, miethes, and marches thereof, old and divided, as the same lies, in length and breadth, in houses, biggings, mills, multures, hawking, hunting, fishing ; with court, plaint, herezeld, fock, fork, sack, sock, thole, thame, vert, wraik, waith, wair, venision, outfang thief, infang thief, pit and gallows, and all and sundry other commodities. given at our court of whitehall, &c. &c. god save the king. compositio lib. . . * registrate th septemper, . “ see, madam, here are ten signatures of privy coun. cillors of that year, and here are other ten of the present vear, with his grace the duke of queensberry at the head. all right; see here it is, sir, all right-done your work. so you see, madam, this gentleman is the true and sole heritor of all the land that your father possesses, with all the rents thereof for the last twenty years, and upwards.----fine job for my employers !--sorry on your account, madam--cant help it.' confessions of a fanatic. . i was again going to disclaim ail interest or connexion in the matter, but my friend stopped me; and the plaints and lamentations of the dame became so overpowering, that they put an end to all farther colloquy ; but law. yer linkum followed me, and stated his great outlay, and the important services he had rendered me, until i was obliged to subscribe an order to him for £ on my banker. i was now glad to retire with my friend, and ask ser. iously for some explanation of all this. it was in the highest degree unsatisfactory. he confirmed all that had been stated to me; assuring me, that i had not only been assiduous in my endeavours to seduce a young lady of great beauty, which it seemed i had effected, but that i had taken counsel, and got this supposed, old, false, and forged grant, raked up and new signed, to ruin the young lady's family quite, so as to throw her entirely on myself for protection, and be wholly at my will. this was to me wholly incomprehensible. i could have freely made oath to the contrary of every particu- lar. yet the evidences were against me, and of a na. ture not to be denied. here i must confess, that, highly as i disapproved of the love of women, and all intimacies and connexions with the sex, i felt a sort of indefinite pleasure, an ungracious delight in having a beautiful woman solely at my disposal. but i thought of her spiritual good in the meantime. my friend spoke of my backslidings with concern; requesting me to make sure of my forgiveness, and to forsake them; and then he added some words of sweet comfort. but from this time forth i began to be sick at times of my existence. i had heart-burnings, longings, and yearnings, that would not be satisfied; and i seemed hardly to be an accountable creature; being thus in the habit of executing transac- tions of the utmost moment, without being sensible that i did them. i was a being incomprehensible to myself. either i had a second, self, who transacted business in my likeness, or else my body was at times possessed by à spirit over which it had no control, and of whose n private memoirs and actions my own soul was wholly unconscious. this was an anomaly not to be accounted for by any philosophy of mine; and i was many times, in contemplating it, ex, cited to terrors and mental torments hardly describable. to be in a state of consciousness and unconsciousness, at the same time, in the same body and same spirit, was impossible. i was under the greatest anxiety, dreading some change would take place momently in my nature; for of dates i could make nothing: one-half, or two-thirds of my time, seemed to me to be totally lost. i often, about this time, prayed with great fervour, and lamented my hopeless condition, especially in being liable to the commission of crimes, which i was not sensible of, and could not eschew. and i confess, notwithstanding the promises on which i had been taught to rely, i began to have secret terrors, that the great enemy of man's salva- tion was exercising powers over me, that might eventual- ly lead to my ruin. these were but temporary and sin- ful fears, but they added greatly to my unhappiness. the worst thing of all was, what hitherto i had never felt, and, as yet, durst not confess to myself, that the presence of my illustrious and devoted friend was becom- ing irksome to me. when i was by myself, i breathed freer, and my step was lighter ; but, when he approach- ed, a pang went to my heart; and, in his company, i moved and acted as if under a load that i could hardly endure. what a state. to be in ! and yet to shake him off was impossible,-we were incorporated together- identified with one another, as it were, and the power was not in me to separate myself from him. i still knew nothing who he was, farther than that he was a potentate of some foreign land, bent on establishing some pure and genuine doctrines of christianity, hitherto only half understood, and less than half exercised. of this i could have no doubts, after all that he had said, done, and suffered in the cause. but, alongst with this, i was also certain, that he was possessed of some supernatural power, of the source of which i was wholly ignorant. that a man could be a christian, and at the same time confessions of a fanatic. a powerful necromancer, appeared inconsistent, and ad- verse to every principle taught in our church; and from this i was led to believe, that he inherited his powers from on high, for i could not doubt either of the sound. ness of his principles, or that he accomplished things im- possible to account for. thus was i sojourning in the midst of a chaos of con- fusion. i looked back on my bypast life with pain, as one looks back on a perilous journey, in which he has attained his end, without gaining any advantage either to himself or others; and i looked forward, as on a dark- some waste, full of repulsive and terrific shapes, pitfalls, and precipices, to which there was no definite bourne, and from which i turned with disgust. with my riches, my unhappiness was increased tenfold; and here, with another great acquisition of property, for which i had pleaed, and which i had gained in a dream, my miseries and difficulties were increasing. my principal feeling, about this time, was an insatiable longing for something that i cannot describe or denominate properly, unless i say it was for utter oblivion that i longed. i desired to sleep; but it was for a deeper and longer sleep, than that in which the senses were nightly steeped. i longed to be at rest and quiet, and close my eyes on the past and the future alike, as far as this frail life was concerned. but what had been formerly and finally settled in the counsels above, i presumed not to call in question. in this state of irritation and misery, was i dragging on an existence, disgusted with all around me, and in particular with my mother, who, with all her love and anxiety, had such an insufferable mode of manifesting them, that she had by this time rendered herself exceed- ingly obnoxious to me. the very sound of her voice at a distance, went to my heart like an arrow, and made all my nerves to shrink; and as for the beautiful young lady of whom they told me i had been so much en- amoured, i shunned all intercourse with her or hers. i read some of their letters and burnt them, but refused to see either the young lady or her mother, on any account. private memoirs and about this time it was, that my worthy and reverend parent came with one of his elders to see my mother and myself. his presence always brought joy with it into our family, for my mother was uplifted, and i had so few who cared for me, or for whom i cared, that i felt rather gratified at seeing him. my illustrious friend was also much more attached to him, than any other person, (except myself,) for their religious principles tal- lied in every point, and their conversation was interest- ing, serious, and sublime. being anxious to entertain well and highly the man to whom i had been so much indebted, and knowing that with all his integrity and righteousness, he disdained not the good things of this life, i brought from the late laird's well-stored cellars, various fragrant and salubrious wines, and we drank and became merry, and i found that my miseries and over- powering calamities, passed away over my head like a shower that is driven by the wind. i became elevated and happy, and welcomed my guests an hundred times; and then i joined them in religious conversation, with a zeal and enthusiasm which i had not often experienced, and which made all their hearts rejoice, so that i said to myself, “surely every gift of god is a blessing, and ought to be used with liberality and thankfulness." the next day i waked from a profound and feverish sleep, and called for something to drink. there was a servant answered whom i had never seen before, and he was clad in my servant's clothes and livery. i asked for andrew handyside, the servant who had waited at table the night before ; but the man answered with a stare and a smile. “what do you mean, sirrah,” said i. “ pray what do you here? or what are you pleased to laugh at ? i desire you to go about your business, and send me up handyside. i want him to bring me something to drink.” “ ye sanna want a drink, maister,” said the fellow: “ tak a hearty ane, and see if it will wauken ye up some- thing, sae that ye dinua ca' for ghaists through your confessions of a fanatic. sleep. surely ye haena forgotten that andrew handy- side has been in his grave these six months ?” · this was a stunning blow to me. i could not answer farther, but sunk back on my pillow as if i had been a lump of lead, refusing to take a drink or any thing else at the fellow's hand, who seemed thus mocking me with so grave a face. the man seemed sorry, and grieved at my being offended, but i ordered him away, and con- tinued sullen and thoughtful could i have again been for a season in utter oblivion to myself and transacting business which i neither approyed of, nor had any con- nexion with! i tried to recollect something in which i might hạve been engaged, but nothing was portrayed on my mind subsequent to the parting with my friends at a late hour the evening before. the evening before it certainly was; but if so, how came it, that andrew handyside, who served at table that evening, should have been in his grave six months! this was a circum- stance somewhat equivocal; therefore, being afraid to arise lest accusations of. i knew not what might come against me, i was obliged to call once more in order to come at what intelligence i could. the same fellow ap- peared to receive my orders as before, and i set about examining him with regard to particulars. he told me, his name was scrape; that i hired him myself; of whom i hired him; and at whose recommendation. i smiled, and nodded so as to let the knave see i under- stood he was telling me a chain of falsehoods, but did not choose to begin with any violent asseverations to the contrary. “and where is my noble friend and companion ?" said i. « how has he been engaged in the interim ?" "i dinna ken him, sir,” said scrape ; but have heard it said, that the strange mysterious person that attended you, him that the maist part of folks countit uncanny, had gane awa wi' a mr ringan o’ glasgow last year, and had never returned.” :: i was pleased in my heart at this intelligence, hoping that the illustrious stranger had returned to his own land private memoirs and and people, and that i should thenceforth be rid of his controlling and appalling presence. “and where is my mother?" said i.-- the man's breath cut short, and he looked at me without returning any answer.-—" i ask you where my mother is ?" said i. “god only knows, and not i, where she is,” returned he. “he knows where her soul is, and as for her body, if you dinna ken something o' it, i suppose nae man alive does." • what do you mean you knave ?” said i ; “what dark hints are these you are throwing out ? tell me precisely and distinctly what you know of my inother ?" “ it is unco queer o’ye to forget, or pretend to forget every thing that gate, the day, sir,” said he. “ i'm sure you heard enough about it yestreen; an' i can tell you, there are some gayan ill-faured stories gaun about that business. but as the thing is to be tried afore the circuit lords, it wad be far wrang to say either this or that to in- fluence the public mind; it is best just to let justice tak its swee. i hae naething to say, sir. ye hae been a good enough maister to me, and paid my wages regularly, but ye hae muckle need to be innocent, for there are some heavy accusations rising against you." “ i fear no accusations of man,” said i, “ as long as i can justify my cause in the sight of heaven ; and that i can do this i am well aware. go you and bring me some wine and water, and some other clothes than these gaudy and glaring ones." - i took a cup of wine and water ; put on my black clothes and walked out. for all the perplexity that sur- rounded me, i felt my spirits considerably buoyant. it ap- peared that i was rid of the two greatest bars to my happi- ness, by what agency i knew not. my mother, it seemed, was gone, who had become a grievous thorn in my side of late, and my great companion and counsellor, who tyran. nized over every spontaneous movement of my heart, had likewise taken himself off. this last was an unspeakable relief; for i found that for a long season i had only been able to act by the motions of his mysterious mind and confessions of a fanatic. spirit. i therefore strode through my woods with a daring and heroic step; with independence in my eye, and freedom swinging in my right hand. at the extremity of the colwan wood, i perceived a figure approaching me with slow and dignified motion. the moment, that i beheld it, my whole frame received a shock as if the ground on which i walked had sunk suddenly below me. yet, at that moment, i knew not who it was ; it was the air and motion of some one that i dreaded, and from whom i would gladly have escaped ; but this i even had not power to attempt. it came slowly onward, and i advanced as slowly to meet it; yet when we came within speech, i still knew not who it was. it bore the figure, air, and features of my late brother, i thought, exactly ; yet in all these there were traits so forbidding, so mixed with an appearance of misery, chagrin and despair, that i still shrunk from the view, not know- ing on whose face i looked. but when the being spoke, both my mental and bodily frame received another shock more terrible than the first, for it was the voice of the great personage i had so long denominated my friend, of whom i had deemed myself for ever freed, and whose presence and counsels i now dreaded. it was his voice, but so altered—i shall never forget it till my dying day. nay, i can scarce conceive it possible that any earthly sounds could be so discordant, so repulsive to every feel- ing of a human soul, as the tones of the voice that grated on my ear at that moment. they were the sounds of the pit, wheezed through a grated cranny, or seemed so to my distempered imagination. "so ! thou shudderest at my approach now, dost thou?" said he, “ is this all the gratitude that you deign for an attachment of which the annals of the world fur- nish no parallel ? an attachment which has caused me to forego power and dominion, might, homage, conquest and adulation, all that i might gain one highly valued and sanctified spirit to my great and true princi- ples of reformation among mankind. wherein have i offended? what have i done for evil, or what have i private memoirs and not done for your good, that you would thus shun my présence ?" “ great and magnificent prince," said i humbly, “let me request of you to abandon a poor worthless wight to his own wayward fortune, and return to the dominion of your people. i am unworthy of the sacrifices you have made for my sake ; and after all your efforts, i do not feel that you have rendered me either more virtuous or more happy. for the sake of that which is estimable in human nature depart from me to your own home, before you render me a being altogether above, or below the rest of my fellow-creatures. let me plod on towards heaven and happiness in my own way, like those that have gone before me, and i promise to stick fast by the great principles which you have so strenuously inculcated, on condition that you depart and leave me for ever." “sooner shall you make the mother abandon the child of her bosom ; nay, sooner cause the shadow to relinquish the substance, than separate me from your side. our beings are amalgamated, as it were, and consociated in one, and never shall i depart from this country until i can carry you in triumph with me.” i can in nowise describe the effect this appalling speech had on me. it was like the announcement of death to one who had of late deemed himself free, if not of some. thing worse than death, and of longer continuance. there was i doomed to remain in misery, subjugated, soul and body, to one whose presence was become more intolerable to me than ought on earth could compensate. and at that moment, when he beheld the anguish of my soul, he could not conceal that he enjoyed it. i was troubled for an answer, for which he was waiting: it became in- cumbent on me to say something after such a protesta. tion of attachment; and, in some degree to shake the validity of it, i asked, with great simplicity, where he had been all this while? “ your crimes and your extravagances forced me from your side for a season," said he ; “but now that i hope the day of grace is returned, i am again drawn towards confessions of a fanatic. you by an affection that has neither bounds nor interest; an affection for which i receive not even the poor return of gratitude, and which seems to have its radical sources in fascination. i have been far, far abroad, and have seen much, and transacted much, since i last spoke with you. during that space, i grievously suspect that you have been guilty of great crimes and misdemeanours; but as i knew it to be only a temporary falling off, i closed my eyes on the wilful debasement of our principles, knowing that in good time you would come to your senses.” “what crimes ?” said i ;“ what misdemeanours and transgressions do you talk about ? for my part, i am conscious of none, and am utterly amazed at insinuations which i do not comprehend.” “ you have certainly been left to yourself for a season," returned he," having gone on rather like a person in a delirium, than a christian in his sober senses. you are accused of having made away with your mother privately; as also of the death of a beautiful young lady, whose affections you had seduced.” “ it is an intolerable and monstrous falsehood !” cried i, interrupting him; “i never laid a hand on a woman to take away her life, and have even shunned their society from my childhood; i know nothing of my mother's exit, nor of that young lady's whom you men- tion,—nothing whatever.” " i hope it is so," said he. “but it seems there are some strong presumptuous proofs against you, and i came to warn you this day that a precognition is in progress, and that unless you are perfectly convinced, not only of your innocence, but of your ability to prove it, it will be the safest course for you to abscond, and let the trial go on without you.” “never shall it be said that i shrunk from such a trial as this,” said i. “ it would give grounds for suspicions of guilt that never had existence, even in thought. i will go and show myself in every public place, that no slander- ous tongue may wag against me. i have shed the blood private memoirs and of sinners, but of these deaths i am guiltless ; therefore, i will face every tribunal, and put all my accusers down.” “ asseverations will avail you but little," answered he, composedly: “it is however, justifiable in its place, although to me it signifies nothing, who know too well that you did commit both crimes, in your own person, and with your own hands. far be it from me to betray you; indeed, i would rather endeavour to palliate the offences." “ if this that you tell me be true, said i, “ then is it as true that i have two souls, which take possession of my bodily frame by turns, the one being all unconscious of what the other performs; for as sure as i have at this moment a spirit within me, so sure am i utterly ignorant of the crimes you now lay to my charge.” “your supposition may be true in effect,” said he. “ we are all subjected to two distinct natures in the same person. i myself have suffered grievously in that way. the spirit that now directs my energies is not that with which i was endowed at my creation. it is changed within me, and so is my whole nature, my former days were those of grandeur and felicity. but, would you be- lieve it? i was not then a christian. now i am. i have been converted to its truths by passing through the fire, and since my final conversion, my misery has been ex- treme. you complain that i have not been able to render you more happy than you were. alas ! do you expect it in the difficult and exterminating career which you have begun. i, however, promise you this—a por- tion of the only happiness which i enjoy, sublime in its motions, and splendid in its attainments—i will place you on the right hand of my throne, and show you the grandeur of my domains, and the felicity of my millions of true professors." i was once more humbled before this mighty potentate, and promised to be ruled wholly by his directions, al- though at that moment my nature shrunk from the con- cessions, and my soul longed rather to be inclosed in the depths of the sea, or involved once more in utter oblivion confessions of a fanatic. i was like daniel in the den of lions, without his faith in divine support, and wholly at their mercy. i felt as one round whose body a deadly snake is twisted, which continues to hold him in its fangs, without injuring him, farther than in moving its scaly infernal folds with exult- ing delight, to let its victim feel to whose power he has subjected himself; and thus did i for a space drag an existence from day to day, in utter weariness and help- lessness; at one time worshipping with great fervour of spirit, and at other times so wholly left to myself, as to work all manner of vices and follies with greedi- ness. in these my enlightened friend never accompanied me, but i always observed that he was the first to lead me to every one of them, and then leave me in the lurch. but of all my troubles, this was the chief : i was every day and every hour assailed with accusations of deeds of which i was wholly ignorant; of acts of cruelty, injus- tice, defamation, and deceit; of pieces of business which i could not be made to comprehend ; with law-suits, de- tails, arrestments of judgment, and a thousand intermin- able quibbles from the mouth of my loquacious and con- ceited attorney. so miserable was my life rendered by these continued attacks, that i was often obliged to lock myself up for days together, never seeing any person save my man samuel scrape, who was a very honest blunt fellow, a staunch cameronian, but withal very little con- versant in religious matters. he said he came from a place called penpunt, which i thought a name so ludi- crous, that i called him by the name of his native vil. lage, an appellation of which he was very proud, and answered every thing with more civility and perspicuity when i denominated him penpunt, than samuel, his own christian name. of this peasant was i obliged to make a companion on sundry occasions, and strange indeed were the details which he gave me concerning myself, and the ideas of the country people concerning me. i took down a few of these in writing, to put off the time, and here leave them on record to show how the best and private memoirs and greatest actions are misconstrued among sinful and igno. rant men. “ you say, samuel, that i hired you myself—that i have been a good enough master to you, and have paid you your weekly wages punctually. now, how is it that you say this, knowing, as you do, that i never hired you, and never paid you a sixpence of wages in the whole course of my life, excepting this last month?" “ ye may as weel say, master, that water's no water, or that stanes are no stanes. but that's just your gate, an' it is a great pity aye to do a thing an' profess the clean contrair. weel then, since you havena paid me ony wages, an' i can prove day and date when i was hired, an' came hame to your service, will you be sae kind as to pay me now? that's the best way o' curing a man o' the mortal disease o' leasing-making that i ken o'." “ i should think that penpunt and cameronian prin. ciples, would not admit of a man taking twice payment for the same article." “ in sic a case as this, sir, it disna hinge upon prin. ciples, but a piece o' good manners; as i canna bide to make you out a leear, i'll thank you for my wages." “ well, you shall have them, samuel, if you declare to me that i hired you myself in this same person, and bargained with you with this same tongue, and voice, with which i speak to you just now.” “ that i do declare, unless ye hae twa persons o' the same appearance, and twa tongues to the same voice. but, 'od saif us, sir, do you ken what the auld wives o' the clachan say about you?" “ how should i when no one repeats it to me?" “oo, i trow it's a' stuff ;-folk shouldna heed what's said by auld crazy kimmers. but there are some o' them weel kend for witches too; an' they say,_lord have a care o' us!--they say the deil's often seen gaun sidie for sidie w'ye, whiles in ae shape, an' whiles in an- ither. an' they say that he whiles takes your ain shape, or else enters into you, and then you turn deil yoursel.” confessions of a fanatic. i was so astounded at this terrible idea that had gone abroad, regarding my fellowship with the prince of dark- ness, that i could make no answer to the fellow's infor. mation, but sat like one in a stupor; and if it had not been for my well-founded faith, i should at that moment have given into the popular belief, and fallen into the sin of despondency; but i was preserved from such a fatal er- ror by an inward and unseen supporter. still the in- sinuation was so like what i felt myself, that i was great- ly awed and confounded. the poor fellow observed this, and tried to do away the impression by some farther sage remarks of his own. “ hout, dear sir, it is balderdash, there's nae doubt o't. it is the crownhead o' absurdity to tak in the havers o' auld wives for gospel. i told them that my master was a peeous man, an’ a sensible man; an' for praying, that he could ding auld macmillan himsel. “sae could the deil,' they said, when he liket, either at preaching or praying, if these war to answer his ain ends. na, na,' says i, but he's a strick believer in a' the truths o’ christianity, my master. they said, sae was satan, for that he was the firmest believer in a'the truths of chris- tianity that was out o' heaven ; an' that, sin’ the revolu- tion that the gospel had turned sae rife, he had been often driven to the shift o' preaching it himsel', for the purpose o'getting some wrang tenets introduced into it, and there. by turning it into blasphemy and ridicule." i confess, to my shame, that i was so overcome by this jumble of nonsense, that a chillness came over me, and in spite of all my efforts to shake off the impression it had made, i fell into a faint. samuel soon brought me to myself, and after a deep draught of wine and water, i was greatly revived, and felt my spirit rise above the sphere of vulgar conceptions. the shrewd but lo- quacious fellow, perceiving this, tried to make some amends for the pain he had occasioned to me, by the fol- lowing story, which i noted down, and which was brought on by a conversation to the following purport :- “now, penpunt, you may tell me all that passed be. private memoirs and tween you and the wives of the clachan. i am better of that stomach qualm, with which i am sometimes seized, and shall be much amused by hearing the sentiments of noted witches regarding myself and my connexions." “ weel, you see, sir, i says to them, “ it will be lang afore the deil intermeddle wi' as serious a professor, and as fervent a prayer as my master, for gin he gets the hand o' sickan men, wha's to be safe ! an', what think ye they said, sir ? there was ane lucky shaw set up her lang lantern chafts, an' answered me, an' a' the rest shanned and noddit in assent an' approbation : ye silly, sauchless, cameronian cuif !' quo she, “is that a' that ye ken about the wiles and doings o' the prince o' the air, that rules an’ works in the bairns o' disobedience? gin ever he observes a proud professor, wha has mae than ordinary pretensions to a divine calling, and that reads and prays till the very howlets learn his preambles, that's the man auld simmie fixes on to mak a dishclout o.' he canna get rest if he sees a man, or a set of men o' this stamp, an' when he sets fairly to wark, it is seldom that he disna bring them round till his ain measures by hook or by crook. then, o it is a grand prize for him, an'a proud deil he is, when he gangs hame to his ain ha', wi' a batch o' the souls o'sic strenuous professors on his back. ay, i trow, auld ingleby, the liverpool packman, never came up glasgow street wi' prouder pomp, when he had ten horse-laids afore him o' flanders lace, an' hollin lawn, an' silks an' satins frae the eastern indians, than satan wad strodge with a pack-lade o' the souls o' proud professors on his braid shoulders. ha, ha, ha! i think i see how the auld thief wad be gaun through his gizened dominions, crying his wares, in derision, · wha will buy a fresh, cauler divine, a bouzy bishop, a fasting zealot, or a piping priest ? for a' their prayers an' their praises, their aumuses, an' their penances, their whinings, their howlings, their rantings, an' their ravings, here they come at last! behold the end ! here go the rare and pre- cious wares! a fat professor for a bodle, an' a lean ane for half a merk !' i declare, i tremble at the auld hags confessions of a f ravings, but the late o' the timmers zonauti tie ser". * as sacred truths. an tien lickt want ipt ar many wolves in sheep's ciansune biline . mony deils aneata the mass imus i. trail ing about in kirks and neerre-im t e z whenever you are douai i tim. ruthven's plan, an deš i si dari j. v t e toing that winna veel jue: ul i m b ane wadna that ol is filiuse ve to . les parsons gomb, the ta ve u sa blue bannet : bat ere sare si puu t_ detect it, an' te jete der il. aiana gie me te ruen thu: orten an often. status te m an se ye will kes i vei. i vul * . mbe on some o yo innot. that is tur tistest ku certain gertama keen vaikne x vul wherever be sets dies tout, the gras siis i scoudered wi a het ei.. press what's the matter wi vol muasie bus * vol masier the calm o' the stamce arall *'. v an li n k the truth is, that tile ciuwi + ubur sick at heart a second. ime i wa w was tit devi d "* di whicl suure suusate a badia llit blaue o * welserien " * madje edhe in ww. uses de dokter . auc. wouet aw a y ewa iwas. dus su my illustrious friend wat tiet devl ut ! of my own state, at wmie always did, when the inays obi * ruler presented iseli na ww . with my beart on this auc wuifutbe that had the well-being of manual be productive of fruits so w e bid works by the saviours uuel il put it into my hear to qui allt would stand the test.. bal buse which i could not admit that all mine; and i began to quant le once more, not that ther welt liel bc dilie: liscio oral uiuen a la l i te go ; aut benut wadi w ako de é bac busel. au tuat any ksal, statistical vi i stre al u quuoi lut ku *** di bata berbaycan a tier welt unbeutvisa..? welko w buindo ar miut sec abila di cities show deles al d his was some grea: mult some overpowertig pasbiul. he seemned tu completo هدف از اراده او دا وه وه ماودها لإيلنا - private memoirs and tween you and the wives of the clachan. i am better of that stomach qualm, with which i am sometimes seized, and shall be much amused by hearing the sentiments of noted witches regarding myself and my connexions." “ weel, you see, sir, i says to them, “ it will be lang afore the deil intermeddle wi' as serious a professor, and as fervent a prayer as my master, for gin he gets the hand o sickan men, wha's to be safe!' an', what think ye they said, sir ? there was ane lucky shaw set up her lang lantern chafts, an' answered me, an' a' the rest shanned and noddit in assent an' approbation : *ye silly, sauchless, cameronian cuif !' quo she, “is that a' that ye ken about the wiles and doings o' the prince o' the air, that rules an' works in the bairns o' disobedience ? gin ever he observes a proud professor, wha has mae than ordinary pretensions to a divine calling, and that reads and prays till the very howlets learn his preambles, that's the man auld simmie fixes on to mak a dishclout o.' he canna get rest if he sees a man, or a set of men o' this stamp, an' when he sets fairly to wark, it is seldom that he disna bring them round till his ain measures by hook or by crook. then, o it is a grand prize for him, an'a proud deil he is, when he gangs hame to his ain ha', wi’ a batch o'the souls o'sic strenuous professors on his back. ay, i trow, auld ingleby, the liverpool packman, never came up glasgow street wi' prouder pomp, when he had ten horse-laids afore him o' flanders lace, an' hollin lawn, an' silks an' satins frae the eastern indians, than satan wad strodge with a pack-lade o' the souls o' proud professors on his braid shoulders. ha, ha, ha! i think i see how the auld thief wad be gaun through his gizened dominions, crying his wares, in derision, "wha will buy a fresh, cauler divine, a bouzy bishop, a fasting zealot, or a piping priest ? for a' their prayers an’ their praises, their aumuses, an' their penances, their whinings, their howlings, their rantings, an' their ravings, here they come at last! behold the end ! here go the rare and pre- cious wares! a fat professor for a bodle, an'a lean ane for half a merk! i declare, i tremble at the auld hag's confessions of a fanatic. ravings, but the lave oʻthe kimmers applauded the sayings as sacred truths. an' then lucky went on : *there are many wolves in sheep's claithing, among us, my man ; mony deils aneath the masks o' zealous professors, roam- ing about in kirks and meeting-houses o’the land. an' whenever you are doubtfu' of a man, take auld robin ruthven's plan, an' look for the cloven foot, for it's a thing that winna weel hide ; an' it appears whiles where ane wadna think o't. it will keek out frae aneath the parson's gown, the lawyer's wig, and the cameronian's blue bannet ; but still there is a gouden rule whereby to detect it, an' that never, never fails.' --the auld witch didna gie me the rule, an' though i hae heard tell o't often an' often, shame fa’ me an i ken what it is ! but ye will ken it well, an' it wad be nae the waur of a trial on some o' your friends, maybe ; for they say there's a certain gentleman seen walking wi' you whiles, that wherever he sets his foot, the grass withers as gin it war scoudered wi’ a het ern. his presence be about us ! what's the matter wi' you, master? are ye gaun to take the calm o' the stamock again ?" the truth is, that the clown's absurd gossip made me sick at heart a second time. it was not because i thought my illustrious friend was the devil, but it gave me a view of my own state, at which i shuddered, as indeed i now always did, when the image of my devoted friend and ruler presented itself to my mind. i often communed with my heart on this, and wondered how a connexion, that had the well-being of mankind solely in view, could be productive of fruits so bitter. i then went to try my works by the saviour's golden rule, as my servant had put it into my head to do ; and, behold, not one of them would stand the test. i had shed blood on a ground on which i could not admit that any man had a right to shed mine ; and i began to doubt the motives of my adviser once more, not that they were intentionally bad, but that his was some great mind led astray by enthusiasm, or some overpowering passion. he seemed to comprehend every one of these motions private memoirs and of my heart, for his manner towards me altered every day. it first became any thing but agreeable, then supercilious, and finally, intolerable ; so that i resolved to shake to him off, cost what it would, even though i should be reduced to beg my bread in a foreign land. to do it at home was impossible as he held my life in his hands, to sell it whenever he had a mind; and besides, his ascendancy over me was as complete as that of a huntsman over his dogs. i was even so weak, as, the next time i met with him, to look steadfastly at his foot, to see if it was cloven into two hoofs. it was the foot of a gentleman, in every respect, so far as appearances went, but the form of his counsels was somewhat equivo- cal, and if not double, they were amazingly crooked. but, if i had taken my measures to abscond and fly from my native place, in order to free myself of this tor. menting, intolerant, and bloody reformer, he had likewise taken his to expel me, or throw me into the hands of justice. it seems, that about this time, i was haunted by some spies connected with my late father and brother, of whom the mistress of the former was one. my brother's death had been witnessed by two individuals ; indeed, i always had an impression that it was witnessed by more than one, having some faint recollection of hearing voices and challenges close beside me ; and this woman had searched about until she found these people ; but, as i shrewdly suspected, not without the assistance of the only person in my secret, my own warm and devoted friend. i say this, because i found that he had them concealed in the neighbourhood, and then took me again and again where i was fully exposed to their view, with. out being aware. one time in particular, on pretence of gratifying my revenge on that base woman, he knew so well where she lay concealed, that he led me to her, and left me to the mercy of two viragos, who had very nigh taken my life. my time of residence at dalcastle was wearing to a crisis. i could no longer live with my tyrant, who haunted me like my shadow ; and besides, it seems there were proofs of murder leading against me confessions of a fanatic, from all quarters. of part of these i deemed myself quite free : but the world deemed otherwise ; and how the matter would have ended, had the case undergone a judicial trial, i cannot say. it perhaps, however, behoves me here to relate all that i know of it, and it is simply this. on the first of june , (well may i remember the day,) i was sitting locked in my secret chamber, in a state of the utmost despondency, revolving in my mind what i ought to do to be free of my persecutors, and wishing myself a worm, or a moth, that i might be crushed and at rest, when behold samuel entered, with eyes like to start out of his head, exclaiming, “for god's sake, master, fly and hide yourself for your mother's found; an' as sure as you're a living soul, the blame is gaun to fa' on you!” "my mother found !” said i, and pray, where has she been all this while ?" in the mean time, i was terribly discomposed at the thoughts of her return. “ been, sir? been? why, she has been where ye pat her, it seems,-iying buried in the sands o’ the linn. i can tell you, ye will see her a frightsome figure, sic as i never wish to see again. an' the young lady is found too, sir : an' it is said the devil - i beg pardon sir, your friend, i mean,-it is said your friend has made the dis- covery, an' the folk are away to raise officers, an' they will be here in an hour or two at the farthest, sir ; an’ sae you hae not a minute to lose, for there's proof, sir, strong proof, an' sworn proof, that ye were last seen wi’ them baith ; sae, unless ye can gie a' the better an ac- count o’ baith yoursel an’ them, either hide, or flee for your bare life.” “ i will neither hide nor fly,” said i; “ for i am as guiltless of the blood of these women as the child un- born.” “ the country disna think sae, master; an' i can as- sure you, that should evidence fail, you run a risk o' being torn limb frae limb. they are bringing the corpse here, to gar ye touch them baith afore witnesses, an’ plenty o' witnesses there will be !”. private memoirs and “ they shall not bring them here," cried i, shocked beyond measure at the experiment about to be made: “ go, instantly, and debar them from entering my gate with their bloated and mangled carcasses." “ the body of your own mother, sir !" said the fellow emphatically. i was in terrible agitation; and, being driven to my wit's end, i got up and strode furiously round and round the room. samuel wist not what to do, but i saw by his staring he deemed me doubly guilty. a tap came to the chamber door: we both started like guilty creatures; and as for samuel, his hairs stood all on end with alarm, so that when i motioned to him, he could scarcely advance to open the door. he did so at length, and who should enter but my illustrious friend, manifestly in the utmost state of alarm. the moment that samuel admitted him, the former made his escape by the prince's side as he entered, seemingly in a state of distraction. i was little better, when i saw this dreaded personage enter my chamber, which he had never before attempted; and being unable to ask his errand, i suppose i stood and gazed on him like a statue. “i come with sad and tormenting tidings to you, my beloved and ungrateful friend," said he ;"but having only a minute left to save your life, i have come to attempt it. there is a mob coming towards you with two dead bodies, which will place you in circumstances disagree- able enough; but that is not the worse, for of that you may be able to clear yourself. at this moment there is a party of officers, with a justiciary warrant from edin- burgh, surrounding the house, and about to begin the search of it, for you. if you fall into their hands, you are inevitably lost; for i have been making earnest inquiries, and find that every thing is in train for your ruin.” “ ay, and who has been the cause of all this ?” said i, with great bitterness. but he stopped me short, ad- ding," there is no time for such reflections at present: i give you my word of honour that your life should be safe from the hand of man. so it shall, if the power confessions of a fanatic. remain with me to save it. i am come to redeem my pledge, and to save your life by the sacrifice of my own. here, --not one word of expostulation ; change habits with me, and you may then pass by the officers, and guards, and even through the approaching mob, with the most perfect temerity. there is a virtue in this garb, and instead of offering to detain you, they shall pay you obeisance. make haste, and leave this place for the present, flying where you best may, and if i escape from these dangers that surround me, i will endeavour to find you out, and bring you what intelligence i am able." i put on his green frock coat, buff belt, and a sort of a turban that he always 'wore on his head, somewhat re- sembling a bishop's mitre; he drew his hand thrice across my face, and i withdrew as he continued to urge me. my hall door and postern gate were both strongly guard- ed, and there were sundry armed people within, search- ing the closets ; but all of them made way for me, and lifted their caps as i passed by them. only one superior officer accosted me, asking if i had seen the culprit ? i knew not what answer to make, but chanced to say, with great truth and propriety, “he is safe enough.” the man beckoned with a smile, as much as to say, “ thank you, sir, that is quite sufficient;" and i walked deliber- ately away. i had not well left the gate, till, hearing a great noise coming from the deep glen toward the east, i turned that way, deeming myself quite secure in this my new disguise, to see what it was, and if matters were as had been des- cribed to me. there i met a great mob, sure enough, coming with two dead bodies stretched on boards, and decently covered with white sheets. i would fain have examined their appearance, had i not perceived the ap- parent fury in the looks of the men, and judged from that how much more safe it was for me not to intermed- dle in the affray. i cannot tell how it was, but i felt a strange and unwonted delight in viewing this scene, and a certain pride of heart in being supposed the perpetrator of the unnatural crimes laid to my charge. this was a private memoirs and feeling quite new to me ; and if there were virtues in the robes of the illustrious foreigner, who had without all dispute preserved my life at this time; i say, if there was any inherent virtue in these robes of his, as he had suggested, this was one of their effects, that they turned my heart towards that which was evil, horrible and dis. gustful. i mixed with the mob to hear what they were saying. every tongue was engaged in loading me with the most opprobrious epithets! one called me a monster of nature; another an incarnate devil; and another a crea- ture made to be cursed in time and eternity. i retired from them, and winded my way southward, comforting myself with the assurance, that so mankind had used and persecuted the greatest fathers and apostles of the chris- tian church, and that their vile opprobrium could not alter the counsels of heaven concerning me. on going over that rising ground called dorington moor, i could not help turning round and taking a look of dalcastle, i had little doubt that it would be iny last look, and nearly as little ambition that it should not. i thought how high my hopes of happiness and advance ment had been on entering that mansion, and taking possession of its rich and extensive domains, and how miserably i had been disappointed. on the contrary, i had experienced nothing but chagrin, disgust, and terror ; and i now consoled myself with the hope that i should henceforth shake myself free of the chains of my great tormentor, and for that privilege was i willing to encoun- ter any earthly distress. i could not help perceiving, that i was now on a path which was likely to lead me into a species of distress hitherto unknown, and hardly dreamed of by me, and that was total destitution. for all the riches i had been possessed of a few hours previous to this, i found that here i was turned out of my lordly possessions without a single merk, or the power of lifting and commanding the smallest sum, without being there- by discovered and seized. had it been possible for me to have escaped in my own clothes, i had a considerable confessions of a fanatic. sum secreted in these, but by the sudden change, i was left without a coin for present necessity. but i had hope in heaven, knowing that the just man would not be left destitute; and that though many troubles surround- ed him, he would at last be set free from them all. i was possessed of strong and brilliant parts, and a liberal education; and though i had somehow unaccountably suffered my theological qualifications to fall into desue- tude, since my acquaintance with the ablest and most rigid of all theologians, i had nevertheless hopes that, i should yet be enabled to benefit mankind in some coun- try, and rise to high distinction.' these were some of the thoughts by which i consol- ed myself as i passed on my way southward, avoiding the towns and villages, and falling into the cross ways that led from each of the great roads passing east and west, to another. i lodged the first night in the house of a country weaver, into which i stepped at a late hour, quite overcome with hunger and fatigue, having travelled not less than thirty miles from my late home. the man received me ungraciously, telling me of a gentleman's house at no great distance, and of an inn a little farther away; but i said i delighted more in the society of a man like him, than that of any gentleman of the land, for my concerns were with the poor of this world, it being easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of heaven. the weaver's wife, who sat with a child on her knee, and had not hitherto opened her mouth, hearing me speak in that serious and religious style, stirred up the fire, with her one hand; then drawing a chair near it, she said, “ come awa, honest lad, in by here, sin' it be sae that you belong to him wha gies us a' that we hae, it is but right that you should share a part. you are a stranger, it is true, but them that winna entertain a stranger will never entertain an angel unawares.” i never was apt to be taken with the simplicity of na- ture ; in general i despised it ; but, owing to my circum- stances at the time, i was deeply affected by the manner v. private memoirs and of this poor woman's welcome. the weaver continued in a churlish mood throughout the evening, apparently dissatisfied with what his wife had done in entertaining me, and spoke to her in a manner so crusty that i thought proper to rebuke him, for the woman was comely in her person and virtuous in her conversation ; but the weaver her husband was large of make, ill-favoured, and pesti. lent; therefore did i take him severely to task for the tenor of his conduct; but the man was froward, and an- swered me rudely, with sneering and derision, and, in the height of his caprice, he said to his wife, “ whan focks are sae keen of a chance o' entertaining angels, gudewife, it wad maybe be worth their while to tak tent what kind o' angels they are. it wadna wonder me vera muckle an ye had entertained your friend the deil the night, for i thought i fand a saur o' reek an' brimstane about him. he's nane o' the best o' angels, an' focks winna hae muckle credit by entertaining him.” certainly, in the assured state i was in, i had as little reason to be alarmed at mention being made of the devil as any person on earth : of late, however, i felt that the reverse was the case, and that any allusion to my great enemy, moved me exceedingly. the weaver's speech had such an effect on me, that both he and his wife were alarm- ed at my looks. the latter thought i was angry, and chided her husband gently for his rudeness ; but the weaver himself rather seemed to be confirmed in his opinion that i was the devil, for he looked round like a startled roe- buck, and immediately betook him to the family bible. , i know not whether it, was on purpose to prove my identity or not, but i think he was going to desire me either to read a certain portion of scripture that he had sought out, or to make family worship, had not the con- versation at that instant taken another turn; for the wea- ver, not knowing how to address me, abruptly asked my name, as he was about to put the bible into my hands. never having considered myself in the light of a male- factor, but rather as a champion in the cause of truth, and finding myself perfectly safe under my disguise, i confessions of a fanatic. had never once thought of the utility of changing my name, and when the man asked me, i hesitated ; but being compelled to say something, i said my name was cowan. the man stared at me, and then at his wife, with a look that spoke a knowledge of something alarming or mysterious. “ ha! cowan ?" said he. « that's most extrordinar! not colwan, i hope ?" “no : cowan is my sirname,” said i. “ but why not colwan, there being so little difference in the sound ?" • i was feared ye might be that waratch that the deil has taen the possession o', an' eggit him on to kill baith his father an' his mother, his only brother, an' his sweet- heart,” said he ; “an' to say the truth, i'm no that sure about you yet, for i see you're gaun wi' arms on ye.” “ not i, honest man," said i; “i carry no arms; a man conscious of his innocence and uprightness of heart, needs not to carry arms in his defence now." “ ay, ay, maister,” said he; “an' pray what div ye ca' this bit windlestrae that's appearing here?” with that he pointed to something on the inside of the breast of my frock-coat. i looked at it, and there certainly was the gilded haft of a poniard, the same weapon i had seen and handled before, and which i knew my illustrious companion always carried about with him ; but till that moment i knew not that i was in possession of it. i drew it out: a more dangerous or insidious looking wea. pon could not be conceived. the weaver and his wife were both frightened, the latter in particular; and she being my friend, and i dependent on their hospitality, for that night, i said, “ i declare i knew not that i carried this small rapier, which has been in my coat by chance, and not by any design of mine. but lest you should think that i meditate any mischief to any under this roof, i give it into your hands, requesting of you to lock it by till to-morrow, or when i shall next want it." the woman seemed rather glad to get hold of it ; and, taking it from me, she went into a kind of pantry out of my sight, and locked the weapon up; and then the dis- course went on. confessions of a fanatic. one maintaining the probability that i was the murderer and the other proving the impossibility of it. the hus- band, however, said as much as let me understand, that he had locked me up on purpose to bring the military, or officers of justice, to seize me. i was in the utmost perplexity, yet, for all that, and the imminent danger i was in, i fell asleep, and a more troubled and tormenting sleep never enchained a mortal frame. i had such dreams that they will not bear repetition, and early in the morn- ing i awaked, feverish, and parched with thirst. · i went to call mine host, that he might let me out to the open air, but before doing so, i thought it necessary to put on some clothes. in attempting to do this, a cir- cumstance arrested my attention, (for which i could in nowise account, which to this day i cannot unriddle, nor shall i ever be able to comprehend it while i live,) the frock and turban, which had furnished my disguise on the preceding day, were both removed, and my own black coat and cocked hat laid down in their place. at first i thought i was in a dream, and felt the weaver's beam, web, and treadle-strings with my hands, to convince my- self that i was awake. i was certainly awake; and there was the door locked firm and fast as it was the evening before. i carried my own black coat to the small window, and exa- mined it. it was my own in verity; and the sums of mo- ney, that i had concealed in case of any emergency, re- mained untouched. i trembled with astonishment; and on my return from the small window, went doiting in amongst the weaver's looms, till i entangled myself, and could not get out again without working great deray amongst the coarse linen threads that stood in warp from one end of the apartment unto the other. i had no knife whereby to cut the cords of this wicked man, and therefore was obliged to call out lustily for assistance. the weaver came half naked, unlocked the door, and, setting in his head and long neck, accosted me thus : “what now, mr. satan? what for are ye roaring that gate ? deil be in your reistit trams! what for þave ye abscondit yoursel into ma leddy's wab for ?" p private memoirs and “ friend, i beg your pardon," said i; “ i wanted to be at the light, and have somehow unfortunately involved myself in the intricacies of your web, from which i can. not get clear without doing you a great injury. pray do, lend your experienced hand to extricate me.” “ ye ditit, donnart, deil's burd that ye be! what made ye gang howkin in there to be a poor man's ruin? come out, ye vile rag-of-o-muffin, or i will gar ye come out wi' mair shame and disgrace, an' fewer haill banes in your body." my feet had slipped down through the double war. pings of a web, and not being able to reach the ground with them, (there being a small pit below,) i rode upon a number of yielding threads, and there being nothing else that i could reach, to extricate myself was impossi- ble. i was utterly powerless : and besides, the yarn and cords hurt me very much. for all that, the destructive weaver seized a loomspoke, and began a-beating me most unmercifully, while, entangled as i was, i could do no- thing but shout aloud for mercy, or assistance, whichever chanced to be within hearing. the latter, at length, made its appearance, in the form of the weaver's wife, in the same state of deshabille with himself who instantly in. terfered, and that most strenuously, on my behalf. be- fore her arrival, however, i had made a desperate effort to throw myself out of the entanglement i was in ; for the weaver continued repeating his blows and cursing me so, that i determined to get out of his meshes at any risk. this effort made my case worse ; for my feet being wrapt among the nether threads, as i threw myself from my saddle on the upper ones, my feet brought the others up through these, and i hung with my head down, and my feet as firm as if they had been in a vice. the predica- ment of the web being thereby increased, the weaver's wrath was doubled in proportion, and he laid on without mercy. at this critical juncture the wife arrived, and without hesitation rushed before her offended lord, withholding his hand from injuring me farther, although then it was confessions of a fanatic. uplifted along with the loomspoke in overbearing ire. “ dear johnny! i think ye be gaen dementit this morn- ing. be quiet, my dear, an' dinna begin a boddel brigg business in your ain house. what for ir ye per. secutin' a servant o' the lord's that gate, an' pitting the life out o' him wi' his head down an' his heels up?" “ had ye said a servant o' the deil's, nans, ye wad hae been nearer the nail, for gin he binna the auld ane himsel, he's gayan sib till him. there didna i lock him in on purpose to bring the military on him ; an' in place o' that, haşna he keepit me in a sleep a' this while as deep as death? . an' here do i find him abscondit like a speeder i' the mids o' my leddy's wab, an' me dreamin' a' the night that i had the deil i' my house, an' that he was clapperclawin me ayont the loom. have at you, ye brunstane thief !” and, in spite of the good woman's struggles, he lent me another severe blow. “ now, johnny dods, my man! johnny dods, think if that be like a christian, and ane o' the heroes o' boddel brigg, to entertain a stranger, an' then bind him in a web wi' his head down, an' mell him to death! o johnny dods, think what you are about! slack a pin, an' let the good honest religious lad out." the weaver was rather overcome, but still stood to his point that i was the deil, though in better temper; and as he slackened the web to release me, he remarked, half laughing, “ wha wad hae thought that john dods should hae escapit a' the snares an' dangers that circum- fauldit him, an' at last should hae weaved a net to catch the deil.” the wife released me soon, and carefully whispered me, at the same time, that it would be as well for me to dress and be going. i was not long in obeying, and dressed myself in my black clothes, hardly knowing what i did, what to think, or whither to betake myself. i was sore hurt by the blows of the desperate ruffian ; and, what was worse, my ankle was so much strained, that i could hardly set my foot to the ground. i was obliged to apply to the weaver once more, to see if i could learn private memoirs and any thing about my clothes, or how the change was effected. “sir," said i, “ how comes it that you have robbed me of my clothes, and put these down in their place over night ?" “ ha! thae claes ? me pit down thae claes !" said he, gaping with astonishment, and touching the clothes with the point of his fore-finger ; “ i never saw them afore, as i have death to meet wi'." he strode into the work-house where i slept, to satisfy himself that my clothes were not there, and returned perfectly aghast with consternation. “ the doors were baith faist lockit," said he. “i could hae defied a rat either to hae gotten out or in. my dream has been true! my dream has been true! i charge you to depart out o' this house ; an', gin it be your will, dinna tak the braid. side o't w'ye, but gang quietly out at the door wi' your face foremost. wiſe, let nought o' this enchanter's re- main i’ the house, to be a curse, an' a snare to us; gang an' bring him his gildit weapon." the wife went to seek my poniard, trembling so excessively that she could hardly walk, and shortly after, we heard a feeble scream from the pantry. the weapon had disappeared with the clothes, though under double lock and key ; and the terror of the good people having now reached a disgusting extremity, i thought proper to make a sudden retreat, followed by the weaver's ana. theinas. my state both of body and mind was now truly deplor- able. i was hungry, wounded, and lame ; an outcast and a vagabond in society; my life sought after with avidity. i knew not whither to betake me. i had pro. posed going into england, and there making some use of the classical education i had received, but my lameness rendered this impracticable for the present. i was there. fore obliged to turn my face towards edinburgh, where i was little known--where concealment was more practi. cable than by skulking in the country, and where i might turn my inind to something that was great and good. i had a little money, both scots and english, now in my confessions of a fanatic. possession, but not one friend in the whole world on whom i could rely. one devoted friend, it is true, i had, but he was become my greatest terror. to escape from him, i now felt that i would willingly travel to the far. thest corners of the world, and be subjected to every deprivation ; but after the certainty of what had taken place last night, after i had travelled thirty miles by secret and bye-ways, i saw not how.escape from him was pos- sible. · miserable, forlorn, and dreading every person that i saw, either behind or before me, i hasted on towards edinburgh, taking all the bye and unfrequented paths; and the third night after i left the weaver's house, i reached the west port; without meeting with any thing remarkable. being exceedingly fatigued and lame, i took lodgings in the first house i entered, and for these i was to pay two groats a-week, and to board and sleep with a young man who wanted a companion to make his rent easier. i liked this; having found from experience, that the great personage who had attached himself to me, and was now becoming my greatest terror among many surrounding evils, generally haunted me when i was alone, keeping aloof from all other society. my fellow lodger came home in the evening, and was glad at my coming. his name was linton, and i changed mine to elliot. he was a flippant unstable being, one to whom nothing appeared a difficulty, in his own estimation, but who could effect very little, after all. he was what is called by some a compositor, in the queen's printing house, then conducted by a mr james watson. in the course of our conversation that night, i told him that i was a first-rate classical scholar, and would gladly turn my attention to some business wherein my education might avail me something; and that there was nothing • would delight me so much as an engagement in the queen's printing office. linton made no difficulty in bringing about that arrangement. his answer was. “oo, gud sir, you are the very man we want. gud bless your breast and your buttons, sir! ay, that's nei- private memoirs and ther here nor there-that's all very well-ha-ha-ha-a byeword in the house, sir. but, as i was saying, you are the very man we want-you will get any money you like to ask, sir-any money you like, sir.—that's settled-all done--settled, settledi'll do it, i'll do it-no more about it ; no more about it. settled, settled." the next day i went with him to the office, and he presented me to mr watson as the most wonderful genius and scholar ever known. his recommendation had little sway with mr watson, who only smiled at linton's ex- travagancies, as one does at the prattle of an infant. i sauntered about the printing office for the space of two or three hours, during which time watson bustled about with green spectacles on his nose, and took no heed of me. but seeing that i still lingered, he addressed me at length, in a civil gentlemanly way, and inquired concern- ing my views. i satisfied him with all my answers, in particular those to his questions about the latin and greek languages; but when he came to ask testimonials of my character and acquirements, and found that i could pro. duce none, he viewed me with a jealous eye, and said he dreaded i was some ne'er-do-weel, run from my parents or guardians, and he did not choose to employ any such. i said my parents were both dead ; and that being thereby deprived of the means of following out my education, it behoved me to apply to some business in which my edu. cation might be of some use to me.' he said he would take me into the office, and pay me according to the business i performed, and the manner in which i deported myself; but he could take no one into her majesty's printing office upon a regular engagement, who could mot produce the most respectable references with regard to morals. i could not but despise the man in my heart who laid such a stress upon morals, leaving grace out of the ques. tion; and viewed it as a deplorable instance of human depravity and self-conceit; but for all that, i was obliged to accept of his terms, for i had an inward thirst and confessions of a fanatic. longing to distinguish myself in the great cause of religion, and i thought if once i could print my own works, how i would astonish mankind, and confound their self-wisdom and their esteemed morality. and i weened that i might thus get me a name even higher than if i had been made a general of the czar peter's troops against the infidels. i attended the office some hours every day, but got not much encouragement, though i was eager to learn every thing, and could soon have set types considerably well. it was here that i first conceived the idea of writ- ing this journal, and having it printed, and applied to mr watson to print it for me, telling him it was a religious parable such as the pilgrim's progress. he advised me to print it close, and make it a pamphlet, and then if it did not sell, it would not cost me much ; but that religious pamphlets, especially if they had a shade of allegory in them, were the very rage of the day. i put my work to the press, and wrote early and late; and encouraging my com- panion to work at odd hours, and on sundays. before the press-work of the second sheet was begun, we had the work all in types, corrected, and a clean copy thrown off for farther revisal. the first sheet was wrought off ; and i never shall forget how my heart exulted when at the printing house this day, i saw what numbers of my works were to go abroad among mankind, and i determined with myself that i would not put the border name of elliot, which i had assumed, to the work. thus far have my history and confessions been car-' ried. i must now furnish my christian readers with a key to the process, management, and winding up of the whole matter; which i propose to limit to a very few pages. chesters, july , .—my hopes and prospects are a wreck. my precious journal is lost! consigned to the flames ! my enemy hath found me out, and private memo ther here nor there. that's all byeword in the house, sir. b are the very man we want-you like to ask, sir-any money settled--all done-settled, set it-no more about it ; nom settled." the next day i went with his presented me to mr watson as the and scholar ever known. his red sway with mr watson, who only travagancies, as one does at the sauntered about the printing office three hours, during which time with green spectacles on his nose me. but seeing that i still linger length, in a civil gentlemanly way, ing my views. i satisfied him w particular those to his questions aboy languages ; but when he came to a character and acquirements, and fol duce none, he viewed me with a je dreaded i was some ne'er-do-weel, or guardians, and he did not choose i said my parents were both dead ; deprived of the means of following behoved me to apply to some busine cation might be of some use to me. take me into the office, and pay business i performed, and the manne myself ; but he could take no one printing office upon a regular eng mot produce the most respectable to morals. i could not but despise the man i such a stress upon morals, leaving tion ; and viewed it as a deplorab] depravity and self-conceit; but for to accept of his terms, for i had sions of a fanatic. , or the soul of man to bear. i #s, the only copy of my unfinished in pretence of going straight to mr imped from my lodgings at portsburgh of evening, and took the road to. lear of the city, i ran with a velocity ad been capable of. i flew out the so swiftly, that i often lost sight of aid to myself, “o that i had the i might fly to the farthest corners de from those against whom i have sight and the next morning, exert- power ; and about noon the follow- • veoman's house, the name of which riquested of the people a couch of wid, for i was ill, and could not pro- they showed me to a stable-loft beds, on one of which i laid me ja sound sleep, i did not awake her three men came from the fields hace, one of whom lay down beside exceedingly glad. they fell all as terribly alarmed at a conversa- ... where outside the stable. i could nice, but trembled to think i knew least, and rather than not be mis. ny man had run me through with a old sweat, and once thought of in- *o my own life, as my only means sh and sinful thought be in mercy ->ard as it were two persons at the i thought, about their right and in- † the one was forcibly preventing the er, i could hear distinctly, and their i with something dreadful and myste- of terror, i awakened my snoring at difficulty, and asked him, in a low private memoirs and there is no hope of peace or rest for me on this side the grave. in the beginning of the last week, my fellow lodger came home running in a great panic, and told me a story of the devil having appeared twice in the printing house, assisting the workmen at the printing of my book, and that some of them had been frightened out of their wits. that the story was told to mr watson, who till that time had never paid any attention to the treatise, but who, out of curiosity, began and read a part of it, and thereupon flew into a great rage, called my work a medley of lies and blasphemy, and ordered the whole to be consigned to the fames, blaming bis foreman, and all connected with the press, for letting a work go so far, that was enough to bring down the vengeance of heaven on the concern. if ever i shed tears through perfect bitterness of spirit it was that time, but i hope it was more for the ignorance and folly of my countrymen than the overthrow of my own hopes. but my attention was suddenly aroused to other matters, by linton mentioning that it was said by some in the office the devil had inquired for me. “surely you are not such a fool," said i, “as to be- lieve that the devil really was in the printing office?" "oo, gude bless you sir i saw him myself, gave him a nod, and good-day. rather a gentlemanly personage- green circassian hunting coat and turban--like a for- eigner--has the power of vanishing in one moment though-rather a suspicious circumstance that. other- wise, his appearance not much against him." if the former intelligence thrilled me with grief, this did so with terror. i perceived who the personage was that had visited the printing house in order to further the progress of my work ; and at the approach of every per- son to our lodgings, i from that instant trembled every bone, lest it should be my elevated and dreaded friend. i could not say i had ever received an office at his hand that was not friendly, yet these offices had been of a strange tendency; and the horror with which i now re. garded hiin was unaccountable to myself. it was beyond confessions of a fanatic. description, conception, or the soul of man to bear. i took my printed sheets, the only copy of my unfinished work existing; and, on pretence of going straight to mr watson's office, decamped from my lodgings at portsburgh a little before the fall of evening, and took the road to. wards england. as soon as i got clear of the city, i ran with a velocity i knew not before i had been capable of. i few out the way towards dalkeith so swiftly, that i often lost sight of the ground, and i said to myself, “o that i had the wings of a dove, that i might fly to the farthest corners of the earth, to hide me from those against whom i have no power to stand !" i travelled all that night and the next morning, exert- ing myself beyond my power ; and about noon the follow- ing day i went into a yeoman's house, the name of which was ellanshaws, and requested of the people a couch of any sort to lie down on, for i was ill, and could not pro- ceed on my journey. they showed me to a stable-loft where there were two beds, on one of which i laid me down ; and, falling into a sound sleep, i did not awake till the evening, that other three men came from the fields to sleep in the same place, one of whom lay down beside me, at which i was exceedingly, glad. they fell all sound asleep, and i was terribly alarmed at a conversa- sation i overheard somewhere outside the stable. i could not make out a sentence, but trembled to think i knew one of the voices at least, and rather than not be mis- taken, i would that any man had run me through with a sword. i fell into a cold sweat, and once thought of in- stantly putting hand to my own life, as my only means of relief, (may the rash and sinful thought be in mercy forgiven !) when i heard as it were two persons at the door contending, as i thought, about their right and in- terest in me. that the one was forcibly preventing the admission of the other, i could hear distinctly, and their language was mixed with something dreadful and myste- rious. in an agony of terror, i awakened my snoring companion with great difficulty, and asked him, in a low phivatv memoira and whisper, who these were at the door? the man laya. lent, and listening, till fairly awake, and then asked if i had heard any thing? i said i had heard strange voice contonding at the door. " then i can tell you, isus, it has been something ney ther good nor canny," said he: “it's no for naething that our horses are snorking that gate." for the first time, i remarked that the animals were anorting and rearing as if they wished to break through the house. the man called to them by their names, and ordered them to be quiet ; but they raged still the more furiously. he then roused his drowsy companions, who were alike alarmed at the panic of the horses, all of them declaring that they had never seen either mause or jolly start in their lives before. my bed-fellow and another then ventured down the ladder, and i heard one of them then saying, “ lord be wi' us! what can be i the house? the sweat's rinning off the poor beasts like water." they agreed to sally out together, and if possible to reach the kitchen and bring a light. i was glad at this, but not so much so when i heard the one man saying to the other, in a whisper, “ i wish that stranger man may be canny enough." " gude kens " said the other : “ it doesnae look unco weel." the lad in the other bed, hearing this, set up his head in manifest aflright as the other two departed for the kitchen ; and, i believe, he would have been glad to have been in their company. this lad was next the ladder, at which i was extremely glad, for had he not been there, the world should not have induced me to wait the retum of these two men. they were not well gone, before i heard another distinctly enter the stable, and come to wards the ladder. the lad who was sitting up in his bed, intent on the watch, called out, " wha's that there? walker, is that you ? purdie, i say, is it you?" the darkling, intruder paused for a few moments, and * came towards the foot of the ladder. the horses confessions of a fanatic. broke loose, and snorting and neighing for terror, raged through the house. in all my life i never heard so fright- ful a commotion. the being that occasioned it all, now -began to mount the ladder toward our loft, on which the lad in the bed next the ladder sprung from his couch, crying out, “ preserve us ! what can it be?” with that he sped across the loft, and by my bed, praying lustily all the way; and, throwing himself from the other end of the loft into a manger, he darted, naked as he was, through among the furious horses, and making the door, that stood open, in a moment he vanished and left me in the lurch. powerless with terror, and calling out fearfully, i tried to follow his example ; but not knowing the situ- ation of the places with regard to one another, i missed the manger, and fell on the pavement in one of the stalls. i was both stunned and lamed on the knee ; but terror prevailing, i got up and tried to escape. it was out of my power; for there were divisions and cross divisions in the house, and mad horses smashing everything before them, so that i knew not so much as on what side of the house the door was. two or three times was i knocked down by the animals, but all the while i never stinted crying out with all my power. at length, i was seized by the throat and hair of the head, and dragged away, i wist not whither. my voice was now laid, and all my powers, both mental and bodily, totally overcome ; and i remember no more till i found myself lying naked on the kitchen table of the farm house, and something like a horse's rug thrown over me. the only hint that i got from the people of the house on coming to myself was, that my absence would be good company; and that they had got me in a woful state, one which they did not choose to describe, or hear described. as soon as day-light appeared, i was packed about my business, with the hisses and execrations of the yeoman's family, who viewed me as a being to be shunned, ascri- bing to me the visitations of that unholy night. again was i on my way southward, as lonely, hopeless, and degraded a being as was to be found on life's weary round. private memoirs and any thing about my clothes, or how the change was effected. “sir," said i, “ how comes it that you have robbed me of my clothes, and put these down in their place over night ?" “ ha! thae claes ? me pit down thae claes !" said he, gaping with astonishment, and touching the clothes with the point of his fore-finger ; "i never saw them afore, as i have death to meet wi'.” he strode into the work-house where i slept, to satisfy himself that my clothes were not there, and returned perfectly aghast with consternation. “ the doors were baith faist lockit,” said he. “i could hae defied a rat either to hae gotten out or in. my dream has been true! my dream has been true! i charge you to depart out o' this house ; an', gin it be your will, dinna tak the braid- side o't w’ye, but gang quietly out at the door wi' your face foremost. wife, let nought o' this enchanter's re- main i' the house, to be a curse, an'a snare to us; gang an' bring him his gildit weapon.” the wife went to seek my poniard, trembling so excessively that she could hardly walk, and shortly after, we heard a feeble scream from the pantry. the weapon had disappeared with the clothes, though under double lock and key ; and the terror of the good people having now reached a disgusting extremity, i thought proper to make a sudden retreat, followed by the weaver's ana- themas. my state both of body and mind was now truly deplor- able. i was hungry, wounded, and lame ; an outcast and a vagabond in society ; my life sought after with avidity. i knew not whither to betake me. i had pro- posed going into england, and there making some use of the classical education i had received, but my lameness rendered this impracticable for the present. i was there. fore obliged to turn my face towards edinburgh, where i was little known—where concealment was more practi- cable than by skulking in the country, and where i might turn my mind to something that was great and good. i had a little money, both scots and english, now in my confessions of a fanatic. possession, but not one friend in the whole world on whom i could rely. one devoted friend, it is true, i had, but he was become my greatest terror. to escape from him, i now felt that i would willingly travel to the far- thest corners of the world, and be subjected to every deprivation ; but after the certainty of what had taken place last night, after i had travelled thirty miles by secret and bye-ways, i saw not how.escape from him was pos- sible. ' . · miserable, forlorn, and dreading every person that i saw, either behind or before me, i hasted on towards edinburgh, taking all the bye and unfrequented paths ; and the third night after i left the weaver's house, i reached the west port; without meeting with any thing remarkable. being exceedingly fatigued and lame, i took lodgings in the first house i entered, and for these i was to pay two groats a-week, and to board and sleep with a young man who wanted a companion to make his rent easier. i liked this; having found from experience, that the great personage who had attached himself to me, and was now becoming my greatest terror among many surrounding evils, generally haunted me when i was alone, keeping aloof from all other society. my fellow lodger came home in the evening, and was glad at my coming. his name was linton, and i changed mine to elliot. he was a flippant unstable being, one to whom nothing appeared a difficulty, in his own estimation, but who could effect very little, after all. he was what is called by some a compositor, in the queen's printing house, then conducted by a mr james watson. in the course of our conversation that night, i told him that i was a first-rate classical scholar, and would gladly turn my attention to some business wherein my education might avail me something; and that there was nothing would delight me so much as an engagement in the queen's printing office. linton made no difficulty in bringing about that arrangement. his answer was. “oo, gud sir, you are the very man we want. gud bless your breast and your buttons, sir! ay, that's nei- : private memoirs and ther here nor there-that's all very well-ha-ha-ha-a byeword in the house, sir. but, as i was saying, you are the very man we want-you will get any money you like to ask, sir-any money you like, sir.—that's settled-all done--settled, settled i'll do it, i'll do it-no more about it; no more about it. settled, settled.” the next day i went with him to the office, and he presented me to mr watson as the most wonderful genius and scholar ever known. his recommendation had little sway with mr watson, who only smiled at linton's ex- travagancies, as one does at the prattle of an infant. i sauntered about the printing office for the space of two or three hours, during which time watson bustled about with green spectacles on his nose, and took no heed of me. but seeing that i still lingered, he addressed me at length, in a civil gentlemanly way, and inquired concern- ing my views. i satisfied him with all my answers, in particular those to his questions about the latin and greek languages; but when he came to ask testimonials of my character and acquirements, and found that i could pro- duce none, he viewed me with a jealous eye, and said he dreaded i was some ne'er-do-weel, run from my parents or guardians, and he did not choose to employ any such. i said my parents were both dead ; and that being thereby deprived of the means of following out my education, it behoved me to apply to some business in which my edu. cation might be of some use to me.' he said he would take me into the office, and pay me according to the business i performed, and the manner in which i deported myself; but he could take no one into her majesty's printing office upon a regular engagement, who could not produce the most respectable references with regard to morals. i could not but despise the man in my heart who laid such a stress upon morals, leaving grace out of the ques- tion ; and viewed it as a deplorable instance of human depravity and self-conceit; but for all that, i was obliged to accept of his terms, for i had an inward thirst and wh confessions of a fanatic. longing to distinguish myself in the great cause of religion, and i thought if once i could print my own works, how i would astonish mankind, and confound their self-wisdom and their esteemed morality. and i weened that i might thus get me a name even higher than if i had been made a general of the czar peter's troops against the infidels. i attended the office some hours every day, but got not much encouragement, though i was eager to learn every thing, and could soon have set types considerably well. it was here that i first conceived the idea of writ- ing this journal, and having it printed, and applied to mr watson to print it for me, telling him it was a religious parable such as the pilgrim's progress. he advised me to print it close, and make it a pamphlet, and then if it did not sell, it would not cost me much ; but that religious pamphlets, especially if they had a shade of allegory in them, were the very rage of the day. i put my work to the press, and wrote early and late; and encouraging my com- panion to work at odd hours, and on sundays. before the press-work of the second sheet was begun, we had the work all in types, corrected, and a clean copy thrown off for farther revisal. the first sheet was wrought off ; and i never shall forget how my heart exulted when at the printing house this day, i saw what numbers of my works were to go abroad among mankind, and i determined with myself that i would not put the border name of elliot, which i had assumed, to the work. thus far have my history and confessions been car- ried. i must now furnish my christian readers with a key to the process, management, and winding up of the whole matter; which i propose to limit to a very few pages. chesters, july , .—my hopes and prospects are a wreck. my precious journal is lost! consigned to the flames! my enemy hath found me out, and private memoirs and there is no hope of peace or rest for me on this side the grave. in the beginning of the last week, my fellow lodger came home running in a great panic, and told' me a 'story of the devil having appeared twice in the printing house, assisting the workmen at the printing of my book, and that some of them had been frightened out of their wits. that the story was told to mr watson, who till that time had never paid any attention to the treatise, but who, out of curiosity, began and read a part of it, and thereupon flew into a great rage, called my work a medley of lies and blasphemy, and ordered the whole to be consigned to the flames, blaming his foreman, and all connected with the press, for letting a work go so far, that was enough to bring down the vengeance of heaven on the concern. if ever i shed tears through perfect bitterness of spirit it was that time, but i hope it was more for the ignorance and folly of my countrymen than the overthrow of my own hopes. but my attention was suddenly aroused to other matters, by lintou mentioning that it was said by some in the office the devil had inquired for me. “surely you are not such a fool,” said i, “as to be- lieve that the devil really was in the printing office?" ." oo, gude bless you sir! saw him myself, gave him a nod, and good-day. rather a gentlemanly personage- green circassian hunting coat and turban-like a for- eigner-has the power of vanishing in one moment though-rather a suspicious circumstance that. other- wise, his appearance not much against him.” if the former intelligence thrilled me with grief, this did so with terror. i perceived who the personage was that had visited the printing house in order to further the progress of my work ; and at the approach of every per- son to our lodgings, i from that instant trembled every bone, lest it should be my elevated and dreaded friend. i could not say i had ever received an office at his hand that was not friendly, yet these offices had been of a strange tendency; and the horror with which i now re. garded hiin was unaccountable to myself. it was beyond confessions of a fanatic. description, conception, or the soul of man to bear. i took my printed sheets, the only copy of my unfinished work existing; and, on pretence of going straight to mr watson's office, decamped from my lodgings at portsburgh a little before the fall of evening, and took the road to. wards england. as soon as i got clear of the city, i ran with a velocity i knew not before i had been capable of. i flew out the way towards dalkeith so swiftly, that i often lost sight of the ground, and i said to myself, “o that i had the wings of a dove, that i might fly to the farthest corners of the earth, to hide me from those against whom i have no power to stand !”. i travelled all that night and the next morning, exert- ing myself beyond my power ; and about noon the follow- ing day i went into a yeoman's house, the name of which was ellanshaws, and requested of the people a couch of any sort to lie down on, for i was ill, and could not pro- ceed on my journey. they showed me to a stable-loft where there were two beds, on one of which i laid me down ; and, falling into a sound sleep, i did not awake till the evening, that other three men came from the fields to sleep in the same place, one of whom lay down beside me, at which i was exceedingly, glad. they fell all sound asleep, and i was terribly alarmed at a conversa- sation i overheard somewhere outside the stable. i could not make out a sentence, but trembled to think i knew one of the voices at least, and rather than not be mis- taken, i would that any man had run me through with a sword. i fell into a cold sweat, and once thought of in- stantly putting hand to my own life, as my only means of relief, (may the rash and sinful thought be in mercy forgiven !) when i heard as it were two persons at the door contending, as i thought, about their right and in- terest in me. that the one was forcibly preventing the admission of the other, i could hear distinctly, and their language was mixed with something dreadful and myste- rious. in an agony of terror, i awakened my snoring companion with great difficulty, and asked him, in a low v. private memoirs and whisper, who these were at the door? the man lay si. lent, and listening, till fairly awake, and then asked if i had heard any thing? i said i had heard strange voices contending at the door. " then i can tell you, lad, it has been something nei. ther good nor canny,” said he: “it's no for naething that our horses are snorking that gate." for the first time, i remarked that the animals were snorting and rearing as if they wished to break through the house. the man called to them by their names, and ordered them to be quiet ; but they raged still the more furiously. he then roused his drowsy companions, who were alike alarmed at the panic of the horses, all of them declaring that they had never seen either mause or jolly start in their lives before. my bed-fellow and another then ventured down the ladder, and i heard one of them then saying, “ lord be wi' us! what can be i' the house ? the sweat's rinning off the poor beasts like water.” they agreed to sally out together, and if possible to reach the kitchen and bring a light. i was glad at this, but not so much so when i heard the one man saying to the other, in a whisper, “ i wish that stranger man may be canny enough.” “gude kens !" said the other : “ it doesnae look unco weel.” the lad in the other bed, hearing this, set up his head in manifest affright as the other two departed for the kitchen ; and, i believe, he would have been glad to have been in their company. this lad was next the ladder, at which i was extremely glad, for had he not been there, the world should not have induced me to wait the return of these two men. they were not well gone, before i heard another distinctly enter the stable, and come to- ! wards the ladder. the lad who was sitting up in his bed, intent on the watch, called out, “ wha's that there? walker, is that you ? purdie, i say, is it you ?” the darkling intruder paused for a few moments, and then came towards the foot of the ladder. the horses confessions of a fanatic. broke loose, and snorting and neighing for terror, raged through the house. in all my life i never heard so fright- ful a commotion. the being that occasioned it all, now -began to mount the ladder toward our loft, on which the lad in the bed next the ladder sprung from his couch, crying out,“ preserve us ! what can it be?” with that he sped across the loft, and by my bed, praying lustily all the way; and, throwing himself from the other end of the loft into a manger, he darted, naked as he was, through among the furious horses, and making the door, that stood open, in a moment he vanished and left me in the lurch. powerless with terror, and calling out fearfully, i tried to follow his example ; but not knowing the situ. ation of the places with regard to one another, i missed the manger, and fell on the pavement in one of the stalls. i was both stunned and lamed on the knee ; but terror prevailing, i got up and tried to escape. it was out of my power; for there were divisions and cross divisions in the house, and mad horses smashing every thing before them, so that i knew not so much as on what side of the house the door was. two or three times was i knocked down by the animals, but all the while i never stinted crying out with all my power. at length, i was seized by the throat and hair of the head, and dragged away, i wist not whither. my voice was now laid, and all my powers, both mental and bodily, totally overcome; and i remember no more till i found myself lying naked on the kitchen table of the farm house, and something like a horse's rug thrown over me. the only hint that i got from the people of the house on coming to myself was, that my absence would be good company; and that they had got me in a woful state, one which they did not choose to describe, or hear described. as soon as day-light appeared, i was packed about my business, with the hisses and execrations of the yeoman's family, who viewed me as a being to be shunned, ascri- bing to me the visitations of that unholy night. again was i on my way southward, as lonely, hopeless, and degraded a being as was to be found on life's weary round. private memoirs and my case was indeed a pitiable one. i was lame, hun. gry, fatigued, and my resources on the very eve of being exhausted. yet these were but secondary miseries, and hardly worthy of a thought, compared with those i suf. fered inwardly. i not only looked around me with ter. ror at every one that approached, but i was become a terror to myself; or rather, my body and soul were be- come terrors to each other; and, had it been possible, i felt as if they would have gone to war. i dared not look at my face in a glass, for i shuddered at my own image and likeness. i dreaded the dawning, and trem- bled at the approach of night, nor was there one thing in nature that afforded me the least delight. in this deplorable state of body and mind, was i jog. ging on towards the tweed, by the side of the small ri. ver called ellan ; when, just at the narrowest part of the glen, whom should i meet full in the face, but the very being in all the universe i would the most gladly have shunned. i had no power to fly from him, neither durst i, for the spirit within me, accuse him of falsehood, and renounce his fellowship. i stood before him like a con- demned criminal, staring him in the face, ready to be winded, twisted, and tormented as he pleased. he re- garded me with a sad and solemn look. how changed was now that majestic countenance, to one of haggard despair -changed in all save the extraordinary likeness to my late brother, a resemblance which misfortune and despair tended only to heighten. there were no kind greetings passed between us at meeting, like those which pass be- tween the men of the world; he looked on me with eyes that froze the currents of my blood, but spoke not, till i assumed as much courage as to articulate—“ you here! i hope you have brought me tidings of comfort ?" “ tidings of despair !" said he. “but such tidings as the timid and the ungrateful deserve, and have reason to expect. you are an outlaw, and a vagabond in your country, and a high reward is offered for your apprehen. sion. the enraged populace have burnt your house, and all that is within it ; and the farmers on the land bless confessions of a fanatic. themselves at being rid of you. so fare it with every one who puts his hand to the great work of man's res- toration to freedom and draweth back, contemning the light that is within him! your enormities caused me to leave you to yourself for a season, and you see what the issue has been. you have given some evil ones power over you, who long to dovour you, both soul and body, and it has required all my power and influence to save you. had it not been for my hand, you had been torn in pieces last night ; but for once i prevailed. we must leave this land forth with, for here there is neither peace, safety, nor comfort for us. do you now, and here pledge yourself to one who has so often saved your life, and has put his own at stake to do so ? do you pledge yourself that you will henceforth be guided by my coun- sel, and follow me whithersoever i choose to lead ?" “ i have always been swayed by your counsel," said i, “and for your sake, principally, am i sorry, that all our measures have proved abortive. but i hope still to be useful in my native isle, therefore let me plead that your highness will abandon a poor despised and outcast wretch to his fate, and betake you to your realms, where your presence cannot but be greatly wanted.” “ would that i could do so!” said he woefully. “ but to talk of that is to talk of an impossibility. i am wed. ded to you so closely, that i feel as if i were the same person. our essences are one, and our bodies and spirits being united, so, that i am drawn towards you as by magnetism, and wherever you are, there must my pre- sence be with you." perceiving how this assurance affected me, he began to chide me most bitterly for my ingratitude ; and then he assumed such looks, that it was impossible for me longer to bear them; therefore i staggered out the way, begging and beseeching of him to give me up to my fate, and hardly knowing what i said ; for it struck me, that, with all his assumed appearance of misery and wretchedness there were traits of exultation in his hideous countenance, manifesting a secret and inward joy at my utter despair. q private memoirs and it was long before i durst look over my shoulder, but when i did so, i perceived this ruined and debased po. tentate coming slowly on the same path, and i prayed that the lord would hide me in the bowels of the earth, or depths of the sea. when i crossed the tweed, i per- ceived him still a little behind me ; and my despair being then at its height, i cursed the time i first met with such a tormentor. after crossing the tweed, i saw no more of my perse. cutor that day, and had hopes that he had left me for a season; but, alas, what hope was there of my relief after the declaration i had so lately heard ! i took up my lodgings that night in a small miserable inn in the village of ancrum, of which the people seemed alike poor and ignorant. before going to bed, i asked if it was custom- ary with them to have family worship of evenings? the man answered, that they were so hard set with the world, they often could not get time, but if i would be so kind as officiate they would be much obliged to me, i accept- ed the invitation, being afraid to go to rest lest the com- motions of the foregoing night might be renewed, and continued the worship as long as in decency i could. the poor people thanked me, hoped my prayers would be heard both on their account and my own, seemed much taken with my abilities, and wondered how a man of my powerful eloquence chanced to be wandering about in a condition so forlorn. i said i was a poor student of theology, on iny way to oxford. they stared at one another with expressions of wonder, disappointment, and fear. i afterwards came to learn, that the term theology was by them quite misunderstood, and that they had some crude conceptions that nothing was taught at oxford but the black arts, which ridiculous idea prevailed over all the south of scotland. for the present i could not under. stand what the people meant, and less so, when the man asked me, with deep concern, if i was serious in my in. tentions of going to oxford ? he hoped not, and that i would be better guided. i said iny education wanted finishing;-but he remark. confessions of a fanatic. ed, that the oxford arts were a bad finish for a religious man's education.-finally, i requested him to sleep with me, or in my room all the night, as i wanted some seri- ous and religious conversation with him, and likewise to convince him that the study of the fine arts, though not absolutely necessary, were not incompatible with the character of a christian divine. he shook his head and wondered how i could call them fine arts-hoped i did not mean to convince him by any ocular demonstration, and at length reluctantly condescended to sleep with me, and let the lass and wife sleep together for one night. i believe he would have declined it, had it not been some hints from his wife, stating, that it was a good arrange. ment, by which i understood there were only two beds in the house, and that when i was preferred to the lass's bed, she had one to shift for. the landlord and i accordingly retired to our homely bed, and conversed for some time about indifferent mat- ters, till he fell sound asleep. not so with me. i had that within which would not suffer me to close my eyes : and about the dead of night, i again heard the same noises and contention begin outside the house, as i had heard the night before ; and again i heard it was about a sovereign and peculiar right in me. at one time the noise was on the top of the house, straight above our bed, as if the one party were breaking through the roof, and the other forcibly preventing it; at another time it was at the door, and at a third time at the window ; but still mine host lay sound by my side, and did not waken. i was seized with terrors indefinable, and prayed fervently, but did not attempt rousing my sleeping companion until i saw if no better could be done. the women, however, were alarmed, and, rushing into our apartment, exclaimed that fiends were besieging the house. then, indeed, the landlord awoke, and it was time for him, for the tumult had increased to such a degree, that it shook the house to its foundations, being louder and more furious than i could have conceived the heat of battle to be when the volleys of artillery are mixed with groans, shouts, and private memoirs and blasphemous cursing. it thundered and lightened : and there were screams, groans, laughter, and execrations, all intermingled. i lay trembling and bathed in a cold perspiration, but was soon obliged to bestir myself, the inmates attacking me one after the other. “ , tam douglas ! tam douglas ! haste ye an’rise out fra-yont that incarnal devil !" cried the wife: “ ye are in ayont the auld ane himsel, for our lass tibbie saw his cloven cloots last night.” “lord forbid !” roared tam douglas, and darted over the bed like a flying fish. then, hearing the unearthly tumult with which he was surrounded, he returned to the side of the bed, and addressed me thus, with long and fearful intervals: “ if ye be the deil, rise up, an' depart in peace out o' this house-afore the bedstrae take kindling about ye, an' than it'll maybe be the waur for ye.—get up-an'gang awa out amang your cronies, like a good-lad- there's nae body here wishes you ony ill—d'ye hear me ?" “ friend,” said i, “no christian would turn out a fellow-creature on such a night as this, and in the midst of such a commotion of the villagers." “ na, if ye be a mortal man,” said he, “ which i rather think, from the use you made of the holy book-nane o' your practical jokes on strangers an' honest folks. these are some o' your oxford tricks, an' i'll thank you to be over wi' them.-gracious heaven, they are brikkin through the house at a' the four corners at the same time!” the lass tibby, seeing the innkeeper was not going to prevail with me to rise, flew toward the bed, in despera- tion, and seizing me by the waist, soon landed me on the floor, saying: “be ye deil, be ye chiel, ye's no lie there till baith the house an'us be swallowed up !" her master and mistress applauding the deed, i was obliged to attempt dressing myself, a task to which my powers were quite inadequate in the state i was in, but i was readily assisted by every one of the three ; and as confessions of a fanatic. this is the third day i have lived under the roof, freed of my hellish assailants, spending my time in prayer, and writing out this my journal, which i have fashioned to stick in with my printed work, and to which i intend to add portions while i remain in this pilgrimage state which, i find too well, cannot be long. august , .– this morning the hind has brought me word from redesdale, whither he had been for coals, that a stranger gentleman had been traversing that country, making the most earnest inquiries after me, or one of the same appearance; and from the description that he brought of this stranger, i could easily perceive who it was. rejoicing that my tormentor has lost traces of me for once, i am making haste to leave my asylum, on pretence of following this stranger, but in reality to conceal myself still more completely from his search. perhaps this may be the last sentence ever i am des. tined to write. if so, farewell christian reader ! may god grant to thee a happier destiny than has been allot- ted to me here on earth, and the same assurance of ac. ceptance above! amen. ault-righ, august , .-here am i, set down on the open moor to add one sentence more to my woful journal ; and then, farewell all beneath the sun ! on leaving the hind's cottage on the border, i hasted to the north-west, because in that quarter i perceived the highest and wildest hills before me. as i crossed the mountains above hawick, i exchanged clothes with a poor homely shepherd, whom i found lying on a hill side, singing to himself some woful love ditty. he was glad of the change, and proud of his saintly apparel ; and i was no less delighted with mine, by which i now suppos- ed myself completely disguised; and i found moreover that in this garb of a common shepherd i was made wel- come in every house. i slept the first night in a farm- house nigh to the church of roberton, without hearing or seeing aught extraordinary ; yet i observed next morning that all the servants kept aloof from me, and regarded me with looks of aversion. the next night i . private memoirs and came to this house, where the farmer engaged me as a shepherd ; and finding him a kind, worthy, and religious man, i accepted of his terms with great gladness. i had not, however, gone many times to the sheep, before all the rest of the shepherds told my master, that i knew nothing about herding, and begged of him to dismiss me. he perceived too well the truth of their intelligence; but being much taken with my learning, and religious conversation, he would not put me away, but set me to herd his cattle. it was lucky for me, that before i came here, a report had prevailed, perhaps for an age, that this farm house was haunted at certain seasons by a ghost. i say it was lucky for me, for i had not been in it many days before the same appalling noises began to prevail around me about midnight, often continuing till near the dawning. still they kept aloof, and without doors; for this gentle- man's house, like the cottage i was in formerly, seemed to be a sanctuary from all demoniacal power. he ap- pears to be a good man and a just, and mocks at the idea of supernatural agency, and he either does not hear these persecuting spirits, or will not acknowledge it, though of late he appears much perturbed. the consternation of the menials has been extreme. they ascribe all to the ghosts, and tell frightful stories of murders having been committed there long ago. of late, however, they are beginning to suspect that it is i that am haunted ; and as i have never given them any satisfactory account of myself, they are whispering that i am a murderer, and haunted by the spirits of those i have slain. august .-- this day i have been informed, that i am to be banished the dwelling-house by night, and to sleep in an out-house by myself, to try if the family can get any rest when freed of my presence. i have peremp- torily refused acquiescence, on which my master's brother struck me, and kicked me with his foot. my body being quite exhausted by suffering, i am grown weak and feeble both in mind and bodily frame, and actually unable to confessions of a fanatic. resent any insult or injury. i am the child of earthly misery and despair, if ever there was one existent. my master is still my friend ; but there are so many masters here, and every one of them alike harsh to me, that i wish myself in my grave every hour of the day if i am driven from the family sanctuary by night, i know i shall be torn in pieces before morning; and then who will deign or dare to gather up my mangled limbs, and give them honoured burial. my last hour is arrived : i see my tormentor once more approaching me in this wild. oh, that the earth would swallow me up, or the hill fall and cover me! farewell for ever! september , .-my devoted, princely, but san- guine friend, has been with me again and again. my time is expired, and i find a relief beyond measure, for he has fully convinced me that no act of mine can mar the eternal counsel, or in the smallest degree alter or ex- tenuate one event which was decreed before the founda- tions of the world were laid. he said he had watched over me with the greatest anxiety, but perceiving my rooted aversion towards him he had forborn troubling me with his presence. but now, seeing that i was certainly to be driven from my sanctuary that night, and that there would be a number of infernals watching to make a prey of my body, he came to caution me not to despair, for that he would protect me at all risks, if the power remained with him. he then repeated an ejacu- latory prayer, which i was to pronounce, if in great ex- tremity. i objected to the words as equivocal, and sus. ceptible of being rendered in a meaning perfectly dread- ful; but he reasoned against this, and all reasoning with him is to no purpose. he said he did not ask me to re- peat the words unless greatly straitened ; and that i saw his strength and power giving way, and when perhaps nothing else could save me. tite dreaded hour of night arrived ; and, as he said, i was expelled from the family residence, and ordered to a byre, or cow-house, that stood parallel with the dwell- private memoirs and ing-house behind, where, on a divot loft, my humble bedstead stood, and the cattle grunted and puffed below me. how unlike the splendid halls of dalcastle! and to what i am now reduced, let the reflecting reader judge. september .--my first night of trial in this place is overpast! would that it were the last that i should ever see in this detested world! if the horrors of hell are equal to those i have suffered, eternity will be of short duration there, for no created energy can support them for one single month, or week. i have been buffeted as never living creature was. my vitals have all been torn, and every faculty and feeling of my soul racked, and tormented into callous insensibility. i was even hung by the locks over a yawning chasm, to which i could per- ceive no bottom, and then_not till then, did i repeat the tremendous prayer!--i was instantly at liberty ; and what i now am, the almighty knows! amen. september , .-still am i living, though liker to a vision than a human being ; but this is my last day of mortal existence. unable to resist any longer, i pledged myself to my devoted friend, that on this day we should die together, and trust to the charity of the children of men for a grave. i am solemnly pledged : and though i dare to repent, i am aware he will not be gainsaid, for he is raging with despair at his fallen and decayed majesty, and there is some miserable comfort in the idea that my tormentor shall fall with me. farewell, world, with all thy miseries ; for comforts or enjoyments hast thou none ! farewell, woman, whom i have de. spised and shunned ; and man, whom i have hated; whom, nevertheless, i desire to leave in charity! and thou, sun, bright emblem of a far brighter effulgence, i bid farewell to thee also! i do not now take my last look of thee, for to thy glorious orb shall a poor suicide's last earthly look be raised. but, ah ! who is yon that i see approaching furiously—his stern face blackened with horrid despair! my hour is at hand.-- almighty"god, what is this that i am about to do! the hour of repen- tance is past, and now my fate is inevitable--- amen, for confessions of a fanatic. ever! i will now seal up my little book, and conceal it ; and cursed be he who trieth to alter or amend ! end of the memoir. what can this work be? sure, you will say, it must be an allegory ; or (as the writer calls it) a religious parable, showing the dreadful danger of self-righteous- ness? i cannot tell. attend to the sequel : which is a thing so extraordinary, so unprecedented, and so far out of the common course of human events, that if there were not hundreds of living witnesses to attest the truth of it, i would not bid any rational being believe it. in the first place, take the following extract from an authentic letter, published in blackwood's magazine for august, . “on the top of a wild height called faw-law where the lands of three proprietors meet all at one point, there has been for long and many years the grave of a suicide marked out by a stone standing at the head, and another at the feet. often have i stood musing over it myself, when a shepherd on one of the farms, of which it formed the extreme boundary, and thinking what could induce a young man, who had scarcely reached the prime of life, to brave his maker, and rush into his presence by an act of his own erring hand, and one so unnatural and prepos- terous. but it never once occurred to me, as an object of curiosity, to dig up the mouldering bones of the culprit, which i considered as the most revolting of all objects. the thing was, however, done last month, and a discovery made of one of the greatest natural phenomena that i have heard of in this country. “ the little traditionary history that remains of this unfortunate youth, is altogether a singular one. he was not a native of the place, nor would he ever tell from the editor's narrative. what place he came ; but he was remarkable for a deep, thoughtful, and sullen disposition. there was nothing against his character that any body knew of here, and he had been a considerable time in the place. the last ser- vice he was in was with a mr anderson of eltrive, (ault. righ, the king's burn,) who died about an hundred years ago, and who had hired him during the summer to herd a stock of young cattle in eltrive hope. it happened one day in the month of september, that james anderson, his master's son, went with this young man to the hope to di- vert himself. the herd had his dinner along with him, and about one o'clock, when the boy proposed going bome, the former pressed him very hard to stay and take share of his dinner ; but the boy refused, for fear his parents inight be alarmed about him, and said he would go home: on which the herd said to him, " then, if ye winna stay with me, james, ye may depend on't i'll cut my throat afore ye come back again.' “ i have heard it likewise reported, but only by one person, that there had been some things stolen out of his master's house a good while before, and that the boy had discovered a silver knife and fork, that was a part of the stolen property, in the herd's possession that day, and that it was this discovery that drove him to despair. “ the boy did not return to the hope that afternoon; and, before evening, a man coming in at the pass called the hart loup, with a drove of lambs, on the way for edinburgh perceived something like a man standing in a strange frightful position at the side of one of eldinhope hay-ricks. the driver's attention was riveted on this strange uncouth figure, and as the drove-road passed at - no great distance from the spot, he first called, but recei- ving no answer, he went up to the spot, and behold it was the above-mentioned young man, who had hung him- self in the hay rope that was tying down the rick. “this was accounted a great wonder ; and every one said, if the devil had not assisted him it was impossible the thing could have been done; for, in general, these ropes are so brittle, being made of green hay, that they confessions of a fanatic. will scarcely bear to be bound over the rick. and the more to horrify the good people of this neighbourhood, the driver said, when he first came in view, he could almost give his oath that he saw two people busily engaged at the hay-rick, going round it and round it, and he thought they were dressing it. “ if this asseveration approximated at all to truth, it makes this evident at least, that the unfortunate young man had hanged himself after the man with the lambs came in view. he was, however, quite dead when he cut him down. he had fastened two of the old hay-ropes at the bottom of the rick on one side, (indeed they are all fastened so when first laid on,) so that he had nothing to do but to loosen two of the ends on the other side. these he had tied in a knot round his neck, and then slackening his knees, and letting himself down gradually, till the hay-rope bore all his weight, he had contrived to put an end to his existence in that way. now the fact is, that if you try all the ropes that are thrown over all the outfield hay-ricks in scotland, there is not one among a thousand of them will hang a colley dog ; so that the manner of this wretch's death was rather a singular cir- cumstance. “ early next morning, mr anderson's servants went reluctantly away, and, taking an old blanket with them for a winding-sheet, they rolled up the body of the de- ceased, first in his own plaid, letting the hay-rope still remain about his neck, and then rolling the old blanket over all, they bore the loathed remains away to the dis- tance of three miles or so, on spokes, to the top of faw-law, at the very point where the duke of buccleuch's land, the laird of drummelzier's, and lord napier's, .. meet, and there they buried him, with all that he had on and about him, silver knife and fork and altogether. thus far went tradition, and no one ever disputed one jot of the disgusting oral tale. “a nephew of that mr anderson's who was with the hapless youth that day he died, says, that, as far as he can gather from the relations of friends that he reinem- r confessions of a fanatic. pull out till they cut part of it off with a knife. they also cut off some portions of his clothes, which were al) quite fresh, and distributed them among their acquaint- ances, sending a portion to me, among the rest, to keep as natural curiosities. several gentlemen have in a man- ner forced me to give them fragments of these enchanted garments : i have, however, retained a small portion for you, which i send along with this, being a piece of his plaid, and another of his waistcoat breast, which you will see are still as fresh as that day they were laid in the grave. “ his blue bonnet was sent to edinburgh several weeks ago, to the great regret of some gentlemen connected with the land, who wished to have it for a keep-sake. for my part, fond as i am of blue bonnets, i declare i durst not have worn that one. there was nothing of the silver knife and fork discovered, that i heard of, nor was it very likely it should : but it would appear he had been very near run of cash, which i daresay had been the cause of his utter despair ; for, on searching his pockets, nothing was found but three old scots halfpennies. these young men meeting with another shepherd afterwards, his curiosity was so much excited that they went and digged up the curious remains a second time, which was a pity, as it is likely that by these exposures to the air, and from the impossibility of burying it up again as closely as it was before, the flesh will now fall to dust.” the letter from which the above is an extract, bears the stamp of authenticity in every line ; yet, so often had i been hoaxed by the ingenious fancies displayed in that magazine, that when this relation met my eye, i did not believe it; but from the moment that i perused it, i half formed the resolution of investigating these wonderful remains personally, if any such existed; for, in the im- mediate vicinity of the scene, as i supposed, i knew of more attractive metal than the dilapidated remains of mouldering suicides. the editor's narrative, accordingly, having some business in edinburgh in september last, and being obliged to wait a few days for the arrival of a friend from london, i took that opportu. nity to pay a visit to my townsman and fellow collegian, mr l- t of c- d, advocate. i mentioned to him the letter, asking him if the statement was founded at all on truth. his answer was, “i suppose so. for my part i never doubted the thing, having been told that there has been a deal of talking about it up in the forest for some time past. but, god knows! ebony has imposed as ingenious lies on the public ere now." " i said, if it was within reach, i should like exceed. ingly to visit this scots mummy so ingeniously described. mr l- t assented at the first proposal, saying he had mo objections to take a ride that length with me, that we would have a delightful jaunt through a romantic and now classical country, and some good sport into the bar. gain, provided he could procure a horse for me, froin his father-in-law, next day. he sent up to a mr l w to inquire, who returned for answer, that there was an ex. cellent pony at my service, and that he himself would accompany us, being obliged to attend a great sheep fair at thirlestane. at an early hour next morning we started for the ewe fair of thirlestane, taking blackwood's magazine for au. gust along with us. we rode through the ancient royal burgh of selkirk, --halted and corned our horses at a ro- mantic village, nigh to some deep linds on the ettrick, and reached the market ground at thirlestane-green a jittle before mid-day. l- w soon found a guide to the suicide's grave, for he seemed acquainted with every person in the fair. we got a fine old shepherd, named w m b- c, a great original, and a very obliging and civil man, who asked no conditions but that we should not speak of it, because he did not wish it to come to his master's ears, that he had been engaged in sic a profane thing. we promised strict secrecy; and, accompanied by another farmer, mr s., and old b -e, we proceeded to the grave, which confessions of a fanatic. b e described as about a mile and a half distant from the market ground. we soon reached the spot, and i confess i felt a singu- lar sensation, when i saw the grey stone standing at the head, and another at the feet, and the one half of the grave manifestly new digged, and closed up again as had been described. i could still scarcely deem the thing to be a reality, for the ground did not appear to be wet, but a kind of dry rotten moss. on looking around, we found some fragments of clothes, some teeth, and part of a pocket-book, which had not been returned into the grave, when the body had been last raised, for it had been twice raised before this, but only from the loins upward. to work we fell with two spades, and soon cleared away the whole of the covering, the part of the grave that had been opened before, was filled with mossy mor- tar, which impeded us exceedingly, and entirely pre- vented a proper investigation of the fore parts of the body. i will describe every thing as i saw it before four respectable witnesses, whose names i shall publish at large if permitted. a number of the bones came up se- parately; for with the constant flow of liquid stuff into the deep grave, we could not see to preserve them in their places. at length great loads of coarse clothes, blanketting, plaiding, &c., appeared; we tried to lift these regularly up, and on doing so, part of a skeleton came up, but no flesh, save a little that was hanging in dark flitters about the spine, but which had no consis- tence; it was merely the appearance of flesh without the substance. the head was wanting; and i being very anxious to possess the skull, the search was renew- ed among the mortar and rags. we first found a part of the scalp, with the long hair firm on it; which on being cleaned, is neither black nor fair, but of a darkish dusk, the most common of any other colour. soon afterwards we found the skull, but it was not complete. a spade had damaged it, and one of the temple quarters was want- ing. i am no phrenologist, not knowing one organ from another, but i thought the skull of that wretched man no the editor's narrative. study. if it was particular for any thing, it was for a smooth, almost perfect rotundity, with only a little pro. tuberance above the vent of the ear. when we came to that part of the grave that had never been opened before, the appearance of every thing was quite different. there the remains lay under a close vault of moss, and within a vacant space; and i suppose, by the digging in the former part of the grave, that part had been deepened, and drawn the moisture away from this part, for here all was perfect. the breeches still suited the thigh, the stocking the leg, and the garters were wrapt as neatly and as firm below the knee as if they had been newly tied. the shoes were all opened in the seams, the hemp having decayed, but the soles, upper leathers, and wooden heels, which were made of birch, were all as fresh as any of those we wore. there was one thing i could not help remarking, that in the in- side of one of the shoes there was a layer of cow's dung, about one eighth of an inch thick, and in the hollow of the sole fully one fourth of an inch. it was firm, green, and fresh; and proved that he had been working in a byre. his clothes were all of a singular ancient cut, and no less singular in their texture. there durability cer. tainly would have been prodigious : for in thickness, coarseness, and strength, i never saw any cloth in the smallest degree to equal them. his coat was a frock coat, of a yellowish drab colour, with wide sleeves. it is tweeled, milled, and thicker than a carpet. i cut off two of the skirts and brought them with me. his vest was of stripped serge, such as i have often seen worn by country people. it was lined and backed with white stuff, the breeches were a sort of stripped plaiding, which i never saw worn, but which our guide assured us was very common in the country once, though, from the old clothes which he had seen remaining of it, he judged that it could not be less than two hundred years since it was in fashion, his garters were of worsted, and striped with black or blue; his stockings gray, and wanting the feet. i brought samples of all along with me. i have likewise now got confessions of a fanatic. possession of the bonnet, which puzzles me most of all. it is not conformable with the rest of the dress. it is neither a broad bonnet, nor a border bonnet; for there is an open behind, for tying, which no genuine bor- der bonnet, i am told, ever had. it seems to have been a highland bonnet, worn in a flat way like a scone on the crown, such as is sometimes still seen in the west of scotland. all the limbs, from the loins to the toes, seemed perfect and entire, but they could not bear hand- ling. before we got them returned again into the grave, they were all shaken to pieces, except the thighs, which continued to retain a kind of flabby form. all his clothes that were sewed with linen yarn were lying in separate portions, the thread having rotted ; but such as were sewed with worsted remained perfectly firm and sound. among such a confusion, we had hard work to find out all his pockets, and our guide supposed, that, after all, we did not find above the half of them. in his vest pocket was a long clasp knife, very sharp; the haft was thin, and the scales shone as if there had been silver inside. mr scất took it with him, and presented it to his neighbour, mr r- n of w-n l-e, who still has it in his possession. we found a comb, a gimblet, a vial, a small neat square board, a pair of plated knee-buckles, and several samples of cloth of different kinds, rolled neat- jy up within one another. at length, while we were busy on the search, mr l t picked up a leathern case, which seemed to have been wrapped round and round by some ribbon, or cord, that had been rotten from it, for the swaddling marks still remained. both l- w and b e called out that “it was the tobacco spleuchan, and a well-filled ane too;" but on opening it out, we found, to our great astonishment, that it contained a printed pamphlet. we were all curious to see what sort of a pamphlet such a person would read; what it could con- tain that he seemed to have had such a care about ? for the slough in which it was rolled, was fine chamois leather; what colour it had been, could not be known. but the pamphlet was wrapped so close together, and so the editor's narrative. damp, rotten, and yellow, that it seemed one solid piece. we all concluded, from some words that we could make out, that it was a religious tract, but that it would be im- possible to make any thing of it. mr l- wremarked that it was a great pity if a few sentences could not be made out, for that it was a question what might be con. tained in that little book; and then he requested mr l- at to give it to me, as he had so many things of literature and law to attend to, that he would never think more of it. he replied, that either of us were heartily welcome to it; for that he had thought of returning it into the grave, if he could have made out but a line or two, to have seen what was its tendency. “ grave, man !” exclaimed l w , who speaks ex. cellent strong broad scots: “ my truly, but ye grave weel! i wad esteem the contents o' that spleuchan as the most precious treasure. i'll tell you what it is, sir : i hae often wondered how it was that this man's corpse has been miraculously preserved frae decay, a hunder times longer than ony other body's, or than even a tanner's. but now i could wager a guinea, it has been for the pre- servation o' that little book. and lord kens what may be in't! it will maybe reveal some mystery that mankind disna ken naething about yet. “ if there be any mysteries in it," returned the other, “ it is not for your handling, my dear friend, who are too much taken up about mysteries already." and with these words he presented the mysterious pamphlet to me. with very little trouble, save that of a thorough drying, i unrolled it all with ease, and found the very tract which i have here ventured to lay before the public, part of it in small bad print, and the remainder in manuscript. with regard to the work itself, i dare not venture a judgment, for i do not understand it. i believe no person, man or woman, will ever peruse it with the same attention that i have done, and yet i confess that i do not comprehend the writer's drift. it is certainly im- possible that these scenes could ever have occurred, that he describes as having himself transacted. i think it confessions of a fanatic. may be possible that he had some hand in the death of his brother, and yet i am disposed greatly to doubt it ; and the numerous distorted traditions, &c., which remain of that event, may be attributable to the work having been printed and burnt, and of course the story known to all the printers, with their families and gossips. that the young laird of dalcastle came by a violent death, there remains no doubt; but that this wretch slew him, there is to me a good deal. however, allowing this to have been the case, i account all the rest either dream- ing or madness; or, as he says to mr. watson, a religious parable, on purpose to illustrate something scarcely tan- gible, but to which he seems to have attached great weight. were the relation at all consistent with reason, it corresponds so minutely with traditionary facts, that it could scarcely have missed to have been received as authentic; but in this day, and with the present genera. tion, it will not go down, that a man should be daily tempted by the devil, in the semblance of a fellow-crea- ture; and at length lured to self-destruction, in the hopes that this same fiend and tormentor was to suffer and fall along with him. it was a bold theme for an allegory, and would have suited that age well had it been taken up by one fully qualified for the task, which this writer was not. in short, we must either conceive him not only the greatest fool, but the greatest wretch, on whom was ever stamped the form of humanity; or, that he was a religious maniac, who wrote and wrote about a deluded creature, till he arrived at that height of madness, that he believed himself the very object whom he had been all along describing. and in order to escape from an ideal tormentor, committed that act for which, according to the tenets he embraced, there was no remission, and which consigned his memory and his name to everlasting detestation. v. some remarkable passages in tur lipe of an edinburgh baillie, written by himself. introduction by the editor. [an edinburgh baillie, a notable person, often men. tioned in scottish history as the staunch friend of reform and the constant friend and abettor of argyle, was of northern descent, and the original name of his family is said to have been sydeserf. the first who wrote his name sydeserf was one always styled clerk michael, who was secretary, chamberlain, and steward to the earl ma. rischal. his second son, andrew, was made procurator of the marischal college, where, it is presumed, he re- mained during his life, as it appears that our hero, ar- chibald, with eight other brothers and sisters, were born in that place. on the death of this andrew, the family appears to have been all scattered abroad; and about that period archibald was translated to edinburgh, as under. secretary to the governor of the castle. he was a learn. ed youth as times then went, and so were his brethren, for one of them was afterwards made a bishop, and one of them a professor, not to mention the subject of this memoir, who arrived at the highest distinction of them all. two or more of those brothers left written memoirs of their own times, as was the fashion of the age with all who could indite a page a-day, witness the number of vo. luminous tomes that lie piled in every college of the con- tinent as well as in some of the public libraries of britain. remarkable passages in the darkness from light--i was enclosed in a medium be. tween them. when i came first there, haggard, who had great need of me, promised me this good thing and the other good thing, so that my heart was lifted up ;—but, alas! soon was it sunk down again in gall and bitterness, for every thing was in utter confusion. in that dark abode i had the whole accounts of the expenditure of the for. tress to keep, and the commissariat department to con- duct. there were the state prisoners sending proudly for their allowances,--the soldiers cursing for their pay, and clerks every hour with long accounts of which they demanded payment. i had nothing to pay them with, and in the mean time our caterers in the city took the coercive measures with us of stopping all our supplies until their arrears were paid up. haggard did no more than just order such and such things to be done, without considering in the least how they were to be done. then every one came running on me, while i had for the most part little or nothing to give them, and all that i could do was to give them orders on this or the other fund, which orders never were executed, and of course matters grew worse and worse every day. as for colonel haggard, he was a beast, a perfect bull of bashan ;-he came daily with open mouth upon me, roar- ing and swearing like a maniac. it was in vain to reason with him, that made him only worse, and had he held with cursing and damning me, although i abhored that custom, it would not have been so bad. but he thought nothing of striking with whatever came to his hand, and that with such freedom, that it was evident he cared no- thing at all for the lives of his fellow-creatures. one day he came upon me fuming and raging as usual, and without either rhyme or reason inquired, “why i did not pay this debt?" and, “why i did not pay the other debt?" and “ was he to be dunned and plagued eternally by the carelessness and indifference of a beggar. ly clerk-a dirty pen-scraper, a college weazel, a north- ern rat?" and called me many other beastly names besides. life of an edinburgh baillie, “sir,” says i, “ if your honour will suffer the whole of the funds to come through my hands, i will be ac- countable for every fraction of them. but as you draw the largest share yourself, and spend that as you think fit, how am i to carry on my department ? let them all be paid to you if you choose, and make the pay- ments through me, of which i shall keep a strict account; unless they come all through my hands i will neither receive nor remit any more." he paid no attention, but went on as if he had not even heard the remonstrance, “if the onward detail of the business of the castle is to be interrupted in this manner by your obstinacy and awkwardness,—by the absurdity of such a contemptible urchin,—then, it is evident, that all subordination and prerogative is at an end, and there must be a regular turn out. but before this shall hap- pen, you may depend on it, mr puppy, that you shall suffer first. we are not all to lose our places for you." “i have paid all that i have, your honour, i have not even retained a merk for my own outlay; therefore, i will trouble your goodness for my own arrears, else i give the business up forthwith.” " you? you give the business up ? you, the bound servant and slave of the state, as much as the meanest soldier under my command ? such another word out of your mouth, and i'll have you whipped. hint but to go and leave your post, and i'll have you hung at the castle gate. you go and desert your post ?- let me see you attempt it. i would, indeed, like to see you run off like a norland tike! pah. you gimcrack!-you cat! pay up the arrears of the garrison instantly, i say.- are the state prisoners, the first men of the land, to lack their poor allowance, that you may lay up the king's money by you, and make a fortune ? are the military to starve, that a scratchpenny may thrive? is this business to go to sixes and sevens for your pleasure? i will have you tried for your life, you dog, before a military tribunal.” there was no reasoning with such a beast, therefore s remarkable passages in the i was obliged to hold my peace : i cared for no trial, for my books were open to any who chose to examine them, and i could account for every bodle that had been paid to me; and as for the superior of whom i was the substitute, he never showed face at all, nor was he even in scotland. he merely enjoyed the post as a sinecure, while the toil and responsibility fell on me. from that time forth, i had a disgust at our king james, and his government, and considered him no better than an old wife, and from that time to this on which i write down the memorial of these things, i have never been recon. ciled to him or one of his race. but to return to my business at the castle : i was very miserable, my state was deplorable, for i had not one of the comforts of life; and so jealous was the gover. nor, that for the most part neither ingress nor egress was allowed. my bed was a mat in the corner of my cham- ber, and my bed-clothes consisted of a single covering not thicker than a wormweb. if i had worn it as a veil, i could have seen all about me. it may be considered how grievous this was to me, who had all my life been used to a good rush or heather bed in my father's house, and a coverlet worked as thick as a divot. how i did long to be at home again ! ay, many a salt tear did i shed when none out of heaven saw but myself, and many an ardent prayer did i put up for the kind friends i left behind me. at the same time, i resolved every day and every night to have some revenge on my brutal tyrant. i cherished the feeling with delight, and was willing to undergo any hardship, so that i might see my desire fulfilled on mine enemy. an opportunity at length offered, which proved a hard trial for me, among many illustrious prisoners, we had no less a man than the marquess of huntly; and, as the lord chancellor was his great friend, his confinement was not severe. by the reforming party it was meant to be rigid; but by the catholic and high-church party, quite the reverse. with them it was merely a work of necessity, and they had resolved to bring the marquess off with life of an edinburgh baillie. flying colours, but a little time was necessary to ripen their schemes. he was a great and powerful nobleman, and had struggled against the reformers all his life, plaguing them not a little, but ran many risks of his life, notwithstanding. and had our king, with all his logic, not been, as i said, merely an old wife in resolution, he never would have suffered that obstreperous nobleman to live so long as he did ; for he thought nothing of defy. ing the king and all his power; and once, in the high- lands, came against the king's forces and cut them all to pieces. he also opposed the good work of reformation so long and so bitterly that the general assembly were obliged to excommunicate him. my forefathers being men of piety, i was bred in the strictest principles of the reformation ; consequently the marquess of huntly was one whom i had always re- garded with terror and abhorrence ; so that when i found him, as it were, under my jurisdiction, i was any. thing but grieved, and i thought to myself, that with god's help, we might keep him from doing more ill for a time. but lo and behold, a commission of the lords was sum- moned to meet at edinburgh, headed by young argyle and hamilton, and it being obvious that the interest of the reformers was to carry every thing before it, the ma- lignant party grew terribly alarmed for the life of the old marquess, their most powerful support, and determined on making a bold effort for his delivery. accordingly, a deputation of noblemen came to our worthy deputy one evening, with a written order from the lord chan- cellor for huntly's liberation. haggard would not obey the order, but cursed and swore that it was a forgery, and put all the gentlemen in ward together, to stand a trial before the lords commissioners. the marquess's family had been allowed to visit him, for they lived in the canongate, and were constantly coming and going ; and that night lady huntly comes to me, and pretends great friendship for me, names me familiarly by name, and says that she has great respect remarkable passages in the for all the sydeserfs. then she says, “that deputy governor of yours is a great bear.” “ we must take him for the present as he is, madam, for lack of a better,” says i. " that is very wisely and cautiously spoken by you, young gentleman,” said the marchioness. but it is for lack of a better. how would you like to be deputy governor yourself, and to have the sole command here? i have the power to hang your scurvy master over a post before to-morrow night.” " that would be a very summary way of proceeding certainly, madam,” said i. “i can do it, and perhaps will do it,” added she ; cobut in the mean time i must have a little assistance from you." aha! thinks i to myself, this is some popish plot, now bauldy sydeserf, since ladies will have your name, take care of yourself; for well do you know that this old dame is a confirmed papist, and wide and wasteful has the scope of her malignancy been ! bauldy syde- serf, take care of yourself. “ you do not answer me,” continued she. “ if you will grant me a small favour, i promise to you to have your tyrannical master made away with, and to better your fortune one way or another." “ you are not going to murder him, i hope, please your highness ?” said i “ made away with from his post, i mean only,” said she, “ in order that one better and younger, and more genteel than he, may be endowed with it.” “oh! is that all, madam ?" said i. " why ?" said she, “would you wish to have him assassinated ? i have a hundred resolute men in my husband's interest within the castle that will do it for one word.” being horrified for papists, i thought she was come merely to entrap me, and get my head cut off likewise ; and though i confess i should not have been very sorry to have seen the catholics wreak their fury on my brutal life of an edinburgh baillie. tyrant, i thought it most safe to fight shy. “ pray in what can i serve you, madam ?" said i; “ if it is by betraying any trust committed to me, or bringing any person into danger but myself, do not ask it, for, young as i am, nothing shall induce me to comply." “ what a noble and heroic mind in one so very young ! you were born to be a great man, mr secretary !” said the cunning dame ; “i see it, and cannot be mistaken. pray tell me this, brave young gentleman-is my lord's correspondence with spain, and with the catholic lords in , in your custody ?" “ they are both in my custody at present, madam,” said i ; “but i have no power to show you those letters, it being solely by chance that the keys happen to be in my possession. i got them to search for a certain war. rant, and they have not been again demanded." “i want to have those papers up altogether, that they may be destroyed,” said she ; " that is my great secret. if you will put them into my hands to-night, you have only to name the conditions." “i put them into your hands, madam !” said i; “good lord! i would not abstract those documents for all the wealth of the realm." “pray of what value are they?" returned she. “ of none in the world to any one, save that they may bring ruin on my lord and his family, at his approaching trial. your wretched governor will never miss them; and if he should, the blame of losing them will fall on him." this last remark staggered me not a little, because it was perfectly true ; but i held my integrity, and begged her not to mention the subject again, for no bribe should induce me to comply : she then tossed her head, and looked offended, and added, that she was sorry i was so blind to my own interest, though i was so to the very existence of the greatest family of my own country ; and then, with an audible sigh, she left me, muttering a threat as she went out. i was so much affected by it, that i have never forgot her words or inanner to this hour. remarkable passages in the “ oh-oh-oh! and is it thus ?" said she, drawing up her silken train : “ oh-oh-oh ! and is it thus ? well, young man, you shall be the first that shall rue it ," and with that she shut the door fiercely behind her. “ lord preserve me from these papists !” said i, most fervently. “what will become of me now? i would rather come under the power of the devil than under their power any time, when they have their own purposes to serve." i however repented me of this rash saying, and prayed for forgiveness that same night. this conversa- tion with the marchioness made so deep an impression on my mind, that i durst not lie down on my wretched bed, but bolted my door firmly, and sat up, thrilled with anxiety at having run my head into a noose, by offend- ing the most potent family in the land, and one, for all its enemies, that had the greatest power. had they been true protestants and reformers, i would have risked my neck to have saved them; as it was, i had done my duty, and no more. while i was sitting in this dilemma, reasoning with myself, behold a gentle tap-tap-tap came on the door. my heart leaped to my shoulder bone, and stuck so fast that i could not speak. another attack of the papists, thought i, and that after the dead hour of midnight too! i am a gone man! tap-tap-tap! “ come in,” said i, that is, my lips said it, but my voice absolutely refused its office ; for instead of the sound coming out, it went inwards. i tried it again like one labouring with the night-mare, and at last effected a broken sound of “come in, come in.” "i cannot get in,” said a sweet voice outside the door. “ pray are you in bed?" “n-n-no,” said i, “ i am not in bed.” “ then open the door directly,” said the same sweet voice ; “i want to speak with you expressly.” “ what do you wish to say ?" said i. “ open the door and you shall hear,” said she. “ jane is that you ?” said i. life of an edinburgh baillie. - “ yes. it is,” said she. “you are right at last. it is indeed jane." “ then what the devil are you seeking here at this time of the morning ?" said i, pulling back the bolts and opening the door, thinking it was our milkwoman's daughter, when behold there entered with a smile and a courtesy the most angelic being i ever saw below the sun. i at first thought she was an angel of light ; a being of some purer and better world ; and if i was bamboozled before, i was ten times worse now. i could not return her elegant courtesy, for my backbone had grown as rigid as a thorn, and my neck, instead of bend- ing forward, in token of obeisance, actually cocked back- ward. i am an old man now, and still i cannot help laughing at my awkward predicament, for there i stood gaping and bending, and my eyes like to leap out of my face, and fly on that of the lovely object that stood smil- ing before me. “i think you do not recollect jane now when you see her,” said she, playfully. “n-n-no, ma'am,” said i, utterly confounded. “i -took you for the skudjie. i beg pardon, ma'am, but i am very muckle at a loss.”—that was my disgust- ing phrase, i have not forgot it." i am very muckle at a loss, ma'am,” says i. “muckle at a loss are you?” said she. “ verra muckle too ? that's what you maunna be, honest lad.” (she was mocking me.) “my name is jeanie gordon. you may, perhaps, have heard tell of jeanie gordon. i am the youngest daughter of the marquess of huntly, and your name is, i presume, bauldy sydeserf. is that it?" i bowed assent, on which she fell into such a fit of laughter, and seemed to enjoy the sport with such zest, that i was obliged to join her, and i soon saw she had that way with her that she could make any man do just what she pleased. “ it is a snug, comfortable, sort of name," said she ; “i like the name exceedingly, and i like the young gen- remarkable passages in the tleman that wears it still better. my mother told me that you were exceedingly genteel, sensible, and well bred! she was right. i see it--i see it. verra muckle in the right.” my face burned to the bone at the blunder i had made, for in general i spoke english very well, with haply a little of the aberdeen accent, and there was a little bandying of words passed here that i do not perfect. ly recollect, but i know they were not greatly to my credit. as for lady jane, she went on like a lark, changing her note every sentence; but she had that art and that winning manner with her, that never woman in this world shall again inherit in such perfection. so i thought, and so i think to this day; for even when she was mocking me, and making me blush like crimson, i could have kissed the dust of her feet. she brought on the subject of the refusal i had given her mother, ridi. culed it exceedingly, flew from it again, and chatted of something else, but still as if she had that and every thing else in the nation at her control. heaven knows how she effected her purpose, but in the course of an hour's conversation, without ever letting me perceive that she was aiming at any object, she had thoroughly impressed me with the utter insufficiency of the king in all that concerned the affairs of the state, and the uncontrollable power of the house of huntly. “my father is too po- tent not to have many enemies,” said she," and he has many, but it is not the 'king that he fears, but a cabal in the approaching committee of the estates. not for him. self, but for fear of the realm's peace, does he dread them ; for there is not a canting hypocrite among them that dares lift his eye to huntly. he can lead a young man to fortune, as many he has led, but how can the poor caballing lords do such a thing, when every one is scratch, scratching for some small pittance to himself. his enemies, as you know, have brought a miserable ac- cusation against him, of hindering his vassals from hear- ing such ministers as they chose, and with former corres- pondence which was all abrogated in open court, they life of an edinburgh baillie. hope to ruin the best, the kindest, and the greatest man of the kingdom. the letters are already cancelled by law, but when subjects take the law into their own hand, right and justice are at an end. do you give these papers to me. you will never again have such an op- portunity of doing good, and no blame can ever attach to you." “i would willingly lay down my life for you madam,” said i, but my honour i can never.” “fuss! honour! said she, “ your honour has no more concern in it than mine has, and not half so much. you say you would lay down your life for me, but if you would consider the venerable and valuable life which you are endangering! if you would consider the opulent and high born family which you are going to sacrifice out of mere caprice!” i could not help shedding some tears at this bitter reflection; she perceived my plight, and added, “ did you ever see the nobleman whose life and domains you now have it in your power to save from the most imminent risk ?” i answered that i never had had that honour. • come with me, then, and i will in- troduce you to my father,” said she. “no-no-no-ma'am !” said i, mightily flustered. “no-no-no-i would rather be excused if you please." “ what ?” said she, “refuse the first step to honour that ever was proffered to you? refuse the highest honour that a commoner can hope for, an introduction to george, marquess of huntly ?” “ but then, ma'am, i have nothing ado with his high- ness,” said i, “ i have no favour to ask of hiin, and none to grant." “ hold your peace," said she, “and if you have any wish that you and i should ever be better acquainted, come with me.” that was a settler; i could make no answer to that, for my heart was already so much overcome by the divine perfections of the lady, that i viewed her as a being of a superior nature-a creature that was made to be adored . remarkable passages in the and obeyed. she took my hand, and though, perhaps, i hung a little backward, which i think i did, i never- theless followed on like a dog in a string! there were two guards in attendance, who, lifting their bonnets, let lady jane pass ; but the second seized me by the breast, thrust me backward, and asked me whither i was going so fast? i was very willing to have turned, but in a moment lady jane had me again by the hand, and with one look she silenced the centinel. “ this is the secre. tary of the castle," said she, “ who has some arrears to settle with my father before he leaves his confinement, which he does immediately.” i had now, as i thought, got my cue, and so brighten- ing up, i says, “ yes, sir, i am the secretary of the castle, and i have a right to come and go where and how i please, sir,” says i. “ the devil you have, sir,” says he. “ yes, the devil i have, sir," says i; and i will let you know, sir- “ hush,” said lady jane, smiling, and laying her delicate hand on my mouth, “this is no place or time for altercation," i however, gave the guardsman a proud look of defiance, and squeezed some words of the same import through the lady's fingers, to let him know whom he had to do with, for i was so proud of 'squiring lady jane gordon down the stair and along the trance, that i wanted to make the fellows believe i was no small beer. in one second after that, we were in the presence of the great marquess of huntly, and in one word i never have yet seen a sight so venerable, so imposing, and at the same time so commanding, as that old hero, surround- ed by the ladies of his family and one of his sons whom he called adam. i shall never forget the figure, eye and countenance of the marquess. he appeared to be about fourscore years of age, though i was told after. wards that he was not so much. his hair was of a dark, glittering, silver grey, and his eyes were dark, and as piercing, haughty, and independent as those of the blue hawk. they were like the eyes of a man in the fire life of an edinburgh baillie. and impatience of youth, and yet there appeared to be a sunny gleam of kindness and generosity, blended with all the sterner qualities of human nature. if ever i saw a figure and face that indicated a mind superior to his fellow-creatures, they were those of george the first marquess of huntly. and more than that, he seemed almost to be adored by his family, which i have found on long experience to be a good sign of a man. those that are daily and hourly about him are the best judges of his qualifications, and if he is not possessed of such as are estimable, he naturally loses the respect due to inherent worth. he wore a wide coat of a cinnamon colour, and he was ruffled round the shoulders and round the hands. he received me with perfect good nature, ease and indif- ference, in much the same way any gentleman would re- ceive a neighbour's boy that had popped in on him; and spoke of indifferent matters, sometimes to me and some. times to his daughters. he spoke of my father and grandfather, and all the sydeserfs that ever lived; but i remember little that passed, for to my astonishment i found that there were two jeanie gordons-two young ladies so exactly the same that i thought i could have defied all the world to distinguish the one from the other. there was not a shade of difference that eye could dis- cern, neither in stature nor complexion: and as for their dresses, there was not a flower-knot, a flounce, nor a seam in the one that was not in the other. every thing was precisely the same. whenever i fixed my eyes on one, i became convinced that she was my own lady jane, to whom i looked for a sort of patronage in that high community ; but if ever by chance my look rested on the face of the other, my faith began'to waver, and in a very short time again my direction centered on that one. it was the most extraordinary circumstance that i had ever seen or heard of. it seems these two young ladies were twin sisters, and as they surpassed all their contem. poraries of the kingdom in beauty, insomuch that they were the adıniration of all that beheld them, so were they also admired by all for their singular likeness to eaciu remarkable passages in the other. for the space of six months after they came from nursing, their parents could not distinguish them from each other, and it was suspected they had changed their names several times. but after they came home from paris, where they were at their education for seven years, neither their father nor brothers ever knew them from each other again. they generally, at their father's request, wore favours of different colours on their breasts, but by changing these and some little peculiarities of dress, they could at any time have deceived the whole family, and many a merry bout they had at cross pur- poses on such occasions. it was often remarked that huntly, when fairly mistaken, would never yield, but always persisted in calling mary-jane, and jane- mary, till deceived into the right way again. so much beauty and elegance i have never seen, and never shall contem- plate again; and i found that i had lost my heart. still it was to lady jane that i had lost it, although i could not distinguish the one from the other. i must now return to my narrative, taking up the story where i can, as i really never did recollect almost ought of what passed in that august presence, where one would have thought i should have remembered every thing. the marchioness, i noticed, showed no condescension to me, but appeared proud, haughty and offended; and when she spoke of me to her lord, she called me that person. my angel lady jane (whichever was she) had now lost all her jocularity and flippancy of speech; there was nothing but mimness and reserve in the marquess's presence. at length, on my proposing to retire, the marquess addressed me something to the following purport. “ i believe, sir, lady huntly and one of my daughters have been teasing you for some old papers at present in your custody. i will not say that they might not have been of some import to me in the present crisis, but i commend your integrity and faith in the charge commit. ted to you. you are doing what is right and proper and whatever may be the consequence, take no more thought about the matter.' life of an edinburgh baillie. · here lady jane made some remark about the great consequence of these papers, on which he subjoined ra- ther tartly' “ i tell you, jane, i don't regard the plots of my enemies. i can now leave this place when i please, and i shall soon, very soon, be beyond their reach." the young lady shed a flood of tears, on which i said, that if i had the deputy governor's permission, i would with pleasure put these papers into his lordship’s hand. * no,” said he ; “ i would not be obliged to such a bear for them, though certain that they were to save my head." lady huntly said something bitterly about asking fa. vours of low people, but he checked her with " no, no, henny! not another word on the subject. you have acted quite right, young man. good night.” i was then obliged to take myself off, which i did with one of my best bows, which was returned only by lady mary: all the rest remained stiff and upright in their po. sitions. lady jane followed me, saying, “ i must con- duct him through the guards again, else there will be bloodshed.” my heart thrilled with joy. she went with me to my apartment, and then asked me, with tears in her eyes, if i was going to let that worthy and vene- rable nobleman suffer on a scaffold for such a trifle. i tried to reason, but my heart was lost, and i had little chance of victory; so at length i said i durst not for my life give them up, unless i instantly made my escape out of the castle. she said that was easily effected, for i should go out in her father's livery to-morrow morning, and for that part, she could conceal me for the remain- der of the night; she added, that once i was out, and under huntly's protection and her's—i waited for no more ;-" once you are out, and under huntly's pro- tection and mine," said she-i flew away to the register chest, where i had seen the papers but the day before, and soon found them in two triple sealed parcels, with these labels, huntly's treasonable correspondence with spain. ditto with the catholick lords, &c.,-- i remarkable passages in the and flying away with them, i put them into the hands of lady jane gordon. that was the most exquisite moment of my life- true, i had played the villain ; but no matter; i have ne. ver enjoyed so happy a moment since that time. lady jane seized the papers with an eagerness quite indescri- bable-she hugged them- she did not know where to hide them, but seemed to wish them within her breast. gratitude beamed, nay it flashed in every angelic feature, till at length unable to contain herself, she burst into tears, flung her arms round my neck, and kissed me! yes, i neither write down a falsehood, nor exaggerate in the least degree; i say the beauty of the world, the envy of courts, and the mistress of all hearts, once, and but once, kissed my lips ! kissed the lips of the then young, vain, and simple bauldy sydeserf. it was a dear kiss to me! but no more of that at present. after this rapturous display, lady jane looked me no more in the face, but flew from me with the prize she had obtained, bidding me good night, without looking be- hind her. it was evident she deemed she had got a boon of her father's life. but there was i left in my dark, hateful chamber all alone, to reflect on what i had done. may the lord never visit any of his faithful servants with such a measure of affliction, as it was my lot that night to bear. i cannot describe it, but i think i was in a burning fever, and all for perfect terror. i had for. feited life land honour, and all to serve an old papist, the greatest enemy of the blessed work of reformation in the whole kichgdom; and what gratitude or protection was i to expect from the adherents to that cursed profession? alas! not to the extent of a grain of mustard seed. then i fell into a troubled slumber, and had such dreams of haggardl hanging me and cutting off my head, until wak- ing i lay groaning like one about to expire until day- light ene tered. i then rose and began to cast about how i shouðld make my escape ; for i knew if i remained in my sitieuation another day i was a gone man. the castle being ata state prison at that time, there was no possibility remarkable passages in the of making an escape from it, without a warrant from the authorities; and i had begun to patch up a speech in my defence, which i was going to deliver before my judge, as soon as the papers were missed. but then, on con- sidering that there would as certainly be another speech to compose for the scaffold, full of confessions and pray- ers for my enemies, haggard among the rest, i lost heart altogether, and fell to weeping and lamenting my hard fate. while i was in the midst of this dilemma, behold there was a sharp, surly rap came on my door. i opened it in the most vehement perturbation of spirits, and saw there for certain an officer of justice, clad in his insignia of office. “ master," says he,“ is your name mr. secretary side- sark?" “ yes, sir," says i, “that is no; my name is not side- sark, although it sounds a little that way.” “ well, well, back or side, short or long, it makes little difference,” says he; “ i have a little business with you. you go with me.” * what ! to prison ?” says i. “ yes to the prison,” says he ; “ to be sure, where else but to the prison in the mean time ?" " very well, sir,” says i ; “ show me your warrant then,” says i. “ certainly," says he ; “ here is my warrant," and with that he turned into a corner of the trance, and lift- ed a large bundle " there it is, master; you understand me now." “no, on my faith and honour and conscience, i do pot,” said i. " what warrant is that ?” “open and see, master, open and see,” said he, wip- ing his brow; “pray have you any thing in the house that will drink? yes, open and see ; ay, that way, that way. now you will soon get into the heart and midriff of the mystery.” on opening the parcel, i found a splendid livery com- plete, of green and gold, and my heart began to vibrate to the breathings of hope. “ now, sir, make haste," life of an edinburgh baillie. said my visitor ; “ make haste, make haste. you under stand me; now dress yourself instantly in these habili- ments, and go with me. the family waits for you. you are to walk behind lady jane, and carry her fardel, or mantle perhaps, or some trifle. we two shall likely be better acquainted. my name is david peterkin, mr peterkin, you know, of course, mr peterkin. i am head butler in the family, steward's butler that is. you are to be gentleman-usher to the young ladies, i presume !" thus his tongue went on without intermission, while i dressed myself, unable to speak many words, so uplift- ed was my heart. i left my clothes, linens, every thing -my key in my desk—and the key of the register-chest within the desk, lying uppermost ; and bringing all the public money that was in my possession away with me, as part of my arrears of wages, i followed mr david peterkin to the apartments where i had been the night before. huntly's power and interest had been very great in the state at that time, notwithstanding his religious tenets, of which the popular party, his sworn enemies, made a mighty handle, in order to ruin him. they had got him seized and lodged in the castle, thinking to bring him to his trial, at which fair play was not intended, but he had the interest to procure the lord chancellor's war- rant for the removal of himself and suite from the castle, without lett or hindrance, on condition that he confined himself three weeks to his own house in the canongate, to wait the charges brought against him. haggard, the deputy-governor, who was the tool of the other party, refused to act on this warrant, pretending it was forged ; but the very next day huntly's interest again prevailed. he was not only liberated, but the outrageous haggard was seized and lodged in gaol, on what grounds i never heard exactly explained. indeed it was long ere i knew that such an event had taken place, and if i had, it would have saved me a world of terror and trouble. i followed the family of huntly to the canongate, but to my grief found that i had nothing to do save to eat remarkable passages in the and drink. i was grieved exceedingly at this, weening that they had no trust to put in me ; as how could they well, considering that i had come into their service by playing the rogue. i kept myself exceedingly close, for fear of being seized for the malversation committed in the castle, and never went out of doors, save when the young ladies did, which was but seldom. a great deal of company flocked to the house. it was never empty from morning to night ; for my part, i thought there had not been so many nobility and gentry in the whole kingdom, as came to pay court to the marquess, his sons, his lady, and his daughters; for all of them had their suitors, and that without number. that house was truly like the court of a sovereign ; and there were so many grooms, retainers, and attendants of one kind and another, that to this hour i never knew how many there were of us. we were an idle, dissipated, loquacious set, talking without intermission, and never talking any thing but nonsense, low conceits, ribaldry, and all manner of bad things; and there neither was man nor woman among them all that had half the education of myself. i would have left the family in a short time, had it not been for one extraor- dinary circumstance-i was in love with my mistress ! yes, as deeply in love with lady jane gordon as ever man was with maid, from the days of jacob and rachel unto this day on which i write. i had likewise strong hopes of reciprocal affection, and ultimate success ; but an humble dependant as i then was, how could i declare my love, or how reward my mistress, if accepted ? no matter. a man cannot help that strongest of all pas- sions. for my part, i never attempted it; but finding myself too far gone in love to retreat, i resolved to give my passion full swing, and love with all my heart and soul, which i did. strange as it may appear, i loved only lady jane,--she that embraced me, and gave me a kiss,—but yet i never could learn to distinguish her from her sister ; and i was almost sure that whenever i began to declare my passion, i was to do it to the wrong one. i hated lord gordon, her eldest brother, who was remarkable passages in the the proudest man that i had ever seen, and dreaded that he never would consent to an union between his sister and one of the sydesert's. i was sure he would shoot me, or try to do it, but thought there might be means found of keeping out of his way or of giving him as good as he gave. lady jane gordon i was determined to attempt and her i was determined to have. all this time i heard no word from the castle, and be. gan to be a little more at my ease ; still i never ventured out of doors, save once or twice that i followed the young ladies, for i always attached myself to them, and to lady jane, as far as i could distinguish. having saved a share of money in the castle, i ordered a suit of clothes befitting a gentleman, and whenever a great dinner oc- curred, i dressed myself in that, and took my station behind lady jane's chair, but without offering to put my hand to anything. lord gordon, or enzie as they called him, noted me one day, and after i went out inquired who i was. this was told me by one of the valets. neither the marquess nor lady huntly answered a word, but both seemed a little in the fidgets at the query : but lady jane, after glancing round the whole apartment answered her brother, that i was a young gentleman, a man of education and good qualities, who had done her a signal piece of service. that i had since that time attached myself to the family, but they did not choose to put me to any menial employment. on this the proud spirit of lord enzie rose, and he first jeered his angelic sister spitefully for requiring secret pieces of service from young gentlemen and men of edu. cation; and then he cursed me and all such hangers-on. i never was so proud of any speech in the world as that of lady jane's, which made my blood rise still the more at the pride and arrogance of lord gordon; and i hoped some time in my life to be able to chastise him in part for his insolence. whether or not these hopes were realized, i leave to all who read this memoir to judge. shortly after that, lady jane went out to walk one fine day, with her brother lord adam gordon ; fol. life of an edinburgh baillie. lowed, as i was wont, at a respectful distance, clad in my splendid livery. in the royal bounds east of the palace, lord adam had noted me, for i saw him and his sister talking and looking back to me alternately. he was the reverse of his elder brother, being an easy, good- natured, and gentlemanly being as ever was born, with no great headpiece as far as i ever could learn. lady jane called me up to her, and asked me if we could pass over to the chapel on the hill at the nearest. i saw lord adam eyeing me with the most intense curiosity, as i thought, which made me blush like crimson; but i answered her ladyship readily enough, and in proper english, without a bit of the aberdeen brogue. i said, “i cannot tell, lady jane, as i never crossed there, but i suppose it is quite practicable.” “ humph !" exclaimed lord adam, rather surprised at so direct and proper an answer. “ then will you be so good as carry this fur mantle for me, mr archibald ?" said she, “ as i propose to climb the hill with auchendoun.” “ yes, lady jane," said i. “ but will it not warm you too much ?'' added she. “because, if it will, i'll make my brother adam carry it piece about with you." i could make no answer, i was so overcome with de- light at hearing that she put me on an equality with her brother; but taking the splendid mantle from her, i folded it neatly, took it over my arm, and took my res- pectful distance again. it was not long before the two were stopped by the extreme wetness of the bog, on which lady jane turned back ; lord adam took hold of her, and would not let her, but wanted to drag her into the bog. she struggled with him playfully, and then called on me. “ this unreasonable man will insist on my wading through this mire,” said she ; “pray, mr. ar- chibald, could you find me a few steps, or contrive any way of taking me over dry shod.” “yes, i can, lady jane,” said i, throwing off my strong shoes, and setting them down at her ladyship's feet in one moment. remarkable passages in the “humph !” said lord adam, more surprised at my cleverness and good breeding than ever. i believe she meant me to have carried her over in my arms, a practise very common in the neighbourhood of edinburgh then. i believed so at the time, but i con- trived a far more genteel and respectful method. she put on the shoes above her fine ones, smiling with ap- probation, and stepped over dry and clean, while i was obliged to wade over in my white stockings, which gave them an appearance as if i had on short boots. as soon as she got over to the dry hill, she returned me my shoes, thanked me, and said i was a much more gallant man than auchendoun, who had so small a share of it, that she was sure he would live and die an old bachelor; but that i would not. it is impossible at this time of life, when my blood is thin, and the fire of youth burning low, to describe the intensity of my love, my joy, and my delight after this auspicious adventure. i walked on springs—i moved in air—the earth was too vulgar for my foot to tread on, and i felt as if mounting to the clouds of heaven, and traversing the regions and spheres above the walks of mortality. yea though clothed in a livery, and carrying her cloak over my arm, (vile badges of slavery!)—though walking all alone, and far behind the object of all my earthly hopes, i remember i went on repeating these words to myself, “ she is mine ! she is mine!” the flower of all the world is my own! she loves me, she adores me! i see it in her eyes, her smile, her every feature: that beam only foretastes of heaven and happi. ness! she shall yet be mine! to walk by my side! smile in my face when there is none to see! rest in my bosom, and be to me as a daughter! o that it were given me to do some great and marvellous action, to make me worthy of so much gentleness and beauty !” in this strain did i go on till it came to my reflection that she was older than me and that i had no time for the performance of any of these great actions, as all the young noblemen of the three kingdoms were at cutting life of an edinburgh baillie. one another's throats about her and her sister already. this was a potion so bitter that i could not swallow it, nevertheless i was compelled to do it, and then i lifted up my voice and wept. i was three weeks in the family before i knew that the whole of its members were confirmed papists, and huntly himself an excommunicated person, given over to satan; and grievously was i shocked and tormented about it; particularly to think of the beautiful, angelic, and imma. culate lady jane being a proselyte to that creed. for my life, i could not think the less of her for this misfor- tune; for she was indeed all gentleness, kindness and humanity; but i deplored her calamity, and resolved to spend life and blood to effect her conversion to the truth, and then i knew the consolation she would experience would knit her inviolably to me for ever. full of this great scheme, i set to the studying night and day how i might accomplish my purpose, but my plans were derang- ed for the present by an announcement that the family was to remove to the highlands; in consequence of which all was bustle and confusion for several days. the day of our departure at length arrived, and that was such a cavalcade as scotland hath but rarely wit- nessed, when the gordons rode out at the west port of edinburgh. the marquess wanted to show a little of his power, and to crow over his enemies that day, for he had no less than forty noblemen in his company, includ- ing the sons of earls, every one of whom had numerous attendants, while he himself had five hundred gallant yeomen of strathbogie as a guard. the gentlemen rode all in armour, and the ladies on palfreys, and without douut it was a noble sight. as we rode through the grass-market, the crowd was excessive, and there was some disposition manifested of an attack on the noble family, which was very unpopular among the true reform- ers of that period; but we appeared in such strength that they durst do nothing but stand and gaze, while the ad. herents of the old principles rent the air with shouts of applause. v. remarkable passages in the i had for my steed a good black country nag, with a white girth round his neck. he was lean, but high spir. ited, and i made a considerable figure among the multi- tude. after we were fairly out of the town, the ladies did not keep all together, but rode in pairs or mixed with the gentlemen. i then formed the design of watching an opportunity and slipping a religious letter that i had penned into lady jane's hand; but i watched in vain, for she was the whole day surrounded by suitors, every one striving to get a word of her ; so that i felt myself as nobody among that splendid group, and fell into great despondency. the more so, that i thought i discovered one who was a favourite above all others that day. he was tall, comely, and rode a french steed of uncommon beauty and dimensions, and being seldom or never from her side, i perceived a triumph in his eyes that was not to be borne ; but i was obliged to contain my chagrin, not being able to accomplish any thing for the present. [mr sydeserf then goes on to relate every circum- stance attending their journey, and the places at which they halted, which narrative is tedious enough, for he seems neither to have been in the confidence of masters nor servants. he complains greatly of want of accommo- dation and victuals by the way, and adds, that as for the troopers and common attendants, he could not discover what they subsisted on, for he neither perceived that they got any allowance, or that they had any victuals along with them. the only thing worth copying in the journal (and it is scarcely so) is his account of a dinner which appears to have been at glamis castle, and the pickle david peterkin was in for meat and drink.] at perth, we lodged at a palace of our own, (i am ignorant what palace this was,) but it was not stored with dainties, like our house in edinburgh. all the esta. blishments of the town were ransacked for viands, and a good deal of fish and oaten meal were procured ; never- theless the people were very hungry, and every thing vanished as fast as presented. of the whole group there was not one so badly off as my old friend, mr david life of an edinburgh baillie. peterkin, who could not live without a liberal supply of meat and drink, although, honest man, he was not very nice with regard to quality. the marquess dined at one, the head attendants at half-past one, and the lower servants at two, with david peterkin at their head; but this day it was five before the first class sat down, and by the eager way in which the various portions were de- voured, i saw there would not be much left for the se. cond table, not looking so far forward as the third. at our table, every remnant of fish, fowl, meat, and venison vanished; the bones were picked as clean as peeled wood, and even the oatmeal soup went very low in the bickers. i could not help then noting the flabby and altered fea- tures of poor peterkin, as he eyed the last fragment of every good bit reaved from his longing palate. his ca. daverous looks were really pitiful, for he was so much overcome that his voice had actually forsaken him, and i have reason to believe, that saving a little gruel, he and his associates got nothing. the next night we were at the castle of old lord ly- on, where i witnessed a curious scene, at least it was a curious scene to me. the dinner was served in a long dark hall, in which the one end could not be seen from the other, and the people took all their places, but no- thing was set down. after the nobility were placed, two orderly constables came down among us, and pulling and wheeling us rudely by the shoulders, pointed out to us our various places. down we sat, hurryscurry, lords ladies, servants, all in the same apartment, but all in due rank and subordination. thinks i to myself, lord huntly will not like this arrangement, and lady huntly will like it still worse; but casting my eyes toward him at the head oft he board, i never saw the old hero in better humour, and the suavity or sternnes of his counte- nance spread always like magic over all that came within its influence, consequently, i knew at once that that would be a pleasant party. it was the first time i had sat at table with my mistress, and i being among the uppermost retainers, my distance from her was not very life of an edinburgh baillie. the third course was one of venison and fowls, but that passed not by the broad table. after the first service, strong drink was handed round in large wooden dishes with two handles, and every man was allowed as much as he could take at a draught, but not to renew it; the same the next service, and thus ended our dinner. the party was uncommonly facetious, owing, i was sure, to the marquess's good humour, which never for an instant forsook him, and convinced me that he had often been in similar situations. i enjoyed it exceedingly ; but every thing came on me by surprise, and the last was the most disagreeable of all. no sooner had we taken our last sup above mentioned, than the two imperious constables with the long white staves came and turned us out with as little ceremony as they set us down, hitting such as were unmindful of their warning a yerk with their sticks. they actually drove us out before them like a herd of highland cattle ; and then the nobility and gentry closed around the broad table for an evening's enjoyment. i never felt the degrading shackles of servitude and dependency so much as i did at that instant. to be placed at table with my mistress, with her whom i loved above all the world ; to eat of the same food, and drink of the same cup, and then, when it suited the conve- nience of my superiors in rank, (though in nothing else,) and of my rivals, to be driven from her presence like a highland bullock, and struck on the shoulders with a peeled stick! why sirs, it was more than the spirit within a sydeserf could brook ! and but for love-im- perious love-but for the circumstance that i was utterly unable to tear myself away from the object of my de. votion, i would never have submitted to such humiliation, or the chance of it, a second time. [on the marquess and his retinue reaching. huntly castle, it appears from the narrative that by some mutual understanding, all the gentlemen visitors withdrew, and left the family at leisure for some great preparation, the purport of which mr sydeserf was utterly at a loss to comprehend ; but it freed him of his rivals in love, and u life of an edinburgh baillie. i went to the bower, and found every thing as i had left it. my heart had nigh failed me at the greatness of the attempt, but not doubting its ultimate success, i let every thing remain. then a thought struck me how exquisite a treat it would be to witness the effect of my stratagem unseen. this was easy to be done, as the bower was surrounded by an impervious thicket, so i set about it and formed myself a den close behind the bower, cutting a small opening through the leaves and branches, that without the possibility of being seen, i might see into the middle of her retreat. i thought the hour of her arrival would never come, and my situation and sufferings were dread- ful. at length the entrance to the bower darkened, and on peeping through my opening, i saw the lovely vision standing in manifest astonishment. her foot was so light that no sound for the listening ear escaped from the sward where that foot trode. she came like a heavenly vision, too beautiful and too pure for human hand to touch, or even for human eye to look on; and there she stood in the entrance to the bower, the emblem of holy amaze- ment. my breast felt as it would rend at both my sides with the pangs of love, and my head as if a hive of bees had settled on it. as soon as her eye traced the purple cross, she instantly kneeled before it, and bowed her head to the ground in prayer; but her prayer was the effusion of the soul, few words being expressed audibly, and those at considerable intervals. in these intervals she appeared to be kissing the cross of flowers; but i was not positive of this, for i saw but indistinctly; she then took a small picture of some favourite sweetheart from her bosom, looked at it with deep concern and affection, kissed it, and put it again in its place. this grieved me, but i took notice of the mounting of jewels round the miniature so as that i was certain of knowing it again, and curious i was to see it. she then sat for a space in the most calm and beatific contemplation, and i shall never forget the comeliness of that face as she looked about on the beauties of nature. life of an edinburgh baillie. i the lady's misfortune, i loved her rather the better than the worse for it, for my love was seasoned with a pity of the most tender and affectionate nature. i put these sinful relics carefully up in my pocket, determined to have a fair bout with the conscience and good sense of their owner at the delivery of them. but the next day she cheated me, going to her bower by a circuitous route, and about an hour and a half earlier than she was wont, for she had missed her costly relics and been quite impatient about them. i discovered that she was there, and knew not how to do to come in contact with her. but i was always a man of fair and honour. able shifts; so i went and turned a drove of the mar- quess's fat bullocks into the side of the deveron to get a drink, for the day was very warm. the animals were pampered and outrageous, but still more terrible in ap- pearance than reality; and now lady jane could not re- turn home in any other way than either by wading the stream, or coming through the middle of the herd, neither of which she durst do for her life. now, thinks i, my dear lady, i shall make you blythe of my assistance once more. so i concealed myself, keeping in view the path by which she was necessitated to emerge from the wood; she appeared once or twice among the bushes, but durst not so much as come nigh the stile. i kept my station, but was harassed by lady jane's maid coming to look after her mistress, who had been longer than her usual time absent. “go away hame, you giglet,” said i. “the lady is without doubt at her devotions. i am watching lest she fall among these dangerous animals. a fine hand you would be to conduct her through them. go away hame, and mind your broidery and your seam." “oh mee gracioso monsieur longshirte," said the french taupie, “how monstrouse crabeede you are dis day! me do tink you be for de word of de pretty bride yourself. ah you sly doag, is it not soa? ha! come tell me all about it, cood monsieur de longshirte;"and with that she came and placed herself close down beside me; remarkable passages in the i was nettled to death, and knew not what way to get quit of her. “go away hame, i tell you, you foreign coquette," said i as good-naturedly as i could ; "you mouse-trap, you gillie-gawkie, i say go away hame.” “ how very droll you be, good monsieur de long. shirte," said she; “but de very night before one you called me de sweet sweet rose, and de lily, and de beauti. ful maamoselle le mebene; and now i am de giglet, and trap-de-moose, and gillygawky? and den it was come, come, come wid me sweet le mebene; but now it is go, go home vid you de french coquette! how very droll you be, kind monsieur longshirte.” after a great deal of tattle of the same sort, and find- ing it impossible to get rid of her, i ran off and left her, ensconcing myself in the middle of the herd of bullocks. i did not want to hear any recapitulations of idle chit- chat. domestics in high life have ways and manners not much to boast of, and my heart was set on higher game. so i fled from the allurements of a designing woman into the fellowship of the bulls of bashan. they gathered round me, staring with their great goggle eyes, and made a humming noise as if to encourage one another to the attack, but none seemed to have courage to be the first beginner, but always as their choler rose to a height, they attacked one another either in sport or real earnest, and altogether they made a hideous uproar. le mebene fled towards the castle, and afraid that she would raise the affray, i was forced to proceed to the only entrance by which lady jane could emerge from the wood, and cutting myself a great kebir, i took my stand there, and whistled a spring with great glee to keep my courage up, and let my mistress hear that her protector was at hand. she was not slack in taking the hint, for she came to me with a hurried step, and a certain wildness in her looks that showed great trepidation. she commended me for my attention, blessed me, and took my hand in hers, which i felt to be trembling. this i took to be the manifestation of an ardent and concealed love, and life of an edinburgh baillie. seizing it in both mine, i kissed it, kneeling at her feet; at the same time beginning a speech which i choose not here to relate, till looking up i perceived a blush on her face. i believe to this day it was the blush of restrained affection, but at the moment it had the effect of sealing my lips, having taken it for the red frown of displeasure. “do not mar the high sentiments i entertain of you, mr. archibald," said she. “ my esteem for you is such, honoured lady,” said i, " that it knows no boundaries either in time or eternity.” “ i know it, i know it, young man,” said she, inter- rupting me again : “ you have put my faith sorely to the test; but, blessed be the mother of our lord, i have overcome.” my heart trembled within me with a mixture of grief and awe, love and disappointment, and i lost the only chance ever i had of working the conversion of that most angelic of women, by sinking into utter silence before her eye. she seized the opportunity by momently re- verting to her critical and dangerous situation, and ask- ed if i durst undertake to conduct her through the herd ? · i shouldered my great stick, answered in the affirma- tive, and assured her it was only a sense of her imminent danger that had brought me there. “ there is nothing in this world for which i have such a horror as bulls,” said she. “they are the most ferocious of all animals, and so many accidents occur every season from their untameable fierceness, that i declare my blood runs cold to encounter their very looks.” the animals as far as i understood, were oxen, not bulls, but i chose not to give the lie to a lady's discern- ment, and acquiesced with her in affirming that our country contained no animals so dangerous and terrible, and i added, “ but what does the heart and arm of man fear, when put to the test in defence of beauty ? “ bravo!" said she, “ lead on, and god be our shield !" i offered my protecting hand, but she declined it and took shelter behind me. she was covered with a tartan remarkable passages in the mantle, the prevailing colour of which was a bright scarlet, a colour which provokes the fury of these animals, but which circumstance was then unknown to me. they came on us with open mouths, bellowing and scraping with their fore feet on the earth, and always as they gazed at us the reflection of the mantle made their eyes as of a bloody red. i thought the animals were gone mad altogether, and never was so terrified from the day that i was born. lady jane clung to me, sometimes on the one side and sometimes on the other, uttering every now and then a smothered scream, and looking as pale as if she had been wrapt in her winding sheet. “no fear, no fear, madam,” said i. “ they had better keep their distance. stand off, you ugly dog! stand off !" and i shouldered my tree. “ stand off, or i will teach you better manners." no they would not stand off, but in place of that came nearer and nearer, until they had us so completely beleaguered that we could neither advance nor retreat. “ collie choke a bull," cried i, trying every method to disperse our adversaries, but trying them all in vain. i gave us up for lost, and i fear lady jane beheld my changing cheer, for she actually grew frantic with terror, and screamed aloud for assistance, as from some other quarter. it was now high time for me to repent of my strata. gem of the bullocks, which i did in good sincerity, and made a vow to god in my heart, if he would but deliver me, thenceforward to act openly and candidly with all mankind, and womankind into the bargain. i made this experiment the more readily that lady jane was at the same time calling on the holy virgin, on whose interces- sion having no manner of reliance, but dreading the ven. geance of heaven for such palpable idolatry, i put up such a petition as a christian ought, and sealed it with a vow. when lo wonderful to relate i the outrageous animals fell a tossing their heads and tails in a wild and frantic manner, and in one minute they galloped off in every direction, as if under the influence of some charm. they cocked their heads, rolled their tails up in the air, life of an edinburgh baillie. and ran as if for a prize ; some of them plunging into the deveron, and others dashing into the woods. our relief was instantaneous. i say nothing but the truth, and deny not that the phenomenon might have been accounted for in a natural way, therefore, as a humble sinner, i take no merit to myself, but describe things precisely as they oc- curred. whether the animals only came to gaze on us for their amusement, and started off simultaneously in pursuit of some higher fun, or if an army of hornets was sent by heaven to our relief, i pretend not at this dis- tance of time to determine. but sorry have i been a thousand times that i could not keep that vow made in my greatest extremity. the times in which i have lived rendered it impracticable. every thing was to be done by plot and stratagem, and he that could not yield his mind to such expedients was left in the lurch. true, it was a sin to break my vow, nevertheless it was a sin of necessity, and one of which i was compelled to be guilty every day. may the lord pardon the transgressions of his erring servant ! one would have thought that now, when our danger was clean gone, lady jane would have brightened up; but, in place of that, she grew quite faint and leaned on my arm without being able to speak. i bore her on for some time with great difficulty, and at last was obliged to let her sink to the earth, where for some time i had the ineffable delight of supporting her head on my bosom; and so much was i overcome with violent emotion, that for a long time i could not stir to attempt any means for her recovery. at length i judged it necessary to my credit to attempt something, so i cut the lacings of her stays, and soon after that she recovered. i had not well raised her up, and was still supporting her with both my arms, when on an instant her brother, the lord gordon, and the marquess of douglas, appear. ed close at our hands. i expected lady jane to faint again, but the surprise acted like electricity on her, and after an alternate blush of the rose and paleness of the lily, she quite recovered. madam mebene had raised remarkable passages in the the alarm in the family, and the two lords came on the look out for her who was the darling of the whole house. but the proud eye of enzie burnt with rage as he ap- proached us. he had seen me rise first myself, raise the lady in my arms, and support her for a small space on the way, and it was manifest that his jealous nature was aroused, and that if it had not been for the presence of lord douglas, he would have run me through the body. i'll never forget the look he gave me when he threw me from his sister's side, and took my place. as for the attack made on her by bulls, as she related it, and of her faint- ing away, i could perceive that he regarded it all as a made up story, and thought more than he choose to ex. press. lady enzie was not at castle huntly on our arrival there from edinburgh; for the castle being then in ruins, and our residence only temporary barracks, we remained at our own home till about this time of which i am writ- ing, when she came on a visit. her maiden name was lady anne campbell, she being eldest sister to the good earl of argyle ; she had been married at an early age, and now looked like an old woman; her health and heart being both broken. she had been compelled to marry into a catholic family, in order to effect some mighty coalition in the highlands which failed, and i fear she had little pleasure of her life, for her husband was the sworn enemy of her house, and a perfect demon in pride and irritability. she was a true protestant, and had all the inherent good qualities of her noble lineage;—she had learned to temporize with those of a different persua- sion, and all her sisters-in-law loved her with great tenderness and affection. now it so fell out that my religious epistle to lady jane had troubled that lady a great deal, and put her catholic principles sore to the rack; therefore as a grate- ful present to her protestant sister, she put the writing into her hands, at which she was greatly amazed, and not less delighted, testifying the strongest desire to for- ward the views of the writer. by what means this paper remarkable passages in the ill, and the violence of my rage at lord enzie made my distemper a great deal the worse. as soon as i was able, i wrote to the marquess com- plaining of the usage i had received in recompense for all i had ventured for him. he was a man of the high- est honour, and sent me a sum of money with an assu- rance that he would provide for me in a way that suited both my talents and inclination. he regretted what his son had done, whom no man could keep in bounds, but was willing to make me all the reparation that lay in his power, which i should soon see; so i was obliged to keep my humble bed and wait the issue. a few days subsequent to that, i was visited by lady enzie and lady jane gordon, who both condoled with me in a most affectionate manner, and reprobated the outrage committed by lord enzie, who had the day be. fore that set off for france on some military expedition. after a great deal of kind commiseration, lady enzie said, “ the plain truth is, clerk archimbald, that you can never rise to eminence either in my husband's family, or under the patronage of any of its members, for (begg. ing my lovely sister's pardon) every one of that family are catholics at heart, however they may have been compelled to disguise their sentiments, and they will never raise a man to wealth or power who is not confirmed in their own religious tenets. it is a part of their prin. ciple rather to retard him. but to my brother, the lord argyle, you will be quite a treasure. you will instruct his two noble sons in the principles of the reformed re- ligion, for which no young man in the kingdom is so well fitted ; learn them the art of composition in the english tongue ; travel with them into foreign parts, and form their hearts and their minds to follow after truth. or you can assist my brother in his great plans of furthering the reformation. if you consent to this arrangement, as soon as you are able to travel, i will dispatch you to my brother with a letter which will ensure your good re- ception.” i testified my obligation to her ladyship, but added life of an edinburgh baillie. of his memoirs, as affording little that is new or amu. sing. he was engaged by the earl of argyle as his se- cretary, and assisted that nobleman with all his power and cunning, in bringing about a reformation, both in church and state. he was likewise tutor to his two sons, and went over to holland with lord lorn, and af- terwards to london with lord neil campbell ; but in the tedious details of these matters, although there is a por- tion of good sense, or sly speciousness in its place, yet there is very little of it so much better than the rest as to be worth extracting. there is one anecdote which he pretends to give from report, which appears not a little puzzling. he says: " while at this place (armaddie) there were strange reports from huntly castle reached mine ears. the two lovely twin gordons were married on the same day to two widowers, but both young and gallant gentlemen, lady mary to the marquess of douglas, and lady jane to lord strathbane; (who in the world was this ?) but on the evening of the wedding, the latter missed his bride, and following her out to her bower, he found her in com- pany with a strange gentleman, who was kneeling and clasping her knees; on which lord strathbane rushed forward, and ran the aggressor through the body with his sword. the utmost confusion arose about the castle. lady jane fainted, and went out of one fit into another, but would never tell who that gentleman was, denying all, knowledge of him. the body was likewise instantaneously removed, so that it was no more seen ; but lord strath- bane, supposing he had committed a murder, fled that night, and the marriage was not consummated for full seven weeks. the story was never rightly cleared up." we do not much wonder at it, considering how quickly the body, or rather the wounded gentleman, made his escape; but even at this distance of time, we have a shrewd suspicion that it might be the baillie himself, especially as he says in another place—“the marquess (of argyle) would fain have had me putting on sword- armour that day, both for the protection of my own life of an edinburh baillie. lying in my chamber next day, so that there was no doubt i had been made away with, in order to cover his embezzlement of the public monies. haggard was in great indignation at the charge, but not being able to prove aught to the contrary, the plea was admitted, and he was cast for execution,a circumstance not much accounted of in those days. i was greatly tickled with this piece of information, and he having been the man who, of all others, used me the worst, save lord gordon, or enzie, as he was called, so i resolved never either to forgive the one or the other. of course i made no efforts towards a mitigation of the brute haggard's sentence. his execution had been fixed for the th of may, but before that period, i had been called express to stirling on the marquess's business, in order to further the cor- respondence on the antrim expedition, of which argyle, my patron, was in great terror. however, i took a horse on the th, and riding all night, reached the grass market in good time to see the ruffian pay kane for all bis cruelties and acts of injustice; and from that day forth, i was impressed with a notion that providence would not suffer any man to escape with impunity who had wronged me, and inherited my curse and malison. i had done nothing against haggard, saving that at one time i had wished ill to him in my heart, and now, be- hold, i saw even more than my heart's desire on mine enemy. i enjoyed the sight a good deal, nor was i to blame;-a man should always do that which is just and proper. i never saw such a wo-begone wretched being as he looked on the scaffold ;--no man could have believed that a character so dissipated and outrageous could ever have been reduced to such a thing of despair. he harangued the multitude at great length, and in my opinion, to very little purpose,-merely, i was persuad. ed, for the purpose of gaining a few more minutes of miserable existence.- again and again did he assert his innocence relating to the murder of the young man commonly called clerk archibald, wished well remarkable passages in the to the marquess of huntly, and prayed for his for- giveness. during the time of this harangue, and when it drew nigh to a close, i chanced to come in contact with mr alexander hume, baker, with whom i had some settle- ments to make while i was in the castle. he was one whom i esteemed as an honourable man, and i could not help speaking to him, asking how he did?—and what he thought of this affair? he answered me in some con- fusion, so that i perceived he did not know me,ếor was greatly at a loss to comprehend how i should be there. judging it, therefore, as well to be quit of him, i made off a little, but he stuck by me, and the crowd being so great, i could not get away, for i was close to the foot of the gallows. “ think of it, squire?" said he, “ why, i suppose i think of it as others do ; that the fellow was a rascal, and brought himself under the lash of the law, and is suffer- ing justly the penalty of his iniquities. our judges are just, you know, and our exactors righteous—do you not think the same?” . “ you had a good deal of business with haggard, mr hume," says i, “and must know. did you find him an arrant rascal in his dealings?" “no-i do not say so, i was not called to give oath to that effect, and if i had, i could not have sworn he was.” “ then you know that, as to the murder, he must have been innocent of that.” “ how ? - what? _how can you prove that? good and blessed virgin, is not this clerk archy himself ?" i nodded assent, when he seized my hand as if it had been in a vice, and went on without suffering me to rejoin a word—" how are you? where have you been? you have been kidnapped, then ? come this way, this way, a wee bit. colonel haggard ! hilloa, colonel, speak to me, will ye.” the colonel had taken farewell of the world, of the sun and the moon, and the stars, and the spires of edin- burgh castle. the bedesman and executioner were both life of an edinburgh baillie. sick of his monotonous harangues, and waited with im- patience the moment when he should give the signal. still he had not power, and at that terrible crisis hume fell a bawling out to him," hilloa, colonel, speak to me, will ye, speak to me just for a wee bit-hilloa, you there, mr sheriff and mr chaplain, loose the colonel's een, will ye? the sheriff shook his head, on which hume saw there was not a moment to lose, and having resolved to save haggard's life, merely, i dare say, for the novelty of the thing, he called aloud to the sheriff to stop the execution till he, mr hume, spoke a word in his ear. with that he sprung to the ladder with an agility of which no man would have supposed him possessed,—the sheriff beck- oned the centinel to let him pass, on which he intimated something very shortly to that dignitary, and flew to the prisoner, who, poor man! stood with his eyes covered, the tow about his neck, his hands hanging pendulous, and the fingers of the right one closed on the signal with the grasp of death. the officious baker, who seemed to have lost his reason for a space, instantly fell to relieving the culprit, turned the napkin up from his eyes, and would also have loosed the tow from about his craig had he been permitted, and all the while he was speaking as fast as his tongue could deliver. i could not hear all he said, but these were some of the words," it's a fact that i tell you, sir, look to yoursel-he's stannin there at the fit of the gallows. you're a betrayed man, sir. see there he is, sir, looking you in in the face, and wit- nessing the whole affair.- mind yoursel, sir, for, holy virgin! there's nae time to loose, ye ken.” the poor wretch tried to look and to find me out in the crowd, but he only stared, and i could easily per, ceive that he saw nothing, or at least distinguished no one object from another,—his eyes were like those of a dead person, casting no reflection inwardly on the soul. mr hume, as i said, in the height of his officiousness, had begun unloosing the cord from about the convict's neck, but was withstood by the executioner. that was remarkable passages in the a droll scene, and contributed no little to the amusement of the tag-rag and bob-tail part of the citizens of edin- binburgh. “ let abee, sir," said the executioner ; " wha baud ye tak that trubble. naebody's fingers touch tow here but mine, onest man. stand back, an it be your wull. who the muckle deevil are ye ?" “ wha im i, sir !" cried the baker,— " wha im i, say ye?--my name, sir, is alexander hume, i'm one o' the auld baillies, and deacon convener o’ the five trades o' the bee calton, a better kind o'man than you, mr hangie, or ony that ever belanged to you, an’ never kend for ony ill yet,-mair than some focks can say ! wha im i troth! -cornel look to yoursel, sir, or you're a murdered man. -i'll stand by you, i like to see a man get justice.” the poor colonel, judging it necessary to do or say something for himself in this extremity, appeared like a man struggling in a horrible dream, but his senses being quite benumbed, he could only take up the baker's hint, and a bad business he made of it, for he began with “o good christian people, it is true, it is true. i am a murdered man !-an innocent murdered man !-and as a proof of it, the man whom i murdered is standing here looking me in the face and laughing at my calamity. and is not this, good christians, such usage as flesh and blood cannot endure ?-to be murdered by spiteful papists and enemies,---murdered in cold blood o mur- der !murder !-murder !” what's all this for !" exclaimed the hangman, and tur- ned the poor wretch off. the baker called out, “ stop, stop !” and caught wildly at the rope, but he was taken into custody, and the colonel, after, a few wallops, ex- pired. in an hour after i left the city to attend the mar- quess's business, but the matter caused a great deal of speechification in edinburgh for a season, the most part of the lieges trowing that it had been my ghost that the baker had seen at the foot of the gallows ; for it was af- firmed that my naked corpse had been taken from a well in the castle along with other two bodies, all murdered by haggard. i did not believe that haggard murdered one life of an edindurgh baillie. of them; me, i was sure, he did not murder, and i was very glad that it was so. [argyle, as the head and chief of the reformers, now carried every thing before him ; and we find that, princi- pally for political purposes, he placed the baillie in edin- burgh as a great wine and brandy merchant, and by that means got him elected into the council of the city, where he seems to have had great influence both with ministers and magistrates. the king nominating the baillies then, argyle or huntly, precisely as their parties prevailed, had nothing further to do than go to the king, or the com- missioners after the king's restraint, and bring down the list, in which case the honourable council seems never to have objected to any of those named; but if we take the baillie's word for it, he seems to have been a conscien- tious man, for he says:] from the time i entered the council, i considered my- self as acting for others. not for others, abstract from myself, but at all events, for others besides myself; and oftentimes was i greatly puzzled to forward the views of my party without injuring my own interest. i deter- mined to support the reformers against all opposition, but the first time i was in the council and the magistra. cy, we were sorely kept in check by the great influence of the old marquess of huntly. the combined lords would gladly have brought him to the scaffold, for he was a bar in their progress which it was impossible to get over. i believe there was never a nobleman in scot- land who had so many enemies, and those so inveterate ; but his friends being so much attached to him, on the other hand, the protestant party could make little pro- gress as long as he lived. i felt this, and though i had the offer of being made lord provost, and knighted in , i declined the honour and retired from the magis. tracy until i saw a more favourable season for furthering the views of the reformers, and of my own great and amiable patron in particular. besides, i really had such a respect for the old marquess, papist as i believed him to be at heart, that i could not join in the conspiracies v. remarkable passages in the against him which i heard broached by one or other every day. i could not bear to see the noble old vete- ran dogged to death, which was the real cause why i left co-operating with the violent part of the reformers for several years. i never refused argyle's suggestions, but those of all others i received with great caution. in the begining of the year , the worthy old mar. quess was again brought before the council, on a charge of harassing and wasting the lands of his protestant neigh- bours. i attended the examinations of the witnesses, and was convinced in my mind that the marquess had no hand in the depredations complained of. true he had not punished the aggressors, but that i considered no capital charge; and was grieved when i saw him shut up once more in close confinement in the castle, in the very same apartment from whence i had before been the means of delivering him. then a fair trial by jury was instituted, and among all the forty-eight nominated by the sheriff, there was not one to my knowledge who was not of the party opposed to huntly. though ever so zealous in forwarding the reformation, i did not like to see it forwarded by unjust means; for in such cases, men can hardly expect the blessing of heaven to attend their la- bours. there were only four commoners named as jury- men, and i being chosen and sworn, as one of the most staunch reformers, yet i determined within myself to give my voice for nothing of which i was not fully con- vinced. wariston's indictment represented the old mar. quess as the most notorious tyrant and offender living. he was accused of murder, fire raising, and every breach of order,—and all the witnesses sworn, spoke to the same purpose ; but there were two, major creighton and john hay, whom, as a juryman, i took the liberty of question- ing over again. the marquess looked fiercely at me, quite mistaking my motive ; nor did i at all explain my. self then, but being chosen foreman of the jury, as i knew i would, i refused to retire till i heard three men of the gordons shortly examined, and then i made it clear to the jurymen, on our retiring, that major creigh- life of an edinburgh baillie ton and mr john hay had both man-sworn theinselves, for that neither the marquess nor one of his family had been proved in the foray; and as for patrick gordon, who had been proven there, it was almost proven that he could not possibly have had instructions from huntly. i then put the question, first to sir william dick, a just man and a good who at once gave his voice-not guilty. my coadjutors were thunderstruck, for they all knew we were placed there to condemn the marquess of huntly, not to justify him. the next in order tried to reason the matter over again with dick and me, but got into a passion, and at length voted guilty. several fol. lowed on the same side, and it was merely the influence which sir william and i possessed in the city, and with the reformers in particular, that caused some of those present to vote the marquess not guilty,--now when they found they had their greatest opponent in their power. i was certain they thought there was some scheme or plot under it, which they did not comprehend, and that sir william dick and i were managing it, where. as we had nothing at heart but justice. our point was a while very doubtful, so much so, that i feared the mar- quess was lost, which would have been a great stain on our court of justice; but every thing was managed by intrigue, and the power or advantage of one party over another was the ruling cause that produced the effect. when the vote came to baillie anderson, of leith, i looked in his face. i saw he was going to vote guilty in support of our faction, but i gave him a look that stag- gered him, and i repeated it at every turn of his eye. he called the state of the vote to gain time; then i saw that patie durst not vote against me, and accordingly his voice decided it by one. i then returned joyfully into the court with the state of the vote in my hand, and said, “ my lord, the jury by a plurality of voices find george gordon, marquess of huntly-not guilty.” never did i see a whole bench so astounded; the matter had been settled and over again settled with them all, and the justice's clerk remarkable passages in the had composed, it was said, a condemning speech of so tremendous a nature, that it was to astonish all the nations of the world, and even convert the pope of rome; but i baulked them all for once, and my lord justice clerk's speech was lost. the marquess had had a powerful party in the house, all desponding; for when the sentence of the jury was heard, the voices of the audience rose gradually to a tumult of applause, at which the judges were highly offended; but the old hero, turning round, and bowing to the crowd with the tear in his eye, the thunders of approbation were redoubled. i never rejoiced more, nor was prouder of anything than of the brave old peer's acquittal, and i perceived that his feelings nearly overcame him. he looked at me with an unstable and palsied look, as if striving in vain to recognise me; but that very afternoon he sent his chariot to my house, with a kind request that i would visit him, which i did, and found himself sur- rounded by the chief men of his clan, all crazed with joy, and almost ready to worship me. he showed them the state of the vote with pride, proving that my two votes and influence saved his life. i did not deny it, but ac- knowledged that i had striven hard for it, and at one time had given him up for lost. i then told him the story of patie anderson, at which he laughed very heartily, but still he did not recognise me as his old attendant. at length when we were going to part, he said, “ you have indeed saved my life, baillie, from a combination of my inveterate enemies, and if ever it lie in my power to confer a benefit on you or yours, you shall not need to ask it, but only find means of letting me know of such a thing." “i have saved your life before now, my lord,” said i; " and though i got no reward then, nor look for any now, yet if it lie in my power i would do the same again.” he looked unsteadily and anxiously at me, and bit his lips, as if struggling with former reminiscences ; and i then noted with pain, for the first time, how much the life of an edinburgh baillie. before his demise, to arrange and sign some documents, i urged his departure very much, and as an inducement, stated that unless he went immediately, i could not accompany hiin, nor see him in the north for the space of a whole year. accordingly we set out, as far as i remember, on the d of june; but we made poor speed, for the marquess could not bear his chariot to go much faster than at a snail's pace, and only on the most level ways. so, after a wearisome course, we arrived at dundee on the th, and the next day the marquess could not be removed. there were none of his family but one son-in-law of our retinue, and i was applied to for every thing, so that i had a poor time of it. “ask the baillie.” “enquire at the baillie.” “ the baillie must procure us this thing and the other thing ;" was in every body's mouth. had i been six baillies, not to say men, i could not have per- formed all that was expected of me. i had now lost all hope of my legacy, and would glad- ly have been quit of my charge, but could not think to leave the old hero in so forlorn a state; for lord douglas having posted on to castle huntly, i had the sole charge, as it were, of the dying man. i rode with him in his chariot the last day he was on the road; after that, he took all his cordials from my hand, and on the afternoon of the th, he died in my arms in the house of mr robert murray, a gentleman of that place; for though his lady had arrived the day before, she was so ill, she could not sit up. he was a hero to the last, and had no more dread of death than of a night's quiet repose; but i was convin- ced he died a true catholic, for all so often as he had been compelled to renounce his religion by the com. mittee of estates and the general assembly. mr bannerman and mr stewart, two notaries public, arrived from edinburgh, and took charge of the papers and deeds which the deceased carried with him. i want- ed to return home, but these gentlemen dissuaded me, and i confess that some distant hopes of emolument pre- remarkable passages in the vailed on me to await that splendid funeral, which certain- jy surpassed all i have ever yet beheld, and which i shall now attempt to describe as truly as a frail memory re- tains it. (the bailie's description of the funeral procession from dundee to the cathedral at elgin, is minute and tedious; but if true, it is utterly astonishing in such an age of anarchy and confusion. some part of the management of the charities having been assigned by appointment to the baillie, his old friend lord gordon of enzie, now the marquess of huntly, and he, came once more in contact. but honest archy, now being head baillie and chief mov- ing spring in the council and city of edinburgh, and in the hope of being lord provost next year, all by the in- fluence of argyle, also a privileged man, went through his department without taking the least notice of the heir and chief of the family for whom he was acting ; but the marquess discovered in the end who he was and all their former connection, and certainly treated him scurvily. i must copy his account of this.] on the tuesday following, the will and testament of the late marquess was read in the great hall, and all the servants and officers were suffered to be present: but when the new marquess cast his eyes on me, he asked •ó what was my business there?" i answered “ that his lordship would perceive that by and by; and that at all events i had as good a right to be there as others of his father's old servants ;” and being a little nettled, i said what, perhaps, i should not have said, “ for,” added i, “it is possible that neither your- self nor any of them ever had the honour of twice saving your father's life as i have had." “ you saved my father's life, sir? you saved my father's life?" said he disdainfully. “you never had the power, sir, to save the life of one of my father's cats. leave the mansion immediately. i know you well for a traitor and a spy of the house of argyle.” a sign from mr bannerman, the agent, now brought me up to him, before i ventured a reply. he gave me a remarkable passages in the till they came to the very last codicil, wherein the late worthy marquess bequeathed to me his palace in the canongate with all that it contained ; and all because i had, at two different times, saved him from an immediate and disgraceful death. it has been alleged by some that i have been a proud and conceited man all my life; but it is well known to my friends that the reverse of this is the truth. i never was, however, so proud of worldly recommendation and worldly honours, as i was at that moment. mr stewart, who was then reading, when he came to the clause, made a loud hem as if clearing his voice, and then went on in a louder tone. “i give, leave, and bequeath to the worthy and hon- ourable bailie archibald sydeserf, my house in the canongate, with all its appurtenances, entrances, and offices, and all within and without the houses that belong- eth to me, save and except the two stables above the water gate, and the bed of state in the southern room, all of which were presents from the duke of chatel- herault, my grandfather, to me and mine, and must there- fore be retained in my family. the rest i bequeath, &c., &c., to the worthy mr sydeserf, and all for having twice, of his own accord and free will, and without any hope of reward, farther than the love of honour and the appro. bation of a good conscience, delivered me from im- mediate death by the hands of my implacable enemies." i confess when i heard this read out in a strong, mellow and affecting tone, i could not resist crying; the tears ran down my cheeks, and i was obliged to digbt them with my sleeve, and snifter like a whipped boy. i at length ventured to lift my eyes through tears to the face of the new marquess, sure of now spying symptoms of a congenial feeling; but instead of that, i perceived his face turned half aside, while he was literally gnawing his lip in pride and vexation; and when the clerk had finished, he said with a burst of breath, as if apostrophiz- ing himself—“never shall he inherit it, or ought that it contains." now, thought i, surely the spirit that worketh in the life of an edinburgh baillie. children of disobedience hath taken full and free posses- sion of his haughty mind, else he could never be so void of all respect both for the dead and living. after this proud exclamation there was a pause. “humph ?" said the clerk; “humph,” said a dozen and more of voices throughout the hall. “ humph ?" said i, by way of winding up the growl, and gave my head a significant nod, as much as if i had said, “ we'll see about that, my lord." my heart again burnt within me, and i resolved once more to be even with this haughty chief, if ever it lay in my power. i lodged that night in the town of huntly, waiting on messrs bannerman and stewart, for we had conjointly hired a guard to attend us to aberdeen; but in the mid- dle of the night my landlord came in to me with a crazed look, and asked me if i was sleeping; i said “ yes," “then,” said he, “ you inust waken yourself up as fast as you can, for there is a gentleman in the house who has called expressly to see you. for god's sake, sir, make haste and come to him. a gentleman called on me!” said i; “ pray, sir, who takes it on him to disturb me, a stranger, at these un- timeous hours ? tell him i'll see him to-morrow as early as he likes.” “oh, god bless your honour, it is to-morrow already," said mine host with apparent trepidation, “and therefore you must come to him without a moment's delay.” what is the matter, sir ?" said i. " who is it? what is the matter ?" “oh, it is one of the chieftains of the gordons," said he; "and that you will find. i know very well who it is, but as to what is the matter, there you puzzle me ; for unless it be some duel business, i cannot conceive what it is. all that i can come at is, that your life is in danger -hope you have not offended any of the gordons, sir?" "i will not leave my room, sir, at this untimeous hour," said i, rather too much agitated. “it is my domicile for the present, and i debar all intrusions. if remarkable passages in the it is on an affair of duelling, you may tell the gentleman that i fight no duels. i am a magistrate, a christian, and an elder of the reformed church, and therefore it does not become such a man as me to fight duels.” “god bless your honour," said the fellow, laughing with the voice of a highland bull. “come and tell all this to the gentleman himself, i am no judge of such matters. an elder of the reformed church are you? what church is that? are you for the king or the covenant? i should like to know, for all depends on that here." i have forgot what answer i made to this, for while i was speaking, a furious rap came on my chamber door ; i was so much alarmed that i could neither breathe nor speak for a short space, nevertheless i took the matter with that calm resolution that became a man and a magistrate. “yes, sir, yes; coming, sir,” cried mine host. then whispering mem" for mercy's sake get up and come away, sir,” said he; and he actually took hold of my wrist, and began a-pulling to bring me over the bed. i resisted with the resolution of keeping my ground, but a voice of thunder called outside the door, “ george, you dog, why don't you bring the gentleman away as i ordered you?" “he will not come, sir. he'll not stir a foot," said the landlord. “ but he must come, and that without a moment's delay," said the same tremendous voice. “i told him so, sir,” said the landlord ; “but for all that he will not stir. the gentleman, sir, is a magistrate, and an elder of the reformed kirk, and never fights any duels." “ g-d's curse!” cried the impatient monster, and burst open the door. he was a man of gigantic stature, between sixty and seventy years of age, and covered with a suit of heavy armour. “i'll tell you what it is, sir," said he; “you must either arise on the instant, and dress yourself and come along with me, else i will be under life of an edinburgh bailie the disagreeable necessity of carrying you off as you are. don't ask a single question, nor make a single remark, for there is not a moment to lose.” “ well, well, sir, since it must be so, it shall be as you desire," said i, rising and dressing myself with perfect coolness. i even joked about the gordons, and their summary mode of proceeding with strangers ; and hinted at some of the late decrees in council against them. “ the gordons care very little what is decreed against them in edinburgh,” replied he; “particularly by a set of paltry innovators.” “i fear they are much altered for the worse since i lived among them,” said i. " it is the times that are altered for the worse, and not we,” said he. “ the character of men must conform to their circumstances, mr sydeserf. of that you have had some experience, and you will have more ere long.” he said this in sullen and thoughtful mood, and i was confounded at thinking whereto all this tended, though i was certain it could not be towards good. the most probable conjecture i could form was, that the marquess had sent for me, either to shut me up in one of the vaults of the old castle, or throw me off the bridge into the river, to let me know how to speak to a gordon in the hows of strathbogie. but there was no alternative for the present; so i marched down stairs before the vener- able and majestic warrior, in perfect good humour; and lo, and behold! when i went to the door, there was a whole company of cavalry, well mounted, with drawn swords in their hands, and my horse standing saddled in the midst of them, held by a trooper standing on foot. “ good morrow to you, gentlemen," said i heartily. “good morrow, sir,” growled a few voices in return. “ now mount, sir, mount," said the chief of this war- like horde ; i did so, and away we rode i knew not whither. it was about the darkest time of a summer night when we set out, but the night being quite short, it soon began to grow light, and i then could not but admire the figure v. remarkable passages in the of the old chieftain, who still kept by my left hand and at the head of the cavalcade. he appeared sullen and thoughtful, was clad in complete heavy armour, rode with his drawn sword in his hand, a pair of pistols in his belt, and a pair of tremendous horse pistols slung at his saddle- bow. he appeared likewise to be constantly on the look-out, as if afraid of a surprise ; but all this while i took matters so coolly, that i never so much as enquired where he was conveying me. however, about the sun rising, to my great wonder, i came into the ancient town of inverury, which i knew at first sight, and in which i had friends. this was the very way i wanted to go and i could not comprehend to what fate i was destined. we halted behind a thicket on the right bank of the way, and a scout was sent into the town, who instantly returned with the information that · it was occupied by a party of the rebels. how heartily i wished myself in the hands and power of these same rebels; but such a thing was not to be suffered. the veteran ordered his troop to make ready for a charge, and putting me from his right hand into the middle of the body, he made choice of some of his friends to support him, and we went into the town at a sharp trot. no man meddled with us, but we saw there was a confusion in the town, and people running as if mad here and there. how- ever, when we came to the old bridge over the don, it was guarded, and a party of infantry were forming on the other side. to force the bridge was impossible, for scarcely could two troopers ride' abreast on it, and they had scaffolds on each side, from which they could have killed every man of us. i was terrified lest our leader should have attempted it, for he hesitated; but, wheeling to the left, he took the ford. the party then opened a brisk fire on us, and several of the gordons fell, one of them among my horse's feet, to my great hazard. i thought the men were mad, for i could not at all see what reason they had for fighting, and am certain a simple ex- planation on either side would have prevented it. the gordons rode out of the river full drive on the faces of life of an edinburgh baillie. their enemies, discharged their carabines and pistols, though not with much effect, as far as i could judge, for few of the party fell; however, they all fled toward a wood on a rising ground close by, and a few were cut down before they entered it. from that they fired in safety on the gordons, who were terribly indignant, but were obliged to draw off, at which i was exceedingly glad, for i ex- pected every moment for more than an hour to be shot, without having it in my power either to fight or flee. we rode into kintore, and the old veteran, placing a guard at each end of the town, led me to the hostel along with six of his chief men and friends, and entertained us graciously. the strong drink cheered up his grave and severe visage, and i thought i never saw a face of more interest. all men may judge of my utter amazement, when he addressed me in a set speech to the following purport. " no wonder that my heart is heavy to-day, worthy sir; hem! i have had a most disagreeable part to per- form."-i trembled. " so i have, hem! i have lost my chief, who was as a brother, a father to me from my childhood,- who was a bulwark around his friends, and the terror of his enemies. scotland shall never again behold such a nobleman as my late brave kinsman and chief. you may then judge with what feelings i regard you, when i tell you that i have met you before, though you remember me not. i was in the mock court of justice that day when the old hero was tried by a jury of his sworn enemies, and when your unexampled energy, honour, and influence alone saved his life. i met you at his house that evening, and had the pleasure of em. bracing you once. i had nothing to bestow on you but my sword; but i vowed to myself that night, that if ever you needed it, it should be drawn in your defence. the usage you received yesterday cut me to the heart. i heard more than i will utter. lord gordon is now my chief, and i will fight for him while i have a drop of blood to spend ; but he shall never be backed by ole alexander gordon in any cause that is unjust. i neither remarkable passages in the say that your life was in imminent danger, nor that it was not; but i trembled for it, and resolved to make sure work. you are now out of the territory of the gordons, and lose not a moment's time until you are fairly in edinburgh. you will find some there from castle huntly before you. it cuts me to the heart that i should ever have been obliged to do a deed in opposition to the in- clinations and even the commands of my chief—but what i have done i have done. farewell; and god be your speed. you and old glen-bucket may haply meet again.” my heart was so full that i could not express myself, and it was probably as well that i did not make too great a palaver; for i merely said in return, that there was nothing in nature that i revered or admired so much as a due respect for the memory of the good and the great that had been removed from this scene of things; and on that ground principally i took this act of his as the very highest compliment that could have been paid me. [the baillie then hasted to edinburgh, where he found matters going grievously to his injury. his party had combined against him, in the full persuasion that he had joined the adverse side, and for all his former interest, he could never force himself forward again until argyle's return from london. the marquess of huntly had moreover taken possession of his father's house, and shut the doors of it in the baillie's face, and then a litigation ensued, which perhaps more than any thing renovated his influence once more in the city. argyle never lost sight of his dependant's interest, and appears to have paid a deference to him that really goes far to establish the position which the baillie always takes in the estimation of himself. there is at all events, one thing for which he cannot be too much praised. the king had been accustomed to nominate the provost and baillie of edinburgh each year. from this we may infer, that some favourite noblemen engaged in the administra- tion of scottish affairs, and who had some object to gain in and through the magistrates of edinburgh, gave the king in such list as he wanted, and then that his majesty life of an edinburgh baillie atllie, , signed this list, and sent it to the counsel, with order to choose their men. the baillie was the first man to withstand this arbitrary procedure, and he carried his point, not perhaps by the fairest and most open means, but he did gain it, which was a privilege of high moment to the city, if the inhabitants had made a good use of it; but the tricks of one party against another were not more pre- valent, nor more debasing, than it appears they are at this day of boasted freedom and enlargement; only the nobles had then to canvass for the magistrates, whereas the magistrates have now to canvass for themselves. but in fact, some of the baillie's narratives, if copied, would be regarded as satires on the proceedings of the present age. we shall therefore pass over this part of the memoirs, and proceed to one of greater import, which commences with the beginning of the civil wars in scotland. the baillie had taken the covenant at an early period, and continued firm and true to that great bond of reformation. the great montrose was, it seems, at one time, a strenu. ous covenanter; for the baillie says he was present at st andrew's when the said montrose swore the covenant; and that there was a number of gentlemen and noblemen took it on the same day of april , and that forthwith he began to raise men in his own country, all of whom he forced to take the covenant before they were em- bodied in his army.] the marquess of huntly, continues the baillie, hav- ing raised an army in the north, for the avowed purpose of crushing the covenanters, i was very strenuous at that meeting that they should take him in time, and rather carry the war into his own country than suffer him to wreak his pride and vengeance on his covenanting neigh- bours. the thing being agreed to, the gentlemen of fife and angus instantly set about raising men, and i returned to edinburgh, and engaging sir william dick, the lord provost, and all the counsel in the same cause, in the course of nine days we raised a hundred and seventy-two men whom i undertook to lead to our colonel, z life of an edinburgh baillie. - sing to use their endeavour. i followed, and found thorburn in a back ground to the west of the town, having about the half of the men collected, but keeping them together with the greatest difficulty. as for wil- son, he was sitting on an old dike laughing, and so drunk i could not know what he said ; i went up and began to expostulate with him, but all the apology i could get was vacant and provoking laughter, and some such words as these—“it is really grand !" then “ he, he, he, baillie. i say, baillie, it is really grand! what would montrose say if he saw- if he saw this ? eh? o, i beg his par- don; i do, i do, i beg his pardon. but after all it is really grand ! he-he-he," &c. those that were at all sober continued to drag in their companions to the rendezvous; but some of them were so irritated at being torn from their cups, that they fought desperate battles with their conductors. one of them appeared so totally insubordinate, that i desired he might be punished, to which thorburn assenting at once, he was tied to a tree, and his shirt tirled over his head. he exclaimed bitterly against this summary way of pu- nishment, and appealed to the captain. i said to thor- burn i certainly thought it as well to have wilson's con- sent; and then a scene occurred that passes all descrip- tion. thorburn went up to him, and says, “ captain, shall i or shall i not give john hill a hundred lashes for rioting and insubordination ?". “for what?” says wilson, without lifting his head that hung down near his knee-“ some board in the na- tion ! what's that?” “ he has refused to obey orders, sir, and rebelled.” “ lick him, lick him weel ! thresh him soundly. re. fused to obey orders and rebelled! he's no blate! thor- burn, i say, lick him weel ; skelp him till the blood rins off at his heels.” the order was instantly obeyed, but the troop, instead of being impressed with awe, never got such sport before. they laughed till they held their sides, and some actually slid off at a corner to have a parting glass in the mean time. remarkable passages in the “thorburn, what shall be done to get these men once more embodied and set on the way ?" said i. “ faith, sir, there are just two ways of doing it, and no more,” said he. “we must either wait patiently till their money is spent or set the town on fire; and on mine honour i would do the latter, for it is a cursed shabby place, and the people are even worse than ours.” “ that would be a desperate resource, sir," says i. " it is not customary to sloken one fire by kindling another. cause proclamation to be made at the drum's head that every man who does not join the troop in marching or- der in a quarter of an hour, shall be taken up and punish- ed as a deserter." this brought together the greater part, but sundry remained, and i left a party to bring them up as deser- ters, unluckily the captain was one of them. him i re- primanded very severely, for he was in the council, and being a poor spendthrift, had got this office for a little lucre, which i considered no great honour to our fraternity. nothing further occurred during the next two days, and the third we reached the army, which was drawing to a head about brechin, fettercairn, and montrose. our colonel, who was then only earl of montrose, met me at brechin, and many were the kind things he said to me. i told him i was ashamed to meet him, for that i had brought him a set of the greatest reprobates that i believed ever breathed since the days of sodom and go- morrah, and that i really was afraid they would entail a curse on the army of the church. he smiled good naturedly, and said, “ keep your mind at ease about that, baillie, if the church and the land in general can both establish their rights and purge thein- selves at the same time, there are two great points gained. are they able, well-bodied men." “ their bodies are not so much amiss, my lord," said i, “but as to their immortal part i tremble to think of that." he joked with me, and said something about sol. diers' souls which i do not choose to repeat, as it had rather a tincture of alippancy and irreverence for divine life of an edinburgh baillie. things. he expressed himself perfectly well pleased with the men, saying, “ he would soon make them excellent fellows, and begged that we would send him thrice as many greater ragamuffins if i could get them, for that he would reform them more in one year than all the preach- ers in scotland would do in twenty." i said he did not yet know them, and gave him a hint of their horrid insub- ordination. my lord was not naturally a merry man, but mild, gentlemanly, and dignified, nevertheless he laughed aloud at this ; saying “it was i that did not know them, for he would answer to me for their perfect subordination." i then sounded him on his plans of carrying on the war, and tried all i could to induce him to an instant attack on the marquess of huntly. but i found him not so easily swayed as the town council of edinburgh, for when i could not manage them by reason, i found it always possible to do so by intrigue and stratagem ; but here my reasoning failed me, and i had no further re- source. he assured me that huntly was more afraid of us than we were of him, and though he was encouraging the aberdeenians to their own destruction, he would take care not to meddle with our levies; and, therefore, that these should not be led into his bounds until they were fairly drilled, so as to be a match for the best men in strathbogie. “how could i lead these men into battle at present ?" added he. “ if you could, my lord,” said i, for i wanted to lose my arguments with as good a grace as i could : “ if you could, my lord, you could do more than i could, for, not- withstanding all the influence i seemed to have possessed with our people, notwithstanding threats and scourges, i could not get them out of inverkeithing, where there was some wretched drink, almost for a whole day; nay, not till lieutenant thorburn came to me with a grave face, and requested permission to fire the town about them." he laughed exceedingly at this ; nay, he even laughed until he was obliged to sit down and hold a silk napkin remarkable passages in the to his face. thus were all my arguments for instant and imperious war with huntly lost, in the hopes of which alone i had taken the charge of these recruits to the north, yea, even though i assured montrose, from heaven, that in any engagement with huntly in which i took a part there was a certainty of ample and absolute success, so perfectly assured was i of having day about with him. he answered me that there was no gentle. man of whose counsel and assistance he would be happier to avail himself in such an emergency, but that the har. vest was not yet ripe, nor the reapers duly prepared ; but whenever these important circumstances fitted, i should be duly apprised, and have his right ear in the progress of the war. i have dwelt rather longer on these reminiscences, be- cause he turned out so great a man, and so great a scourge to the party he then espoused with so much zeal. sorry was i when he deserted the good cause, and though some of our own side were the primary cause of his defect, yet i comforted myself with this, that he had not been chosen by the alinighty to effect the freedom of this land. but often did i think with deep regret that if the covenanting party had still been blessed with ar. gylo's political talents, and montrose's warlike and heroic accomplishments, we had remained invincible to all sects, parties, and divisions. as for the great and gu- preme marquese of huntly, i despised him as much as i hated him, well knowing that his intolerable pride would never suffer him to co-operate with any other leader, and what could the greatest chief of the kingdom do by himself. montrose was as good as his word, for early in the spring, he wrote for some ammunition and mortars, and requested that i might be permitted to bring the supplies, as a siege of aberdeen and a battle with huntly could be no longer postponed ; and he added in a postscript, “ inform my worthy friend the baillie that captain thor- burn and a detachment of the edinburgh troop shall meet him at inverkeithing, as a suitable escort to the fireworks." accordingly, on the d of february, , i again life of an edinburgh billie. took the road to the north, at the head of a good assort- ment of warlike stores, the most of which our new general lesley had just taken out of the castle of dal- keith. money was sorely awanting, but some of the leading men of the committee contrived to borrow a good round sum. my friend sir william dick lent them in one day no less than , marks, against my counsel and advice. they likewise applied to me, but i only shook my head; argyle was even so ungenerous as to urge it, but i begged his lordship, who was at the head of the committee, to show me the example, and i would certainly follow it to the utmost of my power. this silenced his lordship, and pleased the rest of the committee well, for the truth is, that argyle would never advance a farthing. well, north i goes with the supplies, and, as our colonel had promised, a detachment of my former rascals under thorburn, met me at inverkeithing. had all the committee of estates sworn it, i could not have believed that such a difference could have been wrought on men. they were not only perfect soldiers, but gentlemen soldiers; sober, regular, and subordinate, and i thence- forward concluded, that no one could calculate what such a man as montrose was capable of performing. · he welcomed me with the same gentlemanly ease and affability as formerly, but i could not help having a sort of feeling that he was always making rather sport of me in his warlike consultations. he had a field-day at old montrose, on a fine green there, and at every evolution he asked my opinion with regard to the perfectness of the troops in the exercise. i knew not what to say sometimes, but i took the safe side; i always com- mended. at our messes we spoke much of the approaching cam- paign. the men of aberdeen had fortified their city in grand style, and depending on huntly's co-operation with. out, they laughed at us, our army, and tenets, beyond measure. there was a young gentleman, a captain marshall, in our mess, who repeated their brags often for life of an edinburh baillie, “ who is your master ?” “ oo he's a juntlemun o'the town, sur.” “ the provost?" “ the previce! him a previce ! nhaw.” “ you are not a servant of the provost's, then ?" “ am nae a survunt to nee buddy.” “ how far are you going ?” “oo am jeest gaun up to the brugg o' dee yunder.” “ what to do?" “oo am jeest gaun to bring three or four horse lads o’ bruggs and sheen that's needit for the wars. there will mawbe be some beets among them tee aw, cudna be saying for that, for they ca't them jeest brugs and sheen. but aw think its lukely there will be some beets. me muster was varra feared that the rubels wud chuck them fra ma is aw cum down, but he was no feared for them tucking mysell.” this was a great stretch of low cunning. he per- ceived we needed the shoes, and thought we would let him pass, that we might catch him with them on his re- turn, and some of our serjeants winked to me to let him go, but i suspected the draught. “have you no letters or despatches about you, young man ?” rejoined i; “ for if you have you are in some danger at present, notwithstanding all your lies about the brogs and shoes and small mixture of boots.” “oo aw wut weel, sur, i ha nee duspatches, nor naithing o' the kind, but jeest a wee buttie lattur to the sheemuker.” “ show it me.” “ fat have ye to dee wi' the peer sheemuker's buttie lattur?” i ordered two officers to search him, but they that had seen his looks when a packet was taken from his bosom with this direction! “ to the most honourable and most noble the marquess of huntly.” i read out the direction in his hearing. “ay, my . a life of an edinburgh baillie. greatest danger, was so overpowered by ladies, apparent- ly in a state of derangement, that he was driven perfectly stupid. reasoning with them was out of the question, and the provost could not well order his garrison to put them to the sword. montrose led his own two regiments against the pro- vost. lord douglas attacked the middle part, and the fife and strathmore regiments the north one, defended by :be brave colonel gordon. all the points were at- tacked at once ;-—the agonized cries of the women rose to such an extent that i actually grew terrified; for i thought the uproar and confusion of hell could not be greater. it was impossible the provost could stand out, though he had been the bravest man on earth. i must say so much for him. colonel gordon withstood our -men; boldly repelled them, and had even commenced a pursuit. montrose either had some dread or some wit of this, for he pushed the provost with such force and vigour that in a very short time, maugre all his efforts, men and women in thousands were seen tearing down the fortifications, levelling them with the soil; and a de- putation was sent to montrose to invite him to enter. but first and foremost he had measures to take with co- lonel gordon, who in a little time would have turned the flank of our whole army, but that hero being now left to himself, was soon surrounded, and obliged to capitulate. our men were now drawn up in squares in all the principal streets, and stood to arms, while a council of war was held, in which the plurality of voices gave it for the city to be given up to plunder. the soldiers ex. pected it, and truly the citizens, i believed hoped for nothing better. i confess i voted for it, thinking my brave townsınen would have enjoyed it so much. i know it was reported to my prejudice, that i expected a princi- pal share of the plunder myself; and that it was for that single purpose i went on the expedition. whoever rais- ed that report, had no further grounds for it than that i voted with the majority, several of them ministers and servants of the lord. i did vote with them, but it was remarkable passages in the for an example to the other cities and towns of our coun. try, who still stood out against emancipation. montrose would, however, listen to none of us. his bowels yearned over the city to spare it, and he did spare it; but to plague us, he made magistrates, ministers, and every principal man in the city, swear the covenant on their knees, at the point of the sword; and also fined them in a sum by way of war charges, of which he did not retain one mark to himself. we now turned our face toward the highlands, to take order with huntly, and with a light and exulting heart did i take the way, assured of victory. i missed no op- portunity, by the way, of reprobating that chief's conduct in first stirring up the good aberdeenians to resist the measures of the scottish parliament and the committee of estates, and then hanging back and suffering them to lie at our mercy, when, in truth, he might have come with the whole highlands at his back to their relief; for at that time, save the campbells and the forbes's, there was not a clan in the whole highlands sided with us. montrose could say nothing for huntly, but neither would he say much against him, till he saw how he would behave. the honest man had, however, most valiantly collected his clansmen (who had long been ready at an hour's warning) for the relief of aberdeen on the even- ing after it was taken ! ay, that he had! he had col. lected foot, and gallant horsemen under the command of old glen-bucket, and his son, lord gordon, and had even made a speech to them; and set out at their head a distance of full five miles, to create a stern diversion in favour of the gallant and loyal citizens of aberdeen. at the head of this gallant array he marched forth, until, at a place called cabrach, he was apprised by some flyers whom he met on the way, that the earl of montrose with a gallant army was in full march against him—that aberdeen was taken and plundered, and all the magistrates, ministers, and chief men put to the sword. i would have given a hundred pounds, (scots i mean,) life of an edinburgh baillie. to have been there to have seen my old friend enzie's plight, now the invincible marquess of huntly. he call- ed a parley on the instant; ordered his puissant army to disappear, to vanish in the adjoining woods, and not a man of them to be seen in arms as the invaders marched on ! and having given this annihilating order, he turned his horse's head about and never drew bridle till he was at the castle of boggie in the upper district of the coun. try. thence he dispatched messengers to our com- mander, begging to know his terms of accommodation, but these messengers would have been too late to have saved huntly and the castle, had it not been for the valour and presence of mind of old glen-bucket and his young chief, the lord gordon, who, venturing to in- fringe the marquess's sudden orders, withstood montrose, and hovering nigh his van, kept him in check for two whole days and a night. montrose perceiving how de- trimental this stay would be to his purpose of taking his redoubted opponent by 'surprise, sent off a party by night round the buck, to come between the gordons and the bridge. the party, led by one patrick shaw, who knew the country well, gained their point, and began to fire on the gordon horse by the break of day. glen-bucket somewhat astounded at this circumstance, drew aside to the high ground, but perceiving montrose coming brisk. ly up on him from the south-east, he drew off at a sharp trot, and tried to gain the town, but there he was oppos- ed by the foot that had crossed by the hill path. there was no time to lose. we were coming hard up behind them when glen-bucket, and lord gordon rushed upon our foot at the head of their close body of horse. they could not break them although they cut down a number of brave men, and the consequence was that all the men of the three first ranks were unhorsed, and either slain or taken prisoners; amongst the latter were both young lord gordon and old glen-bucket; the rest scattered and fled, and easily made their escape, the conflict did not last above six minutes, yet short as it was, it was quite decisive. a life of an edinburgh baillie. bewailing their fate on the mountains ; he never found the ladies of aberdeen so gay, and every one of their mouths was filled with the praises of montrose, his liberality, his kindness, and his gallantry! this was a hard bone for the proud marquess to chew-a jaw-breaker that he could not endure; for the glory of a contemporary was his bane ; it drove all the solemn league and covenant in his galled mind to a thing little short of blasphemy. more- over, he expected to have found all the college professors and ministers of the gospel running about the streets, squeaking and jabbering with their tongues cut out, and instead of which the men seemed to have had their tongues loosed, all for the purpose of lauding his adver- sary, and preaching up the benefits of the new covenant. huntly saw that the reign of feudalism was at an end, and with that his over-balancing power in the realm; and then reflecting how easily he might have prevented this, he was like to gnaw off his fingers with vexation : and perhaps the thing that irritated his haughty mind most of all, was the finding of that worship and reverence former- ly paid to him in aberdeen now turned into scorn, while the consciousness of having deserved it made the feeling still more acute. in a word, the marquess took the strunt, and would neither ratify some further engagements which he had come under, nor stand to those he had subscribed on oath, but begged of montrose, as a last favour that he would release him from the bond of the covenant, the tenor of which he did not understand, and the principle of which he did not approve. montrose tried to reason calmly with him, but that made matters worse. then he told him, that he would yield so far to him as release him from his engagement for the present, but that indeed he feared he would re- pent it. grahame then rose, and bringing him his bond in his hand, presented it to him with some regretful observations on his noble friend's vacillation. huntly began to express his thanks, but was unable, his face burnt to the bone, for he was so proud he could ilemarkable passagls in the never express gratitude either to god or man, but he was mightily relieved from his dilemma when montrose, with a stern voice, ordered hiin to be put in confinement, and conducted a close prisoner to edinburgh! i could hardly contain myself at the woſul change that this order made on his features. it was marrow to my bones to see hiin huinbled thus far at the moment. i thought of his ſelling me down, and kicking me in the mud, when i was in a situation in which i durst not resist ; i argued likewise of the way he used me with regard to his worthy father's bequest. so as montrose was striding out with tokens of displeasure on his face, i called after bim, “ my lord montrose, as i lie under some old obligation to the noble marquess, your prisoner, may i beg of you to be honoured with the charge of conducting him to the gaol of edinburgh?" “ with all my heart, baillie," returned he; "only remember to see him strictly guarded; for it is now manifest that he is a traitor to our cause." having till now shunned the marquens'presence, he never knew till that moment that i was at his right hand amongst the number of his enemies ; and then he cast such a look of startled amazement at me! it was as if one had shouted in the other ear, the philistinea be upon thee, sampson! i was cheated if at that moment the marquess would not have signed ten molemn leagues and ten covenants of any sort, to have been fairly out of his friend the baillie's clutches, and at the head of his clan again. but it would not do; he was obliged to draw himself up, and submit to his fate. lord aboyne and the lords lewis and charles, gordon of glen-livet, and other three of the name, took the oaths for themselves, and were net at liberty ; but lord gordon and old glen-bucket, having been taken in arms fighting against the army of the estates, were likewise conducted in bonds to edinburgh. [the baillie's inveteracy against the marquess of huntly continues the string on which he delights to harp through the whole of these memoirs, and it is perhaps remarkable passages in the never express gratitude either to god or man, but he was mightily relieved from his dilemma when montrose, with a stern voice, ordered him to be put in confinement, and conducted a close prisoner to edinburgh! i could hardly contain myself at the woful change that this order made on his features. it was marrow to my bones to see him humbled thus far at the moment. i thought of his felling me down, and kicking me in the mud, when i was in a situation in which i durst not resist; i argued likewise of the way he used me with regard to his worthy father's bequest. so as montrose was striding out with tokens of displeasure on his face, i called after him, “my lord montrose, as i lie under some old obligation to the noble marquess, your prisoner, may i beg of you to be honoured with the charge of conducting him to the gaol of edinburgh ?" “ with all my heart, baillie," returned he; "only remember to see him strictly guarded; for it is now manifest that he is a traitor to our cause.” having till now shunned the marquess's presence, he never knew till that moment that i was at his right hand amongst the number of his enemies; and then he cast such a look of startled amazement at me! it was as if one had shouted in the other ear, the philistines be upon thee, sampson! i was cheated if at that moment the marquess would not have signed ten solemn leagues and ten covenants of any sort, to have been fairly out of his friend the baillie's clutches, and at the head of his clan again. but it would not do; he was obliged to draw himself up, and submit to his fate. lord aboyne and the lords lewis and charles, gordon of glen-livet, and other three of the name, took the oaths for themselves, and were set at liberty ; but lord gordon and old glen-bucket, having been taken in arms fighting against the army of the estates, were likewise conducted in bonds to edinburgh. [the baillie's inveteracy against the marquess of huntly continues the string on which he delights to harp through the whole of these memoirs, and it is perhaps life of an edinburgh baillie. the most amusing theme he takes up. i hope the char. acter of that nobleman is exaggerated; indeed it must be so, drawn by one having such a deadly prejudice against him. for my part, having never, as far as i re. member, learned any thing of that nobleman further than what is delineated in these manuscripts, i confess they have given me an idea of him as unfavourable as that of his father is exalted. it is a pity the baillie should have been a man possessed of such bitter remembrances, and a spirit of such lasting revenge, for otherwise he seems rather to have been a good man, if measured with the times. an acute and clear-headed man he certainly was in many respects, but of all men the worst fitted for that which he appears to have valued himself most on, the conducting of a campaign against the enemies of the cove- nant. indeed i cannot be sure for all that i have seen, for what purpose the leaders took him always to be of their council on such occasions, but there can be no doubt of the fact. we must give one further little relation in his own words, before we have done with him at this time, and then we shall accompany him into actions of greater moment.] i had settled every thing with my lord montrose how i was to act when i came to edinburgh; accordingly i committed huntly and his gallant son to the castle, where they were put into close confinement as state prisoners. glen-bucket besought me to suffer him to accoinpany them, but i informed him that my strict orders were to take him to a common gaol in the high street. he said it was but a small request that he might be suffered to accompany his chief, which he knew my interest could easily procure for him, and he again intreated me to use it. i promised that i would, but in the mean time he must be content to go as directed, to which he was obliged to submit, but with his accustomed gravity and gloominess. when we came to the gate of the castle, i perceived sir william dick, our provost, and baillie edgar, whom i had appointed to meet us, so i turned and said to my remarkable passages in thb prisoner, “ Şir alexander, i do not choose to expose you in bonds on edinburgh street at noon-day.” “it does not signify, sir,” said he; “i am quite in- different.” “ i cannot yield to have it so," said i. “ soldiers. take off his chains ! and do you walk on before us as a guard of honour. yes, as a guard of honour, for honour is a sufficient guard for the person of sir alexander gordon, of glen-bucket.” morose and sullen as he was, he could not help being pleased with this: he rose as it were a foot higher, and as soon as the soldiers removed his bonds i returned him his sword. at that moment the lord provost accosted him, but his mind being confused he made a slight obeisance, and was going to pass on. “sir alexander,” said i, “this is my friend, the honourable sir william dick, lord provost of edin- burgh ?” glen-bucket started, and then, with the politeness of two courtiers, the two old knights saluted one another. i then introduced baillie edgar and mr henderson, and after that we walked away, two on each side of glen- bucket. he did not well understand this apparent cour- tesy, for i perceived by his face that he thought it a species of mockery. he spake little. i only remember of one expression that dropped from him as it were spontan- eously. it was an exclamation, and came with a burst of breath-— hah! on my honour, this is a guard of honour indeed!” as we approached the tolbooth he cast a look at the iron gratings, and was going to stop at the principal entrance, but i desired him to walk on, for his apart. ment was a little farther this way. when we came to my house, which was one short stair above the street, i went before him to lead the way, and on opening the house door, the trance (passage) was completely dark by chance, none of the doors leading from it being open. “come this way, sir," said i, “ follow me, and take care of the steps." i looked behind me, and saw, between life of an edinburgh baillie me and the light, his tall athletic form, stooping as if aware of some danger by a quick descent: he had an arm stretched out and a hand impressed against each wall, and was shovelling his feet along the trance for fear of precipitating bimself down some abyss or dungeon. i could hardly help bursting out into a fit of laughter, but i stood at the inner door till his great hands came upon my head grasping his way, i then threw open my dining. room door and announced my prisoner by name, sir alexander gordon of glen-bucket, and he walked in. nothing could equal the old warrior's surprise, when he was welcomed by nine of the most elegant and most respectable ladies of the land. some of them even took him in their arms and embraced him, for none present were ignorani of the noble part he had acted with regard to me. all were alike kind and attentive to him. i in. troduced several of them to him by name. “ this, sir alexander, is my sister, lady sydeserf; this, sir, is lady campbell, younger, of glenorchy; this is lady dick,” &c., &c. his bow to each was the most solemn and profound imaginable, at length be bolted straight up as with a jerk, and turning to me said in what he meant for a very sprightly manner, “ on mine honour, sir baillie, but you have a good assortment of state prisoners at present. are these, sir, all rebels against this new govern- ment, called the committee of estates ?' hey? if so, sir, i am proud to be of the number.” “ these are all my prisoners for the day and the night, and all happy to see you are of their number, sir alex- ander.” nothing could give me greater pleasure than the hilar- ity of the old warrior that night. he was placed next to my sister-in-law at the head of the table, the company consisted of twenty-three, the wine circulated freely, and glen-bucket fairly forgot for that evening the present cloud under which the gordons lay, and that there were such things as covenanters and anti-covenanters in the realm. after the ladies retired, he took fits of upright thought- fulness; (these are the baillie's own words,) as still not life of an edinburgh baillie. before. he sent evasive answers to aboyne, suffering him to raise his clan and advance southward in hopes of support, till lo! he was met by his late adversary mon- trose, at the bridge of dee, with a great army, though not very well appointed. the baillie was not personally in this battle, for the best of reasons, because the marquess of huntly was not there in person to oppose him. the baillie had his great enemy safely under lock and key, else there is little doubt that the former would have been at the battle, which he however describes as taken from the mouth of his friend captain thorburn. he says, the army of the gordons amounted to about , men, among whom were two strong bodies of horse. montrose had , , but all new raised men, though many of them inured to battle in former times. the gordons were well posted on the two sides of the river dee, but montrose took them somewhat by surprise, which he seldom failed to do with his enemies. the battle was exceedingly fierce. three times did the body of the gordons on the south side of the river repel the attack of montrose's squadrons, and defend the bridge; and the third time, if the gordons durst have left their station, they had so far disordered the main or middle column of the covenanters, that without all doubt they might have put them to the rout. montrose was terri- bly alarmed at that instant, for a general attack of the gordons which he half confessed would have been ruin. but the young lord aboyne, with all the bravery of a hero, wanted experience; he lost that opportunity, and with it the battle. for montrose being left at leisure, new-modelled his army; and some field-pieces which he had formerly left at brechin castle arriving at that in- stant, he advanced once more, won the bridge of dee, and in a short time gained possession of the field of battle. still the young lord drew off his troops to the high grounds with such skill, that the conquerors could make no impression on them. the carnage was nearly equal on both sides. v. b remarkable passages in the · the baillie never speaks favourably of the king. he says, in one place, they were more plagued with him than any thing else. they never derived good from his plans, which tended always much more to derange their mea- sures than cement them. but of the jealousies and heartburnings of the covenanting lords, he expresses himself with real concern.] the falling off of montrose from our party, (says he,) was a great grief of mind to me, though some of our lead- ers seemed to rejoice at it. lesly and argyle bore all the blame, for they were jealous of his warrior fame and brilliant successes, and took every opportunity that oc- curred to slight him. yea, and as i loved the man, i was not more sorry at his loss to us than for the loss of his soul ; for he had now broken his most solemn oaths and engagements, and lifted up the heel against the most high, setting him as it were at defiance, after all the zeal he had shown in his cause. i had great fears that a curse was gone forth against us, because of the leaguing of men together, whom i knew to be of very different principles ; and, among other things, it was matter of great grief when hamilton and general ruthven, leagu- ing together, set the marquess of huntly and his son the lord gordon both at liberty ; whereas it was mani. fest to every well-disposed christian, that the good cause would have been much better served by cutting off both their beads. argyle might have hindered this, but chose not to intermeddle, huntly being his brother-in-law, but it was all sham, for he both dreaded him and hated him as much as i did. indeed i was so much displeased with my lord argyle's carriage at this time, that i at one time resolved to decline his patronage for the future, and also to cease supporting him in his political views, which i had uniformly done hitherto, he cheated the men of athol, and falsifying his honour, took their lead- ers prisoners, and then marching a whole army of hungry highlanders down among the peaceable inhabitants, plun- dered and laid waste the whole country, burnt castle farquhar belonging to the earl of airly, and also sacked life of an edinburgh baillie. airly castle, spoiling some even of montrose's own kin. was it any wonder that the latter was disgusted at such behaviour ? but the country was now getting into a state of perfect anarchy and confusion, so that after mon- trose's imprisonment and hard trial about signing the cumbernauld bond, i perceived that we had for ever done with him.” · [we must now pass over several years, the history of which is entirely made up of plot and counterplot, rais- ing and disbanding of armies, projects of great import, all destroyed by the merest accidents, truculent treaties, much parade, and small execution ; and follow our re- doubted baillie once more to the field of honour, the place of all others for which he was least fitted, and on which he valued himself most. indeed, if we except his account of the last parliament which the king held in scotland, and the last dinner which he gave to his nobi. lity, there is nothing very original in the memoir. the description of these is affecting, but as the writer was a professed opponent to the king's measures, it might not be fair to give such pictures as genuine.] in april , being then one of the commission of the general assembly, i was almost put beside myself, for we had the whole business of the nation to manage ; and my zeal both for our religious and civil liberties was such that i may truly say i was eaten up with it. the committee of estates attempted nothing without us, with us they could do every thing. we had been employed the whole of the first day of our meeting in receiving the penitences and confessions of the earl of lanark, who had taken a decided part against the covenant. we dreaded him for a spy sent by the king, and dealt very severely with him ; but at length he expressed himself against the king with so much rancour, that we knew he was a true man, and received him into the covenant with many prayers and supplications. on retiring to my own house, i sat down all alone to ponder on the occurrences of the day, and wondered not a little when a chariot came to my door, and softly and life of an edinburgh baillie. gently one tapped thereat. i heard some whispering at the door, as with my servant maid, and then the chariot drove off again. i sat cocking up my ears, wondering what this could be, until a gentleman entered wrapped in an ample cloak. he saluted me familiarly, but i did not know him till he had laid aside his mantle and taken me by the hand. it was my lord the marquess of argyle ; i was astonished, and my cogitations troubled me great- ly. “my lord,” said i, “ god bless you! is it your- self?" “ did you not know me, my dear baillie ?”. “ how could i, not knowing you to be in this coun. try ? i took you to be in london, watching over our affairs there in parliament, and i was very loath to be. lieve it was your ghost.” “ well, here i am, baillie, post from thence, and on an affair that much concerns every friend to the cove. (nene ani , formed religion. our affairs with his majesty are all'blown up. this we expected and foresaw, and we must now arm in good earnest for our country and religion. our affairs go on well in general ; but, o baillie ! i have received heavy news since my arrival. montrose has set up the king's standard on the border, and is appointed governor and commander-in-chief in scotland, and my brother-in-law huntly, that most tur- bulent and factious of all human beings, is appointed lieu. tenant-general for the whole realm under him ; and while the former is raising all the malignants on the two sides the border, the latter is raising the whole north against us. what think you of these news, baillie ? have we not great reason to bestir ourselves, and unite all our chief men together, in interest as well as principle, and that without loss of time ?" “i tremble at the news, my lord,” returned i, “ but merely for the blood that i see must be shed in scotland ; for i am no more afraid of the triumph of our cause than i am of a second deluge, having the same faith in the promises relating to them both. besides, my lord, the danger is not so great as you imagine from the coalition. remarkable passages in the the marquess of huntly, friend as he is of yours, will never act in subordination with any created being, for his pride and his jealousy will not let him. he may well mar the enterprises of the other, but never will fur- ther them. the other is a dangerous man, i acknow. ledge it. his equal is not in the kingdom ; but he is a forsworn man, and how can such a man prosper? i blame you much, my lord, for the loss of him. your behaviour there has been so impolitic, that i could never trust you with the whole weight of our concerns so well again." " why, baillie,” returned he impatiently," that man wanted to be every thing. i made all the concessions i could ultimately, but they would not do ; the time was past. he was a traiior to the cause at heart, so let that pass. let us now work for the best. to-morrow the danger must all be disclosed, both in the committee and the assembly's commission, and i desired this private conference with you, that what i propose in the one, you may propose in the other.” " it was prudently and wisely considered, my lord,” said i; “ for our only safeguard in this perilous time, is a right understanding with one another. that which either of us proposes will not be put off without a fair trial ; and when it turns out that we have both proposed the same thing and the same measures, these must appear to our coadjutors as founded in reason and ex- perience.” “ exactly my feelings," added he; " and neither of us must give up our points, but bring to a fair trial by vote should there be any opposition. there must be two armies raised, or embodied rather, without delay. who are to be the commanders ?”. “your lordship is without doubt entitled to be the commander of one," said i. “ granting this, whom are we to propose for the other?” said he. “ not having previously thought of the matter, i am rather at a loss," said i. b life of an edinburgh baillie. most resolute manner,” added he. “ it will mar their levies for once." “ it is a terrible affair," said i, “ to be gone delibe- rately about for any sinister purpose." " it is what they justly deserve," said he. “ they are renegades and reprobates, every man of them ; liars and covenant-breakers ; let the curse be poured out on them. and now, my dear friend, if it turns out that i must lead the covenanting army against my brother-in- law, i will not proceed a foot without your company. you shall be my chief counsellor, and next to myself both in honour and emolument. in short, you shall com. mand both the army and me. give me your promise." “ i think i can serve you more at home, my lord,” said i. “ no you cannot,” said he. you have an indefinable power over huntly. i have seen extraordinary instances of it. he has no more power to stand before you than before a thunder-bolt. your very name has a charm over him. i was in his company last year when your name chanced to be mentioned. to my astonishment, every lineament of his frame and feature of his counte- nance underwent a sudden alteration, becoming truly diabolical. "wretch ! poltroon ! dog that he is ! ex- claimed he furiously ; i'll crush the varlet with my foot, as i would do the meanest reptile !" “i will go with you, my lord,” said i. "'there shall be nothing more of it. we will let him see who can crush best. crush me with his foot! the proud ob- streporous changeling! i will let him see who will take the door of the parliament-house first, ere long! they would not cut off his head when they had him, though i brought him in chains to them like a wild beast, and told them what he was.” “that's right,” said the marquess ; “i like to see you show a proper spirit. now remember to push home the excommunication. the great one let it be. give them it soundly." “ it shall be done, my lord,” said i, “ if my influence remarkable passages in the and exertion can bear it through. and moreover i will lead the van of your army in the northern expedition myself in person. i shall command the wing or centre against huntly, wherever he is. it is not proper that two brothers command against each other.” we then conversed about many things in a secret and confidential manner till a late hour, when i likewise muffled myself up in a cloak and conveyed his lordship home. the very next day, as soon as the prayer was ended, i arose in my seat, and announced the news of the two risings in opposition to the covenant, and all our flourish- ing measures; and proposed that we should, without a moment's delay, come to a conclusion how the danger might be averted. i was seconded by the rev. mr blair, who confirmed my statement as far as related to the north. of montrose none of them had heard. i assured them of the fact, and proposed the earl of cal- lander to levy and lead the army of the south, and argyle that of the north ; at the same time stating my reasons for my choice, which i deemed unanswerable. there was not one dissentient voice, provided the convention of estates acquiesced in the choice. i then made a speech of half an hour's length, recom- mending that the sword of the spirit should likewise be unsheathed against them, and that, as a terror to others, these rebels against the true reformed religion should be consigned over to the spirit of disobedience, under whose influence they had thus raised the bloody banner of civil war. i was seconded by mr robert douglas, a great leader of our church ; but we were both opposed by sir william campbell, another ruling elder like myself, and that with such energy that i was afraid the day was lost, the moderator, mr david dickson, a silly man, being on his side. we carried it, however, by a majority, and mr john adamson was chosen for the important work. the crowd that day at the high church was truly ter- rific, and certainly mr adamson went through the work in a most imposing and masterly manner. my heart life of an edinburgh baillie. quaked, and all the hairs of my head rose on end ; and i repented me of having been the moving cause of con. signing so many precious souls to endless perdition. i could sleep none all the following night, and had resolv. ed to absent myself from the commission the next day, and spend it in fasting and humiliation, but at eleven o'clock i was sent for on express to attend, and on going i found new cause for grief and repentance. i had given in a list of eight for excommunication, precisely as argyle gave them to me. i did not so much as know some of them, but took them on my great patron's word. they were the marquess of huntly, of course he was the first; the two irvines, of drum; the laird of haddo, and his steward ; the lairds of skeen and tipperty; and mr james kennedy, secretary to huntly. judge then of my grief and confusion, when on going into my place i found mr robert skeen there, entering a protest against our proceedings, in as far as related to his brother, the laird of skeen, whom he as- sured us was as true to the cause as any present; and he gave us, as i thought, indubitable proofs of it. i was overcome with confusion and astonishment, and wist not what to say for myself, for i could not with ho. nour disclose the private communication between argyle and me. i got up to address the meeting, but my feel- ings and my conscience were so much overcome, that i could not come to any point that bore properly on the subject. whereon sir william campbell, who had op- posed the motion from the beginning, rose and said, “ mr moderator, it is evident the gentleman is nonplussed, and cannot give any proper explanation. i'll do it for him ; the gentleman, sir, is like ourselves, he acts by com- mission ; yes, sir, i say like us, he acts by commission. we do so with our eyes open, in the name and by the appointment of all our brethren ; but he acts, sir, with his eyes shut; he acts, sir, blindfolded, and solely by the direction of another. is it any wonder, sir, that such a man should run into blunders ? but since the thing hath happened why let it pass. what is a man's soul life of an edinburgh bailie. “ the meaning of it is, sir," said i, -and i said it with a holy sublimity of manner-" the meaning of it is, sir, that he knows i am born to chastise him in this world, and to be his bane in a world to come.” the poor fellow gaped and stared at me in dumb amazement. i made him a present of merks, and the horse that he had rode on, which he accepted of without again moving his tongue. this was at midnight, and the next morning early, ar- gyle called a council of war, and proposed turning aside from the direct route, and strengthening ourselves to the eastward. the rest of the officers acquiesced, but i held my.peace and shook my head. “ what ! does our worthy friend the baillie not ap- prove of this measure ?” said argyle. “i disapprove of it mainly and decidedly," said i. “or, if you will lead the army to the eastward, give me but freeland's perth dragoons, and as many chosen men foot soldiers, and i will engage with these few to push straight onward, brave the wild beast in his den, scatter his army of hellish malignants like chaff; and if i don't bring you huntly, bound head and foot, his horse shall be swifter than mine. i know the power that is given me, and i will do this, or never trust my word again.” “my lords and right trusty friends," said argyle, "you have all heard our honoured friend the baillie's proposal. you have likewise witnessed the energy with which it has been made, so different from his accus. tomed modest, mild, and diffident manner,-asure pledge to me that he is moved to the undertaking by the spirit of the most high; i therefore propose that we should grant him the force he requests, and trust him with the bold adventure.” " if my cavalry are to be engaged,” said the laird of freeland, “ i must necessarily fight at their head.” " that you shall, and i will ride by your side, sir,” said i. “but remember you are to fight when i bid you, and pursue when i bid you ; as to the flying part, i leave that to your own discretion." c ***ark di&tabs $ ** thx + vind said, prince" chien arugke; * go ze ws. * * * na ruampen of the fout into the other way * , **. t onomon mom were seized with breng arm, and we wo man nese te a sentiment the two expedition. i was in patient to let tv, huyon, taken thy menare, ma scuorice i sa ) catary, atrum, wixin ** tre three m ans black drnyme, and mortals, foot vers, demar them, i turk the road at their boui, teine then thing **** v ſoul thuy horses, we halted no more til we de* type hyrbore the enemy. the imird of preeland lert the bertse, and your chatutis of licho, the . we rode et"wicht on to the thyrtis, and at even crossed the don at s place called the old pord, of auld pace cub. senamtly rendered famous for the triumph of migpity, the weather was fine, and the waters very low; and i propused, after feeling, our horses, that we should uarel soll night, and surprise the gordons early in the morning, accordingly west out, but on leaving the dee, we got into a wild motintain mth, and there being a thick dry hame on the hills, we lost our way altogether, and knew not whither we were journeying, north or youth. at length we arrived at a poor village, having a highland dame, which i could not pronounce, and there asked a guide for the town of lluntly. the men were in great consternstion, running, from one house to another; for our array through the haze appeared, even to my own fyre, to increase sevenfold. we at length procured a guide by sheer compulsion, i placed him on a horse before a dragoon, with orders to kill him if he attempted to make his escape, and i assur- ed him, that on the return of day, if i found that he had not led tis by the direct path, i would cut him all into simall pieces. finding out that the hamlet belonged to the cordons, i was very jealous of the fellow, and kept always beside him myself. “now are you gure, you tascal, that you are leading us in a straight line for huntly?" "tuhay, and tat she pe. she pe leating you as straight, sir, as a very tree, as straight as a whery rhope, sir," life of an edinburgh baillie. “ had we deviated much ere we arrived at your village ?” “i dhont knhow, sir. far did you pe casting them ?” “ casting what ?" “ why them divots you speaked of.” “i mean, had we gone far astray ?" “ hu, very far indheed, sir, you could not have ghone as far astray in te whoule world.” one of my black dragoons, a great scholar and astro- nomer, now came riding up and says, “i can tell your honour that i got a glimpse of the heavens through the mist, just now, and saw the polar star; this fellow is lead- ing you straight to the north-west, in among the moun. tains, and very near in a direct line from huntly." “fats te mahn saying ?” cried the guide. i seized him by the throat, and taking a naked sword in my hand, i said, “ swear to me by the great god, sirrah, that you are conducting me straight to huntly, else i run you through the body this instant.” “huhay, she will swear py te muckle cot as lhong as you lhike." i then put the oath to him, making him repeat it after me, which he did till i caine to the words straight to huntly. to these he objected and refused to repeat them; i asked the reason, and he said, “ cot pless you, sir, no man can go straight here py rheason of the woots, and te rhocks, and te hills, and te mhountains. we must just go or we can find an opening.” “ the man speaks good sense,” said i, and we are all fools ; lead on, my good fellow." when he found that he was out of danger for the present, his natural antipathy against us soon began again to show itself, and he asked at me sneeringly, " and pe tat your swear in te sassenach ? tat is your creat pig oath, i mean. i answered in the affirmative. " phoo, phoo!" cried he, “ ten i would nhot kive a podle for an hundred tousand of tem. you will nhot pe tat bittie stick in my hand te petter of it. put you will remarkable passages in the whither. i instantly chose out twenty of my black dra- goons, and leaving the officers to settle with the gordons as best they could, i set off in pursuit of their chief. i soon got traces of him, and pursued hotly on his track till the fall of evening, when i lost him in this wise. he had quitted his horse, and crossed the spey in a boat, while two of the gentlemen who rode with him led off the rest of the horses down the south side of the river. i followed in the same direction, but could never discover at what place these horses crossed the river, for no ford we could find, the banks being all alike precipitous, and the river tumbling and roaring through one continu. ous gullet. we passed the night most uncomfortably, in an old barn, and the next morning, getting a ford, we proceeded on the road, to elgin, but lost all traces of the object of our pursuit. my troopers tried to persuade me to return, but i would not listen to them, and therefore i turned westward again, until i came to the very boatman who had ferried huntly over the water the evening before. they told me that he left them on foot with four attend. ants, and that they were all so loaden with gold and silver, that if their horses did not come round in a circuit and meet them, they could not travel two miles further. this sharpened our stomachs exceedingly, and we set out after the enemy at a bold gallop. we had not ridden far, till we were informed by a hind, that the marquess and his friends were lodged in a farmer's house straight before us, occupied by a gentleman named john gordon; that the marquess had changed his name, but several there knew him, and that it was reported they were loaden with treasure, which they were unable to carry with them. in an instant we were at the house, which we surrounded and took by assault, there being none in it but john gordon and a lad, and two maidens, all of whom we took prisoners. we searched the house but and ben, outside and inside, but no marquess nor lord found we, but we found two bags, in which were con- tained a thousand crowns of gold. i then examined all the prisoners on oath, and released them ; but mr gor- remarkable passages in the and hands were not weakened ; and that huntly's sole dependence lay on getting reasonable terms of accommo. dation, and for that only he with difficulty kept his for. ces together. this was the substance of all he had ga. thered, principally from the country people, and he as. sured me i might rely on it. this was blithe news to me, he told me, likewise, that he was called in before hun. tly, who examined him regarding all the news of the south. at length he came to this. " know you aught of the covenanters' army?" “i was in st johnston when they were there, my lord; saw all their array, and heard the names of the leaders, some of which i have forgot." " what may be the amount of their army ?" “ the numbers are considerable. i think mr norris, with whom i lodged, said they amounted to , , but they are badly equipped, badly trained, and far worse commanded. your troops may venture to encounter them one to two." " why, i heard that argyle had the command." “ not at at all, my lord, he has the least command in the arıny; he only commands the horse. lord kinghom has a regiment, he is no great head, you know ; lord elcho has another. but the commander-in-chief is i assure you, a ridiculous body, a baillie of edinburgh." " thank you kindly for the character, mr hay," said i; “thank you kindly.” i was, however, highly pleased with the fellow's ingenuity. "thank you kind. ly, mr lawrence," said l. "well, what did the mar- quess say to that?" "say to that l' exclaimed he. " why, the man went out of his reason the moment i mentioned your name, i never beheld any thing equal to it! i cannot compre. hend it. his countenance altered ; his eyes turned out, and his tongue swelled in his mouth, so that he could hardly pronounce the words. then he began and cursed you for a dog of hell, and cursed, and cursed you, till he fell into a sort of convulsion, and his officers carried him away. what in this world is the meaning of it?" life of an edinburgh bailie. “ the meaning of it is, sir," said i, -and i said it with a holy sublimity of manner-" the meaning of it is, sir, that he knows i am born to chastise him in this world, and to be his bane in a world to come.” the poor fellow gaped and stared at me in dumb amazement. i made him a present of merks, and the horse that he had rode on, which he accepted of without again moving his tongue. this was at midnight, and the next morning early, ar- gyle called a council of war, and proposed turning aside from the direct route, and strengthening ourselves to the eastward. the rest of the officers acquiesced, but i held my peace and shook my head. “ what! does our worthy friend the baillie not ap- prove of this measure ?” said argyle. "i disapprove of it mainly and decidedly,” said i. “or, if you will lead the army to the eastward, give me but freeland's perth dragoons, and as many chosen men foot soldiers, and i will engage with these few to push straight onward, brave the wild beast in his den, scatter his army of hellish malignants like chaff; and if i don't bring you huntly, bound head and foot, his horse shall be swifter than mine. i know the power that is given me, and i will do this, or never trust my word again.” "my lords and right trusty friends," said argyle, "you have all heard our honoured friend the baillie's proposal. you have likewise witnessed the energy with which it has been made,_s different from his accus. tomed modest, mild, and diffident manner,-a sure pledge to me that he is moved to the undertaking by the spirit of the most high; i therefore propose that we should grant him the force he requests, and trust him with the bold adventure.” “ if my cavalry are to be engaged," said the laird of freeland, " i must necessarily fight at their head.” " that you shall, and i will ride by your side, sir,” said i. “but remember you are to fight when i bid you, and pursue when i bid you ; as to the flying part, i leave that to your own discretion.” c life of an edinburgh baillie. “ had we deviated much ere we arrived at your village ?" “i dhont knhow, sir. far did you pe casting them?” “ casting what ?” “ why them divots you speaked of." “i mean, had we gone far astray ?" “ hu, very far indheed, sir, you could not have ghone as far astray in te whoule world.” one of my black dragoons, a great scholar and astro- nomer, now came riding up and says, “i can tell your honour that i got a glimpse of the heavens through the mist, just now, and saw the polar star; this fellow is lead- ing you straight to the north-west, in among the moun- tains, and very near in a direct line from huntly." “fats te mahn saying ?” cried the guide. i seized him by the throat, and taking a naked sword in my hand, i said, “ swear to me by the great god, sirrah, that you are conducting me straight to huntly, else i run you through the body this instant." “ huhay, she will swear py te muckle cot as lhong as you lhike.” i then put the oath to him, making him repeat it after me, which he did till i carne to the words straight to huntly. to these he objected and refused to repeat them; i asked the reason, and he said, “ cot pless you, sir, no man can go straight here py rheason of the woots, and te rhocks, and te hills, and te mhountains. we must just go or we can find an opening.” " the man speaks good sense,” said i, and we are all fools; lead on, my good fellow." when he found that he was out of danger for the present, his natural antipathy against us soon began again to show itself, and he asked at me sneeringly, “and pe tat your swear in te sassenach ? tat is your creat pig oath, i mean. i answered in the affirmative. “ phoo, phoo!” cried he, “ ten i would nhot kive a podle for an hundred tousand of tem. you will nhot pe tat bittie stick in my hand te petter of it. put you will remarkable passages in the soon pe an fhine rhoats nhow, and haxellent speed you will pe." he was laughing when he said this, and the trooper who was behind him, perceiving that he was leading straight on a thicket, asked him what he meant by that, but all that he said was, “ huhay, you shall soon be on haxellent rhoats now;" so saying, he plunged his horse into a bog, where it floundered and fell. the dragoon that guarded the guide threw himself off, and tumbled heels-over-head; but the guide, who was free of the stir- rups, flung himself off more nimbly, and the next moment dived into the thicket. sundry pieces were let off after him, but they might as well have shot against a brazen wall. he laughed aloud, and called out, “ huhay, fire away, fire away; you pe te fery coot shotters, and you pe an haxellent rhoats now; ha ha ha vou pe an ta haxellent rhoats nhow' we saw no more of our guide, and knew not what to do; but finding a fine green recess in the wood, we alighted and baited our horses, the men refreshed them- selves, and at day-break i sung the six last verses of the th psalm, in which the whole army joined me, making most grand and heavenly music in that wild highland wood. i then prayed fervently for direction aud success against our enemies, while all the army kneeled around me on the grass. after that the men rose greatly en- couraged, and in high spirits. we rushed from the hills straight upon huntly before noon, but met no army there. we got intelligence that the army of the gordons had divided; that sir george gordon had led one of the divisions to the eastward, into the braes of the ithan, and had fortified the castle of haddo, and that the ministers were raising the whole country around him to join argyle, for the sentence of excommunication had broken the arms of the gordons. that the marquess of huntly had retired up the country with the rest, and had stationed them in fastnesses, while he himself lay in the castle of auchendoun. we rode straight on for auchendoun, in hopes stil] to take him life of an edinburgh baillie. by surprise, although our friends assured us that our ap- proach was known last night through all the rows of strathbogie, for it seemed the men of the village we came to among the hills had run and raised the alarm. about noon we came in sight of the gordons, drawn up on a hill to the south of the river, but owing to the inequalities of the ground, we could form no right esti. mate of their numbers. young elcho was for an im- mediate attack, but that i protested against as a thing im- practicable, owing to the situation of the ground. the hill was full of shelves, lying all one above another, so that they served as natural bulwarks, and to surmount them with troops of horse was impossible; therefore, i proposed to march straight on the castle, to take order with the marquess himself, for the whole bent and bias of my inclination led me to that. charteris grumbled, and would fain have been at handicuffs, but the laird of freeland agreeing with me, we rode on, and the army of the gordons kept its station, only saluting us with a few volleys of musquetry as we passed, which did not wound above five men, and killed not one. the castle of auchendoun being difficult of access by a regular army, we formed our men at a little distance to the north-east, and i sent major ramsay with a trum- pet to summon the gordons to surrender. the con- stable asked in whose name he was thus summoned, - ramsay replied, “ in the name of the king, and the com- mittee of estates.” the constable said, “ that as to the latter he had not yet learned to acknowledge its power, but he had no orders from his lord to hold out the castle against the king, whose true and loyal subject he ever professed to be. after a good deal of reasoning, the gentleman, on having ramsay's word, came over to me and conversed with all freedom. i remember little of what passed, for there was only one thing that struck me to the heart; the marquess had left the castle that morn- ing, with six horsemen only in his company !! there was a stunning blow for me? i thought i had him in the lurch, but behold he was gone, i wist not c life of an edinburgh baillie. don was very sore displeased at the loss of the gold which i carried with me. “ sir, that gold is neither yours nor mine,” said he ; “it was left me in charge ; i swore to hide it, and return it to the owner when called for, and it shows no gentleman nor good christian to come and take away other people's gold without either ceremony or leave.” “ this money, mr gordon, belongs to a traitor to the state," said i,—" to one that with the help of it was going to kindle up the flames of rebellion and civil war, and in taking it, i do good service both to god and man; and, therefore, do you take care, mr gordon, that i do not cause your head to be chopped off, for thus lodging and furthering a malignant and intercommuned traitor. for the money, i will answer to a higher power than is vested in you, or him that deputed you the charge ; and will cause you in a few days, if i return in peace, to be taken up and tried by the legal authorities.” in the mean time one of my black dragoons had been busy kissing one of john gordon's maidens and from her he had learned many particulars that came not out on oath. she told him the colours of all the horses and the dresses of the men. the marquess was dressed in tartan trews of the mackintosh stripes, had a black bonnet on his head, and was entitled the major. she told the way the men went, and much of their conversation over-night which she heard. the man they called the major ac- knowledged that he was bewitched, and the rest joined with him, marvelling exceedingly at a power some hellish burgess of edinburgh exercised over him; and sundry other things did this maiden disclose. but from one particular set down here, it was evident the marquess was impressed with a horrid idea that i was to work his destruction, and feared to look me in the face more than he feared the spirits of the infernal re- gions. i had the same impressions. i knew i would some time or other vanquish him, and have my full re- venge for all his base and unworthy dealings toward me. a good lesson to all men in power to do that which is remarkable passages in the just and right. as it was, my very name unmanned him, and made him desert his whole clan,--who, amid their native fastnesses, might have worn us out, or cut us in pieces,-bundle up his treasures, and gallop for his life. had i ridden straight for forres that morning, i would have been there long before hiin ; but suspecting that he had fled westward into the highlands, i returned to gor- don's house, and was now quite behind him. on we rode, without stop or stay, to the town of forres, having speerings of the party all the way ; but when we came there, they were still a-head of us, having ridden briskly through the town without calling. we pushed on to the town of finran, but there our evil luck predominated, no such people having been seen there. we wist not then where to turn, but thought of pursuing up the coast; and as we were again setting out, whom should we meet but my worthy friend master john monro, minister of inverallen, who was abroad on the business of the estates. from him we learned, that five gentlemen at the village on the other side of the bay were making a mighty stir about getting a boat,—that they seemed pursued men, and that two of the party who arrived first were so much alarmed, that they took to the boat provided for the whole, and had left their friends to their shift. as there were only five of the party we were pursu. ing, i now suspected that two had been despatched the night before to procure this boat, and knowing the marquess to be of the latter party, i was sure he was left behind. we made all the speed to the place that our horses were able, but they were sore forespent, and just as we arrived we saw a great bustle about the quay, and a small boat wito four oars left it. i immediately discovered the mar. quess, with his tartan trews and black bonnet, and hailing the boat, i desired her to return. the helmsman and rowers seemed disposed to obey, but a great bustle arose in the boat, and one of the rowers who leaned on his oar was knocked down, a gentleman took his place, and away shot the boat before the wind. i ordered my party to life of an edinburgh baillie. fire into her, but then a scene of riot and confusion took place. the men and all the women of the village flew on us like people distracted, seized on our guns, took my black dragoons by their throats, scratched their faces, tore their hair, and dared them for the souls that were within them, to fire one shot at the boat manned by their own dear and honest men. it was vain to contend : the boat was soon out of reach, so i was obliged to yield to these rude villagers and make matters up with them as well as i could ; but i was indeed a grieved man for having taken so much trouble in vain, and letting the great disturber of the country's peace escape again and again, as it were, from under my nose. we took some rest and refreshment at the village, and after communing long with myself, i determined still to keep on the pursuit ; to ride westward, cross the firth to rothiemay, and ride towards sutherland, to intercept the marquess on his landing. accordingly, we set out once more, much against the opinion of my men, who contended that we were too small a party to penetrate into those distant regions ; but nothing could divert me from my purpose, knowing as i did that inverness, and all those bounds, were in favour with our party and true men. but behold that very night we were all surprised and taken prisoners in the town of nairn, by captain logie and a full troop of the gordons, who, getting some intelligence of their chief's danger, had been on the alert for his rescue. when i was brought before this young officer to be examined, i found him a very impertinent and forward fellow, although i answered all his questions civilly. when i told him i was pursuing the marquess of huntly, to bring him to suffer for all his crimes, he cursed me for a dog, and said the times were come to a sad pass indeed when such a cur as i dared to pursue after the marquess of huntly, a nobleman whose shoes i was not entitled to wipe. he called me a puny burgess, a canting worth- less hypocrite, and every opprobrious title that he could remarkable passages in the invent: took all my hoard of gold, tied my feet and the feet of my black dragoons below the bellies of our horses, and led us away captives into the country of the gor- dons. i gave the young gentleman several hints to be. ware how he maltreated me, for that i was a dangerous personage, and never missed setting my foot on the necks of my enemies; but all my good advice tended only to make him worse. he used us very ill, and at length brought us prisoners to the castle of haddo, commanded by sir george gordon, and fully provided for a siege. we lay for some days without knowing what was going on, often hearing the din of muskets and some cannonry, whereby we understood that argyle or some of his officers had come before the castle, and sorely did we regret that we had it not in our power to let our state be known to our friends. but there was one thing that i discovered which could scarcely have been kept from our ears; i perceived there were divisions within the castle, and that the other chief. tains of the gordon race were disgusted with haddo's procedure. on this subject i kept my mind to myself, and the third day after we were immured, we had a little more liberty granted us, and were rather more civilly treated, then i knew the besieged were afraid, and wished to make their peace. i was right. argyle had heard from our friends in morayshire of our capture, and insisted on our release before he would enter into any accommo- dation with the besieged. we were accordingly liberat- ed, and all my gold restored to me, and joyfully was i received by argyle and his friends, who lauded my zeal exceedingly, although they did make some sport of the expedition of my black dragoons and me which they de- nominated “ the black raed.” by this time, master john gordon was brought in a prisoner, as also two of the boatmen who carried the marquess over to caithness, where they had left him, still posting his way to the north. such a violent fright did that great and proud person get from a man whom he had bitterly wronged, and his few black dragoons, that life of an edinburgh baillie. he never looked over his shoulder till he was concealed among the rocks, on the shores of the northern ocean. finding that lord gordon, the marquess's eldest son, had, either through choice or compulsion, joined his uncle argyle, i got john gordon and before his face, argyle's, and several others, consigned to the young lord his father's treasure that i had captured, for which i got great praise. i knew well enough argyle would not suffer any part of it to revert to the huntlys again. the brave young lord looked much dissatisfied; i was rather sorry for him, for our troops had wasted his father's lands very much. it is only necessary to note here, that the men whom i left at auchendoun met with little opposition in those parts. they entered the castle and plundered it of a good deal of stores, and then marched rank and file on the army that was encamped on the shelvy hill, but that melted away before them, for the men saw they had nothing for which to fight. as soon as i got private talk with argyle, i informed him of the strength of the castle, and the likelihood there was that we would lose many lives before it; but i added, “ i am convinced that sir george's violent mea- sures, are any thing but agreeable to the greater part of the gentlemen within, for he is a boisterous and turbulent person, and they cannot brook his rule. my advice therefore, is, that you offer all within the castle free quarter, providing they will deliver up the laird, and the insolent captain logie, to answer for their share in this insurrection.” argyle returned for answer, “ that he approved of my pacific measures, having no wish to shed his countrymen's blood, but that surely the soldiers would never be so base as to give up their leaders.” i said, “ that i conceived the matter deserved a trial, as the sparing of human blood was always meritorious in the sight both of god and man.” accordingly argyle, who never in his life rejected my council but once, which he afterwards repented,-he, i remarkable passages in the ma invent: took all my hoard of gold, tied my feet a feet of my black dragoons below the bellies of our and led us away captives into the country of the dons. i gave the young gentleman several hints ware how he maltreated me, for that i was a dan; personage, and never missed setting my foot on the of my enemies; but all my good advice tended or make him worse. he used us very ill, and at be brought us prisoners to the castle of haddo, comme by sir george gordon, and fully provided for a sies we lay for some days without knowing what was po on, often hearing the din of muskets and some came whereby we understood that argyle or some of his oli had come before the castle, and sorely did we regret we had it not in our power to let our state be know our friends. which but there was one thing that i do scarcely have been kept from o were divisions within the cast! tains the gordon race w on this subi day at pro taid, and argyle capture, a ar into ere accordi me, and nids, who d makes goong and john go the bo life of an edinburgh ball aillie. curious in such e never looked over his shoulder till mong the rocks, on the sum of the finding that loni gonion, the ai, either through cinsiez com gyle, i got john gardenador nd several others consignatie easure that i hai cate, fi knew well enogle terti to revert to the fat ed looked me m, iar outro ar, [this must have from argyle, en- highlands, as he cil and assistance, to set out on an commanded by any thing to do ion, and stood in assistance would d my noble friend, had no liberty of on ; but i would slies and interests marts. they a good deal of melted may be walking for what another letter ex- come to him with- e he found a blank could not otherwise i friend mr mungo prayers. to whet huntly had again id crossed glen-roy gordons, to urge on ume, and without this for i felt assured, my heart, that i be a scourge to hould bring his mr law and after a difficult liere we found ed in council, y ito mid-lorn, mercy; and life of an edinburgh baillie. civic and parliamentary annals to those curious in such matters. ] some day about the close of the year, [this must have been, a. d. ,] i received a letter from argyle, en- treating me to attend him in the west highlands, as he never stood more in need of iny council and assistance, than at that instant; he being about to set out on an expedition against a powerful army, commanded by dangerous and experienced leaders. i answered that i liked not having any thing to do with montrose, for i knew his decision, and stood in dread of him, therefore i judged my assistance would rather be prejudical to the good cause and my noble friend, than otherwise ; and that moreover, i had no liberty of absence from the council of the nation ; but i would never lose sight of furthering his supplies and interests where i was. but all this would not serve, i got another letter ex. press from dumbarton, adjuring me to come to him with- out any loss of time, for in my absence he found a blank in his counsels and resolutions which could not otherwise be supplied; and to bring my reverend friend mr mungo law with me, to assist us with his prayers. to whet me on a little more he added, that huntly had again issued froin his concealment, and had crossed glen-roy at the head of a regiment of the gordons, to urge on and further montrose's devastations. this kindled my ardour to a flame, and without this instigation i would not have gone; for i felt assured, even in the most inward habitation of my heart, that i was decreed and directed from above, to be a scourge to huntly, and an adder in his path, until i should bring his haughty brow to the dust. accordingly, mr law and i set out, in the very depth of winter, and after a difficult journey we arrived at dumbarton castle, where we found- our principal covenanting leaders assembled in council, and a powerful army in attendance. argyle's plan was to march straight into mid-lorn, which the royal army then wasted without mercy; and d remarkable passages in the say, came before the castle, and by proclamation offered the terms suggested by me. the proffer was no sooner made than the gates were thrown open, argyle and his friends were admitted, and sir george gordon and cap. tain logie delivered into our hands, well bound with ropes. i asked the captain how he did ; but he would not speak, and afterwards, when he did speak, he answered me as proudly and as insolently as ever. my kind friend and patron did me the honour that day to say, before sundry noblemen and gentlemen, that he esteemed my advice as if one inquired at the oracles of god. and now the rebels being wholly either reduced or scattered, we returned straight to edinburgh with our two prisoners, and had their heads chopped off, publicly, on the th of july, at the market-cross. [this was summary work with a vengeance! if this narrative of the honest baillie's detail be, as it professes, nothing but simple literal facts, it is certainly an extraor- dinary story, and may well be denominated a remarkable passage in his life. but without all doubt, his stories of the marquess of huntly must be swallowed with caution; for such a rooted hatred and opposition could not fail to produce exaggeration. the idea which the writer en- tertains of having a power over the destiny of that noble- man, invested in him by the almighty, as a reward for former injuries, is among the most curious superstitions of the age. in the following parliament, a sir john smith, and our friend the baillie, represent the city of edinburgh ; on which occasion, the latter has the honour of knighthood conferred on him. we must, notwithstanding, still de. nominate him by our old familiar title, the baillie, as it sounds best in our ears, and gives a novelty to the great events in which he was engaged. his details of parliamentary business are jumbles of confusion and absurdity, and contain many decrees un- worthy the councils of a nation struggling for their liber. ties, civil and religious ; we must therefore follow the baillie to his next great exploit in the field, and leave his life of an edinburgh baillie, civic and parliamentary annals to those curious in such matters.] some day about the close of the year, [this must have been, a. d. ,] i received a letter from argyle, en- treating me to attend him in the west highlands, as he never stood more in need of any council and assistance, than at that instant; he being about to set out on an expedition against a powerful army, commanded by dangerous and experienced leaders. i answered that i liked not having any thing to do with montrose, for i knew his decision, and stood in dread of him, therefore i judged my assistance would rather be prejudical to the good cause and my noble friend, than otherwise ; and that moreover, i had no liberty of absence from the council of the nation ; but i would never lose sight of furthering his supplies and interests where i was. but all this would not serve, i got another letter ex. press from dumbarton, adjuring me to come to him with- out any loss of time, for in my absence he found a blank in his counsels and resolutions which could not otherwise be supplied ; and to bring my reverend friend mr mungo law with me, to assist us with his prayers. to whet me on a little more he added, that huntly had again issued from his concealment, and had crossed glen-roy at the head of a regiment of the gordons, to urgeon and further montrose's devastations. this kindled my ardour to a flame, and without this instigation i would not have gone; for i felt assured, even in the most inward habitation of my heart, that i was decreed and directed from above, to be a scourge to huntly, and an adder in his path, until i should bring his haughty brow to the dust. accordingly, mr law and i set out, in the very depth of winter, and after a difficult journey we arrived at dumbarton castle, where we found our principal covenanting leaders assembled in council, and a powerful army in attendance. argyle's plan was to march straight into mid-lorn, which the royal army then wasted without mercy; and d life of an edinburgh baillie, civic and parliamentary annals to those curious in such matters.] some day about the close of the year, [this must have been, a. d. ,] i received a letter from argyle, en- treating me to attend him in the west highlands, as he never stood more in need of iny council and assistance, than at that instant; he being about to set out on an expedition against a powerful army, commanded by dangerous and experienced leaders. i answered that i liked not having any thing to do with montrose, for i knew his decision, and stood in dread of him, therefore i judged my assistance would rather be prejudical to the good cause and my noble friend, than otherwise ; and that moreover, i had no liberty of absence from the council of the nation ; but i would never lose sight of furthering his supplies and interests where i was. but all this would not serve, i got another letter ex. press from dumbarton, adjuring me to come to him with- out any loss of time, for in my absence he found a blank in his counsels and resolutions which could not otherwise be supplied; and to bring my reverend friend mr mungo law with me, to assist us with his prayers. to whet me on a little more he added, that huntly had again issued froin his concealment, and had crossed glen-roy at the head of a regiment of the gordons, to urge on and further montrose's devastations. this kindled my ardour to a flame, and without this instigation i would not have gone; for i felt assured, even in the most inward habitation of my heart, that i was decreed and directed from above, to be a scourge to huntly, and an adder in his path, until i should bring his haughty brow to the dust. accordingly, mr law and i set out, in the very depth of winter, and after a difficult journey we arrived at dumbarton castle, where we found- our principal covenanting leaders assembled in council, and a powerful army in attendance. argyle's plan was to march straight into mid-lorn, which the royal army then wasted without mercy; and v d remarkable passages in the buchan, a dreadful march in such weather. we swal- lowed all this for truth, and i believe the men told the truth as far as they knew. but behold at the very time argyle was questioning them in my presence, there comes news that the advanced guard of montrose's army and ours had had a sharp encounter at the ford of the river spean; that the latter had been defeated with a severe loss, and was in full retreat on the camp. , “ secure the two traitors,” cried sir duncan, and mounting he galloped through the camp, marshalling the troops under their several officers in gallant style. argyle, kilmere, and myself, remained questioning the deserters. they declared the thing impossible, as they had come in the very line of march, and neither saw nor heard of a retrograde motion, and offered to answer with their lives for the truth of their statement. argyle was convinced, so was i; so were all who heard the men's asseverations, and the simplicity with which they were delivered. the captain of the advan- ced guard was sent for, and strictly examined. he could not tell whether the army of montrose' had returned, and came against us or not. “i had led my men over the river spean, on the ice,” said he, “lest it should break up, as a thaw seemed to be coming on. they went slid- ing over in some irregularity, and all the while i perceiv- ed the bare heads of a few fellows peeping over the ridge, immediately before us. i took them for boys, or country people ; yet still, as the men came over, i drew them up on the opposite side to this. when about two-thirds were over, a whole regiment of armed men came rushing down on us at once, running with all their force, and uttering the most terrible shouts. we had firm footing, and i thought might have repelled them, but some of our men who were scrambling on the ice at the time re. turned, and began a making for this side. flight of all things, is the most contagious. i have often seen it, and on seeing this i lost hope. in five minutes after this iny regiment broke, and ran for it; and many were kill- d, or taken floundering on the ice. we, however, drew life of an edinburgh baillie. up on the near bank, and retreated in order. i there got a full view of the men, and knew them for a regiment of the m‘donalds; but whether keppoch's men of the braes, or m ranald's i could not destinguish." we were all convinced that this check was nothing more than the lochaber clans trying to impede our march, till montrose got out of the fastnesses of the mountains; but auchenbreck was doubtful, and caused our army to rest on their arms all night, sure of this, that if montrose had returned, he would try to surprise us by a night at- tack. the night passed in quietness, save the commo- tion of the elements, which became truly awful. the evening had been light; for the sky though troubled like, was clear; and the moon at the full. but at mid- night the thaw commenced; the winds howled, and the black clouds hung over the pale mountains, and whirled in eddies so terrific, that my heart was chilled within me! and my spirit shrunk at the madness of mankind, to be thus seeking one another's lives, amid the terrors of the storm and the commotion of conflicting tempests. i spent the night in fasting and prayer, fervently commit- ting us and our cause to the protection of the al- mighty. my noble friend had no more rest than myself. he lodged in the same house with me down on the shore, but in a different apartment; messengers arrived every half hour, and still he was impatient for the return of the next. about four in the morning he sent for me, and on hasting to his apartment, i was grieved to the heart at seeing him so much agitated. he was lying on his field couch with all his clothes on, save his coat, and his head swathed with flannel above his tasselled night cap. when i went in, he was complaining to his attendants of the uncertainty in which sir duncan kept him, and saying it was most strange that it could not be ascertain. ed whether an army withstood us or only an adverse clan. i saw he wished it the latter, and that with an earnestness that greatly discomposed him; his attend. ants seemned even shy of communicating their true senti. remarkable passages in the ments, and sided with their lord in conjecturing that the troops that opposed our march, was only a party raised by some of the chieftians of lochaber, to impede and harass us in the pursuit. when the marquess perceived me, he called me to him, and addressed me with his wonted courtesy, asking how i did, and how i had rested, but without giving me time to answer, began a complaining of headach and fever : said it was most unfortunate in our present cir. cumstances, but that it behoved not him to complain, seeing it was the lord's will to lay that affliction on his unworthy servant. my heart failed me when i heard him speak in this guise. i could not answer him, but taking his hand, i felt his pulse, and found both from that, and the heat on his skin, that he was fevered to a considerable degree. i knew it arose sheerly from agi. tation and want of rest, but i had not the face to tell him so, only i desired him to compose himself until the morning, and that then the fresh air and the exercise of the muster would invigorate his spirits; and that in the mean time i would go out and see that all was safe, and the martial lines in proper order. i took my cloak, mounted my horse, and with a heavy heart rode out to the plain on which our army lay in close files, flanked by the old fortress and a bay of the firth on the left, and an abrupt steep on the right. the morning was dismally dark, and the rain and sleet pouring in torrents, but the wind was somewhat abated. i rode about for some time among the lines, and was several times challenged in gaelic, for in the hurry at head quarters, i had neglected to bring a guide with me. i tried to find my way back again, but could not make it out, for not a man could i find who could speak english, until at length i was brought to the young laird of kil- kreman, and he spake it but right indifferently. i asked him to lead me to auchenbreck, he replied as well as he could, that it might not be easily done, for he had been moving about all night from line to line, keeping every one on the alert. life of an edinburgh baillie. i asked him sir duncan's opinion of this army that seemed to have risen out of the earth. “ sir duncan is shy of giving his opinion," said he, “but from the concern that he manifests, it is apparent that he dreads danger." what is your own opinion?" said i. “i would not give a rush for the danger," said he. “it is merely caused by keppoch's men, and the tail of the camerons, collected to harass us a little. i will under- take with my glenorchy regiment alone, to drive them like a herd of deer. if montrose have come from loch- ness since friday morning, across the braes of lochaber, he and his army must have come on wings.” not knowing the country, i had nothing to say; but in searching for sir duncan, we came among the lowland regiment, which we brought with us from dumbarton. a group of these were in warm discussion on the pre- sent state of affairs. campbell addressed them in gaelic ; but i held my peace, eager to hear their senti. ments. wha is they ?” whispered one. “ hout, hout, -twa o' our heeland offisher's,--they dinna ken a word we're speakin.” “ then, david, what have you to say to my argument?" “i have to say, john tod, that nane kens what mon- trose will do but them that hae foughten under him, as i hae doon. his plans are aboon a' our capacities : for let me tell ye, john, if ye be gaun to calculate on ony o’montrose's measures, ye maun fix on the ane that's maist unlikely to a' others that could be contrived be mortal men.” “ but dear davie, man, the thing's impossible.” “it's a grit lee, man. i tell ye, john tod, he does a thing the better that it's impossible.” “hout, hout! there's nae arguifying wi' you ava gin ye say that. but davie, ye see, if the way be that lang, an' that rough, that a single man coudna' travel it in a black-weather day, how could a hale army traverse it through snaw and ice?" remarkable passages in the " it's a' that ye ken about the matter, john tod. do ye no ken that montrose's army's a' cavalry?". • what ? his fit sodgers an' a'? are a' his bare- hurdied clans muntit on horses?" “ay, that they ir, john. fit an' horse an' a' is turn- ed cavalry. have nae they ta'en awa near three thoos- and o' the pick o' the horses in a' argyle ? ay, when they came down the deel's stairs, every man had a pony to ride, an' ane to carry his wallet: and let me tell ye, jock tod, thae ponies can travel a hundir mile i’ the day; an' for roads, they like an ill ane far better nor a good ane. i'm neither a prophet, nor a prophet's son, but i venture to predict that montrose, an'a' his clans at his back, will rise out o' the stomach of that glen the morn, an' like a flood frae the mountains, bear the red- haired campbell's, an' us wi' them into the waves o'the sea.” “ fat pe te sassenach tog saying ?” said young kil- rennan. “ he is threatening to drive his enemies into the waves of the sea,” said i. “ he will drive them to the rocks in te first place," said campbell. shortly after that we found sir duncan of auchenbreck, whose care and concern for his kinsmen could not be equalled, and with him i had a conference of considerable length. he had been able to discover nothing. if there was an army, it was kept in close concealment, but he was disposed to think there was one, else the flying parties would not have been so bold and forward. “they are at this moment," said he, “ hovering so nigh our columns there on the right, as to be frequently exchanging volleys with them by way of salutation. a band of caterans would scarcely dare to do so. but if god spare us to see the light of day, our doubts shall soon be at an end.” “do you mean to begin the attack, or to await it?" said i. “ i never wait an attack," returned he ; “ for my kins. men have not experience in military tactics enough to repel one, by awaiting it firmly, or forming and wheeling life of an edinburgh baillie. at the word of command, in which one single mistake would throw all into irremediable confusion. i must begin the attack, and then i can depend on my camp- bells for breaking a front line to pieces with the best clans among them.” i then took him aside, and in his ear told him of the state in which i left the marquess; that he really was ill, and, as i judged, somewhat delirious. he sighed deeply, and said a sight of him mounted at the head of his men, was better than a thousand spears; that he never could understand his chief, for he had seen instances in which he showed the most determined courage, but that, most unaccountably, he had not the command of it at all times, and never when most requir- ed. “ as it is,” continued he, “ we must never expose him in his present nervous state, to set a ruinous example to the men, who adore him. do you, therefore, detain him till the battle is fairly begun, and then, when the first step of the race is taken, you shall see him the bravest of the brave.” i applauded the wisdom of sir duncan, and said it was the very step i was anxious for him to take, being certain that the marquess, in his present state of trepidation, would only derange his measures ; and, at all events, i was sure he would not suffer. the army to be moved out of their present strong position to be led to the attack. . “ in the name of god keep him to yourself, - keep him to yourself,” said he vehemently. “do you call that a strong position? it is the very reverse for a highland army. we are too closely crammed together, and an attack of an hundred horse from that ridge would ruin our fine array in one instant. that a strong posi- tion! i would not give yon ridge of rock for a thousand of such positions. good morrow. my kindest respects to my chief, and tell him all is safe. i must be going, and see what is going on yonder ;" for at that time some volleys of musketry echoed fearfully, among the rocks up towards the bottom of ben-nevis. life of an edinburgh baillie. retreat, and never beheld aught more conclusive, i was convinced they were a herd of caterans, sent to harass us and retreat to their inaccessible fastnesses on the approach of danger. with this impression fixed on my mind, i went in again to my noble friend, in excellent spirits. i found him equipped for the field, but looking even worse than before, though pretending that he was a great deal better. i assured him of what i believed to be the truth, that the opposing army was nothing more than some rem- nants of the malignant clans collected after depositing their spoil, to attend us on our march, and impede it as much as lay in their power; for that i had myself seen them put to flight by the glenorchy regiment, and chased to the hills like so many wild goats or ragged kyloes. the spirits of the marquess brightened up a little, but there either was a lurking disease, or a lurking tremor, that had overcome him. he lifted his hand to his brow, and gave thanks to god that we were thus allowed to enjoy his holy day in peace and quietness; he then ask- ed for mr law, and being told that he was on board the galley, he proposed that we should go to him, and join in our morning devotions. the marquess's splendid galley, the faith, lay with- in a half bowshot of the shore, immediately behind the house where we quartered, but the store-ship lay farther away beyond the mouth of the river. a little gilded boat with pennant and streamers, and having the hope painted in golden letters on her stern, bore us on board, and we had not well put off from the shore till the thun. ders of musketry and field-pieces began anew to echo among the rocks. the marquess lifted his eyes to ben. nevis, and remarked what a tumultuous sound was pro- duced by the storm and the rushing torrents; (for by this time the floods of melted snow that poured from the mountains were truly terrific ;) he made no allusion at all to the sounds of the battle that mingled in the uproar, which were then quite audible, although it was but par- tially commenced. he was the first conducted on board. there were v. e remarkable passages in the eight or nine of us, and i was about the last, or rather i think the very last. every one having something to take on board with him, i had a good while to sit astern, and i observed the marquess lift his eyes to the hill, and instantly his countenance changed from dark to a deadly paleness, and from that to a livid blue. my very hairs rose on my head, for i had bad forebodings, and i drea- ded that his fine arıny was broken. i hasted on board, and soon was aware of the cause of his alarm. it was the bray of trumpets audibly mixing with the roar of the elements, producing an effect awfully sublime, but appal- ling to those who but now hoped to spend a sabbath in the exercises of devotion. “ is not that the sound of trumpets i hear ?” said ar- gyle. “ it is, my lord,” said i. " in the name of god, what does it portend?” said he. “ it portends, my lord, that montrose is leading a re- giment of horse to the onset.” “ then god prosper and shield the right,” cried he emphatically ; “ mr law, let us to our devotions short- ly, and commit our cause to the lord of hosts. then to the battle-field, where our presence may be much wanted,” . mr law led the way to the cabin. i did not go down. i could not; for with all the desire to join in prayer that a poor dependent creature could inherit, i wanted the ability ; so much were my thoughts and my eyes riveted on the scene before me. · the marquess had a curious gilded tube on board, with glass in it, which brought distant objects close to the eye. i got possession of this, and saw the battle with perfect accuracy. auchenbreck had put bis troops in motion to the right, in order to begin the attack; he l' had also taken a position on a broken rising ground be hind the valley. the glenorchy regiment of mien still kept their position in advance to the right, and it was there the battle began. they were attacked by & regiment of irish, headed by some brave officers, and as life of an edinburgh baillie. they out-numoered ours, the glenorchy men lost ground reluctantly, and were beaten from their commanding station. they were forced to give way, but were in no- wise broken. there appeared to be no horses in this part of the battle, but the three regiments of m‘donalds, who were all on the right, were flanked on both sides by strong bodies of horse. the camerons, stewarts, and some other inland clans, formed the centre, and the other two irish regiments were behind. our lowland regiment was on the left, the rest being all campbells. i cannot now distinguish them by the names of their colonels; but, to give them justice, they appeared all alike eager and keen on the engagement; and there is not a doubt but their too great intensity on revenge ruined the fortune of the day. the glenorchy regiment, as i said, was beaten back, and this being in view of the whole army, there was an instant call, from rank to rank, for support to brave young bein-more. auchenbreck ordered off the third line to reinforce the glenorchy regiment, and then such a rush took place towards that point, that it appeared like utter madness and insubordination. but so eager were the campbells to make up the first appearance of a breach in their line, that they left both their centre and left wing uncovered and weakened. montrose lost not a moment on beholding this : he galloped across in front of the m‘donalds, and shouted to them to charge. they were not slack ; pouring down into the valley, in three co- lumns, they attacked the campbells with loud shouts. the latter received them bravely ; their lines bowed and waved, but did not break; and i could not distinguish that very many fell on either side. but montrose now, at the head of a large body of horse, made a dash off at the right, with a terrible clang of trumpets and other noisy sinful instruments, as if he meant to place himself in the rear of our army. the pangs that i felt at this moment are unutterable. when the campbells made the rush to the right, they quickly repelled the irish, and drove them out of my remarkable passages in the river of glen-levin, it was roaring like a sea, and cover. ed with floating snow and ice. it was utterly impassable by man or beast. the campbells had no alternative, for they chose rather to trust the god of the elements than the swords of their inveterate foes. they plnnged in like sheep into the washing-pool. scarcely a man of them escaped! they were borne by the irresistible tor- rent into the ocean in a few moments, where we saw their bodies floating in hundreds as we sailed along. and moreover, in endeavouring to drag a large body on board, the rope broke, and they were all drowned like- wise. this is a true description of that fatal engagement, which need not be doubted, for though i write from memory, the impressions made on my mind that day were not such as to be ever obliterated. i cannot state the loss, for i never knew it, nor do i believe the marquess ever knew it or enquired after it. as far as i could judge from a distant view, there was not a man escaped, save a few hundreds that forced their way to the steep, and scattered among the rocks on the south and west sides of ben-nevis. i must now return back to where i left off; nainely at the commencement of prayers on board of argyle's meteor galley the faith. mr mungo law, instead of making the prayers short that morning, as the marquess had ordered him, made them as long again as usual, for which he was sharply reproved afterwards ; but after my lord the marquess had kneeled down and joined in the homily, he could not with any degree of decency leave it. when he came up, two pages were waiting orders. they had been sent express from the army. i heard him saying-_" tell sir duncan not to attack, but keep his strong position in which i placed him. but i will go with the orders myself.” “ no no, my lord, do not mention it now," said i. “ it is too late. the battle will be won or lost before you can reach it and give an order." remarkable passages in the by that grievous blow broken for ever. the faith and hope sailed disconsolate down lochaber. argyle and i, and seven others, bore straight to the clyde, and froni thence hasted to edinburgh, where we were the first to lay the matter before the committee of estates, and re- ceived the nation's thanks for our good behaviour. [i had great doubts of the baillie's sincerity in this, till i found the following register in sir james balfour's. annals, vol. ii. p. - : “wedenesday, feb. sessio i. “this day the marquese of argyle came to the housse and maide a fulle relatione of all hes praceidingis sence his last going away from this. “ the housse war fully satisfied with my lord mar- quese of argylis relatione and desyred the pressydent in their names to rander him hartly thankis for his grit painis and trauellis takin for the publicke weille and with. all intreated to continew in so ladable a coursse of doing for the goode peace of the countrey.”. the battle was on the d; this was on the th ; so that before they sailed round the mull of kintyre they must have lost very little time in examining the loss sus- tained or the state of that ruined country. these are the most notable passages in the life of this extraordinary person ; and it is with regret that i must draw them to a close. he was a magistrate ; a ruling elder of the church ; sat in three scottish parliaments, and lived to see many wonderful changes and revolu- tions. he at length triumphed over his old inveterate foe the marquess of huntly, receiving him at the water gate as a state prisoner, and conducting him to that gaol from which he never again emerged till taken to the block. but the lively interest that the baillie took in this bloody affair, both with the church and state, i am rather inclined to let drop into oblivion; while, on the other hand, the manner in which he speaks of the death of his old friend and benefactor, does honour to his heart and the steadiness of his principles. i shall copy only a few sentences here, and no more.] life of an edinburgh baillie. “ from the first day that charles resumed the sceptre of his fathers, nay from the hour that argyle placed the crown on the young monarch's head, the fortunes of my noble friend began to decline. he soon perceived that the king was jealous of him, and therefore he parted from his company, and left him to his fate. he had for twenty years been at the head of scottish affairs, both in church and state ; and much labour and toil did he un- dergo for the good of his country, but now the summer of his earthly glory was past, and he was left like a with- ered oak standing aloof from the forest he had so long shielded from the blast. “ when general dean brought him prisoner to edin- burgh, i got liberty to attend him in his confinement, and not a day passed over my head in which i did not visit him. i had always regarded him both as a good and a great man, with some few constitutional failings; but his character never rose so high as when he was plunged in the depth of adversity. “ when he and i were in private, and spoke our sen- timents freely, he did not think highly of the principles or capacities of charles the second ; for his principles, both civil and religious, inclined him to a commonwealth, or a monarchy greatly restricted. it was said the young king soon discovered something so contracted and selfish in his character, that he was glad to be rid of his com- pany; but i knew his character better than the profligate monarch did, and such a discovery never was made by me. there was no man truer to his friends or more generous to his dependants, and from the support of the protestant religion he never once swerved. i was twice examined on his trial, and could have told more than i did regarding him and cromwell. one could not say that his trial was unfair, admitting the principle on which he was tried to have been relative. but during a long life i learned to view our state trials of scotland as a mere farce ; for what was a man's greatest glory and honour this year, was very like to bring him to the block the next. what could be a surer test of this than to - - - - - remarkable passages in the see the good marquess of argyle's grey head set upon the same pole on which his rival's, the marquess of mon- trose, had so lately stood." [the other circumstances mentioned by the baillie are recorded in every history of that period. but he prayed with and for his patron night and day during his last trial ; dined with him on the day of his execution, took farewell of him at the foot of the scaffold, and running home, betock him to his bed, from which he did not rise for a month. he could not believe that the country would suffer a deed so enormous to be committed as the sacrificing such a man as argyle, nor would he credit the account of his death for many days. from that time forth he had no more heart for business; and his political interest in the city being at an end, he retired from soci. ety and traffic, and pined in secret over the miserable and degraded state of his country, and the terrors that seemed once more to hang over the reformed religion. he could not go to his door without seeing the noblest head in the realm set up as a beacon of disgrace; the lips that had so often flowed with the words of truth and righteousness falling from their hold, the eye of majesty decaying in the socket, and the dark grey hairs bleaching in the winds of heaven. this was a sight his wounded spirit could not brook, and his bodily health and strength decayed beneath the pressure. but he lived to remove that honoured head from the gaol where it had so long stood a beacon of disgrace to a whole country; to carry it with all funeral honours into the land which it had ruled, and deposit it in the tomb where the bones of the noble martyr were reposing. then returning home, the worthy baillie survived only a few days. he followed his noble and beloved patron into the land of peace and forgetfulness. his body was carried to elgin, the ori. ginal burial-place of his fathers, and by a singular casualty, his head laid precisely at the marquess of huntly's feet.] * julia m'kenzie. lady's youth, it bore some show of reason, and on that score alone, they would postpone compulsion for three years, and then, for the sake of thousands who looked up to him as their earthly father, their protector, and only hope, it behoved him to part with her and take another; for on that effort the very existence of the clan and the name depended. three years present a long vista of existence to any one, and who knows what events may intervene to avert a dreaded catastrophe. lord edirdale accepted the con- ditions, and the leading cadets of the family returned to their homes in peace. the third year came, being the tenth from the chief's marriage, and still there was no appearance of a family. the lady julia remained cour- teous and beautiful as ever, and quite unconscious of any discontent or combination against her. but alas ! her doom had been resolved on by the whole clan, male and female, for their dissatisfaction now raged like a hur- ricane, and every tongue among them denounced her death or removal. several of the old dames had com- bined to take her off by poison, but their agent, as soon as she saw lady julia's lovely face, relented and destroy- ed the potion. they then tried enchantment, which also failed; and there was nothing for it but another deputation, which, on the very day that the stipulated three years expired, arrived at the castle, with old car- noch once more at their head. · the chief now knew not what to do. he had given his word to his clan, their part had been fulfilled his behoved to be so. he had not a word to say. a splen- did dinner was prepared and spread ; such a dinner as had never graced the halls of castle-garnet. lady julia į took her seat at the head of the table, shining in the silken tartan of the clan, and dazzling with gold and jewels. she seemed never before so lovely, so affable, and so perfectly bewitching, so that when she rose and left them there was hardly a dry eye in the hall ; nor had ! one of them a word to say,--all sat silent and gazed at one another. julia m-kenzie to utter a scream nor even to open her eyes, but descen- ding like a swan in placid silence, she alighted on the . middle of the surface of the fleet torrent. such was its density and velocity, that iron, lead, or a feather bore all the same weight there. the lady fell on her back, in a half sitting posture. she did not dip an inch, but shot down on the torrent as swift as an arrow out of a bow; and at the turn of the river round a rocky promontory, she vanished from their view. the moment that the lady was tossed from drochaid. maide, the four chieftains seized on her husband and bore him back to the castle in their arms. he was ra. ving mad :-he only knew that he had lost his lady, by what means he did not comprehend. at first he cursed barvoolin, and swore that he saw his hand touching her; but the other assuring him that he only did so to pre- vent the dizzy and distracted leap, and the rest all averr- ing the same thing, before night they had persuaded him that the terror of the scene had produced a momentary madness, and that the lady julia in a fit had flung her. self over. men on horseback were despatched on the instant to the meeting of the tide with the river, where all the boats were put in requisition ; but in that unparalleled flood both of tide and stream, the body of lady julia could not be found. this was a second grievous distress to her lord; but so anxious were the clansmen for his safety, that they would not suffer him to assist in the search. he had loved his lady with the deepest-purest affection of which the heart of man is capable ; for his pathetic lamentations over her loss often affected the old devotees of clanship to the heart, and they began to re- pent them of the atrocious deed they had committed ; particularly when,--after representing to him that he lived and acted not only for himself but for thousands be- side, and that since it had pleased the almighty, in his over-ruling, to take from his side in a terrific way the benign creature who alone stood between them and all their hopes, it behoved him by all means to take another julia m'kenzie. character of this patriarchal race, and rather a mean sub. servient one, that they only saw, heard, felt, and acted in conformity with their chiefs and superiors, and they never betrayed their secrets. in the present instance, perhaps lady julia was the only person of the whole clan who did not know of the dissatisfaction that prevailed, and the great danger she was in. the menials, of course, strongly suspected that their lady's death had been effect- ed by stratagem, taking all things into view, yet they were so servile, that hearing their lord and his relatives thought otherwise and spoke otherwise, they did the same. but there was one little beautiful pestilent girl, named ecky mʻkenzie, who was lady julia's foster-sister, and had come from her own country or district with her, who was loud and bitter against the subordinate chief- tains, and old carnoch, as the head and leader of them, in particular,—asserting boldly that he had murdered their lady and deceived their lord, because he knew he was next of kin to the chief, and that he and his family would succeed him, as the clan would never submit to nagarre, which he knew full well. the rest of the me- nials accused her of uttering falsehoods, and threatened to expose her ; but they gathered around, and gaped and stared upon one another at her bold asseverations. “i know it all,” she would add. “i know all how that an- gelic creature was hated, combined against, and mur. dered by your vile servile race, and particularly by that old serpent, carnoch, who has all this while acted as huntsman to a pack of blood-hounds. but vengeance will overtake him. there will a witness appear at the castle in a few days who shall convict him to the satis- faction of the whole world ; and i know, for i have it from the country beyond the grave, that i shall soon see him lying a mangled corpse between the castle wall and the precipice which overhangs the river.” these asseverations were so unreserved and violent, that one angus seers went direct and told his lord every thing that ecky had said, adding, that unless she was made to hold her tongue, she would bring disgrace on julia m‘kenzie. nals of any family in britain. yes; at that moment lady julia entered, in the very robes in which she had been precipitated from the bridge. her face was pale, and her look to the chieftains severe ; still she was the lady julia in every lineament. a shudder and a smo. thered expression of horror issued froin the circle. car. noch, in one moment, rushed to the casement at the further end of the apartment; it opened on hinges, and ecky had intentionally neglected to bolt it. he pulled it open, and threw himself from it. barvoolin followed his example, but none of the rest having actually im- brued their hands in their lady's blood, they waited the issue; but so terror-smitten were they all, that not one perceived the desperate exit of the two chieftains, save the apparition itself, which uttered an eldrich scream as each of them disappearead. these yells astounded the kinsmen with double amazement, laying all their faculties asleep in a torpid numbness. but their souls were soon aroused by new excitations ; for the incidents, as they came all rushing on one another, were quite beyond their comprehension. the apparition fixed its eyes, as if glistening with tears, on one of them only, then spread. ing forth its arms, and throwing its face towards heaven as if in agony, it exclaimed, “ no one to welcome me back to my own home!” the chief assumed the same posture, but had not power to speak or move, till the appa- rition, flying to him with the swiftness of lightning, clasped him in her arms, laid her head upon his bosom, and wept. “ god of my fathers, it is my julia, my own julia, as i live and breathe," cried he in an ecstacy. it was the lady julia herself. “pray, mr shepherd, does not this require some ex- planation ?" “it does, madam, which is forthcoming immediately, in as few sentences as i can make you understand it." on the side of the river opposite to the castle, and consequently in another country, according to the idio- matic phrase constantly used in that land, there lived a bold native yeoman, called mungo m'craw, miller, of julia mʻkenzie. clach-mhuillian on a floody tay. quintain, oh you great mastiff dog, you creat lazy puppy of a cucannech, do you not see tat we shall pe all carried away from te uni. varse of cot, unless you ply as never man plied pe- fore ?" “ father, is keppoch charged ?" “ malluchid ! if i do not pe preaking your head for you. what does te creat bhaist want with te gun just now?" “ because here is a swan coming on us full sail.” “ then damh palmahar! run and bring keppoch. she is always charged, clean and dry, and let us have a pluff at te swan, come of te mill what will. life of my soul ! if she pe not a drowned lady instead of a swan! mistress m‘craw, and you young witch, diana, where pe your hearts and your souls now ? och now tere will pe such splashing and squalling, and hoo-hooing, tat i shall have more ado with te living tan te dead, for women's hearts pe all made of oladh-heighis. there now, i have lost my grand shot, and shall lose my good mill and all te gentle's corn, and te poor fears' likewise, alas! dear soul, a warmer and a drier couch would have fitted you creat petter to-day! come, help me to carry her, you noisy, thoughtless, noisy cummers, and help me to carry her in. what! howling and wringing your hands? see, give me hold of all your four arms, and let her head hang down, that the drumbly water may run out at her mouth like a mill-spout.” “ no, no, mungo, keep up my head, i am little the worse. my head has never yet been below the water." " as i shall pe sworn before te tay of shudgement, it is te creat and cood lady of edirdale. cot pe wid my dhear and plessed matam, how tid you come here ?" “even as you see, mungo. but put me into your warm bed, and by and by i shall tell you all; for i have had a dreadful voyage to your habitation; but it has been a rapid one. it is not above half a minute since i lost hold of my husband's arm on the dizzy cradle on the top of drochaid-maide.” julia m'kenzie. with many exclamations and prayers and tears, the lady julia was put into bed, and nursed with all the care and affection of which the honest and kind hearted miller and his family were capable. she bound them all to secrecy until she thought it time to reveal herself; but her recovery was not so sudden as might have been expect- ed. an undefinable terror preyed upon her spirits, which she found it impossible to remove-a terror of that which was past. it was a feeling of horror that was quite un- brookable-a worm that gnawed at her heart, and almost drank up the fountain of existence. it was a painful, thrilling suspicion that her husband had tossed her over. she had not the heart nor the capability of mentioning this to any at the mill, and that made the impression on her health and spirits; but she resolved to remain there in quiet concealment till the mystery of her intended death was satisfactorily cleared up to her. she then offered quinten, the young miller, a high bribe, if he would go privately to the castle, and procure her a secret conference with her humble cousin and foster-sister, ecky m‘kenzie. “ (ch, dear heart,” said mistress m'craw, “ he needs no bribe to go privately to miss ecky mŠkenzie. he is oftener there than at the kirk. it would require a very high bribe to keep him away; and she is so cunning and handy that neither your ladyship nor any about the castle have ever discovered them. i shall answer for that errand being cheerfully and faithfully performed, but if the boy take one highland penny for his trouble i'll feed him on black bearmeal brochen for a month.” poor ecky cried bitterly for joy, and was so delighted that she actually threw her handsome arms around the great burly miller's neck and kissed him ; but she would tarry none to court that night, but forced quinten to re- turn to clackmullin with her. the meeting of the two was affecting and full of the deepest interest, but i may not dwell on it, but haste to a conclusion ; for a long explanatory conclusion is like the fifth act of a play, a wearisome supplement. g julia m.kenzie. at that meeting, ecky first discovered to her lady the horrible combination that had existed so long to take her off, but knowing the chief's stedfast resolution, never either to injure or part with her, she never told all that she knew for fear of giving her dear lady uneasiness; that they never would have accomplished their purpose, had it not been for the sham pilgrimage to st bothan's shrine; and that the two kinsmen seized her in a mo- ment of confusion, and hurled her over the bridge ; then all the four seized on their lord, and bore him into the castle, where they convinced his simple and too.confid- ing heart that his lady had, of her own accord, taken the dizzy and distracted leap. she was now convinced of her husband's innocency, and that the love he had ever expressed towards her was sincere; and as she lived but in his affections, all other earthly concerns appeared to her but as nothing ; and to have the proofs of their own consciences, the two settled the time, manner, and mode of her return, which was all contrived by the affectionate ecky, and put in prac- tice according to her arrangement, and the above-narrat- ed catastrophe was the result. on going out with torches, the foremost of which was borne by ecky m.kenzie, they found old carnoch lying at the bottom of the wall next to the river, with his neck broken, and his body otherwise grievously mangled; and barvoolin very much crushed by his fall. he made a full confession to lady julia, and at her intercession was pardoned, as being only the organ of a whole clan, but he proved a lametar to the day of his death. his con- fession to the lady in private was a curious one, and shows the devotedness of that original people to their re- spective clans and all that concerns them; he said, “that finding after many trials they could make nothing of her jord, they contrived that pilgrimage to the shrine of st bothan's to intercede with the saint to take pity on their race; but they had resolved that she should never re- turn from that devout festival. they had no idea of rowning until the tremendous flood came, which frus- julia m'kenzie. trated the other plan. they meant to have taken her off by poison, and had brought a bottle of poisoned wine with them, which was to have been presented to each of the ladies of rank who should sit on high with the lady julia, in a small golden chalice, and it appearing imposs- ible to make exceptions, they had resolved to sacrifice the whole to bear their lady company. but the far best part of the story is yet to come. whether it was the sleeping for a fortnight on a hard heather bed, or the subsisting for that time on milk-brose and butter, or whether the ducking and correspondent fright, wrought a happy change on lady julia, i know not: but of this i am certain, that within a twelvemonth from the date of her return to the castle she gave birth to a comely daughter, and subsequently to two sons; and the descendants of that affectionate couple occupy a portion of heir once extensive patrimonial domains to this day. end of the fifth vol. glasgow: printed by w. g. blackie, & co. villapield. hea fairy book rebecca sophia clarke, sophie may -zbo the new york public library a tor, lenox and tilden foundations cristobal. page . the hew york public library a astos, lenox amb t lden foundations r l entered, according to act of congress, in the year u , by lee & hetabd, in the clerk's office of the district court of the district of massachusetts. contents. page introduction cristobal wild robin the vesper star the water-kelpie the lost sylphid the castle of gems the elf of light the princess hilda goldilocks fairy book. o^o introduction. while prudy was in indiana visiting the cliffords, and in the midst of her trials with mosquitoes, she said one day, —• "i wouldn't cry, aunt 'ria, only my heart's breaking. the very next person that ever dies, i wish they'd ask god to please stop sending these awful skeeters. i can't bear 'em'any longer, now, certainly." there was a look of utter despair on prudy's disfigured face. bitter tears were trickling from the two white puff-balls which had been her eyes; her forehead and cheeks were of a flaming pink, broken into little fairy book. i snow-drifts full of stings: she looked as if she had just been rescued from an angry bee- hive. altogether, her appearance was ex- ceedingly droll; yet grace would not allow herself to smile at her afflicted little cousin. "strange," said she, " what makes our mos- quitoes so impolite to strangers! it's a downright shame, isn't it, ma, to have little, prudy so imposed upon? if i could only amuse her, and make her forget it!" "oh, mamma," grace broke forth again sud- denly, "i have an idea, a very brilliant idea! please listen, and pay particular attention; for i shall speak in a figure, as robin says. there's a certain small individual who is not to understand." "i wouldn't risk that style of talking," said mrs. clifford, smiling; "or, if you do, your figures of speech must be very obscure, re- member." • fairy book. "you mean little harvey? oh, yes." "pray do be careful, ma! then mr. sher- wood said to his — i mean, the hat said to the bonnet, that there were some wonderful — ahem — legends, about genii and sprites and — and so forth; not printed, but written, which the boy liked to hear when he was 'overgetting' the measles. a certain lady, not three inches from your chair, ma, was the one who wrote them; and now " — prudy had turned about, and the only rem- nants of her face which lo.oked at all natural — that is, the irises and pupils of her swollen eyes — were shining with curiosity. "there, now, what is it, gracie? what is it you don't want me to hear?" grace laughed. "oh, nothing much, dear: never mind." "you oughtn't to say ' never mind,' " pur- sued prudy: "my mother tells me always to mind." introduction. "i only mean it isn't any matter, prudy." "oh! do you? then don't you care for my skeeter-bites? you always say,' never mind!' i didn't know it wasn't any matter." "now, ma," grace went on," i want to ask you where are those i-don't-know-what-to- call-'ems? and may i copy them, cassy and i, into a book, for a certain afflicted rel- ative?" "yes, yes, on gold-edged paper!" cried prudy, springing up from the sofa; "oh, do, do; i'll love you dearly if you will! fairy stories are just as nice! what little harvey sherwood likes, /like, and i've had the mea- sles; but i shouldn't think his father and mother'd wear their hat and bonnet to the dinner-table!" "deary me !" laughed grace; "how hap- pened that little thing to mistrust what i meant?" introduction. you couldn't get along without me two days. look here! what story has a moral for you, miss? it's the ' water-kelpie.' you are like the man that married moneta: you're always wanting money." "but it's for the soldiers, horace," said grace, with a smile of forbearance toward her brother. "i'm willing to give all my pocket-money; and i mean the other girls shall. if we're stingy to our country these days, we ought to be shot!'princess hilda's' the best story in the book. i wish isa har- rington could read it! she wouldn't make any more mischief between cassy and me!" "i like 'the lost sylphid' the best," said prudy; "but was she a great butterfly, do you s'pose? the stories are all just as nice; just like book stories. i shouldn't think any- body made 'em up. aunt 'kia can write as fairy book. good as the big girls to the grammar-school. i promised not to believe a single word; and i sha'n't. i'm glad she called it my fairy book." cristobal. cristobal. a christmas legend. long ago, in fair burgundy, lived a lad named cristobal. his large dark eyes lay under the fringe of his lids, full of shadows; eyes as lustrous as purple amethysts, and, alas! as sightless. he had not always been blind, as perhaps a wild and passionate lad, named jasper, might have told you. on a certain christ- mas eve, a merry boy was little cristobal, as he pattered along to church, trying with his wooden shoes to keep time to the dancing bells. in his hand he carried a christmas candle of various colors. never, he thought, cristobal. thems. there were prayers to the coming messiah, and the sprinkling of holy water; and, at last, the midnight mass was ended. then, in tumult and great haste, the peo- ple went home for merry-makings. cris- tobal, eager to see what the yule-log might have in store for him, rushed out of the church with careless speed, stumbling over a boy who stood in his way,— the haughty, in- solent jasper. jasper's beautiful christmas- candle was cracked in twenty pieces by his fall. "i'll teach you better manners, young peasant!" cried he, rushing upon cristobal in a frenzy, and dealing fierce blows without mercy or reason. it was then that cristobal's eyes went out like falling stars. their lustre and beauty remained; but they were empty caskets, their vision gone. fairy book. talk again of the yule-log, and to wonder what gifts "noel would bring to place under each end of it; for these little folks, who have no stocking - saint like our santa claus, be- lieve in another quite as good, who rains down sugar-plums in the night. everywhere there was a joyful bustle. housewives were making ready their choi- cest dishes for the great christmas - supper; fathers were slyly peeping into shop-win- dows, and children hoarding their sous and centimes for bonbons and comfits. everybody was merry but cristobal; or so thought the lad. he had no money to spend, and little but ' pain for his holiday- cheer. a patch here and there in his worn clothes was the best present his thrifty moth- er was able to make; always excepting the little variegated taper, which few were too poor to buy. cristobal. t christmas eve came. family friends dropped in. the yule-log was set on the fire with shouts and singing. "oh that i could see these kind faces!" moaned cristobal. "no doubt, jasper's chestnuts are popping merrily; and his shoes will be full of pres- ents. and here am i! my head aches, and my eye-balls burn." he stole out of the room, and, throwing himself on a wicker bench, mused over his troubles in solitude. one might have sup- posed him sleeping; for how should one im- agine that his beautiful eyes were of no manner of use, except when they were closed? when cristobal said, " let me see," he dropped his eye-lids; and what he saw then, no artist can paint. on this night, a beautiful child appeared before him, as like the picture of the little jesus as if it had stepped out of its frame on fairy book. the church-wall. even the crimson and blue tints of the old painting were faithfully pre- served; and every fold of the soft drapery was the very same. "i saw you, cristobal, when you came be- fore me with your colored candle, one year ago." "i knew it, i knew it!" cried cristobal, clasping his hands in awe. "i saw your eyes follow me; and i never once turned but you were looking. they told me it was only a picture; but i said for that very reason your eyes were sorrowful,— you longed to be alive." the child replied by a slight motion of the head; and the aureola trembled like sunlight on the water. the longer cristobal gazed, the more courage he gathered. "lovely vision," said he, " if vision you may be, — i have said to myself, i would gladly walk to fairy book. i grieve for you," said the child with' ex- quisite tenderness; "yet, dear boy, for all that, you might he ready for christmas: but is there not also a pain throbbing and burn- ing in your heart?" "oh, if you mean that, i am tossed up and down by vexation: i am full of hatred against that terrible jasper. it was all about a miserable christmas-candle he carried. i broke it by pushing him down. tell me, was he right to fly at me like a wild beast? ought he not to suffer even as i have suf- fered? is it just, is it right, for the great man's son to put out a peasant boy's' eyes, and be happy again?" "misguided jasper!" said the child sol- emnly; "let him answer for his own sin: judge not, little brother." cristobal hid his face in his hands, and wept for shame. . fairy book. bered music, a voice fell on his ear, " for if ye forgive men their trespasses, your heav» enly father will also forgive you your tres- passes." cristobal arose, and, although still blind, walked in light. "it is the aureola which has stolen into my heart," thought cristobal. "the pain and hate are all gone. now i am ready for christmas. i wish i could help poor jasper, who has such a weight of guilt to carry!" next day, " golden-sided" burgundy saw no happier boy than cristobal. he walked in the procession that night, carrying a can- dle whose light he could not see; but what did it signify, since there was light in his soul?" hark! in the midst of the christmas- chimes breaks the jangling of fire-bells. the count's house is on fire! the sparks pour cristobal. out thicker and faster; tongues of flame leap to the sky; the bells clang hoarsely; the christmas procession is broken 'into wild dis- order; the wheels of the engine roll through the streets, unheard in the din. cristobal rushed eagerly toward the flames, but was pulled away by the people. ""we cannot drown the fire !" they cried: "the building must fall! are the inmates all safe?" "all, thank heaven!" cried the count. "no: jasper! see, he waves his hand from the third story! save him! save my boy!" jasper had set fire to a curtain with his fa- tal christmas - candle. now he raved and shouted in vain: no one would venture up the ladder. " little jesus," whispered cristobal, "give light to my eyes, even as unto my soul i let me save jasper!" fairy book. at once the iron band fell from cristobal's vision. he saw, and, at the same moment, felt a supernatural strength. he tore away from the restraining arms of the people; he rushed up the ladder, shouting, "in the name of the little jesus!" he reached the window, heedless of his scorched arms. "jasper!" he cried, seizing the half-conscious boy, "be not afraid: i have the strength to carry you." and down the ladder he bore him, step by step, through the crackling flames. jasper was revived; and the fainting cris- tobal was borne through the streets in the arms of the populace. "wonder of wonders !" they all shouted. "it was the little jesus," gasped cristo- bal: "he opened my eyes; he guided me up the ladder, and down again!" "hallelujah!" was now the cry. "on the wild robin. wild robin. a scottish fairy tale. in the green valley of the yarrow, near the castle-keep of norham, dwelt an honest, sonsy little family, whose only grief was an unhappy son, named robin. janet, with jimp form, bonnie eyes, and cherry cheeks, was the best of daughters: the boys, sandie and davie, were swift-footed, brave, kind, and obedient; but robin, the youngest, had a stormy temper, and, when his will was crossed, he became as reckless as a reeling hurricane. once, in a passion, he drove two of his father's "kye," or cattle, down a steep hill to their death. he seemed not to care for home or kindred, and often pierced the tender heart of his mother with fairy book. sharp words. when she came at night, and "happed " the bed-clothes carefully about his form, and then stooped to kiss his nut-brown cheeks, he turned away with a frown, mutter- ing, " mither, let me be." it was a sad case with wild robin, who seemed to have neither love nor conscience. "my heart is sair," sighed his mother, "wi' greeting over sich a son." "he hates our auld cottage and our muckle wark," said the poor father. "ah, weel! i could a'maist wish the fairies had him for a season, to teach him better manners." this the gudeman said heedlessly, little knowing there was any danger of robin's being carried away to elf-land. whether the fairies were at that instant listening under the eaves, will never be known; but it chanced, one day, that wild robin was sent across the moors to fetch the fcye. wild robin. "i'll rin away," thought the boy: "'tis hard indeed if ilka day a great lad like me must mind the kye. i'll gae aff; and they'll think me dead." so he gaed, and he gaed, over round swell- ing hills, over old battle-fields, past the roof- less ruins of houses whose walls were crowned with tall climbing grasses, till he came to a crystal sheet of water, called st. mary's loch. here he paused to take breath. the sky was dull and lowering; but at his feet were yellow flowers, which shone, on that gray day, like freaks of sunshine. he threw himself wearily upon the grass, not heeding that he had chosen his couch with- in a little mossy circle known as a "fairy's ring." wild robin knew that the country people would say the fays had pressed that green circle with their light feet. he had heard all the scottish lore of brownies, elves, fairy book. will-o'-the-wisps, and the strange water-kel- pies, who shriek with eldritch laughter. he had been told that the queen of the fairies had coveted him from his birth, and would have stolen him away, only that, just as she was about to seize him from the cradle, he had sneezed; and from that instant the fairy- spell was over, and she had no more control of him. yet, in spite of all these stories, the boy was not afraid; and if he had been informed that any of the uncanny people were, even now, haunting his footsteps, he would not have believed it. "i see," said wild robin, "the sun is drawing his night-cap over his eyes, and dropping asleep. i believe i'll e'en take a nap mysel', and see what comes o' it." in two minutes he had forgotten st. mary's loch, the hills, the moors, the yellow flowers. wild robin. he heard, or fancied he heard, his sister janet calling him home. "and what have ye for supper? " he mut- tered between his teeth. "parritch and milk," answered the lassie gently. "parritch and milk! whist! say nae mair! lang, lang may ye wait for wild robin: he'll not gae back for oatmeal parritch!" next a sad voice fell on his ear. "mither's; and she mourns me dead!" thought he; but it was only the far-off vil- lage-bell, which sounded like the echo of music he had heard lang syne, but might never hear again. "d'ye think i'm not alive?" tolled the bell. "i sit all day in my little wooden tem- ple, brooding over the sins of the parish." "a brazen lie !" cried robin. "nay, the truth, as i'm a living soul! fairy book. wae worth ye, robin telfer: ye think yer- sel' hardly used. say, have your brithers softer beds than yours? is your ain father served with larger potatoes or creamier but- termilk? whose mither sae kind as yours, ungrateful chiel? gae to elf-land, wild rob- in; and dool and wae follow ye! dool and wae follow ye!" the round yellow sun had» dropped behind the hills; the evening breezes began to blow; and- now could be heard the faint trampling of small hoofs, and the tinkling of tiny bridle- bells: the fairies were trooping over the ground. first of all rode the queen. "her skirt was of the grass-green silk, her mantle of the velvet fine; at ilka tress of her horse's mane hung fifty silver bells and nine." but wild robin's closed eyes saw nothing; wild robin. his sleep-sealed ears heard nothing. the queen of faries dismounted, stole up to him, and laid her soft fingers on his cheeks. "here is a little man after my ain heart," said she: "i like his knitted brow, and the downward curve of his lips. knights, lift him gently, set him on a red-roan steed, and waft him away to fairy-land." "wild robin was lifted as gently as a brown leaf borne by the wind; he rode as softly as if the red-roan steed had been saddled with satin, and shod with velvet. it even may be that the faint tinkling of the bridle-bells lulled him into a deeper slumber; for when he awoke it was morning in fairy-land. robin sprang from his mossy couch, aad stared about him. where was he? he rubbed his eyes, and looked again. dream- ing, no doubt; but what meant all these nim- ble little beings bustling hither and thither wild kobin. "stir yersel', and be at work; for naebody idles in elf-land." bewildered robin ventured a look at the little queen. by daylight she seemed some- what sleepy and tired; and was withal so tiny, that he might almost have taken her be- tween his thumb and finger, and twirled her above his head; yet she poised herself be- fore him on a mullein-stalk, and looked every inch a queen. robin found her gaze op- pressive; for her eyes were hard and cold and gray, as if they had been little orbs of granite. "get ye to work, wild robin!" "what to do?" meekly asked the boy, hungrily glancing at a few kernels of. rye which had rolled out of one of the brownie's mortars. "are ye hungry, my laddie?" touch a grain of rye if ye dare! shell these dry fairy book. bains; and if so be ye're starving, eat as many as ye can boil in an acorn-cup." with these words she gave the boy a with« ered bean-pod, and, summoning a meek little brownie, bade him see that the lad did not over-fill the acorn-cup, and that he did not so much as peck at a grain of rye. then, glancing sternly at her unhappy prisoner, she withdrew, sweeping after her the long train of her green robe. the dull days crept by, and still there seemed no hope that wild robin would ever escape from his beautiful but detested prison. he had no wings, poor laddie; and he could neither become invisible nor draw himself through a keyhole bodily. it is true, he had mortal companions: many chubby babies; many bright-eyed boys and girls, whose distracted parents were still seeking them, far and wide, upon wild robin. the earth. it would almost seem that the wonders of fairy-land might make the little prisoners happy. there were countless treas- ures to be had for the taking, and the very dust in the little streets was precious with specks of gold: but the poor children shiv- ered for the want of a mother's love; they all pined for the dear home-people. if a cer- tain task seemed to them particularly irk- some, the heartless queen was sure to find it out, and oblige them to perform it, day after day. if they disliked any article of food, that, and no other, were they forced to eat, or starve. wild robin, loathing his withered beans and unsalted broths, longed intensely for one little breath of fragrant steam from the tooth- some parritch on his father's table, one glance at a roasted potato. he was homesick for the gentle sister he had neglected, the pairy book. rough brothers whose cheeks he had pelted black and blue; and yearned for the very chinks in the walls, the very thatch on the home-roof. gladly would he have given every fairy- flower, at the root of which clung a lump of gold ore, if he might have had his own cov- erlet "happed " about him once more by the gentle hands he had despised. "mither," he whispered in his dreams, "my shoon are worn, and my feet bleed; but i'll soon creep hame, if i can. keep the parritch warm for me." robin was as strong as a mountain-goat; and his strength was put to the task of thresh- ing rye, grinding oats and corn, or drawing water from a brook. every night, troops of gay fairies and plod- ding brownies stole off on a visit to the up- per world, leaving robin and his companions fairy book. brotherly affection is a sentiment which never yet penetrated the heart of a brownie. the dull little sprite would gladly have helped the poor lad to his freedom, but told him that only on one night of the year was there the least hope, and that was on hal- low-e'en, when the whole nation of fairies ride in procession through the streets of earth. so robin was instructed to spin a dream, which the kind brownie would hum in janet's ear while she slept. by this means the lassie would not only learn that her brother was in the power of the elves, but would also learn how to release him. accordingly, the night before hallow- e'en, the bonnie janet dreamed that the long- lost robin was living in elf-land, and that he was to pass through the streets with a caval- cade of fairies. but, alas! how should even wild eobin. a sister know him in the dim starlight, among the passing troops of elfish and mortal ri- ders? the dream assured her that she might let the first company go by, and the second; but robin would be one of the third: — "first let pass the black, janet, and syne let pass the brown; but grip ye to the milk-white steed, and pull the rider down. for i ride on the milk-white steed, and aye nearest the town: because i was a christened lad they gave me that renown. my right hand will be gloved, janet; my left hand will be bare; and these the tokens i give thee: no doubt i will be there. wild robin. robin, the angry voice of the fairy queen was heard: — 'up then spake the queen of fairies, out of a bush of rye, * you've taken away the bonniest lad in all my companie. * had i but had the wit, yestreen, that i have learned to-day, i'd pinned the sister to her bed e're he'd been won away!'" however, it was too late now. wild robin was safe, and the elves had lost their power over him forever. his forgiving parents and his leal-hearted brothers welcomed him home with more than the old love. so grateful and happy was the poor laddie, that he nevermore grumbled at his oat-meal parritch, or minded his kye with a scowling brow. fairy book. tims, with one accord, they made excuses to the pale moon, who is their guardian,— all but the sweet vesper star: she was si- lent; and when a white cloud floated by, she was glad of an excuse to hide her face. "let the north star shiver, and the seven sisters dance, and all the golden stars hold a revel," thought she; "as for me, i am sad." for you must know that the vesper star has a task to perform, and is not allowed to sleep. she keeps vigil over the earth, by night; and never ceases her watch till the world is up in the morning. for the sick and sad, who cannot sleep, she feels an un- utterable pity, so that her heart is always throbbing with sorrow. the moon looked at the vesper star, and said, "dream on, sweet sister; for you, the noblest of all, have told me no falsehood." this the moon said because she knew that the vesper star. none of the stars had given a true reason for twinkling so gayly that night. the truth was, they were filled with envy, and were trying to be as brilliant as possible, to compete with a flaming comet which had just appeared in the sky. it is not for man to know how long and how peacefully the gentle stars had travelled together, doing the work which grod has ap- pointed, without a murmur. but now that 'this distinguished stranger had arrived, the whole firmament was in dismay. how proudly he strode the heavens! how his blaze illumined the sky! the stars whis- ■ pered one to another, and cast angry eyes on the shining wonder. "make way for me," he said, sweeping after him a glorious train of light. "not i," muttered the fiery mars. "not i," quoth the majestic jupiter; "i do not move an inch." the water-kelpie. the water-kelpie. once there lived under the earth a race of fairies called gnomes. they were strange little beings, with dull eyes and harsh voices; but they did no harm, and lived in peace. they never saw the sun; but they had lamps much brighter than our gaslight, which burned night and day, year after year. they had music; but it was the tinkling of silver bells and golden harps, — not half so sweet as the singing of birds and the bab- bling of brooks. flowers they had none, but plenty of gems,—"the stars of earth." there were green trees in the kingdom: but the leaves faiby book. were hard emeralds; and the fruit, apples of gold or cherries of ruby; and these precious gems the gnomes ground to powder, and swallowed with much satisfaction. they heaped up piles of gold and dia- monds as high as your head; and never was there a gnome so poor as to build a house of any thing a whit coarser than jasper or onyx. you would have believed yourself dreaming, if you could have walked through the streets of their cities. they were paved with rosy almandine and snowy alabaster; and the pal- aces glittered in the gay lamplight like a million stars. these gnomes led, for the most part, rather dull lives. like their cousins, the water-sprites, or undines, they were roguish and shrewd, but had no higher views of life than our katydids and crickets. indeed, they hardly cared for any thing but frisking the water-kelpie. about, eating and sleeping. but, after all, what can be expected of creatures without souls? one sees, now and seen, stupid hu- man beings, whose eyes have no thoughts in them, and whose souls seem to be sound asleep. such lumps of dulness might almost as well be gnomes, and slip into the earth and have done with it. these underground folk had a great hor- ror of our world. they knew all about it; for one of them had peeped out and taken a bird's-eye view. he went up very bravely, but hurried back with such strange accounts, that his friends considered him a little insane. "listen!" said the gnome, whose name was clod. "the earth has a soft carpet, of a new kind of emerald; overhead is a blue roof, made of turquoise; but i am told that there is a crack in it, and sometimes water comes pouring down in torrents. but the worst fairy book. plague of all is a great glaring eyeball of fire, which mortals call the sun." when clod told his stories of the earth, he always ended by saying, — "believe me, it is bad luck to have the sun shine on you. it nearly put my eyes out; and i have had the headache ever since." now, there was a young girl, named mon- eta, who listened very eagerly to the old gnome's stories of the earth, and thought she would like to see it for herself. she was a kind little maiden, as playful as a kitten; and her friends were not willing she should go. but moneta had somewhere heard that fairies who marry mortals receive the gift of a human soul: so, in spite of all objec- tions, she was resolved to take the journey; for she had in her dark mind some vague as- pirations after a higher state of being. the water -kelpie then the gnome-family declared, that, if she once went away, they would never allow her to return; for they highly disapproved of running backward and forward between the two worlds, gossiping. "have you no love of country," cried they, "that you would willingly cast your lot among silly creatures who look down upon your race?" the old gnome, who had travelled, took the romantic maiden one side, and said, — "my dear moneta, since you will go, i must tell you a secret; for you remember i have seen the world, and know all about it. mortals are a higher race than ourselves, it is true; but that is only because they live atop o' the earth, while we are under their feet. they make a great parade about their little tieking jewel they call conscience; but, after all, they will any of them sell it for one of the water-kelpie. when she had reached the top, the earth closed again, and she was left seated upon a tick; and the light of the sun was so daz- zling, that she hid her face in her hands. thus she sat for a long time, not knowing whither to go, till a young man chanced to come that way, who said, "what do you here?" she raised her face at his words, and could not speak, so great was her surprise at the beauty of the strange youth. he, for his part, could not help smiling; for she was as yellow as an orange; and an uglier little creature he had never beheld: but he said in a kind voice, — "come with me to my mother's house, and you shall be refreshed with cake and wine." she arose to follow him; and, as she walked, a bright shower of gold-dust sprin- kled the earth at every step. paiby book. the young man held out his hands eagerly to catch the shining spray, thinking he would like such a rarely-gifted damsel for his wife; and, in truth, he smiled so sweetly, and dropped such winning words, that in time he won her heart and she became his bride. "and, when she cam' into the kirk, she shimmered like the sun; the belt that was about her waist was a' with pearles bedone." so great was her love for him, that she forgot her lost home under the earth; and every day, when she bade her husband "good-morning," she placed in his hand a precious stone; and he kissed her, calling her his "dear moneta," his "heart's jewel." but at last the diamonds, sapphires, and ru- bies were all gone; and she was also losing the power of shedding gold-dust. then her the water-kelpie. husband frowned on her, and no longer called her his "heart's jewel," or his "dear mo- neta." at length she presented him with a little daughter as lovely as a water-sprite, with hair like threads of gold. now the father watched the babe with a greedy eye; for its mother had wept precious tears of molten gold before she received the gift of human grief, and he hoped her child would do the same; but, when he found it was only a common mortal, he shut his heart against the babe. moneta was no longer yellow and ugly, but very beautiful; with deep eyes, out of which looked a sweet soul: yet she had lost her fairy gifts, and her husband had ceased to fove her. the good woman mourned in secret; and would have wished to die, only her precious child comforted her heart. the water-kelpie. i had no wife and child, all this gold would be mine!" and he- knitted his brows with a frown. then moneta looked in his face, and said, — "dear ivan, i have loved you truly; but you no longer care for moneta. i will go away with the little child, and all our gold shall be yours. farewell!" then she embraced him with falling tears. his heart was stirred within him; and he would have followed her, only he knew not which way she had gone. soon the water-kelpie came to him in the form of a horse; and ran before him, neigh- ing fiercely, and breathing fire from his mouth. this is the way kelpies take to an- nounce the fact that some one has gone un- der the water. so the man followed the kelpie. his heart the water-kelpie. page . the new york public library astor, lenox and tilden founda'h-n: r the water-kelpie. \ "why sit you here, sighing like the north wind?" said the kelpie. "i have loved gold better than my best friends," replied ivan; "and now my best friends are taken away from me, and the gold is left; but i love it no longer." "ah, ah!" growled the kelpie; "i have heard of such men as you: nothing is dear till it is missed. you should have thought of that before. if your lost ones were to return, you would treat them as badly as- ever, no doubt." "no no," groaned ivan; "i would love them better than all the wealth in the world! i would love them better than my own life! ah, the sting it is to think of my own ingrati- tude!" "hold!" said the kelpie: "grumble to yourself if you like, but don't vex my ears with your complaints. suppose i were to fairy book. bring back moneta and the child, — would you give me your chests of gold?" "that i will," cried the man, " right joy- fully." "not so fast: will you give me your castle as well?" "ah, yes, castle and gold; take them, and welcome." "not so fast: moneta and her child are worth more than these. will you give me the castle and gold, and ten years of your life?" "with all my heart." "then," said the kelpie "go home, and to-morrow you shall see moneta and her child." when the morrow came, the husband and wife wept for joy at meeting once more; and ivan said, — "can you forgive me, dearest moneta?" the lost sylphid. caught in a nixie's net spread upon the grass. but, in time, her wings dwindled and disap- peared; and then the lord, who was now her father, could not remember that she had ever been other than an earthly child. "you fancy you were once a sylphid," said he; "but there are no sylphids, my sweet one, and there is no summer-land." the child became as dear to the lord and lady as their very heart's blood; and they forgot her foreign birth, and almost believed, as all the world did, that she was their own little daughter. but the child did not for- get. she longed for the true home she had left; but whither should she go to seek it? "dear papa," said she, one day, "i beg you will not say again there are no sylphids; for i remember so well how i spread my fairy book. right cave, and walk in it far enough' i should come to the summer-land." so she set out, one day, in wild haste, hut only lost herself in a deep cavern; and, when she found daylight again, she was all alone upon the face of the earth. her father and mother were nowhere to be seen. she shouted their names, and ran to and fro seek- ing them till her strength was all spent. it was growing dark; and little one could only creep under a shelter, and weep herself asleep. next morning it was no better, but far worse. her wretched parents had gone home, believing her drowned in the sea. poor little one was now all alone in the world, and her heart ached with the cold. kind friends gave her food and shelter, and her clothing was warm as warm could be; still her heart ached with the cold. people the lost sylphid. praised her beauty so much that she dared not look up to let them see how lovely she was; but she had lost both her father and mother, and her heart ached and ached. she thought winter was coming on; and the world was growing so chilly, that now she must certainly set out for the summer-land. then she said, — "if i am a sylphid, perhaps my home is over the hills, and far away. yes: i think it must be in the country where the music goes." for she thought, when she heard music, that it seemed to hover 'and float over the earth, and lose itself in the sky; so she be- gan to set her face toward the country where the music goes. but, though she gazed till her eyes ached, she never saw her long-lost home, nor so much as a glimpse of one of its spires. s fairt book. one night, after gazing and weeping till she could scarcely see. and had no tears left, the bright being who visited her dreams came and whispered,— "if there be a land so fair o'er the mountain shining, ton will never enter there by looking up and pining." "dear me! then what shall i do?" said little one, clasping her hands. "i am tired of the dropping rain, and the bleak winds; i have lost my father and mother; i long to go home to the summer-land." "there are hills to climb, and streams to cross," said the fairy. "but i have stout shoes," laughed little one. "there are thorns and briers all along the road." the lost sylphid. n but i can bear to be pricked." "then i will guide you," said the fairy. "how can that be?" cried the child. "you come to me in dreams; but by day- light i cannot see so much as the tips of your wings." "listen, and you will hear my voice," re- plied the fairy. "set out toward the east, at dawn, to-morrow, and i will be with you." 'when little one awoke, the sun was rising, and she said,— "oh that golden gate! the sun has left it open: do you see it, beautiful lady?" "i see it," whispered the fairy: "i am close beside you." "then," said little one, fastening her dress, and putting on all the jewels she could possibly carry, " i think i will set out at once; for, if i make all speed, i may reach the summer-land before that golden gate is closed." fairy book. she pressed on, as the fairy directed, up a steep hill, her eyes fixed on the glowing east- ern sky. but, as the sun strode up higher, the morning clouds melted away. "where is my golden gate?" cried the child. "weeping so soon?" whispered the fairy. "do not scold me, dear whisper," moaned the child; "you know i have lost my kind father and mother; and the thorns prick me; and then this is such a lonely road; there is nobody to be seen." the truth was, there were children gather- ing strawberries on the hill, and old women digging herbs; but little one did not see them, for she was all the while watching the sky. but she was soon obliged to pause, and take breath. "look about you," said the whisper, "you may see some one as unhappy as yourself." the lost sylphid. the child looked, and saw a little girl driv- ing a goat; while large tears trickled down her cheeks, and moistened her tattered dress. for a moment, little one's heart ceased ach- ing with its own troubles. "what is your name, little girl?" said she: "and why do you weep?" "my name is poor dorel," replied the child; "my father and mother are long since dead; and i have nothing to eat but goat's milk and strawberries:" and, as she spoke, the large tears started afresh. "poor dorel! you are the first one i ever saw who had as much trouble as i. i, too, have lost a father and mother." "were they a. king and queen?" asked dorel, wiping her eyes, and gazing at little one's beautiful dress and glittering orna- ments. "they loved me dearly," replied little fairy book. one sadly; "yet i never heard that they were king and queen. come with me, dar- ling dorel!" i never before saw any one who was hungry. come with me! i live in a country where there is food enough for everybody." "where is that?" said dorel, eagerly. "i do not quite know, little girl; but it is not in the bosom of the earth, and it is not in the sun-bright deep: so i suppose it is over the hills, and far away." "now i know who you are," said dorel. "you are the lost sylpmd; and people say you have travelled all over the world. but, if you do not know the way home, pray how can you tell which road to take?" "oh! i have a guide, — a beautiful fairy, called whisper: she shows me every step of the way. i wish you would go too, little dorel!" fairy book. prick her, but her heart was also full of a new love, which made the whole world look beautiful. "you see the way is growing easier," said the whisper. "pour out thy love like the rush of a river, wasting its waters forever and ever." "so i will," said little one. "is there any one else to love?" by and by she met an old woman, bent nearly double, and picking up dry sticks with trembling hands. "poor- woman!" said little one: "i am going to love you." "dear me !" said the old crone, dropping her sticks, and looking up with surprise in every wrinkle: "you don't mean me? why, my heart is all dried up." "then you need to be loved all the more," cried little one heartily. the lost sylphid. the poor woman laughed; but, at the same time, brushed a tear from her eye with the corner of her apron. "i thought," said little one, " i was the only unhappy one in the world: it seemed a pity my heart should ache so much; but, oh, i would rather have it ache than be dried up!" "i suppose you never were beaten," said the old woman; "you were never pelted with avhizzing stones?" "indeed i never, never was!" replied lit- tle one, greatly shocked by the question. "by your costly dress, i know you never were so poor as to be always longing for food. let me tell you, my good child, when one is beaten and scolded, and feels cold all winter, and hungry all summer, it is no won- der one's heart dries up!" little one threw her arms about the old fairy book. woman's neck. "let me help you pick sticks!" said she; "you are too old for hard work; your hands tremble too much." swiftly gathering up a load of fagots, she put them together in a bundle. "now, how many jewels shall i give her?" thought the child. "she must never want for food again." "how many?" echoed the whisper. "give as the morning that flows out of heaven: give as the free air and sunshine are given." "then she shall have half," said little one in great glee. "here, poor woman, take these sapphires and rubies and dia- monds, and never be hungry again!" "heavenly child!" said the stranger, lay- ing her wasted hand on the sylphid's bright head, and blessing her, "it is little except thanks that an old creature like me can give; the lost sylphid. yet may be you will not scorn this pair of lit- tle shoes: they are strong, and, when you have to step on the sharp mountain-rocks, they will serve you well." little one's delicate slippers were already much worn, and she gladly exchanged them for the goat-skin shoes; but, strange to re- late, no sooner had she done so than she found herself flitting over rocks and rough places with perfect ease, and at such speed, that, when she looked back, in a moment, she had already left the old woman far behind, and out of sight. they were magical shoes; but, no matter how fast they skimmed over the ground, dorel, out of pure love, con- tinued to go before, talking and laughing and smoothing the way. one by one little one sold her jewels to buy bread, which she shared with all the needy she chanced to meet. after many thk lost sylphid. page . faiby book. mist; but to the feet as strong as adamant. she hushed her fears, and walked over it with a stout heart. now, she was on the borders of the sum- mer-land. here were the turrets and spires, the soft white clouds, the green fields, and sunny streams. instantly her long-lost wings appeared again; and she spread them like a happy bird, and flew home. oh, it was worth years of longing and pain! she was held in tender embraces, and kissed lovingly by well-remembered friends. to her great surprise and delight, her father and mother were both thtere they had arrived at the summer-land while seeking their little one. "now i know," said her father, "that my daughter was not dreaming when she longed for her remembered home." little one looked at her soiled dress; but the stains had disappeared; and, most won- the lost sylphid. now i know no more than i have told of this story of the lost sylphid. i tell the tale as 'twas told to me; and i wish, with all my heart, it were true. a the castle op gems. queen fontana smiled: when she smiled it was as if a soft cloud had slid away from the moon, revealing a beautiful light. "say pearls and diamonds," said victor in her ear. "i don't know," whispered blanche: " they are not the best things." "no," said the queen kindly: "pearls and diamonds are not the best things." then blanche knew that her whisper had been overheard, and she hid her face in her hands for shame. but the queen only smiled down on her, and, without speak- ing, dropped into the ground a little seed. eight at the feet of blanche, it fell; and, in a moment, two green leaves shot upward, and between them a spotless lily, which hung its head with modest grace. victor gazed at the perfect flower in won- der, and, before he knew it, said aloud, "ah, how like blanche!" pairy book. the queen herself broke it from the stem, and gave it to the maiden, saying, — "take it! it is my choicest gift. till it fades (which will never be), love will be thine; and, in time to come, it will have power to open the strongest locks, and swing back the heaviest doors. 'gates of brass cannot withstand one touch of this magic wand.'" blanche looked up to thank the queen; but no words came, — only tears. "i see a wish in thine eyes" said fon- tana. "it is for victor," faltered blanche, at last: "he wishes to be rich and great." the queen looked grave. "shall i make him one of the great men of the earth, little blanche? then he may faiby book. so saying, she moved on to the boat, float- ing over the ground as softly as a creeping mist. when blanche awoke next morning, her first thought was, "happy are the maidens who have sweet dreams!" for she thought she had only been wandering in a midsum- mer's night's dream; so, when she saw her lily in the broken pitcher where she had placed it, great was her delight. but a change had come over it during the night. it was no longer a common lily, — its petals were large pearls, and the green leaves were now green emeralds. this strange thing had happened to the flower, that it might never fade. after this, people looked at blanche, and said, "how is it? she grows fairer every day!" and every one loved her; for the hu- man heart has no choice but to love what is "good and gentle. the castle op gems. as for victor, he at first put on his specta- cles with a scornful smile: but, when he had worn them a moment, he found them very wonderful things. when he looked through them, he could see people's thoughts written out on their faces; he could easily decipher the fine writing which you see' traced on green leaves; and found there were long stories written on pebbles in little black and gray dots. when he wore the spectacles, he looked so. wise, that blanche hardly dared speak to him. she saw that one day he was to become a great man. at last victor said he must leave his home, and sail across the seas. tears filled the eyes of blanche; but the youth whis- pered, — "i am going away to find a home for you and me: so adieu, dearest blanche " fairy book. now victor thought the ship in which he sailed moved very slowly; for he longed to reach the land which he could see through his magic spectacles: it was a beautiful king- dom, rich with mines of gold and silver. when the ship touched shore, the streets were lined with people who walked to and fro with sad faces. the king's daughter, a beautiful young maiden, was very ill; and it avas feared she must die. victor asked one of the people if there was no hope. it so happened that this man was the greatest physician in the kingdom and he answered, — "alas, there is no hope!" then victor went to a distant forest where he knew a healing spring was to be found. very few remembered it was there; and those who had seen it did not know of its power to heal disease. the castle op gems. victor filled a crystal goblet with the pre- cious water, and carried it to the palace. the old king shook his head sadly, but con- sented to let the attendants moisten the parched lips of the princess with the water, as it could do no harm. far from doing barm, it wrought a great good; and, in time, the royal maiden was restored to health. then, for gratitude, the king would have given his daughter to victor for a wife; but victor remembered blanche, and knew that no other maiden must be bride of his. not long after this, the king was lost over- board at sea during a storm. now the peo- ple must have a new ruler. they deter- mined to choose a wise and brave man; and, young as he was, no man could be found braver and wiser than victor: so the people elected him for their king. thus pontana's gift of the eyes of wisdom had made him truly " one of the great men of earth." fairy book. in her humble home, blanche dreamed every night of victor, and hoped he would grow good, if he did not become great; and victor remembered blanche, and knew that her love was his dearest blessing. "this old palace," thought he "will never do for my beautiful bride." so he called together his people, and told them he must have a castle of gems. some of the walls were to be of rubies, some of emeralds, some of pearls. there was to be any amount of beaten gold for doors and pillars; and the ceilings were to be of milk- white opals, with a rosy light which comes and goes. all was done as he desired; and, when the castle of gems was finished, it would need a pen of jasponyx dipped in rainbows to de- scribe it. victor thought he would not have a guard the castle op gems. ill of soldiers for his castle, but would lock the four golden gates with a magic key, so that no one could enter unless the gates should swing back of their own accord. when the castle of gems was just com- pleted, and not a soul was in it, victor locked the gates with a magic key, and then dropped the key into the ocean. "now," thought he, " i have done a wise thing. none but the good and true can enter my castle of gems. the gates will not swing open for men with base thoughts or proud hearts!" then he hid himself under the shadow of a tree, and watched the people trying to enter. but they were proud men, and so the gates would not open. king victor laughed, and said to him- self,— "i have done a wise thing with my magic fairy book. key. how safe i shall be in my castle of gems!" so he stepped out of his hiding-place, and said to the people, — "none but the good and true can get in." then he tried to go in himself; but the gates would not move. the king bowed his head in shame, and walked back to his old palace. "alas!" said he to himself, "wise and great as i am, i thought i could go in.' i see it must be because i am filled with pride. let me hide my face; for what would blanche say if she knew, that, because my heart is proud, i am shut out of my own cas- tle? i am not worthy that she should love me; but i hope i shall learn of her to be humble and good." the next day he sailed for the home of his childhood. when blanche saw him, she fairy book. rays fell with dazzling splendor upon the cas- tle of gems. when blanche saw the silent, closed castle and its golden gates, she re- membered the words of queen fontana, who had said that her lily should have power to "open the strongest locks, and swing back the heaviest doors." like one walking in a dream, she led vic- tor toward the resplendent castle. she touched, with her lily, the lock which fas- tened one of the gates. "gates of gold could not withstand one touch of that magic wand." in an instant, the hinges trembled; and the massive door swung open so far, that forty people could walk in side by side. then it slowly closed, and locked itself without noise. one of the people who passed in was the fairy book. until queen fontana shall call for the magic spectacles and the lily of pearl, it is believed that victor and blanche will live in the castle of gems, though the time should be a hundred years. fairy book. thenish training, he had some noble traits, which a christian lad might imitate. he lived with his widowed mother at the edge of a forest. the snow piled itself in drifts, and the wind howled through the trees, and crept in at the windows; for the cottage was old, and a blind hurricane might almost have mistaken it for a heap of brush- wood. but thule was quite as happy as if the hut had been a palace. he loved the winter-beauty of his mother's face, and the silvery hair half hidden under her black cap. all the fire they burned was made of the dry sticks he gathered in the forest, and more than half the money they used was earned by his small hands. in one of the ice-months of the year, when the weather was sharper than a serpent's tooth, thule came home from a hard day's work; and, the chillier he grew, the more he the elf op light. whistled to keep tip a brave heart. looking at the horizon before him, he saw the cold glare which we call northern lights, but which he knew to be the flickering of hel- mets and shields and spears. "the warlike maidens are out to-night," thought the boy: "they are going to the bat- tle-fields to decide who is worthy to be slain. how i love to see the sky lighted up with the flash of their armor! odin, grant i may one day be a hero, and walk over the bridge of a rainbow!" then thule went to his whistling again; but, just as he struck into the forest where the deep shadows lay, he heard a faint moan, which sounded like a human voice, or might have been a sudden gust of wind in a hollow tree. "perchance it is some poor creature even colder than i," thought the boy: "i hope not a troll t" fairy book. hurrying to the spot whence the pound came, he found an ugly, long-nosed dwarf ly- ing on the ground, nearly perishing with cold. it was growing late, and the boy him- self was benumbed; but he went briskly to work, chafing the hands and 'face of the stranger, even taking off his own blue jacket to wrap it about the dwarfs neck. "poor old soul, you shall not die of cold!" said he; then, helping him to rise, he added cheerily, "we will go to my mother's cot- tage, and have a warm supper of oat-cakes and herrings; and our fire of dry boughs will do you good." the noble boy knew there was barely sup- per enough for two, but did not mind going hungry to bed for charity's sake. in the ear of his heart, he heard the words of his mother: — "never fear starving, my son, but freely share your last loaf with the needy." the elf of light. they walked through the forest, the old man leaning heavily on the youth's shoulder. "why should you befriend a poor wretch who cannot repay you?" whined the dwarf in a hollow voice which startled thule, it was so like the echo sent back by a mountain or a rock. ." i do not ask or wish to be repaid," was- the reply. "don't you know what the prov- erb says ?' do good, and throw it into the sea; if the fishes don't know it, odin will!'" "yes: odin shall xow it, never fear," an- swered the dwarf; "out, as i happen to be informed that your tea-table is not quite large enough for three, i think i will decline your invitation to supper. really, my lad," he continued, "it would delight me to do you a little favor; for, though i am only a poor dwarf, i know how to be grateful. by the way, have you seen such a thing hereabouts as a green alder-tree?" the elf op light. "now i wonder what it is you have seen," said the good woman, raising her hands in surprise. "was he brown, my son, with a long nose?" "as brown as a nut, mother, with no end of nose."' "just as i supposed, my child! that dwarf is a wonderful creature, — one of the night-elves, a race gifted with great under- standing. know, my son, that he carves runes upon stones; and he no doubt assisted in making thor's hammer, that terrible in- strument which can crush the skull of a giant." "one thing i observed," said the boy: "he blinked at that flashing in the sky, which peo- ple call northern lights; he had to shade his eyes with his funny little hand." "did he, indeed? poor elf! light is pain- ful to his race; and i have even heard that iers for mb castle, but would lock tbe 'wenpteswhhamgickev.wtbit °co^ enter nnless the gates rf,ouid j^aclc of their own accord ^^eofge^j^ ^^wasin it, victor locked ^'^-agicke^andthendrop^ '^to the ocean. lor men ^ b • ^ mhhil himself mj p^edon, : aylight its ■■-■: le *ise with '. '. ■* ider!" said . it, nor the i *. . \ tin; and, as appened to rand, at his . gold. he it and new. \ht the boy, ,'or the gold o the town, i fifty pieces /ish i could i in herrings once in my venison?" d his greedy r how brave- the elf op light. grown a foot higher; and by daylight its leaves showed a silver lining. "may odin favor my pretty alder!" said thule; "nor let the frost pinch it, nor the winds blacken its green buds!" thule went into the woods again; and, as he was whistling at his work, he happened to look down, and there, on the ground, at his feet, lay a purse, well lined with gold. he counted the pieces: fifty, all bright and new. "i will go to the town," thought the boy, shaking his head and sighing (for the gold was very tempting), " i will go to the town, and ask who has lost a purse with fifty pieces of precious gold. ah, me! i wish i could keep it!" then we should swim in herrings and oil; and who knows but, for once in my life, i. might even get a taste of venison?" but next moment he loosened his greedy clutch at the purse. "no matter how brave- the elp op light. "i dug up an alder-bush, kind sirs," re- plied the boy, trembling, and remembering that his mother had said she was almost afraid of that little tree. "there are many alder-bushes," said an- other of the men gruffly; "but only one i green at this time of year, and has silver- lined leaves. 'it was placed here by com- mand of the giant loki, .and no one was to touch it under pain of death; for, when his mountain-garden should be laid out in the spring, the tree was to be uprooted, and planted therein." thule grew almost as stiff and white as if a frost-giant had suddenly breathed on him. he knew that loki was a pitiless god, feared by all, and beloved by none, — a god who had an especial grudge against the whole hu- man race. "i will hold my peace," thought thule. fairy book. "i will never confess that the tree i carried away has silver-lined leaves. i will hasten home, pluck up the bush, and burn it: then who will be the wiser?" but thule, in spite of his trembling, could not forget his good mother's counsel: — "your words, my boy, let them be truth, and nothing but truth, though a sword should be swinging over your head." then, as soon as his voice returned to him, he confessed that the tree he had removed was really just such an one as the men de- scribed, and begged for mercy, because, as he said, he had committed the sin ignorantly, not knowing the mandate of the terrible giant. but the men bade thule lead them to his mother's house, and point out his stolen treas- ure; declaring that they could show no mer- cy; for, when loki had made a decree, no man should alter it by one jot or one tittle. the elf op light. "oil!" thought the unfortunate boy, wring- ing his hands, and trembling till the woollen tassel on his cap danced a gallopade, " oh, if the cruel night-elf, who led me into this mis- chief, would only come forward now, and help me out of it! but, alas, it is of no avail to invoke him; for it is now broad daylight, t and the sun would strike him into a stone im- age in a twinkling." when thule, followed by the messengers of loki, had reached the door of his cottage, he found his gray-haired mother sprinkling the roots of the beautiful alder, and fondling its leaves with innocent pleasure. at sight of the armed men, she started back in af- fright. "it is indeed the giant's tree," said the men to thule. "pluck it up, and follow us with it to loki's castle on the mountain." "t loki's castle !" shrieked the wretched fairy book. mother. "then he must pass a frightful wil- derness, be assailed by the frost-giants; and, if there be any breath left in him, loki will dash it out at a glance! have mercy on a poor old mother, good soldiers!" the unhappy boy touched the tree, and it came out of the ground of its own free will; and, in a trice, stood on its feet, shook out its branches into arms, and in another moment was no longer a tree, but a child, with a beauty as dazzling as sunshine. "unfortunate men!" said she, in a voice whose angriest tones were sweeter than the music of an ieolian harp, "unfortunate are you in being the servants of loki! go, tell your cruel master that the schemes he has plotted against me and mine have all failed: my enchantment is over forever. yonder boy," said she, pointing to little thule, " has saved me. i was, and still remain, an ev of the elf op light. light, as playful an harmless as sunshine. the merciless loki, enraged at the love i bear the children of men, changed me to a little alder-tree, which is the emblem of girl- hood. but he had no power to keep me in that form forever. he was obliged to make a condition, and he made the hardest one that his artful mind could invent: 'since you love mortals so dearly/ said he,'no one but a mor- tal shall free you from your imprisonment. you shall remain a tree till a good child shall touch you,—a child who is generous enough to share his last loaf with a stranger, honest enough to give back a reward for his honesty, brave enough to speak the truth when a lie would have saved his life. long shall you wait for such a deliv- erer!' "now how amazed will loki be when he learns that this little boy has been pairy book. tempted in all these particulars, yet proves true. my poor soldiers, you may return whence you came, for the alder-tree will never rustle its silver leaves in the moun- tain-garden of loki." then the men disappeared, not sorry that the good boy had escaped his threatened doom. thule, looking at the beautiful elf so lately a tree, could hardly trust his own eyes; and i fancy that many a boy, even at the present day, would have felt rather bewildered under the circumstances. "shining child!" said he: "you look vastly like the wonderful little being who led me out of the forest yesterday." "that may well be," replied the elf of light; "for she is my sister. the brown dwarf who pointed out to you the alder-tree fairy book. in childhood zora had been very fair; and the courtiers had petted her, and pronounced her even fairer than the princess; but her beauty had never meant any thing but bright eyes and cherry cheeks: so it could not last. if she had only cherished pure thoughts and kind wishes, she might still have been as lovely as hilda; but who does not know that evil feelings write themselves on the face? jealousy had pulled her mouth down at the corners; deceit had given it a foolish smirk; spite had plowed an ugly frown in her brow; while she had tried so many arts to make her rich brown skin as delicately white as hilda's, that it was changed to the tint of chrome yellow. it was said in those days, that zora was in the power of wicked fairies, who twisted her features into the shape that pleased them best. the princess hilda. mortals, are attracted by what is akin to themselves. she was descended from a race called ko-. holds or goblins; and she loved all the metals which lie under the earth as well as the liv- ing things which crawl up out of its bosom. so acute were her ears, that she heard zora's steps from a great distance. she brushed back her elf-locks, and gave a low grunt like some wild beast. it pleased her that the lady zora should find need of her counsel; but, when zora had reached the cave, the cunning fairy pretended to be sleep- ing, and started up in seeming surprise. "what brings a body here at this time of night?" said she. '"i am lady zora. i have come, sweet fairy, to beg a favor. the princess hilda is hateful to me: work one of your charms on her, and let me see her face no more." faibt book. reginald, you will let me change you into a charming green snake." "alas!" cried zora, turning pale, "who ever heard of such a cruel request?" "cruel, am i?" said the goblin in delight. "oh, i must seem cruel to one who is so gentle and lovely as hilda!" "alas," cried zora, "i may fail to win prince reginald." "all the better," chuckled the fairy. "when you become a snake, you and i shall enjoy each other's society, i assure you." zora shuddered. "but it's all one to me," added the goblin, beginning to yawn. "on the whole, i think you may as well go home." zora wrung her hands, and groaned. "yes," said the gnome: "go back to the castle. ugh! i would sooner trust one of my winking owls to do a daring deed than i the princess hilda. you i fie upon you! creep back to your bed, and let hilda marry the prince: a lovely pair they will make. off with you, for i have to make up my sleep i have lost." but zora was thinking. "i am silly indeed!" she said to herself. "why do i fear that i shall not win the love of prince reginald? only hilda stands in my way." then she said aloud, — "lovely being! sweetest of all the race! great as is my horror, i will consent to your will." just then was heard a crackling in the dry leaves. "only a snake," said the goblin. zora trembled. "will you promise me that hilda will never trouble me again?" "i promise," said the goblin, with one of the princess hilda. a mist arose, in which zora could see dim figures, one after another. zora held her breath. * gerula muttered again in low tones, — "hilda is gentle, and dreams of no guile; the little gnomes sit and weep; 'make her, — if must be, — a snowy wee lamb, in the fold with her father's sheep.'" zora clapped her hands in delight. but just then, a faint sound was heard, as of some one talking between the teeth. then zora spoke, and the charm was broken. she did not intend to speak; but asked, " what noise was that?" before she thought. "you have broken the charm," said the fairy. "the soft-hearted gnomes are unwill- ing to punish hilda; but i hoped, by my craft, i could force them to keep her a lamb forever; or, at most, to let her grow to a sheep, and die by the knife. fairy book. "i will now weave a new charm; but i fear me they will repent; and hilda will not be got out of the way, after all. not a word more, i warn you." so saying, the goblin made another circle three times, on the ground, and again mut- tered, — "how long is fair hilda a snowy wee lamb? _ the little gnomes cry,' we fear till comes a brave lion so tender and true, she lives by his side a year.'" zora clapped her hands again. "that is well," said she, "for never was a lion seen who could let a little helpless lamb pass his way without tearing it in pieces." "true," said the gnome, well pleased, " it has worked well. hilda will never trouble you again: so creep home softly, and go to your rest: dream of bats and creeping the princess hilda. was this zora's return for her cousin's love? the princess would fain have ex- pressed her grief and amazement. "pray don't try to talk, my bonny wee thing! it is not one of your gifts, at pres- ent. your voice has ceased to be musical. i can sing now as well as you. go to nib- bling grass, deary, and a long life to you!" then the treacherous zora turned on her heel, and left her poor cousin to her mute despair. a search was made far and wide for the missing princess. forests were hunted, rivers were dragged; but without avail. deep gloom fell on the people, and the queen nearly died of sorrow. they all believed hilda dead, all but zora, who knew too well her cruel fate. then zora was treated like the king's daughter. wherever she went, there were ser- fairy book. "i will go," thought poor hildegarde ; " let the lion tear me in pieces. sooner would i perish, than live on, a poor wee lamb all my days." so she went up to the cage, though with a faint heart; but the lion put his paw out of the bars, and stroked her face, as if he would bid her welcome. the keeper reported the fact with great surprise. it may be that the beautiful brown eyes of the lamb tamed the fierce spirit of the lion; for they were human eyes, full of hilde- garde's own soul. be that as it may, the lamb went every day to the cage, till the lion learned to watch for her, and gave a low growl of joy when he saw her coming. at last the keeper ventured to drop her care- fully into the cage. the lion was beside himself with joy; and, after that, the lamb was placed in the cage every morning, and only taken out at night. pairy book. "thrice welcome, sweet hilda! the little gnomes say at sunrise their charms shall end; so go to the lion, and open the cage; the prince is your own true friend." this was so sudden and unexpected that the happy hilda could hardly believe her senses. she gazed at her jewelled fingers; she touched her velvet robe. "it is hilde- garde," said she dreamily; "where has she stayed so long?" she went to the cage; and, finding the key hanging on the outside, would fain have freed the poor lion, but thought of the terror it would cause the sheep and deer, and dared not do it. she put her soft white arms within the bars, saying, — "you have been a true friend to the little white lamb. she has found her tongue again, and can say so. kind old lion, gentle pris- oner, hildegarde will not forget you." fairy book. the prince told hildegarde, that he had loved her for a twelvemonth and a day. he described hilda's visit to the cruel gob- lin. he said that he himself had overheard the two talking together, had ground his teeth, and sighed. then the gnomes, seeing his grief, had come asking him if he would be changed for a year, and maybe for life, into a lion; and for hildegarde's sake he had gladly consented. hearing all these things, the grateful prin- cess wept, and said, — "now i know that prince eeginald is my own true friend." the prince led hilda to the palace, and presented her to the king and queen. great was the wonder, and loud the rejoicing throughout the land. the treacherous zora was seen no more, but was changed into a slender green snake; the princess hilda. and the king said she deserved her fate; "for, mark you," cried he, "there is no crime worse than to play false to those whom we pretend to love." but prince reginald and hildegarde were married, and lived in peace all the rest of their lives. faiky book. goldilocks. "a king lived long ago, in the morning of the world," who had two children, despard and goldi- locks. they were twin brother and sister, but no more alike than a queen-lily and a nightshade, a raven and a dove. goldilocks was a bright young damsel, with hair like fine threads of gold, and a face so radiant that people questioned if the blood in heir veins might not be liquid sunshine. her eyes were as soft as violets; and her laugh was like the music of a spring robin. despard, on the other hand, was as melan- choly as an owl. his raven hair cast gloomy goldilocks. your old nurse behind. you may well weep, my good little boy: there is to be no rest for your feet till you have travelled over the whole world, from north to south." despard groaned aloud; but goldilocks clapped her hands and laughed. "oh, let us start to-night," she cried. "when the sun-god has made twelve jour- neys in his winged boat," sighed sibyl, " and when the young moon has arisen out of the ocean, then you may go." and, at the appointed time, the faithful hurse, with many tears, prepared her foster- children for their long journey. she took from a worm-eaten coffer some family heir- looms, which had been lying since the days of the golden age, enveloped in rose-leaves and gold paper. she placed in the hand of despard a dag- ger with a jewelled hilt, a quiver of poisoned paiey book. arrows, and a glittering sword, with a blade sharper than a serpent's tooth. but to goldilocks she gave a flask of smooth, fragrant oil, a vase of crystal-bright water, and a fan made of the feathers of the beautiful bird of paradise. kissing the little pilgrims, she said, — "these gifts have been saved for you these many years: use them as an inward voice shall whisper you: i give you my bless- ing. the gods attend you! farewell." the children at first walked on sorrow- fully; but soon the gay spirits of goldilocks rebounded, and she waltzed hither and thith- er, like a morsel of thistle-down. "see, brother," said she, " we almost fly! what a glorious thing it is to go on a pil- grimage! i am glad the beautiful silver age has come, and jupiter has given us leave to take a peep at the world!" goldilocks. "all very well for you to say," moaned despard; "you flit about as if you had wings on your feet; while, as for me, it is true i move with equal speed, but so pain- fully that i wonder my footprints are not stained with blood." soon the children observed, not far off, a party of youths rowing on the bosom of a lake. they sat in a rocking, unsteady little bark, but were in gay spirits, blowing bub- bles, watching idle clouds, and throwing up empty shouts to be caught up and echoed by the hills. "i wish we had not seen these happy peo- ple," sighed despard; "for, if you can be- lieve me, sister, i really feel as if i must pelt them with my arrows." so saying, little despard began to fire his poisonous darts at random. "why, brother," cried goldilocks, in alarm, faiey book. come again, and then you would cease scat- tering mischief and trouble." the little ones, suddenly stopped in their play by the army of insects, ran hither and thither over the meadow, screaming with pain. but goldilocks appeared in the midst of them, with her shining hair, violet eyes, and laugh like the music of a spring robin. "come to me," said she; "let me kiss away the stings." in a very short space the children were soothed, and had forgotten their trouble. then they threw their little arms about goldi- locks' neck, and begged her to stay and play with them. "sweet children, it is my mission, — so the stars say, — to travel all over this world, from north to south. but, for all that, i will frolic with you till the sun sets." "will the sad boy come too?" asked the children. goldilocks. goldilocks shook her bright curls. "he is planting a garden," said she; "no need to ask him; he hears nothing while he is at play, and his games are as solemn as mid- night." the children made believe that the beauti- ful goldilocks, in her rose-colored dress, with her beaming hair and flying feet, was a great butterfly, which they were trying to catch. now here, now there, the glowing butterfly flitted from flower to flower, leading her fol- lowers a merry chase. every child thought to seize and hold her, for a kiss. she laughed; and the breezes danced with her hair, like — "zephyr with aurora playing, as he met her once a-maying." but before any one had kissed or even touched her, she had disappeared, leaving goldilocks. "it is pleasant to see any thing smile, even a flower," said goldilocks, laughing as she spoke. "i think," replied despard, " that this is a strange pilgrimage. i believe our very thoughts are alive. i wish i could stop thinking." by and by they came to a rude house, — as fine a one, though, as people in the silver age had yet learned how to build. despard paused, and knocked gently. "why linger here?" whispered his sister. "i know not," sighed the boy, "but so must i do." "how now, little ones? you startled me so !" cried a woman, opening the door by the width of a crack. "let us come in," said despard, sorrow- fully; "we are two little wanderers; and our hairs are wet with night-dews." paiey book. "come in, then, little ones, and welcome; but never, at any one's door, knock so lond again," added the woman, pressing her hand against her heart. "i only tapped with the ends of my fin- gers," said the boy. "ah," said the woman, "it was louder to me than thunder." then, after she had set before them a supper of bread and milk, she rocked her baby, and sang to it a sweet cradle- song about mother juno and high olympus. the children lay down on beds of rushes; and goldilocks, soothed by the lullaby, fell asleep; but soon awoke, and saw her brother leaning, on tiptoe, over the osier basket. the baby's face looked, in the moonlight, white and pinched; and its sick hands were pressed together like two withered rose- leaves. "let me kiss him," whispered goldilocks nypl research libraries l- inor m valorid * கைகள் பட்ட கள் the h antiquities sc o t land .. bu francis große elg: f. a.s. of london and perth. pa the second volune. ; _ ir) . , .by shoon onowo . milton. wa kanunimint att (et wondon, printed for s:hooper,n° , high heybera. mdccxci. county index, vol. ii. a b e r d e ens h i r e. : -- aberdeen cathedral church - page - — a n guss hire. aberbroth abbey and tower, plate i. — plate ii. ,,- brechen cachedral church glames caſtle, plate i. - plate ii. red caitle - reſtennote priory – — - . . arg y l e s h i r e. dunſtaffage caſtle, lorne , a y r s h i r e. ¿ ~ , , — , alloway church auchinleck old caſtle or manſion colaine or culzeen caſtle corſhill houſe croſraguel abbey, plate i. ' - plate ii. - - plate iii. dean caſtle dolquharran caſtle dunure caſtle, plate i. _ plate ii. greenand caſtle kilwinning abbey machlin caſtle maybole or minniboil collegiate church old houſe of caſſils paiſley abber, renfrewſhire = -_- , -- , -- st. county index, vol. ii. st. john the baptiſt's church sorne caſtle turnbury caſtle page - , - banffshire. boyne caſtle, plate i. - plate ii. - - - inchdrewr caſtle - berwicks h i r e. little den tower, (see addenda, p. , vol. ii.)— the view placed facing page , vol. i. cl a c k m a n n a n shir e. clackmannan tower - arch. st. andrews fif eshi r e. balmerino abbey black friars, or the dominicans, st. andrew's caſtle of st. andrew's cathedral church, st. andrews den miln caſtle - - - dumfermling abbey, plate i.. --- plate ii. dumfermling fratery pittenweem priory roſeythe caſtle - , , , – - , , - gallo w a y. abbots tower, near new abbey butel caſtle dundrennan abbey, plate i. - plate ii. dunſkey caſtle, plate i. - - plate ii. glenluce abbey, plate i. - , , , plate ii. kenmure - : - - jii page , — — - county index, vol. ii. kenmure caſtle, plate i. - - plate ii. kennedy caſtle, wigtonſhire kirkcudbright caſtle, plate i. plate ii. laggan stone, plate i. plate ii. c, lincluden college, plate i. -- - plate ii. - - of loch roi-ton, or hill caſtle mote of urr (galloway on the plate) plate i. - plate ii. --new alje, o sweethearts, plate i. - plaro ii. · thrieve, or 'thrieff caitle (see addendu, p. ). – - , -- . , , - - — kincardin e s h i r e. dunotter caſtle - kinross - shir e. loch leven caſtle lochor caſtle - - - – , linlithgow shir e. linlithgow palace --- — , . mora y shir e. biſhop's palace, at spynie, plate i. - plate ii. elgin cathedral church, plate i. - plate ii. pluſcardin priory , — plate ii. - - — per t h s hi r e. abernethy college, plate i.- - plate ii. - - campbell iv [ county index, vol. ii. campbell caſtle, plate i. (see addenda, p. and ) - - plate ii. culrofs or kyllenroſs abbey doun caſtle dunblane cathedral elcho caſtle gowrie houſe or caſtle nting tower monks tower - page , . - , - - - - . - - - – renfre w shir e. newark caſtle stirlings h i r e. - - almond houſe bruce's caſtle - - emanuel or manuel nunnery cambuſkenneth abbey stirling church, or the grey friars stirling caſtle — — — t w e e d a l e. - - auchincaſs caſtle, evandale croſs church, peebles drummelzier caſtle, tweedale nid-path caſtle st. andrew's church, peebles tweedmuir church , -- i sl a n d s. brodie caſtle, iſle of arran ranza caſtie, ine of arran dunvegan caſtle, iſle of sky inch colm abbey, plate i. --- plate ii. - plate iii. —- — - - the new york public library autor sencx and t'lien foundations, ao tt les d finther weden oren f ، با نمبر ۔ ) . کر کر۔ citr i includin copiece. [ ] g a llow a y. lincluden college. plate i. the college of lincluden, in galloway, ſtands upon the water of' cluden, where it falls into the river nith, about two miles above or north of dumfries. this houſe was originally a priory of benedictine nuns, founded in the reign of king malcolm iv., by uthred, father to rolland, lord of galloway, who was buried here. by him lincluden was endowed with the divers lands lying within the baronies of corſe michael and drumſleith, in the ſtewartry of kirkcudbright. the par- ticulars are mentioned in the notes below*.. this priory was afterwards changed by archibald the grim, earl of douglas, lord of galloway and bothwell, panitorius scotiæ, into a college or provoſtry, conſiſting of a provoſt and twelve beadſmen, becauſe of the lewd and ſcandalous lives of the nuns t. this earl died a. d. , and was interred in the facriſty # the five merkland r of little dryburgh. of drumjarg of ernphillan of erncraig of blarome of meikle dryburgh' of chriſſmanton of blacharne : of erne menzie. culnotrie the fifteen-lhilling land of stackford the forty-fhilling land of newton the merkland of clunie and skellingholm the ſix merkland of carraſchtie, or carnchan the fix merkland of drumganis the five merkland of traquier the merkland of stockholm the five merkland of nunland the five merkland of cruiſtanes, or curriſtains the fix merkland of holm, now goldee lee the twenty-lhilling land of maryholm the four merkland of nunholm all lying within the barony of drumſleith and ſtewartry of kirkcudbright. † alienore prioureſſe de lincluden del conte de dumfries is mentioned by prynne, ad annum . or the corn mill of corſe michael the five merkland of garrenton the twa and a half merkland of black park all lying within the barony of corſe michael and ſtewartry of kirkcudbright. g allow a y. or veſtry here ; over the door of which is ſtill to be ſeen his and his lady's armorial bearings; ſhe was heireſs of bothwell; they are neatly carved in ſtone on different ſhields; between which three ſtars are inter- laced with three cups, the latter are the inſignia of his office of pani- tarius scotiæ. the name of the firſt provoſt of this college was elefe. he was ſuc- ceeded by alexander cairns, appointed by earl archibald the fourth, whoſe chancellor he appears to have been, being, by a charter of that earl, dated february , , thus deſcribed : alexander de carnys, præpo- fitus de lincluden cancellarius nofter. in the year he was ſucceeded by john cameron, official of lothian *, and rector of cambuſlang, who was confeſſor and ſecretary to archibald, the fourth earl of douglas, above mentioned. this john cameron, on the reſtoration of james i., was named secretary and lord privy seal, and the year following was appointed keeper of the great ſeal ; he was ſoon after elected biſhop of glaſgow; and, in , was appointed one of the commiſſioners from scotland for redreſſing grievances, and ſettling the peace with eng- land; ſoon after, with the conſent of their reſpective patrons, he made the miniſters of the churches of cambruſlang, torbolton, egleſham, kirkmahoe, luſs, and kilearn, prebendaries of glaſgow, to have ſtalls within the choir there, and places and votes in the chapter for ever. among the liſt of patrons, was sir john forreſter, of corſterfin, patron of kirkmahoe, in right of his wife, margaret : ſhe, with the conſent of her ſon and heir, sir william stewart, agreed to it. in the year cameron was appointed one of the delegates from scotland to the council of baſil; to which place he went through eng- land with a retinue of thirty perſons in his train. in , when the peace was to be negotiated with england, cameron was one of the plenipotentiaries for scotland, and had a ſafe conduct for that purpoſe to paſs into england, together with sir alexander seaton, sir walton ogilvie, and sir john forreſter. after the murder of james i. cameron was removed from the office of chancellor, when he * an official was one appointed to a sce, but not confirmed by the pope. returned g allow a v. returned to his biſhoprick, and built the great tower of the epiſcopal palace at glaſgow, on which his eſcutcheon of arms is placed; he alſo laid out a great ſum of money in rebuilding the veſtry, which his prede- ceffor, biſhop lauder, had begun. · in the year , in an indenture between jean, widow of james i. and sir alexander livingſton, of callender, anent the perſon of james ii. among the numerous ſeals appendant to that deed was that of cameron. he died at lockwood on chriſtmas eve, a. d. . cameron was ſucceeded in his provoſtry of lincluden by haly- burton, whoſe arms are to be ſeen on the ſouth walls, within the choir. he was ſucceeded by john methuin, doctor of the decretals, who, in , during the minority of james ii., was ſecretary of scotland, and one of the plenipotentiaries along with sir john forreſter, of corſterfin, lord chamberlain of scotland, the lords gordon and montgomery, with sir vano, or vans: they met at london in time of open war, and, in , renewed the truce for nine years. in methuin was diſmiſſed from his office of ſecretary, and died ſoon after. he was ſucceeded by provoſt lindſay in , who, in , was appointed lord privy ſeal ; and, along with muirhead, biſhop of glaſgow ; spence, biſhop of aberdeen ; crawford, abbot of holyrood houſe; the earls of crawford, of argyle; the lord livingſtone, chamberlaine, and alexander boyd, of duncow, was ſent embaffador to england to redreſs all grievances. this commiſſion is dated in . upon the th of december, , william, earl of douglas, aſſembled all the lords, barons, and freeholders, with the oldeſt borderers at lincluden, to reviſe the border laws, when divers regulations were made. lindſay was ſucceeded in the provoſtry of lincluden by living- ſtone, who was ſucceeded by william herries, rector of kirkpatrick, who was one of the attendants upon james, the ninth earl of douglas, when upon his pilgrimage to rome, in . provost anderson ſucceeded herries; and anderſon's ſucceſſor was william stewart, fecond ſon to sir thomas stewart, of minto, who was ſecond fon to sir alexander stewart, of garlies. this provoft stewart was formerly rector of lochmaban; he was afterwards biſhop of aber- deen, and appointed lord treaſurer of scotland: his arms are ſtill to be y y feen ys g allow a y. ol ſeen under the scots arms, upon the great ſtaircaſe in the provoſt's lodg- ings here, which he either rebuilt, or very much repaired. he was after- wards ſucceeded by provoſt maxwell, whoſe ſucceflor was robert doug- las, ſecond ſon to the baron of drumlanrig; to him — douglas, of drumlanrig, who was ſucceeded by john douglas, of boatford, who was the laſt provoſt, when lincluden became a temporal barony in ; ſince which period it has been the property of the nithſdale fa- mily. from what remains of that ancient building, which is part of the provoſt's houſe, the chancel, and ſome of the ſouth wall of the church, an idea may be eaſily formed of its former ſplendour. the choir in particular was finiſhed in the fineſt ſtile of the florid gothic. the roof was treble, in the manner of that of king's college at cambridge, and the truſſes, from whence the ribbed arch-work ſprung, are covered with coats of arms; the lower roof is now entirely demoliſhed; the middle one, a plane arch, ſtill ſtands; but the uppermoſt roof, which conſiſted of timber and lead, was deſtroyed at the reformation. the earls of douglas, when in the zenith of their power and greatneſs, ex- pended conſiderable ſums in ornamenting this place, which was their fa- vourite reſidence, when wardens of the weſt marches. in the chancel is the elegant tomb of margaret, daughter of robert iii., wife of archibald, earl of douglas, firſt duke of terouan, and ſon of archibald the grim. her effigy, at full length, ſays mr. pennant, lay on the ſtone, her head reſting on two cuſhions ; but the figure is now mutilated, and her bones, till lately, were ſcattered about in a moſt indecent manner, by ſome wretches who broke open the repoſitory in ſearch of treaſure. the tomb is in the form of an arch, with all parts moſt beautifully carved : on the middle of the arch is the heart, the douglas's arms, guarded by three chalices *, ſet croſsways, with a ſtar near each, and certain letters i could not read. on the wall is inſcribed, a l'aide de dieu, and at ſome diſtance beneath, hic jacet d-na margareta regis scotiæ fili quodam comitiſa de douglas dna gollovidiæ et vallis annandia. * theſe are generally ſuppoſed to be cups, the inſignia of his office of cupbearer of scot- land, and not chalices. the new york public library astor, lenex ano til en foundation, po gen th delen li al bert e ut a lender b ko turi pete r pi rent lect dibdi om sed lue bar sh po be by s hooper, jan. vrúsaresfe . iincluden collegepi jncluden college ple gallow a y. in the front of the tomb are nine ſhields, containing as many arms : * in one are the three ſtars, the original coat of this great houſe, for the heart was not added till the good sir james was employed in carrying that of robert brus to the holy land; beſides theſe are the arms after that event; and alſo their arms as lords of annandale, galloway and liddeſdale. near the tomb is a doorcafe, richly ornamented with carv- ing; and on the top the heart and cups, as in the former. in other parts of the remains of this church are the arms of the doug- laſes, or dukes of terouan, earls of angus, of ormond, and of mur- ray : here are beſides, the arms of john stewart, earl of athol, with the motto, firth, fortune, and fil the fetters. beneath one of the windows are two rows of figures, the upper of angels, the lower of a corps and other figures, all much defaced, but ſeem- ingly deſigned to expreſs the preparations for the interment of our sa- viour. ... the remains of a bowling-green and flower garden, with the par- terres and ſcrolls, .very viſible, ſtill exiſt on the ſouth-eaſt ſide of the building : beyond which is a great artificial mount, with a ſpiral walk to the top, which is hallowed, and has a turf ſeat around, whence there is a moſt delightful view over the adjacent country, to which the junction of the rivers is no ſmall addition. this view, which ſhews the ſouth-weſt aſpect, was drawn a. d. . lincluden college. plate ii. this plate exhibits the ruin as it appears from nearly the north-eaſt aſpect. the building at the end next the ſpectator was the provoſt's tower, or manſion. it was drawn a. d. , a few months after the former. . thrieve, or thrieff, castl e. this caſtle ſtands upon an iſland of fixteen scots acres, formed in the river dee, in galloway. here was, it is ſaid, a more ancient fortreſs belonging anne g allow a y. belonging to the old lords, or petty kings, of galloway ; which being demoliſhed, the preſent building was erected, but by whom or when is not aſcertained, but ſuppoſed to be by a douglas. tradition ſays, this caſtle obtained the appellation of th’rive's caſtie, that is, the caſtle of the rive, from one of the lords of galloway, of that family who reſided here; and, from his depredations and extortions, was called the rive: others derive it from the word reeve, as being a contraction of the reeves caſtle. upon the ruin of the houſe of douglas, and the annexation of the lordſhip of galloway to the crown of scotland in , this caſtle re- mained in the king's hands, who appointed captains for the keeping thereof, as occaſion required. in the year sir john dunbar, of mochrum, was appointed keeper of the caſtle of thrieff for nine years, and the twenty-five merks worth of land, called the granges of thrieff, and the fiſhery thereof, with all other profits and duties whatſoever, per- taining to the ſaid caſtle, with the office of ſteward, of the ſtewartry of kirkcudbright, for which he was to pay the king yearly, on whitſunday and martinmaſs, the ſum of, one hundred pounds, and to keep up the caſtle at his own charge. this grant was dated the th of september. but in the year , it appears by another grant, dated at edinburgh, september th, that this caſtle, with that of loughmaban, with all their perquiſites and appendages, and all the king's lands at duncow, within the county of dumfries, together with the office of ſheriff of kirkcud- bright, and all its profits and fees, were given to robert, lord maxwell, and the longeſt liver of his ſons, and their aſſigns and tenants, for the ſpace of nineteen years from the feaſt of st. martin. .. the lords maxwell, afterwards earls of nithfdale, poſſeſſed the heri- table office of ſtewards, of the ſtewartry of kirkcudbright, and keepers of the caſtle of thrieff, until the year , when all the heritable juriſ- dictions in scotland were annexed to the crown. · the keeper of the caſtle of thrieff received from each of the twenty- fix or twenty-ſeven pariſhes in the ſtewartry of kirkcudbright, what was called a ladner-mart cow, that is, a fat cow, in ſuch condition as to be fit for killing and ſalting at martinmaſs for winter proviſion. theſe ladner- mart cows were regularly paid to the earls of nithſdale, till the forfei- as ture of castle of thrive tegur the . van th wwww fast windows natiahowing the new york public library astor, lenox and tilren foundation, לל gallow a y. ture of the laſt earl in , when it went into diſuſe ; but formerly, ſo attentive were the family to that right, that when, in the year , they ſold the eſtate, upon which the caſtle of thrieff ſtood, they reſerved the iſland and caſtle, that it might afford them a title to the twenty-ſeven ladner-mart cows belonging to the caſtle ; and they regularly, by a writ- ten commiſſion, appointed a captain of the caſtle of thrieff. this ruin is now ſaid to be the property of the laird of kelton ; by what means it became private property i have not been able to learn, the lords maxwell appear to have held it only as tenants by a leaſe from the crown. this caſtle conſiſts of a large ſquare tower, built with a ſmall ſlate like ſtone ; is ſurrounded at a ſmall diſtance by an envelope, with four round towers ; it had alſo a ſtrong gate, ſhewn in the drawing; the cur- tains of the envelope were pierced for guns. during the troubles under king charles i. the earl of nithſdale held this caſtle for the king, and armed, paid, and victualled, a garriſon therein of eighty men, beſides officers, all at his own expence ; till at length his majeſty, unable to give him any aſſiſtance, directed and authoriſed him, by the following letters, to make the beſt conditions he could for himſelf and the garriſon of this caſtle, and alſo for that of car- leverock, wherein he had been for a conſiderable time beſieged. letter of king charles i., addreſſed to our right truſty and right well- . beloved couſin and counſellor, robert, earl of nithſdale. “ charles r. « right truſty and right well-beloved coſen and councellor, we greet you well. whereas you have repreſented unto us, by your letter of the th of september, that thoſe who have beſieged you ſo long in the caſtle of carlaverock have now offered you honourable conditions to come out; and foraſmuch as our affairs permit not to relieve you ſo ſoon as we had determined, and as ſeemes your neceſſities require, and being withal moſt willing to free your perſon from further danger, and to eaſe you of the trouble and toyle you have ſuſtained by ſo long a ſiege, we do therefore hereby (graciouſly condeſcending unto your humble requeſt) give you leave to embrace and accept the aforeſaid conditions, for the z z ſafety gallow a y. ſafety and prefervation of your perfon and eftare, having withal a regard to our honour, fo far as the neceſſity of your prefent condition will permit; and we ſhall ſtill, as we have done hitherto, contiue our gra- cious efteem of you. given at our court at york this issth day of sep- tember, in the fixteenth year of our reign, ." letter from king charles i., addreſſed as before. “ charles r. * right trüfty and well-beloved coufen and counſellor, we greet you well. underſtanding by this bearer, that altho you were agreed with thofe that have boleaguered you in carlaverock upon honourable terms, for your coming forth, and rendering thereof, yet that thofe conditions are not valid untill fuch time that they be ratified by thoſe that have made themfelves members of the great committee in edinburgh, and fearing that your enemies there will not give way to your coming forth upon ſuch good terms, we are therefore graciouſly pleaſed, and by theſe pro- fents do permit and give you leave to take ſuch conditions as you can get, whereby the lives and liberties of yourfelf, your family, and thoſe that are with you, may be preſerved : and in caſe they ſhould urge the ſur- rendry of our caſtle of thrievė, 'which hitherto you have ſo well de- fended, and we wiſh you were able to do fo ftill, our gracious pleaſure is, that you do rather quit the ſame unto them; which, if ſo, the neceſſity require you to do on the beſt and moſt honourable terms you can, rather than hazard the ſafety of your own perſon, and thoſe with you; and in ſuch caſe this ſhall be your warrant and diſcharge. given at our court at york, the th day of september, in the ſixteenth year of our reign, :"~ this view was drawn a.d. . new ab.bey. plate j.. this was a ciſterſtian abbey, founded in the beginning of the thir- teenth century by devoçgilla, daughter of allan, lord of galloway, irece to david, earl of huntingdon, and wife to john baliol, lord of caſtle- se see . re les pse una urit er la pl teatre drar we di a a we . mall arecorrer well tes see araline - salmoneda . . jarah v te esain lu es hole b her hr bals shekulli ht laris w hon gister e oster ema damm bene rit re or tee be sr . . dobie be - ho pe ubuh sasa results list leader entru ambi . is d ht $ ni elle . ob ee cl . site publish'a tune by jhooper sporrono abby of sweet heart in galloway. | the new york public library astor, lencx and t lien ecundations g allow a y. caſtlebernard. baliol died in the year , and was buried in this new foundation. andrew winton, prior of lochlevin, informs us, that the lady, devorgilla, cauſed his heart to be taken out and embalmed; and putting it into an ivory box, bound with enameled filver, cloſed it folemnly in the walls of the church near the high altar, from whence it was occaſion- ally ftiled the abbey of sweetheart, though afterwards more generally called new abbey.. to this abbey there belonged divers baronies, lands, churches, and other valuable poffeſfions, to the annual amount, in money, of . the particulars of ſome of theſe lands ſee in the note *. * the dirks of st. katherine, of the hopes, mont lothian, bolton, kenniel dorſtorphin, kirk- patrick, durham, corfe. michael and buitle, with the tiends of the ſame, all belonged to this abbey, together with the barony of lochpatrick, comprehending the merks, and filling lands, of old extent, of kirkpatrick durham, viz. “the 'ſhilling land of culfhengan ditto - so of tarbreach the merk land of atkighay the, fhilling land of kirkland the , ſhilling land of monidow the i merk land of darngarroch *the shilling land and eight-penny land of bardarroch the milling land of calfat ditto . • of nether macarina ditto -- of barmoffete the shilling land of margley the ſhilling land of craigilcay ditto • • of knocktulloch ditto . of arkland ditto . of armone the merk land of qverbar. ditto - • of drumconchre the merk land of netherbar, with the lands of corſe and barbain, which are ſaid to be pen. dicle of bardarrock, and the mill, with all other and fingular annexes, connexes, woods, fiſhings, parts, pendieles, and pertinents, &c., lying within the ſtewartry of kirkcudbright, and fhire of dum- fries; which laods were fewed merkş, - thilliqgs, and pennies, scots, to robert, maſter of maxwell, ſon and heir of robert lord maxwell, to him and the heirs male of his body ; which fajl. ing, to his brother john, and his heirs male; which failing, to the heirs male whatſoever, of the above-mentioned robert, maſter of maxwell, for ſervices done to the abbey by the family of max. well, for taking the abbey and tenanış, &c., under their protection, as appears by the charter granted to him by john, abbọc of the monaſtery of sweetheart, and she convent of the faipe, bearing date february , . the lands of ardevell, engleſton, corfe little barr, damgar- rock, kirkland of corſe michael, craigend and leaths, belonged to this monastery, together with lands now belonging to william craik, eſq. of arbigland, and others. the gallow a y. the firſt abbot of this houſe was henry, who died in the journey to citeaux, in the year . he was ſucceeded by ericus magiſter, com verforum ejufdem domús; afterwards, according to prynne, john, abbot of this houſe ſwore fealty to edward, ſurnamed long shanks, a. d. , and was one of the free barons who choſe that king to be arbitrator be- tween bruce and baliol. february , a.d. , the name of the incumbent abbot was john, as appears by his ſignature to a charter to the lords of maxwell, then made heritable baillies of sweetheart. this charter was alſo ſigned by monks, whoſe names were as under: . richardus. . thomas pedden. . jacobus derling. . frater willielmus johnſtone. . frater gaven little. . frater gilbertus neilfon. . frater thomas murray. . frater johannes kirkpatrick. . frater robertus notman. . frater patricius welſh. . frater patricius kowll. . frater andreas don- nart. . frater thomas dickſon. on the d of october, a. d. , one, named john, was abbot, as appears by a charter of his granting. among the conſenting monks, who figned the deed, is gilbert brown, of the family of garſluth, who afterwards became abbot of this houſe, and was the laſt that held that office. calderwood, in his hiſtory, ſays, that he fat in parliament on the th of auguſt, , when the confeſſion of faith was approved of; and, in , was apprehended by the lord cranſton, captain of the guards appointed for the borders, and was ſent firſt to blackneſs caſtle. and, after ſome days, to the caſtle of edinburgh, where he was confined till his departure out of the kingdom. he died at paris the th of may, . after the reformation this abbey was in the hands of the crown, from , when the annexation act paſſed, to the year , when it was granted to sir robert spotſwood of that ilk; in whoſe time the yearly value of the barony was . . įd. ſterling. but it has ſince been burdened by queen anne, with a mortification in favour of the ſecond miniſter of dumfries, paid out of the lands of drumm, in the pariſh of new abbey, which, with ſeveral decreets of locality, amount to . . d. tuis abbey ſtands in a bottom; the principal parts remaining are, the church gallow a y. church and part of the chapter houſe, ſaid to have been an elegant piece of architecture, demoliſhed, as was reported, for the ſake of the ſtone. it was feared the whole building would have undergone the ſame fate ; wherefore a number of the neighbouring gentry raiſed a ſum of money by ſubſcription, and the miniſter was employed to enter into an agree- ment with the tenant to prevent it, for which forty pounds was paid him. it is but juſtice to mr. copeland, the proprietor, who had purchaſed this abbey of mr. spotſwood, to take notice, that he had in his leaſe prohi- bited and guarded againſt all ſuch dilapidations; but hurt that his neigh- bours ſhould ſuppoſe him capable of ſuch a piece of barbariſm as to per- mit ſo great an ornament to the country to be demoliſhed for the paltry ſum of ſix or ſeven pounds, the price he was ſaid to have gotten for the ſtones, he, as a fine, or an amende, honourable to his character and taſte, permitted his tenant to take the ſum above mentioned. the miniſter and ſubſcribers are, however, juſtly entitled to the thanks of the country for their public-ſpirited behaviour on this occaſion. in the roof of the ſouth tranſept is an eſcutcheon, charged with two paſtoral ſtaves in faltire ; over them à heart, and beneath them three mullets of five points, and , ſaid to be the arms of the abbey ; over the eſcutheon is an inſcription ; from its height, and want of light, ille- gible ; it is ſaid to be, chriſtus maritus meus, which ſeems more appli- . cable to a nunnery than a houſe of monks. meaſures of this ruin, as communicated by dr. clapperton : area of the whole demeſnes of this abbey, acres. height of the tower, feet. . length of the whole church, feet. breadth of the middle aiſle, feet. breadth of the ſide aiſles, feet. tranſept, feet. breadth of the arches, feet. diameter of the columns at the baſe, and į feet. height of the ſhafts of the columns froin baſe to capital, feet. n. b. six in number. - a baſe gallow a y. baſe of the columns ſupporting the tower, feet. height of the ſhafts of the columns ſupporting the tower, feet. the pariſh kirk ſtands on the ſouth ſide of the church, and is formed out of part of the ruins ; near it is a ſmall gate leading into the abbey, on which is a bell - this is of a ſingular ſtile of architecture; on it are ſeveral defaced carvings in baſſo relievo, with two eſcutcheons of arms. the burial ground lies to the eaſt of the abbey church ; in it are ſome ancient tombſtones ; on one a croſs, with a large and broad ſword on the ſiniſter ſide of it. this view was drawn a. d. . : new abbey. plate ii. i he former view ſhewed the north-weſt appearance of this venerable ruin. this was taken a little to the eaſtward of the ſouth. ' butel castle. this ruin was the baronial caſtle of butel, built out of the materials of a very ancient caſtle of the ſame name. it ſtands in the ſtewartry of kirkcudbright, in galloway, and pariſh of butel, on the weſt ſide of the water of urr, about fifteen miles from dumfries to the weſtward, and is now the property of george maxwell, of muncies, eſq. the ancient building, from whoſe remains this was erected, ſtood at very ſmall diſtance. the mount, ſome ſcattered fragments of walls, a draw well, and the ſurrounding foſs, all overgrown with trees, fhrubs, and buſhes, are the ſole remains of this fortreſs, ſaid to have been conſi- derable when galloway was an independant ſtate, and afterwards to have been the favourite reſidence of john baliol, ſometime king of scotland. this view was drawn a. d. . the ei . in . el all heheh v pa :: she kurir honfun hana iw abby galloway pi. .. the new york public library a&tor, lenex ano. tilden foundations, le hs waren ? marron', c. fechahi d' may ": . ly . ficopter butie cas t'ie the new york public library altor, lenox and t'lien feundation, the new york public library astor, lenox and fa£n vun Đat na, " لان او در fil الملل اواواووووو ة الولاء الم - دم ورل go und و من t ولن کی t , it ,۲۷) ۔ louis fletus os bw. . jan.) by. hooper, j. lanseer. sc. mote of galloway gallow a y. the abbot's tower, near new abbey. this-tower was the reſidence of the abbots of sweetheart, or new abbey, when they choſe to retire for a ſhort time from the cares of their office. it commands an extenſive proſpect, and, when in repair, muſt have been a very healthy. habitation, much more ſo than the abbey, which lies rather "low. : in peruſing keith’s lift of churchmen, it will appear that sweetheart abbey produced ſome eminent ſtateſmen and divines, who, it is probable, here planned their political ſyſtem, or purſued their ſacred reſearches, free from the forms, duties, and intrigues, of the convent ; for all ſocie- · ties, even convents, have their intrigues. this place is now the property of mrs. maxwell, of kirkconnell, who purchaſed it ſome years ago. this view was drawn a. d. . a the-mote of urr. plate i. this artificial mount was, according to tradition, what is implied by the saxon term, mote, that is, a place of judicature, or public aſſembly; and when galloway was an independant ſtate, this was the court where the reguli, or petty kings of that diſtrict, held their national councils, and promulgated ſuch, new laws and regulations as were found neceſſary from time to time to be enacted. it was alſo the ſeat of judgement, where their doomſters or judges tried capital offenders. at this time galloway was divided into two diſtricts, namely, above and below the water of cree. the mote of urr was then the great court of judica- cature for the latter. this mount, or hill, greatly reſembles that of the tinewald, in the iſle of man, which is appropriated to the fame uſes.. this kind ºf court was not peculiar to galloway, or the iſle of man. mounts called motes and court hills are to be ſeen near a great number of caſtles and baronial manſions, not only in scotland, but in england alſo; their uſe, however, as courts of juſtice, ſeems forgotten in england, where gallowa y. where it has been gencrally ſuppoſed that they were conſtructed for mili- tary purpoſes, particularly to anſwer the uſes of cavaliers, in overlook- ing or commanding the moveable towers, or other works of an enemy. mote of urr. plate ii. the mote of urr is here ſhewn from a different point of view; whence its form may be better diſtinguiſhed than in the former plate, where it is ſomewhat obſcured by the intervening trees and houſes. '. both theſe views were drawn a. dundrennan abbey. plate i. the following account of the foundation of this abbey is chiefly tranſcribed from the appendix to keith’s catalogue of the biſhops, &c. - dundrennan abbey, ſituate on solway frith, about two miles from kircudbright, in galloway, was founded by fergus, lord of gal- loway, in the year . the monks thereof were of the ciſterſtian order, brought from rievall, in england. · sylvanus was the firſt abbot of this place ; he died at belleland, mo. id. o&tobris, anno . the laſt abbot hereof was edward maxwell, ſon to john, lord herries, after whoſe death king james vi. annexed this place to his royal chapel of sterling. the chronicle of melroſs is thought to have been written by an abbot of this monaſtery. the firſt part thereof is certainly penned by an engliſhman, and is a continuation of bede's hiſtory ; the fecond part appears to have been written by a scotſman, familiar and con- temporary with our stuarts., the oxford edition, publiſhed in the year , does not agree with our manuſcripts. alan, lord of galloway, was buried in this place in the year .” in the appendix to keith's hiſtory of the church and state of scotland, the annual revenues of this houſe, in money, is ſaid to amount to l. this monaſtery, as is evident from its ruins, was once both a beauti- ds. ful euftactile barch cé" by j hooper sparrow li moye of c Α'o way. p the new york public library autor, lekcx and valsen foundations, the new visini public library su axtor, lenex and til en foundations, " اداء .تې نهه ه ، ۰ ۳ فن مدل جه | با ما . ح دو و ۲ ور . . . د ورة سنامه dun f tan abby p . gallo w a y. ful and extenſive pile, but is r.ow miſerably dilapidated. hither the un- fortunate queen mary was eſcorted from terreagles by the lord herries, and from hence ſhe is ſaid to have ſet out for england. the tomb of alan, lord of galloway, was lately to be ſeen ; he lay in a niche in the croſs aiſle, on the eaſt fide of the north door. it is now demoliſhed, but the mutilated trunk of his effigy is ſtill ſhewn ; he was repreſeinted in a recumbent poſture, and croſs legged like a cru- fader ; for though the figure is deprived of its legs, the poſition of the thighs ſhew they were crofled. he is habited in mail armour, over which is a ſurcoat, a belt croſs his right ſhoulder, and another round his waiſt. his lady, it is ſaid, lay on the other ſide of the door. from-a plan, in the pofleſſion of the miniſter, it appears that the church of this monaſtery was in the ſhape of a croſs; that over the in- terſection of the body and the tranſept there was a ſpire, which, tradi- tion ſays, was feet high. the body was feet in length, and divided into three ailles by ſeven cluſtered columns fupporting arches on each ſide. the breadth of the ſide aiſles was feet each, that of the middle aiſle feet. the tranſept meaſured, from north to ſouth, . feet, from eaſt to weſt feet. . the eaſt end of the church: was of the ſame breadth as the middle aiſle, and only feet in length; four ſmall cluſtered columns, ranging on each ſide of, and in a line with, the two eaſternmoſt that ſupported the ſpire, divide the tranſept into two unequal portions... on the ſouth ſide of the church were the cloyſters, containing a ſquare area of feet, with a graſs plat in the center; eaſt and weſt, but chiefly ſouth of the cloyſters, were the lodgings and different offices of the monaſtery, occupying a ſpace of near feet ſquare.: towards the ſouth end of the weſtern. ſide of theſe buildings was a ſmall projecting erection, in ſhape of a croſs, exactly ſimilar to the church, but inverted thoſe parts which fronted the eaſt in one, facing the weſt in the other." this view, which ſhews the north tranſept of the church, and the adjoin- ing offices of the monaſtery, as viewed from the north weſt, was drawn a. d. . b : dundren- g a l l o w a y. dundrennan abbet. plate ii. this view ſhews the eaſtern aſpect of the building, which now belongs to thomas carnes, eſq. of london, who purchaſed it about two years ago of the family of —— curry, eſq. glenluce abbey. plate i. glenluce, or vallis lucis, in galloway, gives name to a con- ſiderable bay, as well as this abbey, which was of the ciſtertian order, founded in the year by rolland, lord of galloway, and conſtable of scotland. the monks of this monaſtery were brought from melroſs. walter, abbot of this place, was ſent to scotland by john, duke of albany. laurence gordon, ſon to alexander, biſhop of galloway, and arch- biſhop of athens, was likewiſe an abbot of this place. king james vi., in the year , erected glenluce into a temporality, which, in , was confirmed by an act of parliament. after his death, john gordon, dean of saliſbury, ſon to the biſhop above mentioned, became lord glen- luce, and diſpoſed of the lordſhip to sir robert gordon, his ſon-in-law. afterwards glenluce was united to the biſhoprick of galloway by act of parliament, and at length sir james dalrymple, preſident of the ſeſſion, a gentleman of an ancient family in carrick, was created lord glen- luce ; his ſon, sir james dalrymple, king's advocate, juſtice clerk, and ſecretary of ſtate, was likewiſe lord glenluce and earl of stair. among mr. m*farlan's papers in the advocate's library, edinburgh, is a deſcription of galloway by mr. andrew sympſon, a. d. , wherein the ruins of this abbey are thus deſcribed :-" in this pariſh, that is, glenluce, about half a mile or more northward from the parock kirke, is the abbey of glenluce, ſituated in a very pleaſant valley, on the eaſt ſide of the river of luce: the ſteeple and part of the walls of the church, together with the chapter houſe, the walls of the cloyſter, the gatehouſe, with the walls of the large precinēts, are for the moſt part yet ſtanding. in this pariſh of glenluce there was a ſpirit, which for a long time moleſted the houſe of one campbell, a weaver: it would be ric ahlrich della za ter - ir - . a sh bolest by i hafer wing is - dind rennon a b.bey p | the new york public library astor, lenox and iloen foundation ser to ! ! " " p . sa hf glenluch abey fl.l. the new york public library astor, lenex and tilien foundations, avgit telia whoa ain se ауыр ма А Р о . Елена . се к А у , на : . Тына тиым с Б. gitni uci abby pi: АЛА НА БА Ернар ига на за за МУС nasan ТАРТ алган сизнистед , % терите не на НА тарына НЕ НАСілды gallow a y. from its ſtile, does not ſeem older than the middle of the ſixteenth cen. tury ; indeed, from the dates of and over the gate and inner court, it is moft likely ſome re-edification, or great repair, took place at thoſe times. from the wardrobe account of the year , publiſhed by the ſociety of antiquaries, it appears here was at that time a caſtle, or manſion, of ſufficient ſize and conſequence to receive king edward i. who remained here one night, in his way from the caſtle of caerleverock to kirkcud- bright, and in his chapel here offered up his oblations ; the words of the original are, “ die julii in oblac' regis ad altare in capella ſua apud loghroieton, s.”. poflibly the royal chapel might have been a tent or portable building. ng. .. this fortalice was afterwards one of the arengths poſſeſſed by the douglas family, when lords of galloway, and upon the ruin of that houſe was granted to the herries family, from whom it came to the lords maxwell, and devolved to a cadet of that houſe; thence denominated maxwell of the hills, according to a copy of an ancient pedigree of the nithſdale family, in the poſſeſſion of captain robert riddell, of friars carſe, f. a.s. robert, the ſon of the ſixth lord maxwell; by beatrix, the daughter of james, earl of morton, died here september th, , aged about five years, having ſurvived lord robert, his father, only a year. this infant, robert, is not mentioned in douglas' peerage ; his brother john there ſtands as the immediate ſucceſſor to lord robert; by this family the caſtle and its demeſnes were ſold, and are at preſent the property of m‘cullock, of ardwall, eſq. . • this edifice, which ſurrounds a ſquare court, is now divided into dif- -- ferent tenements. several coats of arms, with initial letters, are ſet up on different parts of the buildings, chiefly thoſe of the maxwells and their alliances : over the gate, which is pierced with loop holes for muf- quetry, are the arnis of scotland, and the date . there is another eſcutcheon, the date ; both, probably, commemorating, as has been before obſerved, the times of ſome conſiderable repairs or erection. : this view was drawn a. d. . - -.-.--.---- ---- lav oy cita x le - oristinn in htluse les up rain ent mw in filtering ' oy terperii up . roit,'s the pills tower the new york public library astor, lenex ano tileen foundation, how york lilibrary o lanex رہے۔ وار را * انا { اور = = تنه ده وه ان الام : شهدا . - یکی از محمد خیرا kirkindelight castle pi: . g a llow a y. .: kirkcudbright castle. plate . .' here was an ancient caſtle belonging to the dowals, lords of galloway, when galloway was a regality independant of the kingdom of scotland. this caſtle deſcended with the other property of the lords of galloway, to dervorgelda, heireſs of allan, the laſt lord of that regality, and was afterwards annexed to the crown, till james iv. by a. charter, dated at edinburgh, th of february, , granted it, together with the caſtle inains, to the burgh of kirkcudbright. the mounds and dykes of this caſtle are. ſtill remaining; by its ſituation it evidently appears to have been conſtructed to defend the entrance of the river dee. .!...... . . . . : in the town of kirkcudbright, and probably in this caſtle, king edward i. reſided ſome days, when on his expedition to the ſiege of carieverock, in the year , as is ſhewn in the wardrobe account of that year, lately publiſhed by the society of antiquaries, of london.. kirk cudbright castle alſo afforded à temporary refuge to the unfortunate king henry vi. after the battle of towton, as may be ſeen in the paſton letters, vol. . p. , wherein is the following paffage, " the kyng herry is at kirkowbre with iiij men and a childe, quene margaret is at edinburgh and hir fon”; this is at the bottom of a copy of a letter, dated at diepe, zoth of auguſt, . · king james iv. of scotland was at kirkcudbright in march, , as is proved by publick papers, dated at that place. the tra- dition is, that he was hoſpitably entertained there, and that the burgh claimed a reward for their former ſervices to james ii. and to himſelf, whereupon he, with conſent of parliament, granted them the old caſtle and mains, as has been above-mentioned. the latter caſtle of. kirkcudbright, here delineated, was built by thoras m‘lellan of boinbay, anceſtor of the lords of kirkcudbright, about the year , on the ſite of the collegiate church, then lately demoliſhed by the reformers, which was granted by king james vi. then a minor, the earl of murray being the regent. this charter cc conveyed gallo w ay. con conveyed the whole and entire ſite, * foundation, and place, upon which the place and church of the brothers of kirkcudbright, were originally conſtructed or erected, together with ſtones therein remain- ing, with all the orchards, gardens, and appurtenances.” it was dated th december, . the deſcendants of this sir thomas enjoyed the caſtle he had built till april ; when ſome women having made a diſturbance at the introduction of an epiſcopal miniſter into the kirk of kirkcudbright, the privy council granted a commiſſion to the earls of linlithgow, galloway, annandale, and drumlanrig, with sir john wauchop, to enquire into the matter. theſe four earls came to kirkcudbright caſtle, and found that lord kirkcudbright had countenanced what thoſe women had done ; they therefore ſent him priſoner to edinburgh, d may, , where he ſhortly after died, and his neighbours by degrees acquired all his eſtates. during the uſurpation of cromwell, this lord, with moſt of the scotch preſbyterians, had oppoſed the independants, by which he had ſuffered greatly in his fortune; but being likewiſe a great opponent to epiſcopacy, he became obnoxious to government. afrer his death the caſtle of kirkcudbright came at length by ſucceſſion to the late sir robert maxwell, of orchardton, he fold it to the preſent earl of selkirk, who is the preſent proprietor. the remains of this building ſhew it was once an elegant as well as large ſtructure ; ſome ancient perſons living when this view was taken, ſaid, that it had extended much farther than it then did, had formerly a handſome gate, and that the roof was taken off about forty years ago, ſince which it has been much injured; the ſtones having been taken for other erections. against the building are tivo coats of arms; over that on the ſiniſter fide are the initials, g m, and the date, , probably the time when the caſtle was completed, or ſome conſiderable addition made to it. the arms are thoſe of herries, the three hedgehogs, beneath them * totum et integrum ſolum fundum et locum, fuper quibus locus et ecclefiæ fratrum de kirkcudbright per prius conſtruebantur ſeu ædificaban:ur, una cum omnibus lapidibus ſuper eiſdem exiftentibus, cum pomariis, hortis et pendiculis. . . this the new york i public library astor, lenox ans t'leen foundations. the new york public library anton, lencx and talken foundations, gallow a y. this motto, dons dedit, and another obliterated inſcription, which, according to tradition was, this is the houſe of herries. kirkcudbright castle. plate . this view ſhews the north aſpect; the former was taken from the eaſt: both were drawn a. d. . kenmure castle. plate i. this caſtle ſtands on a very commanding eminence, at the head of loch ken, where the water of the ken runs into the lake. it is ſaid to have been one of the feats of the ancient lords of galloway, and par- ticularly the favourite reſidence of john baliol, fome time king of scot- land. kenmu Ř e was for a ſhort time in the hands of the douglas's, and afterwards, a. d. , with the lands of lochinvar, acquired from john de maxwell, by sir adam de gordon, knight, and has ever ſince continued in his family; one of whom, sir john. gordon, of lochinvar, was (according to douglas) by king charles i. raiſed on the th of may, , to the dignity of the peerage, by the titles of viſcount kenmure, lord lochinvar, to him and his heirs male; and as a farther teſtimony of his majeſty's favor, part of his lands were erected into a royal burrough, with ample juriſdiétion, to be called the burgh of galloway, now new galloway, which with wigton, whithorn, and stranraur, fends a member to the britiſh parliament. robert, the ſeventh viſcount, from a too grateful ſenſe of the favors conferred on his anceſtors by the stuart family, unhappily engaging in the rebellion, a. d. , was taken priſoner at preſton, tried, condemned, and executed; his honors and moſt of his eſtates con- fequently forfeited to the crown. since which his deſcendants have, by their ſervices in the army, endeavoured to compenſate for the miſ- taken attachment of their predeceſſor. - the igo gallo w. a y. the buildings of this caſtle conſiſt chiefly of two towers, now in ruins, to which ſome later erections, ſtill habitable have been added, en. compalling a ſquare court. tradition ſays, this caſtle has been twice burned; once during the reign of queen mary, and a ſecond time by oliver cromwell, or his order. in digging iately near the foot of the mount on which the caſtle ſtands, a great number of cannon balls were diſcovered, ſome forty-eight, and others fix pounders. this plate, which ſhews the diſtant view of the caſtle, the lake, and romantic mountains riſing behind it, was drawn a. p. . kenmure castle. plate . this plate, which ſhews the entrance into the caſtle, was drawn at the ſame time as plate i. the laggan stone. plate i. this huge ſtone, which is ſo poiſed as to be moveable with a ſmall exertion of force, ſtands near the ſummit of a high ridge of moun- tain's, called the kells rins. the particular hill on which it is ſituated is called mullæ, and the ſtone itſelf is called the mickle lump; near it is a ſmall pool of water which covers about half a rood of land. the dimenſions of this ſtone are, its greateſt length eight feet nine inches, its height five feet one inch and a half, its circumference twenty- two feet nine inches. this plate gives the appearance of the ſtone, as ſeen at a ſmall diſtance ; the figure ſerves as a ſcale to determine its magnitude. on the laggan stone. plate ii. . . a distant view of this ſtone is here exhibited, with the adja- cent rocks. both views were drawn a. d. . . it . the ne iparron je fubinstein ind is . lry s. he wpur. kenmike castif . . the new york public library astox, lemcx and t'lon tuma tirar walk www ski novo wan ellen ww ini w wadas maxx sa na sas na annon auswanam asson san avx ne dengan design re stress ons wild puck by j houper dec. . . lagcan stonepli. vivares.se . the new york jblic library stom, lenox and ten foundations, per ssmann ann unen wo in ww wa so sa on www eu bv anawau savona w wanawake ra sa mwan yo tan koveawn s w vanie w ve wa no www annonsonanowm mirosle sawwwwwww sonn ten assive kw wawa a g wesson ind com en wannen esromaaniness wa um www wa kasa usa ana wowa dawan ver savo dow eux anna by wenn nauwta x an sau am sisse wa y se a n wa ne ano wews au sis lco mini ww sonon helg ayo sen w re sws csson sonas sons tívarez a ja ime. . deco q? . . . l'accan stoni p the new york! public library astor, lenox and trden foundations the new york public library astor, lenox ano tilben foundation. castle kenedy erdoor is hin :s db pumana pra sen dowin les uw ty ali i i am diena ante ramsaue ule de h brunei strow nghubu inthian. bomo hassin t ih nala? uk vinions a meat w are drul anperint so ter su basi muut bruscriberar me ni : .) r l x tette sibi ! ther gallow a y. it ſeems doubtful whether moſt of theſe rocking ſtones are the effects of art or chance. some ſuppoſe them to have been thus poiſed by the druids, with an intention to impoſe on their followers by the appearance of a miracle ; others think them the product of accident, on ftones of a particular forin, the circumjacent earth being waſhed from their baſes by fome torrent or heavy rain. · castle kennedy. . .:: wig tonshire. this caſtle ſtands in an iſland well planted with trees, in a beautiful lough. the exact time of its conſtruction is not known; but probably it was not built till after the year , as it is not mentioned in a charter or retour of that date. this view was taken a. d. , from the high road leading from newton stewart to stranrawer. castle kennedy was anciently the ſeat of the caſſils family, from one of whom it was purchaſed by the firſt earl of stair. the ruinous ſtate of the part here ſhewn, was occaſioned by an accidental fire, which happened in , and is ſuppoſed to have begun in the landry. every thing was conſumed, but no lives were loſt, as the family were not at home : the gardener ſaved himſelf by jumping out of a high window. :. . dunskey castl e. dunskey castle ſtands about half a mile ſouth of port patrick, on the neck of a rocky cliff which projects out into the ſea at the extremity of the mull of galloway. the building occupies the whole front or breadth, but has an area or parade behind it, about twenty yards deep; it was vaulted, and ſeems to have been calculated for defence ; the acceſs to it was over a draw-bridge. in the back part of the caſtle there are ſome remains of ornaments, which ſhew it was dd once gallow a y. once a handſome building; many of the ſquared ſtones have been taken away by the owner, for the purpoſe of building a modern ſeat; the rooms were moſt of them very ſmall ; the ſtair-caſe was in the eaſt angle. history mentions a caſtle here as early as the time of eugen v. who began his reign a. d. . in that king's reign it is ſaid to have been beſieged by egfrid, king of bernicia. it is alſo ſaid by mr. an- drew sympſon to have been once a great caſtle belonging to the lords of airds in ireland; both theſe relations muſt certainly refer to fome former caſtle or caſtles on or near the ſame ſpot; for from the ſtile of the preſent building, it is evidently apparent that it is not older than the middle of the ſixteenth century, nor is it entitled to the epithet of large; it is nevertheleſs ſtrongly ſituated with reſpect to the ſea, though commanded from a variety of places on the land ſide: when mr. symp- ſon wrote, it belonged to john blair, of dunſkey, fon and heir of maſter john blair, late miniſter of portpatrick; it is at preſent the property of the repreſentative of sir james hunter blair, who married the heireſs, and has an elegant modern houſe in the neighbourhood. this caſtle, like many other ancient buildings, lies under the report of being haunted with evil ſpirits ; and it is particularly affirmed that a miniſter of the pariſh had here a bickering with the foul fiend satan himſelf, whom he put to flight. : . duns key castle. plate i. this plate ſhews a nearer view of the caſtle, as it appears from a ſtation almoſt oppoſite to that from whence the former drawing was made. both were taken a. d. . a y r. . theinnehave sub, . nov. .ly . heopor, vivaresco. dinskty castlef]. : the new york public library”. astor, lerox ani tuen somo tar hellfolie ser bre sel be esp he ginawit udhish us the di diverset may , tys hooper london - dansky castle the new york public library an aitor, lencx ans tilien foundation, this hugs in r i the aar > as.n * -ve பாட kan r சம்சயமாக artupumnir u th mullims பா ப பபப turinaanaalanurianusandure பெyumanam , || -பா. e els யாபுmaniam உhhhy tirutt ani, யார் . a ninathuk சோ சாதா udni m to d = * + தப் "e பாயய ம *-'- ( muw this ( ' it, tnciate chitreat mayrole கடன் turn * hints thains tah தை t sdp - g -பபபபா * பட்ச alai al ( ) : a y r s h i.r e. . the collegiate church of maybol e or minniboil. this collegiate church was founded in the year , by sir gilbert kennedy, of dinnuré, anceſtor to the earl of caſiils, for a provoſt or rector, and ſeveral prebendaries; it was confecrated in honour of the bleſſed virgin mary. the founder, by his charter, dated at edinburgh, the th of may, in the year before mentioned, endowed it with all, and ſingular, his lands of largenlen and brocklack, within the county of carrick, in a manuſcript deſcription of carrick, by the reverend mr. aber- crombie, miniſter of miniboile, among mr. m'farlan's collection, there is the following deſcription of this place. “ there was alſo a collegiate church at mayboll, the fabrick whereof is ſtill extant and entyre, being now uſed as the burial place of the earls of caſillis and other gentle- men, who contributed to the putting of a roofe upon it, when it was decayed. on the north ſide of which kirk is the buriall place of the lord of colaine ; within are encloſures of new ſquare ftone, lately built; the college confifted of a rector and three prebends, whoſe ſtalls are all of them yet extant, ſave the rector's, which was where thoſe low buildings and the garden are, on the eaſt ſide of that which is now the parfon’s houſe, with the orchard and the wall-trees. the patrimony of this church, were the proveſts and prieſts lands, in the pariſh of kirk michael, which fell into the earl of caſillis's hands, upon the diffo- lution of the college at the reformation, out of which he as yet payes yearly to the miniſter of mayboll, the ſum of marks scots. as for the church, its preſent patrimony is out of the tyth of the pariſh, which a yrshi r e. which before the reformation, was all poſſeſſed and enjoyed by the nuns of north berwick; and on the diſſolution of the ſaid nuonerie, became a prize to the laird of bergeney. the pariſh church ſtands at a little diſtance from the foreſaid college, eaſtward; it does not appear when it was built; but the large iſle, that lyes from the body of the church, fouthward, and makes the figure of the church a t, was built by mr. james bonar, miniſter thereat, in the reign of k. charles the firſt. within the ſaid pariſh of mayboll, there have been other chappels of old, as kirkbride, on the coaſt fide, whoſe walls and yard be yet extant; and within the lands of achindrain, and elſewhere, there have been other chappels, whereof the rudera are yet to be ſeen. . the towné of mayboll ſtands on an aſcending ground from eaſt to weſt, and lyes open to the ſouth ; it hath one principal ſtreet, declining towards the eaſt ; it is pretty well fenced from the north by a higher ridge of hills that lies above it, at a ſmall diſtance northwards ; it hath one principal ſtreet, with houſes on both ſides, built of free-ſtone ; and it is beautified with the ſituation of two caſtles, one at each end of this ſtreet; that to the eaſt belongs to the earl of caſſillis, beyond which, eaſtward, ſtands a great new building, which be his granaries. on the weſt end is a caſtle which belonged fome time to the laird of blarrquhan, which is now the tolbuith, and is adorned with a pyra- mide and a row of balluſters round it, raiſed upon the top of the ſtair- caſe, into which they have mounted a fyne clock.”. this view was drawn a. d. . st. john the baptist's church. ayr. for the following account of this building i am indebted to a reve- rend gentleman, whoſe name i am not authoriſed to mention. the ruins of the church of st. john the baptiſt ſtands between the town and the ſea, within the fort, built by oliver cromwell: it is ſaid to have been entire about fixty years ago : at preſent the tower only remains : its foundation may ſtill be traced, from which it appears to have been in the forın of a croſs. among the archives of this town, is a charter libera ch sheria blue pita pre qai el heri lah ly sparrone published july : by s. hooper "s john baptist ciurch the new york public lirea ty" a y r s h i r e. a charter from robert ii. ſurnamed the blear-eyed, a. d. , reſpecting the preſerving this church from being deſtroyed by the blowing of land ; * but the church has, it is ſaid, been fince quite demoliſhed through want of taſte, and the guilt of avarice; though there is evidence of its having been the ſeat of a parliament, held in the time of bruce and baliol, and where a number of the nobility and gentry determined upon noble and free motives, for the former: a copy * coppie of king robert his charter to the burgh of air, allowing a gratification to thoſe who ſhould preſerve the burgh and church from being deſtroyed with ſand. robertus dei gratia rex scotorum, omnibus probis hominibus totius terræ, feu clericis, vel laicis ſalutem, dum burgus nofter de air, per motionem & agitationem arenæ fit quaſi totaliter annihilatus & deſtructus, et .... fimiliter per brevis proceſſum temporis ad finalem de- ſtructionem redegi videbitur, niſi citius per diſcretorum virorum folertia et diligentia remedium apponitur ; nos igitur deſiderantes de aliquo ... competente in hac parte futuro providere, et precipue caufa eccleſiæ johannis baptiſti quam in honore, reverentia et devotione ſemper intendebam et intendam mantenere, protegere et foyere, cujus cæmeterium per violentiam motionis arenæ ut predicitur fere ufq. ad fundamentuin ipſius eccleſiæ adeo eſt denudata eto deſtructa quod multorum offa defunctorum ibidem humata, videntur per ventorum violen- tiam de terra evulſa penitus et circa. conceſſimus de gratia noſtra ſpeciali illis quicunque fuerint, qui in hac parte defenſionem appofuerunt, et ipſam villam, eccleſiam et cæmete- rium a deſtructione dicta arenæ liberaverint, omnes pacatas vaſtus infra dictum burgum quos meditantibus illorum laboribus et impenſis a deſtrutione præfata arenoſa liberaverint, et fuerint habitabiles, tenendas et habendas eiſdem dicturam pacatarum prænominatis. conqueſtoribus et hæredibus fuis de nchis et hæredibus noftris in feudo et hereditate in libero burgagio, libere et quiete pleniarie integre et honorifice, reddendo inde annuatim de qualibet pacato predicto, poſtquam effecte ſucrint habitabiles aut habitabilis, unum denarium ſterlinenſem ad feſtum penticoſtis, tum pro omnia ferme inde exegenda aut ſolvenda. in cujus rei teftimonium præfenti chartæ noftræ, noftruin præcipimus apponi figellum, teſtibus vere- tabilibus in chriſto patribus willelino et joanne cancellariis noſtris st. andraæ et dunkelden eccleſiarum epiſcopis, joanne primogenito noſtro de carick ſeu scotia, roberto de fyffe et de monteith filio noſtro dilecto willielmo de douglas et de marr, conſanguineo noſtro comi - tibus jacobo de lindeſay nepote noſtro kentigerno et alexandro de lindeſay, conſanguineo noftro militibus apud edenburgum decimo die decembris anno regni noſtro anno decimno. after the copy of this charter, the tranſcriber adds the following note. “ i find this to have been granted by robert the ſecond, ſurnamed bleird-eye ; for john was his eldeſt ſon, by elizabeth muir, and robert of fyfe and monteith his other for of that marriage. robert the ſecond's reign commenced in the year ; and he died in the nineteenth year of his reign ; ſo that by calculation this charter has been granted in the year . ee of a y rshi re: of their names and ſignatures is ſtill extant, many of them could not write. tradition ſays, that cromwell having taken in this church in order to erect a fort, gave the town a thouſand engliſh marks to build another. this ſeems probable from the minutes of the town council, at a community meeting, the d of july, . “anent the ſituation of building of the kirk all condeſcend tall poſſible meanes be uſed for building the ſame, either upon sewalton's ground, or the grey friars; and that the ſame be bought; and that the town be ſtented for als much as to utfit the ſame, what is deficient of the money to be had frae the engliſh.” the new kirk appears to have been built :. in , when this view was drawn, the tower of the church was very entire ; ſeveral modern tomb-ſtones were ſtanding about it, from whence it ſeems as if it were ſtill uſed as a place of burial. .. · the fort above-mentioned, built by oliver cromwell, is a parallelo- gram, the greateſt.length from north to south defended by ſix baſtions; there are alſo two or three magazines, ſeemingly meant for bomb proof, one of them ſerves for a gate, which is here thewn in the drawiøg: it was by king charles ii. granted to lord eglington'; the property is now in his lady, who mortgaged it to the lord caffilis for l. several perſons now living remember moſt of the walls ſtanding. dunure castle. plate i. dunure castle is a fine old building, moſt romantickly ſituated on the brink of a perpendicular rocky cliff, in ſome parts over- hanging the ſea; beneath it is a cavern, called the browneys cave, now nearly filled up with rubbiſh fallen from the rock and building : it is ſaid to have formerly communicated with the caſtle, and probably ſerved as a ſally port, or ſecret communication with the ſea; as in dunbar and turnbury caſtles. nothing can ſucceed the ſublimity of the proſpect from this caſtle, whence at one coup d'oeil is ſeen the conical rock of lamlaſh, and over it the craggy mountains of the iſle of arran, frequently hiding their heads in the clouds; from hence alſo may be ſeen the rock of ailſa, publish ec : by . hopper ww inn es sont nh bes duin tre castle pli. la dear belle ta be . w rohituris saw til de nat mieste pana lah ti - ruolo the new york public library the new yorÓ public library ! astor, lencx ans tilien foundationi te - w . sobiby . hooper may. .. vivares c. . dunure castle p] the new yor.. public library ! astor, lencx and tilien foundation; ep s ter 's olcl eld" - > na at r. vi n usa tue ter tal interna progress si wdr be a cos pub.feb. . . . by boopor. the old house of cassilis ayrshire, . a y r s h i r e. ailſa, the coaſt of kentire, on both ſides of arran, the coaſt of ireland, the iſlands of bute and cumraes, and a great part of the bay of ayr. by whom, or at what time this caſtle was built, i have not been able to learn ; from its ſtrength and ſituation it muſt formerly have been of conſequence as a fortreſs. dunure castle was an ancient reſidence of a principal branch of the kennedy family, who were therce. called kennedys of dunure, and generally eſteemed the head of that name; the caffilis family is deſcended froin it, and were proprietors of this eſtate till the beginning of the preſent century, when it was ſold to the grandfather of the pre- ſent proprietor, alſo a deſcendant from the kennedys of dunure. it ſeems a matter of doubt, whether this caſtle has been inhabited ſince the reign of king james vi. dunure castle. plate n. the former view was taken from an eminence above the caſtle. this was drawn from the rocks on the ſhore beneath it, and ſhews the weſt ſide of the keep, and its adjacent buildings. both views were taken a. d. . the old house of cassilis. here is a great ſquare tower, whoſe walls are of an uncommon thickneſs, with a court of lefſer buildings, beautifully ſituated on a bank above the water of dun, and ſurrounded by extenſive woods of old tim- ber. this old tower is aſcended by a turnpike ſtair-caſe; the lower ſtory is vaulted: the walls, as high as the third ſtory, are ſaid to be fixteen feet thick. here are many family portraits, and diverſe other paintings. this tower has probably undergone many repairs; the preſent appear- ance of the building does not beſpeak the laſt to be older than the reign of queen mary, or james vi. her ſon. this houſe belongs to the earl of caffilis. the view was drawn a. d. . the ayrshire. the castle of dol quharran. in mr. m*farlan's collection, in the advocate's library, edinburgh, there is the following deſcription of this caſtle : “ the ffately caſtle of dolquharran, the building whereof is much improved, by the addi- tion lately made thereto, which makes it by very far the beſt houſe in all that country, furrounded with vaſt incloſures of wood, that the country is not able to conſume it, by their building and other inſtru- ments; and among them be oak trees of a conſiderable ſize, both for height and breadth, that will ſerve either for joiſt or roof of a good houſe.” this caſtle at preſent conſiſts of an old tower or fortalice, to which is joined a more modern houſe; probably the addition above-mentioned, from the figures over the door, was made in the year . it is bounded by the garden on one ſide, and on the other by the water of gervan. on the old tower are eſcutcheons of the arms of kennedy, and another coat, ſeemingly that of stewart, but much defaced by age ; over the entrance are alſo ſome armorial bearings. from the battlements of the tower there is a fine proſpect, the river winding under the eye, through a well wooded valley. this venerable building is the property of tho- mas kennedy, of dunure, eſq. for whom mr. adams is erecting a handſome houſe, of the caſtellated form, in the adjacent demeſnes. this view was drawn a. d. . mas green and castl e. this view ſhews the caſtle of greenand, as it appears on the road from ayr to maybole. the following deſcription is given of this caſtle, in mr. m.farlan's ms. collection : castle of grenand and the cave. the grenand is a high houſe upon the top of a rock hanging over upon the ſea, with ſome lower new work, lately added to it, but never finiſhed; it is too open to the cold and moiſture ariſing from the ſea to be a deſireable habitation, and has been deſigned to be the owners ſecurity againſt a ſurprize, rather than a conſtant reſidence. it is within the pariſh of may bole. this view was drawn a. d. . allo. ) デル ​et hy tigre vil kb sparroro so publishid. may °: by f. hooper. dolynharr an castlic the new york public library altc t'la de hdd re la ge berg for by repen grenan castle İpublic libinta aitor lenex amit", t'lden founoat , the new yή, και public libra; astqx, lencx * tilren foundation kets hi"y hafi tihto : 'le. hooper celiulid maynajgoing . . . . . rust u at converse : aits r walls nellerrol ayrshire. : alloway church,* ayrshire. , this church ſtands by the river, a ſmall diſtance from the bridge of doon, on the road leading from maybole to ayr. about a century ago it was united to the pariſh of ayr; ſince which time it has fallen to * this church is alſo famous for being the place wherein the witches and warlocks uſed to hold their infernal meetings, or ſabbaths, and prepare their magical undions: here too they uſed to amuſe themſelves with dancing to the pipes of the muckle-horned deel. diverſe ſtories of theſe horrid rites are ſtill current; one of which my worthy friend mr. burns has here favoured me with in verſe. tam o' shanter. a tale. w hen chapmen billies leave the ſtreet, ah, gentlc dames! it gars me grect, and drouthy nсebors, neebors mcet, to think how mony counſels ſweet, • as market-days are wearing late, how mony lengthen'd ſage advices, and folk begin to tak the gate; the huſband frae the wiſe deſpiſes! while we ſit bowling at the nappy, and gettin fou, and unco happy, but to our tale:- ae market-night, we think na on the long scois miles, tam had got planted unco right, · the waters, moſſes, flaps and ſtyles, faſt by an ingle bleezing fincly, that lie between us and our hame, wi' reamin ſwats that drank divincly; - where ſits our ſulky, ſullen dame, and at his elbow, ſouter johnie, gathering her brows, like gathering ſtorm, his ancient, trufty, drouthy cronie; nurſing her wrath to keep it warm. tam lo'cd him like a vera brither, they had been fou for weeks tegither.-- this truth fand honeft tom o'shanter, the night drave on wi' fangs and clatter, as he frae ayr ae night did canter; and ay the ale was growing better : (auld ayr, whom ne'er a town ſurpaſſes the landlady and tam grew gracious, for honeſt men and bonnie laſſes.) - with favors ſecret, ſweet, and precious : the ſouter tauld his qucereſt fories; o tam! hadſt thou but been fae wiſe the landlord's laugh was ready chorus: as taen thy ain wife kate's advice! the ſtorm without might rair and ruftle, she tauld thee weel, thou was a ſkellum, tam did na mind the ſtorm a whiſtle.- a blethcrin, bluſterin, drunken blellum; care, mad to ſee a man ſae happy, that frae november till oktober, e'en drown'd himſeif amang the nappy: ae market-day thou was na ſober; as becs flee hame, wi' lades o' treaſure, that ilka melder, wi' the miller, the minutes wing'd their way wi' plcaſure: thou ſat as long as thou had liller kings may be bleſt, but tam was glorious; that every naig was ca'd a fhoc on, o'er a’ the ills o' life victorious! the ſmith and the gat roarin fou on; that at the l-d's houſe, even on sunday, but pleaſures are like poppies ſpread, thou drank wi' kirkton jean till monday.- you feize the flower, its bloom is ſhed; she propheſied that, late or ſoon, or like the ſnow falls in the river, thou wad be found decp-drown'd in doon; a moment white-then melts for ever; or catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk or like the borealis race, by aloway's old haunted kirk. that nit ere you can point their place; s a y r s h i r e. to ruins. it is one of the eldeſt pariſhes in scotland, and ſtill retains theſe privileges: the miniſter of ayr is obliged to marry and baptiſe in it, and alſo here to hold his parochial catechiſings. the magiſtrátes attempted, or like the rainbow's lovely form, evaniſhing amid the ſtorm.- nae man can tether time or tide, the hour approaches tam maun ride; that hour o’night's black arch the key-ſane, that dreary hour he mounts his beaſt in; and gc a night he taks the road in as ne'er poor ſinner was abroad in. wi' tippeny, we fear nae evil; wi' uſquebae, we'll face the devil! the ſwats ſae ream'd in tammie's noddle, fair-play, he car'd na deils a boddle: but maggy ſtood, right ſair aſtoniſhid, till by the heel and hand admoniſh'd, she ventur'd forward on the light, and, wow! tam ſaw an unco ſight! the wind blew, as 't wad blawn its laft; the rattling ſhowers roſe on the blatt; the ſpeedy gleams the darkneſs ſwallow'd loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellow'd: that night, a child might underſtand the deil had buſineſs on his hand. weel mounted on his grey meare, meg, a better never lifted leg, tam ſkeipit on thro' dub and mire, deſpiſing wind, and rain, and fire : whyles holding faſt his gude blue bonnet; whyles crooning o’er an auld scots ſonnet; whyles glowring round wi' prudent cares, lelt bogles catch him unawares; kirk-aloway was drawing nigh, where ghaiſts and houlets nightly cry. warlocks and witches in a dance, nae cotillon brent new frae france, but hornpipes, jigs, ftrathſpeys and reels,. put life and mettle in their heels. a winnock-buaker in the eaſt, there ſat auld nick in ſhape o' beaſt; a towzie tyke, black, grim, and large; to gie them muſic was his charge : he ſcrew'd the pipes and gart them ſkirt, till roof and rafters a' did dirl.- coffins ſtood round, like open preſſes, that ſhaw'd the dead in their laſt dreſſes; and (by ſome deeviliſh cantraip night) each in its cauld hand held a light; by which heroic tam was able to note upon the haly table, a murderer's banes, in gibbet-airns ; twa ſpan-lang, wee, unchirſten'd bairns; a thief, new cutted frae a rape, wi' his laſt gaſp his gab did gape; five tomahawks, wi' blood red-rufted; five ſcymitars, wi' murder cruſted; a garter which a babe had ſtrangled; a knife a father's throat had mangled, whom his ain ſon of life bereft, the grey hairs yet (tak to the heft: wi' mair of horrible and awefu', that even to name wad be unlawfu': three lawyers' tongues, turn'd inſide out, wi’lies ſeam'd like a beggar's clout; three prieſts' hearts, rotten, black as muck, lay ſtinking, vile, in every neuk. by this time he was croſs the ford, where in the ſnaw the chapman ſmoor'd; and paſt the birks and meikle ſtane, where drunken charlie brak’s neck-bane; and thro’the whins, and by the cairn, where hunters fand the murder'd bairn; and near the tree, aboon the well, where mungo's mither hang'd herſel : before him, doon pours all his floods; the doubling ſtorm roars thro' the woods; the light’nings flaſh from pole to pole; near, and more near, the thunders roll; when, glimmering thro' groaning trees, kirk-aloway ſecin'd in a blecze; thro’ilka bore the beams were glancing, and loud reſounded mirth and dancing. as tammie glowr'd, amaz'd and curious, the mirth and fun grew faſt and furious : the piper loud and louder blew; the dancers quick and quicker flew ; inſpiring, bold john barleycorn! what dangers thou canſt make us ſcorn: they a y r s h i r e. attempted, ſome time ago, to take away the bell; but were repulſed by the alloites, vi & armis. they reel'd, they ſet, they croſs’d, they cleckit, till ilka carlin ſwat and reekit, and coolt her duddies on the wark, and linket at it in her fark.- even satan glowr'd, and fidg'd fu' fain, and hotch'd, and blew wi' might and main; till firſt ac caper-ſync anither- tam loit his reaſon a' thegither, and roars out weel done, cutty-fark !" and in an inſtant all was dark ; and ſcarcely had he maggie rallied, when out the belliſh legion ſallied.- now tam! o tam! had thae been queans, a' plump and ſtrappin in their teens! their ſarks, inſtead o’creeſhie flainen, been ſnaw-white, ſeventeen-hunder linen; thir breeks o' mine, my only pair, that ance were pluſh o'gude blue hair, i wad hae gien them off my hurdies for ae blink o' the bonie burdics! but withered beldams, auld and droll, rigwoodie hags wad ſpcan a foal, loupin and flingin on a crumock, i wonder did na turn thy ſtomach. but tam kend what was what fu’ brawlie; there was ae winſome wench and walic, that night enliſted in the core, (lang after kend on carrick ſhore; for mony a beaſt to dead ſhe ſhot, and periſh'd mony a bonnie boat, and ſhook baith meikle corn and bear and kept the country-ſide in fear)- her cutty-fark o' paiſley harn, that while a laſſie ſhe had worn, in longitude tho' ſorely ſcanty, it was her beft, and ſhe was vauntie.. ah! little thought thy reverend graupie, that ſark ſhe coft for her wee naunie wi’twa pund scots ('twas a' her riches! should ever grac'd a dance o' witches ! as bees bizz out wi' angry fyke, when plundering herds aſſail their byke; as open puflie's mortal foes, when, pop, the ſtarts before their noſe; as eager rins the market-croud, when “ catch the thief !” reſounds aloud; so maggy rins, the witches follow, wi' mony an eldritch ſhout and hollo. ah tam! ah tam! thou'll get thy fairio! in hell they'll roaſt thee like a herrin! in vain thy kate awaits thy comin, kate foon will be a woefu' woman!!! now, do thy ſpeedy utmoſt, meg! and win the key-ſtane o' the brig; there at them thou thy tail may toſs, a running ſtream they dare na croſs! but ere the key-ſtane ſhe could make, the fient a tail ſhe had to ſhake; for nannie, far before the reſt, hard upon noble maggy prelt, and flew at tam with furious ettle, but little kend ſhe maggy's mettle! ae ſpring brought off her maſter hale, but left behind her ain gray tail: the carlin claught her by the rump, and left poor maggy ſcarce a ſtump. now wha this tale o’truth ſhall read, ilk man and mother's ſon, take heed : whene'er to drink you are inclin'd, or cutty-ſarks rin in your mind, think, ye may buy the joys o'er dear; remember tam o'shanter's meare! but here my muſe her wing maun cour, sic flights are far beyond her power; to ſing how nannie lap and flang, (a ſouple jad lhe was and ſtrang,) and how tam ſtood like ane bewitch'd, and thought his very cen eorich'd; cros- a y r s h i r e. crosraguel abbey. c crosraguel, croceregal, or crofragmol abbey ftands in car- rick, one of the ſubdiviſions of the shire of air, and in the pariſh of kirkoſwald, two miles from may bole. this was a cluniac abbey, founded by duncan, ſon of gilbert, earl of carrick, in the year , as we are informed by the chartu- lary of paiſley. there is a charter of king robert bruce to this place, which he therein calls croceragmer de terra de dungrelach, given at berwick the eighteenth year of his reign, and alſo confirmation of all the churches and lands granted to it by duncan neil (nigellus) robert, his father, and edward bruce, his brother, earls of carrick, dated at cambus-kenneth, the th of june, and the twenty-firſt year of his reign. the laſt abbot of this place was quintin kennedy, brother to the earl of caſſils. the famous george buchannan had afterwards a conſiderable ſum of meney paid him yearly from this abbey, which gave him occafion to denominate himſelf penſionarius de crofragmol. both the temporalities and ſpiritualities of this abbey, were by king james vi. annexed to the biſhoprick of dumblane. according to keith's appendix to the hiſtory of the affairs of church and state of scotland, the revenues of this houſe were, morey . . d. bear c. b. fi. meal c. oats c. b. fi. p. . for the following deſcription of this venerable ruin i am indebted to a gentleman reſident near the ſpot, whoſe name. i am not at liberty to mention: “ the abbey of corſegal or corroguel ſtands about half way be- tween the manſe of kirkoſwald and the town of maybole, near two miles from each ; the publick road from ayr to port patrick ſuns along the north ſide of the precincts; theſe contain about eight acres of ground, and were encloſed, at leaſt to the weſt, the north, and the eaſt, with a ſtone wall of confiderable ſtrength. in this wall there. were two gates, one to the north, which ſeeins to have been the prin- cipal, hi quorum hilikiwa url do be le biti les got be es es tu hee missa en sale su in bus gele f tatag fi da ka ross xo publishid nov' " by j. hooper esparrot cops - rigal.p : . the new york. public library a&tor, len: h • • • ayrshire. cipal, another to the south weſt. theſe gates were almoſt entire about thirty years ago, but are now, as well as the wall, levelled with the ground; veſtiges, however, both of the gates and the wall are ſtill viſible, excepting to the south of the abbey, on that fide there are no remains of any building whatſoever. a wall was perhaps unneceſſary there, as the precincts are bounded by a marſh. the figure of the precincts is too irregular to be comprehended from a bare deſcription ; by cutting off a ſmall corner or two they may be reduced to a rhom- boid, which is the figure they moſt reſemble. in the center ſtands the abbey; the ſituation ſeems not extremely happy; it is very low; the ſurface of the ground near it very irregular, iwelling on all hands into hills. the view from it is of conſequence exceedingly confined towards the eaſt, however, there is a ſmall inter- ruption in the hills, which opens a proſpect fomewhat extenſive and pleaſant. : - in point of excellent water no place can be better ſupplied, a ſmall ſtream riſing out of a marſh adjoining to the weſt of the precincts, runs immediately along the south of the abbey; this ſtream, it is thought, was conveyed under the very buildings. the walls of theſe are for the moſt part entire, and have a very venerable and magnificent appearance. a maſterly pen might make them retain ſomething of this even in deſcription, but i am quite unacquainted with buildings of this kind, and know not even their names. the following ſketch of the noble remains of this abbey muſt therefore be extremely imperfect and inelegant; i ſhall notwithſtanding endeavour to make it as intelligi- ble and accurate as i can. . entering the precincts from the north, where the principal gate ſtood, you have in front what i ſhall call the cathedral of the abbey, which ſtands due eaſt and weſt; the walls are almoſt entire, about one hundred and fixty-four feet long, and twenty-two feet high; the architecture in the ſame gothic taſte which is common in ſtructures of the ſame period; the ſtones in general not very large. there is but one door in all this north ſide and front of the cathedral, which is near the weſt end of it, conſiderably ornamented, of a conic ſhape, nine feet high, and at the bottom five feet broad. the ground along g g . . the u a y r s h i r e. the whole of the building, for about twenty paces from the wall, is encloſed with a bad ftone dyke, and ſet apart for a burying place ; but is now ſeldom uſed. leaving the above-mentioned door you turn to the weſt end of the cathedral, and go about thirty paces south weſt, which brings you to what is called the abbots new houſe. it is an oblong tower about thirty feet high ; below it there is a large arch, through which you paſs before you get to the door of the houſe, which is immediately on the south eaſt ſide of the arch; this door leads you up a winding narrow ſtair, built to the tower, and conſiſting of three flights of ſteps ; the firſt flight brings you to a room thirteen feet by eleven, lighted by two windows, three feet high, and two feet and a half broad, the one looking to the south, the other to the north ; the ſecond flight brings you to another room exactly of the fame dimenſions, and lighted in the ſame manner ; the third brings you to the top of the tower, which is ſurrounded by a parapet wall. on the top of the ſtair-caſe is a ſmal! building, higher than the tower, which is ſaid to have been a bell- houſe. from the weſt ſide of this tower, and at right angles with it, there has been a row of buildings, which are now a heap of ruins ; at the south end a dovecoat of a very ſingular conſtruction is ſtill extant; the ſhaft of it is circular, and ſurrounds a well of excellent water; above five feet from the ground it begins to ſwell, and conti- nues for ſix or ſeven feet, then contracts as it riſes, till it comes to a point at the top, in ſhape therefore it reſembles a pear, hanging from the tree, or rather an egg ſtanding on the thickeſt end; you enter it by a ſmall door on the north, about five feet from the ground; the floor is of ſtone, and ſerves alſo as a covering to the well beneath; the ſides within are full of ſquare holes for pigeons; it is lighted from the top by a ſmall circular opening, and is ſtill perfectly entire, fixteen feet perpendicular, and where wideſt eight feet in diameter. returning to the door of the abbots houſe, you go about ten paces due eaſt, along the inſide of an high wall, which joins to the other buildings of the abbey ; here has been a gate, now in ruins ; entering by the place where the gate ſtood, you find yourſelf on the south weſt corner of a court, fifty-two feet ſquare ; round this court there ayrshire. there has been a covered way; veſtiges of the arches by which the covering was ſupported are ſtill viſible: in the midſt of the court was a well, which is now filled up with rubbiſh ; walking along the weſt ſide of the court you find nothing but a ſtrong wall, till you come to the north weſt corner, where is a ſmall arched door, the ſides of which are much broken down; this door leads into a kind of gallery, eighteen feet broad, and ſeventy-two feet long; lighted only by three narrow ſlips to the weſt. · turning from this door you walk feventy-two feet along the south wall of the cathedral, which forms the north ſide of the court ; in this you find three doors, one almoſt at the north weſt corner of the court, and two near the north eaſt. theſe doors are nearly of the ſame dimenſions, nine feet high, five feet broad at the bottom, and femicircular at the top. the duor at the north weſt corner of the court is almoſt oppoſite the door in the front or north wall of the cathedral, which we have already mentioned, and leads into the choir. this forms the weſt part of the cathedral, is of an oblong figure, eighty-eight feet long, and twenty-five broad within the walls, lighted by five windows, with pointed arches, ten feet high, and three feet broad at the bottom; there is but one finall window to the south, at the head of the wall, which has received the light over the co- vering of the court ; on the north wall, and near the north eaſt corner of the choir, is a niche in the wall, ſemicircular at the top, eight feet broad, and four feet high, where it is probable the image of the patron saint formerly ſtood. the partition which divides the choir from the church, or eaſt part of the cathedral, is pretty entire, and has been furniſhed with a pair of bells ; preciſely in the middle of the partition is a door, with a pointed arch, nine feet high, and five feet broad at the bottom, which leads into the church; this ſtill retains ſomething of its ancient mag- nificence, is of the ſame breadth with the choir, but only ſeventy-ſix feet long; the eaſt end of it is femicircular, or rather triagonal, adorned with three large windows, with pointed arches, eleven feet high and ſeven feet broad at the bottom; there are ſix other windows to the north, and one to the south, of the ſame ſhape and heighth, but only fix , .. ayrshir e. fix feet broad. immediately below the south window, and near the south eaſt corner of the church, ſtands the altar, which has been greatly ornamented, but is now defaced ; no veſtiges of any inſcription remain here, or in' any part of the abbey. the altar is ſeven feet broad, and four feet high, ſquare, but fretted at the top a little to the left from it ; below the moſt southerly of the largeſt windows, there is a niche in the wall four feet high and two broad, concave at the top, but almoſt without ornament; in the bottom are two hollows made in the ſtone, like the bottom of a plate ; this is ſuppoſed to have been a private altar, perhaps that of the family of caffilis. a little to the right of the principal altar is a ſmall door leading to a ruinous ſtair, which 'we ſhall have occaſion to mention imme- diately. still farther to the right of the altar, on the ſame wall, is a larger door, feven feet high and ſix broad, with a pointed arch, which leads into a high arched room, with a pillar in the middle, and a ſtone bench round the ſides, twenty feet long and fifteen broad, ſaid to be the place where the conſiſterial court was held; it is lighted only by one window from the eaſt; on the left hand, as you enter the room from the church, there is a door which opens on the ruinous ſtair already mentioned. this ſtair has led into a room immediately above the conſiſtory, preciſely of the ſame length and breadth, but now level with the floor. from this room you deſcend a few ſteps into the abbots hall, which is twenty feet ſquare, lighted by two ſmall win- dows to the eaſt, and one to the weſt looking into the court. returning from the abbots hall into the church, by the ſame door, we find the door in the south weſt corner of the church, the dimenſions of which have been already given ; going out at this door we find ourſelves in the north eaſt corner of the court; walking five paces from this we come to a door, ſemicircular at the top, eight feet high, and five broad, which opens into a room arched in the roof, immediately below the abbots hall, of the ſame breadth and length, and lighted from the eaſt by two finall windows; proceeding from this room to the south eaſt corner of the court, you find a ruinous arch, about twenty-four feet long, ten feet high, and nine broad, with a ſtone bench on both ſides; this ſeems to have led to a number of cells, the new york public library astor, lenox an talien foundat's croceregal abby pl beli nord, , poodle shin egaymeg. ins use weiuri wee . site he mutus ul. p not so . ada so the new york public library astor, lekex and t'leen foundations. shih tech ma turm dicunt a erties ker dica : s ustid wc w u saldatu . ure andis v ter tube liar in curya bir aspire cork cielaer hy t . a y r s h i r e. cells, which are now a heap of ruins. turning from this arch you walk along the south ſide of the court, where there is nothing obſerv- able but ſeveral ſmall doors, leading into ruinous cells; what number of theſe there may altogether have been, it is now impoſible to deter- mine, as the greateít part of them are buried under the rubbiſh of their own walls. the abbots old houſe, as it is called, is the only building of the abbey we have not hitherto mentioned; this ſtands immediately to the south eaſt of the ruinous cells above deſcribed. it has been an oblong tower ; but the eaſt fide, in which the ſtair has been built, is now fallen down, which prevents its dimenſions from being accurately taken ; they ſeem, however, to have been nearly the ſame with the dimenſions of the abbots new houſe.” the precincts, containing, as above, about eight acres of ground, is at preſent poffeffed by sir adam fergueſon, as it was by his father, upon a tack or leaſe from the chapel royal, for nineteen years, at a ſmall rent, and graſſum at entry. sir adam ſubjects theſe precincts to his tenant, who rents a farm cloſe to the abbey, this farm is part of the barony of balterſan, of which the manſion houſe, a fine old building, is ſtill remaining, though in ruins, about a quarter of a mile from the abbey : sir adam is the proprietor. the ſteading of farm houſes is at preſent near the middle of the precincts. this view, which ſhews the south ſide of the ruin, with the re- markable dovecoat herein deſcribed, was drawn a. d. . at a dif- tance in the back ground appears the old houſe of balterſan. lcrosraguel abbey. plate ii this view gives the eaſt ſide of the abbey, with the eaſt end of the church and building here called the confiſterial court. crosraguel abbey. plate iii. this view ſhews the north ſide of the abbey, and the abbots new houſe, as ſeen from the high road leading to maybole. they were all drawn a. d. . hh turn- ayrsh i r e. turnburg cast l e. the next upon the coaſt are to be ſeen the old ruins of the ancient caſtle of turnberry, upon the north weſt point of that rocky angle that turns about towards gervan, and is perhaps the place called by pto- lomee, perigonium, of a greek origination, importing round the cor- ner, and ſuiting the engliſh deſignation of turnbury; and that it can- not be bargeny, as ſome inagine, the very ſituation of that caſtle and recentneſs of it will abundantly ſhewe ; and to confirme this our conjec- ture, the perigonium is turnberry, from turning of the corner, a tradi- tion among the people there, will not a little induce, viz. that near to this very caſtle, there was of old a towne of the fame name, of which there is no veſtige at preſent to be ſeen, but that they perceive fome remainders of a cauſeway, and that the reaſon for this may be, the neighbourhood of the port of the greateſt reſort in all that coaſt, at which the firſt poſſeſſors have landed from ireland, and ſo might have fixed their habitations near to it, though now the place be but a tract of barren fand.—thus far mr. abbercrombie. .. this caſtle belonged to alexander, earl of carrick, who died in the holy land, and left an only daughter and heireſs named martha ; the about the year , taking the diverſion of hunting, with her women and attendants, met by accident robert bruce, lord of annan- dale in scotland, and cleveland in england, a very handſome young man, who after the uſual ſalutes and kiſſes, which fordun ſays were cuſtomary in courts, would have proceeded on his way; but the counteſs being enamoured with him, ſeized his horſes reins, and with a kind of violence, apparently againſt his will, led him to her caſtle of turnbury, where after detaining him above a fortnight, ſhe married him privately, unknown to the king, or to any of the friends of either party, whence it was currently reported that ſhe had obtained her huſband by a rape. on this the king, to puniſh her for her feudal de- linquency, in marrying without his conſent, ſeized her caſtle and eftates; but by the interpoſition of friends, and the payment of a ſum of money, robert bruce ſhortly after obtained a full reftitution. this publion d june i go by i. hoope e zeruti" tirnbury cisite the new york public library aston, lencx and iloen foundations. the new york public library astor, lercx an t'lden fcun - - - - - - . pia* by j i poope -ngcute colÉine castle a y r s h i r e. this caſtle was in the hands of the engliſh in the expedition of king edward i. a. d. bruce having taken ſhelter in the iſle of arran, ſent a truſty perſon into carrick, to learn how his vaſſals ſtood affected to his cauſe, with inſtructions, that if he found them diſpoſed to aſſiſt him, he ſhould make a ſignal at a time appointed, by lighting a fire on an eminence near the caſtle of turnbury. the meſſenger found the en- gliſh in the poſſeſſion of carrick, the people diſpirited, and none ready to take arms; he therefore did not make the ſignal; but a fire being made about noon on the appointed ſpot (poſſibly by accident) both bruce and the meſſenger ſaw it; the former with his aſſociates put to ſea, to join his ſuppoſed party ; the latter to prevent his coming ; they met before bruce reached the ſhore, when the meſſenger acquainted bruce with the unpromiſing ſtate of his affairs, and adviſed him to go back ; but he obeying the dictates of deſpair and valor, reſolved to perſevere, and attacking the engliſh, careleſsly cantoned in the neigh- bourhood of turnbury, put a number of them to the ſword, and pil- laged their quarters. percy from the caſtle heard the uproar, yet did not fally forth againſt them, not knowing their ſtrength. bruce with his followers, not exceeding three hundred in number, remained for ſome days near turnbury ; but ſuccours having arrived from the neigh- bouring garriſons, he was obliged to ſeek ſafety in the mountainous parts of carrick. at preſent, as may be ſeen in the drawing, little more than the foundations of the building are remaining. there are fome vaults beneath it, poſſibly once ſally ports communicating with the water. from this ſhore is ſeen the rock of ailſa, and to the right that of lamlaſh, with the craggy mountains of arran. this view was drawn a. d. . colaine or culze en castl e. this caſtle ſtands on the coaſt of carrick, in a bay to which it gives name; it is elevated on a rock eighty feet above the level of the fea, which it ſeems to overhang. here a y r s h i r e. here formerly ſtood an ancient fortalice, of which this is in ſome degree a part. it was the reſidence of that branch of the family of the kennedy's, which afterwards ſucceeded to the title of caffilis, in the perſon of thomas kennedy, in default of iſſue male of the elder branch. at the bottom of the rock, under the caſtle, are three caves, one beyond the other, well known for the legendary tales related of them, on which account they are celebrated by mr. burns, the ayrſhire poet, in his excellent poem on hallow e’en. . in the account of carrick, among mr. mʻfarlan’s papers, before quoted, the ſeat itſelf is called the cave. the cave (ſays mr. abbercrombie) the manſion houſe of sir archibald kennedy, of colaine, takes its name hence, under the outer area of this houſe there be three natural caves, which enter largh at the water mark, from thence they enter upward to a higher, by an eaſy aſcent ; but the entry to the third is more difficult, being both low in the entry and ſtrait. in the higheſt of them there is a ſpring of good water. the edifice here repreſented was erected by the preſent earl, after a plan drawn by mr. adams in . when this view was taken it was not quite completed. this caſtle is admitted here rather on account of the beauty of its fituation, than for any pretence it has to antiquity, unleſs it may be conſidered as an ancient building repaired.. machlin castle. this caſtle ſtands in the town of machlin ; it formerly belonged to the earls of loudoun, and gave the ſecond title to that noble family. in , when this drawing was made, it was the property, by purchaſe, of gavin hamilton, eſq. sorne 十一 ​一一一一上一下​。 -- -- --- - - 一一一一上一下的​。 the 一一一一 ​刊出​,一一一一 ​“ 中国重​。 er 目前在日日日日日日​- b 日立 ​上一 ​。 中 ​, 平日中 ​。 了 ​。 ” 一書​。 。 . 。 - 一 ​了 ​中一中学 ​了​。” n. 主是在 ​一 ​、中 ​- - 一生中​, - =。 一哥​」 。 要 ​。 了​, - - - - - 上 ​- - - 皇 ​一生一世 ​上一 ​-- - -- 可​。 一一一一一一一 ​-- 一一一一一 ​日 ​一 ​一一一一一一 ​, ||| 星星 ​一一一一一 ​是一个 ​一 ​一一一一 ​日 ​一一一一一 ​. there . - 上一 ​|| life生 ​年​,由中 ​三是 ​里一一一一 ​, 中山​, 其中一一一一 ​日出生​。 ch, 一日 ​ 中国​。 由 ​一 ​一日​, 日 ​。 。 。 .业中 ​力 ​- 客​, 。 * 出生​,一 ​** “ 一中 ​” - , 后 ​字 ​, 一年​。 一一一 ​- - 一 ​一一一一一一 ​一一一一一一 ​「 中中 ​。 一 ​。 . ered machlin castle the new york public library astor, lerox an tilben foundationa. the new york public library **tom, lencx and .blsen foundations, - -- - - ill ur w >> wire . pirlo b. . by $ horper. parrow fi soene castle the new york public library de tx, cmcx an ? * soundation, e - || m pot தன் - *த mnn கம் பாப் கப்படியாக பாவமாக the te என் கால் talk ft ? // '' | ur tie (td hotse of attchini ck a y r s hire. sorne castle, this caſtle is moſt delightfully ſituated on a lofty and well wooded rocky terrace, overlooking the water of ayr. the building, though inhabited, having been lately repaired, ſeems at leaſt as old as the be- ginning of the fifteenth century. it was formerly a ſeat of the earls of londoun. an old lady of that family died there a few years ago, aged ninety-nine. at preſent it is in the poſſeſſion of tenant, eſq. this view was drawn a. d. . the old castle or mansion of auchinleck. this was the ancient feat of the family of the boſwells, of auchin- leck : the only remains are the fragment of a ruined wall and window, here ſhewn. it is ſaid (and indeed ſeems) to be of great antiquity, it was feated on an inſulated rock, ſtanding in the river, and ap- pears to have been very difficult of acceſs. by the diſpoſition of the ſurrounding rocks it could not ever have been of any conſiderable magnitude. the view here is extremely beautiful, the river running down a deep, rocky, and well wooded glen, ſomewhat like that of rofilin and hawthornden. wood, particularly the fir, ſeems to thrive here very much, ſome firs in the garden meaſuring ninety-ſix feet in height, and their circumference, taken a yard above the ground, near feven feet and a half, they are beſides remarkably ſtraight and elegant. .. . in the adjacent grounds there are the walls of a later manfion, feemingly of the time of mary or james vi. theſe, though at pre- fent unroofed, might eaſily be made habitable. these at preſent belong to james boſwell, eſq. well known to the publick by diverſe ingenious publications. he reſides in a hand- ſome modern feat adjoining. the chartulary of paiſley records a donation from a gentleman of this family, sir john de auchinleck, who, a. d. , gives to the i i abbot . a y r s h i r e. abbot and convent of that houſe, twenty ſhillings ſterling, per ann. as a compenſation for the contempt and violence done to them, in the perſon of one of the monks, who was emaſculated by him and his accomplices. tradition fays, this gentleman caught the monk in an improper ſituation with his daughter. this view was drawn a. d. . the abbey of kilwinning. ui this abbey is ſituated in the bailiwick of cunningham, one of the three diſtricts or ſubdiviſions of the shire of ayr, about three miles north of the royal burgh of irving, near the iriſh fea. it was founded in the year , by hugh morville, conſtable of scotland, for monks of the tyroneſian order, brought from kelſo ; it was dedicated to st. winning. king robert granted to this houſe the lands of hollard, near the burgh of irving, and twenty ſhillings rent annually paid by the heirs of bailliol, for his lands in kilmarnock. john de meneteth, lord of annan and knapdale, gave to the ſaid monks the right of patronage and advowſon of the churches of st. mary and st. briget, in the iſle of arran, with their lands and chappels. the charter is given at kilwinning, the th of october, . and a. d. sir john maxwell of that ilk, gave them the patronage of the church of leberton, with an acre of ground thereunto contiguous. in the reign of king robert iii. sir william cunningham, of kel- mares, gave, in pure alms, to the monks of this houſe, the lands of grange. the annual revenue of this abbey, at the time of the reformation, amounted to :lls. scots; balls of wheat; chalders, boll, ferlots, pecks of bear; chaldrons of oatmeal; ſtirks; capons; hens; cheeſes; fathoms ſquare of a peat ſtack, from mufinullock moſs. this account of the yearly income of the abbey is taken from the regiſter at london, no. . the buildings of this houſe, when entire, according to tradition, occupied ſeveral acres; but at preſent their ſituation cannot be exactly traced on ii. - -- -- - tl - cha- kilwinning abbey. us albi pa bert s ilien p. thomas oran komisi the new york, public library aitor easy no tileen cap a y r s h i r e. iden traced out. in the year . alexander, earl of glencairne, in con- ſequence of an order from the ſtates of scotland, in a great meaſure demoliſhed this ſtately and beautiful pile. a few years afterwards part of the abbey church was repaired, and converted into the pariſh church, and as ſuch it was uſed till about the year , when being found ruinous and unſafe, it was wholly taken down, and on its ſite a very elegant modern church was erected; the ſteeple or tower was again repaired a. d. , at the expence of the earl of eglington. a. d. william bunſh, abbot of kilwinning, was ſlain at the battle of flodden. · the laſt commendatory abbot of kilwinning was gavin hamilton, of the family of roplock, a great enemy to john knox and the con- gregation, and a ſteady friend to the queen regent and her daughter, queen mary, by whom he was employed in ſeveral negotiations. he exchanged his abbacy for the deanry of glaſgow, with dr. henry st. clair, afterwards biſhop of roſs, and preſident of the college of juſtice, which office he held to his death, in the year . gavin hamilton was killed at the water gate, in the cannongate, edin- burgh, june th, . he had in the year made hugh, earl of eglington, juſticiary chamberlain and baillie of kilwinning, and aſſigned him a conſiderable ſalary for diſcharging thoſe offices ; his grant was conferred by the queen, and may be ſeen in the ſt book of our publick records, chart. . at the general diffolution of religious houſes alexander, earl of glencairn, obtained a grant of this abbey, upon the reſignation of mr. william melville, of the family of raeth. in the year hugh, earl of eglington, got a new grant of the ſame, with all the lands and tithes, which had at any time belonged to it, either in property or ſuperiority, and they were erected into a temporal lordſhip to him and his heirs ; he alſo obtained the patronage of the churches of kilwin- ning, irwin, dumbarton, kilmarnock, ardroffan, and kilburney : ſince which, it appears in douglas's account of the family of balfour, of burleigh, a charter was procured under the great ſeal, by michael balfour, lord of balfour and burleigh, of the lands of the barony of kilwinning, to him and his aſſigns; this was dated the th of sep- tember, ayrshire. tember, ; but it was not long held by that lord, ſince douglaſs, from the publick records, cites a charter of confirmation, dated , of the lands of that lordſhip, formerly reſigned to hugh, the th earl of eglington, this view was drawn a. d. . dean castl e. this was one of the ancient fears of the boyds, earls of kilmar- nock, for ſome time the favourites of king james iii. it was for- feited in the year , afterwards ſold to the earl of glencairne, and in , when this drawing was made, belonged to miſs scot. it lies a ſmall diſtance from the main road leading from kilmar- nock to stewarton, and conſiſts of a large vaulted ſquare tower, which ſeems to have been built about the beginning of the fifteenth century ; this is ſurrounded by a court and other buildings, apparently more modern. upon the tower, under a defaced court of arms, there is this inſcription : james lord of kilmarnock dame katherine creyk lady boyd. the lord james, here commemorated, according to douglas, died . he was a firm adherent to the royal cauſe, for which he was by oliver cromwell excepted from pardon, and fined fifteen hundred pounds ſterling. in this caſtle, it is ſaid, lady margaret (douglas calls her mary) fifter to king james iii, was confined during the life of her huſband, thomas boyd, earl of arran, from whom ſhe was divorced, notwith- ſtanding ſhe had borne him two children. the pretext for this divorce was ſome legal impediment at the time of marriage. some fay it was a prior contract to the lord hamilton. on her huſband and the reſt of his family falling under the king's diſpleaſure, ſhe went to denmark, to acquaint him with it; who thereupon use pit : : publand may : ry j. hooper arrivi dian castle the new york blic library . lencx and sen puasatione, oso the new york public library a&tor. lencx and t'lien fun"* * $ wity ముఖం an there - - a amarao --scalam an if . awar { } r s full house mana- - - : - - - - -- tata : the new york public library abtqa, lencx and t'leen foundations a y r s h i r e. thereupon fled for refuge to the courts of france and flanders. in the mean time king james ſent for her. she hoping to make her huſ- band's peace, obeyed the ſummons, when the divorce was procured. after her huſband's death, who died abroad, ſhe was married, a. d. , to the lord hamilton, then created earl of arran. corshill house. . this ruin ſtands about a mile from stewarton, in the main road leading from thence to paiſley. it was the ſeat of the family of cunningham. the laſt perſon who dwelt in it was sir david cunningham, thence denominated of corſhill. his grandſon is now lord liſle. at a ſmall diſtance from this ruin are ſome ſmall remains of a more ancient building belonging to the ſame family. this view was drawn a. d. . the abbet of paisley. .. renfrew shire. the priory of paiſley ſtands in the town of that name, in the shire of renfrew. it was firſt a priory, and afterwards changed into an abbey of black monks, brought from wenlock, in england. it was founded by walter, ſon of alan, lord high steward of scotland, in the year . it was the common burial place of that noble family, until they became kings of scotland ; and although king robert ii. the firſt of this race who attained to that dignity, was buried at scone, yet nevertheleſs his firſt lady, elizabeth muir (who has made a great noiſe in the scottiſh hiſtory) and euphemia roſs, his queen, were both buried here, as likewiſe margery bruce his mother. the monks of this place are ſuppoſed to have written a chronicle of the affairs of scotland, called the black book of paiſley, from the colour of its cover. this curious monument of antiquity, cited fre- k k quently a y r s hir e. w quently by buchannan, belonged to the preſident spoteſwood, and after his death was carried into england by general lambert, and is now in the king's library, at st. james's. george shaw, abbot of this place, in the year , enlarged and beautified this monaſtery, he built the refectory, and other offices neceſſary for the monks, the church and the precinct of the convent, and enlarged the gardens and orchards, which he encloſed with a wall of hewn ſtone, meaſuring about a mile in circuit. in one of the cor- ners of this wall, towards the outer fide, there was a niche, with a ſtatue of the virgin mary, with this diſtich engraven under her feet : hac ne vade viâ, niſi dixeris ave maria : sit ſemper fine væ; qui tibi dicit ave; one of his ſucceſſors was john hamilton, natural ſon to james, earl of arran, who was then biſhop of dunkeld, and afterwards archbiſhop of st. andrews. 'the biſhop reſigned it in the year , to id. decembris, with the queen's conſent (reſervatis fibi fructibus) in favour of lord claud hamilton, a child of ten years of age, not- withſtanding that it is expreſſed in the bulls of pope julius, that he was fourteen years old. this lord claud was third ſon of james, duke of chatelherault, governor of scotland. he adhered to queen mary's intereſt, and was at the field of langſide in the year , for which he was forfeited : and paiſley, thus in the hands of the crown, was beſtowed by the regent upon robert, ſon to william lord semple, heritable baillie of paiſley, and juſticiary of that regality ; but lord claud being afterwards reſtored to his fortune, was, in the year , by the favour of king james vi. created lord paiſley. his ſon, james, earl of abercorn, a. d. , diſpoſed the abbacy of paiſley in favour of the earl of angus, by whom it was alienated, in the year , to william, firſt earl of dundonald; in his poſterity it conti- nued till the year , when the preſent earl of abercorn repur- chaſed this paternal inheritance of his family. the abbey church appears to have been, when entire, a very grand building : it was in the : a y r s h i r e. thy callit the abbot george of shaw, about my abby gart make this waw, an hundred, * four hundredth zear, eighty four, the date but weir, pray for his ſalvation that laid this noble foundation.” the revenues of this abbey are thus given in keith's appendix. cluniac abbey of paiſley, in the shire of renfrew. money . . + bear . c. . b. meal . c. . b. . f. . p. oats . c. . b. . f. . p. cheeſe ft. * this is evidently an error, probably a typographical one; it ſhould be a thouſand. + scots. twee- the new york public library astor, lenki t'i een $ je t udi par telette lvratill dd), u var icm sa forbtiah'a mee . oby v tomto i cross church teebles : ( ).. .. . t w e e d a le... the cross church, peebles. this is part of the conventual church, built according to poecius major and others, by king alexander iii. a. d. . some ſay it was erected on the ſpot where the reliques of st. nicholas, a martyr, were diſcovered; but from the account of this diſcovery, preſerved at peebles, it appears that that event did not happen till may th, . poſſibly a new church, or ſome addition to the old one, might have been built on this occaſion. fordun ſays , and the chronicle of melroſs places this diſcovery in . this st. nicholas was a scotch biſhop, of the order of culdees; he is ſuppoſed to have ſuffered mar- tyrdom during the perſecution of maximian, about the year of our lord . fordun thus relates the circumſtances of finding theſe reliques. in the ſame year, i. e. , th ld. may, and the th of king alexander, there was found at peebles, in the preſence of diverſe re- ſpectable perſons, preſbyters, clerks, and burgeffes, a magnificent and venerable croſs, but by whom it had been hidden, or in what year, was totally unknown. it was however believed, that when the per- ſecution by maximian raged in britain, about the year of our lord, , it had been hidden by ſome pious perſons. shortly after, in the ſame place, and about four paces from the ſpot where the croſs had been diſcovered, was found an urn of ſtone, containing the aſhes and bones of a human body, which ſeemed to have been diſmembered limb by limb. no one could tell whoſe remains theſe were. a certain man, however, affirmed them to be the bones of the perſon whoſe name was found written on the ſtone on which the holy croſs was l found, tweed a l e. found, for it was written on the outſide of the ſaid ſtone, the place of st. nicholas, the biſhop. in the place where the croſs was found | many miracles were, and are ſtill performed by the ſaid croſs; ſo that crouds of people flock thither, devoutly offering their prayers and ob- lations to god. wherefore the king, by the advice of the biſhop of glaſcow, cauſed a handſome church to be erected to the honor of god and the holy croſs. this monaſtery was poſſeſſed by red friars. king robert ii. grants to friar thomas, deſcribed as capellana ſuo, pratum regium juxta villam de peebles; and frere thomas minſtre de sancta crucis de peebles occurs in prynn's collections. the monaſtery was built in the form of a ſquare. the church, which formed the south fide, meaſured on the outſide, one hundred and two feet; its width was thirty-two; the height of its ſide walls twenty-four feet from the level of the floor; they were three feet thick. the offices of the convent formed the three other ſides. from ſome projecting ſtones, calculated to receive a roof, it appears, that there were ſome buildings againſt the north wall of the church. the cloiſters were on the weſt ſide ; the dwelling houſes were only twenty- two feet deep. the whole was built with whin ſtone, except the angles, doors, windows, cornices, &c. which were all of a white free-ſtone, remark- ably good and durable ; the arches of the doors and windows are pointed. the church had four doors, two on the south fide, one on the north leading from the convent, and one in the weſt end, all deco- rated with neat mouldings. there have evidently been four, if not five windows on the front or fore wall, each fifteen feet high from the ſole to the top of the arch, and five feet ſeven inches wide; a more modern one in the eaſt gable fixteen feet high and feven wide. in the fore wall of the church, between the third window from the weſt and the door on the eaſt of that window, there has plainly been an aperture and arch formed at the firſt building of the church ; it is of, a particular conſtruction, four feet wide, and two and a half high, on the outſide ; but encreaſing to between ſix and ſeven feet in width, and eight feet in height on the inſide, with decorations of free ſtone pro- jecting the new york public library astor, lenex and turen foundatit ser m k . lui berum me up ins hu - ba les see re rol bads corpo.com మన పలు పనులు od pub sep , by s. hooper raret sculp st andrews churcha! peeb !, es. t w e e d a l e. have been dedicated by joceline, biſhop of glaſcow, who died a. d. . to judge by the ſtile of its architecture it ſeems of conſidera- b>le antiquity, all the arches of its doors and windows being ſemicircu- lar, or at leaſt fome ſegment of a circle; from an inſpection of its remains it ſeems to have been full as large as the croſs church. before the reformation, the town having been rebuilt, changed its ſituation, and being brought nearer to the crofs church, that was, after the diffolution, appropriated to parochial uſes, and st. andrew's ſuffered to fall to ruin, its roof having been demoliſhed by cromwell's ſoldiers, who uſed it for a ſtable. the tower, which is ſquare, is ſtill ſtanding, with ſome fragments of the ſide walls of the church. the church-yard, from a number of modern tomb ſtones, appears to be ſtill uſed as a burial ground. in this church were twelve altarages, founded and endowed by the moſt ancient families of the neighbouring gentry of the shire of twee- dale. here too was annually choſen, on the monday before michael- mas, the deacon of the corporation of weavers, of the borough of peebles. this view was drawn a. d. . . ma nid path castle. this caſtle ſtands on a rock, projecting over the north bank of the river tweed, which here runs through a deep narrow glen, well wooded on both ſides, and towards the land on the north fide, com- manded an important paſs. by whom, or at what period it was built, is not known. it was formerly the ſeat of the fraters, lords of oliver caſtle, in tweedie muir, and from them, about the year , came to the hays, lords of yeſter, one of which family was afterwards, by king james iii. a. d. , created lord hay of yeſter, whoſe deſcendant, john, the eighth lord hay, was, on the iſt of december, , raiſed to the dignity of the earl of tweedale. when king charles ii. marched for england, john, ſecond earl of tweedale, garriſoned his caſtle of nid path, for his majeſty's fer- vice, which held out againſt oliver cromwell longer than any place south of the forth. the na again rata nid p'ate cos'i'le | the new york, public library astor, lencx and talien foundation the new york! public up! t inti bih! sures de twiwo . . harpa auchincass castle. tweed a l e. : the family of tweedale being greatly impoveriſhed by their ad- herence to the royal cauſe, fold this, and ſeveral other eſtates, to wil- liam, the firſt duke of queenſberry, whoſe fon was created earl of march and ruthenglen, lord nid path ;. and this caſtle was for ſome time the reſidence of the earls of march: it at preſent belongs to his grace the duke of queenſberry. the walls of this caſtle are eleven feet thick ;, a ſtair-caſe was lately cut into the thickneſs of them, without damaging the building. it is now, however, in ruin, part of it having fallen down. the banks hereabouts, particularly from the high road, a little above the caſtle, afford a moſt beautiful proſpect, terminated by a view of the town and bridge of peebles. dr. pennicuik, in his deſcription of tweedale, informs us, this building was of old called the caſtle of peebles: he thus celebrates it: the noble nid path peebles overlooks, with its fair bridge and tweed's meandering brooks ; upon a rock it proud and ſtately ſtands, and to the fields about gives forth commands. this view was drawn a. d. . auchincass castle evandal e. thỊs caſtle is ſituated in evandale, in the pariſh of kirkpatrick, on the weſt ſide of the river evan, near its junction with the water of garfell, about three miles south weſt from moffat; it ſtands on an eminence, ſurrounded by a moraſs. the building was, when entire, a ſquare, flanked by a round tower on each angle. the walls were remarkably thick and high, the whole ſurrounded by a deep double ditch. great part of the building is now fallen, as may be ſeen by the view. anno this place belonged to hugh de graham, and con- tinued in that family for many generations ; from him it came to the johnſons of colhead, and was very lately the property of a gentleman of the name of milligan. this view was drawn a. d. . m m drum- t w e e d a l e. drummelzier. cast l e. twe e dal e. drummelzier caſtle is ſituated cloſe to the river tweed. it was formerly the ſeat of the powerful family of tweedie, who had great poffefſions in the south of scotland. a ſmall caſtle, ſituated on the point of a ſteep conical rock, about half a mile from drum- melzier, was uſed by the lords of tweedie, as a fort of reduit or citadel. this fortalice, of which only a few walls are ſtanding, was called the thanes caſtle, vulgarly tennis caſtle. both this and drummelzier caſtle went by marriage to the hays. a deſcendant of that family is the preſent proprietor. drummelzier caſtle, in , when this drawing was taken, was much out of repair. its form and ſituation will be beſt under- ſtood from the annexed view, tweed muir church. the annexed view, which ſhews the church of tweedmuir, and the adjacent pictureſque country, was drawn from the back of the bild inn, a. d. . the mount on which this church ſtands is generally ſuppoſed to be an ancient tumulus, and is vulgarly called a roman work. nothing can be more romantic than the hills hereabouts; a groupe of them here repreſented, when ſeen in a particular point of view, with a particular light upon them, require ſmall aſſiſtance from fancy to make them reſemble a couchant lion, or ſome other large four-footed animal, in a cumbent poſture. clack- s bila cm pub march . by s. hoopier drummelziek castle the new york public library astor, lencx and t'leen foundation, . € tti ; tiveed mouthchurch. the new york pris library kok and . b e wa tai foto hot tth t : ht * * le in *** , . v t hoopor: nhait hot i'llsv ( ) : clackmannanshire. clackmannan tower. eri this tower is pleaſantly ſituated on the ſummit of a hill, com- manding an extenſive and beautiful proſpect over the adjacent tract of country. it was long the ſeat of the chief of the bruces. the large ſquare tower here repreſented is called robert bruce's tower; his two handed ſword and helmet were not long ago, and probably ſtill are, pre- ſerved here. near the tower ſtands the little town of clackmannan. the bruces are faid to have had a file or ftring of caſtles, of which this and another in sterlingſhire were two; they were all within fight of each other, ſo that they could communicate by ſignal. · when clackmannan firſt belonged to the bruces is uncertain. there is a charter quoted by douglas as early as the time of king david ii. dated gth of december, ; wherein that king grants to sir robert bruce (whom he therein ſtiles his dearly beloved relation) the caſtle and manor of clackmannan, with diverſe other lands, lying within the sheriffdom of clackmannan. loch leven castle. kinross-shire. na loch leven castle ſtands in an iſland meaſuring about eight engliſh acres, which iſland is ſituated nearly in the middle of a loch or lake, about twelve miles in circumference, and in many places twenty-four fathoms deep. it is not known when this caſtle was built. - it occurs in hiſtory as early as the year , when it was be- fieged by sir john de sterling. the as wit k i n ross-shir e. the following account of that ſiege is in ſubſtance given by fore dun. in the year , in the midſt of lent, sir john de sterling, a ſoldier in the king of england's ſervice, with a great number of an- glefied scots, among whom were michael de arnot, michael and david de wemys, and richard de malville, knights, with many others who had embraced the engliſh party, aſſembled to beſiege the caſtle of loch leven, and reconnoitering the borders of the lake, and ſeeing that the caſtle would not be eaſily taken, eſtabliſhed their quar- ters at kenroſs, ſurrounding the church with a fortreſs; thereby con- verting the houſe of god to a den of thieves. alan de vipont was then governor of the caſte, and had with him james lambyn, a citizen of st. andrews, and many other brave and robuſt scotchmen. the ſiege for a while went on in the ordinary manner; but the be- fiegers gaining little ground, had recourſe to ſtratagem, and in order to overflow the caſtle and drown the garriſon, conſtructed a ſtrong and high dam, with turf and hard rammed earth croſs the receſs of the water of leven, where it empties itſelf; at this work the neighbouring people, women as well as men, worked inceſſantly; they alſo by channels cut in the earth, drew down the waters of leven to the town of kinroſs. the feſtival of the bleſſed margaret, queen of scotland, ap- proaching, which was annualiy celebrated at dumfermling, sir john de sterling thought it neceſſary for form fake to attend, taking ſeveral of his people with him; the remainder he diſpoſed of in the beſt manner for carrying on the ſiege ; but the bleſſed servanus, the pro- tector of the iſlanders, inſpired them with the following mode of defence. the governor and garriſon informed of sterling's abſence, and being in want of victuals, fireing, and all other neceſſaries, fecretly de- tached four valiant men in a light boat, and provided with proper inſtruments to deſtroy the dam; they got out on the eaſt gide of the caſtle, unperceived by the beſiegers, and after labouring almoſt the whole night, d-ſpairing of accompliſhing their purpoſe, had deter- mined to deſiſt. but one of them fuggeſting that they ſhould perliſt a little longer, and that he would promiſe them help from the faith he had in st. servanus, reſuming their work, the water began to ooze copal reſidence. it was granted ence probably ſtiled lord of loch pe the moſt remarkable is, that it was inate queen mary was confined, and from e it had occaſionally been uſed as a priſon, xinr o s s-shire pris tid tiis csile was ancientlr a royal reſiden Å: r et iii. ro douglas, thence probablyn . ; wit makes this cattle the mon d a y mrherein the unfortunate queen what the made her eſcape. it had on both before and after that tire. the cattle in , when there a rectangular wall, encloſing a fome of them round; with co, chapel and apartment where a ſquare tower; it ſtands as i have read (for i could geon, and a vaulted in the north ſide. when theſe drawings were made, confiſted of encloſing a ſmall area, flanked by little towers, z with ſome ruined walls, ſaid to be thoſe of the vent where queen mary was confined. the keep is it ſtands in the north eaſt angle of the area ; in it, à (for i could not get in to ſee it) there is a pit or dun- vaulted room over it; the chief entrance is through a gate the outſide of the caſtle, chiefly towards the eaſt, are ſeveral pot trees, particularly the remains of an afh, which appears, when ire to have been of a great ſize. this view ſhews the inſide of the - cute and the keep, as viewed from the south weſt. c lochor castle. this caſtle is built on a peninſula on the south ſide of the loch of lochor, in the shire of kinroſs, and was founded by duncan de lochor, in the reign of malcolm iv. king of scotland, anno . it conſiſted of a ſtrong ſquare tower, with many lower buildings, ſur- rounded by a wall, with round towers, waſhed by the waters of the loch, which abounds with pike and perch. in the reign of king alexander ii. adam de lochor was sheriff of perth, david de lochor is in alſo sheriff. in hugo de lochor is vicecomes de fife, as is conſtantinus in . david de lochor is named in ragman's roll anno . in thomas de lochor is in the parliament at ayr, that tailzied the crown, and his ſeal is ap- pended to that act. in the reign of king robert i. this eſtate féll to the ſon of a gentleman, adam de valloniis, who had married a daugh- ter ette 'h littl. = = e = = tha ahmes }}}} httle by fast . tits st: p ক . the sellen}}}} . bes: ৩ - ই #* ন মরিস - #e late st is= he she さくらさんがいます​。 r binitiatrizediie এn e = " ও = ==== মানিকে / le ati = === = । trশন = = = = = = = e. / = । telect e dit : নি - publish'd june by j. hooper. sparror l och oar castle k in ross-shire it is ſaid this caſtle was anciently a royal reſidence. it was granted by king robert iii. to douglas, thence probably ſtiled lord of loch leven ; but what makes this caſtle the moſt remarkable is, that it was the priſon wherein the unfortunate queen mary was confined, and from whence ſhe made her eſcape. it had occaſionally been uſed as a priſon, both before and after that tiire. the caſtle in , when theſe drawings were made, confiſted of a rectangular wall, encloſing a ſmall area, flanked by little towers, ſome of them round; with ſome ruined walls, ſaid to be thoſe of the chapel and apartment where queen mary was confined. the keep is a ſquare tower; it ſtands in the north eaſt angle of the area ; in it, as i have read (for i could not get in to ſee it) there is a pit or dun- geon, and a vaulted room over it ; the chief entrance is through a gate in the north ſide. on the outſide of the caſtle, chiefly towards the eaſt, are ſeveral ancient trees, particularly the remains of an afh, which appears, when entire, to have been of a great fize. this view ſhews the inſide of the caſtle and the keep, as viewed from the south weſt lochor castle. this caſtle is built on a peninſula on the south ſide of the loch of lochor, in the shire of kinroſs, and was founded by duncan de lochor, in the reign of malcolm iv. king of scotland, anno . it conſiſted of a ſtrong ſquare tower, with many lower buildings; ſur- rounded by a wall, with round towers, waſhed by the waters of the loch, which abounds with pike and perch. in the reign of king alexander ii. adain de lochor was sheriff of perth, david de locher is in alſo sheriff. in hugo de lochor is vicecomes de fife, as is conſtantinus in . david de lochor is named in ragınan’s roll anno . in thomas de lochor is in the parliament at ayr, that tailzied the crown, and his ſeal is ap- pended to that act. in the reign of king robert i. this eſtate fell to the ſon of a gentleman, adam de valloniis, who had married a daugh- ter hathi r esate selle . hen gt mode shu ess s cel che le · publisha june . by j. hooper, frarron loch orr Čas tle | the new york public library astor, lengk and : t. laen koundationi. kinross-shir e. ter of the barons of lochor. it continued in this family for a conſidera- ble time, and then came to sir andrew wardlaw, of torry, who mar- ried the eldeſt daughter of d. jacobus de valloniis, in whoſe family it remained till the time of king charles i. over the chief entry to the tower is inſcribed robertus de wardlaw, who greatly fortified and repaired this caſtle. after the wardlaws it came into the poffeffion of sir john malcolm, whoſe deſcendant, sir michael, lately fold what remained of this ancient barony to park, eſq. in this caſtle chriſtopher seaton, who had married the ſiſter of king robert bruce, and had aſſiſted at the ſlaughter of comyn, at dumfries, was taken, and by the order of king edward i. was be- headed at dumfries, anno , lin the new york public library astor, lencx and t'leen foundationi. uru la? h iii tutto she este site , . sheeper. loch leven castle bcn . --- --- - = . . . sa ng me on * * wiki - uluttug og hooper maria naun mitilcov palace. linlithgowshire. a barrack, it was accidentally ſet on fire by the king's troops. the pediments over the windows are dated . in one of the other fides is a room ninety-five feet long, thirty feet fix inches wide, and thirty-three high ; at one end is a gallery with three arches, perhaps intended for a band of muſick : narrow galleries run quite round the old part, to preſerve the communication with the apartments. the parliament chamber is a handſome room, here was born on the th of december, , the unfortunate queen mary. her father, james v. then dying at falkland of a broken heart, for the miſcarriage at solway moſs, foretold the miſe- ries that hung over her and scotland. - it came,” ſaid he, “ with a laſs, and will be loſt with one.” the chapel was built by james v. the church is a handſome building, and ſome of the windows are extremely elegant. here is ſtill ſhewn the aiſle where james iv. * ſaw the appa- rition, : * some time ago was found at home caſtle the remains of a body, in an ox hide; it had an iron chain round the loins, and was therefore ſuppoſed to have been james iv. who was well known to wear an iron chain round his loins, by way of pennance, for having been acceſſary to his father's death; he moreover conſtantly added a link to this chain every year. his being found in home caſtle is thus accounted for: at the battle of flodden the earl of hume with his troops kept aloof; when, it is ſaid, the king eſcaping to him much wounded, threatened to call him to a ſevere account, for being one of the cauſes of the loſs of the battle. the earl dreading the king's reſentment is ſaid to have murthered him, and buried him privately in hume caſtle. in contradiction to this account, it was generally fuppoſed that the body of that king was brought to ihe abbey of sheen, near richmond, in surry, and there kept till the pope's permiſſion could be had to bury it, he having died under the ſentence of excommu- nication. the pope's bull taking off that ſentence is printed in rymer. the above receives ſome corroboration from the following letter written by queen catherine to king henry viii. which was printed in the london magazine, to which it was communicated by arthur collins, author of the peerage, &c. this letter was copied from the manu. fcript collection of gregory king, lancaſter herald. queen catherine to king henry. si r, my lord havard hath ſent me a letter open to your grace, within one of mine, by which you will ſee at length the great victory that our lord hath given your linlithgow shire. rition, that warned him of the impending fate of the battle of flodden. the weſt end of the church ſeems more modern than the reſt, and is ſaid to have been built by a biſhop, as a penance enjoined him by, the pope, for incontinency. on this church is a handſome ſpire, with a crown on the top. it is now uſed for parochial ſervice. lately in digging a grave a baſſo relievo, neatly cut in ſtone, was found; the ſubject was chriſt's paſſion, of which there were only two parts, the firſt, chriſt praying in the garden, the ſecond, chriſt healing mal- chus's ear; they were both incloſed in gothick pannels, and meaſured about two feet in height, and not quite ſo much in breadth. your ſubjects in your abſence; and for this cauſe it is no need therein to trouble your grace with long writing ; but to my thinking the battle hath been on your grace, and all your realme, the greateſt honour that could be, and more than you ſhould wyn of the crown of france ; thanked be god for it; and i am ſure your grace forgetteth not to do this, which ſhall be cauſe to ſend you many moe ſuch victories, as i truſt he ſhall doe. my huſ- band, for haſtineſs, with rouge croſſe i could not ſend your grace the piece of the king of scots coat, which john glyn now bringeth. in this your grace ſhall ſee how i can keep my promiſe, ſending you for banners a king's coat; i thought to ſend himſelf to you, but our engliſhmen would not ſuffer it. it ſhould have been better for him to have been in peace, than to have this reward. all that god ſendeth is for the beſt. my lord of surrey, my henry, would fain know your pleaſure in burying of the king of scots body; for he hath writien to me ſo. with the next meſſenger your grace's pleaſure may be therein known; and with this i make an end, praying god to ſend you home ſhortly, for without this no joy here can be accompliſhed, and for the ſame i pray; and now go to our lady at walſinghame, that i promiſed ſo long ago to fee at voburne the xvi of september--i ſend your grace herein a bill found in a scottiſh man's purſe, of ſuch things as the french king ſent to the ſaid king of scots, to make warr againſt you, be- ſeeching you to ſend mathew bither, as ſoon as the meſſenger cometh to bring me tidings from your grace. your wife and true servant, katherine. xt the ſword and dagger of king james iv. are now preſerved in the heralds office, where they were lodged by the earl of surrey. stowe ſays, that on the diſſolution of the abbey of sheene, king james iv's. body was thrown into a waſte room, amongſt old timber, lead, and ſtone. stir- wife rih re man bv pienie..., fullwhd sept gola atty west" in the new york public library .tor lencx ans na notions ci he te missionaria de salidas all mobile sa home at south learning training and his perhiliaherl jan . . by p hooper holborn bruce's castle the new york public library son aitor lemgx and talen foundation od pubes a fel pingogen mon ng ranting? neustan nunnery of mannel or emanuel stirling shire. the nunnery of emanuel or manuel. this nunnery is ſituated on the borders of stirlingſhire, upon the weſt bank of the water of avon, about a mile above the bridge of lin- lithgow, in the pariſh of moranſide or muiravonſide. it was founded about the year. by king malcolm iv. ſurnamed the maiden, and was a priory occupied by nuns of the bernardine or ciſtertian order, to whom belonged thirteen convents in scotland. beſides the endowments beſtowed by the royal founder, it received conſiderable donations from others at different periods. king william, ſurnamed the lion, made a grant of the tenth of all his revenues in the fire and borough of linlithgow, both money and vi&tual. alexander ii. made a donation of the mills of linlithgow, with all their ſequels and appurtenances; and roger de avenel beſtowed on the holy fifters a chalder of wheat, to be paid by him and his heirs, out of his barns of abercorn, at chriſtmas, yearly. · the prioreſs of this place, whoſe name was chriſtina, ſwore fealty to edward i. july , , * as did her ſucceſſor, named alice, at linlithgow, in . f this nunnery had poſſeſſions in the ſhires of edinburgh and ayr, as well as in thoſe of linlithgow and stirling, as appears by an order of edward, to the sheriffs of thoſe thires, to reinſtate the prioreſs in poffeſſion of her lands, within their ſeveral juriſdictions, in conſequence of her having ſworn fealty to that monarch. when the liſt of eccleſiaſtiçal revenues were drawn up in , thoſe of emanuel amounted to fifty-two pounds, fourteen ſhillings, and eight-pence scots, three chalders of bear, ſeven chalders of mcal, with a large quantity of ſalmon. i of this nunnery little remains, except the weſt end of the church. this fragment contains an arched door or gateway, with three ſmall * rymer's federa, tom. . p. . + keith on religious houſes. i keith's appendix. pp gothic the new york public library astor, lencx and t'leen foundationi. ' stirling shire. collegiate ; this chapel was pulled down by james vi. who on its fite erected the preſent chapel. james v. was crowned here, and here reſided during his minority, and received his education ; he built the preſent palace, which is a ſquare all of hewn ſtone, adorned with ſculpture; in the center is a ſmall ſquare court, called the lion's den, from the king's lions having been kept there. the palace contains inany large and elegant apartments; the ground ſtory has been con- verted into a barrack for the private ſoldiers ; the upper ſtory gives a houſe for the governor, and lodgings for the officers. opposite to the palace is a chapel of hewn ſtone, built by james vi. for the baptiſm of prince henry, in ; it is nosv em- ployed as a ſtore room; and here is preſerved the hulk of a boat, in which that king cauſed the proviſions to be drawn in, at this cere- mony; and in the roof hangs a piece of ſquare wood, in which are carved models of the caſtles of edinburgh, stirling, dumbarton, and blackneſs. a strong battery, called the french battery, points to the bridge ; it was probably ſo called from being conſtructed by engineers of that nation. great additions were inade to the works here, by order of queen ann, ſome of them never completed. adjoining to the north ſide of the caſtle is an eminence con- taining a few acres, which being fortified, makes a part of the caſtle; it is called the nether bailey. here is the well which ſupplies the garriſon. : on the south weſt fide of the caſtle is the park, encloſed by a ſtone wall; this, with ſeveral other pieces of ground round the garriſon, form a juriſdiction, called the conſtabulary of the caſtle. at the eaſt end of the park was a royal garden ; veſtiges of the walks and parterres are ſtill viſible. in the garden is a mount of earth in form of a table, called the knot, where, according to tradition, the court ſometimes held fêtes champetres. poſſibly this might be the round table men- tioned by barbour, if ſo, it was here king james iv. uſed to amuſe himſelf with the paſtime, called the knights of the round table, of which he is ſaid to have been peculiarly fond. the stirling shire. the lordſhip and caſtle of stirling was the uſual dowry of the queen of scotland, at leaſt after the acceſſion of the stewarts. on the north weſt of the caſtle is a ſteep path leading to the town, this is called ballochgeick. james v. who uſed often to travel through the country in diſguiſe, for different purpoſes, when queſtioned who he was, always anſwered, the good man of ballochgeick. . 'this caſtle has been the ſcene of many warlike feats, having been repeatedly beſieged, taken, diſmantled, and rebuilt by different parties, during the wars between the engliſh and scots, as well as in their civil diſſenſions. a. d. , it being in the hands of the engliſh, was abandoned by sir marmaduke de twenge, and ſeized by wallace, for the scots; who held it a year, and then deſtroyed and abandoned it ; it was, how- ever, in a few weeks re-occupied and repaired by king edward. it was again taken by the scots in . a. d. it capitulated to sir john de foulis, for want of provi- fion; and was the next year, i. e. , retaken by king edward, after a long defence, in which the garriſon was reduced to twenty-eight men : in this fiege edward is ſaid to have battered it with engines, that threw ſtones of two hundred pounds weight; and fordun ſays, that he cauſed all the lead to be taken off the monaſtery of st. andrew's, and carried to stirling, for the conſtruction of his machines. a. d. it yielded to the b.iliol party, and, as ſome ſay, was diſmantled by directions from the engliſh court ; but in was re- built by the orders of king edward iii. ſtrongly garriſoneş, and the command of it given to sir thomas ruckby. a. d. it was beſieged by the scots under sir william doug- las, of liddeſdale, and sir andrew murray, who lay two months before it, but was relieved by king edward in perſon. next year the fiege was renewed, and again raiſed by the engliſh monarch ; but in the scots, under douglas and murray, took it; after which the eng- liſh were never able to penetrate ſo far into scotland. the laſt reduction of this fortreſs by a fiege, was in , when cromwell followed king charles ii. into england, before the battle of worceſter. he left general monk to accompliſh the conqueſt of scotland. qq stirlingshire. scotland. this caſtle was then taken by him, when he carried the scottiſh records to london, they having been removed hither upon the ſurrender of edinburgh caſtle. in ° they were by king charles ii. packed up in hogſheads, and ſhipped for scotland ; but the ſhips being caſt away near berwick, they were all irrecoverably loſt. in stirling caſtle was attacked by the highlanders, but they were ſoon obliged to relinquiſh the fiege. .. -. the area on which this caſtle ſtands is of an irregular figure, its length running nearly north and south, being double that of its breadth ; it is divided into two courts. . : the entrance is on the south ſide through a ſtrong gate, flanked by round towers ; on the left, or weſt, in a corner, ſtands the palace, a ſingular building, richly ornamented with groteſque figures. .. • passing the south eaſt angle of the palace you come into a ſecond area, or kind of ſquare, where a little to the north eaſt is the old parliament houſe, a vaſt room, of one hundred and twenty feet long, very high, with a timbered roof: this building forms the eaſt ſide of the ſquare. the north ſide is cloſed by the chapel, built by james vi. on the ſite of the collegiate one, as has been before obſerved i n the weſt ſide was bordered by a wall, beyond which, adjoining to the outward, or weſtern wall of the caſtle, were the armory and bar- racks for the garriſon; further weſtward was the magazine. on the whole, the ſituation of this caſtle greatly reſembles that of edinburgh, each being mounted on the ridge of a precipitous rock. this and the caſtle of dumbarton were ſaid jointly to ſecure the lowlands from the incurſions of the highlanders; the former as the lock, of which stirling was the key, this view was drawn a. d. . . the grey friars church, at stirling. this church was built a. d. , by king james v. for a con- vent of franciſcans or grey friars : it is a very handſome building, in the beſt ſtyle of what is called gothic architecture : it is all of hewn ſtone, eth e le el l ! vons ette true te hot ng de mate bene tal cls wete cache ser re niirling circh pub. tan! . . by sheerer. ter the la l de more rt he be no wa ta एस्ट asean the new york). public library a&tor. lencx and t'lien foundations, the new york public libpap . astor, len parrojo કા . ( fe r ને રજા તે down cas tle. pirth shiri. પીની ધમાલ |, i | | | | | | | | | - - છે 'મા ! '' b-himate agreaવતેમના માનમરતામાતાના. tet hd, hooper. e tubland aug h ngoby s ; ( ) pe r t h s h i re. doun castl e. this caſtle, according to tradition, was built by murdock, duke of albany, who was, it is ſaid, executed on a hill within ſight of it. it is very pleaſantly and ſtrongly ſituated, being almoſt ſurrounded by the river teath; for (ize and ſtrength it exceeds moſt of the caſtles in this part of scotland, thoſe of edinburgh and sterling excepted. the firſt time it occurs in hiſtory, is sir james stewart, of beath, being appointed conſtable thereof by james v. the ſon of this sir james, in the year , obtained a charter under the great ſeal, of certain lands, to be called the barony of doun. he was a ſteady friend to queen mary during the civil wars, when this caſtle was always a ſafe retreat to the loyaliſts: former ly; before the abolition of hereditary offices, courts were held here, in a room kept in repair for that purpoſe. in the rebellion of the year it was for ſome time occupied by the rebels, who planted a twelve pounder in one of the windows, and ſeveral ſwivels on the parapets ; thefe' guns were brought from a mer- chant ſhip which had fallen into their hands. on its being quitted by the rebels, an engineer was ſent down by government to furvey the caſtle, with an intent to repair and fortify it, if capable of being made tenable ; but it is probable that he reported to the contrary. it has ſince been neglected and ſuffered to fall to ruin. it is at preſent the property of the earl of murray. this view was drawn a. d. . rr gow. perthshir e. gowrie house or castl e. iv. . . . . gowrie castle ſtands on the south eaſt ſide of the town of perth, at the eaſt end of the south-ſtreet. when, or by whom, it was built is not aſcertained; but if one may judge from its appear- ance and ſtyle of architecture, it does not ſeem older than the time of james v. or at moſt his father, james iv. ir was the reſidence of the earls of gowrie, till forfeited by that noble family, on account of that ſtrange and myſterious tranſaction, called gowrie’s conſpiracy, the ſcene of which was this houſe. the circumſtances are too long and too intricate to be here properly related. certain it is, that the attainder of this family cauſed very conſiderable e cheats to the crown, and afforded the means of gratifying a number of rapacious courtiers. : .. after lord gowrie's forfeiture, the magiſtrates obtained the pro- perty of this manfion or caſtle, which, in the year , they pre- ſented, together with the freedom of the town, to his royal highneſs, william, duke of cumberland, from whom the board of ordnance, a's report ſays, purchaſed it for five thouſand pounds. it has ever ſince ferved as barracks for the detachment of the royal artillery, in scotland. the monks tower. this tower ſtands in a walk, near the river. tay, in the garden of gowrie houſe: it is of an oval figure, with a high roof, vaulted within; the area or internal meaſure is about twenty-four feet by thir- teen: it has a fire-place and coved cieling, in which are coarſely painted the twelve ſigns of the zodiac, the heathen gods and god- defics, and the arms, creſt, and cyphers of the hay family. the painting, from its ſtyle, does not ſeein, older than the time of king charles i. and is ſaid to have been done by the ſame hand as the cielings of the palace of scoon. aſparently this tower was intended .. for - 一一一一 ​ 月 ​一看 ​line | . 有山​。 此副作用​。 。 的 ​ 。 . -- 上山​。 三 ​ are 目中​, ) . %, ) | 一直是中国 ​- 照​」。 。 日五国 ​一一一 ​一一 ​-- 即可​。 一种用 ​。所以​,在用mira的一种重 ​。 日出日出 ​-- 十月十一日​。 #日​,国家一一 ​一一一一一一 ​一一一一一一一 ​- 出品 ​( ) 川普得個e . 三三三 ​f - 言情 ​ic. ||| - 目中​, 一一一一一一上市直事业中 ​- 一日​, the 中生 ​一一一一一一 ​- user . --- - f - 市​。 中国重 ​重要事​。可是作事事​, - 上田中国 ​上看​, 正 ​节日​。 。 多 ​publish's march : by s. hooper. w/ e. cowfie house, the new york public library astor, lexcx and tilren foundation, the new york public library aston, lencx and t'leen foundation, the new york public library ator, lenox and i'laen egundation, i vijicic tower miver: enlarg & hoitli az urfernama sr css whis het kan per t hshire. in this caſtle james vi. was, a, d. , on his return from a hunc- ing party in athol, ſtopped by a number of his moſt faithful peers, with an intent to reſcue him from his worthleſs favorites, who were poiſoning his young mind, with arbitrary principles, under the ſpecious appellation of the royal prerogative. the king endeavoured to eſcape, but was prevented, upon which burſting into tears, he was told by the guardian of glames, " that it was better children weep than bearded men.” the confederated lords carried the king off; but ſhortly after getting out of their hands, he put himſelf into the poſſeſſion of lord arran. this tranſaction was called “ the raid of ruthven.” mr. pennant mentions another remarkable, though more happy, event, which happened here : “ a daughter of the firſt earl of gow- rie was addreſſed by a young gentleman in the neighbourhood, much her inferior in rank and fortune ; her family, though they gave no countenance to the match, permitted him to viſit them, and lodged him in a tower, near another in which was the young lady's chamber, but up a different ſtair-caſe, and communicating with another part of the houſe : the lady, before the communicating doors were fhut, con- veyed herſelf into her lover's apartment; but ſome one of the family having diſcovered it, told it to her mother, who cutting off, as fhe thought, all poſſibility of retreat, haſtened to ſurprize them ; but the young lady, hearing the well-known footſteps of her mother hobbling up ſtairs, ran to the top of the leads, and took a defperate leap of nine feet four inches, over a chafın of fixty feet from the ground, lighted on the battlements of the other tower, whence defcending into her own chamber, ſhe crept into her bed ; her mother having in vain fought her in her lover's chamber, came into her room, where finding her ſeemingly aſleep, ſhe apologized to her for her unjuſt fufpicion. the young lady eloped the next night, and was married.” the top of the towers, from and to which the lady leaped, are ftill ſhewn, under the appellation of the maiden's leap. this caſtle con giſts of two ancient ſquare towers, connected by buildings of later date ; it is ſtill inhabited as a farm-houſe, though the back part is in ruins. the banquetting hall is ſtill diſcoverable, the chimney of which is ornamented with groteſque heads of ſtucco ; two of l- the new york public library var astor, lenex ans tilren foundation, perthshir e. to be analogous to it; for it ſtands in the pariſh of dolor, was bounded by the glen of care, and waſhed by the burn of sorrow. here is an extraordinary contrivance for procuring water under cover : a ſubterraneous way to the burn running at the bottom of the rock, on which the caſtle is ſituated, having been made with ſtone and lime, it is now broken at the top, and is to be ſeen through the buſhes and bruſh-wood with which it is overgrown ; looking down the con- duit or ſteps affords a moſt tremendous ſight. this caſtle, which with its circumſcribing demeſnes belonged to the argyle family, was a. d. taken and burned by the marquis of montroſe, who carried fire and ſword through the whole eſtate. the landlord of the inn at dolor ſaid, his grandfather, who was agent to the argyle family, put a roof on it. it was inhabited when the family were marquiſies of lorn: at preſent it belongs to the duke of argyle. this plate gives a near view of the caſtle. castle campbell. plate ii. • : this view ſhews the caſtle at a diſtance, as ſeen from the village of dolor. this and plate i. were drawn a. d. . culross or kyllenross abbey. this was a ciſtertian abbey, ſituated upon the frith of forth, in the ſhire of perth, and dioceſe of dumblane. it was founded in the year by malcolm, earl of fife; the chronicle of melroſs, which records this foundation, ſays the monks and firſt abbot were ſent from the abbey of kinleſs. the conventual church was not only dedicated to the virgin mary, but alſo to st. servanus the confeſſor, whoſe feſtival was annually kept on the firſt day of july, even long after the reformation; on which day the men and women were ac- cuſtomed to aſſemble early in the morning, and walk in proceflion round the town, carrying green boughs in their hands, and afterwards ſpending le gs chi who sun fuchs the's ?? : by i foupier campbell castiel.. | the new york public library aitor, lencx and tilien foundation f fuueri* in lur re cs ful h au . tigilm entro p . b . ww puériss hitel may by j i tooper. sparron je. . . cut oss abbey. per t h shire lambs. n. . capons doz. poultry d. butter ftone. cheeſe ſtone. a. straw truſſes. and the abbot ſays, there were nine monks in the convent, five whereof had recanted; but the other four would not by any perſuaſion. and he mentions a certain allowance he had given to thoſe that had recanted; but had given nothing to the others. this view was drawn . the cathedral of dunblane. the cathedral of dunblane is ſituated on an eminence on the eaſt- ern bank of the river allan, and overlooking the town to which it pro- . bably gives name. the ſee of dunblane was founded by king david, about the year ; he alſo built the cathedral.. its revenues at the reformation amounted to the ſum of . (scots) in money; i chaldron of wheat ; chaldron, bolls, firlots, and į a peck of bear; chaldron, i boll, i firlot, and pecks of meal; chaldron and bolls of oats. this church was once poſſeſſed of diverſe lands in england. much of this cathedral is ſtill ſtanding, though faſt falling to de- cay. the choir is kept in repair, and ſerves for the parochial church : under it are fepulchral vaults. in the choir are ſeveral of the oaken feats for the choriſters, on which are carved, as uſual, groteſque figures ; among them, a ca“, a fox, and an owl. at the upper end of the choir are ſome of the prebendaries ſtalls ; on' the right of the entrance the biſhop's ſeat, and on the left that of the dean ; thefe are alſo of oak, handſomely carved. here are ſeveral coarſe blue marble ſtones over the graves of di- verſe of the biſhops and deans : on ſome of them there are the marks of brafs plates. behind a modern ſeat is a niche in the wall, in which is the figure of a biſhop, as large as life; he is dreſſed in pontificalibus, with his mitre. the three ſteps to the altar ſtill remain. in the niche where the veſſel for holy water formerly ſtood, there is now a door. the for pro p ity de tr re th her . ti urriare darila hastur- be tuttet .. biashed . } : )" by to the spor. ittdorns catiilodral church of dunblane the new york fublic library **! ; lercx and t'en fun , th !,...,,,!: }," jenis, we alay- s dr . .. . .p. ., s the lit op's intrare fi viſible. binich , : ich of .. vir wer. .....in , tl . i. .:.. il ti . .. rivers in and ii. pifi ..jare church i.im.in !" b irrich st. mine.'...', ,,,; ? img in th her ..oo. ........... ..., al were infa h . inai: sritimood, st. : , ... ... : smilt in the stre! : aslov kurth b. here, citiis , . , ??tá i gry of heltem . : p sofoni ja? ..itis.cco tolo to lender : hindisari :-chris t , t it is at :, b but the site ad the i ece ... still bits), otwith- ...... .. ,.fi eruanes of ifferent , bon . in ' ...d right air, ter poſe of .. .. .... it's . !:. in spain's their 'inici listi isitii boten intressed by ..^? .. . vedi tio iurei: il , from li i si ..' fi pipici pives: ; :'s they sin eine porn t... cuide :;," "ent reli- .. .. !!... chi ti'e ceremonies if : e greek - lief . ! then may be the reſi- . dence perthshire, dence of a ſort of hermits, imitators of simon styllitis. all theſe conjectures are ſupported, as uſual, by etymologies. with reſpect to the firſt ſuppoſition, it is cbjected that they cannot have been meant for watch towers, ſince they are not always placed on elevated ſtations, commanding an uninterrupted proſpect around them, but, on the contrary, are frequently covered by commanding hills, par- ticularly towards that ſide from whence danger was moſt probable. that they were imitations of minarets, ſeems extremely impro- bable; the deteſtation in which every article and circumſtance of pagan worſhip was held by the cruſaders, makes it ſcarcely poſſible they would introduce any of them into the chriſtian church. and for the argument deduced from the culdees following the ceremonies of the greek church, it remains to be proved, that the greeks uſed minarets; beſides it is generally held there were no culdees in ireland. the third opinion, namely that they were penitentiary towers, ſeems, on the whole, the moſt prevalent, though it appears rather to have acquired the ſuffrage from the defeat of its competitors, than from any very cogent reaſons offered in its ſupport. gordon viſited this tower, of which he gives the following ac- count: “ i went directly,” ſays he, to abernethy, the ancient capital of the pictiſh nation, about four miles from perth, to ſee if i could find any remains of the piets hereabouts; but could diſcover nothing except a ſtately hollow pillar, without a ſtair-caſe: ſo that when i entered within, and looked upward, i could ſcarce forbear ima- gining myſelf at the bottom of a deep draw-well : it has only one door or entrance facing the north, ſomewhat above the baſis, the heighth of which is eight foot and a half, and the breadth, from jamb to jamb, two and a half. towards the top are four windows, which have ſerved for the admiſſion of light; they are equidiſtant, and five feet nine inches in heighth, and two foot two inches in breadth, and each is ſupported by two ſmall pillars; at the bottom are two rows of ſtones projecting from beneath, which ſerved for the baſis of a pedeſtal. the whole heighth of the pillar is ſeventy-five foot, and conſiſts of fixty- four rows, or regular courſes of hewn ſtone : the external circum- ference at the baſe is forty-eight foot, but diminiſhes ſomewhat towards nin the the new york public library autor, lenex and t'lien foundation, to publino lang j hosphere oa^ . a! hilthy ,wir p . .. perthshi r e. the top; and the thickneſs of the wall is three foot and a half. this is, by the inhabitants hereabouts, called the round steeple of aber- nethy; and is ſuppoſed to be the only remains of a pictiſh work in theſe parts." this view ſhews the ruins of the church, with a diſtant view of the tower. orver. . . ti abernethy college. plate ii. this might with more propriety be called a view of the tower, of which it gives a particular delineation, as ſeen from the high road from perth. - theſe views were drawn a. d. . angus. ( ) a n g u s s h i r e . glames castle. plate i. . g lames caſtle originally conſiſted of two rectangular towers, longer than broad, with walls of fifteen feet in thickneſs; they were connected by a ſquare projection, and together formed a figure fome- what like the letter z, ſaving that in the caſtle all the angles were right ones. this form gave mutual defences to part of the building. great alterations and additions were made to this houſe by pa- trick, earl of kinghorn ; theſe, according to the above cited plan, a date carved on a ſtone on the outſide of the building, and other autho- rities, were done in the year , and not , as is ſaid in an an- cient print, engraved about that time. the architect employed on this occaſion, as tradition reports, was inigo jones ; indeed the work ſeems greatly to reſemble herriot's hoſpital, at edinburgh, and di- verſe other buildings deſigned by him. the great hall was finiſhed a. d. . it is a handſome room, with a coved cieling, adorned with heads and ornaments in ſtucco. here are many family portraits, among them a large picture, in a carved oaken frame, repreſenting earl patrick and his three sons. in the back ground a view of the caſtle, as it was in . at that time there were three gates leading from the park. in the ancient part of this caſtle is ſhewed the room wherein malcolm ii. was murdered. fordun has it, that he was killed at or near the town of glames; but does not ſay in the caſtle. a particular deſcription is given of this manſion in an ano- nymous journey through scotland, publiſhed in . since which diverſe alterations have been projected in the building, for which one of the wings has been partly pulled down, and is not yet rebuilt. " in world barth mountain mech en bis p ep is en oka w he lublisha tentan go by j hooper. of norodje chamm's castiepl.). angus shir e. “ in the entering strathmore i arrived at the noble palace of glames, belonging to lion, earl of strathmore. this palace, as you approach it, ſtrikes you with awe and admiration, by the many turrets and gilded balluſtrades at the top. it ſtands in the middle of a well planted park, with avenues cut through every way to the houſe. the great avenue thickly planted on each ſide, at the entrance of which there is a great ſtone gate, with offices on each ſide, of free ſtone, like a little town, leads you in half a mile to the outer court, which has a ſtatue on each fide, on the top of the gate, as big as the life. on the great gate of the inner court are balluſtrades of ſtone, finely adorned with ſtatues; and in the court are four brazen ſtatues, bigger than the life, on pedeſtals; the one of james vi. and firſt of england in his ſtole; the other of charles i. in his boots, ſpurs, and ſword, as he is ſometimes painted by vandyke; charles ii. is in a roman dreſs, as on the exchange, in london; and james ii. in the ſame he is in at whitehall. from this court, by balluſtrades of iron, you have a full proſpect of the gar- deos on each ſide, cut into graſs plats, and adorned with ever-greens, whicla are very well kept. the houſe is the higheſt i ever ſaw, con- fiſting of a high tower in the middle, with two wings, and a tower at each end; the whole above two hundred feet broad. the ſtairs from the entry to the top of the houſe conſiſts of one hundred and forty-three ſteps, of which the great ſtairs, where five people can mount abreaſt, are eighty-fix, each of one ſtone. in the firſt floor are thirty- eight fire rooms. the hall is adorned with fainily pictures; and be- hind the hall is a handſome chapel, with an organ, for the church of england ſervice. on the altar is a good picture of the laſt supper, and on the citling an aſcenſion, done by one de wit, a dutchman, whom earl patrick, this earl's grandfather, brought from holland, and who painted the cielings of moſt of the rooms. in the drawing room, next to the hall, is the beſt picture i ever faw, of queen mary of modena, the pretender's mother. the duke of lauderdale in his robes, by sir peter lely; and the late lord dundee, with a croud of half lengths of the nobility of scotland; and over a chimney a curious italian piece, of our saviour difputing with the doctors in the temple. u u when angus shir e. ; when the pretender lay here they made eighty-eight beds, within the houſe, for him and his retinue, beſides the inferior ſervants, who lay in the offices out of doors. the preſent earl's elder brother ſaved the eſtate from being forfeited, by being killed at the head of his regi- ment, on shiremore.” in the court before the miniſter's houſe is ſhewn a ſtone, on which is engraved a croſs and diverſe figures, ſaid to allude to the murder of king malcolm, and the deaths of the murderers, who attempting to croſs the lake of forfar, then ſlightly frozen over, the ice broke, and they were drowned. this ſtone is deſcribed and engraved in mr. pen- nant's tour. diverſe weapons, with ſome braſs veſſels lately found in draining that lake, are ſhewn in the caſtle. . the tradition of an ancient lofty building, called the tower of glamis, ſituated on an eminence near the center of the town of king- horn, in fifeſhire, is ſtill preſerved in that place. it ſerved as a ſea- mark to failors navigating the forth. this building becoming ruinous a gentleman in the neighbourhood obtained leave of the strathmore family, to whom it belonged, to take the ſtones for the purpoſe of building, on condition that he ſhould put down a pillar on the ſpot whence he took the ſtones, with this inſcription, “ here ſtood glamis tower.” this pillar is remembered by many of the inhabitants at preſent (a. i. ) living ; but it is now removed. this view was drawn a. d. . glames castle. plate ii. this view gives a more pictureſque, though leſs deſcriptive, delinea- tion of the caſtle than the former. they were both drawn on the farne day.. aberbroth abbey. aberbroth or aberbrothack, in the shire of an- gus, is ſituated on the ſea ſhore, on the burn of brithock or brothe. ----------- ---------- a immediate me ... t ambodia t of the kako arbey. -- pu ph ----- - - --- arberryothor a pt mayo og ty i chorper arare fr [ ibland toyot a nguss hire. it was one of the richeſt and moſt ſumptuous abbeys in scotland, and was founded, a. d. , by king william, the lion, who was buried here. it was dedicated to st. thomas becket, archbiſhop of canter- bury, and filled with benedictine or tyroneſian monks, brought from the abbey of kelſo.. this place is in ſeveral manuſcripts called monaſterium bajocenſe, and by dempiter aberbredock-kuidel. king robert bruce granted to this abbey ten marks ſterling, to be received annually from the tha- nage of monifoth, for maintaining lights about the tomb of william, king of scotland; and king john, of england, probably out of regard to the monaſtery, granted to the inhabitants of this town the privilege of diſpoſing of their goods any where within his dominions, london excepted, toll and cuſtom free. pope lucius. iii. in the year , confirmed all donations that were made to this monaſtery. the firſt abbot was reginaldús, a monk of tyron, who was in the year , releaſed' by john, abbot of kelſo, from all ſubordina- tion due to him as abbot of that monaſtery; to which charter richard, of aburbuthenoth or arbuthnot, the king's clerk, was witneſs: this reginaldus was conſecrated at king william's requeſt, by mathew, biſhop of aberdeen, the church of st. andrew being then vacant. . the ſecond abbot was henry, a profeſſed monk of kelſo, who was likewiſe, a. ). , releaſed by the abbot of that houſe, from that ſubjection to him and his fucceffors, which he had at his profeſſion livorn to obſerve. ::: bernard, abbot of aberbroth, was chancellor under king robert bruce, and afterwards biſhop of the iſles. may d, , an inden- ture was made between john geddy, abbot of this houſe, and the bur- geſſes of the town, whereby that abbot, for certain conſiderations, ob- liges himſelf and his ſucceſſors, at their proper expence and charges, to maintain the pier in ſuch ſtate that veſſels may enter, and lay there in fafety, in the year pope pius ii. granted the abbot of this houſe an exemption from attending at the yearly epiſcopal fynods, of which he directed the biſhop of st. andrew's to give notice to his brethren, threatening excommunication to any one who ſhould trouble him on that angus shire. m that account. yet it does not appear (ſays keith) that theſe threats were regarded by john biſhop of brechin, and alexander biſhop of murray. popc benedict, by his bull, dated at avignon, kal. june, and the ſecond year of his pontificate, granted to john, abbot of aber- broth, and his ſucceſſors, the privilege of making uſe of and wearing the mitre, ring, robes, and other epiſcopal inſignia ; and pope martin, by his bull of the th id. june, and the third of his pontificate, autho- riſed walter, abbot thereof, and his fucceffors, to confer the minor orders on the monks and clerks of their convent. the laſt eccleſiaſtic abbot was cardinal beaton, at the fame time archbiſhop of st. andrew's. the laſt commendatory abbot of this houſe was john hamilton, ſecond fon to the duke of chaſtelherault, afterwards created marquis of hamilton. this abbey was erected into a temporal lordſhip, in favour of james, marquis of hamilton, ſon to the former; the grant is dated upon the th of may, . this abbey afterwards belonged to the earl of dyfart, from whom it was purchaſed, with the right of patronage of thirty-four pariſh churches, belonging to it, by patrick maule, of panmure, gentleman of the bed chamber to king james vi. in which family it remained till the year , when it eſcheated to the crown by forfeiture, and was under the management of the barons of the exchequer. a. d. part of the ſite of the abbey was obtained by the town. for the adminiftration of juſtice the convent elected and paid an officer, called bailey of the regality, which became hereditary; the family of airly held it before the reformation, and till the year , when it was ſold and veſted in the crown, with other hereditable juriſ- dictions. the walls of the regality priſon are ſtill remaining. in the year the election of this officer proved fatal to the chieftains of two noble families: the convent had that year choſen alexander lindeſay, eldeít ſon of the earl of crawiord, to be judge or bailey of their regality; but he proved to expenſive by his number of followers, and high way of living, that they were obliged to remove him, and appoint in his place alexander, nephew to jolin ogilvie, of airly, who had an hereditary claim to the place: this occafioned a cruel wa angus shir e. with the firſt ſtatement, except in the ſalmon, which is the ſame as the ſecond. this abbey was built with a red ſtone found hereabouts, which ill reſiſts the weather, ſo that the ornamented parts expoſed to the open air, are inuch defaced, and the carvings ſcarcely diſtinguiſhable. the buildings of this houſe were all encloſed by a ſtrong wall, the ground forming an irregular figure. the length from north to south about one hundred and ninety geometrical paces, and the mean breadth, from eaſt to weſt one hundred and thirteen ; the breadth at the north end exceeding that at the south upwards of one third. on the south weſt corner is a tower, now the ſteeple of the preſent pariſh kirk; and at the south eaſt corner is the darn, or private gate, over which was a houſe for catechiſing. the greateſt part of the walls were ſtanding within the memory of man, but are now nearly demoliſhed. on the north ſide of the area, and almoſt in the middle, between the two corners, ſtood the abbey church, which was of the figure of a croſs. weſt of the tranſept it was divided into a middle and two ſide aiſles, by a double row of columns, ſupporting arches. the meaſures of this church are as follows: inside length of the whole church, from eaſt to weſt, feet. breadth of the middle aiſle feet; ſide aiſles each feet. total breadth of the whole church, ſide aifles included, feet. length from the weſt end to the tranſept feet. breadth of the tranſept, fide aiſle of feet included, feet. length of the whole tranſept, from north to south, i feet. length from the eaſt end to the tranſept ] feet. the heighth of the ſide walls, as appears from the mark of the roof on the ruins, was about ' feet. part of the abbot's houſe is ſtill ſtanding, and inhabited; in here ſome of the ancient floors are remaining, and ſeveral handſome carvings in oak. this abbey, on the whole, though not the moſt elegant when entire, yet from the magnitude of its parts, is the moſt magnifi- cent in scotland. this view was drawn a. d. . aber- • : batas vo . heim ci ! f ed meh mais fubicat a aug go by j. hooper. arbro att abbey !! . anguss hire. aberbroth abbey. plate . this view, which ſhews the outſide of the great gate, with the regality priſon, was drawn a. d. .. the cathedral church of brechen. brechen was a biſhop's fee. it was founded about the year , by king david i. its annual revenues, in money and rents paid in kind, before the reformation, are ſaid to have amounted to ſeven hundred pounds ;, but after that event, were diminiſhed to one hundred and fifty, owing to alienationis of its eſtates, made by alexander camp- bell, the firſt proteſtant biſhop, to his chieftain, the earl of argyle, by whoſe intereſt he had been promoted to that ſee. keith in his ap- pendix ſays, “ in this biſhoprick there is great confuſion and un- certainty." . ?.. . the culdees had a convent here, which afterwards gave way to the mathurines, or red friars; but neither of them feein to have had any thing to do with this church. the ruins of the abbey of red friars, called the college, according to maitland, are yet to be ſeen inz the college wynd, adjoining to the north weſtern end of the gram- mar school. this church is a handſome building, in length one hundred and ſixty feet, in breadth ſixty-one; the eaſtern part is ruinous.; the weſt- ern part now ſerves for the pariſh church. round it, under the eaves of the roof, ran a handſome cornice, carved, with quaterfoils and brackets. . . . . . . . . . - the tower is an hundred and twenty feet high, ſquare, and em- battled, having four ſmall chinks or windows over each other, above which are the belfry windows, large, with pointed arches, divided into two by a mullion, which ſeparates at the top, and give ſpaces for a hand- ſome quatrefeuil. this tower is crowned with an hexagonal ſpire, pierced with ſmall windows. ther e an guss h i r e. here is another tall ſlender tower, fimilar to that at abernethy: gordon deſcribes it in his itinerary, in the following words : “ in my journey northward i found a ſteeple at brechen, differing little in ſhape from that at abernethy, only it was larger, and covered at the top; for its heighth from the baſe to the cornice is eighty-five feet, and from thence to the vane fifteen, in all one hundred; it conſiſts of fixty regular courſes of ſtone; the external circumference thereof is forty-ſeven foot, and the thickneſs of the wall three feet eight inches; however this has no pedeſtal like the other, but ſeems to ſhoot out of the ground like a tree; it has a door fronting the south, the heighth and breadth of which differs little from abernethy; only upon it are evidences ſufficient to demonſtrate that it was a chriſtian work, for over the top of the door is the figure of our saviour on the croſs, with two little images or ſtatues towards the middle. . this ſteeple has a low ſpiral roof of ſtone, with three or four win- dows above the cornice, and on the top there is placed a vane; it has no ſtaircaſe within any more than the other, but the inhabitants of both towns aſcend to the top by ladders : the vulgar notion of theſe is, that they are pictiſh ; and i ſhould eaſily have reſted in that opinion, had i not been fince that time aſſured that ſome of the like monuments are to be ſeen in ireland, where the picts never ſettled.” theſe meaſures differ ſomewhat from mr. pennant's; he ſays, the heighth from the ground is eighty feet; the inner diameter, within a few feet of the bottom, is eight feet; the thickneſs of the walls at that part ſeven feet two inches; ſo that the whole diameter is fifteen feet two; the circumference very near forty-eight feet; the inner diameter at the top is ſeven feet eight inches ; the thickneſs of the walls four feet lix; the circumference thirty-eight feet eight inches; which proportion gives the building an inexpreſſible elegance : the top is roofed with an octa- gonal ſpire, twenty-three feet high, which makes the whole one hundred and three feet high ; in this fpire are four windows placed alternate on the ſides, reſting on the top of the tower : near the top of the tower are four others facing the four cardinal points.” a maſon, who was at work on the church when i ſaw it, ſaid he had meaſured this tower for a wager, and found its heighth to the top of the nev ЕВ да - сон - - - - Т - . . . . . 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Е Ети НА Н. та ін га htt На е замистове *, miwili уэ Ноорил і у мі) brechin church & tower n - - - - - - angus shire. the vane to be one hundred and eight feet exactly. in deſcribing the male figure under the crucifix, mr. pennant thinks it was meant for st. john; to me it appeared to have a large beard, and to be leaning on a kind of crutch; whereas st. john is always repreſented as a hand- ſome young man. the tower is connected to the church by a ſmall covered paffage. there are at preſent two bells in this tower, to which the aſcent is by ladders. this view, which ſhews the north eaſt aſpect of the church, was drawn a. d. . the red castle. this caſtle ſtands on a high cliff, called the red head, on the south ſide of the bay of lunan. it probably took its denomination of the red caſtle, from the colour of the cliff whereon it is built, which is red, as are alſo the ſtones uſed in its conſtruction, like thoſe of the abbey of aberbroath. . this, according to tradition, was once the reſidence of king wil- liam, ſurnamed the lion, by whom it is likewiſe ſaid to have been built. he began his reign in the year , and died in . very little of this caſtle is at preſent remaining, as may be ſeen by the view. its ragged fragments carry the appearance of antiquity. in haddington's chart, p. , there is an entry of a charter granted by king robert de bruce, to sir donald campbell, of the moiety of the barony of red caſtle, which henry de percy, knight, had for- feited to that king. whether this caſtle is meant or not i will not take upon me to determine. this view was drawn a. d. . te resten note priory:: the deſcription of this priory is given in that of jedburgh, in tia viotdale, to which it was a cell. . y y aber ( ) , a b e r d e e n s h i r e. the cathedral church, old aberdeen. this biſhoprick was originally founded at murthfack, in the county of banff, by malcolm ii. in the year o, in commemoration of a great victory obtained by him over the danes. beanus was by him appointed biſhop thereof; he was the firſt scotch prelate that had a dioceſe aſſigned to him." this see having continued one hundred and twenty-ſeven years at murthlack, was, in the year , tranſlated to aberdeen by king david i. who confirmed to it the lands of murthlack, cloveih, and durimeth. : i ... .. .... . mathew kennimouth, the third biſhop after the tranſlation to aberdeen, and who ſucceeded about the year , began this ca- thedral, which was dedicated to st. marchar : whether it was finiſhed during his life time or not is uncertain... henry cheen, the twelfth biſhop, who died , repaired this building, which had ſuffered much during the contention between bruce and bailiol. 'n in? : :: .. · alexander kennimouth, the ſecond biſhop of that name, the ſixteenth after the tranſlation of the see, ſucceeded about the year . he not thinking the church ſufficiently beautiful for a cathe- dral, cauſed it to be pulled down, and laid the foundation of one more magnificent; but before the work was advanced fix cubits high, he was ſent out of the land by the king, on an einbaſſy, and died ſoon after his return.. . about the year the engliſh ſet fire to the town of aberdeen, which burned ſix days, when the biſhop's palace, and all the prebendal houſes, were deſtroyed. the su publishd jeptio: by j. hooper ass res lo tee auf brem elsh sur tal tel sal khes hos ftp oid aberdeen cathedral lel test பக்கப்பாவாக wan tronic ** rol reso recherches asiana ete ter nice es tufe s gews ska we hi nece es hitin the ir pe seen die re ve sparrow the new york public library astor, lenex ano tilien foundations. a b e r de enshir e. the cathedral appears to have remained unfiniſhed till the acceſſion of biſhop henry leighton, in the year , who greatly advanced that work, and beſtowed large ſums of his own for perfecting it; he built alſo a chapel within it, called st. john's chapel, in which he was buried about the year bishop thomas spence, who died , greatly adorned this ca- thedral, and rebuilt the biſhop's palace, &c. which had remained in ruins ever ſince the burning thereof by the engliſh. bishop william elphinſtone, who died in , propoſed great additions to this church; he began the choir and eaſt end of it, but did not live to complete his plan. bishop gawen dunbar, who died in , ſet himſelf to per- fect what biſhop elphinſtone had begun, and therefore ſued the biſhop's executors for certain legacies left by that prelate for thołe purpoſes, adding thereto money of his own ; but the reformation hin- dered the completion; this building ſuffered much by that event, but more, it is ſaid, by the revolution. * * this venerable pile, which had fuffered ſo much by the reformation, did not eſcape the fury of the covenanters, in the unfortunate reign of king charles i. so violent was the zeal of that reforming period agair.ſt all monuments of idolatry, that, perhaps, the sun and moon, very antient objects of falſe worſhip, owed their ſafety to their diſtance. as there was then nothing to be found worth carrying off, the illiberal zealots wrecked their vengeance upon the ſtones and timber. the high altar-piece, of the fineſt workmanſhip of any thing of that kind in europe, had to that time remained inviolate ; but in the year was hewed to pieces by order, and with the aid, of the pariſh miniſter. the car- penter employed for this infamous purpofe, awed by the fanctity of the place, and ſtruck with the noble workmanſhip, refuſed to lay a tool on it, till the more than gothic. prieſt took the hatchet from his hand, and ſtruck the firit blow. the wainſcotting was richly carved, and ornamented with different kinds of crowns at the top, admirably cut; one of theſe, large, and of ſuperior workmanſhip, even ſtaggered the zeal of the furious prieſt ; he wiſhed to ſave it, perhaps is a trophy over a fallen enemy; whaiever his motive may have been, his hopes were diſappointed; while the carpenter rudely hewed down the ſupporting timbers, the crown fell from a great heighth, plowed up the pavement of the church, and few in a thouſand pieces. douglas's deſcription of the eaſt coaſt of scotland. in his account the dates reſpecting the acceſſions of the biſhops, repairs, &c. differ widely from spotſwood, whoſe chronology has been here adopted. here kincar dinesh i r e. dunotter castle. dunotter caſtle is ſituated on the eaſt coaſt of kincardines fhire, on a rock projecting into the ſea, acceſſible from the land on the weft ſide, and that only by a narrow, ſteep, and winding path, over a deep gully, by which it is connected with the main land, and which ſerves as a kind of natural foſs or ditch, the adjacent rock having been ſcarped, and rendered inacceſſible by art. the entrance into the caſtle is through a gate, in a wall of about forty feet high, whence by a long paſſage, partly arched over, and through another gate pierced with four oilliets or loop-holes, you enter the area of the caſtle, which meaſures about an engliſh acre and a quarter. this paffage was alſo formerly ſtrengthened by two iron portculliſes. this area is ſurrounded by an embattled wall, and occupied by buildings of very different ages. the oldeſt except the chapel is a ſquare tower, ſaid to have been built about the latter end of the four- teenth century. a large range of lodging rooms and offices, with a long gallery, of one hundred and twenty feet, ſeems of a very modern date, not older than the latter end of the ſixteenth century. here are alſo ſhewn the ruins of diverſe other buildings and con- veniences neceſſary for a garriſon ; ſuch as a chapel, barracks, a baſon, or ciſtern of water, twenty feet diameter, a bowling green, and a forge, ſaid to be uſed for caſting iron bullets. on this rock, notwithſtanding its difficulty of acceſs, the church and burial place of the pariſh was originally ſituated. the building now called the chapel, being formerly the pariſh church. during the contention between bruce and baliol, the natural ſtrength of this rock z z induced kincardin eshire burnt up the kirk and all that was therein, attour the rock, the lave ran with great dii), some hung on crags right dolefully to die, some lap, ſome fell, fome fluttered in the sea, no southeron in life was left in that hoid, and them within they burnt to powder cold. when this was done, feil fell on their knees down, at the biſhop aſk'd abſolution. when wallace leugh, ſaid, i forgive you all, . are ye war-men, repent you for fo ſmall ? they rued not us into the town of air, our true barons when they hanged there. . ; do in this caſtle was refortified by king edward iii. in his pro- greſs through scotland: but was, as ſoon as 'that king quitted the kingdom, retaken by the guardian, sir andrew murray. nothing reſpecting this caſtle occurs in hiſtory, till the civil wars of the laſt century, when it was beſieged by the marquis of montroſe, and the church again burned. this caſtle was inhabited till the beginning of the preſent century; but was demoliſhed ſoon after its forfeiture, in the year , when its ruins were repurchaſed by the earl, and afterwards ſold by him to mr. keith of rovelſton. the annotator of camden mentions the ſtately rooms in the new buildings and the library; he alſo ſpeaks of st, padie's church, here famous for being the burial place of st. palladius, who, in , was ſent by pope celeſtine to preach the goſpel to the scots. in this caſtle, during cromwell's uſurpation, the regalia of scot- land, conſiſting of the crown, ſword, and ſcepter, were depoſited; the earl being then appointed, by king charles ii. one of the commiſ- fioners for managing the government while his majeſty was abroad. mr. ogilvie, to whom the defence of this caſtle was committed, find- ing it ſo cloſely inveſted that he could not long hold out, prevailed on the wife of the miniſter of kineef, a bold and prudent woman, who happened to be in the caſtle at that time, to aſſiſt in conveying them away; : kincard in eshir e. away; this ſhe did by packing them up in a bundle, as things of no value, and walking boldly out with them. they were afterwards hid under the pulpit of kineef, till the reſtoration. this eſcape ſucceeded the more eaſily, as mr. j. keith, who, on the caſtle being inveſted, failed immediately for france, had induſtriouſly cauſed it to be reported that he had taken them with him. for this piece of ſervice the king, at his reſtoration, created sir william keith knight mariſchal of scotland, and earl of kintore. the caſtle was at the time of the above-mentioned ſiege well ſtored with cannon and ammunition. on the ſurrender the enemy allowed the iron guns and four mortars to remain; but carried off the reſt, viz. twenty-one braſs cannon, one hundred and forty fixed muſkets, and many firelocks, twenty-fix barrels of powder, and ten cheſts of muſket balls. ::this view was drawn a. d. .. banff- | the new york public library astor, lenex and t'leen foundation, ( ) b a n f f s h i r e. . boyne castle. plate i. this caſtle ſtands about ſix miles south of cullen ; it is roman- ticly ſituated on a high perpendicular rock, on the south ſide of a deep gloomy ravine or glen, through which runs the river. the banks are wooded quite to the waters edge. this was the baronial caſtle of the diſtrict called the boyne, and anciently the reſidence of the family of the ogilvies, anceſtors of the preſent noble proprietor, lord findlater. the building does not appear to have been very large, nor could it ever have been long tenable againſt beſiegers, being commanded on the south ſide by a hill, which runs quite to its walls, looking down into it. the caſtle was in figure a' rectangular parallelogram, its angles flanked by round towers. the grand entrance was on the south ſide, over a draw-bridge, and through a gate, defended alſo by two round towers. it is now quite a ruin, as the views ſufficiently ſhew. it was lately uſed for a granary. this view ſhews the front or south ſide, with the gate or chief entrance. it was drawn a. d. . . boyne castle. plate ii. vci this thews the north ſide of the building, with the rock and river. it was drawn a. d. . a a a the b a n f f s h i r e. the castle of inchdrewr. this was the caſtle of the barony of inchdrewr, in the county of banff; it is ſituated at a ſmall diſtance from the ſea, and by the ſtyle of its architecture ſeems to have been built about the time of king james iv. or v. sir george ogilvy, of dunlugas, who was created a baronet by king charles i. on roth of july, , in the ſame year, obtained a charter under the great ſeal, of the lands of the barony of inchdrews. he was afterwards raiſed to the dignity of peerage, by the title of lord ogilvie, of banff, by letters patent, to him and the heirs male of his body, dated ſt of auguſt, . moray - - - - - s wa .. pwee ' by j hoopsere inch drvar castle the new york | public library aitor lencx and t'lien foundation, : : ( ) m or a y s h i r e. the cathedral church of elgin. this was the cathedral church of the dioceſe of moray, tranſlated from the church of the holy trinity, at spynie, at the requeſt of the chapter and king alexander ii. and by virtue of a bull from pope ho- norius, dated th april, . it appears that here was a church before the tranſlation, which pro- bably was taken down as ſoon as the new one was finiſhed, as being too mean for a cathedral. biſhop andrew moray is ſaid to have laid the foundation ſtone of the new cathedral church on the very day on which the tranſlation was declared, viz. th july, . after this church had ſtood one hundred and fixty-ſix years, from the date of its foundation, it was burned down in the year , by alexander stewart, lord of badenoch, commonly called the wolf of badenoch, ſon of king robert ii. for which he was excommunicated; but on making due ſubmiſſion and reparation, was again received into the church. bishop barr began rebuilding the church, and every canon contri- buted. biſhop spynie continued the work; but though every pariſh paid a ſubſidy, yet through the troubles of the times, it made now ad- vances. biſhop innes laid the foundation of the great ſteeple, in the middle of the church, and greatly advanced it.. after his death the chapter met, may , , and bound themſelves, by a folemn oath, that whoſoever ſhould be elected biſhop, he ſhould annually apply one third of his revenue to the rebuilding the cathedral, until it ſhould be finiſhed. the - mora y s h i r e. the church at length being rebuilt, it remained entire for many years, till in the beginning of the fixteenth century, about the year , the great ſteeple in the center fell down; the next year biſhop foreman began to rebuild it; but the work was not finiſhed before the year , when the heighth of the tower, including the fpire, was one hundred and ninety-eight feet. “ this church, (ſays shaw) when entire, was a building of gothic architecture, inferior to few in europe ; it ſtood due eaſt and weſt, in the form of a paſſion or jeruſalem croſs, ornamented with five towers, whereof two parallel ſtood on the weſt end, one in the middle, and two on the eaſt end: betwixt the two towers on the weſt end was the great porch or entrance. this gate is a concave arch, twenty- four feet broad, in baſe, and twenty-four in heighth, terminating in a ſharp angle. on each ſide of the doors, in the ſweep of the arch, are eight round and eight fluted pilaſters, fix and a half feet high, adorned with a chapiter, from which ariſe fixteen pilaſters, which meet in the key of the arch. there were porticoes or to-falls on each ſide of the church, eaſtwards, from the traverſe or croſs, which were eighteen feet broad without the walls. to yield ſufficient light to a building ſo large, beſides the great windows in the porticoes and a row of attic windows in the walls, each fix feet high, above the porticoes; there was, in the weſt gable, above the gate, a window in form of an acute angled arch, nineteen feet broad in baſe, and twenty-ſeven in heighth; and in the eaſt gable, between the turrets, a row of fine parallel win- dows, each two feet broad, and ten high ; above theſe are five more, each ſeven feet high; and over all a circular window, near ten feet in diameter. in the heart of the wall of the church, and leading to all the upper windows, there is a channel or walk round the whole building. 'the grand gate, the windows, the pillars, the projecting table, pedeſtals, cordons, &c. are adorned with foliage, grapes, and other carving. let us, after deſcribing the body of the church, take a view of the chapter houſe, commonly called “ the apprentices ille," a curious piece of architecture, ſtanding on the north ſide of the church, and communicating with the choir by a vaulted veſtry. the houſe is an exact octagon, thirty-four feet high ; and the diagonal breadth, within m or a y s hire. within the walls, thirty-ſeven feet. it is arched and vaulted at the top, and the whole arched roof ſupported by one pillar, in the centre of the houſe; arched pillars from every angle terminate in the grand pillar. this pillar, nine feet in circumference, is cruſted over with fixteen round pilaſters or ſmall pillars, alternately round and fluted, and twenty-four feet high, adorned with a chapiter, from which ariſe fixe teen round pillars, that ſpread along the roof, and join at the top; with the pillars (five in number) riſing from every ſide of the octolateral figure. there is a large window in every ſide of feven, and the eighth fide communicates with the choir. in the north wall of this chapter houſe there are five ſtalls, cut by way of niches, for the biſhop (or the dean in the biſhop's abſence) and the dignified clergy to fit in. the middle ſtall, for the biſhop or dean, is larger, and raiſed a ſtep higher, than the other four : they were all lined with wainſcot. some of the dimenfions of the church may be ſeen as follows: feet the length on the outſide - - - - . the breadth on the outſide the breadth within the walls the length of the traverſe outſide - the length within walls the heighth of the weſt tower, not including the ſpire - the heighth of the tower in the centre, including the ſpire the ! h of the eaſtern turrets the breadth of the great gate - the heighth thereof - - the breadth of each valve - - the heighth of each valve near - the heighth of the ſide walls - -- the heighth of the chapter houſe the diagonal breadth within walls - the breadth of every ſide near - the circumference of the great pillar the height thereof below the chapiter the breadth of the porticoes on the ſide b bb the mor a y s h i r e. feet the breadth of the weſt window the heighth thereof - the heighth of the eaſt windows the heighth of the ſecond row the diameter of the circular window - - in taking theſe dimenſions i have not ſtudied a ſcrupulous exactneſs, and in ſome of them it is not poſlīble to do ſo. the ſpires of the two weſt towers are fallen ; but the ſtone work is pretty entire. no part of the great tower, in the middle, now ſtands. the two eaſtern tur- rets, being winding ſtair-caſes, and vaulted at top, are entire. the walls of the choir are pretty entire; and ſo is the whole chapter houſe; but the walls of the nave and traverſe are moſtly fallen. it is a miſtake, that this ſtately edifice was either burnt or demo- liſhed by the mob at the reformation. the following act of privy council fhews the contrary, viz. “ edinburgh, th february, - . seeing proviſion muſt be made for entertaining the men of war (fol- diers) whoſe ſervice cannot be ſpared, until the rebellious and diſobe- dient ſubjects be reduced ; therefore appoint, that the lead be taken from the cathedral churches in aberdeen and elgin, and ſold for fuf- tentation of the ſaid men of war. and command and charge the earl of huntley, sheriff of aberdeen, and his deputes; alexander dunbar, of cumnock, knight, sheriff of elgin and forreſs, and his deputes ; william, biſhop of aberdeen; patrick, biſhop of moray, &c. that they defend and aftiſt alexander clerk and william bernie, and their ſervants, in taking down and ſelling the ſaid lead, &c. signed r. m.” (keith’s hift.) the lead was accordingly taken off the churches, and ſhipped at aberdeen, for holland; but foon after the ſhip had left the river, it ſunk, which was owing, as many thought, to the ſuperſtition of the roman catholic captain. be this as it may, the cathedral of moray being uncovered, was ſuffered to decay, as a piece of romiſh vanity, too expenſive to be kept in repair. some painted rooms in the towers and choir remained ſo entire about the year , that roman catho- lics repaired to them, there to ſay their prayers. (rec. preſbytery of elgin.) . it !! hai ngàn ti lete des ere . tlcin chaptephoise p .. d . a ste be lt burut on mor ays hire. elgin.) the great tower, in the middle of the church, being unco- vered, the wooden work gradually decayed, and the foundation failing, the tower fell, anno , on a peace sunday, in the morning: ſeveral children were playing, and idle people walking within the area of the church, and immediately as they removed to breakfaſt, the tower fell down, and no one was hurt. the college, when at spynie, conſiſted of a dean, chancellor, archdeacon, chanter, treaſurer, and eight canons, inſtituted by biſhop bricius : on the tranſlation the canons were encreaſed to twenty-two. the precinct here was walled round with a ſtrong ſtone wall, four yards high, and nine hundred in circuit. it had four gates; the eaſt gate, called the water-gate or the pan's port, appears to have had an iron door, a portcullis, and a porters lodge; probably the other gates, now fallen, had the ſame fences. within this area ſtood the cathedral and the canons houſes. on july d, , alexander mac donald, third fon of the lord, of the iſles, entered the college of elgin, wholly ſpoiled and plundered it, and burnt great part of the town'; for this he and his officers were excommunicated; but afterwards abſolved, on paying a ſum of money, applied to the erection of a croſs and bell, on that part of the chanonry neareſt the bridge of elgin. the revenues of this biſhoprick, according to keith, were: money . . d. (scots.) wheat bolls. bear c. b. f. p. oats c. b. salmon laſt c. · poultry n. . this plate gives a general view of the cathedral, as ſeen on the south eaſt. . ry cathedral church of elgin. plate ii.. this plate ſhews the chapter houſe of this elegant building. both views were drawn a. d. . the b st oleme hid august * by s. hooper sparrones pluscardive monastery.p!!. the new york public library astoa lercx and tlnpw miller ona, mor ay shir e. five monks, in kething and habite ſilver . and to ilk ane in victual i chalder, bolls per annum. . this priory ſtands on the north ſide of the river lochty, about fix miles south weſt from the town of elgin, near the entry of the val- ley, at the foot of the north hill, which reverberating the ſun beams, renders the place very warm. the walls of the precinct are almoſt entire, and make nearly a ſquare figure. the church ſtands about the middle of the ſquare; a fine edifice, in the form of a croſs, with a ſquare tower in the middle, all of hewn ſtone. the oratory and re- fectory join to the south end of the church, under which is the dor- mitory. the chapter houſe is a piece of curious workmanſhip; shaw * calls it an octagonal cube (by which, i ſuppoſe, he means that its heighth is equal to its diameter). the vaulted roof of this building is ſupported by one pillar. the lodgings of the prior, and cells of the monks were all contiguous to the church. here are, in different parts, paintings in freſco, on the walls. within the precincts were gardens and green walks. in a word, the remains of this priory ſhew, that theſe monks lived in a ſtately palace, and not in mean cottages. the prior was lord of regality within the priory lands, and had a diſtinct regality, in gravge hill, called the regality of staneforenoon.” at the reformation sir alexander seaton, afterwards earl of dunferm- line, was, anno , made commendator of pluſcarden ; he diſpoſed of the church lands and the patronage, the lands of grange hill, and the barony of pluſcarden, and old mill, february, , to ken- neth mackenzie, of kintail, who got a new grant of that barony, dated th march, , with all and ſundry the teind fheaves of the whole lands and barony, with their pertinents, which were never ſeparated from the ſtock, and of which the prior, and convent, and their prede- ceſſors, were in poffeffion in all times paſt. * in his hiſtory of the province of moray. Сcc may tplan in h that podnester tist arreta . n b e st ! spynje palace the new york public library astor, lencx and t'lien foundation, the net, public · aste t'la انها زمان . »» دره . آوا ، ، ، ، ، ، ، ، " 'inte castle mor ay shir e. built by biſhop david stewart, who died a. d. . this biſhop having ſome diſpute with the earl of huntley, laid him under an eccleſiaſtic cenſure, at which the gordons were ſo much provoked, that they threatened to pull the biſhop out of his pigeon holes, meani- ing the little old rooms of the former epiſcopal reſidence; the biſhop is faid to have replied, that he ſhould foou build a houſe, out of which the earl and his whole clan ſhould not be able to pull him. in the other three corners ſtood ſmall towers, with narrow rooms. on the south ſide of the area, between the towers, was a ſpacious ten- nis court; and parallel to it, on the inſide, a chapel: on the eaſt fide, between the turrets, were placed the offices and ſtables; and the north fide svas occupied by lodging rooms, ftore houſes, and cellars. the gate or chief entry was in the centre of the eaſt wall, ſecured by an iron portcullis. over this gate are placed the arms of biſhop john iones, with the initials of his name; he was conſecrated a. d. : his arms are three ſtars. this has occafioned a conjecture, though not ſupported by any other authority, that he was the firſt who built any part of that court.. in the south wall of david's tower are placed the arms of biſhops david stewart and patrick heyburn. the precinct of this palace was well fenced with a high and ſtrong wall, and within it were gar- dens, plots of graſs, and pleafant green walks. in sir alexander lindſay, ſon of the earl of crawford, was created lord spynie, whoſe grandſon dying , without iſſue, the lands reverted to the crown, and were granted to douglas, of spynie ; from whom the barony was purchaſed by james brodie, late of white- hill; and is now the property of james brodie, his grandſon. but the caſtle and precinct (paying annually about twelve pounds ſterling). belong to the crown. . spynie castle. plate ii. this pláte gives a diferent view of this venerable ruin. both were drawi a. d. . . s sen ruin. fife- .: '( ) f i f e s h i r e .. priory of pitte nwe e m. pittenweem, in the ſhire of fife, was a houſe of canons regular of st. auguſtine, dedicated to the virgin mary, and a cell to the mitred priory of st. andrew's. it was ſituated in the town of pit- tinweem, near the south eaſt corner of the county of fife : when or by whom it was founded is not mentioned by any writers i have ſeen. it had a great many lands lelonging to it, with the churches of rind, anſtruther-weſter, &c. which are now erected into a regality, called the regality of pittenweem, of which the lairds of anftruther are heritable bailies. colonel stuart, captain of his majeſty's guards, was ap- pointed commendator of pittleweem, in the year . his ſon, fred- rick stuart, was, in the year , by the favour of king james vi. raiſed to the dignity of lord pittenweem ; but dying without male iſſue, the honour became extinct. from the following ſtory, the original foundation of this monaſtery took place at a very early period. “ st. fillan, (if we may believe camerarius, who tells us the ſtory from the chronicle of paiſley) was born in the ſhire of fife, in the ſeventh century; his father, feriath, was a nobleman, and his mother's name was kentigerna. at his birth he appeared like a monſter, having ſomething in his mouth like a ſtone; upon which his father ordered him privately to be drowned, in an adjacent loch : but the boy being preſerved by the adminiſtration of angels, a holy biſhop, called ibarus, coming accidentally by, took up the child, and having baptized him, cauſed bring him up in all virtue - and literature, in the monaſtery of pittenweem, and at length, upon the the new york public library aitor, lercx and t'leen foundation, fife s h i r e. the death of the abbot, he was choſen in his place; but ſome time before his death he retired to the folitary deſert of tyrus, where he ſpent the remainder of his days in devotion, and died about the year of our lord ."* anno john, prior of pittenweem, was a ſubſcriber to the ſentence pronounced againſt the abbot of ferm, declaring him anz heretic. the account of the profits, given in at the reformation, amounted in money to the ſum of . . d. ; chaldron and bolls of wheat; chaldron and bolls of bear; chaldron, bolls, firlots, iį peck of meal ; chaldron, bolls, i firlot, pecks of oats ; i chaldron and bolls.of peas; and chaidron of ſalt. this view was drawn a. d. . roseythe castle. his caſtle ſtands in the county of fife, a little above the north ferry, oppoſite hopetoun houſe. i have not been able to learn at what time, or by whom, it was built. sir robert sibbald deſcribes it in his hiſtory of fife. « the caſtle of roſeythe,” ſays he, “ is re- markable, being ſituated upon a rock that advances a little into the forth : the water at full tide ſurrounds it, and makes it an iſland. it was anciently the ſeat of the stuarts, of roſeythe, or dunideer, brother germain to walter, the great stuart, of scotland, father to king ro- bert ii. ; that fainily failed lately: the laſt laird of that name dying unmarried, without brother or children, diſpoſed the eſtate to a ſtranger; and it is at preſent the poſſeſſion of primroſe, earl of roſeberry.” the tradition of the country, however unfounded, is, that the mother of oliver cromwell was born in this caſtle, and that the pro- tector himſelf therefore viſited it during the time he commanded the army in scotland. it is at preſent the property of lord hopetoun. * m.kenzie's lives of the sco. writ. i, , . d d d on c f i f e s h i r e. on the weſt ſide of the door, on the south wall of this caſtle, i:: the following inſcription : in dev tym drav yis cord ye bel to clinc ovhais mer y voce varnis to meat & drinc. in one of the barns belonging to mr. walker, at orchard head; is a ſtone, which he picked out of the rubbiſh of this caſtle ; on it is this inſcription : god grant al gloir, i may eschev bot in the cros of christ iesv. this view was drawn a. d. .. the abbey of bal merino. this was a ciſtertian abbey, of which keith gives the following account : “ balmerino or balmerinach, in fifeſhire, called by leſly balmuræum, and by fordun habitaculum ad mare, was an abbey of a beautiful ſtructure; ·begun by king alexander . and his mother, emergarda, daughter to the earl of beaumont, in the year . this lady bought the lands of balmarinach, and paid therefore a thouſand marks ſterling, to richard de ruele, ſon of henry, who reſigned bal- merinach, cultrach, and balandeari, in the court of king alexander, at forfar, the day after the feaſt of st. dennis, in the year ; upon which ground emergarda founded this monaſtery ; which was of old a ſtately building, pleaſantly ſituated near the ſhore, hard by the ſalt water of tay.' it is now for the most part in ruins. the monks of this place, which was dedicated to st. edward, as well as the virgin máry, ivere brought from melroſs. david de lindſay gave them an annuity out of his miil of kirkbuit, which was confirmed by king alexander ii. in the year : symon, ſon and heir of symon de kennir, granted them, in perpetual alms, a moiety of all his lands, in the feud of kinnir, which is now called f i f e s h i r e. vci do its endowments were very conſiderable; one in particular granted by david i. has cauſed much ſpeculation; this was “ the tyth of all the gold found in fife and fotheriff, which has been conſidered as a proof that gold was frequently found in the ſtreams flowing from the hills.” another grant, from the ſame monarch, inveſts this monaſtery with a right to part of the ſeals taken at kinghorn ; and a third, by malcolm iv. gives them the heads (except the tongues) of certaia finall whales, called creſpeis, which might be taken in ſuch parts of scotch water (the firth of forth) where the church ſtood; and the oil extracted from them was to be employed for its uſe. boru king malcolm and king alexander beſtowed ſeveral confi- derable eſtates on theſe monks; among them muffelburgh and inve- reſk, with the pariſh church, mills, and harbour, were given by king malcolm and his ſon, st. david. burnt iſand, called of old weſter- kinghorn, with its caſtle and harbour, belonged alſo to this place, with kinghorn, kirkaldy, and ſeveral other towns, &c. mentioned in the chartulary of this houſe, in the advocate's library. the firſt abbot of this monaftery was gosfridus, of whom the hiſtory of florence, of worceſter, gives the following account: “ a man of ſingular pictvĘ w ork! canterbury, by name gosfridus, was, at the requeſt of david, nurig bf the scots, and with the appro- bation of archbiſhop williate as the cted abbot of the place in scotland, called dumfermling; but' te hlas. ordained by robert, biſhop of st. andrew's, in the year . this gosfridus died in the year : for the chronicle of the holy croſs, at the aforeſaid year, ſays, gof- fridus, the firſt abbot of dumfermling, died, and his nephew, gau. fridus, ſucceeded in his place. the laſt abbot was george durie, commendator and archdeacon of st. andrew's. the church and monaſtery were dedicated to the holy trinity, and st. margaret, queen of scotland; it was united to the crown by the gth act of king james vith's th parliament. at the general diſſolution of the monaſteries, dumfermling was firſt given to secretary pitcairn, then to the maſter of gray, and after- wards was conferred upon alexander seton, a younger ſon of george lord seton, who was at firſt advanced to the honour of a peer of the realın, f i f e s h i r e. here, as has been before obſerved, ſeveral of the kings of scotland were buried; theſe were malcolm, edgar, alexander, david i. mal- colm iv. alexander ii. and robert bruce'; the two firſt apart, the others under as many flat ſtones, each nine feet long. the queen of malcolm is alſo here enterred. here is likewiſe the tomb of. robert pitcairn, the commendator above-mentioned. king malcolm canmore had a caſtle here; ſome ſmall re- mains of it, ſituated on a mount, in mr. phyn's gardens, at pittencrief, are ſtill viſible ; and there is a popular ſtory of a ſubterraneous paſſage from it to the monaſtery. a palace was afterwards built on the ſide next the town, which falling to decay, was rebuilt by anne, of den- mark, as appears by the following inſcription : propylæum et ſuperſtructas ædes vetuſtate et injuriis temporum col- lapſas dirutafque; a fundamentis in hanc ampliorem formam reſtituit et inſtauravit anna regina frederici danorum regis au- guftiffimi filia : anno falutis . this palace is now quite in ruins ; but nevertheleſs it may be plainly ſeen. it was once a magnificent building. here was born that unfortunate monarch king charles i. a gateway intervenes be- tween the royal reſidence and the abbey church. this view ſhews the north ſide of the charch and palace, called the king's houſe, drawn from a chamber window in the new inn. dumfermling abbey. plate ii. this plate gives a general view of theſe magnificent ruins. the building oppoſite, on the left, is the fratery ; to the right of it is the church and the ſcattered arches and window; on the right of all is ſaid to be the burial-place of ſome of the kings. y the fratery of dumfermling abbey. this view ſhews the beautiful window of the fratery or refectory, viewed on the outſide, and its adjoining gate. it was, with the other views of this abbey, drawn a. d. . the cu march cena songs vodoon s hr te es f - laurent ne er ch leh ats reless b dumiekm ]ng afbey. . . fu ert d rrow board these ech edin . belle body sensor ht ur re bened the new york public library astor, lencx and tilien foundation ; the new york public library', astor, lenox and thleen foundations ab ch tech ' t error i ,rarch , . t heerer, stan laws Α Η ΕΙΣ ΒΑΙ, f i f e s h i r e , the cathedral of st. andrew's. this was the metropolitical church of scotland, removed hither by ungus, in , after the conqueſt of the picts. this was the prince who firſt made the croſs of st. andrew the scottiſh badge. in the year st. andrew's was erected into an archbiſhoprick, by pope sixtus iv. at the interceſſion of james iii. the cathedral was begun by biſhop arnold, anno ; he dying the ſame year, the work ſeems to have proceeded very ſlowly, ſince it was not completed by biſhop lamberton till the year , one hun- dred and fifty-ſeven years from the time it was firſt begun. the following meaſures ſhew it was a very large building, and the remains evince it was elegantly finiſhed. its figure was that of a croſs; its length from eaſt to weſt meaſured three hundred and ſeventy feet; the tranſept three hundred and twenty-two. of this magnificent building nothing remains above ground but fragments of the eaſt and weſt ends ; the south wall of the choir, meaſuring in length about one hundred and eighty feet, and thirty in heighth ; there is alſo a wall at right angles to the choir, poſſibly part of the south tranſept ; the reſt was deſtroyed by knox and his facri- legious followers. : the weſt end conſiſts of a large gate, with a pointed arch, called the golden gate, probably from its having been once gilt; over it are a ſeries of arches, above which was a large window: on each ſide of the gate was a polygonal tower, crowned with a conical top. that on the north ſide is fallen down. the eaſt end has alſo two turrets, crowned with pointed tops, be- tween which were three windows, and over it a large one, nearly oc-- cupying the whole interval between the turrets. in the south wall is a range of windows with pointed arches; but in part ſuppoſed to have been the south tranſept : the windows are cir- cular, and at the bottom there runs a range of interlaced ſemicircular arches. at f i f e s h i r e. at the eaſt end is the chapel of st. regulus, chiefly remarkable for its tower, which is a ſquare of twenty feet; its heighth an hundred and three, or as ſome have it, an hundred and fix, feet. the body of this chapel is ſtill remaining; but the two ſide aiſles are demoliſhed. the doors and windows are round; ſome of their arches contain more than a ſemicircle. it has lately been repaired at the publick expence. the dominicans, or black friars, st. andrew's. tig this is ſaid to be part of the convent of black friars, probably the chapel ; it ſtands on the right hand ſide of the main ſtreet, going to- wards the cathedral, and feems, though ſmall, to have been a hand- ſome building. its arched ſtone roof greatly reſembles that of the col- lege of lincluden, near dumfries. here are neither monuments nor inſcriptions. the grammar school is within its precincts, and by ſome ſuppoſed to have been a part of the original building; but now entirely mo- dernifud. . .. · the dominicans or black friars, of st. andrew's, keith ſays, were founded by william wiſhart, biſhop of that city, in the year , and placed at the weſt part of the ſtreet, called the northgate. king james v. annexed to this houſe, at st. andrew's, the convents of coupar and st. monan’s, both in fife, at the deſire of friar john adamſon, profeſſor of divinity, and provincial of the order in scot- land. the charter is dated at edinburgh; the d january, the eighth year of his reign. this view was drawn a. d. . the castle of st. andrew's. this caſtle ſtands by the ſea ſide, on a ridge of rocks north of the town, ſaid to have been acceſſible only by a narrow paffage. on the eaſt and north the ruins of the walls, and the perpendicular rock below, tus the new york public library astor ency and the new york public library aktor, lencx ang | l£n / tna, atta to castle of sahihew". .fi f e s h i Ř e. below, are a great heighth above the ſea, which at high water, beats againſt them. the south wall has fallen to the water's edge ; large fragments of the south eaſt wall have tumbled inwards, and formed a ſteep bank, covered with graſs and weeds, not eaſily paſſable. the great ſquare tower is ſtill ſufficiently entire to give ſome idea of the elegance of the building. this caſtle was built in the year , by roger, biſhop of this ſee : he died in . it appears that at this time the ſea did not ap- proach to its walls, for a little to the south eaſt are ſtill to be ſeen, at low water, the remains of a ſmall chapel. befides this we alſo learn from ſome old writings, of an eſtate in the neighbourhood, that the proprietor had the privilege of driving his cattle and goods on the eaſt fide of the caſtle, which for ſome centuries paſt no man could have done. cardinal beaton greatly repaired and beautified this building. from a window in it he is ſaid to have enjoyed the cruel ſpectacle of wiſhart's execution, who was burnt for hereſy on a ſmall green op- poſite the caſtle. in the year norman leſlie, brother to the earl of rothes, with ſome of his followers, ſeizing the porter by ſurpriſe, made them- ſelves maſter of the caſtle, when one of them, peter carmichael, ran immediately to the cardinal's chamber, and flew him, and afterwards expoſed his body out of the very window whence he had ſeen the death of wiſhart. the perſons concerned in this murder ſeized and held out the caſtle for a year, though beſieged by the french commander with two great cannon, called crook-mow and deaf-meg. they afterwards ſurrendered to a french fleet, in july , and were tranſported to france. the caſtle was, in purſuance of an act of council, demolithed, left it ſhould ſerve as a receptacle for rebels ; and perhaps left it ſhould be occupied by the engliſh, who were then ex- pected to invade scotland. there is a common tradition, that this caſtle was demoliſhed by cromwell. this ſeems to be groundleſs; if that was the caſe, it muſt have previouſly been rebuilt or repaired. this view was drawn in . f ff den f i f e s h i r e. den miln castle. the following account of this caſtle is taken from sir robert sib- bald's hiſtory of fife : : " den miln castle was antiently the earl of fyfe's; and after the forefaulture king james ii. anno reg. , gave it to his be- loved and familiar ſervant james balfour,, ſon to sir john balfour, of balgarvie, knight; and is now the ſeat of sir michael balfour, his lineal ſucceſſor. sir james balfour ; lord lyon, a moſt knowing antiquary; and sir andrew balfour, a very learned phyſician, were fons of this houſe, and brothers ; vide memor. balfourian. hard by it is clatchart-craig, an high rock; on the top of it was antiently a ſtrong calle.” this view was drawn a. d. . ar. hot dy x wasan on minds here mundi pub, march. , . by shooper: den miin castle the new y:: | public libral, astor, lenox an til en foundations ( ) a r g y l e s h i r e. . dunstaffage castle, lorne. ti Пует . the builder of this caſtle and time of its conſtruction are unknown; it is certainly of great antiquity, and was once the ſeat of the pictiſh and scottiſh princes. here for a long time was preſerved the famous ſtone, the palladium of scotland, brought, as the legend has it, from spain. it was afterwards removed by kenneth ii. to scone, and is now in weſtminſter abbey ; brought thither by king edward i. on it was the following inſcription : ni fallat fatum scoti quocunque locatum invenient lapidem, regnare tenantur ibidem. the caſtle is ſquare ; the inſide only eighty-ſeven feet : it is partly in ruins, though in other parts habitable. three of the angles have round towers, one of them projecting but very little. the entrance is towards the ſea, at preſent by a ſtair-caſe; but probably, in former times, by a draw-bridge, which fell from a ſmall gateway: the ma-. ſonry appears very ancient; the tops einbattled or crenellated. this building is ſituated on a rock, whoſe fides have been ſcarped down to the form of the.caſtle, in order to render it ſteep and difficult of acceſs. in this caſtle was held by alexander mac dougal, lord of argyle, a friend to the engliſh ; but it was that year taken by robert bruce, when mac dougal ſuing to that prince for peace, was received into his favour. about the year this caſtle appears to have been the reſidence of the lords of the iſles; for here james, laſt earl of douglas, after his defeat in annandale, fled to donald, the regulus of the tiine, and prevailed on him to take arms, and carry on a plundering war againſt his monarch, james ii. at bec tech le pres ws s lalom an re el le el us ue at relea ter perle th f pub, oathe di dived ting . by j. hooperty thomas jealth a mewark castle the new york public library astor, lencx ane t'lien foundatione, the new york public library aptor, lenox and tilien foundations, edsa cr i'an itu dis direid wing .igor day! how mais fa ratza (estle. ( ) is l e of sky. dunvegan castle. the caſtle of dunvegan ſtands on a high rock, over a loch of the ſame name, a branch of loch falart ; part of it has been repaired in the modern taſte, but the greater portion of it is ancient. the oldeſt part is a ſquare tower, which, with a wall round the edge of the rock, was the original fortification, .“ in this caſtle,” ſays mr. pennant, “ is preſerved the braolauch- thi, or fairy flag of the family, beſtowed on it by titania, the ben shi, or wife of oberon, king of the fairies; the bleſſed it at the ſame time with powers of the firſt importance, which were to be exerted only on three occaſions : but on the laſt, after the end was obtained, an inviſible being is to arrive and carry off the ſtandard and ſtandard bearear, never more to be ſeen. a family of clan y faitter had this dangerous office, and held it by three lands in bracadale. the fag has been produced thrice, the firſt time in an unequal engagement againſt the clan-ronald, to whoſe light the macleods were multiplied ten fold; the ſecond preſerved the heir of the family, being then produced to ſave the longings of the lady of the family; and the third time to ſave my own) ; but it was ſo tattered that titania did not ſeem to think it worth ſending for. . this was a ſuperſtition derived from the norwegian anceſtry of the houſe, the fable was caught from the country, and might be of uſe to animate the clan. the danes had their magical ſtandard raefan, or, the raven embroidered in an inſtant by the three daughters of lodbroke and liſters of hinguir, hubbar or ivar. * sigurd had an enchanted fag c Та * afler, .vit. alfred . given . hin iconcochocoooo carbono fu? i ebrego . lange dunvegan castle the new york! public library aitor, lenox ano tilien foundation, i's le of sky. given him by his mother, with circumſtances ſomewhat ſimilar to the dunvegan colours; whoſoever bore it in the day of battle was to be killed ; accordingly in one of his battles, three ſtandard bearers were ſucceſſively ſain, but on the death of the laſt he obtained the vi&cry.* . here is preſerved a great ox-horn tipped with ſilver : the arm was twiſted round its ſpires, the mouth brought over the elbow, and then drank off. the northern nations held this ſpecies of cup in high ef- teem, and uſed the capacious horns of the great aurochs.f they graced the hoſpitable halls of kings, and out of them the antient heroes quenched their thirſt: haquin, § weary with ſlaughter, calls aloud for the mighty draught. heu labor immenfus, feffos quam vellicat artus ! quis mihi jam præbet cornua plena mero ! in this caſtle is alſo preſerved, a round ſhield made of iron, that even in its decayed ſtate weighs near twenty pounds ; itſelf a load in theſe degenerate days : yet they were in uſe no longer ago than in the beginning of the laſt century. each chieftain had his armour bearer, who preceded his maſter in time of war, and by my author's || account in time of peace; for they went armed even to church, in the manner the north americans do at preſent in the frontier ſettlements, and for the ſame reaſon, the dread of ſavages. in times long before thoſe the ancient scotch uſed round targets, made of oak, covered with the hides of bulls, and long ſhields, narrow below, and broad above, formed of pieces of oak or willow, fecured with iron : i gueſs them to be of the ſame kind with the norwegian íhields figured by wormius, and probably derived from the ſame sco arol * torfæus . + urorum cornibus, barbari ſeptentrionales potant, urnaſque binas capitis unius cornua implent. plinii lib. ii. c. . i saxo grammat. . wormii mon. dan. . | timothy poats ms. advoc. library s vide fig. . tab. xx. country; isle of s k y. country; they had alſo a guard for their ſhoulders, called scapul;* and for offenſive weapons had the bow, ſword, two-handed ſword, and lochaber ax, a weapon likewiſe of norwegian origin; but the image- tombs of antient warriors are the beſt lectures on this ſubject." to the liſt of offenſive weapons uſed by the scotch, may be added, leaden mallets + and jedburgh ſtaves ; the latter are deſcribed by major. i * vide fig. . tab. xx. + lamb's battle of flodden. i hiſt. major britt. p. . isle the new york public library aston, lexox one tilsen foundationt: isle of inch colm. his ſee thear accordyngiy; and had with him a coovent of a c. hakbutters and l. pioners, to kepe his houſe and land thear, and ii rowe barkes well furniſhed with municion, and lxx mariners, for them to kepe his waters, whereby it is thought he ſhall ſoon becum a prelate of great powr. the perfytnes of his religion is not alwaies to tarry at home, but ſumtime to rowe out abrode a viſitacion, and when he goithe, i have hard ſay he taketh alweyes his ſumners in barke with hym, which are very open mouthed, and never talk but they are harde a mile of, ſo that either for loove of his bleffynges, or fear of his curſinges, he is like to be ſouveraigne over moſt of his neighbours.” great part of this monaſtery is ſtill remaining; the cloyſters, with rooms over them, encloſing a ſquare area, are quite entire; the pit or priſon, is a moſt diſmal hole, though lighted by a ſmall window; the refectory is up one pair of ſtairs; in it, near the window, is a kind of ſeparate cloſet, up a few ſteps, commanding a view of the monks when at table; this is ſuppoſed to have been the abbot's ſeat; adjoining to the refectory is a room, from the ſize of its chimney, probably the kitchen. the octagonal chapter-houſe, with its ſtone roof, is alſo ſtanding; over it is a roon of the ſame ſhape, in all likelihood, the place where the charters were kept. here are the remains of an inſcription, in the black letter, which began with stultus. the inſide of the whole building ſeems to have been plaiſtered. near the water there is a range of offices. near the chapter-houſe is the remains of a very large ſemi- circular arch. in the adjoining grounds lies the old carved ſtone, ſaid to be a daniſh monument, engraved by sir robert sibbald, in whoſe book it is deli- neated as having a human head at each end; at preſent it is ſo defaced by time or weather, that nothing like a head can be diſtinguiſhed at either end : indeed it requires the aid of a creative fancy, to make out any of the ſculpture ; ſomething like a man with a ſpear is ſeen (by farp-lighted antiquaries) on the north ſide ; and on the south, the figure of a croſs; this ſtone has been moved from its original ſituation. this view ſhews the range of buildings near the sca, the entrance i ii into isle of inch colm. into the cloyſters, and the chapter-houſe, with the tower of the church, and fragment of the large arch above-mentioned. the abbey of inch col m. plate zi. this plate gives a nearer view of the entrance into the cloyſter, the tower of the church and large arch. ... the abbey of inch colm, plate iii. this view preſents the remains of the church, with part of the great arch, as viewed from a different ſtation. ; . . . plates i. and ii. were drawn a. d. , and plate iii. in . le tue est nbs unese v som failut matijekapat monastery inch colm. war . channel de re ed media : a ince colm hbbey } . . the new yorki public library astor, lencx ano tilien foundationb. ( ) adden da to vol. ii. berwickshire, little den tower. little den tower was a fortalice or border-houſe be- . longing to the kers: it is pleaſantly ſituated on a cliff, overlooking the river tweed. it is now entirely in ruins, and is the property of -- ker, ef newhorn, elq.--see the view facing page . vol. i. addenda to thrieve castle, galloway. the information of robert smith, formerly of the pariſh of duit ſcore, in the ſheriffdom of dumfries : thÀt as we were paſſing by the old caſtle of treve (where his late majeſty of bleſſed memory had a garriſon in the beginning of the unhappy troubles of his reign) old - gordon of earlſtown (who in a few days after was killed at bothwell bridge) in my hearing ſpoke to the officers that were about him as followeth—“ gentlemen, i was the man that commanded the party which took this caſtle from the late king, who had in it about two hundred of the name of maxwell, of whom the greateſt part being papiſts, we put them all to the ſword, and demoliſhed the caſtle as you ſee it: and now (though an old man) i take up arms againſt the ſon, whom i hope to ſee go the fame way that his father went : for we can never put truſt in a covenant-breaker : ſo gentlemen your cauſe is good, you need not fear to fight againſt a forſworn king."-rye-houſe plot. ad. a d d e n d a. addenda to castle campbell, perthshire. w the name of this caſtle was originally the caſtle of gloom, which was changed by act parl. james iv. anno : “our fouvrane lord of his royal autoritie, at the defyre and ſupplicatioun of his cou- fing and traiſt counfallour colone erle of argyle, lord campbell, and of lorne his chancellor, hes changeit the name of the caſtell and place quhik was callit the glume, perteining to his faid couſing, and in this parliainent makis mutation and changeing of the ſaid name, and ordanis the famin caſtell to be callit in tyme to cum campbell.”—black aēts, p. . the abbey of cambuskenneth, stirlingshire. the abbey of cambuſkenneth is, in fact, ſituated in the ſhire of clackmanuan ; yet, on account of its large poſſeſſions in stirlingſhire, was commonly deemed of that county: it ſtood on the border thereof, and its abbots were frequently denominated abbots of striveling. this abbey, once the richeſt in scotland, ſtands half a mile n. e. of the town of stirling, upon the north bank of the forth, and in a fort of peninſula formed by that winding river. the adjacent fields had been the ſcene of ſome tranſaction, in which one of the scottiſh mo- narchs, who bore the name of kenneth, had been concerned, and from thence the place received the name of cambuſkenneth, which fignified the field or creek of kenneth. the monaſtery was founded by david i. in the year , and filled with canons regular of the order of st. auguſtine, brought from aroiſe, near arras, in the province of artois in france, during the ſpace of two hundred years after its erection, this abbey was almoſt every year acquiring freſh additions of wealth and, power, by the donations of diverſe noblemen, biſhops and barons, be- fides many rich oblations daily made by perſons of every rank. among diveric hubert ru pro beats kereta goriale w lihat foto ww. jos ll te son nu urung pud, marck. , , by chooper: cametskindle the fihy a d d e n d a. diverſe remarkable dovations of fiſheries, paſturage, &c. was one granted by the founder king david, of half the ſkins and tallow of all the beaſts ſlain for the king's uſe at stirling. during the wars with england, in the reign of david bruce, this monaſtery was pillaged of its moſt valuable furniture. to replace this lofs, william deladel, biſhop of st. andrew's, made a grant to this community of the vicarage of clackmannan. in , the inonaſtery was ſpoiled, and great part of the fabric caſt down by the reformers : ſeveral of the monks embraced the reformation, but on that account had their portions prohibited by the queen regent.. mr. david panther was the laſt eccleſiaſtic, who poſſeſſed this lucrative abbotſhip. during the commotions attending the reformation, church benefices were often ſeized on by thoſe in power, without any lawful authority. john, earl of marr, afterwards regent, (according to mr. nimmo) affumed the difpofil of the revenues of this abbey, if he did not actually poileſs a conſiderable part of them: he had, during the reign of james v. been appointed commendator of inch mahome priory, which, together with that of roſneth in dunbartonſhire, were dep ndent on cambuſkenneth. after the reformation had taken place, we find adam ertkine, one of his nephews, commendator of cam- buſkenneth. moreover the earl himſelf carried off the ſtones of the fabric to build his own houſe, ſtiil called marr's work, in the town of stirling. . in , by virtue of an order from queen mary and the privy council, an account was taken of all the revenues belonging to cathe- drals, abbies, priories, and other religious houſes, that ſtipends might be modified to the reformed clergy, who were to have a third of the be- nefices. according to that account, the revenues of cambuſkenneth were as follows : . . }d. scots money ; ii chalders, bolls, firlots of wheat ; chalders, bolls, firlots, pecks, lippies of bear; chalders, bolls, ficlots, pecks, lippies of ineal; chalders, bolls, firlots, pecks, lippies of oats: in whole, chalders, bolls, i firlot, pecks, lippies. after the acceſſion of james vi. to the crown of evgland, the temporality of cambuſkenneth, together with that of dryburgh and the k k k priory ov a d d e n d a. priory of inch mahome, were conferred to john earl of marr, ſon to the regent, that, to uſe the terms of the grant, he might be in a better condition to provide for his youngeſt ſons, whom he had by a lady, mary stewart, daughter of the duke of lennox, and a relation to his majeſty. the barony of cambuſkenneth, in which the mo- naſtery was ſituated, was ſettled by the earl on alexander erſkine, one of his ſons, who dying without iſſue, it came to charles erſkine, of alva, his brother, whoſe poſterity continued in the poffeffion of it till about the year , when it was purchaſed by the town-council of stirling, for the benefit of cowan's hoſpital, to which it ſtill belongs. this abbey was once an extenſive building, but nothing of it at preſent remains, except a few broken walls, the bell tower, and ſtair- caſe, which tower has lately been barbarouſly ſmeared over with whiting; ſome remains of the garden are alſo to be ſeen, and the burial place of k. james and his queen: po traces of the church remain. one of the bells belonging to the monaſtery is ſaid to have been for ſome time in stirling; but as tradition goes, the fineſt was loſt in the river, as they were tranſporting it. several parliaments were held in this monaſtery, and here in the clergy, earls, and barons, with a great number of an interior rank, ſwore fealty to david bruce; and at the ſame time here was ſolcmnized the marriage between andrew murray, of bothwell, and chriſtian bruce, fiſter to king robert. i many of the abbots of this houſe were men of eminence in the po- litical as well as literary line. the end of the second volume. ม ร the fables of john gay illustratedjohn gay, o. f. owen h * lki?ox library ¥vt*rtttclt tn t . { public lid? h£&&i?lx° founoatxuns i. \m_i:s or john oai . - - ■ . • * i}, n?i'tr ; t` ` r\ . :..\ '- ` ... c : ` -: j''" ! ;»..; *- • vt the fables of john gay illustrated. with an original memoir_ introduction_ and annotations, bt octavius freire owen, m.a. f.s.a. of christ cotroh_ oxford. smmb €brii<m. one hundred and twenty-six drawings bt william harvey_ engraved by the brothers dalziel. george routletsge & co. farrlkgr/on street, , beeemajf bib?i t, key,'_ york. • • * • <mj hon*; . v * rin: \«tt.c;^ay -p)fihtkr» jjheaii street hill. to my children, theodore, edith, florence, eustace, and rupert, this edition of a work framed to amuse the child and yet instruct the man, is inscribed, with every affectionate desire for their improvement, octavius freire owen. f contents. part i. vage preface . xi biographical notice of the author introduction to the fables.—the shepherd and the philo- sopher is no, . to his highness william, duke of cumberland.—the lion, the tiger, and the traveller . the spaniel and the chameleon . the mother, the nurse, and the faihy ....... . the eagle and the assembly of animals . the wild boar and the ram . the miser and plutus . the lion, the fox, and the geese . the lady and the wasp . the bull and the mastiff . the elephant and the bookseller . the peacock, the turkey, and the goose ...... . cupid, hymen, and plutus !* . the tame stag £ . the monkey who had seen the world . the philosopher and the pheasants t'i . the pin and the needle . the shepherd's dog and the wolf c vlll contents. no. page . the painter who pleased nobody and everybody ... . the lion and the cub . the old hen and the cock . the ratcatcher and cats . the goat without a beard . the old woman and her cats . the butterfly and the snail . the scold and the parrot . the cur and the mastiff . the sick man and the angel . the persian, the sun, and the cloud . the fox at the point of death . the setting dog and the partridge . the universal apparition . the two owls and the sparrow . the courtier and proteus ill . the mastiff . the barley-mow and the dunghill . pythagoras and the countryman . the farmer's wife and the raven . the turkey and the ant . the father and jupiter . the two monkeys . the owl and the farmer . the jugglers . the council op horses . the hound and the huntsman . the poet and the rose . the cur, the horse, and the shepherd's dog . the court of death . the gardener and the hog . the man and the flea . the hare and many friends ', contents. ix part ii. w». page . the dog and the fox. to a lawyer . the vulture, the sparrow, and other birds. to a friend in the country . the baboon and the poultry. to a levee-hunter .... . the ant in office. to a friend . the bear in a boat. to a coxcomb . the 'squire and his cur. to a country gentleman .... . the countryman and jupiter. to myself • . the man, the cat, the dog, and the fly. to my native country . the jackal, leopard, and other beasts . the degenerate bees. to the rev. dr. swift, dean of st. patrick's . the pack-horse and the carrier. to a young nobleman. . pan and fortune. to a young heir . plutus, cupid, and time . the owl, the swan, the cock, the spider, the ass, and the farmer. to a mother . the cook-maid, the turnspit, and the ox. to a poor man. . the ravens, the sexton, and the earth-worm. to laura. . ay and no peeface. the ear of self-love, too sensitive to bear the direct voice of truth, can tolerate only its rever- beration, from a fable. rebuke a courtier for his sycophancy, a lawyer for his cunning, a prelate for his pride, and he would shrink with disgust, evade with dexterity, or resent with indignation: yet the one, can censure the duplicity of the ape; the second, astutely impugn the fox; the third, sententiously anathematize the peacock; until the moral, like a glass, presents to each original, the fabled personifi- cation of his own vice, and like an awkward swords- man, he suddenly finds himself wounded by the blow, beneath which he expected to prostrate bis opponent. xll preface. the main object of fable, is to render the mind its own willing instructor, by gratifying self- esteem, in the opportunity afforded, for exercising the power of discovering truth, through the veil of allegory; instead of arousing disgust, by didactic application, which always offends our vanity, through placing us in the position of persons advised. indeed, "the greatest parts," says aristotle, "by which fable allures the soul, are the resolutions and discoveries," (aristotle, poet. c. ;) and this is the reason why such writings, not only "afford much stronger proofs of genius, than mere narrative," since they require both judgment and imagination, but also why they should not be "too obvious, trite, nor trivial." (vide dodsley, essay on fable.) i do not pause now, to discuss the concomitants of such compositions, since they are amply elucidated in both the authors referred to; it is sufficient merely to allude to the manner in which i have endeavoured, in the present work, "to point a moral, and adorn a tale," and by rendering the mind's derivation of the former from the latter, more forcible, to corroborate the design of fable. for this purpose, i have relied chiefly upon the preface. xlll exercise of originality and common sense. we live in the days of literary veneer; the true spanish mahogany, even the honduras of originality, is nearly withered to the stump; nothing is said but what has been spoken before, whether it be, "i do not love thee, dr. fell," to be found in the "non amo te," of martial,—or the epigrams of a modern ironist, three or four of which, i discovered, the other day, in a volume of very old plays. the "points" of our best novels, are merely old friends in a new dress; the " tags" of our dramas, the airs of our overtures, are the odds and ends of ancient compositions; in fact, most of our literature resembles the restorations of dealers in mediaeval furniture, wherein carved bits, old and new, are dove-tailed, pieced, and well varnished with antique colour, to form seats for modern fame to rest upon! in this epoch of plagiarism, happy is that jackdaw, who can find a feather of some former peacock, or a rag from the mantle of some byegone prophet, with which to cover his own literary bareness. although, therefore, i have not hesitated to confirm my author by quotations from others, i have illus- trated him chiefly from my own mind, have created, rather than copied: the biography, also, has been xiv preface. compiled from the latest materials, some of which have been discovered since the death of dr. johnson. one word as to the apparent satirical hardness of the notes. sarcasm, it is true, is a peevish dog, kept in the house of malevolence; but, nevertheless, hu- manity is a thick-skinned animal, and its vanity so "films and gilds" its vice, as frequently to require for its cure the actual cautery; in fact, few of its follies can be removed, without the use of the knife. the notes have been written in rustic seclusion, where the mind, cut off from social affinities, and acting the spectator, rather than the player, looks more unimpassioned upon the game of life, and he who "in meditation lives," is likely to— "shape hia weapon with an edge severe." yet to be candid, the satirist must first impugn himself, for his own heart presents the telescopic view, diminished but not wholly obliterated by self-love, of the shores and strands of evil he sees, "in extenso," around him; and he must confess that nature has made "the whole world, kin,"—marvellously of a pattern,— so that justice and thief, instructor and pupil, phy- sician and patient, oneself and one's neighbour, are life of john gay. the author of the following fables is an example of the fickleness of fortune, and the independence of talent and position: descended from an old family, he inherited no ancestral wealth, and was a confirmed poet, though placed apprentice to a silk-mercer. the manor of goldworthy, in devonshire, had long been in possession of his family, but its name does not appear in the villare. the poet was however of norman origin; his ancestor, gilbert le gay, gave name to a place called hampton-gay in northamptonshire, and by marriage with the family of curtoyse obtained possession of goldworthy. the place of his birth was at barnstaple; the date of it . his first instructor, mr. luck, probably fostered, though he could not create, a talent for the muses in his pupil, ("poeta nascitur non fit,") by a volume of latin and english verses, which he published shortly before he retired from the superintendence of the school ( ) since the publication of johnson's biography of gay, a singular discovery of a mass of mss., concealed in a secret drawer in an easy-chair belonging to the poet, has led to the accurate knowledge of his birthplace having been barnstaple. the reader will find a full account of this discovery, and of the papers, in a small volume in the british museum, called gay's chair, with poems never before printed, from the mss. of the rev. joseph bailer, his nephew, edited by henry lee, author of "caleb quotem." hence, upon bailer's authority i have stated him to have been born at barnstaple: goldworthy is near bideford. b life of john gay. at barnstaple. when gay quitted it, to be bound to a mercer's counter in london, we may judge of the irksomeness of his new position by his silence respecting it, and by the readiness with which his new master shortly discharged him. in he was enabled, by being appointed secretary to the duchess of monmouth, (an office which procured him more leisure,) to give a decided evidence of poetic wit and worldly wisdom, by inscribing a poem on 'rural sports,' to mr. pope, the rising sun of whose reputation called into life, with the usual tendency of expansive intellect, many kindred though less known aspirants for fame. besides this work, and his articles in the 'spec- tator' and 'guardian,' the recommendation of a lively temper and genial disposition, not only laid the foun- dation of an enduring friendship between pope and himself, but also at once obtained him admission into that intellectual circle, where his talents excited no envy from their predominance, and his amiability ensured regard. 'the shepherd's week,' published in the course of the succeeding year, was written, it is supposed, at pope's suggestion, with a view of retorting upon a criticism by steele in the 'guardian' in favour of ambrose philips, who, to the disparagement of pope, is named by the critic as the only successor, in that style, worthy to be named after theocritus, virgil, and spenser. as the design was to show that to copy nature accurately, rusticity should be represented in all its ignorant grossness, the imitation by gay in the proem to the pastorals is carried out in such a style of obsolete expression, as would at once have buried them in contempt, had not the evident endeavour at truth elicited approval. 'the wife life of john gat. of bath,' a comedy brought upon the stage in , was unfortunate throughout, for as it obtained no favour at its first production, so seventeen years afterwards, when the 'beggar's opera' had achieved universal renown, it was doomed to reiterated rejection. with the death of queen anne, gay, who had been appointed secretary to lord clarendon in his embassy to hanover, saw his anticipations of patronage decline, for in swift's opinion the dedication of his 'shepherd's week' to bolingbroke, had lost him the favour of the hanoverian family. still, at this period of his career his spirits seem to have been more firm against disappointment, for he wrote a poem upon the arrival of the princess of wales, and reaped the reward of perseverance so far that, "both the prince and princess went to see his 'what d' ye call it?' a kind of mock tragedy, in which the images were comic and the action grave; so that, as pope relates, mr. cromwell, who could not hear what was said, was at a loss how to reconcile the laughter of the audience with the solemnity of the scene." the popularity of this piece aroused envy, and a reply was written to it by mr. theo- bald and griffin (a player), entitled "the key to the what d' ye call it " which gay declared "called him a block- head and mr. pope a knave." his expectations that the success of this burlesque would assist his promotion, proving illusory, he, with the ready depression of a weak man, fell from hope to despondency, so that had it not been for the attention of lord burlington, mr. pulteney, and lord harcourt, he would never have been able to endure a fresh rebuff, which most deservedly befel him in . having endeavoured in 'three hours after marriage' to burlesque dr. woodward, a geologist of estimable character, ( ) johnson. life of john gay. the comedy, a joint production of pope, gay, and arbuth- not, so disgusted the audience in the scene where wood- ward was ridiculed palpably, by the introduction of a crocodile and a mummy, that it was hissed off with well-merited censure, and inflicted public disgrace upon its authors. unaccustomed to the use of wealth, the possession of a thousand pounds, the product of the publication of his poems by subscription, was an event equally beyond his prudence or his equanimity. distrustful of the former, he called in, as his financial advisers, lewis, who counselled him to live upon the interest and intrust it to the funds; arbuthnot, who advised him to live on the principal and trust it to god; pope and swift, who told him to purchase an annuity. on the other hand his equanimity was soon banished, when craggs presented him with some south sea stock, and he dreamed of visions of twenty thousand pounds; but fearful of obstructing his own fortune, he disregarded the advice of fenton to purchase an annuity, which, as he said, "would make him sure of a clean shirt and a shoulder of mutton every day," so that when the bubble burst, and the substance dwindled to the shadow, poor gay's life almost sank beneath the sudden transition from fancied wealth to real penury. it is the delight of fortune to mock, with capricious absurdity, the efforts of men to rise above her power, and comicality frequently attends the introduction of life's most important events. upon one occasion gay, who had written a tragedy called 'the captives,' was commanded to read before the princess of wales. a large japan screen was placed near him, which he not observing, threw down in his respectful advances towards the august party, reverence for whom completely absorbed the atten- life of john gay. tion of a poet's mind, usually incapable of more than one idea at a time; the princess and her ladies screamed so violently as entirely to discomfit our author, who was nevertheless still expected to read his play. it was after- wards acted seven nights, the author's third night being by command of their royal highnesses, and though its subsequent fate is little known, it had the effect of rousing gay from indolence, by inspiring him with the idea that he still possessed court favour. under this impression he undertook, in , to write a volume of fables for the young duke of cumberland, and had already magnified the promised reward "with all the wild expectations of indigence and vanity." but when the prince and princess became king and queen, and he found all his hopes contracted into the paltry appointment of gentleman usher to the princess louisa, his disgust became intole- rable, and finding that verses and supplications, flattery and remonstrance, were equally unavailing, he appears to have concentrated his wrath in the vehement tirade against courts with which his fables and other works abound, until he partially forgot it in the signal success attending his beggar's opera. this remarkable production was composed in ridicule of the italian drama; cibber rejected it at drury lane, but rich having accepted it, it rendered, as a wit observed, "gay rich and rich gay." it was framed upon a sugges- tion of swift, who remarked one day to the poet what an odd, pretty sort of thing a newgate pastoral would make. gay improved upon this original notion, and determined to compose a comedy upon it. it has been variously criti- cised as to its effect upon morals, swift upholding, dr. herring, archbishop of canterbury, censuring it, and many asserting that since its production robbery increased. life op john gat. johnson's opinion seems hardly given with his usual judg- ment, for whilst stating that it is not likely to do good, he yet thinks that it cannot produce evil, because highway- men, &c. do not frequent the playhouses. this is falla- cious, for there is no production which does not have a tendency of some sort, and therefore cannot be neutral towards the induction of good or evil into the mind; next, the spectacle of crime under circumstances which rob it of its turpitude, and invest it with pseudo-heroism, warps the judgment from its true decision, and recommends vice under the garb of nobility; and lastly, not only in our day, but in johnson's, the most degraded culprits have had their scenic tastes, which they gratify by attendance at theatrical exhibitions. moreover such spectacles are not so pernicious in the effect they produce upon those who are thieves already, as from their tendency to induce the honest and upright to degenerate. the lord chamberlain seems to have been of this opinion, for, notwithstanding the astounding success of the 'beggar's opera,' he pro- hibited the appearance of the second part, entitled 'polly,' which " oppression," as gay called it, turned out profitable, for he recompensed himself by a subscription, which nearly tripled the amount of the first part; the opera realizing £ , and the second part obtaining almost £ . his latter life was passed in the house of the duke of queensberry, who so entirely accommodated himself to the humour, or frailty, of his guest, as in some sort to become his steward, managing his money, and giving it to him as he wanted it; so true is it that the weakness of amiability elicits more regard, than the independence of consummate intellect. yet notwithstanding the atten- tion of his friend, the venom of disappointment rankled within his breast, and his life was rendered gloomy by the life op john gat. realization of that court treachery which, experience might have taught him to expect, or religion to despise. he died on the th december, , aged , having been hurried out of existence with more precipitancy than arbuthnot states he ever knew, by a return of his old malady, a colic, and was buried in westminster abbey,— a recompense which this nation generally extends to its talented men, for having neglected them during their lives! in england, we bury genius superbly; in france, they maintain it. he left £ (not £ as johnson says), which sum was divided between his two sisters, katherine bailer and joanna fortescue. swift, who had greater affection for gay than he probably felt for any man, was so impressed with a foreboding of some misfortune, as to leave the letter containing the intelli- gence of the poet's death for some days unread, and even that rugged nature was not above practising the common self-deception with which we sometimes cheat ourselves of the full bitterness of sorrow, by mixing it with our courage, —drop by drop! the great merit attached to gay on the score of origi- nality, consists in his having been the first to bring out the ballad opera, and thereby to have hit the public taste by a species of composition appropriate, if not elevated. indeed the general character of his intellect, like that of his disposition, seems to have been of a moderate temper, in which correctness took the medium place between genius and tenuity. pope describes him as a natural man, with- out design, who spoke what he thought, and just as he thought it; of a timid temper, and fearful of giving offence to the great, which latter habit, he says, "was of no avail;" he might have added, neither will it ever succeed, since the world, to be managed properly, must, as charles the fifth life op john gat. • observed, feel "the iron hand in the silk glove." in gay, it is certain, we discover none of those faults which -"lofty genius owes half to the ardour which itself bestows:—" his policy lay in the natural exercise of his disposition, which was so plastic as readily to succumb to others, in contented servility. his fables, always a favourite work, promise to continue so, abroad as at home, for a translation of them into french by the chevalier de chatelain has already been received with approbation, and they have been rendered into urdic and bengali poetry. johnson remarks that gay seems to confound the strict fable with "tales" and "allegorical prosopopoeias," and that from some of them it will be difficult to extract any moral principle. la fon- taine also states that in the true fable none but animals are admitted, and quotes aristotle's authority for excluding trees; but we may notice that the stagirite in his defi- nition, extends the idea of fable widely, when he calls it "an imitation of action;" and not only .<esop, whom he refers to as the great fabulist, introduces plants and trees often, but the most ancient fable extant, that of jotham, is framed upon them. after gay's death, a second volume of fables, more political in character, and also some other pieces, as "the comedy of the distressed wife," "the rehearsal at gotham," &c. appeared, but these last will not sustain his reputation, either on the score of judg- ment or originality; the fables are throughout distin- guished by smoothness of versification, and a style of expression easy and apposite. the epitaph he proposed for himself, "life's a jest, and all things show it; i thought so once, but now i know it"— ( ) about b.c. . vide judges, c. ix. life of john gat. is the flippant tribute of folly to irreligion. his friends, "charles and catherine, duke and duchess of queens- berry, who loved this excellent person living and regretted him dead, caused a monument to be erected to his memory," upon which pope wrote the following lines, in all the fulsome fervour of poetic hyperbole:— "of manners gentle, of affections mild, in wit a man, simplicity a child, with nature's humour, temp'ring virtuous rage, form'd to delight at once, and lash the age; above temptation in a low estate, and uncorrupted, ev'n among the great; a safe companion, and an easy friend, unblamed through life, lamented in thy end— these are thine honours, not that here thy bust is mix'd with heroes, or with kings thy dust, but that the worthy and the good shall say, striking their pensive bosoms,—here lies gay." fables. got % jirei. to his royal highness william, duke of cumberland. mirpduction. shepherd and the philosopher. remote from cities lived a swain, unvex'd with all the cares of gain; his head was silver'd o'er with age, and long experience made him sage; in summer's heat and winter's cold he fed his flock and penn'd the fold: introduction. his hours in cheerful labour flew, nor envy nor ambition knew: his wisdom and his honest fame through all the country raised his name. a deep philosopher (whose rules of moral life were drawn from schools) the shepherd's homely cottage sought, and thus explored his reach of thought: "whence is thy learning hath thy toil o'er books consumed the midnight oil? hast thou old greece and rome survey'd, and the vast sense of plato weigh'd? hath socrates thy soul refined, and hast thou fathom'd tully's mind? or, like the wise ulysses, thrown, by various fates, on realms unknown, hast thou through many cities stray'd, their customs, laws, and manners weigh'd " the shepherd modestly replied,— "i ne'er the paths of learning tried; nor have i roam'd in foreign parts to read mankind, their laws and arts; for man is practised in disguise, he cheats the most discerning eyes: who by that search shall wiser grow, when we ourselves can never know the little knowledge i have gain'd, was all from simple nature drain'd; ( ) the retirement of the country has ever formed a fertile theme of praise to poets, but it depends upon the disposition to derive good from it,— "coelum non animum mutant qui trans mare currunt."—hor. ( ) "the noblest study of mankind is man."—pope. yet socrates himself confessed that, after all, so far was he from realizing the saying of thales, "know thyself," that "he only knew that he knew nothing." for rules of self-knowledge see addison, spectator, no. . introduction. but envy, calumny, and spite, bear stronger venom in their bite. thus every object of creation can furnish hints to contemplation, and from the most minute and mean, a virtuous mind can morals glean." "thy fame is just," the sage replies, "thy virtue proves thee truly wise. pride often guides the author's pen; books as affected are as men: but he who studies nature's laws, from certain truth his maxims draws; and those, without our schools, suffice to make men moral, good and wise." ( ) because, says swift,— —;"now and then beasts may degenerate into men." ( ) in addition to revelation, god has left us two records of his nature, and our duty: one internal, conscience; the other external, the aspect of all created things. hence proper observation and thought upon the different phases of creative economy, constitute an element, and a most material one, of moral disci- pline, and it was well said by the wise italian bishop, that he learned patience by the right use of his eyes. "for," said he, "i first look up to heaven and remember that all my business is to get there: next i look to earth, and call to mind how small a portion i shall require of it when dead: lastly, i look into the world, and see how many there are, more miserable than myself. thus i learn where true happiness is placed, where all our cares must end, and what little reason i have to repine." but retirement has its abuses, as well as contemplation its benefits: rural apathy is not reflection, nor can there be a greater waste than for vast talents to be doomed to rust, in vulgar solitude. there are who mistake the process for the result, and who in the vain affectation of philosophical abstinence from society, go, as eve did, to meet the devil in private. wholesome activity of mind and body, sufficient to employ both, in the service of god and man, comports best with the design of the creator, and therefore with the happiness of the creature. otherwise, to shut the door, will not shut out temptation, but solitude will echo to the discontented repinings of an aimless existence, or to the perturbed pleadings of ill-suppressed desires. "possessing all i want," said rasselas, " i find one day and one hour exactly like another, except that the latter is still more tedious than the former;" and the hermit in the same work, though he had lived fifteen years in solitude, had "no desire that his example should gain any imitators." the stagnant pool breeds reptiles, and chaos is twin-born with darkness and confusion,—the moral world, in this respect as in others, bears close resemblance to the physical! the lion, the tiger, and the traveller. accept, young prince! the moral lay, and in these tales mankind survey; with early virtues plant your breast, the specious arts of vice detest. princes, like beauties, from their youth are strangers to the voice of truth. ( ) compare the third satire of juvenal. there is one exception, namely, *hey hear truth when it is profitable to the courtier to tell it, but never the whole truth. fable i. learn to contemn all praise betimes, for flattery's the nurse of crimes: friendship by sweet reproof is shown; (a virtue never near a throne;) in courts such freedom must offend; there, none presumes to be a friend. to those of your exalted station, each courtier is a dedication. must i, too, flatter like the rest, and turn my morals to a jest? the muse disdains to steal from those who thrive in courts by fulsome prose. but shall i hide your real praise, or tell you what a nation says?— they in your infant bosom trace the virtues of your royal race; in the fair dawning of your mind discern you generous, mild, and kind: they see you grieve to hear distress, and pant already to redress. go on; the height of good attain, nor let a nation hope in vain: for hence we justly may presage the virtues of a riper age. true courage shall your bosom fire, and future actions own your sire. cowards are cruel, but the brave love mercy, and delight to save. ( ) "nothing misbecomes the man that would be thought a friend, like flattery."—rowe. vide also shakspear, king lear, act iv. sc. . ( ) the old habit is too strong for eradication; gay falls into the language of courts, just after he had repudiated it. the portuguese have a quaint but true proverb, "an old ass will never learn a new language." fable i. a tiger, roaming for his prey, sprung on a traveller in the way; the prostrate game a lion spies, and on the greedy tyrant flies: with mingled roar resounds the wood, their teeth, their claws, distil with blood; till, vanquish'd by the lion's strength, the spotted foe extends his length. the man besought the shaggy lord, and on his knees for life implored: his life the generous hero gave. together walking to his cave, the lion thus bespoke his guest: "what hardy beast shall dare contest my matchless strength you saw the fight, and must attest my power and right. forced to forego their native home, my starving slaves at distance roam within these woods i reign alone; the boundless forest is my own. bears, wolves, and all the savage brood, have dyed the regal den with blood. these carcases on either hand, those bones that whiten all the land, my former deeds and triumphs tell, beneath these jaws what numbers fell." "true," says the man, "the strength i saw might well the brutal nation awe; but shall a monarch, brave, like you, place glory in so false a view? robbers invade their neighbour's right: be loved; let justice bound your rnight. fable l mean are ambitious heroes' boasts of wasted lands, and slaughter'd hosts: pirates their power by murders gain; wise kings by love and mercy reign. to me your clemency hath shown the virtue worthy of a throne. heav'n gives you power above the rest, like heav'n, to succour the distrest." "the case is plain," the monarch said, "false glory hath my youth misled; for beasts of prey, a servile train, have been the flatterers of my reign. you reason well: yet tell me, friend, did ever you in courts attend for all my fawning rogues agree, that human heroes rule like me." ( ) in the treatise of xenophon entitled " hiero, or the condition of kings," set forth by montaigne in his essays, the reader will find a faithful exposition of the miserable condition of princes, especially in their being deprived of friendship, and the true object of action. their real pleasure should be in bestowing good, for true greatness ought to resemble the sun, in that the higher it rises, the further it disperses light and joy. the history of the world, however, unfor- tunately corroborates the truth of the lion's remark, and the sceptres of few princes have borne the emblem of the dove. the last words of charles the fifth, of france, ought to form the motto of every prince:—" frenchmen who now hear me, i address myself to the supreme being and to you i find that kings are happy but in this—that they have the power of doing good." ( ) vide shakspear, merchant of venice, act iv. sc. . the spaniel and the chameleon. a spaniel, bred with all the care that waits upon a favourite heir, ne'er felt correction's rigid hand; indulged to disobey command, in pamper'd ease his hours were spent: he never knew what learning meant. such forward airs, so pert, so smart, were sure to win his lady's heart; fable ii. each little mischief gain'd him praise; how pretty were his fawning ways! the wind was south, the morning fair, he ventures forth to take the air: he ranges all the meadow round, and rolls upon the softest ground; when near him a chameleon seen, was scarce distinguish'd from the green. "dear emblem of the flattering host! what, live with clowns! a genius lost! to cities and the court repair; a fortune cannot fail thee there: preferment shall thy talents crown; believe me, friend; i know the town." "sir," says the sycophant, "like you, of old, politer life i knew: like you, a courtier born and bred, kings lean'd their ear to what i said: my whisper always met success; the ladies praised me for address: i knew to hit each courtier's passion, and flatter'd every vice in fashion: but jove, who hates the liar's ways, at once cut short my prosperous days, and, sentenced to retain my nature, transform'd me to this crawling creature. doom'd to a life obscure and mean, i wander in the silvan scene: for jove the heart alone regards; he punishes what man rewards.— ( ) compare sam. xvi. . fable ii. how different is thy case and mine? with men at least you sup and dine; while i, condemn'd to thinnest fare, like those i flatter'd, feed on air." ( ) the raillery at court sycophants naturally pervades our poet's writings who had suffered so much from them: here, however, he intimates something more, namely, the apposite dispensations to men's acts, even in this world. the crafty is taken in his own guile, the courtier falls by his own arts, and the ladder of ambition only prepares for the aspirant a further fall. • "unde altior esset casus, et impulsse prasceps immane ruinae."—juvenal. the mother, the nurse, and the fairy. "give me a son!"—the blessing sent, were ever parents more content? how partial are their doting eyes! no child is half so fair and wise. wak'd to the morning's pleasing care, the mother rose, and sought her heir: she saw the nurse like one possest, with wringing hands and sobbing breast. ( ) "i never yet saw that father who, let his son be never so decrepit or scald- pated, would not own him: not but that, unless he were totally besotted and blinded with his paternal affection, he does not well enough discern his defects, but because, notwithstanding all his faults, he is still his."—moxtaigne. fable iii. "sure some disaster has befell: speak, nurse; i hope the boy is well." "dear madam, think not me to blame; invisible the fairy came: your precious babe is hence convey'd, and in the place a changeling laid. where are the father's mouth and nose? the mother's eyes, as black as sloes? see, here, a shocking awkward creature, that speaks a fool in every feature." "the woman's blind," the mother cries, "i see wit sparkle in his eyes." "lord, madam, what a squinting leer! no doubt the fairy hath been here." just as she spoke, a pigmy sprite pops through the keyhole swift as light; perch'd on the cradle's top she stands, and thus her folly reprimands. "whence sprung the vain conceited lie, that we the world with fools supply? what! give our sprightly race away for the dull helpless sons of clay!— besides, by partial fondness shown, like you, we dote upon our own. where yet was ever found a mother who'd give her booby for another? and should we change with human breed, well might we pass for fools indeed." ( ) the application of this fable is two-fold; for whilst it slightly touches, by inference, the shortsightedness of human wishes, it also alludes to the false judgment which parental fondness forms, of juvenile error. the severe sarcasm passed by the fairy upon mortal infirmity, is as true, as the readiness with which we allow a reason to operate in our own case, and forbid it in another's, is irequent. johnsons famous paraphrase upon the tenth satire of juvenal, is very concurrent with this fable. a the eagle and assembly of animals. as jupiter's all-seeing eye survey'd the worlds beneath the sky; from this small speck of earth were sent murmurs and sounds of discontent; for every thing alive complain'd that he the hardest life sustain'd. jove calls his eagle. at the word before him stands the royal bird. ( ) "the greatest portion of religious service which heaven receives," says swift, "and the sincerest act of our devotion is—complaint.". fable iv. the bird, obedient, from heaven's height, downward directs his rapid flight; then cited every living thing to hear the mandates of his king. "ungrateful creatures! whence arise these murmurs which offend the skies; why this disorder say the cause; for just are jove's eternal laws. let each his discontent reveal; to yon sour dog i first appeal." "hard is my lot," the hound replies, "on what fleet nerves the greyhound flies; while i, with weary step and slow, o'er plains, and vales, and mountains go. the morning sees my chase begun, nor ends it till the setting sun." "when," says the greyhound, "i pursue, my game is lost, or caught in view; beyond my sight the prey's secure; the hound is slow, but always sure; and had i his sagacious scent, jove ne'er had heard my discontent." the lion craved the fox's art; the fox the lion's force and heart: the cock implored the pigeon's flight, whose wings were rapid, strong, and light; the pigeon strength of wing despised, and the cock's matchless valour prized: the fishes wished to graze the plain, the beasts to skim beneath the main: thus, envious of another's state, each blamed the partial hand of fate. ( ) this is a bad line, and forms an exception to gay's usual accuracy. fable iv. the bird of heaven then cried aloud, "jove bids disperse the murmuring crowd; the god rejects your idle prayers. would ye, rebellious mutineers! entirely change your name and nature, and be the very envied creature?— what, silent all, and none consent? be happy, then, and learn content; nor imitate the restless mind, and proud ambition, of mankind." ( ) "jovis ales."—vihgil. ( ) perfect good being unattainable, each man's position would be rendered pleasant, or at least tolerable to him, were he to consider, (which he does not,) the infelicities, rather than the apparent enjoyments, of another. the rich envies the poor man's healthy relish of food, let him set against it the latter's con- strained self-denial: the pauper craves wealth, instead of contemplating the cares it brings with it. there is a crook in each lot, a sore place in every man's heart; god hath set one thing against the other in all conditions, so that the hardest fate has never yet been found. were there a window in every one's breast, how often would clouds appear in the lot we consider brightest i how few beggars would then be content to exchange their condition with the wealthiest, without a pause! "sorte tuft contentus abi," is a panacea for most ills. the wild boar and the ram. against an elm a sheep was tied, the butcher's knife in blood was dyed; the patient flock, in silent fright, from far beheld the horrid sight: a savage boar, who near them stood, thus mock'd to scorn the fleecy brood. "all cowards should be served like you. see, see, your murderer is in view: with purple hands, and reeking knife, he strips the skin yet warm with life. fable v. your quarter'd sires, your bleeding dams, the dying bleat of harmless lambs, call for revenge. stupid race the heart that wants revenge is base." "i grant," an ancient earn replies, "we bear no terror in our eyes; yet think us not of soul so tame, which no repeated wrongs inflame; insensible of every ill, because we want thy tusks to kill. know, those who violence pursue, give to themselves the vengeance due; for in these massacres they find the two chief plagues that waste mankind. our skin supplies the wrangling bar, it wakes their slumbering sons to war; and well revenge may rest contented, since drums and parchment were invented." ( ) "revenge, at first though sweet, bitter ere long, back on itself recoils."—milton. ( ) patient forbearance under injury is a distinctive trait of true humility, and, it may be said, of wisdom also; since if we leave tyranny to work its way, the end shows that its greatest victim will be itself. man is not so fearful in his cruelty to the brutes, as he is in his animosity to his fellow, and greater curses have never befallen the world, than litigious strife, under the plea of jus- tice, and war and rapine under the name of glory. can any intellect comprehend the vast amount of cruelty_ lust, and malice, let loose in a campaign, or of injus- tice, perjury, and fraud, tied up in a piece of red tape? the miser and rhjtus. the wind was high, the window shakes, with sudden start the miser wakes; along the silent room he stalks, looks back, and trembles as he walks. each lock and every bolt he tries, in every creek and corner pries; then opes the chest with treasure stored, and stands in rapture o'er his hoard:* "at midnight thus th' usurer steals untrack'd to make a visit to his hoarded gold, and feast his eyes upon the shining mammon."—otwav, fable vi. but now with sudden qualms possest, he wrings his hands, he beats his breast; by conscience stung he wildly stares, and thus his guilty soul declares: "had the deep earth her stores confined, this heart had known sweet peace of mind. but virtue's sold. good gods! what price can recompense the pangs of vice! bane of good! seducing cheat! can man, weak man, thy power defeat? gold banish'd honour from the mind, and only left the name behind; gold sow'd the world with every ill; gold taught the murderer's sword to kill: 'twas gold instructed coward hearts in treachery's more pernicious arts. who can recount the mischiefs o'er? virtue resides on earth no morel"— he spoke, and sigh'd.—in angry mood plutus, his god, before him stood. the miser, trembling, lock'd his chest; the vision frown'd, and thus address'd :— "whence is this vile ungrateful rant, each sordid rascal's daily cant? did i, base wretch! corrupt mankind?— the fault's in thy rapacious mind. because my blessings are abused, must i be censured, cursed, accused? ( ) "this yellow slave will knit and break religions; bless th' accurs'd:make the hoar leprosy ador'd; place thieves, and give them title, knee, and approbation, with senators on the bench."—shakspxar, timon of atkem. fable vl ev'n virtue's self by knaves is made a cloak to carry on the trade;and power (when lodged in their possession) grows tyranny, and rank oppression. thus, when the villain crams his chest, gold is the canker of the breast;'tis avarice, insolence, and pride, and every shocking vice beside;but when to virtuous hands 'tis given, it blesses, like the dews of heaven;like heaven, it hears the orphan's cries, and wipes the tears from widows' eyes. their crimes on gold shall misers lay, who pawn'd their sordid souls for pay? let bravos, then, when blood is spilt, upbraid the passive sword with guilt." ( ) there is no man so ignorant who cannot frame an excuse for the sin that he loves. riches, if properly employed, are a blessing; if abused, are a curse: in fact, in proportion as they are faithfully dispensed, they increase, and the good steward is entrusted with more. a rich merchant who had lost , /. immediately distributed /. among poor ministers and people. "for," said he, "if my fortune is going by , /. in a lump, it is high time to secure some part of it before it is gone." contrast the wretched state of the miser elwes, who would not have his shoes cleaned for fear of wearing them out; of his mother, who starved herself to death when worth , /.; of marlborough, who to save sixpence (when he possessed a million and a half), walked, at the last stage of life, in a cold night, to his lodgings; with the benevolence of colston, the bristol merchant, or of dr. warneford, or jenny lind in our day,—and who would blame fortune, and not man's nature * one of the most affecting incidents in the life of louis xvi. occurred during the mock trial which preceded his judicial murder. he was asked what he had done with a few thousand pounds. his voice failed him, the tears came into his eyes, and he touchingly said, "i had pleasure in making other people happy!"—he had given the money away in charity. the lion, the fox, and the geese. a lion, tired with state affairs, quite sick of pomp, and worn with cares, resolv'd (remote from noise and strife) in peace to pass his latter life. it was proclaim'd; the day was set:— behold the general council met. ( ) the indolence of increasing years is frequently mistaken for resignation, and the apathy of age often passes for the self-denial of philosophy. men conceal the real nature of vice and virtue, as they do the powers of certain half-known drugs—by jint names. fable vii. the fox was viceroy named; the crowd to the new regent humbly bow'd. wolves, bears, and mighty tigers bend, and strive who most shall condescend. he straight assumes a solemn grace, collects his wisdom in his face: the crowd admire his wit, his sense; each word hath weight and consequence. the flatterer all his art displays: he who hath power is sure of praise! a fox stept forth before the rest, and thus the servile throng addrest: "how vast his talents, born to rule, and train'd in virtue's honest school! what clemency his temper sways! how uncorrupt are all his ways! beneath his conduct and command rapine shall cease to waste the land. his brain hath stratagem and art; prudence and mercy rule his heart. what blessings must attend the nation under this good administration!" he said. a goose, who distant stood, harangued apart the cackling brood: "whene'er i hear a knave commend, he bids me shun his worthy friend. what praise, what mighty commendation! but 'twas a fox who spoke th' oration. foxes this government may prize as gentle, plentiful, and wise; if they enjoy the sweets, 'tis plain we geese must feel a tyrant-reign. fable vii. what havoc now shall thin our race, when every petty clerk in place, to prove his taste, and seem polite, will feed on geese both noon and night l" ( ) the observation of lear admirably portrays the sycophancy of satellites to men in power:—"lear. thou hast seen a farmer's dog bark at a beggar? glo. ay, sir. lear. and the creature run from the cur? there thou mightst behold the great image of authority: a dog's obeyed in office!" the real moral, however, is, that those praise the thief who share in the spoil, and that in flattering the vices of a tiberius, a sejanus ensures the gratifica- tion of his own. thus it was with empson and dudley, the ministers to henry the seventh's cupidity. the lady and the wasp. what whispers must the beauty bear! what hourly nonsense haunts her ear! where'er her eyes dispense their charms, impertinence around her swarms. did not the tender nonsense strike, contempt and scorn might look dislike; forbidding airs might thin the place, the slightest flap a fly can chase: but who can drive the num'rous breed - chase one, another will succeed. - fable viii. who knows a fool, must know his brother;one fop will recommend another:and with this plague she's rightly curst, because she listen'd to the first. as doris, at her toilette's duty, sate meditating on her beauty, she now was pensive, now was gay, and loll'd the sultry hours away. as thus in indolence she lies, a giddy wasp around her flies; he now advances, now retires, now to her neck and cheek aspires. her fan in vain defends her charms, swift he returns, again alarms;for by repulse he bolder grew, perch'd on her lip, and sipt the dew. she frowns,—she frets. "good gods!" she cries, "protect me from these teazing flies: of all the plagues that heaven hath sent, a wasp is most impertinent." the hovering insect thus complain'd,— "am i then slighted, scorn'd, disdain'd? can such offence your anger wake? 'twas beauty caused the bold mistake. those cherry lips that breathe perfume, that cheek so ripe with youthful bloom, made me with strong desire pursue the fairest peach that ever grew." "strike him not, jenny!" doris cries, "nor murder wasps like vulgar flies; ( ) flattery, like strife, is as when one letteth out water; the first drop soon becomes the stealthy stream, which undermines the judgment, and prostrates the reputation fable viii. for though he's free, (to do him right,) the creature's civil and polite.": in ecstasies, away he posts; where'er he came, the favour boasts; brags, how her sweetest tea he sips, and shows the sugar on his lips. the hint alarm'd the forward crew; sure of success, away they flew: they share the dainties of the day, round her with airy music play: and now they flutter, now they rest, now soar again, and skim her breast. nor were they banish'd till she found that wasps have stings, and felt the wound. ( ) "for women, born to be controll'd, stoop to the forward and the bold, affect the haughty and the proud, the gay, the frolick and the loud."—hudibras. ( ) what begins in falsehood and treachery, must end in shame and discontent. "there are two sorts of persons," says charron, "who lie open to flattery, and as they never want fawning people who are always ready to offer them this trash, so they, for the most part, as greedily swallow it; these are princes, and women." but as the old latin adage has it, "meliora vulnera diligentis quam oscula blandientis;" and solomon warns us that "a flattering mouth worketh ruin." prov. xxvi. . s the bull and the mastiff. seek you to train your favourite boy? each caution, every care employ; and ere you venture to confide, let his preceptor's heart be tried: weigh well his manners, life, and scope; on these depends thy future hope. as on a time, in peaceful reign, a bull enjoy'd the flowery plain, a mastiff pass'd; inflamed with ire, his eyeballs shot indignant fire; he foam'd, he raged with thirst of blood,— —spurning the ground, the monarch stood, fable ix. and roar'd aloud: "suspend the fight; in a whole skin go sleep to-night; or tell me, ere the battle rage, what wrongs provoke thee to engage? is it ambition fires thy breast, or avarice, that ne'er can rest? from these alone unjustly springs the world-destroying wrath of kings." the surly mastiff thus returns: "within my bosom, glory burns. like heroes of eternal name, whom poets sing, i fight for fame. the butcher's spirit-stirring mind to daily war my youth inclined; he train'd me to heroic deed, taught me to conquer or to bleed." "curs'd dog," the bull replied, "no more i wonder at thy thirst of gore; for thou beneath a butcher train'd, whose hands with cruelty are stain'd, his daily murders in thy view must, like thy tutor, blood pursue. take, then, thy fate!" with goring wound at once he lifts him from the ground: aloft the sprawling hero flies, mangled he falls, he howls, and dies. ( ) the following lines from dryden's translation of juvenal, illustrate the application of the above fable: "children like tender osiers take the bow, and as they first are fashion'd, always grow, for what we learn in youth, to that alone in age, we are by second nature, prone." it is similar to the fable in /esop, where the man about to be executed for a crime, bites his mother's ear off, when pretending to kiss her, because she had not corrected him for a theft when a boy. compare also aristotle's ethics, book ii. cowper's tirocinium, and montaigne's essays, ch. . fable x. who doubts that elephants are found for science and for sense renown'd? borri records their strength of parts, extent of thought, and skill in arts; how they perform the law's decrees, and save the state, the hangman's fees; and how by travel understand the language of another land. let those who question this report, to pliny's ancient page resort. how learn'd was that sagacious breed! who now (like them), the greek can read? as one of these, in days of yore, rummaged a shop of learning o'er; not, like our modern dealers, minding only the margin's breadth and binding; a book his curious eye detains, where, with exactest care and pains, were every beast and bird portray'd, that e'er the search of man survey'd; their natures and their powers were writ with all the pride of human wit. the page, he, with attention spread, and thus remark'd on what he read:— "man with strong reason is endow'd, a beast, scarce instinct is allow'd: ( ) see plutarch on the "craftiness of animals," who reports that the elephant of king porus, drew out the javelins from the bodies of the wounded, with complete surgical skill! borri was a milanese quack. ( ) pliny, nat. hist. x. . "i have seen," says arrian, "an elephant having a cymbal hung at each leg, and another fastened to his trunk, at the sound of which all the others danced round about him, rising and bending at certain cadences, as if they were guided by the instrument, and it was delightful to hear this harmony." fable x. but let this author's worth be tried, 'tis plain that neither was his guide. can he discern the different natures, and weigh the power of other creatures, who by the partial work hath shown, he knows so little of his own? how falsely is the spaniel drawn! did man from him, first learn to fawn? a dog,—proficient in the trade,— he, the chief flatterer nature made? go, man! the ways of courts discern, you'll find a spaniel still might learn. how can the fox's theft and plunder provoke his censure or his wonder? from courtiers' tricks and lawyers' arts, the fox might well improve his parts. the lion, wolf, and tiger's brood, he curses, for their thirst of blood: but is not man to man a prey? beasts kill for hunger, men for pay." the bookseller, who heard him speak, and saw him turn a page of greek, thought, "what a genius have i found!" then thus address'd with bow profound: "learn'd sir, if you'd employ your pen against the senseless sons of men, or write the history of siam, no man is better pay than i am; or, since you're learn'd in greek, let's see something against the trinity." ( ) " jam serpentum major concordia. van-it cognatis maculis similis fera."—juvenal. ( ) this line intimates the tendency of the age towards freethinkers, when every fable x. when wrinkling with a sneer, his trunk, "friend," quoth the elephant, "you're drunk; e'en keep your money, and be wise; leave man on man, to criticise! for that you ne'er can want a pen, among the senseless sons of men. they unprovok'd, will court the fray;— —envy's a sharper spur,—than pay,— no author ever spared a brother; wits are game-cocks, to one another." scribbler against the truth, found a welcome from the public, and profit from the press, instead of punishment in the pillory! ( ) the above fable, like many of our poet's, is rather a compilation of sarcastic exposures of several faults, than an application to one ; nevertheless the envious rivalry of authors, and the illiberality of critics, are particularly exposed. no society is generally such a combination, open or concealed, of envy, hatred, and malice, as a society of professed wits, or popular critics. the ignorance of the latter order has been well exposed by lord byron in his english bards and scotch reviewers: their illiberality is amusingly reproved, in the following story from boccalini. "a famous critic," says he, "having collected all the faults of an eminent poet, presented them to apollo, who, wishing to make a suitable return, desired the donor to pick the chaff from the corn in a sack of wheat, which had just been thrashed out. the critic having completed the task with great industry and pleasure, apollo presented him with,—the chaff for his trouble " fable xi. his state and dignity assumes, and to the sun displays his plumes, which, like the heaven's o'er-arching skies, are spangled with a thousand eyes. the circling rays, and varied light, at once confound their dazzled sight; on every tongue detraction burns, and malice prompts their spleen by turns. "mark with what insolence and pride the creature takes his haughty stride,"— the turkey cries. "can spleen contain? sure never bird was half so vain; but were intrinsic merit seen, we turkeys have the whiter skin." from tongue to tongue they caught abuse, and next was heard the hissing goose: "what hideous legs! what filthy claws! i scorn to censure little flaws; then what a horrid squalling throat! e'en owls are frighted at the note." "true: those are faults," the peacock cries, "my scream, my shanks, you may despise; but such blind critics rail in vain; what, overlook my radiant train know, did my legs (your scorn and sport), the turkey, or the goose, support, and did ye scream with harsher sound, those faults in you, had ne'er been found: to all apparent beauties blind, each blemish strikes an envious mind." (i) jealousy has been well defined to be the art by which we punish ourselves for being inferior to another. fable xl thus in assemblies have i seen a nymph, of brightest charms and mien, wake envy in each ugly face, and buzzing scandal fills the place. ( ) the moral here is applied to one species of envy alone, that of beauty, but the fable may be referred to every kind of it equally. scandal is like a snail, which crawls over the loveliest fruit, and feeds on that which its own venom has first made foul! cupllt, hymen and plutus. as cupid in cythera's grove employ'd the lesser powers of love; some shape the bow, or fit the string, some give the taper shaft its wing, or turn the polish'd quiver's mould, or head the darts with temper'd gold. amidst their toil and various care thus hymen, with assuming air, address'd the god: "thou purblind chit, of awkward and ill-judging wit, e fablli xii. if matches are not better made, at once i must forswear my trade. you send me such ill-coupled folks, that 'tis a shame to sell them yokes. they squabble for a pin, a feather, and wonder how they came together. the husband's sullen, dogged, shy, the wife grows flippant in reply: he loves command and due restriction, and she as well likes contradiction: she never slavishly submits, she'll have her will, or have her fits. he this way tugs, she t' other draws; the man grows jealous, and with cause. nothing can save him but divorce, and here the wife complies, of course." "when," says the boy, "had i to do with either your affairs, or you? i never idly spend my darts; you trade in mercenary hearts. for settlements the lawyer's fee'd; is my hand witness to the deed? if they like cat and dog agree, go rail at plutus, not at me." plutus appear'd, and said, "'tis true, in marriage, gold is all their view; they seek not beauty, wit, -or sense, and love is seldom the pretence. all offer incense at my shrine, and i alone the bargain sign. ( ) "when souls that should agree to will the same, to have one common object for their wishes, look different ways, regardless of each other, think what a train of wretchedness ensues ! "—row fable xii. how can belinda blame her fate? she only ask'd a great estate. doris was rich enough, 'tis true, her lord must give her title too;. and every man, or rich or poor, a fortune asks, and asks no more." avarice, whatever shape it bears, must still be coupled with its cares. ( ) covetousness, evil at all times, is especially flagitious when entering into connubial contracts; yet the horatian motto seems to be retained by many men and women both, in this particular,— "quaerenda pecunia primum, virtus post nummos."—hor. ep. i. . the result is, that the professed affection which is bought, throws off disguise after a short interval, even if the plighted pair do not, as sir peter and lady teazle, "tiff a little going to church." what begins in mutual deception ends in misery, and after a stormy succession of suspicions and reconcilements, the farce terminates in divorce and separate maintenance! the only article of gold that should enter into a wedding, is the ring, but hannibal is not the only person who has found poison in it! the tame stag. as a young stag the thicket past, the branches held his antlers fast; a clown, who saw the captive hung, across the horns his halter flung. now safely hamper'd in the cord, he bore the present to his lord. his lord was pleased, as was the clown, when he was tipp'd with half-a-crown. the stag was brought before his wife; the tender lady begg'd his life: fable xiii. "how sleeks the skin! how speck'd like ermine! sure never creature was so charming!" at first within the yard confined, he flies and hides from all mankind; now bolder grown, with fix'd amaze, and distant awe, presumes to gaze; munches the linen on the lines, and on a hood or apron dines, he steals my little master's bread, follows the servants to be fed, nearer and nearer now he stands, to feel the praise of patting hands; examines every fist for meat, and, though repulsed, disdains retreat; attacks again with levell'd horns, and man, that was his terror, scorns. such is the country maiden's fright, when first a redcoat is in sight; behind the door she hides her face, next time, at distance, eyes the lace. she now can all his terrors stand, nor from his squeeze withdraws her hand. she plays familiar in his arms, and every soldier hath his charms: from tent to tent she spreads her flame; for custom conquers fear and shame. ( ) added to the truth of the old adage illustrated here, that "familiarity breeds contempt," we may observe, that nothing is more sure to disappoint expectation, than injudicious association. boldness and freedom united with ignorance, form the basis of vulgarity; and low acquaintances, like dirty dogs, soil those most, whom they fawn most upon. "nil adeo magnum, nee tarn mirabile quicquam, principio, quod non minuant mirarier omnes paulatim."—lucelt. . the monkey who had seen the world. a monkey, to reform the times, resolved to visit foreign climes; for men in distant regions roam to bring politer manners home. so forth he fares, all toil defies: misfortune serves to make us wise. at length the treacherous snare was laid; poor pug was caught; to town convey'd; there sold. (how envied was his doom, made captive in a lady's room !) proud, as a lover, of his chains, he, day by day, her favour gains. ( ) not always. ( ) "curia actions mortalia corda."—virg. georg. . fable xiv. whene'er the duty of the day the toilet calls, with mimic play he twirls her knots, he cracks her fan, like any other gentleman. in visits, too, his parts and wit, when jests grew dull, were sure to hit. proud with applause, he thought his mind in every courtly art refined; like orpheus, burnt with public zeal, to civilize the monkey-weal; so watch'd occasion, broke his chain, and sought his native woods again. the hairy sylvans round him press, astonish'd at his strut and dress: some praise his sleeve, and others gloat upon his rich embroider'd coat. his dapper perriwig commending, with the black tail behind depending; his powder'd back, above, below, like hoary frosts, or fleecy snow; but all, with envy and desire, his fluttering shoulder-knot admire. "hear and improve," he pertly cries, "i come to make a nation wise. weigh your own worth; support your place, the next in rank to human race. in cities long i pass'd my days, conversed with men, and learn'd their ways. their dress, their courtly manners see; reform your state, and copy me. seek ye to thrive? in flattery deal; your scorn, your hate, with that conceal. the philosopher and the pheasants. the sage, awaked at early day, through the deep forest took his way; drawn by the music of the groves, along the winding gloom he roves; from tree to tree the warbling throats prolong the sweet alternate notes. but where he past, he terror threw, the song broke short, the warblers flew; the thrushes chatter'd with affright, and nightingales abhorr'd his sight; fable xv. all animals before him ran, to shun the hateful sight of man. "whence is this dread of every creature? fly they our figure or our nature " as thus he walk'd in musing thought, his ear imperfect accents caught. with cautious step he nearer drew, by the thick shade conceal'd from view. high on the branch a pheasant stood, around her all her listening brood; proud of the blessings of her nest, she thus a mother's care express'd: "no dangers here shall circumvent; within the woods enjoy content. sooner the hawk or vulture trust than man, of animals the worst: in him ingratitude you find, a vice peculiar to the kind. the sheep, whose annual fleece is dyed to guard his health, and serve his pride; forced from his fold and native plain, is, in the cruel shambles, slain. the swarms who, with industrious skill, his hives with wax and honey fill, in vain whole summer days employ'd; their stores are sold, the race destroy'd. what tribute from the goose is paid does not her wing all science aid? ( ) it is strange how the plumage of one goose, serves the passion of another, and the feather of the bird aids the enunciation of the venomous spleen of the man! the quill is,— "torn from its parent-bird to form a pen, that mighty instrument of little men !"—byroh. fable xv. does it not lovers' hearts explain, and drudge to raise the merchant's gain? what now rewards this general use? he takes the quills, and eats the goose. man then avoid, detest his ways, so safety shall prolong your days. when services are thus acquitted, be sure we pheasants must be spitted." ( ) listeners hear no good of themselves, and the sage in the fable, obtained more knowledge of the real state of man's nature, as exhibited towards the brutes and to his fellow, than he perhaps had ever procured before, from his own contemplation. with sin came fear, and our first fall separated man from the creator on one side, and from creation on the other. our language towards the first, breathes fear and insincerity, and our acts to the other, combine selfishness and tyranny! here it is evident that the phase of human nature turned to meet the rebuke of the pheasant, is ingratitude, and "if a man be accused of this vice," say the latins, "he is accused of every crime." - *~ % the pin and the needle. a pin who long had served a beauty, proficient in the toilet's duty, had form'd her sleeve, confined her hair; or given her knot a smarter air; now nearest to her heart was placed now in her manteau's tail disgraced; but could she partial fortune blame, who saw her lovers, served the same? at length from all her honours cast, through various turns of life she past: fable xvi. now glitter'd on a tailor's arm, now kept a beggar's infant warm; now, ranged within a miser's coat, contributes to his yearly groat; now, raised again from low approach, she visits in the doctor's coach: here, there, by various fortune tost, at last in gresham-hall was lost. charm'd with the wonders of the show, on every side, above, below, she now of this or that, inquires; what least was understood, admires. 'tis plain each thing so struck her mind, her head's of virtuoso kind. "and pray what's this, and this, dear sir?" "a needle," says the' interpreter. she knew the name; and thus the fool address'd her, as a tailor's tool. "a needle with that filthy stone, quite idle, all with rust o'ergrown! you better might employ your parts, and aid the sempstress in her arts; but tell me how the friendship grew between that paltry flint and you?" "friend," says the needle, "cease to blame; i follow real worth and fame. know'st thou the loadstone's power and art, that virtue, virtues can impart? ( ) this was originally the house of the celebrated founder of the royal exchange, who not content with other munificent acts towards his fellow- citizens, converted his own dwelling into a museum. the royal society ori- ginated here in . for an account of the building, see a most excellent work called " the curiosities of london," by john timbs, esq., f.s.a. / i fable xvl of all his talents i partake, who then can such a friend forsake 'tis i direct the pilot's hand to shun the rocks and treacherous sand: by me the distant world is known, and either india is our own. had i with milliners been bred, what had i been? the guide of thread, and drudged as vulgar needles do, of no more consequence than you." ( ) ignorance and presumption are common associates; hence we underrate others, in proportion as we exalt ourselves, and in both cases, from being misled by external appearances, to the neglect of inherent worth. yet even the toad bears some jewel within him, and every creature is valuable for its final above all for its primary, cause. moreover gay gives a shrewd intimation of the light and trivial notice bestowed by many, on the sources and subjects of knowledge they profess to seek, and indeed there are few spectacles more absurd, than that of the self-instituted cheat, palmed off by multitudes, who pay their shilling to see some representation of twenty different topics in an hour, and think they have really derived sound practical information upon them, and are suddenly transformed into people of science, by a hurried ten minutes' address from the lecturer! it is not every day, that minerva starts from the head even of a jove-like crichton,—fully armed i the contact of virtue, like that of vice, is generative of its own likeness, and a bag of half-pence, in which only one sovereign is placed, obtains particles of the latter's brilliancy; but the action of mind upon itself, and the attrition of thought upon circumstance, constitute true moral and intellectual growth. the shepherd's dog and the wolf. a wolf, with hunger, fierce and bold, ravaged the plains, and thinn'd the fold;deep in the wood, secure he lay, the thefts of night regaled the day. in vain the shepherd's wakeful care had spread the toils, and watch'd the snare;in vain the dog pursued his pace, the fleeter robber mock'd the chase. as lightfoot ranged the forest round, by chance his foe's retreat he found. fable xvii. "let us awhile the war suspend, and reason as from friend to friend." "a truce!" replies the wolf. 'tis done. the dog the parley thus begun. "how can that strong intrepid mind attack a weak defenceless kind? those jaws should prey on nobler food, and drink the boar's and lion's blood. great souls with generous pity melt, which coward tyrants never felt. how harmless is our fleecy care! be brave, and let thy mercy spare." "friend," says the wolf, "the matter weigh; nature design'd us beasts of prey; as such, when hunger finds a treat, 'tis necessary wolves should eat. if, mindful of the bleating weal, thy bosom burn with real zeal, hence, and thy tyrant lord beseech; to him repeat the moving speech: a wolf eats sheep but now and then, ten thousands are devour'd by men. an open foe may prove a curse, but a pretended friend is worse." ( ) as equivocation has been well termed a lie without the courage of it, seeing that it is a lie guarded, so the "acting a lie," as robert hall expressed it, shows the same tortuous spirit, with double the malignity. but of all lies, deception in pretended friendship, and an hypocritical assumption of honourable feeling, are the most destructive; for when detected, they impair man's opinion of virtue, by showing how close its counterfeit may come to it: this caused the poignancy of david's grief. (ps. lv. .) but this should teach us that con- fidence is a plant of slow growth, and that according to the old proverb quoted by aristotle, (eth. b. viii. c. ,) "it is impossible for men to know one another before they have eaten a stated quantity of salt together;" upon which remark cicero's rule is founded, " omnino amicitise, corroboratis jam confirmatisque, et ingeniis et setatibus judicandae sunt."—cic. de amicit. c. . the painter who pleased nobody and everybody. lest men suspect your tale untrue, keep probability in view. the traveller leaping o'er those bounds, the credit of his book confounds. who with his tongue hath armies routed, makes e'en his real courage doubted. but flattery never seems absurd, the flatter'd always take your word:impossibilities seem just, they take the strongest praise on trust. ( ) vide arist. poet. ch. . ( ) which it is astonishing that othello did not, when he recited his 'traveller's tales" to desdemona. (vide othello, act i.) fable xviii. hyperboles, though ne'er so great, will still come short of self-conceit. so very like, a painter drew, that every eye, the picture knew. he hit complexion, feature, air, so just, the life itself was there. no flattery with his colours laid, to bloom restored the faded maid; he gave each muscle all its strength; the mouth, the chin, the nose's length; his honest pencil touch'd with truth, and mark'd the date of age and youth. he lost his friends, his practice fail'd; truth should not always be reveal'd. in dusty piles his pictures lay, for no one sent the second pay. two bustos, fraught with every grace, a venus' and apollo's face, he placed in view; resolved to please, whoever sat, he drew from these, from these corrected every feature, and spirited each awkward creature. all things were set, the hour was come, his pallet ready o'er his thumb; my lord appear'd, and seated right, in proper attitude and light. the painter look'd, he sketch'd the piece, then dipt his pencil, talk'd of greece, of titian's tints, of guido's air; —" those eyes, my lord, the spirit there ( ) truth, like the shower-bath, requires in most men, a preparative discipline, efore their nerves are rendered capable of bearing the shock of it. fable xviii. might well a raphael's hand require, to give them all the native fire. the features, fraught with sense and wit, you'll grant are very hard to hit; but yet with patience you shall view as much, as paint and art can do." "observe the work!"—my lord replied "till now i thought my mouth was wide besides, my nose is somewhat long; dear sir, for me, 'tis far too young." "oh! pardon me, (the artist cried) in this, we painters must decide. the piece, e'en common eyes must strike, i warrant it extremely like." my lord examined it anew; no looking-glass seem'd half so true. a lady came, with borrow'd grace he, from his venus, form'd her face. her lover praised the painter's art,— —so like the picture in his heart! to every age, some charm he lent, e'en beauties were almost content. through all the town, his art they praised; his custom grew, his price was raised. had he the real likeness shown, would any man the picture own? but when thus happily he wrought, each found the likeness in his thought. ( ) see some admirable remarks upon the nature of vanity in montaigne's essays, p. , hazlitt's ed.: also arist. ethics, b. iv. c. . the man who relies for his success, like the painter in the fable, upon the vanity of the world, draws upon a bank which never fails to honour such cheques at sight; for pride and self-love within the heart, hold common cause for its destruction with the falsehood and flattery of the world outside, and no man would ever be duped by another, except he had first played the knave to himself i the lion and the cub. how fond are men of rule and place, who court it from the mean and base! these cannot bear an equal nigh, but from superior merit fly. they love the cellar's vulgar joke, and lose their hours in ale and smoke. there o'er some petty club preside; so poor, so paltry, is their pride! ( ) the moral of this fable, as in the case of most others of our author, is placed at the commencement, instead of at the end, of the story. • fable xix. nay, e'en with fools, whole nights will sit, in hopes to be supreme in wit. if these can read, to these i write, to set their worth in truest light. a lion-cub, of sordid mind, avoided all the lion kind; fond of applause, he sought the feasts of vulgar and ignoble beasts; with asses all his time he spent, their club's perpetual president. he caught their manners, looks, and airs; an ass in everything but ears! if e'er his highness meant a joke, they grinn'd applause before he spoke; but at each word what shouts of praise! "good gods! how natural he brays i" elate with flattery and conceit, he seeks his royal sire's retreat; forward, and fond to show his parts, his highness brays; the lion starts. "puppy that cursed vociferation betrays thy life and conversation: coxcombs, an ever-noisy race, are trumpets of their own disgrace." "why so severe?" the cub replies, "our senate always held me wise." "how weak is pride!" returns the sire; "all fools are vain when fools admire! but know, what stupid asses prize, lions and noble beasts despise."l '( ) it is the characteristic of vulgar minds to grow close to earth, like the mushroom, rather than to tower to heaven, like the oak; and low natures, whose only relic of perhaps, noble descent, is an appetency of power, seek the fable xix. gratification of this lust, in haunts of vice or pollution, which sometimes they defend, under the questionable pretext of, "seeing life " in our day especially, the exhibition of kennel existence, in numerous tales and cheap publications current, glosses vulgarity over with a false attraction, and we fancy the cur has become a spaniel, because his coat is combed, in the portrait given of him by some popular writer, until the low habit of his innate disposition, discovers itself to our disgust! carew, the king of the beggars, was a most remarkable instance of this love of self-degradation, who, though the son of a clergyman, and descended from some of our noblest families, ran away from school, joined the gipsies, and prostituted the finest talents to fraud and robbery, which ob- tained him the dignity of a titular sovereignty, to which/unfortunately,—trans- portation was attached. he terminated a long and eventful life in obscurity, which would have better become him throughout, than the glory of a successful vagrant, and the distinction of an arch-rogue. the old hen and the cock. —" restrain your child!" you'll soon believe the text which says we sprung from eve. as an old hen led forth her train, and seem'd to peck to show the grain, she raked the chaff, she scratch'd the ground, and glean'd the spacious yard around: a giddy chick, to try her wings, on the well's narrow margin springs, ( ) curiosity, which ends in destruction, is stimulated, like eve with the apple, by prohibition. fable xx. and prone she drops. the mother's breast all day with sorrow was possest. a cock she met; her son she knew; and in her heart affection grew. "my son," says she, "i grant your years have reach'd beyond a mother's cares. i see you vigorous, strong, and bold; i hear with joy your triumphs told. 'tis not from cocks thy fate i dread; but let thy ever-wary tread avoid yon well; that fatal place is sure perdition to our race. print this my counsel on thy breast; to the just gods i leave the rest." he thank'd her care; yet day by day his bosom burn'd to disobey, and every time the well he saw, scorn'd in his heart the foolish law: near and more near, each day he drew, and long'd to try the dangerous view. "why was this idle charge?" he cries; "let courage, female fears despise. or did she doubt my heart was brave, and therefore this injunction gave? or does her harvest store the place, a treasure for her younger race? and would she thus my search prevent? i stand resolved, and dare th' event." thus said, he mounts the margin's round, and pries into the depth profound. he stretch'd his neck, and from below with stretching neck advanced a foe: fable xx. with wrath his ruffled plumes he rears, the foe with ruffled plumes appears; threat answer'd threat, his fury grew; headlong to meet the war he flew; but when the watery death he found, he thus lamented as he drown'd: "i ne'er had been in this condition, but for my mother's prohibition." ( ) some very beautiful examples of filial obedience have been framed upon this fable, but i think that they have led the writers into an error as to gay's meaning in it, which went into a deeper principle than the mere recommenda- tion of such a direct duty. he would exemplify that depraved habit of our nature which causes restriction to become a provocative to disobedience; for which cause the persians were quite right in appointing one master, out of the four they set over each of their young princes, to instruct his pupil in self-denial and subjugation of his appetites. this thirst for forbidden knowledge, merely because it is forbidden, has ever been the scourge of the soul, and "nitimur in vetitum" its motto, long before the time of ovid, the ratcatcher and cats. the rats by night such mischief did, betty was every morning chid: they undermined whole sides of bacon, her cheese was sapp'd, her tarts were taken; her pasties, fenced with thickest paste, were all demolish'd and laid waste: she cursed the cat, for want of duty, who left her foes a constant booty. an engineer, of noted skill, engaged to stop the growing ill. the goat without a beard. 'tis certain that the modish passions descend among the crowd, like fashions. excuse me, then, if pride, conceit, (the manners of the fair and great) i give to monkeys, asses, dogs, fleas, owls, goats, butterflies, and hogs. i say that these are proud, what then i never said they equal men. a goat (as vain as goat can be) affected singularity: fable xxii. when thus the fop with smiles of scorn: "are beards by civil nations worn?— e'en muscovites have mow'd their chins. shall we, like formal capuchins, stubborn in pride, retain the mode, and bear about the hairy load? whene'er we through the village stray, are we not mock'd along the way, insulted with loud shouts of scorn, by boys, our beards disgraced and torn?" "were you no more with goats to dwell, brother, i grant you reason well;" replies a bearded chief. "beside, if boys can mortify thy pride, how wilt thou stand the ridicule of our whole flock? affected fool! coxcombs, distinguish'd from the rest, to all but coxcombs are a jest." ( ) this fable is somewhat akin to that of the fox without a tail, in jesop, although what is there represented as a dexterous subterfuge to conceal a misfortune, is here the voluntary act of self-conceit. la fontaine has copied iesop, liv. v. . eccentricity frequently passes for talent, because it happens sometimes to be associated with it, so that many shallow-witted pretenders voluntarily copy the one, in hopes of obtaining the fame of the other. hence arise brusquerie and rudeness in quacks and pedants, because abernethy happened to be uncivilized and porson and parr unpresentable. this is a flimsy veil for deficient endow- ment; as well might the man who had a wart on his nose, like oliver cromwell, arrogate the genius of the great protector: rather let us consider eccen- tricity as a defect to be avoided, than a virtue to be copied, and deem that the house of the mind, is but a paltry lodging, if it cannot find room for two inmates together,—talent and propriety. the old woman and her cats. who friendship with a knave hath made, is judged a partner in the trade. the matron who conducts abroad a willing nymph, is thought a bawd; and if a modest girl is seen with one who cures a lover's spleen, we guess her not extremely nice, and only wish to know her price. tis thus that on the choice of friends our good or evil name depends. ( ) "noscitur a sociis."—latin proverb. fable xxiii. a wrinkled hag, of wicked fame, beside a little smoky flame sate hovering, pinch'd with age and frost; her shrivell'd hands, with veins emboss'd, upon her knees her weight sustains, while palsy shook her crazy brains: she mumbles forth her backward prayers, an untamed scold of fourscore years: about her swarm'd a numerous brood of cats, who, lank with hunger, mew'd. teased with their cries her choler grew, and thus she sputter'd, "hence, ye crew! fool that i was, to entertain such imps, such fiends, a hellish train had ye been never housed and nursed, i for a witch had ne'er been cursed. to you i owe, that crowds of boys worry me with eternal noise; straws laid across, my pace retard, the horseshoe's nail'd,—each threshold's guard! — the stunted broom, the wenches hide, for fear that i should up and ride; ( ) for an account of witches and the act of james, which, as gifford says, "decreed death for a variety of impossible crimes," see his note to massinger's play, "a new way to pay old debts:" also the learned notes by drake, in his work of "shakspeare and his times." the following is a description of a witch's abode, by spenser, (faerie queen, b. iii. c. .) "there in a gloomy hollow glen, she found a little cottage, built of stickes and reedes, in homely wise, and wal'd with sods around, in which a witch did dwell, in loathly weedes and wilful want, all carelesse of her needes. so choosing solitarie to abide far from all neighbours, that her devilish deeds, and hellish arts, from people she might hide, and hurt far off unknowne, whomever she envide." ( ) vide shakspear: macbeth, act iv. ( ) vide drake, supra. q fable xxiii. they stick with pins my bleeding seat, and bid me show my secret teat." "to hear you prate would vex a saint; who hath most reason of complaint?" replies a cat; "let's come to proof. had we ne'er starved beneath your roof, we had, like others of our race, in credit lived as beasts of chase. 'tis infamy to serve a hag; cats are thought imps, her broom a nag! and boys against our lives combine, because, 'tis said, your cats have nine."* ( ) expediency, that plausible cheat for glossing error, frequently induces men to select their acquaintance for some temporary end, but as the world "apes the virtue it has not," it immediately reckons a man's mere ac- quaintance to be his friend, affirming that the latter only would be freely associated with. hence it arises that the connexion which we chose for our benefit, insincerely, becomes the source of our condemnation ultimately, since when the mere associate turns out a villain, we find it useless to repudiate his acquaintance, for a bad companion, when detected, like samson in his fall, involves friends and foes in one.common ruin. the butterfly and the snail. all upstarts, insolent in place, remind us of their vulgar race. as in the sunshine of the morn a butterfly, but newly born, sate proudly perking on a rose, with pert conceit his bosom glows; his wings, all glorious to behold, bedropt with azure, jet, and gold, fable xxiv. wide he displays; the spangled dew reflects his eyes and various hue. his now-forgotten friend, a snail, beneath his house, with slimy trail crawls o'er the grass, whom when he spies, in wrath he to the gardener cries, "what means yon peasant's daily toil, from choking weeds to rid the soil? why wake you to the morning's care? why with new arts correct the year? why grows the peach with crimson hue and why the plum's inviting blue? were they to feast his taste design'd, that vermin of voracious kind? crush then the slow, the pilfering race, so purge thy garden from disgrace." "what arrogance!" the snail replied, "how insolent is upstart pride! hadst thou not thus, with insult vain, provoked my patience to complain, i had conceal'd thy meaner birth, nor traced thee to the scum of earth: for scarce nine suns have waked the hours, to swell the fruit, and paint the flowers, since i thy humbler life survey'd, in base, in sordid guise array'd. a hideous insect, vile, unclean, you dragged a slow and noisome train, and from your spider-bowels drew foul film, and spun the dirty clue. i own my humble life, good friend; snail was i born, and snail shall end. fable xxiv. and, what's a butterfly? at best, he's but a caterpillar drest; and all thy race, a numerous seed, shall prove of caterpillar breed." ( ) the moral here, as usual placed at the commencement, directs our scorn to the vulgar pride and tyranny of upstart pretenders, in whom, like the ass in the lion's skin, the meanness of their original nature will peep out, in spite of all adventitious ornament of rank and fortune. especially also is this mani- fested by such coxcombs against their former associates, upon whom they drop the dirt off their footsteps, as they ascend the ladder of ambition. the man of really high birth is characterised by condescension, affability, and regard for his inferiors, for he, like the oak, can stoop and regain his former attitude; but arrogance, cruelty, and injustice, stamp the parvenu, who, like the mushroom, of only a few hours' origin, does not possess the graceful elasticity of rank, and therefore cannot bend, but snaps asunder the instant he swerves out of the perpendicular line of starched pride and vulgar assumption. vide the descrip- tion of pride given by ulysses. (shakspear: troilus and cressida, act ii. scene .) the scold and the parfiot. the husband thus reproved his wife: "who deals in slander, lives in strife. art thou the herald of disgrace, denouncing war to all thy race? can nothing quell thy thunder's rage, which spares nor friend, nor sex, nor age? that vixen tongue of your's, my dear, alarms our neighbours far and near. fable xxv. think, madam, when you stretch your lungs, that all your neighbours too have tongues; one slander must ten thousand get; the world with interest pays the debt." ( ) the chinese have a proverb, that a word spoken cannot be brought back by a thousand horses; and every poet, from virgil to butler, has commented upon the prolific power of fame; the last indeed gives a history of the progress of this dame, which, "like a thin chameleon, boards herself on air, and eats her words."— well would it be, if we could adopt sheridan's advice in the "school for scandal," and, if unable to find "the drawer of the lie," should give a right to the injured parties to come on any of the indorsers. "but most of all, domestic strife is a premium upon foreign malice," and if persons, to use voltaire's quaint simile, "will not wash their dirty linen at home," they must not be surprised if the world exaggerate the foul state of their laundry. when anger gets astride of the reason, the latter at once runs away under the goad of the fiery tybalt; and slander, like a second phaeton, gives impulse to a career which terminates in the destruction of a world of peace, marking its coursewith myriad reputa- tions, slain at every word i fable xxvi. each to his dearest friend grew shy, and none could tell the reason why. a plan to rob the house was laid: the thief with love seduced the maid, cajol'd the cur, and stroked his head, and bought his secrecy with bread. he next the mastiff's honour tried, whose honest jaws the bribe defied: he stretch'd his hand to proffer more; the surly dog his fingers tore. swift ran the cur; with indignation the master took his information. "hang him, the villain's cursed," he cries; and round his neck the halter ties. the dog his humble suit preferr'd, and begg'd in justice to be heard. the master sat. on either hand the cited dogs confronting stand; the cur the bloody tale relates, and like a lawyer, aggravates. "judge not unheard," the mastiff cried, "but weigh the cause of either side. think not that treachery can be just; take not informers' words on trust; they ope their hand to every pay, and you and me by turns betray." he spoke; and all the truth appear'd the cur was hang'd, the mastiff clear'd. ( ) "where there is no talebearer, the strife ceaseth."—prov. xxvi. . ( ) from the above fable we learn not only the insidious destructiveness of calumny, but the certain vindication of truth by the exposure of falsehood. a liar to be successful ought to possess three qualities, each of which, from the fable xxvi very nature of his profession, he is void of. he ought to have invincible courage, to meet the overwhelming obloquy of mankind, which is sure to overtake his detection: the greatest foresight, to provide against the numerous unseen perplexities which the contradictions, incident to falsehood, engender; and perfect confidence and trust in his agents, who otherwise may deceive him, and destroy his schemes in an instant. now the nature, i say, of falsehood precluding the possibility of obtaining these, ought at once to prove the danger of such a course. some vices attach to certain states of life, and falsehood may be said to be a poor vice; the children of the lower orders, servants especially, almost from their birth, "going astray and speaking lies;" whereas in the higher ranks, the fashionable relation to it, admitted into the upper circles, is its half-brother, hypocrisy, for a downright lie is against the world's bible,—honour, and is therefore expelled from genteel company, less for its irreligion, than for its bad manners. r the sick man and the angel. "is there no hope?" the sick man said. the silent doctor shook his head; and took his leave with signs of sorrow, despairing of his fee to-morrow. when thus the man, with gasping breath; "i feel the chilling wound of death since i must bid the world adieu, let me my former life review. i grant my bargains well were made; but all men over-reach in trade: fable xxvii. ' 'tis self-defence in each profession; sure self-defence is no transgression. the little portion in my hands, by good security on lands is well increased. if, unawares, my justice to myself and heirs hath let my debtor rot in jail, for want of good sufficient bail; if i by writ, or bond, or deed, reduced a family to need, my will hath made the world amends; my hope on charity depends. when i am number'd with the dead, and all my pious gifts are read, by heaven and earth 'twill then be known my charities were amply shown." an angel came: "ah! friend," he cried, "no more in flattering hope confide. can thy good deeds in former times outweigh the balance of thy crimes? what widow or what orphan prays, to crown thy life with length of days? a pious action's in thy power, embrace with joy the happy hour. now while you draw the vital air, prove your intention is sincere: this instant give a hundred pound; your neighbours want, and you abound." ( ) the same word in greek which signifies "grace," also means "charity," but with the usual waywardness and self-deceiving reliance upon their own merits, exhibited by mankind, the poor wretch here depends upon the latter meaning of the word, synonymous with his benevolent acts, instead of its proper meaning, the free unmerited favour of heaven. the angel's reply is very applicable to detect the hypocrisy of his boasted piety. fable xxvii. "but why such haste," the sick man whines, "who knows as yet what heaven designs? perhaps i may recover still:— that sum and more are in my will." "fool," says the vision, "now 'tis plain your life, your soul, your heaven, was gain. from every side, with all your might, you scraped, and scraped beyond your right; and after death would fain atone, by giving what is not your own." "while there is life, there's hope," he cried, "then why such haste?"—so groan'dand died. ( ) were all physical beauty to be developed in its primary elements, how full of loathsome corruption would the finest face and form appear disease would peer forth beneath the bloom of health, and the deformity of decay startle us under the aspect of loveliness and splendour! so is it with our moral being; the most exquisite leaf of pure benevolence, when unrolled, discloses the worm of selfishness within, and whilst professing unbounded dedication of ourselves to heaven, we cling to, and grovel in the wealth of earth! to the last we still plead for time, so long as there is a vice to be favoured, or a desire to be excused, the free abandonment of either, being the true test of our sincerity. a false pretender to benevolence once expressed to a quaker his deep sympathy with a suffering friend in poverty: "believe me," said he, "i feel for him extremely." "indeed," was the reply, "prithee didst thou ever feel for him in thy pocket i" the persian, the sun, and the cloud. is there a bard whom genius fires, whose every thought the god inspires? when envy reads the nervous lines, she frets, she rails, she raves, she pines; her hissing snakes with venom swell; she calls her venal train from hell: fable xxviii. the servile fiends her nod obey, and all curl's authors are in pay. fame calls up calumny and spite: thus shadow owes its birth to light. as prostrate to the god of day, with heart devout, a persian lay, his invocation thus begun: "parent of light! all-seeing sun prolific beam, whose rays dispense the various gifts of providence; accept our praise, our daily prayer, smile on our fields, and bless the year." a cloud, who mock'd his grateful tongue, the day with sudden darkness hung; with pride and envy swell'd, aloud a voice thus thunder'd from the cloud: "weak is this gaudy god of thine, whom i at will, forbid to shine. shall i nor vows nor incense know?— where praise is due the praise bestow." with fervent zeal the persian moved, thus the proud calumny reproved; "it was that god who claims my pray'r, who gave thee birth, and raised thee there; when o'er his beams the veil is thrown, thy substance is but plainer shown: a passing gale, a puff of wind, dispels thy thickest troops combined." the gale arose; the vapour tost —the sport of winds,—in air was lost; ( ) edmund curl, a celebrated publisher in gay's time; he often figures in the works of pope, swift and arbuthnot, and has lately been brought forward again as one of the characters in "not so bad as we seem," sir e. bulwer lytton's play, and is therein represented by mr. dickens. fable xxviii. the glorious orb the day refines: thus envy breaks, thus merit shines. ( ) detraction is the tax which virtue pays for being eminent, and such envious temper does not suffer, as falstaff urges in the st part of henry the fourth, "honour to live with the living;" yet the fable shows that even this foul vice tends rather to the exhibition, than to the extinction, of merit. as satan is depicted by milton to "turn aside," and to "eye" the happiness of our first parents "askance, with jealous leer malign," so the inheritors of the same infernal spirit have ever endeavoured to spoil, from sheer malice, the aspect of whatever was glorious and fair. one day, upon passing a fresh painted wall in leicester, which looked quite spotless in its newly endowed purity, i observed a chimney-sweeper's boy pause for a moment, and regard it intensely; then looking at his smutty fingers, he drew them deliberately down the fair and polished surface of the paint, simply from hatred of the white,—such is envy! the fox at the point of death. a fox, in life's extreme decay, weak, sick, and faint, expiring lay; all appetite had left his maw, and age disarm'd his mumbling jaw. his numerous race around him stand, to learn their dying sire's command: he raised his head with whining moan, and thus was heard the feeble tone: "ah, sons! from evil ways depart; my crimes lie heavy on my heart. ( ) "frangendus misero gingiva panis inermi."—ju fable xxix. see, see the murder'd geese appear! why are those bleeding turkeys there? why all around this cackling train, who haunt my ears for chicken slain?" the hungry foxes round them stared, and for the promised feast prepared. "where, sir, is all this dainty cheer? nor turkey, goose, nor hen, is here: these are the phantoms of your brain, and your sons lick their lips in vain." " gluttons!" says the drooping sire, "restrain inordinate desire: your liquorish taste you shall deplore, when peace of conscience is no more. does not the hound betray our pace, and gins and guns destroy our race? thieves dread the searching eye of power, and never feel the quiet hour. old age (which few of us shall know) now puts a period to my woe. would you true happiness attain, let honesty your passions rein; so live in credit and esteem, and the good name you lost, redeem." "the counsel's good," a fox replies, "could we perform what you advise. think what our ancestors have done? a line of thieves from son to son: ( ) "quos diri conscia facti mens habet attonitos et surdo verbere ceedit."—jut. ( ) "good name in man or woman, is the immediate jewel of our souls."—shak. othello. fable xxix. to us descends the long disgrace, and infamy hath mark'd our race. though we, like harmless sheep, should feed, honest in thought, in word, and deed; whatever hen-roost is decreased, we shall be thought to share the feast. the change shall never be believed: a lost good name is ne'er retrieved." "nay, then," replies the feeble fox; "but, hark! i hear a hen that clucks: go, but be moderate in your food: a chicken, too, might do me good." ( ) this fable of hypocrisy somewhat resembles fable xxvn. except in the additional feature here exhibited, of the fancy which besets men that they have forsaken their vices, when really they are too old to practise them. also there is a fine touch in the second fox's reply, alluding, not merely to the loss of a good name being irretrievable, but also to the obstacle placed in the way of repentance, by the exhibition towards it of an unwise and ungenerous suspicion. it is doubtless well to be on our guard against dissemblers, still we too often oppose the return to good of the really sincere, by recording past offences with prejudice, as if we disliked to facilitate the progress of virtuous recovery; yet, "true repentance never comes too late. as soon as born, she makes herself a shroud, and swift as thought her airy journey takes; her hand heaven's azure gate with trembling strikes; she tells her story in so sad a tone, that angels start from bliss, and give a groan."—lee, mas*, of par. -, fev, the setting dog and the partridge. the ranging dog the stubble tries, and searches every breeze that flies. the scent grows warm; with cautious fear he creeps, and points the covey near; the men in silence, far behind, conscious of game the net unbind. a partridge, with experience wise, the fraudful preparation spies; a fable xxx. she mocks their toils, alarms her brood, the covey springs, and seeks the wood; but, ere her certain wing she tries, thus to the creeping spaniel cries: "thou fawning slave to man's deceit, thou pimp of luxury, sneaking cheat, of thy whole species, thou disgrace, dogs should disown thee of their race! for if i judge their native parts, they're born with honest, open hearts; and, ere they served man's wicked ends, were generous foes, or real friends." when thus the dog, with scornful smile: "secure of wing, thou darest revile. clowns are to polish'd manners blind: how ignorant is the rustic mind! my worth sagacious courtiers see, and to preferment rise like me. the thriving pimp, who beauty sets, hath oft enhanced a nation's debts; friend sets his friend, without regard, and ministers his skill reward: thus train'd by man, i learnt his ways, and growing favour feasts my days." "i might have guess'd," the partridge said, "the place where you were train'd and fed; servants are apt, and in a trice ape to a hair their master's vice. ( ) the meaning here attached to this word, "set," as in the line but one above, is to betray; the metaphor being obviously taken from the act of a dog discovering game. the noun "setter" is used in the same sense by poins, speaking of gadshill, hen. iv. part i. act u. scene . fable xxx. you came from court, you say—adieu!" she said, and-to the covey flew. ( ) climbing and crawling are performed in almost the same posture, and by the use of pretty nearly the same muscles; we need not wonder then if, in a similar way, ambition should employ the grovelling attitudes of sycophancy. with his usual 'bitterness against court intrigue, engendered by his own dis- appointment, gay here attacks the servility with which the courtier fawns upon his patron, and the treachery which is ever ready, in the pernicious atmosphere of a court, to poison and betray friendship. moreover, he alludes to the exact reflection of the vices of the upper classes, which the lower strive to exhibit, though those will admit, who have mixed much in upper society, that the grossest vulgarity of feeling, if not of manner, is frequently found amongst people of highest rank. "a grain of honesty," says lord shaftesbury, "or native worth, is of more value than all the adventitious ornaments, estates, or preferments, for the sake of which, some of the better sort, so oft turn knaves, forsaking their principles, and quitting their honour and freedom, for a mean, timorous, shifting state, of gaudy servitude."—vide characteristics. the universal apparition. a rake, by every passion ruled, with every vice his youth had cool'd; disease his tainted blood assails, his spirits droop, his vigour fails: with secret ills at home he pines, and, like infirm old age, declines. as twinged with pain, he pensive sits, and raves, and prays, and swears, by fits; fable xxxi. yet, to suppose that with all our observation of means and methods, we can entirely neutralize that poison, care, which lurks in our very being, or limit its power as the representative of sin's penalty, over all human aspects, would be to disavow the yoke which the fall placed on us, and to disown the obligation of existence itself! "scandit seratas vitiosa naves cura: nee turmas equitum relinquit, ocyor cervis, et agente nimbos ocyor euro."—hob. the two owls and the sparrow. two formal owls together sat, conferring thus in solemn chat: "how is the modern taste decay'd! where's the respect to wisdom paid? our worth the grecian sages knew; they gave our sires the honour due; fable xxxii. they weigh'd the dignity of fowls, and pry'd into the depth of owls. athens, the seat of learned fame, with general voice revered our name; on merit title was conferr'd, and all adored the' athenian bird." "brother, you reason well," replies the solemn mate, with half-shut eyes; "right: athens was the seat of learning; and truly wisdom is discerning. besides, on pallas' helm we sit, the type and ornament of wit: but now, alas! we're quite neglected, and a pert sparrow %i more respected." a sparrow, who was lodged beside, o'erhears them soothe each other's pride, and thus he nimbly vents his heat: "who meets a fool must find conceit. i grant you were at athens graced, and on minerva's helm were placed; but every bird that wings the sky, except an owl, can tell you why. from hence they taught their schools to know how false we judge by outward show; that we should never looks esteem, since fools as wise as you, might seem. would ye contempt and scorn avoid, let your vain-glory be destroy'd: humble your arrogance of thought, pursue the ways by nature taught; so shall you find delicious fare, and grateful farmers praise your care; the courtier and proteus. whbne'ee a courtier's out of place, the country shelters his disgrace; where, doom'd to exercise and health, his house and gardens own his wealth. he builds new schemes, in hope to gain the plunder of another reign; like philip's son, would fain be doing, and sighs for other realms to ruin. ( ) fide plutarch in vita. fable xxxiii. as one of these (without his wand), pensive along the winding strand employ'd the solitary hour, in projects to regain his power, the waves in spreading circles ran, proteus arose, and thus began: "came you from court? for in your mien a self-important air is seen." he frankly own'd his friends had trick'd him, and how he fell his party's victim. "know," says the god, "by matchless skill i change to every shape at will; but yet i'm told, at court you see those who presume to rival me." thus said: a snake, with hideous trail, proteus extends his scaly mail. "know," says the man, "tho' proud in place, all courtiers are of reptile race. like you, they take that dreadful form, bask in the sun, and fly the storm; with malice hiss, with envy gloat, and for convenience change their coat; with new-got lustre rear their head, though on a dunghill born and bred. sudden the god a lion stands; he shakes his mane, he spurns the sands; now a fierce lynx, with fiery glare; a wolf, an ass, a fox, a bear. "had i ne'er lived at court," he cries, "such transformation might surprise; but there, in quest of daily game, each able courtier acts the same. fable xxxiii. wolves, lions, lynxes, while in place, their friends and fellows are their chase. they play the bear's and fox's part, now rob by force, now steal with art. they sometimes in the senate bray, or, changed again to beasts of prey, down from the lion to the ape, practise the frauds of every shape." so said, upon the god he flies, in cords the struggling captive ties. "now, proteus! now (to truth compell'd) speak, and confess thy art excell'd. use strength, surprise, or what you will, the courtier finds evasions still; not to be bound by any ties, and never forced to leave his lies."* ( ! this pungent satire upon the life of fraud, which is the wretched lot of a courtier, is only to be equalled by swift's biting apophthegm, "that a courtier's creed is the shortest, but best observed, he ever knew, namely, always to keep his place, and never to keep his promise." the various images of the wily venom of the snake, the power without the generosity of the lion, the cat-like, cunning cruelty of thelynx, the voracity and brutal sensuality of the bear, the craftiness of the fox, and the dull indolence and stupidity of the ass,—all ingredients in the character of courtiers,—are drawn literally after nature. truly, "what man of sense would rack his generous mind to practise all the base formalities and forms of business? force a grave starch'd face when he's a very libertine in's heart t seem not to know this or that man in public, when privately perhaps they meet together, and lay the scene of some brave fellow's ruin? such things are done in courts."—otwat, oph. the mastiff. those who in quarrels interpose, must often wipe a bloody nose. a mastiff, of true english blood, loved fighting better than his food. when dogs were snarling for a bone, he long'd to make the war his own, and often found (when two contend) to interpose obtain'd his end. fable xxxiv. he gloried in his limping pace; the scars of honour seam'd his face; in every limb a gash appears, and frequent fights retrench'd his ears. as, on a time, he heard from far two dogs engaged in noisy war, away he scours, and lays about him, resolved no fray should be without him. forth from his yard a tanner flies, and to the bold intruder cries, "a cudgel shall correct your manners: whence sprung this cursed hate to tanners? while on my dog you vent your spite, sirrah! 'tis me you dare not bite." to see the battle thus perplex'd, with equal rage a butcher vex'd, hoarse-screaming from the circled crowd, to the cursed mastiff cries aloud, "both hockley-hole and mary-bone the combats of my dog have known: he ne'er, like bullies, coward-hearted, attacks in public,—to be parted. think not, rash fool, to share his fame; be his the honour or the shame." thus said, they swore, and raved like thunder, then dragg'd their fasten'd dogs asunder; while clubs and kicks from ev'ry side rebounded from the mastiff's hide. ( ) both these places were celebrated bear gardens, the former in clerkenwell, near the modem ray street. in the beggar's opera, mrs. peachum says to filch, "you must go to hockley-in-the-hole, and to marybone, child, to learn valour." fable xxxiv. all reeking now with sweat and blood, awhile the parted warriors stood; then pour'd upon the meddling foe, who, worried, howl'd, and sprawl'd below. he rose; and, limping from the fray, by both sides mangled, sneak'd away. ( ) the humorous description given of a quarrelsome fellow by mercutio, in romeo and juliet, is not overcharged, for there are some persons so choleric, that, like salamanders, they can only live in a flame. yet, not only in domestic quarrel is all interposition unwise, but in every contention also, except the cause of humanity obliges us to interfere, since strife proves the madness of anger to be present, and where the latter is, the intentions of the friend are as likely to invite destruction, as the hostility of the foe. when also we remember from how small beginnings great dissensions arise,—as montaigne notices the commence- ment of the war between marius and sylla to have been the engraving of a seal, (see plutarch, life of marius, c. ,)—it is wiser at times to forego even our known right, than to involve in dispute to obtain it. this, cicero, himself a lawyer, and therefore living upon quarrels, like a gunsmith, or a swordsman, advises. (de off. xi. ):—" convenit alitibus quantum licet, et nescio an paulo plus etiam quam licet abhorrentem esse: est enim non modo liberale, paululum nonnunquam de suo jure decedere, scd interdum etiam fructuosum." o* the barley-mow and the dunghill, how many saucy airs we meet from temple bar to aldgate street! proud rogues, who shared the south-sea prey, and sprung like mushrooms in a day! they think it mean to condescend to know a brother or a friend; ( ) see the account of this in ksight's london; in the biography of our author, prefixed to this volume, it will be seen that he was involved in it. the sudden transition from poverty to wealth is, of course, as general now, with australia on one side of fortune's wheel, and railway speculations on the other. fable xxxv. they blush to hear their mother's name, and by their pride expose their shame. as 'cross his yard, at early day, a careful farmer took his way, he stopp'd, and, leaning on his fork, observed the flail's incessant work. in thought he measured all his store, his geese, his hogs, he number'd o'er; in fancy weigh'd the fleeces shorn, and multiplied the next year's corn. a barley-mow, which stood beside, thus to its musing master cried: "say, good sir, is it fit or right to treat me with neglect and slight me, who contribute to your cheer, and raise your mirth with ale and beer? why thus insulted, thus disgraced, and that vile dunghill near me placed? are those poor sweepings of a groom, that filthy sight, that nauseous fume, meet objects here? command it hence; a thing so mean must give offence." the humble dunghill thus replied: "thy master hears, and mocks thy pride: insult not thus the meek and low; in me thy benefactor know; my warm assistance gave thee birth, or thou hadst perish'd low in earth; ( ) beau nash being asked why he never mentioned his ancestors, as if he were ashamed of them, replied, "i pass them over in silence not because i nm ashamed of them, but because they would be ashamed of me." this might be a true rejoinder, if uttered by many parvenus. pythagoras and the countryman. pythag'ras rose at early dawn, by soaring meditation drawn; to breathe the fragrance of the day, through flowery fields he took his way. in musing contemplation warm, his steps misled him to a farm, ( ) a bean field must have been rather obnoxious to him, notwithstanding its fine smell, for he forbade his disciples to feed on that vegetable, considering that it was formed of the same substance, as that, of which the world was com- posed! his objection to the flesh of animals arose from his belief in the metempsychosis, or transmigration of souls. for an analysis of the pythago- rean doctrines, see my "schools of ancient philosophy," published in the monthly series of the religious tract society. fable xxxvi. for 'petty rogues submit to fate, that great ones may enjoy their state.'" ( ) that there is one law for the rich and another for the poor, is a very old and true complaint, and the sophistical selfishness by which men endeavour to gloss over their tyranny to each other, and their cruelty to the brutes, is abso- lutely nauseating from its fulsome hypocrisy. thus hunting is defended upon the plea of suppressing vermin, which at the same time are diligently sought for to stock woods, in order that there may be no lack of sport! the lordly prelate tramples upon some poor clerical culprit, whose delinquency he magnifies through the increasing lens of his own love of arbitrary power, which, if viewed through the glass of charity, or in the reflection of one's own failings, would vanish into the merest shadow of a fault! hence men are judged not by the greatness of offence, but of position, and as lear says,— -" plate sin with gold, and the strong lance of justice hurtless breaks, arm it in rags, a pigmy's spear will pierce it. through tatter'd clothes small vices do appear, llobes and furr'd gowns hide all!" the farmer's wife and the raven. "why are those tears? why droops your head! is then your other husbaud dead? or does a worse disgrace betide: hath no one since his death applied?" "alas! you know the cause too well; the salt is spilt, to me it fell: ( ) this is a very old superstition, and in the picture of the last supper, by l. da vinci, the saltcellar is overturned by judas, im fable xxxvii. then, to contribute to my loss, my knife and fork were laid across: on friday, too !—the day i dread! would i were safe at home in bed! last night (i vow to heaven 'tis true) bounce from the fire a coffin flew, next post some fatal news shall tell; god send my cornish friends be well!" "unhappy widow, cease thy tears, nor feel affliction in thy fears; let not thy stomach be suspended; eat now, and weep when dinner's ended: and when the butler clears the table, for thy dessert, i'll read my fable." betwixt her swagging pannier's load a farmer's wife to market rode, and, jogging on, with thoughtful care, summ'd up the profits of her ware; when, starting from her silver dream, thus far and wide was heard her scream: "that baven on yon left-hand oak (curse on his ill-betiding croak) bodes me no good." no more she said, when poor blind ball, with stumbling tread ( ) knives were introduced into england in , but forks did not appear until . for an account of english superstitions and omens, see drake's "shakspeare and his times." ( ) for some amusing examples of the effect of superstition, compare hotspur's account of owen glendower. shakspeare, henry iv. part . horace ridicules such absurd forebodings well. "prudens futuri temporis exitum caliginosa nocte premit deus: ridetque, si mortalis ultra fas trepidat."—hor. od. iii. . fable xxxvii. fell prone; o'erturn'd the pannier lay, and her mash'd eggs bestrew'd the way. she, sprawling in the yellow road, rail'd, swore, and cursed: "thou croaking toad, a murrain take thy whoreson throat! i knew misfortune in the note." "dame," quoth the raven, "spare your oaths. unclench your fist, and wipe your clothes. but why on me those curses thrown? goody, the fault was all your own; for had you laid this brittle ware on dun, the old sure-footed mare, though all the ravens of the hundred, with croaking had your tongue out-thunder'd, sure-footed dun had kept her legs, and you, good woman, saved your eggs." (i) self-love is so involved in the very elements of our mental economy, that the instant we fall into misfortune by our own fault, we lay the blame on luck, fortune, or some unmeaning superstitious fatality. yet these would never have existed in our thought as operative agents to our good or ill, had not indolence or stupidity vaguely looked out for some imaginary culprit, to bear the blame of their own error. well says juvenal, "nos te, "nos facimus, fortuna, deam, cceloque locamus." when, however, "imagination," to use swift's quaint expression, "gets at cuffs with reason," there is no end to the absurdities which the latter is forced either tacitly to obey, or loudly to resist. hence pages might be filled with accounts of the effect of superstition upon ignorance; indeed, it has been truly called "the religion of weak minds," from the servile obedience with which the latter bow down to it; so that whilst, on the one side, labour is paralysed, and duty omitted, on the other, injustice and cruelty are perpetrated, and charity utterly forgotten. for the ludicrous effects of superstition, see montaigne, and drake's shakspeare, with the history of witchcraft; and any one who would desire to confirm the saying of lucretius, "sffipe peperit olim scelerosa atque impia facta, religio,—"—where the last word is used in its bad sense of "superstition,"—may find examples in the history of the popish church, pasaim. the turkey and the ant. in other men we faults can spy, and blame the mote that dims their eye j each little speck and blemish find, to our own stronger errors blind. a turkey, tired of common food, forsook the barn, and sought the wood; ( ) this word "mote " does not rightly convey the antithesis to "beam," as the original gives it, for the translation, instead of "mote," ought .to be "splinter," which is the true meaning of xup^os in the greek. vide dr. s. bloomfield on matt. vii. . fable xxxviii. behind her ran an infant train, collecting here and there, a grain. "draw near, my birds!" the mother cries, "this hill delicious fare supplies. behold the busy negro race, see millions blacken all the place! fear not; like me with freedom eat; an ant is most delightful meat. how blest, how envied, were our life, could we but 'scape the poulterer's knife! but man, curs'd man, on turkeys preys, and christmas shortens all our days. sometimes with oysters we combine, sometimes assist the savoury chine; from the low peasant to the lord, the turkey smokes on every board. sure men for gluttony are curs'd, of the seven deadly sins, the worst." an ant, who climb'd beyond his reach, thus answer'd from the neighbouring beech: "ere you remark another's sin, bid thy own conscience look within; control thy more voracious bill, nor, for a breakfast, nations kill." ( ) a fiiendof tedyuscung once said to him whena little intoxicated, "there is one thing very strange, and which i cannot account for; it is, why the indians get drunk so much more than the white people!" "do you think that strange?" said the old chief; ''why, it is not strange at all. the indians think it no harm to get drunk whenever they can; but you white men say it is a sin, and yet get drunk nevertheless." the cause of censoriousness, i may observe also, is, that men are so taken up with playing the part of judges, that they forget their own proper condition is that of culprits. fable xxxix. now more solicitous he grew, and set their future lives in view; he saw that all respect and duty were paid to wealth, to power, and beauty. "once more," he cries, "accept my prayer; make my loved progeny thy care: let my first hope, my favourite boy, all fortune's richest gifts enjoy. my next with strong ambition fire; may favour teach him to aspire, till he the step of power ascend, and courtiers to their idol, bend. with every grace, with every charm, my daughter's perfect features arm. if heaven approve, a father's bless'd."— jove smiles, and grants his full request. the first, a miser at the heart, studious of every griping art, heaps hoards on hoards with anxious pain, and all his life devotes to gain. he feels no joy, his cares increase, he neither wakes, nor sleeps, in peace; in fancied want (a wretch complete) he starves, and yet he dares not eat. the next to sudden honours grew; the thriving art of courts he knew; he reach'd the height of power and place, then fell, the victim of disgrace. ( ) "like a miser midst his store who grasps and grasps till he can hold no more;and when his strength is wanting to his mind, looks back and sighs on what he left behind."—drtdeh. ( ) see the fall of sejanus magnificently described in the tenth satire of juvenal; and johnson's vanity of human wishes. e fable xxxix. beauty with early bloom supplies his daughter's cheek, and points her eyes. the vain coquette each suit disdains, and glories in her lovers' pains. with age she fades, each lover flies; contemn'd, forlorn, she pines and dies. when jove the father's grief survey'd, and heard him heaven and fate upbraid, thus spoke the god: "by outward show, men judge of happiness and woe. shall ignorance of good and ill dare to direct th' eternal will? seek virtue; and, of that possess'd, to providence resign the rest." ( ) vide dissection of a coquette's heart, spectator, no. . ( ) whilst the direction of the christian religion to its professors is "in every thing by prayer and supplication, with thanksgiving, to let their requests be made known unto god," we are in no wise authorized to dictate blessings to the almighty will; for, "if heaven should always grant what we think best, we should be ruin'd by our own request." like the silly fly, which, walking over the lamp glass, and dazzled with the glare, longs to reach that, which, if attained, would destroy it, so man wildly invokes or madly upbraids heaven for results as unforeseen as illusory. the tenth satire of juvenal is an admirable exponent of this subject, and virgil gives advice which may serve as a moral to the fable. we append dryden's translation of the part. "what then remains? are we deprived of will? must we not wish, for fear of wishing ill? receive my counsel and securely move; entrust thy fortune to the pow'rs above; leave them to manage for thee and to grant what their unerring wisdom sees thee want. in goodness, as in greatness, they excel: oh! that we loved ourselves but half so well." rac the two monkeys. the learned, full of inward pride, the fops of outward show deride; the fop, with learning at defiance, scoffs at the pedant and the science: the don, a formal solemn strutter, despises monsieur's airs and flutter; while monsieur mocks the formal fool, who looks, and speaks, and walks, by rule. fable xl. britain, a medley of the twain, as pert as france, as grave as spain, in fancy wiser than the rest, laughs at them both, of both the jest. is not the poet's chiming close, censured by all the sons of prose? while bards of quick imagination despise the sleepy prose narration. men laugh at apes, they men contemn; for what are we, but apes to them? two monkeys went to southwark fair, no critics had a sourer air: they forced their way through draggled folks, who gaped to catch jack pudding's jokes; then took their tickets for the show, and got by chance, the foremost row. to see their grave observing face provok'd a laugh throughout the place. "brother," says pug, and turn'd his head, "the rabble's monstrously ill-bred." now through the booth loud hisses ran, nor ended till the show began. the tumbler whirls the flip-flap round, with sommersets he shakes the ground; the cord beneath the dancer springs; aloft in air the vaulter swings; distorted now, now prone depends, now through his twisted arms ascends; ( ) "criticism is like a shuttlecock, and every one is furnished with a racket to pass it off from himself to his neighbour."—swift. ( ) the word " sommerset" is derived from "soubresaut;" it is sometimes written " summersalt.'> table xl. the crowd, in wonder and delight, with clapping hands, applaud the sight. with smiles, quoth pug," if pranks like these the giant apes of reason please, how would they wonder at our arts? they must adore us for our parts. high on the twig i've seen you cling, play, twist, and turn in airy ring: how can those clumsy things like me fly with a bound from tree to tree? but yet, by this applause, we find these emulators of our kind discern our worth, our parts regard, who our mean mimics thus reward." "brother," the grinning mate replies, "in this i grant that man is wise; while good example they pursue, we must allow some praise is due; but when they strain beyond their guide, i laugh to scorn the mimic pride; for how fantastic is the sight, to meet men always bolt upright, because we sometimes walk on two! i hate the imitating crew." ( ) this is one of the most finished of gay's productions if we consider the lively vein of satire so justly levelled at the ignorant and supercilious conceit of mankind, which, wishing to arrogate all excellency, even of physical power, to itself, strives after what may be termed, "brute accomplishments." the observation in the last line is a fac-simile of the indolent pride which characterises the observation of many, and might pass, word for word, for a prim speech of some fine lady, newly raised to a precarious dignity, looking down upon those whose society she has just quitted, but now considers as her inferiors; or for the pedantic arrogance of some inflated scholar, who boasts the knowledge of every language and science, but whom a blacksmith could surpass, in common sense. fable xli. smoke, nod, and talk with voice profound, and fix the fate of europe round.) sheaves piled on sheaves, hid all the floor:— at dawn of morn to view his store the farmer came. the hooting guest, his self-importance, thus exprest: "reason in man is mere pretence: how weak, how shallow, is his sense! to treat with scorn the bird of night, declares his folly or his spite. then, too, how partial is his praise! the lark's, the linnet's chirping lays, to his ill-judging ears are fine, and nightingales are all divine: but the more knowing feather'd race see wisdom stamp'd upon my face. whene'er to visit light i deign, what flocks of fowl compose my train! like slaves, they crowd my flight behind, and own me of superior kind." the farmer laugh'd, and thus replied: "thou dull important lump of pride! dar'st thou with that harsh grating tongue depreciate birds of warbling song j indulge thy spleen: know, men and fowl regard thee, as thou art, an owl. besides, proud blockhead! be not vain of what thou call'st thy slaves and train: ( ) vide wilkie's picture of the "village politicians." it requires sma talent to acquire the fame of political sagacity, seeing that of politicians it may be spoken, as of apollo's oracle, "quidquid dixit apollo aut erit aut non." fable xli. few follow wisdom or her rules; fools in derision follow fools." ( ) the criticisms of self-conceit, though worthless, form nevertheless a frequent source of gratification, to those who find in them a safety valve, for the wounded pride and sense of indignity which they entertain towards the world, for not appreciating, what they consider, excellent in themselves. hence arise ill- tempered sallies at the misery of life, at the uncharitableness of mankind, whereas true worth is sure to make its way, even by the striking qualification of its humility; and the world, with all its faults, rarely blames unjustly, and would least of all censure the excellence which is too valuable to be disregarded. when, however, spleen and disappointment affect the judgment, we are apt to pride ourselves upon the possession of what should constitute our shame, and imagine that the notice of vulgar derision is the applause of the virtuous and great. i may add, that of all humbugs, your grave sententious humbug is the worst, who shakes his head at the wit he cannot comprehend, and who, like the owl, is dazzled by the sun of intellect around him. besides, such are generally narrow-minded hypocrites, who will be guilty of a thousand meannesses,—if done in a quiet way; for verily, "gravity," as bolingbroke says, "is the essence of imposture." the jugglers. a juggler long through all the town had raised his fortune and renown; you'd think (so far his art transcends) the devil at his fingers' ends. vice heard his fame, she read his bill; convinced of his inferior skill, she sought his booth, and from the crowd defied the man of art aloud. fable xlii. "is this then he so famed for sleight? can this slow bungler cheat your sight? dares he with me dispute the prize? i leave it to impartial eyes." provoked, the juggler cried, "'tis done; in science i submit to none." thus said, the cups and balls he play'd; by turns this here, that there, convey'd. the cards, obedient to his words, are by a fillip turn'd to birds. his little boxes change the grain: trick after trick deludes the train. he shakes his bag, he shows all fair: his fingers spread, and nothing there: then bids it rain with showers of gold; and now his ivory eggs are told! but when from thence the hen he draws, amazed spectators hum applause. vice now stept forth, and took the place, with all the forms of his grimace. "this magic looking-glass," she cries, "(there, hand it round) will charm your eyes." each eager eye the sight desired, and every man himself admired. next, to a senator addressing, "see this bank-note,—observe the blessing— breathe on the bill. hey, pass! 'tis gone." upon his lips a padlock shown. a second puff the magic broke; the padlock vanish'd, and he spoke. ( ) this signifies the contamination of the moral perception, by vice. ( ) he here touches at the bribery which seals, or opens, the senator's lips: fable xlii. !) twelve bottles ranged upon the board, all full, with heady liquor stored, by clean conveyance disappear; and now two bloody swords are there. a purse she to a thief exposed; at once his ready fingers closed. he opes his fist, the treasure's fled; he sees a halter in its stead. she bids ambition hold a wand; he grasps a hatchet in his hand. a box of charity she shows. blow here; and a churchwarden blows. 'tis vanish'd with conveyance neat, and on the table smokes a treat. she shakes the dice, the board she knocks, and from all pockets fills her box. she next a meagre rake addrest: "this picture see; her shape, her breast! what youth, and what inviting eyes! hold her, and have her." with surprise, his hand exposed a box of pills, and a loud laugh proclaim'd his ills. now loud, now, "pulveris exigui jactu" with the gold upon his itching palm, calm and quiet as a lamb; for "money is the only power that all mankind fall down before."—hudibras. ( ) "who hath woe? who hath sorrow? who hath contentions? who hath babbling? who hath wounds without cause? they that tarry long at the wine."—prov. xxiii. , . ( ) because the last ascent of ambition often terminates upon the scaffold. ( ) an admirable touch at the usual concomitants of philanthropy, in which the wretchedness of the poor is washed down by bottles of port, and the charity which should feed the .hungry panders to the appetite of the sensual and purse proud.—benevolence is dry fare, without turbot and lobster sauce. ( ) vice knocks at every door, and is maintained at each man's cost. ( ) see the observations of the wise man to youth, prov. ii. ; v. ; vii. . indiscretion in youth is a draught upon age, payable at ten years or months. , fable xui. a counter in a miser's hand, grew twenty guineas at command: she bids his heir the sum retain, and 'tis a counter now again. a guinea with her touch, you see take every shape but charity; and not one thing you saw, or drew, but changed from what was first in view. the juggler now, in grief of heart, with this submission own'd her art: "can i such matchless sleight withstand! how practice hath improved your hand! but now and then i cheat the throng; you every day, and all day long." ( ) the extravagance of the spendthrift, follows the avarice of the miser, as the shadow does the figure. ( ) this is well drawn, for, first, even the instrument of good, which gold might be, is warped from its proper purpose, when vice employs it; next, charity essentially differs from vice " in thinking no evil:" thirdly, the distorting power of vicious indulgence is hinted at, which puts "evil for good, darkness for light, and sweet for bitter." ( ) the whole of human life is one huge falsehood, from the cradle to the grave, and it is no wonder that men should be knaves to each other, when even the best of us is such a hypocrite to himself! first comes vanity with her deceptive mirror, which has the power of making ugliness appear beauty, and renders the vilest acts excusable in the perpetrator's own eyes. the " scurvy politician" is loud against public abuses, until he has been paid his price, and then, as lear observes, " he takes glass eyes, and seems to see the things he doth not." wine unlocks the bars of prudence, therefore is an instrument by which knavery deludes folly, under the garb of good fellowship, until the mask is torn off by passion, and the feast ends in the fray! the crafty villain promises himself indemnity, and success; the ambitious, power and security; forgetful that ill-gotten treasure is soon spent, and purchases disgrace, and that " pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall." the heartless hypocrisy, again, of those who can always bear "another's misfortune perfectly like christians," nauseates us by its frequent exhibition in men who, living in palaces, and pampered in luxury, mouth out devotional exhortations which they do not feel, upon burdens they touch not with one of their fingers, to the poor outcast whose only inheritance has been care, who watches the growth of his grey hairs with pleasure, and is longing for the end of the scene! our very tears are deceptions, for physical melancholy will often draw water, like the fable xlii. ml rod of moses, out of the rocky heart, without in the least changing its nature, and so we see selfishness with its eyes moist, and apathy even itself for a time forgetting its indifference, whilst under the effect of fervent, but also insincere eloquence, until when the speech is over, and the hurried accents silent, orator and auditor relapse into more hardened callousness, and obtuse self-love. vice rules all, from the miser's papered window to the profligate's arena alternating between the lazar-house and the gaol, and so universal is its sway, so omnipotent its influence, that even to correct it we must employ itself,—match cunning against cunning, and, as shakspeare says,— "virtue of vice must oft-times pardon beg, for leave to do it good!" the council of horses. upon a time a neighing steed, who grazed among a numerous breed, with mutiny had fired the train, and spread dissension through the plain. on matters that concern'd the state the council met in grand debate. a colt, whose eyeballs flamed with ire, elate with strength and youthful fire, fable xliii. in haste stept forth before the rest, and thus the listening throng addrest: "good gods! how abject is our race, condemn'd to slavery and disgrace! shall we our servitude retain, because our sires have borne the chain? consider, friends, your strength and might; 'tis conquest to assert your right. how cumbrous is the gilded coach! the pride of man is our reproach. were we design'd for daily toil, to drag the ploughshare through the soil, to sweat in harness through the road, to groan beneath the carrier's load? how feeble are the two-legged kind! what force is in our nerves combined! shall then our nobler jaws submit to foam and champ the galling bit? shall haughty man my back bestride? shall the sharp spur provoke my side? forbid it heavens! reject the rein; your shame, your infamy, disdain. let him the lion first control, and still the tiger's famish'd growl. let us, like them, our freedom claim, and make him tremble at our name." a general nod approved the cause, and all the circle neigh'd applause. when, lo! with grave and solemn pace, a steed advanced before the race, ( ) an application to human vanity, however fallacious, never fails of popular applause, e.g. addresses of mob-orator, passim. fable xliii. with age and long experience wise; around he cast his thoughtful eyes, and, to the murmurs of the train, thus spoke the nestor of the plain:' "when i had health and strength, like you, the toils of servitude i knew; now grateful man rewards my pains, and gives me all these wide domains. at will, i crop the year's increase; my latter life is rest and peace. i grant to man we lend our pains, and aid him to correct the plains; but doth not he divide the care, through all the labours of the year? how many thousand structures rise, to fence us from inclement skies! for us he bears the sultry day, and stores up all our winter's hay; he sows, he reaps the harvest's gain; we share the toil, and share the grain. since every creature was decreed to aid each other's mutual need, appease your discontented mind, and act the part by heaven assign'd." the tumult ceased. the colt submitted; and, like his ancestors, was bitted. ( ) "ille regit dictis animos et pectora mulcet."—virg. ( ) this fable in effect resembles that of the belly andthe members, said to have been delivered by menenius agrippa, to appease a popular clamour, when, in consequence of the great expense of war, the multitude refused further taxa- tion. (liv. ii. ). its object generally is to instil contentment in all members of a community by representing that however worthless or burdensome, the upper classes or ruling body, may appear, yet their maintenance is necessary for fable xliii. the security of each person's individual enjoyment, as the key-stone is for the stability of the arch. it is observable that those who most repine in an inferior condition are the first to oppress when elevated, and no pressure of old established authority is equal to the arrogance of the upstart, and the tyranny of the vulgar parvenu. though, as aristotle observes in his rhetoric, the young are ardent, sanguine, and err on the side of excess, yet it is to their energy we owe as much improvement as to the experience of the old, whose capacities are impeded by too much caution, and their endeavours cramped by timidity. hence the colt in the fable, though "snubbed " as usual, by the aged horse, on the score of his inexperience, argued from a just desire of liberty, which was meagrely met by that plea, appropriate to age, selfish expediency. nothing could impugn the proper aim of the colt after freedom, but the impossibility to obtain it: nothing, moreover, can sanction the ill-treatment of a quadruped by a biped brute, to whom, the pythagorean doctrine of transmigration of souls, presents a fitting recompense for cruelty. if a horse could think, he could wish no harder punishment for his driver, than to be in the shafts, instead of on the box! r fable xliv. the morning wakes, the huntsman sounds, at once rush forth the joyful hounds; they seek the wood with eager pace, through bush, through brier, explore the chase. now scatter'd wide they try the plain, and snuff the dewy turf in vain. what care, what industry, what pains! what universal silence reigns! ringwood, a dog of little fame, young, pert, and ignorant of game, at once displays his babbling throat; the pack, regardless of the note, pursue the scent; with louder strain he still persists to vex the train. the huntsman to the clamour flies, the smacking lash he smartly plies. his ribs all welk'd, with howling tone the puppy thus express'd his moan:— "i know the music of my tongue long since the pack with envy stung. what will not spite? these bitter smarts i owe to my superior parts." "when puppies prate," the huntsman cried, "they show both ignorance and pride: fools may our scorn, not envy, raise; for envy is a kind of praise. had not thy forward noisy tongue proclaim'd thee always in the wrong, thou might'st have mingled with the rest, and ne'er thy foolish nose confest: but fools, to talking ever prone, are sure to make their follies known." ( ) this fable is ably drawn to show the impossibility of tcachirg ignorance fable xliv. its own folly, when corroborated (as always) by self-conceit. the observation that envy is a kind of praise, is strictly true; moreover it is one concomitant of conceit, to be ever carping for praise, so that by seeking attention it attracts ob- servation to its absurdity, which might otherwise escape censure from the power- ful, or at all events the notice of the wise. "argutos inter strepit anser olores," is the motto of every impertinent coxcomb, and in no instance, when intro- duced into society, does he fail to act up to it. reiterated disappointment, the neglect which cuts the spirit like a sword, or the actual cautery of the world's scorn, together with those oppressive and continual cares, which wither in the soul all hope and energy of resistance, and render it, at length, passive beneath assault, test the difference between pride and conceit; for the latter, akin to vanity, falls speedily prostrate; the other, founded upon true self-esteem, is im- pregnable. hence it has been well said, that a proud man is too proud to be vain, for vanity draws its support from the applause of the world, pride from the approbation of self, looking down with just contempt upon the fitful gusts of the "popularis aura," whose scorn or smile it neither seeks nor fears. the poet and the rose. i hate the man who builds his name on ruins of another's fame: thus prudes, by characters o'erthrown, imagine that they raise their own; thus scribblers covetous of praise, think slander can transplant the bays. ( ) juvenal's observation is:— "miserum est aliense incumbere famse."—sat. viii. . fable xlv. beauties and bards have equal pride, with both all rivals are decried. who praises lesbia's eyes and feature, must call her sister ''awkward creature;" for the kind flattery's sure to charm, when we some other nymph disarm. as in the cool of early day a poet sought the sweets of may, the garden's fragrant breath ascends, and every stalk with odour bends. a rose he pluck'd: he gazed, admired, thus singing, as the muse inspired:— "go, rose, my chloe's bosom grace; how happy should i prove, might i supply that envied place with never-fading love! there, phoenix-like, beneath her eye, involved in fragrance, burn and die. "know, hapless flower! that thou shalt find more fragrant roses there: i see thy withering head reclined with envy and despair! one common fate we both must prove; you die with envy, i with love." "spare your comparisons," replied an angry rose, who grew beside; "of all mankind you should not flout us; what can a poet do without us! ( ) "for malice will with joy, the lie receive. report, and what it wishes true, helieve." fide yalden's ovid's art of love. fable xlv. in every love-song roses bloom, we lend you colour and perfume. does it to chloe's charms conduce, to found her praise on our abuse? must we, to flatter her, be made to wither, envy, pine, and fade?" ( ) the rose remarks justly, upon the poet's need of flowers for apostrophe to his "ladye love," for indeed all the blossoms of creation,—above, the stars, and below, the flowers,—have been ransacked to furnish images of compliment, by every poetaster that ever penned a sonnet "to his mistress' eyebrow." hence "to speak ill of the bridge which carries one over" is sheer ingratitude, yet how often do we sacrifice a friend, to court the pleasure of a mere acquaint- ance, and willingly deteriorate the service of one who had no more to give, in order to obtain the good offices of him, whose only superiority is in the power, and not the will, to serve us! it is seldom, but that the most independent charac- ters leave some stain upon the steps by which they climb to fame. the ethics of aristotle, b. iv. c. , should be studied in relation to this fable, as he therein draws, with his usual accuracy, this distinction, amongst others, between the magnanimous and the little-minded man, viz. that the first is not fond of talking of people,—cares more for truth than opinion.—and does not care that he himself should be praised, nor that others should be blamed. hence, i am sorry to say, you do notoften find magnanimity amongst women, whose friendship is easier got by maligning a rival, than by impartial vindication of truth. the cur, the horse, and the shepherd's dog. the lad of all-sufficient merit, with modesty ne'er damps his spirit; ( ) which, strange to say, is in one sense, good policy; for never was there a high-mettled steed yet, who won the race, and would have done so, had he started, already beaten in his own estimation. a proper self-estimate is the sure stimulus to successful exertion ; the abuse of it, as exhibited here, is to be repudiated. many clap-trap sentiments have obtained currency, from the inattention to the marks by which right is separated from wrong; but one thing is certain, that if clever men had not known their own value in some degree, they would not have troubled the world with their lucubrations, and art, science, and industry, had perished together. x fable xlvi. presuming on his own deserts, on all alike his tongue exerts: his noisy jokes at random throws, and pertly spatters friends and foes. in wit and war the bully race contribute to their own disgrace: too late the forward youth shall find that jokes are sometimes paid in kind; or if they canker in the breast, he makes a foe, who makes a jest. a village cur, of snappish race, the pertest puppy of the place, imagined that his treble throat was blest with music's sweetest note; in the mid road he basking lay, the yelping nuisance of the way; for not a creature pass'd along but had a sample of his song. soon as the trotting steed he hears, he starts, he cocks his dapper ears; away he scours, assaults his hoof; now near him snarls, now barks aloof; with shrill impertinence attends, nor leaves him till the village ends. it chanced, upon his evil day, a pad came pacing down the way; the cur, with never-ceasing tongue, upon the passing traveller sprung. the horse, from scorn provoked to ire, flung backward; rolling in the mire, the puppy howl'd, and bleeding lay; the pad in peace pursued his way. . fable xlvi. a shepherd's dog, who saw the deed, detesting the vexatious breed, bespoke him thus: "when coxcombs prate, they kindle wrath, contempt, or hate; thy teazing tongue had judgment tied, thou hadst not like a puppy died." ( ) the malice which often disgraces irony, is never better detected and chastised, than by a blow from the same weapon, and this remark applies to many talented but ill-bred men, who reckless where they plant the thorn, whilst they pursue for themselves the garland, sometimes by an unlucky " con- tretemps," exchange the two, to their own cost. thus ajest is frequently paid in kind, as in the case of the poet, madera, who having calumniated a noble lady, called fontana, was called to account for his impropriety, by pope sextus v. he declared he had no reason for the slander, but that 'putana' rhymed to 'fontana,' upon which the witty pontiff, in the same humour, condemned him to the galleys, "merely," said he,"because 'galera.'is a good rhymeto 'madera.'" upon another occasion, a young man having picked his friend's pocket in joke, in order to witness his distress when requiring his money, found the tables most unpleasantly turned upon himself, for on putting his hand into his own pocket, to refund the money, he discovered that a real thief had walked off with it, in no joke, and left him to pay the cost in sad earnest. so true is it, that those who "come to shear, often go back shorn." the court oe death. death, on a solemn night of state, in all his pomp of terror sate: the' attendants of his gloomy reign, diseases dire,—a ghastly train— crowd the vast court! with hollow tone a voice thus thunder'd from the throne: "this night our minister we name; let every servant speak his claim; / fable xlvii. plague represents his rapid power, who thinn'd a nation in an hour. all spoke their claim, and hoped the wand.— now expectation hush'd the band, when thus the monarch from the throne: "merit was ever modest known. what, no physician speak his right! none here! but fees their toils requite. let then intemperance take the wand, who fills with gold their zealous hand. you, fever, gout, and all the rest, (whom wary men, as foes, detest) forego your claim; no more pretend; intemperance is esteem'd a friend. he shares their mirth, their social joys, and as a courted guest destroys: the charge on him must justly fall, who finds employment for you all." purchase positions in parliament, where they prate about educating the ignorant, the rights of the poor, and enunciate principles of peace and charity '.—vide minutes of the factory system before the house of commons, passim. ( ) aided by fear, of course, for when the plague promised the dervise, to slay only , , and double that number fell, the disease exonerated itself from blame fairly, by declaring " fear killed the rest." ( ) byron's epigram upon his doctor, applies to several cases:— "youth, vigour, and relenting jove to keep my lamp in, vainly strove, for farinelli blew so stout he beat all three, and blew it out i" ( ) this admirable but melancholy picture of the "thousand natural ills that flesh is heir to," is one of the finest efforts of our poet's muse, and the deduction is forcible and clear. if death stands behind the chair which health fills, and picks out guest after guest, at the banquet of life, he does so primarily in the garb of intemperance which, like othello's murder, "slays where itdoth love!" the man who, in youth, never did " add hot and rebellious liquors to his blood," has the surest guarantee that in age, "his pulse shall beat equal time, and keep a healthful music." to prove how human life may protract its span, we have only to review the self-denial and rigid rule of cornaro, the early hours fable xlvii. of parkhurst, the temperance of parr, and to cut short its career, we have merely to mix the discontent of unctius with the intemperance of alexander, "and soon," to vary a little the lines of sir samuel garth:— "disease you'll find unto physicians only ever kind; who in return all diligence will pay, to fix its empire, and confirm its sway!" i cannot forbear appending a versified translation of martial's epigram upon physicians * mart. vi. . "andragoras bathd, supp'd well, and went to bed last night, but in the morning was found dead; would'st know, faustinus, what was his disease? he dreaming saw—the quack hermocrates!" tub gardener and the hog. a gardener of peculiar taste, on a young hog his favour placed, who fed not with the common herd; his tray was to the hall preferr'd: he wallow'd underneath the board, or in his master's chamber snored, who fondly stroked him every day, and taught him all the puppy's play. fable xlviii. where'er he went, the grunting friend ne'er fail'd his pleasure to attend. as on a time the loving pair walk'd forth to tend the garden's care, the master thus address'd the swine: "my house, my garden, all is thine! on turnips feast whene'er you please, and riot in my beans and peas; if the potatoe's taste delights, or the red carrot's sweet invites, indulge thy morn and evening hours, but let due care regard my flow'rs: my tulips are my garden's pride: what vast expense those beds supplied!" the hog by chance one morning roam'd, where with new ale the vessels foam'd: he munches now the steaming grains, now with full swill the liquor drains. intoxicating fumes arise; he reels, he rolls his winking eyes; then staggering through the garden scours, and treads down painted ranks of flowers: with delving snout he turns the soil, and cools his palate with the spoil. the master came, the ruin spied; "villain i suspend thy rage," he cried, "hast thou, thou most ungrateful sot, my charge, my only charge, forgot? what, all my flowers!" no more he said, but gazed, and sigh'd, and hung his head. the hog with stuttering speech returns; "explain, sir, why your anger burns. fable xlviii. see there, untouch'd, your tulips strown, for i devour d the roots alone." at this the gardener's passion grows; from oaths and threats he fell to blows: the stubborn brute the blow sustains, assaults his leg, and tears the veins. ah! foolish swain! too late you find that styes were for such friends, design'd! homeward he limps with painful pace, reflecting thus on past disgrace— "who cherishes a brutal mate, shall mourn the folly soon or late." ( ) "vulgar acquaintance, like dirty dogs," says swift, " soil those most, whom they chiefly fawn upon; " and this may be considered as the moral, generally, of the fable. the treachery to friendship which it glances at, is less to be regarded as the result of evil intention than of that coarse constitution of mind, which the uncultivated exhibit, and which prompts them to regard self only, in the whole tenor of their conduct and affairs. more especially also, low habits, the very essence of vulgarity, are irrespective equally of manners, as of order, so that as this last can never be relied upon for restriction, the former present no obstacle to men who are ignorant even of civility, and who observe no rule but what they lay down for themselves, according to the endless variety of humour and impulse. true friendship, on the contrary, can never exist without mutual respect, and politeness, the latter principle being in its very nature opposed to selfishness, and therefore alien from brutal minds; for, as is well observed by a french writer, "la politesse est l'attention continuelle qui inspire l'humanite, a complaire a tout le monde,_et a n'offenser personne." the man and the flea. whether on earth, in air, or main, sure everything alive is vain! does not the hawk all fowls survey, as destined only for his prey? and do not tyrants, prouder things, think men were born for slaves to kings? when the crab views the pearly strands, or tagus, bright with golden sands; (u - turbato sordidus auro hermus et hesperio qui sonat orbe tagus." fable xlix. g or crawls beside the coral grove, and hears the ocean roll above; "nature is too profuse," says he, "who gave all these to pleasure me!" when bordering pinks and roses bloom, and every garden breathes perfume; when peaches glow with sunny dyes, like laura's cheek when blushes rise; when the huge figs the branches bend, when clusters from the vine depend, the snail looks round on flower and tree, and cries, "all these were made for me!" "what dignity's in human nature?" says man, the most conceited creature, as from a cliff he cast his eye, and view'd the sea and archsd sky." the sun was sunk beneath the main; the moon and all the starry train hung the vast vault of heaven: the man his contemplation thus began: "when i behold this glorious show, and the wide watery world below, the scaly people of the main, the beasts that range the wood or plain, the wing'd inhabitants of air, the day, the night, the various year, and know all these by heaven design'd as gifts to pleasure human-kind, i cannot raise my worth too high; of what vast consequence am i!" "not of th' importance you suppose," replies a flea upon his nose: q fable xlix. "be humble, learn thyself to scan; know, pride was never made for man. 'tis vanity that swells thy mind. what, heaven and earth for thee design'd! for thee, made only for our need, that more important fleas might feed." ( ) man, vain man, indeed plays "such fantastic tricks before high heaven as make the angels weep," and the history of nations as of rndiv.duals, g.ves endtess example of the absurdities perpetrated by egotism and self-conceit. these place us at once in that " paradise of fools," described by addrson m the spectator, (no. ,) until in the midst of his self-approbation, a straw >nh,s oath brings down the giant from the zenith of his pride, and the pompous d.gmtary lpestered out of patience—by a flea! "what a dust i makesays the fly upon the coach-wheel. • this comes of walking on the earth!" remarked the haughty castilian after his fall. now, though the man might in his own opm.on, perhaps" justly occupy a higher sphere than the insect, yet for tins -ry cause his pride becomes more contemptible, not being so venial as that of his brother w<tte overweening principle of pride, however, "by which sin fell the angels," is fos.erectiy the sycophancy of those, who draw, in their own eyes, a reflected us"rerom the " little great" men, whose tinsel pomp they swell, and who uke vauxnalltuns, turn their little night, to an artificial day. thus pride spreads idtna corrupt circle binds the patron and the parasite!" if you could ask," "served sidney smith, "the animalcule which infest the body of a blue-bottle what they thought of him, they would state their conviction that their fly was the noblest, grandest creature in the world, and that the universe would immediately come to an end, if the great fluttering thing was to cease to buz." no wonder, therefore, that man similarly should think thus of himself, when not only his mere egotism, but the servitude of other creatures, tell the same of him! the hare and many friends. friendship, like love, is but a name, unless to one, you stint the flame. the child, whom many fathers share, hath seldom known a father's care. 'tis thus in friendships; who depend on many, rarely find a friend. a hare who, in a civil way, complied with everything, like gay, ( ) because friendship is a species of goodness, and—' "rari quippe boni, numero sunt vix totidem quot, thebarum portse vel divitis ostia nili."—juv. ( ) true enough!—vide his biography. fable l. was known by all the bestial train who haunt the wood or graze the plain; her care was never to offend, and every creature was her friend. as forth she went, at early dawn, to taste the dew-besprinkled lawn, behind, she hears the hunter's cries, and from the deep-mouth'd thunder, flies: she starts, she stops, she pants for breath; she hears the near advance of death; she doubles, to mislead the hound, and measures back, her mazy round, till, fainting in the public way, half dead with fear, she gasping lay. what transport in her bosom grew, when first the horse appear'd in view! "let me," says she, "your back ascend, and owe my safety to a friend. you know my feet betray my flight: to friendship every burden's light." the horse replied, "poor honest puss, it grieves my heart to see thee thus: be comforted, relief is near, for all your friends are in the rear." she next the stately bull implored; and thus replied the mighty lord: "since every beast alive can tell that i sincerely wish you well; i may, without offence, pretend to take the freedom of a friend. love calls me hence; a favourite cow expects me near yon barley-mow; fable l. and when a lady's in the case, you know all other things give place. to leave you thus might seem unkind, but see, the goat is just behind." the goat remark'd her pulse was high, her languid head, her heavy eye: "my back," says he, "may do you harm; the sheep's at hand, and wool is warm." the sheep was feeble, and complain'd his sides a load of wool sustain'd; said he was slow; confess'd his fears; for hounds eat sheep as well as hares. she now the trotting calf address'd, to save from death a friend distress'd: "shall i," says he, "of tender age, in this important care engage? older and abler pass'd you by; how strong are those! how weak am i! should i presume to bear you hence, those friends of mine may take offence. excuse me, then: you know my heart; but dearest friends, alas! must part. how shall we all lament! adieu; for see, the hounds are just in view." ( ) the deception of pretended friendship, the inconstancy of asserted love, have been topics of endless comment to the philosopher, whether democritus or heraclitus, and to the historian from tacitus to voltaire. in this, the most masterly of our poet's fables, and hence deservedly the most popular, he follows out the ramifications of human treachery, and shows how deceit is universally allied to cowardice, and hypocrisy to equivocation. we dare not exhibit our baseness to others, because we are thorough cowards to ourselves: hence when- ever we desert duty or commit wrong, we run to expediency for an excuse for the one, and to plausible pretexts of our incompetency, or vociferations of good- will, to palliate the other! another shape of the same miserable spirit of artful selfishness, is wh fables. $)ati % ssttonfr. advertisement. these fables were finished by mr. gat, and intended for the press a short time before his death, when they were left, with his other papers, to the care of his noble friend and patron the duke of queensberry, who permitted them to be printed from the originals in the author's own hand-writing. ( ) the advertisement in the edition of proceeds to remark that "they are mostly on subjects of a graver and more political turn. they will certainly show him (the author) to have been (what he esteemed the best character) a man of a truly honest heart, and a sincere lover of his country." the dog and the fox. to a lawyer. i know you lawyers can, with ease, twist words and meanings as you please; that language, by your skill made pliant, will bend to favour every client; that 'tis the fee directs the sense, to make out either side's pretence. when you peruse the clearest case, you see it with a double face: ' , fable i. all private slander i detest, i judge not of my neighbour's breast: party and prejudice i hate, and write no libels on the state. shall not my fable censure vice, because a knave is over nice? and, lest the guilty hear and dread, shall not the decalogue be read? if i lash vice in general fiction, is't i apply, or self-conviction? brutes are my theme; am i to blame, if men in morals are the same? i no man call or ape or ass; 'tis his own conscience holds the glass. thus void of all offence i write: who claims the fable, knows his right. a shepherd's dog, unskill'd in sports, pick'd up acquaintance of all sorts; among the rest, a fox he knew: by frequent chat, their friendship grew. says reynard, "'tis a cruel case, that man should stigmatize our race. no doubt, among us, rogues you find, as among dogs and human kind; and yet (unknown to me and you) there may be honest men and true. thus slander tries whate'er it can to put us on the foot with man. let my own actions recommend; no prejudice can blind a friend: ( ) "let the gall'd jade wince !— 'tis conscience that makes cowards of us all!"—si. akspeare. _ fable i. if t'other night your master lost three lambs, am i to pay the cost? your vile reflections would imply that i'm the thief:—you dog, you lie!" "thou knave, thou fool," the dog replied, "the name is just, take either side; thy guilt these applications speak; sirrah, 'tis conscience makes you squeak." so saying, on the fox he flies: the self-convicted felon dies. ( ) the captiousness of guilt aping innocence, and of dishonesty paying the penalty of extreme sensibility, are well exposed here. it is one of the just pun- ishments of knavery, ever to be exposed to the real or supposed taunts, of the most common observation, and, like the simile used by lord byron in another case, guilt— "views its own feather on the fatal dart, and wings the shaft that quivers in its heart." the simplest remark alarms it; the stroke of external circumstance echoes upon the bell of the guilty soul, and awakens it to the pangs of remorse. hence wickedness is thin-skinned, and the abraded surface shrinks from the touch even of friendly association. "quisque suos patimur manes," well observes virgil, and the self-accused culprit needs no interpreter of shame beyond his own record, for, "to our thoughts what edicts can give law, ev'n you yourself to your own breast shall tell, your crimes, and your own conscience be your hell."—dryden."ugly guilt flies in the conscious face, and man is vanquish'd, slain with bosom-war."—lee. j_ fable ii. a captious fool may take offence, what then he knows his own pretence. i meddle with no state affairs, but spare my jest to save my ears. our present schemes are too profound, for machiavel himself, to sound;to censure 'em i've no pretension, i own they're past my comprehension. you say, your brother wants a place, ("tis many a younger brother's case,) and that he very soon intends to ply the court, and teaze his friends. if there his merits chance to find a patriot of an open mind, whose constant actions prove him just to both a king's and people's trust, may he, with gratitude, attend, and owe his rise to such a friend. you praise his parts, for business fit, his learning, probity, and wit; but those alone will never do, unless his patron have 'em too. i've heard of times (pray god defend us i we're not so good but he can mend us) when wicked ministers have trod on kings and people, law and god; with arrogance they girt the throne, and knew no interest but their own. ( ) the word is here used in the sense of "design," or "purpose," as in sbakspeare, gentlemen of verona, act. iii. sc. . winter's tale, act iii. sc. . ( ) interest beats merit at court, and a man is there judged, not by the qualifications, but by the names which he bears, wealth being the potentate, at whose nod, ministers bestow their gifts. "o nummi, vobis hunc preestat honorem!" h fable ii. then virtue, from preferment barr'd, gets nothing but its own reward. a gang of petty knaves attend 'em, with proper parts to recommend 'em. then if his patron burn with lust, the first in favour's pimp the first. his doors are never closed to spies, who cheer his heart with double lies; they flatter him, his foes defame, so lull the pangs of guilt and shame. if schemes of lucre haunt his brain, projectors swell his greedy train: vile brokers ply his private ear with jobs of plunder for the year; all consciences must bend and ply; you must vote on and not know why: through thick and thin you must go on; one scruple, and your place is gone. since plagues like these have cursed a land, and favourites cannot always stand, good courtiers should for change be ready, and not have principles too steady; for should a knave engross the power, (god shield the realm from that sad hour!) he must have rogues or slavish fools; for what's a knave without his tools? wherever those a people drain, and strut with infamy and gain, ( ) see swift's gulliver's travels, "voyage to laputa." the poet here de- scribes placemen, who make a high road of their conscience for their patrons to walk on. for an instance of a successful member of this species, see lord campbell's lives of the chancellors, in the life of the marquis of winchester. the baboon and the poultry. to a levee-humtek. we frequently misplace esteem, by judging men by what they seem. to birth, wealth, power, we should allow precedence, and our lowest bow: in that is due distinction shown; esteem is virtue's right alone. ( ) "decipimur specie recti." juvenal's admonition of " fronti nulla fides," is applicable here. d fable iii. with partial eye we're apt to see the man of noble pedigree: we're prepossess'd my lord inherits, in some degree, his grandsire's merits; for those we find upon record, but find him nothing but "my lord." when we, with superficial view, gaze on the rich, we're dazzled too. we know that wealth, well understood, hath frequent power of doing good, then fancy that the thing is done; as if the power and will were one. thus oft the cheated crowd adore the thriving knaves that keep 'em poor. the cringing train of power survey; what creatures are so low as they! with what obsequiousness they bend!to what vile actions condescend!their rise is on their meanness built, and flattery is their smallest guilt. what homage, reverence, adoration, in every age, in every nation, have sycophants to power address'd!no matter who the power possess'd. let ministers be what they will, you find their levees always fill. ( ) great families are often like potatoes, the best part of them is under ground. ( ) it was a remark of dr. henry owen, the celebrated hebrew scholar, that the almighty showed what he thought of money, by the knaves to whom he gave it. ( ) because a court is like a whirlpool, which drawing in every substance into itself, brings up the vile and refuse, to the top, and sends all weighty and valuable materials to the bottom! fable iii. e'en those who have perplex'd a state, whose actions claim contempt and hate, had wretches to applaud their schemes, though more absurd than madmen's dreams. when barbarous moloch was invoked, the blood of infants only smoked! but here (unless all history lies) whole realms have been a sacrifice. look through all courts: 'tis power we find the general idol of mankind, there worshipp'd under every shape: alike the lion, fox, and ape, are follow'd by time-serving slaves, rich prostitutes and needy knaves. who then shall glory in his post? how frail his pride, how vain his boast! the followers of his prosperous hour are as unstable as his power. power, by the breath of flattery nurst, the more it swells is nearer burst. the bubble breaks, the gewgaw ends, and in a dirty tear descends. once on a time an ancient maid, by wishes and by time decay'd, to cure the pangs of restless thought, in birds and beasts, amusement sought: ( ) see the history of most of our chief men and prelates; even public narra- tive relates many specks upon their escutcheon, contracted in their progress to power, and how much more black would it appear, if all the "back stairs" in- fluence were related i ) ——" my high-blown pride at length broke under me!" fide wolsey's speech, shaks. hen. viii. act iii. fable iii. dogs, parrots, apes, her hours employ'd; with these alone she talk'd and toy'd. a huge baboon her fancy took, (almost a man in size and look) he finger'd everything he found, and mimic'd all the servants round. then, too, his parts and ready wit show'd him for every business fit. with all these talents 'twas but just that pug should hold a place of trust; so to her favourite was assign'd the charge of all her feather'd kind. 'twas his to tend 'em eve and morn, and portion out their daily corn. behold him now, with haughty stride, assume a ministerial pride. the morning rose. in hope of picking, swans, turkeys, peacocks, ducks, and chicken, fowls of all ranks surround his hut, to worship his important strut. the minister appears: the crowd, now here, now there, obsequious bow'd. this praised his parts, and that his face, , t' other his dignity in place. from bill to bill the flattery ran: he hears and bears it like a man; for when we flatter self-conceit, we but his sentiments repeat. if we're too scrupulously just, what profit's in a place of trust? the common practice of the great is to secure a snug retreat: x fable iii. flatterer, the latter equally as to its sycophancy and ingratitude—is a model of statesmanship and intrigue. the reason why every change in an administration costs a country much, is that the new officials have to feather their nest, whilst the old covey have feathered theirs, so that each new plucking, renders the public (the goose) more bare i neither is it until disappointment has soured, ortro-sperity gorged him, that a minister learns— "corruption wins not more than honesty;" and that his true duty is to, "be just and fear not: let all the ends he aims at, be his country's, his god's, and truth's."—shak. hen. viii. act iii.' the ant in office. to a friend. you tell me that you apprehend my verse may touchy folks offend. in prudence, too, you think my rhymes should never squint at courtiers' crimes; for though nor this nor that is meant, can we another's thoughts prevent? / fable iv. you ask me, if i ever knew court-chaplains thus, the lawn pursue ? i meddle not with gown or lawn; poets, i grant, to rise, must fawn. they know great ears are over nice, and never shock their patron's vice. but i this hackney path despise, 'tis my ambition not to rise: if i must prostitute the muse, the base conditions i refuse. i neither natter nor defame, yet own i would bring guilt to shame. if i corruption's hand expose, i make corrupted men my foes; what then? i hate the paltry tribe: be virtue mine; be theirs the bribe. i no man's property invade; corruption's yet no lawful trade. nor would it mighty ills produce, could i shame bribery out of use. i know 'twould cramp most politicians, were they tied down to these conditions: 'twould stint their power, their riches bound, and make their parts seem less profound. were they denied their proper tools, how could they lead their knaves and fools? ( ) see sidney smith's account of the rise of a bishop, in his letters to arch- deacon singleton; the promotion also of parish parsons to prelates, in macaulay's history of england, tells the same tale of supple knavery. the robes of most lawn-sleeved hangers-on at courts, require a great deal of washing, to get rid of the dirt accumulated in their elevation, indeed it is astonishing they are so white as they are. were this the case, let's take a view what dreadful mischiefs would ensue. though it might aggrandize the state, could private luxury dine on plate? kings might indeed their friends reward, but ministers find less regard. informers, sycophants, and spies, would not augment the year's supplies. perhaps, too, take away this prop, an annual job or two, might drop. besides, if pensions were denied, could avarice support its pride? it might even ministers confound, and yet the state be safe and sound. i care not though 'tis understood, i only mean my country's good: and (let who will my freedom blame) i wish all courtiers did the same. nay, though some folks the less might get, i wish the nation out of debt. i put no private man's ambition with public good in competition: bather than have our laws defaced, i'd vote a minister disgraced. i strike at vice, be't where it will; and what if great folks take it ill? i hope corruption, bribery, pension, one may with detestation mention; think you the law (let who will take it) can scandalum magnalum make it? i vent no slander, owe no grudge, nor of another's conscience, judge. the bear in a boat. to a coxcomb. that man must daily wiser grow, whose search is bent, himself to know. impartially he weighs his scope, and on firm reason founds his hope; he tries his strength before the race, and never seeks his own disgrace; he knows the compass, sail, and oar, or never launches from the shore; before he builds, computes the cost, and in no proud pursuit is lost; fable v. he learns the bounds of human sense, and safely walks within the fence. thus, conscious of his own defect, are pride and self-importance check'd. if, then, self-knowledge to pursue, direct our life in every view, of all the fools that pride can boast, a coxcomb claims distinction most. coxcombs are of all ranks and kind; they're not to sex or age confined, or rich or poor, or great or small, and vanity besets them all. by ignorance is pride increased; those most assume, who know the least; their own false balance gives them weight, but every other finds them light. not that all coxcombs' follies strike, and draw our ridicule alike. to different merits each pretends. this in love-vanity transcends; that smitten with his face and shape, by dress distinguishes the ape; t' other with learning crams his shelf, knows books, and all things but himself. all these are fools of low condition, compared with coxcombs of ambition; ( ) a good result, yet almost unattainable by the process! "nosmetipsos noscere difficillimum est." (cicero.) yet the poet is right, for the more self- knowledge, the greater humility! ( ) a coxcomb, rightly defined, is a self-deceiver, with whom the pronoun " i" is too much in the individual's and public eye. ( ) see erasmus, "praise of folly," and college tutors turned into parish priests, or bishops made out of schoolmasters, by the sensible and judicious minister! fable v. fear. "he," speaking of a certain lord, "would undertake the navigation of a ship though he was never at sea, preside over a steam-engine though perfectly ignorant of its construction, or take the surgeon's knife and attempt a most difficult operation." it is true, that the passengers might be swamped in the first case, be blown up in the second, or die under the third; but those contingencies are not taken into the account,—he would brave them all, simply because he has no moral fear. statesmanship must be very easy, when there appear so many practising that art, without study of it,—so many who, supplanting the interests of a nation by their own, sacrifice a whole people to their presumption and ignorance, and, like "fools, rush on, where angels fear to tread " fable vi. antiochus, with hardy pace, provoked the dangers of the chase; and, lost from all his menial train, traversed the wood, and pathless plain. a cottage lodged the royal guest; the parthian clown brought forth his best; the king, unknown, his feast enjoy'd, and various chat, the hours employ'd. from wine what sudden friendship springs! frankly they talk'd of courts and kings. "we country-folks," the clown replies, "could ope our gracious monarch's eyes. the king, (as all our neighbours say,) might he (god bless him!) have his way, is sound at heart, and means our good, and he would do it, if he could. if truth in courts were not forbid, nor kings nor subjects, would be rid. were he in power we need not doubt him; but that transferr'd to those about him, on them he throws the regal cares; and what mind they? their own affairs. if such rapacious hands he trust, the best of men may seem unjust. from kings to cobblers 'tis the same; bad servants wound their masters' fame. in this our neighbours all agree: would the king knew as much as we!" here he stopt short. repose they sought; the peasant slept, the monarch thought. ( ) plutarch. fable vi. for why? he lived in constant fear, lest truth by chance should interfere. if any stranger dared intrude, the noisy cur his heels pursued; now fierce with rage, now struck with dread, at once he snarled, bit, and fled. aloof he bays, with bristling hair, and thus in secret growls his fear: "who knows but truth, in this disguise, may frustrate my best-guarded lies? should she (thus mask'd) admittance find, that very hour, my ruin's sign'd." now in his howl's continued sound, their words were lost, their voice was drown'd. ever in awe of honest tongues, thus every day he strain'd his lungs. it happen'd, in ill-omen'd hour, that yap, unmindful of his power, forsook his post, to love inclin'd, a favourite bitch was in the wind. by her seduced, in amorous play, they frisk'd the joyous hours away: thus by untimely love pursuing, like antony he sought his ruin. for now the squire, unvex'd with noise, an honest neighbour's chat, enjoys. "be free," says he, "your mind impart; i love a friendly open heart. methinks my tenants shun my gate; why such a stranger grown of late? pray tell me what offence they find— 'tis plain they're not so well inclined. the countryman and jupiter, have you a friend (look round and spy) so fond, so prepossess'd as i? your faults, so obvious to mankind, my partial eyes could never find. when, by the breath of fortune blown, your airy castles were o'erthrown, have i been ever prone to blame, or mortified your hours with shame? fable vii. was i e'er known to damp your spirit, or twit you with the want of merit jtis not so strange that fortune's frown still perseveres to keep you down: look round, and see what others do. would you be rich and honest too? have you (like those she raised to place) been opportunely, mean and base? have you (as times required), resign'd truth, honour, virtue, peace of mind? if these are scruples, give her o'er; write, practise morals, and be poor. the gifts of fortune truly rate; then, tell me what would mend your state. if happiness on wealth were built, rich rogues might comfort find, in guilt. as grows the miser's hoarded store, his fears, his wants, increase the more. think, gay, (what ne'er may be the case,) should fortune take you into grace, would that your happiness augment? what can she give beyond content? suppose yourself a wealthy heir, with a vast annual income clear in all the affluence you possess, you might not feel one care the less. might you not, then, like others, find with change of fortune, change of mind? ( ) swift compares, in his tale of a tub, "honesty to an old pair of shoes cobbled out in the dirt." "thou knowest in the days of innocency adam fell; and what shall poor jack falstaff do in the days of knavery i "—shaks. hen. iv. fable vii. o'erspent with toil, beneath the shade, a peasant rested on his spade: "good gods!" he cries, "'tis hard to bear this load of life from year to year! soon as the morning streaks the skies, industrious labour bids me rise; with sweat i earn my homely fare, and every day renews my care." jove heard the discontented strain, and thus rebuked the murmuring swain: "speak out your wants, then, honest friend: unjust complaints, the gods offend. if you repine at partial fate, instruct me what could mend your state. mankind in every station see— what wish you? tell me what you'd be." so said, upborne upon a cloud, the clown survey'd the anxious crowd. "yon face of care," says jove, "behold, his bulky bags are fill'd with gold: see with what joy he counts it o'er! that sum to-day hath swell'd his store." "were i that man," the peasant cried, "what blessing could i ask beside?" "hold," says the god, "first learn to know true happiness from outward show. this optic glass of intuition— here, take it; view his true condition." he look'd, and saw the miser's breast a troubled ocean, ne'er at rest; want ever stares him in the face, and fear anticipates disgrace. fable vii. with conscious guilt he saw him start, extortion gnaws his throbbing heart, and never, or in thought or dream, his breast admits one happy gleam. "may jove," he cries, "reject my pray'r, and guard my life from guilt and care! my soul abhors that wretch's fate— oh keep me in my humble state! but see, amidst a gaudy crowd, yon minister so gay and proud; on him what happiness attends, who thus rewards his grateful friends!" , first take the glass," the god replies; "man views the world with partial eyes." "good gods!" exclaims the startled wight, "defend me from this hideous sight! corruption, with corrosive smart, lies cankering on his guilty heart. i see him with polluted hand spread the contagion o'er the land. now avarice with insatiate jaws, now rapine with her harpy claws, his bosom tears; his conscious breast groans, with a load of crimes opprest. i see him, mad and drunk with power, stand tottering on ambition's tower. sometimes, in speeches vain and proud, his boasts insult the nether crowd; now, seized with giddiness and fear, he trembles lest his fall is near. was ever wretch like this?" he cries, "such misery in such disguise! fable vii. the change, jove! i disavow— still be my lot the spade and plough." he next, confirm'd by speculation, rejects the lawyer's occupation; for he the statesman seem'd in part, and bore similitude of heart. nor did the soldier's trade inflame his hopes, with thirst of spoil and fame: the miseries of war he mourn'd, whole nations into deserts turn'd. by these have laws and rights been braved; by these was free-born man enslaved: when battles and invasion cease, why swarm they in the lands of peace? "such change," says he, "may i decline— the scythe, and civil arms, be mine!" thus, weighing life in each condition, the clown withdrew his rash petition. when thus the god: "how mortals err! if you true happiness prefer; 'tis to no rank of life confined, but dwells in every honest mind. be justice, then, your sole pursuit— plant virtue, and content's the fruit." so jove, to gratify the clown, where first he found him, set him down. ( ) the prayer of agur, the son of jakeh, recorded in prov.xxx. , touches upon most of the evils alluded to here. "give me neither poverty nor riches; feed me with food convenient for me:" he also introduces the courtier, and the lawyer, when he says, "remove from me vanity and lies." the former, added to " vexation of spirit," comprehends, in solomon's idea, the sum total of human pleasure, and what can any one do, "after the king?" it is not that a man may not possess wealth, and yet be happy, but the natural the man, the cat, the dog, and the ely. to my native country. hail, happy land! whose fertile grounds the liquid fence of neptune bounds; by bounteous nature set apart, the seat of industry and art. britain! chosen port of trade, may luxury ne'er thy sons invade! may never minister (intent his private treasures to augment) fable viii. corrupt thy state! if jealous foes thy rights of commerce dare oppose, shall not thy fleets their rapine awe? who is't prescribes the ocean law? whenever neighbouring states contend, tis thine to be the general friend, what is't who rules in other lands? on trade alone thy glory stands: that benefit is unconfined, diffusing good among mankind: that first gave lustre to thy reigns, and scatter'd plenty o'er thy plains: 'tis that alone thy wealth supplies, and draws all europe's envious eyes. be commerce, then, thy sole design— keep that, and all the world is thine. when naval traffic ploughs the main, who shares not in the merchant's gain? 'tis that supports the regal state, and makes the farmer's heart elate: the numerous flocks that clothe the land can scarce supply the loom's demand; prolific culture glads the fields, and the bare heath, a harvest yields. nature expects mankind should share the duties of the public care. who's born for sloth? to some we find the ploughshare's annual toil assign'd; ( ) if the former fables be just, this apostrophe is very much like " shutting the stable door after the horse is stolen." it is, of course, like the expression, "happy land," employed before—a poetic fiction! ( ) this line, clearly, refers to a time when, the name of england, was re- spected, abroad. ( ) barrow. fable viii. the man, his pert conceit, derides, and thus the useless coxcomb, chides: "hence from that peach, that downy seat— no idle fool deserves to eat. could you have sapp'd the blushing rind, and on that pulp ambrosial, dined, had not some hand, with skill and toil, to raise the tree, prepared the soil consider, sot, what would ensue, were all such worthless things, as you. you'd soon be forced (by hunger stung), to make your dirty meals on dung, on which such despicable need, unpitied, is reduced to feed. besides, vain, selfish, insect, learn (if you can right and wrong discern), that he who, with industrious zeal, contributes to the public weal, by adding to the common good, his own, hath rightly understood." so saying, with a sudden blow, he laid the noxious vagrant low: crush'd in his luxury and pride, the spunger on the public, died. ( ) a useless man is a cipher in existence, and nothing lower than a unit at least can be tolerated in life. the great aim of self-exertion and independence of spirit, is to convert one's own cipher into a power. society, like nature, abhors a vacuum, and the listless idler is a vacuum. yet the fly—so erroneous is our superficial judgment—had he feed me, to plead his cause, should have not been so speedily condemned. every creature has his use, and where would health be, or what would be the value of riches, without the public scavenger? your fly is an unsworn commissioner of public sewers, and does his business much better than many who have taken the «mh\ the jackal, leopard, and other beasts. to a. moderi) politician. i grant corruption sways mankind; that interest, too, perverts the mind; that bribes have blinded common sense, foil'd reason, truth, and eloquence: i grant you, too, our present crimes can equal those of former times. against plain facts shall i engage, to vindicate our righteous age? fable ix. now see these wretches in disgrace, stript of their treasures, power, and place; view 'em abandon'd and forlorn, exposed to just reproach, and scorn. what now is all your pride, your boast? where are your slaves, your flattering host? what tongues now feed you with applause? where are the champions of your cause? now e'en that very fawning train, which shared the gleanings of your gain, press foremost who shall first accuse your selfish jobs, your paltry views, your narrow schemes, your breach of trust, and want of talents to be just. what fools were these amidst their power! how thoughtless of their adverse hour! what friends were made? a hireling herd, for temporary votes preferr'd. was it these sycophants to get, your bounty swell'd a nation's debt? you're bit, for these, like swiss, attend— no longer pay, no longer friend. the lion is (beyond dispute) allow'd the most majestic brute; his valour and his generous mind prove him superior of his kind: ( ) witness the fall of all great men, not only as with caesar, after death— "now lies he there, and none so poor to do him reverence!"— but also upon their dismission from power, whether it be wolsey or sejanus. the cry from all the satellites, who run from the setting sun to greet a newer planet, is— "curramus prsecipites, et dum jacet in ripa, calcemus cxsaris hostem."—jut. sat. x. fable ix. by you, your bubbled master's taught, time-serving tools, not friends, are bought." ( ) dishonesty is always insecure, and the dealer with knaves; for falsehood ii never sure that these last have not, like snake, in the "school for scandal,' •' received a greater bribe for speaking the truth." the hypocrisy with which each venal rogue rails against wickedness, yet allows a "fiat " to his own sins; the severity, too, with which, as lear says, "the usurer hangs the cozener,' or attacks the very faults in another, which are rampant in self, are human to a hair, and now as ever, "clodius accusat maechos, catilina cethegum." honesty, indeed, is the best policy in every case, but especially for courtiers and ministers of state, since the quality being least expected in them, would, when employed, serve to mask their designs, better than all the arts of deception, since who would ever suspect them of speaking the truth fable x. which (though unlike our present state) i, for the moral's sake, relate. a bee of cunning, not of parts, luxurious, negligent of arts, rapacious, arrogant, and vain, greedy of power, but more of gain,— corruption sow'd throughout the hive: by petty rogues, the great ones thrive. as power and wealth his views supplied, 'twas seen in overbearing pride. with him, loud impudence had merit; the bee of conscience wanted spirit; and those who follow'd honour's rules, were laugh'd to scorn, for squeamish fools. wealth claim'd distinction, favour, grace, and poverty alone, was base. he treated industry with slight, unless he found his profit by't. rights, laws, and liberties, gave way, to bring his selfish schemes in play. the swarm forgot the common toil, to share the gleanings of his spoil. "while vulgar souls, of narrow parts, waste life in low mechanic arts; let us," says he, "to genius born, the drudgery of our fathers, scorn. the wasp and drone, you must agree, live with more elegance, than we. like gentlemen, they sport and play; no business interrupts the day: their hours to luxury, they give, and nobly on their neighbours live." fable x. essence of friendship, and, as humanity must have an outlet for its affections, so, in contrast to the "empoisoned venom of his blood," kindly association with a few congenial spirits, appears to have been "the fountain from the which his current flow'd," or it had assuredly " dried up." as to suffering for his boldness, this was not only swift's case, but will ever be the fate of poor but proud intellects, who will not truckle to injustice, and cupidity, in high places. merit has ever been a martyr, whether the penalty has been the sword or the fire—the oppressor, a corporation or an individual—the sufferer, a " whiston" or a " sir thomas more." it is true that after many years are passed, and the sufferer buried, he will be called a hero, but his friends will leave him to fight the " battle of life" alone, except he be wealthy—then he will be considered a worthy man. "quantum habet nummi in area, tantum habet fidei." m« swift. the pack-hokse and the carrier. to a young nobleman. begin, my lord, in early youth, to suffer, nay, encourage truth; and blame me not for disrespect, if i the flatterer's style reject; with that, by menial tongues supplied, you're daily cocker'd up in pride. ( ) it is not because a person abjures the practice of flattery that he is there- fore more sincere: there are those in the world who declare they " cannot cog," they "cannot bend," and are all the while the veriest hypocrites of the pack. fable ii. kick'd by old ball! so mean a foe! my honour suffers by the blow. newmarket speaks my grandsire's fame, all jockeys still revere his name; there, yearly, are his triumphs told, there all his massy plates enroll'd. whene'er led forth upon the plain, you saw him with a livery train; returning, too, with laurels crown'd, you heard the drums and trumpets sound. let it then, sir, be understood, respect's my due, for i have blood." "vain-glorious fool!" the carrier cried. "respect was never paid to pride. know 'twas thy giddy wilful heart reduced thee to this slavish part. did not thy headstrong youth disdain to learn the conduct of the rein? thus coxcombs, blind to real merit, in vicious frolics, fancy spirit. what is't to me by whom begot, thou restive, pert, conceited sot? your sires i reverence—'tis their due, but, worthless fool, what's that to you? ask all the carriers on the road, they'll say thy keeping's illbestow'd. then vaunt no more thy noble race, that neither mends thy strength nor pace. what profits me, thy boast of blood? an ass hath more intrinsic good. by outward show let's not be cheated; an ass, should, like an ass, be treated." * ( ) a young noble once taunted a member of the house of commons, with his pan and fortune. to a young heir. soon as your father's death was known, (as if th' estate had been their own,) the gamesters outwardly exprest the decent joy within your breast; so lavish in your praise they grew, as spoke their certain hopes in you. one counts your income of the year, how much in ready money clear. fable xii. than all the hungry insect-race, combined, can in an age deface." fortune, by chance, who near him past, o'erheard the vile aspersion cast: "why, pan," says she, "what's all this rant 'tis every country-bubble's cant. am i the patroness of vice? is't i who cog or palm the dice? did i the shuffling art reveal, to mark the cards, or range the deal? in all th' employments men pursue, i mind the least, what gamesters do. there may (if computation's just) one, now and then, my conduct trust. i blame the fool, for what can i, when ninety-nine, my power defy? these trust alone, their fingers' ends, and not one stake, on me, depends. whene'er the gaming-board is set, two classes of mankind are met; but if we count the greedy race, the knaves, fill up the greater space. 'tis a gross error, held in schools, that fortune always favours fools. in play, it never bears dispute; that doctrine, these fell'd oaks confute. then why to me, such rancour show? 'tis folly, pan, that is thy foe. by me, his late estate he won, but he by folly, was undone." ( ) so infatuated is the mind by itself, that, so long as it can throw blame upon physical or moral constitution, peculiarity of circumstances, or even upon b fable xii. that ghost of a subterfuge, fortune, it will attribute to each, or all, of these, the results of its own folly. yet of all persons most to be pitied, he who is styled, " a man of fortune," is entitled to our commiseration, when we consider the vastness of his responsibilities, and the insidiousness of his temptations. released from the necessity of employing the body, or mind, he loses the two great elements of happiness, and health. he is surrounded by sycophants he cannot trust, and by seductions he can hardly repel; with everything to fear, he has nothing to hope, and pays by the anxiety of his mind, a heavy interest, for the wealth which surfeits his spirit. the gifts of fortune, as terence remarks, depend for good or ill upon the disposition of the possessors: "habc perinde sunt ut illius animus qui ea possidet, qui uti scit, ei bona; illi qui non utitur recte, mala."—heaut. i. iii. . should the young heir, in search of stimulant to fill up the "ennui" of pro- sperity, enter upon gambling, the race is soon run through the different courses of recklessness, mortgage, embarrassment, insolvency, despair. the vice grows more rooted, as the game becomes more fearfully important—' insomuch," as old george whetstone observes, speaking of the prevalency of gaming in elizabeth's time, "i heard a distemperate dicer solemnly sweare, that he faithfully believed, that dice were first made of the bones of a witch, and cards of her skin, in which there hath ever sithence remained an inchantment, yt whosoever once taketh delight in either, he shall never have power utterly to leave them." vide " the enemie to unthryftinesse," . fable xiii. all comfort, on themselves, depends; they want nor power, nor wealth, nor friends. love, then, hath every bliss in store; 'tis friendship, and 'tis something more. each other every wish they give: not to know love, is not to live." "or love, or money," time replied, "were men the question to decide, would bear the prize: on both intent, my boon's neglected or mis-spent . 'tis i who measure vital space, and deal out years to human race. though little prized, and seldom sought, without me, love and gold are nought. how does the miser, time employ? did i e'er see him life enjoy? by me, forsook, the hoards he won are scatter'd by his lavish son. by me, all useful arts are gain'd; wealth, learning, wisdom, is attain'd. who, then, would think (since such my power), that e'er i knew an idle hour? so subtle and so swift i fly, love's not more fugitive than i. who hath not heard coquettes complain of days, months, years, mis-spent in vain? for time misused, they pine and waste, and love's sweet pleasures never taste. those who direct their time aright, if love or wealth their hopes excite, in each pursuit, fit hours employ'd, and both by time have been enjoy'd. n fable xiv. impartially their talents scan: just education forms the man. perhaps (their genius yet unknown) each lot of life's already thrown; that this shall plead, the next shall fight, the last assert the church's right. i censure not the fond intent; but how precarious is th' event! by talents misapplied and crost, consider, all your sons are lost. one day (the tale's by martial penn'd) a father thus address'd his friend: "to train my boy, and call forth sense, you know i've stuck at no expense. i've tried him in the several arts (the lad, no doubt, hath latent parts); yet trying all, he nothing knows, but, crab-like, rather backward goes. teach me what yet remains undone— 'tis your advice shall fix my son." "sir," says the friend, "i've weigh'd the matter; excuse me, for i scorn to flatter: make him (nor think his genius check'd) a herald, or an architect." perhaps (as commonly 'tis known) he heard th' advice, and took his own. the boy wants wit; he's sent to school, where learning but improves the fool: the college next must give him parts, and cram him with the liberal arts. ( ) see cowper's "tirocinium, or review of schools." fable xiv. whether he blunders at the bar, or owes his infamy to war, or if by licence or degree the sexton share the doctor's fee; or from the pulpit by the hour he weekly floods of nonsense pour, we find (th' intent of nature foil'd) a tailor or a butcher spoil'd. thus ministers have royal boons conferr'd on blockheads and buffoons; in spite of nature, merit, wit, their friends for every post were fit. but now let every muse confess that merit finds its due success. th' examples of our days regard; where's virtue seen without reward? distinguish'd, and in place, you find desert and worth of every kind. survey the reverend bench, and see religion, learning, piety: the patron, ere he recommends, sees his own image in his friend's. is honesty disgraced and poor j what is't to us what was before? we all of times corrupt have heard, when paltry minions were preferr'd; when all great offices, by dozens, were fill'd by brothers, sons, and cousins. what matter ignorance and pride? the man was happily allied. ( ) ironically, of course. ( ) the passage here noted recals pope's line: "praise undeserved is censure in disguise." fable xiv. provided that his clerk was good, what though he nothing understood? in church and state, the sorry race grew more conspicuous fools, in place. such heads, as then, a treaty made, had bungled in the cobbler's trade. consider, patrons, that such elves expose your folly with themselves. 'tis yours, as 'tis the parent's care, to fix each genius in its sphere. your partial hand can wealth dispense, but never give a blockhead sense. an owl of magisterial air, of solemn voice, of brow austere, assumed the pride of human race, and bore his wisdom in his face; not to depreciate learned eyes, i've seen a pedant look as wise. within a barn, from noise retired, he scorn'd the world, himself admired; and, like an ancient sage, conceal'd the follies public life reveal'd. philosophers of old, he read, their country's youth to science bred; their manners form'd for every station, and destined each his occupation. when xenophon, by numbers braved, retreated, and a people saved, that laurel was not all his own; the plant by socrates was sown. ( ) the retreat of the ten thousand greeks under xenophon, after the defeat of cyrus. .-' fablk xiv. the court shall be the spider's sphere: power, fortune, shall reward him there. in music's art the ass's fame shall emulate corelli's name." each took the part that he advised, and all were equally despised. a farmer, at his folly moved, the dull preceptor thus reproved: "blockhead," says he, "by what you've done, one would have thought 'em each your son; for parents, to their offspring blind, consult nor parts nor turn of mind, but e'en in infancy decree what this, what t'other son shall be. had you with judgment weigh'd the case, their genius thus had fix'd their place; the swan had learnt the sailor's art; the cock had play'd the soldier's part; the spider in the weaver's trade with credit had a fortune made; but for the fool, in every class the blockhead had appear'd an ass." ( ) "knowledge," says montaigne, "is an excellent drug, but no drug has virtue enough to preserve from corruption and decay, if the vessel be tainted and impure wherein it is put to keep. plato's principal institution in his republic is to fit his citizens in the employments suitable to their nature. cripples are very unfit for exercises of the body, and lame souls for exercises of the mind. degenerate and vulgar souls are unworthy of philosophy. experience often presents us with a physician worse physicked, a divine worse reformed, and most frequently a scholar of less sufficiency than another." his celebrated essay upon the education of children (ch. xxv.) is of course too long to be even condensed effectually here; he regards the culture of the young " as the greatest and most important difficulty of human science," but confesses the "symptoms of their inclinations are so obscure, as to render it very hard, to establish any solid judgment upon them." doubtless it is owing to these causes, and the few lines into which, human intellect can be driven, to d q fable xiv. become lucrative, (for this is the main speculation,) that we deal with young minds by the gross, and with their education by the hundred, sacrificing individuality to general rules, and stretching or cramping personal mental growth, upon the procrustean bed, of a prescribed scholastic system. and what is the result? why, that each really great mind has, after it has left school, to unteach itself habits it ought never to have contracted, and to study subjects it ought there to have learned; and this to the loss of its time, its energy, and its freshness of power, so that he who survives to reach the altitude of distinction, is obliged to confess that his mind has not been justly dealt by, and that he is not what he might have been. as to the choice of professions, indeed, the case is lamentable. a lawyer, having successfully shorn the public, forces his son to adopt the profitabledisgrace which, his soul, more ingenuous, abhors, longing, it may be, for the prosecution of scientific truth; the surgeon goads on his young lancet, to operations, the latter would rather endure than perform; whilst the bishop, thinking nothing of sacrificing the interests of whole parishes, hurries his infantine prebend into the church, there to trade for promotion with souls, when the youngster might have conducted a similar, though more honest business, in knocking down lots to the best bidder, as a tolerable auctioneer! " fable xv. if thus yon mighty beast complains, perhaps man knows superior pains. let envy, then, no more torment: think on the ox, and learn content." thus said, close following at her heel, with cheerful heart he mounts the wheel. ( ) the moral of the fable is contained in the third and fourth lines of the opening verse:— "'tis murmur, discontent, distrust, that makes you wretched: god is just"— an observation often admitted, seldom retained. dryden well says: "all great souls still make their own content. we to ourselves may all our wishes grant;for nothing coveting, we nothing want." to the real christian there is no thought so consolatory as that all things having been primarily arranged by, so ever still depend upon, one infallible goodness; and that, however remote the veins of existence may ramify throughout the various kinds of beings, they are all connected with one great fountain-soul, which is cognizant by omniscient sympathy with even an insect's throb of pain! "trust in god," therefore, but especially that trust which springs from habitual communion with him, is the only anodyne to human sorrow; and discontent at our lot, is equally unjust to him, "whose goodness is over all his works," as it is injurious to ourselves, since it barbs the arrow of misfortune, and makes the mind its own tormentor. the ravens, the sexton, and the earth-worm. laura, methinks you're over-nice, true, flattery is a shocking vice; yet sure, whene'er the praise is just, one may commend without disgust. am i a privilege denied, indulged by every tongue beside? > nypl research librari ||||||| . o | --- \ . •rº- \ , ^^/-js/va-^~ ao aaj^^k^ )/vs »£w s^k. queer folk. \ the witch of ballaquoich. |- · ---- * · → * ·|- • *… ·|- -*|- • •··* |-|- • ••|- · → ， ！ |- *|- ** → ..* * * * • *••• · |- --★ → … ， ·- * ， ！ |- *.|- |- ---- ----|- · |- *■** ~ |-* |- … • ---- ·---- ~~~~ · |-|- · |- - · |- ----， |-|- |- |- |- |----- *， ！ ·|- * |- *, *） |- •* • • *ae •• • • • * * * · ！ |-|- • • •· * ， ! • • • |-**~ • *"* · * ！ , <w. i queer folk seven stories hy the _ \ rr hon. e. h. kxatchbuli.-h ugessen* m.p., author ,/ "stories for my children," "crackers for christmas," ''moonshine," &c. illustrated by s. e. waller. don i; ''' jfonbon: macmillan and co. - -- → → → → → → → → u o →…»…» materia, preface. well, and so they are "queer folk," and i don't care who says the contrary. there is a warlock— a witch—a society of pig-faced ladies—a quantity of elves, and several other things and persons which any unprejudiced individual will at once allow to be queer enough to justify the !iame,i have chosen. in fact, i think they are altogether as queer a collection of creatures as ever came together in a story-book; and if anyone objects to thsiiitk, i can only say that if he will write seven queerer stories, and find a better name for the book which contains them, i shall be very much obliged to him. i hope, however, that the boys and girls, great and small, for whom i write, will find my creatures amus- ing as well as queer; and if so, anybody who pleases may find fault with the title of the book. after all, the title has more to do with the outside than the inside of a volume. one does not like an oyster any vi preface. the less because his shell is hard and rough, nor is a golden plover a bit the worse bird if he happens to be written down as a quail on the bill of fare. so if the stories are amusing, a fig for the title; and if any- body does not like the latter, let him at once turn over the title-page, and eat his oyster comfortably without thinking any more about the shell. » contents. paob i. the warlock of coombe i ii. the witch of ballaquoich iii. the pig-faced queen iv. little grub v. the barn elves vi. the strange city vii. the old bachelor married v. list of illustrations. page the witch of ballaquoich . . . . . . frontispiece. the pig-faced ladies . . . . . . . . . vignette. the warlock of coombe . . . . . . . . . . . . the hog-wash bath. . . . . . . . . . . . . . little grub . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . the barn elves . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . the lady and the admiral . . . . . . . . . . . . . queer folk, i. the warlock of coombe. the great range of chalk hills known as the back- bone of kent, starts boldly and abruptly from the good town of dover, and cuts through the very heart of the ancient county. if you climb from the valley to the top of the hills, you find yourself, at many points, in a somewhat barren country, with plenty of flint stones in the fields and scrubby oaks in the woods. these no doubt have their advantages; but, upon the whole, i prefer the valley, a glorious view of which you can enjoy after your climb, and which smiles before you as you look down upon it and the lovely fringe of blue sea which bounds your view. some- where above the town of wye the range of hills politely stops, allowing space for the beautiful valley of the stour, beyond which it begins again and con- tinues its course behind eastwell park into other parts of kent, whither i have no time to follow it to-day. for my tale is of the home range of hills, which i b -? queer folk. have so often traversed, and the legends of which are so deeply impressed upon my memory. from stow- ting to wye the hill is fairyland to me. from the earliest periods of fairyland history, this particular part of the backbone is known to have been the favourite haunt of witches, wizards, and such like in- teresting individuals; and as, ever and anon, i come to know something of the history of one or other of these creatures, duty and inclination alike compel me to impart my knowledge to a wondering world. in the old, old days in which the scene of my story is laid, the face of the country was of course very different from its present appearance. the land was not nearly so well or so generally cultivated; the houses were more rudely built, and many things which are deemed necessary to existence in the days we live in were not even known in those distant times. the habits of the people, too, were different—there was less cultivation and more politeness; labouring men touched their hats to squire and parson, and farmers' daughters learned to make puddings and manage poultry instead of playing on the pianoforte and cutting out the squire's lady altogether in the matter of apparel. in those benighted days it was that the wise man, or the warlock (as he was sometimes called), of coombe was the talk of the country round. bra bourne coombe a goodly farm in those days, and one which has ever maintained its character as such, was situated, then as now, between coombe wood and the great range of chalk hills, that part of which, immediately north of the farm, has been known from time immemorial as brabourne down. nowadays i.] the warlock of coombe. the passing traveller sees only a wide expanse of down, studded with divers thorn-trees, and indented by a chalk-pit here and there, the chalk of which is counted sweet and wholesome to be carried down to the clay lands in the vale below. but the place was of rougher and wilder aspect at the time of my story. thorn-trees there were by hundreds, and withal brakes and brambles, and tangled thickets of dense under- wood, where mortal foot might scarce pass, and in which wild animals couched in comparative security. one great chalk-pit there was, well known to all the country-side, not only on account of its size and appa- rent depth (for few there were, if any, who had ever explored it at sufficiently close quarters to hazard a guess as to what that size and depth really were), but also because it was the usual home and abode of that dread and mysterious being, the wise man of coombe. who or what he was, whence he came, and to what country he originally belonged, were things known to no man. neither could anyone exactly remember when he had first appeared in the neighbourhood of coombe. all that can be said is that, somehow or other, he had acquired so great a reputation for wisdom, and had evinced such extraordinary powers of a ma- gical nature, that he was held in the greatest awe by the whole neighbourhood. even over his jolly flagon of ale the rustic trembled at the mention of the wise man; women gathered their cloaks around them and hurried by the chalk-pit of brabourne down, if their homeward way chanced to lie in that direction; and the very children at play, in their infantile disputes, threatened each other that "the wise man should b queer folk. [t. - i- be told of them." it will therefore be no matter of surprise to my readers to learn that good farmer kellatt, of coombe farm, was a devout believer in, and a firm friend to, the wise man of coombe. indeed, to be the former was almost of necessity to be the latter, so far as the farmer was concerned. the farmhouse stood barely a quarter of a mile from the chalk-pit, and to have been at feud with its mysterious occupant would have been a deep and dire misfortune. now, farmer kellatt was one of those men who were once the types of english agriculturists, but whom the advancement of agricultural science has rendered the exception rather than the rule. he was a firm believer in all that his father, grandfather, and great-grandfather had believed before him, and shrank from new ideas and new theories with a thorough old- fashioned john bull prejudice. having ploughed with four horses all his life, nothing would have per- suaded him that the process could be satisfactorily carried on, even on light lands, by a lesser number. to get rid of rushes by draining, to look upon weeds as mortal enemies, and to expend money in trimming hedges, levelling molehills, and enclosing waste ground, were things which never entered into his imagination. if the "wetness of the land caused the rushes to grow, was it not intended by nature that the land in that part of the farm should be wet? would the ground be rough and overgrown with weeds if it had not been so ordered? and if he could grow plenty of corn and other produce on the land immediately under cultivation, why throw away money in trying the warlock of coombe. to get a little more, or in affecting to make his farm smarter than that of his neighbours? no, no ; a plodding, honest, worthy man was farmer kellatt, paying his way as he went, and owing no man any- thing; but as for changes and so-called improve- ments, he would have nothing to say to them. for the rest, the worthy farmer had all the characteristics of an agricultural englishman. he rose early, was, out in the open air the greater part of the day, dined (except on market days) punctually at two o'clock, and became particularly fidgety if he had to wait five minutes for his dinner. but do not suppose i should have entered into this description of the occupier of brabourne coombe had he been the only individual resident in the old farmhouse. there was another person of far greater importance in the eyes of not a few of the surrounding neighbours. grace kellatt was the only child of the farmer, and a child of whom any father might well have been proud. she was fair—very fair—with the blue eyes which are sup- posed to betoken saxon origin, and that sweet ex- pression of countenance which is a sure sign of a kind and true heart. she was a general favourite wherever she went, and the darling of her father's heart. her great delight was to be out in the open air, the longer and oftener the better, and one of her principal enjoyments was to ride a certain grey pony, which bore the name of " kitty," and was as fond of its young mistress as she could desire. on this pony grace would roam far and wide, over the downs and deep into the woods, and many a happy - queer folk. [i. hour did she thus spend amid the lovely scenery of her home. grace, however, being a farmer's daughter of the olden time, did not neglect those domestic duties to which it was the fashion to attend at the time of which i write. she could bake, make pies and custards, milk the cows, and do a number of things which in the present day would be thought sadly beneath the elevated position of a person in her rank of life. as to chickens, she was famous for the success she always had in the management of those interesting birds, and grace kellatt's poultry were well known through all the district. with such a daughter it is not surprising that farmer kellatt had a happy home and was a happy man. i mentioned, however, that on mar- ket-days the good farmer did not dine at home at his usual hour. the fact is, that it had been his custom for many years to attend the markets held at the neighbouring town of ashford, which was some four miles from brabourne coombe "as the crow flies," or rather (as no road ever follows the habit of the crow in flying straight) some six miles to drive by the road. after the market there was always a pleasant dinner, at which the farmers of the neighbourhood met each other, ate ravenously, discussed their liquor cheerfully, and enjoyed them- selves after their own hearts. farmer kellatt was always one of this party, and it was at one of their festive gatherings that the incident occurred from which commenced the veneration of the farmer for the warlock of coombe. it had been a good market—a very good market— i.] the warlock of coombe. and the agriculturists had every reason to be satisfied with their day. it is not, however, in the nature of an agriculturist to be too well satisfied, and of course there were some little things, connected with the weather and the crops, which afforded sufficient ex- cuse for some of that wholesome grumbling without which your true englishman is never thoroughly happy. but there was only just enough grumbling to be comfortable, and the party assembled were as merry as need be. they ate and drank heartily, and after dinner were rather more lively than before. that which somewhat added to their hilarity was the un- wonted presence of a stranger. no one knew his name, but he had appeared in the market that day, had made himself generally pleasant, and, having announced that he was doing business for a london house, had shown a capacity and knowledge in deal- ing with agricultural matters which had procured him the respect of the farming community who were that day at market. he was a man of middle height, rather inclined to be stout, with dark hair, and a keen look about the eyes which made you feel that you were not likely to get the better of him in a bargain. this man, evidently possessed of abilities above the common order, had so pleased the farmers that they invited him to join their party at dinner, and found no reason to regret their invitation. he laughed and talked, ate and drank with the best of them, and proved in fact the life and soul of the party. and after a while, when the conversation flagged, the stranger suggested singing, and, after some little joking had passed upon the subject, volunteered a queer folk. song himself; and, on silence being obtained; struck up the following :— i. here's to the farmer who's got a good holding, deep land for ploughing and light land for folding; hay for the mowing and corn for the reaping: his riches are growing the time he is sleeping! ho! ha! bumpers of ale! drink we success to the scythe and the flail! ii. here's to the farmer whom fortune embraces; here's to the farmer who goes to the races; here's to the farmer who bets when he chooses; here's to the farmer who laughs when he loses! ho! ha! bumpers of ale! drink we success to the scythe and the flail in. here's to the farmer who hunts, shoots, and fishes; here's to the farmer who lives as he wishes; here's to the farmer whom sorrow ne'er reaches; here's to the farmer in top-boots and breeches! ho! ha! bumpers of ale! drink we success to the scythe and the flail! iv. here's to the farmer of stalwart dimensions; here's to the farmer who hates new inventions; here's to the man who lets none of them bore him, living as lived his forefathers before him! ho! ha! bumpers of ale! drink we success to the scythe and the flail! v. drink, every man, to the party around him: he who refuses the toast—why, confound him! here's all good-luck to our traffic and barter, and long be white wheat eighty shillings a quarter! ho! ha! bumpers of ale! drink we success to the scythe and the flail! i.] the warlock of coombe. this song having been received with shouts of laughter and applause, no long interval was allowed to elapse before the singer was again called upon to entertain the company. "no, no," said he ; " fair play's a jewel. i've sung you my song, and now it's my right to call upon some- body else. i see lots of singing faces here, if i could only hit upon the right one." so saying, he looked around; and presently, after a whisper from some one of the party, he pitched upon good farmer kellatt and asked him for a song. now, it so happened that farmer kellatt had one or two songs for which he was celebrated among his brother farmers, and a more popular choice could hardly have been made. so, as soon as the stranger pronounced his name, a shout of satisfaction arose from all the party. "noble call! noble call!" they cried ; and our friend from coombe found that he had nothing for it but to obey the order. so, after going through the usual ceremony of saying, first that he had given up singing long ago, next that he had a cold and was so hoarse that he couldn't sing a note, and then that he was really afraid he had forgotten the words, he com- menced his favourite song as follows:— . to new-mar-ket one season came a noble-man of great honour and fame; ay, and he had a kinsman kept a grey mare— was called "little dun" with her close-cropped ear. with a loddy, toddy, tol de rol loddy ti do. io queer folk. ' ii. to the noble-man this kinsman cries, "i've made up my mind for to win a prize; i've matched little dun this very day to run against the lively bay." with a loddy, &c. &c. iii. "o kinsman! o kinsman!" the noble says he, "the lively bay will surely beat thee; tho' i know little dun to be swift and clear, she's had nought but grass this three or four year." with my loddy, &c. &c. iv. the day came on for the pair to run: the gentry flocked in, and they betted like fun; they hustled the gold that they'd got in store; they down with that, and they bet as much more, with their loddy, &c. &c. v. 'twas nine and ten to' one on the bay, but a lad that was there did a bold word say: "i've forty bright guineas my uncle give me, and i'll venture them all on little dun'ee." with my loddy, &c. &c. vi. at the very first start it seemed he was wrong; the lively bay she was so strong, that she left little dun by the eighth of a mile, which caused the gentlemen all for to smile. with their loddy, &c. &c vii. the jockey began to crack his whip, which made little dun to dance and skip; ay, and as they came galloping over the moor, the little dun mare came tripping before, with a loddy, &c. &c. i.] the warlock of coombe. n viii. so now little dun has won the race, no longer she must stop in the place: she's won enough this very day to make her master carry the sway, with a loddy, toddy, tol de rol loddy ti do. whilst farmer kellatt was singing his song, the stranger kept his eyes fixed earnestly upon him, and, when he had concluded, warmly and loudly joined in the applause with which it was received. drawing his chair nearer to that of the worthy farmer, he pro- fessed a great desire to become better acquainted with a man who could sing such a good song, and was evidently such a pleasant companion. the farmer was by no means indisposed to receive these advances favourably. he was a simple-minded old fellow, always ready to make friends, and well-disposed to meet anyone half-way in that respect. so the two chatted together about one thing and another until the company had begun to disperse, and there were few persons left in the room beside themselves. then the stranger asked how far from ashford was kellatt's farm, and what sort of a place it was, and from one 'question to another he went on until the farmer pro- posed that he should come and see for himself. "nothing i should like better," replied the man, "but i have neither horse nor gig, nor do i know any- one in these parts from whom i could borrow either." "don't let that be a hindrance," returned the farmer. "walters of the 'turk's head' has known me and mine these fifty years and more, and he'll let you have a horse to ride back along with me this very evening." queer folk. [i. i the matter was thus easily arranged, and within half an hour from the time at which this conversation was held, farmer kellatt on his stout brown cob, and the stranger on a chestnut mare supplied by the land- lord of the "turk's head," might have been seen riding side by side down the hill out of ashford town. they crossed the bridge over the river stour at the foot of the hill, rode on through willesborough, and then took the turn to the left, as the farmer thought his new friend would like to see a little more of the country than he would have done by keeping the main road. so they turned and rode through the pleasant village of hinxhill, and paused on the hill near the church to look eastward, where within a mile or so the dark shades of ancient bockhanger shut out the view of hatch beyond. the farmer stayed but an instant to point out to the stranger that abode of the mighty wizard of bockhanger, so celebrated for many a long year, and believed to be the most power- ful magician in the world; and then resuming his journey, he brought his companion to plumpton corner, and so through to naccult, and, passing foreland green, headed straight for coombe wood. coombe wood was very different then from what it is' now. it extended far over ground which has now for a long time been cleared of trees and brought into cultivation. it reached down to that which is now bircholt wood towards the south-west, and was really a small forest, in which the lawless men of brabourne leese found frequent refuge from the pursuit of the guardians of the law. but although coombe wood was dense and difficult of passage in some parts, and i.] the warlock of coomse. especially so in the part called "coombe rough," it was easy to ride through the outskirts, and indeed there were sundry tracks through even the thickest part which were well known to farmer kellatt. the worthy farmer and his companion, on entering the wood from the bircholt end, had no difficulty in making their way over the mossy turf, beneath lofty trees which stood at a sufficient distance apart to allow of the passage of horsemen. as they pro- ceeded, however, the trees stood more nearly together, and after a few hundred yards they could only proceed at a foot's space. they had been conversing hitherto upon various subjects connected with the proceedings of the day, the prospects of agriculture, and the beauty of the country. now, however, the old farmer began to speak of the difficulty of finding the road through coombe wood, and how that few save he could with certainty strike the track after passing the fringe of scattered trees which they were leaving behind. "it is a lonely place, sir," he said, "and one which many folk would not care to travel." "is it so ?" carelessly asked the stranger. "ay, that it is," rejoined the other. "if robbers were as plentiful here as they are said to be nigher london town, 'twould hardly be safe to travel here unarmed. but, barring the brabourne leese poachers, we're not troubled terribly with them gentry." "i suppose," remarked the stranger, " there are no houses near where we are now, and no labourers handy." queer folk. [i. "you may well say that," returned the farmer; "there is no house nigher than coombe itself, which is hard upon a mile as the path goes; and as' for labourers—bless you! a man might bawl his tongue out of his mouth before anyone could hear him where we are now." "so i suppose," answered the stranger, and sud- denly drawing a pistol from his breast, he continued: "this is about the place i have been looking for. hand over your watch and purse at once, or you are a dead man!" you may imagine farmer kellatt's astonishment at this proceeding. though no coward by nature, he was so utterly taken aback by his companion's con- duct, that for a few seconds he could only stare at him in blank amazement. then, as the truth dawned upon him, he uttered a groan of mingled surprise and disgust, and found vent for his disturbed feelings in these words:— "lack-a-daisy me, man, why you beant never in earnest?" "earnest enough, farmer," returned the stranger with a stern look, "as you will presently find. i am bill martin of hounslow heath, and should think as little of sending a brace of balls through your head as of shooting a dog. come, fork out!" and, so saying, he pushed up close to the farmer, and held his pistol in alarming proximity to his head. thus admonished, the worthy man, being only armed with a slight hazel stick, which had served the pur- poses of a whip, could make no resistance to the demand urged upon him in such a forcible manner. l] the warlock of coombe. moreover, he had heard both of hounslow heath and of bill martin, the reputation of whose highway robberies had reached even that remote district, and he felt pretty certain that the robber was capable of carrying out his threat. with a deep sigh, there- fore, he plunged his hand into his pocket and brought out a leather bag, well filled with the proceeds of a sale that very day; then he lugged at the great old-fashioned golden chain to which was attached his watch, and was in the very act of handing them over to his treacherous companion, when an incident occurred which changed the whole order of events. from behind an aged oak which stood hard by, raising its gigantic head above its fellows, and spread- ing out its mighty branches on all sides, there sud- denly stepped forth a figure and stood before the travellers. it was the figure of a man, tall and gaunt, with long white beard falling over his breast, and apparently clad entirely in garments made of the skins of wild animals; in his right hand, which he stretched forth as he stood, he held a curiously twisted stick made of the holly-tree, and his left arm was folded across his breast. "hold!" he cried in a commanding voice, and then, after a moment's pause, continued— "who robs or slays in brabourne coombe, shall shortly meet a felon's doom!" up to this moment, the sudden apparition had so startled the highwayman as well as the farmer, that neither of them had uttered a word. but the robber being a man of courage, and seeing only one old man --rr-y-r folk. xf- ~g xoa^ne, and with a loud — — btmt of your humbug here. t— rr very easily, i can tell -.— —■=- rbe cash!" rrs tiew friend to assist uz-^zz r■x- ae probability that ^=- -i c sabre any assistance about to comply, a^ad powerful, the 'nrds— rt is mouth than \: -j.^rdinary scenes f.:g all the bushes tl— issued an innu- ..■s^- i^%r rs^rctcs. who, without •r^oeri .irvtt tie astonished ----- .^r -sserahze man who . .t-= .--^res r~r is a£d stooped ^:-v--^--^rc fr-rax the ground. »--t i-^srtng: aim. it was > - r i ^rrg^hog which was -v■ at? it was in a -"^v■ -i--^: ir the face, and •*: r -iitxi itxy- as the blood v ■_*. ■x-^isis rrukcted upon "*^er * :? atin so utterly ... ...v. cctn'usasl the hares and ! i queer folk. [i. before him, now found his tongue, and with a loud voice he cried— "come, come, old chap, none of your humbug here. you won't interrupt bill martin very easily, i can tell you. now, farmer, hand over the cash!" doubtful of the ability of his new friend to assist him, or at all events alarmed by the probability that the pistol might do its work before any assistance could be effectual, the, farmer was about to comply, when, in a voice singularly clear and powerful, the venerable man pronounced these words— "sons of coombe! 'gainst lawless might succour! and protect the right!" scarcely were the words out of his mouth than there occurred one of the most extraordinary scenes ever witnessed by mortal eyes. from all the bushes and brakes around, there suddenly issued an innu- merable quantity of hares and rabbits, who, without a moment's hesitation, rushed upon the astonished highwayman. at .the same instant, the venerable man who had summoned those creatures to his aid stooped down, and, picking up something from the ground, hurled it at his enemy with unerring aim. it was nothing more or less than a hedgehog which was thus thrown, and which, curled up as it was in a prickly ball, struck the robber right in the face, and elicited from him a roar of pain and fury as the blood started from the numerous wounds inflicted upon his unfortunate visage. never was man so utterly astonished, bewildered, and confused. the hares and is. i l] 'the warlock of coombe. rabbits jumped with supernatural strength upon his saddle: the more he beat them off and killed them, as he imagined, the more they crowded upon him; and he found himself in great danger of being scratched to death by their sharp claws, or smothered with the heap of fur which overwhelmed him. his horse, moreover, being clawed and scratched by the assault- ing animals in a most disagreeable manner, became perfectly unmanageable, and after rearing, kicking, and plunging in a fashion which would have dis- mounted any ordinary horseman, took the bit in his mouth and fairly darted off homewards, shaking off the hares and rabbits as he went. his unfortunate rider was in imminent peril of being knocked off by the overhanging branches, but managed nevertheless to maintain his seat until he was clear of the wood. then, with bleeding face and hands, and his clothes half torn off his back by the infuriated animals, he was carried by his steed along the road they had come before, and after vainly endeavouring to stop the animal, found himself brought up again in the turk's head yard, whence he had started with the farmer. the highwayman invented some story of having been run away with, which satisfied the ostler who took the horse; and having paid for the hire of the animal, he slipped out of the yard with a determina- tion to visit no more a neighbourhood where the very hares and rabbits played the part of policemen. meanwhile farmer kellatt, during the strange con- flict which had saved his watch and money, had stood transfixed, with astonishment. such a scene he had c queer folk. [i.. never witnessed before, nor could he have believed it possible that such timid animals as hares and rabbits would have so far overcome their fear of man as to attack a mounted and armed highwayman in so daring and resolute a manner. it was evident, how- ever, that he himself had no cause for apprehension, and indeed he could not but be grateful for their timely interference on his behalf. he watched the struggle with gaping mouth and eyes wide open; and when he saw the famous bill martin fairly routed by his little antagonists, he burst out into an exclama- tion of mingled pleasure and surprise. "bless us all!" he shouted, "who'd ever have thought of such a set-out as this! these here rabbits has eat my turnips middling at times, but dash my wig if i goes on a trapping on 'em after this. well done, little uns!" and the old man broke off in a fit of laughter. presently, however, remembering to whom he was indebted for the aid which he had received, he turned round with the intention of thanking the venerable individual who had summoned his protectors. lean- ing carelessly against the tree from behind which he had first stepped, the strange being stood gazing upon the scene before him. just as the worthy farmer was about to address him, he waved his hand in the air, and said, in the same clear voice as before:— "sons of coombe! your task complete, to your woodland homes retreat!" scarcely had he uttered the words, when all the rabbits and hares scuttled away as quickly as possible into the recesses of the wood, until not one of them i.] the warlock of coombe. was to be seen. the farmer, who had watched this proceeding with interest and astonishment, now thought it was high time to speak, and accordingly, raising his hat in a respectful manner, thus addressed the mysterious person before him :— , "i'm sure i'm very much obliged to you, sir, for what you've done. i hadn't no thought of that chap turning out such a notorious rascal; and if it hadn't been for you, i expect i should have come off second best, and lost my watch and money, if not my life into the bargain. if there's anything i can do for you at any time, you may be sure it shall be done, for john kellatt never forgets a kindness; and if ever you'll look in at coombe house, you'll be kindly welcome surely, and grace will be right glad to see a man that has stood by her old father at a pinch!" the worthy man spoke warmly and earnestly, and was about to urge his horse nearer to the individual towards whom he felt so naturally grateful, when the latter waved him back with his hand, ajtid spoke as follows:— "of gratitude i want no proof, tho' well i know thy kindly mood: i cannot lodge 'neath mortal roof; , i may not eat of mortal food. yet know me for a ready friend to worthy men of mortal race; and nought but good i wish to send to thee and to thy daughter grace." with these words the strange being once more slowly waved his hand, and disappeared behind the oak. farmer kellatt paused for a few moments in great astonishment, and then, being desirous still further to c ao queer folk. [i. • 'jt press his hospitality upon one who had rendered him such signal service, rode up to and round the tree, loudly calling upon him not to be bashful, but to come home with him and receive his daughter's thanks for the good deed he had done to her father. no answer, however, was returned ; and having looked about right and left to no purpose, and called out again and again without receiving any answer whatever, the good man began to think it was no use trying any longer. having come to this conclusion, which appeared to be the only one to which he could have reasonably come under the peculiar circumstances of the case, he struck into the homeward track and made the best of his way towards the farmhouse without longer delay. as he rode through the wood, he pondered over the events which had just occurred, with great confusion of intellect, marvelling greatly who or what could be the individual who appeared to be possessed of such extraordinary powers over the animals of the wood, turning peaceful hares and rabbits into martial warriors, and hurling hedgehogs, like pebbles, at his foes with so true an aim. there was something very curious in the whole business, and as the worthy man thought over the surprise and utter discomfiture of bill martin, and his hasty flight from before his four-legged foes, he burst into a fit of laughter enough to split his sides. he was answered by a light and silvery laugh not far off, and in another instant grace appeared, coming on kitty to meet her father. "what is it, father dear?" she cried, as she rode gaily forward towards him. "what merry jokes have v •a] the warlock of coombe. you been having at ashford, that your laughter has lasted all the way home?" and she gave him a loving smile as she asked the question. "no ashford jokes, daughter mine," responded farmer kellatt, "but a real coombe wood joke, and, for the matter of that, i doubt if there be another wood in all kent that has seen such a joke since the days of the wizard of bockhanger." then, in answer to her eager inquiries, he told his daughter all that had occurred, and how he had vainly tried to induce his rescuer to come home and receive her thanks. grace listened with great attention; and when the story reached the point of the hares' and rabbits' onslaught upon the treacherous companion, i am afraid she glanced at her old father with a doubtful eye for one instant, as if thinking it just possible that he might have had an extra flagon of ale at the market dinner, and so have thought he saw a little more than had been really the case. but if the thought crossed her mind, she banished it at once, with a blush that it should ever have come across her. her father was as sober as a judge, as indeed was his ordinary habit, and he told her a tale which he evidently believed to be undeniably true. many questions she asked him about the appearance and precise words of the mysterious stranger, and at length suggested to her father that this could be none other than the being who was so often spoken of by the labouring folk as "the warlock of coonibc." "and so it is! you may depend upon it, grace; you've hit the mark !" said farmer kellatt, and readily adopted the views of his daughter upon the subject. queer folk. [i. from that time forth, then, the farmer became a steady and devout believer in the existence and power of the warlock. i do not think that his faith in an desire to please the warlock carried him so far as to induce him to entirely forego the pleasure of trapping and destroying the rabbits. no farmer likes to see his young wheat nibbled off; and although there are and always have been some who make a mountain out of a molehill in such matters, and, if they see one turnip touched by a hare, declare that the place swarms with such creatures, and that they will be shortly ruined in consequence, yet it must be owned that a good farmer has a right to complain if his crops are really damaged by these animals. farmer kellatt, therefore, having received no injunction from the warlock to spare the creatures, continued to pro- tect himself as well as he was able, and did not entirely abandon his favourite dish of rabbit-pie, well seasoned with bacon, and washed down by deep draughts of good home-brewed ale. but grace, thoughtful for her father's safety, and mindful of the possible wants of his benefactor, con- veyed sundry ducks and chickens, and occasionally new-laid eggs and cream, to the mouth of the chalk- pit where the warlock was said to dwell, and judged that by this means she was showing her gratitude in the most appropriate manner. at first she used to watch and see whether the presents were taken away, but no one ever touched them while she was there. then she took to leaving them and going away for a short time, when, upon her return, they had always disappeared; and after this had continued for some -v i.] the warlock of coombe. little time, it happened that upon one memorable occasion, when she had left some beautiful guinea- fowls' eggs, enough to tempt any warlock that ever was born, she had the long-desired but scarcely expected satisfaction of hearing a voice from within the chalk-pit, which uttered in clear tones the words following:— "kindly heart and open hand has the gentle maid, we know; yet 'tis vainly she hath planned gifts unneeded to bestow. maiden! he whose home is cleft in the side of brabourne hill, takes from mortal hand no gift, asks no aid from mortal will. but, should pain or sorrow fall on thy pathway, gentle maid, do not thou delay to call on thy friend for willing aid." on hearing these words, grace had no difficulty in arriving at three conclusions: first, that the warlock certainly did live in the great chalk-pit; secondly, that he was of a friendly disposition towards her and her father; and, thirdly, that her ducks, chickens, eggs, and cream, had probably been appropriated by the foxes and other wild animals which frequented the place, and had been quite lost upon the individual for whom they had been intended. it was, however, satisfactory to know that she had a powerful friend at need in case any misfortune should fall upon her or her family, and she could not be otherwise than grateful for his promise of aid in the event of such an emergency. jt queer folk. [l. being a girl of natural talents, and one who had received a reasonably fair education according to the fashion of the day, she felt at once the propriety of making some reply to the speech which had just been delivered to her, which she immediately did after the following fashion :— "mighty warlock of the hill, thanks for this thy promise kind. should i be oppressed or ill, i shall venture to remind." and having uttered these words, she made a profound curtsey to the chalk-pit, which she meant for the wizard, and was about to hurry home, when the thought struck her that the dozen guinea-fowls' eggs which she had deposited at the mouth of the cave were too valuable to be thrown away, and that since the warlock did not want them, she might as well take them home again. so she stepped lightly back to the place, took up the eggs and replaced them in the basket in which she had brought them, and was turning to regain the road which led back to the farm, when the same voice which had previously spoken once more attracted her attention, and uttered these words:— '' from the hill the breeze i hail (morn and evening gazing down), and i see across the vale westenhanger darkly frown. westenhanger far below ever frowns with gafh'ring gloom; thence comes danger, well i know, danger to the child of coombe ! '* i.] the warlock of coombe. grace listened with great alarm to this prophecy, for such she supposed it to be, and all the more so from her knowledge of the place of which the war- lock spoke. westenhanger was in those days a castle of some strength, possessed by the family of de poynings, the representative of which bore no very high cha- racter among his neighbours, and was supposed to be connected with a band, half robbers and half smug- glers, who at that time infested the coast of kent. he had moreover committed several lawless deeds on his own account, which had caused him to be more dreaded than respected by the peaceful part of the community; and to be told that danger was to be apprehended from this particular person was some- thing very alarming to the maiden of coombe. she stopped short, therefore, on hearing these words, and answered in an imploring voice,— "oh, mighty warlock, tell, i pray, how i escape this danger may? what can i do, and whither go, and what the fear, and who the foe?" she spoke in agitated tones, and anxiously expected an answer. but no answer came. the wind sighed mournfully through the trees, and the leaves seemed to whisper to each other as they rustled softly before the light breeze: the distant bleating of the sheep, the lowing of the kine upon the hills, and the occasional bark of the shepherd's dog, alone fell upon her ears, but no tones of mortal voice did she hear again. all was still and silent as the queer folk. [ . ,«, * * !•■. ■■ grave; and after fruitless efforts to prevail upon the mysterious inhabitant of the hill to speak again, grace slowly and somewhat sadly bent her steps homeward, wondering what could be the danger likely to come upon her from westenhanger, and much '■ deploring the tiresome habit which warlocks and witches, and such-like people, always have, of saying just enough to puzzle and frighten a poor mortal, stopping short of giving that full information which might be really useful, and which it must be just as easy for them to give as to withhold. however, neither grace nor anybody else of human birth or origin could penetrate the reasons for the strange behaviour of these curious creatures; and being quite of that opinion herself, the maiden very wisely gave up trying to do so. still, it was very unpleasant to have danger hanging over one, and its very vagueness and uncertainty made it all the less agreeable. one would almost rather have a good toothache and have done with it, than the perpetual feeling that the next bite one takes will probably bring the tooth- ache with it. this was very much grace kellatt's feeling for the next few days after her visit to the chalk-pit on the hill. she went about her usual household duties in a listless and timorous spirit, constantly feeling that something was about to happen to her, but with a dim consciousness that she could not avert it, and with no certain idea as to when it would come or what it was. there is nothing, however, which requires so little waiting for as misfortune. in fact it rarely keeps a person waiting for it at all, but generally comes long v i.] the warlock of coombe. before he is ready for it, and always a great while before he wants it. so you will see that in grace kellatt's case no long exercise of patience was necessary before the prophecy of the warlock was fully ana decidedly proved true. she had at first intended to tell her father nothing about the matter, not wishing to cause the good old man unnecessary alarm, but upon second thoughts she decided that, without mentioning names, it would be well to tell him that she had received warning that some misfortune was likely to befall her, and a pro- mise of help from the warlock in the hour of danger. contrary to her expectations, however, the farmer showed no great signs of anxiety, merely remarking that the warlock was a good sort of chap; but if any more highwaymen were to try their little games on, he would be ready for them next time, and give them their gruel without the help of hares and rabbits. so the two inhabitants of coombe farm made no difference in their daily life in consequence of the warlock's prediction of danger, but everything went on much as usual. and so it fell out that upon an ashford market-day very shortly afterwards, farmer kellatt mounted his trusty nag, and rode off as was his wont. it was a dullish morning, with a mist hang- ing on the side of the hill, and the air full of moisture, though no rain was falling. when her father had left the place, grace went out and fed her poultry, and then paid a long visit to the dairy, and occupied herself busily about various household matters. it might be some two hours after- wards that she was suddenly startled by the sound of queer folk. [ . horses' feet, and, hurrying to the window of the front room, beheld with surprise and alarm a dozen or more mounted men riding from coombe lane into the farm-yard. fast they came on, and rode up to the house before they drew rein. now, in front of the house was a small green patch of grass, scarcely big enough to be dignified by the name of a lawn, whilst behind was a small orchard in which grace used to coop out her young chickens, and at the further side of which was a small pond, mightily frequented and beloved by the ducklings of the farm. so, when the new-comers rode up, they separated at once, some riding in front and others into the orchard, so that the house was surrounded by them. he who was evidently their leader was a tall, swarthy man, riding a strong black horse, which he reined up immediately opposite the front door, and shouted in a loud voice— "ho! you within there! come out and speak with the lord of wcstenhanger!" grace's blood ran cold as she heard these words. this, then, was the foe of whom the warlock had spoken, and the danger which he had foretold was already come upon her. she was convinced that as yet she had not been seen by the strangers, and would willingly have remained hidden from their observa- tion. this, however, was scarcely possible, as there was no doubt that, if unanswered, they would not scruple to break into the house before she could find a place of concealment. nor had she long time for hesitation, for, after a short pause, the leader of the horsemen broke out into a ringing laugh, and shouted again— • l] the warlock of coombe. "ho! there! answer my summons forthwith, an ye would not have house and homestead levelled to the ground. draw back bolts, and open doors at once thus admonished for the second time, grace braced her nerves to the task before her, and was about to approach the window, when that of the room above was thrown open, and she heard her old nurse, dame revel, begin to expostulate with the speaker. now dame revel was a woman of a certain age, what rude people might in fact have called an old woman, if there ever could be such a thing, and a faithful creature she was into the bargain. her husband was bailiff to farmer kellatt; that is to say, he looked after the other men, and was a kind of head labourer, much trusted by his employer. dame revel loved grace as the apple of her eye, and was as proud of her as could be; which was not wonderful, and is often to be observed in old nurses'in their feelings towards the children to whom they have stood in that special relationship. moreover, although grace really managed the household, the good old dame fancied that she had a good deal to do with the management thereof, and was as much of a com- panion as a servant to her young mistress. so, when she saw the horsemen ride in, and heard the summons of their leader, dame revel, having no fear of possible consequences to herself, threw up the window boldly, and proceeded to answer the intruder. "why, lawky me, sir," she said in a shrill voice, "and who be you a bellowing and a bullowing in this here way? the master beant at home, he beant, queer folk. [i. nor won't be for this long time, and there ain't no call for making such a hullabaloo!" at this reply to his summons the rider laughed loudly again. "open doors, i say, you old hag,",he shouted, "or i'll boil you in your own caldron, you witch!" but the old woman was more angered than frightened by his threats. "drat your imperence !" she cried. "what be i to open my master's doors for to such as you?" and would doubtless have proceeded to further statements of her opinions of his proceedings, but that at the same moment two of the horsemen rode back out of the orchard, dragging with them by the scruff of the neck no less a person than old revel, whom they had captured as he was hurrying to the house by the back way to see what was the matter. as soon as this sight met her eyes, the old woman changed her tone directly, and addressed her husband's captors in a voice of mingled rage and entreaty. "let my old man go, you villains!" she shrieked. "shame on you to treat a man of his years so scur- vily! let him go, i say!" "what, ho!" shouted the leader of the horsemen as he heard these words. "an the doors be not opened at once, hang me that old rascal on the first apple-tree in the orchard, and batter me in the doors to the tune of his dying groans!" the men to whom he addressed this observation proceeded instantly to act as though they were about to execute the cruel command, and in a couple of minutes old revel would have been dangling from the i,]'' w.£ warlock of coombe. '■-*.■■■■. .; •• * •• tree, had not the door suddenly been thrown open by grace herself, who stood upon the threshold, blushing with mingled terror and indignation, in which, how- ever, the latter feeling greatly predominated. "sirs, sirs," she cried, in a voice tremulous with agitation, "why would ye harm the old man, and what is your will that ye thus invade a peaceful household?" the horseman before the door made a low bow as the maiden uttered these words. "fair damsel," he replied, "we would do no harm to anyone, but necessity has its laws. mouths must be fed, and man must live: wherefore, my castle of westenhanger being fairly out of provisions of all kinds, i come to capture such supplies as i need with my bow and my spear. . forward, men! but spare the old man. when beauty asks, valour must comply!" so saying, he lightly leaped from his horse and entered the house, accompanied by several of his followers, whilst others spread themselves about through the farmyard and outbuilding^ picking up ducksr geese, hens, and whatever portable articles of food they could find. the two men who had got hold of poor revel, seeing that the time for plunder had arrived, gave up all thoughts of hanging him, but could not forbear tossing him into the pond at the other side of the orchard, where they gave him such a ducking that he was never quite free from rheumatism for the rest of his life. then they joined their com- panions, and in an incredibly short space of time the house and premises were thoroughly ransacked, and queer folk. [i. grace's poultry-yard deprived of all its glory. the maiden herself, having thrown open the doors in order to save the life of her father's faithful servant, had hastily retreated to her room on hearing the speech of the lord of westenhanger. not long, however, was she left unmolested. as she sat trembling with fear and anger, and listening to the shouts and laughter of the marauders, her door was suddenly burst open, and their leader entered the apartment. "come, pretty one," he exclaimed, "we find scarce such booty as we had hoped for, but the greatest treasure of all must not be left behind. wilt fly to westenhanger and cheer our dull castle with thy brightness?" "leave me, sir," cried grace in great affright. "an thou beest of gentle blood, be content with the mischief thou hast already done an old man who never harmed thee or thine, and take hence thy lawless troop without more delay!" "that will i, truly," replied the intruder; "but it were folly to steal the silver and leave the gold behind. thou art my prize, girl; the lawful captive of my enterprise, and worth a mighty ransom to boot. come, then, sweetheart." and in spite of grace's screams and struggles, he seized her in his arms as though she had been a baby, carried her downstairs, and, calling for his horse, he mounted and rode out of the yard at the head of his men, bearing the now senseless maiden before him on his saddle-bow. such cattle as they could find about the homestead the lawless troop drove before them down coombe i.] the warlock of coombe. lane; and then heading towards smeeth, they took the first turning to the left, and rode off through the winding lanes and back roads in the direction of their master's stronghold. on that day it so happened that farmer kellatt had been fortunate in his market business, and had no reason to delay his return home. in fact, since his adventure with bill martin, his account of which was received with a certain amount of incredulity by many of his boon companions, he had been made the subject of so many jokes that he had fought rather shy of joining the market dinner. on this particular day, therefore, he had enjoyed a quiet beef-steak and pint of ale by himself (two things which an honest man with a good digestion will do well to enjoy whenever a favourable opportunity presents itself), and had set off somewhat earlier than usual on his homeward ride. it was a beautiful autumn afternoon, the trees not having yet begun to lose their summer foliage, but the colour of the latter having just commenced its change from green to that golden brown which so charms the eye of the lover of nature at this season of the year. you may imagine how beautiful coombe wood appeared, with its noble outspreading oaks, its grand old beeches, and its ancient elm and ash trees thickly interspersed; a dense mass of rich colouring, varying in beauty at each point from which the traveller stopped to gaze upon it, but beautiful ever. so thought farmer kellatt as he rode slowly through the wood ; and, though not a man of a romantic turn of mind, he felt a certain sensation of pleasure in his heart d queer folk. [i. at the thought that his lot was cast in so lovely a place. very different from pleasure, however, was the sensation which he presently experienced, as he rode out of the wood and approached his homestead. he had been somewhat surprised that no grace had appeared to welcome him home ere he emerged from the trees, for she was in the habit of riding out to meet him, and on this tempting afternoon he had made sure she would have done so. however, some house- hold duty might have detained her, or something might have occurred to induce her to ride in another direction, so he thought little of it until he got close to the farmyard. then, a single glance round told the farmer that something was amiss. the gates were all open—only one or two miserable calves were to be seen in the yard wherein he had left a fair lot of cattle in the morning—fences were thrown down here and there; and moreover he could see, by the condition of the road as he crossed the lane to reach the yard, that a number of horses had been lately there. farmer kellatt drew rein, and stood for one moment aghast at the spectacle before him. then he burst into a groan which came from the very bottom of his heart, and pressed forward into the yard and up to the front door. "grace !" he called in heart-rending tones; "grace! my darling! grace, speak to your old father." he strained his ears to listen, and fancied that a faint gurgling sound reached him as of one trying to scream, but being prevented from doing so by a bad sore throat. leaping from his horse, he rushed into i.] the warlock of coombe. the house, which he found all in confusion, and passing hastily into the kitchen, soon discovered whence the sound had proceeded. poor old dame revel and the two servant wenches who were under her rule and guidance were sitting each fast tied to a kitchen chair, and carefully gagged to prevent their making more noise than the robbers might have found agreeable. in fact, poor old dame revel had a dirty stocking stuffed into her mouth, after such a fashion that it was a mercy she was not choked altogether, and she always declared that her voice was never the same again. i don't know how that may have been, but i believe it was always a shrill voice when at its best, and i have been told that the maids said they thought it was much better when the stocking was in her mouth than either before or after. such, however, was the sad condition in which farmer kellatt found his servants, from which he released them as speedily as possible, and eagerly asked tidings of his daughter. alas! they had no good news to tell. all they knew was that the house had been searched and sacked from top to bottom, that they themselves had been treated as i have described, and that, as dame revel described it, "the whole place had been turned upside down." but as to what had become of grace they could not positively say, for, being tied fast in the kitchen, they were naturally unable to see what went on in the front of the house. they racked the old man's heart, how- ever, by declaring that they had heard miss grace scream, and from some words which the leader of the robber party had let fall, they fancied that he had intended to carry her off. all doubt on the subject, d queer folk. [i. however, was soon removed by the account of old revel, whom his captors, after giving him a taste of the pond, had thrust, dripping wet, into the hen-house, which they had robbed of its proper inhabitants, and turned the key upon him. but the hen-house stood on the side of the orchard nearest the lane, and through the chinks in the boards of which it was built the old man had seen the party ride away, carrying his master's daughter with them as has been described. thus assured of the fate which had befallen his darling grace, farmer kellatt's state of mind may be better imagined than described. at first he tore his hair and ran up and down like a madman, using language more like that which is popularly (though perhaps erroneously) attributed to "a trooper" than that usually employed by a respectable farmer. then he rushed to the barn, the hen-house, the bullock lodges, and every outhouse on the premises, in the vain hope that there might still be some mistake, and his beloved child might be found hidden in some one of them. alas! his search was vain, and only resulted in ascer- taining that most of the live stock in the homestead had been carried off as well as his daughter, which was a circumstance ill calculated to diminish his grief in the smallest degree. then he threw himself down on the ground in utter despair, which, as the spot which he selected for this performance was the middle of the cow-yard, improved his personal appearance no more than it removed the cause of his sorrow. pre- sently he arose, and ran back again, as one half frantic, into the house, every room of which he entered, calling wildly for his grace; but, as might have been .j the warlock of coombe. expected, with no result. he stopped at last in the front room, where he and his daughter had passed so many hours together. there stood the favourite chair on which she used to sit, hard by was the harpsichord she had loved to play—everything spoke of her presence; and on the window-sill lay a handkerchief which she often wore round her neck, and which she had probably had on that very morning. the old man raised it to his lips and kissed it tenderly. "my darling, my darling," he said, "where are you, and what have they done to you?" and covering his face with his hands, he burst into tears, and, drop- ping into a large arm-chair which stood by, sobbed as if his heart would break. from this condition he was roused by dame revel, who knew well enough that there is nothing so foolish as to give way to despair if one is in trouble. most troubles which people have to endure in this life are such as will grow less heavy and become more easy to bear if they are faced with a resolute will and a firm determination to overcome them; and even if they seem at some time or other to be of such a nature as quite to overwhelm one, yet it is always best to keep up a brave heart against them, for to give way to despair shows not only a weak and feeble disposition, but is proof of a want of faith in him in whose hands are the decrees of life and death, and who never sends his creatures troubles greater than they can bear, if they seek strength from him to do so. all this dame revel knew very well, and she determined not to let her dear old master sit there doing nothing but sob and groan, when the occasion was one for queer folk. [r. earnest and instant action. so she went up to him and gave him a little push on the shoulder, such as she deemed the privilege of her long service would render excusable. "deary me, master," she then proceeded to say, "don't ye sit there crying and sobbing like a calf that's lost its mother! don't ye, now, there's a dear good man! sure-ly there's law and justice in eng- land yet, and these here old rogues .a'nt agoing to do just as they pleases, and rob and harry like this here, with never no one not to say nothing to 'em. jump up, master, and let's do summut to get miss grace back! t'aint no account sitting there, not no-ways!" the old farmer felt the full force of these remarks but the blow had been so severe and so unexpected that as yet he could hardly rally from it. he only groaned, therefore, in reply, and the old woman felt somewhat baffled in her praiseworthy attempt to rouse him to action. being, however, of a dauntless dis- position, she renewed the attack. "do ye get up, now, master. a'nt there nothing to be done? a'nt you got no one as could help ye if you was to go and ask? sure-ly the whole country would help miss grace, if they only know'd she was in trouble! why, the very dumb beasts would go for to help miss grace!" these words had the very effect which dame revel would have wished to produce, although she uttered them with no idea that such would be the result. the mention of the " dumb beasts " recalled to farmer kellatt's mind his adventure with bill martin, and the i.] the warlock of coombe. timely interference of the hares and rabbits. this train of thought naturally led him to think of the mysterious individual at whose bidding these animals had come to his assistance, and he immediately recollected the promise of aid in the hour of danger which had been made by this same being to his beloved daughter. if there was any reliance to be placed on such a promise, now was the time to put it to the test, for certainly grace had never before stood in such need of aid. as he thought over the matter, a cruel doubt of the warlock's power stole over the farmer's mind. power he had, no doubt, but bill martin and the lord of westenhanger were two widely different persons, and it did hot by any means follow that he who could so easily master the one would be able to overcome the other. the attempt, however, might be made, and in fact, circumstanced as he was, the old man felt that it would be worse than folly to neglect to make it. so the good dame had hardly finished speaking when he started to his feet so suddenly that she jumped back, caught her feet in the hearthrug, and tumbled back- wards on the floor. "i'll try it!" shouted the farmer. "i'll do it! by jove, i will!" "do it!" cried the old woman as she rose, breathless and dusty from the floor; "do it! and a pretty thing to do, knocking down an old woman that has lived in your service these forty years come michaelmas. drat the man !—what's come to him now?" farmer kellatt took no more notice of this speech than if it had never been made, and was in fact so much absorbed in his own reflections that he had never i.] the warlock of coombe. « what mischief had really,been done and what losses their master had sustained. meanwhile farmer kellatt proceeded towards the hill-side with gigantic strides, filled with anxiety as to the result of the application which he was about to make, but determined to make it forthwith, and, if need should be, to brave any and every danger in order to recover his lost darling. at the pace at which the old man went, he soon found himself at the farther end of the large barn-field, and stepped through the gate into the road from wye to stowting, which skirted the bottom of the hill. immediately before him, not fifty yards distant, was the mouth of the great chalk-pit, which, under ordinary circumstances, the farmer, and indeed anyone who knew the place and had heard of its wondrous occupant, would have approached with fear and hesitation. but the circum- stances were not ordinary at this time, and no fear had farmer'kellatt when the interests, nay, perchance the very life, of the being whom he loved best in the whole world was at stake. onward, therefore, he strode, across the road and on to the grass hill, and forward to the very mouth of the chalk-pit, before he dreamed of coming to a halt. then he stopped short, and for the first time bethought him of what might be the proper method to invoke the warlock. grace had told him that the mighty being spoke in verse, and in verse he doubtless ought to be addressed. farmer kellatt, however, was but a poor hand at versifying, and knew but little of such matters. the business, all the same, could not be delayed, and the urgency of the occasion probably quickened his inventive powers. but the only queer folk. [i. rhyme which came into his head at that moment was the favourite old song he had so often sung at the farmers' dinners, and his only chance of rhyming was to rhyme to the old tune. so after a moment's thought he took off his hat, rubbed his warm head with a red silk handkerchief he carried about him, and, as well as the breathlessness induced by his fast walking would permit, broke out into the following words, to the tune of "little dun'ee " :— "farmer of brabourne coombe i be, in terrible trouble, as you may see; for i have a daughter whose name it is grace, the pride of the farm with her lovely face. with my loddy, toddy, tol de rol loddy ti do. "now westenhanger's haughty lord has carried her off without never a word; and hither come i, sir, alas and alack; to beg for your succour in getting her back. with my loddy, toddy," &c. &c. having got through these two verses, which fully expressed both the loss which he had sustained and his object in repairing to the warlock's cave, the worthy farmer mopped his head once more and stood, hat in hand, eagerly awaiting the result. nor had he long to wait. clear and loud came an answer back, in the same voice as that which farmer kellatt had heard and welcomed in his coombe wood adventure:— "well hast thou done, good man and true, in seeking hence the proffered aid, and deeply they the deed shall rue who've dared to touch the gentle maid. for aid thou shalt not vainly call on those who can that aid bestow; and e'er mischance thy child befall, blood shall be spilt, and heads lie low. i.] the warlock of coombe. hence! farmer! haste, without delay, to mersham haste, and brabourne leese, to smeeth and sellinge wend thy way, and rouse the folk with words like these :— 'the robber baron in his den doth grace of ccombe a captive hold; rouse, commoners of kent, like men, and show yourselves as lions bold. take each his staff, and cross-bow strong, with shafts to send in hour of need; nor doubt that to assault the wrong, the man of ccombe your ranks will lead '" the farmer listened to these words with some sur- prise, and at their conclusion could not help feeling some doubt steal over him as to the efficacy of the step which he was desired to take. true it was that he was well liked and respected in the neighbourhood, and that grace was a general favourite, but it might well be doubted whether his influence or her popu- larity would be sufficient to induce the rustic popula- tion of the neighbouring villages to turn out to battle against so powerful a man as the lord of westen- hanger, especially as the chances of overcoming him in his very stronghold would be exceedingly small. therefore it was hardly surprising that farmer kellatt hesitated for a moment before setting forth on that which really appeared to him to be likely to turn out a fruitless errand. but, remembering how much was at stake, and moreover bearing in mind the wonderful power which the warlock had previously exhibited, he rapidly came to the resolution that he had better follow the advice which he had received. he was the more confirmed in this determination by the thought that if he did not do as he was told, there was really queer folk. [l nothing else that he could do against so powerful a person as him who had carried off his daughter; and if he had any lingering doubt upon the subject, it was speedily removed by the sound of the same voice repeating emphatically the following words :— "he who seeks from magic art help he cannot gain without; let him hear—and then depart— haste is golden—ruin, doubt." "thank ye kindly, worshipful sir!" cried the farmer as these words reached his ears, forgetting for the moment the supposed necessity of addressing his mysterious friend in rhyme ; and turning on his heel, he strode back to the farm quite as quickly as he had come, or, to speak the truth, rather more so, seeing that it was downhill all the way, which, to ordinary persons, especially after a certain age, is easier travel- ling than when the road lies uphill. arrived at the farm, the worthy man ordered out the same good nag on which he had ridden from ashford, for the westenhanger thieves had left him no other in the stables, and, telling old revel and his wife not to expect him again until they saw him, rode off to brabourne leese. there was in those days but a small and scattered population upon the leese, composed mostly of persons bearing but an indifferent character as regarded poaching the deer of the forest, and anything else which they could lay their hands on. as he rode up to the common, upon which stood the few straggling huts which formed the dwellings of these people, farmer kellatt turned over in his mind what precise words he should use to arouse them to l] the warlock of coombe. take up his cause, and greatly feared that they might be scattered about so as to entail some loss of time before he could collect them. but to his great astonishment, he found the whole number of able- bodied men, some twenty or more, surrounded by the women and boys of the hamlet, all gathered together before their huts, eagerly discussing some event or other which had evidently disturbed the usual tran- quillity of the place. immediately on his arrival they rushed eagerly up to the farmer and in a few words explained the mystery. not half an hour before, to their very great astonishment, a man on a coal-black steed, of enormous power and swiftness, had ridden through the leese, and in an incredibly short space of time had left at each door a scroll of parchment on which was inscribed in large red letters— "those who would shun the coward's fate, brave, as their saxon sires have been, to-morrow at the hour of eight together meet at new inn green. let every true-bom man of kent to rescue grace of coombe be bent! and fear ye not, for in your need the man of coombe your ranks will lead." this event had of course mightily excited the people, and when they had gathered from the farmer the whole history of the proceedings which had recently taken place, they were filled with indignation against the lawless baron of westenhanger, and swore solemnly to be at the trysting-place at the appointed hour, and advance to the rescue of the captured maiden. farmer kellatt needed not to remain long upon queer folk. brabourne leese: forward he spurred his good steed to the parish of smeeth, passing along the ridgway and skirting barracks wood and hatch park, and so down stock lane, away by bower farm to mersham street, and forward still further to the forstall. but everywhere he found that the same horseman had preceded him, and that he had little more to do than to explain the particulars of the case to men who were already gathered together and prepared for action, though they scarcely knew why or wherefore. so before dark the good farmer found that the country was thoroughly aroused, and that messengers had been despatched southwards to bilsington, bonington, orleston, and the men of newchurch, westwards to kingsnorth, sevington, and willesboro', eastwards to aldington and sellinge, and northwards to stowting, hastingleigh, and elmsted. little doubt, therefore, could there be that by the next morning at eight o'clock there would be such a gathering as had not been seen in that part of the world for many a long day. so tuesday night set in, and farmer kellatt, tired out with his day's exertions, found lodging at the house of a neighbour who occupied a holding called the bank farm, in the parish of aldington. to this good man he unfolded his woes, and in his house he slept, in spite of all his troubles, as soundly as his best friends could wish. the first rays of the sun, however, drove sleep from the anxious father's eyes, and both he and his host were up and about betimes. having partaken of a hearty break- fast with an appetite which never failed him, farmer kellatt walked out into the field in front of his friend's i.] the warlock of coombe. house, and ascended a small knoll on which grew a cluster of poplars. from this point an extensive and beautiful view could be commanded. immediately before him, facing southwards, lay the whole extent of romney marsh, from dungeness on the south-west to hythe on the east, whilst beyond the marsh glittered the blue waters of the channel. casting his eye to the left, far in the distance the white cliffs above dover stood out in bold relief, from which the gazer brought his eye back to beachboro' summer-house, that beacon well known to the mariners of the coast, and the pleasant country around saltwood castle and the rising village of cheriton. then glancing to the right, the great woods of bilsington and ruckinge stretched away to the south-west, and tenterden, hastings, and the distant sussex hills came into view beyond ; whilst if he turned from the marsh, the fine old tower of ashford church, the hanging woods of eastwell park, the rich meadows of the upland vale between the marsh and hatch park, the tall rookery of scott's hall, the far-off elms of horton park, all flanked by the great chalk-hills, the backbone of kent, stretching from point to point, met his eye. on that morning, however, the worthy farmer had neither time nor inclination to stand gazing on the magnificent landscape before him. it was not an ordinary view upon which he looked, and it was one upon which a lover of nature might have looked long and still stayed to look again. but, even had he been otherwise forgetful of the duty which lay immediately before him, there was something in that very view which would have recalled it to the farmer's mind. x queer folk. [i. on every side he beheld a movement going on in the wide extent of country over which he looked. small black dots scattered over the face of the map before him marked the hurrying together of men from every quarter. even the thinly populated district of rom- ney marsh seemed thoroughly aroused, and although at that date, and indeed for a very long time after- wards, extending down to very modern times in- deed, its roads were notoriously bad, they presented quite an animated appearance, small knots of men making their way across them in every direction, but all pointing to the different ascents up the hill from the marsh. the increasing light warned farmer kellatt that he had no time to lose if he would be punctual at the place of meeting. calling for his horse, there- fore, he mounted and made the best of his way back to coombe, where he summoned his men, and being assisted by several of his neighbours, found himself in a condition to proceed towards new inn green with some forty companions. true it is that they were in- differently armed. some few had cross-bows, some only sharpened sticks, and a few scythes were to be seen amongst them. but anyone who had viewed the little band, even at that day, would have thought it but scantily provided with the means of assailing a stronghold or capturing a fortified castle. farmer kellatt himself carried a small axe in his hand, which was the only serviceable weapon he could lay hands on. he certainly possessed a sword, but it was of a size so unwieldy as to be perfectly useless, and after hesitating for some time between his favourite spud for thistle destruction and the above-mentioned axe, i.] the warlock of coombe. he wisely chose the latter, and so sallied forth at the head of his friends and labourers. they marched down coombe lane, left brabourne leese on their right, and, skirting scott's hall, came into the road by sellinge church. by this time they had already been joined by divers small bodies of men, and a still larger number was now added to their band, which kept gathering strength as it marched down the road to new inn green. here, before eight o'clock, was assembled as strange a gathering of warriors as ever yet went forth to war. their arms, their clothing, their whole appearance, would have disgusted a soldier of the present time, and their cause would probably have appeared to him hopeless. but yet the right stuff was there—stout hearts, tough sinews, iron frames, and a dogged determination to succeed or perish. new inn green was not then what it is now, and as there was no inn whatever in the place, it must have been named by some one gifted with the spirit of prophecy. at the time of which i write it was only a green or common of no very large extent, on the confines of the property of the lords of westenhanger and about half a mile from their fortress. upon this green the intended rescuers of grace kellatt were assembled, and as the good farmer and his friends rode up, a loud shout of welcome greeted their arrival. nor was this at all extraordinary. whatever might have been the agency by which the throng of armed rustics had been sum- moned, it soon appeared that all of them had been informed of the cause in which their services were required, and the presence of the father of the maiden e o queer folk. [i. who had been so boldly carried off raised their en- thusiasm to its highest pitch. moreover, the mystic words which had been pronounced by the strange messenger who had borne the summons to the effect that the "man of coombe" would be there to lead their ranks, had been interpreted by the simple peasants to signify that the injured father would him- self lead them to the attack, and without considering the probability of such an event, or the fitness of the worthy farmer for the task, they at once recognized his right to be foremost in the attempt to rescue his daughter and were quite willing to follow him. so they gave him a good cheer as he rode on to the green, and crowded round him with friendly assur- ances of sympathy and support. but when farmer kellatt found that he was ex- pected to lead the band forward to the attack, he was sore bestead, for military skill he had none, and knew far more of the implements of husbandry than those of war. in this emergency, however, his good common sense did not desert him, and he felt at once that there were two courses open before him, if, as was his full intention, he proceeded to attempt the enterprise upon which he and his friends had met together. one plan was to wait a certain time longer until his already large band should be increased by the arrival of other friends, and then to surround the castle of westen- hanger, keeping at a respectful distance, and starve out its garrison by vigilantly watching every point so that no supplies might be brought in. this plan had certain advantages, and if successful would probably be attended with less risk to life and limb than a more i.] the warlock of coombe. bold attack upon the castle. but it had also great and serious drawbacks. a resolute charge of even a small body of men-at-arms might break the line of the rustic army at any moment, and the foe might escape; moreover, it was impossible to tell what supplies the robber baron might have within his walls, and the good farmer knew to his cost that there were a certain quantity of sheep and cattle there which should by rights be quietly fitting for the market in his own homestead. besides, there would be considerable delay if this plan were adopted, during which he dared not think how his grace would be treated, especially if her captors should be enraged by the attack upon their stronghold. this delay, moreover, might, and probably would, test the enthusiasm of his army, and whilst some of them would be likely to fall away and return home, it was possible that succour might come to the lord of westenhanger from some of his neigh- bours, and thus cause the failure of the enterprise altogether. the arguments, therefore, against this plan appeared so greatly to preponderate, that far- mer kellatt had but little difficulty in making up his mind that an immediate advance and attack upon the castle were by far the best means to adopt. his friends were full of ardour and enthusiasm ; the enemy was very probably unprepared; and if, as he hoped, they should be taken by surprise, the whole business might be successfully accomplished within a very short time. but he was quite at a loss how to direct the advance, and would probably have remained so had he been left to his own unassisted wits. it happened, however, that among the contingent e queer folk. which had arrived from mersham was one bridger, a noted sportsman, and one who bore the reputation of having, at some time or other of his life, "served in the wars." to this man the good farmer very wisely turned for advice, and asked his opinion as to the best method of proceeding. bridger had no difficulty in advising that, as a first step, something like order should be established in the ranks of the army, and this he proposed to effect by separating the men in some sort according to the weapons they carried. thus the few archers who carried the old english long-bow were told off together, the far larger number of cross-bow men were ranged in one body, whilst those who were armed with swords and iron-tipped stakes formed a third detachment, and the rustics who had brought a variety of strange weapons, from scythes down to sticks, were again placed by themselves. there were only some thirty horsemen among the whole number, and these were not likely to be of much service in an assault upon a fortified place, but they were marshalled on one side with farmer kellatt at their head, and were looked upon with great respect by the rest of the army. these preparations having been effected with as much expedition as possible, bridger informed farmer kellatt that, upon such an occasion as the present, it would be according to all the recognized rules of warfare if he addressed a few inspiriting words to the soldiers whom he was about to lead to victory, and earnestly exhorted him to do so. this rather flabbergasted the worthy old man, but being much pressed by his lieutenant, he took off his hat, and said in a loud voice to those around him :— i.] . the warlock of coombe. "now, chaps, this here norman robber has stolen my grace. if we don't get her back again, no man's pet lamb will henceforth be safe from this wolf. i beant much of a speaker, but an old man's blessing rest upon all that have come to help me in this cause, and let's go at it with a will." the peasants raised a hearty cheer as the old farmer spoke, and showed all eagerness to advance upon the foe. meanwhile the owner of westenhanger, little dream- ing of the storm that was about to burst upon him, had celebrated the evening of his successful foray by a jovial carouse with his friends and retainers. poor grace had been committed to the care of some female attendants, and no thoughts save those of wine and wassail reigned within the castle. the de poynings family had, as a rule, been just and wise men, bearing a high character in the county and being much respected by their neighbours of all classes. latterly, however, they had fallen off from the high standard of their ancient race, and the present baron had little to recommend him save per- sonal bravery. reckless, profligate, and extravagant, he passed an idle and useless existence, feared by his vassals, disliked by his neighbours, and respected by no man. his alliance with the smugglers of the coast was well known, and as his once large patrimony had been greatly squandered by his immoderate habits of life, he was accustomed to levy black-mail after the fashion we have witnessed. his raid upon brabourne coombe had furnished him with supplies which would keep his kitchen fire going for some little time, and he ~r ^ queer folk. [i. had no other idea than that of living at his ease while such was the case, probably cherishing the intention of extorting a handsome additional supply of food by way of ransom for grace, whenever his larder should again be empty. the baron had slept heavily after the debauch of the previous day, when he was aroused upon that wednesday morning by the tidings of the gathering on new inn green. incredulous at first that it could really be the intention of a half-armed and undisci- plined rabble to attack his castle, he no sooner collected from the reports brought in by sundry of his retainers, who had mixed with the peasants and heard their conversation, that such was really their intention, than he roused himself from his drowsy condition and sum- moned his confidential steward to his presence. this man, who was both butler and house-steward, rejoiced in the pleasant name of bundlebutts, and when sober was an invaluable assistant to his master in all his schemes. sobriety, however, was not his strong point, and there were moments, and those not unfrequent, when his propensity to imbibe good liquor stood strongly in the way of the due performance of his duties. neither he nor his master were quite so clear-headed on this particular morning as might have been the case if their evening had been passed in a somewhat different manner. nevertheless, it was so evident to both of them that something must be done, and that speedily, that they soon shook off the effects of the past night's revel, and the servant dutifully re- ceived and prepared to execute the commands of his master. the latter desired that jugs of cold water i.] the warlock of coombe. should be immediately thrown over the face and head of all the men-at-arms who were not already up and about, and that those who were already in that con- dition should be gathered in the courtyard without delay. the fortress of westenhanger covered a considerable space of ground, for, outside the moat which encircled the castle itself, thick circular walls enclosed not only the chapel, which was separate from the castle, but also a fair-sized lawn and meadow to the west of the building. in this grassy enclosure were collected those cattle and sheep which had been driven from their legitimate pastures on the previous day, and a pleasant enough place of refuge they doubtless found it, not knowing how short was the passage therefrom to the butcher's slaughter-house. the baron waited not for the assembling of all his men, of whom he had some hundred and fifty at that moment within the fortress, but, hastily descending to the courtyard, shouted loudly for his horse, and avowed his intention of riding forth at once against the peasant churls who had dared to congregate so near his abode, and indeed upon his very property. "what ho, fellows!" he cried: "bring out black diamond, and mount ye all as soon as need be. we will teach these foolish villagers a lesson they may not like, and that without delay." not many minutes elapsed before his command had been obeyed, and, at the head of some seventy horsemen, the baron rode forth from his gates in the direction of new inn green.' it was at this moment that farmer kellatt and queer folk. bridger had succeeded in getting their forces into something like order, and were about to commence an advance upon the fortress of the enemy. great was their surprise, then, to behold the retainers of the baron leaving their stronghold, and deliberately advancing upon a body of men some twenty times at least their own number. their surprise, perhaps, was not un- mingled with dread, for the well-armed and fairly mounted men who accompanied de poynings might well inspire terror in the hearts of rustics who had never faced such an enemy before. there was, how- ever, too much of the old pluck of the men of kent in the peasants to make them hesitate in the course which they ought to pursue, and as soon as they caught sight of the robber baron himself, riding at the head of his troop, they sent up a loud shout of anger and defiance, which had anything but an agreeable sound' to the ears of the westenhanger band. but de poy- nings rode boldly forward until he came within fifty yards or so of the peasants, and then raising his voice, and spurring his horse at the same time, he shouted :— "disperse, ye villains!" and charged down upon them boldly, followed by his men in somewhat irregular order. but before he had ridden ten yards farther a shower of arrows greeted him and his troop; his horse was struck by several, and as the broken ground of the common rendered it impossible to charge at full speed, he found himself at once in difficulties, which were increased when black diamond, setting his foot in a hole, rolled over and over upon the turf. the westenhanger horsemen, labouring up behind, drew rein at once when they saw the accident which "x i.] the warlock of coombe. had befallen their leader, whilst the peasants raised a loud shout, and would have rushed eagerly forward, but that they were restrained by the wily bridger, who feared that if once their close order was broken they might be ridden down and routed. the baron recovered his feet and his horse with marvellous quickness, but finding that his forces wavered, and perceiving at the same time that the right wing of the peasant army was extending itself in such a manner as would presently enable it to take his force in flank, he waved his hand to his people to retreat, and joining them as quickly as might be, rode fuming and foaming with rage in the direction of his castle. no sooner did they see that the foe was retreating, than the peasants burst into a loud and triumphant shout. it was hopeless to restrain them now, and, bursting from their ranks, they charged headlong after the retiring band. the latter would fain have turned again, but that the cross-bow men galled them sadly, and four or five had already been slain or wounded. so, deeming discretion the better part of valour, they made the best of their way towards the shelter of their walls, and entered, in some confusion, within some twenty minutes of the time of their exit. but the distance was so short that the peasant army pressed close upon them, and the large gates were scarcely shut before the rattle of the blows of the pursuers was heard upon them. the baron, somewhat crestfallen by this repulse, now for the first time began to think that he had possibly brought himself into a somewhat disagreeable position. he had, it is true, more than a hundred and queer folk. [i. fifty men under his command, most of whom would be more or less serviceable in defence of the castle. but the attackers were evidently some two thousand or thereabouts, and although the outer walls of the fortress were stout and strong, their circumference was too great to be well defended by the force at his command, and the interior of the castle was the only safe resort. he gave immediate command, therefore, to drive the sheep and cattle over the drawbridge into the courtyard of the castle itself, and to leave the outer meadow to be carried and occupied, if they would, by the invading force. accordingly, the port- cullis was raised, and the men-at-arms began to drive the cattle over the drawbridge with as much haste as possible. the castle stood at the extreme east end of the enclosure, so that the large gates into the court- yard faced directly to the west. on the eastern side there was nothing but the moat between the castle itself and the open country beyond, with which a wooden bridge, on to which opened a postern door, was the only communication. the attack of the peasant army, therefore, if they once passed the outer and western walls, would naturally be directed against that part of the castle which faced the enclosure. there was another reason also for this, in the fact that as the builders and possessors of the fortress had originally contemplated the defence of the outer walls, less care had been bestowed upon the westward de- fences of the castle itself, which would of course be safe and unmolested until the outer wall was carried. the assaulting peasants on this occasion gave the defenders but little time for the work about which i.] the warlock of coombe. i they were employed. the walls were in some places of no great height, while sundry trees which stood near were easy of ascent to the rustics, who swarmed up them and dropped on to the thick top of the walls from the overhanging branches. meanwhile others vigorously attacked the gates with axes and hatchets; and before many minutes had elapsed, being aided from inside by the scalers of the wall, they succeeded in effecting an entrance, and rushed pell-mell into the enclosed lawn. immediately before them stood the castle, the chapel on the right, and a covered passage, close against the wall, leading therefrom into the castle, so that there was a second entrance on that side besides the drawbridge over which the defenders had just entered. between the invading army and the castle were several goodly trees, and sundry bushes upon the chapel side; otherwise there was no protection from the castle, which commanded the enclosure. the farmer, as he rode in upon the lawn, saw some of the last of his sheep and cattle being driven over the drawbridge, and with a loud shout urged his men forward in pursuit. the wary bridger would have restrained him, lest he should be exposed to an arrow from a hidden enemy from within; but there was no restraint possible either for farmer kellatt or the rest of the army. elated by their first success, they rushed eagerly forward, and hurled themselves right and left against the castle with loud shouts of mingled anger and triumph. ere they had crossed the enclosure, however, the last of de poynings's men-at-arms had entered the castle, the portcullis queer folk, [i. had fallen, and the drawbridge had been raised. if, therefore, the moat had surrounded the castle entirely, it would have been difficult for the invading army to have passed that obstacle, especially as it was filled with water, of no very clean or inviting appearance. but whilst the passage from the chapel afforded a communication with the castle on the southern side, on the northern corner of the enclosure the moat had at some period or other been filled up, so as to allow of certain outbuildings and offices to be erected, joining on to the castle walls. it was evident, there- fore, that on their right or left, as they approached the castle, the most likely point of assault would be found. however, at the first outset, the peasants rushed tumultuously forward and made straight for the main entrance. up to that moment no sign had been given from the building, and nothing had been seen save the last stragglers of the garrison hurrying in over the drawbridge. but now, on the battlements of the castle suddenly appeared a man, clad in full armour, whom many of the rustics knew at once to be de poynings himself. there was an immediate silence, and as he held up his hand as if about to speak, all listened eagerly to his words. "how now, fellows!" he haughtily exclaimed in a loud voice. "whence come ye hither, and with what intent?" there was silence for an instant, and then a dozen voices cried out at once:— "grace kellatt! we want grace kellatt!" "fools and dolts!" returned the baron. "when did ye know a norman lord yield to peasant churls - l] the warlock of coombe. i such as ye are? fly whilst yet ye can, or your bodies will be food for crows before sunset!" but the stout farmer now pushed forward, and spoke out boldly :— "sir baron," he said, "thou hast robbed me of sheep and cattle, and a long day will it be befoge i make up the loss, yet will i cry quits an thou givest me back my daughter safe and sound: give her back, and these good fellows and i will trouble thee no more!" loud and scornfully laughed de poynings as he heard these words. "an thou wouldst have thy daughter back," said he, "thou must fill our larders with more food, and our coffers with red gold. i'faith, she is worth a good ransom, and they who cannot guard such treasures when they have them, must look to pay heavily ere they recover them from those who know their value." "man!" cried the farmer, in a voice hoarse with emotion, "give me my grace, and let me go!" "no gold, no grace," retorted the other; and then, in a louder and more authoritative voice, he shouted: "be off, ye villains, or your blood be upon your own heads!" at these words the peasants raised a shout of fury and indignation, which was answered by a scornful laugh from de poynings, who retired at once from the battlements, whilst at the same moment a volley of cross-bow bolts from the walls and windows of the castle struck several of the attacking army to the ground, and wounded several more. at this evidence of an intention to resist their assault and refuse the queer folk. [i. maiden's release, the peasants no longer restrained their rage, but with loud cries rushed madly upon the castle. they could, however, do but little from where they then stood. their arrows rattled harm- lessly against the walls, and the moat separated them fro#i the enemy they wished to attack, who securely poured forth his return fire against them. this con- tinued for a few minutes, until it became obvious to the leaders of the peasants that their men were not only fighting at great disadvantage, but with an almost impossibility of success, unless some change in their tactics was at once adopted. accordingly, farmer kellatt and bridger exerted themselves to the utmost, and in a short time induced their friends and followers to listen to their advice. a certain number of archers and cross-bow men were directed to shelter themselves behind the trees and bushes, and to keep up a con- tinuous fire against every living thing which showed itself on the castle walls or at the windows which overlooked the enclosure. then, the remainder of the army was divided into three parts, one of which, under the command of bridger, ably seconded by finn of mersham and robus of aldington, hurled themselves against the outhouses connected with the northern corner of the castle and enclosure, whilst a second body, who were led on by stickles of hasting- leigh and hayward of brabourne leese (two men well known to the guardians of the deer in many a neighbouring park), attempted to obtain an entrance to the castle by means of the covered passage from the chapel. meanwhile, as the horsemen could be of little use, they, with farmer kellatt at their head, and i.] the warlock of coombe. followed by a number of stragglers, retreated from the enclosure, and riding round to the eastern side of the castle, kept watch near the postern gate, for the double purpose of preventing any unexpected sally being made therefrom by the defenders of the castle, and of giving timely information to their friends in the event of any succour arriving to the beleaguered garrison. then began an assault which was, perhaps, at its beginning, one of the most extraordinary ever witnessed in england, and certainly, as will be presently seen, justified such a description at its close. the peasants threw themselves against the walls with great resolution. they hammered with their axes— they battered with such poor weapons as they had— and seizing various logs of wood which they found here and there in the enclosure, and which had been left lying there for the purpose of being converted into firewood, they raised these on their shoulders and used them as battering-rams. the walls of the outhouses before mentioned were not so strong as the walls of the castle itself, and evidently shook at every blow from these newly in- vented engines. those of the garrison who had been told off to protect this portion of the works kept up an incessant fire of arrows against the assailants, but the latter were somewhat protected by the outhouses themselves. when, however, they attempted to clamber upon the slated top of the buildings, they were more exposed, and more than one was struck by the arrows of the besieged. could they succeed in crawling to the top of the roof, where it joined the castle wall, they would be within reach of the windows queer folk. [i. immediately above, and might hope to force an entrance. but these windows were occupied by cross-bow men, who protected the roof full well, in spite of the bold attempts of their opponents. at last bridger directed some of the best archers among his followers to make these windows the special object of their attention, and so constantly and truly were their arrows directed thither, that the defenders found it no easy matter to maintain their position. the roof was presently covered with peasants swarming up it like bees, and there appeared some danger of the place being then and there carried. at this moment, how- ever, a novel diversion was effected by old bundlebutts, who, having organized a supply of water, hot and hot, from the kitchen, caused pails of the scalding fluid to be emptied in rapid succession from the battlements immediately above. the hot water cooled the ardour of the unarmed peasants to no inconsiderable degree, and in spite of the encouraging shouts of those who were behind, and who had not therefore themselves experienced the unpleasant effects of the bath to which the climbers had been exposed, they dropped off one by one, and presently retreated altogether from the roof, amid the laughter and jeers of the triumphant garrison. but at this moment an answering shout from the attacking party told that something had occurred to raise their spirits. the wall at one part of the outhouse had given way before the repeated blows inflicted upon it by the efforts of some of the peasants with the trunk of a i.] the warlock of coombe. a tree which they had found hard by. it tottered— shook again and again—and at last fell in sufficiently to make a breach, through which a number of men instantly poured, amid the cheers and shouts of their friends. their triumph, however, was speedily checked, for those who entered the breach fell tumbling head- long into a saw-pit: this particular outhouse being - one appropriated to the purpose of sawing wood for various requirements of the baron's establishment. beyond the saw-pit, however, was a door through which access to the castle was obtained, and this being shut and barred against the invaders, their destruction of the outer wall proved but a temporary success. bridger, who had been too wary to enter among the first, soon perceived how the point already gained might be turned to some advantage. the men in the outhouses were protected by the roof from the missiles hurled from the windows above, and could therefore operate securely against the walls. he at once directed the wooden battering-rams to be hauled through the breach, and prepared for a desperate attack upon the door and inner wall. all this time the attack upon the covered passage between the chapel and the castle had been resolutely going on, but under considerable disadvantages, as the attacking party were necessarily much exposed to the arrows and cross-bow bolts which the garrison showered upon them. however, after a while, but not before they had lost several of their number, the peasants broke into the passage and attacked the little gate which led to the bridge across the moat. not one of them turned back into the chapel, being f queer folk. [i. restrained by religious feeling from any desire to plunder in that direction, and knowing, moreover, that their foe was before them. the little gate gave way before their repeated blows, and they rushed hastily across the wooden bridge to attack the door beyond, protected, like their fellows on the other side of the enclosure, by the roof above their heads. but an unforeseen reverse here encountered the brave peasants. foreseeing that this was sure to be made a salient point of attack, and knowing well enough that it was the weakest part of his defences, de poynings had no sooner entered the castle than he had ordered the bridge to be sawn three parts asunder; the consequence of which naturally was, that when some dozen or so of the foremost attackers, including the redoubtable stickles, came together upon the bridge, their united weight caused it imme- diately to give way, and the unlucky men fell one upon the other into the muddy and unsavoury waters of the moat below, their fellows pressing upon them in such eager haste that for a moment it seemed as if the whole army was bent upon following the example of their leaders. at the same instant a loud laugh of scorn and derision was heard, and the robber baron himself stood forward upon the battlements, imme- diately above the passage-gate, and pointed con- temptuously to the unhappy men struggling in the moat beneath. "ha! ha!" he laughed, in a defiant and exulting tone, "is it thus ye would take our good castle of westenhanger? wallow there, ye saxon swine, and drink your fill of the good liquor i provide for such i.] the warlock of coombs. churls as ye be, for never a nearer sight shall ye have of the liquor within the walls." he spoke boldly and confidently, and there was none of those whom he addressed who could well reply; for although the water was barely deep enough to drown them, it was of so thick and nauseous a character, that those who had fallen head-foremost into it were in such a sorry condition that there was little spirit left in them. nevertheless, old stickles, who had recovered himself sufficiently to be holding on by one of the posts which supported that part of the bridge which was still standing, and had nearly cleared his mouth and throat of the unusually disagreeable fluid which he had unwillingly taken in, found voice enough to speak, and strength enough to shake his fist, at the taunting foe above. "laugh on, sir baron," he said, with a grim look upwards, "laugh on, an thou wilt; but the day is not over yet, and they laugh best who laugh last! the man of coombe is not so easy beaten, proud and reckless as be those whom thou leadest." now it can never be known whether these words were merely spoken by way of bravado, or whether stickles, being a man somewhat beyond his fellows in knowledge and intelligence, had guessed that the ■" man of coombe," who had been promised as a leader to the peasant army, was not by any means the same as good farmer kellatt, under whom they had so willingly ranged themselves. certain it is, however, that the words were spoken, and that this had hardly been the case before a series of events, not only totally unexpected by both parties, but most extraordinary in themselves, immediately occurred. f queer folk. [l a bright flash of lightning suddenly illuminated the whole place, then followed a most tremendous roll of thunder, and almost simultaneously the castle seemed to vibrate as if with the shock of an earthquake: and into the enclosure there rode, over the gates, which fell to the ground as if smitten by some mighty and irre- sistible force, a single horseman, whom all the peasants recognized at once as the same who had summoned them from their different parishes to join in the pre- sent enterprise. he was clad from head to foot in black armour, save, that a scarf of white crossed his broad chest, and a long white beard fell over his breast; his steed was also of jet black; and his whole appearance denoted great strength. forward he rode—straight forward—across the enclosure, and reined in his steed immediately opposite the front entrance. at the sight of this new comer hostilities were suspended by common consent for a moment, and a solemn silence prevailed among the contending par- ties, which was presently broken by the clear, loud voice of the stranger pronouncing these words— "should englishmen, on english soil, their neighbours' hearths and homes despoil? restore, bold lord, thy captured prey, and evil yet may pass away: resist—and thou shalt feel the might of powers which can protect the right!" he spoke—and both sides paused in wondering expectation as to what the answer might be. they were not long left in doubt. de poynings wanted -i.] the warlock of coombe. not for courage, and the presence of a single stranger, however imposing might be his appearance, was little likely to daunt the proud baron. "ha!" he cried, "by the sword of my grandfather, what malapert knave have we here?" and raising ,' his voice still louder, he scornfully answered in the following terms— "turn hence thy steed, ill-mannered dolt, or, be thou peasant, squire, or peer, by virtue of a cross-bow bolt i'll try thy right to interfere!" and, suiting the action to the word, he snatched a cross-bow from the nearest man-at-arms, levelled it at the stranger, and pulled the trigger with a true aim. marvellous to relate, the stout bow snapped in twain as he pulled, and the bolt fell harmless at his own feet, whilst he against whom it had been aimed, sitting erect in his saddle, calmly waved his hand, and lifting his voice again, so that it was heard far and near, uttered these words— "sons of coombe! 'gainst lawless might, succour! and protect the right!" the words were hardly out of his mouth before the air was darkened by an enormous flight of jackdaws and starlings, who without the slightest hesitation or fear descended from all sides upon the castle, screaming, flapping their wings and attacking the garrison with beak and claw. such an extraordinary sight had probably never before been witnessed. ■• queer folk. [i. the men vainly endeavoured to drive the birds away, hitting wildly right and left, and shouting loudly at the same time. the feathered enemy was in such numbers that it was impossible to evade their attack,, and all the efforts of the defenders of the castle could not drive them away, whilst the air was filled with their noise. at the same time, encouraged by this diversion,, the peasant army rallied on all sides, and redoubled their efforts to force their way into the castle. those who had attempted an entrance by the covered passage had by this time thrown planks and branches across the chasm caused by the sawing of the bridge • some of those who had fallen into the moat, headed by the resolute stickles, had clambered up on that part of the bridge nearest the castle, and in a few moments were thundering at the passage door with a determination whish seemed likely ere long to over- come the obstacle to their progress. on the other side, also, the door communicating between the saw- pit lodge and the castle began to give way, and the defenders of the castle began to perceive that in the space of a few minutes an enemy far superior to- themselves in number would be within the castle, whilst to continue the defence from the battlements was next to impossible, since they were positively overwhelmed by the wonderful and pertinacious attack of their feathered foes. de poynings literally foamed with rage, but, being wise enough to see that the day was likely to go against him, determined not to be taken by the peasants like a rat in a trap, but rather to retreat queer folk. [i. he found the maiden standing by the closely barred casement and gazing forth upon the scene before her with wonder and affright. she could hear the noise of the battle which was raging on the other side, and could see the horsemen and stragglers of the peasant army patrolling in front of that side of the castle from which she looked down ; but what was the meaning of the affair she could not guess, being of far too modest a disposition to imagine for a moment that it was on her account that men were engaged in deadly combat. as de poynings entered the room she turned round, and seeing her captor before her, clasped her hands in earnest entreaty, and thus addressed him :— "oh tell me, noble sir, whence this outcry, and what means this noise of men in anger? it is all so dif- ferent from my old, quiet home life—pray let me go back again, and detain me here no longer!" de poynings gnashed his teeth as he answered her, with some bitterness in his tones: "know'st thou not the cause of this hubbub and turmoil? it is thee, sweetheart, whom thy father and his peasant friends are seeking, and they think to brave the power of the de poynings, and to storm his castle. ere they shall do so, however, helped though they be, as i verily be- lieve, by the demon himself, they shall find they have hard nuts to crack, and when the nut is cracked, the kernel shall be gone withal. come thou with me, pretty one; we of norman blood lose not so easily our hold on what we value, and i yield to none the prize that has already cost me so dear." so saying, he approached grace, who shrank affrighted into the embrasure of the window, and in pitiful tones queer folk. [i. father rose above every other sensation in his breast; his child, his darling, the light and life of his old age, was in danger, and though there had been ten armed barons instead of one, he would have freely attacked them at that moment. "villain lord !" he cried aloud as he bore down upon the foe, "thou fiiest no farther this way! yield up the maiden, or die in thy craven flight!" de poynings smiled grimly, as, holding grace on the saddle with his left arm, the hand of which grasped the bridle, he raised his well-tried, light battle-axe in his right, and prepared to meet his opponent. "i yield no maiden," he said sternly, "and he who seeks to check my course courts his own fate." so saying he raised his axe, and in another moment a blow would have been given and taken on either side, with a result which could hardly have been doubtful, as the superior skill and strength of the baron would have in all pro- bability prevailed with ease over the unwieldy weapon and untrained bravery of the farmer. but at that instant, when the horse of farmer kellatt was barely ten yards from the other, a hand was suddenly laid upon his rein, which caused the good steed to stop short, as if he had been shot, whilst another form was at the same moment interposed between the two combatants. it was the form of the black horseman, and so fierce and terrible was his aspect, that the horsemen around instinctively drew back on either side, and even de poynings himself quailed before the eagle glance that met his own. he reined in his war-horse, who tossed up his head, trembled all over, and snorted as with fear. i.] the warlock of coombe. but the heart of his master was too bold to be long sub- ject to the momentary dread which had possessed it. "who art thou," cried the baron, "who comest a second time between me and victory? man or demon, de poynings fears thee not, nor canst thou chill the old norman blood by thy juggling tricks!" the stranger sat on his steed immoveable as a statue whilst these words were addressed to him, and then replied in his cold, clear, distinct voice— "man of war, devoid of shame, disgrace alike to blood and name; one moment pause—and hear the doom, foretold thee by the man of coombe: thy crimes have done thy house away, henceforth it falleth to decay: woe for the good lords gone! alas! both name and lineage must pass—■ another in their place shall stand, another lord shall rule thy land— and westenhanger's ancient place no more shall own de poynings' race!" he spoke, and as he foretold the decay and ruin of the ancient family whose unworthy representative stood before him, the baron felt an unusual feeling of awe steal overjiim, which unnerved his arm and deprived him of his accustomed daring. insensibly he loosened his hold upon grace, and the maiden, who had recovered consciousness during the recent pause, took advantage of this action to slip from the saddle to the ground and tremblingly make her way to her father's side. at that moment the clamour from behind grew louder and louder, and tremendous shouts from the peasants told in unmistakeable accents s queer folk. [i. that the castle was won. de poynings cast a look behind, and the last thing he saw was the faithful bundlebutts struggling manfully with a host of enemies in a window just above the moat, into which he pre- sently tumbled, dragging with him one of his assailants, his hold of whom nothing could make him relinquish. de poynings was loth to leave his old servant behind, and still more furious at having lost the prize for which he had endured so much; but there was a spell upon him which he could not resist. but the black horseman now drew quietly aside, and pointing in the direction of hythe, spoke once more :— "hence! caitiff baron, in the strife defeated, yet mayst save thy life. fly—tarry not—nor look behind, but bear the words of fate in mind." this speech still further added to the rage which burned within the baron's heart. overcoming his terror of the supernatural, and determined not to belie the courage of his race, he wielded his battle-axe on high, and shouting aloud, "a de poynings !—a de poynings!" rushed upon the black horseman and aimed at him a terrible blow. but the other stretched out his hand, in which was apparently only an ordinary stick of holly, upon which he received the blow. wonderful to relate, the good battle-axe shivered to atoms, and fell to the ground between the two, whilst the stranger, with a stroke which seemed marvellously light and gentle to those who were looking on, hurled the baron from his horse with such violence that he lay as one dead upon the ground. his followers queer folk. [i. their equipment, and the certainty that there was little but hard knocks to be gained from them, soon damped the spirits of the peasants, who came hurrying back to the castle after a very short pursuit. during the scenes which have been described, it will not be difficult to imagine what had become of farmer kellatt and his daughter. the good man had jumped off his horse with an agility beyond his years when he saw his daughter's escape from the custody of de poynings. she, poor child, had thrown herself into her father's arms, and lay sobbing for very joy; and so, somehow or other, they passed several minutes of time, during which occurred the events which i have related. then it was that, aroused by the returning peasants and by the inquiries and con- gratulations addressed to him on all sides, farmer kellatt bethought him of the mighty succour which had been given to his cause by the black horseman, and turned to give his warm and hearty thanks where they were so well deserved. but the black horseman was nowhere to be seen. he had disappeared as quickly and mysteriously as he had come. no one remembered to have noticed him going, though every- one was sure they had seen him not five minutes before. gone, however, he certainly was, and, what was equally to be remarked, since the walls had yielded to the assaults of the peasant army not a jackdaw or starling had been seen about the place. it now became the duty of the farmer and his friends to decide what should be done with the castle which they had captured. the cattle, sheep, and horses which were found within the courtyard were justly i.] the warlock of coombe. considered the property of the victors, and the worthy farmer recovered much of his lost possessions, though he would not lay a finger upon anything else. the rest, therefore, were divided among the victorious peasants, who had also taken what plunder they could from the castle, although the baron's habits were such that his abode contained no great quantity of valuable goods. as for the garrison, who had yielded without much resistance after their master's flight from the castle had become known to them, they were suffered to depart where they would, though of course a cer- tain number of them, as well as of the successful party, had suffered in the combat, and a few on either side had been slain. but as for the castle itself, after a short consultation, the leaders of the victorious army decided that the best thing they could do was to leave it alone. if they had destroyed it, as was sug- gested by some of the more reckless and excited among them, it was not impossible that the anger of certain of the neighbouring landowners might have been kindled at that which would have been considered an offence against their order, whilst they would pro- bably view with a lenient eye an expedition strictly confined to the recovery of stolen property and the rescue of a captured daughter. so they wisely left the castle as it was, with a breach or two in its old walls, and a greater need of general repair than it had in the morning; and before the sun set that day, the peasant army had melted away and the men had dispersed to their several homes. before they left new inn green, however, farmer kellatt rode amongst them, thanking them in brief but kindly and hearty queer folk. [i. terms for the aid which they had afforded him, and his, during their great trial and sorrow. the honest fellows received his thanks with friendly cordiality, and eagerly pressed forward to shake grace by the hand, and congratulate her upon her safe restoration to her father and her home. and so ended this great day, the close of which saw farmer kellatt and his daughter once more re-enter their own homestead in peace and safety. the delight of old mrs. revel may be better ima- gined than described. she shook grace by the hand as if she would have wrung her arm off. she slapped her husband on the back until he coughed again with the violence of her affection. she expressed an earnest wish that she could set her ten commandments in the wicked baron's face. she scolded the maids with lively and assiduous zeal, and talked nineteen to the dozen for the rest of the evening, and probably finished by talking herself to sleep at last for very joy. everybody was glad to get grace back, and she herself was as delighted and as thankful as she could possibly be. now, indeed, it all seemed like a dream, so quickly had events passed since the moment when de poynings and his followers first rode into the farmyard, and so short did those long hours of watching and trembling, of waiting and fearing, now appear, though they had seemed endless whilst she was actually enduring them in the castle of westenhanger. but amidst their great joy at the successful issue of the business which had at one time threatened such sorrow and misery, neither the farmer nor his daughter . i.] the warlock of coombe. l for a moment forgot the quarter from whence they had received succour in their hour of need. in the extraordinary quickness with which the news had been carried far and wide, and the peasants aroused; in the strange flight of jackdaws and starlings; and more than all, in the presence of the wondrous black horseman, they recognized the mighty hand of the warlock, and doubted not indeed that the overthrower of the haughty de poynings was none other than the warlock himself. on the very next morning, there- fore, both father and daughter resolved to go together to the great chalk-pit, and to return their hearty thanks to the good friend who had served them so well. willingly would they have taken presents in their hands, but that their previous experience had shown them that the mysterious being with whom they had to deal needed no mortal gifts. so without anything of the kind, but with light steps and grateful hearts, they sought the abode of their benefactor. when they had arrived at the entrance, grace, at the desire of her father, spoke first, after the usual rhyming fashion :— "accept, we pray, the thanks of grateful folk for timely succour in our hour of woe, for fate had surely dealt a cruel stroke, had not thy goodness turned aside the blow. saved by thy might from misery and shame, we gladly would our gratitude display; if 'tis not possible, yet all the same we feel it, mighty being, every day." she ceased speaking, and in a few moments came back the answer in the usual voice :— g queer folk. [t. "to succour beauty and to quell the wrong is ever the first duty of the strong; nor need i gratitude for might displayed 'gainst theft and violence in arms arrayed. now on my words bestow attentive heed, seek me no more, unless in urgent need. whence, who, or what i am, i may not show, 'tis not for mortal cognizance to know: for, wondrous though it seem to pride of men, things may and do exist beyond their ken; and though my might henceforth may yet be shown, beware of seeking what may not be known!" then the speaker stopped, and left grace and her father tolerably certain that it was very little use to attempt any further to show their gratitude to the occupant of the great chalk-pit. after a short pause, therefore, they determined at once to retrace their steps to the farm, but not before grace, who could not bear to leave so good a friend without one word at parting, mustered up courage to speak once more,, which she did accordingly, in these words:— "since gratitude we cannot prove, we will not venture to rebel: thou shalt be cherished in our love, so, mighty friend, we bid farewell." she spoke, and it seemed as if the echo from the hills repeated her last word. "farewell, farewell, farewell," softly and yet more softly uttered, fell upon the ears of the father and daughter, and then all was silence again, and after a moment's pause they turned homewards. from that day forth the wise man of coombe was queer folk. [l became a still more popular companion at the mar- ket dinners, and was often called upon to relate (which he did with much legitimate embellishment) the particulars of the siege of westenhanger. of course, everybody will want to know what be- came of grace. well, what would have been the happiest fate that could have befallen her? would it have been better for her to have stayed all her life with her old father, as long as his life lasted, and then have managed the farm all alone, as an active and intelligent woman might have done, with the help of old revel? or, would it have been a happier fate to have married some stalwart young farmer whose household she would have managed, whose home she would have cheered, and whose heart would have seen all her own? or, would it have been more desirable that, struck with the vanity of this world and its pleasures, she should have sought refuge in a nunnery and passed the rest of her life in quiet n seclusion? let everybody who reads this story settle what fate would have been the happiest for grace, and then feel assured that such was exactly the fate which did befall her. for, to tell you the truth, i am as ignorant of her real fate as any of you. the whole story was told to me by a very old magpie in coombe rough, as i was sitting under one of the oak trees there, waiting for the gamekeepers. the bird was friendly enough with me, and chattered so fast that i had the greatest difficulty in taking notes of the story he told. but just as he got to that part, and would doubtless have told me all that happened to sweet grace after the adventures of which i have told you, i.] the warlock of coombe. one of the keepers came in sight, upon which my feathered friend muttered something about "two birds in the bush being better than one in the hand " (which i believe to be the bird rendering of an old proverb which we men read somewhat differently) and imme- diately mounted very high in the air and flew quite away, leaving me ignorant of the details which i so much wished to know. but grace was so good, and nice, and pretty into the bargain, that i feel quite certain she had a happy life, and so i am not so dis- appointed as might otherwise have been the case. there are other stories about the warlock of coombe, but i have told you all that the magpie told me that day. coombe wood is not now half the size it was in those old days, and coombe rough is quite separated from it, several green fields inter- vening between the two. and for many, many years, the great chalk-pit has been quite open, with no brambles or bushes near it, and the hill above it is clear also, the only remnants of the old tangled side- hill being found in the numerous thorn-trees with which it is still studded. no warlock has, i believe been seen there for several generations, although it would be too much to say that there have not been many "wise men" in brabourne at all times, and probably even in the present day some may be left. when, how, and where the warlock disappeared, i am quite unable to tell you, but if you wish to know all the particulars, you have only to learn the magpie language, and as these birds are well-informed upon all such matters, and are rare hands at old tales and queer folk. legends, i do not doubt for a moment that you will be able to find out all about it. but, of course, as far as i am concerned, i can only tell you as much as i know, and having faithfully done so, i must bring to a close my veracious history concerning the once- famous warlock of coombe. ii. the witch of ballaquoich. bessie and mary wilson were exceedingly delighted when they were told that their parents had taken a place in scotland for three months from the ist of august, and that the whole family would start for the north so as to arrive at the aforesaid place by the date mentioned. to boys and girls, and, indeed, to grown-up people who have never been there, the name of scotland is one of magic interest. mountains covered with heather, beautiful lakes in wild glens, magnificent waterfalls, rapid torrents, and high crags towering up in solemn, silent grandeur towards the heavens above—such are the visions which flit before the eyes of the romantically-inclined young lady who hears that she is to be taken to scotland; whilst the more prosaic school-boy already begins to dream of moors alive with grouse, of pools teeming with sal- mon, and of the variety of wild game which fortune may bring within the range of the sportsman's gun. to bessie and mary everything would be new. their home was in the far south, and they were more queer folk. [ii. accustomed to rich corn-fields and fertile meadows than to the barren lands and wild scenery which they were now to visit. the prospect before them, however, was most delightful. ballaquoich (for so was the place called which mr. wilson had taken) was situated in the western highlands, and was reported to be beautiful beyond description. moreover, the pleasure of the first half of their visit would be enhanced by the presence of their eton brother, jack, and great was the fun which they anticipated in exploring the neighbourhood with that adventurous young gentleman. little joe, the youngest of the four children who completed the wilson family, would be with them also, so that altogether the coming expedition bore a comfort- able appearance and fairly gave rise to very happy expectations. like everything else in this world, there were of course some drawbacks in the reality. the journey was tedious, there being no railway within many miles. then there turned out to be little or no game to shoot, the salmon in the loch resolutely refused to bite, and the amount of wet weather was considerable. still, nobody could deny that the place was beautiful and the scenery charming. if the salmon were ob- stinate, there were sea-trout in abundance, ready to rise, and excellent when caught; there was an occa- sional cormorant, a wild duck or a heron for jack, and, failing these, plenty of rooks at which he might practise with his gun. moreover, the neighbourhood had been chosen by sir walter scott as the scene of one of his novels, and mrs. wilson had brought with ii.] the witch of ballaquoich. . her all the aforesaid novels which relate to scotland, well knowing how much the pleasure of reading a book is enhanced by being present in the very scenes in which the plot of the story has been laid. so that, indoors and outdoors, the young wilsons found amusement of one kind or another, and week after week slipped pleasantly away, until the reassembling of eton recalled jack to england and broke up the family party. then it was that those adventures occurred which will form the subject of my present story. i should tell you that the house of ballaquoich was situated close to the edge of a beautiful large fresh- water loch, which was fed by many torrents from the mountains around. but the principal "feeder" was a broad channel of water which stretched from the head of the loch far away up the valley towards the moun- tains from which it sprang. this stream was known in the neighbourhood by the name of " the canal," though nature and not art had formed it as it was. it was a won- derful place. for a mile or more it was wide enough for several boats to travel side by side, and it was a delight of almost daily occurrence for the wilson children to be rowed up it. the water was so clear, though deep, that they could see the fish lying at the bottom, or shooting about in shoals as they were disturbed by the passage of the boat. on each side a thick belt of trees fringed the water, and hung over it with pro- tecting shade—as the boat passed up the channel, a duck would suddenly rise from her hiding-place in, some quiet pool by the side, or a heron would spring from the bank, and even now and then an otter might ^o queer folk. [n. be seen to dart from his lair into the water, which the children would anxiously watch for the reappearance of his round head and sharp eyes. after rowing a certain distance the stream became narrower, and so overhung by trees as to be hardly navigable. just before this part, however, the boat could be pushed through a narrow passage to the left, where the chan- nel turned. under the branches of an overhanging tree which reached from one shore to the other, a little care, and in times of torrent not a little exer- tion, enabled the man in charge of the boat to guide her through this opening into a broader channel beyond, much of the same character, though scarcely so wide, for some fifty or sixty yards, during which distance a little steering was required to keep in deep water and avoid the sandbank, over which at one spot no boat could pass. then, emerging from the trees, the boat came out into an open space, where the stream surrounded a piece of pasture land on three sides, the fourth being a swamp of reeds and rushes, the home of ducks and snipe in abundance, and a favourite place of resort for jack and his father, who designated it by the familiar title of "the duck place." having accomplished this, the stream wound away again back to the right, keeping its character for some distance, until it became narrower and nar- rower, and was finally lost among the hills, though not before it afforded to the fisherman some splendid pools for salmon and trout, and to the lover of nature some glorious torrents, adding much to the beauty of the mountain scenery. all this time, however, i am running away from ii.] the witch of ballaquoich. the house, which, as i told you, was close to the loch. in fact, opposite the front door, just across the carriage drive, was a flight of wooden steps, down which you scrambled on to a piece of rough grass which only extreme courtesy could call a lawn, and which sloped down to the loch within twenty yards. as you stood in front of the house, the view across the loch, with the moor and mountains beyond, and away to the left, was magnificent. then just behind the house was the road which passed up the valley, from which immediately rose the mountains, which at that point, and for miles each way, were covered with woods thick with fern, of which roedeer and hares were the chief occupants, and which were steep enough to try the wind and limbs of the stoutest pedestrian. but look to the right and the scene was different. the valley widened, and the stream from the loch, the width and depth of which would not allow the passage of a boat, hurried off towards the sea. in its journey it formed two well-known salmon pools, a mile or more from the loch, and to drag these was a source of great delight to the children, although the result was not always encouraging. then after another mile or so the stream flowed into a large salt-water loch, the scene of many a joyous hour to the wilson chil- dren. the only other family who lived in the glen of ballaquoich, excepting the cottagers, soon made acquaintance with the wilsons, and a valuable ac- quaintance they proved, suggesting picnics in the woods by the salt loch, and frequent excursions upon the latter in a large sailing-boat which they them- selves had launched. queer folk. fii. the dempsters were, indeed, great in the arts of picnics and fishing, and the eldest son, john, was much given to the latter amusement. the patience and kindness, moreover, which he showed in baiting the children's hooks and assisting them in their flounder-fishing, were really marvellous. oh, that flounder-fishing! what fun it was! the whole party would go out together, and half-a-dozen lines used to be in the water at once, from different parts of the boat. the plan was to let your line touch the bottom and then just raise it a couple of inches, and if the flounders were in biting humour, you might sometimes pull them up one after the other, and not unfrequently one on each of the two hooks which were always attached to each line. then there was fishing for lythe, codlings, and whitings also, for which the smaller boat was usually rowed out into "the narrows," between the inner salt loch and that wider expanse which joined the sea. so that, in spite of the game being very scarce, the- wilsons managed to amuse themselves pretty well, and established some not unpleasant memories to look back upon. scotland, however, with all its advantages of wild scenery and healthy air, has, as is well known, its own peculiarities. in that country, beyond any other northern land, the art of magic still prevails, and witches and warlocks have preserved a power which has been successfully wrested from them in the greater number of civilized countries. it may be true, that railroads, steamers, improved agriculture, and com- mercial progress may have rendered the south of ii.] the witch of ballaquoich. scotland as commonplace and prosaic as an ordinary english county, and that witchcraft has been banished from that part of the kingdom; but if so, i am in- clined to believe that it has sought refuge in the glens and fastnesses of the north, and especially of the wild west, and perhaps clings with greater pertinacity to these parts of the beautiful country in consequence of having been driven from the other. be this as it may, ballaquoich had long borne an evil reputation, and the events which i have to relate will doubtless do much to sustain it. after jack's return to eton, bessie and mary felt occasionally somewhat dull, which was perhaps hardly surprising. they amused themselves, however, as well as they were able, and were always delighted when any plan was proposed for going in the boat on the salt loch, which was a favourite amusement. one fine day such a plan had been arranged, and several of the party started early in the afternoon for the spot where the boat was moored. somehow or other the fishing was not very successful, and it was determined to go through " the narrows" for a sail in the larger sheet of water beyond. bessie and mary, however, petitioned that they might be put on shore during the sail, and amuse themselves by playing on the rocks, and in the wood and fern, which stretched down to the water's edge. their request was readily granted, one of the gentle- men rowed them off in the little boat, and landed them safely at a point where more than one pleasant picnic had been held since their stay in the neighbourhood. here there was a small space between the water and queer folk. [n. the wood, strewn with small fragments of rock, and a grassy beach stretched for a short distance right and left, terminating in large rocks jutting out into the loch. at the foot of these rocks were abundance of mussel fish, and a bed of oysters also flourished close to the spot. overhead, the woods on the hill afforded a pleasant shade, and the whole scenery around was as wild and beautiful as can well be imagined. the little girls sprang on shore and stood still for a minute or two watching the ripple on the water as the boat slowly rowed away. then they began to look for mussels, and when they were tired of that amusement they clambered up a little way on the mountain and sat down under a tree. not long, however, did they remain there, but descending again came down to the edge of the water near one of the large rocks. all of a sudden they perceived that they were no longer alone. a few paces from them stood an old woman, looking at them, as they fancied, with a strange ex- pression of countenance. bent nearly double with age and infirmity, she supported her trembling steps with a staff which was curiously curled like a ram's horn, and on this she leant as she peered forward eagerly upon the children. she had upon her head a large coloured handkerchief or shawl twisted into a shape something like that of a turban, whilst a red cloak covered her aged shoulders. as soon as she saw that her presence had been ob- served, she croaked out in a tremulous voice, "good- day to ye, my little dears, good-day to your bonnie faces, it does my old heart good to see them." now bessie, who was twelve years old, and had of h.] the witch of ballaquoich. : course read and heard a good deal about the various strange things which occasionally happen in this world of ours, had no sooner cast eyes upon the b eing before her than she imagined that all was not right. she remembered to have heard, moreover, that witches— to which class she suspected the old woman to belong —had no power to harm anyone who refused to answer or speak to them, and that the best and only safe method to pursue, when you happen to fall in with such unpleasant creatures, is to go on your way with- out taking any notice of them whatever. therefore, although her natural civility would have inclined her to reply to the address of the person who spoke, she remained resolutely silent, and seizing her sister's hand, began to drag her away in another direction. but mary, though small in stature, had a large will of her own, and saw no reason for alarm or fright. less well-informed than her sister, she little dreamed that the red cloak which hung on the aged shoulders before her covered the person of the most noted witch of those parts, and that danger lurked beneath the soft and honied words which fell upon her ears. but although she stood still, she spoke not, and the old woman, hobbling a step or two nearer to the children, again addressed them, singling out mary especially as the object of her remarks. "why, my pretty little dear," she said, " have you never a kindly word to say to an old body? how fresh and well you look, to be sure! i can tell you where the best mussels grow, and show you many fine things about the loch and the woods. would ye like to come and see where the roedeer hide?" queer folk. [n. now whilst jack had been at ballaquoich he had shot two roedeer, and these animals still continued to be objects of attraction to his sisters, so as soon as mary heard these words she answered at once:— "oh yes, i should like to see a roedeer close. do let us come, bessie." as soon as the child had spoken, a light of mali- cious joy spread over the face of the old witch, and stepping forward, she laid a hand on mary's arm. "come along with me, come along, my minnikin," she said, and drew the child to her at once. as soon as bessie saw this, she forgot all about not speaking, and called out loudly :— "oh, don't hurt her! please, don't hurt her!" the old woman instantly turned round with a grim smile, tucked her crutch cleverly under her arm, and laid her other hand upon bessie, saying at the same time:— "hurt her, my winsome lassie! no, nor you -either; but now ye shall both see the fine things i have to show." with these words she walked, or rather scrambled, towards the large rock near to which they had been standing, dragging the two little girls, who found themselves, against their will, compelled by some power stronger than themselves to accompany their captor. presently the old woman stopped opposite the rock, and leaving hold of the children, lifted her crutch and struck the rock sharply with it, pronounc- ing at the same time the words following:— "alibabantimanbabblebybee, open the door for my chickens and me." ii.] the witch of ballaquoich. as soon as the old witch had spoken, a hidden door within the rock, or rather a part of the rock itself, as it seemed to the little girls, flew suddenly open, and disclosed a wide passage, into which the witch and her captives entered, and the rock imme- diately closed behind them just as it was before. the waters of the loch still rippled softly before the light breeze that crept up from the sea; the trees gently shook their leaves under the same pleasant influence: the sun shone down upon the rocky shore and the mountain sheep grazing peacefully on the hill-side. but the wind and the trees and the sun were not felt nor seen by the two children, who had passed away from the outer world of sight and sound, and were buried deep within the recesses of that frowning rock, where no friendly eye could see and no helping arm could reach them. and there we must leave the little girls, for a time at least, and imagine, if we can, the consternation of their friends when they re- turned to the shore and found them not. it was not long after their disappearance that the boat was sent to fetch them. john dempster and their father called their names loudly, and thought at first that they must have hidden among the fern in the woods. this idea, however, was soon dispelled, and gave way to a fear that they might have fallen into the water. but, on further consideration, this seemed very unlikely, the loch being too shallow, close to the shore, for any danger of the kind, and the children being old enough to take care of themselves. then came the thought, the hope, that, tired of play- ing, they might have scrambled up into the road, h queer folk. [il which ran through the woods some hundred yards above the loch, and begun to walk towards home. when this suggestion also proved incorrect, the dread of their having been stolen began to creep over the minds of their friends. still, it was a curious and unlikely thing that anyone should be either willing or able to steal two children of the ages of twelve and ten, and it could hardly have been accomplished without something being heard about it. of course, nobody ever dreamed that a witch could be concerned in the matter, for none of the party really believed that there were any such beings as witches left, or at least not those kind of witches who walk with crutches and run away with little girls. so mr. wilson and his friends set on foot a search, high and low, in every place which they could imagine, except the right one, and naturally found no trace whatever of the lost ones. grief reigned at ballaquoich, and the holiday season was turned into a time of mourning. two things, however, remained to be done, and these mr. wilson decided upon doing directly. the first was to adver- tise in the newspapers; the second, to telegraph for jack, not so much in the hope or expectation that he could be of any use, as for the satisfaction of having him there, and to console the boy himself, who would be miserable at being so far away during this family trouble. having been informed that an advertise- ment in rhyme would be more likely to attract public attention, mr. wilson determined to attempt this new method, and accordingly the following notice appeared in the local newspapers, and was doubtless received with some surprise as well as interest:— ii.] the witch of ballaquoich. "lost—stolen, or strayed— (we're greatly afraid 'tis a question of stealing—not straying)— from balkquoich glen two girls—twelve and ten— on the shores of the loch who were playing.— the first of the same responds to the name of bessie—both tall and fair; rather dark, mary, the next.— whose loss has perplext their sorrowing mother and father. whoever brings home these maidens who roam away from their friends, and unguarded, safe, sound, and unhurt (tho' covered with dirt), that man shall be freely rewarded!" this advertisement, though one of a rare and touch- ing character, produced no satisfactory effect, although several extremely dirty children, in no way corre- sponding to their own, were brought on speculation to the glen, only to increase the sorrow of the relations of the two girls. the other step which mr. wilson took brought jack with very little delay. he was somewhat frightened at the telegram, which briefly told him that his sisters had disappeared, and that he must come back to ballaquoich at once. but nothing frightens a fifth- form eton boy for long, so, although jack was very sorry to hear the news, he soon plucked up courage, and having obtained the necessary leave from his tutor and the head master, determined to bear with as much fortitude as he could this interruption of his school work, and, getting into the train, started off for scotland with as little delay as possible. h queer folk. [h. as might have been expected, he found things at ballaquoich in as melancholy a condition as possible. his father had eaten nothing but meat, bread, butter, and vegetables since the loss of his daughters: his poor mother had been late for breakfast every morn- ing, and his small brother joe had evinced a desire to shirk his lessons, which could only be attributed to the effects of grief. jack's arrival was hailed with joy by all the suffering family, and the story of the expedition upon the loch and the disappearance of bessie and mary was told him by each one of them, until he knew exactly what had happened and under- stood the precise nature of the affliction which had fallen upon his home. being of a warm and affec- tionate disposition, jack felt deeply the loss of his sisters, and all the more so from the uncertainty which surrounded the subject. it would have been some satisfaction, though one of a melancholy character, to know for certain that they were either drowned, stolen, or devoured; but that their fate should be shrouded in such deep and impenetrable mystery was a most uncomfortable and distressing circumstance. jack pondered long over all that he had heard, and employed his first morning in a thorough search of the locality in which the children had last been seen. this search was, however, perfectly unavailing, and in the afternoon of the same day the boy wandered off up the glen, in a direction directly opposite from that of the salt loch. about a mile and a half from ballaquoich house there stood by the roadside, on the right hand as you walked up the glen, a lone cottage, rudely built, «.] the witch of ballaquoich. lor ill ventilated, badly lighted; and which, if you were a stranger attempting to enter it, possessed the disad- vantage of having a doorway so low that you probably knocked your head violently as you did so, and having succeeded, found yourself immediately half stifled with peat-smoke, the escape of which the ab- sence of any chimney rendered difficult, and which, therefore, hung about the interior of the building in a dense body, alike unpleasant to the eyes and throats of ordinary mortals. in this abode dwelt a venerable man, who for many years had carried on the trade of a trapper of vermin upon the estate of ballaquoich. the old "brocker," as he was called (from the "brocks," i.e. badgers and foxes, to destroy which was his trade, legitimate fox- hunting being an impossible pursuit in that country), was a man well known to all the people in those parts. although the weight of many years was upon his shoulders, his activity was surprising, and he still shamed younger men by the manner in which he climbed the mountains when guiding sportsmen over the moors, and scaled the highest rocks in search of the wily ptarmigan. it was with this man that jack had struck up a sort of friendship during the holidays, and had obtained much information upon sporting matters and the habits of the heather game. towards the cottage of the brocker, then, he wended his way upon this afternoon, in the hope of hearing the old man's opinion upon the question which occupied all his thoughts at that moment. it so happened, however, that the brocker was absent, as people not unfrequently w queer folk. [n. are when they happen to be particularly wanted. so jack lingered for a few moments by the cottage, nearly opposite which was a space of flat ground from which the trees had been somewhat cleared, and upon which stood another cottage, directly behind which the ground rose again, and in fact the wood surrounded it at a short distance on either side. jack was looking at this cottage, with no very par- ticular idea why he did so, when his attention was suddenly attracted to the figure of an aged female which appeared at the door, clad in the ordinary costume of a highland peasant. there was nothing in any way remarkable about the figure, but it in- stantly occurred to jack that the old brocker had fre- quently shaken his head in a mysterious manner when alluding to the occupants of the cottage opposite his own; and the thought crossed his mind that perhaps the person before him might be gifted with some of those singular powers in the existence of which the old man had evidently believed. he had not, how- ever, much time to reflect upon the matter, for the figure in question elevated its right arm almost as soon as he saw it, and, looking at him as it spoke, uttered the following important words :— "by the salt loch, spirits plan mischief to the child of man, but the sprites of stream and wood, to the mortals work but good; let the sister-searching brother, use the one to thwart the other." jack stared with astonishment at the old dame who pronounced these words, but was quite sharp enough ii.] the witch of ballaquojch. to perceive at once that they were evidently intended to give him a hint as to the manner in which he ought to proceed under existing circumstances. he was undoubtedly a "sister-searching brother," and sure enough there was a salt loch, as well as a stream and plenty of water, at ballaquoich, but what the sprites were, or how they were to be found, he had not the faintest idea. however, as the best way to discover this appeared to him to be to ask the person who had just pronounced the mysterious words, he stepped forward with the intention of doing so, saying at the same time,— "if you can tell me a little more, madam, as to what you have just said about the sprites" before he had finished his sentence, however, the old woman motioned him back with her hand and withdrew into the cottage, only staying long enough to say slowly and emphatically as she did so:— "where the reeds and rushes spread o'er the banks and pastures green, oft, by those who dare to tread, are the friendly elfins seen." jack stopped short at the gesture of the speaker, and when she had concluded, thought for a minute, and then exclaimed to himself, "by jove i she means the duck place!" and so saying, turned on his heel and walked home, meditating all the while on the strange event which had just occurred. when he got home, however, he lost no time in acting upon the hint which he had received. io queer folk. [ . he went down to the loch, got into the smallest of the two boats which were upon it, and pulled off without delay to the head of the loch. here he entered the river already mentioned, which could be done without difficulty, except in times of flood, when it rose with great rapidity, and the boat could hardly be forced up against the current, whilst the branches of the overhanging trees also interposed frequent obstacles to its progress. jack, however, had fortunately hit upon a time when no flood interfered with his advance, and he made his way up the stream without interruption, until he arrived at the narrow passage where the stream wound to the left. through this passage he passed, and rowed gently on towards the island and the duck place. here he relaxed his.efforts, and paddled slowly up the stream, past the island, and nearly as far as a boat could go. then he rested upon his oars, and looked anxiously around to see if anything in the way of elves or fairies was to be seen. there was nothing. he listened with eager, longing intensity for some voice or sound, but none fell upon his anxious ear; and he only heard the laughing ripple of the stream over the stones, and the distant bark of the colly-dogs on the mountains, varied by the occasional chuckle of a cock grouse enjoying himself on the hill-side. it was a very pleasant afternoon, and jack was >ust a trifle tired with his row. so he moored his boat in a shallow place hard by, and sitting down on a rug which he had brought with him, determined to rest for a few minutes before going on shore. ii.] the witch of ballaquoich. the sun was shining brightly, and his rays came with a flickering, sleepy light through the over- hanging branches, which disposed anyone in jack's position to an unusual degree of drowsiness. so it is no wonder that the boy very soon dropped off to sleep under the soothing influences to which he was exposed. ke did not, however, sleep long, for he was roused in the space of a very few minutes by a sound which drove away every idea of sleep. not that it was by any means a disagreeable sound, but it was one for which he was so totally unprepared at that time and place, that to sleep after hearing it was quite impossible. it was music, and music, too, of a de- scription not usually encountered upon the banks of a highland river. some one was certainly playing upon a harp, or some instrument like a harp, and not only playing, but playing admirably, so that jack sat upright, full of delighted attention, and listened to the music with a pleasure which he had never before experienced, even when his sister bessie had played and sung to him, which she was always ready to do. this music, however, was something which sur- passed anything which he had ever heard before, and the boy afterwards said that he thought he should never have been tired of listening to it. presently, however, it ceased, and in another moment a figure presented itself to his view, which he sup- posed to be that of the person who had produced the delicious sounds. it was the figure of a lady; and as far as jack could see or judge, a lady of uncommon beauty. but whilst her face and shape queer' folk. [ii. were sufficiently visible for jack to form this opinion, both were of a substance so misty and indistinct, that for a moment he hardly knew whether he was gazing on a living being, or upon a cloud which had taken a human form for a moment and would presently melt away. as he gazed, however, the shape appeared more and more clear and distinct, and a voice reached his ears, like the soft sighing of the gentle south wind through the leaves on a sum- mer's evening. and thus it spoke to the wondering boy:— "comes the child of mortal sire, of the river elves t' inquire, tidings of the loved and lost,— has he weighed and counted cost?" jack gazed and listened in mute astonishment for a moment, and then, resolved not to lose a chance of success by any fault of his own, thus replied:— '' kind lady, i have lost my sisters twain, and much desire to get them back again— we've not been happy since they went away; and, as for cost, my father's sure to pay all fair expenses, be they what they may." a scornful smile passed across the features of the mysterious being, as she replied to this address of the anxious brother:— "deem not spirits can be bought, as the children of mankind; sisters by a brother sought only daring heart may find. seek no longer, boy, unless fearless courage you possess." n.] the witch of ballaquoich. on hearing these words, jack hardly knew what to do or say; for having heard that "self-praise is no recommendation," he did not like to claim for him- self any special courage such as might be needed for the work before him. so, after a moment's hesitation, he thus replied :— '' i don't know that i'm better than my neighbours, but this i'll say—i'll do the best i can; what the conditions are, and what the labours, please tell me, gracious lady—i'm your man!" the lady smiled a pleasant smile upon jack as he uttered these words, and then spoke to him again, in the same low, soft voice as before: "nerve then thine heart to actions bold, for where the loch the forest shades the criegan witch, in rocky hold concealed, from daylight keeps the maids. to-morrow, by the salt loch's shore, safe counsel of the sea-birds ask; 'tis thine the maidens to restore, if well thou bend thee to the task ;— from honest sea-birds counsel seek, and when thy listening ear has heard, to criegan's witch refuse to speak, save with the token and the word!" as she pronounced these words, the figure of the lady appeared to grow gradually more and more in- distinct, until, as s.he concluded, it faded away com- pletely from jack's sight, and he saw her no more, a sweet strain of music thrilled through the air, such as he had heard before, and then all was still and io queer folk. [h. silent. he sprang from the boat to the shore and called loudly, but there was no answer; tie ap- proached the spot over which the vision had appeared to hover, but there was nothing; he pinched his arm violently to assure himself that he was awake, rubbed his eyes hard for a similar reason, and at last came to the conclusion that he had really been favoured with a visit from one of the fairies of the river, and that the best thing he could possibly do was to follow her advice as well as he could. it was too late to do much more that day; and, moreover, the mysterious being who had spoken with him had mentioned "to-morrow" as the time when he should make the attempt to rescue his sisters. evidently, then, the best thing to do was to go home as soon as he could and have a good long night's rest before entering upon so serious a business. accord- ingly he again entered his boat, pushed her off into the stream, and made the best of his way back to the loch, and thence to the little pier at the foot of the lawn to which the boats were fastened at night. after some deliberation, he had determined not to say a word to his father or mother about the strange occurrences of the afternoon. it was probable that they would tell him he had been dreaming, and dis- believe altogether in the reality of the vision; or, if they partly believed it, they might think that the risk he was about to run was greater than his chance of success, and might either forbid him to make the attempt, or insist upon his being accompanied by others, whose presence would probably spoil all hope of success, since sea-birds were unlikely to come near ii.] the witch of ballaquoich. a number of persons, and the witch herself, whoever or whatever she might be, would hardly show herself to grown-up people unless she had the power to injure them—in which case she was better unseen. so jack said nothing about the matter, but went early to bed, resolved to follow the directions of his strange friend at the time and place which she had mentioned. history has not recorded the manner in which he passed the night, but as he was young and healthy, and not much given to lie awake, it is probable that he slept during the greatest part of it, in spite of the adventure before him and the somewhat singular circumstances in which he was placed. at all events, he rose the nejjt morning fresh and vigorous, and shortly after breakfast set off down the road to the salt loch. it was a walk of some two or three miles, and as he went he meditated much as to the manner in which he should proceed when he got there. sea- birds were not tame as a rule, and unless impelled to do so by a kind fairy, might decline to come within speaking distance of him, although he had wisely left his gun behind to avoid frightening them by the sight or sound of this weapon, which had already proved fatal to several of their race. the more he thought, however, the more certain he became that he must leave everything to chance, and having come to this conclusion, he gave up thinking upon the subject, and walked steadily forward until he reached the place where the party usually em- barked in the big boat. this was opposite "the weaver's cottage," a solitary cottage where an honest old couple resided, carrying on their trade in quiet no queer folk. [n. contentment, and unmolested by witch or wizard, although in such close vicinity to the loch. here jack paused, and doubted whether he should go down to the shore, or keep the road, which ascended almost immediately after passing the cottage, and ran at a distance varying from fifty to a hundred and fifty yards from the loch until it descended again to the shores of the latter about a mile farther on, beyond the spot at which the little girls had been left and lost. he decided to go to the shore first, and walking forward stood quite close to the water, looking over it at the mountains on the other side. as he did so, he saw a brood of wild ducks floating lazily on the water near the opposite bank, and wondered whether it was from them he was to receive the information he so much desired. then there came a sea-snipe dart- ing by, and this bird jack eagerly watched in like wonder, but it made no observation and seemed intent upon its own business. then there came the cry of the curlew, and several of these birds came wheeling about, and alighted on a patch of sand uncovered by the water, towards the middle of the loch, but they also said nothing which the boy could understand. next there came a cormorant, flying straight up the loch with a grave and pre-occupied air, as if it had the affairs of the world upon its shoulders. it stretched out its neck as it flew, and looked wise enough to have told everything that jack wanted to hear, but never a word spoke the cormorant. it flew on to the favourite rock opposite the lovely woods of farcaldine, where it joined several of its companions, who were sitting there as still as if they were inanimate beings, gravely h.] the witch of. ballaquoich. in pondering over things in general and, most likely, fish in particular. still no bird had given sign or word to jack, and he was really beginning to doubt whether he should sit down or walk on, or go back, or call out to the next bird that passed, when an event happened which settled the matter for him. by came a seagull, with the peculiar cry which such birds make, wheeling in the air, now dipping down and touching the water, and now darting upwards again with sudden velocity. as the bird came near the shore, it made a dart towards the spot where jack stood, and passed within a yard or two of his head. as it did so, it said, in an audible voice, and so clearly that jack could hear every,word, though it was all in a moment of time— "when you speak, above your head hold a stick from ruined shed; be not by her threats deterred— 'benemote' is the magic word." and so the bird passed on. jack had no longer any doubt as to what he should do. well did he re- member that at the spot where he and his friends had held several picnics, and at which his sisters had been last seen, there stood an old tumble-down ruined shed, which was evidently that to which the worthy seagull had alluded. "her threats" doubtless referred to the witch by whom his sisters were held captive, and now that he knew the word of power, he had no fear of the result. as the sea-gull did not return, he re- traced his steps to the road without delay, and pushed on as fast as he could until he reached the spot where * queer folk. [n. he had once or twice before left the road to descend to the picnic place already mentioned. he plunged into the wood at once, and made his way through fern and bush until he reached the' shore. as he approached the shed in question, in order to search for a stick, plenty of which lay strewn about beneath the roof of which they had formerly been a part, he observed a curlew wheeling in the air above his head, and just as he reached the shed, it stooped in its flight, almost perched upon his shoulder, and whispered to him something which caused him to start back in the greatest astonishment. unfortunately for the interest of this part of our story, jack never could recollect the exact rhymes in which the bird spoke. that this speech was delivered in rhyme can, however, be hardly doubted, since crea- tures under magic influences rarely condescend to prose. be this as it may, the information was clearly and fully conveyed to jack, that whilst the word confided to him by the sea-gull would, judiciously used, protect him from immediate personal injury, and probably secure his admittance to the place wherein he would have to search for his sisters, three other words were necessary to his final attainment of the object of his expedition. these words, to be used one after the other according to the difficulties by which he might find himself surrounded, were solemnly whispered in his ear by the curlew, who, having thus discharged the errand on which it had apparently come, screamed more wildly than ever, and flew off across the salt loch to rejoin its comrades. ii.] the witch of ballaquoich. jack's astonishment did not last long, for he had by this time made up his mind that he would have to encounter several surprising things before he could succeed in recovering his sisters. stepping boldly forward into the shed, he laid hands upon a stick without further delay, and had hardly done so when he became conscious of the presence of another person. an old woman stood near him on the shore, whom it is unnecessary that i should again describe, since she was the same individual who had already en- countered the sisters of the boy. she regarded him with a curious expression of countenance, rather like that of an angry cat facing a dog no bigger than her- self, and doubtful whether she shall spit and fly at his eyes, or turn tail and run up the nearest tree for safety. jack looked back at her with a calm and steady gaze, but, well knowing the danger of his position, said not a word until he should be first addressed. he had not long to wait, for having apparently made up her mind what to do, the witch accosted the boy with the polite inquiry, "what brings you here so early to-day, my young master? you have neither gun nor rod; what game is that you think to take this morning?" without a moment's hesitation jack boldly con- fronted the speaker, raised his stick above his head, and exclaimed in a firm voice, though with a heart that beat fast from excitement, " benemote! i seek my sisters, and demand them at your hand!" no sooner had these words been uttered, than the countenance of the old woman changed to one filled i h queer folk. [n. with mingled rage and fear; she trembled violently- all over, shook her crutch at the boy, and after the delay of an instant, during which some inward emotion appeared to check her speech, she exclaimed, in a voice tremulous with wrath, "your sisters, forsooth! ay, ay! i know whence this shaft comes, and that you must be taken where you wish, since you know the word of power. but you know not all as yet, stripling, and we shall see what we shall see before the salt-loch powers are thus defied—come on, then, come on!"— and turning round, muttering to herself with great rapidity as she did so, the witch advanced to the rock, which she struck with her crutch as before, exclaiming at the same time :— '' alibabantimanbabblebybee, open the door for my chicken and me." the rock immediately opened, and the old woman stepped in; but just as jack was about to do so, the thought struck him (for he was by no means a dull boy) that if he allowed himself to enter after the witch had called him " my chicken " without protest on his part, she might possibly acquire some power over him which it was most undesirable that she should possess. in the act, therefore, of stepping through the open- ing, he said, in a steady voice, "benemote! i am nobody's chicken, but come of my own free will to seek my sisters." as he spoke, his companion cast back an evil glance at him over her shoulder, but said nothing, whilst the rock instantly closed behind them. they ii.] the witch of sallaquoich. were standing in a wide passage apparently leading into the very heart of the mountain. it was arched overhead, and on either side a calm soft light was shed from above, though where it came from jack could not see, and indeed did not trouble himself to inquire at that moment, being occupied with other thoughts. it was not a bright dazzling light, but rather like the rays of the moon, though it could not have proceeded from the moon, unless certain moonbeams had acci- dentally got into the cave and had been imprisoned there for the purpose of lighting it. it might have been magic, and it might have been something else, but it enabled jack and his companion to see before them for a space of some dozen or fifteen yards, at the end of which a huge and heavy curtain hung across the passage, shutting out from view all that was beyond. when she arrived at this point, the old woman turned round and scowled fearfully at jack, who would certainly have trembled at the sight, only that it occurred to him that it could do no possible good to do so, and might probably do the reverse. so he said nothing, but looked calmly at the figure before him until she was pleased to speak, which she presently did, making her address more impressive by re- curring to the solemnity of rhyme:— "rash boy, within th' enchanted rock you stand, and trust to word in mouth and stick in hand. be wise in time: retire! 'tis not too late! proceed—and you will only tempt your fate." jack did not give a second thought as to the reply which he should make. he felt very certain that if i n queer folk. [tl. she could have destroyed or driven him away, and defeated his object in coming to the place where he was, the old witch would certainly have done so before; and therefore he argued that the powers which protected him must be too strong for her. if so, it was not likely that they would suffer him to be injured, provided he obeyed the instructions he had received, and acted with proper caution. so he replied in the following manner to the speech to which he had just listened:— "i never should have ventured here, in such bad company as fear: let 'benemote' tame thy haughty pride, and push the curtain on one side." scarcely had he spoken when the witch gave a short scream of anger, pushed the curtain aside, and entered into a room beyond, closely followed by jack. the sight that now met his eyes was certainly most unexpected and alarming. he and his com- panion were apparently walking upon dry land. at least jack felt no wet, and would have had no doubt about the matter, except for the extraordinary creatures around him, and the manner of their ap- pearance. -the air (if air it was, for it looked just like water) was full of fishes, and other water creatures, the most disagreeable to be encountered, unless, in the case of some of them, they had under- gone the preliminary process of cooking. huge dog- fish came swimming at the boy, as if determined to taste what he was made of, for they showed their teeth with the most savage and threatening look; n ii.] the witch of ballaquoich. gigantic skates, with faces like human babies, opened their hideous mouths, and gaped at him in a man- ner to make his blood run cold. awful-looking eels twisted and curled themselves about in hideous and unnatural shapes; crabs—not respectably dressed crabs, which jack had seen upon the festive board at home, but repulsive, mis-shapen, wicked-looking crabs, —crawled close to his feet; whilst lobsters, who as yet knew nothing of salad, and were innocent of the cheery colour which such creatures assume after they have been put to their proper and legitimate use, showed their claws in such a manner as might have easily terrified a nervous individual. the witch proceeded to the middle of the room, and then lifted her crutch and sang out aloud in a dismal, croning tone:— "this mortal child our power defies, ye salt-loch monsters all, arise! he knows the word which can unlock the secrets of our ancient rock: he enters it—our souls to grieve,— he enters it, but shall he leave? ye salt-loch monsters, pull him down, and let the daring mortal drown!" and as she sang, she shook her crutch, and pro- nounced her last words in a yell of fury. in an instant jack felt the air grow damper, as if about to turn to water. he saw the faces and appearance of all the creatures around him become more and more hideous; and he became conscious that the word which the seagull had given him had probably ex- hausted its power in obtaining "for him entrance into n queer folk. [il. the interior of the rock, and that the time had now- arrived when he must make use of the further mysterious secrets confided to him by the curlew. he felt that he had no time to lose; and, in fact, the air was so fast changing to water that he could scarcely lift his stick above his head. he managed to do so, however, and at the same time pronounced, in tones which rang loudly through the chamber, the words of magic import—" mutton chops!" the effect was instantaneous. the air became dry and pure again immediately; the light, which was of the same character as that in the passage shone more clear and bright than before; the excited fish retired on all sides, and appeared to fade away out of sight altogether; and the angry witch re- mained in the middle of the room, feebly moaning over the discomfiture of her attempt to rid herself of her troublesome visitor. following up his advantage immediately, jack lost no time in thus addressing his disappointed com- panion :— '.' by the power of 'mutton chops,' by the words which doors unlock, by the stick which nothing stops, show the secret of the rock!" the witch, glaring frightfully with impotent wrath, hobbled, more slowly than before, across the room, on the opposite side of which was a large door studded with huge silver nails, at which she stopped, and turning to jack, said :— . "thou hast a power i never saw before; then, stripling, take the crutch, and strike the door." ■ n.] the witch of ballaquoich. "not if i know it!" said jack, omitting the cere- mony of rhyme, and giving a knowing wink of the eye at the old woman. he had heard too many stories of the wily tricks of the beings with whom he had to deal, not to feel pretty sure that some dodge was intended in this request, and that if he had taken the crutch and struck the door himself, something bad would certainly have happened. so with the above concise and intelligent remark, he pointed to the door again, with an unmistakeable air of determination not to be turned from his purpose. upon this the old woman, with another scowl and a groan of anguish, struck the door, mur- muring to herself some words which jack could not hear. open flew the door, and in walked the witch into another room, the floor of which appeared to be of massive silver, whilst the walls were hung with the most beautiful silver and blue tapestry, and the ceiling was most elaborately and richly ornamented. nothing dreadful or horrible appeared in this room, but what did appear certainly filled jack with the most extreme surprise. all round the room were low sofas very near to the wall, which were dressed with covers of blue and silver, very pretty to behold. and upon these sofas were seated as many as a dozen ladies, as far as jack could see at first, although he discovered his mistake upon closer in- spection. they were mermaids—regular, indubitable, palpable mermaids—and were engaged in such occu- pations as might be supposed to interest persons of their sex and station. some were lazily flapping queer folk. . [ii. their tails over the side of the sofa on which they sat, and yawning as if they were heartily tired of their rock-existence and longing to go to sea; others were singing in sweet voices, as if endeavouring by this laudable amusement to while away time which was heavy on hand; whilst one or two were busily employed in fitting on new scales to their tails, and otherwise attending to those useful appendages. jack, as you may well suppose, was transfixed with surprise at the sight of these strange creatures, and would gladly have made civil inquiries of them as to their general habits, and their reasons for sitting in a circle within a rock, when it would be so much more pleasant for them to be plunging about in the waves, or sitting outside in the sunshine, or occupying them- selves in some of the usual amusements of a well- regulated mermaid. but he had no time to make inquiries, for no sooner was the old witch within the room than she waved her crutch on high, and, casting an evil glance upon the boy, spoke as follows:— "daughters of the briny wave, whom by magic art i keep hidden in the gloomy cave, far from pastimes of the deep j would ye once again be free— free to sport on ocean shore ?— if this stranger slain should be, ye are free for evermore!" immediately on hearing these words, the mer- maids rose at once from their seats, uttering wild cries, which even in that hour of danger fell upon \ v ii.] the witch of ballaquoich. jack's ears with a cadence singularly melodious. their long hair fell over their fair shoulders in lux- uriant tresses, their eyes sparkled with wild excite- ment, and they stretched out their arms towards their intended victim with an eagerness which would have made most persons in a similar position feel exceedingly uncomfortable. incommoded by their tails, however, they made no such frantic rush, as might otherwise have been the case; and jack was not quite sure how they would have advanced upon him had nothing interfered to prevent them. for, thinking it useless to await the result, he had imme- diate recourse to the second syllables of magic power which had been imparted to him by the curlew. drawing himself up to his full height, he gravely pronounced the words, " malt and hops," which were scarcely out of his mouth before the mermaids, with a low, despairing wail, sank back upon their seats, and, covering their faces with their hands, wept tears of sorrow as for some hope for ever lost. the conduct of the old witch was somewhat dif- ferent. without a moment's hesitation she squatted down on the floor cross-legged, laid her crutch de- liberately over her knees, folded her arms across her chest, and gnashed her teeth furiously at jack, with grimaces which by no means added to her personal beauty. this proceeding, however, had little or no effect upon the young etonian, who perceived that it betokened a knowledge of defeat upon the part of his adversary, and he was all the more encouraged thereby. for a moment or two he said nothing, and, indeed, was rather doubtful what he ought to say, queer folk. [n. and whether he had not better remain silent. but observing immediately in front of him another door, thickly studded with enormous golden nails, and feeling certain that beyond this he was bound to penetrate in order to accomplish his mission, he determined to address to the witch such a command as should compel her to open it. raising, therefore, his stick above his head, and looking her full in the face, he said :— "by the power of 'mutton chops,' by the strength of 'malt and hops,' by the might which never fails, ope the door of golden nails!" as he finished, the old witch slowly arose from her crouching position, and shuffled towards the door, moaning and whining to herself in a dismal tone as she advanced. three times she struck upon the door with her crutch, and at the third stroke it flew open, when such a glare of light burst upon jack's eyes that he was nearly blinded. everything inside that door appeared to be made of bright gold, and so dazzling was it, that for a moment the boy could see nothing. then the old witch moaned out in a humble, sup- plicating tone:— "since thou hast the greatest might, enter first—it is thy right" but jack, still on his guard, was too wise to obey this request. had he done so, he would probably have found that the door closed behind him, and he ii.] the witch of ballaquoich, would have been shut up for ever within the bosom of that magic rock. this was by no means his intention or desire, so, with a bow to the strange old woman, he politely replied:— '' not so shall our positions be reversed— in good society 'tis—' ladies first.'" and as he spoke, the old witch, finding her tricks of no avail, entered the next room through the golden- nailed door, closely followed by her visitor. this room was apparently of gold and nothing else. the floor, walls, and ceiling presented an appearance of one sheet of pure gold, which really produced the most extraordinary effect. in the very middle of the room was a round stool, also entirely of gold, which stood in the centre of a triple circle. engrained in the gold there were three rings—one of pearls, one of emeralds, and one of diamonds,—all stones of prodi- gious size, exactly matching in size and shape, and s"et closely together. in the centre of the last of these three rings, which was that composed of diamonds, stood the above-mentioned stool, upon which jack fixed his eyes as soon as he entered the room. on the farther side of the room he now perceived that the gold sheet before him was tapestry and not paper upon the wall, as he had at first supposed, for he fancied that he saw it move. he had not, however, much time to make observations of any kind, for no sooner had the old woman entered the room through the door, which closed behind her of itself, than she darted to the stool, and scrambling upon it, turned upon the boy a face full of the most diabolical spite > queer folk. [ii and fury which can be imagined. with one hand she raised her crutch high above her head, whilst with the other she pointed tauntingly at jack, and, elevating her voice to a shrill scream, which betokened an amount of rage which the boy had seldom, if ever, witnessed in human being, she thus poured forth her fury and venom :— "wretched son of mortal sire, wouldst thou tempt immortal ire? criegan's ancient power defied, doth thy feeble might deride. power which can be known and felt, long in criegan's rock hath dwelt— shall the loch-sprite, free and wild, be subdued by southern child? no i within the magic ring, thee and thine at last i bring; know, thou poor presumptuous fool, soon my words, from magic stool, shall thy petty strength confound and immure thee under ground, till the hour when criegan's will, yield to something stronger still." she finished, and without leaving the boy time to reply, began to wave her crutch wildly in the air and to pronounce the dreadful words of doom which would for ever destroy the wretched mortal over whom she had now, as she hoped, certain and complete power. jack could never remember more than the first word, which he declared to be "banberrykopti- chamballyboxticon," a word well-known as one of fearful import among witches and their friends. but whether this pleasant little word was or was not that pronounced by the witch it is impossible for me to x ii.] the witch of ballaquoich. say. certain it is that she never completed her in- cantation, for before she had gone any further the bold boy looked her straight in the face and pro- nounced, in a loud and confident tone, the word "whisky-toddy." i am unprepared to say whether the effect of this upon the person to whom it was addressed was or was not an effect usually produced upon other persons who may not have laboured under the suspicion of witchcraft. i have been told that upon others besides witches, in the north countrie, the word has a certain power; and jack always said that the curlew had hinted to him, in dark, mysterious language, that nothing scotch could withstand the charm. be this as it may, it proved wholly efficacious under the cir- cumstances which i am now relating. the old woman spun round three times with great velocity upon the stool, as if it were a music-stool upon which she was turning for a wager, and then dropped heavily upon the floor like a log. elevating his stick once more, jack strode boldly towards the gold curtain, for such it was, on the other side of the room, and once more pronounced the magic word of power. instantly the curtain drew back of itself, and displayed a sight which filled the heart of the boy with mingled emotions of pleasure and astonishment. seated upon the floor of an inner room, which floor was apparently covered with white satin, were as many as a dozen children of different ages and sizes, all busily employed upon an occupation the nature of which jack did not at first sight discover. a closer inspection, however, proved it to be that of sorting queer folk. [n. opened widely, and jack and the children saw at once a sight which filled them with surprise, not to say momentary alarm, for jack himself hardly knew the effect which would be produced by his own words. the cave beyond the door appeared to be half-full of water flowing in upon them in a manner which might shortly prove highly disagreeable. indeed, the divisions between the outer rooms seemed to have entirely disappeared, and the salt loch appeared to be slowly flowing into the cave in an uninterrupted stream. instinctively the children loosed their hands and fell back, accompanied by jack, into the chamber of precious stones, whence they witnessed the extra- ordinary events which followed. floating on the stream, with hair dishevelled, and with wild but joyous looks, came the captive mermaids, set free from their slavery and confinement within the gloomy cave by the magic words which the boy had uttered. tossing their beautiful arms above their heads, and flapping their tails so furiously as to splash the walls right and left, and give the place the appear- ance of a sea under the influence of a storm, they came on and on, until they had entirely surrounded the old witch, who sat moaning and muttering, with a woe- begone expression upon her wrinkled visage. the water seemed to become deeper and deeper, but although it flowed up to the entrance of the chamber in which jack and the children were standing, not a drop of water passed beyond the place where the curtain had hung. as the mermaids swam up to and round the old witch, she trembled visibly, and tried to raise her crutch as if to re-assert her former power ii.] the witch of ballaquoich. over them, but failed miserably in the attempt. they closed in upon her, slowly but surely, and as they did so their sweet voices rose and fell in a kind of weird chaunt which filled the cave with a melodious echo. and such-like words as these they sang:— "long time within thy cave we've stayed, by magic force restrained; thy cruel mandate we obeyed, and all in vain complained. from rippling loch and ocean wave, debarred by cruel will, '_ none came the mermaidens to save, none braved the witch's skill. but see! 'tis changed! accept thy doom decreed by higher powers; long hast thou kept us in thine home, now come and visit ours!" as they sang, they came closer and closer to the wretched old woman, until at last one of them seized hold of her by the shoulder and gave her a severe shake. this example was immediately followed by another, and then by a third; and although the old witch raised a dismal yell, it had not the smallest effect upon her persecutors. they seized her, they pulled her here and there, ducked her frequently and remorselessly in the water, and scrambled for her as if she were a football given them to play with. then turning round with one accord, they swam away out of the cavern, still trifling and sporting with their unhappy victim. slowly they retired, and with them the water flowed out of the cave, and carried with it mermaids, witch, and all the other beings which jack had seen in the outer rooms, leaving the interior of the rock quite dry. k i o queer fojjc. [!t • as soon as he saw this, jack told the children to follow him without delay, which they accordingly did, and found themselves before long outside the rock, and upon the same spot where bessie and mary had first encountered their enemy. jack lifted his stick once more above his head, and pronounced the solemn word, "benemote !" upon which the rock closed with a hollow, ringing sound, and opened no more. for a few moments the children stood still, silently gazing upon the salt loch before them. all was quiet, calm, and peaceful, and there was no sign left of any of the stirring events which had just passed. indeed, the children could scarcely believe that it had not been all a dream. there was only the faintest ripple on the water, as a soft southern breeze swept across it, and neither foam nor sound of mermaid or other sea crea- ture was to be seen or heard. the wild ducks swam lazily in the creek on the far side of the loch, a large heron was lazily flapping his way across to his home in the heronry of bonnie farcaldine, and on the dis- tant rock in the open water sat the sentinel cormorants as usual. but there was nothing to tell the story of the mermaids' triumph and the witch's downfall, nothing to disclose the last fate of the latter, or to indicate what that fate had been. the children, however, had little doubt that their enemy had been drowned before she was taken from the cave, and that, whether drowned or not, the mer- maids would take very good care that she never came back to trouble innocent children again. so, after they had stood still a few moments, they thought the best thing they could do was to go home. ii.] the witch of ballaquoich. of the other children i cannot tell you as much as i could wish. they had been in the cave and in the witch's power long before bessie and mary came there, and seemed very glad indeed to get out. but who or what they were, and what became of them, i could never discover, and therefore shall say nothing. bessie and mary of course went straight home with their brother, to whom as they walked along they related as much as they could recollect of their adventures. it seemed, however, that a kind of dreamy forget- fulness had fallen upon them after their entrance with the old witch into the rock, and that all they remem- bered was that she led them through to the chamber of precious stones, made them sit down where jack had found them, and muttered over them some curious words which obliged them to remain where they were, and to join the company of children already there in the occupation in which they had been engaged. the witch had visited them daily, and bestowed upon each child a bun or cake of a singular shape and taste, which kept life in them, and served as breakfast, dinner, and supper. no wonder, therefore, that the poor children looked pale and thin, and that the servants of ballaquoich thought they would never have finished bringing in fresh plates of bread-and- butter and oat-cakes. for this was the first repast of the children when they reached their home, and had accomplished the task of giving and receiving innumerable embraces to and from their delighted parents. for the first time in his life, little joe hadn't a chance with his sisters, and such a tea as they ate was probably never heard of before or since. k queer folk. [n. mr. and mrs. wilson, as may well be supposed, were somewhat anxious to leave so dangerous a neigh- bourhood with as little delay as possible. they there- fore determined to do so in a couple of days' time, and meanwhile resolved to eschew the salt loch and to join in no more expeditions with their neighbours. jack, however, although anxious that his sisters should run no more risks, still cherished a strong curiosity to know more of the mysteries of the locality, and accordingly sallied forth next day with his gun, and walking down to the loch near which the house stood, got into one of the boats and pushed off. when he was near the other side of the loch, he observed several curlews hovering about, and settling on the rushy ground near the water. now, although jack was very grateful to the individual curlew who had imparted to him the valuable information which had enabled him to enter the rock and over- come the old witch, he knew well enough that this had been no common bird, and he still cherished a great desire to shoot at least one curlew, which he might have stuffed, together with a cormorant, a heron, and other trophies of his skill which he already- possessed. he therefore landed on the opposite side of the loch, and tried his best to stalk one of these birds, having securely fastened his boat to the bank. it was all in vain, however. when he was fully eighty yards off, the birds rose with a little scream and flew further and further away; and although one of them seemed rather tamer than the others, he soon found that it was a hopeless task which he had undertaken. ii.] the witch of ballaquoich. weary and disappointed he returned to his boat, and getting into it, was about to push off, when his attention was suddenly arrested by the sight of a little old man sitting upon the stump of a tree and looking steadily at him. ■ the little man had a merry, round face, not unlike a large plum-pudding with eyes in it, though there was something of a wicked look, too, about the eyes, and jack knew at once that he was in the presence of something uncanny. before he could say or do anything, however, to his very great surprise the little man broke out into a song, which he sang with a merry voice, though somewhat cracked, and with the drollest of gestures, wagging his head to and fro in the most facetious manner, and then placing his forefinger against the side of his nose, and leering at jack with the most curious expression. and thus ran the song:— 'come listen, jovial gentlemen, a tale i'll tell to you, about a boy who went on shore, a-chasing a curlew; his gun was in his hand, as close and closer still he drew, oh, was not he a lucky chap to bag a fine curlew? the birds were feeding quietly within the youngster's sight, he stole upon them warily, not wishing to affright; oh, was not this a clever boy, so well the way he knew to hunt and fish, play cricket, and to stalk the poor curlew? he thought that he should manage it, he crept along so sly, the luckless bird could never know an enemy was nigh; oh, yes! he was a clever boy, like him were very few, to jump and run, and row and shoot, and stalk the poor curlew! queer folk. [n. he crept along so warily—he was so very keen, he thought that he could see the bird, and not himself be seen; so tight he grasped his gun in hand, and confident he grew, that very soon he'd have in bag a beautiful curlew! but though the boy he was so sharp, and eke so good a shot, the curlews whom he wished to shoot, they thought they'd rather not; so while he still was far away, up in the air they flew, and left the boy upon the shore without his fine curlew! vi. so now, ye jovial gentlemen, take warning by my tale, don't aim at the impossible, because you're sure to fail; and i'll advise this luckless boy to aim at efforts new, and try to shoot a simple goose, and not a wise curlew!" and as the little old man finished his song, he gave a shrill scream of discordant laughter, snapped his fingers in a defiant manner at the boy, and then springing to the ground, turned head over heels back- wards three times without the smallest hesitation, and bringing himself up suddenly, sat cross-legged upon the ground and chuckled fearfully. jack was completely bewildered. who or what this strange being might be, whence he came and what was his object, it was impossible to conjecture. clearly, however, he meant to chaff, which is what no eton boy can be expected to stand without giving it back again. so, after a moment's hesitation, jack looked the strange little fellow straight in the face, and remarked — "very good song for a beginner; and as for the tumbling, it's quite professional." li.] the witch of ballaquoich. ' the words were scarcely out of his mouth, when the little man, twisting his arms and legs together in the most extraordinary manner, came bounding along, for all the world like an india-rubber ball, right down to the edge of the water, and then, untwisting himself suddenly, addressed the boy as follows:— "as to twisting and to turning, few there are my equals in it, would you, then, improve your learning, i can teach you in a minute. fortune's coy, but since you've caught her, of her gifts now haste to plunder— come with me to criegan water, i will teach you deeds of wonder!" jack heard; but he had too lately experienced the strange doings of criegan creatures not to be fully on his guard, so he did not for one moment entertain the idea of accepting the little man's invitation. "not if i know it," he replied, with a knowing wink. "i think not: not exactly—but, pray would you like a glass of whisky-toddy?" at these words the countenance of the little old man changed at once: he cast a glance of mingled hatred and fear upon jack, and for an instant re- mained rooted to the ground as if unable to move; then, turning slowly round, he shuffled off, moaning and groaning, and disappeared among the trees. this had all occurred at the lower end of the fresh- water loch, and as soon as jack had seen his strange visitor safely off, he determined to go up to the duck place and take a farewell look at it before leaving ballaquoich altogether. being convinced that in that queer folk. [ . friendly locality there could be no danger for his sisters, he persuaded them to accompany him, and together they rowed up the stream until they reached the same place where jack had been so mysteriously informed as to the fate of his sisters. then he moored his boat as before, and began to show bessie and mary exactly where he had seen the figure of the beautiful lady who had told him of the witch of criegan and enabled him to find her abode. "oh how i wish the lady would come now i" cried bessie. "i should so like to thank her for being so kind." "yes," replied jack, in a reflective tone, " so should i: but i don't know how to get her to show herself, unless we could all fall asleep as i did when i was here before." "i say, jack!" here interposed mary (who was a sharp young lady for her years, and often made clever suggestions), "i say, jack! do you think the lady would come if we were to ask her in verse?" "a capital thought!" cried her brother: "suppose you try, mary, since you proposed it?" "well," said the little one, " i am not sure that i can, you know, but at all events i'll try." so she faced the spot on which the lady had appeared to jack, and said in a grave voice, after a short pause :— "kind lady, since again we're free (i mean, my sister here and me), we wish to thank both you and jack, whom you employed to get us back— ii.] the witch of ballaquoich. dear jack is here: and well we know (for he has made it very plain), tis here you deign yourself to show— pray, lady, do so once again!" as mary ceased speaking, to the surprise and de- light of the three children, the same low, sweet sound of music which jack had heard before came stealing through the trees again, and presently the same shadowy form appeared, becoming more and more distinctly visible as the children gazed upon it. the lady smiled sweetly upon them, and presently spoke in the soft, soothing voice which jack so well remembered, and which his sisters thought perfectly beautiful:— "grateful hearts are welcome ever to the spirits of the wood, who by constant kind endeavour foil the evil, shield the good. freed by courage of a brother from the power of criegan's dame, should ye meet with such another, fortune might not be the same; if a witch or dwarf accost ye, here whilst ye may still remain, silence keep—lest those who lost ye once, might lose ye once again!" taught by experience, the children knew very well that this was good advice, and required no persuasion to accept and determine to keep it. the thought crossed jack's mind at once that this warning about dwarfs was quite necessary after his morning's adven- ture, and he doubled not that the little man whom he had met was one of those dangerous animals, probably some relative of the old witch herself. but bessie s ii.] the witch of ballaquoich. . no foe, sweet child, to thee and thine; and when ye reach your southern home let kind remembrance hither roam." she spoke, and, even as the words left her lips, her figure grew more and more indistinct to the eyes of the children, and gradually faded away with the smile still upon her face. then the sweet sounds of the music once more arose, and fell upon the ears of the three listeners with a softness akin to melancholy. they sat silent for some little time after the dis- appearance of their spirit-friend, until jack roused himself from the dream in which he had been indulg- ing, and told his sisters that they must be thinking of going home. they could scarcely tear themselves from the spot, however, without one more nearer look at the place where the lady had appeared. accord- ingly, they landed on the shore, and walked in among the trees and bushes, looking carefully around them as they did so. but they saw nothing. the wind softly sighed through the tops of the trees; the fish now and then jumped in the still water of the smaller loch which bordered on the duck place, and a wood- pigeon darted from a high tree at a little distance from the spot where they were standing. but the sounds of the music had ceased, and with them the last signs of the presence of a being from the world of elves. slowly, then, the three children retraced their steps to the boat, and turned her back, towards the loch. it was their last look at "the duck place," which had been the scene of many pleasant expedi- tions, though none of such strange and unusual excite- ment as the two last. < queer folk. [u. the boat moved slowly round the island, down the stream, through the narrow opening and into the canal, before either of the young people said any- thing, so much were their thoughts occupied with all the curious things which had lately happened to them. once in the canal, however, their tongues were loosed, and during the whole of the way back to the house they talked these matters over. it was a marvellous series of adventures, certainly, which had befallen them. the witch, the elfin lady, and the dwarf were not the kind of creatures to which they were used at home, and the first and last were (so the three agreed) highly objectionable individuals. it was extraor- dinary, too, that the magic-dealing folk near the sea should be hostile to the human race, whilst those who dwelt farther inland were the reverse; and altogether the children came to the conclusion that scotland, or at least that part of it where they had been staying, was a strange country, and that its inhabitants would be hard to live with or to deal with unless "whisky- toddy" was always at hand. beguiling the way with this conversation, they pushed the boat along down the canal to the loch, and across the latter to the little wooden pier on the lawn of ballaquoich. there they landed, and found their father and mother waiting for them, with the news that everything was now finally arranged for their departure the next morning. the evening passed away very quickly, and the sun arose upon the day which was to see the wilsons for the last time at ballaquoich. it was a fine morning, and the view as they drove along the valley and looked back, was queer folk. [n. come by "whisky-toddy " the day before, that he was afraid to come again in contact with one who had that magic charm at his command. however this may be, he came not, and nothing "uncanny" troubled the wilsons during their homeward journey. safely they reached home, and were not sorry to see once more the familiar things and faces. but among the pleasant pastures of the southern county wherein they dwell, amid the fruit and flowers and luxuriant foliage of the garden of england, bessie and mary cast back thoughts now and again to the wild scenery where they gained such a novel and strange experience; and jack, too, thinks not un- pleasantly upon the same subject. fain would he see again the elfin lady; and no sounds that he has since heard does he count equal to her music: but neither the sight or the sounds have been vouchsafed to him again. it may not be always so. fond as the strange creatures of whom i have told may be of rocks and mountains, moor and loch, yet if they are not alto- gether devoid of taste, they must find something to love and admire in the home scenery of the sunny south; and though stern crags and wild scenery may better suit the witch and dwarf, sure i am that the happy elves who make our fairy rings are preferable to either, and those children who have kind and loving hearts may at any time meet with a pleasant adventure with elves and fairies without having to travel so far north as the abode of the .witch of criegan and the lovely lady of ballaquoich! iii. the pig-faced queen. in a very old castle in a part of the world which shall for good reasons be nameless, there resided, at a period of the world's history which it is unnecessary to mention, a certain venerable baron. his family was at least as old as his castle, and in those benighted times, when blood and birth went for more than they do now-a-days, he was accordingly much respected. the baron himself was an eminently respectable person. his portly appearance, long grey beard, and stately demeanour commanded attention wherever he showed himself, and he held up his head boldly among the magnates of the land. indeed, he had a perfect right to do so, for, over and above the claims which he might have founded upon the antiquity of his family and the gravity of his personal appearance, he had the additional ad- vantage of being the possessor of large landed estates. he might stand upon the lofty battlements of his ancient castle and gaze for miles over his own terri- tory. look north and south, east and west, far and queer folk. [ill. n wide lay the lands which owned his sway, and no en- croaching neighbour marred the pleasure of his view or interfered with his unbroken domain. the baron of grumblebuff was indeed a potent chieftain, and his lightest word was law to hundreds of obedient vassals. his prowess in battle was, more- over, undoubted, and men of his own rank in his country spoke highly both of his courage in the field and his wisdom in the council chamber. his horses were famous for their speed and enduring qualities; his cellars were well stocked with the choicest and rarest wines; his riches were sufficient to supply every want which could cause a pang in the human heart, and everything seemed to have combined in order to secure and promote the happiness and prosperity of this favoured being. and yet, with all these advantages at his command, the baron of grumblebuff was not happy! like others who have lived and died before him, all the external good which had fallen to his lot could avail nothing against the internal grief with which he was afflicted. to the outer world he might endeavour to appear calm and unconcerned: those who saw him in his retirement knew but too well how different was the real state of his mind, and how profound was the melancholy with which he was oppressed. nor, indeed, was the cause far to seek. the baron of grumblebuff had a baroness, and their union had been blessed by three daughters. clara, bertha, and mathilde of grumblebuff were three charming maidens. their features were perfect, their figures exquisite, their voices harmonious, their talents remarkable,— ill.] the pig-faced queen. their dispositions delightful,—but the colour of their hair, which fell in dense masses over their beautiful shoulders, was of a bright staring red. it was useless to call it yellow; folly to pretend that it was auburn; absurd to pronounce it golden. it was unmistakeably red, and in spite of all dyes and washes resolutely remained so. now the baron of grumblebuff had the greatest horror of red hair. his own had been raven black, and his wife's very nearly of the same hue: why or where- fore the young ladies should have been so differently gifted—why they should have, for the first time in the annals of a continuously dark-haired family, displayed a colour so entirely contrary to the custom and tra- dition of their house, was a problem which greatly puzzled their parents, and to the baron was, indeed, a source of intolerable grief. it was bad enough to have no son; that, however, was a misfortune which might in some measure be remedied by the selection of suitable husbands for his daughters; but that the latter should, one and all, be endowed by nature with hair of this particular colour, was an infliction which to their father was perfectly unendurable. it deprived him of his pleasure by day, it robbed him of his rest by night; it sat upon his soul like a leaden weight; it interfered alike with his appetite and digestion, and bid fair to end prematurely that which might have been a long and useful life. as the girls grew up, various remedies were tried, all of which, however, were equally ineffectual. each year seemed only to intensify the objectionable colour, and they arrived at the respective ages of seventeen, l . queer folk. , [in. eighteen, and nineteen, apparently without the slightest chance of any change in the direction so much desired by their paternal relative. their mother, it is true, was somewhat less anxious about the matter. she would have been glad, indeed, if her husband's wishes could have been gratified, and she much disliked the result of his disappointment, which so greatly affected their domestic happiness. but devotedly attached to her children, she found in their general beauty, their docility, and the variety of their talents, no incon- siderable compensation for the short-comings of their hair; and if left to herself, it is not impossible that she might even have come at last to such a state of mind as would have enabled her to discover beauties in the latter. nevertheless, she found it necessary to follow the lead of her husband in so purely a domestic matter as the colour of their children's hair, and therefore, like an obedient wife, she not only followed his example, but persuaded herself that he was per- fectly and undoubtedly right in his view of the case. it may easily be supposed that this feeling—which some might even call prejudice—on the part of their parents was by no means agreeable to the young ladies themselves. fondly attached to both father and mother, they endeavoured by every means within their power to please and satisfy them. their con- duct was in every respect exemplary. clara relieved her mother of the cares of house-keeping, and kept the household in excellent order; bertha superin- tended the dairy with remarkable success; whilst mathilde's poultry were the admiration of the whole neighbourhood. iii.] the pig-faced queen. in their lighter hours, they strove to enliven their mother, and cheer their father's heart, by music and singing. clara's performance on the harpsichord was something marvellous; bertha had the voice of a nightingale; and mathilde accompanied herself on the guitar with surprising skill. every effort which affec- tion could suggest did the young baronesses make to render themselves as beloved as they really deserved to be by the parents whom they so fondly worshipped, but alas! all was in vain. there was, indeed, no positive unkindness on the part of the baron and his wife; but they manifested a constant—and to their children's fancy, an increasing—coldness, which was terribly trying to the sensitive dispositions of the three damsels. again and again they tried to win the love of which their tender hearts stood so much in need, and again and again they were met in the same manner. nor, indeed, was the cause hid from them. they knew but too well that the unfortunate colour of their hair had to answer for all, and they lamented it the more because it was owing to no fault of their own that they found themselves placed in such unhappy circumstances. at last this state of things grew so intolerable that the three sisters took solemn counsel together as to the best course they could pursue to effect some im- provement in their condition. mathilde suggested that they should cut off each other's hair close to the roots, and each wear a wig of a colour which might be more agreeable to their parents. this, however, was a pro- ceeding to which there were many objections. in the first place, the risk of cold was serious; in the next, l y hi.] the pig-faced queen. bright colour of their hair might be deemed a recom- mendation instead of a disadvantage. or should they fail to discover a suitable resting-place, it ap- peared to their young and sanguine imaginations that a journey through the world in search of adventures would be a pleasant and agreeable variety, after their dull routine of home duties and the cold return to their warm affections of which they had so greatly to complain. it might be, too, that their absence would have the effect of re-awakening parental love; that their father and mother would feel and appreciate the value of their daughters when the latter were no longer with them ; and that upon their return at some future time they would be clasped in fond embrace by the authors of their being, and enjoy at last that full measure of love for which they had so long and so anxiously pined. so they very quickly made up their minds to follow the advice of their eldest sister, and run away from the castle as soon as possible. the question then arose as to the manner in which the plan had better be carried out. mathilde sug- gested that they should put on their thick walking- shoes and waterproof cloaks, and set off just as they were. but the prudence of the elder sisters forbade the adoption of such a proposal. unused to walks of more than ordinary length, they would probably make little progress in a day's journey, and be very speedily overtaken by those whom the baron would certainly send in pursuit as soon as their flight had been dis- covered. it would be far better either to ride or drive. there was a nice little pony carriage always at their service, which they could order without the slightest "■ •. -. ■ queer folic. [in. suspicion, and in which, if one sat behind, all three could be conveyed without difficulty. they remem- bered, however, that even in this vehicle their progress would be but slow, the country being hilly and the roads none of the best. moreover, as ladies of rank seldom drove out without a servant in attendance, it was just possible that suspicion might be aroused by their sallying forth unattended in their pony carriage ; and under all the circumstances they came to the conclusion that it would be preferable to depart on horseback. this was the- more easy to do, since the young baronesses were in the habit of riding about together, in the vicinity of the castle, upon three steeds which had been especially provided for their use. clara had a white palfrey, bertha a brown and mathilde a chest- nut horse, all three of which were strong and service- able animals, and moreover of such good and gentle dispositions that they would follow their young mistresses here and there, eat out of their hands, and readily obey their call. upon these animals, there- fore, the sisters determined to commence their flight, and to take their journey through the world. they resolved to start one morning, before their parents came down to breakfast, by which means they would get a good start, and as they were in the habit of breakfasting early, it was most probable that their absence would be thought little of until luncheon time at the soonest, so that they would have time to go some way on their journey before they were missed. they therefore ordered their horses over-night, iii.] the pig-faced queen. telling the servants that they were going for an early ride; and before the inmates of the castle were half awake the three sisters had mounted at the stables and ridden forth from the halls of their ancestors. they had formed no particular plan of operations for the future, nor had they fixed upon any direction in which to wend their way. in fact, beyond the neighbourhood of the castle itself, where it would of course have been impossible to remain undiscovered, they were quite ignorant of the locality, and really wandered forth as into a strange country. nevertheless, they were in good heart and in tolerable spirits, considering the new and possibly dangerous course upon which they were about to enter. they rode boldly down the hill upon which the castle was built, entered the large forest which extended almost to the foot of the aforesaid hill, and were soon hidden from sight of the castle dwellers by the dense foliage of the trees. the road was none of the best, and the sisters could therefore only proceed at a slow pace, but they pushed resolutely on, until at length they emerged from the forest and found themselves upon a large common, at the farther side of which another forest appeared ready to receive them. they cantered gaily over the common, and continued the same pace, when they found that a wide green track led them into the wood beyond, along which they proceeded some way without interruption or adventure of any kind. suddenly, however, bertha's horse, which was a few yards in advance of the others, shied so violently, that although the young lady was an excellent horsewoman, queer folk. . [in. she had the greatest difficulty in keeping her seat. fortunately, however, she succeeded in doing so, and on looking around for the cause of the animal's alarm, the sisters perceived an object which excited at once their surprise and compassion. it was the figure of an aged man, apparently in the last stage of misery and starvation. his clothes were scanty, and although the chill blasts of winter had not yet swept away the brown autumnal leaves which still trembled upon the branches which their summer beauty had adorned, his venerable limbs evidently shivered with cold, and his teeth chattered as he addressed his humble appli- cation for alms to the noble damsels. his tottering steps were supported by an oaken staff, and as he stood beneath the shadow of the forest trees, he pre- sented a pitiable and woe-begone appearance, such as might have touched the hardest heart and inclined the sternest spirit to softness and pity. as he stammered out his appeal to their benevo- lence, the sisters thought that they had seldom beheld an object so palpably requiring the aid of the charit- able, and each felt at once in her pocket for the means of relieving the aged sufferer. alas! the search was vain! in the haste and hurry of their flight, not one of the three had remembered to bring her purse, and not a single sixpence could they muster between them. clara found in her pocket a silver thimble and three gingerbread-nuts; bertha had an apple and a ball of worsted; whilst mathilde could only discover a hard biscuit and a needle-case. what was to be done? it would be cruel indeed to pass the old man by without a gift of any kind, after having excited his expecta- iii.] the pig-faced queen. tions by stopping in order to search for the money which they supposed they had about them. yet to a beggar, and one, moreover, of the masculine gender, neither a needle-case, a ball of worsted, nor a silver thimble seemed likely to be of much use, and to offer him an apple, a hard biscuit, or gingerbread-nuts might possibly be deemed insulting. still, his appearance was so sad, and hunger so visibly depicted upon his face, that the sisters re- solved upon the latter course, which in fact was all the more generous on their part, inasmuch as they had not the slightest idea in the world when, where, or how they should be able to obtain anything for themselves to eat, and although their stock of pro- visions was very small, it would have sufficed to allay the pangs of hunger for at least a short time. their tender hearts, however, were touched by the appear- ance of the aged stranger, and they hesitated not to offer him all they had. "here, sir," said clara, "take these nuts. i thought i had money, but, alas! both my sisters and i are penniless! you seem hungry, perhaps these may comfort you a little." with these words she handed him her three ginger- bread-nuts, and her sisters speedily followed her example. the old man received the giftr. with grate- ful delight, and murmured his thanks as he eagerly devoured the food. casting a pitying look behind them, the three young ladies rode boldly forward, interchanging as they went words of sympathy for the venerable being whom they had just relieved. they had not proceeded queer folk. \ya. * ■ ■ j ■ above a mile farther when their attention was at- tracted by another object, even more pitiable than the first. bowed down and bent nearly double with age and rheumatism, an ancient woman was wearily dragging her way along the green track. as the sisters rode up, she accosted them with sorrowful words and supplicating gestures, inviting their atten- tion to her forlorn and miserable condition. words, indeed, were scarcely needed to tell them that which was at once apparent to the most careless observer. the scanty red cloak which fell over the shoulders of the aged crone afforded but a poor protection from the wind or rain, whilst her other garments were so thin and ragged that it was a wonder they held together at all. the tender hearts of the young baronesses melted at once, and they answered the imploring looks and prayers of the poor suppliant without a moment's delay. "here, good woman," said clara, holding out her silver thimble, "take this. alas! i have no money, but by the sale of this thimble no doubt you will be able to obtain food, and perhaps something towards protecting you better from the weather." "and take this ball of worsted," added bertha, blushing as she spoke at the smallness of the gift. "it is not much, i know, but it may perhaps be useful to you." "my needle-case, too," cried mathilde, "is quite at your service, and i only wish i could give you some- thing better." with these words, the sisters bestowed their gifts iii.] the pig-faced queen. upon the old woman, who received them with mur- mured thanks and blessing, in the midst of which the givers left her, kindly smiling upon her as they rode forward on their journey. before they had gone much farther they began to feel somewhat hungry, a feeling which they soon found to increase more and more. for some time they said nothing to each other on the subject, being well aware that no food was to be had, and each wishing to con- ceal her hunger from the others, lest they should be distressed and dispirited. at last, however, they could stand it no longer, and all three simultaneously broke out into the same exclamation—" oh, dear! how hungry i am!" nor was it unnatural that this should be the case. here were three delicately-nurtured damsels, used to have breakfast, luncheon, five-o'clock tea, and dinner every day of their lives, who had started off without any regular breakfast, and had now been riding until past their usual luncheon hour without anything to eat, and, what is more, without any apparent prospect of getting anything. no wonder, then, that they all three felt very uncomfortable, and for a moment heartily wished that they were sitting round the table in the old grumblebuff dining-room, with mutton chops at one end, in the silver dish heated by a lamp beneath, and probably a roast chicken at the other end, with mashed potatoes and other vegetables only waiting to be eaten. if, however, such a wish for a moment occupied the mind of any or all of the sisters, you may be certain that it was speedily banished. the courage of their queer folk. [ill. race sustained them, and the pride of their ancient family forbade them to feel or display regret at the first inconvenience which their plan had entailed upon them. still, it must be remembered that courage of race and pride of family, though doubtless excellent things in their way, do not feed hungry people, or satisfy healthy appetites with food. therefore, although they enabled the sisters to bear up bravely against the pangs of hunger for some time, the moment arrived when nature asserted her rights, and with one common assent bertha, clara, and mathilde owned to each other that they could bear it no longer. pulling up their horses at a spot where the road was crossed by a broad but shallow streamlet, they regarded each other for a few moments with faces of woful anxiety, whilst tears, forced from them by the painful nature of the occasion, slowly trickled down their beautiful cheeks. "to think," said clara, "that it should come to this! all our fine plans of running away and earn- ing our own livelihood to end by our starving in the forest." "indeed," mournfully remarked bertha, "it is very different from what we expected. i begin to wish we had never left the castle." "yes," added mathilde, "or at least that we had had the sense to take some provisions with us!" and the three sisters gave vent to a simultaneous groan. to their infinite surprise, the sound was re-echoed from the other side of the stream. not, indeed, by a groan exactly, but by a cheerful kind of chuckle: yes, lit] the pig-faced queen. an unmistakeable chuckle, as if some one who had nothing better to do was enjoying their distress and making merry at their unfortunate situation. the sisters raised their eyes together, and gazed in the direction from which this sound, so much at vari- ance with their own feelings, seemed to proceed. upon the opposite bank of the streamlet, leaning carelessly against a sapling, they at once perceived the person to whom the interruption was due. it was a woman, —at least, it had the form and dress of a woman down to the waist, and a neat enough dress, too, the effect of which was not spoiled by the well-made trousers in which its legs were clothed. the feet were small, and encased in remarkably well-fitting boots; from the shoulders downwards everything was as it should be, to the eyes of the beholders, but the extraordinary thing was that upon a fair neck of proper length and dimensions appeared nothing more nor less than the head of a pig! as if by way of pun upon itself, it had a pork-pie hat on, which rather improved its ap- pearance; but there it was, as much the head of a pig as anything you ever saw; and the sight of such an unwonted appendage to the body and neck of a woman filled the sisters, as you may imagine, with . the utmost amazement. • their wonder was not diminished when the creature, whatever it or she was, waved a lily-white hand in the air, and accosted the astonished sisters in a voice perfectly human, and by no means unpleasant. "come over, young ladies, come over," she said; "i have been waiting for you this long time, and i am sure you must be wanting your luncheon." ill] the pig-faced queen. • she wore in her snout, the pig-faced lady at once replied:— "yes, my dears, luncheon will be quite ready for you by the time we get home." and with these words she gave a shrill whistle, much resembling that with which london porters summon cabs from the street, and in another instant a man appeared, dressed in brown-holland petticoats and leading a white pony, upon which the strange being vaulted, carelessly struck the man a blow across the face with her riding- whip, and bidding him in a haughty tone to "follow," cantered forward on the track, calling upon the young baronesses to accompany her. this they did in won- dering silence for about half a mile, when their com- panion turned sharply to the right, and after another hundred yards or so, rode into an open court before a good-sized stone-built mansion. here she shouted loudly, and two or three men and boys came hurrying up, all of whom wore brown-hol- land garments like the first, and possessed the ordi- nary heads of human beings. these paid the most abject deference to the pig-faced lady, who now directed the sisters to dismount, which they accord- ingly did, and giving their horses to the grooms, fol- lowed their conductress into the house, which she entered with the evident air of an owner. they found themselves in a large hall paved with marble, from which doors opened right and left, to one of which the lady advanced, and throwing it open, exclaimed, in a loud voice— "here, my children, the visitors have come!" bertha, clara, and mathilde following close upon ' queer folk. . [ttt. . - "- ■"■■ • ;;s^, their leader, entered the room after her, and beheld a sight which filled them with astonishment. seated at a long table, extending nearly the whole length of a very long room, were from fifty to a hundred ladies, well-dressed, neat, with figures more or less elegant and well formed, but trousered and pig-faced, every woman of them! opposite each was placed a small, deep, silver trough, in which some kind of broth or soup had been served, upon which they were evidently in the midst of making a hearty meal. at the summons of their queen (for such she appeared to be) the company all started up—some hastily withdrew their snouts from the troughs in which they were already deeply dipped—some quickly passed their napkins over their faces—some stroked their bristles—some put their ears tidy; but all started up as fast as possible to acknowledge the authority of the speaker and to welcome the visitors. "here, bessie," said the former, to a neat-looking girl with a delicate bloom upon her skin which made even her pig-face interesting, "make room for these three young ladies by you, and order the hot soup at once—come, sit down, my dears, and feed with the rest of the court." and with these words she motioned the sisters to seats. the court had been sitting upon benches—deep, comfortable, cushioned benches with backs, and arms between each seat, and the blushing bessie, by whom three seats had apparently been reserved for the new- comers, invited them to be seated, in tones as far re- moved as possible from the squeal or grunt which you might have anticipated from her personal appearance. queer folk. [ill. after a short and awkward pause, during which they looked wistfully, first at each other, and then at the soup, and then at each other again, hunger proved stronger than politeness, and clara, in clear though trembling accents, faltered out the words— "might i ask for a spoon?" the poor child need not have been alarmed. people are generally blind to their own defects and imper- fections, which, indeed, sometimes appear the very reverse to those who possess them. so it was in this case, and instead of being offended, the pig-faced ladies were evidently filled with feelings of a very different nature. casting pitying looks at each other, and interchanging little smiles of con- scious yet commiserating superiority, they received clara's remark with the utmost courtesy, and the queen, who had remained standing near the door, approaching at once towards the three sisters, re- marked in a friendly voice— "spoons! yes, to be sure, my dears, there are spoons in plenty, and they shall be fetched. why, bessie! you forget that our visitors are not yet gifted as we are. but never mind, my children, all will be right in time;" and, as she spoke, she smiled affably upon her visitors; but her words, it is needless to say, filled the young baronesses with the deepest alarm. was it possible, then, or perhaps probable, that they should be reduced to the lamentable condition of the poor creatures amongst whom they were sitting? would they be condemned to lose those features which (as experience and friendly comment had told them) were by no means defective? and would each oi ill.] the pig-faced queen. their faces be replaced by the ugly and degrading countenance of a pig? was this a usage of the new country they had entered, and would it be made a condition of their residence therein? would sorcery be employed, and should they be doomed to this (to them) dreadful fate? it would be a thousand times worse than red hair, and certainly their parents would be by no means likely to love them any the better for the change. this penalty for running away would indeed be heavy, and their sorrows increased tenfold. such thoughts passed at one and the same time through the brains of clara, bertha, and mathilde, and under ordinary circumstances none of them would have been able to eat a mouthful after such an idea had once been put into their heads. but as the circumstances were not ordinary, their appetites keen and the soup particularly good, they could not refrain from falling- to heartily as soon as the spoons were brought; and they made a capital meal. meanwhile the queen had seated herself in an arm-chair at the top of the table, where she fed plentifully out of a golden trough, and appeared to enjoy herself exceedingly. when the soup was finished, clean troughs followed with bread- pudding and treacle, after which acorns were brought in by way of dessert, which the general opinion of the court appeared to consider a great delicacy. the repast having been brought to a close, the queen, rising from table, beckoned the sisters to follow her to the drawing-room, whither she was also accompanied by twelve of her principal ladies. seat ing herself upon a comfortable sofa, and directing the m queer folk. . [ill sisters to occupy another close by, she then began to address them upon the subject of their visit. "you must know," said she, "as perhaps you have already guessed, that you are now in the country of the pig-faced women, or, as its lovers and inhabi- tants prefer to call it, 'the dominion of woman.' in some countries, no doubt, there are women not blessed with our peculiar development, and we know that from one of these you come. in fact, it is very probable that in certain parts of the world there may even be a prejudice against pig-faced women, but that can only be where men (who are proverbially pig- headed themselves) rule, and where consequently all is misery and confusion. here, as i have already told you, an entirely different system prevails. man is reduced to his proper position of inferiority.. we use him, as we do the horse, or, to take a nearer analogy, the ass, and all the management of affairs, public and private, in my kingdom, falls upon that sex which is by far the best adapted to undertake it. in this country i can offer you an asylum, at once happy and secure. in fact, as i have taken a fancy to you, i do not think i shall be able to part with you again, and the directions which i shall give you will enable you with as little delay as possible to become in every respect similar to the rest of my subjects." as the queen ceased speaking, the feelings of the three sisters may be better imagined than described. the allusion which her majesty had made to "direc- tions" which she intended to give them was, indeed, calculated to awaken in their minds feelings of the most profound distrust and dread. directions given in.j the pig-faced queen. by royalty would probably be pressed upon those for whom they were issued in a manner which it might not be easy to resist, and if compliance was to be followed by a transformation terrible and repugnant to women of ordinary form and feature, it was impos- sible to regard their future with composure. as, however, there appeared no immediate neces- sity to reply to the queen's remarks, the sisters said nothing, but respectfully inclined their heads as her majesty concluded, and silently waited for what might happen next. presently the queen resumed her discourse. "rome," she remarked (with the air of one who had made the discovery then for the first time,) "was not built in a day, neither can you, my young friends, expect to attain to the happy state of pig-facedness without some little time and patience. you will, however, immediately commence the process which is requisite to lead you to this desirable consummation. in each of your rooms you will find vials properly labelled, containing the medicines which it will be necessary for you to take, in order that the weak- nesses, mental and bodily, which are falsely called feminine, may be removed, and you may be able to join your sisters in this country in that which is the only true 'woman's mission,' namely, the suppres- sion of man. you will not find the medicines by any means unpleasant. 'fright's elixir' may make you feel a little sleepy, but 'miss hen-pecker's cordial' will obviate any ill effects, whilst 'professor egotist's drops,' though pungent and bitter, and generally leaving a disagreeable taste in the mouth, are most queer folk. . [ill. efficacious when you have once brought yourself to swallow them." having thus spoken, the queen desired two of her ladies to conduct the sisters to the rooms which had been prepared for their reception, and as these all communicated one with another, they were able to sit down and take counsel together as soon as they were left alone. upon the table of each room, sure enough, were three bottles containing the medicines of which the queen had spoken, and which appeared much like ordinary physic. in each room was an iron bedstead, a table, a chest of drawers, a bath and washing-stand, two chairs, a boot-jack, and a coal-scuttle. but the oddest thing was the nature of the pictures which hung upon the walls, which all represented men in some situation of subordination to the superior sex. in one print a man was blacking a woman's boot, whilst she was regarding him with an unmistakeable air of pig- faced contempt; in a second was depicted a man carefully but diligently rocking a cradle, whilst a woman was writing, surrounded by blue-books of a formidable appearance; a third showed a noble specimen of pig-faced superiority, standing with her foot upon the neck of one of the inferior gender; whilst in a fourth was a man crouching meekly before another superior being, who was bestowing upon him a shower of blows with a riding-whip which she held in her hand. in other pictures, men were knitting and sewing, mangling and ironing, washing and scour- ing, whilst women were engaged in those nobler and more intellectual pursuits befitting their stronger minds and more powerful wills. hi.] the pig-faced queen. the sisters stared around the room for some little while without speaking, and then (as is sometimes the case with young ladies who have not been fully trained in the ways of pig-facedness) all began to speak at once.. "well! did you ever ?" was their first remark, after which they unanimously agreed that they never did, and forthwith began a conversation in which surprise, uncertainty and dread, were mingled. they were presently interrupted by a knock at the door, imme- diately followed by the entrance of one of the queen's ladies, bringing a paper of directions to be followed by the sisters. these directions related to the times at which the respective medicines were to be taken, and appointed two of the court to be present and witness the performance, as the omission of a single draught or pill (so said the lady who brought the paper) might do infinite mischief. at the expiration of three days the sisters might hope to experience the effects of the medicine, and might possibly find them- selves actually transformed into the image of pig-faced blessedness. then they would be allowed, and in fact expected, to abandon their former dress so far as concerned the covering of their legs, and to assume that garment which in the civilized countries of the world has always been considered the badge of superiority. the sisters heard and read the directions with trembling anxiety, which was not diminished when they were informed, that, before descending to supper at six o'clock, the two ladies who had been appointed to the task would wait upon them and administer to i 'queer folk. [in. each twelve drops of the celebrated elixir. on hearing this piece of news, they looked at each other in blank dismay, and seemed to feel pigs' bristles already growing out of their tender cheeks. heartily did they now wish that they had never run away from home, which, indeed, any boys or girls who ever do such a thing are quite certain to wish before long. it was, however, too late ; there they were, and they must make the best of it. this, however, was not easy. when people are affected by the receipt of startling news, we are apt to observe that what is called a "change of countenance" comes over them, but no news, good or bad, ever produced such a change as that with which the sisters were now threatened, and the whole thought of their hearts was bent upon one object—how to escape from their impend- ing doom. they had no long time for consideration. scarcely- had the large clock in the stable-yard sounded three- quarters after five, when a knock at their door pre- ceded the entrance of two of the court ladies, who, advancing with well-meant smiles, threw the sisters into deeper anxiety as to their future, by the hideous grimaces which they presented to their view. proceeding to the table, one of the two immediately uncorked the bottle libelled "fright's elixir," and deliberately measured twelve drops into a small wine- glass. she then presented it to clara, and invited her to swallow it at once. the poor child hesitated at first, and felt a trembling sensation creep over her as though she must either cry or faint. recovering her- self, however, by an effort of her noble nature, she ill.] the pig-faced queen. looked first to the right hand and then to the left, and then, with a graceful curtsey, addressed the attendant lady in these words :— "pray, madam, excuse my compliance with your wishes; but being perfectly in health, i have really no occasion whatever for medicine, which may perhaps prove hurtful to my system." on hearing these words both the court ladies took a step backwards, and regarded clara with looks of astonishment. "good gracious me!" exclaimed the first. "was ever such a thing heard of? not take the medicine which the queen has ordered for her!" "why," cried the second, "you poor silly child, how do you ever expect to become properly pig-faced like the rest of us if you neglect the usual course of operations?" clara shuddered as she meekly replied :— "but i really don't want to be pig-faced." "not want to be pig-faced!" screamed both the ladies in one breath. "oh, the little idiot! oh, the weak-minded little fool! the queen must be told directly." and then the first lady laid her hand upon clara's arm in a kind and gentle manner, and said, in a tone of pity— "you don't know what is good for you, my dear, that is very plain; but fortunately for you, there are other people who are wiser, and the queen will have her orders obeyed; of that you may be certain. let us hope, however, that your sisters will be more tractable." queer folk. [nn so saying, she turned to bertha and mathilde, and offered to each in succession the glass which con- tained the elixir. these young ladies, however, having no desire whatever to become pig-faced, and being, moreover, encouraged by the example of their elder sister, resolutely refused the proffered draught. the worthy court lady threw up her eyes and elevated her snout in surprised indignation. "what an obstinate family !" she cried. "it is but too plain that they have inherited all the vices of their father, whoever he may have been, and that their poor mother must have been a woman of no force of character whatever. well, however this may be, the queen must be informed, at all events, and that immediately." so saying, she quitted the room with her com- panion, and left the sisters alone. as soon as this had occurred, the young baron- esses looked at each other in dismay and then burst into tears, bewailing the sad prospect before them. they had not much time for lamentations, however, before the door was again thrown open, and the queen entered, followed by a number of her ladies. it was easy to see that her majesty was in no very good humour—in fact, without any great departure from the truth, she might have been said to be in a towering passion. "what is this that i hear?" she cried in a loud voice; "three young runaways, whom i have kindly- received into my kingdom, and to whom i have offered all the blessings of pig-faced happiness, to dis- obey my commands upon the very first day of their s iii.] the pig-faced queen. ■ visit? surely they must have the perverse and stub- born folly of males concealed beneath a female skin! speak, then, presumptuous girls, how is it that ye dare to slight my power and to refuse the wholesome medi- cine with which i have directed you to be supplied?" "may it please your majesty," replied clara, meekly, "we are very sorry to appear disrespectful, which is far from our intention, but we think our relations would not like us to change our heads altogether,— and—and—and—we should rather not be pig-faced." "rather not be pig-faced!" shouted the queen at the top of her voice; "hoity-toity! whom have we here, that sets herself up above the laws of the land? much you cared for your relations, either, when you ran away from home! your heads must have been turned when you did so, and will now be much the better for being changed altogether. in this country women are all equal among themselves, and how can this be if you are allowed to remain with heads entirely different from the rest of us?" "but," urged clara, timidly, "if all are equal, how is it that your majesty is queen over the rest?" "hold your tongue," exclaimed the queen, sharply: "the superior sex does not argue by logical rules. all are equal except the queen and such as the queen chooses should not be equal, nor does it be- come a mere stranger and a silly girl to argue with royalty. will you take the elixir, or won't you?" "i must really beg to be excused," said clara. "and you?—and you?" asked the angry queen, turning hastily to the other two, who each joined in clara's refusal. ^ queer folk. [lit "then," said her majesty, in solemn tones, "you will have yourselves to thank for the unpleasant con- sequences. the power of woman is not to be defied even by her own sex. seize the recreants!" as she spoke she turned to her attendant ladies, several of whom instantly seized each of the sisters, and, in spite of their struggles, soon succeeded in over- coming their resistance, and held them so tightly that they could not move. then the queen approached clara, seized her by the nose, and, with the assistance of an attendant, obliged her to open her mouth, whilst her majesty slowly dropped the twelve drops of elixir into her mouth. as they trickled down her throat, clara felt that she was lost: nor was the sensation removed when her tormentor, bidding the attendants not to relax their hold, changed bottles, and thrust down her throat a dessert-spoonful of the cordial of the famous hen- pecker, which was so extremely disagreeable to the taste that the poor young lady could scarcely swallow it. there was, however, no alternative, and the same process was presently gone through with bertha and mathilde, much to the disgust of both. the three sisters were then released, and the queen prepared to leave the room. before doing so, however, she addressed the sobbing victims of her wrath in the following terms:— . "you have now had your first doses, my obstinate young friends. in three hours' time you will have your drops administered in the same manner, unless you have come to your senses by that time, and con- sent to take them quietly. three times a day for the queer folk. . [m. upon this the old man at once addressed clara in the following words:— "i see your tears, young baroness, and know the cause of your distress. your form is comely, and your face a fairy queen would not disgrace; and, by my beard, i'll say the same of both these ladies of your name. no wonder, then, you feel averse to change your visages for worse; and much object those draughts to swig which tend to make you heads of pig— say, what will you on him bestow who rids you of your present woe?" he paused, and clara felt very much puzzled what to do. she saw at once that she was in the presence of no ordinary being, and was well aware that when wizards or fairies address mortals in rhyme, they always expect to be answered in the same manner. but poor clara had never made a rhyme in her life, and looked first at one and then at the other of her sisters with a helpless and bewildered expression. mathilde was equally disconcerted, but it fortunately happened that bertha was able to come to the rescue. from a child she had always been partial to nursery rhymes, and having a tolerably retentive memory, she summoned these to her aid in order to ascertain the nature and intentions of the old man who had thus addressed them, and accordingly accosted him as follows :— "little boy blue, come blow up your horn—■ we be three maidens all forlorn: where's the little boy that keeps the sheep? save lis, good sir, before you sleep!" iil.] the pig-faced queen. no other rhyme occurring to bertha, she paused, upon which the old man replied at once :— "to save you 'twas i journeyed here, and those who trust me need not fear; i'm old enough, as you may see, your very grandfather to be, but yet i'm strong, as you will find, and friendly too, when so inclined." upon this, bertha, recalling another rhyme at once to her mind, continued— "please be friendly, grandpapa. how i wonder what you are! up above the earth so high, can you save us if you try f" the old man smiled as he held on by the ledge of the window, and thus proceeded :— "trust me, trust me, children three, saved you certainly shall be— but, within this pig-faced den where the women play at men, bide ye still a little while, guile encountering with guile. do ye all my face forget? lately in the wood ye met (as from home ye wildly ran) one ye deemed a starving man. heedless of yourselves ye gave t food that vagrant seemed to crave, and in giving, little deemed he was not the thing he seemed. i am he i that wretched thing is the mighty hawthorn king: he who hawthorn berry tries deadliest poison nullifies, cordial, drops, elixir fail 'gainst his system to prevail, just as 'woman's right's ' pretence yields in face of common sense." queer folk.' [in. as soon as the three sisters heard these words, they all broke out into cries of joy, and exclaimed with one voice— "oh, please give us some berries, sir; for we have had some of the medicine already, and are so afraid of what may happen!" the old man's brows wrinkled into a frown as he heard these words, and he replied, with a somewhat stately air— "the slowest dullard surely knows immortal beings love not prose, and those who seek some great behest should try in verse to do their best." on this the three sisters remained silent and trem- bling for a moment, until bertha resumed, in a voice full of emotion— "'tis the voice of the sluggard, i heard him complain, oh, sir! we will none of us do it again. as the door on its hinges so he on his bed, — pray give us the berries and save from pig's-head." the old man smiled graciously as she said these words, and drawing from his pocket three little gold boxes, handed them through the window to the baronesses, remarking as he did so— "i'm very glad to hear you try, in courtly form to versify, and readily my power i show to guard you from your pig-faced foe; two berries take at once, each maid; of nothing need ye be afraid; then next when royalty appears, smile pleasantly, and dry your tears; pretend repugnance to forsake and cheerfully your physic take. hi.]' the pig-faced queen. but, when you've carried out this plan, gulp down as quickly as you can two hawthorn berries round and red, and each shall keep her present head. there, thank me not! i tell you that i'm only giving tit for tat!" so saying, the old man let go his hold of the window- sill, pushed his balloon off, and in another instant was lost to the sight of the astonished sisters. you may well believe that they did not delay taking advantage of the course which the hawthorn king had pointed out to them—clara, bertha, and mathilde instantly swallowed two berries apiece, and were charmed to perceive that a sufficient number remained in each box to allow of their repeating the operation after each dose of the obnoxious medicine. at the appointed time the queen sailed into the room, followed by her ladies, and, producing the bottle of drops, was about to order her attendants to seize the patients, when clara stepped forward and ad- dressed her, making at the same time a deferential curtsey. "madam," she said, "since your majesty left us, we have been considering how unwise we have been to dispute the wisdom and kindness of your majesty's intentions towards us, and how foolish to attempt to disobey your majesty's commands. we would therefore submit ourselves to your clemency as regards the past, and are prepared to be obedient and submissive for the future." at these words the court ladies all clapped their hands, and the queen, glancing around with a triumph- ant air, observed, in a self-satisfied tone of voice :— n queer folk. [in. "you have decided rightly, my children. resist- ance to my commands would have been idle folly; besides which, you may take it for granted that i am right in my views on your behalf. woman always is right, when unfettered by the pigmy intellect of man." the sisters said nothing, though the thought crossed their minds that they were as much women as the queen, and therefore, by her own reasoning, at least as likely to be right as she was, especially as no man was present to interfere. then the queen ordered the drop-bottles to be brought, and with her own hands measured out the appointed dose, which the sisters obediently swal- lowed, though they could scarcely avoid making wry faces at the exceedingly bitter taste. their royal visitor then informed them, that to reward them for their repentance and submission to discipline, they should have some supper sent up to their rooms; after which gracious permission she retired, and the young baronesses were once more left to themselves. it may easily be imagined that they lost no time in bringing out their golden boxes, and swallowing their berries with avidity. so contented were they with the present position of affairs, and so confident in the remedy provided by the hawthorn king, that they forgot all their past trouble and anxiety, and became positively cheerful; so that the court ladies who came up with their supper found both their spirits and appetites all that could be wished. they retired to rest at an early hour, and slept the dreamless sleep of innocent youth until far into the morning. iii.] 'the pig-faced queen. during the two days which followed no incident occurred which calls for special remark. the sisters took their meals with the court, and their medicine was regularly given them by the queen at the proper times. but on the evening of the second day her majesty visited them with a graver face than usual. "children," she said, "i cannot understand the reason of the apparent failure of the potent medicines which have been employed for your benefit. if all had been well, bristles should have appeared upon your faces before this, and your eyes and ears should have undergone a change: even if you had not absolutely arrived at the perfection of pig-faced beauty. but something has evidently gone wrong, though what i cannot say. i hope you have not been deceiving me in any way?" the sisters trembled and cast down their eyes, for they felt that they had certainly been guilty of deceit, justifiable though they believed it to be under the peculiar circumstances of the case; so they said nothing. "well," continued the queen, "i do not see how you can have done so, even had you desired it, for i have seen you take the medicines with my own eyes, and you have not been outside the house to have the chance of eating any thing which would counteract their effects, even if such thing existed. all may yet be well, and, anyhow, to-morrow you shall don those garments which alone befit the noble limbs of woman." these words somewhat alarmed the sisters, who had hitherto been allowed to retain their usual dress, n queer folk. [in. but had all along suspected that this would not long be the case. they discussed the matter after the queen had gone; and pondered, moreover, upon the course they would have to adopt when their berries should be exhausted. this was now nearly the case; and if the queen should think fit to extend the prescribed period of three days during which they were to take the drops, cordial, and elixir, they would be absolutely berryless. these were grave consi- derations, and the three young ladies awoke early the next morning with a new feeling of anxiety in their hearts. they were not kept long in doubt as to the inten- tions of their royal patroness. there appeared at their bed-side several of the court ladies, carrying with them the dresses which the three sisters were to wear for the first time. a neatly-fitting kind of polka was to cover their fair shoulders, and reach just below their waists; but before this could be donned, the garments which at home were only worn by persons of the other sex were to encase their tender legs. the manner of putting on and fastening these garments was carefully explained by the ladies who brought them, and who, whilst condoling with the sisters upon the unaccountable delay in the desirable change which might be daily expected in their appearance, congratulated them upon the gracious permission of the queen to wear at once the badges of superiority which already distinguished themselves. the sisters, blushing and trembling, heard the words which were thus addressed to them, and on iii.] the pig-faced queen. being left to themselves, hardly knew what to do. they had been informed that within the hour they would be visited by the queen, who would expect to find them properly dressed. nevertheless, in spite of their fears of her majesty, they felt an almost invincible repugnance to don the unaccustomed gar- ments. these were made of dark-blue cloth, with a stripe of gold down the side, being evidently in- tended to be worn in the presence of royalty, and were as well made as could be wished. but still they were trousers—undeniable trousers—and such as the young baronesses had never worn in their lives. after much consultation and doubt, they at last determined that it was utterly useless to refuse to obey the queen's orders, and that the attempt must be made. but in spite of the directions which had been given them, the young ladies were by no means clever in dressing themselves after this novel fashion. vexed and annoyed as they were at the strange and unusual obligation imposed upon them, they could not help laughing among themselves, and at each other, as they tried to perform the task—the difficulty of which they found considerable. they could not satisfy themselves at all. the things were so strange to them, and so much did they doubt and hesitate, that when the queen at last entered the apartment, she found clara standing before the looking-glass with her trousers buttoned on the hind side before; bertha sitting hopelessly on the side of her bed, with her little feet thrust into the legs of her new possession, which she was holding upside down, in evident perplexity as to what should be done queer folk. [iil next; whilst mathilde was regarding her hitherto- untried habiliments, laid at full length upon her bed, with a puzzled air which promised no very speedy solution of the difficulty which she found in deciding upon the manner in which to employ them. the queen was filled with indignation at the stupidity of her new subjects, and upbraided them in no measured terms. as this, however, did not tend to advance matters at all, she proceeded to give them instructions of a clear and definite character; and having shown them the manner in which her own garments were worn, stood over them until they were all three properly dressed. this part of the business concluded, her majesty addressed the three young baronesses in the following manner. "my children," she said, "i am by no means satis- fied with your progress up to the present time. according to all precedent, long ere this you should have lost that monotonous regularity of feature which distinguishes the man-obeying and enslaved women of ordinary human life. bristles, snouts, small eyes, and other leading characteristics of the free woman should have appeared, and you should all have been in a fair way to become fit companions for the strong- minded females who constitute my happy kingdom. i fear, however, that either your nature is incurably perverse, or that some spell, unknown to me, is work- ing against the efficacy of the medicines with which you have been supplied. i will not, however, as yet despair, you shall at once take a double dose of each medicine, and this shall be repeated at intervals of three hours during the day. if no perceptible effect m.] the pig-faced queen. has been produced by evening, it may be necessary to take other steps. your heads shall be shaved, your diet confined to pigs' feet and ears and an occasional rasher of bacon, and a daily bath in hog-wash may perhaps assist the due operation of the physic." with these words the queen quitted the apartment, leaving the sisters petrified with horror. at last, then, their doom was really at hand! escape seemed impossible! as to the diet, they cared but little for that, and had no particular dislike to the proposed change. but a bath in hog-wash! the very thought was misery. and now that it was proposed to shave their heads they began for the first time to appreciate the length and comeliness of those tresses whose colour had so often been a subject of complaint and regret. red hair might or might not be beautiful. after all, that was a matter of opinion, and there were probably countries in which black or brown hair was thought less desirable than ■ hair of the colour which they possessed. but to have no hair at all—to lose their natural possession, and to lose it with the distinct object and intention of the covering of their heads being assimilated to that of a pig—the thought was almost sufficient to drive any young lady mad, unless she were either a strong- minded female or the near relative of a philosopher, and the baronesses were neither. they consulted together, accordingly, upon their prospects, with hearts heavy and despondent; and all the more so as the berries in their golden boxes were nearly exhausted, and when these were gone, pig-facedness with all its horrors appeared inevitable. queer folk. [ill. before they had arrived at any determination, the queen returned with sundry of her ladies, administered the double doses of which she had spoken, and left the poor girls once more to themselves. they immediately swallowed their remaining berries, and then gave themselves up to despair. this was not diminished when, at the expiration of three hours, they had again to undergo the same ordeal, and that without possessing anything to counteract the effects of the medicines. as the day advanced, they grew more and more melancholy, and spent their time in alternate long fits of crying, and journeys to the looking-glass in order to see if the dreaded change had yet commenced. the shades of evening were already beginning to close round the royal palace, and the melanch y of the sisters appeared to increase with the growing darkness. all at once they were aroused by a noise at their window, and looking up, observed an old woman peering through the glass and making signs that they should throw up the sash, which they accordingly did. they then perceived that their visitor was mounted on enormous stilts, which enabled her to look in at the window without inconvenience; and putting two and two together, and remembering the events of the day before, they had not much difficulty in coming to the conclusion that this was the identical old woman upon whom they had bestowed their alms. indeed, if they had entertained any doubt upon the subject, it would have been speedily removed by the words in which the worthy dame at once addressed them:— queer folk. [in. this time she was accompanied by a larger number of ladies than had previously attended her, and the sisters perceived with horror that her majesty wore an apron, similar to that with which hair-cutters are apt to adorn themselves, and carried a large pair of. scissors in her hand. "now, my children," she exclaimed in a cheerful tone, "i am determined that there shall be no more nonsense in this matter. off comes your hair in the twinkling of an eye, and, with the other expedients which i have already mentioned to you, i have no doubt we shall soon bring you to a decent and proper appearance." with these words she approached clara, and at the same time motioned to her to be seated. clara was equal to the occasion, "may it please your majesty," she said in' a calm voice, "i do not wish to lose my hair, and shall be much obliged by your excusing me from the proposed operation." the queen stood stock still on hearing these words. no anger did she evince, as had been the case upon previous occasions, but a doubtful, irresolute expres- sion came over her countenance, and she scratched her left ear mechanically as she gazed on the daring baroness. "you don't want to lose your hair," she said in a musing tone, as if this was a new view of the business, which had then struck her for the first time. "you don't want to lose your hair—well, a person's hair is their own—certainly it is their own, though in your case i do not think it is a possession to be proud of. but are you really sure that you wish to keep hair of such a colour?" "quite sure, madam," replied clara, encouraged by iii.] the pig-faced queen. the evident effect which the ring was producing upon the queen. "well then," continued the latter, "if such is your decided wish, i do not know that i have any reason to take it from you against your will. but is this likewise the opinion of your sisters?" as she spoke the queen turned to bertha and mathilde with an inquiring look. both young ladies hastened to assure her majesty that they entirely agreed with their sister, and would prefer to keep the natural coverings of their heads. "well," observed the queen upon hearing these sentiments, "since you are all three of the same opinion, i feel that it would be unkind to force you to undergo an operation to which you have so much objection. but perhaps you do not entertain the same views with regard to a hog-wash bath?" at these words the three sisters simultaneously uttered an exclamation of horror, which appeared greatly to surprise their royal visitor. "what," she cried, "you object to that too? really this is very extraordinary. however, i feel strangely and perhaps foolishly good-natured to-day, and there- fore will not insist upon it. you shall merely take your double dose of the medicines and see what they will do for you." "thank you, madam," replied clara, with a pro- found curtsey, " but i would request your majesty, on behalf of my sisters and myself, to excuse our taking any more of these nasty mixtures. in fact, we con- sider that they do us no good, and we would greatly prefer to leave them off." queer folk, [in. "leave off your medicines!" cried the queen, in a voice of the utmost astonishment. "why, the girls must be mad! i cannot think of such a thing." as her majesty spoke, however, her eyes fell upon the rings which the sisters wore, and passing her hand over her forehead with a troubled air, and stroking her snout reflectively, she continued— "i cannot think what has come over me to-night! i do not like yielding to folly, and folly it is for any- one to reject the chance of becoming privileged and pig-faced; but these girls are young—doubtless they will grow wiser as they grow older; they are strangers, too—it would be inhospitable to force them to do that against which they are prejudiced. yes, cer- tainly, it would hardly be kind. we will wait a while and think the matter over." thus speaking, her majesty quitted the apartment with her ladies, and the sisters were once more left to themselves. "oil, clara," cried mathilde, immediately, "how delightful! we shall not lose our hair after all!" "nor be pig-faced!" joyfully exclaimed bertha. "how very kind of the hawthorn king and his queen, and how fortunate we are to have met with such friends." clara shook her head and looked doubtfully at her sisters. "yes," she said, thoughtfully, "it is certainly very lucky that we have been saved thus far, but we are still in the palace of the pig-faced ladies, and i see not how we can possibly get away from it. i wonder whether we ought to have asked the queen to send us i go queer folk. [ill. past seven o'clock the next morning that they were wide enough awake to remember all the circumstances which had occurred on the previous evening. clara, however, having looked at her watch, and finding that it was half-past seven, called to her sisters im- mediately, told them the hour, and reminded them that the power of their rings would shortly cease, and they must expect further trouble. the poor girls trembled at the prospect before them, but having nothing to do but to make the best of it, arose and dressed, cheering each other as well as they could. their toilet was scarcely finished before a loud knocking at the door was followed by the entrance of several of the court ladies, who came to inform them that the queen desired their immediate attendance in the great breakfast-room. accordingly they finished dressing as quickly as they were able, and descended the stairs in fear and trembling, all the more so as a glance through the window on the staircase informed them that the great clock over the stable was just about to strike half-past eight, so that it was pretty certain that the twelve hours of the spell had now expired! of this unfor- tunate fact they were no longer in doubt from the moment of their entrance into the breakfast-room. the queen was seated in a chair at one end. upon a table upon her right-hand stood the well-known bottles of medicine, near which lay a large pair of scissors. but, worse than all, three large baths had been placed upon the floor upon her majesty's left hand, which were each half full of undeniable hog- wash, and behind each of which stood two elderly § iii.] the-pig-faced queen. ladies of the pig-faced tribe with aprons tied round their waists and holding thick rough towels in their hands. the young baronesses gazed upon these prepara- tions with the greatest alarm. it was but too evident that the fatal moment had arrived, and that unless some speedy succour was afforded them, the crisis of their fate was at hand. tossing her snout proudly in the air, and laying her short ears back upon her head as far as she could, the queen rose from her chair as the sisters entered the apartment. "now," she said, "young women, i have had quite trouble enough with you already! i cannot think what made me so foolishly good-natured last night, but whatever it was, the weakness is over, and to-day i must and will have obedience to my orders. you will immediately take the medicines which i have here; you will then be cropped by persons who understand the business; after which you will be good enough to divest yourselves of your clothes and each of you get into one of these baths, where you will be thoroughly well scrubbed by certain of my ladies who have kindly volunteered to perfom the task. you do not know what is good for you, young women, and it is high time you should be taught." all the court ladies who stood round about the queen as she pronounced these words gave vent to their feelings of approbation by clapping their hands, and showed evident delight at the prospect of some amusement from the scene which they expected to follow. the sisters, on the contrary, were overwhelmed with terror and despair. to be forced to take the queer folk. [hi. hated medicine was bad enough—worse to be con- demned to lose their hair, but to be stripped and washed in hog-wash before all the court ladies was a thing too terrible to be endured, especially when it was to be accompanied or followed by a scrubbing from the very coarse towels which were in the hands of those appointed for the performance of this part of the operation. terror rendered the poor girls speechless, and the queen had actually laid her hand upon the nearest bottle of medicine for the purpose of uncorking it, when a loud noise at the other end of the room at- tracted everybody's attention. the door was thrown suddenly open, and an old man and woman appeared walking slowly forward, and pushing aside those who seemed inclined to prevent their progress. the sisters recognized at a glance the figures of their friends the hawthorn king and his consort, but no one else seemed to have any idea of the rank of these unex- pected guests. nor, indeed, did their garb betoken royalty, for the illustrious couple were clad in the same scanty and time-worn apparel as that in which they had presented themselves to the sisters in the forest. side by side they advanced up the room, and in a voice apparently tremulous with age and agitation the old man spoke, as he drew near the chair on which the queen was seated. "of your clemency, gracious lady," he said, "in- terpose your lawful and great authority to settle matters between this my wife and me, for we can by no means do so for ourselves." iii.] the pig-faced queen. "how now, varlet?" replied the queen in some anger. "do you thrust yourself into our presence in this manner, without audience sought or prayer for admission sent to us? where are your manners, sir knave?" "i crave pardon, royal madam! i crave pardon humbly," said the man; "but your gracious mood is so well known hereabouts, that as our business was rather pressing, we made bold to come hither without delay." the queen, being somewhat mollified by these words, rebuked the old couple no more, but in a softer and more encouraging tone of voice told the man, that as he had obtained entrance into the palace, he might state his business without further ceremony. having thus received permission to speak, the aged intruder bowed lowly and reverently before the royal lady, and thus commenced :— "you must know, madam," said he, "that this my wife and i have lived in a plain, old-fashioned way for many years, she being generally obedient to me and regarding me as the lawful and proper ruler of the house." at these words a low groan of disapprobation ran through the court circle, and the queen threw up her snout in a manner palpably contemptuous. nothing disconcerted, however, by these demonstrations, the old man continued his address. "we have lived contentedly in this manner," said he, "for many years. my wife kept house at home and i worked in the forest as a wood-cutter—and we got on tolerably well. but of late we have come to o i queer folk. [in. see the wisdom of the laws by which your majesty's kingdom is governed. my wife claims to have equal authority with me in the house, and not only so, but asserts that she is the superior being, and that i am bound to obey her will, and acknowledge and bow before her greater wisdom. to this, gracious queen, i readily consent." there arose a murmur of applause among the court ladies, and the queen nodded her head approvingly. "but," continued the speaker, "a new cause of dis- sension has sprung up between us. since i am no longer admitted to be the stronger of the two, i think it is but fair that my wife should share my hard work. why am / to do all the wood-cutting, in bad weather as well as good, while she stays comfortably at home? i am not such a good cook as she is, and confess that i understand but little of the art of baking: i am willing, however, to try my hand at these and other domestic occupations to which my wife formerly attended, but i insist upon it, that in return the good woman must help me with my wood-cutting, and should, moreover, take her turn to act as parish constable, which has fallen to my lot for many years past. as she refuses, and we could not settle the matter by argument, we have left our country, which adjoins your majesty's kingdom, and have come to ask you to be graciously pleased to decide it for us." as the old man concluded, there was a low buzz of mingled wonder and approbation among the crowd of pig-faced ladies who filled the room. that a man should thus voluntarily come from another country and submit his case to the decision of their queen was, in.] the pig-faced queen. indeed, a moral triumph of no ordinary kind, and they hailed the circumstance with delight, as another tri- bute paid to the superiority of womankind over the baser and harder portion of created beings. the queen was equal to the occasion. rising with an air of conscious dignity, from which the peculiarity of her head and face detracted nothing in the eyes of those who were similarly situated, she addressed the applicant for her decision in tones firm and deter- mined :— • "man," she said—" aged but ignorant man,—you have at least done well in the step which you have now taken. you have, however, altogether misunder- stood the relative positions which you and your wife ought henceforth to occupy. you have yielded up the false authority which you have hitherto exercised over this worthy woman. you have, indeed, prac- tically confessed that she is the superior—you the inferior—animal. it follows, therefore, that to her authority you must be subject; her will you must obey. and since nature has formed you for the harder work which is carried on out of doors, this you must continue to perform, without requiring that aid from your wife which she is unable to bestow. obey her in all things—work for her—defend her—and acknowledge her as your lawful head. and as to the constable part of the business, the duties of a constable are not such as a woman can be expected to perform, being better suited to the harder nature of a man. go; you have my decision, and had better respect it." when the queen had finished, the behaviour of the old man became strange in the extreme. instead of o queer folk. , [in. withdrawing from the room in the same respectful manner as he had entered it, and quietly submitting to the decree which had been just announced, he put his arms akimbo, and burst into a loud and insulting laugh, in which he was heartily joined.by his wife. the queen arose, filled with indignation, and was about to give orders for his instant seizure, when the old man waved his arm in the air with a lofty gesture, and, somehow or other, as he did so, a mysterious dread fell upon the assembled court, and no one seemed to have the power of moving from her place. "fool!" exclaimed the venerable stranger; and those who looked towards him (and, who did not ?) remarked that his form seemed to grow larger, his demeanour to become more and more dignified, and his whole appearance to acquire a majesty which struck the beholders with astonishment and awe. "pig-faced fool!" again said the old man, unmis- takeably addressing the queen; "is it you who appeal to nature, who scout and set at nought that very nature in your everyday acts and in the maxims by which you rule your kingdom? will your folly never have an end? and do you seriously believe that you can ever induce the world to join you in your mad attempt to change the laws by which the universe has been governed ever since it was created? you have just owned with your own lips that there are duties which must be performed by man on account of his greater strength, and yet you would have the stronger being confess himself inferior to the weaker! if woman is to share equally the authority iii.] the pig-faced queen. j of man, she must equally share his duties, and if she is to be his superior, she must take the greater share of those duties. oh, the stupidity of you pig-faced females! have you not the sense to see that there are household and domestic duties which man cannot perform so well as woman—and some of which, in fact, he cannot perform at all; and can you not per- ceive that in the due exercise of these duties lies the true power and beauty and usefulness of woman in the world's organization? but i have no time to waste upon your nonsense to-day: you are welcome, poor queen, to keep those as your subjects who prefer to remain so. they are mostly females who have failed to attract the admiration of the other sex, or who have not been blessed with children, through whom their thoughts might have been directed into a better channel. keep these if you please, but there are some here whom you must keep no longer. it is intolerable that you should not only be pig-faced and foolish yourselves, but should endeavour to reduce every lady visitor to your own unhappy condition. to this i shall put an end." the old man had spoken these words without inter- ruption, for fear, surprise, and curiosity had hitherto kept everyone silent. but the queen about this time found her voice, and, trembling with suppressed rage, thus addressed her extraordinary visitor :— "man—old man—impertinent old man—very im- pertinent old man,—who are you, and what is this nonsense you are daring to utter in the dominion of woman? seize him, my subjects, seize the villain at once!" in.] the pig-faced queen. to the young ladies who have lately been your guests, the hawthorn king, and this is my royal consort who accompanies me. my power in the world of magic is considerable, and i would gladly exert it on your behalf if such an exercise were possible. but i have no power to help people who do not desire to be helped and who will not help themselves. therefore, whilst you continue to be so delighted with your own appearance and opinions, i cannot attempt to change either the one or the other. you must go on fighting against nature and nature's laws until you are tired of doing so. meanwhile, however, i propose to intro- duce a change into your kingdom at which i think you will rejoice. since you are, in your own opinion, so superior to those of the other sex, the perpetual contrast between your and their qualifications can be good for neither of you; i shall therefore banish every male person from your kingdom from this day forth, and leave you to govern superior beings alone." at these words the queen and her ladies, suddenly finding their voices, burst forth into one wild shriek of rage and dismay, which, however, produced not the slightest effect upon the hawthorn king. proceeding to the courtyard, he directed the attendants to bring out the horses belonging to the three baronesses, after which he summoned every male in and about the palace, until a goodly band of fifty were assem- bled around him. these he ordered to mount horses taken from the palace stables, which seemed to be well filled, and to follow him. the king then laid his hands upon each sister's head, and gave them his parting blessing. queer folk. [in. "my children," he said, "these people, whom i have freed from their absurd condition of slavery to the pig-faced women, will escort you safely to your father's castle. from all that has occurred to you since you left it, i hope you will have learned that to run away from home is just the most foolish thing you can possibly do. 'home is home, be it never so homely,' and your father and mother are the best friends you will ever have. go, then, make amends for your desertion of your parents by a renewed dis- play of affection and respect, and remember how for- tunate you have been to have avoided the fate into which you had so nearly fallen." so saying, the old man turned away from the palace, and the sisters saw no more of him. the band of attendants with which he had provided them seemed to take it all as a matter of course. dividing themselves into two parts, half preceded, half followed the young ladies, and so they rode gaily through the forest the way appeared shorter than when they had travelled it before; no particular adventure occurred, and they arrived in due time before the castle of their noble father. the good man was much astonished at the sight of so large a cavalcade approaching his abode, and sallied forth with divers men-at-arms to ascertain the cause of their coming. great was his satisfaction at discovering the meaning of the advancing troop, nor was the baroness less delighted at regaining her daughters. when their departure had been discovered, the usual course of events in such cases had naturally followed. hi.] the flg-faced queen. - the beauty, talents, and virtues of the three sisters had been remembered—the colour of their hair had been forgotten. the unhappy parents blamed themselves, and imagined all possible disasters to have occurred to their beloved daughters. the country had been scoured far and wide; the matter had been put into the hands of the police (of course without the slightest result, except the arrest of three men who had nothing whatever to do with it, and had to be largely compen- sated afterwards), and advertisements had been fruit- lessly inserted in all the local newspapers. the reappearance of the young ladies, however, set everything right, and great were the rejoicings that fol- lowed. in the first instance, however, the girls having gone with the baron to find their mother, encountered that estimable lady in one of the drawing-rooms, in which large and costly mirrors were a striking feature among the furniture. glancing at themselves in one of these, the sisters started back in astonishment. the colour of their hair had visibly changed from red to a delicate brown. yes, the obnoxious tinge had gone, and nothing was left to be desired. no doubt it was the touch of the hawthorn king which had effected this miraculous change, when he laid his hands upon their heads at their last parting. but however this might be, the result was eminently satisfactory, especially to the old baron and baroness, who, if they had still any latent prejudice upon the subject, had now no grounds whatever for objection to their children. the latter speedily told their story, and related all that had befallen them since their departure from the palace. their parents heard with astonishment and queer folk. [in. interest, and expressed in grateful terms their kindly feelings towards the hawthorn king. they gave a royal entertainment to the band of attendants who had so faithfully escorted the young ladies upon their homeward journey, and congratulated them upon their escape from the false position which they had evidently occupied in the dominion of woman. of the latter i can tell you nothing more. very likely the queen still goes on as she did when the sisters were there, and as long as there are foolish men to compose elixirs, and draughts, and drops, of the kind i have told you of, i daresay the world will never be without its pig-faced women. but the world will probably go on just the same, as long as it goes on at all, and nature will not be changed to suit the fancy or convenience of these superior beings. i do not know that i need say much more about the three young baronesses. the colour of their hair before the events which i have narrated having been their only defect in the eyes of their parents, the latter became so devotedly attached to them that they ran the greatest risk of being entirely spoiled. fortunately, however, this was not the case. they were not long in discovering that their mission upon earth was neither to be pig-faced nor single. three eligible suitors appeared, who, although of the male gender, were as gentle as possible in their behaviour before they were married, and, strange to say, never beat, bullied, or teased their wives afterwards. clara, bertha, and mathilde, never claiming rights which nature had denied to them, found that the privileges of their sex were willingly conceded to them by their iii.] the pig-faced queen. husbands, and that they really enjoyed quite as much influence and authority as they could desire. they had children, beautiful as themselves, with hair which was all that could be desired. they lived upon the most affectionate terms with their husbands, and with all their relations. they had not the slightest inclination to leave their respective homes, of which each was, in fact, the idol, and the chief source of happiness to all around her; and i believe it is not too much to say that never did any moment of pass- ing discontent or sorrow lead them for a single second to desire even a temporary return to the pig-faced queen and the dominion of woman. iv. little grub. there was once a boy named grub. it was not a pretty name, and, for the matter of that, he was not a pretty boy. there he was, however, all the same; and if you come to think of it, the boy could not help either his name or his want of beauty. it must be owned that soap and water might have done some- thing for him. not that it could or would have made him beautiful, but a clean boy is better than a dirty boy any day in the week. well, grub was dirty, decidedly dirty. people do get dirty, whether they be boys or men, if they habitually play in the gutter, make mud-pies, and roll upon cinder-heaps. these were favourite amusements of grub, and, as he lived in a free country, why shouldn't he have amused him- self as he pleased? he had no father or mother, poor little fellow, so that he was not looked after very carefully. he had never known who his father was, or if he had ever had a father at all; and if he ever gave the matter a thought, he probably imagined the beadle of the parish to stand in that relation to him, iv.] little grub. inasmuch as that mighty official, popularly known to grub and other boys of his age and size as "old beagles," was the only person who ever evinced any- thing like a paternal interest in him, by rapping him occasionally on the head, and objuring him to get off the church steps, under the endearing title of "ouda- cious young varmint." his mother grub could just remember, not her face indeed, but a loving smile and last kindly look, such as dwell upon infant memories far oftener and longer than older and wiser heads believe or imagine. since her death little grub had lived with an aunt; at least, she called herself his aunt, though whether she was so or not he had no means of knowing. at least she asserted the rights of an aunt: boxed his ears occa- sionally, scolded him frequently, and bound him by solemn league and covenant to bring home anything which he might pick up on his travels. he picked up something occasionally, no doubt; but i am not going to say anything more about that, because it has nothing to do with our story, and i only mention it because it was the fact of his not having picked up anything one day that led to the circumstances which i am going to relate. all day long had little grub roamed about the streets, playing with other boys, shouting at in- offensive dogs when they least expected it, marking clean door-steps with the most approved mud pat- terns, and behaving himself in the generally ob- noxious manner of a street-boy in a large town. he had even gone so far as to throw a lump of mud upon the clean calves of a particularly smart footman o queer folk. [iv. who was walking behind his mistress with becoming dignity, and had insulted the sacred person of a majestic butler by planting his thumb grimly against the tip of his nose, and spreading out his fingers at full length in a wild and reckless manner. these innocent pastimes, however, had come to an end, and the pangs of hunger had begun to remind our hero that his morning meal had been scanty, and that his internal larder stood much in need of some re- plenishing process. grub was about twelve years old, at which age the appetite asserts its claims with some vigour, and when nothing comes amiss to a boy of ordinary capacity. unhappily for grub, there was no apparent prospect of eating where he was—which was in the middle of a large puddle—and little more in the event of his going home empty-handed to his aunt. this made him rather cross, and he began to wonder why he couldn't eat when he was hungry, and to think how cross all the bakers and pastrycooks were, who, as he well knew by experience, would give him nothing but hard words if he ventured near their comfortable-looking, well-stocked shops. it was a kind of open space or square in which grub was occupying the chief puddle at this mo- ment, and people were crossing to and fro, all intent upon their own business, and none of them paying the slightest attention to the hungry boy. a tall gentleman, so upright that grub thought he must be a soldier, passed near him, after whom the boy gazed with silent wonder whether he ever had a chance of growing so tall; then came a "young lady" x queer folk. [iv. round with a placid smile, and calmly pointed at grub with his umbrella. it was to all appearance an ordinary green silk umbrella which had seen some service, and had nothing particular about it. nevertheless, no sooner was it pointed at grub, than he felt a kind of strange fascination, which completely overcame him and de- prived him of all wish or power to move. slowly the old gentleman approached the point nearer and nearer to the trembling boy, and then giving him a gentle but decided "prod" in the side, turned round and proceeded slowly on his way. impelled by some sweet but irresistible influence, the unhappy grub had no alternative but to follow. visions of policemen, of magistrates, of whippings, all flitted before his miserable eyes, but he could no more run away than he could fly; and, with a heart de- pressed, and a head hanging sadly down, and a stomach still pining to be filled, he followed step by step behind the object of his late exploit, not knowing why or wherefore, but entirely unable to do any- thing else, or to offer the smallest remonstrance. on marched the old gentleman, with a slow and stately step, until he reached the other side of the square, and took his way up a small street which led into one of the main thoroughfares of the city, which he forthwith entered, and threaded his way among the busy throng of citizens, still followed by the trembling and wondering grub. presently they came to a court leading out of the large street, into which they turned, and beheld immediately before them a large red-brick house. there appeared to be no door whatever in iv.] little grub. the wall towards which they marched, and grub, though too much bewildered to be able to think much, did think it very curious that his venerable leader should apparently be about to run deliberately against a dead wall. this, however, as was very shortly apparent to the boy, was not the old gen- tleman's intention. he walked up to within a few feet of the wall, and then, raising the umbrella which had been so fatal to grub, with the end of it gave three solemn raps upon the bricks, whereupon a brick door, which no one could by any possibility have suspected to exist, so exactly did it resemble the rest of the wall, fell suddenly back and disclosed a wide passage, dimly lighted by some unseen lamps. then, for the first time, the old gentleman turned round upon the luckless grub, seized him by the scruff of the neck, and, before he could utter a scream or sound of any kind, dragged him inside the brick door, which immediately closed behind them. the terrified grub now perceived a wonderful change come over the appearance of his conqueror, for such indeed was the old gentleman. his body shortened, the tips of his toes turned up curiously, his nose became larger and curved in a fantastic manner, a strange hat appeared on his head, his eyes twinkled with a supernatural expression of mingled wit and cunning, and grub knew at once, from his general knowledge of street shows and puppets, that this must indeed be punch himself, or punch's own brother, into whose hands he had fallen. indeed, if he had entertained any doubts upon this interesting subject, they would have been speedily p queer folk. [iv. removed by the next proceeding of his captor, who in a shrill, squeaky voice exclaimed— "judy, judy! oh dear, oh dear; here's a bit of fun! toby, toby, toby!" and in another instant a door was thrown open, from which there issued into the passage a female of eccentric appearance, with a high, old-fashioned cap on her head, and followed by a small spaniel with a curly tail, who ran straight up to grub, and made as if he was about to snap at his legs. the boy naturally shrunk away from the dog, who then proceeded to stand on his hind legs and dance a hornpipe, which would have greatly amused grub at another and less critical period of his existence. now, however, he could only shiver with fright, and wonder what was going to become of him, and was more frightened than ever when punch continued— "oh judy, my duck! such a young rascal of a boy—throwing mud about and splashing dirty water over quiet passers-by. he's mine, he's mine—-just the sort we can manage. come and see the others, and where he'll fit in." although grub by no means understood the mean- ing of these words, he felt pretty certain that they boded him no good, nor was he by any means re- assured when judy, clapping her hands vehemently, exclaimed with great glee— "hurra, hurra! oh yes, oh yes! he's just the thing we want, and the sugar is all ready. you dear old punch, how cleverly you do manage things!" with these words she threw open the door of the room which she had closed behind her, and re-entered iv.] little grub. it, followed by punch dragging in the wretched grub by the left ear. it was a spacious room with a large deal table in the middle, so large that grub thought he had never seen anything like it before. upon the table there was an immense dish, and in the dish the biggest twelfth-cake that the eyes of childhood ever beheld. it was a positive monster, and whitened sugar of the most approved kind encrusted it all over, as is the usual fashion with cakes of this description. upon the sugared surface of the cake were numerous figures, just as you may have seen upon the twelfth-cakes which sometimes appear at christmas time—which are, in fact, wedding-cakes; although which gave rise to the other—whether the proper name for a wedding- cake is a twelfth-cake, or the proper name for a twelfth-cake is a wedding-cake—is a point which it requires a more learned person than i am to pronounce upon with any degree of confidence. there was the cake, however, and there were the figures, which, of course, to correspond with the size of the edifice on which they stood, were ten times as big as ordinary twelfth-cake figures. for one moment grub gazed upon these with admiration, and then, his admiration changed to awe when he recognized in each of the figures some real person whom he had seen or known outside in the busy world. there was little tommy jackson—sugared all over, but with his face just as it was when he was play- ing in the streets, only the mischievous look he had when he spread orange-peel judiciously on the pave- ment with dire intent of causing falls had changed to a sad expression of countenance, as that of a boy shut p queer folk. [iv. up in the schoolroom on a half-holiday and thinking of his companions enjoying the out-door pleasures denied to himself. then there was little mary purston, encrusted in sugar, and looking as miserable as could be. and several other of his companions did grub observe, all wearing upon their countenances a dismal and woe-begone expression. but there were others there besides. there was the portly mayor of the town, swelling with dignity, but fast by the feet in the sugared surface of the cake. there were one or two figures uncommonly like some of the city police—and there, why, yes! there certainly was " old beagles" himself. what did it all mean? what could it mean? grub could not imagine where he was, or what had happened. was he dead, and were all these people dead too? or what right had punch to treat them so? and was he to be served the same? in the midst of his fear and wonderings he heard punch say, in his own peculiar tone of voice, "now then, judy, where's the sugar?" and then it flashed upon him all in a moment that his fate was to be similar to that of the figures he saw before him— that he would be sugared all over, possibly baked, and stuck on the top of the cake with the others. scarcely had the thought crossed his mind when judy, in obedience to the orders of her husband, produced a pot, full of sugar in a state of paste, which she began vigorously to stir up, whilst toby danced round it on his hind legs and begged for a taste, which his mistress occasionally gave him. at this stage of the proceedings poor grub tried hard to find his voice, and actually gave vent to a queer folk. . [iv. unfortunate little fellow was fastened tightly to the top of the cake by the sugar-paste, which had become quite firm and hard, and held him there in the painful, if honourable, position of a twelfth-cake ornament. it was by no means a pleasant position as it was, thought grub, and one which he would never have occupied by choice; but it would be ten times worse if he was to be regarded in the light of an intruder by those who were already on the cake, and who evidently- resented his appearance amongst them. looking round to see who it was that had given so palpable an expression to this feeling, the boy found himself close to his old and inveterate enemy, "beagles," who, swelling with mingled dignity and passion, and with his cheeks more puffed out and fatter than ever, angrily regarded the unhappy grub, and again addressed him with scornful and upbraiding words: "where are you scrooging to, you young; willain?" now poor grub was "scrooging" no where, for the excellent reason that he was perfectly unable to move a single inch, and was, moreover, in his present posi- tion entirely against his will. nevertheless, he had evidently offended his neighbour, however uninten- tionally, and as a beadle is not a person who can be safely left unanswered if he condescends to address you, little grub summoned up all his courage to his aid, and meekly replied: "if you please, sir, i didn't mean for to go for to do anything." which answer, although neither strictly grammatical nor very definite, was the best which he could manufacture at the moment. iv.] little grub. the beadle, however, was by no means satisfied, and replied, in a severe tone, "come, none of this, you young varmint; you move on!" now this was exactly what grub would have given his ears to do, but which circumstances rendered quite impossible, so he remained precisely where he was, and whimpered out in sorrowful tones, "please, sir, i can't." at these words the face of the beadle grew redder and his manner more angry than ever, and he lifted his gold-headed cane in the air, as if intending to bring it down heavily on the boy's head. but at this moment the dispute seemed to have attracted the attention of the mayor, a portly-looking gentleman with rather a pleasant expression of countenance, who was fast by the feet in the very centre of the cake, and apparently quite resigned to his fate. "beadle," said his worship, in an inquiring tone of voice, "what are you doing there? i hear a voice as of a lad crying. for goodness' sake remember how dangerous such a thing might be under our present circumstances. our footing, although unpleasantly tight at present, would be infinitely worse if the fall- ing of hot tears should convert the surface upon which we stand into slippery ice, and this will certainly be the result if you make boys cry upon it. fast as we are by the feet, we should in that case slide bodily downwards, and probably experience a painful and perhaps fatal fall. wherefore, desist, and let the boy alone." the beadle made no reply, but casting an evil look upon grub, muttered something to himself about s queer folk. [iv. strange times, and boys being worse than ever, after which he sighed heavily and remained silent. grub now looked about him, and observed with some satisfaction that nobody seemed better off than himself: all were held tight by the feet, and could amuse themselves in no other way than by looking at each other. he fancied, however, that chance, or fate, or the clever management of punch, had put close together just those people who would probably have preferred being as far as possible from each other. close to the mayor was the editor of a local news- paper who had done nothing but abuse his worship ever since his election to his present high office. next to him was a rival editor, who had filled the columns of his paper with the most contemptuous reviling and bitter attacks upon the other gentleman of the press. the clergyman of the town was fastened cheek-by- jowl with a dissenting preacher who devoted his powers to weekly attacks upon the church. the landlord of the public-house nearest grub's abode was stuck down close to a leading teetotaller, who viewed beer, gin, and wine as so much poison. the grocer who sold wine over his counter was next to the pub- lican, who had loudly accused him of taking away his legitimate trade by this practice. the inspector of weights and measures was surrounded by trades- men against whom he had informed for having light weights and deficient measures in their shops; whilst the commissioners of income tax were in the midst of persons who had bitterly complained of being over- charged, and had, as, strange to say, was usual in that city, failed to obtain the slightest redress. iv.] ljttle grub. , little grub looked round upon the company with a curious eye, and wondered greatly at the manner in which they had been arranged. he thought there would very likely be some quarrelling or scolding among them, but the common misfortune in which they found themselves involved had apparently soothed all irritation in their minds, and everybody appeared peaceably disposed. in fact, had they been otherwise, the peculiar nature of their position would have rendered it difficult for them to have engaged in any active demonstration of anger against each other. it is true that their hands and arms were at liberty, but their feet were all so tightly set in the sugared surface of the cake that they could stretch or bend neither to the right nor left, and if they attempted to do so, there was the dreadful risk of losing their balance, and either breaking off short at the ankles, or suffering severely from the wrench they would have to undergo in recovering themselves. but whatever the reason might be, the whole company seemed to have forgotten the dislikes and jealousies which had distinguished them in their ordinary lives in the world where grub had known them, and all seemed to be awaiting their coming fate without thought of anything else. but what was their coming fate? grub had never known or heard or even dreamed of such an extra- ordinary state of things. the whole population of a town frozen upon a twelfth-cake! had such an event ever occurred before? was it real, or he dreaming? that kind of feeling came over him which we have all of us felt at some time or other when in the midst of some very vivid but extraordinary dream. one says to > iv.] little grub. to make one forget the outside picture at once in the sight of such delicacies within. all these things were upon the table of which i speak, and in the very centre of this was placed the cake upon which were fastened little grub and his fellow-townspeople. hardly had they recovered from the shock conse- quent upon the change from the comparative obscurity of punch's private room to this brilliantly-lighted scene of festivity, when a shout, or rather, a roar of excite- ment and pleasure, rang through their startled ears. little grub looked around, almost stunned by the sound, and saw at once that it proceeded from a num- ber of children who were assembled around the table, all eagerly gazing on the cake. children, indeed, they evidently were, from the tones of their voices, from the things they said, and from [the dresses they wore. but they were many times larger than any children that little grub had ever seen, and the few grown-up people who were amongst them were perfect monsters. strange thoughts flitted through the boy's head as he looked on the happy and excited faces of the juvenile party before him. they evidently regarded him and his companions as twelfth-cake ornaments. indeed, why should they not? grub had seen twelfth-cakes, with their usual ornaments, standing in the shops of , the principal confectioners in his native place, and though he had never been at a twelfth-cake party, he quite understood what happened to such things after- wards—how they were taken to the houses of those who were rich enough to buy them, and how the happy children who lived in such houses had the ornaments taken carefully off" and divided among queer folk. [iv. them. how curious it would be, if all these orna- ments were real people, like those on the cake with himself at that moment! perhaps this was the true state of the case, and the boys and girls who shared the pretty figures on the cakes he had seen were actually dividing among them real people, frozen on to the cake by the wicked arts of punch or some equally-powerful magician. then, if this was so, what became of the poor people afterwards? did they re- tain the power of sight, smell, and hearing afterwards? and did they ever get back to their own homes? or did they turn into mere dead images as soon as they left the cake, and become the absolute property of the children into whose hands they chanced to fall? these considerations mightily puzzled the boy as he stood in his place upon the cake, and listened to the conversa- tion of the children who crowded round the table. meanwhile, all power of speech or motion seemed to have departed from the figures upon the cake, or if such remained to any one of them, the party for. whose pleasure they were placed upon the table evidently did not perceive it, but spoke of and treated them as dumb and inanimate puppets, and pointed out to each other the different figures which particularly struck their fancy. "oh, look at that old woman with a pail!—how cross she looks!" cried one young lady, pointing to a figure whom grub recognized as old betty barlow, the washerwoman who lived hard by his own humble dwelling, and who had given him many a richly- deserved scolding for tricks which he had played her from time to time. iv.] little grub. "and what a roguish face that beggar-boy has got!" said another, pointing at grub himself, who felt very much disconcerted by the remark, but could make no rejoinder. then the children criticized the mayor, whom they called a pompous old owl, an epithet which must have been exceedingly annoying to the old gentleman, and which, if he could, he would doubtless have resented. but grub felt some consolation in his own misery when he witnessed the flood of ridicule which was poured upon the head of his old enemy " beagles." "do look at this comical figure ?" said one child to another; "what a red face it has!" "yes, and what a queer dress!" observed the second. and then a third and a fourth took up the tale. "look at its cocked hat!" "how conceited it looks." "a regular old slow-coach, i'll be bound," shouted a boy, jumping up on a chair to get a better view; "what a quiz of an old fellow he would be if he were really alive!" and so they went on laughing at the poor old beadle, until grub, who saw or fancied he saw him swelling ready to burst with rage and vexa- tion, really felt sorry for his ancient foe. for some little time this kind of conversation went on, until some one raised a cry that it was time to cut the cake! hope bounded instantly to the heart of grub, but only to be succeeded by the keen chill of disappointment. cut the cake! what good would that do him? he might be left on it after all, for the cake might be cut without all the ornaments being taken off it. supposing, however, that they were removed, would he be restored to life and action '" iv.] . little grub. and doubtless also to the crowd of fellow-sufferers around him, "come, children, here is a beautiful twelfth-cake, as you see, and lots of ornaments too. but before we begin, we must draw king and queen, you know!" then there arose such a babel of eager voices as grub had never heard ; all the children were delighted both at the sight of the cake and the prospect of the fun before them, and they gave full vent to their spirits and voices together. a temporary respite was given to grub and his companions, whilst the important ceremony of drawing king and queen took place. this was done in the following manner:— a number of folded pieces of paper were put into two baskets: upon each of these pieces of paper was painted the figure of a man or woman—the men being put into one basket and the women into another— and under each was written some amusing motto. but on one of them was the figure of a king in his robes, and on the other that of a queen. the baskets were then handed round to the children, and the boy and girl who drew the two last-mentioned figures were king and queen for the evening, having the first choice of ornaments off the cake, the right of settling what games should be played afterwards, and sundry other privileges of royalty. so this was an important part of the proceedings of the evening, and one which grub could not help watching with considerable interest, in spite of the pain in his feet and the general discomfort of his posi- tion. the drawing was carried on amid much excite- ment on the part of the juvenile party, and as each iv.] little grub. portentous voice, the presiding gentleman asked her to make choice of an ornament. not far from her side of the cake stood grub and his neighbour the beadle, but these were not figures to attract the notice of a lady. the queen desired that the cake should be turned round, and this was done twice, in order that her majesty might clearly see all those from whom she had to choose. now there was in grub's town a certain dame, the wife of a busy local man whose precise calling it would be difficult to describe, but who in fact was a little of everything. he and his spouse affected to lead the fashionable world of the place and to be: somewhat better than their neighbours, and the good' lady was always dressed in what she believed to be: the best and newest fashion. it was therefore not surprising that she had been placed upon the twelfth- cake in remarkably smart garments. i wish i could describe them properly, and i would try to do so if l were sure that only boys would read this interesfiihg- story. but a girl would certainly discover so many mistakes in my description, that, having a shrewd suspicion that young ladies occasionally read these veracious tales, i think it better to avoid being too precise. suffice it to say, therefore, that the lady in question had upon her garments of fine texture and quality, gay with all the colours of the rainbow, and such as to render her, at once and decidedly, con- spicuous among her companions. it was not wonderful, therefore, that upon her fell the choice of the queen, and no sooner had it been announced than the gentleman commenced removing q queer folk. [iv. its object from the cake. grub shuddered with horror as he perceived the point of the knife penetrating the sugared surface of the cake close to the good lady's feet, which made his own feel more painful than ever. the gentleman, however, proceeded with great care to cut away sufficient of the sugar and cake to make it quite easy to lift the figure from its position; this he accordingly did, and placed it in the hands of the queen, who appeared greatly delighted with her new possession, and apparently entertained not the slightest idea that she was capturing and enslaving a real person. at least, if she did know or suspect it, it made no difference whatever to her, nor indeed to any of the other children, who went on choosing figure after figure with the greatest delight. poor little grub stood trembling there all the time, suffering considerably in his feet, and seeing, with mingled fear and amazement, the removal of his fellow-townspeople from around him. his wonder arid horror were greater than ever when the mayor was chosen by a small boy as his especial prize. the mayor was a mighty functionary—a very king of men in the eyes of grub; and to see him taken to be made a plaything of was one of the most terrible events that grub could imagine, and made him feel as if the world must certainly be coming to an end at ■ once. but even this daring outrage upon propriet)' was eclipsed by the atrocity of the act which assailed the position of the awful "beagles." that ancient and time-honoured official was chosen by the king himself; and grub quite expected that he would instantly have iv.] little grub. arrested the king, or tapped him on the head with his wand of office, or at all events resented the insult to his office and dignity by some of those energetic and powerful acts of beadledom which are unknown to common men. no such thing! old "beagles " was as humble and passive an instrument in the hands of the children as any of the others, and when grub saw his red face, cocked hat, and portly person safely laid by the side of the king's plate without the slightest show of resistance, or even of life, he utterly lost his belief in the existence of anything brave, great, or powerful in the world in which he had hitherto lived, and gave himself up to the darkness of utter despair. it was still some time, however, before he himself was chosen, and he was beginning to hope that he might possibly escape after all, when a girl, with a kind expression of countenance and with eyes which seemed full of pity, came up to take her choice. "oh!" she said, "let me take this little boy. poor little fellow! how cold and miserable he looks—how natural he seems. i will certainly choose him." thereupon the gentleman with the knife plunged the point into the cake, and as the sugar broke away a pang worse than ever shot through poor little grub's feet, and he hardly knew how to bear it. "oh, the poor little fellow!" he heard the girl's voice say again; and with the very sound of those words ringing in his ears he opened his eyes and woke up!!! yes, he woke up! for all that had happened to little grub must, i suppose, have been a dream. when his eyes were opened, and his senses also were s q queer folk. [iv. wide awake, he saw no twelfth-cake, no party of children, and no room. he was lying in the corner of the small space or square of which i have spoken, crouched together upon the cold ground as if to wring out of it the warmth which he could not find in his scanty clothing, and with his little bare feet actually in a puddle like that which had been the beginning of all the curious things of which he had been dreaming in his troubled sleep. for, worn-out by cold, hunger, and fatigue, the boy had sunk down and fallen asleep, and then the dream-clouds had settled upon him, as they often do upon persons in such condition. he could not recollect where he really was, even when he was quite awake. all he knew was that he felt very faint and weak, and ill, and that there were real sharp pains darting through his feet, just as he had fancied he felt them on the cake. the truth was that the cold had seized upon his limbs, and the pains he felt were very real indeed. but real also were the sounds of pity which he heard. "oh, the poor little fellow!" were the words he had heard in his dream, and he now saw and heard that the person who spoke them was not a dream- land person, but a creature of flesh and blood. it was a girl, too, with face and eyes as i have already described her, who looked down upon him with kind and pitying gaze as she stood beside him. she was not alone, however, for she held the hand of a gentleman who was standing by her—a good- natured-looking gentleman, as grub thought at first sight, and i don't think that he ever changed his opinion. º -- |##! | | - | ls. | | i ºilii º | | | n #|| ||m|| || | | | | º | | tº º : . ~§.- iv.] little grub. * heard from his daughter kate that little grub was intelligent, anxious to learn, and of a grateful disposi- tion, and mr. kirby was a man who liked to encou- rage such qualities. so he kept his eye upon little grub, and frequently inquired about him. it was some time before he could find out anything about his relations and friends; for grub's aunt (if aunt she really was) had her own reasons for not being too- well known by persons in mr. kirby's position, which was that of a magistrate. however, he found her out at last, but only to discover that she cared nothing for the boy and was very glad to get rid of him. when at length little grub was well enough to- leave the hospital, mr. kirby determined that he should run no risk of relapsing into his former idle and useless life. accordingly, he obtained for him a situation as errand boy in a respectable office, and told the boy he would keep his eye upon him, and aid him to obtain an honest livelihood, if he would only try to aid himself. this grub promised to do; and faith- fully did he keep his promise. by dint of being always careful, punctual, active, and attentive, he gradually won the favour of his em- ployers, and was at length taken into the office as a junior clerk. here he still showed himself so intelli- gent and honest, and withal improved himself so- much by studying in his leisure hours, that he rose little by little in the office, until, before he had yet reached middle age, he found himself placed in the responsible position of head clerk. nor did he stop here: being of careful and saving habits, grub had laid by money during his years of queer folk. with a total disregard for clothes) cannot play with any comfort or pleasure. no, no, there must be straw littered about, and a ladder to climb up on the top of the heaped-up trusses, and lots of chaff and dust all over the place, and then it is something like a barn! there should also be rats and mice at hand —certainly the latter; and to make everything com- plete, there ought to be a dear old sober, blinking, white owl living at one end of the roof. all this might be said of farmer rendale's barn, and everybody knows that farmer rendale occupied the old court lodge farm, which his father and grandfather had held before him, and which his son would probably have held after him if he had not perversely died before his father. this, however, he did, some years before the date of the story which i am going to tell you, and hence the reason that there came to be children playing in the old court lodge barn, and cheering the old court lodge homestead with their merry voices. for john ren- dale did not die until several years after he had married bessie baldwin, and when his time came he left her to fight her way in the world with four little fatherless children. poor little bessie! she had been the daughter of a well-to-tradesman in the neighbouring town, but had turned her hand cleverly to farming matters when john rendale bore her off in triumph from her town admirers, and established her as mistress of the small farm which his father had hired for him some twenty miles from the old court lodge. a good little wife she made, and a happy man was john v.] the barn el ves. j rendale, especially when little dick and billy, polly and jessie, made their appearance in due time. fortune seemed to smile upon the family, and all went well until the fever came which carried off the bread-winner from the farm, and left bessie alone with her little ones. i do not know how she would have fared in this sore distress and trial, had it not been for the good old farmer. he had long been a widower, and it seemed to him that the best possible arrangement would be that bessie and her children should come and live with him. so, without more ado, he rode over to the little farm and settled the whole business, took all the trouble off his daughter- in-law's hands, and brought her and her family to the old court lodge farm, where they had been for some time settled at the commencement of our story. it was a larger farmhouse than that which they had left, and the little ones were so young that they soon got accustomed to consider it as their own real home, and almost forgot that they had ever lived anywhere else. dearly did they love the place, and mightily did they enjoy their games of play around the stacks and in the rickyard, and especially in the old barn, which was indeed a rare place for such things. for some time, however, the barn was no more to them than any other place, and they had no idea that it ever contained other inhabitants than the owls and mice which one usually expects to find in a building of that description. time, however, taught the little rendales a different tale, and showed them that the old barn had other tenants, of a strange and wonderful character. • > v.] the barn elves. iyj probably mistaken in supposing the sound to have come from above their heads. so, as nobody believed them, the children said no more about it, but it was several days before they again visited the barn. however, it was too good a place for play to be long neglected, and so in a short time they got over their fears, and indeed very soon became accustomed to several things which at first seemed extraordinary. shrill whistles occasionally sounded through the roof of the barn— laughter was again heard more than once, and now and then the children fancied—nay, were positively certain—that they heard strange voices among the rafters and in the head of the barn, and sometimes low sounds of music, inexpressibly soft and sweet however, as nobody interrupted them in their play, and they had no reason to be afraid, they very soon took little or no notice of these strange sounds, and, for more than a year after they had come to the old court lodge, continued to play happily in the barn without thought or care. dick was about twelve, billy ten, polly and jessie respectively nine and eight years old, when the circum- stance occurred which gave them the first real know- ledge of the quarter from whence these sounds in the old barn actually proceeded. they had been having a good game on an autumn's afternoon, having esta- blished some nine-pins on the barn floor, which they were engaged in knocking down and setting up again after the usual manner of nine-pin players. all of a sudden down dropped an egg, plump on the floor just before them. queer folk. [v. "hallo!" cried dick, "there's an egg! and it isn't broken either!" as he spoke, the children all ran towards the egg to seize it, when to their great surprise it began to roll away all of itself; and although they rushed after and tried to seize it, it dodged them all so cleverly did this wonderful egg, that none could ever touch it. whilst eagerly engaged in the pursuit, they heard a loud burst of the same old laughter over their heads, and looking hastily and anxiously up, perceived the laugher for the first time. it was a little man—a very little man, for he could not have been above eight inches high; moreover, it was a comical-looking little man, dressed entirely in red, with a black velvet cap on the top of his head, and a short pipe in his mouth, which is a very wrong thing for anybody to have in a barn, because a single spark might do dreadful mischief. but no sparks came from this pipe, probably because it was a magic pipe, which could do no harm to anybody unless the smoker wished it. the little man had the most roguish expression you can imagine upon his wizened old face; and there he was, seated astride of the big rafter over the children's heads, and grinning away at them as if he had just heard, or else made, the best joke in the world and was thoroughly enjoying it. the children looked up at this strange being in the greatest surprise, and stared as if the eyes would come out of their heads. the little man laughed all the more as he saw them staring, and then suddenly stopping his laughter, he proceeded to do something v.] the barn elves. still more extraordinary than the egg trick. he drew up his legs, turned rapidly head over heels, and then hung- by his toes from the rafter, swinging himself to and fro like the pendulum of a clock. then he jerked himself up again after a curious fashion, threw his legs once more over the rafter, cocked his velvet cap jauntily on one side, and looking down upon the children with an air indescribably comical, exclaimed in a clear voice, though rather shrill— "well ! how are ye, my chickabiddies, and how do ye like the looks of me?" for a moment not one of the children could find words to answer, so utterly bewildered were they by the unexpected sight of their visitor. presently, however, dick summoned up his courage and replied to the question— "we are all pretty well, sir, thank you. but how did you get up there?" at this the old man went off into another fit of laughter, so violent that the children began to think he would certainly burst, or tumble down on his head, or do something else equally unpleasant. however, after a little while he recovered himself, and winking at them with a comical eye, replied as follows:— "ay, don't you wonder how i got up here? it's more than you could do, master dick, or your brother bill there either!" the children were more than ever surprised at hearing that the little old man knew their names, and greatly wondered who or what he could be. so dick resolved to continue his inquiries, and accordingly again addressed his new acquaintance. queer folk. [v. "pray, sir," said he, " do you live up there, or where do you live?" "and what's your name?" shouted bill. "and why do you sit across the rafter?" asked polly. "and why are you dressed all in red?" demanded jessie. the three younger children having gathered courage to speak, and being equally with their eldest brother desirous of information, all uttered these exclamations at once with great eagerness. "oh dear! what a lot of questions!" said the little man, with a real or pretended sigh. "i don't tell everything to everybody, you must know, because if i did, i should have nothing left to tell anybody else." "but," said dick, seriously, "if you told everybody, there wouldn't be anybody else left to want to be told, so that couldn't be a real reason." "couldn't it?" said the little man, gravely, "then, perhaps it isn't. i never thought of that. but don't let us argue; there is nothing such a bore as a child that argues, especially if it argues with people older than itself, and i am much older—oh! hundreds of times older than you are, you know. why, i'm older than the barn!" "are you really?" exclaimed all the children, to whom the barn appeared a place of vast antiquity, and who accordingly looked upon the little old man as a prodigy of old age, as perhaps indeed he was, without any reference to the barn. "yes! i am really" continued the little old man; v.] the barn elves. at these words the elf who had been addressed as flitterkin, made a low and respectful bow, and turning round to his companions, gave them the signal to commence their games, which they were by no means slow to obey. and such games they were! you never saw anything so extraordinary. they twisted them- selves into the most fantastic shapes, turned head over heels, jumped leap-frog fashion one over the other, tripped each other up, and were evidently up to all kinds of mischief; though all, as the chil- dren observed, in perfect good humour. then those who were mounted on rats ran races, and engaged in tilting matches with straws, and jumped over straw fences set up for the occasion; and in short, indulged in every kind of amusement you can imagine. they were in the very midst of their fun, and the children were watching them with the keenest delight, when all of a sudden the door at the end of the barn was opened, and in came tom the waggoner for a truss of straw. in less time than it takes me to write it every elf had disappeared like magic, and the whole scene had vanished from the sight of the astonished children. "hallo, young uns," cried tom, who was a great favourite with the children, and always good-natured to them. "what! here ye are, in the barn as usual beant ye 'most tired of the old place?" they all interrupted him with a chorus of shrill voices: "oh tom! why did you come in just now? you've scared away all the elves, and spoiled such a beautiful game!" r ■ queer folk. [v. tom answered, with a pleasant laugh, "scared 't' elves away, have i? well, well, master dick, i ■expect all i've scared away will be back again pretty soon, and no great odds if they an't. / never see'd no elves—but you've made a pretty litter on the floor .amongst ye, anyhow!" and so saying, he shouldered his truss of straw, and (marched off. when he had gone and had closed the -door behind him, the children waited in breathless anxiety to see if the little people would return. they were not long kept in suspense. first one small head peeped out from behind a sheaf, then another and another, and rats' noses poked them- selves up from the most unexpected quarters. gra- dually the whole band of elves stole out from their various hiding-places; and in a few seconds the games were resumed, and the fun became fast and furious as ever. the children watched with intense pleasure, and roared with laughter at the curious sight before them. presently, however, a shrill whistle sounded through the barn, upon which the elves instantly hurried off again; and in a few moments the barn was ap- parently as quiet as if there were no living creatures within it. then the children went home, full of all that they had heard and seen, and were very much disappointed when they found that nobody would believe that they had really made acquaintance with ruby and his elves. however, being sensible children, they soon gave up talking about the matter when they saw that this was the case, and contented themselves with :s queer folk. "each child who sensibly attends to what he hears and what he reads, well knows that elves and owls are friends and vie in kindly words and deeds. an owl there was—a fav'rite l>ird who lived hard by in barracks wood, a bird who both in deed and word eschewed the evil—sought the good. some human fiends the other day for jackdaws' eggs as they did look, unfortunately took their way to this poor owlet's fav'rite nook. what could the demons be about? the bird to home still fondly clings, but clings in vain! they draw him out and pluck some feathers from his wings. then to their kitchen garden nigh, enclosed by wall of lofty height, they take the captive, wont to fly, but now, alas! deprived of flight. there was a tank within that place— a feeble hoot the victim gave, then, sooner than endure disgrace, sought in that tank a wat'ry grave. there in the morn his gaolers proud the body of their captive found; o'er which to-day our elfin crowd wails with a chaunt of mournful sound. oh woe is me! a-lack-a-day! how shall i miss his friendly hoot, when on the floor the elfins play, and i, above them, smoke cheroot! oh, owl so noble, good and bold, why dwell among those foul jackdaws? could not thy beak take firmer hold, thy talons act as saving claws? weep, weep, my children, weep with me the murder of the gentle fowl, for never on this earth can be a better bird—a wiser owl!" and the little man rocked his body to and fro as he v.] the barn elves. spoke, and wept again. this made the children feel rather unhappy too, and all the more so as they were unable to afford the slightest comfort to their friend in his affliction. being personally unacquainted with the departed owl, they could hardly be expected to feel so much grief at his untimely end as they might have felt if circumstances had been otherwise; but at the same time they were sorry for king ruby's •distress; and polly, inspired by dick's attempt at rhyme, determined to express her grief after the same fashion. regarding the little old man, there- fore, with a bashful look, she said very slowly, and in trembling tones— "we're very sorry, sir, your feathered friend has met witli such a melancholy end; but pray cheer up—'tis counsel wise and sound— it's better than if you yourself were drowned!" four lines were quite as much as polly could at- tempt, so she stopped here, and remained timidly glancing upwards at the little man. the latter, how- ever, listened with great attention to her remarks, and after a moment's pause answered her thus :— '' why, so it is! i thank you, pretty polly, the thought does help to banish melancholy; and since my friend is drowned, upon my word, to drown myself in tears would be absurd. a better plan i know, i'll shortly take dire vengeance for the murdered owlet's sake. ho! flitterkin! and all ye kindred elves, no need to hide ye longer—show yourselves!" as he spoke, elves came pouring forth from every ■quarter, but not by any means in the same gay manner queer folk. [v. or with the same mad spirit as on the previous occasion. evidently taking the cue from their king, the expression upon their countenances was mournful and dejected, and they paced the floor in slow and sad procession. then the king turned round, and gazed upon his subjects silently for a minute or so, as if he were pondering deeply upon some plan which he was resolved to carry out. presently he spoke again, whilst they all kept silence in the most respect- ful manner:— "'mischief,' 'noisy,' 'teaser,'—three of the wildest elves ye be— hence! go seek the owlet's foes, rob them of their night's repose, let them startling noises hear, fill their souls with sudden fear, in their ears a singing make, cause their heads to madly ache— when upon their beds they're laid call in rheumatism's aid; pinch them well in legs and back, try with pain their bones to rack. when, worn out, they fall to sleep, softly to their couches creep, whisper dreadful dreams to each, cause them hear the screech-owl's screech: if they drop to sleep again, see they wake with sudden pain; pull the blankets from their feet, roll hard wrinkles in the sheet; if they turn them round and growl, whisper thoughts of murdered owl— if ye would your monarch please, try by every art to tease— so that when in morn they rise unrefreshed, with heavy eyes, they may think they never pass'd night so wretched as the list!" v.] . the barn elves. no sooner had king ruby finished speaking, than the three elves to whom he had addressed himself made a low bow, and darted off on the errand upon which they had been despatched. as soon as they were gone, the little king heaved a deep sigh, and addressing his subjects again, spoke these words:— "now, elves, in sad procession gather round to place our murdered owlet in the ground." upon this there was a great stir among the little people, and presently they all formed in double line, and marched off towards the farther end of the barn in slow and solemn procession. ihe king, as soon as they had formed, swung himself lightly from the rafters, and, alighting on the ground, marched at their head, whilst the four children, full of curiosity, stole on tiptoe behind, eagerly peering forward to see what would happen. when they reached the head of the barn, first the king, and then all the elves, stepped through a small opening into a shed, which adjoined the barn, and was used to stow away a variety of odds and ends not in immediate use. the children peeped through the side of the barn, and were thus enabled to see all that followed. within the shed, on the rafters, on the shafts and wheels of an old cart, and upon a broken wheelbarrow which stood by, were perched at least a score of owls. most of them had pocket- handkerchiefs in their claws, and the faces of all were overcast by a profound melancholy. the body of the drowned owl lay upon some straw queer folk. at the bottom of the shed, and the rest of the birds had evidently been waiting for the coming of the elves. as soon as the latter appeared, a low melan- choly hoot ran through the shed, and pocket-handker- chiefs were applied to the owlish eyes around. then the elf-king gave a signal, and several of his fol- lowers sprang forward, and removing some of the straw, disclosed a hole neatly dug at the bottom of the shed. in this hole they deposited their deceased friend, having neatly and carefully wrapped him up in straw; and having done this, they filled in the hole, and once more covered it with straw. as soon as this had been satisfactorily accom- plished, the owls flew down from all sides, formed a circle round the spot, and gave vent to several plain- tive hoots, which evidently betokened sorrow. after this the elves and owls all took up their positions near the same place, whilst the elf-king addressed them upon the sad occasion in the following terms :— "ye elves and owls of high degree who love this venerable place, ope all your ears and list to me in this most melancholy case. an owl is lost to barn and friends and lies an early victim here— us to his grave affection sends to drop thereon a timely tear. since first this wondrous world began have elves and owls united been, both shun the busy haunts of men, both love the moonlight rays serene. so ever may we be allied and share each other's joys and woes, and, far from mortal pomp and pride, in barn and forest court renose." v.j the ha rn el i £s. having finished this short speech, ruby made a graceful bow to the surrounding audience, and pro- ceeded to lead his elves back to the barn, whilst the owls quietly betopk themselves to their various hollow trees and other places of refuge. the children, mean- while, who had watched all these proceedings with the greatest interest, followed the little people back to the barn floor, at a respectful distance, and waited anxiously to see what would happen next. there was not much, however, to gratify their curiosity. the elf-king slowly climbed to his favourite rafter, and looking down on his subjects with a benignant smile, simply remarked— "our work is over, children, for the day, to quiet nooks and corners haste away!" in less than two minutes after he had said these words every elf had disappeared, and the children saw them no longer. in fact, on glancing up to where ruby had just been sitting, they now perceived nothing but a wisp of straw dangling over the rafter, and a cobweb or two hanging on the roof. it was evident that they would see nothing more of the elfin world that day, and therefore there was nothing better than to go home to tea, which they did with much satisfaction. this time, however, they all agreed together that they would say nothing about ruby and his elfin tribe, for they all felt that it was very tiresome not to be believed, especially when they were really telling nothing but the truth. they there- fore said not a single word upon the subject, and preserved a mysterious silence about their play in the barn that afternoon. v.]. the barn elves. have taken their share of it; the children, you may- be sure, were sleeping safe and sound, and under ordinary circumstances would have continued to do so until morning. but whilst dick was lying there snug as a toad in a hole, and as fast asleep as a boy need be, he suddenly felt a twitch at his toe, as if some ■one had determined to pull him out of bed feet fore- most. it woke him up in a moment, and he sat upright, rubbing his eyes, and exclaiming, "who's there?" within a very short time after he had felt the twitch. who should it be but the elfin king! yes, there he was, in his usual dress, and with a somewhat ex- cited look upon his countenance. and as dick stared at him with astonishment—for he had never seen him so far away from the barn—the little man held up his hand impressively and said— "wake the people up, good dick, catch the thief and stop the theft! wake them up, and do it quick, else there'll be no apples left!" now the apples were stored in a wooden room made in one corner of the barn, and had only lately been safely stowed away there. dick, being a sharp lad of his age, instantly guessed that something was wrong at the apple-house, and that the good ruby had come to give a timely warning to his friends. as soon as he had spoken, the little fellow disap- peared in a moment, but dick was by this time wide awake with all his wits about him. slipping on a pair of trousers, a jacket, and his boots, he hastened to call up tom the waggoner and two other of the farm- s • queer folk. [v. servants who slept in the house, and telling them that he had heard a strange noise in the direction of the barn, with some difficulty persuaded them to get up and see about it. they descended the stairs, and had scarcely opened the door and got into the yard when they perceived a gleam of light in that end of the barn where the apples were stowed. they hurried on as fast as they could, but as they entered the barn the light suddenly disappeared, and they heard a scuffle and scurry in the direction of the apple-house, as if some one was making the best of his way off. and so it was, sure enough. a piece of the barn side had been cut out, so that the thief or thieves could get into the apple-house; and this they had done. luckily for the farmer, however, the rascals had felt so secure, that they had not been content with a moderate booty, but had begun to fill two sacks, which they had brought for the purpose. being in- terrupted by the sudden and unexpected arrival of the farm-servants, they had left behind them both sacks and apples, and barely escaped themselves. nor, indeed, was their escape more than temporary, for the sacks turned out to have been stolen too, and led to the rogues being found out and punished. but as for farmer rendale's apples, nothing could have saved them but ruby's visit to dick, and when the latter was praised for being so vigilant as to have discovered the mischief which was going on, he could not help saying that it was his friend the elfin king to whom the credit was really due. however, the good people only laughed at him, and told him he must have been dreaming, and he knew by experience v.] the barn elves. that it would be quite useless to try and persuade them to the contrary. so he contented himself with telling the exact truth to his sisters and brother, and very well pleased they all were to find that the elfin king and his people were disposed to be such good and useful friends. from time to time the little people were seen by the children, and especially, the royal ruby showed himself at his usual post in the barn so often, that they became quite accustomed to his presence. some- times he would revert to the humour he had been in when he threw down the egg, and would play quaint tricks which were not a little amusing. for instance, on one occasion, billy's cap was suddenly twitched off his head, and, without any apparent cause, hung itself up on a nail quite out of reach on one of the strong wooden posts of the barn, so that he could only get it by climbing up with some trouble, and when he had done so, just as he was about to take hold of it, it dropped down to the floor and lay there, just as if it had never been anywhere else. then jessie's shoes, which she had taken off because they were rather tight, quite disappeared whilst she was at play, and after a good quarter-of-an-hour's hunt, they suddenly dropped plump down by her side from the rafter above, whilst a merry laugh from friend ruby pointed out the aggressor. all this, however, was done in merriment, and there was no sign whatever of malice in the little king or his subjects. i am not sure, however, but what old betty hodges the charwoman might have told a dif- ferent tale. she was terribly given to scold was queer folk. '[v. betty, and upon the slightest occasion "gave it" the children right and left, so that they were quite afraid of her. perhaps this was the reason why master ruby thought he might as well play her a small trick or two; at all events he did so, more than once. one day she put on her clogs and found them all filled with tar. another time her broom was lost, and only found after much searching in an old cupboard at the top of the house where she had never set foot in her life; and on a third occasion, having taken off her bonnet to do her work, she came back to find it perfectly full of ashes. this was very irritating to the old woman, as you may suppose, and the worst of it was, that it had by no means the effect of making her more kind to the children, for she laid all the blame upon their shoulders, and declared that "them dratted boys weren't no good, no not at all, always after their tricks and tan- trums, and worreting the soul out of a body every blessed day." the children themselves, however, never had any tricks played upon them more than those of a trifling and amusing description, and they gradually came to consider the barn elves not only as beings in no manner extraordinary, but as companions whom they would have been really sorry to lose. so time rolled on, and years glided by, until the conviction forced itself upon the minds of farmer rendale and his daughter-in-law that the children were really "growing up." dick was half-way be- tween sixteen and seventeen, and as i have already v.] the barn elves. mentioned the ages of his brother and sisters at the time my story began, anybody who takes the trouble to calculate will be able to discover how old they all were now, without going to a witch or a fairy to find out. both dick and billy were of considerable use upon the farm, but the old farmer could not help feeling that they required rather more learning to enable them to fight the battle of life than they had acquired from the teaching of their mother and the in- struction of the master of a neighbouring village school which they had attended for the last four or five years. this school was rather celebrated in the locality, being kept by a certain mr. whiting, who laid great claims to scholarship, although those claims were pro- bably not built upon any very substantial foundation. it was something above a "village school" which he kept, and the sons of the neighbouring farmers and tradesmen formed the bulk of his pupils. the school stood in the middle of the village, in the main, and in fact the only, street—if such it might be called, consisting as it did of a long row of houses, beginning with the grocer's shop and post-office at one end, and terminating at the other with a sort of toy-shop, where all sorts of varieties, from garden spades down to lollypops, were sold by an old woman, with benevolence on her countenance and a hump on her back. about midway between the two stood this school, which was carried on in an upper room, to which the only approach was by means of a broad ladder, which was fixed sideways against the wall, much after the fashion of the usual mode of access to a stable-loft s queer folk. [v. or granary. here was the work of tuition carried on, and great was mr. whiting's reputation among the parents of the boys. especially did they think highly of this worthy man whenever approaching holidays were heralded by the reception of a letter from an hopeful pupil to announce the happy event. this letter was generally written on paper orna- mented with sundry elaborate and fantastic devices, and in a handwriting so preternaturally good as to re- flect the most immense credit upon the worthy school- master's system of instruction in the art of penmanship. there were rather too many flourishes, perhaps, as if the letters (especially the capital letters) had become a little excited at the thoughts of the coming holi- days, and evinced the same by refusing to confine themselves strictly to their natural shapes and sizes. but the language and sentiments of the letter itself were uniformly excellent, and generally ran after the following style:— "my dear parents, the approaching season of christmas brings with it the usual period of relaxation from scholastic studies, so necessary alike to pupils and instructors. i trust that you will find my progress in those studies to have been satisfactory, and that by con- tinued exertions i shall ever evince my gratitude to you, dear parents, for those educational advantages with which your kindness has provided me, and to mr. whiting, who has so assiduously laboured for my improvement. your dutiful and affectionate son, a. b." v.] the barn elves. this specimen will at once make manifest the high character of school and schoolmaster, and farmer rendale was for some time satisfied that dick and billy should receive their education at the hands of the latter. but something or other changed his mind after a time. i am not sure whether some disparaging remark from the squire or rector caused the schoolmaster to fall in his estimation (so apt are men to be influenced by a casual expression of opinion let drop by a superior), or whether some offence had been given by mr. whiting in some parish matter or other. whatever the cause, how- ever, it is certain that the good farmer began to think less and less of the schoolmaster, and after grumbling a good deal from time to time, and thinking over the matter whilst he smoked his long clay-pipe after dinner on the green plat in front of the farmhouse, he made up his mind that the two boys should go for a year to finish their education at a certain establishment in a neighbouring county, where a knowledge of chemistry was said to be taught, and instructions given in "practical agriculture;" which fine phrase very much struck farmer rendale, and inspired him with the idea that the boys would learn something which would enable them to grow wheat at a profit at forty shillings a quarter, and escape all the vicissitudes to which the crops of an ordinary farmer are exposed. so, somewhat to their disgust (for they had pretty much their own way at old whiting's "academy "), the two boys were packed off one fine morning to the "agricultural college," as it was called, and left those s v.] the barn elves. more than the lecturers and masters who taught them, and that the latter entertained theories of which they could not avoid thinking that their application would be in practice attended with strange and un- expected consequences. however, the boys did their best, although they missed all the comforts of the old home-life at the farm, and often wished themselves back again, to visit the barn among other places, and see how the dear old elves were going on. it was upon a pleasant night in july, when the students of the college had been engaged all day in a cricket-match, that dick and billy, who slept in the same room, had gone to bed about their usual time, and were sleeping as soundly and comfortably as boys generally do sleep under similar circumstances. as it was very warm, dick, as is sometimes the case with people in such weather, had kicked every- thing off him but the sheet, and found that quite sufficient covering for the night. he had slept for some time—how long he knew not—when he was awakened by a strange sound, which seemed to come from some one in the room evidently in pain or sorrow. dick did not quite wake up at first, for he had had a good innings that day, and made a good many runs, which always makes a fellow sleep rather heavily, unless he is given to dreaming, which dick never was, save in exceptional cases after a big supper; but he was sufficiently awake to hear that some one was in pain, mental or bodily, and of course he thought it was his brother. queer folk. [v. being, however, still only half roused, he muttered to himself, "not out," still thinking of the cricket-match, and would have turned round to sleep again but for a louder and more unmistakeable sob, which evidently proceeded fr m the foot of the bed. he sat half up at once, and glancing at the other bed as he did so, perceived that his brother was not only still sound asleep, but giving palpable evidence that such was the case by certain sounds connected with his nasal organ which proved it beyond all doubt. almost at the same instant, dick thought he caught a glimpse of something unusual before him, and rubbed his eyes immediately, as the surest way of seeing more distinctly. there was indeed some- thing unusual. seated at the foot of the bed was none other than the elfin king himself, sobbing and weeping as if his heart would break. there was his red dress the same as ever; his black velvet cap was still stuck upon his head, though in a less jaunty manner than when the children had first seen him; and he had apparently discarded his short pipe. there he was, nevertheless, and in a condition which showed plainly enough that he and happiness were strangers at the moment. dick stared in the most utter astonish- ment at his unexpected though not unwelcome visitor. any messenger from the dear old farm would have been welcome to the boy at any time, but of course he was mightily surprised at the appearance of this particular personage. "king ruby!" he said, after a moment's pause. "what is the matter, and why are you here?" v.] the barn elves. the little man shook his head sadly in reply, and it was several moments before he could bring out the words which were almost choked in their passage by his heart-rending sobs. at last, however, he managed to proceed as follows :— "the dear old barn, to owls and elves so long a happy home of ease, where elfins might disport themselves and owlets hoot as they should please; that barn—so long beloved by all— which for long years has bravely stood, is doomed by cruel men to fall that iron may replace the wood! no longer may the ancient floor be sacred to our elfin feet, our voices there may sound no more when once the ruin is complete. but with that fall come days of gloom and sorrow to the court lodge folk: then hasten, boy, avert the doom, and turn aside the threat'ning stroke!" it may well be believed that dick heard these words with the greatest amazement and regret. letters between the farm and the school were not very fre- quent, but it did so happen that he had recently heard from his mother, who had mentioned that their land- lord was thinking of making certain improvements, but had never so much as hinted at the possibility of the destruction of the old barn. the very thought of such a thing seemed to the boy's heart nothing less than profanation, and there could be no question as to the light in which the elves would consider the demolition of their favourite home. but if it should really have been projected by the landlord of the queer folk. [v. farm, it would be a difficult thing to prevent its being carried out; and poor dick felt quite powerless to "avert the doom," as he was requested to do by- king ruby. so, as soon as the latter had ceased speaking, he said with eagerness— "destroy the barn! # oh, i hope not! but what can / do to prevent it? tell me, king ruby, and i will do anything in the world!" the elfin king drew a small and delicately embroidered cambric pocket-handkerchief from his pocket, arid emphatically blew his nose before he continued the conversation. then he went on— "to-morrow take the early train and hurry to the court lodge farm, say that you thus return again to save your friends from coming harm. wherever elfin loves to dwell good luck to mortals will be near, but those shall never prosper well who with our homes will interfere. then bid thy friends the elves respect, who love the barn with tender hearts, for if they this behest neglect we go—and with us luck departs." with these words the little being gracefully waved his hand, jumped down upon the floor, and suddenly disappeared. dick thought he had run under the bed; but a speedy investigation proved his mistake; nor could he see the slightest traces of his little visitor in any part of the room. turning his eyes, however, in the direction of his brother's bed, he perceived that the latter was now wide awake, and staring at him in the greatest astonishment. on inquiry, he found that billy had been awakened v.] the barn elves. by the conversation, of which he had heard the latter part, and had seen king ruby as plainly as his brother. the two boys forthwith took counsel together as to the best course to be pursued, and remembering how good a friend the elfin king had always shown himself, and how little reason they had either to doubt his word or to refuse to follow his directions, they shortly made up their minds that they would act as he had advised, and take the first train home in the morning. i am not sure, for i was never told, whether they asked for leave to do so from the head-master of the college. this is a point into which the curious may inquire if they please, but i can only say, that, as i never heard that the brothers got into any scrape in consequence of following king ruby's advice, i can only imagine that they either obtained the requisite permission from the proper quarter, or that they were protected from the consequences of neglecting to seek it by the wonderful power of elfin magic. be this as it may, dick and billy took the morning train, reached the station in safety, and walked over to the farm, where they suddenly made their appear- ance, to the great surprise of farmer rendale and their mother. still more astonished were they when • the boys told their story, and eagerly awaited the answer. the good farmer slapped his hand upon his thigh with a resounding force as he replied, after having listened attentively to his grandchildren's tale. "butter my parsnips!" cried he (which was a favourite expression of his in moments of unusual excitement): "butter my parsnips, if this an't a queer queer folk. [v. start!" and then he proceeded to tell the boys that it was perfectly true that his landlord, who was about improving his estate, had lately communicated with all his principal tenants upon the subject of the par- ticular improvements of which their several farms might be susceptible. with regard to the court lodge, he had remarked that the barn was somewhat old, and withal rather larger than was necessary now that the practice of stacking corn in the fields had begun to be more gradually adopted. he had there- fore proposed to farmer rendale, that if the latter wished it, and would pay some proportion of the ex- pense, he would pull down the old barn, and build a new iron structure, after an improved model. but if the farmer had any objection, the landlord would be willing to let the matter drop, and to spend the same amount of money in draining some of the wettest land on the farm, under proper supervision, and ar- rangements for the repayment of the sum expended by a slight increase in the annual rent. at the time of the two boys' arrival, the worthy man was just pondering over this knotty question, which of the two schemes should he prefer? dick and billy lost no time in throwing the whole weight of their influence into the draining plan, in which they were earnestly supported by their sisters, as soon as they were told how the matter affected their old friends the barn elves. farmer rendale, who had never so completely believed in the elfin king and his subjects as the rest of the family, still hesitated, from a feeling that his landlord would have preferred to deal with the barn. º º - - º ſº º º - º º v.] the barn elves. but the pressure upon him was too great; and eventually a letter was written back to the agent, stating that the farmer thought the barn would answer his purpose for many years to come, without more than trifling repairs, and that he would prefer to have it left as it then was; whilst, on the contrary, the land proposed to be drained was very much in need of that operation, and he should willingly agree to his landlord's proposition with regard to it. the letter having been written and despatched, the family talked over matters among themselves, and then dis- persed about their several occupations. so the day passed away, and the evening drew on. it was a warm, sultry evening, and after the party had enjoyed a species of tea-dinner, to which they were rather partial, they all went out to sit under the trees in front of the house, and to enjoy some of those, lovely, comfortable, do-nothing summer-evening hours which are so delightful, and unfortunately so few in number in our beloved country. as they sat and talked, time slipped on; the sun had done his day's work, and the harvest moon was beginning to gird herself up for her night's shining, and the cockchafers had nearly ceased their humming, and the big bats, or flitter-mice, as the country-people called them, had come out from under the eaves and behind the big doors, and flew up and down in their curious, uneven flight. suddenly there fell upon the ears of the party the sound of music; soft and low, gentle and sweet, at first, it gradually rose louder and louder, until it swelled into a volume of sound resembling some v.] the barn elves. each carrying a rider, issued forth from the door in solemn procession. it need hardly be said that the riders were none other than the barn elves, who were all dressed in gay attire, with crimson bows in their rats' ears, and crimson belts around themselves. and at their head, in magnificent costume, rode king ruby himself. his velvet cap was richly embroidered with gold, stripes of gold were upon his red coat, and a diamond star glittered on his breast. it was impossible to gaze upon him without at once recognizing a certain air of mingled grace and majesty in his demeanour, and no one could have done so without feeling certain that it was indeed the elfin king upon whom they gazed. the music, played by invisible performers, floated gently on the summer air as the procession advanced, ajid the strange beings of whom it was composed slowly filed round the yard, and passed directly in front of the astonished mortals who were assembled in front of the house. on and on they came, until king ruby, who was mounted on an enormous rat, double the size of the others, arrived nearly opposite the chair on which farmer rendale was seated. to tell you the truth, in spite of his great wonder at the scene which was passing before him, such were the farmer's general feelings with regard to rats, that he could scarcely restrain himself from seizing the nearest weapon at hand, and rushing upon those before him then and there. fortunately, however, his mingled awe and surprise prevented his following this natural inclination of his mind; and he remained with his pipe in his hand, which rested upon his v.] the barn elves. yet musical elfin voices burst into a tremendous cheer that made the old yard ring again. the good farmer was too much astonished to utter a word; and, indeed, before he could collect his thoughts sufficiently to do so, the mysterious music burst forth again, and the whole procession advanced. slowly they passed before the house, round the yard, and up to the barn; and then halting, gave one more cheer of joy and triumph, and entered again through the same doors from which they had emerged. at last farmer rendale recovered his powers of speech, and just as the last elf vanished, he gave vent to his feelings in exclamations of the same curious kind as those which have been already alluded to as his peculiar mode of expression. "butter my parsnips! burn my bacon and beans! spoil my sunday pudding, if ever i see the likes of this before! owls, rats, and little chaps no bigger than a hop-o'-my-thumb, riding out of one's own barn as if one had ought to have expected 'em! well never!" and for some time the good old man could do nothing but utter somewhat incoherent ejaculations of a similar character. the young people took this opportunity of remind- ing him of their old, childish stories about the barn and its inhabitants, and triumphantly asked him whether he did not now believe in king ruby and his barn elves? the old man could no longer hesitate. "seeing," as he justly remarked, "was believing;" and he could not deny the existence of creatures whom his own eyes had undoubtedly perceived. he was s~ queer folk. [v. a little inclined to doubt whether all could be right with people who encouraged rats, as the elves evidently did; but even on this point he yielded to the arguments of dick and billy, who maintained that since the presence of rats in the neighbourhood of a farmyard was an almost unavoidable evil, it was far better that the troublesome little animals should be trained and disciplined to act as steeds for the friendly elves than be left to follow the natural bent of their own plundering and thievish dispositions without check or restraint. it may well be supposed, that after the events of that evening there was an entire unanimity of opinion as to the preservation of the old barn. and i may at once tell you that it zvas preserved. the landlord was quite disposed to adopt farmer rendale's views as to the greater benefit to be obtained by draining the land, and at once accepted the alternative. so the old barn was spared, and i never heard of another attempt at its destruction. there it stands to this day, a venerable edifice, sometimes wanting a little patching up, but good enough still for all practical purposes, and so much a part and parcel of the old farm that one would scarcely know the place with- out it. you will all wish to know whether the words of the elfin king came true, in which he predicted pros- perity to farmer rendale on account of his decision about the barn. come true? i should just think they did! from that day forth everything went so well with the good old man that he was generally known throughout the county by the nickname of v.) the barn elves. / "the lucky farmer." no one grew such corn—no one had such heavy cuts of grass—nobody else's beasts fatted so well, and fetched such good prices— nobody had year by year such a good fall of lambs; and his hop-garden was annually the theme of conversation and an object of friendly envy among all his neighbours. dick and billy, too, fully answered the expectations of their best friends, growing up steady, industrious young men, who were universally allowed to be a great credit to their family. the girls both married comfortably, and seemed to carry good luck with them to the homes to which they were thus trans- ferred. and as for the barn elves but here i must stop. the young people had arrived at an age at which playing in the barn had to be given up for more serious employments; and, as a matter of course, they saw their old friends less, and had therefore less to tell about them. still, i have no doubt in my own mind that the elfin king and his followers are in their old abode at this very time. if we could only look in upon them at the right moment, we should see the little creatures merrily gambolling, upon the old barn floor, or lightly tripping round the green where they used to dance in the soft moonlight hours long ago. the difficulty is that we might go very often when it did not happen to be the right moment, and then we should probably see nothing at all. but if anyone t queer folk. [v. who has read this story should still feel any lingering doubt as to the existence of the elfin king and his faithful subjects, i can only refer the unbeliever to farmer rendale and his grandchildren. if they are asked, in a civil manner, for their version of the history, i am sure they will tell the same story as i have told. and they will tell you still more if you press them very earnestly, and show that you are willing to believe the matter. they will say that although it is now some years since the events oc- curred of which i have written, yet they have every reason to believe that the inhabitants of the barn are still unmoved and unchanged. no more processions have been seen, indeed, and no one has seen ruby sitting on his favourite beam for many a long day. but the owls are often ob- served to flit quietly round the old barn, and if they are still there, why not the elves also? moreover, rats have been seen more than once in the farmyard, and although they were not saddled and bridled, there is nothing to prove that they were not really elf-steeds- and sometimes, when any members of the family have been lying awake in the moonlight nights, they have heard sounds which appeared to proceed from the barn, which they will tell you resembled nothing so much as the elf-music which was formerly heard in the same place. so i feel perfectly certain in my own mind that the elfin king still holds his court where he did when the children of the court lodge farm were young; and, whatever wise people may say and write about elves v.] the barn elves. and fairies having no real existence, i can only say, that although they are perfectly welcome to form their own opinion, nothing shall ever shake my firm belief in the good little ruby and his friendly barn elves i long may they inhabit the old barn, and long may they continue to gambol upon the ancient floor with undiminished energy! and if any of the young people who read this story should chance to visit the spot, may they be fortunate enough to be favoured with a sight of the merry little creatures! but, whether they are so favoured or not, may they all enjoy the good fortune which falls to the lot of those over whom the elfin king keeps watch! may their purses be full and their hearts light,—may the shadow of adversity be banished from their homes, and peace, happiness, and contentment be their constant com- panions! • and so, good-bye to king ruby and the barn elves! t vi. the strange city. the sensation of dozing off to sleep in a railway carriage is one by no means unpleasant. it is not everyone who can do it. some people are rendered more awake than ever by the motion of the train, others succeed in getting nearly to sleep, and then wake up with a start; but the sensation to which i allude is that which you experience when you feel a gradual insensibility to sound and motion stealing quietly and imperceptibly over you, when, at first, you feel and know that you are moving along rapidly, then you are not quite sure where you are or-what is happening around you—and then, little by little, you lose all consciousness, and sink into the charming state of sleep which is to be envied by all fellow- travellers who fail to attain it. at such a state had i arrived upon the occasion of which i am about to relate the wonderful history. i shall not tell you whence i had started, whither i was going, or upon what line of railway i was tra- velling; because railway directors are beings of a vi.] the strange city. < susceptible—not to say a jealous—nature, and i might expose myself to consequences which would possibly be serious. besides, i must honestly own that it was no fault of the railway that the adventures-happened which i am about to relate. the carriage was as comfortable as possible. i sat next the window, with my back to the engine—which i always do when i can, to avoid the wind and dust which would otherwise come in my face—and the care of an attentive porter (whose merit i rewarded by the sum of one shilling) had provided me with a feet-warmer, which rendered my position as pleasant as it could be under the cir- cumstances. the circumstances were, an express train (though i was not under it, thank goodness), a first-class car- riage, a dark night, and a long journey to be taken immediately after an excellent dinner and just suffi- cient claret to make me feel that a comfortable sleep would be extremely satisfactory. and sleep i did. i was alone in the carriage, and there was no reason why i should not sleep. i had gazed out of the window at first, but, having soon tired of that, had wrapped my railway rug closely round my legs nestled back in the corner of my seat, and composed myself for the night. objects soon grew indistinct to my eyes, sounds faded from my ears, and i have no doubt—although i have no witness to establish the fact—that i very soon snored like a horse-marine— though why a horse-marine should snore more or louder than anybody else is ^a fact into which i for- bear to inquire, feeling confident that inquiry would be useless. queer folk. [vi. it is impossible for me to say how far we travelled, or how long i slept; we may have—nay, we must, have travelled many hundred miles, and the time occupied in the journey must have been considerable. however that may be, i only know that i awoke with a start on hearing a voice, which sounded so close to me as effectually to rouse me from my slumber. i opened my eyes, rubbed them, looked up, and saw that we had evidently arrived at the terminus. a person, clad in all respects like a ticket-collector, stood at the open door upon the platform. very different, however, was his -conduct from that of the men of his class whom i had previously encountered. there was nothing curt or official in his manner, nor did he seem at all anxious to hurry me in the pro- duction of my ticket. on the contrary, he bowed gracefully and often, smiled affably, and begged me not to inconvenience myself in the slightest degree. • "pray take your time, sir," he remarked, "not the slightest occasion to hurry;" and there he stood, smirking and scraping, until i had succeeded in ex- tricating my ticket from the inner recesses of my waistcoat pocket, when he received it with another bow, and with a profusion of thanks for my goodness in travelling by that line, which made me instantly jump to the conclusion that he was either a large share- holder or a lunatic, though the two characters are, i am told, not always incompatible. having alighted on the platform, i proceeded to search for my luggage, and was much struck by the attention shown to the other passengers as well as to myself. there was no rushing to and fro, no elbowing vi.] the strange city. this man on one side and pushing that on the other; no shouting "by your leave " to an unhappy wight as you stamped firmly on his toes,—leave to do which he would never voluntarily have granted, and the de- mand for which is a cruel farce. nothing of that sort occurred; but on the contrary, everybody got out of everybody else's way,—smiles, bows, and civility were the order of the day, and the sorting and obtaining of luggage by its owners were consequently accom- plished with marvellous facility. my luggage was not heavy: a small portmanteau, despatch-box, and carpet-bag completed my stock of travelling possessions, and a porter, no less civil than the ticket-collector, soon hoisted the first of these upon his brawny shoulders, and taking the others, one under his arm and one in his hand, led the way to the place where stood sundry cabs and carriages. as we advanced towards these, it suddenly struck me that the appearance of the place was new to me, and that i had certainly never been in this part of the world before. not that there was anything par- ticularly strange or unusual to be remarked; it was evidently a city or large town which i had entered, and it was only requisite to use one's eyes in order to assure oneself that it contained a considerable popu- lation. i saw this at a glance, for the terminus was close to that which i supposed to be one of the prin- cipal streets, and people were passing and repassing in great numbers. many men would have been thunderstruck at finding themselves thus suddenly landed in a place entirely different from that at which they had o • queer folk. [vi. expected to alight. somehow or other, however, i experienced no such uncomfortable sensation. i have always found it the most comfortable plan to take things as they come, and not to worry or distress myself unnecessarily in my passage through life; and it did not take me a moment's reflection in order to arrive at the determination to take my chance of what might happen and to make the best of it. my porter walked up to the first cab and accosted the driver in a manner to me unusual. "would you be so kind as to take this gentleman to his destina- tion ?" said he; upon which the driver, who had been sitting apparently in deep meditation, regardless of all that was passing around him, turned round and observed, with a lowly reverence, "nothing will afford me greater satisfaction," i was pleased with the civility evinced by both these people, and, before i got into the cab, tendered my porter a shilling, in token of my good opinion of his manners quite as much as on account of the trifling service he had rendered me. instead of ac- cepting and pocketing the coin, as i have often known men do when similarly circumstanced, my friend turned on me a melancholy and reproachful look, whilst he clasped his hands resolutely behind his back in a manner which convinced me of the sincerity of his behaviour. "sir," said he, "what have i done that you should treat me thus? have you not read—surely you must have read—the notices which our company affix in prominent places throughout their stations? are you not aware that passengers are particularly requested vi.] the strange city. not to give gratuities to the company's servants, and that any servant accepting a gratuity is liable to instant dismissal? would you, sir, tempt me to disobey my employers? or is it possible that you desire to get me turned out of my situation? oh, sir! what harm have i ever done you, that you should thus insult me? thank heaven, however, i am an honest man!" i was almost struck dumb with astonishment at this unexpected behaviour on the part of the porter, and was at first inclined to offer him half-a-crown as compensation for the insult i had apparently, though without any such intention, offered to his sensitive heart. i reflected, however, that if he had correctly stated his sentiments, this would rather be an aggra- vation of my offence than otherwise, and i therefore abstained from the attempt; nor, indeed, had i any- thing further to say: the porter stood in the proud position of a man whose honesty was unimpeachable and his fidelity to his employers exemplary; i, on the contrary, felt as if i had been convicted of a species of knavery peculiarly disgraceful, having tried to tempt my poorer brother to his destruction, and to undermine the whole fabric of mutual confidence upon which doubtless rested the entire railway system of the country in which i was. it appeared to me, therefore, that the best thing—nay, the only thing—i could do, was to get into my cab and beat an ignominious retreat from before the face of this paragon of railway virtue. "shall i drive you, sir, to the 'temperance hotel' or the ' king harry ?'" demanded my driver. queer folk. [vl i thought the second had the most comfortable sound, and being entirely overcome by my recent defeat, was only thankful to the man for giving me a choice, since at that moment he might have driven me wherever he pleased without remonstrance on my part. off he set, and the first thing that struck me was the comfortable character of his vehicle; there was ample room to stretch your legs, the cushions of the seats were soft and clean, and the floor, instead of being littered with dirty straw, as i have too frequently seen in the cabs of the great metropolis of my native country, was decently carpeted, and that with a carpet of sufficiently thick texture to keep your feet and legs from any draughts of air through the wood- work below, if holes or chinks should chance to exist therein. the next thing i observed was the remarkable quietness of the streets, all the more so, as there were numerous vehicles passing and repassing, and plenty of people riding and driving to and fro. i looked out of the windows and tried to discover the reason ef this, to me, extraordinary phenomenon. the wheels of the carriages were all broad, but i do not suppose that had anything to do with it. the quiefe prevailing in the streets evidently proceeded from the fact of their being all paved with some material like asphalt, over which the heaviest carts appeared to pass with- out the slightest noise. we had not far to go before the cab drove up to a large hotel, over the door of which swung the portly figure of bluff king hal depicted in bright colours upon the sign-board. my driver alighted, opened vi.] the strange city. the door, and assisted me to get out of the cab. ob- sequious waiters seized my luggage, and carried it into the house without delay, whilst i turned to pay my driver, and, ignorant of the exact fare, tendered him half-a-crown. to my intense surprise, and i must say disgust, i found that i had " put my foot in it " again. "sir," said the man, angrily regarding me with a withering eye, "i am ashamed of you: i am, sir, from the bottom of my heart; you must have known you were giving me too much! one shilling is my fare for the cab, and sixpence the driver. i have really a great mind to summon you for over-pay- ment; since, however, you are probably a stranger, i will say no more this time; but beware for the future how you dare to trifle with the honour of a cabman!" so saying, the fellow mounted his box and drove off, leaving me the victim of contending emotions of shame, indignation, confusion, and, beyond all, amazement. not much time, however, had i to bestow upon the curious events which had just occurred, before a middle-aged, white-tied, somewhat portly individual approached me, announcing himself, with many bows, as the master of the hotel. "sir," he exclaimed, in an anxious, even agitated tone of voice, "are you certain that you have done wisely in coming to my hotel in preference to any other? the 'white hart' and 'fleur-de-lis' are both larger, and in some respects more convenient— the landlords are civil and obliging, and their charges reasonable. pray, sir, do not honour me with your patronage unless you have some particular reason for s queer folk. [vi. doing so, and feel quite sure that you will be suffi- ciently comfortable!" i was never so completely taken aback in my life as when i heard these words from the worthy man. what on earth could be his object? was it a trick, and was he really in earnest, or only joking? a landlord to recommend a customer to go elsewhere, and decry his own establishment! never was such a thing heard of! i was struck dumb with ■ astonishment, and, coupling this new occurrence with the strange conduct of the railway porter and cabman, began to imagine that i had stumbled upon a city, of lunatics. re- covering myself, however, as soon as i could, and being rather encouraged than otherwise by the modesty of mine host, i replied to his observations by the assurance that i was perfectly satisfied with the general appearance of his inn, and saw no reason for going any farther in search of comfort. he thanked me, with a profusion of gratitude which was positively overpowering, and forthwith conducted me to a pleasant sitting-room, opening into a bedroom as clean and airy as any traveller could desire. having slept so well in the train, and the morning being now far advanced, i had no need for going to bed, and therefore ordered a bath and some breakfast after- wards. the former was furnished with alacrity, and the latter proved excellent. i now determined to walk out and explore the place, which i accordingly proceeded to do. it had rained heavily during the night, and in the metropolis of my native country the streets would by this time have presented the appear- ance of a sea of mud, the only chance of crossing queer folk. [vi. "oh, it's you, is it!" he replied; "what a bore you are, stopping-a man when he is in a hurry: besides, you are such an inveterate gossip that if i stop for a moment to talk to you you will keep me here button- holed for half an hour at least. i really cannot be such a humbug as to pretend to be glad to see you, for i heartily wish you were at the other end of the world." greatly disconcerted by this rude and totally un-. expected address, i stood silent, and gasped for breath, whilst wilson, still muttering to himself words by no mean* pleasant or complimentary, passed quickly on, and continued his course along the pave- ment. full of amazement, and turning over and over in my mind the extraordinary things which had happened to me that morning, i suddenly found myself close to a yard in which a sale of horses was going on, which i thought i might as well go in and see. it seemed that the owner of each horse had to sell his own animal, and when i entered, a respectable-looking man, to all appearance a farmer, or farming gentle- man (if there is any difference now-a-days between the two), was endeavouring to sell some animal with which he desired to part. his method of proceeding was, however, most extraordinary to me. instead of puffing his horse and extolling its merits, he appeared to be doing just the reverse. "pray, gentlemen," he exclaimed in an urbane tone of voice, "do not be taken in by the appearance of this horse. i am parting with him on account of several imperfections, and should be sorry to deceive vi.] the strange city. you. he has been down twice; you can see for your- selves that he has been fired, and i have several times had reason to suspect that he is touched in his wind. don't deceive yourselves, gentlemen! don't throw away your money." whilst the seller held this language respecting the animal which he desired to part with, the buyers, on the contrary, adopted a line of conduct entirely different from anything that i had ever seen. "i don't call that a blemish," cried one. "those knees will come all right," shouted another. "do not let us rob the man, the horse is a good horse," exclaimed a third; and each tried to stimulate the other to bid a higher price for the animal. lost in astonishment at that which appeared to me so entirely opposed to the ordinary habits of man- kind, i was about to make inquiries of some one who knew the town, if such i could discover, when my attention was called to a noise in the street, and •walking out of the yard, i hastened to make my observations. a man, clad in the garb of a policeman, was standing in the middle of the pavement in earnest conversation with one whose countenance and general appearance were not such as would have recom- mended him at first sight. this man was expos- tulating with the guardian of the peace with eager gesticulations, and evidently bent upon obtaining his request, whatever that might be. approaching within ear-shot, i was more than ever astonished at the nature of the conversation in which the two men ■were engaged. queer folk. [vt. versation. when i had before known her—it seemed but yesterday—she had certain peculiarities which one could not fail to notice. she thought a great deal of blood and birth, and something of riches. anyone who was not in "her set" (whatever that might be) had little chance of a good word from her; whilst those who had the good fortune to enjoy that privi- lege could do nothing wrong in her eyes. to-night, however, all seemed changed. she was charity itself to all mankind, and especially (which was contrary to all my experience in similar cases) to the woman- kind of her acquaintance. lady a. was "so kind ;". mrs. b. "so handsome;" missc. "so simple and unaffected"—in short, she ran through the whole alphabet without a disparaging word for a single letter. she expressed herself strongly as to riches having very little to do with happiness; spoke slight- ingly of those who thought that a man was better for having the blood of a duke in his veins than the blood of a tailor; and rebuked me almost sharply when i mentioned some one as being a person of " good family," remarking that we all came from adam, and that it was folly to talk of being able to trace one's descent from an old family, as whether one could do so or not was entirely a question of the preservation of baptismal registers. i was somewhat taken aback at her change of ideas upon this and other subjects, but knowing that ladie have, proverbially and by prescription, the right of changing their minds when and as often as they please, i did my best to make myself agreeable by pretending to agree with her ladyship as much as i vi.] the strange city. decently could. this, however, hardly succeeded as well as i could have wished, for, turning sharply upon me, she upbraided me with being a humbug, and not daring to manfully avow the opinions which i really entertained, absurd and foolish as she considered them to be. nettled at this, i resolved upon beating a re- treat with as much expedition as might be consistent with politeness, and accordingly took the first oppor- tunity of wishing her good night, and finding my way back to the front door. there was no difficulty whatever in getting away; and as there were no link-men or other obnoxious individuals of the like kind my feelings were not hurt by offers to call my carriage when i had none to call; nor was i pestered with requests to " remember" importunate persons whom i had never seen before, and certainly never wished to see again. quietly, and without molestation, i walked away from the door and proceeded to my hotel, where, after medi- tating upon the strange events which had befallen me since my departure from home, i retired to rest. i passed a remarkably good night; the judicious arrangement already mentioned with regard to the pavement in the streets effectually preventing the disturbance of weary sleepers by that perpetual rolling and rumbling of carriages and vehicles of every description to which i had been accustomed at home. i do not remember any particular incident that occurred next morning until the time arrived at which i deemed it necessary to send for my bill, with the intention of leaving the city as soon as i should have vi.] the strange city. . me, and drove to the station without further, adven- ture. once more wrapped snugly in my railway rug, i ensconced myself comfortably in the corner of my first-class carriage, with my back to the engine, and composed myself to sleep as well as i could; being uninterrupted by the presence of other passengers. a pleasant dream came to me as we rapidly rolled along, and the incidents of the previous day all seemed to flit across my brain: once more i seemed to arrive at the station—to be received with civility—to be taken to the hotel under the circumstances which i have narrated, and to undergo the same agreeable experiences throughout the day. i have still a vivid impression on my mind of the delightful nature of that dream, and how therein i resolved that the city which i had thus visited was one to be -regarded as a' model city, whose example should in every respect be followed by other localities in which the masses of mankind have congregated. suddenly, however, i was rudely awakened from my dream by a loud voice close to my ear, entirely different, in tone and expression, from the mellifluous accents which had greeted me on my arrival in the strange city. in harsh and grating accents it ex- claimed, "all tickets ready!" an ejaculation which at once dispelled my dream and caused me to half rise from my recumbent posture and rub my eyes, to make me feel quite sure whether i was awake or asleep. i had hardly time to determine this point when another voice exclaimed, in a tone no less hard and disagreeable, "tickets, please!" and as i made no immediate movement in consequence of these words, queer folk. [vi. the same voice continued: "now then, sir; train is late to-day—your ticket please ?" and in a half-waking state i drew out my ticket and handed it over to the individual who thus demanded it. the train shortly went on at a slow pace, and in the space of a few moments drew up before a platform, upon which i saw a number of persons running to and fro in great bustle and confusion. "any luggage, sir!" said the sharp, quick voice of a porter who opened the door; and whilst i hesi- tated for an instant, forgetful of the quantity of lug- gage i had with me, the man passed on hastily to the next carriage, evidently thinking that i was scarcely worthy of his attention. i got out of the carriage, nevertheless, as well as i could, and was immediately run into by a fat old woman, bustling along in a tremendous hurry with an umbrella, which she poked so nearly into my eye that i only escaped by backing hastily, in doing which i trod upon the toes of a gentleman whom i should have deemed highly re- spectable had not his angry language upon the occa- sion contradicted such a belief. i attempted to find the luggage-van in which i had seen my portmanteau deposited, but the porters were all occupied with other people, and i could get no one to answer my questions politely, or to attend to my request to direct me to the right van. "now then, if you please, sir!" shouted a voice in my ear, and a gigantic porter bore down upon me, laden with an enormous portmanteau on his shoulder, with which he came lumbering straight on, like a car on a tramway, and i could only just avoid him by a vi.] the strange city. sudden dart on one side, which very nearly caused me to fall on my nose over sundry small articles of luggage with which that part of the platform was covered. the scene around me differed widely from that which i had seen on my arrival in the strange city. everybody seemed to run against everybody else— there was a general scramble and confusion—luggage was bumped down upon the ground as if the principal object sought was to break everything in it which could be broken—an object which i should think was generally attained to the complete satisfaction of him who sought it. voices were loud on all sides; civility appeared to be cast aside, for the moment at least, as an unnecessary ingredient in travelling life; cabs rattled; cabmen swore; old women with band-boxes looked hot; old men with great coats looked cross; helmeted policemen stood stock still in the most in- convenient places for passers by; engines creaked; shrill, awful whistles heralded the departure of some other train just starting; a thin, chill, drizzling rain damped my clothes and my spirits at the same time, and after rubbing my eyes several times, stamping my feet violently upon the platform, and looking right and left at the scene of general uproar and confusion, i awoke to the proud consciousness that i was once more surely and safely back again in my own native country! vii.] the old bachelor married. he had a great many relations. this is not always the case if a man is poor; or at least, if a poor man has many relations, they do not usually seek him out and remind him that they are of his own blood, probably because they do not wish to make him uncomfortable by a contrast with themselves, if they happen to be better off than he is, and consider that it would be more agreeable to him to be left alone to work his own way in the world without family interference. but in the case of a rich man matters are entirely different. nobody wishes to disown or to forget him; there is no reason why they should forbear to re- mind him of the kindred link between them; and the noble, generous, loving nature of mankind prompts even cousins of the third and fourth degree to display a laudable readiness to visit and cherish him, to improve their acquaintance with him in every possible way, and even to assist him in the distri- bution of his superfluous wealth. this particular gentleman formed no exception to the general rule. his relations were numerous, and vied with each other in their display of warm affection towards his person. nor did this affection diminish with the progress of time, when it appeared less and less likely that he would ever place at the head of his establishment a wife who would be able to make the house agreeable to those members of the family who condescended to visit it, and be blessed with children whose innocent gambols would render it still more attractive to the visitors. on the contrary, the fact of the property being entirely at his own disposal, and there being no one person clearly designated as x queer folk. [vn. his heir, appeared to have no power to chill or lessen the kindly feelings which his relations, one and all, entertained for him. they sought his society with untiring zeal; threw over previous engagements with- out scruple in order to accept his invitations; sent him little presents on suitable occasions; were un- remitting in their attentions and civility, and lost no opportunity of reminding him of the nearness of their relationship to himself; increasing the effect of,these encouragements to his memory by such proverbial expressions as that "blood is thicker than water;" "a man should stand by his own;" "charity begins at home; " and similar observations, by which wise men of different ages have intended to teach mankind that it is better to be miserable and selfish with your own relations than generous and happy with anybody else. our worthy friend received all these attentions from his relations very much as a matter of course, although he sometimes expressed himself towards them in terms which, but for their family affection, they might probably have resented. the epithet "blood-suckers" is not usually considered one of a polite character; to be called "a waiter for dead-men's shoes" is not consi- dered desirable (although, if you are to be a waiter at all, there is no reason why you should not wait for shoes as well as for anything else, provided they are likely to fit you when you get them), and the words "harpies," "plunderers," "hypocrites," and such-like expressions, are not such as are especially pleasing to the generality of mankind, unless perhaps occasion- ally when used with reference to somebody else. o queer folk. [vn. and miserable to permit of out-door pursuits) was sufficiently favourable, the breadth of domain around supplied our friend's guests with varied amusements, such as suit the hardy sportsman, the daring eques- trian, and the piscatorial enthusiast. so the worthy old gentleman never 'experienced the smallest diffi- culty in filling his house, entertaining his friends and abusing his relations to his most entire and perfect satisfaction. things had gone on in this way for a considerable time, when the incident occurred which was the cause and origin of the writing of this truthful and remark- able history. there had been a large party staying at the good gentleman's house—a party of relations— who had enjoyed themselves mightily, after their fashion. they had habitually used to their host civil and loving language, which could only be called fawn- ing and flattering by those who like to take the worst view of everything which other people do; they had praised the worthy gentleman's taste, and manners, had eaten his bread and drunk his wine, digested his good things, swallowed his rough language, and showed no inclination whatever to leave the family mansion. they sat one day around the well-covered dinner- table, full of happiness, their faces beaming with contentment, and very much disposed to agree with everything and make everything agree with them. somehow or other, however, they did not always agree among themselves, although they never differed from any opinion which their host advanced. in fact, they very constantly and materially disagreed vii.] the old bachelor married. with each other upon many subjects, probably from a desire to relieve their discourse from a sameness which might have been produced by too much harmony. at length, however, the conversation chanced to turn upon matrimony, and upon this subject their unanimity was wonderful. everybody praised the life of a bachelor, and wondered how people.could ever be so foolish as to marry. old admiral perkins stoutly maintained this view of the case, although he was himself the husband of a stately dame and the father of several innocent babes. brown, jones, robinson, and co. all agreed ; and even miss jackson, the eldest daughter of a respectable gentleman, whose age was marriageable and who had been hitherto unsuspected of aversion to the other sex, declared herself of the same opinion. the host listened to their various arguments with great attention, only occasionally remarking that they were a pack of fools, which was merely his delicate way of expressing doubt as to the force of their arguments. at length, however, he broke into the discussion by a violent exclamation which astonished everybody :— "i've made up my mind !" he shouted loudly. "i will marry within the year!" this remark was followed by a great appearance of consternation upon the faces of all the guests, who began at once to remonstrate, in a mild and humble manner. "dear sir, i am sure it would not bei for your happiness!" "pray, sir, do not think of doing such a thing." "surely you would never introduce a stranger into the family!" "consider for a moment queer folk. fvn. how much your tranquil life would be disturbed." "i am sure, dear sir, you are not in earnest!" such were the observations which greeted the speaker on every side after he had made the bold declaration above related. unmoved, however, by all appeals, he slapped his hand upon the table with a force which made all the plates and dishes rattle, and overturned her glass of champagne into miss jackson's lap, and, in a louder voice than before, repeated the startling announcement, "by jove, i'll marry!" the matter was now becoming serious. with common consent the relations set themselves to dis- suade their beloved host from so rash and apparently hasty a resolution. they pointed out to him the happiness of his past and present life, and the dark shadows which would hang about his future existence if encumbered by a wife. they spoke of the tranquil felicity to be enjoyed by one who had nobody else to consider but himself, no other wishes to study than his own; and who, surrounded by loving—might they not say, loved ?—relations, lived in an atmosphere of serene comfort to be envied by the multitudes who could never hope to attain to a similar state. with this they contrasted the misery and discom- fort of a married man—constantly contradicted— continually rubbed up the wrong way—obliged to wait for breakfast till his wife came down, and for dinner until she chose to consider herself dressed—■ probably (and here a shudder ran through the whole party) distracted by squalling infants, maddened by the eternal worry of hush-a-bying babies, and perhaps queer folk. [vn. tended to signify that they disapproved of marriage generally, or in particular cases where it could be afforded. far from it; it was only rash, improvident and ill-assorted unions which they condemned; and as to admiral perkins, he quoted the happy expe- riences of his own married life as proof of the great and uninterrupted felicity to be obtained by a suitable marriage. for a moment it seemed as if this change in the current of public opinion would have influenced the inclination and altered the resolution of the worthy gentleman. a spirit of'contradiction'urged him to such a course, but a desire to do that which would probably be annoying to the whole tribe of affec- tionate relatives by whom he was surrounded, pre- vented him from retracting his views, already so forcibly expressed. he therefore said little, but listened patiently whilst the party engaged in an amicable discussion as to the kind of lady who would best suit their revered relative. then, again, there was a great difference of opinion as to the height, colour of eyes and hair, figure, appearance, and general character of the fortunate being, until at last the excellent master of the house burst into a passion, and seizing the ivory ring which secured his dinner napkin, brandished it wildly in the air, and exclaimed in a loud and firm tone of voice, "the woman i marry must have a finger which this will fit for a wedding-ring, and such an one i vow i will marry, let who will say nay!" the effect of these words was instantaneous. miss jackson, who particularly prided herself upon vii.] the old bachelor married. port herself under the sudden attack, but the chair upon which she sat was by no means strong, the back gave way, and in another moment both the lady and her involuntary assailant were rolling together on the deck, whilst several people who had witnessed the accident were standing by in fits of laughter at the whole affair. it may be easily imagined that the situation of the two individuals was anything but agreeable. here was a respectable gentleman of a certain age, by no means devoid of natural dignity and generally of a staid demeanour, placed in a position in which decorum was difficult and dignity impossible to pre- serve: his companion being a lady probably of a retiring and reserved disposition, thrown suddenly into 'a situation utterly incompatible with either reserve or retirement. the whole business was suffi- ciently ludicrous, and at the same time indescribably painful to the principal performers. as, however, all things have an end, this curious affair presently reached its termination, and both lady and gentleman, having disengaged themselves as they best could, rose to their feet. in the struggle, however, the lady's mask had come untied, and had fallen upon the deck, disclosing to the gentleman a face which he had never seen before. it was by no means a face which it was unpleasant to look upon, although at that particular moment it reflected no very amiable disposition. an angry blush dyed the fair one's cheeks, her eyes flashed with wrath, and features which, in a state of repose, would have commanded the admiration of the most insensible of mankind, were inflamed with a passion which boded i queer folk. [vn. danger, immediate and dire, to the person who had given occasion for such a feeling. such, indeed, was the old gentleman's impression, and he had barely- time to arrive at such a conclusion before a violent box on the ear from the offended fair one more than ever convinced him of its correctness. scarcely had the buffet been bestowed, and that with hearty good will, than a roar of laughter from the bystanders awakened both lady and gentleman to the absurdity of their position. the former, standing opposite her victim and looking very much as if about to repeat the blow, was an object not seen every day by those who now enjoyed the spectacle; whilst the latter, planted sheepishly before her and rubbing his tingling ear, was certainly a very legitimate object for their merriment. it is impossible to say how long the spectacle might have lasted had not the ridiculous aspect of the case suddenly struck both the parties concerned; and scarcely had the lady begun to articulate "sir, sir! how could you? how dare you?" when they both looked at each other, and without more ado went off into an inextinguishable fit of laughter. the old gentleman was the first to recover himself, and making his fair companion a most profound bow, he thus accosted her:— "permit me, madam, to offer my most humble and sincere apologies for the great, though unintentional, rudeness of which i have been guilty. believe, i pray you, how truly and deeply i regret the misfor- tune which has occurred." "sir," replied the lady, her cheeks suffused with vii.] the old bachelor married. blushes, "it is i who ought to apologise for having allowed myself to be so angry about that which was clearly an accident. pray pardon my impetuous temper." "madam," returned the worthy gentleman, as much struck with the sweetness of the lady's voice as with the courtesy of her sentiments—"madam, i cannot for a moment allow you to blame yourself—my rude- ness was abominable, and i shall never cease to repent it. forgive me, i beseech you!" "oh, sir," rejoined the fair one, "it is easy to for- give where no offence was intended, and i am sure it is rather for me than for you to crave pardon for what has just occurred." "allow me, madam," said the old gentleman, "to be the best judge upon this point. i alone am in fault; and i beg you to permit me to kiss your hand, in token that you really forgive my rudeness." with these words the good man stepped suddenly forward, and taking the lady's hand in his own before she could possibly prevent it, was about to press it to his lips, when he suddenly uttered a loud cry, let it drop, and, staring wildly into her face, exclaimed: "here then is my fate !" and fell at her feet on both knees. it may be easily understood that an event of this unusual character, or, to speak more accurately, an event of such a character occurring in such an unusual place, attracted considerable attention, and the throng of bystanders increased at once to a goodly number. nothing daunted, however, by this circumstance, the old gentleman bravely maintained his position, very much to the surprise and consterna- queer folk. [vii. tion of the lady, who began to entertain serious doubts of his sanity. "sir, sir!" she exclaimed in a tone of entreaty, " pray get up at once! consider the position in which you are placing me. what will all these people think of us? pray do not keep up this farce any longer— everybody is looking at us! oh dear, oh dear!" and at this period she showed evident symptoms of tears. but the old gentleman remained perfectly unmoved. "madam," he observed in a grave and impressive tone, " i have found, and found unexpectedly, that for which i was about to roam round the world. your hand—or, if i may venture to speak more precisely, your fingers are what i had imagined it would have cost me half my life to find." "sir," interrupted the lady, almost angrily," this is cruel; it is insulting." "not so, madam," rejoined the kneeling lover, "the last thing in my thoughts is to disparage anything belonging to one so charming as yourself. such a hand as yours can alone enable me to fulfil the matrimonial vow which i have taken: let me then hope that it may be mine!" unable to restrain any longer the conflicting emotions which agitated her tender heart, the lady at this point burst into tears, and, as she raised her handkerchief to her eyes with her ungloved hand,, those who were standing nearest to her were able to perceive that the three middle fingers were all joined together in such a manner as to present the appear- ance of one enormous finger. this, which to most eyes would have seemed nothing moxe nor less than queer folk. [vii. she should attract attention and possibly be exposed to rudeness during her journey. the old gentleman mildly observed that he should have imagined that a person who wore a black silk mask on a journey, whether beautiful or the reverse, would be more likely to attract than to avoid atten- tion; but perceiving that the subject was painful to- his fair friend, whom it doubtless reminded of the mother she was about to leave, he said no more about it. so they reached the shore, and with great care and assiduity the old gentleman escorted his loved one to the best hotel in the place, and saw that she was comfortably located there before he thought of his own wants. the next day he called upon her, and begged that she would allow him to make arrange- ments for their speedy union, and would commu- nicate with her mother and any other friends. but this, though gently, and not without shedding a few tears, she declined to do. she had plighted her word, she said, and would not go back from it. his wife she would be, and he should name his own time. but she would much rather not inform her mother of the matter until it was all over; for the nervous irrita- bility of the old lady was such that she would assuredly be much excited by the news, and perhaps rendered quite ill. neither did she wish to proceed farther on her journey towards her friend's house. if her lover wished it, she would marry him in that very town where they then were, but let it all be done quietly, without fuss or bother, and they would thus escape a host of congratulations and a mass of * * -- w vii.] the old bachelor married. desire, and took their passage in the next boat which was homeward bound. - nothing remarkable occurred during the voyage, but the lady showed herself on more than one occa- sion to be possessed of a certain amount of temper which the gentleman had not perceived before their marriage, and it was evident that her disposition was not so entirely angelic as he had supposed. however, the voyage passed off as well as voyages usually do, , and the happy couple proceeded forthwith to the beloved country-seat of the bridegroom. they had not, however, long been settled down quietly at home before the old gentleman began to discover that his old habits could no longer be carried on as in the days before his marriage. it has been already mentioned that he loved to assemble his rela- tions around him, and to surround his hospitable board with joyful guests. he had never entertained any idea of changing his ways in this respect, and after the lapse of a short time informed his wife that he should like to invite a number of his relations, as in old times. instead of receiving this proposal in the agreeable manner which he had hoped, the lady tossed her head scornfully, and evinced a decided repugnance to the contemplated gathering. indeed, she went so far as to tell her loving lord, that if his relations were at all like himself the farther off they were the better, and that as to having a parcel of riff-raff for ever hanging about the place, eating the family out of house and home, it was what she did not intend to put up with. this reply was, as may be easily imagined, scarcely o queer folk. [vu. that the lady was indisposed, and would take dinner in her own room. the old gentleman was exceed- ingly vexed and mortified by this proceeding, feeling very well assured that the only indisposition from which his wife was suffering was one of her own invention, and arose from her opposition to his wishes. he deemed it right, however, to make elaborate apologies for her non-appearance, and affected to think that she was really ill. the dinner passed over as well as could have been expected, although of course the absence of the mis- tress of the house caused a certain amount of dis- comfort, and deprived the guests of an expected pleasure. after dinner it was no better. the lady did not appeared in the drawing-room; and her hus- band having gone out of the room for the purpose, as he said, of inducing her to descend, shortly returned with his left cheek so much redder than the other as to give every appearance of having been recently slapped, and that violently. the guests looked at each other, and talked of indifferent subjects, but all endeavours to make the evening pass off pleasantly were utterly vain and use- less. neither the freedom of a bachelor-party nor the comfortable arrangements of married life were present to cheer the party, upon whom a restless feeling of uneasiness seemed to sit like a night-mare, chilling every effort at mirth or joviality. it was to no purpose that the poorer relatives strove to flatter the old gentleman. he answered meekly, and never contradicted or insulted one of them; and even when some of the boldest ventured to differ vii.] the old bachelor married. from him in opinion, he mildly observed that it was quite possible that they were in the right. it was only too evident that matrimony had tamed that hitherto independent spirit, and that the former possessor of that noble mansion was no longer its sole owner, if, indeed, any of the rights of ownership still remained to him. he had at last found his match, if not his master: and in all he said and did it was evident that he bore in mind that there was another, perhaps a superior, power whom he was bound to consult. although these facts were sufficiently palpable during that first evening, they received additional confirmation on the succeeding day. the old gen- tleman had again at breakfast to apologise for his wife's continued indisposition; and there were no more signs of her appearance than on the pre- vious day. moreover, none of the guests themselves seemed at all in good humour. miss jackson had found no fire in her room, though the weather was cold ; and she declared that she had been nearly frozen in consequence. brown had been placed in a back room, close to which water for the house was pumped up by a machine, whose creaking at a very early hour in the morning had effectually destroyed sleep. jones swore that some one had played him a trick, for his bed was full of bread- crumbs, most distressing to a tender skin. robinson had no blankets on his bed, and had shivered miserably all night in consequence; whilst poor old admiral perkins vowed that he had slept in damp sheets, which would certainly be the death of him. queer folk. [vil upon the table, and she had sent the servants upon some errand, and remained alone in the room for a minute or two. no moral doubt remained in her husband's mind that during this period of time she had put something in the soup which had caused the unpleasant results narrated above; but as none of the party suffered permanently, and the consequences of further inquiry might lead to an exposure which would be highly disagreeable, the good man determined to hush the matter up, and to pretend that some accident had happened in the cooking. with this excuse the guests were obliged to be satisfied ; but the matter did not contribute to the success of the visit, which was certainly as dull as ditch-water to all concerned. although the lady had made this stolen visit to the dining-room, she was not seen downstairs during the rest of the day, and once more the old gentleman had to apologise for her absence. the guests thought it strange, but could of course do nothing but express their regret in polite language, and they got through the evening as well as could be expected. when bed-time came they retired to rest as usual, and the host cherished a secret hope that matters would bear a different aspect on the following day. how great was his disappointment will soon be heard. retiring somewhat late at night, he found himself locked out both of bedroom and dressing-room, and would have roused the whole house had not mingled fear of his wife and shame at the exposure in his hitherto well-ordered household deterred him from so doing. accordingly, he passed the night as best he could in his study downstairs, and strove to get some sleep in vii.] the old bachelor married. one of the arm-chairs with which that room was duly furnished. but in the middle of the night he was awakened by a scream in a shrill loud tone, repeated again and again, which caused him to hurry upstairs as fast as possible. the sound came from the direc- tion of miss jackson's room, to which our worthy friend immediately hurried. ere he reached it, how- ever, he was joined by several of the party who had been similarly alarmed. after a moment's hesitation, as the screams had now ceased, they opened the door, and perceived the occupant of the room sitting up in bed, in a paroxysm of rage and tears. she had been awakened, she said, out of a deep sleep by a sharp pull of the hair, and, starting up, had just time to see a figure disappear through the door, with a strange kind of chuckle as it went. hastily sitting up, she found that the figure, whoever or whatever it was, had quietly cut her hair quite short during her sleep, and had then roused her by the pull which she had felt. her rage and indig- nation were extreme, and she vowed she would not stay another night in the house for the world, nor even speak to the old gentleman again unless the vile perpetrator of so base a deed should be detected and punished. the poor man most earnestly protested his sorrow that such a thing should have happened, and promised to do his very best to discover the offender. he entertained, however, in his own mind, so deep and confident a suspicion as to the culprit, that he felt certain he was promising that which circumstances would prevent his performing. queer folk.' . . . [vii. but he had more to think of than the sad destruc- tion of miss jackson's hair. it seemed that every- body had, this night at least, something to complain of, and that something peculiarly calculated to irritate and annoy. brown had found his slippers full of water; jones had two new silk cravats cut into strips and laid neatly outside his bed; robinson found his new hair-brushes clipped and spoiled with his own scissors; and old admiral perkins turned out per- fectly furious, having jumped into a bed which had been carefully filled with a number of black-beetles. all these unhappy victims assailed their host with equal violence and unanimity. they accused him of gross inhospitality, or, at least, with want of autho- rity, if not of will, to afford protection to his own relations in his own house; and they threatened him with the loss of their friendship and society—if, in- deed, he had done nothing which would bring him actually within the power of the law. it was in vain that the poor man endeavoured to assuage the wrath which was thus poured upon his devoted head. he prayed, and begged, and implored his guests to be assured of his entire innocence of anything which had occurred to mar the pleasure of their visit. he urged them to remember how glad he had always been to see them in former days, and declared that his feelings in this respect had undergone no change whatever. in short, he said he had anticipated great happiness from their coming to see him, and was inexpressibly grieved that they should have fared so badly, and met with such strange misfortunes. vii.] the old bachelor married. "if you say another word," chimed in the lady, "you shall have a taste of my conduct which you won't relish much better. now be off! this is my room, and i don't choose to have you here any longer." the husband's anger was, as may well be supposed, in no way diminished by this speech; but he had had such unpleasant experience of his wife's actions, as well as of her words, that he made no doubt but that she would presently follow up her threat in a prac- tical, and probably unpleasant mariner. therefore he deemed discretion the better part of valour, and prudently withdrew, merely pausing for a moment at the door, and telling the lady that he should take the matter into serious consideration, being resolved not to put up any longer with such abominable behaviour. to this parting remark his wife replied by throwing a boot at his head, which he was only just in time to escape by shutting the door quickly; and he heard her contemptuous laugh as he walked slowly and sorrowfully down the passage. what was to be done? here he was, married to a woman who appeared to possess an entirely ungovern- able temper, and to be guided by no principle what- ever of right and good feeling. this came of marrying with so little previous knowledge of her who was to be his partner for life. bitterly did he repent the moment when he first made his rash determination to enter the blessed state of matrimony; and sadly did he look back upon the happy days of old which had now for ever fled. during the next few weeks he had, indeed, ample oppor- queer folk. [vn. upon a summer's afternoon. suddenly, however, he was startled from his slumbers by hearing voices, loud and angry voices, in the road near him, and sitting up in a half-awakened state, was still more completely roused by the discovery that one of these belonged to his wife. she was evidently very angry, and although there was unfortunately nothing in this to excite her husband's surprise, her words very soon attracted his attention, and became ere long, no less than those of her companion, of great and absorbing interest. "it's a lie !" were the first words the old gentleman heard her say; "it's a lie, and you can't prove it!" "not prove it, polly ?" answered the deep tones of a man's voice. "not prove it? why there's several of the old lot in camp now, and if we was to go up to the old cove now at this werry moment, 'twould be all u p with yer, my lady, and no mistake!" "i say it's all nonsense," angrily retorted the lady; "and what's more, if it was as true as gospel, what would you gain by making a row? speech is silver, but silence is sometimes golden, you know." "ay, ay, my wench, now you speak more sensible: that sounds like reason. no one wants to blow on you, not if you makes it golden to keep quiet." and the man laughed as he spoke. "but i am not to be bothered and bullied by you and your people all my life," retorted the lady, passionately. "don't be angry, polly—don't be angry," replied her companion; "there's no bullying nor bothering in the matter; but when one of a party falls into a piece of luck, there's no reason why the others shouldn't queer folk. [vn. know as i can rightly tell you who i be myself. but if so be as the name as i goes by is the right name, joe meakins be i, travelling tinker by trade, and polly meakins be she—my wife as went off from me these ten years since come michaelmas, with the play- acting folk." "are you certain that you make no mistake?" eagerly inquired the old gentleman of the speaker. "certain sure," replied the latter, with a grim smile. "there an't two living like polly, for the matter of that, with her three fingers all in one, as you may say, on the left hand, and a temper such as you won't meet with not everywhere." at these words, and more especially at the allu- sion to the peculiar formation of the lady's hand, the old gentleman was more than ever convinced of the truth of the man's story. had he doubted, how- ever, the lady's own conduct would have settled the question. she had braved it out until now, in the hope that the tinker's story might not be told at the last, and that some lucky chance in her favour might turn up. but at his last words hope left her breast, and she saw at once that detection was near and certain. changing her haughty attitude and indig- nant look, she burst into tears, and flung herself at the feet of him who had up to that time believed himself to be her husband. "sir, sir !" she said, in an imploring tone, "forgive, i pray you, my deceit, and save me from the misery before me if you give me up to this cruel man! you shall know the truth. this man claims me as his wife. it is true i was a gipsy-girl, merry and light-hearted, | all . - | | | | º ſº || || wºº | | | | | | | | — * º- º: | | ſ | ºf . ºn | the black croo k, a most wosº.ºrgs, ºrogº. hºſºy being performed with immense success in all the principal. theatres throughout the united states. / > \ \ philadelphia: barclay & co, arch street. ſ & \ºn j win c the b l a c k crook, - i a most won derful history. chapter i. count palf , and his soupore. “loap, sir, you could scarcely believe it, but the whole world seems to have been ransacked to furnish that room; you saw porcelain from the east indies, vases from italy, chairs from france, pictures from spain, and monsters from all parts of the world, and besides, every clime had yielded her flowers. —spendthrift. twelve o'clock had just rung out in fair vienna, and the sun partially gilded one of the most exquisite apartments in the old im- perial city. this was the private boudoir, of the count palfi, one of the magnates of hungary, who drawing immense revenues from his paternal estates, seldom if ever quitted vienna, except on a brief visit to paris, where he was cele- brated for his princely munificence, and lavish expenditure. report also whispered that the count was as well known in the worst parts of the french metropolis, as in the aristocratic saloons of the faubourg st. germain, and the chaussee d’autin, in vienna; he was uni- versally admired by the young ladies, who re- served their choicest smiles for the handsome profligate; the virtuous dowagers shuddered, averted their heads and returned the count’s bows with the most chilling courtesy. the men secretly envied him, circulated the most sca- thing sarcasms against him, but always in his absence. his board was daily crowded, and the wits and philosophers of the day, did not refuse-tasting his rich hungarian wines, and listening to the music, of the most famous composers. one person alone either avoided him, or when thrown in his company, treated him with a cold politeness which was extreme- ly galling, and which yet did not allow him to oomplain; this was an obscure german artist, rudolph kleinfeldt, who was fast rising into notice, and whose studio was the resort of all vienna, as he excelled in portraits, and did not neglect other branches of the art. the room in question, was in the west wing of the old palace of the palfi family, in what was then the most aristocratic part of vienna. the ceiling was lofty and carved in fantastic shapes, by an artist of no mean skill. a su- perb italian marble mantle represented the grotto of calypso, and her attendant nymphs ; the halls were painted a pale peach color and thickly hung with specimens of the italian school, mingled with some master-pieces, from the pencils of velasquez and murillo. pale curtains of rose-colored damask, veiled the windows. huge fauteuils, in the french taste then prevalent, stood here and there; orange trees in full blossom loaded with fruit, in rich gold and white ehina tubs, diffused an almost oppressive fragrance. jars of the rarest nan- kin porcelain, were on each side of the mantle. misshapen monsters, (then imported by the dutch from japan) frowned hideously; a red and yellow macaw uttered the most discordant screams, and a tiny lap dog of the purest pomeranian breed reposing lazily on a cushion from time to time glanced at the door, the ta- bles of lapis lazuli and ebony, were laden with a variety of costly trifles, a plumed hat with a diamond buckle, a snuffbox and sword, on a small stand, showed that the master was not far distant. a light footstep aroused the sagacious little animal, the door opened, and a young man entered, “framed in the very prodigality of nature.” count palfi was now about twenty. | eight, and had already been cursed with levery granted oraver, his face was faultless; the black crook, a most wonderful history. “my lord: i know not what to think of the . note i had the honor of receiving from you, accompanied by a group of lascivious statuary, with a request that i would transfer it to can- vas. you have mistaken my vocation. i am a painter, it is true, and dependant upon my talents for my daily bread, but at the same time i am free to bestow those poor gifts, where and when i please. “the province of art is to instruct, revive the taste, and improve the morals, not pander to the vilest appetites, which we have in com- mon with the brutes. “i therefore decline, with all due submission to your better judgment, the task you have assigned me, and refuse to prostitute my tal- ents (if, indeed, i possess any,) to so vile a purpose. - “very sincerely, “your obd’t servant, “rodolph kleinfeldt.” “i cannot say but that he has answered you civilly, count palfi, but what did you ask him to do?” “i saw a very fine group at the venetian embassy, in the secretary's chamber, and sent it to this paiuter, with a request to copy it, and name his own price. he refused, im- pertinent beast, as if such creatures did not exist by our bounty, and are not bound to execute all our commands, without any hesi- tation.” “your lordship forgets one thing,” said mardhoff, secretly enjoying palfi's discom- fiture, “that we cannot create talent.” “no, but we can pay for it.” “true, but not create it. you may, per- haps, remember what the impetuous henry the eighth of england said to some of his cour- tiers who complained of the insolence of hans holbein, ‘of seven ploughmen i can make sev lords, but not one hans holbein.” he is one of nature's noblemen, and you can- not buy him.” “well, be it so ; you will do me the honor of driving with me.” the necessary orders were issued, and a heavy lumbering coach, painted with some taste, and drawn by four flanders' mares, speedily received the two noblemen. a drive round the public square, a chat with some of their acquaintances, and a supper attended by all the wits of vienna, consumed the time till midnight. when palfi was at last alone, the artist's refusal stung him to the quick. he of all “vienna, prague, and pest, refused him homage, and yet he reasoned he is but a painter, who earns his gold by his pencil, while i have scores of acres and thousands in bright gold, and yet he denies me the use of his talents, quietly sets me at naught, and as quietly returns my cold bows, with an equally frigid salutation; the devil take such fellows; and the count addressed himself to his slum- bers. chapter ii. an artist's studio. “my friend insisted on taking me to see an artist, who, he said, was a particular friend and l had 'no choice; so we sat out, climbed three steep stair-cases, and at last got in. the room was large, and perfectly crammed with busts, hands and feet; here were crayon drawings, there a half finished picture on an easel; heaps of armour, old costumes, dag- gers, and turkish slippers, with a variety of other articles, as the auctioneer would say, too tedious to mention, were oiled up, in a not unpleasing confusion, in one corner of the room.”—tour in italy. the studio of rodolph kleinfeldt, was fre- quented by all in vienna, who were, or who wished to be, thought patrons of art; situated in rather a retired part of the old ºity, the rooms were at least light and ventilated. sketches from some of the most famous italian palaces and galleries, hung on the walls; a table was covered with casts of hands and feet; a venus modeled after the famous statue of crete, stood in one corner. arms, daggers, and an embroidered cafton, were heaped in a kind of picturesque disorder; in another, old chairs richly carved, were arranged for the ac- commodation of visitors; a half-finished pic- ture was on the easel, and the artist stood at some distance, earnestly contemplating his work. rodolph kleinfeldt had reached his thirtieth year; he could not boast of high descent, or noble blood, but nature had endowed him with rare talents ; his father was an obscure me- chanic in wienna, and strictly attached to his religion he frequently took rodolph to church, and the boy by gazing on the pictures, and other works of ar", gradually imbibed a love of painting, and one day astonished his father with a rude copy of an old virgin and child, which had long been the sole ornament of his modest home; a nobleman hearing of this prodigy in humble life, extended a helping hand, and was not disappointed in his protege. a year in the great metropolis of the world completed his studies, and trusting to his genius, the artist boldly returned to his native the black crook, a most wonderful history. eity, with a stout heart, and a firm resolution to carve out his way to fortune. he had not forgotten his beneficent friend, and presented him with a small but exquisitely finished copy of an old picture he had seen at rome, which particularly struck his fancy. this did not escape notice; his generous benefactor hung the work of his young friend in a prominent position, and did not fail to descant upon its merits. his benevolent de- sign succeeded : commissions flowed in, and at the end of five years rodolph kleinfeldt was reputed the most talented artist in the city. his appearance was exceedingly attractive; every movement betokened vivacity and intel- lect; devoted to his art, his whole world was comprised in his studio: the picture slowly progressed, but each day added to its beauties. while thus occupied, an aged nobleman en- tered the studio and cautiously inquired if he had the pleasure of addressing the celebrated artist rudolph kleinfeldt. “my name is kleinfeldt,” is the reply, “but i cannot say that i am a celebrated artist.” “you are too modest; fame has assigned you a high place in your profession. i lately purchased a picture of a spanish gentleman, whose necessities compelled him to part with it, but only on the condition that i would have a copy made, which should be his.” kleinfeldt bowed; and the picture, repre- senting a man about forty-five, in a semi-mili- tary costume, was brought in the studio. the face was rather interesting, and had an inde- scribable expression. the painter looked at- tentively at the canvas and seemed at a loss. “what is the matter?” asked his com- panion. “i am confused,” was the reply. “this seems to be a man's picture, and yet the ex- pression is exceedingly feminine.” “you are both right and wrong, the picture is of a woman, who played a man's part. if you have no objection, i shall tell ner story in a few words. it is the portrait of dona catalina de erauso, the nun ensign, who, quitted her convent to go in the army, sailed for the americas, landed safely, encountered a variety of adventures, crossed the great desert, entered a convent, returned to spain, and obtained a pension.” “what became of her at last.” “her end is not known, but i trust that you will not disappoint me, and exert your utmost abilities. the picture is rare, and if well doney will enhance your reputation.” “a person wishes to see you sir, said an elderly woman, who officiated as janitress.” “show him up.” the woman hesitated. “what is it marguerite.” “well, sir, if you will take the advice of an old woman, who has seen more of the world than you, and who wishes you well, do not see that man, or rather that demon.” “what do you mean ** “tell that man.” “i say old woman, are you going to keep me here all day. i can tell you that i am not accustomed to be kept all day in the cold,' ' croaked out a harsh voice. “there he is, i must go; but oh master, dear, if you mind what i say, do not let that man come up.” “nonsense, marguerite i fear nothing ox earth or, again the voice exclaimed, “am i to come up or not ?” the terrified janitress ran rapidly down stairs, the sound of a crutch or stick was heard, the door thrown open, and an individu- al entered. kleinfeldt and his visitor involuntarily gazed upon the new arrival. this was a man who had evidently passed his sixtieth year, and presented a striking contrast to the former inmates of the room. kleinfeldt was still in the bloom of youth, the nobleman, though youth had long since flown, retained a very pleasant expression, and was attired with the most scrupulous neatness; the new arrival, in addition to his years, had a spiteful and malignant countenance, his thin lips when opened, disclosed toothless gums. he was exceedingly bent, and a large hump had the effect of detracting from his height. time had not dimmed the lustre of his eyes, which shone with a serpentine brilliancy. his hands resembled withered bird’s claws; a suit of shabby black velvet, well worn, a felt hat, and a pair of boots of spanish leather, so patched, that it was hard to discover the original material, completed his attire; leaning on a black stick, with a head in the shape of a crook, he thus addressed the astonished painter : “well, i had great work to get up ! i ad- vise you to tell your housekeeper to be more civil to those who call; people who have their living to get should be more polite to visitors.” “i was only aware that you had called, and gave orders that you should be admitted as speedily as possible.” “well, it may be so,” rejoined he of the black crook, with an evil glare. “may i ask,” replied kleinfeldt, blandly, “how i can serve you?” “i should not have come if i had not needed your services. i never visit persons for mare |civility— want a picture.” the black orook, a most wonderful history. “on what subject—original or a copy?” “this will be an original.” “what kind of a picture do you want?” “i shall want a venus coming from the sea. i have a particular use for it. what will be your price?” "i cannot do the work for less than five hundred ducats.” “well, i cannot give the half of that. i will give two hundred and fifty.” “i am not accustomed to abate my price. i cannot do the work for less. ah, prince pal r, i hone that i have the pleasure of seeing you in perfect health.” “i am as well as usual,” was the haughty reply, with a manner calculated to prevent any further conversation. “i remember well when i first had the honor of meeting you.” - “i will not trouble you to detail any further recollections,” was the chilling answer. “well, people change so.” the prince, making a low bow to the artist, said, “another time i will do myself the honor of calling on you, till then, au revoir,” and he departed without noticing the black crook. “pride must have a fall,” was the bitter rejoinder, rather to himself than to kleinfeldt, casting a bitterglance after the departing figure. “now, sir artist, shall we resume our agree- ment? could you not do that picture for me, for say, three hundred ducats?” “i have already told you that i never higgle, and that i shall not abate my price. i must have five hundred ducats—i will not touch that picture unless i receive that price.” “well, i suppose that i must give what you ask,” replied black crook, with a baleful gaze, “but i think that it will be the worse for you.” “you are at liberty to do as you please, and i claim the same freedom, perhaps, remember hat, perhaps you will refuse; but in order to prevent that, i shall pay you at once one hundred golden ducats.” as he spoke, the old man putting his hands in his pocket, drew out a heavily laden purse, from which he extracted a mass of coin, and •ounting down one hundred ducats said, “i have bound the bargain. you cannot now re- fuse me. in three weeks i shall come and see what progress you have made. now i shall . g the words were scarcely out of his month, ere he trotted nimbly down stairs, banged the door after him and vanished. kleinfeldt standing by the table, mechani- cally handled the gold, and was reckoning it, when old marguerite burst into the room, trembling in every limb, and fear painted in every lineament. “oh, master dear, has that devil’s imp gone?” “do you mean the man with the black crook? if it will give you any satisfaction, he has gone.” he did not add, “to my great satisfaction,” though he felt immensely re- lieved, when he was once more alone, he did ..] not wish margueritte to see that he was afraid. the gold on the table caught the old gour- mante's eyes, who at once exclaimed: “what a heap of money i did that old villian bring it here f* “marguerite, you must not talk so of ...y visitors, but since you are so inquisitive, i win satisfy you. he did give it me.” “oh, master dear, i beg and conjure you, not to touch that devil’s trash.” “devil’s trash!” “yes, that man is an imp of satan, as sure as can be. you know him, don’t you?” “i cannot say that i do.” “he is a magician.” “a magician l’” “yes, i know a woman, who lives near him, and no matter at what hour of the night she rises, there’s that old fiend at his work; the windows are never open; day or night, it is all the same. and then what volumes of smoke pour out from his chimney.” “pooh, marguerite, only a little cooking.” “a little cooking ! no master, yellow sul- phurous smoke in vast volumes, with an awful smell, and then he has such dreadful women coming to see him, such old hags. and when they are there, the door is shut, and no one then is admitted.” “who takes care of his house?” “a half starved man, and a deformed dumb negro, who like his master, is hump-backed; and then country women go to him for elixir and perfumes. oh master, take my advice, and send back that gold, it will never do you any good.” “i shall keep it and run the risk.” “good bye, master; but if you take my advice you'll not keep that gold.” the old woman’s conversation was not with: out its effect; the artist remembered also, that the prince, though polite to the black crook, as he mentally termed his visitor, still avoided looking at him, and ended the interviews as soon as politeness to him would permit, slightly tinctured with the superstition of the age, which still believed in witchcraft, spells, and incantations, he made the sign of the cross, and involuntarily looking at a head of christ, modeled after michael angelo, mut- tered a fervent prayer, and addressed himself again to his task; but he had lost his spirits, and could not work with his accustomied . the black crook, a most wonderful history. power, the brush fell from his hand, and his eyes refused any longer to recognize colors. can it be, he exclaimed, that marguerite is is right, and that the old man has cast a spell upon me, the wisest say, that such things are possible, if he have, i shall never prosper again. night drew rapidly on, and the artist, lock- ing his chamber, took a solitary stroll through- out the city; the weather was charming, and the moon bathed st. stephen's in a flood of silvery light. kleinfeldt directed his steps to the cathedral, hallowed by the consecration of so many sovereigns of the house of haps- burg; the whole city was wrapped in repose, and kleinfeldt climbing one of the butresses, cast a glance at the interior of that conse- rated fane. a solitary light was burning at a side altar, and the wind murmered softly at a little distance through the trees; soothed by the tranquillity of the scene, kleinfeldt saun- tered slowly away, and regained his chamber, where he sat by the casement, musing on the events of the day; and morning broke, ere he sought his couch, where he was soon wrapped in a profound slumber. ten o'clock found the artist at his task, re- freshed by his repose; a modest tap at the door, was answered by an invitation to enter, and a little girl about ten years of age, with a flower basket stood before him; who modestly tendering a bouquet, said, “wont you have ome roses and violets f" “with all pleasure, my little maid, but what shall i give you?” “oh sir, i cannot take anything from you.” “but why should you bestow your flowers st me?” my name is theresa von hummel, perhaps you know my father.” kleinfeldt recollected that some five or six months before, he had rendered some trifling service to the organist of the cathedral, and stailingly said, “well theresa, if you will have it so, i will accept what you have so kindly offered; but you must allow me to do some- thing in return for you.” the flower girl gazed timidly around, and her eye rested on a small engraving of ra- phael's madonna and child, on the table—and at last hesitatingly said: “that is very pretty.” “well it is yours.” theresa courtesied gratefully, and with- drew. this little incident diverted the artist. he seemed to breathe more freely, and the brush was taken up with fresh vigor, the colors seemed brighter than usual, and he remarked to himself, “i feel as well as if i were in italy wandering through t. peter's, and contemplating the frescoes of michael an- gelo,” he had lost for the moment, all thoughts of the black crook, and was once more jolly and light hearted. chapter iii. black crook. and hi drºn. - i tell your grace, that yon fellow is dangerous. - duchess. what do you mean? isabella. that he is not to be trusted. that he is a brigand, fortune-teller and alchemist all in one. duchess, have you ever been to visit him # isabella. once. i went with the old baro- ness krusenstein. duchess. well, what did you see ? isabella. i cold not tell your grace, one half of the horrors that met my eyes. skulls grinned at me fearfully. arms without hands, and hands without arms, skulls, and all sorts of magical apparatus. i thought i was not safe till i got out into the fresh air, and prayed that i might never be inveigled into such a place again.—aldermit. wolfgang hertzog, or as he was better known as black crook, resided in what had once been the most fashionable quarter of wi enna, in a large and spacious mansion which, some three or four centuries before, had been the abode of matthias corwintos, a famous empiric, in the service of andrew of hungary, and, tradition averred, that he was in the habit of casting sundry weird spells there; and the populace of that century seldom named the house without making the sign of the cross and muttering a pater nos- ter; and untold gold could hardly have in- duced any one to have crossed the threshhold after nightfall. this reputation clung to the property, which passed into the possession of prince paul esterhazy, and for nearly fifty years the steward of his estate, though he offered the mansion at a most reasonable rate, could not find a tenant. one evening, about midnight, after the household of esterhazy had retired, it was aroused by a furious knock at the front door, and, protruding his head from the window, the valet asked who the visitor was and what he wanted at such an unseasonable hour. “who i am it is of no consequence for you to know, my business is with your master, not you; i never deal with underlings—admit me.” “the prince is not in the palace, he has gone to a masquerade and his return is unces | the clauk crook, a most wonderful history. tain—you must call in the morning;” with these words the window was closed, and the stranger compelled to depart. the next morning, as early as politeness would permit, the night visitor presented him- self and was ushered into the prince's pre- sence, who at once asked him his business. “i understand that your highness has an empty house to rent, and, if you have no ob- jection, i should like to be your tenant.” “you are right; i have an unemployed house, but may i ask—” “you said,” replied the stranger, “that the house was vacant, i want it; what is the price?” the prince was startled; here was an offer for a house which had been unoccupied for twenty years, and yet he did not like the appearance or manner of his interlocutor. the stranger was richly, though gravely clad, his features were handsome, his manner be- spoke acquaintance with the highest rank, his deportment, though courteous, checked all curiosity, and the pair sat in silence for a few moments. “well, may i ask if your highness has yet come to any determination ?” “it is usual,” replied the prince, coldly, “when persons come to give their names, residence, fortune, and former occupation, but such is not my custom. i can pay, and that, i think, will waive the necessity of an- swering any further questions. once more, i ask your highness can i have the house?” the prince was surprised, and after a mo- ment's consideration replied: “perhaps you will permit me to consult my steward; i hear him in the next room; or per- chance you will admit him to our conference?” “by no means, as i have already informed the valet i rarely deal with inferiors; but since your highness wishes to speak with him i will await your leisure.” esterhazy, who was glad of an opportunity to leave his visitor, and who did not wish to lose the chance of renting the house, retired, and, after a short interval, returned. the steward and his lord had agreed that, should the stranger consent to the terms demanded, the property should be his. ~ “i have come to the conclusion, sir,” said the prince, returning to the apartment, and making a slight inclination of the head, “that the property shall be yours at the rent of a thousand ducats, yearly.” “i accept your terms; and, to avoid any further trouble, shall pay the sum at once,” and, drawing out a heavy pocket book, the stranger deposited notes on the bank of wi- enna, to the full amount, on the table. “it is not necessary,” said the incognito, “that you should know who i am, here is your cash; may i trouble you with a receipt, which will close our interview º' the prince was startled, and mechanically complied with the incognito's request, whe, haughtily bowing, withdrew. the citizens in the vicinity of the old man. sion, or, as it was commonly called, the ma. gician's den, were astonished to see the win- dows open, and preparations made, as if ' were about to be occupied by a family. some more adventurous than their neighbors ven- tured to enter the dusty halls and sombre chambers, which had not been opened for more than twenty years, and dame trudchen, the most inveterate gossip in the neighborhood, meeting the old man in charge of the house, inquired: “so you have come to take the old house?” “you might have judged as much, when you see what i am doing.” “yes, yes, that is very plain; and i hope that you and i shall be good neighbors.” “we shall see that hereafter.” “how long, do you think, that you will remain º’’ “well, dame, all things are uncertain.” “so my good man was accustomed to say. he expected to make a fortui.e., and that i should ride in my carriage as fine as any lady in the land, but, lord bless you, sir, his anti- cipations all came to nothing ; one night the good man went out to drink a little wine with one of his friends, his foot slipped, and he left me a poor lone widow. are you a german, sir ” “do i not speak the same language as yourself?” “from what part of germany do you come p'' “i have lived in all parts.” “what is your master's name?” “why do you wish to know?” “you know that it is but natural when folks move in a house, that we like to know who they are.” somewhatabashed by the servant's manner, trudchen affected to be attentively examin- ing the carving of the mantlepiece, but again shortly resumed her questions. “do you reside in vienna?” “i think i told you just now that i have lived in all parts of germany.” “so you did, and i was very stupid not to recollect, but my head is so full of other mat- ters that sometimes i forget.” “yes, of your neighbors' business,” said the steward, sotto voce. “what were you pleased to say, sir?” the black crook, a most wonderful history. “young or old " the little finger of the right hand was held up to signify that she was young and beau- tiful. “show her in.” another low salaam and the dwarf vanished, but soon returned, accompanied by a female figure clad in black, whose face was masked. the negro, having accomplished his mission, passed into the vestibule. “i believe,” said the visitress, “you are the celebrated dr. hertzog º' “my name is wolfgang hertzog, but whether i am known to fame or not is not for me to say; but what would you with me?” “report says that you are skilled in the secret sciences.” “i have made some researches in the learn- ing of the east, and passed a long life in the prosecution of science. nature when duly in terrogated will surrender many secrets to her patient inquirers.” “can you control the affections of the ab- sent º' “science overcomes all obstacles.” “i am rich, i can pay heavily.” “lady, you love one who does not recip- rocate your passion?” “even so, and i would fain procure some charmor philter to win back his truant love.” “that is possible, arabia and the spicy coast pour out their treasures.” “i pray of you let me have one. i will give you gold and gems, nay more; win me back he heart that i fear is lost, and you may name your own price, and, as an earnest, here are seventy ducats in gold, and, if you are success- ful, i will treble the amount.” the adept's eyes glittered with avarice. gold was the idol of his soul, not for use or enjoyment, but simply the consciousness of possession, and as he carefully counted the eoins he replied: - “my poor services are at your command. i will compound a rare and precious elixir which i will stake my existence will make him faithful to you, and only you, but it is necessary that i should cast your horoscope, and know when the conjunction of planets will be favorable. lady, you must unmask.” “perhaps it will not be necessary for me to ** my features.” “i tell you that it is absolutely necessary, or i should not have made the demand.” “i suppose, then, that i must yield,” and without further delay, she rose, and, detaching her mask and throwing off her cloak, showed a form of the most classic grace and exquisitely chiselled features. there was one peculiarity uty rarely seen in these northern climes: her skin was of a marble whiteness and her hair dark as the raven's wing. long did the adept gaze and look, as if old memories rushed across his brain. at last he de- manded in a voice broken with emotion: “you are not an austrian by birth” “no, i have a northern father, but my mother—” “was a spaniard?” “no, a greek.” “strange,” muttered the black crook, more to himself than his companion, “the resem- blance is so strong—eyes, hair, voice. were you ever in spain, lady ?” “never.” “i am, then, mistaken. let us proceed; give me the day and hour of your birth.” both were named. “now have the kindness to seat yourself, and betray no astonishment at any thing that you may see or hear, it is a method familiar. ized to me, and from which you have nothing to fear.” the lady bowed assent, and the empiric, throwing back the doors of a closet, disclosed a skeleton mounted in the best style then known. hastily casting aside the cap and wrapper, he quickly put on a species of purple caftan of the richest genoa velvet profusely embroidered with the signs of the zodiac; a massive silver staff, with a golden head, was firmly grasped, a curious mitre-shaped cap was placed on his brow, and his wrists were clasped with bracelets of gems imitating ser- pents, a solitary diamond of the purest water and of great value glittered on his forefinger. summoning the black, he issued some order in a foreign tongue, and busied himself in the erection of an altar of the most hideous and grotesque description. the base was formed of human skulls, and the table of arms and legs alternately. the black now reappeared, bending under the weight of immense silver candlesticks, representing the three fates, each holding a taper of black wax. the skeleton was then placed behind the altar and the fear- ful rites commenced. leaning on his staff, the magician slowly repeated a dirge : “spirits of earth and air, thy aid we do invite; come do my will.” casting his eye rapidly over the altar, he seemed as if in search of something, and at last examined the chalice. “where is it?” he soon found it, and mixing some wine and water poured it over the altar, saying in a loud clear tone, “this do i offer to the spirits of evil.” drawing two packets of drugs from his bosom, he took small quantities of each, the black crook, a most wonderful history. and placing them on a silver plate ignited the daughter presided over his household, where, mass, and the apartment was soon filled with elouds of the most fragrant vapor. as it gradu- ally cleared away, he exclaimed the charm works. “the spirits are propitious; i will now cast your nativity.” still clad in his official costume, the magi- elan approached the table, and drawing forth a sheet of parchment, soon covered it with mystic characters; thought for a moment, and then said: “lady, the stars are favorable, the fates smile; whatever you undertake will sue- ceed. i will prepare the elixir at another time. farewell.” ** when shall i return ?” “let me see, seven is a mystic number; return in a fortnight. twice seven, see the tapers burn brightly. once more, farewell.” donning her mask, the incognito was es- eorted to the door with all the ceremonious courtesy of the old school by the black crook in person, who, at parting, made her a stately and ceremonious bow, which would not have disgraced the splendid louis of france, so noted for his devotion to the other sex. he then returned to his study, reassumed his old wrapper and headgear, and vainly en- deavored to bury himself in his studies; but the recollections of the past were too powerful. “where have i seen that face? can the grave surrender its dead? yes, is it you, or your very image and likeness? who is it? who ean it be? the hands, eyes, and complexion are so similar. let me roll back forty years. no, it is impossible, i was then young, gay, bright, now old, withered, and decrepid, a jest and mockery. as if these limbs could ever have been straight, as if i once had a heart, as if i once thought there was faith in man, and honor in woman. these are dreams of the past, let but success attend my efforts, and possessed of that, which all men secretly wor- ship, i yet can rule at least a portion of man- kind.” chapter iv. the reception room of a lady of high rank in vierna, two centuries ago. “these women are showy and capricious creatures. sometimes they love a man to distraction, who does not care a whit for them; and dispise the one who fondles on theyn like a lapdog.”—ben jonson. - carriage after carriage had driven up to the palace of prince lobkowitz, who stood high in the confidence of his sovereign. for many years he had been a widower, and his every thursday, she received the elite of the vienna nobility; for be it known, gentle reader, that the possession of a title is not, of itself, a sufficient passport to the highest aus- trian circles. no man is haughtier than the austrian who can count his sixteen quarter- ings. unlike his english brethren, he is nºt wise enough to purify his blood and regild lis coronet by a marriage with a plebian heiress, no, he must marry his equal, or be a forced celibate. the very cream of the ancient eapital of thm modern caesars was assembled in the saloons of the palace, and none shone more conspicu ously than the young princess, whose acquain tance we have already made at the mansion of the black crook. clad in pink satin and glittering with diamonds, she was beyond all comparison the handsomest person in the room, and yet a keen observer might have discovered bitter and vindictive hate, if that passion was aroused, the direst jealousy, and utter and unscrupulous disregard of the rights of others, so that she could compass her own ends, but all these were hidden with smiles; if there were an abyss, it was covered with flowers. the usual nothings passed, the customary bon mots were uttered, persons were en- chanted to behold their friends and were ºx- ceedingly grieved to part with them, and all the usual polite fictions which pass for truth (with this exception that no one is deceived,) were exchanged. the princess glanced un- easily around the circle, the one whom she most desired to see had not yet arrived. prince paler, bowing gently, made his way through the room, and accosted his hostess: “i had not the pleasure of seeing you on the stephen platz to-day, and yet you are: one of the ornaments there.” “no, i was otherwise engaged, and you, prince, i suppose that if i am an ornament, you are one of the pillars of the state.” “you are pleased to flatter. no, i was at the studio of rodolph kleinfeldt, the young artist, as i wish him to make a copy of a pic- ture i have just purchased, and anticipated a pleasant conversation about art and artists, when i was disagreeably interrupted by the appearance of one of satan’s emissaries.” " “who do you mean?” said the princess. coloring evidently, and striking over a vase of flowers. “wolfgang hertzog, or, as he prefers being called, doctor hertzog.” “who is this dr. hertzog º" “i knew him well when i was minister te the court of spain.” the black crook, a most wonderful iiistory. “what was his reputation there?” “of a man of great science, but as consum- mate a villain as ever went unhung; had Î been the grand inquisitor i should have con- demned him to fire and faggot, solely for his villainous countenance, but i had more solid grounds of dislike. he resided in the jew's quarter of madrid, though not a hebrew him- self, and passed his time in study and practice of măgic, assisted in his diabolical incantations by an old moor, an aged mexican, and a young jewess; this last was the mostl earned of the four. she spoke and wrote fluently all the languages of the east, had passed some time at damascus, jerusalem, and grand cairo, and from her hertzog obtained the most famous of his receipts. she was exceed- ingly skillful.” “do you know what was her most famous preparation t” * “a subtle and powerful essence, a com- pound of many rare, and costly drugs, pre- pared with incantations, and sundry fearful rites.: human skulls, and other fearful and un- hallowed celemonies.” “but the effect of this was true; ” said the princess, with an impatience she could scarcely check, “and i will relate you one instance: there was a wealthy and beautiful heiress, the youthful duchess of alcauaux, who passion- ately, loved a young captain of the guards, who, was silly enough not to return her pas- sion; but preferred another, without a ducat in her purse, a drop of good blood in her veins, or a tithe of the beauty of her glorious rival. the duchess got the elixir, and at once administered it, in a glass of wine, to the cap- tain, who from that moment quitted his first love, and eventually married the fascinating heiress, who had estates in every province, both at castile and leon, and an immense sum at the jewish bankers.” “and the duchess got this preparation, which wrought such wonderful things, from hertzog.” “yes, the jewess on her deathbed be- queathed this infernal quack, all her books, implements and materials.” “are you certain of it?” “yes, from one circumstance; a grandee. º g was taken, seriously ill, and all the most fa- an ous leeches of the capital vainly prescribed, and after repeated trials, declared that art could 'o, no more, and that the marquis de osorio, caust die. catching like a drowning manat. a straw ; the patient desired that hert- sog sheuld be summoned, who was speedily in- troduced into his chamber.” “and the effect f" “i will tell you, but you are exceedingly curious about matters, which might interest tan italian savant, but scarcely a german lady of rank and fashion, but i will tell you what i know: hertzog at once said, ‘your ladyship has been poisoned, and i know the proper rena- edy; follow my directions, and i can save you.' sundry fomentations were applied, ex- ternally. a gentle perspiration ensued. some medicines, which hertzog alone would admin- ister, in the utmost privacy, were swallowed, and in less, than a month, the patient was in the enjoyment of his usual health ; exultation was painted on the princess' countenance, which was still further increased by the en- trance of her rival. this was the young countess, helena, lin gotski, the sole remaining scion of an ancient and wealthy bohemian house; unlike the princess lobkowitz, she was a brunette, the upper part of her face, was good, but the lips were full and sensual, and there was a latent fire in the dark lustrous eye, that would soon kindle into flame. her dress was calculated to set off her oriental style of beauty. a plain cusage ending in a point, revealed her exquisite bust; the skirt was of ruby velvet, with a long train; a robe of pearls, with diamond tas- sels, was tied round her waist; a necklace of the same costly gems encircled her superbly moulded throat? bracelets of cameo, each head representing a sovereign, which had doubtless before graced a beauty of pharaoh's court, clapsed her round, plump and well-proportion- ed arms; her glossy black hair, with a purple tint, was, confined by a pearl boudeau, and a white catcherntie worth a prince's, ransom, was carelessly thrown over her shoulders. i trust that i see the princess lobkowitzin her customary health. i need not ask if she is in her ordinary spirits, as i see by the de- lighted countenance of prince paler, that she has been as usual the charm of the circle. “your ladyship is as always therwit of the company.” “i am not a man to be so flattered. by the way, princess, talking of these lords of crea- tion, as they proudly style themselves, i do not see so many of the butterflies as common here.” “i cannot tell the reason; yet let me see, there's amblein, an empty headed fop, who prates of his success at paris and florence, but who i really believe, was merely suffered; report adds, that he is only too willing to con. vert m'lle. ahaharos into madame la baronne de amblein, “from les beaux yeuz de la cas- sette.’” “you are severe, but pray continue your list.” “then look at tranton arsdorff; if that fel. the black crook, a most wonderful iiistory. ſittle animal, in two hours he was dead; but i shall tell you how i was m prison. i was a miller's daughter, and lived till i was nearly twelve years old happily; but it chanced one day that the lord of the neighboring castle came to the meadow, accompanied by his daughter, who took a fancy to me, and in- sisted that i should go to prague with her; my father consented, and i was soon half companion and half servant; i took lessons in french, music and drawing. my young lady had a beau, the baron harrach. one day he saw ine, and paid me some compliments; i then was virtuous, and knew no harm, though i might have had sense enough to have known that he meant nothing good, but my young lady was very jealous; she covered me with abuse, and struck me, as if the remem- brance of the indignity, still kindled the most inextinguishable anger; her eyes blazed, and an expression of diabolical hatred was painted in every feature.” after some seconds had ealpsed, ursula continued: “that blow i never forgave, my mistress said that she had gone too far, loaded me with presents, and earnestly courted a reconciliation. i accepted the gifts, was more submissive than ever, and avoided the baron; shortly after the lovers were united, and i accompanied the bride to her new residence; time wore on, and the baroness presented her lord with an heir, and he was as fine a child as i ever saw ; but one day he suddenly sickened and died : no one could tell how, or why; i saw the baroness weep, tear her hair, and rock her- self to and fro in her agony, and master, i en- joyed it all; every tear was a gem to me, every sigh a source of the purest delight, i tasted them all with the keenest relish ; no miser ever reckoned his ducats with greater pleasure, than i, the woes of my mistress, and yet, the poor wretch thought that i was her most devoted friend, and would frequently say, “how should i bear this, but for you; ” another blossom was giveu to the house of harrach, and i was appointed chief nurse, with an elegant room, private table and hand- some compensation; six months passed, and he too died; again my lady raved, and again, though wearing a mask of sorrow, i banqueted on her grief, and feasted on her tortures ; it was grand to see that these aristocrats felt like the working people ; that they in turn, are compelled to wear sack cloth.” grepo pale and agonized, stammered out. “all have their troubles.” “yes, but the rich think that the poor have no hearts or souls; feed a dog, and he will love you, attack your enemy, and if necessary die for you, but toil and slave for the rich and well born, and they think that a ducat, a half-worn dress, a jewel which has loºt its novelty, or a smile a sufficient compensation. boy, you de not know these titled hounds, and as she spoke ursula drew herself up, and extended her arm, with a species of rude tragic dignity. but i have not come to the end yet. the baron was suddenly taken ill, day and night i watched him, he languished, and soon. breathed his last. nobles are mortal as well as peasants, and my lord was borne to his fl- mal resting place, with all the honors due tº his rank. the torches were extingnished, s, prince of the blood paid the last honors, and a herald proclaimed the titles of one who was now a heap of dust. again my lady baroness was in the depths of affliction, and i a third time consoled her ; but her uncle came, ex- amined the papers of the late baron, ascer- tained that some important documents were missing, and declared that if they were not found, the castle would be gone, and the baro- ness would be limited to a very small income.” “suspicion fell upon all the servants. we were apprehended, the others set at liberty, beeause nothing could be alleged against them; whereas i was so unfortunate as to have in my possession a few grains of a subtle indian drug, which produces a very singular effect, when suddenly administered, the patient loses his appetite, pines and eventually dies, appa- rently there is nothing the matter with him; after some months, and many efforts to make me confess, i was finally set at liberty; now you have my story. come let us drink suc- cess to doctor wolfgang hertzog.” bumpers were drunk to the health of the black crook, and the lad rose to depart, when ursula asked “what he thought of the pretty little ornament on the table.” “ornament i cannot see that it is partic- ularly handsome; it is only a wax figure, with pins stuck all over, particularly in the vicinity ef the head.” “that is the beauty of it, but since you are: so unsophisticated, i will tell you more; that figure represents my bitterest foe, and i daily stick a pin in the most sensitive part of the body, and then the person whom it represents snfºne accordingly.” | “yes shortly.” replied grepo. # “now, said barbara, one more glass we part to the powers of evil.” “no, by heavens,” exclaimed grepo, pen what may, i will not drink that to , , and flying down stairs he walked rapidly honº, told black crook, that his associates would wait on him at the time appointed, and felt thankful that he had even such a refuge where he was at least safe frºm such infernal com- panionship, and where though badly fed, and the black crook, a most wonderful history. worse clad, he had some instants he could call his own. chaptrr wi. ºcon d. interv w of the princess lobkowitz with the black crook. “believe me, my lord, you may search hea- en and earth, and you will find no being •more vindictive than a jealous woman; crime loses all its horrors, if she can only accomplish her ends.”—spanish friar. ten days after her last interview with the countess lingotski, the princess lobkowitz bad thought of nothing else ; one object alone presented itself to her mind, her rival cher- ished by the man she would have died to serve ; imagination pictured the young officer in the solitude of his chamber, gazing at the picture of her rival, while she the daughter of a lordly house was spurned. the idea was insupportable, and then she well remembered the smile of haughty triumph, with which the countess made her parting courtesy: true, she had met the lingotski, they had conversed. she was too much a woman of the world to allow her mortification to be seen, but her grief and indignation, were not the less poig- nant in this emergency, she resolved to consult the black crook again, and after deliberating for some moments, desired her page to sum- mon bertha, her confidential attendant, whom she thus addressed : “bertha i shail require your services this evening at eight e'clock.” “shall i tell michael to have the carriage ready then f" “no, be silent about it; you may retire now; but stay i shall need apeasant's dress ; bring it me in my dressing room at seven. should "he prince ask if i am going cut with himn, say hat i am confined to my room by a severe in- disposition; and have given the most positive orders not to be disturbed.” once more alone, she took up her book, but soon laid it aside; he image of her hated rival was ever present ; a musical instrument was next tried, but with no better success; a walk in the garden to view some choice plants, that had just arrived, succeeded no better than the other occupations; the one idea was permanent, and one hated image presented itself. dinner was ari: ºn ed with a profound bow by the majordomo, and the princess, passing thrºugh a line of liveried lackeys, was duly pºst, ted to some foreign celebrities, who then whº?: led to be in viºnna, and attracted the nºgº on of a ci ..." beau, who at the age ºf ... y cherished the idea that his huge seven. paddings, and false ringlets, gave him the aspect of five and twenty! this superannuated ooxcomb, imagined himself irresistible. “was your highness on the platz this morning.” “i have not left the palace to-day i have been and still am indisposed. i walked in the garden before dinner, in the expectatio... that air and exercise would relieve me, but they did not produce the desired effect. i suppose that your lordship as usual was mounted on your fine cream colored arabian. “yes, i never fail to ride.” “who did you see worthy of note f" “two or three dowagers, with their lap dogs, were taking their morning airings; there was only one woman worth seeing.” “and pray, if i may be so bold; who was the lady, you honor so highly.” “one who disputes with you the admira- tion of the court, camp, and city, and i will, if you will pardon me, mention the peerless countess lingotski.” “you are right said the princess, with the most unshaken composure, ‘‘the countess bears the palm from all her competitors; few excell her in beauty, none in wit.” “you over estimate her talents and personal charms,” “no, i am only just. alone f" “no, she was driving in the landau of the princess lubomirski.” “the princess lubomirski, i do not know her.” “a noble polish lady, who possesses im- mense estates in lower poland, the aunt of the young prince auersperg, who has just arrived in vienna, after an absence of nearly twenty years; she was a particular friend of your late mother.” “i shall do myself the honor of calling on her; but i thought the young prince was with his regiment in bohemia?” “be was, but the emperor heard lately, that he had rescued an old woman from a burning hut, and summoned him to the capital, to thank him in person.” “has he been presented?” “yesterday he was admitted to a private au- dience. his imperial majesty heard the whole story from his own lips, and at its conclusion, drawing a costly diamond from his finger, re- quested that auersperg would wear it for his sake.” the princess made a sign, the stirrup cup was handed to the guests, and in a few mo- ments all had quitted the palace. it was only four o'clock, and she could not go out till the hours seemed to move on leaden was the countess | the black crook, a most wonderful history. wings, and she might have exclaimed with and was informed that one of her old the love-stricken juliet, “gallop apace ye fiery footed steeds.” to relieve her ennui, she repaired to the library, then reckoned the finest in that part of austria, and endeavored to lose herself in the vast twelve tomed romances, then so much in vogue in europe; but unsuccessfully. the despairding lovers, who made speeches, a dozen pages long; and their mistresses, who re- plied in fourteen, had lost their charms; and after idly turning over a few pages, she re- placed the volume; in so doing, a small parch- ment covered book fell at her feet, she stooped to pick it up, and involuntarily cpened it. it was a rare mss. of the tenth century, writton in golden characters, in the hungarian dialect, on purple wellum ; it possessed a particular charm, and had been purchased at an immense price, by one of the founders of the jagellons, from whom the princess traced her descent, through her mother; and had been part of her movable possessions. struck with the whole appearance of the mss., the princess determined to submit it to the black crook; the family chronicle was next consulted, to see if she could glean any information concerning this mysteri ous volume; and to her great surprise found he following entry, which we lay before our readers' “a rare mss. of the tenth century, on vio- let parchment, bought by the right honorable and most noble, the princess dolgoroski, when she married the prince lobkowitz; purchased by one of the ancestors of the said noble lady, from a learned jew at jerusalem, when the gallant knight was fighting the battle of the • holy cross;' this is supposed to treat of magic and the occult sciences.” the princess glanced at the pendule, it was only five o'clock, two hours more must elapse, ere she could go; how should she pass the time; “i will send for old josepha, she shall tell me one of her weird tales; i never knew her yet to fail.” touching the bell, her maid stood be. fore her, whom she desired to bring her gold thread, and tell josepha that she was needed in the library. josepha was the oldest member of the prince's household, and was born and had been brought up in a remote part of bohemia; she always wore her national costume, the high turban, short petticoat, and striped stockings of her na- tive land; a rosary of ebony and gold hung by her side, and a large ruby ring on her middle finger, was the gift of the late princess. she had seen the roses of more than seventy junes, and was still aetive and vigorous. entering the library, she dropped a courtesy, and asked what her young mistress was pleased to want; x would be exceedingly acceptable “a gleam of pleasure stole across her wrin- kled but cheerful face, and her dark eyes sparkled with pleasure.” “what would it please the young princess to hear.” “any thing you choose josepha. your store is inexhaustible.” “i will do my bast,” said the old woman, taking out her knitting, and seating herself. after a few moments recollection. she commenced with a tale of kightly chivalry. one of the early cavaliers of the family of lobkowitz, had accompanied the saintly king of france, louis the ninth, to the holy land, and registered a vow, that he would neither shave nor marry till that sacred soil was rescued from the infidel, and till the cross should supplant the crescent; he had ac- quainted his confessor, a saintly monk, who had accompanied the expedition, with his vow, but the holy man replied that the flesh was weak, and that men should be care- ful how they so bound themselves, that he, for one, was not partial to such contracts. sternly forbade the knight to keep it, and that he must consider himself a free man for one year, adding by way of penance, that he should be particularly charitable to the poor and wounded soldier; the cavalier bowed low, and strictly obeyed the behests of his ghostly father. the name of the gallart 'lobkowitz was held in gratitude and veneration throughout the camp. many a wounded com- rade had been solaced in the last fatal hour by his tender and gentle attention; he had wiped many a fevered, brow, ard held many a refreshing draught to the lips of the sick. yet his heart was untcuched, all his brothers in arms, wore the device and colors of some lady love; shivered lances in her honor, and chanted her praises in stanzas of rude poetry, but lobkowitz did neither; day after dav was he rallied by his companions, and ºd —“selim (his horse,) is my best friend at the siege of acre, he fought with th rºost determined bravery, was wounded, tº ame unconscious, and when he recovered his “à , found himself in a rich tent, with a gººd woman, who put a cooling potion to h º, at the same time motioning him to be silent. two days thus passed; on the third having recovered measurably the use of his faculties, he asked his nurse in the lirguia franca, them spoken in the east, where he was. “in, the tent of emir saadi hamet, “who stands high in the favor of his royal master the sultau.” “but who brought me here?” . some life left.” * “cºur gracious master, whom may allah protect, found your knightship on the ground, apparently dead from loss of blood. he felt your pulse, and found that there was still a small jewelled hand lifted the curtain. the knight raising himself on his elbows could just see the tip of a fairy slipper. - . mistress has just signified to me,” gºid tºe attendant, “that you must be silent for tº present, and further requests that you will & ain this cup; it will be useless fºr you to ta' , as i shall not answer any more ques- thorº.” the knight was thus compelled to be sileat, sunk into a deep slumber, and did cot wake till late on the following day, when lie was perfectly recovered. his old nurse came into the tent, expressed ner pleasure at seeing him so greatly im- proved, and clapping her hands, a negro entered with his arms and jewels, and he heard outside the neighing of his generous and faithful selim. “this is indeed noble. where is the emir, that i can thank him for his courtesy and chivalrous hospitality.” “his highness is not here.” “can i then see his daughter?” “the customs of our land do not permit the turkish jamsels to hold converse with in- fidels.” “be pleased, then, to take these few gold pieces as a small guerdon cf what i owe you, and beg your mistress’. acceptance of this trifle,” handing, as he spoke, an emerald of great purity and beauty. “i shall not fail to represent the matter properly. farewell cavalier; may the god who watches over turks and pagans alike, defend and protect you.” time passed, lobkowitz left jerusalem, and on his way home, when in cairo, saw a tall negro, who showed him the emerald he had given to the princess faterna, with these words, “follow me.” he there saw the idol of his heart, who was baptized by the old ..chapi, in who united them in marriage. “from this pair you are descended. pearl f my thoughts, my tale is ended, may you be &l li: py as they.” *a as ” said the princess with a sigh, “fºxterna was so fortunate, as to have her love returned.” the recital had so far charmed the princess, that she forgot all her own sorrows till the conclusion of the tale. seven o’clock at length arrived, and the princess dismissing josepha with a liberal gra- taity, at once summoned bertha, and hastily clothing herself in the peasants dress, put some gold in her bosoni, threw a veil over her - the black crook, a most wonderful history. head, and motioned to her attendant to pre- ceed her. they quitted the palace by a small postern gate, of which the princess alone had the key, and soon found themselves in the street. “what way shall we take, madam?” “that you will soon see,” said the princes, going into a side street. alleys, lanes and streets were passed, and yet they had net reached their destination; the princess evi. dently was not inclined to converse, and bertha had too much tact to intrude on her mistress' reverie. at last the princess paused before the front door of the black crook's mansion. “surely, your highness, is not coming hore.” “peace, silly girl this is precisely my desti- ilation.” “what i to enter the abode of that infa- imous quack, sorcerer and magician, we shall scarcely return home alive.” “i say again peace; nay, more i am accus- tomed to give commands to such as you not receive them; you shall not go, and if i find that you betray that i have been here, a dagger and an unknown grave shall be your portion. you shall not cumber the earth long, but if you are silent, i will give you a rich dowry when you marry, and as an earnest of my in- tention, my pearl necklace shall be yours.” awed by the imperious manner of the prin. cess, and influenced by her generosity, bertha signified that she would maintain the most inviolable secrecy. atisfied on this head, the princess rapped gently at the door of the mansion, the little negro extending his hand gently, pushed her back to signify that she could not enter, not discouraged by this rebuff, the princess held a gold piece before the dwarf. the manikin's eyes glittered at the sight of the precious metal, and eagerly clutching the coin, he threw open the door, silenced a huge mastiff who eyed the visitors as if questioning their right to enter, pointed to an antique oak settee, which ran tha full length of the hall, and signified that they should seat themselves and wait, while he went in search of his master, at the same time light ing a silver lamp, fed with aromatic oil, which diffused a very grateful odor; in ten minuta, he returned followed by his master. “you are doubtless surprised to see me herº docter?” was the salutation of the princess. “you are welcome at all times to such aid, as my poor abilities can offer you ; how can so wretched an individual as myself serve you?” “the resources of your art, will be of ims mense value, my life; nay, more than my lit is at stake.” the black crook, a most wonderful history. nished by a rich and copious language. “where is the raven? call for him now, and see if he can keep you, send for the black cat; see if she cannot help you.” auresperg flew to the old man's assistance, repelled some of his adversaries. and when he saw them at a distance, asked where he should take him. “i fear, sir,” said the ack crook, “that i am taxing your courtesy too much, with many hanks for your gracious assistance. i can now find my way home.” the count thus dismissed, bowed with an air of ceremonious civility, which was ºnly returned. this action of auersperg was noticed by a body of his fellow officers, who joined him and ºportively observed: “what will you do next? first you save an old woman, and then you are the defender of an old man, who can tell what will happen to-morrow i should not be surprised if the black crook would leave you some of his ducats,” said a witty lieutenant. “let him keep them for some one who wants them more than i. but is that the fa- mous black crook?” ** no other.” “you have assisted one cf the most faithful emissaries of his satanic majesty. perhaps he will work a spell in your favor. you are now master to do as you please, as you have ºl; the spirits both good and bad on your side.” “well, gentlemen, rally me as much as you please. and now, if you have no better en- gagement, let us mount our horses and away to the st. stephen's platz.” the wiennese of that period, then as now, were amateurs of horses, and the animals bred by the officers in question were generally of the purest breed and exquisitely formed. the platz was soon reached, and a number of car- rages were already in the ring. a heavy lumbering coach was the centre of attraction, and every cavalicr who passed was sure to raise his heavily plumed hat. “who is in that carriage?” asked auers- perg of his companion. “the fair and rich princess lobkowitz,” was the reply. the prince's curiosity was excited, and ap- proaching as near as politeness would permit, saw one of the ladies mentioned an hour before chaperoned by a female relative, who gener- ally appeared with her in public. - “she is extremely beautiful,” was the prince's chservation after a long survey, “and is much improved since i saw her last.” the princess, who was on the look out for auersperg, saw him as he reined up his steed and gazed at the carriage. “he shall be mine, cost what it may. he is a conquest worth having, and my triumph will be doubly great if i can succeed in snatching him from that odious lingotski.” still not a muscle moved, nothing betrayed the tempest that was raging within, and she replied to the common- place observations of her companion about the weather and the crowd frequenting the platz when it was clear, with an air of cool indif- ference. a few paces further on, a vehicle holding two, drove rapidly past, and all the gentlemen eagerly saluted the inmate who was there with a female friend. these civilities were graci- ously retnrned, but the prince was particularly noticed. “i am in luck. the prettiest woman in vienna deigns to court me.” “now, prince, you have seen both the belles of vienna; which do you admire the most.” “it is so long since i was in a saloon with either that i cannot judge.” the crowds passed and repassed in the platz and the creme de la creme, graduully fatigued of the monotony, sought other amusements.” the countess, in her usual spirits, returned to her palace. “he is mine,” she thought. “flatter a man's vanity, and you can move him to any purpose that you choose. i shall yet be the prin- cess of auersperg that haughty lobkowitz shall never carry off the handsomest and bravest officer in the imperial army tº the princess lobkowitz drove to a restaurant near the old church of the capuchins to take some light refreshments, which were duly set before her. while discussing the ices, and trifling with some fruit, a little boy approached with a basket containing some toys in carved wood, and besought her to purchase. the princess languidly turned over the articles, and selecting a box ornamented with a wreath of forget-me-nots, asked the price. “i am sorry to refuse you, but that box is reserved for another. won't you take this?" showing a small but exquisitely carved vase. “i will take this. what isthe price f" “five florins; ” the money was paid; the princess drove away, and when in the privacy of her apartment, looked at her new aquisi- tion; and examining it closely, saw a piece of folded paper, which she opened, and read the following words: “you were seen last night, accompanied by your maid, crossing the bridge; and you after- wards went to the residence ot the black crook. beware of meddling with him; the man or woman, who dabbles in magic, will be surely lost beyond all redemption. a friend, who is deeply interested in your the black crook, a most wonderful history. ) welfare, has ventured to send you these few lines.” while the princess was pondering over this billet, the door was suddenly thrown open, and the same woman, she had seen at the black crook's, rushed in, and throwing herself at the princess' feet, earnestly begged that she might be taken into her service. “my compliment of women is full, and i aust refer you to the housekeeper; i rarely i interfere in domestic matters.” “but lady, give me a place, no matter hew aumble in your palace.” “i have just told you, that it is impossi- ble.” “oh, no, that cannot be, to the rich all things are possible ; let me have but the humblest corner in your palace, and i will do your bid- ding ; give me but the meanest place, in this immense establishment, and grant me but the pleasure of looking at you, waiting on you, and i will be satisfied with a look, or an oc- casional smile ; lady let me stay, and i will be your guardian genius.” the princess still hesitated, and at last said: “i yield to your request; go to old josepha, and she will tell you what to do.” a look was exchanged, which said, “do not tell where you have seen me; ” which was answered by another, which as plainly said: “i will be silent—you need not be anxious.” chapter viii. a masquerade at the baroness teleki's. “are you going to the masquerade, my dear?” - “why would yon have me so much ont of fashion, all the ton is to be there.” “well i shall go as venus.” “venus, (aside,) why the woman is as old as the hills.”—la vida es un sueno. when the prince arrived at his palace, he found that the count had been mindful of his promise; that an invitation had arrived from the baroness teleki, and that the costumes were “de rigueur.” “i certainly shall go,” and summoning his valet, declared that he must procure him a suitable equipment. “what would you propose f" “i think that a turkish turban, vest, jew- efied dagger, and pointed slippers, would suit your highness' style.” “you are right, go to the shop of baba mus- | tapha, and ask him in my name, if he can hire me what i want, and be speedy, for have not much time to lose.” the turk who was a sincere though hum- ble friend of the prince, cheerfully furnished the necessary articles. and the prince when duly attired, might readily have been mista- ken for a dashing cavalier of constantinople; and steppinginto his carriage, was soon driven to the scene of the festivities. the baroness teleki, whose husband had falien in one of the wars against the prus. sians, had worn mourning forty years for her gallant lord. her residence, in rather a retired part of the city, was rather substanti- ally than elegantly built. two silent hun garian soldiers, acting as a guard of honor, narrowly scrutinized all who entered. the interior was furnished with the sombre magnificence of the middle ages; marble stair- cases, with heavy railings, in the form of twisted serpents, led to the upper apartments; pieces of grim statuary stood at intervals on the landings; boys in the costumes of chinese mandarins, escorted the male guests to the dressing rooms in the upper part of the pal ace, where two aged and faithful servitors presided over the apartment assigned to the sterner part of creation; and two bloomir y peasant girls, lately from carinthia, were it assidious attendance upon the female guests. below, the baroness in person, unmasked, stood near one of the principal entrances. though advanced in years, the lady still re- tained traces of former beauty. the apart- ments on the first floor corresponded with the faded magnificence of the rest of the mansion. heavy clawfooted chairs and long couches of ebony and blue velvet, pictures of the heads of the teleki family—cardinals, generals, bishops, and courtiers—and tarnished wenetian mirrors in heavy frames ornamented the saloons. the ceiling was painted in fresco, representing the loves of cupid and psyche, and the whole was rendered nearly as light as day by count. less numbers of wax candles. a motley crowd filled the saloons and halls, and presented the oddest costumes. a savoy- ard with his brushes, chanting a swiss ditty, was the attendant of a circassian princess; an eastern sultana was in earnest conversa- tion with a roman bandit; an egyptian devisa was whispering soft nothings in the ear of an italian peasant. the world seemed reversed. a woman in the costume of a spanish duch. ess of the court of ferdinand and isabella, clad in black velvet, with a coronet of dia- monds, attracted the attention of the company. “who is she º’’ “whence does she come?” “it is the english ambassadress " were circu. the black crook, a most wonderful history. a lated round the room. complimentary speeches were made in all the languages of continental europe, but the incognita deigned no reply, nor would she accept of any civilities, no matter by whom offered. another mask, equally striking, made her appearance. clad as a tartar peasant, she also shunned the observation of any of the guests, but seemed as if hunting for some one. auersperg, masked, endeavored to fathom the mystery surrounding the spaniard, and tendered the usual courtesies of the time. “would madame take a glass of tokay, or an ice f* a slight though courteous negative was the sole reply. “would madame have a glass of water?” a hand was extended to take it. a flower fell at the prince's feet, but he could not tell whence it came. a mask, dressed as a tyro- lean burgher's wife, addressed him: “gentle knight, do you love?” “i may safely say that i hate no one.” “that is not the question. are you seri- ously in love? i pray you answer me.” ** i am not.” “will you pledge me to that effectin a glass of tokay?” not one word of this conversation was lost by the spanish duchess (for so we shall call the incognita). “what can she mean?” was the mental comment. “pledge her in a glass of tokay? i shall watch her motions narrowly.” the countess lingotski, for it was indeed she, drew still nearer the prince and the tyro- lean. there was some mystery which she was determined to solve. the wine was brought by a page on a large salver, and the lady presented the cavalier with a glass. this was not unnoticed by the duchess, who ap- parently missed her footing, stumbled against he turk, and contrived to overturn the glass, upon which she immediately set her foot and ground it to atoms. the tartar pea- sant suddenly stepped up, and the duchess, as if fearing a collision, as suddenly retired. a conjuror, with a tray before him, called to all who wished to have their fortunes told, or their destinies assigned. the duchess, the tyrolean, and the tartar peasant all gathered around the pretended seer, who was clad like a harlequin, a hideous mask, an immense hump, and a large mantle completed his disguise. “lady,” said he, suddenly addressing the duchess, “will you permit me to foretell your future destiny, either by cards or the stars?” no reply. “nay, lady, take a jest.” still no answer. “who can it be º’’ “no matter,” said a voice at bis elbow, whose owner was clad as a laplander, “we phall soon see, when supper is announced. you know that it is a rule in vienna, that when that meal is served all the guests shall unmask.” “lady,” resumed the wizard, “do let me cast a horoscope for you and see what can be done ” a sudden shake of the head, intimated that the speaker's proposition was negatived. “not for the sake of a little amusement.” the same motion of the head was re- peated. the tartar whispered in the ear of the tyrolean. “do not despond. i have another philter prepared, as the black crook did yours the other night, and by himself; here it is, if you will put your hand behind you, i can slip it unperceived.” the instructions were followed, and the princess was again possessed of her treasure. “now,” thought she, “how shall i ad- minister the charm a second time.” the princess (for our readers must have already guessed that it was she, under the garb of a tyrolean) whispered her thanks to the tartar, who briefly replied, “i shall al- ways watch over you, and retired to a little distance, but still near enough to the princess, to watch all her motions: a mask dressed as the grand lama, had joined the duchess, or rather countess, and for a time endeavored, but vainly, to engage her in conversation; at last a word and a name, seemed to attract her; she accepted his arm, and they walked away at a little distance. the tartar came up, and asked in a feigned tone. * “do you want any thing?” “yes, two glasses of wine.” “courteous pagan,” said the princess, again accosting the prince. “we have been unlucky in our first pledge. will you do me the favor of drinking with me, to the health of our aged and illustrious hostess?” “cheerfully. but may i ask, with whom i am drinking f" “that you will know soon enough; but in the meantime, you will drink with me; here lenah,” added she, turning to a page, “bring me two glasses of tokay.” the page speedily returned with two gob- lets full to the brim, on a silver salver, and the princess dropping her handkerchief, her escori stooped to pick it up, which gave her an up- the black crook, a most wonderful history. portunity of mixing the philter with the wine, and the glasses were duly emptied. the page, when going to the beauffet to re- place the goblets, met the countess, who asked him, “to whom he bad given the wine?” “the tyrolean lady and the turk.” “when f" * “just now.” *did he drink all the wine º’’ “to the last drop.” “i think,” said the countess to herself, “that the tyrolean is the princess lobkowitz, and yet, i am not certain, but whoever she may be, she loves the prince, and i feel sure was attempting to administer a love potion. i am still free, and if i can, will certainly win auersperg; one thing is plain to me, who- ever she may be, auersperg is more than smitten, and she evidently delights in his at- tentions.” “countess lingotski, do you remember the duke of medina sidonia.” “the duke of medina sidonia,” repeated the countess, mechanically, in a tone of terror, and had she been unmasked, the spectator would have seen that fear had robbed her lips and cheeks of color, trembling from head to foot, she turned towards the speaker, who wore the armor of a knight of the day of charlemagne. “do i remember the duke of medina sidcnia,” said the duchess, to her unknown monitor. “i shall never forget him, but i beg—” “hear me. i am a man of honor, and ex- ert but one simple request, as the price of my silence ; name it.” “that you will not molest the tyrolean and the turk, nor seek to penetrate their disguises. should you transgress my posi- tive commands, all vienna will ring with the fact that.” “stay,” interrupted, the countess, in a voice of agony; “speak it ; do not i conjure you by all that you hold sacred, mention no more; an indiscreet listener, might hear and betray all.” - * “as i have said before, the secret is safe o long as you obey my instructions, but one word or a single look. enough, i need say no more. you understand me. farewell, coun- tess lingotski.” the countess bowed, and the knight plung- ng into the crowd was soon lost, in the mases of a mazourka. “who can this be? whoever he is, he is the only man in vienna, who knows my secret?” the princess and auersperg, were soon whirling round in the national dance. con- jurers told fortunes and cracked jokes. some played at cards, and others challenged their neighbors to drink. the tartar was silent, and answered all who addressed her in mono- syllables. she kept her eyes fixed on the princess, was always in speaking distance, and refused all refreshment. some men, in the costumes of indian prin- ces blazing with jewels, entered the apart- ment bearing a palanquin, which they put on the floor, and around which they executed sundry dances, and performed many comio tricks. baroness teleki, who was the only one in the rooms in propria personiae, came up to the palanquin, and asked the occupant to emerge from his concealment, and join the dancers. “with all pleasure,” was the reply in a hoarse voice. “if your ladyship will take a round with me on the floor.” “willingly. but do not delay too long; as supper will soon be served.” “i am at your ladyship's orders,” and the curtains of the palanquin being drawn aside, a complete imitation of the black crook stood on the floor.” not an item had been forgotten, even the cough of the adept, as he leaned on his staff with its curious head, was imitated to the life. “baroness, i claim your promise.” “a born batthiani, and i am a true daugh- ter of that noble house, never forgets her promise.” “here is my hand ” “all gathered around this singular pair, the counterfeit black crook, paused, panted, and when his adversaries lavished upon him jests and taints, replied by shaking his stick, and apparently trembling with anger.” “doctor,” said one lady, “when shall i marry?” “when the men have taken leave of their senses.” “you do not flatter.” “you asked me a question, and i was com- pelled to answer it.” “well, doctor,” said another, habited as night, in a robe of black velvet, sprinkled with stars, her fair blonde hair confined with a dia- mond comb, and covered with a rare and costly veil of brussels lace, “tell me one thing, when shall i marry?” “that you have not been wooed and won before is not the fault of the opposite sex, as all wienna well knows that the princess win- disclgratz has refused more good offers than any woman in the city, and not even the darkness of night can conceal her, nor yet the black crook, a most wonderful history. the black, grinned knowingly, and pointed to the coin. “yes, i understand you ; you mean to say, that you have what you like.” the dwarf smiled again, showing a range of unbroken ivories, that a duchess might have envied. “tell your master we are here,” said bar- bara, in a short imperious tone. she was never known to jest or speak to the dwarf, unless when absolute necessity required. the black crook now came in, and invited his guests, , after the usual salutations had passed, to enter the room, where a bright fire was blazing; the raven at the sight of the strangers, uttered a dolorous croak, which was immediately followed by an oath. “bravo! old boy you have been well taught and don’t disgrace the master i serve; well hertzog what is to be done to-night ! any money f' said barbara. “a little !” “hear him a little ! i will take an oath, that he has piles of uncounted ducats.” “you are wrong.” “well, if you say that you have not, let us look at your strong case.” “it is not necessary.” “how much then, will you give us to- aight?” “not much. i am very peer.” “poor with that diamond on his finger; and living in a house like this. i say how much will you give us * “one hundred ducats, between the three.” “one hundred ducats! i shall not stay. come ursula.” “well, i will give one hundred and twenty- five ducats.” “that is too little, but it will do better. now what are we to do f" “we had better go into the laboratery,” said the black crook. “lead" the way;” replied barbara, haugh- tily. this woman, though old and withered, ex- ercised a powerful influence over the black crook, who rarely ventured to contradict her. a large outhouse had been fitted up by the adept; shortly after, he took possession of the mansion as a laboratory; of which he kept the key; this was, except when in actual use, invariably closed, and no one in vienna, not even grepo had seen its interior. issuing the -necessary orders to the negro, that he was not to be disturbed, and giving similar commands to grepo, the black crook led the way to the laboratory, and throwing open the door, invi- ted the three witches to enter. this was a large wide room, paved with squares of alternate white and black marble, with five windows, specially contrived to ad- mit the light, but which were now carefully barred; the ceiling was lofty; a huge furnace ran the whole length of the apartment; a stuffed owl, with glass eyes, on a perch, pre- sented a sepulchral appearance; a set of large shelves, was loaded with retorts and chemical vessels; an immense caldron on four legs wa standing in the centre of the apartment; book case, carved in a thousand fantastis: forms, filled with books and manuscripts, occu pied a remote corner; three singular flemish pictures, representing the discovery of the philosopher’s stone ; the transmutation of metals, and the genius of alchemy, orna- mented the walls. some curious arm-chairs, marked with the crest of the elector of saxony, completed the furniture. carefully locking the door, the black crook struck a light and kindled a fire, then turning to his companions said, “now, we shall commence. i have on hand a variety of matters; a young spendthrift, whose uncle is long in dying, and who constantly refuses him cash, wishes the rite of the statue per- formed. we shall begin, come sisters.” the quartette then joined hands, and exe- cuted a grotesque dance to the accompani- ment of the rolling thunder, and the pelting rain; this finished a wax figure was laid on the table, the size of a doll, moulded perfectly, representing a decrepit old man, who in spite of his numerous infirmities, still retained a strong hold on life; the youngest witch slowly advanced, and laying her hand on the head, exclaimed in a slow and deliberately mea- sured tone, “great lucifer, we invoke thy power, all ye dread deities, who subserve the evil purposes of human nature assist us; murderers, groaning in the abysses of the in- fernal regions, help us; spirits of evil, whether in the remotest caves of the earth, the bound. less air, or under the waves of the green sea, which has submerged so mary vessels, and broken so many hearts, assist us now ; deities of the pale frozen north, gods of the sunny south, juggernaut and mexitli, be with us.” again was the solemn dance performed, and a hymn chanted to the spirits of the air. “bring forth the animals, and let us try that before we commence with the dagger,” said barbara; the adept opened a closet, and took out a rabbit, a cock, and f cat, all snow white. ursula carefully examined the beasts and the bird, to see that they were faultless. her scrutiny ended, black crook clothed himself with a long purple mantle, and the witches put on white cloaks, with heavy crimson fringes. barbara grasped the eat - - - - - - - - ‘ the black crook, a most wonderful history. “shut the door. crook.” * the black crook?” a yes. -> “do you have the honor of numbering him among your patrons?” “yes, but shut the door. i do not wish to see him. i began a picture for him which is not yet finished, and every time he comes there he chides me; when i meet him in the stree" he looks at me reproachfully. there is something withering in his glance. i hear his knock; do not open the door, i beg of you.” the black crook rapped, was unable to ob- tain admission, and went away venting curses on the laziness of the artist. partly from fear of meeting the adept, and partly influenced by his friend, kleinfeldt yielded to his solicitations, and, staff in hand, the artists commenced a pedestrian tour. the scenery was enchanting; the land was arrayed in the tendergreen of may, the plants were opening their buds, and the groves were vocal with the songs of the birds. a modest country hostelry invited the tra- vellers to repose. the best parlor was thrown open, and the hostess pressed them to enter. footsore and tired, the weary travellers gladly consented, and ere long were seated at an appetizing repast of chickens stewed with cream, fresh grapes, a huge goat’s milk cheese, and some tall bottles of mellowed wine.” “well,” said kleinfeldt, “this is better than vienna. always the same sights, the same eternal round of pleasures, no variety eitner to please the eye or ear, but everything here breathes rest and repose; nothing to mo- lest or annoy. let us sketch to-morrow.” “landlord ** mine host made his appearance; but he de- serves at least a full paragraph to himself. though the viennese and austrian nobility are exceedingly haughty; the middle classes are as famed for their simple courtesy, and franz lichten, or, as he was commonly called, uncle franz by all the boys and girls in the neighborhood, for whom he generally had his pockets full of nuts and apples. he was now in the very prime of life—golden thirty-five- had served in some frontier war,been wounded, received a small pension, and wore the medal of honor. he was always dressed in the cos- tume of the class to which he belonged, but invariably used the finest materials. he had now ruled the blue hedgehog for eight years, and justly prided himself on the excellence of his rustic cuisine. he saw at a glance the frank and kindly disposition of our artists, it must be the black and was ready to extend them every facility in his power. the following day, the friends, after a sound sleep between lavender prepared sheets, de parted on their sketching expedition, and, afterwalking about a mile and a half, reached a spot on which nature had almost exhausted herself. a ruined mill, overgrown with ivy and rich scarlet creepers and clematis mixed, occupied the background; four limetrees in full bloom perfumed the air, and swayed gently in the breeze; the ground was carpeted with grass of the richest green, varied with forget-me- nots, anemones, and double larkspur. on the right stood a small brownstone house, built in the taste of a century before, whose front wa entirely concealed by red and white roses; a green meadow at the back of the house sloped gently down to a silver stream, cows and sheep feeding quietly completed the charm of the sylvan scene; a small garden filled with the choicest flowers for the accommodation of some bees was attached to the house; “an the air a solemn stillness held,” and nothing disturbed the rural quiet which is so fascinat- ing to the denizens of a crowded city. ro- dolph and his associate worked for a time in quiet, when the latter exclaimed: “the place is so quiet that i could wish some one would come for a few moments.” “don’t be so sure, that we shall remain un- disturbed master of the field. while you were sketching, i was idle, as i was not near enough to see either the animals or the flow- ers.” “let me see, however, what you have done.” “no. it is scarcely worth your scrutiny.” rodolph insisted, and his friend showed him at length, an exquisitely finished sketch of the rustic flowers at their feet. “if i could go to the house, or near it, i should see some beautiful things there, that i would like to transfer to canvas.” “don’t be so bashful, man, but take up a lit. tle courage, and you will be sure to succeed you certainly are not afraid of any spell;’ and he added with a roguish leer: “we have no black crook here.” the artist thus adjured, proceeded to the garden, stationed himself outside of the fence, and was soon so engrossed in his task, that he did not heed a footfall, and trembled, when a hand was laid on his shoulder; glancing up he aw a good natured looking old man, who said: “an artist, i presume?” “such is my profession. i hope that i am not intruding on your ground " r the black crook, a most wonderful history. “by no means, i am rather fond of stran- gers; will not you and your friend yonder, do me the honor of entering my home, and take a glass of such wine as i can offer? you can- not expect the tokay of the capital.” the young man called his friend, and the two soon entered the little domain, which called the old man master.” “welcome, gentlemen, to the heart's re- pose.” “the hearts repose, don’t you like the name. one of my ancestors who fought in the war, on the side of the king of spain, turned his dricats into this little spot, and as he had led ratler a rambling life, when he was onee firm- ly settled, and had taken a spouse to himself, called the little spot heart's repose.” “it certainly ” replied rodolph, “does in- vite to rest.” “and then my daughter is so fond of flow ers, that whenever she can find a spot, she is sure to plant something green; but at what are you gazing so earnestly f' “at this bed of french lilies.” “they are well enough.” “you speak coldly, they present to me, the most magnificent sight that i have ever seen.” in truth the flowers were worthy of the admiration with which the artist regarded them; much care had been expended on the culture of those flowers, mentioned in holy writ; the tall snowy blosssoms raised their proud heads, and exhaling a grateful perfume, seemed to look protectingly down, on the smaller variety, whose snowy bells nestled down to the ground. the sketch books were taken out, and some of the choicest copied. “well gentlemen come in, and see what cheer we can offer you. sophia, sophial'' a little wrinkled woman came briskly forward. “what were you pleased to want sir?” “what have you got in the house that is good to eat. come, be quiek.” “well i’ll see what i can do;” and the old dame trotted off with an alacrity which greatly belied her years; and sophia bawled her mas- ter, when she had almost got out of hearing- “set the table under the lime trees.” the old woman turned back and said, “no master, i shall not set the table there.” “you must, and please madam sophia, have the goodness to tell us why you wont.” “because the last time that the table was set there, some one was stung by the bees, which are for ever in the trees; you know that well enough.” “faith ” muttered the old man, “she is right; do as you please, sophia ; and you, gentlemen, be pleased to enter.” the lower part of the house, consisted of a * small hall, with a parti-colored floor; rustic ehairs and sofas, invited the fatigued to rest. the wall was hung with arms of various kinds; among which was a magnificent turkish scim- itar, whose handle was richly set with jewels, and whose blade was stained with blood. “i see,” said their host “that you are looking cariously at that weapon; it was cap- tured by my great-grandfather, albert ander- nach; after whom i am called, from a turkish officer in a heavy fight, and has descended to me his unworthy grandson, the receiver and bailiff of the most gracious princess dewager schwartzenberg, who owns most of the land about here, with the exception of this cottage, and that ruined mill; and i would not ex- change them for all the gold, in his imperial majesty's treasury. but here is sophia coming to tell us that the little refreshment i can offer you is ready.” the door of an apartment opening into the hall was thrown open, and the bailiff made his guests enter without further ceremony; like the hall, the floor of this room was also composed of small pieces of parti-colored wood; heavy chairs of spanish wood; with gay cushions stood in different parts of the room; two silver animals, evidently brought from mexico or peru, decorated the mantle-piece; and two flemish pictures on the walls, completed the decorations. a table stood in the centre, set out with more taste than could have been ex- pected from the old woman's appearance. some red apples were piled on a large silver plate, a raised game pie, with an ornamented cover, was the main piece de resistance; a bottle of spanish olives, and a glass dish of exquisitely clear amber-colored honey, with sundry bottles of wine, would have satisfied the most fas- tidious. “well, dame,” said rodolph, addressing sophia, with a good natured smile ; “you have given us food sufficient to tempt an an- chorite to break his vows of abstinence ; we never see such fruit in vienna; they tell of the sunbeams, and the long and bright sum mer days; and then such wine and honey !” “but,” said the master, after looking around; “where is my daughter?” “master dear, how should i know you know as well as i, that m'lle is here one mo ment, and away the next ; she is like a bird flitting from flower to flower. she don’t stay long in one place; may be she went to see father vincent, she promised to carry him some honey, for his own table; you know that his reverence has a sweet tooth.” - “yes, i know,” answered andernach, im- patiently, “but where is my daughter? where is bettina '' - the black crook, a most wonderful history. “well, perhaps she went to the convent; you know that the abbess, and the nuns are all fond of her, and then they had some em- broidery to do, and you know, that she is so skillful with her needle.” “yes, yes, i know, but do see where bettina is ; i do not like her to be away from home so long; well, gentlemen, it cannot be helped; if we have no hostess; come take what suits you best. but i had forgotten; it is always - my custom, when i have guests, to empty two glasses standing; the first to the health of his illustrious imperial majesty, the emperor; god bless him. and the other to the temporal prosperity, and eternal welfare of my respec- ted and esteemed mistress, who is called mother, by all her servants.” “mother ?” interrogated “yes, mother, she is the purest and best of women. i know of no one, who is so be- loved as the old princess, if sickness or trouble come upon any in the hamlet, she is sure to be there; she is the best of friends and land- ladies.” “i, willingly,” answered kleinfeldt, “drink to the health of so good a woman; particu- larly at the instance of one who appreciates her so highly.” the toasts were drunk, and the party in the midst of their enjoyment, when a large wolf- hound bounded into the room, and leaping on andermach, overwhelmed him with caresses. “ah,” said he, “bettina cannot be far away, here is her guard; these two, gen- tlemen, are rarely separated, if bettina goes to the convent, leo, will be wretched till he finds out where she is, and if he be separated from her for more than an hour, at a time, he is the most unhappy creature imaginable.” “leo, where is your mistress?” the sagacious creature, who was a wolf- *ound of the purest breed, and coal black, tood in the door, looked down the road and barked. “you mean that she is coming " “another lark.” “and that you were with her ?” a second bark, and wag of the tail. “suppose that you go and tell her, that she is wanted here.” the dog ran rapidly down the road and soon returned with his young mistress. bet- tina was just sweet seventeen, and had never been more than ten miles from home, and in her innocent simplicity, never suspected that there could be a wiser man than father win- cent, the village pastor, who spoke french, as well as german, and whom report added, even understood greek, or that any one could. he more skilled in all that perta'ned to house- keeping than old sophia. she made the best bread, the lightest conserves, and the finest game pies, for twenty miles round. nay, did not even the gracious princess herself, when she was going to vienna, ask the old woman to make her a pie, and said that it was the best she ever tasted. as for the boys of the village, they were well enough, but what were they to her ? bettina was tall, straight and well made : her complexion was of the purest white, tinged with a faint red; her hair of a pale golden brown, hung in ringlets on her well propor- tioned neck, and shoulders, except when in a spirit of coquetry, she would confine it with a small gold comb, set with pearls, which ex- cited considerable envy among the rustic belles, as it was the gift of the princess, and was exceedingly beautiful ; her hand might have served an artist as a model, it was so small, white, fat, and beautifully dimpled; the nails were almond shaped, with a faint reddish tinge ; her short red petticoat, black velvet boddice laced with gold, striped stockings, and a white handkerchief tied round her head, enhanced her charms, and when she advanced to her father, and said she had been detained at the convent, longer than common, klein- feldt gazed, as if he never could take his fill. “well, my flower,” said her father, caress- ingly; “how can you bear to be away from me so long f’’ “so long, papa ” “yes, so long. i have not seen you since light this morning.” “i was at the convent, and sister martha wanted to teach me a certain stitch. so you see i could not get away.” “why, child, cannot old sophia teach you all that you need ?” “she is so old-fashioned.” “and what have you to do with the fash- ions ; but in the meantime, we are forgetting the rules of politeness. permit me to intro- duce you to two artists, from vienna, who have kindly consented to partake of our poor hospitality.” “and who,” said kleinfeldt, smiling, have forgotten to tell you their names. allow mue to inform you, that i am rodolph kleinfeldt, and my companion, one of the most promis- ing artists in the imperial capital, is ernest lederer.” “gentlemen, you are both welcome.” “perhaps,” said kleinfeldt, timidly, “mam- selle, would accept a sketch of you, sir; it would be an agreeable recollection of my visit. “who? what? i sit for my portrait. i never did such a thing in my life, it is only for the black crook, a most wonderful history. kings, emperors, and nobles, to have their day, and generally passed their evenings at the faces taken off, not for such as— “but, still, papa pleaded bettina, if the gentleman is willing. i should like to have it.” “well, you saucy baggage, as you govern the whole village, and sometimes the princess too, i suppose, that i must consent, and a merry smile twinkled in his eye as he spoke, and drawing a chair up to the window, said: “here, now take me.” “kleinfeldt was not slow in profiting by the permission, and a life-like sketch was soon made. while his friend was thus engrossed with his sitter, lederer had not been idle. stationed at the other casement, he surveyed the milky mothers of the herd, brought up to yield their treasures; the busy importance of dame sophia, and the watchful eye of leo, who seemed endowed with ubiquity, his pencil was equally busy with that of his companion, and he soon produced a spirited representation of the scene, which he handed to his young hostess.” “and is this too for me " “and why not; it is but the work of a few moments.” “i can hardly express my thanks, you have all my friends here. leo, the two cows, dame sophia, not that i mean any disrespect by naming her after cows and dogs. but it seems so odd to take a dog's picture.” “oh how rich i am ; two pictures, and both in one day. you are both very kind, and i cannot thank you enough.” “you have thanked us both sufficiently,” said lederer. “and now, farewell, i thank you both, for your hospitality.” “remsmber now,” said andermach, “that you have found the way here, and that the door will always be open to you.” at the same time gazing kindly on the young men, as they stood before him, who were both so handsome, and yet so different. “well, good night,” dame sophia bustled. “oh, now, be good lads, and see that you don’t take cold. i know that your mother’s are wet here, and i have got you a woollen apiece. fou can send them back, by the boy at the blue hedgehog; or give them to uncle franz, and he will take care of them for me.' he and i are old acquaintances, and if you are sick, be sure that you let old sophia know, and now, good night. again, don’t forget to say your night prayers; sophia dismissed the artists, and stood looking after them, till they were no longer visible.” “ten days were thus passed in the most fascinating manner. the artists sketched by brown stone cottage, where they once met fa- ther vincent, the village priest, who combined a vast amount of scholastic lore, with the most childish simplicity, and utter want of worldly knowledge. at last the painting came, bettina said little, but looked sad, her father shook both by the hand, and affirmed, that when he next visited vienna.” “when you will bring bettina with you.” “why, she has never been ten miles from home beford."' “the greater reason why she should come now.” “well,” said andernach, “we shall see.” “and now, lads,” said sophia, with her eyes full of tears. “are you going to walk to vienna º' “we came that way, and we shall beyond all doubt return in the same manner.” “where do you take your meals?” “at the different houses of entertainment on the road.” “i thought of that, and put you up a few trifles in a basket.” the viands of which dame sophia spoke thus slightingly, consisted of a large ham, a game pie, with a represen- tation of two chickens fighting on the cover, a cake, a store of biscuits, and a little wine. “so, good bye, and don’t forget your night prayers.” morning broke, and a loud voice was heard inquiring for the two artists. lederer, who was dressed, presented himself, and recognized peter, a sort of lad of all work at the cottage, who regarded the two friends at a respectful distance with the most unbounded admiration “mistress sophia sent me,” said he, with a rustic bow, “to drive you some thirty miles on your road; she thought that perhaps you would be tired.” “she is very kind, and you also for com- ing.” - kleinfeldt joined his friend, and they set off in the highest spirits. at parting, both ten- dered peter a liberal recompense, which, to their great surprise, was refused. “why, peter,” said lederer, “we cannet allow you to come all this way for nothing.” peter stammered, and at last, with consi- derable hesitation, said: “paint me a little picture.” “of whom '' “of leo and the old cow. but, then, we shall never see you again.” “wait till next summer, or perhaps even before. but where shall we send the pic- ture ?” “to my cousin, a saddler, who lives in a small street near the cathedral,” replied the the black crook, a most wonderful history. the public square, clad in all the elegance that a fashionable modiste of two centuries ago, could produce. all the young men of the imperial city, who belonged to the creme, de la creme, crowd- ed round the carriage, and the countess ap- parently was never in a better humor, or a gayer mood; but she completely verified the old proverb, that appearances are often de- ceitful; the countess was miserable; she eagerly desircd to see prince charles auers- perg; attract him to her side, by some artifice, and then exhibit her captive, to the princess; but both those parties were absent, and she was compelled to listen, with an aching heart, to the vapid flatteries, and insipid nothings of a half a dozen coxcombs, who fluttered around her, and scarcely left her a moment's repose. wearied by what was passing, the countess directed her coachman to drive home. on her arrival at the palace, the countess at once commanded the porter to admit no visitors, and repairing to her chamber, said to her maid who was executing some fancy work. “any one been here, lizette f" “no, my lady, i have been alone. i looked out of the window, and saw the black crook.” “the black crook?” “who do you mean?” “well, my lady, this is a great doctor and magician, who can interpret the future.” “what nonsense,” said the countess, in a tone, which plainly encouraged the maid to proceed. “he lives in that old house, belonging to prince esterhazy, which was so long empty. with a hideous, tongueless negro dwarf, and a half starved boy who does the work of the house.” “and what can this quack do.” “every thing in the world, my lady, if he chooses. he can turn love to hate, or hate to love. he can do whatever he will.” “do you know any one, that has consulted him f" “i have heard of several. say that i know any one.” “you may go now. i shall not require your services any more to-day.” “the countess pondered well what her servant had said. the free inquiry which was to culminate in the french and american revolutions, which was entirely to change the political status of every nation, had just begun. the newspaper, the great vehicle of the civilized world, which has wrought such wonderous changes, had scarcely commenced. a belief in witchcraft, though discouraged, still existed, and some of the keenest intellects but i cannot were accustomed to rely on the dicta of witches and fortune tellers; true the law in all parts of civilized europe, was exceedil-gly severe against these imposters. but it is not the less true, that they nevertheless exercised their vocation, and profited largely by the superstition of their duties.” the countess at last came to the resolu- tion that she would secretly request the black crook, to grant her a private interview, and after some moments of deep thought penned the following note: “the fame of doctor hertzog, has been long known to the writer, and she desires a strietly private interview at her own resi- dence: will the doctor, should be feel dis- posed to grant the request, signify as much to the bearer?” clothing herself in a dark cloak, and veiled from head to foot, the countess pro- ceeded to the neighborhood of the empiric, and soon reached his house. a shabbly clad boy, who was lingering in the vicinity, was in- duced by a little silver to present the note in person. and after what seemed to the coun- tess a very considerable delay, she received the following reply: “dr. hertzog informs his correspondent, that he has long since declined visiting, and that those who wish to inquire of the fates through him, must call at his mansion.” this empiric, thought the countess, at least, places a high value on himself, and i suppose that i must yield to his wishes. glancing nervously round to see that she was unob- served, the countess gave the usual custo- mary tap, and was at once admitted by the negro into the apartment, into which we have already introduced our readers, where the black crook was seated at a table covered with a variety of magical implements. “i presume,” said the countess, that i have the honor of addressing the famous doctor hertzog." the black crook rose as his visitor entered. the room was lighted with two wax tapers in silver stands; and the shabby attire of the day was exchanged for a magnificent dressing- gown, of black velvet, faced with ermine, the sleeves of this garment which were exceedingly ample, were lined with crimson silk, and em- broidered in seed pearl, a sash of red silk, with gold tassels cinctured his waist, a gold chain, from which was suspended a glittering dia- mond star, was his sole ornament. the countess was amazed; could this prince- ly looking personage, (as the darkness con- cealed his hump,) be indeed the black crook, of whom she had heard such fearful reports f - the black crook, a most wonderful history. 'could the individual before her, who accos- ted her with the haughty, though dignified courtesy of a spanish grandee, be in truth the dreaded magician f and the countess lingot- ski, though a woman of the world, and well versed in diplomacy, was bewildered, and at a loss how to act. promply recovering herself, the countess slightly bowing accepted a chair placed at her disposal, and waited for the black crook who thus addressed her : “you would, i understand, lady, consult the fates through me?” **i would.” “you will then place in me the most entire and unreserved confidence; may i ask in what way you are pleased to need my poor services?” the countess blushed, hesitated, and as the black crook knew perfectly what was passing in her mind he said in an interrogative tone: ** you love ” a faint “yes,” was the sole reply. “but does the object of your affection re- ciprocate your love f" - a faint “no,” was the answer: “and you would fain win his affections?” “i would cross the ocean, brave the terrors of the frozen north, or even the dangers of hell itself.” “does he love another ?” “i cannot tell.” “does another love him ” ** i am sure of it. “dark or fair ” “fair.” the adept mused for a moment, and thought that his services had already been put in requi- sition against this very party, but not being sure of the fact, and tempted by a heavy purse, in the hand of the countess, replied: “i will serve you as far as my art will go.” “i will not stint you, as to price,” resumed the countess, “accomplish my desires, and any sum you think proper to demand shall be yours,” the adept bowed and asked, “will you try the elements f and shall i compound a phil- ter?” - “proceed in any manner that you see fit.” the black crook summoning the dwarf, de- livered some instructions in an unknown lan- guage, and substituted for the dressing-gown a rich mantle of the cloth of silver, with heavy bullion fringes, and superbly wrought with needle work; representing scenes from classic story; a zone or girdle of precious stones, clasped with a matchless sapphire, confined this garment at the waist; an antique diadem of silver and emeralds, rested on his brow, and his hand grasped a small but exquisitely chased silver staff, whose head bore the mys. tic opal, engraved with hebrew characters; his appearance thus vested, was imposing and splendid; and he resembled a high priest about to offer a sacrifice. the black entered, bearing a richly carved wooden easket, which he placed on the floor, and, at a sign from his master, wheeled a table with a cloth, which he placed before the adept, and silently withdrew. the black crook raised the cloth disclosing a marble, slab richly painted, representing the four sea- sons. four large yellow marble vases of the egyptian shape and finished workmanship were placed at each corner of the table, and twelve wax tapers, each of a different color, lighted. these preparations made, the black crook said in a low but perfectly distinct voice, “should you wish to retire, the rite is im- perfect.” “no ; be the consequences what they may, i shall proceed.” the black crook bowed assent, and placing three packuts of earth, each of different shades, on the table, in a clear and musical voice, in- voked the element of earth: “oh earth, our common mother, who sup- portest us during the brief span vouchsafed to us here below, who sustainest us while we live, who presentest to us fruits for our suste- nance and flowers for our pleasure, who, when our mortal career is finished, piously receivest us, be propitious, oh mother, command that all the spirits enclosed in thy bosom shall aid, comfort, and assist us.” as he spoke these last words, he waved his wand thrice, and the room was in utter dark- ness. still his voice was heard in a low, solemn, measured chant, the wand was again waved thrice, and the apartment was lighted. carefully scrutinizing the earth, a portion was set aside, and another taken from the casket occupied its place. ringing the bel., the dwarf entered the room, and, bowing, awaited his commands. a few words were uttered in the dialect he had before used, and two small gold cruets, in the shape of antique vases, were held by the negro, who had changed his usual attire for a closely fitting suit of cloth of gold, with an ample cloak trailing on the ground, and emblazoned with the sun. the black crook carefully unsealed the cruets, and, after smelling their contents, poured a small quantity from each into a gol den pitcher held by the negro, to which he added a minute portion from a small silver phial which he took from his bosom. ten times did he make the turn of the tables, and the negro after each incantation bowed the black crook, a most wonderful history. low, and thrice extended his hands. the adept finally approached the table and ex- claimed in a loud voice, “fire descend.” in a moment, the earth blazed, and the apartment was filled with a sulphur perfume. the black croek made an almost imperceptible sign, and the negro disappeared. “lady, i have prepared the elixir,” and as he spoke he pointed to the gold vessel. “sixty ducats is the price, administer this, and your success is certain.” the countess smelled and tasted the elixir, which was inodorous and insipid. the adept, clad in his official robes, still stood before her, and, by a courteous inclination of the head, untimated that the audience was at an end. “but the directions,” said the countess. “put it in any liquid thing, but beware of a priest's benediction. sould this touch any sacred thing, its power is gone forever, and liot all my art can aid you. farewell.” twelve o’clock rang out from the great tower of the cathedral, and the countess, un- used to be abroad at that late hour, passed rapidly along, but ere she had proceeded twenty steps, a voice exclaimed: “lady, cross my hand with silver, and i will tell you your fate.” the speaker was a tall, gaunt gipsey, who aad seen nearly seventy summers. beauty had long since departed. her complexion was sallow, and indicated disease; teeth she had none; and her attire consisted efa dingy wrapper and the remains of a woollen cloak. at another time, the countess would have thrown the wretched petitioner a trifle, and thought no more about it, but now she was in a superstitious mood, and a prey to despond- ing emotions. drawing the hag aside, a small silver coin was placed in her hand, and the sybil continued: “you will not be happy. more.” “but surely your art will go further; pray \ook again, and i will cross your palm with silver a second time.” “it is hot the custom of our tribe, lady, to try the stars again, for the same person, till the moon wanes; and drawing herself up with considerable dignity, the crone added: “i will not do it.” abashed by the manner, and more terrified than she chose to admit, the countess hastily wended her way homeward; and rapping at the gate, demanded admission. “who is there ” asked the porter in a gruff voice. “it is i.” “and who is i.” i can say no my former maid was ill, and i went to see her; admit me at once.” the porter sulkily descending from his large chair, threw open the gates, and the countess acknowledging his civility, with a slight in- clination of the head, gained her chamber, where we shall leave her to meditate at leisure on the events of the night. chapter xii. count palfi at the blue hedgebiog. when a nobleman suitably attended, rides up to one of these hostelries, what a work and fuss do we see ; the landlord is all smiles, the landlady all courtesies, the waiters all obse. * and nothing is too good.—queve- . the count left vienna, not because ill luck had gone against him; he did not then know the meaning of the word; not because any of the fair ladies of the imperial court had refused their smiles, all were too eager tº catch the young and handsome nobleman, with his town house, and country house, broad land, bright gold and countless dia- monds; not because he was unlucky at play, he rarely gambled; but a whim had seized him; he would go in the country for a sea- son; he would see how he could support such a monotonous abode ; he would at least have the benefit of novelty. he therefore summoned his majodomo, and signified that it was his will and pleasure, that the carriage should should be got ready, and that the valet be informed that the count palfi designed visiting the country. “we will set out to-morrow.” the steward who understood his lord, per- fectly, knew that it would be useless, and only said: “your wishes shall be speedily executed.” the heavy coach was then fitted up, a deli- cate luncheon prepared, and the pockets stuff ed with perfumes, books and wine; thus equipped, and fortified against the attacks of an enemy, which began seriously to annoy him, the count started, having previously ordered that some saddle horses should accompany him; that when tired of the monotony of the coach, he could exchange it for the easy paces of a well trained steed, and arrived at the blue hedgehog, shortly after the artists had departed. the landlady had never entertained a guest of such quality before, and was unwearied in “your mistress, you well knew that jane, i her attentions; the table was daily spread the black crook, a most wonderful history. : ** my master has desired me, most worship- ful sir, to beg that you will honor him with your presence, without any further de- lay, at the blue hedgehog, and bring with you the finest dress that you have ; on this point, my lord was particularly anxious.” “but how am i to go?” “i have already provided for that, be so kind as to come to the residence of the count palfi, in about an hour, and you will find all prepared for your departure.” “i shall not fail to attend you, but what an his lordship want of me.” the steward bowed, und casting his eyes around the apartment, asked the price of a remarkably well finished picture of “ hebe, feeding jupiter.” “five hundred golden ducats.” “it is now, my lord's,” said the major domo, as he handed the painter a draught on a banker; and with another profound bow took his departure. at the appointed hour, the painter rang at the door of the count palfi's palace, and was admitted by a page, who showed by his def- erential manner, that the artist was expected, and that when he arrived, he must be treated as an honored guest. ushering kleinfeldt in the reception room, he pushed a chair forward, and requested the artist to be seated, till the majo domo who was hourly expected, should return. in a few moments that functionary entered, and invited kleinfeldt to partake of some re- freshment before he commenced his journey, led the way to the dining room, and prayed the artist to be seated. this apartment was furnished as sumptu- ously as the reception room, but in a different style. the ceiling was painted in a fresco, representing flowers; the furniture was dark, and good copies after the antique, in alabas- .er, ornamented the walls on brackets. a cold collation stood on a table, in the cen- tre of the room, and two footmen, out of livery, offered the choicest vintages. a few moments sufficed the artist, he was too anxious to commence his journey, and see the end of this mysterious adventure, to finger long at the table ; and intimating to the majodomo, that he was anxious to start; the latter assented ; and opening the front door, signified to kleinfeldt, to enter the coach, standing at the main entrance. the whip was cracked, the postillion chirped to the mares, and these last set off at a round gallop. proceeding thus rapidly, with a short interval, to rest the mares, kleinfeldt arrived at the blue hedgehog, and was warmly re- household. supper offered, and as the artist was rather tired with his journey, he was con siderately allowed to rest. a tap at the door the next day, aroused him from his slumbers, and he asked who was there. “my lord,” said the major domo, “requests that attired in the suit you brought with you, you will visit him in the large bed room, at noon ; meantime breakfast will be served. i had nearly forgotten to tell you, that the count begs that you will not go near the brown cottage.” wondering what all this could mean, the painter yielded assent; and after the fruit, bread, wine, and stewed chickon had been duly discussed, kleinfeldt entered on the du- ties of the toilet, and when dressed, was the beau ideal of an artist of that period; a doublet and trunks of dark purple velvet, richly laced with gold, falling ruffles and cuffs, of the finest point, silk stockings and high toed shoes, set off his manly graces; having still some time to spare, kleinfeldt prepared his brushes, (without which he never travel- ed,) and commenced a little fancy sketch, with the intention of presenting it, when finished, to the count. time passed quickly while engaged in his favorite art, and precisely as the village clock struck twelve, count mardhoff entered the apartment, attired in a white suit of the same cut as that worn by the artist, and requested th epleasure of escorting him to the chamber. still more amazed the artist could only assent, and mounting to the apartment occu- pied by the count was gratified to see him seated in a large arm chair, also clad in white. “sir, artist” said the count. “i committed the egregious blunder of attempting to woo a lady, who had already given her heart to another. and was still more foolish in at- tempting to force her inclination, sickness has cured me of my love fit, and, i thought i could not do better, than inducing her father to give her to one who i know will protect and cherish her, and thus repair my error in a degree. “ho, there,” said he, slightly rais. ing his voice, bring in the bride.” the mistress of the blue hedgehog, and dame sophia, clad in their bravest attire, and holding immense bouquets of white flow. ers, ushered in the bride elect with con- siderable pomp. bettina wore a dress of the finest white indian silk, richly trimmed with lace, which had the true yellow tint, so invaluable to connoiseurs. her hair was con- fined with the much valued comb of the gracious princess; and a pearl bracelet, the ceived by uncle franz, and the rest of the wedding gift of the same lady, encircled her the black crook, a most wonderful history. servatory; and the black crook said to his companion, “were you born in winter or summer ?” “the last day of the last month of the year.” “were you the oldest child?” “the only child.” the adept fixed his eyes keenly on the count, who bore the scrutiny unflinchingly, and said: “it is well. when you came into the world, mars and wenus were in the ascen- dant, and mercury still had power, a very favorable conjunction: when the stars are consulted, mortals must be silent, and hear with trembling the decrees of fate.” suitable instruments were produced, the heavens carefully examined, and after a silence of some half hour, the black crook exclaimed : “i see the mighty aldebaran, who sits next to the constellation of the ship; the twin brothers, castor and pollux, shift their positions; venus shines with her usual bril- liancy.” “but what does all this portend ?” impetu- ously interrupted the count. “i did not come here to hold a discourse about the stars.” “rash man, be silent,” replied the black crook, with an air of imposing dignity, “as i before said, when mortals interrogate destiny, who now speaks through the lips of one of the meanest of her servants, the symbols must be very plain, ere their signification can be un- derstood ; peace, and interrupt me no more; the spell must be recommenced, ere i can tell definitely the signs of the starry heavens.” thus adjured the count was silent, and the black crook a second time swept the heavens with his instrument. “i can now answer any questions that you may see fit to put to me.” the count paused for a moment, and asked: “shall i succeed in what i am about to &ndertake "? - “is it for the good or the ill of mankind?” even the count, hardened in deception, and trained to all the shifts and evasions of diplo- macy, trembled as this question was put in a firm and clear voice. “i cannot tell—men might differ about it.” “is it in your opinion right or wrong f" again the count hesitated. in his transac- tions he had not been accustomed to consult conscience. this matter, fortunately, was for the good of enrope, and he was enabled with a safe conscience to reply that it could injure no one. “you will succeed in almost every thing that you undertake; high rank and countless treasures in gold will be yours, but you wix. not be happy.” “not happy?” - “no, you will not be happy; ask the beg- gar, as he creeps along, scarcely sheltered from the inclement breath of winter, and suf. fering the pinching pangs of hunger, whether gold would not be a panacea for most of his ills; ask the toiling needle woman who in countless garrets of this vast city, by the light of a solitary candle, toils at the dress, to be worn at the next court ball, and who by the most unintermitting labor, can scarcely earn bread for herself and babes, whether a heavy purse would not be a relief; go, proud noble, for such your dress and voice proclaim you, and interrogate the famished artisan, who makes the night, as well as the day, the wit. ness of his toils, and inquire of him, whether he would not consider a little of that super- fluous cash, wheh you so freely waste on your own personal gratification, an inestimable boon, you would have everything, rank, gold, beauty, talent; learn then that the beneficent deity never grants to one alone, all.” “i do not ask for all.” “nay, but you shuddered when you were told that destiny lavished on you all that men prize most, and yet, you are dissatisfied. go, you have heard your fate, the stars will open no more the gates of the future to such rinbe- lievers; farewell, my task is ended.” the count at once saw that further remon- strance would be useless, and placing a well lined purse in the adept's hand, retired. everything that he touched succeeded; wealth poured in upon him in pactolian streams; the title of count was exchanged for prince ; all these orders of the continent were placed at his disposal; his different palaces were perfect museums of art; everything that could please either eye or ear, was fitted up with a lavish profusion, in those habitations of :xury; and yet the prince was not happy; whº not.— perhaps the reader may suggest, that he had quarreled with his sovereign; his name was celebrated throughout the empire, as the wise and judicious friend of his imperial master, and the age considered justly. the heir to all these vast possessions, and this ancient, and long descended title, was an idiot, and as the estates were strictly entailed, after his death, and that of his luckless son, they would descend to a relative whom the count detested, and with whom he would hold no intercourse. perhaps the ills of life are more equally balanced, than the majority of mankind are disposed to admit. the black oruok, a most wonderful history. “have you seen the prince auersperg lately.” - - “my acquaintance with him is exceedingly "imited, i think that he is vienna still; your ladyship may not perhaps know that i have been confined to my bed for more than ten days, that i have only recently returned to the city, and consequently can give you but few details of what is passing in the beau monde.” “then as you are a stranger to all that has passed, i will tell you some of the news; the artist kleinfeldt is married.” “so i have heard.” “then you have not been so much out of the world as you say; may more, perhaps you have even seen madame kleinfeldt.” “yes, and i can with truth aver, that she is as pretty a little rustic, as i ever desire to see.” “but then she has no style.” “but your ladyship perhaps will deign to remember, that she is a novice as yet, in the ways of the town, and that”— “count, count, i really believe that you are in love with this little rustic.” “who, i,” said the count, blushing, as he strove to conceal his emotion. “count that blush tells tales.” “believeme, madam,” said the count, more seriously than was his wont, “that the artist is a worthy fellow, and that his little wife”— “you have seen her then,” interrupted the eountess. “i had the honor of partaking of her fath- er's hospitality. i took a tour in the country, and was detained longer than i expected.” “all the men in vienna are raving about ther.” “why, just now, if i correctly understood your ladyship, you said that she had no style.” “and i say so again; it is just that very absence of style, that makes her so attrac- tive; nods to every one, thinks all the pretty speeches that are made, are true; and then is so free with her invitations; i will tell you the last bon mot about madame kleinfeldt; it is too good to be lost: the old princess dow- ager de ligne was in the gallery looking at some copies, which the artist had lately made for her; when madame came in, the princess was inspecting some flemish pictures, ad- mired a huge loaf of country bread, and a - large cheese and intimated a wish, to have some like them. - “madame kleinfeldt, without any more cere- mony, invited the princess to come up stairs and eat some, as she had just received a pres- ent from the country; but i must say, that she was exceedingly kind and liberal, and few women in vienna, would have done as much as she ; i liked her all the better.” “your ladyship is right, generosity and good feeling are not so common in this world, that we can afford to trample on the parties possessing those qualities. auersperg has them.” “and if i am not mistaken,” said the prin- cess,” with considerable animation, “they are not strangers to your lordship's bosom.” these words were pronounced seriously, and as if the speaker were in earnest. “but we are getting sentimental: when i was in the country, i enjoyed exeeedingly, the fresh air, trees and flowers; and i have lately thought, that i would give a rustic fete at one of my castles.” “oh that would be charming, and have only what the land produces; fruit, milk, cake and wine.” “it is at least a novel invention, and will charm some of the beau monde, who like my- self are fatigued, with style and state.” “when shall it be " “i will consult my steward, and let your ladyship know; perhaps you will be so kind, as to act as one of the lady patronesses, and then we shall have a rustic dance; you may be sure, that everything that the estate can produce, shall be at the service of my guests, and i shall open the ball with the baroness teleki.” “she will think herself young again.” “she has never been old; with her the hair may change, the skin become wrinkled, but she has that perpetual youth, springing from a pure mind, and an upright heart. but i see by the pendule, that i have already engrossed too much of your ladyship's time, and must retire.” - “he is mine ! he is mine !” said the coun- tess, as she watched his retiring figure, and then that rustic fete. “i am but a poor man- ager, if i do not play my cards so well, that i shall be mistress of that, and all the other possessions of the count palfi ; but we shall see.” the black crook, a most wonderful history. - chapter xv. an alchemist hard at work. alchemy had a great fascination in the mid- dle ages, and though the adepts did not discover the philosopher's stone, or if they did (see note) the secret is now lost. stul it was not without its uses; the moors had some practi- cal knowledge of the art of chemistry, which in fact, is derived from a word in their lan- guage, signifying the occult science ; the auri socra fames, then, as now inflamed mankind, and though many fortunes were lost, still sci- ence was greatly advanced.—buckle. “night's candles are burned out, and jocund day, stands tiptoe, on the misty mountain tops.”—romeo and juliet. day had just dawned, and the alchemist unlocking the door, opened his studio, and summoned the negro, who generally assisted him in his chemical operations. a number of mss. worn volumes were taken from the shelves, spread on the table, and eagerly perused by the black crook. “this will do, at last i have hit on what i wanted,” and he re-perused eagerly the mss. hope and avarice lighting up every feature. “now, if this succeed, i shall have what most men eagerly desire ; i shall then abandon the practice of magic, because i shall make gold, even beyond my most sanguine expectations' let me now only discover the elixir of perpet- ual youth, the secret bf wiping out wrinkles, of giving fresh lustre to the eye, and painting the withered parchment looking cheek, with the carmine of sweet sixteen. what a source of revenue ! all the carriages of the nobility in the world would flock to my studio, and i would scarcely dismiss one, ere another would make her appearance; and then to look at the yel- low glittering darlings heaped up in the greatest guantities in my coffers ; but now to busi- aness,” and turning to the dwarf said: “build me a fire.” charcoal, and wood, were produced; a flame soon shone in the furnace, and the room became suffocatingly hot; the negro in- timated a wish to withdraw, and his master rooking sternly at him, said: “this will be a long session, and i will not be disturbed nomatter who calls, i cannot be seen.” “the dwarf intimated that he perfectly understood, and would obey.” the scales were next brought into requisi- tion, and a quantity of gold, was tested carefully weighed, and then placed in a crucible. an ancient work on chemistry, in which all the discoveries from the earliest times were recorded; acids and other drugs | were added, and an odor of sulphur, perva ded the apartment. “the charmworks; all my calculations, are perfect,” joyfully exclaimed the adept, as he bent over the fire, and saw that another ingredient must be added. the mss was again consulted, fuel heaped on the flames, a quantity of aqua regia, added to the other materials in the furnace, and the mixture allowed to work ; two hours were passed in the most torturing anxiety, and the fire gradually permitted to subside. the crucible was then taken out ; the residuum carefully examined, and the black crook exultingly exclaimed: “another trial, and i shall be sure to slcceed º' a. gleam of delight, shot athwart his sinister | countenance, which was speedily succeeded by a look of the deepest despondency; if i do succeed, of what real usé, will this be to me, but that shall not trouble me, let me get the money, and then, all will go well. the utensils were carefully cleaned ; the fire freshly kindled, and the adept was ready to repeat the experiment, but this time be- thought himself of certain venetian sequins, celebrated for the purity of the metal. a huge silver casket, with a complicated lock, was opened, and the coins placed on the table. as the black crook contemplated them, he exclaimed i well remember how i got these. “a noble lady in madrid bestowed them upon me for a draught, but i did not ask her, to what use she put it. you have been my guests for many years,” said he, addressing the coins, as if they had life, and could hear. “i thought, that we never should have parted, but science demand it, and you must go. let me see what cornelius agrippa says, and, read aloud the following passage: “the metal must be of the finest, purest, and as free as possible from alloy; this then, will be exactly, what is required, pure and free from alloy. so far so good; we shall next add the requisite materials, rare essences, biting acids, and heat up to a certain degree. these are essential, and i have them all, the other materials were added. the time carefully marked with the hour giass, and the adept prepared to wait four hours, till he could ascertain the success of his experiment.” grepo had repeatedly rapped at the door of the labratory, and been as frequently denied. dame barbara knocked at the window, and clamored for admittance on the plea of special nd particular business, and was also refused. nothing should interfere with the important matter on hand. the time at last expired, the furnace was opened and its contents carefully examined. the adept compared the produce the black crook, a most wonderful history. of the crucible with the same article described in the works of paracelsus, and muttered— “the weight, color, and substance are the same; the tests will not work, but it is an im- provement on the last. i have been toiling for the past thirty years, and never brought it so close before.” “you may go,” said he to the black, who joyfully obeyed, and was only too glad to be released from such thraldom. when alone, the black crook tested the various specimens, and verified the results with the greatest exactness on paper, but with the same success as before. “strange,” he muttered, “to come so near and never suc- ceed. should i be so fortunate, my name will be handed down to posterity as one of the benefactors of my race, and the kings and princes of the earth will court me for my secret. this will be the end of all my labors and toils; the name of the despised wizard, the black crook, will be forgotten, under the splendor and importance of this discovery, and i shall rank with the philosophers of greece and rome.” chapter xvi. catalina meets an old friend unexpectedly, who makes strange revelations. “where have i been since we parted ?” “oh, in divers lands; i have travelled on the sea, i have been to the indies. some, who have not heard of me for a long time, believed me dead: but here i am again.”—bolback's wooden spoon. catalina had at last won a smile from her mistress. she followed her about like a dog, and with that fidelity so seldom seen in the human species was never happy in her absence. gradually the princess began to trust her, and one evening sent her on an errand to the lower part of the city. declining the attendance of one of the male servants, the gypsey sat out alone, transacted the business, and was on her return home, after a short visit to the sick soldier moritz, when she felt a slight touch on the shoulder, and turned to see who it was. the person who thus gently, as it were ar- rested her, drew her to the nearest lamp, and stood as if anxious for an examination. cata- lina closely scanned the features thus pre- sented to her, and suddenly exclaimed: “can it be, or does the grave give up its dead? do i really see you in the flesh?” warm, sentient, full of life, though some. what grievously afflicted with the disease called poverty. in plain -ords. " am diege huelin.” “and how did you come here?” “you may well ask that question, and ne one is more surprised than myself to be here, but i came after my wife.” “your wife i did not know that you were married.” “no, i was not anxious to publish it, and i don’t think that my wife was, if i could find her.” - “who is she ” “that is more than i can tell.” “where did you marry her ?” **in madrid.” “strange that you should wed a woman, and not know who she is.” “and yet it is all true,” replied diego. “perhaps you will be so kind as to tell me the story.” “well, my good catalina, it would give me the greatest pleasure in the world, but you may, perhaps, understand.” “that you are exceedingly hungry.” “you have hit it, and saved me the neces- sity of an explanation.” “exactly, here is something for you. i do not know why, but i feel a strange inclina- tion to hear your tale, as i have an idea that it will be of service; meet me here to-morrow evening, and i will see what more i can do for you.” diego huelin was one of the most promi- nent fighters in the bull-ring in the city of madrid, and was renowned for his gladiato- rial talents: fierce indeed must have been the bull, that he could not stab, and his name was one of the household words in madrid; catalina had frequently seen him in the am- phitheatre, whither she and most of her tribe were accustomed to resort, as they were fond of the sport. diego, who was of a roving temperament, was once belated at a village about twenty miles distant from madrid, and accepted the hospitality of the tribe, this led to an acquaintance with catalina which was never dropped. the gypsey hurried home, and when she found her mistress alone, told her why she had done in relation to the business, with which she had been intrusted, asked for leave of absence for the evening; and mentioned that she had met a poor acquaintance. “whom you would like perhaps to assist.” “if your highness would be so kind.” “here are three ducats.” catalina went to keep the appointment, “yes, i am the man you suppose me to be, i.and found that diego was faithful to his t- the black crook, a most wonderful history. a thousand plans floated through her brain, and each was rejected as chimerical; and yet she was resolved to secure prince charles for her mistress.” one day, when driving with her mistress, she met the countess with palfi, who was now frequently seen with her in public, and saw her greet auersperg with a bow, which was bordering on affection. this roused the alarm of the faithful creature, who watched over the princess lobkowitz, with the fidelity of a tigress to her young. and it might have been as safe to have robbed the one of her cubs, as to have injured the princess in any manner, with the knowledge of catalina. she also further learned, that the countess had been in spain, and the time tallied with that in the narrative of diego. her resolution was taken. she would at once inform the countess, that she knew all her past life, and that as a condition of her silence, she must at once resign all pretensions to prince charles auersperg. it would not be of any avail, if she were to go to the countess, as the waiting woman of the princess lobkowitz.” she therefore disguised herself as an old woman, though in reality scarcely past the prime of life, and furnishing herself with a basket of flowers, went at once to the lingot- ski palace, and demanded admission to the countess, which after some delay was ac- corded ; presenting a bouquet, she besought her ladyship to purchase.” the countess looked at the flowers, and lan- guidly refused. “perhaps,” said the gypsey, your lady- ship would like to hear news from spain, or perhaps you remember the wedding at night, wlth a certain handsome young madrileno, who fought in the amphitheatre with the bulls.” had the thunder at that moment hurled every article in the chamber to atoms, the countess could not have been more amazed. a cold per- spiration bathed her whole person, and she staggered to a chair. catalina, terrified at the effect her words had produced, ran to the bell, but was restrained by a look. the countess gasped and sighed, as if she saw the angel of death in the distance, and asked, after a delay of some moments, “wo- man, what mean you?” “precisely what i say.” “i thought that that diego was dead.” “i did not say that he was dead.” “lives he yet?” “whether he lives or not, shall depend on you; i have the secret of his whereabouts.” * will he ever come to vienna " “that depends entirely on yourself. i have one condition.” “and that is—” “that you entirely and absolutely leave off all connection with the prince of auers- perg.” “i cheerfully promise it, and if you have any knowledge of the person who—but you know what i would say—give him this gold. and accept this, as a gratuity for yourself.” catalina waived back the money indignantly. “your ladyship,” she exclaimed, “will excuse me; i did not work for money, but love. but i think that i can safely promise you, that you will not be annoyed, nor will i seek to unveil the mystery—farewell.” cata- lina courtesied profoundly, withdrew, and hastened home secure in the persuasion that she had removed a powerful rival out of her mistress' way; but she did not know the woman with whom she had been speaking. the countess lingotski, though in her con- versation with the black crook, said that she was exceedingly enamored of prince charles auersperg, was not in reality much in love with him. the prince was far beyond all comparison the handsomest man in vienna, and he only lacked one thing to be the best match in the empire, and that was cash. there had long been a secret unacknow- ledged jealousy between the rival belles, and it was more a point of honor to snatch her lover from the princess lobkowitz, and showed him in public, than from any real affection for the man himself, and it did not cost her a heart pang to resign the prince to her rival. catalina saw diego in the evening and said, “you had better quit vienna.” “why so?” “i do not think that you will find your wife here.” “but look at that german motto.” “there are other german cities in europe besides vienna. look you, diego, you know that my tribe is rich—” “and i am poor.” “we do not need a prophet to tell us that, but if you desire to push your fortune, i will give you some ducats.” “how many ” “one hundred.” “that is a good round sum; i will ae- cept your offer and go. when can you give me the money?” “when will you be ready to depart f" ** to-morrow.” “then i will give you what i promised, and add one hundred ducats more as an outfit.” the bargain was immediately struck, and the spaniard quitted vienna as he had pro- the black crook, a most wonderful history. m*sed, brit the gºld furnished by the countess proved a snare. on his way to madrid, where be thor:ght of resuming his former profes- sion, lie encountered a muleteer, with whom he engaged in a game at cards, suspected his antagonist of foul play, and told him as much. the hot blood of the south was fired, the knives were speedily drawn from their girdles, and a few thrusts exchanged. diego was stabbed to the heart. the officers of justice arrived; as is too frequently the case, just ten minutes too late to arrest the murderer, who mounted on a fleet horse, and goaded by fear, never drew bridle till he saw the french fron- tier, rapidly crossed, and safe in the dominions of his most christian majesty, could snap his fil-gers at all the alguazils of castile and leon. such was spanish justice not two centuries ago. failing to secure the culprit, the officers searched the pockets of the lifeless diego, and appropriated the golden spoil to pay for masses, meanwhile interring the body in an old ceme- tery. thus was the countess freed from a husband whom she had never seen, and of whose death she was never informed. that lady was for some time in considerable anxiety, but hearing no more of the terrible old woman, imagined that the danger was over. chapter xvii. interview between catalina and the black crook. when two persons meet, who are mutually afraid—it is curious to behold the cautious advances they make to each other, and how neither makes a movement, without closely watching to see what effect it will have on the other.—spectator. night had just dropped her covering over the earth, and invested all nature with that sil- very mantle about which poets rave, and which painters have so often and so vainly endeavored to portray, when catalina left the palace to seek an interview with the black crook, and hastily travelled the streets, till she gained the spot; tapping at the door, she encountered the gaze of the dwarf, who would have repulsed her, but she gently put him aside, and entered the reception room of the adept, who was alone, and occupied as usual, in some occult studies; he raised his head from the book, and started when he saw his visitor, abruptly demanded why he was fa- wored with her compx.l.'ſ “why you are favored with my company,” returned catalina, “i tell you ramon de her- rera. “witch, fiend, hag, do not mention that name.” “my tongue is my own, and i shall use it as i please.” “i say again, ramon de herrera, what have you done with my child, my little zara.” “woman, what have i to do with your child.” - yes, my child, whom you have sacrificed to your devilish wiles.” g “i repeat again, that i cannot tell, what has become of that child; i know nothing about her.” “hark ye, ramon de herrera, i know all | about your residence in spain, why you left | madrid, and how you murdered that youthful jewess.” “murdered the jewess, i would have died to have saved her; she was th light of my life, and the apple of my eye; i kill her; i would have died to have saved her.” “false, lying and deceitful hypocrite, do not pretend to imp.se:; pon me; you tried the effect of a nauseous drug, that you compound- ed, upon her; she sickened, nº art could save her, and all from that drug; call you that love ” the black crook shuddered, his counte- nance was livid with agony, and fear was paint- ed in every lineament; still the merciless woman continued : “do you remember that young german stu- dent, who came from berlin, franz von ahlen- feld; he was young, fresh and gay ; he too fell a victim to your wiles.” “a victim to my wiles. " “yes, a victim to your wiles.” “a certain noble lady, whose name i will not mention, had married a marquis, many years her senior; she applied to you for a poison, to put his son, by a former wife, out of the way; and what did you do; you com- pounded some of your infernal nostrums, and just tried the effects on the young prussian who languished and then died; when his body was opened, the physicians said, that he had perished from inflammation of the liver; shortly after the oldest son of the marquis, also expired with the same disease; and it was observed that the symptoms were iden- tical.” “woman i woman l’’ exclaimed the black crook in an agony. “why will you torment me? why vainly recall the shadows of the past ! why people this chamber with the phantoms that have gone before me to the tomb f" the black crook, a most wonderful history. than now. and the mother's eyes flashed, her heart beat almost audibly, and her countenance bore an expression of the most agonizing suspense as she gazed on the black crook. the adept, staggered by this direct question, bent his eyes to the ground and was silent. “you know, and you will not tell,” re- sumed catalina, almost savagely. “ah! you have the heart, ramon de herrera, to keep a mother in such agony. oh! if one ray of pity can melt that stern bosom—if you have any mercy—i beseech you tell me?” “i have already told you that i know not where she is,” was the cool reply of the black crook, “and i told you years ago that she was dead.” “but of what did she die—of what disease— was she drowned or stabbed ” in pity tell ame.” “i have already told you, more than once, that she is dead; and the grave is not in the habit of surrendering her victims. i shall say no more.” “then dread my vengeance.” “your vengeancel what can an outcast like you do to me?” this last bitter taunt roused the anger of catalina, who, casting a look of mingled hate and defiance on her persecutor, exclaimed: “yes, my vengeance you well know that when you were in madrid i caused the grand inquisitor to take measures for your prompt arrest, and nothing but the gratitude of that grandee of compostello saved you, and enabled you by a timely warning to leave the kingdom. it was i that baffled your in- famous plot against the marchioness de guz- man, and saved her life, when you would have had her sip the vilest potion that was ever brewed. it was i that saved from your hellish arts the young duchess of san lucar, whom you would have poisoned on her sick bed, when your services were called in as a leech, but i knowing that you would do any- thing for gold, and having by chance seen one of her grace's bitterest foes steal out of your house at midnight, conceived the idea that you and he were plotting some mischief. i went immediately to the palace, sought an interview with her chief woman, and, though i did not criminate you, besought her to allow her mistress to partake of neither food nor drink which she did not herself prepare. thus i was enabled to effect two objects: i saved the life of a good woman, who in the hour of sore trial had been kind to me and mine, and ſ defeated your nefarious plans. you talk of an outcast ! who is more of an outcast than yourself? the very boys shout as you pass, tell me, where is my child?” i the vengeance of the gypsey shall reach you yet. no matter in what land you go, there shall catalina de souza follow you; whether you seek refuge in the east, whence come the gold and gems wherewith the christians so love to deck themselves; whether you dwell in the sunny south, where nature holds her court all the year round, or whether you select as your abode the icy and frozen north, there, ramon de herrera, will catalina de souza track you, with the most undying hate and the most restless perseverance. i am not a weak painted fool, as are some of those who surround you, and who would wed even such a thing of deformity as you for the sake of the gold you are reputed to possess. we shall meet again, ramon de herrera, and you will remember what i have said.” she then quitted the apartment without casting another glance at the black crook, who sat as if glued to his chair while catalina delivered her philippic. “she has at last gone,” said the black crook, with a sigh of relief, “and i would if i could, have told her where the girl was; but the offer was too tempting to be refused: five hundred golden ounces fresh from the royal mint, if i would only exchange the living child for the dead, and then the child herself would be so greatly benefitted. which is better, to be a duchess revelling in luxury, or a pauper, dwelling on the hill side, scarcely defended from the inclemency of the weather, or living in a pa'ace, and sleeping under a satin quilt; then the nurse pleaded so hard, her lady was so lonely without the child. she would be so rejoiced to have it, she could never tell it from her own, and the ounces. so i consented; the little zara was taken away, and her mother will never seen her again. i thought when i left spain, that i never should be hold catalina de souza more, but what can i do now ; it would give mortal offence to the duchess to learn that the girl whom she cherishes as a daughter, is only a gypsey, and that she has not one drop of noble blood in her veins; let me think, the girl must be pretty well grown; it is now nearly six- teen years since we parted, and then she could just walk and talk, and had a thousand win- ning ways, but it would be madness now to put catalina on the track, and then what would become of my five hundred ounces. i should be compelled to return them, and of that i cannot even think for one moment. no, no, she must go without her daughter, the duchess shall not be disappointed, and i will keep my ounces. grepo, attend me to my chamber.” the drudge bearing a lighted taper, pre. the black crook, a most wonderful history. and i tell you what, she might go further and fare worse, madame.” “what do you mean?” “exactly what i say.” “you do not suppose for one moment that amina—young, gay, and fresh—would marry a man who is so much older ?” “yes; but look at the money that the steward has, he must by this time have a good round sum of yellow boys.” “and you think that for the sake of the few golden coins that old won puffengruntz has piled up in his bags, that the girl would be willing to marry a man who is nearly old enough to be her grandfather ?” “and i can tell you, my young friend, that there are many girls, as young and far hand- somer than amina, who would only be too happy to wed a man who is so well to do as herr von puffengruntz. there are plenty such in vienna, or, for that matter, in all parts of the world; gold chains, big houses, and velvet dresses are not without their attrac- tions.” “then i wonder, madame, that you have never changed your condition.” “it has not been for want of offers,” was the dame's reply, hidling her head, playing with her fan, and glancing at the grass. the waltz ended, and the keeper asked his companion if she would not take some refresh- ment, to which she graciously assented, and this singular couple were soon seated at a small rustic table. won puffengruntz, forced to do as much for amina, was near them, and christina enjoycd exceedingly the jealous glances he cast from time to time on the game keeper. - “herr von puffengruntz?” “madame º’’ “will you have the kindness to bring me a slice of cake from the table on the other side; i feel as if i could eat it?” won puffengruntz silently obeyed the re- quest, and placed the delicacy required on the table before the lady. “thanks, herr von puffengruntz, you have behaved with your usual kindness and gal- lantry. this cake is excellent, and reflects much credit on the maker; tell her so, with my compliments.” “i seldom go in the kitchen, or interfere in women's matters. i issued my orders, and they were executed. i shall, however, deliver your message.” “ah, this wine is excellent, and much better than we generally have in vienna. this, at least, herr, comes under your province.” this random stroke had some effect. the estate had long been celebrated for its vintage, and, to do the old man justice, though at times vain and irritable, he was, taken on the whole, just, humane, and devoted to the interests of his lord, and particularly prided himself on the wines.” “i have done my utmost,” was the reply, in a somewhat mollified tone, “to set the best that i could before you.” “we will pledge you in a toast, and all must fill their glasses. come, partner,” said christina to the gamekeeper, “you shall not be behind, you shall drink as well as the rest.” “what shall the toast be?” “a speedy husband, and a clever fellow he must be, to my pretty amina.” “and who shall that husband be?” said won puffengruntz. - “cannot you imagine?” “there are so many here that would fain carry off such a pearl,” herr said. “be it my choice, and i am certain that both parties will be satisfied. let my former partner here have amina for his wife.” both smiled, blushed, but neither dissented from this arrangement. the steward brightened up, the cloud passed from his face, and he was the life of the company. a party of gypsies coming up at this moment, the steward though usually severe against such vagrants, pressed them to stay, and partake of the good fare; they cheerfully consented, and after they had been regaled to their hearts' content, danced on the lawn for the amusement of the guests; one of them sung a rude song, in which he extolled the hospitality of the noble race to whom the castle belonged, and presenting their tambo- rine, begged for a gratuity. some coppers were speedily collected, and when it came to the turn of christina, she dropped in a small piece of silver; a smiling young woman ac- costed her with : - “lady, let me tell your fortune.” “no, no; i do not care to know it.” “yes, but you don't know what good luck may yet have in store for you.” “i have all i want.” “don’t be too sure of that, there is an old proverb in our tribe, old love burns strong; and he who loves the longest, is sure to con- quer in the end; and then your gracious highness well knows, that there are some who never get old.” soothed by this flattery, christina yielded her hand, and after the lines had been atten- tively examined, the fortune teller predicted that she would marry soon and well; and that an old flame, who had long loved her secretly would make propositions for her hand openly, that she was on the high rowd to for- the black crook, a most wonderful history. tune and preferment, and would soon possess an establishment of her own. christina smiled and blushed ; won puffen- gruntz looked as if about to make an offer, when the castle clock tolled two, warning the guests that they must part, and the steward was forced to content himself with a tender pressure of the hand, and a soft glance, as he escorted her to the house. chapter xix. the black crook visits kleinfeldt. an artist lives in a perpetual fever, if he ac- waire any reputation, the public are always expecting great things from him, when per- haps he is not in the mood for work; and then he is sometimes greatly worried by callers, who do not scruple at all moments to trespass on his valuable time.—fuseli's auto- biography. kleinfeldt's studio had now become one of the most fashionable resorts of vienna, as his popularity had greatly increased, since the reader last visited his chamber; all the wits, beauties and statesmen of the empire were anxious of transmitting their features to posterity on the canvass of the artist, who was one of themselves, and to the manor born. prince paer still continued kleinfeldt's most devoted friend, and had latterly sent him some spanish pictures, from which the artist was to select the one he liked best, and copy it, as the prince wished to bestow it as a wedding gift on a young kinswoman who was shortly to be married. the spanish pic- ture was on the easel, and the painter was so attentively considering the tints, that he heard nothing till the door was thrown open with a great noise, and he saw the black crook con- templating him with an evil eye. “ah, master kleinfeldt, at last i have caught you at home. is my picture yet finished ?” “i must crave your pardon,” cried klein- feldt, “but your picture is not yet finished.” “and may i ask, why not ?” “i have been so busy.” “the usual cant of those who undertake more than they can perform.” “you know that i take many portraits, and that my sitters come as they can ; you shall have your picture, do not fear; and then trince paer.” “oh, to the devil with prince paer, i will give you as much gold as any lord in vienna, but i must have that picture.” the artist, who was anxious to terminate the interview, “but just now :” “oh, i understand,” said the black crook, “you are anxious to get rid of me; it would not do, should any of the fine birds, who waste their own time, and engross yours, for me to be seen lounging in your studio, but i ask as a favor, that you will allow me to see the venus, and what progress you have made with it. you cannot at least refuse me that.” the artist bowed a sullen assent, and led the way to another chamber, where he showed the adept how far the picture, ºn which he secmed so greatly interested, had progressed. the subject did not greatly please the artist, and he felt inclined to hand back the money, and leave the picture un- finished: but a sharp look from the adept, warned him that he was dealing with no ordi- nary person, and that he muſt be exceedingly circumspect. the venus was about half done, the head, neck and bust, were in the finest style of art; the limbs did not quite satisfy the adept, who made some objections, and turned to go, when he was met by a man of about thirty-five, who grasped the black crook by the collar, and exclaimed, “at last i have you.” the black crook gazed helplessly at his captor, who held him, as if in a vice; escape he could not, and he was dragged down stairs, as helpless as an infant, and placed in a large artist's chair, in the studio, kleinfeldt follow- ing mechanically and anxiously awaiting the denouement of this singular event. the person who had seized the black crook, was, as we have before said, past the first flush of youth ; his appearance indicated consider- able muscular strength, and his dark eye, blazed with vengeful fires. “i shall murder you.” “and why,” said the artist “do you thus pursue him f" “i have been on the look out for years, and chance has thrown him in my way to- day; but i now say, that he shall not escape my just vengeance, miscreant as he is.” “what has he done ** - “rather ask what crime he has not com- mitted, and then i will tell you; but i hate him most intensely, and now that he is in my power, he shall pay the forfeit of his crime, but hear, and you shall judge.” “ten years ago i lived in madrid, i too like yourself am an artist, and could soon earn a modest support. i married a young and beautiful woman, who like myself belonged to the humble classes of life, we lived quietly nd you shall not be disappointed,” said and were very happy." the black crook, a most wonderful history. a manner, as to be recognized,” asked klein- feldt. “no, i assumed various disguises; some- times i went as a franciscan friar, upon whose convent the family of altamira had bestowed large alms; then as an officer in the army, and sometimes as one of his tenants, in the costume of an andalusian peasant; i never used the same dress twice; at last her ecover- ed, and went out as usnal, i was careful not to do any thing which might alarm or put him on his guard, so that i suppose, he absolute- ly forgot there was such a person as myself in existence. three months thus passed, i had contracted a friendship with his groom, in fact i was then employed as an assistant to a dealer in horses; he lived in the suburbs, and under the disguise i wore, no one would have known me; i heard that the duke wanted some horses brought for his inspection, they were shown up; i saw his groom, asked him to take some wine, he came to my lodging room, coveted a picture i had, of which i begged his acceptance, he kept me constantly informed of all the duke's motions, day by day: i waited, i had trained a horse with such exactness, that the creature knew my footstop, and would neigh at the sound of my voice; one day francisco told me, that the duke would ride out to his country place, twelve miles distant from the city; that the road was very lonely, that he could not go unattended; “would i go in his stead?” i reigned some other engagement, made a thous- and excuses, but finally suffered myself to be persuaded; and at the appointed time, clad in the ducal livery, started behind altamira; the place was soon reached, the afternoon pass- ed, and at midnight we prepared to return to the city; we mounted our horses, rode about three miles, and as we came to a solitary part of the road; i suddenly reined in my steed, close up to that of the duke, and exclaimed: “my lord repent of your sins, you must die.” “die” exclaimed the affrighted man, “and who are you?” “it matters little, who i am, take your last look of life, for you shall die.” i stabbed him twice, but still he was not dead; the horse reeled, but the dying man still kept his seat firm in the saddle; i stabbed him a third time, aud ere his spirit quitted its earth- ly habitation, i whispered in his ear, “do you remember isabella, her husband is avenged." the intelligent and sagacious creature i rode obeying my voice, bore me safely away; i rode many miles before i reached a place of safety; before i left madrid i had been care- ful to place a change of clothes in a small bag; i sunk the livery in the river, and dis- posed of the horse; i wandered over europe, occasionally toiling at my profession, but oftener idle, till chance brought me to vien- na, and the same blind goddess threw me into connection with the black crook. “with many thanks sir painter for your courteous hospitality, i will trespass on you no longer.” kleinfeldt was exceedingly touched at the tale he had just heard, and would fain have persuaded the painter to have remained but he declined prolonging his stay; and would only accept a few pieces from a well filled purse forced on him by the generons artist.” the black crook was carried to his own res- idence, and when he arrived, was so faint from loss of blood, that he was almost dead, when conveyed to his chamber; and resolute ly refused all offers of medical attendance: when the pain had a little abated, he pre- scribed for his own ailments, the tongueless negro, and grepo being his only attendants; all visitors were denied, and informed that dr. hertzog had been called on a most im- portant matter to constantinople, and that his return was uncertain; barbara and the gypsey called twice, but were not permitted to enter. in a few weeks the black crook after having suffered agonies recovered; a slight paleness remaining, showed that he had been seriously indisposed. chapter xx. barbara and ursula, with some others, hold a conclave. sisters, what shall we do? do? we must practice our art. our master, and will assist us. well, we shall compass heaven and earth tº accomplish our ends.--"witch,” a danish tragedy. the devil is “barbara,” said ursula, “whom do you expect here to-night?” “we must hold that solemn conclave upon which we have long determined. we shah have the negro and the mexican, our two selves, and the norwegian witch.” “be it so. when do you expect them p" “every instant.” - a rap at the door announced a visitor, and a tall and hideously ugly black, with a flat nose, and immense pendant cars, entered the apartment, who saluted the two females with more courtesy than could have been expected from his uncouth appearance. a light step was heard ascending the stairs, and a small female figure, covered from head to foot, pre- sented herself. ascertaining that ursula, barbara, and the negro were alone, she threw the black crook, a most wonderful history. chapter xxi. men are in all ages greedy of gold, and it is with some such a passion, that they will sac- rifice their very souls to heap-up gold in their coffers, which too frequently they have not the heart to use, and which is often bequeathed to public charities; their children wish them dead; and when they are safely under ground, hasten to spend the treasures, which have been so carefully amassed. these men have but one god, and at that shrine they kneel, with an eastern idolatry; their idol is gold. —clarendon. the black crook gazed long and earnestly in the residuum left, from his last operations in the laboratory; and again applied the usual tests, but something was wanting, and it was not the precious metal so eagerly prized by the greater part of mankind, whether savage or civilized; whether idiots or with gigantic in- tellects; and the adept was at a loss; the works of the most ancient chemists and leeches learned in the law of physics, as then understood, had been deeply read, and all their injunctions carefully practiced, but still the result was an utter and absolute failure, and the alchemist could not disguise that fact from himself; plunged in these disagreeable re- flections, his meditations were interrupted by the entrance of the negro, who making his oustomary salaam, folded his arms, and await- ed orders. “some one wishes to see me?” ºt yes.” “a man or woman f" “woman.” “who is she.” no answer, the black crook again repeated the question, but the negro as before, made no sign; the black crook irritated at his silence. raised his came threatingly, the black cowed and signified that he thought his master would not wish to see her. “well, show her in, at all hazards.” a woman in the humbler class of life ad- vanced to meet the adept, who was standing in the centre of the apartment, and dropping a low courtesy, said: “i thought, worthy doctor, that as i had some curious books for sale, i could not offer them to any one, who would be more likely to purchase them than yourself.” “let me look at them.” the woman unpacked a small basket, and handed three books to the adept; the first a volume of monkish legends, coarsely printed, and as coarsely illustrated, was thrown care- leesly aside; the second on methematics, met ‘milar fate, but the third, a treatise on which he had never before seen, was eagerly examined and purchased, at the sel- ler's price; page after page was devoured, and midnight rang out, ere the black crook had finished his studies a vision dwaned on his soul; gold, glittering precious gold, danced before his eyes; at last he seemed on the point of realizing his wishes; he returned to his chamber, but still the vision pursued him; still the same feverish idea hauuted him; unable to rest, he rose from his couch, and lighting a wax taper, wrote for several hours in a small mss. book, which was always under lock and key; as soon as the morning meal was dispatched, the adept resumed his studies of the previous night, and his eye lit on the following passage: “the devil when properly interrogated, will appear, and when he does so come, will refuse nothing to his faithful followers.” “will refuse nothing to his faithful follow- ers, pondered the adept, and what can he want in return, what have i to give ; but whatever he can possibly ask, shall be cheerfully given.” some persons called in the course of the day, and were received, the business trans- acted, and then dismissed in as short a time as civility would permit; the perusal of the famous volume was resumed after nightfall, and not interrupted till midnight. the next day grepo was summoned and desired to procure a coach, but with all ima- ginable secrecy, and to have the vehicle at the door at nightfall. “and whither are you going, master?” “that is a matter of llttle consequence to you ; but i want you to be silent, or else—” grepo, well knew what the black crook meant, was silent, and hazarded no further questions. the carriage stood at the door at the ap- pointed time. the adept accompanied by the dwarf entered, and was soon driven off. two hours of rapid travelling brought them to a modest inn where they alighted, and the adept at once ordered some refreshment for himself and his attendant, and after the fragments of the meal and the table equipage had been re- moved, opened a small case, some paper and a set of instruments; carefully cleaning these latter, he drew a number of diagrams on the paper, and made some calculations. these last he repeated till satisfied of their correct- ness, and then said, “it shall be done;” and as he was exhausted with his journey, and the want of sleep on the night previous, summoned the dwarf to watch his slumbers, and com- posed himself to rest the next day was bright and beautiful, all nature seemed to have put on her festal array, the black crook, a most wonderful history. “i will do what you require.” “kneel down and kiss my hand.” blackest despair. as the adept obeyed and saluted the hand the black crook stood aside, and, as they extended, as a sign of his subjection; sounds of defiled before him, surveyed the infernal the most infernal merriment greeted his ears assembly. a light touch aroused him, and, on all sides. the glade was peopled with turning, he beheld a fair woman, with a crown, fiends of every size and color—some who were who, bowing, said: so minute that they could scarcely be seen—, “are you still living, or a shade ” danced in rings on the sward; “black spirits “i am still breathing. and you—” and white, red spirits and gray” joined hands' “i was the queen of naples, but after i ha. and executed the most infernal gambols; the dispatched my husband, i was myself stran- spirits of the air, of the vasty deep, and of gled; but i was too early ruined by a worth- the recesses under the earth joined in a sort less woman, and it is but a small part of my of hellish hilarity; female fiends, with their punishment when i think what i might have |every countenance was marked with the “foul and sluttish hair” tied in elf locks, waltzed with the ghosts of murderers; head- less corpses started from the field of battle; tartarus sent her representative, and even charon, the grim ferryman of the infernal regions, after a repose of so many centuries, condescended to grace the festivities. as the black crook cast an eye on the vast assemblage which tenanted the little glade almost to suffocation, there appeared the bor- gias, who recounted how many they had sent to the infernal regions, and what a score of assassins they had entertained and kept in their pay; then came a tall pale old man, who, though long since gathered to the world of spirits, was permitted to appear as if in the flesh, who had great beauty of mein, but whose expression was satanical, and who was known in the history of his time as one who set at naught all laws both human and divine, and who worshipped gold with all the fervor of a devotee of juggernaut; this man, or rather disembodied spirit, was cenci, the father of the beautiful and unfortunate roman, beatrice cenci, whose name will live forever in the verse of shelley and on the immortal canvas of the prince of italian painters: next followed a train of egyptian and persian sorcerers, who, joining hands, confessed that they had been actuated by the same spirit, that they had cut off countless persons in the very flower of their youth, “that they had taken them with all their sins broad blown as flush may,” and sent them to their final reckoning, “with all their imperfections on their head;” next followed a train of historic personages, "ichard the 'i'llard, henry tile eightin, the subtile, in-riguing catharine de medici, nero, the cruel emperor of rome, and herod, the king of judea, who, in his terror of the infant re- deemer, slaughtered all the innocents. these, as they passed before the black crook, all made him a mocking courtesy, and hailed him as a brother. all wore crowns, and their trains were held by the shadows of pages- been.” a church bell rang out a chime in honor of a saint, and the whole assembly, as if struck by thunder, disappeared, the glen was quiet, and the chief flend alone remained in the guise of a spanish cavalier. “you have now seen,” said he, in a tone of seducing sweetness, “the select of the earth who have owned my sway, but i tell you that in this life they had all they desired—wealth, honors, and titles flowed in on them. the kings and princes of the earth have been my most faithful servants. are you prepared to obey me?” & i am.” “you will, then, declare yourself my true, faithful, and devoted servant, loyal to me and me only ” “i will.” stamping on the earth, a figure appeared, arrayed in the full garb of an archbishop. “this,” said the fiend, “was in his lifetime the archbishop of toledo, and a cardinal of the holy roman conclave, but love of money has brought his eminence to the condition you see. your grace will be witness that this worthy doctor, wolfgang hertzog, vows to be my servant and slave, here and hereafter.” “i promise,” said the black crook. “your grace,” said the arch fiend, “will be so kind as to act as scribe, and draw up a bond with your customary neatness. it will not be the first time that your grace has so served me, both in the flesh and since you left it.” the shade vanished, and after a short time re-appeared with the parchment, which read &s uw s : “know all men, in the heavens above, the earth beneath, and the waters under the earth, that i, wolfgang hertzog, am now a sworn servant of lucifer, prince of darkness, and lord of the infernal regions, that i will at all times, and under all circumstances, obey the behests of the said lucifer, prince of dark- mess, and lord of the infernal régions.” the black crook, a most wonderful history. shouts of suppressed laughter, loud whispers, and groans were distinctly heard, and for a mo- ment staggered the constancy and resolution of the adept, but the thought of the gold and the power he should acquire over mankind proved stronger than his first intention, and he signi- fied to lucifer to proceed. when the instru- ment was finally concluded, the black crook signified his willingness to abide by it, and execute it faithfully according to his intelli- gence and capacity. a moment's delibera- tion, and the black crook deliberately signed the document, which was duly attested by the defunct archbishop. lucifer then placed a heavy purse of gold in his hand and informed him that, whenever summoned, he would not fail to appear, and added, “that the honors, dignities, and titles of this world are for my children. farewell !” and, lifting his hat with a courtly bow, the prince of darkness and his ghostly secretary vanished. the day broke, the rising sun gilded the tops of the nearest trees, and rested lovingly on the distant mountains; still the adept lin- gered at the scene of the last night's ghostly revelry; rubbing his eyes, he could scarcely believe that all had not been a dream—but the purse of gold was there, and convinced him that what had passed was a substantial reality, and not a mere empty vision. returning to the inn, he made a memoran- dum of the occurrences of the past night; and hiring a coach drawn by spanish mules, returned to the city, where he was received by grepo, who looked inquisitively, but did not dare to ask any questions, as he felt from his master's looks that he was treading on del- icate ground. chapter xxii. a mother’s grief. nothing in life clings with such force, as a mother's love, the child may be ungrateful, but still the affection of the mother is undy- ing; the child's ingratitude may break her heart, but she will love to the last.—la bruyere. “has the young count julius come in yet,” asked the countess feltner of her abigail. “no my lady, he has not yet returned.” “how long has it been since he was ab- sent.” “three days; i have counted the minutes. fly, justine, i think that i hear the bell.” the wretched mother paced the room three whole days, and no news from her boy; he who had been so pun’tual, oh what could the matter be ; where was her boy. a bright idea struck the countess; pen haps the count ju- lius, who was rather has v, had given some offence to his commanding officer, if so she would rely on the friendsnip of her old friend, the archduke louis, who was the comman- der-in-chief of the forces; she would instantly call on him ; ringing the bell, she ordered her coach, and was driven as rapidly as the old coach horses, and the veteran coachman would permit; the general-in-chief when he heard that the countess feltner was below, hastened to the vehicle, and wrote a note to the colonel of the young count's regiment, begging that if the lieutenant had been guilty of any act of insubordination, he would be graciously pleased to excuse it. armed with this mis- sive, the countess drove at once to the head- quarters, and asked the sentry, who paid her the honors due to the widow of a general offi- cer, whether he had seen lieutenant feltner, and received a reply in the negative. the colonel could give no information, about his young subaltern officer, but remembered that he had started to visit a sick sergeant, of his company, karl helmfrecht, who lived unfor- tunately next door to the witches. the countess immediately drove thither, and was at once informed by one of the neigh- bors, of the exact residence and number of helmfrecht. karl, who knew by sight, the mother of his lieutenant, made the proper military salute, and waited in deferential silence, till he should be questioned. “have you seen the count, yesterday or to: day?” “no, your gracious ladyship, the young count is extremely kind to all his men, and when he heard that i was sick, he started, so i am told, to come and see me.” “and he was not here?” “no madam.” “who told him that you were ill?” “i do not know.” the wretched mother was still at fault, and in her intense agony, repaired at once to the commissary of police, but who unfortunately was not at home ; the countess left a note re- questing the chief of the police to call on her at once, on business of the greatest conse- quence. the summons was promptly obeyed, and the head of the department, who was very astute, waited on the countess, and gathered all the particulars, where the young count had been. he went to the barracks, and had not returned; in fact, he had not been seen since he left the barracks, where could he have gone. the black crook, a most wonderful history such was the sum of the information gain- ed by the intendant of the city, but though as- tute and exceedingly skillful in putting facts together, he could gather no more; it happen- ed that the old bird fancier had been absent and left the door open, and the young lieu tenant had mounted the stair. case, in the hopes of ascertaining the residence of his sergeant, but never returned alive; the night was dark, and as the officer was envel- oped in his cloak, he had not been noticed; the the chief of the police was not satisfied, till he had visited all the houses in the vicinity of the sergeant; the old man who resided be- low, was interrogated, and truthfully declar- ed, that he had neither seen nor heard of the young lieutenant; his questioner thought for a moment, and then asked: “who occupies the upper floor " “two women.” “who are they?” “their names were told.” “what are their occupations?" “i cannot tell.” “what kind of a character do they bear?" the old man was puzzled, he had no very good opinion of his neighbors, and yet he could not tell on what it was based; they had given him no trouble, and he was silent. the ques- tion was repeated, and the old man finally replied, “i know nothing whatever about them.” his countenance belied what he said, and the acute official saw at a glance that the old man entertained suspicions, but yet on what they were grounded he could not say. the official determined at once to pay a visit to barbara and ursula. the day was already far advanced, and the two women were sitting at the windows when the official entered, with- out the ceremony of rapping. ursula, who was exceedingly acute, suspected that this was a visit of inquiry connected with the dis- appearance of the man whose murder she had witnessed, and rising confronted the officer; she well knew that no proof could be traced there. “do you know the sergeant who lives in the next house ?” “i have a slight acquaintance with him ; i know him by sight.” “has he ever been here ” “never.” “have you been there since his sickness?” “i was never in his house on any occasion whatever.” “was any one here, say about four nights ago, who was inquiring about your neighbor, the sergeant?” “no one was here inquiring about any such i could readily have answered it, as i knew that the bird fancier had gone out.” the woman was cool, determined and exceedingly self-confl- dent; all the questions put were answered sincerely and honestly, and strange as it may appear, with the most perfect truthfulness. the reader may remember that the lieu- tenant had entered the apartment, and was so perfectly horror stricken with what he saw that he could not move for an instant, and then he rushed to the windows to invite the aid of the law. he did not disclose his rank or purpose in visiting the neighborhood. barbara was fearfully agitated, but as the room was darkened, and ursula did not offer to strike a light, her confusion was unnoticed, and her companion, acting as spokes-woman, she was enabled to collect her thoughts, ere she was addressed by the officer with the question: “did you see or hear of any one asking for the sergeant?” ** i did not.” the official was at a loss and knew not what to do, unfounded suspicions floated through his brain, and yet he was confident that they had not both told the truth, and that they knew more than they chose to tell; still there was nothing that could warrant their arrest and de- tention. he had no further pretext to linger, and dissatisfied with the result of his mission, departed: the moment the sound of his foot- steps died away, barbara turned to ursula and said: “i am frightened almost to death.” “frightened what have you to fear; are not the others as much concerned as we ? did not the mexican, the norwegian, and the negro cause his death as much as we ? if there be any murder, we, at least, are not guilty. the mexican killed him, and the black counselled it; but hold your tongue, and all will yet go well.” “but if they should make a search, they would be sure to find the clothes, and then—” “and then we shall baffle them, for this very day i shall destroy all the clothes, the jews shall not have them, they might betray us; come let us set to work about it at once.” “what have we for dinner?” “what a question ’’ “but tell me, as i did not ask it without a motive.” ** a little mutton.” “we will stew it; and, stay, as i am going to market, i will get a head or so of garlic– you like it and so do i.” ursula was not particularly fond of garlie, ' but as she knew that that plant when cooking exhaled a particular odor, that she oould person. had such a question been put to me! at the same time burn the clothing, and that - the black crook, a most wonderful history. the scent of the garlic would overpower the smell of the burning wool. fearing to trust barbara alone, she hurried to the market, pur- chased what she required, returned as speedily as possible, and on entering the house asked: “has any one been here ?” “not a creature.” “then let us begin at once with the cloth- ing,” and, suiting the action to the word, 'ursula tore the entire wardrobe of the luckless count into shreds, and threw them on the fire in small handsful. the ruse succeeded. the bird fancier came up, and asked in a voice of thunder: “what, in the name of all the gods, do you mean by the poisonous odor with which you fill the house ? do you mean to ruin me, and destroy all my birds f" “i am sorry,” said ursula, blandly, “that “that i have displeased you ; you know that it is impossible to do without eating.” “yes, but you need not have such ill-smell- ing compounds. do you want to kill both man and beast.” “i will try,” said barbara, “not to offend you, but—” “well, i suppose,” said the bird fancier, “that it must go for this time. goodbye, neighbors.” “good bye,” replied ursula, with the greatest civility. she was in the highest possible spirits, as she knew that her stratagem had succeeded. “now, barbara, keep a still tongue, and all will do. i remember well, when i was in prison, they could not convict me; there was no proof against me, and i was wise enough to hold my tongue.” the commissary of the police went to the minister of justice and disclosed all that he knew ; that the young count had gone out, and never returned, and no trace of him had been yet discovered. bill sticking was not known in those days, but the minister offered a reward of three hundred golden ducats to any one who could give any information about the sudden disappearance of the young count; to this the countess added a similar amount, and the most active emissaries were employed. three weeks passed thus, but uselessly; no traces could be found. the distracted mother sat the image of speechless woe, refused to eat, and was inconsolable ; the most eminent medical men were consulted, and virtually exclaimed, with the physician of macbeth, “that the patient must minister to himself.” death, with his sable wings, was hovering near, and, at the end of a week, the countess was no more. the vast and stupendous cathedral of st. | stephen was hung with black, the organ sent forth its most dismal tones, a select choir chanted the lamous dies irae; the archbishop of vienna, with a gorgeous train of attendants, “sang mass for the parted soul,” and the holy fane was crowded with the elite of the empire; warriors who had gathered laurels on the battle field, men who had grown gray in the service of the state—but all was of no avail; the poor mother had pined away for her boy, and not all the attendance of kings and nobles that the world ever boasted could soothe one pang, or recall the soul to the tenement from which it had forever fled. chapter xxiii. look you, this young man is a perfect spend- thrift; had he the wealth of the indies, it would soon be scattered. he has no idea of keeping money. isidora. how does he spend it? pedro. in every manner possible. if he goes to a goldsmith, he will buy me straight a ring or chain that will cost some ten or more scores of ducats; as to perfumes, the ladies of the grand turk's seraglio are not more ex- travagant; and then he always has a host of parasites, who cling closely to him for their food and drink; men about town, who have much ado to get a decent doublet, or a pair of trunk hose, and yet these fellows boast of their blood, and brag of their pretensions. isidora. but how do the father and son agree ? pedro. they don't agree at all; the son wants inoney all the time, which his father is none too willing to give him; i believe on my soul, that my young master would like to see the old lord dead.—miser. the black crook had returned to vienna, and was in the full practice of his nefarious pro- fession, crowds daily flocked to him of all ranks, and the hardly earned coin of the poor cham- bermaid reposed side by side in his purse with the heavy gold pieces of the count's lady. fortune had at last smiled on him and he feared nothing; yes, there was one indefinable dread which he could not banish from his mind. lucifer had indeed promised him all that he desired; gold accumulated in such quanti- ties that even his inordinate avarice was almost satisfied, but yet length of days had not been even mentioned. while in this state of mind he sauntered in the library of wienna, and saw a hebrew bible of great antiquity and value; the adept, who was an excellent judge of such matters, praised the book highly. the libra- rian showed him a mss., which had just beer the black crook, a most wonderful history. see any one; ten o'clock struck, and the adept and negro sought the glade, where they had had the first interview with lucifer. the lit- tle dell presented an aspect of quiet loveliness, which might have seduced the most ambi- tious, and worldly minded to repose; the wa- ter rippled softly, and the wind made melan- choly music, as it gently sighed through the trees. the adept knelt down, and repeated the in- vocation, the earth opened, and lucifer ap- peared in the habit of a turkish sultan, at- tend by his ghostly secretary. “what would you with me, wolfgang hert- zog f" - “i would fain ask you,” was the trembling reply, “whether the spell that i propose ma- king, against the prince pufflingen, will be of any avail.” “that will depend on what you use to propit- iate the powers of evil, what is it that is want- ed?” “a young man, the son of an avaricious father, is desirous of touching the ducats, that his father hoards so carefully.” “but when the son gets them, how will they be spent ;” “that does not come within the province of my art.” “then i will tell you,” said lucifer, “all men have their god, the old man loves gold, with all the powers of his soul, the young one, courts what he calls pleasure, but what in reality will cause him pain. both will event- ually be mine; but herr hertzog, you have only seen the worst side of my dominions; permit me to show you my power over the demons of the air; you have seen me pass in rcview, the great of the earth, who are ten- ants of my kingdom, but where crowns and sceptres will avail but little; now we shall see what my art will do: “attend me ye spirits of the air; the stars shone with more than their usual radiance, and a pearl car was distinctly seen passing through the blue, in which were seated three fairy-like being with silver wings, surrounded by a rosy halo. “how beautiful,” exclaimed the black crook. “there,” pursued lucifer, “are the fiends of malice, envy and detraction, who assume these forms, to lure men to destruction; few in this world can escape their sting, they are among my most potent auxiliaries; three cars, one composed of an entire ruby, another of a diamond, and the third of an opal, which emitted the most vivid flashes of fire, slowly sailed through the air, and at a signal from lucifer, suspended their progress. the adept again was charmed. “these,” said lucifer, “are the different passions convulsing the heart of man; they are as numberless as the sands of the sea, as countless as the bairs of your head—and from these, none, not even the wisest and best are exempt. but i bid ye all appear. why come ye not at my command?” said the prince of darkness, impatiently waving his scimitar. the air was filled with floating forms of the most ravishing beauty; flowers of the most gorgeous hues and fragrant odors sprang up, as if by magic ; colossal tulips, rivalling the setting sun in the brightness of their colors, and far surpassing the puny denizens of the garden, unfolded their huge calixes; and nymphs emerged. strains of the most ex- quisite music stole upon the ear, and lulled the soul to a kind of forgetfulness. “such is my kingdom; but you only see the exterior. remember you are mine—you cannot, you shall not, escape me ! pain, in- cessant grief, and perpetual sorrow inhabit the bosoms of the phantoms you see before you; but i see by your countenance that you wish to speak to me. what is it f" - “how long shall i live f’’ faltered out the adept. “how long shall you live " said lucifer: it is not given to me to know. i have the art of luring souls to destruction, but i can neither give peace nor length of days—those belong to the omnipotent, and he delegates his power to no one here below. i did not make that bargain with you how long you were to live, but banish all such unpleasant thoughts, and see what i have contrived for your amuse- ment. come, my beauties, let us have a dance.” obedient to the word, the spirits of the air descended to the earth, the waters of the brook yielded their inmates; strains of the most seducing melody enraptured the senses, and a most delicious perfume was wafted to the nostrils of the black crook. the negro testi- fied his delight by a variety of uncouth antics, and repeatedly pulled his master's cloak, as if to invite him to share his pleasure. lucifer again waved his scimitar, the spirits vanished, and he, his secretary, and the black crook were again alone. “all you desire shall be executed, but i cannot guard against unforseen accidents; farewell. the morning approaches, when i shall hear the sound of the church bells, and they are insupportable to me.” with these last words the prince of darkness melted into thin air, and was soon lost to mortal view. for two hours did the black crook remain seated on the sward; aurora had opened the gates of the morning, and the merry oarols of the black crook, a most wonderful history, torwhes of resinous wood collected, and the glade was soon as light as day. the animals of the forest alarmed at the uncommon light and heat stole timidly to and fro, all danced madly around the flames. a smaller shrine was erected, all the stones of which were square, and the black seizing the child led himin front, and turning to his associates said: “the victim is ready, to whom shall we de- vote him f** “to the great power of destruction and evil,” cried the whole assembly. “master,” said the child, “what are you going to do with me? i never injured you, and yet i am afraid.” “you must die,” was the stern reply. the child uttered the most fearful shrieks, and a stalwart peasant rushed into the midst of the assembly. at the sight of this intruder, the black crook waved his wand thrice, and the shades disappeared. “what means this confusion ?” said the peasant, sternly. “i was returning late from a merry making at a little distance, and was at first attracted by the fire, and then by the screams of the child. i suspect foul play, and if my life be the forfeit, i shall prevent it. wherefore are these two altars, and why did this child utter these fearful cries i am a man, and no one shall injure him when i am here.” the child glanced at the speaker, ex- tended his hands to the stranger, as if claim- ing his protection, but was forcibly detained by the norwegian. “our course is plain,” said the mexican. “bind this rash intruder, who has dared to interrupt our sacred mysteries; none save the initiated can witness these rites and live. let hina die, he will be another victim.” rage sat on every line of her face, and what nature had intended to be beautiful was now fear fully ugly. the recommendation of the mexican was adopted, all the women furnished their garters and ribbons to bind him, in default of ropes, the black assuring the captive, that his turn would soon come. ursula glanced at the peasant, as if to en- treat his aid, but was met by a warning look from barbara. the rites now proceeded, the fire was fed, and the child bound hand and foot was placed on the smaller pile and stabbed to the heart. as the crimson fluid flowed it was caught in cups, which were set on the main altar. a few convulsions, a slight sob, and all was over. the body of the unfortunate little victim was then torn limb from limb and put on the fire. “now,” said the mexican, “we shall immo- late the other. be it your task brother, to lead him to the sacrificial stone.” the black turned to execute his task, but found to his great surprise, and the consterna- tion of all, that the bonds had been too weak, and that he had escaped. all had been so occupied with the sacrifice of the child, that the second victim had been almost entirely disregarded. the peasant had escaped; stealing quietly away, when at a reasonable distance, he me a mounted patrole, who had just commenced his rounds of duty. the officer placing his informant on his steed, put the animal to his utmost speed, and arrived at the headquarters of the rural police. the transaction was ex- plained in a few words. the chief fortunately was in the reception-room, and instantly de- tailed a strong body of his force, heavily armed to capture the whole body in the woods. confusion prevailed when the escape of the peasant was known; the fires were extin- guished, and each prepared for immediate flight, regardless of his neighbors. brief space, however, was allowed them; the mounted police, aided by a strong body of peasantry furnished with scythes and other agricultural implements, surrounded the wood, and in a loud voice summoned the party there present to surrender in the name of the emperor. the black in attempting to escape, was en- countered by a stalwart peasant; the negro who was a man of vast proportions; armed with pistols, and a short dagger, fought with a des- peration worthy of a better cause ; thrice he attempted to cleave the head of his assailant, and thrice was he baffled; his eyes flashed fire, and his mouth was distended with a hideous grin, foam flew from his thick misshapen lips, as from the fangs of a wild beast; the peas. ant was strong, but the negro was his equal; at length the european’s strength began to fail, and he clamored loudly for assistance; others came up, and the black, after a vain struggle, was compelled to submit. barbara and ursula were soon overpowered, the former uttering the most fearful maledic- tions, against her captors; all were now pris- oners except the mexican. the whole bound with ropes, were taken to the palais de justice, and the judge of the dis- trict summoned, but as he resided at a distance, it was nearly one in the morning, ere he reached the chamber, where an anxious crowd was ea- gerly awaiting the arrival of the functionary, who was to decide upon the fate of the pris- oners. the patrole and the peasant were duly sworn, and a messenger dispatched to the the black crook, a most wonderful history. all the priests in vienna flocked to the prison to offer their services, but to the greater part of the prisoners uselessly. ursula alone accepted the aid of a learned and pious bene- dictine who had been for years renowned for his sanctity and gentleness of manner. touch- ing the wounds of this wretched woman's soul with the greatest tenderness and pity, father joseph succeeded in calling her atten- tion to the miserable state in which she now found herself, and his pious labors were reward- ed by ursula admitting all her crimes and con- fess her agency in the murder of the young lieutenant. she admitted the justice of her fate, and bitterly lamented that she had not made greater efforts to save the child who had been murdered at the knoll. barbara remained implacable. nothing could arouse her for a moment, or cool the vindictive rage with which she was animated against mankind. the most frightful oaths and execrations fell from her lips, and she rarely addressed the keepers without a curse. once only did she betray some lingering rem- nant of feeling, when she asked if the cat and starling at her lodgings had been fed, or whether they died from neglect. - the black was obdurate, and sat with his arms folded, gazing on the sky from the little strip of window in his cell. to the en- treaties of father joseph, who visited him, he turned a deaf ear, and once only after a long argument, in which the good priest endeavored to persuade him to repent, replied: “the faith of my fathers is good enough for me. they tell me of the white man's god, and i have read his book, for know, most reverend father, at an early age i was sent to a school in paris and thence to rome, but show me how many of the so-called christians prac- tice what they preach. they call themselves civilized, enlightened, and yet they tear the ignorant savage from his home, launch him on the deep, and when he finally arrives at his place of destination convert his toil, labor, and agony into gold. should there be such a god as the christians describe, he will indeed pour out his wrath upon the europeans. the gods of my fathers will aid me. farewell, trouble me no more with these disquisitions; let me enjoy as best i can the few short moments of life that still remain to me.” father joseph, seeing that his mission was useless, never entered his cell again. the fatal morning had arrived, when the prisoners were to forfeit their lives for their erimes; and at eight o'clock, the jailors and servants of the prison brought ursula, barbara, and the black into the chapel. this was a large vaulted apartment, with a high cieling, carved with considerable taste; and an altar erected at the eastern end. the tapers were lighted, and father joseph, clad in his sacerdotal garments, with two boys in white, stood within the rails, ready to celebrate mass ; places were assigned to the condemned. ursula listened attentively, and fervently re- cited the prayers in a small book given her by father joseph. barbara was quiet, and the black as usual, buried in reverie. twelve of the brothers of mercy, in the black serge habits of their order, hoods with holes cut for the eyes, their waists bound with cords, and bare feet, entered the chapcl, and signified to the criminals that the last moment was near at hand, and requested all in the chapel to follow them to the adjoining room. all obeyed, barbara and the black crook mechanically, and ursula telling her rosary. the superior of the confraternity, when they were in the room, asked the prisoners if they had any requests to make. the black and barbara replied in the negative, and ursula said that she hoped her example might be a warning to others, but that she had done with the things of this world. there was an im- mense crowd on the exterior of the prison, all who could snatch time from their other avo- cations hastened to the ghastly spectacle, as if it were a recreation, or holiday sport. the prison gates were thrown open, and a lay brother bearing a crucifix headed the pro cession, next followed the members of the con- fraternity, barbara with a dominican friar, in his white robes, and ursula and father joseph, and lastly the black with the prior of the bene- dictines. the clerk of the court in a full suit of black velvet, a gold chain, and a furred mantle, read aloud the sentence of the court, condemning all the culprits there present to the penalty of death by fire, and pronouncing a sentence of outlawry against wolfgang hert- zog. the heralds of the empire in their mediae- val habits, and batons of silver with the imperial arms, stationed themselves at the different stakes to see the sentence duly carried into effect. the executioner approched and taking bar- bara gently by the arm, led her to a stake, to which she was attached by a strong iron chain, depending from a collar; the domini- can presenting a crucifix, begged that even then she would confess and repent, adding that it was not yet too late ; a glance of scorn was her only reply. another executioner approached; the black, who gently repulsing him followed, and was also attached to the stake. his spiritual com- forter tendered his services, but received no reply; just at that moment the sun gilded the the black crook, a most wonderful history. him very sharply. to his great relief the adept, when they came to another road, asked his companion which way he meant to take, as, if he not intend going to the lower part of the empire, they must separate. the black crook assented, alighted from the vehicle, and sitting down on the roadside waited till the wagon was entirely out of sight, then refuming his walk reached an alehouse, where liquors were sold, and demanded some refreehment. “ilave you heard the news?” asked the landlady, as she placed some food and wine on a rustic table before him. “as i am a stranger in this part of the country, perhaps you will be so kind as to tell me.” “some witches, about twenty-five miles from here, have been playing their infernal tricks; but they were caught. two of them have yet to be found, a man and woman; i hope that they will be taken.” this was not very agreeable intelligence to the adept, who finished his meal without uttering a word, paid his reckoning and de- parted, but was at a loss whither to wend his way. he had taken the precaution to secrete a portion of his meal, and wishing his hostess good morning, hastily departed. the black crook was at a loss to which part of the empire he should direct his steps. if he could only reach the turkish frontier, he would be perfectly safe. he had considerable funds in the hands of the dutch bankers at amsterdam, which city he could reach from constantinople, and whence he could send messengers to vienna. passing by a hedge, he saw a laborer's smock frock which he did not hesitate to appropriate, and, thus garbed, resembled a peasant. meeting a little boy, he asked where he was, and to his great joy found that he was on the road to the turkish frontier; two or at most three days would place him in safety—he had no fears for the future. exhausted with travel, he rested at the next village inn, where he arrived late in the after- moon, all night, and did not resume his jour- ney till late in the day, as he had an oppor- tunity of a post wagon which would enable him to make more rapid progress than if he travelled on foot. the following day, at noon, the black crook arrived at a small cottage, and on asking where he could find the next tavern, and was informed that the nearest house of entertain- ment was at a distance of ten miles, but that he was welcome to such accommodation as they had. the place was retiredºand as the old man and his wife, the only inhabitants of the cottage, did not seem disposed to meddle or ask questions, the adept decided that he would remain for that night at least; and in the course of the meal learned that he was near the chateau of the prince de bevern, a german nobleman of french descent, who by his marriage with a wealthy heiress had ac- quired a vast landed estate, and resided in the vicinity. the old man further added that the prince was fond of birds and beasts, and had a large collection of animals attached to his resi- dence—a lion, which had been recently added to his menagerie, having been for some weeks the wonder of the country for nearly twenty miles round. pernaps, thought the adept, if i can make the acquaintance of his groom, i can prevail on him, for a few gold pieces, to convey me to the frontier, and then all danger is at an end. with this view, the adept, after the morning meal had been dispatched, set out to view the domains of the prince. cious, superbly built, and placed in the midst of extensive gardens elegantly laid out. hand- some stables were seen in the rear, and a large building, with open doors, invited the travel- ler to enter. in eages, occupied in crunching their food, but no attendant was there, nor as he passed the castle was spa- animals of various kinds were. through the garden did the adept see any one. another apartment opened into that occupied by the animals, and the black crook went in to see what was there, and beheld several ser- pents in oblong boxes with wire lattices; a large cage, evidently intended for an immense reptile was vacant. the black crook gazed around; a few mo- ments sufficed to gratify his curiosity, and entering the other room, quitted the building; and treading the mazes of the garden, soon found himself in a delicious grove, of which a mighty oak which had evidently seen more than a century constituted the chief ornament. allured by the shade, the black crook sat down, but his olfactories were soon greeted with an insupportable smell, and he suddenly glanced round to see whence it came. a rust- ling above his head attracted his attention, and, looking up, saw as he conceived the eyes of a common snake, dismissed the matter en- tirely from his mind, and began to plot how he should make the acquaintance of some one who would enable him to reach the haven of safety for which he so ardently longed. his meditations, however, were abruptly ended, and he saw, to his horror and surprise, an immense boa constructor, the largest of its kind, who had escaped from the menagerie of the prince, dropping on the lower limbs of the oak. flight was impossible; and the gem-like eye of the creature glittered with intense ex- the black crook, a most wonderful iiistory. about my person, and quitting the city on foot, abandoned my home and all it contained to the clutches of the holy office, reached cadiz safely, whence i embarked for holland. the officer turned over the leaves of the journal, and found merely a record of the adept's stay in holland, and where he lodged. there was a hiatus of ten or twelve pages, and then this should have been placed several pages back. one day the tire-woman of the duchess of ossuna came to me and asked if i could pro- cure a child for her. i replied that it was possible. she further added, that it would be worth to me a large sum. the man whose leg i had cured had an acquaintance, a gypsey woman, who frequently brought me gold to test. i remembered that she had a child, and affected great fondness for it. catalina was forced to quit the city, and asked permission to leave the child with me; i consented. the mother brought and left her with me. i sent for the duchess' tire- woman and showed her the little prattler. the duchess' own child, who had been sent to nurse in the country, died, and the woman who had the charge of it, did not wish to lose the salary and perquisites to which she was entitled, and wished to substitute another in its room. she came, and as soon as she saw the little zara (such was her name), cried; what a resemblance no one can tell the dif- ference. i must have her, she will save my lady many a heartbreak. i consented, de- livered the child to the nurse, who paid me the price on which she had agreed, and took zara with lier. the duchess received zara as her own, and she is now the wife of a spanish nobleman of ancient descent and vast possessions. she is now—here the mss. ab- rubtly terminated with—i have committed no crimes worthy of record either in holland or vienna. no human blood has been shed by me, either directly or indirectly, in either of the places just named. due proclamation was made for the heirs at law and nearest of kin, to come forward and claim the property belonging to the adept; but no one appearing the estate was swept into the public treasury; a liberal allowance was made to grepo. the luckless negro was found dead near the knoll with several wounds, as he was probably mistaken for 'one of the witches, and the color of his skin inducing a belief that he was a chosen and accredited emissary of the prince of darkness. thus ended the black crook, with all his com- panions. chapter xxviii. wedding festivities. “marriages and funerals are the two great occasions of a man's life, and no book can be said to be completed unless there be a small seasoning of both.”—the doctor. the prince of auersperg did not verify the old adage, “that the course of true love never runs smoothly.” the lady smiled upon his suit, and the count palfi was equally success- ful with the countess lingotski, and when consent was asked, it was not refused. all of rank and fashion that vienna could then boast were bidden to the wedding, and the ceremony was graced by the presence of seve- ral of the archdukes; even prince lobkowitz, who had been buried in his library for several years, quitted his retirement, and danced a minuet de la cour with the baroness teleki, to the admiration of all the bystanders. and so enchanted was the old prince with the newly wedded bride, that he invited her to pass the honey moon at his castle in the in- terior of bohemia, and sent intelligence of his speedy arrival. this was one of the most magnificent mansions in that ancient king- dom, and prince lobkowitz as one of the oldest magnates, was entitled to a guard of honor. the party, including the artist and madame kleinfeldt, left vienna in the heavy coaches of the period, and journeyed by easy stages to the chateau, where the steward and all the tenantry were ready to do the honors. a sumptuous repast was spread in the large hall and, after the meats had been removed, the streward, ushering a number of the most re- spectable tenants, craved permission to drink to the health of his noble master, and to wish health and prosperity to the noble brides. the prince graciously bowed assent, the glasses were filled, and the old hall re-echoed with the shouts of “long live prince lobko- witz!” “prosperity to the most precious prin- cess auersperg!” “luck attend the noble count palf l’” the count and the prince testified their sense of the honor conferred on them by largesses of gold and silver coin, and the fair brides courtesied down to the ground in ac- knowledgment of the pcliteness of their coun- try friends. horses were ordered, and the whole party were soon in pursuit of the stag. a rustio collation was spread in the park under the shade of some large oaks, and the hours passed till the “weary sun by the bright track of his fiery car gave token of a goodly day on the morrow.” invitations had been issued for a dance. the black crook, a most wonderful history. all on the estate, clad in their best, repaired to the grand hall in the castle, where they were received in great state by the steward, assisted by puffengruntz and his new spouse, formerly the dame christina. the eldest matron on the estate, clad in the national bohemian cos- tume, advanced to the prince, and said: “my gracious lord, it has always been the custom, when one of the daughters of your noble house marries, that the girls of the village celebrate the event by one of our na- tional dances. when your sister was contracted to the prince seitz i danced.” “and you shall do so now, if you will con- descend to accept me as your partner. you and yours have been faithful servitors to me and mine for the last three centuries.” the dame smiled, and, with a courtesy, re- plied, “you do me too much honor.” the steward with a white wand entered the hall, followed by the guard of honor, who, in the old costume of the time of the great maxi- milian, stationed themselves against the wall, like statues. two young farmers led out the ladies. midst of the dance, twelve girls entered the room, whom the guard courteously saluted ; the parties on the floor made space for them, and a variety of pirouettes were executed with grace and agility. twelve more entered the room, clad in light drapery, holding wreaths. these ranged themselves on either side, form- ing an arch with their flowers, under which their companions passed. these latter now took the wreaths, and their companions passed under the arch in turn. kleinfeldt was so charmed with the scene that he made a sketch of, which, when transferred to canvas, he begged the prince lobkowitz's acceptance. a maagnificent supper was spread in the large hall for the humbler guests, where wine and ale were freely distributed. a smaller recep- tion room was allotted for the accommodation of the prince and his guests, and many a ma- tron, when youth had flown, recounted to her grandchildren as they gathered around her knees, the festivity and splendor of the enter- tainment when the young princess lobkowitz was united to the prince auresperg, and here, gentle reader, we will drop the curtain. chapter xxix. the ballet girl. when i was a much younger man, i was exceedingly fond of the theatre, and was never tired of contemplating the bright and beauti- when the curtain separated me from those bright visions of beauty; one day i was doom- ed to be disappointed. i was walking in that part of london, very near the theatre, and heard a person say: miss , it was the name of the figuerate whom i had seen the night before in “la sylphide,” the enchant- ment completely vanished—she was a vul- garly dressed dowdy.—horace walpole's let- ters. a theatre at night is a fairy palace of en- chantment; the lights, music, scenery, actors, and audience all combine to form a tout ensen- ble of enchantment, which time and experience sometimes are unable to dispel. but the same place by day presents a very different aspect—the palaces and fairy castles of the previous night have resolved themselves into very ordinary daubs, the chairs and sofas, which, at a distance, wore the semblance of damask, are now only coarse imitations, and the kings and queens, who ranted the night before in all the gorgeousness of velvet and the prince opened the ball, and | in the fur; sweeping trains and glittering armor met- amorphosed into common place shabby look- ing men and women, conning greasy mss., or tattered books. the theatrical life is full of trials, disappointments and anxieties; few at- tain eminence, and the hard toilers in the lower walks of the profession can scarcely earn bread; our province however, lays with the ballet girl, who particulary in the gay city of paris, constitutes a feature in the popula- tion. the french, as a nation, are gay, volatile, and fond of pleasure, dancing may be said to be their national amusement, and few nations pursue it with greater zest and enjoyment; the life of a ballet girl commences properly, from the very cradle; if a child in the paris- ian working class, evinces a talent for dan- cing, its vocation is fixed, she must be a bal- let girl; if an ear for music, she is destined for the opera comique, or the conservator to; but the greater part choose the ballet, (or rather their parents select it for them;) the aid of the neighboring dancing master is in- voked, or perhaps some retired actress, who occupies an apartment in the fifth story, con- descends for the consideration of a few francs, to give some lessons, and volunteers an an introduction to the stage manager of some third or fourth rate theatre on the boule- wards, or the porte st. martin, but rarely to the grand opera. perhaps the mother or aunt, has some ambition, and at once deter- mines that her protegee shall have the benefit of at least a trial at the grand opera—these theatres may be well enough, but they wout ful beings, who sported before the foot-lights, suit her lucille, and accordingly the pair in silver gauze and spangles, and was sorry betake themselves to the back of the opera the black crook, a most wonderful history. glasses, hung at irregular intervals, constituted the entire furniture. all her companions of the morning are there, but have laid aside their ordinary street attire and appear either as swiss peasants, court ladies, with trains of velvet and mock diamond tiaras, or in clouds of muslin, heaps of spangles, wreaths of flowers,and count- less knots of ribbon. some are applying a little bit of color, others giving the last touch to their hair; some are practising before a mirror, and others are unpacking a basket and grum- bling because certain articles they deemed in- dispensable are wanting. when dressed, all descend, and the stage is as fully peopled as inthemorning; the prompter anxious, the stage- manager worried, and the call-boy impertinent; some are laughing, some quarreling, and others peeping at the audience through sundry in- geniously contrived slits. the last bell rings, the curtain rises, and all are on the stage. the leading dancer at- tracts the attention of the public and leaves the lesser lights unnoticed, but the ballet girls are not idle, and one observes to another in a low but perfectly audible tone: “look at that zephyrine, she is with the englishman now ; he is perfectly infatuated with her. i saw them together the other day in the champs elysees. but do look at that woman—aint she superb fº the queen of the evening has executed one of her most daring pirouettes; a tunic of white satin embroidered with silver, tightly fitting to the bust, displays the matchless beauty of ther figure. this garment descends to the waist, and her ankles, covered with flesh- colored silk, attract all eyes; opera glasses are directed, so as to command the matchless proportions and graceful swell of the well turned thigh and neatly rounded ankle. ladies of quality in the boxes simper, turn aside their heads, and wonder why the management would permit such an ex- posure, and yet nightly are to be seen in the place, “so that the very stones prate of their whereabouts.” old bachelors, men about town, survey the danseuse, make broad obser- vations about her, and contrast her with the artistes of their youth; young lordlings, who have more cash and time than wit, vow that she is the finest woman that they ever saw ; such a foot, such a magnificent ankle, and then, and then—but we will not go further; bouquets fall in a flowery rain from all parts of the house, and the curtain falls amid a thunder of applause. her maid comes on the stage with a large basket, to carry off the tribute paid to her mistress' talents. the wearied artistes soon quit the theatre to seek the repose they need so much ; mothers are waiting outside for some of the ballet troupe, others avail themselves of the services of some young men. some of these escorts are ele- gantly dressed, and frequently invite their fair companions to partake of a bottle of wine and some refreshment; these offers are rarely if ever refused. the others are not quite so well dressed, their boots are mended, their coats are shabby, and their linen is not quite snowy white. six months thus pass, and the young girl is now thoroughly broken into harness, every nook and corner of the theatre are well known to her; she can tell at a glanee who admires her, and knows certain elderly peers, antiquated marquises, and damaged dukes. she thinks that her mother's notions are old fashioned, and that she can do with- out her rather better than with her, and finally tells mamma, or matante, that as the nights are so cold she will not trouble her to come to the opera house for her. she has observed a young russian, who looks like a bear, speaks french abominably, but who sports, oh such loves of diamond rings; he comes behind the scenes and looks at her. with a little manage- ment she might yet win him, she will make his acquaintance; she throws herself in his way, and succeeds. the apartments on the fifth fioor are exchanged for an elegantly fur- nished suite on the second ; the solitary chop or egg, with a thin shaving of butter, is re- placed by a periford pie, a pound of the most delicious yellow guernsly butter, and the strongest mocha poured from a richly chased silver pot, the cracked and mismatched crock- ery has given place to the most exquisite. severes. youth is the season of enjoyment, the russian has plenty of gold, and she is deter- mined to spend it. the mornings are passed at the opera house, the afternoons at the bois de boulogne, where she occasionally sees zephyrine or celestine, who have not had so much luck as she; they wear inaitation, she real cachemire silk dresses of every shade and color fill her closet; diamonds, rubies, and emeralds glitter in her jewel cases, cameos are a drug. this lasts for nearly a year, when the russian informs the lady that he is going to london, and will not return for ten days. la belle josephine (for so we will call her), sighs, melts into a flood of tears, and conjures her beloved ivan not to stay away from her so long. he returns sooner than he expected, and what is his surprise when he admits him- self with a pass-key to find his inamorata at breakfast with a young english lord, who has the air and manner of a man who is master of all he surveys. the russian is too polite to quarrel with lord tanington, who has just completed his majority, and come to paris to the black crouk, a most wonderful diistory. spend some loose thousands which have ac- cumulated at his bankers during his minority, and is exceedingly anxious to see life. he has noticed md'lle josephine at the opera, who has learned ere this to make the most of her charms to poise herself on her toes, show her ankles, exhibit her bust, and place her- self before the footlights in positions carefully oopied from some of the worst productions of the most lascivious school in the world. the young lord is fascinated, and josephine nothing loath, is ready to accept his protection, dines daily on the boulevards, and is the envy and delight of all her associates; but the ballet girl is liable to accidents, a fall, a cold, a sprain, and all these are incident to her pro- ession, rob her of her charms, and then she is remembered as that fascinating flora; don't you remrmber her ? well, she caught a fever, and could dance no more ; she lived with the russian, then with the italian duca di san co- tolda, but where she is now, or where she lives, no one knows, or perhaps you may recollect therese, she was at the ballet at the same time with cerito, but she sprained her ankle and has been good for nothing ever since. even should the ballet girl escape any of the accidents above mentioned, still time, late hours, and the various inconveniences atten- dant on her profession age her more percep- tibly than women in private life, and at forty- flve the ballet girl is but a shadow of her for- mer self. they rarely have sufficient discre- tion to economize for this ; their admirers have fled with their waning charms. some jewels of no great value, a few half worn silk dresses, and a faded cachmere constitute her sole pos- sessions, or, if she has been so fortunate as to save enough to purchase a moderate annuity, she generally lives in the fifth story with a parrot or a lap-dog. in default of such means, the old ballet dancer is only too glad to accept the position of ma tante or ma cousine to some young and handsome artiste, preside over her | uousehold, drive away the poverty-stricken scions of fashion and properly encourage the wealthy, for which she receives a small salary, a wretched lodging, and is compelled to sub- mit to the caprices of one who, when she grows old, will fill the same position. such is a brief history of the ballet girl in nearly all the cities of europe. notes allusion has been made in the text to the condition of the lower and laboring classes. these, in all parts of europe, were in a most deplorable condition; hard worked, ill fed, under paid, and lacking the necessaries of life, while their lords generally resided at the court, and rarely visited their estates, except during the hunting season. all offices were closed to them; these were engrossed by the nobles, and a host of sinecures, with large salaries, created expressly for their accommo- dation. did a young man study for the church, lie could never hope to rise to the mitre; the purple was specially reserved for the younger son of some pliant courtier, who had no other way of providing for him. to such an extent was this carried, that many of the hierarchy were open unbelievers, and only entered the priesthood for the sake of emolument. if a young peasant, allured by the represen- tations of a recruiting sergeant, enlisted in the army, he could rise no higher than a non- commissioned officer; these posts again were reserved for the younger scions of the counts, marquises, and others who filled the ante- chambers of royalty, and eagerly courted the smiles and caresses of the king. all these privileges were swept away in france by the edict of , and the french peasantry and mechanics recognized as a power in the state, and entitled to some privileges. but the condition of the noble in austria remains the same to this day. he has certain privileges of which the crown alone can de- prive him, and then only when convicted of high crimes and misdemeanors; the circle is jealously guarded, and entrance to the higher ranks hermetically sealed, except to all pos- sessing the sixteen quarterings. they have to this day the same feeling and use the same language as that attributed to the speaker in the text. the revenues of some of these nobles are immense, and their possessions un- limited. - the english aristocracy, though exceedingly jealous of their privileges, are yet willing, if the applicant possess a golden key, to admit him into their circle, and seldom refuse an opulent match when offered. like the french brethren of , they engross all the lucrative offices in the state, church, army and navy. as some allusion has been made in the text to the cenci, we will give a brief sketch of that famous tragedy, which terrified rome when it was enacted, and whose memory the black crook, a most wonderful history. truxillo; urquiza, who really had an affec- for six months; she was exceedingly tired of tion for this strange being, whom he believed a man, furnished her with letters of recommen- dation to a friend in lima, in whose family she became domesticated, and even went so far as to pay her addresses to the daughter of her host; the father of the young lady was wil- ling, and even named a day for the celebration of the nuptials; to elude the importunities of the family, she quitted lima, for la con- eepcion, and enlisted in a company then form- ing in chili; and to her great surprise, found that her brother miguel de erauso, who had quitted spain, to better his fortunes in the new world, was her captain ; he was fifteen years her senior, and attracted by the frank bearing of don ramirez de gusman (the name catalina then bore,) and considering her as a youth, separated from his friends, and na- tive land, paid her some attention; at the battle of puren, she showed great bravery, threw herself into the thickest of the fight, saw the banner of spain floating at a distance, in the possession of the enemy, and swore thas she would recapture it, and cut her way to the cacique, who held the spanish flag; her companion was stricken to the earth, with a death wound, but the dauntless woman press- ed on alone, attacked the cacique, and wrested the prize from his hand, at the same time wounding him mortally; she herself did not escape uninjured, she had been struck by three arrows, wounded in the side by a lance, and had a sabre cut on one of her legs; her valor in this engagement, won her the title of alferez or ensign; when peace was restored, she returned to concepcion, and resided there awhile. catalina's natnre was fiery, she loved play, and its excitement; one day being at a gamb- bing house, f ie and the banker, had a quarrel about the color of a card; and the man ap- plied to her an opprobious epithet; catalina pale with rage, exclaimed: “dare to repeat that word!” the offensive expression was again uttered, and the sword of his opponent was buried in his bosom, the auditor of chili, a young span- iard of noble birth, ordered catalina to leave the room; she treated the command with con- tempt, it was reiterated, and the officer seized her by the doublet, to enforce his authority; this was more than she could bear, she stab- bed the auditor in the face, and before any one could stop her, had quitted the building; to protect herself, she sought sanctuary in the cathedrel, and adjoining convent of st. fran- cis; the governor, who heard of the outrage, did not venture to drag her out by force, but blockaded the convent, where she remained her solitude, and bitterly complained of it, to a friend, who came to visit her, and asked her to become his second in a duel, to whieh cat- alina agreed, and was at the rende-vous at the hour appointed; a difficulty arose between herself and the second of the opposite party, high words were exchanged, and the dispute could only be settled by the sword; a duel was the result, catalina escaped uninjured, but her opponent was mortally wounded, and asked for a priest, leaning over, catalina by the moonlight, recognized her brother, who in his last moments accused her of his death; this fresh crime so displeased the governor, that he summoned the monks to surrender their guest, but the brotherhood jealous of their privileges refused; and eight more months were passed in what was to the unfor- tunate woman the most fearful of all punish- ments, inaction. a friend, don juan ponce de leon, resolved to facilitate her escape, but it was necessary that she should cross the great desert of the andes—at all times a fearful solitude—but the very thought of which would make the gayest shiver and discourage the most resolute; but supplied with a moderate sum of money and a horse, catalina departed on her perilous jour- ney. after making a little progress, she met two soldiers on horseback with whom she joined company. the soil was arid, and for miles not even a tuft of vegetation relieved the eye. the cold was intense, and to add to their other trials water and provisions began to fail. the horses were jaded, and they pro- ceeded on foot. one of her companions sud- denly uttered a shout, and exclaimed that he saw a man. catalina approached, perceived that they were indians, and addressed them in the language of the country, but they neither moved nor spoke—they were frozen to death. one of her companions succumbed to the cold, the other and catalina were the sole tenants of this frightful solitude. still she persevered in her journey. her remaining companion likewise fell a victim to the climate, and she was alone, and records in her journal that, the first time for twenty-eight years, she wept bitterly. drying her tears, she approach- ed the body, took all the money she could find, and continued her journey. “recommending myself to the holy mother of god and st. joseph, her glorious spouse,” she safely entered tucuman, but, as usual, her restless disposition did not allow her long to be at peace with those among whom she dwelt, and, after a sojourn of some mouths, quitted the kingdom after a quarrel, in which she slew her adversary, and proceeded to pis ||||i|| nypla s . o tales of fantasy and fact bt e, brander jjattiiews new york harper & brothers publishers ti..f (sff york pubuc library tilden foundations r l_ books by brander matthews. importance. the theatres of paris. french dramatists of the th century. the last meeting, a story. a secret of the sea, and other stories. pen and ink: essays on subjects of more or leu iir a family tree, and other stories. with my friends: tales told in partnership. a tale of twenty-five hours. tom paulding, a story for boys. in the vestibule limited, a story. americanisms and briticisms, with other essays on other isms. the story of a story, and other stories. the decision of the court, a comedy. studies of the stage. this picture and that, a comedy. vignettes of manhattan. . th,e.uexaj, marine, an idyl of narraban,ett. ab(jokj sp jgs, old and new; notes of a book-lover. 'tfis fiicrels's son, a novel of new york. an introduction to the study of americas l teua- • ••.• . •• • \ • •.tale of fantasy and fact. '"" "* f vspects^ of fiction, and other ventures in /•. '.vis';: criticism, (/n not.) copyright, g, by harper & brothers. aii lrettrvid. vj <- to the memory of my friend h. c. bunner a primer of imaginary geography darkness; but now i began dimly to discern the objects about me. i found that i was ly- ing on a settee in a state-room at the stern of the vessel. through the small round window over my head the first rays of the rising sun darted and soon lighted the little cabin. as i looked about me with curiosity, won- dering how i came to be a passenger on so un- expected a voyage, i saw the figure of a man framed in the doorway at the foot of the stairs leading to the deck above. how it was i do not know, but i made sure at once that he was the captain of the ship, the man whose voice i had heard answering the hail. he was tall and dark, with a scant beard and a fiery and piercing gaze, which penetrat- ed me as i faced him. yet the expression of his countenance was not unfriendly; nor could any man lay eyes upon him without a move- ment of pity for the sadness written on his visage. i rose to my feet as he came forward. "well," he said, holding out his hand, " and how are you after your nap?" he spoke our language with ease and yet tales of fantasy and fact with a foreign accent. perhaps it was this which betrayed him to me. "are you not captain vanderdecken?" i asked as i took his hand heartily. "so you know me?" he returned, with a mournful little laugh, as he motioned to me to sit down again. thus the ice was broken, and he took his seat by my side, and we were soon deep in talk. when he learned that i was a loyal new- yorker, his cordiality increased. "i have relatives in new amsterdam," he cried; "at least i had once. diedrich knick- erbocker was my first cousin. and do you know rip van winkle?" although i could not claim any close friend- ship with this gentleman, i boasted myself fully acquainted with his history. "yes, yes," said captain vanderdeckeu, "i suppose he was before your time. most peo- ple are so short-lived nowadays; it's only with that wandering jew now that i ever have a chat over old times. well, well, but you have heard of rip? were you ever told that i was on a visit to hendrik hudson the night rip a primer of imaginary oeography went up the mountain and took a drop too much?" i had to confess that here was a fact i had not before known. "i ran up the river," said the hollander, "to have a game of bowls with the english- man and his crew, nearly all of them coun- trymen of mine; and, by-the-way, hudson always insists that it was i who brought the storm with me that gave poor rip van win- kle the rheumatism as he slept off his intox- ication on the hillside under the pines. he was a good fellow, rip, and a very good judge of schnapps, too." seeing him smile with the pleasant mem- ories of past companionship, i marvelled when the sorrowful expression swiftly covered his face again as a mask. "but why talk of those who are dead and gone and are happy?" he asked in his deep voice, "soon there will be no one left, per- haps, but ahasuerus and vanderdecken—the wandering jew and the flying dutch- man." he sighed bitterly, and then he gave a short, hard laugh. tales of fantasy and fact "there's no use talking about these things, is there?" he cried. "in an hour or two, if the wind holds, i can show you the house in which ahasuerus has established his museum, the only solace of his lonely life. he has the most extraordinary gathering of curiosities the world has ever seen—truly a virtuoso's col- lection. an american reporter came on a voyage with me fifty or sixty years ago, and i took him over there. his name was haw- thorne. he interviewed the jew, and wrote up the collection in the american papers, so i've been told." "i remember reading the interview," i said, "and it was indeed a most remarkable collec- tion." "it's all the more curious now for the odds and ends i've been able to pick up here and there for my old friend," vanderdecken de- clared; "i got him the horn of hernani, the harpoon with which long tom coffin pinned the british officer to the mast, the long rifle of natty bumppo, the letter a in scarlet cloth embroidered in gold by hester prynne, the banner with the strange device ' excelsior,' the gold bug which was once used as a plummet, a primer of imaginary geography maud muller's rake, and the jack-knives of hosea biglow and sam lawson." "you must have seen extraordinary things yourself," i ventured to suggest. "no man has seen stranger," he answered, promptly. "no man has ever been witness to more marvellous deeds than i—not even ahasuerus, i verily believe, for he has only the land, and i have the boundless sea. i sur- vey mankind from china to peru. i have heard the horns of elfland blowing, and i could tell you the song the sirens sang. i have dropped anchor at the no man's land, and off lyonesse, and in xanadu, where alph the sacred river ran. i have sailed from the still-vexed bermoothes to the new atlantis, of which there is no mention even until the year ." "in which year there was published an ac- count of it written in the latin tongue, but by an englishman," i said, desirous to reveal my acquirements. "i have seen every strange coast," con- tinued the flying dutchman. "the island of bells and robinson crusoe's island and the kingdoms of brobdingnag and lilliput. but it tales of fantasy and fact is not for me to vaunt myself for my voyages. and of a truth there are men i should like to have met and talked with whom i have yet failed to see. especially is there one ulysses, a sailor-man of antiquity who called himself outis, whence i have sometimes suspected that he came from the town of "vveissnicht- wo." just to discover what vanderdecken would say, i inquired innocently whether this was the same person as one captain nemo of whose submarine exploits i had read. "captain nemo?" the flying dutchman repeated scornfully. "i never heard of him. are you sure there is such a fellow?" i tried to turn the conversation by asking if he had ever met another ancient mariner named charon. "oh, yes," was his answer. "charon keeps the ferry across the styx to the elysian fields, past the sunless marsh of acheron. yes—i've met him more than once. i met him only last month, and he was very proud of his new electric launch with its storage battery." when i expressed my surprise at this, he asked me if i did not know that the under- a primer of imaginary geography world was now lighted by electricity, and that pluto had put in all the modern improve- ments. before i had time to answer, he rose from his seat and slapped me on the shoulder. "come up with me!—if you want to behold things for yourself," he cried, "so far, it seems to me, you have never seen the sights!" i followed him on deck. the sun was now two hours high, and i could just make out a faint line of land on the horizon. "that rugged coast is bohemia, which is really a desert country by the sea, although ig- norant and bigoted pedants have dared to deny it," and the scorn of my companion as he said this was wonderful to see. "its borders touch alsatia, of which the chief town is a city of ref- uge. not far inland, but a little to the south, is the beautiful forest of arden, where men and maids dwell together in amity, and where clowns wander, making love to shepherdesses. some of these same pestilent pedants have pre- tended to believe that this forest of arden was situated in france, which is absurd, as there are no serpents and no lions in france, while we have the best of evidence as to the exist- a primerof imaginary geography ma—the only abbey which is bounded by no wall and in which there is no clock at all nor any dial. and what need is there of knowing the time when one has for companions only comely and well - conditioned men and fair women of sweet disposition? and the motto of the abbey of thelema is fais ce que vou- dra — do what you will; and many of those who dwell in the forest of arden will tell you that they have taken this also for their device, and that if you live under the greenwood tree you may spend your life—as you like it." i acknowledged that this claim was proba- bly well founded, since i recalled a song of the foresters in which they declared themselves without an enemy but winter and rough weather. "yes," he went on, " they are fond of sing- ing in the forest of arden, and they sing good songs. and so they do in the fair land be- yond where i have never been, and which i can never hope to go to see for myself, if all that they report be true—and yet what would i not give to see it and to die there." and as he said this sadly, his voice sank into a sigh. tales of fantasy and fact "and where does the road through the for- est lead, that you so much wish to set forth upon it?" i asked. "that's the way to arcady," he said—" to arcady where all the leaves are merry. i may not go there, though i long for it. those who attain to its borders never come back again— and why should they leave it? yet there are tales told, and i have heard that this arcady is the veritable el dorado, and that in it is the true fountain of youth, gushing forth unfail- ingly for the refreshment of all who may reach it. but no one may find the entrance who can- not see it by the light that never was on land or sea." "it must be a favored region," i re- marked. "of a truth it is," he answered; "and on the way there is the orchard where grow the golden apples of ilesperides, and the dragon is dead now that used to guard them, and so any one may help himself to the beautiful fruit. and by the side of the orchard flows the river lethe, of which it is not well for man to drink, though many men would taste it gladly." and again he sighed. a primer of imaginary geographt i knew not what to say, and so waited for him to speak once more. "that promontory there on the weather bow," he began again after a few moments' silence, "that is barataria, which was long supposed to be an island by its former gover- nor, don sancho panza, but which is now known by all to be connected with the main- land. pleasant pastures slope down to the water, and if we were closer in shore you might chance to see rozinante, the famous charger of don quixote de la mancha, grazing amicably with the horse that brought the good news from ghent to aix." "i wish i could see them!" i cried, enthusi- astically ; "but there is another horse i would rather behold than any — the winged steed pegasus." before responding, my guide raised his hand and shaded his eyes and scanned the horizon. "no," he said at last. "i cannot descry any this afternoon. sometimes in these lati- tudes i have seen a dozen hippogriffs circling about the ship, and i should like to have shown them to you. perhaps they are all in the paddock at the stock-farm, where apollo tales of fantasy and fact is now mating them with night-mares in the hope of improving the breed from which he selects the courses that draw the chariot of the sun. they say that the experiment would have more chance of success if it were easier to find the night-mares' nests." "it was not a hippogriff i desired to see especially," i returned when he paused, "al- though that would be interesting, no doubt. it was the renowned pegasus himself." "pegasus is much like the other hippo- griffs," he retorted, "although perhaps he has a little better record than any of them. but they say he has not won a single aerial handi- cap since that american professor of yours har- nessed him to a one-boss shay. that seemed to break his spirit, somehow; and i'm told he would shy now even at a broomstick train." "even if he is out of condition," i declared, "pegasus is still the steed i desire to see above all." "i haven't set eyes on him for weeks," was the answer, " so he is probably moulting; this is the time of year. he has a roomy boxstall in the new augean stable at the foot of mount parnassus. you know they have turned the tales of fantasy and fact dutchman should be a regular reader of the holland gazette f vanderdecken went forward into the prow of the vessel, calling to me to follow. "do you see those peaks afar in the dis- tance?" he asked, pointing over the starboard bow. i could just make out a saw-like outline in the direction indicated. "those are the delectable mountains," he informed me; "and down in a hollow between the two ranges is the happy valley." "where kasselas lived?" "yes," he replied, "and beyond the delec- table mountains, on the far slope, lies prester john's kingdom, and there dwell anthropoph- agi, and men whose heads do grow beneath their shoulders. at least, so they say. for my part, i have never seen any such. and i have now no desire to go to prester john's kingdom, since i have been told that he has lately mar- ried pope joan. do you see that grove of trees there at the base of the mountains?" i answered that i thought i could distinguish weirdly contorted branches and strangely shiv- ering foliage. a primer of imaginary geography "that is the deadly upas-tree," he explained, "and it is as much as a man's life is worth to lie down in the shade of its twisted limbs. i slept there, on that point where the trees are the thickest, for a fortnight a century or so ago—but all i had for my pains was a head- ache. still i should not advise you to ad- venture yourself under the shadow of those melancholy boughs." i confess at once that i was little prompted to a visit so dangerous and so profitless. "profitless?" he repeated. "as to that i am not so certain, for if you have a mind to see the rarest animals in the world, you could there sate your curiosity. on the shore, be- tween the foot-hills and the grove of upas, is a park of wild beasts, the like of which no man has looked upon elsewhere. even from the deck of this ship i have seen more than once a drove of unicorns, or a herd of centaurs, come down to the water to drink; and sometimes i have caught a pleasant glimpse of satyrs and fauns dancing in the sunlight. and once in- deed—i shall never forget that extraordinary spectacle—as i sped past with every sail set and a ten-knot breeze astern, i saw the phoenix tales of fantasy and fact blaze up in its new birth, while the little sala- manders frisked in the intense flame." "the phoenix?" i cried. "you have seen the phoenix?" "in just this latitude," he answered, "but it was about nine o'clock in the evening and i remember that the new moon was setting behind the mountains when i happened to come on deck." "and what was the phoenix like ?" i asked. "really," he replied, "the bird was almost as herodotus described her, of the make and size of the eagle, with a plumage partly red and partly golden. if we go by the point by noon, perhaps you may see her for yourself." "is she there still?" i asked, in wonder. "why not ?" he returned. "all the game of this sort is carefully preserved and the law is off on phoenixes only once in a century. why, if it were not for the keepers, there soon would not be a single griffin or dragon left, not a single sphinx, not a single chimaera. even as it is, i am told they do not breed as freely now as when they could roam the whole world in safety. that is why the game laws are so rigorous. indeed, i am informed and believe a primer of imaginary geography that it is not permitted to kill the were-wolves even when their howling, as they run at large at night, prevents all sleep. it is true, of course, that very few people care to remain in such a neighborhood." "i should think not," i agreed. "and what manner of people are they who dare to live here?" "along the shore there are a few harpies," he answered; "and now and then i have seen a mermaid on the rocks combing her hair with a golden comb as she sang to herself." "harpies?" i repeated, in disgust. "why not the sea-serpent also?" "there was a sea-serpent which lived for years in that cove yonder," said the captain, pointing to a pleasant bay on the starboard, " but i have not seen it lately. unless i am in error, it had a pitched battle hereabouts with a kraken. i don't remember who got the better of the fight —but i haven't seen the snake since." as i scanned the surface of the water to see if i might not detect some trace of one or another of these marvellous beasts of the sea, i remarked a bank of fog lying across our course. tales of fantasy and fact as i did so, the walls and the floor of the cabin seemed to melt away and to dissolve in air, and beyond them and taking their place were the walls and floor of my own house. then suddenly the clock on the mantelpiece struck five, and i heard a bob-tail car rattling and clattering past the door on its way across town to union square, and thence to green- wich village, and so on down to the iloboken ferry. then i found myself on my own sofa, bend- ing forward to pick up the volume of cyrano de bergerac, which lay on the carpet at my feet. i sat up erect and collected my thoughts as best i could after so strange a journey. and i wondered why it was that no one had ever pre- pared a primer of imaginary geography, giv- ing to airy nothings a local habitation and a name, and accompanying it with an atlas of maps in the manner of the carte du pays de tendre. ( .) the kinetoscope of time the kinetoscope of time the twelfth stroke of the bell in the tower at the corner tolled forth slowly, the midnight wind blew chill down the deserted av- enue, and swept it clear of all belated way- farers. the bare trees in the thin strip of park clashed their lifeless branches; the river far below slipped along silently. there was no moon, and the stars were shrouded. it was a black night. yet far in the distance there was a gleam of cheerful light which lured me on and on. i could not have said why it was that i had ventured forth at that hour on such a night. it seemed to me as though the yel- low glimmer i beheld afar off was the goal of my excursion. something within whispered to me then that i need go no farther when tales of fantasy and fact once i had come to the spot whence the soft glare proceeded. the pall of darkness was so dense that i could not see the sparse houses i chanced to pass, nor did i know where i was any more. i urged forward blindly, walking towards the light, which was all that broke the blackness before me; its faint illumination seemed to me somehow to be kindly, inviting, irresisti- ble. at last i came to a halt in front of a building i had never before seen, although i thought myself well acquainted with that part of the city. it was a circular edifice, or so it seemed to me then; and i judged that it had but a single story, or two, at the most. the door stood open to the street; and it was from this that the light was cast. so dim was this illumination now i had come to it that i mar- velled i could have seen it at all afar off as i was when first i caught sight of it. while i stood at the portal of the unsus- pected edifice, peering doubtfully within, won- dering to what end i had been led thither, and hesitating as to my next step, i felt again the impulse to go forward. at that moment tiny darts of fire, as it were, glowed at the end of the kinetoscope of time the hall that opened before me, and they ran together rapidly and joined in liquid lines and then faded as suddenly as they had come— but not too soon for me to read the simple legend they had written in the air—an invi- tation to me, so i interpreted it, to go forward again, to enter the building, and to see for myself why i had been enticed there. without hesitation i obeyed. i walked through the doorway, and i became con- scious that the door had closed behind me as i pressed forward. the passage was narrow and but faintly lighted; it bent to the right with a circular sweep as though it skirted the inner circumference of the building; still curv- ing, it sank by a gentle gradient; and then it rose again and turned almost at right angles. pushing ahead resolutely, although in not a little doubt as to the meaning of my advent- ure, i thrust aside a heavy curtain, soft to the hand. then i found myself just inside a large circular hall. letting the hangings fall be- hind me, i took three or four irresolute paces which brought me almost to the centre of the room. i saw that the walls were continuously draped with the heavy folds of the same soft tales of fantasy and fact velvet, so that i could not even guess where it was i had entered. the rotunda was bare of all furniture; there was no table in it, no chair, no sofa; nor was anything hanging from the ceiling or against the curtained walls. all that the room contained was a set of four curiously shaped narrow stands, placed over against one another at the corners of what might be a square drawn within the'circle of the hall. these narrow stands were close to the cur- tains; they were perhaps a foot wide, each of them, or it might be a little more: they were twice or three times as long as they were wide; and they reached a height of possibly three or four feet. going towards one of these stands to exam- ine it more curiously, i discovered that there were two projections from the top, resembling eye-pieces, as though inviting the beholder to gaze into the inside of the stand. then i thought i heard a faint metallic click above my head. raising my eyes swiftly, i read a few words written, as it were, against the dark vel- vet of the heavy curtains in clots of flame that flowed one into the other and melted away in a moment. when this mysterious legend had the kinetoscope of time faded absolutely, i could not recall the words i had read in the fitful and flitting letters of fire, and yet i retained the meaning of the message; and i understood that if i chose to peer through the eye-pieces i should see a succession of strange dances. to gaze upon dancing was not what i had gone forth to do, but i saw no reason why i should not do so, as i was thus strangely bid- den. i lowered my head until my eyes were close to the two openings at the top of the stand. i looked into blackness at first, and yet i thought that i could detect a mystic commotion of the invisible particles at which i was staring. i made no doubt that, if i waited, in due season the promise would be fulfilled. after a period of expectancy which i could not measure, infinitesimal sparks dart- ed hither and thither, and there was a slight crackling sound. i concentrated my atten- tion on what i was about to see; and in a moment more i was rewarded. the darkness took shape and robed itself in color; and there arose out of it a spacious banquet-hall, where many guests sat at supper. i could not make out whether they were ro- tales of fantasy and fact mans or orientals; the structure itself had a latin solidity, but the decorations were eastern in their glowing gorgeousness. the hall was illumined by hanging lamps, by the light of which i tried to decide whether the ruler who sat in the seat of honor was a roman or an oriental. the beautiful woman beside him struck me as eastern beyond all question. while i gazed intently he turned to her and proffered a request. she smiled acquiescence, and there was a flash of anticipated triumph in her eye as she beckoned to a menial and sent him forth with a message. a movement as of expectancy ran around the tables where the guests sat at meat. the attendants opened wide the portals and a young girl came for- ward. she was perhaps fourteen or fifteen years of age, but jn the east women ripen young, and her beauty was indisputable. she had large, deep eyes and a full mouth; and there was a chain of silver and golden coins twisted into her coppery hair. she was so like to the woman who sat beside the ruler that i did not doubt them to be mother and daugh- ter. at a word from the elder the younger began to dance; and her dance was oriental, tales of fantasy and fact a tambourine in her hand and she was twist- ing and turning in cadence to her own song. then she went to one side where stood a white goat with gilded horns and put down her tam- bourine and took up two swords; and with these in her hands she resumed her dance. a man in the throng, a man of scant thirty-five, but already bald, a man of stalwart frame, fixed hot eyes upon her; and from time to time a smile and a sigh met on his lips, but the smile was more dolorous than the sigh. and as the gypsy girl ceased her joyous gyra- tions, the bonfire died out, and darkness fell on the scene again, and i could no longer see anything. again i waited, and after an interval no longer than the other there came a faint glow that grew until i saw clearly as in the morn- ing sun the glade of a forest through which a brook rippled. a sad-faced woman sat on a stone by the side of the streamlet; her gray garments set off the strange ornament in the fashion of a single letter of the alphabet that was embroidered in gold and in scarlet over her heart. visible at some distance was a lit- tle girl, like a bright - apparelled vision, in a the kinetoscope of time sunbeam, which fell down upon her through an arch of boughs. the ray quivered to and fro, making her figure dim or distinct, now like a real child, now like a child's spirit, as the splendor came and went. with violets and anemones and columbines the little girl had decorated her hair. the mother looked at the child and the child danced and sparkled and prattled airily along the course of the streamlet, which kept up a babble, kind, quiet, soothing, but melancholy. then the mother raised her head as though her ears had de- tected the approach of some one through the wood. but before i could see who this new- comer might be, once more the darkness set- tled down upon the scene. this time i knew the interval between the succeeding visions and i waited without impa tience; and in due season i found myself gaz ing at a picture as different as might be from any i had yet beheld. in the broad parlor of a house that seemed to be spacious, a middle - aged lady, of an ap- pearance at once austere and kindly, was look- ing at a smiling gentleman who was coming towards her pulling along a little negro girl tales of fantasy and fact about eight or nine years of age. she was one of the blackest of her race; and her round, shining eyes, glittering as glass beads, moved with quick and restless glances over everything in the room. her woolly hair was braided in sundry little tails, which stuck out in every direction. she was dressed in a single filthy, ragged garment, made of bagging; and alto- gether there was something odd and goblin- like about her appearance. the severe old maid examined this strange creature in dismay and then directed a glance of inquiry at the gentleman in white. he smiled again and gave a signal to the little negro girl. where- upon the black eyes glittered with a kind of wicked drollery, and apparently she began to sing, keeping time with her hands and feet, spinning round, clapping her hands, knocking her knees together, in a wild, fantastic sort of time; and finally, turning a somersault or two, she came suddenly down on the carpet, and stood with her hands folded, and a most sanc- timonious expression of meekness and solemni- ty over her face, only broken by the cunning glances which she shot askance from the cor- ners of her eyes. the elderly lady stood is the kinetoscope of time lent, perfectly paralyzed with amazement, while the smiling gentleman in white was amused at her astonishment. once more the vision faded. and when, after the same interval, the darkness began to disappear again, even while everything was dim and indistinct i knew that the scene was shifted from the south to the north. i saw a room comfortably furnished, with a fire smoulder- ing in a porcelain stove. in a corner stood a stripped christmas tree, with its candles burned out. against the wall between the two doors was a piano, on which a man was playing—a man who twisted his head now and again to look over his shoulder, sometimes at another and younger man standing by the stove, some- times at a young woman who was dancing alone in the centre of the room. this young woman had draped herself in a long parti - colored shawl and she held a tambourine in her hand. there was in her eyes a look of fear, as of one conscious of an impending misfortune. as i gazed she danced more and more wildly. the man standing by the porcelain stove was ap- parently making suggestions, to which she paid no heed. at last her hair broke loose and fell the kinetoscope of time eye-pieces. no sooner had i taken this posi- tion than the dots of fire darted across the depth into which i was gazing; and then there came a full clear light as of a cloudless sky, and i saw the walls of an ancient city. at the gates of the city there stood a young man, and toward him there ran a warrior, brandishing a spear, while the bronze of his helmet and his armor gleamed in the sunlight. and trembling seized the young man and he fled in fear; and the warrior darted after him, trusting in his swift feet. valiant was the flier, but far might- ier he who fleetingly pursued him. at last the young man took heart and made a stand against the warrior. they faced each other in fight. the warrior hurled his spear and it went over the young man's head. and the young man then hurled his spear in turn and it struck fair upon the centre of the warrior's shield. then the young man drew his sharp sword that by his flank hung great and strong. but by some magic the warrior had recovered his spear; and as the young man came forward he hurled it again, and it drove through the neck of the young man at the joint of his armor, and he fell in the dust. after that the sun tales of fantasy and fact was darkened; and in a moment more i was looking into an empty blackness. when again the light returned it was once more with the full blaze of mid-day that the scene was illumined, and the glare of the sun was reflected from the burning sands of the des- ert. two or three palms arose near a well, and there two horsemen faced each other warily. one was a christian knight in a coat of linked mail, over which he wore a surcoat of em- broidered cloth, much frayed and bearing more than once the arms of the wearer—a couchant leopard. the other was a saracen, who was circling swiftly about the knight of the leop- ard. the crusader suddenly seized the mace which hung at his saddle-bow, and with a strong hand and unerring aim sent it crashing against the head of his foe, who raised his buckler of rhinoceros-hide in time to save his life, though the force of the blow bore him from the saddle. the knight spurred his steed forward, but the saracen leaped into his seat again without touching the stirrup. while the christian recovered his mace, the infidel withdrew to a little distance and strung the short bow he carried at his back. then he the kinetoscope of time circled about his foe, whose armor stood him in good stead, until the seventh shaft appar- ently found a less perfect part, and the chris- tian dropped heavily from his horse. but the dismounted oriental found himself suddenly in the grasp of the european, who had recourse to this artifice to bring his enemy within his reach. the saracen was saved again by his agility; and loosing his sword-belt, which the knight had grasped, he mounted his watching horse. he had lost his sword and his arrows and his turban, and these disadvantages seemed to incline him for a truce. he approached the christian with his right hand extended, but no longer in a menacing attitude. what the result of this proffer of a parley might be i could not observe, for the figures became in- distinct, as though a cloud had settled down on them; and in a few seconds more all was blank before me. when the next scene grew slowly into view i thought for a moment it might be a contin- uation of the preceding, for the country i be- held was also soaking in the hot sunlight of the south, and there was also a mounted knight in armor. a second glance undeceived me. tales of fantasy and fact this knight was old and thin and worn, and his armor was broken and pieced, and his hel- met was but a barber's basin, and his steed was a pitiful skeleton. his countenance was sorrowful indeed, but there was that in his manner which would stop any man from deny- ing his nobility. his eye was fired with a high purpose and a lofty resolve. in the distance before him were a group of windmills waving their arms in the air, and the knight urged forward his wretched horse as though to charge them. upon an ass behind him was a fellow of the baser sort, a genial, simple fol- lower, seemingl} ' serving him as his squire. as the knight pricked forward his sorry steed and couched his lance, the attendant appar- ently appealed to him, and tried to explain, and even ventured on expostulation. but the knight gave no heed to the protests of the squire, who shook his head and dutifully fol- lowed his master. what the issue of this un- equal combat was to be i could not see, for the inexorable veil of darkness fell swiftly. even after the stray sparks had again flitted through the blackness into which i was gazing daylight did not return, and it was with diffi- the kinetoscope of time culty i was able at last to make out a vague street in a mediaeval city doubtfully outlined by the hidden moon. from a window high above the stones there came a faint glimmer. under this window stood a soldier worn with the wars, who carried himself as though glad now to be at home again. he seemed to hear approaching feet, and he withdrew into the shadow as two others advanced. one of these was a handsome youth with an eager face, in which spirituality and sensuality contended. the other was older, of an uncertain age, and his expression was mocking and evil; he car- ried some sort of musical instrument, and to this he seemed to sing while the younger man looked up at the window. the soldier came forward angrily and dashed the instrument to the ground with his sword. then the new- comers drew also, and the elder guarded while the younger thrust. there were a few swift passes, and then the younger of the two lunged fiercely, and the soldier fell back on the stones wounded to the death. without a glance be- hind them, the two who had withstood his on- slaught withdrew, as the window above opened and a fair-haired girl leaned forth. tales of fantasy and fact then nothing was visible, until after an in- terval the light once more returned and i saw a sadder scene than any yet. in a hollow of the bare mountains a little knot of men in dark- blue uniforms were centred about their com- mander, whose long locks floated from beneath his broad hat. around this small band of no more than a score of soldiers, thousands of red indians were raging, with exultant hate in their eyes. the bodies of dead comrades lay in narrowing circles about the thinning group of blue-coats. the red men were picking off their few surviving foes, one by one; and the white men could do nothing, for their car- tridges were all gone. they stood at bay, val- iant and defiant, despite their many wounds; but the line of their implacable foemen was drawn tighter and tighter about them, and one after another they fell forward dying or dead, until at last only the long-haired commander was left, sore wounded but unconquered in spirit. when this picture of strong men facing death fearlessly was at last dissolved into darkness like the others that had gone before, i had an inward monition that it was the last tales of fantasy and fact perhaps, or it might be french, "i am glad always to show the visions i have under my control to those who will appreciate them." i tried to stammer forth a few words of thanks and of praise for what i had seen. "did you recognize the strange scenes shown to you by these two instruments?" he asked, after bowing gently in acknowledg- ment of my awkward compliments. then i plucked up courage and made bold to express to him the surprise i had felt, not only at the marvellous vividness with which the actions had been repeated before my eyes, like life itself in form and in color and in mo- tion, but also at the startling fact that some of the things i had been shown were true and some were false. some of them had happened actually to real men and women of flesh and blood, while others were but bits of vain imag- ining of those who tell tales as an art and as a means of livelihood. i expressed myself as best i could, clumsily, no doubt; but he listened patiently and with the smile of toleration on his lips. "yes," he answered, "i understand your surprise that the facts and the fictions are the kinetoscope of time mingled together in these visions of mine as though there was little to choose between them. you are not the first to wonder or to express that wonder; and the rest of them were young like you. when you are as old as i am—when you have lived as long as i— when you have seen as much of life as i—then you will know, as i know, that fact is often inferior to fiction, and that it is often also one and the same thing; for what might have been is often quite as true as what actually was?" i did not know what to say in answer to this, and so i said nothing. "what would you say to me," he went on— and now it seemed to me that his smile sug- gested rather pitying condescension than kind- ly toleration—" what would you say to me, if i were to tell you that i myself have seen all the many visions unrolled before you in these instruments? what would you say, if i de- clared that i had gazed on 	he dances of sa- lome and of esmeralda? that i had beheld the combat of achilles and hector and the mounted fight of saladin and the knight of the leopard?" tales of fantasy and fact "you are not time himself?" i asked in amaze. he laughed lightly, and without bitterness or mockery. "no," he answered, promptly, "i am not time himself. and why should you think so? have i a scythe? have i an hour-glass? have i a forelock? do i look so very old, then?" i examined him more carefully to answer this last question, and the more i scrutinized him the more difficult i found it to declare his age. at first i had thought him to be forty, perhaps, or of a certainty less than fifty. but now, though his hair was black, though his eye was bright, though his step was firm, though his gestures were free and sweeping, i had my doubts; and i thought i could perceive, one after another, many impalpable signs of ex- treme old age. then, all at once, he grew restive under my fixed gaze. "but it is not about me that we need to waste time now," he said, impatiently. "you have seen what two of my instruments con- tain; would you like now to examine the contents of the other two?" the kinetoscope of time i answered in the affirmative. "the two you have looked into are gratui- tous," he continued. "for what you beheld in them there is no charge. but a sight of the visions in the other two or in either one of them must be paid for. so far, you are wel- come as my guest; but if you wish to see any more you must pay the price." i asked what the charge was, as i thrust my hand into my pocket to be certain that i had my purse with me. he saw my gesture, and he smiled once more. "the visions i can set before you in those two instruments you have not yet looked into are visions of your own life," he said. "in that stand there," and he indicated one behind my back, "you can see five of the most important episodes of your past." i withdrew my hand from my pocket. "i thank you," i said, "but i know my own past, and i have no wish to see it again, however cheap the spectacle." "then you will be more interested in the fourth of my instruments," he said, as he waved his thin, delicate hand towards the tales of fantasy and fact stand which stood in front of me. "in this you can see your future!" i made an involuntary step forward; and then, at a second thought, i shrank back again. "the price of this is not high," he contin- ued, "and it is not payable in money." "how, then, should i buy it?" i asked, doubtingly. "in life!" he answered, gravely. "the vision of life must be paid for in life itself. for every ten years of the future which i may unroll before you here, you must assign me a year of life — twelve months — to do with as i will." strange as it seems to me now, i did not doubt that he could do as he declared. i hesitated, and then i fixed my resolve. "thank you," i said, and i saw that he was awaiting my decision eagerly. "thank you again for what i have already seen and for what you proffer me. but my past i have lived once, and there is no need to turn over again the leaves of that dead record. and the future i must face as best i may, the more bravely, i think, that i do not know what it holds in store for me." tales of fantasy and fact an opening like that through which i had entered. i followed him, and the curtains dropped be- hind me as i passed into the insufficiently illu- minated passage beyond. i thought that the mysterious being with whom i had been con- versing had preceded me, but before i had gone twenty paces i found that i was alone. i pushed ahead, and my path twisted and turned on itself and rose and fell irregularly like that by means of which i had made my way into the unknown edifice. at last i picked my steps down winding stairs, and at the foot i saw the outline of a door. i pushed it back, and i found myself in the open air. i was in a broad street, and over my head an electric light suddenly flared out and white- washed the pavement at my feet. at the corner a train of the elevated railroad rushed by with a clattering roar and a trailing plume of white steam. then a cable-car clanged past with incessant bangs upon its gong. thus it was that i came back to the world of actuality. i turned to get my bearings, that i might find my way home again. i was standing the kinetoscope of time ,",;{ almost in front of a shop, the windows of which were filled with framed engravings. one of these caught my eye, and i confess that i was surprised. it was a portrait of a man—it was a portrait of the man with whom i had been talking. i went close to the window, that i might see it better. the electric light emphasized the lines of the high-bred face, with its sombre searching eyes and the air of old-world breed- ing. there could be no doubt whatever that the original of this portrait was the man from whom i had just parted. by the costume i knew that the original had lived in the last century; and the legend beneath the head, engraved in a flowing script, asserted this to be a likeness of "monsieur le comte de cagli- osiro." ( s .) the dream-gown of the japanese ambassador the dre am-gown of the japanese ambassador ijfter arranging the egyptian and mexican pottery so as to contrast agreeably with the dutch and the german beer-mugs on the top of the bookcase that ran along one wall of the sitting-room, cosmo waynflete went back into the bedroom and took from a half-empty trunk the little cardboard boxes in which he kept the collection of playing-cards, and of all manner of outlandish equivalents for these simple in- struments of fortune, picked up here and there during his two or three years of dilettante travelling in strange countries. at the same time he brought out a japanese crystal ball, which he stood upon its silver tripod, placing tales of fantasy and fact his arms into the dressing-gown with its sym- bolic embroidery on the skirt and sleeves, he remembered distinctly the dismal day when he had bought it in a little curiosity-shop in nu- remberg; and as he fastened across his chest one by one the loops of silken cord to the three coins which served as buttons down the front of the robe, he recalled also the time and the place where he had picked up each of these pieces of gold and silver, one after another. the first of them was a persian daric, which he had purchased from a dealer on the grand canal in venice; and the second was a spanish peso struck under philip ii. at potosi, which he had found in a stall on the embankment of the quay voltaire, in paris; and the third was a york shilling, which he had bought from the man who had turned it up in ploughing a field that sloped to the hudson near sleepy hollow. having thus wrapped himself in this unusual dressing-gown with its unexpected buttons of gold and silver, cosmo waynflete went back into the front room. he dropped into the arm-chair before the fire. it was with a smile of physical satisfaction that he stretched out his feet to the hickory blaze. nheam-gown of japanese ambassador little figures, and he accepted them as of the full stature of man. this increase in their size was no more a source of wonderment to him than it had been to discern himself in the midst of them. he accepted both of these marvellous things without question — indeed, with no thought at all that they were in any way peculiar or abnormal. not only this, but thereafter he seemed to have transferred his personality to the cosmo waynflete who was a japanese samurai and to have abandoned en- tirely the cosmo waynflete who was an amer- ican traveller, and who had just returned to new york that christmas morning. so com- pletely did the japanese identity dominate that the existence of the american identity was wholly unknown to him. it was as though the american had gone to sleep in new york at the end of the nineteenth century, and had walked a japanese in nippon in the beginning of the eighteenth century. with his sword by his side—a murimasa blade, likely to bring bad luck to the wearer sooner or later—he had walked from his own house in the quarter of kioto which is called yamashina to the quarter which is called tales of fantasy and fact yoshiwara, a place of ill repute, where dwell women of evil life, and where roysterers and drunkards come by night. he knew that the sacred duty of avenging his master's death had led him to cast off his faithful wife so that he might pretend to riot in debauchery at the three sea-shores. the fame of his shameful doings had spread abroad, and it must soon come to the ears of the man whom he wished to take unawares. now he was lying prone in the street, seemingly sunk in a drunken slumber, so that men might see him and carry the news to the treacherous assassin of his be- loved master. as he lay there that afternoon, he revolved in his mind the devices he should use to make away with his enemy when the hour might be ripe at last for the accomplish- ment of his holy revenge. to himself he called the roll of his fellow-ronins, now biding their time, as he was, and ready always to obey his orders and to follow his lead to the death, when at last the sun should rise on the day of vengeance. so he gave no heed to the scoffs and the jeers of those who passed along the street, laughing him to scorn as they beheld him ly- dream-gown of japanese ambassador ing there in a stupor from excessive drink at that inordinate hour of the day. and among those who came by at last was a man from satsuma, who was moved to voice the re- proaches of all that saw this sorry sight. "is not this oishi kuranosuke," said the man from satsuma, " who was a councillor of asano takumi no kami, and who, not having the heart to avenge his lord, gives himself up to women and wine? see how he lies drunk in the public street! faithless beast! fool and craven! unworthy of the name of a samurai!" and with that the man from satsuma trod on him as he lay there, and spat upon him, and went away indignantly. the spies of kotsuke no suke heard what the man from satsuma had said, and they saw how he had spurned the prostrate samurai with his foot; and they went their way to report to their master that he need no longer have any fear of the councillors of asano takumi no kami. all this the man, lying prone in the dust of the street, noted; and it made his heart glad, for then he made sure that the day was soon coming when he could do his duty at last and take vengeance for the death of his master. m he lay there longer than he knew, and the twilight settled down at last, and the evening stars came out. and then, after a while, and by imperceptible degrees, cosmo waynflete became conscious that the scene had changed and that he had changed with it. he was no longer in japan, but in persia. he was no longer lying like a drunkard in the street of a city, but slumbering like a weary soldier in a little oasis by the side of a spring in the midst of a sandy desert. he was asleep, and his faithful horse was unbridled that it might crop the grass at will. the air was hot and thick, and the leaves of the slim tree above him were never stirred by a wandering wind. yet now and again there came from the darkness a faintly fetid odor. the evening wore on and still he slept, until at length in the silence of the night a strange huge creature wormed its way steadily dream-gown of japanese ambassador out of its lair amid the trees, and drew near the sleeping man to devour him fiercely. but the horse neighed vehemently and beat the ground with his hoofs and waked his master. then the hideous monster vanished; and the man, aroused from his sleep, saw nothing, al- though the evil smell still lingered in the sultry atmosphere. he lay down again once more, thinking that for once his steed had given a false alarm. again the grisly dragon drew nigh, and again the courser notified its rider, and again the man could make out nothing in the darkness of the night; and again he was wellnigh stifled by the foul emanation that trailed in the wake of the misbegotten creature. he rebuked his horse and laid him down once more. a third time the dreadful beast approached, and a third time the faithful charger awoke its angry master. but there came the breath of a gentle breeze, so that the man did not fear to fill his lungs; and there was a vague light in the heavens now, so that he could dimly discern his mighty enemy; and at once he girded himself for the fight. the scaly monster came full at him with dripping fangs, tales of fantasy and fact its mighty body thrusting forward its huge and hideous head. the man met the attack without fear and smote the beast full on the crest, but the blow rebounded from its coat of mail. then the faithful horse sprang forward and bit the dreadful creature full upon the neck and tore away the scales, so that its master's sword could pierce the armored hide. so the man was able to dissever the ghastly head and thus to slay the monstrous dragon. the black- ness of night wrapped him about once more as he fell on his knees and gave thanks for his victory; and the wind died away again. tales of fantasy and fact weapons in their hands. for a moment cosmo waynflete was a spaniard, and to him it was a point of honor to aid the weaker party. he cried to the fugitive to pluck up heart and to withstand the enemy stoutly. but the hunted man fled on, and after him went one of the pursuers, a tall, thin fellow, with a long black cloak streaming behind him as he ran. the other of the two, a handsome lad with fair hair, came to a halt and crossed swords with cosmo, and soon showed himself to be skilled in the art of fence. so violent was the young fellow's attack that in the ardor of self-defence cosmo ran the boy through the body before he had time to hold his hand or even to reflect. the lad toppled over sideways. "oh, my mother!" he cried, and in a second he was dead. while cosmo bent over the body, hasty foot- steps again echoed along the silent thorough- fare. cosmo peered around the corner, and by the struggling moonbeams he could see that it was the tall, thin fellow in the black cloak, who was returning with half a score of retain- ers, all armed, and some of them bearing torches. dream-gown of japanese ambassador cosmo turned and fled swiftly, but being a stranger in the city he soon lost himself in its tortuous streets. seeing a light in a window and observing a vine that trailed from the balcony before it, he climbed up boldly, and found himself face to face with a gray-haired lady, whose visage was beautiful and kindly and noble. in a few words he told her his plight and besought sanctuary. she listened to him in silence, with exceeding courtesy of manner, as though she were weighing his words before making up her mind. she raised the lamp on her table and let its beams fall on his lineaments. and still she made no answer to his appeal. then came a glare of torches in the street below and a knocking at the door. then at last the old lady came to a resolution; she lifted the tapestry at the head of her bed and told him to bestow himself there. no sooner was he hidden than the tall, thin man in the long black cloak entered hastily. he greeted the elderly lady as his aunt, and he told her that her son had been set upon by a stranger in the street and had been slain. she gave a great cry and never took her eyes from his tales of fantasy and fact darker and darker, the stars seemed to sink deeper in the sky, and driving clouds occasion- ally hid them from his sight. he had never felt so lonely and dismal. in the centre of the road stood an enormous tulip-tree; its limbs were gnarled and fantastic, large enough to form trunks for ordinary trees, twisting down almost to the earth, and rising again into the air. as he approached this fearful tree he thought he saw something white hang- ing in the midst of it, but on looking more narrowly he perceived it was a place where it had been scathed by lightning and the white wood laid bare. about two hundred yards from the tree a small brook crossed the road; and as he drew near he beheld—on the margin of this brook, and in the dark shadow of the grove—he beheld something huge, misshapen, black, and towering. it stirred not, but seemed gathered up in the gloom like some gigantic monster ready to spring upon the traveller. he demanded, in stammering accents, "who are you?" he received no reply. he repeated his demand in a still more agitated voice. still there was no answer. and then the shadowy object of alarm put itself in motion, dream-gown of japanese ambassador and with a scramble and a bound stood in the middle of the road. he appeared to be a horseman of large dimensions and mounted on a black horse of powerful frame. having no relish for this strange midnight companion, cosmo waynflete urged on his steed in hopes of leaving the apparition behind; but the stranger quickened his horse also to an equal pace. and when the first horseman pulled up, thinking to lag behind, the second did like- wise. there was something in the moody and dogged silence of this pertinacious companion that was mysterious and appalling. it was soon fearfully accounted for. on mounting a rising ground which brought the figure of his fellow-traveller against the sky, gigantic in height and muffled in a cloak, he was horror- struck to discover the stranger was headless! —but his horror was still more increased in observing that the head which should have rested on the shoulders was carried before the body on the pommel of the saddle. the terror of cosmo waynflete rose to des- peration, and he spurred his steed suddenly in the hope of giving his weird companion the slip. but the headless horseman started full tales of fantasy and fact jump with him. his own horse, as though pos- sessed by a demon, plunged headlong down the hill. he could hear, however, the black steed panting and blowing close behind him; he even fancied that he felt the hot breath of the pursuer. when he ventured at last to cast a look behind, he saw the goblin rising in the stirrups, and in the very act of hurling at him the grisly head, lie fell out of the saddle to the ground; and the black steed and the gob- lin rider passed by him like a whirlwind. vi how long he lay there by the roadside, stunned and motionless, he could not guess; but when he came to himself at last the sun was already high in the heavens. he discov- ered himself to be reclining on the tall grass of a pleasant graveyard which surrounded a tiny country church in the outskirts of a pret- ty little village. it was in the early summer, and the foliage was green above him as the boughs swayed gently to and fro in the morn- ing breeze. the birds were singing gayly as they flitted about over his head. the bees hummed along from flower to flower. at last, so it seemed to him, he had come into a land of peace and quiet, where there was rest and comfort and where no man need go in fear of his life. it was a country where vengeance was not a duty and where midnight combats were not a custom. he found himself smiling as he thought that a grisly dragon and a gob- tales of fantasy and fact lin rider would be equally out of place in this laughing landscape. then the bell in the steeple of the little church began to ring merrily, and he rose to his feet in expectation. all of a sudden the knowledge came to him why it was that they were ringing. he wondered then why the coming of the bride was thus delayed. he knew himself to be a lover, with life opening brightly before him; and the world seemed to him sweeter than ever before and more beau- tiful. then at last the girl whom he loved with his whole heart and who had promised to marry him appeared in the distance, and he thought he had never seen her look more lovely. as he beheld his bridal party approaching, he slipped into the church to await her at the altar. the sunshine fell full upon the portal and made a halo about the girl's head as she crossed the threshold. but even when the bride stood by his side and the clergyman had begun the solemn ser- vice of the church the bells kept on, and soon their chiming became a clangor, louder and sharper and more insistent. vii so clamorous and so persistent was the ring- ing that cosmo waynflete was roused at last. he found himself suddenly standing on his feet, with his hand clutching the back of the chair in which he had been sitting before the fire when the rays of the setting sun had set long ago. the room was dark, for it was lighted now only by the embers of the burnt- out fire; and the electric bell was ringing steadily, as though the man outside the door had resolved to waken the seven sleepers. then cosmo waynflete was wide-awake again; and he knew where he was once more — not in japan, not in persia, not in lisbon, not in sleepy hollow, but here in new york, in his own room, before his own fire. he opened the door at once and admitted his friend, paul stuyvesant. "it isn't dinner-time, is it?" he asked. "i'm not late, am i? the fact is, i've been asleep." dream-gown of japanese ambassador "of course," his friend returned; "in sleep our natural and healthy egotism is absolutely unrestrained. it doesn't make any matter where the scene is laid or whether the play is a comedy or a tragedy, the dreamer has al- ways the centre of the stage, with the calcium light turned full on him." "that's just it," waynflete went on; "this dream of mine makes me feel as if i were an actor, and as if i had been playing many parts, one after the other, in the swiftest succession. they are not familiar to me, and et i confess to a vague feeling of unoriginality. it is as though i were a plagiarist of adventure—if that be a possible supposition. i have just gone through these startling situations myself, and yet i'm sure that they have all of them hap- pened before — although, perhaps, not to any one man. indeed, no one man could have had all these adventures of mine, because i see now that i have been whisked through the centu- ries and across the hemispheres with a sudden- ness possible only in dreams. yet all my ex- periences seem somehow second-hand, and not really my own." "picked up here and there—like your brie- tales of fantasy and fact a-brac?" suggested stayvesant. "but what are these alluring adventures of yours that stretched through the ages and across the continents?" then, knowing how fond his friend was of solving mysteries and how proud he was of his skill in this art, cosmo waynflete narrated his dream as it has been set down in these pages. when he had made an end, paul stuyve- sant's first remark was: "i'm sorry i hap- pened along just then and waked you up be- fore you had time to get married." his second remark followed half a minute later. "i see how it was," he said; "you were sit- ting in this chair, and looking at that crystal ball, which focussed the level rays of the set- ting sun, i suppose? then it is plain enough —you hypnotized yourself!" "i have heard that such a thing is possible," responded cosmo. "possible?" stuyvesant returned, "it is cer- tain! but what is more curious is the new way in which you combined your self-hypnotism with crystal-gazing. you have heard of scry- ing, i suppose?" dream-gown of japanese ambassador "you mean the practice of looking into a drop of water or a crystal ball or anything of that sort," said cosmo, "and of seeing things in it—of seeing people moving about?" "that's just what i do mean," his friend returned. "and that's just what you have been doing. you fixed your gaze on the ball, and so hypnotized yourself; and then, in the intensity of your vision, you were able to see figures in the crystal—with one of which vis- ualized emanations you immediately identified yourself. that's easy enough, i think. but i don't see what suggested to you your separate experiences. i recognize them, of course—" "you recognize them?" cried "waynflete, in wonder. "i can tell you where you borrowed every one of your adventures," stuyvesant replied, "but what i'd like to know now is what sug- gested to you just those particular characters and situations, and not any of the many oth- ers also stored away in your subconsciousness." so saying, he began to look about the room. "my subconsciousness?" repeated wayn- flete. "have i ever been a samurai in my subconsciousness?" tales of fantasy and fact paul stuyvesant looked at cosmo wayn- flete for nearly a minute without reply. then all the answer he made was to say: "that's a queer dressing-gown you have on." "it is time i took it off," said the other, as he twisted himself out of its clinging folds. "it is a beautiful specimen of weaving, isn't it? i call it the dream-gown of the japanese ambassador, for although i bought it in a curi- osity-shop in nuremberg, it was once, i really believe, the slumber-robe of an oriental en- voy." stuyvesant took the silken garment from his friend's hand. "why did the japanese ambassador sell you his dream-gown in a nuremberg curios- ity-shop?" he asked. "he didn't," waynflete explained. "i nev- er saw the ambassador, and neither did the old german lady who kept the shop. she told me she bought it from a japanese acrobat who was out of an engagement and desperately hard up. but she told me also that the acrobat had told her that the garment had belonged to an am- bassador who had given it to him as a reward of his skill, and that he never would have dream-gown of japanese ambassador parted with it if he had not been dead- broke." stuyvesant held the robe up to the light and inspected the embroidery on the skirt of it. "yes," he said, at last, " this would account for it, i suppose. this bit here was probably meant to suggest 'the well where the head was washed,'—see?" "i see that those lines may be meant to represent the outline of a spring of water, but i don't see what that has to do with my dream," waynflete answered. "don't you?" stuyvesant returned. "then i'll show you. you had on this silk garment embroidered here with an outline of the well in which was washed the head of kotsuko no suke, the man whom the forty-seven ronins killed. you know the story?" "i read it in japan, but—" began cosmo. "you had that story stored away in your subconsciousness," interrupted his friend. "and when you hypnotized yourself by peer- ing into the crystal ball, this embroidery it was which suggested to you to see yourself as the hero of the tale—oishi kuranosuke, the chief of the forty-seven ronins, the faithful dream-gown of japanese ambassador and the third is a york shilling, one of the coins in circulation here in new york at the time of the revolution—i got that one, in fact, from the farmer who ploughed it up in a field at tarry town, near sunnyside." "then there are three of your adventures accounted for, cosmo, and easily enough," paul commented, with obvious satisfaction at his own explanation. "just as the embroidery on the silk here suggested to you—after you had hypnotized yourself—that you were the chief of the forty-seven ronins, so this first coin here in turn suggested to you that you were rustem, the hero of the ' epic of kings.' you have read the ' shah-nameh y " "i remember firdausi's poem after a fash- ion only," cosmo answered. "was not rus- tem a persian hercules, so to speak?" '• that's it precisely," the other responded, "and he had seven labors to perform; and you dreamed the third of them, the slaying of the grisly dragon. for my own part, i think i should have preferred the fourth of them, the meeting with the lovely enchantress; but that's neither here nor there." "it seems to me i do recollect something tales of fantasy and fact about that fight of rustem and the strange beast. the faithful horse's name was rakush, wasn't it?" asked waynflete. "if you can recollect the 'shah-nameh,'" stuyvesant pursued, " no doubt you can recall also beaumont and fletcher's 'custom of the country?' that's where you got the mid- night duel in lisbon and the magnanimous mother, you know." "no, i didn't know," the other declared. "well, you did, for all that," paul went on. "the situation is taken from one in a drama of calderon's, and it was much strengthened in the taking. you may not now remember having read the play, but the incident must have been familiar to you, or else your subcon- sciousness couldn't have yielded it up to you so readily at the suggestion of the spanish coin, could it?" "i did read a lot of elizabethan drama in my senior year at college," admitted cos- mo, " and this piece of beaumont and fletch- er's may have been one of those i read; but i totally fail to recall now what it was all about." "you won't have the cheek to declare that dream-gown of japanese ambassador you don't remember the 'legend of sleepy hollow,' will you?" asked stuyvesant. "very obviously it was the adventure of ichabod crane and the headless horseman that the york shilling suggested to you." "i'll admit that i do recollect irving's story now," the other confessed. so the embroidery on the dream-gown gives the first of your strange situations; and the three others were suggested by the coins you have been using as buttons," said paul stuy- vesant. "there is only one thing now that puzzles me: that is the country church and the noon wedding and the beautiful bride." and with that he turned over the folds of the silken garment that hung over his arm. cosmo waynflete hesitated a moment and a blush mantled his cheek. then he looked his friend in the face and said: "i think i can ac- count for my dreaming about her—i can ac- count for that easily enough." "so can i," said paul stuyvesant, as he held up the photograph of a lovely american girl that he had just found in the pocket of the dream-gown of the japanese ambassador. ( .) the rival ghosts tales of fantasy and fact that duty, but as the younger of two sisters she was still the baby of the family)—the duchess and baby van rensselaer were dis- cussing the pleasant english voice and the not unpleasant english accent of a manly young lordling who was going to america for sport. uncle larry and dear jones were enticing each other into a bet on the ship's run of the morrow. "i'll give you two to one she don't make ," said dear jones. "i'll take it," answered uncle larry. "we made the fifth day last year." it was uncle larry's seventeenth visit to europe, and this was therefore his thirty-fourth voyage. "and when did you get in?" asked baby van rensselaer. "i don't care a bit about the run, so long as we get in soon." "we crossed the bar sunday night, just seven days after we left queenstown, and we dropped anchor off quarantine at three o'clock on monday morning." "i hope we sha'n't do that this time. i can't seem to sleep any when the boat stops." "i can, but i didn't," continued uncle larry, " because my state-room was the most the rival ghosts for'ard in the boat, and the donkey-engine that let down the anchor was right over my head." "so you got up and saw the sun rise over the bay," said dear jones, " with the electric lights of the city twinkling in the distance, and the first faint flush of the dawn in the east just over fort lafayette, and the rosy tinge which spread softly upward, and—" "did you both come back together?" asked the duchess. "because he has crossed thirty-four times you must not suppose he has a monopoly in sunrises," retorted dear jones. "no; this was my own sunrise ; and a mighty pretty one it was too." "i'm not matching sunrises with you," re- marked uncle larry calmly; "but i'm will- ing to back a merry jest called forth by my sunrise against any two merry jests called forth by yours." "i confess reluctantly that my sunrise evoked no merry jest at all." dear jones was an honest man, and would scorn to in- vent a merry jest on the spur of the mo- ment. tales of fantasy and fact "that's where my sunrise has the call," said uncle larry, complacently. "what was the merry jest?" was baby van bensselaer's inquiry, the natural result of a feminine curiosity thus artistically excited. "well, here it is. i was standing aft, near a patriotic american and a wandering irish- man, and the patriotic american rashly de- clared that you couldn't see a sunrise like that anywhere in europe, and this gave the irish- man his chance, and he said, 'sure ye don't have 'm here till we're through with 'em over there.'" "it is true," said dear jones, thoughtfully, "that they do have some things over there better than we do; for instance, umbrellas." "and gowns," added the duchess. "and antiquities"—this was uncle larry's contribution. "and we do have some things so much better in america!" protested baby van rens- selaer, as yet uncorrupted by any worship of the effete monarchies of despotic europe. "we make lots of things a great deal nicer than you can get them in europe—especially ice-cream." the rival ghosts "and pretty girls," added dear jones; but he did not look at her. "and spooks," remarked uncle larry, casu- ally. "spooks?" queried the duchess. "spooks. i maintain the word. ghost, if you like that better, or spectres. "we turn out the best quality of spook—" "you forget the lovely ghost stories about the rhine and the black forest," interrupted miss van rensselaer, with feminine inconsist- ency. "i remember the rhine and the black forest and all the other haunts of elves and fairies and hobgoblins; but for good, honest spooks there is no place like home. and what differentiates our spook—spiritus ameri- cans—from the ordinary ghost of literature is that it responds to the american sense of humor. take irving's stories, for example. the 'headless horseman' — that's a comic ghost story. and rip van winkle—consider what humor, and what good humor, there is in the telling of his meeting with the goblin crew of hendrik hudson's men! a still bet- ter example of this american way of dealing the rival ghosts about twenty he lost both of his parents. his father left him enough money to give him a start, and a strong feeling of pride in his scotch birth; you see there was a title in the family in scotland, and although eliph- alet's father was the younger son of a young- er son, yet he always remembered, and always bade his only son to remember, that this an- cestry was noble. his mother left him her full share of yankee grit and a little old house in salem which had belonged to her family for more than two hundred years. she was a hitchcock, and the hitchcocks had been set- tled in salem since the year . it was a great- great-grandfather of mr. eliphalet hitchcock who was foremost in the time of the salem witchcraft craze. and this little old house which she left to my friend eliphalet duncan was haunted." "by the ghost of one of the witches, of course?" interrupted dear jones. "now how could it be the ghost of a witch, since the witches were all burned at the stake? you never heard of anybody who was burned having a ghost, did you?" asked uncle larry. "that's an argument in favor of cremation, tales of fantasy and fact at any rate," replied dear jones, evading the direct question. "it is, if you don't like ghosts. i do," said baby van rensselaer. "and so do i," added uncle larry. "i love a ghost as dearly as an englishman loves a lord." "go on with your story," said the duchess, majestically overruling all extraneous discus- sion. "this little old house at salem was haunt- ed," resumed uncle larry. "and by a very distinguished ghost—or at least by a ghost with very remarkable attributes." "what was he like?" asked baby van rensselaer, with a premonitory shiver of an- ticipatory delight. "it had a lot of peculiarities. in the first place, it never appeared to the master of the house. mostly it confined its visitations to unwelcome guests. in the course of the last hundred years it had frightened away four successive mothers-in-law,,while never intrud- ing on the head of the household." "i guess that ghost had been one of the boys when he was alive and in the flesh." the rival ghosts this was dear jones's contribution to the tell- ing of the tale. "in the second place," continued uncle larry, "it never frightened anybody the first time it appeared. only on the second visit were the ghost - seers scared; but then they were scared enough for twice, and they rarely mustered up courage enough to risk a third in- terview. one of the most curious character- istics of this well-meaning spook was that it had no face—or at least that nobody ever saw its face." "perhaps he kept his countenance veiled?" queried the duchess, who was beginning to remember that she never did like ghost stories. "that was what i was never able to find out. i have asked several people who saw the ghost, and none of them could tell me any- thing about its face, and yet while in its pres- ence they never noticed its features, and never remarked on their absence or concealment. it was only afterwards when they tried to recall calmly all the circumstances of meeting with the mysterious stranger that they became aware that they had not seen its face. and they could not say whether the features were tales of fantasy and fact covered, or whether they were wanting, or what the trouble was. they knew only that the face was never seen. and no matter how often they might see it, they never fathomed this mystery. to this day nobody knows whether the ghost which used to haunt the little old house in salem had a face, or what manner of face it had." "how awfully weird!" said baby van rensselaer. "and why did the ghost go away?" "i haven't said it went away," answered uncle larry, with much dignity. "but you said it used to haunt the little old house at salem, so i supposed it had moved. didn't it?" the young lady asked. "you shall be told in due time. eliphalet duncan used to spend most of his summer va- cations at salem, and the ghost never bothered him at all, for he was the master of the house '—much to his disgust, too, because he wanted to see for himself the mysterious tenant at will of his property. but he never saw it, never. he arranged with friends to call him when- ever it might appear, and he slept in the next room with the door open; and yet when their the rival ghosts frightened cries waked him the ghost was gone, and his only reward was to hear re- proachful sighs as soon as he went back to bed. you see, the ghost thought it was not fair of eliphalet to seek an introduction which was plainly unwelcome." dear jones interrupted the story-teller by getting up and tucking a heavy rug more snugly around baby van rensselaer's feet, for the sky was now overcast and gray, and the air was damp and penetrating. "one fine spring morning," pursued uncle larry, " eliphalet duncan received great news. i told you that there was a title in the family in scotland, and that eliphalet's father was the younger son of a younger son. well, it happened that all eliphalet's father's brothers and uncles had died off without male issue ex- cept the eldest son of the eldest son, and he, of course, bore the title, and was baron duncan of duncan. now the great news that elipha- let duncan received in new york one fine spring morning was that baron duncan and his only son had been yachting in the hebri- des, and they had been caught in a black squall, and they were both dead. so my the rival ghosts but eliphalet was a sight too smart to put 'baron duncan of duncan, attorney and counsellor at law,' on his shingle." "what has all this got to do with your ghost?" asked dear jones, pertinently. "nothing with that ghost, but a good deal with another ghost. eliphalet was very learned in spirit lore—perhaps because he owned the haunted house at salem, perhaps because he was a scotchman by descent. at all events, he had made a special study of the wraiths and white ladies and banshees and bogies of all kinds whose sayings and doings and warnings are recorded in the annals of the scottish nobility. in fact, he was ac- quainted with the habits of every reputable spook in the scotch peerage. and he knew that there was a duncan ghost attached to the person of the holder of the title of baron duncan of duncan." "so, besides being the owner of a haunted house in salem, he was also a haunted man in scotland?" asked baby van rensselaer. "just so. but the scotch ghost was not unpleasant, like the salem ghost, although it had one peculiarity in common with its trans- tales of fantasy and fact atlantic fello-spook. it never appeared to the holder of the title, just as the other never was visible to the owner of the house. in fact, the duncan ghost was never seen at all. it was a guardian angel only. its sole duty was to be in personal attendance on baron duncan of duncan, and to warn him of im- pending evil. the traditions of the house told that the barons of duncan had again and again felt a premonition of ill fortune. some of them had yielded and withdrawn from the venture they had undertaken, and it had failed dismally. some had been obstinate, and had hardened their hearts, and had gone on reckless to defeat and to death. in no case had a lord duncan been exposed to peril without fair warning." "then how came it that the father and son were lost in the yacht off the hebrides?'' asked dear jones. "because they were too enlightened to yield to superstition. there is extant now a letter of lord duncan, written to his wife a few minutes before he and his son set sail, in which he tells her how hard he has had to struggle with an almost overmastering desire the bival ghosts to give up the trip. had he obeyed the friendly warning of the family ghost, the letter would have been spared a journey across the atlantic." "did the ghost leave scotland for america as soon as the old baron died?" asked baby van rensselaer, with much interest. "how did he come over," queried dear jones — " in the steerage, or as a cabin pas- senger?" "i don't know," answered uncle larry; calmly, "and eliphalet didn't know. for as he was in no danger, and stood in no need of warning, he couldn't tell whether the ghost was on duty or not. of course he was on the watch for it all the time. but he never got any proof of its presence until he went down to the little old house of salem, just before the fourth of july. he took a friend down with him—a young fellow who had been in the regular army since the day fort sumter was fired on, and who thought that after four years of the little unpleasantness down south, including six months in libby, and after ten years of fighting the bad indians on the plains, he wasn't likely to be much frightened by a tales of fantasy and fact ghost. well, eliphalet and the officer sat out on the porch all the evening smoking and talking over points in military law. a little after twelve o'clock, just as they began to think it was about time to turn in, they heard the most ghastly noise in the house. it wasn't a shriek, or a howl, or a yell, or anything they could put a name to. it was an undetermin- ate, inexplicable shiver and shudder of sound, which went wailing out of the window. the officer had been at cold harbor, but he felt himself getting colder this time. eliphalet knew it was the ghost who haunted the house. as this weird sound died away, it was followed by another, sharp, short, blood-curdling in its intensity. something in this cry seemed fa- miliar to eliphalet, and he felt sure that it pro- ceeded from the family ghost, the warning wraith of the duncans." "do i understand you to intimate that both ghosts were there together?" inquired the duchess, anxiously. "both of them were there," answered uncle larry. "you see, one of them belonged to the house, and had to be there all the time, and the other was attached to the person of the rival ghosts baron duncan, and had to follow him there; wherever he was, there was that ghost also. but eliphalet, he had scarcely time to think this out when he heard both sounds again, not one after another, but both together, and some- thing told him—some sort of an instinct he had—that those two ghosts didn't agree, didn't get on together, didn't exactly hit it off; in fact, that they were quarrelling." "quarrelling ghosts! well, i never!" was baby van rensselaer's remark. "it is a blessed thing to see ghosts dwell together in unity," said dear jones. and the duchess added, " it would certain- ly be setting a better example." "you know," resumed uncle larry, " that two waves of light or of sound may interfere and produce darkness or silence. so it was with these rival spooks. they interfered, but they did not produce silence or darkness. on the contrary, as soon as eliphalet and the offi- cer went into the house, there began at once a series of spiritualistic manifestations—a regular dark seance. a tambourine was played upon, a bell was rung, and a flaming banjo went sing- ing around the room." tales of fantasy and fact "where did they get the banjo?" asked dear jones, sceptically. "i don't know. materialized it, maybe, just as they did the tambourine. you don't sup- pose a quiet new york lawyer kept a stock of musical instruments large enough to fit out a strolling minstrel troupe just on the chance of a pair of ghosts coming to give him a surprise party, do you? every spook has its own in- strument of torture. angels play on harps, i'm informed, and spirits delight in banjos and tambourines. these spooks of eliphalet dun- can's were ghosts with all modern improve- ments, and i guess they were capable of pro- viding their own musical weapons. at all events, they had them there in the little old house at salem the night eliphalet and his friend came down. and they played on them, and they rang the bell, and they rapped here, there, and everywhere. and they kept it up all night." "all night?" asked the awe-stricken duch- ess, "all night long," said uncle larry, solemnly; "and the next night too. eliphalet did not get a wink of sleep, neither did his friend. on tales of fantasy and fact wants to sleep nights, and they wouldn't let him sleep nights. they kept on wrangling and quarrelling incessantly; they manifested and they dark-seanced as regularly as the old clock on the stairs struck twelve; they rapped and they rang bells and they banged the tam- bourine and they threw the flaming banjo about the house, and, worse than all, they swore." "i did not know that spirits were addicted to bad language," said the duchess. "how did he know they were swear- ing? could he hear them?" asked dear jones. "that was just it," responded uncle larry; "he could not hear them—at least, not dis- tinctly. there were inarticulate murmurs and stifled rumblings. but the impression pro- duced on him was that they were swearing. if they had only sworn right out, he would not have minded it so much, because he would have known the worst. but the feeling that the air was full of suppressed profanity was very wearing, and after standing it for a week he gave up in disgust and went to the white mountains." the rival ghosts "leaving them to fight it out, i suppose," interjected baby van rensselaer. "not at all," explained uncle larry. "they could not quarrel unless he was present. you see, he could not leave the titular ghost behind him, and the domiciliary ghost could not leave the house. when he went away he took the family ghost with him, leaving the house ghost behind. now spooks can't quarrel when they are a hundred miles apart any more than men can." "and what happened afterwards?" asked baby van rensselaer, with a pretty impatience. "a most marvellojs thing happened. eliph- alet duncan went to the white mountains, and in the car of the railroad that runs to the top of mount washington he met a classmate whom he had not seen for years, and this class- mate introduced duncan to his sister, and this sister was a remarkably pretty girl, and dun- can fell in love with her at first sight, and by the time he got to the top of mount washing- ton he was so deep in love that he began to consider his own unworthiness, and to wonder whether she might ever be induced to care for him a little—ever so little." the rival ghosts with them, and filled out the quartette. be- fore the end of the summer he began to think about proposing. of course he had lots of chances, going on excursions as they were every day. he made up his mind to seize the first opportunity, and that very evening he took her out for a moonlight row on lake winipiseogee. as he handed her into the boat he resolved to do it, and he had a glim- mer of a suspicion that she knew he was going to do it, too." "girls," said dear jones, "never go out in a row-boat at night with a young man un- less you mean to accept him. ' "sometimes it's best to refuse him, and get it over once for all," said baby van rens- selaer, impersonally. "as eliphalet took the oars he felt a sudden chill. he tried to shake it off, but in vain. he began to have a growing consciousness of impending evil. before he had taken ten strokes—and he was a swift oarsman—he was aware of a mysterious presence between him and miss sutton." "was it the guardian-angel ghost warning him off the match?" interrupted dear jones. tales of fantasy and fact "that's just what it was," said uncle lar- ry. "and he yielded to it, and kept his peace, and rowed miss sutton back to the hotel with his proposal unspoken." "more fool he," said dear jones. "it will take more than one ghost to keep me from proposing when my mind is made up." and he looked at baby van rensselaer. "the next morning," continued uncle larry, "eliphalet overslept himself, and when he went down to a late breakfast he found that the suttons had gone to new york by the morning train. he wanted to follow them at once, and again he felt the mysterious presence over- powering his will. he struggled two days, and at last he roused himself to do what he wanted in spite of the spook. when he arrived in new york it was late in the evening. he dressed himself hastily, and went to the hotel where the suttons were, in the hope of seeing at least her brother. the guardian angel fought every inch of the walk with him, until he began to wonder whether, if miss sutton were to take him, the spook would forbid the banns. at the hotel he saw no one that night, and he went home determined to call as early as he the rival ghosts could the next afternoon, and make an end of it. when he left his office about two o'clock the next day to learn his fate, he had not walked five blocks before he discovered that the wraith of the duncans had withdrawn his opposition to the suit. there was no feeling of impending evil, no resistance, no struggle, no consciousness of an opposing presence. eliphalet was greatly encouraged. he walked briskly to the hotel; he found miss sutton alone. he asked her the question, and got his answer." "she accepted him, of course?" said baby van rensselaer. "of course," said uncle larry. "and while they were in the first flush of joy, swapping confidences and confessions, her brother came into the parlor with an expression of pain on his face and a telegram in his hand. the for- mer was caused by the latter, which was from frisco, and which announced the sudden death of mrs. sutton, their mother." "and that was why the ghost no longer opposed the match ?" questioned dear jones. "exactly. you see, the family ghost knew that mother gorgon was an awful obstacle to tales of fantasy and fact duncan's happiness, so it warned him. but the moment the obstacle was removed, it gave its consent at once." the fog was lowering its thick, damp curtain, and it was beginning to be difficult to see from one end of the boat to the other. dear jones tightened the rug which enwrapped baby van eensselaer, and then withdrew again into his own substantial coverings. uncle larry paused in his story long enough to light another of the tiny cigars he always smoked. "i infer that lord duncan "—the duchess was scrupulous in the bestowal of titles—" saw no more of the ghosts after he was married." "he never saw them at all, at any time, either before or since. but they came very near breaking off the match, and thus breaking two young hearts." "you don't mean to say that they knew any just cause or impediment why they should not forever after hold their peace?" asked dear jones. "how could a ghost, or even two ghosts, keep a girl from marrying the man she loved?" this was baby van rensselaer's question. the rival ghosts "it seems curious, doesn't it?" and uncle larry tried to warm himself by two or three sharp pulls at his fiery little cigar. "and the circumstances are quite as curious as the fact itself. you see, miss sutton wouldn't be mar- ried for a year after her mother's death, so she and duncan had lots of time to tell each oth- er all they knew. eliphalet got to know a good deal about the girls she went to school with; and kitty soon learned all about his family. he didn't tell her about the title for a long time, as he wasn't one to brag. but he described to her the little old house at salem. and one evening towards the end of the sum- mer, the wedding-day having been appointed for early in september, she told him that she didn't want a bridal tour at all; she just wanted to go down to the little old house at salem to spend her honeymoon in peace and quiet, with nothing to do and nobody to bother them. well, eliphalet jumped at the suggestion: it suited him down to the ground. all of a sud- den he remembered the spooks, and it knocked him all of a heap. he had told her about the duncan banshee, and the idea of having an ancestral ghost in personal attendance on her tales of fantasy and fact husband tickled her immensely. but he had never said anything about the ghost which haunted the little old house at salem. he knew she would be frightened out of her wits if the house ghost revealed itself to her, and he saw at once that it would be impossible to go to salem on their wedding trip. so he told her all about it, and how whenever he went to salem the two ghosts interfered, and gave dark seances and manifested and materialized and made the place absolutely impossible. kitty listened in silence, and eliphalet thought she had changed her mind. but she hadn't done anything of the kind." "just like a man—to think she was going to," remarked baby van rensselaer. "she just told him she could not bear ghosts herself, but she would not marry a man who was afraid of them." "just like a girl—to be so inconsistent," remarked dear jones. uncle larry's tiny cigar had long been ex- tinct. he lighted a new one, and continued: "eliphalet protested in vain. kitty said her mind was made up. she was determined to pass her honeymoon in the little old house at the uival ghosts salem, and she was equally determined not to go there as long as there were any ghosts there. until he could assure her that the spectral tenant had received notice to quit, and that there was no danger of manifestations and materializing, she refused to be married at all. she did not intend to have her honeymoon interrupted by two wrangling ghosts, and the wedding could be postponed until he had made ready the house for her." "she was an unreasonable young woman," said the duchess. "well, that's what eliphalet thought, much as he was in love with her. and he believed he could talk her out of her determination. but he couldn't. she was set. and when a girl is set, there's nothing to do but to yield to the inevitable. and that's just what eliph- alet did. he saw he would either have to give her up or to get the ghosts out; and as he loved her and did not care for the ghosts, he resolved to tackle the ghosts. he had clear grit, eliphalet had—he was half scotch and half yankee, and neither breed turns tail in a hurry. so he made his plans and he went down to salem. as he said good-bye to the rival ghosts sipated spook, a spook with delirium tremens, might be committed to the inebriate asylum. but none of these things seemed feasible." "what did he do?" interrupted dear jones. "the learned counsel will please speak to the point." "you will regret this unseemly haste," said uncle larry, gravely, " when you know what really happened." "what was it, uncle larry?" asked baby van rensselaer. "i'm all impatience." and uncle larry proceeded: "elipbalet went down to the little old house at salem, and as soon as the clock struck twelve the rival ghosts began wrangling as before. raps here, there, and everywhere, ringing bells, banging tambourines, strumming banjos sailing about the room, and all the other manifestations and materializations fol- lowed one another just as they had the sum- mer before. the only difference eliphalet could detect was a stronger flavor in the spectral profanity; and this, of course, was only a vague impression, for he did not ac- tually hear a single word. he waited awhile in patience, listening and watching. of course tales of fantasy and fact he never saw either of the ghosts, because neither of them could appear to him. at last he got his dander up, and he thought it was about time to interfere, so he rapped on the table, and asked for silence. as soon as he felt that the spooks were listening to him he ex- plained the situation to them. he told them he was in love, and that he could not marry unless they vacated the house. he appealed to them as old friends, and he laid claim to their gratitude. the titular ghost had been sheltered by the duncan family for hundreds of years, and the domiciliary ghost had had free lodging in the little old house at salem for nearly two centuries. he implored them to settle their differences, and to get him out of his difficulty at once. he suggested that they had better fight it out then and there, and see who was master. he had brought down with him all needful weapons. and he pulled out his valise, and spread on the table a pair of navy revolvers, a pair of shot-guns, a pair of duelling-swords, and a couple of bowie-knives. he offered to serve as second for both parties, and to give the word when to begin. he also took out of his valise a pack of cards and a intales of fantasy and fact blood could draw his sword against a woman. eliphalet said he had never suggested that the duncan ghost should raise his hand against a woman, and all he wanted was that the duncan ghost should fight the other ghost. and then the voice told eliphalet that the other ghost was a woman." "what?" said dear jones, sitting up sud- denly. "you don't mean to tell me that the ghost which haunted the house was a woman?" "those were the very words eliphalet dun- can used," said uncle larry; "but he did not need to wait for the answer. all at once he recalled the traditions about the domiciliary ghost, and he knew that what the titular ghost said was the fact. he had never thought of the sex of a spook, but there was no doubt whatever that the house ghost was a woman. no sooner was this firmly fixed in eliphalet's mind than he saw his way out of the difficulty. the ghosts must be married!—for then there would be no more interference, no more quar- relling, no more manifestations and material- izations, no more dark seances, with their raps and bells and tambourines and banjos. at first the ghosts would not hear of it. the the rival ghosts voice in the corner declared that the duncan wraith had never thought of matrimony. but eliphalet argued with them, and pleaded and pursuaded and coaxed, and dwelt on the ad- vantages of matrimony. he had to confess, of course, that he did not know how to get a clergyman to marry them ; but the voice from the corner gravely told him that there need be no difficulty in regard to that, as there was no lack of spiritual chaplains. then, for the first time, the house ghost spoke, a low, clear, gentle voice, and with a quaint, old-fashioned new england accent, which contrasted sharp- ly with the broad scotch speech of the family ghost. she said that eliphalet duncan seemed to have forgotten that she was married. but this did not upset eliphalet at all; he remem- bered the whole case clearly, and he told her she was not a married ghost, but a widow, since her husband had been hanged for murder- ing her. then the duncan ghost drew atten- tion to the great disparity in their ages, say- ing that he was nearly four hundred and fifty years old, while she was barely two hundred. but eliphalet had not talked to juries for nothing; he just buckled to, and coaxed those sixteen years without a birth- day sixteen years without a birth- day hile the journalist deftly dealt with the lobster d la newburg, as it bub- bled in the chafing-dish before him, the deep-toned bell of the church at the corner began to strike twelve. "give me your plates, quick," he said," and we'll drink jack's health before it's to-morrow." the artist and the soldier and the professor of mathematics did as they were told; and then they filled their glasses. the journalist, still standing, looked the sol- dier in the eye, and said: "jack, this is the first time the quartet has met since the old school- days, ten years ago and more. that this reun- ion should take place on your birthday doubles the pleasure of the occasion. we wish you many happy returns of the day!" sixteen years without a birthday see ' the week of the four thursdays,' as the french say." "and we sha'n't see that for a month of sun- days, i guess," the journalist rejoined. there was a moment of silence, and then the mathematician spoke for the first time. "a quadruplex birthday will be odd enough, i grant you," he began," but i don't think it quite as remarkable as the case of the lady who had no birthday for sixteen years after she was born." the soldier and the artist and the journalist all looked at the professor of mathematics, and they all smiled; but his face remained perfect- ly grave. "what's that you say ?" asked the journal- ist. "sixteen years without a birthday? isn't that a very large order?" "did you know the lady herself?" inquired the soldier. "she was my grandmother," the mathema- tician answered. "she had no birthday for the first sixteen years of her life." "you mean that she did not celebrate her birthdays, i suppose," the artist remarked. "that's nothing. i know lots of families sixteen years without a birthday . "i don't see that at all," exclaimed the artist. "it's easy enough," the soldier explained. "the year isn't a leap-year, you know. we have a leap-year every four years, except the final year of a century— , , ." "i didn't know that," said the artist. "i'd forgotten it," remarked the journalist. "but that gets us over only half of the diffi- culty. he says his grandmother didn't have a birthday till she was sixteen. we can all see now how it was she went without this annual luxury for the first eight years. but who robbed her of the birthdays she was entitled to when she was eight and twelve. that's what i want to know." "born february , , the gregorian cal- endar deprives her of a birthday in ," the soldier said. "but she ought to have had her first chance, february , . i don't see how—" and he paused in doubt. "oh!" he cried, suddenly; "where was she living in ?" "most of the time in russia," the mathema- tician answered. "although the family went to england for a few days early in the year." tales of fantasy and fact "what was the date when they left rus- sia?" asked the soldier, eagerly. "they sailed from st. petersburg in a rus- sian bark on the th of february," answered the professor of mathematics, "and owing to head-winds they did not reach england for a fortnight." "exactly," cried the soldier. "that's what i thought. that accounts for it." "i don't see how," the artist declared; "that is, unless you mean to suggest that the czar confiscated the little american girl's birthday and sent it to siberia." "it's plain enough," the soldier returned. "we have the reformed calendar, the grego- rian calendar, you know, and the russians haven't. they keep the old julian calendar, and it's now ten days behind ours. they cele- brate christmas three days after we have be- gun the new year. so if the little girl left st. petersburg in a russian ship on february , , by the old reckoning, and was on the wa- ter two weeks, she would land in england af- ter march st by the new calendar." "that is to say," the artist inquired," the lit- tle girl came into an english port thinking she sixteen yearswithout a birthday was going to have her birthday the next week, and when she set foot on shore she found out that her birthday was passed the week before. is that what you mean?" "yes," answered the soldier; and the math- ematician nodded also. "then all i have to say," the artist contin- ued, " is that it was a mean trick to play on a child that had been looking forward to her first birthday for eight years — to knock her into the middle of next week in that fashion!" "and she had to go four years more for her next chance," said the journalist. "then she would be twelve. but you said she hadn't a birthday till she was sixteen. how did she lose the one she was entitled to in ? she wasn't on a russian ship again, was she?" "no," the mathematician replied; "she was on an american ship that time." "on the north sea?" asked the artist. "no," was the calm answer; "on thepacific." "sailing east or west ?" cried the soldier. "sailing east," answered the professor of mathematics, smiling again. "then i see how it might happen," the sol- dier declared. tales of fantasy and fact "well, i don't," confessed the artist. the journalist said nothing, as it seemed un- professional to admit ignorance of anything. "it is simple enough," the soldier explained. "you see, the world is revolving about the sun steadily, and it is always high noon somewhere on the globe. the day rolls round unceasing, and it is not cut off into twenty-four hours. we happen to have taken the day of green- wich or paris as the day of civilization, and we say that it begins earlier in china and later in california; but it is all the same day, we say. therefore there has to be some place out in the middle of the pacific ocean where we lose or gain a day—if we are going east, we gain it; if we are going west, we lose it. now i suppose this little girl of twelve was on her way from some asiatic port to some ameri- can port, and they stopped on their voyage at honolulu. perhaps they dropped anchor there just before midnight on their february , , thinking that the morrow would be the th; but when they were hailed from the shore, just after midnight, they found out that it was already march st." as the soldier finished, he looked at the the twinkling of an eye the twinkling of an eye | tie telegraph messenger looked again at the address on the envel- ope in his hand, and then scanned the house before which he was standing. it was an old-fashioned building of brick, two stories high, with an attic above; and it stood in an old-fashioned part of lower new york, not far from the east river. over the wide archway there was a small weather- worn sign, " itamapo steel and iron works ;" and over the smaller door alongside was a still smaller sign, "whittier, wheatcroft & co." when the messenger-boy had made out the name, he opened this smaller door and entered the long, narrow store. its sides and walls were covered with bins and racks containing the twinkling of an eye father, took the messenger's book, and, glan- cing at an old-fashioned clock which stood in the corner, he wrote the name of the firm and the hour of delivery. he was watching the messenger go out. his attention was suddenly called to subjects of more importance by a sharp exclamation from his father. "well, well, well," said the elder whittier with his eyes fixed on the telegram he had just read. "this is very strange—very strange indeed!" "what's strange ?" asked the third occupant of the office, mr. wheatcroft, a short, stout, irascible-looking man with a shock of grizzly hair. for all answer mr. whittier handed to mr. wheatcroft the thin slip of paper. no sooner had the junior partner read the paper than he seemed angrier than was usual with him. "strange!" he cried. "i should think it was strange! confoundedly strange—and deuced unpleasant, too." "may i see what it is that's so very strange?" asked paul, picking up the despatch. "of course you may see it," growled mr. tales of fantasy and fact wheatcroft; "and let us see what you can make of it." the young man read the message aloud: "deal off. can get quarter cent better terms. carkendale." then he read it again to himself. at last he said, " i confess i don't see anything so very mysterious in that. we've lost a contract, i suppose; but that must have happened lots of times before, hasn't it?" "it's happened twice before, this fall," re- turned mr. wheatcroft, fiercely, "after our bid had been practically accepted and just before the signing of the final contract!" "let me explain, wheatcroft," interrupted the elder whittier, gently. "you must not expect my son to understand the ins and outs of this business as we do. besides, he has only been in the office ten days." "i don't expect him to understand," growled wheatcroft. "how could he? i don't under- stand it myself!" "close that door, paul," said mr. whittier. "i don't want any of the clerks to know what we are talking about. here are the facts in the case, and i think you will admit that they the twinkling of an eye are certainly curious: twice this fall, and now a third time, we have been the lowest bidders for important orders, and yet, just before our bid was formally accepted, somebody has cut under us by a fraction of a cent and got the job. first we thought we were going to get the building of the barataria central's bridge over the little makintosh river, but in the end it was the tuxedo steel company that got the contract. then there was the order for the fifty thousand miles of wire for the trans- continental telegraph; we made an extraor- dinarily low estimate on that. we wanted the contract, and we threw off, not only our profit, but even allowances for office expenses; and yet five minutes before the last bid had to be in, the tuxedo company put in an offer only a hundred and twenty-five dollars less than ours. now comes the telegram to-day. the methuselah life insurance company is go- ing to put up a big building; we were asked to estimate on the steel framework. we wanted that work—times are hard and there is little doing, as you know, and we must get work for our men if we can. we meant to have this contract if we could. we offered to do it at tales of fantasy and fact what was really actual cost of manufacture— without profit, first of all, and then without any charge at all for office expenses, for in- terest on capital, for depreciation of plant. the vice-president of the methuselah, the one who attends to all their real estate, is mr. carken- dale. he told me yesterday that our bid was very low, and that we were certain to get the contract. and now he sends me this." mr. whittier picked up the telegram again. "but if we were going to do it at actual cost of manufacture," said the young man, "and somebody else underbids us, isn't somebody else losing money on the job?" "that's no sort of satisfaction to our men," retorted mr. wheatcroft, cooking himself before the fire. "somebody else—confound himi-- will be able to keep his men together and to give them the wages we want for our men. do you think somebody else is the tuxedo company again?" "what of it ?" asked mr. whittier. "surely you don't suppose—" "yes, i do," interrupted mr. wheatcroft, swiftly. "i do, indeed. i haven't been in this business thirty years for nothing. i know the twinkling of an eye how hungry we get at all times for a big, fat contract; and i know we would any of us give a hundred dollars to the man who could tell us what our chief rival has bid. it would be the cheapest purchase of the year, too." "come, come, wheatcroft," said the elder whittier; "you know we've never done any- thing of that sort yet, and i think you and i are too old to be tempted now." "nothing of the sort," snorted the fiery little man; " i'm open to temptation this very moment. if i could know what the tuxedo people are going to bid on the new steel rails of the springfield and athens, i'd give a thou- sand dollars." "if i understand you, mr. wheatcroft," paul whittier asked, " you are suggesting that there has been something done that is not fair?" "that's just what i mean," mr. wheatcroft declared, vehemently. "do you mean to say that the tuxedo peo- ple have somehow been made acquainted with our bids ?" asked the young man. "that's what i'm thinking now," was the sharp answer. "i can't think of anything else. for two months we haven't been successful tales of fantasy and fact in getting a single one of the big contracts. we've had our share of the little things, of course, but they don't amount to much. the big things that we really wanted have slipped through our fingers. we've lost them by the skin of our teeth every time. that isn't ac- cident, is it? of course not! then there's only one explanation—there's a leak in this office somewhere." "you don't suspect any of the clerks, do you, mr. wheatcroft?" asked the elder whit- tier, sadly. "i don't suspect anybody in particular," re- turned the junior partner, brushing his hair up the wrong way; "and i suspect everybody in general. i haven't an idea who it is, but it's somebody! it must be somebody—and if it is somebody, i'll do my best to get that somebody into the clutches of the law." "who makes up the bids on these important contracts?" asked paul. "wheatcroft and i," answered his father. "the specifications are forwarded to the works, and the engineers make their estimates of the actual cost of labor and material. these esti- mates are sent to us here, and we add what- the twinkling of an eye ever we think best for interest, and for ex- penses, for wear and tear, and for profit." "who writes the letters making the offer— the one with actual figures i mean?" the son continued. "i do," the elder whittier explained; "i have always done it." "you don't dictate them to a typewriter?" paul pursued. "certainly not," the father responded; "i write them with my own hand, and, what's more, i take the press-copy myself, and there is a special letter-book for such things. this letter-book is always kept in the safe in this office; in fact, i can say that this particular letter-book never leaves my hands except to go into that safe. and, as you know, nobody has access to that safe except wheatcroft and me." "and the major," corrected the junior partner. "no," mr. whittier explained, " van zandt has no need to go there now." "but he used to," mr. wheatcroft persisted. "he did once," the senior partner returned; "but when we bought those new safes outside tales of fantasy and fact there in the main office, there was no longer any need for the chief book-keeper to go to this smaller safe; and so, last month—it was while you were away, wheatcroft—van zandt came in here one afternoon, and said that, as he never had occasion to go to this safe, he would rather not have the responsibility of knowing the combination. i told him we had perfect confidence in him." "i should think so!" broke in the explosive wheatcroft. "the major has been with us for thirty years now. i'd suspect myself of petty larceny as soon as him." "as i said," continued the elder whittier; "i told him that we trusted him perfectly, of course. but he urged me, and to please him i changed the combination of this safe that afternoon. you will remember, wheatcroft, that i gave you the new word the day you came back." "yes, i remember," said mr. wheatcroft. "but i don't see why the major did not want to know how to open that safe. perhaps he is beginning to feel his years now. he must be sixty, the major; and i've been thinking for some time that he looks worn." the twinkling of an eye "i noticed the change in him," paul re- marked, "the first day i came into the office. he seemed ten years older than he was last winter." "perhaps his wound troubles him again," suggested mr. whittier. "whatever the rea- son, it is at his own request that he is now ignorant of the combination. no one knows that but wheatcrof t and i. the letters them- selves i wrote myself, and copied myself, and put them myself in the envelopes i directed my- self. i don't recall mailing them myself, but i may have done that too. so you see that there can't be any foundation for your belief, wheat- croft, that somebody had access to our bids." "i can't believe anything else!" cried wheat- croft, impulsively. "i don't know how it was done—i'm not a detective—but it was done somehow. and if it was done, it was done by somebody! and what i'd like to do is to catch that somebody in the act—that's all! i'd make it hot for him!" "you would like to have him out at the uamapo works," said paul, smiling at the lit- tle man's violence, "and put him under the steam-hammer?" tales of fantasy and fact "yes, i would," responded mr. wheatcroft. "i would indeed! putting a man under a steam-hammer may seem a cruel punishment, but i think it would cure the fellow of any taste for prying into our business in the fut- ure." "i think it would get him out of the habit of living," the elder whittier said, as the tall clock in the corner struck one. "but don't let's be so brutal. let's go to lunch and talk the matter over quietly. i don't agree with your suspicion, wheatcroft, but there may be something in it." five minutes later mr. whittier, mr. wheat- croft, and the only son of the senior partner left the glass-framed private office, and, walk- ing leisurely through the long store, passed into the street. they did not notice that the old book- keeper, major van zamlt, whose high desk was so placed that he could overlook the private office, had been watching them ever since the messenger had delivered the despatch. he could not read the telegram, he could not hear the comments, but he could see every movement and every gesture and every ex- the twinkling of an eye —been able to be of service to the government of the united states. all through the four years that followed the firing on the flag in the ramapo works had been run day and night. when peace came at last and the people had leisure to expand, a large share of the rails needed by the new overland roads which were to bind the east and west to- gether in iron bonds had been rolled by whit- tier, wheatcroft & co. of late years, as paul knew, the old firm seemed to have lost some of its early energy, and, having young and vigorous competitors, it had barely held its own. that the ramapo works should once more take the lead was paul whittier's solemn pur- pose, and to this end he had been carefully trained. he was now a young man of twen- ty-five, a tall, handsome fellow, with a full mustache over his firm mouth, and with clear, quick eyes below his curly brown hair. he had spent four years in college, carrying off honors in mathematics, was popular with his classmates, who made him class poet, and in his senior year he was elected president of the college photographic society. he had gone to tales of fantasy and fact that she had run away from him; and his only son was a wild lad, who had been em- ployed by whittier, wheatcroft & co., out of regard for the father, and who had disgraced himself beyond forgiveness. paul recalled vaguely that the young fellow had gone west somewhere, and had been shot in a mining- camp after a drunken brawl in a gambling- house. as paul entered the private office he found the porter there, putting coal on the fire. stepping back to close the glass door be- hind him, that they might be alone, he said: "mike, who shuts up the office at night?" "sure i do, mr. paul," was the prompt re- ply. "and you open it in the morning?" the young man asked. "i do that!" mike responded. "do you see that these windows are always fastened on the inside?" was the next query. "yes, mr. paul," the porter replied. "well," and the inquirer hesitated briefly before putting this question, " have you found any of these windows unfastened any morning lately when you came here?" the twinkling of an eye had got in, and why he did not get out by the way he entered, how he came to be able to open the private safe, the combination of which was known only to the two partners—. these were questions for which paul whittier had no answer. what grieved him when he had come to the conclusion was that the thief — for such the house-breaker was in reality—was probably one of the men in the employ of the firm. it seemed to him almost certain that the man who had broken in knew all the ins and outs of the office. and how could this knowledge have been obtained except by an employee? paul was well acquainted with the clerks in the outer office. there were five of them, in- cluding the old book-keeper, and although none of them had been with the firm as long as the major, no one of them had been there less than ten years. paul did not know which one to suspect. there was, in fact, no reason to suspect any particular clerk. and yet that one of the five men in the main office on the other side of the glass partition within twenty feet of him—that one of these was the guilty man paul did not doubt. tales of fantasy and fact as he took his hat and overcoat, "i've just broken the clock. i know a shop where they make a specialty of repairing timepieces like that. i'm going to tell them to send for it at once. give it to the man who will come this afternoon with my card. do you understand?" "cert," the boy answered. "if he 'ain't got your card, he don't get the clock." "that's what i mean," paul responded, as he left the office. before he reached the door he met mr. wheatcroft. "paul," cried the junior partner, explosively, "i've been thinking about that—about that— you know what i mean! and i have decided that we had better put a detective on this thing at once!" "yes," said paul, "that's a good idea. in fact, i had just come to the same conclusion. j )> then he checked himself. he had turned round slightly to speak to mr. wheatcroft; he saw that major van zandt was standing within ten feet of them, and he noticed that the old book-keeper's face was strangely pale. the twinkling of an eye reason why we should depart from our old custom of treating every man fairly. if there is any one in our employ here who is selling us, why, if we give him rope enough he will hang himself, sooner or later." "and before he suspends himself that way," cried mr. wheatcroft, " we may be forced to suspend ourselves." "come, come, wheatcroft," said the senior partner, "i think we can afford to stand the loss a little longer. what we can't afford to do is to lose our self-respect by doing some- thing irreparable. it may be that we shall have to employ detectives, but i don't think the time has come yet." "very well," the junior partner declared, yielding an unwilling consent. "i don't in- sist on it. i still think it would be best not to waste any more time—but i don't insist. what will happen is that we shall lose the rolling of those steel rails for the springfield and athens road—that's all." paul whittier had taken no part in this dis- cussion. he agreed with his father, and saw he had no need to urge any further argument. presently he asked when they intended to tales of fantasy and fact man's answer. "that bag has very little in it. and, besides, i haven't got to carry it far." the next morning paul was the first of the three to arrive. the clerks were in their places already, but neither the senior nor the junior partner had yet come. the porter happened to be standing under the wagon archway as paul whittier was about to enter the store. the young man saw the porter, and a mis- chievous smile hovered about the corners of his mouth. "mike," he said, pausing on the door-step, "do you think you ought to smoke while you are cleaning out your office in the morning?" "sure, i haven't had me pipe in me mouth this mornin' at all," the porter answered, taken by surprise. "but yesterday morning?" paul pursued. "yesterday mornin'!" mike echoed, not a little puzzled. "yesterday morning at ten minutes before eight you were in the private office smoking a pipe." "but how did you see me, mr. paul?" cried mike, in amaze. "ye was late in comin' down yesterday, wasn't ye?" the twinkling of an eye your heels against the safe, scratching off the paint? next time i'd try the yard, if i were you. sports of that sort are more fun in the open air." and with that parting shot paul went on his way to his own desk, leaving the office-boj' greatly puzzled. later in the day bob and mike exchanged confidences, and neither was ready with an explanation. "at school," bob declared, "we used to think teacher had eyes in the back of her head. she was everlastingly catchin' me when i did things behind her back. but mr. paul beats that, for he see me doin' things when he wasn't here." "mister paul wasn't here, for sure, yester- day mornin'," mike asserted; "i'd take me oath o' that. an' if he wasn't here, how could he see me givin' ye a light from me pipe? answer me that! he says it's a little bird told him; but that's not it, i'm thinkin'. not but that they have clocks with birds into 'em, that come out and tell the time o' day, 'cuckoo! cuckoo! cuckoo!' an' if that big clock he broke last week had a bird in it that tales of fantasy and fact could tell time that way, i'd break the thing quick—so i would." "it ain't no bird," said bob. "you can bet your life on that. no birds can't tell him nothin' no more'n you can catch 'em by putting salt on their tails. i know what it is mr. paul does—least, i know how he does it. it's second- sight, that's what it is! i see a man onct at the theayter, an' he—" but perhaps it is not necessary to set down here the office-boy's recollection of the trick of an ingenious magician. about half an hour after paul had arrived at the office mr. wheatcroft appeared. the junior partner hesitated in the doorway for a second, and then entered. paul was watching him, and the same mis- chievous smile flashed over the face of the young man. "you need not be alarmed to-day, mr. wheatcroft," he said. "there is no fascinat- ing female waiting for you this morning." "confound the woman!" ejaculated mr. wheatcroft, testily. "i couldn't get rid of her." "but you subscribed for the book at last," asserted paul, "and she went away happy." tales of fantasy and fact "you see how uncomfortable it is to be shadowed," said paul, turning the topic as his father entered the office. that saturday afternoon mr. whittier and mr. wheatcroft agreed on the bid to be made on the steel rails needed by the springfield and athens road. while the elder mr. whittier wrote the letter to the railroad with his own hand, his son manoeuvred the junior partner into the outer office, where all the clerks hap- pened to be at work, including the old book- keeper. then paul managed his conversation with mr. wheatcroft so that any one of the five employees who chose to listen to the ap- parently careless talk should know that the firm had just made a bid on another important contract. paul also spoke as though his father and himself would probably go out of town that saturday night, to remain away till mon- day morning. and just before the store was closed for the night, paul whittier wound up the eight-day clock that stood in the corner opposite the private safe. iv although the whittiers, father and son, spent sunday out of town, paul made an ex- cuse to the friends whom they were visiting, and returned to the city by a midnight train. thus he was enabled to present himself at the office of the ramapo works very early on monday morning. it was so early, indeed, that no one of the employees had arrived when the son of the senior partner, bag in hand, pushed open the street door and entered the long store, at the far end of which the porter was still tidying up for the day's work. "an' is that you, mister paul?" mike asked in surprise, as he came out of the pri- vate office to see who the early visitor might be. "an' what brought ye out o' your bed before breakfast like this?" "i always get out of bed before breakfast," paul replied. "don't you?" tales of fantasy and fact it may be surmised that mike would have been still more in the dark as to paul whit- tier's reasons for coming down-town so ear- ly that monday morning if he could have seen the young man throw the copies of the gotham gazette into the first ash - cart he passed after he was out of range of the por- ter's vision. paul was not the only member of whittier, wheatcroft & co. to arrive at the office early that morning. mr. wheatcroft was usually punctual, taking his seat at his desk just as the clock struck half-past nine. on this mon- day morning he entered the store a little be- fore nine. as he walked back to the office he looked over at the desks of the clerks as though he was seeking some one. at the door of the office he met bob. "hasn't the major come down yet?" he asked, shortly. "no, sir," the boy answered. "he don't never get here till nine." "h'm," grunted the junior partner. "when he does come, tell him i want to see him at once—at once, do you understand?" the twinkling of an eye and not once did he let his voice break out explosively, as was his custom. major van zandt was still closeted with wheatcroft when mr. whittier arrived. the senior partner stopped near the street door to speak to a clerk, and he was joined almost immediately by his son. "well, paul," said the father, "have i got down here before you after all, and in spite of your running away last night?" "no," the son responded, " i was the first to arrive this morning^luckily," "luckilyi" echoed his father. "i suppose that means that you have been able to accom- plish your purpose—whatever it was. you didn't tell me, you know." "i'm ready to tell you now, father," said paul, "since i have succeeded." walking down the store together, they came to the private office. as the old book-keeper saw them he started up, and made as if to leave the office. "keep your seat, major," cried mr. wheat- croft, sternly, but not unkindly. "keep your seat, please." then he turned to mr. whittier. "i have tales of fantasy and fact something to tell you both," he said, "and i want the major here while i tell you. paul, may i trouble you to see that the door is closed so that we are out of hearing?" "certainly," paul responded, as he closed the door. "well, wheatcroft," mr. whittier said, "what is all this mystery of yours now?" the junior partner swung around in his chair and faced mr. whittier. "my mystery?" he cried, "it's the mys- tery that puzzled us all, and i've solved it." "what do you mean?" asked the senior partner. "what i mean is, that somebody has been opening that safe there in the corner, and reading our private letter-book, and finding out what we were bidding on important con- tracts. what i mean is, that this man has taken this information, filched from us, and sold it to our competitors, who were not too scrupulous to buy stolen goods!" "we all suspected this, as you know," the elder whittier said; "have you anything new to add to it now?" when paul whittier said he had a photo- graph of the mysterious enemy of the rama- po steel and iron works in the very act of opening the safe, mr. whittier and mr. wheat- croft looked at each other in amazement. major van zandt stared at the young man with fear and shame struggling together in his face. without waiting to enjoy his triumph, paul put his hand in his pocket and took out two squares of bluish paper. "there," he said, as he handed one to his father, " there is a blue print of the man taken in this office at ten minutes past three yester- day afternoon, just as he was about to open the safe in the corner. you see he is kneeling with his hand on the lock, but apparently just then something alarmed him and he cast a hasty glance over his shoulder. at that sec- ond the photograph was taken, and so we have a full-face portrait of the man." the twinkling of an eye mr. whittier had looked at the photograph, and he now passed it to the impatient hand of the junior partner. "you see, mr. wheatcroft," paul continued, "that although the face in the photograph bears a certain family likeness to major van zandt's, all the same that is not a portrait of the major. the man who was here yesterday was a young man, a man young enough to be the major's son!" the old book-keeper looked at the speaker. "mr. paul," he began, "you won't be hard on the—" then he paused abruptly. "i confess i don't understand this at all!" declared mr. "wheatcroft, irascibly. "i am afraid that i do understand it," mr. whittier said, with a glance of compassion at the major. "there," paul continued, handing his father a second azure square, "there is a photograph taken here ten minutes after the first, at . yesterday afternoon. that shows the safe open and the young man standing before it with the private letter-book in his hand. as his head is bent over the pages of the book, the view of the face is not so good. but there the twinkling of an eye there was a moment's silence, broken by wheatcroft suddenly saying: "the major's son? why, he's dead, isn't he? he was shot in a brawl after a spree somewhere out west two or three years ago —at least, that's what i understood at the time." "it is what i wanted everybody to under- stand at the time," said the book-keeper, break- ing silence at last. "but it wasn't so. the boy was shot, but he wasn't killed. i hoped that it would be a warning to him, and he would make a fresh start. friends of mine got him a place in mexico, but luck was against him—so he wrote me—and he lost that. then an old comrade of mine gave him another chance out in denver, and for a while he kept straight and did his work well. then he broke down once more and he was discharged. for six months i did not know what had be- come of him. i've found out since that he was a tramp for weeks, and that he walked most of the way from colorado to new york. this fall he turned up in the city, ragged, worn out, sick. i wanted to order him away, but i couldn't. i took him back and got him tales of fantasy and fact decent clothes and took him to look for a place, for i knew that hard work was the only thing that would keep him out of mischief, he did not find a place, perhaps he did not look for one. but all at once i discovered that he had money. he would not tell me how he got it. i knew he could not have come by it honestly, and so i watched him. i spied after him, and at last i found that he was selling you to the tuxedo company." "but how could he open the safe?" cried mr. wheatcroft. "you didn't know the new combination." "i did not tell him the combination i did know," said the old book-keeper, with pathetic dignity. "and i didn't have to tell him. he can open almost any safe without knowing the combination. how he does it, i don't know; it is his gift. he listens to the wheels as they turn, and he sets first one and then the other; and in ten minutes the safe is open." "how could he get into the store?" mr. whittier inquired. "he knew i had a key," responded the old book-keeper, "and he stole it from me. he used to watch on sunday afternoons till mike tales of fantasy and fact he is, but he is my son, after all—my only son! and when mr. wheatcroft accused me, i con- fessed at last, thinking you might be easier on me than you would be on the boy." "my poor friend," said mr. whittier, sym- pathetically, holding out his hand, which the major clasped gratefully for a moment. "now that we know who was selling us to the tuxedo people, we can protect ourselves hereafter," declared mr. wheatcroft. "and in spite of your trying to humbug me into be- lieving you guilty, major, i'm willing to let your son off easy." "i think i can get him a place where he will be out of temptation, because he will be kept hard at work always," said paul. the old book-keeper looked up as though about to thank the young man, but there seemed to be a lump in his throat which pre- vented him from speaking. suddenly mr. wheatcroft began, explosively, "that's all very well! but what i still don't un- derstand is how paul got those photographs!" mr. whittier looked at his son and smiled. "that is a little mysterious, paul," he said, "and i confess i'd like to know how you did it." the twinkling of an eye before half-past three the man was gone, and the camera winked every ten minutes until six o'clock quite in vain. i came down early this morning and got the roll of negatives. one after another i developed them, dis- appointed that i had almost counted fifty of them without reward. but the forty- third and the forty-fourth paid for all my trouble." mr. "whittier gave his son a look of pride. "that was very ingeniously worked out, paul; very ingeniously indeed," he said. "if it had not been for your clock here i might have found it difficult to prove that the major was innocent—especially since he declared himself guilty." mr. wheatcroft rose to his feet, to close the conversation. "i'm glad we know the truth, anyhow," he asserted, emphatically. and then, as though to relieve the strain on the old book-keeper, he added, with a loud laugh at his own joke, "that clock had its hands before its face all the time—but it kept its eyes open for all that!" "don't forget that it had only one eye," tales of fantasy and fact said whittier, joining in the laugh; "it had an eye single to its duty." "you know the french saying, father," added paul, "' in the realm of the blind the one-eyed man is king.'" ( .) tales of fantasy and fact fortunately, almost in the very phrases of hawthorne and of mrs. stowe, while i was forced to describe as best i could myself the gyrations of the wife who lived in 'a doll's house' and of her remote predecessor as a "new woman," the daughter of herodias. the same method was followed in the writing of the third of these tales, although the au- thors then drawn upon were most of them less well known; and the only quotation of any length was the one from irving describing the mysterious deeds of the headless horseman. now it chanced that the 'dream-gown of the japanese ambassador,' instead of appear- ing complete in one number of a magazine, as the two earlier tales had done, was published in various daily newspapers in three instal- ments. in the first of these divisions the re- turned traveller fell asleep and saw himself in the crystal ball; in the second he went through the rest of his borrowed adventures; and in the third his friend awakened him and un- ravelled the mystery. when the second part appeared a clergyman who had read the 'sketch-book' (even though he had never heard of the 'forty-seven ronins,' or the a confidential postscript 'shah-nameh,' or the ' custom of the coun- try ') took his pen and sat down and wrote swiftly to a newspaper, declaring that this in- stalment of my tale had been " cribbed bod- ily, and almost verbatim et literatim, in one- third of its entire length, from the familiar 'legend of sleepy hollow.'" he asked sar- castically if the copyright notice printed at the head of my story was meant to apply also to the passages plagiarized from irving. he declared also that "it is unfortunate for liter- ary persons of the stamp of the author of 'vignettes of manhattan ' that there still ex- ist readers who do not forget what they have read that is worth remembering. such read- ers are not to be imposed on by the most skillful bunglers (sic) who endeavor to pass off as their own the work of greater men." the writer of this letter had given his address, christ church rectory, , n. j. (i suppress the name of the village for the sake of his parishioners as i suppress the name of the man for the sake of his family). there- fore i wrote to him at once, telling him that if he had read the third and final instalment of my story with the same attention he had given a confidential postscript been tapped were thursday, friday, and satur- day. father goes down to the store every sun- day morning for about half an hour to open the mail, and it was then that he discovered the saturday night theft. directly after sunday dinner, father went down to see an electrical friend of his, who executed a plan which my father had devised. the cash-drawer was sit- uated in one corner of the office (quite a large one), in which both the wholesale and retail business is transacted. he placed a large de- tective camera in the corner opposite the till, and beside it, and a little behind, a quantity of flash-light powder in a receptacle. this powder was connected by electric wires with the till in such a manner that when the drawer was opened the circuit would be completed and the powder ignited. everything worked to perfection. the office is always left dark at night, so the shutter of the camera could be left open without spoiling the film. the cam- era was in place sunday evening, but the thief stayed away. it was set again on monday night, and that time we got him. a small wire was attached to a weight near the cam- era extending to the till. as the thief started tales of fantasy and fact to open the drawer the weight made a slight noise. he glanced in the direction of the noise, started, pulled the weight a little far- ther, and we had his picture. detectives had already been working on the case, and the thief was identified and arrested on the strength of the portrait. when he was in- formed that we had his picture, he made a full confession. he said that when the flashlight went off he nearly fainted from fright." after this experience i am tempted to give up all hope that i can ever invent anything which is not a fact, even before i make it up. i am now prepared, therefore, to discover that i did really have an interview with count cagliostro, and also that i was actually an unwilling witness at the wedding of the rival ghosts. ( .) the end nypl research libraries ||| | o - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - f- - - - - - eߺ - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - | the new york public library + ºr the merle johnson collection ge- º nºvº jº/ . dup. to sº . * be kept ^. my tussle with the devil a nd other s to ri es by o. henry's ghost i. m. y. company new york l, f tºw york públic library tilden fou r . copyright, , by i. m. y. company - - - - - * - - - - - - - * * * - - - * - ~ * - - - - - * . . . * * * - - - - * * * - - - - ** - - - - * - -- - * - - - * * * * * * * - - - - - - - - * - - - - Ühe warrage ire feel i cannot give o. henry's ghost better am- munition with which to meet his critics than a bit of truth voiced by joan in one of algernon blackwood’s wonderful books. “the beloved dead step nearer when their bodies drop aside. they know where they are and what they are doing. it's not for us to worry —in that way. and they are out of hours and minutes.” to meet the onslaught of you, mr. scoffer and mr. skeptic, who will say, “impossible! they are not a bit like o. henry's stories! they lack all his virility, etc., etc.” i say at once, of course they are different! where before his stories were written in the bold black and red of human passions, which belong to materiality, the barrage fire because the spirit known as o. henry came before the curtain on this particular stage in the garb of heavy woolen materiality, thundering vivid, scarlet tales, is no reason why, having made his exit, after playing out his role,_he should not return in a dif- ferent characterization and in chiffon garb. if he is not recognized in the new one upon his entrance it is no evi- dence that the same spirit does not animate both, and the perfection of detail and artistry in both characteri- zations is convincing proof of the same dominant spirit. while the stories necessarily re- flect in their style the high aspira- tion that prompted them, they prove, as o. henry's ghost so vividly re- marked, that a leopard can change its spots. flashes of the o. henry who wrote “the man about town” are found my tussle with the devil in the bits of personal conversation from o. henry's ghost, and the old and new are blended in the following birthday greeting: “i give you my gladsome wish for a comrade and gratitude for opening the doors to a scrivener. if it was the olden days i should have been foolish enough to say ‘have a drink to celebrate.’ now i shall tell you to take a whiff of ambrosia fit for gods and shall join you with a gladsome spirit. here’s how !” the sledge hammer blows wielded by the personality of o. henry can only dull to insensibility and bring forth a murmur of “i think” and “i believe,” while the darting shafts of o. henry's ghost will pierce the clouds and bring forth the chorus of “i know” to those who, having eyes —see—and having ears—hear! it is today the same as when plato said: the barrage fire “strange times are these in which we live, forsooth : when old and young are taught in falsehood's school and the one man who dares to tell the truth is called at once a “lunatic' and ‘fool.’” but at any rate, they go forth at the request of o. henry's ghost and with the belief that the beauty of thought will be a joyful remembrance of one who was known as o. henry. parma. june th, . ocean boulevard, atlantic highlands, new jersey. contents comments . over there foreword - - - - - my tussle with the devil the contest . sleeping yearning animals- weariness— i. the king . ii. the toiler the slave . flowers— missionaries . jewels— multitudes remembrances munitions . going home my hearth the three h's . the senses . ... . . . . . . my tussle with the devil fancies- fancies trusting thoughts . thinking yesterday-today . action.—reaction . a vision . . . . . . . comments my tussle with the devil ment we followed with intense inter- est, and to whose advice in critical moments we owe much. this was the situation when early in september, , we were told that if we would sit at the “board” each afternoon about four-thirty o’clock, with a positive determination to re- ceive only that which was worth while, and shut the door at once to anyone whose offerings did not reach a high standard, we would receive things that would surprise us. accordingly, on september , , we waited results—they came as follows: “my little talent i suppose you will consider insufficient.” “who are you?” we asked. “useless to give name,” came the answer. “if you do not know when the story is finished, it is n. g.” “i wish to tell the world what is theirs for the asking. to try and comments give them a new viewpoint in place of their erroneous ideas.” “i did not know as much then as i do now. before i wrote what the self saw only—now it is what i know.” “we'll take a chance—go ahead,” i said. then followed a story called “the contest.” how do we know it was the spirit of o. henry? we will let the rec- ord speak for itself. the truth al- ways carries conviction, except to minds the doors of which are double- barred. it was evidently the first time this spirit had used a ouija board, for he was not sure of the location of the letters, and after the first para- graph said: “my force is insufficient; it tires me to spell each word so slowly.” we told him to go as fast as he comments eral days, o. henry's ghost began with: “i am glad to see you.” “did you miss us?” “that’s what!” was the answer. the day was rainy and the story rather serious, or so it impressed us, for we asked: “why don’t you give us a cheer- ful story?” his reply silenced further sugges- tions. it was: “kindly allow me to express what i feel.” o. henry's individuality was clearly marked from the first and we had no doubt about his genuineness, but an incident which occurred one afternoon may serve to convince the skeptical. several times we had been both- ered by the interruptions of a boy spirit called william mumm, who was possessed with an over-developed my tussle with the devil sense of humor. often we knew that o. henry was being crowded by others who thought that they should be given a chance to express them- selves, and once or twice the writing stopped until things quieted down. on this occasion mumm broke in with, “henry is giving too many or- ders.” - on being told in a forceful way what we thought of his interference, he said, “my word! that was a hot shot! i won't butt in again:”—and he didn’t. later, when we asked o. henry whether others were present, he said, “they are hanging around, but not butting in.” as we got better acquainted, there was more conversation of a personal nature before the story for the day was started. to the question whether before he “crossed over” he had had any real truth, he said: my tussle with the devil to our usual question “who is with us?” came the answer: “i was called henry.” a glimpse into conditions on the “other side” was given when we asked o. henry whether he had found a friend of whose “passing over” we had told him. “no,” he replied; “i have not found him. he must be resting, and we make it a point never to disturb, for the rest periods are of the most importance and hasten growth. i shall watch for him when he makes his mansion.” “what do you mean by that?” we asked. “in the beginning of life here we make little progress—unless knowl- edge of the truth has been ours be- fore coming over. that is why it is so necessary to learn before leaving the earth sphere. without that one must wander aimlessly or rest comments and gaze at things of the past—and our associates are other unfortunates who have had closed ears before leav- ing. “when one has reviewed a certain number of lives—or generally a se- quence of events—then comes a ten- der friend who points out advantage- ous work and study, and which, if followed, always means the beginning of progress and growth. it is only after that has been made use of that we begin our mansion or abiding place. “keep it always in your mind, the foundation stones are knowledge, wisdom, power—and then it is built by the thought and desire of aspira- tion, beauty and love. “i want to impress upon you and all mankind the necessity of ‘know- ing,’ and, what is more to the point, ‘believing.’ “if you will lend me your pencil, my tussle with the devil most generous person, i may be able to say all i want. now it seems as if i never would be able to get rid of it all. “if you would publish a magazine it would be a ‘hummer.” the trouble is, there is no periodical which has any one back of it who knows. they all prattle and the almighty dol- lar is the main thing. truth would bring them faster than anything if they would only believe it. let’s work it out! it would be great! now to work, if you don't mind. “in a sunny nook by a babbling brook i have built my mansion.” o. henry was very enthusiastic over the idea of a magazine. refer- ring to it again, he said, “call it the sphina.” get at it at once. have it contain only tales which teach, and wisdom.” once when he talked on until late in the evening, and we became tired, my tussle with the devil with that he redictated the last half of the story, changing it com- pletely and to the satisfaction of all. with his next story we were par- ticularly pleased, and on our saying so, he said: ‘i thank you and am glad you really like it. have to watch my p's and q’s now or i will lose my publisher. it is great to be compelled to do one’s best. it means the continuation of aspiration. lying spirits do not aspire. having publishers who will accept nothing but the truth and only the best one is capable of is a bit of a novelty. pity there are not more of them for material, as well as spir- itual fiction. you might get hoover to add that plan for conservation of paper and ink. if we over here had more publishers like you there would be more truth spread broadcast. the trouble is most of the offices accept anything, just so it has a name at- tached. comments “what’s in a name?—nothing.” “what's in a truth?—every- thing.” unless the spirit moving the indi- cator on the board is an advanced soul, having great power, he usually draws from the persons he is work- ing through. this o. henry was at times forced to do, and so we under- stood, when one day, instead of start- ing a story he said: “your teacher says you hesitate to tell when you are tired. better to have a perfect pen for two lines, than none at all for twenty. tell me the moment you become fatigued. there is time for the lot. if you are de- pleted through my coming, it will be curtailed, if not stopped, and that would be too dreadful! much better a half a loaf at a time than none at all. please tell me. your teacher thinks you have sufficient without what i am dictating, but feels that it my tussle with the devil is worth while providing you are not in any way injured by the work. i so want to have the opportunity. do, kind person, tell me and let us go slower. last night i chattered; no reason for it at all, except the pleas- ure of doing it, and you were tired, the teacher says, before i began.” we agreed to be more careful, and o. henry said: “that’s a bargain.” in speaking of the many plots crowding his mind and which he wanted to express, he said: “riches are a burden at times. i wish to rid myself of them. quick returns will follow. with much ma- terial off my mind i shall be able to develop much, more worth while. hurry! life takes up so many hours.” before starting a series of stories of a different nature from those given first, he said: comments “my wish is to widen the horizon. it is important for humanity to know. it must recognise the oneness of everything. we will write of more than man. i will give a series. first beasts—then flowers and jewels.” when these stories were completed, everything seemed to conspire to pre- vent the devoting of a quiet hour to o. henry and his stories. whenever constructive work is done, by which the truth may be brought to many, the forces of destruction are arrayed in opposition. this we felt to the full. twice stories were started and stopped after only a few paragraphs had been written. in one it was evi- dent that o. henry had been pushed aside and a complete sentence injected by some “power of darkness.” we at once realized the situation and put the “board” away. when next o. henry came, he said: my tussle with the devil “the time has been long. why keep the muse silent? i am simply overburdened with plots.” when asked the cause of the breaks in the last story he said: “i find there are still a number of people who believe they know better how to write my stories than i do. this last time it was “fiends.’ it is important you keep the door closed by demanding you receive only the truth—for that prevents their taking definite hold.” about this time there appeared in the papers notices of moving pictures made from the o. henry stories. we asked him what he thought of them, and his answer, concise as usual, was : “foolish rehash of yesterday's ignorance.” in commenting on how few be- lieved and how difficult it would be to find a publisher, o. henry answered: comments “my belief is you will have to do it yourself ultimately, if you cannot find some one who is independent. the trouble is that in a concern, one may believe, while the rest of the company do not yet see.” the conditions of everyday life be- came worse. we were able to snatch only a few minutes with o. henry and asked him if he felt the confu- sion. “it is a regular whirlpool, he said; the boat rocks. until you can have quiet i think it would be wiser to postpone trying to write. my wish is added to yours, for if all disturb- ance is eliminated we can then accom- plish a great deal without effort.” on new year's eve we received greetings from those with whom we had been closely associated in work, and last of all came o. henry. he said: “i do not belong, but i may come to the party, may i not? my tussle with the devil “i am content to wait until it will be only a pleasure to hold converse and when we can relaar to a real con- fab. “they are good stories, if i do say it—but they cannot believe in a leop- ard changing his spots. out upon that spot! - “an amazing thing that the stolid english are more awake spiritually than americans, who have not yet been touched vitally. some day they will awake and arise—and i hope then i can take part in the pro- cession. “my greetings and all aid possible for the year to come.” several weeks later he said: “this is the first opportunity i have had to hold ‘mind’ with you. “interesting expression that, when one realizes how true it is that mind is the only real point of contact, al- though when on your plane we speak comments only of the physical nearness of others. “is it true that the hour is to be re-established? if that is the case, we ought to turn out something worth while.” on being told that the poem, “sleeping,” which he had given us, was to be read to the poetry society, it seemed to appeal to his sense of humor, for he said: “if i was not to all appearances dead, that would be my death. i shall have a fearful attack of stage-fright. i do hope they won't call ‘authorſ’ “i like this house. it is so restful and harmonious. it is a smiling island of loveliness in a black sea of pitch. i shall stretch here at ease tonight and rest and live happily.” a. houghton pratt. “@ber oſijere” o. henry's ghost answers the ques- tions of a newspaper man re- garding “over there” sº he desires to know how §§§ we folks live? §§ queer the idea humanity - hugs to its breast of how different life must of necessity be over here. tell him that at present it is new york at its worst, on a day of cele- bration,-with streets crowded, peo- ple pushing in all directions, friends meeting, exchanging greetings and passing on. to us life is the same, with the exception that now time is no longer a factor. our emotions are the same—until we learn the wisdom of eliminating all unworthy ones. over there while, and when that desire comes, the material is at hand with which to create new garments. verily, over here thoughts become things quickly. there are those here who do not aspire for newer or better things, and so they remain in their same condi- tion. aspiration is the force here which pushes you on to better and greater achievements. houses? certainly we have them; each one to his liking, for he builds it as he desires, with the aid of others; all lend helping hands over here, and life becomes a proper mixture of work, play and study. yes, there are places where hate, envy and all the evils still hold sway, and if those are the things which you enjoy, you dwell in that locality. whatever you in your soul desire you receive. ask and it is given you; seek higher and you find; and it is foremorb “i wish to tell the world what is theirs for the asking. to try and give them a new view- point—in place of their erroneous ideas. before, i wrote what the self saw only—now it is what i know.” £ip (ſuggle tuiti, the ibeuil º ºf was the hour when souls % simply cling to their bodies by the merest thread— when i met his satanic majesty. he is well named, for he is majestic in every sense of the word—majestic of mien—majestic of gesture, of ex- pression, and a god to look upon. he is a deceptive person, for one meeting him casually would think he was one of the great and good men of the day—abroad on errands of mercy and with kindness in his heart for all humanity. so carefully does he conceal his identity that he resem- bles most of mankind—who are one person to themselves and quite an- other to the world of men. we met. he knew me, but i had not yet had the pleasure of knowing my tussle with the devil swept all this out of the way. “the homes of our servants. we enter now the domains of those who rule and where we hope you will abide.” the turn of the street brought us to an estate situated on the crest of a magnificent mountain. winding roads of dazzling whiteness and smoothness led through a garden of flowers and wonderful trees. run- ning streams made music, and the song of birds—with brilliant plum- age. with no word spoken—but many implied by gesture and nod—we reached at last the mansion. trans- parent—the walls seemed—heavy the air, with perfume. it was a palace of dreams—resting in the hollow of my hand. with a smile of winning sweet- ness he said: “this is yours. will you rest?” “mine! for what?” i exclaimed. my tussle with the devil my place, and, unconscious of what i did, sipped my wine from its jew- eled goblet. lifting his wine, he said: “to our better acquaintance—our brother- hood, i hope.” “to our better acquaintance, cer- tainly—but what do you mean by brotherhood?” “that i will explain. in this mountain fastness there is a secret abode, which only the elect can en- ter, and where the members set in motion great events and accomplish great deeds. we have need of one like you to assist us.” “what do you feel i can do?” i asked. “my talents are slight. i do not comprehend my selection.” “ah! that is not to be wondered at—for you have not correctly gauged your talents and ability. “do you realize that you have the greatest talent ever known—in one direction?” my tussle with th, devil “what!” i gasped. “quite true! i will tell you. “in the beginning you were pre- sented, by lesser gods, with a talent for love of everything, with love for the pure, for the true, for the beau- tiful. you aspired to be one of the unknown workers for humanity—to create beauty, in poem and song; to weave for them music which would make life an ecstacy. to scatter happiness was your ambition. jealousy was unknown to you, and envy a word you never even thought of. kindness was your pass-word in the realm from which you came—but we, who were observing you, recog- nized a power much greater than you knew—a power to work results magi- cal in their effect—and so we came near you and sought to make your better acquaintance. you were a shy bird, difficult to my tussle with the devil trusted. ultimately, you nearly per- fected that branch of your gift, and so had an honored seat at our coun- cil table—and we desire you again to take your place at its head.” “but why?” i interrupted, “did i lose that exalted seat?” “alas!” he answered, “you went back to your old habits. an animal was the cause of your downfall—a mongrel cur!” “you interest me,” i said. “ex- plain how that occurred.” “you were in a forsaken village— having lost your way and wandered there—and without food. little by little your strength left you, and you lay down under a tree, with all hope abandoned. a rustle in the dead grass aroused you, and presently a tiny, mangy dog crept up and licked your hand. the relief from the loneliness was so great that you foolishly took the cur in your arms.” my tussle with the devil “foolishly!” i exclaimed. “yes, foolishly; for that was the beginning of your loss of power. true, the animal led you out to safety and warmth, eventually. but what a seed was sown! where before the harvest was well-nigh perfect, it now had the weeds of pity and gratitude— so do the mighty fall! that was a fatal sowing and reap- ing for you, for it even affected your view of men. you commenced to see in them bits of character before un- seen. such useless things as con- sideration, love and pity! your habits, too, were affected by this poisonous weed. where before you had been perfect in all ways vile, you now commenced to give up some of the most brilliant jewels—betrayal of women—the excitement and joy of perfect and exhilarating wines. why you even went so low as to prefer my tussle with the devil sparkling waters from nature's sources.” holding my jeweled goblet high, i laughed and said: “to what depths can man sink!” “ah! i rejoice to see you agree with me. it is well! we shall suc- ceed together admirably, i feel sure,” he made answer. then, drawing closer to me, “now to our desires and agreement.” “by all means,” i replied. “i am eager to hear your plan. for, cer- tainly, if this domain is part of the reward, it interests me.” “good! that is better,” he re- plied. “when you first left our abode and joined with others, who had contrary beliefs, we felt it was final—but as we watched and studied your soul— for you know, of course, souls are clearly visible to us—and saw there was within it, still, the desire to con- my tussle with the devil “that is a little mystery, too, of yours, is it not? you ask if i will accept all that counts in the world, but you have not yet told me what i am to do for it all. tell me that side of the mystery,” i replied. “only a simple thing! renew your association with us and take the leadership of the band which is ready to go forth and sow broadcast the seeds which are so much craved by the world. the seeds of hate, of malice, of licen- tiousness, of cruelty. helps us to rid the world of gay- ety which is simple and wholesome. help us to give them a greater ex- citement. let us arouse the idea of hunting within their breasts—but children for game—not birds, which are only beautiful and give song, that would be tame sport! take the lead and aid us to sow revenge broadcast.” qſìjt (contest yucatan—time: midnight of joe, who lay on a bed in the corner, with a pain- racked body. suspense as to the visitant made him almost unconscious, yet thor- oughly cognizant. it was as if some part of his brain stopped, while the rest leaped away from the body— then, with a whirl which made him reel, leaped back again. gazing at him from a chair which stood in front of the fire was a softly clad woman. in her hands was myrtle and thyme, which made mys- terious shadows upon the wall. his humble room seemed decorated by a master hand. each individual article took on a luster hitherto un- known. my tussle with the devil with a movement, however, his eyes were brought back to the door, through which a figure slowly en- tered. it was radiant with a light which dazzled. entering slowly, it stopped at the foot of his bed and said, in a voice sweeter than any mu- sic ever heard. “i am death! will you come with me to a summerland where there is only joy, and pain is unknown?” “death!” he gasped. “you, death! but you do not look as i thought death did! you are beautiful!” “yes,” replied the figure, “i am the most beautiful of all, except one, but my gifts are more beautiful than all. i bring surcease from trials, free- dom from pain, shelter from all storms and peace. i,-who am so much feared by mankind,-have only joy and happi- ss. make ready and come with me! my tussle with the devil life! which promised you happi- ness, health, wealth, fame! life! which dances and sings and has no need for tomorrow. will you stay with me? see! i hold out to you healing herbs that will bring for- getfulness and give you power to go on and achieve what you desire. see! i offer you fame! you shall be able to sit above others, to cast them forth, to spit upon them. you shall be lord of the cities. fairest women shall smile and caress you; men shall sue you for rec- ognition. will you stay?” joe made a motion of assent. there was a moment's stillness, then, with a laugh which froze his blood, life said: “again i win, and your beauty and your gifts are spurned, death! again i win.” death smiled and said: “i am con- tent. show him your face!” the contest at this command the figure began to unwind from the head the drapery which had enveloped it, and joe, with staring eyes, looked into a hollow shell, a skeleton! §leeping §leeping gangs in suits of gray worked upon the highway in a southern state. stones were their companions, coarse food their nourishment. cruelty met often with greed and fear lived with hatred, when love sought entrance on a night in june, trying all the entrances unavailingly, and tiring at last. my tussle with the devil kindness came and whispering in love's ear said: “down the road you will find open several houses. better go! i will watch here.” love gave thanks, and with bounding steps went gayly to the highway. the sun was hot and the stones were sharp, but the time for rest was near, and a little ripple was running along the highway,+ a tiny little wave of joy. love seeing this, sleeping danced with glee and began to sing: “come with me where the flowers bloom and birds make music all the noon. sunshine dances, girls give glances to the moon. friends take chances, gay their fancies, come with me.” startled glances went down the line, and love swept on to the end, seeking entrance in each heart and sending thrills my tussle with the devil with delight, until to each one passed the word “love is here!” backs grew straighter, faces brighter, down the line. god crept nearer saying: “come with me! take no chances with the sleepers— come with me!” and down the highway swept the summons, “come with me!” #earning #earning he lamps on the street º! throw fitful shadows upon º the pavements, which glis- * ten with many raindrops. walking slowly, with bent shoul- ders and bowed head, is a man with slightly graying hair. round and round the square he walks, glancing neither to the right nor left, until finally, wearying, he crosses the street and enters a house where the curtains are closely drawn. bits of smilax, rose leaves and trodden violets can be seen about the steps, and as he opens the door, the air is charged with escaping perfume. with a hasty glance at the heavy draperies which conceal the opening to the room, he mounts hurriedly the stairs, and with trembling hands turns the knob of a door. my tussle with the devil gently he pushes it wide, and the soft gleam of the lamp plays upon the silken draperies of a woman's tooiii. - no sound breaks the stillness as the man closes the door and with a heart- broken cry throws himself upon his knees by the bedside. his frame shakes from head to foot as his arms are thrown across the bed which had so recently held all his world. at last, worn out by the battle, his body relaxes, and released from its leash, the spirit meets the occupant of the room. clasped in his arms, with gentle, loving fingers she strokes his face and says: “i am still here with you—always, as you are now with me.” his clasp tightens as he sobs: “i thought that you were dead— that you had left me.” my tussle with the devil the room with its softly glowing lamp. a well-remembered perfume floats upon the air and his hair is brushed as by a fairy wind. with arms outstretched, he rises to his feet. “tell me it is true! that, if it was a dream, that dreams are the truth of life! give me some sign that i may know, my darling. i must know! i must! give me some little sign!” as he gazes at the curtain which conceals the doorway, there is a faint rustle of silken drapery, and a shadow seems upon it for just a moment. the lamp burns low, the man sits motionless. “was it true? was it a sign, or was it only a movement by the wind?” - ii. seated on the sidewalk, crying bit- terly, is a small boy, holding in his arms a dog. yearning with a happy and joyous “good- bye” ringing in his ears, the man gazed at the little figure flying down the street. “i wonder! yes! it was a sign, for is it not said—‘a little child shall lead them!’” my wish is to widen the horizon. it is important for humanity to know. it must recognize the oneness of everything. we will write of more than man. i will give a series: first—beasts: then, flowers and jewels. my tussle with the devil sodden mass. then it passes, and with a weary movement once more he paces to and fro. of what does he think? does he know that once again has been enacted an old drama and a king sold into captivity, or does he feel that it should be said: “forgive them, for they know not what they do.” ii. the toiler up — down — down — up—from early morn. up—down—with slow and steady strides, until the rich brown earth holds up eager hands to receive its gifts. up—down — down—up—wearity plods the toiler until the sun is high, when, with a long-drawn sigh, the time of rest is welcomed. a bit of shade, a refreshing drink, weariness and a little rest before the weary round begins again. up – down — down—up—day in and out. “‘monotonous,' you say? yes! if only the thought of the weary rounds is held. compensation comes from a pat on the neck, which tells of appre- ciation and affection and the knowl- edge of being a necessary part of the whole. the harvest i sow is reaped and lessens in other lands the harvest of the reaper. “up — down — down — up, with a stronger pull, for i am doing my bit, and “‘to him who is faithful in small things much shall be given.’” qſìjt ſºlabt i. nil far the door sits an im- §§ pressive looking man. | “it is growing dark, mademoiselle; just turn up the light.” the interior is flooded with light at this command. in a far corner lies a spaniel, gaz- ing with pain-stricken eyes at the man. he is too worn in spirit to do more than give a feeble move, now and then, to first one ear and then an- other. but worn and spent as he is, his eyes are alert for movement on the part of the man, and as the man rises from his chair, the dog utters a faint cry of fear and begins to shake; but his trembling gradually ceases as the man goes in the opposite direction, and he closes his eyes in complete weariness. the slave sparkles a glowing fire, and, with ears alert, listens for a well-known step. joy permeates him as it comes nearer and nearer, and then the door opens. with a waving of banner and joy- ous greeting he leaps to meet a caress and welcome: “well, old boy! glad to see me? bring me my slippers. there's a good fellow.” the joy of taking some part of that dear one close to him and carrying it where he knew it belonged! the excitement of returning and hearing “right you are, old boy! now the other,” and then the delicious sense of work well done and the praise earned, and the happiness and joy of the hand on his head, while both relaxed to the warmth of the fire. a sudden pang of pain rouses him, and the remembrance is shattered and dismay takes its place. my tussle with the devil what has happened? all he can recall is standing on the doorstep, waiting for that promised walk, and suddenly a jerk, and he is flying through the air and is thrust into a black and yelling mass of his brothers. then a brilliantly lighted place and a gruff voice, which says: “that's the one. he's a thorough- bred. bring him.” running, darting this way, that way, snapping at his brothers who bar his escape, he dashes here, there, everywhere, looking in vain for an outlet, only to be cornered at last, with the same kind of a jerk which had torn him away from his door- step. “put up a fight, didn't he? the experiment will be all the more inter- esting now, for the nerves are ex- cited.” then, straps and buckles which the slave freedom ii. worn and weary, a man enters a room where a fire burns upon the hearth. - throwing himself into a chair, he glances at the vacant rug at his feet, and, with a sob in his voice, says: “old boy! no slippers for me to- night by my old faithful.” no sound breaks the stillness, and he gazes forelornly towards his room. then he sits erect—rigid, for through the door comes a dearly loved figure, head high and banner waving in anticipation of “well done, good and faithful servant,” and love shining in his eyes, and in his mouth—a slipper! with suspended breath the man watches, and even at the touch of cold nose upon his hand, remains rigid. then, with a cry, he throws £iggionarieg i. |ust outside of a walled § city there is a field of white—little, delicate, slim emissaries of peace, waft- ing their messages of healing broad- cast. with a ringing of delicate mu- sical bells, they say: “come with me! here is joy and peace.” within the walls a lonely watcher in a tower looks and listens. hidden from view are the tools of trade. gazing on the field, he muses on the infallibility of the law, which with undeviating regularity brings forth the thousands of tiny heralds. surely they are a symbol of some part of that great whole—some plan is back of their being! missionaries but outside—are dainty, delicate, slim bits of loveliness, which, with gentle nods and soft waves of perfume bring the message that, outside, all is as god intended, for “consider the lilies! they toil not, neither do they spin, and yet i say unto you that solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.” ttuels &tmembranteg &tmembrantes i. the sentinels: uniforms of green—hardy and erect, they wait until mustered—keep- ing watch throughout the seasons. # * > * >k >k the army: in glittering array the army stands for inspection. russet, gold and green are their uniforms, with trimmings of scarlet. unmoved they will stand and re- ceive all onslaughts—and if some fall in the battle, those remaining will still be firm of purpose—turning ever a smile of welcome and holding out arms to those who seek them. red and russet and gold green and bronze and scarlet remembrances friends and do with gladness what- ever came his way—without thought of honors—only with love for all— and cheerfully obey. taking a bit of the uniform of his sentinel friends, and a bit of russet and gold and scarlet, too, he softly places them in his pocket and with a salute goes out to join his company. £unitions £iunitions hardware store—time: midday gazing out of a window which overlooked a training field for sol- diers was a grizzled old man. time had left his impress with no gentle mark, yet around the eyes was a lin- gering spark of youth, and about the mouth the lines told of a gentle and loving spirit. as his eyes roamed over the field a small squad came into view, march- ing in “twos” and wheeling into “fours” and “right about,” as the command was given. the gaze of the man grew more intense, and the lines about the mouth deepened, while, slowly, a flush of pride, which could not be controlled, swept over the face, and uncon- sciously his shoulders squared and his my tussle with the devil back straightened as his son came into view. the straight boyish figure marched and wheeled in perfect unison with his comrades, but there was an in- definable power in the set of his head and poise of the body, which bespoke determination and control beyond the ordinary. suddenly the silence is broken by a voice, and the man, with a start, turns from the window and faces a customer who has entered so quietly that even the bell on the door has failed to make any sound. “good-day to you, sir,” said the customer. “i have been searching the town for some munitions. have you any?” “a complete stock—of every- thing,” the old man answered. “well, i want both large and small. something suitable for a double-bar- rel and a self-repeater. can you sup- ply me?” munitions “yes. how much of each will you have?” the man hesitated, and then put- ting his hand in his pocket, he drew out a bundle of notes and handful of gold. “that is all i have. wrap up all you can give me for that amount.” the old man gazed at the money and then his eyes traveled toward the field where young boys eagerly an- swered to the commands sent forth : forward! march turning to his shelves, he took down, first, a box marked “for double-barrel,” and wrapped it up. then, next, came a box labelled “self- repeater—all sizes,” and then, with great care, came the last—“deadly mixture—guaranteed.” - . each one he made into a separate package and then pushed them to- ward his visitor, who thanked him and departed. my tussle with the devil gathering up the gold and bank notes, the old man went to a safe in the far corner, and, opening the door, took out a drawer marked “munition fund” and put the money into it, smiling as he did so. taking his place again at the win- dow, he gazed over the field, lost in thought, and reviewing in memory the years of his youth, when he, too, obeyed the command “forward! march ” - a sound made him turn, and he was confronted by his customer, who, in a state of extreme anger, waved his packages at him, exclaiming: “i asked for munitions! see what you have given me!” the old man came forward, and taking the boxes, proceeded to read: “for double-barrel—warranted, “kindness!” “for self-repeater—guaranteed, ‘joy !' munitions “deadly mixture—love! “well, my friend, what is wrong? this is all as it should be!” “should be? i wanted gunpowder and cartridges—not that stuff!” “you have lost your way, my man. on this planet those are our only mu- nitions.” Öoing mit ºlſ t- = he sky was heavy with ſº menacing clouds, and wind * —howling dismally as it blew through the trees— when i met a wayfarer who was walking, with downcast eyes, along the highway which skirted the town. gazing at him sharply, i met a fur- tive glance, which held within it pleading, and yet had an assurance which was compelling. he hesitated when we came abreast, and as i felt in the mood for converse, i bade him “good-evening.” “it is a good evening, is it not,” he replied. “good, in its freedom of elements. they make merry to- night.” this was a strange answer, and my curiosity was piqued, and i felt con- strained to lead him on further. going home so do the beings dwelling in the ele- ments. tonight they will tell me whether i make merry or pass out in sorrow.” “that is a strange thing you say! ‘make merry or pass out in sorrow.’ what does that portend?” i ques- tioned. “sir,” he answered, “you do not understand, and yet you look to me as one of us. tonight i am going home and i have not yet made the necessary de- cision as to my going—whether it shall be a right merry leave-taking or one of sadness. today a winged messenger came and told me my exile was ended and i could start for my home tonight.” “and where is your home?” i asked. “that is for me to decide.” “for you to decide! is it not where you lived last?” i asked. flip #eartſ, £ip eartſ) =sºlrandfather sits in an | old armchair. the back of it boasts an anti-macassar in many colors, while the seat has a patchwork cushion. grandmother occupies a low rocker, which moves slowly to and fro, as she softly hums the hymn of the sunday service. keeping silence is grandfather's “long suit”—while making, in reality, my life. he is a sturdy old chap, with a will and determination which has car- ried him beyond anti-macassars and patchwork cushions, and centered it- self upon me. no fly was ever more helpless! i make the announcement: “life is going to give me some- thing more than this country town.” my tussle with the devil silence reigns on the left of the hearth, and creak! creak! and a gentle hum answers me from the right. minutes, which seem hours, pass— but emboldened by the pictures seen in the coals, once more a voice is heard: “when i am grown up i am going to the city! and i am going to travel ! and i am going around the world! and i am going to make a heap of money and be famous!” silence! creak—creak!! half of eternity passes—when once more, emboldened spirit takes hold of courage and dares to speak. “i have made up my mind and i am going to do what i said, and noth- ing shall keep me from it!” silence! creak—creak!! years pass in review. the coals burn to ash, and from a far-off sphere issues a voice: qije uijree º'g qºbe (ſhree º'g foreword without health, life seems hell. with harmony it becomes heaven. and when combined, happiness, here, is the result. the three h's refused to move away from the man's side, however, and refused even the food and drink offered until he saw that aid was being given to his com- panion. then, with a growl of satis- faction, which contained as well a de- spairing moan—as if the relief of nourishment was almost too great to bear—he commenced to devour ra- venously what was placed before him, and gave thanks, in all directions, with a waving and vigorous tail mes- sage. just as he made his final thump of gratitude, the figure of his companion stirred and moaned, and instantly the dog was over the heads of the men, bending over his master and wildly lapping his face and hands, from which the dirt and blood had been removed. it was a face of refinement, deli- cate in its outline, and with an ex- pression which held the crowd silent. the three h's “so you are dakta's good friends. i welcome you, comrades.” a shuffling of feet answered him, and glances shot from right to left, but before any one had summoned the courage to reply, he continued: “it seems strange to you, i per- ceive, for me to welcome you as dakta's friends. men live all their lives with the most precious of jewels at their door and are unaware of it. often it is wrapped in poor cover- ing and often, too, in gorgeous rai- ment. i was one of those men.” here he stopped and stroked the dog, who now lay quiet and content, glancing up. now and then, into his friend's face. after a moment of silence, the man raised himself and looked in- tently into each face. a furtive smile answered his query, on some faces, while others looked away, and yet, without their volition, my tuss le with the devil their eyes came back and rested on his face. “come nearer, comrades. sit at ease while i tell you of this jewel, which you all have within your reach and which dakta, too, possesses.” the men seated themselves quietly —one might almost say, reverently— so different was their attitude from their usual manner. when the men were settled, his glance traveled over them all. “do you know that you have here untold riches?” “to hell, we have steve. “exactly,” responded the stranger. “that is just it—hell!—and that is paved with untold wealth—good in- tentions.” “huh !” snorted one of the lis- teners, “much good that wealth does a feller; you can't buy a drink with that.” !" ejaculated the three h's “you are mistaken, my friend. it does you the greatest good in the world, and i will prove it to you; and, furthermore, it will purchase for you all the drinks you desire. will you hear?” “fire away.” ii. “when i was a lad, i was puny, sickly, and in consequence was barred from the joy of companions and play. my parents were too occupied with their great responsibilities—my father amassing wealth and my mother keeping her place as the leader of society—to give any special atten- tion to the offspring who only upset the routine of the household by ill- ness at inopportune times, and so the care was relegated to hirelings—who were paid for their time and gave accordingly only the efforts of their hands, with no thought that they pos- sessed a heart. my tussle with the devil i was kept out of doors constantly, and my only companion was the mother of dakta. we grew up to- gether, and it was the exercise given me from very joy and ecstacy—to- gether with the love and devotion, which i felt for the first time, and realized did exist—which restored me gradually to health. next i became acquainted with selfishness and cruelty, for my play- mate—having added to the joy of the world, five beautiful downy bits of life—was taken away from me, for she brought a good price with four of her children. money was of more importance than love. dakta, here, was left behind, however, for the stableman, for he had looked after her mother. it was from the stableman that i received my first lesson as to the wealth which was to be obtained. he was an ugly, brutal looking the three h's man, dirty and unkempt most of the time, but to me he was a very god, for each day he came to the wicket of the fence, with dakta in his arms, and with a smile which was like a beam of sunshine, he would say, “hey! little master, here she is,” and with that he would put dakta through the wicket. each day ever since she has been with me, sharing joy and sorrow and teaching me with infinite patience and love the great lessons of life— faithfulness, gratitude, cleanliness, godliness and work. for ten years she has been stead- fast and her love unchanged, al- though i have led her through the mire many times, and hunger and cold have been her portions.” here he put his hand upon the dog and turned its face upward, and, looking into its eyes, said: “but never lack of love, old girl! never that!” my tussle with the devil we need helpers, and dakta shall choose. after she has selected each one for his particular office, we will discuss the work to be done. i will tell you in advance, however, that you will receive greater payment for your services than you have ever had be- fore.” the men were as graven images. then came the command: “leader! daktal” with a dignity which was inspir- ing, dakta walked around each man, looking, first, intently into each face and then sniffing. having made the rounds, she walked to the most be- sotted looking, and putting her paws on his knee, looked up into his face and whined, meanwhile waving in triumph the flag of her tail. the man at whose knee she stood put out a trembling and hesitating hand, whereupon dakta gave a little yelp of pleasure, and kissed it, the senses touching:— from outside my nest i gaze upon the sea. - my hands clasp only the leaves of many flowers and dampened earth, when leaden sky is reft and the tears of the angels of heaven fall upon my head in understanding, and are ad- ded to the sea! from out my nest i gaze across the sea. a sunlit, sparkling sea a gleaming dancing sea— “all joy! all hopel be thine,” it seems to say, “for life has just begun.” jfantieg birds go seeking mates, all on a day made gay. “trees are blooming, branches waiting, will you come?” shy the answer— swift surrender— roundelays are heard. time is flying, summer coming, when the families say farewell. my tussle with the devil in a pasture green fair flowers bloom; gay their faces— bright their dresses. swiftly seeking, whirling, wheeling, comes a flock at noon. “here are daisies, sweetest grasses, buttercups and clover, let us linger, sip and treasure.” summer passes, grasses perish, but in sweetness is springtime cherished. fancies daylight passes, night approaches, lights begin to gleam. in the houses one can fancy nestlings tucked to rest. good night, sea, good night world, all my soul goes out to thee. happy meeting, friendly greeting upon the milky way, my tussle with the devil trusting upon the ocean wide two little ships set sail. over an ocean blue two little birds sailed true. kneeling upon a nursery floor two little children fair. under a star-lit sky a youth and a maiden, shy. with sightless eyes and folded hands, old age murmurs, “god knows best.” faith—trust—love—courage! that is all—god does the rest. fancies oh! the hours we spend, and the days we spend, in thinking no thoughts at all— for the only thoughts— which really count— are the thoughts of love sent out to all, for they are the thoughts worth while, my tussle with the devil so motionless she lies that one might think it a magical statue carven by a master hand—only, in the eyes gleams a force which keeps at regu- lar beats the play of the blades and sends the craft to the port desired. supporting herself on one arm, she raises high the other and points to a gleaming palace by the water's edge, and with a quicker rhythm the barge sweeps over the water and reaches the landing. it is a palace of dreams which ap- pears to be holding within its walls the design of aspiration. alighting from the barge, the nymph seems to float through the air, so lightly does she glide over the earth, and enters the palace. in the entrance hall she hesitates and looks—from the left, where music beckons, to the right, where art smiles, and then stands and gazes at a closed door. it is simple in design my tussle with the devil desires, like a pure crystal which re- flects all within its surface. just as the crystal will reflect blurred pict- ures when it is marred by ill usage, so this seed fails to give the perfect flower of knowledge when it has met with neglect. to give it warmth will bring to view all its possibilities, all its loveliness. “make a search for that seed with- in you which contains all memories. review each and every event by pouring upon it the sunshine of under- standing and searching. look with- in and “know thyself.” at this the woman put down her book and once again her gaze wan- dered to the horizon and within her eyes came a gleam—gazing intently —without movement. - one watching her would have said she saw something upon that sea, which stretched before her. with a swift movement she slips vesterday-today from her pillows, and with wide open eyes, exclaims: “the door—the same one of my dreams.” entranced, she remains motionless until a sudden gust of wind picks up her book and flings it at her feet. stooping, she picks it up, and then, as her eyes scan the page, there is a sudden tenseness of the body, as she reads:— “the key to the ‘temple of knowl- edge’ lies within each soul and he who seeks, from the heart, shall find. to knock imperiously will summon the guardians, but to reach the inner chamber it is necessary to enter first into the closet of your own soul. there, in a neglected corner, will be the golden key. it will be in need of burnishing, perhaps—hidden as it has been all these years, but just a little effort will bring out its brilli- ancy. take it in your hands, rever- Ørtion— &eaction action village nestling among the pines. only the buzz of insects and hum of bees, together with the ac- companiment of rustling branches, breaks the silence. all is peace and harmony. hark! from afar sounds a discordant blatant note. nearer it comes, ever growing harsher, until at last, at the end of the street is seen a mounted horseman, with a bugle at his lips. with one final blast he summons all the peaceful souls, who crowd about him. he watches them, as they gather, with an appraising eye, and then with uplifted hand commands silence. my tussle with the devil “all men and boys past the age of twelve follow me. “in the name of the law you must obey! come!” - raising his bugle, once more he shatters the peace of that little ham- let and moves on, followed in silence by all the men and boys over twelve. no sound but that of moving feet can be heard. no tears, no lamenta- tions from the stricken statues left behind. the hush of even-tide— the drone of insects— the hum of bees— the swaying of branches, thrilled by the breeze— and silence once more descends upon the street action.—reaction furroughed ground— booming guns— shrieking shells— smoke-laden air— young, old-men boys, automatons of men, ply their trade at the command “by order of the lawl obey!” daylight passes— the hues of even-tide caress, and speak of rest, but the command rings out: “forward! attack!” night comes forth with gleaming mantle, and lays it over all that remains— furroughed ground! my tussle with the devil reaction a bugle sounds in a hamlet town, and streaming forth come stricken souls, who with outstretched arms go forth to meet that straggling band which passes through the street—but they pay no heed. luminous are their faces, radiant their robes, as they gaze straight ahead, with never a look to the right or the left. morning breezes— buzz of insects hum of bees— branches bending to the breeze. g ºigion my tussle with the devil still i gaze: high in the heavens is motionless this wonderful golden bird—then, slowly, with scarcely moving pinions it descends, and with a final quiver takes under the shelter of its mighty wings a world of sorrow. still i gaze: no movement, but ever the light increasing and dazzling in brilliancy and beauty. still i gaze: a flutter—an unfolding of the mighty pinions and then a swift flight upwards—ever swifter—ever higher, until at last all sight of its wonder is lost. then i gaze where it rested, and behold! a new earth of dazzling gold and everywhere gleaming lights of rainbow tints. then i muse: and from out of the silence comes a voice: | | | > / iv no * °^ -bor /. … .………………………••••••••••••••••• *** *** … ••••••••••*********************** „…_--~--~ |- ---- |- + · - - - .*|-|- · - → ·:: - ----- |- |-|- - * … . |- i :- i > i f f. k k'l-llc l ',:• :' aky! a" ". . » - j •< i. .( n v . -•-/i->. \'....>'• j s i. s being the story of stille maegth, her strange bewitch- ment and her won d. r o us song and how she came to love a mortal man º frederic wººd en pangboºn l. c. p.a.g. f. g. c. c. m. p. a. n. y. ſº ſº ſº; ſº º nº %§ §§ : º Ésº zºśtºšíž nsvºr #éº- a - =l , che silent maid, being the story of stille maegth, her strange bewitch- ment and her wond rous song, and how she came to love a mortal man by frederic werden pangborn . ." yºrf;: * * s; ; ; , , y-y : • * - º ºr libº- '*** electrotyped and printed by c. h. simonds & co. the new york public library jº astºk, tº av and tildlm fºl ºf arions r l copyright, by l. c. page & company (incorporated) all rights reserved published, may, colonial press boston, mass., u. s. a. m j f contents chapter page i. how the silent maid came into the story ii. how the baron von rabenhorst stole the child .... iii. what followed the escape from the forest iv. why hammerschlaag made war to get the maid v. what followed the marriage of the baron vi. how rabenhorst prevailed against his foe vii. how the maiden came to love a mortal man viii. what happened after rabenhorst's return the silent maid *e* chapter i how the silent maid came into the story in the cool, gray twilight of mid- summer evening, that hour of brief calm which frequently comes upon the mountain lands between the setting of the sun and the rising of the night winds, the baron von rabenhörst sat at ease before the window of his favour- ite apartment, and gazed in deep medi- [ j the silent maid tation out upon the domain that was his own. far as the eye could view the prospect, even to the uttermost summits of the distant ranges that marked the limits of his possessions, there was nothing upon which another might tread his foot, save by the grace of rabenhorst, nothing upon which he could not bravely lay his hand and proudly say "'tis mine." the castle in which he dwelt and the lands about it, these, in sooth, had been so long the ancestral home of his family, that there was no certitude even as to the precise period at which they had their begin- ning, and tradition had long added its charm to the more or less accurate his- tory by which the story of their years had grown. [ ] the silent maid he, of course, knew the boundaries of the domain that had been his father's grandfather's, for that was not ancient history as the rabenhorsts cited his- tory, and could easily tell what new lands had been added with the coming of each succeeding generation that fol- lowed; but back of that the records failed and merged themselves into a maze of folk-tales and legends, not un- mixed at certain points with an inter- esting dash of the supernatural. but this only pleased the baron, and in- creased his sense of pride. in truth, a family that had none of these things, and could only trace itself back to a definite point, was one with which he cared to have no dealings, unless it were to make war upon it, and drive [»] the silent maid it out and seize its lands to add them to his own. such had always been the practice of the barons rabenhorst, down to his own time, during which he had succeeded in spreading the limits of his princedom, until all that was visible from the ancient castle's watch- tower owed allegiance to him. long ago, ages back, in fact, as the peasants measure time, the first raben- horst, having won his rights as usurper of the mountain upon whose summit the castle subsequently raised its impreg- nable walls, had said that, not until the sun could rise and set upon the rabenhorsts alone should his descend- ants sheathe the sword and cultivate the arts of peace. whether this story be true or not is of little moment. each [ »] the silent maid successor had believed it, and each in his turn had done his best to carry out the plan, until, little by little, and at what fearful cost of blood and suffering no man knew, — for they kept no rec- ord of such things, — roderich, the last of the line, found himself, in middle life, the undisputed possessor of "the limits of the rising and the setting of the sun." the prophecy of the first rabenhorst had been fulfilled; and, weary of war and heartsick in his lone- liness, — for the struggle, as he found it, had been so continuously severe that he had no time for anything else, — he thankfully laid aside his battle-axe and spear and sword, and said that he would rest. it would be difficult, in this age, to [ « ] the silent maid respect, who brooked no undue famil- iarity, even from his equals in title, and signed his letters "roderich," as though he were a king. the years that followed upon his withdrawal from incessant conflict, he spent in strengthening his position, that nothing which the rabenhorsts had gained might be lost. for he knew well that the friends of such a man as himself were few, and that nothing would satisfy certain others better than to strip him of the results of the centuries of conquests which were now become a trust in his unaided individual hand. so he kept his sub- jects ever drilled in the arts of war as well as in the arts of peace, reforti- fied his castle, dug new moats, built ' [> ] the silent maid watch-towers at proper points in the mountains, and, in every way he could devise, brought his petty kingdom to a state of vigour and prosperity. be- ing a wise man, as well as a brave soldier, he also cultivated his people, and taught them, by fair dealing and much kindness, that their interests were safest with him. he was a generous taskmaster and just, kind to women and tender with little children, and withal charitable beyond question for a man of his time. so the peasants blessed him, and called him good, and no man who dwelt under his protection wished him ill. and yet he grew sad and lonely, with each advancing year that brought him added peace and comfort, for he [ ] the silent maid bring him contentment. he could have married at any time, — for it is not dif- ficult for a prince to secure a princess from the ranks of women, — but every time he tested the suggestion, he keenly perceived that it was not himself, but what he had, that won the lady's heart. he wanted a wife — this he frankly con- fessed to himself at all times — and he needed an heir who should succeed him, but he wanted more to love and be loved. so he delayed marriage, always in the hope that chance would yet send him his heart's desire. and the people won- dered why he took no woman to wife, and sometimes shook their heads sol- emnly, and said it was not good their master should thus dwell in solitude, and that he give them no son to govern and [ ] the silent maid protect them when he should be gone; and aged godgifu, who had lived in the castle so many years she could not count them, and who was his nurse when he was a child, would sometimes mildly chide him for his omission of duty to the family, and ask him why it was he brought no mistress to the castellany, and raised no child that should extend his name. at such times as this, he would smile upon the old nurse sadly, and bid her come and sit beside him and tell him of his mother and her life, — for ra- benhorst had never seen her, — and ask what manner of woman she was, and was she happy with his father, and did the people love and honour her, and what sort of a life they all led under [» ] the silent maid her rule, until, having started the old woman upon her favourite theme, she would become garrulous and forget to press him on the main point. so noth- ing ever came of the suggestions made by godgifu, and she had to keep her wor- ries to herself. but she never ceased to pray for her master, and to ask the good god to bring him a wife and son. and the baron pursued his lonely life as be- fore, and grew more sad and restless every year. the baron von rabenhorst had lived beyond the fiftieth year of life before completing the task of his ancestors, and it was about ten years before the open- ing of the story that he first saw the silent maid. whether it was decreed by fate that he should meet her, or a [ao] the silent maid mere accident, or the result of old proph- ecy, no one ever could tell; though god- gifu always said it was the prophecy, and there were other very old people among the peasants who held the same view, some of whom said it was the will of the good god that it should end that way, while others insisted that a proper exercise of wisdom on the baron's part would have made his misfortunes impos- sible. "for," said they, "had he chosen a suitable wife when he should, the maid could not have won his heart and brought misfortune on his later years." no one had ever had the courage to speak to him, which was not strange, and even godgifu herself deserved no censure, although she knew the prophecy, for she had no knowledge of the baron's [ ] the silent maid fondness for the maid until it was too late to warn him. after that, a protest even from her would have been equiv- alent to uttering her own death-warrant, for the baron was not a man to be crossed. but rabenhorst knew of the prophecy, for he had it long before from his father. it held no terrors for him, however, since it was not in his nature or training to dread anything, and he even made light of it, and deemed it nothing better than an old wife's tale. forty years of life in the grim presence of siege and battle, and a habit of abso- lute self-reliance that was part of his ancestral heritage, had rendered him impatient of all tradition that smacked of superstition. and this was the prophecy handed [aa] the silent maid down by word of mouth among the people of the castellany of the barons von rabenhorst, made, it was said, in the dead of night, by a mad woman, whom the first rabenhorst had stolen captive, from a conquered neighbour- ing lord, and who shrieked it from the parapets of the castle, while her captor lay dying in the tower: "tyrant lord of rabenhorst, by thy crimes forever curst: — keep thy castles; keep thy lands; keep thy conquered servile bands; keep thy treasures; keep thy gold; keep the price of honour sold; keep thy gains, nor heed the woes wrought upon thy self-made foes. all the plunderings of the sword well befit a tyrant lord. yet moor and mountain, field and flood still allegiance owe to god; . [ n ] the silent maid draw their warmth from heaven above, home of light and peace and love. subject to his will alone, nature knows no despot's throne, fears no tyrant, loves no king, gives to man no reckoning. tyrant lord of rabenhorst, in thy heart forever curst — man of avarice and hate, keep thy gains, and face thy fate. love shall never come to thee, through the years that onward flee. hands with murder gory red prepare the marriage-bed. tyrant lord of rabenhorst, be thy loves forever curst. love is ne'er begot of strife. seek no maiden bride to wife. heed the warning, while you may — god and nature speak — obey!" who this mad woman was, not even the most shrewd of the wisest old gran- dams had ever assumed to positively say. [h] the silent maid but a very ancient legend, handed down from a period so remote that none might doubt its genuineness, clearly stated that she had been the wife of a minor baron, who loved her very dearly; and that this minor baron, having been mortally wounded in the defence of his estate, had warned his slayer, the first of the rabenhorsts, against certain fearful con- sequences that would ensue if he made her captive, and, with his dying words, had urged him to set her free that she might " return to her people and mingle no more with mortal men." this, the legend said, was the precise form of the request; and out of the suggestion thus made, the natural inference was that the woman had her origin somewhere apart from men, and was, so the story ran, a [ * ] the silent maid daughter of immortals. some believed her to have been a stray child of the undines, whose love for her husband had kept her long among the mortals; but others, reading the prophecy as the utter- ance of an evil mind, said this could scarcely be correct, since the undines were not cruel, and gave it as their opin- ion that it was more probable she claimed sisterhood with the erl-folk or other sprites of the forests, many of whom were known to be vindictive, and that perhaps her hatred of the first raben- horst was due to his killing of her be- loved lord. "for," said they, " it is well- known that, when an erl-sprite loves a mortal, she never loves but once, and loves no other human thing. probably this sprite chose her love, and was happy [a ] the silent maid to wed a maid, but each in his turn had wooed, or bought, or captured his wife — as occasion best favoured — from among the ranks of women previously married to other men, and none of them, within the memory of the oldest romance that chronicled the family history, had ever married for love. should such an event transpire, at any time, the gossips always said, there was good reason to believe it would be followed by calam- ity and the immediate extinction of the family. ten years before the coming of the day when the sun should rise and set on rabenhorst alone, the baron rod- erich, returning from a solitary journey through the forests, found himself, at [a ] the silent maid nightfall, in a densely wooded glen too far from his castle to admit of his ar- rival there before the darkness should enfold him. he was weary and hun- gry, and saw little prospect of getting food or shelter. the lack of shelter did not annoy him, — he was too hardy for that, — but the want of nourishment did, for he was a lusty man and proud of a vigorous appetite. there was yet light enough to see near-by objects well. the glen seemed cosy, and a good place in which to pass the night, and there was water in a brook that babbled through the forests, and ample grazing for his horse; so he dismounted, turned the creature loose to feed, and, taking with him a light huntsman's bow and some arrows, strolled slowly onward, hoping [* ] the silent maid to secure some belated bird or burrower that might furnish him a meal. for some time he continued his walk, following the trend of the brook, and wishing he had the means of catching a fish, — for there were many there, — occasionally turning upward toward the mountain, as he pursued his quest, or pressing into the thicker underbrush that lined the waterway at intervals, but nothing that would serve could he dis- cover. an hour spent in this manner added to his weariness and hunger, and did not tend to improve his naturally imperious temper. he could hear his horse moving about and evidently enjoy- ing his evening repast, and this, too, added to his sense of appetite and made the matter worse. barring the sounds [ o ] the silent maid made by the horse and the rustling of his own movements, there were no others. all was silence. there was not even the usual fluttering of the leaves upon the trees, for there was as yet no wind. he began to feel lonely, accustomed though he was to being alone, and the feeling wore upon his nerves, and made him both sad and irritable. it would soon be dark, and then he could expect noth- ing. so he retraced his steps, following the sounds made by the horse, and pre- pared to endure the coming night in patience. suddenly the silence, that lay like the calm of death upon the glen, was broken by a voice, and the man paused spell- bound where he stood. it seemed a hu- man voice that cut upon the stillness of [ i ] the silent maid the falling night, and yet again it scarcely sounded like the voice of ordinary mor- tal, its utterance was so weird, its words — if words they were — so strangely vague and elf-like. the voice was scarcely that of one who spoke, but rather that of one who sang, and yet it was not music such as he often heard that smote upon his ear, but something strangely different. low at first, now shrilly ris- ing to a strength and volume that seemed to load the higher air above with floods of melody, then gradually falling away into faintest whisperings, that sobbed and quivered like the notes of a dying bird, the music came to him, as he stood there listening, entranced, bewildered, wondering, not daring to move lest he lose one note that he would catch; and, [ *] the silent maid hear the elf-king's trumpet ring: answer echo; answer king. la-la, la-la, who shall tell where the erl-men's daughters dwell ? glen and forest, far and free, answer to their melody. la-la, la-la, la-li-o: hither come and thither go. “la-la, la-la, la-li-o: hither come and thither go. cloudlets, floating in the air, ever soaring, white and fair, take me up, and let me be, sister-friends, as one of ye. where do all the cloudlets go? sister-spirits, let me know. la-la, la-la, la-li-o: hither come and thither go. “la-la, la-la, la-li-o: hither come and thither go. spirits of the dell below, tell me how the flowers grow. [ ] the silent maid surrender half my wealth and lands to have a child like that. hal —" the song suddenly ceased. there was a pause. then followed an outburst of laughter, clear, merry, and jovial, the hearty, happy laughter of a care-un- knowing child. it was so contagious that the baron gave way to its inspira- tion, and began to laugh himself. "it is a child," he said. "what joy to possess a child like that! what happi- ness to feel the influence of its presence; to hear it sing, and laugh, and have it always with one. old godgifu is right. i should have married, long ago, and had a child to cheer me in my lonely home. but yet," he murmured, after a pause, " who knows? would my child be like this one? have any of my line the silent maid been like to this? i know that i was not. a diet of wars and constant strivings to master a world that is hardly worth the having when one gets it, makes no happy childhood. godgifu may be right, but i doubt it. merriment and lightsome- ness of heart are not the heritage of the rabenhorsts. i will see this child. per- haps i may coax its parents to let me have it. these peasants are not difficult to deal with. of course i shall have trouble with their lord, if i carry them and their child to my abode, but" — and the grim look of the warrior darkened his face an instant —" that is nothing. one small war more or less is naught with us." thereupon he strode rapidly in the direction whence had come the sounds, [ ] the silent maid parently oblivious to any change in the situation. as the baron von rabenhorst studied the child, he noted that her face was no unfit companion to her voice. in its way it was equally beautiful, and the lithe and graceful body that sat erect upon the turf, that, too, he saw was good, and gave promise of a su- perbly gracious beauty, by and by. after a time she seemed to be aware of his presence, and looked him fair in the face. her expression was calm and be- tokened no sense of alarm or surprise, but rather a quiet friendliness that seemed to say: "i see you. be at ease;" and then he noticed that the eyes that gazed into his were of a marvellous size and hue, and that there was a some- [ ] the silent maid thing in them that did not give the im- pression of childhood he would expect to find in one so young, but spoke of mysteries unfathomed save by those of riper years. at length he addressed her, speaking as men usually do to children, asking her name, her age, her father's name, and such things, but to each question her answer was the same: "stille-maegth." several times, and with all the gen- tleness of a man naturally kind to chil- dren, he essayed to make her talk, — for it was presumable she could talk if she wanted to do so, — but without suc- cess. no matter what he asked, no mat- ter what his suggestion, the reply was always: [ o] the silent maid "stille-msegth." this, and nothing more. "surely, little one," said he, "thou'rt not afraid to speak with me. i am the baron von rabenhorst, owner of the mountains and the valleys and all the lands that lie beyond these hills. everybody knows of me, and children count me always a friend — whatever men may say to the contrary," he added under his breath. "may i not become thy friend, too? wilt thou not sing for me again? 'tis very pleasing to hear thee sing. wilt thou sing for me again, little one?" she looked him frankly in the eyes, and seemed to understand, but her words were as before: "stille-maegth." [ i] the silent maid as he smiled upon the child, and stroked her hand with his big rough fingers, fingers better fitted, he thought, to grasp a spear than hold so frail a thing as seemed this tiny hand. "a mystery, indeed. she is fearless, and has no dread of me. she smiles upon me as though she understood my every word. she lets me hold her hand, she is willing to kiss me. she sings like an angel, or a wild- wood fairy. she can speak, and speak a language familiar to me. she plainly is no mute. and yet, all she can seem to say is just these two short words, which she speaks as one. 'silent-maid.' if that be her name i must confess it seems a goodly fit. and yet she is not silent, for i have heard her sing. whatever be her station or condition, i feel that [ ] the silent maid i must have her. already my heart goes out to her as never to any other i have seen. it is not the common love of man for maid that moves me thus, for she is but a child. in that respect the maid is not for me. but yet i love her already to that degree i'd wage untiring war upon the man who sought to take her from me. ah, god! to think that i should find, at last, a creature i can love and that seems to be fond of me, — in a strange way, it is true, but with evident sincerity. would'st thou like to go with me, far away, to live in the mountains," he said, smiling encouragingly upon the child, "and become my little maid, and have me love thee always?" she gently stroked his beard with her disengaged hand, much as one might [ ] the silent maid caress a favourite dog, and gave the same answer as before: "stille-msegth." there was no one present but them- selves, and it seemed strange to raben- horst that this should be so. "surely," said he, " this child must have some one to care for her. no child could live in a place like this. there is not even a cave in which one might find shelter from the rain. possibly she has strayed from her home. i would not steal her from father or mother. but i cannot leave her here to pass the night. i will carry her down to my resting-place, and, in the morning, will seek her father and arrange to have him come with his fam- ily to my domain. come, little one," he said aloud, "we cannot remain here all [ ] the silent maid night. let us go down the glen to my horse. see! thus i take thee in my big strong arms, that have had no child to love ere this, and bear thee next my heart. may i always wear thee so?" he stooped and tenderly lifted the child. she made no resistance, and, as he folded her close to his breast, she threw her arms about his neck, and drew his face to hers. he turned his head and softly kissed her cheek, and she nestled in his embrace contentedly, as he started off, filled with an emotion so intense that a tear stood clear and bright upon his face, — the first he remembered ever to have shed. "little one," said he, "i love thee. be my child." but the maiden only answered: [ ] the silent maid "stille-maegth." and quickly fell asleep. it was of this night, ten years be- fore, that the baron von rabenhorst was thinking, in the cool gray twilight of midsummer evening, as he sat at ease before the window of his favourite apart- ment, and gazed, in deep meditation, out upon the domain that was his own. for the morrow was to be his wedding- day, and the silent maid his bride. [ ] chapter ii how the baron von rabenhorst stole the child w ith the sleeping child tenderly clasped to his breast, roderich von rabenhorst carefully picked his way toward the opening in the glen where his horse was peacefully grazing, and softly called the animal. it raised its head, neighed once faintly, as though it, too, recognised the rights of the little slumberer in its master's arms, and came quickly. "so, so, gently, graf," said he. "we have a new companion for the night, [ ] the silent maid and one thou must bear softly on the morrow to our home. in truth, thou'lt need to curb thy mettle much, with such a tender charge, and cease to think of soldier ways, until the journey's end." he patted the beast with his disen- gaged hand, and was about to lift him- self with his burden to the saddle, when an aged woman suddenly rushed upon him from the woods, and made attempt to seize the child. he restrained her firmly, but without violence, and forced her back a step before he spoke to her. "gently, little mother, gently," said he. "not so fast. but have no fear. i would not harm thee or the child. what she is to thee, i know not, but 'tis plain she is not of thy bearing. too old art thou to mother one so young, and [ ] the silent maid much i doubt she is of kindred stock with thee. flowers so rare bloom not on such a tree. but tell me of the child, that i may know her keepers, and seek them on the morrow to make dealing with them. for it is my intent to take her with me to my home." an instant the aged creature made motion, as though she would again at- tempt to take the child, but a glance from the baron and an impatient gesture checked her. she then fell upon her knees and began to moan and cry pit- eously, clasping her hands in an attitude of prayer to him, and was plainly in great distress; but she spoke no words. the baron began to grow angry, and lost something of his self-control. "saints and devils " he said, " is this [ ] the silent maid tellest what is true, thy friend am i from this hour on; lie to me, and no power can save thee. speak!" the woman appeared to comprehend the intent of his words, for, with every sentence, she showed, by gestures and expressions, that his meaning was clear to her; but, when he finished, she made no audible reply beyond a renewal of her moans and cries. "tush! " said he; "but this is weari- ness. if thou hast no words to give, at least point the way to those who have, that i may have speech with them, at morn, before i take the child away; for go she shall, of this be well assured. no sign? then let us end this parley, for the night is on, and rest is needed ere the morrow's faring." "x [ ^] the silent maid he quickly mounted his horse, with the child still sleeping on his heart, and was about to ride slowly down the glen to his camping-place, when the old woman suddenly sprang to her feet, ut- tered a frightful scream, and vanished, or seemed to vanish, in the waters of the brook that ran close by. with the utter- ance of her cry, a thousand voices seemed to fill the air at once, above, below, and on every side, as though a host of rudely wakened spirits had been startled from their slumbers, each one filled with fear. a moment these clamourings beat upon the night, then ceased, and silence reigned again. rabenhorst, although a man of sturdy mould, and one not easily unnerved, was startled by the suddenness of the strange {. the silent maid outburst of sound, and a sense of doubt, that was somewhat fearsome, though he had no real fear of anything, came upon him. but he quickly recovered, remem- bering his charge, and spoke to his horse, that stood, a rigid figure, rooted to the spot, and seemed unable to move. the thought flashed through the mind of the man that it was well the animal had not bolted, and he was grateful, as he realised what injury this might cause in such a thickly wooded country. his next act was to look at the child. it slept peace- fully, and had not been disturbed. "strange," he muttered, as he lightly kissed the rippling hair that lay upon his shoulder. "one would suppose such hideous sounds could rouse the very dead. what was it caused them? surely [ ] the silent maid not that aged crone? and yet mayhap 'twas she. some of these forest people know the echoes as familiars. yes; the case is plain. the voices were but echoes of her cry. there is no danger here. 'tis but a spell of patience till the dawn, and then away. so, good horse.” thus urging his beast onward in the darkness, he started again, the child held safely in his arm, and was feeling more calm, when a new sound fell upon his keenly sensitive ears, that caused him to rein in and listen. it seemed distant, yet had the quality of an approaching presence he could almost feel, and a sense of uneasiness at the darkness came upon him and made him wish for light that he might see what peril, if peril it were, was drawing near. at first this sound [ i the silent maid was soft and mellow, like the running of a river over stony places; then it be- came less gentle, and a touch of menace mingled with its lighter tones; and, as it drew yet nearer, and he knew it was coming, he perceived it had grown to the dimensions of the voice of rushing wa- ters, and that danger, real and not fanci- ful, was upon him. the brook, that peacefully rippled through the glen, was rising rapidly, — this he knew by its sound, — and was already lapping the feet of his horse, who showed by his restlessness that he was conscious of danger. it would not be long before the waters would become too deep for safety. the darkness was in- tense now, and haste was impossible; yet hasten he must. firmly grasping his [ ] the silent maid hurthng down the flood and threatened speedy death; but he pressed steadily onward, occasionally encouraging his horse with calming words. new voices now came to him, mingled with the babel of the waters, and whisperings, strange and uncanny, beat upon his ears. there were moanings, too, and cries of spirits in the air, and once he heard a call dis- tinctly uttered from the mountain-top and answered by another in the glen below. something seemed to brush against his cheek, and faintly plead with him to abandon the child, telling him he must not take her away, and threatening him with calamity if he did; and then he heard again the moanings of the aged woman, this time answered by a chorus [ j the silent maid of cries and wailings. but these things only made him bitter and more deter- mined than before to keep the maid, who still slept peacefully next his heart, and did not wake. the waters were roaring like a cataract, and rising high up the sides of the hills; but he kept pressing upward, as they rose, and managed to escape the flood. his horse was weary now, and could scarcely struggle on, but he bravely did his best, stumbling and halting in the gloom, and picking his way with care, as opportunity offered. the wind was rising, too, and brought an added danger as it blew down the trees that seemed to be thrown across the way with purposeful design. in the midst of this confusion of winds and waters, and just as the jaded horse \.s ~\ -'- the silent maid had cleared the onrushing of a sudden rising of the stream, a hand was laid upon the arm of the baron, and a melo- dious voice, that fell upon his sense, amid the tumult of the night sounds, like a strain of music threading its way amid the thunderings of a cannonade, ad- dressed him. he could make nothing of the presence of the speaker, for the darkness was so profound that only the barest outlines of near-by objects were discernible, and yet he felt no fear at the sudden meeting with this unseen be- ing, so peacefully it spoke. he was not even certain that he could see the figure of the speaker at all, but rather felt than saw; and the touch of its hand upon his arm was so very soft that even this seemed [ o j the silent maid doubtful. and the words of the voice were simply these: "tyrant lord of rabenhorst, by thy crimes forever curst, love shall never come to thee, through the years that onward flee. hands with murder gory red prepare the marriage-bed. love is ne'er begot of strife. seek no maiden bride to wife. heed the warning while you may. god and nature speak — obey." rabenhorst had not remembered the lines of the mad woman's curse for so many years that he might almost have been said to have forgotten them. but, as they came to him now, it seemed but yesterday that his father had told him the story of which they were a part, and he began to ask himself if there was [ ] the silent maid the soft, sweet waft that warmed his cheek entranced him and filled him with a sense of calm. "no, little love," he murmured, ten- derly, "it was not thou. the curse of the rabenhorsts concerns not thee. sleep on. 'twas memory, and these accursed noises and the gloom, enough, in sooth, to bring the phantoms of a hun- dred ages back and set a man of brass romancing." he kissed her on the brow, and, tight- ening his rein, spoke to the horse again. "up, good boy! once more, and then a rest. let us but clear the valley, and wait until the dawn. so!" the brave beast resumed his tedious ascent in the darkness, but his progress was very slow, for up here on the higher [ * ] the silent maid ground the undergrowth was close, and the hill was very stony and covered with boulders. he paused, at times, from sheer exhaustion, and his strength was fast giving out, but it would not do to stop yet, for the rising of waters could still be heard below, and safety lay above. so rabenhorst urged him on. how long this progress lasted, the baron could not tell, but it seemed it never would end. he was growing weak himself, for the child lay heavy now upon his arm, and realised he could not long hold out. the wailing of the voices in the valley did not cease, and the roarings of the waters made incessant accompaniment to the wild, tumultuous singing of the storm. and still the maiden slept. it could not last forever. with a pit- [ ] the silent maid eous sigh, the noble charger, who had so often borne his master through the thickest of his battles, staggered, made effort to recover, failed, and dropped upon his knees, whinnied once, and died. even in his death-moment he had not forgotten to spare the man who loved him the danger of a fall. thus had he been taught to do, in other days, when bearing wounded men; thus had he been trained to do his duty. kneeling beside the faithful creature, the baron touched his head, felt for the pulse-waves in his heart, and, feeling nothing, knew his friend was dead. but it was not a time for musing, and the child was still alive; so, striking out in the darkness, he pursued his way on foot, [ ] the silent maid painfully feeling out such path as seemed the safest. he was far up the mountain now, and out of reach of the waters. he prepared to pause and rest for the night, for he was so weary that longer progress would soon become impossible. the loss of his faithful horse, too, filled him with in- tense sorrow. he would wait for the sunlight. he was about to stop, and had already prepared to lay his burden down upon some mossy growth he chanced upon, when he suddenly became aware of an- other's presence. something was stealth- ily creeping toward him in the gloom, but whether man or beast, he could not yet decide. the instincts of the soldier and the huntsman responded at once to x [ ] the silent maid this new danger, and he turned about and faced the direction of the sound, at the instant drawing a short sword that hung at his side. the child still slept upon his left shoulder, for he had not yet laid her down. and then again he heard the cry that startled him before, the piercing shriek of the aged beldame of the glen, and, after that, the sad, strange waitings of the answering night. strung to the uttermost pitch of his mental endurance by the trials of the past hours, and filled with a sense of rage at the repetition of these fearful sounds, he strode at once in the direction of the first shrill cry, and came upon its author. she was moaning and gesturing as before, and seemed, in the gloom, to mock him. she stretched forth her .[ ] '€i£v n^. the silent maid hands to seize the child. the suggestion maddened him. with one full sweep of his free right arm, he swung his sword about, and struck the head from her body as she stood. what happened after this, the baron von rabenhorst could never distinctly remember. immediately the air was filled with shrieks of woe and frightful cries of anguish, and there was an on- rushing as of many winged creatures hurrying toward the spot; the thunder- ings of the storm increased, the flash of fitful lightning was added to the terrors of the night; crashing bolts descended upon the mountain; winds tore up great trees and cast them in the air; and, underneath the chorus of these myriad [ ] the silent maid midnight cries, the diapason of the wa- ters moaned. with the child close clasped to his now rapidly beating heart, and his dripping sword ready in his hand, he rushed sternly onward along the mountainside, sometimes with comparative ease, for the undergrowth was less than lower down, again with constant stumblings and many narrow escapes from sudden falls. and, as he went, he knew he was being pur- sued by things he could dimly see, that darted in and out among the trees and mocked him and tried to reach out and check his progress, and that shrieked as he threatened them with his bloody blade, and snatched at his burden and cried in fear or hate as he passed them by. and once, one of these mysterious < [ ] the silent maid beings crept behind him and whispered the words of the curse in his ear; and another far up the mountain sang them in a dreadful tone, like a devil's incan- tation, and it made him shudder. but he still pressed on, sometimes striking at his pursuers with his sword, that never seemed to harm them, again going dog- gedly forward, as though he did not see them, — until a suddenly discovered opening in the trees disclosed an ancient clearing, and goats that browsed upon a moonlit hill. he had crossed the mountain, in his flight, and stood once more upon the land that was his own. [ o] chapter iii what followed the escape from the forest he clearing upon which the baron had come, in his flight from the forest, was an allotment made by the master of the castellany, long ago, to swarz, an aged goatherd, formerly a loyal vassal of the previous rabenhorst, who had served him well in many of his wars with the neighbour princes, and to whom this privilege had been granted as re- ward. the old man dwelt with his wife in a hut not far away; and thither the baron turned his steps, with the child c?i] the silent maid still sleeping in his arms. he was now utterly overcome by weariness, and greatly in need of rest. the night was waning now, and the first pale tints of coming sunlight began to show upon the distant mountains toward the east, although the light that filled the clearing was still of the moon. down below the pasture, upon the edge of a coppice, through which ran a brook, the home of the goatherd was plainly discernible, — a grayish pile of rudely built-up rocks and crudely moulded thatch. a monster dog, rough-coated and of hideous aspect, paced slowly back and forth in the foreground, like a grim sentinel on guard, and mouthed a surly bay at intervals, as the man drew near. "hell's curse!" he muttered, as he the silent maid perceived the brute. "must i kill him, too? another time 'twould be a task scarce worthy of the effort, but now my hand is tired and holds no certain grip. the hound is large and powerful, too, and lacks not courage, as i know of old. alone i would not fear him, even now; but with the child — the devil's death upon that swinish lout within! why wakes he not to stay his beast and greet his master? there's noise enough, in sooth, to stir the sleeping wodan in his rest, or drown the hammerings of mighty thor. holla! holla, there! " he called, in sharp, clear tones. "arouse, good swarz!" at the moment laying the child upon the grass, and stepping forward, with sword in hand, to meet the coming [ ] the silent maid onslaught of the dog that seemed about to charge. but the animal did not charge, as dogs most often do at such a challenge. he advanced slowly, snarling as he came, and seemed disposed to take the conflict deliberately. the man braced himself, anticipating the spring of the huge body that would surely bear him down, if he failed to thrust with prompt precision at the instant. he knew that, once in the hold of the dog, a battle at close quarters would result in death, for then his weapon would be useless, and he could not hope to cope with the beast bare- handed, in his present weakened state. he cast a hasty glance behind him at the child upon the ground. she had awakened, and was standing, with out- [ ] the silent maid stretched arms extended toward the sav- age brute, and seemed to have no fear of him. von rabenhorst was so astounded at the sight that he forgot to keep his attention on the dog, for an instant, and might have been killed at once, had fate so willed it. but the creature had paused in his advance, and was now watching the child. his snarling, too, had ceased, and he no longer showed his teeth in anger. in a moment, the baron recov- ered himself and resumed his defensive attitude. there was a sound of life in the hut, and the tones of voices, that showed the inmates were at last aroused. suddenly there burst upon the night the music of a strange, weird song. the child was singing again, as she sang be- fore in the forest, wild, unheard-of melo- •^ [ ] the silent maid dies that never man had sung before. the baron lowered his sword and stood there spellbound; the sounds that had begun in the goatherd's cottage ceased, as though its inmates, too, were listening intent, and the great dog, with lowered head and gently waving tail, came quickly forward, softly whining as he walked, and crouched at the feet of the maid. she threw her thin, lithe arms about his shaggy throat, drew his mon- ster head to her breast, patted his neck with her hands, and paused in the midst of her song and spoke to him. the baron strained his ear to catch the words. "good dog," said she, caressing his cheeks with her hands, as she addressed him, "tell me, where have i come? i slept, i know, but nothing more can say. [ ]' the silent maid to him at once, and he hastened, trem- bling, to the group, and fell upon his knees before his lord. "a handy slave, indeed, art thou, old man," cried rabenhorst, " that keeps thy master night-bound on the hills and sets thy dog to slay him and this child. were't not for thy fair record in those troublous times long gone, i'd beat thee here to death for this neglect." "forgive, o gracious lord!" moaned swarz, in his terror. "i knew not thou wert nigh; and, then, i slept. the aged sleep not well till nigh the dawn, and then awaken hardly. had i known, i would have spent the night without in watching for thy coming. surely thou wouldst not slay me for no wrong in- tent." [ ] the silent maid he began to weep and to prostrate himself before the baron, and begged so piteously for mercy that the heart of rabenhorst, never long hardened toward any of his people, relented, and he saw the folly of blaming the old man for what was not his fault. so he bade him rise and attend to them. "but," he added, " see thou guard thy dog more carefully in future. had he harmed the child or pressed me hard, i surely would have killed both him and thee. and yet," he continued, medita- tively, "the brute seems fair disposed; and 'twas his duty to protect thy home. so, so; say no more of this. perhaps 'tis well as 'tis. one point at least is proven. she can speak. lead on, good [ ] the silent maid of the woman, with strict commands for her safety. swarz was dispatched to the castle to fetch a horse and leave word of the master's coming. quiet fell once more upon the valley, the goats browsed undisturbed upon the hills, and gor, the dog, kept guard before the open door. the baron von rabenhorst, having decided to keep the little maid, soon made arrangements for her comfort and protection. at first he had her brought to the castle, where nurses and a govern- ess were given her, with instructions to rear her as a lady, and to omit no point of her mental and physical training, under penalty of losing their own brains and the boxes that contained them. but it soon transpired that the child could not [ ] the silent maid be brought up in the common ways of girls of that period. she could not learn to sew, she either would or could not speak, excepting to old gor, the goat- herd's dog, — and but little even to him, — she seemed to detest the interiors of houses, and preferred to spend the days in the open air; and nothing, in fine, could be done to change her habits, try as they would. the baron himself fre- quently had her brought to him, hoping to probe the mystery that enfolded her, and spent many hours in her company, but learned nothing beyond the fact that she was very gentle in disposition, was fond of petting, and seemed pleased at kindly companionship with any one. sometimes, too, he would try to get her to speak, employing every device he [ ] the silent maid could think of to coax a conversation from her, but to all his questions her answer was always the same: "stille-maegth." this and nothing more. it seemed the only utterance of which she was capable, save in song, and, had he not heard her address the dog, he would have believed her dumb. he grew perplexed and sometimes almost angry at her apparent obstinacy, but nothing came either of his perplexity or his anger; for moods did not affect the child, and anger seemed to have no responsive sense of fear in her heart. and once, to test the maid, he threatened her with fearsome words and awesome punishment, if she would not speak to [ ] the silent maid him, but she only looked at him as be- fore, wonderingly, and answered: "stille-maegth," — so tenderly and sweetly, his conscience smote him for his cruelty, and he took her to his arms and begged her to for- give hiv unkind words. whereupon she stroked his beard with her slender hands, and kissed him on his war-worn cheek, and softly murmured, as at first, the same low, gentle sounds: "stille-maegth." and then he loved her, if possible, more deeply than before, and said to himself that she must be his little one always, and love no other, and always let him wear her next his heart. "for," said he, " she is one afflicted by the hand [ ] the silent maid of god, for some good purpose of his own, and is not as other maids." so it came to pass, in time, that the people of the castellany learned to look upon her as a sacred being, and none molested her, or thought to question any- thing she did. and she roamed at will about the country, and spent many of her days abroad in the fields and woods, with none to guard her but the faithful gor, who always went with her, and lived chiefly at the home of the goatherd swarz, when the baron was absent or at war. and swarz and his wife became as father and mother to her, and loved her very dearly, and blessed her often in their prayers, saying she was a gift sent by the good god to brighten their declining years, and a benison granted [ ] the silent maid their noble lord to soften his heart and teach him how to love. often she would sing, and, when this happened, the people would gather and, in silence, drink in the music that she made. she never could be induced to sing at anybody's request, not because she seemed unwilling, but simply be- cause she could not. this they soon discovered, and, therefore, never tried to coax her. but she sang so much it made no difference, for never day went by that did not find her pouring forth her melodies, as she roamed about or sat among the flowers she had gathered in her walks. and when she sang, she seemed like one inspired, and did not see them or heed their presence at all, but let her warblings flow as free as the air [ ] the silent maid into which she sent them, and sang them to the heavens like a witless bird. the people often thought it strange she sang no songs they ever heard before, nor any she had ever heard them sing. all her melodies were new to them; and even those who occasionally came from other lands and heard her said the songs were strange. but she taught the people many songs, for they did not easily forget the strains she gave. and thus, in time, the country of the rabenhorsts had learned to sing as did no other, and the fame of its ballads even spread to other places. but the words of her songs they could not master, for she never sang them twice alike. so they made her music theirs and sang it to such words as pleased them best. and rabenhorst, hearing them [ ] the silent maid seemed to like the name, and silent always was, save when she sang. the years passed on, and, excepting that she became more beautiful with each advancing season that added to her growth, and sang with fuller tones and deeper pathos as her voice matured, there was no change. she roamed, as at first, among the moors and mountains, singing as she went, spent much time with the aged goatherd and his wife, cheered the baron in his loneliness, and let him pet her to his heart's content, and spoke to no one. for old gor, grown far beyond the limit of his natural span of life, had long since passed away; and, after this, she used no language other than her songs. she had wept when he died, and seemed unhappy for a time; but her spell [ o i the silent maid of grieving was brief, and it was not very long before she ceased to look for him. "surely," the peasants said, "her love for the faithful dog had not been great;" and some of them even hinted that it was doubtful if she loved any one, she seemed so light and eery in her ways, and made no real distinctions among her friends. they did not tell the baron this, but there were some among them who said to one another that they feared it might yet come to pass that he would discover a truth suspected by godgifu from the first, and, some day, learn she had no heart for love. "for," said they, "it is well known that the maid who loves no person better than another, in truth, loves none at all." and others among them hinted darkly that she was [ i ] the silent maid heart. this maid, and no other, would he wed. pride of ancestry, wealth, posi-< tion, birth, none of these things should stand between him and his heart's desire. but yet he could not wed her save by her own consent. to love and be loved, that was his intent. he was not certain she would love him, fond though she was of his petting and his tender care, and since she could not speak he lived in doubt. so he endeavoured in many ways to win a sweet confession from the maid, and by endearments, signs, and pretty gifts made siege upon her affections. but there was no change. if she loved him at all, her love was nothing different from the first she gave him when a child, and this, he knew, would not suffice. and often he would gravely study her, "- l l the silent maid as she roamed about with him, and won- der if the coarse jests of the peasants could be true, and marvel how a maid so fair could have no heart to win. and sometimes, when she came to him and sat upon his knee, he would gaze long and tenderly into the deep, unfathomable vio- let of her strange, large eyes, and gently stroke the shining tresses of her lustrous ebon hair, and smooth the velvet of her pale, soft cheeks, and say: "dear little one, i love thee. dost thou also love?" but her answer was always the same: "stille-maegth." nor was there any sign her heart was touched. [ ] chapter iv why hammerschlaag made war to get the maid j)he had just turned her fifteenth year, and nothing unusual had happened to disturb the peace of the castellany, since the night that roderich von rabenhorst brought her in his arms to the cottage of the goatherd swarz, when a stranger came one day and demanded audience with her master. the traveller was on foot, without escort or companion of any kind, and seemed a person who had jour- neyed far, for the coverings of his feet were worn, and the grego, that served l sl the silent maid him both as cloak and hat, was gray with long-accumulated dust and sadly stained by the rains and the moisture of the ground, on which he had slept for many days. he seemed a peaceable man, and swarz, the goatherd, who had seen him first, as he came down the mountain — for his journey had been in the direction taken by the baron years before — had been the first to bid him welcome, and had fed him at his board before he told his errand, deeming him an holy one whose blessing 'twould be well to have. and in this the aged goatherd, judging by his lights, was wise, for the man was sandalled like a monk, and the latchets of his gear were double crossed, as was the custom of the time. but, although a peaceable and seem- [ ] the silent maid bowed his head and wept a moment, standing thus like one in prayer, nor moved he from the spot until the song was hushed and silence fell again. but he made no comment, nor asked an ex- planation of his host. so the goatherd told him naught. when rested of his weariness, he arose from the board and blessed the hearth and all that there belonged, thanked the old woman for her gracious courtesy, and said godspeed to swarz, who pointed him the way, departed down the moun- tainside and vanished in the woods. "a good enough man, i vow," said swarz, when he had gone, "and one of holy ways. but not too civil, though his wandering hath been wide enough to [ ] the silent maid alone. his manner, as before, was mild, but there was a firmness in his address and an expression in his eye, as he spoke his message, that showed he was one not easily deflected from his purpose. so word was sent to the master that a travel- ler, one who seemed an holy man and whose journeyings had been far, de- manded audience with him, and would not be gainsaid. in a brief space of time he stood before the baron in his audience- room, prepared to speak his message, for 'twas indeed a message that he bore. "roderich von rabenhorst;" said he, "thou of the dreaded name and wide domain, that endeth with the rising and the setting of the sun; a messenger of peace i come to thee, if so thou wilt; of war, if so it please thee to decide. [ qo ] the silent maid 'tis true, this cloak that covers me is but the garb of one whose business is not warfare, and a solitary man am i, whose dwelling rightly is a hermit's cave. little care i how men in conflict fare. my tendance is their souls and what con- cerns them after death, and never would it be my choice to bear a soldier's woes. but, in this particular duty, one who has the right commands me. thus it comes to pass that, journeying as a messenger of peace, my mission first is peace, and, if not that, then war. know then, thou of the dreaded name, that he who sends me unattended to thy home is one thou must respect as equal, whether friend or foe, — konrad von hammerschlaag, prince of the seven castellanies of the ^n [ ] the silent maid lower hills, thy brother lord and neigh- bour. he it is who speaks in me." "i know him well," von rabenhorst replied. "a valiant man and worthy of my recognition, whether friend or foe. speak on, good friar. what asks the hammerschlaag of me? if reason's in it, 'twill be granted, rest assured of that." "this, and this alone, good knight," the stranger said. "that thou release to him a certain maiden now with thee. she is the hammerschlaag's, and never has been thine, save by a chance. long years hath he been seeking her in every land, nor can he stay his quest until she cometh back to him who first possessed her. the maiden hath been sought for without ceasing, since the night, now many summers passed, when konrad's [ i ] the silent maid huntsman, roaming in the hills, did find her guard, an aged woman, lying head- less on the sward, but found no thing beyond to tell this tale of murder. but the child they could not find, or any trace of her. dead she could not be, for were this so, her songs would yet be dwelling in the forest, for the spirit of such song as hers dies not, as all men know that know the tale thou knowest not, o man of blood! learn, then, at once the truth, and render back the maid. "in the years of his youth, when the baron von hammerschlaag, my master, came to his estates, long pillaged by the wars of princes previous to his time, he found the people dead in soul and coarse with hardening ages of rapine and sordid toil. 'give me,' he cried in prayer to [ io ] the silent maid the gods, 'no land like this; but let my heritage be a land of sunshine and a people warm with love. my people are dull, dead to all emotion, and they have no songs. give them music, and i will do the rest' for it is a truth, o lord of rabenhorst, that there was no music in the land nor any voice that sang. and it came to pass that there appeared to him a messenger from the klidskjalf, saying that, by command of hlin herself, a boon would soon be granted him, since the goddess deemed him worthy, — for he is, 'tis said, of distant kindred with the gods, — and that a maiden would be sent him who should teach the people song. but, said the messenger, 'tis strictly stipu- lated in the gift that none shall dwell apart with the maid save one old woman, [ *o ] the silent maid and that never shall she converse hold with men, or wed a mortal. and, to make the matter more secure, 'twas also said a spell should be laid upon her tongue, that she might not learn to use it save in song. thus, speaking with no one, none should speak with her. and, furthermore, the story runs, the goddess, having no heart to rob the maid of all communication with the things that live, did grant to her that full commun- ion she might hold with the creatures of the waters and the woods, and with all that were not given human speech. so the goddess sent the maid, and kon- rad gave her in charge of the aged woman — the same that was beheaded in the forest—for the woman, too, was dumb and had no speech. and because -' [ ] the silent maid songs, the people learn that she is housed with thee; and konrad justly calls for what is his. thou surely wouldst not keep the maid from him against his will, for, as the gods my witness are, she is not thine." at the close of this address, von ra- benhorst paused before he spoke. his mind was working with intense emotion, and there was a conflict of many feelings in his heart, as he pondered the story told him by the traveller, and dwelt upon its points, and realised the force of what he heard. he saw the justice of the demand, yet he was not fully prepared to believe the tale. being a man of hardy mould, and singularly free from the superstitions of his time, it seemed to him absurd. and yet the recollection ' [ io ] the silent maid of the voices of the forest, long ago, somehow came to him now with telling strength, as never before, and he could not wholly put them out of his memory. again he lived that gruesome night, again he seemed to hear the aged bel- dame shrilling her weird cry of agony, again he felt the strain of his sword, as it swept her defenceless head from her body, and again he felt the warm breath of the child upon his cheek, as he bore her away through the gloom, amid the hideous dinnings of the woods; and, as it all came back to him, it seemed once more that she was small again, and that he drew her to his heart, repeating the words of long ago, and saying, softly: "little one; i love thee. be my child," and that she answered, — [ ] the silent maid "stille-maegth," — and quickly fell asleep. now that he had learned to love her with a man's full passion and desire, he felt he could not part with her. "tell me," he said, at length, "how came the good graf hammerschlaag to learn the maid was here?" "the merest accident, master," re- plied the messenger. "thy goatherd swarz, that hath his flocks on yonder hill, did chance one night to entertain a wayfarer of our land, and, sitting with his good wife round the fire at eve, while swarz was off among his herd, the man was given all the tale by her. and, in the morning, ere he took his way, the man made effort to discern the truth, and lingered in the fields, and heard the [ io ] the silent maid maiden sing; and then he knew it was she, for none that sing have ever sung her songs, save those who learn them from her lips, and none do sing as she." the darkening brow of the baron showed the anger rising in his soul, as he heard these words. "'tis simple," he said, "and could have happened any time. no more of that. now tell me, doth thy master give no compromise? states he nothing save his demand for the maid?" "nothing, lord," replied the messen- ger. "his words are plain. send him the maid, and he becomes thy friend; refuse, and he calls to arms at once. 'tis peace or war, o lord of rabenhorst, and justice fights upon my master's side, if [no] the silent maid war it be. i have no more to say to thee. let me depart with thy reply." "tell thy master, then," replied von rabenhorst, " that what he craves cannot be granted. the maiden is not his to claim. if he cared for her as thou sayest, he should have kept his treasure better guarded. what is once abandoned goes to him that takes it. i did not seek to steal the maid. she came to me. there- fore will i keep her, even were there no other reason. if so't must be, von rabenhorst will fight for her. and tell thy master to be well assured the warfare will be that which men who fight with love do wage; and say to him von ra- benhorst doth purpose with the maid to wed — be sure to mention that. if this be sacrilege, let wodan and the mighty [m] the silent maid hlin command me to surrender her, not thy lord. this is the answer of von rabenhorst. depart." so the messenger departed, and re- turned to the master of the seven cas- tellanies of the lower hills, and told him all that roderich von rabenhorst had said; and konrad von hammer- schlaag was very angry, because he would not surrender the maid, and, call- ing together all his dependent princes, he bade them prepare to wage relentless war upon the baron of the mountain castle, and to spare no man that sought to aid him in his bold defiance of the mighty hlin. and after this, the princes went among their vassals and related what he had said, and pledged them, even to the last [ »a] the silent maid man of every dependency that was under the rule of hammerschlaag, to take up arms and fight for their rightful lord in his most just of wars, and to swear by the hand of wodan and the hammer of great thor, that never should their val- our flag till hammerschlaag was victor, and the maid who gave them music should come to them again. meantime the baron von rabenhorst, knowing well the temper of his enemy, made careful preparations for the war, and sent to all that were his friends among the neighbouring lords a sum- mons, engaging their allegiance to his cause, and promising much plunder to such as served him well. for it was agreed in the compact that, should the banner of the rabenhorst prevail, the [» ] the silent maid self, and asked her did she love him, as he oft had asked before, and told her he would wed her on the morn, but noth- ing further prayed for till her heart should turn to him; and that, though she now would be his bride, she yet should still remain his child, against the time to come when she would grow to him. and stille bowed her head in an- swer to his words, and seemed to under- stand and give consent. and then, dis- missing from his presence all that there were gathered, he betook himself to the window of his favourite apartment, and sat there long in meditation deep, and gazed upon the domain that was his own. [ii ] chapter v what followed the marriage of the baron was while the day was yet an infant in the arms of mother night, and the yokels had but just begun their preparations for the wedding-feast, that two horsemen rode at easy speed from the mountains to the north, and set their course directly toward the castle gates. they were equipped in the style of the roving knights, and carried little cumberment save the weapons they bore, and on the pennants that floated 'neath the pistolets of their spears two hearts, [ii*] the silent maid for one was fair and like a child of sun- shine as to his hair, and had the colour of the eyes that seems reflected skylight; while he that rode beside him was of swart and sombre hue, with raven locks and eyes that darkly glowed 'neath darker brows. as the brothers sped upon their way to the castle, entering the country of its mas- ter, they were frequently challenged by the sentries set at various points to guard against attack. but to each they gave good reason for their venturing, and, since their sole demand was audience with the baron himself, there seemed no reason to detain them. so they soon crossed the hills that lay between and were quickly come to the gates. "tell thy lord," said he who seemed [ ] the silent maid "this, and this only, lord of raben- horst," said he who spoke for both. "that, serving in thy cause, we may re- claim the castellany of the lowest hill that lieth toward the south of hammer- schlaag's domain, for 'twas our father's and his father's father's, too. our story is brief, and 'twill convince thee of the merit of our claim. many years ago, be- fore the present lord of the seven cas- tellanies came to his estate, our fathers possessed the lands of which we speak. they were a kind and peaceable people and sought no strife with any that dwelt about them, nor asked extension of their small domain. but he that was the father of the present hammerschlaag did covet that which was our father's, and did come one day, with sword and [ i o ] the silent maid fire, when our father lay in mortal ill- ness and was not able to contend with any one, and, sweeping o'er the land with overwhelming force, did drive us forth, our mother and ourselves — for we were but children then — and foully slew our father in his bed. and after that, our mother, fleeing far into the forests to escape the power of the hammerschlaag, for she feared his threat to utterly destroy us all, found refuge with some holy peo- ple in the north and succour for her chil- dren. and, after a time, when we were older grown, she told us of our wrongs, and bade us bear in mind our duty to our name and station, and swore us, ere she died, to bear the sword, and lay it not aside till we should come into our own again. and more than this, her c "■ ] \ ^ the silent maid teachings always were of honour and of love to one another, and that we should be ever ready to stand together in the common cause, and dwell not apart; 'for in your double strength, my sons,' said she, 'lies all the secret of an ulti- mate success.' . and thus she passed away, blessing us, her children, and set- ting us our task. but never yet have we found fair chance to strike the blow at our ancient enemy, for the time was not yet come. so our years have been spent in warring for the king, whose ser- vice we have lately left by courtesy, — for the king doth know our story and is kind, — and not until to-day hath seemed the occasion good to press our claim. and hearing of thy quarrel with the hammerschlaag, and that thou dost not [ i ] the silent maid intend to take his domain, but only to retain the maid, of whom also we have heard, it seemed the time was ripe to lend our service in thy cause, to aid thee well and take our lands. surely, o lord, no other friend of thine hath better right to them." this proposition seemed good to ra- benhorst, who had no objection to secur- ing the services of two such knights as these, and he made ready to assent at once, saying: "i see no cause for haggling with thee or with thy brother over this. my pur- pose, as thou sayest, is not gain, but sim- ply to protect mine own. serve me well, thy lands are thine again. and since 'tis settled, pray announce your names, that [ i ] the silent maid lands, our titles would be thorg and ola of the bjorn. we use them not till then." "it is enough," said the baron. "thorg and ola shall ye be with me. the words are good and have no petty sound. what names ye choose to use besides concerns me not. and since ye both are now my allies and my guests, i bid you prepare to join the feast, and pledge your mistress on her wedding- day." the brothers departed with escorts assigned them by the baron to get ready for the coming feast, and, the day being now well advanced, a bustle was every- where about the castle; for, although the master had decided to marry in haste, and little time was given for prep- aration, he proposed to make the few ^ [ i* ] the silent maid the company of assembled knights, he suddenly fixed his glance upon the stran- ger brothers, standing with some other men, and easily distinguished by their snowy garb. "'tis wisely done," he murmured. "none will take offence if these two strangers serve." so he spoke aloud and said he would elect the unknown knights to stand with him, that all might feel he had no favour shown to any of his older friends. and all approved right heartily, and said 'twas shrewdly done, and gazed upon the brothers without malice. then the two went forward and took their places beside the baron, in readiness to receive the bride, for the hour of her coming was at hand. the maiden had been housed at the [ * ] the silent maid castle since the day before, and was given women servitors to attend her and pre- pare the wedding-gown. a friar, wan- dering from the forests, and with whom the baron had made friendship long ago, was there to join the pair; and, after that, to join the merry party at the board, for never better man at meat and drink did live than he, as all that knew him said. he now was ready with his ser- vice-book, and, rising, called on god to witness bear of all that was to come. the maiden bride was ushered through an opened door, attended by her women, and silence fell upon the company. she bore upon her face no sign of care, nor any faint suggestion she was moved by thoughts of doubt or fear or wonder, but smiled at the baron when she saw [ ] the silent maid him, sweetly and happily, as she always did. this might have been a matter in which she bore no special part, she seemed so free of interest; and he doubted if she really understood she was a bride, or realised she was bounden henceforth to himself for evermore. turning her glance upon the near-by thorg, she next surveyed him with a pleased expression, and seemed to deem him something worthy, for she smiled into his face and showed he had good fa- vour in her heart; but it was only an instant she looked at him ere her eyes wandered in the opposite direction, where fair ola stood beside her lord; and there they rested with a wistful gaze, that was so piteous the youth could scarce with- stand it as it met his own. and, as he thus [ j the silent maid beheld the maid, there grew upon him something that was new, and he yearned to draw her to his heart and have her always near; for he had seen, in the depths of the maiden's eyes, a soul that spoke to his. she let her glance fall from his face and rest upon the ground, as a colour came upon the usual pallor of her cheeks and a sudden agitation heaved her bosom. and thorg saw the change and marvelled; and, looking at her, as she stood there all unconscious of his presence, he realised the maiden was most fair, and loved her as a true man loves but once, — then put the thought aside. the monastic gave a sign, and thorg and ola, as the custom was, approached the maid, and, taking stand at either side c * ] the silent maid of her, seized her by the hands, and led her to her lord. she laid the hand that thorg received upon his own content- edly, like a trustful child, and showed no fear of him, but smiled as if 'twere pleasure thus to let him guide her; but when the gentle ola did appropriate its mate, a sudden trembling shook it, and she made as though she fain would draw away, nor did she look again upon his face. and, after this, the brothers placed her hands upon her master's palms, and stood apart, while, kneeling at the friar's feet, the baron and the maid were joined in marriage, and prayers and blessing o'er the twain were said. but, first, be- cause the maiden had no speech, and could no answer make to any question, the holy man invoked a special privilege ^ [ * ] the silent maid that should suffice in lieu thereof, and said the conduct of the lady gave a full consent, although her voice was dumb, and that the good god knew her heart and saw 'twas much inclined unto her lord. then rabenhorst, arising with his bride, did face the knights, and swore them to allegiance to his arms and to the lady's cause. and all assembled there did swear it, and, with swords held high, made oath to stand in battle for the baron and his bride. and, after this, they fell upon the feast, and made much merriment, and filled the air with cheer and jest and song. but stille, sitting mute beside her spouse, took little notice of the jovial company, that oft did raise their beakers in honour of herself, and seemed absorbed in thoughts of other [ * ] the silent maid things, and never turned her glance upon von rabenhorst, save when he spoke to her; and even then,'twas like the glance of one whose mind was otherwhere and heard without attention what he said. yet once chance brought the eyes of gentle ola to her own, and then there was a change, so quick 'twas like to noth- ing but a flash of light, but still a change; and ola, seeing how the maiden paled beyond her wont, and knowing 'twas his look had wrought the mischief, grieved, and ever after turned his eyes away. and none did know of this, save ola and the maid herself. meantime the revelry ran high, and, the lady and her women having sat the accustomed hour at the board, withdrew to their apartments, for in the later feast- t* sl the silent maid his piety at rest beneath the spell of good red wine, his favourite brew when not engaged in penance or at prayer, made effort to discourse of love and other things that friars know not well, until, too overcome — by love or wine, 'tis not said which — he slipped beneath the table and vanished out of sight. the day grew small, and still the merry revellers plied their jests and sang their songs and passed the hours in changing tales of war and love and feast, and none were ready to depart, though night was close at hand and the moon hung close above the highest mountain- tops. within the walls, the knights made merry music to the touching of the cups, while, in the open of the castle-yard, the clowns disported various fooleries and [ x ] the silent maid aped their lords as best they knew in wit; and it was said an hundred years at least had passed since rabenhorst had wit- nessed such a scene. the baron, with his bridesmen, thorg and ola, placed at either hand, waxed vigorous in speech, and often raised his voice in loudest plaudit at the jests that flew about the board, and showed himself an host of genial mould, and was as gay and free of care as any of the youngest, though 'twas seen he kept his head upon his shoulders better than the rest, and some- times cast his eye upon the men-at-arms with keenest scrutiny, remindful of the special worth of each particular knight. and still the hours wore on, and saw no signs of breaking up the feast. it was well on toward the time when [ ] the silent maid hoarse, as through the valleys rode a mounted guard with message for the master, crying, as he passed: "to arms! the h-ammerschlaag! the foe doth come!" the revelry ceased at once, and each good knight, his ready sword in hand, betook him to his company in haste, pre- pared to lead his men. and rabenhorst, arising from the board, strode quickly to the outer gates, and got upon his horse, then hurried forth, with thorg and ola following fast, to intercept the messen- ger and learn his tale, issuing orders as he passed among the groups. and, such had been their training and the discipline of their lord, 'twas scarce a quartering of the hour in all, ere each man was in place and ready to advance. [ ] the silent maid by night and in the day, his army resting only for an hour at a time, and thus made quicker progress; so 'twas deemed a wise precaution to bear the news at once. and thus the messenger had ridden with- out ceasing, save for hurried taste of food and water for his horse, and would have hastened faster but his beast had died upon the way, and left him to pursue his course for miles, until the sentry at the outer tower supplied another mount. "and even now, o lord," said he, " the time is short. for, if thou hadst the day- light to assist, thine eyes could see his coming; for the valley hath been passed, and hammerschlaag doth camp in yon- der vale beside the goatherd's hut. him hath he slain, and with him his good [ ] the silent maid the foe. do thou, my otto, friend of many a long campaign, lead thy force up yonder hill in silence, there to flank the enemy if thou may. let lusty gregor, hungry more for battle than for meat, as is his nature, take the opposite way and range upon the other side; the ground is heavy there, and hardy men are needed. you will i separate from the rest, because your men are mounted all and lighter builded than most, and nimbleness is needed in this work. the others stay with me to press the central charge; and honest thorg, who cometh not in company^ but alone, to join us, him will i station at my side to fight with me. and all, save ola there, who is both brave and gentle, shall go at once; but he shall stay behind and keep the castle [ hs] the silent maid guard. god grant the struggle be not there before the victory; but, if it be, let none pass through the gates, on forfeit of thy life, for the charge i give to thee is greater than all others." speaking thus, he gave the word, and led the way to battle. and ola, taking with him men assigned as aids and a band of lusty yeomen chosen for their courage, repaired to the castle yard, and made quick preparations to defend it from at- tack. [ m ] the silent maid out regard for aught save victory and destruction of his foe. nor was the con- flict always with the knights that fought on one side or the other; for many val- iant heroes there engaged, and courage was not wanting anywhere along the lines. the first to strike a decisive blow was hammerschlaag himself, who, sweeping down the hillock from his point of van- tage on the higher slope, charged full upon the advancing column of the bar- on's force, dividing it in twain by the violence of the onslaught; and almost would this charge have ended in a rout had not the wily otto, seeing him ad- vance, swung quickly upon his rear with all his swiftest horse, and there wrought direful havoc; while sturdy gregor, [ ] the silent maid coming on the side, drove straight among the scattered men and put them to the sword. meantime the baron's fantassin, with spear and knife, plied vigorously at the chargers of the foe and kept them from advancing; the mass of fallen horses and their riders made a wall be- tween the two divisions of the fight and stayed its progress; and, discouraged at the failure of his first attack, the ham- merschlaag, uncertain of the end, with- drew apart a little and rallied in his knights. von rabenhorst soon formed his lines again, but made no advance, fearing the consequence of any rash attempt to mount the hill. he stationed gregor at the western side and otto at the east, to flank whatever movement hammerschlaag [ h ] the silent maid might try, and waited, slowly retreat- ing, till the lower level ground should give a surer chance for even contest. a silence fell upon the assembled knights, and naught was heard save the distant cry of the mountain owl and one lone cur that bayed the yellow moon. how long a time this stillness reigned, no man could tell; but 'twas not long, for soon the trumpet of the foe gave tongue, and, charging down the slope again, this time in columns three, his lines advanced. the spearmen of von rabenhorst ran forth, and, forming in a wedge, prepared to take the brunt of this fierce onslaught, and gregor and his mate, old otto, struck their spurs and swung to either side straight up the hill, to crowd the columns in. thus forced, they could no [ iso ] the silent maid longer stay divided, but were driven close together, as they came, and rushed upon the spears, bearing down the men that held them, though losing many a horse and rider. but their progress was not checked, and soon the battle turned to them; for rabenhorst's wide columns, broken by this overwhelming crush of man and horse, were backward driven, fighting inch by inch at every step, until they made a stand upon a knoll without the castle gates. while roderich and his forces were gone forth to meet the foe, the youthful ola, left to guard the castle, had been busy at his task. he double-sentinelled each entrance to the towers, made careful journey to all points of vantage, and placed upon the walls such yeomen as [' ' ] the silent maid were brave and strong of thew to hurl destruction on invaders if the need should be, disposed his soldiers at the proper stations, and spared no pains to make a good defence. then, thinking it were wise to look within, he ran the castle through, inspecting every chamber and its ports; and, in the apartments of the women folk, came sudden on the maid. with gracious courtesy, he paused upon the sill and begged permission to secure the place against such danger as might happen there. the maiden heard his voice and raised her eyes; when, as before, he saw reflected there the wistful look that moved his heart, and knew the soul behind them yearned to his. but he made no motion that could tell he noticed, though his heart beat quickly. [ * ] the silent maid he sighed at thought of what such love would be to him whose right it was, and marvelled if she knew the baron's bride might love no other man. a moment thus he paused, then took his way, for time was brief. and now the battling neared the castle gates, and ola, gazing from his station on the turret, beheld the baron's men retreating to the knoll, and saw them thither come and make their stand. he gripped his sword, and felt the sudden tremor that enthrills the veins of sol- diers at the call to arms, gave orders to his crew, and paused intent upon the scene below. thus, gazing from his height, he soon discerned the crest of roderich, the unconquered, waving about among the knights, and saw that [ is ] the silent maid thorg, his brother, moved beside him in his garb of white, that shone conspic- uous in the mass and had a hue of argent lustre, as the rays of moonlight fell upon it; and the sight inspired him with de- sire to go without and join him where he stood, for he felt his place was at the side of him he loved. but duty held him to another task, so he thought of the lady trusted to his care, and patiently kept watch upon the wall. the forces of the hammerschlaag were gathering for a desperate attack, and soon the battle would be on again; and roderich von rabenhorst, gazing from the knoll, sat stern and silent on his horse, full conscious of the mettle of his foe, and realised the fight would be to death on either side. ,his lands and [ ] the silent maid to keep her mine for sake of her sweet face; last will i be to die, if fortune fail this night. my sires, for ages back, have warriors been, and many, in their day, have battled well for home and lands and king; but never knight of all our line hath had such cause as mine, or faced the foe because of love alone. so, come what may, the cause is best of all the causes of our ancient line, and therefore should be won." recovered from his reverie, he scanned the enemy's force again, and made his quick decision to attack; and, followed by his trusted body-guard, charged straightway on the foe. it seemed the better tactics to advance at once, while yet the hammerschlaag deliberated what to do. [ ] the silent maid knoll and win the battle, fighting hand- to-hand. what followed was a strain of bitter conflict, each man warring at his best with whatsoever man attacked him. and sometimes one prevailed and then again another, till 'twas difficult for those upon the castle walls to say which banner led the fray. for now the men of hammer- schlaag, fierce-pressing toward the gates, did drive the defenders near them; and then again the knights of rabenhorst, recovering from the attack, did force the others back, with horrid clamour and destruction great; and thus the battle wavered in the balance, as the hours passed, and none could say 'twas victory anywhere. two knights that fought with ham- [ i ] the silent maid and let one who fears thee not instruct thee in the arts of generous warfare." "son of a measly pig!" the man re- plied. "beware of insult toward thy betters!" at the word, recovering his balance, he made a dash at thorg, and would have there engaged him, but that men contending got between and forced the twain apart against their will. then each had business at his master's side, for now it chanced that hammerschlaag and rabenhorst did battle face to face, with many knights about them striving. with firm-set teeth and eyes aflame with passion, the leaders now began to test each other's skill in mortal combat. well matched they were in size and strength, and none might say that for- [ ] the silent maid tune favoured either in her gifts. long time they battled, with their knights about them fighting hard, and strove in tensest conflict; but the guard of each so deftly handled was, that never blow reached home, though oft they struck, and sparks that flew from their clashing blades glowed star-like in the air as each gave forth its bright and fitful ray. at last the sword of rabenhorst, cutting full upon the steel of hammerschlaag, too near the upper part, snapped off, and, even as it broke, clipped half the other's weapon from its length, and both were crippled of their means to fight, just as the red-haired knight, close-forcing in upon the group, with spear in hand, drove at the baron's horse and killed him as he stood. but thorg, the ever- [ ] the silent maid there was difficult for the heaps of men and horse that lay about. but still the conflict waged and neither side pre- vailed. the handsome knight that rode with hammerschlaag once more had tried to trick von rabenhorst, and quickly had been slain by sturdy gregor, who, unhorsed, now fought alone with bloody sword that told its tale of how its master's work was done; the fantassin, long striving on the outer edge, still slew each other, as they pressed about the knights and strove to clear a passage to the gates; and, in this hour of the waning light, for dying was the moon far in the distant west, the carnage raged more fiercely than before. for desperation added to the valour of the foes, and none would yield. ^ [ ] the silent maid with axe that he had taken from a dying foe, made toward him. then men-at-arms stood back ap- palled at what they saw. for, rushing at each other, swift they swung their weap- ons to the air — so swift that, like the music of a sweeping sword, they sung a woful tune upon the night — then struck. but each in turn did quickly fend the blow. again they struck, and failed of harm; and then again, at every stroke with careful aim; but yet they 'scaped the blows, so shrewdly did they guard against attack. then round and round they trod the sward, exchanging feints and threats of sudden onslaught, each one watchful of the chance that should give value to his work. the monster changed his tactic once, and, [ ' ] the silent maid swelled their bodies and gave them strength to fight. another glancing blow of the hideous knight fell close to thorg, and would have cut him down had not he fended with his weapon and turned it off his side. the giant now was fired with sav- age passion, and his sense, with despera- tion blind, was weaker than at first; and thorg, perceiving this, and seeing how it was with him, grew calm, and softly breathed a prayer. then, watching well his chance, when wild the other had his weapon hurled, he raised his axe on high and backward swung it in a circle bold (so twice it travelled round before it fell), and brought it fair upon the mon- ster's head. crashing through helmet, skull, and flesh, the blade went down and [ ] the silent maid came to rest among the giant's ribs; and 'twas ever after said no blow like that was struck again that day upon the field of rabenhorst, nor many like it anywhere in war. the battle now was forced anear the gates, and still the champions, fighting 'mid their men, but little chance at per- sonal combat found. for soon as the one did find the other to engage him, knights of either side did quickly force the fray to where they stood, so eager they to guard their masters well. and thus it came to pass that, crowding toward the point of danger, hammer- schlaag at last did drive his enemy across the knoll, the pressure of his heavy foot- men forcing the battle ever toward the gates, and rabenhorst was crushed, with [ i ] the silent maid all his knights, almost against the walls, so ola and his men could hurl no mis- siles from the tops upon the mass below, lest friend and foe alike be killed. perceiving how the matter stood, and realising how the strength of hammer- schlaag was greater, having play upon the open ground, while half the baron's force was still at rest within the castle walls, it seemed to ola time to bear a hand in battle with his men. a few re- serving to remain at guard, the rest he quickly mustered at the gate in readiness, and, when the moment favoured, flung the portals wide and led them forth, the panels closing as they passed without. at the moment of this changing of the front of battle, and while the hinges yet their soundings gave, a flame shot high [ * o] the silent maid upon the topmost battlements, and dole- ful music swelled above the din of voices and the clash of arms, dirging the fear- some burthen of the mad woman's curse. the warring ceased a moment at these sounds, and those who gazed aloft saw, standing on the dizzy height, a figure robed in black, that waved a glowing torch. they paused aghast at such a gruesome sight; and rabenhorst, hear- ing, shuddered and remembered all the stories of the past, and marvelled, seeing 'twas his nurse, godgifu, that did love him yet chanted thus upon a time like this. and many were afraid and crossed themselves, and made such other signs as each particular man had learned in youth to deem protection against enchantment and the wiles of evil spirits, for none save the silent maid rabenhorst saw who it was that sang upon the tower. then one within, a stranger soldier stationed there by ola to defend the upper ports, hearing the sounds, and be- ing overzealous in his work, made haste to reach the summit; and, seeing there a raving woman putting, as he thought, a fire upon the roof, mistook her for a spy, and seized her by the waist and hurled her down upon the rocks below, still clinging to her torch and shrilling, as she fell, the ancient curse. a wail of horror rose upon the air, as down she dropped and vanished in the gloom that filled a chasm at the castle's base. here ola, now recovering his sense, pressed forward with his men and forced [ * * ] the silent maid and muscles tensely drawn, for well he knew von rabenhorst of old, and oft had seen him wield the sword against a stronger force with good success. nor was the baron less attentive to the chance of battle, seeing how it was with ham- merschlaag, and that he had no portion of his former skill and strength abated. long time they parried blows and feints and shrewdly attempted thrusts without receiving harm, though once it seemed the hammerschlaag would cut his enemy down, and thrice almost did rabenhorst throw off the other's guard, while breath- less stood the groups of men about in si- lence witnessing. then once the ham- merschlaag, boldly swinging his sword, struck hard at the head of rabenhorst, but not upon his head fell the blow, for, [ m ] the silent maid quickly shifting to the left, the baron struck the other's blade aloft; and yet again the hammerschlaag did try this trick, and yet again the baron turned it all to naught. and then von raben- horst, the calmer of the twain, since less exertion had he made, began to press his enemy with rapid thrusts and sweeping cuts that would have soon despatched a man of lesser skill than hammerschlaag; till hammerschlaag, grown weary of this teasing, made to kill him with a mighty blow that should pass downward through any brief resistance held against its force, and swung his weapon high. the blow fell true and struck upon the guard of rabenhorst; but the shield of the baron was tough and firmly grasped, and, though 'twas cleft, it was not cut apart, [ i ] the silent maid but held the sword of hammerschlaag in its leathern folds an instant ere he drew it back. and thereupon, the baron, thrusting with his point at once, drove straight against the heart of hammer- schlaag, and he fell without a gasp. [ * ] the silent maid and had a wound from one who used a spear, so that he could no longer fight; which thorg, his brother, seeing, made excuse to leave the baron's side, and after bore him safely to his bed within the castle's walls. when morning came, the baron and his weary men returned, bearing their wounded and such prisoners as had come to them in the night. the remnants of the enemy's forces, having fled beyond the mountains, and being no longer a menace to the peace of the castle, were left to go their ways as best they could, and the defenders, being worn out with their night's work, sought rest, and even rabenhorst himself desired to sleep. but thorg stayed with his brother, and would not leave him till he should be s [ o] the silent maid and stille sitting by his couch. he spoke to them with gentle greeting, and the maiden rose and came to him, and laid her arms about his neck and let him kiss her, as was her wont; and tender words came to his lips, as he took her to his heart and softly touched her on the cheek. "a little while, my child," said he, "and thou wilt learn to love me as thou shouldst. dost thou not love me now?" she trembled in his clasp and a tear stole from between her lids and trickled down her face. but she made no answer to his words. "poor child," he murmured. "too much turmoil hath unnerved thee for the time. but 'twill pass off. no hand shall steal thee from thy lord. to-morrow i must leave thee once again, but only for [i ] the silent maid requested all to leave them, lest the fever should return; and the baron, with his bride, stole softly from the place. on the morrow, followed by his band of knights and men that bore their equip- ment and supplies, von rabenhorst set forth to subdue the castellanies of the lower hills and make peace among his allies. thorg and ola alone remained at the castle, for one was too ill to journey, and the other would not leave him. so rabenhorst left the affairs of his estate to thorg, until his brother should re- cover, with instructions to follow when the time should come. "all thy lands," said he, "shall be secured to thee, as if thou and thy brother were at hand, and naught that is yours shall be taken. guard well my castle [ ] the silent maid till thy brother is safe without thee; then take horse and come to me. and after that, thou shalt return with me and bring thy brother, who, in the meantime, shall succeed to thee and serve till we arrive." so thorg remained and nursed his brother; and the maid was often with them and ministered to the wounded knight while he lay ill, and sometimes served in place of thorg, who often was constrained to go abroad upon the affairs of rabenhorst. and, as ola's wound was healed and strength came back to him, thorg spent more and more of his time apart from him; for the baron's domain was wide, and thorg was faithful. and thus it came to pass the maid was much with ola, and her heart grew toward him, so that seldom did she dwell in [ ] the silent maid must sometime go his way. thy lord no longer needs me, so i go." "yes," she made answer, "this is so. but yet, i cannot let thee go. thou art, in truth, more dear to me than any other i have ever known. and, then, it is to thee alone that i may speak." "pray tell me, fair one, how this may be so?" said ola. "for, if thou canst to me address thy gentle words, why not to any other? there surely is some mystery in this, unless it is to humour a sick man thou sayest it. why shouldst thou not with words speak unto all; or why to me alone?" she stood a moment, swaying like a wind-blown lily ere she spoke; and then, with passionate moanings and with many tears, slipped down beside him where he [ ] the silent maid heard. but, since she is to wed no mortal man, nor ever know of love, her speech must be confined, that never may she cease to serve me well. yet, mark me; if at any time she love a mortal man, all this enchantment shall depart from her, and she shall be as mortal for awhile and suf- fer the pains of mortal life, until she re- turn to thee again. and, furthermore, her soul i will remove, against the time to come when men may woo her, seeking her to wife. thus, soulless, she will be care-free nor yield to any pleadings of the heart. but this i cannot promise un- less she be kept apart from converse with the world. for one there is whose soul is counterpart of hers, and, should she chance to meet him, through his soul her soul will quick return to her again, and [ ] the silent maid "yes; i love thee. to deny it is absurd. but yet thou'rt not for me." "i understand thee not," the maid re- plied. "i love thee, and thou lovest me. my soul looks into thine and thine to mine goes forth; and yet thou sayest i am not for thee." "poor child," he said, as tenderly he drew her to his heart; "thou dost not know the ways of mortals well. thou art the bride of rabenhorst, and bound to him for life." then wildly passionate she broke forth: "the bride of rabenhorst! not thine, but his for life! is this the love of mortals? would my noble lord dare bind a soul that loves not his? it is not so. thee only will i love, because thou lovest me. the people of the elver- [ * ] the silent maid konge love but once, and have no souls for others. thou art mine." she wrapped him in her arms and would not let him go, pouring delicious passion o'er his sense, until he had no thought of how it all would end, and even for the time forgot his duty and his honour and the honour of his host; and not until the waning light gave warning of the night's approach did these two leave the goatherd's hut and seek the castle gate. and after this, for many a day, when thorg, his brother, was abroad attending to the duties of the baron, ola and the maid would ramble o'er the farthings of the castellany and beguile the time with words of tenderness and sweet en- dearments. for it seemed to ola that to [ ] the silent maid cut her off with harsh repulse would be more than he could bear, loving her as he did with all his soul. and yet he knew the day would come when this must be, and, knowing, still delayed its com- ing. he soon discerned the maiden had no sense of her allegiance to her spouse, but rather seemed a child, whose only thought was of the one immediate object that she craved; and when, at times, his manhood made its protest at the wrong that he was doing to the maid, the master, and himself and thorg, he made attempt to woo her from her fancy, and to show her why it was she must not dwell on him. but either she was ignorant, or else devoid of any power to see how 'twas, for never could she seem to under- stand, but always laughed his grave re- [ m ] the silent maid bukes to scorn, and said her soul was all the guide she had, and that her love was fixed and could not change, and that the maidens of her fatherland, once lov- ing mortal, never loved again, and might retain their mortal shape save only while they loved. "if thou shouldst leave me now, o soul," she said, " this form that thou dost see would vanish, and the soul thou gavest me would wander forth for- ever, sad, companionless, and homeless, for the people of the elverkonge never may receive again a maid that once hath loved a mortal man. therefore, leave me not, but let me have thee near." and ola was much troubled, hearing her, and marvelled what it was he ought to do. he saw his duty clear, but still [ oo ] the silent maid his heart would not obey, for much he yearned to have the maid. meantime the loyal thorg went al- ways on his rounds and served the baron justly, and at eve, when all were gathered at the board, talked much of these af- fairs with ola, who would sometimes answer him with interest, striving to con- ceal the trouble in his heart. and stille, sitting with them, often smiled and seemed to find the brother's company good, and, in her childlike manner, would stretch forth her hand and pat him on the cheek, and laugh a merry laugh that rang like music through the castle halls. for only when alone with ola did she speak, nor seemed she to have words for any other. thus it was none save himself suspected there was any [ aoi ] the silent maid thee on my knee; and let me kiss away those tears, that ill become an hour like this. if thou art grieving, surely thy lord would comfort thee." but she made him no reply, and only clasped the babe yet closer in her arms, and murmured, as before: "stille-maegth," and wept again. then thorg, in haste to greet the mas- ter, coming through the halls, paused at the open door, uncertain of his right to enter there; and, overhearing what was said, and seeing how it was and that the lady was in deepest peril, waited, ear intent upon the voices. for he now per- ceived (what none had thought before) that the babe that lay upon the lady's lap was not the heir of rabenhorst, but another's. and, perceiving this, he fee- [ ] the silent maid bly groaned, for quickly 'twas made clear to him his brother owned the child. thus, seeing how it was, he soon recalled the tenderness of the maid for ola, and remembered many things his eyes had noticed, taking little thought of them, and, at the recollection, shuddered, and a faintness fell upon his heart. so once again a groaning scaped his lips. at which the baron turned and saw him standing there.' "come hither, honest thorg," he said. "i greet thee here, with gratitude for thy noble service and the care thou gavest my affairs. thy duties are well done, and nothing needs complaint. but here, i feel, my welcome hath been somewhat cold. pray tell me, if thou canst, why ' [ ] the silent maid 'tis the lady weeps, and why she clings so tightly to that child?" but thorg was silent, like a guilty man, and could no answer make. at which von rabenhorst, turning on his bride, his temper rising, made to take the child away and draw her to his side. but she resisted him with feeble violence, and would not give it up, and wept again and fell upon her knees, with moanings, so the baron was perplexed. then thorg, recovered of his weak- ness, stepped within and tried to take the child; but she strove with him as with the other, and would not let it go. and rabenhorst, suspecting now a little how the truth might be, yet never yet believ- ing, thought to move her by rebuke, and spoke in words of anger, saying: [ io ] the silent maid "this, in sooth, is out of reason. surely thou art beside thyself to so be- have. i give thee words of greeting, and thy answer is to weep. i ask thee to release the child an instant, and thou holdest it from me as if it were thine own, and i some robber that would steal it from thy heart. i am weary of this silliness, though i love thee far beyond the limit of rebuke, and would not chide thee for thy folly; but i claim thee now as mine, and have no patience longer to be gainsaid. release the child to thorg and come to me." but stille only moaned, and clung yet tighter to the babe. at which, von rabenhorst, grown im- patient, seized the child and tore it from her. whereat she cried aloud and made [ ] the silent maid to take it from him, so he was forced to gently put her arms away. and then again a doubt grew on his soul; and, more to dispel the faint suggestion than for any other cause, he sternly spoke to her in these words: “tell me at once,” he said, “without delay, whose child is this?” and, as he thus addressed her, he forgot her strange bewitchment, and that speech was not upon her tongue, for his mind was much disturbed. then thorg, perceiving how the baron raved, and that the lady could not long escape his wrath, and, thinking of his brother's sin and all the love he bore him from his earliest boyhood days, stepped close and stood between the twain, with saddened eyes, and said: [ j the silent maid dence both in one i cherished as my bride and one i loved more fondly than a brother. it matters not what raben- horst becomes when this is o'er, for all that made his life worth living hath been torn from him. but one thing now re- mains, and this is quickly settled. again the sword, long ages curse of all our line, must dip in human blood by hand of rabenhorst. for i must slay thee, thorg; there is no other thing to do. but yet, i may not kill thee as a man doth kill some loathsome churl that wrongs him in his home, for i owe thee much, and a knight thou art of noble lineage, and always honest at the core until this hour. and then, thou hast, in days now past, both served and loved me well, and twice didst save my life upon the battle- [»s] the silent maid him before it should be too late; and, ushered to the bedside of the dying lord, he told him all the truth and nothing left unsaid. then rabenhorst, perceiv- ing how it was, and that the maiden of no mortal people came, and that she never loved him or could love, forgave the knight his wrong against himself, and sent him far away to a distant place, with strict command to be an holy man until his hour should come. "for never- more," said he, " can stained knight hold lance at rest, and sin so deep as thine needs much repentance. as for me," he slow continued, "nothing may be said. i understand it now, and see the truth. the curse of all the rabenhorsts doth bind upon me, and from that there is no hiding, nor in love could i have hoped [ i ] the silent maid to dwell, e'en had the maid been true, for such as she can love but once, and are not won like mortal maids. and so it is that nevermore it shall be mine to love a maid, or friendship have with thee or any man. but thorg, thy brother, whom i slew (not knowing this was wrong), him will i seek among the noble dead; and he, forgiving me, as i do thee, will let me dwell beside him, for his love is broad, and large enough to cover even me. thus speaking, he dismissed the knight, and, sending for his servitors, gave strict orders for the caring of the child, that should become his heir. "perhaps," he said, "he being of a dif- ferent blood, the curse may not descend to him." and also strictest orders gave [ai ] the silent maid he for the mother's guard — but he called her not, for 'twas not good, he said, to see her face again. and then, as night came on and darkness grew within the castle walls, he passed away. nor was there any certain when he died, so gentle was his end. that night, when all the castellany slept, save those that watched beside the coffined master, a wild, sweet singing thrilled upon the air, and filled the groves and swept across the opens to the mountains far away. and those who heard it started at the sound, for weird and strange the music came, not seeming to have cause at any point within the whole domain, but everywhere at once, and then again too far among the hills [ i ] r the silent maid to give it definite origin. and certain ones attention gave, and caught the tones, and knew it was their lady's voice that sang upon the night: "la-la, la-la, la-li-o! hither come and thither go. swing your waving branches high, dream-tree, growing in the sky. eaglets, in your mountain nest, hide your heads on mother's breast. winds and waters pass you by, fire and tempest come not nigh. spirits of the dell below, tell me how the flowers grow. wreathe me o'er with roses rare, twine your lilies in my hair. cloudlets floating in the air, ever soaring, white and fair, take me up and let me be, sister friends, as one of ye. la-la, la-la, la-li-o. where do all the waters flow? [ ° ] - nypl research libraries the two magics the new york public library en on m aste jfc - the two magics the turn of the screw covering end by henry james author of " the spoils of poynton" &c. london william heinemann all rights reserved the turn of the screw the turn of the screw the story had held us, round the fire, sufficiently breathless, but except the obvious remark that it was gruesome, as, on christmas eve in an old house, a strange tale should essentially be, i remember no comment uttered till somebody happened to say that it was the only case he had met in which such a visitation had fallen on a child. the case, i may mention, was that of an apparition in just such an old house as had gathered us for the occasion-an appearance, of a dreadful kind, to a little boy sleeping in the room with his mother and waking her up in the terror of it ; waking her not to dissipate his dread and soothe him to sleep again, but to encounter also, herself, before she had succeeded in doing so, the same sight that had shaken him. it was this observation that drew from douglas—not immediately, but later in the evening-a reply that had the interesting consequence to which i call attention. someone else told a story not parti- cularly effective, which i saw he was not following. this i took for a sign that he had himself something to produce and that we should only have to wait. we waited in fact till two nights later ; but that same the turn of the screw evening, before we scattered, he brought out what was in his mind. "i quite agree-in regard to griffin's ghost, or what- ever it was--that its appearing first to the little boy, at so tender an age, adds a particular touch. but it's not the first occurrence of its charming kind that i know to have involved a child. if the child gives the effect another turn of the screw, what do you say to two children— ?" “we say, of course," somebody exclaimed, “that they give two turns! also that we want to hear about them." i can see douglas there before the fire, to which he had got up to present his back, looking down at his interlocutor with his hands in his pockets. “nobody but me, till now, has ever heard. it's quite too horrible.” this, naturally, was declared by several voices to give the thing the utmost price, and our friend, with quiet art, prepared his triumph by turning his eyes over the rest of us and going on : “it's beyond every- thing. nothing at all that i know touches it." “for sheer terror ?" i remember asking. he seemed to say it was not so simple as that; to be really at a loss how to qualify it. he passed his hand over his eyes, made a little wincing grimace. “for dreadful-dreadfulness !" “oh, how delicious !" cried one of the women. he took no notice of her; he looked at me, but as if, instead of me, he saw what he spoke of. “for general uncanny ugliness and horror and pain.” “well then," i said, "just sit right down and begin.” the turn of the screw he turned round to the fire, gave a kick to a log, watched it an instant. then as he faced us again : “i can't begin. i shall have to send to town." there was a unanimous groan at this, and much reproach ; after which, in his preoccupied way, he explained. “the story's written. it's in a locked drawer—it has not been out for years. i could write to my man and enclose the key; he could send down the packet as he finds it.” it was to me in particular that he appeared to propound this-appeared almost to appeal for aid not to hesitate. he had broken a thickness of ice, the formation of many a winter; had had his reasons for a long silence. the others resented postponement, but it was just his scruples that charmed me. i adjured him to write by the first post and to agree with us for an early hearing; then i asked him if the experience in question had been his own. to this his answer was prompt. "oh, thank god, no !”. "and is the record yours? you took the thing down ? " “nothing but the impression. i took that here"- he tapped his heart. “i've never lost it." “then your manuscript- “is in old, faded ink, and in the most beautiful hand.” he hung fire again. “a woman's. she has been dead these twenty years. she sent me the pages in question before she died.” they were all listening now, and of course there was somebody to be arch, or at any rate to draw the inference. but if he put the inference by without a smile it was also without irritation. “she was a most charming person, but she was ten years older than i. she was my sister's governess," he the turn of the screw quietly said. “she was the most agreeable woman i've ever known in her position; she would have been worthy of any whatever. it was long ago, and this episode was long before. i was at trinity, and i found her at home on my coming down the second summer. i was much there that year—it was a beautiful one; and we had, in her off-hours, some strolls and talks in the garden-talks in which she struck me as awfully clever and nice. oh yes ; don't grin : i liked her extremely and am glad to this day to think she liked me too. if she hadn't she wouldn't have told me. she had never told anyone. it wasn't simply that she said so, but that i knew she hadn't. i was sure ; i could see. you'll easily judge why when you hear.” “because the thing had been such a scare ?” he continued to fix me. "you'll easily judge," he repeated : "you will." i fixed him too. “i see. she was in love." he laughed for the first time. “you are acute. yes, she was in love. that is she had been. that came out—she couldn't tell her story without it's coming out. i saw it, and she saw i saw it ; but neither of us spoke of it. i remember the time and the place—the corner of the lawn, the shade of the great beeches and the long, hot summer afternoon. it wasn't a scene for a shudder; but oh- !" he quitted the fire and dropped back into his chair. “you'll receive the packet thursday morning ?” i inquired. “probably not till the second post.” “well then; after dinner— " “you'll all meet me here ?" he looked us round the turn of the screw again. “isn't anybody going?” it was almost the tone of hope. “everybody will stay !” "i will—and i will l” cried the ladies whose de. parture had been fixed. mrs. griffin, however, ex- pressed the need for a little more light. “who was it she was in love with ?” “the story will tell,” i took upon myself to reply. “oh, i can't wait for the story!” “the story won't tell,” said douglas ; “not in any literal, vulgar way.” "more's the pity then. that's the only way i ever understand.” “won't you tell, douglas ?” somebody else in- quired. he sprang to his feet again. “yes-to-morrow. now i must go to bed. good night.” and, quickly, catching up a candlestick, he left us slightly bewildered. from our end of the great brown hall we heard his step on the stair; whereupon mrs. griffin spoke. “well, if i don't know who she was in love with, i know who he was." “ she was ten years older," said her husband. “ raison de plus—at that age! but it's rather nice, his long reticence." “forty years !” griffin put in. “with this outbreak at last.” “the outbreak,” i returned, “will make a tremen- dous occasion of thursday night ;” and everyone so agreed with me that, in the light of it, we lost all attention for everything else. the last story, however incomplete and like the mere opening of a serial, had the turn of the screw been told; we handshook and “candlestuck," as some- body said, and went to bed. i knew the next day that a letter containing the key had, by the first post, gone off to his london apart- ments ; but in spite of—or perhaps just on account of the eventual diffusion of this knowledge we quite let him alone till after dinner, till such an hour of the evening, in fact, as might best accord with the kind of emotion on which our hopes were fixed. then he became as com- municative as we could desire and indeed gave us his best reason for being so. we had it from him again before the fire in the hall, as we had had our mild wonders of the previous night. it appeared that the narrative he had promised to read us really required for a proper intelligence a few words of prologue. let me say here distinctly, to have done with it, that this narrative, from an exact transcript of my own made much later, is what i shall presently give. poor douglas, before his death—when it was in sight-com- mitted to me the manuscript that reached him on the third of these days and that, on the same spot, with immense effect, he began to read to our hushed little circle on the night of the fourth. the departing ladies who had said they would stay didn't, of course, thank heaven, stay: they departed, in consequence of arrangements made, in a rage of curiosity, as they professed, produced by the touches with which he had already worked us up. but that only made his little final auditory more compact and select, kept it, round the hearth, subject to a common thrill. the first of these touches conveyed that the written statement took up the tale at a point after it had, in a the turn of the screw . manner, begun. the fact to be in possession of was therefore that his old friend, the youngest of several daughters of a poor country parson, had, at the age of twenty, on taking service for the first time in the schoolroom, come up to london, in trepidation, to answer in person an advertisement that had already placed her in brief correspondence with the advertiser. this person proved, on her presenting herself, for judgment, at a house, in harley street, that impressed her as vast and imposing—this prospective patron proved a gentleman, a bachelor in the prime of life, such a figure as had never risen, save in a dream or an old novel, before a fluttered, anxious girl out of a hampshire vicarage. one could easily fix his type ; it never, happily, dies out. he was handsome and bold and pleasant, off-hand and gay and kind. he struck her, inevitably, as gallant and splendid, but what took her most of all and gave her the courage she afterwards showed was that he put the whole thing to her as a kind of favour, an obligation he should gratefully incur. she conceived him as rich, but as fearfully ex- travagant-saw him all in a glow of high fashion, of good looks, of expensive habits, of charming ways with women. he had for his town residence a big house filled with the spoils of travel and the trophies of the chase; but it was to his country home, an old family place in essex, that he wished her immediately to proceed. he had been left, by the death of their parents in india, guardian to a small nephew and a small niece, children of a younger, a military brother, whom he had lost two years before. these children were, by the the turn of the screw strangest of chances for a man in his position—a lone man without the right sort of experience or a grain of patience-very heavily on his hands. it had all been a great worry and, on his own part doubtless, a series of blunders, but he immensely pitied the poor chicks and had done all he could; had in particular sent them down to his other house, the proper place for them being of course the country, and kept them there, from the first, with the best people he could find to look after them, parting even with his own servants to wait on them and going down himself, whenever he might, to see how they were doing. the awkward thing was that they had practically no other relations and that his own affairs took up all his time. he had put them in possession of bly, which was healthy and secure, and had placed at the head of their little establishment- but below stairs only—an excellent woman, mrs. grose, whom he was sure his visitor would like and who had formerly been maid to his mother. she was now housekeeper and was also acting for the time as super- intendent to the little girl, of whom, without children of her own, she was, by good luck, extremely fond. there were plenty of people to help, but of course the young lady who should go down as governess would be in supreme authority. she would also have, in holidays, to look after the small boy, who had been for a term at school-young as he was to be sent, but what else could be done ?—and who, as the holidays were about to begin, would be back from one day to the other. there had been for the two children at first a young lady whom they had had the misfortune to lose. she had done for them quite beautifully—she was a most the turn of the screw to the fire, gave a stir to a log with his foot, then stood a moment with his back to us. “she saw him only twice." “yes, but that's just the beauty of her passion." a little to my surprise, on this, douglas turned round to me. “it was the beauty of it. there were others," he went on, “who hadn't succumbed. he told her frankly all his difficulty—that for several applicants the conditions had been prohibitive. they were, somehow, simply afraid. it sounded dull—it sounded strange; and all the more so because of his main condition." “which was ?” “that she should never trouble him—but never, never : neither appeal nor complain nor write about anything ; only meet all questions herself, receive all moneys from his solicitor, take the whole thing over and let him alone. she promised to do this, and she mentioned to me that when, for a moment, disburdened, delighted, he held her hand, thanking her for the sacrifice, she already felt rewarded.” “but was that all her reward ?” one of the ladies asked. “she never saw him again.” “oh!” said the lady; which, as our friend imme- diately left us again, was the only other word of importance contributed to the subject till, the next night, by the corner of the hearth, in the best chair, he opened the faded red cover of a thin old-fashioned gilt-edged album. the whole thing took indeed more nights than one, but on the first occasion the same lady put another question. “what is your title ? " the turn of the screw “i haven't one." “oh, i have !" i said. but douglas, without heed- ing me, had begun to read with a fine clearness that was like a rendering to the ear of the beauty of his author's hand. i remember the whole beginning as a succession of flights and drops, a little see-saw of the right throbs and the wrong. after rising, in town, to meet his appeal, i had at all events a couple of very bad days- found myself doubtful again, felt indeed sure i had made a mistake. in this state of mind i spent the long hours of bumping, swinging coach that carried me to the stopping-place at which i was to be met by a vehicle from the house. this convenience, i was told, had been ordered, and i found, toward the close of the june afternoon, a commodious fly in waiting for me. driving at that hour, on a lovely day, through a country to which the summer sweetness seemed to offer me a friendly welcome, my fortitude mounted afresh and, as we turned into the avenue, encountered a reprieve that was probably but a proof of the point to which it had sunk. i suppose i had expected, or had dreaded, something so melancholy that what greeted me was a good surprise. i remember as a most pleasant impression the broad, clear front, its open windows and fresh curtains and the pair of maids looking out; i remember the lawn and the bright flowers and the crunch of my wheels on the gravel and the pair m remember than flowers and in the turn of the screw the clustered tree-tops over which the rooks circled and cawed in the golden sky. the scene had a greatness that made it a different affair from my own scant home, and there immediately appeared at the door, with a little girl in her hand, a civil person who dropped me as decent a curtsey as if i had been the mistress or a dis- tinguished visitor. i had received in harley street a narrower notion of the place, and that, as i recalled it, made me think the proprietor still more of a gentleman, suggested that what i was to enjoy might be something beyond his promise. i had no drop again till the next day, for i was carried triumphantly through the following hours by my introduction to the younger of my pupils. the little girl who accompanied mrs. grose appeared to me on the spot a creature so charming as to make it a great fortune to have to do with her. she was the most beautiful child i had ever seen, and i afterwards wondered that my employer had not told me more of her. i slept little that night-i was too much excited ; and this astonished me too, i recollect, remained with me, adding to my sense of the liberality with which i was treated. the large, impressive room, one of the best in the house, the great state bed, as i almost felt it, the full, figured draperies, the long glasses in which, for the first time, i could see myself from head to foot, all struck me—like the extraordinary charm of my small charge-as so many things thrown in. it was thrown in as well, from the first moment, that i should get on with mrs. grose in a relation over which, on my way, in the coach, i fear i had rather brooded. the only thing indeed that in this early outlook might have the turn of the screw made me shrink again was the clear circumstance of her being so glad to see me. i perceived within half an hour that she was so glad-stout, simple, plain, clean, wholesome woman—as to be positively on her guard against showing it too much. i wondered even then a little why she should wish not to show it, and that, with reflection, with suspicion, might of course have made me uneasy. but it was a comfort that there could be no uneasi- ness in a connection with anything so beatific as the radiant image of my little girl, the vision of whose angelic beauty had probably more than anything else to do with the restlessness that, before morning, made me several times rise and wander about my room to take in the whole picture and prospect; to watch, from my open window, the faint summer dawn, to look at such portions of the rest of the house as i could catch, and to listen, while, in the fading dusk, the first birds began to twitter, for the possible recurrence of a sound or two, less natural and not without, but within, that i had fancied i heard. there had been a moment when i believed i recognised, faint and far, the cry of a child ; there had been another when i found myself just consciously starting as at the passage, before my door, of a light footstep. but these fancies were not marked enough not to be thrown off, and it is only in the light, or the gloom, i should rather say, of other and subsequent matters that they now come back to me. to watch, teach, “form" little flora would too evidently be the making of a happy and useful life. it had been agreed between us downstairs that after this first occasion i should have her as a matter of course the turn of the screw at night, her small white bed being already arranged, to that end, in my room. what i had undertaken was the whole care of her, and she had remained, just this last time, with mrs. grose only as an effect of our con- sideration for my inevitable strangeness and her natural timidity. in spite of this timidity_which the child herself, in the oddest way in the world, had been per- fectly frank and brave about, allowing it, without a sign of uncomfortable consciousness, with the deep, sweet serenity indeed of one of raphael's holy infants, to be discussed, to be imputed to her and to determine us—i felt quite sure she would presently like me. it was part of what i already liked mrs. grose herself for, the pleasure i could see her feel in my admiration and wonder as i sat at supper with four tall candles and with my pupil, in a high chair and a bib, brightly facing me, between them, over bread and milk. there were naturally things that in flora's presence could pass between us only as prodigious and gratified looks, obscure and roundabout allusions. "and the little boy-does he look like her? is he too so very remarkable ? ” one wouldn't flatter a child "oh miss, most remarkable. if you think well of this one!”-and she stood there with a plate in her hand, beaming at our companion, who looked from one of us to the other with placid heavenly eyes that contained nothing to check us. “yes; if i do ?" “you will be carried away by the little gentleman !” “well, that, i think, is what i came for—to be carried away. i'm afraid, however," i remember feel- the turn of the screw ing the impulse to add, “ i'm rather easily carried away. i was carried away in london !" i can still see mrs. grose's broad face as she took this in. “in harley street ? ” “in harley street." “well, miss, you're not the first—and you won't be the last." “oh, i've no pretension,” i could laugh, “to being the only one. my other pupil, at any rate, as i under- stand, comes back tomorrow ?" “not tomorrow_friday, miss. he arrives, as you did, by the coach, under care of the guard, and is to be met by the same carriage." i forthwith expressed that the proper as well as the pleasant and friendly thing would be therefore that on the arrival of the public conveyance i should be in waiting for him with his little sister ; an idea in which mrs. grose concurred so heartily that i somehow took her manner as a kind of comforting pledge—never falsified, thank heaven |—that we should on every question be quite at one. oh, she was glad i was there! what i felt the next day was, i suppose, nothing that could be fairly called a reaction from the cheer of my arrival; it was probably at the most only a slight oppression produced by a fuller measure of the scale, as i walked round them, gazed up at them, took them in, of my new circumstances. they had, as it were, an extent and mass for which i had not been prepared and in the presence of which i found myself, freshly, a little scared as well as a little proud. lessons, in this agitation, certainly suffered some delay; i reflected the turn of the screw - that my first duty was, by the gentlest arts i could contrive, to win the child into the sense of knowing me. i spent the day with her out of doors; i arranged with her, to her great satisfaction, that it should be she, she only, who might show me the place. she showed it step by step and room by room and secret by secret, with droll, delightful, childish talk about it and with the result, in half an hour, of our becoming immense friends. young as she was, i was struck, throughout our little tour, with her confidence and courage with the way, in empty chambers and dull corridors, on crooked staircases that made me pause and even on the summit of an old machicolated square tower that made me dizzy, her morning music, her disposition to tell me so many more things than she asked, rang out and led me on. i have not seen bly since the day i left it, and i dare say that to my older and more in- formed eyes it would now appear sufficiently contracted. but as my little conductress, with her hair of gold and her frock of blue, danced before me round corners and pattered down passages, i had the view of a castle of romance inhabited by a rosy sprite, such a place as would somehow, for diversion of the young idea, take all colour out of storybooks and fairy-tales. wasn't it just a storybook over which i had fallen a-doze and a-dream? no; it was a big, ugly, antique, but con- venient house, embodying a few features of a building still older, half replaced and half utilised, in which i had the fancy of our being almost as lost as a handful of passengers in a great drifting ship. well, i was, strangely, at the helm ! this came home to me when, two days later, i drove over with flora to meet, as mrs. grose said, the little gentleman; and all the more for an incident that, pre- senting itself the second evening, had deeply discon- certed me. the first day had been, on the whole, as i have expressed, reassuring ; but i was to see it wind up in keen apprehension. the postbag, that evening- it came late-contained a letter for me, which, how- ever, in the hand of my employer, i found to be com- posed but of a few words enclosing another, addressed to himself, with a seal still unbroken. “this, i recog- nise, is from the head-master, and the head-master's an awful bore. read him, please ; deal with him ; but mind you don't report. not a word. i'm off!” i broke the seal with a great effort—so great a one that i was a long time coming to it ; took the unopened missive at last up to my room and only attacked it just before going to bed. i had better have let it wait till morning, for it gave me a second sleepless night. with no counsel to take, the next day, i was full of distress ; and it finally got so the better of me that i determined to open myself at least to mrs. grose. “what does it mean? the child's dismissed his sehool." the turn of the screw she gave me a look that i remarked at the moment ; then, visibly, with a quick blankness, seemed to try to take it back. “but aren't they all — ?" "sent home—yes. but only for the holidays. miles may never go back at all.” consciously, under my attention, she reddened. “they won't take him ?”. “they absolutely decline." at this she raised her eyes, which she had turned from me; i saw them fill with good tears. “what has he done ? " i hesitated; then i judged best simply to hand her my letter—which, however, had the effect of making her, without taking it, simply put her hands behind her. she shook her head sadly. “such things are not for me, miss." my counsellor couldn't read! i winced at my mis- take, which i attenuated as i could, and opened my letter again to repeat it to her; then, faltering in the act and folding it up once more, i put it back in my pocket. “is he really bad ? " the tears were still in her eyes. “do the gentlemen say so ?” “they go into no particulars. they simply express their regret that it should be impossible to keep him. that can have only one meaning.” mrs. grose listened with dumb emotion; she forbore to ask me what this meaning might be; so that, presently, to put the thing with some coherence and with the mere aid of her presence to my own mind, i went on : “that he's an injury to the others.” at this, with one of the quick turns of simple folk, the turn of the screw she suddenly flamed up. “master miles !—him an injury ?” there was such a flood of good faith in it that, though i had not yet seen the child, my very fears made me jump to the absurdity of the idea. i found myself, to meet my friend the better, offering it, on the spot, sarcastically. “to his poor little innocent mates !" “it's too dreadful,” cried mrs. grose, “to say such cruel things! why, he's scarce ten years old.” “yes, yes; it would be incredible.” she was evidently grateful for such a profession. “see him, miss, first. then believe it !” i felt forth- with a new impatience to see him; it was the beginning of a curiosity that, for all the next hours, was to deepen almost to pain. mrs. grose was aware, i could judge, of what she had produced in me, and she followed it up with assurance. “you might as well believe it of the little lady. bless her,” she added the next moment- “ look at her!" i turned and saw that flora, whom, ten minutes before, i had established in the schoolroom with a sheet of white paper, a pencil and a copy of nice “round o's," now presented herself to view at the open door. she expressed in her little way an extra- ordinary detachment from disagreeable duties, looking to me, however, with a great childish light that seemed to offer it as a mere result of the affection she had con- ceived for my person, which had rendered necessary that she should follow me. i needed nothing more than this to feel the full force of mrs. grose's com- parison, and, catching my pupil in my arms, covered the turn of the screw her with kisses in which there was a sob of atone- ment. none the less, the rest of the day, i watched for further occasion to approach my colleague, especially as, toward evening, i began to fancy she rather sought to avoid me. i overtook her, i remember, on the stair- case; we went down together, and at the bottom i detained her, holding her there with a hand on her arm. “i take what you said to me at noon as a declaration that you've never known him to be bad.” she threw back her head; she had clearly, by this time, and very honestly, adopted an attitude. “oh, never known him—i don't pretend that ! ” i was upset again. “then you have known him ?" “yes indeed, miss, thank god!” on reflection i accepted this. “you mean that a boy who never is- ?". "is no boy for me!”. 'i held her tighter. “you like them with the spirit to be naughty ?” then, keeping pace with her answer, "so do i!” i eagerly brought out. “but not to the degree to contaminate— " “to contaminate ?”—my big word left her at a loss. i explained it. “to corrupt.” she stared, taking my meaning in; but it produced in her an odd laugh. “are you afraid he'll corrupt you ?” she put the question with such a fine bold humour that, with a laugh, a little silly doubtless, to match her own, i gave way for the time to the apprehension of ridicule. but the next day, as the hour for my drive approached, the turn of the screw i cropped up in another place. “what was the lady who was here before ?' “the last governess ? she was also young and pretty_almost as young and almost as pretty, miss, even as you." “ah, then, i hope her youth and her beauty helped her !” i recollect throwing off. “he seems to like us young and pretty!" “oh, he did," mrs. grose assented : "it was the way he liked everyone !” she had no sooner spoken indeed than she caught herself up. “i mean that's his way—the master's.” i was struck. “but of whom did you speak first ? ” she looked blank, but she coloured. “why, of him.' “of the master ?” “of who else ?” there was so obviously no one else that the next moment i had lost my impression of her having accidentally said more than she meant; and i merely asked what i wanted to know. “did she see anything in the boy- ?" “that wasn't right ? she never told me. i had a scruple, but i overcame it. “was she careful—particular ? " mrs. grose appeared to try to be conscientious. “about some things-yes." “but not about all ? ” again she considered. “well, miss—she's gone. i won't tell tales.” "i quite understand your feeling," i hastened to reply; but i thought it, after an instant, not opposed to this concession to pursue : "did she die here ? the turn of the screw “no-she went off.” i don't know what there was in this brevity of mrs. grose's that struck me as ambiguous. “went off to die ?” mrs. grose looked straight out of the window, but i felt that, hypothetically, i had a right to know what young persons engaged for bly were expected to do. “she was taken ill, you mean, and went home?” “she was not taken ill, so far as appeared, in this house. she left it, at the end of the year, to go home, as she said, for a short holiday, to which the time she had put in had certainly given her a right. we had then a young woman-a nursemaid who had stayed on and who was a good girl and clever; and she took the children altogether for the interval. but our young lady never came back, and at the very moment i was expecting her i heard from the master that she was dead.” i turned this over. “but of what ?” “he never told me! but please, miss,” said mrs. grose, “i must get to my work.” iii her thus turning her back on me was fortunately not, for my just preoccupations, a snub that could check the growth of our mutual esteem. we met, after i had brought home little miles, more intimately than ever on the ground of my stupefaction, my general emotion : so monstrous was i then ready to pronounce it that such a child as had now been revealed to me should be under an interdict. i was a little late on the scene, and i felt, as he stood wistfully looking out for me before the door of the inn at which the coach had put him down, that i had seen him, on the instant, without and within, in the great glow of freshness, the same positive fragrance of purity, in which i had, from the first moment, seen his little sister. he was incredibly beautiful, and mrs. grose had put her finger on it : everything but a sort of passion of tenderness for him was swept away by his presence. what i then and there took him to my heart for was something divine that i have never found to the same degree in any child—his indescribable little air of knowing nothing in the world but love. it would have been impossible to carry a bad name with a greater sweetness of innocence, and by the time i had got back to bly with him i remained merely bewildered- the turn of the screw so far, that is, as i was not outraged_by the sense of the horrible letter locked up in my room, in a drawer. as soon as i could compass a private word with mrs. grose i declared to her that it was grotesque. she promptly understood me. “you mean the cruel charge- ?” " it doesn't live an instant. my dear woman, look at him!” she smiled at my pretension to have discovered his charm. “i assure you, miss, i do nothing else! what will you say, then ?” she immediately added. "in answer to the letter ?” i had made up my mind. “nothing." “and to his uncle ?” i was incisive. “nothing." “and to the boy himself ?” i was wonderful. “nothing." she gave with her apron a great wipe to her mouth. “then i'll stand by you. we'll see it out.” “we'll see it out!" i ardently echoed, giving her my hand to make it a vow. she held me there a moment, then whisked up her apron again with her detached hand. “would you mind, miss, if i used the freedom— ". “to kiss me ? no!” i took the good creature in my arms and, after we had embraced like sisters, felt still more fortified and indignant. this, at all events, was for the time : a time so full that, as i recall the way it went, it reminds me of all the art i now need to make it a little distinct. what i look back at with amazement is the situation i accepted. i had undertaken, with my companion, to see it out, the turn of the screw and i was under a charm, apparently, that could smooth away the extent and the far and difficult connections of such an effort. i was lifted aloft on a great wave of infatuation and pity. i found it simple, in my ignorance, my confusion, and perhaps my conceit, to assume that i could deal with a boy whose education for the world was all on the point of beginning. i am unable even to remember at this day what proposal i framed for the end of his holidays and the resumption of his studies. lessons with me indeed, that charming summer, we all had a theory that he was to have; but i now feel that, for weeks, the lessons must have been rather my own. i learnt something—at first certainly—that had not been one of the teachings of my small, smothered life; learnt to be amused, and even amusing, and not to think for the morrow. it was the first time, in a manner, that i had known space and air and freedom, all the music of summer and all the mystery of nature. and then there was consideration—and consideration was sweet oh, it was a trap—not designed, but deep —to my imagination, to my delicacy, perhaps to my vanity; to whatever, in me, was most excitable. the best way to picture it all is to say that i was off my guard. they gave me so little trouble—they were of a gentleness so extraordinary. i used to speculate—but even this with a dim disconnectedness—as to how the rough future (for all futures are rough !) would handle them and might bruise them. they had the bloom of health and happiness; and yet, as if i had been in charge of a pair of little grandees, of princes of the blood, for whom everything, to be right, would have to be enclosed and protected, the only form that, in my fancy, the the turn of the screw after-years could take for them was that of a romantic, a really royal extension of the garden and the park. it may be, of course, above all, that what suddenly broke into this gives the previous time a charm of stillness- that hush in which something gathers or crouches. the change was actually like the spring of a beast. in the first weeks the days were long; they often, at their finest, gave me what i used to call my own hour, the hour when, for my pupils, tea-time and bed-time having come and gone, i had, before my final retire- ment, a small interval alone. much as i liked my com- panions, this hour was the thing in the day i liked most; and i liked it best of all when, as the light faded —or rather, i should say, the day lingered and the last calls of the last birds sounded, in a flushed sky, from the old trees—i could take a turn into the grounds and enjoy, almost with a sense of property that amused and flattered me, the beauty and dignity of the place. it was a pleasure at these moments to feel myself tranquil and justified ; doubtless, perhaps, also to reflect that by my discretion, my quiet good sense and general high propriety, i was giving pleasure—if he ever thought of it to the person to whose pressure i had responded. what i was doing was what he had earnestly hoped and directly asked of me, and that i could, after all, do it proved even a greater joy than i had expected. i dare say i fancied myself, in short, a remarkable young woman and took comfort in the faith that this would more publicly appear. well, i needed to be remarkable to offer a front to the remarkable things that presently gave their first sign. it was plump, one afternoon, in the middle of my the turn of the screw very hour: the children were tucked away and i had come out for my stroll. one of the thoughts that, as i don't in the least shrink now from noting, used to be with me in these wanderings was that it would be as charming as a charming story suddenly to meet some- one. someone would appear there at the turn of a path and would stand before me and smile and approve. i didn't ask more than that i only asked that he should know; and the only way to be sure he knew would be to see it, and the kind light of it, in his handsome face. that was exactly present to me—by which i mean the face was—when, on the first of these occasions, at the end of a long june day, i stopped short on emerging from one of the plantations and coming into view of the house. what arrested me on the spot—and with a shock much greater than any vision had allowed for —was the sense that my imagination had, in a flash, turned real. he did stand there !—but high up, beyond the lawn and at the very top of the tower to which, on that first morning, little flora had conducted me. this tower was one of a pair-square, incongruous, crene- lated structures—that were distinguished, for some reason, though i could see little difference, as the new and the old. they flanked opposite ends of the house and were probably architectural absurdities, redeemed in a measure indeed by not being wholly disengaged nor of a height too pretentious, dating, in their ginger- bread antiquity, from a romantic revival that was already a respectable past. i admired them, had fancies about them, for we could all profit in a degree, especially when they loomed through the dusk, by the grandeur of their actual battlements; yet it was not at the turn of the screw such an elevation that the figure i had so often invoked seemed most in place. it produced in me, this figure, in the clear twilight, i remember, two distinct gasps of emotion, which were, sharply, the shock of my first and that of my second surprise. my second was a violent perception of the mistake of my first : the man who met my eyes was not the person i had precipitately supposed. there came to me thus a bewilderment of vision of which, after these years, there is no living view that i can hope to give. an unknown man in a lonely place is a permitted object of fear to a young woman privately bred ; and the figure that faced me was—a few more seconds assured me—as little any one else i knew as it was the image that had been in my mind. i had not seen it in harley street—i had not seen it anywhere. the place, moreover, in the strangest way in the world, had, on the instant, and by the very fact of its appear- ance, become a solitude. to me at least, making my statement here with a deliberation with which i have never made it, the whole feeling of the moment returns. it was as if, while i took in—what i did take in-all the rest of the scene had been stricken with death. i can hear again, as i write, the intense hush in which the sounds of evening dropped. the rooks stopped cawing in the golden sky and the friendly hour lost, for the minute, all its voice. but there was no other change in nature, unless indeed it were a change that i saw with a stranger sharpness. the gold was still in the sky, the clearness in the air, and the man who looked at me over the battlements was as definite as a picture in a frame. that's how i thought, with extra- the turn of the screw ordinary quickness, of each person that he might have been and that he was not. we were confronted across our distance quite long enough for me to ask myself with intensity who then he was and to feel, as an effect of my inability to say, a wonder that in a few instants more became intense. the great question, or one of these, is, afterwards, i know, with regard to certain matters, the question of how long they have lasted. well, this matter of mine, think what you will of it, lasted while i caught at a dozen possibilities, none of which made a difference for the better, that i could see, in there having been in the house—and for how long, above all ?—a person of whom i was in ignorance. it lasted while i just bridled a little with the sense that my office demanded that there should be no such ignorance and no such person. it lasted while this visitant, at all events—and there was a touch of the strange freedom, as i remember, in the sign of familiarity of his wearing no hat seemed to fix me, from his position, with just the question, just the scrutiny through the fading light, that his own presence provoked. we were too far apart to call to each other, but there was a moment at which, at shorter range, some challenge between us, breaking the hush, would have been the right result of our straight mutual stare. he was in one of the angles, the one away from the house, very erect, as it struck me, and with both hands on the ledge. so i saw him as i see the letters i form on this page; then, exactly, after a minute, as if to add to the spectacle, he slowly changed his place-passed, looking at me hard all the while, to the opposite corner of the platform. yes, i had the sharpest sense that the turn of the screw during this transit he never took his eyes from me, and i can see at this moment the way his hand, as he went, passed from one of the crenelations to the next. he stopped at the other corner, but less long, and even as he turned away still markedly fixed me. he turned away; that was all i knew. iv it was not that i didn't wait, on this occasion, for more, for i was rooted as deeply as i was shaken. was there a "secret” at bly—a mystery of udolpho or an insane, an unmentionable relative kept in unsuspected confinement ? i can't say how long i turned it over, or how long, in a confusion of curiosity and dread, i remained where i had had my collision ; i only recall that when i re-entered the house darkness had quite closed in. agitation, in the interval, certainly had held me and driven me, for i must, in circling about the place, have walked three miles; but i was to be, later on, so much more overwhelmed that this mere dawn of alarm was a comparatively human chill. the most singular part of it in fact-singular as the rest had been—was the part i became, in the hall, aware of in meeting mrs. grose. this picture comes back to me in the general train—the impression, as i received it on my return, of the wide white panelled space, bright in the lamplight and with its portraits and red carpet, and of the good surprised look of my friend, which immediately told me she had missed me. it came to me straightway, under her contact, that, with plain heartiness, mere relieved anxiety at my appearance, the turn of the screw she knew nothing whatever that could bear upon the incident i had there ready for her. i had not suspected in advance that her comfortable face would pull me up, and i somehow measured the importance of what i had seen by my thus finding myself hesitate to mention it. scarce anything in the whole history seems to me so odd as this fact that my real beginning of fear was one, as i may say, with the instinct of sparing my companion. on the spot, accordingly, in the pleasant hall and with her eyes on me, i, for a reason that i couldn't then have phrased, achieved an inward revolution-offered a vague pretext for my lateness and, with the plea of the beauty of the night and of the heavy dew and wet feet, went as soon as possible to my room. here it was another affair; here, for many days after, it was a queer affair enough. there were hours, from day to day—or at least there were moments, snatched even from clear duties—when i had to shut myself up to think. it was not so much yet that i was more nervous than i could bear to be as that i was remarkably afraid of becoming so; for the truth i had now to turn over was, simply and clearly, the truth that i could arrive at no account whatever of the visitor with whom i had been so inexplicably and yet, as it seemed to me, so intimately concerned. it took little time to see that i could sound without forms of inquiry and without exciting remark any domestic complication. the shock i had suffered must have sharpened all my senses ; i felt sure, at the end of three days and as the result of mere closer attention, that i had not been practised upon by the servants nor made the object · the turn of the screw of any "game.” of whatever it was that i knew nothing was known around me. there was but one sane inference: someone had taken a liberty rather gross. that was what, repeatedly, i dipped into my room and locked the door to say to myself. we had been, collectively, subject to an intrusion; some unscrupulous traveller, curious in old houses, had made his way in unobserved, enjoyed the prospect from the best point of view and then stolen out as he came. if he had given me such a bold hard stare, that was but a part of his indiscretion. the good thing, after all, was that we should surely see no more of him. this was not so good a thing, i admit, as not to leave me to judge that what, essentially, made nothing else much signify was simply my charming work. my charming work was just my life with miles and flora, and through nothing could i so like it as through feeling that i could throw myself into it in trouble. the attrac- tion of my small charges was a constant joy, leading me to wonder afresh at the vanity of my original fears, the distaste i had begun by entertaining for the probable grey prose of my office. there was to be no grey prose, it appeared, and no long grind; so how could work not be charming that presented itself as daily beauty ? it was all the romance of the nursery and the poetry of the schoolroom. i don't mean by this, of course, that we studied only fiction and verse; i mean i can express no otherwise the sort of interest my com- panions inspired. how can i describe that except by saying that instead of growing used to them and it's a marvel for a governess : i call the sisterhood to wit. the turn of the screw . ness !—i made constant fresh discoveries. there was one direction, assuredly, in which these discoveries stopped : deep obscurity continued to cover the region of the boy's conduct at school. it had been promptly given me, i have noted, to face that mystery without a pang. perhaps even it would be nearer the truth to say that—without a word—he himself had cleared it up. he had made the whole charge absurd. my con- clusion bloomed there with the real rose-flush of his innocence: he was only too fine and fair for the little horrid, unclean school-world, and he had paid a price for it. i reflected acutely that the sense of such differences, such superiorities of quality, always, on the part of the majority—which could include even stupid, sordid head-masters-turns infallibly to the vindictive. both the children had a gentleness (it was their only fault, and it never made miles a muff, that kept them -how shall i express it ?-almost impersonal and cer- tainly quite unpunishable. they were like the cherubs of the anecdote, who had—morally, at any rate – nothing to whack! i remember feeling with miles in especial as if he had had, as it were, no history. we expect of a small child a scant one, but there was in this beautiful little boy something extraordinarily sensi- tive, yet extraordinarily happy, that, more than in any creature of his age i have seen, struck me as beginning anew each day. he had never for a second suffered. i took this as a direct disproof of his having really been chastised. if he had been wicked he would have “caught” it, and i should have caught it by the re- bound-i should have found the trace. i found nothing the turn of the screw at all, and he was therefore an angel. he never spoke of his school, never mentioned a comrade or a master; and i, for my part, was quite too much disgusted to allude to them. of course i was under the spell, and the wonderful part is that, even at the time, i perfectly knew i was. but i gave myself up to it; it was an antidote to any pain, and i had more pains than one. i was in receipt in these days of disturbing letters from home, where things were not going well. but with my children, what things in the world mattered ? that was the question i used to put to my scrappy retirements. i was dazzled by their loveliness. there was a sunday—to get on—when it rained with such force and for so many hours that there could be no procession to church ; in consequence of which, as the day declined, i had arranged with mrs. grose that, should the evening show improvement, we would attend together the late service. the rain happily stopped, and i prepared for our walk, which, through the park and by the good road to the village, would be a matter of twenty minutes. coming down stairs to meet my colleague in the hall, i remembered a pair of gloves that had required three stitches and that had received them—with a publicity perhaps not edifying- while i sat with the children at their tea, served on sundays, by exception, in that cold, clean temple of mahogany and brass, the “grown-up” dining-room. the gloves had been dropped there, and i turned in to recover them. the day was grey enough, but the afternoon light still lingered, and it enabled me, on crossing the threshold, not only to recognise, on a chair the turn of the screw near the wide window, then closed, the articles i wanted, but to become aware of a person on the other side of the window and looking straight in. one step into the room had sufficed; my vision was instan- taneous; it was all there. the person looking straight in was the person who had already appeared to me. he appeared thus again with i won't say greater dis- tinctness, for that was impossible, but with a nearness that represented a forward stride in our intercourse and made me, as i met him, catch my breath and turn cold. he was the same—he was the same, and seen, this time, as he had been seen before, from the waist up, the window, though the dining-room was on the ground-floor, not going down to the terrace on which he stood. his face was close to the glass, yet the effect of this better view was, strangely, only to show me how intense the former had been. he remained but a few seconds—long enough to convince me he also saw and recognised; but it was as if i had been looking at him for years and had known him always. something, however, happened this time that had not happened before; his stare into my face, through the glass and across the room, was as deep and hard as then, but it quitted me for a moment during which i could still watch it, see it fix successively several other things. on the spot there came to me the added shock of a certitude that it was not for me he had come there. he had come for someone else. the flash of this knowledge—for it was knowledge in the midst of dread-produced in me the most extra- ordinary effect, started, as i stood there, a sudden the turn of the screw short, and retreated on just my lines, and i knew she had then passed out and come round to me and that i should presently meet her. i remained where i was, and while i waited i thought of more things than one. but there's only one i take space to mention. i wondered why she should be scared. oh, she let me know as soon as, round the corner of the house, she loomed again into view. “what in the name of goodness is the matter——?” she was now flushed and out of breath. i said nothing till she came quite near. “with me ? " i must have made a wonderful face. “do i show it ?" “you're as white as a sheet. you look awful.” i considered; i could meet on this, without scruple, any innocence. my need to respect the bloom of mrs. grose's had dropped, without a rustle, from my shoulders, and if i wavered for the instant it was not with what i kept back. i put out my hand to her and she took it; i held her hard a little, liking to feel her close to me. there was a kind of support in the shy heave of her surprise. “you came for me for church, of course, but i can't go." “has anything happened ? " “yes. you must know now. did i look very queer ? ” “ through this window ? dreadful !”. “well," i said, “i've been frightened.” mrs. grose's eyes expressed plainly that she had no wish to be, yet the turn of the screw also that she knew too well her place not to be ready to share with me any marked inconvenience. oh, it was quite settled that she must share! “ just what you saw from the dining-room a minute ago was the effect of that. what i saw just before—was much worse.” her hand tightened. “what was it ? ” “an extraordinary man. looking in.” “what extraordinary man ?” “i haven't the least idea.” mrs. grose gazed round us in vain. “then where is he gone ? " “i know still less." “ have you seen him before ?”. “yes-once. on the old tower." she could only look at me harder. “do you mean he's a stranger ?” “oh, very much !” “yet you didn't tell me ? " “no – for reasons. but now that you've guessed- ” mrs. grose's round eyes encountered this charge. “ah, i haven't guessed !” she said very simply. “how can i if you don't imagine ?" “i don't in the very least.” “you've seen him nowhere but on the tower ?” “and on this spot just now." mrs. grose looked round again. “what was he doing on the tower ? " “only standing there and looking down at me.” she thought a minute. “was he a gentleman ?” i found i had no need to think. "no." she gazed in deeper wonder. "no." the turn of the screw “ then nobody about the place ? nobody from the village ?” “nobody-nobody. i didn't tell you, but i made sure.” she breathed a vague relief: this was, oddly, so much to the good. it only went indeed a little way. “but if he isn't a gentleman- " “what is he? he's a horror." “a horror ? " “he's—god help me if i know what he is !” mrs. grose looked round once more ; she fixed her eyes on the duskier distance, then, pulling herself together, turned to me with abrupt inconsequence. “it's time we should be at church.” “oh, i'm not fit for church !” “won't it do you good ?". “it won't do them—~!" i nodded at the house. “ the children ?". “i can't leave them now." “you're afraid—-?" i spoke boldly. “i'm afraid of him.” mrs. grose's large face showed me, at this, for the first time, the far-away faint glimmer of a conscious- ness more acute: i somehow made out in it the delayed dawn of an idea i myself had not given her and that was as yet quite obscure to me. it comes back to me that i thought instantly of this as something i could get from her; and i felt it to be connected with the desire she presently showed to know more. “when was it -on the tower ? " “about the middle of the month. at this same hour.” the turn of the screw “ almost at dark," said mrs. grose. “oh no, not nearly. i saw him as i see you." “then how did he get in ?" “and how did he get out ?" i laughed. “i had no opportunity to ask him! this evening, you see,” i pursued,“ he has not been able to get in.” “he only peeps ?” "i hope it will be confined to that !” she had now let go my hand; she turned away a little. i waited an instant; then i brought out : “go to church. good- bye. i must watch.” slowly she faced me again. “do you fear for them ? " we met in another long look. “don't you ?” instead of answering she came nearer to the window and, for a minute, applied her face to the glass. “you see how he could see," i meanwhile went on. she didn't move. “how long was he here?”. “till i came out. i came to meet him." mrs. grose at last turned round, and there was still more in her face. “i couldn't have come out.” “neither could i!” i laughed again. “but i did come. i have my duty." “so have i mine," she replied; after which she added : “what is he like?" “i've been dying to tell you but he's like nobody." “nobody?” she echoed. “he has no hat.” then seeing in her face that she already, in this, with a deeper dismay, found a touch of picture, i quickly added stroke to stroke. “he has red hair, very red, close-curling, and a pale face, long in shape, with straight, good features and little, rather the turn of the screw gaping still, but meeting me, she pieced it all together. “he never wore his hat, but he did wear—well, there were waistcoats missed! they were both here—last year. then the inaster went, and quint was alone." i followed, but halting a little. “alone ?” "alone with us." then, as from a deeper depth, “in charge," she added. “and what became of him?" she hung fire so long that i was still more mystified. “ he went too," she brought out at last. “ went where ?" her expression, at this, became extraordinary. "god knows where! he died.” “died ?" i almost shrieked. she seemed fairly to square herself, plant herself more firmly to utter the wonder of it. “yes. mr. quint is dead.” vi it took of course more than that particular passage to place us together in presence of what we had now to live with as we could—my dreadful liability to im- pressions of the order so vividly exemplified, and my companion's knowledge, henceforth-a knowledge half consternation and half compassion of that liability. there had been, this evening, after the revelation that left me, for an hour, so prostrate—there had been, for either of us, no attendance on any service but a little service of tears and vows, of prayers and promises, a climax to the series of mutual challenges and pledges that had straightway ensued on our retreating together to the schoolroom and shutting ourselves up there to have everything out. the result of our having every- thing out was simply to reduce our situation to the last rigour of its elements. she herself had seen nothing, not the shadow of a shadow, and nobody in the house but the governess was in the governess's plight; yet she accepted without directly impugning my sanity the truth as i gave it to her, and ended by showing me, on this ground, an awe-stricken tenderness, an expression of the sense of my more than questionable privilege, of which the very breath has remained with me as that of the sweetest of human charities. the turn of the screw she looked immensely scared again. “the child ? " “heaven forbid! the man. he wants to appear to them.” that he might was an awful conception, and yet, somehow, i could keep it at bay; which, moreover, as we lingered there, was what i succeeded in practically proving. i had an absolute certainty that i should see again what i had already seen, but something within me said that by offering myself bravely as the sole subject of such experience, by accepting, by inviting, by surmounting it all, i should serve as an expiatory victim and guard the tranquillity of my companions. the children, in especial, i should thus fence about and absolutely save. i recall one of the last things i said that night to mrs. grose. “it does strike me that my pupils have never men- tioned—-_" she looked at me hard as i musingly pulled up. “ his having been here and the time they were with him ? " “the time they were with him, and his name, his presence, his history, in any way.” “oh, the little lady doesn't remember. she never heard or knew." “ the circumstances of his death ?” i thought with some intensity. “perhaps not. but miles would remember—miles would know." “ ah, don't try him !” broke from mrs. grose. i returned her the look she had given me. “don't be afraid.” i continued to think. “it is rather odd.” “that he has never spoken of him ?”. “never by the least allusion. and you tell me they were 'great friends'? ” the turn of the screw “oh, it wasn't him ! ” mrs. grose with emphasis declared. “it was quint's own fancy. to play with him, i mean—to spoil him." she paused a moment; then she added : “quint was much too free." this gave me, straight from my vision of his face- such a face !-a sudden sickness of disgust. “too free with my boy ?” “too free with everyone !” i forbore, for the moment, to analyse this description further than by the reflection that a part of it applied to several of the members of the household, of the half-dozen maids and men who were still of our small colony. but there was everything, for our apprehen- sion, in the lucky fact that no discomfortable legend, no perturbation of scullions, had ever, within any- one's memory, attached to the kind old place. it had neither bad name nor ill fame, and mrs. grose, most apparently, only desired to cling to me and to quake in silence. i even put her, the very last thing of all, to the test. it was when, at midnight, she had her hand on the schoolroom door to take leave. “i have it from you then-for it's of great importance—that he was definitely and admittedly bad ?”. “oh, not admittedly. i knew it-but the master didn't.” “and you never told him ?” “well, he didn't like tale-bearing-he hated com- plaints. he was terribly short with anything of that kind, and if people were all right to him- " “he wouldn't be bothered with more ?” this squared well enough with my impression of him : he was not a trouble-loving gentleman, nor so very parti- the turn of the screw cular perhaps about some of the company he kept. all the same, i pressed my interlocutress. “i promise you i would have told !". . she felt my discrimination. “i dare say i was wrong. but, really, i was afraid." “afraid of what ?" “of things that man could do. quint was so clever - he was so deep." i took this in still more than, probably, i showed. “you weren't afraid of anything else ? not of his effect ?" “his effect ?" she repeated with a face of anguish and waiting while i faltered. "on innocent little precious lives. they were in your charge." "no, they were not in mine!” she roundly and distressfully returned. “the master believed in him and placed him here because he was supposed not to be well and the country air so good for him. so he had everything to say. yes”—she let me have it- “even about them." “ them—that creature ? " i had to smother a kind of howl. “and you could bear it?” “no. i couldn't—and i can't now!” and the poor woman burst into tears. a rigid control, from the next day, was, as i have said, to follow them; yet how often and how passion- ately, for a week, we came back together to the subject ! much as we had discussed it that sunday night, i was, in the immediate later hours in especial for it may be imagined whether i slept—still haunted with the shadow of something she had not told me. i myself had kept the turn of the screw admirable and difficult; and there would be a greatness in letting it be seen-oh, in the right quarter that i could succeed where many another girl might have failed. it was an immense help to me-i confess i rather applaud myself as i look back !—that i saw my service so strongly and so simply. i was there to protect and defend the little creatures in the world the most bereaved and the most loveable, the appeal of whose helplessness had suddenly become only too explicit, a deep, constant ache of one's own committed heart. we were cut off, really, together; we were united in our danger. they had nothing but me, and i-well, i had them. it was in short a magnificent chance. this chance presented itself to me in an image richly material. i was a screen-i was to stand before them. the more i saw, the less they would. i began to watch them in a stifled suspense, a disguised excite- ment that might well, had it continued too long, have turned to something like madness. what saved me, as i now see, was that it turned to something else altogether. it didn't last as suspense—it was super- seded by horrible proofs. proofs, i say, yes — from the moment i really took hold. this moment dated from an afternoon hour that i happened to spend in the grounds with the younger of my pupils alone. we had left miles indoors, on the red cushion of a deep window-seat; he had wished to finish a book, and i had been glad to encourage a purpose so laudable in a young man whose only defect was an occasional excess of the restless. his sister, on the contrary, had been alert to come out, and i strolled with her half an hour, seeking the shade, for the turn of the screw the sun was still high and the day exceptionally warm. i was aware afresh, with her, as we went, of how, like her brother, she contrived-it was the charming thing in both children—to let me alone without appearing to drop me and to accompany me without appearing to surround. they were never importunate and yet never listless. my attention to them all really went to seeing them amuse themselves immensely without me: this was a spectacle they seemed actively to prepare and that engaged me as an active admirer. i walked in a world of their invention—they had no occasion what- ever to draw upon mine ; so that my time was taken only with being, for them, some remarkable person or thing that the game of the moment required and that was merely, thanks to my superior, my exalted stamp, a happy and highly distinguished sinecure. i forget what i was on the present occasion; i only remember that i was something very important and very quiet and that flora was playing very hard. we were on the edge of the lake, and, as we had lately begun geography, the lake was the sea of azof. suddenly, in these circumstances, i became aware that, on the other side of the sea of azof, we had an interested spectator. the way this knowledge gathered in me was the strangest thing in the world—the strangest, that is, except the very much stranger in which it quickly merged itself. i had sat down with a piece of work—for i was something or other that could sit-on the old stone bench which overlooked the pond; and in this position i began to take in with certitude, and yet without direct vision, the presence, at a distance, of a third person. the old trees, the thick shrubbery, the turn of the screw made a great and pleasant shade, but it was all suffused with the brightness of the hot, still hour. there was no ambiguity in anything; none whatever, at least, in the conviction i from one moment to another found myself forming as to what i should see straight before me and across the lake as a consequence of raising my eyes. they were attached at this juncture to the stitching in which i was engaged, and i can feel once more the spasm of my effort not to move them till i should so have steadied myself as to be able to make up my mind what to do. there was an alien object in view—a figure whose right of presence i instantly, passionately questioned. i recollect counting over per- fectly the possibilities, reminding myself that nothing was more natural, for instance, than the appearance of one of the men about the place, or even of a messenger, a postman or a tradesman's boy, from the village. that reminder had as little effect on my practical certitude as i was conscious—still even without looking -of its having upon the character and attitude of our visitor. nothing was more natural than that these things should be the other things that they absolutely were not. of the positive identity of the apparition i would assure myself as soon as the small clock of my courage should have ticked out the right second; meanwhile, with an effort that was already sharp enough, i trans- ferred my eyes straight to little flora, who, at the moment, was about ten yards away. my heart had stood still for an instant with the wonder and terror of the question whether she too would see ; and i held my breath while i waited for what a cry from her, what the turn of the screw some sudden innocent sign either of interest or of alarm, would tell me. i waited, but nothing came; then, in the first place—and there is something more dire in this, i feel, than in anything i have to relate- i was determined by a sense that, within a minute, all sounds from her had previously dropped ; and, in the second, by the circumstance that, also within the minute, she had, in her play, turned her back to the water. this was her attitude when i at last looked at her-looked with the confirmed conviction that we were still, together, under direct personal notice. she had picked up a small flat piece of wood, which happened to have in it a little hole that had evidently suggested to her the idea of sticking in another fragment that might figure as a mast and make the thing a boat. this second morsel, as i watched her, she was very markedly and intently attempting to tighten in its place. my apprehension of what she was doing sustained me so that after some seconds i felt i was ready for more. then i again shifted my eyes—i faced what i had to face. vii i got hold of mrs. grose as soon after this as i could; and i can give no intelligible account of how i fought out the interval. yet i still hear myself cry as i fairly threw myself into her arms: “they know—it's too monstrous: they know, they know !”. “and what on earth- ?" i felt her incredulity as she held me. “why, all that we know—and heaven knows what else besides !” then, as she released me, i made it out to her, made it out perhaps only now with full coherency even to myself. “two hours ago, in the garden "-i could scarce articulate—“flora saw ! ” mrs. grose took it as she might have taken a blow in the stomach. “she has told you ? ” she panted. “not a word—that's the horror. she kept it to her- self! the child of eight, that child !” unutterable still, for me, was the stupefaction of it. mrs. grose, of course, could only gape the wider. “ then how do you know ? " “i was there—i saw with my eyes : saw that she was perfectly aware." “do you mean aware of him ? " “no—of her.” i was conscious as i spoke that i wa the turn of the screw looked prodigious things, for i got the slow reflection of them in my companion's face. “another person- this time, but a figure of quite as unmistakeable horror and evil : a woman in black, pale and dreadful—with such an air also, and such a face !-on the other side of the lake. i was there with the child—quiet for the hour; and in the midst of it she came." “ came how—from where ?". "from where they come from! she just appeared and stood there—but not so near." “and without coming nearer ?”. “oh, for the effect and the feeling, she might have been as close as you !" my friend, with an odd impulse, fell back a step. “ was she someone you've never seen ?” “yes. but someone the child has. someone you have.” then, to show how i had thought it all out : "my predecessor—the one who died." “miss jessel ? ” “miss jessel. you don't believe me?” i pressed. she turned right and left in her distress. “how can you be sure ?" this drew from me, in the state of my nerves, a flash of impatience. “then ask flora—she's sure !" but i had no sooner spoken than i caught myself up. “no, for god's sake, don't! she'll say she isn't—she'll liel" mrs. grose was not too bewildered instinctively to protest. “ah, how can you ?” “because i'm clear. flora doesn't want me to know.” “it's only then to spare you." the turn of the screw “no, no—there are depths, depths! the more i go over it, the more i see in it, and the more i see in it the more i fear. i don't know what i don't see what i don't fear!” mrs. grose tried to keep up with me. “you mean you're afraid of seeing her again ? " “oh no; that's nothing—now !” then i explained. “ it's of not seeing her." but my companion only looked wan. “i don't understand you." “why, it's that the child may keep it up—and that the child assuredly will—without my knowing it.”. at the image of this possibility mrs. grose for a moment collapsed, yet presently to pull herself together again, as if from the positive force of the sense of what, should we yield an inch, there would really be to give way to. “dear, dear—we must keep our heads ! and after all, if she doesn't mind it- !” she even tried a grim joke. “perhaps she likes it !”. “likes such things—a scrap of an infant !”. “isn't it just a proof of her blessed innocence ? " my friend bravely inquired. she brought me, for the instant, almost round. “oh, we must clutch at that—we must cling to it! if it isn't a proof of what you say, it's a proof of—god knows what! for the woman's a horror of horrors." mrs. grose, at this, fixed her eyes a minute on the ground; then at last raising them, “tell me how you know," she said. “ then you admit it's what she was ? " i cried. “tell me how you know," my friend simply re- peated. the turn of the screw “know ? by seeing her! by the way she looked.” “at you, do you mean—so wickedly ?” " dear me, no—i could have borne that. she gave me never a glance. she only fixed the child." mrs. grose tried to see it. “fixed her ?” “ah, with such awful eyes!” she stared at mine as if they might really have resembled them. “do you mean of dislike ?” “god help us, no. of something much worse." “worse than dislike ? ”—this left her indeed at a loss. “with a determination-indescribable. with a kind of fury of intention.” i made her turn pale. “ intention ? " “to get hold of her.” mrs. grose—her eyes just lingering on mine-gave a shudder and walked to the window; and while she stood there looking out i com- pleted my statement. “that's what flora knows." after a little she turned round. “the person was in black, you say ?”. “in mourning-rather poor, almost shabby. but- yes—with extraordinary beauty." i now recognised to what i had at last, stroke by stroke, brought the victim of my confidence, for she quite visibly weighed this. “oh, handsome-very, very," i insisted ; “wonderfully handsome. but infamous.” she slowly came back to me. “miss jessel-was infamous.” she once more took my hand in both her own, holding it as tight as if to fortify me against the increase of alarm i might draw from this disclosure. “ they were both infamous," she finally said. so, for a little, we faced it once more together; an the turn of the screw i found absolutely a degree of help in seeing it now so straight. “i appreciate,” i said, “ the great decency of your not having hitherto spoken; but the time has certainly come to give me the whole thing." she appeared to assent to this, but still only in silence; seeing which i went on: “i must have it now. of what did she die? come, there was something be- tween them." “there was everything." "in spite of the difference ?”. “oh, of their rank, their condition "—she brought it woefully out. “she was a lady." i turned it over; i again saw. “yes—she was a lady." “and he so dreadfully below," said mrs. grose. i felt that i doubtless needn't press too hard, in such company, on the place of a servant in the scale; but there was nothing to prevent an acceptance of my com- panion's own measure of my predecessor's abasement. there was a way to deal with that, and i dealt; the more readily for my full vision—on the evidence-of our employer's late clever, good-looking "own" man; impudent, assured, spoiled, depraved. “the fellow was a hound.” mrs. grose considered as if it were perhaps a little a case for a sense of shades. “i've never seen one like him. he did what he wished.” " with her?” “with them all.” it was as if now in my friend's own eyes miss jessel had again appeared. i seemed at any rate, for an in- stant, to see their evocation of her as distinctly as i had viii what i had said to mrs. grose was true enough : there were in the matter i had put before her depths and possibilities that i lacked resolution to sound; so that when we met once more in the wonder of it we were of a common mind about the duty of resistance to extrava- gant fancies. we were to keep our heads if we should keep nothing else—difficult indeed as that might be in the face of what, in our prodigious experience, was least to be questioned. late. that night, while the house slept, we had another talk in my room; when she went all the way with me as to its being beyond doubt that i had seen exactly what i had seen. to hold her perfectly in the pinch of that, i found, i had only to ask her how, if i had “made it up," i came to be able to give, of each of the persons appearing to me, a picture disclosing, to the last detail, their special marks—a portrait on the exhibition of which she had instantly recognised and named them. she wished, of course-small blame to her !—to sink the whole subject; and i was quick to assure her that my own interest in it had now violently taken the form of a search for the way to escape from it. i encountered her on the ground of a probability that with recurrence-for the turn of the screw recurrence we took for granted—i should get used to my danger; distinctly professing that my personal exposure had suddenly become the least of my discom- forts. it was my new suspicion that was intolerable; and yet even to this complication the later hours of the day had brought a little ease. on leaving her, after my first outbreak, i had of course returned to my pupils, associating the right remedy for my dismay with that sense of their charm which i had already found to be a thing i could posi- tively cultivate and which had never failed me yet. i had simply, in other words, plunged afresh into flora's special society and there become aware—it was almost a luxury !—that she could put her little conscious hand straight upon the spot that ached. she had looked at me in sweet speculation and then had accused me to my face of having “cried.” i had supposed i had brushed away the ugly signs; but i could literally- for the time, at all events—rejoice, under this fathom- less charity, that they had not entirely disappeared. to gaze into the depths of blue of the child's eyes and pronounce their loveliness a trick of premature cunning was to be guilty of a cynicism in preference to which i naturally preferred to abjure my judgment and, so far as might be, my agitation. i couldn't abjure for merely wanting to, but i could repeat to mrs. grose-as i did there, over and over, in the small hours—that with their voices in the air, their pressure on one's heart and their fragrant faces against one's cheek, everything fell to the ground but their incapacity and their beauty. it was a pity that, somehow, to settle this once for all, i had equally to re-enumerate the signs of subtlety the turn of the screw that, in the afternoon, by the lake, had made a miracle of my show of self-possession. it was a pity to be obliged to re-investigate the certitude of the moment itself and repeat how it had come to me as a revelation that the inconceivable communion i then surprised was a matter, for either party, of habit. it was a pity that i should have had to quaver out again the reasons for my not having, in my delusion, so much as questioned that the little girl saw our visitant even as i actually saw mrs. grose herself, and that she wanted, by just so much as she did thus see, to make me suppose she didn't, and at the same time, without showing anything, arrive at a guess as to whether i myself did! it was a pity that i needed once more to describe the portentous little activity by which she sought to divert my attention —the perceptible increase of movement, the greater intensity of play, the singing, the gabbling, of nonsense and the invitation to romp. yet if i had not indulged, to prove there was nothing in it, in this review, i should have missed the two or three dim elements of comfort that still remained to me. i should not for instance have been able to asseverate to my friend that i was certain—which was so much to the good—that i at least had not betrayed myself. i should not have been prompted, by stress of need, by desperation of mind—i scarce know what to call it-to invoke such further aid to intelligence as might spring from pushing my colleague fairly to the wall. she had told me, bit by bit, under pressure, a great deal; but a small shifty spot on the wrong side of it all still some- times brushed my brow like the wing of a bat; and i remember how on this occasion—for the sleeping house the turn of the screw and the concentration alike of our danger and our watch seemed to help—i felt the importance of giving the last jerk to the curtain. "i don't believe anything so horrible," i recollect saying; “no, let us put it definitely, my dear, that i don't. but if i did, you know, there's a thing i should require now, just without sparing you the least bit more—oh, not a scrap, come l—to get out of you. what was it you had in mind when, in our distress, before miles came back, over the letter from his school, you said, under my insistence, that you didn't pretend for him that he had not literally ever been 'bad'? he has not literally “ever, in these weeks that i myself have lived with him and so closely watched him; he has been an imperturbable little prodigy of delightful, loveable goodness. therefore you might perfectly have made the claim for him if you had not, as it happened, seen an exception to take. what was your exception, and to what passage in your personal observation of him did you refer?”. it was a dreadfully austere inquiry, but levity was not our note, and, at any rate, before the grey dawn admonished us to separate i had got my answer. what my friend had had in mind proved to be immensely to the purpose. it was neither more nor less than the circumstance that for a period of several months quint and the boy had been perpetually together. it was in fact the very appropriate truth that she had ventured to criticise the propriety, to hint at the incongruity, of so close an alliance, and even to go so far on the subject as a frank overture to miss jessel. miss jessel had, with a most strange manner, requested her to mind her business, and the good the turn of the screw woman had, on this, directly approached little miles. what she had said to him, since i pressed, was that she liked to see young gentlemen not forget their station. i pressed again, of course, at this. “you reminded him that quint was only a base menial ?” “as you might say! and it was his answer, for one thing, that was bad.” “and for another thing ?” i waited. “he repeated your words to quint ?". “no, not that. it's just what he wouldn't !" she could still impress upon me. “i was sure, at any rate," she added, “that he didn't. but he denied certain occasions.” “what occasions ? " “when they had been about together quite as if quint were his tutor—and a very grand one—and miss jessel only for the little lady. when he had gone off with the fellow, i mean, and spent hours with him.” “he then prevaricated about it-he said he hadn't?” her assent was clear enough to cause me to add in a moment: “i see. he lied.” “oh!” mrs. grose mumbled. this was a suggestion that it didn't matter ; which indeed she backed up by a further remark. “you see, after all, miss jessel didn't mind. she didn't forbid him.” i considered. “did he put that to you as a justi- fication ?" at this she dropped again. “no, he never spoke of it." “never mentioned her in connection with quint ?" she saw, visibly flushing, where i was coming out. the turn of the screw “well, he didn't show anything. he denied," she repeated; "he denied.” lord, how i pressed her now! “so that you could see he knew what was between the two wretches?” “i don't know—i don't know!" the poor woman groaned. “you do know, you dear thing," i replied ; "only you haven't my dreadful boldness of mind, and you keep back, out of timidity and modesty and delicacy, even the impression that, in the past, when you had, without my aid, to flounder about in silence, most of all made you miserable. but i shall get it out of you yet! there was something in the boy that suggested to you," i continued, “that he covered and concealed their relation." “oh, he couldn't prevent— " “your learning the truth ? i dare say! but, heavens," i fell, with vehemence, a-thinking, "what it shows that they must, to that extent, have succeeded in making of him !” “ah, nothing that's not nice now !” mrs. grose lugubriously pleaded. “i don't wonder you looked queer," i persisted, “when i mentioned to you the letter from his school !” “i doubt if i looked as queer as you !" she retorted with homely force. “and if he was so bad then as that comes to, how is he such an angel now ?” “yes indeed—and if he was a fiend at school! how, how, how ? well,” i said in my torment, "you must put it to me again, but i shall not be able to tell you for the turn of the screw some days. only, put it to me again !” i cried in a way that made my friend stare. “there are directions in which i must not for the present let myself go." meanwhile i returned to her first example—the one to which she had just previously referred—of the boy's happy capacity for an occasional slip. “if quint-on your remonstrance at the time you speak of—was a base menial, one of the things miles said to you, i find myself guessing, was that you were another.” again her admission was so adequate that i continued : “and you forgave him that ? ” “wouldn't you ?" “oh yes !” and we exchanged there, in the stillness, a sound of the oddest amusement. then i went on: “at all events, while he was with the man--" “miss flora was with the woman. it suited them all !” it suited me too, i felt, only too well ; by which i mean that it suited exactly the particular deadly view i was in the very act of forbidding myself to entertain. but i so far succeeded in checking the expression of this view that i will throw, just here, no further light on it than may be offered by the mention of my final observation to mrs. grose. “his having lied and been impudent are, i confess, less engaging specimens than i had hoped to have from you of the outbreak in him of the little natural man. still," i mused, “they must do, for they make me feel more than ever that i must watch.” it made me blush, the next minute, to see in my friend's face how much more unreservedly she had the turn of the screw forgiven him than her anecdote struck me as presenting to my own tenderness an occasion for doing. this came out when, at the schoolroom door, she quitted me. “surely you don't accuse him— " “of carrying on an intercourse that he conceals from me ? ah, remember that, until further evidence, i now accuse nobody.” then, before shutting her out to go, by another passage, to her own place, “i must just wait,” i wound up. ix i waited and waited, and the days, as they elapsed, took something from my consternation. a very few of them, in fact, passing, in constant sight of my pupils, without a fresh incident, sufficed to give to grievous fancies and even to odious memories a kind of brush of the sponge. i have spoken of the surrender to their extraordinary childish grace as a thing i could actively cultivate, and it may be imagined if i neglected now to address myself to this source for whatever it would yield. stranger than i can express, certainly, was the effort to struggle against my new lights; it would doubtless have been, however, a greater tension still had it not been so frequently successful. i used to wonder how my little charges could help guessing that i thought strange things about them; and the circum- stance that these things only made them more inte- resting was not by itself a direct aid to keeping them in the dark. i trembled lest they should see that they were so immensely more interesting. putting things at the worst, at all events, as in meditation i so often did, any clouding of their innocence could only be- blameless and foredoomed as they were—a reason the more for taking risks. there were moments when, by the turn of the screw an irresistible impulse, i found myself catching them up and pressing them to my heart. as soon as i had done so i used to say to myself: “what will they think of that? doesn't it betray too much ?” it would have been easy to get into a sad, wild tangle about how much i might betray; but the real account, i feel, of the hours of peace that i could still enjoy was that the immediate charm of my companions was a beguilement still effective even under the shadow of the possibility that it was studied. for if it occurred to me that i might occasionally excite suspicion by the little outbreaks of my sharper passion for them, so too i remember wondering if i mightn't see a queerness in the traceable increase of their own demonstrations. they were at this period extravagantly and preter- naturally fond of me; which, after all, i could reflect, was no more than a graceful response in children per- petually bowed over and hugged. the homage of which they were so lavish succeeded, in truth, for my nerves, quite as well as if i never appeared to myself, as i may say, literally to catch them at a purpose in it. they had never, i think, wanted to do so many things for their poor protectress; i mean — though they got their lessons better and better, which was naturally what would please her most-in the way of diverting, entertaining, surprising her; reading her passages, telling her stories, acting her charades, pouncing out at her, in disguises, as animals and historical characters, and above all astonishing her by the “pieces ” they had secretly got by heart and could interminably recite. i should never get to the bottom—were i to let myself go even now—of the the turn of the screw prodigious private commentary, all under still more private correction, with which, in these days, i over- scored their full hours. they had shown me from the first a facility for everything, a general faculty which, taking a fresh start, achieved remarkable flights. they got their little tasks as if they loved them, and indulged, from the mere exuberance of the gift, in the most unimposed little miracles of memory. they not only popped out at me as tigers and as romans, but as shakespeareans, astronomers and navigators. this was so singularly the case that it had presumably much to do with the fact as to which, at the present day, i am at a loss for a different ex- planation : i allude to my unnatural composure on the subject of another school for miles. what i remember is that i was content not, for the time, to open the question, and that contentment must have sprung from the sense of his perpetually striking show of cleverness. he was too clever for a bad governess, for a parson's daughter, to spoil; and the strangest if not the brightest thread in the pensive embroidery i just spoke of was the impression i might have got, if i had dared to work it out, that he was under some influence operating in his small intellectual life as a tremendous incitement. if it was easy to reflect, however, that such a boy could postpone school, it was at least as marked that for such a boy to have been “kicked out" by a school- master was a mystification without end. let me add that in their company now—and i was careful almost never to be out of it_i could follow no scent very far. we lived in a cloud of music and love and the turn of the screw success and private theatricals. the musical sense in each of the children was of the quickest, but the elder in especial had a marvellous knack of catching and repeating. the schoolroom piano broke into all gruesome fancies; and when that failed there were confabulations in corners, with a sequel of one of them going out in the highest spirits in order to “come in" as something new. i had had brothers myself, and it was no revelation to me that little girls could be slavish idolaters of little boys. what surpassed everything was that there was a little boy in the world who could have for the inferior age, sex and intelligence so fine a consideration. they were extraordinarily at one, and to say that they never either quarrelled or complained is to make the note of praise coarse for their quality of sweetness. sometimes indeed, when i dropped into coarseness, i perhaps came across traces of little understandings between them by which one of them should keep me occupied while the other slipped away. there is a naïf side, i suppose, in all diplomacy; but if my pupils practised upon me it was surely with the minimum of grossness. it was all in the other quarter that, after a lull, the grossness broke out. i find that i really hang back; but i must take my plunge. in going on with the record of what was hideous at bly i not only challenge the most liberal faith—for which i little care ; but—and this is another matter- i renew what i myself suffered, i again push my way through it to the end. there came suddenly an hour after which, as i look back, the affair seems to me to have been all pure suffering ; but i have at least the turn of the screw reached the heart of it, and the straightest road out is doubtless to advance. one evening—with nothing to lead up or to prepare it-i felt the cold touch of the im- pression that had breathed on me the night of my arrival and which, much lighter then, as i have mentioned, i should probably have made little of in memory had my subsequent sojourn been less agitated. i had not gone to bed; i sat reading by a couple of candles. there was a roomful of old books at bly—last-century fiction, some of it, which, to the extent of a distinctly deprecated renown, but never to so much as that of a stray specimen, had reached the sequestered home and appealed to the unavowed curiosity of my youth. i remember that the book i had in my hand was fielding's amelia ; also that i was wholly awake. i recall further both a general conviction that it was horribly late and a par- ticular objection to looking at my watch. i figure, finally, that the white curtain draping, in the fashion of those days, the head of flora's little bed, shrouded, as i had assured myself long before, the perfection of childish rest. i recollect in short that, though i was deeply interested in my author, i found myself, at the turn of a page and with his spell all scattered, looking straight up from him and hard at the door of my room. there was a moment during which i listened, reminded of the faint sense i had had, the first night, of there being something undefineably astir in the house, and noted the soft breath of the open casement just move the half-drawn blind. then, with all the marks of a deliberation that must have seemed magnificent had there been anyone to admire it, i laid down my book, rose to my feet and, taking a candle, went straight out the turn of the screw of the room and, from the passage, on which my light made little impression, noiselessly closed and locked the door. i can say now neither what determined nor what guided me, but i went straight along the lobby, holding my candle high, till i came within sight of the tall window that presided over the great turn of the stair- case. at this point i precipitately found myself aware of three things. they were practically simultaneous, yet they had flashes of succession. my candle, under a bold flourish, went out, and i perceived, by the un- covered window, that the yielding dusk of earliest morning rendered it unnecessary. without it, the next instant, i saw that there was someone on the stair. i speak of sequences, but i required no lapse of seconds to stiffen myself for a third encounter with quint. the apparition had reached the landing half way up and was therefore on the spot nearest the window, where, at sight of me, it stopped short and fixed me exactly as it had fixed me from the tower and from the garden. he knew me as well as i knew him ; and so, in the cold, faint twilight, with a glimmer in the high glass and another on the polish of the oak stair below, we faced each other in our common intensity. he was abso- lutely, on this occasion, a living, detestable, dangerous presence. but that was not the wonder of wonders ; reserve this distinction for quite another circumstance: the circumstance that dread had unmistakeably quitted me and that there was nothing in me there that didn't meet and measure him. i had plenty of anguish after that extraordinary moment, but i had, thank god, no terror. and he knew the turn of the screw i had not-i found myself at the end of an instant magnificently aware of this. i felt, in a fierce rigour of confidence, that if i stood my ground a minute i should cease—for the time, at least—to have him to reckon with ; and during the minute, accordingly, the thing was as human and hideous as a real interview : hideous just because it was human, as human as to have met alone, in the small hours, in a sleeping house, some enemy, some adventurer, some criminal. it was the dead silence of our long gaze at such close quarters that gave the whole horror, huge as it was, its only note of the unnatural.. if i had met a murderer in such a place and at such an hour we still at least would have spoken. something would have passed, in life, between us; if nothing had passed one of us would have moved. the moment was so prolonged that it would have taken but little more to make me doubt if even i were in life. i can't express what followed it save by saying that the silence itself—which was indeed in a manner an attesta- tion of my strength—became the element into which i saw the figure disappear; in which i definitely saw it turn, as i might have seen the low wretch to which it had once belonged turn on receipt of an order, and pass, with my eyes on the villainous back that no hunch could have more disfigured, straight down the stair- case and into the darkness in which the next bend was lost. i remained a while at the top of the stair, but with the effect presently of understanding that when my visitor had gone, he had gone : then i returned to my room. the foremost thing i saw there by the light of the candle i had left burning was that flora's little bed was empty; and on this i caught my breath with all the terror that, five minutes before, i had been able to resist. i dashed at the place in which i had left her lying and over which (for the small silk counterpane and the sheets were disarranged,) the white curtains had been deceivingly pulled forward; then my step, to my unutterable relief, produced an answering sound : i perceived an agitation of the window-blind, and the child, ducking down, emerged rosily from the other side of it. she stood there in so much of her candour and so little of her nightgown, with her pink bare feet and the golden glow of her curls. she looked intensely grave, and i had never had such a sense of losing an advantage acquired (the thrill of which had just been so prodigious,) as on my consciousness that she addressed me with a reproach. “you naughty : where have you been ?"-instead of challenging her own irregularity i found myself arraigned and explaining. she herself the turn of the screw explained, for that matter, with the loveliest, eagerest simplicity. she had known suddenly, as she lay there, that i was out of the room, and had jumped up to see what had become of me. i had dropped, with the joy of her reappearance, back into my chair—feeling then, and then only, a little faint; and she had pattered straight over to me, thrown herself upon my knee, given herself to be held with the flame of the candle full in the wonderful little face that was still flushed with sleep. i remember closing my eyes an instant, yieldingly, con- sciously, as before the excess of something beautiful that shone out of the blue of her own. “you were looking for me out of the window ?” i said. “you thought i might be walking in the grounds ?”. “well, you know, i thought someone was "—she never blanched as she smiled out that at me. oh, how i looked at her now! “and did you see anyone ?" “ah, no !” she returned, almost, with the full privi- lege of childish inconsequence, resentfully, though with a long sweetness in her little drawl of the negative. at that moment, in the state of my nerves, i absolutely believed she lied ; and if i once more closed my eyes it was before the dazzle of the three or four possible ways in which i might take this up. one of these, for a moment, tempted me with such singular intensity that, to withstand it, i must have gripped my little girl with a spasm that, wonderfully, she submitted to without a cry or a sign of fright. why not break out at her on the spot and have it all over ?-give it to her straight in her lovely little lighted face? “ you see, you see, you know that you do and that you the turn of the screw already quite suspect i believe it ; therefore why not frankly confess it to me, so that we may at least live with it together and learn perhaps, in the strangeness of our fate, where we are and what it means ?” this solicitation dropped, alas, as it came : if i could immedi- ately have succumbed to it i might have spared myself --well, you'll see what. instead of succumbing i sprang again to my feet, looked at her bed and took a helpless middle way. “why did you pull the curtain over the place to make me think you were still there ? " flora luminously considered ; after which, with her little divine smile : “because i don't like to frighten you !” “but if i had, by your idea, gone out ?" she absolutely declined to be puzzled ; she turned her eyes to the flame of the candle as if the question were as irrelevant, or at any rate as impersonal, as mrs. marcet or nine-times-nine. “oh, but you know," she quite adequately answered, “ that you might come back, you dear, and that you have !” and after a little, when she had got into bed, i had, for a long time, by almost sitting on her to hold her hand, to prove that i recognised the pertinence of my return. you may imagine the general complexion, from that moment, of my nights. i repeatedly sat up till i didn't know when; i selected moments when my room-mate unmistakeably slept, and, stealing out, took noiseless turns in the passage and even pushed as far as to where i had last met quint. but i never met him there again; and i may as well say at once that i on no other occasion saw him in the house. i just missed, on the staircase, on the other hand, a different adven- the turn of the screw ture. looking down it from the top i once recognised the presence of a woman seated on one of the lower steps with her back presented to me, her body half bowed and her head, in an attitude of woe, in her hands. i had been there but an instant, however, when she vanished without looking round at me. i knew, none the less, exactly what dreadful face she had to show; and i wondered whether, if instead of being above i had been below, i should have had, for going up, the same nerve i had lately shown quint. well, there continued to be plenty of chance for nerve. on the eleventh night after my latest encounter with that gentleman—they were all numbered now—i had an alarm that perilously skirted it and that indeed, from the particular quality of its unexpectedness, proved quite my sharpest shock. it was precisely the first night during this series that, weary with watching, i had felt that i might again without laxity lay myself down at my old hour. i slept immediately and, as i afterwards knew, till about one o'clock; but when i woke it was to sit straight up, as completely roused as if a hand had shook me. i had left a light burning, but it was now out, and i felt an instant certainty that flora had extinguished it. this brought me to my feet and straight, in the darkness, to her bed, which i found she had left. a glance at the window enlightened me further, and the striking of a match completed the picture. the child had again got up—this time blowing out the taper, and had again, for some purpose of observa- tion or response, squeezed in behind the blind and was peering out into the night. that she now saw-as she the turn of the screw had not, i had satisfied myself, the previous time—was proved to me by the fact that she was disturbed neither by my re-illumination nor by the haste i made to get into slippers and into a wrap. hidden, protected, absorbed, she evidently rested on the sill—the case- ment opened forward—and gave herself up. there was a great still moon to help her, and this fact had counted in my quick decision. she was face to face with the apparition we had met at the lake, and could now communicate with it as she had not then been able to do. what i, on my side, had to care for was, with- out disturbing her, to reach, from the corridor, some other window in the same quarter. i got to the door without her hearing me; i got out of it, closed it and listened, from the other side, for some sound from her. while i stood in the passage i had my eyes on her brother's door, which was but ten steps off and which, indescribably, produced in me a renewal of the strange impulse that i lately spoke of as my temptation. what if i should go straight in and march to his window ?- what if, by risking to his boyish bewilderment a reve- lation of my motive, i should throw across the rest of the mystery the long halter of my boldness? this thought held me sufficiently to make me cross to his threshold and pause again. i preternaturally listened; i figured to myself what might portentously be; i wondered if his bed were also empty and he too were secretly at watch. it was a deep, soundless minute, at the end of which my impulse failed. he was quiet ; he might be innocent; the risk was hideous; i turned away. there was a figure in the grounds—a figure prowling for a sight, the visitor with whom flora was the turn of the screw engaged; but it was not the visitor most concerned with my boy. i hesitated afresh, but on other grounds and only a few seconds; then i had made my choice. there were empty rooms at bly, and it was only a question of choosing the right one. the right one suddenly presented itself to me as the lower one- though high above the gardens—in the solid corner of the house that i have spoken of as the old tower. this was a large, square chamber, arranged with some state as a bedroom, the extravagant size of which made it so inconvenient that it had not for years, though kept by mrs. grose in exemplary order, been occupied. i had often admired it and i knew my way about in it; i had only, after just faltering at the first chill gloom of its disuse, to pass across it and unbolt as quietly as i could one of the shutters. achieving this transit, i uncovered the glass without a sound and, applying my face to the pane, was able, the darkness without being much less than within, to see that i commanded the right direction. then i saw something more. the moon made the night extraordinarily penetrable and showed me on the lawn a person, diminished by dis- tance, who stood there motionless and as if fascinated, looking up to where i had appeared-looking, that is, not so much straight at me as at something that was apparently above me. there was clearly another person above me—there was a person on the tower; but the presence on the lawn was not in the least what i had conceived and had confidently hurried to meet. the presence on the lawn-i felt sick as i made it out-was poor little miles himself. xi it was not till late next day that i spoke to mrs. grose; the rigour with which i kept my pupils in sight making it often difficult to meet her privately, and the more as we each felt the importance of not provoking—on the part of the servants quite as much as on that of the children-any suspicion of a secret flurry or of a dis- cussion of mysteries. i drew a great security in this particular from her mere smooth aspect. there was nothing in her fresh face to pass on to others my horrible confidences. she believed me, i was sure, absolutely: if she hadn't i don't know what would have become of me, for i couldn't have borne the business alone. but she was a magnificent monument to the blessing of a want of imagination, and if she could see in our little charges nothing but their beauty and amiability, their happiness and cleverness, she had no direct communication with the sources of my trouble. if they had been at all visibly blighted or battered she would doubtless have grown, on tracing it back, haggard enough to match them; as matters stood, however, i could feel her, when she surveyed them with her large white arms folded and the habit of serenity in all her look, thank the lord's mercy that if they were ruined the turn of the screw the pieces would still serve. flights of fancy gave place, in her mind, to a steady fireside glow, and i had already begun to perceive how, with the develop- ment of the conviction that-as time went on without a public accident-our young things could, after all, look out for themselves, she addressed her greatest solici- tude to the sad case presented by their instructress. that, for myself, was a sound simplification : i could engage that, to the world, my face should tell no tales, but it would have been, in the conditions, an immense added strain to find myself anxious about hers. at the hour i now speak of she had joined me, under pressure, on the terrace, where, with the lapse of the season, the afternoon sun was now agreeable; and we sat there together while, before us, at a distance, but within call if we wished, the children strolled to and fro in one of their most manageable moods. they moved slowly, in unison, below us, over the lawn, the boy, as they went, reading aloud from a storybook and passing his arm round his sister to keep her quite in touch. mrs. grose watched them with positive placidity; then i caught the suppressed intellectual creak with which she conscientiously turned to take from me a view of the back of the tapestry. i had made her a receptacle of lurid things, but there was an odd recog- nition of nıy superiority-my accomplishments and my function—in her patience under my pain. she offered her mind to my disclosures as, had i wished to mix a witch's broth and proposed it with assurance, she would have held out a large clean saucepan. this had become thoroughly her attitude by the time that, in my recital : the turn of the screw of the events of the night, i reached the point of what miles had said to me when, after seeing him, at such a monstrous hour, almost on the very spot where he happened now to be, i had gone down to bring him in ; choosing then, at the window, with a concentrated need of not alarming the house, rather that method than a signal more resonant. i had left her meanwhile in little doubt of my small hope of representing with suc- cess even to her actual sympathy my sense of the real splendour of the little inspiration with which, after i had got him into the house, the boy, met my final articulate challenge. as soon as i appeared in the moonlight on the terrace he had come to me as straight as possible; on which i had taken his hand without a word and led him, through the dark spaces, up the staircase where quint had so hungrily hovered for him, along the lobby where i had listened and trembled, and so to his forsaken room. . not a sound, on the way, had passed between us, and i had wondered—oh, how i had wondered if he were groping about in his little mind for something plausible and not too grotesque. it would tax his in- vention, certainly, and i felt, this time, over his real embarrassment, a curious thrill of triumph. it was a sharp trap for the inscrutable! he couldn't play any longer at innocence; so how the deuce would he get out of it? there beat in me indeed, with the pas- sionate throb of this question, an equal dumb appeal as to how the deuce i should. i was confronted at last, as never yet, with all the risk attached even now to sounding my own horrid note. i remember in fact that as we pushed into his little chamber, where the the turn of the screw bed had not been slept in at all and the window, un- covered to the moonlight, made the place so clear that there was no need of striking a match–i remember how i suddenly dropped, sank upon the edge of the bed from the force of the idea that he must know how he really, as they say, "had” me. he could do what he liked, with all his cleverness to help him, so long as i should continue to defer to the old tradition of the criminality of those caretakers of the young who minister to superstitions and fears. he “had” me indeed, and in a cleft stick; for who would ever absolve me, who would consent that i should go unhung, if, by the faintest tremor of an overture, i were the first to in- troduce into our perfect intercourse an element so dire ? no, no: it was useless to attempt to convey to mrs. grose, just as it is scarcely less so to attempt to suggest here, how, in our short, stiff brush in the dark, he fairly shook me with admiration. i was of course thoroughly kind and merciful ; never, never yet had i placed on his little shoulders hands of such tenderness as those with which, while i rested against the bed, i held him there well under fire. i had no alternative but, in form at least, to put it to him. “you must tell me now—and all the truth. what did you go out for? what were you doing there ? " i can still see his wonderful smile, the whites of his beautiful eyes and the uncovering of his little teeth, shine to me in the dusk. “if i tell you why, will you understand ?” my heart, at this, leaped into my mouth. would he tell me why? i found no sound on my lips to press it, and i was aware of replying only with a vague, repeated, grimacing nod. he was gentle- the turn of the screw ness itself, and while i wagged my head at him he stood there more than ever a little fairy prince. it was his brightness indeed that gave me a respite. would it be so great if he were really going to tell me? “well,” he said at last, "just exactly in order that you should do this.” “do what ? " “think me—for a change—bad !” i shall never forget the sweetness and gaiety with which he brought out the word, nor how, on top of it, he bent forward and kissed me. it was practically the end of every- thing. i met his kiss and i had to make, while i folded him for a minute in my arms, the most stupendous effort not to cry. he had given exactly the account of himself that permitted least of my going behind it, and it was only with the effect of confirming my acceptance of it that, as i presently glanced about the room, i could say— “then you didn't undress at all ?". he fairly glittered in the gloom. “not at all. i sat up and read.” “and when did you go down ?". “at midnight. when i'm bad i am bad ! ” “i see, i see—it's charming. but how could you be sure i would know it ?” “oh, i arranged that with flora." his answers rang out with a readiness! “she was to get up and look out.” " which is what she did do." it was i who fell into the trap! “so she disturbed you, and, to see what she was looking at, you also looked—you saw.” the turn of the screw “while you,” i concurred, “caught your death in the night air !" he literally bloomed so from this exploit that he could afford radiantly to assent. “how otherwise should i have been bad enough ?” he asked. then, after another embrace, the incident and our interview closed on my recognition of all the reserves of goodness that, for his joke, he had been able to draw upon. xii the particular impression i had received proved in the morning light, i repeat, not quite successfully presentable to mrs. grose, though i reinforced it with the mention of still another remark that he had made before we separated. “it all lies in half-a-dozen words," i said to her," words that really settle the matter. •think, you know, what i might do!' he threw that off to show me how good he is. he knows down to the ground what he ' might' do. that's what he gave them a taste of at school.” “lord, you do change ! ” cried my friend. "i don't change—i simply make it out. the four, depend upon it, perpetually meet. if on either of these last nights you had been with either child you would clearly have understood. the more i've watched and waited the more i've felt that if there were nothing else to make it sure it would be made so by the systematic silence of each. never, by a slip of the tongue, have they so much as alluded to either of their old friends, any more than miles has alluded to his expulsion. oh yes, we may sit here and look at them, and they may show off to us there to their fill; but even while they pretend to be lost in their fairy-tale the turn of the screw they're steeped in their vision of the dead restored. he's not reading to her," i declared ; "they're talking of them—they're talking horrors! i go on, i know, as if i were crazy; and it's a wonder i'm not. what i've seen would have made you so ; but it has only made me more lucid, made me get hold of still other things." my lucidity must have seemed awful, but the charming creatures who were victims of it, passing and repassing in their interlocked sweetness, gave my colleague some- thing to hold on by; and i felt how tight she held as, without stirring in the breath of my passion, she covered them still with her eyes. “of what other things have you got hold ? ” “why, of the very things that have delighted, fascinated and yet, at bottom, as i now so strangely see, mystified and troubled me. their more than earthly beauty, their absolutely unnatural goodness. it's a game," i went on; “it's a policy and a fraud !” “on the part of little darlings ——?” "as yet mere lovely babies ? yes, mad as that seems !” the very act of bringing it out really helped me to trace it—follow it all up and piece it all together. “they haven't been good—they've only been absent. it has been easy to live with them, because they're simply leading a life of their own. they're not mine —they're not ours. they're his and they're hers !” “quint's and that woman's ?” “quint's and that woman's. they want to get to them.” oh, how, at this, poor mrs. grose appeared to study them! “but for what ? ” “for the love of all the evil that, in those dreadful days, the pair put into them. and to ply them with the turn of the screw that evil still, to keep up the work of demons, is what brings the others back." “ laws !” said my friend under her breath. the exclamation was homely, but it revealed a real accept- ance of my further proof of what, in the bad time—for there had been a worse even than this _must have occurred. there could have been no such justification for me as the plain assent of her experience to whatever depth of depravity i found credible in our brace of scoundrels. it was in obvious submission of memory that she brought out after a moment: “they were rascals ! but what can they now do ?” she pursued. "do ?” i echoed so loud that miles and flora, as they passed at their distance, paused an instant in their walk and looked at us. “don't they do enough ?” i demanded in a lower tone, while the children, having smiled and nodded and kissed hands to us, resumed their exhibition. we were held by it a minute; then i answered: “they can destroy them !” at this my companion did turn, but the inquiry she launched was a silent one, the effect of which was to make me more explicit. “they don't know, as yet, quite how—but they're trying hard. they're seen only across, as it were, and beyond—in strange places and on high places, the top of towers, the roof of houses, the outside of windows, the further edge of pools ; but there's a deep design, on either side, to shorten the distance and over- come the obstacle ; and the success of the tempters is only a question of time. they've only to keep to their suggestions of danger.” “for the children to come ?”. “and perish in the attempt !” mrs. grose slowly the turn of the screw got up, and i scrupulously added : "unless, of course, we can prevent !” standing there before me while i kept my seat, she visibly turned things over. “their uncle must do the preventing. he must take them away.” “and who's to make him ?” she had been scanning the distance, but she now dropped on me a foolish face. “you, miss.” “by writing to him that his house is poisoned and his little nephew and niece mad ?” “but if they are, miss ? ”. “and if i am myself, you mean? that's charming news to be sent him by a governess whose prime undertaking was to give him no worry.". mrs. grose considered, following the children again. “yes, he do hate worry. that was the great reason- “why those fiends took him in so long ? no doubt, though his indifference must have been awful. as i'm not a fiend, at any rate, i shouldn't take him in.” my companion, after an instant and for all answer, sat down again and grasped my arm. “make him at any rate come to you.” i stared. “to me ?” i had a sudden fear of what she might do. "him'?”. "he ought to be here—he ought to help." i quickly rose, and i think i must have shown her a queerer face than ever yet. “you see me asking him for a visit ? ” no, with her eyes on my face she evidently couldn't. instead of it even-as a woman reads another—she could see what i myself saw : his derision, his amusement, his contempt for the break- the turn of the screw down of my resignation at being left alone and for the fine machinery i had set in motion to attract his atten- tion to my slighted charms. she didn't know—no one knew-how proud i had been to serve him and to stick to our terms; yet she none the less took the measure, i think, of the warning i now gave her. “if you should so lose your head as to appeal to him for me. " she was really frightened. “yes, miss ? ". “i would leave, on the spot, both him and you." the turn of the screw all bangs, it was something louder than we had in- tended—the doors we had indiscreetly opened. all roads lead to rome, and there were times when it might have struck us that almost every branch of study or subject of conversation skirted forbidden ground. forbidden ground was the question of the return of the dead in general and of whatever, in especial, might survive, in memory, of the friends little children had lost. there were days when i could have sworn that one of them had, with a small invisible nudge, said to the other : “she thinks she'll do it this time—but she won't !” to "do it” would have been to indulge for instance—and for once in a way—in some direct reference to the lady who had prepared them for my discipline. they had a delightful endless appetite for passages in my own history, to which i had again and again treated them; they were in possession of every- thing that had ever happened to me, had had, with every circumstance, the story of my smallest adven- tures and of those of my brothers and sisters and of the cat and the dog at home, as well as many par- ticulars of the eccentric nature of my father, of the furniture and arrangement of our house and of the conversation of the old women of our village. there were things enough, taking one with another, to chatter about, if one went very fast and knew by instinct when to go round. they pulled with an art of their own the strings of my invention and my memory; and nothing else perhaps, when i thought of such occasions after- wards, gave me so the suspicion of being watched from under cover. it was in any case over my life, my past and my friends alone that we could take anything like the turn of the screw our ease ; a state of affairs that led them sometimes without the least pertinence to break out into sociable reminders. i was invited—with no visible connection —to repeat afresh goody gosling's celebrated mot or to confirm the details already supplied as to the cleverness of the vicarage pony. it was partly at such junctures as these and partly at quite different ones that, with the turn my matters had now taken, my predicament, as i have called it, grew most sensible. the fact that the days passed for me without another encounter ought, it would have appeared, to have done something toward soothing my nerves. since the light brush, that second night on the upper landing, of the presence of a woman at the foot of the stair, i had seen nothing, whether in or out of the house, that one had better not have seen. there was many a corner round which i expected to come upon quint, and many a situation that, in a merely sinister way, would have favoured the appearance of miss jessel. the summer had turned, the summer had gone; the autumn had dropped upon bly and had blown out half our lights. the place, with its grey sky and withered garlands, its bared spaces and scat- tered dead leaves, was like a theatre after the perform- ance—all strewn with crumpled playbills. there were exactly states of the air, conditions of sound and of stillness, unspeakable impressions of the kind of ministering moment, that brought back to me, long enough to catch it, the feeling of the medium in which, that june evening out-of-doors, i had had my first sight of quint, and in which, too, at those other in- stants, i had, after seeing him through the window, the turn of the screw looked for him in vain in the circle of shrubbery. i recognised the signs, the portents—i recognised the moment, the spot. but they remained unaccompanied and empty, and i continued unmolested; if unmolested one could call a young woman whose sensibility had, in the most extraordinary fashion, not declined but deepened. i had said in my talk with mrs. grose on that horrid scene of flora's by the lake—and had per- plexed her by so saying—that it would from that mo- ment distress me much more to lose my power than to keep it. i had then expressed what was vividly in my mind: the truth that, whether the children really saw or not-since, that is, it was not yet definitely proved -i greatly preferred, as a safeguard, the fulness of my own exposure. i was ready to know the very worst that was to be known. what i had then had an ugly glimpse of was that my eyes might be sealed just while theirs were most opened. well, my eyes were sealed, it appeared, at present—a consummation for which it seemed blasphemous not to thank god. there was, alas, a difficulty about that : i would have thanked him with all my soul had i not had in a propor- tionate measure this conviction of the secret of my pupils. how can i retrace to-day the strange steps of my obsession ? there were times of our being together when i would have been ready to swear that, literally, in my presence, but with my direct sense of it closed, they had visitors who were known and were welcome. then it was that, had i not been deterred by the very chance that such an injury might prove greater than the injury to be averted, my exaltation would have the turn of the screw broken out. “they're here, they're here, you little wretches," i would have cried, “and you can't deny it now !” the little wretches denied it with all the added volume of their sociability and their tenderness, in just the crystal depths of which like the flash of a fish in a stream—the mockery of their advantage peeped up. the shock, in truth, had sunk into me still deeper than i knew on the night when, looking out to see either quint or miss jessel under the stars, i had beheld the boy over whose rest i watched and who had imme- diately brought in with him-had straightway, there, turned it on me—the lovely upward look with which, from the battlements above me, the hideous apparition of quint liad played. if it was a question of a scare, my discovery on this occasion had scared me more than any other, and it was in the condition of nerves produced by it that i made my actual inductions. they harassed me so that sometimes, at odd moments, i shut myself up audibly to rehearse—it was at once a fantastic relief and a renewed despair—the manner in which i might come to the point. i approached it from one side and the other while, in my room, i flung myself about, but i always broke down in the monstrous utterance of names. as they died away on my lips i said to myself that i should indeed help them to repre- sent something infamous if, by pronouncing them, i should violate as rare a little case of instinctive delicacy as any schoolroom, probably, had ever known. when i said to myself : “ they have the manners to be silent, and you, trusted as you are, the baseness to speak !" i felt myself crimson and i covered my face with my hands. after these secret scenes i chattered more the turn of the screw fòi than ever, going on volubly enough till one of our prodigious, palpable hushes occurred—i can call them nothing else—the strange, dizzy lift or swim (i try for terms !) into a stillness, a pause of all life, that had nothing to do with the more or less noise that at the moment we might be engaged in making and that i could hear through any deepened exhilaration or quickened recitation or louder strum of the piano. then it was that the others, the outsiders, were there. though they were not angels, they “passed,” as the french say, causing me, while they stayed, to tremble with the fear of their addressing to their younger victims some yet more infernal message or more vivid image than they had thought good enough for myself. what it was most impossible to get rid of was the cruel idea that, whatever i had seen, miles and flora saw more-things terrible and unguessable and that sprang from dreadful passages of intercourse in the past. such things naturally left on the surface, for the time, a chill which we vociferously denied that we felt ; and we had, all three, with repetition, got into such splendid training that we went, each time, almost auto- matically, to mark the close of the incident, through the very same movements. it was striking of the children, at all events, to kiss me inveterately with a kind of wild irrelevance and never to fail—one or the other-of the precious question that had helped us through many a peril. “when do you think he will come ? don't you think we ought to write ? "_there was nothing like that inquiry, we found by experience, for carrying off an awkwardness. “he” of course the turn of the screw was their uncle in harley street; and we lived in much profusion of theory that he might at any moment arrive to mingle in our circle. it was impossible to have given less encouragement than he had done to such a doctrine, but if we had not had the doctrine to fall back upon we should have deprived each other of some of our finest exhibitions. he never wrote to them, that may have been selfish, but it was a part of the flattery of his trust of me ; for the way in which a man pays his highest tribute to a woman is apt to be but by the more festal celebration of one of the sacred laws of his comfort; and i held that i carried out the spirit of the pledge given not to appeal to him when i let my charges understand that their own letters were but charming literary exercises. they were too beautiful to be posted ; i kept them myself ; i have them all to this hour. this was a rule indeed which only added to the satiric effect of my being plied with the supposi- tion that he might at any moment be among us. it was exactly as if my charges knew how almost more awkward than anything else that might be for me. there appears to me, moreover, as i look back, no note in all this more extraordinary than the mere fact that, in spite of my tension and of their triumph, i never lost patience with them. adorable they must in truth have been, i now reflect, that i didn't in these days hate them! would exasperation, however, if relief had longer been postponed, finally have betrayed me ? it little matters, for relief arrived. i call it relief though it was only the relief that a snap brings to a strain or the burst of a thunderstorm to a day of suffocation. it was at least change, and it came with a rush. xiv walking to church a certain sunday morning, i had little miles at my side and his sister, in advance of us and at mrs. grose's, well in sight. it was a crisp, clear day, the first of its order for some time; the night had brought a touch of frost, and the autumn air, bright and sharp, made the church-bells almost gay. it was an odd accident of thought that i should have happened at such a moment to be particularly and very gratefully struck with the obedience of my little charges. why did they never resent my inexorable, my perpetual society? something or other had brought nearer home to me that i had all but pinned the boy to my shawl and that, in the way our companions were marshalled before me, i might have appeared tº provide against some danger of rebellion. i was like a gaoler with an eye to possible surprises and escapes. but all this belonged—i mean their magnificent little surrender —just to the special array of the facts that were most abysmal. turned out for sunday by his uncle's tailor, who had had a free hand and a notion of pretty waist- coats and of his grand little air, miles's whole title to independence, the rights of his sex and situation, were so stamped upon him that if he had suddenly struck for the turn of the screw freedom i should have had nothing to say. i was by the strangest of chances wondering how i should meet him when the revolution unmistakeably occurred. i call it a revolution because i now see how, with the word he spoke, the curtain rose on the last act of my dreadful drama and the catastrophe was precipitated. “look here, my dear, you know," he charmingly said, " when in the world, please, am i going back to school ?" transcribed here the speech sounds harmless enough, particularly as uttered in the sweet, high, casual pipe with which, at all interlocutors, but above all at his eternal governess, he threw off intonations as if he were tossing roses. there was something in them that always made one "catch," and i caught, at any rate, now so effectually that i stopped as short as if one of the trees of the park had fallen across the road. there was something new, on the spot, between us, and he was perfectly aware that i recognised it, though, to enable me to do so, he had no need to look a whit less candid and charming than usual. i could feel in him how he already, from my at first finding nothing to reply, perceived the advantage he had gained. i was so slow to find anything that he had plenty of time, after a minute, to continue with his suggestive but inconclusive smile : “you know, my dear, that for a fellow to be with a lady always—-!” his “my dear" was constantly on his lips for me, and nothing could have expressed more the exact shade of the sentiment with which i desired to inspire my pupils than its fond familiarity. it was so respectfully easy. but, oh, how i felt that at present i must pick my the turn of the screw own phrases ! i remember that, to gain time, i tried to laugh, and i seemed to see in the beautiful face with which he watched me how ugly and queer i looked. “and always with the same lady ?” i returned. he neither blenched nor winked. the whole thing was virtually out between us. “ah, of course she's a jolly, 'perfect' lady; but, after all, i'm a fellow, don't you see ? that's—well, getting on.” i lingered there with him an instant ever so kindly. “yes, you're getting on." oh, but i felt helpless! i have kept to this day the heartbreaking little idea of how he seemed to know that and to play with it. “and you can't say i've not been awfully good, can you ? " i laid my hand on his shoulder, for, though i felt how much better it would have been to walk on, i was not yet quite able. “no, i can't say that, miles." “except just that one night, you know- !” “ that one night ?” i couldn't look as straight as he. “why, when i went down—went out of the house." “oh yes. but i forget what you did it for." “you forget ? ”—he spoke with the sweet extrava- gance of childish reproach. “why, it was to show you i could i" “oh yes, you could.” "and i can again.” i felt that i might, perhaps, after all, succeed in keeping my wits about me. “certainly. but you won't.” “no, not that again. it was nothing." " it was nothing," i said. “but we must go on.” the turn of the screw he resumed our walk with me, passing his hand into my arm. “then when am i going back ?". i wore, in turning it over, my most responsible air. “were you very happy at school ? " he just considered. “oh, i'm happy enough any- where !” “well then," i quavered, "if you're just as happy here !" “ah, but that isn't everything! of course you know a lot- " “but you hint that you know almost as much ? " i risked as he paused. “not half i want to!” miles honestly professed. “but it isn't so much that." “what is it then?” “ well i want to see more life.” “i see; i see.” we had arrived within sight of the church and of various persons, including several of the household of bly, on their way to it and clustered about the door to see us go in. i quickened our step; i wanted to get there before the question between us opened up much further ; i reflected hungrily that, for more than an hour, he would have to be silent; and i thought with envy of the comparative dusk of the pew and of the almost spiritual help of the hassock on which i might bend my knees. i seemed literally to be run- ning a race with some confusion to which he was about to reduce me, but i felt that he had got in first when, before we had even entered the churchyard, he threw out- “i want my own sort !”. it literally made me bound forward. “there are not the turn of the screw miles, on this, stood looking at me. “then don't you think he can be made to ?” “ in what way ?” “why, by his coming down.” “but who'll get him to come down ?" “i will!” the boy said with extraordinary bright- ness and enphasis. he gave me another look charged with that expression and then marched off alone into church. xv the business was practically settled from the moment i never followed him. it was a pitiful surrender to agitation, but my being aware of this had somehow no power to restore me. i only sat there on my tomb and read into what my little friend had said to me the fulness of its meaning; by the time i had grasped the whole of which i had also embraced, for absence, the pretext that i was ashamed to offer my pupils and the rest of the congregation such an example of delay. what i said to myself above all was that miles had got some- thing out of me and that the proof of it, for him, would be just this awkward collapse. he had got out of me that there was something i was much afraid of and that he should probably be able to make use of my fear to gain, for his own purpose, more freedom. my fear was of having to deal with the intolerable question of the grounds of his dismissal from school, for that was really but the question of the horrors gathered behind. that his uncle should arrive to treat with me of these things was a solution that, strictly speaking, i ought now to have desired to bring on; but i could so little face the ugliness and the pain of it that i simply procrastinated and lived from hand to mouth. the boy, to my deep the turn of the screw iii little pupils would play at innocent wonder about my non-appearance in their train. “what did you do, you naughty, bad thing? why in the world, to worry us so—and take our thoughts off too, don't you know ?-did you desert us at the very door ?” i couldn't meet such questions nor, as they asked them, their false little lovely eyes; yet it was all so exactly what i should have to meet that, as the prospect grew sharp to me, i at last let myself go. i got, so far as the immediate moment was concerned, away ; i came straight out of the churchyard and, thinking hard, retraced my steps through the park. it seemed to me that by the time i reached the house i had made up my mind i would fly. the sunday still- ness both of the approaches and of the interior, in which i met no one, fairly excited me with a sense of oppor- tunity. were i to get off quickly, this way, i should get off without a scene, without a word. my quickness would have to be remarkable, however, and the question of a conveyance was the great one to settle. tormented, in the hall, with difficulties and obstacles, i remember sinking down at the foot of the staircase-suddenly collapsing there on the lowest step and then, with a revulsion, recalling that it was exactly where, more than a month before, in the darkness of night and just so bowed with evil things, i had seen the spectre of the most horrible of women. at this i was able to straighten myself ; i went the rest of the way up; i made, in my bewilderment, for the schoolroom, where there were objects belonging to me that i should have to take. but i opened the door to find again, in a flash, my eyes the turn of the screw unsealed. in the presence of what i saw i reeled straight back upon my resistance. seated at my own table in the clear noonday light i saw a person whom, without my previous experience, i should have taken at the first blush for some house- maid who might have stayed at home to look after the place and who, availing herself of rare relief from observation and of the schoolroom table and my pens, ink and paper, had applied herself to the considerable effort of a letter to her sweetheart. there was an effort in the way that, while her arms rested on the table, her hands, with evident weariness, supported her head; but at the moment i took this in i had already become aware that, in spite of my entrance, her atti- tude strangely persisted. then it was—with the very act of its announcing itself—that her identity flared up in a change of posture. she rose, not as if she had heard me, but with an indescribable grand melancholy of indifference and detachment, and, within a dozen feet of me, stood there as my vile predecessor. dis- honoured and tragic, she was all before me; but even as i fixed and, for memory, secured it, the awful image passed away. dark as midnight in her black dress, her haggard beauty and her unutterable woe, she had looked at me long enough to appear to say that her right to sit at my table was as good as mine to sit at hers. while these instants lasted indeed i had the extraordinary chill of a feeling that it was i who was the intruder. it was as a wild protest against it that, actually addressing her“you terrible, miserable woman !"-i heard myself break into a sound that, by xvi i had so perfectly expected that the return of my pupils would be marked by a demonstration that i was freshly upset at having to take into account that they were dumb about my absence. instead of gaily denouncing and caressing me they made no allusion to my having failed them, and i was left, for the time, on perceiving that she too said nothing, to study mrs. grose's odd face. i did this to such purpose that i made sure they had in some way bribed her to silence; a silence that, however, i would engage to break down on the first private opportunity. this opportunity came before tea : i secured five minutes with her in the housekeeper's room, where, in the twilight, amid a smell of lately-baked bread, but with the place all swept and garnished, i found her sitting in pained placidity before the fire. so i see her still, so i see her best : facing the flame from her straight chair in the dusky, shining room, a large clean image of the “put away"-of drawers closed and locked and rest without a remedy. "oh yes, they asked me to say nothing; and to please them—so long as they were there—of course i promised. but what had happened to you ?" the turn of the screw "and what did she say?" i can hear the good woman still, and the candour of her stupefaction. “that she suffers the torments !" it was this, of a truth, that made her, as she filled out my picture, gape. “do you mean,” she faltered " -- of the lost ?”. “of the lost. of the damned. and that's why, to share them - " i faltered myself with the horror of it. but my companion, with less imagination, kept me up. “to share them ?" "she wants flora.” mrs. grose might, as i gave it to her, fairly have fallen away from me had i not been prepared. i still held her there, to show i was. “as i've told you, however, it doesn't matter." “because you've made up your mind ? but to what ?" “ to everything." "and what do you call 'everything'?" “why, sending for their uncle." “oh miss, in pity do," my friend broke out. “ah, but i will, i will! i see it's the only way. what's 'out,' as i told you, with miles is that if he thinks i'm afraid to—and has ideas of what he gains by that-he shall see he's mistaken. yes, yes; his uncle shall have it here from me on the spot (and before the boy himself if necessary,) that if i'm to be reproached with having done nothing again about more school- " “yes, miss- "my companion pressed me. "well, there's that awful reason.” the turn of the screw there were now clearly so many of these for my poor colleague that she was excusable for being vague. “but—a—which ?” “why, the letter from his old place.” “you'll show it to the master ?" “i ought to have done so on the instant." “oh no!" said mrs. grose with decision. "i'll put it before him," i went on inexorably, “that i can't undertake to work the question on behalf of a child who has been expelled — “for we've never in the least known what !” mrs. grose declared. “for wickedness. for what else—when he's so clever and beautiful and perfect? is he stupid ? is he untidy? is he infirm ? is he ill-natured ? he's exquisite—so it can be only that; and that would open up the whole thing. after all,” i said, “it's their uncle's fault. if he left here such people--!" “he didn't really in the least know them. the fault's mine." she had turned quite pale. “well, you shan't suffer," i answered. “the children shan't!” she emphatically re- turned. i was silent a while; we looked at each other. “ then what am i to tell him?" “ you needn't tell him anything. i'll tell him.” i measured this. “do you mean you'll write— ?” remembering she couldn't, i caught myself up. “how do you communicate ?”. “i tell the bailiff. he writes." “and should you like him to write our story ?” my question had a sarcastic force that i had not the turn of the screw fully intended, and it made her, after a moment, incon- sequently break down. the tears were again in her eyes. “ah, miss, you write !" “well-to-night," i at last answered ; and on this we separated. i the turn of the screw : “then you weren't asleep?" “not much! i lie awake and think.” i had put my candle, designedly, a short way off, and then, as he held out his friendly old hand to me, had sat down on the edge of his bed. “what is it,” i asked, “that you think of?”. “what in the world, my dear, but you ?” “ah, the pride i take in your appreciation doesn't insist on that! i had so far rather you slept." . “well, i think alsó, you know, of this queer business of ours." i marked the coolness of his firm little hand. “of what queer business, miles ?”. “why, the way you bring me up. and all the rest!" i fairly held my breath a minute, and even from my glimmering taper there was light enough to show how he smiled up at me from his pillow. “what do you mean by all the rest ?” “oh, you know, you know !”. i could say nothing for a minute, though i felt, as i held his hand and our eyes continued to meet, that my silence had all the air of admitting his charge and that nothing in the whole world of reality was perhaps at that moment so fabulous as our actual relation. “certainly you shall go back to school,” i said, “if it be that that troubles you. but not to the old place- we must find another, a better. how could i know it did trouble you, this question, when you never told me so, never spoke of it at all ?" his clear, listening face, framed in its smooth whiteness, made him for the minute as appealing as some wistful patient in a the turn of the screw children's hospital; and i would have given, as the resemblance came to me, all i possessed on earth really to be the nurse or the sister of charity who might have helped to cure him. well, even as it was, i perhaps might help! “do you know you've never said a word to me about your school-i mean the old one; never mentioned it in any way?” he seemed to wonder; he smiled with the same loveliness. but he clearly gained time; he waited, he called for guidance. “haven't i ?" it wasn't for me to help him—it was for the thing i had met ! something in his tone and the expression of his face, as i got this from him, set my heart aching with such a pang as it had never yet known; so unutterably touching was it to see his little brain puzzled and his little resources taxed to play, under the spell laid on him, a part of innocence and consistency. “no, never- from the hour you came back. you've never mentioned to me one of your masters, one of your comrades, nor the least little thing that ever happened to you at school. never, little miles—no never—have you given me an inkling of anything that may have happened there. therefore you can fancy how much i'm in the dark. until you came out, that way, this morning, you had, since the first hour i saw you, scarce even made a reference to anything in your previous life. you seemed so perfectly to accept the present.” it was extraordinary how my absolute conviction of his secret precocity (or whatever i might call the poison of an influence that i dared but half to phrase, made him, in spite of the faint breath of his inward trouble, appear as accessible as an older person--imposed him almost the turn of the screw as an intellectual equal. “i thought you wanted to go on as you are." it struck me that at this he just faintly coloured. he gave, at any rate, like a convalescent slightly fatigued, a languid shake of his head. “i don't-i don't. i want to get away." “you're tired of bly?”. “oh no, i like bly." “well, then ?" “oh, you know what a boy wants !”. i felt that i didn't know so well as miles, and i took temporary refuge. “you want to go to your uncle ? " again, at this, with his sweet ironic face, he made a movement on the pillow. “ah, you can't get off with that !" i was silent a little, and it was i, now, i think, who changed colour. “my dear, i don't want to get off !” “ you can't, even if you do. you can't, you can't !". -he lay beautifully staring. “my uncle must come down, and you must completely settle things." “if we do,” i returned with some spirit, "you may be sure it will be to take you quite away.” “well, don't you understand that that's exactly what i'm working for? you'll have to tell him—about the way you've let it all drop : you'll have to tell him a tremendous lot !” the exultation with which he uttered this helped me somehow, for the instant, to meet him rather more. “and how much will you, miles, have to tell him ? there are things he'll ask you !”. the turn of the screw he turned it over. “very likely. but what things ?” “the things you've never told me. to make up his mind what to do with you. he can't send you back- " “oh, i don't want to go back !” he broke in. “i want a new field.” he said it with admirable serenity, with positive unimpeachable gaiety; and doubtless it was that very note that most evoked for me the poignancy, the unnatural childish tragedy, of his probable reappear- ance at the end of three months with all this bravado and still more dishonour. it overwhelmed me now that i should never be able to bear that, and it made me let myself go. i threw myself upon him and in the tenderness of my pity i embraced him. “dear little miles, dear little miles-- " my face was close to his, and he let me - kiss him, simply laking it with indulgent goodhumour. “well, old lady ?” "is there nothing—nothing at all that you want to tell me?” he turned off a little, facing round toward the wall and holding up his hand to look at as one had seen sick children look. “i've told you~i told you this morning." oh, i was sorry for him! “that you just want me not to worry you ?" he looked round at me now, as if in recognition of my understanding him; then ever so gently, “to let me alone,” he replied. there was even a singular little dignity in it, some- the turn of the screw thing that made me release him, yet, when i had slowly risen, linger beside him. god knows i never wished to harass him, but i felt that merely, at this, to turn my back on him was to abandon or, to put it more truly, to lose him. “i've just begun a letter to your uncle," i said. “well then, finish it!”. i waited a minute. “what happened before ?" he gazed up at me again. “before what ?" “before you came back. and before you went away." for some time he was silent, but he continued to meet my eyes. “what happened ?" it made me, the sound of the words, in which it seemed to me that i caught for the very first time a small faint quaver of consenting consciousness—it made me drop on my knees beside the bed and seize once more the chance of possessing him. “dear little miles, dear little miles, if you knew how i want to help you! it's only that, it's nothing but that, and i'd rather die than give you a pain or do you a wrong- i'd rather die than hurt a hair of you. dear little miles "-oh, i brought it out now even if i should go too far—“i just want you to help me to save you!” but i knew in a moment after this that i had gone too far. the answer to my appeal was instantaneous, but it came in the form of an extraordinary blast and chill, a gust of frozen air and a shake of the room as great as if, in the wild wind, the casement had crashed in. the boy gave a loud, high shriek which, lost in the rest of the shock of sound, might have seemed, indis- tinctly, though i was so close to him, a note either of the turn of the screw jubilation or of terror. i jumped to my feet again and was conscious of darkness. so for a moment we remained, while i stared about me and saw that the drawn curtains were unstirred and the window tight. “why, the candle's out !" i then cried. " it was i who blew it, dear !" said miles. xviii the next day, after lessons, mrs. grose found a moment to say to me quietly: "have you written, miss ? " “yes—i've written." but i didn't add—for the hour—that my letter, sealed and directed, was still in my pocket. there would be time enough to send it before the messenger should go to the village. meanwhile there had been, on the part of my pupils, no more brilliant, more exemplary morning. it was exactly as if they had both had at heart to gloss over any recent little friction. they performed the dizziest feats of arithmetic, soaring quite out of my feeble range, and perpetrated, in higher spirits than ever, geographical and historical jokes. it was conspicuous of course in miles in particular that he appeared to wish to show how easily he could let me down. this child, to my memory, really lives in a setting of beauty and misery that no words can translate ; there was a distinction all his own in every impulse he revealed ; never was a small natural creature, to the uninitiated eye all frankness and freedom, a more ingenious, a more extraordinary little gentleman. i had perpetually to guard against the wonder of contemplation into the turn of the screw which my initiated view betrayed me; to check the irrelevant gaze and discouraged sigh in which i con- stantly both attacked and renounced the enigma of what such a little gentleman could have done that deserved a penalty. say that, by the dark prodigy i knew, the imagination of all evil had been opened up to him : all the justice within me ached for the proof that it could ever have flowered into an act. he had never, at any rate, been such a little gentle- man as when, after our early dinner on this dreadful day, he came round to me and asked if i shouldn't like him, for half an hour, to play to me. david playing to saul could never have shown a finer sense of the occasion. it was literally a charming exhibition of tact, of magnanimity, and quite tantamount to his saying outright : “the true knights we love to read about never push an advantage too far. i know what you mean now: you mean that—to be let alone yourself and not followed up—you'll cease to worry and spy upon me, won't keep me so close to you, will let me go and come. well, i 'come,' you see—but i don't go! there'll be plenty of time for that. i do really delight in your society, and i only want to show you that i contended for a principle.” it may be imagined whether i resisted this appeal or failed to accompany him again, hand in hand, to the schoolroom. he sat down at the old piano and played as he had never played ; and if there are those who think he had better have been kicking a football i can only say that i wholly agree with them. for at the end of a time that under his influence i had quite ceased to measure i started up with a strange sense of having literally slept at my the turn of the screw post. it was after luncheon, and by the schoolroom fire, and yet i hadn't really, in the least, slept : i had only done something much worse—i had forgotten. where, all this time, was flora ? when i put the question to miles he played on a minute before answering, and then could only say: “why, my dear, how do i know ?”—breaking moreover into a happy laugh which, immediately after, as if it were a vocal accompaniment, he prolonged into incoherent, extravagant song. i went straight to my room, but his sister was not there; then, before going downstairs, i looked into several others. as she was nowhere about she would surely be with mrs. grose, whom, in the comfort of that theory, i accordingly proceeded in quest of. i found her where i had found her the evening before, but she met my quick challenge with blank, scared ignorance. she had only supposed that, after the re- past, i had carried off both the children; as to which she was quite in her right, for it was the very first time i had allowed the little girl out of my sight without some special provision. of course now indeed she might be with the maids, so that the immediate thing was to look for her without an air of alarm. this we promptly arranged between us ; but when, ten minutes later and in pursuance of our arrangement, we met in the hall, it was only to report on either side that after guarded inquiries we had altogether failed to trace her. for a minute there, apart from observation, we ex- changed mute alarms, and i could feel with what high interest my friend returned me all those i had from the first given her. the turn of the screw . my sudden resignation, “because of your letter ? ” she eagerly brought out. i quickly, by way of answer, felt for my letter, drew it forth, held it up, and then, freeing myself, went and laid it on the great hall-table. “luke will take it,” i said as i came back. i reached the house-door and opened it; i was already on the steps. my companion still demurred: the storm of the night and the early morning had dropped, but the afternoon was damp and grey. i came down to the drive while she stood in the doorway. “you go with nothing on ? " “what do i care when the child has nothing? i can't wait to dress," i cried, “and if you must do so i leave you. try meanwhile, yourself, upstairs." “with them?” oh, on this, the poor woman promptly joined me! the turn of the screw “no, no; wait! she has taken the boat.” my companion stared at the vacant mooring-place and then again across the lake. “then where is it ?" “our not seeing it is the strongest of proofs. she has used it to go over, and then has managed to hide it.” “all alone—that child ? ". “she's not alone, and at such times she's not a child : she's an old, old woman." i scanned all the visible shore while mrs. grose took again, into the queer element i offered her, one of her plunges of submission; then i pointed out that the boat might perfectly be in a small refuge formed by one of the recesses of the pool, an indentation masked, for the hither side, by a projection of the bank and by a clump of trees growing close to the water. “but if the boat's there, where on earth's she?") my colleague anxiously asked. “that's exactly what we must learn." and i started to walk further. “by going all the way round ?” “certainly, far as it is. it will take us but ten minutes, but it's far enough to have made the child prefer not to walk. she went straight over." “ laws !” cried my friend again; the chain of my logic was ever too much for her. it dragged her at my heels even now, and when we had got half way round -a devious, tiresome process, on ground much broken and by a path choked with overgrowth—i paused to give her breath. i sustained her with a grateful arm, assuring her that she might hugely help me; and this the turn of the screw started us afresh, so that in the course of but few minutes more we reached a point from which we found the boat to be where i had supposed it. it had been intentionally left as much as possible out of sight and was tied to one of the stakes of a fence that came, just there, down to the brink and that had been an assist- ance to disembarking. i recognised, as i looked at the pair of short, thick oars, quite safely drawn up, the prodigious character of the ſeat for a little girl ; but i had lived, by this time, too long among wonders and had panted to too many livelier measures. there was a gate in the fence, through which we passed, and that brought us, after a trifling interval, more into the open. then “there she is !” we both exclaimed at once. flora, a short way off, stood before us on the grass and smiled as if her performance was now complete. the next thing she did, however, was to stoop straight down and pluck—quite as if it were all she was there for—a big, ugly spray of withered fern. i instantly became sure she had just come out of the copse. she waited for us, not herself taking a step, and i was conscious of the rare solemnity with which we presently approached her. she smiled and smiled, and we met ; but it was all done in a silence by this time flagrantly ominous. mrs. grose was the first to break the spell : she threw herself on her knees and, drawing the child to her breast, clasped in a long embrace the little tender, yielding body. while this dumb convulsion lasted i could only watch it—which i did the more intently when i saw flora's face peep at me over our companion's shoulder. it was serious now—the flicker had left it; but it strengthened the pang with which i the turn of the screw at that moment envied mrs. grose the simplicity of her relation. still, all this while, nothing more passed between us save that flora had let her foolish fern again drop to the ground. what she and i had virtu- ally said to each other was that pretexts were useless now. when mrs. grose finally got up she kept the child's hand, so that the two were still before me; and the singular reticence of our communion was even more marked in the frank look she launched me. “i'll be hanged,” it said, “if i'll speak!” it was flora who, gazing all over me in candid wonder, was the first. she was struck with our bare- headed aspect. “why, where are your things ? " “where yours are, my dear !” i promptly returned. she had already got back her gaiety and appeared to take this as an answer quite sufficient. "and where's miles ? ” she went on. there was something in the small valour of it that quite finished me : these three words from her were, in a flash like the glitter of a drawn blade, the jostle of the cup that my hand, for weeks and weeks, had held high and full to the brim and that now, even before speaking, i felt overflow in a deluge. “i'll tell you if you'll tell me— ” i heard myself say, then heard the tremor in which it broke. “well, what ? " mrs. grose's suspense blazed at me, but it was too late now, and i brought the thing out handsomely. “where, my pet, is miss jessel ? ” . xx just as in the churchyard with miles, the whole thing was upon us. much as i had made of the fact that this name had never once, between us, been sounded, the quick, smitten glare with which the child's face now received it fairly likened my breach of the silence to the smash of a pane of glass. it added to the inter- posing cry, as if to stay the blow, that mrs. grose, at the same instant, uttered over my violence—the shriek of a creature scared, or rather wounded, which, in turn, within a few seconds, was completed by a gasp of my own. i seized my colleague's arm. “she's there, she's there!” miss jessel stood before us on the opposite bank exactly as she had stood the other time, and i remem- ber, strangely, as the first feeling now produced in me, my thrill of joy at having brought on a proof. she was there, and i was justified; she was there, and i was neither cruel nor mad. she was there for poor scared mrs. grose, but she was there most for flora ; and no moment of my monstrous time was perhaps so extra- ordinary as that in which i consciously threw out to her, with the sense that-pale and ravenous demon as she was, she would catch and understand it-an inarti- the turn of the screw confirmed than in the way in which, for all answer to this, she simply showed me, without a concession, an admis- sion, of her eyes, a countenance of deeper and deeper, of indeed suddenly quite fixed reprobation. i was by this time-if i can put the whole thing at all together- more appalled at what i may properly call her manner than at anything else, though it was simultaneously with this that i became aware of having mrs. grose also, and very formidably, to reckon with. my elder com- panion, the next moment, at any rate, blotted out everything but her own flushed face and her loud, shocked protest, a burst of high disapproval. “what a dreadful turn, to be sure, miss! where on earth do you see anything ?” i could only grasp her more quickly yet, for even while she spoke the hideous plain presence stood un- dimmed and undaunted. it had already lasted a minute, and it lasted while i continued, seizing my colleague, quite thrusting her at it and presenting her to it, to insist with my pointing hand. “you don't see her exactly as we see ?—you mean to say you don't now- now ? she's as big as a blazing fire ! only look, dearest woman, look- !” she looked, even as i did, and gave me, with her deep groan of negation, repulsion, compassion—the mixture with her pity of her relief at her exemption—a sense, touching to me even then, that she would have backed me up if she could. i might well have needed that, for with this hard blow of the proof that her eyes were hopelessly sealed i felt my own situation horribly crumble, i felt -i saw—my livid predecessor press, from her position, on my defeat, and i was conscious, more than all, of the turn of the screw what i should have from this instant to deal with in the astounding little attitude of flora. into this attitude mrs. grose immediately and violently entered, breaking, even while there pierced through my sense of ruin a prodigious private triumph, into breathless reassurance. “she isn't there, little lady, and nobody's there—and you never see nothing, my sweet! how can poor miss jessel—when poor miss jessel's dead and buried ? we know, don't we, love ?”—and she appealed, blun- dering in, to the child. “it's all a mere mistake and a worry and a joke—and we'll go home as fast as we can!” our companion, on this, had responded with a strange, quick primness of propriety, and they were again, with mrs. grose on her feet, united, as it were, in pained opposition to me. flora continued to fix me with her small mask of reprobation, and even at that minute i prayed god to forgive me for seeming to see that, as she stood there holding tight to our friend's dress, her incomparable childish beauty had suddenly failed, had quite vanished. i've said it already—she was literally, she was hideously hard ; she had turned common and almost ugly. “i don't know what you mean. i see nobody. i see nothing. i never have. i think you're cruel. i don't like you !” then, after this deliverance, which might have been that of a vulgarly pert little girl in the street, she hugged mrs. grose more closely and buried in her skirts the dreadful little face. in this position she produced an almost furious wail. “take me away, take me away—oh, take me away from her!” “from me?” i panted. the turn of the screw “from you—from you!" she cried. even mrs. grose looked across at me dismayed ; while i had nothing to do but communicate again with the figure that, on the opposite bank, without a move- ment, as rigidly still as if catching, beyond the interval, our voices, was as vividly there for my disaster as it was not there for my service. the wretched child had spoken exactly as if she had got from some outside source each of her stabbing little words, and i could therefore, in the full despair of all i had to accept, but sadly shake my head at her. “if i had ever doubted, all my doubt would at present have gone. i've been living with the miserable truth, and now it has only too much closed round me. of course i've lost you : i've interfered, and you've seen-under her dictation "-with which i faced, over the pool again, our infernal witness _"the easy and perfect way to meet it. i've done my best, but i've lost you. good-bye.” for mrs. grose i had an imperative, an almost frantic “go, go!” before which, in infinite distress, but mutely possessed of the little girl and clearly convinced, in spite of her blindness, that something awful had occurred and some collapse engulfed us, she retreated, by the way we had come, as fast as she could move. of what first happened when i was left alone i had no subsequent memory. i only knew that at the end of, i suppose, a quarter of an hour, an odorous damp- ness and roughness, chilling and piercing my trouble, had made me understand that i must have thrown myself, on my face, on the ground and given way to a wildness of grief. i must have lain there long and cried and sobbed, for when i raised my head the day the turn of the screw was almost done. i got up and looked a moment, through the twilight, at the grey pool and its blank, haunted edge, and then i took, back to the house, my dreary and difficult course. when i reached the gate in the fence the boat, to my surprise, was gone, so that i had a fresh reflection to make on flora's extraordinary command of the situation. she passed that night, by the most tacit, and i should add, were not the word so grotesque a false note, the happiest of arrangements, with mrs. grose. i saw neither of them on my return, but, on the other hand, as by an ambiguous compensa- tion, i saw a great deal of miles. i saw-i can use no other phrase—so much of him that it was as if it were more than it had ever been. no evening i had passed at bly had the portentous quality of this one; in spite of which—and in spite also of the deeper depths of consternation that had opened beneath my feet—there was literally, in the ebbing actual, an extraordinarily sweet sadness. on reaching the house i had never so much as looked for the boy; i had simply gone straight to my room to change what i was wearing and to take in, at a glance, much material testimony to flora's rupture. her little belongings had all been removed. when later, by the schoolroom fire, i was sei ved with tea by the usual maid, i indulged, on the article of my other pupil, in no inquiry whatever. he had his freedom now-he might have it to the end! well, he did have it; and it consisted—in part at least of his coming in at about eight o'clock and sitting down with me in silence. on the removal of the tea-things i had blown out the candles and drawn my chair closer : i was conscious of a mortal coldness and felt as if i the turn of the screw should never again be warm. so, when he appeared, i was sitting in the glow with my thoughts. he paused a moment by the door as if to look at me; then—as if to share them—came to the other side of the hearth and sank into a chair. we sat there in absolute still- ness; yet he wanted, i felt, to be with me. xxi before a new day, in my room, had fully broken, my eyes opened to mrs. grose, who had come to my bed- side with worse news. flora was so markedly feverish that an illness was perhaps at hand; she had passed a night of extreme unrest, a night agitated above all by fears that had for their subject not in the least her former, but wholly her present governess. it was not against the possible re-entrance of miss jessel on the scene that she protested—it was conspicuously and passionately against mine. i was promptly on my feet of course, and with an immense deal to ask; the more that my friend had discernibly now girded her loins to meet me once more. this i felt as soon as i had put to her the question of her sense of the child's sincerity as against my own. “she persists in denying to you that she saw, or has ever seen, anything ?” my visitor's trouble, truly, was great. “ah, miss, it isn't a matter on which i can push her ! yet it isn't either, i must say, as if i much needed to. it has made her, every inch of her, quite old.” “oh, i see her perfectly from here. she resents, for all the world like some high little personage, the imputation on her truthfulness and, as it were, her the turn of the screw respectability. “miss jessel indeed—she !' ah, she's 'respectable,' the chit! the impression she gave me there yesterday was, i assure you, the very strangest of all; it was quite beyond any of the others. i did put my foot in it! she'll never speak to me again.” hideous and obscure as it all was, it held mrs. grose briefly silent; then she granted my point with a frank- ness which, i made sure, had more behind it. "i think indeed, miss, she never will. she do have a grand manner about it!” “and that manner"-i summed it up—"is practically what's the matter with her now.” oh, that manner, i could see in my visitor's face, and not a little else besides ! “she asks me every three minutes if i think you're coming in.” “i see—i see.” i too, on my side, had so much more than worked it out. “has she said to you since yesterday—except to repudiate her familiarity with anything so dreadful—a single other word about miss jessel ?” “not one, miss. and of course you know," my friend added, “i took it from her, by the lake that, just then and there at least, there was nobody.” “rather! and, naturally, you take it from her still.” “i don't contradict her. what else can i do ? " “nothing in the world! you've the cleverest little person to deal with. they've made them—their two friends, i mean—still cleverer even than nature did; for it was wondrous material to play on! flora has now her grievance, and she'll work it to the end." “yes, miss; but to what end ? " the turn of the screw “why, that of dealing with me to her uncle. she'll make me out to him the lowest creature- !" i winced at the fair show of the scene in mrs. grose's face; she looked for a minute as if she sharply saw them together. “and him who thinks so well of you!” “he has an odd way—it comes over me now," i laughed, “—of proving it! but that doesn't matter. what flora wants, of course, is to get rid of me." my companion bravely concurred. “never again to so much as look at you." “so that what you've come to me now for," i asked, “is to speed me on my way ?” before she had time to reply, however, i had her in check. “i've a better idea—the result of my reflections. my going would seem the right thing, and on sunday i was terribly near it. yet that won't do. it's you who must go. you must take flora." my visitor, at this, did speculate. “but where in he world——?” “away from here. away from them. away, even most of all, now, from me. straight to her uncle." "only to tell on you——?”. “no, not only!' to leave me, in addition, with my remedy." she was still vague. “and what is your remedy ? " “your loyalty, to begin with. and then miles's.” she looked at me hard. “do you think he ?" “won't, if he has the chance, turn on me? yes, i venture still to think it. at all events, i want to try. get off with his sister as soon as possible and leave me with him alone." i was amazed, myself, at the spirit i the turn of the screw had still in reserve, and therefore perhaps a trifle the more disconcerted at the way in which, in spite of this fine example of it, she hesitated. “there's one thing, of course," i went on : “they mustn't, before she goes, see each other for three seconds." then it came over me that, in spite of flora's presumable sequestration from the instant of her return from the pool, it might already be too late. “do you mean," i anxiously asked, “that they have met ? ”. at this she quite flushed. “ah, miss, i'm not such a fool as that! if i've been obliged to leave her three or four times, it has been each time with one of the maids, and at present, though she's alone, she's locked in safe. and yet—and yet!” there were too many things. “and yet what ? ” “well, are you so sure of the little gentle- man ? " “i'm not sure of anything but you. but i have, since last evening, a new hope. i think he wants to give me an opening. i do believe that-poor little exquisite wretch !-he wants to speak. last evening, in the firelight and the silence, he sat with me for two hours as if it were just coming." mrs. grose looked hard, through the window, at the grey, gathering day. “and did it come ? " “no, though i waited and waited, i confess it didn't, and it was without a breach of the silence or so much as a faint allusion to his sister's condition and absence that we at last kissed for good night. all the same,” i continued, “i can't, if her uncle sees her, consent to his seeing her brother without my having given the the turn of the screw boy—and most of all because things have got so bad- a little more time.” my friend appeared on this ground more reluctant than i could quite understand. “what do you mean by more time ? " “well, a day or two-really to bring it out. he'll then be on my side—of which you see the importance. if nothing comes, i shall only fail, and you will, at the worst, have helped me by doing, on your arrival in town, whatever you may have found possible.” so i put it before her, but she continued for a little so inscrutably embarrassed that i came again to her aid. “unless indeed," i wound up, "you really want not to go." i could see it, in her face, at last clear itself; she put out her hand to me as a pledge. “i'll go—i'll go. i'll go this morning.” i wanted to be very just. “if you should wish still to wait, i would engage she shouldn't see me." “no, no : it's the place itself. she must leave it.” she held me a moment with heavy eyes, then brought out the rest. “your idea's the right one. i myself, miss- " “well ?” “i can't stay." the look she gave me with it made me jump at possibilities. “you mean that, since yesterday, you have seen ?”. she shook her head with dignity. "i've heard—~!" “heard ? " “from that child-horrors! there!” she sighed with tragic relief. “on my honour, miss, she says the turn of the screw things- ” but at this evocation she broke down; she dropped, with a sudden sob, upon my sofa and, as i had seen her do before, gave way to all the grief of it. it was quite in another manner that i, for my part, let myself go. “oh, thank god i”. she sprang up again at this, drying her eyes with a groan. «• thank god ?'". “it so justifies me!” “ it does that, miss !". i couldn't have desired more emphasis, but i just hesitated. “she's so horrible ?" i saw my colleague scarce knew how to put it. “really shocking." “and about me ?". “about you, miss—since you must have it. it's beyond everything, for a young lady; and i can't think wherever she must have picked up—-" “ the appalling language she applied to me? i can, then !” i broke in with a laugh that was doubtless significant enough. it only, in truth, left my friend still more grave. “well, perhaps i ought to also—since i've heard some of it before! yet i can't bear it," the poor woman went on while, with the same movement, she glanced, on my dressing-table, at the face of my watch. “but i must go back.” i kept her, however. “ah, if you can't bear it- !" “how can i stop with her, you mean? why, just for that: to get her away. far from this," she pursued, “ far from them-- " “she may be different ? she may be free?” i the turn of the screw seized her almost with joy. “then, in spite of yester- day, you believe— " "in such doings ?” her simple description of them required, in the light of her expression, to be carried no further, and she gave me the whole thing as she had never done. “i believe." yes, it was a joy, and we were still shoulder to shoulder: if i might continue sure of that i should care but little what else happened. my support in the presence of disaster would be the same as it had been in my early need of confidence, and if my friend would answer for my honesty i would answer for all the rest. on the point of taking leave of her, none the less, i was to some extent embarrassed. “there's one thing of course—it occurs to me—to remember. my letter, giving the alarm, will have reached town before you." i now perceived still more how she had been beating about the bush and how weary at last it had made her. “your letter won't have got there. your letter never went.” “what then became of it ? " “goodness knows! master miles " “do you mean he took it ? " i gasped. she hung fire, but she overcame her reluctance. “i mean that i saw yesterday, when i came back with miss flora, that it wasn't where you had put it. later in the evening i had the chance to question luke, and he declared that he had neither noticed nor touched it.” we could only exchange, on this, one of our deeper mutual soundings, and it was mrs. grose who first brought up the plumb with an almost elate “ you see!” the turn of the screw “yes, i see that if miles took it instead he probably will have read it and destroyed it.” “and don't you see anything else ?" i faced her a moment with a sad smile. “it strikes me that by this time your eyes are open even wider than mine." they proved to be so indeed, but she could still blush, almost, to show it. “i make out now what he must have done at school.” and she gave, in her simple sharpness, an almost droll disillusioned nod. “he stole !" i turned it over– i tried to be more judicial. “well . —perhaps.” she looked as if she found me unexpectedly calm. “he stole letters!' she couldn't know my reasons for a calmness after all pretty shallow ; so i showed them off as i might. “i hope then it was to more purpose than in this case ! the note, at any rate, that i put on the table yester- day," i pursued, “ will have given him so scant an advantage-for it contained only the bare demand for an interview—that he is already much ashamed of having gone so far for so little, and that what he had on his mind last evening was precisely the need of confession.” i seemed to myself, for the instant, to have mastered it, to see it all. “leave us, leave us" ---i was already, at the door, hurrying her off. “i'll get it out of him. he'll meet me—he'll confess. if he confesses, he's saved. and if he's saved ". “then you are ?” the dear woman kissed me on this, and i took her farewell. “i'll save you without him !” she cried as she went. xxii yet it was when she had got off—and i missed her on the spot—that the great pinch really came. if i had counted on what it would give me to find myself alone with miles i speedily perceived, at least, that it would give me a measure. no hour of my stay in fact was so assailed with apprehensions as that of my coming down to learn that the carriage containing mrs. grose and my younger pupil had already rolled out of the gates. now i was, i said to myself, face to face with the elements, and for much of the rest of the day, while i fought my weakness, i could consider that i had been supremely rash. it was a tighter place still than i had yet turned round in ; all the more that, for the first time, i could see in the aspect of others a confused reflection of the crisis. what had happened naturally caused them all to stare; there was too little of the explained, throw out whatever we might, in the sudden- ness of my colleague's act. the maids and the men looked blank; the effect of which on my nerves was an aggravation until i saw the necessity of making it a positive aid. it was precisely, in short, by just clutch- ing the helm that i avoided total wreck; and i daresay that, to bear up at all, i became, that morning, very the turn of the screw grand and very dry. i welcomed the consciousness that i was charged with much to do, and i caused it to be known as well that, left thus to myself, i was quite remarkably firm. i wandered with that manner, for the next hour or two, all over the place and looked, i have no doubt, as if i were ready for any onset. so, for the benefit of whom it might concern, i paraded with a sick heart. the person it appeared least to concern proved to be, till dinner, little miles himself. my perambulations had given me, meanwhile, no glimpse of him, but they had tended to make more public the change taking place in our relation as a consequence of his having at the piano, the day before, kept me, in flora's interest, so beguiled and befooled. the stamp of publicity had of course been fully given by her confinement and depar- ture, and the change itself was now ushered in by our non-observance of the regular custom of the school- room. he had already disappeared when, on my way down, i pushed open his door, and i learned below that he had breakfasted—in the presence of a couple of the maids—with mrs. grose and his sister. he had then gone out, as he said, for a stroll ; than which nothing, i reflected, could better have expressed his frank view of the abrupt transformation of my office. what he would now permit this office to consist of was yet to be settled : there was a queer relief, at all events—i mean for myself in especial-in the renouncement of one pretension. if so much had sprung to the surface i scarce put it too strongly in saying that what had perhaps sprung highest was the absurdity of our pro- longing the fiction that i had anything more to teach the turn of the screw him. it sufficiently stuck out that, by tacit little tricks in which even more than myself he carried out the care for my dignity, i had had to appeal to him to let me off straining to meet him on the ground of his true capacity. he had at any rate his freedom now; i was never to touch it again ; as i had amply shown, moreover, when, on his joining me in the schoolroom the previous night, i had uttered, on the subject of the interval just con- cluded, neither challenge nor hint. i had too much, from this moment, my other ideas. yet when he at last arrived the difficulty of applying them, the accumu- lations of my problem, were brought straight home to me by the beautiful little presence on which what had occurred had as yet, for the eye, dropped neither stain nor shadow. to mark, for the house, the high state i cultivated i decreed that my meals with the boy should be served, as we called it, downstairs ; so that i had been awaiting him in the ponderous pomp of the room outside of the window of which i had had from mrs. grose, that first scared sunday, my flash of something it would scarce have done to call light. here at present i felt afresh- for i had felt it again and again-how my equilibrium depended on the success of my rigid will, the will to shut my eyes as tight as possible to the truth that what i had to deal with was, revoltingly, against nature. i could only get on at all by taking “nature" into my confidence and my account, by treating my monstrous ordeal as a push in a direction unusual, of course, and unpleasant, but demanding, after all, for a fair front, only another turn of the screw of ordinary human virtue. no attempt, none the less, could well require the turn of the screw more tact than just this attempt to supply, one's self, all the nature. how could i put even a little of that article into a suppression of reference to what had occurred ? how, on the other hand, could i make a reference without a new plunge into the hideous obscure ? well, a sort of answer, after a time, had come to me, and it was so far confirmed as that i was met, incontestably, by the quickened vision of what was rare in my little companion. it was indeed as if he had found even now-as he had so often found at lessons- still some other delicate way to ease me off. wasn't there light in the fact which, as we shared our solitude, broke out with a specious glitter it had never yet quite worn ?—the fact that (opportunity aiding, precious opportunity which had now come,) it would be pre- posterous, with a child so endowed, to forego the help one might wrest from absolute intelligence? what had his intelligence been given him for but to save him ? mightn't one, to reach his mind, risk the stretch of an angular arm over his character ? it was as if, when we were face to face in the dining-room, he had literally shown me the way. the roast mutton was on the table, and i had dispensed with attendance. miles, before he sat down, stood a moment with his hands in his pockets and looked at the joint, on which he seemed on the point of passing some humorous judgment. but what he presently produced was: “i say, my dear, is she really very awfully ill ? ”. “ little flora ? not so bad but that she'll presently be better. london will set her up. bly had ceased to agree with her. come here and take your mutton." he alertly obeyed me, carried the plate carefully to the turn of the screw his seat and, when he was established, went on. “ did bly disagree with her so terribly suddenly ? " “not so suddenly as you might think. one had seen it coming on.” “then why didn't you get her off before ?" “before what ?" “before she became too ill to travel.” i found myself prompt. “she's not too ill to travel : she only might have become so if she had stayed. this was just the moment to seize. the journey will dissipate the influence"-oh, i was grand —"and carry it off.” “i see, i see "—miles, for that matter, was grand too. he settled to his repast with the charming little “table manner" that, from the day of his arrival, had relieved me of all grossness of admonition. whatever he had been driven from school for, it was not for ugly feeding. he was irreproachable, as always, to-day; but he was unmistakeably more conscious. he was discernibly trying to take for granted more things than he found, without assistance, quite easy; and he dropped into peaceful silence while he felt his situation. our meal was of the briefest—mine a vain pretence, and i had the things immediately removed. while this was done miles stood again with his hands in his little pockets and his back to me—stood and looked out of the wide window through which, that other day, i had seen what pulled me up. we continued silent while the maid was with us—as silent, it whimsically occurred to me, as some young couple who, on their wedding-journey, at the inn, feel shy in the presence of the waiter. he turned round only when the waiter had left us. “well -so we're alone " xxiii “oh, more or less." i fancy my smile was pale..“ not absolutely. we shouldn't like that!" i went on. “no-i suppose we shouldn't. of course we have the others." “we have the others-we have indeed the others," i concurred. “yet even though we have them," he returned, still with his hands in his pockets and planted there in front of me," they don't much count, do they ?" i made the best of it, but i felt wan. “it depends on what you call 'much'!” “yes ”—with all accommodation—"everything de- pends !" on this, however, he faced to the window again and presently reached it with his vague, restless, cogitating step. he remained there a while, with his forehead against the glass, in contemplation of the stupid shrubs i knew and the dull things of november. i had always my hypocrisy of “work,” behind which, now, i gained the sofa. steadying myself with it there as i had repeatedly done at those moments of torment that i have described as the moments of my knowing the children to be given to something from which i was barred, i sufficiently obeyed my habit of being prepared the turn of the screw --- - for the worst. but an extraordinary impression dropped on me as i extracted a meaning from the boy's embarrassed back-none other than the impression that i was not barred now. this inference grew in a few minutes to sharp intensity and seemed bound up with the direct perception that it was positively he who was. the frames and squares of the great window were a kind of image, for him, of a kind of failure. i felt that i saw him, at any rate, shut in or shut out. he was admirable, but not comfortable : i took it in with a throb of hope. wasn't he looking, through the haunted pane, for something he couldn't see ?-and wasn't it the first time in the whole business that he had known such a lapse ? the first, the very first : i found it a splendid portent. it made him anxious, though he watched himself; he had been anxious all day and, even while in his usual sweet little manner he sat at table, had needed all his small strange genius to give it a gloss. when he at last turned round to meet me it was almost as if this genius had succumbed. “well, i think i'm glad bly agrees with me !". “you would certainly seem to have seen, these twenty-four hours, a good deal more of it than for some time before. i hope," i went on bravely, “that you've been enjoying yourself.” “oh yes, i've been ever so far; all round about- miles and miles away. i've never been so free." he had really a manner of his own, and i could only try to keep up with him. “well, do you like it ? ” he stood there smiling; then at last he put into two words—"do you ? ”—more discrimination than i had the turn of the screw ever heard two words contain. before i had time to deal with that, however, he continued as if with the sense that this was an impertinence to be softened. “nothing could be more charming than the way you take it, for of course if we're alone together now it's you that are alone most. but i hope," he threw in, "you don't particularly mind !”. “having to do with you ?" i asked. “my dear child, how can i help minding? though i've renounced all claim to your company—you're so beyond me—i at least greatly enjoy it. what else should i stay on for?" he looked at me more directly, and the expres- sion of his face, graver now, struck me as the most beautiful i had ever found in it. “you stay on just for that ? " “certainly. i stay on as your friend and from the tremendous interest i take in you till something can be done for you that may be more worth your while. that needn't surprise you.” my voice trembled so that i felt it impossible to suppress the shake. “don't you remember how i told you, when i came and sat on your bed the night of the storm, that there was nothing in the world i wouldn't do for you ? " “yes, yes !” he, on his side, more and more visibly nervous, had a tone to master ; but he was so much more successful than i that, laughing out through his gravity, he could pretend we were pleasantly jesting. “only that, i think, was to get me to do something for you !" “ it was partly to get you to do something," i conceded. “but, you know, you didn't do it." the turn of the screw a perverse horror of what i was doing. to do it in any way was an act of violence, for what did it consist of but the obtrusion of the idea of grossness and guilt on a small helpless creature who had been for me a revelation of the possibilities of beautiful intercourse ? wasn't it base to create for a being so exquisite a mere alien awkwardness? i suppose i now read into our situation a clearness it couldn't have had at the time, for i seem to see our poor eyes already lighted with some spark of a prevision of the anguish that was to come. so we circled about, with terrors and scruples, like fighters not daring to close. but it was for each other we feared! that kept us a little longer suspended and unbruised. “i'll tell you everything,” miles said -“i mean i'll tell you anything you like. you'll stay on with me, and we shall both be all right and i will tell you, i will. but not now.”' “why not now ? " my insistence turned him from me and kept him once more at his window in a silence during which, between us, you might have heard a pin drop. then he was before me again with the air of a person for whom, outside, someone who had frankly to be reckoned with was waiting. “i have to see luke.”. i had not yet reduced him to quite so vulgar a lie, and i felt proportionately ashamed. but, horrible as it was, his lies made up my truth. i achieved thoughtfully a few loops of my knitting. “well then, go to luke, and i'll wait for what you promise. only, in return for that, satisfy, before you leave me, one very much smaller request.” he looked as if he felt he had succeeded enough to the turn of the screw be able still a little to bargain. “very much smaller- ?" “yes, a mere fraction of the whole. tell me”-oh, my work preoccupied me, and i was off-hand !—"if, yesterday afternoon, from the table in the hall, you took, you know, my letter.” xxiv my sense of how he received this suffered for a minute from something that i can describe only as a fierce split of my attention—a stroke that at first, as i sprang straight up, reduced me to the mere blind movement of getting hold of him, drawing him close and, while i just fell for support against the nearest piece of furni- ture, instinctively keeping him with his back to the window. the appearance was full upon us that i had already had to deal with here : peter quint had come into view like a sentinel before a prison. the next thing i saw was that, from outside, he had reached the window, and then i knew that, close to the glass and glaring in through it, he offered once more to the room his white face of damnation. it represents but grossly what took place within me at the sight to say that on the second my decision was made ; yet i believe that no woman so overwhelmed ever in so short a time recovered her grasp of the act. it came to me in the very horror of the immediate presence that the act would be, seeing and facing what i saw and faced, to keep the boy himself unaware. the inspiration-i can call it by no other name—was that i felt how voluntarily, how transcendently, i might. it was like the turn of the u screw screw fighting with a demon for a human soul, and when i had fairly so appraised it i saw how the human soul-held out, in the tremor of my hands, at arms' length-had a perfect dew of sweat on a lovely childish forehead. the face that was close to mine was as white as the face against the glass, and out of it pre- sently came a sound, not low nor weak, but as if from much further away, that i drank like a waft of fra- grance. “yes—i took it." at this, with a moan of joy, i enfolded, i drew him close; and while i held him to my breast, where i could feel in the sudden fever of his little body the tremendous pulse of his little heart, i kept my eyes on the thing at the window and saw it move and shift its posture. i have likened it to a sentinel, but its slow wheel, for a moment, was rather the prowl of a baffled beast. my present quickened courage, however, was such that, not too much to let it through, i had to shade, as it were, my flame. meanwhile the glare of the face was again at the window, the scoundrel fixed as if to watch and wait. it was the very confi- dence that i might now defy him, as well as the positive certitude, by this time, of the child's unconsciousness, that made me go on. “what did you take it for ?” “to see what you said about me." “you opened the letter ? ” “i opened it.” my eyes were now, as i held him off a little again, on miles's own face, in which the collapse of mockery showed me how complete was the ravage of uneasiness. what was prodigious was that at last, by my success, the turn of the screw his sense was sealed and his communication stopped : he knew that he was in presence, but knew not of what, and knew still less that i also was and that i did know. and what did this strain of trouble matter when my eyes went back to the window only to see that the air was clear again and-by my personal triumph—the influence quenched ? there was nothing there. i felt that the cause was mine and that i should surely get all. “and you found nothing !”—i let my elation out. he gave the most mournful, thoughtful little head- shake. “nothing." “nothing, nothing !" i almost shouted in my joy. “nothing, nothing," he sadly repeated. i kissed his forehead; it was drenched. “so what have you done with it ? ” “i've burnt it." “burnt it ?” it was now or never. “is that what you did at school ?” oh, what this brought up! “at school ?”. “ did you take letters ?—or other things ?” “other things ?” he appeared now to be thinking of something far off and that reached him only through the pressure of his anxiety. yet it did reach him. did i steal ?" i felt myself redden to the roots of my hair as well as wonder if it were more strange to put to a gentleman such a question or to see him take it with allowances that gave the very distance of his fall in the world. “was it for that you mightn't go back ? " the only thing he felt was rather a dreary little surprise. “did you know i mightn't go back ?” the turn of the screw “i know everything." he gave me at this the longest and strangest look. “everything ?” “everything. therefore did you—_?” but i couldn't say it again. miles could, very simply. “no. i didn't steal.” my face must have shown him i believed him utterly; yet my hands—but it was for pure tenderness-shook him as if to ask him why, if it was all for nothing, he had condemned me to months of torment. “what then did you do ? " he looked in vague pain all round the top of the room and drew his breath, two or three times over, as if with difficulty. he might have been standing at the bottom of the sea and raising his eyes to some faint green twilight. “well—i said things.” "only that ? ” “they thought it was enough!” “to turn you out for?” never, truly, had a person “turned out” shown so little to explain it as this little person! he appeared to weigh my question, but in a manner quite detached and almost helpless. “well, i suppose i oughtn't.” “but to whom did you say them ? " he evidently tried to remember, but it dropped-he had lost it. "i don't know !" he almost smiled at me in the desolation of his surrender, which was indeed practically, by this time, so complete that i ought to have left it there. but i was infatuated—i was blind with victory, though even then the very effect that was to have brought him so the turn of the screw much nearer was already that of added separation. ! was it to everyone?" i asked. “no; it was only to- " but he gave a sick little headshake. “i don't remember their names.” “were they then so many ?”. “no-only a few. those i liked.” those he liked? i seemed to float not into clearness, but into a darker obscure, and within a minute there had come to me out of my very pity the appalling alarm of his being perhaps innocent. it was for the instant confounding and bottomless, for if he were innocent, what then on earth was i? paralysed, while it lasted, by the mere brush of the question, i let him go a little, so that, with a deep-drawn sigh, he turned away from me again ; which, as he faced toward the clear window, i suffered, feeling that i had nothing now there to keep him from. “and did they repeat what you said ?" i went on after a moment. he was soon at some distance from me, still breathing hard and again with the air, though now without anger for it, of being confined against his will. once more, as he had done before, he looked up at the dim day as if, of what had hitherto sustained him, nothing was left but an unspeakable anxiety. “oh yes," he neverthe- less replied—“they must have repeated them. to those they liked," he added. there was, somehow, less of it than i had expected; but i turned it over. “and these things came round - ?” “to the masters ? oh yes !” he answered very simply. “but i didn't know they'd tell." the turn of the screw “the masters ? they didn't—they've never told. that's why i ask you." he turned to me again his little beautiful fevered face. “yes, it was too bad.” “too bad ?" “what i suppose i sometimes said. to write home." i can't name the exquisite pathos of the contradiction given to such a speech by such a speaker ; i only know that the next instant i heard myself throw off with homely force: “stuff and nonsense!” but the next after that i must have sounded stern enough. “what were these things ?”. my sternness was all for his judge, his executioner; yet it made him avert himself again, and that movement made me, with a single bound and an irrepressible cry, spring straight upon him. for there again, against the glass, as if to blight his confession and stay his answer, was the hideous author of our woe—the white face of damnation. i felt a sick swim at the drop of my victory and all the return of my battle, so that the wildness of my veritable leap only served as a great betrayal. i saw him, from the midst of my act, meet it with a divination, and on the perception that even now he only guessed, and that the window was still to his own eyes free, i let the impulse flame up to convert the climax of his dismay into the very proof of his liberation. “no more, no more, no more !” shrieked, as i tried to press him against me, to my visitant. “ is she here?” miles panted as he caught with his sealed eyes the direction of my words. then as his the turn of the screw strange “she” staggered me and, with a gasp, i echoed it, “miss jessel, miss jessel !” he with a sudden fury gave me back. i seized, stupefied, his supposition-some sequel to what we had done to flora, but this made me only want to show him that it was better still than that. “it's not miss jessel! but it's at the window-straight before us. it's there—the coward horror, there for the last time!” at this, after a second in which his head made the movement of a baffled dog's on a scent and then gave a frantic little shake for air and light, he was at me in a white rage, bewildered, glaring vainly over the place and missing wholly, though it now, to my sense, filled the room like the taste of poison, the wide, overwhelm- ing presence. “it's he ? " i was so determined to have all my proof that i flashed into ice to challenge him. “whom do you mean by 'he'?” “peter quint—you devil !” his face gave again, round the room, its convulsed supplication. “where ?" they are in my ears still, his supreme surrender of the name and his tribute to my devotion. “what does he matter now, my own ?—what will he ever matter ? i have you," i launched at the beast, “but he has lost you for ever!” then, for the demonstration of my work, “ there, there !” i said to miles. but he had already jerked straight round, stared, glared again, and seen but the quiet day. with the stroke of the loss i was so proud of he uttered the cry of a creature hurled over an abyss, and the grasp with which i recovered him might have been that of catching the turn of the screw him in his fall. i caught him, yes, i held him—it may be imagined with what a passion ; but at the end of a minute i began to feel what it truly was that i held. we were alone with the quiet day, and his little heart, dispossessed, had stopped. covering end covering end at the foot of the staircase he waited and listened, thinking he had heard her call to him from the gallery, high aloft but out of view, to which he had allowed her independent access and whence indeed, on her first going up, the sound of her appreciation had reached him in rapid movements, evident rushes and dashes, and in droll, charming cries that echoed through the place. he had afterwards, expectant and restless, been, for another look, to the house-door, and then had fidgetted back into the hall, where her voice again caught him. it was many a day since such a voice had sounded in those empty chambers, and never perhaps, in all the years, for poor chivers, had any voice at all launched a note so friendly and so free. “oh no, mum, there ain't no one whatever come yet. it's quite all right, mum—you can please yourself !” if he left her to range, all his pensive little economy seemed to say, wasn't it just his poor pickings ? he quitted the stairs, but stopped again, with his hand to his ear, as he heard her once more appeal to him. “lots of lovely ? lovely what, mum? little ups and covering end downs ?” he quavered aloft. “oh, as you say, mum : as many as in a poor man's life!” she was clearly disposed, as she roamed in delight from point to point, to continue to talk, and, with his better ear and his scooped hand, he continued to listen hard. “dear little crooked steps'? yes, mum; please mind 'em, mum: they be cruel in the dark corners !” she appeared to take another of her light scampers, the sign of a fresh discovery and a fresh response ; at which he felt his heart warm with the success of a trust of her that might after all have been rash. once more her voice reached him and once more he gossiped back. “coming up too ? not if you'll kindly indulge, me, mum-i must be where i can watch the bell. it takes watching as well as hearing !”—he dropped, as he resumed his round, to a murmur of great patience. this was taken up the next moment by the husky plaint of the signal itself, which seemed to confess equally to short wind and creaking joints. it moved, however, distinguishably, and its motion made him start much more as if he had been guilty of sleeping at his post than as if he had waited half the day. “mercy, if i didn't watch— !" he shuffled across the wide stone-paved hall and, losing himself beneath the great arch of the short passage to the entrance-front, hastened to admit his new visitor. he gives us thereby the use of his momentary absence for a look at the place he has left. this is the central hall, high and square, brown and grey, flagged beneath and timbered above, of an old english country-house ; an apartment in which a single survey is a perception of long and lucky continuities. covering end it would have been difficult to find elsewhere anything at once so old and so actual, anything that had plainly come so far, far down without, at any moment of the endless journey, losing its way. to stand there and look round was to wonder a good deal—yet without arriving at an answer—whether it had been most neglected or most cherished; there was such resigna- tion in its long survival and yet such bravery in its high polish. if it had never been spoiled, this was partly, no doubt, because it had been, for a century, given up; but what it had been given up to was, after all, homely and familiar use. it had in it at the present moment indeed much of the chill of fallen fortunes; but there was no concession in its humility and no hypocrisy in its welcome. it was magnificent and shabby, and the eyes of the dozen dark old portraits seemed, in their eternal attention, to count the cracks in the pave- ment, the rents in the seats of the chairs and the missing tones in the flemish tapestry. above the tapestry, which, in its turn, was above the high oak wainscot, most of these stiff images on the side on which it principally reigned—were placed ; and they held up their heads to assure all comers that a tone or two was all that was missing, and that they had never waked up in winter dawns to any glimmer of bereavement, in the long night, of any relic or any feature. such as it was, the company was all there; every inch of old oak, every yard of old arras, every object of ornament or of use to which these surfaces formed so rare a background. if the watchers on the walls had ever found a gap in their own rank the ancient roof, of a certainty, would have been shaken by their collective gasp. as a matter of covering end fact it was rich and firm-it had almost the dignity of the vault of a church. on this saturday afternoon in august, a hot, still day, such of the casements as freely worked in the discoloured glass of the windows stood open in one quarter to a terrace that overlooked a park and in another to a wonderful old empty court that communicated with a wonderful old empty garden. the staircase, wide and straight, mounted, full in sight, to a landing that was halfway up; and on the right, as you faced this staircase, a door opened out of the brown panelling into a glimpse of a little morning-room where, in a slanted, gilded light, there was brownness too, mixed with notes of old yellow. on the left, toward court and garden, another door stood open to the warm air. still as you faced the staircase you had at your right, between that monument and the morning-room, the arch through which chivers had disappeared. his reappearance interrupts and yet in a manner, after all, quickens our intense impression ; chivers on the spot, and in this severe but spacious setting, was so perfect an image of immemorial domesticity. it would have been impossible perhaps, however, either to tell his age or to name his use : he was of the age of all the history that lurked in all the corners and of any use whatever you might be so good as still to find for him. considerably shrunken and completely silvered, he had perpetual agreement in the droop of his kind white head and perpetual inquiry in the jerk of the idle old hands now almost covered by the sleeves of the black dress-coat which, twenty years before, must have been by a century or two the newest thing in the house and into which his years appeared to have declined covering end very much as a shrunken family moves into a part of its habitation. this attire was completed by a white necktie that, in honour of the day, he himself had this morning done up. the humility he betrayed and the oddity he concealed were alike brought out by his juxtaposition with the gentleman he had admitted. to admit mr. prodmore was anywhere and at any time, as you would immediately have recognised, an immense admission. he was a personage of great presence and weight, with a large smooth face in which a small sharp meaning was planted like a single pin in the tight red toilet-cushion of a guest-chamber. he wore a blue frock-coat and a stiff white waistcoat and a high white hat that he kept on his head with a kind of protesting cock, while in his buttonhole nestled a bold prize plant on which he occasionally lowered a pro- prietary eye that seemed to remind it of its being born to a public career. mr. prodmore's appearance had evidently been thought out, but it might have struck you that the old portraits took it in with a sterner stare, with a fixedness indeed in which a visitor more sensitive would have read a consciousness of his remaining, in their presence, so jauntily, so vulgarly covered. he had never a glance for them, and it would have been easy after a minute to see that this was an old story between them. their manner, as it were, sensibly increased the coolness. this coolness became a high rigour as mr. prodmore encountered, from the very threshold, a disappointment. “no one here?” he indignantly demanded. “i'm sorry to say no one has come, sir,” chivers replied; “but i've had a telegram from captain yule.” covering end mr. prodmore's apprehension flared out. “not to say he ain't coming ?”. “he was to take the . from paddington : he certainly should be here !” the old man spoke as if his non-arrival were the most unaccountable thing in the world, especially for a poor person ever respectful of the mystery of causes. “he should have been here this hour or more. and so should my fly-away daughter!” chivers surrounded this description of miss prodmore with the deep discretion of silence, and then, after a moment, evidently reflected that silence, in a world bestrewn with traps to irreverence, might be as rash as speech. “were they coming—a—together, sir ? " he had scarcely mended the matter, for his visitor gave an inconsequent stare. “together ?--for what do you take miss prodmore ?” this young lady's parent glared about him again as if to alight on something else that was out of place; but the good intentions expressed in the attitude of every object might presently have been presumed to soothe his irritation. it had at any rate the effect of bridging, for poor chivers, some of his gaps. “it is in a sense true that their coming together,' as you call it, is exactly what i've made my plans for to-day: my calculation was that we should all punctually converge on this spot. attended by her trusty maid, miss prodmore, who happens to be on a week's visit to her grandmother at bellborough, was to take the . from that place. i was to drive over- ten miles—from the most convenient of my seats. captain yule"—the speaker wound up his statement as with the mention of the last touch in a masterpiece covering end of his own sketching—“was finally to shake off for a few hours the peculiar occupations that engage him.” the old man listened with his head askance to favour his good ear, but his visible attention all on a sad spot in one of the half-dozen worn rugs. “they must be peculiar, sir, when a gentleman comes into a property like this and goes three months without so much as a nat'ral curiosity—-! i don't speak of anything but what is nat'ral, sir; but there have been people here-_" “there have repeatedly been people here !” mr. prodmore complacently interrupted. “as you say, sir—to be shown over. with the master himself never shown!” chivers dismally com- . mented. “he shall be, so that nobody can miss him!” mr. prodmore, for his own reassurance as well, hastened to retort. his companion risked a tiny explanation. “it will be a mercy indeed to look on him; but i meant that he has not been taken round." “that's what i meant too. i'll take him-round and round: it's exactly what i've come for!” mr. prodmore rang out; and his eyes made the lower circuit again, looking as pleased as such a pair of eyes could look with nobody as yet quite good enough either to terrify or to tickle. “he can't fail to be affected, though he has been up to his neck in such a different class of thing." chivers clearly wondered a while what class of thing it could be. then he expressed a timid hope. “in nothing, i dare say, but what's right, sir— ?". covering end “in everything," mr. prodmore distinctly informed him, “that's wrong! but here he is !” that gentleman added with elation as the doorbell again sounded. chivers, under the double agitation of the appeal and the disclosure, proceeded to the front as fast as circum- stances allowed; while mr. prodmore, left alone, would have been observed-had not his solitude been so bleak —to recover a degree of cheerfulness. cheerfulness in solitude at covering end was certainly not irresistible, but particular feelings and reasons had pitched, for their campaign, the starched, if now somewhat ruffled, tent of his large white waistcoat. if they had issued audibly from that pavilion they would have represented to us his consciousness of the reinforcement he might bring up for attack should captain yule really resist the house. the sound he next heard from the front caused him none the less, for that matter, to articulate a certain drop. “only cora?-well,” he added in a tone somewhat at variance with his “only," "he sha'n't, at any rate, resist her!" this announcement would have quick- ened a spectator's interest in the young lady whom chivers now introduced and followed, a young lady who straightway found herself the subject of tra- ditionary discipline. “i've waited. what do you mean ?" cora prodmore, who had a great deal of colour in her cheeks and a great deal more-a bold variety of kinds-in the extremely high pitch of her new, smart clothes, meant, on the whole, it was easy to see, very little, and met this challenge with still less show of support either from the sources i have mentioned or from any others. a dull, fresh, honest, overdressed me covering end damsel of two-and-twenty, she was too much out of breath, too much flurried and frightened, to do more than stammer: “waited, papa ? oh, i'm sorry!” her regret appeared to strike her father still more as an impertinence than as a vanity. “would you then, if i had not had patience for you, have wished not to find me? why the dickens are you so late ? " agitated, embarrassed, the girl was at a loss. “i'll tell you, papa!” but she followed up her pledge with an air of vacuity and then, dropping into the nearest seat, simply closed her eyes to her danger. if she desired relief she had caught at the one way to get it. “i feel rather faint. could i have some tea ?” mr. prodmore considered both the idea and his daughter's substantial form. “well, as i shall expect you to put forth all your powers-yes !” he turned to chivers. “some tea." the old man's eyes had attached themselves to miss prodmore's symptoms with more solicitude than those of her parent. “i did think it might be required !” then as he gained the door of the morning-room : “i'll lay it out here." the young lady, on his withdrawal, recovered herself sufficiently to rise again. " it was my train, papa—so very awfully behind. i walked up, you know, also, from the station—there's such a lovely footpath across the park.” “you've been roaming the country then alone ?" mr. prodmore inquired. the girl protested with instant eagerness against any such picture. “oh, dear no, not alone !" she spoke, absurdly, as if she had had a train of attendants ; covering end but it was an instant before she could complete the assurance. “there were ever so many people about.” “nothing is more possible than that there should be too many !” said her father, speaking as for his personal convenience, but presenting that as enough. “but where, among them all,” he demanded, “is your trusty maid ?” cora's reply made up in promptitude what it lacked in felicity. “i didn't bring her.” she looked at the old portraits as if to appeal to them to help her to re- member why. apparently indeed they gave a sign, for she presently went on: “she was so extremely unwell." mr. prodmore met this with reprobation. “wasn't she to understand from the first that we don't permit- " “anything of that sort ?"-the girl recalled it at least as a familiar law. “oh yes, papa-i thought she did.” “but she doesn't ?”—mr. prodmore pressed the point. poor cora, at a loss again, appeared to wonder if the point had better be a failure of brain or of pro- priety, but her companion continued to press. “what on earth's the matter with her ?”. she again communed with their silent witnesses. “i really don't quite know, but i think that at granny's she eats too much.” “i'll soon put an end to that !” mr. prodmore re- turned with decision. “you expect then to pursue your adventures quite into the night—to return to bell- borough as you came ?” the girl had by this time begun a little to find her covering end particular day perhaps wouldn't, she said it would just have to.” “have to do ?” mr. prodmore showed again, through a chink, his speculative eye. “for what then, with such grand airs ?” “why, i suppose, for what americans want.” he measured the quantity. “they want everything." “then i wonder," said cora, “that she hasn't arrived." “when she does arrive,” he answered, “i'll tackle her; and i shall thank you, in future, not to take up, in trains, with indelicate women of whom you know nothing." “oh, i did know something," his daughter pleaded ; “ for i saw her yesterday at bellborough." mr. prodmore contested even this freedom. “and what was she doing at bellborough ?”. "staying at the blue dragon, to see the old abbey. she says she just loves old abbeys. it seems to be the same feeling," the girl went on, “that brought her over, to-day, to see this old house.". "she just loves' old houses? then why the deuce didn't she accompany you properly, since she is so pushing, to the door ? " “because she went off in a fly,” cora explained, “to see, first, the old hospital. she just loves old hospitals. she asked me if this isn't a show-house. i told her"- the girl was anxious to disclaim responsibility—“that i hadn't the least idea.” “it is !' mr. prodmore cried almost with ferocity. “i wonder, on such a speech, what she thought of you !" covering end miss prodmore meditated with distinct humbleness. “i know. she told me.” he had looked her up and down. “that you're really a hopeless frump?". cira, oddly enough, seemed almost to court this description. “that i'm not, as she rather funnily called it, a show-girl.” “think of your having to be reminded-by the very strangers you pick up,” mr. prodmore groaned, "of what my daughter should pre-eminently be! your friend, all the same," he bethought himself, “is evidently loud." “well, when she comes," the girl again so far agreed as to reply, “you'll certainly hear her. but don't judge her, papa, till you do. she's tremendously clever," she risked—“there seems to be nothing she doesn't know.” “and there seems to be nothing you do! you're not tremendously clever,” mr. prodmore pursued ; " so you'll permit me to demand of you a slight effort of intelligence." then, as for the benefit of the listening walls themselves, he struck the high note. “ i'm ex- pecting captain yule." cora's consciousness blinked. “the owner of this property ?" her father's tone showed his reserves. “that's what it depends on you to make him ! ” “on me ?” the girl gasped. “he came into it three months ago by the death of his great-uncle, who had lived to ninety-three, but who, having quarrelled mortally with his father, had always refused to receive either sire or son.” our young lady bent her eyes on this page of family covering end history, then raised them but dimly lighted. “but now, at least, doesn't he live here?”. “so little,” her companion replied, " that he comes here to-day for the very first time. i've some business to discuss with him that can best be discussed on this spot; and it's a vital part of that business that you too should take pains to make him welcome.” miss prodmore failed to ignite. “in his own house ?” “that it's not his own house is just the point i seek to make! the way i look at it is that it's my house. the way i look at it even, my dear"-in his demonstration of his ways of looking mr. prodmore literally expanded—"is that it's our house. the whole thing is mortgaged, as it stands, for every penny of its value; and i'm in the pleasant position—do you follow me ?” he trumpeted. cora jumped. “of holding the mortgages ? " he caught her with a smile of approval and indeed of surprise. “you keep up with me better than i hoped. i hold every scrap of paper, and it's a precious collection.” she smothered, perceptibly, a vague female sigh, glancing over the place more attentively than she had yet done. “do you mean that you can come down on him ? " "i don't need to 'come,' my dear-i am 'down.' this is down!”—and the iron point of mr. prodmore's stick fairly struck, as he rapped it, a spark from the cold pavement. “i came many weeks ago-commer- cially speaking—and haven't since budged from the place.” covering end the girl moved a little about the hall, then turned with a spasm of courage. “are you going to be very hard ?" if she read the eyes with which he met her she found in them, in spite of a certain accompanying show of pleasantry, her answer. “hard with you ?” “no—that doesn't matter. hard with the captain." mr. prodmore thought an instant. "hard' is a stupid, shuffling term. what do you mean by it ?" "well, i don't understand business,” cora said; “but i think i understand you, papa, enough to gather that you've got, as usual, a striking advantage.” "as usual, i have scored; but my advantage won't be striking perhaps till i have sent the blow home. what i appeal to you, as a father, at present to do”— he continued broadly to demonstrate—“is to nerve my arm. i look to you to see me through.” “through what, then ?" “through this most important transaction. through the speculation of which you've been the barely-dis- simulated subject. i've brought you here to receive an impression, and i've brought you, even more, to make one." the girl turned honestly flat. “but on whom ?" “on me, to begin with—by not being a fool. and then, miss, on him.” erect, but as if paralysed, she had the air of facing the worst. “on captain yule ?" “by bringing him to the point.” “but, father," she asked in evident anguish—"to what point ?” “the point where a gentleman has to." covering end “out of the mud, if you prefer. you must pick it up, do you see? my plan is, in short,” mr. prodmore pursued, “that when we've brushed it off and rubbed it down a bit, blown away the dust and touched up the rust, my daughter shall gracefully bear it." she could only oppose, now, a stiff, thick trans- parency that yielded a view of the course in her own veins, after all, however, mingled with a feebler fluid, of the passionate blood of the prodmores. “and pray is it also captain yule's plan ?” her father's face warned her off the ground of irony, but he replied without violence. “his plans have not yet quite matured. but nothing is more natural,” he added with an ominous smile, “than that they shall do so on the sunny south wall of miss prodmore's best manner." miss prodmore's spirit was visibly rising, and a note that might have meant warning for warning sounded in the laugh produced by this sally. “you speak of them, papa, as if they were sour little plums! you exaggerate, i think, the warmth of miss prodmore's nature. it has always been thought remarkably cold." “then you'll be so good, my dear, as to confound- it mightn't be amiss even a little to scandalize—that opinion. i've spent twenty years in giving you what your poor mother used to call advantages, and they've cost me hundreds and hundreds of pounds. it's now time that, both as a parent and as a man of business, i should get my money back. i couldn't help your temper," mr. prodmore conceded, “nor your taste, nor even your unfortunate resemblance to the estimable, but far from ornamental woman who brought you covering end forth; but i paid out a small fortune that you should have, damn you, don't you know ? a good manner. you never show it to me, certainly; but do you mean to tell me that, at this time of day—for other persons- you haven't got one ?” this pulled our young lady perceptibly up; there was a directness in the argument that was like the ache of old pinches. “if you mean by 'other persons' persons who are particularly civil-well, captain yule may not see his way to be one of them. he may not think- don't you see ?—that i've a good manner.” “do your duty, miss, and never mind what he thinks!” her father's conception of her duty momen- tarily sharpened. “don't look at him like a sick turkey, and he'll be sure to think right.” the colour that sprang into cora's face at this rude comparison was such, unfortunately, as perhaps a little to justify it. yet she retained, in spite of her emotion, some remnant of presence of mind. “i remember your saying once, some time ago, that that was just what he would be sure not to do: i mean when he began to go in for his dreadful ideas " mr. prodmore took her boldly up. “about the 'radical programme,' the 'social revolution,' the spolia- tion of everyone and the destruction of everything ? why, you stupid thing, i've worked round to a com- plete agreement with him. the taking from those who have by those who haven't- " “well ?” said the girl, with some impatience, as he sought the right way of expressing his notion. “what is it but to receive, from consenting hands, the principal treasure of the rich ? if i'm rich my covering end daughter is my largest property, and i freely make her over. i shall, in other words, forgive my young friend his low opinions if he renounces them for you.” cora, at this, started as with a glimpse of delight. “he won't renounce them! he sha'n't !” her father appeared still to enjoy the ingenious way he had put it, so that he had good humour to spare. “if you suggest that you're in political sympathy with him, you mean then that you'll take him as he is ? " “i won't take him at all!” she protested with her head very high; but she had no sooner uttered the words than the sound of the approach of wheels caused her dignity to drop. “a fly ?-it must be he !” she turned right and left, for a retreat or an escape, but her father had already caught her by the wrist. “surely," she pitifully panted, “you don't want me to bounce on him thus ? " mr. prodmore, as he held her, estimated the effect. “ your frock won't do—with what it cost me ? " “it's not my frock, papa-it's his thinking i've come here for him to see me!" he let her go and, as she moved away, had another look for the social value of the view of her stout back. it appeared to determine him, for, with a touch of mercy, he passed his word. “he doesn't think it, and he sha'n't know it.” the girl had made for the door of the morning-room, before reaching which she flirted breathlessly round. “but he knows you want me to hook him!” mr. prodmore was already in the parliamentary attitude the occasion had suggested to him for the reception of his visitor. “the way to ‘hook' him will covering end be not to be hopelessly vulgar. he doesn't know that you know anything." the house-bell clinked, and he waved his companion away. “await us there with tea, and mind you toe the mark !". chivers, at this moment, summoned by the bell, re- appeared in the morning-room doorway, and cora's dismay brushed him as he sidled past her and off into the passage to the front. then, from the threshold of her refuge, she launched a last appeal. “don't kill me, father: give me time!” with which she dashed into the room, closing the door with a bang. mr. prodmore, in chivers's absence, remained staring as if at a sudden image of something rather fine. his child had left with him the sense of a quick irradiation, and he failed to see why, at the worst, such lightnings as she was thus able to dart shouldn't strike somewhere. if he had spoken to her of her best manner perhaps that was her best manner. he heard steps and voices, however, and immediately invited to his aid his own, which was simply magnificent. chivers, returning, announced solemnly “captain yule !” and ushered in a tall young man in a darkish tweed suit and a red necktie, attached in a sailor's knot, who, as he entered, removed a soft brown hat. mr. prodmore, at this, immediately saluted him by uncovering. “delighted at last to see you here!”. it was the young man who first, in his comparative simplicity, put out a hand. “if i've not come before, mr. prodmore, it was-very frankly speaking—from the dread of seeing you ! ” his speech contradicted, to some extent, his gesture, but clement yule's was an aspect in which contradictions were rather remarkably at home. erect and slender, but as strong as he was straight, he was set up, as the phrase is, like a soldier, · n covering end and yet finished, in certain details—matters of expres- sion and suggestion only indeed—like a man in whom sensibility had been recklessly cultivated. he was hard and fine, just as he was sharp and gentle, just as he was frank and shy, just as he was serious and young, just as he looked, though you could never have imitated it, distinctly “kept up" and yet considerably reduced. his features were thoroughly regular, but his complete shaving might have been designed to show that they were, after all, not absurd. the face mr. prodmore offered him fairly glowed, on this new showing, with instant pride of possession, and there was that in captain yule's whole air which justified such a senti- ment without consciously rewarding it. “ah, surely," said the elder man, “my presence is not without a motive !" “it's just the motive," captain yule returned, “that makes me wince at it! certainly i've no illusions," he added, “about the ground of our meeting. your thorough knowledge of what you're about has placed me at your mercy—you hold me in the hollow of your hand.” it was vivid in every inch that mr. prodmore's was a nature to expand in the warmth, or even in the chill, of any tribute to his financial subtlety. “well, i won't, on my side, deny that when, in general, i go in deep i don't go in for nothing. i make it pay double !” he smiled. “you make it pay so well—'double' surely doesn't do you justice !-that, if i've understood you, you can do quite as you like with this preposterous place. haven't you brought me down exactly that i may see you do it ?" covering end “i've certainly brought you down that you may open your eyes !” this, apparently, however, was not what mr. prodmore himself had arrived to do with his own. these fine points of expression literally contracted with intensity. “of course, you know, you can always clear the property. you can pay off the mortgages." captain yule, by this time, had, as he had not done at first, looked up and down, round about and well over the scene, taking in, though at a mere glance, it might have seemed, more particularly, the row, high up, of strenuous ancestors. but mr. prodmore's last words rang none the less on his ear, and he met them with mild amusement. “pay off- ? what can i pay off with ? " “you can always raise money." “what can i raise it on ? " mr. prodmore looked massively gay. “on your great political future.” “oh, i've not taken—for the short run at least—the lucrative line,” the young man said, “and i know what you think of that." mr. prodmore's blandness confessed, by its instant increase, to this impeachment. there was always the glory of intimacy in yule's knowing what he thought. “i hold that you keep, in public, very dangerous company; but i also hold that you're extravagant mainly because you've nothing at stake. a man has the right opinions,” he developed with pleasant confi- dence, “as soon as he has something to lose by having the wrong. haven't i already hinted to you how to set your political house in order ? you drop into the lower regions because you keep the best rooms empty. you're covering end a firebrand, in other words my dear captain, simply because you're a bachelor. that's one of the early complaints we all pass through, but it's soon over, and the treatment for it quite simple. i have your remedy." the young man's eyes, wandering again about the house, might have been those of an auditor of the fiddling before the rise of the curtain. “a remedy worse than the disease ?" “there's nothing worse, that i've ever heard of," mr. prodmore sharply replied, “than your particular fix. least of all a heap of gold " "a heap of gold ?" his visitor idly settled, as if the curtain were going up. mr. prodmore raised it bravely. “in the lap of a fine fresh lass! give pledges to fortune, as somebody says—then we'll talk. you want money_that's what you want. well, marry it !" clement yule, for a little, never stirred, save that his eyes yet again strayed vaguely. at last they stopped with a smile. “of course i could do that in a moment !" : “it's even just my own danger from you," his companion returned. “i perfectly recognise that any woman would now jump " “i don't like jumping women," captain yule threw in; “but that perhaps is a detail. it's more to the point that i've yet to see the woman whom, by an advance of my own— " “you d care to keep in the really attractive posi- tion ?" "which can never, of course, be anything"_yule covering end took his friend up again “but that of waiting quietly." “never, never anything !” mr. prodmore, most assentingly, banished all other thought. “but i haven't asked you, you know, to make an advance." “you've only asked me to receive one ?”. mr. prodmore waited a little. “well, i've asked you—i asked you a month ago—to think it all over." “i have thought it all over,” clement yule said; "and the strange sequel seems to be that my eyes have got accustomed to my darkness. i seem to make out, in the gloom of my meditations, that, at the worst, i can let the whole thing slide." “the property ? "_mr. prodmore jerked back as if it were about to start. “isn't it the property," his visitor inquired, “that positively throws me up? if i can afford neither to live on it nor to disencumber it, i can at least let it save its own bacon and pay its own debts. i can say to you simply: 'take it, my dear sir, and the devil take you'!" mr. prodmore gave a quick, strained smile. “you wouldn't be so shockingly rude!”. “why not—if i'm a firebrand and a keeper of low company and a general nuisance ? sacrifice for sacri- fice, that might very well be the least !” this was put with such emphasis that mr. prodmore was for a moment arrested. he could stop very short, however, and yet talk as still going. “how do you know, if you haven't compared them ? it's just to make the comparison—in all the proper circumstances -that you're here at this hour.” he took, with a covering end large, though vague, exhibitory gesture, a few turns about. “now that you stretch yourself—for an hour's relaxation and rocked, as it were, by my friendly hand —in the ancient cradle of your race, can you seriously entertain the idea of parting with such a venerable family relic ?” it was evident that, as he decorously embraced the scene, the young man, in spite of this dissuasive tone, was entertaining ideas. it might have appeared at the moment to a spectator in whom fancy was at all alert that the place, becoming in a manner conscious of the question, felt itself on its honour, and that its honour could make no compromise. it met clement yule with no grimace of invitation, with no attenuation of its rich old sadness. it was as if the two hard spirits, the grim genius loci and the quick modern conscience, stood an instant confronted. “the cradle of my race bears, for me, mr. prodmore, a striking resemblance to its tomb." the sigh that dropped from him, however, was not quite void of tenderness. it might, for that matter, have been a long, sad creak, portending col- lapse, of some immemorial support of the yules. "heavens, how melancholy—-!”. mr. prodmore, somewhat ambiguously, took up the sound. "melancholy ?”—he just balanced. that well might be, even a little should be—yet agreement might depreciate. "musty, mouldy;" then with a poke of his stick at a gap in the stuff with which an old chair was covered, “mangy!" captain yule responded. “is this the character throughout ? ”. mr. prodmore fixed a minute the tell-tale tatter. covering end “you must judge for yourself—you must go over the house.” he hesitated again; then his indecision vanished—the right line was clear. “it does look a bit run down, but i'll tell you what i'll do. i'll do it up for you—neatly: i'll throw that in !” his young friend turned on him an eye that, though markedly enlivened by his offer, was somehow only the more inscrutable. “will you put in the electric light ?” mr. prodmore's own twinkle - at this touch of a spring he had not expected to work—was, on the other hand, temporarily veiled. “well, if you'll meet me half way! we're dealing here”—he backed up his gravity—“with fancy-values. don't you feel,” he appealed, “as you take it all in, a kind of a something- or-other down your back ?” clement yule gazed a while at one of the pompous quarterings in the faded old glass that, in tones as of late autumn, crowned with armorial figures the top of the great hall-window; then with abruptness he turned away. “perhaps i don't take it all in; but what i do feel is—since you mention it—a sort of stiffening of the spine! the whole thing is too queer-too cold- too cruel.” “cruel ? ”—mr. prodmore's demur was virtuous. “like the face of some stuck-up distant relation who won't speak first. i see in the stare of the old dragon, i taste in his very breath, all the helpless mortality he has tucked away!" "lord, sir—you have fancies !” mr. prodmore was almost scandalised. but the young man's fancies only multiplied as he covering end moved, not at all critical, but altogether nervous, from object to object. “i don't know what's the matter- but there is more here than meets the eye.” he tried as for his amusement or his relief to figure it out. “i miss the old presences. i feel the old absences. i hear the old voices. i see the old ghosts." this last was a profession that offered some common ground. “the old ghosts, captain yule," his com- panion promptly replied, "are worth so much a dozen, and with no reduction, i must remind you—with the price indeed rather raised—for the quantity taken !” feeling then apparently that he had cleared the air a little by this sally, mr. prodmore proceeded to pat his interlocutor on a back that he by no means wished to cause to be put to the wall. “look about you, at any rate, a little more.” he crossed with his toes well out the line that divides encouragement from patronage. “do make yourself at home.” " thank you very much, mr. prodmore. may i light a cigarette ? " his visitor asked. “in your own house, captain ?" “that's just the question: it seems so much less my own house than before i had come into it!” the captain offered mr. prodmore a cigarette which that gentleman, also taking a light from him, accepted; then he lit his own and began to smoke. “as i understand you," he went on, "you lump your two conditions ? i mean i must accept both or neither ? " mr. prodmore threw back his shoulders with a high recognition of the long stride represented by this ques- tion. “you will accept both, for, by doing so, you'll clear the property at a stroke. the way i put it is covering end see ?—that if you'll stand for gossage you'll get returned for gossage.” "and if i get returned for gossage i shall marry your daughter. accordingly," the young man pursued, “if i marry your daughter-- “i'll burn up, before your eyes," said this young lady's proprietor, “every scratch of your pen. it will be a bonfire of signatures. there won't be a penny to pay—there'll only be a position to take. you'll take it with peculiar grace.” “peculiar, mr. prodmore—very!”. the young man had assented more than he desired, but he was not deterred by it from completing the picture. “you'll settle down here in comfort and honour.” clement yule took several steps; the effect of his host was the reverse of soothing; yet the latter watched his irritation as if it were the working of a charm. “are you very sure of the 'honour' if i turn my political coat ?” “you'll only be turning it back again to the way it was always worn. gossage will receive you with open arms and press you to a heaving tory bosom. that bosom ”—mr. prodmore followed himself up—"has never heaved but to sound conservative principles. the cradle, as i've called it—or at least the rich, warm coverlet—of your race, gossage was the political pro- perty, so to speak, of generations of your family. stand therefore in the good old interest and you'll stand like a lion.” “i'm afraid you mean," captain yule laughed, “that i must first roar like one." covering end “oh, i'll do the roaring !”-and mr. prodmore shook his mane. “leave that to me.” "then why the deuce don't you stand yourself ?” mr. prodmore knew so familiarly why! “because i'm not a remarkably handsome young man with the grand old home and the right old name. because i'm a different sort of matter altogether. but if i haven't these advantages," he went on, “you'll do justice to my natural desire that my daughter at least shall have them.” clement yule watched himself smoke a minute. “doing justice to natural desires is just what, of late, i've tried to make a study of. but i confess i don't quite grasp the deep attraction you appear to discover in so large a surrender of your interests." “my surrenders are my own affair,” mr. prodmore rang out, “and as for my interests, as i never, on principle, give anything for nothing, i dare say i may be trusted to know them when i see them. you come high–i don't for a moment deny it; but when i look at you, in this pleasant, intimate way, my dear boy- if you'll allow me so to describe things—i recognise one of those cases, unmistakeable when really met, in which one must put down one's money. there's not an article in the whole shop, if you don't mind the comparison, that strikes me as better value. i intend you shall be, captain," mr. prodmore wound up in a frank, bold burst, "the true comfort of my life !" the young man was as hushed for a little as if an organ-tone were still in the air. “may i inquire," he at last returned, "if miss prodmore's ideas of comfort are as well defined—and in her case, i may add, as covering end touchingly modest—as her father's ? is she a respon- sible party of this ingenious arrangement ?”. mr. prodmore rendered homage—his appreciation was marked—to the elevated character of his young friend's scruple. “miss prodmore, captain yule, may be perhaps best described as a large smooth sheet of blank, though gilt-edged, paper. no image of any tie but the true and perfect filial has yet, i can answer for it, formed itself on the considerable expanse. but for that image to be projected— ”. “i've only, in person, to appear ? " yule asked with an embarrassment that he tried to laugh off. “and, naturally, in person,” mr. prodmore intelli- gently assented, “do yourself, as well as the young lady, justice. do you remember what you said when i first, in london, laid the matter before you ?” clement yule did remember, but his amusement increased. “i think i said it struck me i should first take a look at—what do you call it ?—the corpus delicti.” “you should first see for yourself what you had really come into ? i was not only eager for that,” said mr. prodmore, “but i'm willing to go further: i'm quite ready to hear you say that you think you should also first see the young lady." captain yule continued to laugh. “there is some- thing in that then, since you mention it!" “i think you'll find that there's everything." mr. prodmore again looked at his watch. “which will you take first ?" “first ?" “the young lady or the house ?" covering end this offer, visibly touched. “i think it does, old boy." chivers kept his eyes on him now. “i've served your house, sir." “ how long ?" “all my life.” so, for a time, they faced each other, and something in chivers made yule at last speak. “then i won't give you up!” “indeed, sir, i hope you won't give up any- thing." the captain took up his hat. “it remains to be seen.” he looked over the place again; his eyes wandered to the open door. “is that the garden ?” "it was !”—and the old man's sigh was like the creak of the wheel of time. “shall i show you how it used to be ?” “it's just as it is, alas, that i happen to require it!” captain yule reached the door and stood looking beyond. “don't come,” he then said; “i want to think.” with which he walked out. chivers, left alone, appeared to wonder at it, and his wonder, like that of most old people, lay near his lips. “what does he want, poor dear, to think about ?” this speculation, however, was immediately checked by a high, clear voice that preceded the appearance on the stairs, before she had reached the middlemost landing, of the wonderful figure of a lady, a lady who, with the almost trumpeted cheer of her peremptory but friendly call—“housekeeper, butler, old family ser- vant!”—fairly waked the sleeping echoes. chivers gazed up at her in quick remembrance, half dismayed, iii she was indeed an apparition, a presence requiring announcement and explanation just in the degree in which it seemed to show itself in a relation quite of its own to all social preliminaries. it evidently either assumed them to be already over or wished to forestall them altogether; what was clear at any rate was that it allowed them scant existence. she was young, tall, radiant, lovely, and dressed in a manner determined at once, obviously, by the fact and by the humour of her journey—it might have proclaimed her so a pilgrim or so set her up as a priestess. most journeys, for this lady, at all events, were clearly a brush of paris. “ did you think i had got snapped down in an old box like that poor girl—what's her name ? the one who was poking round too_in the celebrated poem ? you dear, delightful man, why didn't you tell me ?" “tell you, mum—_?" “well, that you're so perfectly-perfect! you're ever so much better than anyone has ever said. why, in the name of common sense, has nobody ever said anything? you're everything in the world you ought to be, and not the shade of a shade of anything you oughtn't !" covering end it was a higher character to be turned out with than poor chivers had ever dreamed. “well, mum, i try!”. he gaped. "oh no, you don't—that's just your charm! i try,” cried his friend, “but you do nothing: here you simply are—you can't help it ! ” he stood overwhelmed. “me, mum ?” she took him in at the eyes—she could take every- thing at once. “yes, you too, you positive old picture! i've seen the old masters—but you're the old master!” "the master-i?” he fairly fell back: " the good and faithful servant '- rembrandt van rhyn: with three stars. that's what you are!” nothing would have been more droll to a spectator than her manner of meeting his humbleness, or more charming indeed than the practical sweetness of her want of imagination of it. “the house is a vision of beauty, and you're simply worthy of the house. i can't say more for you !” “i find it a bit of a strain, mum,” chivers candidly replied, “to keep up-fairly to call it—with what you do say." “that's just what everyone finds it !”—she broke into the happiest laugh. “yet i haven't come here to suffer in silence, you know—to suffer, i mean, from envy and despair.” she was in constant movement, from side to side, observing, comparing, returning, taking notes while she gossiped and gossiping, too, for remembrance. the intention of remembrance even had in it, however, some prevision of failure or some alloy of irritation. “you're so fatally right and so deadly complete, all the same, that i can really scarcely bear covering end over here, is somebody's else, and i want, too, a first- rate second-hand one, all ready made, as you are, but not too much done up. you're the best i've seen yet, and i wish i could have you packed-put up in paper and bran—as i shall have my old pot there." she whisked about, remembering, recovering, eager: “don't let me forget my precious pot !” excited, with quick transitions, she quite sociably appealed to her companion, who shuffled sympathetically to where, out of harm, the object had been placed on a table. “don't you just love old crockery ? that's awfully sweet old chelsea.” he took up the piece with tenderness, though, in his general agitation, not perhaps with all the caution with which, for daily service, he handled ancient frailties. he at any rate turned on this fresh subject an inter- ested, puzzled eye. “where is it i've known this very bit—though not to say, as you do, by name ? ” suddenly it came to him. “in the pew-opener's front parlour!” “no," his interlocutress cried, “in the pew-opener's best bedroom: on the old chest of drawers, you know —with those ducks of brass handles. i've got the handles too—i mean the whole thing; and the brass fender and fire-irons, and the chair her grandmother died in. not in the fly,” she added—“it was such a bore that they have to be sent.” chivers, with the pot still in his hands, fairly rocked in the high wind of so much confidence and such great transactions. he had nothing for these, however, but approval. “you did right to take this out, mum, when the fly went to the stables. them flymen do be cruel rash with anything that's delicate.” of the delicacy of the vessel it now rested with him to deposit safely again covering end a reflection of her extraordinary manner of enlarging the subject, or rather, more beneficently perhaps, the space that contained it. "by the way, the girl was coming right here. has she come ?” chivers crept solemnly away, as if to bury his dead, which he consigned, with dumb rites, to a situation of honourable publicity; then, as he came back, he replied without elation : “miss prodmore is here, mum. she's having her tea." this, for his friend, was a confirmatory touch to be fitted with eagerness into the picture. “yes, that's exactly it—they're always having their tea!” "with mr. prodmore—in the morning-room,” the old man supplemented. “captain yule's in the garden." “captain yule ? " “the new master. he's also just arrived." the wonderful lady gave an immediate “oh!” to the effect of which her silence for another moment seemed to add. “she didn't tell me about him." “well, mum,” said chivers, “it do be a strange thing to tell. he had never—like, mum—so much as seen the place.” “before to-day—his very own ?” this too, for the visitor, was an impression among impressions, and, like most of her others, it ended after an instant as a laugh. “well, i hope he likes it!”. “i haven't seen many, mum," chivers boldly de- clared, "that like it as much as you." she made with her handsome head a motion that appeared to signify still deeper things than he had caught. her beautiful wandering eyes played high covering end poor chivers really rose to her. " it was you, mum," he smiled, "took it first !”. she sadly shook her head. “ah, but for a poor little hour! he's for life.” the old man gave up, after a little, with equal depres- sion, the pretence of dealing with such realities. “for mine, mum, i do at least hope." she made again the circuit of the great place, picking up without interest the jacket she had on her previous entrance laid down. “i shall think of you, you know, here together.” she vaguely looked about her as for anything else to take; then abruptly, with her eyes again on chivers : “do you suppose he'll be kind to you ?” his hand, in his trousers-pocket, seemed to turn the matter over. “he has already been, mum.” “then be sure to be so to him ! ” she replied with some emphasis. the house-bell sounded as she spoke, giving her quickly another thought. “is that his bell ?" chivers was hardly less struck. “i must see whose !" —and hurrying, on this, to the front, he presently again vanished. his companion, left alone, stood a minute with an air in which happy possession was oddly and charmingly mingled with desperate surrender; so much as to have left you in doubt if the next of her lively motions were curiosity or disgust. impressed, in her divided state, with a small framed plaque of enamel, she impulsively detached it from the wall and examined it with hungry tenderness. her hovering thought was so vivid that you might almost have traced it in sound. “why, covering end bless me if it isn't limoges ! i wish awfully i were a bad woman: then, i do devoutly hope, i'd just quietly take it !” it testified to the force of this temptation that on hearing a sound behind her she started like a guilty thing; recovering herself, however, and—just, of course, not to appear at fault — keeping the object familiarly in her hand as she jumped to a recognition of the gentleman who, coming in from the garden, had stopped in the open doorway. she gathered indeed from his being there a positive advantage, the full con- fidence of which was already in her charming tone. “oh, captain yule, i'm delighted to meet you! it's such a comfort to ask you if i may !” his surprise kept him an instant dumb, but the effort not too closely to betray it appeared in his persuasive inflection. “if you 'may,' madam-- ?” “why, just be here, don't you know ? and poke round!” she presented such a course as almost vulgarly natural. “don't tell me i can't now, because i already have : i've been upstairs and downstairs and in my lady's chamber—i won't answer for it even perhaps that i've not been in my lord's! i got round your lovely servant-if you don't look out i'll grab him. if you don't look out, you know, i'll grab everything.” she gave fair notice and went on with amazing serenity; she gathered positive gaiety from his frank stupefaction. “that's what i came over for—just to lay your country waste. your house is a wild old dream; and besides ” -she dropped, oddly and quaintly, into real responsible judgment—"you've got some quite good things. oh yes, you have — several : don't coyly pretend you haven't!” her familiarity took these flying leaps, and covering end she alighted, as her victim must have phrased it to him- self, without turning a hair. “don't you know you have ? just look at that !” she thrust her enamel before him, but he took it and held it so blankly, with an attention so absorbed in the mere woman, that at the sight of his manner her zeal for his interest and her pity for his detachment again flashed out. “don't you know anything? why, it's limoges !” clement yule simply broke into a laugh-though his laugh indeed was comprehensive. “ it seems absurd, but i'm not in the least acquainted with my house. i've never happened to see it.”. she seized his arm. “then do let me show it to you!" “i shall be delighted.” his laughter had redoubled in a way that spoke of his previous tension ; yet his tone, as he saw chivers return breathless from the front, showed that he had responded sincerely enough to desire a clear field. “who in the world's there ? " the old man was full of it. “a party!” “a party ?" chivers conſessed to the worst. “over from gossage —to see the house." the worst, however, clearly, was quite good enough for their companion, who embraced the incident with sudden enthusiasm. “oh, let me show it!" but before either of the men could reply she had, addressing herself to chivers, one of those droll drops that betrayed the quickness of her wit and the freedom of her fancy. “dear me, i forgot—you get the tips! but, you dear old creature," she went on, “i'll get them too, and i'll simply make them over to you.” she again pressed covering end yule-pressed him into this service. "perhaps they'll be bigger—for me !" he continued to be highly amused. “i should think they'd be enormous—for you! but i should like,” he added with more concentration—"i should like ex- tremely, you know, to go over with you alone.” she was held a moment. “just you and me ?”. “just you and me—as you kindly proposed." she stood reminded; but, throwing it off, she had her first inconsequence. “that must be for after--!” “ah, but not too late.” he looked at his watch. “ i go back to-night.” “laws, sir!” chivers irrepressibly groaned. “you want to keep him ?” the stranger asked. captain yule turned away at the question, but her look went after him, and she found herself, somehow, instantly answered. “then i'll help you," she said to chivers ; "and the oftener we go over the better." something further, on this, quite immaterial, but quite adequate, passed, while the young man's back was turned, between the two others; in consequence of which chivers again appealed to his master. “shall i show them straight in, sir ?". his master, still detached, replied without looking at him. “by all means—if there's money in it !” this was jocose, but there would have been, for an observer, an increase of hope in the old man's departing step. the lady had exerted an influence. she continued, for that matter, with a start of genial remembrance, to exert one in his absence. “oh, and i promised to show it to miss prodmore!” her con- science, with a kind smile for the young person she covering end named, put the question to clement yule. “won't you call her ?” the coldness of his quick response made it practically none. "call’her ? dear lady, i don't know her!” “you must, then—she's wonderful.” the face with which he met this drew from the dear lady a sharper look; but, for the aid of her good-nature, cora prodmore, at the moment she spoke, presented herself in the doorway of the morning-room. “see? she's charming !” the girl, with a glare of recognition, dashed across the open as if under heavy fire; but heavy fire, alas—the extremity of exposure—was promptly embodied in her friend's public embrace. “miss prodmore," said this terrible friend, “let me present captain yule.” never had so great a gulf been bridged in so free a span. “captain yule, miss prod- more. miss prodmore, captain yule.” there was stiffness, the cold mask of terror, in such notice as either party took of this demonstration, the convenience of which was not enhanced for the divided pair by the perception that mr. prodmore had now followed his daughter. cora threw herself confusedly into it indeed, as with a vain rebound into the open. “papa, let me 'present you to mrs. gracedew. mrs. gracedew, mr. prodmore. mr. prodmore, mrs. grace- dew.” mrs. gracedew, with a free salute and a distinct repetition, took in mr. prodmore as she had taken everything else. "mr. prodmore"-oh, she pronounced him, spared him nothing of himself. “so happy to meet your daughter's father. your daughter's so perfect a specimen." covering end mr. prodmore, for the first moment, had simply looked large and at sea; then, like a practical man and without more question, had quickly seized the long perch held out to him in this statement. “so perfect a specimen, yes !”—he seemed to pass it on to his young friend. mrs. gracedew, if she observed his emphasis, drew from it no deterrence; she only continued to cover cora with a gaze that kept her well in the middle. “so fresh, so quaint, so droll !” it was apparently a result of what had passed in the morning-room that mr. prodmore had grasped afresh the need for effective action, which he clearly felt he did something to meet in clutching precipitately the helping hand popped so suddenly out of space, yet so beautifully gloved and so pressingly and gracefully brandished. “so fresh, so quaint, so droll!”—he again gave captain yule the advantage of the stranger's impression. to what further appreciation this might have prompted the lady herself was not, however, just then manifest; for the return of chivers had been almost simultaneous with the advance of the prodmores, and it had taken place with forms that made it some- thing of a circumstance. there was positive pomp in the way he preceded several persons of both sexes, not tourists at large, but simple sightseers of the half-holiday order, plain provincial folk already, on the spot, rather awestruck. the old man, with sup- pressed pulls and prayers, had drawn them up in a broken line, and the habit of more peopled years, the dull drone of the dead lesson, sounded out in his covering end candour, all too promptly, struck mrs. gracedew as excessive. “what in the name of methuselah do you call 'modern'? it was here at the visit of james the first, in , and is supposed to have served, in the charming detail of its ornament, as a model for several that were constructed in his reign. the great fire- place,” she handsomely conceded, “is jacobean.” she had taken him up with such wondrous benignant authority—as if, for her life, if they were to have it, she couldn't help taking care that they had it out; she had interposed with an assurance that so converted her —as by the wave of a great wand, the motion of one of her own free arms—from mere passive alien to do- mesticated dragon, that poor chivers could only assent with grateful obeisances. she so plunged into the old book that he had quite lost his place. the two gentlemen and the young lady, moreover, were held there by the magic of her manner. his own, as he turned again to his cluster of sightseers, took refuge in its last refinement. “the tapestry on the left italian—the elegant wood-work flemish.” mrs. gracedew was upon him again. “excuse me if i just deprecate a misconception. the elegant wood- work italian—the tapestry on the left flemish.” sud- denly she put it to him before them all, pleading as familiarly and gaily as she had done when alone with him and looking now at the others, all round, gentry and poor folk alike, for sympathy and support. she had an idea that made her dance. “do you really mind if i just do it? oh, i know how: i can do quite beautifully the housekeeper last week at castle gaunt." she fraternised with the company as if it were a game covering end banner carried at blenheim." they bobbed their heads wherever she pointed, but it would have come home to any spectator that they saw her alone. this was the case quite as much with the opposite trio—the case especially with clement yule, who indeed made no pretence of keeping up with her signs. it was the signs themselves he looked at—not at the subjects indicated. but he never took his eyes from her, and it was as if, at last, she had been peculiarly affected by a glimpse of his attention. all her own, for a moment, frankly went back to him and was immediately deter- mined by it. “observe, above all, that you're in one of the most interesting old houses, of its type, in england; for which the ages have been tender and the generations wise: letting it change so slowly that there's always more left than taken-living their lives in it, but letting it shape their lives !” though this pretty speech had been unmistakeably addressed to the younger of the temporary occupants of covering end, it was the elder who, on the spot, took it up. “a most striking and appropriate tribute to a real historical monument!” mr. prodmore had a natural ease that could deal handsomely with compli- ments, and he manifestly, moreover, like a clever man, saw even more in such an explosion of them than fully met the ear. “you do, madam, bring the whole thing out!” the visitor who had already with such impunity ventured had, on this, a loud renewal of boldness, but for the benefit of a near neighbour. “doesn't she indeed, jane, bring it out ? ” mrs. gracedew, with a friendly laugh, caught the covering end portraits and lurking old echoes and all, might have made you feel how much depended on her; to the degree that the consciousness in her face became finally a reason for her not turning it to gossage. “fifty thousand, captain yule, is what i think i should propose." if the place had seemed to listen it might have been the place that, in admiring accents from the gentleman with the green tie, took up the prodigious figure. “fifty thousand pound !” it was echoed in a high note from the lady he had previously addressed. “fifty thousand !”. yet it was mr. prodmore who caught it up loudest and appeared to make it go furthest. “fifty thousand -fifty thousand !” mrs. gracedew had put him in such spirits that he found on the spot, indicating to her his young friend, both the proper humour and the proper rigour for any question of what anyone might “propose.” “he'll never part with the dear old home!” mrs. gracedew could match at least the confidence. “then i'll go over it again while i have the chance." her own humour enjoined that she should drop into the housekeeper, in the perfect tone of which character she addressed herself once more to the party. “we now pass to the grand staircase.” she gathered her band with a brave gesture, but before she had fairly impelled them to the ascent she heard herself rather sharply challenged by captain yule, who, during the previous scene, had uttered no sound, yet had remained as attentive as he was impenetrable. “please let them pass without you !" covering end she was taken by surprise. “and stay here with you?" “if you'll be so good. i want to speak to you." turning then to chivers and frowning on the party, he delivered himself for the first time as a person in a position. “for god's sake, remove them !” the old man, at this blast of impatience, instantly fluttered forward. “we now pass to the grand stair- case." they all passed, chivers covering their scattered ascent as a shepherd scales a hillside with his flock; but it became evident during the manoeuvre that cora prodmore was quite out of tune. she had been standing beyond and rather behind captain yule; but she now moved quickly round and reached her new friend's right. “mrs. gracedew, may i speak to you?” her father, before the reply could come, had taken up the place. “after captain yule, my dear." he was in a state of positively polished lucidity. “you must make the most—don't you see ?-of the opportunity of the others !” he waved her to the staircase as one who knew what he was about, but, while the young man, turning his back, moved consciously and nervously away, the girl renewed her effort to provoke mrs. gracedew to detain her. it happened, to her sorrow, that this lady appeared for the moment, to the detriment of any free attention, to be absorbed in captain yule's manner; so that cora could scarce disengage her without some air of invidious reference to it. recognising as much, she could only for two seconds, but with great yearning, parry her own antagonist. “she'll help me, i think, papa !” covering end “that's exactly what strikes me, love !” he cheerfully replied. “but i'll help you too!” he gave her, towards the stairs, a push proportioned both to his authority and to her weight; and while she reluctantly climbed in the wake of the visitors he laid on mrs. gracedew's arm, with a portentous glance at captain yule, a hand of commanding significance. “just pile it on!” her attention came back—she seemed to see. “he doesn't like it?" “not half enough. bring him round.” her eyes rested again on their companion, who had fidgetted further away and who now, with his hands in his pockets and unaware of this private passage, stood again in the open doorway and gazed into the grey court. something in the sight determined her. “i'll bring him round.” but at this moment cora, pausing half-way up, sent down another entreaty. “mrs. gracedew, will you see me?" the charming woman looked at her watch. “in ten minutes,” she smiled back. mr. prodmore, bland and assured, looked at his own. “you could put him through in five—but i'll allow you twenty. there!” he decisively cried to his daughter, whom he quickly rejoined and hustled on her course. mrs. gracedew kissed after her a hand of vague comfort. iv the silence that reigned between the pair might have been registered as embarrassing had it lasted a trifle longer. yule had continued to turn his back, but he faced about, though he was distinctly grave, in time to avert an awkwardness. “how do you come to know so much about my house ? " she was as distinctly not grave. “how do you come to know so little ?" “it's not my fault,” he said very gently. “a par- ticular combination of misfortunes has forbidden me, till this hour, to come within a mile of it.” these words evidently struck her as so exactly the right ones to proceed from the lawful heir that such a felicity of misery could only quicken her interest. he was plainly as good in his way as the old butler—the particular combination of misfortunes corresponded to the life-long service. her interest, none the less, in its tụrn, could only quicken her pity, and all her emotions, we have already seen, found prompt enough expression. what could any expression do indeed now but mark the romantic reality ? “why, you poor thing!”—she came toward him on the weary road. “now that you've got here i hope at least you'll stay." their intercourse covering end she laughed at his docility, yet could only wish to presume upon it. “it's a rule of the house !" he took in the place with greater pleasure. “what delightful rules!" “how could such a house have any others ?"-she was already launched again in her brave relation to it. “i may go up just once more—mayn't i—to the long gallery?" how could he tell ? “the long gallery ?”. with an added glow she remembered. “i forgot you've never seen it. why, it's the leading thing about you !” she was full, on the spot, of the pride of showing it. “come right up!” clement yule, half seated on a table from which his long left leg nervously swung, only looked at her and smiled and smoked. “there's a party up." she remembered afresh. “so we must be the party down ? well, you must give me a chance. that long gallery's the principal thing i came over for." she was strangest of all when she explained. " where in heaven's name did you come over from ?” “missoura top, where i'm building—just in this style. i came for plans and ideas," mrs. gracedew serenely pursued. “i felt i must look right at you.” “but what did you know about us ?” she kept it a moment as if it were too good to give him all at once. “everything !" he seemed indeed almost afraid to touch it. “at * missoura top'?”. “why not? it's a growing place—forty thousand the last census.” she hesitated; then as if her warrant covering end should be slightly more personal : “my husband left it to me." the young man presently changed his posture. “you're a widow ?” nothing was wanting to the simplicity of her quiet assent. “a very lone woman.” her face, for a moment, had the vision of a long distance. “my lone- liness is great enough to want something big to hold it —and my taste good enough to want something beau- tiful. you see, i had your picture." yule's innocence made a movement. “mine ?” her smile reassured him; she nodded toward the main entrance. “a watercolour i chanced on in boston." “in boston ?" she stared. “haven't you heard of boston either?” “yes—but what has boston heard of me?" “it wasn't 'you,' unfortunately—it was your divine south front. the drawing struck me so that i got you up-in the books." he appeared, however, rather comically, but half to make it out, or to gather at any rate that there was even more of it than he feared. “are we in the books ? " "did you never discover it ?" before his blankness, the dim apprehension in his fine amused and troubled face of how much there was of it, her frank, gay con- cern for him sprang again to the front. “where in heaven's name, captain yule, have you come over from ?” he looked at her very kindly, but as if scarce ex- pecting her to follow. “the east end of london.” covering end she had followed perfectly, he saw the next instant, but she had by no means equally accepted. “what were you doing there ?” he could only put it, though a little over-consciously, very simply. “working, you see. when i left the army-it was much too slow, unless one was personally a whirlwind of war-i began to make out that, for a fighting man—-" “there's always,” she took him up, "somebody or other to go for ?” he considered her, while he smoked, with more con- fidence; as if she might after all understand. “the enemy, yes—everywhere in force. i went for him : misery and ignorance and viceminjustice and privilege and wrong. such as you see me “you're a rabid reformer ?”—she understood beau- tifully. “i wish we had you at missoura top!” he literally, for a moment, in the light of her beauty and familiarity, appeared to measure his possible use there; then, looking round him again, announced with a sigh that, predicament for predicament, his own would do. “i fear my work is nearer home. i hope," he continued, "since you're so good as to seem to care, to perform a part of that work in the next house of commons. my electors have wanted me--" “and you've wanted them,” she lucidly put in, "and that has been why you couldn't come down." “yes, for all this last time. and before that, from my childhood up, there was another reason.” he took a few steps away and brought it out as rather a shabby one. “a family feud.” she proved to be quite delighted with it. “oh, i'm covering end inheritance is dead sea fruit. it's mortgaged for all it's worth and i haven't the means to pay the interest. if by a miracle i could scrape the money together it would leave me without a penny to live on." he puffed his cigarette profusely. “so if i find the old home at last - i lose it by the same luck!”. mrs. gracedew had hung upon his words, and she seemed still to wait, in visible horror, for something that would improve on them. but when she had to take them for his last, “i never heard of anything so awful!” she broke out. “do you mean to say you can't arrange- ?". “oh yes," he promptly replied, "an arrangement- if that be the name to give it—has been definitely pro- posed to me." “what's the matter then ? "-she had dropped into relief. “for heaven's sake, you poor thing, definitely accept it ! ” he laughed, though with little joy, at her sweet simplifications. “i've made up my mind in the last quarter of an hour that i can't. it's such a peculiar case.” mrs. gracedew frankly wondered; her bias was clearly sceptical. “how peculiar—-?”. he found the measure difficult to give. “well- more peculiar than most cases." still she was not satisfied. “more peculiar than mine ? ” “ than yours?"-clement yule knew nothing about that. something, at this, in his tone, his face-it might have been his “british" density—seemed to pull her covering end “to give up what ?” what could it be, she appeared to ask, that was barely nameable ? he quite blushed to her indeed as he came to the point. “my fundamental views.” she was disappointed—she had waited for more. “nothing but them ? " he met her with astonishment. “surely they're quite enough, when one has unfortunately”—he rather ruefully smiled—“so very many!” she laughed aloud ; this was frankly so odd a plea. “well, i've a neat collection too, but i'd 'swap,' as they say in the west, the whole set---!” she looked about the hall for something of equivalent price; after which she pointed, as it caught her eye, to the great cave of the fireplace. “i'd take that set !”. the young man scarcely followed. “the fire- irons ? " “for the whole fundamental lot !” she gazed with real yearning at the antique group. “they're three hundred years old. do you mean to tell me your wretched 'views'—-?”. “have anything like that age ? no, thank god," clement yule laughed, “my views—wretched as you please !-are quite in their prime! they're a hungry little family that has got to be fed. they keep me awake at night.” “then you must make up your sleep!" her im- patience grew with her interest. "listen to me!" “that would scarce be the way!” he returned. but he added more sincerely : “you must surely see a fellow can't chuck his politics." "chuck' them—-?" covering end “well—sacrifice them." “i'd sacrifice mine," she cried, “for that old fire- back with your arms !" he glanced at the object in question, but with such a want of intelligence that she visibly resented it. “see how it has stood ! ” “see how i've stood !” he answered with spirit. " i've glowed with a hotter fire than anything in any chimney, and the warmth and light i diffuse have attracted no little attention. how can i consent to reduce them to the state of that desolate hearth ?”. his companion, freshly struck with the fine details of the desolation, had walked over to the chimney- corner, where, lost in her deeper impression, she lingered and observed. at last she turned away with her impatience controlled. “it's magnificent !" “the fire-back ?”. “everything—everywhere. i don't understand your haggling." he hesitated. “that's because you're ignorant.” then seeing in the light of her eye that he had applied to her the word in the language she least liked, he hastened to attenuate. “i mean of what's behind my reserves.” she was silent in a way that made their talk more of a discussion than if she had spoken. “what is behind them ?" she presently asked. “why, my whole political history. everything i've said, everything i've done. my scorching addresses and letters, reproduced in all the papers. i needn't go into details, but i'm a pure, passionate, pledged radical.” covering end mrs. gracedew looked him full in the face. “well, what if you are ?" he broke into mirth at her tone. “simply this- that i can't therefore, from one day to the other, pop up at gossage in the purple pomp of the opposite camp. there's a want of transition. it may be timid of me—it' may be abject. but i can't.” if she was not yet prepared to contest she was still . less prepared to surrender it, and she confined herself for the instant to smoothing down with her foot the corner of an old rug. “have you thought very much about it ? ” he was vague. "about what ?” “about what mr. prodmore wants you to do." he flushed up. “oh then, you know it's he?" “i'm not,” she said, still gravely enough, “of an intelligence absolutely infantile." “you're the cleverest tory i've ever met !” he laughed. “i didn't mean to mention my friend's name, but since you've done so——!” he gave up with a shrug his scruple. oh, she had already cleared the ground of it! “it's he who's the devouring wolf ? it's he who holds your mortgages ?" the very lucidity of her interest just checked his assent. “he holds plenty of others, and he treats me very handsomely." she showed of a sudden an inconsequent face. “do you call that handsome—such a condition ?”. he shed surprise. "why, i thought it was just the condition you could meet.” she measured her inconsistency, but was not covering end abashed. “we're not talking of what i can meet.” yet she found also a relief in dropping the point. “why doesn't he stand himself ?” “well, like other devouring wolves, he's not person- ally adored." “not even,” she asked, "when he offers such liberal terms ?” clement yule had to explain. “i dare say he doesn't offer them to everyone.” "only to you ?”—at this she quite sprang. “you are personally adored; you will be still more if you stand; and that, you poor lamb, is why he wants you!” the young man, obviously pleased to find her after all more at one with him, accepted gracefully enough the burden her sympathy imposed. “i'm the bearer of my name, i'm the representative of my family; and to my family and my name—since you've led me to it- this countryside has been for generations indulgently attached.” she listened to him with a sentiment in her face that showed how now, at last, she felt herself deal with the lawful heir. she seemed to perceive it with a kind of passion. “you do of course what you will with the countryside !” “yes”—he went with her—"if we do it as genuine yules. i'm obliged of course to grant you that your genuine yule's a tory of tories. it's mr. prodmore's belief that i should carry gossage in that character, but in that character only. they won't look at me in any other." it might have taxed a spectator to say in what covering end character mrs. gracedew, on this, for a little, considered him. “don't be too sure of people's not looking at you !" he blushed again, but he laughed. “we must leave out my personal beauty." “we can't !" she replied with decision. “don't we take in mr. prodmore's ?” captain yule was not prepared. “you call him beautiful ?” “hideous.” she settled it; then pursued her inves- tigation. “what's the extraordinary interest that he attaches— ?" “to the return of a tory ?” here the young man was prepared. “oh, his desire is born of his fear-his terror on behalf of property, which he sees, somehow, with an intensely personal, with a quite colossal `p.' he has a great deal of that article, and very little of anything else." mrs. gracedew, accepting provisionally his demon- stration, had one of her friendly recalls. “do you call that nice daughter 'very little'?”. the young man looked quitę, at a loss. “is she very big ? i really didn't notice her—and moreover she's just a part of the property. he thinks things are going too far.” she sat straight down on a stiff chair; on which, with high distinctness: "well, they are !". he stood before her in the discomposure of her again thus appearing to fail him. “aren't you then a lover of justice ?" “a passionate one!” she sat there as upright as if she held the scales “where's the justice of your covering end made one, and it's not my fault, don't you know ? if they've made me a very modern man. i see something else in the world than the beauty of old show-houses and the glory of old show-families. there are thou- sands of people in england who can show no houses at all, and i don't feel it utterly shameful to share their poor fate!” she had moved away with impatience, and it was the advantage of this for her that the back she turned prevented him from seeing how intently she listened. she seemed to continue to listen even after he had stopped; but if that gave him a sense of success he might have been checked by the way she at last turned round with a sad and beautiful headshake. “we share the poor fate of humanity whatever we do, and we do something to help and console when we've something precious to show. what on earth is more precious than what the ages have slowly wrought ? they've trusted us, in such a case, to keep it—to do something, in our turn, for them.” she shone out at him as if her contention had the evidence of the noonday sun, and yet in her generosity she superabounded and explained. “it's such a virtue, in anything, to have lasted; it's such an honour, for anything, to have been spared. to all strugglers from the wreck of time hold out a pitying hand!” yule, on this argument of a strain which even a good experience of debate could scarce have prepared him to meet—had not a congruous rejoinder absolutely pat, and his hesitation unfortunately gave him time to see how soon his companion made out that what had touched him most in it was her particular air in pre- covering end senting it. she would manifestly have preferred he should have been floored by her mere moral reach; yet he was aware that his own made no great show as he took refuge in general pleasantry. “what a plea for looking backward, dear lady, to come from missoura top !" “we're making a past at missoura top as fast as ever we can, and i should like to see you lay your hand on an hour of the one we've made! it's a tight fit, as yet, i grant,” she said, “and that's just why i like, in yours, to find room, don't you see? to turn round. you're in it, over here, and you can't get out; so just make the best of that and treat the thing as part of the fun!” "the whole of the fun, to me,” the young man replied, "is in hearing you defend it! it's like your defending hereditary gout or chronic rheumatism and sore throat-the things i feel aching in every old bone of these walls and groaning in every old draught that, i'm sure, has for centuries blown through them.” mrs. gracedew looked as if no woman could be shaken who was so prepared to be just all round. “if there be aches—there may be you're here to soothe them, and if there be draughts—there must be !-you're here to stop them up. and do you know what i'm here for ? if i've come so far and so straight i've almost wondered myself. i've felt with a kind of passion—but now i see why i've felt.” she moved about the hall with the excitement of this perception and, separated from him at last by a distance across which he followed her discovery with a visible suspense, she brought out the covering end news. “i'm here for an act of salvation--i'm here to avert a sacrifice !” so they stood a little, with more, for the minute, passing between them than either really could say. she might have flung down a glove that he decided on the whole, passing his hand over his head as the seat of some confusion, not to pick up. again, but flushed as well as smiling, he sought the easiest cover. “you're here, i think, madam, to be a memory for all my future!” well, she was willing, she showed as she came nearer, to take it, at the worst, for that. “you'll be one for mine, if i can see you by that hearth. why do you make such a fuss about changing your politics ? if you'd come to missoura top you'd change them quick enough !” then, as she saw further and struck harder, her eyes grew deep, her face even seemed to pale, and she paused, splendid and serious, with the force of her plea. “what do politics amount to, com- pared with religions ? parties and programmes come and go, but a duty like this abides. there's nothing you can break with "-she pressed him closer, ringing out—"that would be like breaking here. the very words are violent and ugly—as much a sacrilege as if you had been trusted with the key of the temple. this is the temple-don't profane it! keep up the old altar kindly—you can't set up a new one as good. you must have beauty in your life, don't you see ?—that's the only way to make sure of it for the lives of others. keep leaving it to them, to all the poor others," she went on with her bright irony, "and heaven only knows what will become of it! does it take one of us to feel covering end his expression was an equal check to any power to feel she might have won. “you have,” he queerly smiled at her, “a standpoint quite your own and a style of eloquence that the few scraps of parliamentary training i've picked up don't seem at all to fit me to deal with. of course i don't pretend, you know, that i don't care for covering." that, at all events, she could be glad to hear, if only perhaps for the tone in it that was so almost comically ingenuous. but her relief was reasonable and her exultation temperate. “you haven't even seen it yet.” she risked, however, a laugh. “aren't you a bit afraid ? " he took a minute to reply, then replied—as if to make it up—with a grand collapse. “yes; awfully. but if i am,” he hastened in decency to add, “it isn't only covering that makes me.” this left his friend apparently at a loss. “what else is it?” “everything. but it doesn't in the least matter," he loosely pursued. “you may be quite correct. when we talk of the house your voice comes to me somehow as the wind in its old chimneys." her amusement distinctly revived. “i hope you don't mean i roar !". he blushed again ; there was no doubt he was con- fused. “no-nor yet perhaps that you whistle! i don't believe the wind does either, here. it only whispers," he sought gracefully to explain; "and it sighs—-" “and i hope," she broke in, “that it sometimes laughs !" covering end the sound she gave only made him, as he looked at her, more serious. “whatever it does, it's all right." “all right ?”—they were sufficiently together again for her to lay her hand straight on his arm. “then you promise ?” “promise what ?". he had turned as pale as if she hurt him, and she took her hand away. “to meet mr. prodmore." “oh dear no; not yet !"—he quite recovered him- self. “i must wait-i must think.” she looked disappointed, and there was a momentary silence. “when have you to answer him?" "oh, he gives me time!” clement yule spoke very much as he might have said “oh, in two minutes !” "i wouldn't give you time,” mrs. gracedew cried with force—“i'd give you a shaking! for god's sake, at any rate ”—and she really tried to push him off—“go upstairs !” " and literally find the dreadful man ?” this was so little his personal idea that, distinctly dodging her pressure, he had already reached the safe quarter. but it befell that at the same moment she saw cora reappear on the upper landing—a circumstance that promised her a still better conclusion. “he's coming down!” cora, in spite of this announcement, came down boldly enough without him and made directly for mrs. gracedew, to whom her eyes had attached themselves with an undeviating glare. her plain purpose of treat- the girl threw herself, in her flushed eagerness, straight upon the wonderful lady. “ i've come back to you—i want to speak to you !” the need had been a rapid growth, but it was clearly immense. “may i confide in you ? " her instant overflow left mrs. gracedew both astonished and amused. “you too ? " she laughed. “ why, it is good we come over !” “ it is indeed!” cora gratefully echoed. ' “you were so very kind to me and seemed to think me so curious." the mirth of her friend redoubled. “well, i loved you for it, and it was nothing moreover to what you thought me ! ” miss prodmore found, for this, no denial—she only presented her frank high colour. “ i loved you. but i'm the worst !” she generously added. “and i'm solitary.” “ah, so am i !” mrs. gracedew declared with gaiety, but with emphasis. “a very queer thing always is solitary! but, since we have that link, by all means confide." “well, i was met here by tremendous news.” cora covering end mrs. gracedew took it amiably up. “come back, then; i'm not going.” and there was both dismissal and encouragement in the way that, as on the occasion of the girl's former retreat, she blew her a familiar kiss. cora, still with her face to them, waited just enough to show that she took it without a response; then, with a quick turn, dashed out, while mrs. gracedew looked at their visitor in vague surprise. “what's the matter with her ? " she had turned away as soon as she spoke, moving as far from him as she had moved a few moments before from cora. the silence that, as he watched her, followed her question would have been seen by a spectator to be a hard one for either to break. “i don't know what's the matter with her," he said at last: “ i'm afraid i only know what's the matter with me. it will doubtless give you pleasure to learn," he added, “that i've closed with mr. prodmore." it was a speech that, strangely enough, seemed but half to dissipate the hush. mrs. gracedew reached the great chimney again; again she stood there with her face averted ; and when she finally replied it was in other words than he might have supposed himself naturally to inspire. “i thought you said he gave you time.” “yes; but you produced just now so deep an effect on me that i thought best not to take any." he appeared to listen to a sound from above, and, for a moment, under this impulse, his eyes travelled about almost as if he were alone. then he completed, with deliberation, his statement. “i came upon him right there, and i burnt my ships." covering end mrs. gracedew continued not to meet his face. “you do what he requires ? ” the young man was markedly, consciously caught. "i do what he requires. i felt the tremendous force of all you said to me." she turned round on him now, as if perhaps with a slight sharpness, the face of responsibility—even, it might be, of reproach. “so did -or i shouldn't have said it!" it was doubtless this element of justification in her tone that drew from him a laugh a tiny trifle dry. “you're perhaps not aware that you wield an influence of which it's not too much to say- ". but he paused at the important point so long that she took him up. “to say what ?” “well, that it's practically irresistible !”. it sounded a little as if it had not been what he first meant; but it made her, none the less, still graver and just faintly ironical. “you've given me the most flat- tering proof of my influence that i've ever enjoyed in my life!" he fixed her very hard, now distinctly so mystified that he could only wonder what different recall of her previous attitude she would have looked for. “this was inevitable, dear madan, from the moment you had converted me—and in about three minutes too!—into the absolute echo of your raptures." nothing was, indeed, more extraordinary than her air of having suddenly forgotten them. “my raptures'?" he was amazed. “why, about my home.” he might look her through and through, but she had no eyes for himself, though she had now quitted the covering end fireplace and finally recognised this allusion. “oh yes—your home!” from where had she come back to it ? “it's a nice tattered, battered old thing." this account of it was the more shrunken that her observation, even as she spoke, freshly went the rounds. “it has defects of course "—with this renewed attention they appeared suddenly to strike her. they had popped out, conspicuous, and for a little it might have been a matter of conscience. however, her con- science dropped. “but it's no use mentioning them now!” they had half an hour earlier been vividly present to himself, but to see her thus oddly pulled up by them was to forget on the spot the ground he had taken. “i'm particularly sorry," he returned with some spirit, " that you didn't mention them before !". at this imputation of inconsequence, of a levity not, after all, without its excuse, mrs. gracedew was re- duced, in keeping her resentment down, to an effort not quite successfully disguised. it was in a tone, nevertheless, all the more mild in intention that she reminded him of where he had equally failed. “if you had really gone over the house, as i almost went on my knees to you to do, you might have discovered some of them yourself !” “how can you say that,” the young man asked with heat, “when i was precisely in the very act of it? it was just because i was that the first person i met above was mr. prodmore; on which, feeling that i must come to it sooner or later, i simply gave in to him on the spot—yielded him, to have it well over, the whole of his point." . covering end her; they might have been a well-spread board from which she turned away fasting. "i hope you'll do justice to dear old covering in spite of its weak points, and i hope above all you'll not be incom- moded- " as she hesitated here he was too intent. “incom- moded — ?” she saw it better than she could express it. “well, by such a rage- !" he challenged this description with a strange gleam. “you suppose it will be a rage ? " she laughed out at his look. “are you afraid of the love that kills ? " he grew singularly grave. “will it kill— ?” “great passions have !"—she was highly amused. but he could only stare. “is it a great passion ?" “surely—when so many feel it !" he was fairly bewildered. “but how many— ?" she reckoned them up. “let's see. if you count them all—_" " • all’?" clement yule gasped. she looked at him, in turn, slightly mystified. “i see. you knock off some. about half ?”. it was too obscure-he broke down. “whom on earth are you talking about ? ”. “why, the electors--" “of gossage ?”—he leaped at it. “oh!” "i got the whole thing up—there are six thousand. it's such a fine figure !” said mrs. gracedew. he had sharply passed from her, to cover his mistake, and it carried him half round the hall. then, as if aware that this pause itself compromised him, he came “ has he been breaking— ?" the girl asked in horror. mrs. gracedew laughingly tapped her heart. “yes, we've had a scene! he went up again to your father." cora was disconcerted. “papa's not there. he just came down to me by the other way.” “then he can join you here," said mrs. gracedew with instant resignation. “ i'm going.” “ just when i've come back to you—at the risk," cora made bold to throw off, "of again interrupting, though i really hoped he had gone, your conversation with captain yule ?” but mrs. gracedew let the ball quite drop. “i've nothing to say to captain yule." cora picked it up for another toss. “you had a good deal to say a few minutes ago !” “well, i've said it, and it's over. i've nothing more to say at all,” mrs. gracedew insisted. but her announcement of departure left her on this oc- casion, as each of its predecessors had done, with a last, with indeed a fresh solicitude. “what has become of my delightful ‘party'?" "they've been dismissed, through the grounds, by covering end ah, the difference it made! this difference, for mrs. gracedew, suddenly shimmered in all the place, and her companion's fixed eyes caught in her face the reflection of it. “excuse me—i misunderstood. i somehow took for granted !” she stopped, a trifle awkwardly-suddenly tender, for cora, as to the way she had inevitably seen it. “you took for granted i'd jump at him? well, now you can take for granted i won't !”. mrs. gracedew, fairly admiring her, put it sympa- thetically. “you prefer the single life ?” “no—but i don't prefer him !” cora was crystal- bright. her light indeed, for her friend, was at first almost blinding; it took mrs. gracedew a moment to dis- tinguish—which she then did, however, with immense eagerness. “you prefer someone else?” cora's promptitude dropped at this, and, starting to hear it, as you might well have seen, for the first time publicly phrased, she abruptly moved away. a minute's sense of her scruple was enough for mrs. gracedew: this was proved by the tone of soft remonstrance and high benevolence with which that lady went on. she had looked very hard, first, at one of the old warriors hung on the old wall, and almost spoke as if he repre- sented their host. “he seems remarkably clever." cora, at something in the sound, quite jumped about. “ then why don't you marry him yourself ?” mrs. gracedew gave a sort of happy sigh. “well, i've got fifty reasons! i rather think one of them must be that he hasn't happened to ask me." it was a speech, however, that her visitor could covering end broke away. “i really don't know what i want. i think,” she honestly admitted, “i just want kindness." mrs. gracedew's expression might have hinted- but not for too long—that bedford row was an odd place to apply for it: she appeared for an instant to make the revolving office-chair creak. “what do you mean by kindness ?”. cora was a model client-she perfectly knew. “i mean help.” mrs. gracedew closed an inkstand with a clap and locked a couple of drawers. “what do you mean by help ?" the client's inevitable answer seemed to perch on the girl's lips : “a thousand pounds." but it came out in another, in a much more charming form. “i mean that i love him.” the family solicitor got up: it was a high figure. “and does he love you ? " cora hesitated. “ask him." mrs. gracedew weighed the necessity. “where is he?" “waiting." and the girl's glance, removed from her companion and wandering aloft and through space, gave the scale of his patience. her adviser, however, required the detail. “but where?" cora briefly demurred again. “in that funny old grotto." mrs. gracedew thought. “funny ?” “half way from the park gate. it's very nice !" cora more eagerly added. mrs. gracedew continued to reflect. “oh, i know it !” she spoke as if she had known it most of her life. covering end things he's in"_and cora found herself sharp on this -“he's quite as good as papa himself. he has been away for three days, and if he met me at the station, where, on his way back, he has to change, it was by the merest chance in the world. i wouldn't love him," she brilliantly wound up, “if he wasn't nice.” "a man's always nice if you will love him !” mrs. gracedew laughed. her young friend more than met it. “he's nicer still if he 'will’ love you ! ” but mrs. gracedew kept her head. “nicer of course than if he won't! but are you sure this gentleman does love you ?” “as sure as that the other one doesn't." “ah, but the other one doesn't know you." “ yes, thank goodness—and never shall !” mrs. gracedew watched her a little, but on the girl's meeting her eyes turned away with a quick laugh. “you mean of course till it's too late!” “altogether!” cora spoke as with quite the measure of the time. mrs. gracedew, revolving a moment in silence, appeared to accept her showing. “then what's the matter ?" she impatiently asked. “the matter ?” “your father's objection to the gentleman in the grotto.” cora now for the first time faltered. “his name." this for a moment pulled up her friend, in whom, however, relief seemed to contend with alarm. “only his name?" “yes, but-_" cora's eyes rolled. covering end “six ?” mrs. gracedew, alert, looked as if that might be different. “papa, in the morning-room, told me them all.” mrs. gracedew visibly considered, then for a moment dropped mr. pegg. “and what are they ?”. “oh, all sorts. "marmaduke clement '" cora tried to recall. mrs. gracedew, however, had already checked her. “i see— marmaduke clement' will do.” she appeared for a minute intent, but, as with an energetic stoop, she picked up mr. pegg. “but so will yours," she said, with decision. “mine ?—you mean his !”. “the same thing—what you'll be." “mrs. hall pegg!”—cora tried it, with resolution, loudly. it fell a little flat in the noble space, but mrs. gracedew's manner quickly covered it. “it won't make you a bit less charming." cora wondered—she hoped. “only for papa.” and what was he? mrs. gracedew by this time seemed assentingly to ask. “never for me !" she soothingly declared. cora took this in with deep thanks that gripped and patted her companion's hand. “you accept it more than gracefully. but if you could only make him !" mrs. gracedew was all concentration. "him'? mr. pegg ?” "no—he naturally has to accept it. but papa.” she looked harder still at this greater feat, then seemed to see light. “well, it will be difficult—but i will.” covering end yet cora was so ready to oblige. “then what shall i do ? " mrs. gracedew turned away, but after a few vague steps faced her again. “kiss me." cora flew to her arms, and the compact had scarce been sealed before the younger of the parties was already at the passage to the front. “we meet of course at the station." mrs. gracedew thought. “if all goes well. but where shall you be meanwhile ?”. her confederate had no need to think. “can't you guess ?" the bang of the house-door, the next minute, so helped the answer to the riddle as fairly to force it, when she found herself alone, from her lips. “at that funny old grotto? well," she sighed, “i like funny old grottos !” she found herself alone, however, only for a minute ; mr. prodmore's formidable presence had darkened the door from the court. vii “my daughter's not here ?” he demanded from the threshold. “your daughter's not here.” she had rapidly got under arms. “but it's a convenience to me, mr. prodmore, that you are, for i've something very par- ticular to ask you." her interlocutor crossed straight to the morning- room. “i shall be delighted to answer your question, but i must first put my hand on miss prodmore." this hand the next instant stayed itself on the latch, and he appealed to the amiable visitor. “unless indeed she's occupied in there with captain yule ?” the amiable visitor met the appeal. “i don't think she's occupied—anywhere—with captain yule.” mr. prodmore came straight away from the door. “ then where the deuce is captain yule ?" the amiable visitor turned a trifle less direct. “his absence, for which i'm responsible, is just what renders the inquiry i speak of to you possible.” she had already assumed a most inquiring air, yet it was soon clear that she needed every advantage her manner could give her. “what will you take--? what will you take--?" covering end take it from you then that you know about my in- terest- ?" “everything !" said mrs. gracedew with a world of wit. “excuse me, madam !"-he himself was now more reserved. “you don't know everything if you don't know that my interest-considerable as it might well have struck you—has just ceased to exist. i've given it up”—mr. prodmore softened the blow_" for a handsome equivalent.” the blow fell indeed light enough. : “you mean for a handsome son-in-law ? " "it will be by some such description as the term you use that i shall doubtless, in the future, permit myself, in the common course, to allude to captain yule. unless indeed i call him- " but mr. prodmore dropped the bolder thought. “it will depend on what he calls me." mrs. gracedew covered him a moment with the largeness of her charity. “won't it depend a little on what your daughter herself calls him ? " mr. prodmore seriously considered. “no. that," he declared with delicacy, “will be between the happy pair." “am i to take it from you then-i adopt your excellent phrase,” mrs. gracedew said—“that miss prodmore has already accepted him ?" her companion, with his head still in the air, seemed to signify that he simply put it down on the table and that she could take it or not as she liked. “her character-formed by my assiduous care-enables me to locate her, i may say even to time her, from moment to covering end moment.” his massive watch, as he opened it, further sustained him in this process. “it's my assured con- viction that she's accepting him while we stand here." mrs. gracedew was so affected by his assured con- viction that, with an odd, inarticulate sound, she for- bore to stand longer-she rapidly moved away, taking one of the brief excursions of step and sense that had been for her, from the first, under the noble roof, so many dumb but decisive communions. but it was soon over, and she floated back on a wave that showed her to be, since she had let herself go, by this time quite in the swing and describing a considerable curve. “dear mr. prodmore, why are you so imprudent as to make your daughter afraid of you ? you should have taught her to confide in you. she has clearly shown me," she almost soothingly pursued, “that she can confide." mr. prodmore, however, suddenly starting, looked far from soothed. “she confides in you ?" “you may take it from me!” mrs. gracedew laughed. “let me suggest that, as fortune has thrown us together a minute, you follow her good example." she put out a reassuring hand-she could perfectly show him the way. “tell me, for instance, the ground of your objection to poor mr. pegg. i mean mr. pegg of bellborough, mr. hall pegg, the godson of your daughter's grandmother and the associate of his father in their flourishing house; to whom (as he is to it and to her,) miss prodmore's devotedly attached.” mr. prodmore had in the course of this speech availed himself of the support of the nearest chair, where, in spite of his subsidence, he appeared in his amazement covering end she received the remark with surprise. “then what have you been trying to buy ?” she had touched in himself even a sharper spring. “do you mean to say," he cried, “you want to buy that?” she stared at his queer emphasis, which was intensified by a queer grimace; then she turned from him with a change of colour and an ejaculation that led to nothing more, after a few seconds, than a somewhat conscious silence—a silence of which mr. prodmore made use to follow up his unanswered question with another. “is your proposal that i should transfer my investment to you for the mere net amount of it your conception of a fair bargain ?" this second inquiry, however, she could, as she slowly came round, substantially meet. “pray then what is yours ?” ' mine would be, not that i should simply get my money back, but that i should get the effective value of the house." mrs. gracedew considered it. “but isn't the effec- tive value of the house just what your money ex- presses?" · the lid of his hard left eye, the harder of the two, just dipped with the effect of a wink. “no, madam. it's just what yours does. it's more- over just what your lips have already expressed so distinctly!” she clearly did her best to follow him. “to those people—when i showed the place off ?” mr. prodmore laughed. “you seemed to be taking bids then!" she was candid, but earnest. “taking them ?” covering end “my astonishment's my own affair," he retorted— “not less so than my memory!” “oh, i yield to your memory," said the charming woman, “and i confess my extravagance. but quite, you know, as extravagance.” “i don't at all know,"—mr. prodmore shook it off- “nor what you call extravagance.” “why, banging the desk. raving. shrieking. i overdid it," she exclaimed; “i wanted to please you!" she had too happy a beauty, as she sat in her high- backed chair, to have been condemned to say that to any man without a certain effect. the effect on mr. prodmore was striking. “so you said,” he sternly inquired, “what you didn't believe ?” she flushed with the avowal. “yes—for you." he looked at her hard. “for me?" under his eye-for her flush continued—she slowly got up. “and for those good people.” “oh!”—he sounded most sarcastic. “should you like me to call them back ?”. "no." she was still gay enough, but very decided. “ i took them in.” “and now you want to take me ?" “oh, mr. prodmore!” she almost pitifully, but not quite adequately, moaned. he appeared to feel he had gone a little far. “well, if we're not what you say—_" “yes ?”—she looked up askance at the stroke. “why the devil do you want us ?” the question rang out and was truly for the poor lady, as the quick suffusion of her eyes showed, a challenge it would take more time than he left her properly to pick up. covering end he left her in fact no time at all before he went on: “why the devil did you say you'd offer fifty ?”. she looked quite wan and seemed to wonder. “did i say that ?” she could only let his challenge lie. “ it was a figure of speech!” “then that's the kind of figure we're talking about!” mr. prodmore's sharpness would have struck an auditor as the more effective that, on the heels of this thrust, seeing the ancient butler reappear, he dropped the victim of it as comparatively unim- portant and directed his fierceness instantly to chivers, who mildly gaped at him from the threshold of the court. “have you seen miss prodmore? if you haven't, find her!”. mrs. gracedew addressed their visitor in a very different tone, though with the full authority of her benevolence. “you won't, my dear man.” to mr. prodmore also she continued bland. “i happen to know she has gone for a walk.” “a walk-alone ?” mr. prodmore gasped. “no—not alone.” mrs. gracedew looked at chivers with a vague smile of appeal for help, but he could only give her, from under his bent old brow, the blank decency of his wonder. it seemed to make her feel afresh that she was, after all, alone—so that in her loneliness, which had also its fine sad charm, she risked another brush with their formidable friend. “cora has gone with mr. pegg.” “pegg has been here ?" it was like a splash in a full basin, but she launched the whole craft. “he walked with her from the station." covering end “when she arrived ?” mr. prodmore rose like out- raged neptune. “that's why she was so late ?" mrs. gracedew assented. “why i got here first. i get everywhere first !” she bravely laughed. mr. prodmore looked round him in purple dismay- it was so clearly a question for him where he should get, and what! “in which direction did they go ?” he imperiously asked. his rudeness was too evident to be more than lightly recognised. “i think i must let you ascertain for yourself !” all he could do then was to shout it to chivers. “call my carriage, you ass !” after which, as the old man melted into the vestibule, he dashed about blindly for his hat, pounced upon it and seemed, furious but helpless, on the point of hurling it at his contradictress as a gage of battle. “so you abetted and protected this wicked, low intrigue ?”. she had something in her face now that was in- different to any violence. “you're too disappointed to see your real interest: oughtn't i therefore in common charity to point it out to you ? " he faced her question so far as to treat it as one. “what do you know of my disappointment ?" there was something in his very harshness that even helped her, for it added at this moment to her sense of making out in his narrowed glare a couple of tears of rage. “i know everything." “what do you know of my real interest ? ” he went on as if he had not heard her. “i know enough for my purpose—which is to offer you a handsome condition. i think it's not i who have covering end “and when do you meet me?" “why, whenever you'll come to see me.” for the twentieth time she gathered herself as if the words she had just spoken were quite her last hand. “at present, you see, i have a train to catch.” absorbed in the trivial act that engaged him, he gave her no help. “a train ?”. “surely. i didn't walk.” “no; but even trains- !” his eyes clung to her now. “you fly ?” “i try to. good-bye." he had got between her and the door of departure quite as, on her attempt to quit him half an hour before, he had anticipated her approach to the stairs; and in this position he took no notice of her farewell. “i said just now that i had nothing to offer you. but of course i've the house itself.” “ the house?” she stared. “why, i've got it!” “ got it ?” “all in my head, i mean. that's all i want.” she had not yet, save to mr. prodmore, made quite so light of it. this had its action in his markedly longer face. “why, i thought you loved it so !" ah, she was perfectly consistent. “i love it far too much to deprive you of it.” yet clement yule could in a fashion meet her. “oh, it wouldn't be depriving— !” she altogether protested. “not to turn you out--?" “dear lady, i've never been in!” oh, she was none the less downright. “you're in covering end --- - up on the other bank—that put her dignity to the test. “you're just, in a manner, my tenant." “but how can i treat that as such a mere detail ? i'm your tenant on what terms ?" “oh, any terms—choose them for yourself !” she made an attempt to free her arm-- gave it a small vain shake. then, as if to bribe him to let her go: “you can write me about them." he appeared to consider it. “to missoura top ?”. she fully assented. “i go right back.” as if it had put him off his guard she broke away. “fare- well !" she broke away, but he broke faster, and once more, nearer the door, he had barred her escape. “ just one little moment, please. if you won't tell me your own terms, you must at least tell me prod- more's." ah, the fiend—she could never squeeze past that ! all she could do, for the instant, was to reverberate foolishly “prodmore's ?". but there was nothing foolish, at last, about him. “how you did it-how you managed him." his feet were firm while he waited, though he had to wait some time. “you bought him out ?”. she made less of it than, clearly, he had ever heard made of a stroke of business; it might have been a case of his owing her ninepence. “i bought him out." he wanted at least the exact sum. “for how much ?” her silence seemed to say that she had made no note of it, but his pressure only increased. “ i really must know." covering end noblest of women! the wonderful chance that brought you here !". his own arm was grasped now—she knew better than he about the wonderful chance. “it brought you at the same happy hour! i've done what i liked," she went on very simply; "and the only way to thank me is to believe it." “you've done it for a proud, poor man"-his answer was quite as direct. “he has nothing-in the light of such a magic as yours—either to give or to hope; but you've made him, in a little miraculous hour, think of you- he stumbled with the rush of things, and if silence can, in its way, be active, there was a collapse too, for an instant, on her closed lips. these lips, however, she at last opened. “how have i made him think of me ?" “as he has thought of no other woman!" he had personal possession of her now, and it broke, as he pressed her, as he pleaded, the helpless fall of his eloquence. “mrs. gracedew-don't leave me." he jerked his head passionately at the whole place and the yellow afternoon. “if you made me care—_" “it was surely that you had made me first!” she laughed, and her laugh disengaged her, so that before he could reply she had again put space between them. he accepted the space now—he appeared so sure of his point. “then let me go on caring. when i asked you a while back for some possible adjustment to my new source of credit, you simply put off the question -told me i must trust to time for it. well,” said clement yule, “i've trusted to time so effectually that covering end ten little minutes have made me find it. i've found it because i've so quickly found you. may i, mrs. gracedew, keep all that i've found ? i offer you in return the only thing i have to give—i offer you my hand and my life.” she held him off, across the hall, for a time almost out of proportion to the previous wait he had just made so little of. then at last also, when she answered, it might have passed for a plea for further postponement, even for a plea for mercy. “ah, captain yule !” but she turned suddenly off: the flower had been nipped in the bud by the re-entrance of chivers, at whom his master veritably glowered. “what the devil is it?" the old man showed the shock, but he had his duty. “another party." mrs. gracedew, at this, wheeled round. “the 'party up'!" it brought back her voice—indeed, all her gaiety. and her gaiety was always determinant. “ show them in.” clement yule's face fell while chivers proceeded to obey. “you'll have them ?” he wailed across the hall. “ah, mayn't i be proud of my house ? ” she tossed back at him. at this, radiant, he had rushed at her. “then you accept- ?" her raised hand checked him. “hush !" he fell back—the party was there. chivers ushered it as he had ushered the other, making the most, this time, of more scanty material—four persons so spectacled, satchelled, shawled and handbooked that covering end over the wide arch, and something happened, at the very moment, to arrest mrs. gracedew's eyes rather above than below. what took place, in a word, was that clement yule, already fidgetting in his impatience back from the front, just occupied the arch, completed her thought and filled her vision. “oh, that's my future husband!” he caught the words, but answered them only by a long look at her as he moved, with a checked wildness of which she alone, of all the spec- tators, had a sense, straight across the hall again and to the other opening. he paused there as he had done before, then with a last dumb appeal to her dropped into the court and passed into the garden. mrs. gracedew, already so wonderful to their visitors, was, before she followed him, wonderful with a greater wonder to poor chivers. “you dear old thing—i give it all back to you!” the end. printed by ballantyne, hanson & co. london & edinburgh an iridescent dream by john kendrick bangs alice in blunderland contents chapter i. off to blunderland . . . . ii. the immovable trolley . . iii. the aromatic gas plant. . . iv. the city-owned police . . . v. the municipaphone . . . vi. the department of public verse : vii. the municipal ownership of children page illustrations page the cheshire cat the march hare “listen here'". the municipal chewery the municipal toothery . “handing her a card” . . “ • put that fellow off'” . . . . “requested the hatter to crack a filbert for him” . . . . . . “'banged into the car ahead” ,. . the chief engineer . . . . . “ •it came to me like a flash!” . . “studying the economic theories of dr. wack'” . . . . . . “the white knight interfered" . . “in the matter of perfume it was fine'". “nobody could be gas-fixturated'” ... vii alice in blunderland page “wrote on the side of a convenient gas tank” . . . . . . " "i'm the soundest sleeper in town'" . “ tea is served on every corner'". . "we respond immediately to the call'” “made off with the agility of an antelope" “you can talk all you please'" . . “. fined five dollars '” . . . . “the dictionary we are compiling'” . “alice transfixed at the phone" . . “the biggest jackass from dan to beer- sheba'". . . . . “ 'larger measure than was the custom'” “greeted by the commissioner, the haber- dasher" . . . . . . “ 'it runs this way, your honour'” . “our thinking department'". . . “when they think nobody's looking'". "if you get into trouble, use this'”. “seizing her by the arm” . . . “why-have i-i really fallen?'" .. i viij chapter i off to blunderland tt was one of those dull, drab, de- pressing days when somehow or other it seemed as if there wasn't any- thing anywhere for anybody to do. it was raining outdoors, so that alice could not amuse herself in the garden, or call upon her friend little lord fauntleroy up the street; and downstairs her mother was giving a bridge party for the benefit of the m. o. hot tamale company, which had lately fallen upon evil days. alice's mother was a very charitably disposed person, and while she loathed gambling in all its forms, was nevertheless willing for the sake of a good cause to forego her principles on alternate thursdays, but she was very particular that her little daughter should be kept aloof from alice in blunderland contaminating influences, so that alice found herself locked in the nursery and, as i have already intimated, with nothing to do. she had read all her books—the house of mirth, the novels of hall caine and marie corelli —the operation for appendicitis upon her dollie, while very successful indeed, had left poor flaxilocks without a scrap of sawdust in her veins, and therefore unable to play; and worst of all, her pet kitten, under the new city law making all felines public property, had grown into a regular cat and appeared only at mealtimes, and then in so dis- reputable a condition that he was not thought to be fit company for a child of seven. “oh dear!” cried alice impatiently, as she sat rocking in her chair, listening to the pattering of the rain upon the roof of the veranda. “i do wish there was something to do, or somebody to do, or somewhere to go. the gov'ment ought to provide covered playgrounds for . off to blunderland children on wet days. it wouldn't cost much to put a glass cover on the park!” “a very good idea! i'll make a note of that,” said a squeaky little voice at her side. alice sprang to her feet in surprise. she had supposed she was alone, and for a moment she was frightened, but a glance around reassured her, for strange to say, seated on the radiator warming his toes was her old friend the hatter, the queer old chap she had met in her marvellous hop trip through wonder- land, and with him was the march hare, the cheshire cat, and the white knight from looking glass land. “why—you dear old things!” she cried. “you here?” “i don't know about these others, but i'm here," returned the hatter. “the others seem to be here, but i the cheshire cat alice in blunderland respectfully decline to take my solemn daffydavy on the subject, because my doctor says i'm all the time seeing things that ain't. besides i don't believe in swearing." “we're here all right," put in the march hare. “i know because we ain't anywhere else, and when you ain't any- where else you can make up your mind that you're here." “well, i'm awfully glad to see you," said alice. “i've been so lonesome " “we know that," said the white knight. “we've been studying your case lately and we thought we'd come down and see what we could do for you. the fact is the hatter here has founded a model city, where every- thing goes just right, and we came to ask you to pay us a call.” the march hare off to blunderland ii ha siyle - municipal chewer tame as a fly or any other highly domes- ticated animal.” “but how?” asked alice. “you aren't going to do this yourself, are you? single handed and alone?” “yes," said the hatter. “the march hare and the white knight and i. we've started a city to do it with. we've sprinkled our streets with rough on copperations until there isn't one left in the place. everything in town belongs to the people—street cars, gut- ters, pavements, theatres, electric light, cabs, manicures, dogs, cats, canary birds, hotels, barber shops, candy stores, hats, raw product ecc. wurzorgd masticated product for young lh se lold waste the municipal chewery alice in blunderland umbrellas, bakeries, cakeries, steakeries, shops, you can't think of a thing that the city don't own. no more private ownership of anything from a toothbrush to a yacht, and the result is we are all happy.” “it sounds fine," said alice. “though i think i should rather own my own toothbrush." “you naturally would under the old system,” assented the hatter. “under a system of private ownership owning your own teeth you'd prefer to own your own toothbrush, but our council has just passed a law making teeth public prop- erty. you see we found that some people had teeth and other people hadn't, which is hardly a fair condition under a repub- lican form of government. it gave one class of citizens a distinct advantage over other people and the declaration of independence demands absolute equality for all. one man owning his own teeth could eat all the hickory nuts he wanted alice in blunderland cent. bond costing two cents to print. when he cracks a hickory nut for the public, the man he cracks it for pays him a cent. he rings this up on a cash register he carries pinned to his vest, and at the end of every week turns in the cash to the city treasury. that money is used to pay the interest on the bonds. the scheme has the additional advantage that it makes a man's teeth negotiable property in the sense that whereas under the old system he couldn't very well sell his teeth, under the new system he can sell the bond if he gets hard up. more- over, the city government having acquired control has to pay all his dentist's bills, supply tooth powder and so on, which results in a great saving to the individual. it hardly costs the city anything, except for the tooth inspector, who is paid $ , a year, but we can handle that easily enough, provided the people will use the public teeth in sufficiently large numbers to bring in chapter ii the immovable trolley that an extraordinary car,” said alice, as she stepped into the brilliantly lighted vehicle. “it doesn't seem to have any end to it,” she added as she passed down the aisle, looking for the front platform. “it hasn't,” said the hatter. “it just runs on forever.” “doesn't it stop anywhere?” cried alice in amazement. “it stops everywhere,” said the hatter. “what i mean is it hasn't any ends at all. it's just one big circular car that runs all around the city and joins itself where it began in the beginning. we call it the m. o. express, m. o. standing for municipal ownership " “and money owed,” laughed a the immovable trolley i an inch, and yet at the same time it runs all around the city. it was my idea,'' he added proudly. “but you said it was fast,” protested alice. “and so it is, my child,” said the hatter kindly. “it's as fast as though it was glued down with mucilage. there's several ways of being fast, you know. did you ever hear of the ballade of the nancy p. d. q.?”. “no,” said alice. “it's a sea song in b flat," said the hatter. “i will sing it for you." and placing his hat before his lips to give a greater mellowness to his voice, the hatter sang: the ballade of the nancy p. d. q. o the good ship nancy p. d. q. from up in boston, mass., went sailing o'er the bounding blue cargoed with apple sass. the immovable trolley o the skipper swore with a “yeave-ho-ho!” and the crew replied “hi-hi!” and then, with a cheerful “heave-ho-yo," they pumped the bowsprit dry. "three cheers!” the mate cried with a sneeze “hurrah for this old boat! she sails two knots before the breeze, but on the bar, by jingo, she's the fastest thing afloat!” so up with the gallant flag, my lads, with a hip-hip-hip-hooroo, for the liner fast is now outclassed by the nancy p. d. q. alice scratched her chin in perplexity, but the hatter never stopped. “i got an idea from that ballad," he rattled on. “if you want trains fast you've got to build 'em fast.” “yes, but if they don't go—how does anybody get anywhere?” asked alice. “they can get off and walk," said the hatter. “and it's a great deal less dangerous getting off a train that doesn't move than off one that does." alice in blunderland “i can see that,” said alice. "that weasel, for instance, would have been badly hurt if he had been thrown through the window of a moving car." leven "requested the hatter to crack a filbert for him" “that's it exactly,” said the hatter. “as alderman march hare puts it, we m. o. people are after the comfort and safety of the people first, last and all the the immovable trolley manners and expert motoring didn't seem to go together, and in consequence we had a fearful lot of collisions at first. i don't think there was a whole back round st creml st. in street closed jonaccount of not repairs "banged into the car ahead" platform in the outfit at the end of the week, no matter which way the car was going.” “must have been awful,” said alice. “it was,” said the hatter, “and the public began to complain. one man who the immovable trolley only way to prevent collisions, said he, is to cut the ends off the cars. that was it, wasnt it, judge?” he added, turning to the white knight. “yes,” said the knight, “ only i put it in poetry. my precise words were the only way that i can find to stop this car colliding stunt is cutting off the end behind and likewise that in front.” “splendid!” cried alice, clapping her hands in glee. “that's fine.” “thank you,” said the white knight. “you see, miss alice, i made a personal study of collisions. the mayor here ordered a fresh one every day for me to investigate, and i noticed that whenever two cars bunked into each other it was always at the ends and never in the middle. the conclusion was inevitable. the ends being the venerable spot, abolish them." "a very careful and conscientious alice in blunderland public ser- vant,” whis- pered the march hare aside to alice. “when we have munici- pal owner- ship of the federal gov- ernment we're going to put him on the supreme court bench. he means vulnerable when he says venerable, but you mustn't mind that. when we have municipal owner- ship of the english language we'll make the words mean what we want 'em to." “then of course the question arose as to how we could do this,” said the hatter. “i got the chief engineer of our department of public works to make some experiments, and would you believe aten loms "the chief engineer" the immovable trolley you established it?” asked alice, whose father had once run for mayor, and who therefore knew something about politics. “no,” said the hatter with an easy laugh. “but we will have one in the spring. we shall be reëlected all right.” “how do you know?” asked alice. “if the people don't like municipal ownership ” "o, but they do,” said the hatter. “you see, miss alice, we have employed a safe majority of the voters in the various departments of our m. o. sys- tem, their terms expiring coincidentally with our own—so if they vote against us they vote against themselves. it really makes municipal ownership self- perpetrating.” “he means perpetuating,” whispered the march hare. “ah,” said alice. “i see." just then a heavy gong like a huge fire alarm sounded and all the passengers sprang to their feet and made for the doors, chapter iii the aromatic gas plant after the little party had descended from the marvellous trolley, con- cerning which the march hare observed, most properly, that under private owner- ship nothing so safe and sane would ever have been thought of, they walked along a beautiful highway, bordered with rose- bushes, oleanders and geraniums, until they came to a lovely little park at the entrance to which was a huge sign announcing that within was the blunderland gas plant. to tell the truth alice had not cared particularly to visit the gas works, because she had once been driven through what was known at home as the gas- house district on her way to the ferry, the aromatic gas plant consequence everything we do is con- ceived in a spirit of courtesy. the gas- houses under private ownership have not been what you would call polite. they were almost invariably heavy, rude, star- ing structures that reared themselves offensively in the public eye, and our first effort was to subliminate ” “ee-liminate,” whispered the march hare. “i beg your pardon, mr. hare,” retorted the hatter. “i did not mean ee-liminate, which means to suppress, but subliminate, which means to sub- limify or make sublime. i guess i know my own language.” “excuse me,” said the march hare meekly. “i haven't studied the m. o. dictionary beyond the letter q, mr. mayor, and i was not aware that the common council had as yet passed favourably upon subliminate, either,” he added with some feeling. “that is because it was not until alice in blunderland yesterday that the copperation council decided that subliminate was a constitu- tional word," said the hatter sharply. “in view of his report to me, which i wrote myself and therefore know the provisions of, he states that subliminate is a perfectly just and proper word involv- ing no infringement upon the rights of others, and in no wise impairing the value of innocent vested interests, and is there- fore legal. therefore, i shall use it whether the common council approves it or not. if they resolve that it is not a good word, i shall veto the resolution. if you don't like it i'll send you your resignation." "that being the case," said the march hare, “i withdraw my objections." “which,” observed the hatter tri- umphantly, turning to alice, “shows you, my dear young lady, the very great value of the municipal ownership idea as applied to the board of aldermen. as the white knight put it in one of his i the aromatic gas plant poetical reports printed in volume , of the copperation council's opinions for october, , page , a city may not own its gas, its barber shops, or cars it may not raise asparagrass, or run official bars; it may not own a big hotel or keep a public hen, but it will always find it well to own its aldermen. when aldermen were owned by private interests the public interests suffered, but in this town where the city fathers be- long to the city they have to do what the city tells them to, or get out.” it sounds good,” was all that alice could think of to say. “what i was trying to tell you when the alderman interpolated—” the hat- ter went on. “there he goes again!” growled the march hare. the aromatic gas plant lat cactus plant that could be used for a sofa cushion—why, i asked myself, could he not develop a gas-plant that will put forth flowers the perfume of which should make that of the violet, and the rose, sink into inoculated desoupitude?”. “it hardly seems possible, does it?” said alice. “to a private mind it presents in- superable difficulties," said the hatter, “but to a public mind like my own nothing is impossible. if a man can do a seemingly impossible thing with one plant there is no reason why he shouldn't do a seemingly impossible thing with another plant, so i immediately wrote to professor burbank offering him a hundred thousand dollars in blund- erland deferred debenture gas improve- ment bonds a year to come here and see what he could do to transmogrify our gas-plant.” “oh, i am so glad,” cried alice de- lightedly. “i should so love to meet alice in blunderland mr. burbank and thank him for inventing the coreless apple ”. “you don't means the corliss engine, do you?” asked the white knight. “well, i'm sorry," said the hatter, "but mr. burbank wouldn't come unless we'd pay him real money, which, although we don't publish the fact broadcast, is not in strict accord with the highest principles of municipal ownership. we contend that when people work for the common weal they ought to be satisfied to receive their pay in the common wealth, and under the m. o. system the most common kind of wealth is represented by bonds. consequently we wrote again to mr. burbank, and expressed our regret that a man of his genius should care more for his own selfish interests than for the public weal, and as a sort of sarcasm on his meanness i enclosed five of our guaranteed extension four per cents to pay for the two-cent stamp he had put upon his letter.” the aromatic gas plant man who will find it possible must be somebody who never knew anything about the old way of making gas, and nobody in the whole world knew less about it than i. manifestly then i became the chosen instrument to work the reform, so i plunged in and you really can't imagine how easy it all turned out. i had no old prejudices in gas-making to overcome, no set, finicky ideas to serve as obstacles to progress, and inside of a week i had it. i filled the gas tanks half full of cologne, and then pumped hot air through them until they were chock full. i figured it out that cologne was nothing more than alcohol flavoured with axio- matic oils " “aromatic," interrupted the march hare, forgetting himself for the moment. the hatter frowned heavily upon the alderman, and there is no telling what would have happened had not the white knight interfered to protect the offender. “it's still an open question, mr. alice in blunderland all day, so that in the mere matter of consumption twice as much of my aro- matic illuminating air was cologne “ in the matter of perfume it was fine” used in a week as the companies had charged for under the old system, and we used the same metres, too. in addi- tion to this, as a mere life-saving device, my invention proved to have a wonderful value. in the first place nobody could blow it out and be found gas-fixturated the next morning— " “good word that—so much more expressive than the old privately owned alice in blunderland all the time in our administration and it is wonderful what results you can get from it,” he went on. “but it wouldn't light. in fact when anybody tried to light it, such was the pressure, it blew out the match, which i regard as an additional point in its favour. if we have gas that blows out matches the minute the match is applied to it, does not that reduce the chance of fire from the careless habit some people have of throwing lighted matches into the waste-basket?” “it most certainly does,” said the white knight gravely, and in such tones of finality that alice did not venture to dispute his assertion. “we're all agreed upon that point," said the hatter. “but there were com- plaints of course. some people, mostly capitalists who were rich enough to have libraries of their own, complained that they couldn't read nights because the gas wouldn't light. i replied that if they wanted to read they could go to the alice in blunderland “good!” cried alice. “how did they do it?” “they passed a resolution," said the hatter, “unanimously declaring the aro matic hot-air to be gas of the most excellent quality, and made it a misde- meanor for anybody to say that it wasn't. i signed the ordinance and from that minute on our gas was gas by law.” “still,” said alice, “those people had already said it wasn't. did they back down?” “most of 'em did,” laughed the hatter. “and the rest were fined $ apiece and sent to jail for six months. you see we made the law sufficiently retroactive to grab the whole bunch. since then there have been no com- plaints." whereupon the hatter invited alice to stroll through the gas-plant with him, which the little girl did, and declared it later to have been sweeter than a walk through a rose-garden, which causes me alice in blunderland trol of the tax assessors, and the town toper, being elected by popular vote, could get as leery as he pleased by public consent. life insurance agents became likewise public servants under the gen- eral ordinance of starting the civic tontine parlours where people were com- pelled to buy life insurance from the city itself at so much a yard.” “a yard?” cried alice. “yep,” yawned the dormouse. “pol- icies were issued anywhere from three inches to a yard long, each inch represent- ing a year. if you bought a mile of life insurance you were insured for as many years as there are inches in a mile. i never could stay awake long enough to figure out how much that is, but it's several years." “but what did the agents have to do?” asked alice. “if people had to take it- " “they went out and grabbed delin- quents,” said the dormouse, the city-owned police “i shouldn't think people would need life insurance for the benefit of their fam- ilies if everybody has everything he wants in blunderland," put in alice. “they don't,” said the dormouse, rapping his head with his club to keep from dropping off to sleep. “it ain't for the benefit of their families—it's for the benefit of the city. a city like this can use benefits to great advantages most all the time. but you see the results of municipalising all sorts of crime from straight burglary up to life insurance resulted in the police having nothing to do. there wasn't anybody to arrest, or to quell, or to club, and so they turned us into a social organisation and that's where tea drinking comes in strong. every afternoon at five o'clock, tea is served on every corner in blunderland by the policeman on beat. they have become quite a public function, but they're a trifle hard on the police who don't care for tea, because we have to be the city-owned police with him until he is quiet again. once last winter a chap with three pairs of twins six months, a year and a half, and three years old respectively, had to send for the patrol wagon. all six of 'em “we respond immediately to the call" waked up and began to squall at once and we sent seven ossifers and a sergeant up to look after them. they had to parade around that house from a. m. until seven-thirty before those babies quit yelling." just at this moment the dormouse alice in blunderland de was interrupted in his story by a raggedly dressed old man on a pair of crutches who begged an alms of him. “only a dollar, sir,” he asked pite- ously. “only a dollar to relieve a terrible case of distress.” “certainly, simpkins," said the dor- mouse kindly. “i—well i'll be jig- gered—” he added, feeling through his pockets. “i must have left my money at home. maybe this young lady can help you out. miss alice, permit me to introduce you to simpkins. he's the most successful beggar in nineteen counties.” “glad to meet you,” said alice, shaking hands with simpkins. “you couldn't spare a dollar, could you, miss?” whined the beggar. "it will relieve a terrible case of distress ma'am.” “why—yes,” said alice, suddenly remembering that she had a silver dollar in her pocket. “here it is." alice in blunderland “which,” said he proudly, “i consider to be the most democraticising thing i have ever invented. you can talk all you please about universal brotherhood, unlimited sisterhood, and the infinity of unclehood, but all of these movements put together haven't done as much to promote the equality of everybody as that municipaphone idea of mine." alice thought the cheshire cat's grin expanded slightly as the hatter spoke, but she was not sure, although he most assuredly did wink at her. “i should admire to see it,” she said. “what is it, just?”. “it is the result of the municipal ownership of the telephone,” returned the hatter proudly. “we have taken over everything that works by electricity -electric lighting, the telegraph, the telephone " “even the thunder and lightning,” interrupted the white knight. “and under our management everything runs the municipaphone so smoothly that even the lightning doesn't strike any more. that's a great thing in municipal ownership. there aren't any more strikes under it.” “what he says is true, my child," said the hatter, “and in time we expect to get the thunder itself under control so that it will serve some useful purpose—i don't know yet exactly what, but i am having experiments made in storage batteries which will catch and hold the thunder with the idea of saving the noise it makes for fire-crackers, or presidential salutes, or other things and occasions where the fracturing of silence seems desirable. surely if we can take elec- tricity and under suitable municipal supervision make it serve as a substitute for a tallow dip, why shouldn't we extract the reverberance with which it is fraught to add to the general clangour of joyous occasions?” “no reason at all,” said alice. “i wonder no one has ever thought of that the municipaphone the question, but for the mere fact that theer-wash-lady dared ring her up at all.” "exactly,” said the hatter, with a bland smile of satisfaction. “this muni- cipaphone controlled by strict rules which people must obey is a great social leveller.” “but why did central want my name and address?” asked alice. "because central has to keep a record of all that everybody says for the inspec- tor of personal communications,” ex- plained the hatter. “every word you and mrs. smythe spoke was recorded at the central office, and if either of you had used any expression stronger than fudge, or tutt you would have been fined five dollars for each expression and repetition thereof. we expect to estab- lish civic control of public and private speech within the next year, and we have begun it with supervision of the muni- cipaphone.” “but, cried alice, “if i had said alice in blunderland groupana something that required a fine, wouldn't mrs. o'flaherty, who is innocent, have had to pay?” “yes," said the hatter. “but in all cases where the public welfare is con- cerned, private in- terests must yield how- ever great the hard- ship. that is one of the fundamen- tal princi- ples of municipal ownership. mrs. o'flaherty would have to suffer in order that the great prin- ciple involved in polite speech for all classes might prevail. the strict en- forcement of our anti-gosh legislation has resulted almost in the complete elimination of profane speech in blunder- bebang "fined five dollars" the municipaphone land so much so in fact that in the new dictionary we are compiling such words as golramit, dodgastit, and goshallhemlocks are being left out alto- gether.” office of the mo. dictionary “it is a great moral agency," said the white knight. “it increases the self-respect of the submerged, curbs the pride of the rich, and holds in complete subjection those evil communications which corrupt good manners.” “and nothing but the result of municipal owner- ship,” put in the march hare enthusi- astically, for- getting his grouch for a moment. "it has other advan- tages, too,” said the hatter, “to which i a / sosolon dognarny gol ramit gos gone ding bustie dadbura dodgastit the dictionary we are compiling the municipaphone this municipaphone is to us in ascertain- ing the general trend of public opinion.” the hatter gave the order to central and in a minute alice stood transfixed at the phone listening intently. she recognised the voice of the duchess immediately. * the biggest jackass from dan to beersheba” “as for that old fool of a hatter," she was saying, “he is the biggest jack- ass from dan to beersheba.” “well?” said the hatter. “can you hear her?” “yes,” giggled alice. “very plainly." “what does she say?" asked the hatter, simpering. alice in blunderland get married too thoughtlessly. just be- cause they happen to love each other they go off and get married, but under municipal control it would be much more difficult for a man or a woman to take so serious a step. for instance, if i had my way the common council would have to be asked for permission for a man to marry. the question would come up in the form of a bill, which would immediately be referred to the committee on matrimony, who would discuss it very thoroughly before bringing it before the council. if a majority of the committee considered that the application should be granted, then the matter should be placed before the whole council, by which it should be debated in open public ses- sions, the applicant having been invited to appear and under cross-examination by the district attorney demonstrate his fitness to be married. all others knowing any reason why he should not be married should also have the oppor- alice in blunderland just said, we give larger measure than was the custom under the private owner- ship of pegasus. quatrains have been increased from four lines to twenty-three, and the old stingy fourteen-line sonnet has been enlarged to fifty-four lines. we have also passed an ordinance requiring that poems shall say what they mean, which is a vast im- provement on the old private control meth- od whereunder any- body was allowed to write rhymes which “ larger measure than was nobody could under- stand-like that thing of miss arethusa spink's, for instance, called aspiration. remember that?” “i don't think i ever heard it,” said alice. "well it went this way,” said the poem ovo poetrs “ larger measure than was the custom” public verse to hear that new limerick of yours," said the commissioner. “thanky sir,” said wiggins. “it runs this way, your honour. there was an old lady named jane who sat on a fence at schoharie. a rooster came by and crew like the deuce but tane never scared for a cent. “that's great,” said the hatter. “don't you think so, miss alice?" “why yes,” said alice, “but-does it rhyme?” “perfectly,” replied the hatter," that is, under our system. when we organ- ised this department to facilitate busi- ness and avoid the waste of time looking for rhymes we legalised such rhymes as schoharie and cent and by and deuce. by that act we found that where one man could only turn out limericks a day under the old system, any ablebodied- poet can write , in the same number alice in blunderland of hours. that's very good, wiggins," he added turning to the workman. “i shall recommend the commissioner to promote you to an inspectorship in the sonnet works.” “thanky sir," said the poet, as he blushingly bowed himself out. “here,” said the commissioner, opening a door leading into a long, darkened chamber, "here, young lady, is our thinking “our thinking department”. department." alice passed into the darkness and dimly made out a half a hundred long- haired individuals sitting in comfortable morris chairs, their forefingers pressed hard against their brows and their eyes gazing fixedly out into space. “these men and women think the thoughts which our municipal poetry is designed to express,” the commissioner public verse continued. "a thought once seized by any one of them is written down upon a pad, and then taken into this next room where it is classified and assigned to the line cutters who turn out the first draft in the rough. then when this is done it is sent to the rhyming room where the lines are made to end in rhymes, and finally it goes to the polishing room where the poem is made ready for publication." “it's a wonderful system,” said the hatter. “it not only improves the quality of our poetry, but in campaign times it is a great help, since we control absolutely all the campaign poetry. when i run for mayor next fall to succeed myself there won't be a single poem written on the other side.” “that ought to be a great help,” said alice. “yes," said the hatter. "it will be. every employee in this department will not only vote for me but will work for me as well. same way in the gas plant alice in blunderland and the trolley—in fact in all the city departments. it is only another evi- dence of the very great value of municipal ownership. it is uncertainty in political times that upsets business, but with the municipality in control of all these de- partments from gas to poetry there is no uncertainty about who will win, so that business is not unsettled by it.” “wonderful,” said alice. "by the way, mr. commissioner, you'd better start the rhyming bureau on the search for rhymes to hatter at once," said the mayor. “we don't want to be caught unprepared at the last minute.” “the list is being compiled now," replied the commissioner. “we already have, matter, batter, tatter, smatter patter, ratter, spatter and scatter." “fine!” chortled the hatter. “don't forget chatter," put in alice. “thank you—i'll make a note of it," said the commissioner. public verse “what was that?” demanded the hatter. “giving the election commission ab- solute control over the votes, and then appointing yourself election commis- sioner ex-officio," said the march hare. “i don't believe that municipal control of the ballot is constitutional.” "well, it will be constitutional," said the hatter drily. “when?" demanded the march hare. “when we secure municipal control of the constitution,” said the hatter. “i'll make it constitutional if i have to rewrite the whole blessed constitution myself.” whereupon the hatter walked ma- jestically forth into the street once more, and alice and the march hare together with the white knight followed meekly in his train. ownership of children iii "i want to go home,” she whimpered. “certainly—as you wish,” said the hatter. “we'll take you there at once. come along." reassured by the hatter's kindly manner alice took her companion's out- stretched hand and they walked along the highway together until they came to a handsome apartment house fronting upon a beautiful park, where the hatter pressed an electric button at one side of the massive entrance. the response to the bell was immediate, and alice was pleased to find that the person to answer was none other than the duchess herself. “why, how-di-doo,” said the duchess affably. “glad to see you again, miss alice.” “thank you,” said alice. “it is very nice to be here. do you live in this beautiful building ?” “yes,” said the duchess. “you see, i've just been appointed commissioner ii alice in blunderland of maternity. i'm what you might call the official mother of the town. since that great statesman, the hatter”—here the duchess winked graciously at the march hare—“devised his crowning achievement in the municipal control of the children and appointed me to be the head of the department, i have been stationed here." “and a mighty good old mother she is!” ejaculated the hatter with fervour. “palaverer!” said the duchess coyly. “not at all,” said the hatter. "i speak not as a man, but as a mayor, and what i say is to be construed as an official tribute to a faithful and deserving public servant." “servant, sir?” repeated the duchess haughtily. “in the american sense,” said the hatter with a low bow. “in the sense that the servant is as good as, if not better than the employer, madam,” ownership of children a dipla honours. in the matright, a “that man's a perfect dipsomaniac,” said the march hare. “diplomat, man-diplomat,” cor- rected the white knight. “a dipso- maniac is a very different thing from a diplomat. consuls may be dipsomaniacs, but a diplomat is a man worthy of am- bassadorial honours." “oh i see,” said the march hare. “well-he's a diplomat all right, all right.” “how are things going to-day, duchess?” asked the hatter. “children happy?” “they will be in time,” said the duchess. “so many of them have been brought up so far on the ladies' home fournal system that it is hard to intro- duce the new blunderland method with- out friction.” “i was afraid of that,” said the hatter. “how does the compulsory soda-water regulation work?”. “splendidly,” said the duchess. alice in blunderland “since i started in in january to make the children drink five glasses of vanilla cream soda every day as a matter of routine and duty, sixty per cent. of them have come to hate it. i think that by the end of the year we shall have stamped out the love of soda almost entirely. the same way with caramels and other can- dies in place of beef. we have caramels for breakfast, gum-drops for dinner and marshmallows for tea, regularly, and last night seventeen of the children presented a petition asking for beef- steak, mutton chops and boiled rice. i have a firm conviction that when the new law, requiring beef to be sold at candy stores, and compelling those in charge of the young to teach them that boiled rice and hominy are bad for the teeth, goes into effect, we shall find the children clamouring for wholesome food as eagerly as they do now for things that ruin their little tummies." “it's a splendid system-and how ownership of children have a right to sell their votes for $ apiece " “mercy!” cried alice. “why, that is—that is terrible.” "it certainly is,” said the march hare ruefully. “it's more than terrible, it's rotten. here i've been holding out for $ , for mine, and these duffers want to go in for a cut rate that will absolutely ruin the business.” “it's a very important matter," said the hatter. “after all our striving to elevate the people we don't want them to make themselves too cheap. for my part i don't think they should let go of a vote on any question for less than $ , .” “that's all right, mr. mayor,” said the white knight. “but you don't want to frighten capital, you know." “well, you and i disagree on that point,” said the mayor. “capital isn't at all necessary to the success of our schemes. my watchword is bonds, and as long as i have a printing press to print alice in blunderland 'em, and a fountain pen to sign 'em i'm not going to be influenced one way or another by a feeling of subserviency to the capitalist class. good night, miss alice. glad to have met you and i hope you will have a pleasant time with the duchess. here,” he added, taking a beautifully printed green and gold paper from his pocket, “here is a blanket mortgage % deferred debenture bond on the main street ferry of a par value of $ , payable in , as a souvenir of your visit.” “a hundred thousand dollars,” cried alice. “for me?” "no," corrected the hatter. “a hundred thousand dollar bond. you don't get the money until , and not then unless you present it in person to the city treasurer.” with which munificent gift the hatter respectfully bowed himself away and made off, followed by the march hare. “good-bye, alice," said the white ownership of children undress dolls until one, when your caramel will be given to you, after which you will skip the rope and read fairy stories until six. you must drink five glasses of soda-water every day and will not be allowed to go to bed before eleven o'clock at night. hurry now, and get your hair mussed and your hands dirty for dinner. the first course of whipped cream and roasted chestnuts will be served promptly at six-thirty." . “but,” cried alice, “i don't want to stay here i want to go home.” “you are home," said the duchess. “this is the municipal home of the children of blunderland.” “but i want my father and mother," whimpered alice. “the city is your father, my child, and i am officially your mother," said the duchess. “you are not!” cried alice, “you are trying to kidnap me!-i'll—i'll call the police." alice in blunderland “dear me, alice,” said her mother. “i hope you haven't hurt yourself.” “no,” said alice. “why-have i -i really fallen?” “you most certainly have off the sofa,” laughed her mother. “where “wey-have - i really fallen ? " have you been?" she added. “in wonderland again?” .“no,” said alice. “in blunderland —this time." which struck her father, when he heard the story of her adventures later, as a very apt and descriptive title for the m. o. country. - jfc - nypl research libraries jack o-lantern mary: t. waggaman moane e east in puza - t mabame Ľ enc. .. pun& n- wagon jack-o-lantern. mary t. waggaman. . benziger brothers new york, cincinnati, chicago : benziger brothers, [ the new york public liczary b astor, lox and tilden fodations b l coryniast, s by benzioer brothers printed in the united states of america. contents chapter l a pront... chapter ii. heatherton hall...... ....... chapter iii. jack-o'-lantern.-. chapter iv. light and shadow .......... ................. - parotid apr chapter v. a kriendly ghost............................ chapter vl. a trip to roxton........ contents. chapter vii. old mes......... chapter viii. little mins heatherton........... chapter ix. two little truants. ....................... chapter x. through the storm. ...... chapter xi. a golden sunset.... . . chapter xil “the one ewe lamb"....................... chapter xiii. conclusion............ ................ jack-o'-lantern. chapter i. Å flight. “ mountain air,” said doctor doane, as he scribbled the prescription-paper on his broad knee-“mountain air is what the boy needs, madam. you may give him this mix- ture three times a day," and the great medical oracle handed the bit of folded wisdom to the anxious mother; “but it is not physic the youngster wants. it is mountain air, and ous atmosphere during the heated term-well, you must take the consequences.” and the famous doctor rose with the air of a man who knows his time to be worth a dollar a minute; and patting dickie's golden head, hurried a flight. away quite regardless of the knell he had left sounding in the loving mother's ear-the icy chill of fear he had sent to her loving heart. mountain air! the doctor talked as if it could be bought at sixpence a bottle. moun- tain air when the great breezy peaks over which swept the life-giving elixir were one hundred miles away; when, besides dickie, there were four sturdy, active young lind- says bursting buttons and outgrowing frocko in a way that kept mamma's fingers busy from morning until night, while their healthy ap- petites made papa’s monthly bills very serious mathematical problems indeed. mountain air ! when this pretty little bird-box of a house was leased for three years, and there were just twenty dollars cash in the family purse for possible contingencies. “is consequences bad to take, mamma ?” asked blue-eyed dickie, evidently reflecting on the doctor's parting words. “is it worse than cod-liver oil ?” “oh, yes, my baby, my baby!” answered his mother, clasping him to her breast and hiding her face for a moment in his curls. for dickie had been ailing weeks now, and the blue eyes had a starry light, the little face lo a flight. and dropping on her knees by the sleeping child, she buried her face on his pillows and wept softly and unrestrainedly, as she prayed that god would spare her darling. but quiet prayers and tears are luxuries not reserved for the mothers of five. screened by the woollen table-cover under which he had retired to surreptitiously demol- ish the last new magazine, rogue robin surveyed the pitiful scene with wide-open eyes of dismay. rogue robin was just six, with a tangle of auburn curls falling over a milk-white brow, and the face of an adoring angel. yet not undeservedly had rogue robin received his pet name. behind that cherubic visage lurked the veriest imp of mischief that ever ran rampant in a household. there was little that rogue robin had not tried within his brief but active career. he had been rescued from a polar exploration on the roof of the house, dragged by the heels from the nursery chimney, caught by the waistband as he was making a downward flight from a third-story window, and extracted by a be- nevolent bachelor's umbrella-hook from the neighboring sewer. a flight so often had he been “ brought back" by the friendly grip of the law from fights, fires, funerals, circuses, and all public functions at- tended with horses or music, that officer magee at the corner was on most cordial and paternal terms with him. “kape to your bate, rogue robin. i've got me eye on ye,” was the cheery remin- der. but roar, fight, and shout as the rogue could and did in all emergencies, he never cried. therefore as he peered out of his hid- ing-place to-day with the last page of the demolished magazine in his hand, and saw mamma, whose unfailing smile made the sun- shine of the home, in tears by dickie's side, terror seized upon him. he scurried unseen from the room and slid down the banisters just in time to thump into sixteen-year-old fred as he came rushing in to lunch. “look out, there! what's the matter with you, rogue ?” “ dickie's dead," piped rogue robin mournfully. “what ?” gasped fred, his rosy cheek pal- ing. “ dickie's 'most dead,” repeated the rogue, a flight inserting a saving doubt. “and mamma's a-praying and a-crying awful." " why--why he was up this morning,” said fred. “what has happened ?” “i don't know," said rogue robin gravely. “the doctor came and said he must have mountain air, and i guess he can't get it. and he won't eat baked apples or cream or anything, and mamma is crying, and he must be going to die. i say, fred, do you think they'll take me to the funeral ?” “ hush up that, you little scoundrel, or i'll shake the life out of you !” said fred fiercely. “where are tess and lou?” “ down in the dining-room. fred, will dickie have a hearse with white ponies ? ” “ you'll have a thrashing in about two minutes if you don't let up that ghoul talk," said fred, collaring his small brother wrath- fully and swinging him into the dining-room, where his pretty sisters, tess and lou, stood in solemn conclave with mam' patsy; for the doctor's fiat had thrilled through the family like an electric shock, and dickie-bird was the darling of all. “ jes' wat i ben telling yo' mar all 'long," said mam' patsy, who, having " nussed ” all a fligh.. five young lindsays, was high and infallible authority. "i says pintedly, ‘miss nell, dat ar chile is a peaking dachally away. folks may talk as dey please, but i nebber seen a boy wif a blue vein ober his nose rizzed yet." “and has dickie & blue vein over his nose ? " asked tess breathlessly. “ dat he has, chile, dat he has," said mam' patsy, nodding ruefully, “and more'n dat, he nebber tumbled out of bed in his life--jest lay quiet and easy, even wif dat ar rogue robin rolling plumb ober him. it's de wustest kind ob luck when a chile won't fall out ob bed nohow. i allus felt easy about rogue robin, fer he turned ober his cradle three times, be- sides tumbling out ob his ma's bed and break- ing his collar-bone. you, rogue, you”- mam' patsy suddenly broke off in her remem- brances“ lord bless dat chile; if he ain't eatin' ebbery bit of dickie's apple !” and she made a dive into the kitchen after the small marauder, who was smilingly licking his creamy lips after the last stolen spoonful. “ you horrid little wretch !” said lou in- dignantly. “ when your poor darling little brother is dying up-stairs," said tess tearfully. a flight. “oh, let up, girls !” growled fred, feeling that the clouds were getting altogether too heavy for boyish endurance. “what's the good of croaking like ravens ? dickie isn't dead by a long shot, and he isn't going to die either. if the doctor says he wants mountain air, why, he has got to have it." “but how ?” asked the girls. “oh, well, somehow," answered fred vaguely. “when a thing has to be done, why, then, you just have to go and do it.” “we'll pray,” said blue-eyed tess softly. “let us go 'round to the convent chapel, lou, this evening and pray. and maybe,” added tess, who had sweet, wise fancies all her own, “st. joseph will show us some way to 'fly into egypt,' as he did, and save our little dickie." “he will have to show us a pocketful of money as well,” said black-eyed lou, with a nod. and fred's heart sank again as he agreed with her. altogether it was a dreary luncheon, for a shadow rested upon the little household that seemed to chill their sunlit sky. far away indeed, as yet, but still above their happy home, hovered that mighty, dark. a flight. winged angel whom mortals know and fear as death. “mountain air !” thought fred as, clap- ping on his hat at last, he turned out again into the hot, baking streets. “gee whiz ! this feels like it.” for the july sun was blazing down like the midsummer tyrant that he was, and the trees stood up like still, painted things against the glaring blue of the sky. not a twig or leaf stirred; not a roving cloud dared show itself; the fierce sun-king was ruling with despotic sway. even the great office-rooms of judson & judson, where fred earned a little money by doing odd job work during the summer vacation, felt still and breathless to-day, and the clerks loosened their neckties and mopped their brows as they bent over rent-rolls and titles. “you can tick off the ads. this evening, freddy,” said mr. chumleigh, motioning to the typewriter. “ dixon's got an incipient sunstroke and gone home. twenty new ad- vertisements for the morning papers, so drive ahead, my boy." fred took his place and began to tick at a flight « take the job-take care of heatherton hall.". “you ! ” exclaimed his neighbor. “ look here, you haven't been getting sunstruck too, freddy, have you ?” “no," answered fred, “nor moonstruck either. but i've got a little brother at home who is pretty sick, and the doctor says he must have mountain air; and-and-well, father isn't a rich man, you know, and can't gite it to him. but if it's twenty dollars to take care of the house" “it's just that,” said mr. chumleigh. “i only wish it were forty. lay the advertise ment over and see your father about it, my boy, and if you want heatherton hall to-mor- row, it's yours. half the roof is off, i be- lieve, and half the chimney's down. ghosts, wildcats, and moonshiners form the moun- tain society, and it's twenty miles from a railroad. cut if you want mountain air' you'll get the genuine, unadulterated, double- x article, as freely as if you paid five dollars a day at a fashionable hotel for it.” “does it cost much to get up there?” asked fred. “well, i don't know," answered chum- a flight. wagon slowly creaked up the mountain side. higher and higher and higher, until the tree- tops were waving below, and the river could be seen winding through the valley like a thread of silver; and the trains puffing over the trestles, twenty miles away, seemed swing- ing in spider-webs over the rocky gorges be- low; and still the wagon journeyed upward with mam' patsy's boy, black ben, on the driver's seat and fred beside him, rogue robin held firmly between his knees, and tess and lou and mamma and mam' patsy behind; while dickie-bird, nestling in shawls and rugs and robes and cushions, laughed aloud in glee as the breeze tossed his golden curls. mr. lindsay was obliged to remain at his business, so fred commanded the little party that was storming the heights in love's name. “there it is, at last,” said fred, pointing to a great pine-shaded house rising grim and gray against the setting sun. “oh, isn't it big ! " exclaimed tess breath- lessly. “ and isn't it awfully lonesome !" cried lou. a flight. “the front steps are gone," chirped rogue robin delightedly. “and de kitchen chimbly tumbled down," gasped mam' patsy. “de lor' i miss nell, what you and all dese chilluns gwine to do in an old roost like dis ? " “ live and love," answered mamma as she caught dickie-bird in her arms and saw the faint color the breeze had already kissed into his cheeks. “ live and love, mam' patsy, live and love ! * heatherton hall girl walking out of the corner to meet her was her own pretty self. true, the porch steps were down and the kitchen “chimbly" and most of the kitchen roof; but the main house stood staunch and firm as an old fortress; and when black ben had made a cooking department in a big storeroom, and the dust was blown from the furniture, and the sunlight lit on the diamond-paned windows, and little voices were chirping on the staircase, and little feet pattering through the ball, the old “ roost” was a “nest” again, full of warm young life and love. then there was a delightful old wilderness of a garden that must once have been a very aristocratic affair indeed; for it went tip- toeing down the mountain-side in a succes- sion of stone terraces, with late berries ripen- ing on the hedges, and peach and plum trees trained against the south walls, while a noisy little brook that had once filled the fountain leaped away in & foaming waterfall as if laughing “you'll never catch me again” to the poor little broken-nosed cupid who stood ruefully watching his empty urn. mam' patsy did the marketing at the back heatherton hall. door, where grave-faced women in “slab” sunbonnets, and bare-legged, solemn-eyed children, brought milk, butter, eggs, chickens, honey, and vegetables every day. “a chicken for a dime, mam' patsy !” ex- claimed mrs. lindsay, as she was conferring with her faithful factotum. “you must be mistaken." “de lor', miss nell, dey'd gib 'em fur a nickel ef i jewed 'em down," chuckled mam' patsy. “what 'count's chickens up hyah ? what good is dimes up hyah ? got no churches or s'cieties or nuffin. nebber hab eben camp-meetings," said mam' patsy scorn- fully. “ cal jones don't know who our lord is," piped rogue robin, who was perched on the window-sill, nibbling a corncake. « oh, robbie !” said his shocked mother. “he don't,” repeated robbie. “he said i was talking about the man that kept the store at mill creek.” “i dun tell you bout dese hyah po' white trash,” said mam' patsy. “ jes' nachally don't know muffin. didn't dat ar pumpkin-face gal, maria jane, dat come up hyah 'lowing she knowed how to wash, raw-starch all my heatherton hall sheets and pillow-cases till dey could 'most stan' alone ?" “and she chewed tobacco," chirped rogue robin delightedly. “she gave me a piece to try.” “ jes' let me ketch you a-trying it," said mam' patsy, turning fiercely on her pet nurs- ling, who being at once the pride and torment of her life came in for an extra share of atten- tion. “let me ketch you at any of dat fool- ing for you in dis fire dat will make you sing. dat boy, miss nell,” continued mam' patsy, as rogue robin made a somersault out of the window and bounded away. “he's gwine to place." “we must watch him," said mrs. lindsay, anxiously feeling that “skyland” had its dis- advantages. “he's too young to go round here alone.” “watch him!” repeated mam' patsy grimly. “don't do to stop at watching rogue robin ! didn't i hab him tied to de table-leg all yester mawring and de minnit my back was turned de little rascal cut de heatherton hall rope wif de knife i left on de table, and clipped de lord knows whar. ain't black ben a-telling him all de time 'bout de wolves and bears dat's waiting up in de woods to eat him? lor," chuckled mam' patsy, “ you can't skeer dat boy nohow, you nebber could; he jest nachally out breaking." "he must be kept at home, around the garden at least," said mrs. lindsay resolutely; and for a day or two the rogue, held sternly within bounds, was a very household angel; then he disappeared again, to be brought home perched on cal jones's sturdy shoulder & forlorn little figure dripping to the skin. “pulled him outen the river,” explained the young mountain giant briefly. “ just went a-fishing, mamma," said the small prodigal, mournfully displaying a spool of thread and a bent pin; “'cause to-morrow is friday, and i caught 'em, too,” said robbie triumphantly. “ caught 'em in my hand," and diving into his wet pocket he brought out two tadpoles. “ain't they nice, mamma ? dickie can have 'em for tea." a faint smile flickered over cal's face, that usually looked as if carved of wood, so changeless was every feature. they were not heatherton hall. « 'twan't nuthing,” said cal, “only you bean't a-going to thrash him, be you?” “oh, no, no !” answered mrs. lindsay. “i thought mebbe you mout,” said cal, in a relieved tone. “and he is so little and so pretty and peart, i wouldn't like to hev him hurt." “ you need not fear,” said robbie's mother, smiling at the rude tenderness of the appeal. “ and if you won't change your clothes you must sit down by the fire and get dry, while i make you a nice cup of hot coffee. i can- not let robbie's kind friend catch cold.” nothing loath, cal took the chair given to him, and stared around him in evident ad- miration. the improvised “kitchen” was rather a cheery place with its big hearth full of blaz- ing logs, mam' patsy's pots and pans shining in the firelight, great loaves of bread baking in the dutch oven, lou and tess slicing ham and gingerbread for lunch. “you uns got it right nice up here," he said slowly to fred. “well, tolerable,” said the young head of the house, who was swinging his legs from the kitchen table. “ if there is a way of heatherton hall. “ the house is old enough, goodness knows, to have a family skeleton in every closet. and i guess the old heathertons were a pretty hard lot, weren't they ?” again the curious glint came into cal's dull eyes. “you ain't a-knowing of 'em ?” he asked. “you ain't enny sort of kin ?" “no, don't know anything about them, ex- cept that there is a colonel hcatherton in paris who let us have the house." “that's young jim," said cal, with a nod. “there war two on 'em, young jim and young joe; and old jim, the jedge, was their dad. an' they had a split 'way back in war- times, and old jim he kicked out young joe neck and heels, fur wanting to jine the rebs. and he never come back.” “killed ?” asked fred eagerly. « dunno," answered cal stolidly. “thar's folks ez says he wuz, and thar's folks ez says he wuzn't. an' thar's folks ez says after the old jedge cut him outen everything, his mind turned an' he died a-calling young joe back. an' thar's folks ez says he will never rest till he comes." “so it is the old judge who 'walks,” said fred dryly. “i am glad you told us, cal; it heatherton hall. will be pleasanter, in case he visits us, to know his name and address.” “an' thar's folks ez says," continued cal, as if he had been a wooden clock wound up for a certain time and had not quite run down, “that thar's been a cuss on heathera ton ever since it's been in young jim's hands. dad says thar's allus a cuss when ha’nts walk, the old place won't sell, and won't rent, and won't do nuthing but stan' here and dry-rot.” “ can't we lay the judge, somehow ?” asked fred, whose eyes were twinkling with fun at cal's solemn narration. “pity to have a fine piece of property like this spoiled by such an unpleasant tenant. keep your eyes open for a night or two, girls, and if you see any shadowy old gentleman patrolling the premises, inform him there is a live real- estate man on the spot ready to negotiate a quit claim at two per cent." “fred, fred,” interrupted his mother, in gentle reproof. “death and the mystery be- yond are no subjects for jest, my son.” "and it's awful to think of living in a house with a curse on it,” said lon, who had never found heatherton hall altogether to her taste. chapter iii. jack-o'-lantern. “suthing's got to be done,” said man' patsy, as she surveyed her pet nursling swad- dled in flannel and turpentine on the sitting- room sofa. “suthing's got to be done 'bout that boy before he kills hißself for good and stream had proved too much for the sturdy little fisherman, and rogue robin was re- covering from a three days' attack of croup. illness always reduced him to mournful sub mission, and it seemed a captive angel that lay in the sitting-room, where a log fire blazed on the hearth, and mamma dosed, and mam' patsy watched, and the little prodigal with fever-flushed cheeks and starry eyes was an “don't you skeer about dat boy, chile," said mam' patsy reassuringly to tearful tess. “ he gwine to lib to eat de sheep dat grazes jack-o'-lantern. on your grave, and mine too. de lord nebber takes out breaking chillun like dat. i knows rogue robin. he's lying dar steddying up some new mischief now.” “mam'," said rogue robin, when they were alone after one of these periods of sus- picious quiet,“ did cal jones get the croup too ?” “s’pect he got wuss than croup," answered mam' patsy grimly; "ain't seen him sence he fotched you home. you orter to bress de lord you didn't get wuss too. i tell you 'bout fooling 'roun' dis hyah place, you dunno what's a-gwine to ketch you. didn't miss tess read you outen dat pictoor-book tu-day 'bout de boy dat climbed up er bean- stalk to skyland, and come near being biled for dinner when he got dar ? an' you's a heap higher up hyah dan any bean-stalk could fotch you, i kin tell you dat.” “do you think there are any giants up here ?" asked robbie breathlessly. “ dat dere is,” said mam' patsy, whose knowledge of giants was necessarily very lim- ited, but who caught an encouraging tremor in robbie's voice, “and de berry wust kind too." jack-o'-lantern. “ has—has anybody ever seen one, mam'?” asked her patient skeptically. “ 'deed dey has," replied mam' patsy, with a nod, “and skeered enough dey is of him, too. i hears de folks talking when dey comes to de back door wif dere butter and eggs and garden sass. dey ain't letting dere boys go skooting roun' dese skylands all ’lone. i hears what dey talking 'bout under dem slab sunbonnets,” added mam' patsy, with dark significance. “what do they say, mam'?" asked robbie, who had risen from his sofa-cushions in awe- struck interest. “ all 'bout dis hyah jack-o'-lantern," con- tinued mam' patsy, getting her story-book names slightly mixed. “is that the giant's name ?” asked robbie, with wide-open eyes. “dat's his name, chile,” went on mam' patsy, feeling she had gone too far to retreat now," and a monstrous bad name it is. dey calls him jack-o'-lantern long ob de light he kerries 'roun' ob nights a-hunting fur stray chillun. i’se seen it a-glimmering up on de rocks many a time from dat garret window ob mine. not dat he don't hunt in de daytime, jack-o'-lantern. too,” added mam? patsy hastily, “but he hides hisself den in de bushes wif a big bag in his hand and waits for 'em to come.” “and has he a castle and a harp, and a 'hen that lays golden eggs, like the story-book says ? ” asked robbie, who had never lost his infantile faith in “mammy's" knowledge and wisdom. “got 'em all,” answered mam' patsy, feel- ing it unwise to depart too far from story- book lines. “got ebberyting-hens and geese and sheep and hogs and-ebberyting. but he got dat mean, res'less sort ob mind, he ain't satisfied nohow. jes' keeps a-hongering and a-hunting fur a boy to bile in his big soup-pot, like de book miss tess was a-read- ing to you says. he's a turrible fellow, dis jack-o'-lantern, i kin tell you dat. skeered him dis time," chuckled mam' patsy to herself as she saw the look in rob- bie's face. “skeered him dis time-shuah." and her success was even greater than she dreamed, for twice that night the family were roused by the fevered boy's shrieks, and rogue robin was found wide-eyed and trem- bling in fear of jack-o'-lantern and his bag. “don't you tell him no better, miss nell," jack-o'-lantern. “won't he ever get sick or die ? " asked robbie, with a vague hope that a constant diet of “small boy” would prove too much for jack's digestion. “never; at least not while that spring lasts," answered fred decidedly. “he's about two or three hundred years old now and likely to live two or three hundred more.” altogether the family coalition on jack-o'- lantern proved a strategic success, and rogue robin confined his wanderings to grove and garden, where he and dickie swung in the pine-trees and scampered down the terraced walks, while the mountain breeze tossed their curls, and painted their cheeks, and made their pulses throb with strength and health and hardy young life again. a rough, rollicking playmate indeed was this mountain breeze-snatching their hats and sending them flying into the treetops, whisking off mam' patsy's snowy “wash” from bleaching-ground and line, shouting hoarsely over the rocks, and whistling down the chimneys, and teasing the little brook until, in a flurry of wrath, it fairly boiled down the hill. many were the moods and antics of the mountain breeze. sometimes it jack-o'-lantern. sang such sweet lullabies in the grove that dickie nodded off in the midst of his play, and mamma would find him fast asleep on the pine-needles, with the breeze softly fan- ning his brow. sometimes it would sulk far up on the heights in the noontide stillness, and then would burst forth in fierce fury, ter- rible to hear and see. for the trees would bend and shiver, and windows shake, and doors rattle, and a thunder of falling rocks and rending boughs would echo through the woods, while the poor little brook would leap away in a very foam of fright. and then like a naughty child the breeze would begin to sob penitently, and the sun would break out through the black, frowning storm-clouds, and a rainbow span the mountain, and dickie, running out to see it, would find his playmate merrily shaking the rain-drops from the pines as if nothing at all unpleasant had occurred. then, too, besides the breeze, there was the mountain mist with its vagaries. at first it was rather a startling experience to awake in the morning and find the world had alto- gether disappeared and heatherton hall was apparently adrift in the clouds without pilot jack-o'-lantern. or rudder. but after one or two alarms the children got used to the tricks of the mist. tess in particular loved to stand at her high dormer-window and watch the white cloud- sea shimmer into pink and gold, while peak and treetop and rock gradually rose out of its depths, until, as if it had snatched a veil from its face, the mountain was laughing in the glory of the sunrise. “it's lovely to see so far, isn't it ?” said tess one morning, as she looked across miles and miles of waving greenery and saw the white thread of smoke left by the far-off train sweeping on its dizzy way. “i don't know," answered lou. “i think i'd rather see just across the street. of course we had to come here for dickie's sake, and it has done him lots of good, but i'm dead homesick sometimes, tess." “homesick !” echoed tess wonderingly. “why, isn't this home now, lou ? " “no, it isn't,” answered lou decidedly. « thank heaven, too, for i don't want any such great barn with a dead judge walking around it for my home. and the girls are having such lovely times in town. cal jones brought me a long letter from gracie dort jack-o'-lantern. last night. it had been a week at roxton. nobody knew who we were or what we were, until cal went down and fred told him to ask at the post-office if there were any letters for heatherton hall. you know papa sends his to the other office, and they let a boy bring them up twice a week. but gracie did not know that.” " and, oh, what did the letter say, lou ? " asked tess eagerly. “oh! lots of things," sighed lon. “father john has had a festival, and all the girls went and wore their commencement dresses, and had the loveliest sort of time. and janet is going to the seashore and has lots of new clothes and is awfully stuck up. and all our crowd met at fan wylie's the other night and made caramels. and gracie's aunt mollie has gone to the convent.” “oh, has she?” interrupted tess. “the pretty one with golden hair, that was so full of fun ? " “yes, that's the kind that always goes," said lou. “i never saw a long-faced nun, did you? if you keep on chirping about everything as you do now, you'll land in a convent yourself, miss, see if you don't,” con- jack-o'-lantern. cluded lou with a nod of solemn warning. “it doesn't stir your soul a bit to think of our white swiss dresses folded away up-stairs with never a chance to shake out a ruffle.” “no, it doesn't,” said tess, laughing. “nor of fan wylie's birthday party we are going to miss," continued lou; "and gracie says she is going to have the ice-cream in moulds, and a black waiter. and here we are with no stores, no company, no church- nothing. we might as well be in a heathen land at once.” “that is true,” said tess thoughtfully. “ it seems as if we ought to do something, lou. be sort of missionaries, you know." “missionaries ! ” said lou, staring. “don't you remember when sister angela read us about father brébeuf ?” “ugh, yes !” said lou, with a shiver. “don't talk about it, tess, it makes my flesh creep. oh, i'd never make a martyr, i know. i'd break right down when it came to hot irons and knives.” “well, you know sister angela said we would never be called upon to suffer things like that, but we all might be little mission- aries in other ways. she said we had our jack-o'-lantern little brothers and sisters and servants to teach by word and example. and don't you remember, lou, the copy she set on the blackboard that day: ‘so let your light shine before men that, seeing it, they may glorify your father who is in heaven'? and here we are at heaven's door almost," and t'ess looked up to the arching skies," and heathens around us who scarcely know god's holy name. lou, it seems as if somehow we ought to make our light shine here." “we might have a sunday-school,” sug- gested lou, evidently impressed by her sister's sweet earnestness. “but i don't think any one up here knows when sunday comes. if mamma did not gather us all for mass- prayers i would forget, myself.” “we might call it singing-school,” said tessie; “ you have such a lovely voice, lou. i know these poor children never heard any- thing like it. and i am sure mamma would let me make some ginger cookies for them, and then we could tell stories in the garden afterwards—true stories, you know, about our lord and his blessed mother. i think if we make it very pleasant they will like to come.” chapter iv. light and shadow. “there,” said tess as she filled up the sixth plate of cookies and set them on the side table, “i think that will be enough, lou. we want half a dozen more chairs; bring them out of the dining-room, fred, that's a dear boy, while i run up-stairs for the music-book. the old melodeon is a little squeaky, but mamma says if we play softly it will sound right well." very festal indeed looked the big parlor as it stood prepared for the “ singing-school.” the six windows were thrown open to the sunshine, the queer chinese vases were filled with fresh flowers, the great chimney-place was made into a very christmas bower with pine boughs, while the old heatherton portraits blinked down wonderingly from the walls on the unaccustomed scene. “when does this revival, or whatever it may be termed, begin ?” asked fred, seating light and shadow. himself astride a chair and helping himself liberally to cookies. “ just as soon as the children come. and oh, fred, don't make fun, please.” “who is making fun ? " asked fred. “i am as solemn as the judge himself. i tell you the old gentleman is around, girls. i heard him last night.” “where ? ” gasped lou excitedly. “now, fred, you know you are talking nonsense,” said wiser tess reproachfully. “i think he was in the library," continued fred, his eyes twinkling. “ there was the tap, tap, tap of a ghostly cane up and down the floor, as if the old gentleman were trou- bled in his mind and walking it off. perhaps he has heard that the moonshiners are back on the ridge.” “what are the moonshiners ?” asked both girls eagerly. “moonshiners, my innocents,” said fred, who, as the eldest of the family, was thor- oughly imbued with a sense of his own su- perior worldly knowledge-“moonshiners are gentlemen who do business by moonlight.” “what kind of business ? " asked lou with wide-open eyes. light and shador. « various sorts," answered fred evasively. “and as they have a preference for doing it in their own way and not according to uncle sam's laws, he is down on them-or rather up after them—whenever he hears they are at work. colonel heatherton, who was sheriff, routed them off the ridge about six years ago. old squire white told me about it when i was over at his place yesterday. he says they had a big fight up on the rocks, and there were two men killed and about half a dozen captured. the squire says they are back again, he understands, with a fierce old outlaw at their head, who swears he will hold that ridge against jim heatherton until one or the other of them drops dead. amiable sort of neighbors to have,” added fred grimly. “oh, let us go home right away !” said lou, her face blanching. “i am afraid to stay here another night. the moonshiners may come after us." “no danger,” answered fred coolly. “we have done nothing to them. they may have a grudge against the colonel, but he is safe in paris, and we are not going to trouble them, i am sure, if they moonshine the whole sum- light arul shadow. a sweet little birdlike soprano, that was usu- ally almost lost in her sister's fuller notes. but lou had abandoned the missionary field, so tess must do her best alone. turning over the music to her favorite “fading, still fading,” she began her “ little pipe,” as fred teasingly called it. but scarcely had she finished the first verse, when a rich, deep tenor took up the strain. was it cal singing ? poor cal with his clay- colored face and dull eyes and wooden feat- ures ? cal who was pouring forth that word- less melody, strong and sweet as an organ's swell ? for a moment tess was struck almost dumb with surprise, then she took breath again and sang as she had never sung before, for that deep voice seemed to upbear hers as the great ocean wave upbears its silvery crest. “fading, still fading, the last beam is shining, ave maria ! day is declining; safety and innocence, fly with the light, temptation and danger walk forth in the night." “oh, cal!” said tess, whirling round light and shadow. to work. and he got ter school 'twixt whiles, and larned lots-figooring and reading, and i heern he did say he could write his name, but i reckon that was jest brag. but he larned so much, ennyhow, that he went off, and meg didn't get no more good outen him. dad says that's wot larning does makes folks sassy and lazy and good fur nothing at all.” “and-and-do you mean that no one up here can read or write or do anything ?” ex- claimed tess, almost dumb with pity and dis- may. “oh, cal, this is dreadful ! wouldn't you like to learn ? won't you let me teach you, cal ?” “kin you ?” he asked, staring at the pretty little speaker in wonder. “why, of course i can !” she answered gayly. . "real, rig'lar schoolmarm teaching ?” he asked again, in a tone of doubt. “regular schoolmarm," affirmed tess, with a decided nod.“ just try me. come to-mor- row and we will begin.”. “you bet i will !” said cal, and the dull glow that kindled his face spoke louder than words of his delight at the chance. “i ain't light and shadow. skeering, not if ole meg screeches her spells after me every day. i'll come if dad thrashes me fur it.” and thereafter cal did come “rigʻlar." what social or domestic persecution it brought upon him he never told, though more than once a black eye or a bruised head showed that the path of knowledge had its perils for him. mrs. lindsay, who could never forget the mother debt she owed the rough young mountaineer, made no objection to tess's scholar, and every afternoon the two could be seen seated on the garden terrace, cal pled. ding laboriously through the mysteries of robbie's primer, under his young teacher's earnest guidance. it was slow work. cal, who knew the leaf of every mountain tree, the song of every mountain bird, found the queer signs that stand for human thought and human speech altogether bewildering, while tess, who had read ever since she could remember, could not understand the blank stare with which her pupil, after all her efforts, confronted the printed page. “ba, be, bi, bo, bu ” were after a while triumphantly mastered; then light and shadow. came abstrasities for which tess was not pre- pared. “now, b-o-y. what does that spell, cal ?" asked the little teacher encouragingly. “b-o, bo,” answered cal confidently, sur. veying the familiar combination. “oh, no, cal. b-o-y? " asked tess again. “you've been a-telling me b-o were bo. i wuz saying it all last night so i wouldn't fur- get,” said cal, with a touch of reproach in his tone. “but this is b-o-y," said tess. “put a y to it, cal. don't you see ? just a y." “b-o, bo,” spelled cal again. “wy—bom wy. it don't appear to hitch right.” and tess would make another effort to ex- plain the mysteries of pronunciation, and cal would stare at hja “b-o, bo," more hopelessly than before. but if letters did not “hitch right,” the little teacher's stories were complete successes. after the daily struggle with refractory sounds and syllables cal would fling himself comfortably down upon the grassy terrace at tess's feet, and then, while the birds sang overhead and the little stream rippled and foamed merrily beside them, lessons were light and shadow. given that reached far deeper than the primer's. for the first time cal learned of our father in heaven, his care and his love; of the little babe of bethlehem; of the gentle boy of nazareth; the divine master who walked the hills and waves of galilee. tess had brought her hard-won christian doctrine prize with her a beautiful bible history profusely illustratedand " pictoors” that cal could understand verified her words. and as the boy looked and listened, his dull eyes kindled and the heavy wooden features seemed to break into softer lines. the light was dawning for cal-slowly indeed, but surely-as the heavy august mist that veiled the mountain flushed faintly under tess's window with the rosy glow of the unseen sun. chapter v. a friendly ghost. the mountain was in its midsummer bloom. tangles of flowering vines hid the frown of the cliffs, the gray, jagged rocks were feathered with hardy blossoms, and high up in the trees the trumpet-flowers blazed in crimson and gold. "oh, i must have some of them !” said lou, who was making an herbarium that had relieved the ennui of her mountain exile won- derfully. gentle sister angela had suggested to her scattered pupils this method of im- proving their summer holiday. each little classmate was to make a collection of the flowers, ferns, or seaweed within her reach, and the specimens were to be bound hand- somely for exhibition in the convent museum. “i must have & spray of those lovely trumpet-flowers before a wind scatters them," said the enthusiastic little botanist. “como, a friendly ghost. rogue robin, let us go up the mountain-path and get some of those pretty red flowers.” “you'd better not,” said rogue robin, gravely shaking his curly head. “they are jack-o'-lantern's flowers. mam' says so." “oh, pshaw ! i am not afraid of jack-o'- lantern. come on," answered lou. “ doesn't he catch girls ? " asked rogue. “never," replied his sister positively. “and he won't catch you either while i am with you. so come along, and climb the tree for me. i am afraid the flowers are too high for me to reach.” and nothing loath, the small prodigal, who had grown rather weary of the narrow bounds enforced by the dreaded jack, put his chubby hand in his sister's, and they began to ascend the mountain path. “wouldn't you be afraid if you saw jack- oʻ-lantern, lou ?” he asked, evidently pon- dering still on the perplexing question. “not a bit,” was his sister's reply. “what—what would you say to him ?” continued the questioner breathlessly. “i'd say, good-evening, mr. jack. i've come to get some of your pretty flowers," " answered lou gayly. there was another pause. rogue robin a friendly ghost. seemed striving to reconcile this feminine recklessness with his previous estimate of his sister's character. “you were awfully scared when that cater- pillar got on your neck yesterday,” he said. “ugh! yes. i nearly fainted,” acknowl. edged lou. “and you jump on the table and scream whenever a mouse runs out of his hole,” con- tinued robbie. “of course i do. who wouldn't ?” queried his sister. “jack-o'-lantern is a heap worse than mice or caterpillars," said rogue robin. “black ben says so. black ben says if he were to see him he guessed he'd be so scared he would turn white." “then i'd keep out of his way as long as i could, for if i could not face him courageously i certainly should not want to die of plain fright.” and so encouraging was lou's cheerfulness that rogue robin began to look about him less fearfully, and soon the charms of the mountain almost dispelled the terrors of the mysterious jack. for not only were there flowers galore on every side, but the great knotted vines swinging from tree to tree were a friendly ghost. “shake hands, then, and be sure that i am solid flesh and blood," said father xavier as he extended his hand first to one and then to another of the family group. “ah, my children, you need not fear the dead. they are in god's keeping and subject in all things to his holy will. though, as we older people know, dear madam, all of us are ghosts in a way—the ghosts of our dead selves. i feel very much like such a ghost to-night. is it possible that i find catholics in posses- sion of heatherton hall ?” “ only temporarily, father," answered mrs. lindsay. “we are spending the summer here for the benefit of our little one's health. and we must claim you as our guest for to- night, at least, for it is late and you must be far from home.” “home ? " echoed father xavier, with a sad smile. “that word has no earthly mean- ing for the missionary, my child. but if you will kindly give me and my good horse, who stands in the road without, shelter for the night i will be grateful, as i am fully twenty miles from my headquartersfather stone's, at pinesville. i returned about a month ago, after long years of service abroad, and was a friendly ghost. “ but so was the little maid jeanne who led the armies of france, my child. so was the little bernadette, whose voice gave the world lourdes with all its holy beauties and won- and thousands of others whose names the church honors. and so was she, the purest, the holiest of all, whose praises i heard you singing to-night. only a girl! ah, my child, girls have done much in this world of ours. if they knew the power of their gen- tleness they could do more, far more.” “not up here, father," said fred, the in- corrigible; “ tess did all she could. half a peck of ginger-cakes and a cracked melodeon were held forth as attractions, but the heathen of these mountains look darkly upon us, and evidently suspected a trap." “and yet i understand that some of the lawless characters up in the heights are by birth and doubtless baptism catholics,” said father xavier. “it was this information that led me through this part of the moun- 'tain region on a tour of investigation. i thought if we could establish a station some- where in the locality these outlaws might be attracted, and perhaps some spark of faith a friendly ghost. manded, the children gathered around father xavier's chair and listened with breathless interest to his stories of life in those far-off pacific isles where for twenty years his lot had been cast. stories as wonderful and beautiful as any they had ever read in books: of wanderings in strange tropical forests, and hair-breadth escapes from savage captors; daring journeys through hostile lands; hiding amid rocks and swamps; masses said in ocean caverns, and sweet miracles of grace wrought in breasts that seemed scarcely human in their ferocity, until god touched them, and these barbarians became submissive as little children to his word and will. and when father xavier told of the first- communion day of his dark-skinned flock, when the little bark chapel was carpeted with woven blossoms, and the two rival chiefs whose fierce warfare had decimated the little island knelt hand in hand and vowed peace and good-will before their new-found god, tess could restrain her enthusiasm no longer. “oh, father,” she said with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, “why couldn't we do something like that up here? we could have a friendly ghost. mass right in this house. it would be so lovely; and even if no one else came". “our lord would find one loving little heart, i am sure," concluded father xavier, his eyes resting on the pretty, eager face. “if your good mother wishes it, i do not know anything that would give me greater happiness than to say mass in this house." “we would all be delighted, father," said mrs. lindsay, “but i fear it would be impos- sible to obtain what is necessary in a wilder- ness like this.” “leave that to an old missionary,” said father xavier, smiling. “i will make all ar- rangements; and if we cannot bring the sheep from the wilderness, at least there will be the ' ninety-nine in the fold.'” and so it was settled. and when, his pleasant visit over, father xavier bade them good-by next morning, he told them to ex- pect him back in a week or ten days at most. “pretty clever sort of ghost that you raised last night, lou,” said fred as they all stood on the broken porch and watched their guest ride away through the pines. “ though, by george! when you look at him hard there is a likeness to the family spook. when he stood a friendly ghost. under the portrait in the hall this morning giving us his blessing, you could almost have fancied the old judge had put on a roman collar and stepped down from his frame." “i don't see a bit of likeness," said tess indignantly. “father xavier looks like a saint." and every one agreed with her. chapter vi. a trip to roxton.. “ off for roxton!” shouted fred through the broad ball. “mother, tess, lou, any more orders ? speak now, or for the next two weeks hold your peace.” for squire white's big wagon, that twice a month lumbered across the mountain side, and with rustic courtesy rolled three miles out of its way to pass heatherton hall, was at the gate with lem white in the driver's seat; while wicker crates of quacking and clucking poultry, kegs of butter, jars of honey, barrels of early apples, boxes of peaches and melons were heaped promiscu- ously behind him. the white farm was far down the west mountain side, its fertile fields stretching low into the river valley; but the squire's boats came to roxton wharves, and the roxton store was the trading-place of all a trip to roxton. the mountains, hence the semi-monthly con- nections between farm and town. a fat, ruddy, jolly old farmer was squire white, whose keen, twinkling eyes, it was whispered, had blinked good-humoredly at many things it behooves a justice of the peace to investi- gate. but “taming the mountain” the squire felt, required a stronger hand than his, so he made the best of things, and let his wild neighbors “ gang their ain gait” untroubled. two of his boys were making their own way in the world; the third, lem, a hardy, long-limbed fellow of sixteen, was still at home, his father's right-hand map in every- thing. fred, who had found weeks of fishing and lounging about heatherton rather tiresome, had struck up a long-distance friendship with lem; and despite the five miles between the places tramped frequently down to white's, where lem, though too busy about farm and stables to be much of a boon companion, al- ways welcomed the bright city youth cor- dially. the fortnightly trip to roxton was there- fore a gala day to both; for lem, attired in store clothes, with a trusted son's control over a trip to roxton. mother dear, and don't worry if i am a little late, for lem says we may have to wait for. the squire's boat to come in, with his new cutting machine.” and kissing his mother and sisters, fred sprang to the seat beside lem, and the big wagon lumbered slowly away. the summer was nearly gone; already there was a chilly touch in the evening air that made great log fires snapping on the hearth pleasant to look upon; the trees had begun to trick themselves out in autumn finery of crimson and gold; while high upon the rock the sumach flaunted its red leaves and berries like a conquering flag. " it's my last trip, i guess, with you, lem, old fellow," said fred. “we leave the first of september.” “sorry to hear it,” answered lem. “ i'll miss you lots. but i reckon you'll be glad enough to get back to town. it's slow up here for you." “well, yes," answered fred frankly. “still i've had a first-rate time in a quiet way.” “we ain't so quiet up here always,” said lem, iecking his horses into a trot as they a trip to roston reached a level stretch, “ you've been in luck. father says you could have knocked him down with a feather when he heard you all were at heatherton hall. he said there was no use in making you feel uncomfortable, so we didn't say anything about it, but now that all has been quiet and you are going away so soon, i don't mind telling you that there's not a family within fifty miles would have been paid to stay there a week. it's a bad thing to be in with the heathertons, anyway, up here. the folks up on the ridge are dead set against them; and to say nothing of the men, who are bad enough, that old hag, meg watkins, has sworn vengeance on all the heatherton kith and kin, and would as lief put a match to the house as not. and they are all so stupid they can't understand you folks coming up to a battered uld place like this, unless squire heatherton had something to do with it. you've taken big risks without knowing it," continued lem, “but luckily it has turned out all right. mother says babies always bring luck, perhaps your little kids kept the boys quiet. there will be trouble before long, i am afraid, for i heard a lot of anuggled liquor had been captured down the a trip to roxton. canal, and the officers are on its track. but you will be off before the row comes." “yes," said fred, a trifle regretfully. “ though if it were not for mother and the rest of them, i'd like to be here when the row comes and see the fun." “fun !” echoed lem grimly. “if that's the sort of fun you like, just try climbing up those rocks after nightfall," and he nodded towards the fir-clad peaks around which the road curved. “you would find all the fun yon wanted. they are guarded like a fortress after sundown.” “is that so ? " asked fred. “ gee! i'd like to try it, but father's orders were not to leave mother and the girls unprotected after dark, i've kept to the house." “it was well you did,” said level-headed lem. “the boys on the ridge are not to be fooled with, i tell you, especially by any one hailing from heatherton hall. if my father did not keep his eyes and mouth wisely shut we would not have a barn or a hayrick stand- ing. as it is, we mind our own business and let the folks on the ridge mind theirs.” and then, as the big horses cautiously made their way down the mountain road. lem, who sel- a trip to roxton. dom had time to talk at home, told more stories of the “moonshiners ”_those daring outlaws who carried on their illicit liquor busi- ness in the rocks and caves of the mountains, in defiance of the government and its officers. fred was shown the great barricade of cliff far up the wooded heights, where the two watkins boys had been killed six years ago, when a band of excise officers, headed by the sheriff, colonel heatherton, had stormed the mountain, and, firing the brushwood, had fairly smoked the“ moonshiners” out of their lairs. “looks as if there had been a hoodoo on colonel heatherton all his life," said lem, who had not lived in the mountain air so long without gathering some of its mists and vapors. “ the old folks up here say it's be- cause he turned against his twin brother. it's the worst sort of luck for twins to fall out, and father says that jim and joe heatherton were like two halves of an acorn when they were little chaps; you never saw one without the other, and they used to steep rolled tight in each other's arms all night long. then came the row, and “hottest love makes cold- est hate, as father says." a trip to roston. he turned his wagon towards the “store” that provided all public needs from the cradle to the coffin. and business with lem was an affair of hours, not minutes. dimes were of serious consideration in the mountain region, quarters were regarded as extravagant expenditure, dollars meant either drink or delirium, perhaps both; for he who spent dollars at a country store must be reck- less indeed. everything went by trade; while lem was laboriously adjusting the re- spective values of chickens and coffee, butter and flour, honey and soap, fred had made his purchases on a cash basis that fairly para- lyzed the staring boy behind the counter, and strolled out to look around. there was not much to see: only the canal taking its sluggish way through the hills, and the one rough street of roxton coming sleepily down the mountain side by the black- smith's shop, and the wheelwright's, the little meeting-house, and district school. the latter stood somewhat aside from the road, as became its scholastic dignity, and was sur- rounded by a small, bare-trodden waste, shel- tered by & few scraggy pines, which was known as a playground, and which served gulled out tot much to such the h a trip to roxton. usually as a gathering-place for all the idle and vagrant boys of the village. about a dozen of them were there assembled this morning, tussling, pitching pennies, and looking for mischief generally. it came as it always does on such occasions, for as fred stood gazing at the unattractive scene, a chorus of shouts and jeers arose from the young loafers, and an old woman shuffled down the road. she was about the most unpleasant looking old woman that fred had ever seen. her gaunt, bony form, bent almost double, was ar- rayed in a man's coarse hunting-shirt and a black flannel petticoat; her gray hair fell in ragged wisps under a torn straw hat that was tied under her chin by an old black veil; her face was seamed and crinkled like the bark of a tree; while the dark sunken eyes burned in their sockets with the strange, fierce glow that lights troubled minds to madness. she had evidently come down to “trade," for the wretched basket hanging on her arm was full of herbs and roots and wild berries, valued for their medicinal properties by the simple country people, who have a wholesome dis- trust of doctors' stuff, but poison themselves a trip to roxton. cheerfully at the bidding of some“ wise old woman " like this. “meg, meg !” shouted the young ruffians. “old mountain meg has come a-trading. the boys up there couldn't stand her any longer; they've druv her down. old wildcat meg ! " she turned upon them with a snarl that showed her yellow, broken teeth, and shook the stick she held savagely. it was the signal for a fresh outburst of derision. “where did you get that air bonnet, meg?” “ did bud send it ter yer ?” “she's wearing crape for her boys yet, don't yer see? what's the news from jim heatherton ?” with a shriek like a maddened thing, the old woman turned on her tormentors, strik- ing at them furiously. but the stick was snatched from her trembling hand by one, another caught the basket from her arm, while a third sent a shower of small pebbles flying around her ears. “go back !” they all shouted, pressing around her. “we don't want old meg wild- fire's witch-work down here. run her back old mog. side. “i'u bet on the light-weight chap every time.” for it was the old tattle, brain against brawn. fred's father had been a col- lege athlete in his time, and he had taught his boy the manly “art of self-defence.” in less than three minutes the great lumbering bully was ignominiously down. again and again he scrambled to his feet and lunged furiously at his slender opponent, only to be met with scientific blow and parry that bewildered and maddened him, until at last the shouts of the fickle crowd, many of whom had secret grudges against the village champion, pro- claimed fred's victory. “you're licked, tom, licked fair and square. own up. hooray for the cit ! hooray! hooray!” “what did i tell ye, sonny ?” said the grizzly old mountaineer, laying his hand on lem's shoulder. “that were 'bout ez pretty a fight as i ever seen, jest 'bout as pretty," and the old fellow pressed up to fred, who, with his short brown curls falling damp about his flushed face, was pulling on his coat, amid the respectful comments of the thoroughly subdued roxton roughs. “where did you learn to fight, cit ? i say, you know how to strike out. hide your head, old meg. tom; that ar mosquito spoiled your good looks." “yes, and i'll be even with him fur it, see if i ain't,” snarled tom, as he limped away amid the hoots and jeers of his quondam friends. “shake hands,” said lem's old country- man, as he reached fred's side. “you're a man, that's wot you are, youngster, a man.” “aye, aye !” shrieked old meg, who had stood aside until now in dumb bewilderment at having her wrongs thus championed. “and i had two like him, two brave boys that would not have seen their mother hurt- two-two. they are buried up in the rocks, hunted down by jim heatherton and his bloodhoundehunted down like wolves to their death-to their death.” “come, come," said the old mountaineer with rough kindness, “ease up on that p'int, meg. don't go yelling like a wildcat in the ears of this fine young chap that hez just fought for you like a man. i'll lay thar ain't another youngster on the mountain that would lift a finger for old meg. what did ye do it for anyhow ? “i've got a mother," said fred briefly, old meg. “ and i know how her heart would break for her boys." “do ye ?” said old meg, clutching his arm with her skinny hand, “do ye know how mother's hearts break, lad ? ob, no, no; ye don't, ye can't ! the she bear knows, and the she wolf, for men kill their young, but not you—for you're a man--you're a man. but if you've got a mother may she keep you long, keep you safe-safer than i could keep mine. ha, ha, ha!” and the poor old creature burst into a wild, harsh laugh. “hear old meg watkins wishing good, old meg that has had only curses on her lips this many a day, old wildcat meg wishing good to aught in the shape of man-ha, ha, ha!” “come away, fred,” said lem, in deep dis- gust; “get out of this before that old hag stirs up another row. you must have wanted a fight when you pitched in for wildcat meg. are you hurt ?” “no, just a little blown," laughed fred; " that big blundering booby knows no more about boxing than he does about greek.” “he knows enough to hit back on the sly if he gets the chance," said lem grimly. “ you can't afford to get these fellows' ill-will old meg. while you stay at heatherton hall, i can tell you that. it's black enough around there with hate and spite. now. and i've got news for you i don't like," continued lem, drawing fred into the shed where the wagon was shel- tered, that they might speak in safety. “ colonel heatherton is back.” “where ?" asked fred, startled. “in america, and likely to be up here shortly. nick williams says he sent a lot of boxes and things up yesterday by captain trent's boat, asking him to store them for a few days. and here is a letter for you that will perhaps explain matters." fred opened the letter, which bore the familiar stamp of judson & judson, and read: “my dear fred: “ colonel heatherton has returned from abroad, and it seems there has been some mis- apprehension in regard to your tenancy of his place. he has been under the impression that we simply put in a reliable watchman, who would leave on call. when we repre- sented the character of his tenants, and the cause of your summer in the mountains, he was very courteous and said he would not dis- turb you during the present hot season (we are having a regular august swelter, and old mey. has been hunted from half a dozen counties, and nick williams says he has taken his last stand here and swears he will hold it or die. and as colonel heatherton is much the same kind of stuff it's likely to be pretty hot up here before long. i'll hate to see you go, fred, but i advise you to get out of heather- ton hall as quickly as possible.” “oh, i guess they won't hurt us,” said fred lightly; “we have only two weeks more, and we can't take the kids back to swelter in town this august weather. and, hallo ! there comes your father's boat; we're in luck, lem, and won't have to wait. gee whiz ! she is loaded up; and look at the barge be- hind her.” and both boys sprang from the shed and stared in amazement at the sight that brought all roxton to the doors and windows. for squire white's “ pocahontas” was slowly coming up the canal, laden with unusual freight of trunks, boxes, baskets, a pretty little wicker phaeton, a pair of tiny shetland ponies, & parrot, shrieking angrily in its gayly painted cage, a garden swing, and various juvenile be- longings too numerous to mention; while be- bind the lumbering old canal-boat floated & old meg. small excursion barge, gay with awnings and cushions and pennants. a brisk, trim-look- ing serving man was beginning to gather up satchels and baskets, while a neat, bright- eyed woman stood on the deck with a little girl at her side. a very fairy queen of a little girl, in soft, fluffy white dress, a cloud of golden hair float- ing from under her pretty flower-wreathed hat, and a face like a snow-drop. “look, elise; oh, look, look !” she said, clapping her hands delightedly; " we are stop- ping at last. look! oh, how high the mountain is, elise; it almost touches heaven; are we going up there ?" “ truly, i fear so, mademoiselle," answered elise, with an anxious look at the towering heights around her. “misericorde ! but it is terrible, this wild america.” “ terrible ! ” laughed the little girl. “do the big hills frighten you, elise? they do not frighten me. i love them, i love them ! oh, i hope we are going to the very tip-top of them all.” “ heaven forbid !” said elise, in dismay. “ how we are to climb such savage heights at all, mademoiselle, i cannot see. it seems a old meg. wilderness. jean, jean, is it that we are to land in this desolate spot ? are you sure?” “ this is the place," said the brisk jean, approaching, his arms full of packages. “monsieur said we would get a wagon that would take us up to heatherton hall. this would be easier for mademoiselle than the rough twenty miles from the railroad. will mademoiselle wait here until i have arranged for her journey, or go on shore at once ? " “oh, let us go ashore !” said little mad- emoiselle. “i am tired of the old boat. come, elise; see, it is not so wild; there are no indians such as you fear. look, there is a shop and some nice little white houses, and truly, i believe, a church, elise, even a church, where you can say your prayers.” “ah, mademoiselle, nono,” said elise dolefully, “that is not a church like mine." “and there are two boys," said the little lady, in a whisper, “two real gentlemen boys, elise, in nice clothes. may i go speak to them ? may i tell them i am little alma heatherton, and i have come here to live al- ways in my papa's beautiful mountain home ?” chapter viii. little miss heatherton. the little heiress of heatherton came trip ping along the wharf holding her nurse's hand and smiling up into the dull faces and lowering eyes bent upon her. . there were mutterings around she did not hear, sullen, angry glances she did not see. even nick williams, the roxton storekeeper, who had hitherto maintained diplomatic re- lations with all parties, stood in his doorway, staring in open-mouthed bewilderment at this unexpected arrival. “ baby alma” had been a diminutive little atom in arms when her parents had left heatherton five years ago, and this dainty little fairy princess with her ponies and her parrot and her foreign attendants was dis- tinctly startling to roxton prejudice. but little miss heatherton, love-sheltered as she had been during her brief life, knew little miss heatherton. nothing of fear or distrust. “come on, elise, come on; let us climb the hills a little bit, and” “oh, mademoiselle, no, no !” said elise anxiously; “this american sun is too terrible; perhaps the young gentleman here can point out to us an inn where we can wait for the diligence until it comes." the “ young gentleman,” fred, stepped forward. “you will find no inn or diligence here, i am afraid," he answered with a smile. “but if you will take seats on the store-porch here (williams, get chairs or boxes for these ladies), i will gladly do what i can for you; i am from heatherton hall.” "ah, thanks to heaven !” said elise, with a sigh, as she took the chair given her. “for the moment i feared we were mistaken in our way. jean, jean, it is all right, it is all right," she called to the brisk french “ garçon.” “this young gentleman is from heatherton hall.” “what is your name ?” asked little miss heatherton, who had perched herself com- fortably on a soap-box, and was evidently dis- posed to be sociable. little miss heatherton. “oh, won't they ?” said the little lady sorrowfully. “i wish they would. can't they stay for a while and play with me? oh, elise, do you hear ? this nice fred has a crowd of little brothers and sisters at my house taking care of it. when my papa comes to-morrow i will beg him to ask the little girls and boys to stay. he could not come with us when we left yesterday, as he expected, and the town was so hot i was getting weak, so he sent me in the boat with elise and jean. and it was very nice on the water, but i got tired and i am glad to get to land again." and the little lady hopped down from her perch and began investigating her surroundings. crouched down behind a corner of the porch was old meg, who had packed up the scant store of tea and tobacco for which she had traded her simples, and was munching her midday meal, a stale corncake and piece of cheese, when alma's soft eyes fell upon the wretched picture. “poor old woman," she said pitifully. “elise, there is some chicken in the basket still and some sandwiches; may i take them to the old woman there?” « certainly, if you wish, mademoiselle. little miss heatherton. and old meg, lifting her fierce, bleared eyes, saw the little golden-haired figure stand- ing before her holding a dainty folded napkin. “poor old woman,” said alma softly. “i have brought you some of my nice lunch. throw that old bread away and take this.” and she dropped the napkin on the old woman's lap. “who are you ?” gasped old meg, rousing from a semi-doze, and staring after the child, who had fitted away, attracted by the great wagon rolling up to the store-door. “don't you know who 'tis ? ” asked the surly voice of the old mountaineer, who stood near by. “it's jim heatherton's kid, that he hez just sent up by the boat.” “ his child-his?” with a fierce impre cation the old woman flung the napkin from her, while her burning eyes turned towards the little white figure on the porch with a look of baleful hate. “ his child ? and she dares come nigh to me to me ?” “what has the child done but give ye food, ye old spitfire ?” said the other bluntly. “ heatherton or not, she's as purty a little creetur as i ever seen. have ye forgotten that ye once had little kids yourself ?” b little miss heatherton. “ay, i had—i had,” mumbled old meg, while something like a deep sob rose in her throat. “i ain't-ain't—a-feeling right. something's a-hurting me here," an she clutched at her skinny breast. “i wish the boy hedn't a-fought fur me; i wish the kid hedn't come nigh to me with her vittles i ain't-ain't-feeling right-here” and with another passionate blow upon her soft- ening heart the old woman rose and hobbled away. meanwhile, with much excited broken english, jean was loading up nick williams's big white-topped wagon that had conveyed the lindsays to heatherton hall. trunks, boxes, bandboxes, bird-cages, garden swings and garden chairs, hampers of wine and groceries, a doll's carriage and doll's house, were piled in until only room was left for nick williams's boy, sam, and jean to swing their legs from the driver's seat. “where are you going to put your folks ?” asked the storekeeper, who was looking on. “in that basket-wagon ?” “non, non,” said jean," that must remain until to-morrow at the shop, for the wheels to be arranged. we must have another voiture. little miss heatherton monsieur said that we would without doubt find here carriages and wagons strong and large to our command.” “dunno 'bout the command,” drawled nick, who felt that suspicious eyes were re- garding his relations with the heathertons, and it behooved him not to be too friendly. “i don't run no livery stable fur furrin dooks; i've got that ar wagon fur hire, and i ain't got nothing else. but squire white's team is down here, and he might give some of yer folks a lift up the mountain.” “certainly,” said lem, who, owing to the previous charter of the “ pocahontas," was going home with very light freight. “shake down those grain-bags, fred, and make a seat for the ladies. we are going straight up to heatherton hall.” and then jean covered the grain-bags with soft rugs and silken cushions, and elise, with a martyr- like aspect, was assisted to a seat on a soap- box, and little miss heatherton lifted by fred to her snuggery, and the caravan started on its lumbering way up the mountain. "oh, how nice this is !” exclaimed alma de- lightedly; “ i never rode like this before, and we are going higher and higher every mo- little miss heatherton. ment. we are above the tree-tops now. oh, elise, do you not find this charming ? oh, what happiness to play all day long on this beautiful mountain !” and so little miss heatherton chirped and chattered in high glee until the long ride and delightful novelty and soothing lullaby of the mountain breeze proved too much for her, and nestling back among her cushions she sank into rosy, happy sleep. merry shouts of greeting wakened her, and the bewildered little one found herself before a great old house standing shadowy in the gathering twilight. fred lifted her rot on a vine-wreathed porch; a crowd of wondering children gathered around her, a sweet mother- voice spoke words of welcome, and the little heiress of heatherton was at home again. it was the merriest of all the merry even- ings at the old hall; never had the young lindsays found a more bewitching little play- mate. neither love nor luxury had been able to spoil alma's sunny nature and generous little heart. delicate health and early be- reavement had made her young life a lonely one and she was wild with delight at finding little miss heatherton. herself one of a merry crowd. the children chased each other up and down the broad stairs, played hide-and-seek in the big dusky parlors, danced to fred's whistle over the polished floors. alma's treasures were brought out and scattered around with lavish hand. bonbons, trinkets, toys, games, were given right and left to her new friends. "my dear, my dear, no,” said mrs. lindsay gently, when alma, on the morning after her arrival came down from the rooms in the west wing, which had been hurriedly prepared for her accommodation, wit, a costly parisian dancing doll for dickie-bird to demolish at his leisure. “ you must not give away your beautiful toys." “won't the little boy like it ?” asked alma in disappointment. “you wind it up like this and it whirls all around the room." "i know, dear, it is very pretty, but you must keep it yourself.” "i don't want it,” said alma eagerly. "i don't want anything now but the trees and the rocks and the brook-and-and poor henriette. i will keep her always, because she is blind and we were sad together in little miss heatherton. paris. but we shall be happy up here, oh, happy." and mrs. lindsay could only smile a tear- ful, pitying, mother-smile for the little motherless one, as a few moments afterwards she saw “ henriette” attired in the latest french fashions, her blue-bandaged brows carefully shaded by a miniature leghorn hat, seated on the rim of the broken fountain, where rogue robin and alma were holding an animated conversation. hitherto girls of his own age had been objects of no interest to rogue robin; they had ways and methods which he scorned, they “cried” and “ told tales," and were generally distasteful to him. but this golden-haired little princess who had descended upon heatherton was of an al- together new pattern. a girl who had two ponies, a poodle, and a parrot that talked french was not an every-day arrival, but when that same girl presented rogue robin with a singing top, a pearl-handled penknife, and a box of pink lozenges, his allegiance was won forever, and then and there, on the broken- rimmed fountain, was made a perilous covenant which only the blind henriette and the storm-blackened cupid heard. little miss beatherton. “i am so glad we've got a mountain,” said alma, looking rapturously over the great green world stretching above and around her. “i'd rather have a mountain than anything else in the world.” “is the mountain all yours ?” asked rogue robin, quite prepared to have this little princess claim the whole western continent as her exclusive possession. “all mine and my papa's," answered alma confidently. “the trees and the big rocks and the great high places shining in the sun -and-and-everything. ah, henriette, cherie, continued the little girl, lapsing into french, as she clasped the afflicted henri- ette's slender waist, “it is far better even than the tuileries if you could but see it- pauvre amie. i speak french always to henriette,” explained alma, “for english she could never understand.” rogue robin only stared; his mind was re- volving other and more interesting problems. “ if the mountain is your papa's, why don't he drive away jack-o'-lantern ? i would if i were a man, i know." “who is jack-o'-lantern ?” aaked alma curiously. - chapter ix. two little truants. round the terrace, past the evergreen hedge that skirted the south windows, pat- tered the two little truants, rogue robin leading the way, and eluding detection with the skill of a small but practised scout, while alma, with henriette clasped tight in her arms followed more laboriously. through the pine groves where the little feet made no sound, and the murmuring boughs sighed no betrayal, over the brook that was foaming furiously against the dam the children had built the day before, the pretty pair skipped noiselessly until the mountain path opened before them, arched with yellowing boughs, flooded with sunlight, gay with nodding blossoms, a very ladder of gold leading up, up, up, almost, it seemed, to the sky. there was the breath of ripening grapes in thoo little truants. just a little higher up. put your doll down anti: we come back.” . “lie down, then, pauvrette," and alma, whose little arms began to ache with their burden, deposited henriette carefully on a mossy stone. “ take these pretty flowers to keep until we return. it will not be long, cherie; lie down on this soft moss and sleep, my poor little blind one; sleep, sleep!” and patting the recumbent henriette, with many french endearments alma finally covered her with a small embroidered hand- kerchief, and left her to enjoy her siesta while she scrambled after rogue robin, up a stony ledge to the alluring tree that seemed near. but alas ! among the small guide's scouting proclivities, following a trail was not included; rogue robin invariably“ got lost” as soon as he turned a corner. boldly as he led the hunt after the elusive“ honey-bearer," every step only meshed the little wanderers deeper in the mountain's labyrinthe. poor little alma at last began to pant wearily. “oh, i don't want to look for honey-trees any more, and henriette will wake up and ind herself alone. let us go back to henri- ette." and somewhat dolefully, as older two little truants. truants who wander after forbidden sweets, the little travellers tried to retrace their steps towards the deserted slumberer. " it was this way we came,” said rogue robin, turning hopelessly astray. “it was under a big tree we left her," said alma, looking vaguely around the oaks that encircled them. “come on; i see it ! ” said rogue robin, plunging forward into deeper labyrinths of gloom. “oh, that isn't the place at all,” piped alma. “oh, we've lost her! we've lost hen- riette ! my poor henriette ! oh, what will she do when she finds herself alone on the great mountain ?” and alma lifted up her voice and wailed aloud in despair. “don't,” said rogue robin desperately. “don't cry like that; we'll find her in a min- ute--and-and-she won't mind being left; she's only a doll, you know.” “ah, my henriette, my poor blind henri- ette !” sobbed alma, utterly deaf to this mas- culine consolation, as she stumbled along after her reckless little companion, higher und farther into the woodland tangles. and now a dark frown gathered on the two little trdants. over its brow; and now came a fierce, sullen mutter that rumbled and roared back from the gorges and peaks until the whole moun- tain seemed to shake like a great rousing lion shaking his mane. then, oh, then came a fierce whistling rush, and the trees paled and cowered and bent, as with a blaze of awful light the great father wind burst forth from his mountain-cloud lair. “oh, what is it! what is it !” shrieked alma in wild affright. “ it's the storm ;” and rogue robin, little soldier that he was, steadied his own quiver- ing lip, and clasping his half-fainting little companion, dragged her into the shelter of a big rock. “hold tight to me, alma, hold tight. i'll take care of you; we can't get home just yet. hold tight; don't be scared. it's it's only a storm.” a storm of a far different kind had been gathering on the ridge that day. high up among the dwarf oaks and pines and bare reaches of rock and rude barricades of logs and brush that guarded every level opening, a crowd of roughly clad, rough- bearded men had been discussing in sullen, two little truants. a tall, black-browed mountaineer leaning against a tree. long shaun lifted the dark eyes, deep-set under his grizzled brows, to the speaker's strange eyes; they were fierce and wild, and yet with sad shadows deepening around them that all their fiery flashing could not lighten. “now you're talking, boys,” he said ap- provingly; “now you're talking right. we hould this ridge, law or no law, and we do our own wurk here in our own way, and ez for jim heatherton if he or his comes next or nigh uz, that 'count will be settled, mates." and long shaun rose to his full gigantic height, and lifting his knotted hand to heaven, spoke an awful oath: “ that 'count is going to be settled if i swing fur it.” “ye beant a-going to settle it now, shaun, air ye?” asked one of the “mates” with a forced laugh, as long shaun clapped a ragged felt hat on his head and turned down the ridge. “none of yer bisness," growled shaun fiercely. “i'm goin' alone with cormac here," and he snapped his fingers to a gaunt, long-limbed hound that bounded forward at two little truants. his call. “he hez a tongue he can hold and i want no more gab.” “best not meddle with the old man this time of year," said phil, as the man and dog disappeared behind the rocks. “he is as dangerous as a stuck wildcat in midsum- mer. 'twas then his wife and baby died, and it comes back on him like the agoo. he's got an old den somewhere, and they say he keeps a lot of his wife's belongings there (she was a pretty tidy bit of a thing in her day), but it would be wuth your life ennymost to cross the door. and when this here spell of grief comes on him he tramps the woods all night long. ay, man, but he's a devil. did ye see that blaze in his eyes when we was talking ? shouldn't wonder if he meant to lay for jim heatherton and hev it out with him man to man to-night.” meantime the subject of these remarks, with cormac at his heels, was tramping fierce- ly away over rock and brier, snapping twigs and crushing the undergrowth that impeded his steps, with the impatience of some tor- tured thing. for more than an hour he kept on his way, and then making a sudden turn from a rocky ledge, he pressed an opening two little truants. tear i can give ye,” he continued, with a boarse, dry sob, “naither prayer nor tear, kety, for the fires of hate have burned me eyes and me soul dhry. all i can do for ye, avourneens, is to kape yer grave and the cross above it green, for i don't forget ye, katy, ye nor my bit of blue-eyed aily; divil that i am, i don't forget.” he picked up the few scattered leaves that marted the velvety turf of the grave, felt that the cross was steady under its veiling, bent down and pressed a long passionate kiss upon the mound, and then starting to his feet, turned hurriedly away across the mountain top, now darkening with the gathering storm. on and on he strode, while the heights grew blacker and the twitter of frightened birds came from the trembling tree-tops, and thunderous mutters shook the rocks; and even brave cormac, slinking along with ears and tail down, seemed to cower from the wrath to come. but long shaun's deep eyes flashed, and his great gaunt form thrilled in fierce, strange sympathy with the warring elements. “ay, there's a storm coming, lad," he said to his shivering companion; "there's a stom two little truants. a doll's untimely end. he could see the little quivering lip, the swimming blue eyes, even now. “some of the childhre up here will be scraching themselves into fits about that same doll baby to-morrow,” he growled. “i'll take it home wid me and save it from the storm.” and he thrust henriette, as he spoke, into his huge pocket, whence her bandaged brows and leghorn hat nodded cheerfully as he strode along to his mountain den. chapter x through the story. meanwhile, the two little wanderers cowered under the shadow of the great rock, nearly dazed with terror, while the storm burst upon the mountain in all its wrath. clap after clap of thunder shook the heights and was rolled back by answering echoes, while the forked lightning leaped from peak to peak, or blazed in awful sheets of flame across the blackened sky, and great trees bent and snapped and crashed in the teeth of the wind. “papa, papa," wailed alma piteously. “ hold tight to me, alma, hold tight !” cheered rogue robin, bracing his chubby form to meet the blast, while he clasped his little companion in his sturdy arms. “hold tight, and let us say our prayers. o dear lord, please take care of us, specially alma, through the storm. because she is a girl. hail mary, full of grace -hold tight, alma, hold tight !- blessed mother, good little angel, don't, don't let us blow away! oh! oh! oh!” the prayer died away into a terrified cry on the gallant little knight's quivering lips as an awful vision met his eye. for striding on through crashing trees and thunder roar and lightning flash, came a huge, brawny form, with grizzled beard and shaggy head and gun and bag--and-and the luckless henriette nodding in his pocket. jack-o'-lantern at last ! the terrible, roving, ravening robber jack! jack, who could not even let a baby doll escape his clutch, without catching it from mere force of habit! rogue robin had faced storm and darkness and lightning blaze like a hero, but the appear- ance of the long-talked of, long-dreaded jack, was too much for this six-year-old soldier, and his shrieks of terror pierced even the deafen- ing tumult around him. then came an awful crash and blaze that seemed to split earth and sky. “mother of heaven !” shouted an awful voice, " ye little fools of babies, what are ye doing there ?” and rogue robin, struggling - through the storm. manfully with arms and legs, was caught by one mighty hand and half-fainting alma with the other, and “ jack-o'-lantern ” made a dozen great strides forward amid splintering trees and falling rocks and then plunged- down-down-down with his shrieking cap- tives, into the very depths of the earth. and still shrieking and struggling desper- ately, rogue robin found himself dropped somewhere in a great stillness and blackness, while “ jack” scratched a match and lit his lantern; the lantern, of course, which rogue robin knew so well. “whisht, ye little ijit !” said “ jack ” fiercely. “it's lucky i got ye whin i did; the two of yez ’ud ha' been kilt intirely in another minute." then at last did rogue robin find breath and speech. “oh, no, no,” he gasped, catching dire threat in “ jack's ” words," don't hurt alma, mr. jack, please don't hurt alma; she's only a girl, a poor little baby girl don't don't kill alma ! ” “kill her, ye blathering little fool; faith, it's near kilt she seems already!” and he bent down over the little white figure that through the storm. of this;" and "jack," who had found cup and spoon, pressed a few drops of liquor to his little patient's lips. with a shudder the blue eyes unclosed and alma looked up at the rough face bending over her. “aisy now, acushla, another sup; don't skeer, my purty wan, don't skeer, ould shaun wouldn't hurt ye; ye're as safe as if yer own pappy had ye in his arms." was it jack who was talking ?--the child- catching, boy-boiling, awful jack ? rogue robin stopped between two yells and held his breath to hear. “shure it's a dark, quare place this is, i know, but i had to bring ye in here out of the storm. listhen to that, now," as the crash and roar of the tempest came in mufied sounds from above. “it's kilt outright ye’d have been, if ye were left ont there." “robbie, robbie !” cried the little one in frightened bewilderment, "oh, where is rob- bie ? " “here,” said "jack," collaring rogue robin and swinging him to the bed beside her,“ safe and sound as ye are, though it's a wonder his throat isn't split with the scraching; and look at this," another soothing argument suddenly through the storm. unpack, it was small wonder that the flight of the two little truants was unnoticed for hours. so steadily had rogue robin been kept in bounds for weeks by his terror of the mythical jack, that the family had ceased to watch over the once reckless rover. it was not until the mountain began to darken un- der the gathering frown of the storm cloud that the two wanderers were missed. “shut the windows and doors, mother," warned fred, bursting excitedly into the house. “ the biggest kind of a storm is com- ing up-one of your regular mountain snorters. it's black as night to the south; cal says he never saw anything like it, and the hounds are crying and shivering. close- reef everything, or this old caboose will go." “see to the windows, girls, quick !” said his mother, who knew what a mountain storm was, " and call in the children. fred, robbie, alma, dickie, where are you, dears ? come right in !" “here is dickie, he was with cal and me at the stable; we've made everything tight there; but robbie and alma where are they ?” “out in the garden," said mrs. lindsay, through the storm. “we've looked everywhere," said tess and lou, “ cverywhere." “rogue robin wouldn't go off the place, i am sure," said fred. “dunno 'bout dat,” said mam' patsy, shaking her head; "he been talking heaps 'bout dat ar honey-tree up on de mountain." “up on the mountain ! ” gasped mrs. lindsay, whitening to the lips. “up on the mountain in a storm like this? oh, my rob- bie, my robbie !” "mother, dear mother, don't don't look like that,” pleaded fred, putting his arm around her; “ we'll find him if he is there. i'll start right off.” “yer can't,” said cal's stolid voice behind him. “ you nor me, nor no other critter could stand agin what's coming now.” for curling and whitening the forest before it, like the crest of a giant green billow, the wind came down upon them, and they were in the storm clouds. earth and tree and rock vanished in an awful lurid gloom. the roar of a thousand batteries echoed around them; lightning flashed and leaped and quivered on every side; the house shook to its foundation under the shrieking rush of the wind. a golden sunset. you'll find the angels have taken care of them, and that they are all right.” but his heart sank despite his cheery words, for he knew that the angels sometimet care for god's little ones in ways we cannot see; bearing their sweet souls unspotted be- yond life's clouds and storms into heaven's light and love. “ it will be a long hunt, i'm thinking,” said cal gloomily, as they pressed on over the ter- race strewn with wreckage, through the garden, where poor little cupid had toppled over into the fountain, and the stream was dashing an angry torrent over the rocks and rubbish that blocked the way. on and on, struggling as best they could over fallen trees and boulders and tangles of vine and splintered boughs. great pines and oaks had been uprooted, and huge rocks torn from the mountain side choked their path. fred's heart sank lower and lower as he scrambled on after cal, who led the way in a grim silence that was more eloquent than speech. suddenly cal's practised eye caught sight of something tangled and twisted round a brier at his feet, a sodden bit of rag that fred would have passed unnoticed. a golden sunsot. he picked it up and shook it out. it was a wee bit of an embroidered handkerchief. “there's letters on it,” said cal, pointing to the corner. “can you make them out ? ” “alma heatherton,” read fred, while a sick pain seemed to strike through his heart. “ they must have been here.” and both boys looked around them in chilling fear, to which they could give no words. for just here the storm seemed to have done its worst. a great oak lay rent by a thunderbolt from crown to root, while, loosened by the shock, a very avalanche of rocks and earth had fallen from above, forming a huge barrier in the path. “i guess thar beant much use in going any further,” said cal, with an odd choke in his voice. “ef they was here they must-be- thar," and he nodded to the landslide before them. “great heavens ! don't-don't say that, cal," said fred huskily. “let's let's see.” and he began passionately to tear away the débris. “ you can't stir them rocks; it will take a pick or a crowbar," said cal. “we'll have to go back yon and get some help and tools. a golden sunset. you see,” said cal, whose eye had taken in the situation slowly but surely, “thar ain't nary house 'roun' 'bout here whar they could been tuk in, and they couldn't ha' stood no- how 'gin a storm like this yer. then this here slide ud have berried full-grown folks much less'n two little critters like 'em.” the speaker paused as fred leaned against a tree and sobbed outright. and then, we are sorry to say, cal swore an ugly mountain oath that would have made poor little tess nearly faint. “it is tough,” he growled; “yer needn't talk to me no more bouten angels. ef thar was any sech they'd a-been looking after two poor little young uns a deal better'n this.” “ cal, cal! oh, what can i tell mother?” cried fred, thinking of the look he had seen on her face at parting. “don't tell her nuthing yet; we don't know nuthing. them angels your sister tells me 'bout mout have been 'roun' a-watching 'em, though it don't look like it," said cal, his dawning faith lighting up again; "it don't look like it, i must say. best thing to do is just to start black ben with his pick to work here, and then you and me s'arch higher a golden sunset. “ searching !” the dark eyes of colonel heatherton flashed quick inquiry into fred's face, inquiry that his lips could not frame. his face was deathly pale; only that, and the rigid lines drawn about the mouth, told that the strong man was bearing up under a mor- tal blow. “don't–don't tell mother, sir," gasped fred, “but there's-been-a landslide where we found—this." a low groan burst from the father's lips as fred held out the little handkerchief. "my little lamb," he murmured brokenly, “my one little ewe lamb! o my god! why did i ever turn my steps to this thrice accursed spot-for me-for mine ?” “ fred, fred,” called his mother's sweet, anxious voice, and in a moment she too was at the door with lou and tess beside her. “oh, you have heard, you have found some- thing! tell me quick, quick, my son!” “only-only alma's little handkerchief, mother dear.” “where, where ?” she cried; “ don't hide anything from me, fred-where ?” “under the landslide that has doubtless crushed them," answered colonel heatherton, a golden sunset. pitiless in his own agony; and then he burst forth in fierce, wicked words of rebellious de- spair. "o hush, hush!" said the christian mother, her soft eyes blazing as she fixed them upon the speaker. “o my god, forgive him, and help us to bear this blow! my little boy ! my little boy ! o father in heaven, help me to yield my darling into thy tender hands o robbie, robbie ! never to see him again ! never-never ! ” “o mamma, mamma, yes, look, look !” burst forth joyfully from the startled chil- dren. and for a moment all stood dumb with be- wildered rapture, for the sunset rays had riven the last tattered storm cloud, the west- ern sky was all aglow, and down the steep mountain side, now arched by a double rain- bow, came a huge, brawny form, striding with giant steps over rocks and trees and débris; while perched on one shoulder was alma with the rescued henriette tightly clasped in her arms, and astride of the other was rogue robin, his chubby hand clutching his bearer's shaggy hair, and both were shouting and laughing gleefully as their pretty heads a golden sunset. brushed the glittering rain-drops from the trees in golden showers. " papa ! papa !” rang out alma's sweet, silvery treble, “there is my own dear papa." “mamma, fred, dickie ! ” shouted rogue robin in the proud triumph of a conquered terror. “here is jack-o'-lantern bringing us home, nice old jack, good jack !” “down wid yez,” said "jack," as he reached the gate and swung his riders gently to the ground. “and mind, if i ever catch the two of yez out in a storm like this agin, i'll ate yez in airnest.” and then as alma sprang to her speech- less father's arms, as rogue robin was caught in rapture to his half-fainting mother's breast, “ jack-o'-lantern” strode away under the dripping boughs, his account with the heathertons“ settled” indeed forever. and oh! what a blissful, bewildering time followed! how the naughty little truants were kissed and hugged, and cried and laughed over, while the sunbeams twinkled through the tearful trees, and the breeze whisked away the last tatters of the storm cloud, and the western sky shimmered into gold and crimson and pink and violet, as if a hundred a golden sunset. knew the mountain and its history-every line. “and—and-he ain't safe ter meddle with pohow ever since. dad don't skeer quick, and he's skeered of long shaun. must ha' been a powerful angel that made him tote them young uns back here safe, fur he's the wust devil on all the ridge, is long shaun; we uns all know that." "oh, i can't believe it, i can't !” said mrs. lindsay. “he may be bitter and broken- hearted, but, oh, not bad not bad-he was too tender to our little ones, colonel heather- ton, for that." “and he shall be paid for his service, madam," said the colonel," paid well. but i have come back here to rule my own place, wisely if i can, harshly if i must. if my neighbors will not live in peace with me there must be war, war to the end.” and mrs. lindsay sighed as she gathered her little flock around her, and hurried them into the house, to the big log fire that black ben had built to keep off the twilight chill. this proud, stern man, even in his softest hour, stood unbent and unyielding. ah, the work of the angels was not done, even yet! chapter xii. « the one ewe lamb." roque robin with his sturdy health, his stout littie shoes, and his six weeks of moun- tain training, stood his late adventure man- fully and was soon sleeping rosily and com- fortably in his downy nest, all fear of jack-o'- lantern banished forever. but it was a very nervous, feverish little alma that elise put to bed that night, bemoaning as she did so the tiny bruised feet, the little brier-torn limbs. “ah, ciel ! never did i see anything like this. mademoiselle will be surely ill, delicate as she has always been; she will be ill, i know." and at midnight the old house was roused by her alarm, and alma was found to be ill indeed. with burning cheeks and star-bright eyes she lay in the great four-post bed that had “ the one ewe lamb." down the storm-swept path came the tall, thin figure that had startled lou on the ter- race two weeks ago. · father xavier, indeed! father xavier, mounted on a steady, sure-footed mule that could have safely picked its way through the ruins of a universe-father xavier, whom neither tropical tornadoes nor earthquakes had ever daunted or turned aside from his missionary way-father xavier calmly com- ing to say his promised mass at heatherton hall ! for a moment sorrow was forgotten as the children trooped out on the porch to meet the good priest. : “god bless you, god bless you, one and all i said father xavier as, dismounting, he laid his hand in benediction first on one and then on another of the little group. “one, two, three, four, five-none of you have blown away. i have been anxious about you, very anxious, and luckily i was not very far away, only at good michael brady's, near roxton, where i was storm-bound while making a sick- call, when on my way up here to say your mass. truly it was a terrible storm. god has been very good to protect you." “ the one ewe lamb." suddenly father xavier paused in his cheery speech, and grew pale to the lips “is it the doctor ?” asked a husky voice at the door, and colonel heatherton, with a gray look of despair on his face, stepped out on the porch. “for god's sake come up, then. my child is dying !” “ colonel heatherton, this is our friend, father xavier, a missionary priest,” explained mrs. lindsay hurriedly. “ not the doctor !” said the unhappy father, recoiling in his bitter disappointment; “ then, then the child is lost." "no," said father xavier, recovering him- self with an effort and speaking in an odd, strained voice, “not lost. i- -am physician as well as priest. i studied and practised for years among my pacific flock. let me see the little one; i may be of service.” “ come, then,” said the colonel, grasping at any straw in his despair; “but you can do nothing, i fear," he added hoarsely, “she is dying even now.” and he led the way, father xavier follow- ing through the broad hall, where the last dancing rays of sunset seemed to wake the dark features of the old judge's picture into “ the one ewe lamb." seemed breathing as he passed his portrait ; now it was 'his brother, who with arms en- twined about his neck was whispering the old boyish secrets into his ear. "i am going mad, i am going mad," said the colonel. “what has roused all these ghosts of the past to-night ? unless-unless the last of the race is passing away ?” and then the great clock on the stair struck midnight, and with an icy fear at his heart the wretched father strode back to the sick-room to find the watcher on his knees by the little motionless form--weeping like & child. “ is it death ?” gasped the colonel. “no, no, not death, but life," said father xavier, rising and facing him with solemn joy irradiating his features. “listen to her breathing. the crisis has passed. in god's name i give you back your child. may she lead you to heaven, my dear, dear brother.” “brother !” colonel heatherton stag- gered back speechless, as at last he recognized face, voice, form, that in his anguish he had scarcely noticed. “joe!” he whispered at last. “is it joe, or some blessed spirit who conclusion. “ joe” heatherton had returned spread like wild-fire over the mountain. family history, being the only kind ever heard in that locality, was known well. “young joe,” had been a prime favorite in his boyhood and youth, and the story of his banishment and disinheritance had been told and retold over smoky cabin-fires, and handed down from father to son, until the prejudice against the master of heatherton had grown more and more bitter, year by year; a preju- dice which colonel heatherton, proud, stern, and masterful, had as sheriff and magistrate done much to increase. wild were the rumors rife on the mountain regarding “young joe's" reappearance. some whis- pered he had been roused from a death sleep by the storm and it was only his ghost that had revisited the mountain; others, that he had been kept locked in some dreadful prison or madhouse during all these years; others hinted darkly at magic or witchcraft. but all rumors were quelled when “father xavier," grave, kind, and gentle, made his way over the mountain calmly, regardless of blockades or barriers, visiting huts and cabins and caves, recalling old times and old friend. conclusion. like thim." but when rumor came that luong shaun, who had been invisible to his mates for days, was going, that cal jones and his father were to be there, that mike brady and pete finnegan, two of the most notorious roughs for miles around, had promised father xavier to attend, curiosity and interest over- came prejudice and distrust. so it happened on a beautiful sunday morning, two weeks after the storm, there was an odd gathering at heatherton hall. em- bowered in sumach and golden-rod and feathery masses of green, stood the little altar, decked with quaint old candelabra and vases, and glowing with starry tapers. and when, clad in strange, shining vestments, “mr. joe” stood before them; when pure girlish voices, upborne by cal's deep tenor, arose in sweet, solemn harmony; when colonel heatherton was seen kneeling on one side of the altar, and long shaun, with half a dozen spirits equally as fierce, was dis- covered bowed in humble prayer near the doorwayma hush of breathless amazement fell on the congregation that was not broken until the mysterious rite was ended. then father xavier turned to them and conclusion. spoke in sweet, simple words of the “father in heaven" who wished all his children to live in this beautiful world in peace and love; that he had come as his messenger among them, and hoped to heal all the wounds and banish all the bitterness of the past. that his brother had determined to give honest work to them all, the old mines were to be opened, new roads built, there would be labor and pay on the mountain henceforth for all willing to live according to order and law. and as a pledge of this friendly feeling the heather- tons invited them to a feast in the garden to- day, where the little mistress of heatherton would welcome them in her father's name. and still rather dazed, the stolid-faced guests were guided by the merry little lindsays to the terraced garden, where long tables of board, covered with the heatherton damask, fairly groaned with the good things prepared in harmony by mam' patsy and black ben and elise and jean; while seated in a big gar- den-chair banked with pillows and cushions alma-a pale, starry-eyed little earth angel gleefully greeted her father's guests. and thus the light of love dawned at last over the mountain, brightening year after conclusion. xavier's butler, hostler, driver, and righto hand in general. here, too, is the grizzled old sexton, shaun, whose life is passed now in peace and prayer by his beloved graves. but he rouses always as the silvery call cchoes merrily down the mountain slope: “we are coming. its rob- bie and me. where are you? jack, jack, jack ! come play with us, jack-o'-lantern ! 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( f "> v the new york public library ast'ir. lenox anf t lw*. kulndat um « \ i the adventures of peterkin tue nsw yohk public library ast'ik. lfntx anp t uiw< ful.mvtlu.xi s i inside his pumperkin house the adventures of peterkin by author of "tom tit tales," "the green tulip," "fun in the forest," etc. a sam'l gabriel sons & company new york vat. :tv yo'ik pi i;; re ii;;;;aiiy ar"i:. copyright, , by sam'l gabriel sons & company new york by kind permission of the evening sun, new york contents chapter pagi xiii. the toothless enemy xiv. peterkin's rescue xv. the water of bounceability .... xvi. the vale of the blind xvii. peterkin promises xviii. the valley of silence . xix. ears too sharp xx. the valley of dancing legs .... xxi. the valley of up-in-the-air .... xxii. peterkin in a muddle xxiii. the lost pumperkin xxiv. out of hiding xxv. a precious prisoner xxvi. the villain's story xxvii. in the city xxviii. how peterkin tricked them all . . . xxix. peterkin brings joy xxx. valley to valley xxxi. the patient princess xxxii. the villain satisfied xxxiii. the glorious ending . .., . ,., . . so robert stuart harquia o ne day old— and all your life ahead of you! how i wish that plodding i could be there instead of you! tops and toys and picture books; sliding ponds and summer brooks; birds among the tree-tops green; flowers thrusting to be seen— and about you, like a charm to protect you, mother's arm. . . . just one day- and thousands more to come to you! how the chirrupy old crickets of the hearth will hum to youl all the things that brightest gleam in a mother's brightest dream: sunshine that is free from rain, laughter that is free from pain; faith and glory, love and hope lie along your life's long slope. . . - one day old— while within your cradle, you smile to think of all the things life will freely ladle you! ttere is the a jl story of peter- kin pumperkin, lived in a patch, and afraid of a bumper- kin. the wind came along with a jig and a jumperkin— when peterkin stopped, he was all in a lumperkin. the adventures of peterkin for, when the growly wind took to blowing over the pumpkin patch and set the fat yellow balls of pumpkins swaying from this side to that on their slender vines, poor peterkin would be jounced clear out of bed and sent spin- ning round and round the circled pumpkin wall. "ugh, ouch!" he would groan. "my poor head's all bumps and bruises. ugh, ugh! why in the name of every- thing foolish did i ever come to live in a pumpkin? why didn't i stay in a sensible house, and live like other folks live? oh, ouch!" and then, as the wind gave one last roar and his jouncing little home gave one last, extra large somer- sault on its vine, peterkin would usually find himself thwacked back into bed again, with his feet on the pillow and his head buried deep in the mattress. the wind, of course, thought it the greatest fun in the world. the wind was only a jolly playmate, after all— even if he was a bit too rough about it. and the wind could never understand what made peterkin so angry in the matter. "whee! i love to play free and frolic! i love to send the little leaves whirling and the dust mounds swirling, and the heavy laden pine-boughs tossing with sighs. i love to chase the thin gray wisps of mist and the spattering rain-drops as they fall, and to rattle the frosted window panes. whee! peterkin pumperkin i'm sure fm more than gentle with peterkin pumperkin. i always take care not to snap his anchor stem! i always leave him fast upon his vine. whee, whiz!" but then there came a night when myriad snowflakes were falling over the patch. it was more than the mischievous wind could stand. he must get in among those flakes! he must make them jig and dart and dive in crooked merri- ment! he rushed down upon them, charging with a trumpet's roar. and in his wild path he rolled the clumsy pumpkins to this side and that, until their rumble fairly shook the earth. poor peterkin was dozing at his tiny stove, just then—for it was very chilly and shivery inside his pumperkin house. whee! whistled the wind. whee! it shrieked, right over his head. then, suddenly, the terrible thing happened! the thing that peterkin had feared so many years! snap! went the stem of peterkin's pumperkin—off the vine, out of the patch —free, anchorless, guideless! and away and away rolled the pumpkin house—down the bumpy field, across the ditch, through the brook, to the top of a steep hill. then away and away, down, down, down, went peterkin and his pumper- kin—over and over in swift, dizzy tumbles. head up, feet down, head down, feet up—down, down, down! then up the adventures of peterkin another hill. up, up, to its top, with poor peterkin turning an unwilling somersault at every yard! but, oh, at the top of this hill is a precipice—and beyond it, miles below, is the sea. ah, what will happen now to pe- terkin? his pumpkin house reaches the edge of the preci- pice, seems to linger for a short moment, then shoots far out and down, down into the sea! it sinks beneath the waves, then slowly bobs up again, sinks again, comes up again and floats peacefully away with the tide. and now, with this strange happening, begin the marvel- lous adventures of peterkin in his pumperkin! let's hope that in the next of them the wind, that merry playfellow, will try to be more gentle. ii peterkin afloat when last we heard of peterkin—do you re- member?—he was afloat on the waves in his pumpkin house. and sailing swiftly out to sea! peterkin, as soon as he had gained his breath, climbed out of the tangle of bed-clothes and furniture which his sud- den fall had thrown over and all about him. then he pinched himself in every limb, and was glad to find everything whole and sound. "whew!" he gasped. "that was an escape! to think of landing in the sea i" he pulled his little ladder out from under a tumble of pots the adventures of peterkin and pans and bric-a-brac and blankets, and set it up against the wall. then up he clambered, step by step, until he had poked his head through the hole, in the pumperkin's top, which served for a door and a window and ceiling, all at the same time. it gave him just a glimpse of the open air and the wide stretch of sea on every hand. waves—blue, choppy, hopping waves, as far as peterkin could see . . . nothing but waves! well, there was nothing for it but to go back into his house and sit by the stove and begin to cry. not that crying could help matters any—but peterkin was sad at all these sudden happenings, and somehow his tears did make him feel a little better. "boohoo!" wept he. "it's all the fault of the wicked wind! one moment i was safe and dozing at home in my old pump- kin patch; the next, here i am bobbing and lost on the face of the ocean. the only thing i have to be thankful for is that there's still a warm fire in my stove. boohoo!" and oh, the saddest part of it all is that he wept so hard, and so many of his tears spilled down into the stove that— what did he do but put the fire out! and soon enough his pumpkin house grew cold and cheerless and wet with the briny waves which came dashing in through the door-win- dow-ceiling. peterkin afloat it was a dreary party now. peterkin felt his yellow ball of a boat leap and fall with every wave. everything rattled and jingled to the see-saw motion. he grew dizzy. he could scarcely steady himself to climb up the ladder a second time. he could hardly see the white froth at the crests of the waves and the deep green of their troughs. he made out a ship passing by, miles and miles away. he screamed and waved his coat and whistled between two fingers—did every- thing he could think of to make the sailors see and save him. but the ship sailed on and away, until the white specks of its sails had faded from view. the adventures of peterkin night came on, gray and then blue, and the waves never tired of their ceaseless jigging. peterkin crouched on the floor of his pumperkin and thought of the fate which awaited him, and worried himself into a troubled sleep. many times during the long, dark hours he woke up with a start, and, through the hole in the house-top, caught a glimpse of the stars and a smack of the salt spray. the last time he awoke, the stars had been swallowed up in the gray- ing sky by a streak of glowing red, and peterkin knew it was the dawn. later, when the sunshine came straggling into his shell on the drops of glistening spray, he climbed his ladder for an early morning peek. white mists were rolling back across the waves, and ... oh! what was that? not a hundred yards away, a thin fountain, shimmering like silver, rose up out of the green of the sea and curved down again upon it. again it came—and again! up, up— fifty feet into the air, a gleaming fountain! and then, as it came nearer and nearer, peterkin caught the glimpse of a black fin . . . and a huge jaw! ughl what could it be? ill peterkin and the whale a whale! yes,it was a big, black, hungry whale! and it was drawing closer and closer to peterkin's pump- *■' kin boat every time he blinked. peterkin could see its forked tail now and its great, darkly gleaming sides. once it disappeared completely under the foam, and when it rose again, it was so near that peterkin saw its ugly little eyes and a white row of jagged teeth. whenever it flashed its tail and fins, there was a great churn- ing of water, and the pumperkin would roll and rock so fiercely that it almost dumped its poor owner into the ocean. the whale, i'm sure, did not know what to make of it. the si the adventures of peterkin whale was used to boats, of course—but boats with sails and pointed prows and sailors in the rigging. while here was something round and fat, and such a golden yellow! no bow it had, nor stern, nor sails, nor flags, nor rudder. "is it really and truly a boat?" thought the whale. well, this would have to be looked into very closely! so the big whale came puffing and fountaining up to the little pumperkin. "oh, oh," it sighed, "what a pretty thing to frisk with! just like a play-toy! here's where i have my day's fun!" and with that it dived deep under the pumpkin boat and came up on the other side. "haw, haw," it chuckled—as only a whale can chuckle—"what bully good sport! just to look at that little man who is peeking out over the side of this yellow ball! just to see how surprised he looks to find me over here, where he didn't expect me to be! haw, haw!" and the whale gave another frolicsome wiggle to his tail— nearly upsetting the pumperkin again. as for peterkin, he was chattering with fear. he did not know what was coming next! perhaps the whale was about to swallow him for breakfast. yes, yes, it was surely up to some mischief, was this black whale. for it had disappeared again. oh, what now? true, the playful whale had taken another dive under the peterkin and the whale bottom of the pumpkin. but it didn't bother to come up on the other side. it just stayed there under water, directly be- neath the pumperkin. "haw, i wonder what would happen if i should squirt my fountain into the air?" thought the whale—and being a whale, it had to take a long while to think it over. in the the adventures of peterkin dreadful pause, peterkin trembled so hard that his stove and his bed and all the furniture took to rattling, too. then, suddenly, the pumperkin, peterkin and all, shot fifty feet high into the air! up, up, like a bubble at the top of a mighty geyser, it rose with the stream of the whale's foun- tain. for the wink of an eye, it seemed to hang there—then down it came again—down with a spatter and splash into the trough of the sea! peterkin could stand it no longer. he screamed aloud— with such a scream as the whale had never heard. it was a scream to make every fish in the sea shudder along its fins. "oh, dear me i" sighed the whale, "i have made an enemy. i've been hurting somebody's feelings, i fear. i should have been very glad to make a breakfast of that little man and his yellow bubble, if only he hadn't minded and had acted cheer- fully about it. but now, since he's so cross and cranky, i shall punish him by going away and never looking at him again. so there!" which was just what the big whale did. and it never could understand why the little man clapped his hands and laughed with delight when he saw it dwindle away into the waves of the distance. the adventures of peterkin suddenly, the pumperkin gave a lurch and a fling up- ward. then again and again! oh, what was it now? an- other whale? peterkin rushed up his ladder, and . . . oh, it was land! yes, directly ahead of him, the waves were combing into a high, frothy surf thundering down upon a stretch of yel- low sands. behind that, he could see tall trees spreading their broad palm leaves in tufts of brightest green; and a low hill of glistening rock, where purple flowers clung and orange-leaved vines were twining. "land!" cried peterkin in rapture. "land at last!" sure enough, the pumpkin boat gave a last leap in the swirl of the surf and came down on something firm and grating. it was safe on the sands of the shore. in a jiffy peterkin had hauled up his ladder and let it down on the other side. then down he climbed, waded swiftly through the foamy edge of spume and dashed up on the beach. before he did another thing, he danced a jig— which was peterkin's way of showing how happy and thank- ful he was. so you may be sure it was a very merry jig he danced! then he went wisely back and pushed and pulled at his pumperkin until it was high and dry upon the shore. next he lifted his cold stove out and set it in a dark little cave of peterkin's appetite the rocks, where the rain might never find it in stormy weather. "but a lot of good my stove will be to me if i cannot find something to cook on it!" thought hungry peterkin. so he searched the length of yellow sand. but he found nothing there excepting a few empty shells, pink and gray, like the glow of a pearl. he searched the mosses under the palm trees—but only a few nuts had fallen from the tufts overhead, and these were so hard and so bitter that the taste the adventures of peterkin of them puckered up his face with sour twists. he climbed the hill of glistening stone until he could see from its sum- mit the tops of thousands and thousands more of just such trees—like so many green and waving feather dusters—a whole forestful, swaying to the horizon's boundary. and there at last, on the tip top of the rocks, he seized upon a handful of the purple flowers and another of the or- ange-leaved vine. "if nothing else," he planned, "i shall make a dainty salad of flower and leaf and eat it from a plate of pearly sea-shell." but alas! he was still to learn the evil of plucking strange things for salads! peterkin's cooking y h is arms full of leaves and flowers, peter- kin hurried back to the lit- tle black cave, where his stove was in hiding. "this cave shall be my kitchen," he told himself. under its shadow i shall cook my meals and brew my broths, and boil and broil and bake. . . . only, i quite forgot, — i have nothing to cook. nothing but flowers and leaves." he thought for a long while, and finally he decided that, instead of having just a cold and fragrant salad, he should heat them all up into a smoking stew. he should have a meal to warm the cockles of his heart. but, when he had gathered the stalks of withered palm vi an hour of storm p eterkin woke up with a start. some- thing was roaring in his ears. a rushing shower of sand stung his cheeks. the wind was shrieking behind him, across the low hill and in among the palm trees. at his feet, the waves of the surf were hammering down upon the beach in great, black, frothing mountains, until the earth itself seemed trembling. the air was cold and swept across his face in fresh, tossing gusts. he jumped to his feet and ran. he was afraid of some- thing—he did not know what. he ran, stumbling, to the crest of the hill. he could look out, now, across the sea of gray waves on one side and the sea of green tree-tops on * >;v,' yokk. ; l li.ai.ty an hour of storm the other. above him the sky was a mass of heavy, dark- ening clouds, a field of clashing, rumbling shadows. every little while it would cleave apart, and down to the sea would spin the forks of blinding lightning in jagged craziness. then all heaven and earth would mutter and roar and take to trembling. palm leaves, torn from the trees, went flying off, high overhead, in somersault- ing circles. eddies of golden sand swirled the length of the shore. the wind, heavy with salt spray, wailed louder and louder. then it grew darker than midnight. peterkin could see nothing now. he knelt among the snapping, creak- ing vines and buried his face against the beaten-down flowers. the rain began. a few warm, pattering drops at first— then a sudden heavy downpour, streaming and cold. the vines were floating with drooping leaves upon a lake of rain, and the little flowers disappeared completely. the beach below was guttered with brown water. gradually then the rain began to lessen. the clouds the adventures of peterkin turned a lighter gray, until they broke apart in a long, un- even rift and showed a gap of blue. the sunshine came through this gap in a softly beaming shaft. high against the dark hung a curving rainbow, like an arch of jewels. the rainbow faded, the sunshine grew stronger and more golden, the last wisps of cloud sank away in the blue of the sky. the sea was calm now and blue. nothing seemed to be moving upon it excepting the tiny darts of gleaming sunbeams. all was peace again. . . . only—something—far out. at sea—oh! what was it? something round and yellow! a tiny yellow spot, sailing out, out toward the horizon! peterkin looked down at the shore, his heart jumping into his throat. yes, alas! his pumperkin was gone! his pumpkin-house had been swept away by the storm—swept out to sea! yes, his house, his boat, his darling pumperkin was sail- ing away from him—was lost and gone! ah, what would his fate be now? vii peterkin escapes peterkin was hungrier than ever. he had lost his faithful pumpkin, too! oh, what could he do? he pondered a long while. he could try to cook some more flow- ers and vines on his stove. but, no ... he remembered what had happened the last time he tried. and, it seemed, there wasn't any- thing else to eat on all the shore. he must escape, then. jtlv* — he must flee this lonely "beach. he must wander away to somewhere ... he didn't know where—just somewhere else. the adventures of peterkin z h but how? for he had no pumperkin now. his yellow house of a boat had been swept off on the waves, out be- yond the horizon. at last, as he stood in deep thought, a merry idea came popping into his head. indeed, it was an idea so full of mad adven- ture that, when it came to him, he had to burst out laughing and clapped his hands in glee. for he remembered what a comical thing had happened at the stove an hour before. so he hastened to kindle a roaring fire in the black iron throat of its oven. then he ran this way and that on the =: - beach until, half sunk in the sands, he found a huge, pearly sea- shell. he tore it out and carried it back and set it on the stove. to make sure, he added a sprinkling of vines and flowers and silver sea froth. then he climbed up on the top of his stove and sat himself down in the cup of the shell. ouch! it was hot! just as before, there was a little curl of lavender smoke, viii peterkin in the valley a: n old farmer came hob- bling out of his house, along the little path that ran to the edge of the haystack. his mouth was wide open, and his eyes well-nigh popped from his head at the sight of so strange a fellow in his haystack. "heigh!" cried the farmer, "what are you doing in my stack, eh? and what's that silly, pearly thing you have at your side? what are you doing in this peaceful valley, eh?" "i'm flying," replied peterkin, climbing down to the ground. "i've flown from there to here, from the earth the adventures of peterkin to the stars, from the moon to the sun . . . and here i am, hungry as hungry can be. so come along, old farmerman, and feed me full of all the best things of your cupboard." "not i!" cried the toothless old farmer. "not until you tell me your whole story." so they sat themselves down in the shade of a blossoming tree, and peterkin told the tale of his adventures; of how he had lived in the pumpkin patch, and the wind had swept him away, in his pumpkin house, far upon the sea; and of peterkin in the valley the storms and the frisky whale, and the desert shore, and the loss of pumperkin, and of how he made his final escape in the cup of the flying shell . . . and here he was! the old farmer listened, with growing wonder. he could only shake his head and lick his toothless gums with his long tongue and say, "tut, tut, what a queer affair! tut, tut, tut!" then he scratched himself very long and hard, and broke into a red-faced chuckling. it was plain to see he had just had a new, sly thought! "i've never seen a shell," said he, "because i've never seen the sea. the sea is so far away from here ... it doesn't touch our little valley at all. the thunder of its waves never comes to our ears, and the sting of its spray never flicks us. perhaps that's why we're called the peace- ful valley. we never mind anything excepting our own business, nor care for anyone who dwells outside the bound- ary of our hills. tut, tut!" and he sighed. "and yet, for all your happy valley," declared peterkin, "you seem to be sighing unhappily for something. tell me, what is it?" "a new set of teeth," wept the old fellow. "that's what i need. i lost my old set—oh, so many years ago. and there's no place to find a new one in all the valley." "so they sat themselves on the flying sea-shell" ix peterkin takes a fall no sooner had peterkin sat- isfied his hunger and wiped his mouth than the old farmer fussed and fidgeted to start on their journey. pe- terkin couldn't under- stand why he was in such a hurry — but then peterkin had a full set of teeth, while the farmer had none. and it was in search of a new set that they were going. so they sat themselves on the flying sea-shell and were off and away. but it was strange what a creaking and groaning came from the faithful shell. true, it went up, up, as high as ever before; but it went so slowly and by such rickety the adventures of peterkin jumps and bounds, as if its wings were lamed. the old farmer was almost jounced completely off his seat ten times. his long gray beard was tousling over his eyes in the helter- skelter rush of the wind. he well-nigh died of fright. peterkin, too, was afraid. not that he wasn't accus- tomed, by now, to this skimming through the clouds. but something was wrong . . . yes, something was certainly wrong. his sea-shell had never acted this way before. oh, listen! it was groaning and grunting now, louder than ever. peterkin thought he could even hear a sharp crack- ing of its pearly cup. suppose that it should break! he looked down, sick at heart! through the cloud rifts he could see that they were passing over a great, white line of mountain tops. like glistening needles they seemed, as he gazed down upon them. the sunlight glanced daz- zlingly along their snowy sides. peterkin shuddered and turned his eyes away. "oh, oh, look again!" chattered the toothless old farmer. "we are past the mountains now. we are well above a brand-new valley, where a rushing river tumbles and froths, and oh, look . . . over there are the spires and roofs of a city. gray and silver they are, all gleaming and tall. and we are flying straight toward them. hurrah, now i shall get me a new set of teeth!" peterkin takes a fall but long ere they reached the city, the sea-shell began to crack and split, and to wabble from side to side. once it dipped so far that both of its passengers were almost tossed off into the air. the farmer clung fast to peterkin and peterkin to the shell—and both of them gasped in horror. "oh, we are too heavy a load," sobbed peterkin. "i should never have taken you along with me." "it's not my fault!" stormed the old fellow. "it's you who are so heavy. you ate and ate until you weigh more than four fat men should weigh. 'twas your appetite that the adventures of peterkin will kill us both"—and he sucked his toothless gums in rage. "ungrateful man!" cried peterkin. "i am risking my life to make you happy." "yes," retorted the other, "and i am losing mine because you were so greedy!" therewith they fell to in wrath and cuffed each other and tore and tussled, swaying to this side and that and jouncing up and down in mighty thwacks. "out with you—out of the shell!" screamed the old farmer. and with that he seized poor peterkin under the arms, and—for all he was so heavy—hurled him out into the air and down, down, down . . . the sea-shell, lightened of the heavier part of its load, shot up higher into the air. then suddenly, with a noise like the crack o' doom, it burst into many pearly pieces. the farmer shot down, too, as if from a gun. and down he came close behind peterkin . . . and landed, with a fearful splash, into a fountain in the center of the market place. as for peterkin himself, you never could guess where he landed. peterkin in the palace x through an open sky- light of the gilded dome of palace. that's where peterkin landed. through the open skylight, upon a springy, cushiony sofa. up he bounced again, almost to the ceiling—then down to the marble floor in a huddle. he lay there stunned and silent for a little while, aching in every limb. a little lady stood over him when he opened his eyes. she was peering down at him with a white and frightened face—and peterkin, for all his dizziness, thought he had never seen so beautiful a maiden in the world. for her startled eyes were blue—as blue as the sky had been, above the adventures of peterkin the clouds—and her curls were a golden shawl upon her shoulders. under the white of her lace and cambric gown, her little bare feet came peeping. peterkin leaped to his feet, as best he could—for he was sore and stiff. he made a handsome bow and smiled his prettiest smile, with his hand over his heart, as if he were the gallant master of a dancing school. but this only made the little lady's eyes open the wider with surprise. "and who are you? and where do you come from? and what do you want in the bed-chamber of her royal highness, the princess clematis of the four kingdoms?" peterkin was horrified. "gracious me!" he stammered. "where is her royal highness whatever-you-called-her? i must apologize to her for bursting into her father's palace so suddenly. indeed, had i been able to, i should have peterkin in the palace walked in very humbly by way of the kitchen door or through the garden gate. but, don't you see, i came so fast that i didn't have time to choose. so lead me to the princess and let me beg her pardon." the little lady rubbed one set of pink toes over the other in a bashful fashion. her laugh was as light as the rustle of green vines in the spring. "you are pardoned, merry stranger," she said. "it is i, the princess clematis, who bid you welcome to the palace of the four kingdoms." then she held out her hand. poor peterkin! his face grew red with flushes. he" sank to his knee—in spite of the big bruise on it—and planted a most courteous kiss upon her rosy finger tips. and, if the truth be told, the princess smiled a charming "how-do-you-do," and found it very easy to forgive him. but just at that moment, there came a loud rapping at the door and a hubbub of angry voices and a clanking of swords and spears against the walls. "ho, hola!" thundered someone without. "open the door and let me in! i shall find whoever dares to pop into my royal daughter's chamber, by way of the gilded dome. ho, hola!" at this, the little princess ran to fling open the door. and there, with a torch in his hand and a host of armed the adventures of peterkin sentries behind him, stood his majesty the king. aye, no less a person than the monarch of the four kingdoms him- self. peterkin knew him at once by the jeweled crown which he wore atop his night-cap. but before he could say a word, the little princess tripped to her father's side and commenced a sly tickling at his nightie, just where his royal ribs ought to be. and under his crown, the king was just a jolly old man after all. he tried very hard to purse his lips and frown—but under such gentle tickling, there was nothing for it but to burst into a great roaring of laughter. he laughed, laughed—until his eyes were wet and his sides were aching. all of which put him in a better mood and made him look more kindly upon his strange visitor. he clapped the frightened peterkin upon the back and called him a merry dog, and ended by marching off with him, arm in arm, to the palace's spare bed-room to give him royal shelter for the night. thus it was that the princess, with a little wise tickling, saved a stranger's life and brought much joy to the four kingdoms. but you shall have all that explained another time. xi peterkin tells his tale so peterkin went to bed in fine fashion. his couch was of cushioned vel- vet and his pillows of down and silk. over his head were hangings of lustrous satin, with ostrich plumes and gilded crowns by way of ornament. and when he woke in the morning, several slaves were kneeling at the bedside, ready to bathe him and dress him and to do his slightest bidding. "ahem!" thought peterkin. "i must admit that, after all, this is a better sort of thing than living in a pumpkin." just as soon as he was dressed in a princely robe of pur- ple linen with gold clasps and jeweled collar, his slaves led the adventures of peterkin peterkin along a silvered hallway, where marble pillars gleamed with wreaths of precious stones, to a hall of gold. here were a golden table and a host of golden chairs— and behind each chair stood, waiting in respect, some mem- ber of the royal court in brilliant costume. no sooner had peterkin stepped over the marble threshold than they set up a loud, wild cheering and waved their silken napkins to bid him welcome. the adventures of peterkin eagerly at the rose of her cheeks and the bow of her little red lips. oh, no! the princess saw nothing—but she was blush- ing, just the same. "hold!" said the king at length as he juggled a biscuit thoughtfully upon the end of his diamond-studded scepter. "we shall eat no morsel or a mouthful until we have heard your story, good stranger. so tell us it now. if it pleases us, you shall dwell in our midst, in all the pomp and com- fort you have had this morning—and whatever you ask, for your happiness shall be ours." his majesty shot a know- ing smile at his lovely daughter. "but if your tale fails to please us, if it tells of cowardice instead of bravery, of weakness instead of strength—why, then, good stranger, you shall be driven out of our palace, out of the four king- doms, with a tattered coat and an empty stomach—an exile in disgrace. so, hem your throat and purse yeur lips and make a good beginning of your tale." xii peterkin's fate i t was an hour—a full and hungry hour—before pe- terkin had told his tale. for he told to the king and his courtiers all of the strange happenings which had brought him floating from the pumpkin patch and flying in through the bed-room window. and, all the while he spoke, he could see the shadows of wrath grow darker on the brow of his majesty and that the little princess's red mouth drooped sorrowfully. peterkin faltered. he wondered what was wrong with his ss the adventures of peterkin tale. how could it offend his majesty? he went on slowly, until he came to the fearful experience he had had, in his flying shell, with the toothless old farmer. the king could stand it no longer. he banged his scepter down so hard as to crack every butter-plate on the table. up to his feet he sprang, his eyes flashing lightning. "yes," he rumbled, "yes, yes, yes! i might have guessed it! it was the arch enemy of our four kingdoms that you brought into our midst. yes, yes, the farmer without teeth i it is told in all our histories that he will work us harm. every witch in the land has warned me to beware of him! and of you, too, you bothersome wayfarer! all the ancient history books have prophesied your coming. all of them described exactly how you would fly into my palace by way of the roof. this is just what they say: "'beware the daring little fellow who lives within a house of yellow; he sails the sky in a skiff of pearl— through your window he will whirl. he will bring what harm can do: he will make you endless rue.'" jvhen they heard this fateful rhyme, all of the courtiers shuddered with terror. a little moan escaped from the lips of the princess. as for peterkin, his tongue clung to the roof of his mouth. peterkin's fate "take him away!" ordered the king. "away to the dungeon with him! and send out my royal army in search of the toothless farmer, that arch enemy of the four king- doms. away, to the deep, black dungeon!" at once peterkin was smothered in a great crowd of stal- wart guards who bound him in heavy chains, who lifted him away and out of the banquet hall. the last thing he heard was the scream of the little princess. down, down, into the darkness of narrow cellars; down steep stairs of crumbling stone, where the air was damp and smelling of old mosses; down, still further down, they car- ried him. at last they came to a little iron door in a wall of black rock. there was a creaking of a rusty iron key in its lock, and a swinging of the little door on its stiff hinges. "in with him!" cried the guards—and they tossed poor peterkin, chains and all, into the furthermost corner of the cell. then back went the door on its hinges, and creak, went the key in its lock. there was a faint sound of voices and footsteps dying in the distance . . . and peterkin was alone! a prisoner! deep in the dark of the dungeon, he lay with his head in his hands and sobbed to think of what a fate had come to him. what a fine ending for his story! the adventures of peterkin but then he remembered how the princess clem had screamed when he was snatched away—and he looked up and smiled. there was a tiny, barred window to his cell; and the sunlight came slanting through it in a narrow shaft, to make a little pool of brightness on the floor. for the longest while did peterkin lie looking at it; and dreamed, as all true lovers do, of what a pretty sight the princess was in her blue, lilied gown, and ribbons in her braid! r the adventures of peterkin way and stood there shivering and wringing his hands for many minutes. then he wiped the water from his eyes and looked about him. what had become of peterkin he did not know—nor did he care. for peterkin would be of no more use to him, now that he was in the king's city. he smiled a toothless smile to think of how completely he had fooled that little wayfarer. never a hint had he given peterkin of the wicked harm he meant to do to the four kingdoms—and of the sweet revenge that he would take! hee, hee! and he gnashed his gums in hate. he glanced over at the gilded dome of the palace. strange lights were passing back and forth behind the dark- ened windows. something had happened . . . the palace was astir! ha, perhaps they had learned that he was come into their city. perhaps they were setting out at once to find him and to pounce upon him. he had better flee some- where and hide! he started to step out into the street. pit-a-pat, came someone's footsteps. a tall soldier, hurrying home to bed, clanked noisily 'round the corner. the old man fled back into the hallway, until his back hit against a door. the soldier went by, darting a suspicious glance into the shadow. the farmer crouched back, back, until . . . the toothless enemy the door flew wide! he had broken it open! the soldier, at the noise, stopped and looked about him l sharply, then retraced his steps. there was nothing for it! the toothless enemy soldiers marching back and forth there, so tiny in size, and heard their faint shouts as they halted and searched each passerby. so they were hunting for him, eh? well, let them hunt! he would rest here against the chimney pots until the sun had set and the wisp of a new moon had risen . . . and then! ah, then for mischief! the adventures of peterkin pushed against the bars. he was in the hall now—and free! neither he nor the little princess said a word for a long moment. then she took his hand and placed into it a little vial of purple liquid. "guard this well," she warned him. "it is the water of peterkin's rescue bounceability. whenever you wish to leap over great heights, you have only to sip a little of it and then to bounce high up and away. and, alas, you have many heights to leap ere you are back in my royal father's favor. he is so angry at you for having brought his arch-enemy into the city that he has ordered your death at midnight. the hang- man is already plaiting his rope and the carpenters ham- mering at a high scaffold. so follow me quickly to the city's edge, where none will find you." peterkin was close at her heels, all the dark way. through pitchy tunnels she led him, far under the cellars of the city; through narrow cave-like passages, heavy with reeking gases, until at last they came up into an open space, where the woods came down from the slopes of black hills to meet the streets and houses. it was the furthermost edge of the city. "i must leave you here," sighed the princess. "i must return and take the spanking which awaits me. but as for you, brave peterkin, you have your choice: either you may escape safely into exile and never return to see me again— or else you may perform four mighty deeds. aye, deeds so great that even the king, my father, cannot do them. but if you succeed in them, you may return here, so high in the king's favor that he will grant your dearest wish. tell me, the adventures of peterkin stranger, which will you choose?" ah, little princess—i wonder if she blushed when she said it! but peterkin never wavered. "need you ask, my prin- cess clem?" he whispered. "then you must know," she continued, "that there is a mis- ery in each of the four kingdoms o'er which my father rules. misery, sorrow and tears. go, now, to each of these four kingdoms and make its people happy. give joy instead of sorrow and smiles instead of tears. more than this i cannot tell you, but go! you shall see strange things and do brave deeds, and i shall be sitting at my palace window, under the gilded dome, awaiting your return" then, all in a twinkling, the little princess had fled back into the tunnel and was gone. peterkin was alone. ,'•'(; wkkary xv the water of bounceability p eterkin turned |iis face at once towards the hazy line of hills which loomed through the dark- ness. he must escape over their crests while night was still here. he must take a sip—as the princess clem had taught him —of that purple liquid from the little vial in his hand. carefully he uncorked the bottle —and sniffed. what a v""" sweet, fragrant odor! he ^ touched his tongue to the rim. it was like melted candy—yet the taste of it stung like fire. his limbs seemed to twitch and throb at the touch. the water of bounceability but early the next day, before the sun was up, peterkin had started on his way. a difficult journey it was, too, along the deserted road. there were puddles to wade and vines to skip and rocky barriers to climb. there were ruts the adventures of peterkin where the leaves of the past autumn had buried themselves in a soggy mass or where the summer dust had sifted into foolish heaps. there were trunks of fallen trees across the road, and lizards, frogs and hedge-hogs crawled or hopped or ran beside them. all was desolate and wild. it was a valley of mysterious decay. then, at last, where the road slanted down to meet an- other long stretch of brown heathered fields, peterkin spied a house. a huge, tall house, too, which must have been a splendid mansion once upon a time. but now it was shabby and needed paint. the bricks of its walls were los- ing their mortar; the slates of the roof were falling to the ground; none of the windows had curtains and few of them glass. there was moss upon the steps and in the eaves. the chimney pots were crumbled, and the lawn was high with choking weeds. peterkin wondered, could anyone live here? as if in answer to his question, a little boy came around the corner of the house. he came slowly, though he never stopped or hesitated a moment when he was within sight of peterkin. he stumbled unsteadily through the weeds, with his hands held out before him. his face was handsome, truly—but his hair was in a fearful tousle over his eyes and his clothes were all in rags. xvi the vale of the blind the little boy led peter- kin into the house to meet his father and mother. but they, like the boy, were in rags and tatters—and blind! "you can seef" asked the fa- ther in wonder, when peterkin had explained whence ^ he came. "what does it mean to seef isn't r~"~all the world a thing of ^mf-s-^^^^^^jz blackness? is there anything more to it than the dark nothing of the blind?" "oh, yes, indeed!" cried peterkin, his own eyes filling the vale of the blind with tears of pity. "there's the sunshine and the trees, and all the bright flowers of the garden. there are birds of bright plumage, and moonbeams on the surface of the wa- ter, and the smiles on people's faces. oh, the world is so full of things to see. ... i could not tell you all of them." the mother nodded. "yes, that is just the way my fa- ther's father used to speak," she said slowly. "it was in his youth that this became the vale of the blind. before that, it was known in all the four kingdoms as the vale of bright eyes. but now "her voice sank away and she sighed. "tell me the story," begged peterkin. "tell me how this great misfortune came upon your grandfathers." it was the father who answered him. "our valley," he began, "was the happiest-hearted of all hereabouts fifty years ago. these things you speak of—these colors and sun- shine which we do not know—were here in smiling plenty. the fields were neat and trim with golden grain. the pas- tures were like new-swept velvet, clean and green. the roads were smooth and bright. the houses were all hand- some, with pretty lawns and gardens. men wore fine clothes and took pride in themselves and in one another. "but one day, there came into our valley of bright eyes a haggard stranger. he was the saddest being that e'er the adventures of peterkin trudged down over the boundary hills, my grandfather used to tell me. he wept, the whole day long, because he had no teeth. think of it! he could not be happy for want of a set of teeth! "now, all their happiness had made my grandparents and their neighbors a kind, soft-hearted lot. no sooner did they see this man—who said he was a farmer—than they took pity on him. they fed him with porridge and honey —for they knew he could not eat what must be chewed— and they gave him a bed of fragrant blossoms to lie on when the night came. "but he would not sleep, at once. he got up every little while to ask them: 'and are you sure this valley of bright eyes is one of the four kingdoms, hey? are you sure that the king of the four kingdoms is its ruler, hey?' "every time they told him 'yes' he would chuckle and mumble strange words through his toothless gums. in the middle of the night, he arose and looked out across the moonlit fields, where the grain was rich, and down the gleaming road, where the handsome houses stood in sleep- ing order. he laughed aloud, this time, the story goes. then he strode out into the road and ran and ran—faster than ever a man had run before. "t seek a set of teeth!' he screamed as he ran. up flew k the vale of the blind the windows, all the good folk roused from bed, rushing to see who could possibly be making such a racket. all along his way the people stared at him. they saw him take a torch from out of his pocket. they watched him set it aflame. they saw him touch it, hot and sputtering, to the tops of the fields of grain, to the hedges and trees. . . . he xvii peterkin promises "a nd so our valley has gone to rack and ruin," concluded the blind man. peterkin was silent for some minutes after he had finished. then he shook his head wisely, sadly. "can you wait four days until i rescue you?" he asked. "four days?" the man, his wife and little son all burst into a bitter laughter. "we have waited for half a century already. we can wait a century, if only in the end we gain our eyes again, and win revenge upon our toothless enemy. four days, ho, ho!" . . the adventures of peterkin "you shall have both your eyes and your revenge," prom- ised the stranger. "it was only three days ago that i sped through the air in the cup of a sea-shell, in company with this toothless farmer. oh, if i had only known, then!" "what? in his company? are you a friend of his?" the blind family rushed in about him, as if to capture him and flay him. "no, no," smiled peterkin. "not a friend at all. he tried to throw me hundreds of feet down to the ground. but he disappeared—and i do not know where he is. but i shall search the whole world over till i find him. and then—woe to him!" so saying, he put his hand on the blind man's shoulder and bade them all good-by. they gave him a few wild herbs to put into his blouse for luncheon—it was all they had for food. and then he went on his way, singing all sorts of promises to them as he went on down the hill. as he walked along the shabby road, he came to other houses, broken down and unpainted, all tangled in high weeds and matted vines. each house was poorer than the last; each one more deserted than the other. and from each of them trooped little groups of blind folk, groping in dark- ness, to question him and to complain to him of their hard fate. all along his way he met the sight of their tears and peterkin promises heard the sound of their weeping. but wherever he went, peterkin gave the same promise of happiness within four days and left a smile of hope behind him. at length he came to the last house of the valley. it was high on the slope of one of the boundary mountains, almost at the edge of the gleaming white glacier of the summit. it was fast in the shadow of a huge, bluish ice cave, and long icicles dripped from its eaves and glittered like jewels in the sunshine. the adventures of peterkin "and are you, too, blind?" he asked of the man who lived in this high house. "yes," replied the old man, sorrowfully. "i am no better than all the others in this valley, no matter how high i live above them. i, like them, am awaiting the rescuer who shall return my sight and bring revenge upon our toothless enemy." "that is just what you shall have," promised peterkin, "if only you tell me what is in the next valley, on the other side of the white mountains; and how i may reach there the best." "alas," sighed the old fellow, "those are two riddles which i cannot answer. i only know that in that valley beyond the ridge of the boundary, there is just as much sor- row as there is here. there is something wrong there— though i have never known what it is—and the great barrier of glacier ice has hedged us from each other. so come and rest here for to-day, and to-morrow, bright and early, you may come upon some scheme to cross into that unknown valley over the mountains." so peterkin took shelter there, in the green shadows of the ice cave, and slept a troubled sleep until the morning. "a young peasant girl came toward him' xviii the valley of silence as soon as dawn was over the glacier the next day, peterkin was on his feet and sipping a good gulp from his flask of the water of bounceability. you see, he dreamed about this magic gift of the prin- cess's as he lay a-sleeping... and really, what an easy thing it was to cross the boundary mountains, now! just one little swallow—and then a hop, skip and jump! up, up and over! over the tree-tops, over the glacier the adventures of peterkin itself . . . then down into the valley on the other side. as he floated to the earth there, a strange hush seemed to fall on him. it was the quiet sense of absolute stillness. he walked forward a little way, then stopped in bewilder- ment. not a sound—not a whisper of anything. he could not hear even the crunch of his feet upon the green- sward. he called out, but somehow his voice sank away into nothing. the trees rustled silently; a great, frothing brook went tumbling down through a bit of woods without a murmur. all was quiet. a young peasant girl came toward him, leading a horse across the fields—but peterkin could hear neither the patter of her feet nor the hoof-beats of the horse. "what ho!" cried he, "i must have gone suddenly deaf! i can't even hear myself speaking. here, girl, tell me what's wrong with my ears?" the peasant maid halted her horse; she looked at peter- kin with startled wonder. her gaze settled on his moving mouth—and her eyes grew larger and larger with surprise. suddenly she snatched a little twig from the branch of a nearby tree, stripped it and commenced to trace queer letters with it in the dust of the road. "phew!" thought peterkin. "she must be deaf herself. it's a good thing i went to school and learned to read and xix ears too sharp there, in the silent village, they found a group of old men nodding on a bench in the warm sun- light. across the brook a big mill wheel was turning; but it made no roar or clatter. a cart went by, but there was no rumble to its wheels. down the street a blacksmith was hammering at his ruddy forge; but there was no clang or clatter to keep noisy company to the flying sparks. all was silence—dreary, unbroken silence. the old men stirred when peterkin approached. they knew him for a stranger. they rose and made a place for him beside them on the bench. then one of them took a piece of white chalk from his vest pocket, turned to the ears too sharp of the water. he knelt, bent his face close to the gurgling eddies—and began to drink! "we were all in bed by now and most of us asleep. it i was so easy to fall asleep in those good days, with the mur- mur of the softly playing brooklets in our ears—not at all like to-day, when night is a black stretch of silent terror. "suddenly, in every household, someone sat up straight the valley of dancing legs a group of fat and puffing people jigged into view. hop, hop—what could be the trouble with them? why, they were dancing! hop, hop—skippetty hop, with never a stop—puffing, panting, groaning with weariness, they danced a crazy path toward peterkin. "hey, hey, stop!" cried he. "we can't stop," grunted the chief of them. "if you want to talk to us, you'll have to dance along." then, before he could help himself, peterkin had a dancing man, locked arms, on either side of him—and he was stamping, running, tripping, jigging along with them. "oh, heigh, stop! let go of me—stop, stop!" he com- manded, out of breath and red in the face. "no, that's just what we can't do!" sighed the fat old chief. "we must dance on and on and on. our legs are shot with pain, our lungs are like hot blasts, our feet are blistered and sore—but we cannot stop!" peterkin stumbled and fell flat. his two guides yanked him to his feet—then on and on in a breathless dance. "once," went on the hoarse and puffing chief, "we were the happiest of all the four kingdoms. we were just plain, sensible, walk-along folk. we loved to rest and doze in the heat of the noon. we loved to lie about and let our the valley of dancing legs the shade of the trees and looked out across our fields and sucked his pipe through his toothless gums. "'ah, this is rare comfort!' he said in a cheery voice. 'you seem to be a happy valleyful here.' "'oh, aye,' i answered him, 'we love to take our ease.' "'do you love that better than all else?' he asked me slowly. "i stretched my arms in sleepy comfort and nodded back with a smile. he looked at me slyly—ah, if i had only known what villainy was behind that twinkle in his eye! he rose slowly to his feet. "'i shall show you all a pretty dance,' he said, baring his gums. 'just lie there in comfort—it will amuse you—yes, and give me great pleasure, too!' "then slowly, gently, he began to shuffle his feet. you would never have thought that he could be so nimble. in and out and round-about he pranced with fancy steps. it was so pleasant to be lying there in the cool shade and watching. . . . then it seemed as if he were inviting us to join him. his brawny hands were beckoning; his smile said plainly: 'up, up—come along up and dance at my side.' "first one and then the other of us struggled to his feet, and fell into a merry, jigging step. we laughed at the fun the adventures of peterkin of it—not a laggard in the valley but was dancing with him. "we grew breathless and tired. we wanted to stop. but we couldn't! when the toothless man saw this, he burst into a cruel roar of laughter: "'you would take your ease, eh?' he mocked. 'you loved more than all else to loll in the shade, eh? well, henceforth you shall jig and dance from noon till night and night till noon in a never-ending wandering. your ease is gone—and so's your happiness! from now on, until i come again to free you, you shall be known as the valley of dancing legs. hee heel' and he was gone." xxi the valley of up-in-the-air the chief of the danc- ing crew had scarcely finished his bitter story when peterkin swore to have re- venge on the toothless enemy —and to rescue these poor, tired folk in the bargain. then he broke from their midst, took a long draught from his magic bottle, and bounced clear over into the next valley. and the odd part of it was that he never touched ground there at all. instead, he was caught in a swirl of strong and steady breezes which kept him aloft, floating, swimming through the air, high above the ground. "well," thought peterkin, amazed, "i wonder if this is the fate of everyone in this valley?" ioo the adventures of peterkin flying over our heads this wicked, toothless farmer—any- how, he told us he was a farmer. he came down into our midst upon a grassy hill. "'well, what do you love more than all else in this val- ley?' he asked us. "'ho, that's an easy question!' we told him. 'we love to keep our feet upon the ground, as all good, sensible people should.' "he thought for a sly moment. 'but wouldn't you love to fly?' he asked us. 'come, hop up into the air with me— up, up, as lightly as the birds on wing. come, just try it— it's such a delightful sport, this flying!' "then, as if in obedience to his summons, a great breeze sprang up from out of nowhere and swept us all off our feet and up, up—up to where he was floating. and truly, for a few moments, it was delightful sport. but when we wanted to return to earth again—why, the farmer was gone —and there was no returning! we had been tricked into the air and there we must remain, floating, drifting, useless, helpless—we and our families and all our neighbors, to- gether with our household, tables, beds and rags and tags, until this toothless fellow comes again to free us from his cruel magic." xxii peterkin in a muddle a nd so it is the toothless farmer who has caused all this misery in each of the four valleys," mused peter- kin, as he floated along at the side of pater familias. "well, here's my solemn oath on it: i shall have revenge on him, and force him to substitute joy for sorrow in each of these stricken kingdoms." then he bade farewell to the people-up-in-the-air and floated away on the breath of the air—away to the boundaries of their land. but it was not high mountains and snowy cliffs which hemmed this valley from its neighbors. instead, the land ioi the adventures of peterkin below grew flatter and more yellow. peterkin passed over wide, misty stretches of marsh and bogs; in the distance he could hear the faint roar of waves. yes, he was coming to the sea. he was drifting fast toward that golden line of sands where the ocean met the land in a jagged, wavering line of frothy white. he must swoop down to earth now—else he might be carried out into midwater. he must set foot upon the ground! but alas! try as he would, he was still in the land of up-in-the-air — and up in the air he must stay! then he thought of his precious bottle of the water of bounceabil- ity. perhaps, if he '^f^ i~r <"^f ~— took a sip, he might be - ^. able to break the spell and to leap to the marshes below. he would try it. he took out the bottle and uncorked it. he lifted it to his lips and let half of what remained in it gurgle down his throat. then down he dived, head first. down, down— yes, the spell was broken! down to earth, just where the ifh the lost pumperkin peterkin ran to it. yes, there could be no doubt—it was his beloved pumperkin, his old home—his boat-house of a pumpkin which had been torn away from him by the tem- pest wind. . . . he scaled up the side and peeked in through the ceiling window. yes, all was as he had left it. there was his tumbled bed in the corner, there were the chairs, legs up. and there, sure enough, was his ladder, with its top peeping up above the edge of the roof. all that was missing was the cook-stove. peterkin climbed over the edge and down the ladder. he was safe now. he was hopeful and happy. he had only to push and shove a little bit and—away, away he went, bound for the home of his princess clem! how good it seemed to be in his pumpkin house again! he wondered how many seas it had passed over, whither it had wandered, where it would lead him now. for, of course, there was no such a thing as steering these roly-poly pumpkins: wherever it floated, peterkin must float along! away it sailed, over the waves, in the clutch of the lazy tide. away, until the marshes and the golden strand were lost in a hazy mist. up one wave and down the next, with the spray dashing in through the ceiling window. how like the first few days it all was—those first few days of the marvellous adventures. peterkin smiled to think of them, the lost pumperkin why, a city, of course! the very city for which our peterkin so dearly yearned. the city of the golden palace —and of the princess clem! and the city where he would find the toothless farmer! perhaps peterkin guessed that much . . . for his cheeks grew a little white as he watched the distant spires and golden dome, all agleam in the sunset. xxiv out of hiding now we must return to the toothless old villain. do you remember, we left him dozing snugly in his hiding place atop the roof of a deserted house? he was waiting for the gray dusk, when he might steal out upon his wicked business. perhaps it was the king himself he wished to harm, this visit—but i can't be positive of that. anyhow, when night had come and the streets were bare again of people and little dim lanterns were swinging in the shadows of the balconies, the old wizard crept down the stairs again, into the black vestibule. then out he darted —out into the street. the windows in the palace, across the narrow street, were gleaming with bright cheer and threw big yellow squares run vr.w tork ptjb-lic lip.ltary the lost pumperkin of light across the cobbled gutters. the old villain, when he stood a-tiptoe, could see the gilded walls and the jeweled ceilings. he caught just a glimpse of a corner of the throne itself, all in a glory of precious stones and carvings. and once he thought he could make out the shadow of a man all decked in royal robes—and a crown on his head. the wizard trembled and growled at this sight of his an- cient enemy. he raised his crooked finger threateningly in the dark and snarled a terrible oath. then he sped on, up one gloomy, lonely alley and down the other, across wide boulevards and empty squares, dodging into the shadows at every sudden creak of a shutter or rustle of a tree. once a company of soldiers marched past him—left, right, left, right, with weary, lagging steps. he had just time to slink out of their way and flee into a little court-yard, darker than the cloudy sky—blacker than black itself. he could see nothing here. he groped, he stumbled, he felt his way warily. just ahead of him he heard a strange gurgling of water, low and soft, as if from a distance. he stopped short, bewildered. then it seemed as if the tramp of those soldiers from whom he was fleeing was growing louder—that they were coming nearer and nearer. had they discovered his where- abouts? were they chasing him now? no the adventures of peterkin he could not keep his toothless gums from chattering. in fear he rushed forward in the darkness. a couple of wild steps and—down he went! down through a great a precious prisoner over the roofs he could make out the form of the huge dome of the palace—and he knew that there was the room of his princess. aye, there was princess clem! could she be asleep? the hour was so late . . . per- haps her nurse had tucked her, long ago, into her warm and comfy bed. but, no—oh, no! for, suddenly, he caught the gleam of a little light from the window just below the dome. yes, he was sure it was from the princess's window. she must be yet awake. she must still be watching—be waiting—for his return, as she promised she would do, and his heart gave a great throb for joy. his pumperkin drifted slowly in toward the shore. he heard a strange roaring, angry and deep. it was the rush of water he knew; perhaps some sewer, speeding its under- ground course and emptying itself, at the last, into the sea. in the midst of the rumble of water, he thought he heard a short splash; something dark went down in the white froth of the water, then rose to the surface near his boat—then sank and rose again not an arm's length away. peterkin peered over the edge to see what it was. he gasped and almost shrieked; it was a man! he reached down, made a wild grab at the floating jacket—pulled, tugged, hoisted— ouf! and he had the drowning one inside his pumperkin. xxvi the villain's story once," began the old villain, "i was as young and as happy-hearted as you are, stranger. for i was handsome, rich and powerful. i was noble— aye, more than noble—for i was a prince of the court of the four kingdoms. i was the son of the king's old- er brother—and some said that i, not he, should be the king upon the jeweled throne. "this thought was like a flame to me. it burned and flared within my mind in jealous heat; i came to wish for my royal the villain's story cousin's death, so that i might succeed him to the honor of all honors of the kingdoms. i took a secret oath that ere i grew much older, i should murder him. hee, hee, that's the ex- traordinary sort of a villain i was! "but i had one thing of which i was more proud than all the world: my set of teeth! a set of white, sharp, glisten- ing teeth! they were more splendid than the teeth of any other nobleman at court. they were finer even than the king's own teeth. they were my constant pride, my dear- est joy! with them i could eat all the rarest things of the kitchen. i could chew tin pans and pots; i could crumple pewter kettles; i could crunch thick venison steaks and the horns of a full grown cow. my teeth were my greatest power—and my joy! "but all the while my heart was black against my royal cousin. i coveted his crown, i longed for his scepter. my jealousy grew until i could hide it no longer. i made a journey into a far distant forest, where a famous witch lived in her cave. and there i dwelt for many months, learning all her wicked magic. she taught me how to curse whole valleys of people—how to bring sorrow to hundreds. but alas! she could not teach me how to kill my royal cousin. "'when shall i be king?' i asked her each morning. "and every eve, after a day of pondering over her cal- n the adventures of peterkin dron, she would answer: 'when you have learned to kill man with the joy of your life.' "then at last i understood. what could possibly be the joy of my life excepting these, my beautiful teeth? i must return and bite my royal cousin to death! the adventures of peterkin seemed as if she were standing behind them and peeking out upon the city's roofs, as far as the harbor beyond. aye—and so she was! with her fair curls tumbling to the clean, sweet morning breeze and her little white nightie fluttering softly, she strained her eyes to watch the distant harbor. perhaps she saw something strange there—some- thing she had never seen before in all the four kingdoms. perhaps she had guessed it was the pumperkin—and that in its big yellow cup her wandering lover had drifted home again, in triumph and in glee. of course, her nurse was very shocked to find a royal princess with her head far out of the window; but princess clem never bothered to explain. she laughed and she laughed all the while her many maids were dressing her— and indeed they had not seen her in so happy a mood for many a weary week. "put on my prettiest gown," she bade them. "dress me in my gown of pale blue silk—the one on which white lilies are embroidered, tall and shimmering. and run blue rib- bons through my golden braids—ribbons as blue as my eyes, and deck them with pearls as white as my teeth." at that the nurse looked shocked and horrified. "oh, hush, royal highness," whispered she. "have you forgot- in the city ten no one must mention that last word in this domain? teeth are never spoken of here—teeth is a banished word! and all because of that wicked villain" "ha, ha," broke in the princess gayly, "lots of good things are banished from this land—and lots of good heroes, too! but they always come sailing home again at the adventures of peterkin "what?" bellowed his majesty, his face growing purple with rage. "this bold adventurer, this scalawag peterkin, back in our midst? come sailing back in that pumpkin boat of his, eh? well, he shall suffer for it, i promise you. he shall be caught and clapped back into the dungeon cell from which he so mysteriously escaped." at that, the little princess, at his side, blushed a very rosy blush and hung her head, so that they could not see her tears. "i swore death to this fellow, if ever he came again into my power," hissed the king. "and death it shall be! ho, my trusty guards! arm yourselves with ropes and heavy chains and run to the harbor, in search of the lost prisoner. we shall have to give him a taste of death, death, death!" whereupon all the soldiers, all the courtiers, all the nobles of the land, armed themselves, clattering, growling, thundering. and down to the wharves of the harbor they swept, leaving the gilded dining room deserted. even the king himself left his half eaten eggs, and forgot to clap the cover on his dish of honey—and ran off, with his crown top- pling over one ear and his royal robes dragging in the mud, all the way from the palace door to the planks of the piers. only the little princess clem was left, in terror and in tears. she wept, poor thing—and made a sorry mixture of her tears in a pitcher of cream. how peterkin tricked them all out from the shore, in a hundred boats, dashed the king and his cohorts. out and around they spun, circling the peaceful pumpkin. then closer and closer—and always pushing closer. "heigh, wretch!" cried the king, who stood, straight and tall, in the bow of the royal barge. "you are captured and you cannot escape. you are surrounded by a thousand warriors, all armed with ropes and heavy chains. you are the adventures of peterkin a prisoner again, and death shall be your punishment! rush in, brave boatmen, and seize this dog of a peterkin!" so in sped the boats, crashing against the sides of the poor pumperkin.' then up with ladders—up with the men, climbing the steep, bulging sides of peterkin's house. then, one peek through the ceiling window and—what a cry went up! for peterkin was gone! nothing could be found of him, no matter how hard they searched—in every nook, behind the chairs, under the bed and everywhere. he was gone! • •••••• and only you and i shall know the secret of where he disappeared. for when the dawn was breaking, peterkin had seized his old companion by the shoulders and had whispered into his hairy ear: "come, you shall have that set of teeth you crave. you shall have the whitest teeth in all the world, if only you do as i order. but if you do not, i shall have to punish you as all wicked villains must be punished. so take your choice, my toothless enemy. will you do as i desire?" to be sure, the ugly old man could only mumble a con- sent through his red gums. whereupon peterkin leaped upon his shoulders and cried: how peterkin tricked them all "fly first with me to the valley of the blind!" and away they flew, leaving the pumperkin just as the king and his cohorts found it: empty and alone. xxix peterkin brings joy i'm not sure what the old villain thought of the scheme of flying to the valley of the blind—but he dared not disobey. for peterkin's grip was firm upon his shoulders—and peterkin's breath was hot against his cheek. so over the mountains they flew, into the tumble- down, joyless valley of darkness—the valley where the toothless villain had stricken each innocent one with blind- ness. there, across the neglected road, at the edge of the wild grown heath, they found the sorrowful family of those who first had told the tale of woe to peterkin. their clothes peterkin brings joy one could see! yes, could see each other—could see the rags in which they were dressed, the ruins of the houses, the wild heaths, the broken, rutted roads—and planned at once to build anew a happy valley. their eyes were re- turned—and so should their laughter. henceforth, the years of misery and darkness should be forgotten—and theirs should be what, long years before, it had been: the valley of bright eyes! thus was the first errand done—and peterkin smiled to the adventures of peterkin think of what an easy, happy one it had been. and now they must go on, over the mountain boundaries, from one valley to the other, bringing the same gift of happiness and hope. "come," he whispered to the toothless villain, "you and i are not through yet. now, don't look cross and think of rebelling—for you are in my power, and there is no escape for you, unless you will obey my every order as nobly as you have this first one. besides, think of those brand-new teeth which you shall have as a reward!" even this was not enough to persuade the old man to go along peacefully; he sulked and gnashed his red gums and tried all sorts of magic tricks, but all in vain. for peter- kin's life was a charmed one, now that he had the love of a princess royal to guard him! and, at last, when the old fellow saw that the people of the valley of bright eyes were glancing at him angrily, as if they meant to lose their tempers after all, he took peterkin upon his shoulders and flew dutifully away with him, over the boundary mountains. i'hk nkw ^ohk pi ih.ic library i tiir. lkvox asp its' forniurinss « l xxx r valley to valley t was the valley of the deaf they came to next. and presto! by a twitch of his lean fingers and a mumbling of strange words, the old man had given back the hearing to each of its people. what joy was theirs, now! for they could hear the song of the birds and the chatter of their own glad voices and— oh, yes! the laughter of the thousand brooks, which once had played so great a part in their sad history. but all that was over now, and they had only smiles and thanks for peterkin and forgiveness for the toothless villain who had done them so much wrong. they were all listening to the chirp of a little sparrow's young, high in the nest, when peterkin and his captive flew the adventures of peterkin away. peterkin looked back a moment, to watch the joy- ous smiles upon their faces—and he, too, was happy in their new-found happiness. and so he and his companion came to the valley of dancing legs, where all the folk were racing hither, thith- er, everywhere, and all about, in weary, dreary, jigging, jogging flocks. uphill, downhill, over fields and woods they went, never halting, never resting—on, on, lungs al- most bursting and legs ready to drop off with weariness. "halt!" cried the toothless one. and then, with a mo- ment or two of whispering and winking, he brought them all to a happy halt. poor folk! it was the first rest they had had for so many years! they fell down, each of them, panting, groaning, utterly motionless. ah, they would be happy now! already, as their legs grew rested, they seemed to be smiling more peacefully. . . . peterkin and his companion might go forward now into the next and last valley. for all would be joy in this one from this time forth. so on they flew, these rescuing two, to the valley of up- in-the-air. and only a few mystic symbols and commands, when down came all those floating, flying people, down to the ground they loved! and down came their beds, their chairs and tables after them—and all was set to rights! valley to valley thus, in all the four kingdoms did happiness succeed grim sorrow and smiles broke through the tears. thus was the whole domain made joyful through the brave work of the little stranger, peterkin! xxxi the patient princess oh, little princess clem! think what a sad thing it was for her to be left alone in the deserted dining hall, while her royal father and all his guards rushed out to kill her brave returning hero! she had tried so hard not to cry—but the tears would come. they flooded the table-cloth and plates and set the omelets and the jam pots floating. it was only when her prying nurse came in to fetch her that her little - royal highness could dry her eyes. but, all day long, she walked up and down, up and down, xxxii the villain satisfied no mistake, either! for peterkin it truly was, coming toward the pal- ace! peterkin, astride the shoulders of his old com- panion, flying through the clouds. at first they were only two specks, dark and tiny; then, coming nearer, they grew larger and larger, until the courtiers, crowding at the windows, could see the eager look in peterkin's bright eyes and could catch a glimpse of the red gums of the old villain under him. nearer, nearer—then swooping down from the clouds and in at the window came the two travelers, into the midst of those who thronged the golden throne room. the adventures of peterkin the toothless villain ran and cowered in a corner, trem- bling with fear. but peterkin stood forth boldly, his head thrown back with pride. "here am i, your majesty!" he cried. "here am i, returned whence i once fled. you may thrust me back into that pitchy dungeon—you may kill me, but" great cheers drowned the rest of his words. one and all, the courtiers, the nobles, the king himself, were waving jeweled hands and making a joyous thunder of his name. "peterkin! peterkin, our hero! peterkin, our saviour! brave, mighty, magic peterkin!" he fell back and rubbed his eyes. what did it all mean? could he be dreaming? no, for the king had risen from his throne now and was coming down its golden steps straight toward him, with arms outstretched. "you have swept the shadows from my domain!" he cried. "you have brought laughter into faces which once were bathed in tears. you have given joy for sorrow— and joy—aye, untold joy!—shall be your reward! ask of me now whatever you most wish, and i promise it shall be yours! but first of all, we must take our proper revenge upon the villain you have so neatly brought into our power." the adventures of peterkin a new set of teeth, i'm sure he will make a very loyal and faithful subject evermore." the king grew red in the face, at this reminder. but he had given his word—and not even a king can go back on that! "how now, my villainous cousin?" he roared, turning to the old fellow. "will you cease your wicked magic all the days of your life, if i forgive you for the sake of gener- ous peterkin? and, if i do provide you a new set of teeth, will you try very hard not to bite me?" "oh, yes—indeed, yes! i am so sick of soups and jellies: i am longing for the crunch of a good beefsteak. and oh! my royal cousin, what a feast i shall be able to eat if only you give me a brand-new set of teeth! and i shall be so proud of them i'll do nothing more than sit in a corner and grin the whole day long!" so, when the little princess had joined her prayer for for- giveness to those of peterkin and the rest of the courtiers, the king could do naught but order his royal dentist to appear upon the scene. and the dentist took very good pains to make an exact measure of the mouth of the old fellow, who went on mumbling in a most delighted way: "hee, hee! new teeth! a brand-new set of teeth! well, now i am satisfied! no more villainy for me! the crunch xxxiii the glorious ending , now," said the king, "you shall have your true reward." and to make it the more impressive, he nudged our peterkin in the ribs with the end of his golden scepter and winked his royal eye at the princess clem, who stood nearby in blushing joy. straightway the courtiers gathered about their new hero, lifted him high upon their shoulders and bore him away, out of the throne room, out of the pillared halls, into the center of that very same market square which flanked the sunny palace. and there they cheered him, long and loud: "all hail to peterkin, prince of the realm! all hail to the adventures of peterkin ding cake which towered so high that it touched the gilded ceiling. think what a time the princess must have had cutting it to pieces—as all thoughtful brides do—with peter- kin's sharp sword! of course, you are curious to learn how beautiful the bride appeared. but that's beyond my power to describe. i can only tell you that she was more lovely than ever she had been before; and that her golden hair was twined with precious rubies, with a rivulet of diamonds on her forehead. her gown was of silver white brocade; but on it were em- nypl research libraries - .. "tit 엔미 ​ allir - - www na story of the boarwolf.- page the new york public library astor, lenox and tilden foundations tales of terror, ??? or the mysteries of magic: a selection of .: ." wonderful and supernatural stories translated from the chinese, turkish, and german. compiled by henry st. clair. two volumes in one. . vol. i. es t dhe s i could a tale unfold, whose lightest word “ would harrow up thy soul; freeze thy young blood, "make thy two eyes, like stars, start froin the spheres; " thy knotted and combined locks to part “and each particular hair to stand on end;. "like quills upon the fretful porcupine."-shaicspeare. philadelphia: je s p er har din g. . . to new york public lidiary astor, linox and tilden foundations r l entered according to act of congress, in the year , by charles gaylord,. in the clerk's office of the district court of massachusetts. preface. ::. the editor of this volume rrakes no doubt that it will be an acceptable offering to the public. there was time, indeed, when men were burned for 'witch- craft, and quakers were 'hanged for non-conformity, that tales like those which compose this collection would have been improper for publication. that time has passed away-old women ride through new-eng. land on broomsticks no longer-children are no longer. hushed to rest by threats of the coming of the devil-. “e'en the last lingering phantom of the brain, • the churchyard ghost, is now at rest again!" stories founded on supernatural agency cannot now mislead the young, or terrify the old. at the same time there are no tales which excite such intense in- terest, or will bear frequent perusal so well. witness the arabian nights entertainment, the tales of the genii, and many other collections of a like nature, which have been the delight of centuries past, and will constitute a large portion of the amusement of centu- ries future. these works, however, have become rather hack nied. every one knows the arabian tales by rote; the tales of the genii are scarcely less familiar; even winter evenings at home are not sought with the same avidity they once were. the editor has, there. fore, sought and put together such supernatural tales as are written with equal power, and are less gene- contents. . vol. i. . page. - the magic dice, an awful narrative . ....... the gored huntsman . . . . . . . . . . . the nikkur holl . . . . . . . . . . . . . -- der freischutz, or the magic balls ......... the story of judar ............ the boarwolf . . . . . . . . . . . . . . the cavern of death . . . . . . . .'. . . . - the mysterious bell .::......... the dervise alfouran . . . . . . . . . . . . . hassan assar, caliph of bagdat ...... vol. ii. the astrologer of the nineteenth century ..... the flying dutchman . . . . . . . . . the tiger's cave .....::::::.... peter rugg, the missing man .. ...... the haunted forest ............. · the lonely man of the ocean ........ he hungarian horse dealer . . . .: . . . . . .me wreckers of st. agnes . . . . . . . . . the magic dice, an awful narration. [from the german.] for more than one hundred and fifty years had the family of schroll been settled at taubendorf; and generally respected for knowledge and refinement of manners superior to its station. its present representative, the bailiff elias schroll, had in his youth attached himself to literature ; but later in life, from love to the country, he had returned to his native village, and lived there in great credit and esteem. during this whole period of one hundred and fifty years, tra- dition had recorded only one schroll as having borne a doubtful character: he, indeed, as many persons affirmed, had dealt with the devil. certain it is that there was still preserved in the house a scrutoire fixed in the wall, and containing some myste- rious manuscripts attributed to him; and the date of the year , which was carved upon the front, tallied with his era the key of this scrutoire had been constantly handed down to the eldest son, through five generations—with a solemn charge to take care that no other eye or ear should ever become ac- quainted with its contents. every precaution had been taken to guard against accidents or oversights: the lock was so con- structed that, even with the right key, it could not be opened without special instructions; and, for still greater security, the present proprietor had added a padlock of most elaborate work- inanship,' which presented a sufficient obstacle before the main lock could be approached. ;!; in vain did the curiosity of the whole family, direct itself to this scrutoire. nobody had succeeded in discovering any part of its contents, except rudolph, the only son of the bailift: ho 'had succeeded: at least, his own belief was, that the old folio, with gilt edges, and bound in black velvet, which he had one day surprised his father anxiously reading, belonged to the mysterious scrutoire. for the door of the scrutoire, though not open, was unlocked; and elias had hastily closed the book with great agitation, at the same time ordering his son out of the room in no very gentle tone. at the time of this incident, rudolph was about twelve years of age. since that time, the young man had sustained two great loss- the magic dice. . . es, in the deaths of his excellent mother, and a sister tenderly beloved. his father also had suffered deeply in health and spirits under these afflictions. , every day he grew more fretful and humorsome; and rudolph, upon his final return home from: school in his eighteenth year, was shocked to find him greatly altered in mind as well as in person. his flesh had fallen away, and he seemed to be consumed by some internal strife of thought. it was evidently his own opinion that he was standing on the edge of the grave: and he employed himself unceasingly in ar- ranging his affairs, and in making his successor acquainted with all such arrangements as regarded his more peculiar interests. one evening, as rudolph came in suddenly from a neighbor's house, and happened to pass the scrutoire, he found the door wide open, and the inside obviously empty. looking round, he ob- served his father standing on the hearth close to a great fire, in the midst of which was consuming the old black book. elias entreated his son earnestly, to withdraw : þut rudolph could not command himself; and he exclaimed " i doubt, sir, that this is the book which belongs to the scrutoire.”, se : - his father assented with visible confusion. : ; "well, then, allow me to say, that i am greatly surprised at your treating in this way an heir-loom that, for a century and more, has always been transmitted to the eldest son.”, - "you are in the right, my son,” said the father, affectionately taking him by the hand: "you are partly in the right : it is not quite defensible, i admit : and i myself have had many scruples, (about the course i have taken. yet still i feel myself glad, upon the whole, that i have destroyed this accursed book. he that wrote it never prospered; all traditions agree in that :—why then leave to one's descondants a miserable legacy of unhallowed mysteries? i, ; js ir otrs.is ; this excuse, however, did not satisfy rudolph. he main- tained that his father had made an aggression upon his rights of inheritance; and he argued the point so well, that elias him- self began to think his son's complaint was not altogether ground- less. the whole of the next day they behaved to each other tinot unkindly, bụt yet with some coolness." at night, elias could bear this no longer; and he said, " dear rudolph, we have lived long together in harmony and love; let us not begin to show an altered countenance to each other during the few days that i have yet to live."?. lo i i, in : rudolph pressed his father's offered hand with a filial warmth; jand the latter went on to say !! i proposed to communicate to you by word of mouth the contents of the book which i have destroyed : i will do this with good faith and without reserve unless you yourself can be persuaded to forego your right to such a communication.".. s icer .,cit - elias paused-lattering himself, as it seemed, that his son the magic dice would forego his right. but in this he was mistaken: rudolph was far too eager for the disclosure; and earnestly pressed his father to proceed. again elias hesitated and threw a glance of profound love and pity upon his son-a glance that conjured him to think better and to wave his claim : but, this being at length obviously hopeless, he spoke as follows:-" the book relates chiefly to yourself: it points to you as to the last of our race. you turn pale. surely, rudolph, it would have been better that you had resolved to trouble yourself no farther about it?” “no,” said rudolph, recovering his self-possession, “no: for it still remains a question whether this prophecy be true.” " it does so,-it does, no doubt.” “and is this all that the book says in regard to me?” “no: it is not all: there is something more. but possibly you will only laugh when you hear it: for at this day nobody. believes in such strange stories. however, be that as it may, the book goes on to say plainly and positively, that the evil one (heaven protect us !) will make you an offer tending greatly to your worldly advantage.” rudolph laughed outright; and replied that, judging by the grave exterior of the book, he had looked to hear of more serious contents. . "well, well my son,” said the old man, “ i know not that i myself am disposed to place much confidence in these tales of contracts with the devil. but, true or not, we ought not to laugh at them enough for me that, under any circumstances, i am satisfied you have so much natural piety, that you would reject all worldly good fortune that could meet you upon unhallowed paths.” here elias would have broken off: but rudolph said, ! one thing more i wish to know: what is to be the nature of the good fortune offered to me? and did the book say whether i should accept it or not?” "upon the nature of the good fortune the writer has not ex- · plained himself: all that he says is, that, by a discreet use of it, it is in your power to become a very great man. whether you will accept it-but god preserve thee, my child, from any thought so criminal -upon this question there is a profound silence. nay, it seems even as if this trader in black arts had at that very point been overtaken by death: for he had broken off in the very middle of a word. the lord have mercy upon his soul!" little as rudolph's faith was in the possibility of such a pro- posal, yet he was uneasy at his father's communication, and visibly disturbed; so that the latter said to him—“had it not been better, rudolph, that you had left the mystery to be buried with me in the grave?" the magic dice. * rudolph said—“no:" but his restless eye, and his agitated air, too, evidently approved the justice of his father's solicitude. the deep impression upon rudolph's mind from this conver- sation--the last he was ever to hold with his father was ren- dered still deeper by the solemn event which followed. about the middle of that same night, he was awakened suddenly by a summons to his father's bed-side: his father was dying, and earnestly asking for him. . “my son!” he exclaimed with an expression of the bitterest anguish; stretched out both his 'arms in supplication towards him; and, in the anguish of the effort, he expired. the levity of youthful spirits soon dispersed the gloom which at first hung over rudolph's mind. surrounded by jovial com- panions at the university which he now entered, he found no room left in his bosom for sorrow or care: and his heaviest af- fliction was the refusal of his guardian at times to comply with his too frequent importunities for money. after a residence of one year at the university, some youth- ful irregularities in which rudolph was concerned subjected him, jointly with three others, to expulsion. just at that time, the seven years' war happened to break out: two of the party, named theiler and werl, entered the military service together with rudolph; the last very much against the will of a young wonian to whom he was engaged. charlotte herself, however, became reconciled to this arrangement, when she saw that her objections availed nothing against rudolph's resolution, and heard her lover describe in the most flattering colors his own return to her arms in the uniform of an officer: for that his dis- tinguished courage must carry him in the very first campaign to the rank of lieutenant was as evident to his own mind as that he could not possibly fall on the field of battle. the three friends were fortunate enough to be placed in the same company. but, in the first battle, werl and theiler were stretched lifeless by rudolph's side: wer), by a musket-ball through his heart, and theiler by a cannon-shot which took off his head. soon after this event, rudolph himself returned home: but how? not, as he had fondly anticipated, in the brilliant deco- rations of a distinguished officer; but as a prisoner in close custody: in a transport of youthful anger he had been guilty, in company with two others, of insubordination and mutiny. the court-martial sentenced them to death. the judges, however, were so favorably impressed by their good conduct, whilst under confinement; that they would certainly have rec- ommended them to the royal mercy, if it had not been deemed * necessary to make an example. however, the sentence was so far mitigated, that only one of the three was to be shot. and which was he?. that point was reserved in suspense until withou the magic dice. the day of execution, when it was to be decided by the cast of -the dice, as the fatal day drew near, a tempest of passionate grief as- sailed the three prisoners. one of them was agitated by the tears of his father; the second by the sad situation of a sickly wife and two children; the third, rudolph, in case the lot fell upon him, would be summoned to part not only with his life, but also with a young and blooming bride, that lay nearer to his heart than any thing else. “ah!” said he, on the evening before the day of final decision, “ ah! if but this once i could secure a lucky throw of the dice!” and scarce was the wish uttered, when his comrade werl, whom he had seen fall by his side in the field of battle, stepped into his cell. · "so, brother schroll, i suppose you didn't much expect to see, me?" “no, indeed, did i not”-exclaimed rudolph in consterna- tion: for in fact, on the day after the battle, he had seen this very werl committed to the grave. " ay, ay, its strange enough, i allow: but there are not many such surgeons as he is that belongs to our regiment: he had me dug up, and brought me round again, i'll assure you. one would think the man was a conjurer. indeed there are many things he can do which i defy any man to explain; and; to say the truth, i'm convinced he can execute impossibilities. : · "well, so let him, for aught that i care: all his art will scarcely do me any good.”. .:“who knows, brother? who knows? the man is in this town at this very time; and for old friendship's sake i've just spoken to him about you: and he has promised me a lucky throw of the dice that shall deliver you from all danger.” “ah!” said the dejected rudolph, • but even this would be of little service to me.” • “why, how so?” asked the other. “how so? why, because even if there were such dice (a matter i very much dispute)-yet i could never allow myself to turn aside, by black arts, any bad luck designed for myself upon the heads of either of my comrades.” “now this, i suppose, is what you call being noble? but excuse me if i think that in such cases one's first duty is to oneself." “ay, but consider, one of my comrades has an old father to maintain, the other a sick wife with two children.” ...“ schroll, schroll, if your young bride were to hear you, i fancy she wouldn't think herself much flattered. does poor charlotte deserve that you should not bestow a thought on her and her fate? a dear younge creature, that places her whole happiness in you, has nearer claims (i think) upon your consid- eration than an old dotard with one foot in the grave, or a wife the magic dice. ana two children that are nothing at all to you. ah! what a deal of good might you do in the course of a long life with your char- lotte! so, then, you really are determined to reject the course which i point out to you? take care, schroll! if you disdain my offer, and the lot should chance to fall upon you, take care l'est the thought of a young bride whom you have betrayed, -take care, i say, lest this thought should add to the bitterness of death when you come to kneel down on the sand- hill. however, i've given you advice sufficient, and have discharged my conscience. look to it yourself: and farewell!” “stay, brother, a word or two;” said rudolph, who was pow- erfully impressed by the last speech, and the picture of domes- tic happiness held up before him, which he had often dallied with in thought both when alone and in company with char- lotte:-". stay a moment. undoubtedly, i do not deny that i wish for life, if i could receive it a gift from heaven: and that is not impossible. only i would not willingly have the guilt upon my conscience of being the cause of misery to another. however, if the man you speak of can tell, i should be glad that you would ask him upon which of us three the lot of death will fall. or-stay; don't ask him,” said rudolph, sighing deeply. “i have already asked him," was the answer. “ah! have you so? and it is after his reply that you come to me with this counsel?” the foretaste of death overspread the blooming face of ru- dolph with a livid paleness: thick drops of sweat gathered upon his forehead; and the other exclaimed with a sneer—" i'm going: you take too much time for consideration. may be you will see and recognise me at the place of execution; and, if so, i shall , have the dice with me; and it will not be too late even then to give me a sign: but take notice i can't promise to attend.” rudolph raised his forehead from the palm of his hand, in which he had buried it during the last moments of his pertur- bation, and would have spoken something in reply: but his coun- sellor was already gone. he felt glad and yet at the same time sorry." the more he considered the man and his appearance, so much the less seemed his resemblance to his friend whom he had left buried on the field of battle. this friend had been the very soul of affectionate cordiality-a temper that was altogeth- er wanting in his present counsellor.. no! the scornful and in- sulting tone with which he treated the unhappy prisoner, and the unkind manner with which he had left him, convinced schroll that he and werl must be two different persons. just at this moment a thought struck him, like a blast of lightning, of the black book that had perished in the fire and its ominous contents. a lucky cast of the dice! ay; that then was the shape in which the tempter had presented himself; and heartily glad he felt that he had not availed himself of his suggestions. thŁ magic dice. but this temper of mind was speedily changed by his young bride, who hurried in, soon after, sobbing, and flung her arms about his neck. · he told her of the proposal which had been made to him; and she was shocked that he had not immediately accepted it. with a bleeding heart, rudolph objected that só charming and lovely, a creature could not miss of a happy fate, even if he should be forced to quit her. but she protested vehemently that he or nobody should enjoy her love. the clergyman, who visited the prisoner immediately after her departure, restored some composure to his mind, which had been altogether banished by the presence of his bride. “bles- sed are they who die in the lord!” said the gray-haired divine; and with so much earnestness and devotion, that this single speech had the happiest effect upon the prisoner's mind. on the morning after this night of agitation—the morning of the fatal day-the three criminals saw each other for the first time since their arrest. community of fate, and long separation frorit each other, contributed to draw still closer the bond of friendship that had been first knit on the field of battle. each of the three testified a lively abhorrence for the wretched ne- cessity of throwing death to some one of his comrades, by any cast of the dice which should bring life to himself. dear as their several friends were to all, yet at this moment the brother- ly league, which had been tried and proved in the furnace of battle, was triumphant over all opposing considerations. each would have preferred death himself, rather than escape it at the expense of his comrade. the worthy clergyman, who possessed their entire confiden':e, found them loudly giving utterance to this heroic determination. shaking his head, he pointed their attention to those who had claims upon them whilst living, and for whom it was their duty to wish to live as long as possible. “place your trust in g-d!” said he: “resign yourselves to him! he it is that will bring about the decision through your hands; and think not of ascrib- ing that power to yourselves, or to his lifeless instruments--the dice. he, without whose permission no sparrow falls to the ground, and who has numbered every hair upon your head-he it is that knows best what is good for you; and he only. the prisoners assented by squeezing his hand, embraced each other, and received the sacrament in the best disposition of mind. after this ceremony they breakfasted together, in as resigned, -nay, almost in as joyous a mood as if the gloomy and - bloody morning which lay before them were ushering in some gladsome festival. : when, however, the procession was marshalled from the outer gate, and their beloved friends were admitted to utter their last the magic dice. farewells, then again the sternness of their courage sank beneath the burden of their melancholy fate. “rudolph!" whispered amongst the rest his despairing bride, « rudolph! why did you reject the help that was offered to you?” he adjured her not to add to the bitterness of parting; and she in turn adjured him; a little before the word of command was given to march-which robbed her of all consciousness-to make a sign to the stranger who had volunteered his offer of deliverance, provided he should anywhere observe him in the crowd. the streets and the windows were lined with spectators. vainly did each of the criminals seek, by accompanying the clergy man in his prayers, to shelter himself from the thought, that all return, perhaps, was cut off from him. the large house of his bride's father reminded schroll of a happiness that was now lost to him forever, if any faith were to be put in the words of his yesterday's monitor; and a very remarkable faintness came over him. the clergyman, who was acquainted with the cir- cumstances of his case, and, therefore, guessed the occasion of his sudden agitation, laid hold of his arm--and said, with a powerful voice, that he who trusted in god would assuredly see all his righteous hopes accomplished in this world, if it were god's pleasure; but, if not, in a better. · these were words of comfort: but their effect lasted only for a few moments. outside the city-gate his eyes were met by the sand-hill already thrown up-a spectacle which renewed his earthly hopes and fears. he threw a hurried glance about him; but nowhere could he see his last night's visiter. every moment the decision came nearer and nearer. it has begun. one of the three has already shaken the box: the die is cast: he has thrown a six. this throw was now registered amidst the solemn silence of the crowd. the by-standers re- garded him with silent congratulations in their eyes. for this man and rudolph were the two special objects of the general compassion: this man as the husband and father; rudolph as the youngest and handsomest, and because some report had gone abroad of his superior education and attainments. rudolph was youngest in a double sense-youngest in years, and youngest in the service: for both reasons he was to throw last. it may be supposed, therefore, kow much all present trembled for the poor delinquent, when the second of his com- rades likewise flung a six.. prostrated in spirit, rudolph stared at the unpropitious die. i lien a second time he threw a hurried glance around him-and tl at so full of despair, that from horrid sympathy a violent shud- diring ran through the by-standers. “here is no deliverer,” 'th rught rudolph, “none to see me, or to hear me! and if thi re were, it is now too late: for no change of the die is any the magic dice. longer possible." so saying, he seized the fatal die; convul- sively his hand clutches it; and before the throw is made' he feels that the die is broken in two. during the universal thrill of astonishment which succeeded to this strange accident, he looked round again. a sudden shock, and a sudden joy, fled through his countenance. not far from him, in the dress of a pedlar, stands theiler without a wound-the comrade whose head had been carried off on the field of battle by a cannon ball. rudolph made an under sign to him with his eye. • for, clear as it now was to his mind with whom he was dealing, yet the dreadful ‘rial of the moment overpowered his better resolutions. the military commission were in some confusion. no pro- vision having been thought of against so strange an accident, there was no second die at hand. they were just on the point of despatching a messenger to fetch one, when the pedlar pre- sented himself with the offer of supplying the loss.' the new die is examined by the auditor, and delivered to the unfortunate rudolph. he throws: the die is lying on the drum; and again it is a six! the amazement is universal: nothing is decided: the throws must be repeated. they are: and weber, the husband of the sick wife-the father of the two half-naked children, flings the lowest throw. immediately the officer's voice was heard wheeling his men into their position: on the part of weber there was as little delay. the overwhelming injury to his wife and children inflicted by his own act, was too mighty to contemplate. he shook hands japidly with his two comrades; stopt nimbly into his place; kneel- ed down; the word of command was heard“lower your muskets;” instantly he dropt the fatal .handkerchief with the gesture of one who prays for some incalculable blessing: and in the twinkling of an eye, sixteen bullets had lightened the heart of the poor mutineer of its whole immeasurable freight of an- guish. ' . all the congratulations, with which they were welcomed on their return into the city, fell powerless on rudolph's ear! scarcely could even charlotte's caresses affect with any pleasure the man who believed himself to have sacrificed his comrade, through collusion with a fiend. the importunities of charlotte prevailed over all objections which the pride of her aged fa:her suggested against a son-in- law who had been capitally convicted. the marriage was solemnized: but at the wedding-festival, amidst the uproar of merriment, the parties chiefly concerned were not happy or tranquil. in no long time the father-in-law died, and by his death placed the young couple in a state of complete independence. but charlotte's fortune, and the remainder of what rudolph had jinherited from his father, were speedily swallowed up by an idle the magic dice. and .uxurious mode of living. rudolph now began to ill-ase his wife. to escape from his own conscience, he plunged into all sorts of dissolute courses. and very remarkable it was, that, from manifesting the most violent abhorrence for every thing which conld lead his thoughts to his own fortunate cast of the die, he gradually came to entertain so uncontrollable a passion for playing at dice, that he spent all his time in the company of those with whom he could turn this passion to account. his house had long since passed out of his own hands: not a soul could be found anywhere to lend him a shilling. the sickly widow of weber and her two children, whom he had hitherto supported, lost their home and means of livelihood. and in no long space of time the same fate fell upon himself, his wife, and . his child. • too little used to labor to have any hope of improving his condition in that way, one day he bethought himself that the medical institute was in the habit of purchasing from poor peo- ple, during their life-time, the reversion of their bodies. to this establishment he addressed himself; and the ravages in his personal appearance and health, caused by his dissolute liſe, induced them the more readily to lend an ear to his proposal.; r. but the money thus obtained, which had been designed for the support of his wife and half-famished children, was squan- dered at the gaming-table. as the last dollar vanished, schroll bit one of the dice furiously between his teeth. just then he heard these words whispered at his ear-"gently, brother, gent- jy: all dice do not split in two like that on the sand hill.” he looked round in agitation, but saw no trace of any one who could have uttered the words. . . with dreadful imprecations on himself and these with whom he had played, he flung out of the gaming-house, homewards on his road to the wretched garret where his wife and children were awaiting his return and his succour. but here the poor creatures, tormented by hunger and cold, pressed upon him so importunately, that he had no way to deliver himself from misery but by flying from the spectacle. but whither could he go thus late at night, when his utter poverty was known in every ale- house? roaming he knew not whither, he found himself at length in the church-yard. the moon was shining solemnly upon the quiet grave-stones, though obscured at intervals by piles of stormy clouds. rudolph shuddered at nothing but at himself and his own existence. he strode with bursts of laugh- ter over the dwellings of the departed; and entered a vault which gave him shelter from the icy blasts of wind, which now began to bluster more loudly than before. the moon threw her rays into the vault full upon the golden legend inscribed in the wall-" blessed are the dead that die in the lord!” schroll took up a spade that was sticking in the ground, and struck with the magic dice. - it furiously against the gilt letters on the wall:* but they seemed indestructible; and he was going to assault them with a mattock, when suddenly a hand touched him on the shoulder, and said to him, “gently, comrade: thy pains are , all thrown away.” schroll uttered a loud exclamation of terror: for, in these words, he heard the voice of weber, and, on turning round, recognised his whole person. • what wouldst thou have?” asked rudolph," what art thou come for?”—" to comfort thee,” replied the figure, which now suddenly assumed the form and voice of the pedlar to whom schroll was indebted for the fortunate die.' "thou hast forgot- ten me: and thence it is that thou art fallen into misfortune. look up and acknowledge thy friend in need that comes only to make thee happy again.” " if that be thy purpose, wherefore is it that thou wearest a shape before which, of all others that have been on earth, i have most reason to shudder?” . '. “the reason is--because i must not allow to any man my help or my converse, on too easy terms. before ever my die was allowed to turn thy fate, i was compelled to give thee cer- tain intimations from which thou knewest with whom it was that thou wert dealing.” • “with whom, then, was it that i was dealing ?” cried schroll, staring with his eyes wide open, and his hair standing erect. ". thou knewest, comrade, at that time---thou knowest at this moment,” said the pedlar, laughing, and tapping him on the shoulder. “but what is it that thou desirest ?” - schroll struggled internally; but, overcome by his desolate condition, he said immediately---"dice; i would have dice that shall win whenever i wish.” i " very well: but first of all stand out of the blaze of this golden writing on the wall: it is a writing that has nothing to do with thee. here are dice: never allow them to go out of thy own possession: for that might bring thee into great trouble. when thou needest me, light a fire at the last stroke of the mid- night hour; throw in my dice, and with loud laughter. they will crack once or twice, and then split. at that moment catch at them in the flames: but let not the moment slip or thou art lost. and let not thy courage be daunted by the sights that i cannot but send before me whensoever i appear. lastly, avoid choos- ing any holy day for this work; and beware of the priest's ben- ediction. here, take the dice.” schroll caught at the dice with one hand, whilst with the other he covered his eyes. when he next looked up, he was standing alone. - he now quitted the burying-ground to return as hastily as possible to the gaming-house, where the light of candles was still visible. but it was with the greatest difficulty that he ob- * the magic dice. tained money enough from a "friend” to enable him to make the lowest stake' which the rules allowed. he found it a much easier task to persuade the company to use the dice which he had brought with him. they saw in this nothing but a very common superstition and no possibility of any imposture, as they and he should naturally have benefited alike by the good luck supposed to accompany the dice. but the nature of the charm was--that only the possessor of the dice enjoyed their supernatural powers; and hence it was that, towards morning, schroll reeled home, intoxicated with wine and pleasure, and laden with the money of all present; to the garret where his family were lying, half frozen and famished. their outward condition was immediately improved. the money which schroll had won was sufficient not only for their immediate and most pressing wants: it was enough also to pay for a front apartment, and to leave a sum sufficient for a very considerable stake. with this sum, and in better attire, rudolph repaired to a gaming-house of more fashionable resort-and came home in the evening laden with gold. - he now opened a gaming establishment himself; and so much did his family improve in external appearances within a very few weeks, that the police began to keep a watchful eye over him. this induced him to quit the city, and to change his residence continually.' all the different baths of germany he resorted to beyond other towns: but, though his dice perseveringly maintain- ed their luck, he yet never accumulated any money. every- thing was squandered upon the dissipated life which he and his family pursued. at length at the baths of the matter began to take an unfortunate turn. a violent passion for a beautiful young lady whom rudolph had attached himself to in vain at balls, concerts, . and even at church, suddenly bereft him of all sense and dis- cretion. one night, when schroll (who now styled himself cap- tain von schrollshausen) was anticipating a master-stroke from his dice, probably for the purpose of winning the lady by the display of overflowing wealth and splendor, suddenly they lost their virtue, and failed him without warning: · hitherto they had lost only when he willed them to lose: but, on this occasion, they failed at so critical a moment, as to lose him not only all his own money, but a good deal beside that he had borrowed. foaming with rage, he came home. he asked furiously after his wife: she was from home. he examined the dice attentively; and it appeared to him that they were not his own. a power- ful suspicion seized upon him. madame von schrollshausen had her own gaming circle as well as himself. without betray- the magic dice. ing its origin, he had occasionally given her a few specimens of the privilege attached to his dice: and she had pressed him earnestly to allow her the use of them for a single evening. it was true he never parted with them even on going to bed: but it was possible that they might have been changed whilst he was sleeping. the more he brooded upon this suspicion, the more it strengthened: from being barely possible, it became pro- bable; from a probability it ripened into a certainty; and this certainty received the fullest confirmation at this moment, when she returned home in the gayest temper, and announced to him that she had been this night overwhelmed with good luck; in proof of which, she poured out upon the table a considerable sum in gold coin. ." and now," she added laughingly, “ i care no longer for your dice; nay, to tell you the truth, i would not exchange my own for them.” rudolph, now confirmed in his suspicions; demanded the dice — as his property that had been purloined from him. she laughed and refused. he insisted-with more vehemence; she retorted with warmth: both parties were irritated: and, at length, in the extremity of his wrath, rudolph snatched up a knife and stabbed her: the knife pierced her heart: she utter- ed a single sob-was convulsed for a moment--and expired. "cursed accident!” he exclaimed, 'when it clearly appeared, on examination, that the dice which she had in her purse were not those which he suspected himself to have lost. no eye but rudolph's had witnessed the murder: the child had slept on undisturbed: but circumstances betrayed it to the knowledge of the landlord; and, in the morning, he was prepar- ing to make it public. by great offers, however, rudolph suc- ceeded in purchasing the man's siience: he engaged in substance to make over to the landlord a large sum of money, and to marry his daughter, with whom he had long pursued a clandestine intrigue. agreeably to this arrangement, it was publicly noti- fied that madame von schrollshausen had destroyed herself under a sudden attack of hypochondriasis, to which she had been long subject. . some there were, undoubtedly, who chose to be skeptics on this matter; but nobody had an interest suffi- ciently deep in the murdered person to prompt him to a legal inquiry. À fáct, which at this time gave rudolph far more disturbance of mind than the murder of his once beloved wife, was the full confirmation, upon repeated experience, that his dice had forfeited their power. for he had now been a loser for two days running to so great an extent, that he was obliged to ab- scond on a misty night. his child, towards who n his affection increased daily, he was under the necessity of leaving with his host as a pledge for his return and fulfilment of his promises. he would not have absconded, if it had been in his power to the magic dice. summon his dark counsellor forthwith: but on account of the great festival of pentecost, which fell on the very next day, this summons was necessarily delayed for a short time. by staying he would have reduced himself to the necessity of inventing various pretexts for delay, in order to keep up his character with his creditors: whereas, when he returned with a sum of money sufficient to meet his debts, all suspicions would be silenced at once. · in the metropolis of an adjacent territory, to which he resort- ed so often that he kept lodgings there constantly, he passed whitsunday with impatience and resolved on the succeeding night to summon and converse with his counsellor. impatient, • however, as he was of any delay, he did not on that account feel the less anxiety as the hour of midnight approached. though he was quite alone in his apartments, and had left his servant behind at the baths,—yet long before midnight he fancied that he heard footsteps and whisperings round about him. - the purpose he was meditating that he had regarded till now as a matter of indifference, now displayed itself in its whole monstrous shape. moreover, he remembered that his wicked counsellor had himself thought it necessary to exhort him lo courage, which at present he felt greatly shaken. however, he had no choice, as he was enjoined, therefore, with the last stroke of twelve, he set on fire the wood which lay ready split upon the hearth, and threw the dice into the flames, with a loud laughter that echoed frightfully from the empty hall and staircases, confused, and half-stifled by the smoke which accompanied the roaring flames, he stood still for a few minutes, when suddenly all the surround- ing objects seemed changed, and he found himself transported to his father's house. his father was lying on his death-bed just as he had actually beheld him. he had upon his lips the very same expression of supplication and anguish with which he had at that time striven to address him. once again he stretch- ed out his arms in love and pity to his son; and once again he seemed to expire in the act. schroll was agitated by the picture, which called up and re- animated in his memory, with the power of a mighty tormentor, all his honorable plans and prospects from that innocent period of his life. at this moment, the dice cracked for the first time; and schroll turned his face towards the flames. a second time the smoke stifled the light, in order to reveal a second picture, he saw himself on the day before the scene of the sand-hill sit, ting in his dungeon. the clergyman was with him. from the expression of his countenance, he appeared to be just saying “blessed are the dead that die in the lord." rudolph thought of the disposition in which he then was---of the hopes which the clergyman had raised in him---and of the feeling which he then had that he was still worthy to be reunited to his father, or had the magic dice. . become worthy by bitter penitence. the next fracture of the die disturbed the scene--but' to substitute one that was not at all more consolatory. for now appeared a den of thieves, in which the unhappy widow of weber was cursing her children, who left without support, without counsel, without protection, had taken to evil courses. in the background stood the blecd- ing father of these ruined children, one hand stretched out towards schroll with a menacing gesture, and the other lifted towards heaven with a record of impeachment against him. at the third splitting of the dice, out of the bosom of the smoke arose the figure of his murdered wife, who seemed to chase him from one corner of the room to another, until at length she came and took a seat at the fireplace; by the side of which, as rudolph now observed with horror, his buried father and the unhappy weber had stretched themselves; and they carried on together a low and noiseless whispering and moaning that agitated him with a mysterious horror. after long and hideous visions, rụdolph beheld the flames grow weaker and weaker. he approached. the figures that stood round about held up their hands in a threatening attitude, a moment later, and the time was gone forever; and rudolph, as his false friend had asserted, was a lost man. with the cour- age of despair he plunged through the midst of the threatening figures, and snatched at the glowing dice--which were no soon- er touched than they split asunder, with a dreadful sound, before which the apparitions vanished in a body. . the evil counsellor appeared on this occasion in the dress of a grave-digger, and asked with a snorting sound "what wouldst thou from me?” " i would remind you. of your promise," answered schroll, stepping back with awe: your dice have lost their power.” .." through whose fault?” rudolph was silent, and covered his eyes from the withering glances of the fiendish being who was gazing upon him. “ thy foolish desires led thee in chase of the beautiful maiden into the church: my words were forgotten;, and the benediction, against which i warned thee, disarmed the dice of their power. in future, observe my directions better.” so saying, he vanished; and schroll found three new dice upon the hearth. · after such scenes, sleep was not to be thought of; and ru- dolph resolved, if possible, to make trial of his dice this very night. the ball at the hotel over the way, to which he had been invited, and from which the steps of the waltzers were still audible, appeared to present a fair opportunity, thither he repaired; but not without some anxiety, lest some of the noises in his own lodgings should have reached the houses over the way. he was happy to find this fear unfounded. every thing the magic dice. appeared as if calculated only for his senses; for when he in- quired with assumed carelessness what great explosion that was which occurred about midnight, nobody acknowledged to have heard it. the dice, also, he was happy to find, answered his expecta- tions. he found a company engaged at play: and by the break of day he had met with so much luck, that he was immediately able to travel back to the baths, and to redeem his child and his word of honor. · in the baths he now made as many new acquaintances as the losses were important which he had lately sustained. he was reputed one of the wealthiest cavaliers in the place; and many who had designs upon him in consequence of this reputed wealth, willingly lost money to him to favor their own schemes; so that, in a single month he gained sums which would have established him as a man of fortune. under countenance of this repute, and as a widower, no doubt he might now have made successful advances to the young lady whom he had formerly pursued: for her father had an exclusive regard to property, and would have overlooked morals and respectability in any candidate for his daughter's hand. but with the largest offers of money he could not purchase his freedom from the contract made with his landlord's daughter a woman of very disreputa, ble character. in fact, six months after the death of his first wife, he was married to her." by the unlimited profusion of money with which his second wife sought to wash out the stains upon her honor, rudolph's new-raised property was as speedily squandered. to part from her was one of the wishes which lay nearest his heart: he had, however, never ventured to express yt a second time before his father-in-law: for on the single occasion when he had hinted at such an intention, that person had immediately broken out into the most dreadful threats. the murder of his first wife was the chain which bound him to his second. the boy whom his first wife had left him, closely as he resembled her in features and in the bad traits of her character, was his only comfort --if, in- deed, his gloomy and perturbed mind would allow him at any time to taste of comfort. to preserve this boy from the evil influences of the many bad examples abuut him, he had already made an agreement with a man of distinguished abilities, who was to have superintended his education in his own family. but all was frustrated. mad- ame von schrollshausen, whose love of pomp. and display led her eagerly to catch at every pretext for creating a fête, had invited a party on the evening before the young boy's intended departure. the time which was not occupied in the eating- room was spent at the gaming-table, and dedicated to the dice, of whose extraordinary powers the owner was at this time avail- the magic dice. i .. ing himself with more zeal than usual-having just invested all his disposable money in the purchase of a landed estate. one of the guests having lost very considerable sums in an uninter- rupted train of ill luck, threw the dice, in his vexation, with such force upon the table, that one of them fell down. the at- tendants searched for it on the floor; and the child also crept about in quest of it: not finding it, he rose; and, in rising, stepped upon it, lost his balance, and fell with such violence against the edge of the stove—that he died in a few hours of the injury inflicted on the head. . this accident made the most powerful impression upon the father. he recapitulated the whole of his life from the first trial he had made of the dice. from them had arisen all his misfortunes. in what way could he liberate himself from their accursed influence? -revolving this point, and in the deepest distress of mind, schroll wandered out towards nightfall, and strolled through the town. coming to a solitary bridge in the outskirts, he looked down from the battlements upon the gloomy depths of the waters below, which seemed to regard him with looks of sympathy and strong fascination. “Šo be it then!” hé exclaimed, and sprang over the railing. but, instead of finding his grave in the waters, he felt himself below seized powerfully by the grasp of a man whom, from his scornful laugh, he recognised as his evil counsellor. the man bore him to the shore, and said "no, no, my good friend: he that once enters into a league with me--him i shall deliver from death even in his own despite." .. • half crazy with despair, the next morning schroll crept out of the town with a loaded pistol. spring was abroad-spring flowers, spring breezes, and nightingales:* they were all abroad, but not for him or his delight. a crowd of itinerant tradesmen passed him, who were on their road to a neighboring fair. one of them, observing his dejected countenance with pity, at- tạched himself to his side, and asked him in a tone of sympathy what was the matter.' two others of the passers-by schroll heard distinctly saying—“faith, i should not like for my part to walk alone with such an ill-looking fellow.” he darted a furious glance at the men, separated from his pitying companion with a fervent pressure of his hand, and struck off into a solitary track of the forest. in the first retired spot, he fired the pistol: and behold! the man who had spoken to him with so much kind- ness lies stretched in his blood, and he himself is without a wound. at this moment, while staring half-unconsciously at the face of the murdered man, he feels himself seized from be- * it may be necessary to inform some readers, who have never lived far enough to the south to have any personal knowledge of the nightingale, that this bird sings in the daytime as well as the night. the magic dice, hind. already he seems to himself in the hands of the public executioner. turning round, however, he hardly knows wheth- er to feel pleasure or pain on seeing his evil suggester in the dress of a grave-digger. “my friend,” said the grave-digger, “if you cannot be content to wait for death until i send it, i must be forced to end with dragging you to that from which i began by saving you—a public execution. · but think not thus, or by any other way, to escape me. after death, thou wilt assuredly be mine again.” “who, then,” said the unhappy man, “who is the murderer of the poor trayeller?" “who? why, who but yourself? was it not yourself that fired the pistol?” "ay; but at my own head.” the fiend laughed in a way that made schroll's flesh creep on his bones. « understand this, friend, that he whose fate i hold in my hands cannot anticipate it by his own act. for the present, begone, if you would escape the scaffold. to oblige you once more, i shall throw a veil over this murder.", thereupon, the grave-digger set about making a grave for the corpse, whilst schroll wandered away-more for the sake of escaping the hideous presence in which he stood; than with any view to his own security from punishment.; seeing by accident a prisoner under arrest at the guard- house, schroll's thoughts reverted to his own confinement, “how happy,” said he, “ for me and for charlotte-had i then refused to purchase life on such terms, and had better laid to heart the counsel of my good spiritual adviser!”-upon this a sudden thought struck him—that he would go and find out the old clergyman, and would unfold to him his wretched history and situation. he told his wife that some private affairs requir- ed his attendance for a few days at the town of s t . but, say what he would, he could not prevail on her to desist from accompanying him. on the journey, his chief anxiety was, lest the clergyman, who was already advanced in years at the memorable scene of the sand hill, might now be dead. but, at the very entrance of the town, he saw him walking in the street, and immediately felt himself more composed in mind than he had done for years. the venerable appearance of the old man confirmed him still more in his resolution of making a full disclosure to him of his whole past life: one only transaction, the murder of his first wife, he thought himself justified in concealing; since, with all his penitence for it, that act was now beyond the possibility of reparation. for a long time, the pious clergyman refused all belief to schroll's narrative; but being at length convinced that he had a wounded spirit to deal with, and not a disordered intellect, he the magic dice. .. exerted himself to present all those views of religious consola- tion which his philanthropic character and his long experience suggested to him as likely to be effectual. eight days' con- versation with the clergyman restored schroll to the hopes of a less miserable future. but the good man admonished him at parting to put away from himself whatsoever could in any way tend to support his unballowed connexion. in this direction, schroll was aware that the dice were inclu- ded: and he resolved firmly that his first measure on returning home should be to bury in an inaccessible place these accursed implements, that could not but bring mischiefto every possessor. on entering the inn, he was met by his wife, who was in the highest spirits, and laughing profusely. he inquired the cause. “ no,” said she: “ you refused to communicate your motive for coming hither, and the nature of your business for the last week: i, too, shall have my mysteries. as to your leaving me in solitude at an inn, that is a sort of courtesy which marriage nat- urally brings with it: but that you should have travelled hither for no other purpose than that of trifting away your time in the company of an old tedious parson, that ( you will allow me to say) is a caprice which seems scarcely worth the money it will cost.” " who, then, has told you that i have passed my time with an old parson?” said the astonished schroll. “who told me? why, just let me know what your business was with the parson, and i'll let you know, in turn, who it was that told me. so much i will assure you, however, now-that the cavalier who was my informant is a thousand times hand- somer, and a more interesting companion, than an old dotard who is standing at the edge of the grave.” all the efforts of madame von schrollshausen to irritate the curiosity of her husband proved ineffectual to draw from him his secret. the next day, on their return homewards, she repeat- ed her attempts. but he parried them all with firmness. a more severe trial to his firmness was prepared for him in the heavy bills which his wife presented to him on his reaching home. her expenses in clothes and in jewels had been so pro- fuse, that no expedient remained to schroll but that of selling, without delay, the landed estate he had so lately purchased. a declaration to this effect was very ill received by his wife. “ sell the estate?” said she: “what, sell the sole resource i shall have to rely on when you are dead? and for what reason, i should be glad to know; when a very little of the customary luck of your dice will enable you to pay off these trifles? and whether the bills be paid to-day or to-morrow cannot be of any very great importance." upon this, schroll declared with firm- ness that he never meant to play again. “not play again!" · the magic dice: exclaimed his wife,“ pooh! pooh! you make me blush for you! so, then, i suppose it's all true, as was said, that scruples of conscience drove you to the old rusty parson? and that he en- joined, as a penance, that you should abstain from gaming? i was told as much: but i refused to believe it; for, in your cir- cumstances, the thing seemed too senseless and irrational.” “my dear girl,” said schroll, “ consider” . consider! what's the use of considering? what is there to consider about?” interrupted madame von schrollshausen: and, recollecting the gay cavalier whom she had met at the inn, she now, for the first time, proposed a separation herself." very well,” said her husband, " i am content.” “so am i,” said his father-in-law, who joined them at that moment. “but take notice that, first of all, i must have paid over to me an adequate sum of money for the creditable support of my daughter: else"- here he took schroll aside; and the old threat of revealing the murder so utterly disheartened him, that at length, in de- spair, he consented to his terms. once more, therefore, the dice were to be tried; but only for the purpose of accomplishing the separation: that over, schroll resolved to seek a livelihood in any other-way, even if it were as a day laborer: the stipulated sum was at length all collected within a few hundred dollars; and schroll was already looking out for some old disused well into which he might throw the dice, and then have it filled up: for even å river seemed to him à hiding place not sufficiently secure for such instruments of misery. remarkable it was, on the very night when the last arrears were to be obtained of his father-in-law's demand,-a night which schroll had anticipated with so much bitter anxiety,--that he became unusually gloomy and dejected. he was particu- larly disturbed by the countenance of a stranger, who, for sev- eral days running, had lost considerable sums. the man called himself stutz; but he had a most striking resemblance to his old comrade, weber, who had been shot at the sảnd-hill; and differed indeed in nothing but in the advantage of blooming youth. scarcely had he leisure to recover from the shock which this spectacle occasioned, when a second occurred. about midnight, another man, whom nobody knew, came up to the gaming-table--and interrupted the play by recounting an event which he represented as having just happened. a certain man, he said, had made a covenant with some person or other, that they call the evil one-or what is it you call him? and by means of this covenant he had obtained a steady run of good luck at play: “ well, sir (he went on), and, would you believe it, the other the magic dice. day he began to repent of this covenant; my gentleman wanted to rat,-he wanted to rat, sir. only, first of all, he resolved privately to make up a certain sum of money.. ah! the poor idiot! he little knew whom he had to deal with: the evil one, as they choose to call him, was not a man to let himself be swindled in that manner. no, no, my good friend. i saw- i mean, the evil one saw-what was going on betimes; and he secured the swindler just as he fancied himself on the point of pocketing the last arrears of the sum wanted.” the company began to laugh so loudly at this pleasant fiction, - as they conceived it, that madame von schrollshausen was at- tracted from the adjoining room. the story was repeated to her: and she was the more delighted with it, because in the relater she recognised the gay cavalier whom she had met at the inn. everybody laughed again, excepting two persons stutz and schroll. the first had again lost all the money in his purse; and the second was so confounded by the story, that he could not forbear staring with fixed eyes on the stranger, who stood over against him. his consternation increased when he perceived that the stranger's countenance seemed to. alter at every moment; and that nothing remained unchanged in it, except the cold expression of inhuman scorn with which he perseveringly regarded himself. at length, he could endure this no longer: and he remarked, therefore, upon stutz's again losing a bet, that it was now late; that mr. stutz was too much in a run of bad luck; and that, on these accounts, he would defer the further pursuit of their play until another day. and, thereupon, he put the dice into his pocket. « stop !" said the strange cavalier! and the voice froze schroll with horror; for ne inew too well to whom that dreadful tone, and those fiery eyes, belonged. "stop !” he said again: “produce your dice!” and trem- blingly schroll threw them upon the table. "ah! i thought as much,"said the stranger;“ they are loaded dice !" so saying, he called for a hammer, and struck one of them in two. - see!” said he to stutz, holding out to him the broken dice, which, in fact, seemed loaded with lead. " stop, vile impostor!”exclaimed the young man, as schroll was pre- paring to quit the room in the greatest confusion; and he threw the dice at him, one of which lodged in his right eye. the tumult increased; the police came in; and stutz was apprehend- ed, as schroll's wound assumed a very dangerous appearance. next day, schroll was in a violent fever. he asked repeat- edly for stutz. but stutz had been committed to close confine- ment; it having been found that he had travelled with false, passes. he now confessed that he was one of the sons of the the magic dice. mutineer weber; that his sickly mother had died soon after his father's execution; and that himself and his brother, left without the control of guardians, and without support, had taken to bad courses. on hearing this report, schroll rapidly worsened; and he un- folded to a young clergyman his whole unfortunate history. about midnight, he sent again in great haste for the clergyman he came: but, at sight of him, schroll stretched out his hands in extremity of horror, and waved him away from his presence; but, before his signals were complied with, the wretched man had expired in convulsions. from this horror at the sight of the young clergyman, and from the astonishment of the clergyman himself, on arriving and hearing that he had already been seen in the sick-room, it was inferred that his figure had been assumed for fiendish purposes. the dice and the strange cavalier disappeared at the same time with their wretched victim; and were seen no more the gored huntsman. if thou be hurt with hart, it brings thee to thy bier; but barber's hand will boar's hurt heal, thereof thou need'st not fear. old rhyme. the night was drawing on apace. the evening mist, as it arose from the ground, began to lose its thin white wreaths in the deep shadows of the woods. kochenstein, separated from his companions of the chase, and weary with his unsuccessful efforts to rejoin them, became more and more desirous of dis- covering in what direction his route lay. but there was no track visible, at least by that uncertain and lessening light, the mazes of which could guide him to his home. he raised his silver-mouthed bugle to his lips, and winded a loud and sus- tained blast. a distant echo plaintively repeated the notes. the baron listened for other answer with the attention his situation required, but in vain. “ this will never do," said he, casting the reins on his horse's neck: “see, good reinzaum, if thy wit can help thy master at this pinch; it has done so before now.” the animal seemed to understand and appreciate the confidence placed in him. pricking up his before drooping ears, and uttering a wild neigh, he turned from the direction his rider had hitherto pursued, and commenced a new rout at an animated trot. for awhile the path promised well; the narrow defile, down which it lay between rows of gigantic larch and twisted oaks, seemed manifestly intended to conduct to some inore extended opening. but on reaching its termination the horse suddenly stopped. the glimmering light that yet remained just enabled the baron to perceive the impervious enclosure of thickly planted trees, that surrounded the little, natural amphitheatre at which he ad arrived. • this is worse and worse, reinzaum,” exclaimed the disap- pointed rider, as he cast a disconsolate glance upwards. there was not a single star visible, to diminish the deep gloom in the gored huntsman. which the woods were enveloped. “guetiger biminel! that i should be lost in my own barony, and not a barelegged schelm to point out my road!” weary of remaining in one spot, he rode round the enclosure in which he found himself thus unpleasantly placed. he re- peated the same exercise, gazing wistfully on every side, though the darkness was now almost too great to discover to him the massy trunks, under the branches of which he rode. at length he stopped suddenly. “is that a light,” said he inwardly, “that glimmers through the-no, 't is gone. ach gott! it comes again! if i could but reach it!” again he winded his horn, and followed the blast with a most potent halloo. his labor was in vain, the light remained stationary. the baron began to swear. he had been edu- cated at wurtzburg, and for a swabian swore in excellent german. he was perplexed whether to remain where he was, with this provoking light before him, and the probable chance of remaining all night in the woods; or to abandon his steed, and endeavor to penetrate through the trees to the spot whence the light issued. neither of these alternatives was precisely to his liking. in the former case he must abide the cold air and damp mist till morning; in the other he incurred the risk of losing his steed, should he not be able to retrace his way to the spot. indecision however was not the fault of his charac- ter; and, after a minute's hesitation, he sprung from his horse, fastened him to a tree, and began to explore the wood in the direction of the light. the difficulties he encountered were not few. the baron was a portly personage and occasionally found a difficulty in squeezing through interstices, where a worse fed man would have passed ungrazed. briers and thorns were not wanting, and the marshy ground completed the catalogue of annoyances. the baron' toiled and toiled, extricating first one leg and then the other from the deep entanglement in which each was by turns plunged, while the object of his attention seemed as dis- tant as ever. his patience was exhausted. many and em- phatic were the figures of his inward rhetoric. of one fact he became convinced, that all the evil influences of the stars had this night conspired to concentrate their power on one unlucky wight, and that this wight was no other than the baron von kochenstein. but the baron was not a man to be easily diverted from his purpose, and he labored amain. his hands were bruised with the branches he had torn down when they impeded his course, and the heat drops on his brow, raised by his exertions, mixed the gored huntsman. with the chill and heavy night dew that fell around him. at length a desperate effort, almost accompanied with the loss of his boots, placed him free from the morass through which he had waded. he stamped and shook his feet when on dry land with the satisfaction that such a deliverance inspires. to add to his joy, he perceived, that the light he had so painfully sought was not more than fifty ells distant. a moment or two brought him to the door of a low dwelling over-shadowed by a beetling, penthouse-like roof. as far as he could discern, the building was of considerable antiquity. the portal was of stone, and the same material composed the frames of the windows, which were placed far from the ground, and from which proceeded the light he had sought. qur huntsman lost little time in applying to the door, at first with a gentle knock, which being disregarded increased to a thundering reverberation of blows. the gentle and the rude knocks were of equal avail. he desisted from his occupation to listen awhile, but not a sound met his ear. “this is strange, by the mass,” said the baron: "the house must be inhabited, else whence the light? and though they slept like the seven sleepers, my blows must have aroused them. let us try another mode-the merry horn must awaken them, if aught can inove their sluggish natures.” and once more resorting to his bugle he sounded a réveillée. a jolly cheering note it would have been at another time, but in the middle of the dull night it seemed most unfit. a screech owl's note would have harmonised better. “i hear them now,” said he of the bugle,“ praised be the saints.” on this as on other occasions, however, the saints got more thanks than their due. an old raven disturbed by the baron's notes, flapping her wings in flight, had deceived his ears. she was unseen in the congenial darkness, but her hoarse croakings filled the air as she flew. irritated at the delay, the baron made a formal declaration of war. in as loud a voice as he could he demanded entrance, and threatened in default of accordance to break open the door. a loud laugh as from a dozen revellers was the immediate reply. · a piece of the trunk of a young tree lay near the baron; he took it up and dashed it with all his strength against the door: it was a mighty blow, but, though the very building shook before it, the strong gate yielded not. before kochenstein could repeat the attack, a hoarse voice, seemingly proceeding from one of the windows, greeted his ears. “begone with thy noise,” it said, “else i will loose the dog on thee." the gored huntsman. “ i will break the hound's neck, and diminish his caitiff master by the head, if thou open not the door this instant. what! is this the way to treat a benighted traveller? open, i say, and quickly." it seemed that the inmate was about to put his threat in execu- tion for the low deep growl of a wolf-dog was the only answer to the baron's remonstrance. he drew his short hunting sword and planted himself firmly before the door. he waited awhile, but all was silent. he had again recourse to his battering ram. the door re- sisted marvellously, but it became evident, that it could not long withstand such a siege. as the strong oak cracked and groaned, the baron redoubled his efforts. at length the voice he had before heard again accosted him.. “come in, then, if thou wilt. fool! to draw down thy fate on thee.” the bolts were undrawn. “lift up the latch.” the baron troubled not himself to inquire the meaning of the ominous words of the speaker, but obeyed the direction given, and entered. he found himself in a spacious apartment that appeared to comprise the whole tenement. he looked around for the foes he expected to meet, and started back with, astonishment. the only occupant of the apartment was a lady, the rich elegance of whose dress would have attracted admiration, had not that feeling been engrossed by her personal loveliness. her white silken garment clung to a form modelled to perfection, and was fastened at her waist by a diamond clasp of singular shape, for it represented a couchant stag. a similar ornament confined the long tresses of her hair, the jetty blackness of which was as perfect as the opposite hue of the brow they shaded. her face was somewhat pale, and her features melan. choly, but of exquisitely tender beauty. . • she arose, as the baron entered, from the velvet couch on which she was seated, and with a slight but courteous smile motioned him to a seat opposite to her own. a table was ready spread by its side, laden with refreshments. he explained the cause of his coming, and apologized with great fervency for his rude mode of demanding admission. “you are welcome,” said the lady again, pointing to the vacant seat. nothing could be more ordinary than these three words, but the sound of her voice thrilled through the hearer's sense into his soul. she resumed her seat, and kochenstein took the place offered him. he gazed around, and was con- vinced, to his amazement, that they were alone. whence then the voice, with which he had held converse? and whenco the uproarious laugh, which had first assailed his hearing? there could not, he felt certain, be another chamber under the gored huntsman." that roof capable of containing such a number of laughers. the dog too, whose savage growl had put him on his guard, where was he? the baron was however too genuine a huntsman, to suffer either surprise or admiration to prevent him from doing justice to the excellent meal before him, and to which his hostess in- vited him, declining however to partake with her guest. he eat and drank therefore, postponing his meditations, except an anxious thought on the situation of his steed. “poor reinza- um,” thought he, thou wilt suffer for my refreshment. a warm stable were fitter by far for thee than the midnight damps that chill thee,” and the baron looked with infinite satisfaction on the blazing hearth, the ruddy gleams of which almost eclipsed the softer light of the brilliant lamp that hung from the ceiling. as his appetite became satisfied, his curiosity revived. once or twice as he raised his eyes he met the bright black ones of his entertainer. they were beautiful; yet, without knowing why, the baron shrunk from their glance. they had not the pensive softness of her features. the expression was one he could not divine, but would not admit that he feared. . he filled his goblet, and in the most courteous terms drank the lady's health. she bowed her head in acknowledgement, and held to him a small golden cup richly chased. the baron filled it,-she drank to him, though but wetting her lip with the liquor. she replaced the cup and rose from her seat. “this room,” she said, “must be your lodging for the night other i cannot offer you.-farewell.”. the baron was about to speak. she interrupted him. “i know what you would say-yes, we shall meet again. take this flower;” she added, breaking a rose from a wreath that twined among her hair in full bloom, though september had commenced, and the flowers of the gardens and the fields were long since dead, “take this flower. on the day that it fades you see me once more.” she opened a small door in the wainscoting, hitherto unseen by the baron, and closed it after her before he could utter a word. the baron felt no disposition to sleep, and paced about the room revolving the events of the evening. the silence of the hour was favorable to such an employment, and the soft carpets that covered the floor prevented even his own footsteps from being heard. wearied with his fruitless ruminations, he was beginning to relieve himself from his lonely want of occupation, by taking note more minutely than before of the handsome though antique furniture of the apartment, when his attention was claimed by the sounds of a harp. a few bars only had been played, when the music was sweetened by a voice the softest he had ever heard. the gored huntsman. the words of the song applied too strikingly to himself to es- cape his ear. wo to liiin, whose footsteps rude break my fairy solitude; wo to him, whose fated grasp dares indo my portal clasp; wo to him, whose rash advance * dooms him to my blighting glance; in the greenwood shall he lie, on the bloody heather die. the voice and music ceased together, leaving the baron oppressed with unwonted fears. “and i must see her again! would this rose would bloom forever!” he seated himself, and ere long he fell into a troubled sleep. when he awoke, the ashes on the hearth were sparkless, and the morning, casting away her gray mantle, was beginning to dart her gayer beams through the narrow windows. he perceived, with surprise, that the door through which his host- ess had retired was ajar, yet she was not in the apartment, and from the situation in which he had sat she could not have pass- ed through the door by which he had entered. he arose, and walked about with as much noise as he could make, with the object of apprising the lady of the dwelling, that the wainscot door was open. after continuing this for a length of time his curiosity increased. he ventured to look through the doorway. it opened into a small closet, which was entirely empty. he had already witnessed too much to feel any great addi- tional astonishment at this discovery. “besides,” said he to himself, “her words spoke' but of a meeting at a future day wliy therefore should i expect her now?”– he opened the entrance door, and found his horse, which he had left tied in the wood, ready for departure, and apparent- jy in excellent condition. “woman or witch,” he exclaimed, " i owe her a good turn for this–now, reinzaum, keep up thy credit.” and springing on his horse's back he pursued a track, that seemed to lead in the direction he wished; and without aid of whip or spur was at kochenstein in an hour. his first act was to place the rose in a vase of water. day by day he visited it, and found its bloom unabated. three months passed away without any visible alteration in the beauty of the flower. the baron became less sensible of the remem- brances connected with it, and gazed on it with indifference. he even displayed it to the inmates of his castle, and among others, to his only daughter, the death of whose mother had left kochenstein a widower. frederica was in her seventh year, and within a few days of its completion. to her earnest intrea- ties for the flower, her father promised it should be 'hers on her the gored huntsman. birthday: the child was overjoyed at the idea of a present, to which much importance was attached in her eyes, for the ever- blooming rose was the talk of the whole castle; and every human creature in it, except its lord, offered many conjectures respecting the flower, all very ingenious, and all very absurd. on the morning of his daughter's birthday the rose was dead. the baron von kochenstein, though a map of courage and thirty-two quarterings, changed color when he beheld the faded flower. without speaking a word he mounted reinzaum, and galloped off at the rate of four german miles an hour. he had ridden some half hour, when he saw before him a stag, the finest he nad ever beheld. it was prancing on the frosty ground, and throwing aloft its many-tined antlers in proud dis- dain of the meaner brutes of the earth. at the approach of the baron, it flea. in pure distraction of spirits, and in that dread of his own thoughts, which prompts a man to any thing to avoid himself, kochenstein pursued, though unattended by a single hound. the stag seemed wind-footed. reinzaum followed like a noble horse as he was. through glade and copse, over hill and plain, the baron chas- ed the lordly stag. at length it abated its speed near the side of a transparent pool, in the midst of which a fountain threw up its beautiful column of waters. the stag halted, and turned to gaze on its pursuer. for the first time kochenstein applied his spur to the quivering flank of his steed, and grasped his hunting sword. a moment brought him to the side of the quarry. ere another had elapsed, à stroke from its branching antlers brought him to the ground. the steed fled in dismay. in vain did kochenstein endeavor to avert his impending fate. with all the strength of terror he grasped the left horn of the stag, as it bended against its prostrate victim. the struggle was but for an instant, and a branch of the other antler pierced the baron's side. no sooner was the stroke inflicted, than the rage which had possessed the stag seemed wholly abated. it offered not to trample on the defenceless man, or to repeat the blow. gazing awhile on its work it turned away, plunged into the waters of the fountain, and was lost from sight in the overwhelming flood. enfeebled as he was, for the blood gushed in torrents from his side, the baron half raised himself up to look on the closing wa. ters. something in the stag's gaze awoke associations, that carried his mind back to the events of a few months ago. while he gazed on the fountain, the column of its jet divided, then sunk, and ceased to play. a figure appeared from the midst. it glided across the pool and approached the baron. a lady stood beside him. she was clad in robes of white, and her the gored huntsman. head was girt with a wreath of faded flowers. her left brow was spotted with recent blood. the baron shuddered at her glanco, still more at her voice, for he knew too well the soti tone in which she sang these lines. to my plighted promise trne, once again i meet thy view; now my garland's roses fade, and thy rashness' debt is paid. sad the fate, and dark the doom, that led thee to my secret home: in the greenwood thou art lying, on the bloody heather dying! the last sounds mingled with the rush of the fountain as it rose again, when, retreating on the waters, the songstress sank into their embrace. her last notes had fallen on the ears or tho baron. the rush of the waters was unheard by him; for wher: the song ceased, he was no more. the keepsake. the nikkur holl. in one of the outer skerries of the shetland islands there dwelt many years ago, two fishermen, who, from their having both been left when young without parents or protectors, had formed an intimacy which subsisted throughout their lives. by their joint exertions they had managed to possess themselves of a boat, which led to a mutual good will or partnership, extending itself over all their other property in trade; for, as each inherited the cabin of his ancestors, there were two separate domestic estab- lishments, though these existed more in appearance than real- ity. the difference in the ages of this pair was not great, but their persons and tempers were as unlike as a sealgh and a sillock. petie winwig was a thickset, dutch-built, heavy- headed calf, with a broad, swollen, grinning countenance. his cheeks rose like two lumps of blubber on each side of his nose, almost concealing that, as well as his little eyes, when he laugh- ed. a perpetual smile of good humour and acquiescence sat upon his face, and his well fattened limbs and body showed that care and discontent never prevented his stomach's doing its duty in an able manner. if, instead of having been born in this needy land, he had been the son of an english trader, he would have become one of those sleek, oily, fullbottomed swab- bers, whom i have seen marching down wapping high street as if they were heaving an anchor at every step; and who, when they come aboard to look after stores, oblige us to lay a double plank from the quay to the gangway, for fear they should snap a good two inch deal asunder with their weight. . “ay!” said captain shafton, “ i know one who could raise a ton at least—perhaps you have seen him--old fodder? ” “fat fodder!” cried shipley, laughing, “i know him well--they say he measures three yards round the waist. i. have seen the watermen refuse to take him across the river, for fear of swamping their boats. i wanted him to let them tow him astern, like a dead fish, for there would be no fear of his sinking." “i can tell you a merry jest of old fodder,” said the first mate, “ if you 'll put me in mind of him another night-at present i'll continue the laird's story.” petie winwig was not only fat, he was lazy and sleepy; and, had not his station compelled him to daily exertions and noctur- the nikkur holl. nal watchings, he would have been the greatest though the most harmless drone in the islands. on thc other hand, his asso- ciate and partner was a perfect wasp, both in appearance and activity. he was “ a lean and hungry looking ” rogue, a complete “spare cassius” in his way. his figure was tall and bony, with a length of arm fit for a king, and an eye as quick as a “ donkey's.” his looks were prying and inquisitive, and the shrewdness of his features was greatly heightened by a long and hooked nose, which obtained for him amongst his country- men, who had been, (as most of them have,) in the greenland seas, the designation of the mallemak.* this title bre indeed well sustained, for he was as rapacious, and as constantly on the wing, as that unwearied bird; but he might as justly have been called a solan, or a pelican, for if he could not poise himself in the air and plunge down, like one of them on a shoal of fishes, he knew no bounds to his desire to obtain them; nor would the possession of all the inhabitants of the deep have satisfied his covetousness. his real name was daniel, but he was most commonly called spiel trosk, the hardest driver of a bargain who ever brought goods to lerwick; and, if he did not openly cheat and delude his customers, it was only because he had not been brought up according to the newest and most liberal sys- tem of education. he was, indeed, as much in the dark in this particular, as if he had lived through the whole of one of the dark ages, and though petie winwig, his comrade, as well from indolence as from stupidity, never questioned his dealings, but left the management of the money entirely in his hands with- out suspicion, he was not enlightened enough to think of swin- dling him. this ignorance was indeed deplorable; for petie preferred sitting in doors, making fishing lines and mending nets, to plying in the market, and was, besides, fully convinced both of his own incapacity for business, and of his companion's talents; so that, but for this want of illumination, spiel might have bilked him out of the profits of their mutual labors. there were, however, no unfair dealings between them, but, on the contrary, perfect confidence and friendship. they tilled one plot of ground, and sowed it with the same seed: they assisted each other in digging peat, and in making or repairing every shed or utensil which the necessities of either required; and they knew no need of asking when they wished to borrow. in fact, the division of their huts was the only distinction that existed be- tween them, and as these were situated close together, on a slope lying under the lee of a rocky hill, apart from the rest of the village, this separation was merely nominal. to their lonely and isolated situation may perhaps be traced the commencement of their union; and in such islands, where * pronounced “mollymawk.” tije nikkur holl. summer bought the surplus grain of his neighbors, and added it to an extraordinary quantity which he and winwig had raised by their own exertions. this he intended to carry in his boat to the surrounding islands, when corn might be dear, and he talked of stretching over to orkney, if he could hear of a good market. at the departure and return of the greenland fleet, he was one of the most diligent visiters to the vessels in brassa sound, whither he always repaired in due time, with lambs, poultry, eggs, mittens, hose, and every other saleable commodi- ty; but, unlike his brethren, instead of preferring to receive the · value of his merchandise in meal, split pease, and pieces of beef or pork, he would never part even with a muscle unless for money, for the only delight he knew was the possession of cash another source of revenue to the firm was down, collected during those times when the weather rendered fishing impracti- cable, and spiel was soon known as the most adventurous climb. er amongst precipices who had ever plundered a nest. even the eagles of sumburgh were not safe from his depredations, when engaged in scaling the heights of the mountains—no man could strike down a shag or a gannet like the skerry fisherman, nor could any one boast of having killed so many wild swans. with all-his diligence and dexterity, after a year and a half spent in anxious labor and peril, trosk found that the accumu- lated profits of twice fifty such terms, would not produce the wealth he had allotted to himself in his dream of avarice; and, instead of questioning the justness of his impression that he was to become rich, he concluded that some strange and unprece- dented good fortune was to befall him. this fancy wrought in the mind of spiel till he could not contain it, and it was spread abroad through the medium of winwig, who, finding his friend did not mean to make it a secret, took delight in telling what he began to believe as truth, for his opinion of trosk's sagacity was great, and his own weakness of mind was not trifling. to the simple declaration which petie made, the neighbors added their own comments, and incorporated them with the text. it was said, that spiel had been visited by his infernal inajesty himself, who had offered to make him a rich man, on certain conditions, and that only the consent of the fisherman was want- ing to render him wealthy. several even recollected the time of the proposal, and were almost sure they had seen the evil one pull the latch of the cottage, and enter during a storm. a description of the devil became familiar with the gossips of the skerries, and from thence found its way to lerwick; and at length “mess john, the pastor,” made some allusion to it in the kirk on a sunday. others had a different way of accounting for the foretold riches of the fisherman. he was the orphan of an orphan, and that was sufficient to ensure him luck. this assertion, however, did not contain enough of the wonderful to the nikkur holl. give general satisfaction; and, accordingly some declared that trosk had discovered the means of propitiating the lost race of brownies, and of obtaining their long withheld kindness; while still another party said, that the prophet, who had predicted the future riches of the fisherman, was a being without name or de- scription, which had risen up from the bottom of the sea one moonlight night, when spiel pulled his line, thinking he had hooked a large fish, and which had told him explicitly, that he should possess more pieces of gold than he had ground "aits in the mull." which of these reports is correct; is not for me to state, but an occurrence soon took place which induced spiel trosk to believe and hope in secret, that that portion of them which re- ferred to the quantity of gold he should amass would prove cor- rect. it is one of the attributes of superstition to give credit to relations which are totally at variance with our own experience and knowledge, provided they promise something improbable and supernatural; and, although the fisherman at first declared that he had neither seen the devil, nor propitiated a brownie, nor fished up a demon from the depth of the ocean, he suddenly altered his manner, and hinted that the report of his having communication with beings of another world was not altogether without foundation. the desire of wealth, which at first had prompted spiel to ex- ert every muscle in the pursuit of profitable occupations, now rose to a height which rendered it, like all other overstrained passions, injurious to its entertainer. by his unrivalled dili- gence and foresight, and the obedience and docility of petie, trosk and winwig were already spoken of as the most flourish- ing fishermen within the isles. on them magnus horrick, the mighty fish curer, depended for a greater supply than on any fonr others, and from their nets and lines the gastronomes of lerwick obtained the choicest offerings of the seas. their fame, too, began to be attached to other articles of commerce; spiel had disposed of his barley and oats with great success, having carried them to the neighboring isles at a season when they were greatly needed, for which the laird of calk had pre- sented him with a fizgig or small harpoon. petie's mittens and caps were in great esteem amongst traders and sailor's, and were thought equai to those of fair isle, and their boat was always welcome alongside of every ship in the sound, since, as i have said, they were not civilized enough to know how to cheat. in this thriving condition, when they were considered as the most monied men in the skerries, and had con- tracted for more land for raising barley, and feeding sheep and horses, than any other tenants of the laird, spiel trosk became discontented, and possessed with the belief that his riches were to be the result of some fortuitous circumstance. his mind i the nikkur tioll. grew uneasy and anxious, and instead of wearing the air of an active man of business, with a keen and decisive glance of the eye, he showed the restless and haggard countenance of a per- son bereft of his property. he began to prowl and roam about now, more in hopes of meeting with the gifts of chance, than in pursuit of any determined object, and his looks grew rapacious from avarice, and angry from disappointment; still he did not neglect any of his former occupations, though he performed them with less alacrity of spirit and gratification than before; but he was wont to fall into reveries and calculations upon the nature of the event which was to fill up the measure of his covet- ousness, if, indeed, such a desire can be satiated. dangerous is the precipice that hangs over the gulf of futu- rity, and fearful is his situation who attempts to look steadily down it. the meditations of the fisherman, on the possibility of gaining money without labor, gave birth to strange fancies and desires in his mind. the gossip of the old women often recurred to his thoughts, and when at night the wind whistled around his cabin, and the sea poured into the voe near which it was situated, and broke among the rocks, his ear listened, almost without his consent, for some unusual and portentous sound. what it was he expected to hear, or to behold, he knew not, and wished not to think, but the heavy pattering of rain often sounded to him like footsteps, and when a gust shook his door, he looked at the latch, with the fixed, yet haggard eye of one who firmly awaits the arrival of a terrible visiter. · the mind of spiel was likewise perpetually disturbed by the recurrence of a singular circumstance, whenever he sought re- pose on his pillow. at the moment of dropping off to sleep, he was awakened by a word whispered in his ear, which notwith- standing all his endeavors, he could not perfectly recollect, although it seemed as if the mention of one letter of it would have enabled him to remember the whole. it was not a word he had ever heard before, nor uttered in a tone like the voice of any being he knew; but, to whatever language it belonged, or however it was spoken, it was distinctly pronounced, and nothing but the want of a cue to begin with prevented his re- peating it. he held it in his mind, and felt it as it were at the end of his tongue, but all his attempts to give it utterance were unavailing, and he might have forgotten it, but that, when he least thought of it, the same syllables were repeated near to him-not constantly, but from time to time, just as his eyes, closed, and he lost the consciousness of his situation. still this was a circumstance of no consequence, and he strove to look upon it as a curious annoyance, which caused him more uneasiness than it deserved. it was the omen of nothing; for nothing took place that had not happened before. .no good or evil fortune crossed his path, but the neighbors, with natural the nikkur holl. malignity, remarked that success had not made trosk happier; and pithy hints, about the blessings of poverty and contentment, were dropped in his presence. but the malicious insinuations of his countrymen were less heeded by spiel than the froth of the sea; his thoughts were on bags of money, and his atten- tion was engaged with things to come. winter had now fairly set in, short days succeeded the long nights of that season, and the northern ocean was dashed in huge billows upon the shores. the blasts, which swept the icy sea of spitzbergen, came laden with triple coldness, and wither- ed the vegetation of the valleys through which they passed. the spray no longer merely whitened the rocks along the beach; it rose in showers upon the breeze, and smote the face of the wanderer far within the land. the wild fowl forsook the coast. and gathered together upon the sheltered lochs and pools among the hills; and squalls of hail and sleet drove along in rapid suc- cession. at this season little opportunity offered to the fishermen, to pursue their avocations; they were, for the most part, confined to their cottages, and employed themselves in refitting their tackle for the ensuing spring. not so spiel trosk: if the sea would yield him no fish, it might give him drift wood, or the spoil of a wreck, or curious shells for the greenland doctors, or even sea weed, or he might light upon a seal sleeping on a rocky nook, or surprise a solan within reach of a stone, or he might find something which would add to his possessions, and eventually be converted into money; for, like ben franklin, he well knew that, after lying by for seven years, many things at last turn to account. ' with this view, spiel was accustomed to make a tour of the beach early every morning, and he seldom returned without a trifle of some kind in his hand in one of his rounds he stopped to observe a speck floating on the water, which, as it drew near, he found to be a seal by its diving. he stood for a little while, in hopes it might crawl out upon the shore, and give him an opportunity of striking it, and whilst thus engaged, just within the verge of the flood tide, which was rising, he occasionally turned his eyes upon the peb- bles that were driven forward by the force of the waves. a billow, more heavy and more angry than the rest, rolled towards him, and as it rushed up the strand, it brought, amongst a clus- ter of wreck and sea moss, a yellow pellet, which it left at his feet. from habitual inclination to appropriate every thing to himself, the fisherman at first picked it up as an uncommon stone; but his fingers soon contracted with spasmodic firmness, when he discovered that he held in his hand a piece. of pure gold. after a momentary ecstasy, he again looked at it, and saw that by the action of the water it had been rolled to and fro the nikkur holl. . at the bottom, till it had become as round, and about as large as a musket bullet. from ruminating on his wishes, and on the reports that had been framed concerning their accomplishment, the mind of trosk had acquired a tinge of superstition. he gazed again and again at the golden pebble and thought of the bullets of precious metal which he had heard in his childhood were sometimes shot at witches, and he felt a slight thrill through his frame, when the idea of a bait being laid for him by the infernal foe crossed his brain. the consideration of the weight and value of this little ingot, however, soon put weak fancies to flight, and he sat himself down to form some conjecture as to the manner of its arrival on that coast, while he carefully watched the waves for anoth- er such gift. long and abstract were the meditations of spiel trosk, as he patiently awaited the ebbing of the tide, in hopes the retir- ing waters would leave a second ball of gold for his reward. he reflected that, unless his prize had been cast into the form of a bullet, a supposition which he would not seriously entertain, it had probably formed the centre of a large piece of gold, which had been worn away to the size he now found it; and, with a sigh, at the loss of so many precious grains, as deep as if they had been drawn from his owu pocket, he strove to es- timate what might have been the bulk of the original ingot. i cannot tell you how he set to work; but he was interrupted by a heavy squall of rain, hail, and snow, which drove with blinding fury over the ocean, full in his face, and though he cared little for weather, he thought it as well to seek shelter in a kind of cavern in the rocks, not far from where he was stand- ing, foreseeing that the tempest would not last long. hither, then, he retreated, not by entering at its mouth, for the sea constantly poured in at that opening, but by descending down a wide gap in its roof, which led by craggy steps to the cavity within. a dark and dreary retreat was this cavern, and of un- usual formation, for it was not a blind cave, penetrating directly into the cliff, but a vast gallery or tunnel, which opened on one side of a steep headland, and pierced through to the other, allowing the waves to rush and tumble along its gloomy gulf, till they foamed out at the end opposite to that at which they entered. from the position of the external rocks, a constant succession of waves were directed through it, and a perpetual roar reverberated in its hollow bowels. few but adventurous and thoughtless lads had ever ventured within its interior, and their curiosity led them not far; while the more mature, who had no motive for encountering its difficulties, were contented with warning their children not to fall down the rift that led to it, which gaped amidst a cluster of heather at the back of the prom- the nikkur holl. ontory, and with handing down its name of the nikkur holl, as they had received it from their fathers. trosk left the low beach, and hurried round the hill, to the ? opening that conducted to the chasm; for the storm came pelt- - įng down more angrily than he had expected, and so thickly fell the sleet, that he could scarcely see to pick his way through the peat bogs, that lay at the foot of the acclivity, deluged as they were with the little rills that descended into them. he i had not sought “ the yawn,” as the mouth of the rift was called, since he had been a youth, but he found it with little difficulty. on entering, however, he perceived that its gulf was much less practicable to him now than he had been used to consider it, when younger and more venturesome; and though he was the most expert climber within the skerries, he felt no inclina- tion to penetrate farther within its abyss, than was requisite to screen him from the driving of the tempest. at about ten or ! twelve feet below the edge, there was a shelf formed by the en projection of a ledge of rock, and to this he let himself down, e and having seated himself, at length, under the lee of a block of ett stone, he drew out his piece of gold from his pocket, and re- f! newed his contemplations.. ci his chief endeavor was to recollect if he had ever heard of a vessel having been cast away near the skerries; for to some such occurrence he attributed the presence of the golden bullet, and he wished, besides, to flatter a hope he had conceived, that to this prize was only the harbinger of a greater treasure; but, with all his retrospection, he could recall no tradition of a ship- pwreck near his native isle, and he remained lost in amazement le and doubt. meanwhile, the face of the heavens became less tu obscure with clouds, the wind no longer howled over the mouth lip of the gulf, and the deep echoing bellow of the troubled surge es within the nikkur holl was the only sound distinguishable. on the fisherman, however, did not awaken from the revery into which he had fallen, but remained sitting, almost unconsciously, fr on the ledge within “the yawn." he was calling over in his rer mind the names of several old persons, from whom he meant to ni inquire what vessels had been lost on the coast within their with memory, and was scarcely aware that he was not seated by his own hearth, when a voice whispered slowly in his ear, “ car- i mil-han.” “good god!” cried spiel, starting up and looking fearfully down the abyss, from whence the sound seemed to ati come, “this is the word that haunts me in my sleep! what can it mean?” what is carmilhan? he would have said, but he felt unwilling to pronounce the strange term, though he now to recognised it as that which he had so long endeavored to utter. he continued a few moments gazing into the dark void beneath, o and listening to the roaring waves, which seemed to wrestle inte unceasingly within the craggy entrails of the hill, till a degree the nikkur holl. of alarm overcame him, and he turned to ascend the sides of the rift; but, just as his last foot was withdrawn over the upper edge, a slight breath of wind passed out, and muttered, “ car- milhan.” “carmilhan!”repeated trosk with violence: “gra- cious heaven, why is this unknown word thus spoken to me!” he then rushed down the hill, and stopped not till he had hastened a great way towards his cottage. it must not be supposed, from this behavior, that spiel was a coward; he was, on the contrary, one of the bravest of his countrymen, but the singular coincidence of the same sound, ringing in his ears at unexpected moments, and the dreary place in which he had last heard it, combined to agitate his mind. he felt, too, a degree of nervous irritability gain upon him, as his desire of wealth grew stronger; for that powerful impulse was opposed by a consciousness, that the encouragement he gave it was criminal, and he had, besides, constantly remarked, that the word which annoyed him always followed his reveries and dreams of riches. by the time he reached his cabin, which he did at a swift pace, trosk felt inclined to smile at his own folly, at scamper- ing through burns and bogs at the rustling of the air from an outlet in the rock. he now half doubted that he had heard any thing more than a gust of wind; for, though he was con- fident that “carmilhan" was the word he had fancied spo- ken to him in his sleep, and which he had in vain endeavored to recollect, he attributed the supposed repetition of it in “ the yawn,”to his having remembered it unexpectedly, at the instant the "sough” rose up through the tunnel. in fact he burst out into a laugh, as he looked at his breeks, splashed with the oozy puddles through which he had hurried, and he fondled “sealgh," the dog who guarded both the cottages, in a more play ful man- ner than was natural to him. not having been at home to light his fire, he went to winwig's hut, in hopes of getting some warm burgoo for breakfast, and, on entering, he found petie fast asleep, sitting with his back propped against a chest, by the side of some smoaking peat, that lay amidst a heap of white ashes on the raised hearth, in the midst of the room. in each hand he still held a knitting needle, with which he had been at work, and a kitten was playing with the worsted ball attached to them, whilst petie's head occasionally nodded forward, as iſ in mute approbation of its antics. the fisherman entered the cottage of his comrade, with the intention of showing him the piece of gold he bad found, but winwig did not awake with the noise he made, and spiel seat- ed himself by the fire, and warmed his pannikin to prepare his meal in silence. at another time he would have roused petie, who had fallen into a doze, as he was wont when unen- gaged in any very active employment; but now he felt some the nikkur holl. doubts of the prudence of letting his friend know his good for- tune, since that harmless and simple being might take delight in spreading the news among the neighbors, who would be continually on the watch for other prizes of the same kind, and who might also adopt a measure he had contemplated himself. at length he resolved not to make his partner acquainted with “his luck,” but to pursue his own counsels, till he had satisfied himself that there would be no danger in risking the disclosure; and he continued eating his crowdie with good appetite, and admiring the full, sleek, and torpid countenance of winwig, and wondering how any being capable of making money by exertion could resign himself to such a state of unprofitable inaction. there was, however, in the blubber swollen cheeks and massive double chin of petie, an air of contentment and happiness that offered the best reply to the sarcastic reflections of trosk; and could a stander-by have beheld the broad, smooth, rounded features of one, half smiling in sleep, while his head nodded at ease, unable to sink far, from the rolls of fat that encompassed his neck and pillowed it up, and at the same glance could have viewed the sharp and care-marked visage of spiel, with its deepening furrows, its wrinkled front, its thin projecting nose, curved over its compressed lips, while its hue of lived brown was rendered still more lurid by the gleams of its haggard eye, which shone behind its contracted brow of stiff black hair, like the glance of a tiger through a bush, he would have required no time to decide which person he would have chosen to be. petie's slumber was ended by the kitten, which, after taking sundry gamesome wheels round the room, ran scrambling up his clothes, till it mounted his head, from whence, when the “man mountain” moved, it leaped off in alarm. not less alarmed was winwig, who, clapping both his hands on his crown, where the beast had left several scratches, started up and staggered about, with his eyes half open, and his senses yet asleep; but a loud laugh, which spiel was provoked to utter, recalled his recollection. “ heigh! spiel,"cried the drowsy loon, rubbing his eyes,“ i am very glad you are safe; for i have been dreaming strange things about you.” “ about me, do you say?" replied the other. "! ay, indeed, hinney,' said winwig, “ i but now thought i was yourself, and, though i knew i was not you, i still fancied i was, and at the same time i thought i was a fish, and that i saw a bait which i wanted to take, though i knew there was a hook in it, that would lay hold of me. it was a yellow bait, and the more i looked at it the more i longed for it, and something seemed to mutter “take it, take it,' in my ear, till at last i snapped at it, and was caught, and i felt as if being drawn along un the nikkur by the hook when i awaked; but all the while i thought i was you, and not me, though i imagined i was close by at the time,” " pheugh! dreams are but dreams,” said spiel: “ you felt the cat's claws in your head, and you imagined the rest to ac- count for it. has steenson been here to-day?" “no," replied petie; “i think the squall has kept him away. it was so thick for a time that i could not see, and just then i dropped off.” "where were you in the storm?” "i was under shelter of a rock," said trosk, turning the conversation, and, shortly after, he left the cabin. from this time spiel becane more moody and disconted than ever. the sight of the gold, which he used to contemplate several times a day, seemed to infect him with an insatiability and restlessness, that kept him constantly from home. in spite of frost and snow, and storms and tempests, he was always on the beach; and whenever the boat could live on the sea, he put off shore, on pretence of fishing, though many old craftsmen made it their business to inform him that it was not the season for catching fish. but spiel gave them some evasive answer, and they grew tired of imparting wisdom to no purpose to a self- willed adventurer. trosk's real object, in pretending to fish, was to use a grap- nel he had constructed, in hopes of laying hold of something at the bottom, which would prove of value, or, at least, confirm him in his idea that some ship had foundered near the spot where he found the piece of gold. he had in vain inquired, of the oldest inhabitants of the isle, whether any vessel had been wreck ed at any time near the skerries. no one knew of a loss so near; and, though many could tell him of all the catastrophes of the kind that had happened amongst the shetland islands, since the time when the spanish armada appeared off them, he could hear of nothing that had taken place where he expected. spring appeared, and yet spiel had met with no second piece of gold, although he had paced the beach till he had almost numbered every stone that lay upon it. he had raked the bottom with his grapnel, for a mile along the coast, and for the depth of ten fathoms, but had found nothing. he had watched when the waves were most rough, and the surf most violent, in hopes of seeing another rounded mass of precious metal thrown on the strand, but in vain, and now it was time to return to his usual duties-to drain the land, to till and sow, and dig peat, and set his tackle in order. yet, without neglecting the business of the firm, he resolved to continue his researches for more gold. he felt convinced, that one lump of that substance could not have come alone to where he found it, and he per- suaded nimself, that he had not hitherto struck upon the place the nikkuri , where the wreck had happened. to avoid wasting the time necessary for his other occupations, he regularly went out at night with his boat, and this he did for a long time in private; but, when his proceedings were noticed, he still continued the practice, declaring that he could not sleep, and that it was bet- ter to run the chance of catching something, than to be awake and idle in bed. by degrees, however, he let his desire for acquiring the supposed lost treasure overcome his prudence, and, instead of returning ashore to renew his labors in the field, he remained, pretending to fish, for the greater part of the day, unfortunately, the place near which he had found the bullet wag notorious for its want of fish; and, when his countrymen saw him toiling in such a barren spot, they were amazed at his per- tinacity in dropping his lines where no prey had been taken for years. this obstinacy was the more conspicuous, because quantities of sillocks, herrings, mackerel, cod, ling, and tusk, were to be met with in other places; and the sagacity for which spiel had formerly been remarkable began to be questioned, while the property he had accumulated daily dwindled away. at the same time, in consequence of all these meditations and considerations, and painſul watchings, trosk himself grew lean- er, and more avaricious, without becoming more rich. indeed, he was now much poorer; his features put on a more greedy and sharpened appearance, his eyes seemed capable of pierc- ing through every thing at which he looked, and his cupidity was without control. instead of spiel trosk, the money-maker, he was now called “dan bottlenose;''-not that any one dared apply such a name to him in his presence, for his blows were never tenderly given, nor slow in forthcoming, but his wilful folly in " fishing for blobs,” as his neighbors used to term his labors, had become the jest of the island. he was not, however, forsaken by petie, though he brought home no fish, nor struck down wild swans as before; nor though gustave guckelsporn and. chriss mienkel endeavored to per- suade him that spiel was daft or possessed, and that it was sinful to have any thing to do with him, while there were so many other good fellows in the island, to whom he could unite in partnership, as he had done with him. but so well was win- wig persuaded of the superior sense and conduct of his com- panion, that he adhered to his fortunes as firmly now as when they were more prosperous, and never even questioned trosk concerning his motions. spiel himself, at length, began to doubt the rationality of his conduct, and looked back with regrét on the months he had wasted in vain; yet, the poorer he became, the more earnest grew his attempts to recover some of the hidden wealth. he now loaded a large stone with tallow, and let it sink quickly to the bottom, in hopes of bringing up a pellet of gold attacher lo so the nikkur holl. it, as stones and shells are found clinging, by the same means, to the sounding lead; but he drew from the bottom nothing but pebbles, starfish, and sea urchins, and this contrivance proved às unsuccessful as his grapnel had formerly done. . whilst labor and disappointment exhausted the strength and the patience of the infatuated fisherman, a more obscure and indefinable misery preyed upon those moments which he was constrained to allow for rest. still, from time to time, as he resigned himself to sleep, the same strange unearthly voice whispered in his ear the unknown word, to which he could find no interpretation, and still he doubted the evidence of his drow- sy senses, and endeavored, when awake, to persuade himself, that by continually thinking of a sound, which had been at first only the creation of his fancy, he had rendered its recurrence habitual. yet, while his reason strove to contradict his feel- ings, his mind became influenced by superstitious misgivings; he listened to tales of kelpies and water fiends with attention, and began to attribute his torment to a call from an evil spirit. he now could account for his hearing " carmilhan" repeated in the “yawn,” by believing that the holl was haunted by these beings, and he thought of applying to the minister for advice. then, he paused to consider whether charms would not drive them away, and would have taken council of an old woman, . famous in those isles for her necromancy, had not his better feelings told him that the practice was unchristian; but an oc- currence took place which overthrew his scruples, and brought him to the brink of the deep pit. the moon appeared one night, when he was prosecuting his research with his grapnel. it rose full from behind a deep black cloud, whose skirt rested on the horizon, while its upper edge floated like a vast black pall in the mid heaven. the wind had gone down, and left the sea unruffled, but heaving with a heavy ground swell, rising and falling in large smooth billows, like the dance of a host of hills. spiel continued his occupation, in spite of the uneasy motion which the water com- municated to his boat; not without some hope, that the agitation of the ocean might lay bare or detach some portion of the treas- ures for which he was seeking. the position he occupied at the rising of the moon, was not far from the entrance to the nikkur holl; for he had investigated almost every other station, and when the moonlight threw the broad shadow of the cliffs upon the water, he could not help turning his head to mark the gro- tesque image of the noss, or headiand, through which the tun- nel ran. its shade was stretched upon the surface, like the figure of a huge monster, while the roaring of the surge through the cavern seemed to imitate its bellow. around it spread a - field of brilliant light, but, far beyond, the se:r was buried in the deepest gloom, beneath the sable cloud from which the moon . the nikkur holl. had glided. trosk, while his boat drifted, and drew the grapnel along the bottom, gazed first at the fanciful shadow of the nik- kur holl, and then at the promontory itself, till his attention was fixed by his seeing something move on its summit. what it was he knew not, but at first he thought it was a pale flame, then it looked like a winged creature, dancing with extended pinions, and he fancied he could see its features, which were human. he looked to see if its shadow was reflected in the water, but nothing was visible on the image of the noss. he turned his eyes again towards the top of the cliff, and a chill sweat crept out of his skin, when he beheld the little being leap up distinctly from the brow of the hill, and fall down repeatedly on its taper legs. a thousand strange and superstitious feelings arose within the mind of the fisherman, as he gazed on this realization of the gossip tales he had once despised. this, then, was a sea sprite or kelpie, and was no doubt the demon that tormented him with its unceasing whisper.' this it was, which had muttered car- milhan in the yawn; this was the little imp, still spraakel, which had always been said to dwell in the nikkur holl, and whose visits boded both good and evil, though no one could tell which till it happened; this was the moonlight in which it loved to ap- pear. spiel was running on thus in his fancy, while he looked at the object of his conjectures, till it made a third vault and vanished, and at the same time the grapnel caught hold of some- thing at the bottom, and brought up the boat. the fisherman forgot the spirit for a moment, in the hope that this might prove some part of the treasure, and he began to haul with care upon his line. he pulled with force, but the hooks still clung firmly to the bottom, and though the swell of the waves jerked hard upon the rope, it kept its grasp. spiel pulled still stronger, and brought his skiff close over the spot by his tugging; but the grapnel kept its hold. he grew uneasy, and feared his line might break, and he looked back to the noss, to see if the ap- parition was there. it was not there, but he beheld the black cloud advancing on all sides from the horizon, while the moon looked pale in the space in which she yet shone, in the centre of the heavens. the shadow of the headland was gone, and darkness was fast closing around him. the wind began to rise, and the bowels of the nikkur holl roared more loudly than be- fore, while the 'heaving of the sea grew more troubled. his boar rocked, and he leaned over its side, and pulled with vio- lence, resolved upon breaking his rope, or bringing up the spoil, be it rock or kist of gold. again he strained hard, just as the clouds were about to shut out the light of the moon; the impedi- ment gave way, and he believed the line had broken, for he felt no weight; but in an instant something large and dark rose up above the surface of the water, over which he bent, as if dispo- the nikkur holl. sed to spring into the boat. he fixed his eyes upon it, with his hands extended to grasp it, whatever it might be; and as the water, which had now assumed a sparkling appearance, separated to give it passage, he saw inscribed upon a round black mass of something, though what he could not define, the hateful word, “ carmilhan.” it stopped scarce half an instant above the surface, and again sunk, as quickly as it had risen; but trosk, rendered desperate by this repetition of his torment, plunged his arm swiftly after it, and caught it by its hair. this gave way, and the rest was gone. he drew back his hand, but the moon had disappeared, and he could not see what sort of slippery matter remained in it. a groan of despair, urged al- most to madness, burst from the lips of the fisherman at this defeat, and he gnashed his teeth and tore his hair with vexation; but presently, loud claps of thunder, followed by heavy drops of rain, foretold the onset of a storm, and he was compelled to take to his paddles, and make for the shore. a raging tempest succeeded, and spiel, though cooped beneath a ledge of rock, was drenched with rain and spray; but, notwithstanding his situation, and the occurrences he had witnessed, he fell asleep before the day dawned over the ocean. his dreams were but a repetition of what he had shortly before beheld while awake, "hough aggravated by the wild delusions of unbridled fancy, and he was disturbed from his repose by an imaginary disappoint- ment, similar to that which he had really suffered. when he opened his eyes, the first rays of the sun were gleaming over the waters before him. the billows had dwindled to little waves, leaping and dancing along the surface, with glittering crests and pale blue bosoms. a soft mist occupied the horizon, ex- tending towards the island, and gleaming in many places with irnperſect rainbows, which gradually seemed to melt away in the morning sunbeams. of wind there was scarcely a breath, and one small black cloud floated alone upon a sky of milky azure. the fisherman lay for sometime looking at the mild features of the new-born day, and comparing them with the hideous scowl of the preceding night. his view stretched over a wide expanse of sea, swelling in joyous motion, from the foot of the rocks, in which he had found protection, to the light veil of vapor which hung before the distance. he saw, at intervals, the restless gulls glide along the face of the deep, and the glit- tering fishes leap from its bosom; but yet he did not stir, and he wondered what feeling of idleness now bound his hitherto unwearied limbs. after remaining a little longer thus stretched at ease, he was about to arise and take to his boat, when he fancied he could see, at the utmost verge of vision, something floating on the water. it was, indeed, but a speck, but it was a speck of hope, and spiel never neglected the slightest chance of acquisition the nikkur holl. : it was something, and it might be something valuable, and that idea was sufficient to engage his attention. he resolved, there- fore, to make towards it, lest any one else should have it in his cve, and secure it before him, and he was every moment on the point of creeping from his recess, but yet he felt willing to stay an instant longer. this instant was spent in a fresh con- jecture on the nature of the floating body, and the succeeding instant was similarly occupied. in the meanwhile, the object of his consideration drew sensibly nearer, and became more visible; and as he concluded, by its progress, that it possessed more means of making way than the action of the winds and the waves, he began to suppose that it might be a skiff. that it was a boat, he in a short time became convinced, for he could mark its outline, and descry a figure sitting in it; but his surprise at the rapidity of its advance was increased, by his not being able to descry either the sails or oars by which it was propelled. having determined to remain where he was, spiel drew him- self as far back as possible within his hiding place, and kept his eyes fixed upon the bark. he now fancied that its quick- ness of motion had decreased, and that it came forward very slowly indeed. this he considered natural enough, as it evi- dently had no source of motion but the uncertain action of the waves, and he attributed his former supposition to the incorrect vision caused by the fog; but still he was astonished to observe it glide on, on end, with the stem towards the shore, instead of driving along with its broadside to the wind; because he could see that the person aboard paid no attention to the rud- der, if it had one, but was seated rather more forward than aft. he noticed another circumstance, that excited his wonder, which was, that a small string of petrels, or mother carey's chickens, followed the wake of the bark, and flew at times around the head of the stranger; though it is well known that these birds never appear except in storms, of which they are considered both the harbingers and the spirits; yet just then the weather and the ocean were remarkably calm. again, he was at a loss to account for the boat being directed immediately i towards the spot in which he was secreted, for there was no inlet or landing place for some distance along the coast, but a bluff, rocky margin, till you come to dummafrith's voe. this circumstance, however, he attributed to ignorance of the shore, or want of power to manage the boat, and he had time to form a thousand speculations while he lay ensconced in his nook.. - at length, spiel could make out something of the features and figure of the person who occupied the bark, and he found him to be a little withered old man, who sat quite stiff and upright on the rowers' bench, and neither 'moved his head nor - * i the nikkur holl. body to the right nor to the left. his face was thin and sharp. and covered by a dry, wrinkled, tawny skin, stretched tightly over the stringy muscles which formed his cheeks and lips. his dress was of bright yellow canvass, or something like it, and a red night-cap covered his head, with its point sticking upright in the air, while in his hand he held a kind of instrument, that resembled a harpoon at one end and a blubber fork at the other. “ this is a very odd little fellow,” thought trosk to himself, as the boat came up towards him, “he looks as old and as stiff as if he had been dead and dried like a salted task for this fifty years—he certainly is not alive now.” this conjecture, indeed, seemed true, for the skiff having run up against the boat of the fisherman, which lay beneath his re- cess, remained stationary, and spiel could see plainly enough, that the eyes of the little figure were closed, and that its mouth was shut, as if a long time had passed since it had been opened, and that there was no perceptible respiration going on. spiel, having advanced to the edge of his retreat, sat for some- time looking down upon the immoveable little figure before him, in wonder at the situation and attire of the man, and at the kind of boat which had brought him; for the whole was unlike any thing he had ever before beheld or heard of. but, after striving in vain to account for what he saw, he became impatient, and in a tone somewhat influenced by a kind of awe, which he felt creeping into his mind, he called out to the stranger to know if he was asleep. he might as well have called to the nikkur noss for any answer he received, though he repeated the ques- tion several times, each louder than the last. but, growing more bold or curious, he descended into his boat, and grasping the boat hook gave the little oddity a smart push. this was of no avail, and he pushed again harder than before, to as little purpose; and he was about to fasten a rope to the head of the skiff to tow it round to the voe, by the side of which he resided, thinking it fit that the authorities of the island should take cog- nizance of the dead body, for such he now considered it to be, when it slowly began to move. its eyes opened, but at first they were lifeless, and void of sight, and turned in their sockets with a ghastly rolling, which, if it did not terrify the shetlander, made him push off the strange boat from his own with a feeling of horror. shortly after, the lips quivered, and were drawn apart into a fearful grin, which showed gums large and toothless, and expanded into a frightful gape, from whence a deep sigh, or rather groan, issued, along with a blast of vapor, more like the smoke of gunpowder than the steam of breath. upon see- ing this, spiel mechanically shipped his oar over the stern of his boat, and began to skull her a little way off; but, reflecting that he was acting like a coward, he put her head about again the nikkur holl. " i knew her when a child,” said the other. " what can you want with the treasure?" cried the fisher. man—" what need has a man of your years of money?_teach 'me how to find the gold; i will take the trouble of raising it, and we will share it between us.” “yes, and how shall i be sure of your keeping your engage- ment?” said the little man sneeringly. “ be always with me," answered the other. “we will divide the money as we obtain it; and should i offer to wrong you, do you reveal the secret to my enemies. the fear lest another should learn the situation of the wreck, will be a bond sufficient- ly strong to ensure my fidelity.” "well, be it so," replied the stranger. “but art thou a man of courage?" the first step requires a strong heart, spiel trosk.” “ you know my name, old carl!” cried the fisherman in amazement. “how comes this?” "i knew your father, though you did not,” answered the little man in his evasive way; " and i know more than you could de- mand, though you sat'here to question, and i to make replies, till another century were added to my age. i ask you-are you a man of courage?” " try me, and learn," replied the shetlander. “ you must try yourself,” said the man in the red cap, " and if you follow my directions you will learn the spot where the riches of the carmilhan lie hidden. you must go, just be- fore midnight, to the most remote and desolate place in yon island, and you must take a cow with you, and having killed it, you must get someone to wrap you up in her fresh hide. you must then be laid down, and left alone on the wild heath, and ere the clock strikes the first hour of morning your desires will be satis- fied.” “that is how old engrol's son was lost, body and soul!” exclaimed trosk, in a tone of abhorrence. “thou art satan!” "continued he, again skulling his boat away="thou art beel. zebub, old tempter, the prince of darkness--aroint, thee, demon!-i defy thee!” “thou art an utter fool,” bawled the old man to spiel, as he fled hastily from him. “a bubble-blinded bottlenose! may the curse of avarice hang over thee! may the thirst of gold choke thee. may the- ”but the fisherman having taken to both his oars, was soon too far from the little man to hear his exclamations, and he gained the point of the nikkúr noss be fore he checked his way, or turned to look after the detestable being he had quitted. when trosk did look for the object of his terror, he perceived him sitting as motionless and as rigid in his skiff as when first he approached to the island, and with as little signs of animation. the boat was moving forward, as the nikkur holl. fin pursuit of him, and round it fiew the petrels, whose pres- ence was so singular, as though in attendance on the little being. although the shetlander was by no means deficient in courage, but gifted with rather more than the ordinary race of men, he did not feel willing to have another meeting, alone, with one who seemed possessed of supernatural powers; and, after making himself certain that the strange creature was ac- tually running down upon him, he set up his sail, and again plied his oars with vigor. in this way he shot swiftly round the noss, and stood down to the bottom of the voe; but, though he kept a keen eye upon the promontory, he never saw the little man's skiff come past it. spiel trosk had now passed the summer in dragging for in- gots and ducats; but, as i have already said, instead of becom- ing richer, the wealth he had before accumulated was greatly dininished. with his property his reputation for sagacity and success likewise began to decrease, and his countrymen attrib- uted to nothing less than infatuation his obstinacy of persisting to fish in places which were well known to be unfrequented by the inhabitants of the deep. it was in vain that he heard of shoals of herrings, ling, and tusk, being seen and caught in un- usual quantities, round various points of the islands; his perti- nacity yielded to none of his former objects of avidity, and his boat nightly returned to his cabin as clean of fish as it had de- parted in the morning. “the skerry fisherman'' had for some- time ceased to be the principal contributor to the market of ler- wick, and no one had supplied his place, for no one possessed the energy and resolution which had led spiel to cast his nets by night and by day, because probably no one was urged by the same incentive-avarice. instead of daily adding to their store, the necessities of the partners had daily subtracted from it, till no store remained. want succeeded to comparative affluence; and, from the want of the conveniences, they soon sunk to the want of the necessaries of life. but, though this painful altera- tion was evidently owing to the strange obstinacy of trosk, winwig never for a moment deserted or upbraided his partner: he still placed the same unbounded reliance upon his superior powers as he had done when his exertions were successful; and, though now the whole task of supplying the means of ex- istence had devolved upon him, he was never heard to com- plain. these circumstances seemed to add another pang to the tor- ments trosk already endured, and his feelings were still more embittered by a belief that now began to infuse itself into his mind, that he was, as his neighbors declared, wasting his time; yet such was his madness, that the poorer he became, the lon- ger and more strenuously did he continue his luckless fishery for gold and jewels. to add to his mental misery at his want the nikkur holl. of success, the fiend-like whisper of carmilhan still annoyed his hour of sleep, at intervals, though it would leave him for a time; but it did not fail to return when he had begun to hope he should never experience it again. • at length poverty and disappointment, combined with avarice, actually unsettled his brain; for to nothing else than insanity can be attributed the desperation which determined him to fol- low the instructions of the little man, who had accosted him on the morning before-mentioned. the charm proposed by this strange being was not unknown to the islands of scotland, but it was known as a snare which had entrapped many to their fearful destruction, and the tales connected with it were of a kind appalling to the listener. but nothing now could influence the fisherman against his resolution to retrieve his fortunes, or perish—not even the pagan origin attributed to the spell; for it was alleged, and perhaps truly, that the slaughter of the vic- tim was a sacrifice offered to the powers of darkness, as a pro- pitiation for their good will, and all the abomination of a heathen and an idolater was imputed to the deed. it was in vain that petie winwig, who was, (for a fisherman,) a devout kirk-going man, especially when it is considered that he loved to sleep on sundays, endeavored to dissuade his friend from pursuing his purpose. useless were his represen- tations, that they should certainly manage, somehow or other, to get through the winter, and that it was sinful to tempt prov- idence by sleeping all night wrapped up in a cow-hide in the open air, when he might repose comfortably in bed beneath a rain-tight roof. neither his arguments nor his entreaties had any effect upon spiel, who seemned to grow moré obstinate in proportion to the endeavors made to convert him from his de- sign, and the fat good-natured fisherman's persuasions ended in his yielding to the violent harangues of his associate, and agreeing to accompany him to the desert place where the charm was to be effected. the hearts of both were wrung with pain when they fastened å rope round the horns of a beautiful cow, which they had brought up from a calf with all the kindness usually shown to a favorite. she was the last remnant of their former prosperity, and had been retained till now, though they had frequently wanted a meal, which the sale of luckie would have supplied. they could not part with her, they could not see her the property of another, but the delusion of trosk made him ready to sacrifice every other feeling, and his overruling spirit damped the oppo- sition of his comrade. it was now september, and the long nights of the long shet- land winter had commenced. the clouds of evening rode heav- ily on the gusty winds, which rolled them around, like huge icebergs eddying in the malestroom; deep shadows filled the tije nikkur holl. glens and valleys between the hills, and the moist peat bogs, and the murky channels of the rills, looked black and fearful, like yawning gulfs and gaping crevices in the earth. spiel led the way, and winwig came after, shuddering at his own temerity, and following his companion more from habit than from inclination. a thousand looks he spent upon the beauti- ful cow, which walked to execution like a young criminal, show- ing more youthful as his death draws nearer. it was of that small and graceful breed, whose sleek fat sides, and glossy coats, offer so strong a contrast to the shaggy lank limbs and pendant pot bellies, of the savage horses that browse on the shetland hills. her face wore the quiet and confiding expres- sion which domesticated animals show towards those who caress and feed them; and when she turned, as she sometimes did, towards petie, as if in expectation of a root, or a tuft of hay, his feelings overcame him, and a tear passed across his eye, if it did not trickle from it. often was he on the point of begging spiel to spare their favorite beast, and exchange her for one less loved; but an awe, which never before had chained his tongue, now bound it, and he mechanically traced the footsteps of his friend, as though he had been his slave. • the spot to which the desperate fisherman bent his course was as desolate as his soul could desire. it was a shallow val- ley, between two hills, but it was a mountain glen, and was elevated above other vales, which led descending from it towards the coast. the summits of its barren sides were shrouded in dull gray mist, and the patches of heather, and the blocks of stone which lay scattered along the slopes, were imperfectly visible in the gloomy light, which entered rather from the dell beneath than from the sky above; many slow creeping streams stole darkling down the hills, and fed a boggy rivulet, which flowed oozing and slumbering through the swampy bottom, till, gathering in volumes, it fell into the succeeding dales, and terminated in the sea, which, by day, was visible at the end of the range of highlands, though now the waves could only be heard bursting furiously over the rocks and headlands that op- posed it, or rolling mournfully among the pebbles that formed its bed on the level shore. the only route which would allow the cow to attain the scene of her intended slaughter was along the edge of the stream, which brought its darkened waters from the upper glen. when the fishermen first joined it, near the beach, it was a full and head- long current, tumbling from the little basins it had worn among the rocks, with a quick pace and a brawling sound. in some places it wore its way through beds of disjointed stones,. and gushed, in varied forms, between the opposing fragments; in others it sped unseen between banks of bright green moss, which hung over its silent course, almost concealing it; and, again, it the nikkur holl. appeared bursting out from a black cavity in the peaty soil, to fill a murky pool, or spread through a swampy hollow. further up the valley, its progress was less distinct, and its voice scarce more than a murmur; but the verdant hue ihat marked its path along the glens, and the deep brown tint of its sometimes stag- nant surface, offered a strong contrast to the pale, withered pur- ple of faded heath, and the yellow mosses of the surrounding hills. no vestige of man was seen in these wild solitudes, and silence was only broken by the noise of water, and the cries of birds. the hoarse bellow of the ocean rose at times upon the blast, which rushed, but spoke not, through the barren dells, and the last late shriek of the fierce sknaw was mingled with its echo. not more unwilling could have been the march of the vic- tim, had it known the fate to which its progress tended, than were the steps of petie winwig, as he followed the crooked track which the bogs and rivulets compelled his comrade to adopt. opposing feelings of every description rose in his mind against the deed to which he lent himself an accomplice, friendship exclaimed, that he was aiding the companion of his youth in the worst species of self-destruction, the destruction of the soul; humanity and gratitude upbraided him with aban- doning the harmless animal, which he had taught to look upon him as a protector, and which had returned his kindness with its milk and its offspring; and religion whispered, that even he himself was about to participate in an unhallowed and fiendish sacrifice!-a rite of baal!-a propitiation of the grace of satan! --an offering of blood on high places! all the denunciations he had heard or perused against the sin of worshipping idols, and bowing to beelzebub, came across his mind; all the stories to which he had listened, of the fatal ends of those who dabbled in the damned mysteries of witchcraft, rose fresh, but more ter- rible, upon his memory; and when his feet sunk, as they often did, in the fresh loose peat, that sometimes formed their path, his soul shook with fear, that the earth was about to gape and swallow him. but spiel trosk strode steadily forward, leading the unfortunato “ luckie,” with the air and energy of one who deems that nothing which may follow can exceed the misery that has passed. his tall gaunt form, and long swift stride, gave him the look of a sorcerer, stalking supernaturally along to the perpetration of some devilish action, and could any uninitiated eye have seen the little procession which wound and mounted up the wild defile, leading from the sea to the highest glen, it must have considered it,(as it really was,) hastening to perform in secret some in- ſernal ceremony of necromancy. the skerry fisherman entered upon the last stage of the mountain valleys with the firm step and the daring feelings, the nikkur holl. which accompany the untamed criminal to the scaffold. with all his usual strength and nerve, he turned to help the breathless vica tim, whose unassisted efforts could not enable her to climb over a rocky ledge, that separated the lower from the highest glen; and without heeding the tottering gait and pallid countenance of petie, he led her away towards the centre of the area, with a pace quickening as he proceeded. winwig, though he trem- bled, followed; and well might it have been supposed, from his drooping and abandoned aspect, that he too was about to be sac- rificed with his favorite. as he crept onward, he felt the earth shake beneath him, and he perceived that spiel was proceeding over a quaking bog, whose wide surface of closely woven moss seemed floating on a pool of water, and vibrated at every step, with a motion truly symbolic of his own sensations. even luckie now seemed fearful to proceed, and looked back, and lowed with a hollow sound, which was as unlike the rejoic- ing bellows she used to utter by the side of her native voe, as was her situation and her destiny. if any thing were wanting to fill to the brim petie's cup of misery, it was a murmur from his beloved knowt:-a gush of tears forced themselves to his eyes, and started over the lids; but, though they fell like rain drops on the ground, he did not speak. he was, with all his weak- ness, resolved not to oppose the measures of his friend, nor to add, by the expression of his own sorrow, to the high wrought agony of mind which he knew, from what he saw, spiel was silently enduring. in a few minutes trosk reached the place where he had re- solved to make trial of the efficacy of the charm. it was a small circumscribed spot, in the midst of a wide morass, whose trem- bling treacherous carpet spread around over the greater part of the valley, i call it a valley, because it was enclosed by hills, but it was rather a vast platform, near the summit of the moun- tains, whose highest ridges surrounded it like an amphitheatre, leaving open one side, which looked down into the dells beneath, and over them out to sea. the streamlets, that trickled from the acclivities, had penetrated the bed of moss, which had been gathering in thickness over the peat for ages; and the tough dense matwork quivered above the moist ooze, without permit- ting the foot to pierce it. the gloom of evening had greatly increased, whilst the shet- landers had been making their way up the ascent of the long de- file, and its obscurity was augmented by the blackness of a cloud, which had slowly floated above their heads, till it had settled round the neighboring eminences. the mist, which ever accu- mulates about the tops of the zetland mountains, had begun to fall in a thick drizzle, and there was so little light to help them, that they advanced close to a large gray stone, which stood p from the bosom of the marsh, without perceiving it to be tena lie the nikkur holl. ed. the moans of “luckie” gave the alarm, and were answer.. ed by the loud scream of an eagle, which slowly spread its dus- ky wings, and swept off from the rock on which it had been seated. petie started, but spiel approached, and laid his imple ments on the rough fragment. winwig turned round, and cast his eyes down into the valley, at the extremity of which the sea might be heard, tumbling and roaring among the crags of the coast; he looked up to the sky, and along the summits of the hills, and saw that the dim atmosphere was darkened by the overhanging volume of heavy vapor, that seemed increasing above him; he listened to a low rumbling sound, that issued from the murky cloud; he turned again, and found that trosk had drawn the rope, that held the head of luckie, round the base of the stone-he beheld him raise a poleaxe over his head -he could not bear this! with his hands clasped, or rather clinched, he fell upon his knees, and exclaimed -" in the name of god, spiel trosk, spare yourself and luckie! ay, hinney, spare her!-spare yourself, and me!-spare your soul!-spare your life! and if this deadly sin must be, wait till the morrow, and bring some other creature than our own dear kine.” “petie, art thou daft!"' cried spiel, staring upon him with the eye of a madman, and with the weapon still uplifted in the air. “ shall i spare luckie, and perish?”. "you would not perish,” answered winwig, rapidly-' you would not perish! whilst i have hands, spiel, what need you fear to perish? stay, hinney' stay! and let me work from break of day till fall at night, rather than plunge your soul into perdi- tion, and slay the poor dumb beast.” “then take this axe,” exclaimed spiel, with vehemence, " and drive it through my brain !- i will not quit this spot again, unless i have my will.-can your hands work up the riches of the carmilhan? -can your fingers supply more than the vilest necessaries of life?-but let them end my misery!-here, take my place, and i will be your victim.” “spiel,” cried winwig, starting on his feet, and in an ago- ny, “strike!-spare nothing !-but ah, trosk, it is your eter- nal life for which i fear!-know you not that this is the 'peghts' aultar stone?'-and that you are about to offer up a sacrifice to the demon they worshipped?”. “i know no such thing,” cried the other shetlander loudly, and with a grinning laugh, that showed he was determined to know nothing, or to think of nothing, contrary to his purpose. - "i know no such thing i mean no such thing, petie winwig, i tell thee.-you are mad, man, and you will drive me mad. - but luckie shall not die-you shall have her instead of me!" —and he dashed down the axe, and clutched the knife from the stone, with the intention of plunging it into his bosom. petie, the feeble-minded petie, was in an instant at his side; the nikkur holl. he wrenched the instrument from his grasp, and in the next moment he seized the poleaxe, and whirling it round his head, he let the blade fall full on the skull of luckie, with such force that he cleft it in twain, and she rolled dead, without a struga gle, at the feet of her masters. a flash of lightning, accompanied by a clap of thunder, fol. lowed this action, and trosk stared at his companion, as a man would stare if he beheld a child accomplish what he should fear to attempt. not that he could not have shown as much bodily. strength himself; but that the mild and passionless petie should have assumed a part so energetic, and so contrary to the spirit of his former life! but winwig neither started at the thunder, nor looked at his companion, nor spoke, but instantly made use of the knife he had seized, to flay his favorite; and he proceeded as quickly and as dexterously as if she were only a seal. in this occupation he was joined by spiel, after he had recovered from his surprise, though he felt as much reluctance now as eagerness before, and his heart sickened at the hot steams that arose from the carcass. ere the hide was taken off, the mist had gathered so densely around the hills, that the fishermen were both enveloped in clouds, and drenched with rain. the fog rolled along the little plain in revolving billows, but slowly; for, though the wind was heard rushing through the dells below, and struggling with the distant surge, it was not yet amongst the mountains. the rumbling of thunder grew louder around them, and came nearer at times, exploding among the highest eminences, and descending at times upon the plain. bright flashes and corruscations darted across the moss, and played about the “ stane," appearing to settle for a moment upon its summit, and then gliding swiftly over the sur- face of the swamp; and more than once the shetlanders started, and looked up, as they fancied they heard the flap of a wing close above their heads. at length, the skin being stripped off, it was stretched out upon the ground, at a little distance from the carcass, and spiel laid himself upon it. without breaking the silence that had been maintained since the fall of luckie, winwig proceeded to envelope his companion in the covering, still warm from the body, leaving only his head unswathed. he then bound the rope round the outside, and, having completed the operation as ful- ly as he could devise, he stood for a moment looking down up- on trosk, whose features were now scarcely visible through the darkness of night. he then spoke-" spiel,” said he, “ can i do anything else for you?” “nothing more," replied the other, “ fare thee well!”. “farewell!” returned petie, "and may god protect and for- give you, as i do." these last words were uttered in a less firm tone than that in: the nikkur holl. which he had before spoken, and in an instant he was gone from the view of his associate. the simple fisherman had scarcely left bis more daring part- ner exposed upon the wild peat bog, than, as if his departure had been a signal concerted with the demons of storm and des- olation, a tempest broke forth, to which neither the experience of spiel, nor his recollection of the reports of others, could find a parallel. it began with a glare of lightning, which exposed to his view, not only the crags and hills in his own neighborhood, but the valleys beneath, and the sea, and the small islands which lay scattered out beyond the bay. he saw them but for a moment, but he could perceive their rocks whitened with the foam of tremendous billows, which were bursting over them; and he believed he beheld what appeared to him the vision of a large strange-built vessel, driving along, dismasted, upon the ocean. he scarcely did believe, and half doubted, that he had seen this latter object, for its figure and its crew, (whose frantic gestures he had also imagined he had distinguished,) were such as were to him before unknown. but if this sight were a mere p'antom, what could have brought it before his eyes? the darkness that succeeded this wide gleam was of the deepest dye, and the peals of thunder that broke around him were as loud as though the heavens had burst in its discharge. a shower of fragments was scattered from the mountain tops, and poured down their sides, with a din and clatter more terrible than the noise of the elements.. spiel expected every moment to be crush- ed to pieces, or buried beneath a mass of rock, and his helpless state was now to him a source of the greatest anguish. some of the pieces dashed nearly up to him, and others bounded past, and rushed headlong over the declivity into the dell beneath, where he could hear them rolling and splashing through the deep morass. it rained when winwig had left him, but now a body of fluid fell down upon him scarcely divided into streams, for of drops there were none, and in an instant the surface of the quaking bog on which he lay became deluged. he sudden- ly found himself surrounded by water, which covered his lower extremities, leaving his head and shoulders free; for petie had raised them on a tuft of moss, which, had he not done, trosk would have been totally immersed. still he felt the inundation rise, for the waterspout, or whatever else it was, continued to descend, and as he was unable to stir, either hand or foot, he gave himself up to death. he would have called upon heaven, but the reflection of the iniquity in which he was engaged, chok- ed his prayer. he would have invoked the powers of darkness, but a deep-felt horror thrilled through his frame at the idea. i e endeavored to struggle, but the hide of luckie seemed to cling more closely to him, with an avenging embrace. he thought of petie—where was petie? he shouted petie! petie! the nikkur holl. with all his strength, but his voice was drowned in the rush and turbulence of the flood, and he strained it till its sound was only a hoarser scream. a hoarser scream replied to him, or was it echo? he screamed again, in greater agony, half hoping, half in terror; but the water filled his ears, and he knew not if he were answered. "" gracious god, i perish! ” murmured spiel as the fluid touched his lips, and passed over them; but, in the next instant, a rush, like the hurried tumble of a cataract, faint- ly reached his hearing, and he felt the deluge sink from him, and leave his mouth uncovered. it subsided, however, but a little, yet enough to give him hope, and his dismay, grew less. the pouring down from the clouds likewise diminished, and the pitchy blackness of the atmosphere was less intense. gradually the fall of water became converted into a heavy shower, which con- tinued to grow less, and glimpses of dull light broke through the mass of darkness. spiel blessed the sight, and found his cour- age return; but he felt as exhausted as if he had been strug- gling with death, and he longed to be released from his con- finement. still the purport of his sufferings was unaccomplished, and with reviving life he felt his avaricious desires reenter his heart, and this even whilst the water was still above his shoulders. he was sensible, however, that it passed away, and he conjectured rightly that its sudden rise had been owing to one of the frag- ments of stone having rolled to the outlet of the stream, and stop- ped its passage into the glen, through the rocky. ledge: but the weight of the accumulating body of water had moved it from its position, and allowed sufficient opening for the stream to escape, and this drew off the inundation by degrees. midnight passed and trosk, though he knew not the time began to doubt the efficacy of the charm. he was tired and weary of his situation, and he would have preferred an incanta- tion of a more busy kind. rest with him was only appropriated to sleep, and that he granted with reluctance; but now that he was compelled to be quiescent, he felt a sense of drowsiness. whether this was the effect of habit, or fatigue, or cold, i cannot say, but so it was, and it so overpowered him, that, in spite ‘of his situation, he lost at times all consciousness. the ebbing of the flood had nearly left him dry in the space of half an hour, and, believing morning to have advanced two hours at least, le resolved to give himself up to sleep, as the best way of passing the hours till he was released. he closed his eyes, and slept; but how long he knew not. he was awakened by what at first he thought something passing across his face, but he was soon sensible that it was a violent gust of wind. it was again nearly as dark as before, and repeat- ed blásts rushed past him, with an angry murmur. there was * the nikkur holl. but little rain now falling, and that came more like spray upon a gale than a shower, but he felt even more chilled than when he was surrounded by water. he heard the rage of the ocean more distinctly than he had done, and he fancied that it forced its stubborn waves much further into the valley below than the beach. an inexplicable turbulence seemed mingled with the usual uproar of billows bursting on a rocky shore, and the dells seemed more the seat of the confusion than of the echo. he could have imagined that the sea had overcome its boundaries of ages, and was taking possession of the conquered land. a rush of water was certainly coming towards him-he longed to be able to see. another glare of lightning, like the first lit up all the horizon, and he saw for a moment the ocean and the islands looking more fearful than before. even in that instant he strain- ed his eyes to catch one glance of the ship he had thought abandoned to the fury of the elements, and he again believed he beheld it, raised on the back of a huge billow, which dashed it down at the foot of a distant promontory, and closed over it. the headland was the nikkur noss, which he knew well, as the scene of his mispent labors. he might, perhaps, have looked longer, for the lightning continued to flash so fast that there was scarcely an interval of darkness, but with a tremen- dous gush a column of foam rose up, from beyond the craggy ledge of the platform on which he lay, and, whirling round in the air, came towards him. what passed during a few succeeding moments, spiel could not well remember. he felt himself raised from the moss, and borne along above it, and he saw the peights' aultar stane twisted out of the earth. he heard a raging struggle, as of wind and water fighting for mastery, and he was hurled against a bank with violence, and deprived of his senses. when he recovered, the tempest had ceased, the heavens were clear and bright with a vivid illumination, and the air was still. he was lying, not where petie had left him, but at the foot of the ridge of eminences, bounding the little plain, and his frame seemed shaken and more powerless than before. he could now distinguish the roll of the waves on the shore, flow- ing as they were wont in calm weather, and he attempted to discover the time by the rise of the tide; for there was not the least sign of dawn, though the sky was brilliantly enlightened. he listened attentively, and heard not only the brawling mur- mur of the sea pouring among the shingles, but a burst of solemn music mingled with it, yet so faint that he was not convinced of its reality. a pause ensued-again a strain of harmony float- ed on the untroubled air—and again it was lost as a gust of wind swept up the dell. again he heard it louder than before, and he fancied it approached him, and, as it continued, he believo the nikkur holl. ed he could distinguish the tune of a psalm he had heard sung by the crew of a dutch herringbuss, which had been off the skerries in the preceding summer. nay, he fancied he could perceive voices occasionally join the notes, and sing the very words he had formerly heard; for as l have said before, trosk understood the language. although, when the winds rose he always lost the sounds of this singular concert, yet, whenever there was a lull, he was satisfied that it gradually drew nearer, and he could now trace its advance, winding slowly up the glens from below, towards that in which he was extended. at length it was so distinct, that he was persuaded it must have crossed the ledge that bounded the brink of the plain, and he endeavored to raise his head, so that he might gain a view of the source of this extraordinary melody. there was a loose fragment of stone near him, and by dint of wriggling and push- ing himself along like a seal, he contrived to elevate his head upon it, and, looking forth, he beheld a long and gleamy pro- cession approaching towards him, over the quaking bog on which he had at first been laid. sorrow and dejection were marked on the countenances of the beings composing the troop, and their habiliments appeared heavy with moisture, and drip- ping like fresh sea weeds. they drew close up to him, and were silent. first came the musicians, whose instruments he had heard so long and so anxiously, but he could not scrutinize them much, for, as they advanced opposite to him, they wheel- ed off to the right and left, and took their stations on either side. the front space was immediately occupied by a varied group, who appeared, by their deportment, to precede some object of great distinction, which, when they paried and filed off in the same manner as the band, presented itself to view. this was a tall, bulky, though well built man, whose capac- ity of belly was properly balanced by the protuberance of that part which honor has assumed to herself. his head was not little, and his face appeared rather swollen. his shoulders were wide, and were clothed in a full coat of broad cloth, fash- ioned after the manner of the fourth generation past. its skirts reached below his knees, round which they curved. it was collarless, but sleeves, vastly deep, hung from the arms, the cuffs of which were adorned with cut-steel buttons, of great circumference and brightness. broad bands of rich gold lace covered every seam and edge, more glorious in the eyes of the beholder than the setting sun, and the lapels of a quilted vest hung down from the immense orb of his bowels, heavy with the brecious metal that braided them. his thighs were arrayed in preeches of scarlet velvet, silk hose disguised his legs, and large square-toed shoes covered his feet, and lent their thongs to support gold buckles of great breadth, which glittered with į the nikkur holl. precious stones. on his head was placed a long, flowing, flax- en, curling wig, surmounted by a small three-cornered cocked hat, buttoned up with gold bands, and a long, straight, basket- hilted sword hung, suspended in a broad buff-ernbroidered belt: by his side. in his hand he held a gold-headed clouded ground rattan, of great length and thickness, and close by his side walk- ed a black boy, bearing a long, twisted, grotesquely fashioned pipe, which he occasionally offered to his lord, who stopped and gave a solemn puff or two, and then proceeded. when he came immediately opposite to spiel, he stood still and erect, and a number of others ranged themselves on his right hand and on his left, whose dresses were fine, but not so splendid as their superior's, and they bore pipes of common form only. behind these drew up a group of persons, many of whom were ladies, some bearing infants in their arms, others leading children by their hands, all dressed in strange and gor- geous apparel, though of fashions unknown to him who beheld them; and, lastly, came a body of men and lads, with big loose trowsers, thick heavy jackets, and red worsted night-caps, whom trosk instantly knew to be dutch sailors. each of these had a quid of tobacco stuck in his cheek, and a short blackened pipe in his mouth, which he sucked in melancholy silence. the fisherman lay still, and saw this grim troop assemble around him, with feelings of mingled alarm and wonder; his heart did not sink, for it was kept alive by fearſul curiosity, but cold sweats gathered upon his brow. presently, the prin- cipal figure looked round, and seeing his attendants all in their stations, he took his long twisted pipe from the hands of the negro, and began to smoke in long and deep-drawn whiffs; and this seemed as a signal to the rest to follow his example, for, immediately, every mouth was in action, and which ever way spiel cast his looks, he beheld nothing but glowing tubes and gleaming eyes turned towards him, while wreaths of smoke rose up from the multitude, and formed a dense cloud-like canopy above them. nevertheless, though he could plainly distin- guish the features and the dresses of this ghastly crew, he could also see the stars clearly glimmering through them, and now glearns of fire and electric flashes began to shoot across the heavens, and the sky grew more vividly bright than it had been. still, though trosk could behold all these appearances through the bodies of the phantoms, he could also perceive that his ghostly visitants were closing slowly upon him, that their ranks grew more dense, and the space between him and them more 'narrow, while their puffs became more violent, and the smoke rose up with redoubled velocity.' · the shetlander was naturally a bold and, indeed, a despe- rate man, and he had come to the glen with the desire of con- the nikkur holi.. versing with beings of another, world; but when he beheld this fearful, strange, and unintelligible multitude crowded round him, and pressing nearer and nearer as if about to overwhelm him, his courage yielded, his frame, shook, and the sweat ran copiously down his face. the appearance of the black boy occasioned him more terror than all the rest; for, never having seen a negro in those far distant isles, he believed him to be a little devil, and his white teeth and whiter eye-balls looked ter- rific against his sable face; but his terror redoubled, when, on turning his eyes up to look at the sky above, he perceived close behind his head that little dry withered man who had ac- costed him in the skiff, sitting now as rigidly upright as before, but with a pipe in his mouth, which he seemed to hold there as if in grave mockery of all the assembly. trosk started convul- sively, and a choking sensation seized upon his throat; but, summoning all his energy, he mastered it, and directing himself to the principal person before him, he exclaimed, “in the name of him ye obey, who are ye? and what want ye all with me?” the great man gave three puffs, more solemnly than ever, upon this adjuration, and then, taking the pipe slowly from his lips, and giving it to his attendant, he replied, in a tone of chil- ling formality, “i am aldret janz dundrellesy vander swel- ter, whilome commander of the good ship carmilhan, of the city of amsterdam, homeward bound from batavia, in the east, which being in northern latitude, °, ", and °, ', longi- tude east, from the island of ters, at p. m. on the night of the st of october, , was cast away on the inhospitable rocks of this island, and all on board perished. these are mine officers, these my passengers, and these the mariners forming my gallant crew. why hast thou called us up from our peaceful bowers, at the bottom of the ocean, where we rest softly on beds of ooze, and smoke our pipes in quiet, listening to the songs of mermaids ?-i say, why hast thou called us up?" spiel had expected to commune with spirits, good or bad, but he had not anticipated a visit from the captain of the vessel he wished to rifle; and, indeed, the question he had to propose was rather an awkward one to put to mynheer vander swelter, for ghosts are in general tenacious of hidden treasure, and a dutch ghost was likely to be more tenacious than any other, and, in particular, the spirit of a commander in whose charge a treasure had been placed, since he might still think he had a right to preserve it for the true owners, or at least for their heirs lawfully begotten and duly qualified. but this was no time for deliberation, and the prospect of gaining his wishes poured like a reviving cordial over the soul of the fisherman, and washed away his terror. “i would know,” replied he, “ where i can find the treasure with which your ship was laden.” the nikkur holl. “at the bottom of the sea,” answered the captain with a groan, which was echoed by all his crew. “ at what place?” said spiel, “ in the nikkur noss,” replied the spectre. “how came they there?” inquired the skerryman “how came you here?” answered the captain. “i came here,” said spiel. “'t is false!” exclained the spirit, “you came no further than the peghts' aultar stane." "i did not think of that,” cried trosk, whose eagerness for wealth did not allow him to think of any thing else; “but how shall i get them?”. “a goose would dive in the nikkur noss for a herring, thou idiot,” answered mynheer vander swelter; "are not the trea- sures of the carmilhan worth a similar exertion ?-would'st thou know more?” “ yes, how much shall i get?” said spiel. “ more than you will ever spend,” replied the captain, and the little man grinned behind trosk's head, and the whole com- pany laughed loud. " hast thou done with me?" said the commander. “yes, i have," answered spiel trosk. “thanks, and fare thee well!” “farewell, till we meet again,” said mynheer vander swel. ter, facing about and marching off, preceded by his musicians, and followed by his officers, passengers, and crew, all puffing their pipes in majestic solemnity. again the grave music was heard winding down the dell ac- companied by the words of the psalm, and the fisherman marked the notes grow fainter and fainter, till at length they were lost in the murmur of the waves.. all the rest of the night spiel spent in struggling to get free from his envelope, for he was anxious to commence his search for the treasures by the break of day. at length, towards dawn, he extricated one arm from its confinement, and with that un- bound the ropes that encircled the hide. the pleasure with which he once more rose upon his feet was considerable, but it was lessened when he perceived an eagle tearing open the bowels of the ill-fated luckie, and recollected the grief of petie for her death, and his strange behavior on the occasion. the intention, however, of enriching this friend of his youth, seemed to him ample compensation for his loss, and he · looked for the stane, which was not now by the side of the car. cass. he saw nothing but fragments of rock lying around, and supposing that it had been shattered to pieces, though scarcely waiting to think at all, he hurried towards the cabin of his part- ner with the greatest precipitation... tiie nikkur holl. up to the high rough arched ceiling, in wonder at its craggy surface, and at the pendant stalactites that hung dripping from every point. he turned again to the water, and saw along its edge large sea-nettles, whose red and blue tentacula glitter- ed in the light that he held in his hand. at length, with the impatience that had brought him there, he resolved to dive and search the bottom, through the whole of its length, and he laid his torch on the rock to prepare himself. whilst stripping, he fancied he saw something gleam through the water beneath where the link was placed, and being ready he plunged at once, and grasped a heavy body which he brought up. it was a small iron bound box, but the rust had eaten into its hinges, and applying force the lid came off, and discovered a mass of golden coin. there was enough to have enriched the finder and his partner for their lives, and petie loudly entreated · spiel to ascend, and tamper no longer with danger; but trosk . only looked upon what he had gained as the first fruits of his long labors. he drew in his breath for another diye, though a rush of angry waves had rolled through the gulf, and the wind had begun to bellow. he stepped down to the water's edge, but started for he heard the word carmilhan uttered with a titter, as he had often heard it whispered. he looked round and saw nothing, and smiled at his own imagination. he cast his eyes on the casket of ducats, and felt reanimated. again he disappeared beneath the surface of the water-but he never rose again. a wild laugh re-echoed through the vault as he went down, and only a few bubbles came up at the place where he had plunged in. petie returned alone, but he returned an altered man. his mind had given way under the repeated shocks it had received, and he gradually sunk into a state of idiocy. he paid no more attention to fishing, or to husbandry; every thing about him went to decay; he sold his boat and all: he possessed, to support him- self, and his only pleasure or recreation consisted in wandering about the sides of the voe, or ascending the nikkur noss, mut- tering to himself, or looking anxiously into vacancy, as if he ex- pected to see the spirit of mynheer vander swelter start up from behind every stone. from this conduct he soon acquired the name of daft petie, and he became an object both of pity and of terror to his countrymen, who, however, quickly abandon- od the coast, to which he used principally to resort, as a place infested by beings of another world. now comes the most singular part of my story; for it is so well attested that i know not how to doubt it, though it is so improbable that my reason will not allow me to give credit to it. one dark and windy night, a fisherman had been driven by stress of weather to take shelter in the voe, near which the cottage the nikkur holl. of winwig was situated. he had just moored his boat, and was preparing to cross the heath to the village, when he saw a ves- sel bearing down towards the coast, avoiding all the rocks and shoals, and standing as boldly in as if she could sustain no dam- age from those dangerous and secret enemies. • the fisherman stood amazed at this unexpected sight. hea- ven only knows how many ideas of storm ships and flying dutchmen crossed his mind. at length he recollected himself sufficiently to be aware, that whatever the stranger might be, he had time enough to get out of the way, and he was preparing to fly when he saw a figure, which notwithstanding the dark- ness, he recognised as petie, moving along in the path he intend- ed to have pursued, brandishing his arms, and muttering to him- self, as was common with him in his nocturnal wanderings. the superstition of the islanders had attached a degree of terror to the person of petie, which certainly, his still portly form and mild countenance vuia net otherwise have inspired; and the fisherman, alarmed and hesitating between the two ob- jects of horror, had only sufficient sense left to throw himself on the ground, and crawl behind a small rock, which stood upon the shore, at a little distance from the foot of a cliff, where he hoped he might lie concealed till the danger was over. from this confined situation he could neither see nor hear any thing for some time, during which the winds arose and the sea became more agitated. at length, he, too, fancied he heard voices on the air, and shortly he found himself surrounded by a ghostly crew, who encircled him with glowing pipes and gleaming eyes, but in unbroken silence. for a long time this sight so terrified the shetland fisherman, that, his tongue so cleaved to the roof of his mouth, that, though he longed to mutter out a prayer or an adjuration, he felt himself unable to articulate, and, when he did speak, he could not re- collect one word of the exorcism he had been meditating, but could only inquire, in the most brief and hurried terms, who his visiters were. he was answered immediately.-a figure, which he instantly recognised as spiel trosk, followed by another, which he knew to be winwig, stepped before the rest and said," i am spiel trosk, boatswain's mate of the good i ship carmilhan-will you enter among our crew?” at this instant, and before the shetlander could find words for his in- i tended refusal, a loud laugh resounded behind his head; he turned his eyes involuntarily, and beheld the little figure in the yellow jacket and red cap, grinning diabolically. this was too much he could not bear it, and he fell back in a swoon. when he revived the morning had broken, but there wa no trace left of the carmilhan and her crew. the man, whis i always described as a sensible and steady fellow, was so sell . the nikkur holl convinced of the reality of his vision, that he voluntarily made oath of it before the proper authorities; but he was not believ- ed, or at least he was supposed to have fallen asleep, and dreamed of ghosts, till it was observed that winwig was missing. this, indeed, made some stir, and the strictest inquiries were set on foot for him; but he could never be found; and it was supposed by the judicious, that in a fit of insanity he had thrown himself into the sea; but the superstitious maintain that he, too, was at length, persuaded to dive for the treasures of the car- milhan-that he perished, and that his ghost now forms one of the spectral crew; and, in proof of this assertion, it is said that both he and trosk, together with a motley crowd of dutchmen, have been seen more than once haunting the voe and the promontory of the nikkur noss. . der freischutz; or, the magic ball s. [from the german of a. apel.] black spirits and white, blue spirits and gray, mingle, mingle, mingle, you that mingle may. “ listen, dear wife,” said bertram, the forester of linden- hayn, to his good and faithful anne; “ listen, i beseech you, one moment. you know i have ever done my utmost to make you happy, and will still continue to do so; but this project is out of the question. i entreat you, do not encourage the girt any further in the notion; settle the matter decidedly at once, and she will only drop a few silent tears, and then resign herself to. my wishes; but by these silly delays nothing rational can be effected.” “ but, dearest husband," objected the coaxing wife, “may not catherine be as happy with william the clerk as with robert the gamekeeper? indeed you do not know him: he is so clever, so good. so kind " but no marksman,” interrupted the forester. “the situa- tion which i hold here has been possessed by my family for more than two hundred years, and has always descended down in a straight line from father to son. if, instead of this girl, anne, you had brought me a boy, all would have been well; he would have had my situation, and the wench, if she had been in existence, might have chosen for her bridegroom him whom she loved best; now the thing is impossible. my son-in-law must also be my successor, and must therefore be a marksman. i shall have, in the first place, some trouble to obtain the trial for him; and in the second, if he should not succeed, truly, i shall have thrown my girl away: so a clever huntsman she shall have. but observe. if you do not like him, i do not exactly in- sist upon robert: find another active clever fellow for the girl, i will resign my situation to him, and we shall pass the rest of our lives free from anxiety and happily with our children. . but der freischutz. hush!--not another word!—i beseech you let me hear no more of the steward's clerk.” mother anne was silenced; she would fain have said a few more words in favor of poor william, but the forester, who was too well acquainted with the power of female persuasion, gave her no further opportunity; he took down his gun, whistled his dog, and strode away to the forest. the next moment, the fair curled head of catherine, her face radiant with smiles, was pop- ped in at the door-" is all right, dear mother?” said she. “ alas! no, my child; do not rejoice too soon;” replied the sor- rowing anne." "your father speaks kindly, but he has deter- mined to give you to nobody but a huntsman; and i know he will not change his mind.” catherine wept, and declared she would sooner die than wed any other than her own william. her mother wept, fretted, and scolded by turns; till at length it was finally determined to make another grand attack upon the tough heart of old bertram; and, in the midst of a deliberation respect- ing the manner in which this was to be effected, the rejected jover entered the apartment. - when william had heard the cause of the forester's objec- t'on,+" is that all, my catherine,” said he, pressing the weep- ing girl to his bosom; “then keep up your spirits, dearest, for i wil myself become a forester. i am not unacquainted with wood- craft, for i was, when a boy, placed under the care of my uncle, the chief forester finsterbuch, in order to learn it, and only at the earnest request of my uncle the steward, i exchanged the shoot'ng-pouch for the writing-desk. of what use, "continued the lover, “ would his situation and fine house be to me, if i can. not carry my catherine there as the mistress of it? if you are not more ambitious than your mother, dearest, and william the gamekeeper will be as dear to you as william the steward, i will become a woodsman directly: for the merry life of a for- ester is more delightful to me than the constrained habits of the town." · " . dear, dear william,” said catherine-all the dark clouds of sorrow sweeping rapidly over her countenance, and leaving only a few drops of glittering sunny rain, sparkling in her sweet blue eyes—“o beloved william! if you will indeed do this, all may yet be well: hasten to the forest, seek my father, and speak to him ere he have time to pass his word to robert.”. “ away,” replied william, " to the forest; i will seek him out, and offer my services as gamekeeper: fear nothing, catherine; give me a gún, and now for the huntsman's salute.” what success he had in his undertaking was soon visible to the anxious eye of catherine, on her father's return with him from the forest. "a clever lad, that william,” said the old man; “who would have expected such a shot in a townsman? i 'll speak to the steward myself to-morrow; it would be a thousand der freischutz pities such a marksman should not stick to the noble huntsman craft. ha! ha! he will become a second kuno. but do you know who kuno was?'' demanded he of william. * the latter replied in the negative. - "lo you there now!” ejaculated bertram; " i thought i had told you long since. 'he was my ancestor, the first who posa. sessed this situation. he was originally a poor horseboy in the train of the knight of wippach; but he was clever, obliging, grew a favorite, and attended his master every where, to tour- paments and hunting parties. once his knight accompanied the duke on a grand hunting match, at which all the nobles attended. the hounds chased a huge stag towards them, upon whose back, to their great astonishment, sat tied a human being, shrieking aloud in a most frightful manner. . there existed at that period, among the feudal lords, an inhuman custom of tying unhappy wretches who incurred their displeasure (perhaps by slight trans- gressions against the hunting laws) upon stags, and then driv- ing them into thể forest to perish miserably by hunger, or at least to be torn to pieces by the brambles. the duke was ex- cessively enraged at this sight, and offered immense rewards to any one who would shoot the stag; but clogged his benefactions with death to the marksman, should his erring bullet touch the victim, whose life he was desirous to preserve, in order to ascer- tain the nature of his offence. startled by the conditions, not one of the train attempted the rescue of the poor wretch, til kuno, pitying his fate, stepped forward and boldly offered his services. . the duke having accepted them, he took his rifle, loaded it in god's name, and earnestly recommending the ball to all the saints and angels in heaven, fired steadily into the bush in which he believed the stag had taken refuge. his aim was true; the animal instantly sprung out, plunged to the earth, and expired; put the poor culprit escaped unhurt, except that his hands and face were miserably torn by the brierś. the duke kept his word well, and gave to kuno and his descendants for- ever this situation of forester. but envy naturally follows mer: it, and my good ancestor was not long in making the discovery. there were many of the duke's people who had an eye to this situation, either for themselves or some cousin or dear friend, and these persuaded their masters that kuno's wonderful suc- cess was entirely owing to sorcery; upon which, though they could not turn him out of his post, they obtained an order that every one of his descendants should undergo a trial of his skill before he could be accepted; but which, however, the chief for- ester of the district, before whom the essay is made, can render as easy or difficult as he pleases. i was obliged to shoot a ring out of the beak of a wooden bird, which was swung backwards and forwards; but i did not fail, any more than my forefathers; der freischutz. and he who intends to succeed me, and wed my catherine, must be at least as good a marksman.” william, who had listened very attentively, was delighted with this piece of family history; he seized the old man's hand, and joyously promised to become, under his direction, the very first of marksmen; such as even grandfather kuno himself should have no cause to blush for. scarcely had fourteen happy days passed over his head, ere william was settled as gamekeeper in the forester's house; and bertram, who became fonder of him every day, gave his formal consent to his engagement with catherine. it was, however, agreed that their betrothment should be kept secret until the day of the marksman's trial, when the forester expected to give a greater degree of splendor to his family festival by the presa ence of the duke's commissary. the bridegroom swam in an ocean of delight, and so entirely forgot himself and the whole world in the sweet opening heaven of love, that bertram fre- quently insisted, that he had not been able to hit a single mark since he had aimed so successfully at catherine. and so it really was. from the day of his happy betroth- ment, william had encountered nothing but disasters while shooting. at one time his gun missed fire; at another, when he aimed at a deer, he lodged the contents of his rifle in the trunk of a tree: when he came home, and emptied his shooting- pouch, he found, instead of partridges, rooks and crows, and in lieu of hares, dead cats. the forester at length grew seriously angry, and reproved him harshly for his carelessness; even catherine began to tremble for the success of the master-shot. william redoubled his diligence, but to no purpose; the near- er the approach of the important day, the more alarming grew his misfortunes; every shot missed. at length he was almost afraid to fire a gun, lest he should do some mischief; for he had already lamed a cow and almost killed the cowherd. “i insist upon it,” said the gamekeeper rudolph, one even- ing, to the party, “i insist upon it that some wizard has bewitch- ed william, for such things could not happen naturally; there- fore let us endeavor to loosen the charm.”-“ superstitious stuff !” interrupted bertram, angrily; "an honest woodsman should not even think of such trash. do you forget the three things which a forester ought to have, and with which he will always be successful, in spite of sorcery? come, to your wits, answer my query.". “that can i truly,” answered rudolph; "he should have great skill, a keen dog, and a good gun." “enough,” said bertram; with these three things every charm may be loosened, or the owner of them is a dunce and no shot." “under favor, father bertram," said william, “here is my der freischutz. gun; what have you to object against it.? and as for my skill, i do not like to praise myself, but i think i am as fair a sportsman as any in the country; nevertheless, it seems as if all my balls went crooked, or as if the wind blew them away from the barrel of iny gun. only tell me what i shall do. i am willing to do any thing.” “it is singular,” muttered the forester; who did not know what else to say.. "believe me william," again began rudolph, “it is nothing but what i have said. try only once: go on a friday, at mid night, to a cross road, and make a circle round you with the ramrod, or with a bloody sword, which must be blessed three times, in the name of sammiel”-“silence!” interrupted ber- tram, angrily: "know ye whose name that is? he is one of the fiend's dark legion. god protect us and every christian from him!” william crossed himself devoutly, and would hear nothing further, though rudolph still maintained his opinion. he passed the night in cleaning his gun, and examining minutely every screw, resolving, at dawn of day, once more to sally forth, and try his fortune in the forest. he did so, but, alas! in vain. mischiefs thickened round him: at ten paces distance he fired three times at a deer; twice his gun missed fire, and although it went off the third time, yet the stag bounded away unhurt into the midst of the forest. full of vexation, he threw himself under a tree, and cursed his fate, when suddenly a rustling was heard among the bushes, and a queer-looking soldier with a wooden leg came hopping out from among them. - " holloa! huntsman,” he began, laughing at the disconso- late-looking william, “what is the matter with you? are you in love, or is your purse empty, or has anybody charmed your gun? come, don't look so blank; give me a pipe of tobacco, and we'll have a chat together.” · william sullenly gave him what he asked, and the soldier threw himself down in the grass by the side of him. the con- versation naturally turned upon woodcraft, and william related his misfortunes to him. "let me see your gun,” said the soldier. william gave it. ?" it is assuredly bewitched," said he of the wooden leg, the moment he had taken it in his hand; “you will not be able to fire a single shot with it; and if they have done it according to rule, it will be the same with every gun you shall take into your hands." william was startled; he endeavored to raise objections against the stranger's belief in witches, but the latter offered to give him a proof of the justice of his opinions. “to us sol- diers," said he," there is nothing strange; and i could tell you many wonderful things, but which would detain us here till night. but look here, for instance: this is a ball which' is sure of hitting its mark, because it possesses some particular virtue: try it; you won't miss.” william loaded his gun, and looked der freischutz. thought of his ill luck haunted him. “only one of them,” said he internally; “ only one of them for the master-shot, and then i have done with them forever.” but the forester urged him the next instant to accompany him into the forest; and as he dared not excite fresh suspicions of his want of skill, nor offend the old man by refusing, he was again compelled to make use of his wondrous balls; and in the course of a few days he had so accustomed himself to the use of them, and so entirely recon- cilled his conscience to their doubtful origin, that he saw noth- ing sinful or even objectionable in the business. he constantly traversed the forest, in the hope of meeting the strange giver of the balls; for the handful had decreased to two, and if he wished to make sure of the master-shot, the utmost economy was necessary. one day he even refused to accompany ber- tram, for the next was to be the day of trial, and the chief forester was expected; it was possible he might require other proofs than the mere formal essay, and william thus felt himself secure. but in the evening, instead of the commissary, came a messenger from the duke, with an order for a large delivery of game, and to announce that the visit of the chief forester would be postponed for eight days longer. william felt as if he could have sunk into the bosom of the earth, as he listened to the message, and his excessive alarm would have excited strange suspicions, if all present had not been ready to ascribe it to the delay of his expected nuptials. he was now obliged to sacrifice at least one of his balls, but he solemnly swore nothing should rob him of the other but the forester's master-shot. bertram was outrageously angry when williain returned from the forest with only one stag; for the delivery order was considerable. he was still more angry the next day at noon, when rudolph returned loaded with an immense quantity of game, and william returned with none: he threatened to dismiss him, and retract his promise respecting catherine, if he did not bring down at least two deer on the following day. cath- erine was in the greatest consternation, and earnestly besought him to make use of his utmost skill, and not let a thought of her interrupt his duties while occupied in the forest. he de- parted-his heart loaded with despair, catherine, he saw too plainly, was lost to him forever; and nothing remained but the choice of the manner in which he should destroy his happiness. whilst he stood lost in the agonizing anticipation of his impend- ing doom, a herd of deer approached close to him. mechanical- jy he felt for his last ball; it felt tremendously heavy in his hand: he was on the point of dropping it back, resolving to preserve his treasure at every hazard, when suddenly he saw- sight of joy!—the one-legged soldier approaching. delightedly he let the ball drop into the barrel, fired, brought down a brace der freischutz. of deer, and hastened forward to meet his friend; but he was gone! william could not discover him in the forest. i “ hark ye, william!” said the forester to him in the eve- ning, rousing him from the torpor of grief into which he had fallen; "you must resent this affront as earnestly as myself: nobody shall dare utter falsehoods of our ancestor kuno, nor accuse him as rudolph is now doing. i insist,"continued he, turning again to the latter, “if good angels helped him, (which was very likely, for in the old testament we frequently read of instances of their protection,) we ought to be grateful, and praise the wonderful goodness of god. but nobody shall ac- cuse kuno of practising the black art. he died happily-ay, and holily, in his bed, surrounded by children and grandchil- dren-which he who carries on a correspondence with the evil one never does. i saw a terrible example of that myself, whea i was a forester's boy in bohemia.? “ let us hear how it happened, good bertram,” said all the listeners; and the forester nodded gravely, and continued. “i shiver when i think of it; but i will tell you nevertheless. when a young man, practising with other youths under the chief foresters, there used frequently to join us a town lad; à fine daring fellow, who, being a great lover of field sports, came out to us as often as he could. he would have made a good marksman, but was too fighty and thoughtless, so that he frequently missed his mark. once, when we ridiculed his awkwardness, we provoked him into a rage, and he swore by all that was holy that he would soon fire with a more certain aim than any game-keeper in the country, and that no animal should escape him, either in the air or on the earth. but he kept his light oath badly. a few days afterwards an unknown huntsman roused us early, and told us that a man was lying in the road and dying without assistance. it was poor schmid. he was covered with wounds and blood, as if he had been torn by wild beasts: he could not speak, for he was quite senseless, with scarcely any appearance of life. he was conveyed to prague, and just before his death declared, that he had been out with an old mountain huntsman to a cross road, in order to cast the magic balls, which are sure of hitting their mark; but that making some fault or omission, the demon had treated him so roughly that it would cost him his life.” · "did he not explain? " asked william, shuddering.. "surely,"replied the forester. “he declared before a court of justice, that he went out to the cross road with the old game- keeper; that they tnade a circle with a bloody sword, and after- wards set it round with skulls and bones. the mountain hunter then gave his directions to schmid as to what he was to do: he was to begin when the clock struck eleven to cast the balls, and neither to cast more nor fewer than sixty-three; one either der freischutz. above or under this number would, when the bell tolled midnight, be the cause of his destruction: neither was he to speak a single word during his work, nor move from the circle, whatever might happen, above, below, or around him. fulfilling these condi- tions, sixty balls would be sure of hitting, and the remaining three only would miss. schmid had actually begun casting the balls when, according to what we could gather from him, he saw such cruel and dreadful apparitions, that he at length shriek- ed and sprung out of the circle, falling senseless to the ground; from which trance he did not recover till under the hands of the physician in prague.” is heaven preserve us!” said the forester's wife, crossing herself. “ it is a very deadly sin undoubtedly,” pursued ber- tram,“ and a true woodsman would scorn such practice. he needs nothing but skill, and a good gun, as you have lately ex- perienced, william. i would not, for my own part, fire off such balls for any price; i should always fear the fiend would, at some time or other, conduct the ball to his own mark instead of to mine.” night drew round them with the conclusion of the forester's, story. he went to his quiet bed, but william remained in rest- less agony. it was in vain that he attempted to compose him- self. sleep fled entirely from his spirit. strange objects aitted past him, and hovered like dark omens over his pillow. the strange soldier of the forest, schmid, catherine, the duke's commissary, all rushed before his eyes, and his fevered imagi- nation converted them into the most dreadful groups. now, the miserable schmid stood warningly before him, and hollowly pointed to his newly bleeding wounds; then the dark distorted face faded to the pallid features of catherine wrestling with the strength of death; while the wild soldier of the forest stood mocking his agony with a hellish laugh of scorn. the scene then changed to his mind, and he stood in the forest before the commissary, preparing for the master-shot. he aimed-fired missed. catherine sunk down on the earth. bertram drove him away; while the one-legged soldier, now again a friend, brought him fresh balls; but too late the trial was over, and he was lost. in this manner wore away his agonized night, and with the earliest dawn he sought the forest, hoping to meet with the soldier; the clear morning air chased away the dark images of sleep from his brow, and ennerved his drooping spirit. “fool!" said he to himself, “because i cannot understand what is mys- terious, must the mystery therefore be a sin? is what i seek so contrary to nature that it requires the aid of spirits to obtain it? does not man govern the mighty instinct of animals, and make them move according to the will of their master? why then, should he not be able by natural means, to command the course der freischutz. of inanimate metal which receives force and motion only through him? nature is rich in wonders which we do not comprehend and shall i forfeit my happiness for an ignorant prejudice only? no! spirits i will not call upon, but nature and her hidden pow- ers i will challenge and use, even though unable to explain its mystery. i will seek the soldier, and, if i cannot find him, i will at least be bolder than schmid, for i have a better cause he was urged by presumption, i by love and honor." but the soldier appeared not, however earnestly william sought him; ineither could any of those of whom he inquired give him the slightest information respecting him, and two days were wasted in these anxious and fruitless inquiries. · “then be it so,” exclaimed the unhappy young man; and in a fit of despair he resolved to cast the magic balls in the forest. “my days,” he added, " are numbered to me; this night will i seek the cross road. into its silent and solitary recess no one will dare to intrude; and the terrible circle will i not leave till the fearful work shall be done.” but when the shadows of evening fell upon the earth, and after william had provided lead, bulletmould, and coals, for his noc- turnal occupation, he was gently detained by bertram, who felt, he said, so severe an oppression, that he entreated him to re- main in his chamber during the night. catherine offered her services, but they were, to her astonishment, declined. “at any other time," said her father, “i should have preferred you, but to-night it must be william. i shall be happier if he will remain with me.” . william hesitated. he grew sick in his inmost heart. he would have objected, but catherine's entreaties were so earnest, her voice so irresistible, that he had nothing to oppose against her wishes. he remained in the chamber, and in the morning bertram's dark fears had faded, and he laughed at his own ab- surdity. he proposed going to the forest, but william, who intended to devote the day to his search for the soldier, dissuad- ed him, and departed alone. he went, but returned disappoint- ed, and once more resolved to seek the forest at night. as he approached the house, catherine met him. “beloved william,” said she, “you have a visiter, and a dear one, but you must guess who it is.". william was not at all disposed to guess, and still less to re- ceive visits; for at that time the dearest friend would have been the most unwelcome intruder.. he answered peevishly, and was thinking of a pretext to turn back, when the door of the house opened, and the pale moon threw her soft ray upon a vene- rable old man, in the garb of a huntsman, who extended his arms towards him; and “william,” said a kind and well-known voice, and the next instant the young forester found himself folded to the bosom of his beloved uncle. der freischutz. ah! magic of early ties, dear recollections, and filial gratitude! william felt them all; his heart was full of joy, and all other thoughts were forgotten. suddenly spoke the warning voice to the tranquil happy dreamer. the midnight hour struck, and william, with a shudder, remembered what he had lost. " but one night more remains to me,” said he, “ to-morrow, or never.” his violent agony did not escape the eye of his uncle, but he ascribed it to fatigue, and excused himself for detaining him from his needful rest, on account of his own departure, which he could not delay beyond the following day. “yet grieve not, william,” said the old man as he retired to rest;" grieve not for this short hour thus spent, you will only sleep the sounder for it." william shivered, for to his ear these words conveyed a deeper meaning. there was a dark foreboding in his heart, that the execution of his plan would forever banish the quiet of sleep from his soul. 'i but day dawned-passed and evening descended. “it must be now or never,” thought william, - for to-morrow will be the day of trial.” the females had been busied in preparations for the wedding and the reception of their distinguished guest. anne embraced william when he returned, and, for the first time, saluted him with the dear name of son. the tender joy of a young and happy bride glittered in the sweet eyes of catherine. the supper-table was covered with flowers, good food, and large bottles of long-hoarded wine from the stores of bertram. “children,' said the old man, “this is our own fes- tival; let us, therefore, be happy: to-morrow we shall not be alone, though you may, perhaps, be happier. i have invited the priest, dear william, and when the trial is over”- a loud skriek from catherine interrupted the forester. kuno's picture had again fallen from its place, and had struck her severely on the forehead. bertram grew angry. “i cannot conceive,” said he, “why this picture is not hung properly; this is the second time it has given us a fright: are you hurt, catherine?" “ it is of no consequence,” replied the maiden, gently wiping away the blood from her bright curls; “i am less hurt than frightened.” william grew sick when he beheld her pale face, and fore- head bathed in blood. so he had seen her in his distempered dreams on that dreadful night: and this reality conjured up all those fearful fantasies anew. his determination of proceeding in his plan was shaken: but the wine, which he drank in great- er quantities than usual, filled him with a wild courage, and ennerved him to undertake its execution. the clock struck nine. love and valor must combat with danger, thought wil- liain. but he sought in vain for a decent pretence to leave his catherine.' jiɔw could he quit her on the bridal eve? time flew with the rapidity of an arrow, and he suffered agonies even der freischutz. che glare of light. they fell from their boughs, and placed themselves among the bones around the circle, where, with hol- low croakings and wild jabberings, they held an unintelligible conversation with the skulls. momentarily their numbers in- creased, and among and above them hovered pale cloudy forms, some shaped like animals, some like human beings. the gusts of wind sported frightfully with their dusky vapoury forms, scat- tering and re-uniting them like the dews of the evening shades. one form alone stood motionless and unchanged near the circle, gazing with fixed and woful looks at william; once it lifted up its pale hands in sorrow, and seemed to sigh. the fire burned gloomily at the moment; but a large gray owl flapped its wings, and fanned the dying embers into light. william turned shivering away; for the countenance of his dead mother gazed mournfully at him from the dark and dusky figure. the bell tolled eleven; the pale figure vanished with a groan; the owls and night ravens flew screeching up into the air, and the skulls and bones clattered beneath their wings. william knelt down by his hearth of coals. he began steadily to cast, and, with the last sound of the bell, the first ball fell from the mould. the owls and the skulls were quiet; but along the road an old woman, bent down with the weight of age' advanced towards the circle. she was hung around with wooden spoons, ladles, and other kitchen utensils, which made a frightful clattering. the owls screeched at her approach, and caressed her with their wings. arrived at the circle, she stooped down to seize the bones and the skulls; but the coals hissed flames at her, and she drew back her withered hands from the fire. then she paced round the circle, and, grinning and chattering, held up her wares towards william. give me the skulls,” she gab- bled; “ give me the skulls, and i will give thee my treasures; give me the skulls, the skulls; what canst thou want with the trash? thou art mine-mine, dear bridegroom; none can help thee: thou canst not escape me; thou must lead with me in the bridal dance. come away, thou bridegroom mine!” william's heart throbbed; but he remained silent, and hasten- ed on with his work. the old woman was not a stranger to him. a mad beggar had often haunted the neighborhood, until she found an asylum in the mad-house. now, he knew not whether her appearancé was a reality or a delusion. in a short time she grew enraged, threw down her stick, and chattered anew at william. "take these for our nuptial night,” she cried: " the bridal bed is ready, and to-morrow, when evening cómeth, thou wilt be wedded to me. come soon, my love; de- lay not, my bridegroom; come soon.” and she hobbled slowly away into the forest. suddenly there arose a 'rattling like the noise of wheels, mina. der freischutz. gled with the cracking of whips and shouting of men. a car- riage came headlong, with six horses and outriders. “what is the meaning of all this in the road?” cried the foremost horse- man. “room there!” william looked up. fire sprung from the hoofs of the horses, and round the wheels of the carriage: it shone like the glimmering of phosphorus. he suspected a magical delusion, and remained quiet. “on, on, upon it! over it! down! down!” cried the horseman; and in a moment the whole troop stormed in headlong upon the circle. william plunged down to the earth, and the horses reared furiously above bis head; but the airy cavalry whirled high in the air with the carriage, and, after turning several times round the magic circle, disappeared in a storm of wind, which tore the tops of the mightiest, trees, and scattered their branches to a distance. some time elapsed ere william could recover from his terror. at length he compelled his trembling fingers to be steady, and cast a few balls without further interruption. again the well- known tower clock struck, and to him in the dreadful solitary circle, consoling as the voice of humanity, rose the sound from the habitations of men, but the clock struck the quarter thrice, he shuddered at the lightning like flight of time; for a third part of his work was hardly done. again the clock struck, for the fourth time!-horror!-his strength was annihilated, every limb was palsied, and the mould fell out of his trembling hand. he listened, in the quiet resignation of despair, for the stroke of the full, the terrible, midnight hour. the sound hesitated- delayed-was silent. to palter with the awful midnight was too daring and too dangerous even to the dreadful powers of darkness. hope again raised the sunk heart of william; he hastily drew out his watch, and beheld it pointing to the second quarter of the hour. he looked gratefully up towards heaven, and a feeling of piety moderated the transport, which, contrary to the laws of the dark world, would otherwise have burst forth in loud and joyous exclamations. strengthened, by the ex- perience of the last half-hour, against any new delusion, wil- jiam now went boldly on with his work. every thing was si- lent around him, except that the owls snored in their uneasy sleep, and at intervals struck their beaks against the bones of the dead. suddenly it was broken by a crackling among the bushes. the sound was familiar to the sportsman, and, as he expected, a huge wild boar broke through the briers, and came foaming towards the circle. believing this to be a reality, he sprung hastily on his feet, seized his gun, and attempted to fire. not a single spark came from the flint. startled at his danger, he drew his hunting knife to attack it, when the bristly sav- age, like the carriage and the horses, ascended high above his head, and vanished into the silent fields of air. der freischutz. . · thé anxious lover worked on steadily to regain the time he had so unhappily lost. sixty balls were cast. he looked joy- fully upwards; the clouds were dispersing, and the moon again threw her bright rays upon the surrounding country; he was rejoicing in the approaching end of his labors, when an agoniz- ed voice, in the tones of catherine, shrieked out the name of • william!” in the next moment, he beheld his beloved dart from among the bushes, and gaze fearfully around her. fola lowing her distracted steps, and panting closely behind her, trod the mad beggar woman, extending her withered arms towards the fugitive, whose light dress, fluttering in the wind, she repeat- edly attempted to grasp. catherine collected her expiring strength in one desperate effort to escape, when the long-sought soidier of the forest planted himself before her and delayed her flight. the hesitation of the moment gained time for the mad woman, who sprung wildly upon catherine, and grasped her in her long and fleshless hands. william could endure it no longer, he dashed the last ball from his hand, and was on the point of springing from the circle, when the bell tolled midnight, and the delusion vanished. the owls knocked the skulls and bones cluttering against each other, and flew up again to their hiding places; the coals were suddenly extinguished; and william sunk, exhausted with fatigue, to the earth; but there was no rest for him in the forest; he was again disturbed by the slow and sullen approach of a stranger, mounted upon a huge and coal-black steed: he stopped before the demolished magic circle, and, addressing the huntsman, -"you have stood the trial well,” said he; "what do you require of me?" . “of you, stranger, nothing,” replied william; “ of that of which i had need, i have prepared for myself.” · "but with my assistance,” continued the stranger; “ there- fore a share of it belongs to me." !" certainly not,” replied the huntsman; i have neither hired you nor called upon you." the horseman smiled. “you are bolder than your equals are wont to be,” said he. " take then the balls which you • have cast: sixty for you, three for me. the first hit, the second miss. when we meet again you will understand me.” william turned away. “i will not meet you again; i will never see you more," he cried, trembling. "why do you turn from me?" demanded the stranger, with a horrible laugh: “do you know me?” “no; 'no,” said the huntsman, shuddering; “ i know you not; i will not even look upon you. whoever you may be, leave me.”.. the black horseman turned his steed. “the rising hairs of your head,” cried he with gloomy gravity,“ declare that you do know me. you are right; i am he whom you name in the secrecy of your soul, and shudder to think you have done so." at these words he disappeared, and the trees under which he * der freischutz. haå stood let their withered branches sink helpless and dead to the earth. “merciful heaven! willianı," said catherine, on remarking his pale and distracted look, on his return after midnight; " what has happened to you? you look as if you had just risen from the grave.” “ it is the night air,” he replied; “ and i am not well.” ** but, william," said the forester, who had just entered, “ why then would you go to the forest: something has happened to you there. boy, you cannot thus blind me.” william was startled; the sad solemnity of bertram's manner struck him. “yes, something has occurred,” said he; “but have patience for a few days, and all shall be explained to your satisfaction." " willingly, dear son," interrupted the forester; " question him no further, catherine. go to your needful rest, william, and indulge in hope of the future. he who goes on in his occupation openly and honestly, never can be harmed by the evil spirits of the night.” william had need of all his dissimulation; for the old man's observations so nearly meeting the truth, his forbearing love, and unshaken confidence in william's honesty, altogether dis- tracted his mind: he hastened to his room, determined to destroy the magical preparation. “but one ball-only one will i use," exclaimed he, weeping aloud, with his folded hands held up to heaven;" and surely this determination will efface the sin of the deed i have committed. with a thousand acts of penitence i will make atonement for what is past, for i cannot now step back without betraying my happiness, my honor, and my love." and with this resolution he calmed the tumult of his spirits, and 'met the rays of the morning sun with more tranquillity than he had dared to hope. the commissary of the duke arrived; he proposed a shoot- ing party in the forest, before the trial of skill took place. *for, though we must certainly retain the old form,' said he, "of the essay shot, yet the skill of the huntsman is, after all, best proved in the forest: so come, young marksman, to the woods.' ; william's cheek grew pale, and he earnestly tried to excuse himself from accompanying them. but, when this was refused by the chief forester, he entreated at least to be allowed to fire his trial shot before their departure. old bertram shook his head, doubtingly: “william,” said he, “ should my suspicion of yesterday be just”- “father!" replied the youth; and no longer daring to hesitate, he departed with them to the forest. bertram had in vain endeavored to suppress his forebodings and assume a cheerful countenance. catherine too was de- jected, and it was not until the arrival of the priest that she recollected her nuptial garland: her mother had locked it up, and, in her haste to open the chest, broke the lock, and was obliged to send into the village for another wreath, as too much der freischutz. time had been wasted în endeavoring to recover the first. “let them give you the handsomest,” said anne to the little messenger, “the very handsomest they have.” the boy ac- cordingly chose the most glittering, and the seller, who misun- derstood him, gave him a death garland, composed of myrtle and rosemary, intermingled with silver. the mother and daugh- ter beheld and recognized the mysterious intimation of fate; they embraced each other in silence, and endeavored to smile åway their terror, in imputing it to the boy's mistake. again the broken lock was tried; it opened easily now; the wreaths were changed, and the bridal garland was twined around cathe- rine's brilliant locks, the sportsmen returned from the forest. the commissary was inexhaustible on the subject of william's wondrous skill. " it almost appears ridiculous," said he, “after such proofs, to require any further trial; yet, in honor of the old custom, we must perform what appears superfluous; we will therefore finish the business as quickly as possible. there, upon that pillar, sits a dove, shoot it.” “for god's sake,” said cathe- rine, hastily approaching, “ do not shoot that dove. alas! in my sleep last night i was myself a dove, and my mother, while fastening a ring round my neck, on your approaching us became covered with blood.” william drew back his gun; but the chief forester smiled. “so timid, little maiden!” said he, “that will never do for a huntsman's bride: come, courage! courage!-or is the dove a favorite, perhaps?” "ah, no,” she replied; “it is but fear.” ." well then," replied the commissary, “have courage; and now, william, fire!'' the shot fell, and in the same moment, catherine sunk, with a loud scream, to the earth. “silly girl,” exclaimed the com- missary, lifting her up: but a stream of blood flowed over her face, her forehead was shattered, for the ball of the rifle was lodged in the wound. william turned, on hearing loud shrieks behind him, and beheld his catherine pale, weltering in her blood, and by her side the soldier of the forest, who, with a fiendish laugh of scorn, pointed to his dying victim, and cried aloud to william, "sixty hit, three miss!” “accursed fiend!” shrieked the wretched youth, striking at the detested form with his sword, “hast thou thus deceived me?" his agony permitted no further expression, for he sunk senseless to the earth by the side of the victim bride. the commissary and priest in vain endeavored to console the childless heart- broken parents. the mother had scarcely laid the prophetic garland of death upon the bosom of the bridal corpse, when her sorrow, and life expired with her last-shed tear: the solitary father soon followed her, and the miserable william closed his life in the wad-house. the story of judar. a certain merchant had three sons; the eldest was named sálih, the second selim, and the youngest judar.. the latter possessed particularly the love of his father; and that, in the division of his inheritance, he might not be defrauded by his brothers, who were very envious of him, his father resolved to apportion his possessions in his lifetime. for this purpose he directed an inventory of all his property to be made, and then divided it into four portions, one for each of his three sons, and the fourth for their mother; and this division had been made but a short time, when he died. the two elder brothers were dissatisfied with this division; maintaining, that they ought to have a larger share than the youngest; and carried the case before the cadi. after the wit- nesses to the will had been examined, the decision was given in favor of judar; but the expenses of the suit fell equally on him and on his brothers. they appealed to another tribunal, which gave it in their favor; and judar carried it before a third, and thus they went on in law, from court to court, from sentence to sentence, till they had spent the whole of the property they went to law about. the two brothers, who were of brutal tempers, then attacked their mother, beat her severely, and robbed her of the portion she had received as a widow's dower. she went and complained to judar, who offered her all the consolation in his power, but reminded her, that having now no money to spend in law, they must endure all with patience the mother, affected by the kindness of judar, continued to reside with him. by the use of his net, which he employed sometimes on the lake of birkah, sometimes on that of búlák, and at others at old cairo, he supported himself as a fisher- man, and took care that his mother should not want at least the necessaries of life. · in the meantime, the two elder brothers soon wasted the prop- erty of which they had robbed their mother, and, covered with rags, subsisted by charity, and at times, when judar was absent, would go to their mother to beg a morsel of bread. their moth- er, who could not stifle the feelings of nature towards them, un- grateful as they had been, gave them food, advising them always to begone before the return of judar, lest she might meur his anger. one day, however, while they were there he returned; the story of judar, his mother, frightened at this detection, said not a single word: but judar, far from being angry, embraced his brothers, and only blamed them for not visiting him more frequently. they were confounded by this generosity of their brother, who insis. ted on their remaining that night at his house. night after night, they still remained, and judar, going out every morning with his nets, supported now, not only his mother, but his brothers also. one day he cast his nets from morning till night without catch- ing a single fish, and was at last compelled to take his way home- wards with his basket as empty as in the morning, and reflecting mournfully, that he and his family must go that night without food. in passing the baker's shop where he usually bought his bread, his sufferings were heightened by seeing the crowds who were pressing towards it, and he stood by, wistfully surveying the comers and goers. “well,” cried the baker to him, " well, judar! do you not want some bread?” judar made no reply. “ help yourself,” continued the baker: “ if you have no money with you, here are ten loaves, the number you usually buy." judah would have left his nets with him as a security. “god forbid," said the baker, " that i should deprive you of the means of getting a livelihood! here are ten loaves and ten aspers, i lend them to you, and you can bring me to-morrow twenty fishes.” judar thanked the baker, purchased meat and vegetables, and supped with his family as usual. on the following day he was just as unfortunate in fishing as before. he took his way homeward despondingly, and as he passed the shop, the baker lent him ten more loaves and ten more aspers, saying: “be of good cheer, judar! that which is de- creed must come to pass; and what comes not to-day will come to-morrow.” for seven successive days he went to different places, but every where his exertions were in vain-he caught not a single fish. at last, he deterinined to try the birket ul kárún; here he was just preparing to cast out his nets, when he saw a mughribin approach, who was so wrapped up, that but i one eye was visible; he rode upon a mule richly caparisoned, carrying upon its crupper a portmanteau. he saluted judar, who returned his politeness. “judar,” said the mughribin, “if thou art in distress, i will assist thee, and load thee with riches; but thou must, in return, render me a service.”— “you need only say what it is,” replied judar; “ i am at your command.”—“begin, then, by saying the fátihah," continued the mughribin. after repeating it together, the mughribin drew from his portmanteau a silken girdle. “do me the favor," said he, “to bind my arms fast with this girdle, and cast me into the lake. if, after a short time, you see my hands above the water, cast your nets quickly, and draw me out; but should my feet appear, it is a sign that i am dead. in that case, take tho the story of judar. mule and portmanteau, go to the market, and inquire for sham- si the jew, who, in return for the mule, will give you a hun- dred dinárs; you may then return home, but be sure to tell no one what has happened. judar did exactly as he was directed, cast the mughribin into the lake, and soon after saw his feet above the water. taking the mule, he immediately departed, and having reached the market, he soon found out the shop of shamsi the jew. “ah!” cried the jew, as soon as he beheld the mule, “he is dead!” -"yes, he is dead,"answered judar. " his avarice has cost him his life,” continued the jew. “here are a hundred din- árs, take them, and keep the secret." judar now repaired to the baker to discharge his debt; he then paid all the debts of his brothers, and giving them money besides, soon became as poor as ever. he began fishing again, and that he might not labor in vain, he proceeded to the birket ul kárún, and, behold! a second mughribin appeared, whose mule was caparisoned, and portmanteau covered, more richly than that of the first. the mughribin accosted judar, and be- gan by asking him if he had not, a short time before, seen a mughribin, equipped as he was, come to the same place. judar, fearing he might be called to account for the mule, denied round. ly having seen the mughribin. “how!” said the other, “do i not know that you bound his arms together, that you threw him into the lake, that you afterwards went in quest of shamsi the jew, and that you sold him the mughribin's mule for a hun- dred dinárs?”_.“ well,” replied judar, “ if you knew all this, it was useless to ask me."-"all that i require of you,” contin- ued the mughribin, “ is, that you do exactly the same by me, and upon the same conditions.” to this judar willingly con- sented, bound his arms, cast him into the lake, and, as soon as he saw the feet come up, departed with the inule, for which, as before, he received a hundred dinárs. this profitable employ- ment of drowning mughribins pleased judar so well, that he set forth again, the following morning, for the birket ul kárún; and no sooner had he reached it, than a third came, still more splendidly dressed and mounted than the two first. "have you not seen my brethren?" said he to judar. “yes,” answered he; "they are amusing themselves by fishing below, till you join them.”-“you are right," said the mughribin, “that is exactly what i desire to do.” with all my heart,, "continu- ed judar, “ i understand the business well enough now.” say- ing thus, he bound and cast the mughribin into the lake; and having waited a short time, saw his hands above the water. judar threw forth his nets and drew him out. the 'mughribin held in his hand two fishes red as coral, which he put immediately into two bowls, taken out of his port- manteau. kissing judar on the forehead and cheeks, he thank- the story of judar. , ed him for saving his life, by casting out his nets just at the proper time. “if you fecl yourself indebted to me,” said judar, - you will perhaps, in return, let me know the history of your two predecessors, and of these two fishes.” “the two drowned mughribins,” said the third, “were my brothers; the one was named abdussalím, the other abdussa- mad: the jew, as you supposed him, but who is no more one than you are, but a good mussulman, is my third brother, and named abdurrahim. our father was a profound magician, deep- ly skilled in every branch of hidden knowledge. he left us an immense fortune, which after his death we divided equally; but could not agree to whom should belong his manuscripts, contain- .. ing all the secrets of talismans, and the keys of all concealed treasures. dissensions began to arise among us, when the shaikh who had been our father's instructer in the magic and cabal- istic arts, offered himself as arbiter, saying: “my children, this book belonged to me, and let him of you who would pos- sess it, go and open the treasures of shamardal, and bring me from thence the artificial sphere, the sword, the box of kohol, or collyrium for the eyes, and the seal; the seal is guarded by a powerful genius. over him who possesses it kings and princes have no power; and, if he wishes, he can make the whole world obey him. the sword destroys entire armies in a moment. the artificial sphere shows what passes in every place on the globe; you need only turn it round, to see all that you wish; if you wish to burn a town, lay a spark of fire on the place where it is marked on the sphere, and fire will consume it immediately, and so on in every other respect. in the last place, he who rubs his eyes with the kohol will see all the riches concealed beneath the earth. but to open the treasures of shamardal, the children of the red king must be first possessed, who, how- ever, live in the depths of the birket ul kárún. your father sought to get them in vain; and it is only after long calculations that i have discovered it to be indispensably necessary, that a young man of cairo, named judar, should cast him into the iake who wishes to get possession of those fishes. he who dies in the attempt will float with his feet above the water, and he who succeeds will show his hands above the surface first. · "we all three determined to try this adventure, our fourth brother preferring to remain a merchant at cairo; and agreeing, in the event of our failure, to purchase the mule, which was to be sent to him as a signal of our death. the fate of my two brothers you know; and i, i have been fortunate enough to catch the children of the red king, who are powerful genii, under the form of coral fishes, as you see. but, in order to obtain' the treasure itself, it is yet requisite for you to go with me to fez and mequinez."-"that,” replied judar, “! would willingly do, were i not bound to support my mother and the story of judar. . . and every evening to regale him with as well supplied a banquet. on the twenty-first day, the mughribin ordered two mules to be saddled, in order to set out for the treasury of shamardal. ar- riving at à marshy pool, they dismounted on its banks; 'a tent was pitched, in which were put two cases, containing the coral fishes; and the slaves being sent back with the mules, the mu- ghribin began his exorcisms, which he continued till the cases opened, and the fishes came forth, saying, “ master of the world! what dost thou command?”-“i will destroy you both," answer- ed the mughribin, “if you do not open the treasury of shamar- dal to me.”-“it shall be done,'' continued they, “ on condi- tion that judar, the fisherman, be there; for it is written in the book of fate, that in his presence only shall it be done." upon this, the mughribin took a plate of onyx and a censer; he laid the fishes on the plate, and strewed perfumes upon the censer. “now," said he to judar, “now i must, before all things, teach you what you have to do; for when i have begun to burn the perfume in the censer, i shall not be able to speak to you. as i continue to burn more and more frankincense, this water Świll, by degrees, dry up, and at the bottom of the pool you will sée a gate of gold; knock at it three times, and you will hear a voice call aloud, who knocks at the door of this treasury?' then answer, “it is i, judar, the fisherman, by, whom it is de- - creed to be opened.' upon this, the porter will come forth and say, stretch out your neck, that i may strike it with my sword, and see whether you be the true jụdar.' this command of his you must obey; if you stretch out your neck, no harm will *happen to you; but if you are afraid, and refuse to do it, he will infallibly kill you. when you have thus destroyed this first en- chantment, you will find at the second door a horseman with couched lance; present your bosom to him boldly, and you will see the phantom vanish. at the third door it will be exactly the same, nor must you seek to avoid the arrow which the keep- ér of it will aim at you. when you knock at the fourth, seven monsters will rush out, anu appear ready to devour you; fiy not before them, but offer them your hand, and they will immediate- À ly disappear. at the fifth door, you will find a black slave, who will say, 'if you be judar, open the sixth door!' and this will open of itself, as soon as you pronounce the names of moses and jesus: two dragons, the one on the right, the other on the left, will then cast themselves in your way, and open their monstrous jaws: but if you step by them without fear, you will reach the seventh door. here you will see your mother come out, who will say, welcome, my son! come, let me embrace thee!' but you must say to her, begone! or i will kill thee!' then, drawing your sabre, threaten to slay her on the spot, if - the story of judar, she does not strip off her clothing. when this has been done, you can enter the treasury, where you will see the magician shamardal, sitting on a throne of gold, with a shining crown upon his head, the sword in his hand, and the magic seal-ring upon his finger; the box of kohol hangs before him from a gold- en chain. you will possess yourself of these things without difficulty, and return safely to me, provided you exactly follow the directions i have given you. as for the rest, depend only upon divine providence.” * the mughribin now began to burn the incense, with many mysterious words. the water dried up, the first gate bacame visible, and all happened exactly as he had foretold, till judar arrived at the seventh door, from which he saw his mother ap- proach. all the preceding dangers and enchantments he had easily surmounted; but he felt that he should be moved, when he had to strip his mother of her clothes. however, he took courage, and threatened to kill her if she did not give him all her garnients; she obeyed till she came to the last, when she said, “ my son! you will not surely deprive me of this one covering; it would violate all decency; no one can have commanded that!','-" you are right, mother!'' replied judar, “keep it, that cannot do harm.” he had scarcely utter- ed these words, when she cried, “strike him!” and he felt himself surrounded by the invisible genii of the treasure; their blows fell on him thick as hail; in an instant he repassed the seventh door, which closed behind him: the water returned, and he was cast, half dead, at the mughribin's feet. "did i not tell you,” said he' to judar, “that all would end badly, if you yielded to false scruples? all is over now for this year; a new trial cannot be made ti!l the next.” they returned to fez, and, at the same season the ensuing year, repaired to the spot again. the mughribin exhorted judar anew to show no delicacy to the deceptive form of his mother; and he according- ly now made no scruple of compelling her to strip entirely, and just as she was about to give up the last part of her dress, the phantom vanished. judar entered the treasury, took possession of the artificial sphere, the sword, the ring, and the box of kohol, and departed with them amid tħe acclamations of the spirits of the treasury. he gave them to the mughribin, who thanked him, and requested him to say what he desired as his reward. “ i want nothing,” said judar, “but your wonderful portman- teau.”—“with all my heart, my child,” said the mughribin; “but as that only supplies food, i will give you another full of gold and diamonds, which will enable you to provide for all your family, and to begin trade yourself: i will give you a mule and slave to conduct you home also; but on your return, be careful to reveal nothing of what has passed.” judar now took leave the story of judar. of the mughribin, and, after a long journey, arrived safe at the door of his own house in cairo. he found his mother sit- ting, dejected and melancholy, in a corner, and the place strip- ped of every piece of furniture. "what are you doing, mother" said he: her surprise and joy at the sight of him for some time deprived her of utterance; at length she related to him, how his dissolute, ungrateful brothers had squandered away the . money which he had given her, and left her almost to starva-, tion. "ah! but to remedy that,” réplied judar, “i have here a portmanteau, which supplies, whenever called upon, the most delicious banquets in the world!''-" is this a time to jest?", continued his mother, “ do i not see that it is empty?"-". jest- ing a part, dear mother,” said judar, "what do you wish to have?"-" bread, my dear son!”-“bread! you shall have a better meal than that, mother--roast mutton, rice, gourd-sallad, bakliwah, and sherbet.”-“enough! enough!” cried his moth- er, thinking he was mocking her. judar repeated the words which the mughribin had taught him, and then drew out all the different dishes he had named. his mother, to her great aston- ishment, was now informed by him how this wonderful portman- teau -had been procured; but he begged her earnestly not to divulge the story. his brothers came to welcome him home, • and were invited to take their places at his well supplied table; · after they had dined, they would fain have put by what remained for supper, but judar ordered it to be given to the poor, promis- ing them a fresh meal; and at night he entertained them sump: tuously indeed. he kept them thus ten day's successfully. “faith!” said the two worthless wretches, our brother has be- come a magician, to entertain us thus, without the least supply in the kitchen.” taking advantage one day of his absence, they drew the secret from their mother. the envy and vexa- tion which they felt at this, inspired them with the idea of get- ting rid of judar, who they believed would be no longer neces- sary to them, if they could but get possession of the portmanteau. for this purpose they repaired to suez, where they soon found the master of a ship, who dealt in slaves, and having deceived him with a story, of their having a worthless fellow of a brother, who was ruining his family, agreed to sell judar to him for forty dinárs. it now remained to find a good opportunity of deliver- ing judar into his hands. . 'the two brothers therefore begged judar to allow them to bring three of their friends with them to supper. to this he made no objection, but provided them an elegant repast; when their mother had withdrawn, the three men, assisted by the two brothers, fell upon judar, gagged him, took him up, and carried him to suez, where he worked a whole year as a slave. in the meantime, his brothers had made their mother believe that the the story of judar. three guests were mughribins, who had taken judar away with them to search for new treasures. she wept bitterly upon hear- ing this, and they insulted and ill-treated her for the tears she shed for judar's absence. they divided between them the gold and diamonds, but could not agree about the possession of the portmanteau. in vain did their mother propose that they should leave it with her, engaging to supply them from it with whatever they desired at any time. they continued to wrangle about it, and the dispute, in the course of the night, rose so high, that the guard passing by, and hearing the noise, stopped at the door and overheard every word the two brothers said to each other. in the morning the officer of the watch repaired to the king shamsaddaulah, and informed him of the whole affair. the king immediately ordered the two brothers to be brought before him, took from them the portmanteau, and the gold and diamonds, cast them into prison, and allowed a certain sum for the sup- port of their mother. - meanwhile, the vessel on board of which judar was detained after having worked as a slave for a whole year, suffered ship- wreck on the coast of arabia. a merchant passing by felt com- passion for his destitute condition, and took him with him to jidda, and from thence to mecca. as he was performing his devotion there, he met his old friend the mughribin, shaikh abdussamad. judar, with tearful eyes, recounted to him his unhappy fate. the mughribin listened to him with great commiseration; pre- sented him with a handsome vest, and then proceeded to exam- ine his magic tablets, to discover judar's future destiny. "be of good cheer,” said he, “your misfortunes are over-your brothers are in prison-your mother in health-and all will henceforth prosper with you." upon this he took from his fin- ger the ring of shamardal, saying to judar, “ here is some- thing for you; you know that the genius of this ring is ready to fulfil your orders, be they what they may: take it, you are now its master.” i desire nothing more fervently,” said judar, “than to be again at home.”—“well," replied the mughribin, "you need then only call upon the genius; and so farewell!” ju- dar called upon the genius of the ring, and was carried in a moment to the door of his mother's house. delighted as she was at his return, she related, in great distress of mind, how much she feared for the lives of his brothers, who were yet in prison. “be not concerned on that account, mother,” said he, "you shall soon see them again in perfect safety.” he then ordered the genius of the ring to bring his brothers thither. when they appeared before judar, they were in great confusion and wept for shame." weep not,” said he," the demon of avarice tormented you, and suggested this evil doed against the story of judar.. your brother; but i forgive you, as joseph forgave his brethren for casting him into the pit.” he then recounted his adventures, • and inquired how the king had treated them. they told him that, after taking from them the portmanteau and their gold and jewels, he had ordered them to be bastinadoed. “we will soon have all again,” said judar, and, calling on the genius of the ring, he commanded him not only to bring all the treasures of the king to him, but to build him that night a magnificent palace, and furnish it splendidly. the genius called together his com- panions, and before the sun rose the palace was completed. quite satisfied with it, he gave it to his mother as a residence, and ordered the genius to procure forty black, forty white, and as many abyssinian and circassian slaves. · the females he appointed to attend his mother, and the males for the service of himself and his brothers, who acted as his viziers, he himself playing the part of a sovereign. in the meantime the keeper of the royal treasure, on entering the rooms where it was kept, was overwhelmed with surprise to find them utterly empty; for the genius had not only carried off the portmanteau and jewels that belonged to judar, but also every other article in the treasury. on being informed of this unaccountable discovery, the king was equally surprised and enraged. he ordered the divan - to be assembled, and informed them that he had now not a sin- gle piece of money in his possession. no one knew what to advise: the officer of the police, who had given information of the dispute of the brothers, alone ventured to speak. “sire,” said he, " still more extraordinary things have occurred; as i went my rounds last night i heard the noise of mallets and hammers, of saws and trowels, and, with the rising sun, beheld a splendid palace, of which the evening before not a sign was to be seen. i inquired by whom it was inhabited, and was told by judar, his mother, and his two brothers, who have escaped from prison.”-“let these wretches, this judar and his broth- ers, be immediately brought before me,” cried the king, trans- ported with anger. " will your majesty allow me to suggest, that you should not take any precipitate step in this affair?" in- terrupted the vizier. “what then would you advise to be done?” demanded the king. “i should recommend you to entrap. him by apparent kindness,” replied the vizier: “let your majesty invite him to court, and then call him to account respect- ing his fortune, thus made in one night.", upon this the king despatched one of his emirs,, who enter tained a high opinion of his own ingenuity. when he arrived at the gate of the palace, he found the chief of the eunuchs sitting there upon a throne of gold; but he' neither came to meet him, nor even rose at his approach. this chief of the eunuchs was * the story of judar. the genius of the ring himself. the emir, offended at this want of respect, insulted him, and was about to strike him with his steel mace, for he knew not that he had a genius to deal with, the latter, however, soon forced the mace from his hand, and applied it to his shoulders; the attendants of the emir unsheath- ed their swords to defend their master, but the genius soon put them to flight, and quietly resumed his place. the emir, with one eye bound up, and his back sorely bruised, threw himself at the foot of the throne. the king, filled with anger at the sight, despatched first one hundred, then two, and at last three hundred of his guards; but.they were all baffled by the chief of the eunuchs, who, however, did them no injury that he could avoid. . . . . . . . . * “ sire,” said the vizier, “by force we shall never gain our end; i will go myself to the palace as a minister of peace.” he then, clad in white, and without any attendants or arms, ap- proached the gate of judar's palace. having saluted the chief of the eunuchs, he requested to be announced to his master, to whom he had brought, he said, an invitation from the king. judar received him courteously, and presented him with a robe superior to any in the king's possession. on his return to the royal palace he reported all that had passed; the king said, "why then he is far greater than i am: i will go immediately -and pay him the first visit.” mounting his horse, and surroun- ded by his guards, he proceeded straightway to the palace of judar, who, when he was informed of the monarch's approach. called on the genius of the ring to supply him also with a well- appointed guard, who were ranged in two lines in the court of the palace. the king trembled when he observed their warlike appearance; he passed through them, and entered the hall where judar sat, but he neither rose to receive him nor desired him to be seated..". your majesty,” said judar,“ should never forget that a monarch degrades himself when he plunders and vexes his people without cause.” the king, who was of a timorous disposition, was much alarmed at the tone of these reproaches. he however excused himself with as much eloquence as he could command, and judar was mollified, gave him his own kaftan, and requested him to dine with him. "on the king's return to his own palace, he closeted himself with his vizier, to consult what was to be done with a man who possessed such dangerous power. “i fear,” said he, “that he will soon aspire to my crown itself."-" sire,” returned the vi- zier, “ you need not, i think, concern yourself much upon that point; of what value can your crown be to him who is in power above all the princes of the world? but if you fear him, unite him to your family by the bands of marriage; you have a daugh- ter of a marriageable age.”-“you are a good politician, my the story of judar. dear vizier,' replied the king, "and i will confide to you the direction of this delicate affair.”_"if your majesty," said the vizier, " will follow my advice, invite judar to the palace, and while he is with you let your daughter pass the door of the chamber swiftly; swiftly i say, that she may the more excite his curiosity. as judar is of a romantic and vivid imagination, rely upon it he will be desperately in love with a beauty of whom he will have seen so little. he will ask me who she is, and i shall tell him the princess your daughter. i shall then be able to lead him on to ask her of you for a wife, and you will thus be able to live in happiness with him as your son-in-law.”_ " you are right," answered the king, and gave immediate or ders for preparations for a splendid feast, to which judar was invited. dressed in all that could set off her natural charms, the princess passed before the door of the room where judár was dining with the king her father. scarcely had judar seen her when he gave a deep sigh, and appeared to be much agitated. what is it that disturbs you?" said the artful vizier. « ah!” replied judar, “the beauty who passed just now has seized on my heart, and bewildered my head!"-"that beauty,” returned the vizier, “is the king's daughter; and i am certain that were you to ask her of him, no difficulty would be found in effecting the union; but should you feel any hesitation, i will take upon myself to make proposals for you to the king.” then turning to that monarch, he addressed him thus:-" sire! judar wishes to draw the bands of friendship which now exist between you yet closer by those of relationship. he loves your daughter, and will gladly give whatever you may require for a portion.” -"my daughter,” said the king, “is at his command.” the next day was then chosen for the marriage, which was celebra- ted with great splendor. soon after this the king died, and the divan unanimously of- fered the crown to judar, by whom it was accordingly accepted. he built a mosque and endowed it richly; and the quarter of the city where his palace stood is yet called by his name. his brothers, who were his viziers, however, still fel: envy gnawing at their hearts; they could not endure the thought of being their brother's servants, and formed a conspiracy for his destruction. for this purpose, having invited him to a superb feast, they gave him poison. hardly had it begun to operate when selim, taking the ring from judar, called upon the genius to destroy salih, and then ordering the divan to assemble, declared him- self, as possessor of the ring, possessor of the kingdom also. the grandees, too timid to resist, paid him their homage and proclaimed him king. the first step of the new monarch's, after giving directions for the funeral of the late king, was to order preparations to be . the story of judar, made for his own marriage with the widow. the divån in vain begged him to wait till the time of mourning was over. “i shall not concern myself about that,” replied the tyrant, “she shall" this night comply with my wishes.". in consequence of this the marriage contract was drawn up, and the princess was inform- ed of the king's design. “let him come,” said she, “ i know how to receive him." meeting him, therefore, with the great- est apparent kindness, she handed to him a cup of poisoned sher- bet, and then taking the ring from his finger, and the magic portmanteau from the treasury, she reduced the former to pow- der and tore the latter to pieces, that none might again abuse the power which they conferred. the bo lf. “ in that mountainous region called the bergstrasse, which lies along the banks of the rhine, it was formerly the custom for the young men, when they came to a certain age, to enrol themselves in a company of hunters, for the express purpose of pursuing and destroying wolves; for which reason the band was called the wolf-slaughterers. indeed, that part of the country is so craggy, so full of caverns, and so crowded with woods, that it is the place in the world most fitted for the harbor of wild beasts, and accordingly, there were in former times a vast num- ber to be found there; so many, in fact, that had not the wolf- slaughterers been very active, daring young men, it would have been almost impossible to have resided there; and it was only by their exertions, that the villagers of fiendenheim were able to preserve any cattle. many ages ago, and long before the in- vention of firearms, there were at the head of this band two young men, who were particularly successful in their attempts against the wolves. they were both strong, fearless, and well skilled in the use of their weapons, and they were considered as chiefs of the troop, because each had destroyed more wild beasts with his own hands than any other two belonging to it, although, between themselves, the number was equal; for if hendrick, (so one was called,) at any time had the advantage, wolfgang, the other, never desisted from the chase till he had brought home the head of a wolf, to reduce their conquests to the same level. this rivalry was, however, not the occasion of any en- mity between these young men; for, as they had been brought up from children together, they were accustomed to strive for the same prizes, and engage in the same undertakings, so that they were always most pleased when both succeeded in the same degree. indeed, it is said, that when one had the superiority, he always relaxed his exertions, till the other came up with him, and that they retained this habit in the chase; for wolfgang has been known, after he had killed one beast, to miss the next purposely, that hendrick might strike it, and hendrick has done the same, when fortune was on his side. another reason why there was no quarrel between them, perhaps, was, that they were both equally handsome. not that they were alike in fea- ture, though they were of the same height; for wolfgang's beauty had a boldness in it, which hendrick's wanted, but then the boarwolf. hendrick's countenance was calm and interesting, and as their tempers agreed with their persons, each thought his own exte- rior the best, so that envy'did not threaten to render their friend- ship of short duration. there is, however, always some stumb- lingblock in the way of perfect happiness, and this the friends met with. : “ it chanced, one evening, whilst returning by themselves from the chase, bearing on the points of their spears the heads of two. wolves, which they had just slaughtered, that they pass- ed through a deep narrow glen, leading between high rocky banks, from the clefts of which grew out birch and mountain ash trees, in such numbers, as to overshadow their path, and give a wild gloom to the space beneath. they had not reach- ed half way, when they heard a loud growl, and looking care- fully round, espied a hideous monster, partly concealed amongst tall stones and low bushes. wolfgang cried out, “a boar! a boar!' and hendrick exclaimed, ‘a wolf ! a wolf !' both prepar- ing instantly to attack it. but the brute, which was employed in devouring its prey, after displaying a frightful pair of jaws, and making show of resistance, turned its tail, aud fled through the underwood, hidden from their view, till it reached the mouth of the ravine, when springing suddenly out, it escaped into a more open country. the huntsmen, however, knowing that it must choose to fly through the gorge of the pass, or remain in the dell, had hurried that way, and were elose at its heels, when it darted from the thicket. this gave them hopes, and giving full rein to their horses, they pursued it over a wide piece of heathy waste. they had now a good opportunity for asčer. taining the nature of the animal they followed; but, notwithstand- ing their skill in the chase, they were unable to decide what kind of beast it was; for, though it had the straight back, bushy tail, and long gallop of a wolf, still it had the thick, bristly, and snouted head of a boar, and its feet were not similar to those of any animal they had seen. they, therefore, supposed it might be some mongrel brute, or one of the wild beasts brought froin syria, which had broken loose from the menage of the arch- bishop of mentz. but, be it what it might, they pushed after it with the greatest resolution, because, when they had started it from its lurking place, they perceived it had been tearing in pieces the body of a child. . . the direction which the monster took led them across a small stream, that divided their district from the neighboring one, and brought them at last into a place dangerous for horse- men, and difficult for the pursuit of game. it was an extensive level, reaching from the rivulet to a distant range of hills, and would have been a plain had it not been covered with huge masses of detached rock, scattered about it, as if a large moun- lain had been dashed to pieces, and strewed over its surface. the boarwolf fered to each of the huntsmen. they accepted her gifts with many thanks, which she received with smiles; and by way of prolonging the conversation, they inquired whether she had seen or heard of any strange beast near her habitation. she replied, that, within the few last days, her father had told her that he had seen an animal that he had never seen before, and had bidden her be careful that she was not surprised, for that it was very ferocious, and had carried off the child of one of the inhabitants of the village of grifhausen. she then invited them to alight, saying that, perhaps, her parent could tell them more concerning it. “ the young men were both so fascinated with this beauty, that they would willingly have spent some hours in gazing at and conversing with her; but, for some reason or other, they obstinately refused, although she pressed them to enter the cot- tage. after a little more conversation she wished them good night; and though they both intended to see her again, neither of them mentioned a word of his intention, either to her or to his companion. indeed, from that moment they became 'so des- perately jealous of cach other, (which was the reason why they would not stop that night, each looking upon the other as a rival,) that they scarcely spoke all the way back to fiendenheim; and the next day, instead of summoning the troop to give the beast chase, each rode se arately in search of the cottage, where they met, and quarrelled for the first time; and so bitter was their enmity afterwards, thai it would have been a pleasure to either of them to have run the ether through with a boar spear. “meantime the wild monster committed great ravages through- out the surrounding country, and it became unsafe for men un- armed, and women and children, to pass from one village to the other; so that there was a general alarm spread •round about, for a great distance. the wolf-hunters made many attempts to destroy it, but in vain; for though it did not keep out of the way by day, yet it was so swift, and so artful in eluding pursuit that all their endeavors were fruitless. even wolfgang and hen- drick could gain no advantage over their companions, except getting a little closer to the beast than the rest. . at length, the lords of three villages, which this animal infested, fancying that there might be some want of energy in the attempts to destroy it, or, perhaps, a little fear, offered a reward of a piece of land to the man who should produce its head, 'to belong to him and his heirs for ever,' besides the privilege of choosing the fairest maiden within their domains as a wife, to whom they also prom- ised a portion. . "this offer produced a great commotion among the young men of the three villages, as well as among the maidens; all of them being willing to obtain the reward; but upon wolfgang and hendrick it had a very strong effect. since first beholding the the boarwolf. over you for four and twenty hours, you shall cut off the head of the boarwolf.' “ i agree,' said the huntsman, without stopping one moment to consider. ". then kiss my hand, in token of obedience,' said the stran- · ger. “ wolfgang kissed the hand held out to him, and whilst he started back, for the touch of the being burnt his lips, it vanished, saying, 'chase the boarwolf to-morrow.' “the huntsman now remounted his horse, and without al- lowing himself to think of what he had done, he hastened to the cottage of the beauty, with whom he staid conversing till day- light, for both she and her father treated him as if they could not treat him too well. “ at daybreak he saddled his steed, and set off to dislodge the boarwolf from its lurking place, impatient both to make sure of the rewards and to return home, for, as he had vowed not to go back without the head, so he had kept his word. “when wolfgang reached the glen, where he expected to meet the boarwolf, he found hendrick there with some com- panions, who had risen early that morning to try the powers of two large dogs, which they had procured from a great distance. these were bloodhounds of a fine breed, and were now engag- ed by hendrick, because all the other dogs that had been em- ployed in the chase of this monster refused to follow it, being so terrified, that, whenever they were put upon the scent, they howled and slunk away in fear. wolfgang, elated with the kind- ness so lately shown him by the beauty and her father, and re- lying on the promise that he should cut off the head of the boar- wolf, could not refrain from uttering a loud laugh of contempt, when he saw the pains taken by his former friend and his associ- ates. he even bid him, with a sneer, ‘go home and look out for a wife, for that he meant to marry the beauty that night him- self.' hendrick was too intent on endeavoring to get scent of the wild beast, to reply to these insults, and having ascertained that it was not in the dell, he hurried over the hills in search of it; and his rival notwithstanding his security, not being willing that he should first start the game, set off to another spot, where he once or twice had met the animal. “ about an hour after this, wolfgang unearthed the boarwolf. it sprung from beneath the root of an old withered yew-tree, which grew over a low dark cave, in the side of a bank, just as the sun rose brilliantly from behind some opposite hills; and when the ferocious brute opened its jaws, to ufter a hindeous roar, its long tusks gleamed in the morning-rays, and the white foam spirted from its mouth like flakes of snow, while its bristly hide seemed to glitter in the light, as if throwing out sparks of fire. the eager huntsman rushed forward after it, eyeing with joy the the boarwolf. ghastly grinning head, which he expected soon to sever from . its huge, ill-fashioned carcass, and which was to form the foun- dation of his fortune, and the pledge of his union with his mistress. he forgot that hendrick was also in the field with his friends, and their unerring dogs, or, if he thought of him, it was only to enjoy the anticipated mortification of his former friend, when he returned to the village, bearing with him the spoil for which they both thirsted so ardently. " the boarwolf, however, as if conscious that its existence was to terminate that day, seemed resolved to exercise the strength and perseverance of its pursuer. it took wider and more intricate circuits than it ever had done before, it turned more frequently to bay and almost appeared to enjoy the eager onsets which the huntsman made to overcome it: but the horse of wolfgang could only be brought to ride at it by the most stren- uous endeavors of its master, exhibiting such evident marks of dişmay at its glaring eye-balls, and erected bristles, that he could scarcely keep its head towards it; and when he offered to dismount, for the purpose of attacking it with his sword, the monster took the opportunity of making off at full speed. “in this manner the chase continued till long past noon, by which time wolfgang had become so faint, with hunger and ex- haustion, that he could scarcely keep his seat; for he had been extremely fatigued the day before, and had not closed his eyes during the night, having been too much engaged with his mis- tress to think of sleep. besides, he had scarcely tasted food since the morning of the day before, for he took nothing but wine at the hermitage, and this day he would not stop one mo- ment to assuage his hunger at the cottages of his acquaintances, near which he passed, lest the boarwolf should escape, or have time to renew his strength by rest. however, he recollected that his mistress, when she heard that he intended to renew the chase early in the morning, had given him a small cake, which she had prepared during his stay, for she said that she was cer- tain his eagerness would not allow him to think of refreshment, and that her gift would quell' his appetite, and support his strength, till he had slain the monster. upon this he drew the loaf from his pocket, and eat it, with many mental thanks for the kind attention of the giver, and he felt his desire to slaugh- ter the boarwolf increase with his wish to obtain the hand of so amiable a girl. as she had said, so the cake, though small, satisfied his hunger, and renewed his spirits, or, rather, made them more buoyant than before. indeed, so much did he feel elated, that he spurred on his horse as if just set off in the pur- suit, and the monster was obliged to fly more quickly than it had ever done. but the weather, which had hitherto been bril- liant and enlivening, now suddenly altered; large masses of dark clouds rolled up from behind the distant mountains, the the boarwolf. wind rose, and swept along the edges of the woods with violence, full drops of rain fell at intervals, and the distant waters of the river were heard rushing along their rocky bed. wolfgang was too much accustomed to the field not to know that these signs presaged a storm; but his ardor would not permit any idea of relinquishing the pursuit to enter his mind; besides, he fancied these signs were but preludes to the death of the boarwolf, and he gazed at it with exultation as, for the third time that day, it hurried through the dell where he and hendrick had first discov- ered it. his spirits, now high, and free from fatigue, bore him along with a feeling of triumph, and though the wind shook the - branches of the trees over his head, and sighed in the most threatening manner, he paid no attention to the impending tempest. · "at length, as he once more spurred along to the rocky level, the clouds burst above him, and a deluge of rain and hail surrounded him instantaneously; he seemed almost as if enclo- sed in a moving mass of water, and as the drops struck against the ground they broke into a fine mist, which rose up on the wind like a second shower, or as if the earth were heated and being q;enched by the rain, while large hailstones flew and danced about in every direction, causing his horse to start re- peatedly. “so thick and heavy was the shower, that wolfgang lost sight of the boarwolf for a short time, though it still kept at the same distance before him. but an unusual darkness now began to add to the horrors of the storm, not like the approach of night, -- but a deep gloom, as if the sun were losing its light... thunder burst in loud peals amongst the hills, and flashes of lightning at times shot along before him. yet all these combined terrors had no effect on the mind of the huntsman; at least he laughed at them with the feelings of a man intoxicated, for the few mouth- fuls he had taken had produced a state of idea almost similar to the effect caused by liquor, without impeding his capability of bodily action. a hundred times he blessed the providence of the beauty, in providing against his fatigue, and he heard the swollen 'waters of the boundary stream foam amidst the stony windings of its channel, without one impression of fear, or sug- gestion of prudence. • the boarwolf chose the widest whirlpool over which to ·lcap, and wolfgang sprung boldly over the boiling vortex. he heeded not the laboring breath and staggering limbs of his courser, but spurred him violently, as he entered the district of brockencragg, along the path which led to the hermitage, for in that direction the monster proceeded before him. "the storm raged with peculiar fury in this wild and des- olate region. the wind roared hideously, as it rushed along the numerous passages amongst the rocks, and the summits of * the boarwolf. the tall trees, that grew upon them, were bent below the crer- ices in which their roots found nourishment. twice did wolf. gang escape the fall of trunks, which were torn with harsh crashes from their beds, and many times was he nearly struck from his saddle by pieces of stone; broken from the margin of cliffs by the lightning, which now darted closely around him. but his spirit and his persuasion that the head of the monster would soon become his spoil, were unabated and unalloyed, till, just as he was approaching the cottage of his mistress, the boarwolf uttered a tremendous yell, which was answered by the distant bay of dogs. “that fiend hendrick!' muttered wolfgang, as the idea that his hated rival might rush in be- tween him and his reward glanced across his mind. he spurred on his steed, more unmercifully than before, and was in an in- stant close by the hermitage. the beauty, as if fearless of wild beasts, of lightning, or of thunder, stood at the door, way- ing her hand in encouragement to her lover, and he thought she seemned to enjoy the flashes of fire that glanced along before her; her face was bright, and her eyes shone, her hair floated in the wind. he heard her say, “do you hear hendrick?" and in a moment was out of her sight and hearing, for, having turned a corner, the brute led him directly to the centre of the level. all the fury of the storm seemed likewise to tend that way, for the violence of the wind, rain, and hail, behind him, was almost intolerable. his horse rushed along, as if borne by a rapid stream, striving more to keep itself steady than to maintain its speed; the lightning flashed round every crag, and the thunder seemed rolling along upon the earth, and jarring at every instant with the scattered fragments of rock. “even these he fancied tottered as he passed them, and shook their crumbling edges on his head;-tittering and grin- ning whispers seemed to mock his ears, as he listened to the deep mouthings of hendrick's blood hounds; and the boarwolf growled and tore up the earth, as it fled before him. however, he gained upon it, and, only intent upon the accomplishment of his wishes, drew forth his short sword, to make a desperate at- tack, for he perceived by its agitation and furious howls that it would soon turn to bay. he was close at its heels, as it entered upon the sandy space in the centre of the level, and at the instant the monster turned and offered resistance, his horse fell dead close beside it. the boarwolf sprung upon wolfgang, and ripped up his thigh with its tusk; but the huntsman, though writhing with pain, struck a tremendous blow at its brawny neck, which cleft the spine, and the head hung from its shoulders. another blow severed it completely; but at that instant a dense smoke, iningled with flame, issued from the carcass, and the boarwolf was changed into that fiend-like being whom he had seen in that same place on the day before. the boarwolf. "wolfgang,' it exclaimed to the terrified hunter, s ou hast cut off the head of the bearwolf; for twenty-four mrs thụu art mine.-aye, and forever!-be thou now a boarwolf!' "not now,' cried wolfgang, gasping with horror at the . thought, 'hendrick is coming, he will slay me.'. :,«ii mean it,' replied the demon laughing ferociously, i brought him here, his dogs are mine-see he comes!' "wolfgang turned his head and saw hendrick rushing to- wards him; he felt his figure change, his hands became feet, his head grew large and bristly, he sunk down towards the earth, and stood like a four-footed brute, but bewildered and unable either to fly or resist. · the most bitter feelings of terror and despair overwhelmed his faculties. he sprung into the air, and attempted to scream with rage, but he only uttered a harsh hoarse roar, like a boar- wolf. it was answered by hendrick, who at that moment fix- · od his eye upon him, with a wild shout of joy; his friends also shouted, and the blood-hounds, giving a tremendous yell, sprung upon him and held him firmly with their teeth. hendrick lean- ed from his horse, and raised his sword, and while wolfgang vainly strove to exclaim, spare me, hendrick! spare me!' his rival and former friend srnote off his head at a blow. his spirit fled with a groan, a dreadful clap of thunder shook the earth, a flash of lightning enveloped the group, and scathed the bleeding body of the huntsman; but hendrick nevertheless lifted up the head, and with his companions gave tree victorious shoûts; he then thrust the point of his spear into the neck, and, remounting his horse, rode away from the plain with his associates, bearing before him, unconsciously, the head of his once dearest friend. they made their way directly to fiendenheim, and were received joyfully by the villagers, who ran to inform count albert. the lord received the spoil in form, admiring its ghast- jy book, and directed his seneschal to make out the deed of gift, of four acres of land, to hendrick the wolfslayer, to him and his heirs forever. he then bade the unfortunate huntsman choose the maiden he liked best for his bride, and bring her to him on the following morning, as he intended to bestow upon her a marriage portion! "hendrick, notwithstanding the fatigue he had undergone since daybreak, could not resist the pleasure of communicating his success to the beauty, and of claiming her promise. · he therefore quitted fiendenheim, and took the direction of the brockencragg level, with almost as much speed as if engaged in another chase. the weather was now calm and serene, the wind had subsided, not a drop of rain fell from the unclouded sky, and a pure and beautiful evening had succeeded to the tempes- tuous afternoon; nor would it have been suspected that such a storm nad so recently occurred, had not the swollen streams, that the boarwolf. rushed amongst the rocks, and over the pathways, been unų- sually large, and their waters turbid, and loaded with fragments of branches, and the spoils of their banks. -“by the time the eager lover arrived within sight of the cot- tage of his mistress, the first stars of evening had appeared, and a gentle gloom had fallen on all the surrounding objects. a calm stillness was spread over the vast desert of shattered rocks, only interrupted by the croak of the raven, which sat among the overhanging trees, by the shriek of the owl, which floated forth from the recesses amongst the cliff. but of a sudden, as hendrick spurred his horse up to the door of the hermitage, a strange wild shout of mirth burst from within the dwelling, composed of sounds and voices he had never heard before. the chinney, too, smoked violently, and a bright gleam of light shot from the casement across the pathway, and small rays issued from beneath the caves and crevices in the walls. “impatient and alarmed, hendrick, with a lover's privilege, hastily opened the door, and entered; but what was his amaze- ment to find himself in the midst of a company of beings of the most appalling description. there sat in the old chair, which the beauty's father was wont to occupy, the same fiend who had tempted wolfgang to his destruction. before him, in the midst of the floor, was a large fire, blazing up to the ceiling in blue flames, mingled with green and yellow. around this danced a circle of devils, of all figures and sizes, throwing themselves into the nfost distorted attitudes, and shrieking at alternate intervals. there lay on the floor a human carcass, the head of which was concealed by a black veil, and the old fiend had his feet placed up- on it, while his hoofs, now lengthened into claws, penetrated the flesh, and when the demon contracted his talons, the body gave convulsive throes, and dashed its limbs about, to the great diversion of the assembly. “hendrick stood and stared aghast at this sight, for a crowd of fears and suspicions overwhelmed his soul. he looked around for the beauty and her father, but in vain; till at length a tall slender fiend sprung from the circle towards him, and seizing his hand in her burning grasp, drew him forward, saying, 'why, hendrick my betrothed, do you not know your bride?? “ hendrick gazed upon her, and saw in her sharpened fea- tures, parchment skin, and glowing eyes, some appearance of the girl who had been the sole object of his and wolfgang's love; but with-a shuddering start he endeavored to free himself from her grasp. she, however, held him tightly, and drawing him to the circle, another fiend caught him by the hand, in the same manner, and he was thus forced to dance round the fire, as one of the group, whilst the demons grinned and chattered at him, with fearful and malicious joy. “ although the heart of hendrick sunk within him, at the the boarwolf. hideous figures and grimaces of his companions, his senses still remained collected, and his thoughts were bent on finding some method of escaping from this detestable spot. his love and hopes were converted into the utmost disgust and dread, and his eyes wandered from side to side, to avoid the diabolical leers and hellish mockery of the fiend who pretended to be his bride. · she, however, seemed not to regard his hatred, but telling her crew that he was impatient for the conclusion of his nuptials, stopped opposite to the frightful demon who sat in the chair- " father,' said she, 'this is my bridegroom, he wishes you 'to unite us forever.' ""have you the ring?' said the old fiend, in a harsh and hollow voice. .".this is the one he gave me,' said the pretended bride, holding forth one which hendrick knew he had presented to her, some days before. ." is he willing to bind himself to you and yours?' said the presiding devil of this infernal ceremony. " you shall hear him promise,' answered the bride. . speak, hendrick, love, speak,' continued she to the astonished hunts- man, whose hair now stood on end, and whose limbs quaked beneath him, whilst the sweat stood cold upon his brow, although the room felt like a furnace. " if he will not speak, let him kneel and do homage,' ex- claimed satan. .“ at this the fiends on either side of the terrified hunter, strove to pull him down; but hendrick, aware that by that pros- tration he should yield up his soul to the powers of darkness, resisted with his utmost strength, whilst he groaned loudly and wrestled with the demons. " " show him, then,' cried the arch-demon, stamping with passion, 'show him what he shall become, unless he obeys. let him see! let him see!-up wolfgang up!' continued he, shouting hideously. upon this the corpse that lay at the foot of the chair started from the floor, and as the black cloth fell from its head, hendrick recognised the pale and bloody corpse of his friend wolfgang. the head was resting on the shoul- ders, but there was a deep red gash round the neck, as if it had been divided. " dost thou know him?' cried the fiend-bride, as she saw her lover tremble in voluntarily. “ yes, he knows him.' cried the old demon, and shall be like him, unless he joins in the chase.' he then vociferated, 'the boarwolf! the boarwolf !' and the body of wolfgang was changed into the resemblance of that monster, and began to run round the cottage, whilst all the imps and demons, uttering tremendous yells, pursued it, darting fire from their nostrils, and piercing the howling brute with their burning claws. hen- the cavern of death. “how awful is the approach of night amid these dreary shades!” cried the brave sir albert, as he traversed the most desolate part of the black forest. these were the first words that escaped his lips, since, about mid-day, he had entered that wild desert: and they were heard with satisfaction by mau- rice, his esquire and only attendant, whom respect had for some time with difficulty restrained from breaking the silence, which, terrupted only at intervals by the shrieks of the owl, or the flutter of the bat, seemed to deepen the horrors of that gloomy scene, and impressed on his mind a superstitious dread, which had no visible object, yet rose to the most agonizing height. ? " ah, sir!” cried he, “ what courage less intrepid than yours would at this hour of darkness thus rashly penetrate the recesses of this forest?'? i have seen thee bold in battle, maurice,” said sir alberto “ what mighty danger dost thou apprehend in this solitude, which thou canst deem it rashness in me to encounter?" " such scenes as these,” returned the esquire,“ bring every deed of horror to one's thought: in gloom like this, the dæmons of the air, and spirits of the dead, have power.” : my conscience is clear from every deed,” said sir albert: " which should make me dread the vengeance of departed spir- its; and i trust that heaven and good angels will defend me from the malice of the powers of darkness. for any mortal foes i am armed, and fear not to encounter them.” « would to heaven i had turned my back," cried maurice, " before i had reached this dismal place!” “and how could we have avoided it?" demanded the knight. " thou hast thyself been my guide towards the castle of dorn- heim.” “i expected you would have reached it ere sunset, sir," returned the esquire: but you have rode so slowly"- " it is true," said sir albert: “ my mind has been too much occupied with the thoughts of her on whose account, as to thee only i have confided, i have travelled hither, to leave me any leisure to recollect the tardy pace of my wearied horse." . he was then beginning to relapse into his former musing; but maurice, who, in the sound of a human voice, had found some relief from the terrific phantasms which haunted his imagination, the cavern of death. was eager to engage him in further discourse; and though alrea- dy acquainted with the story of his love, yet, since he knew the satisfaction with which on that subject his master would always enlarge, he would not miss the opportunity of introducing it. “did you not tell me, sir,” said he, that it was three years. since last you saw the lady constance?" “it is more," replied sir albert. "my heart would per- suade me i had been separated from her during countless ages. -ah! could i but know with what aspect she would review me!” “ it is impossible, sir," said maurice, that to merit and con- stancy like yours, she can be insensible.” " while i was at a distance from her,” said sir albert, « i was pleased at being thus flattered; my own heart flattered me. i knew indeed, that for me she had never acknowledged any. affection; but i knew that towards all others she had shown the most marked indifference; and even from the solicitude with which she would often shun me, i could then draw a favorable inference, since, had she not been conscious that i adored her, she could have had no cause to treat me with less courtesy that others; and love so carefully concealed as mine, what but reciprocal love could have discovered? what other motive, have i yainly fancied, could have so frequently suffused her cheek with blushes, if i gazed on her, perhaps too eagerly? what else could have occasioned her emotion when we parted? had i been indifferent to her, would she not-after so long an ac- quaintance with me, would she not have bidden me adieu? . but the unfinished sentence died upon her lips; and, though she hasted from my presence, i had seen the tear that was starting from her eye.” “i have often wondered, sir,” said maurice, "show, with so strong an attachment to the lady constance, you could resolve to quit prague, where she resided, without declaring to her your sentiments and endeavoring to obtain the avowal of hers." “ i have told thee, maurice," returned sir albert, “that i had rather have died than have engaged her whose happiness i prized above my own, to share the fortunes of a man who had so little prospect of being able to place her in a rank worthy of her merit. -i do not now entertain any such presumptuous views: i wish but to see her: of what further i desire, my own heart is unconscious. perhaps, since my sword has purchased me some portion of renown; since i have received the honor of knighthood from the imperial frederic barbarossa, and have acquired several noble friends who have promised me their ser- vices—perhaps, at some future period, i may find myself in a situation-but i have already said i will not indulge these thoughts. how far distant, maurice, is the castle of herta. the cavern of death. - wald, where she now resides, from that of the baron of dorn- heim?" " it is little more than a league,” replied the esquire. "i was frequently there while i dwelt at the castle of dornheim. it was then occupied by her uncle; at whose death, a «few months since, it devolved to her father." another interval of silence now ensued; but maurice, again solicitous to break it-did you never, sir; acquaint lord fred- eric with your love?" said he. “no, never," replied sir albert; “ for though, from the time when it was my fortune to save his life in battle, he always pro- fessed for me the warmest friendship, yet his own insensibility to the softer passions, deterred me from placing in him the same confidence on that subject as i readily should on any other. it was by accident that he mentioned to me the arrival of the father of constance to settle so near the castle of dornheim, whither he had before so frequently invited me. had he ever experienced a passion like mine, i have often since reflected, that the eager emotion, with which i then accepted his invitation might sufficiently have discovered to him the secret of my soul. * from his childhood," said maurice, “lord frederic was ever of a haughty and violent temper-a stranger to tenderness and pity; and, though i had received from him many favors, and was yet more secure of the protection of the baron his $ father, i account myself fortunate in my removal from- but whence this sudden stream of light upon our paths?”. . "is it not the moon emerging from behind a cloud?” said sir albert. “the moon is already set,” returned the esquire, trembling with renewed fears. sir albert looked up the thick interwoven branches of the trees in that spot obstructed his view; but, advancing a few paces to a more open place, he perceived a small black cloud, which seemed to hang lower than the rest, and hovered over his head with a tremulous motion, from the broken edges of which darted forth flashes of light sufficiently strong to dissipate the darkness, which by this time completely overspread the earth. sir albert gazed on it with wonder, and with that awe which any supernatural appearance necessarily impresses on the mind. the terrified maurice dropped the reins, and in speechless agony expected some event of horror.--presently they heard in the air a loud shriek, which seenied uttered by no mortal voice; and at the same moment the clouds burst asun- der; and while the darker parts faded away, and mixed with the surrounding air, all the rays of light which had streamed from it, seemed to unite in one large ball of fire, and, descend- . ing towards the earth with a rapid course, sunk amid a thick cluster of trees, and still continued to gleam behind their branch- the cayern of death. es. sir albert instantly spurred forward his horse, and has by tened towards the spot. maurice, with a trembling voice, urged him to forbear; but regardless of his fears, the knight advanc- ed, and, forcing a passage through the trees, saw that the me- teor still appeared suspended over the entrance of a deep dark cavern, which was illuminated by its splendor: but ere he could come quite up, it sunk into the abyss, and every object was en- veloped in a thicker darkness than before. sir albert, for some moments, hesitated how to act: his mighty courage, which always impelled him to attempt every peri- lous adventure, strongly urged him to enter the cavern, and explore the mystery which some inward and inexplicable pre- possession concurred with the appearance of the meteor to persuade him he should discover within its recesses; yet the darkness of the night, which seemed to preclude the possibility of such a discovery, and the probability that the cavern might be the abode of savage beasts or venomous serpents, to whose fury should he, in that dismal place, expose himself, he might perish ingloriously, the victim of an unjustifiable temerity, at jast determined him to defer the attempt till the morrow, when he purposed to return with lights; and for the present to pur- sue his journey to the castle of dornheim, where he was already apprehensive he should arrive too late for admittance. on re- turning to maurice, he found him so overcome with terror, that he seemed scarcely to retain his senses: he talked wildly of a spirit who pursued him, and of voices issuing from the cavern. sir albert, though seldom moved to anger by any trivial cause, was at last impatient of fears he deemed so groundless, and re- proved his folly with a harshness which seemed in some degree to recall him to himself. they had not proceeded far, before they discovered a light through the trees; maurice started, and would have turned back; for the meteor still haunted his imagination, and left him no recollection of the vicinity of the castle of dornheim, whence sir albert concluded the light to proceed, and he soon found that his conjecture was just. on approaching nearer, he per- ceived that the whole front of the castle was illuminated; and, amid many voices which he heard within its walls, he could dis. tinguish the strains of mirthful music. though the soul of sir albert was little disposed to share in this apparent festivity, he was pleased to find that the drawbridge was not yet raised, nor the porter retired to rest; which had he found to be the case, it ! had been his intention rather to take up his lodging for that night in the forest, than to disturb the family at an unseason- able hour. on'sounding a horn which was suspended by the gate, it was instantly unbarred, and a seneschal came forth, and invited him to enter, telling him, that on that day admittance was free to all. sir albert could not but demand what pros- the cavern of death. perous event was the occasion of the rejoicing which he per- ceived in the castle. the seneschal replied, that it was to celebrate the approaching nuptials of the baron with a lady whom he had for some time courted, and which, it had been that morning settled, should take place in three days time. the knight then demanded to speak with lord frederic; he was conducted into a spacious apartment, where he had not waited long before lord frederic came. sir albert, having raised the vizor of his casque, advanced to accost him; but he no sooner recognised the knight, than, * not allowing him time to speak, he embraced him with an eagerness sufficiently expressive of his joy. “is it possible, my e friend!” cried he, “ that i behold thee here?” thy arrival at this juncture was the object of my most ardent wishes; it was an happiness to which my hope durst scarce aspire." " i consider so kind a welcome, my lord!?' replied sir al- bert, “ as an additional proof of your friendship towards me; ... and it enhances the pleasure this meeting has afforded me." ." ascribe not my joy to friendship only,” replied lord fred- eric: “ my own interest has too principal a share in it.-to see thee at any time i should rejoice; but now, when to valor like tbine i may owe the felicity of my life, thy fortunate arrival has recalled me from desperation." " what mean you, my lord?” said the knight; "what cause can have reduced you to despair? and in what manner can i be v so happy as to serve you?" i “ it is not now a season to explain myself more fully, said lord frederic: “ among the crowds who now enter promiscu- . ously 'every apartment in the castle, i know not who may over- hear me. to-morrow morning we will walk 'together in the . forest. meanwhile i will lead thee to the feast: after thy jour- ney hither, refreshment may be welcome to thee; but, amid the sports and folly of my father's servile train, let the recollection of our mutual amity possess thy mind; and let me find thee to- o morrow, as thou hast ever hitherto appeared to me, a friend on ! whom i may rely.” lord frederic there presented his newly 'arrived friend to his father, who was encircled by a crowd of the guests who were come to partake of his festival. the baron on hearing his name announced, turned hastily round; but, instead of bidding him welcome, he for some, moments regarded him and continued silent. sirsalbert, who had expected a different reception, was in some degree confused at this; and lord frederic, visib y of fended at his father's coldness towards a friend to whom he owed so much-" i thought, my lord,” said he," i had already informed you, that it was this valiant cavalier who exposed his own life to the most imminent danger, to rescue me from the > et= the cavern of death.. enemies against whom, wearied, and fainting with loss of blood, i was no longer able to defend myself. : " and i will eagerly embrace every opportunity, my son!” returned the baron, starting as if from a deep musing, to prove to him and to the world, how dearly i prize that life which he then preserved.—most valiant sir!" continued he, addressing himself to sir albert, “i must entreat your forgiveness, if, at the moment of your approach, my thoughts were so far engrossed by other matters, that i did not, immediately on the mention of your name, recollect the vast obligation i was under to you. it is with unfeigned joy that i embrace the deliverer of my son, and personally express to him the gratitude and esteem which i long have borne him. you are most welcome to my castle; and i flatter myself that you will show, by the length of your abode in it, your persuasion of the satisfaction your presence affords me." sir albert made a suitable reply to this compliment; and, af- ter a few more expressions of courtesy, the baron entreated him to disarm. the knight at first refused; but on being further pressed, he complied; and retiring to a private chamber, he was attended by his own esquire, and by one of the domestics of the castle, who, by the baron's command, brought him a rich robe to put on, after he should have quitted his arms. as maurice was unbuckling his corslet, sir albert perceived that his hand trembled" thou hast not yet,” said he,“ recov- ered from the terror which seized thee in the forest.” the esquire acknowledged he had not. ..“did you meet with any alarming adventure there, sir?” said the baron's domestic. “we passed near the mouth of a cavern,” returned sir al- bert: “ what terrific visions maurice might behold there, him- self can best inform you.” “ the mouth of a cavern?” exclaimed the domestic; " and near this castle?”. “ scarce a furlong distant,” replied the knight. “and did you then see nothing there, sir?” rejoined the other. “what should you suppose me to have seen?” demanded sir albert, with some emotion. “ so many sights of terror have been seen in that spot,"re- turned the domestic, “that it is long since any of us have dared to approach it. that cavern is assuredly the habitation of the infernal spirits. sometimes there have been heard in it hollow groans, or shrieks of anguish; sometimes, noises resembling the rushing of torrents, or the rumbling of pept-up vapors. there is a report, that some murder was formerly perpetra- ted there, and that it is the avenging spirit of the dead who still haunts the place where he was disunited from his body.". the cavern of death. “ were these opinions current, maurice,” said sir albert, “during the time of thy abode at this castle?” “i have heard some mention of them, sir," returned the esquire, paler than before. * and how long is it since these strange noises and appear- ances were first noticed in the cavern?" said the knight. “i have been told, sir," returned the baron's domestic," that the first portentous circumstance observed there, was a light which shone round the mouth of it, some four or five and twenty years ago, nearly about the time when the castle came into the possession of the present lord. but i can aver nothing on the subject with any certainty, as it is scarcely three months since i came hither myself.” « thou, maurice, camest hither with the present baron," said sir albert--"dost not thou remember any further particulars? did no tradition point out who this murdered person was sup- posed to have been?” “ some traveller, wandering in the forest, sir," replied mau- rice; "but indeed the murder was only a vague report; and the cavern had been dreaded equally by the neighboring people, from a period far earlier than that of the accession of the bar- on.” “has this cave any particular name?” demanded the knight. " it is called the * cavern of death?” returned the domes- tic. sir albert made an end of attiring himself in silence; for this account of a place where he had himself witnessed a circum- stance which he believed to be supernatural, had made a deep impression on his mind.--his desire to penetrate the inner- most recesses of the cavern was now stronger than ever: he judged it, however, expedient to forbear mentioning the design he had conceived, since he knew not who might have an interest in preventing the dire discoveries to which he was inwardly per- suaded it would lead. as soon as he was ready, he returned to the great hall, where the baron and his son received him with new demonstra- tions of joy. a magnificent banquet, was now spread. the baron placed sir albert in the inost honorable seat, nearest him- self, and treated him as a guest of the highest distinction. sir albert, however, could not but observe, that from time to time he fixed his eyes on him with a remarkable intentness, but they were instantly averted if his encountered them. for lord fred- eric, his stern and frowning brow sufficienily expressed the dis- turbance of his mind; he joined in no discourse with any of the guests; and if ever a momentary smile dispelled the gloom of his * die hole des todes, is the name which it still retains; and the neighbor- ing peasantry at this day dread to approach it, and entertain many wild and superstitious ideas respecting it. * the cavern of death. countenance, it was when he looked towards his newly arrived friend. as sir albert extended his hand across the table the lus. tre of a ring he wore on his finger caught the baron's eye. he praised its richness, and requested permission to view it more closely. sir albert immediately took it off, and presented it to him. it was a large ruby, encircled with brilliants. - the baron examined it with great attention, and declared the ruby to be the most valuable he had ever seen. “i am myself, sir knight,” added he, “well skilled in jewels; and you have shown yourself to be equally so, by the purchase of so fine a stone.” "i assure you my lord,” returned sir albert, “i am totally unqualified to judge of its value: it bears, indeed, an high one to me-not on account of its own richness, but because it is the only relic i retain of my deceased father.” the baron again praised the beauty of the ring, and returned it to its owner. the banquet was not ended till a very late hour. at last, when it was almost morning, the guests departed, well satisfied with the hospitality they had experienced; and the baron him- self conducted sir albert to the chamber he had caused to be prepared for him, where, after many expressions of courtesy, he left him. in his way thence he met maurice, who was going to attend upon his master. he immediately knew him, and ex- pressed his satisfaction at his return to the castle. “i was. sorry,” added he, “that you should receive any cause for displeasure in the service of my son: but though you chose to quit him, you may remain assured of my friend- .ship and protection.” the esquire thanked him for this assurance; and the baron, telling, bim he would gladly speak further with him, desired him to repair to his apartment in the morning, as early as he should rise. maurice then attended his master, who soon dismissed him, and retired to rest; but it was long before sleep closed his eyes. lord frederic's mysterious expressions and visible melancholy, rendered him anxious for further discourse with him; but he was yet more impatient to enter the cavern, of which such strange accounts had been given him. his imagination seemed already to have exhausted every possible circumstance which might relate to it; yet he continued retracing each idea, till, overcome by weariness and watching, he at last fell into a slumber. die proses his dreams did not correspond with this latest subject of his meditations: they were dismal, mysterious, and terrific.—he ! imagined himself again seated at the baron's festive board; the strains of musick again sounded in his ears; mirth sparkled in the eyes of every guest, and the light of innumerable torch- the cavern of death. os diffused an artificial day: when suddenly their brightness was eclipsed by the interposition of a dark shadow, which skimmed along the table, and sometimes seemed to rest hovering over the centre of it. sir albert and all the guests looked up, and beheld á most hideous spectre, of a gigantic size, traversing the air above their heads with a slow and melancholy flight; his stern and threatening aspect appalled every heart. as they regarded him, an hollow voice proclaimed, - "the fated hour is come! and the fell powers of vengeance are abroad!” the castle shook from its foundations: the spectre waved his wings, and immediately a thick mist arose, which in a few mo- ments enveloped all who were present. sir albert could no longer distinguish any object; but, amid the general darkness, his ears were thrice assailed with shrieks of horror: on a sud- den, à vivid ray of light streamed from the east upon the spot on which he stood; he turned his eyes, and beheld a cloud resem- bling that which the preceding evening had directed his steps to the cavern of death; and by degrees he discerned, seated in the midst, a warrior, clad in refulgent arms, and bearing on his breast the ensign of the cross. the radiance which surrounded him dispersed the mist and sir albert found, that of all the com- . pany who had been assembled at the feast, himself alone remain- ed. the horrible spectre had also disappeared at the approach of this less terrific phantom, who, descending from the cloud, and regarding sir albert with a look of celestial benignity, ex- tended his arms to embrace him. sir albert with an emotion which he had never before experienced, hastened towards him; but no sooner did the phantom meet his touch, than its substance seemed to fade away; its shining arms dropped off, and the knight perceived that he had folded å skeleton to his breast. he started, and unclosed his arms with horror! yet it fell not to the ground; but, waving in the air a bloody sword, which at first it had not weilded, it distinctly uttered, in a thin faint voice these words: . “ from this cold hand thou must receive this sword, ere i can be avenged, of thou restored!” and immediately vanished. the horror it had inspired awoke sir albert. a dewy chill had invaded his limbs;--for some moments he scarce durst raise his eyes, lest they should meet some shape of terror; and the fear which now possessed bis soul, was perhaps the more pain- ful to him, because it was the first time he had ever experienced its power. by degrees, he became sensible that it had no other : the cavern of death object than a dream; but though he then soon shook it off, yet still thé impression continued which that dream had made on his mind; and he was persuaded that it was some vision of mysterious import, and not any common creation of fancy, which had thus deeply moved him.. | the words of the apparition, who had so suddenly assumed a form so ghastly, still resounded in his ears; and he felt a strong conviction that some event of futurity would unfold to him their oracular meaning. he was unable to guess who the person should be whose spirit thus seemed to call for vengeance; yet he was sometimes inclined to suppose it might be the same whom popular report averred to have been murdered in the cavern of death. his thoughts were still wholly occupied by conjectures on this subject, when a message was brought to him from the bar- on, inviting him to breakfast with him in his apartment. he complied, and found the baron alone, and was received by him with the warmest expressions which courtesy could dictate. the compliments he paid to his character, and former heroic actions, were indeed such as gave pain rather than pleasure to sir albert, whose modesty was such as rendered all praises of himself extremely irksome to him. he therefore availed him self of the earliest opportunity to turn the discourse on other subjects, and readily answered such questions as the baron put to him, relative to the countries he had visited in his travels. he asked him, at last, of what place he was a native? “i was born in the city of prague, my lord,” returned the knight. “was your father, then a bohemian?" demanded the baron .: “it may seem strange, my lord,” replied sir albert, “to say, that i know not with any certainty what was my father's country: my mother, isabella von glatzdorff, was of one of the most ancient families in bohemia; but i lost both my parents too early to retain any recollection of them. i am only ac- quainted with their misfortunes, and my own share in them, from the report of an uncle, to whom i owed my education." “your words excite my curiosity," said the baron: "may i inquire what those misfortunes were, in which you were so early involved?" ::" i can relate the story but imperfectly, my lord,” returned the knight. my uncle, in his youth, assumed the cross, and engaged in the service of baldwin the second of jerusalem, at tha time much straitened by his enemies; and in the battle in whi :h that prince was unfortunately taken prisoner by the tui kish emir balac, he was generally reported to have been slai: ; but fate had reserved him for severer sufferings: he also had fallen alive into the power of the infidels, among whom he rem 'ned in a rigorous captivity during eleven years. at last the cavern of death. he contrived means to escape; but on his return to prague, when he expected to have been received with joy by his family, he experienced the most cruel disappointment. his parents, and his elder brother, were dead: the latter, believing him no more, had bequeathed all his estates to a distant relation, omit- ting to make any reservation in his favor, in the event of his return. his sister alone survived; but it was many days before he could discover the miserable place of her abode; and, when his search was at last successful, what were the feelings of his generous heart, when he found her bereft of reason, and sup- ported by the charity of strangers? from them he learned, that after the death of her parents, she had disobliged the brother on whom she was left dependent, by her marriage with rodolph von fahrenbach, a young stranger, of whom they could give no further account than that he had distinguished his valor in a contest with a bohemian nobleman, who also courted her favor; and that shortly after their marriage, he had quitted her, to en- gage in a crusade, in compliance with a vow he had made pre- vious to his acquaintance with her: that he had been absent two years: at the end of which time certain intelligence of his death was brought to her, the shock proved greater than she was able to support; it threw her into a delirious fever, from which, for many days, the utmost danger was apprehended; her life was however preserved, but her senses never returned to her. she had been for some months in this deplorable situation, when she was visited by her brother, who immediately took her .and me (who had not been born till after my father's departure) to his own house, when he employed every means for her re- covery which the advice of the ablest physicians could suggest; but his cares were unavailing; the deep melancholy which con- tinually preyed upon her mind, soon threw 'her into a decline; and within a year after his return, she died, the unhappy victim of despair. from that time, all the affection which my uncle had borne her, seemed transferred to me. he made many in- quiries after my father's family, wishing to obtain their protec- tion for me; but he could not discover in what part of germany they were settled. my mother, in a moment of frenzy, had destroyed all the letters she had received from my father, and indeed every memorial of him, except this ring, which you, nay lord, last night observed: it had been his first gift to her; and, till the latest moment of her life, she would never suffer it to be taken from her finger. but, if my uncle failed in discovering my other relations, he never permitted me to feel their loss. his income was small; but he abridged his own expenses, that he might be enabled to defray those of my education; and, as soon as i was at an age to bear arms, he led me himself into the paths of glory. unacquainted with my real father, i always the cavern of death. it were better it had never been exerted in my causo - life is only a blessing to the happy!” “and what unexpected calamity, my lord,” said sir albert. "can have rendered you otherwise? your perturbed looks, and many expressions which have fallen from you, lead me to apprehend some dreadful evil." " but for thee,” said lord frederic, " and i must endure the greatest; i must behold the mistress whom i love to distraction, in another's arms.” " and have you then felt the power of love, my lord?" cried the knight; but who is your fair mistress? and how can i preserve ber to you?” " before i disclose further, sir albert,” said the youth, “ you must solemnly promise me that you will assist my views." " it were unnecessary to bind myself by any promise," retur- ned he, “ since, without that additional tie, i shall undoubtedly act on this, and on every future occasion, as friendship and the laws of honor shall require of me.” · lord frederic pressed him further; but sir albert liked it not. his intimacy with that young nobleman had arisen, not from any similarity of sentiment or of temper, but solely from their having been companions in war; and it had assumed the name of friendship, since lord frederic, preserved by sir al- bert from the most imminent danger, and therefore considering him as the bravest of men, had eagerly courted his society, and had, on every occasion, professed for him the highest regard. when lord frederic found that he persisted in his refusal to engage himself by the promises he required, he at last ceased to insist on it, and, telling him that he would evince to him how great a dependence he placed on his friendship, he proceeded to relate the circumstances which had induced him to demand his aid. “thou mayst remember," said he that i was sent for by my father from the camp, in a manner which led me to conclude that he had some motive of importance for requiring my re- turn. i came hither by hasty journeys; and, on my arrival, was informed of his intended marriage, which i found he was desir- ous of communicating to me in person, lest, hearing of it from others, i might be induced to suppose my own interests endan- gered, and to attempt some opposition to his designs. i was the less surprised at this intelligence, because i knew, that, since the death of his other sons, it had been a constant subject of uneasiness to him to behold in•me the last of his race: i have heard that he suffered himself to be alarmed by some prophecy or dream, i know not particularly what, which had denounced some dreadful fate to his family, whenever one male should be the only survivor of it. he never clearly explained himself to me on this point; but he had often pressed my marriage with a the cavern of death. lin degree of earnestness which was very irksome to me, and had always appeared displeased at the invincible, reluctance i had discovered. when, therefore, he acquainted me with his wish to present me to the lady to whom he expected me to pay the duties of a son, i attended him to her abode, not without some satisfaction that he had rather chosen to offer her his own hand, than to attempt to compel me to give her mine. but how can i express to you, sir albert! the sadden change which the sight of this peerless beauty effected in my heart? that heart hith- erto so insensible, in a moment confessed the power of her irresistible charms. i had been too little interested in her to make any previous inquiries respecting her; i had not been even told she was fair: -judge, therefore if ever your temper, softer than my own, has felt the influence of beauty judge what were my emotions, when in her to whom i was introduced as to my future step-mother, i beheld the most lovely creature that the world certainly ever saw! with the idea of my father's wife, i had connected that of proportionable age; but her's ap- peared not to exceed my own. her form her eyes i cannot describe them, sir albert!--if my hopes in you deceive me not, i trust you will ere long behold her; and believe me, i do not mean to underrate your services, when i tell you that the sight of such charms were alone a recompense worthy of them. the only embellishment of which her beauty was capable, it received when i was presented to her; she was desired to consider me as the son of him to whom her hand was destined; she sighed as she regarded me; and her cheek, before almost colorless, was suffused with a blush, as she permitted me to take her hand, which, with an eagerness which banished from my remembrance every idea of the character in which the salute was permitted me, i pressed to my enraptured lips. she sighed inore deeply than before, and drew her hand suddenly from me; her eyes filled with tears, and she turned away.-i do not surely flatter myself, sir albert, when i impute these marks of sorrow to the impulse of sentiments with which my appearance had inspired her: she regretted that it was to my father, and not to myself, that she was promised; and it was her apprehension lest this emotion should be remarked by those in whose eyes it would be deemed a crime, which made her so hastily quit a situation in which, if i may judge from my own feelings, she would have found it so difficult to dissemble hers: it was probably fortu- nate for me that her discretion, or perhaps her timidity, exceed- ed mine: i should questionless have otherwise betrayed to her father and my own the new-born passion, which, as soon as i had recovered from that kind of trance into which the first view of her charms had thrown me, every motive so strongly urged me to conceal. yet i think some infatuation, rather than my dissimulation, must have so far blinded their eyes as to prevent the cavern of death. their discovering it i have reason to be persuaded it has'en- . tirely escaped their observation... :: to attain the possession of this incomparable fair, i would joyfully resign any riches, any honors; but the thought of be- holding her in the arms of another, of seeing her sacrificed to one whose age and gray hairs ought to have forbidden him to aspire to the possession of so lovely a maid-sir albert! it drives me to distraction! mad:ness will seize my brain, if thou deny me thy compassion.-dost thou hesitate? canst thou refuse to succor me?' "i most sincerely compassionate you, my lord!” returned the knight; " and i must grieve that you have resigned your soul to a passion which involves you in so many difficulties." . r it involves me in no difficulties," cried lord frederic eagerly, “ from which thou canst not extricate me.” ** is it in any plan for carrying off this lady,” said sir albert, " that you require my assistance? let me entreat you my lord, to consider coolly the peculiar circumstances in which " i " i have considered,” interrupted lord frederic; " and i know that there is but one possible means by which, without ruin- ing my fortune, i can attain the secure possession of my love. --it is to the baron of dornheim that her hand is promised by her ambitious parent.-could it be possible for me to elude his vigilance, and to steal hier from his castle, i might be well assur- ed that the estates of my incensed father never would be mine; but were that title, were those estates now mine-sir albert! canst thou term thyself my friend, and not recollect that thy hand might render them such?' sir albert started! he regarded lord frederic with a look of surprise and apprehension, and read on his gloomy brow the confirmation of the fears his words had suggested. “i would myself be baron of dornheim," said lord frederic," after a pause;“ dost thou not understand me?" " i dare not imagine i do," replied the knight, turning from him with horror. “hadst thou ever loved, sir albert!” resumed lord frederic, " thou wouldst have felt, that to know in any man a rival, suf- fices to obliterate from the mind every former sentiment with which he may have been regarded. i see thou hast understood me; that thou knowest i wish my rival removed, and that thou art shocked at the idea of the relationship he bears me: but he is not thy father!—i mean not to lift my own arm against him ; but thou—thou, who art my friend, and who art bound to him by no tie of kindred or of duty-when thou considerést that the whole future happiness of my life depends on this short antic- ipation of the fate which his years announce cannot be far dis- tant-" " what have you ever observed in my character, my lord,” • the cavern of death. said sir albert, looking sternly round, "which can authorise you to offer me this insult? am i an assassin ?". " “do not suppose me capable of insulting you, my friend!. returned lord frederic; “i know your high sense of honor; and trust me, i would employ your valor in no enterprize in: worthy of it. could the baron be surprised at any disadvan- tage, i should never have had recourse to your arm; among my own followers, i could have found those who would faithfully have executed my purpose. but that were impossible-he nev- er, even for a moment, is alone. i know not what is his motive; i have not heard that he has any enemy of whose designs he is apprehensive; yet his conduct is such as might induce such a supposition. throughout the day, some of his attendants are always with him; and at night, a priest and two domestics, con- stantly sleep in his chamber. this circumstance, as you will perceive, must render vain every hope of surprising him; and, if he has leisure to defend himself, your prowess only were a match for his. in his youth, you may have heard he was a war- rior of the first renown; nor has age yet unnerved his arm. know you would scorn to contend with an enemy of inferior might; but be assured, my friend" “call me no longer such!” cried sir albert; “ i disclaim the friendship of a parricide!” . - lord frederic was provoked at the reproach; but, having already so far put himself in sir albert's power, he durst not express his indignation, but rather sought, by new entreaties, to bend nim to his purpose. "were my love less ardent,” said he, “my schemes would be less desperate; but who, under the dominion of so irresistible'a passion, could forbear the only means of attaining that felicity, which otherwise, within three short days, must be forever placed beyond his reach? if i loved a meaner beauty, it might perhaps be possible i should resign her; but who that adored the lady constance" " constance!” exclaimed sir albert, starting wildly: “ is it constance?" “ constance of hertzwald, is the lady destined to my father's arms,” returned lord frederic, “ if thou refuse, in pity to her and to thy friend, to rescue her youthful charms from such a sa- crifice, and to give her to a lover more wofthy to enjoy them!” “ and does the lady constance return thy love?” said sir albert, trembling, and scarcely able to pronounce the ques- tion. “i cannot doubt it,” replied lord frederic: "i have never indeed received from her lips the transporting assurance, since i have never been able to obtain an interview with her but in my father's presence; but one of her women, who is my only con- fidant, assures me that she is very averse to the marriage pro- posed, and that many circumstances have rendered it very evi- i the cavern of death. dent that she secretly loves another. that i was the man so blest, i durst not positively assure myself till the last time i vis- ited her father's castle; but then, her looks, her whole demean- or, where such as it were impossible to misinterpret. she seem- ed unable to avert her eyes from my person; yet if i, or any other, appeared to notice the earnestness with which she re- garded me, she was covered with confusion; and many times a sigh escaped her, which still more strongly spoke the tender sentiments which occupied her soul.” while lord frederic was thus speaking, the countenance of sir albert was flushed with a thousand conflicting passions. twice he laid his hand upon his sword; and twice, even amid the transports of jealous fury, he recollected that he was the guest of him on whom he would have drawn it; that he was him- self armed, and that his rival was not-he recollected, and he was master of the emotion. « we may meet again, lord frederic!” cried he— if we do, remember that we meet no more as friends!” and, as he spoke, he turned from him, and walked with hasty strides towards the thickest shades of the forest. lord frederic, astonished at his demeanor, for which, igno- rant that he had ever seen the lady constance, he could assign no adequate cause, stood for a moment surprised. he would then have called him back; but sir albert only quickened his pace,-fired with rage, he would then have followed him, to demand an explanation of his words, and still more of the men- acing air with which they had been uttered; but he was now lost among the trees, and lord frederic sought him in vain. sir albert, meantime, careless whither he went, walked on. when he had reached a part of the forest considerably distant from the spot where he had left lord frederic, he threw him- self heavily on the grass, and adandoned liis soul to the des- ponding thoughts which the discourse he had heard suggested to him. "lord frederic is then beloved by constance!” said he to himself: “ the modest maid, whose eyes were cast down if mine too fondly gazed upon her, has looked on him with tenderness! false changeful constance! yet why do i accuse her? what right had i to her affection? what encouragement did she ever afford to my hopes? to the love which i never avowed to her, what return could i expect? sir albert continued to dwell on this idea with infinite anguish, and would gladly have given years of his future life to recall .but a few of the moments which he had formerly passed in the presence of constance, when certain of her indifference to every other, his heart had secretly flattered him she was not without some prepossession, in his favor, and had not his gener- osity forbidden him every attempt to improve that prepossession, the cavern of death. be might possibly have gained the love, of which one whose black and murderous designs rendered him so unworthy of her, now boasted that he was the object. by degrees, as sir albert repeated to himself lord frederic's words, a faint hope arose in his breast, that the confidence with which that fierce youth had spoken of the favor of constance, might have little other foundation than his own vanity; but the satisfaction which this idea afforded him, was almost instantly lost in the recollection, that, whatever might be the state of her affections, the baron of dornheim was within three days to receive her hand. he started from the ground, and stood for some moments almost bereſt of thought and reason. a wish presently rushed upon his mind, to see her once more ere that fatal event forever tore her from his hopes. animated by this design, he walked on; but he knew not which path would lead him to the castle of hertzwald, and in that wild forest he had little chance of meeting with any one from whom he could obtain directions. he was provoked, to think that he might possibly have taken a road which would lead him a contrary way from that which he intended; yet he still walked on. at last he descried some turrets through the trees: but much was he disappointed, when, on a nearer approach, he knew them for those of dornheim. he turned away with hor. ror from the abode of his rivals, and struck into another path; in which fortunately he had not proceeded far, when he per- ceived a peasant before him. he hastened to overtake him, and inquired the road to the castle of hertzwald. the man was himself going part of the way thither, and offered to be bis guide. as they walked together, the peasant asked sir albert many questions; but his answers were short, and often foreign to the purpose: yet when his conductor demanded of him where he meant to lodge that night, it suddenly occurred to him, that in the event of his not being so fortunate that day as to obtain an interview with the lady constance, it would be his wish to remain in the forest till the next; and he asked the peasant wheth- er he dwelt near, ‘and would afford him a lodging in his cottage? the peasant replied, that he dwelt not far from the spot where they first had met; and readily agreed to give him such accom- modation as he was able. they soon came within sight of the castle of hertzwald: sir albert parted frorn his guide, and pro- ceeded towards it. he knew but little of the father of the lady constance, who during the time of his former acquaintance with her, had been absent on a journey, and her mother, with whom she had then resided at prague, was since dead. he was hesitating what motive he should assign for his visit, when he observed a do- mestic at the gate: of him he asked some questions, and learned from his answers, that the baron of dornheim was at that time the cavern of death. at the castle, and was to dine there. this intelligence was sufficient to deter sir albert from seeking admittance till after his departure; for he felt that it would be impossible for him to command his emotions in the presence of his rival. he there- fore quitted the gate, and determined to wait in the vicinity of the castle till the evening. he began to walk to and fro, often looking wistfully up at the windows, wishing he could know which were those of the apartment of constance. at last, the reflection that he might be observed by the do- mestics, and incur suspicion, induced him to quit the front of the castle, and turn into a path which wound behind it. the castle of hertzwald was much inferior in size and strength to that of dornheim: pleasure, rather than defence appeared to have been the object of its founder. a magnificent garden lay behind it, fenced from the forest by a high wall, surrounded with battlements. sir albert walked on under this wall, with no other view than to pass away the time till the departure of his rival, whose happiness mean while, in enjoying the presence of the lady constance, distracted his soul with jealous pangs. at an angle of the wall was erected a square turret, of which the windows looked out upon the forest. sir albert was passing by it, when a voice caught his ear. he looked up; and a win- dow being open, he could distinguish two female figures in the chamber within; but their faces were not turned towards him. with an involuntary curiosity he approached nearer; and could then hear, that she who spoke was endeavoring to comfort the other, who was weeping violently, and with many of the argu- ments so unavailing to those whose affliction is real, was urging her to restrain her tears.: “suffer me to weep!” returned at last a gentle voice- it was the voice of constance; and the heart of sir albert instantly acknowledged the sound. .." you have never yet, madam,” rejoined the other, “so to- tally resigned yourself to grief as you do this day.” this is perhaps the last time,” replied constance, " when i may be permitted to indulge my sorrows. hitherto, indeed, they have been mitigated by a faint hope that i might be able to move my father's heart, and to obtain at least a little longer res- pite from this dreaded marriage; but now that hope is lost!” " but, if this marriage be indeed so hateful to you, madam,” said the other, “why will you submit to it?" “ alas! elinor,” cried constance,“ how canst thou ask me such an idle question? have i not already done all that maiden modesty would permit me, to avoid it? have i left any means untried to gain my father from his purpose? have not my un- wearied supplications repeatedly awakened his fiercest anger, and provoked him to treat me with a harshness, which, but a few months since, i could not have supposed i should have sur- * the cavern of death. vived? thou knowest how little he regards my tears; and if to-day i have obtained this small indulgence to withdraw myself from the bạron's presence, i have owed it rather to the fear lest he should too plainly perceive, by my demeanor, my reluc- tance to the marriage, than to any pity for my sufferings: but the baron does know my reluctance to the marriage. i one · day collected sufficient boldness to avow it to him, in the hope, that, if his soul were capable of any generous feelings, he would of his own accord reject the hand of a maiden whose heart was averse to him; but i soon found that i have judged too 'highly of him; and that the only effect of my avowal was, that he pres- sed the marriage with greater eagerness than before, lest delay should afford me time to devise some means of escaping it.” “ and i still think, madam,” said, elinor, “that those means might be found. you are not watched—why should you not fly from the castle?” and whither should i fly?" returned constance. . " were any place of refuge open to me, thou mayest assure thyself i should be watched. what friend have i, in whose protection i could trust? in what convent should i find a secure, asylum, should the baron of dornheim require me to be given up ? thou knowest how far his power extends. and what dangers more dreaded than death might i not apprehend, should i, an helpless maiden, encounter singly the terrors of this wild forest?” “i must entreat you, madam,” said elinor, " to forgive me for what i am about to say: the interest i feel in your concerns could alone urge me to a question, which i trust you will be too well assured of my attachment, to ascribe to impertinence or curiosity. the baron of dornheim is not indeed a man who could ever have been very likely to gain your love; but yet, pardon me if i imagine, that, so submissive as you have ever hitherto been to the will of your father, you would not, in this only instance, have expressed so much reluctance to obey him, had not your aversion to the alliance proposed, originated in some stronger motive than any personal dislike to your suitor. may i then avow to you the suspicion which i have long en- tertained, that, ha:) your affections not been otherwise engaged, the baron of dornheim would more easily have obtained your hand? and may i presume to solicit you to repose in me a con- fidence, of which you might be assured my fidelity were worthy, which would certainly greatly ease your mind, and might pos- sibly enable me to render you some' service?"- ;' elinor paused and the lady constance did not immediately return an answer. at last," if i had hitherto confined such a secret within my breast,” said she, were this a moment to declare it?"... “ this were the only moment,” returned elinor; “ another may not be allowed you!”:: · the cavern of death. . . . - thou sayest true!” said constance, bursting afresh into tears: “after to-morrow-heavens!, what a thought-after to- morrow, it will be criminal to recollect that ever i have seen hiin?" “i have then judged rightly,” cried elinor; “ but, madam, since you have avowed thus far, may i not ask further, to whom is it that your affections are so deeply engaged?”. " and what would it avail to tell thee?" returned con- stance;" i cannot! my lips dare not pronounce his name.” “will you permit me to name him, madam?” said the dam- sel. " thou canst 'not,” cried constance. " and yet i have at times fancied i had discovered him," rejoined elinor. “ heavens! exclaimed constance,” and how have i then be- trayed myself? what unguarded expression has ever escaped me?" "your lips, madam,” returned the damsel, “ have indeed never betrayed you; but of the language of your eyes you have been less conscious—when last lord frederic was here, you looked at him with an earnestness"- "is it possible i should have been observed?” cried constance: “o! elinor, durst i have spoken to lord frederic! could i but have asked him one question! i had once almost collec- ted sufficient courage; but i met my father's eye, and i dreaded lest i should inspire him with any suspicion. methought, could i have spoken with lord frederic apart"-- sir albert listened, and the paleness of despair overspread his cheek, " it would not be difficult to find an opportunity of speaking with lord frederic,” said elinor;—“ many such”-'. ." will occur in the castle of dornheim," said constance im- patiently; but it will be then too late. i cannot, it is true, give my heart to the baron; but never, when my hand shall be his, will i indulge it in any voluntary recollection of another-yet, could i but know he lived!!! “who. lived, madam?” cried elinor; of whom are you speaking ? : “didst thou observe the casque lord frederic wore that day?” said constance. “of which the crest was a dragon with expanded wings?” demanded elinor.' · “i would i could know,” said constance,“ how that casque came into his possession?" “ and in what manner could that interest you?” rejoined the damsel. sir albert listened more eagerly than before. the cavern of death. overcome with joy at this unexpected meeting, sir albert spoke freely of the love which, for so many years, he had buried in unbroken silence; and the lady constance, forgetful of the reserve which had formerly induced her to reject even his most distant courtesies, acknowledged the affection with which he had long since inspired her heart. she was, however, the first who awoke from this dream of transport; she recollected- her situation, and burst into tears.--he eagerly demanded their cause. .“ alas!” cried she, “ we have only met, that we may the more severely feel the pain of our eternal saparation!” “never!” exclaimed he;“ never, my constance! shalt thou be torn from me!” “but how,” said she “can i escape the dreadful fate to which they destine me?" “ fly from their power?" returned sir albert: “ this arm shall shield you from pursuit! it is not my own interest,” pursued he, which could ever have induced me to urge you to such a step.. i know the delicacy of your mind; and i know how un- availing the splendor of the situation to which the baron of dorn- heim could raise you, would be to constitute your felicity.-i can oifer you no riches; nor would i, even at this moment, my ador- • ed constance, ask your hand, could i any otherwise than by re- ceiving it, be entitled to the character of your protector.” the lady constance listened, and her heart acknowledged the generosity of those sentiments, of which the former conduct of sir albert had left her no room to doubt the sincerity: yet she hesitated to comply. never had she hitherto disobeyed her father; unless it had been by the involuntary affection she entertained for him whose merits deserved her tenderest love, but whose situation, she well knew, would preclude him from any chance of his favor. and now to fly the marriage enforced by his commands, and to give her hand in opposition to his will;—she was alarmed at the idea, and her strict sense of duty forbade her to consent. but elinor, who had hitherto taken no part in the discourse, now interposed, and in the strongest terms, supported the proposal of sir albert. she urged every excuse which the peculiar situation of the lady constance offered for her compliance; reminded her in how short a time her escape from the baron would be impossible; and placed before her in the most odious colors, every circumstance of the projected marriage, which she knew inspired her with the greatest dread. against these arguments, against the persuasions of sir al- bert, and the pleadings of her own heart in his favor, the lady constance was unable to defend herself;-she yielded to their force, and consented to entrust herself to the protection of her lover. transported at her compliance, he would have had her instantly throw herself from the window where she stood, which the cavern of death. was not so high but that she might have done it without danger; for he was anxious to avail himself of the present moment, as well because he feared lest she should recede from her inten- tions, as because many circumstances might intervene to render her escape, at any future time, less easy. but elinor earnest- ly dissuaded her from this; she said that many of the baron's attendants were wandering in the forest, awaiting the time of his departure; and she was urging many other difficulties, when sir albert himself recollected a circumstance which obliged him to give up the idea; he had left his horses at the castle of dorn- heim; and it was impossible for constance to proceed so far on foot as to the nearest town where others might be procured. he therefore concurred in the arrangement proposed by eli nor, who offered, when all the family should be retired to rest, to admit him into the garden, towards which looked the cham: ber of the lady constance, who, on seeing him, should let her- self down from the window, and should be conveyed by him to his horse. elinor entreated that she might be the companion of her flight; to which she, with much satisfaction, agreed. it afterwards, however, occurred to the damsel that it would be better if sir albert had the key of the garden, and were to ad- mit himself; since then she need not quit her mistress at the moment when her presence might be of so much avail to sup-.. port her spirits, and confirm her resolution; she could not at that time go in quest of it, because it lay in the room in which the baron of dornheim was entertained; but, as soon as he should quit the castle, she said she could easily possess herself of it; and she requested sir albert to tell her where he might be found by her, when she should bring it to him. he describ- ed the situation of the cottage of the peasant who had offered him à lodging: and there she promised he should see her soon after sunset. after a little further discourse between him and the lady con- stance, which they terminated by the interchange of the most solemn promises of affection and fidelity, the necessity of his hastening to recover his horses, or to procure others in their stead, obliged him to tear himself from her. ere he departed, she drew a white plume from her hair, and threw it to him from the window. “wear this in your casque,” said she: “i shall distinguish it by the light of the moon; and i shall fly without apprehension of mistake, to the only protector in whom i would confide?" sir albert kissed the plume, and placed it in his casque. “may i ever give you cause to continue that confidence in me, my beloved constance!''cried he:-“and be assured that i shall value this pledge of your affection more highly than my life. good angels guard you till we meet again! -till we meet!- transporting thought !-to part no more!” the cavern of death. place a full confidence in the interest she had expressed in her mistress's concerns. the assertion of lord frederic, that one of the damsels of the lady constance was in his pay, had not,. in those moments of joy, recurred to his memory; nor, though it had, would sir albert ever have suspected that damisel to be elinor. yet elinor had for some time been won by the gifts of lord frederic, to convey to him private intelligence of every confidence her mistress reposed in her. she had hitherto flat- tered him with the persuasion, that the lady constance slighted his father on account of the preference she felt for himself; and it was with a view of leading her to an avowal of this ihat she had begun the conference, which contrary to her hopes, had drawn from her the confession of her love for sir albert. dis- appointed by this, and still more by his sudden appearance, elinor had only listened to the discourse which ensued between them, with a view of betraying their mutual interests to lord frederic; and, having formed a scheme which she was persuad- ed would be very acceptable to him, she possessed herself of the key, and set out, not for the cottage where sir albert awaited her, but for the castle of dornheim. she was closely veiled, lest any of the domestics of the baron should know that she belong- ed to the lady constance; and, as it had been her custom in former visits she had made there, she inquired for one whom she knew to be particularly attached to lord frederic, by whom she was immediately and privately, conducted to his chamber. . . on his return from following sir albert, he had found that his father was gonc to the castle of hertzwald, whither himself had received no invitation; and he had passed the day alone, freely indulging the wild distraction of his mind, and forming new schemes of violence. -at the entrance of elinor, his counte- nance was brightened by a gleam of hope; and he eagerly asked her what news she brought him? “such, my lord,” returned she, “as i trust when you shall have heard it all, you will deem deserving of some thanks: but the first circumstance i must impart to you, will be little wel- come-you have a rival, hitherto unthought of.". ." who?—what rival?” exclaimed he. “let me first, my lord,” said the damsel, "request you to tell me whence you obtained the casque you wore when last you visited our castle?” “i had it from a knight in the imperial service," replied lord frederic: "he lent it to me once, when i was sent upon. a sudden expedition: i liked it-was lighter than my own;-and i gave him another in exchange for it.--but what of that casque?” “was that knight narned albert, my lord?” demanded elinor. “he was,” returned lord frederic. : the cavern of death. " then know in him," said she, “the favored lover of the lady constance." lord frederic started from his seat in fury; he recollected the e.. manner in which his conference with sir albert had terminated ez in the morning, and he wondered he had not before discovered what he was now so incensed to learn. his rage vented itself in many horrid iniprecations; and scarcely could elinor re- strain him from going instantly in quest of the rival, on whom * he thirsted to avenge himself. "were you more calm, my lord,” said she, “i could direct c: you to a surer vengeance than your sword could give you." "what vengeance," cried lord frederic: “tell me of ven- el geance, and i will listen to thee.”. "this night,” returned elinor, “sir albert is to steal away the lady constance. i know not whether she would have con- tsented to this measure, had not i persuaded her: but i over- came her scruples; and i have promised to admit him into the garden, where she is to meet him. " thou, elinor!"' exclaimed lord frederic: " is this the friendship thou didst promise me?" "i shall leave that to your own decision, my lord,” replied she. “here is the key of the garden-gate; and here is a white plume, which if you place in the front of your casque, constance will fly to you as to sir albert, and you may beår her whither . you will."" die “my excellent elinor?” cried he: “in this device i recog- nize thy genius. this will indeed avenge me on them both! * “nor is this all, my lord,” resumed the damsel-“when . once before, unsuspicious of this pre-occupation of her heart, i would have counselled you to propose to the lady constance a flight with you, to avoid the marriage to which i knew she on was averse, you objected the detriment which might arise to your own fortunes, from an action which would so greatly irri- tate your father.” b "i care not for that now,” exclaimed the impetuous youth: "i would sacrifice my fortunes, nay my life, rather than miss this po glorious opportunity." i “but you need endanger neither, my lorc!,” returned the damsel-" i have offered to attend the lady constance in her ' flight; let me therefore return the following inorning to the cas- tle, and i will throw the imputation on sir albert, with such circumstances as shall not only prevent any suspicion from fast- mening on you, but shall determine .both her father and your u own to wreak on him the rage which the wrong they will sup- i pose him to have done them will inspire.” however satisfactory elinor-had' imagined the plot she had ed thus treacherously laid, would prove to lord frederic, his transports still exceeded her expectations. he promised her the cavern of death, tho most boundless rewards, and as an earnest of them, pre- sented her with a rich jewel he wore on his finger. , she then quitted him, and hastened to the cottage, where sir albert had long waited in anxious expectation of her. when he saw her approach, he went hastily out to meet her, and demand- ed whether she had brought him the promised key? “alas! no, sir!” returned she, with a well-dissembled con- cern," the lady constance has sent me the reluctant bearer of a message, which, i fear, will greatly disappoint, you: it will be impossible for her this night to leave the castle.” impossible!” exclaimed sir albert: “o elinor! what cruel tidings dost thou bring me! will constance violate her prom- ise?" : "not willingly, valiant sir!" replied the damsel;“ nor indeed are you to consider this any other than a short delay of a measure in which her happiness is, if possible, more concerned than your own. to-morrow night you may assure yourself she will be yours." “but why not to-night?” cried he. “sir,” answered elinor, " when, after the baron's departure, i went in quest of the key, i found that it had been removed from its customary place, and the lady constance soon learned, with great disquietude, that her father was gone from home on some sudden business, and that, uncertain at what hour he might re- turn, he had taken with him the key of the garden, meaning to readmit himself that way, without obliging his family to watch for him.” “but if he has taken the key,” cried sir albert impatiently, why cannot i scale the wall?". : “ alas! sir," replied she," and do you not then consider the danger of his returning at the moment to surprise you? should he meet you in your flight with the lady constance, what but eternal ruin to your hopes could be the consequence? he would certainly attempt to force her from you; and, should you defend her, think what would be her sensations should her father fall by you. hand!” : sir albert was by no means disposed to content himself with this delay of his hopes, but elinor said so much, and with such an appearance of a sincere attachment to his interests, that he was at last obliged to submit, and to consent to wait till the fol- lowing night. the damsel promised to revisit him in the morn- ing, to bring him word whether he might safely attempt another conference with the lady constance during the course of the day, and likewise to arrange with him finally the mode of her escape. she then quitted him, and went back to the castle of hertzwald; when to her mistress, who had longed for her return, she accounted for the length of her absence, by feigning that sir albert had detained her with innumerable questions respecting the cavern of deatii. her towards the gate of the garden, where a confidential servant was waiting with two fleet horses. he vaulted on one, taking before him in his arms his lovely and unsuspecting prize: his servant, in the same manner, took charge of elinor: and apply- ing spurs to their horses, they sat out with the utmost speed. · meantime the real sir albert, little imagining for what pur- pose his name and crest had been assumed, had sat for some time, after the damsel had left him, indulging his disappointment at the message she had treacherously brought him. maurice was not yet returned with the horses: sir albert wished for his arrival, that he might have with him one to whom he could speak freely on the subject which occupied him; and at last, impatient- ly rising, he walked forth into the forest, where for awhile he strolled, disquieting himself with inventing new obstacles which might arise to prevent the accomplishment of his hopes on the morrow. the night was now set in, and its shades seemed to offer some relief to the trouble of sir albert; for they revived in his memory the reflections which had agitated his mind, when, at a similar hour, he had traversed that part of the forest the preceding night; and when he recollected how invaluable he should then have thought the certainty which he now possessed, · of the love of constance, he was ashamed of having so far suf- fered the delay of the promise, which she still meant to fulfil; to prey upon his peace: he endeavored to divest himself of every desponding fear, and earnestly recommended the object of his affoctions to the protection of every saint and holy angel. he then recollected, that, by wandering at so late an hour, he was detaining from rest the peasant to whose courtesy he was indebted for a lodging; but he had attended so little to his way, that he was at a loss to determine which path, would lead him back to his cottage. he was still hesitating, when he de. scried at some distance, a light, glimmering through the trees. he hastened towards it; but soon perceived that it was brighter than could proceed from a candle in a peasant's window. still he advanced:-it seemed to recede before him. surprised and struck with some emotion of dread, he still followed it; when suddenly it sunk into the earth, and sir albert perceived that he was at the mouth of the cavern of death. his dream, the strange accounts he had received at the castle of dornheim, and the determination he had formed to explore the mysteries of that dismal place, of which the various events of the day had suspended the remembrance, now rushed at once upon his mind; the disappointment which had prevented his quitting the forest that night, now appeared to him the interpo- sition of that destiny which had reserved him for the discovery of some dire secret; and he resolved immediately -to attempt the adventure, to which the inward presages of his soul so strong- ly impelled him the cavern of death. the night was not dusk; but, in that spot, the thick shadow of the trees diffused a gloom through which objects were scarce discernible; yet a few gleams of light were reflected by a nar- row but rapid stream, which having its source in the innermost part of the cavern, forced its passage through the rocks, a little below the only entrance it presented to human feet. that en-" trance, for many years untrod, was half overgrown by briars, amid which screamed the birds of night. sir albert attempted to separate the branches; but the want of a light embarrassed him; and, but a few paces beyond the mouth of the cavern, the darkness was total. he judged it necessary to return to the peasant's cottage to procure a torch: as he now knew in what part of the forest he was, he found the way thither without diffi- culty. at the door he was met by maurice, who was arrived then with his horses, and who had wondered at his absence, knowing that it was already the 'hour at which he had appointed to repair to the castle of hertzwald. sir albert acquainted him with the alteration that had taken place in his schemes, and with his intention to enter immediately the cavern of death. maurice heard him with visible consternation, and would have remonstra- ted; but sir albert interrupted him "be satisfied," said he,“ that i require not thee to follow me. wert thou less superstitiously fearful, thy company on such an adventure, would to myself diminish the sensation of awe with which my mind is even painfully impressed; but coward as thou art, thou couldst afford me no assistance. remain here with my horses, and await my return.--if no evil befall me, thou shalt see me ere the morning dawn." . . he then went into the cottage, and demanded a torch. when the peasant heard the purpose for which he required it, he ex- pressed the same horror which was visible in the countenances of all in whose presence the cavern of death was named. “ alas! valiant sir!” cried he, “ what desperate project have you formed? no human being has ever entered it, and return- ed to the regions of the living." sir albert continued unshaken in his resolution. the peas- ant reluctantly gave him, a torch, and he returned alone to the mouth of the cavern. . when he reached it, he again attempted to disentangle the briars which obstructed his entrance; but finding it difficult, he drew his sword, and with that soon opened himself a passage. the birds, which had long been accustomed to roost undisturb- ed among their branches, now roused, flew out in such num- bers, that sir albert found it necessary to retire a few steps, lest, as they all made towards the light, the motion of their wings should extinguish his torch. when they were dispersed, he again advanced; and finding the passage now clear, he com- * the cavern of death. mended himself to the protection of his tutelary saint, and en tered the cavern. for a few paces he proceeded with his sword still drawn; but his path soon became so difficult, by rea- son of the large fragments of the broken rocks over which he was obliged to climb, that he found it necessary to sheath it, that he might be at liberty to assist himself with his hand; and indeed of no encounter with such ehemies as it might avail against, had he, in that place, any apprehension. as he advanced, the horrors of the cavern seemed to deepen. the chill damp air froze the current of his blood: the silence was only broken, at distant intervals, by droppings from the roof, encrusted with half congealed vapors. at every step he trod more lightly; and if sometimes his foot slid upon a smooth and slippery stone, his heart at the sound beat with a quicker motion. by degrees, he approached the bed of the subterra- neous stream which he had observed issuing near the mouth of the cavern; and the death-like stillness of the place was inter- rupted by the noise of its current, first, murmuring at a distance, then, as his path wound nearer to it, roaring with impetuous fury over the rough rocks which obstructed its course. · sir albert now found himself obliged to stoop, for the roof was too low to permit him to walk upright. he advanced, and it became still lower; but, after he had proceeded a few steps on his hands and knees, it suddenly widened, and he found him- self in a spacious and lofty part of the cavern; though neither of its extent nor height could he form any accurate judgment, for its bounds were lost in impenetrable darkness. in that thick and obscure air, his torch cast no light but on the hand which bore it. only when he climbed the stecp banks which overhung the stream, the white foam of its waters enabled him to trace its course, where it.fell from a high rock in a broken cataract. the deafening noise of the torrent filled the soul of sir albert with an unknown horror: he descended precipitately from the bank; and retreated to a rock, which seemed on one side the boundary of the cavern; against which he leaned, while his im- agination, unrelieved by any visible object, and wholly occupied in the recollection of his dream, was left at liberty to represent him, now, the hideous phantoin hovering in the dusky air, and now, the fleshless warrior, shunning his embrace, and waving high the fatal sword. sir albert did not long give way to these visionary fears, but strove by reflection to recall the firmness, which, at no mo- ment of real danger, ever had forsaken him. he was ashamed of his weakness; and recollecting that no circumstance which could aụthoriso it had as yet occurred, he withdrew his arm from the rock, and would have proceeded to explore farther when he felt himself suddenly drawn back;-his heart gave a fearful beat; he turned his head with perturbation, but saw nothing the cavern of death. - near him; he looked eagerly on all sides, and at last, concluding his own terror had deceived him, he would again have advanced from that spot, when again he felt himself drawn back; and in- stantly a form, to which even his fancy could assign no certain shape, fitted by him through a chasm in the rock, which the darkness had before prevented his observing, but which, when he approached it, opened to his view a long narrow passage, leading downwards with a steep descent, at the further extremi- ty of which he descried a small red flame; it resembled the dog- star, when he sets bloodily in a misty horizon. . sir albert now summoned all his resolution, and descended the path.-hitherto, the ground on wbich he had trodden had been hard and rocky; but now, at every step his feet sunk into a loose dry sand. guided by the flame, which grew larger and brighter as he advanced, he soon reached a small and nearly circular vault, entirely illuminated by its radiance; and beyond this no further path appeared. in this spot, thus supernaturally pointed out to him, sir al- bert was persuaded he was to meet the conclusion of the adven- ture. he crossed himself, and implored the protection of the holy angels; then, fixing his eyes on the flame, which hung in the air considerably above his head, he observed that it darted downwards, in a spiral ray, on a spot where the sand rosc in a little hillock: and he heard around him a faint sound, like the fluttering of distant pinions. he regarded the hillock, and ob- served somewhat glittering beneath the surface: he stooped, and removing a little of the sand, discovered the blade of a sword; but what were his emotions, when he perceived that the hilt was grasped by the dry cold hand of a skeleton! the words of the phantom who had visited him in his sleep, were instantly present to his remembrance: and he dropped kneeling on the earth. “yes, injured spirit?” exclaimed he; “thou whom i know not by what name to address, but who hast questionless led mo hither, and art now invisibly present to my invocation! i receive thy gift! and i swear to allow myself no rest, till the vengeance shall be completed, in which, though by what mysterious con- nexion as yet i comprehend not, thou hast taught me to believe my own destiny involved!” "as he uttered these words, with an awe which half checked ‘his voice, he extended his hand to take the sword; and instant- ly at his touch, the bony fingers which held it unclosed them- selves, and left it in his grasp. at the same moment the flame, with a vivid flash, disappeared; and a sudden whirlwind arising extinguished the torch, and involved sir albert in an eddy of the sand. his soul, already worked up to the highest pitch of horror, . now fainted within him; and he sunk on the ground, almost the cavern of death. as lifeless as the ghastly form which lay beside him. he con- tinued for some time devoid of all sensation; and, when his recollection returned to him, as he unclosed his eyes in total darkness, he felt that his hand was laid on that of the skeleton. he drew it back with hasty terror.-he ågain made an effort to recover his fortitude; and, rising, he listened to the rushing of the torrent, and hoped, by following that sound, to find the passage between the rocks by which he had entered that recess. but suddenly it was rendered visible to him by a light which streamed through it from the outer part of the cavern. he ap- proached, and perceived several lights moving in different direc- tions across the further entrance; and he imagined he heard the steps of feet, and the clash of arms; when, in an instant, a cry of horror, uttered by many united voices, assailed his ear; and amid the inarticulate shrieks of some, he could distinguish that others, exclaimed, “ blood! a cataract of blood.” the cavern now shook from its foundations, and the voices were at once lost in a crash, which seemed as if the whole frame of nature were violently rent asunder. the sound was rever- berated from the hollow sides of the cavern in repeated echos, which by degrees died away, and again no noise was heard, be- side the rushing of the torrent. the lights had disappeared, yet still a faint glimmering re- mained, which enabled sir albert to discern the passage. still grasping the fatal sword, he now reascended his former path, and, on issuing out into the open part of the cavern, he per- ceived that the glimmering he had observed was that of a torch, which lay unextinguished on the ground. rejoiced to recover a light, he took it up, and soon discovered that the violent noise he had heard, had been occasioned by the fall of a huge frag- ment of the rock, under which, on a further examination, he perceived the mangled bodies of two men, whom its enormous weight had crushed. struck with new horror, he was regarding these wretched victims, when he heard behind him a deep and agonizing groan.-he started!-and after some interval, it was repeated. he turned, and looking round, he at last descried an armed figure, lying prostrate on the earth. -as he approached him, this unknown person groaned again. “who art thou?" cried sir albert, bending over to regard him; ". and what purpose led thee hither?” the stranger, at the sound of a human voice, half raised his head, and discovered to sir albert the features of the baron of dornheim?--astonished, and scarcely crediting his eyes, he stood for a moment silent; while the baron, on beholding him, shrunk aghast! and again turning his face to the earth, lifted up his arm, as if to shroud himself from the view of some terrific object. the cavern of deat' ; "whither wouldst thou drag me, avenging spirit?” exclaim- ed he, with a faint and trembling voice. sir albert, accosting him by his name, demanded to whom he addressed himself, and what had thus strangely agitated him; but to all his questions he returned such disordered answers, as induced the knight to believe that distraction had seized him.. at last the baron, with a sudden start, again raised his head, and leaning on his arm, regarded sir albert with a fixed hor- ror. “why do you thus wildly gaze on me?”' cried the knight, do you not know me?" .." know thee!” exclaimed the baron; "ah! too well i know thee! and that sword? the moment threatened by the phan- tom is arrived, and already is my family extinguished on the earth!” “my lord!” said sir albert, " these words bear no common meaning; and circumstanced as i am, they concern me too near- ly to suffer me to forbear insisting on an explanation of them. rise! and prepare immediately to answer the demand which the events of this night sufficiently authorise me to make." the baron rose, as if awed by some power he durst not dis- obey; but presently starting with new affright-"yon ghastly vision!” exclaimed be; “that crimson torrent-save me hide me from the vic: “these are the terrors of guilt my lord!” cried sir albert; ". and vainly would you strive to escape the visions created by your own accusing conscience." i “ vainly indeed!" replied the baron--"yet, if thou wouldst hear the dire disclosure i must make to thec, in pity lead me from this scene of horror!-here i cannot !-it is impossible?- they haunt me—the dæmons of vengeance haunt me, and the unappeased spirit of the dead hovers around me, and urges them to seize their prey!”. sir albert saw, that in effect his mind was too 'much disor- dered to permit him to make any connected narration in that dreary place, which impressed with dismay the heart even of the innocent; and he led the way towards the mouth of the cavern while the baron followed him with unsteady steps.. they were in the narrowest part of their passage, when the light of sir albert's torch was reflected by the gleam of armour; he looked, and beheld a man half hid in a cavity of the rook. on finding himself discovered, the stranger came forth trembling, and falling on his knees, petitioned for his life. the knight demanded wherefore he had sought to conceal himself? he ac- knowledged that he was one of the vassals of the baron of dorn- heim, by whom he had been brought into the cavern to assassi- nate sir albert. ghẾ cavern of death. of "is this true, my lord?” said the knight, looking sternly around.' . “it is most true,” replied the baron- "such was indeed my purpose; but the agents of an invisible world have interposed, and i have vainly striven to resist the decrees of fate." .sir albert ordered the man to rise and follow them; and soon emerging from the cavern, though night still reigned profound amid the forest, her shadows, to the eyes of those who had so long been buried in that region of subterranean darkness ap- peared almost the refulgence of day. at the earnest entreaty of the baron, sir albert advanced · "some paces, till they had reached a spot, out of hearing of the sound of the murmuring current: there pausing_" and now, my lord!" said he," i will proceed no further, till you shall have fully explained to.me, as i know you are well able to do, the mysteries which the recesses of yon cave enfold. why are you thus aghast when you behold this sword? and who was the inurdered warrior in whose fleshless hand i have found it?" . “that murdered warrior," replied the baron, “was thy father!”. . . . . . sir albert started! “and in me,” continued the baron, “thou viewest his mur- derer!" sir albert's hair stood erect with horror, and his eyes spark- led with unutterable fury. “suspend thy vengeance till thou hast heard me further.” resumed the baron: "i feel that the hour of retribution is arrived, and a power more than mortal compels me to unfold the tale i tremble to pronounce. “rodolph, baron of dornheim, was thy father. he was my brother--my elder brother; and from the holy land was he returning, to claim the inheritance which, at the death of our common parent, devolved of right to him, when i, covetous to possess it, met him in this forest, with a band of ruffians devot- ed to my interest. he was alone; but, with his native valor, and with that sword, which had often drank deeply of the blood of infidels, he long defended himself against his assassins. at last, overpowered by numbers, he ſell; and, in the convulsions of death, he so strongly grasped the bilt, that one of my men, unable to force it from him, was about to strike off the hand which held it, when i forbade him. to none of the brave knights who had warred in palestine was the sword of rodolph un- kncwn; and, should it be found in my possession, or in that of any of my people, a discovery that he had perished by our hands mig ht have ensued: -i therefore commanded them to forego the rich spoil, and to conceal it, with the body, in the innermost recesses of yon gloomy cavern. a report of his death upon the : joui ney was then circulated; and no suspicion of my concern the cavern of death. durst confide in, and at their head i entered the cavern, hoping so find you, bewildered in its labyrinths, ere you should have seized the sword on which my destiny depended. animated by this idea, neithe , nor two of my accomplices in the murder of your father, the wrly two who still survived, seemed to remem- ber our former guilty dread, till we reached the spacious vault in which you found me. there the awful rush of the torrent struck upon our souls, and in a moment revived our terrors. we ascended its bank-we beheld the foaming cataract to our eyes it seemed a cataract of blood !--those of my attendants whose consciences accused them of no former crimes, uttered a cry of dismay at the dire prodigy, and fled; but we, whose hand had been crimsoned with the blood of rodolph, stood, rivetted by horror to the spot--but we stood not long, before the fall of the impending rock overwhelmed my two companions, of whom one was maurice, your esquire, but my ancient vas sal.” ? ,.“maurice!'! exclaimed sir albert; "was he disloyal?” . "from the moment when i acquainted him with your birth,” returned the baron;" his fears concurred with his former attach- ment to me, and with the rewards i offered, to induce him to betray to me your every design. it was from him i learned your purpose of entering the cavern.” the baron was proceeding, when the trampling of horses interrupted him:-he paused; and sir albert, looking round, descried a troop of men, who guided by the light he bore, were hastening towards him. on their nearer approach, it was dis- cernible that four among them, who were on foot, bore a corpse, on a bier made of interwoven boughs.' the baron's mind mise gave him; he eagerly questioned them, and, while they hesitated to answer, he forced a passage through them, and rushed to meet the corpse; he recognised the pale and blood-stained features of his son. the bearers sat down their load.--the baron uttered not a word, but threw himself on the bier, and in convulsive sobs, gave vent to the passions which agonized his soul.-sir albert drew near, and with strong emotions beheld the face of lord frederic.---the baron suddenly turned, and before he was aware of his purpose, snatched from his hand the sword of ro- dolph, and plunging it in his own breast, sunk expiring on the body of his son.—the horsemen alighted, and crowded round him; but succor was too late;pointing to sir albert, in a faul- tering accent he bade them regard in him their rightful lord; and then, drawing forth the weapon from the wound, his life issued with it, in a stream of blood. sir albert, falling on his knees, awfully adored the severe justice of the almighty avenger of the crime of mortals. those who surrounded the bier, all vassals of the barony of the cavern of death. dornheim, were struck with consternation at this fatal catas, trophe, and eagerly inquired of each other the meaning of their late master's dying words. sir albert, in succinct terms, and without expatiating on the guilt of him who lay lifeless before them, acquainted them with the discoveries which that night had brought forth; a narration confirmed by him who had been found concealed in the cavern, and who had been present at the baron's confession; and all most readily acknowledged the son of rodolph as their lord, and entreated him to suffer them immediately to conduct him to the castle, he complied with their request, and proceeded thither with them; whilst those who had before borne the body of lord frederic, now bore that of his father with it on the same bier. on their way, sir albert demanded the particulars of the death of the former.-they confessed, that the baron had sent them with orders to lie in wait for sir albert himself; but that the similarity of the arms and vestments of lord frederic had deceived them, and assaulting him, they had not discovered their mistake till he had fallen beneath their swords.. when they reached the castle, where the chief officers and most of the domestics were in waiting to readmit their lord; the tidings they brought of his death at first diffused a general dismay; but sir albert convened the vassals in the great hall, and in a modest, but forcible address, stated to them his claim to the succession, and adduced such proofs as left them no room to question his right to the domains of his ancestors. many of the older men who were present, remembered lord rodolph, and loved his memory; and they, with acclamations of joy, re- traced his features in those of his son; and, as the character of the late baron had not been such as to engage the affections of any of his people, there were none who did not receive their new lord with demonstrations of unfeigned gladness. . . sir albert now wished to be alone, that he might reflect at leisure on the extraordinary events of the night, and compose the agitation of spirits into which so many unexpected discov- eries had thrown him. but, as he was proceeding along a pas- sage, in his way to a private apartment, the seneschal followed him, and demanded what he would have done with regard to two ladies who had been brought that night to the castle, by the order of the late baron. sir albert, demanded who they were: the seneschal unlocked the door of an apartment on one side of the passage, and sir albert beheld the lady constance! sur- prised and delighted, he flew towards her; but her astonish- ment and joy seemed even to exceed his own. “by what miracle art thou preserved?” cried she: “ what guardian power has delivered thee from the foes by whom, when they tore me from thee, i left thee encircled?” her words seemed at first mysterious to sir albert; but eli- . the cavern of death. nor, finding it impossible to avoid the discovery of her treason, threw herself at their feet, and voluntarily confessed it; and then it appeared, that after the lady constance, deceived by her arts, had betrayed herself into the power of lord frederic, she was still unconscious of her mistake, when they were assaulted by the troop which the baron, informed by the similar treachery of maurice of her intended flight with sir albert, had sent out to intercept them: that lord frederic had been obliged to set her down in order to defend himself; and that two of the troop, in compliance with the orders they had received, had immediately seized herself and elinor, and had borne them to the castle, which they had reached about an hour before; dur: ing which interval she had abandoned herself to the bitterest grief, and had incessantly wept the inevitable death of the im- aginary sir albert. the morning now began to dawn; and sir albert immediately despatched a messenger to her father, to inform him of the death of the late baron, and his own succession, in right of his father, lord rudolph-to acquaint him that his daughter was at the castle; 'and to invite him thither, to learn such further particu- lars as it was expedient he should know. the invitation was immediately complied with; nor was sir albert deceived in his hope, that he who had been about, from motives of interest, to sacrifice his only child to a man so un- worthy to possess her, would, with equal readiness, consent to bestow her on himself, who now enjoyed the power and dignities of his late rival. his proposals were received with manifest joy; and, till the marriage could be celebrated with proper mag- nificence, the lady constance returned with her father to the castle of heitzwald, where, during that interval, sir albert, now universally acknowledged baron of dornheim, daily visited her. he caused the bodies of the late usurper and his son to be privately interred: but the remains of his unhappy father, him- self, at the head of a large body of his vassals, reentered the cavern of death to bring forth; and mourning his untimely fate with the deepest expressions of filial sorrow, he caused them to be deposited, with the most solcmn rites of the church, and every funeral honor, in the chapel of the castle: erecting over them a magnificent tomb, above which was suspended the fatal sword. shortly after, he espoused the lady constance; and in the hand of her who had been the object of his earliest affections, he received the completion of that felicity to which his virtues entitled him. the mysterious bell. land." the attention of all on board was now fully awake. the sailorg stood upon the forecastle in anxious groups, all but the old man, the singular expression of whose features i had re- marked in the morning. he sat upon the windlass, with his hands folded, and his eyes intently fixed upon the deck : but still he spoke not. various conjectures were hazarded among us, but none that satisfactorily accounted for the noise. the afternoon passed, and the sun again set, while the tink- ling sound still came floating over the waters. it was late be- fore sleep closed my eyes that night. when the morning of the next day dawned, the captain went again to the mast head with his glass, but no sail appeared upon the horizon ; yet still the ceaseless bell was plainly to be heard, while not a breath of wind could be felt. noon came, and still the calm continued, and the sound approached nearer and nearer, when on a sudden, the captain from the top cried out, “i see it now, but what it is, god only knows : it does not look like any craft that ever the hand of man fashioned.” we all rushed to the forecastle, and in silence awaited the approach of this strange navigator. it came careering over the waters with a rapid motion, and as it drew near, exhibited to our wondering gaze a single black mast, rising from the centre of what seemed a square and solid block of wood, but without yard or sail, nor did any living crea- ture appear upon it. i proposed to take the boat and board it ; but the sailors shook their heads, and the captain was silent. determined to discover the meaning of this phenomenon, i jumped into the boat, intending to scull towards it, when the old sailor, seeing my resolution, declared that he would go with me; and the captain, after a moment's hesitation, also joined us. we rowed swiftly onwards to meet the object of our curiosity, which was now within half a mile of the ship, and in a few min- utes, were sufficiently near to perceive the bell at the top of the mast, the ringing of which had announced its coming. it was green and rusty as if with age, and the sides of the non- descript barque were covered with barnacles, and tangled mas- ses of seaweed. immediately beneath the bell, which still swung from side to side with deafening din, was attached a deep sea line, passing over the side and descending into the water. the moment our boat touched this strange vessel, the bell ceased to toll, and the floating mass became immoveable. we gazed upon it, and upon each other in amazement; and at length, the captain in a low and tremulous voice, proposed to return, but the sailor said “ no !-it was an cvil hour when we met this accursed” (his voice sunk, and i could not distinguish what he uttered) “ but we have met it, and we must not leave it thus. let us haul upon this line." we did so for nearly twenty min- utes, but with great difficulty, for it seemed as if some pond rous body at the extremity, resisted our efforts. the mysterious bell. at length thc profound stillness that had hitherto prevailed amongst us, was broken by the captain, who looked down into the water, and exclaimed, “great god! what have we here ?” we followed with our eyes the motion of his hand, and saw a large object glistening white beneath the waves, and appearing like a gigantic corpse, wrapped in a white cloth and bound with cords. now may heaven shield us!” said the seaman, in a husky voice, “ it is the shrouded demon of the sea.” as he spoke he drew his knife from his belt, and in an instant severed the line. the body turned its white sides flashing through the dark waters, and with the rapidity of lightning, disappeared from our view the dervise alfouran. alfouran, by the sanctity of his manners, and the abste- miousness of his diet, had gained the hearts of the whole pro- vince of eyraca : but none was more captivated with the holy dervise than sanballad, the son of a merchant in bassora, whose father intended to bring him up in the mercantile busi- ness, which he himself professed. the hermitage of alfouran was situated in a wood, near the suburbs of the city : it was formed out of a stupendous rock, in the inside of a mountain ; and contained two cells, the outermost of which served for the common purposes of life, and the innermost was set apart for the private devotions and religious ceremonies of the sanctified dervise. a small spring, which ran trickling down the rock, supplied him with the purest water, and fell into a basin, which the in- dustrious alfouran had scooped out of the bottom of the rock, from which the water overflowing, descended in a gentle rill to the wood, and ran purling among the trees; sometimes discov- ering itself by its glittering surface, and sometimes gliding im- perceptibly through the thickest bushes, which grew upon its banks. a little plain opened before the door of the cell, which, by the shade of the lofty trees that surrounded it, and the con- stant attention of the sage to sprinkle its surface, ever preserved a most beautiful verdure. the tall and straight cedars and palms which overshadowed this delightful retreat, at once secured it from the scorching sun, and afforded a most beautiful and majestic appearance, mixed with an awful solemnity, which struck the heart, and demanded the reverence of every be- holder. to this habitation of alfouran did thousands resort, at the rising of the sun, to hear the instructions of his mouth, and dwell upon the sweet accents of his persuasive tongue; even the labours of the day were forgotten while he charmed their ears ; and the poorest subjects of bassora refused not to follow the sage alfouran, though the work of their hands was neglect- ed and undone. the pious sanballad was ever a constant attendant at these captivating lectures, and drank deep of the instructions of the dervise of bassora. his soul was animated by the example the dervise alfouran. of the self-denying sage : he scorned the mean employments of a dirty world, and sought earnestly to bury himself is the glorious solitude of alfouran. one day, after the dervise had been exhorting his hearers to trouble themselves no longer with the concerns of life, nor the transactions of mortality, sanballad presented himself before him, and having done obeisance to the holy man, he entreated alfouran to initiate him into the mysteries of his happy life. alfouran looked earnestly at the youth ; he beheld his com- plexion, his modest beauties, bis eyes streaming with peniten- tial tears, and his heart heaving with the full sighs of sorrow and contrition. and canst thou, o young man,' said the der- vise, 'leave the vanities of this life, to spend in solitude and ab- stemiousness the sprightly hours of youth ? canst thou quit all worldly connections, thy friends, thy relations, thy engage- ments, thy business, and thy pleasures, and prefer before them the constant company of an aged dervise ? if thou art so re- solved, let me first have a trial of thy faith and submission.- ascend this craggy rock by the steps which i have hewn in its side, and sit on the stone which is dedicated, on its surface, to the pure solar fire. there remain while the sun melts thee by day, and the cold pinches thee by night, till three days are ac- complished ; and i will bring thee of the choicest viands which the rich men of bassora send daily to .tempt my appetite ; of which if thou tastest, or to which if thou dost incline thy mind, the curse of the god of fire be upon thee! at this command, sanballad arose with joyful looks, and be-.. gan to ascend the holy mountain. he spent the first day in a solemn silense, not daring even to look up or move from his posture ; but kept his eyes fixed on the ground, and in secret implored the strengthening assistance of the founder of his faith. the second day, alfouran set before him a sumptuous ban- . quet, which his disciples, at his cominand, had brought from the city : for it was daily the custom of alfouran to receive such presents at their hands ;—not, as he said, for his own use, but to fix bim steadfastly in his forbearance from those pampering repasts. they stood every day exposed on a table formed out of the living rock in his cell ; and at noon the dervise asoend- ed the hill, to burn them at the holy fire, which he kindled from the sun. sanballad looked not at the tempting viands till al- fouran commanded him, and then persisted religiously in his re- solutions ; which when the dervise perceived, he extolled his faith, and exhorted him to continue obedient to the instructions. he had received. '. ;-.. the third day, the poor youth was nearly exhausted with watching and fatigue ; nevertheless, alfouran endeavoured, by the most artful temptations, to draw him from his purpose, but fo the dervise alfouran. in vain ; the pious sanballad triumphed over luis temptations, and at length fulfilled his commands. being now partly initiated, the dervise, after baving fed him, conducted him down from the mountain to the cell beneath; and leaving him for some time to rest and refreshment, he alone ascended with his daily offerings to the altar of fire. in this act of devotion alfouran continued the remainder of the day ; during which time, sanballad heard the most ravish- ing music, which seemed to descend through the mountain, and filled the cells with its enchanting harmony. and thus was the dervise's time divided ;-in the morning he preached to the multitude, whilst the careful sanballad re- ceived their offerings, and laid them on the stone table in the cell. at noon the dervise ascended with the offerings, and the young man was ordered to pursue his private devotions in the innermost cell; and was taught to expect those heavenly sounds, if his prayers were accepted. when the sun left the horizon, alfouran descended to the plain, where sanballad spread some roots on the turf by the spring, and the dervise and his scholar made their single and abstemious meal. the young dervise was enraptured at the precepts and sanc- tity of his master : and the inhabitants of bassora brought daily their riches, and fine vestments, and delicacies, that al. fouran might sacrifice those unworthy objects of their affection on the altar of the sun. nor were the prayers of sanballad. rejected, for he daily “ob- tained a grateful token from the powers he worshipped, and was charmed with the heavenly music which sounded through the rock. . . in this manner did alfouran and his pupil dedicate their time to the invincible powers of fire, till the whole city of bassóra was converted to the religion of the dervise : and, neglecting their trade, they all flocked regularly to imbibe the instructions of his lips. but what, even in the midst of his sanctity, preyed upon the heart of sanballad was, that his master alfouran did not suffer him to ascend the mountain. when he asked the dervise the reason why he was denied that holy office ?-alfouran would answer : know, o young man, that he only is fit to make such a sacri- fice, who, by long and patient abstemiousness, has sanctified his mind, and purged it from the desires of mortality.". no, sanballad ; you must serve a longer term of years, and persist in your religion for many suns, ere you be admitted to that, the greatest and noblcst work of man: wait; therefore, with sub- mission; and doubt not, but, when thou art accepted, the deity of fire will call thee to his service.' ; , . if sanballad's impetuous desires to serve, like alfouran, in the cell of the worshipper of fire, could drive him, against the the dervise alfouran. inclinations and commands of his parents, to act under the ban- ners of alfouran, it is not to be wondered, that he was no " as eager in desiring to be jointly admitted into all the services of his master. the bed or resting place of sanballad was on the stone table in the outward cell; alfouran slept on a floor : ; :lints within it was the hour of midnight ; when sanballad, still revolving his favourite desires in his mind, heard the wind rustle through the grove ; the moon played on the surface of the water, in the basin which stood without: when, on a sudden, sanballad seenied to discern at the door of the cell the figure of a little old man : he immediately endeavoured to cry out to alfouran ; but he found his tongue cleave to the roof of his mouth. the little figure advanced, and stood before the astonished and mo- tionless sanballad. "i am,' said the spectre, 'the good genius which presides . over thy wayward fate. alfouran, this very night, did meditate thy death, and intended to sacrifice thee to his barbarous god. you are, young man, too inquisitive for this mysterious religion, which requires a blind and unsuspicious faith : but, in compas- sion to thy youth, and being willing to vindicate the truth of thy mueh-injured prophet, i have taken this opportunity, while alfouran is in his first sleep, to warn thee of thy danger. i must not assist thee farther ; for, the impostor pessesses the signet of the genius sadoc, which he stole from a bramin of the most exalted piety. but if thou art resolute, go fearless into his cell, and boldly thrust thy hand into his bosom, where it ever lies concealed. if thou canst but for a moment snatch it from him, thou art safe : for, when it is in thy hand, its virtues will be obe- dient to you, its possessor : be confident, therefore, and forget not, when thou hast it in thy hand, to make a proper use of it.' ? and how is it to be used ?' replied the astonished sanballad. • wish,' said the genius, 'for whatever you desire, and it will not be denied you. but hasten, o young man ! for i foresee alfouran will'in a few minutes awake.' at this exhortation, sanballad arose from his bed, and enter- : ed into the cell of the treacherous alfouran. · he felt gently for his master, who was stretched upon the flints; and, having found his bosom, boldly put his hand therein, and felt the signet of the genius nadoc; which he immediately pulled out, and by the force of his arm awakened the affrighted dervise. sanballad, seeing alfouran awake, wished that he had com- pleted his purpose, that he might have escaped out of the cell while the dervise had slept. no sooner had sanballad formed his wish, than alfouran sunk again into a deep sleep; and the young man, perceiving the power which the signet of the genius nadoc had given him, blessed mahomet his prophet, and hastened out of the cell : : the dervise alfouran.. and on the plain before the door, he met his faithful 'genius mamlouk. : "i see,' said his instructer, thou hast wisely prevailed : and now, sanballad, we will together ascend this mountain ; and i will convince thee of the folly of thy worship.' having thus said, mamlouk led the way, and, having climbed to the altar, on the surface of the mountain, the genius desired sanballad to move the altar from its place. "o mamlouk,' said sanballad, 'that is far beyond my strength: for when i sat on this stone, as a probationer before the sun, i assayed with all my strength to move it : and could not.' "that was,' replied mamlouk, 'because alfouran commanded it to continue firm and fixed : but now his power is no more, sanballad then set his shoulder against the stone, and moved · it from its place. the stone being removed, discovered a dark . winding stair-case, cut out of the rock, which descended into the body of the mountain.. mamlouk commanded sanballad to descend, and fear not : ? for,' said the genius, i will attend you, though invisible, and instruct you in what manner you are to behave : but be re- solute in preserving the signet of the genius nadoc.' sanballad then began to descend the steps, which wound round a solid pillar of stone. after he had passed three hundred stairs, he met with a strong wicket, which he commanded to open ; and then continued to pursue his way through a dark and close passage, cut out of the living rock.. at the end of this passage, he found a door of solid iron, which, at his command, creaked on its hinges, and opening, presented to his view a large cavern, illuminated in the centre with an enormous glowing carbuncle. around this spacious vault hung all the rich and valuable garments, which the deceit- ful alfouran had begged from the deluded inhabitants of basso- ra, as offerings to his god. . and what,' said sanballad to his invisible guide, 'was the design of alfouran in collecting these riches, since he never makes any use of them ? froceed,' said mamlouk ; ' and observe. . in one corner of this cavern, sanballad perceived a chasm in the rock, which he immediately commanded to open ; and which let him through its sides into another passage, wider than the first, supported by pillars, and enlightened with a variety of carbuncles. as soon as sanballad had entered this passage, he heard the sounds of many instruments, playing the most plaintive notes, and presently, at the lower end, he saw a number of close-veiled matrons marching with solemn steps along the avenues of the passage. the dervise alfouran. • may i, o mamlouk,' said sanballad, wish that these may receive me as they used to receive alfouran ? : "yes,' replied mamlouk, 'i find thou hast wished it in thine heart ; for they already begin to acknowledge thee.' as. mamlouk said this, the matrons all came round sanbal- lad, some kissing his hands, some his feet, and others kneeling, and in the highest acts of devotion, touching the skirts of his clothing. · thus surrounded, the fictitious dervise passed to the farther end of the passage, where a spacious portal opened into a gloo my temple, hewn out of a solid rock of adamant : in the centre. of this temple was an altar, or.hearth raised from the ground, on which a large fire, fed with oils and aromatic woods, burnt incessantly day and night ; and was renewed with all the in- cense and perfumes, which alfouran had obtained from the de- , luded inhabitants of bassora. as soon as sanballad had advanced to the fire, the orgies began. the female votaries worked themselves up into the most frantic fits of enthusiastic madness, groaning, weeping, lashing themselves, falling into trances, and fits ; till at length. tired and fatigued with their wild religion, they sunk into slum- bers around the flame which they had adored. . “now, sanballad,' said mamlouk, now must thou be reso- lute and brave : canst thou resist temptation ?'. ' alas! replied sanballad, ' i thought so once ; but it was a vain opinion, arising from the pride of a false' religion.' .your diffidence,' answered the genius, 'is prudent, and manifests an humble mind : but, as temptation may be tno se- vere for your new born faith in the prophet, he has permitted me to personate alfouran, and carry you invisibly through these : mazes of bewitching error. · thus saying, mamlouk put on the appearance of alfourán; and sanballad, having wished himself invisible, stood beside the metamorphosed genius. · mamlouk then waved his hands on high, and clapped them to- gether in the air : at the sound of his clapping, the matrons awoke, and the fictitious alfouran commanded the cup of love . to be produced. four ancient matrons immediately brought forward a large bowl from the innermost parts of the temples, of which the transformed genius and his females partook. no sooner were they replete with this liquor, than they be- gan to sing the most indecent songs, and by every gesture man- ifested the desires of their hearts; till at length; being worked into a passionate madness, they threw off their clothing, and discovered, under the formal appearances of sanctified matrons, the most abandoned signs of youthful prostitution. . the genius, having revealed thus much of the mysteries of . alfouran, took sanballad by the hand, and led him out of that • the dervise alfouran. • scene of horror to the top of the mountain. as they arose from the cavern, the beams of the sun began to play upon the east, and tinge the dusky clouds with its early light. • and who,' said sanballad to his guide, as they arose, who are these abominable wretches ? • they are,' replied mamlouk, weak and deluded women, who have, at different times, stolen in the dead of night from bassora, to hear the doctrines of the sanctified alfouran. but be silent, for i see on the plains before the city of bassora, the multitudes approaching to hear and adore the hypocritical der- - vise. . and will alfouran awake and instruct them ?' said sanballad to the genius. no,' answered mamlouk, 'the prophet will not longer per- mit his villanies to remain unexposed.-but let us hasten to meet the credulous followers of alfouran.' having thus said, mamlouk descended from the hill, and stood before the cell of the dervise. the crowds gathered round him, for he still personated the form of alfouran : some blessed him with tears in their eyes, others nearly worshipped the fictitious idol of their affections. in the rnidst of this ill-placed adoration, mamlouk lifted up his voice, as though it had been the voice of a whirlwind, and said, in the ears of all the inhabitants of bassora, 'o deluded idolators, why have ye left the worship of your prophet, to fol- low the lies of the enchanter. alfouran ??. as the genius spoke these words, he shook off the appear- ance of the dervise, and shone before them in all the native beauty of his heavenly race.. the multitude were astonished at the change, and the ge- nius proceeded :- i am mamlouk, the guardian genius of your city, which i have with sorrow of late beheld strangely deviating from the worship of the prophet, the fates decreed that you shuld be tempted by alfouran : he came, therefore, into this grove ; and, under the specious mask of sanctity, gained the hearts of your people, insomuch that you neglected the public works of the city, and the social duties which ye owed one to another, and all herded to hear and offer to alfouran yourselves and your substance, alfouran was possessed of the signet of the genius nadoc, by means of which he has commanded, the slaves of that signet to form, in the spacious womb of this moun- tain, the secret haunts of his wickedness and lust; which i will now disclon unto you'- having so spoken, the genius commanded sanballad to go into the cell and awaken alfouran ; which he did ; the dervise trembled as he came forth, from a consciousness of his guilt. as soon as the multitude beheld alfouran, they were so in- fatuated at his presence, that the luminous appearance of the the dervise alfouran. . . genius scarcely withheld them from worshipping and adoring the dervise ; which when mamlouk perceived, he said unto them :- inhabitants of bassóra, how vain are my labours to bring ye to mahomet! but, ere ye too foolishly refuse to hear the directions of your prophet, let me expose to your view the entrails of this mountain. as he spake these words, the people all looked towards the mountain ; which began to crack and open its sides, till by dc- grees the temple and caverns within were made manifest to the wondering populace. out of this nest of lust and intemperance, came the wild le- males who had so miserably degraded themselves by their las- civious deeds : but how was the misery of their condition heightened, when they beheld such crowds of their neighbors and kinsmen standing as witnesses of their indecent appearance! nor were the men of bassora less disguested, to find, among the private hordes of the lustful dervise, their wives and their daughters, who had been thus polluted by his secret iniquities.. they were now all resolute in destroying the monster alfou- ran from the face of the earth ; and so incensed were they against him, that they tore the saint into ten thousand reliques: and he was most happy who could show most marks of his ven- geance on the salacious dervise." mamlouk, having suffered them to execute their vengeance on the hypocritical alfouran, exhorted them to follow obedient- . ly the law of their prophet, and ever to despise such teachers as should preach up a mysterious, unintelligible, and hidden re- ligion ; or expect that they should blindly give up their sub- stance and social duties, to follow the directions of a sanctified and lustful drone. as mamlouk finished his tale, bright flashes of light streamed through the lattice-work of the saloon ; and presently, with smiles of mildness on his face, came the illustrious prophet ma- hornet, and hovered over the august assembly. * thanks, heavenly mamlouk,' said the prophet of the faith- ful: 'thanks do i give thee, in the name of my flock of basso- ra, whom thou hast rescued : , may they never again stray from the light vouchsafed them : but may reason and revela- tion alike direct them to seek the realms of peace, and fly from the delusions of error and enthusiasm !-and do ye, favored flock of heaven, listen and imbibe the instructions of my ser- vants, and obey the voice of their divine morality.' e as he thus spake, the royal company all arose, and, prostra- ting themselves on earth, thus began their hymn of praise :- glories surround the defender of the faithful ! alla! alla ! alla! · praise and honour, and worship, be unto him who giveth sight to the blind, and peace to the sons of care ! alla ! ! history of hassan assar, caliph of bagdat.: of the pit ; and immediately a flash or' vapour of blue flamo arose from the cavern, in the midst of which the caliph dis- covered an enormous elephant, with a turret on his back. when the elephant was level with the surface, the earth closed again : and a black, who sat on the elephant's neck, ad- vanced upon his body to the turret ; which he touched with a wand in his hand, and immediately the turret. flew into a thou- sand pieces, and discovered, a little hut, out of which came a negro woman' properly accoutred with the implements of war. the beauteous lady screamed at the sight : and as hassan was hastening to her assistance, the black who held a wand in his hand cried out with a voice like thunder :- ..^ hassan assar, forbear !but it matters not ; for omphram has deceived me, and thou art unworthy of the favour of ma, homet: omphram assured me that the caliph of bagdat was unbiassed by the outward appearance of things: and yet me, thinks. i see you pay a preferenee to beauty, and neglect to at tend on the vigorous-, nakin palata, who is destined for your spouse.' '. : d id" : de ! ... what !! cried hassan, in a maze, 'must i leave this perfect original, to take up with that unnatural lump of blackness !'. at these words, nakin palata, with great wrath, drew forth an ar. row from her quiver, and fixing it in her bow, aimed the, fatal shaft at the body of the beautiful nymph. . , : : · hassan saw the malice but could not prevent the blow. the arrow pierced through the snowy heart of the lovely female; and the warm tide of blood and life issued forth at the unfriend- ly wound. as the distressed caliph drew the arrow forth, and applied his lips to the place, the black, jumping from the beast, ran to him, and commanded hiin to discontinue his care, or he would forever lose the protection of mahomet. : : the caliph looked up in astonishment at hearing the com- mand, and was more than ever surprised to behold the skin fall- ing from the body of the black, under which he discovered the features of omphram his genius... nini jl, or y .o hassan assar,' said omphram, hast thou not yet learnt, that the delights of this world are not to bias your affection and obedience from the will of heaven. when you prayed to the prophet to continue your race on the throne of your forefath- ers, did you not promise to give up all other blessings, if you might possess that only desire of your heart? now, then, what is beauty, when put in competition with her who is to per- petuate the descendants of the caliph of bagdat? wast thou not unhappy when thou hadst every beauty at command ? didst thou not then despise such faint allurements, and beg from heaven a inore substantial blessing? behold her, then, who is appointed to bless thee; and yet thou fliest from her, and art now 'returning to those pleasures which thou hast solemnly re- . * · history of hassan assar, the caliph of bagdat. nounced: but think not the prophet will suffer such ingrati- tude ! no'; enjoy the company of thy beauteous houri for, no doubt, your love is so excessive, that you will willingly fol- low her to the grave.' , . i .. * having thus said, she struck the ground with her wand, and immediately a number of slaves arose with stones, and all the materials for building. there,' said the fairy to the workmen, (inclose that dying corpse with a substantial monument, and let us see how long this worldly caliph's love will fix him on the body of his mistress.'— the slaves obeyed ; and, being genii of an inferior order, executed their business in less time than a mortal workman could have laid the foundation.... hassan neither observed their work, nor was solicitious to es- cape ; but, still pressing with his lips the fatal wound, suffered himself to be inclosed in those walls of death. before the roof (which was formed of massive stone) was entirely covered, omphrm called out, and commanded hassan to withdraw : but the caliph was deaf, and regardless of every thing but the con- dition of his dear nymph. wherefore the genii completed the work; and omphram finding him 'deaf to her commands, left him immured in the mausoleum, with the dead body of the strangely murdered fair one, although the workmén of omphram had totally immured the caliph hassan assar, yet was there left à grate-work of iron in the middle of the tomb by the genius's command, through which thė light might reflect on the deceased body, and gave the caliph a full view of the dead beauties which he had pre- ferred to the will of his prophet. . . the · for several days, the love-sick hassan persisted in his atten- tion to the corpse of his beautiful favourite : but contagious mortality now began to steal away the delicate complexion and graceful hue which formerly adorned the living houri's limbs : a noisome stench succeeded, and yellow putrid foulness over- spread the whole body; her cheeks sunk, her flesh grew moist with rottenness, and all her frame sent forth the strongest efflu- via of corruption and death. :?: ' i . , . » hassan, whose love and affection were solely supported by lust and passion, having lost the only objects of his desire, be- gan'to loathe the wretched situation which he had chosen in preference to submission and obedience.''! ! ! mq . and is this,' cried the dejected caliph, looking on the cor- rupted mass, is this the natural effect of death on beauty ?. is it, then, only owing to the different modifications of matter, that one mass gives us the highest enjoyment, and another the great- est disgust ? nay, more ;' are the joys of this world so fleeting and unsubstantial, that the objects of our pleasure to-day may to-morrow become the objects of our aversion ? : prophet! poly prophet !} contintinued he, i now see i and acknowledge :, ) . history of hassan assar, the caliph of bagdat: hel justice of thy punishment | now can discern between the good that thou didst intend me, and the evil which i have chosen.'. at these words he sunk on the ground, overcome with watching, loathing, hunger, and fatigue. .. as he lay stretched on the ground,'the female negro appeared above the grate.-' blind, ill-fated caliph,' said she, 'how long will it be ere thou seest the follies of thy choice? wert thou not born to do the will of heaven ? wert thou not, by thine own desire, consigned over by that will, to fly from the pleasures of life, and give thyself up to the interest of thy race ? the prophet doubted the sincerity of thy heart ; he therefore placed thee amidst all the natural luxuries which this world affords; luxuries far more irresistible than those which art hath made in imitation of them. the love which you professed for that noi- some body, say, caliph, did it arise from virtue or lust? you saw and loved ; but you heard not, neither had you knowl- edge of the perfections or imperfections of her mind. ^ shé came only recommended to you by passion and desire ; i came recommended by the will of your prophet : but you foolishly conceived his commands grievous and your desires natural and reasonable ; therefore you were left in possession of your wishes, to convince you, that, from disobedience and unlawful pleasure, no other fruits can sprout forth but those of corruption and ab horrence. you are sensible this life is short, precarious, and uncertain ; it is a life of trial, and not of enjoyment; it is a life in which we must refuse, and not covet the pleasures of the world. where then is the hardship of obedience, when we are commanded to abstain, in order hereafter to possess ?."js . think not, o caliph, i speak this of myself ; it is your prophet directs me ; he sought me out among many in mine own nation ; he snatched me from the arms of one whom i had formerly esteemed for his activity and manly strength. $"nakin palata," said a voice unto me, as i was with the utmost pleasure observing the exercises of my lovely youth, wattend to the commands of heaven; and know thou wert born to fulfil its will." -at the same time an invisible power plunged me into the earth, and placed me in the hut and turret which you beheld on the back of the elephant: is , bodo sit a black who guided the beast, informed me of the cause of, my situation. " fou are,” said the guide, "selected out of thousands, for your modesty, your humility, and obedience to the power above, to be mother of a royal race. a great and mighty king shall fill your arms : but then you must never more reflect upon the youth you have left, nor sigh for the enjoyment of your native country.!?c: at these words, o caliph, i sunk with sorrow and disgust :' no joys of fortune ör riches were, in my esteem, equivalent to the jetty blackness of my beloved katrac.pt $ tbuild & s i s' history of hassan assar, thÉ caliph of bagdat! and religious monarch.-nor shalt thou find, o hassan assar,'. continued the genius of omphram, 'that the commands of ma- homet are grievous or heavy to be borne : for now look at her whom thou hast despised, and examine the features of the once detestable nakin palata." titii at her command, the caliph arose from the ground : but oh! how was his soul transported, when he beheld the countenance of his bride changed, and nakin palata glowing with every charm with which nature could invest her. . "ah, caliph!' continued omphram, “be not too much trans- ported by the outward appearance of things; it is because you love each other, that you seem thus beautifully changed: nor are you,less amiable in the eyes of nakin palata, than she is in your sight, o caliph! this shall continue while your love continues : but when you, by 'caprice, by resolute superiority, or by a vexatious ill-nature, put on the frown of disapprobation, then shall you be divested of this amiable comeliness, and stand like a cruel and insulting tyrant before your trembling bride : and when either her love or her obedience fails, then shall she be again transformed, and wear the disgusting complexion of a tawny negro.' having thus said, she took hassan assar and his bride into her chariot, which was drawn by two majestic lions ; and wafted them in the air to the caliph's palace at bagdat. his subjects, when they heard of his arrival, all flodhed to the presence of their royal master, and welcomed, with the warmest affection, his long-wished return. hassan assar pre- sented to them his beauteous bride, and declared her the only sultana of his realms. the court rang with joyous accalma- tions, and all hailed the amiable nakin palata. omphram de- clared to them the reasons of the caliph's choice, and promised in the name of the prophet, a royal successor. at this assu- rance, the palace again re-echoed with the voices of his sub- jects; and nothing was lieard in the kingdom but the praises of hassan assar, the loving, obedient, and religious caliph, and nakin palata, the joy and consort of the best of princes. omphram having ended her tale, the sage iracagem waved his wand, and commanding the race of the faithful to sit down on the carpets spread under their feet, he ordered a collation worthy of his race to be produced. a number of inferior geni immediately brought in a service of milk and rice. plain, like their instruction,' said he, 'is the diet of the faithful; their desires are not after the flesh, but after the im- mortal food of the mind. as the courser despiseth the pastures over which he engageth in the race, so doth the child of hea- ven pass by the pleasures of the sons of earth. to satisfy the mind is the business of our race, and to liken it to the image of its original fountain : fecd then, my children,' continued ira- history of hassan assar, the caliph of bagdat. cagem, 'the necessary cravings of your earthly frames; but suffer not the clay-moulded case to weigh down the precious jewel it contains." the disciples of the genü having finished their absts,mious re- past, hassarack was ordered to recite the tale of belaun and guzzarat. l'esti, .. ,. tales of terror, or the mysteries of magic: a selection of wonderful and supernatural stories. . translated from the chinese, turkish, and german compiled by henry st. clair. two volumes in one. vol. ii. a * * * * * * * * * " wither'd murder, (aların 'd by his sentinel the wo'l, whose huwl's his watch,) thus wira his stealthy pace, wih tarquin's ravishing strides, i wards his design, mures like a g hust."-shakspeare. • philadelphia: jesper har din g. . the astrologer : i ... of the nineteenth century. circle the first.. the narratives of cronheim and herrman, which have never before been made public; being translated . from a curious german work, expressly. . for the present occasion. blustering winds and chilling rain proclaimed the unwelcome approach of winter; yellow autumn saw her leafy honors fall to the ground ; loud roared the storm across the elbe, whose ruffled waves curled to the boisterous breath of Æolus. no more the silent grove resounded with the voice of harmony and love. in hollow trees or moss-bemantled walls' the feathered songsters sought shelter from the rude unfriendly blast. the raven alone, from some sequestered tower, mixed his hoarse notes with the hoarser cries of the ominous bird of night. safe in his peaceful cot, the honest husbandman rested from his won- ted toils, and, while his well-fed fire defended him from the in- clemency of the weather, enjoyed in sweet tranquillity the fruits of his former labor.' after a long-lamented absence of more than thirty years, herrman had the satisfaction of welcoming his friend cronheim to his house. educated together from their infancy, they had early formed a mutual attachment, which gradually ripened in- to the sincerest friendship, and united their hearts by the most endearing ties,-ties not less binding, not less sacred and in- vipcible, than those of blood. . great, therefore, was the reluctance with which they parted from each other, after having completed their studies at the university of gottingen. herrman engaged himself as pri- vate tutor to a nobleman of distinction, with whom he made the tour of europe ; whilst cronheim, being of a more gay and volatile disposition, sought his fortune in the wars., the feeling heart alone can picture to itself the mutual plea- sure and rapturous delights which our two friends experienced at embracing each other, after an absence of so many years. time had not yet extinguished the fire of youth and the wonted impetuosity of cronheim's temper. “ brother, cried he, the astrologer. giving his hand to his friend,-“ brother," let us forget the dull counsels of age ; let us, while indulgent fortune still grants me to enjoy your company, live as in the days that are passed; let us live as if the thirty years we have spent separated from each other had never been registered in the iron calendar of *time." eagerly did herrman assent to this proposal of his friend. his estate lay on the pleasant banks of the elbe, and was, for situation, unrivalled. woods, meadows, brooks, warrens, hills, and dales, relieving each other, incessantly diversified the scene ; nature had thown the whole into such agreeable c n- fusion and disorder, that it required very little improvement to render his abode the most delig litful, picturesque, and romantic spot that can possibly be conceived. cronheim, who, for hunting, was a second nimrod, had here the fairest opportunity of gratifying his favourite passion ; nor was herrman a whit behind him in his pursuits. pleasing was it to behold the youthful ardor with which our sturdy veterans, at peep of dawn, would bound over hill and dale, to chase the flying stag, or bristly bear. ... . . already had a week elapsed in these delightful, health-be- stowing exercises: every morning was devoted to the chase; and when, spent and languid, they returned from the pleasing sport, a rural repast and good old rhenish wine refreshed their weary limbs; nor was the bottle or the pipe laid aside till even- ing long had spread her sable mantle over the globe, and steep, ed their eyelids in the dews of sleep. but now a change of weather put a stop to their sports, loud, as we have already observed, loud roared the bleak tem- pestuous storm; the rattling hailstones beat violently against the windows, threatening destruction to these brittle channels of light.' herrman and cronheim saw themselves obliged to relinquish the chase: in pleasing conversation they endeavor- . ed to beguile the tedious hours, whilst they recapitulated the deeds of former times, and rehearsed the past adventures of youth. evening approached, and found the in still indulging the talkative disposition of age. louder and louder roared the storm, fierce and more wild raged the conflicting elements; herrman, with lavish hand, heaped fresh logs upon his friendly fire, and, pushing round mne mirth-inspiring glass , " whilst angry elements do quarrel, : be their's, he cried, the bustle, our's, the barrel." ; pleased with the cheerful humor, o lin fien! cronhein recruited his pipe, and, aſter a short pause,"brother,'' he began, "hast thou any faith in supernatural agency? dost thou believe in ghosts?" x the astrologer. herrman replied only with a negative shake of his head. . “neither am i a perfect believer in such strange appear- ances," resumed cronheim;“and yet, during my travels through a certain part of germany, it was my fate to experience a strange mysterious series of adventures, which i have never been able to explain to my entire satisfaction.” this address excited herrman's most serious attention; his curiosity was raised to the highest pitch. cronheim did not long hold him in suspense, but began his narrative, to the fol- lowing effect:- my arrival at francfort happened to be jnst at the com- mencement of the fair. the bustle of the place, the incredi- ble concourse of people from eyery part of europe, the cease- less and diversified round of shows, entertainments, and every possible sort of pieasure and pastime, seemed to promise that my time would not casily hang heavy upon my hands; for which reason i determined to pass a few weeks in that place." * the inn in which i lodged, being one of the first in the town, was crowded with strangers in every part; among whom an elderly gentleman distinguished himself, and attracted uni- versal'notice, by the singularity of his dress, the bluntness of his manners, and a kind of mystical reserve in all his , actions. his appearance coinmanded respect: no bramin could exceed him in gravity of countenance; no quaker in: plainness of ap- parel. he occupied the best apartments in the inn, was attend ed by his own servants, took no notice of, much less entered into conversation with, any of his fellow lodgers, went out re- gularly every day after dinner, and seldom "returned home till midnight. though he frequerted all public places of resort, he was never once seen to associate with a single individual, but walked up and down, solitary and pensive, like a man bur- dened with a heavy load upon his spirits, and distracted with care.. . . . .. .... . !", r. . : the extraordinary character of tosis stranger excited a de: sire to be better 'acquainted with himn: for this purpose i began my inquiries with the landlord; but who, shrugging up his shoulders, answered me only with a significant shake of his head.". my next application was to the waiters; but they like. wise shrugged up their shoulders, and were as ignorant as the landlord. in short, i found it impossible to procure the smal- lest intelligence concerning the stranger. no one seemed to know any thing about him.si n o sivi i had not been week in francfort before i had the mis- fortune to lose my purse. : this loss i attributed to my care- lessness; and, not doubting but some of the professors of i legerdemain had been dexterous enough to lighten my pocket, either as i entered or came out of a booth where wild beasts * the astrologer. ,. the serious look with which he regarded me sufficiently in- dicated that he expected an answer to his question. my watch," i began- ..“ has been stolen from you," interrupted the stranger ; “however, give yourself no uneasiness. i have been fortunate enough to discover the thief. here, sir, is your watch, and take better care of it in future.” in - i stood for some time mute with astonishment. the same hands which purloined my watch had i made no doubt, exer- cised their ingenuity on the other articles i had lately lost. this rendered me extremely anxious to know the offender, but, before i was sufficiently recovered from my surprise to com- mence my inquiries, the stranger had left the room.' . i immediately hurried back to the inn: the stranger did not return till midnight. the moment i heard his footsteps on the stairs, i flew to meet him; and, making a low bow, began to thank him for the recovery of my watch. but the unsociablo gentleman, without deigning to take the least notice of my dis- course, passed abruptly by me, and, entering his own apartment, locked the door after him.." all subsequent attempts to enter into conversation with the wonderful stranger proved equally abortive. · in the inn, he constantly kept himself locked in his own apattment, and, in places of public resort, seemed assiduously to avoid me. three days passed in fruitless endeavours; at length, provoked with the old gentleman's unaccountable reserve, i determined to give myself no further trouble about him, but, packing up my portmanteau, fixed upon the following day for my departure, although i had met with no loss or disaster since the recovery of my watch.. previous to my leaving holstein, i had been supplied by my uncle, mr. vander laer, of hamburg, with bills for a consid- erable amount, drawn upon a certain house in leipzig, with which my uncle transacted business. being low in cash, i resolved to get these bills negotiated in franéfort, and there- fore set out, immediately after breakfast, in 'quest of a merchant to whom i had been recommended for that purpose, i met with little difficulty in finding out the house, but had so much the more in finding my pocket-book, which, after feeling for it first in the right pocket, then in the left, then in the right again, and so on alternately for a full half hour, was actual'ý missing. "i !“i certainly must have left it at home!” cried i: and, posting back to the inn, unpacked my trunk, and emptied its contents a dozen times at least; but all to no purpose, pochet-book and notes were irrecoverably lost. " how i passed the remainder of the day after this discovery, i shall not attempt to describe. evening approached, and the astrologer. found me still busy in rummaging, every hole and corner in quest of my pocket-book, which, however, was not forthcoming. the greatness of my loss hardly suffered me to be convinced of its reality; after one of the most uneasy nights that can possibly be conceived, i renewed the search next morning, but with no better success than before. , a stranger in a foreign land, without money, without friends, i now beheld myself the slave af necessity; and, with my eyes fixed sullenly upon the ground, stood wringing my hands, and calling down curses upon myself, and the unknown author o my calamity, when i was roused from my painful reflections by a sudden knock at the door. “walk in," i cried with peevish impatience: the door flew open, and who should make his ap- pearance but my fellow lodger, the strange unsociable gentle- man! “young man,” (presenting a bill to me) here is sufficient to carry you home to your friends; the post sets out to-morrow morning. i wish you a pleasant journey: farewell!” . in an instant the draft lay upon the table, and away hurried the donor, before i had time to recover from my surprise, or to utter a single syllable. astonishment long held me, as it were, chained to my seat ; but,curiosity to be acquainted with the nature of the stranger's bounty, getting at length, the better of my amazement, i proceeded to examine the paper, which i found to be a bill for one hundred and twenty dollars, drawn upon a merchant in francfort, and payable at sight. i;.; if i was before confounded and surprised, i was now not jess vexed and chagrined at this adventure, in consequence of which i saw myself debtor to the generosity of a stranger, whom nobody seemed to know, whose very name and place of abode i had in vain attempted to discover: what probability, therfore, had t of ever acquitting myself of my obligations by making restitution? “i must and will learn his address” was my final determination; accordingly, i repaired to the stranger's apart- ment, knocked at the door, but, to my great disapointment, found him not at home. in hopes of dissipating my uneasiness, i likewise resolved upon a walk, and hurried to join the busy scenes oftumult and conſusion which the fair exbibited. į it was late when i returned to the inn. the stranger had not arrived: his usual hour was midnight; i therefore proposed to wait his return, and either to insist on knowing his address, or else compel him to take his present back again. for this pur- pose, leaving my door ajar i seated myself on a sofa, and endeavored to beguile the tedious hours of expectation by read- ing a german translation of ossian. piston .. . midnight approached without any signs of the stranger's re- turn. i still continued streched upon the sofa; at length i grew drowsy, ossian droped out of my hands, my eye-lids closed in- thÉ astrologer. voluntarily, and, overpowered by sleep, i alreaay noaaed when i was suddenly roused by a noise at the door of my room. i started up-all was silent. i opened the door-could hear noth- ing. it certainly must have been imagination-i must have fancied or dreamed that i heard a noise. resuming, therefore, my book, i rubbed my eyes, wiped them with a wet cloth, and, that i might be in less danger of giving way to slumber, began to read aloud: “does the wind touch thee, o harp, or is it some passing ghost?” hardly had i pronounced the last words, when the noise re- turned. i could plainly distinguish the tread of human feet along the passage: the noise drew nearer and nearer. presently i believed i heard a trembling hand groping for the lock of the door, which, opening gradually, discovered a female dressed in white, with a veil.over her face, that reached half way down her shoulders. slowand solemn, with her back turned to me, she drew near.. the table, took my watch, examined it attentively, sighed thrice and deeply, replaced my watch upon the table, and continued her walk to the opposite corner of the room. in repassing, she résted her head upon her left hand, and, drawing her veil aside with her right hand, i beheld, with horror and astonishment, the very features of eliza; but her countenance pale, her eyes sunk and hollow, and her brow contracted with indignation. after a short pause, she drew nearer, cast an angry look at mé, held up her hand in a threatening attitude, and, thrice beating her breast, whilst heart-piercing groans burst from her bosom, rezained the door, and disappeared." . on recovering from my surprise, i found myself still seated upon the sofa, and, revolving in my mind every concomitant circumstance of this extraordinary apparition, was firmly per- suaded that the whole adventure could be nothing but a dream. i looked at my, watch-it was exactly one o'clock. impatient at the stranger's delay, i threw myself, dressed as i was, upon the bed, and slept till late in the morning. my first care, upon awaking, was to inquire of the waiter whether the strange gentleman had returned to the inn during the last night. i was answered in the negative. «has he left francfort ?- did he make any mention of travelling?". d i s 'n “to have given any notice to us of his intended journey," replied the waiter, “ would be contrary to the mysterious re- serve of his character; it is, however, probable enough that he is gone his reckoning he' settles regularly every day after dinner; and, as to trunks or baggage, he never carries any thing of the kind along with him." “suppose wc step to his apartment; i am curious to satisfy myself whether he be actually gone or not”. the astrologer. · the key stood in the door; but, excepting tae usual furni- ture of the room, not the smallest trace was there of any per- son having lodged in it... • this was to me a very unwelcome discovery. what hope could i now have of ever being able to acquit myself of my obligations to my unknown benefactor? more than once i felt tempted to destroy the bill for which i stood indebted to his bounty; but this, as i justly reflected, could in no shape cancel or lessen my obligation. suddenly the thought shot across my mind, that perhaps the bill might be of no value; it might be fictitious,---might be drawn upon a person who was no where to be found. though this supposition, in case it should prove true, threatened to involve me in my former embarrassment, i took a strange delight in cherishing the idea, and, that i might but an end to my suspense, showed the note to my land- lord under pretence of inquiring after the merchant on whom it was drawn. the innkeeper instantly described the street and house, offering to send his boy with me to show me the way: this, however, i thought proper to decline. · i went therefore alone, and tendered my bill for payment the saine morning. the merchant ran over the draſt, and then fix- ed his eyes with uncommon significance upon me. his looks seemed expressive of something inore than mere astonishment. this i considered as a confirmation of my suspicions, and ex- pected every mornent to hear the validity of my bill called in question. i found myself, however, mistaken; the merchant, still eyeing me with the same significant attention, opened his desk, and counted me the money. this seemed a favorable opportunity to obtain some intelligence concerning the stranger from whom i had received the note; i ventured, therefore to. question the merchant about the drawer of the bill. evidently disconcerted at this demand, the merchant shrugged his shoul- ders, and, without making any reply, locked his desk and de parted! i found his conduct strangely mysterious: a confused train of ideas rushed upon my mind; a walk seemed best cal- culated to drive away the vapors; i repaired, therefore, to a: neighbors tea-garden... the beauty of the weather had enticed a large concourse of people to the place. i took my seat in a pleasant arbor, where woodbine and whitethorn interwove their friendly bran- ches, and, calling for chocolate, began, while this was prepar- ing, to give free scope to my meditations, and to ruminate on the strange occurrences i had witnessed during my short abode at francfort. above all, my dream engrossed my most serious thoughts; the more i reflected upon every particular, the more extraordinary i found it. eliza's look, her wrathful.counte- nance, the threatening manner in which she held up her hand the astrologer. and but too well i knew how justly i deserved her anger-- all appeared so natural, so suited to my present circumsta:.ces, that sometimes i felt inclined to consider last night's adven- ture as more than a mere dream. but against this opinion reason and incredulity raised a thousand unanswerable objec- tions. i endeavored to banish the whole idea from my mind; in vain,-my dream returned, revolted, recoiled upon my imagination; opposition only served to give it additional force, painful was the struggle between contending sentiments; i could support the conflict no longer: forgetful of the com- pany, i broke out into a loud exclamation-"yes! it must have been a dream.” “ 'twas no dream,” rejoined a voice, fa- miliar to my ear. astonished and confounded, i lifted up my eyes; the strange gentleman, my unknown friend and benefac- tor, stood before me. i “young man,” he, continued, “ if you wish to be satisfied relative to what you saw last night, meet me at ten o'clock this evening, at the corner of frederic street, facing the dolphin." without waiting my reply, the stranger hurried out of the ar- bor, and in an instant lost himself among the crowd. soon after, the waiter made his appearance with the choco- late, but my appetite was gone. i traversed the garden, wan- dered up and down its walks, searched every where for the wonderful stranger, inquired after him of the waiters, described him, characterized him, offered a reward to any one that should discover him, but all to no purpose; pone of the waiters had seen any person that answered his description chagrined at the ill success of my inquiries, i returned to the inn, and, with a kind of secret horror, entered my apart- ment, where the image of eliza seemed still to hover round me. painful conjectures tortured my mind: her pallid, counte- nance, hollow eyes, and the signs of mortality portrayed in her looks, filled me with the most gloomy apprehensions. the place became insupportable: restless and uneasy, i wandered from one scene of bustling impertinence to another; from the inn to the coffee-house, from the coffee-house to the mall, from the mall to the exhibition-room, from the exhibition-room to the fair, to the booths, to puppet-shows, merry andrews, wild beasts, &c.-nothing could restore me to tranquillity--nothing afford me relief nothing calm the tempest of my thoughts! with the approach of evening, my assignation with the wons derful incogaito engrossed my méditations. strange ideas, unaccountable forebodings, harrassed my mind. the time, the place of meeting, seemed equally mysterious and alarming.' " why not fix upon an early hour?”?' why not upon his own apartment at the inn? go i, or go i not?” i incessantly put երկեր, Երե the astrologer, the question to myself, while my wavering resolution, like a pair of scales, preponderated this way, then that, alternately. . “what risk, what danger, mayest thou expose thyself to by going?” demanded prudence. “what discoveries mayest thou make?” replied curiosity: “to-inorrow is the day appoin- ted for thy departure from francfort, and this very night an opportunity offers of obtaining light, and satisfactory informa- tion, concerning all the strange and intricate occurrences which have lately taken place. how wilt thou repent having neglec- ted so favorable ani opportunity? and of whom standest thou in dread? shame upon thy manhood, to tremble at an old grey-headed gentleman." "a gentleman to whom thou art, moreover, under obligations," added pride, “which this very evening thou mayest learn to acquit thyself of.”—yes, i go, was the conclusion of my deliberations. . ... it was now within half an hour of ten o'clock. i returned to the ion to prepare for my intended expeditions. the land- lord meeting me at the door, accosted me with more than usual gaiety. “ Šir," he began,” i have an agrecable piece of news to communicate, that will, i make no doubt, afford you equal plea- sure and surprise.” “what is it?" i demanded with astonishment. “during your abode in my house, you have had the misfor- tune to lose, at different times, sundry valuable articles.” “that, indeed, is but too true," i replied, with a look that seemed to ask, whether this was the plcasant and surprising news my landlord had announced. : “ these losses,” continued the innkeeper, “ have been pro- ductive of much trouble and uneasiness to me, as well as to yourself, sir. for the credit of an inn, you know, sir” .“ to the point, if you please," i interrupted him, being im- patient to be gone. .“ it seems, sir, you lost your purse, the miniature picture of a young lady, an opera-glass, and likewise your pocket- book.". .“your inventory of my loss is very exact, very accurate, in- deed!”. “all thesc articles,” resumed the innkeeper, " you will find faithfully restored; they lie this present moment upon the table in your apartment." “explain yourself!” i exclaimed, trifle with my impatience no longer." “the matter is even as i relate. it is hardly an hour ago since a stranger brought these things to my house." "a stranger, do you say? he car. bc nó stranger to you, i should suppose?" the astrologer. “who, 'then, do you imagine it to be, sir?” demanded the innkeeper. “who else," i replied, “ but the elderly gentleman, your former lodger?” the innkeeper shook his head; at the same instant he was called off to some company. i hurried up stairs; every thing corresponded with the landlord's relation. on the table lay my purse, the miniature-picture, opera-glass, and pocket- book; i examined the latter, and found my notes safe and un- touched. i stood petrified with amazement, les that this was a fresh obligation conferred upon me by my unknown benefactor i had little room to doubt, “but how, . thought i; "by what means can he have been enabled to effect this restoration? why anticipate, as it were, his own appoint- ed time of meeting? can he have entertained any doubt of my punctuality in attending his assignation? or has he, perhaps, been compelled, by unavoidable, unforeseen necessity, to ac- celerate his departure from francfort?” the latter conjec- ture, whilst it appeared the most unpleasant, since it deprived me of all possibility of repairing the sum for which i stood in- debted to the stranger's bounty, at the very time when the re- covery of my own notes put this restitution in my power. however, as the stranger's departure was not positively certain; - as the whole of his character and conduct had been in the highest degree mysterious ; as his disinterested benevolence, inflexible integrity, and unexampled philanthropy, rendered it improbable that he should fail in his promise of meeting me, without the most cogent reasons, i determined to repair to the appointed place of rendezvous. “did the bearer of the lost articles, which i have thus un- expectedly regained, leave no message relative to the author, the place, the manner of their recovery?” addressing myself to the innkecper, in my way to the door. “none in the world,” replied the innkeeper; "he said neither more nor less than what i have already told you. - “here are the things which m. cronheims has lost during his abode in your house ;!' and, without giving me a moment's time to question him further on the subject, laid them down up- on the table, and departed.” · "take care of this till my return," said i, delivering, the key of my apartment to the landlord: my effects i have re- gained; for the future i leave them in your custody,--from you i shall expect them.” the time of assignation drew near: i hurried away from the inn. the clock struck ten: i kept my post at the corner of fred- eric street. dark was the night loud and hollow roared the wind ; not a star shone in the firmament ; every distant sound, : . . the astrologer. every approaching footstep, announced to my fond imagina- tion the arrival of my unknown benefactor. i ran to meet the coming passenger, accosted every one that fell in my way, but found myself continually mistaken. repeated disappointments served to confirm me in the opinion which i had already form- ed on recovering my pocket-book, with the other articles of my loss, as above related. my generous friend, thought i, must have left francfort,—must have been under a sudden in- dispensable necessity of travelling. i grew tired of waiting- the sound of the church-clock' again saluted my ears ; it was eleven, and the stranger had not yet made his appearance. passengers were no longer heard at a distance ; midnight, si- lence, impenetrable darkness, surrounded me ; vexed and dis. contented, i set out on my return to the inn. hardly, however, had i advanced ten paces, before i fan- cied i heard some one endeavoring to overtake me. “stop, sir,” exclaimed the well-known voice of my long-expected friend. i instantly turned round, and ran to meet him. “sorry am i,” hegan the courteous stranger, “to have de. tained you so long.” · « longer, sir, would i have waited with pleasure, had. i been certain of meeting you; had i not been apprehensive that you • had left francfort. i burn with impatience to see myself ex- tricated from my doubts : to obtain your promised explanation relative to the mysterious adventures i have lately experienced. “that explanation you shall soon receive," was the stran- ger's reply: “ follow me.” with long and hasty strides he now began to lead the way, displaying more activity than could have been expected from his years. i followed him; not a single word passed between us we soon approached the city gates: these were in an instant thrown open by the guard, and now our way "led across the suburbs. at the extremity stood a lonely antiquated house or castle, surrounded with a high wall, and apparently in a very ruinous condition. the stranger stopped short ; three times he struck with his staff against the massy gates: hollow sounded his knocks through the solitary apartments. an old grey-headed porter gave us admittance. the stranger demanded a light ; a lantern was brought: in mysterious silence he traversed the rooms, where desolation seemed to have taken up her abode ; all was waste, empty, uninhabited ; the old grey-headed por. ter excepted, i saw no signs of a single living animal. after passing through a long narrow passage, we came into a spa. cious garden, if a place overgrown with briers and thorns may deserve that title. here, however, the former picture of si- the astrologer. . . lent, solitary desolation was quite reversed: bats and owls swarmed in every part, and filled the air with their doleful, la- mentable cries. a ruinous antique summer-house, built of aint and granite, stood at the bottom ; thither i followed my con- ductor. “time and place,” began the latter, carefully re-locking the door the moment i had entered," time and place are here' equally favorable for our purpose: explain the nature of your doubts, and those intricate events concerning which you de- sire better information.” i began with a brief relation of-the extraordinary manner in which my pocket-book, notes, &c. had been restored to me, and was just proceeding to inquire whether my conductor was not the author of this fortunate discovery, when i was inter- rupted by the latter. “i am perfectly acquainted with the whole transaction; ask whatever question you please, but let it comprise the sum of all your wishes.” · this command involved me in the utmost perplexity. how was it possible for me, in my present state of surprise, to con- solidate, to concentrate, as it were, my desires instantaneously into one focus, into one object, one point? the stranger perceived my embarrassment. “ask then,” he resuined, " who the friend is that interests himself so faith- fully in your concerns.” "the very question,” [ reptied, “ that i most devoutly wish to have resolved." ? “well, then, you shall soon have an opportunity of secing this friend-of being personally acquainted with him.” “soon have an opportunity!" i repeated with astojishment. "am i not acquainted with him already? are not you, your. self, sir, that friend, that generous benefactor?” .."no!" replied the stranger with a negative shake of the head ; "i am nothing more than his instrument ; and that”- here he paused a moment-"and that only at the third hand.” • at these words i regarded him with silent amazement. of this the stranger seemed to take but little notice, but, draw- ing from his pocket a small box filled with red sand, began to scatter its contents about the floor ; then describing with his wand iwo circles, he placed me in one, while he occupied the other himself, and, with his hands crossed upon his breast, and his eyes directed upwards, stood for a long time motionless like a statue. : " what,” thought i to myself, “will be the end of these mysterious preparations?" the stranger still continued motionless, till a distant church clock announced the solemn hour of midnight. hardly had the last stroke ceased to vibrate on our ears, when, suddenly the astrologer. turning himself round in his circle, he pronounced, with an audible voice, at full length, the name of eliza. i started with horror and astonishment. instantly was heard a subterra- neous noise, like the thunder under ground that forbodes an earthquake, or when it rattles with aggravated peals, re-echo- ing from the neighboring mountains. the stranger pronounced the name of eliza the second time, and with a voice louder and inore awful, than before, a flash of lightning shot across the room, which shook with the roaring of the deep-mouthed thunder. louder, and still more dreadful, the stranger pronounced the naine of eliza the third time. a sudden trembling siezed upon me-the whole summer-house seerned to be on fire-the ground gave way under my feet- sunk down-the spirit of eliză hovered over me-my senses forsook me." a violent rocking gradually restored me to the use of my faculties. at first i fancied myself tossed to and fro by invisi- ble hands, while a rattling noise invaded my ears. the jolt- ing still increased. presently, i perceived myself seated in a vehicle that rolled along with surprising velocity. impenetra- ble darkness surrounded me-it was impossible for me to dis- tinguish a single object. i found myself terribly confined and straightened for want of room: somebody sat at my right hand, but whether my companion belonged to the spiritual or corpo- real race of beings, i was not sufficiently recovered for my surprise to determine. meanwhile the carriage rolled along with increasing rapid- idity, but either the roads must have been extremely rugged and uneven, or my driver, being unaquainted with the country, was unable to select his way in the dark, for we encountered such terrible shocks from loose stones, the roots and broken branches of trees, &c. that i expected, every moment, to sce the vehicle overset, and dashed in pieces. how long i contin- ued in this miserable situation it is difficult to ascertain, as you may reasonably suppose that one hour's travelling in this mode might well seem longer than a journey from leipzig to dres- den in a stage coach. at length a most tremendous shock put a period to our expedition: the charioteer drove fiercely over a prostrate mile-stone-off few one of the wheels-and down came the carriage in an instant. ? “ jesus! maria !” exclaiined my companion; who, falling right upon me, pressed me with such true; unequivocal, and substantial weight, that, had i been capable of the least reflec- tion, i might soon have satisfied my former doubts, whether my assoicate belonged to the immaterial or corporeal race of beings." excruciating torments awakened me from the state of stu- pefaction in which i had lain several minutes rough voices the astrologer. repeatedly called for help, and presently a countryman with a, lantern, ran to our assistance. on opening my eyes, i per- ceived two men standing over me each holding a horse appa- rently just unbarnessed from the broken carriage. they attempt- ed to lift me up; my agonies increased—i found myself unable to stand, and entreated them, for god's sake, to let me lie. a second attempt was made to raise me on my feet: in vain; it appeared that my thigh was broken. no sooner was this discovery made, than the two men swung themselves upon their horses, and promising to procure assistance in the first town or village they should find, galloped off at full speed, leav- ing me to the care of the peasant, who kindly did all in his power to comfort and encourage me. the night was piercing cold, which greatly added to the poignancy of my torments. a whole hour elapsed—no help niade. its appearance--the men with the horses seemed to be in no hurry to return. at length the distant rattling of a car- riage was heard: the countryman with his lantern ran to meet it; it proved to be a coach and four. "stop, for the love of christ!” he exclaimed, and briefly related the disaster which had just befallen me. a middle-aged gentleman sprang out, and, with the assistance of the country: man and his own attendants, conveyed me to the carriage, where having seated me as conveniently as circumstances would adinit, he gave orders to drive as gently as possible. hardly had the morning began to dawn when we entered a populous village on the estate of baron von kampenhausen: such was the gentleman's name who afforded me protection in my present calamity. i was immediately conveyed to the manor-house. a servant, dispatched for that purpose, soon returned with a surgeon; the necessary operations were per- formed, after which i was put to bed. my kind and noble benefactor paid me all possible attention, sat hours together by my bed-side, and as soon as i was sufficiently recovered to enter into conversation, entertained me alternately with his discourse, and reading extracts from the best french and german authors. at the expiration of nine weeks i was able to lay my crutches aside, and, taking an affectionate leave of baron von kampenhausen, return to francfort. my sudden disappear- ance from that place had greatly alarmed the landlord of the inu where i lodged; who, having made many fruitless inquiries after me, gave me entirely up for lost. great, therefore, was bis surprise at my unexpected return, after so long an absence.. hardly would he credit his own eyes, when i first inade my appearance, but, crossing himself, and adjuring me in the name of father, son, and holy ghost, began the usual preamble which, from time immemorial, has been deemed an infallible the astrologer. nobleman not less distinguished by his virtues therefore, if illustrious descent, with whom i travelled through thc xsmoak- part of europe. our tour lasted three years, and, thougread may be supposed that, in the course of so long a journey, xe which, like ulysses, we had occasion to see “mores hominum multorum et urbes," * we could not fail of meeting with many extraordinary adven- tures: the most wonderful as well as the most dangerous of all seems to have been reserved for our return to germany from switzerland. we had already nearly cleared the black forestt, when, on a sudden, the sky became overcast, the rain poured down in torrents, and the vivid fashes of lightning, bursting right over our heads, succeeded one another with such rapidity, that the thunder, re-echoing from the woods, the rocks, and mountains, seemed but one continued peal. to add to our distress, night now began to approach: not such a night as tender lovers, choose to wander in by the moon's pale lamp, and breathe their amorous vows-but rather a night, such as poets have con- ceived, when lapland witchest charm the laboring moon, and bring her down to earth, whilst darkness, with her raven wings outspread, hovering beneath the fair expanse of heaven, forbids the starry host their mild effulgence to diffuse, and cheer the traveller with their silver light. | we had not travelled many miles in this dismal condition, before our postillion had the misfortune to lose his way; and, what still aggravated our calamity, he did not perceive his mis- take till it was already too late to rectify it. i shall not attempt to describe the gloomy' apprehensions which filled our minds on his communicating to us this unwelcome intelligence. our postillion was naturally-a lad of humor, and, agreeably to the laudable practice of his profession, had entertained us all day * through many kingdoms, many towns he strayed, and foreign customs, laws, and manners, weighed. + this inmense forest is situated in swahia, and is by far the lar- gest in all germany; known to the ancients by the name of sylva hercynia. cæsar gives a description of it in his commentaries, where he affirms it to be ninė days' journey in breadth, and three score in length. 'i "thessalae mulieres vel lunam e cælo detrahere profitebantur. repente enim luna, cum plena esset et sublimis, facta est obscura, lumineque deficiente multiplicius mutatis coloribus evanuit.”—unde virgilius, eclog. viii. “carmina vel cælo possunt deducere lunani." song, mystic song, attracts the laboring moon. confer, et horatium, epod. v. et xyii. the astrologer. . charm ag after i b ritiog * greatest jaan by his lumberless murders, robberies, rapes, &c. . petrated in this immense forest. we had bstances, received ocular demonstrations of ports from the numberless crosses which in ected on the spot where any murder has been with a view to put travellers upon their guard, eat their prayers for the rest of the souls of ardly an hour passed witnout our meeting one crosses, with the following inscription : or in near this place was murdered n. n. . | all good christians pray for · his soul. , as we wished for nothing more ardently than to extricate ourselves from this dismal situation as soon as possible (being not less in purgatory ourselves than the souls of those for whom our prayers were desired), we ordered the postillion to lose no time in fruitless attempts to regain the right road to the town we had originally designed to put up at, but rather to drive straight forward with the utmost expedition, till we should have the good fortune to light on some human habitation, where we might pass the remainder of the night in safety. with tbis request our jehu willingly complied, and after exercising his whip for a full hour with all the fury of his illustrious prede- cessor of that name, we found ourselves emerging from our worse than cimmerian forest, upon the entrance of a large plain or common. “blessed virgin-mother of god!” exclaimed the pastillion, with a degree of ecstacy not to be conceived, “ we are at last in open country, and, if i am not mistaken, my lord, at no great distance from a village.” the music of the spheres could not have sounded more de- lightful and harmonious to the count and myself than this in- telligence from our postillion: nor was it long before his con- jectures were confirmed by a hideous howl which half a score of dogs set up on our nearer approach. great was our joy at belsolding once more the peaceful a- bodes of man. the village we found to be of considerable extent, but the inn, if such it may be called, was one of the most exe. crable that ever i set foot in je whole course of my life. “ben- edicite!” exclaimed the landlord, all astonishment at seeing a postchaise draw up before his door,-a phenomenon which caused him to stare as much as if the grand turk in person the astrologer. had come to pay him a visit. it was no wonder, therefore, if the fair of the house contained nothing more than a few smoak- éd sausages, some rusty bacon, and a stale loaf of brown bread wine or beer, he assured us, was not to be had in the whole neighborhood; and such was the goodness of his brandy, that even our postillion was glad to wash his mouth after swallowing a glass of it, in i inquired whether the lord of the manor resided on his estate, hoping to meet with better accommodation from the hos- pitality of a stranger'; but received for answer, that the manor- house was entirely waste and uninhabited, nobody having been able to live in it for this century past, and upwards: i de. manded the reason. “why', as to the matter of that, look ye, gentlemen," replied the land-lord, “it is an affair which nobody much cares to speak about-neither dare i, on any account, give you any item of the buisness to-night; but wait,” he added, " till to-morow morning, and then, if you are not able to divine the cause your- selves, why i will even let you into particulars." " i'. as little satisfied with this reply as my self, the count pres- sed the landlord to be more explicit, and even insisted on hava ing a categorical answer to the question i had put: but our landlord was not to be prevailed upon; he continued shaking his head, as stubborn as a mule, and, when he found that we would not desist from our inquiries, left the room with evident signs of displeasure, grumbling something about unlawful curiosity and divine judgments, with other obscure hints, which to us were quite unintelligible. vexed as we were at what we considered a most unpardon- able instance of rudeness, we were fain to make the best of our present circumstances, and digest our coarse unsavory fair as we could. indeed, the black spartan broth of leonidas would have been a downright luxury, compared to the miserable en- tertainment we partook of on this occasion; but experience ver- ified the old proverb, that "hunger is the best sauce.” after we had finished our homely repast, and somewhat ap- peased the cravings of nature, wo laid ourselves down upon some clean fresh straw, which here supplied the place of a bed to our weary limbs. the count was presently buried in a pro- found sleep; whilst i kept turning from side to side, and, har- rassed hy a thousand unaccountable apprehensions, found it im- possible to close my eyes. in this state of uneasiness i con- · tinued till the watchman, with hoarse voice, announced the solemn hour of midnight. my ears were instantaneously alarm- ed with the distant sound of horses' hoofs, and the echoing thunder of trumpets, horns, and other wind instruments. the noise drew near, and presently a whole troop of horse seemed to pass in full gallop by the window, the air at the same time the astrologer. i was now fain to banish all further thoughts of sleep, for the present night at least, and, not able to wait till breakfast, at which time the landlord had promised to satisfy our inquiries relative to the uninhabited mansion, i ran to the window the moment i heard the watchman begin to cry two o'clock. "friend,"? i accosted him, “ what can be the meaning of the noise and racket that alarmed our ears at the hours of twelve and one?" ; rol si s "why, truly," was his answer, “your honor must certainly be a stranger in this neighborhood. there is not a child in the village but knows all about it. we have this noise, as you call it, every night for weeks together: after that, we are quiet again for a season.”. "well, but," i replied, “what whimsical gentleman is it that hunts at midnight?" .." nay, that, indeed, i am not at liberty to tell you; inquire of your landlord, who can inform you of every particular. for my part, i am only doing my duty, and my trust is in god. but not a syllable of what i see and hear will i betray to any living soul; nor should a king's ransom tempt me to it.” and with that the watchman took himself off. i wrapped myself up in my great coat, and, drawing a chair to the window, awaited, with anxious impatience, the tardy re- turn of day. at length the morning began to dawn; the whole village re-echoed with the crowing of cocks, which, i may truly say, never' sounded more grateful to my ears. the count at the same time awaking, and seeing me already dressed:- . "why, you are up by times, to-day, sir," he began, rubbing his eyes. “pray tell me what noise that was which disturbed us last night?” . " indeed, my lord," i replied, “my curiosity in this respect is at least equal to your own; and hardly can i wait till we receive the promised information from our landlord. and," added i, “if your lordship had not slept so soundly, you would have heard the troop gallop past us at one in the morning with the same dreadful impetuosity and noisé as they did at twelve." the sound of horses' hoofs in the yard put a stop to our con- versation. i ran to the window, and saw an officer with his .. servant ,alight before the inn door. they presently joined us, and having, like ourselves, had the misfortune to be benighted and lose their way, our acquaintance was soon formed. the officer was a spirited young fellow, about three and twenty, wore danish uniforn, and had, it seems, been set upon a re- cruiting party. the count related our last night's adventure, which the lieutenant for some time regarded as a mere joke. -but, upon my positive assurance that what he had just heard the astrologer, was a real fact, he testified a strong desire to be better ac- quainted with the midnight hunters. " that honor you may easily have," replied the baron; « only pass the night here, and we will bear you company." “done !" cried the lieutenant; “ i hold you to your word, and who knows but our hunting gentry may be civil enough to admit us of their party. in that case," added he, laughing, “ we come in for our share of a haunch of venison.” hardly had he pronounced these words when the landlord made his appearance-“well, gentlemen,” he began (after previously bidding us good morrow), “ did your honors hear any thing extraordinary last night?” “but too much!” was my reply; however, pray inform me who, and what kind of hunters, they are that seem so-fond of exercising their sport at midnight?" . - "why yes, to be sure,” resumed the landlord, “ these are matters, as i said before, which one don't much care to talk about. i was unwilling to satisfy your inquiries yesterday, lest your incredulous curiosity should precipitate you into mis- chief, which, god above knows, has been the case with many; however, as i promised to give you a relation of the whole af- fair this morning, you shall find ine as good as my word, . “here, at the bottom of the village, stands a large house, which formerly was the residence of the lord of the manor. --now, you must know, it so happened that, a great many years back, one of these lords was a terribly wicked man, who cared neither for god nor devil, and treated his subjects worse than his cattle. nobody could do any thing to please him. even his own children he would bang and kick about like dogs, and, for the least trifle, order them to be thrown into a dark filthy hole or dungeon, where they were at last starved to death. his subjects he never called by any other name than his beasts, and as such he treated thein. in short, he was a true devil incarnate! “now, this wicked man delighted in nothing so much as in hunting. in his woods he harbored all kinds of game, even the most savage-wild boars especially which made terrible havoc and ruination in the fields and gardens of his peasants: and yet, if any of the latter only offered to drive away one of those furious animals, that was, perhaps, treading down his corn or devouring his turnips, he was sure to be confined for weeks together upon bread and water. whenever this noble- man thought proper to go a hunting, the whole village--was obliged to draw out and accompany him; and on these accasions he would make them supply the place of dogs, and set them , upon the game, which whenever they were not able to catch, the astrologer. he would horsewhip and worry them with his hounds till they fell down dead at his feet. - “one time, as he was indulging in these crucl practices till late at night, he was thrown from his horse, and broke his neck upon the spot. the clergy would not suffer him to be inter- red in the church-yard like a christian, for which reason he was buried in a corner of his park. but now the terrible judg- ments of divine vengeance became manifest; for to the present day his wretched soul is not suffered to rest. at certain stated times and seasons the wrath of almighty god obliges him every night, the moment it strikes twelve, to ride through the village, and, with belzebub and his hellish train, to drive into the manor-house, where he is fain to stay till one o'clock in the morning, which no sooner is heard to strike, than the whole infernal troop of them are remanded back to the bottomless pit. “since his death the manor-house has always been unten- antable. many who have foolishly attempted to sleep in it have paid for their temerity with their lives. nay, i know it to be a fact, that several who have slept in my house, and who, on hearing the noise of his approach, have been daring enough to look out the window, have been punished with a swelled face, or even a particular cast in their eye, if not with a total depri- vation of sight, for their rash curiosity." with these words our landlord concluded his long-winded harangue; and, wist- fully eyeing us all round, regaled his delighted optics with the · astonishment portrayed in our countenances. his pleasure was however, of short duration; the lieutanant instantly bursting out into a loud fit of laughter, for which, from the silence he observed during the landlord's narration, he seemed to have pur- posely reserved the whole collected force of his lungs. “ nay, sir, you may laugh as you please," replied the lat- ter, with no small degree of impatience; “but i'll venture to lay the last farthing i'm worth in the world, that you laugh on the other side of your mouth by to-morrow morning, provided you have heart suſficient to stay here over night.” : « that you shall soon see," was the lieutenant's reply; “not only here, my good friend, but in the very castle itsell: and, were it haunted with a whole legion of devils—were it the very palace and pandemonium of beelzebub - will i pass the ensu- ing night. these gentlemen, i make no doubt,” addressing his discourse to the count and myself,“ will gladly favor me with their company." my'young nobleman was a man of honor. not to accept this challenge would have appeared to him an indelible stain upon his character. his assent, therefore, was quickly given. for my part, i started a thousand objections, and representing the astrologer. ' with weeds and mouldering grass. from thence we contin- ved our way through a flight of empty desolate apartments, where 'spiders, rats, and owls, appeared to be the only tenants. windows covered with dirt, with cobwebs, and even moss it- self, afforded no other light than what found admission through the broken panes of glass: just sufficient to discover to our view the mouldering remains of several ancient pieces of fur niture; chairs without backs, part of the iron-work of a large lamp, suspended, by a chain of the same metal, from the ceil- ing of one of the rooms; with two or three ricketty benches, that seemed ready to fall to pieces under the touch: these were the sole signs of the place ever having been inhabited by man. · curiosity now prompted us to take a view of the subterrane- ous apartments of this antique building. previous to our set- ting out on this expedition, we had the precaution to provide ourselves with a lantern and the necessary apparatus for pro- euring, fire, which we now found exceedingly servicable. a stone staircase, at the further extremity of the hall, conducted us to a long, narrow, winding passage, arched over with brick- work, and terminating in a door cased over with iron. the lieutenant still leading the way, with his lantern in one hand and his drawn sword in the other, boldly advanced towards the door, which, yielding to his push, discovered a large vaulted place, resembling a cellar, but entirely empty, waste, and darker than the shades of midnight. a tainted air, impregna- ted with baneful vapors and pestilential dews, almost deprived us of the faculty of breathing, when we set foot in this subter- raneous dungeon. on each side, facing the entrance, we per- ceived a pair of folding doors, secured with enormous bolts and a prodigious portcullis of massy iron. in vain was it for us to attempt further entrance. we hastened therefore from this loathsome scene back to the hall, where, like fishes restored to there native element, we felt our hearts expand on 'once more breathing fresh air.' as this appeared to us the most eligible place for passing the night, and giving our ghostly friends the meeting, in case they should think proper to pay us a visit, we endeavored to fit it up for their reception and our own as conveniently as pos- sible. for this purpose, with the help of some rusty nails and detached pieces of wood, which we found in abundance in the solitary apartments, we at length contrived to make one broken table stand pretty decently upon its legs. we next essayed our ingenuity upon a couple of the rickctty benches, which. - were likewise, with much trouble, put in a condition that prom- ised to secure us from all danger of their breaking down under us. the astrologer: :: our landlord, from whom we had cautiously concealed our projected visit to the castle, was, on our return, almost petri- fied with horror and astonishment at our bold, and, as he called it astonishing presumption. at the same time, conceiving it his duty to deter us, if possible, from rushing on certain and immediate destruction, lest our blood, he observed, might per- adventure fall upon him, he fairly washed his hands of us, giving us the second edition of his morning lecture, enriched with various additions, emendations, and improvements. but, alas! his pious intentions met with no better success than before. the lieutenant, indulging his natural propensity for satire, soon rallied him out of alldemper; wherefore, giving us up for a precious triumvirate of stiffnecked incorrigible block- heads, he only requested of us to settle the reckoning before our departure; and, wishing us that success which he dared not to hope, took his leave of us as of persons no longer de- signed for this world. it was between nine and ten at night that we sailed from the inn, all three well armed with a hanger and a couple of pistols per man; excepting the lieutenant's servant, who, though he carried fire-arms, (being provided with a lantern) acted chiefly in the capacity of sutler to the troop. heroes in all ages have ever found an empty stomach a great drawback upon valor, for which reason, the lieutenant, who understood the whole art of war, both theory and practice, as well as cæsar or alexan- der the great, and very sagaciously reflected that, in a place where ghosts were supposed to inbabit, little store of belly timber was to be expected, took care to clap a basket with a couple of roasted fowls and three or four bottles of wine upon his servant's shoulders, and, thus equipped at all points, we began our march. on our arrival at the appointed place of rendezvous, we found every thing exactly in the same order as we had left it. table and benches were still standing as firm as ever; we took · our seats, and, encouraged by the lieutenant's example, ate as heartily as any pious catholic may be supposed to do previous- ly to a seven weeks' lent, not forgetting to do justice to the wine, which circulated briskly enough. this time however, good cheer was found to fail of the desired effect; for, instead of inspiriting our drooping valor, it acted rather like a leaden weight upon our eyelids, which with difficulty were kept from closing, although the clock had not yet struck eleven. · the intermediate space between this and the canonical hour of meeting our ghostly friends we endeavored to beguile by reading “hagedorn's poems,” of which i fortunately happened to have a copy with me. in this office i was alternately as; sisted by the count and the lieutenant, till the latter, on cxam- * the astrologer, ining his watch, and finding it within a quarter of twelve, closed the book, and, briskly running up stairs to a front room in the · first floor, took his stand, facing the window, which commanded as fair a view of the forecourt, and the circumjacent plain, as à dark unfriendly night would admit. the count and myself followed his example, and in.this posture we awaited the scenes that were to follow, leaving the lieutenant's servant fast asleep in the hall. at length the ominious hour began to strike,-more awful, in our present circumstances, than the funeral knell of some de- parted friend. dreadful was the midnight silence that reigned around us. the very pulse of nature seemed suspended ; the faculty of breathing alınost taken from us. and now the last stroke ceased to vibrate on our ears. instantly the whole fabric shook with the sound of horns, trumpets, &c. that seem- ed to rend the echoing air ; while the dashing of horses' hoofs made tbe solid ground tremble as with an earthquake : the rams' horns of jericho were mere pop-guns-the downfall of its walls a mere crash, compared with the dreadful thunder that now assailed our ears. impenetrable darkness, however, added to the velocity of their course, prevented us from grati- fying our curiosity, and distinguishing the authors of this wild and terrible uproar. swift as thc winged whirlwind, and with equal impetuosity, advanced the sable troop. three times they made the circuit of the walls ; then, suddenly halting, drew up at no great dis- tance from the castle, facing the drawbridge. in an instant died away the noise, like the doubtful blast still quivering on the trees, “ when the rude storm has blown its fill.” silence resumed her wonted empire ; but not the less. impossible was it for us to discover either horse or rider. whilst we stood bewildered in thought, and forming conjec- tures on the scene we had just witnessed, a more immediate subject of alarm presented itself in the court. the rattling of spurs ; the sound of footsteps, whether human or not, was un- eertain ; and a confused noise, as from a multitude passing and repassing, gave us reason to apprehend that the troop had dis- mounted, and were preparing to pay us a visit. . involuntary horror siezed upon me: à cold sweat overran my whole frame ; my knees tottered: i feared, i trembled, i knew not why. this noise, however, was of short duration ; for, like the for. mer, it gradually died away, and was succeeded by gloomy and profound silence. “shall we rush into the court? shall we seek to join them?” demanded the lieutenant with his usual firmness and intrepidity. i shook my head by way of reply ; the count did the same. “then am i like to go alone, it seems !" returned the fiery the astrologer .. the whole village assembled before the door, when, silence be- ing ordered, the lieutenant, froin the superior eminence of a deal table, addressed his wondering congregation to the fol- lowing effect :- “ brave, gallant, and aspiring heroes! such of you as have heart sufficient to offer your services to accompany us to the haunted castle, well known to all inhabitants of this village, there to' remain, and spend the night with us, and in all res- pects to act obedient to the orders which you shall then and there receive; such, i say, as shall willingly offer their servis ces for this purpose, and who, on inspection, shall be judged worthy of being employed in so glorious a cause, shall receive the sum of sixpence per man, over and above a plentiful sup- ply of brandy and other necessary refreshments, to keep your noble hearts from fainting.” laughable was it to see the effects which this harangue pro- duced. not a man in 'the whole assembly, but immediately offered his services with so much zeal, that we had reason to apprehend a premature exertion of their valor. to prevent, therefore, as much as in us lay, the effusion of human blood (for they seemed ready to go to blows for the preference), fif- teen of the stoutest and most promising were drafted from this heroic corps, and the residue, in order to atone for their disap- pointment, were promised a proper reward, provided they de- meane i themselves lovingly and peaceably. hereupon our troop received commission to attend us at the inn by ten o'clock precisely. as to the choice of their weapons, that was left to their own discretion. such vigorous preparations could not fail of exciting the ut- most astonishment in our landlord, who, now regarding us as something more than human-as sorcerers and magicians at least, if not devils incarnate-seemed himself hali willing to accompany us, and assist in purging the haunted castle of the foul spirits that inhabited it. with the approach of evening, however, his courage began to cool; wherefore, pretending some urgent business, that rendered his presence at home indispensably necessary, he contented himself with wishing us success to our undertaking. our brave troop, on the other hand, neglected not to attend their appointment with great punctuality ; and formidable in- deed was the appearance they made, armed with scythes, pick- axes, flails, bludgeons, pitchforks, pruning-hooks, spades, and in this country. the germans having a natural genius for music, many of these postillions are tolerable performers; and where the road, as is frequently the case, leads through large and extensivo woods, this travelling concert has a wonderful effect. the astrologer. whatever weapons chance or fancy put into their hands. have ing drawn ourselves up in -battle-array before the inn-door, we began our march to the castle, headed by the lieutenant. in the rear followed our provision, camp equipage, and military stores; consisting of brandy, cold roast beef, half a dozen peck loaves, together with some benches, which we borrowed from the tap-room ; a large deal table, the same on which the lieutenant made his famous harangue, and lastly an iron lamp, with the necessary apparatus for procuring fire. these were conveyed in wheelbarrows, and in this gallant order we made our triumphant entry into the castle. the court having been marked out as the place of encamp- inent, we pitched our tents between the gate and the draw. bridge. a plentiful libation was then made to the god of bran- dy, whose nostrils must have been highly regaled with the grateful fumes of incense and burnt offerings, every hero re- plenishing his pipe with a potent supply of india's salutary weed : and, as our victory in this ghostly crusade though un- fought, was none the less certain, hymns of triumph were sung beforehand on the occasion, in proportion as the brandy-bottle diminished, the courage and musical disposition of our company increased. we had, • therefore, no need, as on the preceeding night, to read our- selves hoarse, in order to repulse the encroaching advances of sleep. the wonderful assistance which valor reaps from military music-fifes, trumpets, drums, and kettle-drums, &c. is too plain and obvious to stand in need of any comment or illustration : otherwise, we might refer our readers to the his- tory of the lacedæmonians, who, after suffering repeated de- feats from the messenians, proved at length victorious,not from their own inherent valor, or the merit and skill, of their commanders, but by choosing the athenian songster and poet, tyrtæus, for their general ; although the said tyrtæus cut but a sorry figure for a militia captain, inasmuch as he was blind of one eye, lame, and, in fact, passed for little better than an idiot. if such, then, were the effects produced by one song- ster, in a whole army, what must we suppose to have been the case with our brave troop, consisting, as it did, of vocal per. formers from first to last? to so high a pitch was their valor wound up, by the noble songs which they rehearsed, not for- getting to whet their whistle, as occasion required, with plen- tiful draughts of brandy, that they laughed at, challenged, and defied, the whole infernal host of hell, with beelzebub, their leader, at the head ! it was now within a few minutes of twelve. the lieutenant, pointing at his watch, beckoned witb his hand : instantly the military concert was suspended ; awful silence succeeded in the astrologer. its place ; expectation stood a tiptoe ; and astonishment, mixed with horror, appeared visibly portrayed in every countenance. • thus we kept our post till the church-bеll began to strike, at which our country boobies pricked up their ears, and, with gaping mouths, seemed to swallow the sound. but when they heard the distant dashing of horses' hoofs, and the thundering echo of trumpets, -that followed immediately upon the last strokes, nothing can convey an adequate idea of their terror and surprise. they no longer dared to regard one another, except with stolen looks ; and had not fear effectually chained them to their seat, there is little room to doubt but a precipitate flight, on their part, would soon have deprived us of our worthy comrades and protectors. meanwhile the noise, increasing as it approached, drew near- er and nearer, and presently was heard distinctly in the sub- terraneous apartments of the castle. suddenly, however, it subsided : all was perfectly still and silent as before. but, in less than ten minutes, the uproar returned more powerful than ever ; and, swift as lightning, though still invisible, retreated the ghostly cavalcade, in full gallop, from the cas- tle. the lieutenant, followed by the count and myself, rushed out in pursuit of them. but though we flew, as it were, upon wings, being fully determined to gratify our curiosity, it was impossible for us to discover any other object than the distant glare of some white horses. we returned, therefore, hopeless and dissatisfied, to our companions. · these we found, on our entrance into the court, stretched out like dead, with their faces to the ground. table, lamp, benches, wheelbarrows,-in short, our whole camp-equipage, together with the brandy-bottle and provisions which we had brought with us, were gone. · the moon, shining but dimly throngh the opposing clouds, barely reflected light sufficient to make this discovery. great, as may reasonably be supposed, , was our astonishment. the lieutenant, seizing one of our prostrate companions by the shoulders gave him two or three hearty shakes, and endeavored to lift him on his legs; but this valiant champion, firmly persuaded that he was under the clutches of some blood-thirsty caco-dæmon, who, in all proba- bility, wanted to hurry him away, full drive, to the bottomless pit, began to roar out so lustily, that we had presently the whole troop at their prayers, each one imploring assistance from his favorite saint. sancta mater and kyrie eleison, intermixed with groans unutterable, resounded from every quarter. the scene was ludicrous beyond description, and fully justified the assertion of the roman poet . « primus in orbe deos fecit tiiner.” the astrologer. after feasting our eyes and ears a full lour at least with the cowardly devotion of these miserable wretches, we adjourned to the inn, leaving our companions to celebrate high mpass by themselves. our landlord was not a little surprised at seeing us return unattended, and accosted us with at least a thousand questions ; but as we stood in need of rest, we deferred satis- fying his inquisitive curiosity till morning, and laid ourselves down upon the straw prepared for our reception. our sleep, however, was not of long duration, for no sooner did it begin to dawn, than the whole village was in an uproar, and young and old assembled before the inn-door. our gal. lant companions, it seems, with the return of day, had gradual- ly got the better of their fears, and, venturing at last to look around thein, discovered, to their no small surprise, that we were missing. whether their grief at our supposed destruc- tion p.oceeded from any real regard, or from the fear of losing the promised gratuity for their faithful services, they immedi- ately hurried to the inn, and, with dreadful lamentations, rela- ted the disaster that had happened. laughable was it for us to hear the various strange and contradictory accounts which they gave of last night's adventure. some would have it that we were torn in pieces; others swore roundly, that they had seen us carried off by a whole legion of devils: but all of them were unanimous in bearing honorable testimony to their own prowess, and the signal feats of heroism they had achieved. but what was their surprise at learning from our landlord, who hitherto had purposely concealed this intelligence from them, that we were not only still in the land of the living, but had re- turned triumphant from the ghostly expedition! at first they refused to give credit to his words, but, finding hini positive in his assertions, they insisted on being introduced to us imme- diately. this accordingly took place; mutual congratulations · passed between iis, the promised reward was faithfully distribu- ted, and, after satisfying our landlord for the loss of his tables, benches, &c., we began to prepare for our departure. the lieuten ant, indeed, wished still to try his luck once more, and, for that purpose, proposed that we should secrete ourselves in the castle the ensuing night; but to this neither the count nor myself would in any wise consent. we sat out, therefore, about seven in the morning, though the weather was far from favorable, the wind getting exceed- ingly high, which, added to the frequent flying showers that passed over us, rendered the air extremely cold and damp. already were we within less than a mile of the black forest, when i perceived the lieutenant, who rode on horseback before us, accompanied by his groom, suddenly stop short: after a short pause, he turned rouund his horse's head, and took a the astrologer. voice calculated to inspire the utmost reverence and awe, re- plied “ wisdom.” count. and pray what language is it, then, in which this book is written? pilgrim. the language of wisdom. count. and what is it you call wisdom? pilgrim. every thing of which thou hast no conception. " lieutenant. well then, mr. wiseacre, that being the case, as you possess such extraordinary knowledge of things which the rest of mankind have no conception of, i shall be happy, methinks, to ask you a question or two. pilgrim (viewing him steruly). ask on. lieutenant. not far from this place stands a village, which is said to be haunted by a whole troop of devils. the manor- house, it seems, is their nocturnal place of rendezvous. these gentlemen, together with myself, have kept watch in the castle these two nights past- pilgrim (interrupting him.). and yet are not a whit the wis- er than before : for thou art not the man to whom wisdom deigns her hidden lore ; nor is the management of ghosts to thee intrusted, licutenant. that man, we suppose, can be no other than yourself. pilgrim. i understand the language of wisdom. the lieutenant, naturally addicted to raillery, could no lon- ger refrain from bursting into a loud laugh. of this the pil- grim took no manner of notice ; but, returning to his former study, was soon absorbed in meditation, from which, however, he was again roused by the count. . "friend," began the latter," as such great wisdom appears to be contained in the book you read, may we be allowed to ask who those spirits are, and for what reason they thus infest the above mentioned castle?" pilgrim (after a long pause). none but the spirits them- selves dare resolve thee that question." count. · what, then, does your famous book of wisdom treat of. pilgrim. of the manner in which spirits may be forcibly compelled to appear, and a full confession extorted from them count. how happens it, then, that you have never essayéd your art upon those which disturb the peace of the neighbor- · ing village? . pilgrim. because i have no wish, no interest in the.case lieutenant. well but, mr.wiseacre, suppose that we should make you an offer of our purses ; might not money, perhaps, the astrologer. have some weight in persuading you to make a trial of your skill? pilgrim. (in a violent rage). mean sordid wretch ! begone can gold be deemed equivalent to wisdom... lieutenant. what, then, can purchase it? pilgrim. nothing! will your courage stand the test? lieutenant. were there any doubt of that, we should not have ventured to keep watch in a place so formidable. pilgrim. well, then, watch one night more : precisely three quarters past eleven you will see mne, to a certainty. meanwhile, leave me to my meditations. the peremptory tone and manner in which he pronounced these words put it out of our power to disobey.-we retreated slowly to our carriage, looking back, almost every minute, at the wonderful pilgrim, who instantly relapsed into his former study. the lieutenant, as he remounted his horse, proposed that we should return to the inn, and, putting off our departure till the morrow, give the stranger the meeting at the time ap- pointed. much as i disliked the project, it was in vain for me to raise objections : the curiosity of the count was wound up to the highest pitch ; my consent, therefore, was rather extorted than obtained from me. our landlord, on learning the cause of our return, was little better than distracted with joy ; for, exclusive of the profits he hoped to reap from another ghostly frolic, having been paid for more than double the value of his table, benches, &c. lost in our last expedition, his brain was next to turned with the marvellous relations our valliant companions gave of the ad- venture. nothing was talked of, but how frightfully the spec- tres had appeared ; how furiously they broke in upon us ; how they breathed fire and smoke through their nostrils ; with eyes flaming-red, as big as any pint basins : notwithstanding all which, they had, they said, laid so manfully about them, that the whole infernal troop was forced to take a precipitate flight, and were, long before this, ten miles at least below the bottom of the red sea! hence, we saw ourselves regarded, by the whole village, as beings of a superior order, and had enough to do to answer all the questions put to us by our admirers. this was highly pleasing to the lieutenant, who diverted him- self, the whole day, with practising upon the simplicity of these rustics ; and, i am firmly persuaded, told more fortunes in the course of six hours than many astrologers have an oppor- tunity of doing in the course of as many years. on the approach of night, we had a numerous army at com, mand, without being necessitated, as before, to beat up for vol- unteers ; young and old entreating us to permit them to bear the astrologer us company: they neither demanded pay nor provisions ; the bare honor of serving under us was, as they observed, more thau sufficient recompense. company, however, was not what we · at present wanted ; not to mention that we had already but too well experienced what sort of dependance we ought to place upon their valor and assistance; we dissembled, therefore, our intentions ; but, finding even this ineffectual to answer our purpose, we were fain, in order to get rid of our troublesome visitors, to pretend ourselves sleepy, and to order the straw to be got ready for our reception. about ten we stole away as privately as possible to the castle. on our arrival in the court, the lieutenant's servant lighted up thé lamp we had brought with us ; after which we repaired to the hall, where, finding the benches we had formerly erected for our accommodation still standing, we seated ourselves, and waited in anxious expectation the time appointed for meeting our unknown conductor. the lieutenant appeared doubtful whether the pilgrim might not fail of his appointment, and discovered evident symptoms of mistrust, that he had no other view in promising to meet us, than merely to sport with our credulity. but the count, who, from his youth, had always manifested a strong hankering after the marvellous, was so entirely prepossessed with the venerable appearance of the hoary-headed sage, that he was ready to pledge his honor for his punctuality. this gave birth to a cu- rious controversy between the lieutenant and the count, on the subject of supernatural agency; the former ridiculing the whole system as visionary and preposterous, whilst the latter was firmly oſ opinion that, however exaggerated and disguised such accounts might be in the detail, the doctrine itself was founded in truth and experience. for my part, i cursed and damned the pilgrim most devoutly, and only wished that we had never seen or given ourselves the least trouble about him. in this manner did we cndeavor to beguile the tedious hour * of expectation. before us lay our watches placed upon the table, to which our eyes almost momentarily reverted. the minute-hand had hardly pointed to three quarters past eleven, when we plainly distinguished the tread of human footsteps across the passage. “you are perfectly right, my lord (quoth the lieutenant, ad- dressing himself to the count), our pilgrim is a man of honor." with these words he snatched up the lamp, and went to meet him. our conductor had now reached the hall. his dress was much the same as when we first beheld him, exccpting that on his head he wore a kind of turban, and carried his knapsack strapped about his shoulders. with slow and solemn steps he the astrologer. approached the place where we were seated; then, suddenly stopping short, beckoned with his hand for us to follow himn. we obeyed, and, leaving the lieutenant's servant fast asleep, behind us, followed him to the stone staircase at the opposite end of the hall. this we descended, and next' traversed, in awful silence, the long winding passage to which it led, till we came to the door of the vault, which the lieutenant had burst open on our first visit to the castle. here our conductor again stopped short; took the lamp out of the hand of the lieutenant, and, viewing us attentively all round, with a stern, forbidding look, that seemed to presage strange wonders, addressed us in a trembling tone of voice: “ let awful silence seal your lips, nor dare to tempt that fate which prudence bids heware; for know one word makes instant death your share.” the impression which his speech made upon our minds may be more easily imagined than described. we entered tho vault, not without horror and reluctance; this time, however, we found the air of this subterraneous dungeon less noxious and pestilential than before, owing, probably, to the door hav- ing been left opon by the lieutenant, at the time it was forced, as related above. our conductor, approaching the folding doors on the right-hand side, pushed back the large enormous bolts which guarded them with a degree of ease that well might create astonishment; then drawing forth from his bosom a pon- derous key of massy iron, fastened round his neck by a chain of the same metal, he thrice pronounced a word of mystic, but to us incomprehensible, meaning: _" and in the keyhole turns the intricate wards, and every bolt and bar unfastens: on a sudden, open fly, with iinpetuous recoil and jarring sound, the internal doors, and on their hinges grate harsh thunder.”_ horrible, beyond description, was the place into which we now entered. the form was circular, arched over with brick, and totally impervious to the smallest ray of light from without. * hollow sounded the ground beneath our feet, and every step we took re-echoed back distantly from the walls. facing the entrance, appeared another pair of folding doors, secured with locks and bolts, more formidable than the former. a blue inconstant flame, accompanied with a strong sulphur- ous smell that rendered the faculty of breathing extremely difficult, whilst it enhanced the gloomy horror of the scene, the astrologer gradually discovered to our view the mouldering monuments of ruin and decay. rotten coffins, human bones, 'ghostly skulls, shrouds, scutcheons, urns, and all the various symptoms of mortality, were seen on every side. in the middle of the vault arose a lofty bier, which supported a black leaden coffin, of unusual magnitude. over it hung a lamp, dependant from a triple chain of iron. our conductor uncovered his head; we followed his exam- ple, and'ranged ourselves, in awful silence, round the coffin, but still at such a distance, that we could barely touch it with outstretched arms. then placing the lamp held in his hands upon the floor, the necromantic sage proceeded to untie his knapsack, from which, together with the book he was studying when we first set eyes upon him, he took out a magic wand, composed of three different pieces, which fastened together in one, by means of joints, like a fishing-rod, and a tin box filled with red sand.: with this he bestrewed the adjacent parts of the floor; and, having fastened his rod together, described therewith three magic circles, parallel at equal distances in the sand. the . innermost was occupied by the exorcist; in the second stood the count, the lieutenant, and myself; the outermost being left empty, probably by way of defence, or to serve as a rampart, in case the evil spirits should think proper to meditate any sud- den attack upon us. thus duly armed, intrenched, and forti. fied, according to the demoniac system of tactics-(such of our readers as wish for a fuller account of this science, are respect. fully referred to the famous treatise, de dæmonologia, publish- ed by that learned and pious scribe, joannes bodinus)—we held ourselves in readiness against the ghostly invasion the sage, crossing his hands over his breast, stood for some minutes motionless as a statue, with his eyes directed towards heaven, or at least towards the ceiling of the vault. suddenly, he appeared seized with violent convulsions ; the features of his countenance became distorted to a ghastly degree, his eyes began to roll, his brows knitted together, in a manner hideous to behold ; his teeth chattered in his head, his hair bristled up like quills upon the fretful porcupine ; in short, every part of his body bore witness to the big feelings with which his heart seemed ready to burst. words at length found their way, but in a language to us quite unintelligible. they were pronoun- ced in a hollow tone of voice, and with surprising vehemence. he next opened the mystic book, and, with the same continued · agitation of face and body, began to read in a kind of half whis- per ; the sweat all the time running down his face, as though the iron hand of death had scized upon him. the astrologer. forth his hand, struck thrice with his wand against the magic boundary, and instantly the threatening form shrank back. + “who art thou?" demanded the apparition ;“and by what authority dare thy unhallowed steps profane the place where - spirits unembodied seek repose?” yo: “and who ait thou!" replied the sage sternly, and not the least daunted, “ that darest disturb the peace of this ill-fated mansion?" *,“ not i!! howled she, in a lamentable piteous tone of voice; "not i, but the damned spirit of my husband! bear witness, this accursed steel-displaying a bloody cagger in her right hand-bear witness, this deep wound, sti · reeking with my gore ;" here she again pointed to her breas “itis he, and he alone, disturbs the peace of this whole village ; 'tis he that vi- olatés even my repose!”. * the sage. but wherefore? spirit. no time was given for repentance: no friendly warn- ing bade me in haste secure my peace with heaven. fearless, .] pressed the downy couch ; undreaded and unseen, the dark assassin dealt the murderous blow. thus sent with all my sins unpardoned on mø head, i suffer here, awhile, the torinents of the purging flame. but double wrath pursues my murderer, whom the righteous judge above has doomed to bear the pun- ishment due to his sins and mine! the sagc. unhappy spirit! betake thyself to rest. by the deep secrets of yon mystic book! by that dread power 'which hell itself controls! by all the terrors of the world unknown! i swear thy rest shall never be disturbed! . the spirit, making a low bow in token of gratitude, regained 'the coffin, where it presently disappeared under the lid, which now returned to its former place. the light that issued from the inside gradually died away, as the coffin closed, leaving us once more involved in thick impenetrable darkness. . petrified with horror and amazement, having neither will to stay nor power to move, we stood a long time senseless and immovable: . i , - at length a dreadful flash of lightning, bursting full in our façes, ran whizzing a long the walls, and louder than before rattled the hoarse rebellious thunder in our ears. instanta- neously our lamps, self-lighted, began to burn again; whilst silence once more resumed its wonted empire around us. [ our conductor hereupon, with great composure, gathered up the scattered contents of his knapsack, replaced it upon his shoulders, and beckoned, with his hand, for us to follow him. after carefully relocking the door, and pushing home the bolts, he drew forth from his pocket a piece of yellow pearchment, about six inches square, and inscribed with the same kind of the astrologer. characters as his book appeared to be written in. this he laid upon the wings of the folding doors, in such a manner that it covered both in equal proportions; then sealing it at the four corners with red wax, and a large iron seal, he again pro- nounced some short mystic sentences, and with his wand de- scribed the emblem of a cross from one end of the door to the other. we were now in the empty vault which we had before visit- ed on our first excursion to the castle. the sage, advancing to the opposite door on the left hand, repeated his mystic cere- monies. the lock soon yielded to his trusty key. we enter- ed. our way led through another winding passage, arched over with brick like the former, but much wider and longer ; with this additional difference, that it had six or seven doors, all strongly secured on each side, besides a larger one of mas- sy iron, in which it terminated. this being likewise opened with great ease, we had next to ascend a long flight of stone steps: at the top of which, anoth- er door, studded with enorinous iron nails, presented itself. here our conductor again stopped short, paused a while, and with great solemnity repeated his former injunctions respecting silence, although there seemed but little need for this precau- tion, not a single word having been exchanged between us all the time. the opening of this door was attended with much greater ceremony than any other. we likewise took notice that our conductor, for this purpose, made use of a different key than he had before employed, a circumstance which seemed rather ominous to the lieutenant, as i could plainly perceive, by sev- eral significant looks which he cast both at the count and my- self. we had however, gone too far to recede.. a narrow passage, in which it was impossible to stand upright, conduct- ed us to an iron trap-doos opening upon a second flight of steps. there we descended, and found ourselves in a gloomy dungeon of a considerable size ; dark as the shades of midnight, and damp as the falling dews, when sol withdraws his cheering rays. fronting the staircase, and on each side, appeared an- other formidable door. advancing into the middle of this dismal place, the sage made a signal for us to range ourselves round him. hereupon, the ground was bestrewed with red sand, in which he, as be- fore, described three magic circles with his wand, and, opening. his books, began to read softly, with great agitation of body. then throwing his book upon the ground, he waved his wand in air, turned himself round with surprising velocity, and thwice pronounced, with a loud and dreadful voice, the same mystic word which he had formely made use of... the astrologer. : the whole dungeon instantly appeared on fire: the forked lightnings, reverberating from the wall, flashed with dreadful impetuosity in our faces, succeeded with peals of thunder, that seemed to forebode the total dissolution of nature. earth felt the potent shock, and trembled to its centre: all the doors of our prison flew open with a noise louder than the loudest thua- der: above us and around us shook the gothic pile, threatening to overwhelm us beneath its ruins. at the same time, our lamp went out, and in its stead was seen a blue sulphureous flame hovering over the steps of the stone staircase, from whence it now began to roll itself down. hollow groans, and the dismal clanking of chains, invaded our ears. terror, he- yond the power of language to describe, laid hold of us. as the noise drew nearer, the sage placed himself with his face towards the stone staircase, and soon we saw, with horror inexpressible, a grim and ghastly figure, of uncommon magni. tude, descending down the steps. a double row of chains were fastened to his feet and hands, which, rattling at every step he took, grated harsh infernal thunder in our ears. his garment appeared as if it had been newly dipped in blood; his right eyeball was forced out of its socket, and the upper part of his skull was shattered to pieces. thus, horrible to behold, he approached, with furious mien, the outer circles, foaming at the mouth, and grinding his teeth like the savage, fierce hyrcanian tiger. the sage stretched forth his wand, and with authoritative voice addressed the spectre: “stay here, accur- sed wretch!” he said, “and tell me who thou art?” “ a spirit of the damned!” replied the spectre, trembling. sage. hell, then, is fittest for thee! what business brings thee hither? • spirit. to seek deliverance from its flames.; sage. on what conditions hopest thou to attain this? spirit. none, none, alas! except my wife's forgiveness. sage. is that thy only hope? then back to hell--back to thy proper punisament-away! ay! fly with thy infernal troop; nor ever more presume to violate the peace of this neighbor- hood. behold yon mystic book, and tremble! at these words the sage pointed to the opposite door of the dungeon: reluctantly the spectre bowed submission, and re- treated. instantly the vault appeared the second time in flames. louder and more awful roared the thunder: all the doors fell to with horrible recoil: dreadful groans resounded in our ears: frightful apparitions glided along the walls, which, shaking with the deep-mouthed thunder, threatened us with immediate de- struction. a scene like this might well strike terror into the, stoutesi beart. we remained a long time in a state of stupefaction, the astrologer. strange delight in tormenting itself, and brooding over its mis- fortunes and calamities, we still remained silent for nearly two hours longer, feasting our troubled thoughts with ideal and an- ticipated sorrows. "damn me, if i hold it out any longer!” exclaimed the lieutenant, in a kind of frenzy, "that cursed rascal of mine can never sleep at such a devil of a rate as this. but were he even as fast as our great grandfather adam when his precious rib was taken from his side, i think i'll manage to open his eyes for him." .. with these words he began to stamp and roar, as though his design had actually been nothing less than to anticipate the day of general resurrection. the count and myself, seconding him with might and main in his pious intentions, joined lustily in the rough chorus—but all to no purpose ; no answer was returned- no tread of footsteps could be heard. exhausted with fatigue, we were fain to desist ; and, once more seating ourselves upon the stone steps, our patience was again put to the test, in wating till the servant should think proper to awake. after two or three hours spent in fruitless expectation- “i should be very sorry, gentlemen,” began the lieutenant, addressing us in a firm indignant tone of voice, “to torture either you or myself with groundless apprehensions. but, from the complexion of circumstances, our destruction in this dismal dungeon appears inevitable. as men, however, who have nothing worse than what already awaits us to dread, let us borrow hope and courage from despair ; and rather let us .perish in a bold attempt to regain our liberty, than calmly sub. mit to a lingering death, which resolution and perseverance may still, perhaps, enable us to escape. though this proud door defies our utmost and united efforts, some other opening may, perhaps, be found ; at least, the chance, at any rate, is worth the trial.” without waiting for our reply, the lieutenant began to de- scend the steps. we followed his example, .and returned to the dismal dungeon from which we sought to escape. each · taking a different direction, we groped about in quest of some -friendly avenue that might' afford us egress. . in any other situation, the whimsical manner in which we frequently met together might well have excited our risibility. sometimes we laid hold of each other by the feet and hands, or, running foul,.came tumbling to the ground together. at other times, our noses met in rnde contact with the opposing walls, or our shins were kicked bloody against the loose bricks, and rubbish that lay scattered up and down the place. but : the astrologer. all our efforts proved abortive. faint and exhausted, i at length stretched myself out upon the ground, and, more con- cerned about the safety of the count than my own, began to load myself with bitter reproaches, for having, through my indiscreet compliance, precipitated my pupil into inevitable ruin and destruction,-into the necessity of dying a lingering death in a subterraneous dungeon. meanwhile that i was indulging these disagreeable reflec- tions, the lieutenant and count continued their researches, as i could easily distinguish by the sound of their feet, which echo- ed dreadfully through the dismal vault. neither of them spoke a word, but groped about, for some time, in gloomy and pro- found silence. at length, the steps of one of my unhappy com- rades ceased to be heard. “ where are you both?” cried the lieutenant, greatly agitated and alarmed. · “ for my part, i am here," was the reply ;_" but where, pray, is the count?” we both joined in calling after him, and roared out at least as loud and lustily as we had done some hours before in search of the lieutenant's servant. the count, however, returned no manner of answer. my fears and apprehensions for his safety were now doubly increased ;-i was in a condition little shor of positive distraction. suddenly a hollow rattling noise was heard at some distance, and instantly a faint glimmering light began to diffuse itself in the corner of our dungeon. transported with this discovery, the lieutenant and myself directed our steps towards the place from whence the light seemed to proceed. we found, to our unspeakable joy, one of the iron doors of our prison open, through which we entered into a long passage, arched over with brick, at the extremity of which, at a considerable distance, appeared the welcome light of day. this passage led us by a gradual descent to a short flight of steps, opening into a spacious apartment, the flooring of which was broken through near the entrance ; and through this aperture it was that the light issued. looking down in hopes of making fresh discoveries, we saw with horror the count stretched at full length upon a heap of mouldering straw, to all appearance lifeless and insensible.. . the height from which he had turnbled might be about four- teen feet, but, had it been double that number, i should not have hesitated a moment in jumping after him. the lieutenant followed my example, and, seizing the count by the arms, we began to shake him lustily with might and main, till he discov- ered symtoms of remaining life. our joint endeavors soon restored him to a.perfect possession of his faculties ; when it appeared that, the fright excepted, he had sustained no inateri- the astrologer.. tion than exploded romances of giants and enchanters, than fairy tales or persian fables; which, by being destitute of probability as well as truth, must prove insipid and disgusting to every reader of sentiment and taste. for, if any thing can give greater interest to a narrative, it is the conviction that such things have actually occurred. • : the flying dutchman. to which another replied, “ the last flash of lightning showed there was not a reef in one of her sails ; but we, who know her history, know that all her canvas will never carry her into port.” : by this time the talking of the seamen had brought some of the passengers on deck. they could see nothing, however, for the ship was surrounded by thick darkness, and by the noise of the dashing waters, and the seamen evaded the questions that were put to them. at this juncture the chaplain came on deck. he was a man of grave and modest demeanour, and was much liked among the seamen, who called him gentle george. he overheard one of the men asking another, “if he had ever seen the flying dutchman before, and if he knew the story about her ?” .to which the other replied, “i have heard of her beating about in these seas. what is the reason she never reaches port ?” the first speaker replied, “they give different reasons for it, but my story is this : she was an amsterdam vessel, and sailed from that port seventy years ago. her master's name was vanderdecken. he was a stanch seaman, and would have his own way, in spite of the devil. for all that, never a sailor under him had reason to complain ; though how, it is on board with them now, nobody knows. the story is this : that in doubling the cape, they were a long day trying to weather the table bay, which we saw this morning. however, the wind headed them, and went against them more and more, and van- derdecken walked the deck, swearing at the wind. just after sunset, a vessel spoke him, asking if he did not mean to go into the bay that night. vanderdecken replied, may i be eternally d d if i do, though i should beat about here till the day of judgment ! and to be sure, vanderdecken never did go into that bay ; for it is believed that he continues to beat ahout in these seas still, and will do so long enough. this ves- sel is never seen but with foul weather along with her." » - to which another replied, " we must keep clear of her.- they say that her captain mans his jolly boat, when a vessel comes in sight, and tries hard to get along-side, to put letters on board, but no good comes to them who have communication with him. • tom willis said, “there is such a sea between us at present, as should keep us safe from such visits." to which the other answered; “we cannot trust to that if vanderdecken sends out his men." some of this conversation having been overheard by the pas- sengers, there was a commotion among them. in the mean time, the noise of the waves against the vessel could scarcely be dis- tinguished from the sounds of the distant thunder. the wind had extinguished the light in the binnacle, where the compass the flying dutchman. said that all was tight, and that he hoped it would soon be clearer ; and that they would see no more of what they were most afraid of. the captain and first mate were heard laughing loudly to- gether, while the chaplain observed, that it would be better co repress such unseasonable gaiety. the second mate, a native of scotland, whose name was duncan saunderson, having at- tended one of the university classes at aberdeen, thought him- self too wise to believe all that the sailors said, and took part with the captain. he jestingly told tom willis to borrow his grandam's spectacles the next time he was sent to keep a look- out a-head. tom walked sulkily away, muttering that he would nevertheless trust to his own eyes till morning, and accordingly took his station at the bow, and appeared to watch as attentive- ly as before. the sound of stalking soon ceased, for many returned to their births, and we heard nothing but the clanking of ropes upon the maşts, and the bursting of the billows a-head, as the vessel suc- cessively took the seas. but after a considerable interval of darkness, gleams of light- ning began to re-appear. tom willis suddenly called out, vanderdecken, again ! vanderdecken, again ! i see them letting down a boat.” all who were on deck ran to the bows. the next flash of lightning shone far and wide over the raging sea, and showed us not only the flying dutchman at a distance, but also a boat coming from her with four men. the boat was within two ca- bles' length of our ship's side. the man who first saw her ran to the captain, and asked whether they should hail her or not. the captain, walking about in great agitation, made no reply. the first mate cried, • who's going to heave a rope to that boat ?" the men looked at each other, without offering to do any thing. the boat had come very near the chains, when tom willis called out, what do you want ? or what devil has blown you here in such weather?' a piercing voice from the boat replied in english, "we want to speak with your captain.” the captain took no notice of this, and vanderdecken's boat having come close along side, one of the men came upon deck, and appeared like a fatigued and weather-beaten seaman, holding some letters in his hand. our sailors all drew back. the chaplain, however, looking steadfastly upon him, went forward a few steps, and asked, what is the purpose of this visit ?" the stranger replied, “we have long been kept here by foul weather, and vanderdecken wishes to send these letters to his friends, in europe." our captain now came forward, and said as firmly as he · could, “ i wish vanderdecken would put his letters on board of any other vessel rather than mine." the flying dutchman.. the stranger replied, “ we have tried many a ship, but most of them refuse our letters." upon which, tom willis' muttered, " it will be best for us if we do the same, for they say there is sometimes a sinking weight in your paper." the stranger took no notice of this, but asked where we were from. on being told that we were from portsmouth, he said, as if with strong feeling, “ would that you had rather been from amsterdam! oh that we saw it again we must see our friends again.” when he uttered these words, the men who were in the boat below wrung their hands, and cried in a.pier- cing tone, in dutch, “ oh that we saw it again ! we have been long here beating about : but we must see our friends again !” the chaplain asked the stranger, “ how long have you been at sea ?" he replied, “ we have lost our count; for our almanack was blown overboard. our ship, you see, is there still ; so why should you ask how long we have been at sea ? for van- derdecken only wishes to write home and comfort his friends." to which the chaplain replied, “your letters, i fear would be of no use in amsterdam, even if they were delivered, for the persons to whom they were addressed are probably no longer to be found there, except under very ancient green turf in the church-yard." the unwelcome stranger then wrung his hands, and appeared to weep ; and replied, " it is impossible. we cannot believe you. we have been long driving about here, but country nor relations cannot be so easily forgotten. there is not a rain- drop in the air but feels itself kindred to all the rest, and they fall back into the sea to meet with each other again. how, then, can kindred blood be made to forget where it came from ? even our bodies are part of the ground of holland ; and van- derdecken says, if he once were come to amsterdam, he would rather be changed into a stone post, well fixed into the ground, than leave it again, if that were to die elsewhere. but in the mean time, we only ask you to take these letters.” . the chaplain, looking at him with astonishment, said, “ this is the insanity of natural affection, which rebels against all measures of time and distance." the stranger continued, “ here is a letter from our second mate, to his dear and only remaining friend, his uncle, the mer- chant who lives in the second house on stuncken yacht quay.” he held forth the letter, but no one would approach to take it. tom willis raised his voice and said, “one of our men, here, says that he was in amsterdam last summer, and he knows for certain that the street called stuncken yacht quay was pulled down sixty years ago, and now there is only a large church at - that place." the flying dutchman. . the man from the flying dutchman said, “it is impossible ; we cannot believe you. here is another letter from myself, in which i have sent a bank-note to my dear sister, to buy some gallant lace, to make her a high head-dress." ; tom willis hearing this, said, “it is most likely that her head now lies under a tombstone, which will outlast all the charges of the fashion. but on what house is your bank-note ?" the stranger replied, “ on the house of vanderbrucker and company." the man of whom tom willis had spoken said, “i guess there will now be some discount upon it, for that banking-house was gone to destruction (forty years ago ; and vanderbrucker was afterwards missing. but to remember these things is like raking up the bottom of an old canal.” the stranger called out passionately, “ it is impossible--we cannot believe it ! it is cruel to say such things to people in our condition. there is a letter from our captain himself, to his much beloved and faithful wife, whom he left at a pleasant sum- mer dwelling, on the border of the haarlemer mer. she promised to have the house beautifully painted and gilded before he came back, and to get a new set of looking glasses for the principal chamber, that she might see as many images of van- derdecken as if she had six husbands at once.” the man replied, " there has been time enough for her to have had six husbands since then ; but were she alive still, there is no fear that vanderdecken would ever get home to dis- turb her.” on hearing this, the stranger again shed tears, and said, if they would not take the letters, he would leave them; and looking round, he offered the parcel to the captain, chaplain, and to the rest of the crew successively : but each drew back as it was offered, and put his hands behind his back. he then laid the letters upon the deck, and placed upon them a piece of iron, which was lying near, to prevent them from being blown away. having done this, he swung himself over the gang-way, and went into the boat. , we heard the others speak to him, but the rise of a sudden squall prevented us from distinguishing his reply. · the boat. was seen to quit the ship's side, and, in a few inoments, there were no more traces of her than if she had never been there.- the sailors rubbed their eyes, as if doubting what they had witnessed; but the parcel still lay upon the deck, and proved the reality of all that had passed. duncan saunderson, the scotch mate, asked the captain if- he should take them up, and put them in the letter-bag? re- ceiving no reply, he would have lifted them if it had not been for tom willis, who pulled him back, saying that nobody should touch them. the tiger's cave. about three years since, after a short residence in mexico, i embarked for guayaquil, in order to visit from thence the cele- brated mountains of quito. on arriving at guayaquil, i found there two travellers, who were preparing to take the same route. these were capt. wharton, an english naval officer; and a young midshipman, named lincoln. the frigate which wharton com- manded had suffered considerably 'in her voyage through the south seas ; and as it was now undergoing the necessary re- pairs, wharton resolved to devote some of his leisure time to visiting the forests and mountains of quito. it was quickly agreed that we should make the journey together. i found wharton a frank and open-hearted man ; and his young favor- ite, lincoln, a youth of eighteen, had a handsome sun-burnt countenance, with an expression of determined bravery. we set out on a fine clear morning, attended by my hunts- man, frank, and two indians, as guides. on beginning to as- cend the mountain, the scenery became more enchanting at every step. the mighty andes, like a vast amphitheatre, cov- ered to their summits with gigantic forests, towered aloft ; the snow-crested chimborazo reared its proud front; the terrific cotopaxi sent forth volumes of smoke and flame ; and innumer- able other mountains, branching from the far-spreading cordil- leras, faded away in the distance. . with an involuntary shud- der, i entered the narrow path that leads into the magnificent forest. the monkies leaped frorn branch to branch ; the paro- quets chattered incessantly ; and the eagles, from amidst the tall cypresses where they had built their nests, sent down a wild cry. the farther we advanced, new objects presented them- selves on every side : the stately palms, with their broad sword- like leaves ; the singular soap-tree; the splendid mongolia ; the tall wax tree, and the evergreen oak, reared themselves proudly over the orange groves, with whose fragrance was, blended the aromatic perfume of the vanilla. towards evening, our guides began to quicken their pace, and we hastened after them. in a short time, they uttered a shout of joy, of which we quickly discovered the cause. by the light of a large fire, which was kindled in an open space of the forest, we descried a little indian village, consisting of ser- the tiger's cave. . rocks. her fate did not in the least dismay her companion, he followed her with an immense spring, and reached the op- posite side, but only with his fore claws ; and thus he clung to ihe edge of the precipice, endeavoring to gain a footing. the · indians again uttered a wild shriek, as if all hope had been lost. but wharton, who was nearest the edge of the rock, advanced courageously towards the tiger and struck his sword into the animal's breast. maddened with pain, the furious beast collect- ed all his strength, and fixing one of his hind legs upon the edge of the cliff, he seized wharton by the thigh. the heroic man still preserved his fortitude; he grasped the stem of a tree with his left hand, to steady and support himself, while with his right he wrenched, and violently turned the sword that was still in the breast of the tiger. all this was the work of an in- stant. the indians, frank, and myself, hastened to his assist- ance; but lincoln, who was already at his side, had seized wharton's gun, which lay near upon the ground, and struck so powerful a blow with the butt end upon the head of the tiger, that the animal, stunned and overpowered, let go his hold and fell back into the abyss. the unhappy lincoln, however, hade not calculated upon the force of his blow : he staggered for- ward, reeled upon the edge of the precipice, extended his hand to seize upon any thing to save himself—but in vain. for an instant he hovered over the gulf, and then fell into it, to'rise no more. we gave vent to a shriek of horror-then for a few minutes there was a dead and awful silence. when we were able to revert to our own condition, i found wharton lying insensible on the brink of the precipice. we examined his wound, and found that he was torn dreadfully. the indians collected some herbs, the application of which stopped the bleeding, and we then bound up the mangled limb. it was now evening, and we were obliged to resolve upon passing the night under the shelter of some cleft in the rocks. the indians made a fire to keep the wild beasts from our couch; but no sleep visited my eyes. i sat at wharton's bed and listened to his deep breathing. · it became more and more hard and deep, and his hand grasped violently, as if in convulsive movements. his consciousness had not returned, and in this situation he passed the whole night. in the morning the indians proposed to bear our wounded friend back to the village we had left the previous day. they plaited some strong branches together, and formed a bridge to repass the gulf. it was a mournful procession. on the way wharton suddenly opened his eyes, but instantly closed them again, and lay as im- moveable as before. towards evening we drew near our des- tination ; and our indian friends, when they saw our situation, expressed the deepest sympathy; the whole tribe assembled round us, and uttered piercing cries of grief when they learnt the tiger's cave. poor lincoln's fate. yanna burst into tears; and her brothers hastened away, accompanied by some other indians, in search of the body. i remained with my wounded friend ; he still lay insensible to every thing around him. sleep-at length overpow- ered me. towards morning, a song of lamentation and mourning aroused me—it was from the indians, who were returning with lincoln's body. yanna was weeping beside it. i hastened to meet them, but was glad to turn back again, when my eyes fell upon the torn and lifeless body of our young companion.. the indians had laid him upon tiger's skins, which they had strewed with green boughs; and they now bore him to the burial-place of their tribe. yanna sacrificed on his tomb the most beauti- ful ornament she possessed-her long black hair-an offering upon the grave of him who, it is possible, had first awakened the feelings of tenderness in her innocent bosom. - on the third day, as i sat at wharton's bed, he suddenly moved ; he raised his head, and opening his eyes, gazed fix- edly upon a corner of the room. his countenance changed in a most extraordinary manner; it was deadly pale, and seemed to be turning to 'marble. i saw that the hand of death was upon him. “all is over,” he gasped out, while his looks con- tinued fixed upon the same spot; "there it stands !”-and he fell back and expired. : peter rugg, the missing man. sir,-agreeably to my promise, i now relate to you all the particulars of the lost man and child, which i have been able to collect. it is entirely owing to the humane interest you seemed to take in the report, that i have pursued the inquiry to the fol- lowing result. you may remember that business called me to boston in the summer of . i sailed in the packet to providence, and when i arrived there, i learned that every seat in the stage was engaged. i was thus obliged either to wait a few hours, or accept a seat with the driver, who civilly offered me that ac- commodation. accordingly i took my seat by his side, and soon found him intelligent and communicative. when we had travelled about ten miles, the horses suddenly threw their ears on their necks, as flat as a hare's. said the driver, have you a surtout with you ? "no," said i, “why do you ask ?” “you will want one soon,” said he. “do you observe the ears of all the horses ?” “yes,” and was just about to ask the reason.- “they see the storm breeder, and we shall see him soon.” at this moment there was not a cloud visible in the firmament.- soon after a small speck appeared in the road. “there,” said my companion, “comes the storm breeder ; he always leaves a scotch mist behind him. by many a wet jacket i do remember him. i suppose the poor fellow suffers much himself, much more than is known to the world.” presently a man with a child beside him, with a large black horse, and a weather-beat- en chair, once built for a chaise body, passed in great haste, ap- parently at the rate of twelve miles an hour. he seemed to grasp the rein of his horse with firmness, and appeared to anti- cipate his speed. he seemed dejected, and looked anxiously at the passengers, particularly at the stage driver and myself.- in a moment after he passed us, the horses' ears were up, and bent themselves forward so that they nearly met. “who is that man,” said i, “he seems in great trouble.” “nobody knows who he is, but his person and the child are familiar to me. i have met him more than a hundred times, and have been so often asked the way to boston, by that man, even when he was trav- elling directly from that town, that of late, i have refused any communication with him ; and that is the reason he gave me such a fixed look.” “but does he never stop any where?"- “i have never known him to stop any where, longer than to in- peter rugg, the missing man.: quire the way to boston; and let him be where he may, he will tell you he cannot stay a moment, for he must reach bos- ton that night.” we were now ascending a high hill in walpole ; and as we had a fair view of the heavens, i was rather disposed to jeer the driver for thinking of his surtout, as not a cloud as big as a marble, could be discerned. “do you look," said he, in the direction whence the man came, that is the place to look ; the storm never meets him, it follows him.” we presently ap- proached another hill, and when at the height, the driver point- ed out in an eastern direction a little black speck, about as big as a hat. "there said he is the seed storm; we may possibly reach polley's before it reaches us, but the wanderer and his child will go to providence through rain, thunder and lightning.” and now the horses, as though taught by instinct, hastened with increased speed. the little black cloud came on rolling over the turnpike, and doubled and trebled itself in all direc- tions. the appearance of this cloud attracted the notice of all the passengers ; for after it had spread itself to a great bulk, it suddenly became more limited in circumference, grew more compact, dark and consolidated. and now the successive flash- es of chain lightning caused the whole cloud to appear like a sort of irregular net work, and displayed a thousand fantastic images. the driver bespoke my attention to a remarkable con- figuration in the cloud. he said every flash of lightning near its centre discovered to him distinctly the form of a man sitting in an open carriage drawn by a black horse. but in truth, i saw no such thing. the man's fancy was doubtless at fault.- it is a very common thing for the imagination to paint for the senses, both in the visible and invisible world. in the mean time the distant thunder gave notice of a shower at hand ; and just as we reached polley's tavern, the rain pour- ed down in torrents. it was soon over, the cloud passing in the direction of the turnpike toward providence. in a few moments after, a respectable looking man in a chaise stopped at the door. the man and child in the chair having excited some little sym- pathy among the passengers, the gentleman was asked if he had observed them? he said he had met them, that the man seemed bewildered, and inquired the way to boston : that he was driv- ing at great speed, as though he expected to outstrip the tem- pest ; that the moment he had passed him, a thunder clap broke distinctly over the man's head, and seemed to envelop both man and child, horse and carriage. “i stopped,” said the gentle- man,“ supposing the lightning had struck him, but the horse only seemed to loom up and increase his specd, and as well as i could judge, he travelled just as fast as the thunder cloud.”_ while this man was speaking, a pedlar with a cart of tin mer- chandize came up, all dripping ; and on being questioned, he peter rugg, the missing man. said he had met that man and carriage, within a fortnight, in four different states ; that at each time he had inquired the way to boston, and that a thunder shower like the present had each time deluged his wagon and his wares, setting his tin pots, &c.'. ' afloat, so that he had determined to get marine insurance done for the future. but that which excited his surprise most, was the strange conduct of his horse, for that long before he could distinguish the man in the chair, his own horse stood still in the road, and aung back his ears.” “in short,” said the pedlar, « i wish never to see that man and horse again; they do not look to me as though they belonged to this world.” this is all that i could learn at that time, and the occurrence soon after, would have become with me, “like one of those, things which had never happened,” had i not, as i stood recent- ly on the door-step of bennett's hotel in hartford, heard a man say, “there goes peter rugg and his child! he looks wet and weary, and farther from boston than ever.” i was satisfied it was the same man that i had seen more than three years before; for whoever has once seen peter rugg, can never after be de- ceived as to his identity. “peter rugg!" said i, “and who is peter rugg?" that,” said the stranger, “ is more than any one can tell exactly. he is a famous traveller, held in light esteem by all innholders, for he never stops to eat, drink, or sleep. i wonder why the government do not employ him to carry the mail.” “aye,” said a by-stander, “that is a thought bright only on one side ; how long would it take, in that case, to send a letter to boston, for peter has already, to my knowl- edge, been more than twenty years travelling to that place.”— “but,” said i, “ does the man never stop any where; does he never converse with any one ? i saw this man more than three years since, near providence, and i heard a strange story about him. pray, sir, give me some account of this man.” « sir,” said the stranger, “ those who know the most respecting that man, say the least. i have heard it asserted that heaven some- times sets a mark on a man, either for judgment or a trial. vor- der which peter rugg now labours, i cannot say ; therefore i am rather inclined to pity, than to judge.” “you speak like a humane man,” said i, "and pray if you have known him so long, i pray you will give me some account of him. has bis appearance much altered in that time ?” “ why, yes. he looks as though he never ate, drank, or slept ; and his child looks older than himself, and he looks like time broke off from eternity, and anxious to gain a resting place.” “and how does his horse look ?” said i. « as for his horse, he looks fatter and gayer, and shows more animation and courage, than he did twenty years ago. the last time rugg spoke to me, he inquired how far it was to boston. i told him just one hundred miles.”_ “why,” said he, “how can you deceive me so? it is cruel to h peter rugg, the missing man. mislead a traveller. i have lost my way; pray direct me the nearest way to boston.” i repeated it was one hundred miles. “how can you say so,” said he, “i was told last evening it was but fifty, and i have travelled all night.” “but,” said i, “ you are now travelling from bostorr. you must turn back." “ alas," said he, “it is all turn back ! boston shifts with the wind, and plays all round the compass. one man tells me it is to the east, another to the west ; and the guide posts too, they all point the wrong way.” “but will you not stop and rest," said i'; " you seem wet and weary." " yes,” said he, “it has been foul weather since i left home.” “stop then, and re- fresh yourself.” “i must not stop, i must reach home to-night if possible : though i think you must be mistaken in the distance to boston.” he then gave the reins to his horse, which he re- strained with difficulty, and disappeared in a moment. a few days afterwards i met the man a little this side claremont, wind- ing around the hills in unity, at the rate, i believe, of twelve miles an hour." “is peter rugg his real name, or has he accidentally gained that name ?” “i know not, but presume he will not deny his. name ; you can ask him, for see, he has turned his horse, and is passing this way.” in a moment, a dark coloured, high spirit- ed horse approached, and would have passed without stopping, but i had resolved to speak to peter rugg, or whoever the man might be. accordingly i stepped into the street, and as the horse approached, i made a feint of stopping him. the man immediately reined in his horse. « sir,” said i, “ may i be so bold as to inquire if you are not mr. rugg ? for i think i have seen you before." " my name is peter rugg," said he, “i have unfortunately lost my way ; i am wet and weary, and will take it kindly of you to direct me to boston.” “ you live in boston, do you ; and in what street ?” “in middle-street.”— “ when did you leave boston ?” “i cannot tell precisely ; it seems a considerable time.” “but how did you and your child become so wet? it has not rained. here to-day.” “it has just rained a heavy shower up the river. but i shall not reach bos- ton to-night, if i tarry. would you advise me to take the old road, or the turnpike ?”. “why, the old road is one hundred and seventeen miles, and the turnpike is ninety-seven.” “how can you say so ? you impose on me; it is wrong to trifle with a tra- veller; you know it is but forty miles from newburyport to bos- ton.”. but this is not newbury port; this is hartford.” “do not deceive me, sir. is not this town newburyport, and the river that i have been following, the merrimac?” “ no, sir, this is hartford, and the river, the connecticut.” he wrung his hands, and looked incredulous. “have the rivers, too, changed their courses, as the cities have changed places ? but see, the clouds are gathering in the south, and we shall have a peter rugg, the missing man. "the storm is overwhelming you ; the night is exceeding dark ; your little daughter will perish; you are in an open chair, and the tempest is increasing.” “let the storm increase,” said rugg, with a fearful oath, “ i will see home to-night, in spite of the tast tempest ! or may i never see home !” at these words he gave the whip to his high spirited horse, and disappeared in a moment. but peter rugg did not reach home that night, nor the next; nor, when he became a missing man, could he ever be traced beyond mr. cutter's in menotomy. for a long time after, on every dark and stormy night, the wife of peter rugg would fancy she heard the crack of a whip, and the feet tread of a horse, and the rattling of a carriage, passing her door.- the neighbors, too, heard the sarne noises, and some said they knew it was rugg's horse ; the tread on the pavement was perfectly familiar to them. this occurred so repeatedly, that at length the neighbors watched with lanterns, and saw the real peter rugg, with his own horse and chair, and child sitting beside him, pass directly before his own door, his head turning toward his house, and himself making every effort to stop his horse, but in vain. the next day, the friends of mrs. rugg ex- erted themselves to find her husband and child. they inquired at every public house in town; but it did not appear that rugg made any stay in boston. no one, after rugg had passed his own door, could give any account of him ; though it was assert- ed by some that the clatter of rugg's horse and carriage over the pavements shook the houses on both sides of the streets.- and this is credible, if indeed rugg's horse and carriage did pass on that night. for at this day, in many of the streets, a loaded truck or team in passing, will shake the houses like an. earthquake. however, rugs's neighbors never afterwards watched again ; some of them treated it all as a delusion, and thought no more of it. others, of a different opinion, shook their heads, and said nothing. thus rugg and his child, horse and chair, were soon forgotten; and probably many in the neigh- borhood never heard a word on the subject. “ there was inded a rumour, that rugg afterwards was seen in connecticut, between suffield and hartford, passing through the country, like a streak of chalk. this gave occasion to rugg's friends to make further inquiry. but the more they in- quired, the more they were baſted. if they heard of rugg, one day in connecticut-the next, they heard of him winding around the hills in new-hampshire ; and soon after, a man in a chair, with a small child, exactly answering the description of peter rugg, would be seen in rhode island, inquiring the way to boston. " but that which chiefly gave a colour of mystery to the story of peter rugg, was the affair at charlestown bridge. the toll- gatherer asserted, that sometimes, on the darkest and most stormy . peter rugg, the missing man. nights, when no object could be discerned, about the time rugg was missing, a horse and wheel carriage, with a noise equal to a troop, would at midnight, in utter contempt of the rates of toll, pass over the bridge. this occurred so frequently, that the toll-gatherer, resolved to attempt a discovery. soon after, at the usual time, apparently the same horse and carriage ap- proached the bridge from charlestown square. the toll- gatherer, prepared, took his stand as near the middle of the bridge as he dared, with a large three-legged stool in his hand. as the appearance passed, he threw the stool at the horse, but heard nothing, except the noise of the stool skipping across the bridge. the toll-gatherer, on the next day asserted that the stool went directly through the body of the horse ; and he per- sisted in that belief ever after. whether rugg, or whoever the person was, ever passed the bridge again, the toll-gatherer would never tell—and when questioned, seemed anxious to wave the subject. and thus, peter rugg and his child, horse and car- riage, remain a mystery to this day.” this, sir, is all that i could learn of peter rugg in boston. the haunted forest. appeared to present nothing worth living for.' but her reason and judgment soon aroused her from this torpor of grief, and she was convinced that society had still claims on her exertions. she had a beloved father and dear brothers, whose kind and affectionate attentions demanded a return on her part, and a grateful heart prompted her to suppress her own sorrows, and endeavour to solace theirs. indeed the children began to feel that their united energies were required to draw their renaining parent from that state of fixed melancholy which seemed to have taken possession of his mind. he received their endearments with affectionate gratitude, and sometimes with cheerfulness; but he would leave his hoine for hours, and not unfrequently for whole days, and penetrate into the deep recesses of the gloomy forest, to indulge, without interruption, the sorrow that pressed so heavily on his heart. his children observed and deplored it ; but regarding his solitude as sacred, they dared not intrude : and they unitedly resolved to contribute all in their power to increase the enjoyments of his home, by which means they hoped to effect the change so much desired. one evening he was from home later than usual, and his sons were preparing to go in quest of him, when he entered the door of his dwelling, with a trembling step, and the paleness of death on his countenance. they were shocked and alarmed, and all gathered around him with anxious inquiries if he was ill, and proposed to call in medical advice. but he, in a faint and agitated voice, assured them he was not ill, but greatly fatigued from having extended his walk beyond the usual limits, and requested that he might be permitted to retire to rest without answering any more questions. then affectionately bidding them good night, and solemnly commending them to the protec tion of heaven, he went to his own room. his children fel. that all was not right, and passed many hours together in vair conjectures on his altered appearance. at length ther separatea at a very late hour, but not to sleep—their fears for a beloved and only parent were too strong to admit of repose. · when the morning sun began to shed its cheerful influence around, they all arose from sleepless pillows, and met in the little parlor which had been the scene of so much domestic enjoyment; they looked around the room, and at each other with an expression of vague inquiry, as if to ask where those joys had flown. the father was the first to break the profound silence. “my children,” said he, “you need not be told that , the great object of all my exertions and solicitude in life, has been the promotion of your happiness. i have endeavoured, both by precept and example, to lead you in the paths of virtue and honor. if i have erred, it was an error in judgment, and not a design to mislead you ; and i have been amply repaid in your dutiful and correct conduct. i know all your local attach- the haunted forest. deafening shouts and hoarse peals of laughter, which so com- pletely terrified me, that i refused to proceed another step. the old man urged me to go on, assuring me i had nothing to fear, and that he would request me to assist him no further than round a projecting point of rock that was just before us, promis- ing me i should be amply rewarded for my trouble. i procecded on, through fear, but gave myself up for lost. i felt that i was alone and unarmed, in the midst of a savage host, whom i expected to encounter at every turn. we reached the point, when my guide raising a small trap door which opened into an immense cave, discovered such heaps of shining metal as almost bewildered my senses ; and emptying his bag, he shook the contents into the vault, where instantly a man of majestic figure, but of a very stern aspect, appeared, and bestowed many com- • mendations on him for his industry and fidelity. he then turned his dark piercing eyes on me, saying, 'you have brought me a new servant.' the old man gave a most significant nod. i now felt that i was in the presence of the great banditt, and that the crisis of my fate was fast approaching ; yet i assumed courage to inform him it was impossible for me to enter his service, as i had a family dcpendant on my care, whom i could not desert on any consideration. he told me he well knew. i had a family ; but i might serve him, and still reside with them. i had only to obligate myself to come to him, at a stated hour every day, and perform such offices as he should appoint me; in return for which i should be at full liberty to enter the vault whenever i pleased, and take from it as much gold as i chose. i assured him i possessed a sufficiency, and had no desire for more wealth-still thinking i was among free booters. he then took from his pocket a well filled purse, which he offered as a reward for what i had already done ; but, under the same impression, i persisted in declining to receive any share of his unlawful gains. i saw the storm gathering in his countenance. he turned on me a look full of terror, which flashed conviction on my mind that i was not holding converse with a being of this world. that look bespoke the demon ; and in a voice more appalling than the hoarsest thunder, he said, 'grovelling wretch, if you are not to be tempted we will try other methods ;' and stamping furiously with his foot on the ground, i was instantly surrounded by the most horrible shapes, and my ears were assailed by noises, such as none but demons could utter. i turned, and fled with incredible speed, as if assisted by an invisi- ble power, finding myself close pursued, until i came to the opening through which i had passed, and crossed the little brook that falls from the fountain, and which runs the whole length of the forest. i had now successfully escaped from their malice, as i well knew that no evil spirit has power to cross a running stream. my senses were nearly gone ; and my strength . the haunted forest. . entirely failing, i sunk on the earth, and distinctly heard them, as they desisted from the chase, saying, “if he had but touched a piece of our master's gold, he could not have foiled us thus. had he yielded to one temptation, we might have found him an easy prey.' i returned thanks, most fervently, that i had been thus preserved ; and after recovering strength to rise on my feet, i returned home, firmly determined never again to enter that fatal place. when alone, i seriously revolved the proba- ble consequences of leaving my dear children exposed to such dangerous influences, when they should no longer have the experience of a father to guide their youthful steps. and the result was a determination to tear myself from that endeared spot and sacrifice all my local attachments to their happiness you are now in possession of all the motives by which i have been actuated, and i trust you will kitow how to appreciate them. may that almighty power, which has preserved me through life, guide and guard you, my children, and shed unnumbered blessings on you.” that this communication should differently affect those, to whom it was jointly addressed, will be no matter of surprise to any one who has studied the human heart, or has the slightest knowledge of the various feelings that arise from the saine source, as the characters of the individuals most immediately concerned may vary. alphonso, who was of a bold, aspiring temper, perused it with attention, and felt really grateful for the kindness that had dic- tated the many cautions it contained ; but he felt the sparks of avarice and ambition (which had hitherto lain nearly dormant under the mild counsels and virtuous example of his pious parents) now rising to an uncontrollable flame. the more placid, and regulated spirit of julien, prompted him to return thanks that he had been timely forewarned of dangers, which inade him shudder to think of, and would have proved destructive to his happiness had he fallen on them unawares. he saw in his present lot all that his ambition aspired to. the gentle adela, who had ever been the favorite compan- ion of both brothers, began to feel that the eldest took less delight, than formerly, in conversing with het ; she carefully retraced every part of her past conduct towards him, but could not discover in what she had offended him. it was in vain that she strove to amuse or please him. she would take her 'lute, and although she touched it with inimitable grace and skill, and accompanied it with the touching tones of her sweet voice, and sang his most favorite airs, yet she could not draw from him the slightest expression of approbation. she could freely pour her complaints into the ear of the affectionate julien, and they both joined' in lamenting a change, for which they could not account. they mourned together, that one who had ever been so kind, the haunted forest. water in her face, she soon revived, and opened on him a pair of eyes which rivalled the diamonds that decorated her person. he politely offered to conduct her to a place of safety, which she accepted with the most lively expressions of gratitude, informing him that her father's residence was about a mile distant-that, tempted by the freshness of the morning, she had walked out unattended, and penetrated the forest beyond her usual bounds, where she had met this disastrous adventure ; and, she added, had you not appeared to rescue me from the villain, my life must have fallen a sacrifice to my temerity. she raised her bright eyes to his face, and he saw her beautiful countenance suffused with a blush that spoke volumes to his heart. • they soon arrived at the gate of a splendid mansion, and passed through throngs of servants to a saloon, where sat a man of stately appearance, who rose as they entered, and exclaimed, • my daughter !” she threw herself into his arms, overcome with emotion, and sobbing aloud on his breast, said, “my dear · father, but for the courage and gallantry of this gentleman, you had been, at this moment, childless.” “explain yourself, my child,” said he, and pressing alphonso affectionately by the hand, requested him to be seated; while his daughter related all that has been told above, interspersed with the most flattering enco, miums on the generosity of her deliverer. · the father loaded him with professions of gratitude and friendship, and insisted that he should be their guest for the présent. this invitation, so congenial to his present feelings and wishes, was not to be declined. the young lady left the room, and after changing her disordered dress, returned in a garb more splendid and becoming than any thing he had ever beheld ; and he thought he had never cast his eyes on a being so lovely. our hero was then conducted to a chamber, where a great variety of superb dresses were spread before him, and he was requested to select what was most to his fancy, and array himself for dinner. there was company expected, and his travelling attire would not comport with the occasion, as he was to be introduced as the particular friend of the master of the mansion and his fair daughter. he was so dazzled that it was a long time ere he could decide ; and when full dressed, he could hardly leave the large mirror that displayed his glitter- ing figure from head to foot. a servant, at length came to summon him to the table. when he entered the dining room, he was introduced to each one of the party, who sat down to an elegant repast, and quaffed the richest wines from cups of pure gold. when the subject of the lady lusette's deliverance was introduced, all the com- pany were unanimous in the praises of her preserver. “you are indeed a favorite of fortune,” said a youth who sat next him the haunted forest. him there were conditions to be performed on his part, to which he might not accede : in which case he was at full liberty to reject the alliance; " although,” added he, with a deep drawn sigh, “i should have much to fear from the effects of such a refusal on the health and spirits of a beloved daughter. the truth is, alphonso, i have discovered that lusette loves you." enraptured, as he was, he readily promised to comply with the terms, be they what they might ; feeling that the services required would fall far short of the value of the reward, and that his highest felicity would consist in devoting his life to her gratification. he was then left to seek the object of his adora- tion, and hear, from her lips, a confirmation of his happiness. a reciprocation of vows succeeded, and the overjoyed lover now felt that his lot was truly enviable.. the evening passed in revelry and mirth. at the stroke of midnight, a servant came to the happy alphonso, and told him the baron desired to speak with him in private. he instantly left the room, and found his host in an adjoining apartment, prepared with a glimmering lamp: he spoke only the words, “ follow me ;" and opening a door, began to descend a long flight of stone steps, which terminated in a large vault, con- nected with an immense subterranean passage, so damp and gloomy, that he shuddered as he advanced, the lamp scarcely affording light to direct their footsteps. at the end of this, they entered a spacious apartment, in the center of which was a large caldron, throwing up a glaring blue flame, which quivered round the walls, and presented such a scene of horror, as almost chilled his blood. the entire walls were draperied with skeletons ; huge heaps of skulls and human bones were scattered on the floor, and hideous shapes fitted around in every direction. terrified and amazed, he fearfully inquired for what purpose he had been brought into this charnel-house ? his guide, assuming an authoritative tone, commanded him to dispense with questions, and attend to his instructions. he was then required to bind · himself, by the most tremendous oaths, to be eternally the slave of the adorable lusette ; and never to think of any other woman as a wife. to all that was proposed he acceded. his passion for the lady on one hand, and his fears on the other, would not suffer him to offer any resistance. all around him he heard a con- tinual whispering and suppressed laughter, and his hair rose on his head with terror. he was then informed that the extra service required of him was merely to gratify a whim of his betrothed, to suffer himself to be harnessed, with a number of her discarded lovers, to a car, and draw her through the forest, at a certain hour, every night. degrading as this proposition seemed to him, and however inconsistent with all her profes- the haunted forest. - sions of tenderness and affection, he found he had no power to retract; and he promised compliance, though his heart revolted at so disgraceful a requisition. a bloody scroll was then pre- sented him, to which he affixed his name; he was then informed, in presence of all the attending ministers of darkneas, that the marriage ceremony was now considered as ratified, and he was at liberty to go in quest of his bride. it is true his youthful ardor was somewhat damped by the chilling scenes he had witnessed ; yet he hastily retraced his steps to the room which he had left filled with gay company ; among whom the idol of his heart shone unrivalled. but who can imagine his astonishment, on entering, to find the room deserted by every one but a hideous hag, of gigantic figure, and features the most distorted and disgusting ; she sprang forward to meet him, throwing her long sinewy arms around him, and calling him, in a voice grating as thunder, her beloved husband; chiding his long absence, which he knew she could ill support, and repeating all the protestations of love and fidelity he had uttered to the lady lusette. he strove to extricate himself from her hateful grasp, and exerting all his strength, pushed her from him, with such vio- lence, that she fell on the floor with a most terrible crash, which brought the master of the inansion, and many of his attendants, into the room. he cast a withering glance on the half distracted alphonso, and angrily demanded the reason of this disturbance. before the wretched culprit could find utterance, she arose, and with the most frightful grimaces and terrific gestures, accused him of returning her caresses with the most unfeeling abuse. “is this the return,” demanded the stern baron, “that i an, to ex- pect for my condescension, in bestowing my only child on you a mere mushroom ? and is all your promised gratitude come to this ?" it was in vain he remonstrated, and entreated to be admitted to the presence of the lady lusette, and pleaded his claim to such an indulgence. he was told this was all the daughter he ever had, and it was to the lady now before șim, he had sworn eternal fidelity ; he must therefore prepare him- self to obey her commands, which were peremptory. a heavy car was now driven to the door, and the wretched alphonso was compelled to assume the harness, with a large number of other deluded victims; and the hag, armed with a scourge of enormous weight, seated herself, took the reins, and drove them through the forest at a furious rate ; not regarding any obstructions in their way, but lashing and goring them incessantly, till their sides and backs were covered with wounds. at daybreak they were unharnessed and suffered to go to rest, if rest they could. thus passed every night ; and the days were spent in the tiie haunted forest. after travelling three or four days, without obtaining any clue to his route, they entered a pleasant road, which led through a delightfully romantic, but unfrequented tract of country; and proceeded on without seeing any thing like a human habitation, until the shadows of evening began to close around them. as night-fall approached, the heart of julien beat with anxious fears for his beloved sister, who had never been accustomed to exposure ; and he feared they should be under the necessity of passing the night unsheltered in the open air. at this crisis they saw a venerable man approaching, in the dress of a hermit. his form was somewhat bowed, and his snowy locķs, and long silvery beard, plainly indicated that the frosts of many winters - had passed over him. he carried a staff in his hand ; yet he walked with a firm step ; and as he advanced to meet them, the benevolent expression of his countenance inspired them with confidence and respect. they reined in their horses, and inquired of him the distance to the nearest habitation. “my children,” said the old man, “ you are far from the haunts of men. a journey of many hours will. scarcely. bring you to a convenient shelter. but i have a cell at hand, where you shall be welcome to all the accommodations it affords.” there was so much of genuine courtesy in the manner of the speaker, that they felt no hesitation in accepting the invitation ; and with many expressions of gratitude, they entered the humble cell, where they were simply, but most hospitably entertained. after supper they entered freely into conversation, and informed their friendly entertainer of the object of their present journey, and the ill success which had hitherto attended all their inquiries. he listened attentively to a recital of every circumstance of their brother's departure, and all they knew of bis adventures ; and he replied, with a deep drawn sigh, “ your narrative too plainly discovers to me the fate of your deluded brother. he is, undoubtedly, one among the wretched beings who have been drawn, by various temptations, into the power of the malicious fiends in the haunted forest.” at the mention of this terrible name, a cold shuddering seized them ; conviction flashed on their minds, and adela was near fainting ; but by the timely application of some restoratives, which the good hermit had at hand, she soon recovered, and their kind host went on : “ i feel, my children, that you have been providentially directed to me, as i have long been in possession of a talisman, which is des- tined to destroy the glamour of that ill fated forest, when in the hands of unsullied innocence.” he then drew from his bosom a small pearl case, from which he took a brilliant gem, inscribed with the words, “ virtue and integrity ;” and suspending it to a chain of the purest gold, the old man hung it on the neck of the lovely adela; telling her, if she attended strictly to his instruc- tions, she had it now in her power to release her unhappy the haunted forest.' . the forest forever. “since my power and dominion have been set at defiance by a girl and a paultry pebble, the seat of my kingdom is henceforth removed.” so saying, he stampped with his foot--the earth cleft asunder—and the whole demoniac crew, castle and all, sunk with a deafening crash, and left the little group to thank their kind deliverer, and rejoice in their escape from their disgraceful thraldom. the dawn of morning rose on this astonished and rejoicing party ; they hastened to extricate themselves from the snares of the forest, and the family of fuseli again sought their peace- ful home, where they were welcomed with many testimonials of real joy by their household and friends, among whom much anxiety had been experienced for their safety. alphonso felt that he had forever lost that sunshine of the mind which is the attendant of unsullied innocence ; and con- scientiously believing that his vows, though given “o a demon, precluded his entering into a matrimonial engagement. no entreaties could dissuade him from a resolution he had formed to enter a convent, and pass the remainder of his life in acts of - penitence. julien soon after married a young lady of the most amiable character; and the lovely adela attracted the affections of a gentleman of shining merit, whose wealth and influence placed her in a station she was well qualified to adorn ; and the talisman of virtue and integrity was never suffered to diminish in bril- liancy in her happy family. there are now roads cut through the once dreaded forest. postillions often entertain travellers with stories of the deeds of darkness that have been perpetrated on some particular par of their route ; and a large chasny, not far from the road side, is still shown as the one through which the pandemonium vanished, lonely man of the ocean. the devoted ernestine was unable to accompany her husband, are queries that might be satisfactorily answered if our limits permitted. but the fact alone can here be stated. the husband and wife joined the dance but once that evening, and then-publish it not in almack's—they danced together ! yet their hearts sickened ere the measure was ended ; and re- " tiring to the raised end of the stern, they sate apart from the mirthful crowd, their countenances averted from those faces of gladness, and their eyes directed towards the distant main, which showed dismal, dark, and waste, when contrasted with the bright scene within that gay floating-house of pleasure. christian lovëffler united a somewhat exaggerated tone of sentiment with a certain moral firmness of mind, which is not unfrequently com- bined in the german character, and which, joining high-strung feelings with powers of soul sufficient to hold them in subjection, presents an exterior composed, and even phlegmatic, while the soul within glows like ignited matter beneath a surface of frigi- dity. the revels broke up; and ere the sun had set on the succeed- ing day, the so recent pleasure-vessel was ploughing her solitary way on the atlantic ; her festive decorations vanished like a dream, and even the shores that had witnessed them were no longer within sight. on the socond day of the voyage, the attention of loëffler was forcibly arrested by the livid and almost indescribable appear- ance of a young seaman, who was mounting the main-shrouds of the vessel. christian called to him, inquired if he were ill, and, in the voice of humanity, counselled him to descend. the young man did not, however, appear to hear the humane cau- tion; and ere the lapse of a few seconds, he loosed his hold on the main-yards which he had reached, and rushing, with falling violence, through sails and rigging, was quickly precipitated to the deck. loëffler ran to raise him ; but not only was life ex- tinct, even its very traces had disappeared, and unlike one so recently warm with vitality—the features of the youth had as sumed the livid and straightened character of a corpse long de- prived of its animating principle. the log-book, however, passed a verdict of “accidental death, occasioned by a fall from the main-yard,” on the youth's case ; and as such it went down in the marine record, amid notices of fair weather and foul, notwithstanding loëffler's repeated -repre- sentations of the young seaman's previous appearance. christ- ian's testimony was fated ere long to obtain a fearful credence. on the succeeding day several of the crew sickened ; and' ere the lapse of another twenty-four hours, death as well as sickness - began to show itself. the captain became alarmed, and a report was soon whispered through the vessel that the hand of some direful, base, or revengeful portuguese had mingled i lonely man of the ocean. in vain ; the surgeon himself was no more, and his deputy found a larger demand on his professional exertions than his powers, either physical or mental, were capable of encountering. a hu- mane hand at length administered a cup of water. even the very element was warm with the heat of the vessel. it pro- duced, however, a temporary sensation of refreshment, and loëffler partially slumbered. but who can describe that strange and pestilential sleep! a theatre seemed to be “lighted up githin his brain,” which teemed with strange, hideous, and portentous scenes, or figures whose very splendor was appalling. all the ship seemed lit with varied lamps ; then the lamps vanished, and, instead of a natural and earthly illumination, it seemed as if the rigging, yards, and sails of the vessel were all made of living phosphor, or some strange ignited matter, which far and wide sent a lurid glare on the waters. loëffler looked up long masts of bright and living fire, shrouds whose minutest interlacing were all of the same vivid element, yet clear, dis- tinct, and unmixed by any excrescent flame which might take from the regular appearance of the rigging ; while the size of the vessel seemed increased to the most unnatural dimensions, and her glowing top-masts—-up which loëffler strained his vis- ion-seemed to pierce the skies. a preternatural and almost palpable darkness succeeded this ruddy light ; then the long and loud blast of a trumpet, and the words, “ come to judg- ment, forgetters of your god !” sounded in loëffler's ear. he groaned, struggled, tried to thrust his arms violently from him, and awoke. he found his neck distended to torture by a hard and fright- ful swelling, which almost deprived his head of motion, and caused the most excruciating anguish, while similar indications on his side assured him that disease was collecting its angry venom. the thought he had often banished now rushed on christian's mind ; and a fearful test, by which he might prove its reality, now suddenly occurred to him. it seemed as if the delirium of his fever were sobered for a moment by the solemn trial he was about to make. he was lying near one of the ship-lights. he dragged himself, though with difficulty, towards it ; he opened the breast of his shirt. all was decided. three or four purple spots were clustered at his heart. loëffler saw himself lost. · again he cast a languid and fevered glance toward the sullen waters which rolled onward to the portuguese shore, and once more murmured, “farewell ! farewell ! we meet not till the morning which wakes us to eternal doom.” he next earnestly called for the surgeon. with difficulty that half- worn-out functionary was summoned to the prostrate german. “know you,” said loëffler, as soon as he saw him, “know you what fearful foe now stalks in this dooined vessel ?" he opened his breast, and said solemnly, “ the plague is amongst us ! lonely man of the ocean. the sun was setting, and by its parting beams loëffler, with a steady and solemn voice-as if there were those who might hear the imposing service-read aloud the burial-rites of the church of england. scarcely had he pronounced the concluding bless- ing ere the sun sank, and the instantaneous darkness of a tropical night succeeded. loëffler cast a farewell glance on the dun waves, and then sighed, “rest—rest, brave compan- ions ! until a voice shall sound stronger than your deep slum- ber-until the sea give up its dead, and you rise to meet your judge !” the noise of the sharks dashing from the waters, to see if yet more victims awaited their insatiable jaw, was the only response to the obsequies of that gallant crew, which had now disappeared forever. a few sails were still ſurled, and, uncertain whether they were the best or the worst that might be boisted, loëffler deter- mined to leave them, preferring the chance that should waft him to any port, to the prolonged imprisonment of the invincible. christian sank down, as he concluded his strange and dismal office, completely overwhelmed by physical exertions and the intensity of his bitherto-stifled feelings. but there was no hand to wipe the dew from his pale forehead ; no voice to speak a word of encouragement or sympathy. and where was it all to end! loëffler was no seaman ; and, therefore, even if one hand could have steered the noble vessel, his was not that hand. doubtless, the plague had broken out in portugal; and consequently the invincible, who had so recently sailed from her capital, would (as in all similar cases) be avoided by her sisters of the ocean. these thoughts suggested themselves to christian's mind, as, gradually recovering from the senselessness of exhaustion, he lay stretched on deck, listening to the scarcely perceptible noise of the water, as it faintly rolled against the side of the vessel and as softly receded; while his soul, as it recalled the form of his best-beloved on earth, rose in prayer for her and for himself. .: week after week passed away, and still the solitary man of the sea was the lone occupant of the crewless and now partially dismantled invincible. she had been the sport of many a vary- ing wind, at whose caprice she had performed more than one short and useless voyage round the fatal spot where she had been so long becalmed, but still, as if that were the magical, and even malevolent centre of her movements, she seldom made much way beyond it ; and light, deceitful breezes were con- . stantly followed by renewed calms. a tropical equinox was, however, drawing near, though the lone seaman was not aware of its approach. the time which he had passed in the anguish of discase, and the aberrations of delirium, had appeared to him of much greater length than its actual duration ; and as no tongue survived to correct his error, he had lost all calculations lonely man of the ocean. of the motions of time. he listened, therefore, with an ear half-fearful, half-hopeful, to the risings of the blast. at first it began to whistle shrilly through the shrouds and rigging ; the whistle deepened into a thundering roar, and the idle rocking of the ship was changed into the boisterous motion of a storm- beaten vessel. loëffler, however, threw himself as usual on deck for his night's repose ; and, wrapped in his sea-cloak, was . rocked to slumber even by the stormy lullaby of the elements. towards midnight the voice of the tempest began to deepen to a tone of ominous and apparently concentrating force, which might have started the most reckless slumberer. sheets of lightning-playing from one extremity of the sky to the other- showed the dense masses of rent and scattered clouds which blackened the face of heaven; while the peal of thunder that followed seemed to pour its full tide of fury immediately over the fated ship. the blast, when contrasted with the still atmo- sphere and oppressive heat which had preceded it, appeared to loëffler piercing, and even wintry cold ; while the fierce and unintermittant motion of the vessel rendered it almost difficult for him to preserve a footing on deck. by every fresh flash of lightning, he could see wide-spread and increasing sheets of surge running towards the ship with a fury that half suggested the idea of malevolent volition on their part ; while they dashed against the sides with a violence which seemed to drive in her timbers, and swamped the deck with foam and billows. whether any of these storm-tossed waves made their way below- whether the ship, so long deprived of nautical examination, had sprung i leak in the first encounter of the tempest-loëffle could not determine ; but the conviction that she was filling with water forced itself on his mind. “he again cast his eyes to the north-eastern horizon, and again uttered aloud-"farewell farewell !" the loneliness of his situation, to which time, though it had not reconciled, had habituated him, came upon him with the renewed and appalling sensations of novelty. national and early-acquired feelings obtained a temporary triumph over indi- vidual strength of character. the torn and misshapen clouds, as their black forms were from time to time rendered visible by the blue light that darted through them, appeared to our young german like careering spirits of the tempest ; and the rent sails, as they flapped backwards and forwards, or were driven like shattered pennons of the blast, seemed, as the momentary light cast their dark shadows athwart the deck, to be foul fiends of the occan, engaged in the malign work of dismantling that gal- jant ship. to loëffler's temporarily excited imagination, even the tossing billows seemed, in that portentous light, to“ surge up” by hundreds the faces of those who had found beneath them a dismal aid untimely grave; and the lost mariners appeared the hungarian horse dealer. the host said, " he is finished—i have cut him across the throat- take the money, i saw him put it under his bolster.” “i have it, here it is," said the son, a purse and a pocket-book." the traveller was then relieved from the weight which had pressed him almost to suffocation ; and the assassins, who seem- ed to tremble as they went, ran out of the room, took up the light and disappeared altogether from the apartment. no sooner were they fairly gone than the poor dealer crawled, from under the bed, took one desperate leap, and escaped through the win- dow by which he had seen enter the unfortunate wretch, who had evidently been murdered in his stead. he ran with all his speed into the town, where he told his horrid story and miracu- lous escape to the night-watch. the night-watch conducted him to the burgomaster, who was soon aroused from his sleep, and acquainted him with all that had happened. in less than half an hour from the time of his escape from it, the horse dealer was again at the murderous inn, with the magistrate and a strong force of the horror-stricken inhabitants and the night-watch, who had all ran hither in the greatest silence. in the house all seemed as still as death ; but as the party went round to the stables they heard a noise ; cautioning the rest to surround the inn and the outhouses, the magistrate, with the traveller and some half dozen armed men, ran to the stable door ; this they opened, and found within, the host and his son digging a grave. the first figure that met the eyes of the murderers was that of the traveller. the effect of this on their guilty souls was too much to be borne ; they shrieked, and threw themselves on the ground; and, though they were immediately seized by hard griping hands of real flesla and blood, and heard the voices of the magistrate and their friends and neighbors, denouncing them as murderers, it was some minutes ere they could believe that the figure of the traveller that stood among them was other than a spirit. it was the hardier villain, the father, who, on the stranger's voice continuing in conversation with the magistrate, first gained sufficient command over himself to raise his face from the earth; he saw the stranger pale and haggard, but evi- dently unhurt. the murderer's head spun round confusedly; but, at length rising, he said to those who held him, “let me see that stranger nearer ; let me touch him!” the poor horse dealer drew back in horror and disgust. “you may satisfy him in this,” said the magistrate ; "he is unarmed and unnerved, and we are here to prevent his doing you harm.” on this the traveller let the host approach him, and pass his hand over his person, which, when he had done, the villain exclaimed, “ i am no murderer !-who says lam a murderer ?” “ that we shall see anon," said the traveller, who led the way to the detached apartment, followed by the magistrate, by the two prisoners, and all the party which had collected in the stable on hearing what the wreckers of st. agnes. • “none that i ever heard of, except beelzebub ;" said knox, peering from beneath his brows suspiciously on the new comer. the stranger laughed. “the path is dangerous by night,” said thomas; “few strangers find the way alone." “ then i am one of the few, for here i am," said he. “i've lived here man and boy these forty years,” said knox, "s and i never knew a stranger do that before. and thou must be a stranger, for i've never seen thee." “art sure of that ?"-knox again scanned him attentively. "i never saw thee before.” “ you see then a stranger can find his way in these parts. · i came by the gauger's shaft. thou know'st the gauger's shaft,” said he significantly. . : “ hell !” said the other furiously," dost thou come here to : mock me? if thou dost thou 'dst better return afore harm comes of thee.” “ thou 'rt a strong man;" said his opponent; “but i'm so much a stronger, that i would hold thee with one arm on yonder fire till thou wert as black as thy own black heart. come, tbou need'st not frown on me man, if thou hast a spark of courage i'll put it now to the test.”. “ courage ! i fear neither thee nor beelzebub !” “i'll wager thee this heavy pursc of french louis d'ors against that watch, and ring that befits thy finger so oddly, that thou durst not go into yonder room alone, and look on the face that shall meet thee there,” , “ thou ’rt a juggier and a cheat—i 'll have nothing further to say to thee." “there's my gold,” said he, throwing a heavy purse on the table ; " look at it ; count it; a hundred as bright louis as ever were coined in france, against thy watch and ring, not worth the half.” the eyes of the wrecker glistened at the bright heap of gold. “what is the wager ?” he demanded. if thou durst go into yonder room, that i will raise the form of one whom thou wouldst most dread to see.” “i fear nothing, and believe thee to be a cheat." “there's my gold." ; .“ take the wager !" cried several of knox's friends ; " we'll see thou hast the gold.” “done !" cried knox, with a sort of desperate resolve, which the cheers of his friends, and the sight of the gold helped him to assume ; and he placed the ring and watch on the heap of louis. . . . . “i must have arms and lights." . “ take them ;” said the stranger : “but before you go, i will show you a portion of your property you have never dis- covered.” he took up the ring, and touching the inside with - - - - - - 专业 ​。 the lock and key library classic mystery and detective stories of all nations ten volumes orth europe mediterranean german classic french modern french french novels old time encluh modern english american real life v -i -k\i. erf: translators whose work is represented in this collection of :fgl£ssiq (mystery and detective stories," many here rendered into english for the first time arthur arrivxt japanese john p. brown turkish united states legation, constantinople jonathan sturges french si* richard francis burton arabic lady isabel burton arabic graci i. colrron .... german-scandinavian frederick tarir cooper, ph.d. romance languages giorgx f. doystzrs spanish herbert a. giles chinese british consular service glanvill gill french d. f. hannigan, ll.b. ....... french louis horrmann french florence irwin french charles johnston russian-oriental royal asiatic society, indian civil service eogbne lucas hungarian r shelton mackenzie french ellen marriage french john a. pierce french w. r. s. ralston, m.a tibetan edward rehatsek persian royal asiatic society, examiner bombay university george rawunson, m.a. (oxon.) .... greek mary j. sarrord french franz anton von schietner tibetan librarian, st. petersburg academy of sciences charles henry tawney, m.a., cle. . . . hindoo librarian, india office r. whittling, m.a. (oxon.) french edward ziegler german "the ball appeared between my teeth. the spectators raised their eyes to heaven" to illustrate "facing the arab's pistol," by robert-houdin the "lock and key * library the most interesting stories of all nations edited by julian hawthorne real life arthur train p. h. woodward andrew lang m. robert-houdin charles dickens new york the review of reviews co. •j . -.j!!: lidi.afh a aptor. lenox and .ilo.tn foundatiou r l copyright, , by the review or reviews company table of contents part i arthur train page a flight into texas p. h. woodward adventures in the secret service of the post-office department an erring shepherd an aspirant for congress the fortune of seth savage a wish unexpectedly gratified an old game revived a formidable weapon s andrew lang saint-germain the deathless the man in the iron mask the legend the valet's history the valet's master original papers in the case of roux de marsilly . part ii—true stories of modern magic m. robert-houdin a conjurer's confessions self-training "second sight" the magician who became an ambassador ... facing the arab's pistol table of contents dav d p. abbott fraudulent spiritualism unveiled page a doctor of the occult how the tricks succeeded the name of the dead mind reading in public some famous exposures ........ hereward carrington more tricks of "spiritualism" "matter through matter" deception explained by the science of psychology . anonymous how spirits materialize part iii charles dickens inspector bucket's job in fashion the law-writer our dear brother the coroner's jury on the watch tom-all-alone's . moving on , mr. bucket national and domestic in mr. tulkinghorn's room . . . . . . in mr. tulkinghorn's chamber closing in the track springing a mine part; detective stories from real life arthur train a flight into texas 'j* he flight and extradition of charles f. dodge unques- tionably involved one of the most extraordinary bat- tles with justice in the history of the criminal law. jhe funds at the disposal of those who were interested in pro- curing the prisoner's escape were unlimited in extent, and the arch conspirator for whose safety dodge was spirited away was so influential in political and criminal circles that he was all but successful in defying the prosecutor of new york county, even supported as the latter was by the military and judicial arm of the united states govern- ment. for, at the time that dodge made his escape, a whisper from hummel was enough to make the dry bones (the district attorney's office in new york city is undoubtedly one of the best watch-towers known from which to observe "real life detective stories." arthur train, sometime member of this prosecuting staff, has opportunity to record several of these curious and exciting "true stories of crime" (copyright, , by charles scribner's sons). none yields less to fiction save in the fact that it is true, and not at all in quality of dramatic interest, than "a flight into texas," here given. readers of the newspapers a few years ago will remember the names of abraham hummel and charles f. dodge. the latter, a railroad conductor, was alleged to have committed perjury at the dictate of the former, known as one of the brightest, least scrupulous lawyers in this city. it was one of district attorney jerome's great ambitions to bring hummel to justice. here was an opportunity. if dodge could only be forced to testify to this perjury before a court, hummel could undoubtedly be convicted of a crime that would not only disbar him from the legal profession, but would put him in jail. dodge had run away and disappeared as the storm seemed about to burst. where was he? who could find and bring him back— against abe hummel's wish?—editor.) detective stories from real life of many a powerful and ostensibly respectable official rat- tle and the tongue cleave to the roof of his mouth in terror. who could accomplish that in which the law was power- less?—hummel. who could drive to the uttermost ends of the earth persons against whom not a shadow of suspi- cion had previously rested?—hummel. who dictated to the chiefs of police of foreign cities what they should or should not do in certain cases; and who could, at the beck- oning of his little finger, summon to his dungeon-like offices in the new york life building, whither his firm had removed from centre street, the most prominent of lawyers, the most eminent of citizens?—surely none but hummel. and now hummel was fighting for his own life. the only man that stood between him and the iron bars of blackwell's island was charles f. dodge—the man whom he had patted on the knee in his office and called a "mascot," when quite in the nature of business he needed a little perjury to assist a wealthy client. hummel in terror called into play every resource upon which, during forty years of practice, his tiny tentacles had fastened. who shall say that while he made a show of enjoying himself nightly with his accustomed light- heartedness in the tenderloin, he did not feel confident that in the end this peril would disappear like the others which had from time to time threatened him during his criminal career? but hummel was fully aware of the tenacity of the man who had resolved to rid new york of his malign influence. his nemesis was following him. in his dreams, if he ever dreamed, it probably took the shape of the square-shouldered district attorney in the shadow of whose office building the little shyster practiced his profession. had he been told that this nemesis was in reality a jovial little man with a round, ruddy face and twinkling blue eyes he would have laughed as heartily as it was in his power to laugh. yet such was the fact. a little man who looked less like a detective than a commer- cial traveler selling st. peter's oil or some other cheerful to arthur train concoction, with manners as gentle and a voice as soft as a spring zephyr, who always took off his hat when he came into a business office, seemingly bashful to the point of self-effacement, was the one who snatched charles f. dodge from the borders of mexico and held him in an iron grip when every influence upon which hummel could call for aid, from crooked police officials, corrupt judges, and a gang of cutthroats under the guise of a sheriff's posse, were fighting for his release. jesse blocher is not employed in new york county, and for business reasons he does not wish his present address known. when he comes to new york he occasionally drops into the writer's office for a cigar and a friendly chat about old times. and as he sits there and talks so modestly and with such quiet humor about his adventures with the texas rangers among the cactus-studded plains of the lone star state, it is hard, even for one who knows the truth, to realize that this man is one of the greatest of detectives, or rather one of the most capable, resource- ful, adroit, and quick-witted knights of adventure who ever set forth upon a seemingly impossible errand. it is unnecessary to state just how the district attorney discovered the existence of "jesse," as we knew him. it is enough to say that on saturday morning, july , , he was furnished with the proper credentials and given instructions to proceed at once to new orleans, louisiana, and "locate," if it were humanly possible to do so, charles f. dodge, under indictment for perjury, and potentially the chief witness against abraham h. hummel, on a charge of conspiracy. he was told briefly and to the point that, in spite of the official reports from the police headquar- ters of both new york city and new orleans to the con- trary, there was reason to believe that dodge was living, although not registered, as a guest at the st. charles hotel in the latter city. a partial and inaccurate description of dodge was given him and he was warned to use extreme caution to prevent any knowledge of his mission from being made known. once dodge had been discovered, he was to detective stories from real life keep him under surveillance and wire new york imme- diately. accordingly, jesse left the city upon the same day at . p. m. and arrived two days later, at . on monday morning, at new orleans, where he went directly to the st. charles hotel, registered, and was assigned to room num- ber on the fifth floor. somewhere in the hotel dodge was secreted. the question was how to find him. for an hour jesse sat in the hotel foyer and meditatively watched the visitors come and go, but saw no sign of his quarry. then he arose, put on his hat, and hunted out a stationery store where for two cents he bought a bright-red envelope. he then visited a ticket-scalper's office, secured the owner's business card, and wrote a note on its back to dodge, offer- ing him cheap transportation to any point that he might desire. armed with this he returned to the hotel, walked to the desk, glanced casually over a number of telegrams exposed in a rack and, when the clerk turned his back, placed the note, addressed to charles f. dodge, unobserved, upon the counter. the office was a busy one, guests were constantly depositing their keys and receiving their mail, and, even as jesse stood there watching developments, the clerk turned round, found the note, and promptly placed it in box number . the very simple scheme had worked, and quite unconsciously the clerk had indicated the num- ber of the room occupied by dodge. jesse lost no time in ascending to the fourth floor, viewed room number , returned to the desk, told the clerk that he was dissatisfied with the room assigned him, and requested that he be given either room number , , or , one of which he stated that he had occupied on a previous visit. after some discussion the clerk allotted him room number , which was almost directly op- posite that occupied by dodge, and the detective at once took up his task of watching for the fugitive to appear. within the hour the door opened and dodge and a com- panion, who subsequently proved to be e. m. bracken, alias "bradley," an agent employed by howe and hum arthur train mel, left the room, went to the elevator, and descended to the dining-room upon the second floor. jesse watched until they were safely ensconced at breakfast and then re- turned to the fourth floor where he tipped the chamber- maid, told her that he had left his key at the office, and in- duced her to unlock the door of room number , which she did under the supposition that jesse was the person who had left the chamber in dodge's company. the con- tents of the room convinced jesse that he had found dodge, for he discovered there two grips bearing dodge's name as well as several letters on the table addressed to him. the detective returned to the hall and had a little talk with the maid. "the old gentleman with you has been quite sick," she said. "how is he to-day?" "he is some better," answered jesse. "yes, he does look better to-day," she added, "but he sho'ly was powerful sick yesterday. why, he hasn't been out of his room befo' fo' five or six days." this statement was corroborated by dodge's physical ap- pearance, for he looked haggard and worn. jesse was now confident that he had found dodge, in spite of the reports of the new orleans police to the con- trary, and he was also reasonably sure that the fugitive was too sick to leave the hotei immediately. he therefore telegraphed his superiors that he had discovered dodge and that the latter was ill at the st. charles hotel. at three o'clock in the afternoon jesse received a wire from new york as follows: "new orleans police department claims party not there. left for mexico three weeks ago. ascertain correct des- tination and wire at once." jesse at once replied: "no question as to identity and presence here at this time." detective stories from real life he now took up the task of keeping his quarry under absolute surveillance day and night, which duty from that moment he continued for a period of nearly ten months. during the remainder of the afternoon and throughout the night dodge and bracken remained in room number , and during the evening were visited by several strangers, including a plain-clothes officer from the new orleans police headquarters. little hummel, dining in long acre square in the glare of broadway, was pressing some invisible button that transmitted the power of his influence even to the police government of a city two thousand miles away. the following day, january th, at about . in the morning, dodge and bracken descended to the lobby. bracken departed from the hotel, leaving dodge to pay the bill at the cashier's window, and jesse heard him order a cab for the . a. m. sunset limited on the southern pacific railroad and direct that his baggage be removed from his room. jesse did the same. in the meantime bracken returned and promptly at a. m. left for the railroad station in a cab with dodge. jesse followed in another. as the two passed through the gates the detective caught a glimpse of dodge's ticket and saw that it had been issued by the mexican national rail- way. retiring to the telegraph office in the station he wired new york as follows: "bird flying.—sunset limited. destination not known. i am with him." he then hastily purchased a ticket to houston, texas, and boarded the train. dodge's companion had bidden him good-by as the engine started, and jesse's task now became that of ferreting out dodge's destination. after some difficulty he managed to get a glimpse of the whole of the fugitive's ticket and thus discovered that he was on his way to the city of mexico, via eagle pass, texas, while from the pullman conductor he learned that dodge had se arthur train cured sleeping-car accommodation as far as san antonio, texas, only. so far all was well. he knew dodge but dodge did not know him, and later on in the afternoon he had the satisfaction of a long talk with his quarry in the observa- tion car where they amiably discussed together current events and argued politics with the same vehemence as if they had been commercial travellers thrown fortuitously into each other's company. dodge, however, cleverly evaded any reference to his destination. when the train reached morgan city, louisiana, at p.m., which was the first stop, jesse wired new york as follows: "on sunset limited with friend. he has transportation to ui city of mexico, via eagle pass, where i am now journeying with him. answer to beaumont, texas." later in the afternoon he sent an additional message from lafayette, louisiana: "have seen transportation of friend and am positive of destination." dodge was occupying section of the sleeping car "capitola," and, as became an invalid, retired early. at beaumont jesse failed to receive any reply to his various messages, and when the train arrived at houston no word came from new york until it was almost the time of departure. waiting until practically the last mo- ment jesse hurried through the gates of the union station at houston and bought a ticket to san antonio. as he was leaving the ticket window night chief of police john howard and two officers came hurrying up inquiring anx- iously for " mr. jesse." the reinforcements had arrived. outside on the track "the sunset limited" was just getting under way. the first frantic puffs were being vom- ited from the funnel. inside dodge was sleeping peace- fully in his berth. jesse, accompanied by chief howard, is defective stories from real life hurried up to the conductor who was about to swing on to the steps of the sleeper, and ordered him to hold the train till the fugitive could be removed. after some argu- ment the conductor grumblingly complied and dodge was aroused from pleasant dreams of the " creole quarter" to the cold reality of being dragged out of bed by a police- man. he was unceremoniously hustled out of the sleep- ing car into a carriage and taken to headquarters where he admitted his identity and remarked: "i know what i am wanted for, but i will never return to new york." in his grip was found the sum of $ , . , as well as numerous letters from the law firm of howe and hummel, and a quantity of newspaper clippings relative to his case. dodge pleaded with chief howard not to lock him up, urging that he was a sick man and offering a goodly sum if he might be taken to a hotel and guarded for the remain- der of the night. but what "went" in new orleans did not "go" in houston, and the best that dodge could get for himself was a cot in the " ladies' detention room " on the second floor of the jail. early the following morning jesse visited police head- quarters and for the first time met george ellis, chief of police of houston, for whom he will always have a feel- ing of deep gratitude for his enthusiastic cooperation and loyalty in the many stirring events that followed. dodge now received a telegram from new york, which was sub- mitted to jesse before reaching the prisoner, to the effect that howe and hummel were sending on an attorney to aid the fugitive in resisting extradition, and informing him that they had employed messrs. hunt and meyers as attor- neys to look out for his welfare. these last immediately jumped in medias res and on the afternoon of the same day secured a writ of habeas corpus from norman j. kitrell, district judge of harris county, texas, returnable the following morning. the next day, january th, kitrell released dodge from custody. arthur train jesse had anticipated this and immediately swore out an- other warrant with the result that the prisoner was rear- rested before he left the courtroom. meantime the dodge interests retained another firm of lawyers, messrs. andrews and ball, who, on the following day, secured a second writ of habeas corpus from judge ashe. the result of the first engagement thus being a draw, counsel on both sides agreed that this writ should not be returnable for six days. during this period district attor- ney jerome employed messrs. baker, botts, parker and garwood to represent him and secured from governor odell at albany a requisition on governor lanham of texas for the extradition of the prisoner, which he en- trusted to detective sergeant herlihy of the new york police. herlihy reached houston with the papers on the evening of january th, and on the same train with him came abraham kaffenburgh, a member of the law firm of howe and hummel and a nephew of the latter. like- wise also came bracken, still styling himself " e. m. brad- ley," and from now on bracken was the inseparable com- panion, guide, philosopher, and friend (?) of the unfortu- nate dodge, whose continued existence upon this earth had become such a menace to the little lawyer in new york. herlihy, accompanied by judge garwood, proceeded direct to austin where they found dodge already rep- resented by messrs. andrews and ball who, at the hearing before governor lanham, made a strong effort to induce that executive to refuse to honor the requisition of the governor of new york. this effort failed and governor lanham issued his warrant, but herlihy had no sooner returned to houston for the purpose of taking possession of the prisoner than he was served with an injunction en- joining him, together with chief of police ellis, from tak- ing dodge into custody, pending a hearing upon a new habeas corpus which had been issued by judge waller t. burns of the united states district court for the southern detective stories from real life district of texas. this new writ was returnable february th. after exhaustive but futile argument by the counsel for dodge, judge burns remanded the prisoner to herlihy's custody to be returned to the state of new york, but this decision had no sooner been rendered than an appeal was taken therefrom by dodge's lawyers, and the prisoner re- leased upon bail fixed at twenty thousand dollars. during this period dodge was quartered under guard at the rice hotel in houston, and the day following the argu- ment the twenty-thousand-dollars bail was put up in cash and dodge released from custody. in the meantime, however, jesse, knowing that no sum, however large, would deter hummel from spiriting dodge out of the country, had made his arrangements to secure a new extradition warrant from the governor of texas, so that if the prisoner did succeed in getting beyond the southern district of the federal court of texas, he could be seized and conveyed to new york. of course someone had to keep watch over dodge while jesse hurried to austin to see the governor, and it was decided to leave sergeant herlihy, reenforced by a number of local detectives for that purpose. but while the watch- ful jesse was away, bracken proceeded to get busy in the good old howe and hummel fashion. lots of people that herlihy had never seen before turned up and protested that he was the finest fellow they had ever met. and as herlihy was, in fact, a good fellow, he made them welcome and dined and wined at their expense until he woke up in the menger hotel in san antonio and inquired where he was. jesse meantime had returned from austin to discover that dodge with his companions, kaffenburgh and bracken, had slipped out of houston early in the morning of feb- ruary nth, after disposing of herlihy and eluding the watchfulness of herlihy's assistants. hummel was leading and by ten o'clock the next morning dodge and his com- rades were on board an english merchantman lying in the arthur train harbor of galveston. later in the same day the hummel interests chartered from the southern pacific railroad for tfie sum of three thousand dollars the sea-going tug hughes, to which dodge was now transferred for the pur- pose of being conveyed to the port of tampico in the re- public of mexico. but here hummel's wires became crossed with jerome's, and unfortunately for the little lawyer, the persons from whom the tug had been leased turned out to be closely al- lied with the prosecution's interests, with the result that the captain of the tug was instructed by his superiors under no consideration to put into any mexican port, but on the contrary, to delay his departure from the harbor of gal- veston for a period of two days and then to proceed only as far as brownsville, texas, where he should compel the de- barkation of the fugitive. the captain, who was a good sport as well as a good officer, promptly threw himself into the part and told bracken and kaffenburgh that it was evi- dent from the barometer that a severe storm was approach- ing (which must have had a sinister implication to these two unfortunate gentlemen), and that he could not think of putting to sea. once the " storm" had blown over, the tug started out across the blue waters of the gulf of mexico. but now bracken and kaffenburgh were informed for the first time it was impossible to consider putting into any port of the republic of mexico, since to do so would cause in- ternational complications and compel the revocation of the captain's license. in desperation the hummel interests of- fered the captain five thousand dollars in cash to disregard his instructions and put into tampco, but the worthy sea- dog was adamant. it was probably worth five thousand dollars to him to see three gentry of this pattern so much put about. while dodge and his accomplices were dallying in the harbor of galveston, jesse was taking advantage of his op- portunity to proceed at once by railroad to alice, texas, which at that time was the furthermost southern point reached by any railway in the direction of brownsville. ic detective stories from real life on his arrival, he at once applied to captain john r. hughes, commanding company d of the texas rangers, who received him with great joy and ordered a detachment of the rangers to meet the tug at point isabelle at the mouth of the rio grande river on the border of mexico. in the meantime, jesse started on a toilsome stage journey to brownsville, across one hundred and seventy miles of desert, which occupied two days and nights, and necessi- tated his going without sleep for that period. during the trip jesse heard no word of english and had as his asso- ciates only mexican cattlemen. every fifteen miles a fresh relay of broncos was hitched to the stage and after a few moments' rest the misery began again. jesse had been hurrying toward brownsville by stage while dodge, kaffenburgh, and bracken were landing at point isabelle, where they were kept under close surveil- lance by sergeant tom ross of the rangers. thence they took the train to brownsville, registering at the miller house under the assumed names of c. f. dougherty, a. koontzman, and e. m. barker, all of oklahoma. but, al- though they knew it not, sergeant tom was at their elbow, and had dodge attempted to cross the border into mexico he would instantly have been placed under arrest. as brownsville was within the southern district of the federal court of texas, jesse decided not to arrest dodge until he should actually attempt flight, and when dodge and his companions, on the following morning, february th, entered the stage (the same upon which jesse had arrived) and started for alice, jesse and tom ross pro- cured the best horses they could find and started after them, keeping just in sight of the stage. dodge's intention in making this move was to take the mexican international railway at alice and cross over to mexico via laredo. jesse and ross covered the seventy-four miles from brownsville to santa la cruz ranch by four in the after- noon, which was fairly strenuous work for a new york detective, and here found themselves so sore and exhausted from their ride that they were glad to hire a pair of horses arthur train and buggy with which to complete the journey to alice. luckily they were able to get into telephonic communica- tion with various ranch owners along the road and arrange to have fresh relays of horses supplied to them every twenty miles, and here also jesse called up captain hughes at alice, and suggested that he substitute for the regular night clerk at the city hotel one of the privates of the rangers by the name of harrod. dodge and his companions arrived in alice on february th, and, as jesse had anticipated, repaired at once to the city hotel, where, inasmuch as they were dry from the dust of their trip and depressed by lack of society, they entered at once into an enthusiastic and confidential friend- ship with the man behind the counter in the hotel office, sub- limely ignorant that they were unfolding to a member of the texas rangers all their most secret intentions. har- rod was just as glad to see dodge as dodge apparently was to see harrod, and kindly offered to assist the fugitive to get into mexico in any way that the latter desired. dodge, for his part, took advantage of his usefulness to the extent of requesting him to purchase them railroad tickets, the plan being to leave alice the following morning for mon- terey, mexico. three hours after the stage bearing dodge and his party pulled up at the city hotel, tom ross and jesse drove in behind a pair of fagged-out broncos at two in the morning. jesse had had no sleep of any sort and no proper nourishment for five days, and had just strength enough left to drag himself up one flight of stairs and tumble into bed, from which he did not emerge for many hours. in the meantime day broke and dodge, kaffenburgh, and bracken, having breakfasted, drove comfortably down to the international railway station and settled themselves in the smoker, but they had no sooner given this direct evi- dence of their intention before captain hughes entered and placed dodge under arrest. the latter's surprise may be appreciated when it is stated that from the time the three had left houston, they had no idea that they were being detective stories from real life followed and believed that they had completely foiled jesse and his assistants. while jesse had been chasing dodge across the desert, his lawyers had not been idle and had secured at austin another extradition warrant from governor lanham, who, on receiving news of the arrest, promptly instructed cap- tain hughes by wire to assume charge of the prisoner and to deliver him into the hands of the new york officer to be conveyed to new york. there now began such a legal battle as the state of texas had never known. hummel had been forced into his last ditch and was fighting desperately for life. through kaffenburgh he at once applied for a new writ of habeas corpus in nueces county and engaged counsel at corpus christi to assist in fighting for the release of the prisoner. precisely as hummel had intended, chief wright of nueces rode into alice and demanded the pris- oner from captain hughes. as hummel had not in- tended, captain hughes refused to surrender the prisoner and told chief wright to go to—well, he told him that he intended to obey his commander-in-chief, the governor of texas. on february oth, hummel, through kaffenburgh, at- tempted to get another writ of habeas corpus in bee county, and promptly the bee chief came buzzing over and de- manded dodge, but to him hughes replied even as he had spoken to wright. excitement in alice had now reached such a pitch that judge burns, of the federal court, in houston, ordered united states marshal john w. vann, of alice, to assume charge of the prisoner. the indomitable hughes, however, paid no more attention to the united states marshal than he had to the local chiefs. but the situation was so deli- cate and the clash of authority might so easily have resulted in bloodshed that it was finally agreed by all parties that the best thing to do was to have the prisoner returned to houston in the joint custody of captain hughes of the rangers and the united states marshal. arthur train jesse, through his counsel, in proper course, made appli- cation to forfeit dodge's bond and remand him to jail, but the hummel attorneys finally induced the court, on the plea that to confine dodge in jail would be detrimental to his already badly impaired health, to permit the prisoner to go free on a greatly increased bond, nevertheless re- stricting his movements to harris county, texas. while jesse had fought a winning battle up to this point he was at the end of his resources so far as the extradition of the prisoner was concerned, for dodge was now at lib- erty, pending the decisions upon the habeas corpus proceed- ings of the united states circuit court of appeals at fort worth, and the united states supreme court at washing- ton. but his orders were to bring dodge back to new york. hence, with the aid of some new men sent him from the north, he commenced an even closer surveillance of the prisoner than ever before by both day and night. meantime kaffenburgh departed for new york, fleeing from the wrath of judge burns, who had issued a summons for him for contempt of the federal court on the ground that he had induced dodge to attempt to jump his bond. in place of the blustering kaffenburgh was sent another member of the famous law firm of howe and hummel, david may, an entirely different type of man. may was as mild as a day in june—as urbane as kaffenburgh had been insolent. he fluttered into houston like a white dove of peace with the proverbial olive branch in his mouth. from now on the tactics employed by the representatives of hummel were conciliatory in the extreme. mr. may, how- ever, did not long remain in houston, as it was apparent that there was nothing to be done by either side pending the action of the courts, and in any event dodge was abun- dantly supplied with local counsel. the time had now come when hummel must have begun to feel that the fates were against him and that a twenty-year term in state prison was a concrete possibility even for him. in the meantime, dodge and bracken had taken up their headquarters at the rice hotel in the most expensive suite . detective stories from real life of rooms in the house, a new scheme for getting the pris- oner beyond the reach of the new york courts apparently having been concocted. dodge was now indulged in every conceivable luxury and vice. he was plunged into every sort of excess, there was no debauchery which bracken could supply that was not his and their rapid method of existence was soon the talk of the county and continued to be so for ten long months. there is more than one way to kill a cat and more than one method of wiping out the only existing witness against a desperate man striving to escape the consequences of crime. dodge's daily routine was somewhat as follows: he never slept at his own hotel, but arose in the morning be- tween ten and eleven o'clock, when he was at once visited by bracken and supplied with numerous drinks in lieu of the breakfast for which he never had any desire. at noon the two would have luncheon with more drinks. in the afternoon they would retire to the poolrooms and play the races, and, when the races were over, they would then visit the faro banks and gamble until midnight or later. later on they would proceed to another resort on louisiana street where dodge really lived. here his day may be said to have begun and here he spent most of his money, fre- quently paying out as much as fifty dollars a night for wine and invariably ending in a beastly state of intoxication. it is quite probable that never in the history of debauchery has any one man ever been so indulged in excesses of every sort for the same period of time as dodge was during the summer and fall of . the fugitive never placed his foot on mother earth. if they were going only a block, bracken called for a cab, and the two seemed to take a special delight in making jesse, as jerome's representative, spend as much money in cab hire as possible. the houston jehus never again experienced so profitable a time as they did during dodge's wet season; and the life of dissipation was continued until, from time to time, the prisoner became so weak from its effects that he was forced to go under the care of a physician. a few days of abstinence always re arthur train stored his vitality and he would then start out upon another round of pleasure. during this period jesse maintained a close and vigilant personal espionage over the prisoner. for over ten months he slept less than four hours each day, his fatigue being increased by the constant apprehension of treachery among his own men, and the necessity of being ever on the alert to prevent some move on the part of the defense to spirit the prisoner away. during the summer attempts were re- peatedly made to evade the vigilance of jesse and his men and several desperate dashes were frustrated by them, in- cluding one occasion when bracken succeeded in rushing dodge as far as galveston, where they were forced to abandon their design. from time to time bracken would disappear from houston for a week or ten days, stating on his return that he had been to new york, after which there was invariably some new move to get the prisoner away. time and space prevent giving a detailed account of all the marches and counter-marches that took place in this battle of wit against wit. in august, , bracken made one of his periodical visits to new york, and when he returned sought out jesse and said: " blocher, you might as well be a good fellow and get yours while you can. i mean that dodge is not going back to new york, even if it cost a million dollars to pre- vent it." a few days later bracken sent a gambler named warner to jesse, who offered the latter thirty-five hundred dollars to get "lost" long enough for the prisoner to slip over to mexico. acting upon the advice of his attorney, jesse encouraged this attempt, under the belief that if he could get the hummel forces in the position of having attempted to bribe him the prisoner's bail could then be forfeited and dodge himself taken into custody. hummel became wary, however, and apparently abandoned for the time the idea of bribery. later on bracken again disap- peared. on his return a marked change was noticeable in his demeanor and jesse observed that he was in constant detective stories from real life consultation with dodge, from which the detective drew the inference that some last desperate move was to be made towards the escape of the prisoner. on one occasion jesse saw bracken showing dodge a map and some drawings on paper, which so excited his sus- picions that he followed the two with unremitting assiduity, and within a day or two was rewarded through bracken's carelessness with an opportunity for going through the latter's coat pockets in the billiard room. here he found a complete set of plans worked out in every detail for spiriting the prisoner from san antonio into mexico during the state fair. these plans were very elaborate, every item having been planned out from the purchase of tickets, and passing of baggage through the customs, to hotel accom- modation in the city of mexico and tampico, and steamship tickets from tampico to europe. the plan had been to secure permission from the court for dodge to leave houston long enough ostensibly to attend the fair at san antonio and to "lose" him during the excitement and crowded condition of the city at that time. it is, of course, needless to say that these plans were abandoned when bracken discovered that jesse had been forewarned. almost immediately thereafter the circuit court of appeals at fort worth, texas, decided one of the habeas corpus cases adversely to dodge, but it still permitted him to retain his liberty pending the final determination of the questions involved by the supreme court at washington. the hummel forces were apparently losing hope, how- ever, for early in october another attempt was made to bribe jesse. bracken entered his room one evening and in- formed him that he could get his own price if he would only be a good fellow, and even went so far as to exhibit a quantity of money which he stated was twenty-five thousand dollars. the only result of this offer was to lead jesse to redouble his precautions, for he argued that the situation must indeed be acute when such an offer could be deemed worth while. thereafter it was obvious that the revelry of arthur train dodge and his companions was on the increase. accord- ingly jesse added to his force of assistants. on december , , nathaniel cohen, another mem- ber of the firm of howe and hummel, arrived at houston, and the next day the supreme court at washington decided the appeal in the habeas corpus against the prisoner, who was at once ordered by judge burns into the custody of united states marshall william m. hansen. things looked black indeed for dodge and blacker still for hummel. how the little attorney, eating his midday lunch four thousand miles away, at pontin's restaurant on frank- lin street, must have trembled in his patent leather boots! his last emissary, cohen, at once procured an assistant by the name of brookman and with him proceeded to wharton county, texas, where they secured a new writ of habeas corpus and induced the local sheriff, one rich, to swear in a posse comitatus of one hundred men for the purpose of coming to houston to take the prisoner by force of arms out of the hands of the united states marshal. this was one of the most daring and desperate attempts made in recent years to frustrate the law. jesse believes that the real object of this posse was to precipitate a fight between themselves and the federal authorities. it is not inconceivable that in such an event dodge might either have escaped or been killed. the men composing the posse were of the most desperate character, and consisted largely of the so-called "feud factions" of wharton county, known as "the wood peckers" and "the jay birds." jesse has been informed, on what he regards as reliable authority, that this move cost the hummel forces fifteen thousand dollars and that each member of the posse re- ceived one hundred dollars for his contemplated services in the " rescue" of the prisoner. but civil war, even on a small scale, cannot be indulged in without some inkling of the facts becoming known to the authorities, and prior to the receipt of the mandate of the supreme court, judge burns ordered the prisoner removed to galveston for safe keeping. thus the long, expensive, and arduous struggle came detective stories from real life finally to an end, for judge burns in due course ordered that charles f. dodge should be conveyed to new york in the personal custody of the united states marshal and de- livered by him to the new york authorities "within the borders of that state." such an order was, of course, exceedingly unusual, if not almost unheard of, but it was rendered absolutely necessary by the powerful influence and resources, as well as the unscrupulous character, of those interested in securing dodge's disappearance. in order to thwart any plans for releasing the prisoner by violence or otherwise, and to prevent delay through the invoking of legal technicalities, hansen and jesse decided to convey dodge to new york by water, and on the th of december the marshal and his five deputies boarded a mallory line steamer at galveston and arrived in new york with their prisoner on the evening of december d. dodge reached new york a physical wreck. how he was induced to tell the whole truth after he had pleaded guilty to the charge against him is a story in itself. a complete reaction from his dissipation now occurred and for days his life was despaired of. jesse, too, was, as the ex- pression is, "all in," and the only persons who were still able to appreciate the delights of new york were the stal- wart marshal and his boys, who for some time were objects of interest as they strolled along broadway and drank "deep and hearty" in the cafes. to the assistants in the district attorney's office they were heroes and were treated as such. how dodge finally testified against hummel on the wit- ness stand has already been told. as they say downtown, if jerome had never done anything alse, he would have "made good" by locking up abe hummel. no one ever believed he would do it. but jerome never would have locked up hummel without jesse. and, as jesse says with a laugh, leaning back in his chair and taking a long pull on his cigar, "i guess i would not do it again—no, i would not do it again for all the money you could give me. the wonder is that i came out of it alive." when the reader comes to think about it he will probably agree with him. secret service of the post-office cultivates a taste for thoroughness even to details and trifles that might at first view appear utterly insignificant, he will never succeed in interpreting the hieroglyphics. at intervals of two or three weeks, beginning in the summer of , registered packages passing to and fro from chicago to a town in the interior of dakota territory, which for convenience will be called wellington,—though that was not its name,—were reported to the department as rifled. as the season wore on, the complaints increased in frequency. under the old method of doing business at headquarters, which often amounted practically to a dis- tribution of the cases about equally "among the boys," the agent stationed at chicago received most of them at first; then a part were sent to an agent in iowa; and as the num- ber multiplied, furay, at omaha, was favored with an oc- casional sprinkling. under the present more perfect sys- tem, great care is taken to group together all the complaints growing out of each series of depredations, to locate the seat of trouble by comparisons carefully made in the de- partment itself, and to give everything bearing on the sub- ject to the officer specifically charged with the investi- gation. march came around before mr. furay found time to give personal attention to this particular thief. he then passed over the route to wellington, eighty miles by stage- coach from the nearest railroad station, with ten intermedi- ate offices. all the packages remained over night at sioux city, iowa, a fact sufficiently important to invite close scrutiny; but the detective soon became satisfied that he must look elsewhere for the robber. his suspicions were next directed to another office, where also the mails lay over night; but the postmaster bore a countenance so open and honest that he too was eliminated from the problem. he continued on to wellington, skirmishing along the line, and observing the faces of the postmasters; but these studies in physiognomy threw no light on the mystery, as the officials of the department on the route, though far removed from central supervision, seemed to be all that secret service of the post-office ing no seal suitable for the purpose, improvised a substi- tute by using the flat surface of a rasp. camden placed the wax near each end of the envelope, which materially interfered with the game of the thief, be- cause it was just here that he operated. evidently piqued that a rural postmaster should presume to outwit him, he studied hard to devise some means for opening these par- ticular packages without leaving such traces of his handi- work as would attract the notice of other officials through whose hands they might subsequently pass. the effort was crowned with a measurable degree of success, for mr. furay, at the general overhauling referred to, was the first to discover that the seal had been tampered with. as it was necessary to break one of the seals, the object of the robber was to restore it as nearly as possible to its original appearance; and to effect this he used a dampened thimble, rolling it over the wax while the latter was hot. there was but one envelope of the kind in the lot, but it told the whole story to the eye that could penetrate its meaning. as the thimble passed along the edge, it left the mark of the rim, then a smooth, narrow band, followed by pointed elevations closely resembling continuous lines, ■ thus::::::::::::::: on the opposite side of the same seal the wax flattened out so as to cover a good deal of surface; and, to give it the desired appearance, the manipulator resorted to the thimble again, but this time used a different one, the indentations on the surface being perceptibly finer and more shallow. the violation of that single seal betrayed the thief, for the detective at once inferred that the job was done in a store where the operator had access to a variety of thimbles. only one was required; and no person but a merchant would be likely to have more than one within convenient reach. in a store, however, it would be natural to take down a boxful, and place it on the counter, to be selected from at random. one is picked up, used, and thrown back. the operator now finds another spot that requires attention, and without waiting to hunt for the thimble that has al p. h. woodward ready served as a seal,—for the wax is cooling and no time must be lost,—grasps the first that comes to hand, too absorbed in the main issue to give a thought to what would pass as an insignificant subsidiary trifle. no ras- cal is sharp enough to guard every point,—a general fact that illustrates over and over again, in the experience of man, the seminal truth that in a mercenary and physical as well as in a high and spiritual, sense there is neither wisdom nor profit outside of the limits of absolute integrity and unflinching uprightness. the detective laid aside the papers with a light heart, knowing that at last he was complete master of the sit- uation. below camden on the infested route the post-office was kept in a store at two points only, and in one of those no thimbles were sold. the clew pointed unerringly to raven's nest as the spot where alone the requisite condi- tions to account for the imprint on the violated seal were to be found. thither the officer accordingly went; and the moment his eye rested on michael mahoney, jr., he recognized the heaven-branded features of a thief. returning to sioux city, he telegraphed to another agent, who had a large number of the cases growing out of the robberies, to come on at once. the two men took stations, one on each side of raven's nest, and in thirty hours they arrested the youthful criminal, who in the interval stole four decoy letters, and paid a portion of the contents to one of the officers who was testing him. mr. furay collected from the thief and his relatives the full amount stolen from the mails during the entire continu- ance of the depredations, restoring the money to the right- ful owners dollar for dollar. young mahoney made a written confession, supplemented by three or four codicils relating to items which, to use his own language, "at first did not to me occur." he was tried the following febru- ary, and sentenced to the penitentiary for the term of three years. within fifteen days from the time when the doors of the prison were closed upon the son, the villainous old father, secret service of the post-office acting perhaps on the theory that no two shots ever strike in exactly the same place, began also to rob the mails. in due time mr. furay again appeared on the scene and took the old reprobate away a prisoner. when the trial came on, a material witness for the prosecution happened to be ab- sent, the lack of whose testimony proved fatal to the case, for after hanging a day and a night, the jury brought in a verdict of acquittal. an erring shepherd the ingenuity and perseverance of the fraternity of swindlers is only equaled by the gullibility and patience of their dupes. during the flush times that followed the war, immense fortunes were suddenly acquired by a class of cheats who operated on the credulity of the public through gift enterprises, lotteries, and other kindred schemes. most of the large concerns established their head- quarters in new york city, flooding the entire country, particularly the south and west, with lithographic circu- lars, written apparently with the pen for the exclusive ben- efit of the recipient, and showing how fortunes could be securely made by remitting specified sums to the houses in question. some of the bogus firms simply pocketed the cash of correspondents without pretending to render any equivalent whatever; while others, no more honest, but a little more politic, sent forth worthless jewelry and other stuff by the bushel. one of the most villainous and at the same time suc- cessful devices was built up on the offer of counterfeit cur- rency at a heavy discount. in substance, the circulars, ema- nating from different parties, and from the same parties under different names, were all alike. they usually began with an insidious compliment to the person addressed, to the effect that from trustworthy sources the writer had heard of him as a man of more than ordinary capacity and shrewdness, and, emboldened by the high estimate placed p. h. woodward upon his abilities by persons well qualified to judge, had selected him as the very individual to aid in securing a fortune for both with "absolute safety." the circular usually goes on to state that the writer is a first-class en- graver,—indeed "one of the most expert in the united states,"—while his partner is a first-class printer. hence the firm possess unrivaled facilities for imitating the national currency. the recipient is particuarly cautioned to beware of a class of miscreants who infest the city of new york and advertise throughout the country the goods that he manufactures, but send nothing except rubbish. the "original doctor jacobs" excoriates unmercifully the whole tribe of swindlers whose rascalities debauch and bring odium upon the trade. he exhorts the gentleman of great reputed "shrewdness and sagacity" to observe the utmost caution in conducting operations, and gives him explicit directions how to forward the purchase-money. several years ago a preacher of the gospel, stationed not far from the northern frontier of the republic, received by mail one of the seductive missives of ragem & co., of new york city. the douceur opened with the usual compli- mentary references to the pecular personal fitness of the clergyman for the proposed enterprise, and went on to state that, in exchange for genuine greenbacks, ragem & co. would furnish in the proportion of fifty to one imita- tions so absolutely perfect that the most experienced bank officers could not distinguish the difference. rev. zacha- riah sapp,—for such was the euphonious name of the preacher,—after an attentive perusal of the flattering pro- posal, deposited the document in his coat-pocket for con- venience of reference. having pondered the subject for a day or two, he decided to write to ragem & co. for more explicit information. divining with the peculiar instinct of the guild the char- acter of the fish now nibbling at the naked hook, the cheat resolved to risk a little bait, and accordingly sent by return mail a genuine one-dollar note, with a written invitation both for a reply and a personal conference. p. h. woodward very well," replied the banker, "i shall be happy to serve you." "i had a transaction a few days ago," resumed the clergyman, "with a peddler,—an entire stranger to me,— who, in making change, gave me a number of bills which i have reason to suspect are counterfeits. i desire your opinion." "please let me see them," said mr. hyde. he took the one-dollar note from the hand of the un- faithful pastor, and after scanning it a moment, inquired, "what is the matter with it?" "is it good?" queried the anxious owner. "i wish i had my safe full of the same sort," answered the banker. "there is nothing bad about the bill. what makes you think so? perhaps you have shown me the wrong one. let me see the others." "i must have left the rest at home," replied the preacher, fumbling among the compartments of the pocket-book. having accomplished the object of his mission without perpetrating, as he thought, any disastrous blunder, mr. sapp brought the interview to a close with a few common- place remarks, and hurried away to enjoy in solitary self- communion the thick-crowding visions of future affluence. with the last doubt satisfactorily overcome, the plans of the prospective millionaire rapidly took shape. he could raise five hundred dollars, which at the proposed rate of interchange would purchase twenty-five thousand of the "absolutely perfect imitations." the sum seemed vast— incalculable. his imagination, hitherto bound down by the narrow circumstances of remote rural life, staggered while trying to grasp the conception of so much wealth. like the mysteries of time and space, it appeared too grand for com- prehension. then his reveries strayed into another channel. what noble fellows were ragem & co.! why, among forty millions of people, did they pick out him, an unknown clergyman, living in an obscure place hundreds of miles from the metropolis, to be the favored recipient of untold wealth? surely, this is a special providence. not a spar secret service of the post-office row falleth to the ground without his knowledge. he watches over his own. suddenly the erring clergyman feels a terrible pull at his heart-strings. what right has he, about to betray a sacred trust, and engage in operations branded as infamous by the laws of the land, to claim the watchful care of providence? will not the all-seeing eye follow him? will not the omnipotent hand strike him heavily in wrath? the poor man wipes the cold perspira- tion from his forehead, and wonders if it will pay. but he has paltered too long, and now the devil claims him for his own. returning home, sapp wrote to ragem & co., stating the amount of his available resources, and saying that upon a given day and hour he would meet them at the appointed rendezvous. on the following sunday the congregation were startled at the close of the afternoon services by an extraordinary announcement from the pulpit. before pronouncing the benediction the pastor said: "i take this opportunity to communicate to you collectively a piece of personal intelligence which i have hitherto kept secret. under the will of a relative who recently died in the state of michigan, i inherit a large sum—to me, with my humble wants, a very large sum. by appointment, i am to meet the executor of the estate this week in new york city to receive the first installment of the legacy. i do not propose to leave you, my dear parishioners, but to remain among you and toil with you as i have done for so many years. a goodly portion at least of my inheritance i intend to invest in this community, that neighbors and friends may share jointly in my prosperity. i trust i may be guided to make a wise use of the talents thus unexpectedly, and i may say providentially, committed to my keeping. we know from the teachings of scripture that wealth brings great responsibilities, and that we shall be held to a strict account for the manner in which we employ it. may your prayers go with me." the congregation crowded around the pastor with con- gratulations. particularly demonstrative were the ebulli p. h. woodward tions of two or three brothers who saw a chance of ex- changing sundry unsalable possessions for slices in the in- heritance. mr. sapp reached new york city in the evening, and the momentous interview was to take place at an early hour the next day. sleep came in brief and fitful snatches. but the stars roll on in their majestic spheres, regardless of mortal hopes and fears. at length day broke, when the preacher rose from bed anxious and unrefreshed. a little before the appointed time he proceeded to a certain build- ing, and having mounted two flights of stairs, saw the magic number on the door in front of him. as the clock struck he entered. agreeably to a preconcerted plan, he wiped the right corner of his mouth with a white handker- chief, and nodded three times. the only person in the room, a well-dressed and apparently affable gentleman, re- sponded by wiping the left corner of his mouth with a red silk handkerchief, and nodding three times. the signal is correctly answered: it is he! so far all works beautifully, with every promise kept. the bill was a perfect imitation; the engraver is on hand to a second. "two truths are told, as happy prologues to the swelling act of the imperial theme." the fellow passing under the name of ragem & co. welcomed the new arrival cordially. "ah," said he "your promptness and circumspection show that i am not disap- pointed in my man. i see that you come up to the full measure of my expectations. do you know i am a remark- able judge of character? in fact, i seldom or never make a mistake. we are both in luck." "i was trained to punctuality from early youth," re- plied the preacher; and proceeding directly to business, without further circumlocution, continued, "i succeeded in raising five hundred dollars, which entitles me under the agreement to twenty-five thousand." secret service of the post-office from an inner pocket, after removing a number of pins, he produced six one hundred dollar notes, saying, by way of explanation, " for greater security i converted my funds into bills of large denomination. one i reserve for con- tingencies; the other five are for you." "your money is here in the safe," said ragem, taking the five notes, and turning toward the safe as if to unlock it. but the scoundrel evidently reasoned that it would be silly to remain content with the five when he could just as easily capture the sixth. walking back, he remarked, "i want to show you that my large bills are just as perfect as the small ones"; and, as if for purposes of comparison, he took the remaining note from the hand of the clergyman. at this moment began a fearful knocking on a side door, that threatened the speedy demolition of the frail barrier. "run, run," whispered ragem, as if in the extremity of terror, "the police are on us." the preacher needed no second invitation, fear of ex- posure giving wings to his feet. almost at a bound he cleared the two flights of stairs and emerged into the street, walking several blocks, and turning a number of corners before he dared to look back. the bona fide occupant of the room where these parties met had no share whatever in the nefarious transactions carried on there. through the treachery of the janitor, ragem was permitted at certain hours to make use of the apartment for the purpose of keeping appointments with his victims. a confederate stationed on the outside deliv- ered the knocks as soon as customers were plucked and it became desirable to get rid of their company. occasional hints of improper practices reached the ear of the real lessee, but these had never yet taken such shape as to give a decisive clew to the trouble, dupes for the most part pock- eting their losses in silence. after an interval of two or three hours mr. sapp plucked up courage to return. having mounted the stairs, he entered the room warily. his late partner was not there. p. h. woodward a stalwart gentleman, who seemed to be the proprietor, looked up inquiringly, and was not a little puzzled when the visitor supplemented the performance of wiping the right corner of his mouth by three deliberate nods. "what can i do for you to-day?" inquired the gentleman, rising. "you are, i presume, a partner of mr. ragem," an- swered sapp. "i see he is out. our business this morning was unfortunately interrupted by the police, and i have returned to complete it." "what business?" asked the proprietor, in undisguised astonishment. now the preacher made the very natural mistake of sup- posing that the surprise manifested by his interlocutor was a mere matter of policy and caution. hence he proceeded to explain. "ragem must have told you. i am the gentle- man who gave him the five hundred dollars, and he said that my twenty-five thousand were locked up in the safe." the proprietor did not wait to hear more, but seizing the affrighted creature by the collar, thundered forth, "i have heard of you before. you are the villain, are you, who has been turning my office into a den of thieves? i have caught you at last!" awaking to a partial comprehension of the situation, the poor wretch stammered forth, "there must be some mis- take. my name is a—is a—is a smith—smith—john smith." "john smith, is it?" growled the proprietor. "well, all i have to say is, john smith, if not the biggest is the most numerous rascal in the city. john, come along to the police station." and john went, billows of trouble rolling over him as the waters of the red sea closed over pharaoh. vain the effort to recall consolatory texts pertinent to the occasion! he was sorely chastened indeed, but the stripes were inflicted not in love but in wrath. he mourned, yet whence could he look for comfort? to avoid a worse fate, the prisoner revealed his identity, exhibited the correspondence from "ragem & co.," and secret service of the post-office made a full statement of the facts. the painful news reached the church shortly after the return of the pastor, when his pulpit career came to an ignominious end. he soon removed to the far west, hoping to bury his disgrace in the shades of the primeval forest. the fall of rev. zachariah sapp sounds a note of warn- ing not without its lessons. the only safety in dealing with temptation is to repel its insidious approaches from the out- set. whoever listens in patience to the siren whisper is half lost already. human experience abundantly confirms the divine wisdom of the command, "get thee behind me, satan," as the one sole safe way of meeting evil advances. at the close of well-spent, useful lives, myriads can thank a kind providence, not that they have been stronger than others who have turned out differently, but that they have been tried less. walking among unseen perils, none can without danger of ruin discard even for a moment the armor of honesty and truth. an aspirant for congress a few years ago, the " hon." john whimpery brass, of georgia, one of the "thoughtful patriots" of the period, who now and then found time to lay aside the cares of statecraft to nurse little private jobs of his own, allured by the seductive offers of " wogan & co.'" of new york city, wrote to that somewhat mythical concern proposing to be- come their agent for the circulation of the "queer." even after receiving the first installment of their wares, the hon- orable gentleman did not comprehend that the firm dealt exclusively in sawdust, not in currency. he wrote again, complaining that, after a journey of sixty miles over a rough road to the nearest reliable express office, he found nothing but a worthless package, marked "c. o. d.," awaiting him. did wogan & co. distrust either his parts or fidelity? he ventured to assert that no man in the state could serve them so effectually. he had just run for con p. h. woodward gress, and though beaten at the polls by " fraud," intended to contest the seat with the chances of success in his favor. the mountaineers among whom he lived did not care whether the money in their pockets was good or bad so long as it circulated. he could put thousands of counter- feits afloat without the slightest fear of detection. his con- stituency believed in him and would stand by him. cur- rency was very scarce in that congressional district, and it would really be doing his people a great favor to give them more. after setting forth the mutual benefits to accrue from trusting him, he appealed to wogan & co. with the vehe- mence and energy of the sewing-machine man, or life- insurance agent, to send on the goods without further delay. they should never regret dealing with him, his character and standing being a sufficient guaranty that he could not play false. he was acting in good faith, and expected like treatment in return. unfortunately for the political aspirations of "hon." john whimpery brass, the authorities not long after made a descent upon the den of wogan & co., finding a great many letters from credulous fools, and a large supply of sawdust—their only stock in trade. the missives of the prospective congressman were published, thus gaining much more extensive currency than he proposed to give to the imitation greenbacks. it was supposed that the noisy fel- low would slink away to some cave in his native mountains, and never show his brazen face among honest people again. but the impudence of " hon." john whimpery brass rose to the level of the emergency. instead of hiding or hanging himself, he published a card representing that he embarked in the scheme for the purpose of entrapping wogan & co. and bringing them to justice. pathetic was the spectacle, showing the confidence of an ingenuous soul in its own prowess, of the volunteer detect- ive, digging parallels on the southern spurs of the blue ridge for the capture of the wily swindler a thousand miles away! armed with a kernel of corn, the doughty gosling sets forth to catch the wicked fox that is preying on the secret service of the post-omce flock! if the bold mountaineers, the constituency of "hon." john whimpery brass, cannot commend the dis- cretion displayed by the projector of the enterprise, they must certainly admire his pluck. in face of the odds, few goslings would volunteer. perhaps the card might have been accepted by the more trustful class of adherents as a satisfactory explanation of the letters, had not the aspiring statesman in course of time fallen under the ban of the law for defrauding widows of their pensions, the campaign against wogan & co. having so completely exhausted the virtue of the amateur who planned it as to leave no residue to fructify in subsequent operations. the fortune of seth savage at one time the bogus-lottery men drove a thrifty busi- ness, but the efforts, virtually co-operative, of the post- office department and of the legislatures of the older states, have latterly pretty effectually forced them into the wilder- ness. the managers forage on the same class of people as the sawdust swindlers, procuring lists of names in the same way. a common method of procedure is to inclose with advertisements announcing the prizes, together with the place and date of drawing, one or more tickets duly numbered. great confidence is expressed in the personal fitness of the party addressed, who is requested to act as agent for the sale of the tickets. a few weeks later an- other letter is sent to the intended victim, informing him that the ticket of a given number forwarded to him at such a date had drawn a prize, the value of which is variously stated from a few hundred to many thousand dollars. he is then requested to send immediately ten dollars— more or less—for the ticket, perhaps ten or twenty more for additional charges, when the full face value of the prize will be forwarded promptly by express, check on new york, or in any other way the recipient may direct. he is also told to antedate the letter, the intermediary promis p. h. woodward ing to blur the postmark to correspond, so that the re- mittance may appear to have been made prior to the draw- ing. in conclusion the writer adroitly suggests that he desires the fortunate man to exhibit the money to his neighbors, stating how he obtained it, and mentioning par- ticularly the address of the agent from whom the ticket was purchased, the object being to create an excitement in the place with a view to large sales for the next drawing. even of a trick as transparent as this the victims are counted by thousands, exposures and warnings being alike disregarded. the infatuation of a certain class of ignorant and credulous people is well illustrated by the case of seth savage, a poor man possessed of a few acres in the vicinity of a small village in vermont. one day, when a special agent of wide experience happened to be visiting the post- office, seth received a letter, the perusal of which threw him into a frenzy of excitement. "what is the matter?" inquired the postmaster. "you seem to have good news." "look a-here," replied seth, holding forth the missive in his shriveled and bony fingers, " for nigh on to sixty-five year, mr. martin, i've fit and work'd and work'd and fit jest for my vittles and drink. neow when i'm tew old tew 'joy it, a fortin comes to me." "is that so?" answered mr. martin. "i am very glad; but tell me, what is it? your neighbors will all be glad to hear of your good luck." "read that," said seth, handing him the letter trium- phantly. the postmaster read the manuscript. one dewitt of new york city assured mr. savage that a certain ticket sent to him a month before had drawn a prize of three thousand dollars; that on receipt of thirty-five dollars in a letter antedated according to directions, the full amount would be forwarded to him. "surely, seth," expostulated the postmaster, "you are not going to be fooled in this way. dewitt is a humbug, a swindler." secret service of the post-okce "neow, heow dew yeou know that?" inquired seth. "has he ever fool'd yeou?" "i don't deal with that sort of people," replied mr. mar- tin mildly. "i dislike to see anyone wronged, especially a neighbor. here is a gentleman who knows all about such matters." and seth was formally introduced to the special agent, who took pains to explain the character of the swindle fully. the officer left the village with the pleasant assurance that his brief visit had contributed at least toward the res- cue of one poor object from the jaws of the devourer. after all, however, seth was not convinced. by selling his only cow he managed to swell his scanty stock of cash to the requisite sum, which he sent to dewitt, fully expect- ing to be able in a few days to confound the postmaster by the actual display of his newly gotten wealth. the dupe, who had invested a goodly portion of his scanty means in the venture, waited long if not patiently. at length, after the expiration of the last hope, mr. martin inquired, " how did it happen, seth, that you threw away your money on that lottery scamp, when we showed you that the whole thing was a cheat?" "wall, neow, arter it's all lost," replied seth, "i'll tell yeou jest heow 'twas. human natur' is naturally sus- pectin'. i tho't yeou and that ar' t'other postoffis fellah want'd to git the prize for yeourselfs; an' i didn't mean to be beat so." a wish unexpectedly gratified when the bogus-lottery men were driven out of the large cities by the vigor of the postal authorities, they tried for a while to operate from small country towns by collusion with dishonest postmasters. as the delinquencies of the offenders were successively brought to light, their heads rolled into the basket at the foot of the official guillotine. the swindlers, however, succeeded in bribing fresh victims, and for a time cunning and duplicity managed with toler p. h. woodward able success to maintain a foothold against the power of the department. among other similar swindles, sealed circulars were at one time scattered broadcast over the more remote states, announcing that on a given date the drawing for a series of magnificent prizes would take place at livingston hall, no. elm avenue, wington junction, connecticut. patrons were urged to remit the purchase-money for tickets promptly, as there would be no postponement of the grand event under any circumstances. "fortune," con- tinued the glittering advertisement, "knocks once at every one's door, and she is now knocking at yours." as usual, multitudes swallowed the bait, but some, in- stead of sending the greenbacks to highfalutin & co., for- warded the circulars to the department. thereupon spe- cial agent sharretts was instructed to visit wington junc- tion, with the view of learning whether the postmaster was properly discharging his duties. taking an early oppor- tunity to perform the mission, he alighted at the station one morning, and proceeded to survey the town, which consisted of four or five houses scattered along the high- way for a distance of half a mile. "livingston hall" and "elm avenue" were nowhere visible. it was appar- ent that "no. " on any avenue was a remote contin- gency not likely to arise in the present generation. having previously ascertained that the postmaster was also switch-tender at the junction, and that the cares of the office devolved on his wife, the officer walked up to a keen- looking man in front of the little round switch-house, whose energies were devoted exclusively at that moment to the mastication of a huge quid of tobacco, and who, after a prolonged scrutiny of the stranger, answered his saluta- tion in an attenuated drawl,' "meornin', sir." "will you be kind enough to tell me, sir, where mr. morris, the postmaster, can be found?" asked the agent. "wall, i guess my name's morris. what kin i do fur yeou?" "mr. morris, i should like a few minutes' private con secret service of the post-omce versation on business of great importance, which can be so managed as to turn out advantageously to us both. i do not wish to be overheard or interrupted. in these times even blank walls have ears, you know." the last suggestion seemed to serve as a passport to the confidence of the postmaster. leading the way into the switch-house, he remarked, "come in heear. neow, what is it?" "the fact is, mr. morris, some friends of mine propose to go into a little speculation, which will involve a large correspondence; and for reasons that i need not specify to a man like you, they do not wish to have every ragtag, bobtail post-office clerk poring over their letters, and ask- ing impertinent questions at the delivery-window. if they can find a shrewd, square man, who knows how to keep his mouth shut, and who can't be fooled, that for a hand- some consideration will put the letters away in a safe place till called for, they are willing to make an arrangement that will be profitable all around. you have been recom- mended as just the person. i am told that you generally know which side your bread is buttered, and have called to see if we can't arrange to pull together." "'nuff said," ejaculated morris, with a sly wink. "i know what yeou want, but my wife is the one to fix things. i don't have nuthin' to dew with the letters. sue 'tends to everything. the folks as we'se a-workin' for said we must be plaguey keerful about the deetecters. i'll bet nun on 'em can't play it on my wife tho'. if they dew, they'll have to git up arly in the mornin'." with that he thrust his head out of the window, and yelled: "sue, sue!" as the sound died away, a tall, raw-boned female, from whose cheeks the bloom of youth had faded a number of years before, emerged from the side door of a two-story cottage, about eighty rods distant, and walked briskly to the switch-house, where she was introduced to the stranger as "my wife." after a little preliminary skirmishing, she invited the p. h. woodward agent to go over to the cottage. having been duly ushered into the "best room," he embellished for her benefit the story already told to the husband. "i think i kin 'commodate yeou," she broke forth, "but yeou'll have to pay putty well for't. laws me, i'm told— and i've ways o' heerin' 'bout these things—that the deetec- ters are jest as likely as not to come a-swoopin' deown enny minnit. yeou know, if they feound it out, we'd be smash'd." her terms were ten dollars a week. highfalutin & co. paid six, but she understood the business a great deal better now than when she made the bargain with them. the agent thought the price rather high, but finally consented to contract at that figure. then, as if troubled by an after-thought, he said, "madam, how do i know but some of these 'deetecters' may come around, and, seeing my letters, get me into diffi- culty?" "why, laws a' mercy," said she, "don't be skeer'd. yeou jest leave that to me. the minnit them air letters gits here, i hides 'em in that bewro-draw'r," pointing to an article of furniture in the corner. "is it a safe place?" queried the agent. "yas, it is," answered the woman. "got it half full neow. carry the key in my pocket." she gave a grin, intended for a knowing smile, in ad- miration of her own cleverness. "i believe the hiding-place is tolerably secure," replied the officer, with the air of one who desired to be con- vinced, but had not yet reached the point of full assur- ance. "you seem to be very particl'r and diffikilt to satisfy," continued mrs. morris; "but, if yeou don't believe it, jest come and see for you'sef." she led the way to the bureau, opened the drawer, and, raising a plaid cotton handkerchief, displayed the contra- band letters by the score. all were directed to the lottery firm, and were turned over to the knave from time to time secret service of the post-office as it suited his convenience to call for them. as no suck firm did business at wington junction, it was the duty of the postmaster to forward to the department, as fictitious and undeliverable, all letters bearing the address of the swindlers. in similar cases neglect to obey the regulation was treated as sufficient ground for instant removal. more fully pleased with the result of the examination than the woman surmised, the officer resumed: "i see you are very particular about your methods of doing business, and do not mean to be caught napping. the arrangement we are about to enter into is a very important one, and, as you are not postmaster, your husband will have to be present to witness and ratify the bargain." "bless yeour soul," replied she, "it's all right. i 'tend to all the biznis. my husband doesn't bother hissef abeout it in the least." "madam," answered the officer, "pardon me. i had my training in a large city, and am accustomed to pay minute attention to every detail. your husband is the principal in this case, and must ratify the agreement to make it binding. of course you will derive all the benefit, but his presence is essential as a matter of form." apparently satisfied, she called for "john," who replied promptly to the summons. "mr. morris," said the officer, "your wife has agreed to keep my letters for me" "yaas," broke in the postmaster. "i know'd she would. yeou'll find she'll dew it right, tew. nobody can't come enny tricks on her—can they, sue? i wish one o' 'em durn'd deetecters would come around, jest tew see heow she'd pull the wool over 'im. i wudn't ax enny better fun; " and he indulged in a fit of loud cachinnation at the absurdity of supposing that anyone could match in sharpness his own beloved sue. "the letters will come to that address," said the agent, pulling out his commission from the postmaster-general, and exhibiting it to the pair. taking in the purport of it at a glance, morris jumped so p. h. woodward several inches into the air, slapped his sides, and ex- claimed, "a deetecter, arter all; sold, by jingo!" "we're bust'd then," chimed in sue, with a melancholy grin. it was even so. the letters for highfalutin & co. went to washington, and morris went out of the post-office; but the fact that sue was overmatched hurt him more than the loss of the place. june , , a law was approved making it a penal offense to use the mails for the purpose of defrauding others, whether residing within or outside of the united states. the postmaster-general was also authorized to forbid the payment of postal money orders to persons engaged in fraudulent lotteries, gift enterprises, and other schemes for swindling the public, and to instruct post- masters to return to the writers, with the word "fraudu- lent" written or stamped on the outside, all registered letters directed to such persons or firms. prior to the enactment of this law, the most wholesale and barefaced operations were conducted by professional cheats, mainly through the facilities afforded by the mails, with almost absolute impunity. letters addressed to bogus firms were indeed forwarded from the offices of delivery to the de- partment as "fictitious" and "undeliverable," and many colluding postmasters were decapitated. such petty meas- ures of warfare served merely to annoy the vampires and to whet their diabolical ingenuity for the contrivance of new devices. since the law of went into effect, how- ever, the scoundrels have been compelled to travel a thorny road. scores of arrests have been made, and in many cases the criminals have been sentenced to the peniten- tiary. it would exceed our limits even to enumerate the devices which have been tried by different swindlers with greater or less success. gift enterprises of various kinds are the most common and notorious, constituting a distinct branch of the business; but the pretenses on which human credulity si secret service of the post-omce is invited to part with actual cash for imaginary benefits are innumerable. a few speciments are given as illustra- tions. an old game revived on the th of september, , a fellow was arrested in west virginia who sent the victims whom he proposed to bleed letters whereof the following is a copy:— "a lady who boarded with me died on last saturday of apoplexy. she left a trunk containing the following prop- erty: one very fine ladies' gold watch and chain, one ladies' gold necklace, six ladies' finger rings, earrings, and a great deal of ladies' clothing. among other things was a letter addressed to you. i suppose you to be a relative of the deceased, and want to send you the trunk. when miss thompson died she left a board bill unpaid amount- ing to $ . . you will please send this amount by return mail, and the trunk will be forwarded to you immediately." instead of remitting the money as modestly requested, the recipient of one of these choice douceurs, a lady resid- ing in the interior of pennsylvania, sent the letter to the mayor of the town where it was dated and postmarked, who in turn handed it over to special agent t. p. shall- cross; and he in the course of a day or two succeeded in capturing the miscreant. this particular form of the confidence game is very old; yet in the year of our lord eighteen hundred and seventy- five a swindler by means of it succeeds not only in main- taining himself in dashing style, but also in sporting a flashy traveling companion of the female persuasion! where the letters are addressed to men, the articles re- ported to be found in the imaginary trunk are changed to correspond to masculine habits and wants. the operators receive many singular and some entertaining replies. the following, dated long ago from a small town at the south, p. h. woodward may serve as a sample, the orthography of the original being preserved:— "col. snowden, "dear sir,—yours received, and you say john is dead. poor fellow! i always expected it. death runs in the family. dyed suddenly of appleplexy—eat too many apples. well, i always thought john would hurt himself eating apples. i s'pose you had him buried. you said nothing about funeral expenses. he had a trunk—gold watch in it, &c. well, well, what an unexpected legacy! but strange things happen sometimes. never thought i should get a gold watch so. and he had the watch in his trunk, did he? poor fellow! was always so particular 'bout his watch and fixings. had two revolvers. what is them? i never heard john say anything about them. well, you have been so kind as to write to me; just keep all the balance of the things, you can have them; but the gold watch, send that to me by express. send immediately if not sooner. "very truly, "geo. stream. "p. s. my mother in law says, if you come this way, call. she likes to know all such good, kind folks." it is safe to conclude that "col. snowden" never ac- cepted the invitation to call from the hospitable mother-in- law. a formidable weapon in the summer and fall of circulars were scattered broadcast over the country, and advertisements appeared in the weekly editions of several leading papers of new york city and other large towns, setting forth the rare merits of a weapon of destruction called "allan's new low-priced seven-shooter." as a specimen of ingenious secret service of the post-office description, the more salient parts of the circular are here- with reproduced:— "in introducing this triumph of mechanical genius to the american public, it is proper to say that it is not an entirely new article, but that it has lately been improved in appearance, simplicity of construction, and accuracy, having new points of excellence, making it superior in many respects to those first made. the manufacturers having improved facilities for making them cheaply and rapidly, have reduced the price to one dollar and fifty cents; and while the profits on a single one are necessarily small, this price places them within the reach of all. "we wish it distinctly understood that this is no cheap, good-for-nothing 'pop-gun'; and while none can expect it to be 'silver-mounted' for $ . , they have a right to ex- pect the worth of their money, and in this new improved seven-shooter a want is supplied. "great care is taken in the adjustment of each, so that all are equally good and reliable. in their production no trouble or expense has been spared. an elaborate and complete set of machinery and gauges has been made, by means of which all the parts are produced exactly alike, thus insuring great uniformity in the character of the work produced." this remarkable implement, equally useful for peace or war, is offered to an eager public at the low price of $ . each, or $ per dozen. on the score of cheapness, the inventor greatly prefers the mails to the express as a vehicle for the transport of his wares. in fact, he declines to patronize the express companies at all, unless a prepay- ment of twenty-five per cent, accompanies each order as a guaranty of the "purchaser's good faith." at first the enterprise succeeded even beyond the most sanguine expectations of its projector, letters with the cash inclosed pouring in by the hundred. for several months, p. h. woodward however, after the first publication of the advertisement, "this triumph of mechanical genius," though "not an entirely new article," existed only in the comprehensive brain of the gentleman who had the greatness to discern in the imperfect work of predecessors the germs of ideal per- fection. having no seven-shooters to send, he was com- pelled to dishonor the requisitions of the expectant "trav- eler, sailor, hunter, fisherman, etc." while careful to lay aside the inclosures, he entirely forgot even to so far remember his patrons as to make a record of their names. in due time, however, the "factory" went into opera- tion, and the seven-shooters were actually produced. the mechanical "triumph," rudely made of a cheap metal com- position, is a duplicate of a toy long used by boys to the delight of each other, and to the annoyance of their elders. the propulsive power resides in a steel spring, which has force enough to send a bird-shot across a good-sized room. the outfit would cost perhaps six or eight cents to the manufacturer. a portion of the orders were now filled, the greater part being still thrown unhonored into the waste-basket as before. curses both loud and deep began to be showered on the head of the swindler. complaints having reached the de- partment, special agent c. e. henry started to hunt for "wilcox & co.," of windsor, ohio, for such was the direction in the advertisements and on the circular. pro- ceeding several miles from the nearest railroad, he found the rural settlement where the factory was supposed to be located. guided by various inquiries, he finally drove up to the small farm-house where the parents of wilcox & co. re- sided. on entering, the officer said, "i am in search of mr. wilcox, of the firm of wilcox & co." "i am your man," remarked a youth, perhaps twenty- two years of age, whose countenance at once suggested acuteness and cunning. "what will you have?" "i would like to take a look about the arsenal and gun- secret service of the post-omce factory located here," replied the detective, leisurely sur- veying the landscape. "the works are in cleveland," answered the great in- ventor. "you can see them by calling there." "but where is the arsenal? i understand it was sit- uated here." "your information is correct," replied the young man. "that is it, across the road." casting his eye in the direction indicated, the officer saw a rickety woodshed about seven feet by nine in size. observing the smile of amused incredulity that played upon the features of his questioner, wilcox reiterated, with an air of half offended dignity,— "that's it. we keep our seven-shooters there. but look here; before this thing goes any further, i want to know who you are." "oh, certainly, sir," answered the stranger. "you will find nothing about me that i care to keep concealed. i am a special agent of the post-office department, and my business here is to arrest you." "why, what have i done to warrant such a visit?" queried youthful innocence. "i shall be happy to make that point clear to you," re- plied the detective, "though i am afraid the enlightenment will come too late to prove of much service to you. in using the mails for the purpose of swindling, you have violated the laws of the country, and must suffer the pen- alty." "but where does the swindling come in?" expostulated wilcox. "i advertised a seven-shooter. i didn't say anything about a revolver. it will shoot seven shot, or twice that number, if you only put them in. if anybody is green enough to suppose i meant a revolver, that's his lookout, not mine." "we are not called upon to decide the point," said the special agent. "the question is one for the court and the jury. but you must go with me to cleveland. so get ready." p. h. woodward finding persuasion, argument, and remonstrance alike useless, the great mechanical genius packed his satchel in preparation for the journey. once fairly on the road, he became communicative, and explained the reasons which led him to embark in the enterprise. "in the first place," said he, "i read barnum's life, and accepted the doctrine that the american people like to be humbugged. i planned the shooter myself, and, in wording the circular, aimed to cover the points and keep within the law. i think i have succeeded." "i beg leave to differ," argued the special agent. "aside from the general falsity of the description, there are specific claims which you cannot make good." "i don't see the matter in that light," replied the cham- pion of the seven-shooter. "i say, ' wherever introduced, they advertise themselves.' well, don't they? whoever gets one will be apt to tell his neighbors. isn't that adver- tising itself? i also say, ' the sale of one opens the market for a dozen in any neighborhood;' but observe, i don't claim that any more will be sold in that neighborhood, even if the market is opened. so far as my guaranty is con- cerned, i only warrant them to be as good after three years' use as when first purchased. will you, or will any court, call that in question?" "it is charged," said the officer, changing the subject, "that you neglected to fill a good many orders. how do you explain that?" "why, to furnish the shooter and pay the postage cuts down the profits terribly," was the unique and character- istic reply. orders began to arrive in response to the circular nearly five months before the first shooter came from the hands of the manufacturer; and as none of them were ever filled, or even recorded, it is impossible to estimate how many dupes long watched the mails in anxious expectancy, and perhaps attributed their disappointment to dishonesty among the employees of the department. of course the papers which printed the advertisement would have spurned the impostor and exposed the fraud, secret service of the post-office had they discovered the facts. the most scrupulous and careful publishers are often deceived in the character of advertisements that come through the regular channels of business, and appear plausible on their face. in fact, the religious journals are the favorite vehicles of the swindlers. the solicitude felt by the newspapers, not only for their own reputation, but for the interests of their patrons, was illustrated in the correspondence found on the person of wilcox. an influential western journal had addressed him two notes which ran thus:— "gents: we receive frequent letters from subscribers, saying they receive no answers to letters they send you containing money for ' -shooters.' how is it? are you swindlers?" wilcox, though fully able to answer the conundrum, did not see fit to do so; and hence, on the d of november, the same parties deployed their forces to renew the charge. ", nov. , . "wilcox & co.: "we have written you once before, that our patrons complain to us that you do not fill their cash orders, and will not answer their letters of inquiry as to why you don't. we have received so many such that we suspect there is something wrong, and, unless you explain satisfactorily, we will have to expose you." as the special agent arrived on the same day with the in- quiry, the young man had no opportunity to make the de- sired explanation. indeed it is doubtful if one so modest and reticent on matters of personal merit, would have an- swered the question even if permitted to take all winter to do it in. the united states commissioner, while fully recognizing the ingenuity of the circular, differed somewhat from its author in interpreting its legal construction, and accord- ingly placed him under a bond of fifteen hundred dollars to appear for trial. andrew lang saint-germain the deathless ^mong the best brief masterpieces of fiction are lytton's the haunters and the haunted, and thackeray's notch on the axe in roundabout papers* both deal with a mys- terious being who passes through the ages, rich, powerful, always behind the scenes, coming no man knows whence, and dying, or pretending to die, obscurely—you never find authentic evidence of his disease. in other later times, at other courts, such an one reappears and runs the same course of luxury, marvel, and hidden potency. lytton returned to and elaborated his idea in the mar- grave of a strange story, who has no "soul," and pro- longs his physical and intellectual life by means of an elixir. margrave is not bad, but he is inferior to the hero, less elab- orately designed, of the haunters and the haunted. thackeray's tale is written in a tone of mock mysticism, but he confesses that he likes his own story, in which the strange hero, through all his many lives or reappearances, and through all the countless loves on which he fatuously plumes himself, retains a slight german-jewish accent. it appears to me that the historic original of these ro- mantic characters is no other than the mysterious comte de saint-germain—not, of course, the contemporary and nor- mal french soldier and minister, of - , who bore the same name. i have found the name, with dim allusions, in the unpublished letters and mss. of prince charles ed- ward stuart, and have not always been certain whether the * both given in the accompanying volume containing "old- time english" stories. see also the first story in the "north europe" volume.—editor. mystery stories from real life reference was to the man of action or to the man of mys- tery. on the secret of the latter, the deathless one, i have no new light to throw, and only speak of him for a single reason. aristotle assures us, in his poetics, that the best- known myths dramatized on the athenian stage were known to very few of the athenian audience. it is not impossible that the story of saint-germain, though it seems as familiar as the myth of cedipus or thyestes, may, after all, not be vividly present to the memory of every reader. the om- niscent larousse, of the dictionnaire universel, certainly did not know one very accessible fact about saint-germain, nor have i seen it mentioned in other versions of his legend. we read, in larousse, "saint-germain is not heard of in france before , when he established himself in paris. no adventure had called attention to his existence; it was only known that he had moved about europe, liyed in italy, holland, and in england, and had borne the names of mar- quis de monteferrat, and of comte de bellamye, which he used at venice." lascelles wraxall, again, in remarkable adventures ( ), says: "whatever truth there may be in saint- germain's travels in england and the east indies, it is un- dubitable that, for from to , he was a man of high position in vienna," while in paris he does not appear, ac- cording to wraxall, till , having been brought from germany by the marechal de belle-isle, whose "old boots," says macallester the spy, prince charles freely damned, " because they were always stuffed with projects." now we hear of saint-germain, by that name, as resident, not in vienna, but in london, at the very moment when prince charles, evading cumberland, who lay with his army at stone, in staffordshire, marched to derby. horace wal- pole writes to mann in florence (december , ): "we begin to take up people ... the other day they seized an odd man who goes by the name of count saint- germain. he has been here these two years, and will not tell who he is, or whence, but professes that he does not go by his right name. he sings, plays on the violin won andrew lang derfully, composes, is mad, and not very sensible. he is called an italian, a spaniard, a pole; a somebody that married a great fortune in mexico, and ran away with her jewels to constantinople; a priest, a fiddler, a vast noble- man. the prince of wales has had unsatiated curiosity about him, but in vain. however, nothing has been made out against him; he is released, and, what convinces me he is not a gentleman, stays here, and talks of his being taken up for a spy." here is our earliest authentic note on saint-germain; a note omitted by his french students. he was in london from to , under a name not his own, but that which he later bore at the court of france. from the al- lusion to his jewels (those of a deserted mexican bride), it appears that he was already as rich in these treasures as he was afterwards, when his french acquaintances mar- veled at them. (as to his being " mad," walpole may re- fer to saint-germain's way of talking as if he had lived in remote ages, and known famous people of the past). having caught this daylight glimpse of saint-germain in walpole, having learned that in december, , he was arrested and examined as a possible jacobite agent, we nat- urally expect to find our contemporary official documents about his examination by the government. scores of such records exist, containing the questions put to, and the answers given by, suspected persons. but we vainly hunt through the newcastle mss., and the state papers, do- mestic, in the record office, for a trace of the examination of saint-germain. i am not aware that he was anywhere left his trail in official documents; he lives in more or less legendary memoirs, alone. at what precise date saint-germain became an intimate of louis xv., the due de choiseul, madame de pompadour, and the marechal de belle-isle, one cannot ascertain. the writers of memoirs are the vaguest of mortals about dates; only one discerns that saint-germain was much about the french court, and high in the favor of the king, having rooms at chambord, during the seven years' war, and mystery stories from real life just before the time of the peace negotiations of - . the art of compiling false or forged memoirs of that period was widely practiced; but the memoirs of madame du hausset, who speaks of saint-germain, are authentic. she was the widow of a poor man of noble family, and was one of two femmes de chambre of madame de pompa- dour. her manuscript was written, she explains, by aid of a brief diary which she kept during her term of service. one day m. senac de meilhan found madame de pompa- dour's brother, m. de marigny, about to burn a packet of papers. "it is the journal," he said, "of a femme de chambre of my sister, a good, kind woman." de meilhan asked for the manuscript, which he later gave to mr. craw- ford, one of the kilwinning family, in ayrshire, who later helped in the escape of louis xvi. and marie antoinette to varennes, where they were captured. with the journal of madame du hausset were several letters to marigny on points of historical anecdote.* crawford published the manuscript of madame du haus- set, which he was given by de meilhan, and the memoirs are thus from an authentic source. the author says that louis xv. was always kind to her, but spoke little to her, whereas madame de pompadour remarked, " the king and i trust you so much that we treat you like a cat or a dog, and talk freely before you." as to saint-germain, madame du hausset writes: "a man who was as amazing as a witch came often to see ma- dame de pompadour. this was the comte de saint-germain, * one of these gives madame de vieux-maison as the author of a ronton a clef, secret memoirs of the court of persia, which contains an early reference to the man in the iron mask (died ). the letter-writer avers that d'argenson, the famous minister of louis xv., said that the man in the iron mask was really a person fort peu de chose, 'of very little account,' and that the regent d'orleans was of the same opinion. this corroborates my theory, that the mask was merely the valet of a huguenot conspirator, roux de marsilly, captured in england, and imprisoned because he was supposed to know some terrible secret—which he knew nothing about. see the valet's tragedy, longmans, . andrew lang who wished to make poeple believe that he had lived for several centuries. one day madame said to him, while at her toilet, "what sort of man was francis i., a king whom i could have loved?" "a good sort of fellow," said saint-germain; "too fiery—i could have given him a use- ful piece of advice, but he would not have listened." he then described, in very general terms, the beauty of mary stuart and la reine margot. "you seem to have seen them all," said madame de pompadour, laughing. "some- times," said saint-germain, "i amuse myself, not by making people believe, but by letting them believe, that i have lived from time immemorial." "but you do not tell us your age, and you give yourself out as very old. madame de gergy, who was wife of the french ambassador at venice fifty years ago, i think, says that she knew you there, and that you are not changed in the least." "it is true, madame, that i knew madame de gergy long ago." "but according to her story you must now be over a cen- tury old." "it may be so, but i admit that even more pos- sibly the respected lady is in her dotage." at this time saint-germain, says madame du hausset, looked about fifty, was neither thin nor stout, seemed clever, and dressed simply, as a rule, but in good taste. say that the date was , saint-germain looked fifty; but he had looked the same age, according to madame de gergy, at venice, fifty years earlier, in . we see how pleasantly he left madame de pompadour in doubt on that point. he pretended to have the secret of removing flaws from diamonds. the king showed him a stone valued at , francs—without a flaw it would have been worth , . saint-germain said that he could remove the flaw in a month, and in a month he brought back the diamond— flawless. the king sent it, without any comment, to his jeweler, who gave , francs for the stone, but the king returned the money, and kept the gem as a curiosity. prob- ably it was not the original stone, but another cut in the same fashion, saint-germain sacrificing , or , francs to his practical joke. he also said that he could increase mystery stories from real life the size of pearls, which he could have proved very easily— in the same manner. he would not oblige madame de pompadour by giving the king an elixir of life: "i should be mad if i gave the king a drug." there seems to be a reference to this desire of madame de pompadour in an unlikely place, a letter of pickle the spy to mr. vaughan ( )! this conversation madame du hausset wrote down on the day of its occurrence. both louis xv. and madame de pompadour treated saint-germain as a person of consequence. "he is a quack, for he says he has an elixir," said dr. quesnay, with medical skepticism. "moreover, our master, the king, is obstinate; he sometimes speaks of saint-germain as a person of illustrious birth." the age was skeptical, unscientific, and, by reaction, credulous. the philosophes, hume, voltaire, and others, were exposing, like an ingenious american gentleman, "the mistakes of moses." the earl of marischal told hume that life had been chemically produced in a laboratory, so what becomes of creation? prince charles, hidden in a convent, was being tutored by mlle. luci in the sensational phi- losophy of locke, "nothing in the intellect which does not come through the senses "—a queer theme for a man of the sword to study. but, thirty years earlier, the regent d'orleans had made crystal-gazing fashionable, and stories of ghosts and second-sight in the highest circles were popular. mesmer had not yet appeared, to give a fresh start to the old savage practice of hypnotism; cagliostro was not yet on the scene with his free-masonry of the an- cient egyptian school. but people were already in extremes of doubt and of belief; there might be something in the elixir of life and in the philosopher's stone; it might be possible to make precious stones chemically, and saint-germain, who seemed to be over a century old at least, might have all these secrets. whence came his wealth in precious stones, people asked, unless from some mysterious knowledge, or some equally mysterious and illustrious birth? andrew lang he showed madame de pompadour a little box full of rubies, topazes, and diamonds. madame de pompadour called madame du hausset to look at them; she was dazzled, but skeptical, and made a sign to show that she thought them paste. the count then exhibited a superb ruby, tossing aside contemptuously a cross covered with gems. "that is not so contemptible," said madame du hausset, hanging it round her neck. the count begged her to keep the jewel; she refused, and madame de pompa- dour backed her refusal. but saint-germain insisted, and madame de pompadour, thinking that the cross might be worth forty louis, made a sign to madame du hausset that she accept. she did, and the jewel was valued at , francs—which hardly proves that the other large jewels were genuine, though von gleichen believed they were, and thought the count's cabinet of old masters very valuable. the fingers, the watch, the snuffbox, the shoe-buckles, the garter studs, the solitaires of the count, on high days, all burned with diamonds and rubies, which were estimated, one day, at , francs. his wealth did not come from cards or swindling—no such charges are ever hinted at; he did not sell elixirs, nor prophecies, nor initiations. his habits do not seem to have been extravagant. one might regard him as a clever eccentric person, the unacknowledged child, perhaps, of some noble, who had put his capital mainly into precious stones. but louis xv. treated him as a serious personage, and probably knew, or thought he knew, the secret of his birth. people held that he was a bastard of a king of portugal, says madame du hausset. perhaps the most ingenious and plausible theory of the birth of saint-germain makes him the natural son, not of a king of portugal, but of a queen of spain. the evidence is not evidence, but a series of surmises. saint-germain, on this theory, ' wrop his buth up in a mistry' (like that of charles james fitzjames de la pluche), out of regard for the char- acter of his royal mamma. i believe this about as much as i believe that a certain rev. mr. douglas, an obstreperous covenanting minister, was a descendant of the captive mary mystery stories from real life stuart. however, saint-germain is said, like kaspar hauser, to have murmured of dim memories of his infancy, of diversions on magnificent terraces, and of palaces glowing beneath an azure sky. this is reported by von gleichen, who knew him very well, but thought him rather a quack. possibly he meant to convey the idea that he was moses, and that he had dwelt in the palaces of the ramessids. the grave of the prophet was never known, and saint-germain may have insinuated that he began a new avatar in a cleft of mount pisgah; he was capable of it. however, a less wild surmise avers that, in , the se- crets of his birth and the source of his opulence were known in holland. the authority is the memoirs of grosley ( ). grosley was an archaeologist of troyes; he had traveled in italy, and written an account of his travels; he also visited holland and england, and later, from a dutch- man, he picked up his information about saint-germain. grosley was a fellow of our royal society, and i greatly revere the authority of a f.r.s. his later years were oc- cupied in the compilation of his memoirs, including an account of what he did and heard in holland, and he died in . according to grosley's account of what the dutchman knew, saint-germain was the son of a princess who fled (obviously from spain) to bayonne, and of a portuguese jew dwelling in bordeaux. what fairy and fugitive princess can this be, whom not in vain the ardent hebrew wooed? she was, she must have been, as grosley saw, the heroine of victor hugo's ruy bias. the unhappy charles ii. of spain, a kind of "mammet" (as the english called the richard ii. who ap- peared up in islay, having escaped from pomfret castle), had for his first wife a daughter of henrietta, the favorite sister of our charles ii. this childless bride, after some ghostly years of matrimony, after being exorcised in dis- gusting circumstances, died in february, . in may, a new bride, marie de neuborg, was brought to the grisly side of the crowned mammet of spain. she, too, failed to prevent the wars of the spanish succession by andrew lang giving an heir to the crown of spain. scandalous chronicles aver that marie was chosen as queen of spain for the levity of her character, and that the crown was expected, as in the pictish monarchy, to descend on the female side; the father of the prince might be anybody. what was needed was simply a son of the queen of spain. she had, while queen, no son, as far as is ascertained, but she had a favorite, a count andanero, whom she made minister of finance. "he was not a born count," he was a financier, this favorite of the queen of spain. that lady did go to live in bayonne in , six years after the death of charles ii., her husband. the hypothesis is, then, that saint-germain was the son of this ex-queen of spain, and of the financial count, andanero, a man, "not born in the sphere of counts," and easily transformed by tradi- tion into a jewish banker of bordeaux. the due de choiseul, who disliked the intimacy of louis xv. and of the court with saint-germain, said that the count was "the son of a portuguese jew, who deceives the court. it is strange that the king is so often allowed to be almost alone with this man, though, when he goes out, he is surrounded by guards, as if he feared assassins everywhere." this anecdote is from the memoirs of gleichen, who had seen a great deal of the world. he died in . it seems a fair inference that the due de choiseul knew what the dutch bankers knew, the story of the count's being a child of a princess retired to bayonne—namely, the ex-queen of spain—and of a portuguese-hebrew financier. de choiseul was ready to accept the jewish father, but thought that, in the matter of the royal mother, saint- germain " deceived the court." a queen of spain might have carried off any quantity of the diamonds of brazil. the presents of diamonds from her almost idiotic lord must have been among the few comforts of her situation in a court overridden by etiquette. the reader of madame d'aulnoy's contemporary account of the court of spain knows what a dreadful dungeon it was. again, if born at bayonne about , the count andrew lang xv. that he did come of that blue blood, and the king would have every access to authentic information. horace wal- pole's reasons for thinking saint-germain "not a gentle- man" scarcely seem convincing. the due de choiseul did not like the fashionable saint- germain. he thought him a humbug, even when the doings of the deathless one were perfectly harmless. as far as is known, his recipe for health consisted in drinking a horrible mixture called "senna tea "—which was admin- istered to small boys when i was a small boy—and in not drinking anything at his meals. many people still observe this regimen, in the interest, it is said, of their figures. saint-germain used to come to the house of de choiseul, but one day, when von gleichen was present, the minister lost his temper with his wife. he observed that she took no wine at dinner, and told her that she had learned that habit of abstinence from saint-germain; that he might do as he pleased, "but you, madame, whose health is precious to me, i forbid to imitate the regimen of such a dubious character." gleichen, who tells the anecdote, says that he was present when de choiseul thus lost his temper with his wife. the dislike of de choiseul had a mournful effect on the career of saint-germain. t~. discussing the strange story of the chevalier d'eon, one has seen that louis xv. amused himself by carrying on a secret scheme of fantastic diplomacy through subordinate agents, behind the backs and without the knowledge of his responsible ministers. the due de choiseul, as minister of foreign affairs, was excluded, it seems, from all knowledge of these double intrigues, and the marechal de belle-isle, minister of war, was obviously kept in the dark, as was madame de pompadour. now it is stated by von gleichen that the marechal de belle-isle, from the war office, started a new secret diplomacy behind the back of de choiseul, at the foreign office. the king and madame de pompadour (who was not initiated into the general scheme of the king's secret) were both acquainted with what de choiseul was not to know—namely, belle-isle's plan andrew lang dent could only come to the narrator, von gleichen, from de choiseul, with whom he professes to have been intimate. the king and the marechal de belle-isle would not tell the story of their own discomfiture. it is not very likely that de choiseul himself would blab. however, the anec- dote avers that the king and the minister for war thought it best to say nothing, and the demand for saint-germain's extradition was presented at the hague. but the dutch were not fond of giving up political offenders. they let saint-germain have a hint; he slipped over to london, and a london paper published a kind of veiled interview with him in june . his name, we read, when announced after his death, will astonish the world more than all the marvels of his life. he has been in england already ( - —?) ; he is a great unknown. nobody can accuse him of anything dishonest or dishonorable. when he was here before we were all mad about music, and so he enchanted us with his violin. but italy knows him as an expert in the plastic arts, and germany admires in him a master in memical science. in france, where he was supposed to possess the secret of the transmutation of metals, the police for two years sought and failed to find any normal source of his opulence. a lady of forty-five once swallowed a whole bottle of his elixir. nobody recognized her, for she had become a girl of sixteen without observing the transformation! saint-germain is said to have remained in london but for a short period. horace walpole does not speak of him again, which is odd, but probably the count did not again go into society. our information, mainly from von gleichen, becomes very misty, a thing of surmises, really worthless. the count is credited with a great part in the palace conspiracies of st. petersburg; he lived at berlin, and, under the name of tzarogy, at the court of the mar- grave of anspach. then he went, they say, to italy, and then north to the landgrave charles of hesse, who dabbled in alchemy. here he is said to have died about - , leaving his papers to the landgrave; but all is very vague mystery stories from real life after he disappeared from paris in . when next i meet saint-germain he is again at paris, again mysteriously rich, again he rather disappears than dies, he calls himself major fraser, and the date is in the last years of louis philippe. my authority may be caviled at; it is that of the late ingenious mr. van damme, v,ho describes major fraser in a book on the characters of the second empire. he does not seem to have heard of saint germain, whom he does not mention. major fraser, "in spite of his english (sic) name, was decidedly not english, though he spoke the language." he was (like saint-germain) "one of the best dressed men of the period. . . . he lived alone, and never alluded to his parentage. he was always flush of money, though the sources of his income were a mystery to everyone." the french police vainly sought to detect the origin of saint-germain's supplies, opening his letters at the post- office. major fraser's knowledge of every civilized country at every period was marvelous, though he had very few books. "his memoi y was something prodigious. . . . strange to say, he used often to hint that his was no mere book knowledge. "' of course, it is perfectly ridicu- lous,'" he remarked, with a strange smile, "' but every now and then i feel as if this did not come to me from reading, but from personal experience. at times i become almost convinced that i lived with nero, that i knew dante personally, and so forth.'" * at the major's death not a letter was found giving a clew to his antecedents, and no money was discovered. did he die? as in the case of saint-germain, no date is given. the author had an idea that the major was "an illegitimate son of some exalted person " of the period of charles iv. and ferdinand vii. of spain. the author does not mention saint-germain, and may never have heard of him. if his account of major fraser is not mere romance, in that warrior we have the undying friend of louis xv. and madame de pompadour. he *an englishman in paris, vol. i., pp. - - london, . m andrew lang had drunk at medmenham with jack wilkes; as riccio he had sung duets with the fairest of unhappy queens; he had extracted from blanche de bechamel the secret of goby de mouchy. as pinto, he told much of his secret history to mr. thackeray, who says: "i am rather sorry to lose him after three little bits of roundabout papers." did saint-germain really die in a palace of prince charles of hesse about - ? did he, on the other hand, escape from the french prison where grosley thought he saw him, during the french revolution? was he known to lord lytton about ? was he then major fraser? is he the mysterious muscovite adviser of the dalai lama? who knows? he is a will-o'-the-wisp of the memoir- writers of the eighteenth century. whenever you think you have a chance of finding him in good authentic state papers, he gives you the slip; and if his existence were not vouched for by horace walpole, i should incline to deem him as betsy prig thought of mrs. harris. the man in the iron mask i the legend the mystery of the man in the iron mask is, despite a pleasant saying of lord beaconsfield's, one of the most fascinating in history. by a curious coincidence the wildest legend on the subject, and the correct explanation of the problem, were offered to the world in the same year, . according to this form of the legend, the man in the iron mask was the genuine louis xiv., deprived of his rights in favor of a child of anne of austria and of mazarin. immured in the isles sainte-marguerite, in the bay of cannes (where you are shown his cell, looking north to the sunny town), he married, and begot a son. that son was carried to corsica, was named de buona parte, and was the ancestor of napoleon. the emperor was thus the legitimate representative of the house of bourbon. mystery stories from real life this legend was circulated in , and is referred to in a proclamation of the royalists of la vendee. in the same year, , roux fazaillac, a citoyen and a revolu- tionary legislator, published a work in which he asserted that the man in the iron mask (as known in rumor) was not one man, but a myth, in which the actual facts con- cerning at least two men were blended. it is certain that roux fazaillac was right; or that, if he was wrong, the man in the iron mask was an obscure valet, of french birth, residing in england, whose real name was martin. before we enter on the topic of this poor menial's tragic history, it may be as well to trace the progress of the ro- mantic legend, as it blossomed after the death of the man, whose mask was not of iron, but of black velvet. later we shall show how the legend struck root and flowered, from the moment when the poor valet, martin (by his prison pseudonym "eustache dauger"), was immured in the french fortress of pignerol, in piedmont (au- gust, ). the man, in connection with the mask, is first known to us from a kind of notebook kept by du junca, lieutenant of the bastille. on september , , he records the arrival of the new governor of the bastille, m. de saint-mars, bringing with him, from his last place, the isles sainte- marguerite, in the bay of camnes, "an old prisoner whom he had at pignerol. he keeps the prisoner always masked, his name is not spoken . . . and i have put him alone, in the third chamber of the bertaudiere tower, having furnished it some days before with everything, by order of m. de saint-mars. the prisoner is to be served and cared for by m. de rosarges," the officer next in com- mand under saint-mars.* the prisoner's death is entered by du junca on novem- ber , . tr that entry we return later. the existence of this prisoner was known and excited * funck-brentano, legendes et archives de la bastille, pp. , . paris, , p. , a facsimile of this entry. andrew lang curiosity. on october , , the princess palatine wrote about the case to the electress sophia of hanover, "a man lived for long years in the bastille, masked, and masked he died there. two musketeers were by his side to shoot him if ever he unmasked. he ate and slept in his mask. there must, doubtless, have been some good reason for this, as otherwise he was very well treated, well lodged, and had everything given to him that he wanted. he took the communion masked; was very devout, and read perpetually." on october , , the princess writes that the mask was an english nobleman, mixed up in the plot of the duke of berwick against william iii.—fenwick's affair is meant. he was imprisoned and masked that the dutch usurper might never know what had become of him.* the legend was now afloat in society. the sub-com- mandant of the bastille from to , chevalier, de- clared, obviously on the evidence of tradition, that all the mask's furniture and clothes were destroyed at his death, lest they might yield a clew to his identity. louis xv. is said to have told madame de pompadour that the mask was "the minister of an italian prince." louis xvi. told marie antoinette (according to madame de campan) that the mask was a mantuan intriguer, the same person as louis xv. indicated. perhaps he was, it is one of two possible alternatives. voltaire, in the first edition of his "siecle de louis xiv.," merely spoke of a young, hand- some, masked prisoner, treated with the highest respect by louvois, the minister of louis xiv. at last, in "ques- tions sur 'encyclopedie" (second edition), voltaire averred that the mask was the son of anne of austria and mazarin, an elder brother of louis xiv. changes were rung on this note: the mask was the actual king, louis xiv. was a bastard. others held that he was james, duke of mon- mouth—or moliere! in heiss identified him with mattioli, the mantuan intriguer, and especially after the * op. cit. , note i. mystery stories from real life appearance of the book by roux fazaillac, in , that was the generally accepted opinion. it may be true, in part. mattioli may have been the prisoner who died in the bastille in november , but the legend of the mask's prison life undeniably arose out of the adventure of our valet, martin or eustache dauger. ii the valet's history after reading the arguments of the advocates of mat- tioli, i could not but perceive that, whatever captive died, masked, at the bastille in , the valet dauger was the real source of most of the legends about the man in the iron mask. a study of m. lair's book "nicholas fouquet" ( ) confirmed this opinion. i therefore pushed the inquiry into a source neglected by the french historians, namely, the correspondence of the english am- bassadors, agents, and statesmen for the years , .* one result is to confirm a wild theory of my own to the effect that the man in the iron mask (if dauger were he) may have been as great a mystery to himself as to historical inquirers. he may not have known what he was im- prisoned for doing! more important is the probable con- clusion that the long and mysterious captivity of eustache dauger, and of another perfectly harmless valet and victim, was the mere automatic result of "red tape" of the old french absolute monarchy. these wretches were caught in the toils of the system, and suffered to no purpose, for no crime. the two men, at least dauger, were apparently mere supernumeraries in the obscure intrigue of a con- spirator known as roux de marsilly. this truly abominable tragedy of roux de marsilly is "another story," narrated in the following essay. it must suffice here to say that, in , while charles ii. was * the papers are in the record office; for the contents see the following essay, the valets master, andrew lang negotiating the famous, or infamous, secret treaty with louis xiv.—the treaty of alliance against holland, and in favor of the restoration of roman catholicism in eng- land—roux de marsilly, a french huguenot, was dealing with arlington and others, in favor of a protestant league against france. when he started from england for switzerland in feb- ruary, , marsilly left in london a valet called by him "martin," who had quitted his service and was living with his own family. this man is the "eustache dauger" of our mystery. the name is his prison pseudonym, as "lestang" was that of mattioli. the french government was anxious to lay hands on him, for he had certainly, as the letters of marsilly prove, come and gone freely between that conspirator and his english employers. how much dauger knew, what amount of mischief he could effect, was uncertain. much or little, it was a matter which, strange to say, caused the greatest anxiety to louis xiv. and to his ministers for very many years. probably long before dauger died (the date is unknown, but it was more than twenty-five years after marsilly's execution), his secret, if secret he possessed, had ceased to be of importance. but he was now in the toils of the french red tape, the system of secrecy which rarely released it's victim. he was guarded, we shall see with such unheard-of rigor that popular fancy at once took him for some great, perhaps royal, personage. marsilly was publicly tortured to death in paris on june , . by july his ex-valet, dauger, had entered on his mysterious term of captivity. how the french got posses- sion of him, whether he yielded to cajolery, or was betrayed by charles ii., is uncertain. the french ambassador at st. james's, colbert (brother of the celebrated minister), writes thus to m. de lyonne, in paris, on july , : * "monsieur joly has spoken to the man martin" (dauger), "and has really persuaded him that, by going to france * transcripts from paris mss., vol. xxxiii., record office. mystery stories from real life and telling all that he knows against roux, he will play the part of a lad of honor and a good subject." but martin, after all, was not persuaded! martin replied to joly that he knew nothing at all, and that, once in france, people would think he was well acquainted with the traffickings of roux, "and so he would be kept in prison to make him divulge what he did not know." the possible man in the iron mask did not know his own secret! but, later in the conversation, martin foolishly admitted that he knew a great deal; perhaps he did this out of mere fatal vanity. cross to france, how- ever, he would not, even when offered a safe-conduct and promise of reward. colbert therefore proposes to ask charles to surrender the valet, and probably charles descended to the meanness. by july , at all events, louvois, the war minister of louis xiv., was bidding saint-mars, at pignerol in piedmont, expect from dun- kirk a prisoner of the very highest importance—a valet! this valet, now called "eustache dauger," can only have been marsilly's valet, martin, who, by one means or an- other, had been brought from england to dunkirk. it is hardly conceivable, at least, that when a valet, in england, is "wanted" by the french police on july , for political reasons, and when by july they have caught a valet of extreme political importance, the two valets should be two different men. martin must be dauger. here, then, by july , , we find our unhappy serv- ing man in the toils. why was he to be handled with such mysterious rigor? it is true that state prisoners of very little account were kept with great secrecy. but it cannot well be argued that they were all treated with the extraor- dinary precautions which, in the case of dauger, were not relaxed for twenty-five or thirty years. the king says, according to louvois, that the safe keeping of dauger is "of the last importance to his service." he must have intercourse with nobody. his windows must be where nobody can pass; several bolted doors must cut him off from the sound of human voices. saint-mars himself, the andrew lang - commandant, must feed the valet daily. "you must never, under any pretense, listen to what he may wish to tell you. you must threaten him with death if he speaks one word except about his actual needs. he is only a valet, and does not need much furniture." * saint-mars replied that, in presence of m. de vauroy, the chief officer of dunkirk (who carried dauger thence to pignerol), he had threatened to run dauger through the body if he ever dared to speak, even to him, saint-mars. he has mentioned this prisoner, he says, to no mortal. people believe that dauger is a marshal of france, so strange and unusual are the precautions taken for his security. a marshal of france! the legend has begun. at this time ( ) saint-mars had in charge fouquet, the great fallen minister, the richest and most dangerous subject of louis xiv. by-and-by he also held lauzun, the adven- turous wooer of la grande mademoiselle. but it was not they, it was the valet, dauger, who caused " sensation." on february , , saint-mars, for the sake of economy, wished to use dauger as valet to lauzun. this proves that saint-mars did not, after all, see the necessity of secluding dauger or thought the king's fears ground- less. in the opinion of saint-mars, dauger did not want to be released, "would never ask to be set free." then why was he so anxiously guarded? louvois refused to let dauger be put with lauzun as valet. in , however, he allowed dauger to act as valet to fouquet, but with lauzun, said louvois, dauger must have no intercourse. fouquet had then another prisoner valet, la riviere. this man had apparently been accused of no crime. he was of a melancholy character, and a dropsical habit of body: fouquet had amused himself by doctoring him and teaching him to read. in the month of december, , saint-mars, the com- mandant of the prison, brought to fouquet a sealed letter from louvois, the seal unbroken. his own reply was also to be sealed, and not to be seen by saint-mars. louvois * the letters are printed by roux fazaillac, jung, lair, and others, mystery stories from real life wrote that the king wished to know one thing, before giving fouquet ampler liberty. had his valet, eustache dauger, told his other valet, la riviere, what he had done before coming to pignerol? (de ce a quoi il a ete em- ploye aupravant que d'etre a pignerol). "his majesty bids me ask you [fouquet] this question, and expects that you will answer without considering anything but the truth, that he may know what measures to take," these depend- ing on whether dauger has, or has not, told la riviere the story of his past life.* moreover, lauzun was never, said louvois, to be allowed to enter fouquet's room when dauger was present. the humorous point is that, thanks to a hole dug in the wall between his room and fouquet's, lauzun saw dauger whenever he pleased. from the letter of louvois to fouquet, about dauger (december , ), it is plain that louis xiv. had no more pressing anxiety, nine years after danger's arrest, than to conceal what it was that dauger had done. it is apparent that saint-mars himself either was unacquainted with this secret, or was supposed by louvois and the king to be unaware of it. he had been ordered never to allow dauger to tell him; he was not allowed to see the letters on the subject between lauzun and fouquet. we still do not know, and never shall know, whether dauger himself knew his own secret, or whether (as he had anticipated) he was locked up for not divulging what he did not know. the answer of fouquet to louvois must have satisfied louis that dauger had not imparted his secret to the other valet, la riviere, for fouquet was now allowed a great deal of liberty. in , he might see his family, the officers of the garrison, and lauzun—it being provided that lauzun and dauger should never meet. in march, , fouquet died, and henceforth the two valets were most rigorously guarded; dauger, because he was supposed to know some- thing; la riviere, because dauger might have imparted the real or fancied secret to him. we shall return to these poor serving men, but here it is necessary to state that, * lair, nicholas foucquet, ii. pp. , . andrew lang ten months before the death of their master, fouquet, an important new captive had been brought to the prison of pignerol. this captive was the other candidate for the honors of the mask, count mattioli, the secretary of the duke of mantua. he was kidnaped on italian soil on may , , and hurried to the mountain fortress of pignerol, then on french ground. his offense was the betraying of the secret negotiations for the cession of the town and fortress of casal, by the duke of mantua, to louis xiv. the disappearance of mattioli was, of course, known to the world. the cause of his enlevement, and the place of his captivity, pignerol, were matters of newspaper com- ment at least as early as . still earlier, in , the story of mattioli's arrest and seclusion in pignerol had been published in a work named " la prudenza trionfante di casale." * there was thus no mystery, at the time, about mattioli; his crime and punishment were perfectly well known to students of politics. he has been regarded as the mysterious man in the iron mask, but, for years after his arrest, he was the least mysterious of state prisoners. here, then, is mattioli in pignerol in may, . while fouquet then enjoyed relative freedom, while lauzun schemed escapes or made insulting love to mademoiselle fouquet, mattioli lived on the bread and water of affliction. he was threatened with torture to make him deliver up some papers compromising louis xiv. it was expressly commanded that he should have nothing beyond the barest necessaries of life. he was to be kept dans la dure prison. in brief, he was used no better than the meanest of prison- ers. the awful life of isolation, without employment, without books, without writing materials, without sight or sound of man save when saint-mars or his lieutenant brought food for the day, drove captives mad. in january, , two prisoners, a monkf and one * brentano, op. cit., p. . t a monk, who may have been this monk, appears in the following essay, p. , infra. l mystery stories from real life dubreuil, had become insane. by february , , mattioli was daily conversing with god and his angels. "i believe his brain is turned," says saint-mars. in march, , as we saw, fouquet died. the prisoners, not count- ing lauzun (released soon after), were now five: ( ) mattioli (mad); ( ) dubreuil (mad); ( ) the monk (mad); ( ) dauger, and ( ) la riviere. these two, being employed as valets, kept their wits. on the death of fouquet, louvois wrote to saint-mars about the two valets. lauzun must be made to believe that they had been set at liberty, but, in fact, they must be most carefully guarded in a single chamber. they were shut up in one of the dungeons of the "tour d'en bas." dauger had re- cently done something as to which louvois writes: "let me know how dauger can possibly have done what you tell me, and how he got the necessary drugs, as i cannot suppose that you supplied him with them" (july , ).* here, then, by july, , are the two valets locked in one dungeon of the "tour d'en bas." by september saint- mars had placed mattioli, with the mad monk, in another chamber of the same tower. he writes: "mattioli is almost as mad as the monk," who arose from bed and preached naked. mattioli behaved so rudely and violently that the lieutenant of saint-mars had to show him a whip, and threaten him with a flogging. this had its effect. mattioli, to make his peace, offered a valuable ring to blain- villiers. the ring was kept to be restored to him, if ever louis let him go free—a contingency mentioned more than once in the correspondence. apparently mattioli now sobered down, and probably was given a separate chamber and a valet; he certainly had a valet at pignerol later. by may , dauger and la riviere still occupied their common chamber in the "tour d'en bas." they were regarded by louvois as the most important of the five prisoners then at pignerol. they, not mattioli, were the captives about whose safe and secret keeping louis and louvois were most anxious. this ap- •lair, nicholas foucquet, ii., pp. , . andrew lang pears from a letter of louvois to saint-mars, of may , . the jailer, saint-mars, is to be promoted from pignerol to exiles. "thither," says louvois, "the king desires to transport such of your prisoners as he thinks too important to have in other hands than yours." these prisoners are "the two in the low chamber of the tower," the two valets, dauger and la riviere. from a letter of saint-mars (june, ) we know that mattioli was not one of these. he says: "i shall keep at exiles two birds (merles) whom i have here: they are only known as the gentry of the low room in the tower; mattioli may stay on here at pignerol with the other prison- ers" (dubreuil and the mad monk). it is at this point that le citoyen roux (fazaillac), writing in the year ix. of the republic ( ), loses touch with the secret.* roux finds, in the state papers, the arrival of eustache dauger at pignerol in , but does not know who he is, or what is his quality. he sees that the mask must be either mat- tioli, dauger, the monk, one dubreuil, or one calazio. but, overlooking or not having access to the letter of saint- mars of june, , roux holds that the prisoners taken to les exiles were the monk and mattioli. one of these must be the mask, and roux votes for mattioli. he is wrong. mattioli beyond all doubt remained at pignerol. mountains of argument have been built on these words, leux merles, "two jail-birds." one of the two, we shall see, became the source of the legend of the man in the iron mask. "how can a wretched jail-bird (merle) have been the mask?" asks m. topin. "the rogue's whole furniture and table-linen were sold for il. igs. he only got a new suit of clothes every three years." all very true; but this jail-bird and his mate, by the direct state- ment of louvois, are "the prisoners too important to be intrusted to other hands than yours"—the hands of saint- mars—while mattioli is so unimportant that he may be left at pignerol under villebois. * recherches historiques sur i'homme an masque de fer, paris. an. ix. mystery stories from real life the truth is, that the offense and the punishment of mattioli were well known to european diplomatists and readers of books. casal, moreover, at this time was openly ceded to louis xiv., and mattioli could not have fold the world more than it already knew. but, for some in- scrutable reason, the secret which dauger knew, or was suspected of knowing, became more and more a source of anxiety to louvois and louis. what can he have known? the charges against his master, roux de marsilly, had been publicly proclaimed. twelve years had passed since the dealings of arlington with marsilly. yet, louvois be- came more and more nervous. in accordance with commands of his, on march , , the two valets, who had hitherto occupied one chamber at exiles as at pignerol, were cut off from all communica- tion with each other. says saint-mars, "since receiving your letter i have warded the pair as strictly and exactly as i did m. fouquet and m. lauzun, who cannot brag that he sent or received any intelligence. night and day two sentinels watch their tower; and my own windows command a view of the sentinels. nobody speaks to my captives but myself, my lieutenant, their confessor, and the doctor, who lives eighteen miles away, and only sees them when i am present." years went by; in january, , one of the two captives died; we really do not know which with absolute certainty. however, the intensified secrecy with which the survivor was now guarded seems more appropriate to dauger; and m. funck-brentano and m. lair have no doubt that it was la riviere who expired. he was dropsical, that appears in the official correspondence, and the dead prisoner died of dropsy. as for the strange secrecy about dauger, here is an example. saint-mars, in january, , was appointed to the fortress of the isles sainte-marguerite, that sun them- selves in the bay of cannes. on january he asks leave to go to see his little kingdom. he must leave dauger, but has forbidden even his lieutenant to speak to that prisoner. this was an increase of precaution since . he wishes andrew lang to take the captive to the isles, but how? a sedan chair covered over with oilcloth seems best. a litter might break down, litters often did, and some one might then see the passenger. now m. funck-brentano says, to minimize the impor- tance of dauger, "he was shut up like so much luggage in a chair hermetically closed with oilcloth, carried by eight piedmontese relays of four." luggage is not usually carried in hermetically sealed sedan chairs, but saint-mars has explained why, by surplus of precaution, he did not use a litter. the litter might break down and dauger might be seen. a new prison was built specially, at the cost of , lires, for dauger at sainte-marguerite, with large sunny rooms. on may , , saint-mars had entered on his island realm, dauger being nearly killed by twelve days' journey in a closed chair. he again excited the utmost curiosity. on january , , saint-mars writes that his prisoner is believed by the world to be either a son of oliver cromwell, or the due de beaufort,* who was never seen again, dead or alive, after a night battle in crete, on june , , just before dauger was arrested. saint-mars sent in a note of the total of dauger's expenses for the year . he actually did not dare to send the items, he says, lest they, if the bill fell into the wrong hands, might reveal too much. meanwhile, an italian news-letter, copied into a leyden paper, of august , declared that mattioli had just been brought from pignerol to sainte-marguerite. there was no mystery about mattioli, the story of his capture was published in , but the press, on one point, was in error; mattioli was still at pignerol. the known advent of the late commandant of pignerol, saint-mars, with a single concealed prisoner, at the island, naturally suggested the erroneous idea that the prisoner was mattioli. the prisoner was really dauger, the survivor of the two valets. from to no letter about dauger has been pub- * due de beaufort whom athos releases from prison in dumas's vingt ans apris. mystery stories from real life lished. apparently he was then the only prisoner on the island, except one chezut, who was there before dauger arrived, and gave up his chamber to dauger while the new cells were being built. between and six protestant preachers were brought to the island, while lou- vois, the minister, died in , and was succeeded by barbezieux. on august , , barbezieux wrote to ask saint-mars about "the prisoner whom he had guarded for twenty years." the only such prisoner was dauger, who entered pignerol in august, . mattioli had been a prisoner only for twelve years, and lay in pignerol, not in sainte-marguerite, where saint-mars now was. saint- mars replied: "i can assure you that nobody has seen him but myself." by the beginning of march, , pignerol had been bom- barded by the enemies of france; presently louis xiv. had to cede it to savoy. the prisoners there must be removed. mattioli, in pignerol, at the end of , had been in trouble. he and his valet had tried to smuggle out letters written on the linings of their pockets. these were seized and burned. on march , , barbezieux wrote to laprade, now commanding at pignerol, that he must take his three prisoners, one by one, with all secrecy, to sainte- marguerite. laprade alone must give them their food on the journey. the military officer of the escort was warned to ask no questions. already (february , ) barbe- zieux had informed saint-mars that these prisoners were coming. "they are of more consequence, one of them at least, than the prisoners on the island, and must be put in the safest places." the "one" is doubtless mattioli. in louvois had thought dauger and la riviere more important than mattioli, who, in march, , came from pignerol to sainte-marguerite. now in april, , a prisoner died at the island, a prisoner who, like mattioli, had a valet. we hear of no other prisoner on the island, except mattioli who had a valet. a letter of saint- mars (january , ) proves that no prisoner then had a valet, for each prisoner collected his own dirty plates andrew lang and dishes, piled them up, and handed them to the lieutenant. m. funck-brentano argues that in this very letter (jan- uary , ) saint-mars speaks of " les valets de messieurs les prisonniers." but in that part of the letter saint-mars is not speaking of the actual state of things at sainte- marguerite, but is giving reminiscences of fouquet and lauzun, who, of course, at pignerol, had valets, and had money, as he shows. dauger had no money. m. funck- brentano next argues that early in one of the preacher prisoners, melzac, died, and cites m. jung (" la verite sur le masque de fer," p. ). this is odd, as m. jung says that melzac, or malzac, "died in the end of , or early in ." why, then, does m. funck-brentano cite m. jung for the death of the preacher early in , when m. jung (conjecturally) dates his decease at least a year earlier?* it is not a mere conjecture as, on march , , barbezieux begs saint-mars to mention his protestant prisoners under nicknames. there are three, and malzac is no longer one of them. malzac, in , suffered from a horrible disease, discreditable to one of the godly, and in october, , had been allowed medical expenses. whether they included a valet or not, malzac seems to have been non-existent by march, . had he possessed a valet, and had he died in , why should his valet have been " shut up in the vaulted prison "? this was the fate of the valet of the prisoner who died in april, , and was probably mattioli. mattioli, certainly, had a valet in december, , at pignerol. he went to sainte-marguerite in march, . in april, , a prisoner with a valet died at sainte* m. funck-brentano's statement is in revue historique, ivi. p. . "malzac died at the beginning of ," citing jung, p. . now on p. m. jung writes, " at the beginning of saint-mars had six prisoners, of whom one melzac, dies." but m. jung (pp. , ) later writes, "it is probable that melzac died at the end of , or early in ," and he gives his reasons, which are con- vincing. m. funck-brentano must have overlooked m. jung's change of opinion between his p. and his pp. , . mystery stories from real life marguerite. in january, , no prisoner at sainte- marguerite had a valet. therefore, there is a strong pre- sumption that the " prisonnier au valet" who died in april, , was mattioli. after december, , when he was still at pignerol, the name of mattioli, freely used before, never occurs in the correspondence. but we still often hear of "l'ancien prisonnier," " the old prisoner." he was, on the face of it, dauger, by far the oldest prisoner. in , saint-mars, having only one prisoner (dauger), calls him merely "my prisoner." in , when saint-mars had several prison- ers, barbezieux styles dauger "your prisoner of twenty years' standing." when, in - , saint-mars men- tions " mon ancien prisonnier," " my prisoner of long stand- ing," he obviously means dauger, not mattioli—above all, if mattioli died in . m. funck-brentano argues that "mon ancien prisonnier" can only mean "my erstwhile prisoner, he who was lost and is restored to me "—that is, mattioli. this is not the view of m. jung, or m. lair, or m. loiseleur. friends of mattioli's claims rest much on this letter of barbezieux to saint-mars (november , ): "you have only to watch over the security of all your prisoners, without ever explaining to anyone what it is that your prisoner of long standing did." that secret, it is argued, must apply to mattioli. but all the world knew what mat- tioli had done! nobody knew, and nobody knows, what eustache dauger had done. it was one of the arcana imperii. it is the secret enforced ever since dauger's arrest in . saint-mars ( ) was not to ask. louis xiv. could only lighten the captivity of fouquet ( ) if his valet, la riviere, did not know what dauger had done. la riviere (apparently a harmless man) lived and died in confinement, the sole reason being that he might perhaps know what dauger had done. consequently there is the strongest presumption that the "ancien prisonnier" of is dauger, and that "what he had done" (which saint- mars must tell to no one) was what dauger did, not what andrew lang mattioli did. all europe knew what mattioli had done; his whole story had been published to the world in and . on july , , barbezieux bade saint-mars come to assume the command of the bastille. he is to bring his "old prisoner," whom not a soul is to see. saint-mars therefore brought his man masked, exactly as another prisoner was carried masked from provence to the bastille in . m. funck-brentano argues that saint-mars was now quite fond of his old mattioli, so noble, so learned. at last, on september , , saint-mars lodged his "old prisoner" in the bastille, "an old prisoner whom he had at pignerol," says the journal of du junca, lieutenant of the bastille. his food, we saw, was brought him by rosarges alone, the " major," a gentleman who had always been with saint-mars. argues m. funck-brentano, all this proves that the captive was a gentleman, not a valet. why? first, because the bastille, under louis xiv., was "une prison de distinction." yet m. funck-brentano tells us that in mazarin's time "valets mixed up with royal plots" were kept in the bastille. again, in , in this "noble prison," the mask was turned out of his room to make place for a female fortune-teller, and was obliged to chum with a profligate valet of nineteen, and a " beggarly" bad patriot, who "blamed the conduct of france, and approved that of other nations, especially the dutch." m. funck-brentano himself publishes these facts ( ), in part published earlier ( ) by m. lair.* not much noblesse here! next, if rosarges, a gentleman, served the mask, saint- mars alone ( ) carried his food to the valet, dauger. so the service of rosarges does not ennoble the mask and differentiate him from dauger, who was even more nobly served, by saint-mars. on november , , the mask died suddenly (still in his velvet mask), and was buried on the th. the parish register of the church names him "marchialy" or "mar- * legendes de la bastille,, pp. - . citing du junca's journal, april , . mystery stories from real life chioly," one may read it either way; du junca, lieutenant of the bastille, in his contemporary journal, calls him " m. de marchiel." now, saint-mars often spells mattioli, "marthioly." this is the one strength of the argument for mattioli's claims to the mask. m. lair replies, "saint-mars had a mania for burying prisoners under fancy names," and gives examples. one is only a gardener, frangois eliard ( ), concerning whom it is expressly said that, as he is a pris- oner, his real name is not to be given, so he is registered as pierre maret (others read navet, " peter turnip "). if saint-mars, looking about for a false name for dauger's burial register, hit on marsilly (the name of dauger's old master), that might be miswritten marchialy. however it be, the age of the mask is certainly falsified; the register gives "about forty-five years old." mattioli would have been sixty-three; dauger cannot have been under fifty-three. there the case stands. if mattioli died in april, , he cannot be the man in the iron mask. of dauger's death we find no record, unless he was the man in the iron mask, and died, in , in the bastille. he was certainly, in and , at pignerol and at sainte-marguerite, the center of the mystery about some great prisoner, a marshal of france, the due de beaufort, or a son of oliver cromwell. mattioli was not mystery, no secret. dauger is so myste- rious that probably the secret of his mystery was unknown to himself. by , when obscure wretches were shut up with the mask, the secret, whatever its nature, had ceased to be of moment. the captive was now the mere victim of cruel routine. but twenty years earlier, saint- mars had said that dauger "takes things easily, resigned to the will of god and the king." to sum up, on july , , the valet of the huguenot in- triguer, roux de marsilly, the valet resident in england, known to his master as "martin," was "wanted " by the french secret police. by july , a valet, of the highest political importance, had been brought to dunkirk, from england, no doubt. my hypothesis assumes that this valet, andrew lang though now styled "eustache dauger," was the " martin" of roux de marsilly. he was kept with so much mystery at pigernol that already the legend began its course; the captive valet was said to be a marshal of france! we then follow dauger from pignerol to les exiles, till janu- ary, , when one valet out of a pair, dauger being one of them, dies. we presume that dauger is the survivor, because the great mystery still is "what he has done," whereas the other valet had done nothing, but may have known dauger's secret. again the other valet had long been dropsical, and the valet who died in died of dropsy. in , dauger, at sainte-marguerite, is again the source and center of myths; he is taken for a son of oliver cromwell, or for the due de beufort. in june , one one of the huguenot preachers at saint-marguerite writes on his shirt and pewter plate and throws them out of the window.* legend attributes these acts to the man in the iron mask, and transmutes a pewter into a silver plate. now, in - , mattioli was at pignerol, but dauger was at sainte-marguerite, and the huguenot's act is at- tributed to him. thus dauger, not mattioli, is the center round which the myths crystallize: the legends concern him, not mattioli, whose case is well known, and gives rise to no legend. finally, we have shown that mattioli probably died at sainte-marguerite in april, . if so, then nobody but dauger can be the "old prisoner" whom saint-mars brought, masked, to the bastille, in september, , and who died there in november, . however suppose that mattioli did not die in , but was the masked man who died in the bastille in , then the legend of dauger came to be attributed to mattioli: these two men's fortunes are combined in the one myth. the central problem remains unsolved. what had the valet, eustache dauger, done? f * saint-mars au ministre, june , . t one marvels that nobody has recognized, in the mask, james stuart (james de la cloche), eldest of the children of charles ii. he came to england in , was sent to rome, and "disappears from history." see infra, "the mystery of james de la cloche." mystery stories from real life iii the valet's master the secret of the man in the iron mask, or at least of one of the two persons who have claims to be the mask, was "what had eustache danger done?" to guard this secret the most extraordinary precautions were taken, as we have shown in the foregoing essay. and yet, if secret there was, it might have got wind in the simplest fashion. in the "vicomte de bragelonne," dumas de- scribes the tryst of the secret-hunters with the dying chief of the jesuits at the inn in fontainebleau. they come from many quarters, there is a baron of germany and a laird from scotland, but aramis takes the prize. he knows the secret of the mask, the most valuable of all to the intriguers of the company of jesus. now, despite all the precautions of louvois and saint- mars, despite sentinels for ever posted under danger's win- dows, despite arrangements which made it impossible for him to signal to people on the hillside at les exiles, despite the suppression even of the items in the accounts of his ex- penses, his secret, if he knew it, could have been discovered, as we have remarked, by the very man most apt to make mischievous use of it—by lauzun. that brilliant and reck- less adventurer could see dauger, in prison at pignerol, when he pleased, for he had secretly excavated a way into the rooms of his fellow prisoner, fouquet, on whom dauger attended as valet. lauzun was released soon after fouquet's death. it is unlikely that he bought his liberty by the knowledge of the secret and there is nothing to suggest that he used it (if he possessed it) in any other way. the natural clew to the supposed secret of dauger is a study of the career of his master, roux de marsilly. as official histories say next to nothing about him, we may set forth what can be gleaned from the state papers in our record office. the earliest is a letter of roux de mar andrew lang silly to mr. joseph williamson, secretary of lord arling- ton (december, ). marsilly sends martin (on our theory eustache dauger) to bring back from williamson two letters from his own correspondent in paris. he also requests williamson to procure for him from arlington a letter of protection, as he is threatened with arrest for some debt in which he is not really concerned. martin will ex- plain. the next paper is indorsed "received december , , mons. de marsilly." as it is dated december , marsilly must have been in england. the contents of this piece deserve attention, because they show the terms on which marsilly and arlington were, or, at least, how mar- silly conceived them. ( ) marsilly reports, on the authority of his friends at stockholm, that the king of sweden intends, first to inter- cede with louis xiv. in favor of the french huguenots, and next, if diplomacy fails, to join in arms with the other protestant powers of europe. ( ) his correspondent in holland learns that if the king of england invites the states to any "holy resolu- tion," they will heartily lend forces. no leader so good as the english king—charles ii.! marsilly had shown arling- ton's letter to a dutch friend, who bade him approach the dutch ambassador in england. he has dined with that diplomatist. arlington had, then, gone so far as to write an encouraging letter. the dutch ambassador had just told marsilly that he had received the same news, namely, that, holland would aid the huguenots, persecuted by louis xiv. ( ) letters from provence, languedoc, and dauphine say that the situation there is unaltered. ( ) the canton of zurich write that they will keep their promises and that berne is anxious to please the king of great britain, and that it is ready to raise, with zurich, , men. they are not afraid of france. ( ) zurich fears that, if charles is not represented at the next diet, bale and saint gall will be intimidated, and not dare to join the triple alliance of spain, holland, and mystery stories from real life england. the best plan will be for marsilly to represent england at the diet of january , , accompanied by the swiss general balthazar. this will encourage friends "to give his britannic majesty the satisfaction which he desires, and will produce a close union between holland, sweden, the cantons, and other protestant states." this reads as if charles had already expressed some " de- sire." ( ) geneva grumbles at a reply of charles "through a bishop who is their enemy," the bishop of london, "a persecutor of our religion," that is, of presbyterianism. however, nothing will dismay the genevans, "si s. m. b. ne change." then comes a blank in the paper. there follows a copy of a letter as if from charles ii. himself, to "the right high and noble seigneurs of zurich." he has heard of their wishes from roux de marsilly, whom he commissions to wait upon them. "i would not have written by my bishop of london had i been better informed, but would myself have replied to your obliging letter, and would have assured you, as i do now, that i desire. . . ." it appears as if this were a draft of a kind of letter which marsilly wanted charles to write to zurich, and there is a similar draft of a letter for arlington to follow, if he and charles wish to send marsilly to the swiss diet. the dutch ambassador, with whom marsilly dined on december , the constable of castille, and other grandees, are all of opinion that he should visit the protestant swiss, as from the king of england. the scheme is for an alliance of england, holland, spain, and the protestant cantons, against france and savoy. another letter of marsilly to arlington, only dated jeudi, avers that he can never repay arlington for his extreme kindness and liberality. "no man in england is more de- voted to you than i am, and shall be all my life."* on the very day when marsilly drafted for charles his own commission to treat with zurich for a protestant al- * state papers, france, vol. , . andrew lang liance against france, charles himself wrote to his sister, madame (henriette d'orleans). he spoke of his secret treaty with france. "you know how much secrecy is nec- essary for the carrying on of the business, and i assure you that nobody does, nor shall, know anything of it here, but myself and that one person more, till it be fit to be public." * (is "that one person " de la cloche?) thus marsilly thought charles almost engaged for the protestant league, while charles was secretly allying him- self with france against holland. arlington was probably no less deceived by charles than marsilly was. the bishop of london's share in the dealing with zurich is obscure. it appears certain that arlington was not consciously deceiving marsilly. madame wrote, on february , as to arlington, " the man's attachment to the dutch and his in- clination towards spain are too well known." f not till april , , does charles tell his sister that arlington has an inkling of his secret dealings with france; how he knows, charles cannot tell.t it is impossible for us to as- certain how far charles himself deluded marsilly, who went to the continent early in spring, . before may - , , in fact on april , marsilly had been kidnaped by agents of louis xiv., and his doom was dight. here is the account of the matter, written to by perwich in paris: "w. perwich to "paris, may , ' . "honored sir, "the cantons of switzerland are much troubled at the french king's having sent fifteen horsemen into switzer- land from whence the sr de manille, the king's resident there, had given information of the sr roux de marsilly's being there negotiating the bringing the cantons into the triple league by discourses much to the disadvantage of france, giving them very ill impressions of the french king's * madame, by julia cartwright, p. . tlbid., p. . tlbid., p. . i mystery stories from real life government, who was betrayed by a monk that kept him company and intercepted by the said horsemen brought into france and is expected at the bastille. i believe you know the man. ... i remember him in england." can this monk be the monk who went mad in prison at pignerol, sharing the cell of mattioli? did he, too, suffer for his connection with the secret? we do not know, but the position of charles was awkward. marsilly, dealing with the swiss, had come straight from england, where he was lie with charles's minister, arlington, and with the dutch and spanish ambassadors. the king refers to the matter in a letter to his sister of may , (misdated by miss cartwright, may , .)* "you have, i hope, received full satisfaction by the last post in the matter of marsillac [marsilly], for my ld. arlington has sent to mr. montague [english ambassador at paris] his history all the time he was here, by which you will see how little credit he had here, and that particu- larly my lord arlington was not in his good graces, because he did not receive that satisfaction, in his negotiation, he ex- pected, and that was only in relation to the swissers, and so i think i have said enough of this matter." charles took it easily! on may montague acknowledged arlington's letter to which charles refers; he has been approached, as to marsilly, by the spanish resident, "but i could not tell how to do anything in the business, never having heard of the man, or that he was employed by my master [charles] in any business. i have sent you also a copy of a letter which an englishman writ to me that i do not know, in behalf of roux de marsilly, but that does not come by the post," being too secret, f france had been well-informed about marsilly while he * madame, by julia cartwright, p. . ^ state papers, france, vol. . andrew lang was in england. he then had a secretary, two lackeys, and a valet de chambre, and was frequently in conference with arlington and the spanish ambassador to the english court. colbert, the french ambassador in london, had written all this to the french government, on april , be- fore he heard of marsilly's arrest.* the belief that marsilly was an agent of charles appears to have been general, and, if accepted by louis xiv., would interfere with charles's private negotiations for the secret treaty with france. on may prince d'aremberg had written on the subject to the spanish ambassador in paris. marsilly, he says, was arrested in switzerland, on his way to berne, with a monk who was also seized, and, a curious fact, marsilly's valet was killed in the struggle. this valet, of course, was not dauger, whom mar- silly had left in england. marsilly "doit avoir de- mande la protection du roy de la grande bretagne en faveur des religionaires (huguenots) de france, et passer en suisse avec quelque commission de sa part." d'aremberg begs the spanish ambassador to communicate all this to montague, the english ambassador at paris, but montague probably, like perwich, knew nothing of the business any more than he knew of charles's secret dealings with louis through madame.f to d'aremberg's letter is pinned an unsigned english note, obviously intended for arlington's reading. "roux de marsilly is still in the bastille though they have a mind to hang him, yet they are much puzzled what to do with him. de lionne has beene to examine him twice or thrice, but there is noe witnes to prove anything against him. i was told by one that the french king told it to, that in his papers they find great mention of the duke of bucks: and your name, and speak as if he were much trusted by you. i have enquired what this marsilly is, and i find by one mr. marsilly that i am acquainted withall, and a man *bibl. nat., fonds. francois, no. . if state papers, france, vol. . mystery stories from real life of quality, that this man's name is onely roux, and borne at nismes and having been formerly a soldier in his troope, ever since has taken his name to gain more credit in switser- land where hee, marsilly, formerly used to bee employed by his coll: the mareschall de schomberg who invaded switser- land." we next find a very curious letter, from which it ap- pears that the french government inclined to regard mar- silly as, in fact, an agent of charles, but thought it wiser to trump up against him a charge of conspiring against the life of louis xiv. on this charge, or another, he was ex- ecuted, while the suspicion that he was an agent of english treachery may have been the real cause of the determination to destroy him. the balthazar with whom marsilly left his papers is mentioned with praise by him in his paper for arlington, of december , . he is the general who should have accompanied marsilly to the diet. the substance of the letter (given in full in note i.) is to the following effect. p. du moulin (paris, may - ) writes to arlington. ever since, ruvigny, the late french ambassador, a protestant, was in england, the french government had been anxious to kidnap roux de marsilly. they hunted him in england, holland, flanders, and franche-comte. as we know from the case of mat- tioli, the government of louis xiv. was unscrupulously daring in breaking the laws of nations, and seizing hostile personages in foreign territory, as napoleon did in the affair of the due d'enghien. when all failed louis bade turenne capture roux de marsilly wherever he could find him. turenne sent officers and gentlemen abroad, and, after four months' search they found marsilly in switzer- land. they took him as he came out of the house of his friend, general balthazar, and carried him to gex. no papers were found on him, but he asked his captors to send to balthazar and get "the commission he had from eng- land," which he probably thought would give him the se- curity of an official diplomatic position. having got this andrew lang document, marsilly's captors took it to the french ministers. nothing could be more embarrassing, if this were true, to charles's representative in france, montague, and to charles's secret negotiations, also to arlington, who had dealt with marsilly. on his part, the captive marsilly con- stantly affirmed that he was the envoy of the king of eng- and. the common talk of paris was that an agent of charles was in the bastille, " though at court they pretended to know nothing of it." louis was overjoyed at marsilly's capture, giving out that he was conspiring against his life. monsieur told montague that he need not beg for the life of a would-be murderer like marsilly. but as to this idea, "they begin now to mince it at court," and ruvigny as- sured du moulin "that they had no such thoughts." de lyonne had seen marsilly and observed that it was a blun- der to seize him. the french government was nervous, and turenne's secretary had been "pumping" several am- bassadors as to what they thought of marsally's capture on foreign territory. one ambassador replied with spirit that a crusade of all europe against france, as of old against the moslems, would be necessary. would charles, du moulin asked, own or disown marsilly? montague's position was now awkward. on may , his account of the case was read, at whitehall, to the foreign committee in london. (see note ii. for the document.) he did not dare to interfere in marsilly's behalf, because he did not know whether the man was an agent of charles or not. such are the inconveniences of a secret royal di- plomacy carried on behind the backs of ministers. louis xv. later pursued this method with awkward consequences.* the french court, montague said, was overjoyed at the capture of marsilly, and a reward of , crowns, "i am told very privately, is set upon his head." the french ambassador in england, colbert, had reported that charles had sent marsilly "to draw the swisses into the triple league" against france. montague had tried to reassure monsieur (charles's brother-in-law), but was himself en- * cf. le secret du roi, by the due de broglie. mystery stories from real life tirely perplexed. as monsieur's wife, charles's sister, was working with charles for the secret treaty with louis, the state and family politics were clearly in a knot. mean- while, the spanish ambassador kept pressing montague to interfere in favor of marsilly. after montague's puzzled note had been read to the english foreign committee on may , arlington offered explanations. marsilly came to england, he said, when charles was entering into negotia- tions for peace with holland, and when france seemed likely to oppose the peace. no proposition was made to him or by him. peace being made, marsilly was given money to take him out of the country. he wanted the king to renew his alliance with the swiss cantons, but was told that the cantons must first expel the regicides of charles i. he undertook to arrange this, and some eight months later came back to england. "he was coldly used, and i was complained of for not using so important a man well enough." as we saw, marsilly expressed the most effusive grati- tude to arlington, which does not suggest cold usage. arlington told the complainers that marsilly was "another man's spy," what man's, dutch, spanish, or even french, he does not explain. so charles gave marsilly money to go away. he was never trusted with anything but the expulsion of the regicides from switzerland. arlington was ordered by charles to write a letter thanking balthazar for his good offices. these explanations by arlington do not tally with mar- silly's communications to him, as cited at the beginning of this inquiry. nothing is said in these about getting the regi- cides of charles i. out of switzerland: the paper is entirely concerned with bringing the protestant cantons into anti- french league with england, holland, spain, and even sweden. on the other hand, arlington's acknowledged let- ter to balthazar, carried by marsilly, may be the "com- mission" of which marsilly boasted. in any case, on june , charles gave colbert, the french ambassador, an audi- ence, turning even the duke of york out of the room. he andrew lang then repeated to colbert the explanations of arlington, al- ready cited, and arlington, in a separate interview, cor- roborated charles. so colbert wrote to louis (june , ); but to de lyonne, on the same day, " i trust that you will extract from marsilly much matter for the king's service. it seemed to me that milord d'arlington was un- easy about it [en avait de 'inquietude]. . . . there is here in england one martin" (eustace dauger), " who has been that wretch's valet, and who left him discontent." col- bert then proposes to examine martin, who may know a good deal, and to send him into france. on june , col- bert writes to louis that he expects to see martin.* on june , colbert wrote to louis about a conversation with charles. it is plain that proofs of a murder-plot by marsilly were scanty or non-existent, though colbert averred that marsilly had discussed the matter with the spanish ministers. "charles knew that he had had much confer- ence with isola, the spanish ambassador." meanwhile, up to july , colbert was trying to persuade marsilly's valet to go to france, which he declined to do, as we have seen. however, the luckless lad, by nods and by veiled words, indicated that he knew a great deal. but not by promise of security and reward could the valet be induced to return to france. "i might ask the king to give up martin, the valet of marsilly, to me," colbert concludes, and, by hook or by crook, he secured the person of the wretched man, as we have seen. in a postcript, colbert says that he has heard of the execution of marsilly. by july , as we saw in the previous essay, louvois was bidding saint-mars expect, at pignerol from dunkirk, a prisoner of the highest political importance, to be guarded with the utmost secrecy, yet a valet. that valet must be martin, now called eustache dauger, and his secret can only be connected with marsilly. it may have been something about arlington's negotiations through marsilly, as com- promising charles ii. arlington's explanations to the for- eign committee were certainly incomplete and disingenuous. * bibl. nat., fonds frangais, no. . ioi mystery stories from real life he, if not charles, was more deeply engaged with mar- silly than he ventured to report. but marsilly himself avowed that he did not know why he was to be executed. executed he was, in circumstances truly hideous. per- wich, june , wrote to an unnamed correspondent in eng- land: "they have all his papers, which speak much of the triple alliance, but i know not whether they can lawfully hang him for this, having been naturalized in holland, and taken in a privileged country" (switzerland). montague (paris, june , ) writes to arlington that marsilly is to die, so it has been decided, for "a rape which he formerly committed at nismes," and after the execution, on june , declares that, when broken on the wheel, marsilly "still persisted that he was guilty of nothing, nor did know why he was put to death." like eustache dauger, marsilly professed that he did not know his own secret. the charge of a rape, long ago, at nismes, was obviously trumped up to cover the real reason for the extraordinary vindictiveness with which he was pursued, illegally taken, and barbarously slain. mere protestant restlessness on his part is hardly an explanation. there was clearly no evidence for the charge of a plot to murder louis xiv., in which colbert, in england, seems to have believed. even if the french government believed that he was at once an agent of charles ii., and at the same time a would-be assassin of louis xiv., that hardly accounts for the intense secrecy with which his valet, eustache dauger, was always surrounded. did marsilly know of the secret treaty, and was it from him that arlington got his first inkling of the royal plot? if so, marsilly would probably have exposed the mystery in protestant interests. we are entirely baffled. in any case, francis vernon, writing from paris to williamson (?) (june ti, ), gave a terrible account of marsilly's death. (for the letter, see note v.) with a broken piece of glass (as we learn from another source), marsilly, in prison, wounded himself in a ghastly manner, probably hoping to die by loss of blood. they seared him andrew lang with a red-hot iron, and hurried on his execution. he was broken on the wheel, and was two hours in dying (june ). contrary to usage, a protestant preacher was brought to attend him on the scaffold. he came most re- luctantly, expecting insult, but not a taunt was uttered by the fanatic populace. "he came up the scaffold, great silence all about," marsilly lay naked, stretched on a st. andrew's cross. he had seemed half dead, his head hang- ing limp, "like a drooping calf." to greet the minister of his own faith, he raised himself, to the surprise of all, and spoke out loud and clear. he utterly denied all share in a scheme to murder louis. the rest may be read in the original letter (p. ). so perished roux de marsilly; the history of the master throws no light on the secret of the servant. that secret, for many years, caused the keenest anxiety to louis xiv. and louvois. saint-mars himself must not pry into it. yet what could dauger know? that there had been a conspiracy against the king's life? but that was the public talk of paris. if dauger had guilty knowledge, his life might have paid for it; why keep him a secret prisoner? did he know that charles ii. had been guilty of double dealing in - ? probably charles had made some overtures to the swiss, as a blind to his private dealings with louis xiv., but, even so, how could the fact haunt louis xiv. like a ghost? we leave the mystery much darker than we found it, but we see good reason why diplomatists should have murmured of a crusade against the cruel and brigand government which sent soldiers to kidnap, in neighboring states, men who did not know their own crime. to myself it seems not improbable that the king and louvois were but stupidly and cruelly nervous about what dauger might know. saint-mars, when he proposed to utilize dauger as a prison valet, manifestly did not share the trembling anxieties of louis xiv. and his minister; anxieties which grew more keen as time went on. however, "a soldier only has his orders," and saint-mars executed mystery stories from real life his orders with minute precision, taking such unheard-of precautions that, in legend, the valet blossomed into the rightful kind of france. original papers in the case of roux de marsilly.* i. letter of mons. p. du moulin to arlington. paris, may ye , . my lord, ever since that monsieur de ruvigny was in england last, and upon the information he gave, this king had a very great desire to seize if it were possible this roux de marsilly, and several persons were sent to effect it, into england, holland, flanders, and franche compte: amongst the restone la grange, exempt des gardes, was a good while in holland with fifty of the guards dispersed in severall places and quarters; but all having miscarried the king recom- mended the thing to monsieur de turenne who sent some of his gentlemen and officers under him to find this man out and to en- deavor to bring him alive. these men after foure months search found him att last in switzerland, and having laid waite for him as he came out from monsr balthazar's house (a commander well knowne) they took him and carryed him to gex before they could be intercepted and he rescued. this was done only by a warrant from monsieur de turenne but as soone as they came into the french dominions they had full powers and directions from this court for the bringing of him hither. those that tooke him say they found no papers about him, but that he desired them to write to monsr balthazar to desire him to take care of his papers and to send him the commission he had from england and a letter being written to that effect it was signed by the prisoner and instead of sending it as they had promised, they have brought it hither along with them. they do all unanimously report that he did constantly omrme that he was imployed by the king of great brittain and did act by his commission; so that the general discourse here in towne is that one of the king of england's agents is in the bastille; though att court they pretend to know nothing of it and would have the world think they are persuaded he had no relacion to his majesty. your lordship hath heard by the publique newes how overjoyed this king was att the bringing of this prisoner, and how farr he ex- pressed his thanks to the chiefe person employed in it, declaring openly that this man had long since conspired against his life, and agreeable to this, monsieur, fearing that mylord ambr. was come to interpose on the prisoner's behalfe asked him on friday last att st. germains whether that was the cause of his coming, and told him that he did not think he would speake for a man that attempted to kill the king. the same report hath been hitherto in everybody's mouth but they begin now to mince it att court, and monsieur de * state papers, france, vol. . andrew lang ruvigny would have persuaded me yesterday, they had no such thoughts. the truth is i am apt to believe they begin now to be ashamed of it: and i am informed from a very good hand that monsieur de lionee who hath confessed since that he can find no ground for this pretended attempting to the king's life, and that upon the whole he was of opinion that this man had much better been left alone than taken, and did look upon what he had done as the intemperancy of an ill-settled braine. and to satisfy your lordship that they are nettled here, and are concerned to know what may be the issue of all this, monsieur de turenne's secretary was on munday last sent to several foreigne ministers to pump them and to learne what their thoughts were concerning this violence committed in the dominions of a sovereign and an allye whereupon he was told by one of them that such proceedings would bring europe to the necessity of entering into a croisade against them, as formerly against the infidels. if i durst i would acquaint your lordship with the reflexions of all publique ministers here and of other unconcerned persons in relation to his majesty's owning or disowning this man; but not knowing the particulars of his case, nor the grounds his maty may go upon, i shall forbeare entering upon this discourse. . . . your lordships' &c. p. du moulin. ii. paper endorsed "mr. montague originally in cypher. received may , ' . read in foreigne committee, may. roux de marsilli." * i durst not venture to sollicite in monsr roux marsilly's behalfe because i doe not know whether the king my master hath imployed him or noe; besides he is a man as i have been tolde by many people here of worth, that has given out that he is resolved to kill the french king at one time or other, and i think such men are as dangerous to one king as to another: hee is brought to the bastille and i believe may be proceeded against and put to death, in very few daies. there is great joy in this court for his being taken, and a hundred thousand crownes, i am told very privately, set upon his head; the french ambassador in england wacht him, and hee has given the intelligence here of his being employed by the king, and sent into switzerland by my master to draw the swisses into the triple league. hee aggravates the business as much as hee can to the prejudice of my master to value his owne service the more, and they seeme here to wonder that the king my master should have imployed or countenanced a man that had so base a design against the king's person, i had a great deal of discourse with monsieur about it, but i did positively say that he had noe relation to my knowledge to the king my master, and if he should have i make a question or noe whither in this case the king will owne him. however, my lord, i had nothing to doe to owne or meddle in a business that i was so much a stranger to. ... this roux marsilly is a great creature of the b. d'lsola's, makes them here hate him the more. the spanish resident was * state papers, france, vol. . mystery stories from real life very earnest with mee to have done something in behalfe of mar- silly, but i positively refused. iii. [a paper endorsed "roux de marsilli. read in for. com- mittee, d may." ] * roux de marsilly came hither when your majesty had made a union with holland for making the peace betwix the two crownes and when it was probable the opposition to the peace would bee on the side of france marsilly was heard telling of longe things but noe proposition made to him or by him. presently the peace was made and marsilly told more plainly wee had no use of him. a little summe of money was given him to returne as he said whither he was to goe in switzerland. upon which hee wishing his maty would renew his alienee w " the cantons hee was answered his maty would not enter into any comerce with them till they had sent the regicides out of their country, hee undertooke it should bee done. seven or eight months after w"» out any intimation given him from hence or any expectation of him, he comes hither, but was so coldly used i was complained off for not using so important a man well enough. i answered i saw noe use the king could make of him, because he had no credit in switzerlande and for any thing else i thought him worth nothing to us, but above all because i knew by many circumstances hee was another man's spy and soe ought not to be paid by his majesty. notwithstanding this his maty being moved from compassion com- manded hee should have some money given him to carry him away and that i should write to monsieur balthazar thanking him in the king's name for the good offices hee rendered in advancing a good understanding betwixt his maty and the cantons and desiring him to continue them in all occasions. the man was always looked upon as a hot headed and indiscreete man, and soe accordingly handled, hearing him, but never trusting him with anything but his own offered and undesired endeavours to gett the regicides sent out of switzerland. iv. letter of w. perwich to .* paris: june . . honored sir, roux marsilly has prudently declared hee had some what of importance to say but it should bee to the king himselfe w'b may be means of respiting his processe and as he hopes intercession may bee made for him; but people talk so variously of him that i cannot tell whether hee ought to bee owned by any prince; the suisses have indeed the greatest ground to reclayme him as being taken in theirs. they have all his papers which speake much of the triple alliance; if they have no other pretext of hanging him i know not whether they can lawfully for this, hee having been naturallised in holland and taken in a priviledged country. . . . * state papers, france, vol. . andrew lang v. francis vernon to [mr. williamson?].* paris: june if, . honored sir, my last of the th curr* was soe short and soe abrupt that i fear you can peck butt little satisfaction out of it. i did intend to have written something about marsilly but that i had noe time then. in my letter to my lord arlington i writt that friday curr* hee wounded himself wch he did not because hee was confronted with ruvigny as the gazettes speake. for he knew before hee should dye, butt he thought by dismembering himself that the losse of blood would carry him out of the world before it should come to bee knowne that he had wounded him- selfe. and when the governor of the bastille spied the blood hee said it was a stone was come from him which caused that effusion. however the governor mistrusted the worst and searcht him to see what wound he had made. so they seared him and sent word to s*. germaines which made his execution be hastened. saturday about i of the clock he was brought on the skaffold before the chastelet and tied to st. andrew's crosse all w<* while he acted the dying man and scarce stirred, and seemed almost breathless and fainting. the lieutenant general prest him to confesse and there was a doctor of the sorbon who was a counsellr of the castelet there likewise to exhort him to disburthen his mind of any thing which might be upon it. butt he seemed to take no notice and lay panting. then the lieutenant criminel bethought himself that the only way to make him speake would bee to sende for a ministre soe hee did to monsr daillie but hee because the edicts don't permitt ministres to come to condemned persons in publique but only to comfort them in private before they goe out of prison refused to come till hee sent a huissier who if he had refused the second time would have brought him by force. at this second summons hee came butt not without great expectations to bee affronted in a most notorious manner beeing the first time a ministre came to appeare on a scaffold and that upon soe sinister an occasion. yet when he came found a great presse of people. all made way, none lett fall soe much as a taunting word. hee came up the scaffold, great silence all about. hee found him lying bound stretched on st. andrew's crosse naked ready for execution. hee told him hee was sent for to exhort him to die patiently and like a christian. then immediately they were all surprized to see him hold up his head wch he lett hang on one side before like a drooping calfe and speake as loud and clear as the ministre, to whom he said with a cheerful air hee was glad to see him, that hee need not question butt that hee would dye like a christian and patiently too. then hee went and spoke some places of scripture to encourage him which he heard with great attention. they afterward came to mention some things to move him to contrition, and there hee tooke an occasion to aggravate the horrour of a crime of attempting against the * state papers, france, vol. . part ii true stories of modern magic true stories of modern magic m. robert-houdin a conjurer's confessions i self-training sleight-of-hand theories alone cannot explain the mysteries of "magic" as practiced by that eminent frenchman who revolution, bed the entire art, and who was finally called upon to help his government out of a difficulty—robert-houdin. the success of his most famous performances hung not only on an incredible dex- terity, but also on high ingenuity and moral courage, as the following pages from his " memoirs " will prove to the reader. the story be- gins when the young man of twenty was laboring patiently as ap- prentice to a watchmaker. t n order to aid my progress and afford me relaxation, my master recommended me to study some treatises on mechanics in general, and on clockmaking in particular. as this suited my taste exactly, i gladly assented, and i was devoting myself passionately to this attractive study, when a circumstance, apparently most simple, suddenly de- cided my future life by revealing to me a vocation whose mysterious resources must open a vast field for my in- ventive and fanciful ideas. one evening i went into a bookseller's shop to buy ber- thoud's "treatise on clockmaking," which i knew he had. the tradesman being engaged at the moment on matters more important, took down two volumes from the shelves and handed them to me without ceremony. on returning home i sat down to peruse my treatise conscientiously, but judge of my surprise when i read on the back of one of the volumes "scientific amusements." astonished at finding such a title on a professional work, i opened it im true stories of modern magic patiently, and, on running through the table of contents, my surprise was doubled on reading these strange phrases: the way of performing tricks with the cards—how to guess a person's thoughts—to cut off a pigeon's head, to restore it to life, etc., etc. the bookseller had made a mistake. in his haste, he had given me two volumes of the encyclopaedia instead of berthoud. fascinated, however, by the announcement of such marvels, i devoured the mysterious pages, and the further my reading advanced, the more i saw laid bare be- fore me the secrets of an art for which i was unconsciously predestined. i fear i shall be accused of exaggeration, or at least not be understood by many of my readers, when i say that this discovery caused me the greatest joy i had ever experi- enced. at this moment a secret presentiment warned me that success, perhaps glory, would one day accrue to me in the apparent realization of the marvelous and impossible, and fortunately these presentiments did not err. the resemblance between two books, and the hurry of a bookseller, were the commonplace causes of the most im- portant event in my life. it may be urged that different circumstances might have suggested this profession to me at a later date. it is prob- able; but then i should have had no time for it. would any workman, artisan, or tradesman give up a certainty, however slight it may be, to yield to a passion which would be surely regarded as a mania? hence my irresist- ible penchant for the mysterious could only be followed at this precise period of my life. how often since have i blessed this providential error, without which i should have probably vegetated as a coun- try watchmaker! my life would have been spent in gentle monotony; i should have been spared many sufferings, emotions, and shocks; but, on the other hand, what lively sensations, what profound delight would have been sac- rificed! i was eagerly devouring every line of the magic book to m. robert-houdin which described the astounding tricks; my head was aglow, and i at times gave way to thoughts which plunged me in ecstasy. the author gave a very plain explanation of his tricks; still, he committed the error of supposing his readers pos- sessed of the necessary skill to perform them. now, i was entirely deficient in this skill, and though most desirous of acquiring it, i found nothing in the book to indicate the means. i was in the position of a man who attempts to copy a picture without possessing the slightest notion of drawing and painting. in the absence of a professor to instruct me, i was com- pelled to create the principles of the science i wished to study. in the first place, i recognized the fundamental principle of sleight-of-hand, that the organs performing the principal part are the sight and touch. i saw that, in order to attain any degree of perfection, the professor must develop these organs to their fullest extent—for, in his ex- hibitions, he must be able to see everything that takes place around him at half a glance, and execute his deceptions with unfailing dexterity. i had been often struck by the ease with which pianists can read and perform at sight the most difficult pieces. i saw that, by practice, it would be possible to create a cer- tainty of perception and facility of touch, rendering it easy for the artist to attend to several things simultaneously, while his hands were busy employed with some complicated task. this faculty i wished to acquire and apply to sleight- of-hand; still, as music could not afford me the necessary elements, i had recourse to the juggler's art, in which i hoped to meet with an analogous result. it is well known that the trick with the balls wonder- fully improves the touch, but does it not improve the vision at the same time? in fact, when a juggler throws into the air four balls crossing each other in various directions, he requires an extraordinary power of sight to follow the direction his hands have given to each of the balls. at this period a corn-cutter resided at blois, who possessed ii m. robert-houdin proprietaire, so whenever my hands were not otherwise engaged they slipped naturally into my pockets, and set to work with cards, coins, or one of the objects i have mentioned. it will be easily understood how much time i gained by this. thus, for instance, when out on errands my hands could be at work on both sides; at dinner, i often ate my soup with one hand while i was learning to sauter la coupe with the other—in short, the slightest mo- ment of relaxation was devoted to my favorite pursuit. ii "second sight"a thousand more trials of patience and perseverance finally brought to the conjurer a parisian theater and an appreciative clientele. but he never ceased to labor and improve the quality of his marvelous effects. the experiment, however, to which i owed my reputa- tion was one inspired by that fantastic god to whom pas- cal attributes all the discoveries of this sublunary world: it was chance that led me straight to the invention of second sight. my two children were playing one day in the drawing- room at a game they had invented for their own amuse- ment. the younger had bandaged his elder brother's eyes, and made him guess the objects he touched, and when the latter happened to guess right, they changed places. this simple game suggested to me the most complicated idea that ever crossed my mind. pursued by the notion, i ran and shut myself up in my workroom, and was fortunately in that happy state when the mind follows easily the combinations traced by fancy. i rested my hand in my hands, and, in my excitement, laid down the first principles of second sight. my readers will remember the experiment suggested to me formerly by the pianist's dexterity, and the strange n true stories of modern magic faculty i succeeded in attaining: i could read while jug- gling with four balls. thinking seriously of this, i fan- cied that this "perception by appreciation" might be sus- ceptible of equal development, if i applied its principles to the memory and the mind. i resolved, therefore, on making some experiments with my son emile, and, in order to make my young assistant understand the nature of the exercise we were going to learn, i took a domino, the cinq-quatre for instance, and laid it before him. instead of letting him count the points of the two numbers, i requested the boy to tell me the total at once. "nine," he said. then i added another domino, the quarter-tray. "that makes sixteen," he said, without any hesitation. i stopped the first lesson here; the next day we suc- ceeded in counting at a single glance four dominoes, the day after six, and thus we at length were enabled to give instantaneously the product of a dozen dominoes. this result obtained, we applied ourselves to a far more difficult task, over which we spent a month. my son and i passed rapidly before a toy-shop, or any other displaying a variety of wares, and cast an attentive glance upon it. a few steps farther on we drew paper and pencil from our pockets, and tried which could describe the greater num- ber of objects seen in passing. i must own that my son reached a perfection far greater than mine, for he could often write down forty objects, while i could scarce reach thirty. often feeling vexed at this defeat, i would return to the shop and verify his statement, but he rarely made a mistake. my male readers will certainly understand the possibil- ity of this, but they will recognize the difficulty. as for my lady readers, i am convinced beforehand they will not be of the same opinion, for they daily perform far more astounding feats. thus, for instance, i can safely assert that a lady seeing another pass at full speed in a carriage, will have had time to analyze her toilet from her bonnet m. robert-houdin to her shoes, and be able to describe not only the fashion and quality of the stuffs, but also say if the lace be real or only machine-made. i have known ladies do this. this natural, or acquired, faculty among ladies, but which my son and i had only gained by constant practice, was of great service in my performances, for while i was executing my tricks, i could see everything that passed around me, and thus prepare to foil any difficulties presented me. this exercise had given me, so to speak, the power of following two ideas simultaneously, and nothing is more favorable in conjuring than to be able to think at the same time both of what you are saying and of what you are doing. i eventually acquired such a knack in this that i frequently invented new tricks while going through my performances. one day, even, i made a bet i would solve a problem in mechanics while taking my part in conversation. we were talking of the pleasure of a country life, and i calculated during this time the quantity of wheels and pinions, as well as the necessary cogs, to produce certain revolutions required, without once failing in my reply. this slight explanation will be sufficient to show what is the essential basis of second sight, and i will add that a secret and unnoticeable correspondence existed between my son and myself, by which i could announce to him the name, nature, and bulk of objects handed me by spectators. as none understood my mode of action, they were tempted to believe in something extraordinary, and, indeed, my son emile, then aged twelve, possessed all the essential qualities to produce this opinion, for his pale, intellectual, and ever thoughtful face represented the type of a boy gifted with some supernatural power. two months were incessantly employed in erecting the scaffolding of our tricks, and when we were quite confident of being able to contend against the difficulties of such an undertaking, we announced the first representation of sec- ond sight. on the i th of february, , i printed in the center of my bill the following singular announcement: " telegraphy." true stories of modern magic "in this performance m. robert-houdin's son, who is gifted with a marvelous second sight, after his eyes have been covered with a thick bandage, will designate every ob- ject presented to him by the audience." i cannot say whether this announcement attracted any spectators, for my room was constantly crowded, still i may affirm, what may seem very extraordinary, that the experiment of second sight, which afterwards became so fashionable, produced no effect on the first performance. i am inclined to believe that the spectators fancied them- selves the dupes of accomplices, but i was much annoyed by the result, as i had built on the surprise i should pro- duce; still, having no reason to doubt its ultimate success, i was tempted to make a second trial, which turned out well. the next evening i noticed in my room several persons who had been present on the previous night, and i felt they had come a second time to assure themselves of the reality of the experiment. it seems they were convinced, for my success was complete, and amply compensated for my for- mer disappointment. i especially remember a mark of singular approval with which one of my pit audience favored me. my son had named to him several objects he offered in succession; but not feeling satisfied, my incredulous friend, rising, as if to give more importance to the difficulty he was about to present, handed me an instrument peculiar to cloth mer- chants, and employed to count the number of threads. acquiescing in his wish, i said to my boy, "what do i hold in my hand?" "it is an instrument to judge the fineness of cloth, and called a thread counter." "by jove!" my spectator said, energetically, "it is mar- velous. if i had paid ten francs to see it, i should not be- grudge them." from this moment my room was much too small, and was crowded every evening. still, success is not entirely rose-colored, and i could m. robert-houdin easily narrate many disagreeable scenes produced by the reputation i had of being a sorcerer; but i will only men- tion one, which forms a resume of all i pass over: a young lady of elegant manners paid me a visit one day, and although her face was hidden by a thick veil, my practiced eyes perfectly distinguished her features. she was very pretty. my incognita would not consent to sit down till she was assured we were alone, and that i was the real robert- houdin. i also seated myself, and assuming the attitude of a man prepared to listen, i bent slightly to my visitor, as if awaiting her pleasure to explain to me the object of her mysterious visit. to my great surprise, the young lady, whose manner betrayed extreme emotion, maintained the most profound silence, and i began to find the visit very strange, and was on the point of forcing an explanation, at any hazard, when the fair unknown timidly ventured these words: "good heavens! sir, i know not how you will interpret my visit." here she stopped, and let her eyes sink with a very em- barrassed air; then, making a violent effort, she con- tinued: "what i have to ask of you, sir, is very difficult to explain." "speak, madam, i beg," i said, politely, "and i will try to guess what you cannot explain to me." and i began asking myself what this reserve meant. "in the first place," the young lady said, in a low voice, and looking round her, " i must tell you confidentially that i loved, my love was returned, and i—i am betrayed." at the last word the lady raised her head, overcame the timidity she felt, and said, in a firm and assured voice: "yes, sir—yes, i am betrayed, and for that reason i have come to you." "really, madam," i said, much surprised at this strange confession, "i do not see how i can help you in such a matter." true stories of modern magic "oh, sir, i entreat you," said my fair visitor, clasping her hands—" i implore you not to abandon me!" i had great difficulty in keeping my countenance, and yet i felt an extreme curiosity to know the history con- cealed behind this mystery. "calm yourself, madam," i remarked, in a tone of ten- der sympathy; "tell me what you would of me, and if it be in my power" "if it be in your power!" the young lady said, quickly; "why, nothing is more easy, sir." "explain yourself, madam." "well, sir, i wish to be avenged." "in what way?" "how, you know better than i, sir; must i teach you?you have in your power means to" "i, madam?" "yes, sir, you! for you are a sorcerer, and cannot deny it." at this word sorcerer, i was much inclined to laugh; but i was restrained by the incognita's evident emotion. still, wishing to put an end to a scene which was growing ridiculous, i said, in a politely ironical tone: "unfortunately, madam, you give me a title i never pos- sessed." "how, sir!" the young woman exclaimed, in a quick tone, "you will, not allow you are" "a sorcerer, madam? oh, no, i will not." "you will not?" "no, a thousand times no, madam." at these words my visitor rose hastily, muttered a few incoherent words, appeared suffering from terrible emotion, and then drawing near me with flaming eyes and passionate gestures, repeated: "ah, you will not! very good; i now know what i have to do." stupefied by such an outbreak, i looked at her fixedly, and began to suspect the cause of her extraordinary con- duct m. robert-houdin "there are two modes of acting," she said, with terrible volubility, "toward people who devote themselves to magic arts—entreaty and menaces. you would not yield to the first of these means, hence, i must employ the second. stay," she added, "perhaps this will induce you to speak." and, lifting up her cloak, she laid her hand on the hilt of a dagger passed through her girdle. at the same time she suddenly threw back her veil, and displayed features in which all the signs of rage and madness could be traced. no longer having a doubt as to the person i had to deal with, my first movement was to rise and stand on my guard; but this first feeling overcome, i repented the thought of a struggle with the unhappy woman, and deter- mined on employing a method almost always successful with those deprived of reason. i pretended to accede to her wishes. "if it be so, madam i yield to your request. tell me what you require." "i have told you, sir; i wish for vengeance, and there is only one method to" here there was a fresh interruption, and the young lady, calmed by my apparent submission, as well as embarrassed by the request she had to make of me, became again timid and confused. "well, madam?" "well, sir, i know not how to tell you—how to explain to you—but i fancy there are certain means—certain spells —which render it impossible—impossible for a man to be —unfaithful." "i now understand what you wish, madam. it is a cer- tain magic practice employed in the middle ages. nothing is easier, and i will satisfy you." decided on playing the farce to the end, i took down the largest book i could find in my library, turned over the leaves, stopped at a page which i pretended to scan with profound attention, and then addressing the lady, who followed all my movements anxiously, "madam," i said confidentially, "the spell i am going true stories of modern magic to perform renders it necessary for me to know the name of the person; have the kindness, then, to tell it me." "julian!" she said, in a faint voice. with all the gravity of a real sorcerer, i solemnly thrust a pin through a lighted candle, and pronounced some ca- balistic words. after which, blowing out the candle, and turning to the poor creature, i said: "madam, it is done; your wish is accomplished." "oh, thank you, sir," she replied, with the expression of the profoundest gratitude; and at the same moment she laid a purse on the table and rushed away. i ordered my servant to follow her to her house, and obtain all the in- formation he could about her, and i learned she had been a widow for a short time, and that the loss of an adored husband had disturbed her reason. the next day i visited her relatives, and, returning them the purse, i told them the scene the details of which the reader has just perused. this scene, with some others that preceded and followed it, compelled me to take measures to guard myself against bores of every description. i could not dream, as formerly, of exiling myself in the country, but i employed a similar resource: this was to shut myself up in my workroom, and organize around me a system of defense against those whom i called, in my ill-temper, thieves of time. i daily received visits from persons who were utter strangers to me; some were worth knowing, but the ma- jority, gaining an introduction under the most futile pre- texts, only came to kill a portion of their leisure time with me. it was necessary to distinguish the tares from the wheat, and this is the arrangement i made: when one of these gentlemen rang at my door, an elec- tric communication struck a bell in my workroom; i was thus warned and put on my guard. my servant opened the door, and, as is customary, inquired the visitor's name, while i, for my part, laid my ear to a tube, arranged for the purpose, which conveyed to me every word. if, accord- ing to his reply, i thought it as well not to receive him, i pressed a button, and a white mark that appeared in a m. robert-houdin certain part of the hall announced i was not at home to him. my servant then stated i was out, and begged the visitor to apply to the manager. sometimes it happened that i erred in my judgment, and regretted having granted an audience; but i had an- other mode of shortening a bore's visit. i had placed be- hind the sofa on which i sat an electric spring, communi- cating with a bell my servant could hear. in case of need, and while talking, i threw my arm carelessly over the back of the sofa, touching the spring, and the bell rang. then my servant, playing a little farce, opened the front door, rang the bell, which could be heard from the room where i sat, and came to tell me that m. x (a name invented for the occasion) wished to speak to me. i ordered m. x to be shown into an adjoining room, and it was very rare that my bore did not raise the siege. no one can form an idea how much time i gained by this happy arrangement, or how many times i blessed my imagination and the cele- brated savant to whom the discovery of galvanism is due! this feeling can be easily explained, for my time was of inestimable value. i husbanded it like a treasure, and never sacrificed it, unless the sacrifice might help me to discover new experiments destined to stimulate public curi- osity. to support my determination in making my researches, i had ever before me this maxim: it is more difficult to support admiration than to excite it. and this other, an apparent corollary of the preceding: the fashion an artist enjoys can only last as his talent daily increases. nothing increases a professional man's merit so much as the possession of an independent fortune; this truth may be coarse, but it is indubitable. not only was i convinced of these principles of high economy, but i also knew that a man must strive to profit by the fickle favor of the public, which equally descends if it does not rise. hence i worked my reputation as much as i could. in spite of my numer true stories of modern magic ous engagements, i found means to give performances in all the principal theaters, though great difficulties frequently arose, as my performance did not end till half-past ten, and i could only fulfill my other engagements after that hour. eleven o'clock was generally the hour fixed for my ap- pearance on a strange stage, and my readers may judge of the speed required to proceed to the theater in so short a time and make my preparations. it is true that the mo- ments were as well counted as employed, and my curtain had hardly fallen than, rushing toward the stairs, i got before my audience, and jumped into a vehicle that bore me off at full speed. but this fatigue was as nothing compared to the emo- tion occasionally produced by an error in the time that was to elapse between my two performances. i remember that, one night, having to wind up the performances at the vaudeville, the stage manager miscalculated the time the pieces would take in performing, and found himself much in advance. he sent off an express to warn me that the curtain had fallen, and i was anxiously expected. can my readers comprehend my wretchedness? my experi- ments, of which i could omit none, would occupy another quarter of an hour; but instead of indulging in useless recriminations, i resigned myself and continued my per- formance, though i was a prey to frightful anxiety. while speaking, i fancied i could hear that cadenced yell of the public to which the famous song, "des lampions, des lam- pions," was set. thus, either through preoccupation or a desire to end sooner, i found when my performance was over i had gained five minutes out of the quarter of an hour. assuredly, it might be called the quarter of an hour's grace. to jump into a carriage and drive to the place de la bourse was the affair of an instant; still, twenty minutes had elapsed since the curtain fell, and that was an enormous time. my son emile and i proceeded up the actors' stairs at full speed, but on the first step we had heard the cries, whistling, and stamping of the impatient audience. what a prospect! i knew that frequently, either right or wrong, m. robert-houdin the public treated an artiste, no matter whom, very harshly, to remind him of punctuality. that sovereign always ap- pears to have on its lips the words of another monarch: "i was obliged to wait." however, we hurried up the steps leading to the stage. the stage manager, who had been watching, on hearing our hurried steps, cried from the landing: my breath would not allow me to finish my objection; i fell on a chair, unable to move. "come, m. houdin," the manager said, "do go on the stage, the curtain is up, and the public are so impatient." the door at the back of the stage was open, but i could not pass through it; fatigue and emotion nailed me to the spot. still, an idea occurred to me, which saved me from the popular wrath. "go on to the stage, my boy," i said to my son, "and prepare all that is wanting for the second-sight trick." the public allowed themselves to be disarmed by this youth, whose face inspired a sympathizing interest; and my son, after gravely bowing to the audience, quietly made his slight preparations, that is to say, he carried an ottoman to the front of the stage, and placed on a neighboring table a slate, some chalk, a pack of cards, and a bandage. this slight delay enabled me to recover my breath and calm my nerves, and i advanced in my turn with an at- tempt to assume the stereotyped smile, in which i signally failed, as i was so agitated. the audience at first remained silent, then their faces gradually unwrinkled, and soon, one or two claps having been ventured, they were carried away and peace was made. i was well rewarded, however, for this terrible ordeal, as my " second- sight" never gained a more brilliant triumph. an incident greatly enlivened the termination of my per- formance. true stories of modern magic a spectator, who had evidently come on purpose to em- barrass us, had tried in vain for some minutes to baffle my son's clairvoyance, when, turning to me, he said, laying marked stress on his words: "as your son is a soothsayer, of course he can guess the number of my stall?" the importunate spectator doubtless hoped to force us into a confession of our impotence, for he covered his num- ber, and the adjacent seats being occupied, it was appar- ently impossible to read the numbers. but i was on my guard against all surprises, and my reply was ready. still, in order to profit as much as possible by the situation, i feigned to draw back. "you know, sir," i said, feigning an embarrassed air, "that my son is neither sorcerer nor diviner; he reads through my eyes, and hence i have given this experiment the name of second sight. as i cannot see the number of your stall, and the seats close to you are occupied, my son cannot tell it you." "ah! i was certain of it," my persecutor said, in tri- umph, and turning to his neighbors: "i told you i would pin him." "oh, sir! you are not generous in your victory," i said, in my turn, in a tone of mockery. "take care; if you pique my son's vanity too sharply, he may solve your prob- lem, though it is so difficult." "i defy him," said the spectator, leaning firmly against the back of his seat, to hide the number better—" yes, yes —i defy him!" "you believe it to be difficult, then?" "i will grant more: it is impossible." "well, then, sir, that is a stronger reason for us to try it. you will not be angry if we triumph in our turn?" i added, with a petulant smile. "come, sir; we understand evasions of that sort. i re- peat it—i challenge you both." the public found great amusement in this debate, and patiently awaited its issue. m. robert-houdin "emile," i said to my son, "prove to this gentleman that nothing can escape your second sight." "it is number sixty-nine," the boy answered, imme- diately. noisy and hearty applause rose from every part of the theater, in which our opponent joined, for, confessing his defeat, he exclaimed, as he clapped his hands, "it is as- tounding—magnificent!" the way i succeeded in finding out the number of the stall was this: i knew beforehand that in all theaters where the stalls are divided down the center by a passage, the uneven numbers are on the right, and the even on the left. as at the vaudeville each row was composed of ten stalls, it followed that on the right hand the several rows must begin with one, twenty-one, forty-one, and so on, increas- ing by twenty each. guided by this, i had no difficulty in discovering that my opponent was seated in number sixty-nine, representing the fifth stall in the fourth row. i had prolonged the conversation for the double pur- pose of giving more brilliancy to my experiment, and gaining time to make my researches. thus i applied my process of two simultaneous thoughts, to which i have al- ready alluded. as i am now explaining matters, i may as well tell my readers some of the artifices that added material brilliancy to the second sight. i have already said this experiment was the result of a material communication between my- self and my son which no one could detect. its combina- tions enabled us to describe any conceivable object; but, though this was a splendid result, i saw that i should soon encounter unheard-of difficulties in executing it. the experiment of second sight always formed the ter- mination of my performance. each evening i saw unbe- lievers arrive with all sorts of articles to triumph over a secret which they could not unravel. before going to see robert-houdin's son a council was held, in which an object that must embarrass the father was chosen. among these were half-effaced antique medals, minerals, books printed true stories of modern magic in characters of every description (living and dead lan- guages), coats-of-arms, microscopic objects, etc. but what caused me the greatest difficulty was in finding out the contents of parcels, often tied with a string, or even sealed up. but i had managed to contend successfully against all these attempts to embarrass me. i opened boxes, purses, pocketbooks, etc., with great ease, and un- noticed, while appearing to be engaged on something quite different. were a sealed parcel offered me, i cut a small slit in the paper with the nail of my left thumb, which i always purposely kept very long and sharp, and thus dis- covered what it contained. one essential condition was excellent sight, and that i possessed to perfection. i owed it originally to my old trade, and practice daily improved it. an equally indispensable necessity was to know the name of every object offered me. it was not enough to say, for instance, "it is a coin"; but my son must give its technical name, its value, the country in which it was current, and the year in which it was struck. thus, for in- stance, if an english crown were handed me, my son was ex- pected to state that it was struck in the reign of george iv, and had an intrinsic value of six francs eighteen centimes. aided by an excellent memory, we had managed to class- ify in our heads the name and value of all foreign money. we could also describe a coat-of-arms in heraldic terms. thus, on the arms of the house of x being handed me, my son would reply: "field gules, with two croziers ar- gent in pale." this knowledge was very useful to us in the salons of the faubourg saint germain, where we were fre- quently summoned. i had also learned the characters—though unable to translate a word—of an infinity of languages, such as chinese, russian, turkish, greek, hebrew, etc. we knew, too, the names of all surgical instruments, so that a sur- gical pocketbook, however complicated it might be, could not embarrass us. lastly, i had a very sufficient knowledge of mineralogy, precious stones, antiquities, and curiosities; but i had at my command every possible resource for ac m. robert-houdin quiring these studies, as one of my dearest and best friends, aristide le carpentier, a learned antiquary, and uncle of the talented composer of the same name, had, and still has, a cabinet of antique curiosities, which makes the keepers of the imperial museums fierce with envy. my son and i spent many long days in learning here names and dates, of which we afterwards made a learned display. le car- pentier taught me many things, and, among others, he de- scribed various signs by which to recognize old coins when the die is worn off. thus, a trajan, a tiberius, or a mar- cus aurelius became as familiar to me as a five-franc piece. owing to my old trade, i could open a watch with ease, and do it with one hand, so as to be able to read the maker's name without the public suspecting it: then i shut up the watch again and the trick was ready; my son managed the rest of the business. but that power of memory which my son possessed in an eminent degree certainly did us the greatest service. when we went to private houses, he needed only a very rapid inspection in order to know all the objects in a room, as well as the various ornaments worn by the spectators, such as chatelaines, pins, eyeglasses, fans, brooches, rings, bouquets, etc. he thus could describe these objects with the greatest ease, when i pointed them out to him by our secret communication. here is an instance: one evening, at a house in the chaussee d'antin, and at the end of a performance which had been as successful as it was loudly applauded, i remembered that, while passing through the next room to the one we were now in, i had begged my son to cast a glance at a library and remember the titles of some of the books, as well as the order they were arranged in. no one had noticed this rapid examination. "to end the second-sight experiment, sir," i said to the master of the house, " i will prove to you that my son can read through a wall. will you lend me a book?" i was naturally conducted to the library in question, which i pretended now to see for the first time, and i laid my finger on a book. true stories of modern magic each goum, drawn up in companies, was introduced separately, and led in perfect order to the places chosen for it in advance. then came the turn of the chiefs, who seated themselves with all the gravity becoming their char- acter. their introduction lasted some time, for these sons of nature could not understand that they were boxed up thus, side by side, to enjoy a spectacle, and our comfortable seats, far from seeming so to them, bothered them strangely. i saw them fidgeting about for some time, and trying to tuck their legs under them, after the fashion of european tailors. the caids, agas, bash-agas, and other titled arabs, held the places of honor, for they occupied the orchestra stalls and the dress circle. in the midst of them were several privileged officers, and, lastly, the interpreters were mingled among the spec- tators, to translate my remarks to them. i was also told that several curious people, having been unable to procure tickets, had assumed the arab burnous, and, binding the camel's-hair cord round their foreheads, had slipped in among their new coreligionists. this strange medley of spectators was indeed a most curious sight. the dress circle, more especially, presented an appearance as grand as it was imposing. some sixty arab chiefs, clothed in their red mantles (the symbol of their submission to france), on which one or more deco- rations glistened, gravely awaited my performance with majestic dignity. i have performed before many brilliant assemblies, but never before one which struck me so much as this. how- ever, the impression i felt on the rise of the curtain, far from paralyzing me, on the contrary inspired me with a lively sympathy for the spectators, whose faces seemed so well prepared to accept the marvels promised them. as soon as i walked on the stage, i felt quite at my ease, and 'brigade of native soldiers under french command. it was this influential native faction that the foreign office wished particularly to impress, through robert-houdin's skill.—editor. true stories of modern magic one trick i should much have liked to perform was the inexhaustible bottle, so appreciated by the parisians and the manchester " hands "; but i could not employ it in this performance, for it is well known the followers of mo- hammed drink no fermented liquor—at least not publicly. hence, i substituted the following with considerable ad- vantage: i took a silver cup, like those called "punch bowls" in the parisian cafes. i unscrewed the foot, and passing my wand through it showed that the vessel contained nothing; then, having refitted the two parts, i went to the center of the pit, when, at my command, the bowl was magically filled with sweetmeats, which were found excellent. the sweetmeats exhausted, i turned the bowl over, and proposed to fill it with excellent coffee; so, gravely passing my hand thrice over the bowl, a dense vapor immediately issued from it, and announced the presence of the precious liquid. the bowl was full of boiling coffee, which i poured into cups, and offered to my astounded spectators. the first cups were only accepted, so to speak, under protest; for not an arab would consent to moisten his lips with a beverage which he thought came straight from shai- tan's kitchen; but, insensibly seduced by the perfume of their favorite liquor, and urged by the interpreters, some of the boldest decided on tasting the magic liquor, and all soon followed their example. the vessel, rapidly emptied, was repeatedly filled again with equal rapidity; and it satisfied all demands, like my inexhaustible bottle, and was borne back to the stage still full. but it was not enough to amuse my spectators; i must also, in order to fulfill the object of my mission, startle and even terrify them by the display of a supernatural power. my arrangements had all been made for this purpose, and i had reserved for the end of my performances three tricks, which must complete my reputation as a sorcerer. many of my readers will remember having seen at my m. robert-houdin performances a small but solidly built box, which, being handed to the spectators, becomes heavy or light at my order; a child might raise it with ease, and yet the most powerful man could not move it from its place. i advanced, with my box in my hand, to the center of the " practicable," communicating from the stage to the pit; then, addressing the arabs, i said to them: "from what you have witnessed, you will attribute a supernatural power to me, and you are right. i will give you a new proof of my marvelous authority, by showing that i can deprive the most powerful man of his strength and restore it at my will. anyone who thinks himself strong enough to try the experiment may draw near me." (i spoke slowly, in order to give the interpreter time to translate my words.) an arab of middle height, but well built and muscular, like many of the arabs are, came to my side with sufficient assurance. "are you very strong?" i said to him, measuring him from head to foot. "oh, yes!" he replied carelessly. "are you sure you will always remain so?" "quite sure." "you are mistaken, for in an instant i will rob you of your strength, and you shall become as a little child." the arab smiled disdainfully as a sign of his incredulity. "stay," i continued; " lift up this box." the arab stooped, lifted up the box, and said to me, coldly, "is that all?" "wait—!" i replied. then, with all possible gravity, i made an imposing ges- ture, and solemnly pronounced the words: "behold! you are weaker than a woman; now, try to lift the box." the hercules, quite cool as to my conjuration, seized the box once again by the handle, and gave it a violent tug, but this time the box resisted, and, spite of his most vigorous attacks, would not budge an inch. true stories of modern magic the arab vainly expended on this unlucky box a strength which would have raised an enormous weight, until, at length, exhausted, panting, and red with anger, he stopped, became thoughtful, and began to comprehend the influences of magic. he was on the point of withdrawing; but that would be allowing his weakness, and that he, hitherto respected for his vigor, had become as a little child. this thought ren- dered him almost mad. deriving fresh strength from the encouragements his friends offered him by word and deed, he turned a glance round them, which seemed to say: "you will see what a son of the desert can do." he bent once again over the box: his nervous hands twined round the handle, and his legs, placed on either side like two bronze columns, served as a support for the final effort. but, wonder of wonders! this hercules, a moment since so strong and proud, now bows his head; his arms, riveted to the box, undergo a violent muscular contraction; his legs give way, and he falls on his knees with a yell of agony! an electric shock, produced by an inductive apparatus, had been passed, on a signal from me, from the further end of the stage into the handle of the box. hence the contortions of the poor arab! it would have been cruelty to prolong this scene. i gave a second signal, and the electric current was im- mediately intercepted. my athlete, disengaged from his ter- rible bondage, raised his hands over his head. "allah! allah!" he exclaimed, full of terror; then wrap- ping himself up quickly in the folds of his burnous, as if to hide his disgrace, he rushed through the ranks of the spectators and gained the front entrance. with the exception of my stage boxes and the privileged spectators who appeared to take great pleasure in this ex- periment, my audience had become grave and silent, and i heard the words "shaitan!" "djenoum!" passing in m. robert-houdin a murmur round the circle of credulous men, who, while gazing on me, seemed astonished that i possessed none of the physical qualities attributed to the angel of darkness. i allowed my public a few moments to recover from the emotion produced by my experiment and the flight of the herculean arab. one of the means employed by the marabouts to gain influence in the eyes of the arabs is by causing a belief in their invulnerability. one of them, for instance, ordered a gun to be loaded and fired at him from a short distance, but in vain did the flint produce a shower of sparks; the marabout pronounced some cabalistic words, and the gun did not explode. the mystery was simple enough; the gun did not go off because the marabout had skillfully stopped up the vent. colonel de neveu explained to me the importance of dis- crediting such a miracle by opposing to it a sleight-of-hand trick far superior to it, and i had the very article. i informed the arabs that i possessed a talisman render- ing me invulnerable, and i defied the best marksman in algeria to hit me. i had hardly uttered the words when an arab, who had attracted my notice by the attention he had paid to my tricks, jumped over four rows of seats, and disdaining the use of the "practicable," crossed the orchestra, upsetting flutes, clarionets, and violins, escaladed the stage, while burning himself at the footlights, and then said, in excel- lent french: "i will kill you!" an immense burst of laughter greeted both the arab's picturesque ascent and his murderous intentions, while an interpreter who stood near me told me i had to deal with a marabout. "you wish to kill me!" i replied, imitating his accent and the inflection of his voice. "well, i reply, that though you are a sorcerer, i am still a greater one, and you will not kill me," m. robcrt-houdm not lost his wits; so, profiting by the moment when he re- turned me the pistol, he seized the apple, thrust it into his waist belt, and could not be induced to return it, persuaded as he was that he possessed in it an incomparable talisman. for the last trick in my performance i required the as- sistance of an arab. at the request of several interpreters, a young moor, about twenty years of age, tall, well built, and richly dressed, consented to come on the stage. bolder and more civilized, doubtless, than his comrades of the plains, he walked firmly up to me. i drew him toward the table that was in the center of the stage, and pointed out to him and to the other specta- tors that it was slightly built and perfectly isolated. after which, without further preface, i told him to mount upon it, and covered him with an enormous cloth cone, open at the top. then, drawing the cone and its contents on to a plank, the ends of which were held by my servant and myself, we walked to the footlights with our heavy burden, and upset it. the moor had disappeared—the cone was perfectly empty! immediately there began a spectacle which i shall never forget. the arabs were so affected by this last trick, that, im- pelled by an irresistible feeling of terror, they rose in all parts of the house, and yielded to the influence of a general panic. to tell the truth, the crowd of fugitives was densest at the door of the dress circle, and it could be seen, from the agility and confusion of these high dignitaries, that they were the first to wish to leave the house. vainly did one of them, the caid of the beni-salah, more courageous than his colleagues, try to restrain them by his words: "stay! stay! we cannot thus lose one of our coreligion- ists. surely we must know what has become of him, or what has been done to him. stay! stay!" but the coreligionists only ran away the faster, and soon true stories of modern magic the courageous caid, led away by their example, followed them. they little knew what awaited them at the door of the theater; but they had scarce gone down the steps when they found themselves face to face with the "resuscitated moor." the first movement of terror overcome, they surrounded the man, felt and cross-questioned him; but, annoyed by these repeated questions, he had no better recourse than to escape at full speed. the next evening the second performance took place, and produced nearly the same effect as the previous one. the blow was struck: henceforth the interpreters and all those who had dealings with the arabs received orders to make them understand that my pretended miracles were only the result of skill, inspired and guided by an art called prestidigitation, in no way connected with sorcery. the arabs doubtless yielded to these arguments, for henceforth i was on the most friendly terms with them. each time a chief saw me, he never failed to come up and press my hand. and, even more, these men whom i had so terrified, when they became my friends, gave me a pre- cious testimony of their esteem—i may say, too, of their admiration, for that is their own expression. iv facing the arab's pistol the severest trial of all was unexpectedly enootmtered during a visit paid by the conjurer and his wife to bou-allem-ben-sherifa, bash-aga of the djendel, a tribe of the desert interior. we entered a small room very elegantly decorated, in which were two divans. "this," our host said, "is the room reserved for guests of distinction; you can go to bed when you like, but if you m. robert-houdin are not tired, i would ask your leave to present to you sev- eral chief men of my tribe, who, having heard of you, wish to see you." "let them come in," i said, after consulting madame houdin, "we will receive them with pleasure." the interpreter went out, and soon brought in a dozen old men, among whom were a marabout and several talebs, whom the bash-aga appeared to hold in great deference. they sat down in a circle on carpets and kept up a very lively conversation about my performances at algiers. this learned society discussed the probability of the mar- vels related by the chief of the tribe, who took great pleas- ure in depicting his impressions and those of his coreligion- ists at the sight of the miracles i had performed. each lent an attentive ear to these stories, and regarded me with a species of veneration; the marabout alone dis- played a degree of skepticism, and asserted that the spec- tators had been duped by what he called a vision. jealous of my reputation as a french sorcerer, i thought i must perform before the unbeliever a few tricks as a specimen of my late performance. i had the pleasure of as- tounding my audience, but the marabout continued to offer me a systematic opposition, by which his neighbors were visibly annoyed; the poor fellow did not suspect, though, what i had in store for him. my antagonist wore in his sash a watch, the chain of which hung outside. i believe i have already mentioned a certain talent i pos- sess of filching a watch, a pin, a pocketbook, etc., with a skill by which several of my friends have been victimized. i was fortunately born with an honest and upright heart, or this peculiar talent might have led me too far. when i felt inclined for a joke of this nature, i turned it to profit in a conjuring trick, or waited till my friend took leave of me, and then recalled him: "stay," i would say, handing him the stolen article, "let this serve as a lesson to put you on your guard against persons less honest than myself." but to return to our marabout. i had stolen his watch true stories of modern magic as i passed near him and slipped into its place a five-franc piece. to prevent his detecting it, and while waiting till i could profit by my larceny, i improvised a trick. after juggling away bou-allem's rosary, i made it pass into one of the numerous slippers left at the door by the guests; this shoe was next found to be full of coins, and to end this little scene comically, i made five-franc pieces come out of the noses of the spectators. they took such pleasure in this trick that i fancied i should never terminate it. "dourosl douros!" they shouted, as they twitched their noses. i willingly acceded to their request, and the douros issued at command. the delight was so great that several arabs rolled on the ground; this coarsely expressed joy on the part of mo- hammedans was worth frenzied applause to me. i pretended to keep aloof from the marabout, who, as i expected, remained serious and impassive. when calm was restored, my rival began speaking hur- riedly to his neighbors, as if striving to dispel their illusion, and, not succeeding, he addressed me through the inter- preter: "you will not deceive me in that way," he said, with a crafty look. "why so?" "because i don't believe in your power." "ah, indeed! well, then, if you do not believe in my power, i will compel you to believe in my skill." "neither in one nor the other." i was at this moment the whole length of the room from the marabout. "stay," i said to him; " you see this five-franc piece." "yes." "close your hand firmly, for the piece will go into it in spite of yourself." "i am ready," the arab said, in an incredulous voice, as he hel<* ^ut his tightly closed fist. 'gold arabic coin. m. robert-houdm i took the piece at the end of my fingers, so that the assembly might all see it, then, feigning to throw it at the marabout, it disappeared at the word " pass!" my man opened his hand, and, finding nothing in it, shrugged his shoulders, as if to say, "you see, i told you so." i was well aware the piece was not there, but it was important to draw the marabout's attention momentarily from the sash, and for this purpose i employed the feint. "that does not surprise me," i replied, "for i threw the piece with such strength that it went right through your hand, and has fallen into your sash. being afraid i might break your watch by the blow, i called it to me: here it is!" and i showed him the watch in my hand. the marabout quickly put his hand in his waist belt, to assure himself of the truth, and was quite stupefied at find- ing the five-franc piece. the spectators were astounded. some among them be- gan telling their beads with a vivacity evidencing a certain agitation of mind; but the marabout frowned without say- ing a word, and i saw he was spelling over some evil design. "i now believe in your supernatural power," he said; "you are a real sorcerer; hence, i hope you will not fear to repeat here a trick you performed in your theater "; and offering me two pistols he held concealed beneath his bur- nous, he added, " come, choose one of these pistols; we will load it, and i will fire at you. you have nothing to fear, as you can ward off all blows." i confess i was for a moment staggered; i sought a subterfuge and found none. all eyes were fixed upon me, and a reply was anxiously awaited. the marabout was triumphant. bou-allem, being aware that my tricks were only the re- sult of skill, was angry that his guest should be so pestered; hence he began reproaching the marabout. i stopped him, however, for an idea had occurred to me which would save i true stories of modern magic me from my dilemma, at least temporarily; then, address- ing my adversary: "you are aware," i said, with assurance, "that i require a talisman in order to be invulnerable, and, unfortunately, i have left mine at algiers." the marabout began laughing with an incredulous air. "still," i continued, "i can, by remaining six hours at prayers, do without the talisman, and defy your weapon. to-morrow morning, at eight o'clock, i will allow you to fire at me in the presence of these arabs, who were wit- nesses of your challenge." bou-allem, astonished at such a promise, asked me once again if this offer were serious, and if he should invite the company for the appointed hour. on my affirmative, they agreed to meet before the stone bench in the market place. i did not spend my night at prayers, as may be sup- posed, but i employed about two hours in insuring my in- vulnerability; then, satisfied with the result, i slept soundly, for i was terribly tired. by eight the next morning we had breakfasted, our horses were saddled, and our escort was awaiting the signal for our departure, which would take place after the famous experiment. none of the guests were absent, and, indeed, a great number of arabs came in to swell the crowd. the pistols were handed me; i called attention to the fact that the vents were clear, and the marabout put in a fair charge of powder and drove the wad home. among the bullets produced, i chose one which i openly put in the pistol, and which was then also covered with paper. the arab watched all these movements, for his honor was at stake. we went through the same process with the second pis- tol and the solemn moment arrived. solemn, indeed, it seemed to everybody—to the specta- tors who were uncertain of the issue, to madame houdin, who had in vain besought me to give up this trick, for she feared the result—and solemn also to me, for as my new m. robert-houdin trick did not depend on any of the arrangements made at algiers, i feared an error, an act of treachery—i knew not what. still i posted myself at fifteen paces from the sheik, with- out evincing the slightest emotion. the marabout immediately seized one of the pistols, and, on my giving the signal, took a deliberate aim at me. the pistol went off, and the ball appeared between my teeth. more angry than ever, my rival tried to seize the other pistol, but i succeeded in reaching it before him. "you could not injure me," i said to him, "but you shall now see that my aim is more dangerous than yours. look at that wall." i pulled the trigger, and on the newly whitewashed wall appeared a large patch of blood, exactly at the spot where i had aimed. the marabout went up to it, dipped his finger in the blood, and, raising it to his mouth, convinced himself of the reality. when he acquired this certainty, his arms fell, and his head was bowed on his chest, as if he were anni- hilated. it was evident that for the moment he doubted everything, even the prophet. the spectators raised their eyes to heaven, muttered prayers, and regarded me with a species of terror. this scene was a triumphant termination to my perform- ance. i therefore retired, leaving the audience under the impression i had produced. we took leave of bou-allem and his son, and set off at a gallop. the trick i have just described, though so curious, is easily prepared. i will give a description of it, while ex- plaining the trouble it took me. as soon as i was alone in my room, i took out of my pistol case—without which i never travel—a bullet mold. i took a card, bent up the four edges, and thus made a sort of trough, in which i placed a piece of wax taken from one of the candles. when it was melted, i mixed with it true stories of modern magic a little lampblack i had obtained by putting the blade of a knife over the candle, and then ran this composition in the bullet mold. had i allowed the liquid to get quite cold, the ball would have been full and solid; but in about ten seconds i turned the mold over, and the portions of the wax not yet set ran out, leaving a hollow ball in the mold. this operation is the same as that used in making tapers, the thickness of the outside depending on the time the liquid has been left in the mold. i wanted a second ball, which i made rather more solid than the other; and this i filled with blood, and covered the orifice with a lump of wax. an irishman had once taught me the way to draw blood from the thumb without feeling any pain, and i employed it on this occasion to fill my bullet. bullets thus prepared bear an extraordinary resemblance to lead, and are easily mistaken for that metal when seen at a short distance off. with this explanation, the trick will be easily under- stood. after showing the leaden bullet to the spectators, i changed it for my hollow ball, and openly put the latter into the pistol. by pressing the wad tightly down, the wax broke into small pieces, and could not touch me at the dis- tance i stood. at the moment the pistol was fired, i opened my mouth to display the lead bullet i held between my teeth, while the other pistol contained the bullet filled with blood, which bursting against the wall, left its imprint, though the wax had flown to atoms. it is no wonder that after such exhibitions robert-houdin's success was complete. the arabs lost all confidence in marabout'' mir- acles," and thus a dangerous smoldering flame of disaffection to the french was entirely smothered.—editor. david p. abbott fraudulent spiritualism unveiled* the methods of a "doctor of the occult" ^ ot so very long ago i met a friend—a man of wealth, who was a firm believer in spiritualism, and who fre- quently conversed with his dead wife and daughter. i asked him if he could inform me whether or not there were any good mediums in the city, as i should like to consult one. he replied that at present there were none in omaha of any well-developed psychic powers; that he was entirely sat- isfied on the subject and did not require any demonstrations to convince himself of the truths of spiritual science. he informed me that the question was settled beyond all dis- pute; but that if i were skeptical, there was said to be a medium in council bluffs who possessed most wonderful powers. i accordingly made other inquiries from those who were in a position to know; and i learned that this medium, a celebrated "doctor of the occult, astrologer, palmist and * as to whether communication with the departed is possible, no discussion is here attempted. the episodes following, from experi- ences well authenticated, merely illustrate what sleight-of-hand experts have long known—that most "mediums," "astrologers," "mind readers," and the like, can be proven to be frauds. their dupes are puzzled, and sometimes won over, in the name of spiritu- alism, either by the tricks familiar to all "conjurers," or else by the psychology of deception (see page ). some of the cleverness dis- played is marvelous, as the following pages show. the passages by hereward carrington are copyrighted by herbert b. turner & co., , and those by david p. abbott are copyrighted by the open court publishing company, .—editor. david p. abbott deeply engaged to notice my entrance, and continued at his labors for some time, while i stood quietly and watched him. sitting on one end of this rather large table was a glass globe or vessel, supported by three nickeled rods, something like a tripod. coming from the wall was a rather large nickeled tube or pipe which curved over above the glass vessel, and continually allowed drops of water to fall into the globe. from the side of this glass vessel there led a small nickeled pipe which evidently carried away the waste water. occasionally a little blue flame would appear on the sur- face of this water, play about, and disappear. when this happened the body of the medium was always convulsed slightly. after a time he seemed to finish his calculation, and this seer condescended to leave the realms of the stars wherein dwelt the spirits that rule the universe and the destinies of men, and to descend to earth and for a time direct his gaze toward this humble mortal. he turned around and observed me for the first time. he was a large, portly, fine-looking gentleman of middle age, with very long black hair which gave him a strange appearance. he wore a pair of glasses low down on his nose; and from over these he condescended to direct his gaze at, and to study me for a moment as a naturalist might study some specimen that happened temporarily to attract his notice. he soon informed me that the stars had told him some- thing of my coming and of the question that was worrying me; and he asked me if i desired to consult the stars as to my destiny, to have him decipher it from the lines of my palm, or whether i should prefer to converse with the dead. the last was my choice. not far from a window at one side of the room there was a small table on which were a few articles. he di- rected me to be seated at this table, and handed me a slip of paper of a size of probably four by five inches. he directed me to write the question i desired answered on this paper, and when through to fold the paper in halves three true stories of modern magic times with the writing inside. i did so while he walked to his bowl of water apparently paying no attention to me, and then returned. when he had returned to a position opposite me at the table, he reached to take my writing out of my hand; seeing which i quickly bent down one corner of the paper and gave it to him. he directed one sharp glance at me as i did this, at the same time picking up an envelope from the table with his other hand. he held this envelope open flap side toward me, and slowly inserted my paper into it. as he did this, looking sharply at me, he remarked, "i am no sleight-of-hand performer. you see your question is actu- ally in the envelope." this was the case; for it was close to me and i could plainly see the top of.it against the back of the envelope, the lower portions being inserted; and i could see the little corner folded down, as i had bent it, and i was certain he had not exchanged it. in fact he took occasion to use his hands in such manner that i could see there was nothing concealed about them, that he " palmed" nothing, and that he made no exchange. i was entirely satisfied that all was fair, and that no exchange had been made. next, he sealed the envelope, and holding it toward the window, called my attention to the fact that as the en- velope was partly transparent i could see my paper within it and that it was actually there. this was really the case. he now took a match, and lighting it applied the flame to this identical envelope without its leaving my sight; and proceeded to burn the last vestige of it and the paper within it, allowing the ashes to drop into a small vessel on the table. there was no doubt that he did not exchange envelopes and that he burned it before my very eyes. he now took the ashes and emptied them into the bowl of water on the side table. a little blue flame appeared on the surface of the water after that for a moment, and then disappeared. he now brought from a drawer a number of slates— about eight or ten small slates with padded edges. they david p. abbott were the smallest size of slates, i should judge; and with them he brought another slate, a trifle larger, probably two inches both longer and wider. he requested me to examine thoroughly or to clean them all to my own satisfaction, and to stack the small ones on the table, one on top of the other; and when all were thus placed, to place the large slate on top of the stack. while i was doing this he called to his attendant for a drink of water, and incidentally stepped into the hall to receive it, so that his menial would not profane this sanc- tuary with his presence. returning to the table he took a seat opposite me and placed one of my hands and one of his on top of the slates. in due time he took up the slates and we found nothing. he replaced them, and waited for a few moments; then seeming dissatisfied with conditions, he took up the top slate in his left hand and with his right hand began writing a message for me. he did this like mediums do automatic writing, with eyes half closed; and while writing his person was convulsed a few times. he then opened his eyes and read aloud what he had written, asking me if it answered my question. i replied that it did not, as it was entirely for- eign to the subject. then seeming dissatisfied, he mois- tened his fingers, erased the writing, and replaced the top slate on the stack of slates. he now placed his hands on this slate again, and after a time examined it; but it was still free from writing. he lifted up some of the other slates; but as there was no writing, he scattered the slates around on the table and asked me to spread a large cloth over them which he handed to me. this i did, and under his direction placed my arms and hands over this. he walked to the bowl of water on the side table, and gazed into it. i watched him; and i saw a rather large flame appear on the surface of the water, dance about, and disappear. he immediately informed me that he was certain that i now had a message. he remained at a distance while i examined the slates one by one. finally, on one of them true stories of moder n magic i found a message, neatly written and covering the entire slate. it read: "mrs. piper is a genuine medium. she possesses powers of a very unusual nature. her tests given hyslop and others are genuine. do not be a skeptic. you are making a mistake, dear friend. it is all plain to me now, and spirit is all there is.—will." now, the question i had written was addressed to a very dear friend who is now dead, and read as follows: "will j :in regard to the medium, mrs. piper, of whom we conversed on your last visit, i would ask if she be genuine, and if the tests she gave professor hyslop and others were genuine. give me a test." this was all nicely done, and i am sure would have greatly impressed nearly everyone. being a performer my- self, i could of course follow the performance in minute detail, and i am thus enabled to give to the readers of this paper a detailed account of the method used by the doctor. i will state that since that time i have very successfully operated this same test, minus the bowl of water and flame of fire; and that i can assure all that it is very practicable and that it is very deceptive. how the tricks succeeded when the medium picked up the envelope in which to place my paper, there was within it a duplicate piece of paper folded the same, and of the same size (one inch and a quarter by two inches) as the one i had folded. he kept the face of this envelope opposite me so i could not see that side of it. on the face of it was a horizontal slit cut with a knife. this slit was about two inches long and was situated about halfway down the face of the envelope. the duplicate folded paper was placed verti- cally in the envelope at its center, so that its center was located against the slit. this piece of paper was held in position by a touch of paste at a point opposite the slit, david p. abbott which caused it to adhere to the inside of the back of the envelope. when he picked up this prepared envelope with his left hand, he did so with the slit side or face in his palm next to the fingers of his left hand. this envelope lay slit side down before he picked it up; so that i did not see the face of the envelope at all, and he kept that side of the envelope from me during the entire trick. the paper within th?. envelope had been placed far enough down so that its toy part was not exposed to my view. the envelope thus ap- peared perfectly natural, as an ordinary one with nothing in it. he thus held the envelope in his left hand, flap open wide, with the back side of the envelope later to be sealed, facing me. now he really inserted my paper in this en- velope with his right hand as he took it from me; but in fact, he pushed it down just behind the hidden slip of paper within the envelope. i mean that he inserted it between the concealed slip and the face or slit side of the envelope; and as he did this ke caused the lower end of my slip of paper to pass through the slit in the center of the front of the envelope. the lower portion of my slip was thus out of the envelope on its rear side, between the front of the envelope and the fingers of his left hand; although i could see nothing of this. he pushed it down so that the top still remained in view with the bent corner exposed, and then sealed the flap over it. holding the envelope toward the window, he called to my notice the fact that my paper was within, and that i could see it plainly. i could see the shadow of the two papers, which appeared as one, and thus his rfatement seemed correct. of course he did not show me jie rear side or face of the envelope, with my paper protruding, which was immediately behind the duplicate, so that the shadow of it was also the shadow of the duplicate. this shadow also hid from my view the shadow of tire slit. the envelope was sealed fairly. now with his right hand he moved a small vessel on i true stories of modem magic the table toward himself. then taking the envelope in his right hand, slit side downward, he held it close to this vessel; at the same time with his left hand he took a match from his pocket and proceeded to burn the envelope. this move concealed the trick; and it was very deceiving and cleverly done. as he took the envelope from his left hand with his right hand, he, with his left fingers touching the protruding portion of my slip, caused it to remain in his left hand and to be drawn entirely out of the slit. his eyes followed the envelope as his right hand took it; which naturally caused my eyes to follow it, as his attention seemed centered on the envelope and it appeared to occupy the stage of action. this move was executed in a moment, not requiring any time worth mentioning, although it takes so long to describe it on paper intelligibly. now while his eyes (and of course mine) followed the envelope, without pause his left hand went into his left pocket in a natural manner to get the match. he, of course, left my slip in his pocket with his surplus matches; and when he retired for the drink of water, he read my question. as to the slate trick, all was fair until he picked up the top slate, wrote an automatic message, apparently read it aloud to me, and then upon my informing him that the mes- sage did not answer my question, he seemed dissatisfied, apparently erased the message, and replaced the large slate on top of the stack of slates. what he really did was to pick up the large top slate, bottom side toward himself, and at the same time to carry with it a small slate pressed tightly against its under side. he held the large slate with its under side tilted from me, so i could not see this small slate. there being so many small slates in the stack, the temporary absence of one from the stack attracted no notice. he kept this small slate next to him out of my view, and really wrote the message on the small slate which was next to him, and which was concealed from my view by the larger slate. he did not read aloud what he had actually written, but merely pretended to do so, repeating some- thing entirely foreign to the subject instead. what he had david p. abbott written really answered my question fully. when he ap- peared to erase the message, his movements were but a pretense; and he did not erase it at all. when he replaced the large slate on the stack of slates, he, of course, replaced the small one which was concealed under it, message side down. it must be remembered that the operator, at the begin- ning of the slate trick, first took up and examined the large slate a time or so for a message; and finding none, seemed disappointed, and finally wrote the automatic message; then on being informed that it did not apply to the case, he seemed dissatisfied and appeared to erase it. after the message was written and the slates replaced, he examined the top slate a time or so, and even lifted off a few small slates looking for writing, but did not turn them over; then seeing nothing, he scattered the slates around on the table, leaving their same sides downward; and handing me the cover, he requested me to cover them and place my hands on them. the trick was now practically done. as the slates had been examined so many times and nothing found on them, even after the automatic writing, the majority of persons would testify that there was positively nothing on the slates when the medium left the table. the majority of persons would never remember that he at one time wrote on the large slate and erased it. the message being on a small slate, and these being spread around, few would have known that this message really appeared on the particular small slate that was originally next the top of the stack. most people would have certified that they cleaned all of the slates themselves, that the medium never touched any of the small ones, and that he only laid his hands on top of the stack a few times. some would even forget that the medium handled their writing at all before burning it. i am sure that the nickeled tube that carried the dripping water into the space over the glass bowl, had a second tube within it; through which his assistant from the adjoining room either blew, or sent by some mechanism, the chemicals true stories of modem magic '(probably potassium) that would take fire and burn on striking the water. when i perform the slate trick described above, after writing the "automatic" message, apparently erasing it, and replacing the slates, i do not scatter the slates around on the table as this medium did. instead, i proceed as i will now describe. we place our palms on the stack, and after a time exam- ine the large slate for a message, but find none. i may incidentally remark that this last examination unconsciously verifies in the sitter's mind the fact that i actually erased what i wrote "automatically." i now look on some of the smaller slates for a message, but find none. when i do this i do not turn these slates over and look on their under sides, but merely take off the top slate to see if there be a message on the upper surface of the one under it. i merely remark, " well, there is noth- ing on that slate," indicating the second one from the top; and at the same time i drop the top slate (now in my hand) on the table beside the stack. i immediately take off the second slate and repeat this same performance, dropping it on top of the first one. i keep on with this performance until i have removed four or five of the slates, and have them stacked in a second stack beside the first one. then seeming to grow discouraged, i remark, "i guess there is no message "; and i replace the second stack on the first stack. this places the message slate four or five slates down in the stack; as the bottom slate of the second stack, being the top slate of the original stack, is now the message slate. i next up-edge the small slates and place a rubber band around them placing them in the sitter's lap. i, of course, place what was the top of the stack downward when i do so. as the stack is on the side edges of the slates when i first up-edge them, i next bring them upon the end edges, while i put the band in place. it is now easy to place the stack of slates upon the sitter's lap with the top slate down david p. abbott and to attract no notice to this fact. this is because the position has been changed a time or so in placing the band on; and i then take the stack in my hands by the edges of the slates, and simply place what was the top side of the stack in the beginning, at the bottom. in due time i tell the subject to make an examination for a message, and of course four or five slates down he finds a message on the upper surface of one of the slates. this seems very miraculous, as the slates have been so repeatedly examined and nothing found. finding the mes- sage on the upper surface of a middle slate, where but a moment before there was nothing, seems to be truly a mar- vel. the subject having cleaned and stacked these slates himself, and having seen them examined so many times, naturally feels impressed that the message comes by some superhuman power. the name of the dead in the book entitled psychics: facts and theories, by rev. minot j. savage, at page , the following account will be found: "soon i began to hear raps, apparently on the floor, and then in different parts of the room. on this, the lady remarked, simply: ' evidently there is some one here who wishes to communicate with you. let us go into the front parlor, where it will be quieter.' this we did, the raps following us, or rather beginning again as soon as we were seated. at her suggestion i then took pencil and paper (which i happened to have in my bag), and sat at one side of a marble-top table, while she sat at the other side in a rocker and some distance away. then she said: 'as one way of getting at the matter, suppose you do this: you know what friends you have in the spirit world. write now a list of names—any names you please, real or fictitious, only among them somewhere include the names of some friends in the spirit world who, you think, david p. abbott elderly gentleman with a long white beard, and wearing glasses. he appeared to be slightly deaf, as he placed his hand to his ear and had my name repeated. he was in- troduced to the remainder of the company en masse, the names of the visitors not being given to him. the medium soon announced that "his mission on this earth was to absolutely prove to humanity the immortality of the soul." he now offered to give some tests to those desiring it, and asked for a small table which was placed in an adjoining room. he invariably held his hand to his ear, to catch what was being said, being apparently quite deaf. he also used this same expedient when lis- tening to the voices of the unseen spirits, and reporting their communications. my father and another gentleman were selected for the first test, as they were considered very skeptical in such matters. as they retired to a closed room i did not see the experiment, but will give some parts of it as reported to me, farther on. in a short time they returned to the parlor, engaged in a discussion over the matter; and my father remarked, "i do not know how you got your in- formation, but i feel certain it was not from my brother, or he would have given a certain point correctly." the medium then said, "if i will tell you where your father died, and the disease he died of, will you be convinced?" my father replied, "i suppose i will have to be, if you can do that." they then retired, and the medium succeeded partially in the experiment; and would have certainly succeeded entirely, had my father followed his instructions. i will describe what was reported to me of this test, farther on. i now offered myself for a test. i retired to the room with the medium, and incidentally offered him one dollar and fifty cents, the same my father had given him; but he refused the money, saying: " your father is not convinced, and i will not take any more money." he now took a sheet of paper from a tablet, and drew five straight lines across it, spacing the sheet into six spaces true stories of modern magic about equal. next taking my hand, and looking earnestly into my face, he said: " promise me that if i succeed, you will not make light of this. promise me, for this is very sacred to me." i did so. he now directed me to write names in the spaces on the sheet, any names i pleased, writing but one name in each space. all the names were to be of living or fictitious persons except one, this one to be the name of some one i had known who was then dead. he said, " be fair with me, and i will scratch out the dead person's name." these were his exact words, therefore i in no way tried to hide my writing from him, although he stood at a distance and did not appear to watch me. i took a pencil and began writing the names; being unprepared i had to think of the names i wished to write. i desired to select names of persons living at a distance, so that he could in no possible manner know them. while i was writing he talked incessantly, which in spite of my- self divided my attention. at the same time he kept urg- ing me to write, and immediately after urging me, would begin talking rapidly on some spiritualistic subject. i re- member saying, "you must give me time to think." i thought i used great care, so as to write each name with the same precision, and tried to betray no emotion when writing the dead person's name. i selected the name "cora holt" for the dead person's name. this was the name of an aunt who had died in another state. as soon as i had written the names he asked me to cut them apart into slips, having one name on each slip. now here i do not remember whether he folded them him- self, or had me help, as i was not expecting them to be folded. however, we folded each one into a billet with the writing inside. he now directed me to place them in a hat, and to hold the hat under the table, take out the billets one at a time, and throw them on the table top. this i did while he stood with his right arm extended toward the table and about one foot above it. after i had thrown a few billets on the table, as i threw the next one, i heard three david p. abbott loud distinct raps. he said, "there, that's the one that is dead. open it and see if i am right, but do not let me see it. fold it up again and place it in your pocket." i opened the billet. i did not know what the name would be, as i had mixed them under the table; yet i had a feel- ing that it was correct. i opened it and sure enough the name was "cora holt." i refolded it, placing it in my pocket. i must confess that i felt a momentary creepy feeling pass over me, as my emotions were wrought up to such a pitch by the intense manner in which i had watched all the details of the experiment. i informed him that he was right, but did not tell him the name. he now took my hand in his, and leading me into the parlor, had me state to the company what had just occurred. now placing his hand on my head, he said: "i will endeavor to give you the name." closing his eyes, his body trem- bled or shuddered with a kind of paroxysm, and apparently with a great effort he pronounced the name " cora holt." this effort seemed to greatly exhaust him, and coming out of his temporary trance he begged us to excuse him, saying that there were opposing spirits present and he could do no more that night; that he had done all for us that lay within his power. he now took his leave. this was all very impressive to me at the time, except the raps. it was only afterwards that i thought out the explanation, which i will give farther on. as to the raps, they had the sound as of a pencil tapping loudly on a thin strip of wood, or a ruler, and not the sound of tapping on a table. i had previously known of the mechanical and electrical rappers, supplied by certain conjuring depots, and worn on the person of the medium, or attached to a table. my impression was at the time that possibly he had a rapper in the sleeve of the arm extended over the table, and by directing the attention to the table the sound would appear to come from there. as i was sitting right against the table, i will say that the sound did not appear to me to come from the table, but more nearly from his person. true stories of modern magic referring again to the test given my father, the medium first announced his prices, which he would accept if satis- factory. this was agreed to and paid. he then had my father write names on paper in a manner similar to the way i have described, except he did not request my father to write a dead person's name; instead, he requested him to write, among other names, his mother's maiden name, his wife's maiden name, his father's name, also the names of certain members of his family and of some of his friends, some of whom should be dead. this my father did. among the names written by my father was his mother's maiden name, viz., " celestina redexilana phelps," a name certainly out of the ordinary. he also wrote his wife's maiden name, his father's name, his brother's name, and several other names—six or eight altogether. when the medium had the billets taken out of the hat he said, " you have there the name of your mother; the name is something like 'celestia (not celestina) roxalena (not redexilana) phelps,'" thus giving wrong pronunciations to the first two names. however, when my father opened it, sure enough it was his mother's maiden name. my father now took another billet which had written thereon his father's name. this the medium gave correctly, stating that this was his father's name. the next billet had writ- ten thereon the name of my father's brother; the name was james asahel abbott." the medium then said: "your brother james is here, and he says to tell you that he is happy and that you are making a great mistake not to believe." now this brother had always been called by his second name and not by the name of james. my father said, "if you are my brother, give me your full name." the medium replied, "james ash-a-bell abbott," giving an en- tirely wrong pronunciation of the second name. this k was, with some other error, that led to the discussion they had on returning to the parlor, and in which my father re- marked, " if you get your information from the dead, they should be able to pronounce their own names correctly." david p. abbott my father, not being familiar with the methods of trick- ery, could not with exactness give all the minute details of the test as i would have wished; and as i never had an opportunity to see this experiment myself, i can only sur- mise the means employed in its production. the second experiment with my father had been an ef- fort to tell the disease of which my grandfather died, also the place where he died. the medium required my father to write on the usual ruled paper, a name of a disease and also a name of a place, in each space, that is, one disease and one place in each space. he remarked in giving direc- tions, "like new york measles, philadelphia smallpox, etc." he required, however, that my father write in the same space the correct disease, and also the correct place of his father's death. the remainder of the spaces were to contain the names of any disease or any place he might choose. this my father did, writing in one space "sacramento dysentery." this was the correct disease, but the city was the place of my grandfather's burial, and not the place of his death, the latter being a village called "hangtown." the medium quickly gave dysentery as the disease, and sacramento as the place of my grandfather's death. it was plain that had my father written the village where his father died, instead of his burial place, the medium would have succeeded. this, however, proved beyond a doubt that the medium obtained his information from the writing, and not from the spirits of the dead. after thinking the matter over, i decided that, while i was uncertain as to the manner in which dr. schlossenger had performed all of these experiments, i could reproduce two of them with certainty as often as he did. i imme- diately made the trial and found i could succeed fully nine times out of ten on an average. i might state that the doctor also failed about one time in ten on an average; nevertheless, the people of the community were greatly ex true stories of modern magic cited, talking of his miracles, in groups on the streets, for some days. the medium was coining money, yet i found a few cases where he failed totally. the failures were sel- dom mentioned; it was the successes that excited the people. the method i use in reproducing the first test given me, is to so direct the attention of the subjects before the writ- ing, by my discourse, as to cause them to select uncon- sciously the name of the dead person in advance. this is easily managed with a little practice in talking, and still they will never guess that it is done on purpose. now, as they begin to write, they will naturally pause before writing each name, to think of a name to write. the pause may be but slight, yet there is some pause. of course, when they write the selected name, no pause will be necessary; and if hurried properly at that time they will make none. this is the object of the incessant talking during the experiment. if left to themselves, the subjects will, in about one half of the cases, write the selected name in the third space from the top. in about half of the re- maining cases the selected name will be written in the fourth space from the top. this is especially true if in your instructions you direct the subject to "mix the dead person's name somewhere in among the others where you cannot know where it is." in the remaining cases the sub- jects are liable to write the selected name anywhere, gen- erally first or last. now my object is to so manipulate my subjects as to cause them to write the selected name when i want them to do so. this is done by continuous talking, and distracting their attention until the proper moment. i choose the third space, since this, being the one they are most liable to choose of their own accord, is the easiest to force. just as they begin to write the first name, before they make a mark, i say suddenly, " now be sure and select names of living persons that i could not possibly know." this is almost certain to insure a pause, and the name of a living person to be written first. i con- tinue my talking in a natural manner, taking the attention david p. abbott to a great extent from the writing, and nearly always ob- serving another pause just before writing the second name. when the second name is almost finished i exclaim sud- denly, " now write as rapidly as possible!" if the sub- jects have been properly impressed with the seriousness of the experiment, they will almost invariably, on finishing the second name (in obedience to my command "to be as rapid as possible," and in their desire to please me), hurry into the name already in their minds, thus writing the selected name in the third place. if such is the case they will now most surely pause to think of a fourth name. if so, i am certain that i now know the selected name. however, if they should rapidly pass into the fourth name, it is then uncertain whether the selected name is in the third or fourth space. this, however, seldom happens if worked in an expert manner. in rare cases the subject cannot be manipulated by the performer, in which case it is purely guesswork; even in such cases, however, i stand one chance in six of succeed- ing; and if i make a second trial on failing (not uncommon with mediums), i stand one chance in three of succeeding. it is hardly worth while to say that as i fold the billets, i fold the third one slightly different from the rest, so that while it will not attract attention, i can see at a glance what it is when thrown on the table. i memorize the name; also, if in doubt, i fold a second choice in a still different manner for a second trial. frequently i mem- orize more of the names, folding so i can pick them out. then, after giving the dead person's name with proper effect, i pick up the others, hold them to my head and call out the names. the effect of this on a subject is very impressive. with a little practice the above test can be given with very small chance of failure; and in the event of making a failure it can be explained by the statement that "there are opposing spirits present," or some similar excuse. if one has other tests at his command, it is well, in the event of failure, to announce that he will try something else, and true stories of moder n magic then give another test. as these experiments are always tried alone with one or, at most, two subjects, a failure attracts little notice. now i cannot say positively that dr. schlossenger per- formed this experiment in exactly this same manner; but i do have a recollection of his hurrying me along in my writing at some stage of its progress. i also know that i can succeed as often as he did. i will add further that a few days later i prepared six names in advance, and, with my wife, had a sitting with the medium; this time, although i paid him, he failed utterly. he tried in every way and had me write additional names. this time i guarded the points in the above explanation, yet no mat- ter how he tried, he made an utter failure. all tricks re- quire certain conditions, and this is why it is not safe to repeat the same trick for the same person. there is too much danger that the subject may notice the sameness of the modus operandi. referring to the second test which was given by the medium to my father, i will state that when the subjects are writing the cities and diseases, they will naturally pause after writing the city, to think of a disease to go with it. of course, when writing the correct ones, which are already in mind, no pause will be necessary. also advantage may be taken of the fact that a small per cent of persons die of smallpox or measles. if in giving the di- rections one says, "write like this: 'philadelphia small- pox, new york measles,'" and the subject writes small- pox or measles in the list, it is safe to eliminate that from the case. this is especially true if written in connection with some large city, the name of which occurs readily to the mind. it is safe also to eliminate philadelphia or new york if these should be written, providing you mentioned these names in the directions, and that the test is not being given in their section of the country. a small per cent of the people of a country die in any two places of prominence. yet these places will be written readily by most subjects if they are suggested, or at least other david p. abbott places of equal prominence will be written. if an unusual place or disease should be written, it is almost certain these are the ones. it can readily be seen how expert one can become at this by continuous practice, such as a medium has many times a day; how one can learn to take advantage of every little point, and use it with telling effect on unsuspecting strangers, who do not know what is going to happen, or what to look for. i have been told that dr. schlossenger had a very sharp eye, although wearing glasses; and that the glasses were probably to make the subject think it impossible for him to read writing when they were moved out of position and placed on the forehead, as they were during the tests. it has also been suggested that his poor hearing was feigned, to enable him to hear remarks made about himself in his presence. i have suspected that his memory had become trained to a high degree of accuracy, enabling him to give his tests with such marvelous success, as he did with nearly all wherever he went. that he does not use one set of principles only in his tricks, i am certain, but has many more at his command which he uses continually. how- ever, i can only vaguely guess at them from having seen his tests but once. now, i do not say that this was the method employed by the lady with rev. savage, given in the account at the beginning of this chapter. but as the experiments are practically the same, it is safe to conclude that the methods used are the same, or nearly so. if the test were genuine in the case of the lady mentioned, it was probably genuine in the case of dr. schlossenger. on the other hand, if it were trickery in one case, it probably was in both. mind reading in public not long ago i received a letter from an old-time friend, in which he urgently requested me to make a journey to true stories of moder n magic his city. in bygone days he and i had spent many hours together, discussing the mysteries of existence, the hidden powers which nature manifests to us, and the origin and destiny of the human soul. my friend is a physician, and what is more, an earnest student; and he is also an in- vestigator of that strange phenomenon in nature which manifests itself in organized beings subjectively, as thought, feeling and things spiritual. many times had we discussed the possibility and also the probability of an existence of the spiritual part of man after death. many times had he reported to me cases of strange phenomena that tended to prove the indestructi- bility of spirit. when i received this missive, it stated to me that the writer most earnestly desired my presence in his city, that i might assist in investigating a very strange and mar- velous case of psychic phenomena. the case was that of a certain traveling spirit medium, who claimed the power to summon from the realms of the invisible the shades of our departed friends and loved ones. he gave most mar- velous exhibitions to prove his strange and miraculous power. my friend stated that he thought he had at last found a person with at least some queer psychical gift, if not even possessing the power that he claimed. he had watched the exhibition most carefully, and had even served on a committee on the psychic's stage; and he could find no evidence of trickery of any kind. he was inclined to believe that this strange being really possessed the power of vision without the use of human eyes as he certainly read sealed missives, of which he could in no secret man- ner have obtained knowledge. accordingly, on saturday evening, i journeyed to a city one hundred miles away to witness the work of this mod- ern sorcerer. on my arrival i suggested to my friend a number of ways by which such things could be performed by trickery, but he informed me that none of my explana- tions seemed to elucidate this strange work. the secret did not consist in the use of odorless alcohol, for the rea david p. abbott son that the medium never touched the sealed envelopes at all. in fact he was never nearer to them than ten feet. this also made it impossible for him to use the principle on which the trick is based, which is known to the pro- fession as "washington irving bishop's sealed letter reading." he informed me that sheets of paper or cards were passed to the spectators in the audience, and at the same time envelopes in which to seal their questions were fur- nished for them; that the spectators wrote questions as directed, many times signing their own names to them. he was certain that many persons folded their written questions before sealing them, and that the operator him- self did not even collect the envelopes on many occasions. he informed me that the best evidence of the genuineness of the performance lay in the fact that the medium seemed to have no fixed conditions for his experiments; but seemed to perform them in a different manner on each oc- casion. the conditions were different in every case, yet he always read the questions with the most marvelous cer- tainty. i thought the matter over after this, but could in no way think of any plausible means of accomplishing his work by trickery. i finally decided to wait and see the perform- ance first, and to figure afterwards on the method em- ployed. accordingly, at eight o'clock that evening i was seated in the hall with my friend, and shortly afterwards the "seer " made his appearance, taking his seat on the stage. he was a very slender personage, with long hair and a particularly ghostly look. he took his seat quietly on the stage. in a short time his manager appeared and made an opening address, which i will not repeat, and then asked some boy in the audience to pass cards around to the spectators on which they were to write questions. en- velopes were also distributed, in which to seal the cards. when the writing was finished, the manager asked any boy to take a hat which he held in his hand, and collect true stories of modern magic the sealed envelopes. after the boy, whom everyone knew to be a local resident, kindly volunteered for this service and executed it, a committee was invited to the stage to properly blindfold the medium. this was done in a satis- factory manner, and the committee then returned to the audience. the manager now led the blindfolded medium to the rear of the stage, where he was seated somewhat behind a table, on which were some flowers, a music box, etc. however, the medium was in view plainly; and he never removed the bandage from his eyes or in any man- ner molested it. when the boy came on the stage directly from the front with the hat full of sealed envelopes, the manager placed a handkerchief over the hat and asked the boy to take a seat near the front of the stage facing the audience. he was also directed to hold the hat in his lap, and to deliver the envelopes to the manager, one at a time, as he should call for them. the operator now delivered a lecture, lasting some ten or fifteen minutes, explaining the strange powers of the blindfolded medium, who sat at the rear of the stage in full view; while the boy still maintained the seat at the front of the stage, and held the hat of envelopes in sight of all. after the lecture, the manager requested the boy to give him one of the envelopes, which the boy did. the man- ager did not look toward it in any manner; but took it in the tips of his right fingers, held it in the air, and asked the medium to give the writer of this question a test. the medium shivered a few times, allowed his frame to con- vulse slightly, and thus began: "i feel the influence of one who was a brother. i get the name of clarence. will the one who wrote this ques- tion identify it as his?" there was no response from the spectators, and the medium asked again that the writer speak out. still silence greeted his request; when sud- denly he pointed his bony finger into the crowd, while his blinded face confronted them, and exclaimed: "mr. john david p. abbott h , why do you not respond to your test?" a gentle- man in the audience then acknowledged the test as his. the medium then continued: "clarence was drowned. i sense the cold chilly water as it envelopes his form." at this the lady sitting with the gentleman began to cry. the medium continued: "the drowning was wholly an acci- dent. there was no foul play. now, mr. h , have i answered your question, and are you satisfied with your test?" the gentleman, a well-known citizen, acknowl- edged that he was perfectly satisfied. the manager then laid the envelope on a small table and asked the boy for another one. the boy gave him another from the hat when the blindfolded medium, ten feet or more distant, gave the second test. he shivered again and began: "i feel the influence of a young lady who died suddenly. she says, ' sister mary, i am very happy, and death was not so hard to endure. i want you to consult a good honorable attorney, and take his advice in the lawsuit you ask me about.'" the me- dium then continued, "miss l , your sister regards you with a look of great tenderness and love. are you sat- isfied with your test?" a lady then replied that she cer- tainly was entirely convinced. the manager now laid this sealed envelope beside the other one and again called for another. this was con- tinued until all of the envelopes in the hat were removed and the questions answered. none of the envelopes were opened. in some instances the medium first read the ques- tions, word for word, before answering them; and when he did so, he described the writing minutely, even the for- mation of the strokes of the letters. after all of these tests were given, the medium removed the blindfold and seemed much exhausted. then the tables were removed to one side of the stage, and a cabinet erected; after which some cabinet manifestations that were very interesting were given. when these were over, the manager collected the sealed envelopes from the table, and placed them on the front of the stage, inviting the writers true stories of modern magic to call, should they so desire, and get their questions. some availed themselves of this opportunity and tore open a number of the envelopes until they found their own ques- tions. the audience seemed greatly impressed with this exhibition, and the next day it was the talk of the town. on the next evening i again repaired to the public hall to witness and, if possible, fathom this performance. this time, however, i found that an entirely different method was employed. envelopes and slips of paper were dis- tributed; and after the questions were written and sealed the manager went about the room, gathering them up in a small black bag with a drawstring around its top. as he gathered up each one, and while the writer still held it, he gave to that person a number which was to serve as that particular person's number during the tests. at the same time the manager marked the number on the sub- ject's envelope, while the subject held it, drawing a circle around the figure, after which the subject dropped the en- velope into the sack. when all were collected, the operator took the sack in the tips of his fingers, and holding it aloft, walked up the runway to the stage where a cord hung from a screw- eye fastened in the ceiling above. the other end of the cord was attached to a piece of furniture on the stage. the manager now attached the black bag containing the envelopes to the end of this string, and then taking the other end, drew the bag up to the ceiling near the screw- eye, where it remained in full view during the tests. while the manager was doing all this, the ghost-like me- dium had been walking about the stage, reading in a large bible. he now laid the bible on a table and advanced to the front of the stage, while the manager delivered a lec- ture on spiritual philosophy and also on the strange power of the medium. after this the manager announced that the medium would hold a bible service, during which time he would give the tests. the medium now took his bible, and seating himself in david p. abbott a chair facing the audience, began by reading a verse. after this he closed his eyes for a time, and then gave the first test. he began: " i will give these tests in the order in which the manager gave you your numbers, commenc- ing with number one. now, mrs. clara s , i see standing near you an elderly lady, somewhat stooped; but i cannot see her face plainly. she seems to be your mother. she says to tell you that your son is doing well where he is, and for you not to worry, for he will return to you in time. are you satisfied?" a lady in the audi- ence was visibly affected, and acknowledged that the me- dium had answered her question correctly. the medium read another verse in the bible, after which he gave the second test in a manner similar to the way in which he had given the first one. after this he read another verse, and so continued until all the questions in the sack were an- swered. the manager now lowered the sack, and empty- ing the envelopes into a small basket distributed them un- opened to their writers. the effect of this exhibition was fully as great as was that of the former one, and the medium continued to be the wonder of the town. on the next evening i again attended the meeting. on this occasion questions were written and sealed as on the former occasions. this time the medium was dressed as a "mahatma," wearing a large turban. as soon as the questions were written, the manager collected them in a small wicker basket, and emptied them on a table on the stage. he only talked for a moment, describing what the medium would do. during all this time the medium was seated near the front of the stage. the medium now tapped a little bell he held in his hand, as if summoning the spirits, and began giving the tests in the most marvel- ous manner. he seemed somewhat nervous, and finally arose and walked across the stage, stopped a moment and then continued his walk. meanwhile he kept giving the tests. occasionally he would walk about nervously, and true stories of modern magic sometimes he would seat himself in the chair for a time; but he kept right on giving test after test, with perfect ac- curacy, while the sealed envelopes remained in full view on the table. during this time, and in fact during the time the audience was writing the questions, neither the medium nor the manager had ever left the sight of the spectators for even an instant after all the tests were given, the medium, very much exhausted, fell on a couch on the stage; while the man- ager scooped the envelopes back into the basket, and then distributed them to their writers in an unopened condition. i will now explain how this " occultist " gave these vari- ous billet tests. we will first refer to the tests given the first evening. a boy from the audience gathered up the sealed envelopes in a hat, and brought them to the stage, sitting with them in his lap; while he delivered one at a time to the manager, who held it aloft, during which time the blindfolded me- dium in the rear gave the test. there was a simple little move that escaped the eyes of the spectators in this instance. the spectators did not know what was to happen, neither did the boy. the move was executed as follows: just as the boy came on the stage with the hat the manager received the hat in his right hand and in a natural manner. nothing was thought of this, as there was nothing suspicious in the act. meanwhile the manager directed the boy to take a chair that sat to the left of the front of the stage, and to place it to the right side in front, facing the audience, and to take his seat thereon. now, this conversation with the boy naturally occupied the attention of the spectators; and while the boy was executing the directions the manager turned to the table, which was somewhat back on the stage, and appar- ently took a large handkerchief from it, and with the hat still apparently in his hand, he stepped to the boy, giving him the hat of envelopes and the handkerchief, at the same time instructing him how to cover the hat, and how to de true stories of modern magic ceived the hat from the boy at all. in fact, next day i noticed from the talk of the spectators, that they invariably asserted that the hat never left the boy's hands or their sight. now, while the manager held each envelope aloft, the medium had but to read the top card in his left hand and give the tests in a dramatic manner. after the tests, when the tables were set to one side and a cabinet erected, an assistant out of view received the cards from the medium's left hand; and then while behind the scenes, replaced them in envelopes, sealed them, and then exchanged these for the "dummy" envelopes on the small table. after the entertainment the manager placed the originals (now again sealed) near the front of the stage for the writers to take and keep as souvenirs if they should so desire. it is evident that this method could be varied a little. for instance, when the manager holds the envelope aloft, the medium could first read it and carefully describe the writing. he could then ask for the envelope, so as to be- come en rapport with the writer, in order that he may give the correct answer. in this case he could leave the sur- plus cards on the back of the table behind the music box, and have in his left palm only the single card he is reading. when he receives the envelope he should place it in his left hand directly over the card and tear off the end of the en- velope. he should then apparently take out the card from the envelope, but in reality take the original card from the rear of the envelope with his right hand. he should then with his right hand press this card on top of his head and give the answer, while his left hand lays the opened envelope on the table or music box. in this case, as soon as he answers the question, he should return the card to the manager with his right hand and ask the manager to have some boy run with it to its writer. after it is re- turned to its writer, the manager can hold aloft another envelope and the medium continue with the tests. after the tests, the manager should remove the torn envelopes, as they contain "dummy" cards. david p. abbott .' i will now explain the method pursued on the second evening. after the questions were written and sealed, the manager went among the spectators collecting the en- velopes in a cloth bag. he first numbered the envelopes, at the same time instructing each spectator to remember his number, after which the envelopes were dropped into the bag. when all the envelopes were collected, the man- ager lifted the bag in the tips of his fingers and ascended to the stage with it in plain view. he quickly attached it to the cord and drew it up to the ceiling. so far all was fair; but just at this moment a person in the rear of the hall made the statement that he desired to place his en- velope in the bag also. the performer asked a gentleman on the floor to take the bag, which he now lowered and detached, and to kindly go to the gentleman and get his envelope. while he was doing this the manager held the audience by his discourse. the two gentlemen were, of course, paid confederates; and when they met behind the spectators, they merely exchanged the first bag for a du- plicate under the coat of the rear confederate, who then slipped around behind the stage with the original. when the other confederate returned to the stage with the duplicate bag and handed it to the manager he ran this one up to the ceiling. this method can be varied by the manager making the exchange under his own coat in the first place when in the rear of the hall after collect- ing the envelopes. meanwhile an assistant behind the scenes opened and copied the questions neatly on a sheet of paper, and num- bered each one. as he did this he slipped each one into a duplicate envelope, which was also numbered by the man- ager with a ring drawn around the figure. this he sealed. as soon as all were copied this assistant carefully drew the medium's bible just out of sight from the table near the flies where it rested, inserted the sheet containing the copied questions, and pushed it back into view again. during this time the medium was walking slowly about at the front of the stage while the manager delivered hi david p. abbott closes it upon the bottom of the basket when it is released by raising the handle. envelopes in the bottom of the basket are thus hidden and retained, when the flaps are released, and the duplicates drop into the basket, from the sides where they were concealed by the flaps. this basket can be supplied by the conjuring depots, or it can easily be made. the handle can be made of wire and wrapped with raffia grass which is on sale at the de- partment stores. a pasteboard lining covered with red satin must first be sewed into the basket, and then two flaps of pasteboard should be hinged to a pasteboard bot- tom by pasting on a hinge of cloth. a suitable spring can be made of spring wire and sewed into position, after which this is all covered with red satin and placed in the basket. the basket should have sides about four inches high, and the bottom should measure about seven and one- half by ten inches. the sides and ends slope outward, and the basket is open wicker work. suitable bows of ribbon on the ends of the handle and corners of the basket conceal the mechanism. in the present instance, the assistant behind the scenes, after reading and placing the questions in duplicate en- velopes which the manager had previously numbered, sealed them and placed them in the sides of the basket, bent up the flaps into position, and lowered the handle locking them in place. he now pushed this basket into view on a table at the rear of the stage; and when the manager was ready to return the envelopes, he scooped the dummy envelopes from the table (where they lay after the bag was emptied) into this basket. he then lifted the handle which released the flaps, covered up the dummy envelopes and dropped the originals into view. these he took down and quickly distributed to the writers. being numbered, this could be quickly done. • • . • • i will now describe the method employed on the third evening. this time dummy envelopes were placed in the sides of the basket, and the handle left in a lowered posi true stories of modern magic tkm while the operator gathered up the envelopes. as the manager returned to the stage he took the basket by the handle. this released the dummy envelopes, and cov- ered up the originals retaining them. he emptied the dummy envelopes upon the small table and then laid the basket on a table near the flies in the rear, and rather out of view. an assistant behind the scenes took out the original envelopes, opened them, and as he read the ques- tions repeated them into a small telephone. the wires from this telephone ran under the stage carpet to a pair of metal plates with a tack in the center of each plate which pointed upward. these plates were located under certain spots in the carpet and directly in front of the medium's chair. there were also two other pairs of wires leading to two other positions on the stage. the medium was dressed as a " mahatma" on this evening, wearing a large turban. a large tassel dangled by his left ear, completely concealing a small "watch-case receiver" which was at- tached to this ear. two tiny wires led from this receiver, inside his collar, down his person, and were connected in- side his shoes to other wires which penetrated the soles of his shoes. these latter wires were soldered to copper plates which were tacked into position on his shoe soles. he now took his position in the chair and placed his feet over the hidden tacks, which now contacted his shoe plates, completing the circuit, so that anything whispered into the telephone on the stage was repeated in his ear. he then gave a few tests, tapping his spirit bell, which was a signal for more information from the assistant. he soon grew nervous and walked away giving a test as he walked. he now paused in a certain position for a moment, placing his hand to his head as if somewhat dazed and tapping his bell. in this position his feet were again over two concealed tacks, and he again secured informa- tion for another test, which he gave as he walked about. he now paused in a third position and gave another test, after which he returned to the chair, continuing his work. this maneuvering he kept up until all the tests were given; david p. abbott after which he fell upon a couch exhausted, but with his feet from the spectators. the manager now stepped to the rear of the stage and took the basket, which was now in place containing the original (?) envelopes behind the flaps; and stepping to the small table he scooped in the dummy envelopes; then taking the basket by the handles, he stepped down the run- way and rapidly returned the unopened (?) envelopes to their writers. the assistant had, of course, sealed the questions in duplicate envelopes previously numbered by the manager. he had placed these behind the flaps, and shoved the basket into view on a table at the rear of the stage. i use a variation of these tricks in my double parlors. i have made a "billet changing basket" as above de- scribed, and have also made a similar basket except that it contains no mechanism. i pass cards and envelopes to the spectators in the front parlor. when the questions are written and sealed in the envelopes, i gather them up in the mechanical basket; i step to a table in the rear parlor and apparently empty them upon it. in reality, i have just raised the handle so that the originals are retained, and the dummy envelopes are emptied on the table instead. i now step to an adjoining room for an instant, to get a small decorated screen. i secretly leave the basket con- taining the original envelopes in this room and return with the other basket in my hand in its place. i place the small ornamental screen on the table back of the envelopes, but leave the envelopes in view and request the specta- tors to notice that i do not go near them until i get ready to give the tests. i now carelessly lay the non- mechanical basket on a table in the room where the spectators are and proceed with some other tricks. usually i give the series of experiments described in the chapter entitled "mediumistic reading of sealed writings." i state to the spectators that i will not true stories of modern magic give the tests for the sealed envelopes until later in the evening. meanwhile, should anyone think of such a thing, he can easily examine the little basket, which he thinks i have just used; as it still lies on the table in the front par- lor with other discarded paraphernalia, including slates, etc. i use no assistant; so after a time has elapsed, and when by the performance of other sealed readings, sus- picion has been diverted from the tests with the billets, my wife retires on some trifling errand. while out, she opens the envelopes in the basket, prepares the sheet of questions, and places it in the bible; then she re-seals the questions in envelopes previously marked by me, places them in the sides of the basket, raises the flaps and lowers the handle. she then usually enters with some light re- freshments for the spectators, which explains her absence with a word. i continue with other experiments for ten or fifteen minutes after her return; then i gather up my surplus paraphernalia, including the dummy basket, and carry all to the room adjoining the back parlor, where i leave it. i return instantly with the mechanical basket which i place near my own table; and then i give another experiment of some kind. i now pick up the basket and announce that i have decided to return to their writers the envelopes on the table in front of the screen before attempting to give the tests. i do this as if it were a later notion. i now scoop in the dummy envelopes, and raise the handle, which ac- tion covers them up and releases the originals (now sealed). i now distribute to the writers their envelopes, which i can do, as they are numbered as described earlier in this chapter. i request each sitter to hold his en- velope until i shall give his test. then i usually perform some other little experiment before giving the tests. i now take up my bible, which i will stake i brought into the room, unnoticed, when i returned with the last basket. i then seat myself and leisurely turn the leaves david p. abbott through the bible, reading verses, and giving the tests as before described. i always first read a question secretly, and then turn by the sheet of paper and begin reading a verse of scrip- ture. as i do this i permit the front of the bible to lower enough for the spectators to see the printed pages. this prevents suspicion. meanwhile, the spectators have forgotten that i ever stepped from the room at all with the basket, and even that my wife retired for some re- freshments. neither did they notice the bible when i brought it in. the effect on each person, as i call him by name and describe the "influence " of his "dear one," giving names and most marvelous information, is far superior to what it would be were i merely to read the questions literally, and give the answers. some famous exposures probably the greatest swindle ever perpetrated in the name of spiritualism was recently brought to light in stock- ton, california. the medium and his confederates mate- rialized everything from frogs and small fish to a huge bowlder of gold quartz weighing several hundred pounds. this latter had to be brought from the mountains with a mule team. the materializing was done through sliding panels in the walls, while the believers sat holding hands about the oppo- site side of a table, and loudly singing sacred hymns. they had the only door to the room locked and sealed, and never dreamed that the spirits who brought the quartz from the mine were mules. thousands of dollars were invested in this "spirit mine," the believers stacking their money on the quartz as it lay on the table at a dark seance, and receiving deeds in return for their money, which the spirits dematerialized. the medium established, or had his spirits establish, a si true stories of modern magic "treasury of heaven," for the faithful to deposit their money in, and on which they were to receive fifty per cent interest. this interest the believers continued to receive at dark seances from the spirits for a time. each sitter's in- terest was found on the table stacked in front of him when the lights were lighted. when the spirit bank became in- solvent and the chief medium disappeared, the believers were out about thirty-five thousand dollars. no less a personage than a millionaire of tacoma, wash- ington, is said to have contributed largely to this spirit fund. i had known of this case for some time before the exposure (conducted by a performer engaged for the pur- pose), and knew that certain interested persons were con- templating bringing it about, in order to rescue certain es- timable persons from the clutches of these mediums. this was successful; and the confederates of the medium signed written confessions in the presence of one of the most de- vout of the believers, and a gentleman who is otherwise very intelligent. upon this the gentleman was greatly crestfallen, but he still insists that there are certain mediums who are not impostors; and that certain mediums in chi- cago who produce spirit portraits are genuine. a full and very interesting account of this exposure is given in the san francisco examiner of march and , . • . • • • i could report enough cases of materialization to fill a volume. these i know of, from various sources, and in every case they were invariably fraudulent. i will give a short account of a materialization which a very expert medium, who is on friendly terms with me, witnessed. the gentleman was originally a minister, and afterwards began investigating spiritualism, as he was a believer in it. he hoped to become a medium; and at one time paid two lady mediums of some renown, who reside in chicago, three dollars a sitting for three sittings a week. these sittings were conducted for the purpose of developing this gentle- man in mediumship. he continued this for a long time, but david p. abbott he was no nearer to being a medium than he was in the beginning. at one time he detected one of the sisters passing a slate to the other, and substituting another in its place. he saw the edge of one of the slates protruding from behind the dress of one of the sisters. they never knew they were discovered as he said nothing, but this "opened his eyes." after this he investigated everywhere, and at every oppor- tunity, and grew to be a very expert medium himself. recently, when in los angeles, he visited a seance con- ducted by a medium who claimed to be a buddhist priest. this medium was known under the name of "the rev- erend swami mazzininanda." he had an altar in his home, constructed something like those in roman catholic churches. he had various candles and images on this altar, including an image of buddha, and also a number of mys- tical figures. it was a great mixture of " fake " buddhism, roman catholicism, and modern spiritualism. the me- dium also wore the costume of a buddhist priest at his seances. this "priest" held services here for the faithful. he conducted all in hindoostani (?), his native tongue. he chanted, prayed to buddha, etc., all in a queer-sounding "gibberish." certain evenings of the week were devoted to "soul-travel," and certain evenings after the religious services a " black chapter" was held. the gentleman whom i have mentioned attended one of these dark seances. he sat with other spectators around the room in perfect darkness. the spectators were not re- quired to hold hands, so great was their faith. finally, in the darkness, a queer-looking, vapory, luminous form floated around in the air and paused in front of the spec- tators. my friend slipped down quietly on his knees, and gradually worked closer and closer to the luminous form, until he could detect that the vapor was a kind of luminous "cheese cloth." he did not desire to expose this "priest," but he desired to have the " priest" know that some one had discovered him. my friend accordingly took hold of the true stories of modern magic gauze and gave it a very slight downward jerk. he then immediately returned quietly to his seat. there was an immediate pause in the discourse of the "priest," who had really been floating this form on the end of a stick. everyone knew that something had happened, but no one but my friend knew what it was. the "priest" then said in his slow, peculiar, eccentric and measured tones, "i have received a very great shock; and i will be unable to continue further this evening." the next day, when in conversation with some of the "faithful," this "priest" stated in his peculiar manner of speaking, and with intense earnestness, that which follows: "last night i received a very great shock. i was just in the middle of the 'dark chapter' and the spirit of the master, krishna, was out. having spent the greater portion of my life on the himalayas, my right eye has become injured by the snows." then pointing to his right eye, he added, "my right eye has a defect in it which you cannot see; but on account of that, i can only see in the dark with it. i im- mediately turned my right eye downward and i looked! i distinctly saw a lady's hand reached out toward my robe in the darkness, and this hand took hold of it and jerked it lightly just like this." the "reverend swami" here illus- trated, by slightly jerking his coat downward. it was very amusing to hear him, in great seriousness, relate this in his low and measured accents to his faithful followers. shortly after this, when the los angeles herald was conducting a crusade against the numerous mediums of that city, and when it had an exhibit in its windows of the con- fiscated material of some of them, this "buddhist priest" was arrested and imprisoned for some of his practices- hereward carrington more tricks of " spiritualists" "matter through matter" 'j'here is one very clever " test" that is sometimes per- formed which would seem to show that something of this sort is accomplished. it is, however, nothing more than an ingenious trick, and this might be a good time to explain its modus operandi. the general effect of the illusion is this: the medium requests some one to assist him in an experi- ment in which he is going to attempt to pass "matter through matter." as the test is one in which a confederate might easily be employed, he is very careful to choose some person who is well known, or whose character is above all suspicion. if this were not so, the entire effect of the test would be lost upon the investigators. having secured his assistant, he hands him, for examination, a solid steel ring, just large enough to slip on and off the hand and arm easily. the ring is perfectly solid, and may be examined by anyone desirous of doing so. when this part of the performance is finished, the medium and his sitter then join or clasp their right hands (as in handshaking), and the sitter is instructed not to release the hand for a single instant. to "make assurance doubly sure," however, the hands are fas* ...ed together in any way the sitters may desire; the hands being tied together with tape, e. g., and the ends of this tape tied and the knots sealed. the tape connects the wrists and the hands of the medium and his sitter, and this tying may be made as secure as possible. a piece of thick cloth is now thrown over the two hands and the lower part of the arms, concealing them from view. with his disengaged hand the medium now takes the iron ring and passes it up under the g true stories of modern magic cloth, so as to bring it in contact with his own arm. he holds it there for some time, but ultimately snatches off the covering cloth, and reveals to the eyes of the astonished audience the ring—now encircling his own arm—in spite of the fact that the ties are still in statu quo, and the sitter never let go his hold for an instant. the ties and the ring may again be examined, if desired, before the hands are separated. this is an exceedingly effective test, and has every ap- pearance of being genuine—indeed, it is hard to see where trickery can come in. the trick is one of the simplest im- aginable, however, and is performed in the following man- ner: the medium has provided himself with two rings exactly alike; one of these the audience is free to examine, the other the medium is wearing on his right arm, under his coat. when the two hands are clasped together, therefore, it is a simple thing for the medium, under cover of the envelop- ing cloth, to slip the duplicate ring down his sleeve, and on to his own hand, and that part of the " miracle " is accom- plished! it remains only to explain what becomes of the first ring. the cloth thrown over the arms is very thick and stiff, as stated, and the inner side of this contains a double partition, or sort of bag, into which the medium slips the duplicate ring. the cloth may now be shown on both sides, without disclosing the ring, and the medium makes away with it as soon as possible, in order to avoid detection. deception explained by the science of psychology the object [of this passage] is to enable the reader to see, more easily, how it is that the watchful observer is deceived into believing that a thing is so, when in reality it is not, and vice versa; and also to give an idea of the various methods employed by the medium in order to ac- comolish his results. true stories of modern magic upon the spectator of the spoken word and the eyes together is generally irresistible. another important factor is this: a performer should always let any suggestion, right or wrong, soak well into the spectator's mind before attempting to change it. this is for two reasons. in the first place, if the suggestion is correct, if, e. g., the performer really does place an object in his left hand, and it is shortly found to have vanished from that hand, he is annoyed by hearing some one say that he was not really sure it was there in the first place, as " it was covered up so quickly." if, on the other hand, the sugges- tion given was a false one, if, e. g., the performer says he has placed an object in his left hand, when, in reality, he has not done so but has palmed it in the right, then it is still necessary to allow a certain time-interval to elapse between the performing of the action which apparently placed the object in the hand, and the showing of the hand empty, for this reason. if the hand into which the object is supposedly placed is immediately shown empty, the natural conclusion of the sitter is that the object was not in reality placed there at all, but was retained in the other hand, which would be the fact. if, however, the performer allowed some time to elapse, between the action of placing the object in that hand (supposedly) and the showing of the hand empty, he, meanwhile, keeping his eyes fixed on the hand, suggesting to the sitters that the object is there, and in every way act- ing as if it were there, the idea will gradually gain a firm hold on the minds of the spectators that the object is there, in reality, and they are correspondingly surprised to find it ultimately vanished. it is just such a knowledge of "the way people's minds work," as a friend once said to me, which enables the conjurer to deceive the public; and it is precisely the same cast of mind that the medium possesses. he is, in fact, a good judge of human nature. another fact that must be borne in mind is that, when once a spectator has seen a movement made two or three times in the same manner, he frequently "sees" the per- former make that movement on another occasion, when the hereward carrington performer had, in reality, only started to make the move- ment, and suggested the rest. thus, if the performer throws a ball up into the air two or three times in succes- sion, and on the fourth occasion merely pretends to throw it up, really retaining it in the other hand, the great majority of the spectators will really " see" the ball ascend into the air on the fourth occasion, and will so state, on being asked. we here depend upon association and habit. professor jastrow summed up this portion of the psychol- ogy of deception very well when he said: "he (the conjurer) must dissociate the natural factors of his habits, actually attending to one thing while seem- ingly attending to another; at the same time his eyes and his gestures and his 'patter' misdirect the attention to what is apparently the essential field of operation, but really only a blind to distract attention away from the true scene of action. the conjurer directs your attention to what he does not do; he does not do what he pretends to do; and to what he actually does, he is careful neither to appear to direct his own attention nor to arouse yours." prof. max dessoir, in a very fine article on "the psychology of conjuring," writes as follows: " by awaken- ing interest in some unimportant detail, the conjurer con- centrates that attention on some false point, or negatively, diverts it from the main object, and we all know the senses of an inattentive person are pretty dull. . . . when causing the disappearance of some object, the conjurer counts one, two, three; the object must really disappear before three, not at three, because, the attention of the public being di- verted to three, they do not notice what happens at one and two. ... a specially successful method of diversion is founded on the human craze for imitation. . . . the con- jurer counts on this in many cases. he always looks in the a very similar illusion is mentioned by professor hyslop, v. borderland of psychical research, pp. - , m which pellets were apparently placed in a box, really being palmed in the medium's hand. • fact and fable in psychology, pp. - . true stories of modern magic direction where he wants the attention of the public, and does everything himself which he wants the public to do. ... if the trick is in the left hand, the conjurer turns sharply to the person to his right, presuming correctly that the spectators will make the same movement, and will not notice what is going on in the left hand. . . . every sharp, short remark will, for a moment, at least, divert the eyes from the hands and direct them to the mouth, according to the above-mentioned law of imitation." the successful conjurer has carefully studied before- hand every movement that is made—every word that is spoken—during a conjuring performance, and has seen that these all fit naturally into place, and help conceal the real workings of the trick. the right and left hands must be trained to operate independently, and without the need of looking at either. many conjurers practice doing two sep- arate things at the same time, one with either hand; and the ability to do this is essential. above all, the performer must be full of conscious self-possession, and feel himself to be master of the situation, no less than to feel the ability to cope with any emergencies that may arise. turning, now, to a consideration of the seance, we find that many of these psychological rules still hold good, and their operation enables the medium to perform many ac- tions which would otherwise be impossible. a certain sug- gestion is given to the sitters, and imagination and infer- ence do the rest. "our conclusions as to what we see or hear are always founded on a combination of observa- tion and inference; but in daily life it is seldom necessary to distinguish between the two elements, since, when the object and its mode of presentation are familiar, our in- ferences are generally correct. but it is different when, owing to circumstances, such as a bad light, we have to infer more in proportion to what we perceive than usual; or when some one, e. g., a conjurer or a ventriloquist, is trying to deceive us by presenting one object under the familiar aspect of another, and suggesting false inferences. it is not uncommon to find people at seances encouraging hereward carrington each other in the belief that they see, say, a living human figure, when all that they actually see is something moving which is about the size of a human baing; the rest is in- ference." how true these last remarks are is demonstrated by the statement, made in the revelations of a spirit me- dium, that an old wire mask frequently used at materializ- ing seances had been recognized " by dozens of persons as fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers, cousins, sweethearts, wives, husbands, and various other relatives and friends. none but the medium knew that it was only a fifty-cent wire mask, hence none but the medium could enjoy the humor of the occasion." one of the most instructive incidents i know, in rela- tion to this question of the psychology of deception, is the one given by doctor hodgson —the case of the officer and the hindu juggler. in this case, a trick was performed before an english officer and his wife, and doctor hodg- son happened to overhear this officer telling some travelers of the experience at dinner that evening. "referring to the movements of the coins, he said that he had taken a coin from his own pocket and placed it on the ground him- self, yet that this coin had indulged in the same freaks as the other coins. his wife ventured to suggest that the juggler had taken the coin and placed it on the ground, but the officer was emphatic in repeating his statement, and appealed to me for confirmation. he was, however, mistaken. i had watched the transaction with special curi- osity, as i knew what was necessary for the performance of the trick. the officer had apparently intended to place the coin upon the ground himself, but as he was doing so, the juggler leaned slightly forward, dexterously and in a most unobtrusive manner received the coin from the fin- gers of the officer, as the latter was stooping down, and laid it close to the others. if the juggler had not thus taken the coin, but had allowed the officer himself to place it on the ground, the trick, as actually performed, would have been frustrated. proceedings society for prychical research, vol. iv., pp. - . true stories of modern magic "now i think it highly improbable that the movement of the juggler entirely escaped the perception of the officer; highly improbable, that is to say, that the officer was abso- lutely unaware of the juggler's action at the moment of its happening; but i suppose that, although an impression was made on his consciousness, it was so slight as to be speedily effaced by the officer's imagination of himself as stooping and placing the coin upon the ground. the offi- cer, i may say, had obtained no insight into the modus op- erandi of the trick, and his fundamental misrepresentation of the only patent occurrence that might have given him a clew to its performance debarred him completely from afterwards, on reflection, arriving at any explanation. just similarly, many an honest witness may have described him- self as having placed one slate upon another at a sitting with a medium, whereas it was the medium who did so, and who possibly effected at the same time one or two other operations altogether unnoticed by the witness." in reading through descriptions of slate-writing seances, we very seldom find the statement made as to who placed the slates on the table, or under the table, etc., generally the account reading "the slates were then placed on the table," without any qualifying statement as to who placed them there. accounts of this kind are absolutely worth- less, from an evidential standpoint. we must at once ask ourselves: who placed the slates in that position? and if it was the medium—as it probably was in the vast majority of instances—then that test, in all probability, ceases to have any evidential weight. anyone can read over a number of accounts of slate-writing performances, and verify these statements, if he chooses to do so. frequently, the statement is made that the sitter did actually place the slate on the table, when in reality the medium did so. this error is quite unconscious on the sitter's part, of course, but the account is falsified, nevertheless. mistakes of this kind are very common, the sitter thinking afterwards that he (the sitter) must have placed the slates on the table himself! hereward carrington it will be seen from the above that there is a great differ- ence between what actually transpired, at any given seance, and what the accounts say transpired. the general public cannot get that all-important fact too strongly rooted in its mind: that the events which transpired at a seance may not be reported accurately, so that the report of the seance may be altogether wrong and erroneous, though the sit- ters, and those who drew up the report, may have been thoroughly honest in their belief that the report is accurate in every respect. the effect of all this is very great indeed. many spiritualistic seances are quite inexplicable as de- scribed, but the description is not a true report of what took place at the seance in question. the facts are distorted. consequently, the person taking it upon himself to explain what took place at the seance is called upon to explain a number of things which, in reality, never took place at all. we must remember, in this connection, that a number of conjuring tricks, as described, would be quite impossible to explain by any process of trickery. the description of the trick was not correct. let me make this still clearer, and at the same time illustrate the difference between what apparently occurs, and what actually happens, by the following example: a conjurer places a coin (say a quarter) in each hand, and closes his hands. another quarter is now placed upon the fingers of each hand, so that there is now one quarter in each hand and one-quarter on the fingers of each. the magician announces that, by simply opening and closing his hands—which are held at some distance from each other —he will thereby transfer one of the coins from one hand to the other, so that there will be three coins in one of the hands, and only one left in the other. now, if the sitter were writing out an account of what happened, it would most certainly read as follows: "the magician then tried the experiment—of opening and closing his hands rapidly, and causing the coin to be transferred, as promised—but failed in the attempt, the coins from the back of each hand falling on to the table true stories of modern magic in rather a clumsy manner. they were, however, again placed upon the backs of the magician's hands; the move- ment was repeated, and this time successfully. the coins disappeared from the backs of both hands, in one of which was now found three of the coins, while the other hand contained only one." such is precisely the description of the trick, as it would be given by the average person, on seeing it, and it would represent his honest opinion of what occurred; as it stands, it is quite inexplicable by trickery. needless to say, the account is not a true statement of what actually occurred, as the following explanation will make clear: the first time the coins were dropped on to the table, the movement was not so "clumsy" as might have been supposed. it was, in fact, intentional, being the principal factor in the accomplishment of the trick. what actually transpired at that time was this: the magician, by a quick movement, dropped both coins from one hand on to the table, at the same time dexterously opening the other hand a trifle, and allowing the second coin, on that hand, to fall into the interior of the hand itself. thus, while both hands are still seen to be closed, one is empty, and the other contains two coins. it is obvious, therefore, that, when a coin is placed upon each of the hands again, the magician has only to repeat the opening and closing move- ment, and there will be three coins in one of the hands, and only one in the other. this trick illustrates, in a very simple and striking man- ner, the possibility of reporting a fact in an entirely errone- ous manner, quite unconscious of the fact that this error in reporting has been committed. just in this same manner, are many slate-writing and other phenomena misreported, and hence an explanation of the seance, as reported, is ren- dered impossible. the trouble is that the "report" does not really report what actually occurred. • • • • * many of my readers may feel somewhat insulted at this accusation that they cannot detect such obvious trickery hereward carrington when it exists, and that they are liable to make such mis- takes in recording a seance as those here mentioned. they may comfort themselves with the thought, however, that it is no disgrace to make mistakes and errors of this kind; for, as professor jastrow pointed out: "the matter is in some aspects as much a technical ac- quisition as in the diagnosticating of a disease. it is not at all to the discredit of anyone's powers of observation or intellectual acumen to be deceived by the performances of a conjurer; and the same holds true of the professional part of mediumistic phenomena. until this homely but salutary truth is impressed with all its importance upon all intending investigators, there is little hope of bringing about a proper attitude toward these and kindred phe- nomena." these remarks will make it clear to us why many men of science have been deceived by very simple tricks and fraudulent devices, while investigating spiritualistic phe- nomena—their scientific culture is no guaranty that they are any more capable of detecting fraud than is the man- in-the-street—in fact their training has made them very much less capable of detecting fraud than the average per- son, who comes more in contact with the world, and is an acuter judge of character and human nature. i fact and fable in psychology, p. . anonymous how spirits materialize from "the revelations of a spirit medium"—a book out of ex. istence now, since the plates and all copies were bought up by "spir- itualists" and destroyed. the following is given by courtesy of mr. hereward carrington: reader, have you ever attended a " seance " for " full- form materialization?" have you ever thought you had met your dead relative's spirit at these " seances"? if you have never had the pleasure of attending a seance of this " phase " you have missed a rare treat. the writer has assisted at many a one and will relate to you some of the wonderful phenomena occurring at them and the means used to produce them. . . . there are hundreds of " mate- rializing mediums" doing business in this country, who are swelling a good-sized bank account. their business some- times runs into the hundreds of dollars in a single week. this " phase " of mediumship is considered by the spiritual- ists as the highest possible attainable, and if you are a clever "full-form medium " your financial welfare is assured. . . . many and various are the methods employed by the differ- ent "mediums" in producing this phase. it is in boston, new york, and san francisco that it is worked the finest. the full-form seances most often met with are very simply worked, and easy of performance by the medium. you are usually given a seat in a circle of chairs about the front of a "cabinet" made by hanging heavy curtains across the corner of the room. if you are a stranger or one who looks or acts as though he would " grab " the " spirits," you are seated at the farthest point from the cabinet; or, if there are two rows of seats, you will be given a seat in the back row. . . . how spirits materialize i made my way to the "materializing seance," at which my friends hoped to materialize. i was admitted to the seance room and found about twenty persons already assem- bled. i was seated in the front row of chairs. the cabinet used was a closet about six feet long and four feet wide. the ceiling of both the room and the cabinet was of wood. after a thorough examination had been made of the cabinet by all those who cared to do so, the sitters were rearranged to suit the medium. there were present now thirty-five per- sons. the seance room was very large. the door had been taken off the closet that served as a cabinet, and in its stead were hung heavy curtains. the floor of the room was car- peted with a dark carpet, as was the cabinet. the light was furnished by a lamp placed in a box that was fastened to the wall some eight feet from the floor. this box had a sliding lid in front, controlled by a cord passing into the cabinet. by this means the "spirits" could regulate the light to suit themselves, without any movement on the part of any of those in the seance room being necessary. when everything was in readiness the medium entered the cabi- net, seated himself and was tied, and so secured to his chair that it was impossible that he could have any use of himself. he was most thoroughly secured to his chair, and his chair nailed fast to the floor by passing leather straps over the rounds in the side and nailing the ends to the floor. after it was shown to the sitters that he was utterly helpless, the curtain was drawn. the manager now placed an ordinary kitchen table in front of the door of the cabinet, so that it stood away from it about two feet. the table contained no drawer. on the table was laid writing materials, a guitar, and small bell. the manager seated himself close to one side of the cabinet entrance, and started a large swiss music box. before it had finished the first air the lamp was shut entirely off, making the room inky dark. an illuminated hand and arm was now seen to come from behind the curtain, and played an accompaniment to the music box on the guitar. we could see plainly the move- ments of the hand, arm, and fingers, as it manipulated the true stories of modern magic strings of the instrument. it did not appear necessary to finger the strings on the keyboard, although the air was in a key that made it impossible to tune the guitar so that an accompaniment could be performed without fingering. however, but one hand was visible, and it was picking the strings. after the tune was finished, the hand left the in- strument, and moved out into the room to the front of the table, and from the sound we knew it was writing on the tablet that had been placed there. the arm was of bluish tight and appeared to end just above the elbow, and to have no connection with the body. it finished writing and seemed to float into the cabinet near the top. the light was opened and the manager requested those who had tied the medium to examine his condition and see if the ropes had been tampered with. the examination was made and it was evident that the fastenings were undis- turbed. the communication was read aloud to those pres- ent, and contained the following: "we are pleased to meet so many seekers after light and truth here this evening, and, from the conditions, as we sense them, we will have a satisfactory and pleasant seance. the way to obtain the best results is for each person to maintain a passive condition and take what we have to give. you may rest assured that our best efforts will be put forth to give you entire satisfaction. the control." the writing was exactly on the ruled lines although writ- ten in absolute darkness. the hand and arm, although luminous, did not give out a particle of light. the arm had been at least five feet from the cabinet opening and seven feet from the medium. surely, it was not he. the mes- sage read, the light was again shut down and the music again started. once more a hand appeared, and floating out to the table, again began writing. of a sudden the hand disappeared, and, after a few seconds, i was astonished to feel a hand thrusting a paper into my top coat pocket. now appeared two hands and they played an air on the guitar. now came three, then four hands were visible, bright as the day. how spirits materialize two of them began writing again, and, when they had fin- ished, two more sitters were the recipients of sheets of paper. soon the light was opened for an inspection of the cabinet, which was made, with the conclusion that the me- dium had not moved. those of us receiving communica- tions were afforded an opportunity to read them. we found them nicely written, as before, and all contained "tests." . . . after the light went out again, more hands were seen; the table was floated about over the heads of the circle, as was the music box, which weighed at least fifty pounds. another examination of the cabinet was made and every- thing found satisfactory. this time the light was not put entirely out, but a very dim light was allowed. the music box was again set playing, and, while yet it was playing the first tune, a tall figure, robed in creamy white, with gleaming sparks in her hair, and on her head a sor* of crown, issued from the cabinet. she was recognized by a gentleman present, a spiritualist, whose spirit guide she was, and who addressed her as "my queen." she stood a few seconds behind the table and then stepped out in the open space between the sitters and the table. the gentle- man now arose from his seat and, standing beside her, hold- ing her hand, conversed in a whisper with her for some seconds. this was most assuredly a lady, if appearances go for anything. her hands were quite small, and were warm and lifelike, as several, including myself, can testify, having been permitted to shake hands with her. at last she started to the cabinet, and, as she went, appeared to grow shorter, until, as she disappeared between the curtains, she was not much taller than the table. the manager now explained that the spirit had remained out rather too long and came near dematerializing before she reached the cabinet. now came the spirit of a young man, dressed in a light suit of clothes, who gave his name and said his mother was pres- ent. she was, and had a few words of conversation with him when he disappeared into the cabinet. the lady saij true stories of moder n magic that it was unmistakably her son; but there was something that was not as he had been, but what it was she was unable to describe. the next spirit to present itself was my son eddie. he came out from the cabinet calling " papa, papa." the man- ager asked "who is your papa?" and he replied, "mr. (smith)." all this time he stood between the table and the cabinet, and only his head and shoulders could be seen. the manager told him to step out where he could be seen, when he came around to the front of the table. it was rather dark, but i could swear it was my son. he was just the right size, with long flaxen hair and a very pale face. he wore a light-colored waist and darker knee- breeches and stockings, with a large black bow at his throat, just as i remember seeing him last in health. while eddie was still standing in front of the table a large man came out and took him by the hand. eddie spoke, saying: "must i go back, grandpa?" the form turned toward me, saying: "my son, this is a great pleasure to us, but we must not long remain, as it is our first attempt at materializing." he turned to go when the manager said to him: "if the gentleman is your son you ought to give him your name." "the name of the child is eddie, and my own is j. a. smith," replied the form, as they vanished into the cabinet. the manager suggested that it would be well to ex- amine and see whether the medium had been out or not. the cabinet was examined and everything found satis- factory. spirit after spirit came from the cabinet, one or two at a time for an hour; some of them came to friends, and others were " controls" of the medium. many of them were rec- ognized by different ones of the sitters in the room. i, for one, could swear to the identity of my own son eddie, while my father was plainly recognizable. . . . the room was again made dark. suddenly there apioo how spirits materialize peared on the floor, in front of the table, a light about as large as a baseball. it moved about in a circle of perhaps a foot in diameter and grew larger. it soon lost the shape of a ball and appeared to be a luminous cloud. seemingly we could see into and through it. in the course of thirty seconds it had become as large as a six-year-old child; still there was no definite shape, only a fleecy cloudlike mass, turning, twisting, and rolling. at the end of perhaps a minute it was the size and shape of an adult person. the face could not be seen, but light, luminous spots were visible as though the hair and ears were decorated with gems. the shape spoke and requested light. as the light was turned on the luminousness disappeared, and we beheld a beauti- ful young lady clothed in a dazzling white costume. her arms and shoulders were bare, and about her neck there was a necklace of what appeared to be very brilliant diamonds. her feet were encased in white slippers, with straps across the instep. in her ears and hair glistened and shimmered beautiful diamonds. her face and arms were as alabaster, and altogether she was one of the most beautiful women i had ever beheld. she was recognized by a lady and gentle- man present as their daughter. they had met her here before. they were from the east, and were wealthy. the spirit requested that they come to her, which they did, and were each kissed and embraced by it. they held a moment's conversation with her and resumed their seats, when the lamp was slowly turned down. as the light became dim the spirit became luminous. the face and arms disappeared and the body became as a cloud again, turning and twist- ing and growing smaller until it was nothing but a small light spot on the carpet, which of a sudden disappeared entirely. immediately after this manifestation an examination of the medium and cabinet was made, and it was certain the medium had not been away from his chair. the light was again turned out and the music box started, when two bright spots appeared on the carpet, one at either end of the ;able. these went through the same process of development until, true stories of modern magic when the light was turned on, there was another beautiful female spirit at one end of the table, and a child of perhaps eight years of age at the other. the child was recognized by a lady present as her daughter, while the adult spirit was recognized and rapturously greeted by a gentleman who sat near me on my left, as his " darling angel guardian." they had quite a long conversation, in which they made use of very endearing language, each to the other. i supposed it was the gentleman's wife. . . . the spirits did not disappear as the first one had, but, when the light had been turned off, the luminous shape re- volved a few times, and on two occasions assumed the garb and shape of men, and when the light was turned on again, there stood the men with beards and men's forms. after some eight or ten of these materializations and dematerial- izations, before our eyes, the last couple completely disap- peared. the light was again turned down and a luminous shape came from the cabinet, followed by others, until seven of them stood on the floor. the light was turned up until we could see the seven spirits. five were females and two males. they were of different sizes. the curtain at the door of the cabinet was pulled aside and we could see the medium sitting in the chair in which he was bound. the forms now filed into the cabinet again, while the music box played. after they had disappeared the light was turned up, an investigation made of the cabinet, and the seance was over. there, reader, is a truthful description of what can be witnessed at the seances of mediums who are artists. none of your bungling, amateur work here. the work of such a medium is always satisfactory for the reason that if a man feels sure that the medium is a fraud, he has been so well entertained that he does not regret the money paid for the opportunity to witness it. this is the class of medium also who frequently succeed in getting large sums of money from wealthy persons they have converted to spiritualism. how spirits materialize did the writer not give you the true explanation of the manner in which these things were produced, you would probably say it was conceived by a very fertile imagination. if you believed that he saw these things you would perhaps offer the preacher's explanation, by saying, " it is the work of the devil"; or that of the scientist, by asserting that " it is the mesmerist's power over your mind "; or " the operator has discovered an odd force in nature "; or go off on a long dissertation on hypnotism and fourth dimension of space problems. however, it is not the work of the devil, neither are there any but natural laws necessary to its production. the seance described actually occurred and was described in writing by mr. smith in the language used, although it was not printed, and the writer was one of those who as- sisted in its production. he will now proceed to explain this particular seance. . . . it will be remembered that the room and cabinet were carpeted with a dark carpet, and that the ceilings were of wood. the ceilings were decorated by being put on in panels. the ceiling of the cabinet would not have been like that of the room had the closet been a part of the architect's plans of the house. it was not, but was made by the me- dium. he simply built a lath and plaster partition from the corner of a wide chimney to the wall, thus inclosing a space of six by four feet. the panel in the ceiling of the closet was twenty inches square. this panel was " doctored" and could be displaced, leaving an aperture large enough for the "spooks" to get through with perfect ease. a light ladder which reached within three feet of the floor of the cabinet was hooked fast above and furnished the means of getting down and up again. there were eight persons con- nected with the seance described by mr. smith, seven up- stairs and the medium in the cabinet. of course it was not necessary that the medium get out of his fastenings, and the facts are that he did not. the table was placed across the cabinet door, not to lay the instruments on, but to be very much in the way should anyone make a rush and "grab" for the materialized forms. in case this occurred, the how spirits materialize the cioth. in order to powder one of your arms, gather one of the cloths in your hands, and use it as a powder puff on your arm. you will not be able to get all the paint out, but the pieces will make luminous crowns, slippers, stars, and luminous decorations for your robes. you will be under the necessity of perfuming your robes each time they are used, for the odor of the turpentine will always remain to a greater or less degree. to illuminate a robe or costume (the mediums always say " robe ") you proceed the same as in the powdering process, except that to the pint of paint you will add a wineglass full of demar varnish, which will prevent its falling or being shaken off as powder. you are not to make the robe of muslin, but of white netting. every lady will know what netting is. it is the lightest, thinnest material the writer ever saw sold in a dry goods store. ten yards of it can be put into the vest pocket. do not scrimp the material, but get as much of it into your robe as possible. when he of the luminous arm steps from the cabinet into the dark room no part of him is visible save the arm. he picks the strings of the instrument with the illuminated hand and fingers the keyboard with the other. he makes a sound of writing on the tablet and tears off a leaf which he conceals, and, drawing a long black stocking over the luminous arm, places in the pocket of the sitter a com- munication that has been written upstairs in a good light. this accounts for the even, beautiful writing, supposed to have been done in the dark. he covers the luminous arm so that anyone so inclined could not locate it in order to "grab" when he is near enough. by mounting the table, that luminous hand and arm can be made to show as though it was floating about near the ceiling. when four hands were visible there were two spooks at work with both arms illuminated. . . . you can readily un- derstand the forces that floated the music box and table above the heads of the sitters, and an explanation is useless. when the first female spirit appeared it was, in reality, a young woman, dressed in a gorgeous white costume with- true stories of modern magic out paint, hence the light was turned up instead of down, in order that she be visible. rhinestones and sumatra gems being cheap, she was plentifully supplied with " diamonds," although many of those who are the queens or spirit guides or "controls" of wealthy spiritualistic fanatics wear real diamonds, the gift of their wealthy charge, or "king" as they usually call him. when she started for the cabinet she used her hands to keep her robe from under her feet, and as she went stooped lower and lower, until, as she disappeared in the cabinet, she went on her hands and knees. this is what caused the appearance of "dematerialization." when mr. smith's son, eddie, came from the cabinet, he was represented by a boy of about eight years of age, the son of one of the female "spooks" upstairs. he receives two dollars a night for his services, the same as the larger spooks. he was powdered until he was very white, a blond wig put over his own hair, and dressed as most boys are at the age mr. smith's son died. mr. smith recognized him by his size, his light complexion, and flaxen hair, and the fact that he called him " papa " and gave his correct name. his father was "made up" from the description given by the medium, and acknowledged by mr. smith as correct. of course he knew his own name, for it was given him by the slate-writer. . . . we now come to a part of the phenomena that all spir- itualists who have witnessed it will swear by. what is re- ferred to is the materializing and dematerializing of the spirit from the floor and before your eyes. in this you see first a small light, which grows larger and larger, until there stands before you a fully formed female or male spirit, as was described in mr. smith's experience. in order to accomplish what he witnessed, the same spook who had before been recognized by a gentleman as "his queen," prepared herself in the following way: divesting herself of all clothing she donned simply a long chemise that reached her shoe tops. she drew on a pair of white stock- ings, and over them a pair of white slippers. into her hair ic how spirits materialise and ears she put rhinestone diamonds, and around her neck a necklace of the same beautiful but valueless stones. on each ear lobe and around her neck were put small spots of the luminous powder to represent the diamonds while it was dark. her face was powdered and her eyebrows and eye- lashes darkened, while a dark line was drawn under each eye. she now took a black mask that covered her head, and her "robe" in her hands, and went down to the cabinet. arriving there, she put the black mask over her head, to prevent the luminous diamonds being seen until the proper time. she carried her robe in a black bag. crawling from between the curtains and under the table, she exposed on the floor a small part of her robe. this she shook and moved about, allowing it to escape from the bag until it was all out. she was now from under the table and on her knees, and it was time the head show on the form, so, getting close to the robe, she threw off and under the table the black mask. the shape was now the size of an adult; she adjusted the robe to her person, and rapped for light. as a matter of course, when any light was made the lumi- nousness of the robe was drowned, and she appeared in sim- ply a white costume. the necklace and eardrops could now be seen, but when the light was such as to reveal them, the luminous spots had disappeared, leaving the spectator to think the ones he now saw were the ones he had seen in the dark. the process of dematerialization will now be appar- ent, and a description will only tire the reader. one small spook was all that was required, as he could be made to represent boy or girl as was desired, by clothing him in the garments of either sex. at the close of the seance, the full force of "spooks" came into the room. after disappearing, they shinned up the ladder, drew it after them, closed the panel and the trap in the floor above it, replaced the carpet and pushed over the place a heavy bedstead from which they took the cast- ors. they now carried the ladder downstairs and concealed it in the coal house as they went through it on their way home. they will get their pay next day. true stories of moder n magic should ever so close an examination of the cabinet be made, you would not find anything wrong. this particular medium has taken investigators into the cellar beneath the cabinet, and the room above it, scores of times, yet nothing was discovered. you are not always to search for the trap in the ceiling, nor yet in the floor. a trap is not possible in the ceiling except a closet is used as "cabinet," and the ceiling is of wood. where this condition of things does not exist, you must search elsewhere. the floor is a very likely place when it cannot be made in the ceiling. if you do not find it there, examine the base or mopboard. if it is in the mop- board you will find, upon examination, that there is a joint in it near the corner of the cabinet, but you will find it solidly nailed with about four nails each side of the joint. this appearance of extraordinary solidity will be absolute proof that it is not solid. the nails are not what they appear, but are only pieces about one half inch in length, and do not even go through the board. the piece is fastened on the other side with a couple of bolts that hold it very firmly in place. there is a corresponding opening in the mopboard in the next room, although no attempt is made to so carefully conceal it, as no one is ever admitted to it. through this trap the "spooks" enter the cabinet by crawling and wiggling. it is not a very desirable trap, for the mopboard is scarcely ever wide enough to permit of a trap that the spook could get through in a hurry; besides, they must assume their costumes after they get into the cabinet or tear them to pieces. you can see how this would make it very incon- venient. if the room is wainscoted the spook will have all the sea room necessary in his trap, for it will extend from just below the molding on the top of the wainscoting to the floor behind the strip of quarter-round. . . . it is next to an impossibility to detect these traps by examining in the cabinet. they were constructed to avoid discovery, and no pains spared to make them so absolutely true stories of modern magic critical of investigators, but they are very careful to exam- ine everywhere except where the defect is located. because one or two men seem to be making such a critical investiga- tion, do not allow that fact to prevent you making one on your own responsibility. wait until they have finished and then examine not only where they did, but more particularly where they did not. their examination is only for the pur- pose of misleading others. their " tests " are received in a way to cause those about them to think they admit them very unwillingly, or because they were so undeniable that they could do nothing else. a great many will probably deny that confederates are ever employed. they are not, by mediums who are not smooth enough to produce that which appears so wonderful as to make a good business for them. the writer would ad- vise those mediums who give such rank seances to employ a few floor workers (they are easily obtained), and see what a difference it would make in the amount of business they will do. get good ones, those who know human nature, and know when they have said all that is necessary. most of them are inclined to say too much, thus causing the ordi- nary man to suspect that they are confederates. no part iii charles dickens inspector bucket's one of the most natural of story-tellers, and also one who took most naturally to the "detective" or "mystery" form was charles dickens. his lovers can easily recall examples, not only in the so- called detective stories such as "the mystery of edwin drood," but in the shape of exciting threads that wind through and color some of his broadest efforts, such as " little dorrit." one of dickens' great admirations was inspector field, a london detective. he reported him in a series of articles, describing his own adventures in the slums with police guards. he saw in him the good-natured, native shrewdness, the kindliness towards the dis- tressed, yet the inflexibility of vengeance itself with the criminal, that one would expect from the tender-hearted author himself were he to turn detective. with such "real life" to work from, no wonder dickens put one of the best detective stories of all time into his lengthy novel of "bleak house," from which it has been selected for the following pages. the "inspector bucket" of this story is none other than inspector field, and the episode in chapter viii is a vivid and literal rendering of dickens' own visits to the dreadful depths of the lon- don slums with his friend of the police. charles dickens inspector bucket's job i in fashion wolumnia, lady dedlock has returned to her house in town for a few days previous to her departure for paris, where her ladyship intends to stay some weeks; after which her movements are uncertain. the fashion- able intelligence says so, for the comfort of the paris- ians, and it knows all fashionable things. to know things otherwise, were to be unfashionable. my lady dedlock has been down at what she calls, in famil- iar conversation, her "place" in lincolnshire. the waters are out in lincolnshire. an arch of the bridge in the park has been sapped and sopped away. the adja- cent low-lying ground, for half a mile in breadth, is a stagnant river, with melancholy trees for islands in it, and a surface punctured all over, all day long, with falling rain. my lady dedlock's "place" has been extremely dreary. the weather, for many a day and night, has been so wet that the trees seem wet through, and the soft loppings and prunings of the woodman's ax can make no crash or crackle as they fall. the deer, looking soaked, leave quag- mires, where they pass. the shot of a rifle loses its sharp- ness in the moist air, and its smoke moves in a tardy little cloud towards the green rise, coppice-topped, that makes a background for the falling rain. the view from my lady dedlock's own windows is alternately a lead-colored view, and a view in indian ink. the vases on the stone terrace in the foreground catch the rain all day; and the charles dickens my lady. he will never see sixty-five again, nor perhaps sixty-six, nor yet sixty-seven. he has a twist of the gout now and then, and walks a little stiffly. he is of a worthy present, with his light gray hair and whiskers, his fine shirt-frill, his pure white waistcoat, and his blue coat with bright buttons always buttoned. he is ceremonious, stately, most polite on every occasion to my lady, and holds her personal attractions in the highest estimation. his gallantry to my lady, which has never changed since he courted her, is the one little touch of romantic fancy in him. indeed, he married her for love. a whisper still goes about, that she had not even family; howbeit, sir leicester had so much family that perhaps he had enough, and could dispense with any more. but she had beauty, pride, am- bition, insolent resolve, and sense enough to portion out a legion of fine ladies. wealth and station, added to these, soon floated her upward; and for years, now, my lady ded- lock has been at the center of the fashionable intelligence, and at the top of the fashionable tree. how alexander wept when he had no more worlds to conquer, everybody knows—or has some reason to know by this time, the matter having been rather frequently mentioned. my lady dedlock, having conquered her world, fell, not into the melting, but rather into the freezing mood. an exhausted composure, a worn-out placidity, an equanimity of fatigue not to be ruffled by interest or satis- faction, are the trophies of her victory. she is perfectly well-bred. if she could be translated to heaven to-morrow, she might be expected to ascend without any rapture. she has beauty still, and if it be not in its heyday, it is not yet in its autumn. she has a fine face—originally of a character that would be rather called very pretty than handsome, but improved into classicality by the acquired expression of her fashionable state. her figure is elegant, and has the effect of being tall. not that she is so, but that "the most is made," as the honorable bob stables has frequently asserted upon oath, "of all her points." the same authority observes, that she is perfectly got up; ii detective stories the jewellers—meaning by our people, lady dedlock and the rest—" you must remember that you are not dealing with the general public; you must hit our people in their weakest place, and their weakest place is such a place." "to make this article go down, gentlemen," say sheen and gloss the mercers, to their friends the manufacturers, "you must come to us, because we know where to have the fashionable people, and we can make it fashionable." "if you want to get this print upon the tables of my high connection, sir," says mr. sladdery the librarian, "or if you want to get this dwarf or giant into the houses of my high connection, sir, or if you want to secure to this enter- tainment, the patronage of my high connection, sir, you must leave it, if you please, to me; for i have been ac- customed to study the leaders of my high connection, sir; and i may tell you, without vanity, that i can turn them round my finger,"—in which mr. sladdery, who is an honest man, does not exaggerate at all. therefore, while mr. tulkinghorn may not know what is passing in the dedlock mind at present, it is very possible that he may. "my lady's cause has been again before the chancellor, has it, mr. tulkinghorn?" says sir leicester, giving him his hand. "yes. it has been on again to-day," mr. tulkinghorn replies, making one of his quiet bows to my lady who is on a sofa near the fire, shading her face with a hand-screen. "it would be useless to ask," says my lady, with the dreariness of the place in lincolnshire still upon her, "whether anything has been done." "nothing that you would call anything, has been done to-day," replies mr. tulkinghorn. "nor ever will be," says my lady. sir leicester has no objection to an interminable chan- cery suit. it is a slow, expensive, british, constitutional kind of thing. to be sure, he has not a vital interest in the suit in question, her part in which was the only property my lady brought him; and he has a shadowy impression charles dickens that for his name—the name of dedlock—to be in a cause, and not in the title of that cause is a most ridiculous ac- cident. but he regards the court of chancery, even if it should involve an occasional delay of justice and a trifling amount of confusion, as a something, devised in conjunction with a variety of other somethings, by the perfection of human wisdom, for the eternal settlement (humanly speak- ing) of everything. and he is upon the whole of a fixed opinion, that to give the sanction of his countenance to any complaints respecting it, would be to encourage some per- son in the lower classes to rise up somewhere—like wat tyler. "as a few fresh affidavits have been put upon the file," says mr. tulkinghorn, "and as they are short, and as i proceed upon the troublesome principle of begging leave to posess my clients with any new proceedings in a cause;" cautious man mr. tulkinghorn, taking no more respon- sibility than necessary; " and further, as i see you are going to paris; i have brought them in my pocket." (sir leicester was going to paris too, by-the-bye, but the delight of the fashionable intelligence was in his lady.) mr. tulkinghorn takes out his papers, asks permission to place them on a golden talisman of a table at my lady's elbow, puts on his spectacles, and begins to read by the light of a shaded lamp. "' in chancery. between john jarndyce '" my lady interrupts, requesting him to miss as many of the formal horrors as he can. mr. tulkinghorn glances over his spectacles, and begins again lower down. my lady carelessly and scornfully abstracts her attention. sir leicester in a great chair looks at the fire, and appears to have a stately liking for the legal repetitions and prolixities, as ranging among the na- tional bulwarks. it happens that the fire is hot, where my lady sits; and that the hand-screen is more beautiful than useful, being priceless but small. my lady, changing her position, sees the papers on the table—looks at them nearer —looks at them nearer still—asks impulsively: detective stories "who copied that?" mr. tulkinghorn stops short, surprised by my lady's animation and her unusual tone. "is it what you people call law-hand?" she asks, look- ing full at him in her careless way again, and toying with her screen. "not quite. probably "—mr. tulkinghorn examines it as he speaks—" the legal character which it has, was ac- quired after the original hand was formed. why do you ask?" "anything to vary this detestable monotony. o, go on, do!" mr. tulkinghorn reads again. the heat is greater, my lady screens her face. sir leicester doses, starts up sud- denly, and cries "eh? what do you say?" "i say i am afraid," says mr. tulkinghorn, who had risen hastily, "that lady dedlock is ill." "faint," my lady murmurs, with white lips, "only that; but it is like the faintness of death. don't speak to me. ring, and take me to my room!" mr. tulkinghorn retires into another chamber, bells ring, feet shuffle and patter, silence ensues. mercury at last begs mr. tulkinghorn to return. "better now," quoth sir leicester, motioning the lawyer to sit down and read to him alone. "i have been quite alarmed. i never knew my lady to swoon before. but the weather is extremely trying—and she really has been bored to death down at our place in lincolnshire." ii the law-writer in the eastern borders of chancery lane, that is to say, more particularly in cook's court, cursitor street, mr. snagsby, law-stationer, pursues his lawful calling. in the shade of cook's court, at most times a shady place, mr. snagsby has dealt in all sorts of blank forms of legal charles dickens process; in skins and rolls of parchment; in paper—fools- cap, brief, draft, brown, white, whitey-brown, and blotting; in stamps; in office-quills, pens, ink, and india-rubber, pounce, pins, pencils, sealing-wax, and wafers; in red tape and green ferret; in pocket-books, almanacs, diaries, and law lists; in string boxes, rules, inkstands—glass and leaden, penknives, scissors, bodkins, and other small office- cutlery; in short, in articles too numerous to mention; ever since he was out of his time, and went into partnership with peffer. on that occasion, cook's court was in a manner revolutionized by the new inscription in fresh paint, peffer and snagsby, displacing the time-honored and not easily to be deciphered legend, peffer, only. for smoke, which is the london ivy, had so wreathed itself round peffer's name, and clung to his dwelling-place, that the affectionate parasite overpowered the parent tree. peffer is never seen in cook's court now. he is not expected there, for he has been recumbent this quarter of a century in the churchyard of st. andrew's, holborn, with the waggons and hackney-coaches roaring past him, all the day and half the night, like one great dragon. if he ever steal forth when the dragon is at rest, to air him- self again in cook's court, until admonished to return by the crowing of the sanguine cock in the cellar at the little dairy in cursitor street, whose ideas of daylight it would be curious to ascertain, since he knows from his personal observation next to nothing about it—if peffer ever do revisit the pale glimpses of cook's court, which no law- stationer in the trade can positively deny, he comes in- visibly, and no one is the worse or wiser. in his lifetime, and likewise in the period of snagsby's "time" of seven long years, there dwelt with peffer, in the same law-stationer premises, a niece—a short, shrewd niece, something too violently compressed about the waist, and with a sharp nose like a sharp autumn evening, in- clining to be frosty towards the end. the cook's-courtiers had a rumor flying among them, that the mother of this niece did, in her daughter's childhood, moved by too jealous detective stories a solicitude that her figure should approach perfection, lace her up every morning with her maternal foot against the bed-post for a stronger hold and purchase; and further, that she exhibited internally pints of vinegar and lemon- juice: which acids, they held, had mounted to the nose and temper of the patient. with whichsoever of the many tongues of rumor this frothy report originated, it either never reached, or never influenced, the ears of young snagsby; who, having wooed and won its fair subject on his arrival at man's estate, entered into two partnerships at once. so now, in cook's court, cursitor street, mr. snagsby and the niece are one; and the niece still cherishes her figure—which, however tastes may differ, is unquestion- ably so far precious, that there is mighty little of it. mr. and mrs. snagsby are not only one bone and one flesh, but, to the neighbors' thinking, one voice too. that voice, appearing to proceed from mrs. snagsby alone, is heard in cook's court very often. mr. snagsby, other- wise than as he finds expression, through these dulcet tones, is rarely heard. he is a mild, bald, timid man, with a shining head, and a scrubby clump of black hair sticking out at the back. he tends to meekness and obesity. as he stands at his door in cook's court, in his gray shop-coat and black calico sleeves, looking up at the clouds; or stands behind a desk in his dark shop, with a heavy flat ruler, snipping and slicing at sheepskin, in company with his two 'prentices; he is emphatically a retiring and unassuming man. from beneath his feet, at such times, as from a shrill ghost unquiet in its grave, there frequently arise com- plainings and lamentations in the voice already mentioned; and haply, on some occasions, when these reach a sharper pitch than usual, mr. snagsby mentions to the 'prentices, "i think my little woman is a-giving it to guster " this proper name, so used by mr. snagsby, has before now sharpened the wit of the cook's-courtiers to remark that it ought to be the name of mrs. snagsby; seeing that she might with great force and expression be termed a guster, in compliment to her stormy character. it is, how charles dickens ever, the possession, and the only possession, except fifty shillings per annum and a very small box indifferently filled with clothing, of a lean young woman from a workhouse (by some supposed to have been christened augusta); who, although she was farmed or contracted for, during her growing time, by an amiable benefactor of his species resi- dent at tooting, and cannot fail to have been developed under the most favorable circumstances, "has fits "—which the parish can't account for. guster, really aged three or four and twenty, but looking around ten years older, goes cheap with this unaccountable drawback of fits; and is so apprehensive of being returned on the hands of her patron saint, that except when she is found with her head in the pail, or the sink, or the copper, or the dinner, or anything else that happens to be near her at the time of her seizure, she is always at work. she is a satisfaction to the parents and guardians of the 'pren- tices, who feel that there is little danger of her inspiring tender emotions in the breast of youth; she is a satisfaction to mrs. snagsby, who can always find fault with her; she is a satisfaction to mr. snagsby, who thinks it a charity to keep her. the law-stationer's establishment is, in guster's eyes, a temple of plenty and splendor. she be- lieves the little drawing-room upstairs, always kept, as one may say, with its hair in papers and its pinafore on, to be the most elegant apartment in christendom. the view it commands of cook's court at one end (not to mention a squint into cursitor street), and of coavinses the sheriff's officer's backyard at the other, she regards as a prospect of unequaled beauty. the portraits it displays in oil—and plenty of it too—of mr. snagsby looking at mrs. snagsby, and of mrs. snagsby looking at mr. snagsby, are in her eyes as achievements of raphael or titian. guster has some recompenses for her many privations. mr. snagsby refers everything not in the practical mys- teries of the business to mrs. snagsby. she manages the money, reproaches the tax-gatherers, appoints the times and places of devotion on sunday, licenses mr. snagsby's enter- detective stories tainments, and acknowledges no responsibility as to what she thinks fit to provide for dinner; insomuch that she is the high standard of comparison among the neighboring wives, a long way down chancery lane on both sides, and even out in holborn, who, in any domestic passages of arms, habitually call upon their husbands to look at the difference between their (the wives') position and mrs. snagsby's, and their (the husbands') behavior and mr. snagsby's. rumor always flying, bat-like, about cook's court, and skimming in and out at everybody's windows, does say that mrs. snagsby is jealous and inquisitive; and that mr. snagsby is sometimes worried out of house and home, and that if he had the spirit of a mouse he wouldn't stand it. it is even observed, that the wives who quote him to their self-willed husbands as a shining example, in reality look down upon him; and that nobody does so with greater superciliousness than one particular lady, whose lord is more than suspected of laying his umbrella on her as an instrument of correction. but these vague whisper- ings may arise from mr. snagsby's being, in his way, rather a meditative and poetical man; loving to walk in staple inn in the summer time, and to observe how countrified the sparrows and the leaves are; also to lounge about the rolls yard of a sunday afternoon, and to remark (if in good spirits) that there were old times once, and that you'd find a stone coffin or two, now, under that chapel, he'll be bound, if you was to dig for it. he solaces his imagination, too, by thinking of the many chancellors and vices, and masters of the rolls, who are deceased; and he gets such a flavor of the country out of telling the two 'prentices how he has heard say that a brook "as clear as crystal" once ran down the middle of holborn, when turnstile really was a turnstile, leading slap away into the meadows—gets such a flavor of the country out of this, that he never wants to go there. the day is closing in and the gas is lighted, but is not yet fully effective, for it is not quite dark. mr. snagsby standing at his shop-door, looking up at the clouds, sees charles dickens a crow, who is out late, skim westward over the slice of sky belonging to cook's court. the crow flies straight across chancery lane and lincoln's inn garden, into lin- coln's inn fields. — here, in a large house, formerly a house of state, lives mr. tulkinghorn. it is let off in sets of chambers now; and in those shrunken fragments of its greatness, lawyers lie like maggots in nuts. but its roomy staircases, pas- sages, and antechambers still remain; and even its painted ceilings, where allegory, in roman helmet and celestial linen, sprawls among balustrades and pillars, flowers, clouds, and big-legged boys, and makes the head ache—as would seem to be allegory's object always, more or less. here, among his many boxes labeled with transcendent names, lives mr. tulkinghorn, when not speechlessly at home in country-houses where the great ones of the earth are bored to death. here he is to-day, quiet at his table. an oyster of the old school, whom nobody can open. like as he is to look at, so is his apartment in the dusk of the present afternoon. rusty, out of date, withdrawing from attention, able to afford it. heavy broad-backed, old- fashioned mahogany and horsehair chairs, not easily lifted, obsolete tables with spindle-legs and dusty baize covers, presentation prints of the holders of great titles in the last generation, or the last but one, environ him. a thick and dingy turkey-carpet muffles the floor where he sits, at- tended by two candles in old-fashioned silver candlesticks, that give a very insufficient light to his large room. the titles on the backs of his books have retired into the bind- ing; everything that can have a lock has got one; no key is visible. very few loose papers are about. he has some manuscript near him, but is not referring to it. with the round top of an inkstand, and two broken bits of sealing- wax, he is silently and slowly working out whatever train of indecision is in his mind. now, the inkstand top is in the middle: now, the red bit of sealing-wax, now the black bit. that's not it. mr. tulkinghorn must gather them all up and begin again. detective stories here, beneath the painted ceiling, with fore-shortened allegory staring down at his intrusion as if it meant to swoop upon him, and he cutting it dead, mr. tulkinghorn has at once his house and office. he keeps no staff; only one middle-aged man, usually a little out at elbows, who sits in a high pew in the hall, and is rarely overburdened with business. mr. tulkinghorn is not in a common way. he wants no clerks. he is a great reservoir of confidences, not to be so tapped. his clients want him; he is all in all. drafts that he requires to be drawn, are drawn by special pleaders in the temple on mysterious instructions; fair copies that he requires to be made, are made at the sta- tioners', expense being no consideration. the middle-aged man in the pew, knows scarcely more of the affairs of the peerage, than any crossing-sweeper in holborn. the red bit, the black bit, the inkstand top, the other ink- stand top, the little sand-box. so! you to the middle, you to the right, you to the left. this train of indecision must surely be worked out now or never.—now! mr. tulkinghorn gets up, adjusts his spectacles, puts on his hat, puts the manuscript in his pocket, goes out, tells the middle- aged man out at elbows, " i shall be back presently." very rarely tells him anything more explicit. mr. tulkinghorn goes, as the crow came—not quite so straight, but nearly—to cook's court, cursitor street. to snagsby's, law stationer's, deeds engrossed and copied, law-writing executed in all its branches, etc., etc., etc. it is somewhere about five or six o'clock in the after- noon, and a balmy fragrance of warm tea hovers in cook's court. it hovers about snagsby's door. the hours are early there; dinner at half-past one, and supper at half- past nine. mr. snagsby was about to descend into the subterranean regions to take tea, when he looked out of his door just now, and saw the crow who was out late. "master at home?" guster is minding the shop, for the 'prentices take tea in the kitchen, with mr. and mrs. snagsby; consequently, the robe-maker's two daughters, combing their curls at charles dickens the two glasses in the two second-floor windows of the op- posite house, are not driving the two 'prentices to distrac- tion, as they fondly suppose, but are merely awakening the unprofitable admiration of guster, whose hair won't grow, and never would, and, it is confidently thought, never will. "master at home?" says mr. tulkinghorn. master is at home, and guster will fetch him. guster disappears, glad to get out of the shop, which she regards with mingled dread and veneration as a store-house of awful implements of the great torture of the law: a place not to be entered after the gas is turned off. mr. snagsby appears: greasy, warm, herbaceous, and chewing. bolts a bit of bread and butter. says, "bless my soul, sir! mr. tulkinghorn!" "i want half a word with you, snagsby." "certainly, sir! dear me, sir, why didn't you send your young man round for me? pray walk into the back shop, sir." snagsby has brightened in a moment. the confined room, strong of parchment-grease, is ware- ihouse, counting-house, and copying-office. mr. tulking- horn sits, facing round, on a stool at the desk. "jarndyce and jarndyce, snagsby." "yes, sir." mr. snagsby turns up the gas, and coughs behind his hand, modestly anticipating profit. mr. snagsby, as a timid man, is accustomed to cough with a variety of expression, and so to save words. "you copied some affidavits in that cause for me lately." "yes, sir, we did." "there was one of them," said mr. tulkinghorn, care- lessly feeling—tight, unopenable oyster of the old school! —in the wrong coat-pocket, "the hand-writing of which is peculiar, and i rather like it. as i happened to be passing, and thought i had it about me, i looked in to ask you— but i haven't got it. no matter, any other time will do— ah! here it is!—i looked in to ask you who copied this?" "who copied this, sir?" says mr. snagsby, taking it, laying it flat on the desk, and separating all the sheets detective stories at once with a twirl and a twist of the left hand peculiar to law-stationers. "we gave this out, sir. we were giv- ing out rather a large quantity of work just at that time. i can tell you in a moment who copied it, sir, by referring to my book." mr. snagsby takes his book down from the safe, makes another bolt of the bit of bread and butter which seemed to have stopped short, eyes the affidavit aside, and brings his right forefinger traveling down a page of the book. "jewby —packer—jarndyce." "jarndyce! here we are, sir," says mr. snagsby. "to be sure! i might have remembered it. this was given out, sir, to a writer who lodges just over on the opposite side of the lane." mr. tulkinghorn has seen the entry, found it before the law-stationer, read it while the forefinger was coming down the hill. "what do you call him? nemo? " says mr. tulkinghorn. "nemo, sir. here it is. forty-two folio. given out on the wednesday night, at eight o'clock; brought in on the thursday morning, at half after nine." "nemo!" repeats mr. tulkinghorn. "nemo is latin for no one." "it must be english for some one, sir, i think," mr. snagsby submits, with his deferential cough. "it is a per- son's name. here it is, you see, sir! forty-two folio. given out wednesday night, eight o'clock; brought in thursday morning, half after nine." the tail of mr. snagsby's eye becomes conscious of the head of mrs. snagsby looking in at the shop-door to know what he means by deserting his tea. mr. snagsby ad- dresses an explanatory cough to mrs. snagsby, as who should say, " my dear, a customer!" "half after nine, sir," repeats mr. snagsby. "our law- writers, who live by job-work, are a queer lot; and this may not be his name, but it's the name he goes by. i remember now, sir, that he gives it in a written advertisement he sticks op down at the rule office, and the king's bench office, charles dickens and the judges' chambers, and so forth. you know the kind of document, sir—wanting employ?" mr. tulkinghorn glances through the little window at the back of coavinses', the sheriff's officer's, where lights shine in coavinses' windows. coavinses' coffee-room is at the back, and the shadows of several gentlemen under a cloud loom cloudily upon the blinds. mr. snagsby takes the op- portunity of slightly turning his head, to glance over his shoulder at his little woman, and to make apologetic mo- tions with his mouth to this effect: "tul-king-horn—rich —in-flu-en-tial!" "have you given this man work before?" asks mr. tulkinghorn. "o dear, yes, sir! work of yours." "thinking of more important matters, i forget where you said he lived?" "across the lane, sir. in fact, he lodges at a—" mr. snagsby makes another bolt, as if the bit of bread-and- butter were insurmountable—" at a rag and bottle shop." "can you show me the place as i go back?" "with the greatest pleasure, sir!" mr. snagsby pulls off his sleeves and his gray coat, pulls on his black coat, takes his hat from its peg. "oh! here is my little woman!" he says aloud. "my dear, will you be so kind as to tell one of the lads to look after the shop, while i step across the lane with mr. tulkinghorn? mrs. snagsby, sir—i shan't be two minutes, my love!" mrs. snagsby bends to the lawyer, retires behind the counter, peeps at them through the window-blind, goes softly into the back office, refers to the entries in the book still lying open. is evidently curious. "you will find that the place is rough, sir," says mr. snagsby, walking deferentially in the road, and leaving the narrow pavement to the lawyer; "and the party is very rough. but they're a wild lot in general, sir. the ad- vantage of this particular man is, that he never wants sleep. he'll go at it right on end, if you want him to, as long as ever you like." detective stories it is quite dark, now, and the gas-lamps have acquired their full effect. jostling against clerks going to post the day's letters, and against counsel and attorneys going home to dinner, and against plaintiffs and defendants, and suitors of all sorts, and against the ^general crowd, in whose way the forensic wisdom of ages has interposed a million of obstacles to the transaction of the commonest business of life—diving through law and equity, and through that kin- dred mystery, the street mud, which is made of nobody knows what, and collects about us nobody knows whence or how; we only knowing in general that when there is too much of it, we find it necessary to shovel it away—the lawyer and the law-stationer come to a rag and bottle shop, and general emporium of much disregarded merchandise, lying and being in the shadow of the wall of lincoln's inn, and kept, as is announced in paint, to all whom it may concern, by one krook. "this is where he lives, sir," says the law-stationer. "this is where he lives, is it?" says the lawyer un- concernedly. "thank you." "are you not going in, sir?" "no, thank you, no; i am going on to the fields at present. good-evening. thank you!" mr. snagsby lifts his hat, and returns to his little woman and his tea. but mr. tulkinghorn does not go on to the fields at present. he goes a short way, turns back, comes again to the shop of mr. krook, and enters it straight. it is dim enough, with a blot-headed candle or so in the windows, and an old man and a cat sitting in the back part by a fire. the old man rises and comes forward, with another blot- headed candle in his hand. "pray is your lodger within?" "male or female, sir? " says mr. krook. "male. the person who does copying." mr. krook has eyed his man narrowly. knows him by sight. has an indistinct impression of his aristocratic repute. "did you wish to see him, sir?" charles dickens krook takes it, goes to the fire, stoops over the red embers, and tries to get a light. the dying ashes have no light to spare, and his endeavors are vain. muttering, after an ineffectual call to his lodger, that he will go down- stairs and bring a lighted candle from the shop, the old man departs. mr. tulkinghorn, for some new reason that he has, does not await his return in the room, but on the stairs outside. the welcome light soon shines upon the wall, as krook comes slowly up, with his green-eyed cat following at his heels. "does the man generally sleep like this?" inquires the lawyer, in a low voice. "hi! i don't know," says krook, shaking his head and lifting his eyebrows. "i know next to nothing of his habits, except that he keeps himself very close." thus whispering, they both go in together. as the light goes in, the great eyes in the shutters, darkening, seem to close. not so the eyes upon the bed. "god save us!" exclaimed mr. tulkinghorn. "he is dead!" krook drops the heavy hand he has taken up, so sud- denly that the arm swings over the bedside. they look at one another for a moment. "send for some doctor! call for miss flite up the stairs, sir. here's poison by the bed! call out for flite, will you?" says krook, with his lean hands spread out above the body like a vampire's wings. mr. tulkinghorn hurries to the landing, and calls "miss flite! flite! make haste, here, whoever you are! flite!" krook follows him with his eyes, and, while he is calling, finds opportunity to steal to the old portmanteau, and steal back again. "run, flite, run! the nearest doctor! run!" so mr. krook addresses a crazy little woman, who is his female lodger: who appears and vanishes in a breath: who soon returns, accompanied by a testy medical man, brought from his dinner—with a broad snuffy lip, and a broad scotch tongue. detective stories "ey! bless the hearts o' ye," says the medical man, looking up at them after a moment's examination. "he's just as dead as phairy!" mr. tulkinghorn (standing by the old portmanteau) in- quires if he has been dead any time? "any time, sir?" says the medical gentleman. "it's probable he wull have been dead aboot three hours." "about that time, i should say," observes a dark young man, on the other side of the bed. "air you in the maydickle prayfession yourself, sir?" inquires the first. the dark young man says yes. "then i'll just tak' my depairture," replies the other; "for i'm nae gude here i" with which remark, he finishes his brief attendance, and returns to finish his dinner. the dark young surgeon passes the candle across and across the face, and carefully examines the law-writer, who has established his pretentions to his name by becoming indeed no one. "i knew this person by sight, very well," says he. "he has purchased opium of me, for the last year and a half. was anybody present related to him?" glancing round upon the three bystanders. "i was his landlord," grimly answers krook, taking the candle from the surgeon's outstretched hand. "he told me once, i was the nearest relation he had." "he has died," says the surgeon, "of an over-dose of opium, there is no doubt. the room is strongly flavored with it. there is enough here now," taking an old tea-pot from mr. krook, " to kill a dozen people." "do you think he did it on purpose?" asks krook. "took the over-dose?" "yes!" krook almost smacks his lips with the unction of a horrible interest. "i can't say. i should think it unlikely, as he has been in the habit of taking so much. but nobody can tell. he was very poor, i suppose?" "i suppose he was. his room—don't look rich," says charles dickens krook, who might have changed eyes with his cat, as he casts his sharp glance around. "but i have never been in it since he had it, and he was too close to name his circum- stances to me." "did he owe you any rent?" "six weeks." "he will never pay it!" says the young man, resuming his examination. "it is beyond a doubt that he is indeed as dead as pharaoh; and to judge from his appearance and condition, i should think it a happy release. yet he must have been a good figure when a youth, and i dare say, good- looking." he says this, not unfeelingly, while sitting on the bedstead's edge, with his face towards that other face, and his hand upon the region of the heart. "i recollect once thinking there was something in his manner, uncouth as it was, that denoted a fall in life. was that so?" he continues, looking round. krook replies, "you might as well ask me to describe the ladies whose heads of hair i have got in sacks down- stairs. than that he was my lodger for a year and a half, and lived—or didn't live—by law-writing, i know no more of him." during this dialogue, mr. tulkinghorn has stood aloof by the old portmanteau, with his hands behind him, equally removed, to all appearance, from all three kinds of interest exhibited near the bed—from the young surgeon's profes- sional interest in death, noticeable as being quite apart from his remarks on the deceased as an individual; from the old man's unction; and the little crazy woman's awe. his im- perturbable face has been as inexpressive as his rusty clothes. one could not even say he has been thinking all this while. he has shown neither patience nor impatience, nor attention nor abstraction. he has shown nothing but his shell. as easily might the tone of a delicate musical instrument be inferred from its case, as the tone of mr. tulkinghorn from his case. he now interposes; addressing the young surgeon, in hi» unmoved, professional way. detective stories "i looked in here," he observes, "just before you, with the intention of giving this deceased man, whom i never saw alive, some employment at his trade of copying. i had heard of him from my stationer—snagsby of cook's court. since no one here knows anything about him, it might be as well to send for snagsby. ah!" to the little crazy woman, who has often seen him in court, and whom he has often seen, and who proposes, in frightened dumb-show, to go for the law-stationer. "suppose you do!" while she is gone, the surgeon abandons his hopeless in- vestigation, and covers its subject with the patchwork counterpane. mr. krook and he interchange a word or two. mr. tulkinghorn says nothing; but stands, ever, near the old portmanteau. mr. snagsby arrives hastily, in his gray coat and black sleeves. "dear me, dear me," he says; "and it has come to this, has it! bless my soul!" "can you give the person of the house any information about this unfortunate creature, snagsby?" inquires mr. tulkinghorn. "he was in arrears with his rent, it seems. and he must be buried, you know." "well, sir," says mr. snagsby, coughing his apologetic cough behind his hand; "i really don't know what advice you could offer, except sending for the beadle." "i don't speak of advice," returns mr. tulkinghorn. "/ could advise" "no one better, sir, i am sure," says mr. snagsby, with his deferential cough. "i speak of affording some clew to his connections, or to where he came from, or to anything concerning him." "i assure you, sir," says mr. snagsby, after prefacing his reply with his cough of general propitiation, "that i know no more where he came from than i know" "where he has gone to, perhaps," suggests the surgeon, to help him out. a pause. mr. tulkinghorn looking at the law-stationer. mr. krook, with his mouth open, looking for somebody to speak next. charles dickens "as to his connections, sir," says mr. snagsby, "if a person was to say to me, 'snagsby, here's twenty thousand pound down, ready for you in the bank of england, if you'll only name one of them,' i couldn't do it, sir! about a year and a half ago—to the best of my belief at the time when he first came to lodge at the present rag and bottle shop" "that was the time!" says krook, with a nod. "about a year and a half ago," says mr. snagsby, strengthened, "he came into our place one morning after breakfast, and, finding my little woman (which i name mrs. snagsby when i use that appellation) in our shop, pro- duced a specimen of his handwriting, and gave her to under- stand that he was in want of copying work to do, and was— not to put too fine a point upon it"—a favorite apology for plain-speaking with mr. snagsby, which he always offers with a sort of argumentative frankness, "hard up! my little woman is not in general partial to strangers, particular —not to put too fine a point upon it—when they want any- thing. but she was rather took by something about his per- son; whether by his being unshaved, or by his hair being in want of attention, or by what other ladies' reasons, i leave you to judge; and she accepted of the specimen, and like- wise of the address. my little woman hasn't a good ear for names," proceeds mr. snagsby, after consulting his cough of consideration behind his hand, " and she considered nemo equally the same as nimrod. in consequence of which, she got into a habit of saying to me at meals, 'mr. snagsby, you haven't found nimrod any work yet?' or ' mr. snagsby, why didn't you give that eight-and-thirty chancery folio in jarndyce, to nimrod? or such like. and that is the way he gradually fell into job-work at our place; and that is the most i know of him, except that he was a quick hand, and a hand not sparing of night work; and that if you gave him out, say five-and-forty folio on the wednesday night, you would have it brought in on the thursday morning. all of which "—mr. snagsby concludes by politely motion- ing with his hat towards the bed, as much as to add—" i detective stories have no doubt my honorable friend would confirm, if he were in a condition to do it." "hadn't you better see," says mr. tulkinghorn to krook, "whether he had any papers that may enlighten you? there will be an inquest, and you will be asked the question. you can read?" "no i can't," returns the old man, with a sudden grin. "snagsby," says mr. tulkinghorn, "look over the room for him. he will get into some trouble or difficulty, other- wise. being here, i'll wait, if you make haste; and then i can testify on his behalf, if it should ever be necessary, that all was fair and right. if you will hold the candle for mr. snagsby, my friend, hell soon see whether there is anything to help you." "in the first place, here's an old portmanteau, sir," says snagsby. ah, to be sure, so there is! mr. tulkinghorn does not appear to have seen it before, though he is standing so close to it, and though there is very little else, heaven knows. the marine-store merchant holds the light, and the law stationer conducts the search. the surgeon leans against the corner of the chimney-piece; miss flite peeps and trembles just within the door. the apt old scholar of the old school, with his dull black breeches tied with ribbons at the knees, his large black waistcoat, his long-sleeved black coat, and his wisp of limp white neckerchief tied in the bow the peerage knows so well, stands in exactly the same place and attitude. there are some worthless articles of clothing in the old portmanteau; there is a bundle of pawnbrokers' duplicates, those turnpike tickets on the road of poverty; there is a crumpled paper smelling of opium, on which are scrawled rough memoranda—as, took, such a day, so many grains; took, such another day, so many more—begun some time ago, as if with the intention of being regularly continued, but soon left off. there are a few dirty scraps of news- papers, all referrring to coroners' inquests; there is nothing else. they search the cupboard, and the drawer of the ink charles dickens splashed table. there is not a morsel of an old letter, or of any other writing, in either. the young surgeon examines the dress on the law-writer. a knife and some odd half- pence are all he finds. mr. snagsby's suggestion is the practical suggestion after all, and the beadle must be called in. so the little crazy lodger goes for the beadle, and the rest come out of the room. "don't leave the cat there!" says the surgeon: "that won't do!" mr. krook therefore drives her out before him; and she goes furtively downstairs, winding her little tail, and licking her lips. "good-night!" says mr. tulkinghorn; and goes home to allegory and meditation. iv the coroner's jury mr. tulkinghorn is received with distinction, and seated near the coroner; between that high judicial officer, a bagatelle-board, and the coal-box. the inquiry proceeds. the jury learn how the subject of their inquiry died, and learn no more about him. "a very eminent solicitor is in at- tendance, gentlemen," says the coroner, "who, i am in- formed, was accidentally present, when discovery of the death was made; but he could only repeat the evidence you have already heard from the surgeon, the landlord, the lodger, and the law-stationer; and it is not necessary to trouble him. is anybody in attendance who knows anything more?" mrs. piper pushed forward by mrs. perkins, mrs. piper sworn. anastasia piper, gentlemen. married woman. now, mrs. piper—what have you to say about this? why, mrs. piper has a good deal to say, chiefly in paren- thesis and without punctuation, but not much to tell. mrs. piper lives in the court (which her husband is a cabinet- maker), and it has long been well beknown among the neigh detective stories bors (counting from the day next but one before the half- baptizing of alexander james piper aged eighteen months and four days old on accounts of not being expected to live such was the sufferings gentlemen of that child in his gums) as the plaintive—so mrs. piper insists on calling the de- ceased—was reported to have sold himself. thinks it was the plaintive's air in which that report originatinin. see the plaintive often and considered as his air was feariocious and not to be allowed to go about some children being timid (and if doubted hoping mrs. perkins may be brought forard for she is here and will do credit to her husband and herself and family). has seen the plaintive wexed and worrited by the children (for children they will ever be and you cannot expect them specially if of playful dispositions to be me- thoozellers which you was not yourself). on accounts of this and his dark looks has often dreamed as she see him take a pick-axe from his pocket and split johnny's head (which the child knows not fear and has repeatually called after him close at his eels). never however see the plain- tive take a pick-axe or any other wepping far from it. has seen him hurry away when run and called after as if not partial to children and never see him speak to neither child nor grown person at any time (excepting the boy that sweeps the crossing down the lane over the way round the corner which if he was here would tell you that he has been a-speaking to him frequent). says the coroner, is that boy here? says the beadle, no, sir, he is not here. says the coroner, go and fetch him then. in the absence of the active and intelligent, the cor- oner converses with mr. tulkinghorn. o! here's the boy, gentlemen i here he is, very muddy, very hoarse, very ragged. now, boy!—but stop a minute. caution. this boy must be put through a few preliminary paces. name, jo. nothing else that he knows on. don't know that everybody has two names. never heerd of such a think. don't know that jo is short for a longer name. thinks it long enough for him. he don't find no fault with charles dickens it. spell it? no. he can't spell it. no father, no mother, no friends. never been to school. what's home? knows a broom's a broom, and knows it's wicked to tell a lie. don't recollect who told him about the broom, or about the lie, but knows both. can't exactly say what'll be done to him arter he's dead if he tells a lie to the gentlemen here, but believes it'll be something wery bad to punish him, and serve him right—and so he'll tell you the truth. "this won't do, gentlemen!" says the coroner, with a melancholy shake of the head. "don't you think you can receive his evidence, sir?" asks an attentive juryman. "out of the question," says the coroner. "you have heard the boy. 'can't exactly say' won't do, you know. we can't take that, in a court of justice, gentlemen. it's terrible depravity. put the boy aside." boy put aside; to the great edification of the audience;— especially of little swills, the comic vocalist. now. is there any other witness? no other witness. very well, gentlemen! here's a man unknown, proved to have been in the habit of taking opium in large quan- tities for a year and a half, found dead of too much opium. if you think you have any evidence to lead you to the con- clusion that he committed suicide, you will come to that conclusion. if you think it is a case of accidental death, you will find a verdict accordingly. verdict accordingly. accidental death. no doubt. gen- tlemen, you are discharged. good afternoon. while the coroner buttons his great-coat, mr. tulking- horn and he give private audience to the rejected witness in a corner. that graceless creature only knows that the dead man (whom he recognized just now by his yellow face and black hair) was sometimes hooted and pursued about the streets. that one cold, winter night, when he, the boy, was shivering in a doorway near his crossing, the man turned to look at him, and came back, and, having questioned him and found that he had not a friend in the world, said, "neither have detective stories i. not one!" and gave him the price of a supper and a night's lodging. that the man had often spoken to him since; and asked him whether he slept sound at night, and how he bore cold and hunger, and whether he ever wished to die; and similar strange questions. that when the man had no money, he would say in passing, "i am as poor as you to-day, jo," but that when he had any, he had always (as the boy most heartily believes) been glad to give him some. "he wos wery good to me," says the boy, wiping his eyes with his wretched sleeves. "wen i see him a-layin' so stritched out just now, i wished he could have heerd me tell him so. he wos wery wood to me, he wos " as he shuffles downstairs, mr. snagsby, lying in wait for him, puts a half-crown in his hand. "if you ever see me coming past your crossing with my little woman—i mean a lady—" says mr. snagsby, with his finger on his nose, "don't allude to it!" it is anything but a night of rest at mr. snagsby's, in cook's court; where guster murders sleep, by going, as mr. snagsby himself allows—not to put too fine a point upon it—out of one fit into twenty. the occasion of this seizure is, that guster has a tender heart, and a susceptible something that possibly might have been imagination but for tooting and her patron saint. be it what it may, now, it was so direfully impressed at tea-time by mr. snagsby's account of the inquiry at which he had assisted, that at supper-time she projected herself into the kitchen, preceded by a flying dutch-cheese, and well into a fit of unusual du- ration: which she only came out of to go into another, and another, and so on through a chain of fits, with short inter- vals between, of which she has pathetically availed herself by consuming them in entreaties to mrs. snagsby not to give her warning "when she quite comes to;" and also in appeals to the whole establishment to lay her down on the stones, and go to bed. hence, mr. snagsby, at last hearing the cock at the little dairy in cursitor street go into that dis- interested ecstasy of his on the subject of daylight, says, charles dickens drawing a long breath, though the most patient of men, "i thought you was dead, i am sure!" what question this enthusiastic fowl supposes he settles when he strains himself to such an extent, or why he should thus crow (so men crow on various triumphant public oc- casions, however) about what cannot be of any moment to him, is his affair. it is enough that daylight comes, morn- ing comes, noon comes. then the active and intelligent, who has got into the morn- ing papers as such, comes with his pauper company to mr. krook's, and bears off the body of our dear brother here departed, to a hemmed-in churchyard, pestiferous and ob- scene, whence malignant diseases are communicated to the bodies of our dear brothers and sisters who have not de- parted; while our dear brothers and sisters who hang about official back-stairs—would to heaven they had departed!— are very complacent and agreeable. into a beastly scrap of ground which a turk would reject as a savage abomina- tion, and a caffre would shudder at, they bring our dear brother here departed, to receive christian burial. with houses looking on, on every side, save where a reek- ing little tunnel of a court gives access to the iron gate— with every villainy of life in action close on death, and every poisonous element of death in action close on life— here, they lower our dear brother down a foot or two: here, sow him in corruption, to be raised in corruption: an aveng- ing ghost at many a sick-bedside; a shameful testimony to future ages, how civilization and barbarism walked this boastful island together. come night, come darkness, for you cannot come too soon, or stay too long, by such a place as this! come, strag- gling lights into the windows of the ugly houses; and you who do iniquity therein, do it at least with this dread scene shut out i come, flame of gas, burning so sullenly above the iron gate, on which the poisoned air deposits its witch-oint- ment slimy to the touch it is well that you should call to every passer-by, "look here!" with the night, comes a slouching figure through the detective stories tunnel-court, to the outside of the iron gate. it holds the gate with its hands, and looks in between the bars; stands looking in, for a little while. it then, with an old broom it carries, softly sweeps the step, and makes the archway clean. it does so, very busily and trimly; looks in again, a little while; and so departs. jo, is it thou? well, well! though a rejected witness, who " can't exactly say " what will be done to him in greater hands than men's, thou art not quite in outer darkness. there is something like a distant ray of light in thy muttered reason for this: "he wos wery good to me, he wos!" on the watch it has left off raining down in lincolnshire, at last, and chesney wold has taken heart. mrs. rouncewell is full of hospitable cares, for sir leicester and my lady are coming home from paris. the fashionable intelligence has found it out, and communicates the glad tidings to benighted eng- land. it has also found out, that they will entertain a bril- liant and distinguished circle of the elite of the beau monde (the fashionable intelligence is weak in english, but a giant refreshed in french), at the ancient and hospitable family seat in lincolnshire. for the greater honor of the brilliant and distinguished circle, and of chesney wold into the bargain, the broken arch of the bridge in the park is mended; and the water, now retired within its proper limits and again spanned grace- fully, makes a figure in the prospect from the house. the clear, cold sunshine glances into the brittle woods, and ap- provingly beholds the sharp wind scattering the leaves and drying the moss. it glides over the park after the moving shadows of the clouds, and chases them, and never catches them, all day. it looks in at the windows, and touches the ancestral portraits with bars and patches of brightness, charles dickens never contemplated by the painters. athwart the picture of my lady, over the great chimney-piece, it throws a broad bend-sinister of light that strikes down crookedly into the hearth, and seems to rend it. through the same cold sunshine, and the same sharp wind, my lady and sir leicester, in their traveling chariot (my lady's woman, and sir leicester's man affectionate in the rumble), start for home. with a considerable amount of jingling and whip-cracking, and many plunging demon- strations on the part of two bare-backed horses, and two centaurs with glazed hats, jack-boots, and flowing manes and tails, they rattle out of the yard of the hotel bristol in the place vendome, and canter between the sun-and- shadow-chequered colonnade of the rue de rivoli and the garden of the ill-fated palace of a headless king and queen, off by the place of concord, and the elysian fields, and the gate of the star, out of paris. sooth to say, they cannot go away too fast; for, even here, my lady dedlock has been bored to death. concert, assembly, opera, theatre, drive, nothing is new to my lady, under the worn-out heavens. only last sunday, when poor wretches were gay—within the walls, playing with children among the clipped trees and the statues in the palace gar- den; walking, a score abreast, in the elysian fields, made more elysian by performing dogs and wooden horses; be- tween whiles filtering (a few) through the gloomy cathe- dral of our lady, to say a word or two at the base of a pil- lar, within flare of a rusty little gridironfull of gusty little tapers—without the walls, encompassing paris with dancing, love-making, wine-drinking, tobacco-smoking, tomb-visiting, billiard, card and domino playing, quack-doctoring, and much murderous refuse, animate and inanimate, only last sunday, my lady, in the desolation of boredom and the clutch of giant despair, almost hated her own maid for being in spirits. she cannot, therefore, go too fast from paris. weariness of soul lies before her, as it lies behind—her ariel has put a girdle of it round the whole earth, and it cannot be un detective stories clasped—but the imperfect remedy is always to fly, from the last place where it has been experienced. fling paris back into the distance, then, exchanging it for endless ave- nues and cross-avenues of wintry trees! and, when next beheld, let it be some leagues away, with the gate of the star a white speck glittering in the sun, and the city a mere mound in a plain; two dark square towers rising out of it, and light and shadow descending on it aslant, like the angels in jacob's dream! sir leicester is generally in a complacent state, and rarely bored. when he has nothing else to do, he can always con- template his own greatness. it is a considerable advantage to a man to have so inexhaustible a subject. after reading his letters, he leans back in his corner of the carriage, and generally reviews his importance to society. "you have an unusual amount of correspondence this morning? " says my lady after a long time. she is fatigued with reading. has almost read a page in twenty miles. "nothing in it, though. nothing whatever." "i saw one of mr. tulkinghorn's long effusions, i think?" "you see everything," says sir leicester, with admira- tion. "ha!" sighs my lady, "he is the most tiresome of men!" "he sends—i really beg your pardon—he sends," says sir leicester, selecting the letter and unfolding it, "a mes- sage to you. our stopping to change horses, as i came to his postscript, drove it out of my memory. i beg you'll excuse me. he says "sir leicester is so long in taking out his eye-glass and adjusting it, that my lady looks a little irritated. "he says, 'in the matter of the right of way 'i beg your pardon, that's not the place. he says— yes! here i have it! he says, ' i beg my respectful com- pliments to my lady, who, i hope, has benefited by the change. will you do me the favor to mention (as it may interest her) that i have something to tell her on her return, in reference to the person who copied the affidavit in the charles dickens mouth, and general uncomfortable tightness of the face, rendering the jaws too eager, and the skull too prominent. there is something indefinably keen and wan about her an- atomy; and she has a watchful way of looking out of the corners of her eyes without turning her head, which could be pleasantly dispensed with—especially when she is in an ill-humor and near knives. through all the good taste of her dress and little adornments, these objections so ex- press themselves, that she seems to go about like a very neat she-wolf imperfectly tamed. besides being accomplished in all the knowledge appertaining to her post, she is al- most an englishwoman in her acquaintance with the lan- guage—consequently, she is in no want of words to shower upon rosa for having attracted my lady's attention; and she pours them out with such grim ridicule as she sits at dinner, that her companion, the affectionate man, is rather relieved when she arrives at the spoon stage of that per- formance. ha, ha, ha! she, hortense, been in my lady's service since five years, and always kept at the distance, and this doll, this puppet, caressed—absolutely caressed—by my lady on the moment of her arrival at the house! ha, ha, ha!" and do you know how pretty you are, child ?"—" no, my lady."—you are right there!" and how old are you, child! and take care they do not spoil you by flattery, child!" o how droll! it is the best thing altogether. in short, it is such an admirable thing, that mademoiselle hortense can't forget it; but at meals for days afterwards, even among her countrywomen and others attached in like capacity to the troop of visitors, relapses into silent enjoy- ment of the joke—an enjoyment expressed, in her own con- vivial manner, by an additional tightness of face, thin elongation of compressed lips, and sidewise look: which in- tense appreciation of humor is frequently reflected in my lady's mirrors, when my lady is not among them. all the mirrors in the house are brought into action now: many of them after a long blank. they reflect handsome faces, simpering faces, youthful faces, faces of three-score detective stories and-ten that will not submit to be old: the entire collection of faces that have come to pass a january week or two at chesney wold, and which the fashionable intelligence, a mighty hunter before the lord, hunts with a keen scent, from their breaking cover at the court of st. james's to their being run down to death. the place in lincolnshire is all alive. by day, guns and voices are heard ringing in the woods, horsemen and carriages enliven the park roads, servants and hangers-on pervade the village and the ded- lock arms. seen by night, from distant openings in the trees, the row of windows in the long drawing-room, where my lady's picture hangs over the great chimney-piece, is like a row of jewels set in a black frame. on sunday, the chill little church is almost warmed by so much gallant company, and the general flavor of the dedlock dust is quenched in delicate perfumes. the brilliant and distinguished circle comprehends within it no contracted amount of education, sense, courage, honor, beauty, and virtue. yet there is something a little wrong about it, in despite of its immense advantages. what can it be? dandyism? there is no king george the fourth now (more's the pity!) to set the dandy fashion; there are no clear-starched jack-towel neckcloths, no short-waisted coats, no false calves, no stays. there are no caricatures, now, of effeminate exquisites so arrayed, swooning in opera- boxes with excess of delight, and being revived by other dainty creatures, poking long-necked scent bottles at their noses. there is no beau whom it takes four men at once to shake into his buckskins, or who goes to see all the ex- ecutions, or who is troubled with the self-approach of hav- ing once consumed a pea. but is there dandyism in the brilliant and distinguished circle notwithstanding, dandy- ism of a more mischievous sort, that has got below the surface and is doing less harmless things than jack-towel- ing itself and stopping its own digestion, to which no ra- tional person need particularly object? why, yes. it cannot be disguised. there are, at ches charles dickens ney wold this january week, some ladies and gentlemen of the newest fashion, who have set up a dandyism—in religion, for instance. who, in mere lackadaisical want of an emotion, have agreed upon a little dandy talk about the vulgar wanting faith in things in general; meaning, in the things that have been tried and found wanting, as though a low fellow should unaccountably lose faith in a bad shilling, after finding it out! who would make the vulgar very picturesque and faithful, by putting back the hands upon the clock of time, and canceling a few hun- dred years of history. there are also ladies and gentlemen of another fashion, not so new, but very elegant, who have agreed tc puc » smooth glaze on the world, and to keep down all its realities. for whom everything must be languid and pretty. who have found out the perpetual stoppage. who are to rejoice at nothing, and be sorry for nothing. who are not to be disturbed by ideas. on whom even the fine arts, attending in powder and walking backward like the lord chamberlain, must array themselves in the milliners' and tailors' patterns of past generations, and be particularly careful not to be in earnest or to receive any impress from the moving age. then there is my lord boodle, of considerable reputa- tion with his party, who has known what office is, and who tells sir leicester dedlock with much gravity, after dinner, that he really does not see to what the present age is tend- ing. a debate is not what a debate used to be; the house is not what the house used to be; even a cabinet is not what it formerly was. he perceives with astonishment, that supposing the present government be overthrown, the limited choice of the crown, in the formation of a new ministry, would lie between lord coodle and sir thomas doodle—supposing it to be impossible for the duke of foodle to act with goodle, which may be assumed to be the case in consequence of the breach arising out of that affair with hoodle. then, giving the home department and the leadership of the house of commons to joodle, detective stories the exchequer to koodle, the colonies to loodle, and the foreign office to moodle, what are you to do with noodle? you can't offer him the presidency of the council; that is reserved for poodle. you can't put him in the woods and forests; that is hardly good enough for quoodle. what follows? that the country is shipwrecked, lost, and gone to pieces (as is made manifest to the patriotism of sir leicester dedlock), because you can't provide for noodle! on the other hand, the right honorable william buffy, m.p., contends across the table with someone else, that the shipwreck of the country—about which there is no doubt; it is only the manner of it that is in question—is aitriduta' .e to cuffy. if you had done with cuffy what i ou ouglu ic have done when he first came into parliament, and ha prevented him from going over to duffy, you would have got him into alliance with fuffy, you would have ! ad with you the weight attaching as a smart debater to guffy, you would have brought to bear upon the elec- tions the wealth of huffy, you would have got in for three counties juffy, kuffy, and luffy, and you would have strengthened your administration by the official knowledge and the business habits of muffy. all this, instead of be- ing as you now are, dependent on the mere caprice of puffy! as to this point, and as to some minor topics, there are differences of opinion; but it is perfectly clear to the bril- liant and distinguished circle, all round, that nobody is in question but boodle and his retinue, and buffy and his retinue. these are the great actors for whom the stage is reserved. a people there are, no doubt—a certain large number of supernumeraries, who are to be occasionally ad- dressed, and relied upon for shouts and choruses, as on the theatrical stage; but boodle and buffy, their followers and families, their heirs, executors, administrators, and assigns, are the born first-actors, managers, and leaders, and no others can appear upon the scene for ever and ever. in this, too, there is perhaps more dandyism at chesney wold than the brilliant and distinguished circle will find good for itself in the long run. for it is, even with the charles dickens stillest and politest circles, as with the circle the necro- mancer draws around him—very strange appearances may be seen in active motion outside. with this difference: that, being realities and not phantoms, there is the greater danger of their breaking in. chesney wold is quite full, anyhow; so full, that a burn- ing sense of injury arises in the breasts of ill-lodged ladies'- maids, and is not to be extinguished. only one room is empty. it is a turret chamber of the third order of merit, plainly, but comfortably furnished, and having an old- fashioned business air. it is mr. tulkinghorn's room, and is never bestowed on anybody else, for he may come at any time. he is not come yet. it is his quiet habit to walk across the park from the village in fine weather; to drop into this room, as if he had never been out of it since he was last seen there; to request a servant to inform sir leicester that he is arrived, in case he should be wanted; and to appear ten minutes before dinner, in the shadow of the library-door. he sleeps in his turret, with a com- plaining flag-staff over his head; and has some leads out- side, on which, any fine morning when he is down here, his black figure may be seen walking before breakfast like a larger species of rook. every day before dinner, my lady looks for him in the dusk of the library, but he is not there. every day at dinner, my lady glances down the table for the vacant place, that would be waiting to receive him if he had just arrived; but there is no vacant place. every night, my lady casually asks her maid: "is mr. tulkinghorn come?" every night the answer is, "no, my lady, not yet." one night, while having her hair undressed, my lady loses herself in deep thought after this reply, until she sees her own brooding face, in the opposite glass, and a pair of black eyes curiously observing her. "be so good as to attend," says my lady then, address- ing the reflection of hortense, "to your business. you can contemplate your beauty at another time." detective stories "pardon! it was your ladyship's beauty." "that," says my lady, "you needn't contemplate at all." at length, one afternoon a little before sunset, when the bright groups of figures, which have for the last hour or two enlivened the ghost's walk, are all dispersed, and only sir leicester and my lady remain upon the terrace, mr. tulkinghorn appears. he comes towards them at his usual methodical pace, which is never quickened, never slackened. he wears his usual expressionless mask—if it be a mask— and carries family secrets in every limb of his body, and every crease of his dress. whether his whole soul is devoted to the great, or whether he yields them nothing be- yond the services he sells, is his personal secret. he keeps it, as he keeps the secrets of his clients; he is his own client in that matter, and will never betray himself. "how do you do, mr. tulkinghorn?" says sir leicester, giving him his hand. mr. tulkinghorn is quite well. sir leicester is quite well. my lady is quite well. all highly satisfactory. the lawyer, with his hands behind him, walks, at sir leicester's side, along the terrace. my lady walks upon the other side. "we expected you before," says sir leicester. a gra- cious observation. as much as to say, "mr. tulkinghorn, we remember your existence when you are not here to remind us of it by your presence. we bestow a fragment of our minds upon you, sir, you see " mr. tulkinghorn, comprehending it, inclines his head, and says he is much obliged. "i should have come down sooner," he explains, "but that i have been much engaged with those matters in the several suits between yourself and boythorn." "a man of a very ill-regulated mind," observes sir leicester, with severity. "an extremely dangerous per- son in any community. a man of a very low character of mind." "he is obstinate," says mr. tulkinghorn. "it is natural to such a man to be so," says sir leices charles dickens ter, looking most profoundly obstinate himself. "i am not at all surprised to hear it." "the only question is," pursues the lawyer, "whether you will give up anything." "no, sir," replies sir leicester. "nothing. / give up?" "i don't mean anything of importance. that, of course, i know you would not abandon. i mean any minor point." "mr. tulkinghorn," returns sir leicester, "there can be no minor point between myself and mr. boythorn. if i go farther, and observe that i cannot readily conceive how any right of mine can be a minor point, i speak not so much in reference to myself as an individual, as in refer- ence to the family position i have it in charge to maintain." mr. tulkinghorn inclines his head again. "i have now my instructions," he says. "mr. boythorn will give us a good deal of trouble" "it is the character of such a mind, mr. tulkinghorn," sir leicester interrupts him, "to give trouble. an ex- ceedingly ill-conditioned, leveling person. a person who, fifty years ago, would probably have been tried at the old bailey for some demagogue proceeding, and severely pun- ished—if not," adds sir leicester, after a moment's pause, "if not hanged, drawn, and quartered." sir leicester appears to discharge his stately breast of a burden, in passing this capital sentence; as if it were the next satisfactory thing to have the sentence executed. "but night is coming on," says he, "and my lady will take cold. my dear, let us go in." as they turn towards the hall-door, lady dedlock ad- dresses mr. tulkinghorn for the first time. "you sent me a message respecting the person whose writing i happened to inquire about. it was like you to remember the circumstance; i had quite forgotten it. your message reminded me of it again. i can't imagine what association i had with a hand like that; but i surely had some." "you had some?" mr. tulkinghorn repeats. "o yes!" returns my lady carelessly. "i think i detective stories must have had some. and did you really take the trouble to find out the writer of that actual thing—what is it!— affidavit?" "yes." "how very odd!" they pass into a somber breakfast-room on the ground floor, lighted in the day by two deep windows. it is now twilight. the fire glows brightly on the paneled wall, and palely on the window-glass, where, through the cold re- flection of the blaze, the colder landscape shudders in the wind, and a gray mist creeps along: the only traveler besides the waste of clouds. my lady lounges in a great chair in the chimney-corner, and sir leicester takes another great chair opposite. the lawyer stands before the fire, with his hand at arm's length, shading his face. he looks across his arm at my lady. "yes," he says, "i inquired about the man, and found him. and, what is very strange, i found him" "not to be any out-of-the-way person, i am afraid!" lady dedlock anticipates. "i found him dead." "o dear me!" remonstrated sir leicester. not so much shocked by the fact, as by the fact of the fact being mentioned. "i was directed to his lodging—a miserable, poverty- stricken place—and i found him dead." "you will excuse me, mr. tulkinghorn," observes sir leicester. "i think the less said" "pray, sir leicester, let me hear the story out" (it is my lady speaking). "it is quite a story for twilight. how very shocking! dead?" mr. tulkinghorn re-asserts it by another inclination of his head. "whether by his own hand" "upon my honor!" cries sir leicester. "really!" "do let me hear the story!" says my lady. "whatever you desire, my dear. but, i must say—■—" "no, you mustn't say! go on, mr. tulkinghorn." charles dickens sir leicester's gallantry concedes the point; though he still feels that to bring this sort of squalor among the upper classes is really—really "i was about to say," resumes the lawyer, with un- disturbed calmness, "that whether he had died by his own hand or not, it was beyond my power to tell you. i should amend that phrase, however, by saying that he had un- questionably died of his own act, though whether by his own deliberate intention, or by mischance, can never cer- tainly be known. the coroner's jury found that he took the poison accidentally." "and what kind of man," my lady asks, "was this de- plorable creature?" "very difficult to say," returns the lawyer, shaking his head. "he had lived so wretchedly, and was so neglected, with his gypsy color, and his wild black hair and beard, that i should have considered him the commonest of the com- mon. the surgeon had a notion that he had once been something better, both in appearance and condition." "what did they call the wretched being?" "they called him what he had called himself, but no one knew his name." "not even anyone who had attended on him?" "no one had attended on him. he was found dead. in fact, i found him." "without any clew to anything more?" "without any; there was," says the lawyer meditatively, "an old portmanteau; but—no, there were no papers." during the utterance of every word of this short dialogue, lady dedlock and mr. tulkinghorn, without any other alteration in their customary deportment, have looked very steadily at one another—as was natural, perhaps, in the discussion of so unusual a subject. sir leicester has looked at the fire, with the general expression of the ded- lock on the staircase. the story being told, he renews his stately protest, saying, that as it is quite clear that no as- sociation in my lady's mind can possibly be traceable to this poor wretch (unless he was a begging letter writer)j detective stories he trusts to hear no more about a subject so far removed from my lady's station. "certainly, a collection of horrors," says my lady, gathering up her mantles and furs; "but they interest one for the moment! have the kindness, mr. tulkinghorn, to open the door for me." mr. tulkinghorn does so with deference, and holds it open while she passes out. she passes close to him, with her usual fatigued manner, and insolent grace. they meet again at dinner—again, next day—again for many days in succession. lady dedlock is always the same exhausted deity, surrounded by worshipers, and terribly liable to be bored to death, even while presiding at her own shrine. mr. tulkinghorn is always the same speechless repository of noble confidences: so oddly out of place, and yet so per- fectly at home. they appear to take as little note of one another, as any two people, inclosed within the same walls, could. but, whether each evermore watches and suspects the other, evermore mistrustful of some great reservation; whether each is evermore prepared at all points for the other, and never to be taken unawares; what each would give to know how much the other knows—all this is hid- den, for the time, in their own hearts. vi tom-all-alone's my lady dedlock is restless, very restless. the aston- ished fashionable intelligence hardly knows where to have her. to-day, she is at chesney wold; yesterday she was at her house in town; to-morrow, she may be abroad, for anything the fashionable intelligence can with confi- dence predict. even sir leicester's gallantry has some trouble to keep pace with her. it would have more, but that his other faithful ally, for better and for worse—the gout—darts into the old oak bed-chamber at chesney wold, and grips him by both legs. charles dickens sir leicester receives the gout as a troublesome demon, but still a demon of the patrician order. all the dedlocks, in the direct male line, through a course of time during and beyond which the memory of man goeth not to the contrary, have had the gout. it can be proved, sir. other men's fathers may have died of the rheumatism, or may have taken base contagion from the tainted blood of the sick vulgar, but the dedlock family have communicated something exclusive, even to the leveling process of dying, by dying of their own family gout. it has come down, through the illustrious line, like the plate, or the pictures, or the place in lincolnshire. it is among their dignities. sir leicester is, perhaps, not wholly without an impression, though he has never resolved it into words, that the angel of death in the discharge of his necessary duties may ob- serve to the shades of the aristocracy, "my lords and gentlemen, i have the honor to present to you another ded- lock certified to have arrived per the family gout." hence, sir leicester yields up his family legs to the family disorder, as if he held his name and fortune on that feudal tenure. he feels, that for a dedlock to be laid upon his back and spasmodically twitched and stabbed in his extremities is a liberty taken somewhere; but, he thinks, "we have all yielded to this; it belongs to us; it has, for some hundreds of years, been understood that we are not to make the vaults in the park interesting on more ignoble terms; and i submit myself to the compromise." and a goodly show he makes, lying in a flush of crimson and gold, in the midst of the great drawing-room, before his favorite picture of my lady, with broad strips of sunlight shining in, down the long perspective, through the long line of windows, and alternating with soft reliefs of shadow. outside, the stately oaks, rooted for ages in the green ground which has never known ploughshare, but was still a chase when kings rode to battle with sword and shield, and rode a-hunting with bow and arrow; bear witness to his greatness. inside, his forefathers, looking on him, from the walls, say, "each of us was a passing reality here, detective stories and left this colored shadow of himself, and melted into remembrance as dreamy as the distant voices of the rooks now lulling you to rest;" and bear their testimony to his greatness, too. and he is very great, this day. and woe to boythorn, or other daring wight, who shall presumptu- ously contest an inch with him! my lady is at present represented, near sir leicester, by her portrait. she has flitted away to town, with no in- tention of remaining there, and will soon flit hither again, to the confusion of the fashionable intelligence. the house in town is not prepared for her reception. it is muffled and dreary. only one mercury in powder, gapes disconsolate at the hall-window; and he mentioned last night to another mercury of his acquaintance, also accustomed to good so- ciety, that if that sort of thing was to last—which it couldn't, for a man of his spirits couldn't bear it, and a man of his figure couldn't be expected to bear it—there would be no resource for him, upon his honor, but to cut his throat! what connection can there be, between the place in lin- colnshire, the house in town, the mercury in powder, and the whereabout of jo the outlaw with the broom, who had that distant ray of light upon him when he swept the churchyard-step? what connection can there have been between many people in the innumerable histories of this world, who, from opposite sides of great gulfs, have, never- theless, been very curiously brought together! jo sweeps his crossing all day long, unconscious of the link, if any link there be. he sums up his mental condi- tion, when asked a question, by replying that he "don't know nothink." he knows that it's hard to keep the mud off the crossing in dirty weather, and harder still to live by doing it. nobody taught him even that much; he found it out. jo lives—that is to say, jo has not yet died—in a ruinous place, known to the like of him by the name of tom-all- alone's. it is a black, dilapidated street, avoided by all decent people; where the crazy houses were seized upon, charles dickens writing, which has been suspended for a few hours, recom- mences. jo, and the other lower animals, get on in the unintelligible mess as they can. it is market-day. the blinded oxen, over-goaded, over-driven, never guic .d, run into wrong places and are beaten out; and plunge, red- eyed and foaming, at stone walls; and often sorely hurt the innocent, and often sorely hurt themselves. very like jo and his order; very, very like! a band of music comes and plays. jo listens to it. so does a dog—a drover's dog, waiting for his master outside a butcher's shop, and evidently thinking about those sheep he has had upon his mind for some hours, and is happily rid of. he seems perplexed respecting three or four; can't remember where he left them; looks up and down the street, as half expecting to see them astray; suddenly pricks up his ears and remembers all about it. a thoroughly vaga- bond dog, accustomed to low company and public-houses; a terrific dog to sheep; ready at a whistle to scamper over their backs, and tear out mouthfuls of their wool; but an educated, improved, developed dog, who has been taught his duties and knows how to discharge them. he and jo listen to the music, probably with much the same amount of animal satisfaction; likewise, as to awakened associa.- tion, aspiration or regret, melancholy or joyful reference to things beyond the senses, they are probably upon a par. but, otherwise, how far above the human listener is the brute! turn that dog's descendants wild, like jo, and in a very few years they will so degenerate that they will lose even their bark—but not their bite. the day changes as it wears itself away, and becomes dark and drizzly. jo fights it out, at his crossing, among the mud and wheels, the horses, whips, and umbrellas, and gets but a scanty sum to pay for the unsavory shelter of tom-all-alone's. twilight comes on; gas begins to start up in the shops; the lamplighter, with his ladder, runs along the margin of the pavement. a wretched evening is be- ginning to close in. detective stories in his chambers, mr. tulkinghorn sits meditating an application to the nearest magistrate to-morrow morning for a warrant. gridley, a disappointed suitor, has been here to- day, and has been alarming. we are not to be put in bodily fear, and that ill-conditioned fellow shall be held to bail again. from the ceiling, fore-shortened allegory, in the person of one impossible roman upside down, points with the arm of samson (out of joint and an odd one) obtrusively towards the window. why should mr. tulk- inghorn, for no such reason, look out of window? is the hand not always pointing there? so he does not look out of window. and if he did, what would it be to see a woman going by? there are women enough in the world. mr. tulk- inghorn thinks—too many; they are at the bottom of all that goes wrong in it, though, for the matter of that, they create business for lawyers. what would it be to see a woman going by, even though she were going secretly? they are all secret. mr. tulkinghorn knows that very well. but they are not all like the woman who now leaves him and his house behind; between whose plain dress, and her refined manner, there is something exceedingly inconsist- ent. she should be an upper servant by her attire, yet, in her air and step, though both are hurried and assumed— as far as she can assume in the muddy streets, which she treads with an unaccustomed foot—she is a lady. her face is veiled, and still she sufficiently betrays herself to make more than one of those who pass her look round sharply. she never turns her head. lady or servant, she has a purpose in her, and can follow it. she never turns her head, until she comes to the crossing where jo plies with his broom. he crosses with her, and begs. still, she does not turn her head until she has landed on the other side. then, she slightly beckons to him, and says " come here!" jo follows her, a pace or two, into a quiet court. "are you the boy i've read of in the papers?" she asked behind her veil. detective stories jo attends closely while the words are being spoken; tells them off on his broom-handle, finding them rather hard; pauses to consider their meaning; considers it satis- factory, and nods his ragged head. "i'm fly," says jo. "but fen larks, you know. stow hooking it!" "what does the horrible creature mean?" exclaims the servant, recoiling from him. "stow cutting away, you know!" says jo. "i don't understand you. go on before! i will give you more money than you ever had in your life." jo screws up his mouth into a whistle, gives his ragged head a rub, takes his broom under his arm, and leads the way; passing deftly, with his bare feet, over the hard stones, and through the mud and mire. cook's court. jo stops. a pause. "who lives here?" "him wot give him his writing, and give me half a bull," says jo, in a whisper, without looking over his shoulder. "go on to the next!" krook's house. jo stops again. a longer pause. "who lives here?" "he lived here," jo answers as before. after a silence he is asked, "in which room?" "in the back room up there. you can see the winder from this corner. up there! that's where i see him stritched out. this is the public 'ouse where i was took to." "go on to the next!" it was a longer walk to the next; but jo, relieved of his first suspicions, sticks to the forms imposed upon him, and does not look round. by many devious ways, reeking with offense of many kinds, they come to the little tunnel of a court, and to the gas-lamp (lighted now), and to the iron gate. "he was put there," says jo, holding to the bars and looking in. "where? o, what a scene of horror!" charles dickens "there!" says jo, pointing. "over yinder. among them piles of bones, and close to that there kitchin winder! they put him wery nigh the top. they was obliged to stamp upon it to get it in. i could unkiver it for you with my broom, if the gate was open. that's why they locks it, i s'pose," giving it a shake. "it's always locked. look at the rat!" cries jo, excited. "hi! look there he goes! ho! into the ground!" the servant shrinks into a corner—into a corner of that hideous archway, with its deadly stains contaminating her dress; and putting out her two hands, and passionately telling him to keep away from her, for he is loathsome to her, so remains for some moments. jo stands staring, and is still staring when she recovers herself. "is this place of abomination consecrated ground?" "i don't know nothink of consequential ground," says jo, still staring. "is it blessed?" "which?" says jo, in the last degree amazed. "is it blessed?" "i'm blest if i know," says jo, staring more than ever; "but i shouldn't think it warn't. blest?" repeats jo, something troubled in his mind. "it ain't done it much good if it is. blest? i should think it was t'othered my- self. but i don't know nothink!" the servant takes as little heed of what he says, as she seems to take of what she has said herself. she draws off her glove, to get some money from her purse. jo silently notices how white and small her hand is, and what a jolly servant she must be to wear such sparkling rings. she drops a piece of money in his hand, without touching it, and shuddering as their hands approach. "now," she adds, " show me the spot again!" jo thrusts the handle of his broom between the bars of the gate, and, with his utmost power of elaboration, points it out. at length, looking aside to see if he has made him- self intelligible, he finds that he is alone. his first proceeding, is, to hold the piece of money to charles dickens at low water; where stranded proceedings, offices at anchor, idle clerks lounging on lop-sided stools that will not recover their perpendicular until the current of term sets in, lie high and dry upon the ooze of the long vacation. outer doors of chambers are shut up by the score, messages and parcels are to be left at the porter's lodge by the bushel. a crop of grass would grow in the chinks of the stone pave- ment outside lincoln's inn hall, but that the ticket-porters, who have nothing to do beyond sitting in the shade there, with their white aprons over their heads to keep the flies off, grub it up and eat it thoughtfully. there is only one judge in town. even he only comes twice a-week to sit in chambers. if the country folks of those assize towns on his circuit could see him now! no full-bottomed wig, no red petticoats, no fur, no javelin-men, no white wands. merely a close-shaved gentleman in white trousers and a white hat, with sea-bronze on the judicial countenance, and a strip of bark peeled by the solar rays from the judicial nose, who calls in at the shell-fish shop as he comes along, and drinks iced ginger-beer! the bar of england is scattered over the face of the earth. how england can get on through four long summer months without its bar—which is its acknowledged refuge in adversity, and its only legitimate triumph in prosperity— is beside the question; assuredly that shield and buckler of britannia are not in present wear. the learned gentleman who is always so tremendously indignant at the unprec- edented outrage committed on the feelings of his client by the opposite party, that he never seems likely to recover it, is doing infinitely better than might be expected, in swit- zerland. the learned gentleman who does the withering business, and who blights all opponents with his gloomy sarcasm, is as merry as a grig at a french watering-place. the learned gentleman who weeps by the pint on the small- est provocation, has not shed a tear these six weeks. the very learned gentleman who has cooled the national heat of his gingery complexion in pools and fountains of law, until he has become great in knotty arguments for term-time, detective stories when he poses the drowsy bench with legal "chaff," inex- plicable to the uninitiated and to most of the initiated too, is roaming, with a characteristic delight in aridity and dust, about constantinople. other dispersed fragments of the same great palladium are to be found on the canals of venice, at the second cataract of the nile, in the baths of germany, and sprinkled on the sea-sand all over the english coast. scarcely one is to be encountered in the deserted region of chancery lane. if such a lonely member of the bar do flit across the waste, and come upon a prowling suitor who is unable to leave off haunting the scenes of his anxiety, they frighten one another, and retreat into opposite shades. it is the hottest long vacation known for many years. all the young clerks are madly in love, and, according to their various degrees, pine for bliss with the beloved object, at margate, ramsgate, or gravesend. all the middle-aged clerks think their family too large. all the unowned dogs who stray into the inns of court, and pant about staircases and other dry places, seeking water, give short howls of ag- gravation. all the blind men's dogs in the streets draw their masters against pumps, or trip them over buckets. a shop with a sun-blind, and a watered pavement, and a bowl of gold and silver fish in the window, is a sanctuary. tem- ple bar gets so hot, that it is, to the adjacent strand and fleet street, what a heater is in an urn, and keeps them simmering all night. there are offices about the inns of court in which a man might be cool, if any coolness were worth purchasing at such a price in dulness; but, the little thoroughfares im- mediately outside those retirements seem to blaze. in mr. krook's court it is so hot that the people turn their houses inside out, and sit in chairs upon the pavement—mr. krook included, who there pursues his studies, with his cat (who never is too hot), by his side. the sol's arms has discon- tinued the harmonic meetings for the season, and little swills is engaged at the pastoral gardens down the river, where he comes out in quite an innocent manner, and sings detective stories stretch, prepares the little drawing-room for tea. all the furniture is shaken and dusted, the portraits of mr. and mrs. snagsby are touched up with a wet cloth, the best tea- service is set forth, and there is excellent provision made of dainty new bread, crusty twists, cool fresh butter, thin slices of ham, tongue, and german sausage, and delicate little rows of anchovies nestling in parsley; not to mention new- laid eggs, to be brought up warm in a napkin, and hot but- tered toast. for, chadband is rather a consuming vessel— the persecutors say a gorging vessel; and can wield such weapons of the flesh as a knife and fork, remarkably well. mr. snagsby in his best coat, looking at all the prepara- tions when they are completed, and coughing his cough of deference behind his hand, says to mrs. snagsby, "at what time did you expect mr. and mrs. chadband, my love?" "at six," says mrs. snagsby. mr. snagsby observes in a mild and casual way, that " it's gone that." "perhaps you'd like to begin without them," is mrs. snagsby's reproachful remark. mr. snagsby does look as if he would like it very much, but he says, with his cough of mildness, "no, my dear, no, i merely named the time." "what's time," says mrs. snagsby, "to eternity?" "very true, my dear," says mr. snagsby. "only when a person lays in victuals for tea, a person does it with a view—perhaps—more to time. and when a time is named for having tea, it's better to come up to it." - "to come up to it!" mrs. snagsby repeats the severity. "up to it! as if mr. chadband was a fighter!" "not at all, iny dear," says mr. snagsby. here, guster, who had been looking out of the bedroom window, comes rustling and scratching down the little staircase like a popular ghost, and, falling flushed into the drawing-room, announces that mr. and mrs. chadband have appeared in the court. the bell at the inner door in the passage immediately thereafter tinkling, she is admonished charles dickens by mrs. snagsby, on pain of instant reconsignment to her patron saint, not to omit the ceremony of announcement. much discomposed in her nerves (which were previously in the best order) by this threat, she so fearfully mutilates that point of state as to announce " mr. and mrs. cheesem- ing, least which, imeantersay, whatesername!" and retires conscience-stricken, from the presence. mr. chadband is a large yellow man, with a fat smile, and a general appearance of having a good deal of train oil in his system. mrs. chadband is a stern, severe-looking, silent woman. mr. chadband moves softly and cum- brously, not unlike a bear who has been taught to walk up- right. he is very much embarrassed about the arms, as if they were inconvenient to him, and he wanted to grovel; is very much in a perspiration about the head; and never speaks without first putting up his great hand, as delivering a token to his hearers that he is going to edify them. "my friends," said mr. chadband, "peace be on this house! on the master thereof, on the mistress thereof, on the young maidens, and on the young men! my friends, why do i wish for peace? what is peace? is it war? no. is it strife? no. is it lovely, and gentle, and beauti- ful, and pleasant, and serene, and joyful? o yes! there- fore, my friends, i wish for peace, upon you and upon yours." in consequence of mrs. snagsby looking deeply edified, mr. snagsby thinks it expedient on the whole to say amen, which is well received. "now, my friends," proceeds mr. chadband, "since i am upon this theme" guster presents herself. mrs. snagsby, in a spectral bass voice, and without removing her eyes from chadband, says, with dread distinctness, " go away?" "now, my friends," says chadband, "since i am upon this theme, and in my lowly path improving it" guster is heard unaccountably to murmur "one thousing seven hundred and eighty-two." the spectral voice repeats more solemnly, " go away!" detective stories "now, my friends," says mr. chadband, " we will inquire in a spirit of love" still guster reiterates "one thousing seven hundred and eighty-two." mr. chadband, pausing with the resignation of a man accustomed to be persecuted, and languidly folding up his chin into his fat smile, says, "let us hear the maiden! speak, maiden!" "one thousing seven hundred and eighty-two, if you please, sir. which he wish to know what the shilling ware for," says guster, breathless. "for?" returns mrs. chadband. "for his fare!" guster replied that " he insists on one and eightpence, or on summonsizzing the party." mrs. snagsby and mrs. chadband are proceeding to grow shrill in indignation, when mr. chadband quiets the tumult by lifting up his hand. "my friends," says he, "i remember a duty unfulfilled yesterday. it is right that i should be chastened in some penalty. i ought not to murmur. rachael, pay the eight- pence!" while mrs. snagsby, drawing her breath, looks hard at mr. snagsby, as who should say, " you hear this apostle!" and while mr. chadband glows with humidity and train oil, mrs. chadband pays the money. it is mr. chadband's habit—it is the head and front of his pretensions indeed— to keep this sort of debtor and creditor account in the smallest items, and to post it publicly on the most trivial occasions. "my friends," says chadband, "eightpence is not much; it might justly have been one and fourpence; it might justly have been half-a-crown. o let us be joyful, joyful! o let us be joyful!" with which remark, which appears from its sound to be an extract in verse, mr. chadband stalks to the table, and, before taking a chair, lifts up his admonitory hand. "my friends,"says he," what is this which we now behold as being spread before us? refreshment. do we need refreshment, then, my friends? we do. and why do we charles dickens need refreshment, my friends? because we are but mortal, because we are but sinful, because we are but of earth, be- cause we are not of the air. can we fly, my friends? we cannot. why can we not fly, my friends?" mr. snagsby, presuming on the success of his last point, ventures to observe in a cheerful and rather knowing tone, "no wings." but, is immediately frowned down by mrs. snagsby. "i say, my friends," pursues mr. chadband, utterly re- jecting and obliterating mr. snagsby's suggestion, "why can we not fly? is it because we are calculated to walk? it is. could we walk, my friends, without strength? we could not. what should we do without strength, my friends? our legs would refuse to bear us, our knees would double up, our ankles would turn over, and we should come to the ground. then from whence, my friends, in a human point of view, do we derive the strength that is necessary to our limbs? is it," says chadband, glancing over the table, " from bread in various forms, from butter which is churned from the milk which is yielded unto us by the cow, from the eggs which are laid by the fowl, from ham, from tongue, from sausage, and from such like? it is. then let us partake of the good things which are set before us!" the persecutors denied that there was any particular gift in mr. chadband's piling verbose flights of stairs, one upon another, after this fashion. but this can only be received as a proof of their determination to persecute, since it must be within everybody's experience, that the chadband style of oratory is widely received and much admired. mr. chadband, however, having concluded for the present, sits down at mr. snagsby's table, and lays about him prodigiously. the conversion of nutriment of any sort into oil of the quality already mentioned, appears to be a process so inseparable from the constitution of this exem- plary vessel, that in beginning to eat and drink, he may be described as always becoming a kind of considerable oil mills or other large factory for the production of that ar detective stories tide on a wholesale scale. on the present evening of the long vacation, in cook's court, cursitor street, he does such a powerful stroke of business, that the warehouse appears to be quite full when the work ceases. at this period of the entertainment, guster, who has never recovered her first failure, but has neglected no possible or impossible means of bringing the establishment and herself into contempt—among which may be briefly enumerated her unexpectedly performing clashing military music on mr. chadband's head with plates, and afterwards crowning that gentleman with muffins—at which period of the entertainment, guster whispers mr. snagsby that he is wanted. "and being wanted in the—not to put too fine a point upon it—in the shop!" says mr. snagsby rising, "perhaps this good company will excuse me for half a minute." mr. snagsby descends, and finds the two 'prentices in- tently contemplating a police constable, who holds a ragged boy by the arm. "why, bless my heart," says mr. snagsby, "what's the matter?" "this boy," says the constable, " although he's repeatedly told to, won't move on" "i'm always a-moving on, sir," cries the boy, wiping away his grimy tears with his arm. "i've always been a-moving and a-moving on, ever since i was born. where can i possibly move to, sir, more nor i do move " "he won't move on," says the constable, calmly, with a slight professional hitch of his neck involving its better settlement in his stiff stock, "although he has been repeat- edly cautioned, and therefore i am obliged to take him into custody. he's as obstinate a young gonoph as i know. he won't move on." "o my eye! where can i move to?" cries the boy, clutching quite desperately at his hair, and beating his bare feet upon the floor of mr. snagsby's passage. "don't you come none of that, or i shall make blessed short work of you!" says the constable, giving him a pas detective stories you, and you were a respectable housekeeper, and if i'd call and make the inquiry, he'd appear. the young man don't seem inclined to keep his word, but—oh! here is the young man!" enter mr. guppy, who nods to mr. snagsby, and touches his hat with the chivalry of clerkship to the ladies on the stairs. "i was strolling away from the office just now, when i found this row going on," says mr. guppy to the law- stationer; "and as your name was mentioned, i thought it was right the thing should be looked into." "it was very good-natured of you, sir," says mr. snags- by, "and i am obliged to you." and mr. snagsby again relates his experience, again suppressing the half-crown fact. "now, i know where you live," says the constable, then, to jo. "you live down in tom-all-alone's. that's a nice innocent place to live in, ain't it?" "i can't go and live in no nicer place, sir," replies jo. "they wouldn't have nothink to say to me if i wos to go to a nice innocent place fur to live. who ud go and let a nice innocent lodging to such a reg'lar one as me?" "you are very poor, ain't you?" says the constable. "yes, i am indeed, sir, wery poor in gin'ral," replies jo. "i leave you to judge now! i shook these two half- crowns out of him," says the constable, producing them to the company, " in only putting my hand upon him!" "they're wot's left, mr. snagsby," says jo, "out of a sov'ring as wos give me by a lady in a wale as sed she wos a servant and as come to my crossin one night and asked to be showed this 'ere ouse and the ouse wot him as you giv the writin to died at, and the berrin-ground wot he's berrid in. she ses to me she ses 'are you the boy at ink- which?' she ses. i ses 'yes' i ses. she ses to me she ses ' can you show me all them places?' i ses 'yes i can' i ses. and she ses to me 'do it' and i dun it and she giv me a sov'ring and hooked it. and i ain't had much of the sov'ring neither," says jo, with dirty tears, charles dickens * fur i had to pay five bob, down in tom-all-alone's, afore they'd square it fur to give me change, and then a young man he thieved another five while i was asleep and another boy he thieved ninepence and the landlord he stood drains round with a lot more on it." "you don't expect anybody to believe this, about the lady and the sovereign, do you?" says the constable, eying him aside with ineffable disdain. "i don't know as i do, sir," replies jo. "i don't expect nothink at all, sir, much, but that's the true hist'ry on it." "you see what he is!" the constable observes to the au- dience. "well, mr. snagsby, if i don't lock him up this time, will you engage for his moving on?" "no!" cries mrs. snagsby from the stairs. "my little woman!" pleads her husband. "constable, i have no doubt he'll move on. you know you really must do it," says mr. snagsby. "i'm everyways agreeable, sir," says the hapless jo. "do it, then," observes the constable, "you know what you have got to do. do it! and recollect you won't get off so easy next time. catch hold of your money. now, the sooner you're five mile off, the better for all parties." with this farewell hint, and pointing generally to the setting sun, as a likely place to move on to, the constable bids his auditors good afternoon; and makes the echoes of cook's court perform slow music for him as he walks away on the shady side, carrying his iron-bound hat in his hand for a little ventilation. now, jo's improbable story concerning the lady and the sovereign has awakened more or less the curiosity of all the company. mr. guppy, who has an inquiring mind in mat- ters of evidence, and who has been suffering severely from the lassitude of the long vacation, takes that interest in the case, that he enters on a regular cross-examination of the witness, which is found so interesting by the ladies that mrs. snagsby politely invites him to step upstairs, and drink a cup of tea, if he will excuse the disarranged state of the tea-table, consequent on their previous exertions. charles dickens pearl, you are to us a diamond, you are to us a gem, you are to us a jewel. and why, my young friend?" "i don't know," replies jo. "i don't know nothink.""my young friend," says chadband, "it is because you know nothing that you are to us a gem and jewel. for what are you, my young friend? are you a beast of the field? no. a bird of the air? no. a fish of the sea or river? no. you are a human boy, my young friend. a human boy. o glorious to be a human boy! and why glorious, my young friend? because you are capable of receiving the lessons of wisdom, because you are capable of profiting by this discourse which i now deliver for your good, because you are not a stick, or a staff, or a stock, or a stone, or a post, or a pillar. "' o running stream of sparkling joy. to be a soaring human boy!' and do you cool yourself in that stream now, my young friend? no. why do you not cool yourself in that stream now? because you are in a state of darkness, because you are in a state of obscurity, because you are in a state of sin- fulness, because you are in a state of bondage. my young friend, what is bondage? let us, in a spirit of love, in- quire." at this threatening stage of the discourse, jo, who seems to have been gradually going out of his mind, smears his right arm over his face, and gives a terrible yawn. mrs. snagsby indignantly expresses her belief that he is a limb of the arch-fiend. "my friends," says mr. chadband, with his persecuted chin folding itself into its fat smile again as he looks round, "it is right that i should be humbled, it is right that i should be tried, it is right that i should be mortified, it is right that i should be corrected. i stumbled, on sabbath last, when i thought with pride of my three hours' improv- ing. the account is now favorably balanced; my creditor has accepted a composition. o let us be joyful, joyful! o let us be joyful!" charles dickens viii mr. bucket allegory looks pretty cool in lincoln's inn fields, though the evening is hot; for, both mr. tulkinghorn's windows are wide open, and the room is lofty, gusty, and gloomy. these may not be desirable characteristics when november comes with fog and sleet, or january with ice and snow; but they have their merits in the sultry long vacation weather. they enable allegory, though it has cheeks like peaches, and knees like bunches of blossoms, and rosy swellings for calves to its legs and muscles to its arms, to look tolerably cool to-night. plenty of dust comes in at mr. tulkinghorn's windows, and plenty more has generated among his furniture and papers. it lies thick everywhere. when a breeze from the country, that has lost its way, takes fright, and makes a blind hurry to rush out again, it flings as much dust in the eyes of allegory as the law—or mr. tulkinghorn, one of its trustiest representatives—may scatter, on occasion, in the eyes of the laity. in his towering magazine of dust, the universal article into which his papers and himself, and all his clients, and all things of earth, animate and inanimate, are resolving, mr. tulkinghorn sits at one of the open windows, enjoying a bottle of old port. though a hard-grained man, close, dry, and silent, he can enjoy old wine with the best. he has a priceless binn of port in some artful cellar under the fields, which is one of his many secrets. when he dines alone in chambers, as he has dined to-day, and has his bit of fish and his steak or chicken brought in from the coffee- house, he descends with a candle to the echoing regions below the deserted mansion, and, heralded by a remote reverberation of thundering doors, comes gravely back, en- circled by an earthly atmosphere, and carrying a bottle from which he pours a radiant nectar, two score and ten years charles dickens "not at all," says mr. tulkinghorn. "you told me, snagsby, that you put on your hat and came round without mentioning your intention to your wife. that was prudent, i think, because it's not a matter of such importance that it requires to be mentioned." "well, sir," returns mr. snagsby, "you see my little woman is—not to put too fine a point upon it—inquisitive. she's inquisitive. poor little thing, she's liable to spasms, and it's good for her to have her mind employed. in con- sequence of which she employs it—i should say upon every individual thing she can lay hold of, whether it concerns her or not—especially not. my little women has a very active mind, sir." mr. snagsby drinks, and murmurs with an admir- ing cough behind his hand, "dear me, very fine wine, indeed!" "therefore you kept your visit to yourself, last night?" says mr. tulkinghorn. "and to-night, too?" "yes, sir, and to-night, too. my little woman is at present in—not to put too fine a point on it—in a pious state, or in what she considers such, and attends the evening exertions (which is the name they go by) of a reverend party of the name of chadband. he has a great deal of eloquence at his command, undoubtedly, but i am not quite favorable to his style myself. that's neither here nor there. my little woman being engaged in that way, made it easier for me to step round in a quiet manner." mr. tulkinghorn assents. "fill ~our glass, snagsby." "thank you, sir, i am sure," returns the stationer, with his cough of deference. "this is wonderfully fine wine, sir!" "it is a rare wine now," says mr. tulkinghorn. "it is fifty years old." "is it indeed, sir? but i am not surprised to hear it, i am sure. it might be—any age almost." after render- ing this general tribute to the port, mr. snagsby in his modesty coughs an apology behind his hand for drinking anything so precious. detective stories "will you run over, once again, what the boy said?" asks mr. tulkinghorn, putting his hands into the pockets of his rusty smallclothes and leaning quietly back in his chair. "with pleasure, sir." then, with fidelity, though with some prolixity, the law- stationer repeats jo's statement made to the assembled guests at his house. on coming to the end of his narra- tive, he gives a great start, and breaks off with—" dear me, sir, i wasn't aware there was any other gentleman present!" mr. snagsby is dismayed to see, standing with an atten- tive face between himself and the lawyer, at a little dis- tance from the table, a person with a hat and stick in his hand, who was not there when he himself came in, and has not since entered by the door or by either of the windows. there is a press in the room, but its hinges have not creaked, nor has a step been audible upon the floor. yet this third person stands there, with his attentive face, and his hat and stick in his hands, and his hands behind him, a composed and quiet listener. he is a stoutly built, steady- looking, sharp-eye man in black, of about the middle-age. except that he looks at mr. snagsby as if he were going to take his portrait, there is nothing remarkable about him at first sight but his ghostly manner of appearing. "don't mind this gentleman," says mr. tulkinghorn, in his quiet way. "this is only mr. bucket." "o indeed, sir?" returns the stationer, expressing by a cough that he is quite in the dark as to who mr. bucket may be. "i wanted him to hear this story," say the lawyer, "be- cause i have half a mind (for a reason) to know more of it, and he is very intelligent in such things. what do you say to this, bucket?" "it's very plain, sir. since our people have moved this boy on, and he's not to be found on his old lay, if mr. snagsby don't object to go down with me to tom-all- alone's and point him out, we can have him here in less charles dickens than a couple of hours' time. i can do it without mr. snagsby, of course; but this is the shortest way." "mr. bucket is a detective officer, snagsby," says the lawyer in explanation. "is he, indeed, sir?" says mr. snagsby, with a strong tendency in his clump of hair to stand on end. "and if you have no real objection to accompany mr. bucket to the place in question," pursues the lawyer, "i shall feel obliged to you if you will do so." in a moment's hesitation on the part of mr. snagsby, bucket dips down to the bottom of his mind. "don't you be afraid of hurting the boy," he says. "you won't do that. it's all right as far as the boy's concerned. we shall only bring him here to ask him a question or so i want to put to him, and he'll be paid for his trouble, and sent away again. it'll be a good job for him. i promise you, as a man, that you shall see the boy sent away all right. don't you be afraid of hurting him; you ain't going to do that." "very well, mr. tulkinghorn!" cries mr. snagsby cheerfully, and reassured, " since that's the case" "yes! and lookee here, mr. snagsby," resumes bucket, taking him aside by the arm, tapping him familiarly on the breast, and speaking in a confidential tone. "you're a man of the world, you know, and a man of business, and a man of sense. that's what you are." "i am sure i am much obliged to you for your good opinion," returns the stationer, with his cough of modesty, "but" "that's what you are, you know," says bucket. "now, it ain't necessary to say to a man like you, engaged in your business, which is a business of trust and requires a person to be wide awake and have his senses about him, and his head screwed on tight (i had an uncle in your busi- ness once)—it ain't necessary to say to a man like you, that it's the best and wisest way to keep little matters like this quiet. don't you see? quiet!" "certainly, certainly," returns the other. detective stories "i don't mind telling you," says bucket, with an engaging appearance of frankness, " that as far as i can understand it, there seems to be a doubt whether this dead person wasn't entitled to a little property, and whether this female hasn't been up to some games respecting that property, don't you see?" "o!" says mr. snagsby, but not appearing to see quite distinctly. "now, what you want," pursues bucket, again, tapping mr. snagsby on the breast in a comfortable and soothing manner, "is, that every person should have their rights according to justice. that's what you want." "to be sure," returns mr. snagsby, with a nod. "on account of which, and at the same time to oblige a— do you call it, in your business, customer or client? i for- get how my uncle used to call it." "why, i generally say customer myself," replies mr. snagsby. "you're right!" returns mr. bucket, shaking hands with him quite affectionately,—" on account of which, and at the same time to oblige a real good customer, you mean to go down with me, in confidence, to tom-all-alone's, and to keep the whole thing quiet ever afterwards and never mention it to anyone. that's about your intentions, if i understand you?" "you are right, sir. you are right," says mr. snagsby. "then here's your hat," returns his new friend, quite as intimate with it as if he had made it; "and if you're ready, i am." they leave mr. tulkinghorn, without a ruffle on the surface of his unfathomable depths, drinking his old wine, and go down into the streets. "you don't happen to know a very good sort of person of the name of gridley, do you?" says bucket, in a friendly converse as they descended the stairs. "no," says mr. snagsby, considering, "i don't know anybody of that name. why?" "nothing particular," says bucket; "only, having al charles dickens /owed his temper to get a trifle the better of him, and having been threatening some respectable people, he is keep- ing out of the way of a warrant i have got against him— which it's a pity that a man of sense should do." as they walk along, mr. snagsby observes, as a novelty, that, however quick their pace may be, his companion still seems in some undefinable manner to lurk and lounge; also, that whenever he is going to turn to the right or left, he pretends to have a fixed purpose in his mind of going straight ahead, and wheels off, sharply, at the very last moment. now and then, when they pass a police-constable on his beat, mr. snagsby notices that both the constable and his guide fall into a deep abstraction as they come to- wards each other, and appear entirely to overlook each other, and to gaze into space. in a few instances, mr. bucket coming behind some under-sized young man with a shining hat on, and his sleek hair twisted into one flat curl on each side of his head, almost without glancing at him touches him with his stick; upon which the young man, looking round, instantly evaporates. for the most part mr. bucket notices things in general, with a face as unchanging as the great mourning ring on his little finger, or the brooch, composed of not much diamond and a good deal of setting, which he wears in his shirt. when they come at last to tom-all-alone's, mr. bucket stops for a moment at the corner, and takes a lighted bull's- eye from the constable on duty there, who then accompanies him with his own particular bull's-eye at his waist. be- tween his two conductors, mr. snagsby passes along the middle of a villainous street, undrained, unventilated, deep in black mud and corrupt water—though the roads are dry elsewhere—and reeking with such smells and sights that he, who has lived in london all his life, can scarce believe his senses. branching from this street and its heaps of ruins, are other streets and courts so infamous that mr. snagsby sickens in body and mind, and feels as if he were going, every moment deeper down, into the infernal gulf. "draw off a bit here, mr. snagsby," says bucket, as a detective stories kind of shabby palanquin is borne towards them, sur- rounded by a noisy crowd. "here's the fever coming up the street!" as the unseen wretch goes by, the crowd, leaving that object of attraction, hovers round the three visitors, like a dream of horrible faces, and fades away up alleys and into ruins, and behind walls; and with occasional cries and shrill whistles of warning, thenceforth flits about them till they leave the place. "are those the fever-houses, darby?" mr. bucket coolly asks, as he turns his bull's-eye on a line of stinking ruins. darby replies that " all them are," and further that in all, for months and months, the people "have been down by dozens," and have been carried out, dead and dying "like sheep with the rot." bucket observing to mr. snagsby as they go on again, that he looks a little poorly, mr. snags- by answers that he feels as if he couldn't breathe the dread- ful air. there is inquiry made, at various houses, for a boy named jo. as few people are known in tom-all-alone's by any christian sign, there is much reference to mr. snags- by whether he means carrots, or the colonel, or gallows, or young chisel, or terrier tip, or lanky, or the brick. mr. snagsby describes over and over again. there are conflicting opinions respecting the original of his pic- ture. some think it must be carrots; some say the brick. the colonel is produced, but is not at all near the thing. whenever mr. snagsby and his conductors are stationary, the crowd flows round, and from its squalid depths obsequious advice heaves up to mr. bucket. when- ever they move, and the angry bull's-eyes glare, it fades away, and flits about them up the alleys, and in the ruins, and behind the walls, as before. at last there is a lair found out where toughy, or the tough subject, lays him down at night; and it is thought that the tough subject may be jo. comparison of notes between mr. snagsby and the proprietress of the house—a drunken face tied up in a black bundle, and flaring out of detective stories bers being on the first floor), mr. bucket mentions that he has the key of the outer door in his pocket, and that there is no need to ring. for a man so expert in most things of that kind, bucket takes time to open the door, and makes some noise too. it may be that he sounds a note of preparation. howbeit, they come at last into the hall, where a lamp is burning, and so into mr. tulkinghorn's usual room— the room where he drank his old wine to-night. he is not there, but his two old-fashioned candlesticks are; and the room is tolerably light. mr. bucket, still having his professional hold of jo, and appearing to mr. snagsby to possess an unlimited number of eyes, makes a little way into this room, when jo starts and stops. "what's the matter?" said bucket in a whisper. "there she is!" cried jo. "who?" "the lady!" a female figure, closely veiled, stands in the middle of the room, where the light falls upon it. it is quite still, and silent. the front of the figure is towards them, but it takes no notice of their entrance, and remains like a statue. "now, tell me," says bucket aloud, "how you know that to be the lady." "i know the wale," replies jo, staring, "and the bonnet, and the gownd." "be quite sure of what you say, tough," returns bucket, narrowly observant of him. "look again." "i am a-looking as hard as ever i can look," says jo, with starting eyes, "and that there's the wale, the bonnet, and the gownd." "what about those rings you told me of?" asks bucket. "a-sparkling all over here," says jo, rubbing the fingers of his left hand on the knuckles of his right, without taking his eyes from the figure. charles dickens the figure removes the right-hand glove, and shows the hand. "now, what do you say to that?" asks bucket. jo shakes his head. "not rings a bit like them. not a hand like that." "what are you talking of?" says bucket; evidently pleased though, and well pleased too. "hand was a deal whiter, a deal delicater, and a deal smaller," returns jo. "why, you'll tell me i'm my own mother next," says mr. bucket. "do you recollect the lady's voice?" "i think i does," says jo. the figure speaks. "was it all like this? i will speak as long as you like if you are not sure. was it this voice, or at all like this voice?" jo looks aghast at mr. bucket. "not a bit!" "then, what," retorts that worthy, pointing to the figure, "did you say it was the lady for?" "cos," says jo, with a perplexed stare, but without being at all shaken in his certainty, "cos that there's the wale, the bonnet, and the gownd. it is her and it an't her. it an't her hand, nor yet her rings, nor yet her woice. but that there's the wale, the bonnet, and the gownd, and they're wore the same way wot she wore 'em, and it's her height wot she wos, and she giv me a sov'-ring and hooked it." "well!" says mr. bucket, slightly, "we haven't got much good out of you. but, however, here's five shillings for you. take care how you spend it, and don't get your- self into trouble." bucket stealthily tells the coins from one hand into the other like counters—which is a way he has, his principal use of them being in these games of skill— and then puts them, in a little pile, into the boy's hand, and takes him out to the door; leaving mr. snagsby, not by any means comfortable under these mysterious circumstances, alone with the veiled figure. but on mr. tulkinghorn's coming into the room, the veil is raised, and a sufficiently good-looking frenchwoman is revealed, though her ex- pression is something of the intensest. charles dickens down the staircases, and along the galleries and passages, and through the rooms, to witness before he grows any older that everything is ready; that floors are rubbed bright, carpets spread, curtains shaken out, beds puffed and patted, still-room and kitchen cleared for action,—all things prepared as beseems the dedlock dignity. this present summer evening, as the sun goes down, the preparations are complete. dreary and solemn the old house looks, with so many appliances of habitation, and with no inhabitants except the pictured forms upon the walls. so did these come and go, a dedlock in possession might have ruminated passing along; so they did see this gallery hushed and quiet, as i see it now; so think, as i think, of the gap that they would make in this domain when they were gone; so find it, as i find it, difficult to believe that it could be, without them; so pass from my world, as i pass from theirs, now closing the reverberating door; so leave no blank to miss them, and so die. through some of the fiery windows, beautiful from with- out, and set, at this sunset hour, not in dull gray stone but in a glorious house of gold, the light excluded at other windows pours in, rich, lavish, overflowing like the summer plenty in the land. then do the frozen dedlocks thaw. strange movements come upon their features, as the shadows of leaves play there. a dense justice in a corner is beguiled into a wink. a staring baronet, with a truncheon, gets a dimple in his chin. down into the bosom of a stony shepherdess there steals a fleck of light and warmth, that would have done it good, a hundred years ago. one ancestress of volumnia, in high-heeled shoes, very like her—casting the shadow of that virgin event be- fore her full two centuries—shoots out into a halo and becomes a saint. a maid of honor of the court of charles the second, with large round eyes (and other charms to correspond), seems to bathe in glowing water, and it ripples as it glows. but the fire of the sun is dying. even now the floor is dusky, and shadow slowly mounts the walls, bringing the detective stories dedlocks down like age and death. and now, upon my lady's picture over the great chimney-piece, a weird shade falls from some old tree, that turns it pale, and flutters it, and looks as if a great arm held a veil or hood, watching an opportunity to draw it over her. higher and darker rises the shadow on the wall—now a red gloom on the ceiling—now the fire is out. all that prospect, which from the terrace looked so near, has moved solemnly away, and changed—not the first nor the last of beautiful things that look so near and will so change—into a distant phantom. light mists arise, and the dew falls, and all the sweet scents in the garden are heavy in the air. now, the woods settle into great masses as if they were each one profound tree. and now the moon rises, to separate them, and to glimmer here and there, in horizontal lines behind their stems, and to make the avenue a pavement of light among high cathedral arches fantastically broken. now, the moon is high; and the great house, needing habitation more than ever, is like a body without life. now, it is even awful, stealing through it, to think of the live people who have slept in the solitary bedrooms; to say nothing of the dead. now is the time for shadow, when every corner is a cavern, and every downward step a pit, when the stained glass is reflected in pale and faded hues upon the floors, when anything and everything can be made of the heavy staircase beams excepting their own proper shapes, when the armor has dull lights upon it not easily to be distinguished from stealthy movement, and when barred helmets are frightfully suggestive of heads inside. but, of all the shadows in chesney wold, the shadow in the long drawing-room upon my lady's picture is the first to come, the last to be disturbed. at this hour and by this light it changes into threatening hands raised up, and men- acing the handsome face with every breath that stirs. "she is not well, ma'am,"' says a groom in mrs. rounce- well's audience-chamber. "my lady not well! what's the matter?" detective stories of her hand in the dance. on these national occasions, dancing may be a patriotic service; and volumnia is con- stantly seen hopping about, for the good of an ungrateful and unpensioning country. my lady takes no great pains to entertain the numerous guests, and, being still unwell, rarely appears until late in the day. but, at all the dismal dinners, leaden lunches, basilisk balls, and other melancholy pageants, her mere appearance is a relief. as to sir leicester, he conceives it utterly impossible that anything can be wanting, in any direction, by anyone who has the good fortune to be re- ceived under that roof; and in a state of sublime satisfac- tion, he moves among the company, a magnificent refriger- ator. daily the cousins trot through dust, and canter over road- side turf, away to hustings and polling-booths (with leather gloves and hunting-whips for the counties, and kid gloves and riding-canes for the boroughs), and daily bring back reports on which sir leicester holds forth after dinner. daily the restless men who have no occupation in life, present the appearance of being rather busy. daily, volum- nia has a little cousinly talk with sir leicester on the state of the nation, from which sir leicester is disposed to con- clude that volumnia is a more reflecting woman than he had thought her. "how are we getting on?" says miss volumnia, clasping her hands. "are we safe?" the mighty business is nearly over by this time, and doodle will throw himself on the country in a few days more. sir leicester has just appeared in the long drawing- room after dinner; a bright particular star, surrounded by clouds of cousins. "volumnia," replies sir leicester, who has a list in his hand, " we are doing tolerably." "only tolerably!" although it is summer weather, sir leicester always had his own particular fire in the evening. he takes his usual screened seat near it, and repeats, with much firmness and detective stories "the son who wished to marry the young woman in my lady's service?' "that son. he has but one." "then upon my honor," says sir leicester, after a terrific pause, during which he has been heard to snort and felt to stare; " then upon my honor, upon my life, upon my reputation and principles, the floodgates of society are burst open, and the waters have—a—obliterated the land- marks of the framework of the cohesion by which things are held together!" general burst of cousinly indignation. volumnia thinks it is really high time, you know, for somebody in power to step in and do something strong. debilitated cousin thinks —country's going—dayvle—steeple-chase pace. "i beg," says sir leicester, in a breathless condition, "that we may not comment further on this circumstance. comment is superfluous. my lady, let me suggest in refer- ence to that young woman" "i have no intention," observes my lady from her win- dow, in a low but decided tone, " of parting with her." "that was not my meaning," returns sir leicester. "i am glad to hear you say so. i would suggest that as you think her worthy of your patronage, you should exert your influence to keep her from these dangerous hands. you might show her what violence would be done, in such association, to her duties and principles; and you might preserve her for a better fate. you might point out to her that she probably would, in good time, find a husband at chesney wold by whom she would not be "sir lei- cester adds, after a moment's consideration, " dragged from the altars of her forefathers." these remarks he offers with his unvarying politeness and deference when he addresses himself to his wife. she merely moves her head in reply. the moon is rising; and where she sits there is a little stream of cold pale light, in which her head is seen. "it is worthy of remark," says mr. tulkinghorn, "how- ever, that these people are, in their way, very proud." detective stories a young rake—he was a captain in the army—nothing con- nected with whom came to any good. she never did marry him, but she gave birth to a child of which he was the father." by the light of the fire he can be seen looking towards the moonlight. by the moonlight, lady dedlock can be seen in profile, perfectly still. "the captain in the army being dead, she believed her- self safe; but a train of circumstances with which i need not trouble you, led to discovery. as i received the story, they began in an imprudence on her own part one day, when she was taken by surprise; which shows how difficult it is for the firmest of us (she was very firm) to be always guarded. there was great domestic trouble and amaze- ment, you may suppose; i leave you to imagine, sir leices- ter, the husband's grief. but that is not the present point. when mr. rouncewell's townsman heard of the disclosure, he no more allowed the girl to be patronized and honored, than he would have suffered her to be trodden underfoot before his eyes. such was his pride, that he indignantly took her away, as if from reproach and disgrace. he had no sense of the honor done him and his daughter by the lady's condescension; not the least. he resented the girl's position, as if the lady had been the commonest of com- moners. that is the story. i hope lady dedlock will ex- cuse its painful nature." there are various opinions on the merits, more or less conflicting with volumnia's. that fair young creature cannot believe there ever was any such lady, and rejects the whole history on the threshold. the majority incline to the debilitated cousin's sentiment, which is in few words — " no business — rouncewell's fernal townsman." sir leicester generally refers back in his mind to wat tyler, and arranges a sequence of events on a plan of his own. there is not much conversation in all, for late hours have been kept at chesney wold since the necessary expenses elsewhere began, and this is the first night in many on which the family have been alone. it is past ten, when sir detective stories leads. there he again walks slowly up and down, in the same attitude; subsiding, if a man so cool may have any need to subside, from the story he has related downstairs. the time was once, when men as knowing as mr. tulking- horn would walk on turret-tops in the star-light, and look up into the sky to read their fortunes there. hosts of stars are visible to-night, though their brilliancy is eclipsed by the splendor of the moon. if he be seeking his own star, as he methodically turns and turns upon the leads, it should be but a pale one to be so rustily represented below. if he be tracing out his destiny, that may be written in other characters nearer to his hand. as he paces the leads, with his eyes most probably as high above his thoughts as they are high above the earth, he is suddenly stopped in passing the window by two eyes that meet his own. the ceiling of his room is rather low; the upper part of the door, which is opposite the window, is of glass. there is an inner baize door, too, but the night being warm he did not close it when he came upstairs. these eyes that meet his own, are looking in through the glass from the corridor outside. he knows them well. the blood has not flushed into his face so suddenly and readily for many a long year, as when he recognizes lady dedlock. he steps into the room, and she comes in too, closing both the doors behind her. there is a wild disturbance— is it fear or anger?—in her eyes. in her carriage and all else, she looks as she looked downstairs two hours ago. is it fear, or is it anger, now? he cannot be sure. both might be as pale, both as intent. "lady dedlock?" she does not speak at first, nor even when she has slowly dropped into the easy-chair by the table. they look at each other, like two pictures. "why have you told my story to so many persons?" "lady dedlock, it was necessary for me to inform you that i knew it." "how long have you known it?" charles dickens "i have suspected it a long while—fully known it a little while." "months?" "days." he stands before her, with one hand on a chair-back and the other in his old-fashioned waistcoat and shirt-frill, ex- actly as he has stood before her at any time since her mar- riage. the same formal politeness, the same composed deference that might as well be defiance; the whole man the same dark, cold object, at the same distance, which nothing has ever diminished. "is this true concerning the poor girl?" he slightly inclines and advances his head, as not quite understanding the question. "you know what you related. is it true? do her friends know my story also? is it the town-talk yet? is it chalked upon the walls and cried in the streets?" so! anger, and fear, and shame. all three contend- ing. what power this woman has to keep these raging passions down! mr. tulkinghorn's thoughts take such form as he looks at her, with his ragged gray eyebrows a hair's-breadth more contracted than usual, under her gaze. "no, lady dedlock. that was a hypothetical case, aris- ing out of sir leicester's unconsciously carrying the matter with so high a hand. but it would be a real case if they knew—what we know." "then they do not know it yet?" "no." "can i save the poor girl from injury before they know it?" "really, lady dedlock," mr. tulkinghorn replies, "i cannot give a satisfactory opinion on that point." and he thinks, with the interest of attentive curiosity, as he watches the struggle in her breast, "the power and force of this woman are astonishing!" "sir," she says, for the moment obliged to set her lips with all the energy she has, that she may speak distinctly, "i will make it plainer. i do not dispute your hypothetical detective stories case. i anticipated it, and felt its truth as strongly as you can do, when i saw mr. rouncewell here. i knew very well that if he could have had the power of seeing me as i was, he would consider the poor girl tarnished by having for a moment been, although most innocently, the subject of my great and distinguished patronage. but, i have an interest in her; or i should rather say—no longer belonging to this place—i had; and if you can find so much consideration for the woman under your foot as to remember that, she will be very sensible of your mercy." mr. tulkinghorn, profoundly attentive, throws this off with a shrug of self-depreciation, and contracts his eye- brows a little more. "you have prepared me for my exposure, and i thank you for that too. is there anything that you require of me? is there any claim that i can release, or any charge or trouble that i can spare my husband in obtaining his release, by certifying to the exactness of your discovery? i will write anything, here and now, that you will dictate. i am ready to do it." and she would do it! thinks the lawyer, watchful of the firm hand with which she takes the pen! "i will not trouble you, lady dedlock. pray spare yourself." "i have long expected this, as you know. i neither wish to spare myself, nor to be spared. you can do nothing worse to me than you have done. do what remains, now." "lady dedlock, there is nothing to be done. i will take leave to say a few words, when you have finished." their need for watching one another should be over now, but they do it all this time, and the stars watch them both through the opened window. away in the moonlight lie the woodland fields at rest, and the wide house is as quiet as the narrow one. the narrow one! where are the digger and the spade, this peaceful night, destined to add the last great secret to the many secrets of the tulkinghorn exist- ence? is the man born yet, is the spade wrought yet? charles dickens curious questions to consider, more curious perhaps not to consider, under the watching stars upon a summer night. "of repentance or remorse, or any feeling of mine," lady dedlock presently proceeds, " i say not a word. if i were not dumb, you would be deaf. let that go by. it is not for your ears." he makes a feint of offering a protest, but she sweeps it away with her disdainful hand. "of other and very different things i come to speak to you. my jewels are all in their proper places of keeping. they will be found there. so, my dresses. so, all the valuables i have. some ready money i had with me, please to say, but no large amount. i did not wear my own dress, in order that i might avoid observation. i went, to be henceforward lost. make this known. i leave no other charge with you." "excuse me, lady dedlock," says mr. tulkinghorn, quite unmoved. "i am not sure that i understand you. you went?" "to be lost to all here. i leave chesney wold to-night. i go this hour." mr. tulkinghorn shakes his head. she rises; but he, without moving hand from chair-back or from old-fash- ioned waistcoat and shirt-frill, shakes his head. "what? not go as i have said?" "no, lady dedlock," he very calmly replies. "do you know the relief that my disappearance will be? have you forgotten the stain and blot upon this place, and where it is, and who it is?" "no, lady dedlock, not by any means." without deigning to rejoin, she moves to the inner door and has it in her hand, when he says to her, without himself stirring hand or foot, or raising his voice: "lady dedlock, have the goodness to stop and hear me, or before you reach the staircase i shall ring the alarm-bell and rouse the house. and then i must speak out, before every guest and servant, every man and woman, in it." detective stories he has conquered her. she falters, trembles, and puts her hand confusedly to her head. slight tokens these in anyone else; but when so practiced an eye as mr. tulking- horn's sees indecision for a moment in such a subject, he thoroughly knows its value. he promptly says again, " have the goodness to hear me, lady dedlock," and motions to the chair from which she has risen. she hesitates, but he motions again, and she sits down. "the relations between us are of an unfortunate de- scription, lady dedlock; but, as they are not of my making, i will not apologize for them. the position i hold in refer- ence to sir leicester is so well known to you, that i can hardly imagine but that i must long have appeared in your eyes the natural person to make this discovery." "sir," she returns without looking up from the ground, on which her eyes are now fixed, " i had better have gone. it would have been far better not to have detained me. i have no more to say." "excuse me, lady dedlock, if i add, a little more to hear." "i wish to hear it at the window, then; i can't breathe where i am." his jealous glance as she walks that way, betrays an in- stant's misgiving that she may have it in her thoughts to leap over, and dashing against ledge and cornice, strike her life out upon the terrace below. but, a moment's observa- tion of her figure as she stands in the window without any support, looking out at the stars—not up—gloomily out at those stars which are low in the heavens—reassures him. by facing round as she has moved, he stands a little behind her. "lady dedlock, i have not yet been able to come to a decision satisfactory to myself, on the course before me. i am not clear what to do, or how to act next. i must re- quest you, in the meantime, to keep your secret as you have kept it so long, and not to wonder that i keep it too." he pauses, but she makes no reply. no detective stories very dry here; "are, i need not say to you, lady dedlock, inseparable." "good." "therefore," says mr. tulkinghorn, pursuing his case in his jog-trot style, " i have much to consider. this is to be hushed up, if it can be. how can it be, if sir leicester is driven out of his wits, or laid upon a death-bed? if i inflicted this shock upon him to-morrow morning, how could the immediate change in him be accounted for? what could have caused it? what could have divided you? lady dedlock, the wall-chalking and the street-crying would come on directly; and you are to remember that it would not affect you merely (whom i cannot at all consider in this business) but your husband, lady dedlock, your hus- band." he gets plainer as he gets on, but not an atom more em- phatic or animated. "there is another point of view," he continues, "in which the case presents itself. sir leicester is devoted to you almost to infatuation. he might not be able to over- come that infatuation, even knowing what we know. i am putting an extreme case, but it might be so. if so, it were better that he knew nothing. better for common sense, better for him, better for me. i must take all this into ac- count, and it combines to render a decision very difficult." she stands looking out at the same stars without a word. they are beginning to pale, and she looks as if their cold- ness froze her. "my experience teaches me," says mr. tulkinghorn, who has by this time got his hands in his pockets, and is going on in his business consideration of the matter, like a machine, "my experience teaches me, lady dedlock, that most of the people i know would do far better to leave mar- riage alone. it is at the bottom of three-fourths of their troubles. so i thought when sir leicester married, and so i always have thought since. no more about that. i must now be guided by circumstances. in the meanwhile i must beg you to keep your own counsel, and i will keep mine." charles dickens i "i am to drag my present life on, holding its pains at your pleasure, day by day?" she asks, still looking at the distant sky. "yes, i am afraid so, lady dedlock." "it is necessary, you think, that i should be so tied to the stake?" "i am sure that what i recommend is necessary." "i am to remain on this gaudy platform, on which my miserable deception has been so long acted, and it is to fall beneath me when you give the signal?" she said slowly. "not without notice, lady dedlock. i shall take no step without forewarning you." she asks all her questions as if she were repeating them from memory, or calling them over in her sleep. "we are to meet as usual?" "precisely as usual, if you please?" "and i am to hide my guilt, as i have done so many years?" "as you have done so many years. i should not have made that reference myself, lady dedlock, but i may now remind you that your secret can be no heavier to you than it was, and is no worse and no better than it was. / know it certainly, but i believe we have never wholly trusted each other." she stands absorbed in the same frozen way for some little time, before asking: "is there anything more to be said to-night?" "why," mr. tulkinghorn returns methodically as he softly rubs his hands, "i should like to be assured of your acquiescence in my arrangements, lady dedlock." "you may be assured of it." "good. and i would wish in conclusion to remind you, as a business precaution, in case it should be necessary to recall the fact in any communication with sir leicester, that throughout our interview i have expressly stated my sole consideration to be sir leicester's feelings and honor, and the family reputation. i should have been happy to have " detective stories made lady dedlock a prominent consideration, too, if the case had admitted of it; but unfortunately it does not." "i can attest your fidelity, sir." both before and after saying it she remains absorbed, but at length moves, and turns, unshaken in her natural and acquired presence, towards the door. mr. tulkinghorn opens both the doors exactly as he would have done yester- day, or as he would have done ten years ago, and makes his old-fashioned bow as she passes out. it is not an or- dinary look that he receives from the handsome face as it goes into the darkness, and it is not an ordinary movement, though a very slight one, that acknowledges his courtesy. but, as he reflects when he is left alone, the woman has been putting no common constraint upon herself. he would know it all the better, if he saw the woman pacing her own rooms with her hair wildly thrown from her flung back face, her hands clasped behind her head, her figure twisted as if by pain. he would think so all the more, if he saw the woman thus hurrying up and down for hours, without fatigue, without intermission, followed by the faithful step upon the ghost's walk. but he shuts out the now chilled air, draws the window-curtain, goes to bed, and falls asleep. and truly when the stars go out and the wan day peeps into the turret-chamber, finding him at his oldest, he looks as if the digger and the spade were both commissioned, and would soon be digging. the same wan day peeps in at sir leicester pardoning the repentant country in a majestically condescending dream; and at the cousins entering on various public em- ployments, principally receipt of salary; and at the chaste volumnia, bestowing a dower of fifty thousand pounds upon a hideous old general, with a mouth of false teeth like a pianoforte too full of keys, long the admiration of bath and the terror of every other community. also into rooms high in the roof, and into offices in court-yards and over stables, where humbler ambition dreams of bliss, in keepers' lodges, and in holy matrimony with will or sally. up comes the bright sun, drawing everything up with it—the h charles dickens wills and sallys, the latent vapor in the earth, the drooping leaves and flowers, the birds and beasts and creeping things, the gardeners to sweep the dewy turf and unfold emerald velvet where the roller passes, the smoke of the great kitchen fire wreathing itself straight and high into the lightsome air. lastly, up comes the flag over mr. tulking- horn's unconscious head, cheerfully proclaiming that sir leicester and lady dedlock are in their happy home, and that there is hospitality at the place in lincolnshire. xi in mr. tulkinghorn's chambers from the verdant undulations and the spreading oaks of the dedlock property, mr. tulkinghorn transfers himself to the stale heat and dust of london. his manner of com- ing and going between the two places, is one of his impene- trabilities. he walks into chesney wold as if it were next door to his chambers, and returns to his chambers as if he had never been out of lincoln's inn fields. he neither changes his dress before the journey, nor talks of it after- wards. he melted out of his turret-room this morning, just as now, in the late twilight, he melts into his own square. like a dingy london bird among the birds at roost in these pleasant fields, where the sheep are all made into parchment, the goats into wigs, and the pasture into chaff, the lawyer, smoke-dried and faded, dwelling among man- kind but not consorting with them, aged without experience of genial youth, and so long used to make his cramped nest in holes and corners of human nature that he has forgotten its broader and better range, comes sauntering home. in the oven made by the hot pavements and hot buildings, he has baked himself dryer than usual; and he has, in his thirsty mind, his mellowed port-wine half a century old. the lamplighter is skipping up and down his ladder on mr. tulkinghorn's side of the fields, when that high-priest " detective stories of noble mysteries arrives at his own dull court-yard. he ascends the door-steps, and is gliding into the dusky hall, when he encounters, on the top step, a bowing and pro- pitiatory little man. "is that snagsby?" "yes sir. i hope you are well sir. i was just giving you up, sir, and going home." "aye? what is it? what do you want with me?" "well, sir," says mr. snagsby, holding his hat at the side of his head, in his deference towards his best customer, " i was wishful to say a word to you, sir." "can you say it here?" "perfectly, sir." "say it then." the lawyer turns, leans his arms on the iron railing at the top of the steps, and looks at the lamp- lighter lighting the court-yard. "it is relating," says mr. snagsby, in a mysterious low voice: " it is relating—not to put too fine a point upon it—to the foreigner, sir?" mr. tulkinghorn eyes him with some surprise. "what foreigner?" "the foreign female, sir. french, if i don't mistake. i am not acquainted with that language myself, but i should judge from her manners and appearance that she was french; anyways, certainly foreign. her that was up- stairs, sir, when mr. bucket and me had the honor of waiting upon you with the sweeping-boy that night." "oh! yes, yes. mademoiselle hortense." "indeed, sir?" mr. snagsby coughs his cough of sub- mission behind his hat. "i am not acquainted myself with the names of foreigners in general, but i have no doubt it would be that." mr. snagsby appears to have set out in this reply with some desperate design of repeating the name; but on reflection coughs again to excuse himself. "and what can you have to say, snagsby," demands mr. tulkinghorn, "about her?" "well, sir," returns the stationer, shading his communica- tion with his hat, "it falls a little hard upon me. my do charles dickens mestic happiness is very great—at least, it's as great as can be expected, i'm sure—but my little woman is rather given to jealousy. not to put too fine a point upon it, she is very much given to jealousy. and you see, a foreign female of that genteel appearance coming into the shop, and hovering—i should be the last to make use of a strong expression, if i could avoid it, but hovering sir—in the court—you know it is—now ain't it? i only put it to yourself, sir." mr. snagsby having said this in a very plaintive man- ner, throws in a cough of general application to fill up all the blanks. "why, what do you mean?" asks mr. tulkinghorn. "just so, sir," returns mr. snagsby; "i was sure you would feel it yourself, and would excuse the reasonable- ness of my feelings when coupled with the known excite- ableness of my little woman. you see, the foreign female —which you mentioned her name just now, with quite a native sound, i am sure—caught up the word snagsby that night, being uncommon quick, and made inquiry, and got the direction and come at dinner-time. now guster, our young woman, is timid and has fits, and she, taking fright at the foreigner's looks—which are fierce—and at a grind- ing manner that she has of speaking—which is calculated to alarm a weak mind—gave way to it, instead of bearing up against it, and tumbled down the kitchen stairs out of one into another, such fits as i do sometimes think are never gone into, or come out of, in any house but ours. consequently there was by good fortune ample occupation for my little woman, and only me to answer the shop. when she did say that mr. tulkinghorn, being always de- nied to her by his employer (which i had no doubt at the time was a foreign mode of viewing a clerk), she would do herself the pleasure of continually calling at my place until she was let in here. since then she has been, as i began by saying, hovering—hovering, sir," mr. snagsby repeats the words with pathetic emphasis, "in the court. the effects of which movement it is impossible to calculate. charles dickens honor her. i will help you well, and with a good will. it is what you do. do i know that?" "you appear to know a good deal," mr. tulkinghorn retorts. "do i not? is it that i am so weak as to believe, like a child, that i come here in that dress to rec-eive that boy, only to decide a little bet, a wager?—eh my god, o yes!" in this reply, down to the word "wager" inclusive, mademoiselle has been ironically polite and tender; then, as suddenly dashed into the bitterest and most defiant scorn, with her black eyes in one and the same moment very nearly shut, and staringly wide open. "now, let us see," says mr. tulkinghorn, tapping his chin with the key, and looking imperturbably at her, "how this matter stands." "ah! let us see," mademoiselle assents, with many angry and tight nods of her head. "you come here to make a remarkably modest demand, which you have just stated, and it not being conceded, you will come again." "and again," says mademoiselle, with more tight and angry nods. "and yet again. and yet again. and many times again. in effect, forever!" "and not only here, but you will go to mr. snagsby's, too, perhaps? that visit not succeeding either, you will go again perhaps?" "and again," repeats mademoiselle, cataleptic with de- termination. "and yet again. and yet again. and many times again. in effect, forever!" "very well. now mademoiselle hortense, let me recom- mend you to take the candle and pick up that money of yours. i think you will find it behind the clerk's partition in the corner yonder." she merely throws a laugh over her shoulder, and stands her ground with folded arms. "you will not, eh?" "no, i will not!" "so much the poorer you; so much the richer i! look, detective stories mistress, this is the key of my wine-cellar. it is a large key, but the keys of prisons are larger. in this city, there are houses of correction (where the treadmills are, for women) the gates of which are very strong and heavy, and no doubt the keys too. i am afraid a lady of your spirit and activity would find it an inconvenience to have one of those keys turned upon her for any length of time. what do you think?" "i think," mademoiselle replies, without any action, and in a clear obliging voice, "that you are a miserable wretch." "probably," returns mr. tulkinghorn, quietly blowing his nose. "but i don't ask what you think of myself; i ask what you think of the prison." "nothing. what does it matter to me?" "why, it matters this much, mistress," says the lawyer, deliberately putting away his handkerchief, and adjusting his frill, "the law is so despotic here, that it interferes to prevent any of our good english citizens from being troubled, even by a lady's visits, against his desire. and, on his complaining that he is so troubled, it takes hold of the troublesome lady, and shuts her up in prison under hard discipline. turns the key upon her, mistress." illustrating with the cellar key. "truly?" returns mademoiselle, in the same pleasant voice. "that is droll! but—my faith!—still what does it matter to me?" "my fair friend," says mr. tulkinghorn, "make an- other visit here, or at mr. snagsby's, and you shall learn." "in that case you will send me to the prison, perhaps?" "perhaps." it would be contradictory for one in mademoiselle's state of agreeable jocularity to foam at the mouth, otherwise a tigerish expansion thereabouts might look as if a very little more would make her do it. "in a word, mistress," says mr. tulkinghorn, "i am sorry to be unpolite, but if you ever present yourself unin- vited here—or there—again, i will give you over to the police. their gallantry is great, but they carry troublesome charles dickens people through the streets in an ignominious manner; strapped down on a board, my good wench." "i will prove you," whispers mademoiselle, stretching out her hand, "i will try if you dare to do it " "and if," pursues the lawyer, without minding her, "i place you in that good condition of being locked up in jail, it will be some time before you find yourself at liberty again." "i will prove you," repeats mademoiselle in her former whisper. "and now," proceeds the lawyer, still without minding her, "you had better go. think twice before you come here again." "think you," she answers, "twice two hundred times!" "you were dismissed by your lady, you know," mr. tulkinghorn observes, following her out upon the staircase, "as the most implacable and unmanageable of women. now turn over a new leaf, and take warning by what i say to you. for what i say, i mean; and what i threaten, i will do, mistress." she goes down without answering or looking behind her. when she is gone, he goes down too; and returning with his cobweb-covered bottle, devotes himself to a leisurely enjoyment of its contents: now and then, as he throws his head back in his chair, catching sight of the pertinacious roman pointing from the ceiling. xii closing in the place in lincolnshire has shut its many eyes again, and the house in town is awake. in lincolnshire, the dedlocks of the past doze in their picture-frames, and the low wind murmurs through the long drawing-room as if they were breathing pretty regularly. in town, the ded- locks of the present rattle in their fire-eyed carriages through the darkness of the night, and the dedlock mer charles dickens "and there you are, my partner, eh?" says mr. bucket to himself, apostrophizing mrs. bucket, stationed, by his favor, on the steps of the deceased's house. "and so you are! and so you are! and very well indeed you are looking, mrs. bucket!" the procession has not started yet, but is waiting for the cause of its assemblage to be brought out. mr. bucket, in the foremost emblazoned carriage, uses his two fat fore- fingers to hold the lattice a hair's breadth open while he looks. and it says a great deal for his attachment, as a husband, that he is still occupied with mrs. b. "there you are, my partner, eh?" he murmuringly repeats. "and our lodger with you. i'm taking notice of you, mrs. bucket; i hope you're all right in your health, my dear!" not another word does mr. bucket say; but sits with most attentive eyes until the sacked depository of noble secrets is brought down where are all those secrets now? does he keep them yet? did they fly with him on that sudden journey?—and until the procession moves, and mr. bucket's view is changed. after which he composes himself for an easy ride; and takes note of the fittings of the carriage, in case he should ever find such knowledge useful. contrast enough between mr. tulkinghorn shut up in his dark carriage, and mr. bucket shut up in his. be- tween the immeasurable track of space beyond the little wound that has thrown the one into the fixed sleep which jolts so heavily over the stones of the streets, and the nar- row track of blood which keeps the other in the watchful state expressed in every hair of his head! but it is all one to both; neither is troubled about that. mr. bucket sits out the procession in his own easy man- ner, and glides from the carriage when the opportunity he has settled with himself arrives. he makes for sir leices- ter dedlock's, which is at present a sort of home to him, where he comes and goes as he likes at all hours, where he is always welcome and made much of, where he knows charles dickens crime is discovered and, in the course of justice, punished, i almost feel as if there were a stain upon my name. a gentleman who has devoted a large portion of his life to me, a gentleman who has devoted the last day of his life to me, a gentleman who has constantly sat at my table and slept under my roof, goes from my house to his own, and is struck down within an hour of his leaving my house. i cannot say but that he may have been followed from my house, watched at my house, even first marked because of his association with my house—which may have suggested his possessing greater wealth, and being altogether of greater importance than his own retiring demeanor would have indicated. if i cannot, with my means and influence, and my position, bring all the perpetrators of such a crime to light, i fail in the assertion of my respect for that gentle- man's memory, and of my fidelity towards one who was ever faithful to me." while he makes this protestation with great emotion and earnestness, looking round the room as if he were address- ing an assembly, mr. bucket glances at him with an ob- servant gravity in which there might be, but for the audacity of the thought, a touch of compassion. "the ceremony of to-day," continues sir leicester, "strikingly illustrative of the respect in which my deceased friend;" he lays a stress upon the word, for death levels all distinction; "was held by the flower of the land, has, i say, aggravated the shock i have received from this most horrible and audacious crime. if it were my brother who had committed it, i would not spare him." mr. bucket looks very grave. volumnia remarks of the deceased that he was the trustiest and dearest person! "you must feel it as a deprivation to you, miss," replied mr. bucket, soothingly, "no doubt. he was calculated to be a deprivation, i'm sure he was." volumnia gives mr. bucket to understand, in reply, that her sensitive mind is fully made up never to get the better of it as long as she lives; that her nerves are unstrung detective stories miss; bless your heart, what you would think to be phenom- enon, quite." volumnia, with her innocent little scream, supposes so. "aye, and even in gen-teel families, in high families, in great families," says mr. bucket, again gravely eying sir leicester aside. "i have had the honor of being employed in high families before; and you have no idea—come, i'll go so far as to say not even you have any idea, sir," this to the debilitated cousin, "what games goes on!" the cousin, who has been casting sofa-pillows on his head, in a prostration of boredom, yawns, "vayli"—being the used-up for " very likely." sir leicester, deeming it time to dismiss the officer, here majestically interposes with the words, "very good. thank you!" and also with a wave of his hand, implying not only that there is an end of the discourse, but that if high families fall into low habits they must take the conse- quences. "you will not forget, officer," he adds, with con- descension, " that i am at your disposal when you please." mr. bucket (still grave) inquires if to-morrow morning, now, would suit, in case he should be as for'ard as he ex- pects to be? sir leicester replies, "all times are alike to me." mr. bucket makes his three bows, and is withdraw- ing, when a forgotten point occurs to him. "might i ask, by-the-bye," he says, in a low voice, cautiously returning, "who posted the reward-bill on the staircase." "/ ordered it to be put up there," replies sir leicester. "would it be considered a liberty, sir leicester dedlock, baronet, if i was to ask you why?" "not at all. i chose it as a conspicuous part of the house. i think it cannot be too prominently kept before the whole establishment. i wish my people to be impressed with the enormity of the crime, the determination to punish it, and the hopelessness of escape. at the same time, of- ficer, if you in your better knowledge of the subject see any objection" mr. bucket sees none now; the bill having been put up, detective stories "ah!" says mr. bucket, "a little spoilt? a little capricious? lord! what can you anticipate when they are so handsome as that? and we like 'em all the better for it, don't we?" mercury, with his hands in the pockets of his bright peach-blossom small-clothes, stretches his symmetrical silk legs with the air of a man of gallantry, and can't deny it. come the roll of wheels, and a violent ringing at the bell. "talk of the angels," says mr. bucket. "here she is!" the doors are thrown open, and she passes through the hall. still very pale, she is dressed in slight mourning, and wears two beautiful bracelets. either their beauty, or the beauty of her arms, is particularly attractive to mr. bucket. he looks at them with an eager eye, and rattles something in his pockets—halfpence perhaps. noticing him at his distance, she turns an inquiring look on the other mercury who has brought her home. "mr. bucket, my lady." mr. bucket makes a leg, and comes forward, passing his familiar demon over the region of his mouth. "are you waiting to see sir leicester?" "no, my lady, i've seen him!" "have you anything to say to me?" "not just at present, my lady." "have you made any new discoveries?" "a few, my lady." this is merely in passing. she scarcely makes a stop, and sweeps upstairs alone. mr. bucket, moving towards the staircase foot, watches her as she goes up the steps the old man came down to his grave; past murderous groups of statuary, repeated with their shadowy weapons on the wall; past the printed bill, which she looks at going by; out of view. "she's a lovely woman, too, she really is," says mr. bucket, coming back to mercury. "don't look quite healthy though." is not quite healthy, mercury informs him. suffers much from headaches. charles dickens have been, but for the audacity of the idea, a touch of compassion. > "i am sorry to have kept you waiting, officer, but i am rather later than my usual hour this morning. i am not well. the agitation, and the indignation from which i have recently suffered, have been too much for me. i am subject to—gout; " sir leicester was going to say indisposi- tion, and would have said it to anybody else, but mr. bucket palpably knows all about it; "and recent circum- stances have brought it on." as he takes his seat with some difficulty, and with an air of pain, mr. bucket draws a little nearer, standing with one of his large hands on the library-table. "i am not aware, officer," sir leicester observes, raising his eyes to his face, "whether you wish us to be alone; but that is entirely as you please. if you do, well and good. if not, miss dedlock would be interested" "why, sir leicester dedlock, baronet," returns mr. bucket, with his head persuasively on one side, and his forefinger pendant at one ear like an ear-ring, "we can't be too private just at present. you will presently see that we can't be too private. a lady, under the circumstances, and especially in miss dedlock's elevated station of society, can't but be agreeable to me; but speaking without a view to myself, i will take the liberty of assuring you that / know we can't be too private." "that is enough." "so much so, sir leicester dedlock, baronet," mr. bucket resumes, "that i was on the point of asking your permission to turn the key in the door." "by all means." mr. bucket skillfully and softly takes that precaution; stooping on his knee for a moment, from mere force of habit, so to adjust the key in the lock as that no one shall peep in from the outer side. "sir leicester dedlock, baronet, i mentioned yesterday evening, that i wanted but a very little to complete this case. i have now completed it, and collected proof against the person who did this crime." charles dickens noise occasions her to turn; and then, for the first time she sees sir leicester dedlock in his chair. "i ask you pardon," she mutters hurriedly. "they tell me there was no one here." her step towards the door brings her front to front with mr. bucket. suddenly a spasm shoots across her face, and she turns deadly pale. "this is my lodger, sir leicester dedlock," says mr. bucket, nodding *t her. "this foreign young woman has been my lodger for some weeks back." "what do sir leicester care for that, you think, my angel?" returns mademoiselle, in a jocular strain. "why, my angel," returns mr. bucket, "we shall see." mademoiselle hortense eyes him with a scowl upon her tight face, which generally changes into a smile of scorn. "you are very mysterieuse. are you drunk?" "tolerable sober, my angel," returns mr. bucket. "i come from arriving at this so detestable house with your wife. your wife have left me since some minutes. they tell me downstairs that your wife is here. i come here, and your wife is not here. what is the intention of this fool's play, say then?" mademoiselle demands, with her arms composedly crossed, but with something in her dark cheek beating like a clock. mr. bucket merely shakes the finger at her. "ah, my god, you are an unhappy idiot!" cries mademoi- selle, with a toss of her head and a laugh.—" leave me to pass downstairs, great pig." with a stamp of her foot, and a menace. "now, mademoiselle," says mr. bucket, in a cool determined way, "you go and sit down upon that sofy." "i will not sit down upon nothing," she replies, with a shower of nods. "now, mademoiselle," repeats mr. bucket, making no demonstration, except with the finger, "you sit down upon that sofy." detective stories high words with the deceased on former occasions—even threatening him, as the witness made out. if you ask me, sir leicester dedlock, whether from the first i believed george to be the murderer, i tell you candidly no; but he might be, notwithstanding; and there was enough against him to make it my duty to take him, and get him kept under remand. now, observe!" as mr. bucket bends forward in some excitement—for him—and inaugurates what he is going to say with one ghostly beat of his forefinger in the air, mademoiselle hor- tense fixes her black eyes upon him with a dark frown, and sets her dry lips closely and firmly together. "i went home, sir leicester dedlock, baronet, at night, and found this young woman having supper with my wife, mrs. bucket. she had made a mighty show of being fond of mrs. bucket from her first offering herself as our lodger, but that night she made more than ever—in fact, overdid it. likewise, she overdid her respect, and all that, for the lamented memory of the deceased mr. tulkinghorn. by the living lord, it flashed upon me, as i sat opposite to her at the table and saw her with a knife in her hand, that she had done it!" mademoiselle is hardly audible, in straining through her teeth and lips the words "you are a devil." "now where," pursues mr. bucket, "had she been on the night of the murder? she had been to the theayter. (she really was there, i have since found, both before the deed and after it.) i knew i had an artful customer to deal with, and that proof would be very difficult; and i laid a trap for her—such a trap as i never laid yet, and such a venture as i never made yet. i worked it out in my mind while i was talking to her at supper. when i went upstairs to bed, our house being small and this young woman's ears sharp, i stuffed the sheet into mrs. bucket's mouth that she shouldn't say a word of surprise, and told her all about it.—my dear, don't you give your mind to that again, or i shall link your feet together at the ankles." mr. bucket, breaking off has charles dickens made a noiseless descent upon mademoiselle, and laid his heavy hand upon her shoulder. "what is the matter with you now?" she asked him. "don't you think any more," returns mr. bucket, with admonitory finger, "of throwing yourself out of window. that's what's the matter with me. come! just take my arm. you needn't get up; i'll sit down by you. now take my arm, will you? i'm a married man, you know; you're acquainted with my wife. just take my arm." vainly endeavoring to moisten those dry lips, with a painful sound, she struggles with herself and complies. "now we're all right again. sir leicester dedlock, baronet, this case could never have been the case it is, but for mrs. bucket, who is a woman in fifty thousand—in a hundred and fifty thousand! to throw this young woman off her guard, i have never set foot in our house since; though i've communicated with mrs. bucket, in the baker's loaves and in the milk, as often as required. my whispered words to mrs. bucket, when she had the sheet in her mouth, were, 'my dear, can you throw her off continually with natural accounts of my suspicions against george, and this, and that, and t'other? can you do without rest, and keep watch upon her, night and day? can you undertake to say, she shall do nothing without my knowledge, she shall be my prisoner without suspecting it, she shall no more escape from me than from death, and her life shall be my life, and her soul my soul, till i have got her, if she did this murder?' mrs. bucket says to me, as well as she could speak, on account of the sheet,' bucket, i can!' and she has acted up to it glorious!" "lies!" mademoiselle interposes. "all lies, my friend!" "sir leicester dedlock, baronet, how did my calcula- tions come out under these circumstances? when i cal- culated that this impetuous young woman would overdo it in new directions, was i wrong or right? i was right. what does si:a try to do? don't let it give you a turn? to throw the murder on her ladyship?" r in scrub-up land mlous rytm f !!! the adventures of nancy and nick in scrub-up-land olive roberts barton the nancy and nick series by olive roberts barton illustrated by e. r. higgins nancy and nick in scrub-up-land in the land-of-dear-knows- where in helter-skelter-land in the land-of-near-by in topsy-turvy-land property of the new york society librady e property new york society lies it was now scramble squirrel's turn to get spring-cleaned the new york public library b astor, lenox and tilden foundations r copyright, , by george h. doran company printed in the united states of america contents силити i the magical mushroom . . . . . . . . ii ii the twins meet rubadub . . . . . . . . iii robin gets spring-cleaned . . . . . . . iv the errand . . . . . . . . . . . . . v. the fairy queen's palace. ... vi mr. morning star wakens mr. sun . . . . . vii the story of bill blackbird . . . . . viii ben bunny gets spring-cleaned. squirrel too . . . . . . scramble . . . . ix scramble squirrel returns . . . . . . . x ben bunny's bargain . . . . . . . . . xi mr. grubby groundhog . . . . . . . . . xii mr. sleepy whatshisname . . . . . . . . xiii the bird of paradise . . . . . . . . . xiv . . . . . . . casper catbird disappears. [vii] هو ته اسان اداره contents chapter xv the easter bunny . . . . . . . . . . xvi phil frog gets tailored . . . . . o . xvii the little silk pillow .... xviii a queen in a velvet cloak ... ... xix sleeker swallow's evening clothes . . . . xx spring at last . . . . . . . . . . . i [vii] nancy and nick in scrub-up-land nancy and nick nut tree in the meadow, that was the first thing they saw a large, plump, round mushroom with a lovely pale pink lining to his hat. “hello!" cried nick, dropping onto his knees beside him. “how did you get here?” “that's what i'd like to know," answered the mushroom, in dismay. “i've made a dreadful mistake, some way, and i'm trying to think how i did it. goodness, but it's chilly!" and he shivered as well as a mushroom can. nancy didn't know much about seasons nor growing things, or she wouldn't have asked, “don't you like our meadow, mr. mushroom? and if you're cold, why don't you wear some clothes like the other flowers do?” the mushroom laughed at this. “thank you, little lady, for the compliment. that's the very first time i've ever been called a flower.” and he bowed grandly, tipping his pink-lined hat like a duke. “no, i don't usually need many clothes, they're such a bother, besides i never go where it's so very cold. at least i never did before.” and he shivered again. “as for liking your meadow—i have two good reasons for not wish- [ ] in scrub-up-land magical, my dears, how else do you suppose you could understand what i say? did you ever hear a mushroom talk before?” the children admitted that they hadn't. we propolitana i wo m e rhiggins "good morning, children,” said the mushroom. "i'm glad you came so barly.” suddenly an idea popped into nick's head. “couldn't we go, mr. mushroom? couldn't nancy and i go to help mr. rubadub?" “for goodness sake!” exclaimed their new friend in surprise. “i never thought of such a thing! the idea fairly makes me dizzy! quite dizzy! yet, why not? mr. rubadub needs help, [ ] nancy and nick spring's coming fast, and he hasn't got the first robin ready yet. you're willing, and if the fairy queen's willing, it's as simple as x. y. z. i'll find out and let you know by to-morrow, kiddies. if it's all right i'll bring the green shoes along. they'll take you any place in fairyland. put me down now, nancy, and run along home and meet me here to-morrow." quite excited, the children laid their new friend carefully behind a stone, then scampered back to the house, wondering what the fairy queen would say to their plan and never think- ing, for some queer reason, of asking mother for her consent at all! the next morning bright and early, they were back under the tree searching eagerly for their little acquaintance of yesterday. sure enough, there he was behind the stone where they had left him, just as though he had never been away! but what was that beside him, looking for all the world like some very bright green plants just sprung through the earth? shoes! the dearest, oddest, queerest, cunningest shoes you can imagine! the twins danced for joy. [ ] nancy and nick hands, everybody! now, green shoes, to scrub- up-land, if you please!” a quick lifting, a faint fanning of the breeze in their faces (not the blustery march wind, at all) and the twins and the magical mushroom were on their way to rubadub's domain—a far, far corner of fairyland. [ ] nancy and nick dripping bright green paint; but both brushes were having a vacation at present, until the poor fairyman could get some order into his unruly customers and get to work again. "hey there!” he was calling to the pussy-wil- low which was shoving the snow-drop out of the way. "if you don't stop your fussing i'll never get through. my goodness! it will be the fourth of july before i get the first birds ready at this rate, and people will wonder what's wrong with scrub-up-land. now do be good. one at a time, please.” just then he saw the twins and the magical mushroom, and his face brightened wonderfully. over he came right away, the best he could with so many creatures hanging onto his coat-tails. "how ddo, folks,” said he, dropping his brushes and holding out both hands. “i'm mighty glad to see you. i suppose you saw my advertisement in the 'gossamer gazette."" "no," answered nick truthfully. “we didn't. is that a newspaper?" rubadub's smile faded. “yes,” said he in a disappointed tone. “i need help, so i put in a [ ] in scrub-up-land notice, hoping some one would see it. in fact, when i saw you, i was sure my plan had worked. either that, or else when i waved my wand this morning and made a wish, the fairy queen e.r. higgins "how d'do, polks," said rubadub. heard it and sent you in answer. but the old thing must be worn out, i reckon.” and he sighed dismally. but nancy comforted him at once. “don't you worry, mr. rubadub!” she said brightly. “we are helpers, and your wand can't be worn out at all.” and then she told him all about the [ ] nancy and nick magical mushroom losing his way and happen- ing along in the meadow at the very minute they ran out to play. rubadub's smile came back. “why, i de- clare!” he exclaimed. “isn't this lovely, my dears! was it at seventeen and three-quarter ticks past mid-morning?" the twins weren't sure. “because if it was,” he went on, “that's the precise time at which i waved my wand. i re- member, because when i had finished waving it, i looked at my sun-flower clock and it was eighteen ticks after. i'll take excellent care of that good old stick after this, if that's what it can do. can you paint, children?”. "yes," answered nancy with pride. ""i've filled up all the o's and a's in 'the adventures of 'lizabeth anne,' and nick painted the cat's tail pink once.” “well, well! that's what i call luck,” cried their new host. “helpers who can really paint, only— ” he added gravely, "we don't put pink tails on things unless they belong there, and”- meaningly, with a glance at the robin and cat- i [ ] in scrub-up-land birds"the only o's we need to fill are the mouths of noisy folks who won't wait their turn." this quieted the racket for a moment or two, and rubadub had a chance to say: “i keep a big picture-book of birds and ani- mals; all the flowers, too, and if you follow it when you're fixing the creatures up, you can't go wrong. just come along with me, please.” rubadub turned and went along a crooked path, all the creatures crowding close and screaming again that they wanted to get spring- cleaned, nancy and nick and the magical mush- room trooping after. they turned a corner in a few minutes and the fairyman pointed to a group of buildings. “there are my workshops,” he explained, “paint- shop, store-room, barber-shop and laundry. everything for everybody, and you've no idea how dirty and shabby some of these fellows get, off in their dreamland home during the winter months.” the children gazed in open-mouthed wonder at everything they saw, and as they drew nearer they thought of a poem in one of their books: [ ] nancy and nick ting up high-jinks in the land-where-spring- is-coming and forgetting his manners entirely. but i hope he doesn't do like that lazy, fat, old rascal wally woodchuck, or, as i suppose you've heard him called, grubby groundhog. he's got two names, you know, and some day i'll tell you why. but, anyway, i sent wally out one day in february when it was cold enough to freeze the sun, just because he coaxed and coaxed until i had to. and what, my dears, do you s'pose he did! saw his shadow, and just because he thought that was bad luck, he crept into his hole again and went back to dreamland, and when he crawled out again last week, he came back to get spring-cleaned all over again, and didn't i have to launder him from heel to head.” just then robin redbreast flew up onto nancy's shoulder, pointing to page one in the “bird-book.” “i told you so!” he insisted. “don't you see that my picture comes first, which shows that spring can't really come until i arrive? please fix me now, won't you? just a little brown paint on my jacket, a touch of yellow on [ ] in scrub-up-land my bill and a dab of red on my waistcoat and i'm finished. my goodness! what are you going to do with that tub of water and soap-suds ?" “give you a bath!” laughed nancy, reaching up for him, before he could fly away. “it isn't nice to put on new clothes before you wash. and you're as dusty as a miller, robin, grubbing for worms down south. if i painted you on top of all that dust, when the first april shower came along, you'd run, like my gingham dresses do in the wash sometimes. and folks would think you were some strange variety. “what's this? they'd say, 'that the people down south have sent us this year, instead of a robin? how'd you like that?" robin hung his head. “i suppose you're right,” he said. “well, go ahead, only please don't get soap up my bill or into my eyes, will you? and as for my ears, they aren't dirty at all, being away down under my feathers.” nancy patted him. “dear old robin, i'll not hurt you. don't be afraid ”. and in no time at all, she had robin red- breast the gayest of birds, his waistcoat a brave [ ] nancy and nick red, his coat shining like new brown satin, and his bill as yellow as a daffodil. he was quite a dandy, i assure you, and i'm afraid he began to strut a bit as people are apt to do when they are well-dressed. he ran over his trills then, up the scale and down, practicing his evening song and his rainy- day song, his nest-building song, and the song by which he wakened the babies in the morning. then away he flew out of the gate of scrub- up-land to the land-where-spring-was- coming, with a gay “chirrup." "good-by,” called the twins and the magical mushroom, while rubadub stood with his hands on his hips, shaking his head. “i hope he gets there all right,” he said, “and that that old rascal jack frost doesn't chase him. but he's such a sly fox, you can't tell when he'll come popping out." now, while nancy had been spring-cleaning robin redbreast, nick had been busy brushing up the katkins for the pussy-willows. rubadub had showed him where he kept pieces of fur to [ ] in scrub-up-land nancy and nick went back to their painting, rubadub to his scrubbing, and the magical mushroom was trying to be useful by keeping peace among the impatient creatures still clamor- ing to be gone. being able to speak any kind of language, he was the very person for this. be- sides, he was very wise and quite a philosopher. he kept telling them that “all things come to him who waits,” and “who laughs last laughs best,” and “all's well that ends well,” and a lot of things like that. he thought he just about had things settled when bill blackbird croaked out, “yes, but it's the early bird that gets the worm.” and at that the hubbub started all over again. i wonder who was the most impatient, the boys and girls in the land-where-spring-was- coming, or the animals and birds and flowers who wished to get there? [ ] "blowing blizzards!" exclaimed rubadub, "wheb abb the yellow owes?" chapter iv: the errand city children look for crocuses on their lawns as a sign of spring, the same as country children look for katkins on the willows, so it was quite necessary to get these little flowers painted with purple and gold as fast as possible. the twins worked and worked, setting each blossom in the row with the others when it was finished. by and by rubadub left off scrubbing snoopy skunk (who did need it most awfully) and peeped in to see how they were getting along. [ ] nancy and nick leaves on the trees also, which we always mix with yellow when they first appear. now what?" "why is it so hard to get?" asked nick. “per- haps our green shoes could help us, couldn't they?" rubadub pounded his hands together sud- denly, as he had a habit of doing when pleased, and his face grew radiant. “why, that's the very ticket, nickie!” he cried. “the very ticket! suppose you and nancy take some little buckets to the fairy queen's palace over on the other side of fairyland and get me about two quarts. she makes it herself out of sunshine, you know, and if mr. sun has been out much lately, she'll likely have quite a lot. there's another thing! those fairies haven't come back yet from the willow-grove, and i'm getting worried about them. i wish you'd go around that way and see what's keeping them. i need them right away to stick some fuzzy buds on the alders and to wake up some of the sleepy grass under the ground. it doesn't know the snow's gone yet!” "perhaps,” suggested nancy, "if you waved your wand, the fairies would come back.” [ ] in scrub-up-land rubadub grew sober. "yes, i know i could do that, but the fairy queen thinks we're lazy if we depend upon wands too much. likely as not she'd say, "there's that good-for-nothing rubadub again, waving that wand of his! i wonder what he wants now! if he keeps on, he'll wear it out, surely. when i put him in charge of scrub-up-land i expected him to do a few things for himself, and if he's going to let me do all his work for him, i may as well dismiss him and get some one else who can.' that's what she'd say,” and he raised his eyebrows comically. the twins laughed. “that doesn't sound like the kind fairy queen, mr. rubadub. would she be as cross as that?" rubadub laughed, too. “no, i'm only joking,” he said, “only i make it a point never to bother the queen when i can help it. she's busy, poor soul, and whenever any of her helpers like myself wave our wands, it's like ringing your telephone-bell. she's got to stop whatever she's doing and find out what's wanted. don't you [ ] nancy and nick want to go for the paint and to hunt for the lost fairies?” "oh, yes, yes, yes!” declared nick, hopping around excitedly. “we'd love to, shouldn't we, nancy? only we thought your wand might get the lost fairies more quickly.” “they're not far away, i think you'll find,” said rubadub, nodding mysteriously. “now, here are your buckets. you'd better be off.” in a twinkling the green shoes lifted the twins into the air, the empty paint-buckets clutched in their hands, and the magical mushroom close beside them. “i think,” said he, "that we are going to have an adventure. i sort of feel it in my, in my”—he was going to say, "bones,” but remembering that he hadn't any, he had to think of another word—“in my insides,” he finished. “it's just like your grandpa's rheumatism, which always informs him of a coming storm. yes, i'm quite sure we are going to have an adventure.” along they all whizzed, as fast as the fastest air-ship, on their way to the fairy queen's palace. only, instead of going straight, as the bees do, they asked the green shoes to take them [ ] in scrub-up-land around by the willow-grove in the land-where- spring-was-coming. as they approached, it was plain to be seen that something was wrong. very wrong! the vi. . . s er higgins standing over the pairies was that knave, jack frost ! place looked dark and gloomy and altogether un- happy, not a bit as though winter were over and spring were on the way. mr. sun was no- where to be seen, and the air was so cold they shivered with the chill of it. besides, robin redbreast was nowhere to be seen either, nor the march hare nor wally woodchuck, and last but most important of all, there wasn't a single [ ] nancy and nick katkin anywhere. the twigs were as bare as eggs; they were not even varnished yet. where could the missing fairies be? what could have happened to them? “aha,” said the magical mushroom, sus- piciously, looking around on all sides. “aha!” and then he pointed to an old hollow stump. “just as i thought,” he nodded, "the sly old rascal!” and following his glance the twins saw all the little fairies huddled together in a bunch, buds and glue and all! and standing over them, punching and teasing them dreadfully, was no other than that knave, jack frost! [ ] e.r. higgins "t'd be a nice one to let they come in and spoil my fux,” said jace most. chapter v: the fairy queen's palace although jack frost was a tricky fellow, nobody minded his pranks in the fall and winter. folks said, “there's a time and place for every- thing and jack frost is all right in his place.” when he painted over newly cleaned windows with his fantastic patterns, they were quite patient with him (of course they were lovely pic- tures, i must admit that) and when he cracked water pitchers, and fastened down pump- handles, and made little creeks stand still, they humored him and hardly fussed a bit. “it's win- [ ] nancy and nick ter and he has a right to do as he pleases," they said. but when the spring fairy was just over the hill, and jack frost was supposed to gather up his strings (for tying pump-handles) and ham- mers (for breaking water-pitchers), and paint- brushes (for painting ferns on the windows), and then skidaddle in the opposite direction, most generally his disposition got mean. oh, so mean i can't tell you! he didn't want to go, and he'd linger and linger, and after people had their straw hats all dusted off for warm weather, and the parlor-curtains down to clean house, they'd get pretty cross because he poked round so long. he'd hide, you see, and when people thought he'd gone for good, he'd jump out at them, and blow down their necks and nip at their fingers. no wonder they got out of sorts! but the worst of it was, he was always snoop- ing around on the lookout for robin redbreast and the first pussy-willows, so that he could scare them away. if he once let the birds and the buds get a chance, he knew that the spring fairy [ ] in scrub-up-land would hurry over the hill and he couldn't stay much longer. "aha!” said the magical mushroom, "so this is the trouble! i thought jack frost was back of it all. jack!” he called sharply. “stop an- noying those fairies right away, and let them out of that old stump, or i'll tell the fairy queen at once." but jack only laughed impudently, pinching a little fairy's toes hard. “i'm not afraid of the fairy queen,” he mocked. “she's too busy to bother with the weather, anyway. besides, i'm a sort of a fairy myself and i do as i please. do you think i'm going to let the spring fairy chase me away until i'm quite ready? no, sir! she's right over the top of that hill—i've seen her peep- ing, and so's the robin you scrubbed up so fine. i've heard his airish chirp. and belinda blue- bird is right at his heels! i'd be a nice one to let them all come in and spoil my fun. no, sir, here i am and here i intend to stay." very brave words indeed, were they not, but blustery. and when people get blustery it's a pretty sure sign they're afraid of something. the [ ] nancy and nick magical mushroom perceived this, as he was a very shrewd old chap, but just what it could be that jack was afraid of, he couldn't think for a minute. then he had it. it popped into his head, like a shot, the thing jack was afraid of, and he laughed softly. "come, kiddies," he said to the twins quickly, taking their hands again. "bring your buckets and wish yourselves to the fairy queen's palace right away." and jack, looking after them, frowned in a worried way. he very much suspected trouble. but we must follow the little travelers and see what happened after they had left jack frost. away they whizzed faster than your engine on its shiny tin track, and before you could write your name they had arrived at the fairy queen's front gate. nimble toes, her doorman, let them in and took them straight to the queen, who had been very busy talking to the polka-dot elephant from topsy-turvy-land, but she turned at once and welcomed her new guests. she was exquisitely beautiful and looked ex- [ ] in scrub-up-land actly as nancy had hoped she would look, with lovely kind eyes that smiled almost all of the time, and wonderful wavy hair. and as for her gown, it was woven of silver gossamer and had taken a hundred years to make. etc. higgins. the fairy queen was ever put out about it. when she heard the disgraceful way in which jack frost was behaving, she was ever so put out about it. "my, oh my!” she exclaimed so emphatically that her crown slid sideways and she had to stop to straighten it. “here i've been so busy i haven't had time to notice what is going on in the land-where-spring-is-coming. [ ] in scrub-up-land their empty buckets, "that's what our errand is about. we haven't any yellow paint for the spring flowers at all.” “then,” nodded the fairy queen, “there's only one thing to do. mr. sun must be found at once. somebody must hunt him up for me, and tell him how much he is needed.” “may we go?” asked nick quickly. “it's such fun traveling. the queen looked too astonished to speak. “you!” she exclaimed, after her breath came back. “yes, ma'am, nancy and me! we've got our green shoes and the magical mushroom won't let us get lost. will you?” he said confidently turning to his faithful little fairy friend. “ahem!” coughed the mushroom. “it—it's quite a large order, nickie, but if her majesty says so, i'll try anything once. it shouldn't be hard. the only thing is that as mr. sun is not to be seen, it's hard to tell exactly what direction to go.” by this time the queen had had time to think it over, and she nodded encouragingly. "you're [ ] nancy and nick brave children," she smiled, "and i believe you can do it. if you go to the home of mr. morn- ing star, i'm sure he can direct you. i have his address." and she called to twinkle pen, her secretary, to go get it out of her desk. "here it is, your graciousness," that fairy re- plied shortly, after rummaging in the drawer marked "stars." and the fairy queen read aloud, "corner of dawn avenue and eastern road, earlymorn. you may leave your buckets here until you return. good-by, now, kiddies, you'd better be off so we can get our little fairies out of trouble as soon as possible." then she kissed them both and shook hands with the magical mushroom, calling to the south wind to guide them, and in a trice the green shoes had lifted them far above the palace towers. [ ] up and up asd up they went, the south wind guiding. chapter vi: mr. morning star wakens mr. sun up and up and up they went, the south wind guiding them, and floating as gently as thistle down on the kindly breeze. after quite a few minutes of traveling, they arrived at dawn ave- nue, and after a few seconds more they dis- covered where it crossed eastern road. sure enough, right on the corner was a very shiny house, with points sticking in all directions, like a chestnut-burr, or a lantern on a very dark night, when the rays point out like fine needles. [ ] in scrub-up-land once inside, and after a nice dish of porridge, which seems to be the only thing star-people and moon-people care about, serving the same to their guests, the twins told the whole story to mr. morning star and asked if he could help them. "sure i can!” he promised them at once. “old man sun is a fine fellow and a good friend of mine, for we've been chums all our lives. but i'll tell you a secret—he's getting lazy in his old age, and when he gets to bed some nights in his comfortable cloud-blankets, all gray and soft and woolly, with a nice pink counterpane on top, he rolls over and snores and sleeps so hard he never hears his alarm-clock at all in the morning. he's slept two weeks come sunday, and he's surely rested by this time. i tell you what i'll do i've an excellent plan.” and mr. morning star shook and laughed about something which seemed to tickle him mightily. "i'll ring his telephone bell,” chuckled he. “and mr. sun can't shut it off like he can the alarm-clock, and go to sleep again. that's just what i'll do." “ting-a-ling-a-ling-a-ling!” rang mr. star, [ ] in scrub-up-land "my, my! is that so?” interrupted mr. sun anxiously. “what's the trouble?” then nickie took mr. star's place at the 'phone and gave mr. sun the fairy queen's message. er higgins there was mr. sun, looking very stern indeed. "well, i declare!” exclaimed mr. sun, “i have trouble with that fellow jack frost every year. so he's at it again! you go back now and tell the fairy queen that i'll fix everything in a jiffy, and not to worry any more.” so the twins and the mushroom left mr. morning star's house after thanking him, and [ ] nancy and nick the south wind and the green shoes took them safely to earth again. but on their way to the fairy queen's palace they passed the willow- grove again, and, stopping for a little while, this is what they saw and heard. a sunbeam fell suddenly across jack frost's feet and he looked up in alarm. well he might be frightened, for there was mr. sun himself looking right at him very sternly indeed. jack hung his head, for he knew he'd been doing wrong, and that he had no business there in the land-where-spring-was-coming. he looked around slyly. “i'll just step be- hind these trees,” he thought, "until mr. sun goes away, and then i'll come out again.” but mr. sun wasn't to be fooled. “come back here, you scamp!” he called sharply.“what are you leaving your hammer for?” (the hammer jack used on water pitchers!) "oh, did i forget it?' exclaimed the foxy fel- low, coming back and pretending to be surprised. “i'll just stick it into my pocket.” which he did, and then sneaked behind the trees again. but mr. sun wasn't going to be fooled that [ ] in scrub-up-land way, either. “come back here, you fraud,” he commanded sternly. “what are you leaving your string for?” (the string jack frost tied down pump-handles with!) "oh, did i forget that, too?” declared jack in pretended surprise. “i'll just roll it up and stick it in my other pocket.” which he did, and then sneaked off again. but mr. sun was getting tired of his philan- dering, and he knew perfectly well what the fellow was trying to do. “come now, you rogue!” he cried crossly. “take your paint- brush, too, while you're at it and be gone for good.” (the paint-brush for marking up win- dows!) that was the end. jack gathered up all his belongings and shuffled out of the forest and down the road and disappeared in the distance for good and all! the willow-bud fairies jumped out of the old stump where jack had them cornered, and began gluing on the katkins as fast as they could, first varnishing the branches a lovely shiny brown. the spring fairy, a lovely maiden in a robe of [ ] nancy and nick white cloud-gossamer, eyes like the deep blue of the sky, and hair spun of sunbeams, came dancing happily, with robin redbreast perched on one shoulder and belinda bluebird on the other. then the twins continued on their way to the fairy queen's palace, for their buckets of yel- low paint. dear knows what mr. rubadub would be thinking, off in scrub-up-land, with no help at all, and all the creatures impatient to be spring-cleaned. they asked their little green shoes to hurry as fast as they could. [ ] si) l c.r.higgins mihani goodness! cried rubadud, when he saw the twins coming. chapter vii: the story of bill black- bird “thank goodness!” cried rubadub, when he saw the twins coming. he mopped his face with his handkerchief and breathed a loud sigh of relief. “i'd just about given you up, kiddies, and was quite despairing about the yellow paint. i've been trying to make up my mind whether to color the daffodils pink or blue, and whether the buttercups and dandelions would look better red or lavender. when it came to daisies and pansies and marigold and wood-sorrel and mustard and primrose and fox-glove and zenias and 'sturtiums [ ] nancy and nick and cut-and-come-again,” he stopped for breath _“i didn't dare to think the colors i'd have to make them. my, but i'm glad you're here safe and sound! these creatures are nearly driving me crazy.” nancy and nick set their buckets on the ground and rolled up their sleeves once more, while the magical mushroom started in to make peace. "you'll all have to be patient!” he told them, "for everything has its turn in the land- where-spring-is-coming. if the goldfinch ap- peared first instead of robin redbreast, people would think he was robin come in a borrowed coat, and mr. goldfinch wouldn't get a bit of credit for being himself, and if the peewee got in ahead of the warbler, the bird-books would all have to be written over again. you'll just have to wait, my friends, that's all.”. well, nancy and nick got the crocuses and early wood-flowers started off safely at last, and were just beginning the daffodils, when mr. rubadub toted over chris crow. “he won't behave at all,” complained the fairyman, “and he bothers me so! i wonder if you won't fix him [ ] in scrub-up-land up for me and get him out of the way. he's a general nuisance every year, he's so afraid that farmer smith will plant his corn before he ar- rives. i can't convince him that it will be two months vet before the farmer thinks of such a thing, but it's no use and he's giving me a head- ache with his screeching. his picture is on page fifteen of the “bird-book” and the stove-polish -i mean crow-polish—is on the middle shelf.” “we'll fix him!” nodded nick, and chris flapped down off rubadub's shoulder like a spoiled baby having his own way. "and trim his wings,” suggested rubadub. “the rough bark on the dead hickory-tree where he lives has nearly ruined them.” now, what happened hasn't a thing to do with this story, except that it had a result, which was very important. when nancy was clipping with her little sharp scissors, chris gave a jerk and his wing got a dreadful clip. it didn't hurt much, but it made the wing crooked, and with mr. crow having such a reputation for straight flying, it made him furious. “now, see what you've done,” he scolded. “i'll [ ] nancy and nick never be able to fly straight again as long as i live!” and he went on and on and on at such a rate that the twins were nearly distracted. even when nancy evened it up by clipping the other wing, he wasn't satisfied and aired his feel- ing so loudly that all the birds came hurrying. mr. crow was just flying out of the gate, when bill blackbird arrived with his usual croak, to see what the trouble was about and when he saw chris disappearing around the corner as shiny as a new overshoe, cawing as though his life de- pended upon it, bill couldn't believe his eyes. “well, i never!” he exclaimed indignantly. “i never in all my life!” and he went over into a corner and sulked. he'd been furious about robin redbreast and belinda bluebird getting out of scrub-up-land ahead of him, to begin with, not that he envied robin his brick-colored front or belinda her new blue jacket and orange-dyed blouse—not he—but he did want to get out to get some nice juicy bugs, and they wouldn't let him go until he was finished. when he saw chris crow flapping his way to [ ] in scrub-up-land the land-where-spring-was-coming, that was the limit of his patience. bill could endure it no longer, and he decided to think up a plan that would hurry things up a bit. “what's the e.r.higgins “my name's oliver oriole," tibbed bill blackbird. use of having brains," he boasted, "if you don't use them?” so he sat and sat, and thought and thought, gazing over nick's shoulder at the big bird-book, when suddenly he hit on an idea that almost tickled him to death. "chk! chk! chk!” he tittered to himself creakily in his rusty wagon-wheel voice. “i'll fool them all yet. just one more peep at the [ ] nancy and nick “bird-book” and i'll know exactly what to do!” now bill was smart, but he had a poor memory, and when a person intends to deceive people, he must be sure that his memory is in good working order. of course he might have deceived nancy and nick, but the magical mushroom was a wise old fairy and you had to get up pretty early in the morning if you wanted to fool him. this was his plan! he thought that if his name came so far down on the list that he wasn't going to get out of scrub-up-land until decoration day maybe, why he'd pretend he was somebody else, and thus stand a better chance to get away early to the land-where-spring-was-coming. so he tiptoed up quite close and had a good look at the “bird-book” with its lovely colors, which the twins and rubadub were copying onto the real birds in their turn. on the page before him was a beautiful bird, all brilliant orange and black, whom bill recognized at once. “so that's the person who is to get his freedom next!” thought bill jealously. “well, i'll just pretend [ ] in scrub-up-land i'm he, then i'll get fixed up at once. me for the land-where-spring-is-coming and the nice juicy bugs 'n' all!” well, pretty soon nick finished sid song sparrow's gray shirt, which he fastened on with little brown studs; then he handed him his brown cap. as sid flew away whistling happily into the sunshine, nick called, “next” just like they do in your daddy's barber-shop, when it's some- body's turn to get his hair cut. that was bill's chance! he stepped right up out of line like you've seen cheeky people do at a ticket-window, when they haven't any right to at all, and said, “that's me, i guess.” he was too much excited to bother with grammar. nick took a good look at bill, then at the pic- ture in the “bird-book.” “what's your name?" he asked. “oliver oriole,” fibbed bill. "i guess that's right,” nodded nick, doubt- fully, looking at the book again, “but you don't look it. you must have got pretty dirty down south, mr. oriole, to be so black now, although [ ] nancy and nick i must say you've grown some. just wait until i get the orange paint.” in a few minutes bill was looking exactly like the picture in the “bird-book," as gorgeous as a july sunset. when he caught a glimpse of him- self in the mirror he was so delighted, he swelled up until he nearly burst. "fine feathers certainly do make fine birds, don't they!” he remarked, smoothing his vest. if he had only kept quiet, no doubt he would have been out of scrub-up-land in about five more seconds, following robin redbreast, and belinda bluebird and chris crow to the land- where-spring-was-coming. but bill's voice sounded like—just bill's and not another thing in the world, or fairyland, and the magical mushroom heard him, as he came in just then for some soap for rubadub to wash the dirt off the mole's nose. “what's that?” he inquired curiously, looking bill over from foot to head. bill repeated his remark. “who is this gentleman?" the mushroom asked nick. [ ] in scrub-up-land “oh, that's a mistake,” the mushroom an- swered. “the wind blew the leaves over with- out nickie noticing. no, bill blackbird was next on the list. turn back, nick, and see if i'm not right.” bill groaned. what a goose he'd been and what a wretched memory he had! why hadn't it occurred to him that orioles don't get to the land-where-spring-is-coming until the mid- dle of may? he was dreadfully ashamed of himself. “i'm bill blackbird,” he had to confess then. “i'm not oliver oriole at all and i wish you'd rub off all this paint that doesn't belong on me.” which they did at once, and bill flew off in his dingy rusty winter clothes. if you can get close enough to him, you'll find i'm right. new york cixiety library [ ] e.r.higgins “well, i never !" exclaimed rubadub in surprise. "out with it, bote of you." chapter viii: ben bunny gets spring- cleaned, scramble squirrel, too rubadub, the fairyman, next called to ben bunny that it was his turn to get spring-cleaned. ben is first cousin to the march hare, you know, and, to whisper a secret, had already been to the land-where-spring-was-coming, having made several trips there from dreamland, even during the winter months, when spring was as far off as the equator. but he did need a good scrubbing now and he knew it, for the way to dreamland is under- ground. besides, he'd been asleep a long time [ ] in scrub-up-land and you do get tousled when you are asleep, and you always need washing and combing when you waken. and another besides! ben had still an- other reason for coming to see rubadub, and you shall hear it. scramble squirrel was with him, and scramble had the same reason ben had for coming. he, too, had been wintering in, or near, dreamland, spending quite a generous portion of his time in a bedstead of tree-roots, with his pantry (or one of his pantries at least) right beside him, so he could reach out and help himself to food without disturbing the covers. he needed scrubbing as much as ben bunny-combing, too, his tail was so tangled. but both had something on their minds besides being spring-cleaned. so when rubadub called ben, scramble came running, too. “you two are sights,” grinned the fairyman, dipping his scrubbing-brush (the hedgehog) into a bucket of suds. “if dirt were a penny a pound, you'd both be millionaires." for awhile he was very busy lathering and scrubbing and rinsing and rubbing, until the [ ] nancy and nick friends looked as spick and span as laundry baskets. “you'll do now. run along and have a good time, the pair of you,” nodded rubadub, throw- ing down his big towel and standing back to admire his work. but they didn't move, ben and scramble didn't. they just looked at each other with sheepish grins and never lifted a toe. “'s wrong?" asked the fairyman in surprise, suddenly growing sober. “aren't you satisfied? what have i left out? bay rum, or hair oil, or eau de cologne? it isn't considered polite any more to get too smelled up." “go on,” giggled scramble, “tell ’m!” “no, you!” begged ben, his little pink nose wriggling in a most embarrassed way and blush- ing quite red. “well, i never!” exclaimed rubadub in sur- prise. "have you two beauties lost your senses? what's wrong? out with it, both of you.” ben hopped up on one side then, and scramble to the other and whispered something into the fairyman's ears at precisely the same instant. [ ] in scrub-up-land “you're queer ones, sure enough,” said ruba- dub, looking too flabbergasted for words. “nancy and nick, come here at once, will you? i've something to tell you." the twins came running. “what do you think!” he told them. “these two have got a notion. ben wants to exchange his long ears for scramble's fine tail and scramble is just as anxious to exchange his tail for ben's beautiful ears." the secret was out at last and now you know the real reason these friends had for wishing to come to scrub-up-land. the twins clapped their hands and danced around in great glee. “won't they look funny," laughed nick, stopping suddenly, "you're going to do it, aren't you, mr. rubadub?” the master of scrub-up-land laid his finger beside his nose and thought deeply. “yes, i'd like to,” he said slowly, "only the fairy queen doesn't like these flipperty-gibbet notions the creatures take sometimes. besides, the place for them to go when they wish to try a new stunt is topsy-turvy-land.” [ ] nancy and nick it was the wise old magical mushroom who decided the matter. "i believe," he said, "i'd let them try it. the fairy queen wishes every one to be happy, and sometimes the only way people can be happy is to find out how foolish they've been." "that's so," agreed rubadub. "all right, you two rascals. i'll exchange your ears and tail. come here! where's that wand of mine?" a few magical words, and presto, the change was made! scramble wiggled ben's long ears delightedly, and ben swished scramble's bushy tail around, too pleased for anything. "oh, thank you, mr. rubadub," they said over and over again, bowing their gratitude. "we'll be going now, if you don't mind." then they started for the gate, intending to go back to the land-where-spring-was-coming, the fairy- man and the twins looking after them. "would you mind doing me a favor?" asked rubadub, turning to the twins, when the queer little creatures had disappeared. "we'll do anything you ask us, mr. ruba- [ ] in scrub-up-land dub," answered nancy obligingly. “won't we, nick?" you know what nick said to that, so rubadub went on. “your green shoes will take you any. las e.r.higgins presto, the change was made ! where, as you know, so how would it do for you to follow those two scalawags and find out how they are getting along. if they get into trouble i'd like to know it, so i can help them out, and i have a pretty good notion i'll be needed. they're both too proud to come begging if things go wrong, and i'd like you to keep an eye on them for a time.” [ ] nancy and nick "indeed we shall,” they promised promptly, and instantly asked their green shoes to follow scramble. . when ben and his squirrel friend had left the gate it was necessary for them to part company, as they lived in opposite directions. so of course the twins could only follow one at a time. whisk! instantly they were lifted into the air, the magical mushroom and all, and set down directly in the middle of a little green path in the land-where-spring-was-coming. right ahead, tearing along as fast as he could go, was scramble squirrel. only, had the twins not known all about him, they should never have recognized him at all, with ben bunny's great long ears stuck on top of his head, and his tail as gone as yesterday. when he stopped at the maple-tree, the chil- dren suddenly remembered a woodpecker's house in the same tree, two floors above mr. squirrel's, so in a trice they wished themselves into it, as mr. woodpecker had not arrived yet, and there was nobody at home. [ ] e.r.higgins "oh !shrieked mrs. squirrel, painting promptly, chapter ix: scramble squirrel returns scramble squirrel started to climb the maple-tree where he lived, his house being about half way up in a deep, roomy hole. nancy and nick, peeping from will wood- pecker's old house above, could see mrs. squir- rel, too, briskly getting lunch, for she was expecting her husband home that day from scrub-up-land. she had put out all the best tidies, and had made excellent dessert, which was now cooling in the kitchen, for the twins could [ ] in scrub-up-land but although he got a little further this time -smash! down he came again like a brick. he wasn't hurt badly this time either, but he was so mortified that he neither looked to right nor left, but jumped right up and made a dash for the tree again, determined, if possible, to find out what was the matter, and also de- termined to get up to his house where samantha and the good smells v he mopped his face with his little red hand- kerchief, panting for breath. “my!!he gasped. “do you 'spose it's because i haven't my tail for a balancer? my clutchers are all right, i'm sure, for rubadub sharpened them all on his big grindstone.” and he looked at his long sharp claws proudly. then something on top of his head suddenly began to feel heavy and queer, and he put up his paw to investigate. what could it be some big acorns or some pine-cones that had fallen onto him? or some burrs that had stuck when he fell? but the minute he touched them he knew! he'd completely forgotten about ben bunny's long ears. [ ] nancy and nick "jiminy christmas!" he exclaimed impa- tiently, "so that's it! these heavy old things are going to spoil my climbing, are they? well, not if i can help it. i'll just have to learn that i'm heavier in front than behind now, and learn also to be very careful. i shall have to do that, or else i'll have to learn to climb up backwards." well, to make a long story short, by clutching and scratching and straining, scramble did get up the tree, or almost up, for it suddenly oc- curred to him to surprise his wife, although why she hadn't heard him long ago, i'm sure i don't know. but it might be that she was rattling stove lids or something in the kitchen. she was about to set some acorn muffins on the table when the tips of two long ears appeared suddenly in the doorway and a voice cried, "boo!" very loudly. "oh!" shrieked mrs. squirrel, fainting promptly, the muffins spilling everywhere. and no wonder! it was the first time in her life she had ever heard of a rabbit climbing a tree. of course she recovered quickly after scramble had thrown a cup of water over her, [ ] in scrub-up-land but when she heard what her husband had done she made an awful fuss. “it gives me a head- ache to look at you,” she said. “what will you be doing next?” e.r. higgins out popped scramble and tore for safety. “never mind!” scramble comforted her, try- ing to pretend that he was quite satisfied with his bargain. “it will come out all right, my dear, see if it doesn't. these ears of ben's are very handsome, you must confess.” mrs. squirrel hadn't anything to say to that, and so the matter ended. time passed, and as scramble predicted, he [ ] nancy and nick he stopped licking his chops, looking very disap- pointed. and then he raised his eyes. "ah ha!” he exclaimed softly to himself, and smiled again. “not scramble squirrel, but ben bunny, if i'm not mistaken.” for the tips of two long brown ears were sticking right out of the top of the stump. scramble had forgot- ten about them completely. dear knows what would have happened if the twins hadn't been watching, and decided that if they were to save their foolish little friend, some- thing would have to be done quickly. “oh, do chase him away, nick,” whispered nancy, just as fleety was thinking of reaching and grabbing those two lovely looking ears in his mouth. nick picked up a stone and threw it, not knowing of anything else he could do. but it was the very thing. fleety was so startled he jumped about a yard and the dry twigs under his feet snapped and crackled loudly. that was a warning to scramble, who knew then that he was discovered. out he popped at the other side [ ] in scrub-up-land of the stump, and i wish you could have seen him tear for the nearest tree-trunk, and safety. “my goodness!” he panted. “that was a tight squeak. these ears will be the end of me yet, if i don't hunt up ben and beg him to let me out of my bargain. i wonder if he will?” it was for nancy and nick to find out. [ ] e-r-higgins mrs. bunny dropped her best salad-bowl. chapter x: ben bunny's bargain after the twins saw scramble squirrel leap nimbly from one tree-top to another until he was safely home, they asked their green shoes to take them to ben bunny's house, so they could report to rubadub about the other half of their errand. ben had been delayed, and when they arrived he was just reaching home. they slipped be- hind a bush because they were sure that ben would feel better if he thought no strangers were around. it never occurred to them that they [ ] in scrub-up-land were eavesdropping. really, i've a doubt if they knew what the word even meant. mrs. blossom bunny was washing the dishes when her husband arrived, as she had given him up an hour ago, and eaten her lunch alone. in he rushed, right into the kitchen, swish- ing scramble's long tail for very joy at the thought of getting home again, but it gave mrs. bunny such a turn that she dropped her best salad-bowl and smashed it to smithereens. “good land alive!” she cried, dropping into a chair. “but you did scare me, scramble squir- rel! you don't generally come in without knock- ing, and i thought you were a burglar at first.” ben laughed at that. “take another good look at me, blossom,” he suggested, “and see who you think i am now.” so blossom looked hard. she even put on her specks and looked, and when she saw it was her very own husband, ben, without his beauti- ful ears and with a regular scrubbing-brush of a tail instead, she couldn't speak for amazement. “i traded with scramble,” he explained, "for several reasons. first, i can get away from [ ] nancy and nick fleety fox easier without those everlasting long ears to give away my hiding hole. and second, because perhaps i can learn to climb a tree with this handsome long tail to balance me. besides, my dear, you'll find it useful, no doubt, to clean house with. some dust-brush, eh?” mrs. bunny didn't say much for she was a wise soul and knew that the only way to con- vince ben was to let him find out things for him- self. as for a dust-brush— already she was wondering how she'd ever put things to rights, for whenever ben moved he knocked something over. dust-brush, indeed! about as much as your mother could make use of a street-sweeper in the house! but anyway, she didn't say much, giving ben a good dinner of warmed-over victuals and tell- ing him all the gossip. when he had finished he wiped his mouth on his napkin, he folded it nicely, his napkin, not his mouth, i mean, and then said he believed he'd go out and practice. "practice! practice what?" asked brs. bunny. “why, climbing, of course,” said he. “what [ ] in scrub-up-land else have i got this tail for, if not to learn to climb?": again mrs. bunny wisely said nothing. wasn't she fine? so out he went, knocking over two chairs, and pushing all the pictures crooked on the wall. it really kept his wife a whole day doing out the house again! but he hopped along happily, wriggling his nose and swishing scramble's tail, until he came to a tree that looked easy to climb. “surely with this tail to balance me, and such nice rough bark,” he said, “i can get up without any trouble at all.” but although he had chosen a hickory-nut tree, which scramble squirrel or cob coon could have shinnied up in no time, ben was going to have troubles of his own. try as he would, and hang on as he could, he couldn't get up higher than a very few inches. “shucks!” he cried finally. “this tail's no good. it only pulls me down. whatever made me trade my ears for it, i wonder? they were such good listeners, [ ] nancy and nick too! now i can't tell how close fleety fox might be." just as he said it, he spied a shadow almost be- side him, and he nearly jumped out of his skin. "jimineezers!” he exclaimed, “there's the old fel- low now.” and without stopping to mention just exactly who the "old fellow” might be, he streaked off to the briar-tangle as fast as he could hop. if he reached it, he knew he would be pretty safe, for fleety fox hated the briar tangle and never went in if he could help it. suddenly ben chuckled to himself. "ho, ho!” he bragged. “who's wise now?" and he wished mrs. blossom were there to see him. “who knew enough to get rid of my long ears which were always sticking up and giving away my hiding hole, and to exchange them for a tail which is really no trouble at all, even if it doesn't help me to climb? i did," chuckled he. he flopped into the edge of the thicket, “ha- haing" and "ho-hoing” to himself and thinking how safe he was going to be. but—what do you think? he forgot that eight long inches had been added to his length, and that scramble's [ ] in scrub-up-land bushy tail was sticking out quite as plainly as the nose on the parson's face. he had indeed! and the first idea he had that he wasn't alto- gether out of the reach of the enemy, was when he felt a sharp nip behind him. er.higgins "jimineezers!” he exclaimed. “there's the old fellow vow." “ouch!” he screamed, jumping so hard that he landed right in the midst of the brambles, which hurt him some more, although there he was indeed quite safe. and he shivered and shook so you'd have thought it was threshing time, and that poor ben was trying to shake the briars loose. [ ] nancy and nick and this was what the twins heard him mutter when his teeth stopped chattering long enough for him to talk. “i—i'm going to hunt up scramble squirrel the minute i get out of here, and tell him to take his stupid tail back. the idea of me giv- ing up my beautiful ears that always told me when danger was a mile away! if i'd had them to-day, i'd never have let that wily old fox get near me, and if i'm not mistaken, i will have them before i'm a day older.” when he was quite sure that fleet had got tired of waiting and had gone home, ben slipped out to tell blossom the news. but she never said a word, mind you. wasn't she wonderful? but somebody else knew about it, too_two little people and a fairy, who had seen and heard everything. back they hurried to scrub-up- land, with the magical mushroom, to tell mr. rubadub that the two animal friends had made a bad bargain and were ever so sorry about the whole thing. the fairyman smiled sagely. “all's well that ends well,” said he, waving his wand. "if i'm [ ] in scrub-up-land not mistaken, they're happy again right this min- ute.” and away off in the land-where-spring- was-coming two foolish little creatures got their own property back and vowed they'd always be satisfied in the future. it seemed almost as though they had been dreaming that they had been so foolish. [ ] "and," she added, shaking her finger, “you'd better mend your manners and not be so curious and yell 'who' at everybody who passes." chapter xi: mr. grubby groundhog "say, kiddoes!” said mr. rubadub, rubbing a spot of soapsuds off the end of his nose, “would you object to doing another errand for me? i'm too busy to go myself, and if somebody doesn't rout the good-for-nothing old scalawag out, spring will be here and he'll be as dusty as a camel” “who?” asked nick. “who will be as dusty as a camel, mr. rubadub; who's a scalawag ?” “oh, didn't i tell you?” exclaimed rubadub. "mr. groundhog of course, grubby groundhog. the old fellow stuffs out his sides with corn ’n' [ ] in scrub-up-land acorns 'n' sweet apples, also any green stuff that he can get ahold of in farmer smith's sass-patch garden, and when he hasn't left a smidgen of anything for anybody else, he hies him off to his hole underground and sneaks away to dream- land for six solid months. personally, i don't think dreamland can be much of a place, be- cause the creatures who spend the winter there are the dustiest and muddiest and dirtiest of them all. the birds who come from the south and the creatures who spend their time snooping 'round the winter woods like ben bunny and scramble squirrel, don't get half as dirty. of course, ben and scramble do make trips to dreamland once in a while, if things get too frosty for them, but they don't stay long at a time.” “we'll be ever so glad to go, mr. rubadub,” said nancy obligingly, unpinning her apron and telling mr. owl, whom she had just finished spring-cleaning, to be careful of his light shirt- front, and to try to keep his house in better order than he had done last year. “and," she added, shaking her finger, "you'd better mend [ ] in scrub-up-land and muddy. but the card in the door-plate didn't say a word about grubby groundhog living there. all it said was “wally woodchuck-his house." there wasn't anyone 'round to ask, so nick and nancy rang the doorbell. but as nobody answered it they gave the door a little push and walked in. my, but it was dark and stuffy in- side of mr. woodchuck's hall! the place cer- tainly needed a good airing. and it was the most puzzling place you ever saw, the very puzzlingest! here was another doorway and a hall; there was another hallway and a door; here it went up; over yonder it curved around; and on beyond it straightened out! as nobody was to be seen, nancy called out, “mr. woodchuck, mr. woodchuck!" and nick sang out, “where are you, wally woodchuck? we want to ask you something." for they wanted to ask where grubby ground- hog lived. but there wasn't any answer. after that they came to a room, and inside the [ ] nancy and nick room on a bed of straw—they could see through the crack-someone was sleeping, and snoring. "bz-z-z-z-z-z!” he went. “bz-z-z-z-z-z! sn-r-r-r-r-r! bz-z-z-z-z-z!” and then turned over on the other side. nick went in and walked over quite close to the bed. “i–ibeg your padron, sir,” he said to the sleepy old tousled person on the bed. “but i'd like to ask you something." "bz-z-z-z-z-z! sn-r-r-r-r-r!” was all the an- swer he got. “poke him!” said nancy. “he doesn't look very happy. maybe he's dreaming something horrid, and he'd like us to wake him.” so nick poked him. "hey! what's that!” demanded the tousley person, sitting up in bed, and rubbing his eyes, and yawning. "were you dreaming?" asked nancy, forget- ting for the moment that they particularly wished to ask about grubby groundhog. “yes!” answered the other. “i had a dread- ful dream about soap and water. ugh!” [ ] nancy and nick was his house, but we saw your name on the door instead. did he move away?” "i've always lived here,” stated the thin tousled person. “yes, i'm mr. woodchuck." “oh, then," went on nick, “can you tell us where mr. groundhog lives?” “whatta you want him for?” asked mr. wood- chuck. "did somebody• leave him a fortune, or is it something less pleasant?” “mr. rubadub of scrub-up-land sent us for him. it's time for him to get spring-cleaned, past time, really, and he hasn't showed up yet." "humph!" said mr. woodchuck under his breath. “i knew that dream i had about soap and water meant something." then he asked out loud, “did mr. rubadub tell you what grubby groundhog looks like?” “yes," put in nancy eagerly. "he said he was fat and lazy and selfish.” mr. woodchuck made a face. “in-deed!” said he. "why, do you know him?" asked nick. "perhaps i do and perhaps i don't,” answered [ ] in scrub-up-land mr. woodchuck evasively. "there are so many folks around that i get them mixed." the twins looked disappointed. "oh, we're so sorry!" said nancy. "but if you can't help us, we mustn't stay. we'll have to be going. perhaps some of your neighbors will know where mr. groundhog lives and they can tell us." mr. woodchuck pricked up his tiny ears at this. "why—why, perhaps i'd better go along then!" he offered. "you see i know most people and i understand their language and—" "oh," answered nancy, "that's all right. we can understand, too. our friend, the magical mushroom, gives us the power of understanding everybody. he gave us a charm just before we left scrub-up-land, which is the same as though he was right with us. it's a piece of the pink lining out of his hat." and she fished it out of her little pocket. "but," insisted mr. woodchuck with a wor- ried look. "i think that i'd better go anyway. you—you might get lost." "we'll be very glad to have you, knowing where folks live 'n' all," declared nick. "only [ ] nancy and nick we didn't wish to bother you, looking as weak as you do.” "i'm hungry, that's all," answered mr. wood- chuck. "have you been sick?” asked nancy. “no, only asleep. i've slept for six months.” "six months!” cried the twins together. “why that's the way mr. groundhog does!” “ahem!” coughed mr. woodchuck behind his hand. "let's be going.” so out they filed. “i'll run ahead and ask folks, and save you the trouble,” said mr. woodchuck. “i'll ask the owl first. he lives over there in that tree." and he ran ahead, sat up on his hind legs, and whistled. pretty soon oscar owl stuck out his head, but what he said the twins couldn't hear, he was so far away. · pretty soon wally woodchuck hobbled back (he was so thin he couldn't walk right) and shook his head. “oscar couldn't give me any news of grubby groundhog,” he said. “says he knows him well, though.” ws [ ] nancy and nick don't seem to be able to tell me a thing about him. i'll run along ahead now and ask chris crow. if he doesn't know, nobody does, and you may as well return to scrub-up-land and tell mr. rub- adub and his soap and water, i mean tell mr. rubadub, that grubby can't be found.” before nancy and nick could say a word, he was off again. but the twins had decided by this time that they would do a little inquiring themselves, and no sooner had wally departed for the old hick- ory-tree where chris crow made his home, than they wished themselves after him. they landed on the other side of the tree, and being small (you see the shoes had made them very small in order to get into mr. woodchuck's house) neither chris nor wally noticed them. and this is the way they heard the dusty, tousley woodchuck person ask that old fraud of a chris crow if he knew anything about grubby groundhog's whereabouts:- “st! st! oh, chris!” went wally. chris stuck out his black head. “'lo!” he answered. “'lo, grubby!” [ ] in scrub-up-land mister woodchuck put his hand to his mouth, "sh! not so loud!” he whispered. “don't gimme away. there's two folks here from scrub-up- land; rubadub sent 'em for grubby ground- hog and they don't know i am that person. i told 'em i'd ask you if you knew grubby and i ran ahead so they couldn't hear. they don't know that i've got two names, and they are looking for somebody who's fat. they don't know that i'm fat in the fall and lean in the spring. also they don't know how i hate to get spring-cleaned. i'm so hungry i'd rather eat a good meal. the sass-patch garden is start- ing to come up and the wheat's green as any- thing. now don't tell, will you?” “tee, hee,” snickered mr. crow. “'deed i won't, grubby. that scrubbing business is no fun. and they might clip your tail crooked, like they did my wings.” nick looked at nancy and nancy looked at nick. what a lot they had discovered in the last few minutes! wishing themselves large enough to pull a certain tousled person along with them, nick [ ] nancy and nick took a firm hold of one of grubby groundhog's ears, and nancy seized the other. "come along, grubby," they commanded. "no more tricks, either. you've fooled us long enough. everybody will like you better when you're clean. then you may come back here and eat as much as you like all spring and summer." and what could grubby, or wally, or what- ever you wish to call him, do, but go? [ ] nancy got the fan at once. chapter xii: mr. sleepy whatshisname “who's this?” asked rubadub, pushing his cap onto the back of his head and jerking his thumb at a creature all huddled up behind a stone. nancy and nick came running. “looks like mr. fox,” said nancy, “his nose is so pointy.” "no,” contradicted nick. "look at his ears! they aren't big enough for fleety fox. mr. rubadub, don't you know?" rubadub shook his head. “no, i don't. never saw the gentleman before in all my life,” said he. [ ] in scrub-up-land fleet doesn't go to dreamland in the winter, even for a week's vacation. he is so afraid that he'll miss something or someone or a meal-that he snoops around all winter long, and the snow keeps him clean.' they do say that the underground road to dreamland is most untidy, and as fleet never goes he never gets dirty. "it can't be corny coon, either," went on rubadub thoughtfully, "for corny has a tail like the brush in a carpet-sweeper, and it's as striped as a stick of peppermint-candy.” so there they were, just where they began, nobody knowing who the stranger was, or where he came from. rubadub and nancy and nick asked all the creatures in scrub-up-land if they'd ever seen him, but nobody had, until the cuckoo-bird hap- pened along. “i don't know his name," said the cuckoo-bird, thoughtfully cocking his head on one side, “but i'm sure i've seen him down south. i think he's the very fellow who asked me if i knew where there was a persimmon-tree. he [ ] nancy and nick must have been hunting for a persimmon-tree and wandered in here by mistake." "either that, or when he saw so many of the birds coming from the south, he decided that there must be something special going on up north here and so he followed them," suggested nancy. it was a long speech and a bright idea for such a little girl. rubadub smiled. "that's just exactly it," said he, "and the journey on foot has tired him." "it's a long way to come just for a soap-and- water bath," said nick. "oh, there's no doubt that he made a mistake," said the cuckoo-bird. "he meant to go to the land - where - spring - is - coming, i suppose. someone told him, likely, that there might be a persimmon-tree there." well, they all talked and talked and guessed and guessed about the strange creature, where he came from, where he might be going, and why he slept so soundly. for, through all the conversation, mr. whateverhisnamewas never batted an eye-lid. "he's the very quietest sleeper i ever saw," [ ] in scrub-up-land said rubadub watching him closely. “why, you can't even see him breathe!” the twins stooped and watched too. it was true. he was very different from all the sleepers mr. possum got the spring-cleaning of his life, they had seen before, whose sides generally went out and in or up and down with each breath. he sort of reminded nancy of her bisque doll, jane, whose eyes closed when you laid her down. she never moved when she slept, but stayed in the same position, still and cold, until you picked her up again. [ ] in scrub-up-land pulling, they managed to get his sleepiness or his faintiness or whatever his name was, strung up by the tail. rubadub twisted it (the tail) ’round the tree-limb, and do you know, he never even had to tie it, for it stayed just where rub- adub put it without a knot or anything, just as though it had been accustomed to hanging onto tree-limbs all its life, the tail i mean. “now then, everybody!” said rubadub, step- ping back, “stand away and give him air. nancy, you run and get a fan and fan him, and nickie, you watch to see if he flickers his eyes. i'm go- ing to look at my watch and see how long he faints.” nancy got the fan at once and everybody took a turn fanning mr. whateverhisnamewas hang- ing up there by his tail. nick watched his eyes for some sign of his waking, and rubadub count- ed the seconds. but do you know, the fairyman got to a hundred, then to three hundred and still the creature didn't make a sign. he just hung there with his head down like an old coat hung upside down on a hook. "well, i never!” declared rubadub finally, [ ] nancy and nick putting away his watch and chain. "the harder you fan and the more i count, the sounder he sleeps. really this is the faintest faint i ever heard of in all my life. there! there! it's no use fanning. everybody stop. we'll have to think of something else. here, all of you, help me unwind him and we'll lay him down again." so with some more lifting and heaving and dragging and bumping, they got him down again just where he was before, and stretched him out on the ground. "i know of something else 'ts good for faints," piped up markie muskrat again. "it's cold water. if you rub his hands and face and wrists with cold water, most likely that'll fetch him. dr. mink says it's a fine thing." "all right, we'll try it," said rubadub. "nickie, run and get a bucket of cold water at once, and nancy get some little white rags." in ever so short a time the twins returned with all the things and everybody set to work again. nancy wrung out her little cloths in the cold water and handed them 'round to everybody and [ ] in scrub-up-land mr. whateverhisnamewas must have thought (if he could think at all when he was so fainty) that a nice cool spring shower had come along and found him without an umbrella. nancy sprinkled water on his face and laid a cool cloth on his forehead, mr. rubadub laid another one on the back of his neck, nick wet his feet and muff mole looked after his hands, mark muskrat wet his tail, and the other creatures sprinkled him all over. but not a bit of use was any of it! he slept on and on and on. or i should say, perhaps, he fainted on and on and on. “does anybody know of anything else to do?" asked rubadub. tillie toad said she'd heard of smelling-salts, whatever that meant. so rubadub hurried off to one of his cupboards and brought back two bottles. one was marked “smelling salts” and the other one was marked “aromatic spirits of ammonia.” he poured some "spirits of ammonia” into a teaspoon and opened mr. whatshisname's mouth and let it (the ammonia) run down his throat. then he held the smelling salts to mr. [ ] nancy and nick whatshisname's nose, and waited. everybody waited. in fact they'd all waited so long they were getting tired of waiting. but mr. whateverhisnamewas didn't budge. he didn't wink or breathe or move. mr. rubadub sighed. “i give it up,” he said at last. "i think he must be dead." “goodness!” said nancy. “wouldn't that be too bad! do you suppose he walked too far?" just then the cuckoo-bird who had started to fly away, came back and perched on the tree again, beckoning for the fairyman to come close. “say!" whispered he. “i just happened to think of something. it never occurred to me until you said 'dead,' mr. rubadub, but i've been putting two and two together, and persimmon-trees and one thing 'n' another together, and i'm pretty sure that this mr. whatshisname here is a friend of a friend of mine, and he's very peculiar. very! when he doesn't want to do anything or when he's afraid folks will do something he doesn't like, he can play dead better 'n' fido, the trick dog. i'll bet you anything that we can wake him up!” [ ] in scrub-up-land the cuckoo bird whispered the words into rubadub's ear, just loud enough for nancy and nick to hear, but not loud enough for anyone else. and he went on telling them some other things that brought the smile back to rubadub's brow. “all right!” whispered the fairyman back to the cuckoo-bird. “i'll try it. you'd better stay here to see how it works.” then he called loudly, “nancy, nick, markie muskrat, everybody, come here!” everybody came crowding close. "now listen carefully,” said rubadub. "i guess that our friend here must be pretty sick. he's so sick that i'm afraid that we can't make him better, ourselves, so we'll have to send for the doctor. and we don't want the doctor to think that we don't know how to take care of a patient, do we?” everybody said he didn't want such a thing to happen. "well then,” nodded rubadub, “the most im- portant thing of all in nursing is cleanliness. we must make the patient as clean as a soap-bubble [ ] nancy and nick before the doctor comes. in order to do that, we must give him a good scrubbing with several kinds of soap, soap-suds, soap-powder, and soap- flakes. now, who will go and get the soap?” "i! i! i!” came several voices at once, each person clamoring to help. “i'll go. we'll all go." “that's fine!” answered rubadub. “now lis- ten to what i tell you.” one by one they departed, even nancy and nick and the fairyman himself, leaving mr. sleepy whatshisname still and silent behind the big stone. but rubadub and the twins only went a little way. they stopped and hid behind a tree trunk to see what would happen. and something did happen! the sleepy creature who had caused so much excitement and commotion, or rather the creature who had pretended to be so sleepy, opened one wary eye, then the other, and looked around. then he lifted his nose, then his head and his tail, and the very next thing wasn't he standing on all four feet, quietly peering in every direction. see- [ ] in scrub-up-land ing nobody he started to grin. “didn't i fool them, though?” he snickered. “didn't i have the whole kaboodle of them completely hoodwinked! but i'd better be going before they bring all that soap-powder 'n' soap-flakes 'n' stuff. i've no intention of getting the nasty stuff in my eyes and mouth and nose, and don't you forget it. next time mr. philander 'possum follows the birds and comes to a place like this, you'll know he's losing his mind. i guess i won't go north at all. i'll just slip out of the gate and go south again. i haven't seen a single persimmon- tree since i left home.” with that mr. philander ’possum (for that's what mr. sleepy whatshisname's name really was) started for the gate, but rubadub and the twins were too quick for him. they stepped out and stopped him, and as all the others returned just then with forty kinds of soap and some more water, mr. 'possum got the spring-clean- ing of his life. he still tells the story to his grandchildren, with many chuckles, as a good joke on himself. [ ] in scrub-up-land out. jerking his thumb back toward the door he said under his breath, "a very important per- son is here! very! no other than the bird of paradise. she wishes to get her spring clothes made." when he came in looking as mysterious as a penny prize package, the twins had put down their brushes and crayons, and waited with bated breath to hear the wonderful news he had to tell. "huh!" said nick now, in a disappointed tone, quite impolitely, i'm afraid. "i never heard of her. who's she?" and he picked up a sharp lit- tle file to make will woodpecker's bill just the right shape for hammering on the trees. and nancy said, "is that the yellow stuff they wear on hats?" and she started chalking will's white wings to make 'em still whiter. "such remarks!" said rubadub shocked. "i'm perfectly amazed. but after all perhaps it's lit- tle wonder that you know so little about her highness. birds of paradise don't belong in our country, but live many thousands of miles away. that is why it is so unusual and such an honor to have this lady select us to fix her up. especial- [ ] in scrub-up-land and the fairyman got busy hunting out all their finest materials. there were wonderful feath- ers that rubadub said he had been saving for umpty-some years, for occasions such as this, paint of the loveliest rainbow shades, silver pow- der, gold powder, and what not! for the bird of paradise you must know, children, just as rubadub said, is the grandest bird in all the world. indeed nancy and nick nearly lost their breath when the fairyman showed them her lovely picture in the “bird-book.” next they lowered all the shades, for ruba- dub said she had asked especially to have it dark, and when everything was ready the fairyman opened the door. and in walked the stranger! of course the light was very dim but there was quite enough of it to see that the visitor was certainly not so gorgeous as her picture. really she was quite plain, being dressed altogether in dull brown. · the magical mushroom took a good look at her and then whispered to nancy that to his mind her name might as well be bird of the barnyard, [ ] nancy and nick as bird of paradise, and he was also about to say some more uncomplimentary things, when the lady herself apologized. “i've come a long way, so of course i just wore my traveling clothes,” she said. “but when i return, no doubt the weather will be quite fine, so i may wear my new gown home. can you begin right away?" rubadub bowed and said that they could and would, and showing her the picture in the "best bird-book," asked if that were the kind of a dress she wished. he brought it quite close so she could see plainly. “y–y-yes!” gasped the brown bird. "is that really and truly the bird of par- ” and then, quite haughtily, “oh! i mean, that's ex- actly what i wish. you may begin at once.” well, everybody got busy at once primping up the little brown bird. first of all they painted her bill a lovely sky-blue (just like the picture), then they colored her feet an exquisite pink (also like the picture). the feathers on her back and sides and breast they made white and gold and purple and green, and then fastened long, grace- [ ] in scrub-up-land ful, orange-colored plumes below her wings. (all just like the picture.) last of all they shook gold and silver powder over her and fastened a strip of velvet about her e.r.higgins "me, biddy hen,” said the most disheveled creature you ever saw, throat, which finished her off completely. be- hold what a gorgeous creature the little brown bird had become! cinderella changed into a princess! “now come over and see yourself, please,” said rubadub proudly, leading her to the mirror. “do you like your new gown?” "i—is that really me?” she cried, when her [ ] nancy and nick own bedecked image met her eyes. “oh, oh, oh! i'm surely the grandest creature alive, now. i mean,” hastily, “it feels better to have one's best clothes on." and then, as is the way with the "newly rich" often, she grew suddenly haughty again. “open the door!” she commanded sharply. "how do you expect me to half see in this awful gloom?” "but you said the light hurt your eyes,” nick reminded her. “well, what if i did?” she snapped. “they're better. good gracious! do i have to explain everything i do?” "my! my!” the magical mushroom shook his head soberly. “some people certainly do change their manners with their clothes, don't they!” "oh, do stop talking so much," answered mrs. bird of paradise wearily, “and show me how to hold up my train. i must be going at once.” "oh, don't you know how?” asked the wise old mushroom quickly, winking at rubadub. “be- sides, you don't need to hold it up when you fly." [ ] nancy and nick see if she isn't back by to-morrow.” and he smiled a wise smile. "shall we follow her?" asked nancy and nick eagerly. “perhaps we can help her.” rubadub shook his head. “no, i think not; she'd only think you were interfering. the only way to do with some folks is to leave 'em alone." but the mushroom was wrong. the bird of paradise didn't even wait until the next day. that very evening the door opened a crack, and a head looked in; a head with one eye swollen, and all the feathers on it, the head, not the eye, sticking out forty ways for sunday. “may i come in?” asked a meek voice. "sure!” cried rubadub, opening the door wider. “who is it?” “me, biddy hen,” said the most dishevelled- looking creature you ever saw. “would you mind taking all this stuff off and making me over into a plain chicken again? nobody at home knows me, and they won't let me in. i'm 'most starved, and i'm tired to death. these old feather dusters trip me at every step, and cockadoodle, my husband, called me a trollop. [ ] in scrub-up-land oh, dear, why was i ever so silly as to wish to be beautiful?" “handsome is as handsome does,” rubadub comforted her. "i reckon you're right,” she sighed, “but i've brought up five families, and no one ever asked me for my photograph yet.” everybody got to work then, and took off all the ruined finery, and mrs. biddy hen went home to her family, a sadder and wiser bird. ( ) in scrub-up-land to come to the barber-shop as fast as he could, and take his turn. but no casper came, not a feather of him, and neither did he answer to his name. so they searched for him everywhere, behind the doors, under the empty paint-pots, on top of the ladders and outdoors, too. but there wasn't a sign of him. suddenly there was a terrific rumpus from somewhere, quarreling and scolding, as though every creature in christendom had a grievance and was airing it. evidently some one had called mr. frog names, and he was answering back. “you're dumb,” he croaked, "you're dumb, you're dumb!” he acted awfully mad. then another voice shrilled a denial. it sounded exactly like biddy hen. “i'm not at all, i'm not at all!" she cackled. "i'm just as smart as you, i'm just as smart as you, i'm twice as smart as you!” "stop your fussing, aren't you ashamed!” came the oriole's voice. “why? why? why?” wondered the kill- deer. [ ] ly as si world. u s about to fairy "w? iously. "sh *ermeling e st cunot would hid in crack. like t "a josmis dose so "we peck "i way pain you custo all t. > d smee." rmping up - a and e picture), m mar the fina in scrub-up-land ful, orange-colored plumes below her wings. (all just like the picture.) last of all they shook gold and silver powder over her and fastened a strip of velvet about her . yo co.. diorming e.r.higgins "me, biddy hen," said the most disheveled creature you ever saw, throat, which finished her off completely. be- hold what a gorgeous creature the little brown bird had become! cinderella changed into a nincess! come over and see yourself, please,” said qudly, leading her to the mirror. in own?" cried, when her in scrub-up-land back here, when they've been away, some of them for a month?” a wise look came into rubadub's eyes, but he said nothing except, “whose turn is it to get spring-cleaned?” e.r. higgins a small gray figure talking and scolding with the voices. “casper catbird's, mr. rubadub," nancy told him. "and have you got him?" “no, not yet. when we started to search for him all the fussing started, and we thought we'd better stop it first. but we don't know where [ ] nancy and nick to go. we can't tell where any of the sounds come from.” "exactly!” nodded the fairyman beckoning, "ex-act-lee! come on, we'll search for whom- ever we can find. i don't think it will be very hard to catch the offender-i mean offenders.” "here's one now,” called nick in a minute, pointing to philip frog, snoring peacefully un- der a burdock. “but he's asleep,” smiled rubadub, "how can he be making so much racket?" it was true. phil had no more idea of quar- reling than i have at this minute, and i'm feeling pretty friendly indeed! mysterious, wasn't it? on they went, following rubadub, and all the while getting nearer and nearer to the noises. sometimes the quarreling would stop and the sawing would begin—the two sounds never hap- pening at the same time. pretty soon the fairyman put his finger on his lips, and began to tippety-tiptoe, which meant for everybody to be very quiet; and the little green shoes could slip along with no noise at all, let me tell you. [ ] manan rubadub called the twins and the magical mushroom to em and held a council. chapter xv: the easter bunny spring was getting along pretty well by this time. since jack frost had sneaked off to his home at the north pole, or in the sky or wherever it was he lived, and let the fairy helpers work unhindered, they had worked more busily than bees in a clover patch; and with all the katkins out, the fuzzy buds on the alders, little red blos- soms on the maple-trees, and green buds blanket- ing all the bushes and shrubs, the land-where- spring-was-coming looked like the fairy queen's private bower. [ ] nancy and nick i'm sure they weren't christmas presents for anybody. but there were still other nest builders. in- door ones! little chubby nest-builders, who scampered up to attics and searched for bright- colored baskets (or at least they had been bright a year ago) and then, when they found them, scrubbed them up and tied on bows and tiptoed into the best parlor and hid 'em—and tiptoed out again! knowing this and taking a squint at his cal- endar, rubadub called the twins and the magi- cal mushroom to him and held a long council. "it's time for the easter bunny,” he an- nounced. “high time! he's due in the land- where-spring-is-coming the day after to-mor- row." "but,” said nancy, “he isn't here yet. we can't clean him up when he isn't here!" "no," smiled rubadub, “but he will be. don't think he ever forgets when the kiddies are ex- pecting him. he's on his way now from dream- land. anyway, what's the matter with getting ( ) in scrub-up-land the eggs ready for him—and the candy chickens, and bunnies?” the twins clapped their hands. “oh, that will be grand! do you really do all that in scrub- up-land, mr. rubadub?" “who else, if i don't?” he replied. "and do please tell us how he carries every- thing,” they coaxed. “is he like the magical fox who rode the prince on his tail?” "now how could he do that when he hasn't any tail to speak of !” exclaimed the fairyman in sur- prise. “certainly not. the fairy helpers go along in thousands loaded down like santa claus. they open the windows and unlock doors, and find the nests, and presto! in the morning the kiddies find wonderful things. of course the easter bunny knows where everybody lives and takes charge of everything, but since the world has got so big, he has to have help.” “how-do-you-do, everybody,” said a cheery voice just then, and turning they beheld the easter bunny himself smiling in the doorway. he was in high good-humor, and said he was very glad to meet the twins. "fine weather,” he [ ] nancy and nick went on, rubbing his paws together, “fine and clear and easterish. i think we owe it all to our young friends here, for going to see mr. sun and having him chase that fellow jack frost.” and he again turned his friendly eyes on nancy and nick, who thanked him delightedly. “anything ready?” he inquired, looking round with a business eye. . “not yet,” apologized rubadub, “but we are just going to commence on the chocolates.” “i'm glad i got here in time,” said the easter bunny nodding wisely, “to tell you not to make too much sweet stuff.” rubadub raised his brows. “h’m!” he said. “sugar? scarce?" “no!” answered the bunny. “stomach-ache! plenty!" then they both laughed. “well, that's too bad!” said the fairyman, shak- ing his head. "the kiddies all have such a sweet tooth. i hate to disappoint 'em.” “oh, i don't mean to be stingy with them, the dears,” said the easter bunny hastily. “i cer- tainly mean to give them enough sweets for one [ ] nancy and nick isfaction. the fairy queen's own idea! got plenty of cotton?” "oodles!" answered the fairyman, which in every-day language means “a great deal.” well, everybody got to work right away, the easter bunny himself tying on an apron and pitching in. eggs were dyed every color of the rainbow, and some with fancy figures of birds and flowers on top. little peeps with yellow bills and beady eyes were turned out by hundreds, and little ducks that looked so real, you feared they were about to rush for the water. there were sugar bunnies, however, in spite of all the "easter bunny's" warning. rubadub said that if he knew children, they would rather take a chance on the doctor, than do without a sugar bunny. so sugar bunnies there were-lovely ones of all sizes with beads of white icing festooned de- liciously all over them. and jelly beans! mil- lions of them to put inside the make-believes whose heads came off. and last but most important of all, were the wonderful crystal eggs with pink fluting and a [ ] in scrub-up-land sugar rose, and a little window in the end, where you put one eye and saw shepherdesses tending sheep, and milkmaids leading bossies through brooks. everything got finished finally, the last job being to dye green paper and straw grass for the baskets, and then the making of the baskets themselves! for of course sometimes easter- baskets get lost from year to year in the attic, and so of course the easter bunny has to take a great supply. a very great supply! at last everything was ready, and the easter bunny made a most elaborate toilet for the trip. his brown coat was beautifully brushed and his white waistcoat laundered until it glistened like snow. oh, the elegant fellow was quite a dandy, particularly when rubadub tied a red satin cravat round his neck. then the fairies came buzzing from their duties in the forests and meadows and gardens in the land-where-spring-was-coming, eager to help with the baskets of goodies that were to bring joy to so many little hearts. the easter bunny himself was loaded to the eyes with so [ ] nancy and nick many baskets that he looked like a market-truck. away they all went then, when mr. sun had gone to bed and thousands of pairs of little eyes had closed dutifully in the land-where-easter- was-coming. the little fairies flitted along through the twilight with their mysterious bur- dens to be left stealthily behind parlor-curtains and dining-room chairs and even under beds, where little bare feet would run pattering to hunt for them in the morning. rubadub looked after the fairy helpers and the easter bunny, then turned to nancy and nick and suggested that they take a vacation. "suppose,” said he, “that you go home for easter. i can get along in great shape until monday. besides, you know, you mustn't ever come to help me when your parents might need you, or when you're to have a holiday.” “oh, they never miss us at all!” said nancy. “they like us to play outdoors in the meadow and this is quite as near, you know.” another thing nancy didn't think about. fairy days and hours are quite different from our days and hours. so it was altogether likely [ ] in scrub-up-land that the children hadn't been missed for an instant. but the green shoes took them home right away, setting them down in the green meadow near the house. that night when their mother came in, ever so softly, two little figures were tucked cozily away in bed, with eyes shut tight. she kissed them good-night and patted their tousled heads tenderly. “tired out,” she whis- pered, smoothing the covers. “busy little people!” wasn't she right, though! and at that, she little guessed how hard they had been working. never mind! their reward was waiting for them downstairs, hidden snugly away behind the portieres in the hall. at that very minute some- thing went lippety-lopping down the path to the gate. the figure could be plainly seen in the light from the living-room windows, had any one thought to look. it was brown and glistening white and could it be possible—there was a dash of scarlet. it looked almost like a red satin bow. [ ] e.r. higgins phil didn't move a step. chapter xvi: phil frog gets tailored many birds and animals were still in scrub- up-land waiting to be spring-cleaned. so of course nancy and nick hurried back the very first minute they could get away. rubadub was so glad to see them he almost cried, at least he blew his nose quite loudly, but it may have been because he didn't know of any- thing else to do. nancy tied on her apron, and nick rolled up his sleeves and looked around. “what is there to do now, mr. rubadub?” he asked, waving a greeting to all the creatures crowding round to welcome them. [ ] in scrub-up-land “let's see!” cried rubadub, “oh, yes, there's one fellow who should have been out of here weeks ago, but strange to say he doesn't seem to mind whether he goes out or not. like casper catbird, he's disappeared and i can't find him. it's philip frog." “why!” exclaimed nick. “don't you remem- ber, he was sleeping behind the door when we were hunting for casper. perhaps he's there yet." "never thought of it!” declared the fairyman, brushing out corny coon's tail, and telling him to “begone and good luck.” “that's exactly where he is. come on and we'll find him right away.” away they all trooped to the door behind which phil lay peacefully snoring with his head on a little white pillow. “yes, sir, there he is,” said rubadub, pointing toward the sleeper in an exasperated sort of way. nick tiptoed over close to phil's ear, and yelled, "boo,” as loudly as he could, which was pretty loud. phil smiled broadly in his sleep, a wide sweet [ ] nancy and nick smile, and murmured drowsily. “that's lovely, miss pollywog! simply lovely! would you mind singing that last beautiful note again?” the twins were very much astonished at such an answer. at first they thought phil was play- ing a joke on them, but another loud snore proved the contrary. nick gave him a little poke -no, a good-sized poke—and shouted at the top of his lungs, “wake up, you! hey, wake up, i say!" it was really quite loud enough to waken the park monument, but the sleepy fellow merely turned over and smiled more broadly than ever, murmuring dreamily, “oh, adorable creature! how i love the touch of your soft hand! such wonderful tenderness! won't you sing that ex- quisite melody to me again?” "well, i never!” exclaimed rubadub, looking around the crowd to see how they took it. “sing- ing pollywogs! adorable creatures! soft hands! humph! either mr. frog must have a double case of spring-fever or else he's been eating pie and cheese before going to bed, to make him dream like that. wait! i bet i can [ ] nancy and nick "maybe!" phil nodded. "but i don't see why, when i know how to spring-clean myself." "ha, ha!" laughed rubadub. "that's good, philip. i suppose you think that all you have to do is to leap into lily pond and you'll be as clean as a blade of grass. perhaps you will, sir, but how about your last year's suit fading? it's as brown and spotty as an autumn leaf, and wrinkled, too. all the water in lily pond and ripple creek and even briny ocean couldn't make your coat bright and green as it used to be, nor whiten your vest. what you need is a good laundry and some expert dyers, like nancy and nick here. also a good tailor like myself. at your service, sir!" "expert dyers!" grinned phil, blinking at the twins with his sleepy eyes. "perhaps they are, but didn't you know that i am the original dyer myself. it was i who invented the beautiful shade of bull-frog green so popular with my friends. and as for tailoring, i don't know of any one who can make coat and breeches to fit like i can." [ ] in scrub-up-land rubadub lifted his eyebrows in surprise. “then why did you come here?” he asked. "i must have made a mistake,” answered phil. “when i left dreamland i was scarcely awake “how could you do it?” he cried, “without anything to work wita.” and when i started to hop toward the land- where-spring-was-coming i probably turned to the left instead of to the right, being too sleepy to read the signs.” the fairyman was thoughtful for a minute. “h'm!” he said aloud. “your case is most un- usual. most! i hardly know what to do. if ( ) in scrub-up-land you a little later,” he put them off. “just now i'd like a little time to myself, if you don't mind, to sort of think things over. i haven't got wide- awake enough yet to do a thoroughly good job, i'm afraid; suppose i call you when i'm ready.” “very well!” said rubadub as they all moved toward the door, “but mind you don't go to sleep again, sir, you're late enough as it is.” after they had closed the door, philip became suddenly active. he wasn't a bit sleepier than you are at this minute, unless it's bed-time, and if that's the case you probably aren't sleepy at all. he peeled off his clothes, his old wrinkled brown ones that rubadub said looked like an autumn leaf, and lo and behold, didn't he have underneath the loveliest, freshest, pale-green spring suit you ever saw on a frog, and not a wrinkle in it. phil looked fully ten years younger. it was a case, almost, as bill black- bird had said, of "fine feathers making fine birds," only as frogs have no feathers, of course it was more correct to say, “fine skins make fine frogs." and then he did the most remarkable thing, [ ] nancy and nick which showed how hungry poor philip was. he swallowed his old clothes, lining, buttons, pockets, and all. whether he had indigestion afterwards or not i can't say, but if he did, he most likely took a dose of arrow-root bitters, which is so bad that any one taking it imme- diately forgets that he has a pain. rubadub and the twins hadn't taken twenty steps when the door opened and philip called after them. "ha!” exclaimed rubadub, turning suddenly, as much as to say, “i told you so. have you changed your mind, mr. frog?" “no, i've changed my clothes," answered phil. the fairyman gasped, then hurried back, scarcely able to believe his eyes. “but how could you do it?” he cried, "without anything to work with? you didn't know where the needles or anything were.” “oh, grinned phil. “i carry my own things, besides didn't i tell you i was an expert tailor? when once i make up my mind to do anything, it's done and that's all there is to it." [ ] nancy and nick line. "after you're sunned and properly beaten, i'll let bobby blue jay carry you to the land- where-spring-is-coming so that all the birds can divide you up and make mattresses for their babies. it's so hard for them to get cotton and wool bits, that i'm sure that silk is almost un- heard of. won't they be happy!" at this the little pillow gave such a jerk that it fell from her grasp completely and landed at her feet. as nancy stooped to pick it up, she heard a funny sound and looking up she saw the magical mushroom snickering fit to kill. "i don't see what there is to laugh at," she declared crossly. "just because this silly pillow keeps jiggling out of my hands. you're both queer," she declared, jerking the pillow up again and starting off for the line, "but i promised mr. rubadub to help, and if cleaning up his pil- lows isn't helping, please tell me what is?" quite some words for sweet, good-tempered little nancy who loved everything and every- body but who did not like to be laughed at, espe- cially when there wasn't a thing that was funny. the magical mushroom straightened up at once [ ] in scrub-up-land i and followed her, looking as solemn as an owl, but there was still a merry little twinkle away down in the corner of one eye, if you got close enough to see it, and had a spy-glass! nancy pinned the little pillow on the clothes- line quite securely with a whole row of clothes- pins, for if it could flop so easily right out of her hands she decided it must be a very unusual pillow and needed to be fastened tight. all the while mr. magical mushroom was watching and never saying a word, but by this time there was a twinkle away down in both eyes. nancy wished he would go away and not stand around so much, especially when he wasn't help- ing anyway, and i'm afraid that as she stooped to pick up a good stout switch she made a face at him. when we're cross at anybody, we usually take it out on something or somebody else. and so, being cross at her fairy friend, the little girl gave the little silk pillow a great whack with all her might right in its plumpest part, and another and another and another. suddenly she realized that sounds were coming [ ] nancy and nick from the pillow, and she stopped with her arm in midair. "ouch! ouch! ouch!" it was crying. "please stop, and i'll come out as fast as i can. i didn't mean to be so slow. i'll hurry, really i shall, if you'll only please wait." "goodness!" cried nancy, dropping the switch, almost too surprised to speak. "w—what is it? who is it?" "i'll tell you in a minute, just as soon as i get my head out," answered a voice, "only do please send mr. blue jay away first." "he isn't here," the little girl assured whom- ever it was inside the pillow, "so you may come out whenever you wish. there's nobody here but the magical mushroom and he won't hurt you." the twinkle in the mushroom's eyes had deepened to a smile, and nancy glanced at him remorsefully, feeling that she had been wrong to get so cross. just then there was a tearing sound and a head poked out of a hole at the end of the pillow, a head with two great beady black eyes, which looked around anxiously as though to make sure [ ] in scrub-up-land that nancy was entirely right about mr. bobby blue jay. "here's part of me,” nodded the head, in a friendly way. “the rest of me is coming soon, just as soon as i can get untangled. erhiggins “oh, you beautiful butterfly !" exclaimed nancy. these threads are wrapped around me all sorts of ways.” then slowly an arm stretched itself out, then another arm, and then, a long slim body pulled itself out with difficulty. lastly came a couple of legs and the creature dropped to the ground leaving the little pillow-slip flopping flat and empty on the line. [ ] er higgins “we call it flower pollen," insisted nick. chapter xviii: a queen in a velvet cloak nancy had painted the wake-robin and violets and nick was finishing the may-flowers, coloring the tiny petals a beautiful shel:-pink and waxing the smooth green leaves, then sprinkling over the blossoms some drops of fairyland fancy per- fume. they were working hard, as rubadub was anxious to get through so he could clean up the shop and lock the gate of scrub-up-land until next year. nearly all the birds had gone to the land- where-spring-was coming, the bobolink, gold- [ ] in scrub-up-land wouldn't be fine weather until the clover blossoms were out, and that's what her errand was about, in scrub-up-land, to see if she couldn't hurry things up a little and get the clover sent right away to the land-where-spring-was coming. "so far," said she, "there isn't a thing worth tasting. how long will it be before honeysuckle- time?" and she buzzed hungrily. “it's about the last,” announced nick. “honeysuckle is always in bloom about rose time, i think. but if you'll wait, i'll ask mr. rubadub." “oh, never mind,” said the visitor peevishly. “if i can't have it right this minute, i don't care when i get it. but now that i'm here, i'll have you dust me up a bit, for my velvet and gold cloak is very much travel-stained from my long journey. come here, little girl, and take my things, will you?” she said it kindly enough but nancy couldn't help shivering again. she did wish the queen didn't look quite so much like mrs. bee. but she took the little bags her majesty handed her, quite bravely. [ ] in scrub-up-land herself hastily—"until i show them where my kingdom is to be this year. now, little girl, if you'll hand me my honey-bag, and flour-sack and my sewing-basket, i'll be going. that's it, thank you. and, little boy, will you please look around and see if sleeker swallow is out of the way? he's my worst enemy and i can't start until he is safely out of the road." nick told her the coast was clear, so away she buzzed exaetly like a motor, out of the gate of scrub-up-land and off to the land where- spring-was-coming. at the gate she stopped for an instant to wave farewell. "write to me some time," she called. "you'll find my address in the dictionary under the a's." "i think," said the magical mushroom, wisely, "that you'd be quite as sure, children, to find it under the bee's. that was mrs. queen-bee her- self." [ ] in scrub-up-land nancy and nick were rolling down their sleeves and getting ready to go home, for the magical mushroom said it was so beautiful and warm and green now in the green meadow, that they must get back and have some romps. the green shoes said they were ready to go at a mo- ment's notice, and it looked as though the children would be saying good-by to rubadub for a year, very shortly, when there was a rushing of wings and in flew sleeker swallow in his evening clothes. and, mind you, it was morning. "am i too late?” he asked, anxiously, when he had got his breath. “i didn't realize that time was going so, and here i've been playing out on the ocean, having the most fun grabbing things off the top of the water. it just occurred to me that it must be time to get spring-cleaned, so here i am. have the dandelions gone yet?” “yes, they went yesterday,” nodded rubadub. "my, my!” exclaimed sleeker. "i should have gone then, too. people always look for us together. have the bees gone?” “mrs. queen-bee went yesterday, too,” an- swered the fairyman. [ ] nancy and nick “then i shall have to hurry,” cried sleeker. "i do love bees so.” nancy thought it queer that he should like them so well when she distinctly remembered queen avis as saying that she didn't wish to come across mr. swallow on her way home. but suddenly she caught a greedy gleam in the bird's eye, and she knew. if he looked so hungry when he just said bees, how would he look and act when he saw them? but he changed the subject. “i wish to speak about my clothes,” said he, in a complaining tone. "here i am all dressed up like a society person, when i'm not one at all.” “tut, tut!” said rubadub, shaking a finger at him. “well, i don't care!” said sleeker, crossly. “i'm not a dickey-bird, living in a gold cage, taking baths in a gravy dish, and eating seeds out of a vase.” “your clothes look very nice,” said nick, walk- ing around him admiringly. sleeker shrugged his well-tailored shoulders. "nice! that isn't the question. does your [ ] nancy and nick "to cut off his coat-tails,” answered nancy kindly. “he doesn't like them." “not so fast,” advised rubadub, “i'll have to think about it first.” then evidently he made up his mind more quickly than he intended, for he added, “all right. go ahead, nancy. we'll give this chap his wish and put on a pair of loose overalls. i think myself that he'll be better dressed for the things he has to do. the only thing is that we're closing, and if he changes his mind, like mrs. hen and ben bunny and scramble squirrel, he can't come back to be done over. he'll have to wait until next year.” “oh,” cried sleeker, delightedly, “i'm sure i won't change my mind. how can i ever thank you enough, mr. rubadub, for giving me my wish?” “by being satisfied,” answered the fairyman. “come on into the tailor-shop and we'll rig you up a pair of overalls right away. and that suit you've got on, we'll put away in camphor-balls until next year.” “oh, just throw it away!” said sleeker, care- [ ] in scrub-up-land to the gate he turned a complete somersault. “what's the matter with him?" the twins asked rubadub. “the air gets under his loose clothes and up- sets him, just the same as if you'd put a bag over the body of an aeroplane,” announced the wise fairyman, looking up for the last time. then he lifted sleeker's suit off the ground and folded it carefully. "shall i sleep here to-night?" offered the mushroom just then, when rubadub had hung the key to the tailor-shop on a big nail outside the door. “no,” said the fairyman, looking at his watch. "you'd better take the children home, and i'll stay." “but,” cried nick, “i thought you were all through. everybody's gone!" "do you really think that last chap won't be pounding at the gate at sunrise?” asked the fairy- man in surprise. “did you think he was gone for good?" “yes, sir!” said the children, still wondering. “well then, you haven't learned as much about people as i thought you had,” returned rubadub. [ ] in scrub-up-land now that you know the magical mushroom. i predict your adventures have just begun. but there's one thing you may do for me if you will." “oh, yes, of course we'll do anything for you, dear old mr. rubadub,” cried nancy, throwing her arms around the fairyman and hugging him tight. rubadub was so surprised he dropped his pipe, and when he stooped to pick it up, off went his hat, and it was some time before he got settled again. "i'm not so old," he smiled. “i'm only a hundred. the other fairies think i'm scarcely grown up yet. you see in fairyland we grow young instead of old. i'm a hundred years young." nancy and nick had no answer to this sur- prising statement, and rubadub laughed. “don't mind my foolish talk, kiddies. but i'm glad you want to do something more for me. i sort of thought i'd worked you to death and you'd be wanting to get away. would you, will you, go after that foolish swallow and see what becomes of him? if it were not for his silly [ ] in scrub-up-land where the red berries hung, but not a foothold could he get. worse still, his lovely stiff tail feathers, which he always dug into the rough places to hold him up, were gone, too, along with poor sleeker would have perished in another second if nice hadn't grabbed him. his fine "evening-suit” as he called it, and he couldn't stick on long enough to get one bite. back he came looking hungrier and more sorrow- ful than ever. "perhaps if you visited your chimney relations you told us about,” suggested nancy, “they could give you some dinner.” [ ] nancy and nick "i did,” he nodded, “but just as i was about to eat, i lost my balance and fell down into mr. man's stove. the ashes nearly choked me and i'd an awful time getting out alive. “i haven't built my home under the barn eaves yet, either, as i'm too weak to carry the mud. i've a good notion to go to sea and stay there. i sort of look like a sailor anyway in these loose clothes, so i guess that's where i belong. good- by, everybody. here i go." and sleeker flapped away toward briny ocean. “quick!” cried the mushroom. “we'll have to follow him, children, as rubadub wishes us to keep an eye on him.” the green shoes then whisked them off through the air to a low sandy beach which curved around a sheltered bay. the sun shone brightly on the water and the breeze ruffled it into tiny waves; sea-gulls circled slowly, darting down now and then for a hapless fish come too near to the top for his own safety; and tiny bugs and insects winged near to the water. but, was that a gull, that awkward, flapping, [ ] in scrub-up-land rolling creature, trying to catch something close to the waves? "it's sleeker swallow again," exclaimed nick recognizing him at once. the children and their fairy friend watched him trying his best to get a meal, usually such easy sport for this skillful hunter. they had watched him other summers skimming over lily pond and it was hard to believe that he was the same bird. suddenly something happened. the breeze, playing with the waves, had rolled them higher and higher, and one with a little white cap on top, caught sleeker as he swooped for a dainty bite, and pulled him into the water. “oh,” screamed nancy, "he'll drown. save him, somebody.” “our shoes!” cried nick quickly, wishing him- self out where his little feathered friend was struggling just in time, too! poor sleeker would have perished in another second if nick hadn't grabbed him and wished them both on dry land again. “goodness!” sputtered sleeker, catching his [ ] che darcy and dick serie the new york public library astor, lenox tilpen foundation* the near astronomer. ths n't'/ vor* public library a t r. lenox tu-ofcn founoatlona billy bounce, by w . w . denslow and dudley a.bragdon pictures by denslow v g.w.dill ngham co publishers newyork the new york public library astor, lenox and tilden founda i ions r l copyright by w.w. denslow all rigms reserved. issued september, . "pete' and "poi\siem barker. chapter pagb i. dark plot of nickel plate, the polished villain ii. a jump to shamville iii. billy is captured by tomato . iv. adventures in eggs-aggeration v. pease porridge hot vi. blind man's buff .... vii. the wishing bottle viii. gammon and spinach . ix. in silly land x. sea urchin and ne'er do eel . xi. in derby town xii. o'fudge xiii. billy plays a trick on boreas . list of chapters chapter page xiv. king calcium and sterry xv. billy meets glucose xvi. in spookville . xvii. in the volcano of vociferous . xviii. the elusive bridge xix. in the dark, never was xx. the window of fear . xxi. in the queen bee palace . co/. soumncholly. full page illustrations "why it is, a large fried egg," said billy, excitedly.— page . . frontispiece. page "i can't tell you where bogie man lives, it's against the rules." . . . . . . . "now" said mr. gas, "be careful not to sit on the ceiling." . . . . . . . "come, now, don't give me any of your tomato sauce." . billy never wanted for plenty to eat. .... "he-he-ho-ho, oh! what a joke," cried the scally wags. "that's my black cat-o-nine tails" said the old woman. the night mare and the dream food sprites. . . "get off, you re sinking us," cried billy. . . . he saw flying to meet him several shaggy bears. . . "tdiking about me, were you?" said boreas, arriving in a swirl of snow. . . . . . full page illustrations page "me feyther" cried she, in a tragic voice, "the light, the light." "come up to the house and spend an unpleasant evening." billy shot a blast of hot air from his pump full in bum- bus's face. ....... "allow me to present bogie man." .... ■^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ |^ bitty and the ace of spades. f preface our purpose.—fun for the "children between the ages of one and one hundred." and incidentally— the elimination of deceit and drone. gore in the telling: two elements that enter, we think, too vitally into the construction of most fairy tales. as to the moral.—that is not obtrusive. but if we can suggest to the children that fear alone can harm them through life's journey; and to silly nurses and thoughtless parents that the serious use of ghost stories, bogie men and bugbears of all kinds for the sheer purpose of frightening or making a child mind is positively wicked; we will admit that the tale has a moral. chapter i. dark plot of nickel plate, the polished villain. nickel plate, the polished villain, sat in his office in the north south corner of the first straight turning to the left of the castle in plotville. "gadzooks," exclaimed he with a heavy frown, "likewise pish tush! methinks i grow rusty—it is indeed a sad world when a real villain is reduced to chewing his moustache and biting his lips instead of feasting on the fat of the land." so saying he rose from his chair, smote himself heavily on the chest, carefully twirled his long black moustache and paced dejectedly up and down and across the room. "i wonder," he began, when ting-a-ling-a-ling the telephone rang. "hello," said he. "yes, this is nickel plate— billy bounce oh! good morning, mr. bogie man—sh-h-h— don't speak so loudly. some one may see you. —no—bumbus has not returned with honey girl—i'm sorry, sir, but i expect him every minute. i'll let you know as soon as i can. ohl yes, he is to substitute glucose for honey girl and return here for further villainous orders. ohl a—excuse me, but can you help me with a little loan of—hello—hello—pshaw he's rung off. central—ting-a-ling-a-ling—central, won't you give me bogie man again, please—what! he's left orders not to connect us again—well i— good-bye." "now then what am i to do? i have just one nickel to my name and i can't spend that. if bumbus has failed i don't know what we shall do. a fine state of affairs for a man with an ossified conscience and a good digestion— ha-a-a, what is that?" "buzz-z-z," came a sound through the open window. "is that bumbus?" called nickel plate in a loud whisper. "i be," answered bumbus, climbing over the sill and darting to a chair. dark plot of nickel plate ii "why didn't you come in by the door?—you know how paneful a window is to me." "when is a cow?" said bumbus, perching himself on the back of his chair and fanning himself with his foot. "sometimes, i think—" began nickel plate, angrily. m wrong answer; besides it's not strictly true," said bumbus, turning his large eyes here and there as he viewed his master. "a truce to foolishness," said nickel plate, "what news—but wait—" and taking two wads of cotton out of his pocket he stuffed them in two cracks in the wall—"walls have ears—we will stop them up—proceed." "honey girl has disappeared," whispered bumbus. "gone! and her golden comb?" "she has taken it with her." "gone," growled nickel plate—"but wait, i am not angry enough for a real villain"; light- ing a match he quickly swallowed it. "ha, ha! now i am indeed a fire eater. gadzooks, var- let! and how did she escape us?" bumbus hung his head. "alas, sir, with much billy bounce care did i carry glucose to the palace of the queen bee to substitute her for honey girl— dressed to look exactly like her, even to a gold- plated comb. i had bribed drone, the sentry, to admit us in the dead of night. creeping softly through the corridors of the castle, with glucose in my arms, i came to the door of honey girl. i opened the door and crept quietly into the room; all was still. i reached the dainty couch and found—" "yes," said nickel plate excitedly. "i found it empty; honey girl had fled." "sweet honey girl! alas, have we lost you? also which is more important, the reward for the abduction—but revenge, revenge!" hissed nickel plate. "what did you do with glucose?" "glucose has gone back to her work in the factory," said bumbus, "but will come back to us whenever we wish." "enough," said nickel plate, "bogie man must know of this at once. i will telephone him—but no, he has stopped the connection. will you take the message?" "sir, you forget." dark plot of nickel plate "too true, i need you here: a messenger." so saying nickel plate rang the messenger call and sat down to write the note of explanation to bogie man. "rat-a-tat-tat" came a knock on the door. "come in," said nickel plate in a deep bass voice, the one he kept for strangers. the door popped open and in ran—yes, he really ran—a messenger boy. and such a messenger boy, such bright, quick eyes, such a clean face and hands, not even a high water line on his neck and wrists, such twinkling feet and such a well brushed uniform! why you would hardly believe he was a messenger boy if you saw him, he was such an active little fellow. "did you ring, sir?" said billy bounce. "sh-h-h, not so loud," whispered nickel plate mysteriously—the whisper he kept for strangers. "yes, i rang." "very well, sir, i am here." "ah-h," hummed bumbus. "are you here, are you there, do you really truly know it? have a care, have a care." "excuse me, sir," said billy bewildered, "i don't think i understand you." billy bounce "neither do i," said bumbus. "nobody does. i'm a mystery." "mr. who?" said billy. "mr. bumbus of course." "oh! i thought you said mr. e." "don't be silly, boy," interrupted nickel plate. "bumbus, be quiet." "i be," said bumbus. "can you read?" whispered nickel plate. "yes, sir." "that's good. then perhaps you know where bogie man lives." "no, sir, but if you'll tell me i can find his house," said billy, hoping it wasn't the real bogie man he meant. "that would be telling," said nickel plate. "but, sir, i don't know where to find him." "did you ever see such a lazy boy?" hummed bumbus. "lazy bones, lazy bones, climb up a tree and shake down some doughnuts and peanuts to me." "but really," said nickel plate frowning, "really you know / can't tell you where bogie man lives; it's against the rules." "i can't tell you wbere bogie man lives, it's against the rules."—page . the new york \ publiclibrar'; astor. lenox tilp n founda-iins dark plot of nickel plate "then, sir," said billy, his head in a whirl, "i don't see how i can deliver your mes- sage." "that's your lookout. you're a messenger boy, aren't you?" "yes, sir." "and your duty is to carry messages wher- ever they are sent?" "yes, sir, but—" "there, i can't argue with you any more. you will have to take the message—good day," said nickel plate handing billy the note. "but, sir—" bumbus jumped off his chair and slowly revolved around billy, humming— "little boy, billy boy, do as you're told. refusal is rudeness: i surely shall scold. here's your hat, there's the door, run while you may, i have the great pleasure to wish you good-day." as he sang this, bumbus circled closer and closer to billy until finally he touched him, billy bounce digging him in the ribs and giving him gentle pushes toward the door. suddenly billy found himself outside of the room with the door slammed in his face. "well," said billy staring at the note in his hand, "i'm glad i'm out of that room anyway." then looking up at the door he read painted in bold, black letters on the glass "nickel plate, polished villain. short and long orders in all kinds of villainy promptly executed. abductions a specialty." and lower down in smaller letters, "i. b. bumbus, assistant villain, office hours between o'clock." "what am i to do with this note? it is addressed to bogie man, in-the-dark, never was. if i don't deliver the message i'll be discharged, and if i do deliver it—but how can i—oh pshaw! i know, i'm asleep—ouch!" for he had given himself a sharp nip in the calf of his leg to wake himself. but there was the note still in his hand, and there in front of him stood the building he had just left. "i'm awake, that's certain, and — i beg your pardon, sir—" for he had bumped into a little "now," saiii mr. gas, "be careful not to sit on the ceiling."—page . : mew y. ipb^ic library astor. lenox tildtn foun ation dark plot of nickel plate old gentleman who was hurrying in the oppo- site direction. "it's mr. gas, the balloon maker," cried billy, joyfully; "perhaps you can help me; it's a good thing i ran into you." "humph!" said mr. gas, with his hands on his stomach, "it's not a very good thing for me that you ran into me, but i'm glad to see you." "i am sorry, mr. gas, but i'm really in very serious trouble," said billy, with a sigh. mr. gas smiled. "i might have known you didn't know the way to bogie man's house." "why," said billy, in surprise, "how did you know—" "gift horses can't be choosers, which means, don't ask any questions," said mr. gas, pinching billy's ear; "but come along to my house, and i'll help you." "now," said mr. gas, when they had entered the shop where he made all the toy balloons for all the little boys and girls in all the world, "be careful not to sit on the ceiling, because if you do you'll burst some of my balloons." billy laughed. "sit on the ceiling; why, how could i?" billy bounce "wait and see," said mr. gas; "nothing is impossible to your fairy godfather." "are you my fairy godfather?" asked billy, opening his eyes very, very wide. "on sundays and week days i am; the rest of the time i'm not." "but what other days are there?" said billy. "strong days of course. i thought you knew geography," said mr. gas huffily. "yes, sir, i suppose so," said billy afraid to ask any more questions. "now then, put on this suit," said the balloon maker, producing what looked like a big rubber bag. "yes, sir, but—" "of course it's wrong side out. how can i get the right side inside unless the wrong side is outside of the inside of the outside of the inside of your outside clothes. anybody who can count his chickens before they are hatched ought to know that." billy gasped and proceeded to pull the suit on over his messenger boy's uniform. "stand on your head." dark plot of nickel plate billy knew how to do this. he had practiced it often enough against fences when he should have been delivering messages. taking one of billy's trouser legs in each hand, mr. gas gave a quick jerk and billy found himself standing on his feet with the rubber suit inside of his uniform. "there," said mr. gas, "that's done—the next thing is to blow you up." "oh! mr. gas, please don't do that," said billy, thinking of gunpowder and things. "with a hot air pump—stand quiet," chug- chug-ff-chug-ff-squee-e went the pump and there stood billy like a great round butter ball. his uniform fitted as close and snug on the rubber suit as the skin on an onion. for that was a peculiar property of the rubber suit; any clothes, loose, tight or otherwise were bound to fit over it. "thank you sir," said billy looking down and trying to see his foot, "but—" "here's the hot air pump; put it in your pocket.—now—be careful, don't jump or you'll bump your head. you're ready now to hunt bogie man." billy bounce "how am i to get there?" "jump there of course," replied mr. gas. "when you get outside the door all you have to do is to jump into the air; that will carry you out of town. then keep on jumping till you get there. that's simple, isn't it?" "but can't you tell me in which direction to jump?" asked billy. "jump up, of course; if you jump down you'll dent the sidewalk." "but shall i jump north or east or south or west, sir?" "exactly; just follow those directions and you will be sure to arrive; but wait, before you start i'll give you barker, my little dog." "what kind of a dog is he?" asked billy. "a full-blooded, yellow cur. he won the booby prize at the last dog show." "thank you, sir; but won't you keep him for me until i get back?" "don't jump to conclusions, billy, it strains the suit; barker will help you when you want shade or shelter by night or day." "isn't he rather a small dog for me to get dark plot of nickel plate under?" asked billy, looking at the tiny animal mr. gas held out to him. mr. gas stamped his foot. "more questions —listen: when night or rain comes on, drop to the ground, dig a little hole, hold barker's nose over it and pinch his tail to make him bark. shovel in the dirt, and of course you will have planted his bark. well, you know what is planted must grow, so up will come the bark and the boughs, and you can shelter yourself all night beneath the singing tree." billy took the dog and started out of the door. "thank you; is that all, sir?" "of course not," said mr. gas. "yes, sir." "good-bye." "good-bye?" asked billy, in surprise, "i thought you said—" "yes, that's it; we had to say good-bye be- fore it could be all." "oh! good-bye," said billy, and going outside took a great big jump up into the air. chapter ii. a jump to shamville. up, up, up, went billy when he took his leap into the air. way above the house tops, past the city, over green fields, hills and valleys, crossing brooks and rivers that looked like little threads of silver so far below were they, until he thought he never would alight. finally things began to get larger and larger and larger on the earth, and he knew he was floating gently down, down, down. it was just like going down from the twenty-first story in a very slow, very comfortable elevator. plump, and billy was on the ground. before him stood a city. this seemed strange, for he knew he hadn't seen it until his feet touched mother earth. a jump to shamville "excuse me, sir," said billy, to a tall, thin, rusty coated man who was looking intently at the heavens through a long hollow tube open at both ends. "oh! you're here, are you?" said the man, lowering the tube and looking at billy. "i've been waiting for you to come down." "yes, sir," said billy; "excuse me, but what city is this?" "shamville. so you are a meteor." "no, sir, i'm a messenger," said billy. "pardon me, but you are a meteor, by right of discovery, and i ought to know, for i'm a near astronomer." "a near what?" "not a near what, but a near astronomer; with my near telescope i have nearly discovered hundreds of nearly new stars," said the man, looking very, very wise. "oh! i see," said billy, smiling. "well sir, you may be a near astronomer, but in this case you are not near right." "well, you're a near meteor and that will do well enough in shamville." by this time they had entered the city. billy bounce "who is that long haired, greasy gentleman writing on his cuff?" asked billy. "you must meet him. he is our village near poet," answered the star-gazer, impressively. "allow me, mr. never print, to introduce my latest discovery, billy bounce, a near meteor." mr. never print stopped writing, and after rolling his eyes and carefully disarranging his hair, said: "how beautiful a thing is a fried oyster! have you read my latest near book?" "no, sir," said billy. "ah! such is near fame," said the poet, unty- ing his cravat. "art is long, but a toothless dog does not bite." "the near meaning, you mean; like all great near poets, my meaning is hidden. perhaps you will un- derstand this better: the little flower, like a beefsteak, reminds "sir," said billy, "i didn't quite catch your meaning?" the near poet. a jump to shamville us that a gentle answer comes home to roost." billy was so bewildered by this that he leaned against a wall, or rather, he leaned on what looked like a wall. as the near astronomer helped him to his feet he said: "be careful of the near walls. they're just painted canvas, you know, and are not meant to lean against." "thank you," said billy; "is there anything here that is not an imitation?" "oh, no!" answered the astronomer, "this is shamville; but i assure you we're all just as good as the original." "well, i must be off" said billy, "i must deliver this note to bogie man." "to whom?" "to bogie man. can you tell me how to get there?" "oh, my goodness! oh, my gracious! what have i done, what have i done?" cried the astronomer, beating himself over the head with his near telescope. "i don't know sir, i'm sure," said billy; "from what i've seen i shouldn't think you had ever done anything." billy bounce "hear him! hear him!" screamed the astronomer, then calling to the people on the streets: "come near-artist, come near-actor, come near everybody, we have in our midst one who would expose us to the people who really do things." with fearful cries the entire population made one dash for billy, who, forgetting that all he had to do was to jump, tried to run. in his big suit he found this almost impossible and soon he was surrounded by an excited mob. "roast him at the steak," cried the butcher, still holding in his hands the papier mache chicken he had been selling when the call came. "splendid," said, the near poet. "boil him in oil," suggested the near artist. "what is it, forgery?" asked the blacksmith. "put him in a cell," said the merchant. billy saw that he was in a tight place and must act quickly. no one had as yet taken hold of him, they were all too excited to think of that; but he knew a near policeman was even then trying to edge through the crowd and something must be done. just then the a jump to shamville near astronomer put out a hand to seize billy's collar—quick as a wink billy reached up and pushed the star gazer's plug hat right down over his eyes. "you can't see stars this time at any rate," said billy, and then was surprised to find himself rising, rising, rising off of the ground. in hitting he had jumped up to reach the star gazer's hat and of course up he went. "good-bye," called billy, to the astonished crowd, "i had forgotten that you couldn't do any more than nearly catch me or i should not have been frightened." and the last billy ever saw of shamville was a great sea of big round eyes and wide open mouths. "i wonder whether this is the beginning or the end of my adventures," said billy to himself. "i hope it is the last because i really want to deliver this note to bogie man as soon as i can. they will think it strange at the office if i'm gone longer than a week delivering one message." "my goodness, can that be a cyclone?" for just ahead of him billy saw a great cloud billy bounce from which came a hum-m-m - - buzz-z-z-z. "why, it's a swarm of bees and they are carrying something. i do hope they won't sting me." by this time billy had met them and of course, as he couldn't steer himself in the air, the bees had to get out of the way. "hum-m," said a big old fat bee, clearing his throat, "what sort of a beetle are you?" "i'm—i'm a boy," said billy, very, very politely, because he saw that the soldier bees had fixed sting bayonets. "i've never heard of a beetle boy—stop a minute, i want to look at you." "i'm sorry, sir," said billy, "but i can't." "we'll soon fix that," shouted the old bee general. "ho! guard, seize him." and in a twinkling billy found himself in general merchandise. a jump to shamville the grasp of the bees. now of course as soon as billy stopped moving forward he had to drop to earth, so down, down, down he went, with the excited bee soldiers clinging to him and flapping their wings in a vain endeavor to keep him and themselves up in the air. and almost on top of them dropped the fussy old bee general. "now see what you've done, beetle boy," said he. "what do you mean by interfering with the queen's own yellow jackets on the public fly-ways?" before billy could answer a sweet girlish voice said: "what is the matter, general merchandise?" "we've caught a fly-wayman or something equally wicked, princess honey girl," said the general, gravely saluting. "indeed miss," said billy, kneeling (as well as he could in his suit) before the beautiful, golden haired maiden, who had stepped out of her palanquin and stood looking at him, "indeed miss, i'm not any of the things this bee gentleman calls me—i'm just a messenger boy." "there now, what did i tell you?" shouted billy bounce the general. "just a minute ago he said he was a beetle boy. ho, guard—oh! that's so, you've already ho—d." "i beg your pardon, sir, but you were the one that said i was a beetle boy." "don't contradict," said general merchandise. why didn't you tell me you weren't, then?" "that would be contradicting, sir," said billy, laughing in spite of his fears. "general," said the princess, "let me speak." "if you will promise not to talk," said the general, bowing. "first then, soldiers, take your hands off mr. messenger boy." "billy bounce is my name, princess," mur- mured billy. "ha," growled the general, half to himself, "another name, eh!" "silence, general; i can't forget that my aunt queen bee—" "she's not an ant, she's a bee," said the general, sulkily. "silence, sir; you forget yourself. i say that i cannot forget that my aunt queen bee, whose heir i am, bestowed the title of general mer- a jump to shamville chandise upon you, because she set such store by you, but i cannot stand these interruptions." "pardon, your highness," said the general, humbly. "granted. now, billy bounce, what have you to say for yourself?" "nothing, princess," answered billy, "except that i am carrying a message from nickel plate to bogie man and—" "my bitter enemy," cried the princess. "hum-m-m-m-m, i told you so," shouted the general. "ho, guards, seize him!" billy found himself again seized, and very roughly this time; indeed, had it not been for the toughness of his rubber suit he would have surely been stung. but, nothing daunted, he said: "your enemies, princess honey girl; then they are mine." "what do you mean?" asked she, blushing. "i mean," said billy, earnestly, "that if i were not a messenger boy, who has to do his duty under any circumstances, and had i known that these were your enemies, i should not have car- ried their message." billy bounce "then why do you?" said the general. "give me the message and you shall be free." "no," said billy, "i cannot do that; i have undertaken to carry it, and my honor demands that i do so while i live." "you are right," said the general; "then the best way out of the difficulty is to kill you." "no," said the princess, "that shall not be done." "thank you, princess," whispered billy, "you shall not regret it. let me do my duty—let me carry the message. then, when it is de- livered, i shall be free to fight for you; indeed, when i am once in bogie man's castle i shall be in the very best position to help you." "good," said the princess. "good," said the general. "good," said all the soldiers. "but why are nickel plate, bumbus and bogie man your enemies?" asked billy. "because they want to carry me far away from the bee palace and make me work in the factory," answered the princess, sadly, "putting the wicked glucose, who looks almost exactly like me, in my place in the castle." a jump to shamville "but why?" said billy. "i am crown princess, and if they can do away with me and substitute glucose for me they will be in control of the castle and the bee government and can make a corner in honey." "villains!" cried billy, "but between us we will foil them." "you will help me?" said the princess, look- ing earnestly at him. "i will, i promise you. but now i must be on my way." "good-bye, billy bounce; don't forget me," said the princess. "i will see you soon. good-bye, honey girl," and, with a farewell wave to the princess, the general, and all the soldier bees, billy jumped up and away in further search of bogie man. chapter iii. billy is captured by tomato. billy had floated a long, long time through the sweet, soft air: indeed he was gently settling down to earth again, when he discovered that the jolly old red faced sun was rolling off to his bed in the far west. "well," said he to himself, "if father sun is going to turn in for the night, and i see him putting on his white cloud night cap, i expect it's about time for me to do the same." "bow-wow," came a faint bark from under his coat. "why, it's barker," said billy, reaching in and patting a warm little head. "i'd almost forgotten you, old doggie, and i thank you for reminding me of the singing tree." in a twinkling billy was on the ground and digging a hole in the soft earth. billy is captured by tomato "i hate to pinch your tail, old fellow," said billy, "but it's really necessary you know," and holding barker's nose over the hole he gave his tail a gentle tweak. "bow-wow-wow." quickly billy shovelled in the earth, and lo and behold, quicker than i can tell you about it, there stood the singing tree, bowing and smiling. just as billy was going to wish the tree a polite good evening, he saw barker scampering after a little beam of sunlight that had crept in through the branches of the tree. "barker, come here," called billy, but he was too late. "snap—gulp," and barker had swallowed the sunlight. "i hope it won't make you sick, doggie," said billy, looking at him anxiously. but barker wrinkled his nose at him in such a happy dog smile and wagged his stubby little tail so contentedly that billy decided he was used to the diet and turned to the singing tree. "good evening," said billy, "i hope you are well." billy bounce "mi ?-so-so," sang the tree, "pause and rest at my bass." "excuse me, sir, but what is your name?" said billy; "you see i'd like to know how to address you." "c. octavious minor," sang the tree. "but it's time you slept. i'll look sharp for accidental intruders and pitch into them with my staff if they bother us; good night." then he began to sing softly: when the clucking cows have gone to roost and the milk hens all are fed, when the sheep have sung their young to wake and the bats have gone to bed, when the sun has risen in the west and the golden moon has sunk, when the gentle watch dog's wound and set and the day owl's in his bunk, it's time for wakeful boys to sleep despite the hooting lark, for yesterday will soon be here and work begins with dark." and when the tree got to this point in his song he stopped. for billy was sound asleep with barker snuggled up in his arms, while from his half-opened lips came a contented snore. billy is captured by tomato billy was awakened in the morning by the singing tree tickling him gently on the nose with one of its branches. "up—up," it sang. barker thinking it was calling "up pup" jumped up, and ran madly around the tree for his morning's exercise. and then suddenly there was no tree. barker didn't notice this at first, and circled around where the tree had been three times more before he discovered that it was gone. have you ever seen a dog look surprised and hurt and just a little bit ashamed? well, that's the way barker looked when billy picked him up and stowed him away again in his jacket. "well, i must be off," said billy to himself. "don't hurry," said a voice at his elbow. billy was so startled that he stepped back, caught his foot in a vine, and rolled over and over on the ground. there, where a minute before had been nothing at all, stood a great red tomato leaning on its vine. "it's—it's a fine morning, sir," said billy. "a vine morning you mean," said the to- mato sourly. billy bounce "i beg your pardon?" said billy, because he hadn't quite understood the tomato. "granted for just this once. but don't do it again." "what?" "anything — great tin cans! how i hate boys." "i'm sorry, sir," said billy. "no, you're not," grumbled the tomato; "you say you are, but you're not; boys are never sorry." "why don't you like boys, sir? i'm sure" —and then he stopped. he was on the point of saying "boys like tomatoes" when he re- membered that this might sound a little per- sonal and thought better of it. the tomato did not notice this, however, and said, wiping a dew tear from his eye, "a boy threw my favourite sister at a cat last week and i have never been able to abide boys since; and, come to think of it, you look like that boy." "oh! no, sir, it wasn't i," said billy, frightened. "i—i've only just come." "well, maybe not; goodness knows, though, "come, now, don't give me any of your tomato sauce."—page . : / york librar astor. lenox .den foundation* billy is captured by tomato you're ugly enough. where are you going?" "i'm taking a message to bogie man, sir; and—and i really must go at once. good bye." "oh! hoi so you're the boy bumbus warned me about last night. i guess you'll have to stay here," said the tomato threateningly. this made billy angry. "i guess not," he said, and gave a great jump into the air. "not so fast, mr. rubber ball, not so fast," said the tomato in billy's ear. and though billy was many, many feet away from the ground, tomato's vines had grown right up to him, while one of his tendrils had wound itself about his feet. not only that but hundreds of other tomatoes, not quite so large as the first one it is true, but large enough to frighten billy, were shak- ing their heads at him threateningly. but billy plucked up his courage and said in a voice that was a wee bit shaky, "come, now, don't give me any of your tomato sauce; if you're not careful i'll squash you." "even then i'd be some pumpkins," shouted the tomato, nearly bursting with rage, "and as billy bounce everybody knows a well red tomato is not a greeny, i certainly should be able to catsup with a small boy." "you ought to go on the stage," said billy, trying to smile; "you really are very funny." this seemed to mollify the tomato. "some of my family have gone on as soupers. what would you suggest for me, comedy or tragedy?" "comedy, by all means," answered billy, set- tling himself more comfortably on a large leaf, because, of course, having stopped moving, he would have fallen had he had nothing to sup- port him. "i can recite," said the tomato. "don't you want to hear me?" "i'd be delighted, only, you know, i'm late, and—" "you will be the late lamented if you don't sit tight, my boy," said the tomato, sourly. "listen." tomato's recitation. "there lived a wicked wenket once, who kept a castle keep, and when he wasn't wide awake you'd find him fast asleep. billy is captured by tomato he ate his food with knife and fork, and i am loath to state, . he wore a shoe upon each foot, a hat upon his pate. of course it's hard to give belief so sinful one could be; but oft he wore a collar too, betwixt just you and me. and think of this—i blush with shame to tell this awful truth— he wore a coat and vest and pants— how horribly uncouth!!! but wickedness will get its due, as sure as corn is corn. he went to bed one stormy night and got up in the morn. now little boys and little girls, this tale a moral bears: don't strike the baby with an axe or throw the cat down stairs." "good," said billy, "it really must be very funny indeed when it is well done," and pop he had jumped on tomato's head, given a quick spring, and had sailed off before tomato realized what he was up to. "i'm glad tomato recited; he was so out of breath when he finished that he couldn't billy bounce grow after me," said billy to himself when he saw that he was safe from pursuit. "i wonder what honey girl is doing to- day." and i fear that he was still thinking so hard about honey girl that he forgot to notice when he next dropped to the ground. anyway, he was standing deep in thought when something tapped him on the shoulder. "salute!" said a stern voice. looking up billy saw that he was surrounded by hun- dreds of grim-faced soldiers, dressed in uniforms of the very deepest indigo, and all wearing blue glasses. and such a thin, sad, hollow-cheeked, hollow-eyed officer as had tapped him on the shoulder! billy could tell he was an officer because of the gun metal sword he carried and the epaulettes of crepe that he wore. "salute," said the officer again in a deep, sepulcheral tone. "yes, sir," said billy, cracking his heels together and putting his hand up to his cap as he had seen soldiers do. "that's not the proper salute. take out your handkerchief and wipe your right eye," said the officer. "that's the proper salute for the blues." billy is captured by tomato billy did as he was told with a sinking heart. everything seemed so changed by the regiment of blues. the sun had gone under a cloud, the wind whistled dismally, a frog croaked in a nearby pond, and all together billy came near to wanting to use his hand- kerchief in earnest. "so you think you are going to see bogie man." "yes, sir, i am." "you're not, as sure as my name is colonel solemncholly." "excuse me, but i am," said billy staunchly. "i knew it, i knew it," said the colonel, sadly. "he is too fat to give up easily—good- ness, how i hate fat people—they laugh." "don't you ever laugh, sir?" "i'd be court martialed if i did." "but aren't you command- asked billy. privalf /; ;r er? billy bounce "yes, of the blues, but you know we're the away-from-home guard of bogie man, and he is our real commander." "oh! i see. then you can tell me how to get to never was." "indeed not. we were sent out to stop you, and that reminds me—corporal punish- ment and private tear, seize this boy." "snap," went the whip in corporal punish- ment's hand, "crack," it struck private tear on the shoulder, and snuffing and wiping his eyes, private tear stepped out of the ranks. "seize him and throw him in the dumps," cried colonel solemncholly. as the colonel spoke the drums gave a long dismal roll and the band struck up a funeral march. corporal punishment's whip was circling in the air preparatory to coming down on billy's head, and private tear was getting ready to put his handkerchief over his eyes when billy laughed. it wasn't because he felt like laughing at all, but because barker in snuggling closer to him had tickled him in the ribs. billy is captured by tomato "look out, he's armed!" cried colonel sol- emncholly, corporal punishment and private tear in one breath. this gave billy an idea, and he burst out into a loud laugh. "throw a wet blanket over him," commanded the colonel. "regiment, carry arms!" at that the soldiers drew out their pocket- handkerchiefs, held them to their eyes, reversed their guns, and advanced boldly on billy, while the band played the tune the old cow died on. billy continued to force his laugh, trying hard to think of some way out of his difficulty. he didn't like the idea of the wet blanket, and he couldn't jump or run because corporal punish- ment's whip was wound around his neck. "double quick!" cried the colonel. "catch him before the sun comes out." barker stirred uneasily in billy's pocket. "saved!" cried billy. "it's worth trying." and quickly taking barker out of his pocket, he held him by his hind legs and gently thumped his little stomach. "plump," and out fell the bar of sunlight he had swallowed the night before. when it struck # billy bounce the ground it burst into a million dancing, spar- kling bits of golden sunshine, and presto! the blues had disappeared, lock, stock and barrel. and there stood billy, in a glow of sunlight on the beautiful green grass, listening to the sweet notes of forest birds in the trees nearby. "now i know how to get rid of the blues," sang billy to himself, as he leapt into the air, "a good hearty laugh and a bit of sunshine will always disperse them." billy bounce a-tremble still, and all because bogie man sent an airless message to the blue hen's chicken that i was to get up before breakfast and do sentry duty." "what for?" asked billy. "to stop one billy bounce, alias rubber ball boy, and take him prisoner to the town of eggs-aggeration. he's a very dangerous person." "why, i'm "and then billy stopped. "of course you are; i knew that as soon as i saw you," said white wings, complacently. 'what did you know?" "that you're" "what am i?" "i don't know, but you said you were," said white wings. "but wait a minute, i have a lineless picture of this billy bounce some place about me." "you needn't trouble," said billy. "i'm billy bounce." "yes, i know," answered white wings, un- blushingly, "it's impossible to deceive me." "well !" was all billy could say, so disgusted was he with the barefaced fib. adventures in eggs-aggeration "and here we are," said the egg, as they dropped gently on the sidewalk in the town of eggs-aggeration. and such a grotesque town as it was. not a straight street or house in it. the walls, a little distance away, went up and up so high that billy could just barely see the roofs of the houses; but when he was standing next them he could almost reach their tops by standing on tiptoe. the streets looked miles long, but he knew he could almost come to their end in three steps and a jump. "what an exaggeration," said billy to him- self; "why, of course, that's the reason they call it eggs-aggeration." "here's billy bounce," called white wings, and out of their doors and windows trooped the inhabitants. first came the blue hen's chicken, and after her rolled eggs of all kinds and descriptions. "my goodness," said white wings, "what a time i had with him, to be sure. blue hen's chicken. billy bounce it was only after a fierce hand-to-egg struggle that i succeeded in capturing him." "why!" exclaimed billy in surprise. "i" "is he very strong?" interrupted the blue hen's chicken. "strong," said white wings, "strong" i should say he was; much stronger than our oldest inhabitant." "what are you going to do with me?" asked billy, too disgusted to deny the story. "wait and see," chuckled the chicken, "wait —wait—wait—wait—and see—bad luck—bad luck—bad luck." "serve him right for being a greedy boy," said turkey egg, angrily. "i know him, he's a bad lot—always eating, just gobble, gobble, gobble, all day long." "that's not true," said billy, "you know you don't know me." "never saw you in my life before," whis- pered turkey egg, "but don't mention that, if i want to get my witness fee i've got to say something, haven't i?" "but you may be swearing my life away," said billy. adventures in eggs-aggeration s "i never swear, but i'm sure you want to get away, don't you?" "yes, of course." "well, you want to take your life with you, don't you?" "yes." "there you are, then; if your life is taken away it won't be here, and if it is not here you won't be here, and if you are not here you will be away," and turkey egg laughed heartily at his joke. "you are the most heartless egg i ever knew," said billy, in despair. "sh-h-h-h-h! now you've hit the truth," said turkey egg, confidentially;" years ago, when they thought i was going to turn out bad, they blew my heart out." "isn't he handsome," simpered little miss easter egg, coloring up. billy pretended not to hear this, but it did his heart good to know that he had one friend in the city. in the meantime blue hen's chicken and the official candler, who was called egg judge, had been discussing what should be done with billy. aggeration," said billy; "why, i can't live that long." "of course not," answered the official candler; "and if you're not alive, what difference will it make whether it's a thousand years or ten thousand?" "come, come! we're wasting time," fussed the blue hen's chicken. "to the packing house jail with him." "i'll stick to him," cried al bumen, the police- man, shaking his egg-beater at billy fiercely; "come along now! there's no use trying to resist, for i have you egg-sactly where i want you." adventures in eggs-aggeration s and billy, seeing that it was indeed useless to try to escape as things then were, went sulkily off, with al bumen's moist hand in his collar. "please take your sticky fingers off of my neck," said he; "i won't try to run." "you promise?" asked al bumen. "i do, cross my heart and hope to die," said billy eagerly. "well, i don't believe you, i can't believe any body in eggs-aggeration." poor billy hung his head in shame as he was led along the street like a common criminal. he tried two or three times to pull away, but al bumen's arm would stretch out like a rubber band and then "snap," billy would bounce back like a return ball. "there, now, what did i tell you," said al bumen, "that's the second time that you have tried to escape and you said you wouldn't." "but you wouldn't take my word." "of course not, i have no use for your word, i have plenty of my own. and anyway, how could you keep your word if you gave it to me." my, my, my, what a day it was for the billy bounce inhabitants of eggs-aggeration. they had seen eggs beaten, and taken up by the police, but never a boy. the scramble egg children tumbled along at billy's side, shouting and rolling over and over in their glee. mothers brought their little cradled egg babies out to see him pass—even poor "addle," the village egg idiot, made faces at him; only billy felt sorry for him because he could see that he was cracked. but when some of the bad little street boys threw stones at him, even al bumen was angry—indeed, they barely missed his head two or three times. "stop it," he cried, "i know you every one, you are the strictly boys." "how do you know them?" asked billy, for they looked like any other eggs to him. "do you think i can't recognize a fresh egg when i see him—oh! i know them— their mother thinks because they have had their names in the grocer's window that they can't turn out bad, but i've known some terrible ones in that family." billy felt almost relieved when they reached the jail. "in with you," said al bumen. adventures in eggs-aggeration "by the way, have you ever had the chicken pox r "no, sir," said billy. "well, you must be vaccinated at once; i wouldn't have you catch it and break out now that you are safely here." "i warn you i shall try to," said billy, in a temper. "i give you leave to try, but it's useless to try to leave—you can thank your lucky stars you weren't put in the incubator instead of in here." "the incubator?" asked billy. "yes—the orphan asylum—it's a terribly hot place; an egg that goes in there never comes out the same," said al bumen, gravely. "oh, i know," said billy; "it changes them into chicks." "yes—it's capital punishment; they either come out entirely bad or with fowl natures. it's enough to make one chicken-hearted to think of it." billy was shown into his cell and the door was locked. "why—who are you?" said he, in sur- prise. for when his eyes got used to the dark- ness he discovered that he had a cell mate. adventures in eggs-aggeration "nest egg—the laundryman?" "no, i've never heard of him; what has he done?" "he was arrested for impersonating an egg," said boiled egg, "and it served him right, because he never could be served any other way, you know." "why?" asked billy. "well, in the first place, he came here from china, and i tell you we union eggs are all down on chinese labor. what chance has an honest, hard-working egg against that sort of a fellow. i say, crack his head open, that's the only thing that should be done to him." "goodness! that ice makes it damp in here; i believe i'm taking cold — catch — choo — catch—choo," and billy sneezed twice. "gehsundheit!" gebsundhiie said a voice in his ear. billy bounce "did you speak, mr. boiled egg?" asked billy, surprised. "no; please be quiet and let me sleep," said boiled egg, sleepily. "gehsundheit!" and this time billy turned his head and saw a little snuff-colored fellow sitting on his shoulder, with the funniest little face he had ever seen. his eyes were puckered up, his nose wrinkled and his mouth open, so that he looked for all the world as if he were going to sneeze any minute. in his coat pocket he carried a very life-like stuffed rabbit. "who are you?" asked billy. "gehsundheit!" "and what is that?" "a cherman count—and amateur presti- indigestion-tater, or magician — you haf called me—alreatty am i here." "i didn't call you." "ogscuse me, but did you not schneeze?" "yes," said billy. "so—vas i right—ven you schneeze den does it call me. see, here are my orders from mr. gas." and, taking a paper out of gehsundheit s adventures in eggs-aggeration hand, billy read " gehsundheit, draughty castle, germany; when billy bounce sneezes he needs your assistance—go to him at once. signed by mr. gas." "what luck," whispered billy excitedly. "what luck—indeed i do need you." "it is most well, i am here. vat was your vish?" "i want to get out," said billy. "can you crawl through a keyhole?" asked gehsundheit. "of course not—if i could i shouldn't need your help," said billy, disdainfully. "no; dat iss too bad, i can. can you disappear?" "certainly not." "too bad—too bad. let me think. ah! i haf it, turn yourself into a fly," said gehsundheit eagerly. "but i can't. can you?" "no, but it would be so useful if you could. i am afraid times haf changed. ven i vas a boy peeples could do so much magic. to-day it iss not so. i—i only am de greatest magician in vorld." o billy bounce "but i thought you were here to help me," said billy. "i am, but if you will not follow my directions how can i ?" said gehsundheit, crossly. "then can you do nothing for me?" "sure can i—would you lend me your cap?" "yes," said billy, handing him his cap and wondering what he was going to do with it. gehsundheit carefully took the rabbit out of his pocket and laying the cap over it made several passes with his hands. "presto—chesto— besto—change!" and lifting up the cap and the rabbit with both hands made a quick turn and pulled the rabbit out of the cap. "it iss wonderful, iss it not ?" said gehsundheit. "see i haf taken a rabbit from your cap." "is that all you can do for me," asked billy in disgust. "it's all the tricks i haf yet learned, but yes, i can lend you a pocket handkerchief." "what good will that do?" asked billy. "vy, if you haf caught cold you will need it," said gehsundheit, pulling out a little hand- kerchief. "oh, go away and let me alone," said adventures in eggs-aggeration billy, thoroughly angry. "much use you are." and presto—gehsundheit was gone. "he's a nice one—gracious, but i'm hungry," and billy hammered on the cell door. "do be still," said boiled egg. "can't you see i'm trying to sleep?" "but i'm hungry," said billy. "hungry," exclaimed boiled egg, turning pale —" why, why, you don't mean to say you eat?" "indeed i do. i haven't had my breakfast yet, and i want some eggs." "help, help, help !" yelled the egg, crouching down in a corner and pulling the cake of ice cot in front of him; "he wants to eat me. help, help, help, help! he wants eggs." "if you're not quiet i will eat you, sure enough," said billy, angrily. "he says he will eat me. help, help, help!" rattle! went the key in the door; bang! it opened wide, and in ran al bumen and yolk, the jailer. "what's the matter here?" asked al bumen, in a fierce voice. "i'm hungry, and i want some eggs for break- fast," said billy, sullenly. billy bounce out went al bumen, in a jiffy, and after him tumbled yolk, leaving the door wide open and the keys behind them. "this is my chance," cried billy, and out he dashed after them. far off, down the street, billy saw yolk and al bumen running as fast as their legs would carry them. "billy bounce wants eggs to eat! billy bounce wants eggs to eat! look out, every- one, he's loose! help, help, help!" in a min- ute the town was in an uproar; mothers seized their children, and, carrying them inside, locked the doors and barricaded the windows. gray haired old eggs hobbled as fast as their legs would carry them to places of safety. strong egg men fainted and were dragged indoors. in a minute billy was the only living soul on the street. "now is my time," cried he. "good-bye, eggs, some day i shall come back and eat you all up," and laughing heartily he jumped high into the air and sailed far, far away. chapter v. pease porridge hot billy sat under the singing tree. "time for supper, isn't it, mr. tree?" he said; "i'm as hungry as a wolf." immediately the tree commenced to sing, "pease porridge hot, pease porridge cold, pease porridge in the pot nine days old," and with a rustle of leaves it handed down three kinds of porridge. billy chose some of the hot pease porridge and found it very good. then it sang, "little fishey in the brook, papa caught it with a hook, mamma fried it in a pan and billy ate it like a man," at the same time handing him a sizzling hot fish on a clean white platter. the fish was done to a turn and it's no wonder billy left nothing but the bones. next came "pat a cake, pat a cake, baker's man! so i will, master, as fast as i can; pat it and billy bounce prick it and mark it with b; put in the oven for billy and me." "there," said billy, when that was finished, "i feel as though i'd had almost enough; but a little pie would" and sure enough, the tree sang "little jack horner sat in a corner, eating a xmas pie; he put in his thumb and he took out a plum and said what a good boy am i!" of course, one plum was gone,, because jack horner had taken that, but there were plenty more left, and billy ate to his heart's content. so it was every night, and billy never wanted for plenty to eat. but this night he had had such a hearty meal that i fear it made him a bit restless in his sleep. at any rate, some time in the middle of the night he was awakened by a voice calling "umbe- rufen," and a tiny hand thumping him on the chest. "was-smatter?" asked billy sleepily. "umberufen," said the voice. "oh!" said billy, sitting up suddenly and upsetting a little old man with wooden pajamas and a nut-cracker face. "who's umberufen?" "i am, and you called me out of a sound billy never wanted for plenty to eat.—page . the new yoi k public library a tor. lenox tildtn foonbat|oni>_ pease porridge hot sleep. i do think you mortals are the most inconsiderate people i ever met," said umber- ufen angrily. "now dfltih singing tree, "you're still touching wood. now tell me you didn't call me." "what has my touching wood to do with you?" asked billy. "it calls me to you, worse luck—what a dull fat boy you are, to be sure," said umberufen scornfully. "how was i to know? i've not made any arrangement with you, i'm sure." what do you want? tell me quickly, be- cause i want to get back to my sawdust bed." "you did—there's no use trying to deceive me. i distinctly felt it when you touched wood—why," pointing at billy's hand which rested on the trunk of the "i didn't call you— i've been asleep myself.;' billy bounce "well, if you didn't, your fairy godfather did, and got me dirt cheap at that—ten cents a day and traveling expenses. but speak up, what do you want?" "i want to go to sleep," said billy crossly. "but you were asleep," replied umberufen. "yes, i was." "then if you were asleep, why did you call me to tell me you wanted to go to sleep?" "it was an accident," said billy. "i didn't want you, don't want you, and if you can't do anything but scold a fellow because you came when you weren't wanted, i don't ever want to see you again. good-night." and billy turned over in a huff and closed his eyes. "but i can't go until i do something for you—those are my orders," said umberufen sulkily. "you called me here and you've got to abide by the consequences." "i don't care what you do. well, then, stand on your head," said billy. "zip "—and there stood little old umberufen on his head. "why didn't you say so sooner?" said he as he regained his feet. "i'd have been pease porridge hot home by this time—good-night," and he was gone. when billy woke in the morning he felt just a bit sleepy and cross, but after he and barker had had a game of romps he felt better, and tucking the dog under his arm he jumped off into space singing gaily. "my gracious, what a big sea shore this is!" exclaimed billy, when he drifted down to earth again; "and how hot the sun is, but where is the water?" and billy stood wiping the perspiration from his brow, while barker squirmed out of his arms and stood in billy's shadow with his tongue lolling out. "it seems to me the singing tree can help us here," said billy. barker undoubtedly understood him, and thought it a splendid plan, for quick as a flash his little fore paws had dug a hole in the soft sand. he barked into it, kicked the sand in again with his hind legs, and he and billy were soon sitting in the grateful shade of the tree. "ah-h,"said billy, "this is what i call comfort." "comfort," said a voice on the other side billy bounce of the tree, "much you know about comfort." the voice was followed by the saddest-looking mortal that billy had ever beheld. a regular sugar-loaf head — large at the jaws and small at the top, scrawny neck, slop- ing shoulders, and skinny legs. and such a face—weep- ing beady eyes, a jong sharp nose n d thin lips turned down at the corners. "who are you?" asked billy sharply. "and what do you mean by coming up so suddenly?" "i'm a hermit, and this is my fast day, so i couldn't come slowly," said the man sadly. "what is a fast day?" asked billy. "a day when you don't eat." rbe hermit. pease porridge hot g "oh!" said billy, "i thought you meant a . day when time flies." "no," said the man, wrapping his legs around and around each other, "no; if that were the case every day would be a fast day, because it's always fly time in this desert." "you seem unhappy. cheer up!" "i can't cheer up. how is a fellow to cheer when he can't speak above a whisper?" "i mean laugh," said billy. "laugh," said the man wearily, "what's that?" "don't you know what a laugh is ?" cried billy, in surprise. "why, this is a laugh: ha-ha-ha!" "i don't see any sense in that," said the her- mit; "that's just a noise." "of course it's a noise. come, now, i'll tell you a joke: when is a door not a door?" of course it was very, very old, but so was the hermit, and billy wanted to start with the sim- plest joke he could think of. "quite impossible." "no; when it's a-jar. isn't that a good one?" said billy. "ha-ha-ha!" "oh, my! oh, me! what a terrible thing!" cried the man, bursting into tears. "suppose all the billy bounce doors should be changed into jars, what would the poor people do?" "but don't you see, that's the joke," said billy; "a-jar means partly open." "yes, but if it were still a door how could it be a jar? it's got to be one or the other." "oh, pshaw!" said billy, in disgust; "can't you see it's a joke. i think it's very funny." "oh! is that funny?" asked the hermit. "of course." "then that's the reason it doesn't make me laugh. when i was a boy i broke my humerus and had to have my funny bone extracted, so i can't see anything funny." "poor fellow!" said billy sympathetically. "what town is that over there?" "mirage town," said the hermit; "but you can't reach it unless you fly." "why not?" "it's built in the sky." "in the sky? is it on the road to bogie man's house?" "are you seeking bogie man? oh, me! oh, my! don't tell me you are seeking him." "but i am," said billy; "why not?" pease porridge hot "because i've got to hold you if you are, and i'm so tired," said the hermit, slowly reaching out his arms. "good-by," cried billy, giving a jump and bounding out of his reach. "oh! please come back and tell me another joke, i haven't had a good cry for a week," called the hermit, holding out his arms. "too late," billy called back—" but when is a door not a door? when it's ajar." "thank you," sobbed the hermit, and the last billy saw or heard of him he was murmuring, "when is a door a jar," and weeping bitterly. in a twinkling billy stood at the gates of mir- age town. far beneath him he could see the burning hot desert, while through the gates he could see cool, airy houses, beautiful streets shaded by great trees and far beyond soft, green meadows and sparkling brooks. "my goodness, but i'm thirsty," said billy to himself. "i wish the gate keeper would hurry and let me in," and again and again he knocked, but seemingly with no result. finally when his throat was parched and his tongue dry with thirst, he could stand it no longer. billy bounce he put his shoulder to the gates — open they swung, and billy fell inside on his face. "why, it was just like pushing clouds away," he exclaimed. "but i'm in the sun here; i must cross to the other side." so across the street he ran. "why this is strange, i was sure this was the shady side," he said in surprise. for when he got there the sun if anything was hotter than ever and the side he had left was cool, shady and inviting. billy shut his eyes. "i'm afraid this is sun- stroke," he said," anyway i'll try again," and back he ran as hard as he could go. but when he got across it was the same thing as before. "come in and rest," called a voice from a house at his side; "you look hot and tired—come in and rest your face and hands." "thank you, i will," said billy, gratefully, not noticing that the voice was just a wee bit derisive. "this way," called the voice; "turn the knob and walk in—if you can." "oh! i can," said billy, walking toward the door of the house he thought he heard the voice coming from. pease porridge hot "not that way—i'm across the street," called the voice. "oh!" said billy, politely, starting across again, "i beg your pardon—i thought" "think again," said the voice; "are you com- ing in or not? i'm not over here, i'm over there." "where?" "back where you're coming from." "i thought you said—" began billy. "it doesn't make any difference what i said, i didn't say it," answered the voice. billy began to lose his temper. "are you making fun of me—who are you anyway?" "i'm nothing divided by two." "why, that's nothing," said billy. "wrong," answered the voice. "why?" "don't ask so many questions—are you com- ing in or not?" "i think not," said billy, " i can't spare the time." "i suppose you think you'll have to get right on to bogie man's house." "yes." * billy bounce "but you're not—you'll never get away from mirage town." "why not?" asked billy, "because there is no such place." "but i'm here." "that's the trouble—you are in a town that doesn't exist, so of course, you are not in any place. and, if you'll tell me how you can leave a place where you're not i'll" "i'll show you," said billy angrily, " i'll jump out," and he tried to jump. "no use," said the voice laughing, "there's nothing under your feet—and you can't jump from nothing." "well, i'll get a drink of water from that brook and then you'll see," said billy, "i'll go out by the gate i entered." "ha! ha! ha!" laughed the voice, "try and see." nothing daunted, however, billy ran toward the brook—" can't catch me—can't catch me," called the brook, "running boys can't catch running brooks." "indeed i will," and sure enough after a long hard run billy reached the brook. "now," pease porridge hot said he exultingly, "now i've got you." dip- ping his cap deep into the water he eagerly lifted it to his lips and found it—empty, while far off down the road ran the brook. billy came very near crying, he was so hot and thirsty and disappointed. but he swal- lowed the lump in his throat (which, being salty, made him thirstier than ever) and turned back again. "the gates are all that's left," he said, bravely, "and i'll catch them, i'm sure." but it wasn't to be, for the farther and the harder he ran, the farther off the gates were. and finally he sank down, entirely out of breath. "no water, no shade, no trees—why the sing- ing tree, of course," he cried, delightedly. out jumped barker, scratch, scratch, scratch, bow- wow-wow, and, "bing!" the topmost branches of the singing tree popped up and almost struck billy in the face. "hello!" cried billy, "where are your roots? i don't see anything but branches." "two miles below, where they ought to grow," sang the tree. "come, hold on tight, you'll be all right." billy bounce and billy seized the branch that held itself out to him. "hold on there, i want to speak to you," called the voice that had teased him so. "i'll hold on," called billy, "but i'll soon be out of your hearing." down grew the tree; shorter and shorter it grew, and sure enough, in a minute billy was on solid ground and mirage town had disappeared from view. chapter vi. blind man's buff. billy made an early start the next morning so that he could get away from the desert before the sun rose to its full height. and indeed the pink had just begun to appear in the east when he looked below him and saw once more trees and grass and streams of water. "thank goodness, i am clear of the burning desert at last," he said to himself—"ugh!! though, here i am falling, and i know i'll be drenched passing through that cloud." "plump—squash," and he was in the cloud, "there—it wasn't so bad after all. why there's honey girl's palanquin." sure enough he had alighted within a few feet of honey girl, general merchandise and the bee soldiers all sound asleep. "who—o,who—o—who—o goes there?" cried a large owl, perched on the limb of a tree above the sleepers' heads, blind man's buff "that's my own idea, you've read of soldiers before a battle sleeping on their arms, haven't "yes." "well, every night our soldiers take off their arms and sleep on them; of course, it was a little uncomfortable at first, but it's very military." "yes, i suppose so," said billy, dubiously, "but who is that—a—gentleman up in the tree?" "you mean the owl?" "yes-s, i thought he looked like an owl." "that's our sentry—he does it very cheap by the night, because he says he has to stay awake anyway, and he might as well stay awake here and get paid for it," answered the general. "how is princess honey girl?" "well—very well, in fact, but a little nervous; you see bumbus and the scally wags are on our trail and she feels uneasy." "bumbus!" cried billy. "yes—he is a renegade bee you know, and it makes him very bitter against the princess. you haven't seen anything of them lately, have you?" "no, i have not. but who are the scally wags?" o billy bounce "oh! they're terrible fellows. i can't tell you what they look like for i've never seen them, but many a time i've read of their doings in 'the morning bee.'" "good morning, billy bounce," said the bu bugler. honey girl, opening the curtains of her palanquin. "general, isn't it time to sound the reveille?" "exactly, we must get our soldiers up bee- times," said the general, saluting. "bugler." up jumped a little bee, saluted, plucked a trumpet flower and gave the reveille. "i can't get 'em up, i can't get 'em up, i can't get 'em up in the morning, the corporal's worse than the private, the sergeant's worse than the corporal, the lieutenant's worse than the sergeant, and the captain's worse than them all." and in a second the whole camp was buz- zing with soldiers. blind man's buff "there—how's that?" said the general proudly. "splendid," said billy—then turning to the princess, "i have thought of you many, many times since i last saw you, princess honey girl." "and i have thought of you, billy bounce: perhaps some day when this cruel war is over you can visit my aunt and myself in the bee palace," said the princess. "perhaps," said billy, "and i don't believe that time is far distant, for when i once find bogie man i shall" "buzz-z-z- there they are—there they are," called a voice—and looking up and away to the east billy saw bumbus and several objects that he knew at once for scally wags. "princess, you must leave at once," he cried. "right again," said the general. "we can outfly them—company, 'tenshun !!!—fix stings —carry palanquin—forward—fly!" and up and off went the whole company, the princess wav- ing good-bye to billy. indeed he was so intent on watching her and waving to her that when he did come to him- self and realized that it was time he got away, it was too late. the kew j blind man's buff ■ "then why don't you answer? come, speak up," cried bumbus in a temper. "i thought you said to be quiet, that you wanted to think," said billy, looking very, very innocent. "you'll pay for this," said bumbus. "what, the thought?" asked billy. "you shouldn't sell it if it is the only one you have, you'll probably need it some time." "gr-r-r-r-r-r-r, buz-z-z-z-z," was all that bumbus could answer, he was so angry. "leave him to me," said the head scally wag. "i'll joke him to death." "do your worst," said bumbus, regaining his breath. "no, i'll do my best. here's a conundrum, little fat boy—but you mustn't answer it correctly." "why not?" said billy. "oh! that's against the rules of the game; no wag, not even a scally wag expects his conun- drums to be answered correctly." "why do you ask me then?" "so that i can laugh at you for not knowing the answer." "but that's nonsense," persisted billy. billy bounce "of course it is—we scally wags are all nonsense." "well, go ahead." "what time will it be this time last week?" "you mustn't say will it be, but was it." "have you ever heard this conundrum be- fore?" "no," said billy. "well, you see i have—it's my conundrum and i guess / know what i ought to say." "then it will be the same time that it is now," answered billy. "wrong—wrong again," said the head scally wag. "it will be a week earlier." "ha-ha-ho-ho-he-he, oh! what a joke," cried the scally wags again, tweaking, pinching and punching billy. "if you do that again i'll pitch into you," cried billy angrily. "there, that will do," interrupted bumbus; then hummed, "boys delight to bark and bite, it is their nature to, but every cat has many lives and thereby hangs a tale." blind man's buff "but that doesn't rhyme," said billy. "of course not — why should it?" asked bumbus. "wasn't it meant for a poem?" "certainly not; it was meant for the truth." "but it's not the truth." "i didn't say it was the truth," said bumbus. "you just said it was meant for the truth," said billy. "yes, meant for the truth—it was just an imi- tation, so there's no more truth than poetry in it." "it's my turn now," said the head scally wag. "we couldn't joke him to death, so lets tickle him into little bits." "oh, don't!" cried billy; "i'm ticklish." "so much the better," said bumbus. "but if you will give up the note we'll let you go." "i can't do that," said billy decidedly, "i've got to carry that to bogie man." "come on," cried the scally wags, and they swarmed over billy digging their fingers in the spots where he should have been ticklish. but of course they didn't know that he had on his air suit, and the more they tickled the more serious billy looked. billy bounce "no use," said the head scally wag, sinking down on the ground exhausted. "we would need a sledge-hammer to tickle that boy." "give him laughing gas," suggested bumbus. "just the thing," cried the scally wags. "wait a minute," said billy, "just let me have one little game before you .give me the gas." "as a last request?" asked bumbus. "yes." "well what is it? speak quickly, for time is short and life is long you know." "i want to play a game of blind man's buff," said billy. "that sounds reasonable," said bumbus. "how do you play it?" "first you must all tie your handkerchiefs over your eyes." "ha—ha—he—he—ho—ho—. oh! what a joke," cried the scally wags, "we all carry pocket handkerchiefs." "and then?" said bumbus. "then," said billy, "you all try to catch me." "is that all ?" asked bumbus. "yes." blind man's buff "what fun—ha—ha—he—he—ho—ho," said the scally wags, "what a game to be sure." billy had some difficulty tying the handkerchiefs around the scally wags' heads on account of their enormous ears, but finally they were all blindfolded. bumbus was tied up in a jiffy. "go," cried billy, at the same time leaping into the air, and bumbus and the scally wags all made a rush for the spot where he had stood. "i've got him—i've got him," cried all the scally wags, hanging on to bumbus. "i've got him," cried bumbus, catching hold of a scally wag. and billy laughed aloud to see them scrambling and pushing and jostling one another in their efforts to catch him. even when he was just a moving black speck on the horizon bumbus and the scally wags were still struggling. chapter vii. the wishing bottle. "i can't understand why bumbus wanted to take that note away from me," billy said to him- self as he floated along. "first he and nickel plate employed me to carry it and now he tries to hinder me. why of course—i know—he is aware that princess honey girl has told me her story and fears that when once i do find bogie man i will vanquish him—so i shall, too. i won- der what the future will bring." "won't you have your fortune told sir?" and billy looked up to see sailing along at his side a very old, very withered woman sitting on a broom. "why it's a witch," said billy. "i'm not a which, i'm a was," said the old woman. "oh! i beg your pardon, ma'am," said billy, "i saw that you were riding a broom." go billy bounce the deck of cards that i tell ladies' fortunes with —shall i try it over again?" "no, i think not," said billy, "i must be going." "purr-r-r-r-r, purr-r-r-r," and a great black, hump-backed cat with glaring green eyes and nine long black tails rubbed against his leg. "oh!" he cried, "what a large cat." "yes," said the old woman, "that's my black cat-o-nine tails. i'm very proud of him, he's the unluckiest cat of the entire thirteen in supersti- tionburg." "unlucky?" "yes, the cats always sit thirteen at table for bad luck. as there never is more than enough for twelve and as he always gets his share he brings bad luck to one of the cats every meal. isn't that nice?" "but isn't that hard on the extra cat?" "oh! no they don't mind at all—it's so good for the digestion." "won't you have a cup of poison before you go?" "poison?" said billy, edging toward the door. billy bounce "i mean as you are a was—can't you help me?" "i can lend you my invisible cloak," said the old woman, going to a closet and taking nothing out of it. "here it is," handing billy nothing at all very carefully. "but where is it?" asked billy. "i just gave it to you." "i don't see it." "of course not—it's invisible." "then if i put it on will it make me invisible ? ". "certainly not—it's the cloak that's invisible." "have you anything else?" asked billy. "yes, i have the wishing bottle." "shall i be able to see that?" "oh! yes — here it is." "why that's hair dye, it says on the label." "sh-h— don't speak so loud — that's all it is, but you see it turns the hair so black that it almost makes it invisible. it's the best i can do for you. but don't tell anyone—it would ruin my reputation as a cuperess." "a cuperess?" asked billy. the wishing bottle "yes, i cast charms." "what kind?" "all kinds but watch charms." "i thought that was a sorceress." "i used to be, but it's rude to drink poison out of a saucer now, and so i am a cuperess." "thank you very much for the wishing bottle," said billy. "i don't know that i shall need it, but i'll take it anyway." "bad luck to you," called the old woman. "by the way where are you going now?" "to bogie man's house," answered billy. "what have i done—what have i done—i'll have to stop him—if i only hadn't been a was i might have guessed this was the boy," said the old woman, wringing her hands. but billy didn't hear this; he was busy ex- amining the left hind foot of a rabbit displayed in a shop window. "my cats," cried she, "i'll send them after him," and opening an inner door she called: "stingaree, stangaree, whollop and whim, mizzle and muzzle, luckety, limb, billy bounce niddle and noddle and puzzlecat too, roly and poly, i need all of you." as each name was called, out ran a great black hump-backed cat-o'-nine-tails, and by the time she was done the thirteen of them were standing in front of her, their tails swishing back and forth with a noise like a hurricane. "run and catch that boy for me," said she, pointing to billy. and off they scampered. "what a wind is coming up," said billy to himself when he heard the cats behind him. "meow-w-w—" and turning round he saw the great cats bounding after him. "they're after me—i'm sure," he said to himself, "but i can jump." alas for billy, he was standing under a ladder when he spoke, and when he jumped "bump" he hit his head on the topmost rung. quick as a flash he reached out his hand and caught the ladder—and there he hung, dangling in mid air with thirteen great cats the wishing bottle meowing and spitting and yowling on the ground just out of reach of his feet. "this won't do—they will climb the ladder in a moment. the wishing bottle: maybe i can blind them with the dye." holding on tight with one hand, he fished the bottle out of his pocket. "if i only had something to turn them into white cats," he said, staring at the bottle, "maybe they would become harmless." and just at that minute a thought struck him so hard that it almost knocked loose his hold on the ladder. "this is black dye," said he; "perhaps if i reverse the label, it will become white dye. i'll try it anyway." and quick as thought he had loosened the label and turned it upside down. certain it is that the contents of the bottle changed to a snow- white on the instant. out came the cork. "blub—blub—gog—gur- gle, splash," and the cats were drenched with the liquid. "pouf," and where billy had seen thir- teen black cats appeared thirteen snow-white ones. the cats looked at one another in astonishment . billy bounce for a moment, and then forgetting all about billy, began to flog one another with their nine tails. "white ca-a-a-a-at—meow—flog him out of town," and off they went flogging each other mer- cilessly, each one thinking that he was the only black cat in the whole town and determined to beat the strangers out of superstitionberg. "there's some good in hair dye after all," laughed billy, and dropping to the ground, he stepped from under the ladder, leaped into the air, and bade farewell to superstitionberg for ever and ever. chapter viii. gammon and spinach. billy didn't know how long he had been sleeping when he was awakened by a loud galloping. "who in the world can be riding through the forest so fast and furiously at this time of the night?" he exclaimed to himself. "i hope it's no one after me. i want to go to sleep." "thunder—col-lop—col-lop—col-lop," came the hoof beats nearer and nearer, "clop—clop, clop—clap—clap," and the gallop had changed into a trot. nearer and yet nearer came the sound. "it's coming here sure enough. i must get up and meet him, whoever he is," but when billy tried to move he found himself bound hand and foot. "well, this is a fine how-de-do," he said, after vain attempts to release himself. billy bounce "how-de-do," said a little voice in his ear. "who are you ?" asked billy, in surprise. "i'd really like to tell you, but if i did, you'd know, you know." so saying, a little figure jumped up on billy's chest and sat there with his face all screwed up as if he were making fun. "who are you laughing at?" asked billy. "oh! what a good spring board you make," said the little man, jumping up and down on billy's chest. and the rubber suit did make a fine jumping place for him. *' i asked you a question," said billy, indig- nantly. "that's not my fault." "aren't you going to answer me?" "give it up; try me with another," said the little man. "another what? " asked billy. "another question of course, and if i can't answer that you owe me two forfeits—by the way how many does that make?" "what?" "two forfeits—does it make eight feet or four fore feet?" the night mare and the dream food sprites.—page . the new york helic library gammon and spinach ioi said the night mare. "i'll put him to the rack, never fear." "then tie yourself to the singing tree while the rest of us are playing." "i don't want to be tied," said the night mare sulkily. "now do as you're told," said gammon. "suppose you should run away from yourself and leave yourself behind, how would you ever get home?" "well, if i must i must," said the mare, wiping an oil tear from her eye. "come on everyone," called gammon. "but wait a minute," said billy. "who are you? you look like good things to eat." "who are we? we're bad things to eat," and joining hands in a circle about billy they began to dance and sing. the song of the dream food sprites. cream food, scream food, we are the things for dream food; moan food and groan food, any of us alone would fill the tummy of one small boy, and give him dreams — oh! joy, oh! joy. billy bounce puddings and pies and cakes and jam, turkey and fish and meat and ham, candy and carrots and plums and lamb, boys will eat and stuff and cram. we are the things, we are the things, the things that dreams are made of. and as they sang "fill the tummy of one small boy," they dropped hands, formed a long line, and one by one leaped on to billy's stomach, bounded into the air, turned a double somersault and landed, laughing and shouting, on the ground on the other side, for all the world like acrobats in the circus. "please let me try," said night mare. "i promise not to run away." "oh! no, no, no," cried billy. "night mare will kill me." "that's a good idea," said gammon; " shall we?" "not yet," answered spinach; "i want to have some more fun before that happens." "so do we all," cried the others. "oh! pshaw," said night mare, "you never let me have any fun — i don't know why i brought you here." gammon and spinach "why we brought you, you mean," said gammon. "if it wasn't for us you'd stay in your stall all night." "excuse me—i forgot," said night mare humbly. "well, don't be ungrateful, that's all," said spinach severely. "some people never know when they're badly off." gammon had perched himself again on billy's chest. "why don't you get up and go to bogie man?" he laughed, trying to poke his fingers in billy's eye. "i can't, i'm tied," said billy. "time and tide wait for no man," said gam- mon; "of course you're not time but you're tied." "i don't see why everybody tries to keep me from seeing bogie man," said billy. "because you want to see him," said gammon. "that's no reason," said billy. "certainly not—there's no reason about any of us, most of all bogie man. you know the old proverb says— 'he that will not when he may will live to fight another day.' billy bounce i suppose you would say there was no reason to that." "i certainly should," said billy. "and there you are wrong," answered gam- mon; "there is a reason for all things, only some things have lost their reason." "now you've contradicted yourself," said billy; "you just said that there was no reason about any of you." "i have a perfect right to contradict myself —it's only rude to contradict other people." "but which is correct?" "both." "how can they both be correct?" "i don't know, but they are—but my, my, we're wasting time—we've got to dispose of you before morning." "why before morning?" asked billy. "i'm in no hurry." "you never are," said gammon. "night mare, are you ready for your ride?" "yes, i will have to start now if i am to have any kind of a canter before the cock crows." "good!" whispered billy to himself. "i wonder gammon and spinach if i can still crow. it's worth trying, anyway— cock-a-doodle-do!" and snap, the night mare, had broken her hitching-strap and was off in a jiffy with gammon and spinach and all the other dream sprites running pell-mell after her as fast as they could go. billy shook himself; sat up, to prove that he was no longer tied down; lay back, rolled over, and in a minute was sound asleep. when billy woke up the next morning he felt stiff and sore from being tied down so long by gammon, and very heavy about the eyes from his lack of sleep. "i don't feel very hungry this morning, singing tree," he said; "i think i'll save my appetite for to-night. may i have some eggs?" no sooner said than done— "higglepy, piggleby, my black hen, she lays eggs for gentlemen: sometimes nine and sometimes ten, higglepy, piggleby, my black hen!" billy bounce "perhaps not at the time—but i thought of it afterwards and said—so i haf saved his life. now can you say i did not?" "i think i'd rather not say," said billy. "as you vish—but here," and gehsundheit struck an attitude and pointed to his heart, "here i haf de satisfaction of knowing dat i am a brave hero and a great magician." "well, if you're pleased," said billy, "that's something." "you are right," said gehsundheit, bowing low; "to be pleased vit oneself iss enough. but i accept your apology." "what apology?" "when you said gehsundheit, you are a brave hero. mr. gas shall know how pleased you are with me." billy looked hard at gehsundheit to see if he was joking, but he looked so seriously well pleased with himself that billy did not have the heart to argue further. "and what do you want now?" said geh- sundheit. "nothing," said billy. "you shall haf it at once," said gehsund- gammon and spinach log heit. "it iss a hard task you ask of me, but you shall haf it." "but i said nothing," said billy. "exactly—but fear not "and spinning around on one toe, waving his arms above his head and ending by kissing his fingers, geh- sundheit rolled up his sleeves and said, "you vill notice dat i haf no cuffs to deceive you —and yet de hand is quicker as de eye— mumbo, jumbo, zip, boom, rah—it iss here." and reaching out he caught a handful of air, gravely handed it to billy and disappeared. chapter ix. in silly land. it was afternoon, and billy was resting in the shade of the singing tree while barker played about at his side. he was laughing softly to himself over his experience with gehsundheit that morning. "he's a funny little fellow — calls himself a hero. hal hal ha!" "woof, woof, woof!" said barker, and billy looked up just in time to see him rush madly at a man and try to bury his teeth in his leg. i say try, because if there was ever a surprised dog in all the world that dog was barker. billy could hear his teeth grit and scrape on the man's leg, but he made no more impres- sion on it than if it had been made of stone; and that's not strange, because it was stone. barker opened his jaws, ran back a few feet, the aztec fragments: his terics and her terics. and he and his sister burst into gales of laughter. "sometimes, when he's hungry," said billy, knowing that they were making fun of him; "but he's not very fond of stone legs." "he-he! that's funny. he ought to eat stone; it would give him grit." "i don't see anything funny about that." "neither do i, but it is silly, isn't it?" said the man, and he and his sister giggled harder than ever. "well, of all the sillies i ever saw," said billy in disgust. in silly land "sill^ is as silly does, in silly land," said the fragment; and again he and her terics laughed until billy thought their stone sides would crack. "look out," said he, "you'll burst." "we've already bursted," said his terics. "where?" "we've bursted into laughter of course. he- he-my-my, but isn't that a good joke?" "you enjoy your own jokes, don't you?" said billy, trying to be sarcastic. "so would you if you could make them—i was just cut out for a joker—he-he-he." "/ should say that you were just plain foolish," said billy. "why do you laugh so at nothing?" "because we've just brains enough to be silly, and of course we have to laugh at every- thing whether its anything or nothing—isn't that so, her?" "yes," said the girl. "he-he-he." "for goodness' sake stop giggling," said billy;, "you set my teeth on edge." "he-he-ho-ho, that's good," cried his terics, "but suppose they weren't on edge and lay flat » billy bounce in your mouth, you would have to lie on your side to chew. he-he-he." "stop it," said billy, "i'm so nervous now i could jump out of my skin." "oh, do" laughed both of them, "please do; that would be awfully funny!" "he-he-he! yes," said his terics, "then you would be beside yourself, wouldn't you?" "well, i can't waste time with you any longer, i'm going." "you think you're going but you're not— he-he-he," said his terics. "i'll show you." "oh! no—he-he-he oh! no, but you'll not, you know—he-he-he," said both of them, sud- denly throwing their arms around his neck. billy fought and squirmed and kicked, but of course as the fragments were stone they easily held him down, nor could he make any impression on them with his heels or fists. "oh! don't go—please don't go," said his terics; "i really shouldn't go if i were you— he-he-he." "that's all right," panted billy, "you've got in silly land us me now, but remember that he who laughs last laughs best." "i know that," said his terics, "because i laughed last and it was the best i've had in a long time." "let me go," said billy, "i've a message to deliver to bogie man." "that's the reason we're here," said his terics, "but we will take the message—he-he- he, oh! yes, we will take the message." "i have to deliver it myself—and besides i don't believe you'd take it to him anyway." "of course not—we'd take it, but just out of your pocket—he-he-he-he! ho-ho!" "oh! here comes the gillies," cried her terics. "now we will have some fun." billy looked in the direction in which she pointed and saw three very, very stupid look- ing fellows slouching toward them. when the gillies got up to where billy and the fragments stood, they stopped, and without looking up one of them said: "do you know where his terics and her terics are?" "here we are," cried his terics, "at least u billy bounce we think we're here, if we're not won't you go find us and then come back and tell us where we're to be found—he-he-he." "why, so you are," cried the first speaker. "i didn't think to look." "who are these people?" asked billy. "gillies," explained his terics—"big gillie, silly gillie, and dottie gillie." "you don't happen to know whether or no the moon is made of green cheese, do you, boy?" asked big gillie. "of course it's not," said billy. "thank you—you're sure i suppose." "certainly." "my, my, my, the poor man in the moon— i wonder what he eats," and big gillie began to weep. "there is no man in the moon," said billy. "no man in the moon!" cried all the gillies and all the aztecs in one breath. "no." "wicked boy," said his terics. "we were warned by nickel plate that you didn't believe in your mother goose, but we didn't think it would be this bad." in silly land " "what is the harm if i don't believe in such things?" asked billy. "why if all the children in the world stopped believing in wicked giants, and bogie man, and witches and bad things generally, they would have to go to work and earn an honest living," said his terics. "what do they do now?" "they all have more business than they can attend to frightening children. it's very easy work, and most amusing to make little children shiver and shake and cry, especially when we all know that there never was one of the wicked ones that could really hurt anyone that is not afraid. but my, my! i'm divulging state secrets — that's what comes of trying to be serious," and his terics grinned sadly. "what shall we do with the boy?" asked silly gillie. "tie his feet together and make him run himself to death," suggested dottie gillie. "how could i run if my feet were tied?" asked billy. "i don't know," said dottie, "that's why i n billy bounce suggested it—there is nothing like finding out for certain." "i know," said her terics, "make him laugh at your jokes, brother; that will be an awful pun- ishment—he-he-he." "or yours," said his terics ; "that would be worse. no, we will tie him out here for a year and let him think things over; then if he promises to go straight home we will let him go." "but i'd starve," said billy. "don't be obstinate," said silly gillie, "or we'll make it two years." "hand me the rope," said his terics. "which one of us has it?" said the big gillie; "have you, brother, or you?" "i don't know, have we?" said the other two. "i don't know, i'm sure," said the big one, "maybe i have it." at that each one began to search in the others' pockets for the rope. "not in your pockets, you gillies," said her terics. "he-he-he, how funny!" said his ter- ics, "not in your pockets." "well, it might have been, you never can tell," said big gillie. "i don't believe any of us has it; hold this," handing his coil of rope to in silly land his brother, "while i hunt in my hat." the other gillies took the rope and stood looking at their brother while he took his hat off his head and tore the lining out. "there—you two are holding it," said his terics, almost beside himself. "you, big gillie, just handed it to your brother." "so you did—what a coincidence!" said they. "why of course," said big gillie, "how foolish of you! i knew all the time that / didn't have it." "now tie him tight," said his terics. "we'll do that," answered big gillie, and in a jiffy they had tied, not billy at all, but his terics and her terics, though they still held billy. "oh! you gillies," cried his terics, "can't you see you've tied up the wrong persons?" "how strange!" said the gillies, letting go of billy in their surprise. "now is my chance," thought billy, and stepped away to get room for his jump. "safe," he had just said to himself, when he found himself caught by his collar. "not yet, my fine fellow," said a voice. "ha- billy bounce ha, so it is you," said nickel plate, tapping his boots with the limber cane he carried. "nickel plate," cried billy. "nickel plate," cried the aztec fragments and the gillies. "foiled—foiled again," he hissed between his teeth; "then you recognize me—tell—a—me— do you?" "of course," said billy. "he recognizes me in spite of my disguise— strange—strange," said nickel plate. "oh! are you disguised?" asked billy. "sh-h-h, not so loud. yes, completely dis- guised—even an utter stranger would not know me—i have changed my mind." "wonderful!" said big gillie; "if we had not seen your face and figure we should never have known you." "ha-ha, you see?" said nickel plate, shaking billy. "yes sir," said billy. "he-he-he," laughed her terics, "how funny!" "isn't it silly?" said his terics. "what?" asked the others. in silly land "i just happened to think of a joke about a mind." "what is it?" asked nickel plate, "and look sharp because we're wasting time." "never mind — he-he-he," and her terics threw back her head and laughed aloud. "enough," thundered nickel plate — "boy, where are those papers?" "what papers, sir," asked billy. "the note, base varlet—the note, or by me halidom" "the note for bogie man?" interrupted billy. "yes, but why in the world did you interrupt me?" said nickel plate, pettishly. "i've been studying that speech for a week, and now you've put it out of my head." "where did he put it? i'll find it," said big gillie, looking on the ground. "he-he-he," laughed the aztecs. "i'm sorry, sir," began billy. "it's all very well to say you're sorry, but i know you're glad you're sorry. the note, give it to me." "i can't, sir," said billy. "you dare to refuse?" billy bounce "i'm sorry, sir" "don't use that word again; give me the note," said nickel plate. "i can't, sir, it is addressed to bogie man, and i must carry it to him." "ah! but i have learned that in delivering it you would betray us. i must have it back. besides it is not needed, honey girl is in me power, ha-ha!" billy's heart sank way, way down into his boots. "you have captured honey girl?" he asked in a trembling voice. "yes, even now she languishes in a donjon cell, ha-ha. to-morrow she goes to work in the factory, while glucose takes her place in the queen bee palace." "you villain," cried billy. "thank you, thank you most kindly, me boy, not only a villain, but a polished villain." "she won't stay there long after i have seen bogie man." nickel plate snapped his fingers in billy's face. "that for you, i do not fear your threats, i have you in me power now." in silly land "that for you," cried all the aztecs and the gillies, snapping their fingers and treading on billy's toes, just to show that they didn't fear him. "the note—the note, or i shall strike you to the gr-r-ound," cried nickel plate, and raising his cane he stepped back to strike. but it was a fatal step, for he stumbled over big gillie and fell flat on his back. in falling he let go of billy's collar, and you may be sure billy didn't waste any time in jumping up and away. "catch him," cried nickel plate. "certainly," cried the gillies, stumbling over each other. "certainly," cried his terics and her terics, stumbling over the gillies and falling plump onto nickel plate. and you can well imagine that it was not a very light fall. "ugh!" groaned nickel plate. "how funny. he-he-he," laughed the frag- ments, rolling over and over on nickel plate. "'rah! 'rah! rah!" cried billy, and floated away. chapter x. sea urchin and ne'er do eel. now, although billy felt very happy indeed to have escaped nickel plate, the aztec frag- ments, and the gillies, he was very much worried about honey girl. and as he floated along through the air he pictured her weeping in her lonely cell. "i wonder if nickel plate told me the truth," he said to himself, "and if he did, what hap- pened to good old general merchandise and the bee soldiers. i wish i knew." "hello!" called a voice in his ear. he looked around but could see no one. "that's strange," he said. "hello!! is that billy bounce?" "yes. who are you and where are you?" said billy, in amaze. "i am mr. gas and i'm at home," said the voice. sea urchin and ne'er do eel "then where am i?" said billy, thinking he had suddenly lost his mind. "you're wherever you are," said mr. gas's voice. "i'm talking to you over the wireless telephone—less telephone." "oh!" said billy, "how wonderful!" "you wanted to find out about princess honey girl, i believe." "yes, sir." "don't worry about her, she is perfectly safe —i have my eye on her as well as on you. how are you getting along?" "very well, thank you—but i suppose i'm still a long way off from bogie man's house?" "you are nearer than you were when you were not so near as you are now, so keep afloat and you will get there all right." "thank you," said billy; "i'll try." "well, good-bye—i thought i would ease your mind a bit—the suit can't carry you and a heavy heart very fast nor far, you know." "thank you," said billy, "good-bye." "now i feel lighter hearted," he said, and sure enough instead of falling (which he had just begun to do) he rose several feet in the air. sea urchin and ne'er do eel "i suppose so," said billy thoughtfully; "but then, you see, i've never had to do it for a living." "then don't ever take it up. i've been at it all my life, and i'm very tired; why, i've almost forgotten how to climb trees. what's your name?" "billy bounce." "so you're billy bounce. i'm ne'er do eel," and though he smiled, the eel looked very, very sly. "how do you do?" said billy politely. "i don't do; that's the reason i'm called ne'er do eel." "oh!" said billy, "then how don't you do?" "pretty badly, i don't thank you. but come, you must hear me sing; this song was discom- posed by the whistling buoy, set to music by sand bars, and dedicated to me," and balanc- ing himself on a large wave, the eel began to sing in a sad voice. the song of the ne'er do eel. the ne'er do eel raised his dreamy eye and said, with a ponderous, weary sigh, billy bounce i'd really, yes, really try to try, but i'm tired to-day—let's go and lie in the cool sweet shade of an apple pie, and think of the which and what and why. oh! why is the whatness of which and when; if then were now what would be then? because and but—oh! what's the use. "to-morrow will do," is my excuse. "how's that?" said ne'er do eel when he had finished. "very pretty," said billy, "but is it—is it very sensible?" "i really don't know—nobody ever under- stands it, so of course it must be very fine." "i suppose so," said billy, wondering if ne'er do eel was quite in his right mind. "come in, the water's fine," called a funny, bristly little fellow popping his head up beside ne'er do eel. "no, thank you," said billy, not wishing to join company with such a prickly looking individual. "aw! come on—see, it's only so deep," and he held up one hand. "you're treading water," said billy. "how did you guess it?" asked the sea urchin. sea urchin and ne'er do eel "i can see your feet." "so can i see your feet, but you're not treading water." "that has nothing to do with it," said billy. "just what i'm trying to prove to you," said the urchin. "are you coming in, or shall i have to come out and get you?" "neither," said billy, jumping up very, very hard, because he knew it would take a long leap to carry him over the sea. "good-bye." "i suppose they are harmless," said billy to himself, "but i'm glad enough to be away from them—that eel looks like a slippery old fellow and the urchin has a bad face." up, up, up he went, floated forward quite a distance, stopped just a second, and then began to fall. "i believe i am going to make it," he began, and then looked beneath him. alas! poor billy, the shore was yet far distant, and he knew that he was bound to fall into the sea. how he did kick and wave his arms i he even tried to swim through the air, but, though this helped him a little, it didn't carry him far enough forward to reach the shore. ° billy bounce "thank goodness i have on my rubber suit; i can't sink anyway," said he. and splash he hit the water, where he bobbed up and down like a cork. but his troubles were not yet over, for he was horrified to see ne'er do eel and the sea urchin swimming along at his side. "so you decided to drop in on us after all," said the urchin. "have you chosen a life on the bouncing wave as a profession?" asked ne'er do eel, "in spite of my warning that you would do well to bid farewell to well-faring if you chose sea- faring?" "yelp, yelp!" said barker, climbing up onto billy's shoulder, where he stood shivering mis- erably. "what's that thing?" asked the sea urchin. 'my dog," said billy. "don't tell me that's a dog fish," said ne'er do eel, "because i'll never believe you." "you don't have to," answered billy, "be- cause he is not a dog fish, he's a dog." "oh, you mean a fish dog! you're sure he's not a bird dog—a flying fish dog, you know?" sea urchin and ne'er do eel "no, just a plain dog." "he's plain enough, goodness knows—but a dog—humph!" 'who ever heard of a dog without fins?" said the urchin; "why, it's ridiculous." "i expect there are lots of things you never heard of." it made billy angry to have his word doubted, especially when there was barker to prove them true. "ridiculous," said ne'er do eel. "how can we help seeing everything in the sea? he who sees seas sees everything in season." billy didn't think this worth answering, so he redoubled his efforts to reach the shore. my! how he did make the water boil, dashing spray way over his head, and making poor barker blink with the water he dashed into his eyes. "with a little practice you might learn to swim," said the urchin, "but you make lots of fuss in the water." "so would you on dry land," panted billy. "but we wouldn't be so silly as to go on dry land," said the eel. "i suppose that's as much as to say that it's silly of me to come into the sea." billy bounce "take it or leave it—if the white cap fits you don't put it on," said the urchin, turning a somersault in the water. "where are you going?" asked ne'er do eel. "yes, you seem in a great hurry," said the urchin. "i'm going ashore as fast as i can," said billy. "that's your first guess—try another," said the eel, sticking his face up into billy's. "i don't guess it, i know it," answered billy, striving to keep his courage up. "no, is the right answer," said the sea urchin. "why shouldn't i go ashore?" "just because," replied the eel, "oh! gracious what a sad world it is—here's a boy that thinks he knows." "but how are you going to prevent it?" said billy. "i'm not afraid of you." "we will prevent it this way," said ne'er do eel, winding his tail around billy's legs. "and this way," said the sea urchin, pricking a hole in billy's suit with one of his bristles. sea urchin and ne'er do eel "i don't know. who is your friend with a face like a hair-brush?" "that's sea urchin, and he is trying to drown me. "you must not do that, you know," said umberufen, "it's very wrong." then turning to billy he whispered, "leave him to me; i'll give him a good talking to." "that's all you can do," said billy desper- ately—"talk, talk, talk! i don't want words, i want help." "come down, come down. oh! why be so obstinate?" cried the eel, lashing the water. "gentlemen," said umberufen, sticking one hand in the breast of his coat and bowing very low—almost too low, for just at that moment the plank twisted and he came very near going overboard—"gentlemen, you are doing very, very wrong." "bravo!" cried the sea urchin, "thank you for the compliment." "stop it and get away," cried billy. "ingrate," cried umberufen, "can't you see that already i have won their hearts—did you not hear the applause?" billy bounce "of course i did," said billy, "but it's only because they want to keep you here so that they can pull me down. but if you really want to help me, for goodness' sake pump me up and stop the leak in my suit." "i wish i could," said umberufen; "but i am not a mechanic, i am a thinker." "you're a nuisance "but just at that minute billy's feet touched bottom. looking up he found that in the excitement of the events he had drifted within a few feet of shore. splash, dash, curl bingl and a wave had carried him well ashore. ne'er do eel let go his hold when he saw the case was hopeless, and he and sea urchin bobbed about on the waves, shaking their fists and gnashing their teeth in despair at having lost him. "ugh!" cried umberufen, "i told you i'd get wet helping you," and there stood the mis- erable little man soaked through and through. "i warned you," said billy. "i—i—i kn-n-ow you-u-u d-d-did," said umberufen, his teeth chattering, "but i stood to my post like a man—that's what comes of being brave and brainy. good-bye. i'm sea urchin and ne'er do eel going home to change my clothes," and away he went. "good-bye, ne'er do eel and sea urchin," called billy, running up the beach. "death on the bounding wave isn't as easy as you thought, is it?" chapter xl in derby town. poor billy was in despair over his punctured suit. it is a good thing he had no mirror to see how like a broken toy balloon he looked, or he would have felt even worse. he tried pumping it up with his hot air pump, but it was no use—sizz-z, the air came right out of the hole. "if i had just thought to bring some bicycle tire tape," he said, examining the punc- ture carefully, "or if i had some gum." when he said this barker ran up to him, and laying his head in his lap, looked up at him knowingly. "what is it, old doggie—do you feel sorry too? i'm sure i don't know what is to become of us; we shall have to walk now. of course we still have the singing tree. that's so, the tree—do you suppose you could bark up any other kind of tree? a gum tree— in derby town but how?" barker nodded his head and wagged his tail, as much as to say, "of course i can; just try me." "i have it!" cried billy, and tearing in two pieces the pocket-handkerchief that gehsund- heit had given him, he carefully wrapped and tied one half of it over barker's lower set of teeth, and the other half over his upper set. it was a tedious operation, but finally barker stood before him with his teeth all hidden and nothing but his gums exposed. barker didn't mind, indeed he seemed to know just what billy was about, and capered and danced with glee. • "now we will see what a gum bark will grow into," said billy, quickly digging a hole. over to it ran barker and stood holding his nose down—pinch. "wow—wow," went the dog, a muffled bark, for all the world like a toothless old man trying to talk. in a jiffy the dirt was shoveled in and up sprang—a gum tree. yes, there instead of the singing tree stood a gum tree, its branches laden with "yucatan," and "pepsin," and "tutti frutti." billy bounce "hurrah!" cried billy, shaking down package after package of gum. and popping a great piece into his rrouth he chewed away for dear life. quickly he spread the soft, sticky mass over a piece of cloth snipped from the lining of his jacket anc pressed the whole thing over the puncture. it stuck as close and as tight as wall-paper, and billy knew that he was indeed repaired. "chug-ff—chug-ff—chug-ff—squee-ee!" went the hot air pump, and there stood billy as round and fat as ever with never a leak in his suit. "thank you, barker, old boy," said billy, patting barker's head and taking the handker- chief out of his mouth. "and now we must be off." so saying he tucked the dog under his arm and jumped up and away. far, far away they sailed. the gum seemed to have given the suit new life—and why shouldn't magic gum improve a magic suit? it seemed to billy that this jump was by far the longest he had ever taken. indeed, he felt so very happy that he com- he saw flying to meet bim several shaggy bears. —page . the new york .ublic library billy bounce seen many dancing bears, but i've never until now laid my eyes on flying ones." "we're bugbears, if that's what you want to know," said the bear in a surly voice. "thank you," said billy, smiling in hopes that by being very, very polite and pleasant himself he could improve their temper. "save your thanks, they are not wanted." "my goodness, you're as cross as" "a bear," interrupted the big bear, "exactly, and i'm proud of it. what's the good of being polite—tell the truth, i say, no matter whom it hurts." "i'm sure that the truth is always best," said billy. "it's not," said the bear; "never tell it if it doesn't hurt. under those circumstances, i say, tell a bear faced lie." "you haven't a very sweet disposition, have you?" "no, thank goodness, i haven't—what would a bug bear do with a sweet disposition unless he could eat it?" "i don't know," said billy. "of course you don't—nobody ever said you did—boys don't know anything." in derby town "here we are," cried the little bug bear. and sure enough, they were standing in the strangest of strange looking towns. every house and every building was covered with an enormous derby hat, while the windows and doors were so arranged that at a little distance they looked like the eyes and nose and mouth of a face. "where are we?" asked billy, looking about him in surprise. "derby town—where else do you think?" said big bug bear. "i didn't know," said billy. "for goodness' sake, say something original," said the bear crossly. "what an idiot you are, to be sure!" billy ignored this remark. he had had some experience with cross people in his messenger service—people who were cross for no earthly reason but that he was a little boy—and he had always found it better to say as little as possible when they bullied him. nevertheless it made him very, very uncomfortable, and of course the more uncomfortable he got the more blunders he made. "can't you stand up — you're all feet, i billy bounce "for once in your life you are correct— little credit to you, though." "but why?" "why what?" "why don't you want me to find him?" "he's our cousin for one thing, and for another thing, it's our business to keep people from doing anything they want to." "and you expect to keep me from it," asked billy. "indeed we do," said big bug bear. "how?" "you'll find out soon enough. now stop your talking." billy shut his lips tight and walked along with a sinking heart. "isn't he a sulky brat?" said little bug bear, "pouting along and not saying a word." "but you told me to stop talking," said billy. "don't be impertinent," said big bug bear, shaking him. "if you can't speak politely to your elders you needn't speak at all." my, my, how billy did hate the bug bears for that! pinching and beating, anything he had been through could not have hurt him worse in derby town than this treatment. the bug bears seemed to know it, for they bullied him back and forth, and forth and back until he thought he would go crazy. "here we are at last," said big bug bear, stopping in front of a prison-like derby house. "yes, and if this boy hadn't lagged so on the way, we'd have been here an hour ago," said another bug bear crossly. "get in with you." and giving billy a push through the door, he and the rest followed close after. indoors they were greeted by another bug bear. greeted is hardly the word, because that seems to mean some kind of a smile or a pleasant hand shake. as it was, the bug bear got up sulkily from a corner where he had been lying and grunted by way of "how do you do." "we've got billy bounce," said big bug bear. "huh! at last — it took you long enough, goodness knows," said the first speaker surlily. "we didn't come here to talk," said big bug bear angrily. "get to work." "what are you going to do to me—kill me?" asked billy. billy bounce "no—not if you do what you're told," said little bug bear. "worse than that," said big bug bear. "we're going to operate on your eyes," said the owner of the place. "blind me?" cried billy. "oh! don't blind me." "wait and see," growled big bug bear. "oh! but i'd rather you killed me than put my eyes out—how could i see to get around?" "you'll be able to see to get around," said little bug bear, "but you won't be able to see bogie man." "but i must—i have a message for him. oh! good mr. bug bear, oh! kind mr. bug bear, don't do that." "tell him what it is, photographer, and stop his noise," said big bug bear, giving billy a shake, "and listen quietly, billy bounce, or i'll give you a beating." "i'm going to take a picture," said the photographer bug bear. "my picture?" asked billy relieved. "your picture—your picture," growled the photographer, "do you think i have nothing in derby town reaching out suddenly he caught hold of the photographer's paw—"and your claws are rub- ber—hurrah!! hurrah!! i don't fear you now." the bug bears were all so startled that they did not make a move and before they knew it billy had pulled out his air-pump and was beating them all about the head—all but little bug bear, who scuttled out of the door at the first move billy made. "oh! ohl oh! ouch! ouch! ouch!" cried the bug bears, running about and trying to get to the door, "let us go—let us go." and in a minute billy was all alone. "so that's all bug bears amount to," he said; "they will never frighten me again." and walking leisurely out of the door he jumped up and away from derby town and the bug bears forever. chapter xii. o'fudge the next time billy alighted he examined his suit with great care, for fear his adventures with the bug bears had strained the patch over <n>e herald. the puncture, but to his great delight he found that it held as tightly as ever. as it happened, he had stopped on a dusty highway just outside the gates of a city. we will call it a city because billy later learned that its inhabitants did so, but to billy's gaze it seemed but a collection of the poorest huts. billy bounce raiment—true, a trifle faded—but rich—he that rides alone." "do you mean the one on the blind mare?" "true, the mare is blind, but that is her misfortune not her fault—she comes of fine stock. yes, that is our great and noble comic paper irish king o'fudge." "a comic paper irish king," said billy. "is he irish?" "no," said the horn man," not really irish, he's the kind of irish they have in comic papers." billy was bewil- dered — he looked o'fudge, the comic paper irish king. billy bounce "that's lese majesty," whispered the herald to billy. "oh! is that his name ?"—then turning to the king he bowed low and said, "i beg your pardon, your lazy majesty." "treason!" cried the company of men, spur- ring their horses into a rapid walk. "he called his majesty lazy." "i thought that was his name," said billy. "mr. herald here told me it was." "i didn't," cried the herald in consternation. "silence," said the king, riding up. "i will hear this case, and bye, if it is true that you hov miscalled me, it's to de lowest dongin wid yez!" "indeed your serene, contented, happy, highness, majesty o'fudge," said billy, giving him all the titles he could remember and a few extra by way of good measure. "i meant no disrespect." "hold," interrupted the king; "before we go further we must call out the gyard to gyard this bye—general swash buckler, do your dooty, no matter how pleasant it may be." "ay! ayl also i salute your majesty," said o'fudge a fierce looking old man, saluting and riding a few paces to the rear. then saluting the air, he gravely said: "colonel swash buckler—you have heard the orders, execute them." then turning his horse around, he saluted the spot where he had just been sitting. "very good, general, i will do so at once." again turning his horse, he saluted the air, saying, "captain swash buckler, you have heard the orders—execute them." again he turned his horse and saluted the spot where he had just been sitting, saying, "very good, colonel, i will do so at once." this time he looked down at the ground and said, "lieu- tenant swash buckler, you have heard the orders—execute them." then climbing down to the ground he saluted the saddle, "very good, captain, i will do so at once." he quickly turned on his heel and called, "sergeant swash buckler, you have heard the orders—execute them," and saluting he said respectfully, "very good, lieutenant, i will do so at once." then in a hoarse commanding voice he called," private swash buckler, you have heard the orders— execute them." this time he saluted cringingly. ■ billy bounce "very good, sergeant, i will do so at once," and marched solemnly to billy's side, halted and saluted, "it is done." "how's that for quick work, me bye, and what do ye think of me ar-rmy?" said king o'fudge proudly. "oh! is that your army—your entire army?" asked billy, who had watched the proceedings with surprise and amusement. "it is," said the king. "sometimes it's me sitting ar-my, but now it's me standing ar-m-y. there has never yet been mutiny or insub- ordination — it stands as wan man by its king. it can move rapidly and without much noise, and above all things it is most econom- ical to maintain." "i'm sure it's very fine, sir—i mean your majesty," said billy. "and now, bye, why did ye call me, the irish king o'fudge, a lazy majesty?" "i meant nothing wrong, sir, but when i said, your honor, mr. herald here whispered to me that's lese majesty." "so that's the way the wind blows—her- ald, explain." o'fudge the herald bent one knee, "your high- ness, i but explained to the fat boy that he had committed lese majesty, which means that he had insulted you—it's latin." "it's latin, is it?" cried the king. "latin, you say? how dare you talk latin before me when brogue is the court language? i fine you a month's pay." "but, your majesty's pardon, i have received no pay for two years." "sure," said the king, "and your salary is $ . a month." "yes, sire," said the herald, smiling, because he thought the king was going to give him all his back pay. "yes, sire, forgive me for reminding you." "you are forgiven," said the king, "and now, gyard, search him and take from his pockets $ ." "but your majesty," began the herald. "enough, i can't remit the fine, and if you have the money you must pay it." in a jiffy private swash buckler had fished $ . in nickels and dimes from the herald's pockets and handed it to the king. billy bounce "and now me vartuous subjects, give three cheers for your noble and generous king, and we will enter the city." "hurrah! hurrah!" cried the people—even the herald gave three feeble toots on his horn. "good-bye," said billy, hoping that by this gentle hint they would understand that he did not desire their company any further. indeed he felt uneasy about the few coppers in his own pockets in the presence of such a free handed king. "not so fast, me young friend," said the king; "you must come with us." "truly, your majesty, i haven't the time," said billy. "i didn't ask you for the time," said the king, "so whether you have it or haven't it you'll have to take it—forward!" and billy found himself in the grasp of private swash buckler, and being led in the direction of the city. they hadn't far to go, and in spite of their naturally slow progress with such sorry steeds, billy soon found himself within the gates. o'fudge and oh! what a place. dirty, miry streets, pigs every place, tumbledown, leaky roofed houses and ragged people. and the palace —well, billy would never in the world have known it for a palace if the king hadn't told him it was. it was simply a larger, dirtier, more tumbledown house than any of the others, with more and fatter pigs in the front yard. "bring in the prisoner, gyard," said the king, dismounting and picking his way up the tottering steps. "prisoner," cried billy, "what have i done to be made a prisoner?" "i don't know yet," said the king, "but i will find something. we haven't had a pris- oner for years, and now that i've got one i'm not going to let him go again for such a simple reason as his having done nothing wrong—am i right, ladies and gentlemen?" "always right—never left," cried the retinue, who were now entering the palace. "i thought you would agree with me," said the king, "but sometimes i'm left—it's a poor ruler that doesn't work both ways—come in." billy bounce billy was hustled into the palace, which he found hung with torn and faded tapestry. the floor had not been swept or scrubbed for years, and there did not seem to be a solid four legged chair in the room with the exception perhaps of the throne, which was built entirely of irish potatoes. "and now," said the king, putting his crown rakishly on one side of his head, "now i'm prepared to open court. first, has any one here any petitions—in writing?" when he said this an old man hobbled up, and kneeling with many crackings of joints before the king, laid a paper at his feet. "what is it?" asked the king. "a request, sire, that my daughter" "refused," said o'fudge. "who's next, please—leave the papers." "but, sire" "i positively must refuse, but i thank you for the petition; me crown is a bit too large for comfort," and folding the paper into a strip he placed it in his crown, which he put on with much satisfaction. "so that's over with—bring the bye before me." o'fudge "he is here, sire," said private swash buckler, leading billy before the throne. "kneel, boy." "what's your name?" said the king. "billy bounce," said billy. and what a shout and roar went up from the company—even the king jumped to his feet in his excitement and threw his crown into the air. "billy bounce!" they cried, "billy bounce —we've caught billy bounce!" "what a good day's work!" cried the king —"$ - bom the herald and $ . from bumbus for catching billy bounce." "but, your majesty—" began billy. "don't talk to me," interrupted the king, "unless you can offer # . to be set free." "alas! i haven't that much," said billy. "too bad—too bad," said o'fudge; "and now i suppose i'll have to off with your head." "oh! sir—please, please don't!" cried billy, struggling with swash buckler. "don't lose your head," said the king, "because i want to have it chopped off." o'fudge "i don't want to keep him here, or he will eat me out of house and home—i know what boys are." "let me go, your majesty!" cried billy hopefully. "and lose $ . —twice the national debt— oh! no. has anyone else any suggestions to make?" "let me cast his horoscope again, sire— maybe the stars will show us a way out," said the astrologer. "good," said o'fudge, "begin at once." "by daylight?" "why, of course, you can see better by day —do not argue but away." and off the astrologer trotted, shaking his head in perplexity. billy felt barker stirring uneasily in his pocket, and in order to shift his position took him out into his arms. as soon as o'fudge saw him he said: "ho! a dog—this changes things. astrologer, include the dog star in your calculations." billy had been idly scraping his foot on the dirty floor, so that he really had made a little i billy bounce he found it much too large for baby bunting. however that may be, billy jumped into it in a jiffy and found that it fitted him to perfec- tion. and what a fine time barker had with it! he crouched low, and then with yelps of delight jumped up and down on billy's legs. he was playing that he had sighted a great big rabbit, and billy joined in by run- ning around the tree and back and forth with barker in hot pursuit. finally billy stowed him away warmly inside and doggy went sound asleep, very, very much contented. then with a leap billy was off. billy had not been away from the earth very long when a snowflake lit on his nose —then another and another, until they came down so thick and fast that he could not see a foot ahead of him, which wasn't strange, for his feet were under him. "my, my," he said, laughing, "mother goose must be picking a whole flock of geese to- day—gracious, i'm glad dear old singing tree gave me this nice suit; it's as warm as toast and keeps out the snow better than a whole store full of umbrellas and mackintoshes." billy plays a trick on boreas and the snow fell thicker and faster, while it grew colder and colder, but billy didn't mind that for he was nice and warm. then the snow suddenly stopped, and looking beneath him billy saw a great white field of snow with here and there mountains of ice and occasional patches of blue, cold-looking water. and there by the water's edge sat a white bear: indeed he seemed almost to be sitting in the water, so close to the edge was he, his face turned toward the land. as soon as billy struck the ground, which he did within a few feet of the bear, he recognized him as an old, old friend, fuzzy white. "why, hello fuzzy white, what are you doing here?" "fishing," said fuzzy, "don't talk, please, i've just had a nibble." "where's your line," asked billy in surprise, for he couldn't see any line or pole, and cer- tainly fuzzy was not faced the right way for fishing so far as billy could see. "sh! h-," said fuzzy, raising a paw in warn- ing, "there i've got him," and turning around billy bounce quickly he showed a can of sardines clinging tightly to his button of a tail. "is that your line?" asked billy. "certainly, line, bait, and pole—it gets cold sometimes hanging one's tail in the water for an hour or two, but one must eat." "but that's a can of sardines," said billy. "yes, and i hope they are the best french, with pure olive oil. this isn't a good season for the fine sardine cans to bite; though the big maine mustard variety are very easy to catch—ah-h-h, these are the good ones." and fuzzy with great eagerness opened the can with his claw and gulped down the contents. "do you really catch canned sardines?" "of course—i can't bear raw fish, i suppose that's from living in civilization so long. i find that a little lemon juice on my tail makes the canned varieties bite splendidly." "how wonderful," murmured billy. "well, well, billy bounce, what have you been doing with yourself since i saw you last? how you've grown. "i've been pretty well, i thank you—what are you doing now?" billy plays a trick on boreas "nothing much," said fuzzy sadly. "i came up here to go in the ice business, but i found that old boreas was the ice man and had a corner on the market, so i'm just looking about for something to turn up. what are you doing?" "i'm carrying a message to bogie man," said billy. "you're nearly there then," said fuzzy, point- ing out over the ice fields, "it's just beyond aurora borealis and back again ten thousand miles." "back again ten thousand miles—isn't that pretty far?" "not very, they are imaginary miles, much shorter than the regular kind." "who is that whistling?" interrupted billy. "that's old boreas—he must have just made a good deal in ice and is whistling over it— by the way, he's a good friend to bogie man and nickel plate." "then he's no friend of mine." "i shouldn't fear him," said fuzzy, "he's a fearful blow-hard, and though he's certainly cold blooded, he makes more noise than any- thing else." billy bounce "talking about me, were you?" said boreas, arriving in a swirl of snow and clicking the ice tongs he held in his hand. "we—we merely mentioned your name," said billy, trying to turn his back on him. but that was useless, for old boreas faced him which- ever way he turned. "you can't escape me that way," and he threw a handful of snow in billy's face. "stop itl" cried billy, "it's no joke to treat a fellow this way." "of course it is," said boreas, jumping over billy's head. "is what?" asked billy. "snow joke, of course—i feel frisky this morning and i must have my joke." "you're always frisky," said fuzzy white sulkily. "who wouldn't be—i just exchanged my old bicycle for an icicle this morning and it works like a charm," said boreas. "i suppose you travel rather fast," said billy, hoping to keep his mind off of nickel plate and bogie man. "fast," answered boreas, puffing his chest way the new york public library billy plays a trick on boreas out, "fast—why, while you are jumping three miles, i will have run a hundred." "that's blowing," murmured fuzzy white. "then you recognize me?" said billy. "of course i do—south wind blew in here one day and warned me that you were coming." "let's change the subject," said fuzzy white nervously. "yes," said billy eagerly, "you, you whistle very well, mr. boreas." "i pride myself on my whistling," said boreas, lifting up a block of ice with his tongs and throw- ing it over his shoulder. "but to return to yourself, billy bounce—you will have to go back home." "i'd like to oblige you," said billy sturdily, "but i can't." "oh i you can't, can't you—we'll see about that," and boreas ran actively around billy, cuffing him in the face and over the ears— it seemed a thousand places all at once, whistling dismally all the time. "look out for his teeth," shouted fuzzy white. "if you once get in the teeth of the wind, he will bite your nose and ears and fingers and toes off." > billy bounce "now, do you think better of it?" said boreas, coming to a sudden stop. "that was only half trying—next time i'll catch you in my ice tongs and carry you home." "you can't frighten me," said billy, patting fuzzy white on the head. he didn't know quite why, but the feel of something that was friendly seemed to keep his courage up. "go it, old boy," whispered fuzzy encourag- ingly. "wow-ow-ow! oh-h-h-h-h!" howled boreas, "you say i can't frighten you — why, i've frightened little boys and girls all my life. every winter i howl and whistle my way around the world, and the way i make the branches creak and the windows rattle through the long, dark nights is a caution. why, even bogie man says that next to him i'm the greatest frightener in the world." "i don't care, i'm not afraid of you," said billy. which, i fear, was not quite the exact truth, for he didn't feel very easy when he looked at boreas' long, sparkling white teeth and his tousled gray head and beard. "nor am i, even though you have got a billy plays a trick on boreas s corner on the ice market," said fuzzy white, "for really you know you are an ice man." this made boreas furious, he stormed and howled and spluttered and beat billy wildly on ^he chest, caught hold of him even and spun him round and round on the ice, but he couldn't knock him down nor lift him off his feet so long as billy did not try to jump. "you'll get out of breath if you keep that up much longer," said billy, plucking up cour- age when he saw that boreas could not really do him much damage. but it was a fatal speech, for with one loud yell boreas leaped at billy's face and tried to fasten his tongs in his nose. it was a trying moment for billy, he felt his nose turn pale with fright, and when boreas' tongs touched it, it grew absolutely numb. , indeed, he had given his poor nose up for lost, and it would surely have been if fuzzy white had not scooped up a paw full of snow and clapped it on billy's nose just as boreas began to clamp the tongs. "ou! wow-ow-o-ow!" screamed boreas, jumping back, "owl owl i can't bite through billy bounce snow," and he turned somersault after somer- sault on the ice in his fury. "thank you, fuzzy," cried billy, as he felt the blood return to his nose, "you have saved me, old fellow." "that's nothing, i know his tricks better than you do." billy anxiously felt his nose with his fingers and found it all there and quite right. "but i'll get you yet, billy bounce," howled boreas, "and when i do i'll nip you hard." "you're not so very fast or dangerous after all," said billy laughing. "look out for him," whispered fuzzy, "he has other tricks." and sure enough, along raced boreas, this time close to the ground, and before billy knew it, he had caught him by the legs and was sliding him along the ice, right toward the cold water. but billy knew a trick worth two of that, and suddenly threw himself backwards. "plump—" he had fallen back, right on top of boreas. "ugh!" cried boreas and lay still for a moment with the breath quite knocked out of him. billy plays a trick on boreas "good for billy," cried fuzzy white. "you got him that time." "so it seems," said billy laughing. "wait until i get you up in the air," grunted boreas, "i'll show you something then." "you have been trying pretty hard all morn- ing," answered billy, "but you haven't shown me much yet." my, my, my, how furious this made boreas. he raged and tore around and above billy and fuzzy white, but they lay close to the ground, and though he gave them some pretty hard kicks, he could not budge them. "if he keeps this up, he will tire himself out," laughed fuzzy to billy. "he's getting to be a pretty old man for such violent ex- ercise, and the first thing he knows his wind will give out." "i'd like to stand up though," said billy, "i'm afrild i'll catch cold." "catch cold—" cried boreas, stopping sud- denly, "catch cold—why you couldn't catch anything." "that's all you know about it," said billy. "i'll tell you what i'll do," panted boreas, billy bounce "i'll give you a start of a hundred ice floes and beat you down to that iceberg two miles away." "done," cried billy, winking at fuzzy—"but i'll be generous—i'll give you the start." "what shall we bet," asked boreas. "i don't bet," said billy. "well, we will do this—if i catch you, you must give up searching for bogie man—if i don't, you may continue your journey." and boreas chuckled to himself, for he intended putting squall, one of his children, in billy's way so that he couldn't jump any distance at all. "come here, squall," he whispered softly. "screech—i am here," cried squall, gaily set- tling down at his father's side. "when that boy jumps, blow him in just the opposite direction than that in which i am going." "yes, sir, the opposite direction you say?" answered squall. "yes!" then calling to billy he said, "are you ready?" now billy had heard just enough to know billy plays a trick on boreas that boreas was planning some trickery, so he decided quickly how to fool him. "all ready," answered billy, whispering "good- bye" to fuzzy white. "then go," cried boreas and was off. "go," cried billy, turning his back on boreas and jumping in exactly the opposite direction and away toward aurora borealis. now squall did not know any more than his father had told him, so of course he got right back of billy and pushed him faster than ever away from his father, making him fairly hum through the air. you can imagine how surprised boreas was when he reached the iceberg and turning around to see how far he had beaten billy, found that he was sailing way, way off away from him, with squall pushing him along with all his might and main. he was furious. "come back, come back," he called to squall, and the boy turned back obediently to meet his father. "he has not escaped me yet," cried boreas, jumping after billy—and it is very doubtful indeed if he would have escaped had squall chapter xiv. king calcium and sterry optican. what a dazzling sight was the town of aurora borealis when it broke on billy's vision! sparkling blue, red, and golden houses cut out of solid icebergs. even the poorest huts shone with all the colors of the rainbow in the wav- ering, flickering light that rose and fell on them. when billy alighted in the streets he stood amazed at the beauty surrounding him, but when he saw the magnificent ice palace that stood directly in front of him, he had eyes for nothing else. higher than the highest office building he had ever seen in the city, wider than the longest block he had ever walked, and more brilliant in its changing colors than any kalei- doscope he had ever looked into. i&j billy bounce "phew!" he said, with a great sigh of enjoy- ment, "that is a beauty, sure enough." "not bad, is it?" said a voice at his elbow. looking around billy saw a funny little chap with sharp, bright eyes—a short, pinched blue little nose, and long, tapering fingers. in one hand he carried an artist's maulstick and in the other a palette and brushes. "it is beautiful," said billy, "can you tell me what place it is?" "the ice palace—i built it." "are you a contractor?" asked billy. "no, i'm an expander." "a what?" "an expander—frost expands—i'm jack frost: architect, artist and ice bridge builder." "you must enjoy the work." "yes, i'm fond of water colors—i suppose you've seen some of my pictures window-framed and hung in your own house?" "yes, sir—you must be a lightning sketch artist." "never have been out when it lightened— i'm afraid of thunder." "i didn't mean that—" began billy. billy bounce was born, and i sometimes feel so young and helpless without a mother to spank me." billy thought this rather silly, but did not like to say so, for jack frost seemed to take it all very seriously. "now that's over," said jack suddenly. look- ing up in billy's face and smiling, "i just wanted to show you that i was a man of sentiment. suppose we go into the ice palace and have a little light refreshment." "that would be nice," said billy. "a little ice-cream, for instance." "that sounds cold." "it tastes colder," said jack frost, putting his arm through billy's. "come along, and if that's not enough you can have a glass of ice-water." "ugh!" how the thought of the cold things made billy shiver, and how like a cake of ice jack frost's arm was! "i—i thank you very much," he faltered, "but if you'd just as soon" "sooner," said jack frost; "what is it?" "i don't think i care for anything to eat." "oh! but you must have something to cool you up; you'll take your death of warmness if billy bounce but an old man seated at the window behind a great reflector and two boiler-like things, such as they have at the theatre to throw a bright light on the stage. the machine was buzzing and sizzing away, and the old man was turning the light this way and that out over the streets and houses. and whichever way it turned a thousand flames of golden light shone in the heavens and made the houses sparkle and sparkle again with brilliant colors. billy knew then where the northern lights came from. "where's the king?" whispered billy. "that's he," answered jack, pointing to the old man. "the lord high master of the lime lights is sick in bed with a warm in his head, and the king is attending to things himself;" then aloud, "hello, king!" "good midnight," answered the king, with- out turning around. "i want you to meet my friend," said jack frost. "where do you want me to meet him?" asked the king; " don't make it very far away, be- cause i can't trust the machine to anyone else." me/eyther," cried she, in a tragic voice, "the light, the tight,"— page . the new york public library! *<!t . lt nox tilo n foundations king calcium and sterry optican "he is here," said jack. "oh! well then, i'll meet him half way," and jumping quickly up, the king ran to billy, shook his hand, murmured, "how de do," and trotted back to his machine. "glad to know you, king," said billy. "you don't know me," replied the king. "i don't even know myself; so how could a fat boy, who has just shaken my hand, expect to know me?" "i don't know," said billy. "that's better. where is my daughter, jack?" "i don't know, your calciumness," answered jack frost. but even as he spoke a tall, hand- some young woman with raven-black hair and large blue eyes came slowly into the room. "me feyther," cried she, in a tragic voice, "the light, the light." and immediately the king turned a small calcium light directly on her. bowing and kissing her hand, she turned to billy. "whither goest thou, fair sir, and whence comest thou? answer, i prithee." "ma'am?" was all billy could say in his amazement. billy bounce "she means where are you going and where did you come from," whispered jack in billy's ear. "why couldn't she say so, then?" grumbled billy. "goest thou henceford or thenceford, fair sir? fain would i know—or wilt thou tarry awhile and let me pour into thine ear—" billy put his hands over his ears and stepped back in a hurry. "please don't pour anything into my ears." "she means she wants to talk to you," whis- pered jack again; "that's stage talk." "ay, such is indeed the truth," said sterry optican, moving forward, followed closely by the light. this time billy stood his ground and she took his hand in hers, saying sadly— "would thou wert not so fat, fair sir, else could i learn, ay! gladly learn to love you— but hold, villain—unhand me!" and she flung billy's hand away from her and burst into sobs. "jack frost," said billy wildly, "for goodness sake pinch me — i don't know whether i'm asleep or crazy." igo billy bounce means should go on the stage. father, you may turn off the light now; i'm through." "thank goodness," murmured billy to him- self. "what did you say?" whispered jack frost. "i was talking to myself," said billy. "that's a waste of time; though i suppose you're more interested in your conversation than any one else." "that's sarcastic." "no, it's true," said jack. "don't you think i'm clever?" "you're what i would call a sharp frost," said billy laughing. "stop talking for a minute," interrupted king calcium. "i'm not talking," said sterry optican; "i'm thinking, and it's much harder to think than to talk." "it is for some people," said jack. "now as for me" "be silent," cried the king; "nickel plate is trying to signal me." "nickel plate!" exclaimed billy rising to his feet. king calcium and sterry optican lgi "yes," said the king, "do you know him?" "i've met him," said billy; "but excuse me, good day" "night, you mean; it won't be day for six months," interrupted jack frost. "good night, then; i really must be going." "not until you've carved your initials on the north pole," said sterry optican. "it's my autograph album, you know, and i have the names and initials of many famous people on it. why, even my own is there." "thank you very much," said billy, ner- vously, "but i really can't spare the time." "that's all you know about the north pole," said jack. "you could stay there a year and not be spending a minute." "what do you mean ?" asked billy in surprise. "just what i say, this time—how are days, hours, minutes and seconds measured? answer me that." "by the length of time it takes a given point to completely revolve about the earth's axis," answered billy, not quite sure that this was the exact definition, but thinking it was near enough. billy bounce "right," said jack; "and so, if you are on the axis, the north pole, that is, you can't revolve around it, can you?" "no," said billy. "and if you can't revolve around it you can't measure time, can you?" "no." "and if you can't measure time, then there is no time: so you see you can't waste time or spend time when you're on the north pole. i hope you understand that." "yes sir," answered billy dubiously. "then come along and cut your initials in the pole." "please do," pleaded sterry. and billy was just about to yield—indeed, he had taken two steps toward the door when king calcium suddenly exclaimed: "hold! jack, lock the doors; billy bounce, you are discovered." "whatl billy bounce in our mongst?" cried jack, blowing on the doors and freezing them tight shut. "not the real billy," cried sterry, walking over to a sofa and preparing to faint. king calcium and sterry optican "yes," cried the king, "it is indeed he— nickel plate has just wigwagged me that he is in this room." "i am undone!" screamed sterry, throwing herself carefully onto the sofa. "seize him, jack!" cried the king. "seize him yourself," said jack, dancing away out of billy's reach; "remember i'm a nervous child." "i will," cried the king, tottering over to billy and laying his hand on his collar. "jack, call the ice guard." "ice guard, ahoy!" shouted jack. "lemme go," cried billy, "or i'll" "no you won't," panted the king, clinging desperately to billy. "you'll see," said billy, and began to drag the king over to the window where the cal- cium was burning brightly. "kelp me, help me, jack!" called the king, trying to sit down on the floor. but billy kept him from doing so, and finally reached the window. quick as a flash he turned the entire northern light right into the room, and with a sizzle, splash—puff the ice doors went billy bounce up in steam. the next moment he found the lever that controlled the lamp, and zip the light was out. my, my, my but how dark it got—darker than a thousand nights—blacker than a million hats. the king let go of billy's collar and commenced wildly to grope for the machine. "now to escape," cried billy. "barker, lead me out by scent," and quickly he pulled barker out of his pocket, tied a string to his collar and turned him loose. barker gave one little yelp, and then darted for the doorway with billy hot after him. out they ran into the open air, and picking barker up in his arms, up jumped billy away from aurora borealis. chapter xv. billy meets glucose. to say that billy was glad to see real sunshine and feel its warmth again, hardly expresses his joy, when, on emerging from aurora borealis, he floated into a warmer climate. and the next time his feet touched earth it did not take him long to take off his rabbit skin and give it back to the singing tree. and then how he and barker rolled on the soft green grass, breathed in the sweet, flower-scented air, and basked in the sunlight! "you saved my life, old boy," said billy, patting barker's head. and barker wagged his little tail and cocked his head on one side, as much as to say: "i'm glad, and i would do it again if i had the opportunity, billy bounce." billy meets glucose and he was still soothing and patting barker when his feet crashed through a jungle of blades and stalks, and he found himself in an enormous corn field. he looked about him, and saw dimly ahead through the corn a factory building; at least he took it for this, for he could hear the distant hum of machinery and the churn-churn- churn of an engine. "now i wonder where i am," said billy, beginning to walk toward the factory. "stop — or you are a dead man — or boy," said a voice at his side. turning, billy found the barrel of a cap pistol. but not being particularly interested in what he saw there, he looked further and discovered the face of its owner. on his head was a very, very large wig of raveled rope, and attached to his chin by large elastic bands that ran over himself looking down snauiksnate, tbe boy detecative. billy bounce his ears was a heavily matted blue beard. following the beard to its end, billy's eyes traveled on down to a large tin star. "who are you?" asked billy in surprise. "snawksnaw, the famous boy detecative," cried the boy, pulling off beard and wig with one sweep of his hand, and folding his arms dramatically. "what do you detect?" asked billy. "hist!" said the boy, again putting on the wig and beard, and pointing the cap pistol at him. "hist! i detect crime, but move not or i will be-low your be-rains out." "is that a disguise?" asked billy, pointing to the boy detective's hair and beard. "it is, and a perfect one. who would ever guess that snawksnaw, the famous boy detec- ative, and this bearded ruffian were one and the same person? this is my favorite trans- form." "but why did you get a blue beard?" "ah-ha! that is the completest part of the disguise; for though they might guess that i would raise a black beard or a yellow one or a red one, who would think that i could billy meets glucose raise a blue one?" then scowling terribly, he hissed, "are you one of them?" "one of whom?" asked billy. "one of the party of desperate men that inhabit yon fair but foul factory?" "of course not; i've just arrived." "ah-h, then perhaps you, too, are a detec- ative on the same trail; but i warn you snawksnaw will have no partner to share the glory of this capture. i have run them to earth, and mean to take them single handed." "what have they done?" asked billy. "i know not. that i will find out when i have bound and gagged them." "then you don't know them?" "yes," and snawksnaw seeing no immediate use for his pistol carefully put it in his hip pocket after examining the cap to see that it was still in place. "nothing like being sure of one's firearms," he said, "for should me trusty miss fire at a critical moment i should be in a dangerous position." "who are they?" "nickel plate, the polished villain." "what!" cried billy, "nickel plate?" billy bounce "yes, and bumbus." "bumbus?" "yes, and drone." "drone? i don't know him." "he's a cowardly ruffian, the tool of nickel plate." "a sort of nickel plated tool," said billy, laughing. "i suppose so," said snawksnaw seriously, missing the joke. "and worst of all their fair but false accomplice glucose, possessing a beautiful face to look upon, but with the crafty, crawling, venomous wiles of the serpent." "i've heard of glucose," said billy; "she is the one they tried to put in honey girl's place at the bee palace." "ah-ha!" cried snawksnaw, "a case of ab- duction—but i will foil them—it shall be my greatest shadow. i must perfect my dis- guise in such a serious case," and taking off his coat he turned it inside out and struggled into it. "now i defy them." "you're not going to the factory, are you?" asked billy. "i don't know—if i just knew what old billy meets glucose - sneuth, the detective, would do under the circumstances i could decide." "huh! i shouldn't wait for that," said a voice. looking up, billy and snawksnaw saw bumbus leaning against a cornstalk, wear- ing a very self-satisfied but wicked grin. "so it's my old friend billy bounce," con- tinued he. "bumbus!" was all billy could say. "i be," said bumbus; "who's your friend?" "snawksnaw, the famous boy detecative," shouted that youth, drawing his cap pistol. "but i shall sell my life dearly," and he snapped the cap at bumbus. how it did make bumbus jump, but instead of falling dead in his tracks as they do in dime novels, he seized billy's collar with one hand and reached for the boy detective's collar with the other. "missed!" cried snawksnaw, throwing his pistol to the ground; "ten thousand furies. i don't know what old sneuth would do now, but i know what i'm going to do," and he ran off as fast as his legs would carry him. "good riddance," said bumbus, laughing, billy bounce "which proves beyond a doubt that the wicked flourish like a green bay rum tree." "how is that?" asked billy. "meaning that no matter how close the shave, green bay rum can face it." "i suppose you are going to take me pris- oner to the factory," said billy, wishing to have the worst over as soon as possible. "my, my, but you are a good guesser," then calling loudly, "nickel plate, drone— here is billy bounce." "ha-ha-ha-ha!" laughed nickel plate, strid- ing through the corn. "so billy bounce is once more in our power, eh! this time he shall not escape us." "yaw-haw," yawned a sleepy-looking bee, coming slowly out of the factory. "come, wake up, drone!" cried bumbus. "aw-ri," yawned drone. here billy thought he saw an opportunity to run, and giving a sharp twist he broke from bumbus and started away to get room to jump. but alas for his hopes! the cornstalks suddenly intertwined their tops all about and over him and he found himself again a prisoner. billy meets glucose "how impolite!" laughed bumbus, "how very impolite of you to think of going away without saying good-by!" "to the factory with him," said nickel plate in a loud voice. and billy was pulled and hauled through the cornfield up to the factory which bore the sign "nickel plate, bumbus and glucose." inside past the grinding machin- ery and the great vats of boiling syrup and finally thrust into a little room marked "office." "honey girl!" he cried, catching sight of a young girl seated at the typewriter. "billy bounce!" she cried, starting to her feet with a peculiar smile; but the sound of her voice and something about her eyes told him that it was not honey girl at all, but glucose, that stood before him. "i, i beg your pardon," he stammered; "i thought you were the princess." "well?" she said questioningly. "but i see now i was mistaken; you are glucose." "beware, billy bounce, how you anger a woman — hereafter address me as honey girl, or take the consequences." so saying, glucose billy bounce closed down her desk and hurriedly left the room. "i suppose i've made another enemy—but i don't care; she's proved now that she is not honey girl, and this knowledge may prove use- ful some day." billy was seated in a chair near the door when suddenly through the keyhole and above the hum of machinery came the sound of voices. "we must get the note from him and prevent his seeing bogie man," said the voice of bumbus. "yes," said nickel plate, "but i fear that so long as he lives he will be in our way." "throw him in the grinder," suggested drone. "or boil him in a syrup vat," added bumbus. "too sweet a death," said nickel plate. "of one thing i am certain—he must die." then their voices died away, showing that they had moved off. "i suppose it's all up with me," said billy, looking about him for some means of escape. "oh! how i wish i had mr. gas here—i'll try umberufen: perhaps he can carry the message." you can imagine that it did not take him billy meets glucose long to touch wood, and "zip!" umberufen stood before him. "well, so you need me again, do you?" "yes, sir," said billy. "the last time you treated me very badly." "i'm very sorry." "humph! that won't pay for a ruined suit of clothes—everything i had on warped dreadfully. but i suppose i shall have to forgive you— what is it?" "i want you to carry a message to mr. gas." "out of my district," said umberufen curtly. "but you often go to mr. gas," said billy; "this is a matter of life and death." "i can't go to him unless he touches wood." "but you are supposed to do what i ask you to." "anything here yes, but i'm not an errand boy," answered umberufen indifferently. "have you no heart?" exclaimed billy. "certainly, but mr. gas didn't hire that—he just arranged for my brains and ability." "then whatever he pays you he's got a bad bargain," said billy angrily. "you may go." "there you go, showing your temper again billy bounce —goodness, i wouldn't have your disposition for anything — good-by," and umberufen dis- appeared. "i wish i could sneeze—perhaps gehsundheit would take the message—i'll try," but do what he would billy could not make himself sneeze. he tickled his nose with a straw, snuffed up dust, did everything he could think of but not a sneeze would come. at last he gave up in despair. "i'll imitate a sneeze," cried he—"ca- choo!" it did not sound very much like a sneeze, but sure enough a shadowy form of gehsundheit appeared before him. "gehsundheit," came from the figure but it sounded far, far away like an echo. "at last," cried billy. "oh! gehsundheit, i need your help." "so, iss it?" he whispered. "yes, i want you to carry a message to mr. gas." "alas! it cannot be did." "why not?" "because i am not here." "not here—where are you?" "at home in my castle." billy bounce "wake up, drone, and help," said bumbus. "oh!" said drone, "i just dreamed that i was asleep." "that's one dream that came true," said bumbus; "now out with him." bumbus pulled and drone pushed, and although the latter went to sleep three or four times before they got out of the room, billy finally found himself in the main factory where nickel plate was directing some workmen in taking the lid off of a vat. "ah, ha!" said nickel plate when he saw billy. "now, boy, i will give you a last chance —promise that you will give up all search for bogie man and return the note to me and we will free you, otherwise" "it will be a case of boil instead of freeze," interrupted bumbus. "then boil!" cried billy. "i must do my duty while i live." "in with himl" cried nickel plate. "in with him!" cried bumbus. "yah-haw!" yawned drone. and with that they lifted billy up and were about to drop him into the vat, when through billy meets glucose the open skylight and down in their midst dropped mr. gas. he was seated in his big arm-chair which was carried along by hundreds of toy balloons of all colors. "hold!" he cried. but instead of holding they were all so sur- prised that they let go of billy and he fell to the floor, just missing the vat by a few inches. luckily he lit on his feet, and, of course, as this was just the same as a jump, he bounded up again and out through the skylight, followed by mr. gas. chapter xvi in spookville when they had gotten well away from the factory, billy recovered his wits sufficiently to thank mr. gas warmly for his assistance. "you are welcome, billy bounce—it was lots of fun for me and i needed an outing any- way." "but how did you know about my need?" said billy. "i tried to send umberufen and gehsundheit, but could get neither of them to go." "the wireless telephoneless telephone brought me your wish. i came very near answering, but you didn't hold the wireless wire, and i thought it would be more exciting to save you at the last minute, the way they always do in books." "i'm afraid—" began billy. "don't do it," interrupted mr. gas. in spookville "what?" "be afraid." "but i meant to say i was afraid—" he began again. "you did say it—you didn't just mean to say it," said mr. gas severely. "well, what i meant was that i didn't think gehsundheit and umberufen have been of much use to me." "that's better — never use the word afraid, because there's nothing in the world to be afraid of if you do your best." "i'll remember that, sir," answered billy. "about gehsundheit and umberufen — they are not very useful, it's true, but the two old fellows have been out of work for so long that i hire them out of charity." "i suppose they mean well." "oh! yes; but be careful of well meaners unless they are good doers — that's what counts." "yes, sir," said billy. . "and now good-by—keep your teeth clean and don't eat any dirt." "of course not, i never do eat dirt." billy bounce "i know you don't, but it is my rule to give advice that can be easily followed — that's the way i keep my friends. good-by." "good-by, and thank you," called billy, and in less than half a jiffy mr. gas and his toy balloons were only a speck on the horizon. when billy again reached the earth it was night. he had just taken barker out of his pocket and was going to dig a hole for the singing tree, when he saw that he was in a great shadowy city. "that's strange," he said, looking about him. "i was sure that i was in the middle of a green meadow when i first came down and here i am in a city." and yet when he looked again he found that he could see clear through the houses. this made him just a wee bit nervous. "ah! here comes some one with a lantern; i'll ask him about it." and sure enough there came bobbing and dancing up the street a ball of light. "he's an awfully unsteady walker, whoever he is," said billy. for one minute the light would be way urr in the air and the next minute almost touching the ground—then in spookville « it would be on one side of the walk and again on the other. on it came until it was within a few inches of his nose and then he saw that no one was carrying it. gracious! what a start it gave him — for a moment only and then he was off after it in hot pursuit. but the faster billy walked the faster the light went—when he ran it ran— and suddenly "puff!" it disappeared. "huh! i don't like that a little bit," and he stopped and looked around him. the moon cast a pale and sickly light, and the gaunt trees waved and creaked sadly in the moaning breeze, throwing long, claw-like shadows on the ground. then a sad-voiced bird piped out from the forest, "whip-poor- will — whip-poor-will — whip-poor-will-o'-the- wisp." "that's what it was, of course," said billy, sturdily sticking his fists into his pockets—" a will-o'-the-wisp." and back he trudged whis- tling as hard as he could whistle. because whistling does keep a fellow's courage up on a lonely walk, doesn't it? it certainly cheered billy a great deal, so that billy bounce been telling you silly tales—come, we're old friends, let's shake hands." "can — can you shake hands?" said billy, putting his own behind him. "certainly. of course i can't shake your hand, but i can shake my own," and with that the ghost held two long white arms in front of him, joined the ends (one really couldn't call them hands) and waved them up and down. much relieved, billy clasped his own two hands and feebly shook them — and my, how cold and clammy they feltl "well, good-by, i must be going," said billy nervously. "don't go yet—let's talk over old times. and by the way, you don't happen to know a quiet family, keeping two servants, no children pre- ferred, who wants to hire a respectable ghost. thoroughly tame—will eat out of the hand— terms reasonable and references exchanged. guaranteed to give satisfaction or money re- turned. if desired can take the shape of an old ancestor. guarding buried treasure extra." and the ghost rattled this off as if he had learned it by heart. 'come up to the house and spend an unpleasant evening.'' —page sbucubr^ in spookville "no," said billy, "i really do not — in fact, i'm sure i don't." "now that's too bad—but perhaps you would hire me—i'll make it cheap for old acquaintance' sake," said the ghost wistfully. "no," said billy quickly, "i don't think i care to be haunted." "if the price is all that stands in the way i'll work for my keep just to keep in practice." "no," said billy, "i'm—," he was going to say "afraid," but remembered mr. gas's advice and said, "i'm sure i don't need you." "well, i suppose if you won't, you won't— but anyway come up to the house and spend an unpleasant evening. i'd like you to meet the wife and children—my wife is a little high- spirited — the ghost of a lighthouse-keeper's daughter, but she will thaw out after a while, and i'm sure she can fix up a nice little supper for us." "i really have not time," said billy, backing off. "not if i tell you that we have some cold fear pie and a roast of imagination, a neat little salad of blood-curdling screams topped off in spookville that surrounded him he was worse frightened than ever. some of them breathed fire and steam while their eyes glowed like red-hot coals. others had old, crafty and wicked faces with huge snaggle teeth. some looked like fierce and bloodthirsty pirates—all sorts and conditions of ghosts were there, and all seem- ingly intent on tearing billy limb from limb. "see him tremble!" called one old pirate. "ah! this reminds me of old times on the spanish main—make him walk the plank!" "scream into his ear until he is deaf ("cried a banshee. "put a ball and chain on him and throw him in a cell!" suggested the ghost of a convict. "he's the boy who discovered shamville— he will tell on all of us if we let him live!" said a crafty-looking old merchant. "make him eat his own head!" cried a head- less horseman. "get away!" cried billy; "you are a host of delusions! i don't believe in ghosts anyway, and i'm not afraid of you," for he had just remembered what mr. gas said about being afraid. he took a step forward, and in doing billy bounce "half past eight—time we were off!" said billy, looking at his waterbury. and so off they flew into space. "i doubt if i can float over that high moun- tain," he said presently. "what a queer-looking thing it is, too." and no wonder it was queer looking, for it was the volcano of vociferous with just a little thin white vapor rising from its crater. "oh, me! oh, my! i'm falling right into the hole," he cried, "i wonder if i will fetch up in china?" and sure enough, when he got right over the crater he began to fall, fall, fall, through the opening and way down towards the centre of the earth. and just about the time he had given up hopes of ever landing in any place, he hit plump on a floor of lava. right in front of him was a door bearing this sign: "the coal man. best anthracite and soft coal. new gold and silver bought and sold. nickel- plating a specialty. for admission to works apply at office. walk in." turning the handle billy walked in. "well, said a smutty-faced old man who was bustling about the office and whom billy rightly took for the coal man. in the volcano of vociferous "how do you do?" said billy. "tired, very tired," answered the coal man. "worked to death. i have a rush order for an eruption of vociferous and it's keeping my alchemist and myself busy day and night, while the coal stokers and furnace tenders threaten to strike for lower wages." "that's too bad," said billy sympathetically. "not a bit of it. i like the work. i suppose you want to go through the works." "if it's not too much trouble." "i don't know whether you will find it too the coal man. billy bounce much trouble or not; you will have to decide that for yourself." "i mean for you." "it can't be for me, because i'm not going. what's your name?" "billy bounce." "billy bounce? glad to know you, billy. i've heard a great deal of you from a customer of mine" "a customer! who is he?" "nickel plate the polished villain. he comes down here every once in a while to be plated." "nickel plate!" cried billy in alarm. "why, he is my enemy." "i know it," said the coal man; "but don't mind that; he's his own best friend." "but if that's the case, aren't you going to harm me?" "certainly not. you can't do me any harm by telling the truth about my work. you will find that your only enemies are the people who know you will expose them as imitations." "i hadn't thought of that before," said billy, greatly relieved. "of course you hadn't. they wouldn't either billy bounce "sir," said billy, "i understood the last part of your sentence, but i don't think i heard the first part very well." "a little sulphur—now i wonder if i'd better put any safety-matches in it this time—what do you think, boy?" and he looked at billy as if he were a thousand miles off. "i don't know, sir." "then why do you presume to offer advice? so you don't think safety-matches a safe thing to put in it? neither do i." "but i said i didn't know," said billy. "true, you did; i had forgotten. if that's the case, i'd better use sulphur-matches." "are you the alchemist?" "let's see, am i? i've really forgotten. ace of spades," calling to the blackest stoker of them all, "come here." "yes, sir," said ace, running up to them. "well, what do you want?" asked the old man, looking at ace in surprise. "you called me, sir," said ace. "did i—what for? do you know?" "no, sir," said ace. "excuse me," said billy, "but i think it billy bounce here to think for them, i don't know what would become of the business." "excuse me "began billy. "certainly," interrupted the alchemist, absent- mindedly putting some gun-cotton in his ears. "i was going to say—did you say you were making a sample eruption?" "did you speak to me? i seem to have heard you speak." "yes, sir." "i can't hear a word you say—i'm afraid i'm growing deaf. now what did i do with that gun-cotton i had a moment ago?" and the alchemist looked for it in every place but in his ears. but billy, by making motions, showed him where it was, and he pulled it out in great surprise. "you shouldn't do that," said he severely, "it's a very dangerous thing." "but i didn't," said billy; "you did it your- self." "tut-tut—why should i put gun-cotton in my own ears? i never listen to evil reports." billy was just about to make further denial when the coal man put his head through the door and beckoned to him. "nickel plate is chapter xviii. the elusive bridge. "i must be very near the end of my jour- ney," said billy the morning after he ruined nickel plate's new coat. "i have been on the air road a long time, and certainly i have had some queer adventures. what shall i say to bogie man when i do see him, i wonder" but here he lit on the ground and looked around him. about half a block behind him he saw a most peculiar looking bridge — a bridge that seemed to be floating in the air and yet came very near to touching the ground at each end. but what' interested him was the dark and dismal looking city on the other side of the bridge. "why, that's strange. the bridge and the city are behind me, so i must have passed over them; yet i don't remember seeing them at all." billy bounce looked around him in the greatest dog sur- prise, caught sight of the city over his shoulder, and turned again. then he began to get excited, and before billy could stop him was spinning round and round like a kitten after its tail. and he spun and spun and he spun, billy all the time trying to make head or tail of him, until he got so dizzy that he fell over on his side. "good old dog," cried billy, pick- ing him up and putting him in his pocket. "you have proved that i'm not the only one who can't get the bridge in front of him. but i have made up my mind to get to that city if it takes the rest of my life, for it looks to me like never was where bogie man lives." and with that he commenced to walk backwards- and he walked and walked and walked, but not an inch nearer to the bridge did he get. "i wonder if i could jump backwards. i'll try it." and back he jumped. up he went and back he flew. it wasn't a very comfortable feeling, either, not to know just where he was going, and he certainly hoped he wouldn't bump into any buildings when he did reach the city. but he closed his eyes and waited, the elusive bridge until at last his feet touched earth. then he opened his eyes and looked around him, ex- pecting to find himself in the middle of the city. not a bit of it. there he was in the same spot he had started from, with the bridge and the city just over his shoulder. "well, i'll be gum swizzled!" he exclaimed in surprise. "i shouldn't," said an important looking man in a black uniform and a little round cap bearing the words "toll gate keeper." "you might be gummed, you know, like an envelope, but it wouldn't do to be swizzled." "what is swizzled?" asked billy. "how should i know? but you should, for you said you would be." "it was just an expression with me." "oh! you meant to say you would be expressed. what are the express rates on boys?" "no, i didn't mean that; what i meant to say is that what i meant to say was—oh! pshaw! i don't know what i'm talking about." "of course you don't, and as i the toil gate billy bounce "i don't know and i don't care. i didn't send you there—all i know is that the only way to never was is over the bridge that people cross before they get to it." "then all i can see is that i shall have to cross the bridge," said billy. "i've told you that you've already crossed it." "stop a minute," cried billy, putting his fingers in his ears, "my head is in a whirl." "how can i stop a minute? i'd have to catch it first, and don't you know that time flies?" "i mean wait for a minute." "which minute do you want me to wait for?" "oh, stop it, stop it!—don't stop anything— i mean don't wait for anything—if you say another word i'll go crazy." and poor bewildered billy sat down on the ground and buried his face in his hands. "there, i feel better," said he, finally, raising his head. "who are you, please?" "i'm the toll gate keeper, also the man that people borrow trouble from." "oh!" said billy. the elusive bridge "just half past ten," said the toll man, pulling out his sun dial. "i wonder what's happened to my watch? i must turn it back," and pressing the spring billy turned the hands back to ten thirty. just at that moment he happened to catch sight of the bridge over his shoulder, and, strange to say, it was almost in touching distance. "hurrah!" he cried, delightedly, "here's the bridge right here—now i'm sure to catch it," and he ran backwards as hard as he could, but without getting an inch nearer to it. "how did it get here, anyway?" he asked. "i don't know," said the bridge keeper. "i noticed it coming up while you were set- ting your watch back." "that's it—that's it," cried billy. "don't you know, you said that what has once been done can't be undone unless time turns back." "what has that got to do with it?" "can't you see when i turned time back, up came the bridge? now i am going to turn it back more and get to the other side." "don't risk it, don't risk it," cried the toll gate keeper, in great excitement. "if billy bounce you should happen to be lost between two hours, you might never catch up with time again." but billy did not heed the warning, for he knew he could turn his watch ahead again and make up for any lost time that way. so back went the hands of the watch and, "spang!" billy stood in the dark and dismal streets of never was. far, far off in front of him (this time) was the bridge, and on the other side, waving his arms in despair, stood the toll gate keeper. in the dark, never was "that won't help you any, for i won't read it even if you don't ask me." and in high dudgeon mumbledy peg started to stump off down the street. "hold on," called billy, running after him. "i have nothing to hold on to, but don't worry, i won't fall." "can't you give a sensible answer to any- thing?" "no. i used to do that and people said i had so much common sense i couldn't be very bright. when i began talking nonsense they said it was so foolish it must be very clever, and thus i gained a great reputation for being witty." "well, just for once, won't you try to talk common sense?" said billy. "how can i get to bogie man's house?" "there is just one way and that is to walk. we have no street cars here." "i mean in what direction shall i go?" "it makes no difference to me which way you go—see here, billy bounce, i know you," said mumbledy peg, severely. "you know me?" asked billy, in surprise. billy bounce "yes, i do, and i'm not going to help you find bogie man's house." "oh! you're not," said billy. "well, suppose i find it anyway." "you can't, no one ever finds bogie man unless he doesn't want to find him." "we will see about that," said billy, angrily, "and when i do find him and deliver the note, i'm going to tell him just what i think of him." "he doesn't care what you think of him. thoughts never hurt any one but their thinkers." "that is too deep for me," said billy. "there it is," said mumbledy peg in disgust, "when i do say something sensible, you don't understand me." "then you won't help me to find bogie man?" "not an inch, and i will say further that if all our leading citizens had not left for mars in search of work, you wouldn't be alive in this town for three minutes." "i'm not trying to harm you," said billy. "we won't discuss the matter further. good night," and mumbledy peg drove himself right in the dark, never was into the ground and disappeared, leaving billy alone in the dark street. "i can't get him back unless i pull him out with my teeth, i suppose," said billy, "and i'm not going to try that. now, what am i to do without a guide? it is fearfully dark and lonely, and i seem to be as far from seeing bogie man as ever. i wonder what street this is?" he tried to see the sign on the lamp post. of course the lamp was not lit, for they never are in never was until daylight. but he couldn't possibly make it out, so he fumbled about in his pockets until he found a match. he lighted this, and by its feeble flame read the sign "the road-to-bed." "the road-to-bed," he repeated to himself, "that's a strange name for a street. i wonder if bogie man lives anywhere near. why, of course, he must live in this street, because he is nearly always seen on the road to bed." now billy did not exactly mean that bogie man was seen, because, although many little boys and little girls have thought they saw bogie man, have thought they heard him the window of fear less, nameless, dreadful yellow splotch on the wall. and over it billy read these words, "the window of fear—look not lest ye see terror." "this must be bogie man's house," said billy. "i—i am sure it is rude to look in at windows, and besides that, ugh! what a hideous window—i'll try the front door." at last he found a wide, low, grinning door, and he had just mustered up the cour- age to ring the bell, whose handle was the tail of a snake, when the door opened sud- denly and out flew a thin, gaunt, pink flannel cat with shoe-button eyes and a long, blue worsted tail. billy tried to seize this oppor- tunity and enter; but slam went the door in his face, and off down the road went the cat. and at the same moment two large flat things, with waving streamer-like arms, lifted themselves up in front of him and tried to knock his candle out of his hand. billy stepped back just in time to save it and stood staring at the quivering forms. "what are those things, i wonder?" he exclaimed. "layovers to catch meddlers," said one of <w billy bounce them. "hands off," said the other, and then they lay down again on the door-mat. "then perhaps you can tell me if this is bogie man's house," he said. "it is—now go away," said one. "this door is only to go out by—it never opens to let any one in," said the other. billy thought a minute, and then, hoping he could surprise them into telling him some way of getting in, said, "then how is that cat ever to get in again?" "it never will," said the first layover; "that is scaredy cat, and she will never come back." "what was she running away from?" asked billy. "her tail." "her tail?" "yes—it is a frightful yarn. now, go away; i'm through talking." billy tried to secure an answer to several more questions, but never a word could he get out of them. "i suppose i shall have to look through the window of fear after all," he said, with the window of fear just the faintest shiver. and throwing back his shoulders, he made for the window. he had to hoist himself up onto the sill to look in, and when he had gotten up, he sat with his back to the window and his eyes closed, until he could catch his breath and muster up his courage to peep in. then he slowly turned his head. it is a good thing he had a tight hold on the broad sill, for the sight that met his gaze, froze his blood and almost knocked him off his balance. there stood bogie man in the middle of the room juggling his own hideous head with one hand and a great ball of burning sulphur with the other. billy saw now what made the blue and yellow light. it was the sul- phur, which flashed and sizzled as it went through the air, emitting a million angry sparks and tongues of fire when it struck bogie man's hand. and bogie man's body—ugh! —as tall as a church-steeple, as large around as a house; as full of knots as an old oak- tree, yet as black and eerie and unformlike as a flying shadow. the hair on the head was long and green, his eyes like two sparks billy shot a blast of hot air from his pump full in bumius's face.—page . billy bounce billy leaned heavily against the window and worked the hot-air pump desperately. time and time again the imps, sprites and crimson devil's horses renewed the attack. "on, on!" cried nickel plate from a safe place in the rear. "buzz-z-z, buzz-z-z! pluck his eyes out!" cried bumbus, striking at billy with his three- edged sword. "put him to sleep forever!" cried drone, waking up in the midst of the combat. but billy never said a word. he was hold- ing his breath for the final onslaught, which he felt was now being arranged, so he only gritted his teeth and pumped hot air into and through the frantic enemy. down went bumbus again from a blast in the ear. puff! puff! and away and away sailed an imp never to return again. "rally!" cried nickel plate. for a moment there was a lull, and billy knew the time had come when he must beat or be beaten. "i'm not afraid," he panted to him- self, and then with a rush and a wild shriek the enemy hurled itself forward in a solid mass. on they came, yelling terribly, their eyes spit- chapter xxi. in the queen bee palace. on, on and on went billy, rushing through the air with a speed he had never before experienced: the result of the tremendous leap he had taken in leaving in-the-dark, never was. bogie man squirmed and struggled, scratched and bit and kicked, threatening billy with the most horrible punishment if he did not release him. but billy only held on the tighter and answered never a word. for now he knew what a harmless imitation he really was un- less seen through the window of fear. then down, down, down he dropped right into the middle of a great, sweet field of red clover from which arose the continuous hum- m-m-m-m buzz-z-z of thousands of honey- gathering bees. in the queen bee palace each step to make walking a springy, elastic pleasure, was carpeted down the centre with a strip of soft, hand-woven yellow rosebud leaves, and this carpet led to the throne which was carved from one enormous block of amber. but when billy's gaze had travelled this far he had eyes for nothing else. in his sight the lights faded to mere sparks, the golden walls lost their richness, the throne became but a high-backed wooden chair, for seated there before him was honey girl, so radiant, so daz- zlingly beautiful that mere gold and jewelry were as nothing compared with her. "honey girl!" he cried. "billy bounce!" exclaimed she, and her voice was as full of gladness as billy's. "you on the throne?" "yes, my aunt the queen bee felt that she was growing old, and to protect me further from nickel plate and bogie man abdicated and made me queen." "you need not have feared them," said billy. "allow me to present bogie man." "that, bogie man?" said the princess, or billy bounce "exactly," said billy. "there is no room in this world for drones. general, let some of your soldiers give him a shave, a bath, a square meal, some respectable clothes, and put him to work." and drone was led away feebly protesting, but encouraged already by the promise of something to eat. "and glucose," cried honey girl, "i shall take care of, ladies," bowing to her court ladies who surrounded the throne. "glucose will be my understudy. when i feel sick and tired and headachy she will attend court for me, and that she may never again enter into a conspiracy to rob me of my throne, she shall always wear her label, but under her dress." glucose fell on her knees at honey girl's feet and covered her hands with kisses. "let me be always your servant, dear queen, and i will prove that there is some good in glucose after all." every one was much affected by her repent- ance, and was convinced that thereafter she would lead a good and useful life. which i am glad to say she did. in the queen bee palace "and now, billy bounce, for your reward," said honey girl. "i ask no reward," said billy earnestly, "except that some day when i am grown up and general manager of the messenger service you will marry me." honey girl blushed and hung her head at this unexpected reply, and then smiling at billy said, "maybe." "hurrah! maybe is will be in beeland," cried everybody, and mr. gas shook billy warmly by the hand and whispered, "that's what comes of keeping your courage up." is it looking too far ahead to say that one day honey girl and billy did marry, and of course lived happily all the rest of their days, while barker with the aid of the soldiers guarded the palace, and every night barked up the singing tree, which with its beauti- ful music gave much pleasure and delight to billy and the princess? well, it's true anyway, so we will say so. the end umml\@ \mij@ifl]@mtfli@fi@|\mun a/cuj gu/"*‘ ‘ -§ zap: i i recuvery uf i.ll.l‘\n.-—p. . strange story, vol. ii. @ : mm e[ngtton qbhiflun. / n‘ strange story , and thi haunted and the haunters by sir edward eulwer lytton, bart. “to doubt and to be astonished is to recognize our ignorance. hence it is that the lover of wisdom is in i cal-min sort a lover of myth! (wmwm‘ m“), for { . luldoct of myth! in the astonishing and mmellou."—sm w. ilnnuou ( m aristotle), lcduru on idaphytics, vol. i. p. . complete in one volume philadelphia j. b. lippincott ; co. . f...\ . ‘fi' __ _ the new } ‘ public library v astor. lenox and til-din foundations i preface. of the many illustrious thinkers whom the schools of france have contributed to the intellectual phi— losophy of our age, victor cousin, the most accom- plished, assigns to maine de biran the rank of the most original. in the successive developments of his own mind maine de biran may, indeed, be said to represent the change that has been silently at work through- out the general mind of europe since the close of the last century. he begins his career of philosopher with blind faith in condillac and materialism. as an intellect severely conscientious in the pursuit of truth expands amidst the perplexities it revolves, phenomena which cannot be accounted for by con- dillac's sensuous theories open to his eye. to the first rudimentary life of man, the animal life, “ char- acterized by impressions, appetites, movements, or- ganic in their origin and ruled by the law of news * ' (v) vi summon. sity," * he is compelled to add “ the second or human life, from which free-will and self-consciousness emerge." he thus arrives at the union of mind and matter; but still a something is wanted—some key to the marvels which neither of these conditions of vital being suffices to explain. and at last the grand self-completing thinker attains to the third life of man in man's soul. “there are not," says this philosopher, towards the close of his last and loftiest work— “ there are not only two principles opposed to each other in man, there are three. for there are, in him, three lives and three orders of faculties. though all should be in accord and in harmony between the sensitive and the active faculties which constitute man, there would still be a nature superior, a third life which would not be satisfied ; which would make felt (ferait sentir) the truth that there is another happiness, another wisdom, another perfection, at once above the greatest human happiness, above the highest wisdom, or intellectual and moral perfection of which the human beingr is susceptible.” “ now, as philosophy and romance both take their origin in the principle of wonder, so in the strange story submitted to the public, it will be seen that * (euvres inédites de maine (is birnn, vol. i. see introduction. (euvres inédites de maine de bil-an, vol. iii. p. (anthro- pologie). preface vi! romance, through the freest exercise of its wildest vagaries, conducts its bewildered hero towards the same goal to which philosophy leads its luminous student, through far grander portents of nature, far higher visions of supernatural power than fable can yield to fancy. that goal is defined in these noble words: “the relations (rapporta) which exist between the elements and the products of the three lives of man are the subjects of meditation, the fairest and finest, but also the most difficult. the stoic philosophy shows us all which can be most elevated in active life;- but it makes abstraction of the animal nature, and absolutely fails to recognize all which belongs to the life of the spirit. its prac- tical morality is beyond the forces of humanity. christianity alone embraces the whole man. it dis- simulates none of the sides of his nature, and avails itself of his miseries and his weakness in order to conduct him to his end in showing him all the want that he has of a succor more exalted." * in the passages thus quoted i imply one of the objects for which this tale has been written; and i cite them, with a wish to acknowledge one of those priceless obligations which writings the lightest and most fantastic often incur to reasoners the most serious and profound. l‘ (euvres inédites de maine de birun, vol. iii. p. . viii preface. but i here construct a romance which should have, as a romance, some interest for the general reader.’ i do not elaborate a treatise submitted to the logic of sages. and it is only when “in fairy fiction drest" that romance gives admission to “ truths severe." i venture to assume that none will question my privilege to avail myself of the marvellous agencies which have ever been at the legitimate command of the fabulist. to the highest form of romantic narrative, the epic, critics, indeed, have declared that a super- natural machinery is indispensable. that the drama has availed itself of the same license as the epic, it would be unnecessary to say to the countrymen of shakespeare, or to the generation that is yet study- ing the enigmas of goethe’s faust. prose romance has immemorially asserted, no less than the epic or the drama, its heritage in the realm of the mar- vellous. the interest which attaches to the super- natural is sought in the earliest prose romance which modern times take from the ancient, and which, per- haps, had its origin in the lost novels of miletus; "‘ and the right to invoke such interest has, ever since, been maintained by romance through all varieties of form and fancy—from the majestic epopee of * the golden ass of apuleius. _ / ' i_~i-.,_ preface. ix télémaque to the graceful phantasies of undine, or the mighty mockeries of gulliver’s travels, down to such comparatively commonplace elements of wonder as yet preserve from oblivion the castle of otranto and the old english baron. now, to my mind, the true reason why a super- natural agency is indispensable to the conception of the epic, is that the epic is the highest and the completest form in which art can express either man or nature, and that without some gleams of the supernatural, man is not man, nor nature, nature. ' it is said, by a writer to .whom an eminent phi- losophical critic justly applies the epithets of “ pious and profound:"*-—“is it unreasonable to confess. that we believe in god, not by reason of the nature which conceals him, but by reason of the super- natural in man, which alone reveals and proves him to exist? * * * man reveals god; for man, by his intelligence, rises above nature; and in virtue of this intelligence is conscious of himself as a power not only independent of, but opposed to, nature, and capable of resisting, conquering, and controlling her." ' if the meaning involved in the argument of which * sir william hamilton. lectures on metaphysics, p. . f jacobi—von dvr gb'lflichcn dingen; werlce, pp. — . ! preface. i have here made but scanty extracts be carefully studied, i think that we shall find deeper reasons than the critics who dictated canons of taste to the last century discovered—why the supernatural is indispensable to the epic, and why it is allowable to all works of imagination, in which art looks on nature with man’s inner sense of a. something beyond and above her. but the writer who, whether in verse or prose, would 'avail himself of such sources of pity or terror as flow from the marvellous, can only attain his object in proportion as the wonders he narrates are of a kind to excite the curiosity of the age he addresses. in the brains of our time, the faculty of causation is very markedly developed. people, nowadays, do not delight in the marvellous according to the old childlike spirit. they say in one breath, “very extraordinary!” and in the next breath, ask, “how do you account for it ?" if the author of this work has presumed to borrow from science some elements of interest for romance, he ventures to hope that no thoughtful reader—and certainly no true son of science—will be disposed to reproach him. in fact. such illustrations from the masters of thought were essential to the completion of the purpose which pervades the work. that purpose, i trust, will develop itself in pro- preface. xi portion as the story approaches the close; and what- ever may appear violent or melodramatic in the catastrophe, will perhaps be found, by a reader capable of perceiving the various symbolical mean- ings conveyed in the story, essential to the end in which those meanings converge, and towards which the incidents that give them the character and in- _ terest of fiction have been planned and directed from the commencement. of course, according to the most obvious principles of art, the narrator of a fiction must be as thoroughly in earnest as if he were the narrator of facts. one could not tell the most extravagant fairy-tale so as to rouse and sustain the attention of the most in- fantine listener, if the tale were told as if the tale- teiler did not believe in it. but when the reader lays down this strange story, perhaps he will detect, through all the haze of romance, the outlines of these images suggested to his reason: firstly, the image of sensuous, soulless nature, such as the materialist had conceived it. secondly, the image of intellect, obstinately separating all its inquiries from the belief in the spiritual essence and destiny of man, and incurring all kinds of perplexity, and resorting to all kinds of visionary speculation before it settles at last into the simple faith which unites the philosopher and the infant. and, thirdly, the xii preface. image of the erring but pure-thoughted visionary, seeking overmuch on this earth to separate soul from mind, til] innocence itself is led astray by a phantom, and reason is lost in the space between earth and the stars. whether in these pictures there be any truth worth the implying, every reader must judge for himself; and if he doubt or deny that there be any such truth, still, in that process of thought which the doubt or denial enforces, he may chance on a truth which it pleases himself to discover. “ most of the fables of esop "— thus says mon- ’ taigne in his charming essay “ of books" *—' “ have several senses and meanings, of which the mytholo- gists choose some one that tallies with the fable. but for the most part 'tis only what presents itself at the first view, and is superficial; there being others more lively, essential, and internal, into which they have not been able to penetrate; and "—adds montaigne —” the case is the very same with me." * translation , vol. ii. p. . a strange story. chapter i. in the year — i settled as a physician at one of the wealthiest of our great english towns, which i will designate by the initial l i was yet young, but i had acquired some reputation by a professional work, which is, i believe, still amongst the received authorities on the subject of which it treats. i had studied at edinburgh and at paris, and had borne away from both those illustrious schools of medicine whatever guaran- tees for future distinction the praise of professors may concede to the ambition of students. on becoming a member of the college of physicians, i made a tour of the principal cities of europe, taking letters of intro- duction to eminent medical men; and gathering, from many theories and modes of treatment, hints to enlarge the foundations of unprejudiced and comprehensive practice. i had resolved to fix my ultimate residence ( ) a s'raauon s'roar. in london. but before this preparatory tour was com- pleted, my resolve was changed by one of those unex‘ pected events which determine the fate man in vain would work out for himself. in passing through the tyrol, on my way into the north of italy, i found in a small inn, remote from medical attendance, an english traveller, seized with acute inflammation of the lungs, and in a state of imminent danger. i devoted myself to him night and day; and, perhaps, more through care- ful nursing than active remedies, i had the happiness to effect his complete recovery. the traveller proved to be julius faber, a physician of great distinction, con- tented to reside, where he was born, in the provincial city of l—, but whose reputation as a profound and original pathologist was widely spread; and whose writings had formed no unimportant part of my special studies. it was during a short holiday excursion, from which he was about to return with renovated vigor, that he had been thus stricken down. the patient so accidentally met with became the founder of my pro- fessional fortunes. he conceived a warm attachment for me; perhaps the more afl'ectionate because he was a childless bachelor, and the nephew who would succeed to his wealth evinced no desire to succeed to the toils by which the wealth had been acquired. thus, having an heir for the one, he had long looked about for an heir t ‘the other, and now resolved on finding that heir in me. so when we parted, dr. faber made me promise to correspond with him regularly, and it was not long a srnancs story. before he disclosed by letter the plans he had formed in my favor. he said that he was growing old; his prac- tice was beyond his strength; he needed a partner; he was not disposed to put up to sale the health of patients whom he had learned to regard as his children; money was no object to him, but it was an object close at his heart that the humanity he had served, and the repu- tation he had acquired, should suffer no loss in his choice of a successor. in fine, he proposed that i should at once come to l - as his partner, with the view of succeeding to his entire practice at the end of two years, when it was his intention to retire. the opening into fortune thus afi'orded to me was one that rarely presents itself to a young man entering upon an overcrowded profession. and to an aspirant less allured by the desire of fortune than the hope of dis- tinction, the fame of the physician who thus generously ofi'ered to me the inestimable benefits of his long expe- rience and his cordial introduction, was in itself an assurance that a metropolitan practice is not essential to a national renown. i went then to l my partnership had expired, my success justified my :and before the two years of kind friend’s selection, and far more than realized my own expectations. i was fortunate in effecting some notable cures in the earliest cases submitted to me, and it is everything in the career of a physician when good luck wins betimes for him that confidence which patients rarely'accord except to lengthened experience. to the a era/men s'roar. rapid facility with which my way was made, some cir- cumstances apart from professional skill probably con- tributed. i was saved from the suspicion of a medical adventurer by the accidents of birth and fortune. i belonged to an ancient family (a branch of the once powerful border clan of the fenwicks) that had for many generations held a fair estate in the neighborhood of winde'rmere. as an only son i had succeeded to that estate on attaining my majority, and had sold it to pay off the debts which had been made by my father, who had the costly tastes of an antiquary and collector. the residue on the sale insured me a modest independ- ence apart from the profits of a profession; and as i had not been legally bound to defray my father’s debts, so i obtained that character for disinterestedness and in- tegrity which always in england tends to propitiate the public to the successes achieved by industry or talent. perhaps, too, any professional ability i might possess was the more readily conceded, because i had cultivated with assiduity the sciences and the scholarship which are collaterally connected with the study of medicine. thus, in a word, i established a social position which came in aid of my professional repute, and silenced much of that envy which usually embitters and sometimes impedes success. dr. faber retired at the end of the twd years agrmd upon. he went abroad; and being, though advanced in years, of a frame still robust, and habits of mind still inquiring and eager, be commenced a lengthened a sraauon srosr. course of foreign travel, during which our correspond- ence, at first frequent, gradually languished, and finally died away. . i succeeded at once to the larger part of the practice which the labors of thirty years had secured to my pre decessor. my chief rival was a dr. lloyd, a benevolent. fervid man, not without genius—if genius be present where judgment is absent; not without science, if that may be science which fails in precision. one of those clever, desultory men who, in adopting a profession, do not give up to it the whole force and heat of their minds. men of that kind habitually accept a mechanical routine, because, in the exercise of their ostensible calling, their imaginative faculties are drawn away to pursuits more alluring. therefore, in their proper vocation they are seldom bold or inventive—out of it they are sometimes both to excess. and when they do take up a novelty in their own profession, they cherish it with an obstinate tenacity and an extravagant passion unknown to those quiet philosophers who take up novelties every day, examine them with the sobriety of practised eyes, to lay down altogether, modify in part, or accept in whole, according as inductive experiment supports or destroys conjecture. dr. lloyd had been esteemed a learned naturalist long before he was admitted to be a tolerable physician. amidst the privations of his youth he had contrived to form. and with each succeeding year he had persever- ingly increased, a zoological collection of creatures not * b a s'raasea s'roar. alive, but, happily for the beholder, stufi'ed or em balmed. from what i have said, it will be truly in- ferred that dr. lloyd’s earlier career as a physician had not been brilliant; but of late years he had gradu- ally rather aged, than worked himself, into that pro- fessional authority and station which time confers on a thoroughly respectable man, whom no one is disposed to envy, and all are disposed to like. _ now in l there were two distinct social circles. that of the wealthy merchants and traders, and that of a few privileged families inhabiting a part of the town aloof from the marts of commerce, and called the abbey hill. these superb areopagites exercised over the wives and daughters of the inferior citizens to whom all of l , except the abbey hill, owed its prosperity, the same kind of mysterious influence which the fine ladies of may fair and belgravia are reported to hold over the female denizens of bloomsbury and marylebone. abbey hill was not opulent; but it was powerful by a concentration of its resources in all matters of patron- age. abbey hill had its own milliner and its own draper, its own confectioner, butcher, baker, and tea- dcalcr; and the patronage of abbey hill was like the patronage of royalty, less lucrative in itself than as a solemn certificate of general merit. the shops on which abbey hill conferred its custom were certainly not the cheapest, possibly not the best. but they were undeniably the most imposing. the proprietors were a srssnon sroar. decorously pompous—the shopmen superciliously polite, they could not be more so if they had belonged to the state, and been paid by a public which they benefited and despised. the ladies of low town (as the city subjacent to the hill had been styled from a date remote in the feudal ages) entered those shops with a certain awe, and left them with a certain pride. there they had learned what the hill approved. there they had bought what the hill had purchased. it is much in this life to be quite sure that we are in the right, whatever that conviction may cost us. abbey hill had been in the habit of appointing, amongst other objects of patronage, its own physician. but that habit had fallen into disuse during the latter years of my predecessor’s practice. his superiority over all other medical men in the town had become so incontestable, that, though he was emphatically the doctor of low' town, the head of its hospitals and infirmaries, and by birth related to its principal traders, still as abbey hill was occasionally subject to the physical infirmities of meaner mortals, so on those occasions it deemed it best ‘ not to push the point of honor to the wanton sacrifice of life. since low town possessed one of the most famous physicians in england, abbey hill magnani- mously resolved not to crush him by a rival. abbey hill let him feel its pulse. when my predecessor retired, i had presumptuoust expected that the hill would have continued to suspend its normal right to a special physician, and shown to a strange s'roav. me the same generous favor it had shown to him who i had the more excuse for this presumption because the hill had already allowed me to visit a fair proportion had declared me worthy to succeed to his honors. of its invalids, had said some very gracious things to me about the great respectability f the fenwick family, and sent me some invitations to dinner, and a great many invitations to tea. but my self-conceit received a notable check. abbey hill declared that the time had come to reassert its dormant privilege—it must have a doctor of its own choosing—a doctor who might, indeed, be permitted to visit low town from motives of humanity or gain, but who must emphatically assert his special allegiance to abbey hill by fixing his home on that venerable promontory. miss brabazon, a spinster of uncertain age, but undoubted pedigree, with small fortune, but high nose, which she would pleasantly observe was a proof of her descent from humphrey duke of gloucester (with whom, indeed, i have no doubt, in spite of chro- nology, that she very often dined), was commissioned to inquire of me diplomatically, and without committing abbey hill too much by the overture, whether i would take a large and antiquated mansion, in which abbots were said to have lived many centuries ago, and which was still popularly styled abbots’ house, situated on the verge of the hill, as in that case the “hill,” would think of me. “ it is a large house for a single man, i allow,” said a strange story. ~ miss brabszon, candidly; and then added, with a side- long glance of alarming sweetness, “but when dr. fenwick has taken his true position (so old a family!) amongst us, he need not long remain single, unless he prefer it.” i replied, with more asperity than the occasion called for, that i had no thought of changing my residence at present. and if the hill wanted me, the hill must send for me. ‘ two days afterwards dr. lloyd took abbots’ house, and in less than aweek was proclaimed medical adviser to the hill. the election had been decided by the fiat of a great lady, who reigned supreme on the sacred emi- nence, under the name and title of mrs. colonel poyntz. “ dr. fenwick,” said this lady, “is a clever young man and a gentleman, but he gives himself airs—the hill does not allow any airs but its own. besides, he is a new comer; resistance to new comers, and, indeed, to all things new, except caps and novels, is one of the bonds that keep old established societies together. accordingly, it is by my advice that dr. lloyd has taken abbots‘ house; the rent would be too high for his means if the hill did not feel bound in honor to justify the trust he has placed in its patronage. i told him that all my friends, when they were in want of a doctor, would send for him; those who are my friends will do so. what the hill does, plenty of common people down there will do also:—so that question is settledl” a strange story and it was settled. dr. lloyd, thus taken by the hand, soon extended the range of his visits beyond the hill, which was not precisely a mountain of gold to doctors, and shared with myself, though in a comparatively small degree, the much more lucrative practice of low town. i had no cause to grudge his success, nor did i. but to my theories of medicine 'his diagnosis was shallow, and his prescriptions obsolete. when we were sum- moned to a joint consultation, our views as to the pro- per course of treatment seldom agreed. doubtless he thought i ought to have deferred to his seniority in years; but i held the doctrine which youth deems a truth and age a paradox, namely, that in science the young men are the practical elders, inasmuch as they are schooled in the latest experiences science has gathered up, while their seniors are cramped by the dogmas they were schooled to believe when the world was some decades the younger. meanwhile my reputation continued rapidly to ad vance; it became more than local; my advice was sought even by patients from the metropolis. that ambition which, conceived in early youth, had decided my career and sweetened all its labors—the ambition to take a rank and leave a name as one of the great pathologists, to whom humanity accords a grateful, if calm, renown—saw before it a level field and a certain goal. i know not whether a success far beyond that usually a srsanoa near. attained at the age i had reached served to increase, but it seemed to myself to justify, the main character- istic of my moral organization -intellectual pride. though mild and gentle to the sufferers under my care, as a necessary element of professional duty, i was intolerant of contradiction from those who belonged to my calling, or even from those who, in general opinion, opposed my favorite theories. i had espoused a school of medical philosophy severely rigid in its inductive logic. my creed was that of stern materialism. i had a contempt for the understanding of men who accepted with credulity what they could not explain by reason. my favorite phrase was “ com- mon sense.” at the same time i had no prejudice against bold discovery, and discovery necessitates con- jecture, but i dismissed as idle all conjecture that could not be brought to a practical test. as in medicine i had been the pupil of brenssais, so in metaphysics i was the disciple of condillac. i believed with that philosopher that “ all our knowledge we owe to nature, that in the beginning we can only instruct through her lessons, and that the whole art of reasoning consists in continuing as she has compelled us to commence.” keeping natural philosophy apart from the doctrines of revelation, i never assailed the last, but i contended that by the first no accurate rea- soner could arrive at the existence of the soul as a third principle of being equally distinct from mind and body. that by a miracle man might live again, was a question a strange sroar. of faith and not of understanding. i left faith to religion and banished it from philosophy. how define.with a precision to satisfy the logic of philosophy, what was to live again? the body? we know that the body rests in its grave till by the process of decomposition its ele- mental parts enter into other forms of matter. the mind? but the mind was as clearly the result of the bodily organization as the music of the harpsichord is the result of the instrumental mechanism. the mind shared the decrepitude of the body in extreme old age, and in the full vigor of youth a sudden injury to the brain might forever destroy the intellect of a plato or a shakspeare. but the third principle-the soul—the something lodged within the body, which yet was to survive it? where was that soul hidden out of the ken of the anatomist? when philosophers attempted to define it, were they not compelled to confound its nature and its actions with those of the mind? could they reduce it to the mere moral sense, varying accord ing to education, circumstances, and physical constitu- tion? but even the moral sense in the most virtu- ous of men may be swept away by a fever. such at the time i now speak of were the views i held. views certainly not original or pleasing; but i cherished them with as fond a tenacity as if they had been conso- iatory truths of which i was the first discoverer. i was intolerant to those who maintained opposite doctrines -despised them as irrational, or disliked them as insin- cere. certainly it i had fulfilled the career which my ——=:~;- ->—>mv*' .— a sraaser: sroar. ambition predicted—become the founder of a new school in pathology, and summed up my theories in academical lectm'es, i should have added another authority, how- ever feeble, to the sects which circumscribe the interest of man to the life that has its close in his grave. possibly that which i have called my intellectual pride was more nourished than i should have been willing to grant by the self-reliance which an unusual degree of physical power is apt to bestow. nature had blessed me with the thews of an athlete. among the hardy youths of the northern athens i had been pro-eminently distinguished for feats of activity and strength. my mental labors, and the anxiety which is inseparable from the conscientious responsibilities of the medical profession, kept my health below the par of keen enjoyment, but had in no way diminished my rare muscular force. i walked through the crowd with the firm step and lofty crest of the mailed knight of old, who felt himself, in his casement of iron, . match against numbers. thus the sense of a robust individuality, strong alike in disciplined reason and animal vigor— habituated to aid others, needing no aid for itself-con- tributed to render me imperious in will and arrogant in opinion. nor were such defects injurious to me in my profession; on the contrary, aided as they were by a calm manner, and a presence hot without that kind of dignity which is the livery of self-esteem, they served to impose respect and to inspire trust. a s'rnanoa s'roar chapter ii. i had been about six years at l when i became suddenly involved in a controversy with dr. lloyd. just as this ill-fated man appeared at the culminating point of his professional fortunes, he had the impru- dence to proclaim himself not only an enthusiastic advocate of mesmerism, as a curative process, but an ardent believer of the reality of somnambular clairvoy- ance as an invaluable gifi of certain privileged organi- zations. to these doctrines i sternly opposed myself -the more sternly, perhaps, because on these doctrines dr. lloyd founded an argument for the existence of soul, independent of mind as of matter, and built thereon a superstructure of physiological phantasies, which, could it be substantiated, would replace every system of metaphysics on which recognized philosophy conde- scends to dispute. about two years before he became a disciple rather of puysegur than mesmer (for mesmer had little faith in that gift of clairvoyance of which puysegur was, i believe, at least in modern times, the first audacious asserter), dr. lloyd had been afliicted with the loss of a wife many years younger than himself, and to whom he had been tenderly attached. and this bereavement, in directing the hopes that consoled him to a world beyond the grave, had served perhaps to render him \ 's \ a sraxuca sroar. '! more credulous of the phenomena in which be greeted additional proofs of purely spiritual existence. cer tainly, if, in controverting the notions of another physiologist, i had restricted myself to that fair antago- nism which belongs to scientific disputants, anxious only for the truth, i should need no apology for sincere conviction and honest argument; but when, with con- descending good nature, as if to a man much younger than himself, who was ignorant of the phenomena which he nevertheless denied, dr. lloyd invited me to attend his séances and witness his cures, my amour propre became roused and nettled, and it seemed to me necessary to put down what i asserted to be too gross an outrage on common sense to justify the ceremony of examination. i wrote, therefore, a small pamphlet on the subject, in which i exhausted all the weapons that irony can lend to contempt. dr. lloyd replied, and as he was no very skilful arguer, his reply injured him perhaps more than my assault. meanwhile, i had made some inquiries as to the moral character of his favorite clairvoyants. i imagined that i had learned enough to justify me in treating them as flagrant cheats -—and himself as their egregious dupe. low town soon ranged itself, with very few excep- tions, on my side. the hill at first seemed disposed to rally round its insulted physician, and to make the dispute a party question, in which the hill would have been signally worsted, when suddenly the same lady paramount, who had secured to dr. llcyd the smile _ a sraauon srosr. of the eminence, spoke forth against him, and the eminence frowned. “dr. lloyd,” said the queen of the hill, “is an amiable creature, but on this subject decidedly cracked. cracked poets may be all the better for being cracked —cracked doctors are dangerous. besides, in deserting that old-fashioned routine, his adherence to which made his claim to the hill’s approbation, and unsettling the mind of the hill with wild revolutionary theories, dr. lloyd has betrayed the principles on which the hill itself rests its social foundations. of those principles dr. fenwick has made himself champion; and the hill is bound to support him. there, the question is settled i” and it was settled. i from the moment mrs. colonel poyntz thus issued the word of command, dr. lloyd was demolished. his practice was gone, as well as his repute. mortification or anger brought on a stroke of paralysis which, disa- bling my opponent, put an end to our controversy. an ' obscure dr. jones, who had been the special pupil and protégé of dr. lloyd, offered himself as a candidate for the hill’s tongues and pulses. the hill gave him little encouragement. it once more suspended its electoral privileges, and, without insisting on calling me up to it, the hill quietly called me in whenever its health needed other advice than that of its visiting apothecary. again, it invited me, sometimes to dinner, often to tea. and again, miss brabazon assured me by a sidclong glance that it was no fault of hers if i was still single. a s'rnauen smear. i had almost forgotten the dispute which had obtained for me so conspicuous a triumph, when one winter’s night i was roused from sleep by a summons to attend dr. lloyd, who, attacked by a second stroke a few hours previously, had, on recovering, expressed a vehement desire to consult the rival by whom he had sufi‘ered so severely. i dressed myself in haste and hurried to his house. a february night, sharp and bitter. an iron-grey frost below—a spectral melancholy moon above. i had to ascend the abbey hill by a steep, blind lane between high walls. i passed through stately gates, which stood wide open, into the garden ground that surrounded the old abbots' house. at the end of a short carriage-drive, the dark and gloomy building cleared itself from leafless, skeleton trees; the moon resting keen and cold on its abrupt gables and lofty chimney-stacks. an old woman-servant received me at the door, and, without saying a word, led me through a long low hall, and up dreary oak stairs, to a broad landing, at which she paused for a momeut, listening. round and about hall, staircase, and landing were ranged the dead specimens of the savage world which it had been the pride of the naturalist’s life to collect. close where i stood yawned the open jaws of the fell anaconda—its lower coils hidden, as they rested on the floor below, by the winding of the massive stairs. against the dull wainscot walls were pendent cases stored with grgotesque unfamiliar mummies, seen imper- a s'raasor: sroar. fectly by the moon that shot through the window-panes, and the candle in the old woman’s hand. and as now she turned towards me, nodding her signal to follow, ani went on up the shadowy passage, rows of gigantic birds-ibis and vulture, and huge sea-glaucus— glared at me in the false liglit of their hungry eyes. so i entered the sick-room, and the first glance told me that my art was powerless there. the children of the stricken widower were grouped round.his bed, the eldest apparently about fifteen, the youngest four; one little girl—the only female child- was clinging to her father’s neck, her face pressed to his bosom, and in that room her sobs alone were loud. as i passed the threshold, dr. lloyd lifted his face, which had been bent over the weeping child, and gazed on me with an aspect of strange glee, which i failed to interpret. then, as i stole towards him softly and slowly, be pressed his lips on the long fair tresses that streamed wild over his breast, motioned to a nurse who stood beside his pillow to take the child away, and, in a voice clearer than i could have expected in one on whose brow lay the unmistakable dead of death, he bade the, nurse and the children quit the room. all went sorrowfully, but silently, save the little girl, who, borne-off in the nurse’s arms, continued to sob as if her heart were breaking. i was not prepared for a scene so afi'ecting; it moved me to the quick. my eyes wistfully followed the children so soon to be orphans, as one after one went a strange story. out into the dark, chill shadow, and amidst t..e bloodless forms of the dumb brute nature, ranged in grisly vista beyond the death-room of man. and when the last infant shape had vanished, and the d r closed with a jarring click, my sight wandered loiteringly around the chamber before i could bring myself to fix it on the broken form, beside which i now stood in all that glorious vigor of frame which had fostered the pride of my mind. in the moment consumed by my mournful survey, the whole aspect of the place impressed itself inefl'ace- ably on life-long remembrance. through the high, deep-sunken casement, across which the thin, faded curtain was but half drawn, the.moonlight rushed, and then settled on the floor in one shroud of white glimmer, lost under the gloom of the death-bed. the roof was low, and seemed lower still by heavy, intersecting beams, which i might have touched with my lifted hand. and the tall, guttering candle by the bedside, and the flicker from the fire struggling out through the fuel but newly heaped on-it, threw their reflection on the ceiling just over my head i:.__. reek of quivering blackness, like an angry cloud. ' suddenly i felt my arm grasped: with his left hand (the right side was already lifeless) the dying man drew me towards him nearer and nearer, till his lips almost touched my ear. and, in a voice now firm, now split ting into gasp and hiss, thus he said: “i have summoned you to gaze on your own work] a s'rasuos s'ronv. you have stricken down my life at the moment when it was most needed by my children, and most service- able to mankind. had i lived a few years longer, my children would have entered on manhood, safe from the temptations of want and undejected by the charity of strangers. thanks to you, they will be penniless orphans. fellow-creatures afflicted by maladies your pharmacopceia had failed to reach, came to me for relief, and they found it. ‘the efl'ect of imagination,’ you say. what matters, if i directed the imagination to cure? now you have mocked the unhappy ones out of their last chance of life. they will suffer and perish; did you believe me in error? still you knew that my object was research into truth. you employed against your brother in art venomous drugs and a poisoned probe. look at me! are you satisfied with your work y” ‘ l i sought to draw back and pluck my arm from the dying man’s grasp. i could not do so without using a force that would have been inhuman. his lips drew nearer still to my ear: “ vain pretender, do not boast that you brought a genius for epigram to the service of science. science is lenient to all who offer experiment as the test of con- jecture. you are of the ~stuli' of which inquisitors are made. you cry that truth is profaned when your dog- mas are questioned. in your shallow presumption you have meted the dominions of nature, and where your eye halts its vision, you say, ‘there, nature must close ;’ a s'raanon s'ronr. in the bigotry which adds crime to presumption, you would stone the discoverer who, in annexing new realms to her chart, unsettlcs your arbitrary landmarks. verily, retribution shall await you. in those spaces which your sight has disdained to explore you shall yourself be a lost and bewildered straggler. hist! i see them already! the gibbering phantoms are gather~ ing round you i” the man’s voice stopped abruptly; his eye fixed in a glazing stare; his hand relaxed its hold; he fell back on his pillow. i stole from the room; on the landing- place i met the nurse and the old woman-servant. happily the children were not there. but i heard the wail of the female child from some room not far distant. i whispered hurriedly to the nurse, “all is over!”— passed again under the jaws of the vast anaconda, and, on through the blind lane between the dead walls, on through the ghastly streets, under the ghastly moon, went back to my solitary home. a strange sronr. venar'rsa iii. ' was some time before i could shake ofl' the im- pression made on me by the words and the look of that dying man. it was not that my conscience upbraided me. what had i done? denounced that which i held, in common with most men of sense in or out of my profession, to be one of those illusions by which quackery draws profit from the wonder of ignorance. was i to blame if i refused to treat with the grave respect due to asserted discovery in legitimate science pretensions to powers akin to the fables of wizards? was i to descend from the academe of decorous science to examine whether a slumbering sibyl could read from a book what at that moment was being done by my friend at the antipodes? and what though dr. lloyd himself might be a worthy and honest man, and a. sincere believer in the placed at her back, or tell me at l extravagances for which he demanded an equal credulity in others, do not honest men every day incur the penalty of ridicule if, from a defect of good sense, they make themselves ridiculous? could i have foreseen that a satire so justly provoked would inflict so deadly a wound? was i inhumanly barbarous because the antagonist destroyed was morbidly sensitive? my a s'raauon away. conscience, therefore, made no reproach, and the public was as little severe as my conscience. the public hao been with me in our contest—the public knew nothing of my opponent’s death-bed accusations—the public knew only that i attended him in his last moments —it saw me walk beside the bier that bore him to his grave —- it admired the respect to his memory which i evinced in the simple tomb that i placed over his remains, in- scribed with an epitaph that did justice to his unques- tionable benevolence and integrity; _— above all, it praised the energy with which i set on foot . subscrip- tion for his orphan children, and the generosity with which i headed that subscription by a sum that was large in proportion to my means. to that sum i did not, indeed, limit my contribution. the sobs of the poor female child rang still on my heart. as her grief had been keener than that of her brothers, so she might be subjected to sharper trials than they, when the time came for her to'fight her own way through the world; therefore i secured to her, but with such precautions that the gift could not be traced to my hand, a sum to accumulate till she was of mar- riageable age, and which then might suffice for a small wedding-portion; or if she remained single, for an income that would place her beyond the temptation of want, or the bitterness of a servile dependence. that dr. lloyd should have died in poverty was a matter of surprise at first, for his profits during the last few years had been considerable, and his mode of life a strange s'rosr. far frcm extravagant. but just before the date of our controversy he had been induced to assist the brother of his lost wife, who was a junior partner in a london bank, with the loan of his accumulated savings. this man proved dishonest; he embezzled that and other sums intrusted to him, and fled the country. the same sentiment of conjugal afl‘ection which had cost dr. lloyd his fortune kept him silent as to the cause of the loss. it was reserved for his executors to discover the treachery of the brother-in-law, whom he, poor man, would have generously screened from additional disgrace. - the mayor of l—-, a wealthy and public-spirited merchant, purchased the museum' which dr. lloyd’s passion for natural history had induced him to form; and the sum thus obtained, together with that raised by subscription, sufiiced, not only to discharge all debts due by the deceased, but to insure t the orphans the benefits of an education that might fit at least the boys to enter fairly armed into that game, more of skill than of chance, in which fortune is really so little blinded that we see, in each turn of her wheel, wealth and its honors pass away from the lax fingers of ignorance and sloth, to the resolute grasp of labor and knowledge. meanwhile, a relation in a distant county undertook the charge of the orphans; they disappeared from the scene, and the tides of life in a commercial community soon flowed over the place which the dead man had occupied in the thoughts of his bustling townsfolk. a strange s'ronv. one person at l , and only one, appeared to share and inherit the rancor with which the poor physician had denounced me on his death-bed. it was a gentle- man named vigors, distantly related to the deceased, and who had been, in point of station, the most emi- nent of dr. lloyd’s partisans in the controversy with myself; a man of no great scholastic acquirements, but of respectable abilities. he had that kind of power which the world concedes to respectable abilities when accompanied with a temper more than usually stern, and a moral character more than usually austere. his ruling passion was to sit in judgment upon others; and, being a magistrate, he was the most active and the most rigid of all the magistrates l had ever known. mr. vigors at first spoke of me with great bitterness, as having ruined, and in fact killed, his friend, by the uncharitable and' unfair acerbity which he declared i had brought into what ought to have been an unpreju- diced examination of simple matter of fact. but find- ing no sympathy in these charges, he had the discretion to cease from making them, contenting himself with a solemn shake of his head if he heard my name men- tioned in terms of praise, and an oracular sentence or two, such as “time will show ;” “ ali’s well that ends well,” & . mr. vigors, however, mixed very little in the more convivial intercourse of the townspeople. he called himself domestic; but, in truth, be was ungenial. a stifi‘ man, starched with self-esteem. he thought a summer; swear. that his dignity of station was not sufliciently acknow- ledged by the merchants of low town, and hi superiority of intellect not sufiiciently recognized by the exclusives of the hill. his visits were, therefore, chiefly confined to the houses of neighboring squires, to whom his reputation as a magistrate, conjoined with his solemn exterior, made him one of those oracles by which men consent to be awed on condition that the awe is not often inflicted. and though he opened his house three times a week, it was only to a select few, whom he first fed and then biologized. electro-biology was very naturally the special entertainment of a man whom no intercourse ever pleased in which his will was not imposed upon others. therefore he only invited to his table persons whom he could stare into the abnegation of their senses, willing to say that beef was lamb, or brandy was cofi'ee, according as he willed them to say. and, no doubt, the persons asked would have said anything he willed, so long as they had, in substance, as well as in idea, the beef and the brandy, the lamb and the cofi'ee. i did not, then, often meet mr. vigors at the houses in which i occasionally spent my evenings. i heard of his enmity as a man safe in his home hears the sough of a wind on a common without. if now and then we chanced to pass in the streets, he looked up at me (he was a small man walk- ing on tiptoe) with the sullen scowl of dislike. and, from the height of my stature, i dropped upon the small man and sullen scowl the afi'able smile of supreme indifference. a s'raauoa sroar. chapter iv. i had now arrived at that age when an ambitious man, satisfied with his progress in the world without, begins to feel, in the cravings of unsatisfied affection, the void of a solitary hearth. i resolved to marry, and looked out for a wife. i had never hitherto admitted into my life the passion of love. in fact, i had regarded that passion, even in my earlier youth, with a certain superb contempt—as a malady engendered by an efl'eminate idleness, and fostered by a sickly imagi< ‘ nation. i wished to find in a wife a rational companion, an affectionate 'hnd trustworthy friend. n views of matri- mony could be less romantic, more soberly sensible, than those which i conceived. nor were my requirements mercenary or presumptuous. i cared not for fortune; i asked nothing from connections. my ambition was exclusively professional; it could be served by no titled kindred, accelerated by no wealthy dower. i was no slave to beauty. i did not seek in a wife the accom- plishments of a finishing school-teacher. having decided that the time had come to select my helpmate, i imagined that i should find no difficulty in a choice that my reason would approve. but day upon day, week upon week, passed away, and though among the families i visited there were many young iadies a s'raanen areas. who possessed more than the qualifications with which i conceived that i should be amply contented, and by whom i might flatter myself that my proposals would not be disdained, i saw not one to whose life-long com- panionship i should not infinitely have preferred the solitude i found so irksome. one evening, in returning home from visiting a poor female patient whom i attended gratuitously, and whose case demanded more thought than that of any other in my list—for though it had been considered hopeless in the hospital, and she had come home to die, i felt certain that i could save her, and she seemed recovering under my care—one evening, it was the fifteenth of may, i found myselfjust before the gates of the house that had been inhabited by dr.~lloyd. since his death the house had been unoccupied; the rent asked for it by the pro- prietor was considered high; and from the sacred hill on which it was situated, shyness or pride banished the wealthier traders. the garden gates stood wide open, as they had stood in the winter night on which i had passed through them to the chamber of deatn. the remembrance of that death~bed came vividly before me, and the dying man’s fantastic threat rang again in my startled ears. an irresistible impulse, which i could . not then account for, and which i cannot account for now—an impulse the reverse of that which usually makes us turn away with quickened step from a spot that recalls associations of pain—urged me on through the open gates up the neglected, grass-grown road. urged a s'raanen sroar. | me to look, under the westering sun of the joyous spring, at that house which i had never seen but in the gloom of a winter night, under the melancholy moon. as the building came in sight, with dark-red bricks, partially overgrown with ivy, i perceived that it was no longer unoccupied. i saw forms passing athwart the open windows; a van laden with articles of furniture stood before the door; a servant in livery was beside it giving directions to the men who were unloading. evidently some family was just entering into possession. i felt somewhat ashamed of my trespass, and turned round quickly to retrace my steps. i had retreated but a few yards, when i saw before me at the entrance gates mr. vigors, walking beside a lady apparently of middle age; while, just at hand, a path cut through the shrubs gave view of a small wicketgate at the end of the grounds. i felt unwilling not only to meet the lady, whom i guessed to be the new occupier, and to whom i should have to make a somewhat awkward apology for intrusion, but still more to encounter the scornful look of mr. vigors, in what appeared to my pride . false or undignified position. involuntarily, therefore, i turned down the path which would favor my escape unobserved. when about half way between the house and the wicket-gate, the shrubs that had clothed the path on either side suddenly opened to the left, bringing into view a circle of sward, surrounded by irregular fragments of old brickwork partially covered with ferns, creepers, or rock-plants, weeds, or wild flowers; and, in * a s'raanea swear. the centre of the circle, a fountain, or rather well, over which was built a gothic, monastic dome or canopy, resting on small norman columns, time-worn, dilapi- dated. a large willow overhung this unmistakable relic of the ancient abbey. there was an air of antiquity, romance, legend about this spot, so abruptly disclosed amidst the delicate green of the young shrubberies. but it was not the ruined wall nor the gothic well that chained my footstep and charmed my eye. it was a solitary human form, seated amidst the mournful ruins. the form was so slight, the face so young, that at the first glance i murmured to myself, “what a loveiy child!” but as my eye lingered, it recognized in the upturned, thoughtful brow, in the sweet, serious aspect, in the rounded outlines of that slender shape, the inex- pressible dignity of virgin woman. a book was on her lap, at her feet a little basket, half filled with violets and blossoms culled from the rock-plants that nestled amidst the ruins. behind her the willow, like an emerald waterfall, showered down its arching abundant green, bough after bough, from the tree-top to the award, descending in wavy verdure, bright towards the summit, in the smile of the setting sun, and darkening into shadow as it neared the earth she did not notice, she did not see me; her eyes were fixed upon the horizon, where it sloped farthest into space, above the tree-tops and the ruins; fixed so intently that mechanically i turned my own gaze to s snares sroar. follow the flight of hers. it was as if she watched for some expected, familiar sign to grow out from the depths of heaven; perhaps to greet, before other eyes beheld it, the ray of the earliest star. the birds dropped from the boughs on the turf around her, so fearlessly that one aligbted amidst the flowers in the little basket at her feet. there is a famous german poem, which i had read in my youth, called the maiden from abroad, variously supposed to be an allegory of spring or of poetry, according to the choice of commentators; it seemed to me as if the poem had been made for her. verily, indeed, in her, poet or painter might have seen an image equally true to either of those adorners of the earth; both outwardly a delight to sense, yet both wakcning up thoughts within us, not sad, but akin to sadness. i heard now a step behind me, and a voice which i recognized to be that of mr. vigors. i broke from the charm by which i had been so lingeringly‘spell-bound, hurried on confusedly, gained the wicketgate, from which a short flight of stairs descended into the com- mon thoroughfare. and there the every-day life lay again before me. on the opposite side, houses, shops, church spires; a few steps more, and the bustling streets l how immeasurably far from, yet how familiarly near to, the world in which we move and have being is that fairy land of romance which opens out from the hard earth before us, when love steals at first to our side; fading back into the hard earth again as love smiles or sighs its farewell! a sraauen s'roar; chapter v and before that evening i had looked on mr. vigora with supreme indifi'erencel—what importance he now assumed in my eyes! the lady with whom i had seen him was doubtless the new tenant of that house in which the young creature by whom my heart was so strangely moved evidently had her home. most probap bly the relation between the two ladies was that of mother and daughter. mr. vigors, the friend'of one, might himself be related to both—might prejudice them against me -might—- here, starting up, i snapped the thread of conjecture, for right before my eyes, on the table beside which i had seated myself on entering my room, lay a card of invitation : mas. porn'rz, at home, wednesday, may th. early. mrs. poyntz—mrs. colonel poyntz? the queen of the hill. there, at her house, i could not fail to learn all abdut the new comers, who could never without her sanction have settled on her domain. i hastily changed my dress, and, with beating heart, wound my way up the venerable eminence. i did not pass through the lane which led direct to abbots’ house (for that old building stood solitary a s'raanea sroar. amidst its grounds, a little apart from the spacious plat- form on which the society of the hill was concentrated), but up the broad causeway, with vistaed gas-lamps; the gayer shops still unclosed, the tide of busy life only slowly ebbing from the still animated street, on to a square, in which the four main thoroughfares of the city converged, and which formed the boundary of low town. a huge dark archway, popularly called monk’s gate, at the angle of this square, made the entrance to _ abbey hill. when the arch was passed, one felt at once that one was in the town of a former day. the pavement was narrow, and rugged; the shops small, their upper stories projecting, with, here and there, plastered fronts, quaintly arabesqued. an ascent, short, but steep and tortuous, conducted at once to the old abbey church, nobly situated in a vast quadrangle, round which were the genteel and gloomy dwellings of the areopagites of they hill. more genteel and less gloomy than the rest—lights at the windows and flowers on the balcony-stood forth, flanked by a garden wall at either side, the mansion of mrs. colonel poyntz. as i entered the drawing-room, i heard the voice of the hostess; it was a voice clear, decided, metallic, bell- like, uttering these words: “ taken abbots’ house? i will tell you.” ' a s'raaxoz sroay. chapter vi. mns. poyntz was seated on the sofa; at her right sat fat mrs. bruce, who was a scotch lord’s grand- daughter; at her left thin miss brabazon, who was an irish baronet's neice. around her—a few seated, many standing—had grouped all the guests, save two old gentlemen, who remained aloof with colonel poyntz near the whist-table, waiting for the fourth old gentle- man, who was to make up the rubber, but who was at that moment spell-bound in the magic circle; which curiosity, that strongest of social demons, had attracted round the hostess. “taken abbots’ house? i will tell you -—- ah, dr. fenwick, charmed to see you. you know abbots’ house is let at last? well, miss brabazon, dear, you ask who has taken it. i will inform yon-a particular friend of mine.” “ indeedl dear me ” said miss brabazon, looking confused. “i hope i did not say anything to ” "wound my feelings. not in the least. you said your uncle, sir phelim, employed a coacbmaker named ashleigh, that ashleigh was an uncommon name, though ashley was a common one; you intimated an appalling suspicion that the mrs. ashleigh who had come to the hill was the coachmaker’s widow. _i relieve your mind ' -she is not; she is the widow of gilbert ashleigh, of kirby hall.” a sraanea s'ronr. ' “ gilbert ashleigh,” said one of the guests, a bachelor, whose parents had reared him for the church, but who, like poor goldsmith, did not think himself good enough it). it—a mistake of over-modesty, for he matured into a very harmless creature: “gilbert ashleigh. i was at oxford with him—a gentleman commoner of christ church. good-looking man—very; capped ” “ sappedl what’s that?— oh, studied. that he did all his life. he married young—anne chaloner; she and i were girls together; married the same year. they settled at kirby hall _ nice place, but dull. poyntz and i spent a christmas there. ashleigh when he talked was charming, but he talked very little. anne. when she talked, was commonplace, and she talked very much. naturally, poor thing, she was so happy. poyntz and i did not-spend another christmas there. friendship is long, but life is short. gilbert ashleigh’s life was short, indeed; he died in the seventh year of his marriage, leaving only one child, a girl. since then, though i never spent another christmas at kirby hall, i have frequently spent a day there, doing my best to cheer up anne. she was no longer talka- tive, poor dear. wrapt up in her child, who has now grown into a beautiful girl of eighteen—such eyes, her father’s—the real dark-blue—rare; sweet creature, but delicate; not, i hope, consumptive, but delicate; quiet —wants life. my girl jane adores her. jane has life enough for two.” “is miss ashleigh the heiress to kirby hall ?” asked mrs. bruce. who had an unmarried son. a summer: near. “n . kirby hall passed to ashleigh sumner, the male heir, a cousin. and the luckiest of cousins! gilbert’s sister, showy woman (indeed all show), had contrived to marry her kinsman, sir walter ashleigh haughton, the head of the ashleigh family—just the man made to be the reflector of a showy womanl he died years ago, leaving an only son, sir james, who was killed last winter, by a fall from his horse. and here, again, ashleigh sumner proved to be the male heir-at-law. during the minority of this fortunate youth, mrs. ashleigh had rented kirby hall of his guardian. he is now just coming of age, and that is why she leaves. lilian ashleigh will have, however, a very good fortune-is what we genteel paupers call an heiress. is there anything more you want to know?” said thin miss brabazon, who took advantage of her thinness to wedge herself into every one’s affairs, “a most interesting account. what a nice place abbots' house could be made with a little taste! so aristo- craticl just what i should like if i could afford it! the drawing-room should be done up in the moorish style, with geranium-colored silk curtains like dear lady l-—-’s boudoir at twickenham. and mrs. ashleigh has taken the house! on lease, too, i sup- pose !” here miss brabazon fluttered her fan angrily, and then exclaimed, “but what on earth brings mrs. ashleigh here y” answered mrs. colonel poyntz, with the military a s'rnasoa sroaw. frankness by which she kept her company in good humor, as well as awe: “why do any of us come here? can any one tell me ?” there was a blank silence, which the hostess herself was first to break. “ none of as present can say why we came here. i can tell you why mrs. ashleigh came. our neighbor, mr. vigors, is a distant connection of the late gilbert ashleigh, one of the executors to his will, and the guardian to the heir-at-law. about ten days ago mr. vigors called on me, for the first time since i felt it my duty to express my disapprobation of the strange vaga- ries so nnhappily conceived by our poor dear friend dr. lloyd. and when he had taken the chair, just where you now sit, dr. fenwick, he said, in a sepulchral voice, stretching out two fingers, so- as if i was one of the whatrdo-you-calllems who go to sleep when he bids them: ‘marm, you know mrs. ashleigh? you correspond with her.’ ‘yes, mr. vigors; is there any crime in that? you look as if there were.’ ‘no crime, marm,’ said the man, quite seriously. ‘mrs. ashleigh is a lady of amiable temper, and you are a woman of masculine understanding. "’ here there was a general titter. mrs. colonel poyntz hushed it with a look of severe surprise: “what is there to laugh at? all women would be men if they could. if my understanding is masculine, so much the better for me. i thanked mr. vigors for his very d a s'raaue: s'roar. handsome compliment, and he then went on to say, 'that though mrs. ashleigh would now have to leave kirby hall in a very few weeks, she seemed quite unable to make up her mind where to go; that it had occurred to him that, as miss ashleigh was of an age to see a little of the world, she ought not to remain buried in the country; while, being of a quiet mind, she recoiled from the dissipations of london. between the seclusion of the one and the turmoil of the other, the society of l— was a happy medium. he should be glad of my opinion. he had put off asking for it, because he owned his belief that i had behaved unkindly to his lamented friend, dr. lloyd; but he now found himself in rather an awkward position. his ward, young sumner, had prudently resolved on fixing his country residence at kirby hall, rather than at haughton park, the much larger seat, which had so suddenly passed to his inheritance, and which he could not occupy without a vast establishment, that to a single man, so young, would be but a cumbersome and costly trouble. mr. vigors'was pledged to his ward to obtain him possession of kirby hall the precise day agreed upon, but mrs. ashleigh did not seem disposed to stir—could not decide where else to go. mr. vigors was loth to press hard on his old friend’s widow and child. it was a thousand pities mrs. ashleigh could not make up her mind; she had had ample time for preparation. a word from me at this moment, would be an efi'ective kindness. abbots’ house was vacant, a std-lng! sweet. with a garden so extensive that the ladies would not miss the country. another party was after it, but—’ ‘say no more,’ i cried; ‘no party but my dear old friend a‘nne ashleigh shall have abbots’ house. so that question is settled.’ i dismissed mr. vigors, sent for my carriage-that is, for mr. barker’s yellow fly and his best horses—and drove that very day to kirby hall, which, though not in this county, is only twenty- five miles distant. i slept there that night. by nine o’clock the next morning i had secured mrs. ashleigh’s consent, on the promise to save her all trouble; came back, sent for the landlord, settled the rent, lease, agreement; engaged forbes’ vans to remove the furni- ture from kirby hall; told forbes to begin with the beds. when her own bed came, which was last night, anne ashleigh came too. i have seen her this morn- ing. she likes the place, so does lilian. i asked them to meet you all here to-night; but mrs. ashleigh was tired. the last of the furniture was to arrive to-day; and though dear mrs. ashleigh is an undecided character, she is not inactive. but it is not only the planning where to put tables and chairs that would have tired her to-day; she has had mr. vigors on her hands all the afsrnoon, and he has been—here’s hel little note—what are the words? no doubt, ‘most overpowering and oppressive’—no, ‘most kind and attentive’-—difl'erent words, but, as applied to mr. vigors, they mean the same thing. “and now, next monday—we must leave them in a era/mes story. peace till then-you will all call on the ashleighs. the hill knows what is due to itself; it cannot dele- gate to mr. vigors, a respectable man indeed, but who does not belong to its set, its own proper course of action towards those who would shelter themselves on its bosom. the hill cannot be kind and attentive, overpowering or oppressive, by proxy. to those new- born into its family circle it cannot be an indifferent godmother; it has towards them all the feelings of a mother, or of a stepmother, as the case may be. where it says, ‘this can be no child of mine,’ it is a stepmother, indeed; but, in all those whom i have presented to its arms, it has hitherto, i am proud to say, recognised desirable acquaintances, and to them the hill has been a mother. and now, my dear mr. slornan, go to your rubber; poyntz is impatient, though he don’t show it. miss brabazon, love, we all long to see you seated at the piano—you play so divinelyl something gay, if you please; something gay, but not very noisy—mr. leopold smythe will turn the leaves for you. mrs. bruce, your own favorite set at vingt-un, with four new recruits. dr. fenwick, you are like me, don’t play cards, and don’t care for music; sit here, and talk or not, as you please, while i knit.” the other guests thus disposed of, some at the card- tables, some round the piano, i placed myself at mrs. poyntz’s side, on a seat niched in the recess of a window which an evening unusually warm for the a s'raauea s'roar. month of may permitted to be left open. i was next to one who had known lilian as a child, one from whom i had learned by what sweet name to call the image which my thoughts had already shrined. how much that i still longed to know she could tell me! but in what form of question could ii lead to the subject, yet not betray my absorbing interest in it? longing to speak, i felt as if stricken dumb; stealing an unquiet glance towards the face beside me, and deeply impressed with that truth which the hill had long ago reverently acknowledged, viz., that mrs. colonel poyntz was a very superior woman- a very powerful creature. and there she sat knitting—rapidly, firmly; a woman somewhat on the other side of forty, complex- ion a bronzed paleness, hair a bronzed brown, in strong ringlets cropped short behind—handsome hair for a man; lips that, when closed, showed inflexible decision, when speaking, became supple and flexile with an easy humor and a vigilant finesse; eyes of a red hazel, quick but steady; observant, piercing, dauntless eyes; altogether a fine countenance—would have been a very fine countenance in a man; profile sharp, straight, clear-cut, with an expression, when in repose, .ike that of a sphinx; a frame robust, not corpulent, of middle height, but with an air and carriage that made her appear tall; peculiarly white firm, hands, indicative of vigorous health, not a vein visible on the surface. there she sat knitting, knitting, and i by her side, * a strange s'roav. gazing now on herself, now on her work, with a vague idea that the threads in the skein of my own web of love or of life were passing quick through those noise- less fingers. and, indeed, in every web of romance, the fondest one of the parcae is sure to be some matter- of-fact she, social destiny, as little akin to romance herself-as was this worldly queen of the hill. chapter viiv i have given a sketch of the outward woman of mrs. colonel poyntz. the inner woman was a recondite mystery, deep as that of the sphinx, whose features her own resembled. but between the outward and the inward woman there is ever a third woman-the con- ventional woman—such as the whole human being appears to the world—always mantled, sometimes masked. i am told that the fine people of london do not recognize the title of “mrs. colonel.” if that be true, the fine people of london must be clearly in the wrong, for no people in the universe could be finer than the fine people of abbey hill; and they considered their sovereign had as good a right to the title of mrs. colonel as the queen of england has to that of “our gracious lady.” but mrs. poyntz, herself. ncver a sraasen s'roar. assumed the title of mrs. colonel; it never appeared on her cards any more than the title of “ gracious lady ” appears on the cards which convey the invita- tion that a lord steward or lord chamberlain is commanded by her majesty to issue. to titles, indeed, mrs. poyntz evinced no superstitious reverence. two peeresses, related to her, not distantly, were in the habit of paying her a yearly visit, which lasted two or three days. the hill considered these visits an honor to its eminence. mrs. poyntz never seemed to esteem them an honor to herself; never boasted of them; never sought to show her grand relations, nor put herself the least out of the way to receive them. her mode of life was free from ostentation. she had the advantage of being a few hundreds a year richer than any other inhabitant of the hill; but she did not devote her superior resources to the invidious exhibi- tion of superior splendor. like a wise sovereign the revenues of her exchequer were applied to the benefit of her subjects, and not to the vanity of egotistical parade. as no one else on the hill kept a carriage, she declined to keep one. her entertainments were simple, but numerous. twice a week she received the hill, and was genuinely at home to it. she contrived to make her parties proverbially agreeable. the re- freshments were of the same kind as those which the poorest of her old maids of honor might prefer; but they were better of their kind, the best of their kind- the best tea, the‘best lemonade, the best cakes. her a strange scroar. rooms had an air of comfort, which was peculiar to them. they looked like rooms accustomed to receive, and receive in a friendly way; well warmed, well light-ed, card-tables and piano each in the place that made cards and music inviting. on the walls a few old family portraits, and three or four other pictures said to be valuable and certainly pleasing, two wat- teaus, a canaletti, a weenix—plenty of easy-chairs and settees covered with a cheerful chintz. in the arrange- ment of the furniture generally, an indescribable care- less elegance. she herself was studiously plain in dress, more conspicuously free from jewellery and trink- ets than any married lady on the hill. but i have heard from those who were authorities on such a sub- ject, that she was never seen in a dress of the last year’s fashion. she adopted the mode as it came out, just enough to show that she was aware it was out; but with a sober reserve, as much as to say, “i adopt the fashion as far as it suits myself; i do not permit the fashion to adopt me.” in short, mrs. colonel poyntz was sometimes 
ongh, sometimes coarse, always mascu- line, and yet somehow or other masculine in a womanly way; but she was never vulgar because never affected. it was impossible not to allow that she was a thorough gentlewoman, and she could do things that lower other gentlewomen, without any loss of dignity. thus she was an admirable mimic, certainly in itself the least lady- like condescension of humor. bulwhen she mimicked, it was with so tranquil a gravity, or so royal a good a sraauon s'roar '! humor, that one could only say, “what talents for society dear mrs. colonel has i” as she was a gentle woman emphatically, so the other colonel, the he- colonel, was emphatically a gentleman; rather shy, but not cold; hating trouble of every kind, pleased to seem a cipher in his own house. if the sole study of mrs. colonel had been to make her husband comfortable, she could not have succeeded better than by bringing friends about him and then taking them off his hands. colonel poyntz, the he-colonel, had seen, in his youth, actual service; but had retired from his profession many years ago, shortly after his marriage. he was a younger brother of one of the principal squires in the county; inherited the house he lived in, with some other valu- able property in and about l—-, from an uncle; was considered a good landlord ; and popular in low town, though 'he never interfered in its afl'airs. he was pnnctiliously neat in his dress; a thin, youthful figure, crowned with a thick, youthful wig. he never seemed to read anything but the newspapers and the meteoro- logical journal ; was supposed to be the most weather- wise man in all l-—-. he had another intellectual predilection—whist but in that he had less reputa- tion for wisdom. perhaps it requires a rarér combina- tion of mental faculties to win an odd trick than to divine a fall in the glass. for the rest, the he-colonel, many years older than his wife, despite the thin, youth- ful figure, was an admirable aide-de—camp to the general in command, mrs. colonel; and she could not have a summer; s'roay. found one more obedient, more devoted, or more proud of a distinguished chief in giving to mrs. colonel poyntz the appellation of queen of the hill, let there be no mistake. she was not a constitutional sovereign; her monarchy was abso- lute. all her proclamations had the force of laws. such ascendancy could not have been attained with- out considerable talents for acquiring and keeping it. amidst all her ofi-hand, brisk, imperious frankness, she had the ineifable discrimination of tact. whether civil or rude, she was never civil or rude but what she carried public opinion along with her. her knowledge of general society must have been limited, as must be that of all female sovereigns. but she seemed gifted with an intuitive knowledge of human nature, which she applied to her special ambition of ruling it. i have not a doubt that if she had been' suddenly trafisferred, a perfect stranger, to the world of london, she would have soon forced her way to its selectcst circles, and, when once there, held her own against a duchess. i have said that she was not affected; this might be one cause of her away over a set in which nearly every other woman was trying rather to seem, than to be, a somebody.' but if mrs. colonel poyntz was not artificial, she was artful, or perhaps i might more justly say, artistic. in all she said and did there were conduct, system, plan. she could be a most serviceable friend, a most damaging enemy; yet i believe she seldom indulged in a s'raanoa story. strong likings or strong hatreds. all was policy—a policy akin to that of a grand party chief, determined to raise up those whom, for any reason of state, it was prudent to favor, and to put down those whom, for any reason of state, it was expedient to humble or to crush. ever since the controversy with dr. lloyd, this lady had honored me with her benignest countenance. and nothing could be more adroit than the manner in which, while imposing me on others as an oracular authority, she sought to subject to her will the oracle itself. she was in the habit of addressing me in a sort of motherly way, as if she had the deepest interest in my welfare, happiness, and reputation. and thus, in every compliment, in every seeming mark of respect, she maintained the superior dignity of one who takes from responsible station the duty to encourage rising merit; so that, somehow or other, despite all that pride which made me believe that i needéd no helping hand to advance or to .clear my way through the world, i could not shake off from my mind the impression that i was mysteriously patronized by mrs. colonel poyntz. we might have sat together five minutes, side by side—in silence as complete as if in the cave of tro phonius—when, without looking up from her work,'. mrs. poyntz said, abruptly: "i am thinking about you, dr. fenwick. and you -—are thinking about some other woman. ungrateful man!” "unjust accusation! my very silence should prove a sraanen s'roav. how intently my thoughts were fixed on you, and on the weird web which springs under your hand in meshes that bewilder the gaze and snare; the attention.” mrs. poyntz looked up at me for a moment—one rapid glance of the bright red hazel eye—and said: “was i really in your thoughts? answer truly." “truly, i answer, you were.” “that is strangel who can it be f” “who can it be? what do you mean i” “if you were thinking of me, it was in connection with some other person—some other person of my own sex. it is certainly not poor dear miss brabazon. who else can it be ?” again the red eye shot over me, and i felt my cheek redden beneath it. “hush!” she said, lowering her voice; “you are in love!” “in lovel—il permit me to ask you why you think so i” “ the signs are unmistakable; you are altered in your manner, even in the expression of your face, since i last saw you; your manner is generally quiet and observant, it is now restless and distracted; your - expression of face is generally proud and serene, it is now humbled and troubled. you have something on your mind! it is not anxiety for your reputation, that ' is established; nor for your fortune, that is made; it is not anxiety for a patient, or you would scarcely be here. but anxiety it is, an anxiety that is remote from a strange story your profession, that touches your heart and is new to it!” _ _ i was startled, almost awed. but i tried to cover my confusion with a forced laugh. ~ “ profound observer! subtle analyst! you have convinced me that i must be in love, though i did not suspect it before. but when i strive to conjecture the object, i am as much perplexed as yourself; and with you, i ask, who can it be f” “ whoever it be,” said mrs. poyntz, who had paused, while i spoke, from her knitting, and now resumed it very slowly and very carefully, as if her mind and her knitting worked in unison together; “whoever it be, love in you would be serious; and, with or without love, marriage is a serious thing to us all. it is not every pretty girl that would suit allen fenwick." “alasl is there any pretty girl whom allen fenwick would suit y" “tutl you should be above the fretful vanity that lays traps for a compliment. yes; the time has come in your life and your career when you would do well to marry. i give my consent to that,” she added, with a smile as if in jest, and a slight nod as if in earnest. the knitting here went on more decidedly, more quickly. “ but i do not yet see the person. nol ’tis a pity, allen fenwick” (whenever mrs. poyntz called me by my christian name, she always assumed her majestic, motherly manner)-“ a pity that, with your birth, energies, perseverance, talents, and, let me add, your a s'rnason s'roar. advantages of manner and person-a pity that you did not choose a career that might achieve higher fortunes and louder fame than the most brilliant success can give .to a provincial physician. but in that very choice you interest me. my choice has been much the same. a small circle, but the first in it. yet, had i been a man, or had my dear colonel been a man whom it was in the power of a woman’s art to raise one step higher in that metaphorical ladder which is not the ladder of the angels, why, then—what then? no matter! i am contented. i transfer my ambition to jane. do you not think her handsome ?” “there can be no doubt of that,” said i, carelessly and naturally. “ i have settled jane's lot in my own mind,” resumed mrs. poyntz, striking firm into another row of knitting. “she will marry a country gentleman of large estate. he will go into parliament. she will study his advance- ment as i study poyntz’s comfort. if he be clever, she will help to make him a minister; if he be not clever, his wealth will make her a personage, and lift him into a personage’s husband. and, now that you see i have no matrimonial designs on you, allen fenwick, think if it will be worth while to confide in me. possibly i may be useful ---” l “i know not how to thank you. but as yet, i have nothing to confide.” while thus saying, i turned my eyes towards the open window beside which i sat. it was a beautiful a strange sroar. soft night the may moon in all her splendor. the town stretched, far and wide, below with all its num- berless lights; below—but somewhat distant; an intervening space was covered, here, by the broad quadrangle (in the midst of which stood, massive and lonely, the grand old church); and, there by the gardens and scattered cottages or mansions that clothed the sides of the hill. “ is not that house,” i said, after a short pause, “ yonder, with the three gables, the one in which—in which poor dr. lloyd lived—abbots’ house ” i spoke abruptly, as if to intimate my desire to change the subject of conversation. my hostess stopped her knitting, half rose, looked forth. “yes. but what a lovely night! how is it that the moon blends into harmony things of which the sun only marks the contrast? that stately, old church— tower, grey with its thousand years—those vulgar tile-roofs and chimney-pots raw in the freshness of yesterday; now, under the moonlight, all melt into one indivisible charm i” as my hostess thus spoke, she had left her seat, taking her work with her, and passed from the window into the balcony. it was not often that mrs. poyntz condescended to admit what is called “ sentiment ” into the range of her sharp, practical, worldly talk, but she did so at times; always when she did, giving me the notion of an intellect much too comprehensive not to allow that sentiment has a place in this life, but keeping a smarter: s'roar. it in its proper place, by that mixture of afi‘ability and indifference with which some high-born beauty allows the genius, but checks the presumption, of a charming and penniless poet. for a few minutes her eyes roved over the scene in evident enjoyment; then, as they slowly settled upon the three gables of abbots’ house, her face regained that something of hardness which belonged to its decided character; her fingers again mechanically resumed her knitting, and she said, in her clear, unsoftened, metallic chime of voice, “ can you yfuess why i took so much trouble to oblige mr. vigors and locate mrs. ashleigh yonder ?” “you favored us with a full explanation of your reasons.” “some of my reasons; not the main one. people who undertake the task of governing others, as i do, be their rule a kingdom or a hamlet, must adopt a principle of government and adhere to it. the princi- ple that suits best with the hill is respect for the proprieties. we have not much money, entre nous, we have no great rank. our policy is, then, to set up the proprieties as an influence which money must court and rank is afraid of. i had learned just before mr. vigors called on me that lady sarah bellasis entertained the idea of hiring abbots’ house. london has set its face against her; a provincial town would be more charitable. ' an earl’s daughter, with a good income and an awfully bad name, of the best manners and of the worst morals, would have made sad havoc " a sraaxor: sroar. among the proprieties. how many of our primmest old maids would have deserted tea and mrs. poyntz for champagne and her ladyship? the hill was never in so imminent a danger. rather than lady sarah bellasis should have taken that house, i would have taken it myself, and stocked it with owls. “ mrs. ashleigh turned up just in the critical mo- ment. lady sarah is foiled, the proprieties safe, and so that question is settled.” “ and it will be pleasant to have your early friend so near you.” i, mrs. poyntz lifted her eyes full upon me: “ do you know mrs. ashleigh ?” “ not in the least.” “ she has many virtues and few ideas. she is commonplace weak, as i am commonplace strong. but commonplace weak can be very lovable. her hus- band, a man of genius and learning, gave her his whole heart—a heart worth having, but he was not ambitious, and he despised the world.” “i think you said your daughter was very much attached to miss ashleigh ?‘ does her character re semble her mother’s ?” ' i was afraid while i spoke that i should again meet mrs. poyntz’s searching gaze, but‘she did not this time look up from her work. “ n ; lilian is anything but commonplace.” “you described her as having delicate'health; you implied a hope that she was not consumptive. i trust * ‘ a s'raauea s'roar. - that there is no serious reason for apprehending a constitutional tendency which at her age would reqtire the most careful watching!” “i trust not. if she were to die-dr. fenwick, what is the matter?” so terrible had been the picture which this woman’s words had brought before me, that i started as if my own life had received a shock. “i beg pardon,” i said, falteringly, pressing my hand to my heart; “a sudden spasm here—it is over now. you were saying that—that-” “ i was about to say—" and here mrs. poyntz laid her hand lightly on mine. “ i was about to say, that if lilian ashleigh were to die, i should mourn for her less than i might for one who valued the things of the earth more. but i believe there is no cause for the alarm my words so inconsiderately excited in you. her mother is watchful and devoted; and if the least thing ailed lilian, she would call in medical advice. mr. vigors would, i know, recommend dr. j ones.” closing our conference with those stinging words, mrs. poyntz here turned back into the drawing-room. i remained some minutes on the balcony, discon- certed, enraged. with what consummate art had this practised diplomatist wound herself into my secret. that she had read my heart better than myself was evident from that parthian shaft, barbed with dr. jones, which she had shot over her shoulder in retreat that, from the first moment in which she had deeoyed a strange mom. '! me to her side, she had detected “the something” on my mind was, perhaps, but the ordinary quickness of female penetration. but it was with no ordinary craft that her whole conversation afterwards had been so shaped as to learn the something, and lead me to reveal the some one to whom the something was linked. for what purpose? what was it to her? what motive could she have beyond the mere gratification of curiosity? perhaps, at first, she thought i had been caught by her daughter’s showy beauty, and hence the half-friendly, half-cynical frankness with which she had avowed her ambitious projects for that young lady’s matrimonial advancement. satisfied by my manner that i cherished no presumptuous hopes in that quarter, her scrutiny was doubtless continued from that pleasure in the exercise of a wily intellect which impels schemers and politicians to an activity for which, without that pleasure itself, there would seem no adequate inducement; and, besides, the ruling passion of this petty sovereign was power. and if knowledge be power, there is no better instrument of power over a contumacious subject than that hold on his heart which is gained in the knowledge of its secret. but “ secret i ” had it really come to this? was it possible that the mere sight of a human face, never beheld before, could disturb the whole tenor of my life -— a stranger of whose mind and character i knew nothing, whose very voice i had never heard? it was only by the intolerable pang of anguish that had rent a s'raasen near. my heart in the words, carelessly, abruptly spoken, “ if she were to die,” that i had felt how the world would be changed to me, if indeed that face were seen in it no more! yes, secret it was no longer to myself—i loved! and like all on whom love descends, some- times softly, slowly, with the gradual wing of the cushat settling down into its nest, sometimes with the swoop of the eagle on his unsuspecting quarry, i believed that none ever before loved as i loved—that such love was an abnormal wonder, made solely for me, and i for it. then my mind insensibly hushed its angrier and more turbulent thoughts, as my gaze rested upon the roof-tops of lilian’s home, and the shimmer- ing silver of the moonlit willow, under which i had seen her gazing into the roseate heavens. chapter viii. when i returned to the drawing-room, the party was evidently about to break up. those who had grouped round the piano were now assembled roundthe refresh- ment table. the card players had risen, and were settling or discussing gains and losses. while i was searching for my hat, which i had somewhere mislaid, a poor gentleman, tormented by tic-douloreux, crept timidly up to me-the proudest and the poorest of ail a sraauen arena the hidalgoes settled on the hill. he could not afford a fee for a physician’s advice, but pain had humbled his pride, and i saw at a glance that he was considering how to take a surreptitious advantage of social inter- course, and obtain the advice without paying the fee. the old man discovered the but before i did, stooped, took it up, extended it to me with the profound bow of the old school, while the other hand, clenched and quivering, was pressed into the hollow of his cheek, and his eyes met mine with wistful, mute entreaty. the instinct of my profession seized me at once. i could never behold sufl'ering without forgetting all else in the desire to relieve it. “ you are in pain,” said i, softly. “ sit down and describe the symptoms. here, it is true, i am no pro- fessional doctor, but i am a friend who is fond-of doctoring, and knows something about it.” so we sat down a little apart from the other guests, and after a few questions and answers, i was pleased to find that his “tic” did not belong to the less curable kind of that agonizing neuralgia. i was especially successful in my treatment of similar sufl'erings, for which i had discovered an anodyne that was almost specific. i wrete on a leaf of my pocket-book a pre- scription which i felt sure would be efiicacious, and as i tore it out and placed it in his hand, i chanced to look up, and saw the hazel eyes of my hostess fixed upon me with a kinder and softer expression than they oflen condescended to admit into their cold and pene~ a err-sues sroav. trating lustre. at that moment, however, her attention was drawn from me to a servant, who entered with a note, and i heard him say, though in an undertone, “from mrs. ashleigh.”- she opened the note, read it hastily, ordered the servant to wait without the door, retired to her writing table, which stood near the place at which i stil! lingered, rested her face on her hand, and seemed musing. her meditation was very soon over. she turned her head, and, to my surprise, beckoned to me. i approached. i “ sit here,” she whispered; “turn your back towards those people, who are no doubt watching us. read this.” she placed in my hand the note she had just received. it contained but a few words to this effect: “ dear maaosan'rn—i am so distressed. since i wrote to you, a few hours ago, lilian is taken suddenly ill, and i fear seriously. what medical man should i send for? let my servant have his name and address. a. a." i sprang from my seat. “ stay,” said mrs. poyntz. " would you much care if i sent the servant to dr. jones ?" “ ah, madam, you are cruel! what have i done that you should become my enemy ‘ ” "enemy! n . you have just befriended one of my friends. in this world of fools intellect should ally a strand! storm. itself with intellect. no; i am not your enemy! but you have not yet asked me to be your friend.” here she put into my hands a note she had written while thus speaking: “receive your credentials. if there be any cause for alarm, or if i can be of use, send for me.” resuming the work she had suspended, but with lingering, uncertain fingers, she added, “so far, then, this is settled. nay, no thanks! it is but little that is settled as yet.” i ' chapter ix. in a very few minutes i was once more in the grounds of that old gable house; the servant, who went before me, entered them by the stairs and the wicket-gate of the private entrance; that way was the shortest. so again i passed by the circling glade and the monastic well—award, trees, and ruins, all sufl'used in the limpid moonlight. and now i was in the house; the servant took upstairs the note with which i was charged, and a minute or two afterwards returned and conducted me to the corridor above, in which mrs. ashleigh received me. i was the first to speak: “your daughter—is— is—not seriously ill, i hope. what is it ?” “hush!” she said, under her breath. “will you step this way for a moment?” she passed through a a strange sroar. doorway to the right. i followed her, and as she placed on the table the light she had been holding, i looked round with a chill at the heart-it was the room in which dr. lloyd had died. impossible to mistake. the furniture, indeed, was changed -there was no bed in the chamber; but the shape of the room, the position of the high casement, which was now wide open, and through which the moonlight streamed more softly than on that drear winter night, the great square beams intersecting the low cciling- all were impressed vividly on my memory. the chair to which mrs. ashleigh beckoned me was placed just on the spot where i had stood by the bed-head of the dying man. i shrank back— i could not have seated myself there. so, i remained leaning against the chimney- . piece, while mrs. ashleigh told her story. she said that on their arrival the day before, lilian had been in more than usually good health and spirits, delighted with the old house, the grounds, and especially the neck by the monk’s well, at which mrs. ashleigh had left her that evening in order to make some pur- chases iu the town, in company with mr. vigors. when mrs. ashleigh returned, she and mr. vigors had sought lilian in that nook, and mrs. ashleigh then detected, with a mother’s eye, some change in lilian, which alarmed her. she seemed listless and dejected, and was very pale; but she denied that she felt unwell. on regaining the house she had sat down in the room in which we then were — “ which," said mrs. ashleigh. a summer: s'ronr. 'i " as it is not required for a sleeping-room, my daughter, who is fond of reading, wished to fit up as her own morning-room, or study. i left her _here and went into the drawing-room below with mr. vigors. when he quitted me, which he did very soon, i remained for nearly an hour giving directions about the .placing of furniture, which had just arrived from our late residence. then went upstairs to join my daughter, and to my terror found her apparently lifeless in her chair. she had fainted away.” i interrupted mrs. ashleigh here: “has miss ash- leigh been subject to fainting fits f” “ n , never. when she recovered she seemed be~ wildered-disinclined to speak. i got her to bed, and as she then fell quietly to sleep, my mind was relieved. i thought it only a passing effect of excitement, in a change of abode; or caused by something like malaria in the atmosphere of that part of the grounds in which i had found her seated.” “very likely. the hour of sunset at this time of year is trying to delicate constitutions. go on." “ about three-quarters of an hour ago she woke up with a loud cry, and has been ever since in a state of great agitation, weeping violently, and answering none of my questions. yet she does not seem light-headed, but rather what we call hysterical.” “ you will permit me now to see her. take comfort —-in all you tell me i see nothing to warrant serious alarm ” h a sraarma sroav. chapter x. to the true physician there is an inexpressibla sanctity in the sick-chamber. at its threshold the more human passions quit their hold on his heart. love there would be profanation. even the grief per- mitted to others he must put aside. he must enter that room— a calm intelligence. he is disabled for his mission if he sufi‘cr aught to obscure the keen, quiet glance of his science. age or youth, beauty or deformity, innocence or guilt, merge their distinctions in one common attribute-human suffering appealing to human skill. ~ woe to the households in which the trusted healer feels not on his conscience the solemn obligations of his glorious art. reverently, as in a temple, i stood in the virgin’s chamber. when her mother placed her hand in mine, and i felt the throb of its pulse, i was aware of no quicker beat of my own heart. i looked with a steady eye on the face, more beautiful from the flush that deepened the delicate hues of the young cheek, and the lustre that brightened the dark blue of the wandering eyes. she did not at first heed me; did not seem aware of my presence; but kept murmuring to herself words which i could not distinguish. at length, when i spoke to her, in that low, soothing tone which we learn at the sick-bed, the expression of a sraauoa “jar. ’ her face altered suddenly; she passed the hand i did not hold over her forehead, turned round, looked at me full and long, with unmistakable surprise, yet not as if the surprise displeased her; less the surprise which recoils from .the sight of a stranger than that which seems doubtfully to recognize an unexpected friend. yet on the surprise there seemed to creep something of apprehension—of fear—her hand trembled, her voice quivered, as she said: “ can it be, can it be? am i awake? mother, who is this!” “only a kind visitor, dr. fenwick, sent by mrs. poyntz, for i was uneasy about you, darling. how are you now?” “ better. strangely better." she removed her hand gently from mine, and with an involuntary, modest shrinking, turned towards mrs. ashleigh, drawing her mother towards herself, so that she became at once hidden from me. satisfied that there was here no delirium, nor even more than the slight and temporary fever which often accompanies a sudden nervous attack in constitutions peculiarly sensitive, i retired noiselessly from the room, and went, not into that which had been occupied by the ill-fated naturalist, butdown stairs into the drawing- room, to write my prescription. i had already sent the servant oil“ with it to the chemist’s before mrs: ashleigh joined me. “ she seems recovering surprisingly; her forehead is a summer; story. cooler; she is perfectly self-possessed, only she cannot account for her own seizure, cannot account either for the fainting or the agitation with which she awoke from sleep." “ i think i can account for both. the first room in which she entered—that in which she fainted—had its window open; thesides of the window are over- grown with rank creeping-plants in full blossom. miss ashleigh had already predisposed herself to injurious efl'ects from the effluvia, by fatigue, excitement, impru- dence in sitting out at the fall of a heavy dew. the sleep after the fainting fit was the more disturbed, because nature, always alert and active in subjects so young, was making its own effort to right itself from an injury. nature has nearly succeeded: what i have prescribed will a little aid and accelerate that which nature has yet to do, and in a day or two i do not doubt that your daughter will be perfectly restored. only let me recommend care to avoid exposure to the open air during the close of day. let her avoid also the room in which she was first seized, for it is a strange phenomenon in nervous temperaments that a nervous attack may, without visible cause, be repeated in the same place where it was first experienced. you had better shut up the chamber for at least some weeks, burn fires in it, repaint and paper it, sprinkle chloro- form. you are not, perhaps, aware that dr. lloyd died in that room after a prolonged illness. sufi‘er me to wait till your servant returns with the medicine, and a sranses sroay. let me employ_the interval in asking you a few ques- tions. miss ashleigh, you say, never had a fainting fit before. i should presume that she is not what we call strong. but has she ever had any illness that alarmed you i” “never.” “ no great liability to cold and cough, to attacks of the chest or lungs?” “certainly not. still i have feared that she may have a tendency to consumption. do you think so? your questions alarm me i ” “ i do not think so; but before i pronounce a positive opinion, one question more. you say you have feared a tendency to consumption. is that disease in her family? _ she certainly did not inherit it from you. but on her father’s side? ” “her father,” said mrs. ashleigh, with tears in her eyes, “died young, but of brain fever, which the medi- cal men said was brought on by over-study." “ enough, my dear madam. what you say confirms my belief that your daughter’s constitution is the very opposite to that in which the seeds of consumption lurk. it is rather that far nobler constitution, which the keen- ness of the nervous susceptibility renders delicate 'but elastic—as quick to recover as it is to suffer.” “ thank you, thank you, dr. fenwick, for what you say. you take a load from my heart. for mr. vigors, i know, thinks lilian consumptive, and mrs. poyntz has rather frightened me at times by hints to the same 'i' a screams s'roar. effect. but when you speak of nervous susceptibility, i do not quite understand you. my daughter is not what; is commonly called nervous. her temper is singularly even.” “ but if not excitable, should you also say that she is not impressionable? the things which do not disturb her temper, may, perhaps, deject her spirits. do i make myself understood?” “ yes, i think i understand your distinction. but i am not quite sure it applies. to most things that affect the spirits she is not more sensitive than other girls, perhaps less so. but she is certainly very impres- sionable in some things.” “ in what?” “she is more moved than any one i ever knew by objects in external nature, rural scenery, rural sounds, by music, by the books that she reads—even books that are not works of imagination. perhaps in all this she takes after her poor father, but in a more marked degree—at least, i observe it more in her. for he was very silent and reserved. and perhaps also her pecnii~ arities have been fostered by the seclusion in which she has been brought up. it was with a view to make her a little more like girls of her own age that our friend, mrs. poyntz, induced me to come here. lilian was reconciled to this change; but she shrank from the thoughts of london, which i should have preferred. her poor father could not endure london.” “ miss ashleigh is fond of reading?” a s'raanes sroav. '( “ yes, she is fond of reading, but more fond of musing. she will sit by herself for hours without book or work, and seem as abstracted as if in a dream. she was so even in her earliest childhood. then she would tell me what she had been conjuring up to her- self. she would say that she had seen—positively seen —-beautiful lands far away from earth; flowers and trees not like- ours. as she grew older this visionary talk displeased me, and i scolded her, and said that if others heard her, they would think that she was not only silly but very untruthful. so of late years she never ventures to tell me what, in such dreamy mo- ments, she sufi'ers herself to imagine; but the habit of musing continues still. do you not agree with mrs. poyntz, that the best cure would be a little cheerful society amongst other young people l’ ” “ certainly,” said i, honestly, though with a jealous pang. “ but here comes the medicine. will you take it up to her, and then sit with her half an hour or so? by that time i expect she will be asleep. i will wait here till you return. oh, i can amuse myself with the newspapers and books on the table. stay! one caution: be sure there are nov flowers in miss ashleigh’s sleeping- room. i think i saw a treacherous rose-tree in a stand by the window. if»so, banish it.” left alone, i examined the room in which, h thought of joyl i had surely now won the claim to become a privileged guest i touched the books lilian must save touched, in the articles of furniture, as yet so a sraanes story. hastily disposed that the settled look of home was not about them, i still knew that i was gazing on things which her mind must associate with the history of her young life. that lute-harp—must be surely hers, and the scarf, with a girl’s favorite colors, pure white and pale blue, and the bird-cage, and the childish ivory work-case, with implements too pretty for use —all spoke of her. it was a blissful, intoxicating reverie, which mrs. ashleigh’s entrance disturbed. lilian was sleeping calmly. i had no excuse to linger there any longer. “i leave you, i trust, with your mind quite at ease,’,’ said i. “you will allow me to call to-morrow, in the afternoon i” “ oh yes, gratefully.” mrs. ashleigh held out her hand as i made towards the door. is there a physician who has not felt at times how that ceremonious fee throws him back from the garden- land of humanity into the market-place of money- seems to put him out of the pale of equal friendship, and say, “ true, you have given health and life. adieul there, you are paid for it.” with a poor person there would have been no dilemma, but mrs. ashleigh was afliuent; to depart from custom here was almost imper- tinence. but had the penalty of my refusal been the doom of never again beholding lilian, i could not have taken her mother’s gold. so i did not appear to notice a strange story. the hand held out to me, and passed by with a quick ened step. " but, dr. fenwick, stop i” “no, ma’am, nol miss ashleigh would have re covered as soon without me. whenever my aid is ' really wanted, then—but heaven grant that time may never come! we will talk again about her to-morrow.” i was gone. now in the garden ground, odorous with blossoms; now in the lane, enclosed by the narrow walls; now in the deserted streets, over which the moon shone full as in that winter night when i hurried from the chamber of death. but the streets were not ghastly now, and the moon was no longer hecate, that dreary goddess of awe and spectres, but the sweet, simple lady of the stars, on whose gentle face lovers have gazed ever since (if that guess of astronomers be true) she-was parted from earth to rule the tides of its deeps from afar, even as love, from love divided, rules :he heart that yearns towards it with mysterious lawl chapter xi. with what increased benignity i listened to the patients who visited me the next morning. the whole human race seemed to be worthier of love, and i longed to difl'use amongst all some rays of the glorious hope i' a strange story. that had dawned upon my heart. my first call, when i went forth, was on the poor young woman from whom i had been returning the day before, when an impulse, which seemed like a fate, had lured me into the grounds where i had'first seen lilian. i felt grateful to this poor patient; without her, lilian herself might be yet unknowh to me. the girl’s brother, a young man employed in the police, and whose pay supported a widowed mother and the sufiering sister, received me at the threshold of the cottage. “oh, sirl she is so much better to-day; almost free from pain. will she live now? can she live?” “ if my treatment has really done the good you say; if she be really better under it, i think her recovery may be pronounced. but i must first see her.” the girl was indeed wonderfully better. i- felt that my skill was achieving a. signal triumph; but that day even my intellectual pride was forgotten in the luxurious unfolding of that sense of heart which had so newly waked into blossom. as i recrossed the threshold, i smiled on the‘brother, who was still lingering there: “your sister is saved, waby. she needs now chiefly wine, and good though light nourishment; these you will find at my house; call there for them every day ” “god bless you, sir! if ever i can serve you " his tongue faltered— he could say no more. serve me—allen fenwick—that poor policemanl a s'raanen story. me, whom a king could not serve! what did i ask from earth but fame and lilian’s heart? thrones and bread man wins from the aid of others. fame and woman’s heart he can only gain through himself. so i strode gain up the hill, through the iron gates into the fairy ground, and stood before lilian’s home. the man-servant, on opening the door, seemed some- what confused, and said hastily, before i spoke: “ not at home, sir; a. note for you.” i turned the note mechanically in my hand; i felt stunned. “ not at home! miss ashleigh cannot be out. how is she t ” “better, sir, thank you.” i still could not open the note; my eyes turned wist- fully towards the windows of the house, and there—at the drawing-room window—i encountered the scowl of mr. vigors. i colored with resentment, divined that i was dismissed, and walked away with a proud crest and a firm step. when i was out of the gates, in the blind lane, i opened the note. it began formally: “ mrs. ashleigh presents her compliments,” and went on to thank me, civilly enough, for my attendance the night before; would not give me the trouble to repeat my visit, and enclosed a fee, double the amount of the fee prescribed by custom. i flung the money, as an asp that had stung me, over the high wall, and tore the note into shreds. having thus idly vented my rage, a dull gnawing sor- a s'raaxes s'ronv. row came heavily down upon all other emotions, stifling and replacing them. at the mouth of the lane i halted. i shrank from the thought of the crowded streets beyond. i shrank yet more from the routine of duties, which stretched before me in the desert into which daily life was so suddenly smitten. i sat down by the roadside, shading my dejected face with a nerveless band. i looked up as the sound of steps reached my ear, and saw dr. jones coming briskly along the lane, evidently from abbots’ house. he must have been there at the very time i had called. i was not only dismissed, but supplanted. i rose before he reached the spot on which i had seated myself, and went my way into the town, went through my allotted round of pro- fessional visits; but my attentions were not so tenderly devoted, my skill so genially quickened by the glow of benevolence, as my poorer patients had found them in the morning. i have said how the physician should enter the sick-room. “a calm intelligence!” but if you strike a blow on the heart, the intellect suffers. little worth, i suspect, was my “calm intelligence ” that day. bichat, in his famous book upon life and death, divides life into two classes—animal and organic. man’s intellect, with the brain for its centre, belongs to life animal; his passions to life organic, centred in the heart, in'the viscera. alasl if the noblest passions through which alone we lift ourselves into the moral realm of the sublime and beautiful really have their centre in the life which the very vegetable, a s'raanos near. that lives organically, shares with us! and, alasl if it be that life which we share with the vegetable, that can cloud, obstruct, suspend, annul that life centred in the brain, which we share with every being howsoever angelic, in every star howsoever remote, on whom the creator bestows the faculty of thought! chapter xii. bur suddenly i remembered mrs. poyntz. i ought to call on her. so i closed my round of visits at her door. the day was then far advanced, and the servant politely informed me that mrs. poyntz was at dinner. i could only leave my card, with a message that i would pay my respects to her the next day. that evening i received from her this note: “ dana db. anwwxz— i regret much that i cannot have the pleasure of seeing you to-morrow. poyntz and i are going to visit his brother, at the other end of the county, and we start early. we shall be away some days. sorry to hear from mrs. ashleigh that she has been persuaded by mr. vigors to consult dr. jones about lilian. vigors and jones both frighten the poor mother, and insist upon consumptive tendencies. un~ luckily, you seemed to have said there was little the a' s'rasnes s'roay. matter. some doctors gain their practice, as some preachers fill their churches, by adroit use of the appeals to terror. you do not want patients, dr. jones does. and, after all, better perhaps as it is. yours, &c. m. porsrz.” to my more selfish grief anxiety for lilian was now added. i had seen many more patients die from being mistreated for consumption than from consumption itself. and dr. jones was a mercenary, cunning, needy man, with much crafty knowledge of human ' foibles, but very little skill in the treatment of human maladies. my fears were soon confirmed. a few days after i heard from miss brabazon that miss ashleigh was seriously ill;kept her room. mrs. ash- leigh made this excuse for not immediately returning the visits which the hill had showered upon her. miss brabazon had seen dr. jones, who had shaken his head, said it was a serious case; but that time and care (his time and his care i) might effect wonders. how stealthily at the dead of the night i wodld climb the hill, and look toward the windows of the old sombre house—one window, in which a light burnt dim and mournful, the light of a sick-room—of hersl at length mrs. poyntz came back, and i entered her house, having fully resolved beforehand on the line of policy to be adopted towards the potentate whom i heped to secure as an ally. it was clear that neither disguise nor half-confidence would battle the penetration a srsauon small. of so keen an intellect, nor propitiate the good will of so imperious and resolute a temper. perfect frankness here was the wisest prudence; and, after all, it was most agreeable to my own nature, and most worthy of my own honor. luckily, i found mrs. poyntz alone, and taking in both mine the hand she somewhat coldly extended to me, i said, with the earnestness of suppressed emotion: “you observed when i last saw you, that i had not yet asked you to be my friend. i ask it nowl listen to me with all the indulgence you can vouchsafe, and let me at least profit by your counsel, if you refuse to give me your aid.” rapidly, briefly, i went on to say how i had first seen lilian, and how sudden, how‘ strange to myself, had been the impression which that first sight of her had produced. “ you remarked the change that had come over me,” said i; “ you divined the cause before i divined it my- self; divined it as i sat there beside you, thinking that through you i might see, in the freedom of social inter- course, the face that was then haunting me. you know what has since passed. miss ashleigh is ill; her case is, i am convinced, wholly misunderstood. all other feelings are merged in one sense of anxiety—of alarm. but it has become due to me, due to all, to incur the risk of your ridicule even more than of your reproof, by stating to you thus candidly, plainly, bluntly, the senti- ment which renders alarm so poignant, and which, if a summon s'roar. scarcely admissible to the romance of some wild dreamy boy, may seem an unpardonable folly in a. man of my years and my sober calling; due to me, to you, to mrs. ashleigh ; because still the dearest thing in life to me is honor. and if you who know mrs. ashleigh so intimately, who must be more or less aware of her plans or wishes for her daughter’s future ; if you believe that those plans or wishes lead to alot far more am- bitious than an alliance with me could offer to miss ashleigh, then aid mr. vigors in excluding me from the house; aid me in suppressing a presumptuous, visionary passion. i cannot enter that house without love and hope at my heart. and the threshold of that house i must not cross it such love and such hope be a sin and a treachery in the eyesot' its owner. i might restore miss ashleigh to health; her gratitude might— i cannot continue. this danger must not be to me nor to her, if her mother has views far above such a son-in law. and i am the more bound to consider all this while it is yet time, because i heard you state that miss ashleigh had a fortune— was what would be here termed an heiress. and the full consciousness that whatever fame one in my profession may live to acquire, does not open those vistas of social power and grandeur which are opened by professions to my eyes less noble in themselves — that full consciousness, i say, was forced upon me by certain words of your own. for the rest, you know my descent is sufliciently recognized as that amidst well-born gentry to have rendered me no a srnanen near. mosalliance to families the most proud of their ancestry, if i had kept my hereditary estate and avoided the career that makes me useful to man. but i acknowl- edge that on entering a profession such as mine—enter- ing any profession except that of arms or the senate- all leave their pedigree at its door, an erased or dead letter. all must come as equals, high-born or low- born, into that arena in which men ask aid from a man as he makes himself; to them his dead forefathers are idle dust. therefore, to the advantage of birth i cease to have a claim. i am but a provincial physician, whose station would be the same had he been a cobbler’s son. but gold retains its grand privilege in all ranks. he who has gold is removed from the sus- picion that attaches to the greedy fortune-hunter. my private fortune, swelled by my savings, is sufiicient to secure to any one i marry a larger settlement than many a wealthy squire can make. i. need no fortune with a wife; if she have one, it would be settled on herself. pardon these vulgar details. new, have i made myself understood ?” . “fully/"answered the queen of the hill, who had listened to me quietly, watchfully, and without one interruption. “fully. and you have done well to confide in me with so generous an unreserve. but before i any further, let me ask, what would be your advice for lilian, supposing that you ought not to attend her? you have no trust in dr. jones; neither have i. and anne ashleigh’s note received to-day, i a strangi s'ronr. begging me to call, justifies your alarm. still you think there is no tendency to consumption ?” "of that i am certain, so far as my slight glimpse of a case that to me, however, seems a simple and not uncommon one, will permit. but in the alternative you put—that my own skill, whatever its worth, is forbidden — my earnest advice is, that mrs. ashleigh should take her daughter at once to london, and consult there those great authorities to whom i cannot compare my own opinion or experience ; and by their counsel abide.” mrs. poyntz shaded her eyes with her hand for a few moments, and seemed in deliberation with herself. then she said, with her peculiar smile, half grave, half ironical: “ in matters more ordinary you would have won me to your side long ago. that mr. vigors should have presumed to cancel my recommendation to a settler on the hill, was an act of rebellion, and involved the honor of my prerogative. but i suppressed my indig- nation at an affront so unusual, partly out of pique ,against yourself, but much more, i think, out of regard for you.” _ ' _ “i understand. you detected the secret of my heart; you knew that mrs. ashleigh would not wish to see her daughter the wife of a provincial physician.” “am i sure, or are you sure, that the daughter her- self would accept that fate; or if she accepted it, would not repent y” “do not think me the vainest of men when i say a sraanoa s'roav. this—that i cannot believe i should be so enthralled by a feeling at war with my reason, nnfavored by any- thing i can detect in my habits of mind, or even by the dreams of a youth which exalted science and excluded love, unless i was intimately convinced that miss ash- leigh’s heart was free—that i could win, and that i could keep it! ask me why i am convinced of this, and i can tell you no more why i think that she could love me, than i can tell you why i love her!” “i am of the world, worldly. but i am a woman, womanly—though i may not care to be thought it. and, therefore, though what you say is, regarded in a worldly point of view, sheer nonsense, regarded in a womanly point of view, it is logically sound. but still you cannot know lilian as i do. your nature and here are in strong contrast. i do not think she is a safe wife for you. the purest, the most innocent creature imaginable, certainly that, but always in the seventh heaven. and you in the seventh heaven, just at this moment, but with an irresistible gravitation to the solid earth, which will have its way again when the honey- moon is over. i do not believe you two would har- monize by intercourse. i do not believe lilian would sympathize with you, and i am sure you could not sym- pathize with her throughout the long dull course of this workday life. and, therefore, for your sake as well as hers, i was not displeased to find that dr. jones had replaced you; and now, in return for your frank- ness say frankly—do not go again to that house a summer s'roav. conquer this sentiment, fancy, passion, whatever it be. and i will advise mrs. ashleigh to take lilian to town. shall it be so settled?” i could not speak. i buried my face in my hands- misery, misery, desolation! i know not how long i remained thus silent, perhaps many minutes. at length i felt a cold, firm, but not ungentle, hand placed upon mine ; and a clear, full, but not discouraging, voice said to me: “leave me to think well over this conversation, and to ponder well the value of all you have shown that you so deeply feel. the interests of life do not fill both scales of the balance. the heart which does not always go in the same scale with the interests, still has its weight in the scale opposed to them. i have heard a few wise men say, as many a silly woman says, ‘better be unhappy with one we love, than be happy with one we love not.’ do you say that, too ” “ with every thought of my brain, every beat of my pulse, i say it.” “after that answer, all my questionings cease. you shall hear from me to-morrow. by that time i shall have seen anne and lilian. i shall have weighed both scales of the balance, and the heart here, allen fen- wick, seems very heavy. g , now. i i hear feet on the stairs, poyntz bringing up some friendly gossiper; gobslpel's are spies.” i passed my hand over my eyes, tearless, but how tears would have relieved the anguish that burdened a ensues s'ronr. _ theml and, without a word, went down the stairs, meeting at the landing-place colonel poyntz and the old man whose pain my prescription had cured. the old man was whistling a merry tune, perhaps first learned on the playground. he broke from it to thank, almost to embrace me, as i slid by him. i seized his jocund blessing as a good omen, and carried it with me as i passed into the broad sunlight. solitary—solitary! should i be so evermore? chapter xiii. the next day i had just dismissed the last of my patients, and was about to enter my carriage and com- mence my round, when i received a twisted note containing but these words : _ “ call on me today, as soon as you can. m. porsrz." a few minutes afterwards i was in mrs. poyntz’s drawing-room. “well, allen fenwick,” said she, “i do not serve friends by halves. no thanks! i but adhere to a principle i have laid down for myself. i spent last evening with the ashleighs. lilian is certainly much altered—very weak, i fear very ill, and i believe very unskilfully treated by dr. jones. i felt that it was my a sraanos s'roar. duty to insist on a change of physician, but there was something else to consider before deciding who that physician should be. i was bound, as your confidante, to consult your own scruples of honor. of course i could not say pointblank to mrs. ashleigh, ‘dr. fen- wick admires your daughter, would you object to him as a son-in-law ?’ of course i could not touch at all on the secret with which you intrusted me; but i have not the less arrived at a conclusion, in agreement with my previous belief, that not being a woman of the world, anne ashleigh has none of the ambition which women of the world would conceive for a daughter who has a good fortune and considerableabeauty; that her predominant anxiety is for her child’s happiness, and her predominant fear is that her child will die. she would never oppose any attachment which lilian might form; and if that attachment were for one who had preserved her daughter’s life, i believe her own heart would gratefully go with her daughter’s. so far, then, as honor is concerned, all scruples vanish.” i sprang from my seat, radiant with joy. mrs. poyntz dryly continued: “ you value yourself on your common sense, and to that i address a few words ' counsel which may not be welcome to your romance i said that i did not think you and lilian would suit each other in the long run; reflection confirms me in that supposition. do not look at me so incredulously, and so sadly.“ listen, and take heed. ask yourself what, as a man whose days are devoted to a laborious a s'raasus near. profession, whose ambition is entwined with its success, whose mind must be absorbed in its pursuits—ask yourself what kind of a wife you would have sought to win, had not this sudden fancy for a charming face rushed over your better reason, and obliterated all previous plans and resolutions. surely some one with whom your heart would have been quite at rest; by whom your thoughts would have been undistracted from the channels into which your calling should con- centrate their flow; in short, a serene companion in the quiet holiday of a trustful home! is it not so ?” “ you interpret my own thoughts when they have turned towards marriage. but what is there in lilian ashleigh that should mar the picture you have drawn ?” “ what is there in lilian ashleigh which in the least accords with the picture? in the first place, the wife of a young physician should not be his perpetual patient. the more he loves her, and the more worthy she may be of love, the more her case will haunt him wherever he goes. when he returns home, it is not to a holiday; the patient he most cares for, the anxiety that most gnaws him, awaits him there.” . “but, good heavens! why should lilian ashleigh be a perpetual patient? the sanitary resources of youth are incaleulable. and -——” “let me stop you; i cannot argue against a physi- cian in love! i will give up that point in dispute, remaining convinced that there is something in lilian’s constitution which will perplex, torment, and baflle you. a summer. most. it was so with her father, whom she resembles in face and in character. he showed no symptoms of any grave malady. his outward form was, like lilian’s, a model of symmetry, except in this, that like hers it was too exquisitely delicate; but, when seemingly in the midst of perfect health, at any slight jar on the nerves he would become alarmingly ill. i was sure that he would die young, and he did.” “ ay, but mrs. ashleigh said that his death was from brain fever, brought on by over~stu'dy. rarely, indeed, do women so fatigue the brain. no female patient, in the range of my practice, ever died of purely mental exertion.” “of purely mental exertion, no; but of heart emo- tion, many female patients, perhaps? oh, you own that! i know nothing about nerves. but i suppose that, whether they act on the brain or the heart, the result to life is much the same if the nerves be too finely strung for life’s daily wear and tear. and this is what i mean, when i say you and lilian will not suit. as yet, she is a mere child; her nature unde- veloped, and her affections, therefore, untried. you might suppose that you had won her heart; she might believe that she gave it to you, and both be deceived. if fairies nowadays condescended to exchange their ofl'spring with those of mortals, and if the popular tradition did not represent a fairy changeling as an ugly, peevish creature, with none of the grace of its parents, i should be half inclined to suspect that lilian was one a swaanen wear. '! of the elfin people. she never seems at home on earth;- and i do not think she will ever be contented with a prosaic earthly lot. now i have told you why i do not think she will suit you. i must leave it to yourself to conjecture how far you would suit her. i say this in due season, while you may set a guard upon your impulse; while you may yet watch, and weigh, and meditate ; and from this moment on that subject i say no more. lend advice, but i never throw it away.” she came here to a dead pause, and began putting on her bonnet and scarf, which lay on the table beside her. i was a little chilled by her words, and yet more by the blunt, shrewd, hard look and manner which aided the effect of their delivery. but the chill melted away in the sudden glow of my heart when she again turned towards me and said: “ of course you guess, from these preliminary cau- tions, that you are going into danger? mrs. ashleigh wishes to consult you about lilian, and i propose to take you to her house.” “oh, my friend, my dear friend, how can i ever repay you ? ” i caught her hand, the white, firm hand, and lifted it to my lips. she drew it somewhat hastily away, and laying it gently on my shoulder, said, in a soft voice, “poor allen, how little the world knows either of us! but how little perhaps we know ourselves! come, your carriage is here? that is right; we must put down dr. jones publicly and in all our state.” o a smarter: s'roav. in the carriage mrs. poyntz told me the purport of that conversation with mrs. ashleigh to which i owed my re-introduction to abbots’ house. it seems that mr. vigors had called early the morning after my first visit; had evinced much discomposure on hearing that i had been summoned; dwelt much on my injurious treatment of dr. lloyd, whom, as distantly related to himself, and he (mr. vigors) being distantly connected with the late gilbert ashleigh, he endeavored to fasten upon his listener as one of her husband’s family, whose quarrel she was bound in honor to take up. he spoke of me as an infidel “tainted with french doctrines,” and as a practitioner rash and presumptuous; proving his own freedom from presumption and rashness by flatly deciding that my opinion must be wrong. pre- , mr. vigors had interested her in the pretended phenomena viously to mrs. ashleigh’s migration to l of mesmerism. he had consulted a clairvoyaute, much esteemed by poor dr. lloyd, as to lilian’s health, and the clairvoyante had declared her to be constitutionally predisposed to consumption. mr. vigors persuaded mrs. ashleigh to come at once with him and see this (lairvoyante herself, armed with a lock of lilian’s hair and a glove she had worn, as the media of mesmerical rapport. the clairvoyante, one of those i had publicly dc- aounced as an impostor, naturally enough denounced me in return. on being asked solemnly by mr. vigors to “look at dr. fenwick and see if his influence would a s'raaaen sroar. be beneficial to the subject," the sibyl had become violently agitated and said that, “ when she looked at us together, we were enveloped in a black cloud; that this portended afiliction and sinister consequences; that our rapport was antagonistic.” mr. vigors then told her to dismiss my image, and conjure up that of dr. jones. therewith the somnambulc became more tran- quil and said: “dr. jones would do well if he would be guided by higher lights than his own skill, and con- sult herself daily as to the proper remedies. the best remedy of all would be mesmerism. but since dr. lloyd’s death, she did not know of a mesmerist, sufii- ciently gifted, in aflinity with the patient.” in fine, she impressed and awed mrs. ashleigh, who returned in haste, summoned dr. jones, and dismissed myself. “i could not have conceived mrs. ashleigh to be so utterly wanting in common‘ sense,” said i. “ she talked rationally enough when i saw her.” “ she has common sense in general, and plenty of the sense most common,” answered mrs. poyntz. _ “but she is easily led and easily frightened wherever her afl’ections are concerned, and, therefore, just as easily as she had been persuaded by mr. vigors and terrified by the somnambule, i persuaded her against the one, and terrified her against the other. i had positive experience on my side, since it was clear that lilian had been getting rapidly worse under dr. jones’s care. the main obstacles i had to encounter in induc- ing mrs. ashleigh to consult you again, were, first, her a strange sronr. reluctance to disoblige mr. vigors, as a friend and con- nection of lilian’s father; and, secondly, her sentiment of shame in reinviting your opinion after having treated you with so little respect. both these difliculties i took on myself. i bring you to her house, and, on leaving you, i shall go on to mr. vigors, and tell him what is done is my doing, and not to be undone by him; so that matter is settled. indeed, if you were out of the question, i should not suffer mr. vigors to re-intro- duce all these mummeries of clairvoyance and mess merism into the precincts of the hill. i did not demolish a man i really liked in dr. lloyd, to set up a dr. jones, whom i despise, in his stead. clairvoyance on abbey hill, indeed! i saw enough of it before.” “true; your strong intellect detected at once the absurdity of the whole pretence—the falsity of mesmer- ism—the impossibility of clairvoyance." “ no, my strong intellect did nothing of the kind. i do not know whether mesmerism be false or clairvoy- ance impossible; and i don’t wish to know. all i do know is, that i saw the hill in great danger; young iadios allowing themselves to be put to sleep by gentle- men, and pretending they had no will of their own against such fascination! improper and shocking! and miss brabazon beginning to prophesy, and mrs. leopold smythe questioning her maid (whom dr. lloyd declared to be highly gifted) as to all the secrets of her friends. when i saw this, i said, ‘the hill is becoming demoralized ; the hill is making itself ridicu- a strange sroav. lens; the hill must be savedl’ i remonstrated with dr. lloyd, as a friend; he remained obdurate. i anni- hilated him as an enemy, not to me but to the state. i slew my best lover for the good of rome. now you know why i took your part—not because i have any opinion, one way or the other, as to the truth or false- hood of what dr. lloyd asserted; but i have a strong opinion that, whether they be true or false, his notions were those which are not to be allowed on the bill. and so, allen fenwick, that matter was settled." perhaps at another time i might have felt some little humiliation to learn that i had been honored with the influence of this great potentate, not as a champion of truth, but as an instrument of policy; and i might have owned to some twinge of conscience in having assisted to sacrifice a fellow-seeker after science—misled. no doubt, but preferring his independent belief to his worldly interest—and sacrifice him to those deities with whom science is ever at war—the prejudice of a clique sanctified into the proprieties of the world. but at that moment the words i heard made no per- ceptible impression on my mind. the gables of abbots’ house were visible above the eyergreens and lilacs; another moment, and the carriage stopped at the door. a sraanoa s'roar. chapter xiv. mas. asuncion received as in the dining-room. her manner to me, at first, was a little confused and shy. but my companion soon communicated some thing of her own happy ease to her gentler friend. after a short conversation we all three went to lilian, who was in a little room on the ground-floor, fitted up as her study. i was glad to perceive that my interdict of the death-chamber had been respected. she reclined on a sofa near the window, which was, l-jwever, jealously closed; the light of the bright may- day obscured by blinds and curtains; a large fire on the hearth; the air of the room that of a hot-house— the ignorant, senseless, exploded system of nursing into consumption those who are confined on suspicion of it! she did not heed us as we entered noiselessly; her eyes were drooped languidly n the floor, and with difficulty i suppressed the exclamation that rose to my lips on seeing her. she seemed within the last few days so changed, and on the aspect of the countenance there was so profound a melancholy] but as she slowly turned at the sound of our footsteps, and her eyes met mine, a quick blush came into the wan cheek, and she half rose, but sank back as if the effort exhausted her. there was a struggle for breath, and a low hollow cough. was it possible that i had been mistaken, and that in that cough was heard the warning knell of the most insidious enemy to youthful life? a sraasos story. i sat down by her side; i lured her on to talk of in- different subjects—the weather, the gardens, the bird in the cage, which was placed on the table near her. her voice, at first low and feeble, became gradually stronger, and her face lighted up with a child’s innocent, playful smile. no, i had not been mistaken! that was no lymphatic, nerveless temperament, on which consumption fastens as its lawful prey—here there was no hectic pulse, no hurried waste of the vital flame. quietly and gently i made my observations, addressed my questions, applied my stethoscope; and when ,i .turned my face towards her mother’s anxious,,,eager eyes, that face told my opinion; for her mother sprzmg forward, clasped my hand, and said, through her strug- gling tears: “you smile! you see nothing to fear y” “ fear! n , indeed! you will soon be again your- self, miss ashleigh, will you not ? ” “yes,” she said, with her sweet laugh, “i shall be well now, very soon. but may i not have the window open—may i not go into the garden? i so long for fresh air.” “no, no, darling!” exclaimed mrs. ashleigh, “not while the east winds last. dr. jones said on no ac- count. on no account, dr. fenwick, eh ? ” “will you take my arm, miss ashleigh, for a few turns up and down the room?” said i. “ we will then see how far we may rebel against dr. jones.” she rose with some little effort, but there was no a s'raanes story. cough. at first her step was languid—it became lighter and more elastic after a few moments. “ let her come out,” said i to mrs. ashleigh. “ the wind is not in the east, and, while we are out, pray bid your servant lower to the last bar in the grate that fire -only fit for christmas.” ( but _ “ah, no buts! he is a poor doctor who is not a stern despot.” so the straw hat and mantle were sent for. lilian was wrapped with unnecessary care, and we all went forth into the garden. involuntarin we took the way to the monk’s well, and at every step lilian seemed to revive under the bracing air and temperate sun. we paused by the well. “ you do not feel fatigued, miss ashleigh ” h no.” “ but your face seems changed. it is grown sadder.” “ not sadder.” “ sadder than when i first saw it—saw it when you were seated here!” i said this in a whisper. i felt her hand tremble as it lay on my arm. “ you saw me seated here ” “ yes. i will tell you how some day.” lilian lifted her eyes to mine, and there was in them that same surprise which i had noticed on my first visit --a surprise that perplexed me, blended with no dis- pleasure, but yet with a something of vague alarm. we soon returned to the house. a sraanen s'ronr. mrs. ashleigh made me a sign to follow her into the drawing-room, leaving mrs poyntz with lilian. “ well ? ” said she, tremblingly. “ permit me to see dr. j ones’s prescriptions. thank you. ay, i thought so. my dear madam, the mistake here has been in depressing nature instead of strength- ening; in narcotics instead of stimulants. the main stimulants which leave no reaction are air and light. promise me that i may have my own way for a week —that all i recommend will be implicitly heeded? ” “ i promise. but that cough; you noticed it i ” “ yes. the nervous system is terribly lowered, and nervous exhaustion is a strange impostor; it imitates all manner of complaints with which it has no connec- tion. the cough will soon disappear! but pardon my question: mrs. poyntz tells me that you consulted a clairvoyante about your daughter—does miss ashleigh know that you did so ? ” “ no; i did not tell her.” “i am glad of that. and pray, for heaven’s sake, guard her against all that may set her thinking on such subjects. above all, guard her against concentrating attention on any malady that your fears erroneously ascribe to her. it is amongst the phenomena of our organization that you cannot closely rivet your con- sciousness on any part of the frame, however healthy, but it will soon begin to exhibit morbid sensibility. try to fix all your attention on your little finger for half an hour, and before the half-hour is over the little a s'raanoa s'roar. finger will be uneasy, probably even painful. how serious, then, is the danger to a young girl, at the age in which imagination is most active, most intense, if you force upon her a belief that she is in danger of a mortal disease; it is a peculiarity of youth to brood over the thought of early death much more resignedly, much more eomplacently, than we do in maturer years. impress on a young, imaginative girl, as free from pul- monary tendencies as you and i are, the conviction that she must fade away into the grave, and though she may not actually die of consumption, you instil slow poison into her system. hope is the natural aliment of youth. you impoverish nourishment where you discourage hope. as soon as this temporary illness is over, reject for your daughter the melancholy care which seems to her own mind to mark her out from others at her age. rear her for the air—which is the kindest life-giver; to sleep with open windows; to be out at sunrise. nature will do more for her than all our drugs can do. you have been hitherto fearing nature; now trust to her.” here mrs. poyntz joined us, and having, while i had been speaking, written my prescription and some gene- ral injunctions, i closed my advice with an appeal to that powerful protectress: “this, my dear madam, is a case in which i need your aid, and i ask it. miss ashleigh should not be left with no other companion than her mother. a change of faces is often as salutary as a change of air. a smarter: s'roar. if ye _ could devote an hour or two this very evening to sit with miss ashleigh, to talk to her with your usual cheerfulness, and -” “anne,” interrupted mrs. poyntz, “i will come and drink tea with you at half-past seven, and bring my knitting; and perhaps, if you ask him, dr. fenwick will come tool he can be tolerably entertaining when he likes it.” “ it is too great a tax on his kindness, i fear,” said mrs. ashleigh. “ but,” she added, cordially, “ i should be grateful indeed if he would spare us an hour of his time.” i murmured an assent, which i endeavoured to make not too joyous. " so that matter is settled,” said mrs. poyntz; “and now i shall go to mr. vigors and prevent his further interference.” “ oh! but, margaret, pray don’t offend him—a con- nection of my poor dear gilbert’s. and so tetchyl i am sure i do not know how you’ll manage to --” “to get rid of him? never fear. as i manage everything and everybody, said mrs. poyntz, bluntly. so she kissed her friend on the forehead, gave me a gracious nod, and, declining the offer of my carriage, walked with her usual brisk, decided tread down the short path towards the town. mrs. ashleigh timidly approached me, and again the furtive hand bashfully insinuated the hateful fee. “stay,” said i; “this is a case which needs the most [ a s'raaaoa s'roar. constant watching. i wish to call so often that i should seem the most greedy of doctors if my visits were to be computed at guineas. let me be at ease to effect my cure; my pride of science is involved in it. and when amongst all the young ladies of the hill you can point to none with a fresher bloom, or a fairer promise of healthful life, than the patient you intrust to my care, why, then the fee and the dismissal. nay, nay; i must refer you to our friend mrs. poyntz. it was so settled with her before she brought me here to displace dr j ones.” therewith i escaped. chapter xv. in less than a week lilian was convalescent; in less than a fortnight she regained her usual health; nay, mrs. ashleigh declared that she had never known her daughter appear so cheerful and look so well. i had established a familiar intimacy at abbots’ house; most of my evenings-were spent there. as horse exercise formed an important part of my advice, mrs. ashleigh had purchased a pretty and quiet horse for her daughter; and, except the weather was very unfavorable, lilian now rode daily with colonel poyntz, who was a notable equestrian. and often accompanied by miss jane poyntz, a strange s'roar. and other young ladies of the hill. i was generally relieved from my duties in time to join her as she returned homewards. thus we made innocent appoint- ments, openly, frankly, in her mother’s presence, she telling me beforehand in what direction excursions had been planned with colonel poyntz, and i promising to fall in with the party-if my avocations would permit. at my suggestion, mrs. ashleigh now opened her house almost every evening to some of the neighboring fami- lies; lilian was thus habituated to the intercourse of young persons of her own age. music and dancing and childlike games made the old house gay. and the hill gratefully acknowledged to mrs. poyntz, “ that the ashleigbs were indeed a great acquisition.” but my happiness was not unchequered. in thus unselfishly surrounding lilian with others, i felt the anguish of that jealousy which is inseparable from these earlier stages of love, when the lover as yet has won no right to that self-confidence which can only spring from the assurance that he is loved. in these social re-unions i remained aloof from lilian. i saw her courted by'the gay young admirers whom her beauty and her fortune drew around her; her soft face brightening in the exercise of the dance, which the gravity of my profession rather than my years forbade me to join—and her laugh, so musically subdued, ravishing my ear and fretting my heart as if the laugh were a mockery on my sombre self and my presump- tuous dreams. but no, suddenly, shyly, her eyes would " a strange story. steal away from those about her, steal to the corner in which i sat, as if they missed me, and, meeting my own gaze, their light softened before they turned away; and the color on her cheek would deepen, and to her lip there came 'a smile difi'erent from the smile that it shed on others. and then-and then—all jealousy, all sad- ness vanished, and i felt the glory which blends with the growing belief that we are loved. in that diviner epoch of man’s mysterious passion, when ideas of perfection and purity, vague and fugitive before, start forth and concentre themselves round one virgin shape —that rises out from the sea of creation welcomed by the hours and adorned by the graces- how the thought that this archetype of sweetness and beauty singles himself from the millions, singles himself for her choice, ennobles and lifts up his being! though after-experience may rebuke the mortal’s illusion, that mistook for a daughter of heaven a creature of clay like himself, yet for a while the illusion has grandeur. though it comes from the senses which shall later oppress and profane it, the senses at first shrink into shade, awed and hushed by the presence that charms them. all that is brightest and best in the man has soared up like long-dormant instincts of heaven, to greet and to hallow what to him seems life’s fairest dream of the heavenly! take the wings from the image of love, and the god disappears from the form! thus, if at moments jealous doubt made my torture, so the moment’s relief from it sufficed for my rapture it messes near. but i had a cause for disquiet less acute but less vary- ing than jealousy. despite lilian’s recovery from the special illness which had more immediately absorbed my care, i remained perplexed as to its cause and true nature. to her mother i gave it the convenient epithet of “nervous.” but the epithet did not explain to myself all the symptoms i classified by it. there was still, at times, when no cause was apparent or'conjecturable, a sudden change in the expression of her countenance-— in the beat of her pulse; the eye would become fixed, the bloom would vanish, the pulse would sink feebler and feebler till it could be scarcely felt; yet there was no indication of heart disease, of which such sudden lowering of life is in itself sometimes a warning indica- tion. the change would pass away after a few minutes, during which she seemed unconscious, or, at least, never spoke—never appeared to heed what was said to her. but in the expression of her countenance there was no character of suffering or distress; on the con- trary a wondrous serenity, that made her beauty more beanteous, her very youthfulness younger; and when this spurious or partial kind of syncope passed, she recovered at once without effort, without acknowledging that she had felt faint or unwell, but rather with a sense of recruited vitality, as the weary obtain from a sleep. for the rest her spirits were more generally light and joyous than i should have premised from her mother’s previous description. she would enter mirthfully into a strange wow. the mirth of young companions around her; she had evidently quick perception of the sunny sides of life; an infantine gratitude for kindness; an infantine joy in the trifles that amuse only those who delight in tastes pure and simple, but when talk rose into graver and more contemplative topics, her attention became earnest and absorbed; and, sometimes, a rich eloquence, such as i have never before nor since heard from lips so young, would startle me first into a wondering silence, and soon into a disapproving alarm; for the thoughts she then uttered seemed to me too fantastic, too vision- - ary, too much akin to the vagaries of a wild though beautiful imagination. and then i would seek to check, to sober, to distract fancies with which my reason had no sympathy, and the indulgence of which i regarded as injurious to the normal functions of the brain. when thus, sometimes with a chilling sentence, sometimes with a half-sarcastic laugh, i would repress outpourings frank and musical as the songs of a forest- bird, she would look at me with a kind of plaintive sorrow—often sigh and shiver as she turned away. only in these modes did she show displeasure; other- wise ever sweet and docile, and ever, if, seeing that i had pained her, i asked forgiveness, humbling herself rather to ask mine, and brightening our reconciliation with her angel smile. as yet i had net dared to speak of love; as yet i gazed on her as the captive gazes on the flowers and the stars through the gratings of his cell, murmuring to himself, " when shall the doors unclose " a summer. story. chapter xvi it was with a. wrath suppressed in the presence of the fair ambassadress that mr. vigors had received from mrs. poyntz the intelligence that i had replaced dr. jones at abbots’ house, not less abruptly than dr. ' jones had previously supplanted me. as mrs. poyntz took upon herself the whole responsibility of this change, mr. vigors did not venture to condemn it to her face; for the administrator of laws was at heart no little in awe of the autocrat of proprieties; as authority, howsoever established, is in awe of opinion, howsoever capricious. to the mild mrs. ashleigh the magistrate’ anger was more decidedly manifested. he ceased his visits; and in answer to a long and deprecatory letter with which she endeavored to soften his resentment and win him back to the house, he replied by an elaborate com- bination of homily and satire. he began by excusing' himself from accepting her invitations, on the ground that his time was valuable, his habits domestic; and though ever willing to sacrifice both time and habits where he could do good, he owed it to himself and to mankind to sacrifice neither where his advice was rejected and his opinion contemned. he glanced briefly, but not hastily, at the respect with which her late hus- band had deferred to his judgment, and the benefits * r [ a s'raaucn sroax which that deference had enabled him to bestow. he contrasted the husband’s deference with the widow’s contumely, and hinted at the evils which the contumely would not permit him to prevent. he could not pre- sume to say what women of the world might think due to deceased husbands, but even women of the world generally allowed the claims of living children, and did not act with levity where their interests were concerned, still less where their lives were at stake. as to dr. jones, be, mr. vigors, had the fullest confidence in his skill. mrs. ashleigh must judge for herself whether mrs. poyntz was as good an authority upon medical science as he had no doubt she was upon shawls and ribbons. dr. jones was a man of caution and modesty ; he did not indulge in the hollow boasts by which char- latans decoy their dupes; but dr. jones had privately assured him that, though the case was one that admitted of no rash experiments, he had no fear of the result if his own prudent system were persevered in. what might be the consequences of any other system, dr. jones would not say, because he was too high-minded to express his distrust of the rival who had made use of underhand arts to supplant him. but mr. vigors was convinced, from other sources of information (mean- ing, i presume, the oracular prescience of his clairvoy- ants), that the time would come when the poor young lady would herself insist on discarding dr. fenwick, and when “that person” would appear in a very differ- ent light to many who now so fondly admired and so a sraanon areas. reverentially trusted him. when that time arrived he, mr. vigors, might again be of use; but, meanwhile, though he declined to renew his intimacy at abbots' house, or to pay unavailing visits of mere ceremony, his interest in the daughter of his old friend remained undiminished, nay, was rather increased by compassion ; that he should silently keep his eye upon her; and whenever anything to her advantage suggested itself to him, he should not be deterred by the slight with which mrs. ashleigh had treated his judgment, from calling on her, and placing before her conscience as a mother his ideas for her child’s benefit, leaving to herself then, as now, the entire responsibility of rejecting the advice which he might say, without vanity, was deemed of some value by those who could distinguish between sterling qualities and specious pretences. a mrs. ashleigh’s was that thoroughly womanly nature which instinctively leans upon others. she was difli- dent, trustful, meek, afi'ectionate. not quite justly bad mrs. poyntz described her as “commonplace weak,” for though she might be called weak, it was not because she was commonplace; she had a goodness of heart, a sweetness of disposition, to which that disparaging definition could not apply. she could only be called commonplace, inasmuch as in the ordinary daily affairs of life she had a great deal of ordinary daily common- place good sense. give her a routine to follow, and no routine could be better adhered to. in the allotted sphere of a woman’s duties she never seemed in fault [ a strange sroar. n household, not even mrs. poyntz’s, was more happily managed. the old abbots’ house had merged its original antique gloom in the softer character of pleasing repose. all her servants adored mrs. ashleigh; all found it a pleasure to please her; her establishment had the harmony of clockwork; comfort diffused itself round her like quiet sunshine round a sheltered spot. t gaze on her pleasing countenance, to listen to the simple talk that lapsed from her guileless lips, in even, slow, and lulling murmur, was in itself a respite from “ eating cares.” she was to the mind what the color of green is to'the eye. she had, therefore, excellent sense in all that relates to every-day life. there she needed not to consult another; there the wisest might have consulted her with profit. but the moment any- thing, however trivial in itself, jarred on the routine to which her mind had grown wedded—the moment an incident hurried her out of the beaten track of woman’s daily life, then her confidence forsook her—then she needed a confidant, an adviser; and by that confidant or adviser she could be credulously lured or submisp sively controlled. therefore, when she lost in mr. vigors the guide she had been accustomed to consult whenever she needed guidance, she turned, helplessly and piteously, first to mrs. poyntz, and then yet more imploringly to me, because a woman of that character is never quite satisfied without the advice of a man. and when an intimacy more familiar than that of his formal visits is once established with a physician. com a strange s'ronr. fidence in him grows fearless and rapid, as the natural result of sympathy concentred on an object of anxiety in common between himself and the home which opens its sacred recess to his observant but tender eye. thus mrs. ashleigh had shown me mr. vigors’s letter, and, forgetting that i might not be as amiable as herself, besought me to counsel her how to conciliate and soften her lost husband’s friend and connection. that char- acter clothed him with dignity and awe in her soft, forgiving eyes. so, smothering my own resentment, less perhaps at the tone of offensive insinuation against myself than at the arrogance with which this prejudiced intermeddler implied to a mother the necessity of his guardian-watch over a chlld under her own care, i sketched a reply which seemed to me both dignified and placatory, abstaining from all discussion, and con- veying the assurance that mrs.ashleigh would be at all times glad to hear, and disposed to respect, what- ever suggestion so esteemed a friend of her husband’s would kindly submit to her for the welfare of her daughter. there all communication had stopped for about a month since the date of my reintroduction to abbots’ house. one afternoon i unexpectedly met mr. vigors at the entrance of the blind lane, i on my" way to abbots’ house, and my first glance at his face told me that he was coming from it, for the expression of that face was more than usually sinister; the sullen scowl was lit into significant menace by a sneer of unmis~ . a sraanon sronv. takable triumph. i felt at once that he had succeeded in some machination against me, and with ominous mis~ givings quickened my steps. i found mrs. ashleigh seated alone in front of the house, under a large cedar-tree that formed a natural arbor in the centre of the sunny lawn. she was per- ceptibly embarrassed as i took my seat beside her. “i hope,” said i, forcing a smile, “that mr. vigors has not been telling you that i shall kill my patient, or that she looks much worse than she did under dr. j ones’s care f” “no,” she said. “ he owned cheerfully that lilian had grown quite strong, and said, without any dis- pleasure, that he had heard how gay she had been, riding out and even dancing—which is very kind in him, for-he disapproves of dancing, on principle.” “ but still i can see he has said something to vex or annoy you; and, to judge by his countenance when i met him in the lane, i should conjecture that that something was intended to lower the confidence you so kindly repose in me.” ' “i assure you not; he did not mention your name, either to me or to lilian. i never knew him more friendly; quite like old times. he is a good man at heart, very, and was much attached to my poor hus- band.” “ did mr. ashleigh profess a very high opinion of mr. vigors ?” “well,'i don’t quite know that, because my dear a strange s'roav. gilbert never spoke to me much about him gilbert was naturally very silent. but he shrank from all trouble—all worldly affairs—and mr. vigors managed his estate, and inspected his steward’s books, and pro- tected him through a long lawsuit which he had inherited from his father. it killed his father. i don’t know what we should have done without mr. vigors, and i am so glad he has forgiven me.” “ hem! where is miss ashleigh? indoors ?” “no; somewhere in the grounds. but, my dear dr. fenwick, do not leave me yet; you are so very, very kind, and somehow i have grown to look upon you quite as an old friend. something has happened which has put me out-quite put me out.” she said this wearily and feebly, closing her eyes as if she were indeed put out in the sense of ex- tinguished. “ the feeling of friendship you express,” said i, with earnestness, “is reciprocal. on my side it is accom- panied by a peculiar gratitude. i am a lonely man, by a lonely fireside—no parents, no near kindred, and in this town, since dr. faber left it, without cordial intimacy till i knew you. in admitting me so familiarly to your hearth, you have given me what i have never known before since i came to man’s estate — a glimpse of the happy domestic life; the charm and reliefto eye, heart and spirit, which is never known but in house- holds cheered by the face of woman; thus my senti- ment for you and yours is indeed that of an old friend; a summer: sroar. and in any private confidence you show me, i feel as if i were no longer a lonely man, without kindred, without home.” mrs. ashleigh seemed much moved by these words, which my heart had forced from my lips, and, after replying to me with simple unaffected warmth of kind- ness, she rose, took my arm, and continued thus as we walked slowly to and fro the lawn: “you know, perhaps, that my poor husband left a sister, now a. widow like myself, lady haughton.” “i remember that mrs. poyntz said you had such a sister-in-law, but i never heard you mention lady haughton till now. well ” “ well, mr. vigors has brought me a letter from her, and it is that which has put me out. i dare say you have not heard me speak before of lady haughton, for i am ashamed to say i had almost forgotten her exist- ence. she is many years older than my husband was -- of a very different character. only came once to see him after our marriage. hurt me by ridiculing him as abookworm. offended him by looking a little down on me, as a nobody without spirit and fashion, which was quite true. and, except by a cold and unfeeling letter of formal condolence after i lost my dear gilbert, i have never heard from her since i have ‘been a widow, till to-day. but, after all, she is my poor husband’s sister, and his eldest sister, and lilian’s aunt; and, as mr. vigors says, ‘ duty is duty.’ ” had mrs. ashleigh said “ duty is torture,” she could a s'raarws sroar. not have uttered the maxim with more mournful and despondent resignation. " and what does this lady require of you, which mr. vigors deems it your duty to comply with ?" “ dear me! what penetration you have guessed the exact truth. but i think you will agree with mr. vigors. certainly i have no option; yes, i must do it." “ my penetration is in fault now. do'what? pray; explain.” “ poor lady haughton, six months ago, lost her only son,fsir james. mr. vigors says he was a very fine young man, of whom any mother would have been proud. i had heard he was wild; mr. vigors says, however, that he was just going to reform, and marry a young lady whom his mother chose for him, when, unluckily, he would ride a steeplechase, not being quite sober at the time, and broke his neck. lady haughton has been, of course, in great grief. she has retired to brighton; and she wrote to me from thence, and mr. vigors brought the letter. he will go back to her to-day.” “ will go back to lady haughton? what! has he been to her? is he, then, as intimate with lady haughton as he was with her brother?” “ no; but there has been a long and constant cor- respondence. she had a settlement on the kirby estate— a sum which was not paid off during gilbert’s life ; and a very small part of the property went to sir james, which part mr. ashleigh sumner, the heir-at- a strange s'roar. law to the rest of the estate, wished mr. vigors, as hi guardian, to buy during his minority, and as it we mixed up with lady haughton’s settlement her con sent was necessary as well as sir jamcs’s. so then was much negotiation, and, since then, ashleigh sum ner has come into the haughton property, on poor si j amcs’s dcccase; so that complicated all afi‘airs betweei mr. vigors arid lady haughton, and he has just bee to brighton to see her. and poor lady haughton, i short, wants me and lilian to go and visit her. don’t like it at all. but you said the other day yo thought sea air might be good for lilian during th heat of the summer, and she seems well enough nor for the change: what do you think?” “ she is well enough, certainly. but brighton is : the place i would recommend for the summer; it want shade, and is much hotter than l——-.” “ yes, but unluckily lady haughton foresaw thz objection, and she has ajointure-house some miles fro! brighton, and near the sea. she says the grounds a: well wooded, and the place is proverbially cool an healthy, not far from st. leonard’s forest. and, i short, i have written to say we will come. so w must, unless, indeed, you positively forbid it.” “when do you think of going?” “ next monday. mr. vigors would make me fix tl: day. if you knew how i dislike moving when i a once settled; and i do so dread lady haughton, she ' so fine, and so satirical! but mr. vigors says she a srnauon story. very much altered, poor thingl i should like to show you her letter, but i had just sent it to margaret—mrs. poyntz— a minute or two before you came. she knows something of lady haughton. margaret knows every- body. and we shall have to go in mourning for poor sir james, i suppose; and margaret will choose it, for i am sure i can’t guess to what extent we should be supposed to mourn. i ought to have gone in mourning before—poor gilbert’s nephew—but i am so stupid, and i had never seen him. and but oh, this is kind margaret herself —— my dear margaret l” we had just turned away from the house, in our up- and-down walk; and mrs. poyntz stood immediately fronting us. “ so, anne, you have actually accepted this invi- tation—and for monday next y” “yes. did i do wrong?” “ what does dr. fenwick say? can lilian go with safety ?” i could not honestly say she might not go with safety, but my heart sank like lead as i answered: ! “ miss ashleigh does not now need merely medical care; but more than half her cure has depended on keeping her spirits free from depression. she may miss the cheerful companionship of your daughter, and other young ladies of her own age. a very melan- cloly house, saddened by a recent bereavement, with- out other guests; a hostess to whom she is a stranger, and whom mrs. ashleigh herself appears to deem a summer: story. formidable—certainly these do not make that change 'of scene which a physician would recommend. when i spoke of sea. air being good for miss ashleigh, i thought of our own northern coasts at a later time of the year, when i could escape myself for a few weeks and attend her. the journey to a northern watering- place would be also shorter and less fatiguing; the air there more invigorating.” “ no doubt that would be better,” said mrs. p ) ntz, dryly; “but so far as your objections ’ visiting i ady haughtou have been stated, they are groundless. her house will not be melancholy; she will have ether guests, and lilian will find companions, young like her- self—young ladies—and young gentlemen too i ” there was something ominous, something compas- sionate, in the look which mrs. poyntz cast upon me, in concluding her speech, which in itself was calculated to rouse the fears of a lover. lilian away from me, in the house of a worldly-fine lady—such as i judged lady haughton to be— surrounded by young gentle- men, as well as young ladies— by admirers, no doubt of a higher rank and- more brilliant fashion than she had yet known! i closed my eyes, and with strong efi'ort suppressed a groan. “ my dear anne, let me satisfy myself that dr. fen- wick really does consent to this journey. he will say to me what he may not to you. pardon me, then, if i take him aside for a few minutes. let me find you here again under this cedar-tree.” a strange story. placing her arm in mine, and without waiting for mrs. ashleigh’s answer, mrs. poyntz drew me into the more sequestered walk that belted the lawn; and, when we were out of mrs. ashleigh’ssight and hearing, said: “ from what you have now seen of lilian ashleigh, do you still desire to gain her as your wife y” “still? ]! with an intensity proportioned to the fear with which i now dreaded that she is about to pass away from my eyes — from my life i ” “does your judgment confirm the choice of your heart? reflect before you answer." “such selfish judgment as i had before i knew her would not confirm, but oppose it. the nobler judgment that now expands all my reasonings, approves and seconds my heart. n o, no; do not smile so sarcastically. this is not the voice of a blind and egotistical passion. let me explain myself if i can. i’ concede to you that lilian’s character is undeveloped. i concede to you that, amidst the childlike freshness and innocence of her nature, there is at times a strangeness, a mystery, which i have not yet traced to its cause. but i am certain that the intellect is organically as sound as the heart, and that intellect and heart will ultimately—if under happy auspices—blend in that felicitous union which constitutes the perfection of woman. but it ' is because she does, and may for years, may perhaps always, need a more devoted, thoughtful care than natures less tremulously sensitive, that my judgment sanctions my choice; for whatever is best for her is * a strange s'roar. best for me. and who would watch over her as should? ” “ you have never yet spoken to lilian as lovers speak ? ” “oh, no, indeed.” “and, nevertheless, you believe that your afi'ection would not be unreturned?” “i thought so once—i doubt now—yet, in doubting, hope. but why do you alarm me with these ques- tions? you, too, forbode that in this visit i may lose her forever? ” “ if you fear that, tell her so, and perhaps her answer may dispel your fear.” “what now, already, when she has scarcely known me a month. might i not risk all if too premature ? ” “ there is no almanac for love. with many women love is born the moment they know they are beloved. all wisdom tells us that a moment once gone is irreon cable. were i in your place, i should feel that i ap- proached a moment that i must not lose. i have said enough; now i shall rejoin mrs. ashleigh." “ stay-tell me first what lady haughton’s letter really contains to prompt the advice with which you so, transport, and yet so daunt, me when you profi‘er it.” “ not now—later, perhaps—not now. if you wish to see lilian alone, she is by the old monk’s well; i saw _ her seated there as i passed that way to the house." “ one word more—only one. answer this question frankly, for it is one of honor. do you still believe that a summer. near. my suit to her daughter would not be disapproved of by mrs. ashleigh? ” “at this moment, i am sure it would not; a week hence i might not give you the same answer.” so she passed on with her quick but measured tread, back through the shady walk, on to the open lawn, till the last glimpse of her pale gray robe disappeared under the boughs of the cedar-tree. then, with a start, i broke the irresolute, tremulous suspense in which i had vainly endeavored to analyze my own mind, solve my own doubts, concentrate my own will, and went the way, skirtingthe circle of that haunted ground; as now, on one side its lofty terrace, the houses of the neighbor- ing city came full and close into view, divided fnom my fairyland of life but by the trodden murmurous thorough- fare winding low beneath the ivied parapets; and as now, again, the world of men abruptly vanished behind the screening foliage of luxuriant june. at last the enchanted glade opened out from the verdure, its borders fragrant with syringa, and rose, and woodbine; and there, by the grey memorial of the gone gothic ago, my eyes seemed to close their unquiet wan- derings, resting spell-hound on that image which had be- come to me the incarnation of earth’s bloom and youth. she stood amidst the past, hacked by the fragments of walls which man had raised to seclude him from human passion, locking, under those lids so downoast the secret of the only knowledge i asked from the boundless future a sraanos sronr. ah! what mockery there is in that grand word, the world’s fierce war-cry—freedom i who has not known one period of life, and that so solemn that its shadows may rest over all life hereafter, when one human crea- ture has over him a sovereignty more supreme and absolute than orient servitude adores in the symbols of diadem and sceptre? what crest so haughty that has not bowed before a hand which could exalt or humble! what heart so dauntless that has not trembled to call forth the voice at whose sound ope the gates of rapture or despair! that life alone is free which rules, and suffices for itself. that life we forfeit when we love! chapter xvii. how did i utter it? by what words did my heart make itself known? i remember not. all was a dream that falls upon a restless, feverish night, and fades away as the eyes unclose on the peace of a cloudless heaven, on the bliss of a golden sun. a new sorrow seemed indeed upon the earth when i woke from a life-long yesterday—her dear hand in mine, her sweet face bowed upon my breast. and then there was that melodious silence in which there is no sound audible from without; yet within us there is heard a lulling celestial music, as if our whole a sraanon s'roar. being, grown harmonious with the universe, joined ‘rom its happy deeps in the hymn that unites the stars. in that silence our two hearts seemed to make each other understand, to be drawing nearer and nearer, blending by mysterious concord into the complete- ness of a solemn union, never henceforth to be rent asunder. at length i said softly :' “ and it was here on this spot that i first saw you—here that i for the first time knew what power to change our world and to rule our future goes forth from the charm of a human face l” then lilian asked me timidly, and without lifting her eyes, how i had so seen her, reminding me that i prom- ised to tell her, and had never yet done so. and then i told her of the strange impulse that had led me into the grounds, and by what chance my steps had been diverted down the path that wound to the glade; how suddenly her form had shone upon my eyes, gathering round itself the rose hues of the setting sun, and how wistfully those eyes had followed her own silent gaze into the distant heaven. as i spoke, her hand pressed mine eagerly, convul- sively, and, raising her face from my breast, she looked at me with an intent, anxious earnestness. that lookl -twice before it had thrilled and perplexad me. “what is there in that look, oh! my lilian, which tells me that there is something that startles you—- something you wish to confide, and yet shrink from explaining? see how, already, i study the fair book a sraanas s'roar. from which the seal has been lifted, but as yet you must aid me to construe its language.” “if\i shrank from explaining, it is only because i fear that i cannot explain so as to be understood or believed. but you have a right to know the secrets of a life which you would link to your own. turn your face aside from me; a reproving look, an incredulous smile, chill—oh! you cannot guess how they chill me, when i would approach that which to me is so serious and so solemnly strange.” i turned my face away, and her voice grew firmer, as after a brief pause, she resumed: “as far back as i can remember in my infancy, there have been moments when there seems to fall a soft, hazy veil between my sight and the things around it, thickening and deepening till it has the likeness of one of those white, fleecy clouds which gather on the verge of the horizon when the air is yet still, but the winds are about to rise ; and then this vapor or veil will sud- denly open, as clouds open and let in the blue sky.” “ go on,” i said gently, for here she came to a stop. she continued, speaking somewhat more hurriedly: “ then, in that opening, strange appearances present themselves to me as in a vision. in my childhood these were chiefly landscapes of wonderful beauty. i could but faintly describe them then ; i could not attempt to describe them now, for they are almost gone from my memory. my dear mother chid me for telling her what i saw, so i did not impress it on my mind by a strange s'roav. l ] repeating it. as i grew up, this kind of vision—if i may so call it—became much less frequent, or much less distinct; i still saw the soft veil fall, the pale cloud form and open, but often what may then have appeared was entirely forgotten when i recovered myself, waking as from a sleep. sometimes, however, the recollection would be vivid and complete; sometimes i saw the face of my lost father; sometimes i heard his very voice, as i had seen and heard him in my early childhood, when he would let me rest for hours beside him as he mused r studied, happy to be so near him—for i loved him, oh, so dearly! and i remember him so distinctly, though i was only in my sixth year when he died. much more recently—indeed, within the last few months—the images of things to come are reflected on the space that i gaze into as clearly as in a glass. thus, for weeks before i came hither, or knew that such a place existed, ii saw distinctly the old house, yon trees, this sward, this moss-grown gothic fount, and, with the sight, an impression was conveyed to me that in the scene before me my old childlike life would pass into some solemn change. so that when i came here, and recognized the picture in my vision, i took an affection for the spot— an affection not without awe—a powerful, perplexing interest, as one who feels under the influence of a fate of which a prophetic glimpse has been vouchsafed. and in that evening, when you first saw me seated h here “ yes, lilian, on that evening—f” a sraauds sronv. “ saw yot. also, but in my vision—yonder, far in the deeps of space—and—my heart was stirred as it had never been before; and near where your image grew out from the cloud i saw my father’s face, and i heard his veice, not in my ear, but as in my heart, whis- pering ” “ yes, lilian — whispering -what ” “these words—only these—‘ye will need one another.’ but then, suddenly, between my upward eyes and the two forms they had beheld, there rose from the earth, obscuring the skies, a vague, dusky vapor, undulous, and ceiling like a vast serpent, noth- ing, indeed, of its shape and figure definite, but of its face one abrupt glare; a flash from two dread, luminous eyes, and a young head, like the medusa’s, changing, more rapidly than i could have drawn breath, into a grinning skull. then my terror made me bow my head, and when i raised it againfall that i had seen was vanished. but the terror still remained, even when i felt my mother’s arm around me and heard her voice. and then, when i entered the house, and sat down again alone, the recollection of what i had seen ——those eyes—that face—that skull—grew on me stronger and stronger till i fainted, and remember no more, until my eyes, opening, saw you by my side, and in my wonder there was not terror. no, a sense of joy, protection, hope, yet still shadowed by a kind of fear or awe, in recognizing the countenance which had gleamed on me from the skies before the dark vapor had a strange s'roav. risen, and while my father’s voice had murmured, ‘ye will need one another.’ and now—and now—will you love me less that you know a secret in my being which i have told to no other—cannot construe to myself? only—only, at least, do not mock me-do not disbelieve me i nay, turn from me no longer now —-now i ask to meet your eyes. now, before our bands can join again, tell me that you do not despise me as untruthful, do not pity me as insane.” “hush—bush!” i said, drawing her to my breast “ of all you tell me we will talk hereafter. the scales of our science have no weights fine enough for the gossamer threads of a maiden’s pure fancies. enough for me-for us both—if out from all such illusions starts one truth, told to you, lovely child, from the heavens; told to me, ruder man, on the earth ; repeated by each pulse of this heart that woos you to hear and to trust— now and henceforth, through life unto death. ‘each has need of the other’- of you—i of youl my lilian—my lilian l ” chapter xviii. in spite of the previous assurance of mrs. poyntz, it was not without an uneasy apprehension that i approached the cedar-tree, under which mrs.ashleigh still sat, her friend beside her. i looked on the fair a sraauos stoay. creature whose arm was linked in mine. so young, so singularly .lovely, and with all the gifts of birth and fortune which bend avarice and ambition the more sub- missively to youth and beauty, i felt as if i had wronged what a parent might justly deem her natural lot. “ oh, if your mother should disapprove l ” said i, falteringly. lilian leant on my arm less lightly: “ if i had thought so,” she said, with her soft blush, “should i be thus by your side i” so we passed under the boughs of the dark tree, and lilian left me, and kissed mrs. ashleigh’s cheek; then. seating herself on the turf, laid her head on her mother’s lap. i looked on the queen of the hill, whose keen eye shot over me. i thought there was a momentary expression of pain or displeasure on her countenance; but it passed. still there seemed to me something of irony, as well as of triumph or congratulation, in the half-smile with which she quitted her seat, and in the tone with which she whispered, as she glided by me to the open sward, “ so, then, it is settled.” she walked lightly and quickly down the lawn. when she was out of sight i breathed more freely. i took the seat which she had left, by mrs. ashleigh’s side, and said: “a little while ago i spoke of myself as a man without kindred, without home, and now i come to you and ask for both.” mrs. ashleigh looked at me benignly, then raised her daughter’s face from her lap, and whispered, “lilian l l‘ a sraauoz sroav. and lilian’s lips moved, but i did not hear her answer. her mother did. she took lilian’s hand, simply placed it in mine, and said: “as she chooses, i choose; whom she loves, i love.” chapter xix from that evening till the day mrs. ashleigh and lilian went on the dreaded visit, i was always at their house, when my avocations allowed me to steal to it; and during those few days, the happiest i had ever known, it seemed to me that years could not have more deepened my intimacy with lilian’s exquisite nature — made me more reverential of its purity, or more enamored of its sweetness. i could detect in her but one fault, and i rebuked myself for believing that it was a fault. we see many who neglect the minor duties of life, who lack watchful forethought and considerate care for others, and we recognize the cause of this failing in levity or egotism. certainly neither of those tendencies of character could be ascribed to lilian. yet still in daily trifies there was something of that neglect, some lack of that care and forethought. she loved her mother with fondness and devotion, yet it never occurred to her to aid in those petty household cares in which her mother centred so much of habitual interest. she was full of tenderness and pity to all want and sufl'er' a strange s'roav. ing, yet many a young lady on the hill was more actively beneficent—visiting the poor in their sickness, or instructing their children in the infant schools. i was persuaded that her love for me was deep and truthful; it was clearly void of all ambition; doubtless she would have borne, unflinching and contented, what- ever the world considers to be sacrifice and privation; yet i should never have expected her to take her share in the troubles of ordinary life. i could never have applied to her the homely but significant name of help- mate. i reproach myself, while i write, for noticing such defect—if dcfect it were—in what may be called the practical routine of our positive, trivial, human existence. n o doubt it was this that had caused mrs. poyntz’s harsh judgment against the wisdom of my choice. but such chiller shade upon lilian’s charming nature was reflected from no inert, unamiable self-love. it was but the consequence of that self-absorption which the habit of reverie had fostered. i cautiously abstained from all allusion to those visionary deceptions, which she had confided to me as the truthful impres- sions of spirit, if not of sense. to me any approach to what i termed superstition was displeasing; any indulgence of phantasies, not within the measured and beaten tracks of healthful imagination, more than dis- pleased me in her—it alarmed. i would not by a word encourage her in persuasions which i felt it would be at present premature to reason against, and cruel, indeed, to ridicule. i was convinced that of themselves a sraazvos sroav. these mists round her native intelligence, engendered by a solitary and musing childhood, would subside in the fullerdaylight of wedded life. she seemed pained when she saw how resolutely i shunned a subject dear to her thoughts. she made one or two timid attempts to renew it, but my grave looks sufficed to check her. once or twice, indeed, on such occasions, she would turn away and leave me, but she soon came back; that gentle heart could not bear one unkindlier shade between itself and what it loved. it was agreed that our engagement should be, for the present, confided only to mrs. poyntz. when mrs. ashleigh and lilian re- turned, which would be in a few weeks at furthest, it should be proclaimed; and our marriage could take place in the autumn, when i should be most free for a brief holiday from professional toils. so we parted—as lovers part. i felt none of those jealous fears which, before we were affianced, had made me tremble at the thought of separation, and had con- jured up irresistible rivals. but it was with a settled heavy gloom that i saw her depart. from earth was gone a glory; from life a blessing! ' ' a s'raanoa s'roar. chapter xx. during the busy years of my professional career, i had snatched leisure for some professional treatises, which had made more or less sensation, and one of them entitled the vital principle; its waste and sup- ply, had gained a wide circulation among the general public. this last treatise contained the results of certain experiments, then new in chemistry, which were adduced in support of a theory i entertained as to the re-invigoration of the human system by principles similar to those which liebig has' applied to the re- plenishment of an exhausted soil—viz., the giving back to the frame those essentials to its nutrition, which it has lost by the action or accident of time ; or supplying that special pabulum or energy in which the individual organism is constitutionally deficient; and neutralizing or counterbalancing that in which it superabounds—a theory upon which some eminent physicians have more recently improved with signal success. but on these essays, slight and suggestive, rather than dogmatic, i set no value. i had been for the last two years en- gaged on a work of much wider range, endeared to me by far bolder ambition—a work upon which i fondly hoped to found an enduring reputation as a severe and original physiologist. it was an inquiry into organic life, similar in comprehensiveness of survey to that by which the illustrious miiller, of berlin, has enriched the a s'raauoa sroay. science of our age; however inferior, alasl to that august combination of thought and learning, in the judgment which checks presumption, and the genius which adorns speculation. but at that day i was carried away by the ardor of composition, and i ad- mired my performance because i loved my labor. this work had been entirely laid aside for the last agitated month; now that lilian was gone, i resumed it earn- estly, as the sole occupation that had power and charm enough to rouse me from the aching sense of void and loss. _ the very night of the day she went, i re-opened my ms. i had left off at the commencement of a chapter “ upon knowledge as derived from our senses." as my convictions on this head were founded on the well- known arguments of locke and condillac against innate ideas, and on the reasonings by which hume has re- solved the combination of sensations into a general idea to an impulse arising merely out of habit, so i set myself to oppose, as a dangerous concession to the sentimentalities or mysticism of a pseudo-philosophy, the doctrine favored by most of our recent physiologists, and of which some of the most eminent of german meta- physicians have accepted the substance, though refining into a subtlety its positive form—i mean the doctrine which miiller himself has expressed in these words: “ that innate ideas may exist, cannot in the slightest degree be denied; it is, indeed, a fact. iall the ideas of animals, which are induced by instinct, are innate a sraanes worn. and immediate; something presented to the mind, a desire to attain which is at the same time given. the new-born lamb and foal have such innate ideas, which lead them to follow their mother and suck the teats. is it not in some measure the same with the intellectual ideas of man ? ”* to this question i answered with an indignant "no!" a “yes” would have shaken my creed of materialism to the dust. i wrote on rapidly, warmly. i defined the properties and meted the limits of natural laws, which i would not admit that a deity himself could alter. i clamped and soldered dogma to dogma in the links of my tinkered logic, till out from my page, to my own complacent eye, grew intellectual man, as the pure formation of his material senses; mind, or what is called soul, born from and nurtured by them alone; through them to act, and to perish with the machine they moved. strange, that at the very time my love for lilian might have taught me that there are mysteries in the core of the feelings which my analysis of ideas could not solve, i should so stubbornly have opposed as unreal all that could be referred to the spiritual! strange, that, at the very time when the thought that i might lose from this life the being i had known scarce a month had just before so appalled me, i should thus complacently sit down to prove that, according to the laws of the nature which my passion * miiller’s elements of physiology, vol. ii., p. . translated by dr. buley. a manner: sroav. obeyed, i must lose for eternity the blessing i now hoped i had won to my life! but how distinctly dis- similar is man in his conduct from man in his systems! see the poet reclined under forest-boughs, conning odes to his mistress; follow him out into the world; no mistress ever lived for him there ! * see the hard man of science, so austere in his passionless problems; follow him now where the brain rests from its toil, where the heart finds its sabbath—what child is so tender, so yielding and soft? but i had proved to my own satisfaction that poet and sage are dust, and no more, when the pulse ceases to beat. and on that consolatory conclusion my pen stopped. suddenly, beside me i distinctly heard a sigh—a compassionate, mournful sigh. the sound was unmis- takable. i started from my seat, looked round, amazed to discover no one-no living thing! the windows were closed, 'the nigit was still. that sigh was not the wail of the wind. but there, in the darker angle of the room, what was that? a silvery whiteness—- vaguely shaped as a human form—receding, fading, gone! why, i know not-for no face was visible, no form, if form it were, more distinct than the colorless outline-why, i know not, but i cried aloud, “lilian! lilian!” my voice came strangely back to my own * cowley; who wrote so elaborate a series of amatory poems, is said “ never to have been in love but once, and then he never had resolution to tell his passion.”—johman’| livu of flu poets.- cowuv. a sraases s-roar. ear; i paused, then smiled and blushed at my folly. “ so i, too, have learned what is superstition,” i mub tered to myself. “and here is an anecdote at my own expense (as miiller frankly tells us anecdotes of the illusions which would haunt his eyes, shut or open)— an anecdote i may quote when i come to my chapter on the cheats of the senses and spectral phantasms." i went on with my book, and wrote till the lights waned in the grey of the dawn. and i said then, in the triumph of my pride, as i laid myself down to rest, “ i have written that which allots with precision man’s place in the region of nature; written that which will found a school—form disciples; and race after race of those who cultivate truth through pure reason shall accept my bases if they enlarge my building." and again i heard the sigh, but this time it caused no sur- prise. “certainly,” i murmured, “a very strange thing is the nervous system!” so i turned on my pillow, and, wearied out, fell asleep. chapter xxi. the next day, the last of the visiting patients to whom my forenoons were devoted had just quitted me. when i was summoned in haste to attend the steward of a sir philip derval, not residing at his family scat, which was about five miles from l.——. it was rarely, a summer; s'rosv. indeed, that persons so far from the town, when of no higher rank than this applicant, asked my services. but it was my principle to go wherever iwas sum- moned; my profession was not gain, it was healing, to which gain was the incident, not the essential. this case the messenger reported as urgent. i went on horseback, and rode fast; but swiftly as i--'eantered through the village that skirted the approach to sir philip derval’s park, the evident care bestowed on the accommodation of the cottagers forcibly struck me. i felt that i was on the lands of a rich, intelligent, and beneficent proprietor. entering the park, and passing before the manor-house, the contrast between the neglect and decay of the absentee’s stately hall and the smiling homes of his villagers was diseonsolately mournful. an imposing pile, built apparently by vanbrugh, with decorated pilasters, pompous portico, and grand perron (or double flight of stairs to the entrance), enriched with urns and statues, but discolored, mil- dewed, chipped, half hidden with uupruned creepers and ivy. most of the windows were closed with shut- ters, decaying for want of paint; in some of the case- ments the panes were broken; the peacock perched on the shattered balustrade, that fenced a garden over- grown with weeds. the sun glared hotly on the place, and made its ruinous condition still more painfully apparent. i was glad when a winding in the park road shut the house from my sight. suddenly i eme'gcd through a copse of ancient yew-trees, and beforl me [ a sraanon sroar. there gleamed, in abrupt whiteness, a building evidently designed for the family mausoleum—classical in its outline, with the blind iron door niched into stone walls of_ massive thickness, and surrounded by a funereal farden of roses and evergreens, fenced with an iron rail, parti-gilt. the suddenness with which this house of the dead came upon me heightened almost into pain, if not into awe, the dismal impression which the aspect of the deserted home in its neighborhood had made. i spurred my horse, and soon arrived at the door of my patient, who lived in a fair brick house at the other extremity of the park. i found my patient, a man somewhat advanced in years, but of a robust conformation, in bed; he had been seized with a fit, which was supposed to be apoplectic, a few hours before ; but was already sensible and out of immediate danger. after i had prescribed a few simple remedies, i took aside the patient’s wife, and went with her to the parlor below stairs, to make some inquiry about her husband’s ordinary regimen and habits of life. these seemed sufiiciently regular; [ could discover no apparent cause for the attack, which presented symptoms not familiar to my experience. “ has your husband ever had such fits before f” “never!” “ had he experienced any sudden emotion? had he heard any unexpected news ? or had anything happened to put him out?” a sraanon sroay. the woman looked much disturbed at these inquiries i pressed them more urgently. at last she burst into tears, and clasping my hand, said: “oh! doctor, i ought to tell you—i sent for you on purpose—yet i fear you will not believe me: my good man has seen a ghost!” “a ghost!” said i, repressing a smile. “well, tell me all, that i may prevent the ghost coming again.” the woman’s story was prolix. its substance was this: her husband, habitually-an early riser, had left his bed that morning still earlier than usual, to give directions about some cattle that were to be sent for sale to a neighboring fair. an hour afterwards he had been found by a shepherd near the mausoleum, appa- rently lifeless. on being removed to his own‘house, be had recovered speech, and bidding all except his wife leave the room, he then told her that on walking across the park towards the cattle-sheds, he had seen, what appeared to him at first, a pale light by the iron door of the mausoleum. on approaching nearer, this light changed into the distinct and visible form of his master, sir philip derval, who was then abroad—sup- posed to be in the east, where he had resided for many years. the impression on the steward’s mind was so strong, that he called out, “oh! sir philipl" when, looking still more intently, he perceived that the face was that of a corpse as he continued to gaze, the apparition seemed gradually to recede, as if vanishing ‘into the sepulchre itself. he knew no more; he became x a sraancr: s'roay. nnconscious.- it was the excess of the poor woman’s alarm, on hearing this strange tale, that made her resolve to send for me instead of the parish apothecary. she fancied so astounding a cause for her husband’s seizure could only be properly dealt with by some medical man reputed to have more than ordinary learn- ngi and the steward himself objected to the apothe- cary in the immediate neighborhood, as more likely to annoy him by gossip than a physician from a compara- tive distance. i took care not to lbse the confidence of the good wife by parading too quickly my disbeliefin the phan- tom her husband declared that he had seen; but as the story itself seemed at once to decide the nature of the fit to be epileptic, i began to tell her of similar delu- sions which, in my experience, had occurred to those subjected to epilepsy, and finally soothed her into the conviction that the apparition was clearly reducible to natural causes. afterwards, i led her on to talk about sir philip derval, less from any curiosity i felt about the absent proprietor than from a desire to re-familiarize her own mind to his image as a living man. the steward had been in the service of sir philip’s father, and had known sir philip himself from a child. he was warmly attached to his master, whom the old woman described as a man of rare benevolence and great eccentricity, which last she imputed to his studi- ous habits. he had succeeded to the title and estates as a minor. for the first few years after attaining his- a sraanes email. majority, he had mixed much in the world. when at derval court his house had been filled with gay com~ panions, and was the scene of lavish hospitality. but the estate was not in proportion to the grandeur of the mansion, still less to the expenditure of the owner. he had become greatly embarrassed; and some love dis- appointment (so it was rumored) occurring simulta- neously with his pecuniary difficulties, he had suddenly changed his way of life, shut himself up from his old friends, lived in seclusion, taking to books and scientific pursuits, and as the old woman said, vaguely and ex- pressively, “to old ways.” he had gradually by an economy that, towards himself, was penurious, but which did not preclude much judicious generosity to others, cleared off his debts, and once more rich, he had suddenly quitted the country, and taken to a life of travel. he was now about forty-eight years old, and had been eighteen years abroad. he wrote frequently to his steward, giving him minute and thoughtful in- structions in regard to the employment, comforts, and homes of the peasantry, but peremptorily ordering him to spend no money on the grounds and mansion, stating as a reason why the latter might be allowed to fall into decay, his intention to pull it down whenever he returned to england. i stayed sometime longer than my engagements well warranted at my patient’s house, not leaving till the sufferer, after a quiet sleep, had removed from his bed to his arm-chair, taken food, and seemed perfectly re- covered from his attack. a s'rnanoa swear. riding homeward, i mused on the difl’erence that education makes, even pathologically, between man and man. here was a brawny inhabitant of rural fields, leading the healthiest of lives, not conscious of the faculty we call imagination, stricken down almost to death’s door by his fright at an optical illusion, expli- cable, if examined, by the same simple causes which had impressed me the night before with a moment’s belief in a sound and a spectre-me who, thanks to sublime education, went so quietly to sleep a few minutes after, convinced that no phantom, the ghostli- est that ear ever heard or eye ever saw, can be any- thing else but a nervous phenomenon. chapter xxii. that evening i went to mrs. poyntz’s; it was one of her ordinary “ reception nights,” and i felt that she ' would naturally expect my attendance as “a proper attention.” i joined-a group engaged in general conversation, of which mrs. poyntz herself made the centre, knitting as usual, rapidly while she talked, slowly when she listened. without mentioning the visit i had paid that morn- ing, i turned the conversation on the different country places in the neighborhood, and then incidentally asked, a strange stoay. " what sort of a man is sir philip derval? is it not strange that he should suffer so fine a place to fall into decay?” the answers i received added little to the information i had already obtained. mrs. poyntz knew nothing of sir philip derval, except as a man of large estates, whose rental had been greatly increased by a rise in the value of property he possessed in the town of l , and which lay contiguous to that of her hus- band. two or three of the older inhabitants of the hill had remembered sir philip in his early days, when he was gay, high-spirited, hospitable, lavish. one ob- served that the only person in l— whom he had admitted to his subsequent seclusion was dr. lloyd, who was then without practice, and whom he had employed as an assistant in certain chemical experi- ments. here a gentleman struck into the conversation. he was a stranger to me and to l-—, a visitor to one of the dwellers on the hill, who had asked leave to present him to its queen as a great traveller and an accom- plished antiquary. said this gentleman: “sir philip dervall i know him. i met him in the east. he was then still, i believe, very fond of chemical science; a clever, odd, philanthropical man; had studied medicine, or at least practised it; was said to have made many marvellous cures. i became acquainted with him in aleppo. he had come to that town, not much frequented by eng- lish travellers, in order to inquire into the murder of * a srasnes s'roar. two men, of whom one was his friend and the other his countryman." . “ this is interesting," said miss poyntz, dryly. " we who live on'this innocent hill all love stories of crime; murder is the pleasantest subject you could have hit on. pray give us the details.” “ so encouraged,” said the traveller, good-humoredly, “ i will not hesitate to communicate the little i know. in aleppo, there had lived for some years a man whc was held by the natives in great reverence. he had the reputation of extraordinary wisdom, but was difli- cult of access; the lively imagination of the orientals invested his character with the fascinations of fable; in short, haroun of aleppo was popularly considered a magician. wild stories were told of his powers, of his preternatural age, of his boarded treasures. apart from such disputable titles to homage, there seemed no question, from all i heard, that his learning was con- siderable, his charities extensive, his manner of life irre~ proachably ascetic. he appears to have resembled those arabian sages of the gothic age to whom modern science is largely indebted—a mystic enthusiast, but an earnest scholar. a wealthy and singular englishman, ‘ong resident in another part of the east, afflicted by some languishing disease, took a journey to alleppo to consult this sage, who, among his other acquirements, was held to have discovered rare secrets in medicine- his countrymen said in ‘charrns.’ one morning, not long after the englishman’s arrival, haroun was found a sfraanoa story. dead in his bed, apparently strangled, and the english- man, who lodged in another part of the town, had dis- appeared; but some of his clothes, and a crutch on which he habitually supported himself, were found a few miles distant from aleppo, near the roadside. there appeared no doubt that he, too, had been mur- dered, but his corpse could not be discovered. sir philip derval had been a loving disciple of this sage of aleppo, to whom he assured me he owed not only that knowledge of medicine which, by report, sir philip possessed, but the insight into various truths of nature, on the promulgation of which, it was evident, sir philip cherished the ambition to found a philosophical celebrity for himself.” "‘ of what description were those truths of nature? ” i asked, somewhat sarcastically. “ sir, i am unable to tell you, for sir philip did not inform me, nor did i much care to ask; for what may be revered as truths in asia are usually despised as dreams in europe. to return to my story. sir philip had been in aleppo a little time before the murder; had left the englishman under the care of haroun; he returned to aleppo on hearing the tragic events i have related, and was busied in collecting such evidence as could be gleaned, and instituting inquiries after our mis- sing countryman, at the time i myself chanced to arrive in the city. i assisted in his researches, but without avail. the assassins remained undiscovered. i do not myself doubt that they were more vulgar robbers. sir a strange s'roar. philip had a darker suspicion, of which he made no secret to me; but as i confess that i thought the sus- picion groundless, you will pardon me if i do not repeat it. whether, since i left the east, the englishman’s remains have been discovered, i know not. very probably; for i understand that his heirs have got hold of what fortune he left—less than was generally sup- posed. but it was reported that he had buried great ~ treasures, a rumor, however absurd, not altogether inconsistent with his character.” “what was his character?” asked mrs. poyntz. “one of evil and sinister repute. he was regarded with terror by the attendants who had accompanied him to alleppo. but he had lived in a very remote part of the east, little known to europeans, and, from all i could learn, had there established an extraordinary power, strengthened by superstitious awe. he was said to have studied deeply that knowledge which the philosophers of old called ‘occult,’ not, like the sage of aleppo, for benevolent, but for malignant ends. he was accused of conferring with evil spirits, and filling his barbaric court (for he lived in a kind of savage royalty) with charmers and sorcerers. i suspect, after all, that he was only, like myself, an ardent antiquary, and cunningly made use of the fear he inspired in order to secure his authority, and prosecute in safety re- searches into ancient sepulchres or temples. his great passion was, indeed, in excavating such remains, in his neighborhood; with what result i know not, a sraanoa sroar. never having penetrated so far into regions infested by robbers and pestiferous with malaria. he wore the eastern dress, and always carried jewels about him. i came to the conclusion that for the sake of these jewels he was murdered, perhaps by some of his own servants (and, indeed, two at least of his suite were missing), who then at once buried his body, and kept their own secret. he was old, very infirm; could never have got very far from the town without assistance.” “ you have not yet told us his name,” said mrs. poyntz “his name was grayle.” “ grayle ! ” exclaimed mrs. poyntz, dropping her work, “ louis érayle ? ” “ yes; louis grayle. you could not have known him p ” “ known him! no. but i have often heard my father speak of him. such was then the tragic end of that strange dark creature, for whom, as a young girl in the nursery, i used to feel a kind of fearful, admiring interest . ” ' - " it is your turn to narrate now,” said the traveller. and we all drew closer round our hostess, who remained silent some moments, her brow thoughtful, her work suspended. “well,” said she at last, looking round us with a lofty air, which seemed half-defying, “ force and courage are always fascinating, even when they are quite in the wrong. i go with the world, because the world goes ‘ a strange wear. with me; if it did not -—.” here she stopped for a moment, clenched the firm, white hand, and then scorn- fully waved it, left the sentence unfinished, and broke into another: “ going with the world, of course we must march over those who stand against it. but when one man stands single-handed against our march, we do not despise him; it is enough to crush. i am very glad i did not see louis grayle when i was a girl of sixteen.” again she paused a moment—and resumed: “ louis grayle was the only son of a usurer, infamous for the rapacity with which he had acquired enormous wealth. old grayle desired to rear his heir as a gentleman; sent him to eton; boys are always aristocratic; his birth was soon tthwn in his teeth; he was fierce; he struck boys bigger than himself -f ught till he was half-killed. my father was at school with him; described him as a. tiger-whelp. one day he—still a fag-struck a sixth-form boy. sixth-form boys do not fight fags; they punish them. louis grayle was ordered to hold out his hand to the cane; he received the blow, drew forth his school-boy knife, and stabbed the punisher. after that he left eton. i don’t think he was publicly expelled—too more a child for that honor—but he was taken or sent away; educated with great care under the first masters at home; when he was of age to enter the university, old grayle was dead. louis was sent by his guardians to cambridge, with acquirements far exceeding the average of young men, and with unlim‘ a strange story: [ted command of money. my father was at the same college, and described him again—haughty, quarrel- some, reckless, handsome, aspiring, brave. does that kind of creature interest you, my dears ? ” (appealing to the ladies). “ la ” said miss brabazon ; “ a horrid usurer’s son l” “ay, true; the vulgar proverb says it is good to be born with a silver spoon in one’s mouth; so it is when one has one’s own family crest on it; but when it is a spoon on which people recognize their family crest, and cry out, ‘ stolen from our plate-chest,’ it is a heritage that outlaws a babe in his cradle. however, young men at college who want money are less scrupulous about descent than boys at eton are. louis grayle found, while at college, plenty of well-born acquaint ances willing to recover from him some of the plunder his father had extorted from theirs. he was too wild to distinguish himself by academical honors, but my father said that the tutors of the college declared there were not six undergraduates in the university who knew as much hard and dry science as wild louis grayle. he went into the world, no doubt, hoping to shine; but his father’s name was too notorious to admit the son into good society. the polite world, it is true, does not examine a seutcheon with the nice eye of a herald, nor look upon riches with the stately contempt of a stoic-still the polite world has its family pride and its moral sentiment. it does not like to be cheated ._i mean, in money matters; and when the son of the ' a surnames story. man who has emptied its purse and foreclosed on its acres, rides by its club-windows, hand on haunch, and head in the air, no lion has a scowl more awful, no hymna a laugh more dread, than that same easy, good- tempered, tolerant, polite, well-bred world which is so pleasant an acquaintance, so languid a friend, and—so remorseless an enemy. in short, louis grayle claimed the right to be} courted- he was shunned; to be admired — he was loathed. even his old college acquaintances were shamed out of knowing him. per- haps he could have lived through all this had he sought to glide quietly into position; but he wanted the tact of the well-bred, .and strove to storm his way, not to steal it. reduced for companions to needy parasites, he braved and he shocked all decorous opinion by that ostentation of excess, which made richelieus and lauzuns the rage. but then richelieus and lauzuns were dukes! he now very naturally took the polite world into hate—gave it scorn for scorn. he would ally himself with democracy; his wealth could not get him into a club, but it would buy him into parliament; he could not be a lauzun, nor, perhaps, a mirabeau, but he might be a danton. he had plenty of know- ledge and audacity, and with knowledge and audacity a good hater is sure to be eloquent. possibly, then, this poor louis grayle might have made a great figure, left his mark on his age and his name in history; but in contesting the borough, which he was sure to carry, he had to face an opponent in a real line gentleman whom a strange story. '! his father had ruined, cool and high-bred, with a tongue like a rapier, a sneer like an adder. a—quarrel of course; louis grayle sent a challenge. the fine gentleman, known to be no coward (fine gentlemen never are), was at first disposed _to refuse with contempt. but grayle had made himself the idol of the mob ; and at a word from grayle, the fine gentleman might have been ducked at a pump, or tossed in a blanket—that would have made him ridiculous;—to be_shot at is a trifle, to he laughed at is serious. he therefore condescended to accept the challenge, and my father was his second. “ it was settled, of course, according to english custom, that both combatants should fire at the same time, and by signal. the antagonist fired at the right moment; his ball grazed louis grayle’s temple. louis 'grayle had not fired. he now seemed to the seconds to take slow and deliberate aim. they called out to him not to fire—they were rushing to prevent him— when the trigger was pulled, and his opponent fell dead on the field. the fight was, therefore, considered unfair; louis grayle was tried for his life; he did not stand the trial in person.* he escaped to the conti- nent; hurried on to some distant, uncivilized lands; could not be traced; reappeared in england no more. the lawyer who conducted his defence pleaded skil- fully he argued that the delay in firing was not " mrs. poyntz here makes a mistake in law, which, though~ very evident, her listeners do not seem to have noticed. her mistake will he referred to later. i a sraases sroar. intentional, therefore not criminal—the efi‘ect of the stun which the wound in the temple had occasioned. the judge was a gentleman, and summed up the evi- dence so as to direct the jury to a verdict against the low wretch who had murdered a gentleman. but the jurors were not gentlemen, and grayle’s advocate had of course excited their sympathy for a son of the people whom a gentleman had wantonly insulted—the verdict was manslaughter. but the sentence emphati- cally marked the aggravated nature of the homicide — three years’ imprisonment. grayle eluded the prison, but he was a man disgraced and an exile—his ambition blasted, his career an outlaw’s, and his age not yet- twenty-three. my father said that he was supposed to have changed his name; none knew what had become of him. and so this creature, brilliant and daring, whom if born under better auspices we might now be all fawning on, cringing to— after living to old age, no one knows how—dies murdered at aleppo, no one, you say, knows by whom.” “i saw some account of his death in the papers about three years ago,” said one of the party; “but the name was misspelt, and i had no idea that it was the same man who had fought the duel which mrs. colonel poyntz has so graphically described. i have a very vague recollection of the trial; it took place when‘ i was a boy, more than forty years since. the affair made a stir at the time, but was soon forgotten.” “ soon forgotten," said mrs. poyntz; “ay, what is a strange story. not? leave your place in the world for ten minutes, and when you come back somebody else has taken it; but when you leave the world for good, who remem- bers that you had ever a place even in the parish register?’ “ nevertheless,” said i, “ a great poet has said, finely and truly, ‘ the sun of homer shines upon us still.’ ” “ but it does not shine upon homer; and learned folks tell me that we know no more who and what homer was, if there was ever a single homer at all, or, rather, a whole herd of homers, than we know about the man in the moon—if there be one man there, or ' millions of men. now, my dear miss brabazon, it will be very kind in you to divert our thoughts into chan- nels less gloomy. some pretty french air— dr. fenwick, i have something to say to you.” she drew me towards the window. “so anne ashleigh writes me word that i am not to mention your engagement. do you think it quite prudent to keep it a. secret ?” “ i do not see how prudence is concerned in keeping it secret one way or the other—it is a mere matter of feeling. most people wish to abridge, as far as they can, the time in which their private arrangements are the topic of public gossip.” “public gossip is sometimes the best security for the due completion of private arrangements. as long as a girl is not known to be engaged, her betrothed must be a s'raasoa sroav. prepared for rivals. announce the engagement, and rivals are warned ofl'.” “ i fear no rivals.” “ do you not f” bold man! i suppose you will write to lilian?” “ certainly.” “ do so, and constantly. by-the-way, mrs. ashleigh, before she went, asked me to send her back lady haughton’s letter of invitation. what for? to show to you f” “very likely. have you the letter still? may i see it ?” “not just at present. when lilian or mrs. ash- leigh writes to you, come and tell me how they like their visit, and what other guests form the party.” therewith she turned away and conversed apart with the traveller. her words disquieted me, and i felt that they were meant to do so_wherefore i could not guess. but ' there is no language on earth which has more words with a double meaning than that spoken by the clever woman, who is never so guarded as when she appears to be frank. as i walked home thoughtfully, i was accosted by a young man, the son of one of the wealthiest merchants in the town. i had attended him with success, some months before, in a rheumatic fever; he and his family were much attached to me. “ah, my dear fenwick, i am so glad to see you ; i a srsasos sroav. owe you an obligation of which you are not aware—— an exceedingly pleasant travelling companion. i came with him to-day from london, where i have been sight- seeing and holiday-making for the last fortnight.” “i suppose you mean that you kindly bring me a patient ” “no, only an admirer. i was staying at fenton’s hotel. it so happened one day that i had left in the cofi'ee-room your last work on the vital principle, which, by-the~by, the bookseller assures me is selling immensely among readers as non-professional as myself. coming into the coffee-room again, i found a gentleman reading the book. i claimed it politely; he as politely tendered his excuse for taking it. we made acquaintance on the spot. the next day we were intimate. he expressed great interest and curiosity about your theory and your experiments. i told him i knew you. you may guess if i described you as less clever in your practice than you are in your writings. and, in short, he came with me to l-‘—, partly to see our flourishing town, princi- ' pally on my promise to introduce him to you. my mother, you know, has what she calls a déjeuner to- morrow-déjeuner and dance. you will be there ?” “ thank you for reminding me of her invitation. i will avail myself of it if i can. your new friend will be present? who and what is he? a medical student ?” “no, a mere gentleman at case; but seems to have a good deal of general information. very young; * x. a sraauoa sroar. apparently very rich; wonderfully good looking. i am sure you will like him; everybody must.” " it is quite enough to prepare me to like him that he is a friend of yours.” and so we shook hands and parted. chapter xxiii. it was late in the afternoon of the following day before i was able to join the party assembled at the merchant’s house; it was a villa about two miles out of the town, pleasantly situated, amidst flower-gardens, celebrated in the neighborhood for their beauty. the breakfast had been long over; the company was scat- tered over the lawn ; some formed into a dance on the smooth lawn; some seated under shady awnings; others gliding amidst parterres, in which all the glow of color took a glory yet more vivid under the flush of a brilliant sunshine, and the ripple of a soft, western breeze. music, loud and lively, mingled with the laughter of happy children, who formed much the larger number of the party. standing at the entrance of an arched trellis, that led from the hardier flowers of the lawn to a rare col- lection of tropical plants under a lofty glass dome (connecting, as it were, the familiar vegetation of the north with that of the remotest east,) was a form that instantaneously caught and fixed my gaze. the a strange stoay. entrance of the arcade was filled with parasite creepers, in prodigal luxuriance, of variegated, gorgeous tints- scarlet, golden, purple; and the form, an idealized pic- ture of man’s youth fresh from the hand of nature, stood literally in a frame of blooms. never have i seen human face so radiant as that young man’s. there was in the aspect an indescriba- ble something that literally dazzled. as one continued to gaze, it was with surprise; one was forced to acknow~ ledge that in the features themselves there was no faultless regularity; nor was the young man’s stature imposing — about the middle height. but the efi'ect f the whole was not less transcendent. large eyes, unspeakably lustrous ; a most harmonious coloring; an expression of contagious animation and joyousness; and the form itself so critically fine, that the welded strength of its sinews was best shown in the lightness and grace of its movements. he was resting one hand carelessly on the golden locks of a child that had nestled itself against his knees, looking up in his face in that silent, loving wonder with which children regard something too strangely beauti- ful for noisy admiration; he himself was conversing with the host, an old, grey-haired, gouty man, propped on his crutched stick, and listening with a look of mournful envy. to the wealth of the old man all the flowers in that garden owed their renewed delight in the summer air and sun. oh! that his wealth could renew to himself one hour of the youth whose incarna- ' a s'raanen story. tion stood beside him, lord, indeed, of creation; its splendor woven into his crown of beauty, its enjoy- ments subject to his sceptre of hope and gladness. i was startled by the hearty voice of the merchant’s son: “ah, my dear fenwick, i was afraid you would not come-you are late. there is the new friend of - whom i spoke to you last night; let me now make you acquainted with him.” he drew my arm in his, and led me up to the young man, where he stood under the arching flowers, and whom he then introduced to me by the name of margrave. nothing could be more frankly cordial than mr. mar~ grave’s manner. in a few minutes i found myself conversing with him familiarly, as if we had been reared in the same home, and sported together in the same playgrounds. his vein of talk was peculiar, olf- hand, careless, shifting from topic to topic with a bright rapidity. he said that he liked the place ; proposed to stay in it some weeks; asked my address, which i gave to him; promised to call soon at an early hour, while my time was yet free from professional visits. i en- deavored, when i went away, to analyze to myself the fascination which this young stranger so notably exer- cised over all who approached him; and it seemed to me, ever seeking to find material causes for all moral efiects, that it rose from the contagious vitality of that rarest of all rare gifts in highly-civilized circles—perfect health; that health which is in itself the most exquisite a strange s'roar. luxury; which, finding happiness in the mere sense of existence, difi'uses round it, like an atmosphere, the harmless hilarity of its bright animal being. health, to the utmost perfection, is seldom known after child- hood ; health to the utmost cannot be enjoyed by those who overwork the brain, or admit the sure wear and tear of the passions. the creature i had just seen gave me the notion of youth in the golden age of the poets—- the youth of the careless arcadian, before nymph or shepherdess had vexed his heart with a sigh. chapter xxiv. tan house i occupied at l was a quaint, old- fashioned building-a corner-house. one side, in which was the front entrance, looked upon a street which, as there were no shops in it, and it was no direct thorough- ,fare to the busy centres of the town, was always quiet, and at some hours of the day almost deserted. the other side of the house fronted a lane; opposite to it was the long and high wall of the garden to a young ladies’ boarding-school. my stables adjoined the house, abutting on a row of smaller buildings, with little gardens before them, chiefly occupied by mercan- tile clerks and retired tradesmen. by the lane there was a short and ready access both to the high turnpike- a summer; sroay. road, and to some pleasant walks through green mead- ows and along the banks of a river. this house i had inhabited since my arrival at l , and it had to me so many attractions, in a situa~ tion sufiicicntly central to be convenient for patients, and yet free from noise, and favorable to ready outlet into the country for such foot or horse exercise as my pro- fessional avocations would allow me to carve for myself out of what the latin poet calls the “ solid day,” that i had refused to change it for one better suited to my increased income; but it was not a house which mrs. ashleigh would have liked for lilian. the main objec- tion to it in the eyes of the “ genteel ” was, that it had formerly belonged to a member of the healing profession, who united the shop of an apothecary to the diploma of a surgeon ; but that shop had given the house a special attraction to me; for it had been built out on the side of the house which fronted the lane, occupying the greater portion of a small gravel court, fenced from the road by a low iron palisade, and separated from the body of the house itself by a short and narrow corridor that communicated with the entrance-hall. this shop i turned into a rude study for scientific experiments, in which i generally spent some early hours of the morn- ing, before my visiting patients began to arrive. i enjoyed the stillness of its separation from the rest of the house; i enjoyed the glimpse of the great chestnut trees, which overtopped the wall of the school-garden; i enjoyed the ease with which, by opening the glazed a sraanos sroav. '! sash-door, i could get out, if disposed for -a short walk, into the pleasant fields; and so completely had i made this sanctuary my own, that not only my man-servant knew that i was never to be disturbed when in it, except by the summons of a patient, but even the house- maid was forbidden to enter it with broom or duster, except upon special invitation. the last thing at night, before retiring to rest, it was the man-servant’s business to see that the sash-window was closed, and the gate to the iron palisade locked; but during the day-time i so often went out of the house by that private way that the gate was then very seldom locked, nor the sash- door bolted from within. in the town of l— there was little apprehension of house-robberies—especially in the daylight—and certainly in this room, cut off from the main building, there was nothing to attract a vulgar cupidity. a few of the apothecary’s shelves and cases still remained on the walls, with, here and there, a bottle of some chemical preparation for experiment. two or three worm-eaten, wooden chairs; two or three shabby old tables; an old walnut-tree bureau, without a lock, into which odds and ends were confusedly thrust, and sundry ugly-louking inventions of mechani- cal science, were, assuredly, not the articles which a timid pr prietor would guard with jealous care from the chances of robbery. it will be seen later why i have been thus prolix in description. the morning after i had met the young stranger by whom iliad been so favorably impressed, i was up as usual, a little before a s'raanoa sroar. the sun, and long before any of my servants were astir. i went first into the room i have mentioned, and which i shall henceforth designate as my study, opened the window, unlocked the gate, and sauntered for some minutes up and down the silent lane skirting the oppo- site wall, and overhung by the chestnut-trees rich in the garniture of a glorious summer; then, refreshed for work, i re-entered my study and was soon absorbed in the examination of that now well-known machine, which was then, to me at least, a novelty; invented, if i remember right, by dubois-reymond, so distinguished by his researches into the mysteries of organic elec- tricity. it is a wooden cylinder fixed against the edge of a table; on the table two vessels filled with salt and water are so placed that, as you close your hand on the cylinder, the fore-finger of each hand can drop into the water; each of the vessels has a metallic plate, and communicates by wires with a galvanometer' with its needle. now the theory is, that if you clutch the cylinder firmly with the right hand, leaving the left perfectly passive, the needle in the galvanometer will move from west to south; if, in like manner, you exert the left arm, leaving the right arm passive, the needle will deflect from west to north. hence, it is argued that the electric current is induced through the agency of the nervous system, and that, as human will pro- duces the muscular contraction requisite, so is it human will that causes the deflection of the needle. i im- agined that if this theory were substantiated by experi- a s'rnanoa near. ment, the discovery might lead to some sublime and unconjectured secret of science. for human will, thus actively effective on the electric current, and all matter, animate or inanimate, having more or less of electricity, a vast field became opened to conjecture. by what series of patient experimental deduction might not science arrive at the solution of problems which the newtonian law of gravitation does not suffice to solve; and but here i halt. at the date which my story has reached my mind never lost itself long in the cloud- land of guess. i was dissatisfied with my experiment. the needle stirred, indeed, but erratically, and not in directions which, according to the theory, should correspond to my movement. i was about to dismiss the trial with . some uncharitable contempt of the foreign philosopher’s dogmas, when i heard a loud ring at my street door. while i paused to conjecture whether my servant was yet up to attend to the door, and which of my patients was the most likely to summon me at so unseasonable an hour, a shadow darkened my window. i looked up, and to my astonishment beheld the brilliant face of mr. margrave. the sash to the door was already par- tially opened; he raised it higher, and walked into the room. “was it you who rang at the street door, and at this hour f" said i. “yes; and observing, after i had rung, that all the shutters were still closed, i felt ashamed of my own rash action, and made off rather than brave the reproach- a sraanoa s'roav. fu! face of some injured housemaid, robbed of let morning dreams. i turned down that pretty lane— lured by the green of the chestnut-trees—caught sight of you through the window, took courage, and here i am! you forgive me?” while thus speaking, he continued to move along the littered floor of the dingy room, with the undulating restlessness of some wild animal in the confines of its den, and he now went on, in short, fragmentary sentences, very slightly linked together, but smoothed, as it were, into harmony by a voice musical and fresh as a sky-lark’s warble. “morn- ing dreams, indeed! dreams that waste the life of such a morning. rosy magnificence of a summer dawn! do you not pity the fool who prefers to lie a-bed, and to dream rather than to live? what! and you, strong man, with those noble limbs, in this den! do, you not . long for a rush through the green of the fields, a bath in the blue of the river ?” ' here he came to a pause, standing, still in the grey light of the growing day, with eyes whose joyous lustre forestalled the sun’s, and lips which seemed to laugh even in repose. ' but presently those eyes, as quick as they were bright, glanced over the walls, the floor, the shelves, the phials, the mechanical inventions, and then rested full on my cylinder fixed to the table. he approached, examined it curiously, asked what it was? i explained. to gratify him, i sat down and renewed my experi- ment, with equally ill success. the needle, which a sraauos sroar. i'll should have moved from west to south, describing an angle of from degrees to or even degrees, only made a few troubled, undecided oscillations. “tut,” cried the young man, “ i see what it is; you have a wound in your right hand.” that was true. i had burnt my hand a few days be- fore in a chemical experiment, and the sore had not healed. “ well,” said i, “and what does that matter f” “ everything; the least scratch in the skin of the hand produces chemical actions on the electric current, independently of your will. let me try.” he took my place, and in a moment the needle in the galvanometer responded to his grasp on the cylinder, exactly as the inventive philosopher had stated to be the due result of the experiment. i was startled. “but how came you, mr. margrave, to be so well acquainted with a scientific process little known, and but recently discovered?” “i well acquainted! not so. but i am fond of all experiments that relate to animal life. electricity, especially, is full of interest.” on that i drew him out (as i thought), and he talked volubly. i was amazed to find that this young man, in whose brain i had conceived thought kept one care- less holiday, was evidently familiar with the physical sciences, and especially with chemistry, which was my own study by predilection. but never had i met with a student in whom a knowledge so extensive was a sranner: story. mixed up with notions so obsolete or so erotchety. in one sentence he showed that he had mastered some late discovery by faraday or liebig; in the next sentence he was talking the wild fancies of cardan or van helmont. i burst out laughing at some paradox about sympathetic powders, which he cnounced as if it were a recognized truth.” “pray tell me,” said i, “who was your master in physics, for a cleverer pupil never had a more crack- brained teacher.” “ no,” he answered, with his merry laugh, “it is not the teacher’s fault. i am a mere parrot; just cry out a few scraps of learning picked up here and there. but, however, i am fond of all researches into nature; all guesses at her riddles. to tell you the truth, one reason why i have taken to you so heartily is not only that your published work caught my fancy in the dip which i took into its contents (pardon me if i say dip, i never do more than dip into any book), but also because young * * * * tells me that which all whom i have met in this town confirm; viz., that you are one of those few practical chemists who are at once exceed- ingly cautious and exceedingly bold— willing to try every new experiment, but submitting experiment to rigid tests. well, i have an experiment running wild in this giddy head of mine, and i want you, some day when at leisure, to catch it, fix it as you have fixed that cylinder; make something of it. i am sure you can.” “what is it y” “ something akin to the theories in your work. you a s'raaner. sroav. would replenish or preserve to each special constitution the special substance that may fail to the equilibrium of its health. but you own that in a large proportion of cases the best cure of disease is less to deal with the disease itself than to support and stimulate the whole system, so as to enable nature to cure the disease and restore the impaired equilibrium by her own agencies. thus, if you find that in certain cases of nervous debility a substance like nitric acid is effi- cacious, it is because the nitric acid has a virtue in locking up, as it were, the nervous energy—that is, preventing all undue waste. again, in some cases of what is commonly called feverish cold, stimulants like ammonia assist nature itself to get rid of the disorder that oppresses its normal action; and, on the same principle, i apprehend, it is contended that a large average of human lives is saved in those hospitals which have adopted the supporting system of ample nourishment and alcoholic stimulants.” “ your medical learning surprises me,” said i, smiling, " and without pausing to notice where it deals some what superficially with disputable points in general, and my own theory in particular, i ask you for the deduc- tion you draw from your premises.” “ it .is simply this: that to all animate bodies, how- ever various, there must be one principle in common- the vital principle itself. what, if there be one certain means of recruiting that principle? and what if that secret can be discovered?” * a strange s'roar. “ pshaw! the old illusion of the medieval empirics.” "not so. but the mediaaval empirics were great discoverers. you sneer at van helmont, who sought, in water, the principle of all things; but van helmont discovered in his search those invisible bodies called gases. now the principle of life must be certainly ascribed to a gas.* and whatever is a gas, chemistry * “according to the views we have mentioned, we must ascribe life to a gas, that is, to an aeriform body."— llama, organic chemistry, playfuir’s translation, p. . it is perhaps not less superfluous to add that liebig does not support the views “according to which life must be ascribed to a gas," than it would be to state, had dugald stewart been quoted as writing, “according to the views we have mentioned the mind is but a bundle of impressions," that dugald stewart was not supporting, but opposing, the views of david hume. the quotation is merely meant to show, in the shortest possible compass, that there are views entertained by speculative reasoners of our day which, according to lisbig, would lead to the inference at which margrave so boldly arrives. margrave is, however, no doubt, led to his belief by his reminiscences of van helmont, to whose discovery of gas he is referring. van helmont plainly affirms “that the arterial spirit of our life is of the nature of a gas;” and in the same chapter (on the fiction of elementary complexion! and mixtures) says, “ seeing that the spirit of our life, since it is a gas, is most mightily and swiftly afl'ected by any other gas," : . he repeats the same dogma in his treatise on long life, and indeed very generally throughout his writings, observing, in his chapter on the "vital air,” that the spirit of life is a salt, sharp vapor, made of the arterial blood, w. liebig, therefore, in confuting some modern notions as to the nature of mntagion by miasma, is lending their reasonings back to that assumption in the dawn of physiological science by which the discoverer of gas exalted into the principle of life the, substance to which he first gave the name now so familiarly known. it is nevertheless just to van helmont to add that his conception of the vital prin- a sraaxor: sroar. l should not despair of producingl but i can argue no longer now—never can argue long at a. stretch-we are wasting the morning; and, joy! the sun is up! see! out! come out! out! and greet the great life- giver face to face.” i could not resist the young man’s invitation. in a few minutes we were in the quiet lane under the glint- ing chestnut-trees. margrave . was chanting, low, a wild tune—words in a strange language. “what words are those? no european language, think; for i know a little of most of the languages which are spoken in our quarter of the globe, at least by its more civilized races.” “ civilized race l what is civilization? those words were uttered by men who founded empires when europe itself was not civilized! hush, is it not a grand old air?" and lifting his eyes towards the sun, he gave vent to a voice clear and deep as a mighty bell! the ciplewas very farfrom being as purely materialistic as it would seem to those uuaequainted with his writings; for he carefully distinguishes that principle of life which he ascribes to a gas. and by which he means the sensuous animal life, from the intel- lectual, immortal principle of soul. van helmont, indeed, was a sincere believer of divine revelation. “the lord jesus is the way, the truth, and the life,” says with earnest humility this daring genius, in that noble chapter “ on the completing of- the mind by the ‘ prayer of silence,’ and the. loving ofl'ering up of the heart, soul, and strength to the obedience of the divine wil " from which some of the most eloquent of recent philosophers, arguing against materialism, have borrowed largely in support and in ornament of their lofty cause. a s'raasos s'roar. air was grand—the words had a sonorous swell that suited it, and they seemed to me jubilant and yet solemn. he stopped abruptly, as a path from the lane had led us into the fields, already half-bathed in sun- light—dews glittering on the hedgerows. “your song,” said i, “ would go well with the clash of cymbals or the peal of the organ. i am no judge of melody, but this strikes me as that of a religious hymn." “i compliment you on the guess. it is a persian fire-worshipper’s hymn to the sun. the dialect is very difi‘erent from modern persian. cyrus the great might have chanted it on his march upon babylon.” “and where did you learn it?” “ in persia itself." “ you have travelled much—learned much—and are so young and so fresh. is it an impertinent ques- tion if i ask whether your parents are yet living, or are you wholly lord of yourself? ” “ thank you for the question—pray make my answer known in the town. parents i have not—never had.” “ never had parents l” “ well, i ought rather to say that no parents ever owned me. i am a natural son-a vagabond—a nobody. when i came of age i received an anonymous letter, informing me that a sum—i need not say what- but more than enough for all- i need, was lodged at an english banker’s in my name; that my mother had died in my infancy; that my father was also dead— a s'raauea sroav. but recently; that as i was a child of love, and he was unwilling that the secret of my birth should ever be traced, he had provided for me, not by will, but in his life, by a sum consigned to the trust of the friend who now wrote to me; i need give myself no trouble to learn more; faith, i never did. i_ am young, healthy, rich-yes, richl now you know all, and you had better tell it, that i may win no man’s courtesy and no maiden’s love upon false pretences. i have not even a right, you see, to the name i bear. histl let me catch that squirrel.” with what a panther-like bound he sprang! the squirrel eluded his grasp, and was up the oak-tree; in a moment he was up the oak-tree too. in amazement i saw him rising from bough to bough —- saw his bright eyes and glittering teeth through the green leaves; presently i heard the sharp piteous cry of the squirrel- echoed by the youth’s merry laugh—and down, through that maze of green, margrave came, dropping on the grass and bounding up, as mercury might have bounded with his wings at his heels. i “ i have caught him —— what pretty brown eyes ” suddenly the gay expression of his face changed to that of a savage; the squirrel had wrenched itself half- loose, and bitten him. the poor brutel in an instant its neck was wrung—its body dashed on the ground; and that fair young creature, every feature quivering with rage, was stamping his foot on his victim again and againl it was horrible. i caught him by the arm i a sraauor. sroar. indignantly. he turned round on me like a wild beast disturbed from its prey' his teeth set, his hand lifted, his eyes like balls of fire. “ shame!” said i, calmly; “ shame on you i ” he continued to gaze on me a moment or so; his eye glaring-his breath panting—and then, as if master- ing himself with an involuntary efi‘ort, his arm dropped to his side, and he said quite humbly, “i beg your pardon; indeed i do. i was beside myself for a mo- ment; i cannot bear pain ;” and he looked in deep com- passion for himself at his wounded hand. “ venomous brute!” and he stamped again on the body of the squirrel, already crushed out of shape. i moved away in disgust, and walked on. but presently i felt my arm softly drawn aside, and a voice, dulcet as the coo of a dove, stole its way into my ears. there was no resisting the charm with which this extraordinary mortal could fascinate even the hard and the cold; nor them, perhaps, the least. for as you see in extreme old age, when the heart seems to have shrunk into itself, and to leave but meagre and nipped afl'ections for the nearest relations if grown up, the indurated egotism softens at once towards aplayful child; or as you see in middle life, some misanthrope, whose nature has been soured by wrong and sorrow, shrink from his own species, yet make friends with inferior races and respond to the caress of a dog—so, for the worldling or the cynic, there was an attraction in the freshness of this joyous favorite a summer: s'roay. - of nature-an attraction like that of a beautiful child, spoilt and'wayward, or of a graceful animal, half docile, half fierce. “but’,’ said i, with a smile, as i felt all displeasure gone, “such indulgence of passion for such a trifle is surely unworthy a student of philosophy!” “trifle,” he said, dolorously. “but i tell you it is pain; pain is no trifle. i sutfer. look! ” i looked at the hand, which i took in mine. the bite no doubt had been sharp; but the hand that lay in my own was that which the greek sculptor gives to a gladiator; not large (the extremities are never large in persons whose strength comes from the just proportion of all the members, rather than the factitious and partial force which continued muscular exertion will give to one part of the frame, to the comparative weakening of the rest), but the firm-knit joints, the solid fingers, the finished nails, the massive palm, the supple, polished skin, in which we recognize what nature designs the human hand to be-the skilled, swift, mighty doer of all those marvels which win nature herself from the wilderness. “ it is strange,” said i, thoughtfully; “ but your sus- ceptibility to suffering confirms my opinion, 'which is difi'erent from the popular belief, viz., that pain is most acutely felt by those in whom the animal organization being perfect, and the sense of vitality exquisitely keen, every injury or lesion finds the whole system rise, as it were, to repel the mischief and communicate the con- - iso a s'raauos sroay. sciousness of it to all those nerves which are the senti- nels to the garrison of life. yet my theory is scarcely borne out by general fact. the indian savages must have a health as perfect as yours; a nervous system as fine. witness their marvellous accuracy of ear, of eye, of scent, probably also of touch, yet they are indifl‘erent to physical pain; or must i mortify your pride by say- ing that they have some moral quality defective in you which enables them to rise superior to it? ” “ the indian savages,” said margrave, sullenlyi “ have not a health as perfect as mine, and in what you call vitality-the blissful consciousness of life—they are as sticks and stones compared to me.” “ how do you know?” “ because i have lived with them. it is a fallacy to suppose that the savage has a health superior to that of the civilized man —if the civilized man be but tem- perate; and even if not, he has the stamina that can resist for years the efi‘ect of excesses which would destroy the savage in a month. as to the savage’s fine perceptions of sense, such do not come from exqui- site equilibrium of system, but are hereditary attributes transmitted from race to race, and strengthened by training from infancy. but is a pointer stronger and healthier than a mastifi', because the pointer through long descent and early teaching creeps stealtbily to his game and stands to it motionless? i will talk. of this later; now sufl'erl pain, pain has life any ill but pain ? ” a summer: s'roav. it so- happened that i had about me some roots of the white lily, which i meant, before returning home, to leave with a patient suffering from one of those acute local infiammations, in which that simple remedy often affords great relief. i cut up one of these roots, and bound the cooling leaves to the wounded hand with my handkerchief. “there,” said i. “ fortunately, if you feel pain more sensibly than others, you will recover from it more quickly.” ‘ and in a few minutes my companion felt perfectly relieved, and poured out his gratitude with an extrava- gance of expression and a beaming delight of counte- nance which positively touched me. “ i almost feel,” said i, “ as i do when i have stilled an infant’s wailing, and restored it smiling to its mother’s breast.” “ you have done so. i am an infant, and nature is _ my mother. oh, to be restored to the full joy of life, the scent of wild flowers, the song of birds, and this air—summer air— summer air l ” i know not why it was, but at that moment, looking at him and hearing him, i rejoiced that lilian was not at l——. “but i came out to bathe. can we not bathe in that stream? ” “ no. you would derange the bandage round your hand; and for all bodily ills, from the least to the gravest, there is nothing like leaving nature at rest the a strange s'ronv. moment we have hit on the means which assists her own efi'orts at cure.” “ i obey, then ; but i so love the water.” “ you swim, of course ? ” “ask the fish if it swim. ask the fish if it can escape me i delight to dive down—down ; to plunge after the startled trout, as an otter does; and then to get amongst those cool, fragrant reeds and bulrushes, or that forest of emerald weed which one sometimes finds waving under clear rivers. man! man! could you live but an hour of my life you would know how horrible a thing it is to die l” “yet the dying do not think so; they pass away calm and smiling, as you will one day.” “ — ! die one day-die!” and he sank on the grass, and buried his face amongst the herbage, sobbing aloud. before i could get through half a dozen words, meant to soothe, he had once more bounded up, dashed the tears from his eyes, and was again singing some wild, barbaric chant. abstracting itself from the appeal to its outward sense by melodies of which the language was unknown, my mind soon grew absorbed in medi- tative conjectures on the singular nature, so wayward, so impulsive, which had forced intimacy on a man grave and practical as myself. i was puzzled how to reconcile so passionate a child- isnness, so undisciplined a want of self-control, with an experience of mankind so extended by travel, with an a srnanos arm“. [ education, desultory and irregular indeed, but which must, at some time or other, have been familiarized to 'severe reasonings and laborious studies. in margravc there seemed to be wanting that mysterious something which is needed to keep our faculties, however severally brilliant, harmoniously locked together—as the string by which a child mechanically binds the wild flowers it gathers; shaping them at choice into the garland or the chain. \ chapter xxv. my intercourse with margrave grew habitual and familiar. he came to my house every morning before sunrise; in the evenings we were again brought to. gather; sometimes in the houses to which we were both invited, sometimes at his hotel, sometimes in my own home. ' nothing more perplexed me than his aspect of ex- treme youthfulness, contrasted with the extent of the travels, which, if he were to be believed, had left little of the known world unexplored. one day i asked him, bluntly, how old he was? “ how old do i look ? how old should you suppose me to be ? ” “ i should have guessed you to be about twenty, till you spoke of having come of age some years ago.” a s'rnases s'roar. “is it a sign of longevity when a man looks much younger than he is f ” “ conjoined with other signs, certainly.” “have i the other signs ? ” “ yes, a magnificent, perhaps a matchless, constitu- tional organization. but you have evaded my question as to your age; was it an impertinence to put it?” “ no. i came of age—let me see—three years ago.” “so long since? is it possible? i wish i had your . secret i ” “ secrctl what secret? ” “ the secret of preserving so much of the boyish freshness in the wear and tear of man-like passions and man-like thoughts.” “ you are still young yourself—under forty?” “ oh, yes! some years under forty.” “and nature gave you a grander frame and a finer symmetry of feature than she bestowed on me.” “ poohl poohl you have the beauty that must charm the eyes of women, and that beauty in its sunny forenoon of youth. happy manl if you love-and wish to be sure that you are loved again.” “ what you call love—the unhealthy sentiment, the feverish folly— i left behind me, i think forever, when -— ” “ay, indeed-when ?” “ i came of agel” “ hoary cynicl and you despise love! so did i once your time may come.” a smauon story. “ i think not. does any animal, except man, love its fellow she-animal as man loves woman ” “as man loves woman? no, i suppose not.” " and why should the subject animals be wiser than their king? but, to return—you would like to have my youth and my careless enjoyment of youth '” “ can you ask-who would not?” margrave looked at me for a moment with unusual seriousness, and then, in the abrupt changes common to his capricious tempe- rament, began to sing softly one of his barbaric chants —a chant, different from any i had heard him sing before-made, either by the modulation of his voice or the nature of the tune, so sweet that, little as music generally afi'ected me, this thrilled to my very heart’s core. i drew closer and closer to him, and murmured when he paused. “ is not that a love-song ? ” “ no,” said he, “ it is the song by which the serpent- charmer charms the serpent.” chapter xxvi. incanasnn intimacy with my new acquaintance did not diminish the charm of his society, though it brought to light some startling defects, both in his mental and moral organization. i have before said that his know- edge, though it had swept over a wide circuit and * a sraanoa swear. dipped into curious nnfrequented recesses, was des. ultory and erratic. it certainly was not that know- ledge, sustained and aspiring, which the poet assures us is “the wing on which we mount to heaven.” so, in his faculties themselves there were singular inequalities, or contradictions. his power of memory in some things seemed prodigious, but when examined it was seldom accurate; it could apprehend, but did not hold together with a binding grasp what metaphysicians call “com- plex ideas.” he thus seemed unable to put it to any steadfast purpose in the sciences of which it retained, vaguely and loosely, many recondite principles. for the sublime and beautiful in literature he had no taste whatever. a passionate lover of nature, his imagina- tion had no response to the arts by which nature is ex- pressed or idealized; wholly unaffected by poetry or painting. of the fine arts, music alone attracted and pleased him. his conversation was often eminently suggestive, touching on much, whether in books or mankind, that set one thinking, but i never remember him to have uttered any of those lofty or tender senti- ments which form the connecting links between youth and genius. for if poets sing to the young, and the young hail their own interpreters in poets, it is because the tendency of both is to idealize the realities of life; finding everywhere in the real a something that is noble or fair, and making the fair yet fairer, and the noble nobler still. in margrave’s character there seemed no special a sraanem s'roar. vices, no special virtues; but a wonderful vivacity joyousness, animal good humor. he was singularly temperate, having a dislike to wine, perhaps from that purity of taste which belongs to health absolutely per- fect. no healthful child likes alcohols, no animal except man, prefers wine to water. but his main moral defect seemed to me, in a want of sympathy, even where he professed attachment. he who could feel so acutely for himself, he unmanned by the bite of a squirrel, and sob at the thought that he should one day die, was as callous to the snfl'erings of another as a deer who deserts and butts from him a wounded comrade. i give an instance of this hardness of heart where i should have least expected to find it in him: he had met and joined me as i was walking to visit a patient on the outskirts of the town, when we fell in with a group of children, just let loose for an hour or two from their day-school. some of these children joyously recognized him as having played with them at their homes; they ran up to him, and he seemed as glad as themselves at the meeting. he suffered them to drag him along with them, and became as merry and sportive as the youngest of the troop. “well, said i, laughing, “ if you are going to play at leap-frog, pray don’t let it be on the high road, or you will be run over by carts and draymen; see that meadow just in front to the left-off with you there i” a sraaaos story. “with all my heart,” cried margrave, “ while you pay your visit. come along, boys.” a little urchin, not above six years old, but who was lame, began to cry, he could not run-he should be left behind. margrave stooped: “climb on my shoulder, little one, and i’ll be your horse.” the child dried its tears, and delightedly obeyed. “certainly,” said i to myself“, “ margrave, after all, must have a nature as gentle as it is simple. what other young man, so courted by all the allurements that steal innocence from pleasure, would stop in the thor- oughfare to play with children ?" q the thought had scarcely-passed through my mind when i heard a scream of agony. margrave had leaped the railing that divided the meadow from the road, and, in so doing, the poor child, perched on his shoulder, had, perhaps from surprise or fright, loosened its hold and fallen heavily— its cries were piteous. margrave clapped his hands to his ears—uttered an exclamation of anger—and not even stopping to lift up the boy, or examine what the hurt was, called to the other children to come on, and was soon rolling with them on the grass, and pelting them with daisies. when i came up, only one child remained by the suli'erer—his little brother, a year older than himself. the child had fallen on his arm, which was not broken, but violently con- tused. the pain must have been intense. i carried the child to his home, and had to remain there some a sraauea sroay. time. i did not see margrave till the next morning. when he then called, i felt so indignant that i could scarcely speak to him. when at last irebuked him for his inhumanity, he seemed surprised; with difficulty remembered the circumstance, and then merely said— as if it were the most natural confession; in the world— “oh, nothing so discordant as a child’s wail. _ i hate discords. i am pleased-with the company of children; but they must be children who laugh and play. well! why do you look at me so sternly? what have i said to shock you?” “shock me—you shock manhood itselfl go; i can- not talk to you now. am busy.” but he did not go; and his voice was so sweet, and his ways so winning, that disgust insensibly melted into that sort of forgiveness one accords (let me repeat the illustration) to the deer that forsakes its comrade. the poor thing knows no better. and what a grace- ful, beautiful thing this was! the fascination—i can give it no other name- which margrave exercised was not confined to me, it was universal-old, young, high, low, man, woman, child, all felt it. never in low town had stranger, even the most distinguished, met with a reception so cordial—so flattering. his frank confession that he was a natural son, far from being to his injury, served to interest people more in him, and to prevent all those inquiries in regard to his connections and antecedents, which would otherwise have been afloat. to be sure. a sraarms story. he was evidently rich; at least he had plenty of money. he lived in the best rooms in the principal hotel; was very hospitable; entertained the families with whom he had grown intimate; made them bring their chil- dren—music and dancing after dinner. among the houses in which he had established familiar acquaint- tnce was that of the mayor of the town, who had bought dr. lloyd’s collection 'of subjects in natural history. to that collection the mayor had added largely by a very recent purchase. he had arranged these various specimens, which his last acquisitions had enriched by the interesting carcasses of an elephant and a hippopotamus, in a large wooden building contiguous to his dwelling, which had been constructed by a former proprietor (a retired fox-hunter) as a riding-house. and being a man who much affected the diifusion of know- ledge, he proposed to open the museum to the admira- tion of the general public, and at his death, to bequeath it to the athenaaum or literary institute of his native town. margrave, seconded by the influence of the mayor’s daughter, had scarcely been three days at l— before he had persuaded this excellent and public spir- ited functionary to inaugurate the opening of his museum by the popular ceremony of a ball. a temporary corri- dor should unite the drawing-rooms, which were on the ground floor, with the building that contained the collection; and thus the féte would be elevated above the frivolous character of a fashionable amusement, and consecrated to the solemnization of an intellectual i nsti- a srnanes sroav. lute. dazzled by the brilliancy of this idea, the mayor announced his intention to give a ball that should include the surrounding neighborhood, and be worthy, in all expensive respects, of the dignity of himself and the occasion. a night had been fixed for the ball—a night that became memorable indeed to mel the entertain- ment was anticipated with a lively interest, in which even the hill condescended to share. the hill did not patronize mayors in general; but when a mayor gave a ball for a purpose so patriotic, and on a scale so splen- did, the hill liberally acknowledged that commerce was, on the whole, a thing which the eminence might, now and then, condescend to acknowledge without absolutely derogating from the rank which providence had assigned to it amongst the high places of earth. accordingly, the hill was permitted by its queen to honor the first magistrate of low town by a promise to attend his ball. now, as this festivity had origi- nated in the suggestion of margrave, so, by a natural association of ideas, every one,'in talking of the ball, talked also of margrave. the hill had at first afl‘ected to ignore a stranger whese début had been made in the mercantile circle of low town. but the queen of the hill now said, sententiously, “this new man in a few days has become a celebrity. it is the policy of the hill to adopt celebrities, if the celebrities pay respect to the pro- prieties. dr.lfenwick is requested to procure mr. mar- grave the advantage of being known to the hill.” a srnanen sworn. i found it somewhat difficult to persuade margrave to accept the hill’s condescending overture. he seemed to have a dislike to all societies pretending to aristo- cratic distinction-a dislike expressed with a fierceness so unwonted, that it made one suppose he had, at some time or other, been subjected to mortification by the supercilious airs that blow upon heights so elevated. however, he yielded to my instances, and accompanied me one evening to mrs. poyntz’s house. the hill was encamped there for the occasion. mrs. poyntz was exceedingly civil to him, and after a few common- place speeches, hearing that he was fond of music, con~ signed him to the caressing care of miss brabazon, who was at the head of the musical department in the queen of the hill’s administration. mrs. poyntz retired to her favorite seat near the window, inviting me to sit beside her; and while she knitted in silence, in silence my eye glanced toward margrave in the midst of the group assembled round the piano. whether he was in more than usually high spirits, or whether he was actuated by a malign and impish desire to upset the established laws of decorum by which the gaieties of the hill were habitually subdued into a serene and somewhat pensive pleasantness, i know not; but it was not many minutes before the orderly aspect of the place was grotesquely changed. miss brabazon having come to the close of a mm plicated and dreary sonata, i heard margrave abruptly a strange near. ask her if she could play the tarantella, that famous neapolitan air which is founded on the legendary belief that the bite of the tarantula excites an irresistible desire to dance. on that high-bred spinster’s confession that she was ignorant of the air, and had not even heard of the legend, margrave said, “let me play it to you, with variations of my own.” miss brabazon graciously yielded her place at the instrument. mar- grave seated himself—there was great curiosity to hear his performance. margrave’s fingers rushed over the keys, and there was a general start, the prelude was so unlike any known combination of harmonious sounds. then he began a chant—song i can scarcely call it—words certainly not in italian, perhaps in some uncivilized tongue, perhaps in impromptu gibberish. and the torture of the instrument now commenced in good earnest; it shrieked, it groaned, wilder and noisier. beethoven’s storm, roused by the fell touch of a german pianist, were mild in comparison; and the mighty voice, dominating the anguish of the cracking keys, had the full diapason of a chorus. certainly i am no judge of music, but to my ear the discord was terrific—to the ears of better informed amateurs it seemed ravishing. all were spellbound; even mrs. poyntz paused from her knitting, as the fates paused from their web at the lyre of orpheus. to this breathless delight, however, soon succeeded a general desire for movement. to my amazement i beheld these formal matrons and sober fathers of families forming themselves into a dance, n a strange s'roar. turbulent as a children’s ball at christmas. and when. suddenly desisting from his music, margrave started up, caught the skeleton hand of lean miss brabazon, and whirled her into the centre of the dance, i could have fancied myself at a witch’s sabbat. my eye turned in scandalous alarm towards mrs. poyntz. that great creature seemed as much astounded as myself her eyes were fixed on the scene in a stare of positive stupor. for the first time, no doubt, in her life, she was overcome, deposed, dethroned. the awe of her presence was literally whirled away. the dance ceased as suddenly as it had begun. darting from the galvan‘ ized mummy whom he had selected as his partner, mar-grave shot to mrs. poyntz’s side, and said, “ten thousand pardons for quitting you so soon, but the clock warns me that i have an engagement elsewhere.’ in another moment he was gone. the dance halted, people seemed slowly returning to their senses, looking at each other bashfully and ashamed. “ i could not help it, dear,” sighed miss brabazon at last, sinking into a chair, and casting her deprecating. fainting eyes upon the hostess. “ it is witchcraft,” said fat mrs. bruce, wiping her forehead. “ witchcraft! ” echoed mrs. poyntz; “it does indeed look like it. an amazing and portentous exhibition of animal spirits, and not to be endured by the pro- prieties. where on earth can that young savage have come from?” a s'raauen sroar. “from savage lands,” said i. “so he says.” “do not bring him here again,” said mrs. poyntz. “he would soon turn the hill topsy-tnrvy. but how charming! i should like to see more of him,” she added, in an under-voice, “if he would call on me some morning, and not in the presence of those for whose proprieties i am responsible. jane must be out in her ride with the colonel.” margrave never again attended the patrician fes- tivities of the hill. invitations were poured upon him, especially by miss brabazon and the other old maids, but in vain. “ those people,” said he, “ are too tamed and civil- ized for me; and so few young persons among them. even that girl jane is only young on the surface; inside, as old as the world, or her mother. i like youth, real youth—i am young, i am young!” and, indeed, i observed he would attach himself to some young person, often to some child, as if with cordial and special favor, yet for not more than an hour or so, never distinguishing them by the same preference when be next met them. i made that remark to him, in rebuke of his fickleness, one evening when he had ' found me at work on my ambitious book, reducing to rule and measure the laws of nature. “ it is not fickleness,” said he, “ it is necessity.” “ necessity! explain yourself.” “ i seek to find what i have not found,” said he; “ it is my necessity to seek it, and among the young; and a sraauea sroar. disappointed in one, i turn to another. neces: again. but find it at last i must.” “i suppose you mean what the young usually s in the young; and if, as you said the other day,; have left love behind you, you now wander back re-find it.” “tushl if i may judge by the talk of young fo love may be found every day by him who looks out it. what i seek is among the rarest of all discover you might aid me to find it, and in so doing aid y( self to a knowledge far beyond all that your for experiments can bestow.” “ prove your words, and command my services," a i, smiling somewhat disdainfully. “ you told me that you had examined into the alle phenomena of animal magnetism, and proved s( persons who pretend to the gift which the scotch second sight to be bungling impostors. you a right. i have seen the clairvoyants who drive t trade in this town; a common gipsy could beat then their own calling. but your experience must b shown you that there are certain temperaments which the gift of the pythoness is stored, unknow: the possessor, undetected by the common observer; the signs of which should be as apparent to the met physiologist as they were to the ancient priest.” “i at least, as a physiologist, am ignorant of signs — what are they ?” “ i should despair of making you comprehend t a sraanoa sroav. '! by mere verbal description. i could guide your obser~ vation to distinguish them unerringly were living sub- jects before us. but not one in a million has the gift to an extent available for the purposes to which the wise would apply it. many have imperfect glimpses, few, few indeed, the unveiled, lucent sight. they who have but the imperfect glimpses, mislead and dupe the minds that consult them, because, being sometimes marvellously right, they excite a credulous belief in their general accuracy; and as they are but translators of dreams in their own brain, their assurances are no more to be trusted than are the dreams of commonplace sleepers. but where the gift exists to perfection, he who knows how to direct and to profit by it should be able to discover all that he desires to know for the guidance and preservation of his own life. he will be forewarned of every danger, forearmed in the means by which danger is avoided. for the eye of the true pythoness matter has no obstruction, space no confines, time no measurement." “ my dear margrave, you may well say that creatures so gifted are rare; and, for my part, i would as soon search for a unicorn, as, to use your afl'ected expression, for a pythoness.” “ nevertheless, whenever there comes across the course of your practice some young creature to whom all the evil of the world is as yet unknown, to whom the ordinary cares and duties of the world are strange and unwelcome; who, from the earliest dawn of reason, * a strange story. has loved to sit apart and to muse; before whose eyes visions pass unsolicited; who converses with those who are not dwellers on the earth, and beholds in the space landscapes which the earth does not reflect.” “ margrave, margrave! of whom do you speak y" “ whose frame, though exquisitely sensitive, has still a health and a soundness in which you recognize no disease; whose mind has a truthfulness that you know cannot deceive you, and a simple intelligence too clear to deceive itself; who is moved to a mysterious degree by all the varying aspects of external nature—inno- cently joyous r nnaccountably sad—when, i say, such a being comes across your experience, inform me; and the chances are that the true pythoness is found.” i had listened with vague terror, and with more than one exclamation of amazement, to descriptions which brought lilian ashleigh before me; and i now sat mute, bewildered, breathless, gazing upon mar- grave, and rejoicing that, at least, lilian he had never seen. he returned my own gaze steadily, searchingly, and then, breaking into a slight laugh, resumed: “you call my word ‘pythoness’ affected. i know of no better. my recollections of classic anecdote and history are confused and dim; but somewhere i have read or heard that the priests of~dclphi were accus- tomed to travel chiefly into thrace or thessaly in search of the virgins who might fitly administer their oracles, and that the oracles gradually ceased in repute a s'raarmn s'roay. is the priests became unable to discover the organize.- tion requisite in the priestesses, and supplied by craft and imposture, or by such imperfect fragmentary de- velopments as belong now to professional clairvoyants, the gifts which nature failed to afford. indeed, the demand was one that must' have rapidly exhausted so limited . supply. the constant strain upon faculties so wearing to the vital functions in their relentless exercise, under the artful stimulants by which the priests heightened their power, was mortal, and no pythoness ever retained her life more than three years from the time that her gift was elaborately trained and de veloped.” “pooh! i'know of no classical authority for the details you so confidently cite. perhaps some such legends may be found in the alexandrian platonists, but those mysteries are no authority on such a subject. after all,” i added, recovering from my first surprise, or awe, “the delphic oracles were proverbially am- biguous, and their responses might be read either way; a proof that the priests dictated the verses, though their arts on the unhappy priestess might throw her into real convulsions, and the real convulsions, not the false gift, might shorten her life. enough of such idle subjects! yet no! one question more. if you found your pythoncss, what then p” “what then? why, through her aid i might dis- cover the process of an experiment which your practical science would assist me to complete.” a s'raanon s'roav. “ tell me of what kind is your experiment; and pre- cisely because such little science as i possess is exclu- sively practical, i may assist you without the help of the pythoness.” margrave was silent for some minutes, passing his hand several times across his forehead, which was a frequent gesture of his, and then rising, he answered, in listless accents: “i cannot say more now, my brain is fatigued; and you are not yet in the right mood to hear me. by the way, how close and reserved you are with me! ” “ how so ” “ you never told me that you were engaged to be married. you leave me, who thought to have won your friendship, to hear what concerns you so intimately from a comparative stranger.” “ who told you ? ” “that woman with eyes that pry and lips that scheme, to whose house you took me.” “mrs. poyntz! is it possible? when?” “ this afternoon. i met her in the street- she stopped me, and, after some unmeaning talk, asked ‘if i had seen you lately; if i did not find you very absent and distracted; no wonder— you were in love. the young lady was away on a visit, and wooed by a dangerous rival l ’ ” “ wooed by a dangerous rival i” “ very rich, good looking, young. do you fear him! you turn pale l ” a smarter: sroav. “i do not fear, except so far as he who loves truly, loves humbly, and fears not that another may be pre- ferred, but that another may be wcrthier of preference than himself. but that mrs. poyntz should tell you all this does amaze me. did she mention the name of the young lady ? ” “yes; lilian ashleigh. henceforth be more frank with me. who knows? i may help you. adieu!” chapter xxvii. “when margrave had gone, i glanced at the clock _not yet nine. i resolved to go at once to mrs. poyntz. it was not an evening on which she received, but doubtless she would see me. she owed me an explanation. how thus carelessly divulge a secret she had been enjoined to keep? and this rival, of whom i was ignorant? it was no longer a matter of wonder that margrave should have described lilian’s peculiar idiosyncrasies in his sketch of his fabulous pythoness. doubtless, mrs. poyntz had, with unpardonable levity of indiscretion, revealed all of which she disapproved in my choice. but for what object? was this her boasted friendship for me? was it consistent with the regard she professed for mrs. ashleigh and lilian? occupied by these perplexed and indignant thoughts, i arrived at mrs. poyntz’s house, and was admitted to a s'raanea s'roav. her presence. she was fortunately alone; her daughter and the colonel had gone to some party on the hill. i would not take the hand she held out to me on entrance; seated myself in stern displeasure, and pro- ceeded at once to inquire if she had really betrayed to mr. margrave the secret of my engagement to lilian. “ yes, allen fenwick; i have this day told, not only mr. margrave, but every person i met who is likely to tell it to some one else, the secret of your engagement to lilian ashleigh. i never promised to conceal it; on the contrary, i wrote word to anne ashleigh that i would therein act as my own judgment counselled me. i think my words to you were that ‘public gossip was sometimes the best security for the completion of private engagements.’ -" “do you mean that mrs. or miss ashleigh recoils from the engagement with me, and that i should meanly compel them both to fulfil it by calling in the public to censure them —if—if-— oh, madam, this is worldly artifice indeedl ” “ be good enough to listen to me quietly. i have never yet shown you the letter to mrs. ashleigh, writ- ten by lady haughton, and delivered by mr. vigors. that letter i will now show to you; but before doing so i must enter into a preliminary explanation. lady haughton is one of those women who love power, and cannot obtain it except through wealth and station -by her own intellect she could never obtain it. when her husband died she was reduced from an a s'raasos sroar. income of twelve thousand a year to a jointure of twelve hundred, but with the exclusive guardianship of a young son, a minor, and adequate allowances for the charge; she continued, therefore, to preside as mistress over the establishments in town and country; still had the ad- ministration of her son’s wealth and rank. she stinted his education, in order to maintain her ascendancy over him. he became a brainless prodigal—spendthrift alike of health and fortune. alarmed, she saw that, probably, he would die young and a beggar; his only hope of reform was in marriage. she reluctantly re- solved to marry him to a penniless, well-born, soft- minded young lady whom she knew she could control; just before this marriage was to take place he was killed by a fall from his horse. the haughton estate passed to his cousin, the luckiest young man alive; the same ashleigh sumner who had already succeeded, in default of male issue, to poor gilbert ashleigh’s landed possessions. over this young man lady haughtou could expect no influence. she would be a stranger in his house. but she had a niece! mr. vigors assured her the niece was beautiful. and if the niece could become mrs. ashleigh sumner, then lady haughton would be a less unimportant nobody in the world, be_ cause she would still have her nearest relation in a somebody at haughton park. mr. vigors had his own pompous reasons for approving an alliance which he might help to accomplish. the first step towards that alliance was obviously to bring into reciprocal a strange s'roav. attraction the natural charms of the young lady and the acquired merits of the young gentleman. mr. vigors could easily induce his ward to pay a visit to lady haughton, and lady haughton had only to ex- tend her invitations to her niece; hence the letter to mrs. ashleigh, of which mr. vigors was the bearer, and hence my advice to you, of which you can now understand the motive. since you thought lilian ash- leigh the only woman you could love, and since i thought there were other women in the world who might do as well for ashleigh sumner, it seemed to me fair for all parties that lilian should not go to lady haughton’s in ignorance of the sentiments with which she had inspired you. a girl can seldom be sure that she loves until she is sure that she is loved. and now,” added mrs. poyntz, rising and walking across the room to her bureau -“ now i will show you lady haughton’s invitation to mrs. ashleigh. here it is!” i ran my eye over the letter, which she thrust into my hand, resuming her knitwork while i read. the letter was short, couched in conventional terms of hollow afi'ection. the writer blamed herself for having so long neglected her brother’s widow and'child; her heart had been w'rappcd up too much in the son she had lost; that loss had made her turn to' the ties of blood still left to her: she had heard much of lilian from their common friend, mr. vigors; she longed to embrace so charming a niece. then followed the invi- tation and the postscript. the postscript ran thus, so a summer: s'roar. far as i can remember: “whatever my own grief at my irreparable bereavement, i am no egotist, i keep my sorrow to myself. you will find some pleasant guests at my house, among others our joint connection, young ashleigh sumner ” “women’s postscripts are proverbial for their signifi- cance,” said mrs. poyntz, when i had concluded the letter and laid it on the table; “ and if i did not at once show you this hypocritical efi'usion, it was simply because at the name ashleigh sumner its object became transparent, not perhaps to poor anne ashleigh nor to innocent lilian, but to my knowledge of the parties concerned, as it ought to be to that shrewd intelligence which you derive partly from nature, partly from the insight into life which a true physician cannot fail to acquire. and if i know anything of you, you would have romantically said, had you seen the letter at first, and understood its covert intention, ‘ let me not shackle the choice of the woman i love, and to whom an alliance so coveted in the eyes of the world might, if she were left free, be profl'ered.’ ” “ i should not have gathered from the postscript all that you see in it, but had its purpdrt been so suggested to me, you are right, i should have so said. well, and as mr. margrave tells me that you informed him that i have a rival, i am now to conclude that the rival is mr. ashleigh sumner?” “ has not mrs. ashleigh or lilian mentioned him is writing to you i” a s'raanoa s'roar. “yes, both; lilian very slightly; mrs. ashleigh with some praise, as a young man of high character and very courteous to her.” “ yet, though i asked you to come and tell me who , were the guests at lady haughton’s, you never did so.” “pardon me; but of the guests i thought nothing, and letters addressed to my heart seemed to me too sacred to talk about. and ashleigh sumner then courts lilian! how do you know i” “ i know everything that concerns me ; and here, the explanation is simple. my aunt, lady delafield, is staying with lady haughton. lady delafield is one of the women of fashion who shine by their own light; lady haughton shines by borrowed light, and borrows every ray she can find.” “ and lady delafield writes you word “ that ashleigh sumner is caught by lilian’s beauty.” “ and lilian herself ” “ women like lady delafield do not readily believe that any girl could refuse ashleigh sumner; considered ’ in himself, he is steady and good-looking; considered as owner of kirby hall and haughton park, he has, in the 'eyes of any sensible mother, the virtues of cato and the beauty of antinous.” i pressed my hand to my heart—close to my heart lay a letter from lilian—and there was no word in that letter which showed that her heart was gone from a s'rnanes story. ' mine. i shook my head gently, and smiled in confiding triumph. _ mrs. poyntz surveyed me with a bent brow and a compressed lip. “i understand your smile,” she said, ironically. “ very likely lilian may be quite untouched by this young man’s admiration, but anne ashleigh may be dazzled by so brilliant a prospect for her daughter. and, in short, i thought it desirable to let your engage- ment be publicly known throughout the town to-day; that information will travel—it will reach ashleigh sumner through mr. vigors, or others in this neighbor- hood, with whom i know that he corresponds. it will bring aifairs to a crisis, and before it may be too late. i think it well that ashleigh sumner should leave that house; if he leave it'for good, so much the better. and, perhaps, the sooner lilian returns to l— the lighter your own heart will be.” “ and for these reasons you have published the secret of , i “ your engagement? yes. prepare to be congratu- lated wherever you go. and now, if you hear either from mother or daughter, that ashleigh sumner has proposed, and been, let us say, refused, i do not doubt that, in the pride of your heart, you will come and tell me.” “ rely upon it, i will; but before i take leave, allow me to ask, why you described to a young man like mr. margrave --whose wild and strange humors you have a srasuon sroav. witnessed and not approved -any of those traits of character in miss ashleigh which distinguish her from other girls of her age ?” “i? you mistake. i said nothing to him of her character. i mentioned her name, and said she was beautiful—that was all.” “ nay, you said that she was fond of musing, of soli- tude; that in her fancies she believed in the reality of visions which might flit before her eyes as they flit before the eyes of all imaginative dreamers." “not a word did i say to mr. margrave of such peculiarities in lilian; not a word more than what i have told you, on my honor!” still incredulous, but disguising my incredulity with that convenient smile by which we accomplish so much of the polite dissimulation indispensable to the decencies of civilized life, i took my departure, returned home, and wrote to lilian. chapter xxviii. the conversation with mrs. poyntz left my mind restless and disquieted. i had no doubt, indeed, of lilian’s truth, but could i be sure that the attentions of a young man, with advantages of fortune so brilliant, would not force on her thoughts the contrast of the humbler lot and the duller walk of life in which she a sraason sromr. had accepted as companion a man removed from her romantic youth less by disparity of years than by gravity of pursuits? and would my suit now be as welcomed as it had been by a mother even so unworldly as mrs. ashleigh? why, too, should both mother and daughter have left me so unprepared to hear that i had a rival? why not have implied some consoling assurance that such rivalry need not cause me alarm? lilian’s letters, it is true, touched but little on any of the persons round her—they were filled with the outpourings of an ingenuous heart, colored by the glow of a golden fancy. they were written as if in the wide world we two stood apart alone, consecrated from the crowd by the love that, in linking us together, had hallowed each to the other. mrs. ashleigh’s letters were more general and diffusive, detailed the habits of the household, sketched the guests, intimated her continued fear of lady haugh- ton, but had said nothing more of mr. ashleigh sumner than i had repeated to mrs. poyntz. however, in my letter to lilian i related the intelligence that had reached me, and impatiently i awaited her reply. three days after the interview with mrs. poyntz, and two days before the long-anticipated event of the mayor’s ball, i was summoned to attend a nobleman who had lately been added to my list of patients, and whose residence was about twelve miles from l-—-- the nearest way was through sir philip derval’s park. i went on horseback, and proposed to stop on the way to inquire after the steward, whom i had seen but once * ° a s'raason sroav. since his fit, and that was two days after it, when he called himself at my house to thank me for my attend- ance, and to declare that he was quite recovered. as i rode somewhat fast through the park, i came, however, upon the steward, just in front of the house. i reined in my horse and accosted him. he looked very cheerful. “sir,” said he, in a whisper, “i have heard from sir philip; his letter is dated since—since—my good woman told you what i saw—well, since then. so that it must have been all a delusion of. mine, as you told her. and yet, well—well—we will not talk of it, doctor. but i hope you have kept the secret. sir philip would not like to hear of it if he comes back.” “ your secret is quite safe with me. but is sir philip likely to come back ? ” “i hope so, doctor. his letter is dated paris, and that’s nearer home than he has been for many years ; and—but bless me—some one is coming out of the house? a young gentleman who can it be i” i looked, and to my surprise i saw margrave descend- ing the stately stairs that led from the front door. the steward turned towards him, and i mechanically fol- lowed, for i was curious to know what had brought margrave to the house of the long-absent traveller. it was easily explained. mr. margrave had heard at l— much of the pictures and internal decorations of the mansion. he had, by dint of coaxing (he said, a summer: s'ronv. with his enchanting laugh), persuaded the old house. keeper to show him the rooms. “ it is against sir philip’s positive orders to show the house to any stranger, sir; and the housekeeper has done very wrong,” said the steward. “ pray don’t scold her. i dare say sir philip would not have refused me a permission he might not give to every idle sightseer. fellow-travellers have a free- masonry with each other; and i have been much 'in the same far countries as himself. i heard of him there, and could tell you more about him, i dare say, than you know yourself.” “ you, sir! pray do, then.” “ the next time i come," said margrave, gaily; and, with a nod to me, he glided ' through the trees of the neighboring grove, along the winding footpath that led to the lodge. “a very cool gentleman," muttered the steward; “ but what pleasant ways he has! you seem to know him, sir. who is he —may i ask l” “ mr. margrave. a visitor at l , and he has been a great traveller, as he says; perhaps he met sir philip abroad.” “i must go and hear what he said to mrs. gates; excuse me, sir, but i am so anxious about sir philip.” “ if it be not too great a favor, may i be allowed the same privilege granted to mr. margrave? to judge by the outside of the house, the inside must be worth a s'raasos sroar. seeing; still, if it be against sir philip’s positive orders -———” “ his orders were, not to let the court become a show-house—to admit none without my consent—but i should be ungrateful indeed, doctor, if i refused that consent to you.” tied my horse to the rusty gate of the terrace-walk, and followed the steward up the broad stairs of the terrace. the great doors were unlocked. we entered a lofty hall with a domed ceiling; at the back of the hall the grand staircase ascended by a double flight. the design was undoubtedly vanbrugh’s, an architect who, beyond all others, sought the effect of grandeur less in space than in proportion. but vanbrugh’s designs need the relief of costume and movement, and the forms of a more pompous generation, in the bravery of velvets and laces, glancing amid those gilded columns, or descending with stately tread those broad palatial stairs. his halls and chambers are so made for festival and throng, that they become like deserted theatres, inexpressibly desolate, as we miss the glitter of the lamps and the movement of the actors. the housekeeper had now appeared; a quiet, timid old woman. she excused herself for admitting mar- grave—not very intelligibly. it was plain to see that she had, in truth, been unable to resist what the steward termed his “ pleasant ways.” as if to escape from a scolding she talked volubly all the time, bustling nervously through the rooms, a sraanos sroav. along which i followed her guidance with a hushed footstep. the principal apartments were on the ground floor, or rather a floor raised some ten or fifteen feet above the ground ; they had not been modernized since the date in which they were built. hangings of faded silk; tables of rare marble and mouldered gilding; comfortless chairs at drill against the walls; pictures, of which connoisseurs alone could estimate the value, darkened by dust or blistered by sun and damp, made a general character of discomfort. on not one room, on not one nook, still lingered some old smile of home. meanwhile i gathered from the housekeeper’s ram- bling“ answers to questions put to her by the steward, as i moved on, glancing at the pictures, that margrave’s visit that day was not his first. he had been to the house twice before; his ostensible excuse that he was an amateur in pictures (though, as i had before observed, for that department of art he had no taste); but each time he had talked much of sir philip. he said, that though not personally known to him, he had resided in the same towns abroad, and had friends equally intimate with sir philip; but when the steward inquired if the visitor had given any information as to the absentee, it became very clear that margrave had been rather asking questions than volunteering intelligence. we had not come to the end of the state apartments, the last of which was a library. “ and,” said the old woman, “ i don’t wonder the gentleman knew sir philip, for he seemed a scholar, and looked very hard c a s'raanoa sroar. over the books, especially those old ones by the fire place, which sir philip, heaven bless him, was always poring into.” mechanically i turned to the shelves by the fireplace, and examined the volumes ranged in that department. [ found they contained the works of those writers whom we may class together under the title of mystics -— iamblichus and plotinus; swedenborg and behmen; sandivogius, van helmont, paracelsus, cardan. works, too, were there, by writers less renowned, on astrology, geomancy, chiromancy, &c. i began to understand among what class of authors margrave had picked up the strange notions with which he was apt to iumrpo- late the doctrines of practical philosophy. “i suppose this library was sir philip’s usual sitting room ’” said i. “no, sir; he seldom sat here. this was his study ;” and the old woman opened a small door, masked by false book-backs. i followed her into a room of mode- rate size; and evidently of much earlier date than the rest of the house. “ it is the only room left of an older mansion,” said the steward, in answer to my remark. “ i have heard it was spared on account of the chimney- pieee. but there is a latin inscription which will tell you all about it. i don’t know latin myself.” the chimney-piece reached to the ceiling. the frieze of the lower part rested on rude stone caryatides; the upper part was formed of oak-panels very curiously carved in the geometrical designs favored by the taste a a s'raauoa s'ronr. prevalent in the reigns of elizabeth and james, but different from any i had ever seen in the drawings of old houses. and i was not quite unlearned in such matters, for my poor father was a passionate antiquary in all that relates to medizeval art. the design in the oak panels was composed of triangles interlaced with varied ingenuity, and enclosed in circular bands in- scribed with the signs of the zodiac. on the stone frieze supported by the caryatides, im- mediately under the wood-work, was inserted a metal plate, on which was written, in latin, a few lines to the effect that “in this room, simon forman, the seeker of hidden truth, taking refuge from unjust persecution, made those discoveries in nature which he committed, for the benefit of a wiser age, to the charge of his pro- tector and patron, the worshipful sir miles derval, knight.” formanl the name was not quite unfamiliar to me; but it was not without an effort that my memory enabled me to assign it to one of the most notorious of those astrologers or soothsayers whom the superstition of an earlier age alternately persecuted and honored. the general character of the room was more cheerful than the statelier chambers i had hitherto passed, through, for it had still the look of habitation. the arm-chair by the fire-place; the knee-hole writing-table beside it; the sofa near the recess of a large bay- window, with book-prop and candlestick screwed to its back; maps, coiled in their cylinder, ranged under the a s'rsarzon s'ronv. cornice; low strong safes, skirting two sides of the room, and apparently intended to hold papers and title- deeds; seals carefully affixed to their jealous locks. placed on the top of these oldfashioned receptacles were articles familiar to modern use; a fowling-piece here; fishing-rods there; two or three simple flower vases; a pile of music books; a box of crayons. all in this room seemed to speak of residence and owner- ship— f the idiosyncrasies of a lone single man, it is true, but of a man of one’s own time—a country gentle- man of plain habits but not uncultivated tastes. i moved to the window ; it opened by a sash upon a large balcony, from which a wooden stair wound to a little garden, not visible in front of the house, sur- rounded by a thick grove of evergreens, through which one broad vista was cut; and that vista was closed by a view of the mausoleum. i stepped out into the garden—a patch of sward with a fountain in the centre-and parterres, now more filled with weeds than flowers. at the left corner was a tall wooden summer-house or pavilion—its door wide open. “ oh, that’s where sir philip used to study many along summer’s night,” said the steward. “ what! in that damp pavilion f” “it was a pretty place enough then, sir; but it is very old. they say as old as the room you have just left.” “ indeed, i must look at it then." the walls of this summer-house had once been a summer: s'roar. '! painted in the arabesques of the renaissance period; but the figures were now scarcely traceable. the wood-work had started in some plums, and the sun~ beams stole through the chinks and played on the floor, which was formed from old tiles quaintly tesselated and in triangular patterns, similar to those i had observed in the chimney-piece. the room in the pavilion was large, furnished with old worm-eaten tables and settles. “ it was not only here that sir philip studied, but sometimes in the room above,” said the steward “ how do you get to the room above ? oh i i see; astaircase in the angle.” i ascended the stairs with some caution, for they were crooked and decayed ; and, on entering the room above, comprehended at once why sir philip had favored it. the cornice of the ceiling rested on pilasters, within which the compartments were formed into open un- glazed arches, surrounded by a railed balcony. through these arches, on three sides of the room, the eye com- manded a magnificent extent of prospect. on the fourth side the view was bounded by the mausoleum. in this room was a large telescope, and on stepping into the balcony, i saw that a winding stair mounted thence to a platform on the top of the pavilion—perhaps once used as an observatory by forman himself. “ the gentleman who was here to-day was very much pleased with this look-out, sir,” said the housekeeper. “ who would not be? i suppose sir philip has a taste for astronomy.” ’ a sraauoa sroay. “i dare say, sir,” said the steward, loosing grave; “ he likes most out-of-the-way things.” the position of the sun now warned me that my time pressed, and that i should have to ride fast to reach my new patient at the hour appointed. i therefore hastened back to my horse, and spurred on, wondering whether, in the chain of association which so subtly links our pursuits in manhood to our impressions in childhood, it was the latin inscription on the chimney- piece that had originally biassed sir philip derval’s literary taste towards the mystic jargon of the books at which i had contemptuously glanced. chapter xxix. i i did not see margrave the following day, but the next morning, a little after sunrise, he walked into my study, according to his ordinary habit. “ so you know something about sir philip derval ’” said i. “what sort of a man is he i” “ hateful i” cried margrave; and then checking him- self, burst out into his merry laugh. ” just like my exaggerations! i am not acquainted with anything to his prejudice. i came across his track once or twice in .the east. travellers are always apt to be jealous of each other.” a strange sronr. \ “ you are a strange compound of cynicism and cre- dulity. but i should have fancied that you and sir philip would have been congenial spirits, when i found, among his favorite books, van helmont and paracelsus. perhaps you, too, study swedenborg, or, worse still, ptolemy and lilly y” “astrologers? n ! they deal with the future] i live for the day; only i wish the day never had a morrow l” “ have you not, then, that vague desire for the some- thing beyond; that not unhappy, but grand discontent with the limits of the immediate present, from which man takes his passion for improvement and progress, and from which some sentimental philosophers have deduced an argument in favor of his destined immor- tality?" “ eh i” said margrave, with as vacant a stare as that of a peasant whom one has adiressed in hebrew. “what farrago of words is this? i do not compre- hend you.” “with your natural abilities,” i asked with interest “ do you never feel a desire for fame t” “ fame ? certainly not. i cannot even understand it!” “well, then, would you have no pleasure in the thought that you had rendered a service to humanity?” margrave looked bewildered ; after a moment’s pause. he took from the table a piece of bread that chanced to no there, opened the window, and threw the crumbs a strange sroav. into the lane. the sparrows gathered round the crumbs. i “ now,” said margrave, “ the sparrows come to that dull pavement for the bread that recruits their lives in this world; do you believe that one sparrow would be silly enough to fly to a house-top for the sake of some benefit to other sparrows, or to be chirruped about after he was dead t i care for science as the sparrow cares for bread; it may help me to something good for my own life; and as for fame and humanity, i care for them as the sparrow cares for the general interest and posthumous approbation of sparrows l” “ margrave; there is one thing in you that perplexes me more than all else—human puzzle as you are—in your many eccentricities and self-contradictions." “ what is that one thing in me most perplexing t” “this; that in your enjoyment of nature you have all the freshness of ichild, but when you speak of man and his objects in the world, you talk in the vein of some worn-out and hoary cynic.~ at such times, were i to close my eyes, i should say to myself, ‘ what weary old man is thus venting his spleen against the ambition which has failed, and the love which has for- saken him ?’ outwardly the very personation of youth, and revelling like a butterfly in the warmth of the sun and the tints of the herbage, why have you none of the golden passions of the young? their bright dreams of some impossible love—their sublime enthusiasm for some unattainable glory? the sentiment you have a strange won! just clothed in the illustration by which you place your self on a level with the sparrows is too mean and too gloomy to be genuine at your age. misanthropy is among the dismal fallacies of greybeards. n man, till man’s energies leave him, can divorce himself from the bonds of our social kind." " our kind—your kind, possibly! but —." he swept his hand over his brow, and resumed, in strange, absent, and wistful accents: “ i wonder what it is that is wanting here, and of which at moments i have a dim reminiscence.” again he paused, and gazing on me, said with more appearance of friendly interest than i had ever before remarked in his countenance, “you are not looking well. despite your great physical strength, you suffer like your own sickly patients.” “ true! i suffer at this moment, but not from bodily pain.” “ you have some cause of mental disquietude ?” “ who in this world has not?” " i never have.” “because you own you have never loved; certainly, you never seem to care for any one but yourself; and in yourself you find an unbroken sunny holiday—high spirits, youth, health, beauty, wealth. happy boy ” at that moment my heart was heavy within me. margrave resumed : - “ among the secrets which your knowledge places at the command of your art, what would you give for one which would enable you to defy and to deride a rival * a strange s'ron r. where you place your afl‘ections, which could lock to yourself, and imperiously control, the will of the being whom you desire to fascinate, by an influence para- mount, transcendent?” i “ love has that secret,” said i, “ and love alone.” “a power stronger than love can suspend, can change love itself. but if love be the object or dream of your life, love is the rosy associate of youth and beauty. beauty soon fades, youth soon departs. what if in nature there were means by which beauty and youth can be fixed into blooming duration -—means that could arrest the course, nay, repair the efi'ects, of time on the elements that make up the human frame ?” “ silly boyl - have the rosicrucians bequeathed to you a prescription for the elixir of life?” “ if i had the prescription i should not ask your aid to discover its ingredients.” “ and is it in the hope of that notable discovery you have studied chemistry, electricity, and magnetism? again i say, silly boy i” margrave did not head my reply. his face was overcast, gloomy, troubled. “ that the vital principle is a gas,” said he, abruptly, “ i am fully convinced. can that gas be the one which combines caloric with oxygen?” “phosoxygen? sir humphry davy demonstrates that gas not to be, as lavoisier supposed, caloric, but light, combined with oxygen; and he suggests, not a strange away, .: r indeed that it is the vital principle itself, but the pabulum of life to organic beings.” * “ does he ?” said margrave, his face clearing up. “ possibly, possibly then, here we approach the great secret of secrets. look you, allen fenwick, i promise to secure to you unfailing security from all the jealous fears that now torture your heart; if you care for that fame which to me is not worth the scent of a flower, the balm of a breeze, i will impart to you a knowledge which, in the hands of ambition, would dwarf into com- monplace the boasted wonders of recognized science. i will do all this, if, in return, but for one month you will give yourself up to my guidance in whatever experi- ments i ask, no matter how wild they may seem to you.” “my dear margrave, i reject your bribes as i would reject the moon and the stars which a child might offer to me in exchange for a toy. but i may give the child its toy for nothing, and i may test your experiments for nothing some day when i have leisure.” i did not hear margrave’s answer, for at that moment my servant entered with letters. lilian’s hand! trem- blingly, breathlessly, i broke the seal. such a loving, bright, happy letter; so sweet in its gentle chiding of my wrongful fears. it was implied rather than said that ashleigh sumner had proposed and been refused. he had now left the house. lilian and her mother were coming back; in a few days we should meet. in * see sir humphry davy on heat, light, and the combination! of light. - a sraaxos s'roar. this letter were enclosed a few lines from mrs. ash~ leigh. she was more explicit about my rival than lilian had been. if no allusion to his attentions had been made to me before, it was from a delicate consideration for myself. mrs. ashleigh said that “ the young man had heard from l lieved it ;” but, as mrs. poyntz bad so shrewdly pre- dicted, hurried at once to the avowal of his own attach- ment, and the offer of his own hand. on lilian’s of our engagement, and—disbe- refusal his pride had been deeply mortified. he had gone away manifestly in more anger than sorrow. “ lady delafield, dear margaret poyntz’s aunt, had been most kind in trying to soothe lady haughton’s disappointment, which was rudely expressed —- so rudely,” added mrs. ashleigh, “that it gives us an excuse to leave sooner than had been proposed -which i am very glad of. lady delafield feels much for mr. sumner; has invited him to visit her at a place she has near worthing; she leaves to-morrow in order to receive him; promises to reconcile him to our rejection, which, as he was my poor gilbert’s heir, and was very friendly at first, would be a great relief to my mind. lilian is well, and so happy at the thoughts of coming back.” when i lifted my eyes from these letters i was as a new man, and the earth seemed a new earth. i felt as if i had realized margrave’s idle dreams -—as if youth could never fade, love could never grow cold. “ you care for no secrets of mine at this moment,” said margrave, abruptly. a s'raanea sroay. “ secrets,” i murmured; “ none now are worth know~ ing. i am loved —-i am loved!” “i hide my time,” said margrave; and as my eyes met his, i saw there a look i had never seen in those eyes before -—sinister, wrathful, menacing. he turned away, went out through the sash door of the study; and as he passed towards the fields under the luxuriant chestnut-trees, i heard his musical, barbaric chant— the song by which the serpent-charmer charms the ser- pent- sweet, so sweet—the very birds on the boughs hushed their carol as if to listen. chapter xxx. i called that day on mrs. poyntz, and communicated to her the purport of the glad news i had received. she was still at work on the everlasting knitting, her firm fingers linking mesh into mesh as she listened; and when i had done, she laid her skein deliberately down, and said, in her favorite characteristic formula, “ so, at last? _ that is settled l ” she rose and paced the room as men are apt to do in reflection—women rarely need such movement to aid their thoughts—her eyes were fixed on the floor, and one hand was lightly pressed on the palm of the other --"the gesture of a musing reasoner who is approaching the close of a difficult calculation. p a strange sronr. at length she paused, fronting me, and said, dryly, “accept of my congratulations—life smiles on you now-guard that smile, and when we meet next, may we be even firmer friends than we are now i ” “when we meet next—that will be to-night—you surely go to the mayor’s great ball? all the hill d - scends to low town to-night.” _ “no; we are obliged to leave l— this afternoon —-in less than two hours we shall be gone - a family engagement. we may be weeks away; you will excuse me, then, if i take leave of you so unceremoniously. stay, a motherly word of caution. that friend of yours, mr. margravel moderate your intimacy with him ; and especially after you are married. there is in that stranger, of whom so little is known, a something which i cannot comprehend—a something that captivates, and yet revolts. i find him disturbing my thoughts, perplexing my conjectures, haunting my fancies—i, plain woman of the world i lilian is imaginative; be- ware of her imagination, even when sure of her heart. beware of margrave. the sooner he quits l , the better, believe me, for your peace of mind. adieul i must prepare for our journey.” “ that woman," muttered i, on quitting her house, “ seems to have some strange spite against my poor lilian, ever seeking to rouse my own distrust of that exquisite nature which has just giv'en me such proof of its truth. and yet— and yet—is that woman so wrong here? true! margrave with his wild notions, his a summer: s'roar. strange beauty ! -- true — true — he might dangerously encourage that turn for the mystic and visionary which distresses me in lilian. lilian should not know him. how induce him to leave l——? ah—those experi- ments on which he asks my assistance! i might com. mence them when he comes again, and then invent some excuse to send him for completer tests to the famous chemists of paris or berlin.” chapter xxxi. it is the night of the mayor’s ball! the guests are assembling fast; county families twelve miles round have been invited, as well as the principal families of the town. all, before proceeding to the room set apart for the dance, moved in procession through the museum — homage to science before pleasure! the building was brilliantly lighted, and the effect was striking, perhaps because singular and grotesque. there, amidst stands of flowers and evergreens, lit up with colored lamps, were grouped the dead representa- tives of races all inferior—some deadly— to man. the fancy of the ladies had been permitted to decorate and arrange these types of the animal world. the tiger glared with glass eyes from amidst artificial reeds and herbage, as from his native jungle; the grisly white bear peered from a mimic iceberg. there, in front, a strange s'roav. stood the sage elephant, facing a hideous hippopotamus; whilst an anaconda twined its long spire round the stem of some tropical tree in zinc. in glass cases, brought into full light by festooned lamps, were dread - specimens of the reptile race—scorpion and vampire, and cobra capella, with insects of gorgeous hues, not a few of them with venomed stings. but the chief boast of the collection .was in the varie_ ties of the genus simia—baboons and apes, chimpan- zees, with their human visage, mockeries of man, from the dwarf monkeys perched on boughs lopped from the mayor’s shrubberies, to the formidable orang-outang, leaning on his huge club. every one expressed to the mayor admiration—to each other antipathy, for this unwonted and somewhat ghastly, though instructive, addition to the revels of a ball-room. margrave, of course, was there, and seemingly quite at home, gliding from group to group of gaily-dressed ladies, and brilliant with a childish eagerness to play off the showman. many of these grim fellow-creatures he declared he had seen, played, or fought with. he had something true or false to say about each. in his high spirits he contrived to make the tiger move, and imitated the hiss of the terrible anaconda. all that he did had its grace, its charm; and the buzz of admira- tion and the flattering glances of ladies’ eyes followed him wherever he moved. however, there was a general feeling of relief when a strange sroav. $ the mayor led the way from the museum into the ball room. in provincial parties guests arrive pretty much within the same hour, and so few who had once paid their respects to the apes and serpents, the hippopota- mus and the tiger, were disposed to repeat the visit, that long before eleven o’clock the museum was as free from the intrusion of human life as the wilderness in which its dead occupants had been born. i had gone my round through the rooms, and, little disposed to be social, had crept into the retreat of a window-niche, pleased to think myself screened by its draperies; not that i was melancholy, far from it—for the letter i had received that morning from lilian had raised my whole being into a sovereignty of happiness high beyond the reach of the young pleasure-hunters, whose voices and laughter blended with that vulgar music. to read her letter again i had stolen to my nook- and, now, sure that none saw me kiss it, i replaced it in my bosom. i looked through the parted curtain; the room was comparatively empty; but there, through the open folding-doors, i saw the gay crowd gathered round the dancers, and there again, at right angles, a vista along the corridor afforded a glimpse of the great - elephant in the deserted museum. presently i heard, close beside me, my host’s voice. “ here’s a cool corner, a pleasant sofa, you can have ll- all to yourself; what an honor to receive you under my roof, and on this interesting occasion l yes, as you ' a strange story. aav, there are great changes in l—— since you left us. society has much improved. i must look about and find some persons to introduce to you. clever! oh, i know your tastes. we have a wonderful man—a new doctor. carries all before him—very high character, too—good d family—greatly looked up to, even apart from his profession. dogmatic a little-a sir oracle— 'lets no dog bark;’ you remember the quotation—- shakespeare. where on earth is he? my dear sir philip, i am sure you would enjoy his conv’ersation.” sir philip! could it be sir philip derval, to whom the mayor was giving a flattering, yet scarcely propitia- tory, description of myself? curiosity combined with a sense of propriety in not keeping myself an unsus- pected listener: i emerged from the curtain, but silently, and reached the centre of the room before the mayor perceived me. he then came up to me eagerly, linked his arm in mine, and leading me to a gentleman seated on a sofa, close by the window i had quitted, said: “ doctor, i must present you to sir philip derval, just returned to england, and not six hours in l . if you would like to see the museum again, sir philip, the doctor, i am sure, will accompany you.” “no, i thank you; it is painful to me at present, to see, even under your roof, the collection which my poor dear friend, dr. lloyd, was so proudly beginning to form when i leftvthese parts.” “ay, sir philip—dr. lloyd was a worthy man in his way, but sadly duped in his latter years; he took to a staanen sroar. mesmerism, only thinkl but our young doctor here showed him up, i can tell you.” sir philip, who had acknowledged my first introduc- tion to his acquaintance by the quiet courtesy with which a well-bred man goes through a ceremony that custom enables him to endure with equal ease and indifference, now evinced by a slight change of manner how little the mayor’s reference to my dispute with dr. lloyd advanced me in his good opinion. he turned away with a how more formal than his first one, and said calmly: “ i regret to hear that a man so simple-minded and so sensitive as dr. lloyd should have provoked an encounter in which i can well conceive him to have been worsted. with your leave, mr. mayor, i will look into your ball-room. i may perhaps find there some old acquaintance." he walked towards the dancers, and the mayor, linking his arm in mine, followed close behind, saying in his loud, hearty tones: “come along, you too, dr.- fenwick, my girls are there; you have not spoken to them yet.” sir philip, who was then half way across the room, turned round abruptly, and, looking me full in the face, said: “fenwick, is your name fenwick?-allen fen- wick?” “ that is my name, sir philip.” " then permit me to shake you by the hand; you are a strange email. no stranger, and no mere acquaintance to me. mr. mayor, we will look into your ball-room later; do not let us keep you now from your other guests.” the mayor, not in the least offended by being thus summarily dismissed, smiled, walked on, and was soon lost amongst the crowd. sir philip, still retaining my hand, reseated himself on the sofa, and i took my place by his side. the room was still deserted; now and then a straggler from the ball-room looked in for a moment, and then sauntered back to the central place of attraction. “ i am trying to guess,” said i, “ how my name should be known to you. possibly you may, in some visit to the lakes, have known my father ? " “no; i know none of your name but yourself—if, indeed, as i doubt not, you are the allen fenwick to whom i owe no small obligation. you were a medical student at edinburgh in the year —?” “yes.” “ sol at that time there was also at edinburgh a young man, named richard strahan. he lodged in a fourth flat in the old town.” “ i remember him very well.” “and you remember, also, that a fire broke out at night in the house in which be lodged; that, when it was discovered, there seemed no hope of saving him. the flames wrapt the lower part of the house; the staircase had given way. a boy, scarcely so old as himself, was the only human being in the crowd who a strange sronv. dared to scale the ladder, that even then scarcely reached the windows from which the smoke rolled in volumes; that boy penetrated into the room - found the inmate almost insensible—rallied, supported, dragged him to the window—got him on the ladder—saved his life then —- and his life later, by nursing with a woman’s tenderness, through the fever caused by terror and ex- citement, the fellow-creature he had rescued by a man’s daring. the name of that gallant student was allen fenwick, and richard strahan is my nearest living relation. are we friends now ? ” i answered confusedly. i had almost forgotten the circumstances referred to. richard strahan had not been one of my more intimate companions; and i had never seen nor heard of him since leaving college. i inquired what had become of him. “ he is at the scotch bar,” said sir philip, “and of course without practice. i understand that be has fair average abilities, but no application. if i am rightly informed, he is, however, a thoroughly honorable, up- right man, and of an affectionate and grateful disposi- tion.” “i can answer for all you have said in his praise he had the qualities you name too deeply rooted in youth to have lost them now.” sir philip remained for some moments in a musing sile’nce. and i took advantage of that silence to examine him with more minute attention than i had done before, much as the first sight of him had struck me. - a s'raanen s'roav. he was somewhat below the common height. delicately formed that one might call him rather fragile than slight. but in his carriage and air there was remarkable dignity. his countenance was at direct variance with his figure. for as delicacy was the attri- bute of the last, so power was unmistakably the char- acteristic of the first. he looked fully the age his steward had ascribed to him—about forty-eight; at a superficial glance, more; for his hair was prematurely white-not grey, but white as snow. but his eyebrows were still jet black, and his eyes, equally dark, were serenely bright. his forehead was magnificent; lofty, and spacious, and with only one slight wrinkle between the brows. his complexion was sunburnt, showing no sign of weak health. the outline of his lips was that which i have often remarked in men accustomed to great dangers, and contracting in shch dangers the habit of self-reliance ; firm and quiet, compressed with- out an effort. and the power of this very noble coun- tenance was not intimidating, not aggressive; it wu mild—it was benignant. a man oppressed by some formidable tyranny, and despairing to find a protector, would, on seeing that face, have said, “here is one who can protect me, and who will i ” sir philip was the first to break the silence. “i have so many relations scattered over england, that fortunately not one of them can venture to calcu- late on my property if i die childless, and therefore not one of them can feel himself injured when, a few weeks hence, he shall read in the newspapers, that philip a sraanen sroar. derval is married. but for richard strahan, at least, though i never saw him, i must do something before the newspapers make that announcement. his sister was very dear to me.” “your neighbors, sir philip, will rejoice at your marriage, since, i presume, it may induce you to settle amongst them at derval court.” “at derval court! no! i shall not settle there." again he paused a moment or so, and then went on: “ i 'have long lived a wandering life, and in it learned much that the wisdom of cities cannot teach. i return to my native land with a profound conviction that the happiest life is the life most in common with all. i have gone out of my way to do what i deemed good, and to avert or mitigate what appeared to me evil. i pause now and ask myself, whether the most virtuous existence be not that in which virtue flows spontaneously from the springs of quiet everyday action—when a man does good without restlessly seeking it, does good unconsciously, simply because he is good and he lives? better, perhaps, for me, if i had thought so long ago! and now i come back to england with the intention of marrying, late in life though it be, and with such hopes of happiness as any matter-of-fact man may form. but my hope will not be at derval court. i shall reside either in london or its immediate neighborhood, and seek to gather round me minds by which i can correct, if i cannot confide to them, the knowledge i myself have acquired.” a s'rnaues s'roar. “ nay, if, as i have accidentally heard, you are fond of scientificqursuits, i cannot wonder that, after so long an absence from england, you should feel interest in learning what new discoveries have been made, what new ideas are unfolding the germs of discoveries yet to be. but, pardon me, if in answer to your concluding remark, i venture to say that no man can hope to cor- rect any error in his own knowledge, unless he has the courage to confide the error to those who can correct. la place has said, ‘ tout se tient dans la chatne immense des uén'tés;’ and the mistake we make in some science we have specially cultivated is often only to be seen by the light of a separate science as specially cultivated by another. thus, in the investigation of truth, frank exposition to congenial minds is essential to the earnest seeker.” “ i am pleased with what you say,” said sir philip, "and i shall be still more pleased to find in you the very confidant i require. but what was your con- troversy with my old friend, dr. lloyd? do i under- stand our host rightly, that it related to what in europe has of late days obtained the name of mesmerism f” i had conceived a strong desire to conciliatc the good opinion of a man who had treated me with so singular and so familiar a kindness, and it was sincerely that i expressed my regret at the acerbity with which i had assailed dr. lloyd; but of his theories and pretensions i could not disguise my contempt. i enlarged on the extravagant fallacies involved in a fabulous “ clair~ a srnason small. voyance,” which always failed when put to plain test by sober-minded examiners. i did not dcuy the effects of imagination on certain nervous constitutions. “ mes- merism could cure nobody; credulity could cure many. there was the well-known story of the old woman tried as a witch; she cured agues by a charm; she owned the impeachment, and was ready to endure gibbet or stake for the truth of her talisman; more than a mesmerist would for the truth of his passes! and the charm was a scroll of gibberish sown in an old bag and given to the woman in a freak by the judge himself when ayoung scamp on the circuit. but the charm cured? certainly; just as mesmerism cures. fools believed in it. faith, that moves mountains, may well cure agues." thus i ran on, supporting my views with anecdote and facts, to which sir philip listened with placid gravity. when i had come to an end, he said, “ of mesmerism, as practised in europe, i know nothing, except by report. i can well understand that medical men may hesitate to admit it amongst the legitimate resources of orthodox pathology; because, as i gather from what you and others say of its practice, it must, at the best, be far too uncertain in its application to satisfy the requirements of science. yet an examination of its pretensions may enable you to perceive the truth that lies hid in the powers ascribed to witchcraft; benevo- lence is but a weak agency compared to malignity; a strange sroay. magnetism perverted to evil may solve half the riddles of sorcery. on this, however, i say no more at present. but as to that which you appear to reject as the most preposterous and incredible pretension of the mesmerists, and which you designate by the word ‘clairvoyance,’ it is clear to me that you have never yourself witnessed even those very imperfect exhibitions which you decide at once to be imposture. i say im- perfect, because it is only a limited number of persons whom the eye or the passes of the mesmerist can affect, and by such means, unaided by other means, it is rarely indeed that the magnetic sleep advances beyond the first vague shadowy twilight dawn of that condition to which only in its fuller developments i would apply the name of ‘trance.’ but still trance is as essential a con- dition of being as sleep or as waking, having privileges peculiar to itself. by means within the range of the science that explores its nature and its laws, trance, unlike the clairvoyance you describe, is producible in every human being, however unimpressible to mere mesmerism.” “ producible in every human being! pardon me ifl say that i will give any enchanter his own terms who i will produce that effect upon me.” “will you? you consent to have the experiment tried on yourself?” “ consent most readily.” “i will remember that promise. but to return to the subject. by the word trance i do not mean we a s'raauon sroav clusively the spiritual trance of the alexandrian pla- tonists. there is one kind of trance—that to which all human beings are susceptible—in which the soul has no share; for of this kind of trance, and it was of this i spoke, some of the inferior animals are sus- ceptible; and, therefore, trance is no more a proof of soul than is the clairvoyance of the mesmerists, or the dream of our ordinary sleep, which last has been called a proof of soul, though any man who has kept a dog' must have observed that dogs dream as vividly as we do. but in this trance there is an extraordinary cere- bral activity—a projectile force given to the mind, distinct from the soul—by which it sends forth its own emanations to a distance in spite of material obstacles, just as a flower, in an altered condition of atmosphere, sends forth the particles of its aroma. this should not surprise you. your thought travels over land and sea in your waking state; thought, too, can travel in trance, and in trance may acquire an intensified force. there is, however, another kind of trance which is truly called spiritual, a. trance much more rare, and in which the soul entirely supersedes the mere action of the mind.” “ stay,” said i; “you speak of the soul as something distinct from the mind. what the soul may be, i cannot pretend to conjecture. but i cannot separate it from the intelligence!” “ can you not? a blow on the brain can destroy the intelligence ! do you think it can destroy the soul? ‘ from marlbro’s eyes the tears of dotage flow and swift expires, a driveller and a show.’ a araanen sroar. towards the close of his life even kant’s giant intellect left him. do you suppose that in these various arche- types of intellectual man the soul was worn out by the years that loosened the strings, or made tuneless the keys, of the perishing instrument on which the mind must rely for all notes of its music? if you cannot distinguish‘the operations of the mind from the essence of the soul, i know not by what rational inductions you 'arrive at the conclusion that the soul is imperishable.” i remained silent. sir philip fixed on me his dark eyes quietly and searchingly, and, after a short pause, said: “almost every known body in nature is susceptible of three several states of existence—the solid, the liquid, the aériform. 'these conditions depend on the quantity of heat they contain. the same object at one moment may be liquid; at the next moment solid; at the next, aeriform. the water that flows before your gaze may stop consolidated into ice, or ascend into air as a vapor. thus is man susceptible of three states of existence — the animal, the mental, the spiritual—and according as he is brought into relation or aflinity with that occult agency of the whole natural world, which we familiarly call heat, and which no science has yet explained; which no scale can weigh, and no eye discern ; one or the other of these three states of being prevails, or is subjected.” i still continued silent, for i was unwilling discour- teously to say to a stranger, so much older than myself. a s'raanos near. that he seemed to me to reverse all the maxims of the philosophy to which be made pretence, in founding speculations audacious and abstruse upon unanalogous comparisons that would have been fantastic even in a poet. and sir philip, after another pause, resumed with a half smile: “after what i have said, it will perhaps not very much surprise you when i add that but for my belief in the powers i ascribe to trance, we should not be known to each other at this moment.” “ how—pray explain l” “certain circumstances which i trust to relate to you in detail hereafter, have imposed on me the duty to discover and to bring human laws to bear upon a creature armed with terrible powers of evil. this monster, for, without metaphor, monster it is, not man like ourselves, has, by arts superior to those of ordinary fugitives, however dexterous in concealment, hitherto for years eluded my research. through the trance of an arab child, who, in her waking state, never heard of his existence, i have learned that this being is in i am here to encounter him. england—is in l i expect to do so this very night, and under this very roof.” “ sir philip ” “and if you wonder, as you well may, why i have been talking to you with this startling unreserve, know that the same arab child, on whom i thus implicitly rely, informs me that your life is mixed up with that q a strange sroar. of the being i seek to unmask and disarm—to be destroyed by his arts or his agents—or to combine in the causes by which the destroyer himself shall be brought to destruction.” " my lifel—your arab child named me, allen fenwick i ” “ my arab child told me that the person in whom i should thus naturally seek an ally was he who had saved the life of the man whom i then meant for my heir, if i died unmarried and childless. she told me that i should not be many hours in this town, which she described minutely, before you would be made known to me. she described this house, with yonder lights, and yon dancers. in her trance she saw us sitting together, as we now sit. i accepted the invita- tion of our host, when he suddenly accosted me on entering the town, confident that i should meet you here, without even asking whether a person of your name were a resident in the place; and now you know why i have so freely unbosomed myself of much that might well make you, a physician, doubt the soundness of my understanding. the same infant, whose vision has been realized up to this moment, has warned me also that i am here at great peril. what that peril may be i have declined to learn, as i have ever declined to ask from the future, what afl‘ects only my own life on this earth. that life i regard with supreme indifl'er- ence, conscious that i have only to discharge, while it lasts, the duties for which it is bestowed on me, to the a strange sroav. best of my imperfect power; and aware that minds the strongest and souls the purest may fall into the sloth habitual to predestinarians, if they suffer the action due to the present hour to be awed and paralyzed by some grim shadow on the future! it is only where, irrespec- tively of aught that can menace myself, a light not struck out of my own reason can guide me to disarm cvil or minister to good, that i feel privileged to avail myself of those mirrors on which things, near and far, reflect themselves calm and distinct as the banks and the mountain peak are reflected in the glass of a lake. here, then, under this roof, and by your side, i shall behold him who—lo! the moment has come—i be- hold him now l” as he spoke these last words, sir philip had risen, and, startled by his action and voice, i involuntarily rose too. resting one hand on my shoulder, he pointed with the other towards the threshold of the ball-room. there, the prominent figure of a gay group—the sole male amidst a fluttering circle of silks and lawn, of flowery wreaths, of female loveliness, and female frippery-— stood the radiant image of margrave. his eyes were not turned towards us. he was looking down, and his light laugh came soft, yet ringing, through the general murmur. i turned my astonished gaze back to sir philip—- yes, unmistakably it was on margrave that his look was fixed. a strange sroar. impossible to associate crime with the image of that fair youth! eccentric notions—fantastic speculations --vivacious egotism—defective benevolence—yes. but crime — no — impossible. “impossible,” i said, aloud. as i spoke the group had moved on. margrave was no longer in sight. at the same moment some other guests came from the ball-room, and seated themselves near us. sir philip looked round, and, observing the de- serted museum at the end of the corrider, drew me into it. when we were alone, he said in a voice quick and low, but decided : “ it is of importance that i should convince you at once of the nature of that prodigy which is more hostile to mankind than the wolf is to the 'sheepfold. no words of mine could at present sufiice to clear your sight from the deception which cheats it. i must enable you to judge for yourself. it must be now and here. he will learn this night, if he has not learned already, that i am in the town. dim and confused though his memories of myself may be, they are memories still; and be well knows what cause he has to dread me. i must put another in possession of his secret. another, and at once! for all his arts will be brought to bear against me, and i cannot foretell their issue. go, then; enter that giddy crowd —select that seeming young man—bring him hither. take care only not to mention my name; and when here, tum a sraanes sroav. the key in the door, so as to prevent interruption—five minutes will suffice.” “am i sure that i guess whom you mean? the ‘ young, light-hearted man, known in this place, under the name of margrave y—the young man with the radiant eyes, and the curls of a grecian statue? ” “ the same; him whom i pointed out; quick, bring him hither.” my curiosity was too much roused to disobey. had i conceived that margrave, in the heat of youth, had committed some offence which placed him in danger of the law and in the power of sir philip derval, i possessed enough of the old borderérs’ black-mail loyalty to have given the man whose hand i had familiarly clasped a hint and a help to escape. but all sir philip’s talk had been so out of the reach of common sense, that i rather expected to see him confounded by some egregious illusion than margrave exposed to any well-grounded accusation. all, then, that i felt as i walked into the ball-room and approached mar- grave, was that curiosity which, i think, any one of my readers will acknowledge that, in my position, he him- self would have felt. margrave was standing near the dancers, not joining them, but talking with a young couple in the ring. i drew him aside. “ come with me for a few minutes into the museum; i wish to talk to you.” “what about ? — an experiment ?” * a sraauen s'roar. “ yes, a; experiment.” “ then i am at your service.” in a minute more he had followed me into the deso- late dead museum. i looked round, but did not see sir philip. chapter xxxii. margrave threw himself on a seat just under the great anaconda; i closed and locked the door. when i had done so, my eye fell on the young man’s face, and i was surprised to see that it had lost its color; that it showed great anxiety, great distress; that his hands were visibly trembling. " what is this i" he said, in feeble tones, and raising himself half from his seat as if with great effort. " help me up-come away! something in this room is hostile to me—hostile, overpowering! what can ~ it be ?” “truth and my presence,” answered a stern, low voice; and sir philip derval, whose slight form the huge bulk of the dead elephant had before obscured from my view, came suddenly out from the shadow into the full rays of the lamps which lit up, as if for man’s revel, that mocking catacomb for the playmates of nature which he enslaves for his service or slays for his sport. as sir philip spoke and advanced, mar- grave sank back into his seat shrinking, collapsing, a summer: story. '! uerveless; terror the most abject expressed in his staring eyes and parted lips. on the other hand, the simple dignity of sir philip derval’s bearing, and the mild power of his countenance, were alike inconceivably heightened. a change had come over the whole man, the more impressive because wholly undefinable. halting opposite margrave, he uttered some words in a language unknown to me, and stretched one hand over the young man’s head. margrave at once became stiff and rigid as if turned to stone. sir philip said to me: i “place one of those lamps on the floor-there, by his feet.” i took down one of the colored lamps from the mimic tree round which the huge anaconda coiled its spires, and placed it as i was told. “ take the seat opposite to him and watch." i obeyed. _ meanwhile sir philip had drawn from his breast- pocket a small steel casket, and i observed, as he opened it, that the interior was subdivided into several compartments, each with its separate lid; from one of these he took and sprinkled over the flame of the lamp a few grains of a powder, colorless and sparkling as diamond dust; in a second or so a delicate perfume, wholly unfamiliar to my sense, rose from the lamp. “ you would test the condition of trance; test it, and in the spirit.” and, as he spoke, his hand rested lightly on m a strange story. head. hitherto, amidst a surprise not unmixed with awe, i had preserved a certain defiance, a certain dis- trust. i had been, as it were, on my guard. but as those words were spoken, as that hand rested on my head, as that perfume arose from the lamp, all power of will deserted me. my first sensation was that of passive subjugation; but soon i was aware of a strange intoxicating effect from the odor of the lamp, round which there now played a dazzling vapor. the room swam before me. like a man oppresscd by a nightmare, i tried to move, to cry out—feeling that to do so would suffice to burst the thrall that bound me— in vain. a time that seemed to me inexorably long, but which, as i found afterwards, could only have occupied a few seconds, elapsed in this preliminary state, which, how- ever powerless, iwas not without a vague luxurious sense of delight. and then suddenly came pain- pain, that in rapid gradations passed into a rending agony. every bone, sinew, nerve, fibre of the body, seemed as if wrenched open, and as if some hitherto unconjectured presence in the vital organization were forcing itself to light with all the pangs of travail. the veins seemed swollen to bursting, the heart laboring to maintain its action by fierce spasms. i feel in this description how language fails me. enough, that the anguish i then endured surpassed all that i have ever experienced of physical pain. this dreadful interval subsided as suddenly as it had commenced. i felt as a srnason sroay. if a something undefinable by any name had rushed from me, and in that rush that a struggle was over. i was sensible of the passive bliss which attends the release from torture, and then there grew on me a wonderful calm, and, in that calm, a consciousness of some lofty intelligence immeasurably beyond that which human memory gathers from earthly knowledge. i saw before me the still rigid form of margrave, and my sight seemed with ease to penetrate through its covering of flesh, and to survey the mechanism of the whole interior being. “ view that tenement of clay which now seems so fair, as it was when i last beheldit, three years ago, in the house of haroun of aleppo!” i looked, and gradually, and as shade after shade falls on the mountain side while the clouds gather and the sun vanishes at last, so the form and face on which i looked changed from exuberant youth into infirm old age. the discolored, wrinkled skin, the bleared, dim eye, the flaccid muscles, the brittle, sapless bones. nor was the change that of age alone; the expression of the countenance had passed into gloomy discontent, and in every furrow a passion or a vice had sown the seeds of grief. and the brain now opened on my sight, with all its labyrinth of cells. i seemed to have the clue to every winding in the maze. i saw therein a moral world, charred and ruined, as, in some fable i have read, the world of the moon is a srsanes sroav. described to be ; yet withal it was a brain of magnificent formation. the powers abused to evil had been origi- nally of rare order—imagination and scope; the energies that dare; the faculties that discover. but the moral part of the brain had failed to dominate the mental. defective veneration of what is good or great; cynical disdain of what is right and just; in fine, a great intel- lect, first misguided, then perverted, and now falling with the decay of the body into ghastly but imposing ruins. such was the world of that brain as it had been three years ago. and still continuing to gaze thereon, i observed three separate emanations of light; the one of a pale red hue, the second of a pale azure, the third a silvery spark. the red light, which grew paler and paler as i looked, undulated from the brain along the arteries, the veins, the nerves. and i murmur to myself, “ is this the principle of animal life if ” the azure light equally permeated the frame, cross- ing and uniting with the red, but in a separate and dis- tinct ray, exactly as, in the outer world, a ray of light crosses or unites with a ray of heat, though in itself a separate individual agency. and again i murmured to myself, “ is this the principle of intellectual being, directing or influencing that of animal life; with it, yet not of it?" but the silvery spark! what was that? its centre seemed the brain. but i could fix it to no single organ. nay, wherever i looked through the system, it reflected a strange s'roav. ] itself as a star reflects itself upon water. and i ob served that while tne red light was growing feebler and feebler, and the azure light was confused, irregular—- now obstructed, now hurrying, now almost lost—the silvery spark was unaltered, undisturbed. so indepen- dent of all which agitated and vexed the frame, that i became strangely aware that if the heart stopped in its action, and the red light died out, if the brain were paralyzed, that energetic mind smitten into idiocy, and the azure light wandering objectless as a meteor wan- ders over the morass—still that silver spark would shine the same, indestructible by aught that shattered its tabernacle. and i murmured to myself, “can that starry spark speak the presence of the soul? does the silver light shine within creatures to which no life im- mortal has been promised by divine revelation?” involuntarin i turned my sight towards the dead forms in the motley collection, and , in my trance or .my vision, life returned to them all! to the elephant and the serpent; to the tiger, the vulture, the beetle, the moth; to the fish and the polypus, and to you mockery of man in the giant ape. i seemed to see each as it lived in its native realm of earth, or of air, or of water; and the red light played more or less warm, through the structure of each, and the azure light, though duller of hue, seemed to shoot through the red, and communicate to the creatures an intelligence far inferior indeed to that of man, but sut’ficing to conduct the current of their will, and influ- a s'raanea s'roar ence the cunning of their instincts. but in none, from the elephant to the moth, from the bird in which brain was the largest, to the hybrid in which life seemed to live as in plants—in none was visible the starry silver spark. i turned my eyes from the creatures around, back again to the form cowering under the huge anap conda, and in terror at the animation which the car- casses took in the awful illusions of that marvellous trance. for the tiger moved as if scenting blood, and to the eyes of the serpent the dread fascination seemed slowly returning. again i gazed on the starry spark in the form of the man. and i murmured to myself, “but if this be the soul, why is it so undisturbed and undarkened by the sins which have left such trace and such ravage in the world of the brain . ” and gazing yet more intent]; on the spark, i became vaguely aware that it was not the soul, but the halo around the soul, as the star we see in heaven is not the star itself, but its circle of rays. and if the light itself was undisturbed and undarkened, it was because no sins done in the body could annihi- late its essence, nor afi'ect the eternity of its duration. the light was clear within the ruins of its lodgment, because it might pass away, but could not be extin- guished. but the soul itself in the heart of the light reflected back on my own soul within me its inefl’able trouble, humiliation, and sorrow; for those ghastly wrecks of power placed at its sovereign command it was respou a sraanoa sroav. sible; and, appalled by its own sublime fate of dura- tion, was about to carry into eternity the account of its mission in time. yet it seemed that while the soul_ was still there, though so forlorn and so guilty, even the wrecks around it were majestic. and the soul, whatever sentence it might merit, was not among the hopelessly lost. for in its remorse and its shame, it might still have retained what could serve for redemp- tion. and i saw that the mind was storming the soul in some terrible rebellious war—all of thought, of pas sion, of desire, through which the azure light poured its restless flow, were surging up around the starry spark, as in siege. and i could not comprehend the' war, nor guess what it was that the mind demanded the soul to yield. only the distinction between the two was made intelligible by their antagonism. and i saw that the soul, sorely tempted, looked afar for escape from the subjects it had ever so ill controlled, and who sought to reduce to their vassal the power which had lost authority as their king. i could feel its terror in the sympathy of my own terror, the keenness of my own supplicating pity. i knew that it was im ploring release from the perils it confessed its want of strength to encounter. and suddenly the starry spark rose from the ruins and the tumult around it—rose into space and vanished. and where my soul had recog- nized the presence of soul, there was a void. but the red light burned still, becoming more and more vivid; and, as it thus repaired and recruited its lustre, the a strange s'roay. whole animal form which had been so decrepit, grew restored from decay, grew into vigor and youth: and i saw margrave as i had seen him in the waking world, the radiant image of animal life in the beauty of its fairest bloom. ' and over this rich vitality and this symmetric mechanism now reigned only, with the animal life, the mind. the starry light fled and the soul vanished, still was left visible the mind: mind, by which- sensa- tions'convey and cumulate ideas, and muscles obey voli- tion: mind, as in those animals that have more than the elementary instincts: mind, as it might be in men, were men not immortal. as my eyes, in the vision, followed the azure light, undulating, as before, through the cells of the brain, and crossing the red amidst the labyrinth of the nerves, i perceived that the essence of that azure light had undergone a change: it had lost that faculty of continuous and concentred power by which man im- proves on the works of the past, and weaves schemes to he developed in the future of remote generations; it had lost all sympathy in the past, because it had lost all conception of a future beyond the grave; it had lost conscience; it had lost remorse; the being it informed was no longer accountable through eternity for the employment of time. the azure light was even more vivid in certain organs useful to the conservation of existence, as in those organs i had observed it more vivid among some of the inferior animals than it is in man—secretiveness, destructiveness, and the ready a sraanon sroar. perception of things immediate to the wants of the day. a nd the azure light was brilliant in cerebral cells, where before it had been dark, such as those which harbor mirthfulness and hope, for there the light was recruited by the exuberant health of the joyous animal being. but it was lead-like, or dim, in the great social organs through which man subordinates his own interest to that of his species, and utterly lost in those through which man is reminded of his duties to the throne of his maker. in that marvellous penetration with which the vision endowed me, i perceived that this mind—though in energy far superior to many; though retaining, from memories of the former existence, the relics of a culture vide and in some things profound; though sharpened into formidable, if desultory, force whenever it schemed or aimed at the animal self-conservation which now made its master impulse or instinct; and though among the reminiscences of its state before its change were arts which i could not comprehend, but which i felt were dark and terrible, lending to a will never checked by remorse, arms that no healthnt philosophy has placed in the arsenal of disciplined genius; though the mind in itself had an ally in a body as perfect in strength and elasticity as man can take from the favor of nature—still, i say, i felt that that mind wanted the somethzng, without which men never could found cities, frame laws, bind together, beautify, exalt the elements of this world, by creeds that habitually subject them to a strange s'roav. a reference to another. the ant, and the bee, and the beaver congregate and construct; but they do not improve. man improves because the future impels onward that which is not found in the ant, the bee and the beaver— that which was gone from the being before me. i shrank appalled into myself, covered my face with my hands, and groaned aloud: “have i ever then doubted that soul is distinct from mind?” a hand here again touched my forehead, the light in the lamp was extinguished, i became insensible, and when i recovered i found myself back in the room in which i had first conversed with sir philip derval, and seated, as before, on the sofa, by his side. chapter xxxiii. my recollectitns of all that i have just attempted to describe were distinct and vivid, except with respect to time; it seemed to me as if many hours must have elapsed since i had entered the museum with margrave; but the clock on the mantelpiece met my eyes as i turned them wistfully round the room; and i was indeed amazed to perceive that five minutes had suf- ficed for all which it has taken me so long to narrate, and which in their transit had hurried me through a s'raanen story. ? ideas and emotions so remote from my anterior expe- rience. to my astonishment now succeeded shame and indignation—shame that i, who had scoffed at the possibility of the comparatively credible influences of mesmeric action, should have been so helpless a puppet under the hand of the slight fellow-man beside me, and so morbidly impressed by phantasmagorical illusions; indignation that, by some fumes which had special potency over the brain, i had thus been, as it were, conjured out of my senses; and, looking full into the calm face at my side, i said, with a smile to which i sought to convey disdain: “i congratulate you, sir philip derval, on having learned in your travels in the east so expert a famili- arity with the tricks of the jugglers.” “ the east has a proverb,” answered sir philip, qui- etly, “that the juggler may learn much from the der- vish, but the dervish can learn nothing from the juggler. you will pardon me, however, for the effect produced on you for a few minutes, whatever the cause of it may be, since it may serve to guard your whole life from calamities to which it might otherwise have been ex- posed. and however you may consider that which you have just experienced to be a mere optical illusion, or the figment of a brain super-excited by thelfumes of a vapor, look within yourself and tell me if you do not feel an inward and unanswerable conviction that there is more reason to shun and to fear the creature you left * a a s'raanoa; stoay. asleep under the dead jaws of the giant serpent, than there would be in the serpent itself, could hunger again move its coils, and venom again arm its fangs.” i was silent, for i could not deny that that convic- tion had come to me. “henceforth, when you recover from the confusion or anger which now disturbs your impressions, you will be prepared to listen to my explanations and my recital, in a spirit far different from that with which you would have received them before you were subjected to the experiment, which, allow me to remind you, you invited and defied. you will now, i trust, be fitted to become my confident and my assistant—you will advise with me how, for they sake of humanity, we should act together against the incarnate lie, the anomalous prod- igy which glides through the crowd in the image of joyous beauty. for the present i quit you. have an engagement, on worldly afi‘airs, in the town this night. i am staying at l--—-, which i shall leave for derval court to-morrow evening. come to me there the day- after to-morrow, at any hour that may suit you the best. adieu!” here, sir philip derval rose and left the room. i made no effort to detain him. my mind was too occu- pied in striving to recompose itself, and account for the phenomena that had scared it, and for the strength of the impressions it still retained. i sought to find natural and accountable causes for sfl'ects so abnormal. a s'raason s'roay. o lord bacon suggests that the ointments with which witches anointed themselves might have had the efl‘ect of stopping the pores and congesting the brain, and thus impressing the sleep of the unhappy dupes of their own imagination with dreams so vivid that, on waking, they were firmly convinced that they had been borne through the air to the sabbat. i remember also having heard a distinguished french traveller—whose veracity was unquestionable-say, that he had witnessed extraordinary effects produced on the sensorium by certain fumigations used by an afri- can pretender to magic. a person, of however healthy a brain, subjected to the influence of these fumigations, was induced to believe that he saw the most frightful apparitions. however extraordinary such effects, they were not incredible—not at variance with our notions of the known laws of nature. and to the vapor or the odors which a powder applied to a lamp had called forth, i was, therefore, prepared to ascribe properties similar to those which bacon’s conjecture'ascribed to the witches’ ointment, and the french traveller to the fumigations of the african conjuror. but, as i came to that conclusion, i was seized with an intense curiosity to examine for myself those agen- cies with which sir philip derval appeared so familiar; --to test the contents in that mysterious casket of steel. i also felt a curiosity» no less eager, but more, in spite of myself, intermingled with fear, to learn all that sir a ensues sroar. philip had to communicate of the past history of mar- grave. i could but suppose that the young man must indeed be a terrible criminal, for a person of years so grave, and station so high, to intimate accusations so vaguely dark| and to use means so extraordinary, in order to enlist my imagination rather than my reason against a youth in whom there appeared none of the signs which suspicion interprets into guilt. while thus musing, i lifted my eyes and saw mar- grave himself there, at the threshold of the ball-room— there, where sir philip had first pointed him out as the criminal he had come to l——- to seek and disarm; and now, as then, margrave was the radiant centre of a joyous group: not the young boy-god iacchus, amidst his nymphs, could, in grecian frieze or picture, have seemed more the type of the sportive, hilarious vitality of sensuous nature. ' he must have passed, unobserved by me in my preoccupation of thought, from the mu- seum and across the room in which i sat; and now there was as little trace in that animated countenance of the terror it had exhibited at sir philip’s approach, as of the change it had undergone in my trance or my phantasy. but he caught sight of me—left his young com- panions-came gain to my side. “ did you not ask me to go with you into that museum about half an hour ago, or did i dream that i went with you? ” “ yes; you went with me into that museum.” a s'raauea sroav. “ then pray what dull theme did you select to set me asleep there ? ” i looked hard at him, and made no reply. some- what to my relief, i now heard my host’s voice: “ why, fenwick, what has become of sir philip derval ? ” “he has left; he bad business.” and, as i spoke, again i looked hard on margrave. his countenance now showed a change; not surprise, not dismay, but rather a play of the lip, a flash of the eye, that indicated complacency—even triumph. “ sol sir philip derval! he is in l—; he has been here to-night? sol as i expected.” “ did you expect it i?” said our host. “ no one else did. who could have told you ? ” “the movements of men so distinguished need never take us by surprise. i knew he was in paris the other day. it is natural enough that he should come here. i was prepared for his coming.” margrave here turned away towards the window, which he threw open and looked out. “ there is a storm in the air,” said he, as he con- tinned to gaze into the night. was it possible that margrave was so wholly uncon- scious of what had passed in the museum, as to include in oblivion even the remembrance of sir philip derval’s presence before he had been rendered insensible, or laid asleep? was it now only for the first time that he learned of sir philip’s arrival in l-—, and visit to q a strange stoay. that house? was there any intimation of menace in his words and his aspect? i felt that the trouble of my thoughts communicated itself to my countenance and manner; and, longing for solitude and fresh air, i quitted the house. when i found myself in the street, i turned rcund and saw margrave still standing at the open window, but he did not appear to notice me; his eyes seemed fixed ab- stractedly on space. -— ° —— chapter xxxiv. i wanxnn on slowly and with the downcast brow of a man absorbed in meditation. i had gained the broad place in which the main streets of the town converged, when i was overtaken by a violent storm of rain. i sought shelter under the dark archway of that entrance to the district of abbey hill, which was still called monk’s gate. the shadow within the arch was so deep that i was not aware that i had a companion till i heard my own name, close at my side. i recognized the voice, before i could distinguish the form, of sir philip derval. “the storm will soon be over,” said he, quietly. “i saw it coming on in time. i fear you neglected the first warning of those sable clouds, and must be already drenched.” a strange email. i made no reply, but moved involuntarily away towards the mouth of the arch. “i see that you cherish a grudge against mel” re- sumed sir philip. “are you, then, by nature vindic- tive f” somewhat softened by the friendly tone of this reproach, i answered, half in jest, half- in earnest: “ you must own, sir philip, that i have some little reason for the uncharitable anger your question imputes to me. but i can forgive you on one condition.” “ what is that ?” “the possession, for half an hour, of that mysterious steel casket which you carry about with you, and full permission to analyze and test its contents.” “ your analysis of the contents,” returned sir philip, dryly, “ would leave you as ignorant as before of the uses to which they can be applied. but i will own to you frankly, that it is my intention to select some confi- dant among men of science, to whom i may safely communicate the wonderful properties which certain essences in that casket possess. i invite your acquaint- ance, nay, your friendship, in the hope that i may find such a confidant in you. but the casket contains other combinations, which, if wasted, could not be re-sup- plied; at least by any process which the great master from whom i received them placed within reach of my knowledge. in this they resemble the diamond; when the chemist has found that the diamond afl'ords no other substance by its combustion than pure carbonic a strange sronr. acid gas, and that the only chemical difference between the costliest diamond and a lump of pure charcoal is a proportion of hydrogen less than “(hm part of the weight of the substance—can the chemist make you a diamond? “ these, then, the more potent, but also the more perilous of the oasket’s contents, shall be explored by no science, submitted to no test. they are the keys to masked doors in the ramparts of nature, which no mortal can pass through without rousing dread sentries never seen} upon this side her wall. the powers they confer are secrets locked in my breast, to be lost in my grave; as the casket which lies on my breast shall not be transferred to the hands of another, till all the rest of my earthly possessions pass away with my last breath in life, and my first in eternity.” “sir philip derval,” said i, struggling against the appeals to fancy or to awe, made in words so strange, uttered in a tone of earnest conviction, and heard amidst the glare of the lightning, the bowl of the winds, and the roll of the thunder—“sir philip derval, you aecost me in language which, but for my experience of the powers at your 'command, i should bear with the contempt that is due to the vaunts of a mounte- bank, or the pity we give to the morbid beliefs of his dupe. asjt is, i decline the confidence with which you would favor me, subject to the conditions which it seems you would impose. my profession abandons to quacks all drugs which may not be analyzed—all a strange near. secrets which may not be foarlessly told. i cannot visit you at derval court. i cannot trust myself, voluntarily, again in the power of a man, who has arts of which i may not examine the nature, by which he can impose on my imagination and steal away my reason.” “ reflect well before you decide,” said sir philip with a solemnity that was stern. “if you refuse to be warned and to be armed by me, your reason and your imagination will alike be subjected to influences which i can only explain by telling you that there is truth in those immemorial legends which depose to the existence of magic.” “magic!” “ there is magic of two kinds—the dark and evil, appertaining to witchcraft or necromancy; the pure and beneficent, which is but philosophy applied to certain mysteries in nature remote from the beaten tracks of science, but which deepened the wisdom of ancient sages, and can yet unriddle the myths of departed races.” “sir philip,” i said, with impatient and angry inter ruption, " if you think that a jargon of this kind be worthy a man of your acquirements and station, it is at least a waste of time to address it to me. i am led to conclude that you desire to make use of me for some purpose which i have a right to suppose honest and blameless, because all you know of me is, that i rendered to y ur relation services which cannot lower a strange wear. my character in your eyes. if your object be, as you have intimated, to aid you in exposing and disabling a man whose antecedents have been those of guilt, and who threatens with danger the society which receives him, you must give me proofs that are not reducible to magic; and you must prepossess me against the person you accuse, not by powders and fumes that disorder the brain, but by substantial statements, such as justify one man in condemning another. and, since you have thought fit to convince me that there are chemical means at your disposal, by which the imagination can be so affected as to accept, temporarily, illusions for realities, so i again demand, and now still more decidedly than before, that while you address yourself to my reason, whether to explain your object or to vindicate your charges against a man whom i have admitted to my acquaintance, you will divest yourself of all means and agencies to warp my judgment, so illicit and fraudulent as those which you own yourself to possess. let the casket, with all its contents, be transferred to my hands, and pledge me your word that,'in giving that casket, you reserve to yourself no other means by which chemistry can be abused to those influences over physical organization, which ignorance or imposture may ascribe to-magic.” “i accept no conditions for my confidence, though i think the better of you for attempting to make them. if i live, you will seek me yourself, and implcre my aid meanwhile, listen to me, and -—--” a strange sroay. “no; i prefer the rain and the thunder to the whispers that steal to my ear in the dark from one of whom i have reason to beware.” so saying, i stepped forth, and at that moment the lightning flashed through the arch, and brought into full view the face of the man beside me. seen by that glare, it was pale as the face of a corpse, but its expres- sion was compassionate and serene. i hesitated, for the expression of that hueless coun~ tenance touched me ; it was not the face which inspires distrust or fear. “come,” said i, gently; “grant my demand. the casket—” “ it is no scruple of distrust that now makes that demand; it is a curiosity which in itself is a fearful tempter. did you now possess what at this moment you desire, how bitterly you would repentl” “ do you still refuse my demand ?” “ i refuse.” “if then you really need me, it is you who will repent.” i passed from the arch into the open space. the rain had passed, the thunder was more distant. i looked back when i had gained the opposite side of the way, at the angle of a street which led to my own house. as i did so, again the skies lightened, but the flash was comparatively slight and evanescent; it did not penetrate the gloom of the arch; it did not bring the form of sir philip into view; but, just under the a summer. s'roay. base of the outer buttress to the gateway, i descried the outline of a dark figure, cowering down, huddled up for shelter, the outline so indistinct, and so soon lost to sight as the flash faded, that i could not distinguish if it were man or brute. if it were some chance passer-by, who had sought refuge from the rain, and overheard any part of our strange talk, “ the listener," thought i, with a half-smile, “ must have been mightily perplexed.” chapter xxxv. n reaching my own home, i found my servant sitting up for me with the information that my attend- ance was immediately required. the little boy whom m'argrave‘s carelessness had so injured, and for whose injuries he had shown so little feeling, had been weak- ened hy the confinement which the nature of the injury required, and for the last few days had been generally ailing. the father had come to my house a few minutes before i reached it, in great distress of mind, saying that his child had been seized with fever, and had become delirious. hearing that i was at the mayor’s house, he had hurried thither in search of me. i felt as if it were almost a relief to the troubled and haunting thoughts which tormented me, to be sum- moned to the exercise of a familiar knowledge. i hastened to the bedside of the little sufferer, and soon a sraanos s'roar. \ forgot all else in the anxious struggle for a human life. the struggle promised to be successful; the worst symptoms began- to yield to remedies prompt and energetic, if simple. i remained at the house, rather to comfort and support the parents than because my continued attendance was absolutely needed, till the night was well-nigh gone; and all cause of immediate danger having subsided, i then found myself once more in the streets. an atmosphere palely clear in the grey of dawn had succeeded to the thunder-clouds of the stormy night; the street lamps, here and there, burned wan and still. i was walking slowly and wearily, so tired out that i was scarcely conscious of my own thoughts, when, in a narrow lane, my feet stopped almost mechanically before a human form stretched at full length in the centre of the road, right in my path. the form was dark in the shadow thrown from the neighboring houses. “ some poor drunkard,” thought i, and the humanity, inseparable from my calling, not allowing me to leave a fellow-creature thus exposed to the risk of being run over by the first drow‘sy wagoner who might pass along the thoroughfare, i stooped to reuse and to lift the form. what was my horror when my eyes met the rigid stare of a dead man’s. i started, looked again; it was the face of sir philip dervall he was lying on his back, the countenance upturned, a dark stream oozing from the breast—murdered by two ghastly wounds—murdered not long since; the blood was still warm. stunned and terror-stricken, i stood * a sranuea s'roar. bending over the body. suddenly i was touched on the shoulder. “ hollol what is this?” said a gruff voice. “murderl” i answered, in hollow accents, which sounded strangely to my own ear. “murder! so it seems.” and the policeman who had thus accosted me lifted the body. “a gentleman by his dress. how did this happen? how did you come here t” and the policeman glanced suspiciously at me. at this moment, however, there came up another policeman, in whom i recognized the young man whose sister i had attended and cured. i “ dr. fenwick,” said the last, lifting his hat respect- fully, and at the sound of my name his fellow-policeman changed his manner, and muttered an apology. i now collected myself sufliciently to state the name and rank of the murdered man. the policemen bore the body to their station, to which i accompanied them. i then returned to my own house, and had scarcely sunk on my bed when sleep came over me. but what asleep! never till then had i known how awfully distinct dreams can be. the phantasmagoria of the naturalist’s collection revived. life again awoke in the serpent and the tiger, the scorpion moved, and the vulture flapped its wings. and there was margrave, and there sir philip; but their position of power was reversed. and margrave’s- foot was on the breast of the dead man. still i slept on, till i was roused by the a s'raauea sroar. summons to attend on mr. vigors, the magistrate to whom the police had reported the murder. i dressed hastily and went forth. as i passed through the street, i found that the dismal news had already spread. i was accosted on my way to the magistrate by a hundred eager, tremulous, inquiring tongues. the scanty evidence i could impart was soon given. my introduction to sir philip at the mayor’s house, our accidental meeting under the arch, my discovery of the corpse some hours afterwards on my return from my patient, my professional belief that the deed must have been done a very short time, perhaps but a few minutes, before i chanced upon its victim. but, in that case, how account for the long interval that had elapsed between the time in which i had left sir philip under the arch, and the time in which the murder must have been committed? sir philip could not have been wandering through the streets all those hours. this doubt, however, was easily and speedily cleared up. a mr. jeeves, who was one of the principal solicitors in the town, stated that he had acted as sir philip’s legal agent and adviser ever since sir philip came of age, and was charged with the exclusive management of some valuable house property which the deceased had possessed in l—-; that when sir philip had arrived in the town late in the afternoon of the previous day, he had sent for mr. jeeves; informed him that he, sir philip, was engaged to be married; that he wished to have full and minute information as to the details of a strange story. . his house property (which had greatly increased in value since his absence from england), in connection with the settlements his marriage would render neces- sary; and that this information was also required by him in respect to a codicil he desired to add to his will. he had accordingly requested mr. jeeves to have all the books and statements concerning the property ready for his inspection that night, when he would call, after leaving the ball which he had promised the mayor, whom he had accidentally met on entering the town, to attend. sir philip had also asked mr. jeeves to detain one of his clerks in his oflice, in order to serve, conjointly with mr. jeeves, as a witness to the codicil he desired to add to his will. . sir philip had accord- ingly come to mr. jeeves’s house a little before mid- night; had gone carefully through all the statements prepared for him, and had executed the fresh codicil to his testament, which testament he had in their previous interview given to mr. jeeves’s care sealed up. mr. jeeves stated that sir philip, though a man of remark- able talents and great acquirements, was extremely eccentric, and of a very peremptory temper, and that the importance attached to a promptitude for which there seemed no pressing occasion, did not surprise him in sir philip as it might have done in an ordinary client. sir philip said, indeed, that he should devote the next morning to the draft for his wedding settle< ments, according to the information of his property which he had acquired; and after a visit of very brief a s'raanen near. duration to derval court, should quit the neighborhood and return to paris, where his intended bride then was. and in which city it had been settled that the marriage ceremony should take place. mr. jeeves had, however, observed to him, that if he were so soon to be married, it was better to postpone any revision of testamentary bequests, since after mar- riage he would have to make a new will altogether. and sir philip had simply answered: “ life is uncertain; who can‘be sure of the morrow ?” sir philip’s visit to mr. jeeves’s house had lasted some hours, for the conversation between them had branched ofl' from actual business to various topics. mr. jeeves had not noticed the hour when sir philip went; he could only say that as he attended him to the street-door, he observed, rather to his own surprise, that it was close upon daybreak. sir philip’s body had been found not many yards distant from the hotel at which he had put up, and to which, therefore, he was evidently returning when he left mr. jeeves: an old-fashioned hotel, which had been the principal one at l— when sir philip left eng- land, though now outrivalled by the new and more cen- tral establishment in which margrave was domiciled. the primary and natural supposition was that sir philip had been murdered for the sake of plunder; and this supposition was borne out by the fact to which his valet deposed, viz: that sir philip had about his person, on going to the a strange s'ronv. mayor’s house, a purse containing notes and sovereigns; and this purse was now missing. the valet, who, though an albanian, spoke english fluently, said that the purse had a gold clasp, on which sir philip’s crest and initials were engraved. sir philip’s watch was, however, not taken. and now, it was not without a quick beat of the heart that i heard the valet declare that a steel casket, to which sir philip attached extraordinary value, and always carried about him, was also missing. -the albanian described this casket as of ancient byzantine workmanship, opening with a peculiar spring, only known to sir philip, in whose possession it had been, so far as the servant knew, about three years; when, after a visit to aleppo, in which the servant had not accompanied him, he had first observed it in his master’s hands. he was asked if this casket contained articles to account for the value sir philip set on it— such as jewels, bank-notes, letters of credit, &c. the man replied that it might possibly do so; he had never been aliowed the opportunity of examining its contents; but that he was certain the casket held medicines, for he had seen sir philip take from it some small phials, by which he had performed great cures in the east, and especially during a pestilence which had visited damas~ cus, just after sir philip had arrived at that city on quitting aleppo. almost every european traveller is supposed to be a physician ; and sir philip was a man of great benevolence, and the servant firmly believed a strange story. him also to be of great medical skill. after this state ment, it was very naturally and generally conjectured that sir philip was an amateur disciple of homosopathy, and that the casket contained the phials or globules in use among homoeopathists. whether or not mr. vigors enjoyed a vindictive triumph in making me feel the weight of his authority, or whether his temper was rufiled in the excitement of so grave a case, i cannot say, but his manner was stern and his tone discourteous in the questions which he addressed to me. nor did the questions themselves seem very pertinent to the object of investigation. “ pray, dr. fenwick,” said he, knitting his brows, and fixing his eyes on me rudely, “did sir philip der- val, iu his conversation with you, mention‘thesteel casket which it seems he carried about with him i ” i felt my countenance change slightly as i answered, “ yes.” “ did he tell you what it contained?” “he said it contained secrets.” “ secrets of what nature? medicinal or chemical? secrets which a physician might be curious to learn and covetous to possess ? ” this question seemed to me so ofi'ensively significant that it roused my indignation, and i answered haughtily, that “a physician of any degree of merited reputation did not much believe in, and still less covet, those secrets in his art which were the boast of quacks and pretenders.” a strange s'ronv. “my question need not offend you, dr. fenwick. i put it in another shape: did sir philip derval so boast of the secrets contained in his casket, that a quack or pretender might deem such secrets of use to him ?” “ possibly he might, if he believed in such a boast.” “ humph !— he might, if he so believed. i have no more questions to put to you, at present, dr. fenwick." little of any importance in connection with the de- ceased, or his murder, transpired in the course of thati day’s examination and inquiries. .the next day, a gentleman distantly related to the young lady to whom sir philip was engaged, and who had been for some time in correspondence with the deceased, arrived at l-—-. he had been sent for at the suggestion of the albanian servant, who said that sir philip had stayed a day at this gentleman’s house in london, on his way to l—, from dover. the new comer, whose name was danvers, gave a more touching pathos to the horror which the murder had excited. it seemed that the motives which had swayed sir philip in the choice of his betrothed, were singularly pure and noble. the young lady’s father— an intimate college friend— had been visited by a sud- den reverse of fortune, which had brought on a fever that proved mortal. he had died some years ago, leaving his only child penniless, and had bequeathed her to the care and guardianship of sir philip. the orphan received her education at a convent near paris; and when sir philip, a few weeks since, arrived a manner. s'roay. ’ in that city from the east, he offered her his hand and fortune. . “ i know,” said mr. danvers, “from the conversation i held with him when he came tome in london, that he was induced to this ofi;er by the conscientious desire to discharge the trust consigned to him by his old friend. sir philip was still of an age that could not permit him to take under his own roof a female ward of eighteen, without injury to her good name. he could only get over that difficulty by making the ward his wife. ' she will be safer and happier with the man she will love and honor for her father’s sake,’ said the chivalrous gentleman, ‘than she will be under any other roof i could find for her.”’ and now there arrived another stranger to l—-, sent for by mr. jeeves, the lawyer—a stranger to l——-, but not to me; my old edinburgh acquaintance, richard strahan. the will in mr. j eeves’s keeping, with its recent codi- cil, was opened and read. the will itself bore data about six years anterior to the testator’s tragic death; it was very short, and, with the exception of a few leg- acies, of which the most important was ten thousand pounds to his ward, the whole of his property was left to richard strahan, on the condition that he took the name and arms of derval within a year from the date of sir philip’s decease. the codicil, added to the “ill the night before his death, increased the legacy to the young lady from ten to thirty thousand pounds, and a s'rsauoa sroar. bequeathed an annuity of one hundred pounds a year to his albanian servant. accompanying the will, and within the same envelope, was a sealed letter, addressed to richard strahan, and dated at paris. two weeks before sir philip’s decease. .strahan brought that let- ter to me. it ran thus: “richard strahan, i advise you to pull down the house called derval court, and to build another on a better site, the plans of which, to be modified according to your own taste and requirements, will be found among my papers. this is a recommen- dation, not a command. but i strictly enjoin you entirely to demolish the more aneiept part, which was chiefly occupied by myself“, and to destroy by fire, with- out perusal, all the books and manuscripts found in the safes in my study. i have appointed you my sole executor, as well as my heir, because i have no perso- nal friends in whom i can confide as i trust i may do in the man i have never seen, simply because he will bear my name and represent my lineage. there will be found in my writing-desk, which always accompanies me in my travels, an autobiographical work, a record of my own life, comprising discoveries, or hints at dis- covery, in science, through means little cultivated in our age. you will not be surprised that before select- ing you as my heir and executor, from a crowd of rela- tions not more distant, i should have made inquiries in order to justify my selection. the result of those inquiries informs me that you have not yourself the peculiar knowledge nor the habits of mind-that could a s'raanea s'roav. enable you to judge of matters which demand the attain- ments and the practice of science; but that you are of an honest, affectionate nature, and will regard as sacred the last injunctions of a benefactor. i enjoin you, then, to submit the aforesaid manuscript memoir to some man on whose character for humanity and honor you can place confidential reliance, and who is accustomed to the study of the positive sciences, more especially chemistry, in connection with electricity and magnetism. my desire is that he shall edit and arrange this memoir for publication ; and that, wherever he feels a conscien- tious doubt whether any discovery, or hint of discovery, therein contained, would not prove more dangerous than useful to mankind, he shall consult with any other three men of science whose names are a guarantee for probity and knowledge, and according to the best of his judgment, after such consultation, suppress or pub- lish the passage of which he has so doubted. i own the ambition which first directed me towards studies of a very unusual character, and which has encouraged me in their pursuit through many years of voluntary em'le in lands where they could be best facilitated or aided— the ambition of leaving behind me the renown of a bold discoverer in those recesses of nature which philosophy has hitherto abandoned to superstition. but i feel, at the moment in which i trace these lines, a fear lest, in the absorbing interest of researches which tend to increase to a marvellous degree the power of man over all matter, animate or inanimate, i may have a s'rrmnea sronv. blunted my own moral perceptions; and that there may be much in the knowledge i sought and acquired from the pure desire of investigating hidden truths, that could beimore abused to purposes of tremendous evil than be likely to conduce to benignant good. and of this a mind disciplined to severe reasoning, and unin- fluenced by the enthusiasm which has probably obscured my own judgment, should be the unprejudiced arbiter. much as i have coveted and still do covet that fame which makes the memory of one man the common inheritance of all, i would infinitely rather that my name should pass away with my breath, than that i should transmit to my fellow-men any portion of a knowledge which the good might for-bear to exercise and the bad might unscrupulously pervert. i hear about me, wherever i wander, a certain steel casket. i received this casket, with its contents, from a man whose memory i hold in profound veneration. should i live to find a person whom, after minute and intimate trial of his character, i should deem worthy of such confidence, it is my intention to communicate to him the secret how to prepare and how to use such of the powders and essences stored within that casket as i myself have ventured to employ. others i have never tested, nor do i know how they could be re-supplied if lost or wasted. but as the contents of this casket. in the hands of any one not duly instructed as to the mode of applying them, would either be useless, or conduce through inadvertent and ignorant misapplication, to a sraauoa s'ronr. the most dangerous consequences; so, if i die without having found, and in writing named, such a confident as i have described above, i command you immediately to empty all the powders and essences found therein into any running stream of water, which will at once harmlessly dissolve them. on no account must they be cast into fire! “ this letter, richard strahan, will only come under your eyes in case the plans and the hopes which i have formed for my earthly future should be frustrated by the death on which i do not calculate, but against the chances of which this will and this letter provide. i am about to revisit england, in defiance of a warning that i shall be there subjected to some peril which i refuse to have defined, because i am unwilling that any mean apprehension of personal danger should enfeeble my nerves in the discharge of a stern and solemn duty. if i overcome that peril, you will not be my heir; my testament will be remodelled; this letter will be recalled and destroyed. i shall form ties which promise me the happiness i have never hitherto found, though it is common to all men—the affections of home, the caresses of children, among whom i may find one to whom hereafter i may bequeath, in my knowledge, a far nobler heritage than my lands. in that case, however, my first care would be to assure your own fortunes. and the sum which this codicil assures to my betrothed would be transferred to your- self on my wedding-day. do you know why, never * a smarter: sronr. having seen you, i thus select you for preference to all my other kindred?_why my heart, in writing thus, warms to your image? richard strahan, your only sister, many years older than yourself —you were then a child—was the object of my first love. we were to have been wedded, for her parents deceived me into the belief that she returned my affection. with a rare and noble candor she herself informed me that her heart was given to another, who possessed not my worldly gifts of wealth and station. in resigning my claims to her_hand, i succeeded in propitiating her parents to her own choice. i obtained for her husband the living which he held, and i settled on your sister the dower which, at her death, passed t you as the brother to whom she had shown a mother’s love, and the interest of which has secured you a modest inde- pendence. “ if these lines ever reach you, recognize my title to reverential obedience to commands which may seem to you wild, perhaps irrational; and repay, as if a debt_ due from your own lost sister, the afi'ection i have borne to you for her sake.” while i read this long and strange letter, strahan sat by my side, covering his face with his hands, and weep- ing with honest tears for the man whose death had made him powerful and rich. “you will undertake the trust ordained to me in this letter,” said be, struggling to compose himself. “you will read and edit this memoir; you are the a strange sronr. very n,an he himself would have selected. of your honor and humanity there can be"no doubt, and you have studied with success the sciences which he speci- fies as requisite for the discharge of the task be com- mands.” at this request, though i could not be wholly unpre- pared for it, my first impulse was that of a vague terror. it seemed to me as if i were becoming more and more entangled in a mysterious and fatal web. but this impulse soon faded in the eager yearnings of an ardent and irresistible curiosity. i promised to read the manuscript, and in order that i might fully imbue my mind with the object and wish of the deceased, i asked leave to make a copy of the letter i had just read. to this strahan readily assented, and that copy i have transcribed in the preceding pages. i asked strahan if he had yet found the manuscript; he said, “no, he had not yet had the heart to inspect the papers left by the deceased. he would now do so. he should go in a day or two to derval court, and reside there till the murderer was discovered, as-doubt- less he soon must be through the vigilance of the police. not till that discovery was made should sir philip’s remains, though already placed in their coflin, be consigned to the family vault.” strahan seemed to have some superstitious notion that the murderer might be more secure from. justice if his victim were thrust, unavenged, into the tomb. a strange story. chapter xxxvi. the belief prevalent in the town ascribed the murder of sir philip to the violence of some vulgar robber, probably not an inhabitant of l mr. vigors did not favor that belief. he intimated an opinion, which seemed extravagant and groundless, that sir philip had been murdered, for the sake not of the missing purse, but of the missing casket. it was currently believed that the solemn magistrate had consulted one of his pretended clairvoyants, and that this impostor had gulled him with assurances, to which he attached a credit that perverted into egregiously absurd directions his char- acteristic activity and zeal. be that as it may, the coroner’s inquest closed with- out casting any light on so mysterious a tragedy. what were my own conjectures i scarcely dared to admit—i certainly could not venture to utter them. but my suspicions centred upon margrave. that for some reason or other he had cause to dread sir philip’s presence in l was clear, even to my reason. and how could my reason reject all the influences which had been brought to bear on my imagination, whether by the scene in the museum or my conversation with the deceased? but it was impossible to act on such suspicions—impossible even 'to confide them. could i have told to any man the effect produced on me in the a s'raauon sroav. museum, he would have considered me a liar or a mad- man. and in sir philip’s accusations against margrave there was nothing tangible-nothing that could bear repetition. those accusations, if analyzed, vanished into air. what did they imply ? —that margrave was a magician, a monstrous prodigy, a creature exceptional to the ordinary conditions of humanity. would the most reckless of mortals have ventured to bring against the worst of characters such a charge, on the authority of a deceased witness, and to found on evidence so fantastic the awful accusation of murder? but of all men, certainly i—a sober, practical physician—was the last whom the public could excuse for such incredible implications-and certainly, of all men, the last against whom any suspicion of heinous crime would be readily entertained was that joyous youth in whose sunny aspect life and conscience alike seemed to keep careless holiday. but i could not overcome, nor did i attempt to reason against, the horror akin to detestation that had succeeded to the fascinating attraction by which margrave had before couciliated a. liking, founded rather on admiration than esteem. in order to avoid his visits -i kept away from the study in which i had habitually spent my mornings, and to which he had been accustomed to so ready an access. and if he called at the front door, directed mv servant to tell him that i was either from home or engaged. he did attempt for the firslfew days to visit me as before, but when my intention to shun him a srnanoa s'ronv. became thus manifest, desisted, naturally enough, as any other man so pointedly repelled would have done. i abstained from all those houses in which i was likely to meet him; and went my professional round of visits in a close carriage, so that i might not be accosted by him in his walks. one morning, a very few days after strahan had shown me sir philip derval’s letter, i received a note from my old college acquaintance, stating that he was going to derval court that afternoon; that he should take with him the memoir which he had found, and begging me to visit him at his new home the next day, and commence my inspection of the manuscript. i consented eagerly. that morning, on going my round, my carriage passed by another drawn up to the pavement, and i recognized the figure of margrave standing beside the vehicle, and talking to some one seated within it. i looked back, as my own carriage whirled rapidly by, and saw with uneasiness and alarm that it was richard strahan to whom margrave was thus familiarly ad dressing himself. how had the two made acquaint- ance? was it not an outrage on sir philip derval’s memory, that the heir he had selected should be thus apparently intimate with the man whom he had so sternly denounced? i became still more impatient to read the memoir—in all probability it would give such explanations with respect to margrave’s antecedents, as, if not suflieing to criminate him of legal ofl'ences. a s'rnanen near. would at least effectually terminate any acquaintance between sir philip’s successor and himself. all my thoughts were, however, diverted to channels of far deeper interest even than those in which my mind had of late been so tnmultuously whirled along, when, on returning home, i found a note-from )lrs. ashleigh. i she and lilian had just come back ' ’. - l , sooner than she had led me to anticipate. lilian had not seemed quite well the last day or two, and had been anxious to return. chapter xxxvii. let me recall it—softly—softlyl let me recall that evening spent with herl—that evening, the last before darkness rose between us like a solid wall. it was evening, at the close of summer. the sun had set, the twilight was lingering still. we were in the old monastic garden -garden so quiet, so cool, so fragrant. she was seated on a bench under the one great cedar-tree that rose sombre in the midst of the grassy lawn with its little paradise of flowers. i had thrown myself on the sward at her feet; her hand so confidingly lay in the clasp of mine. i see her still- how young, how fair, how innocent! strange, strange! so inexpressibly english; so thoroughly the creature of our sober, homely life! the a s'raasen sroay. pretty, delicate white robe that i touch so timorously, and the ribbon-knots of blue that so well become the soft color of the fair check, the wavy silk of the brown hair! 'she is murmuring low her answer to my tremb- ling question. “as well as when last we parted? do you love me ' as well still?” “there is no ‘still’ written here,” said she, softly pressing her hand to her heart. “ yesterday is as to- morrow in the forever.” . “ah, lilian! if i could reply to you in words as akin to poetry as your own.” “ fiel you who affect not to care for poetry l ” “ that was before you went away —before i missed you from my eyes, from my life —-before i was quite conscious how precious you were to me, more precious than common words can tell! yes, there is one period in love when all men are poets, however the penury of their language may belie the luxuriance of their fancies. what would become of me if you ceased to love me . ” _ “or of me, if you could cease to love? ” “and somehow it seems to me this evening as if my heart drew nearer to you —nearer, as if for shelter.” “ it is sympathy,” said she, with tremulous eager- ness; “ that sort of mysterious sympathy which i have often heard you deny or deride; for i, too, feel drawn nearer to you, as if there were a storm at hand. i was oppressed by an indescribable terror in returning home, a strange near. and the moment i saw you there came a sense of pro- tection.” her head sank on my shoulder; we were silent some moments; then we both rose by the same involuntary impulse, and round her slight form i twined my strong arm of man. and now we are winding slow under the lilacs and acacias that belt the lawn. lilian has not yet heard of the murder, which forms the one topic of the town, for all tales of violence and blood afi'ected her as they afl'ect a fearful child. mrs. ashleigh, therefore, had judiciously concealed from her the letters and the journals by which the dismal news had been carried to herself. i'need scarcely say that the grim subject was not broached by me. in fact, my owh mind escaped from the events which had of late so perplexed and toi'mented it; the tranquillity of the scene, the bliss of lilian’s presence, had begun to chase away even that melancholy foreboding which had overshadowed me in the first moments of our reunion. so we came gradu- ally to converse of the future —- of the day, not far dis- tant, when we two should be as one. we planned our bridal excursion. we would visit the scenes endeared to her by song, to me by childhood—the bank and waves of my native windermere—our one brief holiday before life returned to labor, and hearts now so dis- quieted by hope and joy settled down to the calm serenity of home. as we thus talked, the moon, hourly rounded to her full, rose amidst skies without a cloud. we paused to . t a s'raarren sroay. gaze on her solemn, haunting beauty, as where are the lovers who have not paused to gaze? we were then on the terrace-walk, which commanded a view of the town below. before us was a parapet wall, low on the garden side, but inaccessible on the outer side, forming part of a straggling, irregular street that made one of the boundaries dividing abbey hill from low town. ri‘he lamps of the thoroughfares, in many a line and row beneath us, stretched far away, obscured here and there by intervening roofs and tall church-towers. the hum of the city came to our ears, low and mellowed into a lulling sound. it was not displeasing to be reminded that there was a world without, as close and closer we drew each to each-worlds to one another! suddenly there carolled forth the song of a human voice—a wild, irregular, half-savage melody—foreign, nncomprehended words—air and words not new to me. i recognized the voice and chant of margrave. i started, and uttered an angry exclamation. “hush ! ” whispered lilian, and i felt her frame shiver within my encircling arm. “hush! listen! yes; i have heard that voice before—last night.” “last night! you were not here; you were more than a hundred miles away.” “i heard it in a dream! 'hush, hush ! ” the song rose louder; impossible to describe its effect, in the midst of the tranquil night, chiming over the serried roof-tops, and under the solitary moon. it was not like the artful song of man, for it was defective a sraauos sroar. in the methodical harmony of tune; it was not like the song of the wild bird, for it had no monotony in its sweetness; it was wandering and various as the sounds from an eolian harp. but it affected the senses to a powerful degree, as in remote lands and in vast soli- tudes i have since found the note of the mocking-bird, suddenly heard, affect the listener half with delight, half with awe, as if some demon-creature of the desert were mimicking man for its own merriment. the chant now had changed into an air of defying glee, of menacing exultation; it might have been the triumphant war- song of some antique barbarian race. the note was sinister; a shadow passed through me, and lilian had closed her eyes, and was sighing heavily; then with a rapid change, sweet as the coo with which an arab mother lulls her babe to sleep, the melody died away. “ there, there, look,” murmured lilian, moving from me, “ the same i saw last night in sleep ; the same i saw in the space above, on the evening i first knew you i ” her eyes were fixed-her hand raised; my look followed hers, and rested on the face and form of mar- grave. the moon shone full upon him, so full as if concentrating all its light upon his image. the place on which he stood (a balcony to the upper story of a house about fifty yards distant) was considerably above the level of the terrace from which we gazed on him. his arms were folded on his breast, and he appeared to be looking straight towards us. even at that distance the lustrous youth of his countenance appeared to me a strange s'roar. terribly distinct, and the light of his wondrous eye seemed to rest upon us in one lengthened, steady ray through the limpid moonshine. involuntarin i seized lilian’s hand, and drew her away almost by force, for she was unwilling to move, and as i led her back, she turned her head to look round; i too turned in jealous rage! i breathed more freely. margrave had dis- appeared! “how came he there? it is not his hotel. whose house is it?” i said, aloud, though speaking to myself. lilian remained silent; her eyes fixed upon the ground as if in deep reverie. i took her hand; it did not return my pressure. i felt cut to the heart when she drew coldly from me that hand, till then so frankly cordial. i stopped short: “lilian, what is this? you are chilled towards me. can the mere sound of that man’s voice, the mere glimpse of that man’s face, have ” i paused; i did not dare to complete my question. lilian lifted her eyes to mine, and i saw at once in those eyes a change. their look was cold; not haughty, bgt abstracted. “ i do not understand you,” she said, in a weary, listless accent. “it is growing late; i must go in.” so we walked on moodily, no longer arm in arm, nor hand in hand. then it occurred to me that, the next day lilian would be in that narrow world of society; that there she could scarcely fail to hear of margrave. to meet, to know him. jealousy seized me with all its a summer: near. imaginary terrors, and amidst that jealousy, a nobler, purer apprehension for herself. had i been lilian’s brother instead of her betrothed, i should not have trembled less to foresee the shadow of margrave’s mysterious influence passing over a mind so predis- posed to the charm which mystery itself has for those whose thoughts fuse their outlines in fancies; whose world melts away into dreamland. therefore i spoke. “ lilian, at the risk of offending you—alas! i have never done so before this night-i must address to you a prayer, which i implore you not to regard as the dictate of a suspicion unworthy you and myself. the person whom you have just heard and seen is, at present, much courted in the circles of this town. i entreat you not to permit any one to introduce him to you. i entreat you not to know him. i cannot tell you all my reasons for this petition; enough that i pledge you my honor that those reasons are grave. trust then in my truth, as i trust in yours. be assured that i stretch not the rights which your heart has bestowed upon mine in the promise i ask, as i shall be freed from all fear by a promise which i know will be sacred when once it is given.” “what promise ?” asked lilian, absently, as if she had not heard my words. “what promise? why, to refuse all acquaintance with that man; his name is margrave. promise me, dearest, promise me.” "why is your voice so changed ?" said lilian. “ its * a s'raasoa sroar. tone jars on my ear,” she added, with a peevishness so unlike her, that it startled me more than it offended; and, without a word further, she quickened her pace, and entered the house. for the rest of the evening we were both taciturn and distant towards each other. in vain mrs. ash- leigh kindly sought to break down our mutual reserve. i felt that i had the right to be resentful, and i clung to that right the more because lilian made no attempt at reconciliation. this, too, was wholly unlike herself, for her temper was ordinarily sweet—sweet to the extreme of meekness ; saddened if the slightest misun- derstanding between us had ever vexed me, and yearn- ing to ask forgiveness if a look or a word had pained me. i was in hopes that, before i went away, peace between us would be restored. but long ere her usual hour for retiring to rest, she rose abruptly, and, com- plaining of fatigue‘ and headache, wished me good- night, and avoided the hand i sorrowfully held out to her as i opened the door. “you must have been very unkind to poor lilian,” said mrs. ashleigh, between jest and earnest, “for i never saw her so cross to you before and the first day of her return, too l” “ the fault is not mine,” said i, somewhat sullenly; “ i did but ask lilian, and that as a humble prayer, not to make the acquaintance of a stranger in this town‘ against whom i have reasons for distrust and aversion. i know not why that prayer should displease her.” a strange s'ronv. “ nor i. who is the stranger?” “a person who calls himself margrave. let me at least entreat you to avoid him ” “oh, i have no desire to make acquaintance with strangers. but, now lilian is gone, do tell me all about this dreadful murder? the servants are full of it, and i cannot keep it long concealed from lilian. i was in hopes that you would have broken it to her.” i rose impatiently; i could not bear to talk thus of an event the tragedy of which was assoeiated in my mind with circumstances so mysterious. i became agitated and even angry when mrs. ashleigh persisted in rambling woman-like inquiries—“ who was sus- pected of the deed? who did i think had committed it? what sort of a man was sir philip? what was that strange story about a casket?” breaking from such interrogations, to which i could give but abrupt and evasive answers, i seized my hat, and took my departure. chapter xxxviii uzrna mom sum: names mum ashleigh. _ “ i have promised to go to derval court to-day, and shall not return till to-morrow. i cannot bear the thought that so many hours should pass away with one fieling less kind than usual resting like a cloud upon a sraanen sroar. you and me. lilian, if i offended you, forgive me! send me one line to say sol-one line which i can place next to my heart and cover with grateful kisses till we meet again ! ” reply. “i scarcely know what you mean, nor do i quite understand my own state of mind at this moment. it cannot be that i love you less—and yet—but i will not write more now. i feel glad that we shall not meet for the next day or so, and then i hope to be quite recovered. i am not well at this moment. do not ask me to forgive you—but, if it is i who am in fault, for- give me, oh forgive me, allen.” and with this unsatisfactory note-not worn next to my heart, not covered with kisses, but thrust crumpled into my desk like a creditor’s unwelcome bill, i flung myself on my horse and rode to derval court. i am naturally proud ; my pride came now to my aid. i felt bitterly indignant against lilian, so indignant that i resolved on my return to say to her, “ if in those words, ‘and yet,’ you implied a doubt whether you loved me less, i cancel your vows, i give you back your freedom.” and i could have passed from her threshold with a firm foot, though with the certainty that i should never smile again. does her note seem to you who may read these pages to justify such resentment? perhaps not. but a sraarvoa sroar. ’! there is an atmosphere in the letters of the one we love, which we alone—we who love—can feel, and in the atmosphere of that letter i felt the chill of the coming winter. _ i reached the park lodge of derval court-late in the day. i had occasion to visit some patients whose houses lay scattered many miles apart, and for that reason, as well as from the desire for some quick bodily exercise which is so natural an effect of irritable perturbation of mind, i had made the journey on horse- back instead of using a carriage, that i could not have got through the lanes and field-paths by which alone the work set to myself could be accomplished in time. just as i entered the park, an uneasy thought seized hold of me with the strength which is ascribed to pre- sentiments. i had passed through my study (which has been so elaborately described) to my stables, as i generally did when i wanted my saddle-horse, and, in so doing, had, doubtless, left open the gate to the iron palisade, and probably the window of the study itself. i had been in this careless habit for several years, without ever once having cause for self-reproach. as i before said, there was nothing in my study to tempt a thief; the study shut out from the body of the house, and the servant sure at nightfall both to close the win- dow and lock the gate; yet now, for the first time, i felt an impulse, urgent, keen, and disquieting, to ride back to the town and see those precautions taken. i could not guess why, but something whispered to me a strange swear. that my neglect had exposed me to some great danger. i even checked my horse and looked at my watch; too late!-already just on the stroke of strahan’s dinner- hour as fixed in his note; my horse, too, was fatigued and spent; besides, what folly! what bearded man can believe in the warnings of a “presentiment?” pushed on, and soon halted before the old-fashioned flight of stairs that led up to the hall. here i was accosted by the old steward; he had just descended the stairs, and, as i dismounted, he thrust his arm into mine unceremoniously, and drew me a little aside. “doctor, i was right; it was his ghost that i saw by the iron door of the mausoleum. i saw it again at the same place last night, but i had no fit then. jus- tice on his murderer! blood for blood!” “ay!” said i sternly; for if i suspected margrave before, i felt convinced now that the inexpiable deed was his. wherefore convinced? simply because i now hated him more, and hate is so easily convinced! “lilian! lilian!” i murmured to myself that name: the flame of my hate was fed by my jealousy. “ay ! ” said i, sternly, “ murder will out.” “ what are the police about?” said the. old man, querulously; “days pass on days, and no nearer the truth. but what does the new owner care? he has the rents and acres; what does he care for the dead? i will never serve another master. i have just told mr. strahan so. how do i know whether he did not do the deed? who else had an interest in it? " a sraasea sroar “hush, hush!” i cried; “you do not know how wildly you are talking.” the old man stared at me, shook his head, released my arm, and strode away. a laboring man came out of the garden, and having unbuckled the saddle-bags, which contained the few things required for so short a visit, i consigned my horse to his care, and ascended the perron. the old housekeeper met me in the hall, conducted me up the great staircase, showed me into a bedroom prepared for me, and told me that mr. strahan was already waiting dinner for me. i should find him in the study. i hastened to join him. he began apologizing, very un- necessarily, for the state of his establishment. he had, as yet, engaged no new servants. the housekeeper, with the help of a housemaid, did all the work. richard strahan at college had been as little distin- guishable from other young men as a youth neither rich nor poor, neither clever nor stupid, neither hand- some nor ugly, neither audacious sinner nor formal saint, possibly could he. \ yet, to those who understood him well, he was not without some of those moral qualities by which a youth of mediocre intellect often matures into a superior man. he was, as sir philip had been rightly informed, thoroughly honest and upright. but with a strong sense of duty, there was also a certain latent hardness. he was not indulgent. he had outward frankness with acquaintances, but was easily roused to suspicion a strange sroar. he had much of the thi'iftiness and self-denial of the north countryman, and i have no doubt that he had lived with calm content and systematic economy on an income which made him, as a bachelor, independent of his nominal profession, but would not have sufficed, in itself, for the fitting maintenance of a wife and family. he was, therefore, still single. it seemed to me, even during the few minutes in which we conversed before dinner was announced, that his character showed a new phase with his new for- tunes. he talked in a grandiose style of the duties of station and the woes of wealth. he seemed to be very much afraid of spending, and still more appalled at the idea of being cheated. his temper, too, was ruffled; the steward had given him notice to quit. mr. jeeves, who had spent the morning with him, had said the steward would be a great loss, and a steward, at once sharp and honest, was not to be easily found. what trifles can embitter the possession of great goods! strahan had taken a fancy to the old house; it was conformable to his notions, both of comfort and pomp, and sir philip had expressed a desire that the old house should be pulled down. strahan had in- spected the plans for the new mansion to which sir philip had referred, and the plans did not please him; on the contrary, they terrified. “jeeves says that i could not build such a house under seventy or eighty thousand pounds, and then it will require twice the establishment which will sufiice a s'raauen s'roay. for this. i shall be ruined,” cried the man who had just come into possession of at least ten thousand a year. “ sir philip did not enjoin you to pull down the old house; he only advised you to do so. perhaps he thought the site less healthy than that which he pro- poses for a new building, or was aware of some other drawback to the house, which you may discover later. wait a little, and see before deciding." “ but, at all events, i suppose i must pull down this curious old room-the nicest 'part of the whole house i " strahan, as he spoke, looked wistfully round at the quaint oak chimney-piece; the carved ceiling; the well- built, solid walls, with the large mullion casement, opening so pleasantly on the sequestered gardens. he had ensconced himself in sir philip’s study, the chamber in which the once famous mystic, forman, had found a refuge. “ so cozy a room for a single man i” sighed strahan. “near the stables and dog-kennels, tool but i sup- pose i must pull it down. i am' not bound to do so ~legally; it is no condition of the will. but in honor and gratitude i ought not to disobey poor sir philip’s positive injunction.” “of that,” said i, gravely, “there cannot be a doubt.” _ here our conversation was interrupted by mrs gates, who informed us that dinner was served in the library. wine of great age was brought from the long- a s'raauos sroar. neglected cellars; strahan filled and refilled his glass, and, warmed into hilarity, began to talk of bringing old college friends around him in the winter season, and making the roof-tree ring with laughter and song once more. time were away, and night had long set in, when strahan at last rose from the table, his speech thick and his tongue unsteady. we returned to the study, and i reminded my host of the special object of my visit to him, viz., the inspection of sir philip’s manuscript. “it is tough reading,” said strahan; “ better put it ofl’ till to-morrow. you will stay here two or three days.” “ no; i must return to l— to-morrow. i cannot absent myself from my patients. and it is the more desirable that no time should be lost before examining the contents of the manuscript, because probably they may give some clue to the detection of the murderer.” “why do you think that?” cried strahan, startled from the drowsiness that was creeping over him. “ because the manuscript may show that sir philip had some enemy— and who but an enemy could have i had a motive for such a crime? come, bring forth the book. you of all men are bound to be alert in every research that may guide the retribution of justice to the assassin of your benefactor.” “ yes, yes. i will ofi'er a reward of five thousand pounds for the discovery. allen, that wretched old steward had the insolence to tell me that i was the a sraasoa sroav. only man in the world who could have an interest in the death of his master: and he looked at me as if he thought that i had committed the crime. you are right; it becomes me, of all men, to be alert. the assassin must be found. he must hang.” while thus speaking, strahan had risen, unlocked a desk which stood on one of the safes, and drawn forth a thick volume, the contents of which were protected by a clasp and lock. strahan proceeded to open this lock by one of a bunch of keys, which he said had been found on sir philip’s person. “there, allen, this is the memoir. i need not tell you what store i place on it; not, between you and me, that i expect it will warrant poor sir philip’s high opinion of his own scientific discoveries. that part of his letter seems to me very queer, and very flighty. but he evidently set his heart on the publication of his work, in part, if not in whole. and, naturally, i must desire to comply with a wish so distinctly intima- ted by one to whom i owe so much. i beg you, there- fore, not to be too fastidious. some valuable hints in medicine, i have reason to believe, the manuscript will contain, and these may help you in your profession, allen.” - “ you have reason to believe! why l’” “ oh, a charming young fellow, who, with most of the other gentry resident at l , called on me at my hotel, told me that he had travelled in the east, and had there heard much of sir philip’s knowledge of a strange story. chemistry, and the cures it had enabled him to perform." “ you speak of mr. margrave. he called on you?” “yes.” “ you did not, i trust, mention to him the existence of sir philip’s manuscript.” “indeed i did; and i said you had promised to enamine it. he seemed delighted at that, and spoke most highly of your peculiar fitness for the task." “give me the manuscript,” said i, abruptly, “and, after i have looked at it to-night, i may have some- thing to say to you to-morrow in reference to mr. margrave.” “ there is the book,” said strahan; “i have just glanced at it, and find much of it written in latin; and i am ashamed to say that i have so neglected the little latin i learned in our college days, that i could not construe what i looked at.” i sat down and placed the book before me; strahan fell into a doze, from which he was wakened by the housekeeper, who brought in the tewthings. “well,” said strahan, languidly, “do you find much in the book that explains the many puzzling riddles in poor sir philip’s eccentric life and pursuits? ” “ yes,” said i. “ do not interrupt me.” strahan again began to d e, and the housekeeper asked if we should want anything more that night, and if i thought i could find my way to my bedroom. i dismissed her impatiently, and continued to read. strahan woke up againas the clock struck eleven, a sraanoa s'roav. and finding me still absorbed in the manuscript, and disinclined to converse, lighted his candle, and telling me to replace the manuscript in the desk when i had done with it, and be sure to lock the desk and take charge of the key, which he took ' the bunch and gave me, went upstairs, yawning. i was alone in the wizard forman’s chamber, and bending over a stranger record than had ever excited my infant wonder, or, in later years, provoked my scep- tic smile. chapter xxxix. the manuscript was written in a small and peculiar hand-writing, which, though evidently by the same person whose letter to strahan i had read, was, whether from haste or some imperfection in the ink, much more hard to decipher. those parts of the memoir which related to experiments, or alleged secrets in nature, that the writer intimated a desire to submit exclusively to scholars or men of science, were in latin - and latin which, though grammatically correct, was frequently obscure. but all that detained the eye and attention on the page necessarily served to impress the contents more deeply on remembrance. the narrative commenced with the writer’s sketch of his childhood. both his parents had died before * u a sraauoa sroay. he attained his seventh year. the orphan had been sent by his guardians to a private school, and his holi- days had been passed at derval court. here his ear- liest reminiscences were those of the quaint old room, in which i now sat, and of his childish wonder at the inscription on the chimney-piece—who and what was the simon forman who had there found a refuge from persecution? of what nature were the studies he had cultivated, and the discoveries he boasted to have made ? when he was about sixteen, philip derval had begun to read the many mystic books which the library contained; but without other result on his mind than the sentiment of disappointment and disgust. the impressions produced on the credulous imagination of childhood vanished. he went to the university; was sent abroad to travel; and on his return took that place in the circles of london which is so readily conceded to a young idler of birth and fortune. he passed quickly over that period of his life, as one of extrava- gance and dissipation, from which he was first drawn by the attachment for his cousin to which his letter to strahan referred. disappointed in the hopes which that afi'ection had conceived, and his fortune impaired, partly by some years of reckless profusion, and partly by the pecuniary sacrifices at which he had effected his cousin’s marriage with another, he retired to derval court, to live there in solitude and seclusion. on searching for some old title-deeds required for a mort- gage, he chanced upon a collection of manuscripts, much a s'rnaner. near. discolored, and in part eaten away by moth or damp. these, on examination, proved to be the writings of forman. some of them were astrological observations and predictions; some were upon the nature of the cabbala; some upon the invocation of spirits and the magic of the dark ages. all had a certain interest, for they were interspersed with personal remarks, anec- dotes of eminent actors in a very stirring time, and were composed as colloquies, in imitation of erasmus; the second person in the dialogue being sir miles derval, the patron and pupil; the first person being forman, the philosopher and expounder. but along with these shadowy lucubrations were treatises of a more uncommon and a more startling character; discussions on various occult laws of nature, and detailed accounts of analytical experiments. these opened a new, and what seemed to sir philip a prac- v tical, field of inquiry—a true border-land between natural science and imaginative speculation. sir philip- had cultivated philosophical science at the university; he resumed the study, and tested himself the truth of various experiments suggested by forman. some, to his surprise, proved successful-some wholly failed. these lucubrations first tempted the writer of the memoir towards the studies in which the remainder of his life had been consumed. but he spoke of the lucubrations themselves as valuable only where sug- gestive of some truths which forman had accidentally approached, without being aware of their true nature £ a strange wear. and importance. they were debased by absurd puer- ilities, and vitiated by the vain and presumptuous ignorance which characterized the astrology of the middle ages. for these reasons the writer intimated his intention (if he lived to return to england) to destroy forman’s manuscripts, together with sundry other books, and a few commentaries of his own upon studies which had for a while misled him—all now deposited in the safes of the room in which i sat. after some years passed in the retirement of derval court, sir philip was seized with the desire to travel, and the taste he had imbibed for occult studies led him towards those eastern lands in which they took their origin, and still retain their professors. several pages of the manuscript were now occupied with minute statements of the writer‘s earlier disap- pointment in the objects of his singular research. the so-called magicians, accessible to the curiosity of european travellers, were either but ingenious jugglers, or produced effects that perplexed him by practices they had mechanically learned, but of the rationale of which they were as ignorant as himself. it was not till he had resided some considerable time in the east, and acquired a familiar knowledge of its current lan- guages and the social habits of its various populations, that he became acquainted with men in whom he recognized earnest cultivators of the lore which tradition ascribes to the colleges and priesthoods of the ancient world; men generally living remote from others, and a stra nge story. seldom to be bribed by money to exhibit their marvels or divulge their secrets. in his intercourse with these sages, sir philip arrived at the conviction that there does exist an art of magic, distinct from the guile of the conjuror, and applying to certain latent powers and affinities in nature a philosophy akin to that which we receive in our acknowledged schools, inasmuch as it is equally based upon experiment, and produces from definite causes definite results. in support of this startling proposition, sir philip now devoted more than half his volume to the detail of various experiments, to the process and result of which he pledged his guar- antee as the actual operator. as most of these alleged experiments appeared to me wholly incredible, and as all of them were unfamiliar to my practical experience, and could only be verified or falsified by tests that would require no inconsiderable amount of time and care, i passed with little heed over the pages in which they were set forth. i was impatient to arrive at that part of the manuscript which might throw light on the mystery in which my interest was the keenest. what were the links which connected the existence of mar- grave with the history of sir philip derval? thus hurrying on, page after page, i suddenly, towards the end of the volume, came upon a name that arrested all my intention—haroun of aleppo. he who has read the words addressed to me in my trance may well con- ceive the thrill that shot through my heart when i came upon that name, and will readily understand how a strange story. much more vividly my memory retains that part of the manuscript to which i now proceed, than all which had gone before. “it was,” wrote sir philip, “in an obscure suburb of aleppo that i at length met with the wonderful man from whom i have acquired a knowledge immea- surably more profound and occult than that which may be tested in the experiments to which i-have devoted so large a share of this memoir. haroun of aleppo had, indeed, mastered every secret in nature which the nobler or theurgic magic seeks to fathom. “ he had discovered the great principle of animal life, which had hitherto battled the subtlest anatomist; provided only that the great organs were not irreparably destroyed, there was no disease that he could not cure; no decrepitude to which he could not restore vigor; yet his science was based on the same theory as that espoused by the best professional practitioners of medi- cine,—viz., that the true art of healing is to .assist nature to throw off the disease—to summon, as it were, the whole system to eject the enemy that has fastened on a part. and thus his processes, though occasionally varying in the means employed, all combined in this - viz., the reinvigorating-and recruiting of the principle of life.” ' no one knew the birth or origin of haroun; no one knew his age. in outward appearance he was in the strength and prime of mature manhood. but, accord- ing to testimonies in which the writer of the memoir a srsauon near. expressed a belief that, i need scarcely say, appeared to me egregiously credulous, haroun’s existence under the same name, and known by the same repute, could be traced back to more than a hundred years. he told sir philip that he had thrice renewed his own life, and had resolved to do so no more—he had grown weary of living on. with all his gifts, haroun owned him- self to be consumed by a profound melancholy. he complained that there was nothing new to him under the sun; he said that, while he had at his command unlimited wealth, wealth had ceased to bestow enjoy. ment; and he preferred living as simply as a peasant; he had tired out all the afi'ections and all the passions of the human heart; he was in the universe as in a solitude. in a word, haroun would often repeat with mournful solemnity: “ the soul is not meant to inhabit this earth, and in fleshy tabernacle, for more than the period usually assigned to mortals; and when by art in repairing the walls of the body, we so retain it, the soul repines, becomes inert or dejected.” “he only,” said haroun, “would feel continued joy in continued existence who could preserve in perfection the sensual part of man, with such mind or reason as may be inde- pendent of the spiritual essence; but whom soul itself has quittcdl man, in short, as the grandest of the animals, but without the sublime discontent of earth, which is the peculiar attribute of soul.” one evening sir philip was surprised to find at haroun’s house another european. he paused in his a strange s'roay. narrative to describe this man. he said that for three or four years previously he had heard frequent mention, amongst the cultivators of magic, of an orientalized englishman engaged in researches similar to his own, and to whom was ascribed a terrible knowledge in those branches of the art which, even in the east, are condemned as instrumental to evil. sir philip here distinguished at length, as he had so briefly distin- guished in his conversation with me, between the two kinds of magic-that which he alleged to be as pure from sin as any other species of experimental know- ledge, and that by which the agencies of witchcraft are invoked for the purposes of guilt. the englishman, to whom the culture of this latter and darker kind of magic was ascribed, sir philip derval had never hitherto come across. he now met him at the house of haroun; decrepit, emaciated, bowed down with infirmities, and racked with pain. though little more than sixty, his aspect was that of extreme old age, but still on his face there were seen the ruins of a once singular beauty; and still in his mind there was a force that contrasted the decay of the body. sir philip had never met with an intellect more powerful and more corrupt. the son of a notorious usurer, heir to immense wealth, and endowed with the talents which justify ambition, he had entered upon life burdened with the odium of his father’s name. a duel, to which he had been provoked by an ungencrous taunt on his origin, but in which a temperament fiercely a s'rnanos story. vindictive had led him to violate the usages prescribed by the social laws that regulate such encounters, had subjected him to a trial in which he escaped conviction, either by a flaw in the technicalities of legal procedure, or by the compassion of the jury ;* but the moral pre- * the reader will here observe a discrepancy between mrs. poyntz’s account and sir philip derval’s narrative. according to the former, louis grayle was tried in his absence from england, and sentenced to three years’ imprisonment, which his flight enabled him to evade. according to the latter, louis grayle stood his trial, and obtained an acquittal. sir philip's account must, at least, be nearer the truth then the lady’s, because louis grayle could not, according to english law, have been tried on a capital charge without being present in court. mrs. poyntz tells her story as i. woman generally does tell a story—sure to make a mistake where’she touches on a question of law; and—unconsciously perhaps to herself— the woman of the world warps the facts in her narrative so as to save the personal dignity of the hero, who has captivated her interest, not from the moral odium of a great crime, but the debasing position of a prisoner at the bar. allen fenwick, no doubt, purposely omits to notice the discrepancy between these two statements, or to animadvert on the mistake which, in the eyes of a lawyer, would discredit mrs. poyntz’s. it is consistent with some of the objects for which allen fenwick makes public his strange story, to invite the reader to draw his own inferences from the contradictions by which, even in the most commonplace matters (and how much more in any tale of wonder!), a fact stated by one person is made to differ from the same fact stated by another. the rapidity with which a truth becomes trans- formed into'fable, when it is once sent on its travels from lip to lip, is illustrated by an amusement at this moment in fashion. the amusement is this: in a party of eight or ten persons, let one whisper to another an account. of some supposed transaction, or a piece of invented gossip relating to absent persons, dead or alive; let the person, who thus first hears the story, proceed to whisper it, as exactly as he can remember what he has just a strange sroar. snmptions against him were sufiiciently strong to set an indelible brand on his honor, and an insurmountable barrier to the hopes which his early ambition had con- ceived. after this trial he had quitted his country to return to it no more. thenceforth much of his life had been passed out of sight or conjecture of civilized men in remote regions and amongst barbarous tribes. at intervals, however, he had reappeared in european capitals; shunned by and shunning his equals, sur- rounded by parasites, amongst whom were always to be found men of considerable learning, whom avarice or poverty subjected to the influences of his wealth. for the last nine or ten years he had settled in persia, purchased extensive lands, maintained the retinue, and heard, to the next; the next does the same to his neighbor, and so on, till the tale has run the round of the party. each nar- rator, as soon as he has whispered his version of the tale, writes down what he has whispered. and though, in this game, no one has had any interest to misrepresent, but, on the contrary, each for his own credit’s sake strives to repeat what he has heard as faithfully as he can, it will be almost invariably found that the story told by the first person has received the most material alterations before it has reached the eighth or the tenth. some- times, the most important feature of the whole narrative is alto- gether omitted; sometimes, a feature altogether new and pre- posterously absurd has been added. at the close of the experi- ment one is tempted to exclaim: “ how, after this, can any of those portions of history, which the chronicler took from hearsay, be believed " but, above all, does not every anecdote of scandal which has passed, not through ten lips, but perhaps through ten thousand, before it has reached us, become quite as perplexing to him who would get at the truth, as the marvels he recounts are to the bewildered reason of fenwick the sceptioi a sraanen srony. exercised more than the power, of an oriental prince. such was the man who, prematurely worn out; and assured by physicians that he had not six weeks of life, had come to aleppo with the gaudy escort of an eastern satrap, had caused himself to be borne in his litter to the mud hut of haroun the sage, and now called on the magician, in whose art was his last hope, to reprieve him from the—grave. he turned round to sir philip, when the latter entered the room, and exclaimed in english, “i am here because you are. your intimacy with this man was known to me. i took your character as the guar- antee of his own. tell me that i am no credulous dupe. tell him that i, louis grayle, am no needy petitioner. tell me of his wisdom; assure him of my wealth.” sir philip looked inquiringly at haroun, who remained seated on his carpet in profound silence. “ what is it you ask of haroun ?” “ to live on—to live on. for every year of life he can give me, i will load these floors with gold.” “ gold will not tempt haroun.” “ what will i” “ask him yourself; you speak his language.” “ i have asked him; he vouchsafes me no answer.” haroun here suddenly roused himself as from a reverie. he drew from under his robe a small phial, from which he let fall a single drop into a cup of water, and said, “drink this. send to me tomorrow for such a s'raarws s'roar. medicaments as i may prescribe. return hither your- self in three days; not before ” when grayle was gone, sir philip, moved to pity, asked haroun if, indeed, it were within the compass of his art to preserve life in a frame that appeared so thoroughly. exhausted. haroun answered, j‘a fever may so waste the lamp of life that one ruder gust of air could extinguish the flame, yet the sick man recovers. this sick man’s existence has been one long fever; this sick man can recover.” “ you will aid him to do so ?” “ three days hence i will tell you.” on the third day grayle revisited haroun, and, at haroun’s request, sir philip came also. grayle de- clared that he had already derived unspeakable relief from the remedies -administered; he was lavish in expressions of gratitude; pressed large gifts on haroun, and seemed pained when they were refused. this time haroun conversed freely, drawing forth grayle’s own irregular, perverted, stormy, but powerful intellect. i can best convey the general nature of grayle’s . share in the dialogue between himself, haroun, and derval—recorded in the narrative in words which i cannot trust my memory to repeat in detail—by stat- ing the effect it produced on my own mind. it seemed, while i read. as if there passed before me some convul- sion of nature— a storm, an earthquake. outcries of rage, of scorn, of despair; a despot’s vehemence of will; a rebel‘s scofl' at authority. yet, ever and anon, some a smarter story. '! swell of lofty thought, some burst of passionate genius, abrupt variations from the vaunt of superb defiance to the wail of intense remorse. the whole had in it, i know not what, of uncouth but colossal—like the chant, in the old lyrical tragedy of one of those mythical giants, who, proud of descent from night and chaos, had held sway over the ele- ments, while still crude and conflicting, to be crushed under the rocks, upheaved in their struggle, as order and harmony subjected a brightening creation to the milder influences throned in olympus. but it was not till the later passages of the dialogue in which my interest was now absorbed, that the language ascribed to this sinister personage lost a gloomy pathos not the less impressive for the awe with which it was mingled. for, till then, it seemed to me as if in that tempestuous nature there were still broken glimpses of starry light; that a character originally lofty, if irregular and fierce, had been embittered by early and continuous war with the social world, and had, in that war, become maimed . and distorted; that, under happier circumstances, its fiery strength might have been disciplined to good; that even now, where remorse was so evidently poig- nant, evil could not be irredeemably confirmed. at length all the dreary compassion previously in- spired vanished in one unqualified abhorrence. the subjects discussed changed from those which, relating to the common world of men, were within the scope of my reason. haroun led his wild guest to * a srnanor: sroav. boast of his own proficiency in magic, and, despite my incredulity, i could not overcome the shudder with which fictions, however extravagant, that deal with that dark unknown abandoned to the chimeras of poets, will, at night and in solitude, send through the veins of men the least accessible to imaginary terrors. grayle spoke of the power he had exercised through the agency of evil spirits—a power to fascinate and to destroy. he spoke of the aid revealed to him, now too late, which such direful allies could afford, not only to a private revenge, but to a kingly ambition. had he acquired the knowledge he declared himself to possess, before the feebleness of the decaying body made it valueless, how he could have triumphed over that world, which had expelled his youth from its palel he spoke of means by which his influence could work unde- tected on the minds of others, control agencies that could never betray, and bafiie the justice that could never discover. he spoke vaguely of a power by which a spectral reflection of the material body could be cast, like a shadow, to a distance; glide through the walls of a prison, elude the sentinels of a camp-a power that he asserted to be—when enforced by eoncentred will, and acting on the mind, where, in each individual temptation found mind the weakest—almost infallible in its efi‘eet to seduce or to appal. and he closed these and similar boasts of demoniacal arts, which i remem- ber tob obscurely to repeat, with a tumultuous impre- cation on their nothingness to avail against the gripe a s'razmoa sroar. of death. all this lore he would communicate to he- roun, in return for what? a boon shared by the meanest peasant—life, common life; to breathe yet a while the air, feel yet a while the sun. then haroun replied. he said, with a quiet dis. dain, that the dark art to which grayle made such boastful pretence, was the meanest of all abuses of knowledge, rightly abandoned, in all ages, to the vilest natures. and then, suddenly changing his tone, he spoke, so far as i can remember the words assigned to him in the manuscript, to this effect: “fallen and unhappy wretch, and you ask me for prolonged life'l-a prolonged curse to the world and to yourself. shall i employ spells to lengthen the term of the pestilence, or profane the secrets of nature to restore vigor and youth to the failing energies of crime?” grayle, as if stunned by the rebuke, fell on his knees with despairing entreaties that strangely contrasted his previous arrogance. “and it was,” he said, “because' his life had been evil that he dreaded death. if life could be renewed he would repent, he would change; he retracted his vannts, he would forsake the arts he had boasted, he would re-enter the world as its bene- factor.” “so ever the wicked man lies to himself when 'ap- palled by the shadow of death,” answered haroun. “but know, by the remorse which preys on thy soul, that it is not thy soul that addresses this prayer to me. a srsanen s'roar. couldst thou hear, through the storms of the mind, the soul’s melancholy whisper, it would dissuade thee from a wish to live on. while i speak, i behold it, that soon! sad for the stains on its essence, awed by the account it must render, but dreading, as the 'direst calamity, a renewal of years below—darker stains and yet heavier accounts? whatever the sentence it may now undergo, it has a hope for mercy in the remorse which the mind vainly struggles to quell. but darker its doom if longer retained to earth, yoked to the mind that corrupts it, and enslaved to the senses which thou bidst me restore to their tyrannous forces.” and grayle bowed his head and covered his face with his hands in silence and in trembling. then sir philip, seized with compassion, pleaded for him. “at least, could not the soul have longer time on earth for repentance?” and while sir philip was so pleading, grayle fell prostrate in a swoon like that of death. when he recovered, his head was leaning on haroun’s knee, and his opening eyes fixed on the glittering phial which haroun held, and from which his lips had been moistened. “wondrousl” he murmured; “how i feel life flow- ing back to me. and that, then, is the elixir! it is no fable!” his hands stretched greedily, as to seize the phial, and he cried imploringly, “more, more!” haroun replaced the vessel in the folds of his robe, and an ewered: a s'raauoa sroar. “i will not renew thy youth, but i will release thee from bodily sufi'ering: i will leave the mind and the soul free from the pangs of 'the flesh, to reconcile, if yet possible, their long war. my skill may afford thee months yet for repentance; seek, in that interval, to atone for the evil of sixty years; apply thy wealth where it may most compensate for injury done, most relieve the indigent, and most aid the virtuous. listen to thy remorse. hu’mble thyself in prayer.” grayle departed, sighing heavily and muttering to himself. the next day haroun summoned sir philip derval, and said to him: “depart to damascus. in that city the pestilence has appeared. go thither thou, to heal and to save. in this casket are stored the surest antidotes to the poison of the plague. of that essence, undiluted and pure, which tempts to the undue prolongation of soul in the prison of flesh, this casket contains not a drop. i curse not my friend with so mournful a boon. thou hast learned enough of my art to know by what simples the health of the temperate is easily restored to its balance, and their path to the grave smoothed from pain. not more should man covet from nature for the solace and weal of the body. nobler gifts far than aught for the body this casket contains. herein are the essences which quicken the life of those duplicate senses that lie dormant and coiled in their chrysalis web, awaiting the wings of a future development-the v a srsasos srosv. senses by which we can see, though not with the eye, and hear, but not by the ear. herein are the links between man’s mind and nature’s; herein are secrets more precious even than these—those extracts of light which enable the soul to distinguish itself from the mind, and discriminate the spiritual life, not more from life carnal than life intellectual. where thou seest some noble intellect, studious of nature, intent upon truth, yet ignoring the fact that- all animal life has a mind, and man alone on the earth ever asked, and has asked, from the hour his step trod the earth and his eye sought the heaven, ‘have i not a soul;- can it perish i ’—there, such aids to the soul, in the innermost vision vouchsafed to the mind, thou mayest lawfully use. but the treasures contained in this casket are like all which a mortal can win from the mines he explores; - good or ill in their uses as they pass to the hands of the good or the evil. thou wilt never confide them but to those who will not abuse; and even then, thou art an adept too versed in the mysteries of nature not to discriminate between the powers that may serve the good to good ends, and the powers that may tempt the good - where less wise than experience has made thee and me—to the ends that are evil; and not even to thy friend, the most virtuous—if less proof against passion, than thou and i have become—wilt thou confide such contents of the casket as may work on the fancy, to deafen the conscience, and imperil the soul. ” sir philip took the casket, and with it directions for a strange sromx ?. use, which he did not detail. he then spoke to haroun about louis grayle, who had inspired him with a mingled sentiment of admiration and abhorrence; of, pity and terror. and haroun answered thus, repeating the words ascribed to him, so far as i can trust, in regard to them—as to all else in this marvellous nar- rative—t a memory habitually tenacious even in ordinary matters, and strained to the utmost extent of its power, by the strangeness of the ideas presented to it, and the intensity of my personal interest in whatever admitted a ray into that cloud which, gathering fast over my reason, now threatened storm to my afl'ections: “ when the mortal deliberately allies himself to the spirits of evil, he surrenders the citadel of his being to the guard of its enemies; and those who look from without can only dimly guess what passes within the precincts abandoned to powers whose very nature we shrink to contemplate, lest our mere gaze should invite them. this man, whom thou pitiest, is not yet ever- lastingly consigned to the fiends, because his soul still struggles against them. his life has been one long war between his intellect which is mighty and his spirit which is feeble. the intellect, armed and winged by the passions, has besieged and oppressed the soul; but the soul has never ceased to repine and to repent. and at moments it has gained its inherent ascendency, persuaded revenge to drop the prey it had seized, turned‘ the mind astray from hatred and wrath into unwonted paths of charity and love. in the long desert a s'raauen aroma. of guilt there have been green spots and fountains of good. the fiends have occupied the intellect which invoked them, but they have never yet thoroughly mastered the soul which their presence appals. in the struggle that now passes within that breast, amidst the flickers of waning mortality, only allah, whose eye never slumbers, can aid.” haroun then continued, in words yet more strange and yet more deeply graved in my memory: “ there have been men (thou mayst have known such) who, after an illness in which life itself seemed suspended, have arisen, as out of a sleep, with charac- ters wholly changed. before, perhaps gentle and good and truthful, they now become bitter, malignant and false. to the persons and the things they had before loved, they evince repugnance and loathing. some- times this change is so marked and irrational, that their kindred ascribe it to madness. not the madness which affects them in the ordinary business of life, but that which turns into harshness and discord the moral harmony that results from natures whole and complete. but there are dervishes who hold that in that illness, which had for its time the likeness of death, the soul itelf has passed away, and an evil genius has fixed itself into the body and the brain, thus left void of their former tenant, and animates them in the unaccountable change from the past to the present existence. such mysteries have formed no part of my study, and i tell you the conjecture received in the east without hazard- a srnauoa sroav. ing a comment whether of incredulity or belief. but if. in this war between the mind which the fiends have seized, and the soul which implores refuge of allah ; if, while the mind of you traveller now covets life length- ened on earth for the enjoyments it had perverted its faculties to seek and to find in sin, and covets so eagerly that it would shrink from no crime, and revolt from no fiend, that could promise the gift—the soul shudder- ingly implores to be saved from new guilt, and would rather abide by the judgment of allah on the sins that have darkened it, than pass forever irredeemably away to the demons: if this be so, what if the soul’s petition be heard-what if it rise from the ruins around it— what if the ruins be left to the witchcraft that seeks to rebuild them? there, if demons might enter, that which they sought as their prize has escaped them; that which they find would mock them by its own incompleteness even in evil. in vain might animal life the most perfect be given to the machine of the flesh, in vain might the mind, freed from the check of the soul, be leftto roam at will through a brain stored with memories of knowledge and skilled in the command of its faculties; in vain, in addition to all that body and brain bestow on the normal condition of man, might unhallowed reminiscences gather all the arts and the charms of the sorcery by which the fiends tempted the soul, before it fled, through the passions of flesh and the cravings of mind; the thing, thus devoid of a soul, would be an instrument of evil, doubtless, but an a s'raauos s'roar. instrument that of itself could not design, invent, and complete. the demons themselves could have no per- manent hold on the perishable materials. they might enter it for some gloomy end which allah permits in his inscrutable wisdom; but they could leave it no trace when they pass from it, because there is no conscience where soul is wanting. the human animal without soul, but otherwise made felicitously perfect in its mere vital organization, might ravage and destroy, as the tiger and the serpent may destroy and ravage, and, the moment after, would sport in the sunlight harmless and rejoicing, because, like the serpent and the tiger, it is incapable of remorse.” “why startle my wonder,” said derval, “with so fantastic an image ?” “ because, possibly the image may come into palpable form! i know, while i speak to thee, that this miserable man is calling to his aid the evil sorcery over which he boasts his control. to gain the end he desires, he must pass through a crime. sorcery whispers to him how to pass through it, secure from the detection of man. the soul resists, but in resisting, is weak against the tyranny of the mind to which it has submitted so long. ques~ tion me no more. but if i vanish from thine eyes, if thou hear that the death which, to my sorrow and in my foolishness i have failed to recognize as the merci- ful minister of heaven, has removed me at last from the earth, believe that the pale visitant was welcome, and that i humbly accept as blessed release the lot of our common humanity.” a sraason sronr. sir philip went to damascus. there he found the pestilence raging—there he devoted himself to the cure of the afliicted; in no single instance, so at least he declared, did the antidotes stored in the casket fail in their effect. the pestilence had passed, his medica- ments were exhausted, when the news reached him that haroun was no more. the sage had been found, one morning, lifeless in his solitary home, and, accord- ing to popular rumor, marks on his throat betrayed the murderous hand of the strangler. simultaneously, louis grayle had disappeared from the city, and was supposed to have shared the fate of haroun, and been secretly buried by the assassins who had deprived him of life._ sir philip hastened to aleppo. there, he ascertained that on the night in which haroun died, grayle did not disappear alone; with him were also missing two of his numerous suite; the one, an arab woman, named ayesha, who had for some years been his constant companion, his pupil and associate in the mystic practices to which his intellect had been debased, and who was said to have acquired a singular influence over him, partly by her beauty, and partly by the ten- derness with which she had nursed him through his long decline; the other, an indian, specially assigned to her service, of whom all the wild retainers of grayle spoke with detestation and terror. _ he was believed by them to belong to that murderous sect of fanatics whose existence as a community has only recently been made known to europe, and who strangle their unsuspecting a s'raanos story. victim in the firm belief that they thereby propitiate the favor of the goddess they serve. the current opinion at aleppo was, that if those two persons had conspired to murder haroun, perhaps for the sake of the treasures he was said to possess, it was still more certain that they had made away with their own english lord, ‘ whether for the sake of the jewels he were about him, or for the sake of treasures less doubtful than those im- puted to haroun- and of which the hiding-place would to them be much better known. “i did not share that ' opinion,” wrote the narrator; “for i assured myself that ayesha sincerely loved her awful master; and that love need excite no wonder, for louis grayle was one whom, if a woman, and especially a woman of the east, had once loved, before old age and infirmity fell on him, she would love and cherish still more devotedly when it became her task to protect the being who, in his day of power and command, had exalted his slave into the rank of his pupil and companion. and the indian whom grayle had assigned to her service, was allowed to have that brute kind of fidelity which, though it recoils from no crime for a master, refuses all crime against him. “ i came to the conclusion that haroun had been murdered by order of louis grayle—for the sake of the elixir of life—murdered by juma the strangler; and that grayle himself had been aided in his flight from aleppo, and tended, through the effects of the life- giving drug thus murderously obtained, by the womanly love of the arab woman, ayesha. these convictions a sraanen sroar. (since i could not—without being ridiculed as the wildest of dupes—even hint at the vital elixir) i failed to impress on the eastern officials, or even on a coun- tryman of my own whom i chanced to find at aleppo. they only arrived at what seemed the common-sense verdict—viz.: that haroun might have been strangled, or might have died in a fit (the body, little examined, was buried long before i came to aleppo); and that louis grayle was murdered by his own treacherous dependents. but all trace of the fugitives was lost. “and now,” wrote sir philip, “i will state by what means i discovered that louis grayle still lived— changed from age into youth ; a new form, a new being; realizing, i verily believe, the image which haroun’s words had raised up, in what then seemed to me the metaphysics of phantasy; criminal, without conscious- ness of crime; the dreadest of the mere animal race; an incarnation of the blind powers of nature — beauti- ful and joyous, wanton, and terrible, and destroying! such as ancient myths have personified in the idols of oriental creeds; such as nature, of herself, might form man in her moments of favor, if man were wholly the animal, and spirit were no longer the essential distinc- tion between himself and the races to which by superior formation and subtler perceptions he would still be the king. “ but this being is yet more dire and portentous than the mere animal man, for in him are not only the frag- mentary memories of a pristine intelligence which no a srasuen sronv. mind, unaided by the presence of soul, could have ori- ginally compassed, but amidst that intelligence are the secrets of the magic which is learned through the agen- cies of spirits the most hostile to our race. and who shall say whether the fiends do not enter at their will this void and deserted temple whence the soul has departed, and use as their tools, passive and uncon- seious, all the faculties which, skilful in sorcery, still place a mind at the control of their malice? “ it was in the interest excited in me by the strange and terrible fate that befell an armenian family with which i was slightly acquainted, that i first traced, in the creature i am now about to describe, and whose course i devote myself to watch, and trust to bring to a close—the murderer of haroun for the sake of the elixir of youth “ in this armenian family there were three daugh~ ters; one of them —” i had just read thus far when a dim shadow fell over the page, and a cold air seemed to breathe on me. cold - so cold, that my blood halted in my veins as if sud- denly frozen! involuntarin i started, and looked up, sure that some ghastly presence was in the room. and then, on the opposite side of the wall, i beheld an un- substantial likeness of a human form. shadow i call it, but the word is not strictly correct, for it was lumi- nous, though with a pale shine. in some exhibition in london there is shown a curious instance of optical illusion; at the end of a corridor you see, apparently in a strange near. strung light, a. human skull. you are convinced it is there as you approach; it is, however, only a reflec- tion from a skull at a distance. the image before me was less vivid, less seemingly prominent than is the illusion i speak of. i was not deceived. i felt it was a spectrum, a phantasm, but i felt no less surely that it was a reflection from an animate form—the form and the face of margrave; it was there, distinct, unmistak- able. conceiving that he himself must be behind me, i sought to rise, to turn round, to examine. i could not move: limb and muscle were over-mastered by some incomprehensible spell. gradually my senses forsook me, i became unconscious as well as motionless. _ when i recovered, i heard the clock strike three. i must have been nearly two hours insensible; the candles before me were burning low; my eyes rested on the table; the dead man’s manuscript was gone! chapter xl. the dead man’s manuscript was gone. but how? a phantom might delude my eye, a'human will, though exerted at a distance, might, if the tales of mesmerism be true, deprive me of movement and of consciousness; but neither phantom nor mesmeric will could surely remove from the table before me the material substance of the book that had vanished !' ivas i to seek expla- a strange sroar. nation in the arts of sorcery ascribed to louis graylo in the narrative ?— i would not pursue that conjecture. against it my reason rose up half alarmed, half disdain- ful. some one must have entered the room—some one have removed the manuscript. i looked round. the windows were closed, the curtains partly drawn over the shutters, as they were before my conscious ness had left me—all seemed undisturbed. snatching up one of the candles, fast dying out, i went into the adjoining library, the desolate state-rooms, into the entrance-hall, and examined the outer door. barred and locked! the robber had left no vestige of his stealthy presence. i resolved to go at once to strahan’s room and tell him of the loss sustained. a deposit had been confided to me, and i felt as if there were a slur on my honor every moment in which i kept its abstraction concealed from him to whom i was responsible for the trust. i hastily ascended the great staircase, grim with faded portraits, and found myself in a long corridor opening on my own bed-room; no doubt also on strahan’s. which was his? i knew not. i opened rapidly door after door, peered into empty chambers, went blunder- ing on, when, to the right, down a narrow passage, i recognized the signs of my host’s whereabouts—signs familiarly commonplace and vulgar, signs by which the inmate of any chamber in lodging-house or inn makes himself known-a chair before a doorway, clothes negligently thrown on it, beside it a pair of a s'raanez s'roay. shoes. and so ludicrous did such testimony of com- mon every-day life, of the habits which strahan would necessarily have contracted in his desultory, unluxurious bachelor’s existence - so ludicrous, i say, did these homely details seem to me, so grotesquely at variance with the wonders of which i had been reading, with the wonders yet more incredible of which i myself had been witness and victim, that, as i turned down the passage, i heard my own unconscious, half-hysterical laugh ; and, startled by the sound of that laugh as if it came from some one else, i paused, my hand on the door, and asked myself: “ do i dream? am i awake? and if awake, what am i to say to the commonplace mor— tal i am about to reuse? speak to him of a phantom! speak to him of some weird spell over this strong frame speak to him of a mystic trance in which has been stolen what he confided to me, without my knowledge! what will he say? what should i have said a few days ago to any man who told such a tale to me i” i did not wait to resolve these questions. i entered the room. there was strahan sound asleep on his bed. i shook him roughly. he started up, rubbed his eyes-“you, allen —you f what the deuce? — what’s the matter?” “ strahan, i have been robbed l -— robbed of the manu- script you lent me. i could not rest till i had told you.” “ robbed, robbed! are you serious ” by this time strahan had thrown ' the bed-clothes, and sat upright, staring at me. and then those questions which my mind had sug~ a sraanos sroay. gested while i was standing at his door' repeated the.m- selves with double force. tell this man, this unimagi- native, hard-headed, raw-boned, sandy-haired north- countryman—tell this man a story which the most credulous school-girl would have rejected as a fable! impossible. “i fell asleep,” said i, coloring and stammering, for the slightest deviation from truth was painful to me, “and—and—when i woke— the manuscript was gone. some one must have entered, and committed the theft —” “some one entered the house at this hour of the night, and then only stolen a manuscript which could be of no value to him? absurd! if thieves have come in, it must be for other objects—for plate, for money. i will dress; we will see i” strahan hurried on his clothes, muttering to himself, and avoiding my eye. he was embarrassed. he did not like to say to an old friend what was on his mind, but i saw at once that he suspected i had resolved to deprive him of the manuscript, and had invented a wild tale in order to conceal my own dishonesty. nevertheless he proceeded to search the house. i followed him in silence, oppressed with my own thoughts, and longing for solitude in my own chamber. we found no one, no trace of any one, nothing to excite suspicion. there were but two female servants sleeping in the house—the old housekeeper, and a country girl who assisted her. it was not possible to suspect either of a a s'rnanea sroar. these persons, but in the course of our search we opened the door of their rooms. we saw that they were both in bed, both seemingly asleep; it seemed idle to wake and question them. when the formality of our futile investigation was concluded, strahan stopped at the door of my bedroom, and for the first time fixing his eyes on me steadily, said: “allen fenwick, i would have given half the fortune i have come into rather than this had happened. the manuscript, as you know, was bequeathed to me as a sacred trust by a benefactor whose slightest wish it is my duty to obserye religiously. if it contained aught valuable to a man of your knowledge and profession— why, you were free to use its contents. let me hope, allen, that the book will reappear to-morrow.” he said no more, drew himself away from the hand i involuntarily extended, and walked quickly back towards his own room. alone once more, i sank on a seat, buried my face in my hands, and strove in vain to collect into some defi- nite shape my own tumultuous and disordered thoughts. could i attach serious credit to the marvellous narra- tive i had read? were there, indeed, such powers given to man? such influences latent in the calm routine of nature? i could not believe it; i must have some morbid affection of the brain; i must be under an hallu- cination. hallucination? the phantom, yes—the trance, yes. bht still, how came the book gone ? that, at least, was not hallucination a strange btoby. i left my room the next morning with a vague hope that i should find the manuscript somewhere in the study; that, in my own trance, i might have secreted it, as sleep-walkers are said to secrete things, without remembrance of their acts in their waking state. i searched minutely in every conceivable place. strahan found me still employed in that hopeless task. he had breakfasted in his own room, and it was past eleven o’clock when he joined me. his manner was new hard, cold, and distant, and his suspicion so bluntly shown, that my distress gave way to resentment. “ is it possible,” i cried indignantly, “that you who have known me so well can suspect me of an act so base, and so gratuitously base ? purloin, conceal a book confided to me, with full power to copy from it what ever i might desire, use its contents in any way that might seem to me serviceable to science, or useful to me in my own calling!” “i have not accused you,” answered strahan, sul- lenly. “ but what are we to say to mr. jeeves, to all others who know that this manuscript existed? will they believe what you tell me ?” “ mr. jeeves,” i said, “ cannot suspect a fellow towns- man, whose character is as high as mine, of untruth and theft. and to whom else have you communicated the facts connected with a memoir and a request of so extraordinary a nature f” “ to young margrave; i told you so i” “ true, true. we need go no further to find the thief a sraanos story. '! margrave has been in the house more than once. he knows the position of the rooms. you have named the robber!” “ tutl what on earth could a gay young fellow like margrave want with a work of such dry and recon- - dite nature as i presume my poor kinsman’s memoir must be f” ' i was about to answer, when the door was abruptly opened, and the servant girl entered, followed by two men, in whom i recognized the superintendent of the l police and the same subordinate who had found me by sir philip’s corpse. the superintendent came up to me with a grave face, and whispered in my ear. i did not at first comprehend him. “come with you,” i said, “and to mr. vigors, the magistrate? i thought my deposition was closed.” the superintendent shook his head. “i have the authority here, dr. fenwiek.” “well, i will come of course. has anything new transpired f” _ the superintendent turned'to the servant girl, who was standing with gaping mouth and staring eyes. “ show us dr. fenwick’s room. you had better put up, sir, whatever things you have brought here. i will go upstairs with you,” he whispered again. “come, dr. fenwick, i am in the discharge of my duty.” something in the man’s manner was so sinister and menacing that i felt at once, that some new and strange calamity had befallen me. i turned towards strahan w a strange s'ronv. he was at the threshold, speaking in a low voice to the subordinate policeman, and there was an expression of amazement and horror in his countenance. as i came towards him he darted away without a word. i went up the stairs, entered my bedroom, the super- intendent close behind me. as i took up mechanically the few things i had brought with me, the police-oflicer drew them from me with an abruptness that appeared insolent, and deliberately searched the pockets of the coat which i had worn the evening before, then opened the drawers of the room, and even pried into the bed. “what do you mean f” i asked, haiightily. “ excuse me, sir. duty. you are --” “well, i am what?” “my prisoner; here is the warrant." “warrant! on what charge?” “ the murder of sir philip derval.” “ i - i murder ” i could say no more. i must hurry over this awful passage in my marvel- lous record. it is torture to dwell on the details, and indeed i have so sought to chase them from my recol- lection, that they only come back to me in hideous fragments, like the incoherent remains of a horrible dream. all that i need state is as follows: early on the very morning on which i had been arrested, a man, a stran- ger in the town, had privately sought mr. vigors, and deposed that on the night of the murder, he had been taking refuge from a sudden storm under shelter of the a strange sroar. eaves and buttresses of a wall adjoining an old archway; that he had heard men talking within the archway; had heard one say to the other, “ you still hear me a grudge.” the other had replied, “ i can forgive you on one condition.” that he then lost much of the conver- sation that ensued, which was in a lower voice; but he gathered enough to know that the condition demanded by the one was the possession of a casket which the other carried about with him. that there seemed an altercation on this matter between the two men, which, to judge by the tones of voice, was angry on the part of the man demanding the casket; that, finally, this man said in a loud key, “ do you still refuse ?” and on receiving the answer which the witness did not over- hear, exclaimed threateningly, “ it is you who will repent;” and then stepped forth from the arch into the street. the rain had then ceased, but by a broad flash of lightning the witness saw distinctly the figure of the person thus quitting the shelter of the arch ; a man of tall stature, powerful frame, erect carriage. a little time afterwards, witness saw a slighter and older man come forth from the arch, whom he could only examine by the flickering ray of the gas-lamp near the wall, the lightning having ceased, but whom be fully believed to be the person he afterwards discovered to be sir philip derval. he said that he himself had only arrived at the town a few hours before; a stranger to l , and indeed to england; having come from the united states of a sraanoa sroar. america, where he had passed his life from childhood. he had journeyed on foot to l—-, in the hope of finding there some distant relatives. he had put up at a small inn, after which he had strolled through the town, when the storm had driven him to seek shelter. he had then failed to find his way back to the inn, and after wandering about in vain, and seeing no one at that late hour of night of whom he could ask the way' he had crept under a portico and slept for two or three hours., waking towards the dawn, he had then got up and again sought to find his way to the inn, when he saw, in a narrow street before him, two men, one of whom he recognized as the taller of the two, to whose conversation he had listened under the arch, the other he did not recognize at the moment. the taller man seemed angry and agitated, and he heard him say, “the casket; i will have it.” there then seemed to be a struggle between these two persons, when the taller one struck down the shorter, knelt on his breast, and he caught distinctly the gleam of some steel instru- ment. that he was so frightened that he could not stir from the place, and that though he cried out, he believed his voice was not heard. he then saw the taller man rise, the other resting on the pavement motionless; and a minute or so afterwards beheld police men coming to the place, on which he, the witness, walked away. he did not know that a murder had been committed; it might be only an assault; it was no business of his, he was a stranger. he thought it best a sraason s'roav. not to interfere, the police having cognizance of the afi'air. he found out his inn; for the next few days he was absent from l———, in search of his relations, who had left the town, many years ago, to fix their residence in one of the neighboring villages. he was, however, disappointed, none of these rela- tions now survived. he had now returned to l—, heard of the murder, was in doubt what to do, might got himself into trouble if, a mere stranger, he gave an unsupported testimony. but, on the day before the evidence was volunteered, as he was lounging in the streets, he had seen a gentleman pass by on horseback, in whom he immediately recognized the man who, in his belief, was the murderer of sir philip derval. he inquired of a bystander the name of the gentleman, the answer was “dr._ fenwick.” that, the rest of the day, he felt much disturbed in his mind, not liking to volunteer such a charge against a man of apparent respectability and station. but that his conscience would not let him sleep that night, and he had resolved at morning to go to the magistrate and make a clean breast of it. the story was in itself so improbable that any other magistrate but mr. vigors would perhaps have dis- missed it in contempt. but mr. vigors, already so bitterly prejudiced against me, and not sorry, perhaps, to subject me to'the humiliation of so horrible a charge, immediately issued his warrant to search my house. i was absent at derval court; the house was searched * a s'raauen sronv. \ in the bureau in my favorite study, which was left unlocked, the steel casket was discovered, and a large case-knife, on the blade of which the stains of blood were still perceptible. on this discovery i was appre- hended, and on these evidences, and on the deposition of this vagrant stranger, i was, not indeed committed to take my trial for murder, but placed in confinement; all bail for my appearance refused, and the examination adjourned to give time for further evidence and inqui~ ries. i had requested the professional aid of mr. jeeves. to my surprise and dismay mr. jeeves begged me to excuse him. he said he was pro-engaged by mr. strahan to detect and prosecute the murderer of sir p. derval, and could not assist one accused of the murder. i gathered from the little he said that strahan had already been to him that morning and told him of the missing manuscript—that strahan had ceased to be my friend. i engaged another solicitor, a young man of ability, and who professed personal esteem for me. mr. stanton (such was the lawyer’s name) believed in my innocence; but he warned me that appearances were grave, he implored me to be perfectly frank with him. “ had i held conversation with sir philip under the archway as reported by the witness? had i used such or similar words? had the deceased said, “ i had a grudge against him ?” had i demanded the casket? had i threatened sir philip that he would repent? and of what? his refusal? “ what was the reason of the grudge? what was a sraasos story. ‘) the nature of this casket, that i should so desire its possession ? ” there, i became terribly embarrassed. what could i say to a keen, sensible, worldly man of law? tell him of the powder and the fumes, of the scene in the museum, of sir philip’s tale, of the implied identity of the youthful margrave with the aged grayle, of the elixir of life, and of magic arts? i—i tell such a romance! i the noted adversary of all pretended mysticism. — a sceptical practitioner of medicine! had that manuscript of sir philip’s been available- a substantial record of marvellous events by a man of repute for intellect and learning—i might, perhaps, have ventured to startle the solicitor of l—— with my revelations. but the sole proof that all which the solicitor urged me to confide was not a monstrous fiction or an insane delusion had disappeared; and its disap- pearance was a part of the terrible mystery that envel- oped the whole. i answered, therefore, as composedly as i could, that “ i could have no serious grudge against sir philip, whom i had never seen before that evening; that the words, which applied to my supposed grudge were lightly said by sir philip, in reference to a physio- logical dispute on matters connected with mesmerical phenomena; that the deceased had declared his casket, which he had shown me at the mayor’s house, contained drugs of great potency in medicine; that i had asked permission to test these drugs myself; and that when i said he would repent of his refusal, i merely meant a strange sroar. that he would repent of his reliance on drugs not was ranted by the experiments of professional science. my replies seemed to satisfy the lawyer so far, but “how could i account for the casket and the knife being found in my room? ” . “ in no way but this: the window of my study is a door-window opening on the lane, from which any one might enter the room. i was in the habit, not only of going out myself that way, but of admitting through that door any more familiar private acquaintance.” “ whom, for instance? ” i hesitated a moment, and then said, with a signifi- cance i could not forbear, “ mr. margravel he would know the locale perfectly; he would know that the door was rarely bolted from within during the day- time; he could enter‘at all hours; he could place, or instruct any one to deposit the knife and casket in my bureau, which he knew i never kept locked; it con- tained no secrets, no private correspondence—chiefly surgical implements, or such things as i might want for professional experiments.” “mr. margravei but you cannot suspect him—a lively, charming young man, against whose character not a whisper was ever heard—of connivance with such a charge against you; a connivance that would implicate him in the murder itself, for if you are \ accused wrongfully, he who accuses you is either the criminal or the criminal’s accomplice; his'instigator or his tool.” a sraauea sronv. ': “ mr. stanton,” i said firmly, after a moment’s pause, “i do suspect mr. margrave of a hand in this crime. sir philip, on seeing him at the mayor’s house, ex- pressed a strong abhorrence of him, more than hinted at crimes he had committed; appointed me to come to derval court the day after that on which the murder was committed. sir philip had known something of this margrave in the east—margrave might dread ex- posure, revelations—of what i know not; but, strange as it may seem to you, it is my conviction that this young man, apparently so gay and so thoughtless, is the real criminal, and in some way, which i cannot conjecture, has employed this lying vagabond in the fabrication of a charge against myself. reflect: of mr. margrave’s antecedents we know nothing; of them nothing was known even by the young gentleman who first introduced him to the society of this town. if you would serve and save me, it is to that quarter that you will direct your vigilant and unrelaxing researches.” i had scarcely so said when i repented my candor, for i observed in the face of mr. stanton a sudden revulsion of feeling, an utter incredulity of the accusa tion i had thus hazarded, and for the first time a doubt of my own innocence. the fascination exercised by margrave was universal; nor was it to be wondered at; for, besides the charm of his joyous presence, he seemed so singularly free from even the errors common enough with the young. so gay and been a companion, ' yet a shunner of wine; so dazzling in aspect, so more a strange s'roar than beautiful, so courted, so idolized by women, yet no tale of seduction, of profligacy, attached to his name! as to his antecedents, he had so frankly owned himself a natural son, a nobody, a traveller, an idler; his ex- penses, though lavish, were so unostentatious, so regu- larly defrayed. he was so wholly the reverse of the character assigned to criminals, that it seemed as absurd to bring a charge of homicide against a butterfly or a goldfinch as against this seemingly innocent and delight- ful favorite of humanity and nature. however, mr. stanton said little or nothing, and shortly afterwards left me, with a dry expression of hope that my innocence would be cleared in spite of evidence that, he was bound to say, was of the most serious character. i was exhausted. i fell into a profound sleep early that night; it might be a little after twelve when i woke, and woke as fully, as completely, as much restored to life and consciousness, as it was then my habit to be at the break of day. and, so waking, i saw, on the wall opposite my bed, the same luminous phantom i had seen in the wizard’s study at derval court. i have read in scandinavian legends of an apparition called the scin-lrsca, or shining corpse. it is supposed, in the northern superstition, sometimes to haunt sepulchres, sometimes to foretell doom. it is the spectre of a human body seen in a phosphoric light, and so exactly did this phantom correspond to the descrip- tion of such an apparition in scandinavian fable that i a strange story. '] know not how to give it a better name than that of scin-lteca — the shining corpse. there it was before me, corpse-like, yet not dead; there, as in the haunted study of the wizard formanl - —-the form and the face of margrave. constitutionally, my nerves are strong, and my temper hardy, and now i was resolved to battle against any impression which my senses might receive from my own deluding fancies. things that witnessed for the first time daunt us, witnessed for the second time lose their terror. i rose from my bed with a bold aspect, i_ approached the phantom with a firm step; but when within two paces of it, and my hand outstretched to touch it, my arm became fixed in air, my feet locked to the ground. i did not experience fear; i felt that my heart beat regu- larly, but an invincible something opposed itself to me. i stood as if turned to stone, and then from the lips of this phantom there came a voice, but a voice which seemed borne from a. great distance—very low, muffled, and yet distinct; i could not even be sure that my ear heard it, or whether the sound was not conveyed to me by an inner sense. “i, and i alone, can save and deliver you,” said the voice. “i will do so; and the conditions i ask, in return, are simpleand easy.” “fiend or spectre, or mere delusion of my own brain,” cried i, “there can be no compactbetween thee and me. i despise thy malice, i reject thy services; i accept no conditions to escape from the one or to obtain the other ” a sraason sroar. “my good sir, why these unjust prepossessions against a true friend? it was as your friend that, as soon as the charge against you amazed and shocked the town of l-—-, mr. margrave called on mrs. ashleigh —presented to her by miss brabazon—and was so cheering and hopeful that —” “ enough l ” i exclaimed—“enough!” i paced the room in a state of excitement and rage, which the lawyer in vain endeavored to calm, until at length i halted abruptly; “well—and you saw miss ashleigh? what message does she send to me— her betrothed ?" mr. stanton looked confused. “ message! consider, sir — miss ashleigh’s situation _ the delicacy -— and — and—” “i understand! no message, no word, from a young lady so respectable to a man accused of murder.” mr. stanton was silent for some moments; and then said quietly, “ let as change this subject; let us think of what more immediately presses. i see you have been making notes; may i look at them?” i composed myself and sat down. “ this accuser! have inquiries really been made as to himself, and his statement of his own proceedings? he comes, he says, from america—in what ship? at what port did he land? is there any evidence to corroborate his story of the relations he tried to discover—of the inn at which he first put up, and to which he could not find his way?” a s'raanen s'roar. “your suggestions are sensible, dr. fenwick. i have forestalled them. it is true that the man lodged at a small inn -the rising sun—true that he made inquiries about some relations of the name of walls, who formerly resided at l—, and afterwards removed to a village ten miles distant—two brothers—trades- men of small means but respectable character. he at first refused to say at what sea-port he landed, in what ship he sailed. i suspect that he has now told a false- hood as to these matters. i have sent my clerk to southampton—for it is there he said that he was put on shore; we shall see—the man himself is detained in close custody. i hear that his manner is strange and excitable; but that he preserves silence as much as possible. it is generally believed that he is a bad char- acter, perhaps a returned convict, and that this is the true reason why he so long delayed giving evidence, and has been since so reluctant to account for himself. but even if his testimony should be impugned, should break down, still we should have to account for the fact that the casket and the case-knife were found in your bureau. for, granting that a person could, in your absence, have entered your study and placed the articles in your bureau, it is clear that such a person must have beep well acquainted with your house, and this stranger to l-_—- could not have possessed that knowledge.” “of course not-mr. margrave did possess it!” “ mr. margrave again l—oh, sir.” a summon story. ] i arose and moved away, with an impatiei l gesture. i could not trust myself to speak. that nigh i did not sleep; i watched impatiently, gazing on th opposite wall, for the gleam of the scin-laeca. but the night passed away, and the spectre did not appear chapter xli. the lawyer came the next day, and with something like a smile on his countenance. he brougl. t me a few lines in pencil from mrs ashleigh; they were kindly expressed, bade me be of good cheer; “she nevei for a moment believed in my guilt; lilian bore up wonder- fully under so terrible a trial; it was an unspeakable comfort to both to receive the visits of a friend so attached to me, and so confident of a triumphant refu- tation of the hideous calumny under which i now sufl fered, as mr. mai-grave l " the lawyer had seen margrave again—seen him in that house. margrave seemed-almost domiciled there! i remained sullen and taciturn during this visit. longed again for the night. night came. i heard the distant clock strike twelve, when again the icy wind passed through my hair, and against the wall stood the luminous shadow. a s'rnauun sroay. “ have you considered ?” whispered the voice, still. al from afar. “ i repeat it—i alone can save you.” “ is it among the conditions which you ask, in return, that-i shall resign to you the woman i love ?” h no." “is it one of the conditions that i should commit some crime— a crime perhaps heinous as that of which i am accused ?” l h no)? \ “with such reservations, i accept the conditions you may name, provided i, in my turn, may demand one condition from yourself.” “ name it." “ i ask you to quit this town. i ask you, meanwhile, to cease your visits to the house that holds the woman betrothed to me.” “i will cease these visits. and before many days are over, i will quit this town.” “now, then, say what you ask from me. i am pre- pared to concede it. and not from fear for myself, but because i fear for the pure and innocent being who is under the spell of your deadly fascination. this is your power over me. you command me through my love for another. spea .” “my conditions are simple. you will pledge your- self to desist from all charges of insinuation against myself, of what nature soever. you will not, when you meet me in the flesh, refer to what you have known of my likeness in the shadow. you will be invited to the a era/men sroar. house at which i may be also a guest; you will come; you will meet and converse with me as guest speaks with guest in the house of a host.” “is that all f” “it is all.” “ then i pledge you my faith; keep your own.” “ fear not; sleep secure in the certainty that you will soon be released from these walls.” the shadow waned and faded. darkness settled back, and a sleep, profound and calm, fell over me. the next day mr. stanton again visited me. he had received that morning a note from mr. margrave, stating that he had left l to pursue, in person, an invea tigation which he had already commenced through another, affecting the man who had given evidence against me, and that, if his hope should prove well founded, be trusted to establish my innocence, and con- vict the real murderer of sir philip derval. in the research he thus volunteered, he had asked for, and obtained, the assistance of the policeman waby, who, grateful to me for saving the life of his sister, had expressed a strong desire to be employed in my service. meanwhile, my most cruel assailant was my old col- lege friend, richard strahan. for jeeves had spread abroad strahan’s charge of purloining the memoir which had been intrusted to me; and that accusation had done me great injury in public opinion, because it seemed to give probability to the only motive which ingenuity * x a srssnas sroav. could ascribe to the foul deed imputed to me. that motive had been first suggested by mr. vigors. cases are on record of men whose life had been previously blameless, who have committed a crime, which seemed to belie their nature, in the monomania of some intense desire. in spain, a scholar reputed of austere morals, murdered and robbed a traveller for money in order to purchase books; books written, too, by fathers of his church! he was intent on solving some problem of theological casuistry. in france, an antiquary esteemed not more for his learning, than for amiable and gentle qualities, murdered his most intimate friend for the pos- session of a medal, without which his own collection was incomplete. these, and similar anecdotes, tending to prove how fatally any vehement desire, morbidly cherished, may suspend the normal operations of reason and conscience, were whispered about by dr. lloyd’s vindictive partisan, and the inference drawn from them and applied to the assumption against myself, was the more credulously received, because of that over-refining speculation on motive and act which the shallow accept, in their eagerness to show how readily they understand the profound. i was known to be fond of scientific, especially of chemical, experiments; to be eager in testing the truth of any novel invention. strahan catching hold of the magistrate’s fantastic hypothesis, went about repeating anecdotes of the absorbing passion for analysis and discovery which had characterized me in youth as a a sraanos near. medical student, and to which, indeed, i owed the pre- cocious reputation i had obtained. sir philip derval, according not only to report, but to the direct testimony of his servant, had acquired in the course of his travels many secrets in natural science, especially as connected with the healing art-his ser- vant had deposed to the remarkable cures he had efi'ected by the medicinals stored in the stolen casket-doubt- less sir philip, in boasting of these medicinals in the course of our conversation, had excited my curiosity, inflamed my imagination, and thus, when i afterwards suddenly met him in a lone spot, a passionate impulse had acted on a brain heated into madness by curiosity and covetous desire. all these suppositions, reduced into system, were corroborated by strahan’s charge that i had made away with the manuscript supposed to contain the explana- tions of the medical agencies employed by sir philip, and had sought to shelter my theft by a tale so impro- bable, that a man of my reputed talent could not have hazarded it if in his sound senses. i saw the web, that had thus been spread around me by hostile prepos- sessions and ignorant gossip; how could the arts of margrave scatter that web to the winds? i know not, but i felt confidence in his promise and his power. still, so great had been my alarm for lilian, that the hope of clearing my own innocence was almost lost in my joy that margrave, at least, was no longer in her presence, and that i had received his pledge to quit the town in which she lived a sraanen s'ronv. thus, hours rolled on hours, till, i think, on the third day from that night in which i had last beheld the mys- terious shadow, my door was hastily thrown open, a confused crowd presented itself at the threshold— the governor of the prison, the police superintendent, mr. stanton, and other familiar faces shut out from me since my imprisonment. i knew at the first glance that i was no longer an outlaw beyond the pale of human friendship. and proudly, sternly, as i had supported myself hitherto in solitude and suspense, when i felt warm hands grasping mine, heard joyous voices prof- fering' congratulations, saw in the eyes of all that my innocence had been cleared, the revulsion of emotion was too strong for me -the room reeled on my sight— i fainted. i pass, as quickly as i can, over the expla- nations that crowded on me when i recovered, and that were publicly given in evidence in court next morning. i had owed all to margrave. it seems that he had construed to my favor the very supposition which had been bruited abroad to my prejudice. “ for,” said he, “ it is conjectured that fenwick committed the crime of which he is accused in the impulse of a disordered rea- son. that conjecture is based upon the probability that a madman alone could have committed a crime without adequate motive. but it seems quite clear that the accused is not mad; and i- see cause to suspect that the accuser is.” grounding this assumption on the current reports of the witness’s manner and bearing since he had been placed under oflicial surveillance, margrave a sraanon sroax. had commissioned the policeman, waby, to make inqui~ ries in the village to which the accuser had asserted he had gone in quest of his relations, and waby had there found persons who remembered to have heard that the two brothers named walls lived less by the gains of the petty shop which they kept than by the proceeds of some property consigned to them as the nearest of kin to a lunatic who had once been tried for his life. margrave had then examined the advertisements in the daily newspapers. one of them, warning the public against a dangerous maniac, who had effected his escape from an asylum in the west of england, caught his attention. to that asylum he had repaired. there he learned that the patient advertised was one whose propensity was homicide, consigned for life to the asylum on account of a murder, for which he had been tried. the description of this person exactly tallied with that of the pretended american. the medical superintendent of the asylum hearing all particulars from margrave, expressed a strong persuasion that the witness was his missing patient, and had himself com- mitted the crime of which he had accused another. if so, the superintendent undertook to coax from him the full confession of all the circumstances. like many other madmen, and not least those whose propensity is to crime, the fugitive maniac was exceedingly cunning, treacherous, secret, and habituated to trick and strata- gem. more subtle than even the astute in possession of all their faculties, whether to achieve his purpose or a s'raauon s'ronr. to conceal it, and fabricate appearances against another but while, in ordinary conversation, he seemed rational enough to those who were not accustomed to study him, he had one hallucination which, when humored, led him always, not only to betray himself, but to glory in any crime proposed or committed. he was under the belief that he had made a bargain with satan, who, in return for implicit obedience, would bear him harmless through all the consequences of such submission, and finally raise him to great power and authority. it is no unfre- quent illusion-of homicidal maniacs to suppose they are under the influence of the evil one, or possessed by a demon. murderers have assigned as the only reason they themselves could give for the crime, that “the devil got into them,” and urged the deed. but the insane have, perhaps, no attribute more in common than that of superweening self-esteem. the maniac who has been removed from a garret sticks straws in his hair and calls them a crown. so much does inordi- nate arrogance characterize mental aberration, that, in the course of my own practice, i have detected, in that infirmity, the certain symptom of insanity, long before .he brain had made its disease manifest even to the most familiar kindred. morbid self-esteem accordingly pervaded the dreadful illusion by which the man i now speak of was possessed. he was proud to be the protected agent of the fallen angel. and if that self-esteem were artfully appealed to, he would exult superbly in the evil he held himself a sraanea s'roar. !) ordered to perform, as if a special prerogative, an official rank and privilege; then, he would be led on to boast gleefully of thoughts which the most cynical of crimi- nals, in whom intelligence was not ruined, would shrink from owning. then, he would reveal himself in all his deformity with as complacent and frank a self-glorying as some vain good man displays in parading his amiable sentiments and his beneficent deeds. “if,” said the superintendent, “ this be the patient who has escaped from me, and if his propensity to homicide has been, in some way, directed towards the person who has been murdered, i shall not be with him a quarter of an hour before he will inform me how it happened, and detail the arts be employed in shifting his crime upon another—all will be told as minutely as a child tells the tale of some school-boy exploit, in which he counts on your sympathy, and feels sure of your applause.” margrave brought this gentleman back to l—--, took him to the mayor, who was one of my warmest supporters; the mayor had suflicient influence to dictate and arrange the. rest. the superintendent was intro- duced to the room in which the pretended american was lodged. at his own desire a select number of witnesses were admitted with him-margrave excused himself; he said candidly that he was too intimate a friend of mine to be an impartial listener to aught that concerned me so nearly. the superintendent proved right in his suspicions, a sraauos s'roar. and verified his promises. my false accuser was his missing patient; the man recognized dr. * * * with no apparent terror, rather with an air of condescension, andin a very few minutes was led to tell his own tale, with a gloating complacency both at the agency by which he deemed himself exalted, and at the dexterous cunning with which he had acquitted himself of the task, that increased the horror of his narrative. he spoke of the mode of his escape, which was ex tremely ingenious, but of which the details, long in themselves, did not interest me, and i understood them too imperfectly to repeat. he had encountered a sea- faring traveller on the road, whom he had knocked down with a stone, and robbed of his glazed hat and pea-jacket, as well as of a small sum in coin, which last enabled him to pay his fare in a railway that conveyed him eighty miles away from the asylum. some trifling remnant of this money still in his pocket, he then travelled on foot along the high road till he came to a town about twenty miles distant from l——-; there he had stayed a day or two, and there he said “that the devil had told him to buy a case-knife, which he did.” “he knew by that order that the devil meant him to do something great.” “his master,” as he called the fiend, then directed him the read he should take. he ,put up, as he had correctly stated he- came to l fore, at a small inn, wandered at night about the town was surprised by the sudden storm, took shelter under the convent arch, overheard somewhat more of my a strange sroav. conversation with sir philip than he had previously deposed—heard enough to excite his curiosity as to the casket: “ while he listened his master told him that he must get possession of that casket.” sir philip had quitted the archway almost immediately after i had done so, and he would then have attacked him if he had not caught sight of a policeman going his rounds. he had followed sir philip to a house (mr. jeeves’s). “ his master told him to wait and watch.” he did so. when sir philip came forth, towards the dawn, he followed him, saw him enter a narrow street, came up to him, seized him by the arm, demanded all he had about him. sir philip tried to shake him — struck at him. what follows, i spare the reader. the deed was done. he robbed the dead man, both of the casket and of the purse that he found in the pockets; had scarcely done so when he heard footsteps. he had just time to get behind the portico of a detached house at angles with the street, when i came up. he witnessed, from his hiding—place, the brief conference between my- self and the policemen, and when they moved on, bear- ing the body, stole unobserved away. he was going back towards the inn, when it occurred to him that it would be safer if the casket and purse were not about his person ; that he asked his master to direct him how to dispose of them; that his master guided him to an open yard (a stone-mason’s) at a very little distance from the inn; that in this yard there stood an old wych-elm tree, from the gnarled roots of which the a sraanen srony. earth was worn away, leaving chinks and hollows, in one of which he placed the casket and purse, taking from the latter only two sovereigns and some silver, and then heaping loose mould over the hiding place. that he then repaired to his inn, and left it late in the morning, on the pretence of seeking for his relations— persons, indeed, who really had been related to him, but of whose death years ago he was aware. he re- turned to l_- a few days afterwards, and, in the dead of the night, went to take up the casket and the money. he found the purse with its contents undisturbed; but the lid of the casket was unclosed. from the hasty glance he had taken of it before burying it, it had seemed to him firmly locked—he was alarmed, lest some one had been to the spot. but his master whispered to him never to mind, told him that he might now take the casket, and would be guided what to do with it; that he did so, and, opening the lid, found the casket empty; that he took the rest of the money out of the purse, but that he did not take the purse itself, for it had a crest and initials on it, which might lead to the discovery of what had been done; that he therefore left it in the hollow amongst the roots, heaping the mould over it as before; that, in the course of the day, he heard the people at the inn talk of the murder, and that his own first impulse was to get out of the town immediately, but that his master made him too wise for that, and bade him stay; that pass- ing through the streets, he saw me come out of the a sraauon sronr. sash-window door, go to the stable yard on the other side of the house, mount on horseback and ride away; that he observed the sash-door was left partially open ; that he walked by it and saw the room empty; there was only a dead wall opposite; the place was solitary, unobserved; that his master directed him to lift up the sash gently, enter the room, and deposit the knife and the casket in a large walnut-tree bureau which stood unlocked near the window. all that followed—his visit to mr. vigors, his accusation against myself_ his whole tale-was, he said, dictated by his master, who was highly pleased with him, and promised to bring him safely through. and here he turned round with a hideous smile, as if for approbation of his notable cleverness and respect for his high employ. mr. j eevss had the curiosity to request the keeper to inquire how, in what form, or in what manner, the fiend appeared to the narrator, or conveyed his infer- nal dictates. the man at first refused to say; but it was gradually drawn from him that the demon had no certain and invariable form; sometimes it appeared to him in the form of a rat; sometimes even of a leaf; or a fragment of wood, or a rusty nail; but, that his mas ter’s voice always' came to him distinctly, whatever shape he appeared in; only, he said, with an air of great importance, his master, this time, had graciously conde- scended, ever since he left the asylum, to communicate with him in a much more pleasing and imposing aspect than he had ever done before-in the form of a beauti- a s'raanon s'roav. ful youth, or, rather, like a bright rose-colored shadow, in which the features of a young man were visible, and that he had heard the'voice more distinctly than usual, though in a milder tone, and seeming to come to him from a great distance. after these revelations the man became suddenly disturbed. he shook from limb to limb, he seemed convulsed with terror; he cried out that he had betrayed the secret of his master, who had warned him not to describe his appearance and mode of communication, or he would surrender his servant to the tormentors. then the maniac’s terror gave way to fury; his more direful propensity made itself declared; he sprang into the midst of his frightened listeners, seized mr. vigors by the throat, and would have strangled him but for the prompt rush of the superintendent and his satellites. foaming at the mouth, and horribly raving, he was then manacled, a strait-waistcoat thrust upon him, and the group so left him in charge of his captors. inqui- ries were immediately directed towards such circum- stantial evidence as might corroborate the details he so minutely set forth. the purse recognized as sir philip’s, by the valet of the deceased, was found buried under the wych-elm. a policeman despatched, express, to the town in which the maniac declared the knife to have been purchased, brought back word that a outlet in the place remembered perfectly to have sold such a knife to a sea-faring man, and identified the instrument when it was shown to him. from the chink of a door a strange sroar. ajar, in the wall opposite my sash-window, a maid-ser vant, watching for her sweetheart (a young journeyman carpenter, who habitually passed that way on going home to dine), had, though unobserved by the mur- derer, seen him come out of my window at a time that corresponded with the dates of his own story, though she had thought nothing of it at the moment. he might be a patient, or have called on business; she did not know that i was from home. the only point of importance not cleared up was that which related to the opening of the casket—the disappearance of ' the contents; the lock had been unquestionably forced. no one, however, could suppose that some third person had discovered the hiding-place and forced open the casket to abstract its contents and then rebury it. the only probable supposition was, that the man himself had forced it open, and, deeming the contents of no value, had thrown them away before he had hidden the casket and purse, and, in the chaos of his reason, had forgotten that he had so done. who could expect that every link in a 'madman’s tale would be found integral and perfect? in short, little importance was attached to this solitary doubt. crowds accompanied me to my door, when i was set free, in open court, stainlessl— it was a triumphant procession. the popularity i had previously enjoyed, superseded for a moment by so horrible a charge, came back to me ten-fold, as with the reaction of generous repentance for a momentary doubt. one man shared the public favor—the young man ' a s'raancn s'roar. whose acuteness had delivered me from the peril, and cleared the truth from so awful a mystery; but margrave had escaped from congratulation and com- pliment; he had gone on a visit to strahan, at derval court. alone, at last, in the welcome sanctuary of my own home, what were my thoughts? prominent amongst them all was that assertion of the madman, which had made me shudder when repeated to me: he had been guided to the murder and to all the subsequent pro- ceedings by the luminous shadow of the beautiful youth—the scin-laeca to which i had pledged myself. if sir philip derval could be believed, margrave was possessed of powers, derived from fragmentary recollec- tions of a knowledge acquired in a former state of being; which would render his remorseless intelligence infinitely dire, and frustrate the endeavors of a reason, unassisted by similar powers, to thwart his designs or bring the law against his-crimes. had he then the arts that could thus-influence the minds of others to serve his fell purposes, and achieve securely his own evil ends through agencies that could not be traced home to himself? _ but for what conceivable purpose had i been sub- jected as a victim to influences as much beyond my control as the fate or demoniac necessity of a, greek myth? in the legends of the classic world some august sufferer is oppressed by powers more than mortal, but, with an ethical if gloomy vindication of his, a summer: areas. '.‘ ehastisement, he pays the penalty of crime committed by his ancestors or himself, or he has braved, by arro- gating equality with the gods, the mysterious calamity which the gods alone can inflict. but i, no descendant of penelope, no (edipus boastful of a wisdom which could interpret the enigmas of the sphynx, while igno- rant even of his own birth—what had i done to be singled out from the herd of men for trials and visita- tionsfrom the shadowland of ghosts and sorcerers? it would be ludicrously absurd to suppose that dr. lloyd’s dying imprecation could have had a prophetic effect upon my destiny—to believe that the pretences of mes- merisers were specially favored by providence, and that to question their assumptions was an offence of profana- tion to be punished by exposure to preternatural agencies. there was not even that congruity between cause and effect which fable seeks in excuse for its inventions. of all men living, i, unimaginative disciple of austere science, should be the last to become the sport of that witchcraft which even imagination reluct- antly allows to the machinery of poets, and science casts aside into the mouldy lumber-room of obsolete superstition. rousing my mind from enigmas impossible to solve- it was with intense and yet most melancholy satisfao tion that i turned to the image of lilian, rejoicing, though with a thrill of awe, that the promise so mys- teriously conveyed to my senses had, here too, been already fulfilled-margrave had left the town; lilian a s'raanoa s'roav. was no longer subjected to his evil fascination. but an instinct told me that that fascination had already pro- duced an effect adverse to all hope of happiness for me. lilian’s love for myself was gone. impossible other- wise that she—in whose nature i had always admired that generous devotion which is more or less inseparable from the romance of youth—should have never con- veyed to me one word of consolation in the hour of my agony and trial: that she who, till the last evening we had met, had ever been so docile, in the sweetness of a nature femininer submissive to my slightest wish, should have disregarded my solemn injunction, and admitted margrave to acquaintance, nay, to familiar intimacy; at the very time, too, when to disobey my injunctions was to embitter my ordeal, and add her own contempt to the degradation imposed upon my honor! no, her heart must be wholly gone from me; her very nature wholly warped. an union between us had become impossible. my love for her remained unsbat- tered—the more tender, perhaps, for a sentiment of compassion. but my pride was shocked, my heart was wounded. my love was not mean and servile. enough for me to think that she would be at least saved from margrave. her life associated with mel-contempla- .ion, horrible and ghastlyl-from that fate she was saved. later, she would recover the efi'ect of an in- fluence happily brief. she might form some new attachment—some new tie. but love once withdrawn is never to be restored-and her love was withdrawn a s'rasnca sroar. from me. i had but to release her, with my own lips, from our engagement—she would welcome that release. mournful but firm in these thoughts and these resolu- tions, i sought mrs. ashleigh’s house. chapter xlii. it was twilight when i entered, unannounced (as had been my wont in our familiar intercourse), the quiet sitting-room in which i expected to find mother and child. but lilian was there alone, seated by the open window, her hands crossed and drooping on her knee, her eyes fixed upon the darkening summer skies, in which the evening star had just stolen forth, bright and steadfast, near the pale sickle of a half-moon that was dimly visible, but gave as yet no light. let any lover imagine the reception he would expect to meet from his betrothed, coming into her presence after he had passed triumphant through a terrible peril to life and fame—conceive what ice froze my blood, what anguish weighed down my heart, when lilian, turning towards me, rose not, spoke not-gazed at me heedlessly as if at some indifl'erent stranger—and— and—— but no matter. i cannot hear to recall it even now, at the distance of years! i sat down beside her, and took her hand, without pressing it; it rested lan- s i ' a summer. sroav. guidly, passively in mine-one moment;—-i dropped it then, with a bitter sigh. “lilian,” i said, quietly, “you love me no longer. is it not so ? ” she raised her eyes to mine, looked at me wistfully, and pressed her hand on her forehead, then said, in a strange voice, “ did i ever love you? what do you mean ? ” “lilian, lilian, rouse yourself; are you not, while you speak, under some spell, some influence which you cannot describe nor account for ?” she paused a moment before she answered, calmly, “ nol again i ask what do you mean f” “what do i mean? do you forget that we are betrothed y do you forget how often, and how recently, our vows of affection and constancy have been ex- changed ? ” “ no, i do not forget; but i must have deceived you and myself -——” “it is true, then, that you love me no more ?” “ i suppose so.” “ but, oh, lilian, is it that your heart is only closed to me ? or is it—oh, answer truthfully-is it given to another? — to him -to him - against whom i warned you, whom i implored you not to receive? tell me, at least, that your love is not gone to margrave -—” “ to him-love to him. oh no—no -—” “what, then, is your feeling towards him f” lilian’s face grew visibly paler—even in that dim a strange sroar. light. “i know not,” she said, almost in a whisper; " but it is partly awe - partly ” “what ” “abhorrencel” she said, almost fiercely, and rose to her feet, with a wild, defying start. “if that be so,” i said gently, “ you would not grieve were you never again to see him —” “but i shall see him again,” she murmured in a tone of weary sadness, and sunk back once more into her chair. “i think not,” said i, “ and i hope not. and now hear me and heed me, lilian. it is enough for me, no matter what your feelings towards another, to learn from yourself that the affection you once professed for me is gone. i release you from your troth. if folks ask why we two henceforth separate the lives we had agreed to join, you may say, if you please, that you could not give your hand to a man who had known the ' taint of a felon’s prison, even on a false charge. if that seems to you an ungenerous reason, we will leave it to your mother to find a better. farewell! for your own sake i can yet feel happiness—happiness to hear that you did not love the man against whom i warn you still more solemnly than beforel will you not give me your hand in parting—and have i not spoken your own wish ?” she turned away her face, and resigned her hand to me in silence silently i held it in mine, and my emo- tions nearly stifled me. one symptom of raga-t, of a swimmer: story. reluctance, on her part, and i should have fallen at her feet, and cried, “ do not let us break a tie which our vows should have made indissoluble; heed not my ofi‘ers —wrung from a tortured heart! you cannot have ceased to love me!” but no such symptom of relent- ing showed itself in her, and with a groan i left the room. chapter xliii. i was just outside the garden-door, when i felt an arm thrown round me, my cheek kissed nd wetted with tears. could it be lilian? alas, no! it was her mother’s voice, that, between laughing and crying, exclaimed hysterically: “ this is joy, to see you again, and on these thresholds. i have just come from your house; i went there on purpose to congratulate you, and to talk to you about lilian. but you have seen her? ” “yes; i have but this moment left her. come this way.” i drew mrs. ashleigh back into the garden, along the winding walk, which the shrubs concealed from view of the house. we sat down on a rustic seat where i had often sat with lilian, midway between the house and the monks’ well. i told the mother what had passed between me and her daughter; i made no complaint of lilian’s coldness and change; i did not hint at its cause. “ girls of her age will change,” said a strange s'roay. i, “and all that now remains is for us two to agree on such a tale to our curious neighbors, as may rest the whole blame on me. man’s name is of robust fibre; it could not push its way to a place in the world, if it could not bear, without sinking, the load idle tongues may lay on it. not so woman’s name—what is but gossip against man, is scandal against woman.” “ do not be rash, my dear allen,” said mrs. ashleigh, in great distress : “ i feel for you, i understand you; in your case i might act as you do. i cannot blame you. lilian is changed— changed unaccountably. yet sure i am that the change is only on the surface, that her heart is really yours, as entirely and as faithfully as ever it was; and that later, when she recovers from the strange, dreamy kind of torpor which appears to have come over all her faculties and all her affections, she would awake with a despair which you cannot conjec- ture, to the knowledge that you had renounced her.” “ i have not renounced her,” said i, impatiently; “ i did but restore her freedom of choice. but pass by this now, and explain to me more fully the change in your daughter, which i gather from your words is not con- fined to me.” “i wished to speak of it before you saw her, and for that reason came to your house. it was on the morn- ing in which we left her aunt’s to return hither that i first noticed something peculiar in her look and manner. she seemed absorbed and absent, so much so that i asked her several.times to tell me what made her so ea a sraaues s'roar. grave, but i could only get from her that she had had a confused dream that she could not recall distinctly enough to relate, but that she was sure it boded evil during the journey she became gradually more herself, and began to look forward with delight to the idea of seeing you again. well, you came that evening. what passed between you and her you know best. you com- plained that she slighted your request to shun all acquaintance with mr. margrave. i was surprised that, whether your wish were reasonable or not, she could have hesitated to comply with it. i spoke to her about it after you had gone, and she wept bitterly at thinking she had displeased you.” “she wept! you amaze me. yet the next day what a note she returned to mine ” “ the next day the change in her became very visible to me. she told me, in an excited manner, that she was convinced she ought not to marry you. then came, the following day, the news of your committal. i heard of it, but dared not break it to her. i went to our friend the mayor, to consult with him what to say, what to do; and to learn more distinctly than i had done from terrified, incoherent servants, the rights of so dreadful a story. when i returned, i found, to my amazement, a young stranger in the drawing-room; it was mr. margrave—miss brabazon had brought him at his request. lilian was in the room, too, and my astonishment was increased, when she said to me with a singular smile, vague but tranquil: ‘i know all about a. s'raanoa smear. allen fenwick; mr. margrave has told me all. he is a friend of allen’s. he says there is no cause for fear.’ mr. margrave then apologized to me for his intrusion in a caressing, kindly manner, as if one of the family. ' he said he was so intimate with you that he felt that he could best break to miss ashleigh an information she might receive elsewhere, for that he was the only man in the town who treated the charge with ridicule. you know the wonderful charm of this young man’s manner. i cannot explain to you how it was, but in a few moments i was as much at home with him as if he had been your brother. to be brief, having once come, he came constantly. he had moved, two days before you went to derval court, from his hotel to apartments in mr. —’s house, just opposite. we could see him on his balcony from our terrace; he would smile to us and come across. i did wrong in slighting your injunc- tion, and suffering lilian to do so. i could not help it. he was such a comfort to me—to her, too—in her tribulation. he alone had no doleful words, were no long face; he alone was invariably cheerful. ‘everything,’ he said, ‘would come right in a day or two.’ ” “and lilian could not but admire this young man, he is so beautiful.” “beautiful? well, perhaps. but if you have a iealous feeling, you'were never more mistaken. lilian, i am convinced, does more than dislike him; he has inspired, her with repugnant-c, with terror. and much r a sraauea s'roar. as i own i like him, in his wild, joyous, careless, harm- less way, do not think i flatter you if i say that mr. margrave is not the man to make any girl untrue to you—untrue to a lover with infinitely less advantages than you may pretend to. he would be an universal favorite, i grant; but there is something in him, or a something wanting in him, which makes liking and ad- miration stop short of love. i know not why; perhaps, because, with all his good humor, he is so absorbed in himself, so intensely egotistical—so light; were be less clever, i should say so frivolous. he could not make love, he could not say in the serious tone of a man ~ in earnest, li love you.’ he owned as much to me, and owned, too, that he knew not even what love was. as to myself— mr. margrave appears rich ; no whisper against his character or his honor ever reached me. yet were you out of the question, and were there no stain on his birth, nay, were he as high in rank and wealth as he is favored by nature in personal advan- tages, i confess i could never consent to trust him with my daughter’s fate. a voice at my heart would cry, ‘nol’ it may be an unreasonable prejudice, but i could not bear to see him touch lilian’s hand! “ did she never, then—never suffer him even to take her hand? ” “ never. do not think so meanly of her‘ as to sup- pose that she could be caught by a fair face, a graceful manner. reflect: just before, she had refused, for your sake, ashleigh sumner, whom lady haughlan said, a srnarma s'roay. . ' no girl in her senses could refuse ;’ and this change in lilian really began before we returned to l ; before she had even seen mr. margrave. i am convinced it is something in the reach of your skill as physician— it is on the nerves, the system. i will give you a proof of what i say, only do not betray me to her. it was during your imprisonment, the night before your re- lease, that i was awakened by her coming to my bed- side. she was sobbing as if her heart would break. ‘ mother, motherl’ she cried, pity me, help me-—'i am so wretched.’ ‘ what is the matter, darling?’ ‘i ' have been so cruel to allen, and i know i shall be so again. i cannot help it. do not question me; only if we are separated, if he cast me off, or i reject him, tell him some day—perhaps when i am in my grave—not to believe appearances; and that i, in my heart of hearts, never ceased to love himl’” “she said that! you are not deceiving me ? ” “ oh no! how can you think so ” “ there is hope still,” i murmured; and i bowed my head upon my hands, hot tears forcing their way through the clasped fingers. “ one word more,” said i ; “ you tell me that lilian has a repugnance to this margrave, and yet that she found comfort in his visits—a comfort that could not be wholly ascribed to cheering words he might say about myself, since it is all but certain that i was not, at that time, uppermost in her mind. can you explain this apparent contradiction f” * _ a strange story. “i cannot otherwise than by a conjecture which you would ridicule.” “ i can ridicule nothing now. what ,is your conjecture? ” “ i know how much you disbelieve in the stories one hears of animal magnetism and electro—biology, other~ wise ” “ you think that margrave exercises some power of that kind over lilian? has he spoken of such a _power ? ” “ not exactly; but he said that he was sure lilian possessed a faculty that he called by some hard name, not clairvoyance, but a faculty which he said, when i asked him to explain, was akin to prevision—to second sight. then he talked of the priestesses who had administered the ancient oracles. lilian, he said, reminded him of them, with her deep eyes and mys terious smile.” “ and lilian heard him? what said she ? ” “ nothing; she seemed in fear while she listened.” “ he did not offer to try any of those arts practised by professional mesmerists and other charlatans ? ” “ i thought he was about to do so, but i forestalled him; saying i never would consent to any experiment of that kind, either on myself or my daughter.” “ and he replied —-—? ” “ with his gay laugh, ‘that i was very foolish; that a person possessed of such a faculty as be attributed to lilian, would, if the faculty were developed, be an in- a s'rnanea sronr. _ grateful tendernes's; her plain sense had divined what all my boasted knowledge had failed to detect in my earlier intimacy with margrave- viz. that in him there was a something present, or a something wanting, which forbade love and excited fear. young, beautiful, wealthy, seemingly blameless in life as he was, she would not have given her daughter’s hand to him! chapter xliv. the next day my house was filled with visitors. i had no notion that i had so many friends. mr. vigors wrote me a generous and handsome letter, owning his prejudices against mepn account of his sympathy with poor dr. lloyd, and begging my pardon for what he now felt to have been harshness, if not distorted justice. but what most moved me, was the entrance of stra- han, who rushed up to me with the heartiness of old college days. “ oh, my dear allen, can you ever for- give me; that i should have disbelieved your word- should have suspected you of abstracting my poor cousin’s memoir?” “ is it found, then?” “oh, yes; you must thank margrave. he, clever fellow, you know, came to me on a visit yesterday. he put me at once on the right scent. only guess; but you never can! it was that wretched old house- a sraauon story. ] keeper who purloiued the manuscript. you remember she came into the room while you were looking at the memoir. she heard us talk about it; her curiosity was roused; she longed to know the history of her old mas- ter, under his own hand; she could not sleep; she heard me go up to bed; she thought you might leave the book on the table when you, too, went to rest. she stole down stairs, peeped through the keyhole of the library, saw you asleep, the book lying before you, entered, took away the book softly, meant to glance at its contents and to return it. you were sleeping so soundly she thought you would not wake for an hour ;_ she carried it into the library, leaving the door open, and there began to pore over it; she stumbled first on one of the passages in latin; she hoped to find some part in plain english, turned over the leaves, putting her candle close to them, for the old woman’s eyes were dim, when she heard you make some sound in your sleep. alarmed, she looked round; you were moving uneasily in your seat, and muttering to yourself. from watching you she was soon diverted by the consequence of her own confounded curiosity and folly. in moving, she had unconsciously brought the poor manuscript close to the candle; the leaves caught the flame; her own cap and hand burning first made her aware of the mischief done. she threw down the book; her sleeve was in flames; she had first to tear of the sleeve, which was, luckily for her, not sewn to her dress. by the time she recovered presence of mind to attend to the a sraarzos s'roar. book, half its leaves were reduced to tinder. she did not dare then to replace what was left of the manuscript on your table; returned, with it, to her room, hid it, and resolved to keep her own secret. i should never have guessed it; i had never even spoken to her of the occurrence; but when i talked over the disappearance of the book to margrave last night, and expressed my disbelief of your story, he said in his merry way: ‘ but do you think that fenwick is the only person curious about your cousin’s odd ways and strange history? why, every servant in the household would have been equally curious. you have examined your servants of course?’ ‘no, i never thought of it.’ ‘examine them now, then. examine especially that old house- keeper. i observe a great change in her manner since i came here, weeks ago, to look over the house. she has something on her mind—i see it in her eyes.’ then it occurred to me, too, that the woman’s manner had altered, and that she seemed always in a tremble and a fidget. i went at once to her room, and charged her with stealing the book. she fell on her knees, and told the whole story as i have told it to you, and as i shall take care to tell it to all to whom i have so fool- ishly blabbed my yet more foolish suspicions cf your self. but can you forgive me, old friend ?” “ heartily, heartily! and the book is burned p” "see," and be red . mutilated manuscript straw _ - ull- port -» med“ reduced, indeed, to tinder- was . -. conc‘ lung part that related to haroun—to a strange s'roar. grayle; no vestige of that part was left; the earlier por- tions were scorched and mutilated, though in some places still decipherable; but as my eye hastily ran over those places, i saw only mangled sentences of the experimental problems which the writer had so mi' nutely elaborated. “ will you keep the manuscript as it is, and as long as you like?” said strahan. “no, no; i will have nothing more to do with it. consult some other man of science. and so this is the old woman’s whole story? no accomplice—none? no one else shared her curiosity and her task p” “no. oddly enough, though, she made much the same excuse for her pitiful folly that the madman made for his terrible crime; she said, ‘the devil put it into her head.’ of course he did, as he puts everything wrong into one’s head. that does not mend the ' matter.” “howl did she, too, say she saw a shadow and heard a voice? ” “no; not such a liar as that, and not mad enough for such a lie. but she said that when she was in bed, thinking over the book, something irresistible urged her to get up and go down into the study; swore she felt ‘ something lead her by the hand; s‘wore, too, that when she first discovered the manuscript was not in english, something whispered in her ear to turn over the leaves and approach them to the candle. but i had no patience a strange story. demoniac sorcery, guided the hand of the murderer against the life of the person who alone could imperil his own? had he, by the same dark spells, urged the woman to the act that had destroyed the only record of the monsti'ous being—the only evidence that i was not the sport of an illusion in the horror with which he inspired me? but if the latter supposition could be admissible, did he use his agents only to betray them afterwards to exposure, and that, without any possible clue to his own detection as the instigator? then, there came over me confused recollections of tales of medizeval witchcraft, which i had read in boyhood. were there not on judi- cial record, attestation and evidence, solemn and circum- stantial, of powers analogous to those now exercised by margrave? of sorcerers instigating to sin through influences ascribed to demons—making their appari- tions glide through guarded walls, their voices heard from afar in the solitude of dungeons or monastic cells? subjugating victims to their will, by means which no vigilance could have\detected, if the victims themselves had not confessed the witchcraft that had ensnared— courting a sure and infamous death in that confession -- preferring such death to a life so haunted? were stories so gravely set forth in the pomp of judicial evidence, and in the history of times comparatively recent, indeed, to be massed—pell-mcll together, as a moles indigesta of senseless superstition—all the witnesses to be i a s'raasea sroar. deemed liars? all the victims and tools of tho sorcerers, lunatics? all the examiners or judges, with their solemn gradations - lay and clerical— from commissions of inquiry to courts of appeal— to be despised for credu- lity, loathed for cruelty; or, amidst records so'numerons, so imposingly attested—were there the fragments of a terrible truth ? and had our ancestors been so unwise in those laws we now deem so savage, by which the world was rid of scourges more awful and more potent than the felon with his candid dagger? fell instiga- tors of the evil in men’s secret hearts—shaping into action the vague, half-formed desire, and guiding with agencies, impalpable, unseen, their spell-bound instru- ments of calamity and death. such were the gloomy questions that i—by repute, the sternest advocate of common sense against fantas- tic errors—by profession, the searcher into flesh and blood, and tissue, and nerve, and sinew, for the causes of all that disease the mechanism of the universal human frame;— i, self-boasting physician, sceptic, phi- losopher, materialist- revolved, not amidst gloomy pines, under grim winter skies, but as i paced slow through laughing meadows, and by the banks of merry streams, in the ripeness of the golden august; the hum of insects in the fragrant grass, the flutter of birds amid the delicate green of boughs chequered by playful sun- beams and gentle shadows, and ever in sight of the resorts of busy work-d ay man. walls, roof-tops, church~ a s'raauoa sroar. spires rising high. there, white and modern, the hand- writing of our race, in this practical nineteenth century, on its square, plain masonry and doric shafts, the town- hall, central in the animated market-place. and i— i—prying into long-neglected corners and dust-holes of memory for what my reason had flung there as worth- less rubbish; reviving the jargon of french law, in the procés verbal, against a gille de retz, or an urbain. grandier, and sifting the equity of sentences on witch- craft! bursting the links of this ghastly soliloquy with a laugh at my own folly, i struck into a narrow path that led back towards the city, by a quiet and rural suburb: the path wound on through a wide and solitary church- yard at the base of the abbey-hill. many of the for- mer dwellers on that eminence now slept in the lowly burial-ground at its foot. and the place, mournfnlly decorated with the tombs which still mark distinctions of rank amidst the levelling democracy of the grave, was kept trim with the care which comes half from piety, and half from pride. i seated myself on a bench, placed between the clipped yew-trees that bordered the path from the entrance to the church-porch; deeming vaguely that my own perplexing thoughts might imbibe a quiet from the quiet of the place. “and oh,” i murmured to myself, “ oh that i had one bosom friend to whom i might freely confide all these a strange s'roav. torturing riddles which i cannot solve—one who could read my heart; light up its darkness; exercise its spec- tres; one in whose wisdom i could welcome a guide through the nature which now suddenly changes her aspect, opening out from the walls with which i had fenced and enclosed her as mine own formal garden —— all her pathways, therein, trimmed to my footstep; all .her blooms grouped and harmonized to my own taste in color; all her groves, all her caverns, but the sooth- ing retreats of a muse or a science; opening out- opening out, desert on desert, into clueless and measure- less spacei gone is the garden? were its confines too narrow for nature ? be it sol the desert replaces the garden, but where ends the desert? refit from my senses are the laws which gave order and place to their old, questionless realm. i stand lost and appalled amidst chaos. did my mind misconstrue the laws it deemed fixed and immutable? be it sol but still nature cannot be lawless; creation is not a chaos. if my senses deceive me in some things, they are still unerring in others; if thus, in some things, fallacious, still, in other things, truthful. are there within me senses finer than those i have cultured, or without me vistas of knowledge which instincts, apart from my senses, divine? so long as i deal with the finite alon/e, my senses suffice me; but when the infinite is ob- trnded upon me, there are my senses faithless deserters? if so, is there aught else in my royal resources of man a sraanaa s'roay. —whose ambition it is, from the first dawn of his glory as thinker, to invade, and to subjugate n ature—is there aught else to supply the place of those traitors, the senses, who report to my reason, their judge and their sovereign, as truths, seen and heard, tales which my reason forfeits her sceptre if she does not disdain as lies? oh, for a friendl oh, for a guide i ” and as i so murmured, my eye fell upon the form of a kneeling child-- at the farther end of the burial- ground, beside a grave with its new headstone gleam- ing white amidst the older moss-grown tombs, a female child, her head bowed, her hands clasped. i could see but the outline of her small form in its sable dress — an infant beside the dead. my eye and my thoughts were turned from that silent figure, too absorbed in my own restless tumult of doubt and dread, for sympathy with the grief or the consola- tion of a kneeling child. and yet i should have remembered that tombl again i' murmured with a fierce impatience, “oh, for a friendl oh, for a guide!” i heard steps on the walk under the yews. and an old man came in sight, slightly bent, with long, grey hair, but still with enough of vigor for years to come, in his tread, firm, though slow -in the unshrunken mus- cle of his limbs and the steady light of his clear, blue eye. i started. was it possible? that countenance, marked, indeed, with the lines of laborious thought, but sweet in the mildness of humanity, and serene in the " a s’rnumn no“. peace of conscience! i could not be mistaken. julms faber was before me. the profound pathologist, to whom my own proud self-esteem acknowledged inferi- ority, without humiliation; the generous benefactor to whom i owed my own smoothed entrance into the arduous road of fame and fortune. i had longed for a friend, a guide; what i sought stood suddenly at my side end ! volume first. a strange story vol. ii. a strange story. chapter xlv. explanation, on faber’s part, was short and simple. the nephew whom he designed as the heir to his wealth, had largely outstripped the liberal allowance made to him— had incurred heavy debts; and in order to extricate himself from the debts, had plunged into ruinous speculations. faber had come back to eng- land to save his heir from prison or outlawry, at the expense of more than three-fourths of the destined inheritance. to add to all, the young man had married a young lady without fortune; the uncle only heard of the marriage on arriving in england. the spendthrift was hiding from his creditors in the house of his father- in-law, in one of the western counties. faber there sought him; and, on becoming acquainted with his wife, grew reconciled to the marriage, and formed hopes of his nephew’s future redemption. he spoke, indeed, ( ) a era/men s'roav. 'of the young wife with great afi'ection. she was good and sensible; willing and anxious to encounter any privation by which her husband might retrieve the effects of his folly. “ so,” said faber, “ on consultation with this excellent creature —for my poor nephew is so broken down by repentance, that others must think for him to exalt repentance into reform—my plans were determined. i shall remove my prodigal from all scenes of temptation. he has youth, strength, plenty of energy, hitherto misdirected. i shall take him from the old world into the new. i have decided on aus- tralia. the fortune still left to me, small here, will be ample capital there. it is not enough to maintain us separately, so we must all live together. besides, i feel that, though i have neither the strength nor the expe- rience which could best serve a young settler on a strange soil, still, under my eye, my poor boy will be at once more prudent and more persevering. we sail next week.” faber spoke so cheerfully that i knew not how to express compassion; yet, at his age, after a career of such prolonged and distinguished labor, to resign the ease and comforts of the civilized state for the hard- ships and rudeness of an infant colony, seemed to me a dreary prospect; and, as delicately, as tenderly' as i could to one whom i loved and honored as a father, i placed at his disposal the fortune which, in great part, i owed to him —-pressing him at least to take from it enough to secure to himself, in his own country, a home a strange s'roar. suited to his years and worthy of his station. he rejected all my offers, however earnestly urged on him, with his usual modest and gentle dignity; and assuring me that he looked forward with great interest to a residence in lands new to his experience, and afford- ing ample scope for the hardy enjoyments which had always allured his tastes, he hastened to change the subject. “and who, think you, is the admirable helpmate my scapegrace has had the saving good luck to find? a daughter of the worthy man who undertook the care of poor dr. lloyd’s orphans — the orphans who owed so much to your generous exertions to secure a provision for them—and that child, now just risen from her father’s grave, is my pet companion, my darling ewe- lamb -- dr. lloyd’s daughter amy.” here the child joined us, quickening her pace as she recognized the old man, and nestling to his side as she glanced wistfully towards myself. a winning, candid, lovable child’s face, somewhat melancholy, somewhat more thoughtful than is common to the face of child- hood, hut calm, intelligent, and inefl'ably mild. pre- sently she stole from the old man, and put her hand in mine: “ are you not the kind gentleman who came to see him that night when he passed away from us, and who, they all say at home, was so good to my brothers and me? yes, i recollect you now.” and she put her pure face to mine, wooing me to kiss it. a strange swear. i kind! i good! i—l? alas! she little knew, little guessed, the wrathful imprecation her father had bequeathed to me that fatal night! ‘ i did not dare to kiss dr. lloyd’s orphan daughter, but my tears fell over her hand. she took them as signs of pity, and, in her infant thankfulness, silently kissed me. “ oh, my friend!” i murmured to faber, “i have much that i yearn to say to you—alone—alone —come to my house with me, be at least my guest as long as you stay in this town.” “ willingly,” said faber, looking at me more intently than he had done before, and with the true eye of the practised healer, at once soft and penetrating. he rose, took my arm, and whispered a word in the ear of the little girl, she went on before us, turning her head,'as she gained the gate, for another look at her father’s grave. as we walked to my house, julius faber spoke to me much of this child. her brothers were all at school; she was greatly attached to his nephew’s wife; she had become yet more attached to faber himself, though on so short an acquaintance; it had been settled that she was to accompany the emi- grants to australia. “there,” said he, “the sum that some munificent, but unknown, friend of her father has settled on her, will provide her no mean dower for a colonist’s wife, when the time comes for her to bring a blessing to some other hearth than ours.” he went on to say that a s'raauon s'ronr. h , in order she had wished to accompany him to l to visit her father’s grave before crossing the wide seas; “ and she has taken such fond care of me all the way, that you might fancy i were the child of the two. 'i came back to this town, partly to dispose of a few poor houses in it which still belong to me, principally to bid you farewell before quitting the old world, no doubt forever. so, on arriving to-day, i left amy by herself in the churchyard while i went to your house, but you were from home. and now i must congratulate you on the reputation you have so rapidly acquired, which has even surpassed my predictions.” “ you are aware,” said i falteringly, “ of the extra- ordinary charge from which that part of my reputation dearest to all men has just emerged ” he had but seen. a short account in a weekly journal, written after my release. he asked details, which i postponed. reaching my home, i hastened to provide for the comfort of my two unexpected guests; stro’a to rally myself—to be cheerful. not till night, when julius faber and i were alone together, did i touch on what was weighing at my heart. then drawing to his side, i told him all;—all of which the substance is herein written, from the death-scene in dr. lloyd’s chamber to the hour in which i had seen dr. lloyd’s child at her father’s grave. some of the incidents and conversations which had most impressed me, i had already committed to writing, in the fear that, otherwise, my fancy might a sraasoa s'roav. forge for its own thraldom the links of reminiscence which my memory might let fall from its chain. faber listened with a silence only interrupted by short perti- nent questions; and when i had done, he remained thoughtful for some moments; then the great physician replied thus : “ i take for granted your conviction of the reality of all you tell me, even of the luminous shadow, of the bodiless voice ; but, before admitting the reality itself, we must abide by the old maxim, not to accept as cause to effect those agencies which belong to the marvellous, when causes less improbable for the effect can be ration- ally conjectured. in this case are there not such causes? certainly there are -—- ” “ there are ?” “ listen; you are one of those nien who attempt to stifle their own imagination. but in all completed intellect, imagination exists, and will force its way; deny it healthful vents, and it may stray into morbid channels. the death-room of dr. lloyd deeply im- pressed your heart, far more than your pride would own. this is clear, from the pains you took to ex- onerate your conscience, in your generosity to the orphans. as the heart was moved, so was the imagi- nation stirred; and, unaware to yourself, prepared for much that subsequently appealed to it. your sudden love, conceived in the very grounds of the house so associated with recollections in themselves strange and romantic; the peculiar temperament and nature of the a smarter. sroay. girl to whom your love was attracted; her own vision- ary beliefs, and the keen anxiety which infused into your love a deeper poetry of sentiment—all insensiny tended to induce the imagination to dwell on the wonderful ; and, in overstriving to reconcile each rarer phenomenon to the most positive laws of nature, your very intellect could discover no solution but the preternatural. “ you visit a man who tells you he has seen sir philip derval’s ghost; on that very evening, you hear a strange story, in which sir philip’s name is mixed up with a tale of murder, implicating two mysterious pre- tenders to magic—louis grayle, and the sage of aleppo. the tale so interests your fancy that even the glaring impossibility of a not unimportant part of it escapes your ndtice—viz. the account of a criminal trial in which the circumstantial evidence was more easily attainable than in all the rest of the narrative, but which could not legally have taken place as told. thus it is whenever the mind begins, unconsciously, to admit the shadow of . supernatural; the obvious is lost to the eye that plunges its gaze into the obscure. almost immediately afterwards you become acquainted with a young stranger, whose traits of characterv interest nd perplex, attract yet revolt you. all this time you are engaged in a physiological work which severely tasks the brain, and in which you examine the intricate question of soul distinct from mind. “and, here, i can conceive a cause deep-hid amongst h. -— a strange sroar. what metaphysicians would call latent associations, for a train of thought which disposed you to accept the fantastic impressions afterwards made on you by the scene in the museum and the visionary talk of sir philip derval. doubtless, when, at college, you first studied metaphysical speculation, you would have glanced over beattie’s essay on truth as one of the works written in opposition to your favorite, david hume.” “yes, i read the book, but i have long since for- gotten its arguments.” “ well, in that essay, beattie" cites the extraordinary instance of simon browne, a learned and pious clergy- man, who seriously disbelieved the existence of his own soul; and imagined that, by interposition of divine power, his soul was annulled, and” nothing left but a principal of animal life, which he held in common with the brutes! when, years ago, a thoughtful im- aginative student, you came on that story, probably enough you would have paused, revolved in your own mind and fancy what kind of a creature a man might be, if, retaining human life and merely human under- standing, he was deprived of the powers and properties which reasoners have ascribed to the existence of soul. something in this young man, unconsciously to your- self, revives that forgotten train of meditative ideas. his dread of death as the final cessation of being, his * beattie‘s essay on truth, part i. ch. ii. . the story of simon browne is to be found in “the adventurer." a s'raanua arm“. [ brute-like want )f sympathy with his kind, his her pacity to comprehend the motives which carry man on to scheme and to build for a future that extends beyond his grave, all start up before you at the very moment your reason is overtasked, your imagination fevered, inv seeking the solution of problems which, to a philosophy based upon your system, must always remain insoluble. the young man’s conversation not only thus excites your fancies, it disturbs your afl‘ec- tions. he speaks not only of drugs that renew youth, but of charms that secure love. you tremble for your lilian while you hear him i and the brain thus tasked, the imagination thus inflamed, the heart thus agitated, you are presented to sir philip derval, whose ghost your patient had supposed he saw weeks ago. “ this person, a seeker after an occult philosophy, which had possibly acquainted him with some secrets in nature beyond the pale of our conventional experi- ence, though, when analyzed, they might prove to be quite reconcilable with sober science, startles you with an undefined, mysterious charge against the young man who had previously seemed to you difl‘erent from ordi- nary mortals. in a room stored with the dead things of the brute. soulless world. your brain becomes intoxi- cated with the fumes of some vapor which produces effects not uncommon in the superstitious practices of the east; your brain, thus excited, brings distinctly before you the vague impressions it had before received. margrave becomes identified with the louis graylo a a sraanoa s'i‘oltl". of whom you had previously heard an obscure and legendary tale, and all the anomalies in his character are explained by his being that which you had con- tended, in your physiological work, it was quite possible for man to be—viz. mind and body without soul! you were startled by the monster which man would be were your own theory possible; and in order to reconcile the contradictions in this very monster, you account for _ knowledge and for powers that mind without soul could not have attained, by ascribing to this prodigy broken memories of a former existence, demon attributes from former proficiency in evil .magic. my friend, there is nothing here which your own study of morbid idiosyn- crasies should not suffice to solve.” “so then,” said i, “you would reduce all that has affected my senses as realities into the deceit of illu- sions? but,” i added, in a whisper, terrified by my own question, “ do not physiologists agree in this, viz.: that though illusory phantasms may haunt the sane as well as the insane, the sane know that they are only illusions, and the insane do not ” “ such a distinction,” answered faber, “is far too arbitrary and rigid for more than a very general and qualified acceptance. miiller, indeed, who is, perhaps, the highest authority on such a subject, says, with prudent reserve, ‘when a person who is not insane sees spectres and believes them to be real, his intellect must be imperfectly exercised.’* he would, indeed, be * miller’s physiology of the senses, p. . a strange story. '! a bold physician who maintained that every man who believed he had really seen a ghost was of unsound mind. in dr. abercrombie’s interesting account of spectral illusions, he tells us of a servant-girl _who believed she saw, at the foot of her bed, the apparition of curran, in a sailor’s jacket and an immense pair of whiskers)i no doubt the spectre was an illusion, and dr. abercrombie very ingeniously suggests the associa- tion of ideas by which the apparition was conjured up with the grotesque adjuncts of the jacket and the whiskers; but the servant-girl, in believing the reality , of the apparition, was certainly not insane. when i read in the american public journals'l' of ‘spirit mani- festations,’ in which large numbers of persons of at least the average degree of education, declare that they have actually witnessed various phantasms, much more extraordinary than all which you have confided to me, and arrive, at once, at the conclusion that they are thus put into direct communication with departed souls, i must assume that they are under an illusion, but i should be utterly unwarranted in supposing that, be- cause they credited that illusion, they were insane. i should o'nly say with milller, that in their reasoning on the phenomena presented to them, ‘their intellect was * abercronibie on the intellectual powers, p. ( th edition). f at the date of faber's conversation with allen fenwick, the (so-called) spirit manifestions had not spread from america over europe. but if they had, faber's views would, no doubt, he" remained the same. i a era/mes story. lmperfectly exercised.’ and an impression made on the senses, being in itself sufficiently rare to excite our wonder, may be strengthened till it takes the form of a positive fact, by various coincidences which are accepted as corroborative testimony, yet which are, nevertheless, nothing more than coincidences found in every-day matters of business, but only emphatically noticed when we can exclaim, ‘how astonishingl’ in your case such coincidences have been, indeed, very signal, and might well aggravate the perplexities into which your reason was thrown. sir philip derval’s murder, the missing casket, the exciting nature of the manu- script, in which a superstitious interest is already enlisted by your expectation to find in it the key to the narrator’s boasted powers, and his reasons for the astounding denunciation of the man whom you suspect to be his'murderer; in all this there is much to confirm, nay, to cause, an illusion, and for that very reason, when examined by strict laws of evidence, in all this there is but additional proof that the illusion was- only illusion. your afi'ections contribute to strengthen your fancy in its war on your reason. the girl you so passionately love develops, to your disquietude and terror, the visionary temperament which, at her age, is ever liable to fantastic caprices. she hears margrave’s song, which, you say, has a wildness of charm that afi'ects and thrills even you. who does not know the power of music? and of all music, there is none so potential as that of the human voice. thus, in some a s'raauon wear. [ languages, charm and song are identical expression; and even when a critic, in our own sober newspapers, extols a malibran or a grisi, you may be sure that he will call her ‘enchantress;’ well, this lady, your be- trothed, in whom the nervous system is extremely impressionable, hears a voice which, even to your ear, is strangely melodious, and sees a form and face which, even to your eye, are endowed with a singular character of beauty. her fancy is impressed by what she thus hears and sees ; and impressed the more because, by a coincidence not very uncommon, a face like that which she beholds has before been presented to her in a dream or a reverie. in the nobleness of genuine, confiding, reverential love, rather than impute to your beloved a levity of sentiment that would seem to you a treason, you accept the chimera of ‘magical fascination.’ in this frame of mind you sit down to read the memoir of a mystical enthusiast. do you begin now to account for the luminous shadow? a dream! and a dream no less because your eyes were open and you believed yourself awake. the diseased imagination resembles those mirrors which, being themselves distorted, repre- sent distorted pictures as correct. “and even this memoir of sir philip derval’s- can you be quite sure that you actually read the part which relates to haroun and louis grayle? you say that, while perusing the manuscript, you saw the lumi- nous shadow and became insensible. the old woman says you were fast asleep. may you not really have .. s'raanea sroa . fallen into a slumber, and in that slumber have dreamed the parts of the tale that relate to grayle? dreamed that you beheld the shadow? do you remember what is said so well by dr. abercrombie, to authorize the explanation i suggest to you: ‘ a person under the influence of some strong mental impression, falls asleep for a few seconds, perhaps without being sensible of it: some scene or person appears in a dream, and he starts up under the conviction that it was a spectral appear- ance.’"* “but,” said i, “the apparition was seen by me again, and when, certainly, i was not sleeping.” * abercrombie on the intellectual powers, p. ( th edi- tion). this author, not more to be admired for his intelligence than his candor, and who is entitled to praise for a higher degree of original thought than that to which he modestly pretends, relates a curious anecdote illustrating “the analogy between dreaming and spectral illusion, which he received from the gen- tleman to which it occured—an eminent medical friend:"-- “ having sat up late one evening, under considerable anxiety for one of his children, who was ill, he fell asleep in his chair, and had a frightful dream, in which the prominent figure was an immense baboon. he awoke with the fright, got up instantly, and walked to a. table which was in the middle of the room. he was then quite awake, and quite conscious of the articles around him: but close by the wall in the end of the apartment he lis- tinctly saw the baboon making the same grimaces which he had seen in his dream: and this spectre continued visible for about half a minute." now, a man who saw only a baboon would be quite ready to admit that it was but an optical illusion; but if, instead of a baboon, he had seen an intimate friend, and that friend, by some coincidence of time, had died about that date, he would be a very strong-minded man if he admitted for the mys- tery of seeing his friend. the same natural solution which he would readin admit for seeing a baboon. a strange s'ronr. \ “ true; and who should know better than a physician so well read as yourself that a spectral illusion once beheld is always apt to return again in the same form! thus, goethe was long haunted by one image; the phantom of a flower unfolding itself, and developing new flowers.* thus, one of our most distinguished philosophers tells us of a lady known to himself, who would see her husband, hear him move and speak, when he was not even in the house-l" but instances of the facility with which phantasms, once admitted, repeat themselves to the senses, are numberless. many are recorded by hibbert and abercrombie, and every phy- sician in extensive practice can add largely, from his own experience, to the list. intense self-concentration is, in itself, a mighty magician. the magicians of the east inculcate the necessity of fast, solitude and medi- tation, for the due development of their imaginary powers. and i have no doubt with effect; because fast, solitude and meditation—in other words, thought or fancy intensely concentred, will both raise apparitions and produce the invoker’s belief in them. spinello, striving to conceive the image of lucifer for his picture of the fallen angels, was at last actually haunted by the shadow of the fiend. newton himself has been subjected to a phantom, though to him, son of light, the spectre presented was that of the sun i you remem- * see miiller’s observations on this phenomenon, physiology the senses, balcy’s translation, p. . - sir david brewster’s letters on natural magic, p. a s'raaucs s'roar. ber the account that newton gives to locke of this visionary appearance. he says that ‘though he had looked at the sun with his right eye only, and not with the left, yet his fancy began to make an impression upon his left eye as well as his right, for if he shut his right and looked upon the clouds, or a book, or any bright object with his left eye, he could see the sun almost as plain as with the right, if he did but intend his fancy a little while on it:’ nay, ‘for some months after, as often as he began to meditate on the phenom- ena, the spectrum of the sun began to return, even though he lay in bed at mid-night, with his curtains drawnl’ seeing, then, how any vivid impression once made will recur, what wonder that you should behold in your prison the shining shadow that had first star- tled you in a wizard’s chamber when poring over the records of a murdered visionary? the more minutely you analyze your own hallucinations—pardon me the word—the more they assume the characteristics of a dream; contradictory, illogical, even in the marvels they represent. can any two persons be more totally unlike each other, not merely as to form and years, but as to all the elements of character, than the grayle of whom you read, or believe you read, and the margrave in whom you evidently think that grayle is existent still? the one represented, you say, as gloomy, saturnine, with vshement passions, but with an original grandeur of thought and will, consumed by an internal remorse; the other you paint to me as a joyous and wayward a s’rasuon s'roar. darling of nature, acute yet frivolous, free from even the ordinary passions of youth, taking delight in inno- cent amusements, incapable of continuous study, with- out a single pang of repentance for the crimes you so fancifully impute to him. and now, when your sus- picions, so romantically conceived, are dispelled by positive facts, now, when it is clear that margrave neither murdered sir philip derval nor abstracted the memoir, you still, unconsciously to yourself, draw on your imagination in order to excuse the suspicion your pride of intellect declines to banish, and suppose that this youthful sorcerer tempted the madman to the mur- der, the woman to the theft —-” “ but you forget the madman said ‘that he was led on by the luminous shadow of a beautiful youth,’ that the woman said also that she was impelled by some mysterious agency.” “i do not forget those coincidences; but how your learning would dismiss them as nugatory were your imagination not disposed to exaggerate theml when you read the authentic histories of any popular illusion, such as the spurious inspirations of the j ansenist con- vulsionaries, the apparitions that invaded convents, as deposed in the trial of urbain grandier, the confessions of witches and wizards in places the most remote from each other, or, at this day, the tales of ‘spirit-mani- festation’ recorded in half the towns and villages of america—do not all the superstitious impressions of a particular time have a common family likeness? what a 's'raauea s'roav. one sees another sees, though there has been no com- munication between the two. i cannot tell you why these phantasms thus partake of the nature of an atmo spheric epidemic; the fact remains incontestable. and, strange as may be the coincidence between your im- pression of a mystic agency and those of some other brains not cognizant of the chimeras of your own, still, is it not simpler philosophy to say, ‘they are coinci dences of the same nature which made witches in the same epoch all tell much the same story of the broom- sticks they rode and the sabbats at which they danced to the fiend’s piping,’ and there leave the matter, as in science we must leave many of the most elementary and familiar phenomena inexplicable as to their causes --is not this, i say, more philosophical than to insist upon an explanation which accepts the supernatural rather than leave the extraordinary unaccounted for i” “as you speak,” said i, resting my downcast face upon my hand, “ i should speak to my patient who had confided to me the tale i have told to you.” “and yet the explanation does not wholly satisfy you? very likely: to some phenomena there is, as yet, no explanation. perhaps newton himself does not explain quite to his own satisfaction why he was haunted at midnight by the spectrum of a sun ; though i have no doubt that some later philosopher, whose ingenuity has been stimulated by newton’s account, has, by this time, suggested a rational solution of the a sraasoa sronr. enigma.* to return to your own case. i have ofi'ered such interpretations of the mysteries that confound you, as appear to me authorized by physiological sci- ence. should you adduce other facts which physio- * newton’s explanation is as follows: “this story i tell you to let you understand, that in the observation related by mr. boyle, the man's fancy probably concurred with the impression made by. the sun’s light to produce that phantasm of the sun which he constantly saw in bright objects, and so your question about the cause of this phantasm involves another about the power of the fancy, which [must confess is too hard a knot for me to antic. to place this effect in a constant motion is hard, because the sun ought then to appear perpetually. it seems rather to consist in a disposition of the sensorium to move the imagination strongly, and to be easily moved both by the imagination and by the light as often as bright objects are looked upon.” —leiterfrom sir i. newton to locke, lord king’: life of locke, vol. i., pp. - . dr. roget (animal and vegetable physiology considered with reference to natural theology, bridgewater treatise, pp. , ) thus refers to this phenomenon, which he states “all of us may experience z”— “ when the impressions are very vivid ” roget is speak- ing of visual impressions), “another phenomenon often takes place, namely, their subsequent recurrence after a certain inlerval, during which they are not fell, and quite independently of any renewed application of the cause which had originally excited them." (i mark by italics the words which more precisely coincide with julius faber’s explanations.) “ if, for example, we look steadfastly at the sun for a second or two, and then immediately close our eyes, the image or spectrum of the sun remains for a long time present to the mind as if the light were still acting on the retina. it then gradually fades and disappears; but if we continue to keep the eyes shut, the same impression will, after a ccrlain time, recur and again vanish: and this phenomenon will be repeated at intervals, the sensation becoming fainter at each renewal. it then gradually fades and disappears; but if we continue to keep the eyes shut, the same impression will after a time recur, and ii. — ‘ a strange story. logical science wants the data to resolve into phe- nomena, always natural, however rare, still hold fast to that simple saying of goethe’s, ‘mysteries are not necessarily miracles.’ and, if all which physiological then vanish, and this phenomena will be repeated at intervals, the sensation becoming fainter at each renewal. it is probable that these re-appcarances of the image, after the light which produced the original impression has been withdrawn, 'are occa- sioned by spontaneous afi'ections of the retina itself which are conveyed to the sensorium. in other cases, where the impres- sions are less strong, the physical changes producing these changes are perhaps confined to the sensorium.” it may be said that there is this difl‘erence between the spec- trum of the sun and such a phantom as that which perplexed allen fenwick—viz., that the sun has been actually beheld before its visionary appearance can be reproduced. and that allen fenwick only imagines he has seen the apparition which repeats itself to his fancy. “ but there are grounds for the sus- picion” (says dr. hibbert, philosophy of apparitions, p. ), “ that when ideas of vision are uivified to the height of sensation, a corresponding nfl'ection of the optic nerve accompanies the illusion." milller (physiology of the senses, p. , baley‘s translation) states the same opinion still more strongly, and sir david brews- ter, quoted by dr. hibbert (p. ), says: " in examining these mental impressions, i have found that they follow the motions of the eyeball exactly like the spectral impressions of luminous objects. and that they resemble them also in their apparent immobility when the eye is displaced by an external force. if this result (which i state with much diffidence, from having only my own experience in its favor) shall be found generally true by others, it will follow that the objects of mental contempla- tion may be seen as distinctly as external objects, and will occupy the same local position in the axis of vision, as if they had been formed by the agency-of light.” hence the impression of an image once con veyed to the senses. no matter how, whether by actual or illu- sory vision, is liable to renewal, “independently of any renewed application of the cause which had originally excited it,” and a s'rnanor. s'rosr. science comprehends in its experience wholly fails us, i may then hazard certain conjectures which, by acknow- ledging ignorance, is compelled to recognize the mar- vellous (for, as where knowledge enters the marvellous recedes, so where knowledge falters the marvellous advances), yet still, even in those conjectures, i will distinguish the marvellous from the supernatural. but, for the present, i advise you to accept the guess that may best quiet the fevered imagination which any bolder guess would only more excite.” “you are right,” said i, rising proudly to the full height of my stature, my head erect and my heart defy- ing. “and so let this subject be renewed no more between us. i will brood over it no more myself. i regain the unclouded realm of my human intelligence; and, in that intelligence, i mock the sorcerer and dis- dain the spectre.” chapter xlvi. julrus fabeb and amy lloyd stayed in my house three days, and in their presence i felt a healthful sense of security and peace. amy wished to visit her father’s house, and i asked faber, in taking her there, to seize the image can be seen in that renewal, " as distinctly as external objects," for indeed “the revival of the fantastic figure really does afl'ect those points of the retina which had been previously impressed.” a s'raanea sroar. the occasion to see lilian, that he might communicate to me his impression of a case so peculiar. i prepared mrs. ashleigh for this visit by a previous note. when the old man. and the child came back, both brought me comfort. amy was charmed with lilian, who had received her with the sweetness natural to her real character, and i loved to hear lilian’s praise from those innocent lips. faber’s report was still more calculated to console me: “i have seen, i have conversed with her long and familiarly. you were quite right, there is no tendency to consumption in that exquisite, if delicate, organiza- tion; nor do i see cause for the fear to which your statement had preinclined me. that head is too nobly formed for any constitutional cerebral infirmity. in its organization, ideality, wonder, veneration are large, it is true, but they are balanced by other organs, now per- haps almost dormant, but which will come into play as life passes from romance into duty. something at this moment evidently oppresses her mind. in conversing with her, i observe abstraction—listlessness; but i am so convinced of her truthfulness, that if she has once - told you she returned your affection, and pledged to you her faith, i should, in your place, rest perfectly satisfied that whatever he the cloud that now rests on her ima- gination, and for the time obscures the idea of yourself, it will pass away.” faber was a believer in the main divisions of phre- nology, though he did not accept all the dogn- as of gall a s'raanea arm“. and spurzheim; while, to my mind, the refutation of phrenology in its fundamental propositions had been triumphantly established by the lucid arguments of sir w. hamilton. * but when faber rested on phrenolog- ical observations assurances in honor of lilian, i for- get sir w. hamilton, and believed in phrenology. as iron girders and pillars expand and contract with the mere variations of temperature, so will the strongest conviction on which the human intellect rests its judg- ment, varywith the changes of the human heart; and the building is only safe where these variations are foreseen and allowed for by a wisdom intent on self- knowledge. ' i there was much in the affection that had sprung up between julius faber and amy lloyd which touched my heart and softened allits emotions. this man, unblessed, like myself, by conjugal and parental ties, turned for solace to the love of a child, as i, in the pride of manhood, had turned to the love of woman. 'but his love was without fear, without jealousy, without trou- ble. my sunshine came to me, in a fitful ray, through *the.summary of this distinguished lecturer’s objections to phrenology is to be found in the appendix to vol. i. of lectures on metaphysics, p. , et. seq. edition . - the change of length in iron girders caused by variation of temperature, has not unfrcquently brought down the whole edifice into which they were admitted. good engineers and architects allow for such changes produced by temperature. in the tubular bridge across the menai straits, a self-acting record of the daily amount of its contraction and expansion is ingeni- ously contrived. * a sraanes s'roar. clouds that had gathered over my noon; his sunshine covered all his landscape, hallowed, and hallowing, by the calm of declining day. and amy was no common child. she had no exube- rant imagination; she was haunted by no whispers from afar; she was a creature fitted to the earth _to accept its duties and to gladdcn its cares. her tender obser- vation, fine and tranquil, was alive to the all important household trifles by which, at the earliest age, man’s allotted soother asserts her privileges to tend and to comfort. it was pleasant to see her moving so noise- lessly through the rooms i had devoted to her venerable protector, knowing all his simple wants, and providing for them as if by the mechanism of a heart exquisitely moulded to the loving uses of life. sometimes when i saw her setting his chair by the window (knowing, as i did, how much he habitually loved to be near the light) and smoothing his papers (in which he was apt to be unmetlmdical), placing the mark in his book when he ceased to read, divining, almost without his glance, some wish passing through his mind, and then seating her- self at his feet, often with her work - which was always destined for him or for one of her absent brothers -now and then, with the one small book that she car- ried with her, a selection of bible stories compiled for children ;— sometimes when i saw her thus, how i wished that lilian, too, could have seen her, and have compared her own ideal phantasies with those young developments of the natural, heavenly woman. a smarter. s'roay. but was there nothing in that sight from which i, proud of my arid reason even in its perplexities, might have taken lessons for myself? on the second evening of faber’s visit i brought to him the draft of deeds for the sale of his property. he had never been a man of business out of his profession; he was impatient to sell his property, and disposed to accept an offer at half its value. i insisted on taking on myself the task of negotiator; perhaps, too, in this oflice i was egotistically anxious to prove to the great physician that that which he believed to be my “ hallu- cination ” had in no way obscured my common sense in i the daily affairs of life. so i concluded, and in a few hours, terms for-his property that were not only just, but were infinitely more advantageous than had appeared to himself to be possible. but, as i approached him with the papers, he put his finger to his lips. amy was standing by him with her little book in her hand, and his own bible lay open on the table. he was reading to her from the sacred volume itself, and impressing on her the force and beauty of one of the parables, the adaptation of which had perplexed her; when he had done, she kissed him, bade him good-night, and went away to rest. then said faber thoughtfully, and as if to himself more than me: “what a lovely bridge between old age and child- hood is religionl how intuitively the world begins with prayer and worship on entering life, and how intuitively on quitting life the old man turns back to b a s'raanoa sroar. prayer‘and worship, putting himself again side by side with the infant l” ‘ i made no answer, but, after a pause, spoke of fines and freeholds, title-deeds and money; and when the business on hand was concluded, asked my learned guest if, before he departed, he would deign to look over the pages of my ambitious physiological work. there were parts of it on which i much desired his opin- ion, touching on subjects in which his special studies made him an authority as high as our land possessed. he made me bring him the manuscript, and devoted _ much of that night and the next day to its perusal. when he gave it me back, which was not till the morning of his departure, be commenced with eulogies on the scope of its design, and the manner of its execu- tion, which flattered my vanity so much that i could not help exclaiming, “then, at least, there is no trace of ‘ hallucination’ here i ” _ “ alas, my poor allen! here, perhaps, hallucination, or self-deception, is more apparent than in all the strange tales you confided to me. for here is the hallucination of the man seated on the shores of nature, and who would say to its measureless sea, ‘so far shalt thou g and no farther ; ’—here is the halluci- nation of the creature, who, not content with exploring the laws of the creator, ends with submitting to his interpretation of some three or four laws, in the midst of a code of which all the rest are in language unknown to him, the powers and free-will of the lawgiver a sraaues sroav. himself; here is the hallucination by which nature is left godless—because man is left soulless. what would matter all our speculations on a deity who would cease to exist for us when we are in the grave? why mete out, like archytas, the earth and the sea, and number the sands on the shore that divides them, if the end of this wisdom be a handful of dust sprinkled over a skull! ‘nec quidquam tibi prodest aerias tentasse demos, animoque rotundum percurrisse polum morituro.’ your book is a proof of the soul that you fail to discover without a soul, no man would work for a future that begins for his fame when the breath is gone from his body. do you remember how you saw that little child praying at the grave of her father? shall i tell you that in her simple orisons she prayed for the benefactor -—who had cared for the orphan; who had reared over dust that tomb which, in a christian burying-ground, is a mute but perceptible memorial of christian hopes; that the child prayed, haughty man, for you? and you sat by, knowing naught of this; sat by, amongst _ the graves, troubled and tortured with ghastly doubts —-vain of a reason that was sceptical of eternity, and yet shaken like a reed by a moment’s marvel. shall i tell the child to pray for you no more f—that you dis- believe in a soul? if you do so, what is the efficacy of prayer? speak—shall i tell her this? shall the infant pray for you never more ? ” o a sraason areas. i was silent— i was thrilled. “ has it never occurred to you, who, in denying all innate perceptions as well as ideas, have passed on to deductions from which poor locke, humble christian that he was, would have shrunk in dismay; has it never occurred to you as a wonderful fact, that the easiest thing in the world to teach a child is that which seems to metaphysical schoolmen the abstrusest of all problems? read all those philosophers wrangling about a first cause, deciding on what are miracles, and then again deciding that such miracles cannot be; and when one has answered another, and left in the crucible of wisdom a caput mortuum of ignorance, then turn your eyes, and look at the infant praying to the invisible god at his mother’s knees. this idea, so miraculously abstract, of a power that the infant has never seen, that cannot be symbolled forth and explained to him by the most erudite sage—a power, nevertheless, that watches over him, that hears him, that sees him, that will carry him across the grave, that will enable him to live on forever;-this double mystery of a divinity and of a soul the infant learns with the most facile readiness, at the first glimpse of his reasoning faculty. before you can teach him a rule in addition, before you can venture to drill him into his horn-book, he leaps, with one intui- tive spring of all his ideas, to the comprehension of the truths which are only incomprehensible to blundering sages! and you, as you stand before me, dare not say, ‘let the child pray for me no more!’ but will a name: sroar. the creator accept the child’s prayer for the man who refuses prayer for himself? take my advice—pray! and in this counsel i do not overstcp my province._ i speak not as a preacher, but as a physician. for health is a word that comprehends our whole organization, and a just equilibrium of all faculties and functions is the condition of health. as in your lilian, the equilibrium is deranged by the over-indulgence of a spiritual mysti- cism which withdraws from the nutriment of duty the essential pabulum of sober sense, so in you, the resolute negation of disciplined spiritual communion between thought and divinity robs imagination of its noblest and safest vent. thus, from opposite extremes, you and your lilian meet in the same regiori of mist and cloud, losing sight of each other and of the true ends of life, as her eyes only gaze on the stars and yours only bend to the earth. were i advising her, i should say: ‘ your creator has placed the scene of your trial below, and not in the stars.’ advising you, i say: ‘but in the trial below, man should recognize education for heaven.’ in a word, i would draw somewhat more downward her fancy, raise somewhat more upward your reason. take my advice then — pray! your mental system needs the support of prayer in order to preserve its balance. in the embarrassment and con- fusion of your senses, clearness of perception will come with habitual and tranquil confidence in him who alike rules the universe and reads the heart. i only say here what has been said much better before by a a sunken s'roar. reasoner in whom all students of nature recognize a guide. i see on your table the very volume of bacon which contains the passage i commend to your reflec- tion. here it is. listen : ‘ take an example of a dog, and mark what a generosity and courage he will put on when he finds himself maintained by a man who, to him, is instead of a god, or mel'ior natura, which courage is manifestly 'such as that creature without that confidence of a better nature than his own, could never attain. so man, when he resteth and assureth himself upon divine protection and favor, gathereth a force and faith which human nature could not obtain.’ * you are silent, but your gesture tells me your doubt— a doubt which your heart, so femininely tender, will not speak aloud lest you should rob the old man of a hope with which your strength of manhood dispenses— you doubt the efiicacy of prayer! pause and reflect, bold but candid inquirer into the laws of that guide you call nature. if there were no efiicacy in prayer—if prayer were as mere an illusion of superstitious phan- tasy as aught against which your reason now struggles - do you think that nature herself would have made it amongst the most common and facile of all her dictates? do you believe that if there really did not exist that tie between man and his maker—that link between life here * bacon’s essay on atheism. the quotation is made with admirable felicity and force by dr. whewell, page of bridge- water treatise on astronomy and general physics considered with reference to natural theology. a srnases story. and life hereafter which is found in what we call soul, alone—that wherever you look through the universe, you would behold a. child at prayer? nature inculcates nothing that is superfluous. nature does not impel the leviathan or the lien, the eagle or the moth, to pray; she impels only man. why? because man only has soul, and soul seeks to commune with the everlasting, as a fountain struggles up to its source. burn your book. it would found you a reputation for learning and intellect and courage, i allow; but learning and intel- lect and courage wasted against a truth—like spray against a rockl a truth valuable to the world, the world will never part with. you will not injure the truth, but you will mislead and may destroy many, - whose best security is in the truth which you so eruditely insinuate to be a fable. soul and hereafter are the heritage of all men; the humblest journeyman in these streets, the pettiest trader behind those counters, has in those beliefs his prerogatives of royalty. you would dethrone and embrute the lords of the earth by your theories. for my part, having given the greater part -of my life to the study and analysis of facts, i would rather be the author of the tritest homily, or the baldest poem, that inculcated that imperishable essence of the soul to which i have neither scalpel nor probe, than be the founder of the subtlest school, or the framer f the loftiest verse, that robbed my fellow-men of their faith in a spirit that eludes the dissecting-knife—in a teing that escapes the grave- ii.- a sraaacn s'ronr. digger. burn your book—accept this boon instead: read and pray.” he placed his bible in my hand, embraced me, and, an hour afterwards, the old man and the child left my hearth solitary once more. chapter xlvii. that night, as i sat in my study, very thoughtful and very mournful, i revolved all that julius faber had said; and the impression his words had produced became gradually weaker and weaker, as my reason, naturally combative, rose up with all the replies which my phi- losophy suggested. no; if my imagination had really seduced and betrayed me into monstrous credulities, it was clear that the best remedy to such morbid tendencies towards the superstitious was in the severe exercise of the faculties most opposed to superstition-in the culture of pure reasoning—in the science of absolute fact. accordingly, i placed before me the very book which julius faber had advised me to burn; i forced all my powers of mind to go again over the passages which contained the doctrines that his admonition had censured; and before daybreak, i had stated the sub- stance of his argument, and the logical reply to it, in an elaborate addition to my chapter on “ sentimental phi- losophers.”(while thus rejecting the purport of his a sraauus srosr. [hating counsels, i embodied in another portion of my work his views on my own “illusions,” and as here my common sense was in concord with his, i disposed of all my own previous doubts in an addition to my favorite chapter “on the cheats of the imagination.” and when the pen dropped from my hand, and the day- star gleamed through the window, my heart escaped from the labor of my mind, and flew back to the image of lilian. the pride of the philosopher died out of me, the sorrow of the man reigned supreme, and i shrank from the coming of the sun, despondent. chapter xlviii. no'r till the law had completed its proceedings, and satisfied the public mind as to the murder of sir philip derval, were the remains of the deceased consigned to the family mausoleum. the funeral was, as may be supposed, strictly private, and when it was over, the excitement, caused by an event so tragical and singular, subsided. new tepics engaged the public talk, and—- in my presence, at least—the delicate consideration due to one whose name had been so painfully mixed up in the dismal story, forbore a topic which i could not be expected to hear without distressful emotion. mrs. ashleigh i saw frequently at my own house; she honestly confessed that lilian had not shown that grief a s'raauen srony. at the cancelling of our engagement which would alone justify mrs. ashleigh in asking me again to see her daughter, and retract my conclusions against our union she said that lilian was quiet, not uncheerful, never spoke of me or margrave, but seemed absent and pre- occupied as-before, taking pleasure in nothing that had been wont to please her; not in music, nor books, nor that tranquil pastime which women call work, and in which they find excuse to meditate, in idleness, their own fancies. she rarely stirred out—even in the garden; when she did, her eyes seemed to avoid the house in which margrave had lodged, and her steps the old favorite haunt by the monks’ well. she would remain silent for long hours together, but the silence did not appear melancholy. for the rest, her health was more than usually good. still, mrs. ashleigh per- sisted in her belief that, sooner or later, lilian would retulln to her former self—her former sentiments for me; and she entreated me not, as yet, to let the world know that our engagement was broken off. “ for if,” said she, with good sense, “if it should prove not to be broken off, only suspended, and afterwards hap'pily renewed, there will be two stories to tell when no story be needed. besides, i should dread the effect on lilian, if ofl‘ensive gossips babbled to her on a matter that would excite so much curiosity as the rupture of an union in which our neighbors have taken so general an interest.” i had no reason to refuse acquiescence in mrs. ash- a strange s'roar. leigh’s request, but i did not share in her hopes; i felt that the fair prospects of my life were blasted; i could never love another-never wed another; i resigned myself to a solitary hearth, rejoiced, at least, that mar- grave had not revisited mrs. ashleigh’s—had not, indeed, reappeared in the town. he was still staying with strahan, who told me that his guest had ensconced himself in forman’s old study, and amused himself with reading—though not for long at a time—the curious old books and manuscripts found in the library, or climbing trees like a schoolboy, and familiarizing him- self with the deer and the cattle, which would group round him quite tame, and feed from his hand. was this the description of a criminal? but if sir philip’s assertion were really true; if the criminal were man without soul; if without soul, man would have no con- science, never be troubled by repentance, and the vague dread of a future world—why, then, should not the criminal be gay despite his crimes, as the white bear gambols as friskly after his meal on human flesh? these questions would haunt me, despite my determi- nation to accept as the right solution of all marvels the construction put on my narrative by julius faber. days passed; i saw and heard nothing of margrave. i began half to hope that, in the desultory and rapid changes of mood and mind which characterized his restless nature, he had forgotten my existence one morning i went out early on my rounds, when i met strahan unexpectedly. i- a strange swear. “i was in search of you,” he said, “for more than one person has told me that you are looking ill and jaded. so you are! and the town now is hot and unhealthy. you must come to derval court for a week or so. you can ride into town every day to see your patients. don’t refuse. margrave, who is still with me, sends all kind messages, and bade me say that he entreats you to come to the house at which he also is a guest!” i started. what had the scin-lzeca required of me, and obtained to that condition my promise? “if you are asked to the house at which i also am a guest, you will come; you will meet and converse with me as guest speaks to guest in the house of a host!” was this one of the coincidences which my reason was bound to accept as coincidences, and nothing more? tut, tutl was i returning again to my “hallucinations?” grant- ing that faber and common sense were in the right, what was this margrave? a man to whose friendship, sentences, and energy i was under the deepest obliga- tions—to whom i was indebted for active services that had saved my life from a serious danger, acquitted my honor of a horrible suspicion. “i thank you,” i said to strahan, “ i will come; not, indeed, for a week, but, at all events, for a day or two.” “ that’s right; i will call for you in the carriage at six o’clock. you will have done your day’s work by then?” “ yes; i will so arrange." a surnames s'ronr. on our way to derval court that evening, strahan talked much about margrave, of whom, nevertheless, he seemed to be growing weary. “ his high spirits are too much for one,” said he; “ and then so restless-so incapable of sustained quiet conversation. and, clever though he is, he can’t help me in the least about the new house i shall build. he has no notion of construction. i don’t think he could build a barn.” “ i thought you did not like to demolish the old house. and would content yourself with pulling down the more ancient part of it?” “ true. at first it seemed a pity to destroy so hand- some a mansion; but you see, since poor philip’s manuscript, on which he set such store, has been too mutilated, i fear, to allow me to effect his wish with regard to it, i think i ought, at least, scrupulously to obey his other whims. and, besides, i don’t know, there are odd noises about the old house. i don’t believe in haunted houses, still there is something dreary in strange sounds at the dead of night, even if made by rats, or winds through decaying rafters. you, i remember at college, had a taste for architecture, and can draw plans. i wish to follow out sir philip’s design, but on a smaller scale, and with more attention to comfort.” thus he continued to run on, satisfied to find me a silent and attentive listener. we arrived at the mansion an hour before sunset, the westering light shining full a srnanen story. against the many windows cased in moulderlng pilas- ters, and making the general dilapidation of the old place yet more mournfully evident. it was but a few minutes to the dinner-hour. i went up at once to the room appropriated to me—not the one i had before occupied. strahan had already got together a new establishment. i was glad to find in the servant who attended me an old acquaintance. he had been in my own employ when i first settled at l , and left me to get married. he and his wife were both in strahan’s service. he spoke warmly of his new master and his contentment with his situation, while he unpacked my carpet-bag and assisted me to change my dress. but the chief object of his talk and his praise was mr. margrave. “ such albright young gentleman, like the first fine day in may!” _ when i entered the drawing-room, margrave and strahan were both there. the former was blithe and genial, as usual, in his welcome. at dinner, and during the whole evening till we retired severally to our'own rooms, he was the principal talker; recounting incidents of travel, always very loosely strung together, jesting, good-humoredly enough, at strahan’s sudden hobby for building, then putting questions to me about mutual acquaintances, but never waiting for an answer; and every now and then, as if at random, startling us with some brilliant aphorism, or some suggestion drawn frcm abstract science or unfamiliar erudition. the whole a swimmer story. efi'ect was sparkling, but i could well understand that, if long continued, it would become oppressive. the soul has need of pauses of repose—intervals of escape, not only from the flesh, but even from the mind. a man of the loftiest intellect will experience times when l mere intellect not only fatigues him, but amidst its most original conceptions, amidst its proudest triumphs, has a something trite and commonplace compared with one of those vague intimations of a spiritual destiny which are not within the ordinary domain of reason; and, gazing abstractedly into space, will leave suspended some problem of severest thought, or uncompleted some golden palace of imperial poetry, to indulge in hazy reveries, that do not difl'er from those of an innocent quiet child! the soul has a long road to travel—from time through eternity. it demands its halting hours of contemplation. contemplation is serene. but with such wants of an immortal, immaterial spirit, margrave had no fellowship, no sympathy; and for myself, i need scarcely add that the lines i have just traced i should not have written at the date at which my narrative has now arrived. a srnanea sroar. chapter xlix. i had no case that necessitated my return to l——— the following day. the earlier hours of the forenoon i devoted to strahan and his building plans. margrave flitted in and out of the room, fitfully as an april sun- beam, sometimes flinging himself on a sofa, and reading for a few minutes one of the volumes of the ancient mystics, in which sir philip’s library was so rich. i remember it was a volume of proclus. he read that crabbed and diflicult greek with a fluency that surprised me. “i picked up the ancient greek,” said be, “years ago, in learning the modern.” but the book soon tired him ; then he would come and disturb us, archly enjoy- ing strahau’s peevishness of interruption; then he would throw open the window and leap down, chanting one of his wild, savage airs; and in another moment he was half hid under the. drooping boughs of a broad lime- tree, amidst the antlers of deer that gathered fondly round him. in the afternoon my host was called away to attend some visitors of importance, and i found myself on the sward before the house, right in view of the mausoleum and alone with margrave. i turned my eyes from that dumb house of death wherein rested the corpse of the last lord of the soil, so strangely murdered, with a strong dcsli'gito speak out to margrave the doubts respecting himself that a s'rsanos s'roar. tortured me. but—setting aside the promise to the contrary, which i had given, or dreamed i had given, to the luminous shadow - to fulfil this desire would have been impossible—impossible to any one gazing on that radiant, youthful face! i think i see him now'as i saw him then: a white doe, that even my presence could not scare away from him, clung loyingly to his side, looking up at him with her soft eyes. he stood there like the incarnate principle of mythological sensuous life. i have before applied to him that illustration; let the repetition be pardoned. impossible, i repeat it, to say to that creature, face to face, “ art thou the master of demoniac arts, and the instigator of secret murder i” as if from redundant happiness within himself, he was humming, or rather cooing, a strain of music, so sweet, so wildly sweet, and so unlike the music one hears from tutored lips in crowded rooms! i passed my hand over my forehead in bewilderment and awe. “ are there,” i said, unconsciously- “ are there, indeed, such prodigies in nature '” “ nature !” he cried, catching up the word; “talk to me of nature! talk of her, the wondrous, blissful mother! mother i may well call her. i am her spoiled. child, her darling but oh, to die, ever to die, ever to lose sight of nature!_to rot, senseless, whether under these turfs or within those dead walls -” i could not resist the answer. " like yon murdered man! murdered, and by whom t” “ by whom ' i thought that was clearly proved.” c a strange s'rom'. “the hand was proved; what influence moved the hand ?” “tush! the poor wretch spoke of a demon. who can tell? nature herself is a grand destroyer. see that pretty bird, in its beak a writhing worm! all nature’s children live to take life; none, indeed, so lavishly as man. what hecatombs slaughtered, not to satisfy the irresistible sting of hunger, but for the wan- ton ostentation of a feast, which he may scarcely taste, or for the mere sport that he finds in destroying. we speak with dread of the beasts of prey: what beast of prey is so dire a ravager as man ?-—so cruel and so treacherous? look at you flock of sheep, bred and fattened for the shambles; and this hind that i caress, —if i were the park-keeper, and her time for my bullet had come, would you think her life was the safer because, in my own idle whim, i had tamed her to trust to the hand raised to slay her ?” “ it is true,” said i — “ a grim truth. nature, on the surface so loving and so gentle, is full of terror in her deeps when our thought descends into their abyss!” strahan now joined us with a party of country visitors. “margrave is the man to show you the beauties of this park,” said he. “margrave knows every bosk and dingle, twisted (ild thorn-tree, or opening glade, in its intricate, undulating ground.” _ margrave seemed delighted at this proposition; and as he led us through the park, though the way was a strange story. long, though the sun was fierce, no one seemed fatigued. for the pleasure he felt in pointing out detached beau- ties which escaped an ordinary eye was contagious. he did not talk as talks the poet or the painter: but at some lovely effect of light amongst the tremulous leaves, some sudden glimpse of a sportive rivulet below, he would halt, point it out to us in silence, and with a kind of childlike ecstasy in his own bright face, that seemed to reflect the life and the bliss of the blithe summer-day itself. thus seen, all my doubts in his dark, secret nature faded away- all my horror, all my hate; it was impos- sible to resist the charm that breathed round him, not to feel a tender, afl‘ectionate yearning towards him as to some fair, happy child. well might be call himself the darling of nature. was he not the mysterious likeness of that awful mother, beautiful as apollo in one aspect, direful as typhon in another? chapter l. “what a strange-looking cane you have, sir i” said a little girl, who was one of the party, and who had en- twined her arm round margrave’s. “ let me look at it." “yes,” said strahan: “ that cane, or rather walking- stafi', is worth looking at. margrave bought it in egypt, and declares that it is very ancient.” ii. - n a srasnoa s'roav. this staff seemed constructed from a reed: looked at, it seemed light, in the hand it felt heavy; it was of a pale, faded yellow, wrought with black rings at equal distances, and graven with half-obliterated characters that seemed hieroglyphic. i remembered to have seen margrave with it before, but i had never noticed it with any attention until now, when it was passed from hand to hand. at the head of the cane there was a large, unpolished stone of a dark blue. “ is this a pebble or a jewel f" asked one of the party. “i cannot tell you its name or nature,” said mar- grave, “but it is said to cure the bite of serpents,* and has other supposed virtues— a talisman, in short. *the following description of a stone at corfu, celebrated as an antidote to the venom of the serpent’s bite, was given to me by an eminent scholar and legal functionary in that island :— “description or the blue srona.-—this stone is of an oval shape, one and two-tenths inches long, seven-tenths inches broad, three-tenths inches thick, and, having been broken formerly, is now set in gold. ‘ “when a person is bitten by a poisonous snake, the bite must be opened by a cut of a laneet or razor longways, and the stone applied within twenty-four hours. the stone then attaches itself firmly to the wound, and when it has done its oflice falls ofl‘; the euro is then complete. the stone must then be thrown into milk, whereupon it vomits the poison it has absorbed, which remains green on the top of the milk, and the stone is then again fit for use. “this stone has been from time immemorial in the family of ventura, of corfu, a house of italian origin, and is notorious, so that peasants immediately apply for its aid. its virtue has not been impaired by the fracture. its nature or composition is unknown. ' "in a case where two were stung at the same time by ser- a smarter: sroav. he here placed the staff in my hands, and bade me look at it with care. then he changed the conversa- tion and renewed the way, leaving the stafl' with me, till, suddenly, i forced it back on him. i could not have explained why, but its touch, as it warmed in my clasp, seemed to send through my whole frame a singu lar thrill, and a sensation as if i no longer felt my own, weight—as if i walked on air. our rambles came to a close; the visitors went away; i re-entered the house through the sash-window of forman’s study; margrave threw his hat and staff on a the table, and amused himself with examining minutely the tracery on the mantel-piece. strahan and myself .left him thus occupied, and, going into the adjoining library, resumed our task of examining the plans for the new house. i continued to draw outlines and sketches pents, the stone was applied to one, who recovered; but the other, for whom it could not be used, died. “it never failed but once, and then it was applied after the twenty-four hours. “its color is so dark as not to be distinguished from black. , “p. m. colquhoui. “corfu, th nov., .” sir emerson tennent, in his popular and excellent work on ceylon, gives an account of “snake stones “ apparently similar to the one at corfu, except that they are “intensely black and highly polished,” and which are applied, in much the same man- ner, to the wounds inflicted by the cobra-capella. query—might it not be worth while to ascertain the chemical properties of these stones, and, if they be eflicacious in the extraction of venom conveyed by a bite, might they not he as successful if applied to the bite of a mad dog as to that of a oubra-capella? a s'raasor: s'roav. of various alterations, tending to simplify: and contract sir philip’s general design. margrave soon joined us, and, this time, took his seat patiently beside our table, watching me use ruler and compass with unwonted attention. “ i wish i could draw,” he said, “ but i can do noth- ing useful.” “ rich men like you,” said strahan, peevishly, “ can engage others, and are better employed in rewarding good artists than in making bad drawings themselves.” “yes, i can employ others; and—fenwick, when you have finished with strahan, i will ask permission to employ you, though without reward; the task i would impose will not take you a minute.” he then threw himself back in his chair, and seemed to fall into a doze. the dressing-bell rang; strahan put away the plans --indeed, they were now pretty well finished and de- cided on. ' margrave woke up as our host left the room, and drawing me towards another table in the room, placed before me one of his favorite mystic books, and, point- ing to an old woodcut, said: ‘ “i will ask you to copy this for me; it pretends to be a fac-simile of solomon’s famous seal. i have a whimsical desire to have a copy of it. you observe two triangles interlaced and inserted in a circle? _the pen- tacle, in short. yes, just so. you need not add the astrological characters; they are the senseless, super- a sraanon story. fluous accessories of the dreamer who wrote the book. but the pentacle itself has an intelligible meaning; it belongs to the only universal language, the language of symbol, in which all races that think—around, and above, and below us—can establish communion of thought. if in the external universe any one construct- ive principle can be detected, it is the geometrical ; and in every part of the world in which magic pretends to a written character, i find that its hieroglyphics are geometrical figures. is it not laughable that the most positive of all the sciences should thus lend its angles and circles to the use of— what shall i call it?— the - ignorance t-ay, that is the word—the ignorance of dealers in magic?” he took up the paper, on which i had hastily described the triangles and the circle, and left the room chanting the serpent-charmer’s song. chapter li. when we separated for the night, which we did at eleven o’clock, margrave said: “good-night and good-bye. i must leave you to- morrow, strahan, and before your usual hour for rising. i took the liberty of requesting one of your men to order me a chaise from l pardon my seeming abruptness, but always avoid long leave-takings, and * . a s'raanes s'roar. — i had fixed the date of my departure almost as soon as i accepted your invitation.” “i have no right to complain. the place must be dull, indeed, to a gay young fellow like you. it is dull even to me. i am meditating flight already. are you going back to l——- i” “not even for such things as i leftat my lodgings. when i settle somewhere and can give an address, i shall direct them to be sent to me. there are, i hear, beautiful patches of scenery towards the north, only known to pedestrian tourists. i am a good walker; ' and you know, fenwick, that i am also a child of nature. adieu to you both; and many thanks to you, strahan, for your hospitality.” he left the room. “i am not sorry he is going,” said strahan, after a pause, and with a quick breath as if of relief. “do you not feel that he exhausts ohe? an excess of oxy- gen, as you would say in a lecture.” i was alone in my own chamber; i felt indisposed for bed and for sleep; the curious conversation i had held with margrave weighed on me. in that conver- sation, we had. indirectly touched upon the prodigies which i had not brought myself to speak of with frank courage, and certainly nothing in margrave’s manner had betrayed consciousness of my suspicions; on the contrary, the open frankness with which he evinced his predilection for mystic speculation, or uttered his more unamiable sentiments, rather tended to disarm than a sraanea story. encourage belief in gloomy secrets or sinister powers. and as he was about to quit the neighborhood, he would not again see lilian, not even enter the town of l was i to ascribe this relief from his presence to the promise of the shadow, or was i not rather right in battling firmly against any grotesque illusion, and accepting his departure as a simple proof that my jeal- ous fears had been amongst my other chimeras, and that, as he had really only visited lilian out of friend ship to me, in my peril, so he might, with his character- istic acuteness, have guessed my jealousy, and ceased his visits from a kindly motive delicately concealed? _ and might not the same motive now have dictated the words which were intended to assure me that l contained no attractions to tempt him to return to it? thus, gradually soothed and cheered by the course to which my reflections led me, i continued to muse for hours. at length, looking at my watch, i was sur- prised to find it was the second hour after midnight. i was just about to rise from my chair to undress, and secure some hours of sleep, when the well-remembered cold wind passed through the room, stirring the roots of my hair; and before me stood, against the wall, the luminous shadow. “ rise and follow me,” said the voice, sounding much nearer than it had ever done before. and at those words i rose mechanically, and like a sleep-walker. “ take up the light.” a s'raanon story. i took it. the scin-latca glided along the wall towards the threshold, and motioned me to open the door. i did so. the shadow flitted on through the corridor. i followed, with hushed footsteps, down a small stair into forman’s study. in all my subsequent proceedings, about to be narrated, the shadow guided me, some- times by voice, sometimes by sign. i obeyed the guidance not only unresistingly, but without a desire to resist. i was unconscious either of curiosity or of awe—only of a calm and passive indifi'erence, neither pleasurable nor painful. in this obedience, from which all will seemed extracted, i took into my hands the staff which i had examined the day before, and which lay on the table, just where margrave had cast it on re-entering the house. i unclosed the shutter to the easement, lifted the sash, and, with the light in my left hand, the stafi' in my right, stepped forth into the gar- den. the night was still; the flame of the candle scarcely trembled in the air; the shadow moved on before me towards the old pavilion described in an ear- lier part of this narrative, and of which the mouldering doors stood wide open. i followed the shadow into the pavilion, up the crazy stair to the room above, with its four great, blank, unglazed windows, or rather arcades, north, south, east, and west. i halted on the middle of the floor;'right before my eyes, through the vista made by breathless boughs, stood out from the moonlit air the dreary mausoleum. then, at the com- a sraanes s'roar. ‘! mand conveyed to me, i placed the candle on a wooden settle, touched a spring in the handle of the staff, a lid flew back, and i drew from the hollow, first a lump of some dark bituminous substance, next a smaller slender wand of polished steel, of which the point was tippeu‘ with a translucent material, which appeared to me like crystal. bending down, still obedient to the direction conveyed to me, i described on the floor with the lump of bitumen (if i may so call it) the figure of the pen- tacle with the interlaced triangles, in a circle nine feet in diameter, just as i had drawn it for margrave the evening before. the material used made the figure perceptible, in a dark color of mingled black and red. i applied the flame of the candle to the circle, and immediately it became lambent with a low, steady splendor that rose about an inch from the floor, and gradually from this light there emanated a soft grey transparent mist and a faint but exquisite odor. i stood in the midst of the circle, and within the circle also, close to my side, stood the scin-laaca; no longer reflected on the wall, but apart from it, erect, rounded into more integral and distinct form, yet impalpable, and from it there breathed an icy air. then lifting the wand, the broader end of which rested in_the palm of my hand, the two forefingers closing lightly over it in a -ine parallel with the point, i directed it towards the wide aperture before me, fronting the mausoleum. i repeated aloud, some words whispered to me in a lan- guage i know not: those words i would not trace on a strange s'ronr. this paper, could i remember them. as they came to a close, i heard a bowl from the watch-dog in the yard —a dismal, lugubrious howl. other dogs in the dis tant village caught up the sound, and bayed in a dirge- like chorus; and the howling went on louder and louder. again strange words were whispered to me, and i repeated them in mechanical submission; and when they, too, were ended, i felt the ground tremble beneath me, and as my eyes looked straight forward down the vista, that, stretching from the casement, was bounded by the solitary mausoleum, vague, formless shadows seemed to pass across the moonlight— below, along the award—above, in the air; and then sud- denly a terror, not before conceived, came upon me. and a third time words were whispered; but, though i knew no more of their meaning than i did of those that had preceded them, i felt a repugnance to utter them aloud. mutely i turned towards the scin-laaca, and the expression of its face was menacing and terrible; my will became yet more compelled to the control imposed upon it, and my lips commenced the formula again whispered into my ear, when i heard distinctly a voice of warning and of anguish, that murmured “ hold ”, i knew the voice; it was lilian’s. i paused—i turned towards the quarter from which the voice had come, and in the space afar i saw the features, the form of lilian. her arms were stretched towards me in supplication, her countenance was deadly pale and anxious with unutterable distress. the whole a s'rrmuoa s'roay. image seemed in unison with the voice; —the look, the attitude, the gesture of one who sees another in deadly peril, and cries, “ beware i” this apparition vanished in a moment; but that moment sufficed to free my mind from the constraint which had before enslaved it. i dashed the wand to the ground, sprang from the circle, rushed from the place. how i got into my own room i can remember not—i know not; i have a vague reminiscence of some intervening wanderings, of giant trees, of shroud-like moonlight, of the shining shadow and its angry aspect, of the blind walls and the iron door of the house of the dead, of spectral images—a confused and dreary phan- tasmagoria. but all i can recall with distinctness is the sight of my own hueless face in the mirror in my own still room, by the light of the white moon through the window; and sinking down, i said to myself, “ this, at least, is an hallucination or a dream i” ‘ chapter lii. a heavy sleep came over me at daybreak, but i did not undress or go to bed. the sun was high in the heavens, when, on waking, i saw the servant who had attended me bustling about the room. ‘ “i beg your pardon, sir, i am afraid i disturbed you; but i have been three times to see if you were not v a sraanos s'roav. coming down, and i found you so soundly asleep i did not like to wake you. mr. strahan has finished break- fast, and gone out riding; mr. margrave has left—left before six o’clock.” “ah, he said he was going early.” “ yes, sir; and he seemed so cross when he went. i could never have supposed so pleasant a gentleman could put himself into such a passion i” “what was the matter ?” " why, his walking-stick could not be found; it was not in the hall. he said he had left it in the study; we could not find it there. at last he found it himself in the old summer-house, and said—i beg pardon, he said-‘ he was sure you had taken it there: that some one, at all events, had been meddling with it.’ how- ever, i am very glad it was found, since he seems to set such store on it.” a “ did mr. margrave go himself into the summer-house to look for it f” “ yes, sir; no one else would have thought of such a place: no one likes to go there, even in the day- time.” “ why ?” “ why, sir, they say it is haunted since poor sir philip’s death; and, indeed, there are strange noises in every part of the house. i am afraid you had a bad night, sir,” continued the servant, with evident curiosity glancing towards the bed, which i had not pressed, and towards the evening-dress, which, while he spoke, i was a strange s'roay rapidly changing for that which i habitually wore in the morning. “ i hope you did not feel yourself ill ?” “no! but it seems i fell asleep in my chair.” “did you hear, sir, how the dogs howled about two o’clock in the morning? they woke me. very frightful l” ' “the moon was at her full. dogs will bay at the moon.” i felt relieved to think that i should not find strahan in the breakfast-room, and hastening through the cere- mony of a meal which i scarcely touched, i went out into the park unobserved, and creeping round the copses and into the neglected gardens, made my way to the pavilion. i mounted the stairs— i looked on the floor of the upper room; yes, there still was the black figure of the pentacle—the circle. , then, it was not a dream! till then i had doubted. or, might it not still be so far a dream, that i had walked in my sleep, and with an imagination preoccupied by my conversations with margrave— by the hieroglyphics on the staff i had handled—by the very figure associated with super- stitious practices which i had copied from some weird book at his request—by all the strange impressions previously stamped on my mind ;—might i not, in truth, have carried thither in sleep the staff, described the circle, and all the rest been but visionary delusion ? surely—surely, so common sense and so julius faber would interpret the riddles that perplexed me! be that as it may, my first thought was to efiace the marks on ii. -- a sraanoa worn. the floor. i found this easier than i had ventured to hope. i rubbed the circle and the pentacle away from the boards with the sole of my foot, leaving but an undistinguishable smudge behind. i know not why, but i felt the more nervously anxious to remove all such evidences of my nocturnal visit to that room, because margrave had so openly gone thither to seek for the staff, and had so rudely named me to the servant as having meddled with it. might be not awake some suspicion against me? suspicion, what of f i knew not, but i feared! , the healthful air of day gradually nerved my spirits and relieved my thoughts. but the place had become hateful to me. i resolved not to wait for strahan’s return, but to walk back to l—-, and leave a message for my host. it was sufficient excuse that i could not longer absent myself from my patients; accordingly, i gave directions to have the few things which i had brought with me sent to my house by any servant who might be going to l—, and was soon pleased to find myself outside the park-gates and on the high-road i had not gone a mile before i met strahan on horse- back. he received my apologies for not waiting his return to bid him farewell, without observation, and, dismounting, led his horse and walked beside me on my road. i saw that there was something on his mind; at last he said, looking down : “did you hear the dogs howl last night?” “ yes! the full moon l” a swimsuit s'roar. “ you were awake, then, at the time. did you hear any other sound? did you see anything?” “ what should i hear or see ?” strahan was silent for some moments; then he said, with great seriousness: “i could not sleep when i went to bed last night; i felt feverish and restless. somehow or other, mar- grave got into my head, mixed up in some strange way with sir philip derval. i heard the dogs how], and, at the same time, or rather a few minutes later, i felt the whole house tremble, as a frail corner-house in london seems to tremble at night when a carriage is driven past it. the howling .had then ceased, and ceased as suddenly as it had begun. i felt a vague superstitious alarm; i got up, and went to my window, which was unclosed (it is my habit to sleep with my windows open)—the moon was very bright—and i saw, i declare i saw, along the green alley that leads from the old part of the house to the mausoleum no, i will not say what i saw or believed i saw-you would ridicule me, and justly. but, whatever it might be, on the earth without or in the fancy within my brain, i was so terrified, that i rushed back to my bed, and buried my face in my pillow. i would have come to you; but i did not dare to stir. i have been riding hard all the morning in order to recover my nerves. but i dread sleeping again under that roof, and now that you and margrave leave me, i shall go this very day to london. i hope all that i have told you is ) a s'raanea sroar. no bad sign of any coming disease; blood to the head, eh f” “no; but imagination overstrained can produce wondrous efl'ects. you do right to change the scene. go to london at once, amuse yourself, and —" “not return, till the old house is razed to the ground. that is my resolve. you approve? that’s well. all success to you, fenwick. i will center back and get my portmanteau ready and the carriage out, in time for the five o’clock train.” so then he, too, had seen—what? i did not dart and i did not desire to ask him. but he, at least, was not walking in his sleep! did we both dream, or neither? chapter liii. tunas is an instance of the absorbing tyranny of every-day life which must have struck all such of my readers as have ever experienced one of those portents which are so at variance with every-day life, that the ordinary epithet bestowed on them is “ supernatural.” and be my readers few or many, there will be no small proportion of them to whom, once, at least in the course of their existence, a something strange and eirie has occurred—a something which perplexed and baf- fled rational conjecture, and struck on those chords a s'raanoa sroar. which vibrate to superstition. it may have been only a dream unaccountably verified—an undefinable pre- sentiment or forewarning; but up from such slighter and vaguer tokens of the realm of marvel—up to the portents of ghostly apparitions or haunted chambers, i believe that the greater number of persons arrived at middle age, however instructed the class, however civilized the land, .however skeptical the period, to which they belong, have either in themselves expe- rienced, or heard recorded by intimate associates whose veracity they accept as indisputable in all ordinary transactions of life—phenomena which are not to be solved by the wit that mocks them, nor, perhaps, always and entirely, to the contentment “of the reason or the philosophy that explains them away. such phenomena, i say, are infinitely more numerous than would appear from the instances currently quoted and dismissed with a jest; for few of those who have wit- nessed them are disposed to own it, and they who only hear of them through others, however trustworthy, would not impugn their character for common sense by professing a belief to which common sense is a merci ‘ less persecutor. but he who reads my assertion in the quiet of his own room will, perhaps, pause, ransack his memory, and find there, in some dark corner, which he excludes from “the babbling and remorseless day,” a pale recollection that proves the assertion not untrue. and it is, i say, an instance of the absorbing tyranny of every-day life, that whenever some such startling * i a s'raasos areas. our afl‘ections, or blast our fortunes, overshadowing our whole future with a sense of loss; but where a trouble or calamity has been an accident, an episode in our wonted life, where it affects ourselves alone, where it is attended with a sense of shame and humiliation, where the pain of recalling it seems idle, and if indulged would almost madden us-a-gonies of that kind we do not brood over as we do over the death or falsehood of beloved friends, or the train of events by which we are reduced from wealth to penury. no one, for instance, who has escaped from a shipwreck, from the brink of a precipice, from the jaws of a tiger, spends his days and nights in reviving his terrors past, re-imagining dangers not to occur again, or if they do occur, from which the experience undergone can suggest no additional safe- guards. the current of our life, indeed, like that of the rivers, is most rapid in the midmost channel, where all streams are alike comparatively slow in the depth and along the shores in which each life, as each river, has a character peculiar to itself. and hence, those who would sail with the tide of the world, as those who sail with the tide of a river, hasten to take the middle of the stream, as those who sail against the tide are found clinging to the shore. i returned to my habitual duties and avocations with renewed energy; i did not suffer my thoughts to dwell on the dreary wonders that had haunted me, from the evening i first met sir philip derval to the morning on which i had quitted the house of his heir: whether realities or hallucinations a sraanea sroay. no guess of mine could unravel such marvels, and no prudence of mine guard me against their repetition. but i had no fear that they would be repeated, any more than the man who had gone through shipwreck, or the hair-breadth escape from a fall down a glacier, fears again to be found in a similar peril. margrave had departed, whither i knew not, and, with his depar- ture, ceased all sense of his influence. a certain calm within me, a tranquillizing feeling of relief, seemed to me like a pledge of permanent delivery. but that which did accompany and haunt me, through all my occupations and pursuits, was the melancholy remembrance of the love i had lost in lilian. i heard from mrs. ashleigh, who still frequently visited me, that her daughter seemed much in the same quiet state of mind- perfectly reconciled to our separation— seldom mentioning my name—if mentioning it, with indiffer- ence; the only thing remarkable in her state was her aversion to all society, and a kind of lethargy that would come over her, often in the daytime. she would sud- denly fall into sleep and so remain for hours, but a sleep that seemed very serene and tranquil, and from which she awoke of herself. she kept much within her own room, and always retired to it when visitors were an- nounced. mrs. ashleigh began reluctantly to relinquish the per- suasion she had so long and so obstinately maintained, that this state of feeling towards myself — and, indeed, this general change in lilian --was but temporary and a s'raanen s'rosv. abnormal; she began to allow that it was best to drop; all thoughts of a renewed engagement—a future union. i proposed to see lilian in her presence and in my pro- fessional capacity; perhaps some physical cause, espe- cially for this lethargy, might be detected and removed. mrs. ashleigh owned to me that the idea had occurred to herself; she had sounded lilian upon it; but her daughter had so resolutely opposed it—had said with so quiet a firmness “that all being over between us, a visit from me would be unwelcome and painful ;” that mrs. ashleigh felt that an interview thus deprecated, would only confirm estrangement. one day, in calling, she asked my advice whether it would not be better to try the effect of change of air and scene, and, in some other place, some other medical opinion might be taken i i approved of this suggestion with unspeakable sadness. “and,” said mrs. ashleigh, shedding tears, “if that experiment prove unsuccessful, i will write and let you know; and we must then consider what to say to the world as a reason why the marriage is broken ofi'. i can render this more easy by staying away. i will not return to l— till the matter has ceased to be the topic of talk, and at a distance any excuse be less ques- tioned, and seem more natural. but still-still—let us hope still.” “ have you one ground for hope f" “ perhaps so; but you will think it very frail and tallaeious.” “name it, and let me judge.” a strange s'roar. “ one night—in which you were on a visit to derval court ” “ay, that night.” - “ lilian woke me by a loud cry (she sleeps in the next room to me, and the door was left open); i has- tened to her bedside in alarm; she was asleep, but appeared extremely agitated and convulsed. she kept calling on your name, in a tone of passionate fondness, but as if in great terror. she cried, ‘do not go, allen? -—do not gol— you know not what you brave ! -— what you do p then she rose in her bed, clasping her hands. her face was set and rigid; i tried to awake her, but could not. after a little time, she breathed a deep sigh, and murmured, ‘allen, allen! dear love! did you not hearf—did you not see me? what could thus baflie matter and traverse space but love and soul? can you still doubt me, allen?—doubt that i love you now, shall love you evermore ? -— yonder, yonder, as here below? she then sank back on her pillow, weeping, and then i woke her.”’ “and what did she say on waking ?" “ she did not remember what she had dreamed, except that she had passed through some great terror; but added, with a vague smile, ‘it is all over, and i feel happy now.’ then she turned round and fell asleep again, but quietly as a child, the tears dried, the smile resting.” “ go, my dear friend, go; take lilian from this place as soon as you can ; divert her mind with fresh scenes a era/mes s'roav. 'ii i hopel—i do hope! 'lct me know where you fix yourself. i will seize a holiday—i need one; i will arrange as to my patients—i will come to the same place; she need not know of it—but i must be by to watch, to hear your news of her. heaven bless you for what you have said! i hope l-i do hope!” chapter liv. seam days after, i received a few lines from mrs. ashleigh. her arrangements for departure were made. they were to start the next morning. she had fixed on going into the north of devonshire, and staying some weeks either at ilfracombe or lynton, whichever place lilian preferred. she would write as soon as they were settled. i was up at my usual, early hour the next morning i resolved to go out towards mrs. ashleigh’s house, and watch, unnoticed, where i might, perhaps, catch a glimpse of lilian as the carriage that would convey he to the railway passed my hiding-place. i was looking impatiently at. the clock; it was yet two hours before the train by which mrs. ashleigh pro- posed to leave. a loud ring at my belll i opened the door. mrs. ashleigh rushed in, falling on my breast. “ lilian! lilian l” “ heavens i what has happened f” a strange sroar. “ she has left—she is gone—gone away! oh, allen! howf—whither? advise me. what is to be done t” ' “ come in—compose yourself - tell me all—clearly, quickly. lilian gone —- gone away? impossible! she must be hid somewhere in the house — the garden ; she, perhaps, did not like the journey. she may have crept to some young friend’s house. but i talk when you should talk: tell me all.” little enough to tell ! lilian had seemed unusually cheerful the night before, and pleased at the thought of the excursion. mother and daughter retired to rest early : mrs. ashleigh saw lilian sleeping quietly before she herself went to bed. she woke betimes in the morning, dressed herself, went into the next room to call lilian—lilian was not there. no suspicion of flight occurred to her. perhaps her daughter might be up already, and gone downstairs, remembering some- thing she might wish to pack and take with her on the journey. mrs. ashleigh was confirmed in this idea when she noticed that her own room door was left open. she went downstairs, met a maidservant in the hall, who told her, with alarm and surprise, that both the street and garden doors were found unclosed. no one- had seen lilian. mrs. ashleigh now became seriously uneasy. on remounting to her daughter’s room, she missed lilian’s bonnet and mantle. the house and garden were both searched in vain. there could be no doubt that lilian had gone-must have stolen noise- a s'raauez near. ' lessly at night through her mother‘s room, and let her- self out of the house and through the garden. “do you think she could have received any letter, any message, any visitor unknown to you i” “i cannot think it. why do you ask? oh, allen, you do not believe there is any accomplice in this dis- appearance! no, you do not believe it. but my child's honorl what will the world think i” n ot for the world cared i at that moment. i could think only of lilian, and without one suspicion that imputed blame to her. “ be quiet, be silent; perhaps she has gone on some visit, and will return. meanwhile, leave inquiry to me.” chapter lv. i'r seemed incredible that lilian could wander far without being observed. i soon ascertained that she had not gone away by the railway —by any public con- veyance—had hired no carriage; she must therefore be still in the town, or have left it on foot. the greater part of the day was consumed in unsuccessful inquiries, and faint hopes that she would return; meanwhile, the news of her disappearance had spread; how could such news fail to do so? an acquaintance of mine met me under the archwa_v ii. — a strange stern. of monks’ gate. he wrung my hand, and looked at me with great compassion. i “ i fear,” said he, “that we were all deceived in that young margrave. he seemed so well conducted, in spite of his lively manners. but ” “ but what ?” “mrs. ashleigh was, perhaps, imprudent to admit him into her house so familiarly. he was certainly very handsome. young ladies will be romantic.” “how dare you, sirl” i cried, choked with rage “and without any coloring to so calumnious a sugges tionl margrave has not been in the town for many days. no one knows even where he is.” “oh yes, it is known where he is. he wrote to order the effects which he had left here to be sent to penrith.” “when i” “the letter arrived the day before yesterday. i hap- pened to be calling at the house where he last lodged, when at l——, the house opposite mrs. ashleigh’s garden. ' no doubt the servants in both houses gossip with each other.“ miss ashleigh could scarcely fail to hear of mr. margrave’s address from her maid; and since servants will exchange gossip, they may also con- vey letters. pardon me, you know i am your friend.” “ not from the moment you breathe a word against my betrothed wife,” said i, fiercely. i wrenched myself from the clasp of the man’s hand, but his words still rang in my ears. i mounted my a strange s'roar. horse; i rode into the adjoining suburbs, the neighbor- ing villages; there, however, i learned nothing till, just at nightfall, in a hamlet about ten miles from l , a laborer declared he had seen a young lady dressed as i described, who passed by him in a path through the fields a little before noon; that he was surprised to see one so young, so well dressed, and a stranger to the neighborhood (for he knew by sight the ladies of the few families scattered round), walking alone; that, as he stepped out of the path to make way for her, he looked hard into her face, and she did not heed him— seemed to gaze right before her, into space. if her expression had been less quiet and gentle, he should have thought, he could scarcely say why, that she was not quite right in her mind-there was a strange, unconscious stare in her eye, as if she were walking in her sleep. her pace was very steady-neither quick nor slow. he had watched her till she passed out of sight, amidst a wood through which the path wound its way to a village at some distance. i followed up this clue. i arrived at the village to which my informant directed me, but night had set in. most of the houses were closed, so i could glean no further information from the cottages or at the inn. but the police superintendent of the district lived in the village, and to him i gave instructions which i had not given, and, indeed, would have been disinclined to give, to the police at l——. he was intelligent and kindly: he promised to communicate at once with the a strange s'roar. difi'erent police-stations for miles round, and with all delicacy and privacy. it was not probable that lilian could have wandered in one day much farther than the place at which i then was; it was scarcely to be con- ceived that she could baffle my pursuit and the practised skill of the police. i rested but a few hours, at a small public-house, and was on horseback again at dawn. a little after sunrise i again heard of the wanderer. at a lonely cottage, by a brick-kiln, in the midst of a wide common, she had stopped the previous evening, and asked for a draught of milk. the woman who gave it to her inquired if she had lost her way? she said “no;” and, only tarrying a few minutes, had gone across the common; and the woman supposed she was a visitor at a gentleman’s house which was at the farther end of the waste, for the path she took led to no town, no village. it occurred to me, then, that lilian avoided all high-roads, all places, even the humblest, where men congregated together. but where could she have passed the night? not to fatigue the reader 'with the fruitless result of frequent inquiries, i will but say that at the end of the second day i had succeeded in ascertaining that i was still on her track; and though i had ridden to and fro nearly double the distance-coming back again to places i had left behind—it was at the dis- tance of forty miles from l that i last heard of her that second day. she had been seen sitting alone by a little brook only an hour before. i was led to the very spot by a woodman—it was at the hour of twilight i a strange near. ? when he beheld her—she was leaning her face on her hand, and seemed weary. he spoke to her; she did not answer, but rose, and resumed her way along the banks of the streamlet. that night i put up at no inn; i followed the course of the brook for miles, then struck into every path that i could conceive her to have taken -—in vain. thus i consumed the night on foot, tying my horse to a tree, for he was tired out, and returning to him at sunrise. at noon, the third day, i again heard of her, and in a remote, savage part of the country. the features of the landscape were changed; there was little foliage and little culture, but the ground was broken into mounds and hollows, and covered with patches of heath and stunted brushwood. she had been seen by a shepherd, and he made the same obser- vation as the first who had guided me on her track- she looked to him " like some one walking in her sleep.” an hour or two later, in a dell, amongst the furze- bushes, i chanced on a knot of ribbon. i recognized the color lilian habitually wore; i felt certain that the ribbon was hers. calculating the utmost speed i could ascribe to her, she could not be far off, yet still i failed to discover. the scene now was as solitary as a desert; i met no one on my way. at length, a little after sunset, i found myself in view of the sea. a small town nestled below the cliffs, on which i was guiding my weary horse. i entered the town, and while my horse was baiting went in search of the resident police~ man. the information i had directed to be sent round . a s'raanoa near. the country had reached him; he had acted on it_ but without result. i was surprised to hear him address me by name, and looking at him more narrowly, i recog- nized him for the policeman waby. this young man had always expressed so grateful a sense of my attend- ance on his sister, and had, indeed, so ‘notably evinced his gratitude in prosecuting with margrave the inquiries which terminated in the discovery of sir philip derval’s murderer, that i confided to him the name of the wanderer, of which he had not been previously informed; but which it would be, indeed, impossible to conceal from him should the search in which his aid was asked prove successful—as he knew miss ashleigh by sight. his face immediately became thoughtful. he paused a minute or two, and then said: “i think i have it, but i do not like to say; i may pain you, sir.” “not by confidence; you pain me by concealment.” the man hesitated still; i encouraged him, and then he spoke out frankly. “ sir, did you never think it strange that mr. mar~ grave should move from his handsome rooms in the hotel to a somewhat uncomfortable lodging, from the window of which he could look down. on mrs. ash- leigh’s garden? i have seen him at night in the bal- cony of that window, and when i noticed him going so frequently into mrs. ashleigh’s house during your unjust detention, i own, sir, i felt for you ” “nonsense! mr. margrave went to mrs. ashleigh’s a strange s'roar. kind, in the house of a man known as a desperate smuggler, suspected to be worse ?—order a yacht to meet him here; is not all this strange ? but would it be strange if- he were waiting for a young lady? and if a young lady has fled at night from her home, and has come secretly along by-paths, which must have been very fully explained to her beforehand, and is now near that young gentleman’s lodging, if not actually in it— if this be so, why, the affair is not so very strange after all. and now do you forgive me, sir?” “ where is this house? lead me to it.” “ you can hardly get to it except on foot; rough walk- ing, sir, and about seven miles off by the shortest cut." “ come, and at once ; come quickly. we must be there before — before -—-” “before the young lady can get to the place. well, from what you say of the spot in which she was last seen, i think, on reflection, we mgy easily do that. i am at your service, sir. but i should warn you that the owners of the house, man and wife, are both of vil- lanous character_ would do anything for money. mr. margrave, no doubt, has money enough ; and if the young lady chooses to go away with mr. margrave, you know i have no power to help it.” “leave all that to me; all i ask of you is to show me the house.” . we were seen out of the town; the night had closed in; it was very dark, in spite of a few stars; the path was rugged and precipitous, sometimes skirting the very a strange story. brink of perilous cliffs; sometimes delving down to the sea-shore—there stopped by rock or wave — and pain- fully rewinding up the ascent. “ it is an ugly path, sir, but it saves four miles; and anyhow the road is a bad one.” we came, at last, to a few wretched fishermen’s huts. the moon had now risen, and revealed the squalor of poverty-stricken, ruinous hovels; a couple of boats moored to the shore; a moaning, fretful sea; and at a distance, a vessel, wi.th lights on board, lying perfectly still at anchor in a sheltered curve of the bold, rude shore. the policeman pointed to the vessel. “ the yacht, sir; the wind will be in her favor if she sails to night.” we quickened our pace as well' as the nature of the path would permit, left the huts behind us, and, about a mile farther on, came to a. solitary house, larger than, from the policeman’s description of margrave’s lodg- ment, i should have presupposed: a house that in the wilder parts of scotland might be almost a laird’s; but even in the moonlight it ked very dilapidated and desolate. most of the windows were closed, some with panes broken, stuffed with wisps of straw; there were the remains of a wall round the house; it was broken in some parts—only its foundation left. on approaching the house, i observed two doors—one on the side fronting the see, one on the other side facing a patch of broken ground that might once have been a garden, and lay waste within the enclosure of the ruined l‘ a sraanoa s'roav. wall, encumbered with various litter- heaps of rubbish, a ruined shed, the carcass of a worn-out boat. this latter door stood wide open—the other _was closed. the house was still and dark, as if either deserted, or all within it retired to rest. “i think that open door leads at once to the rooms mr. margrave hires; he can go in and out without dis- turbing the other inmates. they used to keep, on the side which they inhabit, a beer-house, but the magis- trates shut it up; still it is a reso'rt for bad characters. now, sir, what shall we do ?" “watch separately. you wait within the enclosure of the wall, hid by those heaps of rubbish, near the door; none can enter but what you will observe them. if you see her, you will accost and stop her, and call aloud for me; i shall be in hearing. i will go back to the high part of the ground yonder-it seems to me that she must pass that way; and i would desire, if possible, to save her from the humiliation, the-the shame of coming within the precincts of that man’s abode. i feel i may trust you now and hereafter. it is a great thing for the happiness and honor of this poor young lady and her mother, that i may be able to declare that i did not take her from that man, from any man— from that house, from any house. you com- prehend me, and will obey? i speak to you as a con- fidant—a friend.” “i thank you with my whole heart, sir, for so doing. you saved my sister’s life, and the least i can do is to a s'raanon story. keep secret all that would pain your life if blabbed abroad. i know what mischief folks’ tongues can make i will wait by the door, never fear, and will rather lose my place than not strain all the legal power i possess to keep the young lady back from sorrow.” this dialogue was interchanged in close, hurried whisper behind the broken wall, and out of all hearing. waby now crept through a wide gap into the enclosure, and nestled himself silently amidst the wmcks of the broken boat, not six feet from the open door, and close to the wall of the house itself. i went back some thirty yards up the road, to the rising ground which i had pointed out to him. according to the best calcula- tion i could make—considering the pace at which i had cleared the precipitous pathway, and reckoning from the place and time at which lilian had been last seen—she could not possibly have yet entered that house. i might presume it would be more than half an hour before she could arrive; i was in hopes that, during the interval, margrave might show himself, perhaps at the door, or from the windows, or i might even by some light from the latter be guided to the room in which to find him. if, after waiting a reasonable time, lilian should fail to appear, i had formed my plan of action; but it was important for the success of that plan that i should not lose myself in the strange house, nor bring its owners to margrave’s aid—that i should surprise him alone and unawares. half an hour, three-quarters, \ whole hour thus passed—no sign of my poor wan- ‘ a strange sroay. derer; but signs there were of the enemy, from whom i resolved, at whatever risk, to free and to save her. a window on the ground-floor to the left of the door, which had long fixed my attention because i had seen light through the chinks of the shutters, slowly un- closed, the shutters fell back, the easement opened, and i beheld m argrave distinctly; he held something in his hand that gleamed in the moonlight, directed not towards thomound on which i stood, nor towards the path i had taken, but towards an open space beyond the ruined wall, to the right. bid by a cluster of stunted shrubs, i watched him with a heart that beat with rage, not with terror. he seemed so intent in his own gaze, as to be unheeding or unconscious of all else. i stole from my post, and, still under cover, sometimes of the broken wall, sometimes of the shaggy ridges that skirted the path, crept on, on till i reached the side of the house itself; then, there, secure from his eyes, should he turn them, i stepped over the ruined wall, scarcely two feet high in that place, on—on towards the door. i passed the spot on which the policeman had shrouded himself; he was seated, his back against the ribs of the broken boat. i put my hand to his mouth that he might not cry out in sur- prise, and whispered in his ear; he stirred not. i shook him by the arm; still be stirred not. a ray of the moon fell on his face. i saw that he was in a profound slumber. persuaded that it was no natural sleep, and that he had become useless to me, [ passed him by. i a strange sroav. was at the threshold of the open door; the light from the window close by falling on the ground; i was in the passage; a glimmer came through the chinks of a door to the left; i turned the handle noiselessly; and, the next moment, margrave was locked in my grasp.- “ call out,” i hissed in his ear, “ and i strangle you before any one can come to your help i ” he did not call out; his eye, fixed on mine as he writhed round, saw, perhaps, his peril if he did. his countenance betrayed fear, but as i tightened my grasp that expression gave way to one of wrath and fierce- ness; and as, in turn, i felt the grip of his hand, i knew that the struggle between us would be that of two strong men, each equally bent on the mastery of the other. a i was, as i have said before, endowed with an un- usual degree of physical power, disciplined in early youth by athletic exercise and contest. in height and in muscle i had greatly the advantage over my an- tagonist, but such was the nervous vigor, the elastic energy of his incomparable frame, in which sinews seemed springs of steel, that had our encounter been one in which my strength was less heightened by rage, i believe that i could no more have coped with him than the bison can cope with the boa; but i was ani- mated by that passion which trebles for a time all our forces—which makes even the weak man a match for the strong. i felt that if i were worsted, disabled, stricken down, lilian might be lost in losing her sole il.— ' -a summer: s'roav. protector; and on the other hand, margrave had been taken at the disadvantage of that surprise which will half unnerve the fiercest of the wild beasts; while, as we grappled, reeling and rocking to and fro in our struggle, i soon observed that his atteption was dis- tracted-that his eye was turned towards an object which he had dropped involuntarily when i first seized him. he sought to drag me towards that object, and when near it stooped to seize it. it was a bright, slender, short wand of steel. i remembered when and where i had seen it, whether in my waking state or in vision; and as his hand stole down to take it from the floor, i set on the wand my strong foot. i cannot tell by what rapid process of thought and association i came to the belief that the possession of a little piece of blunted steel would decide the conflict in favor of the possessor, but the struggle now was concentrated on the attain- ment of that seemingly idle weapon. i was becoming breathless and exhausted, while margrave seemed every moment to gather up new force, when, collecting all my strength for one final efi‘ort, i lifted him suddenly high in the air, and hurled him to the farthest end of the cramped arena to which our contest was confined. he fell, and with a force by which most men would have been stunned; but he recovered himself with a quick rebound, and, as he stood facing me, there was some- thing grand as well as terrible in his aspect. his eyes literally flamed, as those of a tiger; his rich hair, flung back from his knitted forehead, seemed to erect itself as a strange story. he moved his head as in sign of deprecating sub- mission. “ you hear and understand me ? speak l ” his lips faintly muttered, “yes.” “ i command you to answer truly the questions i shall address to you.” “i must while yet sensible of the power that has passed to your hand.” “ is it by some occult magnetic property in this wand that you have exercised so demoniac an influence over a creature so pure as lilian ashleigh f” “ by that wand and by other arts which you could not comprehend.” ‘ “ and for what infamous object?—her seduction, her dishonor ? ” “ nol i sought in her the aid of a gift which would cease, did she cease to be pure. at first i but cast my influence upon her that through her i might influence yourself. i needed your help to discover a secret. circumstances steeled your mind against me. i could no longer hope that you would voluntarily lend yourself to my will. meanwhile, i had found in her the light of a loftier knowledge than that of your science; through that knowledge, duly heeded and cultivated, i hoped to divine what i cannot of myself discover. therefore i deepened over her mind the spells i command—there- fore i have drawn her hither as the loadstone draws the steel, and therefore i would have borne her with me to the shores to which i was about this night to sail. i a warmer: sroay. had cast the inmates of the house and all around it, into slumber, in order that none might witness her departure; had i not done so, i should have summoned others to my aid, in spite of your threat.” “and would lilian ashleigh have passively accom- panied you, to her own irretrievable disgrace ? ” “ she could not have helped it; she would have been unconscious of her acts; she was, and is, in a trance; nor, had she gone with me, would she have waked from that state while she lived-that would not have been long.” “ wretchl and for what object of unhallowed curiosity do you exert an influence which withers away the life of its victim?” “ not curiosity, but the instinct of self-preservation. i count on no life beyond the grave. i would defy the grave, and live on.” ' “ and was it to learn, through some ghastly agencies, the secret of renewing existence, that you lured me by the shadow of your own image on the night when we met last?” the voice of margmve here became very faint as he answered me, and his countenance began to exhibit the signs of an exhaustion almost mortal. “ be quick,” he murmured, “or i die. the fluid which emanates from that wand, in the hand of one who envenoms the fluid with his own hatred and rage, will prove fatal to my life. lower the wand from my forehead; low — low ; — lower still l ” a! a strange s'roav. “what was the nature of that rite in which you con- strained me to share?” “i cannot say. you are killing me. enough that you were saved from a great danger by the apparition of the protecting image vouchsafed to your eye; other- wise you would-you would—oh, release mel away! away i” the foam gathered to his lips; his limbs became fearfully convulsed. - “ one question more: where is lilian at this moment? answer that question, and i depart.” he raised his head, made a visible effort to rally his strength, and gasped out— k “ yonder. pass through the open space up the clifl', beside a thorn-tree—you will find her there, where she halted when the wand dropped from my hand. but— but— beware! hal you will serve me yet, and through herl they said so that night, though you heard them not. they said it!” here his face became death-like; he pressed his hand on his heart, and shriekod out, “away-away l or you are my murderer!” i retreated to the other end of the room, turning the wand from him, and when i gained the door, looked back; his convulsions had ceased, but he seemed locked in a profound swoon. i left the room—the house- paused by waby; he was still sleeping. “awake!” i said, and touched him with the wand. he started up at once, rubbed his eyes, began stammeriug out excuses. i checked them, and bade him follow me. i took the a s'rnanoa s'roay. way up the open ground towards which margrave had pointed the wand, and there, motionless, beside a gnarled, fantastic thorn-tree, stood lilian. her arms were folded across her breast; her face, seen by the moonlight, looked up so innocent and so infantine, that i needed no other evidence to tell me how unconscious she was of the peril to which her steps had been drawn. i took her gently by the hand. “come with me," i said in a whisper, and she obeyed me silently, and with a placid smile. rough though the way, she seemed unconscious of fatigue. i placed her arm in mine, but she did not lean on it. we got back to the town. i obtained there an old chaise and a pair of horses. at morning lilian was under her mother’s roof. about the noon of that day fever seized her; she became rapidly worse, and, to all appearance, in imminent danger. delirium set in; i watched beside her night and day, supported by an inward conviction of her recovery, but tortured by the sight of her sufferings. on the third day a change for the better became visible; her sleep was calm, her breathing regular. shortly afterwards she woke out of danger. her eyes fell at once on me, with all their old inefi'able tender sweetness. ‘ “ oh, allen, beloved, have i not been very ill? but i am almost well now. do not weep; i shall live for you—for your sake.” and she bent forward, drawing my hand from my streaming eyes, and kissing me with a child’s guileless kiss on my burning forehead. a sraanoa s'roar. chapter lvi. lilian recovered, but the strange thing was this: all memory of the weeks that had elapsed since her return from visiting her aunt was completely obliterated; she seemed in profound ignorance of the charge on which i had been confined—perfectly ignorant even of the existence of margrave. she had, indeed, a very vague reminiscence of her conversation with me in the garden-the first conversation which had ever been embittered by a disagreement—but that disagreement itself she did not recollect. her belief was that she had been ill and light-headed since that evening. from that evening to the hour of her waking, conscious and revived, all was a blank. her love for me was restored, as if the thread had never been broken. some such instances of oblivion after bodily illness or mental shock are familiar enough to the practice of all medical men ;* " such instances of suspense of memory are recorded in most physiological and in some metaphysical works. dr. abercrombie notices some, more or less similar to that related in the text:— “a young lady who was present at a catastrophe in scotland, in which many people lost their lives by the fall of the gallery of a church, escaped without any injury, but with the complete loss of the recollection of any of the ircumstances; and this extended not only to the accident, but to everything that had occurred to her for a certain time before going to church. a lady whom i attended some years ago in a protracted illness, in which her memory became much impaired, lost the recollection of a period of about ten or twelve years, but spoke with perfect consistency of things as they stood before that time." dr. aber- a s'raanes sroav. and i was therefore enabled to appease the anxiety and wonder of mrs. ashleigh, by quoting various examples of loss, or suspension, of memory. we agreed that it would be necessary to break to lilian, though very cautiously, the story of sir philip derval’s murder, and the charge to which i had been subjected. she could not fail to hear of those events from others. how shall i express her womanly terror, her loving, sympathizing pity, on hearing the tale, which i softened as well as i could ? “and to think that i knew nothing of thisl” she cried, clasping my hand; “ to think that you were in peril, and that i was not by your side ” her mother spoke of margrave as a visitor— an agreeable, lively stranger; lilian could not even recol- lect his name, but she seemed shocked to think that any visitor had been admitted while i was in circumstances so awful! need i say that our engagement was renewed? renewed! to her knowledge and to her heart it had never been interrupted for a moment. but oh! the malignity of a wrong worldl ohl that strange lust of mangling reputations, which seizes on hearts the least wantonly cruel let two idle tongues utter a tale against some third person, who never ofi'ended the bab- crombie adds: “ as far as i have been able to trace it, the prin- ciple in such cases seems to be, that when the memory is impaired to a certain degree, the loss of it extends backward to some event or some period by which a particularly deep impression had been made upon the mind.”-—abercrombie n the intellectual powers, pages , ( th edition). a summon s'ronr. blers, and how the tale spreads, like fire, lighted none know how, in'the herbage of an american prairie? ivho shall put it out? what right have we to pry into the secrets of other men’s hearths? true or false, the tale that is gab- bled to us, what concern of ours can it be? i speak not of cases to which the law has been summoned, which law has sifted, on which law has pronounced. but how, when the law is silent, can we assume its verdicts? how be all judges, where there has been no witness-box, no cross-examination, no jury ? yet, every day we put on our ermine, and make ourselves judges -judges sure to condemn, and on what evidence? that which no court of law will receive. somebody has said something to somebody, which somebody re- peats to everybody! the gossip of l liliau’s fair name. no ladies had called or sent to con- had set in full'current against gratulate mrs. ashleigh on her return, or to inquire after lilian herself during her struggle between life and death. how i missed the queen of the hill at this critical moment! how i longed for aid to crush the slander, with which i knew not how to grapple—aid in her knowledge of the world, and her ascendancy over its judgments! i had heard from her once since her absence, briefly but kindly expressing her amazement at the inefi'able stupidity which could for a moment have subjected me to a suspicion of sir philip derval’a a s'rsauos sronr. strange murder, and congratulating rne heartily on my complete vindication from so monstrous a charge. to this letter no address was given. i supposed the omis- sion to be accidental, but on calling at her house to inquire her direction, i found that her servants did not know it. what, then, was my joy when, just at this juncture, i received a note from mrs. poyntz, stating that she had returned the night before, and would be glad to see me. i hastened to her house. “ah,” thought i, as i sprang lightly up the ascent to the hill, how the tattlers will be silenced by a word from her imperial lipsl” and only just as i approached her door did it strike me how difficult—nay, how impossible to explain to her—- the hard, positive woman, her who had, less ostensibly but more ruthlessly than myself, destroyed dr. lloyd for his belief in the comparatively rational pretensions of clairvoyance—all the mystical excuses for lilian’s flight from her home? how speak to her—or, indeed, to any one—about an occult fascination and a magic wand? no matter; surely it would be enough to say that, at the time, lilian had been light-headed, under the influence of the fever which had afterwards nearly proved fatal. the early friend of anne ashleigh would not be a severe critic on any tale that might right the good name of anne ashleigb’s daughter. so assured, with a light heart and cheerful face, i followed the ser- . vant into the great lady’s pleasant but decorous pres- ence-chamber. p a arr-anon srosr. , chapter lvii. mas. pornrz was on her favorite seat by the window, and, for a wonder, not knitting—that classic task seemed done ; but she was smoothing and folding the completed work with her white, comely hand, and smiling over it, as if in complacent approval, when i entered the room. at the fireside sat the he-colonel, inspecting a newly-invented barometer; at another window, in the farthest recess of the room, stood miss jane poyntz, with a young gentleman whom ‘i had never before seen, but who turned his eyes full upon me with a haughty look as the servant announced my name. he was tall, well-proportioned, decidedly handsome, but with that expression of cold and concentrated self-esteem in his very attitude, as well as his countenance, which makes a man of merit unpopular, a man without merit ridiculous. the he-colonel, always punctiliously civil, rose from his seat, shook hands with me cordially, and said, “ coldish weather to-day; but we shall have rain to- morrow. rainy seasons come in cycles. we are about to commence a cycle of them with heavy showers.” he sighed, and returned to his barometer. miss jane bowed to me graciously enough, but was evidently a little confused, a circumstance which might well attract my notice, for i had never before seen that high-bred young lady deviate a hair’s breadth from the a s-raanen sroar. even tenor of a manner admirable for a cheerful and courteous ease, which, one felt convinced, would be unaltered to those around her, if an earthquake swal- lowed one up an inch before her feet. the young gentleman continued to eye me loftily. as the heir-apparent to some celestial planet might eye an inferior creature from a half-formed nebula suddenly dropped upon his sublime and perfected star. mrs. poyntz extended to me two fingers, and said, frigidly, “ delighted to see you again! how kind to attend so soon to my note l” motioning me to a seat beside her, she here turned to her husband, and said, “ poyntz, since a cycle of rain begins to-morrow, better secure your ride te-day. take these young people with you. i want to talk with dr. fenwick.” the colonel carefully put away his barometer, and saying to his daughter “ come l” went forth. jane fol~ lowed her father; the young gentleman followed jane. the reception i met chilled and disappointed me. i felt that mrs. poyntz was changed, and in her change the whole house seemed changed. the very chairs looked civilly unfriendly, as if preparing to turn their backs on me. however, i was not in the false posi- tion of an intruder; i had been summoned; it was for mrs. poyntz to speak first, and i waited quietly for her to do so. she finished the careful folding of her work, and then laid it at rest in the drawer of the table at which she sat. having so done, she turned to me and said- ii.— e a summer: s'roav. “ by the way, i ought to have introduced to you my young guest, mr. ashleigh sumner. you would like him. he has talents -not showy, but solid. he will succeed in public life.” “' so that young man is mr. ashleigh sumner? i do not wonder that miss ashleigh rejected him." aid this, for i was nettled, as well as surprised, at the coolness with which a lady who had professed a friendship for me, mentioned that fortunate young gentleman, with so complete an oblivion of all the antecedents that had once made his name painful to my ear. in turn, my answer seemed to nettle mrs. poyntz: “i am not sure that she did reject; perhaps she rather misunderstood him; gallant compliments are not always proposals of marriage. however that be, his spirits were not much damped by miss ashleigh’s disdain, nor his heart deeply smitten by her charms; for he is now very happy, very much attached to another young lady, to whom he proposed, three days ago, at lady delafield’s, and not to make a mystery of what all our little world will know before to-morrow, that young lady is my daughter jane.” “were i acquainted with mr. sumner, i should offer to him my sincere congratulations.” mrs. poyntz resumed, without heeding a reply more complimentary to miss jane than to the object of her choice: “i told you that i meant jane to marry a rich a strange story. country gentleman, and ashleigh sumner is the very country gentleman i had then in my thought. he is clever and more ambitious than i could have heped; he will be a minister some day, in right of his talents, and a peer, if he wishes it, in right of his lands. so that matter is settled.” there was a pause, during which my mind passed rapidly through links of reminiscence and reasoning, which led me to a mingled sentiment of admiration for mrs. poyntz as a diplomatist and of distrust for mrs. poyntz as a friend. it was now clear why mrs. poyntz, before so little disposed to approve my love, had urged me at once to offer my hand to lilian, in order that she might depart alflauced and engaged to the house in which she would meet mr. ashleigh sum- ner. hence, mrs. poyntz’s anxiety to obtain all the information i could afford her of the sayings and doings at lady haughton’s; hence, the publicity she had so suddenly given to my engagement; hence, when mr. sumner had gone away a rejected suitor, her own de- parture from l——; she had seized the very moment when a vain and proud man, piqued by the mortifica- tion received from, one lady, falls the easier prey to the arts which allure his suit to another. all was so far clear to me. and i—was my self-conceit less egregious and less readily duped than that of you gilded popin- jay’sl how skilfully this woman had knitted me into her work with the noiseless turn of her white hands! and yet, forsooth, i must vaunt the superior sicope of a strange sroay. my intellect, and plumb all the fountains of n ature-i, who could not fathom the little pool of this female schemer’s mind! but that was no time for resentment to her or rebuke to myself. she was now the woman who could best protect and save from slander my innocent, beloved lilian. but how approach that perplexing subject? mrs. poyntz approached it, and with her usual deci- sion of purpose, which bore so deceitful a likeness to candor of mind. “but it was not to talk of my affairs that i asked you to call, allen fenwick." as she uttered my name. her voice softened, and her manner took that maternal. caressing tenderness which had sometimes amused and sometimes misled me. “no, i do not forget that you asked me to be your friend, and i take, without scruple. the license of friendship. what are these stories that i have heard already about lilian ashleigh, to whom you were once engaged ?” ' " to whom i am still engaged.” “ is it possible? oh, then, of course the stories i have heard are all false. very likely; no fiction in scandal ever surprises me. poor dear lilian, then- never ran away from her mother’s house ?” i smothered the angry pain which this mode of ques- tioning caused me; i knew how important it was to lilian to secure to her the countenance and support of this absolute autocract; i spoke of lilian’s long previous a strange won. distemper of mind; i accounted for it as any intelli- gent physician, unacquainted with all that i could not reveal, would account. heaven forgive me for the venial falsehood, but i spoke of the terrible charge against myself as enough to unhinge, for a time, the intellect of a girl so acutely sensitive as lilian; i sought to create that impression as to the origin of all that might otherwise seem strange; and in this state of cerebral excitement she had wandered from home —-but alone. i had tracked every step of her way; i had found and restored her to her home. a critical delirium had followed, from which she now rose, cured in health, nnsuspicious that there could be a whisper against her name. and then, with all the eloquence i could command, and in words as adapted as i could framé them to soften the heart of a woman, herself a. mother, i implored mrs. poyntz’s aid to silence all the cruelties of calumny, and extend her shield over the child of her own early friend. when i came to an end, i had taken, with caressing , force, mrs. poyntz’s reluctant hands in mine. there were tears in my voice, tears in my eyes. and the sound of her voice in reply gave me hope, for it was unusually gentle. she was evidently moved. the hope was soon quelled. “allen fenwick,” she said, “you have a noble heart; [grieve to see how it abuses your reason. i cannot aid lilian ashleigh in the way you ask. do not start back so indignantly. listen to me as patiently as i ' i a smarter: s'roar. have listened to you. that when you brought back the unfortunate young woman to her poor mother, her mind was disordered, and became yet more dangerously - so, i can well believe; that she is now recovered and thinks with shame, or refuses to think at all, of her imprudent flight, i can believe also; but i do not believe, the world cannot believe, that she did not, knowingly and purposely, quit her mother’s roof, and in quest of that young stranger so incautiously, so unfeelingly admitted to her mother’s house during the very time you were detained on the most awful of human accusations. every one in the town knows that mr. margrave visited daily at mrs. ashleigh’s during that painful period; every one in the town knows in what strange out-of-the-way place this young man had niched himself; and that a yacht was bought, and lying in wait there. what for? it is said that the chaise in which you brought miss ashleigh back to her home was hired in a village within an easy reach of mr. margrave’s lodging—of mr. margrave’s yacht. i rejoice that you saved the poor girl from ruin; but her good name is tarnished, and if anne ashleigh, whom i sincerely pity, asks me my advice, i can but give her this: ‘leave l , take your daughter abroad; and if she is not to marry mr. margrave, marry her as quietly and as quickly as possible to some foreigner.’ ” “madam! madaml this, then, is your friendship to her-to me! oh, shame on you to insult thus an adi- a s'raasua near. my most intimate companion. but that silly child -- absnrdl nevertheless, the freshness and enthusiasm of your love touched me; you asked my aid, and i gave it-perhaps i did believe that when you saw more of lilian ashleigh you would be cured of a fancy conceived by the eye—i should have known better what dupes the wisest men can be to the witcheries, of a fair face and eighteen! when i found your illusion obstinate, i wrenched myself away from a vain regret, turned to my own schemes and my own ambition, and smiled bitterly to think that, in pressing you to pro- pose so hastily to lilian, i made your blind passion an agent in my own plans. enough of this. i speak thus openly and boldly to you now, because now i have not a sentiment that can'interfere with the dispassionate soundness of my counsels. i repeat-i you cannot now marry lilian ashleigh; i cannot take my daughter to visit her; i cannot destroy the social laws that i myself have set in my petty kingdom.” “ be it as you will. i have pleaded for her while she is still lilian ashleigh. i plead for no one to whom i have once given my name. before the woman whom i have taken from the altar, i can place, as a shield sufficient, my strong breast of man. who has so deep an interest in lilian’s purity as i have? who is so fitted to know the exact truth of every whisper against her? yet when i, whom you admit to have some reputation for shrewd intelligence —— i, who tracked her way—i, who restored her to her home— a strange story. when i, allen fenwick, am so assured of her inviolabla innocence in thought as in deed, that i trust my honor to her keeping—surely, surely, i confute the scandal which you yourself do not believe, though you refuse to reject and to annul it ?” “ do not deceive yourself, allen fenwick,” said she, still standing beside me, her countenance now hard and stern. “ look, where i stand, i am the world! the world, not as satirists depreciate or as optimists extol its immutable properties, its all-persuasive authority. i am the worldl and my voice is the world’s voice when it thus warns you. should you make this mar- riage, your dignity of character and position would be gonel—if you look only to ‘lucre and professional suc- cess, possibly they may not ultimately sufl'er. you have skill, which men need; their need may still draw patients to your door, and pour guineas into your purse. but you have the pride, as well as the birth, of a gen- tleman, and the wounds to that pride will be hourly chafed and never healed. your strong breast of man has no shelter to the frail name of woman. the world, in its health, will look down on your wife, though its sick may look up to you. this is not all. the world, in its gentlest mood of indulgence, will say, compas- sionately, ‘poor man! how weak, and how deceived! what an unfortunate marriagel’ but the world is not often indulgent—it looks most to the motives most seen on the surface. and the world will more fre- quently say, ‘no, much too clever a man to be duped! a s'raasen sroar. miss ashleigh had money. a good match to the man who liked gold better than honor.’ ” i sprang to my feet, with difficulty suppressing my rage; and, remembering it was a woman who spoke to me, “farewell, madam,” said i, through my grinded teeth. “were you, indeed, the personation of the world, whose mean notions you mouth so calmly, i could not disdain you more.” i turned to the door, and lefi her still standing erect and menacing, the hard sneer on her resolute lip, the red glitter in her remorse- less eye. chapter lviii. i! ever my heart vowed itself to lilian, the vow was now the most trustful and the most sacred. i had re- linquished our engagement before, but then her afl’ection seemed, no matter from what cause, so estranged from me, that though i might be miserable to lose her, i deemed that she would be unhappy in our union. then, too, she was the gem and darling of the little world in which she lived; no whisper assailed her. now, i knew that she leved me; i knew that her cstrangemcnt had been involuntary; i knew that ap- pcarances wronged her, and that they never could be explained. i was in the true position of man to woman; i was the shield, the bulwark, the fearless, coufiding protector! resign her now because the world babbled, a s'raanen s-roar because my career might be impeded, because my good name might be impeached—resign her, and, in that resignation, confirm all that was said against her! could i do so, i should be the most craven of gentle- men, the meanest of men! i went to mrs. ashleigh, and entreated her to hasten my union with her daughter, and fix the marriage-day. i found the poor lady dejected and distressed. she was now sutficiently relieved from the absorbing anxiety for lilian to be aware of the change on the face of that world which the woman i had just quitted personified and concentred; she had learned the cause from the bloodless lips of miss brabazon. “ my child ——my poor child ! ” murmured the mother. “ and she so guileless_so sensitive! could she know what is said, it would kill her. she would never marry you, allen-she would never bring shame to you i” “ she never need learn the barbarous calumny. give her to me, and at once ; patients, fortune, fame, are not found only at l—. give her to me at once. but let me name a. condition; i have a patrimonial inde- pendence—i have amassed large savings-i have my profession and my repute. i cannot touch her fortune -—i cannot—never can! take it while you live; when you die, leaveit to accumulate for her children, if children she have; not to me; not to her—unless i am dead or ruined!” “ oh, allen, what a heart ! - what a heartl no, not heart, allen—that bird in its cage has a heart; soul- what a soul ” a s'raauea story. chapter lix. how innocent was lilian’s virgin blush when i knelt to her, and prayed that she would forestall the date that had been fixed for our union, and be my bride before the breath of the autumn had withered the pomp of the woodland and silenced the song of the birds! mean- ' while, i was so fearfully anxious that she should risk no danger of hearing, even of surmising, the cruel slander against her—should meet no cold contemptuous looks — above all, should be safe from the barbed talk of mrs. poyntz—that i insisted on the necessity of immediate change of air and scene. i proposed that we should all three depart, the next day, for the banks of my own beloved and native windermere. by that pure moun- tain air, lilian’s health would be soon re-established; in the church hallowed to me by the graves of my fathers our vows could be plighted. no calumny had ever cast a shadow over those graves. i felt as if my bride would be safer in the neighborhood of my mother’s tomb. i carried my point; it was so arranged. mrs. ashleigh, however, was reluctant to leave before she had seen her dear friend, margaret poyntz. i had not the courage to tell her what she might expect to hear from that dear friend, but, as delicately as i could, i informed her that i had already seen the queen of the hill, and contradicted the gossip that had reached her; il — a sraanes worm. but that as yet, like other absolute sovereigns, the queen of the hill thought it politic to go with the pop- ular stream, reserving all check on its direction till the rush of its torrent might slacken; and that it would be infinitely wiser in mrs. ashleigh to postpone conversa- tion with mrs. poyntz until lilian’s return to l as my wife. slander by that time would have wearied itself out, and mrs. poyntz (assuming her friendship to ‘ mrs. ashleigh to be sincere) would then be enabled to say with authority to her subjects, “ dr._ ‘fenwick alone knows the facts of the story, and his marriage with miss ashleigh refutes all the gossip to her prejudice.” i made that evening arrangements with a young and rising practitioner to secure attendance on my patients during my absence. i passed the greater part of the night in drawing up memoranda to guide my proxy in each case, however humble the sufferer. this task finished, i chanced, in searching for a small microscope, the wonders of which i thought might interest and amuse lilian, to open a drawer in which i kept the manuscript of my cherished physiological work, and, in so doing, my eye fell upon the wand which i had taken from margrave. i had thrown it into that drawer on my return home, after restoring lilian to her mother's house, and, in the anxiety which had subse- quently preyed upon my mind, had almost forgotten the strange possession i had as strangely acquired. there it- now lay, the instrument of agencies over the mechanism of nature which no doctrine admitted by a strange s'rome'.p my philosophy could acbept, side by side with the presumptuous work which had analyzed the springs by which nature is moved, and decided the principles by which reason metes out, from the inch of its knowledge, the plan of the infinite unknown. i took up the wand and examined it curiously. it- was evidently the work of an age far remote from our own, scored over with half-obliterated characters in some eastern tongue, perhaps no longer extant. i found that it was hollow within. a more accurate observation showed, in the centre of this hollow, an exceedingly fine thread~likc wire, the unattached end of which would slightly touch the palm when the wand was taken into the hand. was it possible that there might be a natural and even a simple cause for the effects which this instrument produced? ‘could it serve to collect, from that great focus of animal heat and ner- vous energy which is placed in the palm of the hand, some such latent fluid as that which reiehenbach calls the “odic,” and which, according to him, “rushes through and pervades universal nature?” alter all, why not? for how many centuries lay unknown all the virtues of the loadstone and the amber? it is but as yesterday that the forces of vapor have become to men genii more powerful than those conjured up by aladdin; that light, at a touch, springs forth from invisible air; that thought finds a messenger swifte! than the wings of the fabled afrite. as, thus musing, my hand closed over the wand, i felt a wild thrill a s'rannoa s'roav. through my frame. i recoiled; i was alarmed lest (according to the plain common-sense theory of julius faber) i might be preparing my imagination to form and to credit its own illusions. hastily i laid down the wand. but then it occurred to me, that whatever its properties, it had so served the purpose of the dread fascinator from whom it had been taken, that he might probably seek to repossess himself of it; he might con- trive to enter my house in my absence; more prudent to guard in my own watchful keeping the incomprehen- sible instrument of incomprehensible arts. i resolved, therefore, to take the wand with me, and placed it in my travelling-trunk, with such effects as i selected for use in the excursion that was to commence with the morrow. ‘i now lay down to rest, but i could not sleep. the recollections of the painful interview with mrs. poyntz became vivid and haunting. it was clear that the sentiment she had conceived for me was that of no simple friendship-something more or something less- but certainly something else; and this conviction brought before me that proud, hard face, disturbed by a pang wrestled against but not subdued, and that clear metallic voice, troubled by the quiver of an emotion which, perhaps, she had never analyzed to herself. i did not need her own assurance to know that this sentiment was not to be confounded with a love which she would have despised as a weakness and repelled as a crime; it was an inclination of the intellect, not a passion of the heart. but still it admitted a jealousy a s'raaaos s'roar. little less keen than that which has love for its cause— so true it is that jealousy is never absent where self-love is always present. certainly, it was no susceptibility of sober friendship which had made the stern arbitress of a coterie ascribe to her interest in me her pitiless judgment of lilian. strangely enough, with the image of this archetype of conventional usages and the trite social life, came that of the mysterious margrave, sur- rounded by all the attributes with which superstition clothes the being of the shadowy border-land that lies beyond the chart of our visual world itself. by what link were creatures so dissimilar riveted together in the metaphysical chain of association? both had entered into the record of my life when my life admitted its own first romance of love. through the aid of this cynical schemer i had been made known to lilian. at her house i had heard the dark story of that louis grayle, with whom, in mocking spite of my reason, conjectures, which that very reason must depose itself before it could resolve into distempered fancies, identified the enigmatical margrave. and now both she, the representative of the formal world most opposed to visionary creeds, and he, who gathered round him all the terrors which haunt the realm of fable, stood united against me—foes with whom the intellect i had so haughtily cultured knew not how to cope. what- ever assault i might expect from either, i was unable to assail again. alike, then, in this, are the slander and the phantom; that which appals us * a [ a s'raauos sronv. most in their power over us is our impotence against them. but up rose the sun, chasing the shadows from the earth, and brightening insensibly the thoughts of man. after all, margrave had been balfled and defeated, whatever the arts he had practised and the secrets he possessed. it was, at least, doubtful whether his evil machinations would be renewed. he had seemed so incapable of long-sustained fixity of purpose, that it was probable he was already in pursuit of some new agent or victim ; and as to this commonplace and conventional spectre, the so-called world, if it is everywhere to him whom it awes, it is nowhere to him who despises it. what was the good or bad word of a mrs. poyntz to me ? ay, but to lilian? there, indeed, i trembled; but still, even in trembling, it was sweet to think that my home would be her shelter—my choice her vindica- tion. ahl b'ow nnutterably tender and reverential love becomes when it assumes the duties of the guar- dian, and hallows its own heart into a sanctuary of refuge for the beloved! a s'rsasos s'roav. chapter lx. tm: beautiful lake! we two are on its grassy mar- gin—twilight melting into night; the stars stealing forth, one after one. what a wonderful change is made within us when we come from our callings amongst men, chafed, weary, wounded; gnawed by our cares, perplexed by the doubts of our very wisdom, stung by the adder that dwells in cities -- slander; nay, even if renowned, fatigued with the burden of the very names that we have won! what a change is made within us when suddenly we find ourselves transported into the calm solitudes of nature ;— into scenes famil- iar to our happy, dreaming childhood; back, back from the dusty thoroughfare of our toil-worn manhood to the golden fountain of our youth! blessed is the change, even when we have no companion beside us to whom the heart can whisper its sense of relief and joy. but if the one, in whom all our future is garnered up, be with us there, instead of that weary world which has so magically vanished away from the eye and the thought, then does the change make one of those rare epochs of life in which the charm is the stillness. in the pause from all by which our own turbulent struggles for happiness trouble existence, we feel with a rapt amazement, how calm a thing it is to be happy. and so as the night, in deepening, brightened, lilian and i a s'raases sroav. wandered by the starry lake. conscious of no evil in ourselves, how secure we felt from evil! a few days more — a few days more, and we two should be as one! . and that thought we uttered in many forms of words, brooding over it in the long intervals of enamored silence. and when we turned back to the quiet inn at which we had taken up our abode, and her mother, with her soft face, advanced to meet us, i said to lilian: “would that in these scenes we could fix our home for life, away and afar from the dull town we have left behind us, with the fret of its wearying cares and the jar of its idle bubble " ' “and why not, allen? why not? but no, you would not be happy.” “ not be happy, and with you? sceptic, by what reasonings do you arrive at that ungracious conclusion?” “ the heart loves repose and the soul contemplation, but the mind needs action. is it not so ?” “ where learned you that aphorism, out of place on such rosy lips f" “i learned it in studying you," murmured lilian tenderly. here mrs. ashleigh joined us. for the first time i slept under the same roof as lilian. and i forgot that the universe contained an enigma to solve or an enemy to fear. a manual: sroar. '! chapter lxi. 'l‘vnm days —the happiest my life had ever known -thus glided on. apart from the charm which love bestows on the beloved, there was that in lilian’s con- versation which made her a delightful companion. whether it was that, in this pause from the toils of my career, my mind could more pliantly supple itself to her graceful imagination, or that her imagination was less vague and dreamy amidst those rural scenes, which realized in their loveliness and grandeur its long-con- ceived ideals, than it had been in the petty garden- ground neighbored by .the stir and hubbub of the busy town --in much that i had once slighted or contemned as the vagaries of undisciplined fancy, i now recog- nized the sparkle and play of an intuitive genius, light- ing up many a depth obscure to instructed thought. it is with some characters as with the subtler and more ethereal order of poets. to appreciate them we must suspend the course of artificial life. in the city we call them dreamers, on the mountain-top we find them interpreters. in lilian, the sympathy with nature was not, as in murgrave, from the joyous sense of nature’s lavish vitality ; it was refined into exquisite perception of the diviner spirit by which that vitality is informed. thus, like the artist, from outward forms of beauty she drew a strange s'roar. o forth the covert types, lending to things the most familiar, exquisite meanings unconceived before. for it is truly said by a wise critic of old, that “ the attri- bute of art is to suggest infinitely more than it ex- presses-,” and such suggestions, passing from the artist’s innermost thought into the mind that receives them, open on and on into the infinite of ideas, as a moonlit wave struck by a passing oar impels wave upon wave along one track of light. so the days glided by, and brought the eve of our bridal morn. it had been settled that, after the cere- mony (which was to be performed by license in the village church, at no great distance, which adjoined my paternal home, now passed away to strangers), we should make a short excursion into scotland, leaving mrs. ashleigh to await our return at the little inn. i had retired to my own room to answer some letters from anxious patients, and having finished these, i looked into my trunk for a guide-book to the north, which i had brought with me. my hand came upon mar- grave’s wand, and, remembering that strange thrill which had passed through me when i last handled it, i drew it forth, resolved to examine calmly if i could detect the cause of the sensation. it was not now the time of night in which the imagination is most liable to credulous impressions, nor was, i now in the anxious and jaded state of mind in which such impressions may be the more readily conceived. the sun was slowly setting over the delicious landscape; the air cool and a srnauer: sroar. serene; my thoughts collected—heart and conscience alike at peace. i took, then, the wand, and adjusted it to the palm of the hand as i had done before. i felt the slight touch of the delicate wire within, and agair the thrilll i did not this time recoil; i continued to grasp the wand, and sought deliberately to analyze my own sensations in the contact. there came over me an increased consciousness of vital power; a certain exhil- aration, elasticity, vigor, such as a strong cordial may produce on a fainting man. all the forces of my frame seemed refreshed, redoubled; and as such efi'ects on the physical system are ordinarily accompanied by corres- pondent efl'ects on the mind, so i was sensible of a proud elation of spirits—a kind of defying, superb self- glorying. all fear seemed blotted out from my thought, as a weakness impossible to the grandeur and might which belong to intellectual man; i felt as if it were a royal delight to scorn earth and its opinions, brave hades and its spectres. rapidly this new-born arro- gance enlarged itself into desires vague but daring. my mind reverting to the wild phenomena associated with its memories of margrave, i said, half aloud, “ if a creature so beneath myself in constancy of will and completion of thought can wrest from nature favors so marvellous, what could not be won from her by me, her patient, persevering seeker? what if there be spirits around and about, invisible to the common eye, but whom we can submit to our control; and what if this red be charged with some occult fluid, that runs a strange s'ronr. through all creation, and can be so disciplined as to establish communication wherever life and thought can reach to beings that live and think. so would the mystics of old explain what perplexes me. am i sure that the mystics of old duped themselves or their pupils? this, then, this slight wand, light as a reed in my grasp, this, then, was the instrument by which margrave sent his irresistible will through air and space, and by which i smote himself, in the midst of his tiger-like wrath, into the helplessness of a sick man’s swoonl can the instrument at this distance still control him; if new meditating evil, disarm and disable his purpose ?” involuntarily, as i revolved these ideas, i stretched forth the wand, with a concen- tred energy of desire that its influence should reach margrave and command him. and since i knew not his whereabout, yet was vaguely aware that, according to any conceivable theory by which the wand could be supposed to carry its imagined virtues to definite goals in distant space, it should be pointed in the direction of the object it was intended to efl'ect, so i slowly moved the wand as if describing a circle, and thus, in some point of the circle—east, west, north, or south—the direction could not fail to be true. before i had per- formed half the circle, the wand of itself stopped, resisting palpably the movement of my hand to impel it onward. had it, then, found the point to which my will was guiding it, obeying my will by some magnetic sympathy never yet comprehended by any recognized n s'raanos sroar. science? i know not; but i had not held it thus fixed for many seconds, before a cold air, well remembered, passed by me, stirring the roots of my hair; and, reflected against the opposite wall, stood the hateful scin-lsca. the shadow was dimmer in its light than when before beheld, and the outline of the features was less distinct—still it was the unmistakable lemur, or image, of margrave. and a voice was conveyed to my senses, saying, as from a great distance, and in weary yet angry accents: “ you have summoned me? wherefore?” i overcame the startled shudder with which, at first, i beheld the shadow and heard the vision. “ i summoned you not," said i; “ i sought but to im- pose upon you my will, that you should persecute, with your ghastly influence, me and mine no more. and now, by whatever authority this wand bestows on me, i so adjure and command you l” i thought there was a sneer of disdain on the lip through which‘the answer seemed to come: “ vain and ignorant; it is but a shadow you com mand. my body you have cast into a sleep, and it knows not that the shadow is here ; nor, when it wakes, will the brain be aware of one reminiscence of the words that you utter or the words that you hear.” “what, then, is this shadow that stimulates the bodyr ? is it that which in popular language is called the soul ?” "‘ it is not; soul is no shadow.” “ what then '” ii. -— [ a strange s'roar. “ask not me. use the wand to invoke intelligence higher than mine.” “and how i” . “i will tell you not. of yourself you may learn, if you guide the wand by your own pride of will and desire; but in the hands of him who has_learned not the art, the wand has its dangers. again, i say you have summoned mel wherefore y” “ lying shade, i summoned thee not.” “ so wouldst thou say to the demons, did they come in their terrible wrath, when the bungler, who knows not the springs that he moves, calls them up unawares, and can neither control nor dispel. less revengeful than they, i leave thee unharmed, and depart.” “ stay. if, as thou sayest, no command i address to thee—to thee, who art only the image or shadow— can have effect on the body and mind of the being whose likeness thou art, still thou canst tell me what passes now in his brain. does it now harbor schemes against me through the woman i love? answer truly.” “ i reply for the sleeper, of whom i am more than a likeness, though only the shadow. his thought speaks thus: “ i know, allen fenwick, that in thee is the agent i need for achieving the end that i seek. through the woman thou lovest i hope to subject thee. a grief tnat will harrow thy heart is at hand; when that grief shall befall, thou wilt welcome my coming. in me alone thy hope will be placed—through me alone wilt thou a s'raanoa s'roay. seek a path out of thy sorrow. i shall ask my condi- tions; they will make thee my tool and my slave l” the shadow waned—it was gone. i did not seek to detain it, nor, had i sought, could i have known by what process. but a new idea now possessed me. this shadow, then, that had once so appalled and con- trolled me, was, by its own confession, nothing more than a shadowl it had spoken of higher intelligences; from them i might learn what the shadow could not reveal. as i still held the wand firmer and firmer in my grasp, my thoughts grew haughticr and bolder. could the wand, then, bring those loftier beings thus darkly referred to before me? \vith that thought, intense and engrossing, i guided the wand towards the space, opening boundless and blue from the casement that let in the skies. the wand no longer resisted my hand. in a few moments i felt the floors of the room vibrate; the air was darkened; a vaporous, hazy cloud seemed to rise from the ground without the easement; an awe, infinitely more deep and solemn than that which the scin-laeca had caused in its earliest apparition, curdled through my veins, and stilled the very best, of my heart. at that moment _i heard, without, the voice of lilian, singing a simple, sacred song which i had learned at my mother’s knees, and taught to her the day before; singing low, and as with a warning angel’s voice. by an irresistible impulse i dashed the wand to the ground, and bowed my head as i had bowed it when my infant a sraases sroav. mind comprehended, without an efl'ort, mysteries more solemn than those which perplexed me now. slowly i raised my eyes, and looked round; the vaporous, hazy cloud had passed away, or melted into the ambient rose- tints amid which the sun had sunk. then, by one of those common reactions from a period of over-strained excitement, there succeeded to that sen- timent of arrogance and daring with which these wild, half-conscious invocations had been fostered and sus- tained, a profound humility, a warning fear. “what!” said i, inly, “have all those sound resolu- tions, which my reason founded on the wise talk of julius faber, melted away in the wreck of haggard, dissolving fancies! is this my boasted intellect, my vaunted science! i——-i, allen fenwick, not only the credulous believer, but the blundering practitioner, of an evil magic! grant what may be possible, however uncomprehended—grant that in this accursed instru- ment of antique superstition there be some real powers --chemical, magnetic, no matter what—by which the imagination can be aroused, inflamed, deluded, so that it shapes the things i have seen, speaks in the tones i have heard— grant this, shall i keep ever ready, at the caprice of will, a constant tempter, to steal away my reason and fool my senses? or if, on the other hand, i force my sense to admit what all sober men must reject -—if i unschool myself to believe that in what i have just experienced there is no mental illusion, that sor- cery is a fact, and a demon world has gates which open a strange sroav. [ to a key that a mortal can forge-who but a saint would not shrink from the practice of powers by which each passing thought of ill might find in a fiend its abettor? in either case—in anylcase -— while, i keep this direful relic of obsolete arts, i am haunted- cheated out of my senses-unfitted for the uses of life. if, as my ear or my fancy informs me, grief— human grief—is about to befall me, shall i, in the sting of im- patient sorrow, have recourse to an aid which, the same voice declares, will reduce me to a tool and a slave ?-- tool and slave to a being i dread as a foe! out on these nightmares! and away with the thing that be- witches the brain to conceive them !" i rose; i took up the wand, holding it so that its hollow should not rest on the palm of the hand. i stole from the house by the back way, in order to avoid lilian, whose voice i still heard, singing low, on the lawn in front. i came to a creek, to the bank of which a boat was moored, undid its chain, rowed on to a deep part of the lake, and dropped the wand into its waves. it sank at once; scarcely a ripple furrowed the surface, not a bubble arose from the deep. and, as the boat glided on, the star mirrored itself on the spot where the placid waters had closed over the tempter to evil. light at heart i sprang again on the shore, and has tening to lilian, where she stood on the silvered, shining sward, clasped her to my breast. “ spirit of my life i" i murmured, ‘no enchantments for me but thine! thine are the spells by whir \ * a s'raauen s'roar. creation is beautified, and, in that beauty, hallowui. what though we can see not into the measureless future from the verge of the moment—what though sorrow may smite us while we are dreaming of bliss, let the future not rob me of thee, and a balm will be found for each wound! love me ever as now, oh my lilian; troth to troth, side by side, till the grave l” “and beyond the grave,” answered lilian, softly. chapter lxii. our. vows are exchanged at the altar—the rite which made lilian my wife is performed-we are returned from the church, amongst the hills, in which my fathers had worshipped; the joy-bells that had peeled for my birth, had rung for my marriage. lilian has gone to her room to prepare for our bridal excur- sion; while the carriage we have hired is waiting at the door. i am detaining her mother on the lawn, seek- ing to cheer and compose her spirits, painfully affected by that sense of change in the relations of child and parent which makes itself suddenly felt by the parent’s heart on the day that secures to the child another heart on which to lean. ‘ but mrs. ashleigh’s was one of those gentle, woman- ly natures which, if easily afllicted, are easily consoled. and, already smiling through her tears, she was about a. strange sronr. [ . to quit me and join her daughter, when one of the inn- eervants came to me with some letters, which had just been delivered by the postman. as i took them from the servant, mrs. ashleigh asked if there were any for her? she expected one from her housekeeper at l———, who had been taken ill in her absence, and about whom the kind mistress felt anxious. the servant replied that there was no letter for her, but one directed to miss ashleigh, which thad just sent up to the young lady. mrs. ashleigh did not doubt that her housekeeper had written to lilian, whom she had known from the cradle, and to whom she was tenderly attached, instead of to her mistress; and, saying something to me to that efl'ect, quickened her steps towards the house. i was glancing over my own letters, chiefly from patients, with a rapid eye, when a cry of agony, a cry as if of one suddenly stricken to the heart, pierced my car—a cry from within the house. “heavens! was not that lilian’s voice?” the same doubt struck mrs. ashleigh, who had already gained the door. she rushed on, disappearing within the threshold, and calling to me to follow. i bounded forward —passed her on the stairs—was in lilian’s room before her. my bride was on the floor, prostrate, insensible; so still, so colorless! that my first dreadful thought was that life had gone. in her hand was a letter, crushed, as with a convulsive, sudden grasp. it was long before the color came back to her check, before the breath was perceptible on her lip. she wokei n a ensues - :. but not to health, not to sense. hours were passed in violent convulsions, in which i momently feared her death. to these succeeded stupor, lethargy, not benig- nant sleep. that night, my bridal night, ipassed as in some chamber to which i had been summoned to save youth from the grave. at length ——at length, life was rescued, was assure_dl life came-back, but the mind was gone. she knew me not, nor her mother. she spoke little and faintly; in the words she uttered there was no reason. i pass hurriedly on; my experience here was in fault, my skill ineffectual. day followed day, and no ray came back to the darkened brain. we bore her, by gentle stages, to london. i was sanguine of good result from skill more consummate than mine, and more specially devoted to diseases of the mind. i summoned the first advisers. in vain l -- in vainl chapter lxiii. and the cause of this direful shock? not this time could it be traced to some evil spell, some phantasmal influence. the cause was clear, and might have pro- duced efl‘ects as sinister on nerves of stronger fibre if accompanied by a heart as delicately sensitive, an honor as exquisitely pure. the letter found in her hand was without name; it a summon sroar. was dated from l , and bore the postmark of that town. it conveyed to lilian, in the biting words which female malice can make so sharp, the tale we had sought sedulously to guard from her ear—her flight, the con- struction that scandal put upon it. it affected for my blind infatuation a contemptuous pity; it asked her to pause before she brought on the name i ofi'ered to her an indelible disgrace. ,if she so decided, she was warned not to return to l the sentence that would exclude her from the society , or to prepare there for of her own sex. i cannot repeat more, i cannot minute down all that the letter expressed or implied, to wither the orange-blossoms in a bride’s wreath. the heart that took in the vendm cast its poison on the brain, and the mind fled before the presence of a thought so deadly to all the ideas which its innocence had heretofore conceived. i knew not whom to suspect of the malignity of this mean and miserable outrage, nor did i much care to know. the handwriting, though evidently disguised, was that of a woman, and, therefore, had i discovered the author, my manhood would have forbidden me the idle solace of revenge. mrs. poyntz, however resolute and pitiless her hostility when once aroused, was not without a certain largeness of nature irreconcilable with the most dastardly of all the weapons that envy or hatred can supply to the vile. she had too lofty a self- esteem and too decorous a regard for the moral senti- ment of the world that she typified, to do, or connive l a s'raanoa sroar. at, an act which degrades the gentlewomun. putting her aside, what other female enemy had lilian pro- voked? no matterl what other woman at l—— was worth the condescension of a conjecture? after listening to all that the ablest of my professional brethren in the metropolis could suggest to guide me, and trying in vain their remedies, i brought back my charge to l—-—. retaining my former residence for the visits of patients, i engaged, for the privacy of my home, a house two miles from the town, secluded in its own grounds, and guarded by high walls. lilian’s mother removed to my mournful dwelling- place. abbots’ house, in the centre of that tattling coterie, had become distasteful to her, and to me it was associated with thoughts of anguish and of terror. i could not, without a shudder, have entered its grounds --could not, without a stab at the heart, have seen again the old fairy-land round the monks’ well, nor the dark cedar-tree under which lilian’s hand had been placed in mine; and a superstitious remembrance, ban- ished while lilian’s angel face had brightened the fatal precincts, now revived in full force. the dying man’s curse — had it not been fulfilledl a new occupant for the old house was found within a week after mrs. ashleigh had written from london to a house-agent at l--, intiniating her desire to dispose of the lease. shortly before we had gone to winder- mere, miss brabazon had become enriched by a liberal life-annuity bequeathed to her by her uncle, sir phelim a swimmer: arm“. ) ] her means thus enabled her to move, from the com- naratively humble lodging she had hitherto occupied, to abbots’ house; but just as she had there commenced a series of ostentatious entertainments, implying an ambitious desire to dispute with mrs. poyntz the sovereignty of the hill, she was attacked by some severe malady which appeared complicated with spinal disease, and after my return to l— i sometimes met her on the spacious platform of the hill, drawn along slowly in a bath chair, her livid face peering forth from piles of indian shawls and siberian furs, and the gaunt figure of dr. jones stalking by her side, taciturn and gloomy as some sincere mourner who conducts to the grave the patron on whose life he himself had conveni- ently lived. it was in the dismal month of february that i returned to l-—-, and i took possession of my blighted nuptial home on the anniversary of the very day in which i had passed through the dead, dumb world from the naturalist’s gloomy death-room. chapter lxiv.‘ lilian’s wondrous gentleness of nature did not desert her in the suspension of her reason. she was habitually calm—very silent; when she spoke it was rarely n earthly things— on things familiar to her past—things one could comprehend. her thought seemed to hava a strange s'roar. quitted the earth, seeking refuge in some imaginary heaven she spoke of wandering with her father as if he were living still; she did not seem to understand the meaning we attach to the word death. she would sit for hours murmuring to herself; when one sought to catch the words. they seemed in converse with in- visible spirits. we found it cruel to disturb her at such times, for if left unmolested, her face was serene—more serenely beautiful than-i had seen it even in our happiest hours; but when we called her back to the wrecks of her real life, her eye became troubled, restless, anxious, and she would sigh — oh, so heavily! at times, if we did not seem to observe her, she would quietly resume her once favorite accomplishments—drawing, music. and in these her young excellence was still apparent, only the drawings were strange and fantastic; they had a resemblance to those with which the painter blake, himself a visionary, illustrated the poems of the “ night thoughts” and “the grave.” faces of ex- quisite loveliness, forms of aérial grace, coming forth from the bells of flowers, or floating upwards amidst the spray of fountains, their outlines melting away in foun- tain or in flower. so with her music; her mother could not recognize the airs she played, for a while so sweetly and with so inefi‘able a pathos, that one could scarcely hear her without weeping; and then would come, as if involuntarily, an abrupt discord, and, starting, she would cease and look around, disquieted, aghast. and still she did not recognize mrs. ashleigh or a smarter: sronr. myself as her mother, her husband; but she had by degrees learned to distinguish us both from others. to her mother she gave no name, seemed pleased to see her, but not sensibly to miss her when away; me she called her brother; if longer absent than usual, me she missed. when, after the toils of the day, i came to join her, even if she spoke not, her sweet face bright- ened. when she sang, she beckoned me to come near to her, and looked at me fixedly, with eyes ever tender, often tearful; when she drew, she would pause and glance over her shoulder to see that i was watching her, and point to the drawings with a smile of strange significance, as if they conveyed, in some covert alle- gory, messages meant for me; so, at least, i interpreted her smile, and taught myself to say, “ yes, lilian, i understand!” and more than once, when i had so answered, she rose and kissed my forehead. i thought my heart would have broken when i felt that spirit-like, melan- choly kiss. and yet how marvelloust the human mind teaches itself to extract consolations from its sorrows. the least wretched of my hours were those that i passed in that saddened room, seeking how to establish fragments of intercourse, invent signs, by which each might inter- pret each, between the intellect i had so laboriously' cultured, so arrogant-ly vaunted, and the fancies wan- dering through the dark, deprived of their guide in reason. it was something even of joy to feel myself ii.— a sraanes story. have been so unprepared for reproach. the explana- tion i had previously given, discredited then, was now accepted without a question. lilian's present state accounted for all that ill nature had before miscon- strued. her good name was restored to its maiden whiteness by the fate that had severed the ties of the bride. the formal dwellers on the hill vied with the franker, warmer-hearted household of low town in the nameless attentions by which sympathy and respect are rather delicately indicated than noisily proclaimed. could lilian have then recovered and been sensible of its repentnnt homage, how reverently that petty world would have thronged around her! and, ah! could fortune and man’s esteem havetoned for the blight of hopes that had been planted and cherished on ground beyond their reach, ambition and pride might have been well contented with the largeness of the exchange that courted their acceptance. patients on patients crowded on me. sympathy with my sorrow seemed to create and endear a more trustful belief in my skill. but the profession i had once so enthusiastically loved became to me wearisome, insipid, distasteful; the kind- ness heaped on me gave no comfort, it but brought before me more vividly the conviction that it came too late to avail me: it could not restore to me the mind, the love, the life of my life, which lay dark and shat- tered in the brain of my guileless lilian. secretly i felt a sullen resentment. i knew that to the crowd the resentment was unjust. the world itself is but an a srasuos s'roar. appearance; who can blame it if appearance guide its laws? but to those who had been detached from the crowd by the professions of friendship—those who, when the slander was yet new, and might have been awed into silence had they stood by my side, -- to the pressure of their hands, now, i had no response. against mrs. poyntz, above all others, i bore a remembrance of unrelaxcd, nnmitigable indignation. her schemes for her daughter’s marriage had tri- umphed; jane was mrs. ashleigh sumner. her mind was, perhaps, softened now that the object which had sharpened its worldly faculties was accomplished; but in vain, on first hearing of my affliction, had this she- machiavel owned a humane remorse, and, with all her keen comprehension of each facility that circumstances gave to her will, availed herself of the general compas- sion to strengthen the popular reaction in favor of lilian’s assaulted honor—in vain had she written to me with a gentleness of sympathy foreign to her habitual characteristics~in vain besought me to call on her—in vain waylaid and accosted me with a humility that almost implored forgiveness; i vouch- safed no reproach, but i could imply no pardon. i put between her and my great sorrow the impenetrable wall of my freezing silence. one word of here at the time that i had so patheti- cally besought her aid, and the parrot-flock that repeated her very whisper in noisy shrillness, would have been as loud tn defend as it had been to defame; that vile [ a srnsues s'rosv. eflicacy of his advice. the letter i now received from him had been begun, and continued at some length, before my communication reached him. and this earlier portion contained animated and cheerful descriptions of his australian life and home, which contrasted with the sorrowful tone of the supplement written in reply to the tidings with which i had wrung his friendly and tender heart. in this, the latter part of his letter, he suggested that if time had wrought no material change for the. better, it might be advisable to try the effect of foreign travel. scenes entirely new might stimulate observation, and the observation of things external 'withdraw the sense from that brooding over images delusively formed within, which characterized the kind of mental alienation i had described. “ let any intellect create for itself a visionary world, and all reasonings built on it are fallacious; the visionary world vanishes in proportion as we can arouse a predominant interest in the actual.” this grand authority, who owed half his consummate skill as a practitioner to the scope of his knowledge as a philosopher, then proceeded to give me a hope which i had not dared, of myself, to form. he said, “idis tinguish the case you so minutely detail from that insanity which is reason lost; here it seems rather to be reason held in suspense. where there is hereditary predisposition, where there is organic change of structure in the brain—nay, where there is that kind of insanity which takes the epithet of moral, whereby the whole a stunner away. character becomes so transformed that the prime element of sound understanding, conscience itself, is‘either erased or warped into the sanction of what, in a healthful state, it would most disapprove, it is only charlatans who- promise effectual cure. but here i assume that there is no hereditary taint; here i am convinced, from my own observation, that the nobility of the organs, all fresh as yet in the vigor of youth, would rather submit to death than the permanent overthrow of the equi- librium in reason; here, where you tell me the character preserves all its moral attributes of gentleness and purity, and but over-indulges its own early habit of estranged contemplation; here, without deceiving you in false kindness, i give you the guarantee of my expe- rience when i bid you ‘hopel’ i am persuaded that, sooner or later, the mind, thus for a time affected, will right itself; because here, in the cause of the maladv we do but deal with the nervous system. and that, once righted, and the mind once disciplined in those practical duties which conjugal life necessitates, the malady itself will never return; never be transmitted to} the children on whom your wife’s restoration to health may permit you to count hereafter. if the course of travel i recommend and the prescriptions i enjoin with that course fail you, let me know; and though i would fain close my days in this land, i will come to you. i love you as my son. i will tend your wife as my daughter." " foreign travel! the idea smiled on me. julius a srnauea story. he described the house thus to be sold-in case i might know of a purchaser. it had been built at a cost unusual in those early times, and by one who clung to english tastes amidst australian wilds, so that in this purchase a settler would escape the hardships he had then ordinarily to encounter; it was, in short, a home to which a man, more luxurious than i, might hear a bride with wants less simple than those which now sufiiced for my darling lilian. this communication dwelt on my mind through the avocations of the day on which i received it, and in the evening i read all, except the supplement, aloud to mrs. ashleigh in her daughter’s presence. i desired to see if faber’s descriptions of the country and its life, which in themselves were extremely spirited and striking, would arouse lilian’s interest. at first she did not seem to heed me while i read, but when i came to faber’s loving account of little amy, lilian turned her eyes towards me, and evidently listened with attention. he wrote how the child had already become the most useful person in the simple household. how watchful the quickness of the heart had made the service of the eye; all their associations of comfort had grown round her active, noiseless movements; it was she who had contrived to monopolize the management, or supervision of all that added to home the nameless, interior charm. under her eyes the rude furniture of the log-house grew inviting with english neatness; she ' took charge of the dairy; she had made the garden a strange s'roar. gay with flowers selected from the wild, and suggested the trellised walk, already covered with hardy vine. she was their confidant in every plan of improvement, their comforter in every anxious doubt, their nurse in every passing ailment, her very smile a refreshment in the weariness of daily toil. “ how all that is best in womanhood,” wrote the old man, with the enthusiasm which no time had reft from his hearty, healthful genius- “ how all that is best in womanhood is here opening fast into fiower from the bud of the infant’s soul! the atmosphere seems to suit it—the child- woman in the child-world i” i heard lilian sigh; i looked towards her furtively; tears stood in her softened eyes; her lip was quiyering. presently, she began to rub her right hand over the left—over the wedding-ring—at first, slowly; then with quicker movement. “it is not here,” she said, impatiently; “it is not herel” “what is not here i” asked mrs. ashleigh, hanging over her. lilian lent back her head on her mother’s bosom, and answered faintly: “ the stainl some one said there was a stain on this hand. i do not see it—do you ” “there is no stain, never was,” said i; “ the hand is white as your own innocence, or the lily from'which you take your name.” “ hnshl you do not know my name. i will whisper a s'raanos sroav. it. softl—my name is nightshade! do you want to know where the lily is now, brother? i will tell you. there, in that letter—you call her amy—she \ , is the lily—take her to your breast —— hide her. hist! what are those bells . marriage-bells. do not let her hear them. for there is a cruel wind that whispers the bells, and the bells ring out what it whispers, louder and louder, ‘stain on lily, shame on lily, wither lily.‘ if she been what the wind whispers to the bells, she will creep away into the dark, and then she, too, will turn to nightshade.” " lilian, look up, awake! you have been in along, long dream: it is passing away. lilian, my beloved, my blessed lilian l” never till then had i heard from her even so vague an allusion to the fatal calumny, and its dreadful efl'ect, and while her words now pierced my heart, it best, amongst its pangs, with a thrilling hope. but, alas! the idea that had gleamed upon her had vanished already. she murmured something about circles of fire, and a veiled woman in black gar- ments; became restless, agitated, and unconscious of our presence, and finally sank into a heavy sleep. that night (my room was next to hers with the intervening door open) i heard her cry out. i hastened to her side. she was still asleep, but there was an a s'raauoa s'roar. anxious, laboring expression on her young face, and yet not an expression wholly of pain—for her lips were parted with a smile —— that glad yet troubled smile with which one who has been revolving some subject of per- plexity or fear, greets a sudden thought that seems to solve the riddle, or prompt the escape from danger; and as i softly took her hand she returned my gentle pres- sure, and inclining towards me, said, still in sleep: “ let us go.” “whither?” i answered, under my breath, so as not to awake her; “is it to see the child of whom i read, and the land that is blooming out of the earth’s child- hood '” “out of the dark into the light; where the leaves do not change; where the night is our day, and the winter our summer. let us go—let us gol” “ we will go. dream on undisturbed, my bride. oh, that the dream could tell you that my love has not changed in our sorrow, holier and deeper than on the day in which our vows were exchanged! in you still all my hopes fold their wings; where you are, there still i myself have my dreamland l” the sweet face grew bright as i spoke; all trouble left the smile; softly she drew her hand from my clasp, and rested it for a moment on my bended head, as if in blessing. i rose; stole back to my own room, closing the door. lest the sob i could not stifle should mar her sleep. a sraasos sroar. chapter lxvi. i unrowsn my new prospects to mrs. ashleigh. she was more easily reconciled to them than i could have supposed, judging by her habits, which were naturally indolent, and averse to all that disturbed their even tenor. but the great griefgvhich had befallen her bad roused up that strength of devotion which liés dormant in all hearts that are capable of loving an- other more than self. with her full consent i wrote to faber, communicating my intentions, instructing him to purchase the property he had so commended, and inclosing my banker’s order for the amount, ‘on an australian firm. i now announced my intention to retire from my profession ; made prompt arrangements with a successor to my practice; disposed of my two houses at l ; fixed the day of my departure. vanity was dead within me, or i might have been gratified by the sensation which the news of my design created. my faults became at once forgotten: such good qualities as i might possess were exaggerated. the public regret vented and consoled itself in a costly testimonial, to which even the poorest of my patients insisted on the privilege to contribute, graced with an inscription flattering enough to have served for the epitaph on some great man’s tomb. no one who has served an art and striven for a name, is a stoic to the ii.-— u i strange s'roar. esteem of others, and sweet indeed would such honors have been to me had not publicity itself seemed a wrong to the sanctity of that affliction which set lilian apart from the movement and the glories of the world. the two persons most active in “ getting up” this testimonial were, nominally, colonel poyntz—in truth, his wife—and my old disparager, mr. vigorsl it is long since my narrative has referred to mr. vigors. it is due to him now to state that, in his capacity of magistrate, and in his own way, he had been both active and delicate in the inquiries set on foot for lilian during the unhappy time in which she had wandered, spellbound, from her home. he, alone, of all the more influential magnates of the town, had upheld her inno- cence against the gossip that aspersed it; and during the last trying year of my residence at l—-, be had sought me, with frank and manly confessions of his regret for his former prejudice against me, and assur- ances of the respect in which he had held me ever since my marriage-marriage but in rite—with lilian. he had then, strong in his ruling passion, besought me to consult his clairvoyants as to her case. i declined this invitation, so as not to affront him—declined it, not as i should once have done, but with no word nor look of incredulous disdain. the fact was, that i had con- ceived a solemn terror of all practices and theories out of the beaten track of sense and science. perhaps in my refusal i did wrong. i know not. i was afraid of my own imagination. he continued not less friendly in a srnaues sroar. '! spite of my refusal. and, such are the vicissitudes in human feeling, i parted from him whom i had regarded as my most bigoted foe with a warmer sentiment of kindness than for any of those on whom i had counted on friendship. he had not deserted lilian. it was not so with mrs. poyntz. i would have paid tenfold the value of the testimonial to have erased, from the list of those who subscribed to it, her husband’s name. the day before i quitted l , and some weeks after i had, in fact, renounced my practice, i received an urgent entreaty from miss brabazon to call on her. she wrote in lines so blurred that i could with difficulty decipher them, that she was very ill, given over by dr jones, who had been attending her. she implored my opinion. chapter lxvii. ox reaching the house, a formal man-servant, with indifi'erent face, transferred me to the guidance of a hired nurse, who led me up the stairs, and, before i was well aware of it, into the room in which dr. lloyd had died. widely d'literent, indeed, the aspect of the walls, the character of the furniture. the dingy paper- hangings were replaced by airy muslins, showing a rose-colored ground through their fanciful open-work; luxurious fauteuils, gilded wardrobes, full-length mirrors. a s'raauon s'roar. “do you think i am really dying, dr. fenwick?" said a feeble voice. “i fear dr. jones has misunder- stood my case. i wish i had called you in at the first -but-but i could not—i could not! will you feel my pulse? don’t you think you could do me good?” i had no need to feel the pulse in that skeleton wrist; the aspect of the face sufiiced to tell me that death was drawing near. mechanically, however, i went through the hackneyed formulae of professional questions. this vain ceremony done; as gently and delicately as i could, i implied the expediency of concluding, if not yet settled, those affairs which relate to this world. “ this duty,” i said, “ in relieving the mind from care for others to whom we owe the forethought of affection, often relieves the body also of many a gnawing pain, and sometimes, to the surprise of the most experienced physician, prolongs life itself.” “ah,” said the old maid, peevishly, “ i understand! but it is not my will that troubles me. i should not be left to a nurse from a hospital if my relations did not know that my annuity dies with me; and i forestalled it in furnishing this house, dr. fenwick, and all these pretty things will be sold to pay those horrid trades- men !-very hard! so hard l—just as i had got things about me in the way i always said i would have them if i could ever afl'ord it! i always said i would have my bed-room hung with muslin, like dear lady l.’s ;-- and the drawing-room in geranium-coloured silk—so * a strange sroar. pretty. you have not seen it: you would not know the house, dr. fenwick. and just when all is finished, to be taken away and thrust into the grave. it is so cruel!" ' and she began to weep. her emotion brought on a violent paroxysm, which, when she re- covered from it, had produced one of those startling changes of mind that are sometimes witnessed before death: changes whereby the whole character of a life seems to undergo solemn transformation. the hard will become gentle, the proud meek, the frivolous earn- est. that awful moment when the things of earth pass away like dissolving scenes, leaving death visible on the background by the glare that shoots up in the last flicker of life’s lamp. and when she lifted her haggard face from my shoulder, and heard my pitying, soothing voice, it was not the grief of a trifler at the loss of fondled toys that spoke in the fallen lines of her lip, in the woe of her pleading eyes. ' “ so this is death,” she said. “ i feel it hurrying on. i must speak. i promised mr. c. that i would. forgive me, can you-can you? that letter—that letter to lilian ashleigh, i wrote itl oh, do not look at me so terribly; i never thought it could do such evill and am i not punished enough? i truly believed when i wrote that miss ashleigh was deceiving you, and once i was silly enough to fancy that you might have liked me. but i had another motive; i had' been so poor all my life—i had become rich unexpectedly; i set my a strange s'roav. heart on this house—i had always fancied it—and i thought if i could prevent miss ashleigh’s marrying you, and scare her and her mother from coming back to l , i could get the house. and i did get it. what for?-to die. i had not been here a week before i got the hurt that is killing me—a fall down the stairs— comiug out of this very “room; the stairs had been polished. if i had stayed in my old lodging, it would not have happened. oh, say you forgive me! say, say it, even if you do not feel you can! say it! ” and the miserable woman grasped me by the arm as dr. lloyd had grasped me. i shaded my averted face with my hands; my heart heaved with the agony of my suppresed passion. a wrong, however deep, only to myself, i could have pardoned without effort; such a wrong to lilian,—nol i could not say, “ i forgive.” the dying wretch was perhaps more appalled by my silence than she would have been by my reproach. her voice grew shrill in her despair. “you will not pardon mel i shall die with} your curse on my head. mercy! mercy! that good man, mr. ( ., assured me you would be merciful. have you never wronged another? has the evil one never tempted you ? ” then i spoke in broken accents: “me! oh, had it been i whom you defamed—hut a young creature so harmless, so unofi'ending, and for so miserable a motive l " a strange btoby. “ but i tell you, i swear to you, i never dreamed i could cause such sorrow; and that young man, that margrave, put it into my head i ” “margravel he had left l—— long before that letter was written.” “but he came back for a day just before i wrote; it was the very day i met him in the lane yonder. he asked after you—after miss ashleigh; and when he spoke he laughed, and i said that miss ashleigh had been ill, and had gone away; and he laughed again. and i thought he knew more than he would tell me, so i asked him if he supposed mrs. ashleigh would come back, and said how much i should like to take this house if she did not; and again he laughed, and said, ‘ birds never stay in the nest after the young ones are hurt,’ and went away singing. when' i got home, his laugh and his song haunted me. i thought i saw him still in my room, prompting me to write, and i sat down and wrote. oh, pardon, pardon me! i have been a foolish, poor creature, but never meant to do such harm. the evil one tempted me! there he is, near me now! i see him yonder! there, at the door- way. he comes to claim me! as you hope for mercy yourself, free me from him! forgive me i” i made an efi‘ort over myself. in naming margrave as her tempter, the woman had suggested an excuse, echoed from that innermost cell of my mind, which i recoiled from gazing into, for there i should behold his image. inexpiable though the injury she had wrought a sraanos near. against me, and mine, still the woman was human—- fellow-creature—like myself ;_-but as? , i took the pale hand that still pressed my arm, and said, with firm voice: " be comforted. in the name of lilian, my wife, i forgive you for her and for me as freely and as fully as we are enjoined by him, against whose precepts the best of us daily sin, to forgive—we children of wrath —-to forgive one anotherl ” “heaven bless you l—oh, bless you ” she mur- mured, sinking back upon her pillow. “ah!” thought i, “what if the pardon i grant for a wrong far greater than i inflicted on him whose impre- cation smote me in this chamber, should indeed be received as atonement, and this blessing on the lips of the dying annul the dark curse that the dead body has left on my path through the valley of the shadow l ” i left my patient sleeping quietly—the sleep that precedes the last. as i went down the stairs into the hall, i saw mrs. poyntz standing at the threshold, speaking to the man-servant and the nurse. i would have passed her with a formal how but she stopped me. ' “i came to inquire after poor miss brabazon," said she. “ you can tell me more than the servants can; is there no hope?” “ let the nurse go up and watch beside her. she may pass away in the sleep into which she had fallen.” " allen fenwick, i must speak with you—nay, but a s'raanes swoav. for a few minutes. i hear that you leave l—-- to- morrow. it is scarcely among the chances of life that we should meet again.” while thus saying, she drew me along the lawn down the path that led towards her own home. “i wish,” said she earnestly, “that you could part with a kindlier feeling towards me; but i can scarcely expect it. could i put myself in your place, and be moved by your feelings, i know that i should be implacable ; but i --— ” “but you, madam, are the worldl and the world governs itself, and dictates to others, by laws which seem harsh to those who ask from its favor the services which the world cannot tender, for the world admits favorites but ignores friends. you did but act to me as the world ever acts to those who mistake its favor for its friendship." “it is true,” said mrs. poyntz, with blunt candor; and we continued to walk on silently. at length, she said, abruptly, “but do you not rashly deprive your- self of your only consolation in sorrow? when the heart sufl‘ers, does your skill admit any remedy like occupation to the mind? yet you abandon that occu- pation to which your mind is most accustomed; you desert your career; you turn aside, in the midst of the race, from the fame which awaits at the goal; you go back from civilization itself, and dream that all your intellectual cravings can find content in the life of a herdsman, amidst the monotony of a wild! no, you will repent, for you are untrue to your mindl” a srsanos story. !) “i am sick of the word ‘mindl”’ said i, bitterly. and therewith i relapsed into musing. - the enigmas which had foiled my intelligence in the uuravelled sibyl book of nature were mysteries strange to every man’s normal practice of thought, even if redu- cible to the fraudulent impressions of outward sense , for illusions in a brain otherwise healthy, suggest prob- lems in our human organization which the colleges that record them rather guess at than solve. but the blow which had shattered my life had been dealt by the hand of a fool. here, there were no mystic en- chantments. motives the most common-place and paltry, suggested to a brain as trivial and shallow as ever made the frivolity of woman a theme for the satire of poets,’had sufficed, in devastating the field of my affections, to blast the uses for which i had cultured my mind; and had my intellect been as great as heaven ever gave to man, it would have been as vain a shield as mine against the shaft that had lodged in my heart. while i had, indeed, been preparing my reason and my fortitude to meet such perils, weird and marvellous, as those by which tales round the winter fire-side scare the credulous child — a contrivance so vulgar and back- neyed that not a day passes but what some hearth is vexed by an anonymous libel—had wrought a calam- ity more dread than aught which my dark guess into the shadow-land unpicrced by philosophy, could trace to the prompting of malignant witchcraft. so, ever this truth runs through all legends of ghost and demon a s'rnnuen s'ronr. _through the uniform records of what wonder accredits and science rejects as the supernatural-lo! the dread machinery whose wheels roll through hades! what need such awful engines for such mean results? the first blockhead we meet in our walk to our grocer’s can lell us more than the ghost tells us; the poorest envy we ever aroused hurts us more than the demon. how true an interpreter is genius to hell as to earth! the fiend comes to faust, the tired seeker of knowledge; heaven and hell stake their cause in the mortal’s temptation. and what does the fiend to astonish the 'mortal? turn wine into fire, turn love into crime. we need no mephistocles to accomplish these marvels every day! thus silently thinking, i walked by the side of the world-wise woman ; land when she next spoke, i looked up, and saw that we were at the monk’s well, where i had first seen lilian gazing into heaven. mrs. poyntz had, as we walked, placed her hand on my arm, and, turning abruptly from the path into the glade, i found myself standing by her side in the scene where a new sense of being had first disclosed to my sight the hues with which love, the passionate beauti- fier, turns into purple and gold the grey of the common air. thus, when romance has ended in sorrow, and the beautiful fades from the landscape, the trite and positive forms of life banished for a time, reappear, and deepen our mournful remembrance of the glories they replace. and the woman of the world, finding how a sraauos s'roay. little i was induced to respond to her when she had talked of myself, began to speak, in her habitual, clear, ringing accents, of her own social schemes and devices: “i shall miss you when you are gone, allen fen- wick, for though, during the last year or so, all actual intercourse between us has ceased, yet my interest in you gave some occupation to my thoughts when i sat alone—having lost my main object of ambition in set- tling my daughter, and having no longer any one in the house with whom i could talk of the future, or for whom i could form a project. it is so wearisome to count the changes which pass within us, that we take interest in the changes that pass without. poyntz still ‘has his weather-glass; i have no longer my jane.” “ cannot linger with you on this spot,” said i, impatiently turning back into the path; she followed, treading over fallen leaves. and unheeding my inter- ruption, she thus continued her hard talk: “but i am not sick of my mind as you seem to be of yours; [am only somewhat tired of the little cage in which, since it has been alone, it ruflles its plumes against the flimsy wires that confine it from wider space. i shall take up my home for a time with the new-married couple: they want me. ashleigh sumner has come into parliament. he means to attend regu- larly and work hard, but he does not like jane to go into the world by hersolf, and he wishes her to go into the world, because he wants a wife to display his wealth for the improvement of his position. in ashleigh ii.—l i a sraauoa sroar. sumner’s house, i shall have ample scope for my ener- gies, such as they are. i have a curiosity to see the few that perch on the wheels of the state, and say ‘it is we who move the wheels!’ it will amuse me to learn if i can maintain in a capital the authority i have won in a country town; if not, i can but return to my small principality. wherever i live i must sway, not serve. if i succeed— as i ought, for in jane’s beauty and ashleigh’s fortune i have materials for the woof of ambition, wanting which here, i fall asleep over my knitting—if i succeed, there will be enough to occupy the rest of my life. ashleigh sumner must be a power; the power will he represented and enjoyed by my child, and created and maintained by me! allen fenwick, do as i do. be world with the world, and it will only be in moments of spleen and chagrin that you will sigh to think that the heart may be void when the mind is full. confess you envy me while you listen.” “not so; all that to you seems so great, appears to me so small! nature alone is always grand, in her terrors as well as her charms. the world for you, nature for me. farewell l” “nature,” said mrs. poyntz compassionately. “ poor allen fenwickl nature indeed-intellectual suicide! nay, shake hands, then, if for the last time." so we shook hands and parted, where the wicket- gate and the stone stairs separated my blighted fairy- land from the common thoroughfare. a s'raaues sroav. chapter lxviii. that night i was employed in collecting books and ‘ manuscripts which i proposed to take with me, inclu- ding my long-suspended physiological work, and such standard authorities as i might want to consult or refer to in the portions yet incompleted, my servant entered to inform me, in answer to the inquiries i had sent him to make, that miss brabazon had peacefully breathed her last an hour before. well! my pardon had per- haps soothed her last moments; but how unavailing her death-bed repentance to undo the wrong she had donel i turned from that thought, and, glancing at the work into which i had thrown all my learning, methodized into system with all my art, i recalled the pity which mrs. poyntz had expressed for my meditated waste of mind. the tone of superiority which this incarnation of common sense, accompanied by uncommon will, as- sumed over all that was too deep or too high for her comprehension,lhad sometimes amused me; thinking over it now, it piqued. i said to myself, “after all, i shall bear with me such solace as intellectual occupa- tion can afl'ord. i shall have leisure to complete this labor, and a record that i have lived and thought may outlast all the honors which worldly ambition may bestow upon an ashleigh sumner!” and, as i so murmured, my hand, mechanically, selecting the books k l a s'rnauen story. i needed, fell on the bible that julius faber had given to me. i it opened at the second book of esdras, which our church places amongst the apoerypha, and is generally considered by scholars to have been written in the first or second century of the christian era.* but in which, the questions raised by man in the remotest ages, to which we can trace back his desire “to comprehend the ways of the most high,” are invested with a grandeur of thought and sublimity of word to which i know of no parallel in writers we call profane. my eye fell on this passage in the lofty argument between the angel, whose name was uriel, and the prophet, perplexed by his own cravings for know- ledge : “ he (the angel) answered me, and said, i went into a forest into a plain, and the trees took counsel, “and said, come, let us go and make war against the sea, that it may depart away before us, and that we may make us more woods. “ the floods of the see also in like manner took coun- sel, and said, come, let us go up and subdue the woods of the plain, and there also we may make us another country. “the thought of the wood was in vain, for the fir; came and consumed it. *such is the supposition of jahn. dr. lee, however, is of. opinion that the author was contemporary, and, indeed, identi- eel, with the author of the book of enoch. a s'raauca sroav. “ the thought of the floods of the sea came likewise to nought, for the sand stood up and stopped them. “if thou wcrt judge now betwixt these two, whom wouldst thou begin to justify? or whom wouldst thou condemn ? “i answered and said, verin it is a foolish thought that they both have devised; for the ground is given unto the wood, and the sea also hath his place to bear his floods. “ then answered be me, and said, thou hast given a right judgment; but why judgest thou not thyself also? “ for like as the ground is given unto the wood, and the sea to his floods: even so they that dwell upon the earth may understand nothing but that which is upon the earth: and he that dwelleth above the heavens may only understand the things that are above the height of the heavens.” i paused at those words, and closing the sacred volume fell into deep, unquiet thought. chapter lxix. i had hoped that the voyage would produce some beneficial efl'ect upon lilian ; but no effect, good or bad, was perceptible, except, perhaps, a deeper silence, a gentler calm. she loved to sit on the deck when the nights were fair, and the stars mirrored in the deep. * l a strange sroar. and once, thus, as i stood beside her, bending over the rail of the vessel, and gazing on the long wake of light which the moon made amidst the darkness of an ocean to which no shore could be seen, i said to myself, “ where is my track of light through the measureless future? would that i could believe as i did when a child! woe is me, that all the reasonings i take from my knowledge should lead me away from the comfort which the peasant who mourns finds in faith! why should riddles so dark have been thrust upon me ?-- me, no fond child of fancy; me, sober pupil of schools the severest. yet what marvel-the strangest my senses have witnessed or feigned in the fraud they have palmed on me -is greater than that by which a simple affection, that all men profess to have known, has changed the courses of life prearranged by my hopes and confirmed by my judgment? how calmly before i knew love i have anatomized its mechanism, as the tyre who dissects the-webwork of tissues and nerves in the dead! l ! it lives, lives in me; and, in living, escapes from my scalpel and mocks all my knowledge. can love be reduced to the realm of the senses? no; what nun is more barred by her grate from the realm of the senses than my bride by her solemn amiction? is love, then, the union of kindred, harmonious minds? no, my beloved one sits by my side, and i guess not her thoughts, and my mind is to her a sealed fountain. yet i love her more— oh inefi'ably more! for the doom which destroys the two causes philosophy assigns to a strangi s'roar. love—in the form, in the mind! how can i now, in my vain physiology, say what is love-what is not? is it love which must tell me that man has a soul, and that in soul will be found the solution of problems, never to be solved in body or mind alone ?” my self-questionings halted here as lilian’s hand touched my shoulder. she had risen from her seat, and had come to me. “are not the stars very far from earth f” she said. “very far." “are they seen for the first time to-night ?” “ they were seen, i presume, as we see them, by the fathers of all human races!” . “ yet close below us they shine reflected in the waters; and yet, see, wave flows on wave before we can count it i” “ lilian, by what sympathy do you read and answer my thought?” her reply was incoherent and meaningless. if a gleam of intelligence had mysteriously lighted my heart to her view, it was gone. but drawing her nearer towards me, my eye long followed wistfully the path of light, dividing the darkness on either hand, till it closed in the sloping horizon. ma a sraanes smear. chapter'lxx. the voyage is over. at the seaport at which we landed i found a letter from faber. my instructions had reached him in time to effect the purchase on which his descriptions had fixed my desire. the stock, the implements of husbandry, the furniture of the house, were included in the purchase. all was prepared for my arrival, and i hastened from the then miserable village, which may some day rise into one of the mightiest capitals of the world, to my lodge in the wilderness. it was the burst of the australian spring, which commences in our autumn month of october. the air was loaded with the perfume of the acacias. amidst the glades of the open forest land, or climbing the craggy banks of winding silvery creeks,* creepers and flowers of dazzling hue contrasted the olive-green of the surrounding foliage. the exhilarating efl‘ect of the climate in that season heightens the charm of the strange scenery. in the brilliancy of the sky, in the lightness of the atmosphere, the sense of life is won~ drously quickened. with the very breath the adventurer draws in from the racy air, he feels as if inhaling hope. we have reached our home—we are settled in it; the * creek is the name given by australian colonists to precarious watercourses and tributary streams. a sraasos sroar early unfamiliar impressions are worn away. we have learned to dispense with much that we at first missed, and are reconciled to much that at first disappointed or displeased. the house is built but of logs-_the late proprietor had commenced, upon a rising ground, a mile distant, a more imposing edifice of stone; but it is not half finished. this log-house is commodious, and much has been done, within and without, to conceal or adorn its prim- itive rudeness. it is of irregular, picturesque form, with verandahs round three sides of it, to which the grape-vine has been trained, with glossy leaves that clamber up to the gable roof. there is a large garden in front, in which many english fruit-trees have been set, and grow fast amongst the plants of the tropics and the orange-trees of southern europe. beyond, stretch undulous pastures, studded not only with sheep, but with herds of cattle, which my speculative prede- cessor had bred from parents of famous stock, and imported from england at mighty cost; but as yet the herds had been of little profit, and they range their luxuriant expanse of pasture with as little heed. to the left, soar up, in long range, the many-colored hills; to the right meanders a creek, belted by feathery trees, and on its opposite bank a forest opens, through fre- quent breaks, into park-like glades and alleys. the territory, of which i so suddenly find myself the lord, is vast, even for a colonial capitalist. a strange sroar. it had been originally purchased as “ a special sur- vey,” comprising twenty thousand acres, with the privilege of pasture over forty thousand more. in v.ery little of this land, though it includes some of the most fertile districts in the known world, has cultivation been even commenced. at the time i entered into possession even sheep were barely profitable; labor was scarce and costly. regarded as a speculation, i could not wonder that my predecessor fled in fear from his domain. had i invested the bulk of my capital in this lordly purchase, i should have deemed myself a ruined man; but a villa near london, with a hundred acres, would have cost me as much to buy, and thrice as much to keep up. i could afford the investment i had made. i found a scotch bailiff already on the estate, and i was contented to escape from rural occupations, to which i brought no experience, by making it worth his while to serve me with zeal. two domestics of my own, and two who had been for many years with mrs. ashleigh, had accompanied us: they remained faithful and seemed contented. so the clockwork of our mere household arrangements went on much the same as in our native home. lilian was not subjected to the ordinary priva- tions and discomforts that await the wife even of the wealthy emigrant. alas! would she have heeded them if she had been? the change of scene wrought a decided change for the better in her health and spirits, but not such as implied a dawn of reviving reason. but her counte- a sraaxos s'roav. nance was now more rarely overcast. its usual aspect was glad with a soft, mysterious smile. she would murmur snatches of songs, that were partly borrowed from english poets, and partly glided away into what seemed spontaneous additions of her own—wanting intelligible meaning, but never melody or rhyme. strange, that memory and imitation—the two earliest parents of all inventive knowledge—should still be so active, and judgment-the after faculty, that combines the rest into purposes and method—be annulled! julius faber i see continually, though his residence is a few miles distant. he is sanguine as to lilian’s ultimate recovery; and, to my amazement and to my envy, he has contrived, by some art which i cannot attain, to establish between her and himself intelligible communion. she comprehends his questions, when mine, though the simplest, seem to her in unknown language; and he construes into sense her words, that to me are meaningless riddles. “i was right,” he said to me one day, leaving her seated in the garden beside her quiet, patient mother, and joining me where i lay-listless yet fretful—under the shadeless gum-trees, gazing not on the flocks and fields that i could call my own, but on the far mountain range, from which the arch of the horizon seemed to spring ;—“ i was right,” said the great physician; “this is reason suspended, not reason lost. your wife will recover; but ” “ but what ? ” a strange s'roar. “ give me your arm as i walk homeward, and i will tell you the conclusion to which i have come.” i rose, the old man leant on me, and we went down the valley, along the craggy ridges of the winding creek. the woodland on the opposite bank was vocal with the chirp, and creek, and chatter of australian birds-all mirthful, all songless, save that sweetness of warblers, which some early irreverent emigrant de- graded to the name of magpie, but whose note is sweeter than the nightingale’s, and trills through the lucent air with a distinct ecstatic melody of joy that dominates all the discords;-—so ravishing the sense, that, while it sings, the ear scarcely heeds the scream of the parrots. chapter lxxi. “ you may remember,” said julius faber, “ sir humphry davy’s eloquent description of the effect pro- duced on him by the inhalation of nitrous oxide. he states that he began to lose the perception of external things: trains of vivid visible images rapidly passed through his mind, and were connected with words in such a manner as to produce perceptions perfectly novel. ‘ i existed,’ he says, ‘ in a world of newly-connected and newly-modified ideas.’ when he recovered, be ex- claimed: ‘nothing exists but thoughts; the universe is composed of impressions, ideas, pleasures, and pains l” a s’rasuos near. “now observe, that thus. a cultivator of positive science, endowed with one of the healthiest of human brains, is, by the inhalation of a gas, abstracted from all external life --enters into a new world, which con- sists of images he himself creates, and animates so vividly—that, on waking, he resolves the universe itself into thoughts.” “well,” said i, “ but what inference do you draw from that voluntary experiment, applicable to the malady of which you bid me hope to cure?” . “ simply this; that the effect produced on a healthful brain by the nitrous oxide may be produced also by moral causes operating on the blood, or on the nerves. there is a degree of mental excitement in which ideas are more vivid than sensations, and then the world of external things gives way to the world within the brain.* but this, though a suspension of that reason which comprehends accuracy of judgment, is no more a permanent aberration of reason than were sir hum- davy’s visionary ecstasies under the influence of the gas. the difference between the two states of suspen- sion is that of time, and it is but an afl'air of time with our beloved patient. yet prepare yoursele i fear that the mind will not recover without some critical malady of the body!” “ critical! but not dangerous ? — say not dangerous. " see, on the theory elaborated from this principle, dr. hib< bert’s interesting and valuable work on the philosophy of lpparitions. ii. — a sraanes sroav. i can endure the pause of her reason; i could not en- dure the void in the universe if her life were to fade from the earth.” “ poor friend! would not you yourself rather lose life than reason ? ” “ i—yesl but we men are taught to set cheap value on our own lives; we do not estimate at the same rate the lives of those we love. did we do so, humanity would lose its virtues.” “ what, then! love teaches that there is something of nobler value than mere mind? yet surely it cannot be the mere body? what is it, if not that continuance of being which your philosophy declines to acknowledge —viz., soul? if you fear so painfully that your lilian should die, is it not that you fear to lose her forever ? ” “ oh, cease, cease!” i cried, impatiently. “i cannot now argue on metaphysics. what is it that you antici- pate of harm to her life? her health has been stronger ever since her affliction. she never seems to know ailment now. do you not perceive that her check has a more hardy bloom, her frame a more rounded sym- metry, than when you saw her in england ?” “ unquestionably. her physical forces have been silently recruiting themselves in the dreams which half lull, half amuse her imagination. imagination! that faculty, the most glorious which is bestowed on the human mind, because it is the faculty which enables thought to create, is of all others the most exhausting to life when unduly stimulated, and consciously reason- a sraasos story. ! ing on its own creations. i think it probable that, had this sorrow not befallen you, you would have known a sorrow yet graver—you would have long survived your lilian. as it is now, when she recovers, her whole organization, physical and mental, will have undergone a beneficent change. but, i repeat my prediction— some severe malady of the body will precede the restora- tion of the mind; and it is my hope that the present suspense or aberration of the more wearing powers of the mind may fit the body to endure and surmount the physical crisis. i remember a case, within my own professional experience, in many respects similar to this, but in other respects it was less hopeful. i was con- sulted by a young student of a very delicate physical frame, of great mental energies, and consumed by an intense ambition. he was reading for university hon- ors. he would not listen to me when i entreated him to rest his mind. i thought that he was certain to obtain the distinction for which he toiled, and equally certain to die a few months after obtaining it. he falsified both my prognostics. he so overworked him- self that, on the day of examination, his nerves were agitated, his memory failed him; he passed, not with- out a certain credit, but fell far short of the rank amongst his fellow-competitors to which he aspired. here, then. the irritated mind acted on the disappointed heart, and raised a new train of emotions. he was first visited by spectral illusions; then he sank into a state in which the external world seemed quite blotted a srnanes story. out. he heeded nothing that was said to him; seemed to see nothing that was placed before his eyes; in a word, sensations became dormant, ideas preconceived usurped their place, and those ideas gave him pleasure. he believed that 'his genius was recognized, and lived amongst its supposed creations enjoying an imaginary fame. so it went on for two years; during which sus- pense of his reason, his frail form became robust and vigorous. at the end of that time he was seized with a fever, which would have swept him in three days to the grave had it occurred when i was first called in to attend him. he conquered the fever, and, in recover- ing, acquired the full possession of the intellectual faculties so long suspended. when i last saw him, many years afterwards, he was in perfect health, and the object of his young ambition was realized; the body had supported the mind—he had achieved distinction. now what had so, for a time, laid this strong intellect into visionary sleep? the most agonizing of human emo- tions in a noble spirit—shame! what has so stricken down your lilian? you have told me the story: shamel—the shame of a nature pre-eminently pure. but observe that, in his case as in hers, the shock in- flicted does not produce a succession of painful illusions; on the contrary, in both, the illusions are generally pleasing. had the illusions been painful, the body would have suffered—the patient died. why did a painful shock produce pleasing illusions? because. no matter how a shock on the nerves may originate, if it a strange sroar. affects the reason, it does but make more vivid, than impressions from actual external objects, the ideas pre- viously most cherished. such ideas in the young student were ideas of earthly fame; such ideas in the young maiden are ideas of angel comforters and hea- venly edens. you miss her mind on the earth, and, while we speak, it is in paradise.” “much that you say, my friend, is authorized by the speculations of great writers, with whom i am not unfamiliar; but in none of those writers, nor in your encouraging words, do i find a solution for much that has no precedents in my experience—much, indeed, that has analogies in my reading, but analogies which i have hitherto despised as old wives’ fables. i have bared to your searching eye the weird mysteries of my life. how do you account for facts which you cannot resolve into illusions? for the influence which that strange being, margrave, exercised over lilian’s mind or fancy, so that for a time her love for me was as dor- mant as is her reason now; so that he could draw her -her whose nature you admit to be singularly pure and modest-from her mother’s home. the magic wand! the trance into which that wand threw mar- grave himself; the apparition which it conjured up in my own quiet chamber, when my mind was without a care, and my health without a flaw. how account for all this-as‘yon endeavored, and perhaps successfully, to account for all my impressions of the vision in the lluseum, of the luminous, haunting shadow in its earlier * "a a strange story. apparitions, when my fancy was heated, my heart tor- mented, and, it might be, even the physical forces of this strong frame disordered ?” “allen,” said the old pathologist, "here we approach a ground which few physicians have dared to examine. honor to those who, like our bold contemporary, elliot- son, have braved scoff and sacrificed dress in seeking to extract what is practical in uses, what can be tested by experiment, from those exceptional phenomena on which magic sought to found a philosophy, and to which phi- losophy tracks the origin of magic.” “what! do i understand you? is it you, julius faber, who attach faith to the wonders attributed to animal magnetism and electrobiology, or subscribe to the doctrines which their practitioners teach i?" _“i have not examined into those doctrines, nor seen with my own eyes the wonders recorded, upon evidence too respectable, nevertheless, to permit me peremptorin to deny what i have not witnessed.* but wherever i ’ ‘ what faber here says is expressed with more authority by one of the most accomplished metaphysicians of our time (sir w. hamilton) : — “somnnmbulism is a phenomenon still more astonishing (than dreaming). in this singular state a person performs a regular series of rational actions, and those frequently of the most diffi- cult and delicate nature; and what is still more marvellous, with a talent to which he could make no pretension when awake. (cr. aneillon. essais philos. ii. .) his memory and reminis- cence supply him with recollections of words and things which, perhaps, never were at his disposal in the ordinary state— he speaks more fluently a more refined language. and if we are to credit what the evidence on which it rests hardly allows us to a s'raauos sroar. '“! look through the history of mankind n all ages and all races, i find a concurrence in certain beliefs which disbelieve, he has not only perception of things through other channels than the common organs of sense. but the =phere of his cognition is amplified to an extent far beyond the limits to which sensible perception is confined. this subject is one of the most perplexing in the whole compass of philosophy; for, on the one hand, the phenomena are so remarkable that they cannot be believed, and yet, on the other, they are of so unambiguous and palpable a character, and the witnesses to their reality are so numerous, so intelligent, and so high above every suspicion of deceit, that it is equally impossible to deny credit to what is attested by such ample and unexceptionable evidence." -—sir w. hamilton’s lectures on metaphysics and logic, vol. ii. p. . this perplexity, in which the distinguished philosopher leaves the judgment so equally balanced that it finds it impossible to believe, and yet impossible to disbelieve, forms the right state of mind in which a candid thinker should come to the examination of those more extraordinary phenomena which he has not him- self yet witnessed, but the fair inquiry into which may be tendered to him by persons above the imputation of quackery and fraud. miiller, who is not the least determined, as he is certainly one of the most distinguished disbelievers of mesmeric phenomena, does not appear to have witnessed, or at least to have carefully examined, them, or he would, perhaps, have seen that even the more extraordinary of those phenomena confirm, rather than contradict, his own general theories, and may he explained by the sympathies one sense has with another— “the laws of reflexion through the medium of the brain." (physiology of senses, p. .) and again by the maxim, “that the mental principle, or cause of the mental phenomena, cannot be confined to the brain, but that it exists in a latent state in every part of the organism." (lb. p. - .) ,the “nerve power," contended for by mr. bain, also, may suggest a rational solution of much that has seemed incredible to those physiologists who have not condescended to sift the genuine phenomena of mesmerism from the imp nature to which, in all ages, the phenomena exhibited by what may be called the ecstatic temperament, have been applied. i. a manual: near. ’! phrase i comprehend all constitutional mystics) is pecu- liarly sensitive to electric atmospheric influences. this is a fact which most medical observers will have re marked in the range of their practice. accordingly, i was prepared to find mr. hare townshend, in his in. tcrcsting work,"i state that he himself was of ‘the electric temperament,’ sparks flying from his hair when combed in the dark, dtc. that accomplished writer, whose veracity no one would impugn, affirms that ‘ between this electrical endowment and whatever mes- meric properties he might possess, there is a remarkable relationship and parallelism. whatever state of the atmosphere tends to accumulate and insulate electricity in the body, promotes equally,’ says mr. townshend, ‘the power and facility with which i influence others mesmerically.’ what mr. townshend thus observes in himself, american physicians and professors of chemistry depose to have observed in those modern magicians the mediums of (so—called) ‘spirit manifestation.’ they state that all such mediums are of the electric tempera- ment, thus everywheris found allied with the ecstatic, and their power varies in proportion as the state of the atmosphere serves to depress or augment the electricity stored in themselves. here, then, in the midst of vagrant phenomena, either too hastily dismissed as altogether the tricks of fraudful imposture, or too credu- lously accepted as supernatural portents—here, at least, in one generalized fact, we may, perhaps, find a starting- “ facts in mesmerism. ' i ' a strangi story. point, from which inductive experiment may arrive soon or late at a rational theory. but, however the power of which we are speaking (a power accorded to special physical temperament) may or may not be accounted for by some patient student of nature, i am persuaded that it is in that power we are to seek for whatever is not wholly imposture, in the attributes assigned to magic or witchcraft. it is well said, by a writer who has gone into the depth of these subjects with the research of a scholar and the science of a pathologist, ‘that if magic had exclusively reposed on credulity and falsehood, its reign would never have endured so long. but that its art took its origin in singular phenomena, proper to certain affections of the nerves, or manifested in the conditions of sleep. these phenomena, the principle of which was at first unknown, served to root faith in magic, and often abused even enlightened minds. the enchanters and magicians arrived, by divers prac- tices, at the faculty of provoking in other brains a deter- mined order of dreams, of engendering hallucinations of all kinds, of inducing fits of hypnotism, trance, mania, during which the persons so afl'ected imagined that they saw, heard, touched supernatural beings, conversed with them, proved their influences, assisted at prodigies of which magic proclaimed itself to possess the secret. the public, the enchanters, and the enchanted were equally dupes.’* accepting this explanation, unintel- * la magic et l’astrologie dans l’antiquité et an mayan-age. par l. f. alfred maury, membre de ' institut. p. . a s'raasoa s'roar. tion, of problems that, once demonstrated, may lead to discoveries of infinite value—hints, i- say, in two wri- ters of widely opposite genius—van helmont and bacon. van helmont, of all the mediaaval mystics, is, in spite of his many extravagant whims, the one whose intellect is the most suggestive to the disciplined rea- soners of our day. he supposed that the faculty which he calls phantasy, and which we familiarly call imagi- nation, is invested with the power of creating for itself ideas independent of the senses, each idea clothed in a form fabricated by the imagination, and becoming an operative entity. this notion is so far favored by mod- ern physiologists, that lincke reports a case where the eye itself was extirpated; yet the extirpation was fol- lowed by thc appearance of luminous figures before the orbit. and again, a woman, stone-blind, complained of ‘luminous images, with pale colors, before her eyes.’ abercrombie mentions the case ‘of a lady quite blind, her eyes being also disorganized and sunk, who never walked out without seeing a little old woman in a red cloak, who seemed to walk before her.’* your favor- ite authority, the illustrious muller, who was himself in the habit of 'seeing different images in the field of vision when he lay quietly down to sleep asserts that these images are not merely presented to the fancy, but that even the images of dreams are really seen,’ and that ‘ any one may satisfy himself of this by accustom- " she had no illusions when within doors. —abercrombie on the intellectual powers, p. ( th edition.) il—ld a strange sroar. ing himself regularly to open his eyes when waking after a dream—the images seen in the dream are then sometimes visible, and can be observed to disappear gradually.’ he confirms this statement, not only by the result of his own experience, but by the observations made by spinoza, and the yet higher authority of aris- totle, who accounts for spectral appearance as the inter- nal action of the sense of vision.* and this opinion is favored by sir david brewster, whose experience leads him to suggest ‘that the objects of mental contemplation may be seen as distinctly as external-objects, and will oc- cupy the same local position in the axis of vision as if they had been formed by the agency of light.’ be this as it may, one fact remains, that images can be seen even by the blind as distinctly and vividly as you and i now see the stream below our feet and the opossums at play upon yonder boughs. let us come next to some remark- able suggestions of lord bacon. in his natural his- tory, treating of the force of the imagination, and the help it receives ‘by one man working by another,’ he cites an instance he had witnessed of a kind of juggler, who could tell a person what card he thought of. he mentioned this ‘ to a pretended learned man, curious in such things,’ and this sage said to him, ‘ it is not the ' miiller, physiology of the senses. baley’s translation, pp. - , and elsewhere. mr. bain. in his thoughtful and sug- gestive work on the senses and intellect, makes very powerful use of these statements in support of his proposition, which faber advances in other words, vim, “ the return of the nervous currents exactly on their old track in revived sensations." a sraanon email. knowledge of the man’s thought, for that is proper to god, but the enforcing of a thought upon him, and minding his imagination by a stronger, so that he could think of no other card.’ you see this sage anticipated our modern electro-biologists! and the learned man then shrewdly asked lord bacon, ‘ did the juggler tell the card to the man himself who had thought of it, or bid another tell it ?’ ‘ he bade another tell it,’ answered lord bacon. ‘i thought so,’ returned bis learned acquaintance, ‘for the juggler himself could not have put on so strong an' imagination; but by telling the card to the other, who believed the juggler was some strange man who could do strange things, that other man caught a strong imagination.’* the whole story is worth reading, because lord bacon evidently thinks it conveys a guess worth examining. and lord bacon, were he now living, would be the man to solve the mysteries that branch out of mesnlerism or (so—called) spiritual manifestation, for he would not pretend to despise their phenomena for fear of hurting his reputa- ‘ perhaps it is for the reason suggested in the text. viz" that the magician requires the interposition of a third imagination between his own and that of the consulting believer, and that any learned adept in (so‘called) magic will invariably refuse to exhibit without the presence of a third person. hence the au- thor of dogma et rituel de la haute magie, printed at paris, - — . book less remarkable for its learning than for the earnest belief of a scholar of our own day in the reality of the art of which he records the history— insists much on the neces- sity of rigidly observing le ternaire, in the number of persons who assist in an enuhanter’s experiments. a sraauos s-roav. tion for good sense. bacon then goes on to state that there are three ways to fortify the imagination : ‘ first, authority derived from belief in the art and in the man who exercises it; secondly, means to quicken and corroborate the imagination; thirdly, means to repeat and refresh it.’ for the second and the third he refc rs to the practices of magic, and proceeds afterwards to state on what things imagination has most force: ‘ upon things that have the lightest and easiest motions, and, therefore, above all, upon the spirits of men, and, in them, on such affections as move lightest—in love, in fear, in irresolution. ‘and,’ adds bacon, earnestly, in a very different spirit from that which dictates to the sages of our time the philosophy of rejecting without trial that which belongs to the marvellous, ‘and whatsoever is of this kind, should be thoroughly inquired into.’ and this great founder or renovator of the sober inductive system of investigation, even so far leaves it a matter of speculative inquiry, whether imagination may not be so powerful that it can actually operate upon a plant, that he says:_‘this likewise should be made upon plants, and that diligently, as if you should tell a man that such a tree would die this year, and will him, at these and these times, to go unto it and see how it thriveth.’ i presume that no philosopher has followed such recom- mendations: had some great philosopher done so, pos- sibly we should by this time know all the secrets of what is popularly called witchcraft.” and as faber here paused there came a strange laugh .\ sraxxos sronv. from the fantastic she-oak-tree overhanging the stream — a wild, impish laugh. “ pooh! it is but the great king-fisher, the laughing bird of the australian bush,” said julius faber, amused at my start of superstitious alarm. we walked on for some minutes in musing silence, and the rude log-hut in which my wise companion had his home came in view -_ the flocks grazing on undulous pastures, the kine drinking at a watercourse fringed by the slender gum-trees, and a few fields, laboriously won from the luxuriant grass-land, rippling with the wave of corn. i halted and said, “ rest here for a few moments, till i gather up the conclusions to which your speculative reasoning seems to invite me.” we sat down on a rocky crag, half mantled by luxu- riant creepers with vermillion buds. “ from the guesses,” said i, “which you have drawn from the erudition of others and your own ingenious and reflective inductions, i collect this solution of the mys- teries, by which the experience i gain from my senses confounds all the dogmas approved by my judgment. to the rational conjectures by which, when we first con- versed on the marvels that perplexed me, you ascribed to my imagination, predisposed by mental excitement, physical fatigue or derangement, and a concurrence of singular events tending to strengthen such predisposi- tion, the phantasmal impressions produced on my senses; to these conjectures you now add a new one, more " a strange story. startling and less admitted by sober physiologists. you conceive it possible that persons endowed with a rare and peculiar temperament can so operate on the imagi- nation, and, through the imagination, on the senses of of others, as to exceed even the powers ascribed to the practitioners of mesmerism and electro-biology, and give a certain foundation of truth to the old tales of magic and witchcraft. you imply that margrave may be a person thus gifted, and hence the influence he unques- tionably exercised over lilian, and over, perhaps, less innocent agents, charmed or impelled by his will. and not discarding, as i own i should have been originally induced to do, the queries or suggestions adventured by bacon in his discursive speculations on nature, to wit, ‘that there be many things, some of them inanimate, that operate upon the spirits of men by secret sympathy and antipathy,’ and to which bacon gave the quaint name of ‘imaginants;’ so even that wand, of which i have described to you the magic-like effects, may have had'properties communicated to it by which it performs the work of the magician, as mesmerists pretend that some substance mesmerized by them can act on the patient as sensibly as if it were the mesmerizer himself. do i state your suppositions correctly ?" “yes; always remembering that they are only sup- positions, and volunteered with the utmost difiidcnce. but since, thus seated in the early wilderness, we per- mit ourselves the indulgence of childlike guess, may it not be possible, apart from the doubtful question a s'raazma s'ronr. order to extract from it agencies that might appear supernatural. possibly, then, the rods or wands of the east, of which scripture makes mention, were framed upon some principles of which we in our day are very naturally ignorant, since we do not ransack science for the same secrets. and thus, in the selection or prepa- ration of the material employed, mainly consisted what- ever may be referable to natural philosophical causes, in the antique science of rhabdomancy, or divination and enchantment by wands. the stafi' or wand of which you tell me, was, you say, made of iron or steel and tipped with crystal. possibly iron and crystal do really contain some properties not hitherto scientifically an- alyzed, and only, indeed, potential over exceptional temperaments, which may account for the fact that iron and crystal have been favorites with all professed mys~ tics, ancient and modern. the delphic pythoness had her iron tripod, mesmer his iron bed; and many per- sons, indisputably honest, cannot gaze long upon a ball of crystal but what they begin to see visions. i sus- pect that a philosophical cause for such seemingly pre- ternatural effects of crystal and iron will be found in connection with the extreme impressionability to changes in temperature which is the characteristi: both of crys- tal and iron. but if these materials do ccntain certain powers over exceptional constitutions, we do not arrive at a supernatural, but at a natural phenomenon.” “ still," said i, “ even granting that your explanatory hypothesis hit or approach the truth—still what a a s'raanon s'ronr. terrible ppwer you would assign to men’s will oyer men’s reason and deeds l” “man’s will,” answered faber, “has over men’s deeds and reason, habitual and daily power infinitely greater, and, when uncounterbalanced, infinitely more dangerous than that which superstition exaggerates in magic. man’s will moves a war that decimates a race, and leaves behind it calamities little less dire than slaughter. man’s will frames, but it also corrupts, laws; exalts, but also demoralizes, opinion; sets the world mad with fanaticism, as often as it curbs the heart’s fierce instincts by the wisdom of brother-like mercy. you revolt at the exceptional, limited sway over some two or three individuals which the arts of a sorcerer (if sorcerer there be) can efl'ect; and yet, at the very moment in which you were perplexed and appalled by such sway, or by your reluctant belief in it, your will was devising an engine to unsettle the reason and wither the hopes of millions!” “my will! what engine?” “a book conceived by your intellect, adorned by your learning, and directed by your will, to steal from the minds of other men their persuasion of the soul’s everlasting hereafter.” i bowed my head, and felt myself grow pale. “and if we accept bacon’s theory of ‘secret sym- pathy,’ or the plainer-physiologica! maxim that there must be in the imagination, morbidly impressed by the will of another, some trains of idea in afiinity with such a strange near. influence and preinclined to receive it, no magician could warp you to evil, except through thoughts that themselves went astray. grant that the margrave who still haunts your mind did really, by some occult, sinister magnetism, guide the madman to murder—did influence the servantrwoman’s vulgar desire to pry into the secrets of her ill-fated master—or the old maid’s covetous wish and envious malignity—what could this awful magician do more than any commonplace guilty adviser, to a mind predisposed to accept the advice ?” “ you forget one example which-destroys your argu- ment—the spell which this mysterious fascinator could cast upon a creature so pure from all guilt as lilian!” “ will you forgive me if i answer frankly i" “ speak.” v “your lilian is spotless and pure as you deem her, and the fascination, therefore, attempts no lure through a sinful desire; it blends with its attraction no senti- ment of affection untrue to yourself. nay, it is justice to your lilian, and may be a melancholy comfort to you, to state my conviction, based on the answers my questions have drawn from her, that you were never more cherished by her love than when that love seemed in forsake you. her imagination impressed her with the illusion that through your love for her you were threatened with a great peril. what seemed the levity of her desertion was the devotion of self-sacrifice. and, in her strange, dream-led wanderings, do not think that she was conscious of the fascination you impute to this m a sraauen sroay. mysterious margrave; in her belief it was your own guardian angel that guided her steps, and her pil- grimage was ordained to disarm the fee that menaced you, and dissolve the/ spell that divided her life from yours! but had she not, long before this, wilfully prepared herself to be so deceived? had not her fancies been deliberately encouraged to dwell remote from the duties we are placed on the earth to perform? the loftiest faculties in our nature are those that demand the finest poise, not ‘to fall from their height and crush all the wzflls that they crown. with exqui- site beauty of illustration, hume says of the dreamers of ‘bright fancies,’ ‘that they may be compared to those angels whom the scriptures represent as covering their eyes with their wings.’ had you been, like my nephew, a wrestler for bread with the wilderness, what helpmate would your lilian have been to you? how often would you have cried out in justifiable anger, ‘ , son of adam, am on earth, not in paradise! oh, that my eve were at home on my hearth, and not in the skies with the seraphsl’ no margrave, i venture to say, could have suspended the healthful afiections, or charmed into danger, the wide-awake soul of my amy. when she rocks in its cradle the babe the young parents intrust to her heed—when she calls the kine to the milking, the chicks to their corn—when she but flits through my room to renew the flowers on the stand. or range in neat order the books that i read- -no spell on her fancy could lead her a step from the range of he! a s'raaucs sroar. provident cares! at day she is contented to be on the commonplace earth; at evening she and i knock toge- ther at the no door of heaven, which opes to thanks- giving and prayer; and thanksgiving and prayer send us back, calm and hopeful, to the task that each morrow renews.” i looked up as the old man paused, and in the limpid clearness of the australian atmosphere, i saw the child he thus praised standing by the garden-gate, looking towards us, and, though still distant, she seemed near. i felt wroth with her. my heart so cherished my harm- less, defenceless lilian, that i was jealous of the praise taken from her to be bestowed on another. “each of us,” said i coldly, “has his or her own nature, and the uses harmonious to that nature’s idiosyncrasy. the world, i grant, would get on very ill if women were not, more or less, actively useful and quietly good, like your amy. but the world would lose standards that exalt and refine, if no woman were permitted to gain, through the indulgence of fancy, thoughts exquisite as those which my lilian conceived, while thought, alas! flowed out of fancy. i do not wound you by citing your amy as a type of the mediocre. i do not claim for lilian the rank we accord to the type of genius. but both are alike to such types in this: viz., that the uses of mediocrity are for every- day life, and the uses of genius, amidst a thousand mistakes which mediocrity never commits, are to sug- gest and perpetuate ideas which raise the standard of ii. —- i a strange swear. the mediocre to a nobler level. there would be fewer amys in life if there were no lilianl as there would be far fewer good men of sense if there were no crring dreamer of genius!” _ “ you say well, allen fenwick. and who should be so indulgent to the vagaries of the imagination as the philosophers who taught your youth to doubt everything in the maker’s plan of creation which could not be mathematically proved? ‘the human mind,’ said luther, ‘is like a drunkard on horseback; prop it on one side, and it falls on the cther.’_ so the man who is much too enlightened to believe in a peasant’s religion, is always sure to set up some inane super- stition of his own. open biographical volumes wher- ever you please, and the man who has no faith in religion, is a man who has faith in a nightmare. see that type of the elegant skeptics—lord herbert of cherbury. he is writing a book against revelation; he asks a sign from heaven to tell him if his book is approved by his maker, and the man who cannot believe in the miracles performed by his saviour, gravely tells us of a miracle vouchsafed to himself. take the hardest and strongest intellect which the hardest and strongest race of mankind ever schooled and accomplished. see the greatest of great men, the great julius caesar! publicly he asserts in the senate that the immortality of the soul is a. vain chimera. he professes the creed which roman voluptuaries deduced from epicurus, and denies all divine interference in the s sraauen sronv. . affairs of the earth. a great authority for the material- ists—they have none greater! they can show on their side no intellect equal to caesar’s! and yet this magnificent free-thinker rejecting a soul and a deity, habitually entered his chariot in muttering a charm; crawled on his knees up the steps of a temple to pro- pitiate the abstraction called ‘nemesis ;’ and did not cross the rubicon till he had committed the omens. what does all this prove f—a very simple truth. man has some instincts with the brutes; for instance, hun- ger and sexual love. man has one instinct peculiar to himself, found universally (or with alleged exceptions in savage states so rare that they do not afl'ect the general law*) - an instinct of an invisible power with- out this earth, and of a life beyond the grave, which that power vouchsafes to his spirit. but the best of us cannot violate an instinct with impunity. resist hun- l‘ it seems extremely doubtful whether the very few instances in which it has been asserted that a savage race has been found without recognition of a deity and a future state would bare searching examination. it is set forth, for example, in most of the popular works on australia, that the australian savages have no notion of a deity or hereafter, that they only worship a devil, or evil spirit. this assumption, though made more per- emptorily, and by a greater number of writers than any similar one regarding other savages, is altogether erroneous, and has no other foundation than the ignorance of the writers. the aus- tralian savages recognise a deity, but he is too august for a name in their own language; in english they call him the great master—an expression synonymous with “the great lord.” they believe in a hereafter of eternal joy, and place it amongst the stars.—- see strzelecki’s physical description of new south wales. a sraanoa s'roar. ger as lcng as you can, and, rather than die of starva- tion, your instinct will make you a cannibal; resist love when youth and nature impel to it, and what patholo- gist does not track one broad path into madness or crime? so with the noblest instinct of all. reject the internal conviction by which the grandest thinkers have sanctioned the hope of the humblest christian, and you are servile at once to some faith inconceivably more 'hard to believe. the imagination will not be withheld from its yearnings for vistas beyond the walls of the flesh and the span of the present hour. philosophy itself, in rejecting the healthful creeds by which man finds his safeguards in sober prayer, and his guide through the wilderness of visionary doubt, invents systems compared to which the mysteries of theology are simple. suppose any man of strong, plain under- standing had never heard of a deity like him whom we christians adore, then ask this man which he can the better comprehend in his mind, and accept as a natural faith—via, the simple christianity of his shepherd, or the pantheism of spinoza? place before an accom- plished critic (who comes with a perfectly unprejudiced mind to either inquiry), first the arguments of david hume against the gospel miracles, and then the meta- physical crotchets uf david hume himself. this subtle philosopher, not content, with berkeley, to get rid of matter — not content, with condillae, to get rid of spirit or mind ——proceeds to a miracle greater than any his maker has yet vouehsafed to reveal. he, being then a srnauos cross. ’! alive and in the act of writing, gets rid of himself alto- gether. nay, he confesses he cannot reason with any one who is stupid enough to think he has a self. his words are: ‘what we call a mind is nothing but a heap or collection of difi'erent perceptions or objects united together by certain relations and supposed, though falsely, to be endowed with perfect simplicity and iden- tity. if any one, upon serious and candid reflection, thinks he has a difl'erent notion of himself, i must con- fess i can reason with him no longer?’ certainly i would rather believe all the ghost stories upon record, than believe that i am not even a ghost, distinct and apart from the perceptions conveyed to me, no matter how —just as i am distinct and apart from the furni- ture in my room, no matter whether i found it there or whether i bought it. if some old cosmogonist asked you to believe that the primitive cause of the solar system was not to be traced to a divine intelligence, but to a nebulosity, originally so difi'used that its exist- ence can with difficulty be conceived, and that the origin of the present system of organized beings equally dispensed with the agency of a creative mind, and could be referred to molecules formed in the water by the power of attraction, till by modifications of cellular tissue in the gradual lapse of ages, one monad became an oys- ter and another a man -—-would you not say this cosmog- ony could scarcely have misled the human understand- ing even in the earliest dawn of speculative inquiry? yet such are the hypotheses to which the desire to * a sraauos sroar. philosophizo away that simple proposition of a divine first cause, which every child can comprehend, led two of the greatest geniuses and profoundest reasoners of modern times — la place and la marck.* certainly, the more you examine those arch phantasmagorists, the philosophers who would leave nothing in the universe but their own delusions, the more your intellectual pride may be humbled. the wildest phenomena which have startled you, are not more extravagant than the grave explanations which intellectual presumption adventures on the elements of our own organism and the relations between the world of matter and the world of ideas.” here our conversation stopped, for amy had now joined us, and, looking up to reply, i saw the child’s innocent face between me and the furrowed face of the old man. chapter lxxii. i turned back alone. the sun was reddening the summits of the distant mountain-range, but dark clouds, that portende'd rain, were gathering behind my way and deepening the shadows in many a. chasm and hollow -which volcanic fires had wrought on the surface of up lauds undulating like diluvian billows fixed into stone * see the observations on la place and la merck in the intro- duction to kirby’s bridgewater treatise. a sraaues sroav. in the midst of their stormy swell. i wandered on and away from the beaten track, absorbed in thought. could i acknowledge in julius faber’s conjectures any basis for logical ratiocination? or were they not the ingenious fancies of that imperial philosophy of senti- ment by which the aged, in the decline of severer faculties, sometimes assimilate their theories to the hazy romance of youth? i can well conceive that the story i tell will be regarded by most as a wild and fantastic fable; that by some it may be considered a vehicle for guesses at various riddles of nature, without or within us, which are free to the license of romance, though forbidden to the caution of science. but, i—i ——know unmistakably my own identity, my own posi- tive place in a substantial universe. and beyond that knowledge, what do i know? yet had faber no ground for his startling parallels between the chimeras of superstition and the alternatives to faith volunteered by the metaphysical speculations of knowledge? on the theorems of condillac, i, in common with number- less contemporaneous students (for, in my youth, con, dillac held sway in the schools, as new, driven forth from the schools, his opinions float loose through the talk and the scribble of men of the world, who perhaps never opened his page)-on the theorems of condillac i had built up a system of thought designed to immure the swathed form of material philosophy from all rays and all sounds of the world not material, as the walls of some blind mausoleum shut out, from the mummy a s'raanon sroar. within the whisper of winds, and the gleaming of stars. and did not these very theorems, when carried out to their strict and completing results ‘ by the close reasoning of hume, resolve my own living identity, the one conscious indivisible me, into a bundle of memories derived from the senses which had bubbled and duped my experience, and reduce into a phantom, as spectral as that of the luminous shadow, the whole solid frame of creation? while pondering these questions, the storm whose forewarnings i had neglected to heed, burst forth with suddenness peculiar to the australian climes. the rains descended like the rushing of floods. in the beds of watercourses, which, at noon, seemed dried up and exhausted, the torrents began to swell and to rave; the gray crags around them were animated into living waterfalls. i looked round, and the landscape was as changed as a scene that replaces a scene on the player’s - stage. i was aware that i had wandered far from my home, and i knew not what direction i should take to regain it. close at hand, and raised above the torrents that now rushed in many a gully and tributary creek, around and before me, the mouth of a deep cave, over- grown with bushes and creeping flowers tossed wildly to and fro between the rain from above and the spray of cascades below, offered a shelter from the storm. i entered; scaring innumerable flocks of bats striking against me, blinded by the glare of the lightning that a s'raanoa sroav. followed me into the cavern, and hastening to re-settle themselves on the pendants of stalactites, or the jagged buttresses of primaeval wall. from time to time the lightning darted into the gloom and lingered amongst its shadows; 'and i saw, by the dash, that the floors on which i stood were strewn with strange bones, some amongst them the fossilized relics of races destroyed by the deluge. the rain con- tinued for more than two hours with unabated violence; then it ceased almost as suddenly as it had come on. and the lustrous moon 'of australia burst from the clouds, shining, bright as an english dawn, into the bellows of the cave. and then simultaneously arose all the choral songs of the wilderness—creatures whose voices are heard at night—the loud hirr of the locusts, the musical boom of the bullfrog, the cuckoo note of the morepork, and, mournful amidst all those merrier sounds, the boot of the owl, through the wizard she-oaks and the pale green of the gum-trees. i stepped forth into the open air and gazed, first instinctively on the heavens, next with more heedful eye, upon the earth. the nature of the soil bore the evidence of volcanic fires long since extinguished. j ust before my feet, the rays fell full upon a bright yellow streak in the block of quartz half embedded in the soit moist soil. in the midst of all the solemn thoughts and the intense sorrows jvhich weighed upon heart and mind, that yellow gleam startled the mind into a direc- tion remote from philosophy. quickened the heart to a a sraanon sroay. beat that chimed with no household affections. in- voluntarily i stooped; impulsively i struck the block with the hatchet, or tomahawk, i carried habitually about me, for the purpose of marking the trees that i wished to clear from the waste of my broad domain the quartz was shattered by the stroke, and left dis buried its glittering treasure. my first glance had not deceived me. i, vain seeker after knowledge, had, at least, discovered gold. i took up the bright metal— goldl i paused; i looked round; the land that just before had seemed to me so worthless, took the value of ophir. its features had before been as unknown to me as the mountains of the moon, and now my memory became wonderfully quickened. i recalled the rough map of my possessions, the first careless ride round their boundaries. yes, the land on which i stood-for miles, to the spur of those farther mountains— the land was mine, and, beneath its surface there was gold! i closed my eyes; for some moments, visions of bound- less wealth, and of the royal power which suchpwealth could command, swept athwart my brain. but my heart rapidly settled back to its real treasure. " what matters,” i sighed, “all this dross? could ophir itself buy back to my lilian’s smile one ray of the light which gave ‘glory to the grass and splendor to the flower?"’ so muttering, i flung the gold into the torrent that raged below, and went on through the moonlight, sorrowing silently-only thankful for the discovery that had quickened my reminiscence of the land- a strange story. _ marks by which to steer my way through the wilderness. the night was half gone, for even when i had gained the familiar track through the pastures, the swell of the many winding creeks that now intersected the way obliged me often to retrace my steps; to find, some- times, the bridge of a felled tree which had been provi- dently left unremoved over the now foaming torrent, and, more than once, to swim across the current, in which swimmers less strong or less practised would have been dashed down the falls, where loose logs and torn trees went clattering and whirled: for i was in danger of life. a band of the savage natives were stealthin creeping on my track—the natives in those parts were not then so much awed by the white man as now. a boomerang* had whirred by me, burying itself amongst the herbage close before my feet. i had turned, sought to find and to face these dastardly foes; they contrived to elude me. but when i moved on, my ear, sharpened by danger, heard them moving, too, in my rear. once only three hideous forms suddenly faced me, springing up from a thicket, all tangled with noneysuckles and creepers of blue and vermilion. i walked steadily up to them; they halted a moment or so in suspense, but perhaps they were scared by my stature or awed by my aspect; and the unfamiliar, though human, had terror for them, as the unfamiliar, although but a shadow, had had terror for me. they * a missile weapon peculiar to the australian savages. a strange sroav. vanished, and as quickly as though they had crept into the earth. i at length the air brought me the soft perfume of my well-known acacias, and my house stood before me, amidst english flowers and english fruit-trees, under the efl'ulgent australian moon. just as i was opening the little gate which gave access from the pasture-land into the garden, a figure in white rose up from under light, feathery boughs, and a hand was laid on my arm. i started; but my surprise was changed into fear when i saw the pale face and sweet eyes of lilian. “heavens! you here! you! at this hour! lilian, what is this i” “ hush ” she whispered, clinging to me; “ hushl do not tell: no one knows. i missed you when the storm came on; i have missed you ever since. others went in search of you and came back. i could not sleep, but the rest are sleeping, so i stole down to watch for you. brother, brother, if any harm chanced to you, even the angels could not comfort me ; all would be dark, dark! but you are safe, safe, safe ” and she clung to me yet closer. “ahl lilian, lilian, your vision in the hour i first beheld you was indeed prophetic— ‘each has need of the other.’ do you remember ?” “ softly, softly,” she said,_ “let me think ” she stood quietly by my side, looking up into the sky, wiih all its numberless stars, and its solitary moon now sink- ing slow behind the verge of the forest. “it comes a s'raasos sronr. back to me,” she murmured softly—“the long ago— the sweet long ago ” - i held my breath to listen. “there—there ” she resumed, pointing to the heavens; “ do you see ? you are there, and my father, and — and — oh i that terrible face - those serpent eyes—the dead man’s skulll save me—save me!” she bowed her head upon my bosom, and i led her gently back towards the house. as we gained the door which she had left open, the starlight shining across the shadowy gloom within, she lifted her face from my breast, and cast a hurried, fearful look round the shining garden, then into the dim recess beyond the threshold. “ it is there —therel—-the shadow that lured me on, whispering that if i followed it i should join my beloved. false, dreadful shadow! it will fade soon- fade into the grinning, horrible skull. brother, brother, where is my allen? is he dead-.dead—or is it i who am dead to him y” i could but clasp her again to my breast, and seek to mantle her shivering form with my dripping garments, all the while my eyes- following the direction which hers had taken —dwelt on the walls of the nook within the threshold, half lost in darkness, half white in star- light. -and there i, too, beheld the haunting luminous shadow, the spectral efligies of the mysterious being, whose very existence in the flesh was a riddle unsolved by my reason. distinctly i saw the shadow, but its . — a strange sroav. ' light was far paler, its outline far more vague, than when i had beheld it before. i took courage, as i felt lilian’s heart beating against my own. i advanced, i- crossedthe threshold - the shadow was gone. “there is no shadow here—no phantom to daunt thee, my life’s life,” said i, bending over lilian. “it has touched me in passing; i feel it—cold, cold, cold!” she answered, faintly. i bore her to her room, placed her on her bed, struck a light, watched over her. at dawn there was a change in her face, and from that time health gradually left her; strength slowly, slowly, yet to me perceptibly, ebbed from her life away. chapter lxxiil. mourns upon months have rolled on since the night in which lilian had watched for my coming amidst the chilling airs under the haunting moon. i have said that from the date of that night her health began gradually to fail, but in her mind there was evidently at work some slow revolution. her visionary abstrac- tions were less frequent; when they occurred, less prolonged. there was no longer in her soft face that celestial serenity which spoke her content in her dreams, but often a look of anxiety and trouble. she was even more silent than before; but when she did speak, there were now evident some struggling gleams of memory. a s'rnaxoa s'roav. of those over whom they have forced a control? i know not. but if they have, it is not supernatural; it it is but one of those operations in nature so rare and exceptional, and of which testimony and evidence are so imperfect and so liable to superstitious illusions, that they have not yet been traced—as, if truthful, no doubt they can be, by the patient genius of science—to one of those secondary causes by which the creator ordains that nature shall act on man.” by degrees i became dissatisfied with my conversa- tions with faber. i yearned for explanations; all guesses but bewildered me more. in his family, with one exception, i found no congenial association. his nephew seemed to me an ordinary specimen of a very trite human nature—a young man of limited ideas, fair moral tendencies, going mechanically right where not tempted to wrong. the same desire of gain which had urged him to gamble and speculate when thrown in societies rife with such example, led him, now in the bush, to healthful, industrious, persevering labor. spes fovet agricolas, says the poet; the same hope which entices the fish to the hook, impels the plough of the husbandman. the young farmer’s young wife was somewhat superior to him; she had more refinement of taste, more culture of mind, but living in his life, she was inevitably levelled to his ends and pursuits. and, next to the babe in the cradle, no object seemed to her so important as that of guarding the sheep from the scab and the dingoes. i was amazed to see how quietly a * o a strange story. man whose mind was so stored by life and books as that of julius faber—a man who had loved the clash of con- flicting intellects, and acquired the rewards of fame— could accommodate himself to the cabined range of his kinsfolks’ half-civilized existence, take interest in their trivial talk, find varying excitement in the monotonous household of a peasant-like farmer. i could not help saying as much to him once. “ my friend,” replied the old man, “believe me that the happiest art of intellect, however lofty, is that which enables it to be cheerfully at home with the real l” . the only one of the family in which faber was domesticated in whom i found an interest, to whose talk i could listen without fatigue, was the child amy. simple though she was in language, patient of labor as the most laborious, i recognized in her a quiet noble- ness of sentiment, which exalted above the common- place the acts of her commonplace life. she had no precocious intellect, no enthusiastic fancies, but she had an exquisite activity of heart. it was her heart that animated her sense of duty, and made duty a sweetness and a joy. she felt to he core the kindness of those around her; exaggerated, with) the warmth of her gratitude, the claims which that kindness imposed. even for the blessing of life, which she shared with all creation, she felt as if singled out by the undeserved favor of the creator, and thus was filled with religion because she was filled with love. my interest in this child wasincreased and deepened a srsascz s'roav. by my saddened and not wholly unremorseful remem- brance of the night on which her sobs had pierced my ear—the night from which i secretly dated the mys- terious agencies that had wrenched from their proper field and career both my mind and my life. but a gentler interest endeared her to my thoughts in the pleasure that lilian felt in her visits, in the affectionate intercourse that sprung up between the afflicted sufferer and the harmless infant. often when we failed to com- prehend some meaning which lilian evidently wished to convey to us—we, her mother and her husband— she was understood with as much ease by amy, the unlettered child, as by faber, the grey-haired thinker. “ how is it—how is it?” i asked impatiently and jealously, of faber: “love is said to interpret where wisdom fails, and you, yourself, talk of the marvels which sympathy may efi'ect between lover and beloved; yet when, for days together, i cannot succeed in unrav- elling lilian’s wish or her thought—and her own mother is equally in fault—you or amy, closeted alone with her for five minutes, comprehend and are com- prehended.” “allen,” answered faber, “amy and i believe ln spirit, and she, in whom mind is dormant but spirit awake, feels in such belief a sympathy which she has not, in that respect, with yourself nor even with her mother. you seek only through your mind to conjecture hers. her mother has sense clear enough where habitual experience can guide it, but that sense is confused. and a strange s'roay. forsakes her when forced from the regular pathway in which it has been accustomed to tread. amy and i, through soul guess at soul, and though mostly con- tented with earth, we can both rise at times into heaven. we pray.” i “alas!” said i, half mournfully, half angrily: “ when you thus speak of mind as distinct from soul, it was only in that vision which you bid me regard as the illusion of a fancy stimulated by chemical vapors, pro- ducing on the brain an effect similar to that of opium or the inhalation of the oxide gas, that i have ever seen the silver spark of the sou-l, distinct from the light of the mind. and holding, as i do, that all intellectual ideas are derived from the experiences of the body, whether i accept the theory of locke, or that of condil- lac, or that into which their propositions reach their final development in the wonderful subtlety of hume, i cannot detect the immaterial spirit in the material sub- stance—much less follow its escape from the organic matter in which the principle of thought ceases with the principle of life. when the metaphysician, contend- ing for the immortality of the thinking faculty, analyzes mind, his analysis comprehends the mind of the brute, nay, of the insect, as well as that of man. take reid’s definition of mind, as the most comprehensive which i can at the moment remember: ‘by the mind of a man we understand that in him which thinks, remembers, reasons, and wills.’ but this definition only distin- guishes the mind of man from that of the brute by a srsascz areas. superiority in the same attributes, and not by attributes denied to the brute. an animal, even an insect, thinks, remembers, reasons, and wills.* few naturalists will now support the doctrine that all the mental operations of brute or insect are to be exclusively referred to instincts; and, even if they do, the word instinct is a very vague word --loose and large enough to cover an abyss which our knowledge has not sounded. and, indeed, in proportion as an animal, like the dog, becomes cultivated by intercourse, his instincts grow weaker, and his ideas, formed by experience (viz., his mind), more developed, often to the conquest of the instincts themselves. hence, with his usual candor, dr. aber- crombie-in contending ‘that everything mental ceases to exist after death, when we know that everything cor- ' “are intelligence and instinct, thus differing in their rela- tive proportion in man as compared with all other animals, yet the same in kind and manner of operation in both? to this question we must give at once an afiirmative answer. the expression of cuvier, regarding the faculty of reasoning in lower animals, ‘leur intelligence execute des operations du meme genre,’ is true in its full sense. we can in no manner define reason-so as to exclude acts which are at every moment present to our observation, and which we find in many instances to con- travene the natural instincts of the species. the demeanor and acts of the dog in reference to his master, or the various uses to which he is put by man, are as strictly logical as those we wit- ness in the ordinary transactions of life.”—(sir henry llolland, chapters on mental physiology, p. .) the whole of the chapter on instincts and habits in this work should be read in connection with the passage just quoted. the work itself, at once cautious and suggestive, is not one of the least obligations which philosophy and religion alike owe to the lucubrations of english medical men. a s'rnasos near. very subject; in which certainly more has the best of it when descartes insists on reducing what he calls the soul (prime) of brutes, into the same kind of machines as man constructs from inorganized matter. the learn- ing, indeed, lavished on the insoluble question involved in the psychology of the inferior animals, is a proof at least of the all-inquisitive, redundant spirit of man.* we have almost a literature in itself devoted to en- deavors to interpret the language of brutes. ' dupont de nemours has discovered that dogs talk in vowels, using only two consonants, a, z, when they are angry. he asserts that cats employ the same vowels as dogs; but their language is more afliuent in consonants, including m, n, b, r, v, f. how many laborious efl‘orts have been made to define and to construe the song of the nightingale! one version of that song by beck- stein, the naturalist, published in , i remember to have seen. and i heard a lady, gifted with a singu- larly charming voice, chant the mysterious vowels with so exquisite a pathos, that one could not refuse to believe her when she declared that she fully compre- hended the bird’s meaning, and gave to the nightin- *m. tissot, the distinguished professor of philosophy at dijon, in his recent work, la vie dans l’homme, p. , gives a long and illustrious list of philosophers who assign a rational soul (fime) to the inferior animals, though he truly adds, “ that they have not always the courage of their opinion." - some idea of the extent of research and imagination bestowed on this subject may be gleaned from the sprightly work of pier- quin de gemblous, idiomologle ies animaux, published at paris, l - a btba sen story. gale’s warble the tender interpretation of her own woman’s heart. “ but leaving all such discussions to their proper place amongst the curiosities of literature, i come in earnest to the question you have so earnestly raised; and to me the distinction between man and the lower animals in reference to a spiritual nature designed for a future existence, and the mental operations whose uses are bounded to an existence on earth, seems inefl‘ace- ably clear. whether ideas or even perceptions be innate or all formed by experience is a speculation for metaphysicians, which, so far as it afl'ects the question of an immaterial principle, i am quite willing to lay aside. i can well understand that a materialist may admit innate ideas in man, as he must admit them in the instinct of brutes, tracing them to hereditary predis- positions. on the other hand, we know that the most devout believers in our spiritual nature have insisted, with locke, in denying any idea, even of the deity, to be innate. " but here comes my argument. i care not how ideas are formed—the material point is, how are the capacities -'o receive ideas formed! the ideas may all come from experience, but the capacity to receive the ideas must be inherent. i take the word capacity as a good, plain english word, rather than the more technical word, ‘receptivity,’ employed by kant. and by capacity i mean the passive power * to receive ideas, whether in “ faculty is active power: capacity is passive poer."-sir w. hamilton, lectures on metaphysics and logic, vol. i. p. . a strange story. all man or in any living thing by which ideas are received. a man and an elephant is each formed with capacities to receive ideas suited to the several places in the uni- verse held by each. “ the more i look through nature, the more i \find that on all varieties of organized life is carefully be- stowed the capacity to receive the impressions, be they called perceptions or ideas, which are adapted to the uses each creature is intended to derive from them. i find, then, that man alone is endowed with the capacity to receive the ideas of a god, of soul, of worship, of a hereafter. i see no trace of such a capacity in the inferior races; nor, howcver their intelligence may be refined by culture,,is such capacity ever apparent in them. “ but wherever capacities to receive impressions are suflicieutly general in any given species of creature to be called universal to that species, and yet not given to another species, then, from all analogy throughout nature, those capacities are surely designed by provi- dence for the distinct use and conservation of the species to which they are given. ‘ “ it is no answer to me to say that the inherent capacities thus bestowed on man do not suffice in them- selves to make him form right notions of a deity or a hereafter; because it is plainly the design of provi- dence that man must learn to correct and improve all his notions by his own study and observation. he must build a but before he can build a parthenon; he must ll.—l a crimson s'roar. believe with the savage or the heathen before he can believe with the philosopher or christian. in a word, in all his capacities man has only given to him, not the immediate knowledge of the perfect, but the means to strive towards the perfect. and thus one of the most accomplished of modern reasoners, to whose lectures you must have listened with delight in your college days, says well: ‘accordingly, the sciences always studied with keenest interest are those in a state of progress and uncertainty; absolute certainty and abso- lute completion would be the paralysis of any study, and the last worst calamity that could befall man, as he is at present constituted, would be that full and final possession of speculative truth which he now vainly anticipates as the consummation of his intellectual hap- piness."l “well, then, in all those capacities’for the reception of impressions from external nature which are given to man, and not to the brutes, i see the evidence of man’s soul. i can understand why the inferior animal has no capacity to receive the idea of a deity and of \vorship-simply because the inferior animal, even if graciously admitted to a- future life, may not therein preserve the sense of its identity. i can understand even why that sympathy with each other which we men possess, and which constitutes the great virtue we emphatically call humanity, is not possessed by the lesser animals (or, at least, in a very rare and ex * sir w. hamilton’s lectures, vol. i. p. . a srnaaos near. ceptional degree) even where they live in communities, like beavers, or bees, or ants; because men are destined to meet, to know, and to love each other in the life to come, and the bond between the brutes ceases here. “ now the more, then, we examine the inherent capacities bestowed distinctly and solely on man, the more they seem to distinguish him from the other races by their comprehension of objects beyond his life upon this earth. ‘man alone,’ says miiller, ‘can conceive abstract notions;’ and it is in abstract notions—such as time, space, matter, spirit, light, form, quantity, essence~that man grounds, not only all philosophy, all science, but all that practically improves one gene- ration for the benefit of the next. and why? because all these abstract notions unconsciously lead the mind away from the material into the immaterial—from the present into the future. but if man ceases to exist when he disappears in the grave, you must be compelled to affirm that he is the only creature in existence whom nature or providence has condescended to deceive and cheat by capacities for which there are no available objects. how nobly and how truly has chalmers said: _ 'wbat inference shall we draw from this remarkable law in nature, that there is nothing waste and nothing meaningless in the feelings and faculties wherewith living creatures are endowed? for each desire there is a counterpart object; for each faculty there is room and opportunity for exercise, either in the present or the coming futurity. now, but for the doetrine of im- a srnanea no“. mortality, man would be an exception to this law—he would stand forth‘ as an anomaly in nature, with aspi~ rations in his heart for which the universe had no anti- type to ofi'er, with capacities of understanding and thought that never were to be followed by objects of corresponding greatness through the whole history of his being! a: a a: a a: “ ‘with the inferior animals there is a certain square- ‘ness of adjustment, if we may so term it, between each desire and its correspondent gratification. the one is evenly met by the other, and there is a fullness and definiteness of enjoyment up to the capacity of enjoy- ment. not so with man who, both from the vastness of his propensities and the vastness of his powers, feels himself chained and beset in a field too narrow for him. he alone labors under the discomfort of an incongruity between his circumstances and his powers; and unless there be new circumstances awaiting him in a more advanced state of being, he, the noblest of nature’s products here, would turn out to be the greatest of her failures.’ * “ this, then, i take to be the proof of soul in man, not that he has afmind—because, as you justly say, * chalmer’s, bridgewater treatise, vol. ii. pp. , . perhaps i should observe, that here and elsewhere in the dialogues between faber and fenwick, it has generally been thought better to sub- stitute the words of the author quoted for the mere outline or purport of the quotation which memory afl‘orded to the inter- looutor. a s'raauea story. inferior animals have that, though in a lesser degree— but because he has the capacities to comprehend, as soon as he is capable of any abstract ideas whatsoever, the very truths not needed for self-conservation on i earth, and therefore not given to yonder x and opossum -—-viz., the nature of deity—soul—hereafter. and in the recognition of these truths, the human society, that excels the society of beavers, bees, and ants, by perpetual and progressive improvement on the notions inherited from its progenitors, rests its basis. thus, in fact, this world is benefited for men by their belief in the next, while the society of brutes remains age after age the same. neither the bee nor the beaver has, in all probability, improved since the deluge. “but, inseparable from the conviction of these truths is the impulse of prayer and worship. it does not touch my argument when a philosopher of the school of bo- lingbroke or lucretius says, ‘that the origin of prayer is in man’s ignorance of the phenomena of nature ;’ that it is fear or ignorance which, ‘when rocked the mountains or when groaned the ground, taught the weak to bend, the proud to pray,’-—my answer is, the brutes are much more forcibly impressed by natural phenomena than man is; the bird and the beast know. before you and i do when the mountain will rock and the ground groan, and their instinct leads them to shel- ter; but it does not lead them to prayer. if my theory be right that soul is to be sought not in the question whether mental ideas be innate or formed by experi- ' a s'rnases s'ronr. sitics of its divine wisdom, and substitute for a benig- nant deity a relentless fate. but here i should exceed my province. i am no theologian. enough for me that in all my afilictions, all my 'perplexities, an impulse, that i obey as an instinct, moves me at once to prayer. do i find by experience that the prayer is heard, that the affliction is removed, the doubt is solved? that, indeed would be presumptuous to say. but it is not presumptuous to think that by the efficacy of prayer my heart becomes more fortified against the sorrow, and my reason more serene amidst the doubt.” i listened, and 'ceased to argue. i felt as if in that solitude, and in the pause of my wonted mental occupa- tion, my intellect was growing languid, and its old weapons rusting in disuse. my pride took alarm. i had so from my boyhood cherished the idea of fame, and so glorified the search after knowledge, that i re- coiled in dismay from the thought that i had relin~ quished knowledge, and out myself off from fame. i resolved to resume my once favorite philosophical pur- suits, re-examine and complete the work to which i had once committed my hopes of renown; and, simulta- neously, a restless desire seized me to communicate, though but at brief intervals, with other minds than those immediately within my reach -minds fresh from the old world, and reviving the memories of its vivid civilization. emigrants frequently passed my doors, but i had hitherto shrunk from tendering the hospital- ities so universally accorded in the colony. i could not a strange story. endure to expose to such rough strangers my lilian’s mournful afliiction, and that thought was not less intol- erable to mrs. ashleigh. i now hastily constructed a log-building a few hundred yards from the house, and near the main track taken by travellers through the spacious pastures. i transported to this building my books and scientific instruments. in an upper story i placed my telescope and lenses, my crucibles and retorts. i renewed my chemical experiments—i sought to invigorate my mind by other branches of science which i had hitherto less cultured-meditated new theories on light and color—collected specimens in natural history—subjected animalcules to my microscope- geological fossils to my hammer. with all these quick- ened occupations of thought, i strove to distract myself from sorrow, and strengthen my reason against the illu- sions of my phantasy. the luminous shadow was not seen again on my wall, and the thought of mar- grave himself was banished. in this building i passed many hours of each day; more and more earnestly plunging my thoughts into the depths of abstract study, as lilian’s unaccountable dis- like to my presence became more and more decided when i thus ceased to think that my life cheered and comforted hers, my heart’s occupation was gone. i had annexed to the apartment reserved for myself in this log-hut a couple of spare rooms, in which i could accommodate passing strangers. i learned to look for- ward to their coming with interest, and to see them p i a s'raasos s'roar. depart with regret; yet, for the most part, they were of the ordinary class of colonial adventurers: bankrupt tradesmen, unlucky farmers, forlorn mechanics, hordes of unskilled laborers, now and then a briefless barrister, or a sporting collegian who had- lost his all on the derby. one day, however, a young man of education and manners that unmistakably proclaimed the cultured gentleman of europe, stopped at my door. he was a cadet of a noble prussian family, which for some politi- cal reasons had settled itself in paris; there he had become intimate with young french nobles, and, living the life of a young french noble, had soon scandalized his german parents, forestalled his slender inheritance, and been compelled to fly his father’s frown and his tailor’s bills. all this he told me with a lively frank- ness which proved how much the wit of a german can be quickened in the atmosphere of paris. an old college friend, of birth inferior to his own, had been as unfortunate in seeking to make money as this young prodigal had been an adept in spending it. the friend, a few years previously, had accompanied other germans in a migration to australia, and was already thriving; the spendthrift noble was on his way to join the bank- rupt trader, at a german settlement fifty miles distant from my house. this young man was unlike any german i ever met. he had all the exquisite levity by which the well-bred frenchman gives to the doctrines of the cynic the grace of the epicurean. he owned himself to be good for nothing with an elegance of can. a strange srosv. dor which not only disarmed censure, but seemed to challenge admiration; and, withal, the happy spend- thrift was so inebriate with hope -sure that he should be rich before he was thirty. how and wherefore rich? —he could have no more explained than i can square the circle. when the grand serious german naturo does frenchify itself, it can become so extravagantly french! i listened, almost enviously, to this light-hearted profligate’s babble, as we sat by my rude fireside—i, sombre man of science and sorrow, be, smiling child of idlesse and pleasure, so much one of nature’s courtier- like nobles, that there, as he smoked his villanous pipe, in his dust-soiled shabby garments, and with his ruflianly revolver stuck into his belt, i would defy the daintiest aristarch who ever presided as critic over the holiday world not to have said, “ there smiles the genius be- yond my laws, the burn darling of the graces, who in every circumstance, in every age, like aristippus, would have socially charmed— would have been welcome to the orgies of a caesar or a clodius, to the boudoirs of a montespan or a ponipadour— have lounged through the mulberry gardens with a rochester and a buckingham, or smiled from the death-cart, with a richelieu and a lauzun, a gentleman’s disdain of a mob l ” i was so thinking as we sat, his light talk frothing up from his careless lips, when suddenly from the spray and the sparkle of that light talk was flung forth the name of margrave. a sraazvoa- s'roav. . “ margrave l” i exclaimed. “ pardon me. what of him?” “ what of lel i asked if, by chance, you knew the only lenglishman i ever had the meanness to envy?” “ perhaps you speak of one person, and i thought of another.” “pardieu, my dear host, there can scarcely be two margravesl the one of whom i speak flashed 'like a meteor upon paris, bought from a prince of the bourse a palace that might have lodged a prince of the blood- royal, eclipsed our jew bankers in splendor, our jetmesse dorée in good looks and hair-brain adventures, and, strangest of all, filled his salons with philosophers and charlatans, chemists and spirit-rappers; insulting the gravest dons of the schools by bringing them face to face with the most impudent quacks, the most ridiculous dreamers—and yet, withal, himself so racy and charm- ing, so bon prince, so bon enfant for six months he was the rage at paris; perhaps he might have continued to be the rage there for six years, but all at once the meteor vanished as suddenly as it had flashed. is this the margrave whom you know?” “i should not have thought the margrave whom i knew could have reconciled his tastes to the life of cities.” “ nor could this man; cities were too tame for him. he has gone to some far-remote wilds in the east-.- some say in-search of the philosopher’s stone; for he actually maintained in his house a sicilian adventurer. a star/mon story. who, when at work on that famous discovery, was stifled by the fumes of his [own crucible. after that misfortune margrave took paris in disgust, and we lost him.” “so this is the only englishman whom you envy! envy him? why ? ” “ because he is the only englishman i ever met who contrived to 'be rich and yet free from the spleen; i envied him because one had only to look at his face and see how thoroughly he enjoyed the life of which your countrymen seem to be so heartily tired! but now that i have satisfied your curiosity, pray satisfy mine. who and what is this englishman?” “ who and what was be supposed at paris to be i ” “ conjectures were numberless. one of your country- men suggested that which was most generally favored. this gentleman, whose name i forget, but who was one of those old roués who fancy themselves young because they live with the young, no sooner set eyes upon mar- grave, than he exclaimed, ‘louis grayle come to life again, as i saw him forty-four years ago! but no— still younger, still handsomer—it must be his son i ’" “ louis grayle who was said to be murdered at aleppo ? ” “ the same. that strange old man was enormously rich; but it seems that he hated his lawful heirs, and left behind him a fortune so far below that which he was known to possess, that he must certainly have dis~ posed of it secretly before his death. why so dispose i.— a strange arm“. of it, if not to enrich some natural son, whom, for private reasons, he might not have wished to acknowl- edge, or point out to the world by the signal bequest of his will? all that margrave ever said of himself and the source of his wealth confirmed this belief. he frankly proclaimed himself a natural son, enriched _by a father whose name he knew not nor cared to know.” “it is true. and margrave quitted paris for the east. when y” “ i can tell you the date within a day or two, for his flight preceded mine by a week; and, happily, all paris was so busy in talking of it, that i slipped away with- out notice.” and the prussian then named a date which it thrilled me to hear, for it was in that very month, and about that very day, that the luminous shadow had stood within my threshold. the young count now struck off into other subjects of talk: nothing more was said of margrave. an hour or two afterwards he went on his way, and i remained long gazing musingly on the embers of the fire dying low on my hearth. a s'raasos near. chapter lxxiv. my work, my philosophical work—the ambitious hope of my intellectual life—how eagerly i returned to it againl far away from my household grief, far away from my haggard perplexities—neither a lilian nor a margrave there! as i went over what i had before written, each link in its chain of reasoning seemed so serried, that to alter one were to derange all: and the whole reasoning was so opposed to the possibility of the wonders i myself had experienced, so hostile to the subtle hypotheses of a faber, or the childlike belief of an amy, that i must have destroyed the entire work if i had admitted such contradictions to its designl but the work was i myselfl—i, in my solid, sober, healthful mind, before the brain had been perplexed by a phantom. were phantoms to be allowed as testi- monies against science ? no; in returning to my book, i returned to my former mel - how strange is that contradiction between our being as man and our being as author! take any writer enamored of a system —— a- thousand things may happen to him every day which might shake his faith in that system; and while he moves about as mere man, his . faith is shaken. but when he settles himself back into the phase of his being as author, the more not of taking a summer. s'roay. pen in hand and smoothing the paper before him, restores his speculations to their ancient mechanical train. the system, the beloved system, re-asserts its tyrannic sway, and be either ignores, or moulds into fresh proofs of his theory as author, all which, an hour before, had given his theory the lie in his living perceptions as man. i adhered to my system;_i continued my work. here, in the barbarous desert, was a link between me and the cities of europe. all else might break down under me. the love i had dreamed of was blotted out from the world and might never be restored; my heart might be lonely, my life be an exile’s. my reason might, at last, give way before the spectres which awed my senses, or the sorrows which stormed my heart. but here, at least, was a monument of my rational thoughtful me -of my individualized identity in multi- form creation. and my mind, in the noon of its force, would shed its light on the earth when my form was resolved to its elements. alas! in this very yearning for the hereafter, though but the hereafter of a name, could i see only the craving of mind, and hear not the whisper of soul! the evocation of a colonist, usually so active, had little interest for me. this vast territorial lordship, in which, could i have endeared its possession by the .hopes that animate a founder, i should have felt all the zest and the pride of ownership, was but the run of a commonto the passing emigrant, who would leave a strange away. no son to inherit the tardy products of his labor. i was not goaded to industry by 'the stimulus of need. i could only be ruined if i risked all my capital in the attempt to improve. i lived, therefore, amongst my fertile pastures, as careless of culture as the english occupant of the highland moor, which he rents for the range of its solitudes. i knew, indeed, that if ever i became avaricious, i might swell my modest affluence into absolute wealth. i had revisited the spot in which i had discovered the nugget of gold, and had found the precious metal in rich abundance just under the first coverings of the alluvial soil. i concealed my discovery from all. i knew that, did i proclaim it, the charm of my bush~ life would be gone. my fields would be infested by all the wild adventurers who gather to gold as the vultures of prey round a carcase; my servants would desert me, my very flocks would be shepherdlessl months again rolled on months. i had just ap- proached the close of my beloved work, when it was again suspended, and by an a-nguish‘keener than all which i had previously known. lilian became alarmingly ill. her state of health, long gradually declining, had hitherto admitted che- quered intervals of improvement, and exhibited no symptoms of actual danger. but now she was seized with a kind of chronic fever, attended with absolute privatiou of sleep, an aversion to even the lightest nourishment, and an acute nervous susceptibility to all * a strange sroar. the outward impressions of which she had long seemed so unconscious; morbidly alive to the faintest sound, shrinking from the light as from a torture. her previous impatience at my entrance into her room became aggravated into vehement emotions, convulsive paroxysms of distress; so that faber banished me from her chamber, and, with a heart bleeding at every fibre, i submitted to the cruel sentence. > faber had taken up his abode in my house and brought amy with him; one or the other never left lilian, night or day. the great physician spoke doubt- fully of the case, but not despairingly. “ remember,” he said, “ that in spite of the want of sleep, the abstinence from food, the form has not wasted as it would do were this fever inevitably mortal. it is upon that phenomenon i build a hope that i have not been mistaken in the opinion hazarded from the first. we are now in the midst of the critical struggle between life and reason; if she preserve the one, my conviction is that she will regain the other. that seeming antipathy to yourself is a good omen. you are inseparably associated with her intellectual world; in proportion as she revives to it, must become vivid and powerful the reminiscences of the shock that annulled, for a time, that world to her. so i welcome, rather than fear, the over-susceptibility of the awaken- ing senses to external sights and sounds. a few days will decide if i am right. in this climate the progress of acute maladies is swift, but the recovery from them a s'raanoa sworn. is yet more startlingly rapid. wait—endure—be prepared to submit to the will of heaven; but do not despond of its mercy." i rushed away from the consoler-away into the thick of the forests, the heart of the solitude. all around me, there, was joyous with life; the locust sang amidst the herbage; the cranes gambolled on the banks of the creek; the squirrel-like opossnms frolicked on the feathery boughs. “and what,” said i to myself- “ what if that which seems so fabulous in the distant being whose existence has bewitched my own, be sub- stantially true? what if to some potent medicament margrave owes his vitality, his radiant youth? oh! that i had not so disdainfully turned away from his hinted solicitations—to whatf—to nothing guiltier than lawful experiment. had i been less devoted a bigot to this vain schooleraft, which we call the medical art, and which, alone in this age of science, has made no perceptible progress since the days of its earliest teachers—had i said, in the true humility of genuine knowledge, ‘these alchemists were men of genius and thought; we owe to them nearly all the grand hints of our chemical science—is it likely that they would have been wholly drivellers and idiots in the one faith they clung to the most?’——had i said that, i might now have no fear of losing my lilian. why, after all. should there not be in nature one primary essence, one master substance, in which is stored the specific nutri- ment of life ? ” a s'rnansn s'roar. thus lncoherently muttering to the woods what my pride of reason would not have suffered me gravely to say to my fellow-men, i fatigued my tormented spirits into a gloomy calm, and mechanically retraced my steps at the decline of day. i seated myself at the door of my solitary log-hut, leaning my cheek upon my hand, and musing. wearily i looked up, roused by a discord of clattering hoofs and lumbering wheels on the hollow- sonnding grass-track. a crazy, groaning vehicle, drawn by four horses, emerged from the copse of gum-trees— fast, fast along the road, which no such pompous vehicle had traversed since that which had borne me—luxu- rious satrap for an early colonist-to my lodge in the wilderness. what emigrant rich enough to squander in hire of such an equipage more than its cost in eng- land, could thus be entering on my waste domain ? an ominious thrill shot through me. the driver—perhaps some broken-down son of luxury in the old world, fit for nothing in the new world but to ply, for hire, the task that might have led to his ruin when plied in sport—stopped at the door of my but, and called out, “friend, is not this the great fenwick section, and is not yonder long pile of building the master’s house?” before i could answer i heard a faint voice, within the vehicle, speaking to the driver; the last nodded, descended from his seat, opened the carriage-door, and offered his arm to a man, who, waving aside the prof< fered aid, descended slowly and feebly; paused a mo- a sraaxon sroav. ment as if for breath, and then, leaning on his staff, walked from the road, across the sward rank with luxuriant herbage, through the little gate in the new- set fragrant wattle-fence, wearily, languidly, halting often, till he stood facing me, leaning both wan and emaciated hands upon his staff, and his meagre form shrinking deep within the folds of a cloak lined thick with costly sables. his face was sharp, his complexion of a livid yellow, his eyes shone out from their hollow orbits, unnaturally enlarged and fatally bright. thus, in ghastly contrast _to his former splendor of youth and opulence of life, margrave stood before me. _ ’ “i come to you," said margrave, in accents hoarse and broken, from the shores of the east. give me shelter and rest. i have that to say which will more than repay you.” 'whatever, till that moment, my hate and my fear of this unexpected visitant, hate would have been inhu- manity, fear a meanness—tchceived for a creature so awfully stricken down. silently, involuntarily, i led him into the house. ,there he rested a few minutes, with closed eyes and painful-gasps for breath. meanwhile, the driver brought from the carriage a travelling-bag and a small wooden chest or cofl'er, strongly banded with iron clamps. margrave, looking up as the man drew near, exclaimed fiercely, “who told you to touch that chest? how dare you? take it from that man, fenwickl place it here—here by my side l ” a s‘rnnson s'ronv. i took the chest from the driver, whose rising anger, at being so imperiously rated in the land of democratic equality, was appeased by the gold which margrave lavishly flung to him. “take care of the poor gentleman, squire,” he whis- pered to me, in the spontaneous impulse of gratitude- “i fear he will not trouble you long. he must be monstrous rich. arrived in a vessel hired all to himself, and a train of outlandish attendants, whom he has left behind in the town yonder! may i bait my horses in your stables? they have come a long way.” i pointed to the neighboring sthbles, and the man nodded his thanks, remounted his box, and drove off. i returned to ma-rgrave. a faint smile came to his lips as i placed the chest beside him. “ay, ay,” he muttered. “ safe! safe! i shall soon be well again—very soon! and now i can sleep in peace l” i led him into an inner room, in which there was a bed. he threw himself on it with a loud sigh of relief. soon, half-raising himself on his elbow, he exclaimed, “the chest—bring it hither! i need it always beside me! there, there! now for a few hours of- sleep; and then, if i can take food, or some such restoring cordial as your skill may suggest, i shall be strong enough to talk. we will talkl—we .will talk l "' his eyes closed heavily as- his voice fell into a drowsy mutter; a moment more and he was asleep. i watched beside him, in mingled wonder and cons a s-raaue: sronr. passion. looking into that face, so altered yet still so young, i could not sternly question what had been the evil of that mystic life, which seemed now oozing away through the last sands in the hour-glass. i placed my hand softly on his pulse; it scarcely beat. i put my ear to his breast, and involuntarily sighed, as i distin- guished in its fluttering heave that dull, dumb sound, in which the heart seems knelling itself to the greedy i gravel was this, indeed, the potent magician whom i had so fearedl—this the guide to the rosicrucian’s secret of life’s renewal, in whom, but an hour or two ago, my fancies gelled my credulous trust! but suddenly, even while thus chiding, my wild super- stitions, a fear, that to most will seem scarcely less super- stitious, shot across me. could lilian be affected by the near neighborhood of one to whose magnetic influ- ence she had once been so strangely subjected? i left margrave still sleeping, closed and locked the door of the but, went back to my dwelling, and met amy at the threshold. her smile was so cheering that i felt at once relieved. “hush!” said the child, putting her finger to her lips, “she is so quiet! i was coming in search of you, with a message from her.” “ from lilian to med-what! to me!” “hush! about an hour ago, she beckoned me to draw near to her, and then said, very softly: ‘tell allen, that light is coming back to me, and it all settles p a srasues sroav. on him—on him. tell him that i pray to be spared to walk by his side on earth, hand-in-hand to that heaven which is no dream, amy. tell him that;-no dreaml’” while the child spoke my tears gushed, and the strong hands in which i veiled my face quivered like the _ leaf of the aspen. and when i could command my voice, i said, plaintively: “may i not, then see herl—only for a moment, and answer her message, though but by a look ?” “ n o, no i" “no! where is faber?” “ gone into the forest, in search of some herbs, but he gave me this note for you.” i wiped the blinding tears from my eyes, and read these lines: _ “i have, though with hesitation, permitted amy to tell you the cheering words, by which our beloved patient confirms my belief that reason is coming back to her—slowly, laboringly, but if she survive, for per- manent restoration. on no account, attempt to pre- cipitate or disturb the work of nature. as dangerous as a sudden glare of light to eyes long blind and newly regaining vision in the friendly and soothing dark, would be the agitation that your presence at this crisis would cause. confide in me.” i remained brooding over these lines and over lilian’s message, long and silently, while amy’s soothing whis- pers stole into my ear, soft as the murmurs of arill a s'raases s'roay. ] heard in the gloom of forests. rousing myself it length, my thoughts returned to margrave. doubtless he would soon awake. i bade amy bring me such slight nutriment as i thought best suited to his enfeebled state, telling her it was for a sick traveller, resting him- self in my hut when amy returned, i took from her the little basket, with which she was charged, and hav- ing, meanwhile, made a careful selection from the con- .tents of my medicine-chest, went back to the but. i had not long resumed my place beside margrave’s pil- low before he awoke. “what o’clock is it ' ” he asked in an anxious voice. “ about seven.” “ not later? that is well; my time is precious." “ compose yourself, and eat.” i placed the food before him, and he partook of it, though sparingly, as if with efl'ort. he then dozed for a short time, again woke up, and impatiently demanded the cordial, which i had prepared in the meanwhile. its effects was-greater and more immediate than i could have anticipated, proving, perhaps, how much of youth there was still left in his system, however undermined and ravaged by disease. color came back to his cheek, his voice grew pcrccptibly stronger. and as lighted the lamp on the table near us —for it was grow- ing dark — he gathered himself up and spoke thus: “you remember that i once pressed on you certain experiments. my object then was to discover the ma- terials from which is extracted the specific that enab.es ii.— l q a strange story. the organs of life to expel disease and regain vigor. in that hope, i sought your intimacy. an intimacy you gave, but withdrew.” “ dare you complain ? who and what was the being from whose intimacy i shrunk appalled?” “ask what questions you please,” cried margravei impatiently, “later—if i have strength left to answer them. but do not interrupt me, while i husband my force to say what alone is important to me and to you. disappointed in the hopes i had placed in you, i resolved to repair to paris—that great furnace of all bold ideas. i questioned learned formalists ; i listened to audacious empirics. the first, with all their boasted knowledge, were too timid to concede my premises; the second, with all their speculative daring, too knavish to let me trust to their conclusions. i found but one man, a sicilian, who comprehended the secrets that are called occult, and had the courage to meet nature and all her agencies face to face. he believed, and sin- cerely, that he was approaching the grand result, at the very moment when he perished from want of the com- mon precautions which a tyro in chemistry would have taken. at his death the gaudy city became hateful; all its pretended pleasures only served to exhaust life the faster. the true joys of youth are those of the wild bird and wild brute, in the healthful enjoyment of nature. in cities, youth is but old age with a varnish. [ fled to the east; i passed through the tents of the arabs; i was guided —no matter by whom or by a strange story. what—t the house of a dervish, who had for his teacher the most erudite master of secrets occult, whom i knew years ago at aleppo-why that exclamation l” “ proceed. what i have to say will come—later.” “from this dervish i half forced and half pur- chased the secret i sought to obtain. i now know from what peculiar substance the so-called elixir of life is extracted; i know also the steps of the process through which that task is accomplished. you smile incredu- lously. what is your doubt? state it while i rest for a moment._ my breath labors; give me more of the cordial.” “ need i tell you my doubt? you have, you say, at your command the elixir of life, of which cagliostro did not leave his disciples the recipe; and you stretch out your hand for a vulgar cordial which any village chem- ist could give you !” “ i can explain this apparent contradiction. the pro_ cess by which the elixir is extracted from the material which hoards its essence, is one that requires a hardi- hood of courage which few possess. this dervish, who had passed through that process once, was deaf to all prayer and unmoved by all bribes, to attempt it again. he was poor; for the secret by which metals may be transmuted is not, as the old alchemists seem to imply, identical with that by which the elixir of life is ex- tracted. he had only been enabled to discover, in the niggard strata of the lands within range of his travel, a few scanty morsels of the glorious substance. from a strange sroar. lizard; to sport through the blooms of the earth, nature’s playmate and darling; to face, in the forest and desert, the pard and the lion—nature’s bravest and fiercest—her firstborn, the heir of her realm, with the rest of her children for slaves i” as these words burst from his lips, there was a wild grandeur in the aspect of this enigmatical being which i had never beheld in the former time of his afiluent, dazzling youth. and, indeed, in his language, and in the thought it clothed, there was an earnestness, a con- centration,-a directness, a purpose, which had seemed wanting to his desultory talk in the earlier days. i expected that reaction of languor and exhaustion would follow his vehement outbreak of passion; but, after a short pause, he went on with steady accents. his will was sustaining his strength. he.was determined to force his convictions on me, and the vitality, once so rich, rallied all its lingering forces to the aid of his intense desire. “ i tell you, then,” he resumed, with deliberate calm~ ness, “ that, years ago, i tested in my own person that essence which is the sovereign medicament. in me, as you saw me at l , you beheld the proof of its vir- tues feeble and ill as i am now, my state was incal- culably more hopeless when formerly restored by the elixir. he from whom i then took the sublime restora- tive, died without revealing the secret of its compo- sition. what i obtained was only just sufficient to recruit the lamp of my life, then dying down - and no * a strange s'ronr. drop was left for renewing the light which wastes its own rays in the air that it gilds. though the der- vish would not sell me his treasure, he permitted me to see it. the appearance and odor of this essence are strangely peculiar- unmistakable by one who has once beheld and partaken of it. in short, i recognized in the hands of the dervish the bright life-renewer, as i had borne it away from the corpse of the sage of aleppo.” “hold! are you then, in truth, the murderer of haroun, and is your true name louis grayle l” “ i am no murderer, and louis grayle did not leave me his name. i again adjure you to postpone for this night, at least, the questions you wish to address to me. " seeing that this obstinate pauper possessed that for which the pale owners of millions, at the first touch of palsy or gout, would consent to be paupers, of course i coveted the possession of the essence even more than the knowledge of the substance from which it is ex- tracted. i had no coward fear of the experiment, which this timid driveller had not the nerve to renew. but still the experiment might fail. i must traverse land and sea to find the fit place for it. while, in the rage of the dervish, the unfailing result of the experiment was at hand. the dervish suspected my design—he dreaded my power. he fled on the very night in which i had meant to seize what he refused to sell me. after all, i should have done him no great wrong; for i should have left him wealth enough to transport him- self to any soil in which the material for the elixir may a strange s'roay. be most abundant; and the desire of life would have given his shrinking nerves the courage to replenish its ravished store. i had arabs in my pay, who obeyed me as hounds their master. i chased the fugitive. i came on his track, reached a house in a miserable vil- lage, in which, i was told, he had entered but an hour before. the day was declining—the light in the room imperfect. i saw in a corner what seemed to me the form of the dervish —stooped to seize it, and my hand closed on an asp. the artful dervish had s piled his rags that they took the shape of the form they had clothed, and he had left, as a substitute for the giver of life, the venomous reptile of death. , “the strength of my system enabled me to survive the efl'ect of the poison; but during the torpor that numbed me, my arabs, alarmed, gave no chase to my quarry. at last, though enfeebled and languid, i was again on my horse—again the pursuit—again the track ! i learned -—- but this time by a knowledge surer than man’s— that the dervish had taken his refuge in a hamlet that had sprung up over the site of a city once famed through assyria. the same voice that informed me of his whereabouts warned me not to pursue. i rejected the warning. in my eager impatience i sprang (n to the chase; in my fearless resolve i felt sure of the prey. i arrived at the hamlet wearied out, for my forces were no longer the same since the bite of the asp. the dervish eluded me still; he had left the floors. on which i sank exhausted, but a few minutes before my a strange s'roar. horse stopped at the door. the carpet, on which he had rested, still lay on the ground. i dismissed the youngest and keenest of my troop in search of the fugi- tive. sure that this time he would not escape, my eyes closed in sleep. “how long i slept i know not—a long dream of solitude, fever, and anguish. was it the curse of the dervisb’s carpet? was it a taint in the walls of the house, or of the air, which broods sickly and rank over places where cities lie buried? i know not; but the pest of the east had seized me in slumber. when my senses recovered i found myself alone, plundered of my arms, despoiled of such gold as i had carried about me. all had deserted and left me, as the living leave the dead whom the plague has claimed for its own. as soon as i could stand i crawled from the threshold. the moment my voice was heard, my face seen, the whole squalid populace rose as on a wild beast-—a mad dog. i was driven from the place with impreca- tions and stones, as a miscreant whom the plague had overtaken while plotting the death of a holy man. bruised and bleeding, but still defying, i turned in wrath on that dastardly rabble; they slunk away from my path. i knew the land for miles around. i had been in that land years, long years, ago. i came at last to the road which the caravans take on their way to damascus. there i was found, speechless and seem- ingly lifeless, by some european travellers. conveyed to damascus, i languished for weeks between life and a s'rnases s'roar. aspect, the manner, the man!” so it was with the incomprehensible being before me. though his youth was faded, though his beauty was dimmed, though my fancies'clothed him with memories of abhorrent dread, though my reason opposed his audacious beliefs and assumptions, still he charmed and spell-bound me— still he was the mystical fascinator-still, if the legends of magic had truth for their basis, he was the born magician; as genius, in what calling soever, is born with the gift to enchant and subdue us. constraining myself to answer calmly, i said: “you have told me your story; you have defined the object of the experiment in which you ask me to aid. you do right to bid me postpone my replies or my questions. seek to recruit by sleep the strength you have so sorely tasked. to-morrow ” “ to-morrow, ere night, you will decide whether the man, whom out of all earth i have selected to aid me, shall be the foe to condemn me to perishl i tell you plainly i need your aid, and your prompt aid. three days from this, and all aid will be too latel” i had already gained the door of the room, when he called to me to come back. “ you do not live in this but, but with your family yonder. do not tell them that i am here; let no one but yourself see me as i now am. lock the door of the but when you quit it. i should not close my eyes if i were not secure from intruders.” “ there is but one in my house, or in these parts, a sunrise s'roay. i)! whom i would except from the interdict you_impose you are aware of your own imminent danger; the life, which you believe the discovery of a dervish will in~ definitely prolong, seems to my eye of physician to hang on a thread. i have already formed my own con- jecture as to the nature of the disease that enfeebles you. but i would fain compare that conjecture with the weightier opinion of one whose experience and skill are superior to mine. permit me, then, when i return to you to-morrow, to bring with me the great_ physician to whom i refer. his name will not, perhaps, be unknown to you: i speak of julius faber.” “a physician of the schools! i can guess well enough how learnedly he would prate, and how little he could do. but i will not object to his visit, if it satisfies you that, since i should die under the hands of the doctors, i may be permitted to indulge my own whim in placing my hopes in a dervish. yet stay. you have, doubtless, spoken of me to this julius faber, your fellow-physician and friend? promise me, if you bring him here, that you will not name me-that you will not repeat to him the tale i have told you, or the hope which has led me to these shores. what i have told to you, no matter whether, at this moment, you consider me the dupe of ,a chimera, is still under the seal of the confidence which a patient reposes in the physician he himself selects for his confidant. i select you, and not julius faber! ” “ be it as you will,” said i, after a moment’s reflection. a s'rassos s'rosr. “ the moment you make yourself my patient, i am bound to consider what is best for you. and you may more respect, and profit by, an opinion based upon your purely physical condition than by one in which you might suppose the advice was directed rather to the disease of the mind than to that of the body." “ how amazed and indignant your brother-physician will be if he ever see me a second time i how learnedly he will prove that, according to all correct principles of science and nature, i ought to be dead " he uttered this jest with a faint, dreary echo of his old merry, melodious laugh, then turned his face to the wall; and so i left him to repose. " chapter lxxv. i rowan mrs. ashleigh waiting for me in our usual sitting-room. she was in tears. she had begun to despond of lilian’s recovery, and she infected me with her own alarm. however, i disguised my participation in her fears, soothed and sustained her as i best could, and persuaded her to retire rest. i saw faber for a few. minutes before i sought my own chamber. he assured me that there was no perceptible change for the worse in lilian’s physical state since he had last seen me, and that her mind, even within the last few a strange near. hours, had become decidedly more clear. he thought that, within the next twenty-four hours, the reason would make a strong and successful eltort for complete recovery; but he declined to hazard more than a hope that the effort would not exhaust the enfeebled powers of the frame. he himself was so in need of a few hours of rest that i ceased to harass him with questions which he could not answer, and fears which he could not appease. before leaving him for the night, i told him briefly that there was a traveller in my hut smitten by a disease which seemed to me so grave that i would ask his opinion of the case, if he could accompany me to the but the next morning. my own thoughts that night were not such as would suffer me to sleep. before margrave’s melancholy state much of my former fear and abhorrence faded away. this being, so exceptional that fancy might well invest him with preternatural attributes, was now reduced by human suffering to human sympathy and comprehension; yet his utter want of conscience was still as apparent as in his day of joyous animal spirits. with what hideous candor he had related his perfidy and ingratitude to the man to whom, in his belief, he owed an inestimable obligation, and with what insensibility to the signal retributim which in most natures would have awakened remorse] and by what dark hints and confessions did he seem to confirm the incredible memoir of sir philip derval! l— a strange sroar. he owned that he had borne from the corpse of haroun the medicament to which be ascribed his recovery from a state yet more hopeless than that under which' he now laboredl he had alluded, rapidly, obscurely, to some knowledge at his command “ surer than man’s!" and now, even now, the mere wreck of his former exist- ence—by what strange charm did he still control and confuse my reason? and how was it that i felt myself murmuring, again and again, “but what, after all, if his hope be no chimera, and if nature do hide a secret by which i could save the life of my beloved lilian?” and again and again, as that thought would force itself on me, i' rose and crept to‘ lilian’s threshold, listening to catch the faintest sound of her breathing. all still, all dark! in that sufferer recognized science detects no mortal disease, yet dares not bid me rely on its amplest resources of skill to turn aside from her slumber the stealthy advance of death; while in you log-hut, one whose malady recognized science could not doubt to be mortal has composed himself to sleep, con- fident of life! recognized science! recognized igno- rance! the science of to-day is the igndrance of to- morrow! every year some bold guess lights up a truth to which, but the year before, the schoolmen of science were as blinded as moles. “what, then," my lips kept repeating-“what if nature do hide a secret by which the life of my life can be saved! what do we know of the secrets of nature? what said newton himself of his knowledge? 'i am a s'rasnoa story. like a child picking up pebbles and shells on the sand, while the great ocean of truth lies all undiscovered around mel’ and did newton himself, in the ripest growth of his matchless intellect, hold the creed of the alchemists in scorn? had he not given to one object of their research, in the transmutation of metals, his days and his nights? is there proof that he ever con- vinced himself that the research was the dream, which we, who are not newtons, call it?* and that other great sage, inferior only to newton—the calculating doubt-weigher, descartes-had he not believed in the yet nobler hope of the alchemists—believed in some * “ besides the three great subjects of newton’s labors -— the fluxional calculus, physicial astronomy, and optics— a very large portion of his time, while resident in his college, was devoted to researches of which scarcely a trace remains. alchemy, which had fascinated so many eager and ambitious minds, seems to have tempted newton with an overwhelming force. what theories he formed, what experiments he tried, in that laboratory where, it is said, the fire was scarcely extinguished for weeks together, will never be known. it is certain that no success attended his labors; and newton was not a man—like kepler—to detail to the world all the hopes and disappointments, all the crude and mystical fancies, which mixed themselves up with his career of philosophy. . . . . many years later we find newton in correspondence with locke with reference to a mysterious red earth by which boyle, who was then recently (lend, had asserted that he could effect the grand desideratum of multiplying gold. by this time, however, newton‘s faith had become some- what shukcn by the unsatisfactory communications which he had himself received from boyle on the subject of the golden recipe, though he did not abandon the idea of giving the experiment a further trial as soon as the weather should become suitable for furnace experiments.”--quarterly review, no. , pp. - , o a strange s'roar. occult nostrum or process by which human life could attain to the age of the patriarchs ?” * * southey, in his doctor, vol. vi. p. , reports the conversation of sir kenelm digby with descartes, in which the great geo- metrician said: “that as for rendering man'immortal, it was what he could not venture to promise, but that he was very sure he could prolong his life to the standard of the patriarchs.” and southey adds, “that st. evremond, to whom digby repeated this, says that this opinion of descartes was well known both to his friends in holland and in france." by the stress southey lays on this hearsay evidence, it is clear that he was not acquainted with the works and biography of descartes, or he would have gone to the fountain-head for authority on descartes's opinions—viz., descartes himself. it is to be wished that. southey had done so, for no one more than he would have appreciated the exquisitely candid and lovable nature of the illustrious french- man, and the sincerity with which he cherished in his heart what- ever doctrine he conceived in his understanding. descartes, whose knowledge of anatomy was considerable, had that passion for the art of medicine which is almost inseparable from the pursuit of natural philosophy. at the age of twenty~four he had sought (in germany) to obtain initiation into the brotherhood of the bosicrucians, but unluckily could not discover any member of the society to introduce him. “he desired," says cousin, “to assure the health of man, diminish his ills, extend his ex- istence. he was terrified by the rapid and almost momentary passage of man upon earth. he believed it was not, perhaps, impossible to prolong its duration.” there is a hidden recess of grandeur in this idea, and the means proposed by descartes for the execution of his project were not less grand. in his discourse on method, descartes says, “if it is possible to find some means to render generally men more wise and more able than they have been till now, it is, i believe, in medicine that those means must be sought. * * * i am sure that there is ~ no one, even in the medical profession, who will not avow that all which one knows of the medical art is almost nothing in com- parison to that which remains to learn, and that one could be exempted from an infinity ot’ maladies, both of body and mind a s'rasnoa sroar. '! in thoughts like these the night wore away, the moonbeams that streamed through my window lighting up the spacious solitudes beyond—mead and creek, forest-land, mountain-top-and the silence without broken by the wild cry of the night-hawk and the sibilant, melancholy dirge of the shining chrysococyx; * and even, perhaps, from the decrepitude of old age, if one had sufficient lore of their causes and of all the remedies which nature provides for them. therefore, having design to employ all my life in the research of a science io necessary, and having discovered a path which appears to me such that one ought irt/‘allt'bly, in following, to find it, if one is not hindered prematurely by the brevity of life or by the defects of experience, iconsider that there is no better remedy against those two hindrances than to communicate faithfully to the public the little i have found," . . (discours de la methode, vol. i. (euvres do descartes, cousin’s edition.) .and again, in nis correspondence (vol. ix. p. - ), he says: “ the conservation of health has been always the principal object of my studies, and i have no doubt that there is a means of acquiring much knowledge touching medicine which, up to this time, is ignored.” he then refers to his meditated treatise on animals as only an entrance upon that knowledge. but what- ever secrets descartes may have thought to discover, they are not made known to the public according to his promise. and in a letter to m. chanut, written (four years before he died), he says ingenuonsly: “i will tell you in confidence that the notion, such as it is, which i have endeavored to acquire in physical philosophy, had greatly assisted me to establish certain foundations for moral philosophy; and that [am more easily satisfied upon this point than i am on many others touching medicine, to which i have, nevertheless, devoted much more time. so that” (adds the grand thinker with a pathetic noble- ness) — “so that, instead of finding the means to preserve life, ilum found another good, more easy and more sure, which t‘l—not to fear death." , *cbrysococyx l'lcldlls—viz., the bird popularly called the shining or bronzed cuckoo. " its note is an exceedingly melan- " a a strange s'roav. bid each interview now. if, in a few hours, she become either decidedly stronger or decidedly more enfeeblcd, you shall be summoned to her side. even if you are condemned to a loss for which the sole consolation must be placed in the life hereafter, you shall have, at least, the last mortal commune of soul with soul. courage— couragel you are maul bear as man what you have so often bid other men submit to endure.” i had flung myself on the ground—writhing worm that had no home but on earth man, indeedl mani all, at that moment, i took from manhood was its acute sensibility to love and to anguishl but after all such paroxysms of mortal pain, there comes a strange lull. thought itself halts, like the still hush of water between descending torrents. i rose in a calm, which faber might well mistake for fortitude. “well,” i said, quietly, “fulfil your promise. if lilian is to pass away from me, i shall see her, at least, again; no wall, you tell me, between our minds; mind to mind once more— once more i” “ allen,” said faber, mournfully and softly. “ why do you shun to repeat my words— soul to soul f” “ay, ay-i understand. those words mean that you have resigned all hope that lilian’s life will linger here, when her mind comes back in full consciousness; i know well that last lghtning flash and the darkness that swallows it up l” “you exaggerate my fears. i have not resigned the hope that lilian will survive the struggle through a s'raanen srosr. which she is passing, but it will be cruel to deceive you --my hope is weaker than it was.” “ay, ay. again i understand! your science is in fault—it desponds. its last trust is in the wonderful resources of nature - the vitality stored in the young!” “you have said : those resources of nature are wondrous. the vitality of youth is a fountain spring- ing up from the deeps out of sight, when, a moment before, we had measured the drops oozing out from the sands, and thought that the well was exhausted.” “ come with me -— come. i told you of another suf- ferer yonder. i want your opinion of his case. but can you be spared a few minutes from lilian’s side f” ‘ “yes ; i left her asleep. what is the case that per- plexes your eye of physician, which is usually keener than mine, despite all the length of my practice f” “ the sufi'erer is young— his organization rare in its vigor. he has gone through and survived assaults upon life that are commonly fatal. his system has been poisoned by the fangs of a venomous asp, and shattered by the blast of the plague. these alone, i believe, " would not suffice to destroy him. but he is one who has a strong dread of death. and while the heart was thus languid and feeble, it has been gnawed by emotions of hope or of fear. i suspect that he is dying, not from the bite of the reptile, not from the taint of the pesti- lence, but from the hope and the fear that have over- tasked the heart’s functions. judge for yourself.” we were now at the door of the but. i unlocked it; a strange s'roar. we entered. margrave had quitted his bed, and was ' pacing the room slowly. his step was less feeble, his countenance less haggard than on the previous evening. iie submitted himself to faber’s questioning with a quiet indifi'ercncc, and evidently cared nothing for any opinion which the great physician might found on his replies. when faber had learned all he could, he said, with a grave smile: “i see that my advice will have little weight with you; such as it is, at least reflect on it. the conclusions to which your host arrived in his view of your case, and which he confided to me, are, in my humble judgment, correct. i have no doubt that the great organ of the heart is involved in the cause of your sufferings; but the heart is a noble and much-enduring organ. i have known men in whom it has been more severely and unequivocally affected with disease than it is in you, live on for many years, and ultimately die of some other disorder. but then life was held, as yours must be held, upon one condition—repose. i enjoin you to abstain from all violent action—to shun all excitements that cause moral disturbance. you are young; would you live on, you must live as the old. more than this—it is my-duty to warn you that your tenure on earth is very precarious; you may attain to many years; you may he suddenly called hence to- morrow. the best mode to regard this uncertainty with the calm in which is your only chance of long life, is so to arrange all your wordly affairs, and so to dis- a srsa nos s-roav. malady baflies the doctor‘s skill, imagines or dreams of a remedy? call it a whim if you please, learned sir; do you not listen to the whim, and, in despair of your own prescriptions, comply with those of the patient?” faber changed countenance, and even started. mar- grave watched him and laughed. “'you grant that there are such cases, in which the patient gives the law to the physician. now, apply your experience to my case. suppose some strange fancy had seized upon my imagination—“that is the doctor’s cant word for all phenomena which we call exceptional—some strange fancy that i had thought of a cure for this disease for which you have no drugs; and suppose this fancy of mine to be so strong, so vivid, that to deny me its gratification would produce the very emotion from which you warn me as fatal—storm the heart, that you would soothe to repose, by'the passions of rage and despair—would you, as my trusted physi- cian, concede or deny me my whim?” “can you ask? i should grant it at once, if i had no reason to know that the thing that you fancied was harmful.” “ good man, and wise doctor! i have no other ques tion to ask. i thank you.” faber looked hard on the young, wan face, over which played a smile of triumph and irony; then turned away with an expression of doubt and trouble on his own noble countenance. i followed him silently into the open air. a strange s'ronv. “ who and what is this visitor of yours? ” he asked, abruptly. “ who and what! i cannot tell you.” faber remained some moments musing, and mutter- ing slowly to himself, “ tut l but a chance coincidence -a haphazard allusion to a fact which he could not have known l” ‘ “faber,” said i, abruptly, “ can it be that lilian is the patient in whose self-suggested remedies you con- fide more than in the various learning at command of your practised skill ? " “ i cannot deny it,” replied faber reluctantly “ in the intervals of that suspense from waking sense, which in her is not sleep, nor yet altogether catalepsy, she has, for the last few days, stated accurately the precise moment in which the trance—if i may so call it— would pass away, and prescribed for herself the reme- dies that should be then administered. in every in- stance, the remedies so self-prescribed, though certainly not those which would have occurred to my mind, have proved efficacious. her rapid progress to reason i ascribe to the treatment she herself ordained in her trance, without remembrance of her own suggestions when she awoke. i had meant to defer communicating these phenomena in the idiosyncrasy of her case until our minds could more calmly inquire into the process by which ideas—not apparently derived, as your meta- physical school would derive all ideas, from precon- ceived experiences—will thus sometimes act like an a srasuon s'roar. instinct on the human sufi'erer for self-preservation, as the bird is directed to the herb or the berry which heals or assuages its ailments. we know how the mesmer- ists would account for this phenomenon of hygienic introvision and clairvoyance but here, there is no mesmerizer, unless the patient can be supposed to mes- merize herself. long, however, before mesmerism was heard of, medical history attests examples in which patients who baflled the skill of the ablest physicians have fixed their fancies on some remedy that physicians would call inoperative for good or for harm, and have recovered by the remedies thus singularly self-suggested. and hippocrates himself, if i construe his meaning rightly, recognizes the powers for self-cure which the condition of trance will sometimes bestow on the sufferer, ‘where’ (says the father of our art) ‘ the sight being closed to the external, the soul more truthfully perceives the afi'ections of the body.’ in short—i own it—in this instance, the skill of the physician has been a compliant obedience to the instinct called forth in the patient. and the hopes i have hitherto permitted my- self to give you, were founded on my experience that her own hopes, conceived in trance, had never been fallacious or exaggerated. the simples that i gathered for her yesterday she had described; they are not in our herbal. but as they are sometimes used by the natives, [ had the curiosity to analyze their chemical properties shortly after i came to the colony, and they seemed to me as innocent as lime-blossoms. they are rare in this part il.-- a s'rasuon s'roar. of australia, but she told me where i should find them -- a remote spot, which she has certainly never visited. last night, when you saw me disturbed, dejected, it was because, for the first time, the docility with which she had hitherto, in her waking state, obeyed her own injunctions in the state of trance, forsook me. she could not be induced to taste the decoction i had made from the herbs; and if you found me this morning with weaker hopes than before, this is the real cause—viz., that when i visited her at sunrise, she was not in sleep but in trance, and in that trance she told me-that she had nothing more to suggest or reveal; that on the complete restoration of her senses, which was at hand, the abnormal faculties vouchsai'ed to trance would be withdrawn. ‘as for my life,’ she said quietly, as if unconscious of our temporary joy or woe in the term of its tenure here —‘as for my life, your aid is now idle; my own vision obscure; on my life a dark and cold shadow is resting. i cannot forsee if it will pass away. when i strive to look around, i see but my allen ’" “ and so,” said i, mastering my emotions, “in bid- ding me hope, you did not rely on your own resources of science, but on the whisper of nature in the brain of your patient ?” “it is so.” we both remained silent some moments, and then, as he disappeared within my house, i murmured: “ and when she strives to look beyond the shadow she sees only me! is there some prophet-hint of nature a s'raason s'roav. '! firm also, directing me not to scorn the secret which a _ wanderer, so suddenly dropt on my solitude, assures me that nature will sometimes reveal to her seeker? and oh! that dark wanderer—has nature a marvel more weird than himself?” chapter lxva. i s'r'narnn through the forest till noon, in debate with myself, and strove to shape my wild doubts into pur- pose, before i could nerve and compose myself again to face margrave alone. ' i i re-entered the hut. to_my surprise, margrave was not in the room in which i had left him, nor in that which adjoined it. i ascended the stairs to the kind of loft in which i had been accustomed to pursue my studies, but in which i had not set foot since my alarm for‘lilian had suspended my labors. there i saw mar- grave quietly seated before the manuscript of my ambi. tions work, which lay open on the rude table just as i had left it, in the midst of its concluding summary. " have taken the license of former days, you see," said margrave, smiling, “and have hit by chance on a passage i can understand without effort. but why such a waste of argument to prove a fact so simple? in man, as in brute, life once lost is lost forever; and that is why life is so precious to man.” i took the book from his hand, and flung it aside in a s'raanaa s'roav. _ wrath. his approval revolted me more with my own theories than all the argumentative rebukes of faber. “and now,” i said, sternly, “the time has come for the explanation you promised. before i can aid you in any experiment that may serve to prolong your life, i must know how far that life has been a baleful and destroying influence ?” “ i have some faint recollection of having saved your life from an imminent danger, and if gratitude were the attribute of man, as it is of the dog, i should claim your aid to serve mine as a right. ask me what you will. you must have seen enough of me to know that i do not afl‘ect either the virtues or vices of others. i regard both .with so supreme an indifi'erence, that i believe i am vicious or virtuous unawares. i know not if i can explain what seems to have perplexed you, but if i cannot explain i have no intention to lie. speak —i listen! we‘have time enough now before us.” so saying, he reclined back in the chair, stretching out his limbs wearily. all round this spoilt darling of material nature the aids and appliances of intellectual science! books, and telescopes, and crucibles, with the light of day coming through a small circular apor- ture in the boarded casement, as i had constructed the opening for my experimental observation of the pris- mal rays. while i write, his image is as visible before my remembrance as if before the actual eye-beautiful even in its decay, awful even in its weakness, myste- a strange s'roar. rlons as in nature herself amidst all the mechanism by which our fancied knowledge attempts to measure her laws and analyze her light. but at that moment no such subtle reflections de- layed my inquisitive, eager mind from its immediate purpose - who and what was this creature boasting of a secret through which i might rescue from death the life of her who was my all upon earth. i gathered rapidly and succinctly together all that i knew and all that i guessed of margrave’s existence and arts. i commenced from my vision in that mimic golgotha of creatures inferior to man, close by the scenes of man’s most trivial and meaningless pastime. i went on— derval’s murder; the missing contents of the casket; the apparition seen by the maniac assassin guiding him to the horrid deed; the luminous, haunting shadow; the positive charge in the murdered man’s memoir concerning margrave with louis grayle, and accusing him of the murder of haroun; the night in the moonlit pavilion at derval court; the baneful influence on lilian ; the struggle between me and him- self in the house by the sea-shore;—the strange all that is told in this strange story. but warming as i spoke, and in a kind of fierce joy to be enabled thus to free my own heart of the doubts that had burdened it, now that i was fairly face to face with the being by whom my reason had been so perplexed and my life so tortured, i was restrained by none of the fears lest my own fancy deceived me, with which in ‘ a sranuon sroar. “in much that you tell me i recognize myself; in much i am as lost in amazement as you in wild doubt or fierce wrath. of the effect that you say philip der- val produced on me i have no recollection. of him- self i have only thi-that he was my foe, that he came to england intent on schemes to shorten my life or destroy its enjoyments. all my faculties tend to self-preservation; there, they converge as rays in a focus; in that focus they illume and—they burn. i willed to destroy my intended destroyer. did my will enforce itself on the agent to which it was guided? likely enough. be it so. would you blame me for slaying the tiger or serpent—not by the naked hand, but by weapons that arm it? but what could tiger and serpent do more against me than the man who would rob me of life? he had his arts for assault—i had mine for self-defence. he was to me as. the tiger that creeps through the jungle, or the serpent uncoiling his folds for the spring. death to those whose life is de- struction to mine, be they serpent, or tiger, or man! der- val perished. yes! the spot in which the maniac had buried the casket was revealed to me— no matter how; the contents of the casket passed into my hands. i cov- eted that possession because i believed that derval had learned from haroun of aleppo the secret by which the elixir of life is prepared, and i supposed that some stores of the essence would be found in his casket. i was deceived—not a drop! what i there found i knew not how to use or apply, nor did i care to learn. what a a s'raasos s‘roav. advanced one step into knowledge except through that imaginative faculty which is strongest in the wisdom of ignorance, and weakest in the ignorance of the wise. ponder this, and those marvels that perplex you will cease to be marvellous. i pass on to the riddle that puzzles you most. by philip derval’s account i am, in truth, louis grayle restored to youth by the elixir, and while yet infirm, decrepit, murdered haroun—a man of a frame as athletic as yours! by accepting this notion you seem to yourself alone to unravel the mys- teries you ascribe to my life and my powers. oh, wise philosopher! oh, profound logicianl you accept that notion, yet hold my belief in the dervish’s tale a chi- mera! i am grayle made young by the elixir, and yet the elixir itself is a fable l” he paused and laughed, but the laugh was no longer even an echo of its former merriment or playfulness —- a sinister and terrible laugh, mocking, threatening, malignant. again he swept his hand over his brows and re- sumed: “ is it not easier to so accomplished a sage as you to believe that the idlers of paris have guessed the true. solution of that problem—my place on this earth? may i not be the love-son of louis grayle? and when haroun refused the elixir to him, or he found that his frame was too far exhausted for even the elixir to repair organic lesions of structure in the worn frame of old age, may he not have indulged the common illusion i a summer. near. graylel all my earlier memories go back to louis graylel all my arts and powers, all 'that i have learned of the languages spoken in europe, of the sci- ‘ ences taught in her schools, i owe to louis grayle. but am i one and the same with him? no—i am but a pale reflection of his giant intellect. i have not even a reflection of his childlike agonies of sorrow. louis graylel he stands apart from me, as a rock from the tree that grows out its chasms. yes, the gossip was right; i must be his son.” he leant his face on both hands, rocking himself to and fro. at length, with a sigh, he resumed: “i remember, too, a long and oppressive illness, attended with racking pains—a dismal journey in a wearisome litter—the light hand of the woman ayesha, so sad and so stately, smoothing my pillow or fanning my brows. i remember the evening on which my nurse drew the folds of the litter aside, and said, ‘ see aleppo! and the star of thy birth shining over its walls?’ “ i remember a face incxpressibly solemn and mourn- ful. i remember the chill that the calm of its ominous eye sent through my veins—the face of haroun, the sage of aleppo. i remember the vessel of crystal he bore in his hand, and the blessed relief from my pain that a drop from the essence which flashed through the crystal bestowed l and then — and then — i remember no more till the night on which ayeshs. came to my couch and said, ‘rise.’ a strange sronr. “and i rose, leaning on her, supported by her. we went through dim, narrow streets, faintly lit by wan stars, disturbing the prowl of the dogs, that slunk from the look of that woman. we came to a solitary house, small and low, and my nurse said, ‘ wait.’ “ she opened the door and went in; i seated myself on the threshold. and after a time she came out from the house, and led me, still leaning on her, into a chamber. “a man lay, as in sleep, on her carpet, and beside him stood another man, whom i recognised as ayesha’s special attendant— an indian. ‘ haroun is dead,’ said ayesha. ‘search for that which will give thee new life. ' thou hast seen, and wilt know it, not i.’ “and i put my hand on the breast of haroun—for the dead man was he— and drew from it the vessel of crystal. “ having done so, the frown on his marble brow appalled me. i staggered back, and swooned away. “i came to my senses, recovered and rejoicing, miles afar from the city, the dawn red on its distant walls. ayesha had tended me; the elixir had already restored me. “my first thought, when full consciousness came back to me, rested on louis grayle, for he, also, had been at aleppo. i was but one of his numerous train. he, too, was enfeebled and sufl'ering; he had sought the known skill of haroun for himself as for me; and this woman loved and had tended him as she had loved a strange story. and tended me. and my nurse told me that he was dead, and forbade me henceforth to breathe his name. “we travelled on—she and i, and the indian, her servant-qmy strength still renewed by the wondrous elixir. no longer supported by her, what gazelle ever roved through its pasture with a bound more elastic than mine? “ we came to a town, and my nurse placed before me a mirror. i did not recognize myself. in this town we rested, obscure, till the letter there reached me by which i learned that i was the ofl'spring of love, and enriched by the care of a father recently dead. is it not clear that louis grayle was this father l” “ if so, was the woman, ayesha, your mother t” “ the letter said that ‘my mother had died in my infancy.’ nevertheless, the care with which ayesha had tended me induced a suspicion that made me ask her the very question you put. she wept when i asked her, and said, ‘ no, only my nurse. and now i needed a nurse no more.’ the day after i received the letter which announced an inheritance that allowed me to vie with the nobles of europe, this woman left me, and went back to her tribe.” “ have you never seen her since?” margrave hesitated a moment, and then answered, though with seeming reluctance, “ yes, at damascus. not many days after iwas borne to that city by the strangers, who found me half»dead on their road, i woke one morning to find her by my side. and she said, ‘in ii.- ' a strange s'ronv. joy and in health you did not needme. i are needed now.’ ” - “did you then, deprive yourself of one so devoted p you have not made this long voyage-fromlegypt to australia— alone; you, to whom wealth made no excuse for privation ?” “the woman came with me; and some chosen attend- ants. i engaged to ourselves the vessel we sailed in." “ where have you left your companions?” “by this hour,” answered margrave, “they are in reach of my summons; and when you and i have achieved the discovery-_in the results of which we shall share—i will exact no more from your aid. i trust all that rests for my cure to my nurse and her swarthy attendants. you will aid me now, as a. matter of course; the physician whose counsel you needed to guide your own skill enjoins you to obey my whim — if whim you still call it; you will obey it, for on that whim rests your own- sole hope of happiness—you, who can love— i love nothing but life. has my frank narrative solved all the doubts that stood between you and me, in the great meeting-ground of an interest in common t” “ solved all the doubts! your wild story but makes some the darker, leaving others untouched; the occult powers of which you boast, and some of which i have witnessed-your very insight into my own household sorrows, into the interest i have, with yourself, in the truth of a faith so repugnant to reason ——” a strange near. “pardon me,” interrupted margrave, with that slight curve of the lip which is half smile and half sneer, “if, in my-account of myself, i omitted what i cannot explain, and you cannot conceive; let me first ask how many of the commonest actions of the commonest men are purely involuntary and wholly inexplicable? when, for instance, you open your lips and utter a sentence, you have not the faintest idea beforehand what word will follow another; when you move a muscle, can you tell me the thought that prompts to the movement? and, wholly unable thus to account for your own simple sympathies between impulse and act, do you believe that there exists a man upon earth who can read all the riddles in the heart and brain of another? is it not true that not one drop of water, one atom of matter, ever really touches another? between each and each there is always a space, however infinitesimally small. how, then, could the world go on, if every man asked another to make his whole history and being as lucid as daylight before he would buy and sell with him? all interchange and alliance rest but on this—an interest in common. you and i have established that interest; all else, all you ask more is superfluous. could i answer each doubt you would raise, still, whether the answer should please or revolt you, your reason would come back to the same starting-point, viz., in one definite proposal have we two an interest in common i’” and again margrave laughed, not in mirth, but in a sraauos s'roay. mockery. the laugh and the words that preceded it were not the laugh and the words of the young. could it be possible that louis grayle had indeed revived to false youth in the person of margrave, such might have been his laugh and such his words. the whole mind of margrave seemed to have undergone change since i last saw him; more rich in idea, more crafty even in candor, more powerful, more concentred. as we see in our ordinary experience, that some infirmity, threat- ening dissolution, brings forth more vividly the reminis- cences of early years, when impressions were vigorously stamped, so i might have thought, that as margrave neared the tomb, the memories he had retained from his former existence, in a being more amply endowed, more formidably potent, struggled back to the brain; and the mind that had lived in louis grayle moved the lips of the dying margrave. “ for the powers and the arts that it equally puzzles your reason to assign or to deny me,” resumed my terrible guest, “i will say briefly but this: they come from faculties stored within myself, and doubtless con- duce to my self-preservation—faculties more or less, perhaps (so van helmont asserts), given to all men, though dormant in most;—-vivid and active in me because in me self-preservation has been and yet is the strong master-passion, r instinct; and because i have been taught how to use and direct such faculties by disciplined teachers—some by louis grayle, the en- chanter; some by my nurse, the singer of charmed a strange sroar. songs. but in much that i will to have done, i know no more than yourself how the agency acts. enough for me to will what i wish, and sink calmly into slumber, sure that the will would work somehow its way. but when i have willed to know what, when known, should shape my own courses, i could see, without aid from your pitiful telescopes, all objects howsoever far. what wonder in that? have you no learned puzzle-brained metaphysicians, who tell you that space is but an idea, all this palpable universe an idea in the mind, and no more! why am i an enigma as dark as the sibyls, and your metaphysicians as plain as a hornbook?” again the sardonic laugh. “ enough; let what i have said obscure or enlighten your guesses, we come back to the same link of union, which binds man to man, bids states arise from the desert, and foemen embrace as brothers. i need you and you need me; without your aid my life is doomed; without my secret the breath will have gone from the lips of your lilian before the sun of to-morrow is red on you hill-tops.” “ fiend or juggler,” i cried in rage, “you shall not so enslave and enthral me by this mystic farrago and jargon. make your fantastic experiment on yolirself if you will; trust to your arts and your powers. my lilian’s life shall not hang on your fiat. i trust it—to-j’ “ to what—to man’s skill? hear what the sage of the college shall tell you, before i ask you again for your aid. do you trust to god’s saving mercy l’ ah! of course you believe in a god? who, except a phi‘ * ' a sraauoa story. losopher, can reason a maker away? but that the maker will alter his courses to hear you ; that, whether or not you trust in him, or in your doctor, it will change by a hairbreadth the thing that must be--do you believe this, allen fenwiek y ” and there eat this reader of heartsl a boy in his aspect, mocking meand the greybeards of schools. i could listen no more; i turned to the door and fled down the stairs, and heard, as i tied, a low chant; feeble and faint, it was still the old barbaric chant, by which the serpent is drawn from its hole by, the charmer. ,, chapter lxxvii. to those of my readers who may seek with julius faber to explore, through intelligible cau'ses, solutions of the marvels ilnarrate, margrave’s confession may serve to explain away much that my own superstitious beliefs had obscured. 'to them margrave is evidently the soil of louis grayle. the elixir of life is reduced to some simple restorative, owing much of its effect to the faith of a credulous patient; youth is so soon restored to its joy in the sun, with or without an elixir. to them margrave’s arts of enchantment are reduced to those idiosyncrasies of temperament on which the disciples of mesmer build up their theories ;' exagge- a sraauoa near. rated, in much, by my own superstitions; aided, in part, by such natural, purely physical magic as, explored by the ancient priestcrafts, is despised by the modern philosophies, and not only remains occult because science delights no more in the slides of the lantern which fascinated her childhood with simulated phan- toms. to them margrave is, perhaps, an enthusiast, not less an imposter. “l’homme se pique,” .eays charron. man cogs the dice for himself ere he rattles the box for his dupes. was there ever successful im- postor who did not commence by a fraud on his own understanding? cradled in orienttable-land, what though margrave believes in its legends; in a wand, an elixir; in sorcerers, or afrites? that belief in itself makes him keen to detect, and skilful to profit by, the latent but kindredcredulities of others. in all illustra- tions of duper and duped through the records of super- stition—from the guile‘ of a cromwell, a mahomet, down to the cheats of a gipsy—professional visionaries are amongst the astutest observers. the knowledge that margrave had gained of my abode, of my aflliction, or of the innermost thoughts in my mind, it surely demanded no preternatural aids to acquire. an old bailey attorney could have got at_the one, and any quick student of human. hearts have readily mastered the other. in fine, margrave, thus rationally criticised, is no other prodigy (save in degree and concurrence of attributes simple, though not very common) than may be found in each alley that harbors a fortune-teller who a s'raasos: s'roar. has just faith enough in the stars or the cards to bubble himself while he swindles his victims; earnest, indeed, in the self-conviction that he is really a seer, but reading the looks of his listeners, divining the thoughts that induce them to listen, and acquiring by practice a start- ling ability to judge what the listeners will deem it most seer-like to read in the cards or divine from the stars. i leave this interpretation nnassailed. it is that which is the most probable, it is clearly that which, in a case not my own, i should have accepted; and yet i revolved and dismissed it. the moment we deal with things beyond our comprehension, and in which our ow_n senses are appealed to and baffled, we revolt hen the probable, as it seems to the senses of those who have not experienced what we have. and the same principle of wonder that led our philosophy up from inert ignorance into restless knowledge, now winding back into shadow-land, reverses its rule by the way, and, at last, leaves as lost in the maze, our knowledge inert, and our ignorance restless. and putting aside all other reasons for hesitating to believe that margrave was the son of louis grayle— reasons which his own narrative might suggest-was it not strange that sir philip derval, who had instituted inquiries so minute, and reported them in his memoir with so faithful a care, should not have discovered that a youth, attended by the same woman who had attended grayle, had disappeared from the town on the same a strange mon. night as grayle himself disappeared? but derval had related truthfully, according to margrave’s account, the flight of ayesha and her indian servant, yet not alluded to the flight, not even to the existence of the boy, who must have been of no mean importance in the suite of louis grayle, if he were, indeed, the son whom grayle had made his constant companion, and constituted his principal heir. not many minutes did i give myself up to the cloud of reflections through which no sunbeam of light forced its way. one thought overmastered all; margrave had threatened death to my lilian, and warned me of what i should learn from the lips of faber, “ the sage of the college.” i stood, shuddering, at the door of my home; i did not dare to enter. “ allen,” said a voice, in which my ear detected an unwonted tremulous faltering, “ be firm—be calm. i keep my promise. the hour is come in which you may again see the lilian of old—mind to mind, soul to soul.” faber’s hand took mine, and led me into the house. “you do, then, fear that this interview will be too much for her strength t” said i, whispering- y. “ i cannot say; but she demands the interview, and i dare not refuse it" a s'raanor: sroar. chapter lxx‘viii. i l!" faber on the stairs, and paused at the door of lilian’s- room. the door opened suddenly, noise- lessly, and her mother came out with one hand before her face, and the other locked in amy’s, who was lead- ing her as a child leads the blind. mrs. ashleigh looked up, as i touched her, with a vacant, dreary-stare. she was not weeping, as was her womanly wont in every pettier grief, but amy was. no word was exchanged between us. i entered, and closed the door; my eyes turned mechanically to the corner in which was placed the small virgin bed, with its curtains white as a shroud. lilian was not there. i looked around, and saw her half reclined on a couch near the‘window. she was dressed, and with care. was not that'her bridal robe? ' “ allen -'--’allen,” she murmured. “ "again, again my allen—again, again your lilian l” and, striving in vain to rise, she stretched out her arms in the yearning of reunited love. and as i knelt beside her, those arms closed round me for the first time in the frank, chaste, holy tenderness of a wife’s embrace. “ah l” she said, in her low voice (her voice, like cordelia’s, was ever low), " all has come back to me -- all that i owe to your protecting, noble, trustful, guar- dian love i” “ hushl bash! the gratitude rests with me — it is so a srassos sroay. ? sweet to love, to trust, to guard! my own, my beautiful —still my beautiful! sull'ering has not dimmed the light of those dear eyes to me! put your lips to my ear. whisper but these words: ‘i love you, and for ' your sake i wish to live !’ ” ' ” for your sake, i pray—with my whole weak, human heart—i pray to live! listen. some day hereafter, if i am spared, under the purple blossoms of yonder waving trees i shall tell you all, as i see it now; all that darkened or shone on me in my long dream, and before the dream closed around me, like a night in which cloud and star chase each other! some day hereafter, some quiet, sunlit, happy, happy day. but now, all i would say is this: before that dreadful mom- ing —” here she paused, shuddered, and passion- ately burst forth—“allen, allen! you did not believe that slanderous letter! god bless you! god bless you! great-hearted, high-soaled-god bless you, my darlingl my husband! and he will! pray to him humbly as i do, and he will bless you.” she stooped and kissed away my tears—then she resumed, feebly, meekly, sorrowfully: “before that morning i was not worthy of such a heart, such a love as yours. no, no; hear me. not that a thought of love for another ever crossed me! never, while conscious and reasoning, was i untrue to you --even in fancy? but i was a child-wayward as the child who pines for what earth cannot give, and covets the moon for a toy. heaven had been so kind s d a sraasos swear. to my lot on earth, and yet with my lot on earth i was secretly discontented. when i felt that you loved me, and my heart told me that i loved again, i said to my- self, ‘ now the void that my soul finds on earth will be filled.’ i longed for your coming, and yet when you went i murmured, ‘but is this the ideal of which i had dreamed?’ i asked for an impossible sympathy. sympathy with what? nay, smile on me, dearest l - sympathy with what? i could not have said. ah! allen, then, then, i was not worthy of you; infant that i was, i asked you to understand me ; now i know that i am a woman, and my task is to study you] do i make myself clear? do you forgive me? i was not untrue to you; i was untrue to my own duties in life. i believed, in my vain conceit, that a mortal’s dim vision of heaven raised me above the earth; i did not perceive the truth that earth is a part of the same universe as heaven! now, perhaps, in the awful afiiiction that darkened my reason, my soul has been made more clear. as if to chastise but to teach me, my soul has been permitted to indulge its own pre- sumptuous desire; it has wandered forth from the tramels of mortal duties and destinies; it comes back, alarmed by the dangers of its own rash and presumpv tuons escape from the tasks which it should desire upon earth to perform. allen, allen, i am less un- worthy of you now! perhaps in my darkness one rapid glimpse of the true world of spirit has been vouchsafed to me. if so, how unlike to the visions my - a sraauea s'roar. “she will die—she will diel her eyes have the same heavenly look as my gilbert’s on the day on which his closed forever. 'her very words are his last words —‘forgive me all my faults to you.’ she will die— she will die! ” hours thus passed away. at length faber entered the room; he spoke first to mrs. ashleigh—meaning- less soothings, familiar to the lips of all who pass from the chamber of the dying to the presence of mourners, and know that it is a falsehood to say “hope,” and a mockery as yet to say, “endure.” but he led her away to her own room docile as a wearied child led to sleep, stayed with her some time, and then returned to me, pressing me to his bosom father-like. “no hope—no hope!" said i, recoiling from his embrace. “ you are silent. speak! speak! let me know the worst.” “i have a hope, yet i scarcely dare bid you share it; for it grows rather out of my heart as man, than my experience as physician. i cannot think that her soul, would be now so reconciled to earth, so fondly, so earnestly cling to this mortal life, if it were about to be summoned away. you know how commonly even tho sufferers who have dreaded death the most become calmly resigned to its coming, when death visibly reveals itself out from the shadows in which its shape has been guessed and not seen. as it is a bad sign for life when the patient has lost all will to live on, so there a strange sroar. ' is hope while the patient, yet young and with no per- ceptible breach in the great centres of life (however violently their forts may be stormed), has still intense faith in recovery, perhaps drawn (who can say i) from the whispers conveyed from above to the soul. , “i cannot bring myself to think that all the uses for which a reason, always so lovely even in its errors, has been restored, are yet fulfilled. it seems to me as if your union, as yet so imperfect, has still for its end that holy life on earth by which two mortal beings strengthen each other for a sphere of existence to which this is the spiritual ladder. through yourself i have hope yet for her. gifted with powers that rank you high in the manifold orders of man; thoughtful, laborious, and brave; with a heart that makes intellect vibrate to every fine touch of humanity; in error itself, conscien- tious; in delusion, still eager for truth; in anger, for- giving; in wrong, seeking how to repair; and, best of all, strong in a love which the mean would have shrunk to defend from the fangs of the slanderer—a love, raising passion itself out of the realm of the senses made sublime by the sorrows that tried its devotion :— with all these noble proofs in yourself, of a being not meant to end here, your life has stopped short in its uses, your mind itself has been drifted, a bark without rudder or pilot, over seas without shore, under skies without stars. and wherefore? because the mind you so haughtily vaunted has refused its companion and teacher in soul. l a strange s'roat. “ and therefore, through you, i hope that she will be spared yet to live on;-—she, in whom soul has been led dimly astray, by unheeding the checks and the defi- nite goals which the mind is ordained to prescribe to its wanderings while here; the mind taking thoughts from the actual and visible world, and the soul but vague glimpses and hints from the instinct of its ulti- mate heritage. each of you two seems to me as yet in- complete, and your destinies yet uncompleted. through the bonds of the heart, through the trials of time, ye have both to consummate your marriage. i do not- believe me—i do not say this in the fanciful wisdom of allegory and type, save that, wherever deeply exam- ined, allegory and type run through all the most com- monplace phases of outward and material life. i hope, then, that she may yet be spared to you; hope it, not from my skill as a physician, but my inward belief as a christian. to perfect your own being and end, ‘ ye will need one another ’ ” i started—the very words that lilian had heard in her vision l “ but,” resumed faber, “ how can i presume to trace the numberless links of efi'cct up to the first cause, for off—obi far off— out of the scope of my reason. i leave that to philosophers, who would laugh my meek hope to. s’corn. possibly, probably, where i, whose calling has been but to save flesh from the worm, deem that the life of your lilian is needed yet, to develop and train your own convictions of soul, heaven in its a s'raasos s'roav. wisdom may see that her death would instruct you far more than her life. i have said: be prepared for either; wisdom through joy, or wisdom through grief. enough that, looking only through the mechanism by which this moral world is impelled and improved, you know that cruelty is impossible to wisdom. even a man, or man’s law, is never-wise but when merciful. but mercy has general conditions; and that which is mercy to the myriads may seem hard to the one, and that which seems hard to the one in the pang of a moment may be mercy when viewed by the eyes that looks on through eternity.” and from all this discourse—of which i now, at calm distance of time, recall every word-my human, loving heart bore away for the moment but this sen- tence, " ye will need one another ;” so that i cried out, “life, life, life! is there no hope for her life y have you no hope as physician? i am physician, too; i will see her. i will judge. i will not be banished from my post.” “ judge, then, as physician, and let the responsibility rest with you. at this moment, all convulsion, all struggle has ceased—the frame is at rest. look on her, and perhaps only the physician’s eye could distin- guish her state from death. it is not sleep, it is not trance, it is not the dooming coma from which there is no awaking. shall i call it by the name received in our schools? is it the catalepsy in which life is sus~ pended, but consciousness acute? she is motionless, * a scanner: sroax. rigid; it is but with a strain of my own sense that i know that the breath still breathes, and the heart still beats. but i am convinced that though she can neither speak, nor stir, nor give sign, she is fully, sensitively conscious of all that passes around her. she is like those who have seen the very coflin carried into their chamber, and been unable to cry out, ‘ do not bury me alive ’ judge then for yourseif, with this intense con- sciousness and this impotence to evince it, what might be the efl‘ect of your presence—first an agony of despair, and then the complete extinction of life i” “i have known but one such case—a mother whose heart was wrapped up in a sufl'ering infant. she had lain for two days and two nights, still, as if in her shroud. all, save myself, said, ’life is gone.’ i said, ‘ life still is there.’ they, brought in the infant, to try what effect its presence would produce; then her lips moved, and the hands crossed upon her bosom trembled.” “ and the result ” exclaimed faber, eagerly. “if the result of your experience sanction your presence, come; the sight of the babe rekindled life y" “n ; extinguished its last sparkl i will not enter lilian’s room. i will go away—away from the house itself. that acute consciousness! i know it well! she may even hear me move in the room below, hear me speak at this moment. go back to her, go back! but if hers be the state which i have known in another, which may be yet more familiar to persons of far ampler experience than mine. there is no immediate danger of a s'rsauos story. death. the state will last through to-day, through to-night, perhaps for days to come. i§ it so '” “i believe that for at least twelve hours there will be no change in her state. i believe also that if she recover from it, calm and refreshed, as from a sleep, the danger of death will have passed away.” “and for twelve hours my presence would be hurtful.” “ rather say fatal, if my diagnosis be right.” i wrung my friend’s hand, and we parted. oh i to lose her nowl now that her love and her rea- son had both returned, each more vivid than before! futile, indeed, might be margrave’s boasted secret; but at least in that secret was hope. in recognized science i saw only despair. and, at that thought, all dread of this mysterious visitor vanished-all anxiety to question more of his attributes or his history. his life itself became to me dear and precious. what if it should fail me in the steps of the process, whatever that was, by which the life of my lilian might be saved! the shades of evening were now closing in. i re membered that i had left margrave without even food for many hours. i stole round to the back of the house, filled a basket with aliments more generous than those of the former day; extracted fresh drugs from my stores, and, thus laden, hurried back to the but. i found mar- grave in the room below, seated on his mysterious cofl‘er, leaning his face on his hand. when i entered, he looked up and said: a sraanoa s'roar. “you have neglected me. my strength is waning give me more of the cordial, for we have work before us to-night, and i need support.” he took for granted my assent to his wild experi- ment; and he was right. i administered the cordial. i placed food before him, and this time he did not eat with repugnance. i poured out wine, and he drank it sparingly, but with ready com- pliance, saying, “ in perfect health, i looked upon wine as poison; now it is like a fortaste of the glorious elixir.” afier he had thus recruited himself, he seemed to acquire an energy that startlingly contrasted his languor the day before; the effort of breathing was scarcely perceptible; the color came back to his cheeks; his bended frame rose elastic and erect. “ if i understood you rightly,” said i, “the experi- ment you ask me to aid can be accomplished in a single night t” “ in a single night—this night.” “ command me. why not begin at once? what apparatus or chemical agencies do you need f” “ah l” said margrave. “ formerly, how i was mis- led! formerly, how my conjectures blunderedl i thought, when i asked you to give a month to the experiment i wish to make, that i should need the sub- tlest skill of the chemist. i then believed, with van helmont, that the principle of life is a gas, and that the secret was but in the mode by which the gas might be a s'raanos story. rightly administered. but now, all that i need is con- tained in this coffer, save one very simple material— fuel sufficient for a steady fire for six hours. i see even that is at hand, piled up in your outhouse. and now for the substance itself —to that you must guide me.” ‘explain.” “near this very spot is there not gold—in mines yet undiscovered ? — and gold of the purest metal f” “ there is. what then? do you, with the alche- mists, blend in one discovery —gold and life ?” “ n . but it is only where the chemistry of earth or of man produces gold, that the substance from which the great pabulum of life is extracted by ferment can be found. possibly, in the attempts at that transmu- tation of metals, which i think your own great chemist, sir humphry davy, allowed might be possible, but held not to be worth the cost of the process—possibly, in these attempts, some scanty grains of this substance were found by the alchemists, in the crucible, with grains of the metal as niggardly yielded by pitiful mim- icry of nature’s stupendous laboratory; and from such grains enough of the essence might, perhaps, have been drawn forth, to add a few years of existence to some feeble greybeard-granting, what rests on no proofs, that some of the alchemists reached an age rarely given to man. but it is not in the miserly crucible, it is in the matrix of nature herself, that we must seek in pro- lific abundance nature’s grand principle— life. as the a sraanon sroav. loadstone is rife with the magnetic virtue, as amber contains the electric, so in this substance, to which we yet want a name, is found the bright, life-giving fluid. in the old gold-mines of asia and europe the sub- stance exists, but can rarely be met with. the soil for its nutriment may there be wellnigh exhausted. it is here, where nature herself is all vital with youth, that the nutriment of youth must be sought. near this spot is gold— guide me to it.” “you cannot come with me. the place which i know as auriferous is some miles distant—the way rugged. you cannot walk to it. it is true i have horses, but —” “do you think i have come this distance, and not foreseen and forestalled all that i want for my object? trouble yourself not with conjectures how i can arrive at the place. i have provided the means to arrive at and leave it. my litter and its bearers are in reach of my call. give me your arm to the rising ground, fifty yards from your door.” i obeyed mechanically, stifling all surprise. i had made my resolve, and admitted no thought that could shake it. i when we reached the summit of the grassy hillock, which sloped from the road that led to the seaport, margrave, after pausing to recover breath, lifted up his voice in a key, not loud, but shrill, and slow, and pro_ longed, half cry and half chant, like the night-hawk’s. through that air—so limpid and still, bringing near far a sraanon story. in my solemn completeness of man? perhaps, in great capitals, young men of pleasure will answer, “it in youth; and we think what he says l” young friends, i do not believe you. chapter lxxx. along the grass-track i saw now, under the moon, just risen, a strange procession—never seen before in australian pastures. it moved on, noiselessly but quickly. we descended the hillock, and met it on the way; a sable litter, borne by four men, in unfamiliar eastern garments; two other swarthy servitors, more bravely dressed, with yataghans and silver-hilted pis- tols in their belts, preceding this sombre equipage. perhaps margrave divined the disdainful thought that passed through my mind, vaguely and half-consciously; for he said, with the hollow, bitter laugh that had replaced the lively peal of his once melodious mirth: “a little leisure and a little gold, and your raw colo- nist, too, will have the tastes of a pacha.” i i made no answer. i had ceased to care who and what was my tempter. to me his whole being was resolved into one problem: had he a secret by which death could be turned from lilian? but now, as the litter halted, from the long, dark shadow which it cast upon the turf, the figure of a a strange sroav. woman emerged and stood before us. rl'be outlines of her shape were lost in the loose folds of a black mantle, and the features of her face were hidden by a black veil, except only the dark-bright, solemn eyes. her stature was lofty, her bearing majestic, whether in movement or repose. margrave accosted her in some language unknown to me. she replied in what seemed to my ear the same tongue. the tones of her voice were sweet, but in- expressibly mournful. the words that they uttered appeared intended to warn, or deprecate, or dissuade; for they called to margrave’s brow a lowering frown, and drew from his lips a burst of unmistakable anger. the woman rejoined, in the same meiancholy music of voice. and margrave then, leaning his arm upon her shoulder, as he had leant it on mine, drew her away from the group into a neighboring copse of the flowering eucalypti—mystic trees, never changing the hues of their pale-green leaves, ever shifting the tints of their ash-grey, shedding, bark. for some moments i gazed on the two human forms, dimly seen by the glinting moonlight through the gaps in the foliage. then, turn- ing away my eyes, i saw, standing close at my side, a man whom i had not noticed before. his footstep, as it stole to me, had fallen on the award without sound. his dress, though. oriental, difi'ered from that of his companions, both in shape and color; fitting close to the breast, leaving the arms bare to the elbow, and of an uniform ghastly white, as are the cerements of the il.—- a s'raanos s'roar. grave. his visage was even darker than those of the syrians or arabs behind him, and his features were those of a bird of prey—the beak of the eagle, but the eye of the vulture. his checks were hollow—the arms, crossed on his breast, were long and fleshless. yet in that skeleton form there was a something which conveyed the idea of a serpent’s suppleness and strength; and as the hungry, watchful eyes met my own startled gaze, i recoiled impulsively, with that inward warning of danger which is conveyed to man, as to inferior animals, in the very aspect of the creatures that sting or devour. at my movement the man inclined his head in the submissive eastern salutation, and spoke in his foreign tongue. softly, humbly, fawningly, to judge by his tone and his gesture. moved yet farther away from him with loathing, and now the human thought flashed upon me: was i, in truth, exposed to no danger in trusting myself to the mercy of the weird and remorseless master of those hirelings from the east—seven men in number, two at least of them formidably armed, and docile as blood- hounds to the hunter, who has only to show them their prey? but fear of man like myself is not my weak- ness; where fear found its way to my heart, it was through the doubts or the fancies in which man like myself disappeared in the attributes, dark and unknown, which we give to a fiend or a spectre. and, perhaps, if i could have paused to analyze my own sensations, the very presence of this escort—creatures of flesh a s'raanoa near. and blood—lessened the dread of my incomprehensible tempter. rather, a hundred times, front and defy those seven eastern slaves—i, haughty son of the anglo saxon, who conquers all races because he fears no odds -than have seen again on the walls of my threshold the luminous, bodiless shadow! besides, lilian- liliaul for one chance of saving her life, however wild and chimerical that chance might be, i would have shrunk not a foot from the march of an army. thus reassured and thus resolved, i advanced, with a smile of disdain, to meet margrave and his veiled com- panion, as they now came from the moonlit copse. “well,” i said to him, with an irony that uncon- sciously mimicked his own, “have you taken advice with your nurse? i assume that the dark form by your side is that of ayeshal ” the woman looked at me from her sable veil, with her steadfast, solemn eyes, and said, in english, though with a foreign accent: “ the nurse born in asia is but wise through her love; the pale son of europe is wise through his art. the nurse says, ‘forbearl’ do you say, ‘adventure?’ ” “ peace l ” exclaimed margrave, stamping his foot on the 'ground. “i take no counsel from either; it is for _ me to resolve, for you to obey, and for him to aid. night is come, and we waste it; move on.” the woman made no reply, nor did i. he took my arm and walked back to the hut. the barbaric escort followed. when we reached the door of the building, ‘ a s'rasrmn story. margrave said a few words to the woman and to the litter-bearers. they entered the but with us. mar- grave pointed out to the woman his cofl'er—to the men the fuel stowed in the out-house. both were borne away and placed within the litter. meanwhile, i took from the table, on which it was carelessly thrown, the light hatchet that i habitually carried with me in my rambles. “do you think that you need that idle weapon i’” said margrave. “ do you fear the good faith of my‘ swarthy attendants ?” “ nay, take the hatchet yourself; its use is to sever the gold from the quartz in which we may find it im- bedded, or to clear, as this shovel, which will also be needed, from the slight soil above it, the ore that the mine in the mountain flings forth, as the sea casts its waifs on the sands.” “give me your hand, fellow-laborer!” said mar- grave, joyfully. “ah, there is no faltering terror in this pulse! i was not mistaken in the man. what rests, but the place and the hour! i shall live—i shall live!” ' a s'raanea sroar. chapter lxxxi. maaoaavn now entered the litter, and the veiled woman drew the black curtains round him. i walked on, as the guide, some yards in advance. the air was still, heavy, and parched with the breath of the aus- tralasian sirocco. we passed through the meadow-lands, studded with slumbering flocks; we followed the branch of the creek, which was linked to its source in the mountains by many a trickling waterfall; we threaded the gloom of stunted, misshapen trees, gnarled with the stringy bark which makes one of the signs of the strata that nourish gold; and at length the moon, now in all her pomp of light, mid-heaven amongst her subject stars, gleamed through the fissures of the cave, on whose floor lay the relics of antediluvian races, and rested in one flood of silvery splendor upon the hollows of the extinct volcano, with tufts of dank herbage, and wide spaces of paler award, covering the gold below—gold, the dumb symbol of organized matter’s great mystery, storing in itself, according as mind, the informer of matter, can distinguish its uses, evil and good, bane and blessing. hitherto the veiled woman had remained in the rear, with the white-robed skeleton-like image that had crept to my side unawares with its noiseless step. thus, in each winding turn of the difiicult path at which * u a s'rasnes near. which now, in the drought and the hush of the skies, was but a dead pile of stones. the litter now ascended the height; its bearers halted; a lean hand tore the curtains aside, and mar- grave descended, leaning, 'this time, not on the black veiled woman, but on the white-robed skeleton. there, as he stood, the moon shone full on his wasted form; on his face, resolute, cheerful, and proud, despite its hollowed outlines and sicklied hues. he raised his head, spoke in the language unknown to me, and the armed men and the litter-bearers grouped round him, bending low,_ their eyes fixed on the ground. the veiled woman rose slowly and came to his side, motion- ing away, with a mute sign, the ghastly form on which he leant, and passing round him silently, instead, her own sustaining arm. margrave spoke again a few sentences, of which i could not even guess the mean- ing. when he had concluded, the armed men and the litter-bearers came nearer to his feet, knelt down, and kissed his hand. they then rose, and took from the bier-like vehicle the coder and the fuel. this done, they lifted again the litter, and again, preceded by the armed men, the procession descended down the sloping hillside, down into the valley below. margrave now whispered, for some moments, into the ear of the hideous creature who had made way for the veiled woman. submissively, and strode noiselesst away through the the grim skeleton bowed his head long grasses; the slender stems, trampled under his a s'raaues sronv. “ let us first fin-~ the gold, and instead of describing the life-amber, so let me call it, i will point it out to your own eyes. as to the process, your share in it is so simple, that you will ask me why i seek aid from a chemist. the life-amber, when found, has but to be subjected to heat and fermentation for six hours; it will be placed, in a small cauldron which that cofi'er con— tains, over the fire which that fuel will feed. to give effect to the process, certain alkalies and other ingre- dients are required. but these are prepared, and mine is the task to commingle them. from your science as chemist i need and ask nought. in you i have sought only the aid of a man." . “if that be so, why, indeed, seek .me at all? why not confide in those swarthy attendants, who doubtless are slaves to your orders?” “confide in slavesl when the first task enjoined to them would be to discover, and refrain from purloining, gold. seven such unscrupulous knaves, or even one such, and i, thus defenceless and feeblel such is not the work that wise masters confide to fierce slaves. but that is the least of the reasons which exclude them from my choice, and fix my choice of assistant on you. do you forget what i told you of the danger which the dervish declared no bribe i could offer could tempt him a second time to brave ?” “i remember now; those words had passed away from my mind.” ‘ “ and because they had passed away from your mind, a sraasos s'roay. men plies the clockwork, that measures his hours, and stops when its chain reaches the end of its coil, strives to pass over those boundaries at which philosophy says, ‘ knowledge ends,’ then he is like all other travellers in regions unknown; he must propitiate or brave the tribes that are hostile—must depend for his life on the tribes that are friendly. though your science discredits the alchemist’s dogmas, your learning informs you that all alchemists were not ignorant impostors; yet those whose discoveries prove them to have been the nearest allies to your practical knowledge, ever hint in their mystical works at the reality of that realm which is open to magic-ever hint that some means less familiar than furnace and bellows are essential to him who explores the elixir of life. he who once quafi's that elixir obtains in his very veins the bright fluid by which he transmits the force of his will to agencies dormant in nature, to giants unseen in the space. and here, as he passes the boundary which divides his allotted and normal mortality from the regions and races that magic alone can explore, so here he breaks down the safe- guard between himself and the tribes that are hostile. is it not ever thus between man and man? let a race the most gentle, and timid, and civilized dwell on one side a river or mountain, and another have home in the region beyond, each, if it pass not the intervening barrier, may with each live in peace. but if ambitious adventurers scale the mountain, or cross the river, with design to subdue and enslave the populati'ins they a strange s'rosv. - neglected no caution, we failed from no oversight. but out from the cauldron dread faces arose, and the spectrcs or demons dismayed and baffled us.’ such, then, is the danger which seems so appalling to a son of the east, as it seemed to a seer in the dark age of europe. but we can deride all its threats, you and i. for myself, i own frankly i take all the safety that the charms and resources of magic bestow. you, for your safety, have the cultured and disciplined reason which reduces all phantasies to nervous impressions; and i rely on the courage of one who has questioned, unquailing, the luminous shadow, and wrested from the hand of the magician himself the wand which concentred the won. ders of will l” to this strange and long discourse i listened without interruption, and now quietly answered: " i do not merit the trust you affect in my courage; but i am now on my guard against the cheats of the fancy, and the fumes of a vapor can scarcely bewilder the brain in the open air of this mountain-land. i believe in no races like those which you tell me lie vicwless in space, as do gases. i believe not in magic; i ask not its aids, and i dread not its terrors. for the rest, i am confident of one mournful courage-the courage that comes from despair. i submit to your guidance whatever it be, as a sufferer whom colleges doom to the grave submits to the quack who says, ‘take my specific and live!’ my life is nought in itself; my life lives in another. you and i are both ii. — a s'raanos s'roav. would pause not to heed it; and did i describe it, and chemistry deign to subject it to analysis, could chemistry alone detach or discover its boasted virtues? its particles, indeed, are very minute, not seeming readily to crystallize with each other; each in itself of uniform shape and size, spherical as the egg which contains the germ of life, and small as the egg from which the life of an insect may quicken. but margrave’s keen eye caught sight of the atoms upcast by the light of the moon. he exclaimed to me, “ found! i shall live!" and then, as he gathered up the grains with tremulous hands, he called out to the veiled woman, hitherto still seated motionless on the crag. at his word she rose and went to the place hard by, where the fuel was piled, busying herself there. i had no leisure to heed her. i continued my search in the soft and yielding soil that time and the decay of vegetable life had accumulated over the pre-adamite strata on which the arch of the cave rested its mighty keystone. ' when we had collected of these particles about thrice as much as a man might hold in his hand, we seemed to have exhausted their bed. we continued still to find gold, but no more of the delicate substance, to which, in our sight, gold was as dross. “enough,” then said margrave reluctantly desisting. “ what we ,have gained already will sufiice for a life thrice as long as legend attributes to haroun. i shall live—i shall live through the centuries.” a strange s'roar. the woman, before inactive and unheeding, slowly advanced, knelt by the pile, and lighted it. the dry wood crackled and the flame burst forth,‘ licking the rims of the cauldron with tongues of fire. margrave flung into the cauldron the particles we had collected, poured over them first a liquid,‘ colorless as water, from the largest of the vessels drawn from his cofl'er, and then, more sparingly, drops from small crystal phials, like the phials i had seen in the hand of philip derval. having surmounted my first impulse of awe, i watched these proceedings, curious yet disdainful, as one who watches the mummeries of an enchanter on the stage. “if,” thought i, these are but artful devices to inebriate and fool my own imagination, my imagination is on its guard, and reason shall not, this time, sleep at her post i ” , “ and now,” said margrave, “i consign to you the easy task by which you are to merit your share of the elixir. it is my task to feed and replenish the cauldron; it is ayesha’s to heed the fire, which must not for a moment relax in its measured and steady heat. your task is the lightest of all; it is but to renew from this vessel the fluid that burns in the lamps, and on the ring. observe the contents of the vessel must be thriftily husbanded; there is enough, but no more than enough, to sustain the light in the lamps, on the lines traced round the cauldron, and on the farther ring, for a s'raauos story. ! heaving like the swell of the sea, and as if in the air‘ itself there was a perceptible tremor. i placed, my hand on margrave’s shoulder and whispered, “ to me earth and air seem to vibrate. dc they seem to vibrate to you i ” “ i know not, i care not,” he answered impetuously. “the essence is bursting the shell that confined it. here are my air and my earth! trouble me not. look to the circle—feed the lamps if they fail.” i passed by the veiled woman as i walked towards a place in the ring in-which the flame was waning dim. and i whispered to her the same question which i had whispered to margrave. she looked slowly around and answered, “ so is it before the invisible make them- selves visiblel did i not bid him forbear? ” her head again drooped on her breast, and her watch was again fixed on tho fire. i advanced to the circle and stooped to replenish the light where it waned. as i did so, on my arm, which stretched somewhat beyond the line of the ring, i felt a shock like that of electricity. the arm fell to my side numbed and nerveless, and from my hand dropped, but within the ring, the vessel that contained the fluid. recovering my surprise or my stun, hastily with the other hand i caught up the vessel, but some of the scanty liquid was already spilled on the sward; and i saw-with a thrill of dismay, that contrasted indeed the tranquil indifl'crence with which had first undertaken my chzirge, how small a supply was now left. v a sraauoa swear. i went back to margrave, and told him of the shock, and of its consequence in the waste of the liquid. “beware,” said he, “ that not a motion_of the arm, not an inch of the foot, pass the verge of the ring; and if the fluid be thus unhappily stinted, reserve all that is left for the protecting circle and the twelve outer lamps! see how the grand work advances! how the hues in the cauldron are glowing blood-red through the film on the surface!” and new four hours of the six were gone; my arm had gradually recovered its strength. neither the ring nor the lamps had again required replenishing; per- haps their light was exhausted less quickly, as it was no longer to be exposed to the rays of the intense aus~ tralian moon. clouds had gathered over the sky, and though the moon gleamed at times in the gaps that they left in blue air, her beam was more hazy and dulled. the locusts no longer were heard in the grass, nor the how! of the dogs in the forest. out of the cir- cle, the stillness was profound. and aboutithis time i saw distinctly in the distance a vast eye! it drew nearer and nearer, seeming to move from the ground at the height of some lofty giant. its gaze riveted mine; my blood curdled in the blaze from its angry ball; and now as it advanced larger and larger, other eyes, as if of giants in its train, grew out from the space in its rear; numbers on numbers,‘like the spear-heads of some eastern army, seen afar by pale warders of battlements doomed to the dust. my a s'raanos sroar. voice long refused an utterance to my awe; at length it burst forth shrill and loud: “look-look! those terrible eyes! legions on legions. and hark! that tramp of numberless feet, they are not seen, but the hollows of earth echo the sound of their march l” margrave more than ever intent on the cauldron, in which, from time to time, he kept dropping powders or essences drawn forth from his cofl'er, looked up, defy- ingly, fiercely: “ye come,” he said in a low mutter, his once mighty voice sounding hollow and laboring, but fearless and firm —“ ye come - not to conquer, vain rebels l --ye whose dark chief i struck down at my feet in the tomb where my spell had raised up the ghost of your first human master, the ghaldee! earth and air have their armies still faithful to me, and still i remember the war-song that summons them up to confront you! ayesha— ayesha! recall the wild troth that we pledged amongst roses; recall the dread bond by which we united our sway over hosts that yet own thee as queen, though my sceptre is broken, my diadeni reft from my brows!” . the veiled woman rose at this adjuration. ~ her veil now was withdrawn, and the blaze of the fire between margrave and herself flushed, as with the rosy bloom of youth, the grand beauty of her softened face. it was seen, detached as it were, from her dark-mantled form; seen through the mist of the vapors which rose a strange s'ronv. from the cauldron, framing it round like the clouds that are yieldingly pierced by the light of the evening star. through the haze of the vapor came her voice, more musical, more plaintive than i had heard it before, but far softer, more tender; still in her foreign tongue ; the words unknown to me, and yet their sense, perhaps, made intelligible by the love, which has one common language and one common look to all who have loved -the love unmistakably heard in the loving tone, unmistakably seen in the loving face. a moment or so more, and she had come round from the opposite side of the fire-pile, and bending over mar- grave’s upturned brow, kissed it quietly, solemnly; and then her countenance grew fierce, her crest rose erect; it was the lioness protecting her young. she stretched forth her arm from the black mantle, athwart the pale front that new again bent over the cauldron; stretched it towards the haunted and hollow-sounding space beyond, in the gesture of one whose right hand has the sway of the sceptre. and then her voice stole on the air in the music of a chant, not loud yet far-reaching; so thrilling, so sweet, and yet so solemn, that i could at once comprehend how legend united of old the spell of enchantment with the power of song. all that i recalled of the effects which, in the former time, mar- grave’s strange chants had produced on the ear that they ravished and the thoughts they confused, was but as the wild bird’s imitative carol, compared to the depth, and the art, and ‘he soul of the singer, whose voice a s'raanes s'roay. sixth lamp, not a drop in the vessel that fed them was left. in avague dismay, i how looked round the half of the wide circle in rear of the two bended figures intent on the cauldron. all along that disc the light was already broken, here and there flickering up, here and there dying down; the six lamps in that half of the circle still twinkled, but faintly, as stars shrinking fast from the dawn of day. but it was not the fading shine in that half of the magical ring which daunted my eye and quickened with terror the pulse of my heart; the bush-land beyond was on fire. from the background of the forest rose' the flames and the smoke—the smoke, there, still half smothering the flame. but along the width of the grasses and herbage, between the verge of the forest and the bed of the water-creek just below the raised platform from which i beheld the dread conflagration, the fire was advancing; wave upon wave, clear and red against the columns of rock behind : as the rush of a flood through the mists of some alp crowned with lightnings. roused from my stun at the first sight of a danger not foreseen by the mind i had steeled against far rarer portents of nature, i cared no more for the lamps and the circle. hurrying back to ayesha, i exclaimed: “the phantoms have gone from the spaces in front; but what incantation or spell can arrest the red march of the foe, speeding on in the rear! while we gazed on the cauldron of life, behind us, unheeded, behold the destroyer l ” a strange sroay. death than my life. she thinks that in life i should scorn and forsake her, that in death i should die in her arms! sorceress, avauntl art thou useless and powerless now when i need thee most? go! let the world be one funeral pyrel what to me is the world? my world is my life! thou knowest that my last hope is here—that all the strength left me this night will die down, like the lamps in the circle, unless the elixir restore it. bold friend, spurn that sorceress away. hours yet ere those flames can assail usl a few minutes more, and life to your lilian and me! ” thus having said, margrave turned from us, and cast into the cauldron the last essence yet left in his emptied cofler. - ayesha silently drew her black veil over her face; and turned with the being she loved, from the terror he scorned, to share in the hope that be cherished. thus left alone, with my reason disenthralled, disen- chanted, i surveyed more calmly the extent of the actual peril with which we were threatened, and the peril seemed less, so surveyed. it is true, all the bush-land behind, almost up to the bed of the creek, was on fire; but the grasses, through which the flame spread so rapidly, ceased at the oppo- site marge of the creek. watery pools were still, at intervals, left in the bed of the creek, shining tremulous, like waves of fire, in the glare reflected from the burn- ing land; and even, where the water failed, the stony course of the exhausted rivulet was a barrier against a sraasos sroar. the march of the conflagration. thus, unless the wind, now still, should rise, and waft some sparks to the parched combustible herbage immediately around us, we were saved from the fire, and our work might yet be achieved. i whispered to ayesha the conclusion to which i came. “ thinkest thou,” she answered, withoht raising her mournful head, “that the agencies of nature are the movements of chance? the spirits i invoked to his aid are leagued with the hosts that assail. a mightier than i am has doomed himl” scarcely had she uttered these words before mar- grave exclaimed, “ behold how the rose of the alche- mist’s dream enlarges its blooms from the folds of its petals! i shall live, i shall live i ” i looked, and the liquid which glowed in the caul- dron had now taken a splendor that mocked all com- parisons borrowed from the lustre of gems. in its prevalent color it had, indeed, the dazzle and flash of the ruby; but, out from the mass of the molten red, broke coruscations of all prismal hues, shooting, shift- ing, in a play that made the wavelets themselves seem living things, sensible of their joy. no longer was there scum or film upon the surface; only ever and anon a light rosy vapor floating up, and quick lost in the bag- gard, heavy, sulphurous air, hot with the conflagration rushing towards us from behind. and these corusca tions formed, on the surface of the molten ruby, literally * a s'raauoa s'roar. turf which had been traced by the triangles of light long since extinguished, and towards the verge of the circle. as i advanced, overhead rushed a dark cloud of wings—birds dislodged from the forest on fire, and screaming, in dissonant terror, as they flew towards the farthermost mountains; close by my feet hissed and glided the snakes, driven forth from their blazing coverts, and glancing through the ring, unscared by its waning lamps; all undulating by me, brightreyed and hissing—all made innocuous by fear: even the terrible death-adder, which i trampled on as i halted at the verge of the circle, did not turn to bite, but crept harm- less away. i halted at the gap between the two dead lamps, and bowed my head to look again into the crystal vessel.’ were there, indeed, no lingering drops yet left, if but to recruit the lamps for some priceless minutes more? as i thus stood, right into the gap between the two dead lamps, strode a gigantic foot. all the rest of the form was unseen; only, as volume after volume of smoke poured on from the burning land behind, it seemed as if one great column of vapor, eddy- ing round, settled itself aloft from the circle, and that out from that column strode the giant foot. and, as strode the foot, so with it came, like the sound of its tread, a roll of muttered thunder. i rec-oiled, with a cry that rang loud through the lurid air. ‘ " couragel” said the voice of ayesha.~ “ trembling soul, yield not an inch to the demon l" a s'raasua away. at the charm, the wonderful charm, in the tone of the veiled woman’s voice, my will seemed to take a force more sublime than its own. i folded my arms on my breast, and stood as if rooted to the spot, confront- ing the column of smoke and the stride of the giant foot. and the foot halted, mute. again, in the momentary- hush of that suspense, i heard a voice —it was margrave’s “the last hour expires—the work is accomplished! comel come l—aid me to take the cauldron from the fire; and, quickl—or a drop may be wasted in vapor _the elixir of life from the cauldron ” at that cry i receded, and the foot advanced. and at that moment, suddenly, unawares, from behind, i was stricken down. over me, as i lay, swept a whirlwind of trampling hoofs and glancing horns. the herds, in their flight from the burning pastures, had rushed over the bed of the watercourse—scaled the slopes of the banks. snorting and bellowing, they plunged their blind way to the mountains. one cry alone, more wild than their own savage blare, pierced the reek through which the brute hurricane swept. at that cry of wrath and despair i struggled to rise, again dashed to earth by the hoofs and the horns. but was it the dream-like deceit of my reeling senses, or did i see that giant foot stride past through the close- serried ranks of the maddening herds? did i hear, distinct through all the huge uproar of animal terror, the roll of low thunder which followed the stride of that foot? a s‘raauoa s'roar. bending. i saw, as i moved with bruised limbs to the place, close by the lips of the dying magician, the flash of the ruby-like essence spilt on the award, and, meteor- like, sparkling up from the torn tufts of herbage. i now reached margrave’s side. bending over him as the veiled woman bent, and as i sought gently to raise him, be turned his face, fiercely faltering out, “ touch me not, rob me not! you share with mel never—never] these glorious drops are all mine! die all else! i will live—i will live!" writhing himself from my pitying arms, he plunged his face amidst the beautiful, playful flame of the essence, as if to lap the elixir with lips scorched away from its in- tolerable burning. suddenly, with a low shriek, he fell back, his face upturned to mine, and on that face un- mistakably reigned death then ayesha tenderly, silently, drew the young head to her lap, and it vanished from my sight behind her black veil. i knelt beside her, murmuring some trite words of comfort; but she heeded me not, rocking nerself to and fro as the mother who cradles a child to sleep. soon, the fast-flickering sparkles of the lost elixir died out on the grass; and with their last sportive diamond-like tremble of light, up, in all the suddenness of australian day, rose the sun, lifting himself royally above the mountain-tops, and fronting the meaner blaze of the forest as a young king fronts his rebels. and as there, where the bush-fires had ravaged, all was a desert, so a strange s'roar. there, where their fury had not spread, all was a garden afar, at the foot of the mountains, the fugitive herds were grazing; the cranes, flocking back to the pools, renewed the strange grace of their gamhols; and the great kingfisher, whose laugh, half in mirth, half in mockery, leads the choir that welcome the morn- which in europe is night—alighted hold on the roof of the cavern, whose floors were still white with the bones of races, extinct before—so helpless through instincts, so royal through soul -rose manl but there, on the ground where the dazzling elixir had wasted its virtues—there the herbage already had a freshness of verdure which, amid the duller sward round it, was like an oasis of green in a desert. and, there, wild flowers, whose chill hues the eye would have scarcely distinguished the day before, now glit- tered forth in blooms of unfamiliar beauty. towards that spot were attracted myriads of happy insects, whose hum of intense joy was musically loud. but the form of the life-seeking sorcerer lay rigid and stark; —blind to the bloom of the wild flowers, deaf to the glee of the insects—one hand still resting heavily on the rim of the emptied cauldron, and the face still hid behind the black veil. what! the wondrous elixir, sought with such hope and well-nigh achieved through such dread, fleeting back to the earth from which its material was drawn, to give bloom, indeed-but to herbs; joy indeed—but to insects! ’ and now in the flash of the sun, slowly wound up v a s'raauen swear. the slopes that led to the circle, the same barbaric pro- cession which had sunk into the valley under the ray of the moon. the armed men came first, stalwart and tall, their vests brave with crimson and gold lace— their weapons gaily gleaming with holiday silver. ‘ after them, the black litter. as they came to the place, ayesha, not raising her head, spoke to them in her own eastern tongue. a wail was her answer. the armed men bounded forward, and the bearers left the litter. all gathered round the dead form with the face con- cealed under the black veil—all knelt, and all wept. far in the distance, at the foot of the blue mountains, a crowd of the savage natives had risen up as if from the earth ; they stood motionless, leaning on their clubs and spears, and looking towards the spot on which we were -, strangely thus brought into the landscape, as if they too, the wild dwellers on the verge which humanity guards from the brute, were'among the mourners for the mysterious child of mysterious nature! and still, in the herbage, bummed the small insects, and still, from the cavern, laughed the great kingfisher. i said to ayesha, "farewell! your love mourns the dead, mine calls me to the living. you are now with your'own people, they may console you- say if i can assist.” “ there is no consolation for mel what mourner can be consoled if the dead die forever? nothing for him is left but the grave; that grave shall be in the a strange story. '! land where the song of ayesha first lulled him to sleep. thou assist mia—thou, the wise man of europe! from me ask assistance. what road wilt thou take to thy home?” “there is but one road known to me through the maze of the solitude—that which we took to this upland.” “ on that road death lurks, and awaits thee! blind dupe, couldst thou think that if the grand secret of life had been won, he whose head rests on my lap would have yielded thee one petty drop of the essence which had filched from his store of life but a moment? me, who so loved and so cherished him—me he would have doomed to the pitiless cord of my servant, the strangler, if my death could have lengthened a hairbreadth the span of his being. but what matters to me his crime or his madness? i loved him—i loved him i ” she bowed her veiled head lower and lower; perhaps under the veil, her lips kissed the lips of the dead. then she said whisperingly: “juma, the strangler, whose word never failed to his master, whose prey never slipped from his snare, waits thy step on the road to thy home! but thy death cannot now profit the dead, the beloved. and thou hast had pity for him who took but thine aid to design thy destruction. his life is lost, thine is saved!” she spoke' no more in the tongue that i could inter- pret. she spoke, in the language unknown. a few ii. — i a era/mes s'roay. and the home which i sped to, came, far in advance of my guards, into the thicket in which the bushmen had started up in my path on the night that lilian had watched for my coming. the earth at my feet was rife with creeping plants and many-colored flowers, the sky overhead was half-hid by motionless pines. sud- denly, whether crawling out from the herbage or drop- ping down from the trees, by my side stood the white- robed and skeleton form—ayesha’s attendant, the strangler. i sprang from him in shuddering, then halted and faced him. the hideous creature crept towards me, cringing and fawning, making signs of humble goodwill and servile obeisance. again i recoiled—wrathfully, loathingly; turned my face homeward, and fled on. i thought i had baflled his chase, when, just at the mouth of the thicket, he dropped from a bough in my path close behind me. before i could turn, some dark muf- fling substance fell between my sight and the sun, and i felt a fierce strain at my throat. but the words of ayesha had warned me; with one rapid hand i seized the noose before it could tighten too closely, with the other i tore the bandage away from my eyes, and, wheeling round on the dastardly foe, struck him down with one spurn of my foot. his hand, as he fell, relaxed its hold on the noose; ifreed my threat from the knot, and sprang from the copse into the broad sunlit plain. i saw no more of the armed men or the strangler. panting and breathless, i paused at last before the \ a s'raauea near. thing more dear than an animal’s life for itself! what remained—what remained for man’s bopef—man’s mind and man’s heart thus exhausting their all with no other result than despair? what remained but the mystery of mysteries, so clear to the sunrise of child- hood, the sunset of age, only dimmed by the clouds which collect round the noon of our manhood? where yet was hope found? in the soul; in its every-day impulse to supplicate comfort and light, from the giver of soul, wherever the heart is afflicted, the mind is obscured. then the words of ayesha rushed over me; “ what mourner can be consoled, if the dead die forever?” through every pulse of my frame throbbed that dread question. all nature around seemed to murmur it. and suddenly, as if by a flash from heaven, the grand truth in faber’s grand reasoning shone on me, and lighted up all, within and without. man alone, of all earthly creatures, asks, “can the dead die forever l” and the instinct that urges the question is god’s answer to man! no instinct_ is given in vain. and, born with the instinct of soul is the instinct that leads the soul from the seen to the unseen, from time to eternity, from the torrent that foams towards the ocean of death, to the source of its stream, far aloft from the ocean. “know thyself,” said the pythian of old. “ that precept descended from heaven.” know thyself! is that maxim wise? if so, know thy soul. but never * a s'raauea sroar. terrible demons, but of the wild’s savage children whom i had seen, halting, curious and mute, in the light of the morning. the tremor of the ground (if not, as heretofore, explicable by the illusory impression of my own treacherous sense) might be but the natural effect of elements struggling yet under a soil unmistak- ably charred by volcanoes. the luminous atoms dis- solved in the cauldron might as little be fraught with a vital elixir as are the splendors of n aphtha or phosphor. as it was, the weird rite had no magic result. the magician was not rent limb from limb by the fiends. by causes as natural as ever extinguished life’s spark in the frail lamp of clay, he had died out of sight- under the black vail. what mattered henceforth to faith, in its far grander questions and answers, whether reason, in faber, or fancy, in me, supplied the more probable guess at a hieroglyph which, if construed aright, was but a word of small mark in the mystical language of nature? if all the arts of enchantment recorded by fable were attested by facts which sages were forced to acknow- ledge, sages would sooner or later find some cause for such portents-not supernatural. but what sage, without cause supernatural, both without and within him, can guess at the wonders he views in the growth of a blade of grass, or the tints on an insect’s wing? whatever art man can achieve in his progress through time, man’s reason, in time, can sufice to explain. but the wonders of god? these belong to the infinite; a s'rsanen story. and these, immortal! will but develop new wonder on wonder, though thy sight be a spirit’s, and thy leisure to track and to solve, an eternity. as'i raised my face from my clasped hands, my eyes fell full upon a form standing in the open door- way. there, where on the night in which lilian’s long struggle for reason and life had begun, the luminous shadow had been beheld in the doubtful light of a dying moon and a yet hazy dawn; there, on the thresh- old, gathering round her bright locks the auriole of the glorious sun, stood amy, the blessed child! and as i gazed, drawing nearer and nearer to the silenced house, and that image of peace on its threshold, i felt that hope met me at the door-hope in the child’s stead- fast eyes— hope in the child’s welcoming smile! “i was at watch for you,” whispered amy. “all is well.” “ she lives still—she lives! thank god—thank god!” .“ she lives-she will recover!” said another voice, as my head sunk on faber’s shoulder. “ for some hours in the night her sleep was disturbed—convulsed. i feared, then, the worst. suddenly, just before the dawn, she called out aloud, still in sleep— .“‘ the cold and dark shadow has passed away from me, and from allen—passed away from us both forever!’ “and from that moment the fever lefi her; the breathing became soft, the pulse steady, and the color stole gradually back to her cheek. the crisis is past a s'raauos stoay. nature’s benign disposer has permitted nature to restore your life’s gentle partner, heart to heart, mind to mind ” “ and soul to soul,” i cried, in my solemn joy. “above as below, soul to soul l” then, at a sign from faber, the child took me by the hand and led me up the stairs into lilian’s room. again those dear arms closed round me in wife-like and holy love, and those true lips kissed away my tears;—even as now, at the distance of years from that happy morn, while i write the last words of this strange story, the same faithful arms close around me, the same tender lips kiss away my tears. the end of a strange story ‘ th] / haunted and the haunters; or. the house and the brain. ‘ (“ ) [tnls tale first appeared in blackwood’: magazine, august, . a portion of it as then published is now suppressed, because encroaching too much on the main plot of the “ strange story." as it stands, however, it may be considered the preliminary out- line of that more elaborate attempt to construct an interest akin to that which our forefathers felt in tales of witchcraft and ghost- land, out of ideas and beliefs which have crept into fashion in the society of our own day. there has, perhaps, been no age in which certain phenomena, that in all ages have been produced by, or upon, certain physical temperaments, have excited so general a notice—more, perhaps, among the educated classes than the uneducated. nor do i believe that there is any age in which those phenomena have engendered throughout a wider circle a more credulous superstition. but, on the other hand, there has certainly been no age in which persons of critical and inquisitive intellect—seeking to divest what is genuine in these apparent vagaries of nature from the chants of venal impostors and the exaggeration of puzzled witnesses—have more soberly endeavored to render such exceptional tbaumaturgia of philosophical use, in enlarging our conjectural knowledge of the complex laws of being —sometimes through physiological, sometimes through meta- physical, research. without discredit, however, to the many able and distinguished speculators on so vague a subject, it must be observed that their explanations as yet have been rather ingenious than satisfactory. indeed, the first requisites for conclusive theory are at present wanting. the facts are not sufficiently generalized, and the evidences for them have not been sufficiently tested. it is just when elements of the marvellous are thus struggling between superstition and philosophy, that they fall by right to the domain of art—the art of post or tale-teller. they furnish the constructor of imaginative fiction with materials for mys- terious terror of a character not exhausted by his predecessors, and not foreign to the notions that float on the surface of his own time; while they allow him to wander freely over that range of conjecture which is favorable to his purposes, precisely because science itself has not yet disenchanted that debatable realm of its haunted shadows and goblin lights.) ( ) the haunted and the haunters; on, ask you to accept on my aflirmation what you would hold to be incredible without the evidence of your own senses. let me only say this, it was not so much what we saw or heard (in which you might fairly suppose that we were the dupes of our own excited fancy, or the victims of imposture in others) that drove us away, as it was an undefinable terror which seized both of us whenever we passed by the door of a certain unfur- nished room, in which we neither saw nor heard any- thing. and the strangest marvel of all was, that for once in my life i agreed with my wife, silly woman though she be—and allowed, after the third night, that it was impossible to stay a fourth in that house. accord- ingly, on the fourth morning, i summoned the woman who kept the house and attended on us, and told her that the rooms did not quite suit us, and we could not stay out our week. she said, dryly, ‘i know why; you have stayed longer than any other lodger. few ever stayed a seoond night; none before you a third. but i take it they have been very kind to you.’ “ ‘ they—who ?’ i asked, affecting a smile. “'why, they who haunt the house, whoever they are. i don’t mind them; i remember them many years ago, when i lived in this house, not as a servant; but i know they will be the death of me some day. i don’t care—i’m old, and must die soon anyhow; and then i shall be with them, and in this house still.’ the woman spoke with so dreary a sadness, that really it was a sort of awe that prevented my conversing with her further. mm haunted and 'rnn haunted-s; on, “what is he ?—in any business l” “n , sir—nothing particular; a single gentleman. " i gave the pot-boy the gratuity earned by his liberal information, and proceeded to mr. j , in g street, which was close by the street that boasted the haunted house. i was lucky enough to find mr. j-—- at home-an elderly man, with intelligent countenance and prepossessiug manners. i communicated my name and my business frankly. i said i heard the house was considered to be haunted -that i had a strong desire to examine a house with so equivocal a reputation—that i should be greatly obliged if he would allow me to hire it, though only for a night. i was willing to pay for that privilege what- ever he might be inclined to ask. “ sir,” said mr. j—, with great courtesy, “the house is at your service, for as short or as long a time as you please. rent is out of the question—the obligation will be on my side should you be able to discover the cause of the strange phenomena which at present deprive it of all value. i cannot let it, for i cannot even get a servant to keep it in order or answer the door. unluckin the house is haunted, if i may use that expression, not only by night, but by day; though at night the disturb- ances are of a more unpleasant and sometimes of a more alarming character. the poor old woman who died in it three weeks ago was a pauper whom i took out of a workhouse, for in her childhood she had been known to some of my family, and had once been in such good rm; house and run brain. circumstances that she had rented that house of my uncle. she was a woman of superior education and strong mind, and was the only person i could ever induce to remain in the house. indeed, since her death, which was sudden, and the coroner’s inquest, which gave it a notoriety in the neighborhood, i have so despaired of finding any person to take charge of the house, much more a tenant, that i would willingly let it rent-free for a year to any one who would pay its rates and taxes.” “ how long is it since the house acquired this sinister character ? " “ that i can scarcely tell you, but very many years since. the old woman i spoke of said it was haunted when she rented it between thirty and forty years ago. the fact is, that my life has been spent in the east indies, and in the civil service of the company. i re- turned to england last year, on inheriting the fortune of an uncle, among whose possessions was the house in question. i found it shut up and uninhabited. i was told that it was haunted, that no one would inhabit it. i smiled at what seemed to me so idle a story. i spent some money in repairing it— added to its oldfashioned furniture a few modern articles—advertised it, and obtained a lodger for a year. he was a colonel retired on half-pay. he came in with his family, a son and a daughter, and four or five servants; they all lefi: the house the next day; and, although each of them de- clared that he had seen something different from that * x b was haunted and ran nausrnas; a, which had scared the others, a something still was equally terrible to all. i really could not in conscience sue, nor even blame, the colonel for breach of agreement. then i put in the old woman i have spoken of, and she was empowered to let the house in apartments. i never had one ledger who stayed more than three days. i do not tell you their stories—to no two lodgers have there been exactly the same phenomena repeated. it is better that you should judge for yourself, than enter the house with an imagination influenced by previous narratives; only be prepared to see and to hear some- thing or other, and take whatever precautions you yourself please.” “ have you never had a curiosity yourself to pass a night in that house? ” “yes. i passed not a night, but three hours in broad daylight alone in that house. my curiosity is not satisfied, but it is quenched. i have no desire to renew the experiment. you cannot complain, you see, sir, that i am not sufficiently candid ; and unless your interest be exceedingly eager and your nerves unusually strong, i honestly add, that i advise you not to pass a night in that house.” “ my interest is exceedingly keen,” said i, “ and though only a coward will boast of his nerves in situw tions wholly unfamiliar to him, yet my nerves have been seasoned in such variety of danger that i have the right to rely on them-even in a haunted house.” mr. j—— said very little more; he took the keys of run nousn and the naam. the house out of his bureau, gave them to me, and, thanking him cordially for his frankness, and his urbane concession to my wish, i carried off my prize. impatient for the experiment, as soon as i reached home, i summoned my confidential servant—a young man of gay spirits, fearless temper, and as free from superstitious prejudice as any one i could think of. “f ,” said i, “you remember in germany how disappointed we were at not finding a ghost in that old castle, which was said to be haunted by a headless apparition? well, i have heard of a house in london which, i have reason to hope, is decidedly haunted. i mean to sleep there to-night. from what i hear, there is no doubt that something will allow itself to be seen or to be heard—something, perhaps, excessively horri- ble. do you think, if i take you with me, i may rely on your presence of mind, whatever may happen y ” “oh, sirl pray trust me,” answered f with delight. “ very well; then here are the keys of the house— , grinning this is the address. go now—select for me any bed- room you please; and since the house has not been inhabited for weeks, make up a good fire — air the bed well—see, of course, that there are candles as well as fuel. take with you my revolver and my dagger— so much for my weapons—arm yourself equally well; and if we are not a match for a dozen ghosts, we shall be but a sorry couple of englishmen." i was engaged for the rest of the day on business so mm haunted and run hauntibb on, urgent that i had not leisure to'think much on the nocturnal adventure to which i had plighted my honor. i dined alone, and very late, and while dining, read, as is my habit. i selected one of the volumes of macau- lay’s essays. i thought to myself that i would take the book with me; there was so much of healthfulness in the style, and practical life in the subjects, that it would serve as an antidote against the influences of superstitious fancy. accordingly, about half-past nine, i put the book into my pocket, and strolled leisurely towards the haunted house. i took with me a favorite dog—an exceed- ingly sharp, bold, and vigilant bull-terrier— a dog fond of prowling about strange ghostly corners and passages at night in search of rats—a dog of dogs for a ghost. it was a summer night, but chilly, the sky somewhat gloomy and overcast. still there was a moon-faint and sickly, but still a moon—and if the clouds permitted, after midnight it would be brighter. i reached the house, knocked, and my servant opened with a cheerful smile. “ all right, sir, and very comfortable.” “ oh i” said i, rather disappointed; “have you not seen or heard anything remarkable t” “well, sir, i must own i have heard something - queer.” “what?-what i” “ the sound of feet pattering behind me; and once 'rnn house and tan imam. or twice small noises like whispers close at my ear- nothing more.” “you are not at all frightened?” “i! not a bit of it, sir;” and the man’s bold look reassured me on one point—viz., that, happen what might, he would not desert me. we were in the hall, the street door closed, and my attention was now drawn to my dog. he had at first run in eagerly enough, but had sneaked back to the door, and was scratching and whining to get out. after patting him on the head, and encouraging him gently, the dog seemed to reconcile himself to the situation, and followed me and f—— through the house, but keeping close at my heels instead of hurrying inquisi- tively in advance, which was his usual and normal habit in all strange places. we first visited the sub- terranean apartments, the kitchen and other oflices, and especially the cellars, in which last there were two or three bottles of wine still left in a bin, covered with cobwebs, and, evidently, by their appearance, undis- turbed for many years. _ it was clear that the ghosts were not winebibbers. for the rest we discovered nothing of interest. there was a gloomy, little back- yard, with very high walls. the stones of this yard were very damp; and what with the damp, and what with the dust and smoke-grime on the pavement, our feet left a slight impression where we passed. and now appeared the first strange phenomenon witnessed y myself in this strange abode. i saw, just before me, rm: haunted and 'rrm naunrsns; on, door now very slowly and quietly opened as of its own accord. we precipitated ourselves into the landing- place. we both saw a large, pale light—as large as the human figure, but shapeless ahd unsubstantial— move before us, and ascend the stairs that led from the landing into the attics. i followed the light, and my servant followed me. it entered, to the right of the landing, a small garret, of which the door stood open. i entered in the same instant. the light then collapsed into a. small globule, exceedingly brilliant and vivid; rested a moment on a bed in the corner, quivered and vanished. we approached the bed and examined it - a half-tester, such as is commonly found in attics devoted to servants. n the drawers that stood near it we per- ceived an old, faded silk kerchief, with the needle still left in a rent half repaired. the kerchief was covered with dust; probably it had belonged to the old woman who had last died in that house, and this might have been her sleeping-room. i had sufficient curiosity to open the drawers; there were a few odds and ends of female dress, and two letters tied round with a narrow ribbon of faded yellow. i took the liberty to possess myself of the letters. we found nothing else in the room worth noticing—nor did the light reappear; but we distinctly heard, as we turned to go, a pattering footfall on the floor —-just before us. we went through the other attics (in all four), the footfall still preceding us. nothing to be seen—nothing but the footfall heard. i had the letters in my hand; just as i was fin: uouss and run mum. descending the stairs i distinctly felt my wrist seized, and a faint, soft efi'ort made to draw the letters from my clasp. i only held them the more tightly, and the effort ceased. we regained the bedchamber appropriated to myself, and i then remarked that my dog had not followed us when we had left it. he was thrusting himself close to the fire, and trembling. i was impatient to examine the letters; and while i read them, my servant opened a little box in which he had deposited the weapons i had ordered him to bring; took them out, placed them on a table close at my bed-head, and then occupied him- self in soothing the dog, who, however, seemed to heed him very little. the letters were short—they were dated; the dates exactly thirty-five years ago. they were evidently from a lover to his mistress, or a husband to some young wife. not only the terms of expression, but a dis- tinct reference to a former voyage, indicated the writer to have been a seafarer. the spelling and hand-writing were those of a man imperfectly educated, but still the language itself was forcible. in the expressions of endearment there was a kind of rough, wild love; but here and there were dark unintelligible hints at some secret not of love -some secret that seemed of crime. “we ought to love each other,” was one of the sen- tences i remember, “ for how every one else would exe. crate us if all was known.” again: “don’t let any one he in the same room with you at night—you talk mu haunted and the haunters; on, in your sleep.” and again: “what’s done can’t be undone; and i tell you there’s nothing against us unless the dead could come to life.” here there was underlined in a better handwriting (a female’s), “they do i ” at the end of the letter latest in date the same female hand had written these words: “ lost at sea the th of june, the same day as -_-” i put down the letters, and began to muse over their contents. fearing, however, that the train of thoughts into which i fell might unsteady my nerves, i fully deter- mined to keep my mind in a fit state to cope with what- ever of marvellous the advancing night might bring forth. i roused myself—laid the letters on the table- stirred up the fire, which was still bright and cheering -and opened my volume of macaulay. i read quietly enough until about half-past eleven. i then threw my- self dressed upon the bed, and told my servant he might retire to his own room, but must keep himself awake. i bade him leave open the door between the two rooms. thus alone, i kept two candles burning on the table by my bed-head. i placed my watch beside the weapons, and calmly resumed my macaulay. opposite to me the fire burned clear; and on the hearthrug, seemingly asleep, lay the dog. in about twenty minutes i felt an exceedingly cold air pass by my cheek, like a sudden draught. i fancied the door to my right, communical', ing with the landing-place, must have got open; but no --it was closed. i then turned my glance to my left ms haunted an) 'rm: mum-ans; on, heard it again clap to. ilwas left alone in the haunted house. _ it was but for a moment that i remained undecided whether or not to follow my servant; pride and curiosity alike forbade so dastardly a flight. i re-entered my room, closing the door after me, and proceeded cautiously into the interior chamber. i encountered nothing to justify my servant’s terror. i again carefully examined the walls, to see if there were any concealed door. i could find no trace of one—not even a seam in the dull- brown paper with which the room was hung. how, then, had the thing, whatever it was, which had so scared him, obtained ingress except through my own chamber? i returned to my room, shut and locked the door that opened upon the interior one, and stood on the hearth, expectant and prepared. i now perceived that the dog had slnnk into an angle of the wall, and was pressing himself close against it, as if literally striving to force his way into it. i approached the animal and spoke to it; the poor brute was evidently beside itself with terror. ‘ it showed all its teeth, the slaver dropping from its jaws, and would certainly have bitten me if i had touched it. it did not seem to recognize me. who- ever has seen at the zoological gardens a. rabbit fasci- nated by a serpent, cowering in a corner, may form some idea of the anguish which the dog exhibited finding all efforts to soothe the animal in vain, and fearing that his bite might be as venomous in that state ms nous: as!) tun brain. fear; unless i fear, i cannot be harmed; my reason rejects this thing; it is an illusion—i do not fear." with a violent efi'ort i succeeded at last in stretching out my hand towards the weapon on the table; as i did so, on the arm and shoulder i received a strange shock, and my arm fell to my side powerless. and now, to add to my horror, the light began slowly to wane from the candles—they were not, as it were, extinguished. but their flame seemed very gradually withdrawn; it was the same with the fire—the light was extracted from the fuel; in a few minutes the room was in utter darkness. the dread that came over me, to be thus in the dark with that dark thing, whose power was so intensely felt, brought a reaction of nerve. in fact, terror had reached that climax, that either my senses must have deserted me, or i must have burst through the spell. i did burst through it. i found voice, though the voice was a shriek. i remember that i broke forth with words like these -—-“ i do not fear, my soul dees not fear,” and at the same time i found the strength to rise. still in that profound gloom i rushed to one of the windows—tore aside the curtain—flung open the shutters; my first thought was— light. and when i saw the moon high, clear, and calm, i felt a joy that almost compensated for the previous terror. there, was the moon, there, was also the light from the gas-lamps in the deserted, slumberous street. i turned to look back into the room; the moon penetrated its shadow very palely and partially—but still there was noose and the brain. white. it began sleeking its long, yellow hair, which fell over its shoulders ; its eyes were not turned “towards me, but to the door; it seemed listening, watching, waiting. the shadow of the shade in the background grew darker; and again i thought i beheld the eyes gleaming out from the summit of the shadow—eyes fixed upon that shape. as if from the door, though it did not open, there grew out another shape, equally distinct, equally ghastly—a man’s shape—a young man’s. it was in the dress of the last century, or rather in a likeness df such dress (for both the male shape and the female, though defined, were evidently unsubstantial, impalw pable—simulacra—phantasms); and there was some- thing incongruous, grotesque, yet fearful in the contrast between the elaborate finery, the courtly precision of that old-fashioned garb, with its rallies, and lace, and buckles, and the corpse-like aspect and ghost-like still- ness of the flitting wearer. just as the male shape approached the female, the dark shadow started from the wall, all three for a moment wrapped in darkness. when the pale light returned, the two phantoms were as if in the grasp of the shadow that towered between them; and there was a blood-stain on the breast of the female; and the phantom male was leaning on its phan- tom sword, and blood seemed trickling fast from the ruffles, from the lace; and the darkness of the interme diate shadow swallowed them up-they were gone. and again the bubbles of light shot, and sailed, and [l.-— the haunted awn was hauntebb; on, they are wondrously inferior to what bacon, shake- speare, and plato said and wrote when on earth nor, what is more noticeable, do they ever contain an idea that was not on the earth before. wonderful, therefore, as such phenomena may be (granting them .to be truth- ful), i see much that philosophy may question, nothing that it is incumbent on philosophy to deny—viz., nothing supernatural. they are but ideas conveyed somehow or other (we have not yet discovered the means) from one mortal brain to another. whether, in so doing, tables walk of their own accord, or fiend- like shapes appear in a magic circle, or bodyless hands rise and remove material objects, or a thing of dark- ness, such as presented itself to me, freeze our blood— still i am persuaded that these are but agencies con- veyed, as by electric wires, to my own brain from the brain of another. in some constitutions there is a natural chemistry, and those constitutions may produce chemie wonders—in others a natural fluid, call it elec- tricity, and these may produce electric wonders. but the wonders differ from normal science in this—they are alike objectless, purposeless, puerile, frivolous. they lead on to no grand results; and therefore the world does not heed, and true sages have not culti- vated them. but sure i am, that of all i saw or heard, a man, human as myself, was the remote originator; and i believe unconsciously to himself as to the exact effects produced, for this reason: no two persons, you say, have ever told you that they experienced exactly was haunted and the hauntebb; on, the exceeding stubbornness and perversity of the child, who was declared to be half-witted. be that as it may, at the orphan’s death the aunt inherited her brother’s fortune. before the first wedded year was out, the american had quitted england abruptly, and never returned to it. he obtained a cruising vessel, which was lost in the atlantic two years afterwards. the widow was left in affluence; but reverses of various kinds had befallen her; a bank broke—an investment failed-she went into a small business and became insolvent—then she entered into service, sinking lower and lower, from housekeeper down to maid-of-all-work— never long retaining a place, though nothing decided against her character was ever alleged. she was con- sidered sober, honest, and peculiarly quiet in her ways; still nothing prospered with her. and so she had dropped into the workhouse, from which mr. j —- had taken her, to be placed in charge of the very house which she had rented as mistress in the first year of her wedded life. mr. j#—-— added that he had passed an hour alone in the unfurnished room which i had urged him to destroy, and that his impressions of dread while there were so great, though he had neither heard nor seen anything, that he was eager to have the walls bared and the floors removed as i had suggested. h had engaged persons for the work, and would commence any day i would name. the day was accordingly fixed. i repaired to the haunted muse-we went into the blind. dreary room. . "x ": '.’ y‘t".:- b"b wl mmm\flillmijrfifimm‘fli\ilfliififllnmm| n w h@gé\* i t .x '." ii l l~ the suicide’s grave by james hogg \‘l % \l l: i \ “‘llw‘w‘ the new york ' public library “tor, umox mu founm'rxous .qqqqqh‘ ., . f : .%m% fumes hogg he suicide’s grave being the private memchrs & confesshdns of a justtfied sinner 'written by himself with a detail of curious traditionary facts & other evidence by the editor photogravures by r. easton stuart ------- london mdébfixtifif“ ‘ j. shiells & co] was m th e '? z [ork pu blic idrar' “?$. astor, lenox and tilden foundations r l .; _--,, i ~ . o j i ...re j v ’ j .. . ' - i ' , j i ' .' ‘ ‘.l w l - i f . . '- o c, . j. ‘ ‘ .q ‘ ' o /~}_,i ' ,’ . .} o p, . t‘..l . - v '.n . , f" r n " . t v. a ‘ , ’ . .~ " ~j o publishers’ note the private memoirs and confessions of a justified sinner, originally published anonymously in , was in either reprinted, or more probably reissued with a cancel title page, as the suicide’s grave, this time bearing the author’s name. it has also been re- printed in the collected editions of hogg’s works, as the confessions of a fanatic, but in more than one of these in a very imperfect form. the text here followed is that of the original edition. mr andrew lang and some others incline to the opinion that the book was not wholly written by hogg, but that j.- g. lockhart had some part in its production ; for this opinion, however, there is no documentary support. i'i-l c‘d en _ list of illustrations dalcastle ‘n ne of your profanity before me’ an evening spent in glee . the duel fac simile of part of page ‘escape homewards and save your sour.’ changing habits with the'pringe page frontzkpiece s p , l l l the editor’s narrative it appears from tradition, as well as some parish registers still extant, that the lands of dalcastle (or dalchastel, as it is often spelled) were possessed by a family of the name of colwan, about one hundred and fifty years ago, and for at least a century previous to that period. that family was supposed to have been a branch of the ancient family of colquhoun, and it is certain that from it spring the cowans that spread towards the border. i find, that in the year , george colwan succeeded his uncle of the same name, in the lands of dalchastel and balgrennan; and this being all i can gather of the family from history, to tra- dition i must appeal for the remainder of the motley adventures of that house. but of the matter furnished by the latter of these powerful monitors i have no reason to complain: it has been handed down to the world in unlimited abundance; and i am certain, that in recording the hideous events which follow, i am only relating to the greater part of the inhabitants of at least four counties of scotland, matters of which they were before perfectly well informed. this george was a rich man, or supposed to be so, a d-‘ the private memoirs am. and was married when considerably advanced in life to the sole heiress and reputed daughter of a bailie orde, of glasgow. this proved a conjunction anything but agreeable to the parties contracting. it is well known that the reformation principles had long before that time taken a powerful hold of the hearts and affections of the people of scotland, although the feeling was by no means general, or in equal degrees; and it so happened that this married couple felt completely at variance on the subject. granting it to have been so, one would have thought that the laird, owing to his retired situation, would have been the one that inclined to the stern doctrines of the reformers; and that the young and gay dame from the city would have adhered to the free principles cherished by the court party, and indulged in rather to extremity, in opposition to their severe and carping contemporaries. the contrary, however, happened to be the case. the laird was what his country neighbours called ‘a droll, careless chap,’ with a very limited proportion of the fear of god in his heart, and very nearly as little of the fear of man. the laird had not intentionally wronged or offended either of the parties, and perceived not the necessity of deprecating their vengeance. he had hitherto believed that he was living in most cordial terms with the greater part of the inhabitants of the earth, and with the powers above in particular; but woe be unto him if he was not soon convinced of the fallacy of such damning security ! for his lady was the most severe and gloomy of all bigots to the principles of the reformation. hers were not the tenets of the great reformers, but theirs mightily overstrained and deformed. theirs .was an unguent hard to be swallowed; but hers was that confessions of a justified sinner. unguent embittered and overheated until nature could not longer bear it. she had imbibed her ideas from the doctrines of one flaming predestinarian divine alone, and these were so rigid, that they became a stumbling block to many of his brethren, and a mighty handle for the enemies of his party to turn the machine of the state against them. the wedding festivities at dalcastle partook of all the gaiety, not of that stem age, but of one previous to it. there was feasting, dancing, piping, and singing ; the liquors were handed around in great fulness, the ale in large wooden bickers, and the brandy in capacious horns of oxen. the laird gave full scope to his homely glee. he danced—he snapped his fingers to the music—clapped his hands and shouted at the turn of the tune. he saluted every girl in the hall whose appearance was anything tolerable, and requested of their sweethearts to take the same freedom with his bride, by way of retaliation. but there she sat at the head of the hall, in still and blooming beauty, absolutely refusing to tread a single measure with any gentleman there. the only enjoyment in which she appeared to partake, was in now and then stealing a word of sweet conversation with her favourite pastor about divine things; for he had accompanied her home, after marrying her to her husband, to see her fairly settled in her new dwelling. he addressed her several times by her new name, mrs colwan, but she turned away her head disgusted, and looked with pity and contempt towards the old inadvertent sinner, capering away in the height of his unregenerated mirth. the minister perceived the workings of her pious mind, and thenceforward addressed her by the courteous title of lady dalcastle, which sounded somewhat better, as not coupling her name with .r the private memoirs and one of the wicked; and there is too great reason to believe, that for all the solemn vows she had come under, and these were of no ordinary binding, particularly on the laird’s part, she at that time despised if not abhorred him, in her heart. the good parson again blessed her, and went away. she took leave of him with tears in her eyes, entreating him often to visit her in that heathen land of the amorite, the hittite, and the girgashite ; to which he assented on many solemn and qualifying conditions—and the comely bride retired to her chamber to pray. it was customary in those days for the bride’s-man and maiden, and a few select friends, to visit the new-married couple after they had retired to rest, and drink a cup to their healths, their happiness, and a numerous posterity. but the laird delighted not in this: he wished to have his jewel to himself, and slipping away quietly from his jovial party, he retired to his chamber to his beloved, and bolted the door. he found her engaged with the writings of the evangelists, and terribly demure. the laird went up to caress her, but she turned away her head, and spoke of the follies of aged men, and something of the broad way that leadeth to destruction. the laird did not thoroughly comprehend this allusion; but being con- siderably flustered by drinking, and disposed to take all in good part, he only remarked, as he took off his shoes and stockings, ‘that whether the way was broad or narrow, it was time they were in their bed.’ ‘ sure, mr colwan, you won’t go to bed to-night, at such an important period of your life, without first saying prayers for yourself and me.’ when she said this, the laird had his head down almost tolthe ground, loosing his shoe-buckle; but when he heard confessions of a justified sinner. of prayers on such a night, he raised his face suddenly up, which was all over as flushed and red as a rose, and answered— . ‘ prayers, mistress! lord help your crazed head, is this a night for prayers ! ’ he had better have held his peace. there was such a torrent of profound divinity poured out upon him, that the laird became ashamed, both of himself and his new- made spouse, and wist not what to say, but the brandy helped him out. ‘it strikes me, my dear, that religious devotion would be somewhat out of place to-night,’ said he. ‘allowing that it is ever so beautiful, and ever so beneficial, were we to ride on the rigging of it at all times, would we not be constantly making a farce of it; it would be like reading the bible and the jest-book, verse about, and would render the life of man a medley of absurdity and confusion.’ but against the cant of the bigot or the hypocrite, no reasoning can aught avail. if you would argue until the end of life, the infallible creature must alone be right. so it proved with the laird. one scripture text followed another, not in the least connected, and one sentence of the profound mr wringhim’s sermons after another, proving the duty of family worship, till the laird lost patience, and tossing himself into bed, said carelessly, that he would leave that duty upon her shoulders for one night. the meek mind of lady dalcastle was somewhat dis— arranged by this sudden evolution. she felt that she was left rather in an awkward situation. however, to show her unconscionable spouse that she was resolved to hold fast her integrity, she kneeled down and prayed in terms so potent, that she deemed she was sure of making an the private memoirs and impression on him. she did so, for in ashort time the laird began to utter a response so fervent, that she was utterly astounded, and fairly driven from the chain of her orisons. he began, in truth, to sound a nasal bugle of no ordinary calibre—the notes being little inferior to those of a military trumpet. the lady tried to proceed, but every returning note from the bed burst on her ear with a louder twang and a longer peal, till the concord of sweet sounds became so truly pathetic, that the meek spirit of the dame was quite overcome ; and after shedding a flood of tears, she arose from her knees, and retired to the chimney-corner with her bible in her lap, there to spend the hours in holy meditation till such time as the inebriated trumpeter should awaken to a sense of propriety. the laird did not awake in any reasonable time, for he, being overcome with fatigue and wassail, his sleep became sounder, and his morphean measures more intense. these varied a little in their structure; but the general run of the bars sounded something in this way—‘hic-hoc wheew !’ it was most profoundly ludi- crous; and could not have missed exciting risibility in anyone, save a pious, a disappointed, and humbled bride. the good dame wept bitterly. she could not for her life go and awaken the monster, and request him to make room for her, but she retired somewhere, for the laird, on awaking next morning, found that he was still lying alone. his sleep had been of the deepest and most genuine sort; and all the time that it lasted, he had never once thought of either wives, children, or sweet- hearts, save in the way of dreaming about them ; but as his spirit began again by slow degrees to verge towards the boundaries of reason, it became lighter and more confessions of a justified sinner. buoyant from the effects of deep repose, and his dreams partook of that buoyancy, yea, to a degree hardly expres- sible. he dreamed of the reel, the jig, the strathspey, and the corant ; and the elasticity of his frame was such, that he was bounding over the heads of the maidens, and making his feet skimmer against the ceiling, enjoying the while the most extatic emotions. these grew too fervent for the shackles of the drowsy god to restrain. the nasal bugle ceased its prolonged sounds in one moment, and a sort of hectic laugh took its place. ‘ keep it going—play up, you devils!’ cried the laird, without changing his position on the pillow. but this exertion to hold the fiddlers at their work, fairly awakened the delighted dreamer, and though he could not refrain from continuing his laugh, he at length, by tracing out a regular chain of facts, came to be sensible of his real situa- tion. ‘rabina, where are you? what’s become of you, my dear ?’ cried the laird. but there was no voice, nor any one that answered or regarded. he flung open the curtains, thinking to find her still on her knees, as he had seen her; but she was not there, either sleeping or waking. ‘rabina ! mrs colwan ! ’ shouted he, as loud as he could call, and then added in the same breath, ‘god save the king—i have lost my wife ! ’ he sprung up and opened the casement ; the daylight was beginning to streak the east, for it was spring, and the nights were short, and the mornings very long. the laird half-dressed himself in an instant, and strode through every room in the house, opening the windows as he went, and scrutinisng every bed and every corner. he came into the hall where the wedding festival had been held, and as he opened the various window-boards, loving couples flew off like hares surprised too late in the the private memoirs and morning among the early braird. ‘hoo-boo ! fie, be frightened! ’ cried the laird. ‘fie, rin like fools, as if ye were caught in an ill turn!’ his bride was not among them, so he was obliged to betake himself to farther search. ‘she will be praying in some corner, poor woman,’ said he to himself. ‘it is an unlucky thing this praying. but for my part, i fear i have behaved very ill, and i must endeavour to make amends.’ the laird continued his search, and at length found his beloved in the same bed with her glasgow cousin, who had acted as bridesmaid. ‘you sly and malevolent imp,’ said the laird ; ‘you have played me such a trick when i was fast asleep! i have not known a frolic so clever, and, at the same time, so severe ! come along, you baggage you ’ ‘sir, i will let you know, that i detest your principles and your person alike,’ said she. ‘it shall never be said, sir, that my person was at the control of a heathenish man of belial—a dangler among the daughters of women, --a promiscuous dancer—and a player at unlawful games. f orego your rudeness, sir, i say, and depart away from my presence and that of my kinswoman.’ ‘come along, i say, my charming rab. if you were the pink of all puritans, and the saint of all saints, you are my wife, and must do as i command you.’ ‘sir, i will sooner lay down my life than be subjected to your godless will; therefore i say, desist and begone with you.’ but the laird regarded none of these testysayings ; he rolled her in a blanket, and bore her triumphantly away to his hamber, taking care to keep a fold or two of the blanket always rather near to her mouth, in case of any outrageous forthcoming of noise. confessions of a justified sinner. the next day at breakfast the bride was long in making her appearance. her maid asked to see her, but george did not choose that anybody should see her but himself; he paid her several visits, and always turned the key as he came out. at length breakfast was served; and during the time of refreshment the laird tried to break several jokes, but it was remarked, that they wanted their accustomed brilliancy, and that his nose was particularly red at the top. matters, without all doubt, had been very bad between - the new-married couple ; for in the course of the day the lady deserted her quarters, and returned to her father’s house in glasgow, after having been a night on the road; stage-coaches and steam-boats having then no existence in that quarter. though bailie orde had acquiesced in his wife’s asseveration regarding the likeness of their only daughter to her father, he never loved or admired her greatly, therefore this behaviour nothing astounded him. he questioned her strictly as to the grievous ofi'ence committed against her, and could dis- cover nothing that warranted a procedure so fraught with disagreeable consequences. so after mature deliberation the bailie addressed her as follows :— ‘ay, ay, raby! an’ sae i find that dalcastle has actually refused to say prayers with you when you ordered him; an’ has guidit you in a rude indelicate manner, outstepping the respect due to my daughter—as my daughter. but wi’ regard to what is due to his own wife, of that he’s a better judge nor me. however, since he has behaved in that manner to my daughter, i shall be revenged on him for aince, for i shall return the obligation to ane nearer to him, that is, i shall take pennyworths of his wife—an’ let him lick at that.’ the private memoirs and ‘what do you mean, sir? ’ said the astonished damsel. ‘i mean to be revenged on that villain dalcastle,’ said he, ‘for what he has done to my daughter. come hither, mrs colwan, you shall pay for this.’ so saying, the bailie began to inflict corporeal punish; ment on the runaway wife. his strokes were not indeed very deadly, but he made a mighty flourish in the inflic- tion, pretending to be in a great rage only at the laird of dalcastle. ‘villain that he is! ’ exclaimed he, ‘i shall teach him to behave in such a manner to a child of mine, be she as she may; since i cannot get at himself, i shall lounder her that is nearest to him in life. take you that, and that, mrs colwan, for your husband’s imper- tinence !’ the poor afflicted woman wept and prayed, but the bailie would not abate aught of his severity. after fuming, and beating her with many stripes, far drawn, and lightly laid down, he took her up to her chamber, five stories high, locked her in, and there be fed her on bread and water, all to be revenged on the presumptuous laird of dalcastle ; but ever and anon, as the bailie came down the stair from carrying his daughter’s meal, he said to himself, ‘i shall make the sight of the laird the blithest she ever saw in her life.’ lady dalcastle got plenty of time to read, and pray, and meditate; but she was at a great loss for one to dispute with about religious tenets; for she found, that without this advantage, about which there was a perfect rage at that time, her reading, and learning of scripture texts, and sentences of intricate doctrine, availed her nought; so she was often driven to sit at her casement, and look out for the approach of the heathenish laird of dalcastle. ha . confessions of a justified sinner. ii that hero, after a considerable lapse of time, at length made his appearance. matters were not hard to adjust ; for his lady found that there was no refuge for her in her father’s house; and so, after some sighs and tears, she accompanied her husband home. for all that had passed, things went on no better. she would convert the laird in spite of his teeth; the laird would not be converted. she would have the laird to say family prayers, both morning and evening: the laird would neither pray morning nor evening. he would not even sing psalms, and kneel beside her while she performed the exercise; neither would he converse at all times and in all places, about the sacred mysteries of religion, although his lady took occasion to contradict flatly every assertion that he made, in order that she might spiritualise him by drawing him into argument. the laird kept his temper a long while, but at length his patience wore out ; he cut her short in all her futile attempts at spiritualisation, and mocked at her wire- drawn degrees of faith, hope, and repentance. he also dared to doubt of the great standard doctrine of absolute predestination, which put the crown on the lady’s christian resentment. she declared her helpmate to be a limb of antichrist, and one with whom no regenerated person could associate. she therefore bespoke a separate establishment, and before the expiry of the first six months the arrangements of the separation were amicably adjusted. the upper, or third story of the old mansion-house, was awarded to the lady for her resi- dence. she had a separate door, a separate stair, a separate garden, and walks that in no instance inter- sected the laird’s; so that one would have thought the separation complete. they had each their own parties, the private memoirs and selected from their own sort of people; and though the laird never once chafed himself about the lady’s com- panions, it was not long before she began to intermeddle about some of his. ‘who is that fat bouncing dame that visits the laird so often, and always by herself?’ said she to her maid martha, one day. ‘oh dear, mem, how can i ken? we’re banished frae our acquaintances here, as weel as frae the sweet gospel ordinances.’ ‘find me out who that jolly dame is, martha. you, who hold communion with the household of this ungodly man, can be at no loss to attain this information. i observe that she always casts her eye up toward our windows, both im coming and going; and i suspect that she seldom departs from the house empty-handed.’ that same evening martha came with the information, that this august visitor was a miss logan, an old and . intimate acquaintance of the laird’s, and a very worthy , respectable lady, of good connections, whose parents had lost their patrimony in the civil wars. ‘ha! very well ! ’ said the lady; ‘very well, martha! but nevertheless g thou and watch this respectable lady’s motions and behaviour the next time she comes to visit the laird—and the next after that. you will not, i see, lack opportunities.’ martha’s information turned out of that nature, that prayers were said in the uppermost story of dalcastle house against the canaanitish woman every night and every morning; and great discontent prevailed there, even to anathemas and tears. letter after letter was despatched to glasgow; and at length, to .the lady’s great consolation, the rev. mr wringhim arrived safely confessions of a justified sinner. i \ and devoutly in her elevated sanctuary. marvellous was the conversation between these gifted people. wringhim had held in his doctrines that there were eight different kinds of faith, all perfectly distinct in their operations and effects. but the lady, in her secluded state, had discovered other five—making thirteen in all; the ad- justment of the existence or fallacy of these five faiths served for a most enlightened discussion of nearly seven- teen hours, in the course of which the two got warm in their arguments, always in proportion as they receded from nature, utility, and common sense. wringhim at length got into unwonted fervour about some disputed point between one of these faiths and trust ; when the lady, fearing that zeal was getting beyond its wonted barrier, broke in on his vehement asseverations with the following abrupt discomfiture: ‘but, sir, as long as i remember, what is to be done with this case of open and avowed iniquity?’ the minister was struck dumb. he leaned him back on his chair, stroked his beard, hemmed—considered, and hemmed again, and then said in an altered and softened tone: ‘why, that is a secondary consideration; you mean the case between your husband and miss logan ’ ’ ‘the same, sir. i am scandalised at such intimacies going on under my nose. the sufferance of it is a great and crying evil.’ ‘evil, madam, may be either operative, or passive. to them it is an evil, but to us none. we have no more to do with the sins of the wicked and unconverted here than with those of the infidel turk; for all earthly bonds and fellowships are absorbed and swallowed up in the holy community of the reformed church. however, if it is your wish, i shall take him to task, and reprimand _-t..x the private memoirs and and humble him in -such a manner that he shall be ashamed of his doings, and renounce such deeds for ever, out of mere self-respect, though all unsanctified the heart, as well as the deed may be. to the wicked, all things are wicked; but to the just, all things are just and right.’ ‘ah, that is a sweet and comfortable saying, mr wringhim! how delightful to think that a justified person can do no wrong! who would not envy the liberty wherewith we are made free? go to my' husband, that poor unfortunate, blindfolded person, and open his eyes to his degenerate and sinful state; for well are you fitted to the task.’ ‘yea, i will go in unto him, and confound him. i will lay the strongholds of sin and satan as flat before my face, as the dung that is spread out to fatten the land.’ ‘master, there’s a gentleman at the fore-door wants a private word ’ ye.’ r ‘tell him i’m engaged; i can’t see any gentleman to-night. but i shall attend on him to-morrow as soon a," as he pleases.’ ‘ ‘he’s coming straight in, sir.--stop a wee bit, sir, my master is engaged. he cannot see you at present, sir.’ ‘stand aside, thou moabite ! my mission admits of no delay. i come to save him from the jaws of destruc- tion ! ’ ‘an’ that be the case, sir, it mak’s a wide difference; an’ as the danger may threaten us a’, i fancy i may as weel let ye gang by as fight wi’ ye, sin’ ye seem sae intent on’t. the man says he’s comin’ to save ye, an’ canna stop, sir. here he is.’ the laird was going to break out into a volley of wrath confessions of a justified sinner. against waters, his servant; but before he got a word pronounced, the rev. mr wringhim had stepped inside the room, and waters had retired, shutting the door behind him. no introduction could be more mal-a-propos: it is impossible; for at that very moment the laird and arabella logan were both sitting on one seat, and both looking on one book, when the door opened. ‘ what is it, sir? ’ said the laird fiercely. ‘a message of the greatest importance, sir,’ said the divine, striding unceremoniously up to the chimney- turning his back to the fire, and his face to the culprits—- ‘i think you should know me, sir,’ continued he, looking displeasedly at the laird, with his face half turned round. ‘i think i should,’ returned the laird. ‘you are a mr how’s-tey-ca’-him, of glasgow, who did me the worst turn ever i got done to me in my life. you gentry are always ready to do a man such a turn. pray, sir, did you ever do a good job for anyone to counterbalance that? for, if you have not, you ought to be—’ ‘hold, sir, i say! none of your profanity before me. if i do evil to anyone on such occasions, it is because he will have it so ; therefore, the evil is not of my doing. i ask you, sir—before god and this witness—i ask you, have you kept solemnly and inviolate the vows which i laid upon you that day? answer me p ’ ‘has the partner whom you bound me to, kept hers inviolate? answer me that, sir? none can better do so than you, mr how’s-tey-ca’-you.’ ‘so, then, you confess your backslidings, and avow the profligacy of your life. and this person here is, i suppose, the partner of your iniquity—she whose beauty hath caused you to err! stand up, both of you, till i “h the private memoirs and rebuke you, and show you what you are in the eyes of god and man.’ ‘in the first place, stand you still there, till i tell you what you are in the eyes of god and man. you are, sir, a presumptuous, self-conceited pedagogue, a stirrer up of strife and commotion in church, in state, in families, and communities. you are one, sir, whose righteousness consists in splitting the doctrine of calvin into thousands of undistinguishable films, and in setting up a system of justifying grace against all breaches of all laws, moral or divine. in short, sir, you are a mildew—a canker-worm in the bosom of the reformed church, generating a dis- ease of which she will never be purged, but by the shedding of blood. go thou in peace, and do these abominations no more ; but humble thyself, lest a worse reproof come upon thee.’ wringhim heard all this without flinching. he now and then twisted his mouth in disdain, treasuring up, meantime, his vengeance against the two aggressors; for he felt that he had them on the hip, and resolved to pour out his vengeance and indignation upon them. sorry am i, that the shackles of modern decorum restrain me from penning that famous rebuke ; fragments of which have been attributed to every divine of old notoriety throughout scotland. but i have it by heart; and a glorious morsel it is to put into the hands of certain incendiaries. the metaphors were so strong, and so appalling, that miss logan could only stand them a very short time; she was obliged to with- draw in confusion. the laird stood his ground with much ado, though his face was often crimsoned over with the hues of shame and anger. several times he was on the point of turning the officious sycophant to . .. v! : ..- . l ?!- ....r\.v\. . m: new yop. public library astor; lenox men fouzi : . rzons confessions of a justified sinner. the door; but good manners, and an inherent respect that he entertained for the clergy, as the immediate servants of the supreme being, restrained him. wringhim, perceiving these symptoms of resentment, took them for marks of shame and contrition, and pushed his reproaches further than ever divine ventured to do in a similar case. when he had finished, to prevent further discussion, he walked slowly and majestically out of the apartment, making his robes to swing behind him in a most magisterial manner ; he being, without doubt, elated with his high conquest. he went to the upper story, and related to his metaphysical associate his wonderful success; how he had driven the dame from the house in tears and deep confusion, and left the back- sliding laird in such a quandary of shame and repentance, that he could neither articulate a word, nor lift up his countenance. the dame thanked him most cordially, lauding his friendly zeal and powerful eloquence; and then the two again set keenly to the splitting of hairs, and making distinctions in religion where none existed. they being both children of adoption, and secured from falling into snares, or any way under the power of the wicked one, it was their custom, on each visit, to sit up a night in the same apartment, for the sake of sweet spiritual converse ; but that time, in the course of the night, they differed so materially on a small point, some- where between justification and final election, that the minister, in the heat of his zeal, sprung from his seat, paced the floor, and maintained his point with such ardour, that martha was alarmed, and thinking they were going to fight, and that the minister would be a hard match for her mistress, she put on some clothes, and twice left her bed and stood listening at the back b [i the private memoirs and of the door, ready to burst in should need require it. should anyone think this picture overstrained, i can assure him that it is taken from nature and from truth ; but i will not likewise aver, that the theologist was neither crazed nor inebriated. if the listener’s words were to be relied on, there was no love, no accommo- dating principle manifested between the two, but a fiery burning zeal, relating to points of such minor import- ance, that a true christian would blush to hear them mentioned, and the infidel and profane make a handle of them to turn our religion to scorn. great was the dame’s exultation at the triumph of her beloved pastor over her sinful neighbours in the lower parts of the house ; and she boasted of it to martha in high-sounding terms. but it was of short duration; for, in five weeks after that, arabella logan came to reside with the laird as his housekeeper, sitting at his table, and carrying the keys as mistress-substitute of the mansion. the lady’s grief and indignation were now raised to a higher pitch than ever; and she set every agent to work, with whom she had any power, to effect a separation between these two suspected ones. remon- strance was of no avail; george laughed at them who tried such a course, and retained his housekeeper, while the lady gave herself up to utter despair; for though she would not consort with her husband herself, she could not endure that any others should do so. but, to countervail this grievous offence, our saintly and afflicted dame, in due time, was safely delivered of a fine boy, whom the laird acknowledged as his son and heir, and had him christened by his own name, and nursed in his own premises. he gave the nurse per- mission to take the boy to his mother’s presence if ever confessions of a justified sinner. . she should desire to see him; but, strange as it may appear, she never once desired to see him from the day that he was born. the boy grew up, and was a health- ful and happy child ; and in the course of another year, the lady presented him with a brother. a brother 'he certainly was, in the eye of the law, and it is more than probable that he was his brother in reality. but the laird thought otherwise; and, though he knew and ac- knowledged that he was obliged to support and provide for him, he refused to acknowledge him in other respects. he neither would countenance the banquet, nor take the baptismal vows on him in the child’s name ; of course the poor boy had to live and remain an alien from the visible church for a year and a day; at which time, mr wringhim out of pity and kindness, took the lady herself as sponsor for the boy, and baptised him by the name of robert wringhim,— that being the noted divine’s own name. george was brought up with his father, and educated partly at the parish-school, and partly at home, by a tutor hired for the purpose. he was a generous and kind-hearted youth ; always ready to oblige, and hardly ever dissatisfied with anybody. robert was brought up with mr wringhim, the laird paying a certain allowance for him yearly ; and there the boy was early inured to all the sternness and severity of his pastor’s arbitrary and unyielding creed. he was taught to pray twice every day, and seven times on sabbath days ; but he was only to pray for the elect, and, like david of old, doom all that were aliens from god to destruction. he had never, in that family into which he had been as it were adopted, heard aught but evil spoken of his reputed father and brother ; consequently he held them in utter abhorrence, confessions of a justified sinner. moderate man, he had still leaned to the side of the kingly prerogative, and had escaped confiscation and fines, without ever taking any active hand in suppressing the covenanters. but ,after experiencing a specimen of their tenets and manner in his wife, from a secret favourer of them and their doctrines, he grew alarmed at the prevalence of such stern and factious principles, now that there was no check nor restraint upon them; and from that time he began to set himself against them; joining with the cavalier party of that day in all their pro- ceedings. it so happened, that, underithe influence of the earls of seafield and tullibardine, he was returned for a member of parliament in the famous session that sat at edinburgh, when the duke of queensberry was com- missioner, and in which party spirit ran to such an extremity. the young laird went with his father to the court, and remained in town all the time that the session lasted; and as all interested people of both factions flocked to the town at that period, so the important m wringhim was there among the rest, during the greater part of the time, blowing the coal of revolutionary principles with all his might, in every society to which he could obtain admission. he was a great favourite with some of the west country gentlemen of that faction, by reason of his unbending impudence. no opposition could for a moment cause him either to blush, or retract one item that he had advanced. therefore the duke of argyle and his friends made such use of him as sports- men often do of terriers, to start the game, and make a great yelping noise to let them know whither the chace is proceeding. they often did this out of sport, in order to teaze their opponent; for of all pesterers that ever the private memoirs and fastened on man, he was the most insufferable: knowing that his coat protected him from manual chastisement, be spared no acrimony, and delighted in the chagrin and anger of those with whom he contended. but he was sometimes likewise of real use to the heads of the presbyterian faction, and therefore was admitted to their tables, and of course conceived himself a very great man. his ward accompanied him; and very shortly after their arrival in edinburgh, robert, for the first time, met with the young laird, his brother, in a match at tennis. the prowess and agility of the young squire drew forth the loudest plaudits of approval from his associates, and his own exertion alone carried the game every time on the one side, and that so far as all along to count three for their one. the hero’s name soon ran round the circle, and when his brother robert, who was an onlooker, learned who it was that was gaining so much applause, he came and stood close beside him all the time that the game lasted, always now and then putting in a cutting remark by way of mockery. george could not help perceiving him, not only on account of his impertinent remarks, but he, moreover, stood so near him that he several times impeded him in his rapid evolutions, and of course got himself shoved aside in no very ceremonious way. instead of making him keep his distance, these rude shocks and pushes, accompanied sometimes with hasty curses, only made him cling the closer to this king of the game. he seemed determined to maintain his right to his place as an onlooker, as well as any of those engaged in the game, and if they had tried him at an argument, he would have carried his point: or perhaps he wished to quarrel with this spark of his jealousy and aversion, and draw the confessions of a justified sinner. attention of the gay crowd to himself by these means; ‘for, like his guardian, he knew no other pleasure but what consisted in opposition. george took him for some impertinent student of divinity, rather set upon a joke than anything else. he perceived a lad with black clothes, and a methodistical face, whose countenance and eye he disliked exceedingly, several times in his way, and that was all the notice he took of him the first time they two met. but the next day, and every succeeding one, the same devilish-looking youth attended him as con- stantly as his shadow; was always in his way as with intention to impede him, and ever and anon his deep and malignant eye met those of his elder brother with a glance so fierce that it sometimes startled him. the very next time that george was engaged at tennis, he had not struck the ball above twice till the same intrusive being was again in his way. the party played for considerable stakes that day, namely, a dinner and wine at the black bull tavern; and george, as the hero and head of his party, was much interested in its honour; consequently, the sight of this moody and hellish-looking student affected him in no very pleasant manner. ‘pray sir, be so good as keep without the range of the ball,’ said he. - ‘is there any law or enactment that can compel me to do so ?’ said the other biting his lip with scorn. ‘if there is not, they are here that shall compel you,’ returned george; ‘so, friend, i rede you to be on your guard.’ ' as he said this, a flush of anger glowed in his hand- some face, and flashed from his sparkling blue eye; but it was a stranger to both, and momently took its depar- ture. the black-coated youth set up his cap before, the private memoirs and brought his heavy brows over his deep dark eyes, put his hands in the pockets of his black plush breeches, and stepped a little farther into the semi-circle, immediately on his brother’s right hand, than he had ever ventured to do before. there he set himself firm on his legs, and, with a face as demure as death, seemed determined to keep his ground. he pretended to be following the ball with his eyes; but every moment they were glancing aside at george. one of the competitors chanced to say rashly, in the moment of exultation, ‘that’s a d—‘d fine blow, george! ’ on which the intruder took up the word, as characteristic of the competitors, and repeated it every stroke that was given, making such a ludicrous use of it, that several of the onlookers were compelled to laugh immoderately; but the players were terribly nettled at it, as he really contrived, by dint of sliding in some canonical terms, to render the competitors and their game ridiculous. but matters at length came to a crisis that put them beyond sport. george, in flying backward to gain the point at which the ball was going to light, came in- advertently so rudely in contact with this obstreperous interloper, that he not only overthrew him, but also got a grievous fall over his legs; and, as he arose, the other made a spurn at him with his foot, which, if it had hit to its aim, would undoubtedly have finished the course of the young laird of dalcastle and balgrennan. george, being irritated beyond measure, as may well be conceived, especially at the deadly stroke aimed at him, struck the assailant with his racket, rather slightly, but so that his mouth and nose gushed out blood; and at the same time, he said, turning to his cronies: ‘does any of you know who the infernal puppy is? ’ confessions of a justified sinner. ‘do you not know, sir,’ said one of the onlookers, a stranger, ‘the gentleman is your own brother, sir—mr robert wringhim colwan l ’ ‘no, not colwan, sir,’ said robert, putting his hands in his pockets, and setting himself still farther forward than before,—‘ not a colwan, sir; henceforth i disclaim the name.’ ‘ no, certainly not,’ repeated george; ‘my mother’s son you may be—but nota colwan ./ there you are right.’ then turning round to his informer, he said, ‘mercy be about us, sirl is this the crazy __mi ister’s son from glasgow ? ’ this question was put in the irritation of the moment; but it was too rude, and too far out of place, and no one deigned any answer to it. he felt the reproof, and felt it deeply; seeming anxious for some opportunity to make an acknowledgment, or some reparation. in the meantime, young wringhimlwas an object to all of the uttermost disgust. the blood flowing from his mouth and nose he took no pains to stem, neither did he so much as wipe it away; so that it spread over all his cheeks, and breast, even off at his toes. in that state did he take up his station in the middle of the com- petitors; and he did not now keep his place, but ran about, impeding every one who attempted to make at the ball. they loaded him with execrations, but it availed nothing; he seemed courting persecution and bufi'etings, keeping steadfastly to his old joke of damna- tion, and marring the game so completely, that, in spite of every effort on the part of the players, he forced them to stop their game, and give it up. he was such a rueful-looking object, covered with blood, that none of them had the heart to kick him, although it appeared the private memoirs and the only thing he wanted; and as for george, he said not another word to him, either in anger or reproof. when the game was fairly given up, and the party were washing their hands in the stone fount, some of them besought robert wringhim to wash himself; but he mocked at them, and said he was much better as he was. george, at length, came forward abashedly toward him, and said: ‘i have been greatly to blame, robert, and am very sorry for what i have done. but, in the first instance, i erred through ignorance, not knowing you were my brother, which you certainly are; and, in the second, through a momentary irritation for which i am ashamed. i pray you therefore to pardon me, and give me your hand.’ as he said this, he held out his hand towards his pol- luted brother; but the froward predestinarian took not his from his breeches’ pocket, but lifting his foot, he gave his brother’s hand a kick. ‘i’ll give you what will suit such a hand better than mine,’ said he, with a sneer. and then, turning lightly about, he added, ‘are there to be no more of these d d fine blows, gentlemen? for shame to give up such a profitable and edifying game ! ’ ‘this is too bad,’ said george. ‘but since it is thus, i have the less to regret.’ and having made this general remark, he took no more note of the uncouth aggressor. but the persecution of the latter terminated not on the playground; he ranked among them, bloody and disgust- ing as he was, and, keeping close by his brother’s side, he marched along with the party all the way to the black bull. before they got there, a great number of boys and idle people had surrounded them, hooting and incom- moding them exceedingly, so that they were glad to get confessions of a justified sinner. into the inn; and the unaccountable monster-actually tried to get in along with them, to make one of the party at dinner. but the innkeeper and his men, getting the hint, by force prevented him from entering, although he attempted it again and again, both by telling lies and offering a bribe. finding he could not prevail, he set to exciting the mob at the door to acts of violence; in which he had like to have succeeded. the landlord had no other shift, at last, but to send privately for two officers, and have him carried to the guardhouse; and the hilarity and joy of the party of young gentlemen, for the evening, was quite spoiled, by the inauspicious termination of their game. the rev. robert wringhim was now sent for to release his beloved ward. the messenger found him at table, with a number of the leaders of the whig faction, the marquis of annandale being in the chair; and the prisoner’s note being produced, wringhim read it aloud, accompanying it with some explanatory remarks. the circumstances of the case being thus magnified and dis- torted, it excited the utmost abhorrence, both of the deed and the perpetrators, among the assembled faction. they declaimed against the act as an unnatural attempt on the character, and even the life, of an unfortunate brother, who had been expelled from his father’s house. and, as party spirit was the order of the day, an attempt was made to lay the burden of it to that account. in short, the young culprit got some of the best blood of the land to enter as his securities, and was set at liberty. but when wringhim perceived the plight that he was in, he took him, as he was, and presented him to his honourable patrons. this raised the indignation against the young laird and his associates a thousand fold, which the private memoirs and "- actually roused the party to temporary madness. they were, perhaps, a little excited by the wine and spirits they had swallowed ; else a casual quarrel between two young men, at tennis, could not have driven them to such extremes. but certain it is, that from one at first arising to address the party on the atrocity of the offence, both in a moral and political point of view, on a sudden there were six on their feet, at the same time, expatiating on it ; and, in a very short time thereafter, every one in the room was up, talking with the utmost vociferation, all on the same subject, and all taking the same side in the debate. i in the midst of this confusion, some one or other issued from the house, which was at the back of the canongate, calling out : ‘a plot, a plot ! treason, treason ! down with the bloody incendiaries at the black bull l ’ the concourse of people that were assembled in edinburgh at that time was prodigious ; and as they were all actuated by political motives, they wanted only a ready-blown coal to set the mountain on fire. the evening being fine, and the streets thronged, the cry ran from mouth to mouth through the whole city. more than that, the mob that had of late been gathered to the door of the black bull, had, by degrees, dispersed ; but, they being young men, and idle vagrants, they had only spread themselves over the rest of the street to lounge in search of farther amusement: consequently, a word was sufficient to send them back to their late rendezvous, where they had previously witnessed something they did not much approve of. the master of the tavern was astonished at seeing the mob again assembling; and that with such hurry and noise. but his inmates being all of the highest respecta- confessions of a justified sinner. bility, be judged himself sure of protection, or, at least, of indemnity. he had two large parties in his house at the time ; the largest of which was of the revolutionist faction. the other consisted of our young tennis-players and their associates, who were all of the jacobite order ; or, at all events, leaned to the episcopal side. the largest party were in a front room, and the attack of the mob fell first on their windows, though rather with fear and caution. jingle went one pane ; then a loud hurrah ; and that again was followed by a number of voices, endeavouring to restrain the indignation from venting itself in destroying the windows, and to turn it on the inmates. the whigs, calling the landlord, inquired what the assault meant: he cunningly answered that he suspected it was some of the youths of the cavalier, or high church party, exciting the mob against them. the party consisted mostly of young gentlemen, by that time in a key to engage in any row ; and, at all events, to suffer nothing from the other party, against whom their passions were mightily inflamed. the landlord, therefore, had no sooner given them the spirit-rousing intelligence, than every one, as by instinct, swore his own natural oath, and grasped his own natural weapon. a few of those of the highest rank were armed with swords, which they boldly drew; those of the subordinate orders immediately flew to such weapons as the room, kitchen, and scullery afforded; such as tongs, pokers, spits, racks, and shovels; and breathing vengeance on the prelatic party, the children of anti- christ, and the heirs of d—n—t—nl the barterers of the liberties of their country, and betrayers of the most sacred trust,—thus elevated,.and thus armed, in the cause of right, justice, and liberty, our heroes rushed to the the private memoirs and street, and attacked the mob with such violence, that they broke the mass in a moment, and dispersed their thousands like chaff before the wind. the other party of young jacobites, who sat in a room farther from the front, and were those against whom the fury of the mob was meant to have been directed, knew nothing of this second uproar, till the noise of the sally made by the whigs assailed their ears ; being then informed that the mob had attacked the house on account of the treatment they themselves had given to a young gentleman of the adverse faction, and that another jovial party had issued from the house in their defence, and was now engaged in an unequal combat, the sparks likewise flew to the field to back their defenders with all their prowess, without troubling their heads about who they were. a mob is like a spring tide in an eastern storm, that retires only to return with more overwhelming fury. the crowd was taken by surprise, when such a strong and well-armed party issued from the house with so great fury, laying all prostrate that came in their way. those who were next to the door, and were, of course, the first whom the imminent danger assailed, rushed backward among the crowd with their whole force. the black bull standing in a small square half way between the high street and the cowgate, and the entrance to it being by two closes, into these the pressure outward was simultaneous, and thousands were moved to an in- voluntary flight, they knew not why. but the high street of edinburgh, which they soon reached, is a dangerous place in which to make an open attack upon a mob. and it appears that the entrances to the tavern had been somewhere near to the cross, on the south side of the street; for the crowd fled with great ex~ confessions of a justified sinner. r pedition, both to the east and west, and the conquerors, separating themselves as chance directed, pursued im- petuously, wounding and maiming as they flew. but it so chanced, that before either of the wings had followed the flying squadrons of their enemies for the space of a hundred yards each way, the devil an enemy they had to pursue ! the multitude had vanished like so many thousands of phantoms! what could our heroes do? why, they faced about to return toward their citadel, the black bull. but that feat was not so easily, nor so readily accomplished, as they divined. the unnumbered alleys on each side of the street had swallowed up the multitude in a few seconds; but from these they were busy reconnoitring; and, perceiving the deficiency in the number of their assailants, the rush from both sides of the street was as rapid, and as wonderful, as the disappearance of the crowd had been a few minutes before. each close vomited out its levies, and these better armed with missiles than when they sought it for a temporary retreat. woe then to our two columns of victorious whigs l the mob actually closed around them as they would have swallowed them up; and, in the meanwhile, shower after shower of the most abominable weapons of offence were rained in upon them. if the gentlemen were irritated before, this inflamed them still farther; but their danger was now so apparent, they could not shut their eyes on it, there- fore, both parties, as if actuated by the same spirit, made a desperate effort to join, and the greater part effected it; but some were knocked down, and others were separated from their friends, and blithe to become silent members of the mob. the battle now raged immediately in front of the closes leading to the black bull; the small body of whig gentle- the private memoirs and men was hardly bested, and it is likely would have been overcome and trampled down every man, had they not been then and there joined by the young cavaliers; who, fresh to arms, broke from the wynd, opened the head of the passage, laid about them manfully, and thus kept up the spirits of the exasperated whigs, who were the men in fact that wrought the most deray among the populace. the town-guard was now on the alert; and two com- panies of the cameronian regiment, with the hon. captain douglas, rushed down from the castle to the scene of action; but, for all the noise and hubbub that these caused in the street, the combat had become so close and inveterate, that numbers of both sides were taken prisoners fighting hand to hand, and could scarcely be separated when the guardsmen and soldiers had them by the necks. great was the alarm and confusion that night in edinburgh; for everyone concluded that it was a party scuffle, and, the two parties being so equal in power, the most serious consequences were anticipated. the agita- "‘ tion was so prevailing, that every party in the town, great and small, was broken up; and the lord-com- missioner thought proper to go to the council-chamber himself, even at that late hour, accompanied by the sheriffs of edinburgh and linlithgow, with sundry noblemen besides, in order to learn something of the origin of the afi'ray. for a long time the court was completely puzzled. every gentleman brought in exclaimed against the treat- ment he had received, in most bitter terms, blaming a mob set on him and his friends by the adverse party; and matters looked extremely ill, until at length they began to perceive that they were examining gentlemen confessions of a justified sinner. ' of both parties, and that they had been doing so from the beginning, almost alternately, so equally had the prisoners been taken from both parties. finally, it turned out, that a few gentlemen, two-thirds of whom were strenuous whigs themselves, had joined in mauling the whole whig population of edinburgh. the investi- gation disclosed nothing the effect of which was not ludicrous; and'the duke of queensberry, whose aim was at that time to conciliate the two factions, tried all that he could to turn the whole fracas into a joke—an un- lucky frolic, where no ill was meant on either side, and which yet had been productive of a great deal. the greater part of the people went home satisfied; but not so the rev. robert wringhim. he did all that he could to inflame both judges and populace against the young cavaliers, especially against the young laird of dalcastle, whom he represented as an incendiary, set on by an unnatural parent to slander his mother, and make away with a hapless and only brother; and, in truth, that declaimer against all human merit had that sort of powerful, homely, and bitter eloquence, which seldom missed affecting his hearers; the consequence at that time was, that he made the unfortunate affair between the two brothers appear in extremely bad colours, and the populace retired to their homes impressed with no very favourable opinion of either the laird of dalcastle or his son george, neither of whom were there present to speak for themselves. ' as for wringhim himself, he went home to his lodgings, filled with gall and with spite against the young laird, whom he was made to believe the aggressor, and that intentionally. but most of all was he filled with indigna- tion against the father, whom he held in abhorrence at all c the private memoirs and times, and blamed solely for this unmannerly attack made on his favourite ward, namesake, and adopted son; and for the public imputation of a crime to his own reverence, in calling the lad his son, and thus charging him with a sin against which he was well known to have levelled all the arrows of church censure with unsparing might. but, filled as his heart was with some portion of these bad feelings, to which all flesh is subject, he kept, nevertheless, the fear of the lord always before his eyes so far as never to omit any of the external duties of religion, and farther than that, man hath no power to pry. he lodged with the family of a mr millar, whose lady was originally from glasgow, and had been a hearer, and, of course, a great admirer of mr wringhim. in that family he made public worship every evening; and that night, in his petitions at a throne of grace, he prayed for so many vials of wrath to be poured on the head of some particular sinner, that the hearers trembled, and stopped their ears. but that he might not proceed with so violent a measure, amounting to excommunication, without due scripture warrant, he began the exercise of the evening by singing the following verses, which it is a pity should ever have been admitted into a christian psalmody, being so adverse to all its mild and benevolent principles :— set thou the wicked over him, and upan hit right hand give than his grealest memy e'um satan, law to stand. and when by thee he shall be judged, let him remembered be ; and let his prayer be turned to sin, when he shall call on thee. few be his days ; and in his room his charge another take ; confessions of a justified sinner. his children let be fatherless; his wife a widow make : let god his father’s wickedness still to remembrance call; and never let his mother's sin be blotted out at all. as he in cursing pleasure took, so let it to him fall; as he delighted not to bless, so bless him not at all. as cursing he like clothes puts on, into his bowels so, like water, and into his bones like oil down let it go. young wringhim only knew the full purport of this spiritual song ; and went to his bed better satisfied than ever, that his father and brother were castaways, repro- bates, aliens from the church and the true faith, and cursed in time and eternity. the next day george and his companions met as usual—all who were not seriously wounded of them. but as they strolled about the city, the rancorous eye and the finger of scorn were pointed against them. none of them was at first aware of the reason; but it threw a damp over their spirits and enjoyments, which they could not master. they went to take a forenoon game at their old play of tennis, not on a match, but by way of improving ithemselves; but they had not well taken their places till young \vringhim appeared in his old station, at his brother’s right hand, with looks more demure and determined than ever. his lips were primmed so close that his mouth was hardly discernible, and his dark deep eye flashed gleams of holy indignation on the godless set, but particularly on his brother. his presence acted as a mildew on all social intercourse or the private memoirs and enjoyment; the game was marred, and ended ere it was well begun. there were whisperings apart—the party separated; and, in order to shake off the blighting in- fluence of this dogged persecutor, they entered sundry houses of their acquaintances, with an understanding that they were to meet on the links for a game at cricket. they did so; and, stripping off part of their clothes, they began that violent and spirited game. they had not played five minutes, till wringhim was stalking in the midst of them, and totally impeding the play. a cry arose from all corners of ‘oh, this will never do. kick him out of the playground! knock down the scoundrel; or bind him, and let him lie in peace.’ ‘by no means,’ cried george: ‘it is evident he wants nothing else. pray do not humour him so much as to touch him with either foot or finger.’ then turning to a friend, he said in a whisper, ‘speak to him, gordon; he surely will not refuse to let us have the ground to ourselves, if you request it of him.’ gordon went up to him, and requested of him civilly, but ardently, ‘to retire to a certain distance, else none of them could or would be answerable, however sore he might be hurt.’ he turned disdainfully on his heel, uttered a kind of pulpit hem! and then added, ‘i will take my chance of that; hurt me, any of you, at your peril.’ . the young gentlemen smiled, through spite‘ and dis- dain of the dogged animal. gordon followed him up, and tried to remonstrate with him ; but he let him know that it was his pleasure to be there at that time; and, unless he could demonstrate to him what superior right he and his party had to that ground, in preference to confessions of a justified sinner. him, and to the exclusion of all others, he was deter- mined to assert his right, and the rights of his fellow- citizens, by keeping possession of whatsoever part of that common field he chose. ‘you are no gentleman, sir,’ said gordon. ‘are you one, sir? ’ said the other. ‘yes, sir, i will let you know that i am, by g— l ’ ‘then, thanks be to him whose name you have pro- faned, i am none. if one of the party be a gentleman i do hope in god i am not! ’ it was now apparent to them all that he was courting obloquy and manual chastisement from their hands, if by any means he could provoke them to the deed; and, apprehensive that he had some sinister and deep-laid design in hunting after such a singular favour, they wisely restrained one another from inflicting the punish- ment that each of them yearned to bestow, personally, and which he so well deserved. but the unpopularity of the younger george colwan could no longer be concealed from his associates. it was manifested wherever the populace were assembled: and his young and intimate friend, adam gordon, was obliged to warn him of the circumstance, that he might not be surprised at the gentlemen of their acquaintance withdrawing themselves from his society, as they could not be seen with him without being insulted. george thanked him; and it was agreed between them, that the former should keep himself retired during the daytime while he remained in edinburgh, and that at night they should always meet together, along with such of their companions as were disengaged. george found it every day more and more necessary to adhere to this system of seclusion; for it was not alone the the private memoirs and hisses of the boys and populace that pursued him—a fiend of more malignant aspect was ever at his elbow in the form of his brother. to whatever place of amusement he betook himself, and however well he concealed his intentions of going there from all flesh living, there was his brother wringhim also, and always within a few yards of him, generally about the same distance, and ever and anon darting looks at him that chilled his very soul. they were looks that cannot be described; but they were felt piercing to the bosom’s deepest core. they afi'ected even the onlookers in a very particular manner, for all whose eyes caught a glimpse of these hideous glances followed them to the object toward which they were darted; the gentlemanly and mild demeanour of that object generally calmed their startled apprehensions; for no one ever yet noted the glances of the young man’s eye in the black coat, at the face of his brother, who did not at first manifest strong symptomspf alarm. george became utterly confounded; not only at the import of this persecution, but how in the world it came to pass that this unaccountable being knew all his motions, and every intention of his heart, as it were intuitively. on consulting his own previous feelings and resolutions, he found that the circumstances of his going to such and such a place were often the most casual incidents in nature—the caprice of a moment had carried him there, and yet he had never sat or stood many minutes till there was the self-same being, always 'in the same position with regard to himself, as regularly as the shadow is cast from the substance, or the ray of light from the opposing denser medium. for instance, he remembered one day of setting out confessions of a justified sinner. with the intention of going to attend divine worship in the high church, and when within a short space of its door, he was overtaken by young kilpatrick of closeburn, , who was bound to the grey friars to see his sweetheart as he said: ‘and if you will go with me, colwan,’ said he, ‘ i will let you see her too, and then you will be just as far forward as-i am.’ george assented at once,-and went; and after taking his seat, he leaned his head forward on the pew to repeat over to himself a short ejaculatory prayer, as had always been his custom on entering the house of god. when he had done, he lifted his eyes naturally toward that point on his right hand where the fierce apparition of his brother had been wont to meet his view: there he was, in the same habit, form, demeanour, and precise point of distance, as usual! george laid down his head, and his mind was so astounded, that he had nearly fallen into a. swoon. he tried shortly after to muster up courage to look at the speaker, at the congregation, and at captain kilpatrick’s sweetheart in particular; but the fiendish glances of the eyoung man in the black clothes were too appaling to be withstood—his eye caught them whether he was looking that way or not; at length his courage was fairly mastered, and he was obliged to look down during the remainder of the service. by night or by day it was the same. in the gallery of the parliament house, in the boxes of the play-house, in the church, in the assembly, in the streets, suburbs, and the fields; and every day, and every hour, from the first rencounter of the two, the attendance became more and more constant, more inexplicable, and altogether more alarming and insufferable, until at last george was fairly driven from society, and forced to spend his days in his the private memoirs and own and his father’s lodgings with closed doors. even there, he was constantly harassed with the idea, that the next time he lifted his eyes, he would to a certainty see that face, the most repulsive to all his feelings of aught the earth contained. the attendance of that brother was now become like the attendance of a demon on some devoted being that had sold himself to destruction; his approaches as undiscerned, and his looks as fraught with hideous malignity. it was seldom that he saw him either following him in the streets, or entering any house or church after him; he only appeared in his place, george wist not how, or whence; and, having sped so ill in his first friendly approaches, he had never spoken to his equivocal attendant a second time. it came at length into george’s head, as he was pondering by himself on the circumstances of this extra- ordinary attendance, that perhaps his brother had relented, and, though of so sullen and 'unaccommodating a temper that he would not acknowledge it, or beg a reconciliation, it might be for that very purpose that he followed his steps night and day in that extraordinary manner. ‘i cannot for my life see for what other pur- pose it can be,’ thought he. ‘ he never offers to attempt my life; not dares he, if he had the inclination; therefore, although his manner is peculiarly repulsive to me, i shall not have my mind burdened with the reflection that my own mother’s son yearned for a reconciliation with me, and was repulsed by my haughty and insolent behaviour. the next time he comes to my hand, i am resolved that i will accost him as one brother ought to address another, whatever it may cost me; and, if i am still flouted with disdain, then shall the blame rest with him.’ after this generous resolution, it was a good while confessions of a justified sinner. before his gratuitous attendant appeared at his side again; and george began to think that his visits were discontinued. the hope was a relief that could not be calculated ; but still george had a feeling that it was. too supreme to last. his enemy had been too pertinacious to abandon his design, whatever it was. he, however, began to indulge in a little more liberty, and for several days he enjoyed it with impunity. george was, from infancy, of a stirring active dis- position, and could not endure confinement ; and having been of late much restrained in his youthful exercises by this singular persecutor, he grew uneasy under such restraint, and, one morning, chancing to awaken very early, he arose to make an excursion to the top of arthur’s seat, to breathe the breeze of the dawning, and see the sun arise out of the eastern ocean. the morning was calm and serene; as he walked down the south back of the canongate, toward the palace, the haze was so close around him that he could not see the houses on the opposite side of the way. as he passed the lord-commissioner’s house, the guards were in attendance, who cautioned him not to go by the palace, as all the gates would be shut and guarded for an hour to come, on which he went by the back of st anthony’s gardens, and found his way into that little romantic glade adjoining to the saint’s chapel and well. he was still involved in a blue haze, like a dense smoke, but yet _ in the midst of it the respiration was the most refreshing and delicious. the grass and the flowers were laden with dew ; and, on taking off his hat to wipe his forehead, he perceived that the black glossy fur of which his chaperon was wrought, was all covered with a tissue of the most delicate silver—a fairy web, composed of little confessions of a justified sinner. mingling with that cloud, made the dell a pit of darkness. on that shadowy cloud was the lovely rainbow formed, spreading itself on a horizontal plain, and having a slight and brilliant shade of all the colours of the heavenly bow, but all of them paler and less defined. but this terrestrial phenomenon of the early morn cannot be better de- lineated than by the name given of it by the shepherd boys, ‘ the little wee ghost of the rainbow.’ such was the description of the morning, and the wild shades of the hill, that george gave to his father and mr adam gordon that same day on which he had witnessed them; and it is necessary that the reader should compre- hend something of their nature to understand what follows. he seated himself on the pinnacle of the rocky pre- cipice, a little within the top of the hill to the westward, and, with a light and buoyant heart, viewed the beauties of the morning, and inhaled its salubrious breeze. ‘ here,’ thought he, ‘i can converse with nature without disturbance, and without being intruded on by any appalling or obnoxious visitor.’ the idea of his brother's dark and malevolent looks coming at that moment across his mind, he turned his eyes instinctively to the right, to the point where that unwelcome guest was wont to make his appearance. gracious heaven! what an apparition was there presented to his view! he saw, delineated in the cloud, the shoulders, arms, and features of a human being of the most dreadful aspect. the face was the face of his brother, but dilated to twenty times the natural size. its dark eyes gleamed on him through the mist, while every furrow of its hideous brow frowned deep as the ravines on the brow of the hill. george started, and his hair stood up confessions of a justified sinner. very first bolt that he made in his flight he came in contact with a real body of flesh and blood, and that with such violence that both went down among some scragged rocks, and george rolled over the other. the being called out ‘ murder ; ’ and, rising, fled precipitately. george then perceived that it was his brother; and, being confounded between the shadow and the substance, he knew not what he was doing or what he had done ; and there being only one natural way of retreat from the brink of the rock, he likewise arose and pursued the affrighted culprit with all his speed towards the top of the hill. wringhim was braying out, ‘murderl murder l’ at which george being disgusted, and his spirits all in a ferment from some hurried idea of intended harm, the moment he came up with the craven he seized him rudely by the shoulder, and clapped his hand on his mouth. ‘murder, you beast!’ said he; ‘ what do you mean by roaring out murder in that way? who the devil is murdering you, or offering to murder ou ? ’ y wringhim forced his mouth from under his brother’s hand, and roared with redoubled energy, ‘eh! egh! murder! murder ’ etc. george had felt resolute to put down this shocking alarm, lest someone might hear it and fly to the spot, or draw inferences widely different from the truth ; and perceiving the terror of this elect youth to be so great that expostulation was vain, he seized him by the mouth and nose with his left hand so strenuously that he sunk his fingers into his cheeks. but the poltroon still attempting to bray out, george gave him such a stunning blow with his fist on the left temple that he crumbled, as it were to the ground, but more from the effects of terror than those of the blow. his nose, how- _ the private memoirs and ever, again gushed out blood, a system of defence which seemed as natural to him as that resorted to by the race of stinkards. he then raised himself on his knees and hams, and raising up his ghastly face, while the blood streamed over both ears, he besought his life of his brother in the most abject whining manner, gaping and blubbering most piteously. ‘tell me then, sir,’ said george, resolved to make the , most of the wretch’s terror—‘ tell me for what purpose it is that you thus haunt my steps. tell me plainly, and instantly, else i will throw you from the verge of that precipice.’ ‘oh, i will never do it again! i will never do it again! spare my life, dear, good brother! spare my life! sure i never did you any hurt?’ ‘swear to me, then, by the god that made you, that you will never henceforth follow after me, to torment me with your hellish threatening looks; swear that you will never again come into my presence without being invited. will you take an oath to this effect?’ ‘ yes! iwill, iwill!’ ‘ but this is not all: you must tell me for what purpose you sought me out here this morning ? ’ ‘oh, brother ! for nothing but your good. i had nothing at heart but your unspeakable profit, and great and endless good.’ ‘so then, you indeed knew that i was here?’ ‘i was told so by a friend, but i did not believe him ; a—a—at least i did not know it was true till i saw you.’ ‘tell me this one thing, then, robert, and all shall be forgotten and forgiven—who was that friend?’ ‘ you do not know him.’ ‘how then does he know me p’ confessions of a justified sinner. ‘i cannot tell.’ ‘ was he here present with you to-day ?’ ‘yes; he was not far distant. he came to this hill with me.’ ‘ where, then, is he now?’ ‘ i cannot tell.’ ‘then, wretch, confess that the devil was that friend who told you i was here, and who came here with you ? none else could possibly know of my being here.’ ‘ah! how little you know of him! would you argue that there is neither man nor spirit endowed with so much foresight as to deduce natural conclusions from previous actions and incidents but the devil? alas, brother! but why should i wonder at such abandoned notions, and principles? it was fore-ordained that you should cherish them, and that they should be the ruin of your soul and body, before the world was framed. be assured of this, however, that i had no aim in seeking you butyour good ./ ‘ ‘well, robert, i will believe it. i am disposed to be hasty and passionate: it is a fault in my nature; but i never meant, or wished you evil ; and god is my witness that i would as soon stretch out my hand to my own life, or to my father’s, as to yours.’—at these words, wringhim uttered a hollow exulting laugh, put his hands in his pockets, and withdrew a space to his accustomed distance. george continued: ‘and now once for all, i request that we may exchange forgiveness, and that we may part and remain friends.’ ‘would such a thing be expedient, think you ? or consistent with the glory of god ? i doubt it.’ ‘i can think of nothing that would be more so. is it the private memoirs and not consistent with every precept of the gospel? come, brother, say that our reconciliation is complete.’ ‘oh yes, certainly! i tell you brother, according to the flesh: it is just as complete as the lark’s is with the adder ; no more so, nor ever can. reconciled, forsooth ! to what would i be reconciled?’ . as he said this, he strode indignantly away. from the moment that he heard his life was safe, he assumed his former insolence and revengeful looks—and never were they more dreadful than on parting with his brother that morning on the top of the hill. ‘well, go thy ways,’ said george ; ‘some would despise, but i pity thee. if thou art not a limb of satan, i never saw one.’ the sun had now dispelled the vapours ; and the morning being lovely beyond description, george sat himself down on the top of the hill, and pondered deeply on the unaccountable incident that had befallen to him that morning. he could in nowise comprehend it ; but, taking it with other previous circumstances, he could not get quit of a conviction that he was haunted by some evil genius in the shape of his brother, as well as by that dark and mysterious wretch himself. in no cther way could he account for the apparition he saw that morning on the face of the rock, nor for several sudden appearances of the same being, in places where there was no possibility of any foreknowledge that he himself was to be there, and as little that the same being, if he were flesh and blood like other men, could always start up in the same position with regard to him. he determined, therefore, on reach- ing home, to relate all that had happened, from be- ginning to end, to his father, asking his counsel and his assistance, although he knew full well that his father was confessions of a justified sinner. not the fittest man in the world to solve such a problem. he was now involved in party politics, over head and ears; and, moreover, he could never hear the names of either of the wringhims mentioned without getting into a quandary of disgust and anger ; and all that he would deign to say of them was, to call them by all the opprobrious names he could invent. it turned out as the young man from the first sug- gested: old dalcastle would listen to nothing concerning them with any patience. george complained that his brother harassed him with his presence at all times and in all places. old dal asked why he did not kick the dog out of his presence, whenever he felt him disagree- able? george said, he seemed to have some demon for a familiar. dal answered that, he did not wonder a bit at that, for the young spark was the third in a direct line who had all been children of adultery; and it was well known that all such were born half deils themselves, and nothing was more likely than that they should hold intercourse with their fellows. in the same style did he sympathise with all his son’s late sufferings and perplexities. in mr adam gordon, however, george found a friend who entered into all his feelings, and had seen and knew everything about the matter. he tried to convince him, that at all events there could be nothing supernatural in the circumstances; and that the vision he had seen on the rock, among the thick mist, was the shadow of his brother approaching behind him. george could not swallow this, for he had seen his own shadow on the cloud, and, instead of approaching to aught like his own figure, he perceived nothing but a halo of glory round a point of the cloud, that was whiter and purer than‘the d the private memoirs and rest. gordon said, if he would go with him to a mountain of his father’s, which he named, in aberdeen- shire, he would show him a giant spirit of the same dimensions, any morning at the rising of the sun, provided he shone on that spot. this statement excited george’s curiosity exceedingly; and, being disgusted with some things about edinburgh, and glad to get out of the way, he consented to go with gordon to the highlands for a space. the day was accordingly set for their departure, the old laird’s assent obtained: and the two young sparks parted in a state of great impatience for their excursion. one of them found out another engagement, however, the instant after this last was determined on. young wringhim went off the hill that morning, and home to his upright guardian again, without washing the blood from his face and neck ; and there he told a most woful story indeed : how he had gone out to take a morning’s walk on the hill, where he had encountered with his reprobate brother among the mist, who had knocked him down and very near murdered him; threatening dread- fully, and with horrid oaths, to throw him from the top of the cliff. the wrath of the great divine was kindled beyond measure. he cursed the aggressor in the name of the most high ;. and bound himself, by an oath, to cause that wicked one’s transgressions to return upon his own head sevenfold. but before he engaged farther in the business of vengeance, he kneeled with his adopted son, and committed the wholelcause unto the lord, whom he addressed as one coming breathing burning coals of juniper, and casting his lightnings before him, to destroy and root out all who had moved hand or tongue against confessions of a justified sinner. the children of the promise. thus did he arise confirmed, and go forth to certain conquest. we cannot enter into the detail of the events that now occurred, without forestalling a part of the narrative of one who knew all the circumstances—was deeply inter- ested in them, and whose relation is of higher value than anything that can be retailed out of the stores of tradi- tion and old registers ; but, his narrative being different from these, it was judged expedient to give the account as thus publicly handed down to us. suffice it, that, before evening, george was apprehended and lodged in jail, on a criminal charge of an assault and battery, to the shedding of blood, with the intent of committing fratri- cide. then was the old laird in great consternation, and blamed himself for treating the thing so lightly, which seemed to have been gone about, from the beginning, so systematically and with an intent which the villains were now going to realise, namely, to get the young laird dis- posed of, and then his brother, in spite of the old gentle- man’s teeth, would be laird himself. ’ old dal now set his whole interest to work among the noblemen and lawyers of his party. his son’s case looked exceedingly ill, owing to the former assault before witnesses, and the unbecoming expressions made use of by him on that occasion, as well as from the present assault, which george did not deny, and for which no moving cause or motive could be made to appear. on his first declaration before the sheriff, matters looked no better; but then the sheriff was a whig. it is well known how differently the people of the present day, in scotland, view the cases of their own party-men, and those of opposite political principles but this day is nothing to that in such matters, although, god knows, the private memoirs and they are still sometimes barefaced enough. it appeared, from all the witnesses in the first case, that the com- plainant was the first aggressor—that he refused to stand out of the way, though apprised of his danger ; and when his brother came against him inadvertently, he had aimed a blow at him with his foot, which, if it had taken effect, would have killed him. but as to the story of the apparition in fair daylight—the flying from the face of it —the running foul of his brother—pursuing him, and knocking him down, why the judge smiled at the relation; and saying, ‘it was a very extraordinary story,’ he remanded george to prison, leaving the matter to the high court of justiciary. when the case came before that court, matters took a different turn. the constant and sullen attendance of the one brother upon the other excited suspicions; and these were in some manner confirmed, when the guards at queensberry-house deponed that the prisoner went by them on his way to the hill that morning, about twenty minutes before the complainant, and when the latter passed, he asked if such a young man had passed before him, describing the prisoner’s appearance to them ; and that, on being answered in the affirmative, he mended his pace and fell a-running. the lord justice, on hearing this, asked the prisoner if he had any suspicions that his brother had a design on his life.- ' he answered, that all along, from the time of their first unfortunate meeting, his brother had dogged his steps so constantly, and so unaccountably, that he was convinced it was with some intent out of the ordinary course of events ; and that if, as his lordship supposed, it was indeed his shadow that he had seen approaching him confessions of a justified sinner. through the mist, then, from the cowering and cautious manner that it advanced, there was too little doubt that his brother’s design had been to push him headlong from the cliff that morning. a conversation then took place between the judge and the lord advocate ; and, in the meantime, a bustle was seen in the hall; on which the doors were ordered to be guarded,—and, behold, the precious mr r. wringhim was taken into custody, trying to make his escape out of court. finally it turned out, that george was honourably acquitted, and young wringhim bound over to keep the peace with heavy penalties and securities. ' that was a day of high exultation to george and his youthful associates, all of whom abhorred wringhim; and the evening being spent in great glee, it was agreed between mr adam gordon and george that their visit to the highlands, though thus long delayed, was not to be abandoned ; and though they had, through the machina- tions of an incendiary, lost the season of delight, they would still find plenty of sport in deer-shooting. ac- cordingly, the day was set a second time for their departure ; and, on the day preceding that, all the party were invited by george to dine with him once more at the sign of the black bull of norway. everyone promised to attend, anticipating nothing but festivity and joy. alas, what short-sighted improvident creatures we are, all of us ; and how often does the evening cup of joy lead to sorrow in the morning i the day arrived—the party of young noblemen and gentlemen met, and were as happy and jovial as men could be. george was never seen so brilliant, or so full of spirits; and exulting to see so many gallant young chiefs and gentlemen about him, who all gloried in the the private memoirs and same principles of loyalty, (perhaps this word should have been written disloyalty» he made speeches, gave toasts, and sung songs, all leaning slily to the same side, until a very late hour. by that time he had pushed the bottle so long and so freely, that its fumes had taken possession of every brain to such a degree, that they held dame reason rather at the staff’s end, overbearing all her counsels and expostulations; and it was imprudently proposed by a wild inebriated spark, and carried by a majority of voices, that the whole party should adjourn to a bagnio for the remainder of the night. they did so; and it appears from what follows, that the house to which they retired, must have been some- where on the opposite side of the street to the black bull inn, a little further to the eastward. they had not been an hour in that house, till some altercation chanced to arise between george colwan and a mr drummond, the younger son of a nobleman of distinction. it was perfectly casual, and no one thenceforward, to this day, could ever tell what it was about, if it was not about the misunderstanding of some word, or term, that the one had uttered. however it was, some high words passed between them; these were followed by threats; and in less than two minutes from the commencement of the quarrel, drummond left the house in apparent displeasure, hinting to the other that they two should settle that in a more convenient place. the company looked at one another, for all was over before any of them knew such a thing was begun. ‘what the devil is the matter? ’ cried one. ‘what ails drummond ?’ cried another. ‘who has he quarrelled with ? ’ asked a third. ‘don’t know.’——‘ can’t tell, on my life.’—‘ he has iii y , ! fizz é’penz'n q confessions of .a justified sinner. quarrelled with his wine, i suppose, and is going to send it a challenge.’ such where the questions, and such the answers that passed in the jovial party, and the matter was no more thought of. but in the course of a very short space, about the length of which the ideas of the company were the next day at great variance, a sharp rap came to the door: it was opened by a female ; but there being a chain inside, she only saw one side of the person at the door. he appeared to be a young gentleman, in appearance like him who had lately left the house, and asked, in a low whispering voice, ‘if young dalcastle was still in the house?’ the woman did not know.—‘ if he is,’ added he, ‘pray tell him to speak with me for a few minutes.’ the woman delivered the message before all the party, among whom there were then sundry courteous ladies of notable distinction, and george, on receiving it, instantly rose from the side of one of them, and said, in the hearing of them all, ‘i will bet a hundred merks that is drummond.’-‘don’t go to quarrel with him, george,’ said one.—‘ bring him in with you,’ said another. george stepped out ; the door was again bolted, the chain drawn across, and the inadvertent party, left within, thought no more of the circumstance till the next morning, that the report had spread over the city, that a young gentleman had been slain, on a little washing-green at the side of the north loch, and at the very bottom of the close where this thoughtless party had been assembled. several of them, on first hearing the report, hasted to the dead-room in the old guard-house, where the corpse had been deposited, and soon discovered the body the private memoirs and to be that of their friend and late entertainer, george colwan. great were the consternation and grief of all concerned, and in particular, of his old father and miss logan; for george had always been the sole hope and darling of both, and the news of the event paralyzed them so as to render them incapable of all thought or exertion. the spirit of the old laird was broken by the blow, and he descended at once from a jolly, good- natured and active man, to a mere driveller, weeping over the body of his son, kissing his wound, his lips, and his cold brow alternately; denouncing vengeance on his murderers, and lamenting that he himself had not met the cruel doom, so that the hope of his race might have been preserved. in short, finding that all further motive of action and object of concern or of love, here below, were for ever removed from him, he abandoned himself to despair, and threatened to go down to the grave with his son. but although he made no attempt to discover the murderers, the arm of justice was not idle ; and it being evident to all, that the crime must infalliny be brought home to young drummond, some of his friends sought him out, and compelled him, sorely against his will, to retire into concealment till the issue of the proof that should be led was made known. at the same time, he denied all knowledge of the incident with a resolution that astonished his intimate friends and relations, who to a man suspected him guilty. his father was not in scotland, for i think it was said to me that this young man was second son to a john, duke of melfort, who lived abroad with the royal family of the stuarts; but this young gentleman lived with the relations of his mother, one of whom, an uncle, was a lord of session : confessions of a justified sinner. these having thoroughly effected his concealment, went away, and listened to the evidence ; and the examination of every new witness convinced them that their noble young relative was the slayer of his friend. all the young gentlemen of the party were examined, save drummond, who, when sent for, could not be found, which circumstance sorely confirmed the suspicions against him in the minds of judges and jurors, friends and enemies; and there is little doubt, that the care of his relations in concealing him, injured his character and his cause. the young gentlemen, of whom the party was composed, varied considerably, with respect to the quarrel between him and the deceased. some of them had neither heard nor noted it; others had, but not one of them could tell how it began. some of them had heard the threat uttered by drummond on leaving the house, and one only had noted him lay his hand on his sword. not one of them could swear that it was drummond who came to the door, and desired to speak with the deceased, but the general impression on the minds of them all, was to that effect ; and one of the women swore that she heard the voice distinctly at the door, and every word that voice pro nounced ; and at the same time heard the deceased say that it was drummond’s. on the other hand, there were some evidences on drummond’s part, which lord craigie, his uncle, had taken care to collect. he produced the sword which his nephew had worn that night, on which there was neither blood nor blemish; and above all, he insisted on the evidence of a number of surgeons, who declared that both the wounds which the deceased had received, had been given behind. one of these was below the left arm, the private memoirs and’ and a slight one; the other was quite through the body, and both evidently inflicted with the same weapon, a two-edged sword, of the same dimensions as that worn by drummond. upon the whole, there was a division in the court, but a majority decided it. drummond was pronounced guilty of the murder, outlawed for not appearing, and a high reward offered for his apprehension. it was with the greatest difficulty that he escaped on board of a small trading vessel, which landed him in holland, and from thence, flying into germany, he entered into the service of the emperor charles vi. many regretted that he was not taken, and made to suffer the penalty due for such a crime, and the melancholy incident became a pulpit theme over a great part of scotland, being held up as a proper warning to youth to beware of such haunts of vice and depravity, the nurses of all that is precipitate, immoral, and base, among mankind. after the funeral of this promising and excellent young man, his father never more held up his head. miss logan, with all her art, could not get him to attend to any worldly thing, or to make any settlement whatsoever of his affairs, save making her over a present of what disposable funds he had about him. as to his estates, when they were mentioned to him, he wished them all in the bottom of the sea, and himself along with them. but whenever she mentioned the circum- stance of thomas drummond having been the murderer of his son, he shook his head, and once made the remark, that ‘it was all a mistake, a gross and fatal error ; but that god, who had permitted such a flagrant deed, would bring it to light in his own time and way.’ in a few weeks he followed his son to the grave, and ionfessions of a justified sinner. the notorious robert wringhim took possession of his estates as the lawful son of the late laird, born in wedlock, and under his father’s roof. the investiture was celebrated by prayer, singing of psalms, and religious disputation. the late guardian and adopted father, and the mother of the new laird, presided on the grand occasion, making a conspicuous figure in all the work of the day ; and though the youth himself indulged rather more freely in the bottle than he had ever been seen to do before, it was agreed by all present that there had never been a festivity so sanctified within the great hall of dalcastle. then, after due thanks returned, they parted rejoicing in spirit; which thanks, by the by, consisted wholly in telling the almighty what he was ; and informing him, with very particular precision, what they were who addressed him; for wringhim’s whole system of popular declamation consisted, it seems, in this,—-to denounce all men and women to destruction, and then hold out hopes to his adherents that they were the chosen few, included in the promises, and who could never fall away. it would appear that this pharisaical doctrine is a very delicious one, and the most grateful of all others to the worst characters. but the ways of heaven are altogether inscrutable, and soar as far above and beyond the works and the compre- hensions of man, as the sun, flaming in majesty, is above the tiny boy’s evening rocket. it is the controller of nature alone that can bring light out of darkness, and order out of confusion. who is' he that causeth the mole, from his secret path of darkness to throw up the gem, the gold, and the precious ore? the same that from the mouths of babes and sucklings can extract the perfec- tion of praise, and who can make the most abject of the private memoirs ' and' his creatures instrumental in bringing the most hidden truths to light. miss logan had never lost the thought of her late master’s prediction, that heaven would bring to light the truth concerning the untimely death of his son. she perceived that some strange conviction, too horrible for expression, preyed on his mind from the moment that the fatal news reached him, to the last of his exist- ence; and in his last ravings, he uttered some incoherent words about justification by faith alone, and absolute and eternal predestination having been the ruin of his house. these, to be sure, were the words of superannuation, and of the last and severest kind of it; but for all that, they sunk deep into miss logan’s soul, and at last she began to think with herself, ‘is it possible the wringhims, and the sophisticating wretch who is in conjunction with them, the mother of my late beautiful and amiable young master, can have efl'ected his destruc- tion? if so, i will spend my days, and my little patrimony, in endeavours to rake up and expose the unnatural deed.’ in all her outgoings and incomings, mrs logan (as she was now styled) never lost sight of this one object. every new disappointment only whetted her desire to fish up some particulars concerning it; for she thought so long, and so ardently upon it, that by degrees it became settled in her mind as a sealed truth. and as woman is always most jealous of her own sex in such matters, her suspicions were fixed on her greatest enemy, mrs colwan, now the lady dowager of dalcastle. all was wrapt in a chaos of confusion and darkness; but at last, by dint of a thousand sly and secret inquiries, mrs logan found out where lady dalcastle had been on the night that the murder tonfessions of a justified sinner. l happened, and likewise what company she had kept, as well as some of the comers and goers; and she had hopes of having discovered a cue, which, if she could keep hold j of the thread, would lead her through darkness to the light of truth. returning very late one evening from a convocation of family servants, which she had drawn together in order to fish something out of them, her maid having been in attendance on her all the evening, they found on going home, that the house had been broken into, and a number of valuable articles stolen therefrom. mrs logan had grown quite heartless before this stroke, having been altogether unsuccessful in her inquiries, and now she began to entertain some resolutions of giving up the fruitless search. in a few days thereafter, she received intelligence that her clothes and plate were mostly recovered, and that she for one was bound over to prosecute the depre- dator, provided the articles turned out to be hers, as libelled in the indictment, and as a king’s evidence had given out. she was likewise summoned, or re- quested, i know not which, being ignorant of these matters, to go as far as the town of peebles on tweedside, in order to survey these articles on such a day, and make affidavit to their identity before the sheriff. she went accordingly: but on entering the town by the north gate, she was accosted by a poor girl in tattered apparel, who with great earnestness inquired if her name was not mrs logan? on being answered in the affirmative, she said that the unfortunate prisoner in the tolbooth re- quested her, as she valued all that was dear to her in life, to go and see her before she appeared in court, at the hour of cause, as she (the prisoner) had something of the the private memoirs an greatest moment to impart to her. mrs logan’s curiosity was excited, and she followed the girl straight to the tolbooth, who by the way said to her, that she would find in the prisoner a woman of a superior mind, who had gone through all the vicissitudes of life. ‘she has been very unfortunate, and i fear very wicked,’ added the poor thing, ‘but she is my mother, and god knows, with all her faults and failings, she has never been unkind to me. you, madam, have it in your power to save her; but she has wronged you, and therefore if you will not do it for her sake, do it for mine, and the god of the fatherless will reward you.’ mrs logan answered her with a cast of the head, and a hem! and only remarked that ‘the guilty must not always he suffered to escape, or what a world must we be doomed to live in ! ’ she was admitted to the prison, and found a tall emaciated figure, who appeared to have once possessed a sort of masculine beauty in no ordinary degree, but was now considerably advanced in years. she viewed mrs logan with a stern, steady gaze, as if reading her features as a margin to her intellect ; and when she addressed her it was not with that humility, and agonised fervour,which are natural for one in such circumstances to address to another, who has the power of her life and death in her hands. ‘i am deeply indebted to you for this timely visit, mrs logan,’ said she. ‘it is not that i value life, or because i fear death, that i have sent for you so expressly. but the manner of the death that awaits me, has something peculiarly revolting in it to a female mind. good god! when i think of being hung up, a spectacle to a gazing, gaping multitude, with numbers of which i have had confessions of a justified sinner. n intimacies and connexions, that would render the moment of parting so hideous, that, believe me, it rends to flinders a soul born for another sphere than that in which it has moved, had not the vile selfishness of a lordly fiend r ruined all my prospects, and all my hopes. hear me \‘ then; for i do not ask your pity; i only ask of you to l look to yourself, and behave with womanly prudence. if you deny this day that these goods are yours, there is no other evidence whatever against my life, and it is safe for the present. for as for the word of the wretch who has betrayed me, it is of no avail; he has prevaricated so notoriously to save himself. if you deny them, you shall have them all again to the value of a mite, and more to the bargain. if you swear to the identity of them, the process will, one way and another, cost you the half of what they are worth.’ ‘and what security have i for that?’ said mrs logan. ‘ you have none but my word,’ said the other proudly, ‘and that never yet was violated. if you cannot take that, i know the worst you can do.—but i had forgot— i have a poor helpless child without, waiting, and starving about the prison door ; surely it was of her that i wished to speak. this shameful death of mine will leave her in a deplorable state.’ ‘the girl seems to have candour and strong affections,‘ said mrs logan; ‘i grievously mistake if such a child ’ would not be a thousand times better without such a guardian and director.’ ‘then will you be so kind as come to the grass market, and see me put down p’ said the prisoner. ‘i thought a woman would estimate a woman’s and a mother’s feelings, when such a dreadful throw was at stake, at least in part. but you are callous, and have the private memoirs an never known any feelings but those of subordination to your old unnatural master. alas, i have no cause of offence! i have wronged you; and justice must take its course. will you forgive me before we part ? ’ mrs logan hesitated, for her mind ran on something else: on which the other subjoined, ‘no, you will not forgive me, i see. but you will pray to god to forgive me ? i know you will do tlzat.’ mrs logan heard not this jeer, but looking at the prisoner with an absent, stupid stare, she said, ‘ did you know my late master?’ ‘ay, that i did, and never for any good,’ said she. ‘i knew the old and the young spark both, and was by when the latter was slain.’ this careless sentence affected mrs logan in a most peculiar manner. a shower of tears burst from her eyes ere it was done, and when it was, she appeared like one bereaved of her mind. she first turned one way and then another, as if looking for something she had dropped. she seemed to think she had lost her eyes, instead of her tears, and at length, as by instinct, she tottered close up to the prisoner’s face, and looking wist- fully and joyfully in it, said, with breathless earnestness, ‘ pray, mistress, what is your name?’ ‘my name is arabella calvert,’ said the other : ‘miss, mistress, or widow, as you choose, for i have been all the three, and that not once or twice only—ay, and some- thing beyond all these. but as for you, you have never been anything ! ’ ‘ay, ay! and so you are bell calvert? well i thought so—i thought so,’ said mrs logan ; and helping herself to a seat, she came and sat down close by the prisoner’s knee. ‘so you are indeed bell calvert, so- confessions of a justified sinner. called once. well, of all the world you are the woman whom i have longed and travailed the most to see. but you were invisible ; a being to be heard of, not seen.’ ‘there have been days, madam,’ returned she, ‘when i was to be seen, and when there were few to be seen like me. but since that time there have indeed been days on which i was not to be seen. my crimes have been great, but my sufferings have been greater: so great, that neither you nor the; world can ever either know or conceive them. i hope they will be taken into account by the most high. mine have been crimes of utter desperation. but whom am i speaking to! you had better leave me to myself, mistress.’ ‘leave you to yourself? that i will be th to do, till you tell me where you were that night my young master was murdered?’ ‘ where the devil would, i was ! will that suffice you ? ah, it was a vile action i a night to be remembered that was l—won’t you be going? i want to trust my daughter with a commission.’ ‘ ‘no, mrs calvert, you and i part not, till you have divulged that mystery to me.’ ‘you must accompany me to the other world, then, for you shall not have it in this.’ ‘if you refuse to answer me, i can have you! before a tribunal, where you shall be sifted to the soul.’ ‘such miserable inanityl what care i for your threatenings of a tribunal? i who must so soon stand before my last earthly one? what could the word of such a culprit avail? or if it could, where is the judge that could enforce it? ’ ‘did you not say that there was some mode of ac- commodating matters on that score ? ’ e the private memoirs and ‘yes, i prayed you to grant me my life, which is in your power. the saving of it would not have cost you a plack, yet you refused to do it. the taking of it will cost you a great deal, and yet to that purpose you adhere. i can have no parley with such a spirit. i would not have my life in a present from its motions, nor would i exchange courtesies with its possessor.’ ‘indeed, mrs calvert, since ever we met, i have been so busy thinking about who you might be, that i know not what you have been proposing. i believe i meant to do what i could to save you. but once for all, tell me everything that you know concerning that amiable young gentleman’s death, and here is my hand there shall be nothing wanting that i can effect for you.’ ‘no, i despise all barter with such mean and selfish curiosity ; and, as i believe that passion is stronger with you, than fear is with me, we part on equal terms. do your worst-; and my secret shall go to the gallows and the grave with me.’ mrs logan was now greatly confounded, and after proffering in vain to concede everything she could ask in exchange, for the particulars relating to the murder, she became the suppliant in her turn. but the unaccountable culprit, exulting in her advantage, laughed her to scorn ; and finally, in a paroxysm of pride and impatience, called in the jailor, and had her expelled, ordering him in her hearing, not ito grant her admittance a second time, on any pretence. mrs logan was now hard put to it, and again driven almost to despair. she might have succeeded in the attainment of that she thirsted for most in life so easily, had she known the character which she had to deal with—had she known to have soothed her high and confessions of a justified sinner. afflicted spirit: but that opportunity was past, and the hour of examination at hand. she once thought of going and claiming her articles, as she at first intended; but then, when she thought again of the wringhims swaying it at dalcastle, where she had been wont to hear them held in such contempt, if not abhorrence, and perhaps of holding it by the most diabolical means, she was withheld from marring the only chance that remained of having a glimpse into that mysterious affair. finally she resolved not to answer to her name in the court, rather than to appear and assert a falsehood, which she might be called on to certify by oath. she did so; and heard the sheriff give orders to the oflicers to make inquiry for miss logan from edinburgh, at the various places of entertainment in town, and to expedite her arrival in court, as thin gs of great value were in dependence. she also heard the man who turned king’s evidence against the prisoner, examined for the second time, and sifted more cunningly. his answers gave anything but satisfaction to the sheriff, though mrs logan believed them to be mainly truth. but there were a few questions and answers that struck her above all others. ‘how long is it since mrs calvert and you became acquainted p ’ ‘about a year and a half.’ ‘state the precise time, if you please; the day, or night, according to your remembrance.’ ‘ it was on the morning of the th of february, i .’ ‘ what time of the morning? ’ ‘perhaps about one.’ ‘ so early as that p at what place did you meet then ? ’ the private memoirs and he pursue for the sake of justice! no; his efforts have all been for evil, but never for good. but i raised the alarm ; miserable and degraded as i was. i pursued and raised the watch myself. have you not heard the name of bell calvert coupled with that hideous and mysterious afi'air.’ , ‘yes, i have. in secret often i have heard it. but how came it that you could never be found? how came it that you never appeared in defence of the honourable thomas drummond ;—you, the only person who could have justified him ?’ ‘i could not, for i then fell under the power and guidance of a wretch, who durst not for the soul of him be brought forward in the affair. and what was worse, his evidence would have overborne mine, for he would have sworn that the man who called out and fought colwan was the same he met leaving my apartment, and there was an end of it. and, moreover, it is well- known that this same man—this wretch of whom i speak, never mistook one man for another in his life, which makes the mystery of the likeness between this incendiary and drummond the more extraordinary.’ ‘if it was drummond, after all that you have asserted, then are my surmises still wrong.’ ‘there is nothing of which i can be more certain, than that it was not drummond. we have nothing on earth but our senses to depend upon: if these deceive us, what are we to do? i own i cannot account for it ; nor ever shall be able to account for it as long as i live.’ ‘could you know the man in black, if you saw him again ? ’ ‘i think i could if i saw him walk or run: his gait was very particular: he walked as if he had been flat- confessions of a justified sinner. soled, and his legs made of steel, without any joints in his feet or ankles.’ ‘the very same! the very same! the very same! pray will you take a few days’ journey into the country with me, to look at such a man p’ ‘ you have preserved my life, and for you i will do any thing. i will accompany you with pleasure : and i think ' i can say that i will know him, for his form left an impression on my heart not soon to be effaced. but _of this i am sure, that my unworthy companion will recognise him, and that he will be able to swear to his identity every day as long as he lives.’ ‘where is he? where is he?’ ! mrs calvert, where is be p’ ‘where is he? he is the wretch whom you heard giving me up to the death; who, after experiencing every mark of affection that a poor ruined being could confer, and after committing a thousand atrocities of which she was ignorant, became an informer to save his diabolical life, and attempted to offer up mine as a sacrifice for all. we will go by ourselves first, and i will tell you if it is necessary to send any further.’ the two dames, the very next morning, dressed themselves like country goodwives ; and, hiring two stout ponies furnished with pillions, they took their journey westward, and the second evening after leaving edinburgh they arrived at the village about two miles below dalcastle, where they alighted. but mrs logan, being anxious to have mrs calvert’s judgment without either hint or preparation, took care not to mention that they were so near to the end of their journey. in conformity with this plan, she said, after they had sat awhile, ‘heigh-ho, but i am weary! what suppose we the private memoirs and should rest a day here before we proceed further on our journey ? ’ mrs calvert was leaning on the casement, and looking out when her companion addressed these words to her, and by far too much engaged to return any answer, for her eyes were riveted on two young men who approached from the further end of the village ; and at length, turning round her head, she said with the most intense interest, ‘proceed further on our journey, did you say? that we need not do ; for, as i live, here comes the very man ! ’ mrs logan ran to the window, and behold there was indeed robert wringhim colwan (now the laird of dal- castle) coming forward almost below their window, walking arm in arm with another young man ; and as the two passed, the latter looked up and made a sly signal to the two dames, biting his lip, winking with his left eye, and nodding his head. mrs calvert was astonished at this recognisance, the young man’s former companion having made exactly such another signal on the night of the duel, by the light of the moon; and it struck her, moreover, that she had somewhere seen this young man’s face before. she looked after him, and he winked over his shoulder to her ; but she was prevented from returning his salute by her companion, who uttered a loud cry, between a groan and a shriek, and fell down on the floor with a rumble like a wall that had suddenly been undermined. she had fainted quite away, and re- quired all her companion’s attention during the remainder of the evening, for she had scarcely ever well recovered out of one fit before she fell into another; and in the short intervals she raved like one distracted, or in a dream. after falling into a sound sleep by night, she recovered confessions of a justified sinner. her equanimity, and the two began to converse seriously on what they had seen. mrs calvert averred that the young man who passed next to the window, was the very man who stabbed george colwan in the back, and she said she was willing to take her oath on it at any time when required, and was certain if the wretch ridsley saw him, that he would make oath to the same purport, for that his walk was so peculiar, no one of common discernment could mistake it. mrs logan was in great agitation, and said, ‘it is what i have suspected all along, and what i am sure my late master and benefactor was persuaded of, and the horror of such an idea cut short his days. that wretch, mrs calvert, is the born brother of him he murdered ; sons of the same mother they were, whether or not of the same father, the lord only knows. but, , mrs calvert, that is not the main thing that has discomposed me, and shaken my nerves to pieces at this time. who do you think the young man was who walked in his company to-night ? ’ ‘i cannot for my life recollect, but am convinced i have seen the same fine form and face before.’ ‘and did not he seem to know us, mrs calvert? you who are able to recollect things as they happened, did he not seem to recollect us, and make signs to that effect ? ’ ‘he did, indeed, and apparently with great good humour.’ ‘ , mrs calvert, hold me, else i shall fall into hysterics againl who is he? tell me who you suppose he is, for i cannot say my own thought.’ ‘on my life, i cannot remember.’ ‘ did you note the-appearance of the young gentleman confessions of a justified sinner. and her maid were again summoned as witnesses before the jury, and compelled by the prosecutor for the crown to appear. the maid was first called; and when she came into the witnesses’ box, the anxious and hopeless looks of the prisoner were manifest to all; but the girl, whose name, she said, was bessy gillies, answered in so flippant and fearless a way, that the auditors were much amused. after a number of routine questions, the depute-advocate asked her if she was at home on the morning of the fifth of september last, when her mistress’s house was robbed p ' ‘was i at hame, say ye? na, faith-ye, lad! an’ i had been at hame, there had been mair to dee. i wad hae raised sic a yelloch l ’ ‘ where were you that morning? ’ ‘ where was i, say you ? i was in the house where my mistress was, sitting dozing an’ half sleeping in the kitchen. i thought aye she would be setting out every minute, for twa hours.’ ‘and when you went home, what did you find? ’ ‘what found we? be my sooth, we found a broken lock, an’ toom kists.’ ‘relate some of the particulars, if you please.’ ‘oh, sir, the thieves didna stand upon particulars : they were halesale dealers in a’ our best wares.’ ‘i mean, what passed between your mistress and you on the occasion ? ’ ‘what passed, say ye? oh, there wasna muckle: i was in a great passion, but she was dung doitrified a wee when she gaed to put the key i’ the door, up it flew to the fer wa’—“ bess, ye jaud, what’s the meaning ’ this ? ” quo she. “ye hae left the door open, ye tawpie ! ” quo the private memoirs and she. “the ne’er ’ that i did,” quo i, “ or may my shankel bane never turn another key.” when we got the candle lightit, a’ the house was in a hoad-road. “bessie, my woman,” quo she, “we are baith ruined and undone creatures.” “the deil a bit,” quo i; “that i deny posi- tively.” h’mh! to speak ’ a lass ' my age being ruined and undone ! i never had muckle except what was within a good jerkin, an’ let the thief ruin me there wha can.’ ‘do you remember aught else that your mistress said on the occasion? did you hear her blame any person?’ ‘ , she made a great deal ’ grumphing an’ groaning about the misfortune, as she ca’d it, an’ i think she said it was a part ’ the ruin wrought by‘the ringans, or some sic name—~“ they’ll hae’t a’! they’ll hae’t a’ ! ” cried she, wringing her hands; “they’ll hae’t a’, an’ hell wi’t, an’ they’ll get them baith.” “aweel, that’s aye some satis- faction,” quo i.’ ‘whom did she mean by the ringans, do you know?’ ‘ i fancy they are some creatures that she has dreamed about, for i think there canna be as ill folks living as she ca’s them.’ ‘did you never hear her say that the prisoner at the bar there, mrs calvert, or bell calvert, was the robber of her house; or that she was one of the ringans ? ’ ‘never. somebody tauld her lately, that ane bell calvert robbed her house, but she disna believe it. neither do i.’ ‘what reasons have you for doubting it? ’ ‘ because it was nae woman’s fingers that broke up the bolts an’ the locks that were torn open that night.’ ‘very pertinent, bessie. come then within the bar, and look at these articles on the table. did you ever see these silver spoons before? ’ confessions of a justified sinner. ‘i hae seen some very like them, and whaever has seen siller spoons, has done the same.’ ‘can you swear you never saw them before p ’ , ‘na, na, i wadna swear to ony siller spoons that ever war made, unless i had put a private mark on them wi’ my aim hand, an’ that’s what i never did to ane.’ ‘ see, they are all marked with a c.’ ‘sae are a’ the spoons in argyle, an’ the half ’ them in edinburgh i think. a c is a very common letter, an’ so are a’ the names that begin wi’t. lay them by, lay them by, an’ gie the poor woman her spoons again. they are marked wi’ her ain name, an’ i hae little doubt they are hers, an’ that she has seen better days.’ ‘ah, god bless her heart!’ sighed the prisoner; and that blessing was echoed in the breathings of many a feeling breast. ‘did you ever see this gown before, think you p’ ‘ i hae seen ane very like it.’ ‘could you not swear that gown was your mistress’s once p ’ ‘no, unless i saw her hae’t on, an’ kend that she had paid for’t. i am very scrupulous about an oath. like is an ill mark. sae ill indeed, that i wad hardly swear to onything.’ ‘but you say that gown is very like one your mistress used to wear.’ ‘i never said sic a thing. it is like one i hae seen her hae out airing on the hay raip i’ the back green. it is very like ane i hae seen mrs butler in the grass market wearing too; i rather think it is the same. bless you. sir, i wadna swear to my ain fore-finger, if it had been as lang out ’ my sight, an’ brought in an’ laid on that table.’ ‘perhaps you are not aware, girl, that this scrupulous the private memoirs and ‘it was at the foot of one of the north wynds of edinburgh.’ ‘ was it by appointment that you met?’ ‘no, it was not.’ ‘for what purpose was it then?’ ‘for no purpose.’ ‘how is it that you chance to remember the day and hour so minutely, if you met that woman, whom you have accused, merely by chance, and for no manner of purpose, as you must have met others that night, perhaps to the amount of hundreds, in the same way?’ ‘i have good cause to remember it, my lord.’ ‘what was that cause ?-—no-’ answer ?—you don’t choose to say what that cause was?’ ‘i am not at liberty to tell.’ the sheriff then descended to other particulars, all of which tended to prove that the fellow was an accom- plished villain, and that the principal share of the atrocities had been committed by him. indeed the sheriff hinted, that he suspected the only share mrs calvert had in them, was in being too much in his company, and too true to him. the case was remitted to the court of justiciary; but mrs logan had heard enough to convince her that the culprits first met at the very spot, and the very hour, on which george colwan was slain; and she had no doubt that they were incendiaries set on by his mother, to forward her own and her darling son’s way to opulence. mrs logan was wrong, as will appear in the sequel ; but her antipathy to mrs colwan made her watch the event with all care. she never quitted peebles as long as bell calvert remained there, and when she was removed to edinburgh, the other followed. when the trial came on, mrs logan . m i the private memoirs and she. “the ne’er ’ that i did,” quo i, “ or may my shankel bane never turn another key.” when we got the candle lightit, a’ the house was in a hoad-road. “bessie, my woman,” quo she, “we are baith ruined and undone creatures.” “the deil a bit,” quo i; “that i deny posi- tively.” h’mh! to speak ’ a lass o’ my age being ruined and undone ! i never had muckle except what was within a good jerkin, an’ let the thief ruin me there wha can.’ ‘do you remember aught else that your mistress said on the occasion ? did you hear her blame any person p ’ ‘ , she made a great deal ’ grumphing an’ groaning about the mzkfortune, as she ca’d it, an’ i think she said it was a part ’ the ruin wrought by-the ringans, or some sic name—“ they’ll hae’t a’! they’ll hae’t a’ ! ” cried she, wringing her hands; “they’ll hae’t a’, an’ hell wi’t, an’ they’ll get them baith.” “aweel, that’s aye some satis- faction,” quo i.’ ‘whom did she mean by the ringans, do you know? ’ ‘i fancy they are some creatures that she has dreamed about, for i think there canna be as ill folks living as she ca’s them.’ ‘did you never hear her say that the prisoner at the bar there, mrs calvert, or bell calvert, was the robber of her house; or that she was one of the ringans ? ’ ‘never. somebody tauld her lately, that ane bell calvert robbed her house, but she disna believe it. neither do i.’ ‘what reasons have you for doubting it? ’ ‘ because it was nae woman’s fingers that broke up the bolts an’ the locks that were torn open that night.’ ‘very pertinent, bessie. come then within the bar, and look at these articles on the table. did you ever see these silver spoons before? ’ confessions of a justified sinner. r ‘ hae seen some very like them, and whaever has seen siller spoons, has done the same.’ ‘can you swear you never saw them before p ’ _ ‘na, na, i wadna swear to ony siller spoons that ever war made, unless i had put a private mark on them wi’ my ain hand, an’ that’s what i never did to ane.’ ‘ see, they are all marked with a c.’ ‘sae are a’ the spoons in argyle, an’ the half ’ them in edinburgh i think. a c is a very common letter, an’ so are a’ the names that begin wi’t. lay them by, lay them by, an’ gie the poor woman her spoons again. they are marked wi’ her ain name, an’ i hae little doubt they are hers, an’ that she has seen better days.’ ‘ah, god bless her heart!’ sighed the prisoner; and that blessing was echoed in the breathings of many a feeling breast. ‘did you ever see this gown before, think you? ’ ‘ i hae seen ane very like it.’ ‘could you not swear that gown was your mistress’s once p ’ ‘no, unless i saw her hae’t on, an’ kend that she had paid for’t. i am very scrupulous about an oath. like is an ill mark. sae ill indeed, that i wad hardly swear to onything.’ ‘but you say that gown is very like one your mistress used to wear.’ ‘i never said sic a thing. it is like one i hae seen her hae out airing on the hay raip i’ the back green. it is very like ane i hae seen mrs butler in the grass market wearing too; i rather think it is the same. bless you, sir, i wadna swear to my ain fore-finger, if it had been as lang out o’ my sight, an’ brought in an’ laid on that table.’ ‘perhaps you are not aware, girl, that this scrupulous confessions of a justified sinner. and proffered to withdraw my part in the prosecution, as well as my evidence, provided she would tell me a few simple facts ; but she spurned at my offer, and had me turned insolently out of the prison, with order to the jailor never to admit me again on any pretence.’ the prisoner’s counsel taking hold of this evidence, addressed the jury with great fluency; and finally the prosecution was withdrawn, and the prisoner dismissed from the bar with a severe reprimand for her past conduct, and an exhortation to keep better company. it was not many days till a caddy came with a large parcel to mrs logan’s house, which parcel he delivered into her hands, accompanied with a sealed note, con- taining an inventory of the articles, and a request to know if the unfortunate arabella calvert would be admitted to converse with mrs logan. never was there a woman so much overjoyed as mrs ‘ logan was at this message. she returned compliments ; would be most happy to see her ; and no article of the parcel should be looked at, or touched, till her arrival.— it was not long till she made her appearance, dressed in somewhat better style than she had yet seen her; de- livered her over the greater part of the stolen property, besides many things that either had belonged to mrs logan, or that she thought proper to deny, in order that the other might retain them. the tale that she told of her misfortunes was of the most distressing nature, and was enough to stir up all the tender, as well as abhorrent feelings in the bosom of humanity. she had suffered every deprivation in fame, fortune, and person. she had been imprisoned; she had been scourged, and branded as an imposter ; and all on account of her resolute and unmoving fidelity the private memoirs and mony, and we soon found ourselves together in the best room of a house where everything was wretched. he still looked about him, and at me ; but all this while he had never spoken a word. at length, i asked if he would take any refreshment ; “if you please,” said he. i asked what he would have? but he only answered, “what- ever you choose, madam.” if he was taken with my address, i was much more taken with his; for he was a complete gentleman, and a gentleman will ever act as one. at length, he began as follows : ‘ “ i am utterly at a loss to account for this adventure, madam. it seems to me like enchantment, and i can hardly believe my senses. an english lady i judge, and one, who from her manner and address should be- long to the first class of society, in such a place as this, is indeed matter of wonder to me. at the foot of a close in edinburgh! and at this time of night! surely ‘ it must have been no common reverse of fortune that reduced you to this ? ” i wept, or pretended to do so ; on which he added. “pray, madam, take heart. tell me what has befallen you; and if i can do anything ‘ for you, in restoring you to your country or your friends you shall command my interest.” ‘i had great need of a friend then, and i thought now was the time to secure one. so i began and told him the moving tale i have told you. but i soon perceived that i had kept by the naked truth too unvarnishedly, and thereby quite overshot my mark. when he learned that he was sitting in a wretched corner of an irregular house, with a felon, who had so lately been scourged, and banished as a swindler and imposter, his modest nature took the alarm, and he was shocked, instead of being moved with pity. his eye fixed on some of the confessions of a justified sinner. casual stripes on my arm, and from that moment he be- came restless and impatient to be gone. i tried some gentle arts to retain him, but in vain; so, after paying both the landlady and me for pleasures he had neither tasted nor asked, he took his leave. ‘i showed him downstairs ; and just as he turned the corner of the next land, a man came rushing violently by him, exchanged looks with him and came running up to me. he appeared in great agitation, and was quite out of breath; and, taking my hand in his, we ran up stairs together without speaking, and were in- stantly in the apartment i had left, where a stoup of wine still stood untasted. “ah this is fortunate! ” said my new spark, and helped himself. in the mean while, as our apartment was a corner one, and looked both east and north, i ran to the easter casement to look after drummond. now, note me well: i saw him going eastward in his tartans and bonnet, and the gilded hilt of his claymore glittering in the moon ; and at the very same time, i saw two men, the one in black, and the other likewise in tartans, coming towards the steps from the opposite bank, by the foot of the loch; and i saw drummond and they eyeing each other as they passed. i kept view of him till he vanished towards leith wynd, and by that time the strangers had come close up under our window. this is what i wish you to pay particular attention to. i had only lost sight of drummond (who had given me his name and address), for the short space of time that we took in running up one pair of short stairs; and during that space he had halted a moment, for, when i got my eye on him again he had not crossed the mouth of the next entry, nor proceeded above ten or twelve paces, and, at the same time, i saw the two the private memoirs and men coming down the bank on the opposite side of the loch, at about three hundred paces’ distance. both he and they were distinctly in my view, and never within speech of each other, until he vanished into one of the wynds leading toward the bottom of the high street, at which precise time the two strangers came below my window ; so that it was quite clear he neither could be one of them, nor have any communication with them. ‘yet, mark me again ; for of all things i have ever seen, this was the most singular. when i looked down at the two strangers, one of them was extremely lz'he drummond. so like was he that there was not one item in dress, form, feature, nor voice, by which i could distinguish the one from the other. i was certain it was not he, because i had seen the one going and the other approaching at the same time, and my impression at the moment was, that i looked upon some spirit, or demon, in his likeness. i felt a chillness creep all round my heart, my knees tottered, and, withdrawing my head from the open casement that lay in the dark shade, i said to the man who was with me, “good god, what is this!” “‘ what is it, my dear,” said he, as much alarmed as i was. “‘ as i live, there stands an apparition ! ” said i. ‘he was not so much afraid when he heard me say so, and peeping cautiously out, he looked and listened a while, and then drawing back, he said in a whisper, “they are both living men, and one of them is he i passed at the corner.” “‘ that he is not,” said i emphatically. “to that i will make oath.” ‘he smiled and shook his head, and then added, “i the private memoirs and ‘ “oh, i will, i will ! ” cried the other in black clothes in a wretched beseeching tone. “you shall instruct me in this, as in all things else.” ‘i thought all this while i was closely concealed from them, and wondered not a little when he in tartans gave me a sly nod, as much as to say, “what do you think of this? ” or “take note of what you see,” or something to that effect, from which i perceived, that whatever he was about, he did not wish it to be kept a secret. for all that i was impressed with a terror and anxiety that i could not overcome, but it only made me mark every event with the more intense curiosity. the highlander, whom i still could not help regarding as the evil genius of thomas drummond, performed every action as with the quickness of thought. he concealed the youth in black in a narrow entry, a little to the westward of my windows, and as he was leading him across the moonlit green by the shoulder, i perceived, for the first time, that both of them were armed with rapiers. he pushed him without resistance into the dark shaded close, made another signal to me, and hasted up the close to lucky sudds’ door. the city and the morning were so still that i heard every word that was uttered, on putting my head out a little. he knocked at the door sharply, and after waiting a considerable space, the bolt was drawn, and the door, as i conceived, edged up as far as the massy chain would let it. “is young dalcastle still in the house? ” said he sharply. ‘i did not hear the answer, but i heard him say shortly after, “if he is, pray tell him to speak with me for a few minutes.” he then withdrew from the door, and came slowly down the close in a lingering manner, looking oft behind him. dalcastle came out ; advanced a few steps confessions of a justified sinner. ' ' inf-ml" _|.. < elf we». after him, and then stood still, as if hesitating whether or not he should call out a friend to accompany him ; and that instant the door behind him was closed, chained, and the iron bolt drawn; on hearing of which he followed his adversary without further hesitation. as he passed below my window, i heard him say, “i beseech you, tom, let us do nothing in this matter rashly,” but i could not hear the answer of the other, who had turned the corner. ‘ i roused up my drowsy companion, who was leaning- on the bed, and we both looked together from the north window. we were in the shade, but the moon shone full on the two young gentlemen. young dalcastle was visibly the worse of liquor, and his back being turned towards us, he said something to the other which i could not make out, although he spoke a considerable time, and, from his tones and gestures, appeared to be reasoning. when he had done, the tall young man in the tartans drew his sword, and his face being straight to us, we heard him say distinctly, “no more words about it, george, if you please; but if you be a man, as i take you to be. draw your sword, and let us settle it here.” ‘dalcastle drew his sword without changing his attitude; but he spoke with more warmth, for we heard his words, “think you that i fear you, tom? be assured, sir, i would not fear ten of the best of your name, at each other’s backs: all that i want is to have friends with us to see fair play, for if you close with me you are a dead man.” ‘the other stormed at these words. “you are a braggart, sir,” cried he, “a wretch—a blot upon the cheek of nature—a blight on the christian world—a reprobate --i’ll have your soul, sir—you must play tennis, and put down elect brethren in another world to-morrow.” as f the private memoirs and to offence he gained his point; the latter, who had previously drawn, advanced in upon his vapouring and licentious antagonist, and a fierce combat ensued. my companion was delighted beyond measure, and i could not keep him from exclaiming, loud enough to have been heard, “that’s grand! that’s excellent!” for me, my heart quaked like an aspen. young dalcastle either had a decided advantage over his adversary, or else the other thought proper to let him have it; for he shifted, and wore, and flitted from dalcastle’s thrusts like a shadow, uttering ofttimes a sarcastic laugh, that seemed to provoke the other beyond all bearing. at one time he would spring away to a great distance, then advance again on young dalcastle with the swiftness of lightning. but that young hero always stood his ground, and repelled the attack : he never gave way, although they fought nearly twice round the bleaching green, which you know is not a very small one. at length they fought close up to the mouth of the dark entry, where the fellow in black stood all this while concealed, and then the combatant in tartans closed with his antagonist, or pretended to do so; but the moment they began to grapple, he wheeled about turning colwan’s back towards the entry, and then cried out, “ah, hell has it! my friend, my friend.” ‘that moment the fellow in black rushed from his cover with his drawn rapier, and gave the brave young dalcastle two deadly wounds in the back, as quick as arm could thrust, both of which i thought pierced through his body. he fell, and rolling himself on his back, he perceived who it was that had slain him thus foully, l and said, with a dying emphasis, which i never heard equalled, “oh, dog of hell, is it you who has done this p ” he said this, he brandished his rapier, exciting dalcastle mn i! —~ . ”“ sue. resides nhi'ill xonzn ‘uossv miveieii'i ol'ldfid )ihoa men an i. s... j; _ confessions of a justified sinner. ‘he articulated some more, which i could not hear for other sounds; for the moment that the man in black inflicted the deadly wound, my companion called out, “that’s unfair, you rip! that’s damnable! to strike a brave fellow behind one at a time, you cowards ! ” etc., to all which the unnatural fiend in the tartans answered with a loud exulting laugh ; and then, taking the poor paralysed murderer by the bow of the arm, he hurried him into the dark entry once more, where i lost sight of them for ever.’ before this time, mrs logan had risen up ; and when the narrator had finished, she was standing with her arms stretched upward at their full length, and her visage turned down, on which were portrayed the lines of the most absolute horror. ‘the dark suspicions of my late benefactor have been just, and his last prediction is ful- filled,’ cried she. ‘the murderer of the accomplished george colwan has been his own brother, set on, there is little doubt, by her who bare them both, and her directing angel, the self-justified bigot. aye, and yonder they sit, enjoying the luxuries so dearly purchased, with perfect impunity! if the almighty do not hurl them down, blasted with shame and confusion, there is no hope of retribution in this life. and, by his might, i will be the agent to accomplish it! why did the man not pursue the foul murderers? why did he not raise the alarm, and call the watch ? ’ ‘he? the wretchl he durst not move from the shelter he had obtained—no, not for the soul of him. he was pursued for his life at the moment when he first flew into my arms. but i did not know it; no, i did not then know him. may the curse of heaven, and the blight of hell, settle on the detestable wretchl the private memoirs and he pursue for the sake of justice! no; his efforts have all been for evil, but never for good. but i raised the alarm ; miserable and degraded as i was. i pursued and raised the watch myself. have you not heard the name of bell calvert coupled with that hideous and mysterious affair.’ , ‘yes, i have. in secret often i have heard it. but how came it that you could never be found? how came it that you never appeared in defence of the honourable thomas drummond ;—you, the only person who could have justified him ?’ ‘i could not, for i then fell under the power and guidance of a wretch, who durst not for the soul of him be brought forward in the affair. and what was worse, his evidence would have overborne mine, for he would have sworn that the man who called out and fought colwan was the same he met leaving my apartment, and there was an end of it. and, moreover, it is well- known that this same man—this wretch of whom i speak, never mistook one man for another in his life, which makes the mystery of the likeness between this incendiary and drummond the more extraordinary.’ ‘if it was drummond, after all that you have asserted, then are my surmises still wrong.’ ‘there is nothing of which i can be more certain, than that it was not drummond. we have nothing on earth but our senses to depend upon: if these deceive us, what are we to do? i own i cannot account for it ; nor ever shall be able to account for it as long as i live.’ ‘could you know the man in black, if you saw him again p ’ ‘i think i could if i saw him walk or run: his gait was very particular: he walked as if he had been flat- confessions of a justified sinner. soled, and his legs made of steel, without any joints in his feet or ankles.’ ‘the very same! the very same! the very same! pray will you take a few days’ journey into the country with me, to look at such a man p’ ‘you have preserved my life, and for you i will do any thing. i will accompany you with pleasure : and i think ' i can say that i will know him, for his form left an impression on my heart not soon to be eflaced. but ‘of this i am sure, that my unworthy companion will recognise him, and that he will be able to swear to his identity every day as long as he lives.’ ‘where is he? where is he?’ o! mrs calvert, where is he p’ ‘where is he? he is the wretch whom you heard giving me up to the death; who, after experiencing every mark of affection that a poor ruined being could confer, and after committing a thousand atrocities of which she was ignorant, became an informer to save his diabolical life, and attempted to offer up mine as a sacrifice for all. we will go by ourselves first, and i will tell you if it is necessary to send any further.’ the two dames, the very next morning, dressed themselves like country goodwives ; and, hiring two stout ponies furnished with pillions, they took their journey westward, and the second evening after leaving edinburgh they arrived at the village about two miles below dalcastle, where they alighted. but mrs logan, being anxious to have mrs calvert’s judgment without either hint or preparation, took care not to mention that they were so near to the end of their journey. in conformity with this plan, she said, after they had sat awhile, ‘heigh-ho, but i am weary! what suppose we the private memoirs and should rest a day here before we proceed further on our journey ? ’ mrs calvert was leaning on the casement, and looking out when her companion addressed these words to her, and by far too much engaged to return any answer, for her eyes were riveted on two young men who approached from the further end of the village ; and at length, turning round her head, she said with the most intense interest, ‘ proceed further on our journey, did you say? that we need not do ; for, as i live, here comes the very man !’ mrs logan ran to the window, and behold there was indeed robert wringhim colwan (now the laird of dal- castle) coming forward almost below their window, walking arm in arm with another young man ; and as the two passed, the latter looked up and made a sly signal to the two dames, biting his lip, winking with his left eye, and nodding his head. mrs calvert was astonished at this recognisance, the young man’s former companion having made exactly such another signal on the night of the duel, by the light of the moon; and it struck her, moreover, that she had somewhere seen this young man’s face before. she looked after him, and he winked over his shoulder to her ; but she was prevented from returning his salute by her companion, who uttered a loud cry, between a groan and a shriek, and fell down on the floor with a rumble like a wall that had suddenly been undermined. she had fainted quite away, and re- quired all her companion’s attention during the remainder of the evening, for she had scarcely ever well recovered out of one fit before she fell into another; and in the short intervals she raved like one distracted, or in a dream. after falling into a sound sleep by night, she recovered confessions of a justified sinner. her equanimity, and the two began to converse seriously on what they had seen. mrs calvert averred that the young man who passed next to the window, was the very man who stabbed george colwan in the back, and she said she was willing to take her oath on it at any time when required, and was certain if the wretch ridsley saw him, that he would make oath to the same purport, for that his walk was so peculiar, no one of common discernment could mistake it. mrs logan was in great agitation, and said, ‘it is what i have suspected all along, and what i am sure my late master and benefactor was persuaded of, and the horror of such an idea cut short his days. that wretch, mrs calvert, is the born brother of him he murdered ; sons of the same mother they were, whether or not of the same father, the lord only knows. but, , mrs calvert, that is not the main thing that has discomposed me, and shaken my nerves to pieces -at this time. who do you think the young man was who walked in his company to-night ? ’ ‘i cannot for my life recollect, but am convinced i have seen the same fine form and face before.’ ‘and did not he seem to know us, mrs calvert? you who are able to recollect things as they happened, did he not seem to recollect us, and make signs to that effect ? ’ ‘he did, indeed, and apparently with great good humour.’ ‘ o, mrs caivert, hold me, else i shall fall into hysterics again! who is he? tell me who you suppose he is, for i cannot say my own thought.’ ‘on my life, i cannot remember.’ ‘ did you note the~appearance of the young gentleman the private memoirs and you saw slain that night? do you recollect aught of the appearance of my y ung master, george colwan ? ’ mrs calvert sat silent, and stared the other mildly in the face. their looks encountered, and there was an unearthly amazement that gleamed from each, which, meeting together, caught real fire, and returned the flame to their heated imaginations, till the two associates became like two statues, with their hands spread, their eyes fixed, and their chops fallen down upon their bosoms. an old woman who kept the lodging-house, having been called in before when mrs logan was faintish, chanced to enter at this crisis with some cordial; and, seeing the state of her lodgers, she caught the infection, and fell into the same rigid and statue-like appearance. no scene more striking was ever exhibited; and if mrs calvert had not resumed strength of mind to speak, and break the spell, it is impossible to say how long it might have continued. ‘it is he, i believe,’ said she, uttering the words as it were inwardly. ‘it can be none other but he. but, no, it is impossible! i saw him stabbed through and through the heart; i saw him roll backward on the green in his own blood, utter his last words, and groan away his soul. yet if it is not he, who can it be? ’ ‘it is he ! ’ cried mrs logan hysterically. ‘yes, yes, it is he ! ’ cried the landlady, in unison. ‘it is who?’ said mrs calvert; whom do you mean, mistress p ’ i ‘ oh, i don’t know ! i don’t know ! i was affrighted. ‘hold your peace, then, till you recover your senses, and tell me, if you can, who that young gentleman is who keeps company with the new laird of dalcastle p’ confessions of a justified sinner. ‘ oh, it is he ! it is he !’ screamed mrs logan, wring~ ing her hands. ‘oh, it is he! it is he ’ cried the landlady, wringing hers. , . mrs calvert turned the latter gently and civilly out of the apartment, observing that there seemed to be some infection in the air of the room, and she would be wise for herself to keep out of it. the two dames- had a restless and hideous night. sleep came not to their relief; for their conversation was wholly about the dead, who seemed to be alive, and their minds were wandering and groping in a chaos of mystery. ‘did you attend to !his corpse, and know that he positively died and was buried?’ said mrs calvert. . ‘ yes, from the moment that his fair but mangled corpse was brought home,i attended it till it was screwed in the coffin. i washed the long stripes of blood from his lifeless form, on both sides of the body—i bathed the livid wound that passed through his generous and gentle heart. there was one through the flesh of his left side, too, which had |bled most outwardly of them all. i bathed them, and bandaged them up with wax and perfumed ointment, but still the blood oozed through all, so that when he was laid in the coffin he was like one newly murdered. my brave, my generous young master! he was always as a son to me, and no son was ever more kind or more respectful to a mother. but he was butchered—he was cut off from the earth ere he had well reached to manhood-most barbarously and unfairly slain. and how is it, how can it be, that we again see him here, walking arm in arm with his murderer?’ the private memoirs and ‘the thing cannot be, mrs logan. it is a phantasy of our disturbed imaginations, therefore let us compose ourselves till we investigate this matter further.’ ‘it cannot be in nature, that is quite clear,’ said mrs logan ; ‘yet how it should be that i should think so—i who knew and nursed him from his infancy—there lies the paradox. as you said once before, we have nothing but our senses to depend on, and if you and i believe that we see a person, why, we do see him. whose word, or whose reasoning can convince us against our own senses ? we will disguise ourselves, as poor women selling a few country wares, and we will go up to the hall and see what is to see, and hear what we can hear, for this is a weighty business in which we are engaged, namely, to turn the vengeance of the law upon an unnatural monster ; and we will further learn, if we can, who this is that accompanies him.’ mrs calvert acquiesced, and the two dames took their way to dalcastle, with baskets well furnished with trifles. they did not take the common path from the ' village, but went about, and approached the mansion by a different way. but it seemed as if some overruling power ordered it, that they should miss no chance of attaining the information they wanted. for ere ever they came within half a mile of dalcastle, they perceived the two youths coming, as to meet them, on the same path. the road leading from dalcastle, towards the north-east, as all the country knows, goes along a dark bank of brushwood called the bogle-heuch. it was by this track that the two women were going; and when they perceived the two gentlemen meeting them, they turned back, and the moment they were out of their sight, they concealed themselves in a thicket close by confessions of a justified sinner. the road. they did this because mrs logan was terrified of being discovered, and because they wished to reconnoitre without being seen. mrs calvert now charged her, whatever she saw or whatever she heard, to put on a resolution, and support it, for if she fainted there and was discovered, what was to become of her? the two young men came on in earnest and vehement conversation; but the subject they were on was a terrible one, and hardly fit to be repeated in the face of a christian community. wringhim was disputing the boundlessness of the true christian’s freedom, and expressing doubts, that, chosen as he knew he was from all eternity, still it might be possible for him to commit acts that would exclude him from the limits of the covenant. the other argued, with mighty fluency, that the thing was utterly impossible, and altogether incon- sistent with eternal predestination. the arguments of the latter prevailed, and the laird was driven to sullen silence. but, to the women’s utter surprise, as the conquering disputant passed, he made a signal of re- cognisance through the brambles to them, as formerly, and that he might expose his associate fully, and in his true colours, he led him backward and forward past the women more than twenty times, making him to confess both the crimes that he had, done, and those he had in contemplation. at length he said to him, ‘assuredly i saw some vagrant women strolling on this walk, my dear friend: i wish we could find them, for there is little doubt that they are concealed here in your woods.’ ‘i wish we could find them,’ answered wringhim; ‘we would have; fine sport maltreating and abusing them.’ ‘that we should, that we should! now tell me, l confessions of a justified sinner. terrible quandary, they durst not stir, for they had some hopes that this extraordinary person was on a mission of the same sort with themselves, knew of them, and was going to make use of their testimony. mrs logan was several times on the point of falling into a swoon, so much did-the appearance of the young man impress her, until her associate covered her face that she might listen without embarrassment. but this latter dialogue aroused different feelings within them; namely, those arising from imminent personal danger. they saw his waggish associate point out the place of their conceal- ment to wringhim, who came towards them, out of curiosity to see what his friend meant by what he believed to be a joke, manifestly without crediting it in the least degree. when he came running away, the other called after him, ‘if she is too hard for you, call to me.’ as he said this, he hasted out of sight, in the contrary direction, apparently much delighted with the joke. wringhim came rushing through the thicket im- petuously, to the very spot where mrs logan lay squatted. she held the wrapping close about her head, but he tore it off and discovered her. ‘the curse of god be on thee!’ said be; ‘what fiend has brought thee here, and for what purpose art thou come? but, whatever has brought thee, i have thee ./ ’ and with that he seized her by the throat. the two women, when they heard what jeopardy they were in from such a wretch, had squatted among the underwood at a small distance from each other, so that he had never observed mrs calvert; but no sooner had he seized her bene- factress, than, like a wild cat, she sprung out of the thicket, and had both her hands fixed at his throat, one of them twisted in his stock, in a twinkling. she the private memoirs and brought him back-over among the brushwood, and the two, fixing on him like two harpies, mastered him with ease. then indeed was he wofully beset. he deemed for a while that‘ his friend was at his back, and turning his bloodshot eyes towards the path, he attempted to call ; but there was no friend there, and the women cut short his cries by another twist of his stock. ‘now, gallant and rightful laird of dalcastle,’ said mrs logan, ‘what hast thou to say for thyself? lay thy account to dree the weird thou hast so well earned. now shalt thou suffer due penance for murdering thy brave and only brother.’ ‘thou liest, thou hag of the pit! i touched not my brother’s life.’ ‘i saw thee do it with these eyes that now look thee in the face; ay, when his back was to thee too, and when he was hotly engaged with thy friend,’ said mrs calvert. ‘i heard thee confess it again and again this same hour,’ said mrs logan. ‘ay, and so did i,’ said her companion.--‘ murder will out, though the almighty should lend hearing to the ears of the willow, and speech to'the seven tongues of the woodriff.’ ‘you are liars, and witches!’ said he, foaming with rage, ‘and creatures fitted from the beginning for eternal destruction. i’ll have your bones and your blood sacri- ficed on your cursed altars! o, gil-martin ! gil-martin ! where art thou now ? here, here is the proper food for blessed vengeance !—hilloa ! ’ there was no friend, no gil-martin there to hear or assist him : he was in the two women’s mercy, but they used it with moderation. they mocked, they tormented, confessions of a justified sinner. and they threatened him : but, finally, after putting him in great terror, they bound his hands behind his back, and his feet fast with long straps of garters which they chanced to have in their baskets, to prevent him from pursuing them till they were out of his reach. as they left him, which they did in the middle of the path, mrs calvert said, ‘we could easily put an end to thy sinful life, but our hands shall be free of thy blood. neverthe- less thou art still in our power, and the vengeance of thy country shall overtake thee, thou mean and cowardly murderer, ay, and that more suddenly than thou art awarel’ the women posted to edinburgh: and as they put themselves under the protection of an english merchant, who was journeying thither with twenty horses laden, and armed servants, so they had scarcely any conversation on the road. when they arrived at mrs logan’s house, then they spoke of what they had seen and heard, and agreed that they had sufficient proof to condemn young wringhim, who they thought richly deserved the severest doom of the law. ‘i never in my life saw any human being,’ said mrs calvert, ‘whom i thought so like a fiend. if a demon could inherit flesh and blood, that youth is precisely such a being as i could conceive that demon to be. the depth and the malignity of his eye is hideous. his breath is like the airs from a charnel-house, and his flesh seems fading from his bones, as if -the worm that never dies were gnawing it away already.’ ‘he was always repulsive, and every way repulsive,’ said the other ; ‘but he is now indeed altered greatly to the worse. while we were handfasting him, i felt his body to be feeble and emaciated ; but yet i know him to the private memoirs and be so puffed up with spiritual pride, that i believe he weens every one of his actions justified before god, and instead of having stings of conscience for these, he takes great merit to himself in having affected them. still my thoughts are less about him than the extraordinary being who accompanies him. he does every thing with so much ease and indifference, so much velocity and effect, that all bespeak him an adept in wickedness. the likeness to my late hapless young master is so striking, that i can hardly believe it to be a chance model ; and i think he imitates him in every thing, for some purpose, or some effect on his sinful associate. do you know that he is so like in every lineament, look, and gesture, that against the clearest light of reason, i cannot in my mind separate the one from the other, and have a certain indefinable impression on my mind, that they are one and the same being, or that the one was a prototype of the other.’ ‘if there is an earthly crime,’ said mrs calvert, ‘for the due punishment of which the almighty may be supposed to subvert the order of nature, it is fratricide. but tell me, dear friend, did you remark to what the subtile and hellish villain was endeavouring to prompt the assassin p ’ ‘no, i could not comprehend it. my senses were altogether so bewildered, that i thought they had com- bined to deceive me, andi gave them no credit.’ ‘then hear me: i am almost certain he was using every persuasion to induce him to make away with his mother; and i likewise conceive that i heard the in- cendiary give his consent.’ ‘this is dreadful. let us speak and think no more about it, till we see the issue. in the meantime, let us do that confessions of a justified sinner. which is our bounden duty—go and divulge all that we know relating to this foul murder.’ accordingly the two women went to sir thomas wallace of cragie, the lord justice clerk (who was, i think, either uncle or grandfather to young drummond, who was outlawed, and obliged to fly his country, on account of colwan’s death), and to that gentleman they related every circumstance of what they had seen and heard. he examined calvert very minutely, and seemed deeply interested in her evidence—said he knew she was relating the truth, and in testimony of it, brought a letter of young drummond’s from his desk, wherein that young gentleman, after protesting his innocence in the most forcible terms, confessed having been seen with such awoman in such a house, after leaving the company of his friends; and that, on going home, sir thomas’s servant had let-him in, in the dark, and from these cir- cumstances he found it possible to prove an alibi. he begged of his relative, if ever an opportunity offered, to do his endeavour to clear up that mystery, and remove the horrid stigma from his name in his country, and among his kin, of having stabbed a friend behind his back. lord craigie, therefore, directed the two women to the proper authorities, and, after hearing their evidence there, it was judged proper to apprehend the present laird of dalcastle, and bring him to his trial. but before that, they sent the prisoner in the tolbooth, he who had seen the whole transaction along with mrs calvert, to take a view of wringhim privately; and his discrimination being so well-known as to be proverbial all over the land, they determined secretly to be ruled by his report. they accordingly sent him on a pretended mission of g confessions of a justified sinner. legality to dalcastle, with orders to see and speak with the proprietor, without giving him a hint what was wanted. on his return, they examined him, and he told them that he found all things at the place in utter con- fusion and dismay; that the lady of the place was missing, and could not be found, dead or alive. on being asked if he had ever seen the proprietor before, he looked astounded, and unwilling to answer. but it came out that he had; and that he had once seen him kill a man on such a spot at such an hour. officers were then dispatched, without delay, to appre- hend the monster, and bring him to justice. on these going to the mansion, and inquiring for him, they were told he was at home ;v on which they stationed guards, and searched all the premises, but he was not to be found. it was in vain that they overturned beds, raised floors, and broke open closets; robert wringhim colwan was lost once and for ever. his mother also was lost; and strong suspicions attached to some of the farmers and house servants, to whom she was obnoxious, relating to her disappearance. the honourable thomas drummond became a distinguished officer in the austrian service, and died in the memorable year for scotland, ; and this is all with which history, justiciary records, and tradition, furnish me relating to these matters. i have now the pleasure of presenting my readers with an original document of a most singular nature, and preserved for their perusal in a still more singular manner. i offer no remarks on it, and make as few additions to it leaving every one to judge for himself. we have heard much of the rage of fanaticism in former days, but nothing to this. €\§ . . §§§§\ .\ _§\§§a§§s is. aqhi wants a i q f h i: sits. ~ ‘ - midget...st .rssssi mitth - is. ... xssissss. see... €\§ in ii as. the... .s disstssxftip is; q?“ m % sense he he is the private memoirs and confessions of a justified sinner. written y himself my life has been a life of trouble and turmoil; of change and vicissitude; of anger and exultation; of sorrow and of vengeance. my sorrows have all been for a slighted gospel, and my vengeance has been wreaked on its adversaries. therefore, in the might of heaven i will sit down and write : i will let the wicked of this world know what i have done in the faith of the promises, and justification by grace, that they may read and tremble, and bless their gods of silver and of gold, that the minister of heaven was removed from their sphere before their blood was mingled with their sacrifices. i was born an outcast in the world, in which i was destined to act so conspicuous a part. my mother was a burning and a shining light in the community of scottish worthies, and in the days of her virginity had suffered much in the persecution of the saints. but it so pleased heaven, that, as a trial of her faith, she was married to one of the wicked; a man all over spotted with the leprosy of sin. as well might they have conjoined fire and water together, in hopes that they would consort and amalgamate, as purity and corruption : she fled from his “er/“'f" the private memoirs and embraces the first night after their marriage, and from that time forth, his iniquities so galled her upright heart, that she quitted his society altogether, keeping her own apartments in the same house with him. iwas the second son of this unhappy marriage, and, long ere ever i was born, my father, according to the flesh, disclaimed all relation or connexion with me, and all interest in me, save what the law compelled him to take, which was to grant me a scanty maintenance ; and had it not been for a faithful minister of the gospel, my mother’s early instructor, i should have remained an outcast from the church visible. he took pity on me, admitting me not only into that, but into the bosom of his own household and ministry also, and to him am i indebted, under heaven, for the high conceptions and glorious discernment between good and evil, right and wrong, which i attained even at an early age. it was he who directed my studies aright, both in the learning of the ancient fathers, and the doctrines of the reformed church, and designed me for his assistant and successor in the holy oflice. i missed no opportunity of perfecting myself particularly in all the minute points of theology in which my reverend father and mother took great delight; but at length i acquired so much skill that i astonished my teachers, and made them gaze at one another. i remember that it was the custom in my patron’s house, to ask the questions of the single catechism round every sabbath night. he asked the first, my mother the second, and so on, every one saying the question asked, and then asking the next. it fell to my mother to ask effectual calling at me. i said the answer with propriety and emphasis. ‘now, madam, confessions of a justified sinner. added i, ‘my question to you is, what is ineffectual calling?’ ‘ineffectual calling? there is no such thing, robert,’ said she. ‘ ‘ but there is, madam,’ said i ; ‘and that answer proves how much you say these fundamental precepts by rote, and without any consideration. ineffectual calling is, the outward call of the gospel without any effect on the hearts of unregenerated and impenitent sinners. have not all these the same calls, warnings, doctrines, and reproofs, that we have? and is not this ineffectual calling? has not ardinferry the same? has not partick m‘lure the same? has not the laird of dalcastle and his reprobate heir the same? and will any tell me, that this is not [neflectual calling? ’ ‘what a wonderful boy he is !’ said my mother. ‘i’m feared he turn out to be a conceited gowk,’ said old barnet, the minister’s man. ‘no,’ said my pastor, and father (as i shall henceforth denominate him)-—‘no, barnet, he is a wonderful boy; and no marvel, for i have prayed for these talents to be bestowed on him from his infancy: and do you think that heaven would refuse a prayer so disinterested? no, it is impossible. but my dread is, madam,’ continued he, turning to my mother, ‘that he is yet in the bond of iniquity.’ ‘ god forbid ! ’ said my mother. ‘i have struggled with the almighty long and hard,’ continued he; ‘but have as yet had no certain token of acceptance in his behalf. i have indeed fought a hard fight, but have been repulsed by him who hath seldom refused my request; although i cited his own words against him and endeavoured to hold him at his promise, the private memoirs and he hath so many turnings in the supremacy of his power that i have been rejected. how dreadful is it to think of our darling being still without the pale of the covenant! but i have vowed a vow, and in that there is hope.’ my heart quaked with terror, when i thought of being still living in a state of reprobation, subjected to the awful issues of death, judgment, and eternal misery, by the slightest accident or casualty, and i set about the duty of prayer myself with the utmost earnestness. i prayed three times every day, and seven times on the sabbath; but the more frequently and fervently that i prayed, i sinned still the more. about this time, and for a long period afterwards, amounting to several years, i lived in a hopeless and deplorable state of mind, for i said to myself, ‘if my name is not written in the book of life from all eternity, it is in vain for me to presume that either vows or prayers of mine, or those of all mankind combined, can ever procure its insertion now.’ i had come under many vows, most solemnly taken, every one of which i had broken; and i saw with the intensity of juvenile grief, that there was no hope for me. i went on sinning every hour, and all the while most strenuously warring against sin, and repenting of every one trans- gression, as soon after the commission of it as i got leisure to think. but oh, what a wretched state this unregenerated state is, in which every effort only aggravates our oflences! i found it vanity to contend; for, after communing with my heart, the conclusion was as follows : ‘if i could repent me of all my sins, and shed tears of blood for them, still have i not a load of original transgression pressing on me, that is enough to crush me to the lowest hell. i may be angry with my first parents confessions of a justified sinner. for having sinned, but how i shall repent me of their sin, is beyond what i am able to comprehend.’ still, in those days of depravity and corruption, i had some of those principles implanted in my mind, which were afterward to spring up with such amazing fertility, among the heroes of the faith and the promises. in particular, i felt great indignation against all the wicked world, and often wished for the means of ridding it of such a noxious burden. i liked john barnet, my reverend father’s serving-man, extremely ill ; but, from a supposition that he might be one of the justified, i refrained from doing him any injury. he gave always his word against me, and when we were by ourselves, in the barn or the fields, he rated me with such severity for my faults, that my heart could brook it no longer. he discovered some notorious lies that i had framed, and taxed me with them in such a manner, that i could in no wise get off. my cheek burnt with offence rather than shame; and he, thinking he had got the mastery of me, exulted over me most unmercifully, telling me i was a selfish and conceited blackguard, who made great pretences towards religious devotion to cloak a disposition tainted with deceit, and that it would not much astonish him if i brought myself to the gallows. i gathered some courage from his over severity, and answered him as follows: ‘who made thee a judge of the actions or dispositions of the almighty’s creatures— thou who art a worm, and no man in his sight ? how it befits thee to deal out judgments and anathemas! hath he not made one vessel to honour, and another to dis- honour, as in the case with myself and thee p hath he not builded his stories in the heavens, and laid the founda— tions thereof in the earth, and how can a being like thee the private memoirs and | judge between good and evil, that are both subjected to the workings of his hand ; or of the opposing principles in the soul of man, correcting, modifying, and refining one another?’ i said this-with a strong display of fervour for which i was remarkable at my years, and expected old barnet to be utterly confounded ; but he only shook his head and with the most provoking grin said, ‘there he goes ! sickan sublime and ridiculous sophistry i never heard come out of another mouth but ane. there needs nae aiths to be sworn afore the session wha is your father, young goodman. i ne’er for my part, saw a son sae like a dad, sin my een first opened.’ with that he went away, saying, with an ill-natured wince, ‘you made to honour and me to dishonour! dirty bow-kail thing that thou be’st ! ’ ‘i will have the old rascal on the hip for this, if i live,’ thought i. so i went and asked my mother if i ohn was a righteous man? she could not tell, but supposed he was, and therefore i got no encouragement from her. i went next day to my reverend father, and inquired his opinion, expecting as little from that quarter. he knew the elect as it were by instinct, and could have told you of all those in his own, and some neighbouring parishes, who were born within the boundaries‘of the covenant of promise, and who were not. ‘i keep a good deal in company with your servant, old barnet, father,’ said i. ‘you do, boy ; you do, i see,’ said he. ' i wish i may not keep too much in his company,’ said i, ‘not knowing what kind of society i am in ;—is john a good man, father?’ ‘why, boy, he is but so, so. a morally good man confessions of a justified sinner. john is, but very little of the leaven of true righteousness, which is faith within. i am afraid old barnet, with all his stock of morality, will be a cast-away.’ my heart was greatly cheered by this remark; and i sighed very deeply, and hung my head to one side. the worthy father observed me- and inquired the cause, when i answered as follows : ‘ how dreadful the thought, that i have been going daily in company and fellowship with one, whose name is written on the red-letter side of the book of life; whose body and soul have been, from all eternity, consigned over to everlasting destruc- tion, and to whom the blood of the atonement can never, never reach! father, this is an awful thing, and beyond my comprehension.’ ‘while we are in the world, we must mix with the inhabitants thereof,’ said he; ‘and the stains which ad- here to us by reason of this admixture, which is un- avoidable, shall all be washed away. it is our duty, how- ever, to shun the society of wicked men as much as possible, lest we partake of their sins, and become sharers with them in punishment. john, however, is a morally good man, and may yet get a cast of grace.’ ‘i always thought him a good man till to-day,’ said i ‘ when he threw out some reflections on your character, so horrible that i quake to think of the wickedness and malevolence of his heart. he was rating me very im- pertinently for some supposed fault, which had no being save in his own jealous brain, when i attempted to reason him out of his belief in the spirit of calm christian argu- ment. but how do you think he answered me ? he did so, sir, by twisting his mouth at me, and remarking that such sublime and ridiculous sophistry never came out of another month but one (meaning yours), and that no confessions of a justified sinner. ‘hout na, sir, it’s only bad folks that thinks sae. they find ma bits ’ gibes come hame to their hearts wi’ a kind ’ yerk, an’ that gars them wince.’ ‘ that saying is ten times worse than the other, john; it is a manifest insult; it is just telling me to my face, that you think me a bad man.’ ‘a body canna help his thoughts, sir.’ ‘n , but a man’s thoughts are generally formed from observation. now i should like to know, even from the mouth of a misbeliever, what part of my conduct warrants such a conclusion p ’ ‘nae particular pairt, sir; i draw a’ my conclusions frae the haill o’ a man’s character, an’ i’m no that aften far wrang.’ ‘well, john, and what sort of general character do you suppose mine to be p ’ ‘yours is a scripture character, sir, an’ i’ll prove it.’ ‘i hope so, john. well, which of the scripture characters do you think approximates nearest to my own.’ ‘guess, sir, guess. i wish to lead a proof.’ ‘ why, if it be an old testament character, i hope it is melchizedek, for at all events, you cannot deny there is one point of resemblance; i, like him, am a preacher of righteousness. if it be a new testament character, i suppose you mean the apostle of the gentiles, of whom i am an unworthy representative. ‘na, na, sir, better nor that still, an’ fer closer is the resemblance. when ye bring me to the point, i maun speak. ye are the just pharisee, sir, that gaed up wi’ the poor publican to pray in the temple; an’ ye’re acting the very same pairt at this time, an’ saying i’ your heart, “ god, i thank thee that i am not as other men are, the private memoirs and an’ in nae way like this poor, misbelieving, unregenerate sinner, john barnet i ”’ ‘i hope i may say so indeed.’ ‘there now, i tauld you how it was! but, d’ye hear, maister : here stands the poor sinner, john barnet, your beadle an’ servant~man, wha wadna change chances wi’ you in the neist world, nor consciences in this, for ten times a’ that you possess—your justification by faith an’ awthegither.’ ' ‘you are extremely audacious and impertinent, john; but the language of reprobation cannot affect me ; i came only to ask you one question, which i desire you to answer candidly. did you ever say to any one that i was the boy robert’s natural father ? ’ ‘hout na, sir! ha, ha, ha! aih, fie na, sir! i durstna say that for my life. i doubt the black stool, an’ the sack gown, or maybe the juggs wad hae been my portion had i said sic a thing as that. hout, hout, fie, fie! unco-like doings they for a melchizedek or a saint paul!’ ‘john, you are a profane old man, and i desire that you will not presume to break your jests on me. tell me, dare you say, or dare you think, that i am the natural father of that boy?’ ‘ye canna hinder me to think whatever i like, sir, nor can i hinder mysel.’ ‘but did you ever say to any one, that he resembled me, and fathered himself well enough ? ’ ‘i hae said monya time, that he resembled you, sir. naebody can mistake that.’ ‘but john, there are many natural reasons for such likenesses, besides that of consanguinity. they depend much on the thoughts and affections of the mother; and confessions of a justified sinner. it is probable that the mother of this boy, being deserted by her worthless husband, having turned her thoughts on me as likely to be her protector, may have caused this striking resemblance.’ ‘ay, it may be, sir. i coudna say.’ ‘i have known a lady, john, who was delivered of a blackamoor child, merely from the circumstance of having got a start by the sudden entrance of her negro servant, and not being able to forget him for several hours.’ ‘it may be, sir; but i ken this—an’ i had been the laird—i wadna hae ta’en that story in.’ ‘so then, john, you positively think, from a casual likeness, that this boy is my son ? ’ ‘man’s thoughts are vanity, sir ; they come unasked an’ gang away without a dismissal, an’ he canna help them. i’m neither gaun to say that i think he’s your ', nor that i think he’s no your son : sae ye needna pose me nae mair about it.’ ‘hear then my determination, john: if you do not promise to me, in faith and honour, that you never will say, or insinuate such a thing again in your life, as that that boy is my natural son, i will take the keys of the church from you, and dismiss you my service.’ john pulled out the keys, and dashed them on the gravel at the reverend minister’s feet. ‘there are the keys ’ your kirk, sir! i hae never had muckle mense ’ them sin’ ye entered the door o’t. i hae carried them this three-an-thretty year, but they hae been like to burn a hole in my 'pouch sin’ ever they were turned for your admittance. tak them again, an’ gie them to wha you will, and muckle gude may he get ’ them. auld john may dee a beggar in a hay barn, or the private memoirs and at the back of a dike, but he sall aye be maister ’ his aim thoughts, an’ gie them vent or no, as he likes.’ he left the manse that day, and i rejoiced in the riddance ; for i disdained to be kept so much under, by one who was in the bond of iniquity, and of whom there seemed no hope, as he rejoiced in his frowardness, and refused to submit to that faithful teacher, his master. it was about this time that my reverend father preached a sermon, one sentence of which affected me most dis- agreeably : it was to the purport, that every unrepented sin was productive of a new sin with each breath that a man drew; and every one of these new sins added to the catalogue in the same manner. i was utterly confounded at the multitude of my transgressions; for i was sensible that there were great numbers of sins of which i had never been able thoroughly to repent, and these momentary ones, by a moderate calculation, had, i saw long ago, amounted to a hundred and fifty thousand in the minute, and i saw no end to the series of repentances to which i had subjected myself. a lifetime was nothing to enable me to accomplish the sum, and then being, for anything i was certain of, in my state of nature, and the grace of repentance withheld from me—what was i to do, or what was to become of me? in the meantime, i went on sinning without measure; but i was still more troubled about the multitude than the magnitude of my trans- gressions, and the small minute ones puzzled me more than those that were more heinous, as the latter had generally some good effects in the way of punishing wicked men, froward boys, and deceitful women; and i rejoiced even then in my early youth, at being used as a scourge in the hand of the lord; another jehu, a cyrus, or a nebuchadnezzar. confessions of a justified sinner. iii on the whole, i remember that i got into great confusion relating to my sins and repentances, and knew neither where to begin or how to proceed, and often had great fears that i was wholly without christ, and that i would find god a consuming fire to me. i could not help running into new sins continually; but then i was mercifully dealt with, for i was often made to repent of them most heartily, by reason of bodily chastisement received on these delinquencies being discovered. i was particularly prone to lying, and i cannot but admire the mercy that has freely forgiven me all these juvenile sins. now that i know them all to be blotted out and that i am an accepted person, i maythe more freely confess them ; the truth is, that one lie always paved the way for another, from hour to hour, from day to day, and from year to year ; so that i found myself constantly involved in a labyrinth of deceit, from which it was impossible to extricate myself. if i knew a person to be a godly one, i could almost have kissed his feet; but against the carnal portion of mankind, i set my face continually. i esteemed the true ministers of the gospel; but the prelatic party, and the preachers up of good works i abhorred, and to this hour i account them the worst and most heinous of all transgressors. there was only one boy at mr wilson’s class who kept always the upper hand of me in every part of education. i strove against him from year to year, but it was all in vain; for he was a very wicked boy; and i was con- vinced he had dealings with the devil. indeed, it was believed all over the country that his mother was a witch; and i was at length convinced that it was no human ingenuity that beat me with so much ease in the confessions of a justified sinner. before i made myself so much master of the outline, that i could have drawn it in any situation what- ever, almost off-hand. i then took m‘gill’s account book of algebra home with me, and at my leisure put down a number of gross caricatures of mr wilson here and there, several of them in situations notoriously ludi- crous. i waited the discovery of this treasure with great impatience ; but the book chancing to be one that m‘gill was not using, i saw it might be long enough before i enjoyed the consummation of my grand scheme ; therefore with all the ingenuity i was master of, i brought it before our dominie’s eye. but never shall i forget the rage that! gleamed in the tyrant’s phiz! i was actually.terrified to look at him, and trembled at his voice. m‘gill was called upon, and examined relating to the obnoxious figures. he denied flatly that any of them were of his doing. but the master inquiring at him whose they were, he could not tell, but affirmed it to be some trick. mr wilson at one time began, as i thought, to hesitate; but the evidence was so strong against m‘gill, that at length his solemn asseverations of innocence only proved an aggravation of his crime. there was not one in the school who had ever been known to draw a figure but himself, and on him fell the whole weight of the tyrant’s vengeance. it was dreadful; and i was once in hopes that he would not leave life in the culprit. he, however, left the school for several months, refusing to return to be subjected to punishment for the faults of others, and i stood king of the class. matters were at last made up between m‘gill’s parents and the schoolmaster; but by that time i had got the start of him, and never in my life did i exert myself so much to keep the mastery. it was in vain; the powers h the private memoirs and of enchantment prevailed, and i was again turned d wn with the tear in my eye. i could think of no amends but one, and being driven to desperation, i put it in practice. i told a lie of him. i came boldly up to the master, and told him that m‘gill had in my hearing cursed him in a most shocking manner, and called him vile names. he called m‘gill and charged him with the crime, and the proud young coxcomb was so stunned at the' atrocity of the charge, that his face grew as red as crimson, and the words stuck in his throat as he feebly denied it. his guilt was manifest, and he was again flogged most nobly, and dismissed the school for ever in disgrace, as a most incorrigible vagabond. this was a great victory gained, and i rejoiced and exulted exceedingly in it. it had, however, very nigh cost me my life; for not long thereafter i encountered m‘gill in the fields, on which he came up and challenged me for a liar, daring me to fight him. i refused, and said that i looked on him as quite below my notice; but he would not quit me, and finally told me that he should either lick me, or i should lick him, as he had no other means of being revenged on such a scoundrel. i tried to intimidate him, but it would not do; and i believe i would have given all that i had in the world to he quit of him. he at length went so far as first to kick me, and' then strike me on the face; and, being both older and stronger than he, i thought it scarcely became me to take such insults patiently. i was, nevertheless, well aware that the devilish powers of his mother would finally pre- vail; and either the dread of this, or the inward con- sciousness, of having wronged him, certainly unnerved my arm, for i fought wretchedly, and was soon wholly overcome. i was so sore defeated that i kneeled; and the private memoirs and passed over—when my flesh and bones are decayed, and my soul has passed to its everlasting home, then shall the sons of men ponder on the events of my life ; wonder and tremble, and tremble and wonder how such things should be. that stranger youth and i approached other in silence, and slowly, with our eyes fixed on each other’s eyes. we approached till not more than a yard intervened between us, and then stood still and gazed, measuring each other from head to foot. what was my astonish- ment on perceiving that he was the same being as myself! the clothes were the same to the smallest item. the form was the same ; the apparent age ; the colour of the hair; the eyes; and, as far as recollection could serve me from viewing my own features in a glass, the features too were the very same. i conceived at first that i saw a vision, and that my guardian angel had appeared to me at this important era of my life ; but this singular being read my thoughts in my looks, anticipating the very words that i was going to utter. ‘you think i am your brother,’ said he ; ‘ or that i am your second self. i am indeed. your brother, not accord- ing to the flesh, but in my belief of the same truths, and my assurance in the same mode of redemption, than which, i hold nothing so great or so glorious on earth.’ ‘then you are an associate well adapted to my present state,’ said i. ‘for this time is a time of great rejoicing in spirit to me. i am on my way to return thanks to the most high for my redemption from the bonds of sin and misery. if you will join with me heart and hand in youthful thanksgiving, then shall we two go and worship together, but if not, go your way, and i shall go mine.’ ' the private memoirs and ever falling away, who were once accepted and received into covenant with god, for he seemed to know, that in that confidence and that trust, my whole hopes were centred. we moved about from one place to another, until the day was wholly spent. my mind had all the while been kept in a state of agitation resembling the motion of a whirlpool, and when we came to separate, i then dis- covered that the purpose for which i had sought the fields had been neglected, and that i had been diverted from the worship of god, by attending to the quibbles and dogmas of this singular and unaccountable being, who seemed to have more knowledge and information than all the persons i had ever known put together. we parted with expressions of mutual regret, and when i left him i felt a deliverance, but at the same time, a certain consciousness that i was not thus to get free of him, but that he was like to be an acquaintance that was to stick to me for good or for evil. i was astonished at his acuteness and knowledge about every- thing; but as for his likeness to me, that was quite unaccountable. he was the same person in every respect, but yet he was not always so; for i observed several times, when we were speaking of certain divines and their tenets, that his face assumed something of the appearance of theirs; and it struck me, that by setting his features to the mould of other people’s, he entered at once into their conceptions and feelings. i had been greatly flattered and greatly interested by his conversation; whether i had been the better for it or the worse, i could not tell. i had been diverted from returning thanks to my gracious maker for his great kindness to me, and came home as i went away, but not with the same confessions of a justified sinner. buoyancy and lightness of heart. well may i remember that day in which i was first received into the number, and made an heir to all the privileges of the children of god, and on which i first met this mysterious associate, who from that day forth, contrived to wind himself into all my affairs, both spiritual and temporal, to this day on which i am writing the account of it. it was on the th day of march, , when i had just entered the eighteenth year of my age. whether it behoves me to bless god for the events of that day, or to deplore them, has been hid from my discernment, though i have inquired into it with fear and trembling; and i have now lost all hopes of ever discovering the true import of these events until that day when my accounts are to make up and reckon for in another world. when i came home, i went straight into the parlour, where my mother was sitting by herself. she started to her feet, and uttered a smothered scream. ‘what ails you, robert?’ cried she. ‘my dear son, what is the matter with you ? ’ ‘do you see anything the matter with me?’ said i. ‘it appears that the ailment is with yourself, and either in your crazed head or your dim eyes, for there is nothing the matter with me.’ ‘ah, robert, you are ill,’ cried she ; ‘you are very ill, my dear boy; you are quite changed; your very voice and manner are changed. ah, jane, haste you up to the study, and tell mr wringhim to come here on the instant and speak to robert.’ ‘i beseech you, woman, to restrain yourself,’ said i. ‘if you suffer your frenzy to run away with your judgment in this manner, i will leave thelhouse. what the private memoirs and do you mean? i tell you, there is nothing ails me: i never was better.’ she screamed, and ran between me and the door, to bar my retreat: in the meantime my reverend father entered, and i have not forgot how he gazed, through his glasses, first at my mother, and then‘at me. i imagined that his eyes burnt like candles, and was afraid of him, which i suppose made my looks more unstable than they would otherwise have been. ‘what is all this for?’ said he. ‘mistress! robert! what is the matter here?’ ‘oh, sir, our boy ! ’ cried my mother; ‘our dear boy, mr wringhim! look at him, and speak to hidg‘;qhe is either dying or translated, sir i ’ i i ,» he looked at me with a countenance of great alarm; mumbling some sentences to himself, and then taking me by the arm, as if to feel my pulse, he said, with a faltering voice, ‘something has indeed befallen you, either in body or mind, boy, for you are so transformed since the morn- ing, that i could not have known you for the same person. have you met with any accident?’ ‘no.’ ‘ have you seen anything out of the ordinary course of nature ? ’ ‘no.’ ‘then, satan, i fear, has been busy with you, tempting you in no ordinary degree at this momentous crisis of your life ? ’ my mind turned on my associate for the day, and the idea that he might be an agent of the devil, had such an effect on me, that i could make no answer. ‘i see how it is,’ said he; ‘you are troubled in spirit, and i have no doubt that the enemy of our salvation has confessions of a justified sinner. been busy with you. tell me this, has he overcome you, or has he not ?’ ‘he has not, my dear father,’ said i. ‘in the strength of the lord, i hope i have withstood him. but indeed, if he has been busy with me, i knew it not. i have been conversant this day with one stranger only, whom i took rather for an angel of light.’ ‘it is one of the devil’s most profound wiles to appear like one,’ said my mother. ‘woman, hold thy peace!’ said my reverend father: ‘thou pretendest to teach what thou knowest not. tell me this, boy. did this stranger, with whom you met, adhere to the religious principles in which i have edu- cated you p ’ ‘yes, to every one of them, in their fullest latitude,’ said i. ‘then he was no agent of the wicked one with whom you held converse,’ said he; ‘for that is the doctrine that was made to overturn the principalities and powers, the might and dominion of the kingdom of darkness. let us pray.’ after spending about a quarter of an hour in solemn and sublime thanksgiving, this saintly man and minister of jesus christ, gave out that the day following should be kept by the family as a day of solemn thanksgiving, and spent in prayer and praise, on account of the calling and election of one of its members; or rather for the election of that individual being revealed on earth, as well as confirmed in heaven. the next day was with me a day of holy exultation. ' it was begun by my reverend father laying his hands upon my head and blessing me, and then dedicating me to the lord in the most awful and impressive manner. confessions of a justified sinner. _ those whom their maker had, by an unchangeable decree, doomed to destruction. i could not disbelieve the doc- trine which the best of men had taught me, and towards which he made the whole of the scriptures to bear, and yet it made the economy of the christian world appear to me as an absolute contradiction. how much more wise. would it be, thought i, to begin and cut sinners off with the sword! for till that is effected, the saints can never inherit the earth in peace. should i be honoured as an instrument to begin this great work of purification, i should rejoice in it. but then, where had i the means. or under what direction was i to begin? there was one thing clear, i was now the lord’s, and it behoved me to bestir myself in his service. that i had an host at my command, then would i be as a devouring fire among the workers of iniquity ! full of these great ideas, i hurried through the city and sought again the private path through the field and wood of f innieston, in which my reverend preceptor had the privilege of walking for study, and to which he had a key that was always at my command. near one of the stiles, i perceived a young man sitting in a devout posture, reading a bible. he rose, lifted his hat, and made an obeisance to me, which i returned and walked on. i had not we]! crossed the stile, till it struck me i knew the face of the youth, and that he was some intimate acquaintance, to whom i ought to have spoken. i walked on, and returned, and walked on again, trying to recollect who he was; but for my life i could not. there was, however, a fascination in his look and manner, that drew me back towards him in spite of myself, and i resolved to go to him, if it were merely to speak and see who he was. the private memoirs and i came up to him and addressed him, but he was so intent on his book, that, though i spoke, he lifted not his eyes. i looked on the book also, and still it seemed a bible, having columns, chapters, and verses; but it was in a language of which i was wholly ignorant, and all intersected with red lines and verses. a sensation resembling a stroke of electricity came over me, on first casting my eyes on that mysterious book, and i stood motionless. he looked up, smiled, closed his book, and put it in his bosom. ‘you seem strangely affected, dear sir, by looking on my book,’ said he mildly. ‘in the name of god what book is that?’ said i: ‘is it a bible? ’ " ‘it is my bible, sir,’ said he; ‘but i will cease reading it, for i am glad to see you. pray, is not this a day of holy festivity with you?’ i stared in his face, but made no answer, for my senses were bewildered. ‘ do you not know me? ’ said he. ‘you appear to be somehow at a loss. had not you and i some sweet communion and fellowship yesterday? ’ ‘i beg your pardon, sir,’ said i. ‘but surely if you are the young gentleman with whom i spent the hours yesterday, you have the chameleon art of changing your appearance; i never could have recognised you.’ ‘my countenance changes with my studies and sensa- tions,’ said he. ‘it is a natural peculiarity in me, over which i have not full control. if i contemplate a man’s features seriously, mine own gradually assume the very , same appearance and character. and what is more, by contemplating a face minutely, i not only attain the same likeness, but, with the likeness, i attain the very same ideas as well as the same mode of arranging them, the private memoirs and mind, were the infallibility of the elect, and the pre- ordination of all things that come to pass. i pretended to controvert the first of these, for the purpose of show- ing him the extent of my argumentative powers, and said, that, ‘indubitably there were degrees of sinning which would induce the almighty to throw off the very elect.’ but behold my hitherto humble and modest com- panion took up the argument with such warmth, that he put me not only to silence, but to absolute shame. ‘why, sir,’ said he, ‘by vending such an insinuation, you put discredit on the great atonement, in which you trust. is there not enough of merit in the blood of jesus to save thousands of worlds, if it was for these worlds that he died? now, when you know as you do (and as every one of the elect may know of himself), that this saviour died for you, namely and particularly, dare you say that there is not enough of merit in his great atonement to annihilate all your sins, let them be as heinous and atrocious as they may? and, moreover, do you not acknowledge that god hath pre-ordained and decreed whatsoever comes to pass? then, how is it that you should deem it in your power to eschew one action of your life, whether good or evil? depend on it, the advice of the great preacher is genuine: “what thy hand findeth to do, do it with all thy might, for none of us know what a day may bring forth? ” that is, none of us know what is pre-ordained, but whatever is pre- ordained we must do, and none of these things will be laid to our charge.’ i could hardly believe that these sayings were genuine or orthodox; but i soon felt, that, instead of being a humble disciple of mine, this new acquaintance was to be my guide and director, and all under the humble guise of one confessions of a justified sinner. stooping at my feet to learn the right. he said that he saw i was ordained to perform some great action for the cause of jesus and his church, and he earnestly coveted being a partaker with me; but he besought of me never to think it possible for me to fall from the truth, or the favour of him who had chosen me, else that misbelief would baulk every good work to which i set my face. there was something so flattering in all this, that i could not resist it. still, when he took leave of me, i felt it as a great relief; and yet, before the morrow, i wearied and was impatient to see him again. we carried on our fellowship from day to day, and all the while i knew not who he was, and still my mother and reverend father kept insisting that i was an altered youth, changed in my appearance, my manners, and my whole conduct; yet something always prevented me from telling them more about my new acquaintance than i had done on the first day we met. i rejoiced in him, was proud of him, and soon could not live without him; yet, though resolved every day to disclose the whole history of my connection with him, i had it not in my power : something always prevented me, till at length i thought no more of it, but resolved to enjoy his fascinating company in private, and by all means to keep my own with him. the resolution was vain: i set a bold face to it, but my powers were inadequate to the task; my adherent, with all the suavity imaginable, was sure to carry his point. ‘i sometimes fumed, and some- times shed tears at being obliged to yield to proposals against which i had at first felt every reasoning power of my soul rise in opposition; but, for all that, he never failed in carrying conviction along with him in effect, for be either forced me to acquiesce in his measures, and i the private memoirs and assent to the truth of his positions, or he put me so completely down, that i had not a word left to advance against them. after weeks, i may say months of intimacy, i observed, somewhat to my amazement, that we had never once prayed together; and more than that, that he had constantly led my attentions away from that duty, causing me to neglect it wholly. i thought this a bad mark of a man seemingly so much set on inculcating certain important points of religion, and resolved next day to put him to the test, and request of him to perform that sacred duty in name of us- both. he objected ' boldly; saying there were very few people indeed with whom he could join in prayer, and he made a point of never doing it, as he was sure they were to ask many things of which he disapproved, and that if he were to officiate himself, he was as certain to allude to many things that came not within the range of their faith. he disapproved of prayer altogether in the manner it was generally gone about, he said. man made it-merely a selfish concem, and was constantly employed asking, asking, for everything. whereas it became all god’s creatures to be content with their lot, and only to kneel before him in order to thank him for such benefits as he saw meet to bestow. in short, he argued with such energy, that before we parted i acquiesced, as usual, in his position, and never mentioned prayer to him any more. having been so frequently seen in his company, several people happened to mention the circumstance to my mother and reverend father; but at the same time had all described him differently. at length they began to examine me with respect to the company i kept, as i confessions of a justified sinner. absented myself from home day after day. i told them i kept company only with one young gentleman, whose whole manner of thinking on religious subjects, i found so congenial with my own, that i could not live out of his society. my mother began to lay down some of her old hackneyed rules of faith, but i turned from hearing her with disgust; for, after the energy of my new friend’s reasoning, hers appeared so tame i could not endure it. and i confess with shame, that my reverend preceptor’s religious dissertations began, about this time, to lose their relish very much, and by degrees became. exceedingly tiresome to my ear. they were so inferior, in strength and sublimity, to the most common observations of my young friend,-;that in drawing a comparison the former appeared as nothing. he, however, examined me about many things relating to my companion, in all of which i satisfied him, save in one : i could neither tell him who my friend was, what was his name, nor of whom he was descended; and i wondered at myself how i had never once adverted to such a thing, for all the time we had been intimate. i inquired the next day what his name was; as i said i was often at a loss for it, when talking with him. he replied, that there was no occasion for any one friend ever naming another, when their society was held in private, as ours was ; for his part he had never once named__me since we first met, and never intended to do so, unless by my own request. ‘but if you cannot converse without naming me, you may call me gil for the present,’ added he; ‘and if i think proper to take another nameat any future period, it shall be with your approbation.’ ‘gil!’ said i; ‘have you no name but gil? or confessions of a justified sinner. out of all the rest in scotland, and even pretended to learn. the great truths of religion from my mouth. from that time i felt disposed to yield to such a great prince’s suggestions without hesitation. nothing ever astonished me so much, as the uncommon powers with which he seemed invested. in our walk one day, we met with a mr blanchard, who was reckoned a worthy, pious divine, but quite of the moral cast, who joined us; and we three walked on, and rested together in the fields. my companion did not seem to like him, but, nevertheless, regarded him frequently with deep attention, and there were several times, while he seemed contemplating him, and trying to find out his thoughts, that his face became so like mr blanchard’s, that it was impossible to have distinguished the one from the other. the antipathy between the two was mutual, and dis- covered itself quite palpably in a short time. when my companion the prince was gone, mr blanchard asked me anent him, and i told him that he was a stranger in the city, but a very uncommon and great personage. mr blanchard’s answer to me was as follows: ‘ i never saw anybody i disliked so much in my life, mr robert; and if it be true that he is a stranger here, which i doubt, believe me he is come for no good.’ ‘ do you not perceive what mighty powers of mind he is possessed of?’ said i, ‘and also, how clear and un- hesitating he is on some of the most interesting points of divinity ? ’ ‘it is for his great mental faculties that i dread him,’ said he. ‘it is incalculable what evil such a person as he may do, if so disposed. there is a sublimity in his ideas, with which there is to me a mixture of terror; and when he talks of religion, he does it as one that rather i the private memoirs and dreads its truths than reverences them. he, indeed, pretends great strictness of orthodoxy regarding some of the points of doctrine embraced by the reformed church; but you do not seem to perceive, that both you and he are carrrying these points to a dangerous extremity. religion is a sublime and glorious thing, the bond of society on earth, and the connector of humanity with the divine nature; but there is nothing so dangerous to man as the wresting of any of its principles, or forcing them beyond their due bounds: this is of all others the readiest way to destruction. neither is there anything so easily done. there is not an error into which a man can fall, which he may not press scripture into his service as proof of the probity of, and though your boasted theologian shunned the full discussion of the subject before me, while you pressed it, i can easily see that both you and he are carrying your ideas of absolute predestination, and its concomitant appendages, to an extent that overthrows all religion and revelation together; or, at least, jumbles them into a chaos, out of which human capacity can never select what is good. believe me, mr robert, the less you associate with that illustrious stranger the better, for it appears to me that your creed and his carries dam- nation on the very front of it.’ i was rather stunned at this; but i pretended to smile with disdain, and said, it did not become youth to control age; and, as i knew our principles differed fundamentally, it behoved us to drop the subject. he, however, would not drop it, but took both my principles and me fearfully to task, for blanchard was an eloquent and powerful-minded old man; and, before we parted, confessions of a justified sinner. i i believe i promised to drop my new acquaintance, and was all but resolved to do it. as well might i have laid my account with shunning the light of day. he was constant to me as my shadow, and by degrees he acquired such an ascendency over me, that i never was happy out of his company, nor greatly so in it. when i repeated to him all that mr blanchard had said, his countenance kindled with indignation and rage; and then by degrees his eyes sunk inward, his brow lowered, so that i was awed, and withdrew my eyes from looking at him. a while afterwards, as i was addressing him, i chanced to look him again in the face, and the sight of him made me start violently. he had made himself so like mr blanchard, that i actually believed i had been addressing that gentleman, and that i had done so in some absence of mind that i could not account for. instead of being amused at the quandary i was in, he seemed offended : indeed, he never was truly amused with anything. and he then asked me sullenly, if i conceived such personages as he to have no other endowments than common mortals ! i said i never conceived that princes or potentates had any greater share of endowments than other men, and frequently not so much. he shook his head, and bade me think over the subject again; and there was an end of it. i certainly felt every day the more disposed to acknowledge such a superiority in him, and from all that i could gather, i had now no doubt that he was peter of russia. everything combined to warrant the supposi- tion, and, of course, i resolved to act in conformity with the discovery i had made. for several days the subject of mr blanchard’s doubts and doctrines formed the theme of our discourse. my i the private memoirs and friend deprecated them most devoutly; and then again he would deplore them, and lament the great evil that such a man might do among the human race. i joined with him in allowing the evil in its fullest latitude ; and, at length, after he thought he had fully prepared my nature for such a trial of its powers and abilities, he proposed calmly that we two should make away with mr blanchard. i was so shocked, that my bosom became as it were a void, and the beatings of my heart sounded loud and hollow in it; my breath cut, and my tongue and palate became dry and speechless. he mocked at my cowardice, and began a-reasoning on the matter with such powerful eloquence, that before we parted, i felt fully convinced that it was my bounden duty to slay mr blanchard; but my will was far, very far from consenting to the deed. i spent the following night without sleep, or nearly so; and the next morning, by the time the sun rose, i was again abroad, and in the company of my illustrious friend. the same subject was resumed, and again he reasoned to the following purportz—that supposing me placed at the head of an army of christian soldiers, all bent on putting down the enemies of the church, would i have any hesitation in destroying and rooting out these enemies ?--none surely.—well then, when i saw and was convinced, that here was an individual who was doing more detriment to the church of christ on earth, than tens of thousands of such warriors were capable of doing, was it not my duty to cut him off and save the elect? ‘he, who would be a champion in the cause of christ and his church, my brave young friend,’ added he, ‘must begin early, and no man can calculate to what an illustrious eminence small beginnings may lead. if confessions of a justified sinner. the man blanchard is viorthy, he is only changing his situation for a better one; and if unworthy, it is better that one fall, than that a thousand souls perish. let us be up and doing in our vocations. for me, my resolu- tion is taken; i have but one great aim in this world, and i never for a moment lose sight of it.’ i was obliged to admit the force of his reasoning ; for though i cannot from memory repeat his words, his eloquence was of that overpowering nature, that the subtility of other men sunk before it; and there is also little doubt that the assurance i had that these words were spoken by a great potentate, who could raise me to the highest eminence (provided that i entered into his extensive and decisive measures), assisted mightily in dis- pelling my youthful scruples and qualms of conscience; and i thought moreover, that having such a powerful back friend to support me, i hardly needed to be afraid of the consequences i consented! but begged a little time to think of it. he said the less one thought of a duty the better ; and we parted. but the most singular instance of this wonderful man’s power over my mind was, that he had as complete influ- ence over me by night as by day. all my dreams corres- pond exactly with his suggestions; and when he was absent from me, still his arguments sunk deeper in my heart than even when he was present. i dreamed that night of a great triumph obtained, and though the whole scene was but dimly and confusedly defined in my vision, yet the overthrow and death of mr blanchard was the first step by which i attained the eminent station i occupied. thus, by dreaming of the event by night, and discoursing of it by day, it soon became so familiar to my mind, that i almost conceived it as done. it was the private memoirs am resolved on; which was the first and greatest victory gained ; for there was no difficulty in finding opportuni- ties enow of cutting off a man, who, every good day, was to be found walking by himself in private grounds. i went and heard him preach for two days, and in fact i held his tenets scarcely short of blasphemy; they were such as i had never heard before, and his congregation, which was numerous, were turning up their ears, and drinking in his doctrines with the utmost delight ; for o, they suited their carnal natures and self-sufficiency to a hair! he was actually holding it forth as a fact, that, ‘it was every man’s own blame if he was not saved?’ what horrible misconstruction! and then he was alleging, and trying to prove from nature and reason that no man ever was guilty of a sinful action, who might not have declined it had he so chosen ! ‘wretched controvertist!’ thought i to myself a hundred times, ‘shall not the sword of the lord be moved from its place of peace for such presumptuous and absurd testimonies as these !’ when i began to tell the prince about these false doctrines, to my astonishment i found that he had been in the church himself, and had every argument that the old divine had used verbatim ,- and he remarked on them with great concern, that these were not the tenets that corresponded with his views in society, and that he had agents in every city, and every land, exerting their powers to put them down. i asked, with great simplicity, ‘are all your subjects christians, prince? ’ ‘all my european subjects are, or deem themselves so,’ returned he; ‘and they are the most faithful and true subjects i have.’ who could doubt, after this, that he was the czar of confessions of a justified sinner. ' russia? i have nevertheless had reasons to doubt of his identity since that period, and which of my conjectures is right i believe the god of heaven only knows, for i do not. i shall go on to write such things as i remember, and if any one shall ever take the trouble to read over these confessions, such a one will judge for himself. it will be observed, that ever since i fell in with this extraordinary person, i have written about him only, and i must continue to do so to the end of this memoir, as i have performed no great or interesting action in which he had not a principal share. he came to me one day and said, ‘we must not linger thus in executing what we have resolved on. we have much before our hands to perform for the benefit of mankind, both civil as well as religious. let us do what we have to do here, and then we must wend our way to other cities, and perhaps to other countries. mr blanchard is to hold forth in the high church of paisley on sunday next, on some particularly great occasion: this must be defeated; he must not go there. as he will be busy arranging his discourses, we may expect him to be walking by himself in finnieston dell the greater part of friday and saturday. let us go and cut him off. what is the life of a man more than the life of a lamb, or any guiltless animal? it is not half so much, especially when we consider the immensity of the mischief this old fellow is working among our fellow-creatures. can there be any doubt that it is the duty of one consecrated to god, to cut off such a mildew p’ ‘i fear me, great sovereign,’ said i, ‘that your ideas of retribution are too sanguine, and too arbitrary for the laws of this country. i dispute not that your confessions of a justified sinner. to meet the men, apparently with a pistol in every hand, waving in a careless manner. they seemed not quite clear of meeting with him, and so he went straight on, and passed between them. they looked after him, and came onward ; but when they came to the old man lying stretched in his blood, then they turned and pursued my companion, though not so quickly as they might have done ; and i understood that from the first they saw no more of him. great was the confusion that day in glasgow. the most popular of all their peachers of morality was (what they called) murdered in cold blood, and a strict and extensive search was made for the assassin. neither of the accomplices was found, however, that is certain, nor was either of them so much as suspected; but another man was apprehended under circumstances that war- ranted suspicion.—this was one of the things that i witnessed in my life, which i never understood, and it surely was one of my patron’s most dexterous tricks, for i must still say, what i have thought from the beginning, that like him there never was a man created. the young man who was taken up was a preacher; and it was proved that he had purchased fire-arms in town, and gone out with them that morning. but the far greatest mystery of the whole was, that two of the men, out of the three who met my companion, swore, that that unfortunate preacher was the man whom they met with a pistol in each hand, fresh from the death of the old divine. the poor fellow made a confused speech him- self, which there is not the least doubt was quite true; but it was laughed to scorn, and an expression of horror ran through both the hearers and jury. i heard the whole trial, and so did gil-martin; but we left the confessions of a justified sinner. i obliged, however, to walk circumspectly, and saw my companion the prince very seldom, who was prowling about every day, quite unconcerned about his safety. he was every day a new man, however, and needed not to be alarmed at any danger; for such a facility had he in disguising himself, that if it had not been-for a pass- word which we had between us, for the purposes of recognition, i never could have known him myself. it so happened that my reverend father was called to edinburgh about this time, to assist with his counsel in settling the national affairs. at my earnest request i was permitted to accompany him, at which both my associate and i rejoiced, as we were now about to move in a new and extensive field. all this time i never knew where my illustrious friend resided. he never once invited me to call on him at his lodgings, nor did he ever come to our house, which made me, sometimes to suspect, that if any of our great efforts in the cause of true religion were discovered he intended leaving me in the lurch. consequently, when we met in edinburgh (for we travelled not in company) i proposed to go with him to look for lodgings, telling him at the same time what a blessed and religious family my reverend in- structor and i were settled in. he said he rejoiced at it, but he made a rule of never lodging in any particular house, but took these daily, or hourly, as he found it convenient, and that he never was at a loss in any circumstance. ‘what a mighty trouble you put yourself to, great sovereign!’ said i, ‘and all, it would appear, for the purpose of seeing and knowing more and more of the human race.’ ‘i never go but where i have some great purpose to the private memoirs and serve,’ returned he, ‘either in the advancement of my own power and dominion, or in thwarting my enemies.’ ‘with all due deference to your great comprehension, my illustrious friend,’ said i, ‘it strikes me that you can accomplish very little either the one way or the other here, in the humble and private capacity you are pleased to occupy.’ ‘it is your own innate modesty that prompts such a remark,’ said he. ‘do you think the gaining of you to my service, is not an attainment worthy of being envied by the greatest potentate in christendom? before i had missed such a prize as the attainment of your services, i would have travelled over one half of the habitable globe.’—i bowed with great humility, but at the same time how could i but feel proud and highly flattered? he continued. ‘believe me, my dear friend, for such a prize i account no effort too high. for a man who is not only dedicated to the king of heaven, in the most solemn manner, soul, body, and spirit, but also chosen of him from the beginning, justified, sanctified, and received into a communion that never shall be broken, and from which no act of his shall ever remove him—the possession of such a man, i tell you, is worth kingdoms; because every deed that he performs, he does it with perfect safety to himself and honour to me.’—i bowed again, lifting my hat, and he went on.—‘i am now going to put his courage in the cause he has espoused, to a severe test—to a trial at which common nature would revolt, but he who is dedicated to be the sword of the lord, must raise himself above common humanity. you have a father and a brother according to the flesh, what do you know of them ? ’ ‘i am sorry to say i know nothing good,’ said i. confessions of a justified sinner. with great fervor of spirit, as well as humility; and my satisfaction at finding all my requests granted is not to be expressed. , my illustrious friend still continuing to sound in my ears the imperious duty to which i was called, of making away with my sinful relations, and quoting many parallel actions out of the scriptures, and the writings of the holy fathers, of the pleasure the lord took in such as executed his vengeance on the wicked, i was obliged to acquiesce in his measures, though with certain limitations. it was not easy to answer his arguments, and yet i was afraid that he soon perceived a leaning to his will on my part. ‘if the acts of jehu, in rooting out the whole house of his master, were ordered and approved of by the lord,’ said he, ‘would it not have been more praise- worthy if one of ahab’s own sons had stood up for the cause of the god of israel, and rooted out the sinners and their idols out of the land?’ ‘it would certainly,’ said i. ‘to our duty to god all other duties must yield.’ ‘go thou then and do likewise,’ said he. ‘thou art called to a high vocation; to cleanse the sanctuary of thy god in this thy native land by the shedding of blood; go thou forth then like a ruling energy, a master spirit of desolation in the dwellings of the wicked, and high shall be your reward both here and hereafter.’ my heart now panted with eagerness to look my brother in the face: on which my companion, who was never out of the way, conducted me to a small square in the suburbs of the city, where there were a number of young noblemen and gentlemen playing at a vain, idle, and sinful game, at which there was much of the language of the accursed going on; and among these blasphemers the private memoirs and he instantly pointed out my brother to me. i was fired with indignation at seeing him in such company, and so employed; and i placed myself close beside him to watch all his motions, listen to his words, and draw inferences from what i saw and heard. in what a sink of sin was he wallowing! i resolved to take him to task, and if he refused to be admonished, to inflict on him some condign punishment ; and knowing that my illus- trious friend and director was looking on, i resolved to show some spirit. accordingly, i waited until i heard him profane his maker’s name three times, and then, my spiritual indignation being roused above all restraint, i went up and kicked him. yes, i went boldly up and struck him with my foot, and meant to have given him a more severe blow than it was my fortune to inflict. it had, however, the effect of rousing up his corrupt nature to quarrelling and strife, instead of taking the chastise- ment of the lord in humility and meekness. he ran furiously against me in the choler that is always inspired by the wicked one; but i overthrew him, by reason of impeding the natural and rapid progress of his unholy feet, running to destruction. i also fell slightly; but his fall proving a severe one, he arose in wrath, and struck me with the mall which he held in his hand, until my blood flowed copiously; and from that moment i vowed his destruction in my heart. but i chanced to have no weapon at that time, nor any means of inflicting due punishment on the caitifl', which would not have been returned double on my head, by him and his graceless associates. i mixed among them at the suggestion of my friend, and following them to their den of voluptuous- ness and sin, i strove to be admitted among them, in hopes of finding some means of accomplishing my great confessions of a justified sinner. i purpose, while i found myself moved by the spirit within me so to do. but i was not only debarred, but, by the machinations of my wicked brother and his associates, cast into prison. iwas not sorry at being thus honoured to suffer in the cause of righteousness, and at the hands of sinful men; and as soon as i was alone, i betook myself to prayer, deprecating the long-suffering of god towards such horrid sinners. my jailer came to me, and insulted me. he was a rude, unprincipled fellow, partaking much of the loose and carnal manners of the age; but i remembered of having read in the ‘cloud of witnesses,’ of such men formerly having been converted by the imprisoned saints; so i set myself, with all my heart, to bring about this man’s repentance and reformation. ‘fat the deil are ye yooling an’ praying that gate for, man?’ said be, coming angrily in. ‘i thought the days ’ praying prisoners had been a’ ower. we had rowth ’ them aince; an’ they were the poorest and the blackest bargains that ever poor jailers saw. gie up your croon- ing or i’ll pit ye to an in-by place, where ye sall get plenty o’t.’ ‘friend,’ said i, ‘i am making my appeal at that bar where all human actions are seen and judged, and where you shall not be forgot, sinful as you are. go in peace and let me be.’ ‘hae ye naebody nearer hand hame to mak your appeal to, man ?’ said he, ‘because an’ ye haena, i dread you an’ me may be unco weel acquaintit by an’ by.’ i then opened up the mysteries of religion to him in a clear and perspicuous manner, but particularly the great doctrine of the election of grace ; and then i added, ‘now, friend, you must tell me if you pertain to this, i the private memoirs and chosen number. it is in every man’s power to ascertain this, and it is every man’s duty to do it.’ ‘an’ fat the better wad you be for the kenning ’ this, man?’ said he. ‘ because, if you are one of my brethren, i will take you into sweet communion and fellowship,’ retnmed i ; ‘but if you belong to the unregenerate, i have a commission to slay you.’ ‘ the diel you hae, callant ! ’ said he, gaping and laughing. ‘an’ pray now, fa was it that gae you siccan a braw commission? ’ ‘my commission is sealed by the signet above,’ said i, ‘and that i will let you and all sinners know. i am dedicated to it by the most solemn vows and engage- ments. i am the sword of the lord, and famine and pestilence are my sisters. woe then to the wicked of this land, for they must fall down dead together, that the church may be purified ! ’ ‘oo, foo, fool i see how it is,’ said he ; ‘yours is a very braw commission, but you will have the small opportunity of carrying it through here. take my advising, and write a bit of a letter to your friends, and i will send it, for this is no place for such a great man. if you cannot steady your hand to write, as i see you have been at your great work, a word of a mouth may do ; for i do assure you this is not the place at all, of any in the world, for your operations.’ the man apparently thought i was deranged in my intellect. he could not swallow such great truths at the first morsel. so i took his advice, and sent a line to my reverend father, who was not long in coming, and great was the jailer’s wonderment when he saw all the great christian noblemen of the land sign my bond of freedom. confessions of a justified sinner. my reverend father took this matter greatly to heart, and bestirred himself in the good cause till the trans gressors were ashamed to show their faces. my illus- trious companion was not idle : i wondered that he came not to me in prison, nor at my release; but he was better employed, in stirring up the just to the execution of god’s decrees: and he succeeded so well, that my brother and all his associates had nearly fallen victims to their wrath: but many were wounded, bruised, and imprisoned, and much commotion prevailed in the city. for my part i was greatly strengthened in my resolution by the anathemas of my reverend father, who, privately (that is in the family capacity), in his prayers, gave up my father and brother, according to the flesh, to satan, making it plain to all my senses of perception, that they were beings given upfof god, to be devoured by fiends or men, at their will and pleasure, and that whosoever should slay them, would do god good service. the next morning my illustrious friend met me at an early hour, and he was greatly overjoyed at hearing my sentiments now chime so much in unison with his own. i said, ‘i longed for the day and the hour that i might look my brother in the face at gilgal, and visit on him the iniquity of his father and himself, for that i was now strengthened and prepared for the deed.’ ‘i have been watching the steps and movements of the profligate one,’ said he; ‘and lo, i will take you straight to his presence. let your heart be as the heart of the lion, and your arms strong as the shekels of brass, and swift to avenge as the bolt that descendeth from heaven, for the blood of the just and the good hath long flowed in scotland. but already is the day of their avengement begun; the hero is at length arisen, who shall send all the private memoirs and such as bear enmity to the true church, or trust in works of their own, to tophet ! ’ thus encouraged, i followed my friend, who led me directly to the same court in which i had chastised the miscreant on the foregoing day; and behold there was the same group again assembled. they eyed me with terror in their looks, as i walked among them and eyed them with looks of disapprobation and rebuke; and i saw that the very eye of a chosen one lifted on these children of belial, was sufficient to dismay and put them to flight. i walked aside to my friend, who stood at a distance looking on, and he said to me, ‘what thinkest thou now? ’ and i answered in the words of the venal prophet, ‘lo now, if i had a sword into mine hand, i would even kill him.’ ‘wherefore lackest thou it?’ said he. ‘dost thou not see that they tremble at thy presence, knowing that the avenger of blood is among them.’ my heart was lifted up on hearing this, and again i strode into the midst of them, and eyeing them with threatening looks, they were so much confounded that they abandoned their sinful pastime, and fled every one to his house! this was a palpable victory gained over the wicked, and i thereby knew that the hand of the lord was with me. my companion also exulted, and said, ‘did not i tell thee? behold thou dost not know one half of thy might, or of the great things thou art destined to do. come with me and i will show thee more than this, for these young men cannot subsist with- out the exercises. of sin. i listened to their counsels, and i know where they will meet again.’ accordingly he led me a little farther to the south, and we walked aside till by degrees we saw some people begin confessions of a justified sinner. to assemble; and in a short time we perceived the same group stripping off their clothes to make them more expert in the practice of madness and folly. their game was begun before we approached, and so also were the oaths and cursing. i put my hands in my pockets, and walked with dignity and energy into the midst of them. it was enough: terror and astonishment seized them. a few of them cried out against me, but their voices were soon hushed amid the murmurs of fear. one of them, in the name of the rest, then came and besought of me to grant them liberty to amuse themselves; but i refused peremptorily, dared the whole multitude so much as to touch me with one of their fingers, and dismissed them in the name of the lord. again they all fled and dispersed at my eye, and i went home in triumph, escorted by my friend, and some well-meaning young christians, who, however, had not learned to deport themselves with soberness and humility. but my ascendency over my enemies was great indeed ; for wherever i appeared i was hailed with approbation, and wherever my guilty brother made his appearance, he was hooted and held in derision, till he was forced to hide his disgraceful head, and appear no more in public. immediately after this i was seized with a strange dis- temper, which neither my friends nor physicians could comprehend, and it confined me to my chamber for many days ; but i knew myself that i was bewitched, and sus- pected my father’s reputed concubine of the deed. i told my fears to my reverend protector, who hesitated con- cerning them, but i knew by his words and looks that he was conscious i was right. i generally conceived myself to be two people. when i lay in bed, i deemed there were two of us in it; when i sat up, i always beheld the private memoirs and another person, and always in the same position from the place where i sat or stood, which was about three paces off me towards my left side. it mattered not how many or how few were present : this my second self was sure to be present in his place; and this occasioned a confusion in all my words and ideas that utterly astounded my friends, who all declared, that instead of being deranged in my intellect, they had never heard my conversation manifest so much energy or sublimity of conception ; but for all that, over the singular delusion that i was two persons, my reasoning faculties had no power. the most perverse part of it was, that i rarely conceived myself to be any of the two persons. i thought for the most part that my companion was one of them, and my brother the other; and i found, that to be obliged to speak and answer in the character of another man, was a most awk- ward business at the long run. who can doubt, from this statement, that i was bewitched, and that my relatives were at the ground of it? the constant and unnatural persuasion that i was my brother, proved it to my own satisfaction, and must, i think, do so to every unprejudiced person. this victory of the wicked one over me kept me confined in my chamber, at mr millar’s house, for nearly a month, until the prayers of the faithful prevailed, and i was restored. i knew it was a chastisement for my pride, because my heart was lifted up at my superiority over the enemies of the church; nevertheless, i determined to make short work of the aggressor, that the righteous might not be subjected to the effect of his diabolical arts again. i say i was confined a month. i beg he that readeth to take note of this, that he may estimate how much the word, or even the oath, of a wicked man, is to depend on. != confessions of a justified sinner. , for a month i saw no one but such as came into my i room, and for all that, it will be seen, that there were plenty of the same set to attest upon oath that i saw my brother every day during that period ; that i persecuted him with my presence clay and night; while all the time i never saw his face, save in a delusive dream. i cannot comprehend what manaauvres my illustrious friend was playing off with them about this time ; for he, having the art of personating whom he chose, had perad- venture deceived them, else so many of them had never all attested the same thing. i never saw any man so steady in his friendships and attentions as he; but as he made a rule of never calling at private houses, for fear of some discovery being made of his person, so i never saw him while my malady lasted; but as soon as i grew better, i knew i had nothing ado but to attend at some of our places of meeting, to see him again. he was punctual, as usual, and i had not to wait. my reception was precisely as i apprehended. there was no flaring, no flummery, nor bombastical pretensions, but a dignified return to my obeisance, and an immediate recurrence, in converse, to the important duties incum. bent on us, in our stations, as reformers and purifiers of the church. ‘i have marked out a number of most dangerous characters in this city,’ said he, ‘all of whom must be cut off from cumbering the true vineyard before we leave this land. and if you bestir not yourself in the work to which you are called, i must raise up others who shall have the honour of it.’ ' ‘i am, most illustrious prince, wholly at your service,’ said i. ‘show but what ought to be done, and here is the heart to dare, and the hand to execute. you pointed, l the private memoirs and out my relations, according to the flesh, as brands fitted to be thrown into the burning. i approve peremptorily of the award ; nay, i thirst to accomplish it; for i myself have suffered severely from their diabolical arts. 'when once that trial of my devotion to the faith is accomplished, then be your future operations disclosed.’ ' ‘you are free of your words and promises,’ said he. ‘ will i be of my deeds in the service of my master, and that shalt thou see,’ said i. ‘i lack not the spirit, nor the will, but i lack experience wofully ; and because of that shortcoming, must bow to your suggestions.’ ‘meet me here to-morrow betimes,’ said he, ‘ and per- haps you may hear of some opportunity of displaying your zeal in the cause of righteousness.’ i met him as he desired me ; and he addressed me with a hurried and joyful expression, telling me that my brother was astir, and that a few minutes ago he had seen him pass on his way to the mountain. ‘the hill is wrapt in a cloud,’ added he, ‘and never was there such an opportunity of executing divine justice on a guilty sinner. you may trace him in the dew, and shall infallibly find him on the top of some precipice ; for it is only in secret that he dare show his debased head to the sun.’ ‘i have no arms, else assuredly iwould pursue him and discomfit him,’ said i. ‘here is a small dagger,’ said he; ‘i have nothing of weapon-kind about me save that, but it is a potent one ; and should you require it there is nothing more ready or sure.’ ‘will you not accompany me ? ’ said i. ‘ sure you will ? ’ v ‘i will be with you, or near you,’ said he. ‘go you on before.’ confessions of a justified sinner. i hurried away as he directed me, and imprudently asked some of queensberry’s guards if such and such a young man passed by them going out from the city. i was answered in the affirmative, and till then had doubted of my friend’s intelligence, it was so inconsistent with a profligate’s life to be so early astir. when i got the certain intelligence that my brother was before me, i fell a-running scarcely knowing what i did; and looking several times behind me, i perceived nothing of my zealous and arbitrary friend. the consequence of this was, that by the time i reached st anthony’s well, my resolution began to give way. it was not my courage, for now that i had once shed blood in the cause of the true faith, i was exceedingly bold and ardent ; but when- ever i was left to myself, i was subject to sinful doubtings. these always hankered on one point: i doubted if the elect were infallible, and if the scripture promises to them were binding in all situations and relations. i confess this, and that it.was a sinful and shameful weakness in me, but my nature was subject to it, and i could not eschew it. i never doubted that i was one of the elect myself; for, besides the strong inward and spiritual con- viction that i possessed, i had my kind father’s assurance, and these had been revealed to him in that way and measure that they could not be doubted. in this desponding state, i sat myself down on a stone, and bethought me of the rashness of my undertaking. i tried to ascertain, to my own satisfaction, whether or i not i really had been commissioned of god to perpetrate these crimes in his behalf, for in the eyes, and by the laws of men, they were great and crying transgressions. while i sat pondering on these things, i was involved in a veil of white misty vapour, and looking up to heaven, i f the private memoirs and was just about to ask direction from above, when i heard as it were a still small voice, close by me, which uttered some words of derision and chiding. i looked intensely in the direction whence it seemed to come, and perceived a lady, robed in white, who hasted toward me. she regarded me with a severity of look and gesture that appalled me so much i could not address her; but she waited not for that, but coming close to my side, said, without stopping, ‘preposterous wretch! how dare you lift your eyes to heaven with such purposes in your heart? escape homeward, and save your soul, or farewell for ever i ’ these were all the words that she uttered, as far as i could ever recollect, but my spirits were kept in such a tumult that morning, that something might have escaped me. i followed her eagerly with my eyes, but in a moment she glided over the rocks above the holy well, and vanished. i persuaded myself that i had seen a vision, and that the radiant being that had addressed me was one of the good angels, or guardian spirits, com- missioned by the almighty to watch over the steps of the just. my first impulse was to follow her advice, and make my escape home; for i thought to myself, ‘how is this interested and mysterious foreigner, a proper judge of the actions of a free christian ? ' the thought was hardly framed, nor had i moved in a retrograde direction six steps, when i saw my illustrious friend and great adviser descending the ridge towards me with hasty and impassioned strides. my heart fainted within me; and when he came up and addressed me, i looked as one caught in a trespass. ‘what hath detained thee, thou desponding trifler?’ said he. ‘verily now shall the golden opportunity he lost which may never be any-fm; ;??? escape home/yards and save your $ !.v ! the new york public library astor, len ox tilden fou n datxon s confessions of a justified sinner. recalled. i have traced the reprobate to his sanctuary in the cloud, and he is perched on the pinnacle of a precipice an hundred fathoms high. one ketch with thy foot, or toss with thy finger, shall throw him from thy side into the foldings of the cloud, and he shall be no more seen, till found at the bottom of the cliff dashed to pieces. make haste, therefore, thou loiterer, if thou wouldst ever prosper and rise to eminence in the work of thy lord and master.’ ' ‘i go no farther in this work,’ said i, ‘for i have seen a vision that has reprimanded the deed.’ ‘a vision?’ said he. ‘was it that wench who de- scended from the hill ? ’ ‘ the being that spake to me, and warned me of the danger, was indeed in the form of a lady,’ said i. ‘ she also approached me and said a few words,’ returned he; ‘and i thought there was something mysterious in her manner. pray, what did she say? for the words of such a singular message, and from such a messenger, ought to be attended to. if i understood her aright, she was chiding us for our misbelief and pre- posterous delay.’ i recited her words, but he answered that i had been in a state of sinful doubting at the time, and it was to these doubtings she had adverted. in short, this wonder- ful and clear-sighted stranger soon banished all my doubts and despondency, making me utterly ashamed of them, and again i set out with him in the pursuit of my brother. he showed me the traces of his footsteps in the dew, and pointed out the spot where i should find him. ‘you have nothing more to do than go softly down behind him,’ said he; ‘which you can do to within an ell of him, without being seen; then rush upon him, confessions of a justified sinner. i i could not help my thoughts, and there are certain trains and classes of thoughts that have great power in enervating the mind. i thought of the awful thing of plunging a fellow-creature from the top of a clifi' into the dark and misty void below—of his being dashed to pieces on the protruding rocks, and of hearing his shrieks as he descended the cloud, and beheld the shagged points on which he was to alight. then i thought of plunging a soul so abruptly into hell, or, at the best, sending it to hover on the confines of that burning abyss—of its appearance at the bar of the almighty to receive its sentence. and then i thought, ‘will there not be a sentence pronounced against me there, by a jury of the just made perfect, and written down in the registers of heaven ? ’ these thoughts, i say, came upon me unasked, and instead of being able to dispel them, they mustered, upon the summit of my imagination, in thicker and stronger array; and there was another that impressed me in a very particular manner, though, i have reason to believe, not so strongly as those above written. it was this: ‘what if i should fail in my first efl'ort? will the consequences not be that i am tumbled from the top of the rock myself ? ’ and then all the feelings antici- pated, with regard to both body and soul, must happen to me. this was a spine-breaking reflection; and yet, though the probability was rather on that side, my zeal in the cause of godliness was such that it carried me on, maugre all danger and dismay. i soon came close upon my brother sitting on the dizzy pinnacle, with his eyes fixed stedfastly in the direction opposite to me. i descended the little green ravine behind him with my feet foremost, and every now and the private memoirs and then raised my head, and watched his motions. his posture continued the same, until at last i came so near him i could have heard him breathe, if his face had been towards me. illaid my cap aside, and made me ready to spring upon him, and push him over. i could not for my life accomplish it! i do not think it was that i durst not, for i have always felt my courage equal to anything in a good cause. but i had not the heart, or something that i ought to have had. in short, it was not done in time, as it easily might have been. these thoughts are hard enemies wherewith to combat ! and i was so grieved that i could not effect my righteous purpose, that i laid me down on my face and shed tears. then, again, i thought of what my great enlightened friend and patron would say to me, and again my resolu- tion rose indignant, and indissoluble save by blood. i arose on my right knee and left foot, and had just begun to advance the latter forward: the next step my great purpose had been accomplished, -and the culprit had suffered the punishment due to his crimes. but what moved him i know not: in the critical moment he sprung to his feet, and dashing himself furiously against me, he overthrew me, at the imminent peril of my life. i dis- encumbered myself by main force, and fled, but he overhied me, knocked me down, and threatened, with dreadful oaths, to throw me from the cliff. after i was a little recovered from 'the stunning blow, i aroused myself to the combat; and though i do not recollect the circumstances of that deadly scuffle very minutely, i know that i vanquished him so far as to force him to ask my pardon, and crave a reconciliation. i spurned at both, and left him to the chastisements of his own wicked and corrupt heart. confessions of a justified sinner. my friend met me again on the hill, and derided me, in a haughty and stern manner, for my imbecility and want of decision. i told him how nearly i ‘had effected my purpose, and excused myself as well as i was able. on this, seeing me bleeding, he advised me to swear the peace against my brother, and have him punished in the meantime, he being the first aggressor. i promised compliance, and we parted, for i was some- what ashamed of my failure, and was glad to be quit for the present of one of whom i stood so much in awe. when my reverend father beheld me bleeding a a second time by the hand of a brother, he was moved to the highest point of displeasure; and relying on his high interest and the justice of his cause, he brought the matter at once before the courts. my brother and i were first examined face to face. his declaration was a mere romance: mine was not the truth; but as it was by the advice of my reverend father, and that of my illustrious friend, both of whom i knew to be sincere christians and true believers, that i gave it, i conceived myself completely justified on that score. i said i had gone up into the mountain early on the morning to pray, and had withdrawn myself, for entire privacy, into a little sequestered dell—had laid aside my cap, and was in the act of kneeling, when i was rudely attacked by my brother, knocked over and nearly slain. they asked my brother if this was true. he acknowledged that it was; that i was bare-headed and in the act of kneeling when ' he ran foul of me without any intent of doing so. but the judge took him to task on the improbability of this, and put the profligate sore out of countenance. the rest of his tale told still worse, insomuch that he was laughed at by all present, for the judge remarked to : the private memoirs and him, that granting it was true that he had at first run against me on an open mountain, and overthrown me by accident, how was it, that after i had extricated myself and fled, that he had pursued, overtaken, and knocked me down a second time? would he pretend that all that was likewise by chance? the culprit had nothing to say for himself on this head, and i shallgnot forget my exultation, and that of my reverend father, when the sentence of the judge was delivered. it was, that my wicked brother should be thrown into prison, andl tried on a criminal charge of assault and battery, with the intent of committing murder. this was a just and righteous judge, and saw things in their proper bearings, that is, he could discern between a righteous and a wicked man, and then there could be no doubt as to which of the two were acting right, and which wrong. had i not been sensible that a justified person could do nothing wrong, i should not have been at my ease con- cerning the statement i had been induced to give on this occasion. i could easily perceive, that by rooting out the weeds from the garden of the church, i heightened the growth of righteousness; but as to the tardy way of giving false evidence on matters of such doubtful issue, i confess i saw no great propriety in it from the beginning. but i now only moved by the will and mandate of my illustrious friend; i had no peace or comfort when out of his sight, nor have i ever been able to boast of much in his presence; so true is it that a christian’s life is one of suffering. my time was now much occupied, along with my reverend preceptor, in making ready for the approaching trial, as the prosecutors. our counsel assured us of a complete victory, and that banishment would be the confessions of a justified sinner. i ! mildest award of the law on the ofiender. mark how different was the result! from the shifts and ambigui- ties of a wicked bench, who had a fellow-feeling of iniquity with the defenders—my suit was cast, the graceless libertine was absolved, and i was incarcerated, and bound over to keep the peace, with heavy penalties, before i was set at liberty. i was exceedingly disgusted at this issue, and blamed the counsel of my friend to his face. he expressed great grief, and expatiated on the wickedness of our judicatories, adding, ‘i see i cannot depend on you for quick and summary measures, but for your sake i shall be revenged on that wicked judge, and that'you shall see in a few days.’ the lord justice clerk died that same week! but he died in his own house and in his own bed, and by what means my friend effected it, i do not know. he would not tell me a single word of the matter, but the judge’s sudden death made a great noise, and i made so many curious inquiries regarding the particulars of it, that some suspicions were like to attach to our family, of some unfair means used. for my part i know nothing, and rather think he died by the visitation of heaven, and that my friend had fore~ seen it, by symptoms, and soothed me by promises of complete revenge. it was some days before he mentioned my brother’s meditated death to me again, and certainly he then found me exasperated against him personally to the highest degree. but i told him that i could not now think any more of it, owing to the late judgment of the court, by which if my brother were missing or found dead, i would not only forfeit my life, but my friends would be ruined by the penalties. the private memoirs and ‘i suppose you know and believe in the perfect safety of your soul,’ said he, ‘and that that is a matter settled from the beginning of time, and now sealed and ratified both in heaven and earth? ’ ‘i believe in it thoroughly and perfectly,’ said i ; ‘ and whenever i entertain doubts of it, i am sensible of sin and weakness.’ ‘very well, so then am i,’ said he. ‘i think i can now divine, with all manner of certainty, what will be the high and merited guerdon of your immortal part. hear me then farther : i give you my solemn assurance, and bond of blood, that no human hand shall ever hence- forth be able to injure your life, or shed one drop of your precious blood, but it is on the condition that you walk always by my directions.’ ‘i will do so with cheerfulness,’ said i; ‘for without your enlightened counsel, i feel that i can do nothing. but as to your power of protecting my life, you must excuse me for doubting of it. nay, were we in your own proper dominions, you could not ensure that.’ ‘in whatever dominion or land i am, my power accom- panies me,’ said he; ‘and it is only against human might and human weapon that i ensure your life ; on that will i keep an eye, and on that you may depend. i have never broken word or promise with you. do you credit me?’ ‘yes i do,’ said i; ‘for i see you are in earnest. i believe, though i do not comprehend you.’ ‘then why do you not at once challenge your brother to the field of honour? seeing you now act without danger, cannot you also act without fear? ’ ‘it is not fear,’ returned i; ‘believe me, i hardly know what fear is. it is a doubt, that on all these emergencies confessions of a justifiedsinner. constantly haunts my mind, that in performing such and such actions i may fall from my upright state. this makes fratricide a fearful task.’ ‘this is imbecility itself,’ said be. ‘we have settled, and agreed on that point an hundred times. i would therefore advise that you challenge your brother to single combat. i shall ensure your safety, and he cannot refuse giving you satisfaction.’ ‘but then the penalties ? ’ said i. ‘we will try to evade these,’ said he; ‘and supposing you should be caught, if once you are laird of dalcastle and balgrennan, what are the penalties to you ? ’ ‘might we not rather pop him off in private and quietness, as we did the deistical divine?’ said i. ‘the deed would be alike meritorious, either way,’ said he. ‘but may we not wait for years before we find an opportunity ? my advice is to challenge him, as privately as you will, and there cut him off.’ ‘so be it then,’ said i. ‘when the moon is at the full, i will send for him forth to speak with one, and there will i smite him and slay him, and he shall trouble the righteous no more.’ ‘then this is the very night,’ said he. ‘ the moon is nigh to the full, and this night your brother and his sin- ful mates hold carousal ; for there is an intended journey to-morrow. the exulting profligate leaves town, where we must remain till the time of my departure hence; and then he is safe, and must live to dishonour god, and not only destroy his own soul, but those of many others. alack, and wo is me ! the sins that he and his friends will commit this very night, will cry to heaven against us for our shameful delay! when shall our great work of confessions of a justified sinner. regarding the justification of all the deeds of perfect men. he chided me severely, and branded me with cowardice, a thing that my nature never was subject to; and then he branded me with falsehood, and breach of the most solemn engagements both to god and man. i was compelled to take the rapier, much against my inclination; but for all the arguments, threats, and promises that he could use, i would not consent to send a challenge to my brother by his mouth. there was one argument only that he made use of which had some weight with me, but yet it would not preponderate. he told me my brother was gone to a notorious and scan- dalous habitation of women, and that if i left him to himself for ever so short a space longer, it might embitter his state through ages to come. this was a trying concern to me; but i resisted it, and reverted to my doubts. on this he said that he had meant to do me honour, but since i had put it out of his power, he would do the deed, and take the responsibility on himself. ‘i have with sore travail procured a guardship of your life,’ added he. ‘for my own, i have not; but, be that as it will, i shall not be baffled in my attempts to benefit my friends without a trial. you will at all events accompany me, and see that i get justice? ’ ‘certes, i will do thus much,’ said i; ‘and woe be to him if his arm prevail against my friend and patron ! ’ his lip curled with a smile of contempt, which i could hardly brook; and i began to be afraid that the eminence to which i had been destined by him was already fading from my view. and i thought what i should then do to ingratiate myself again {with him, for without his coun- tenance i had no life. ‘i will be a man in act,’ thought the private memoirs and i, ‘but in sentiment i will not yield, and for this he must surely admire me the more.’ as we emerged from the shadowy lane into the fair moonshine, i started so that my whole frame underwent the most chilling vibrations of surprise. i again thought i had been taken at unawares, and was conversing with another person. my friend was equipped in the high- land garb, and so completely translated into another being, that, save by his speech, all the senses of mankind could not have recognised him. i blessed myself, and asked whom it was his pleasure to personify to-night? he answered me carelessly, that it was a spark whom he meant should bear the blame of whatever might fall out to-night : and that was all that passed on the subject. we proceeded by some stone steps at the foot of the north loch, in hot argument all the way. i was afraid that our conversation might be overheard, for the night was calm and almost as light as day, and we saw sundry people crossing us as we advanced. but the zeal of my friend was so high, that be disregarded all danger, and continued to argue fiercely and loudly on my delinquency, as he was pleased to call it. i stood on one argument alone, which was, ‘that i did not think the scripture promises to the elect, taken in their utmost latitude, warranted the assurance that they could do no wrong; and that, therefore, it behoved every man to look well to his steps.’ there was no religious scruple that irritated my en- lightened friend and master so much as this. he could not endure it. and the sentiments of our great cove- nanted reformers being on his side, there is not a doubt i was wrong. he lost all patience on hearing what i advanced on this matter, and taking hold of me, he led l\ confessions of a justified sinner. i me into a darksome booth in a confined entry ; and, after a friendly but cutting reproach, he bade me remain there in secret and watch the event; ‘and if i fall,’ said he, ‘you will not fail to avenge my death.’ i was so entirely overcome with vexation that i could make no answer, on which he left me abruptly, a prey to despair; and i saw or heard no more, till he came down to the moonlight green followed by my brother. they had quarrelled before they came within my hearing, for the first words i heard were those of my brother, who was in a state of intoxication, and he was urging a reconciliation, as was his wont on such occasions. my friend spurned at the suggestion, and dared him to the combat; and after a good deal of boastful altercation, which the turmoil of my spirits prevented me from remembering, my brother was compelled to draw his sword and stand on the defensive. it was a desperate and terrible engagement. i at first thought that the royal stranger and great champion of the faith would overcome his opponent with ease, for i considered heaven as on his side, and nothing but the arm of sinful flesh against him. but i was deceived : the sinner stood firm as a rock, while the assailant fiitted about like a shadow, or rather like a spirit. i smiled inwardly, conceiving that these lightsome manoeuvres were all a sham to show off his art and mastership in the exercise, and that when- ever they came to close fairly, that instant my brother would be overcome. still i was deceived: my brother’s arm seemed invincible, so that the closer they fought the more palpably did it prevail. they fought round the green to the very edge of the water, and so round, till they came close up to the covert where i stood. there being no more room to shift ground, my brother then m the private memoirs and forced him to come to close quarters, on which, the former still having the decided advantage, my friend quitted his sword, and called out. i could resist no longer; so, springing from my concealment, i rushed between them with my sword drawn, and parted them as if they had been two schoolboys; then turning. to my brother, i addressed him as follows :—‘wretch! mis- creant! knowest thou what thou art attempting? wouldst thou lay thine hand on the lord’s anointed, or shed his precious blood? turn thee to me, that i may chastise thee for all thy wickedness, and not for the many injuries thou hast done to me!’ to it we went, with full thirst of vengeance on every side. the duel was fierce; but the might of heaven prevailed, and not my might. the ungodly and reprobate young man fell, covered with wounds, and with curses and blasphemy in his mouth, while i escaped uninjured. thereto his power extended not. i will not deny, that my own immediate impressions of this affair in some degree differed from this statement. but this is precisely as my illustrious friend described it to me afterwards, and i can rely implicitly on his information, as he was at that time a looker-on, and my senses all in a state of agitation, and he could have no motive for saying what was not the positive truth. never till my brother was down did we perceive that there had been witnesses to the whole business. our ears were then astounded by rude challenges of unfair play, which were quite appalling to me; but my friend laughed at them, and conducted me off in perfect safety. as to the unfairness of the transaction, i can say thus much, that my royal friend’s sword was down ere ever mine was presented. but if it still be accounted unfair confessions of a justified sinner. to take up a conqueror, and punish him in his own way, i answer: that if a man is sent on a positive mission by his master, and hath laid himself under vows to do his work, he ought not to be too nice in the means of accom- plishing it; and farther, i appeal to holy writ, wherein many instances are recorded of the pleasure the lord takes in the final extinction of the wicked and profane ; and this position i take to be unanswerable. i was greatly disturbed in my mind for many days, knowing that the transaction had been witnessed, and sensible also of the perilous situation i occupied, owing to the late judgment of the court against me. but, on the contrary, i never saw my enlightened friend in such high spirits. he assured me there was no danger; and again repeated, that be warranted my life against the power of man. i thought proper, however, to remain in hiding for a week; but as he said, to my utter amaze- ment, the blame fell on another, who was not only accused, but pronounced guilty by the general voice, and outlawed for non-appearance] how could i doubt, after this, that the hand of heaven was aiding and abetting me? the matter was beyond my comprehension; and as for my friend, he never explained anything that was past, but his activity and art were without a parallel. he enjoyed our success mightily; and for his sake i enjoyed it somewhat, but it was on account of his comfort, only, for i could not for my life perceive in what degree the church was better or purer, than before these deeds were done. he continued to flatter me with great things, as to honours, fame, and emolument : and above all, with the blessing and protection of him to whom my body and soul were dedicated. but after these high promises, i got no longer peace; for he began to urge the death of the private memoirs and my father with such an unremitting earnestness, that i found i had nothing for it but to comply. i did so; and cannot express his enthusiasm of approbation. so much did he hurry and press me in this, that i was forced to devise some of the most openly violent measures, having no alternative. heaven spared me the deed, taking, in that instance, the vengeance in its own hand; for before my arm could effect the sanguine but meritorious act, the old man followed his son to the grave. my illustrious and zealous friend seemed to regret this somewhat; but he comforted himself with the reflection, that still i had the merit of it, having not only consented to it, but in fact effected it, for by doing the one action i had brought about both. no sooner were the obsequies of the funeral over, than my friend and i went to dalcastle, and took undisputed possession of the houses, lands, and effects that had been my father’s; but his plate, and vast treasures of ready money he had bestowed on a voluptuous and unworthy creature, who had lived long with him as a mistress. fain would i have sent her after her lover, and gave my friend some hints on the occasion; but he only shook his head, and said that we must lay all selfish and interested motives out of the question. for a long time, when i awaked in the morning, i could not believe my senses, that i was indeed the undisputed and sole proprietor of so much wealth and grandeur; and i felt so much gratified, that i immediately set about doing all the good i was able, hoping to meet with all approbation and encouragement from my friend. i was mistaken : be checked the very first impulses towards such a procedure, questioned my motives, and uniformly made them out to be wrong. there was one confessions of a justified sinner. morning that a servant said to me, there was a lady in the back chamber who wanted to speak with me, but he could not tell me who it was, for all the old servants had left the mansion, every one on hearing of the death of the late laird, and those who had come knew none of the people in the neighbourhood. from several circum- stances, i had suspicions of private confabulations with women, and refused to go to her, but bid the servant inquire what she wanted. she would not tell ; she could only state the circumstances to me; so i, being sensible that a little dignity of manner became me in my elevated situation, returned for answer, that if it was business that could not be transacted by my steward, it must remain untransacted. the answer which the servant brought back was of a threatening nature. she stated that she must see me, and if i refused her satisfaction there, she would compel it where i should not evite her. my friend and director appeared pleased with my dilemma, and rather advised that i should hear what the woman had to say; on which i consented, provided she would deliver her mission in his presence. she came in with manifest signs of anger and indignation, and began with a bold and direct charge against me of a shameful assault on one of her daughters; of having used the basest of means in order to lead her aside from the paths of rectitude; and on the failure of these, of having resorted to the most unqualified measures. i denied the charge in all its bearings, assuring the dame that i had never so much as seen either of her daughters to my knowledge, far less wronged them; on which she got into great wrath, and abused me to my face as an accomplished vagabond, hypocrite, and sensualist ; and she went so far as to tell me roundly, that confessions of a justified sinner. a poor widow’s only hope in this world? no, you cannot look in my face, and deny aught of this.’ ‘the woman is ravinglmad i ’ said i. ‘you, illustrious sir, know, that in the first instance, i have not yet been in this place one month.’ my friend shook his head again, and answered me, ‘you are wrong, my dear friend; you are wrong. it is indeed the space of time that the lady hath stated, to a day, since you came here, and i came with you ; and i am sorry that i know for certain that you have been frequently haunting her house, and have often had private correspondence with one of the young ladies too. of the nature of it i presume not to know.’ ‘you are mocking me,’ said i. ‘but as well may you try to reason me out of my existence, as to convince me that i have been here even one month, or that any of those things you allege against me has the shadow of truth or evidence to support it. i will swear to you by the great god that made me; and by—-’ ‘hold, you most abandoned profligate l ’ cried she violently, ‘and do not add perjury to your other detest- able crimes. do not, for mercy sake, any more profane that name whose attributes you have wrested and dis- graced. but tell me what reparation you propose offering to my injured child ? ’ ‘i again declare, before heaven, woman, that to the best of my knowledge and recollection, i never saw your daughter. i now think i have some faint recollection of having seen your face, but where, or in what place, puzzles me quite.’ ‘and, why p ’ said she. ‘because for months and days you have been in such a state of extreme inebriety, that your time has gone over like a dream that has been forgotten. i believe, that from the day you came first to the private memoirs and my house, you have been in a state of utter delirium, and that principally from the fumes of wine and ardent spirits.’ ‘it is a manifest falsehood!’ said i; ‘i have never, since i entered on the possession of dalcastle, tasted wine or spirits, saving once a few evenings ago ; and, i confess to my shame, that i was led too far; but i have craved forgiveness and obtained it. i take my noble and dis- tinguished friend there for a witness to the truth of what i assert ; a man who has done more, and sacrificed more for the sake of genuine christianity, than any this world contains. him you will believe.’ ‘i hope you have attained forgiveness,’ said be, seriously. ‘indeed it would be next to blasphemy to doubt it. but, of late, you have been very much addicted to intemperance. i doubt if from the first night you tasted the delights of drunkenness, that you have ever again been in your right mind until monday last. doubt- iess you have been for a good while most diligent in your addresses to this lady’s daughter.’ ‘this is unaccountable,’ said i. ‘it is impossible that i can have been doing a thing, and not doing it at the same time. but indeed, honest woman, there have several incidents occurred to me in the course of my life which persuade me i have a second self: or that there is some other being who appears in my likeness.’ here my friend interrupted me with a sneer, and a hint that i was talking insanely; and then he added, turning to the lady, ‘i know my friend mr colwan will do what is just and right. go and bring the young lady to him, that he may see her, and he will then recollect all his former amours with her.’ ‘i humbly beg your pardon, sir,’ said i. ‘but the confessions of a justified sinner. mention of such a thing as amours with any woman existing, to me, is really so absurd, so far from my principles, so far from the purity of nature and frame to which i was born and consecrated, that i hold it as an insult, and regard it with contempt.' i would have said more in reprobation of such an idea, had not my servant entered, and said, that a gentleman wanted to see me on business. being glad of an oppor- tunity of getting quit of my lady visitor, i ordered the servant to show him in; and forthwith a little lean gentleman, with a long aquiline nose, and a bald head, daubbed all over with powder and pomatum, entered. i thought i recollected having seen him too, but could not remember his name, though he spoke to me with the greatest familiarity; at least that sort of familiarity that an official person generally assumes. he bustled about and about, speaking to every one, but declined listening for a single moment to any. the lady offered to withdraw, but he stopped her. ‘no, no, mrs keeler, you need not go; you need not go; you must not go, madam. the business i came about, concerns you—yes, that it does—bad business you of walker’s? eh? could not help it—did all i could, mr wringhim. done your business. have it all cut and dry here, sir—no, this is not it—have it among them though—i’m at a little loss for your name, sir (addressing my friend)--seen you very often though—exceedingly often—quite well acquainted with you.’ ‘no, sir, you are not,’ said my friend, sternly. the intruder never regarded him; never so much as lifted his eyes from his bundle of law papers, among which he was bustling with great hurry and importance, but went on— the private memoirs and ‘impossible ! have seen a face very like it, then —what did you say your name was, sir ?—very like it indeed. is it not the young laird who was murdered whom you resemble so much.’ here mrs keeler uttered a scream, which so much startled me, that it seems i grew pale. and on looking at my friend’s face, there was something struck me so forcibly in the likeness between him and my late brother, that i had very nearly fainted. the woman exclaimed, that it was my brother’s spirit that stood beside me.’ impossible l’ exclaimed the attorney: ‘at least i hope not, else his signature is not worth a pin. there is some balance due on you business, madam. do you wish your account? because i have it here, ready discharged, and it does not suit letting such things lie over. this business of mr colwan’s will be a severe one on you, madam— rather a severe one.’ ‘what business of mine, if it be your will, sir,’ said i. ‘for my part i never engaged you in business of any sort, less or more.’ he never regarded me, but went on. ‘you may appeal, though : yes, yes, there are such things as appeals for the refractory. here it is, gentle- men—here they are all together—here is, in the first place, sir, your power of attorney, regularly warranted, sealed, and signed with your own hand.’ ‘i declare solemnly that i never signed that document,’ said i. ‘ay, ay, the system of denial is not a bad one in general,’ said my attorney; ‘but at present there is no occasion for it. you do not deny your own hand l ’ ‘i deny everything connected with the business,’ cried i; ‘ i disclaim it in toto, and declare that i know no more about it than the child unborn.’ confessions of a justified sinner. ‘that is exceedingly good l ’ exclaimed he; ‘i like your pertinacity vastly ! i have three of your letters, and three of your signatures; that part is all settled, and i hope so is the whole affair; for here is the original grant to your father, which he has never thought proper to put in requisition. simple gentleman! but here have i, lawyer linkum, in one hundredth part of the time that any other notary, writer, attorney, or writer to the signet in britain, would have done it, procured the signature of his majesty’s commissioner, and thereby confirmed the charter to you and your house, sir, for ever and ever— begging your pardon, madam.’ the lady, as well as myself, tried several times to interrupt the loquacity of linkum, but in vain: he only raised his hand with a quick flourish, and went on : ‘here it is—“ james, by the grace of god, king of great britain, france, and ireland, to his right trusty cousin, sendeth greeting: and whereas his right leal and trustworthy cousin, george colwan of dalcastle and balgrennan, hath suffered great losses, and undergone much hardship, on behalf of his majesty’s rights and titles; he therefore, for himself, and as prince and steward of scotland, and by the consent of his right trusty cousins and councillors, hereby grants to the said george colwan, his heirs and assignees whatsomever, heritably and irre- vocably, all and haill the lands and others underwritten. to wit, all and haill, the five merk land of kipplerig; the five pound land of easter knockward, with all the towers, fortalices, manor-places, houses, biggings, yards, orchards, tofts, crofts, mills, woods, fishings, mosses, muirs, meadows, commonties, pasturages, coals, coal-heughs, tenants, tenantries, services of free tenants, annexes, connexes, dependencies, parts, pendicles, and pertinents the private memoirs and of the same whatsomever; to be peaceably brooked, joysed, set, used, and disposed of by him and his aboves, as specified, heritably and irrevocably, in all time coming: and, in testimony thereof, his majesty, for himself, and as prince and steward of scotland, with the advice and consent of his foresaids, knowledge, proper motive, and kingly power, makes, erects, creates, unites, annexes, and incorporates, the whole lands above mentioned in an haill and free barony, by all the rights, miethes, and marches thereof, old and divided, as the same lies, in length and breadth, in houses, biggings, mills, multures, hawking, hunting, fishing; with court, plaint herezeld, fock, fork, sack, sock, thole, thame, vert, wraik, waith, wair, venison, outfang thief, infang thief, pit and gallows, and all and sundry other commodities. given at our court of whitehall, etc., etc. god save the king. “ compositio lib. . . “ registrate th september, .” ‘see, madam, here are ten signatures of privy councillors of that year, and here are other ten of the present year, with his grace the duke of queensberry at the head. all right—see here it is, sir—all right—done your work. so you see, madam, this gentleman is the true and sole heritor of all the land that your father possesses, with all the rents thereof for the last twenty years and upwards—fine job lot my employers i—sorry on your account madam—can’t help it.’ i was again going to disclaim all interest or connexion in the matter but my friend stopped me; and the plaints and lamentations of the dame became so overpowering, that they put an end to all further colloquy; but lawyer linkum followed me, and stated his great outlay, and the the private memoirs an which it had no control, and of whose actions my own soul was wholly unconscious. this was an anomaly not to be accounted for by any philosophy of mine; and i was many times, in contemplating it, excited to terrors and mental torments hardly describable. to be in a state of consciousness and unconsciousness, at the same time, in the same body and same spirit, was impossible. i was under the greatest anxiety, dreading some change would take place momently in my nature ; for of dates i could make nothing: one-half, or two-thirds of my time, seemed to me to be totally lost. i often, about this time, prayed with great fervour, and lamented my hopeless condition, especially in being liable to the commission of crimes, which i was not sensible of, and could not eschew. and i confess, notwithstanding the promises on which i had been taught to rely, i began to have secret terrors, that the great enemy of man’s salvation was exercising powers over me, that might eventually lead to my ruin. these were but temporary and sinful fears, but they added greatly to my unhappiness. the worst thing of all was, what hitherto i had never felt, and, as yet, durst not confess to myself, that the presence of my illustrious and devoted friend was becom- ing irksome to me. when i was by myself, i breathed freer, and my step was lighter; but, when he approached, a pang went to my heart; and, in his company, i moved and acted as if under a load that i could hardly endure. what a state to be in! and yet to shake him off was impossible—we were incorporated together—identified with one another, as it were, and the power was not in 'me to separate myself from him. i still knew nothing who he was, farther than that he was a potentate of some foreign land, bent on establishing some pure and genuine the private memoirs and in this state of irritation and misery, was i dragging on an existence, disgusted with all around me, and in particular with my mother, who, with all her love and anxiety, had such an insufferable mode of manifesting them, that she had by this time rendered herself exceed- ingly obnoxious to me. the very sound of her voice at a distance went to my heart like an arrow, and made all my nerves to shrink ; and as for the beautiful young lady of whom they told me i had been so much enamoured, i shunned all intercourse with her or hers as i would have done with the devil. i read some of their letters and burnt them, but refused to see either the young lady or her mother, on any account. about this time it was, that my worthy and reverend parent came with one of his elders to see my mother and myself. his presence always brought joy with it into our family, for my mother was uplifted, and i had so few who cared for me, or for whom i cared, that i felt rather gratified at seeing him. my illustrious friend was also much more attached to him than any other person (ex- cept myself), for their religious principles tallied in every point, and their conversation was interesting, serious, and sublime. being anxious to entertain well and highly the man to whom i had been so much indebted, and know- ing that with all his integrity and righteousness, he disdained not the good things of this life, i brought from the late laird’s well-stored cellars, various fragrant and salubrious wines, and we drank and became merry, and i found that my miseries and overpowering calamities passed away over my head like a shower that is driven by the wind. i became elevated and happy, and welcomed my guests an hundred times ; and then i joined them in religious conversation, with a zeal and enthusiasm which confessions of a justified sinner. i had not often experienced, and which made all their hearts rejoice, so that i said to myself, ‘surely every gift of god is a blessing, and ought to be used with liberality and thankfulness.’ the next day i waked from a profound and feverish sleep, and called for something to drink. there was a servant answered whom i had never seen before, and he was clad in my servant’s clothes and livery. i asked for andrew handyside, the servant who had waited at table the night before ; but the man answered with a stare and a smile. ‘ what do you mean, sirrah,’ said i. ‘pray what do you here? or what are you pleased to laugh at? i desire you to go about your business, and send me up handyside. i want him to bring me something to drink.’ ‘ye sanna want a drink, maister,’ said the fellow. ‘tak a hearty ane, and see if it will wauken ye up some- thing, sae that ye dinna ca’ for ghaists through your sleep. surely you haena forgotten that andrew handy- side has been in his grave these six months?’ this was a stunning blow to me. i could not answer further, but sunk back on my pillow as if i had been a lump of lead, refusing to take a drink or anything else at the fellow’s hand, who seemed thus mocking me with so grave a face. the man seemed sorry, and grieved at my being offended, but i ordered him away, and continued sullen and thoughtful. could i have again been for a season in utter oblivion to myself and transacting business which i neither approved of, nor had any connection with! i tried to recollect something in which i might have been engaged, but nothing was portrayed on my mind subsequent to the parting with my friends at a late hour the evening before. the evening before it certainly n the private memoirs and was; but if so, how came it, that andrew handyside, who served at table that evening, should have been in his grave six monthsl this was a circumstance somewhat equivocal ; therefore, being afraid to arise lest accusations of i knew not what might come against me, i was obliged to call once more in order to come at what intelligence i could. the same fellow appeared to receive my orders as before, and i set about examining him with regard to particulars. he told me his name was scrape; that i hired him myself; of whom i hired him; and at whose recommendation. i smiled, and nodded so as to let the knave see i understood he was telling me a chain of false- hoods, but did not choose to begin with any violent asseverations to the contrary. ' ‘and where is my noble friend and companion ? ’ said i. ‘how has he been engaged in the interim? ’, ‘ i dinna ken him, sir,’ said scrape; ‘ but have heard it said, that the strange mysterious person that attended you, him that the maist part of the folks counted un- canny, had gone awa’ wi’ a mr ringan ’ glasgow last year, and had never returned.’ i thanked the lord in my heart at this intelligence, hoping that the illustrious stranger had returned to his own land and people, and that i should thenceforth be rid of his controlling and appalling presence. ‘and where is my mother? ’ said i—the man’s breath cut short, and he looked at me without returning any answer—‘ i ask you where my mother is ?’ said i. ‘god only knows, 'and not i, where she is,’ returned he. ‘he knows where her soul is, and as for her body, if ye dinna ken something ’ it, i suppose nae man alive does.’ u ‘what do you mean, you knave ?’ said i; "whatdark the private memoirs a at the extremity of the colwan wood, i perceived a figure approaching me with slow and dignified motion. the moment that i beheld it, my whole frame received a shock as if the ground on which i walked had sunk suddenly below me. yet, at that moment, i knew not who it was ; it was the air and motion of some one that i dreaded, and from whom i would gladly have escaped ; but this i even had not power to attempt. it came slowly onward, and i advanced as slowly to meet it ; yet when we came within speech, i still knew not who it was. it bore the figure, air, and features of my late brother, i thought, exactly ; yet in all these there were traits so for- bidding, so mixed with an appearance of misery, chagrin, and despair, that i still shrunk from the view, not knowing on whose face i looked. but when the being spoke, both my mental and bodily frame received another shock, more terrible than the first, for it was the voice of the great personage i had so long denominated my friend, of whom i had deemed myself for ever freed, and whose presence and counsels i now dreaded more than hell. it was his voice, but so altered—i shall never forget it till my dying day. nay, i can scarce conceive it possible that any earthly sounds could be so discordant, so repulsive to every feeling of a human soul, as the tones of the voice that grated on my ear at that moment. they were the sounds of the pit, wheezed through a grated cranny, or seemed so to my distempered imagina- tion. ‘ so ! thou shudderest at my approach now, dost thou ? ’ said he. ‘ this all the gratitude that you deign for an attachment of which the annals of the world furnish no parallel? an attachment which has caused me to forego power and dominion, might, homage, conquest, and adu- confessions of a justified sinner. lation, all that i might gain one highly valued and sancti- fied spirit to my great and true principles of reformation among mankind. wherein have i offended? what have i done for evil, or what have i not done for your good, that you would thus shun my presence? ’ ‘great and magnificent prince,’ said i humbly, ‘let me request of you to abandon a poor worthless wight to his own wayward fortune, and return to the dominion of your people. i am unworthy of the sacrifices you have made for my sake; and after all your efforts, i do not feel that you have rendered me either more virtuous or more happy. for the sake of that which is estimable in human nature depart from me to your own home, before you render me a being altogether above, or below the rest of my fellow-creatures. let me plod on towards heaven and happiness in my own way, like those that have gone before me, and i promise to stick fast by the great principles which you have so strenuously inculcated, on condition that you depart and leave me for ever.’ ‘sooner shall you make the mother abandon the child of her bosom; nay, sooner cause the shadow to relinquish the substance, than separate me from your side. our beings are amalgamated, as it were, and consociated in one, and never shall i depart from this country until i can carry you in triumph with me.’ i can in nowise describe the effect this appalling speech had on me. it was like the announcement of death to one who had of late deemed himself free, if not of some- thing worse than death, and of longer continuance. there was i doomed to remain in misery, subjugated, soul and body, to one whose presence was become more intolerable to me than ought on earth could compensate. and at that moment, when he beheld the anguish of my the private memoirs and penpunt, which i thought a name so ludicrous that i called him by the name of his native village, an appella— tion of which he was very proud, and answered everything with more civility and perspicuity when i denomi- nated him penpunt, than samuel, his own christian ,name. of this peasant was i obliged to make a com- panion on sundry occasions, and strange indeed were the details which he gave me concerning myself, and the ideas of the country people concerning me. i took down a few of these in writing, to put off the time, and here leave them on record to show how the best and greatest actions are misconstrued among sinful and ignorant men. ‘you say, samuel, that i hired you myself—that i have been a good enough master to you, and have paid you your weekly wages punctually. now, how is it that you say this, knowing, as you do, that i never hired you, and never paid you a sixpence of wages in the whole course of my life, excepting this last month ? ’ ‘ye may as weel say, master, that water’s no water, or that stanes are no stanes. but that’s just your gate, an’ it is a great pity aye to do a thing an’ profess the clean contrair. weel then, since you havena paid me ony wages, an’ i can prove day and date when i was hired, an’ came hame to your service, will you be sae kind as to pay me now? that’s the best way ’ curing a man ’ the mortal disease ’ leasing-making that i ken o’.’ ‘i should think that penpunt and cameronian prin~ ciples would not admit of a man taking twicepayment for the same article.’ ‘in sic a case as this, sir, it disna hinge upon principles, but a piece ’ good manners; an’ i can tell you that at sic a crisis, a cameronian is a gayan weel-bred man. he’s driven to this, that he maun either make a breach confessions of a justified sinner. in his friend’s good name or in his purse; an’ o, sir, whilk o’ thae, think you, is the most precious? for instance, an’ a galloway drover had comed to the town ’ penpunt, an’ said to a cameronian (the folk’s a’ cameronians there), “sir, i want to buy your cow.” “vera weel,” says the cameronian, “i just want to sell the cow, sae gie me twanty punds scots, an take her wi’ ye.” it’s a bargain. the drover takes away the cow, and gies the cameronian his twanty pund scots. but after that, he meets him again on the white sands, amang a’ the drovers an’ dealers ’ the land, an’ the gallowayman, he says to the cameronian, afore a’ thae witnesses, “come, master whiggam, i 'hae never paid you for you hit useless cow, that i bought, i’ll pay her the day, but you maun mind the luck-penny; there’s muckle need for’t,”—— or something to that purpose. the cameronian then turns out to be a civil man, an’ canna bide to make the man baith a feele an’ liar at the same time afore his associates; an’ therefore he pits his principles afi' at the side, to be a kind ’ sleeping partner, as it war, an’ brings up his good breeding to stand at the counter : he pockets the money, gies the galloway driver time ’ day, an’ comes his way. an’ wha’s to blame? man mind yoursel’ is the first- commandment. a cameronian’s principles never came atween him and his purse, nor sanna in the present case; as i canna bide to make you out a leear, i’ll thank you for my wages.’ ‘well, you shall have them, samuel, if you declare to me that i hired you myself in this same person, and bargained with you this same tongue, and voice, with which i speak to you just now.’ ‘that i do declare. unless ye hae twa persons ’ the same appearance, and twa tongues to the same voice. the private memoirs am but, ’od seif us, sir, do you ken what the auld wives o’ the clachan say about you? ’ ‘ how should i when no one repeats it to me? ’ ‘ , i trow it’s a’ stuff; folk shouldna heed what’s said by auld crazy kimmers. but there are some ' them weel kend for witches too; an’ they say-lord have a care ’ us —they say the deil’s often seen gaun sidie for sidie w’ye, whiles in ac shape, an’ whiles in anither. an’ they say that he whiles takes your ain shape, or else enters into you and then you turn deil yoursel’.’ i was so astounded at this terrible idea that had gone abroad, regarding my fellowship with the prince of dark- ness, that i could make no answer to the fellow’s informa- tion, but sat like one in a stupor; and if it had not been for my well-founded faith and conviction that i was a chosen and elected one before the world was made, i should at that moment have given into the popular belief, and fallen into the sin of despondency; but i was preserved from such a fatal error by an inward and unseen supporter. still the insinuation was so like what i felt myself that i was greatly awed and confounded. the poor fellow observed this, and tried to do away the impression by some farther sage remarks of his own. ‘hout, dear sir, it is balderdash, there’s nae doubt o’t. it is the crownhead o’ absurdity to tak in the havers o’ auld wives for gospel. i told them that my master was a peeous man, an’ a sensible man; an’ for praying, that he could ding auld macmillan himsel’. “ sae could the deil, ’ they said, “when he liket, either at preaching or praying, if these war to answer his aim ends.” “na, na,” says i, “but he’s a strick believer in a’ the truths ’ christianity, my master.” they said, sae was satan, for that he was the private memoirs the air, that rules an’ works in the bairns o’ disobedience? gin ever he observes a proud professor, wha has mae than ordinary pretensions to a divine calling, and that reads and prays till the very howlets learn his preambles, that’s the man auld simmie fixes on to mak a dishclout ’. he canna get rest in hell if he sees a man, or a set of men ’ this stamp, an’ when he sets fairly to wark, it is seldom that he disna bring them round till his ain measures by hook or by crook. then, it is a grand prize for him, an’ a proud diel he is, when he gangs hame to his aim ha’, wi’ a batch o’ the souls o’ sic strenuous professors on his back. ay, i trow, auld ingleby, the liverpool packman, never came up glasgow street wi’ prouder pomp, when he had ten horse-laids afore him ’ flanders lace, an’ hollin lawn, an’ silks'an’ satins frae the eastern indians, than satan wad strodge into hell wi’ a pack-lade o’ the souls o’ proud professors on his braid shoulders. ha, ha, ha ! i think i see how the auld thief wad be gaun through his gizened dominions, crying his wares, in derision, ‘wha will buy a fresh, cauler divine, a bouzy bishop, a fasting zealot, or a piping priest? for a’ their prayers an’ their praises, their aumuses, an’ their penances, their whinings, their howlings, their rantings, an’ their ravings, here they come at last! behold the end! here go the rare and precious wares! a fat professor for a bodle, an’ a lean ane for half a merk ! ’ ” i declare, i trembled at the auld hag’s ravings, but the lave o’ the kimmers applauded the sayings as sacred truths. an’ then lucky went on: “there are many wolves in sheep’s claithing, among us, my man; mony deils aneath the masks o’ zealous professors, roaming about in kirks and meeting-houses o’ the land. it was but the year afore the last, that 'the people ’ confessions of a justified sinner. “. . .,- - the town ’ auchtermuchty grew so rigidly righteous, that the meanest hind among them became a shining light in ither towns an’ parishes. there was nought to be heard, neither night or day, but preaching, praying, argumentation, an’ catechising in a’ the famous town ’ auctermuchty. the young men wooed their sweethearts out o’ the song ’ solomon, and the girls returned answers in strings ’ verses out ’ the psalms. at the lint-swinglings, they said questions round; and read chapters, and sang hymns at bridals; auld and young prayed in their dreams, an’ prophesied in their sleep, till the deils in the farrest nooks ’ hell were alarmed, and moved to commotion. gin it hadna been an auld carl, robin ruthven, auctermuchty wad at that time hae been ruined and lost for ever. but robin was a cunning man, an’ had rather mae wits than his ain, for he had been in the hands ’ the fairies when he was young, an’ a’ kinds ’ spirits were visible to his een, an’ their language as familiar to him as his ain mother tongue robin was sitting on the side ’ the west lowmond, ae still gloomy night in september, when he saw a bridal ’ corbie craws coming east the lift, just on the edge ’ the gloaming. the moment that robin saw them, he kenned, by their movements, that they were craws ’ some ither warld than this; so he signed himself, and crap into the middle ’ his bourock. the corbie craws came a’ an’ sat down round about him, and they pouket their black sooty wings, and spread them out to the breeze to cool; and robin heard ae corbie speaking, an’ another answering him; an’ the tane said to the tither? ‘where will the ravens find a prey the night? ’ ‘ on the lean crazy souls ’ auctermuchty,’ quo the tither. ‘i fear they will be o’er weel wrappet up in the warm flannens ’ faith, an’ the private memoirs clouted with the dirty duds o’ repentance, for us to mak a meal ” quo the first. ‘whaten vile sounds are these that i hear coming bumming up the hill? ’ ‘ these are the hymns and praises ’ the auld wives and creeshy louns o’ auctermuchty, wha are gaun crooning their way to heaven; an’ gin it warna for the shame ’ being beat, we might let our great enemy take them, for sic a prize as he will hael heaven, forsooth! what shall we think ’ heaven, if it is to be filled wi’ vermin like thae, among whom there is mair poverty and pollution, that i can name.’ ‘no matter for that,’ said the first, ‘we cannot have our power set at defiance; though we should put them in the thief’s hole, we must catch them, and catch them with their own bait too. come all to church to- morrow, and i’ll let you hear how i’ll gull the saints of auchtermuchty. in the meantime there is a feast on the sidlaw hills to-night, below the hill of macbeth—- mount, diabolus, and fly.’ then, with loud croaking and crowing, the bridal of corbies again scaled the dusky air, and left robin ruthven in the middle of his cairn. “‘ the next day the congregation met in the kirk of auchtermuchty, but the minister made not his appear- ance. the elders ran out and in, making inquiries; but they could learn nothing, save that the minister was missing. they ordered the clerk to sing a part of the th psalm, until they saw if the minister would cast up. the clerk did as he was ordered, and by the time he reached the th verse, a strange divine entered the church, by the western door, and advanced solemnly up to the pulpit. the eyes of all the congregation were rivettedl on the sublime stranger, who was clothed in a robe of black sackcloth, that flowed all around him, and trailed far behind, and they weened him an angel confessions of a justified sinner. come to exhort them, in disguise. he read out his text from the prophecies of ezekiel, which consisted of these singular words: ‘i will overturn, overturn, over- turn it; and it shall be no more, until he come whose right it is, and i will give it him.’ “‘from these words he preached such a sermon as never was heard by human ears, at least never by cars of auchtermuchty. it was a true, sterling, gospel sermon—it was striking, sublime, and awful in the ex- treme. he finally made out the it mentioned in the text, to mean, properly and positively, the notable town of auchtermuchty. he proved all the people in it, to their perfect satisfaction, to be in the gall of bitterness and bond of iniquity, and he assured them that god would overturn them, their principles and professions ; and that they should be no more, until the devil, the town’s greatest enemy came, and then it should be given unto him for a prey, for it was his right, and to him it belonged, if there was not forthwith a radical change made in all their opinions and modes of worship. “‘the inhabitants of auchtermuchty were electrified, they were charmed; they were actually raving mad about the grand and sublime truths delivered to them by this eloquent and impressive preacher of christianity. ‘he is a prophet of the lord,’ said one, ‘sent to warn us, as jonah was sent to the ninevites.’ ‘ , he is an angel sent from heaven to instruct this great city,’ said another, ‘for no man ever uttered truths so sublime before.’ the good people of auchtermuchty were in perfect raptures with the preacher who had thus sent them to hell by the slump, tag, rag and bobtaill nothing in the world delights a truly religious people so much, as consigning them to eternal damnation. they wondered after the o confessions of a justified sinner. unsophisticated tale of the black corbies, he was only derided. the great preacher appeared once more, and went through his two discourses with increased energy and approbation. all who heard him were amazed, and many of them went into fits, writhing and foaming in a state of the most horrid agitation. robin ruthven sat on the outskirts of the great assembly, listening with the rest, and perceived what they, in the height of their enthusiasm, perceived not—the ruinous tendency of the tenets so sublimely inculcated. robin kenned the voice of his friend the corby-craw again, and was sure he could not be wrang: sae when public worship was finished, a, the elders an’ a’ the gentry flocked about the great preacher, as he stood on the green brae in the sight of the hale congregation, an’ a’ war alike anxious to pay him some mark ’ respect. robin ruthven came in amang the thrang, to try to effect what he had promised; and, with the greatest readiness and simplicity, just took hand ’ the side an’ wide gown, an’ in sight of a’ present, held it aside as high as the preacher’s knee, and behold there was a pair ’ cloven feet! the auld thief was fairly catched in the very height ’ his proud conquest, an’ put down by an auld. carl. he could feign nae mair, but gnashing on robin wi’ his teeth, he darted into the air like a fiery dragon, an’ keust a reid rainbow ower the taps o’ the lowmonds. ‘ “ a’ the auld wives an’ weavers ’ auchtermuchty fell down flat wi’ affright, and betook them to their prayers aince again, for they saw the dreadfu’ danger they had escapit, an’ frae that day to this it is a hard matter to gar an auchtermuchty man listen to a serman at a’, an’ a harder ane still to gar him applaud ane, for he thinks ‘ the private memoirs ar aye that he sees the cloven foot peeping out frae aneath ilka sentence. “‘ now, this is a true story, my man,” quo the auld wife; “an’ whenever you are doubtfu’ o’ a man, take auld robin ruthven’s plan, an’ look for the cloven foot, for it’s a thing that winna weel hide; an’ it appears whiles where ane wadna think o’t. it will keek out frae aneath the parson’s gown, the lawyer’s wig, and the cameronian’s blue bannet; but still there is a gouden rule whereby to detect it, an’ that never, never fails.” the auld witch didna gie me the rule, an’ though i hae heard tell o’t often an’ often, shame fa’ me an’ i ken what it is! but ye will ken it well, an’ it would be nane the waur of a trial on some ’ your friends, maybe; for they say there is a certain gentleman seen walking wi’ you whiles, that wherever he sets his foot, the grass withers as gin it war scoudered wi’ a het ern. his presence be about us ! what’s the matter wi’ you, master? are ye gaun to take the calm o’ the stamock again? ’ the truth is, that the clown’s absurd story, with the still more ridiculous application, made me sick at heart a second time. it was not because i thought my illustrious friend was the devil, or that i took a fool’s idle tale as a counterbalance to divine revelation, that had assured me of my justification in the sight of god before the ex- istence of time; but it gave me a view of my own state, at which i shuddered, as indeed, i now always did, when the image of my devoted friend and ruler presented itself to my mind. i often communed with my heart on this, and wondered how a connection, that had the well~being of mankind solely in view, could be productive of fruits so bitter. i then went to try my works by the saviour’s golden rule, as my servant had put it into my head to do; confessions of a justified sinner. and, behold, not one of them would stand the test. i had shed blood on a ground on which i could not admit that any man had a right to shed mine; and i began to doubt the motives of my adviser once more, not that they were intentionally bad, but that his was some great mind led astray by enthusiasm, .or some overpowering passion. he seemed to comprehend every one of these motions of my heart, for his manner towards me altered every day. it first became anything but agreeable, then supercilious, and finally, intolerable; so that i resolved to shake him off, cost what it would, even though i should be reduced to beg my bread in a foreign land. to do it at home was impossible as he held my life in his hands, to sell it whenever he had a mind; and be- sides, his ascendancy over me was as complete as that of a huntsman over his dogs. i was even so weak, as, the next time i met with him, to look stedfastly at his foot, to see if it was cloven into two hoofs. it was the foot of a gentleman, in every respect, so far as appearances went, but the form of his counsels was somewhat equivocal, and if not double, they were amazingly crooked. but, if i had taken my measures to abscond and fly from my native place, in order to free myself of this tor- menting, intolerant, and bloody reformer, he had likewise taken his to expel me, or throw me into the hands of justice. it seems that about this time; i was haunted by some spies connected with my late father and brother, of whom the mistress of the former was one. my brother’s death had been witnessed by two individuals ; indeed, i always had an impression that it was witnessed by more than one, having some faint recollection of hearing voices and challenges close beside me; and this woman had searched about until she found these people; but, the private memoirs a as i shrewdly suspected, not without the assistance of the only person in my secret,—-my own warm and devoted friend. i say this, because i found that he had them concealed in the neighbourhood, and then took me again and again where i was fully exposed to their view, without being aware. one time in particular, on pretence of gratifying my revenge on that base woman, he knew so well where she lay concealed, that he led me to her, and left me to the mercy of two viragos, who had very nigh taken my life. my time of residence at dalcastle was wearing to a crisis. i could no longer live with my tyrant, who haunted me like my shadow; and besides, it seems there were proofs of murder leading against me from all quarters. of part of these i deemed myself quite free : but the world deemed otherwise ; and how the matter would have gone, god only knows, for the case never having undergone a judicial trial, i do not. it perhaps, however, behoves me here to relate all that i know of it, and it is simply this : on the first of june , (well may i remember the day) i was sitting locked in my secret chamber, in a state of the utmost despondency, revolving in my mind what i ought to do to be free of my persecutors, and wishing myself a worm, or a moth, that i might be crushed and at rest, when behold samuel entered, with eyes like to start out of his head, exclaiming, ‘for god’s sake, master, fly and hide yourself, for your mother’s found; an’ as sure as you’re a living soul, the blame is gaun to fa’ on you ! ’ ‘ my mother found ’ said i. ‘ and pray, where has she been all this while?’ in the meantime i was terribly discomposed at the thoughts of her return. ‘ been, sir ? been? why she has been where ye pat her, it seems—lying buried in the sands o’ the linn. i the private memoirs and was any inherent virtue in these robes of his, as he had suggested, this was one of their effects, that they turned my heart towards that which was evil, horrible and dis- gustful. i mixed with the mob to hear what they were saying. every tongue was engaged in loading me with the most opprobrious epithets! one called me a monster of nature; another an incarnate devil; and another a creature made to be cursed in time and eternity. i retired from them, and winded my way southward, comforting myself with the assurance, that so mankind had used and persecuted the greatest fathers and apostles of the christian church, and that their vile opprobrium could not alter the counsels of heaven concerning me. on going over that rising ground called dorington moor, i could not help turning round and taking a look of dalcastle. i had little doubt that it would be my last look, and nearly as little ambition that it should not. i thought how high my hopes of happiness and advancement had been on entering that mansion, and taking possession of its rich and extensive domains, and how miserably i had been disappointed. on the contrary, i had experienced nothing but chagrin, disgust, and terror; and i now consoled myself with the hope that i should henceforth shake myself free of the chains of my great tormentor, and for that privilege was i willing to encounter any earthly distress. i could not help perceiving, that i was now on a path which was likely to lead me into a species of distress hitherto unknown, and hardly dreamed of by me, and that was total destitution. for all the riches i had been possessed of a few hours previous to this, i found that here i was turned out of my lordly possessions without \ ,il- ' ' confessions of a justified sinner. a single merk, or the power of lifting and commanding the smallest sum, without being thereby discovered and seized. had it been possible for me to have escaped in my own clothes, i had a considerable sum secreted in these, but by the sudden change, i was left without a coin for present necessity. but i had hope in heaven, knowing that the just man would not be left destitute ; and that though many troubles surrounded him, he would atlast be set free from them all. i was possessed of strong and brilliant parts, and a liberal education; and though i had somehow unaccountably suffered my theological qualifications to fall into desuetude, since my acquaintance with the ablest and most rigid of all theologians, i had nevertheless hopes that, by preaching up redemption by grace, pre-ordination, and eternal pur- pose, i should yet be enabled to benefit mankind in some country, and rise to high distinction. these were some of the thoughts by which i consoled myself as i posted on my way southward, avoiding the towns and villages, and falling into the cross ways that led from each of the great roads passing east and west, to another. i lodged the first night in the house of a country weaver, into which i stepped at a late hour, quite overcome with hunger and fatigue, having travelled not less than thirty miles from my late home. the man received me ungraciously, telling me of a gentleman’s house at no great distance, and of an inn a little farther away; but i said i delighted more in the society of a man like him, than that of any gentleman of the land, for my concerns were with the poor of this world, it being easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of heaven. the weaver’s wife, who sat with a child on her knee, and had the private memoirs and not hitherto opened her mouth, hearing me speak in that serious and religious style, stirred up the fire, with her one hand; then drawing a chair near it, she said, ‘come awa, honest lad, in by here, sin’ it be sae that you belong to him wha gies us a’ that we hae, it is but right that you should share a part. you are a stranger, it is true, but them that winna entertain a stranger will never entertain an angel unawares.’ i never was apt to be taken with the simplicity of nature; in general i despised it; but, owing to my circumstances at the time, i was deeply affected by the manner of this poor woman’s welcome. the weaver continued in a churlish mood throughout the evening, apparently dissatisfied with what his wife had done in entertaining me, and spoke to her in a manner so crusty that i thought proper to rebuke him, for the woman was comely in her person and virtuous in her conversation; but the weaver her husband was large of make, ill-favoured, and pestilent; therefore did i take him severely to task, for the tenor of his conduct; but the man was froward, and answered me rudely, with sneering and derision, and, in the height of his caprice, he said to his wife, ‘whan focks are sae keen of a chance ’ entertaining angels, gudewife, it wad maybe be worth their while to tak tent what kind ’ angels they are. it wadna wonder me vera muckle an ye had entertained your friend the deil the night, for aw thought aw fand a saur o’ reek an’ brim- stane about him. he’s nane o’ the best ’ angels, and focks winna hae muckle credit by entertaining him.’ certainly, in the assured state i was in, i had as little reason to be alarmed at mention being made of the devil as any person on earth: of late, however, i felt that the reverse was the case, and that any allusion to my great _ confessions of a justified sinner. enemy, moved me exceedingly. the weaver’s speech had such an effect on me, that both he and his wife were alarmed at my looks. the latter thought i was angry, and chided her husband gently for his rudeness; but the weaver himself rather seemed to be confirmed in his opinion that i was the devil, for he looked round like a startled roebuck, and immediately betook him to the family bible. i know not whether it was on purpose to prove my identity or not, but ithink he was going to desire me either to read a certain portion of scripture that he had i sought out, or to make family worship, had not the conversation at that instant taken another turn; for the weaver, not knowing how to address me, abruptly asked my name, as he was about to put the bible into my hands. never having considered myself in the light of a male- factor, but rather as a champion in the cause of truth and finding myself perfectly safe under my disguise, i had never once thought of the utility of changing my name, and when the man asked me, i hesitated; but being compelled to say something, i said my name was cowan. the man stared at me, and then at his wife, with a look that spoke a knowledge of something alarming or mysterious. ‘hal cowan?’ said he. ‘that’s most extrordinar! not colwan, i hope?’ ‘no: cowan is my sirname,’ said i. ‘but why not colwan, there being so little difference in the sound? ’ ‘i was feared ye might be that waratch that the deil has taen the possession ’, an’ eggit him on to kill baith his father an’ his mother, his only brother, an’ his sweet- heart,’ said he; ‘an’ to say the truth, i’m no that sure about you yet, for i see you’re gaun wi’ arms on ye.’ the private memoirs and ‘not i, honest man,’ said i; ‘i carry no arms; a man conscious of his innocence and uprightness of heart, needs not to carry arms in his defence now.’ ‘ay, ay, maister,’ said he; ‘an’ pray what div ye ca’ this bit windlestrae that’s appearing here?’ with that he pointed to something on the inside of the breast of my frock-coat. i looked at it, and there certainly was the gilded haft of a poniard, the same weapon i had seen and handled before, and which i knew my illustrious companion always carried about with him; but till that moment i knew not that i was in possession of it. i drew it out: a more dangerous or insidious looking weapon could not be conceived. the weaver and his wife were both frightened, the latter in particular; and she being my friend, and i dependent on their hospi- tality, for that night, i said, ‘i declare i knew not that i carried this small rapier, which has been in my coat by chance, and not by any design of mine. but lest you should think that i meditate any mischief to any under this roof, i give it into your hands, requesting of you to lock it by till to-morrow, or when i shall next want it.’ the woman seemed rather glad to get hold of it ; and taking it from me, she went into a kind of pantry out of my sight, and locked the weapon up; and then the discourse went on. ‘there cannot be such a thing in reality,’ said i, ‘as the story you were mentioning just now, of a man whose name resembles mine.’ ‘it’s likely that you ken a wee better about the story than i do, maister,’ said he, ‘suppose you do leave the l out of your name. an’ yet i think sic a waratch, an’ a murderer, wad hae taen a name wi’ some gritter dif- ference in the sound. but the story is just that true, \confessions of a justified sinner. obliged to call out lustily for assistance. the weaver came half naked, unlocked the door, and, setting in his head and long neck, accosted me thus : ‘what now, mr satan? what for are ye roaring that gate? are you faun inna little hell, instead ’ the big muckle ane? deil be in your reistit trams! what for have ye abscondit yoursel’ into ma leddy’s wab for?’ ‘friend, i beg your pardon,’ said i; ‘i wanted to be at the light, and have somehow unfortunately involved myself in the intricacies of your web, from which i cannot get clear without doing you a great injury. pray, do lend your experienced hand to extricate me.’ ‘may aw the perils ’ damnation light on your silly snout, an i dinna estricat ye weel enough! ye ditit, donnart, deil’s burd that ye be! what made ye gang howkin in there to be a poor man’s ruin? come out, ye vile rag-of-o-muffin, or i gar ye come out wi’ mair shame and disgrace, an’ fewer haill banes in your body.’ my feet had slipped down through the double warp- ings of a web, and not being able to reach the ground with them (there being a small pit below), i rode upon a number of yielding threads, and, there being nothing else that i could reach, to extricate myself was impossible. i was utterly powerless: and besides, the yarn and cords hurt me very much. for all that, the destructive weaver seized a loomspoke, and began a-beating me most un- mercifully, while, entangled as i was, i could do nothing but shout aloud for mercy, or assistance, whichever chanced to be within hearing. the latter at length made its appearance, in the form of the weaver’s wife, in the same state of deshabille with himself, who instantly interfered, and that most sternuously, on my behalf. before her arrival, however, i had made a desperate p the private memoirs and dream has been true! the lord judge between thee and me; but, in his name, i charge you to depart out ’ this house; an’, gin it be your will, dinna tak the braid- side o’t w’ye, but gang quietly out at the door wi’ your face foremost. wife, let nought ’ this enchanter’s remain i’ the house, to be a curse an’ a snare to us; gang an’ bring him his gildit weapon, and may the lord pro- tect a’ his ain against its hellish and deadly point ?’ the wife went to seek my poniard, trembling so excessively that she could hardly walk, and shortly after, we heard a feeble scream from the pantry. the weapon had disappeared with the clothes, though under double lock and key ; and the terror of the good people having now reached a disgusting extremity, i thought proper to make a sudden retreat, followed by the weaver’s ana- themas. my state both of body and mind was now truly deplorable. i was hungry, wounded, and lame ; an outcast and a vagabond in society; my life sought after with avidity, and all for doing that to which i was pre- destined by him who foreordains whatever comes to pass. i knew not whither to betake me. i had proposed going into england, and there making some use of the classical education i had received, but my lameness rendered this impracticable for the present. i was therefore obliged to turn my face towards edinburgh, where i was little known—where concealment was more practicable than by skulking in the country, and where i might turn my mind to something that was great and good. i had a little money, both scots and english, now in my p - session, but not one friend in the whole world on whom i could rely. one devoted friend, it is true, i had, but he was become my greatest terror. to escape from him, i confessions of a justified sinner. now felt that i would willingly travel to the farthest corners of the world, and be subjected to every depriva- tion; but after the certainty of what had taken place last night, after i had travelled thirty miles by secret and bye-ways, i saw not how escape from him was possible. miserable, forlorn, and dreading every person that i saw, either behind or before me, i hasted on towards edinburgh, taking all the bye and unfrequented paths; and the third night after i left the weaver’s house, i reached the west port, without meeting with anything remarkable. being exceedingly fatigued and lame, i took lodgings in the first house i entered, and for these i was to pay two groats a-week, and to board and sleep with a young man who wanted a companion to make his rent easier. i liked this; having found from experience, that the great personage who had attached himself to me, and was now become my greatest terror among many surrounding evils, generally haunted me when i was alone, keeping aloof from all other society. my fellow lodger came home in the evening, and was glad at my coming. his name was linton, and i changed mine to elliot. he was a flippant unstable being, one to whom nothing appeared a difficulty, in his own estimation, but who could effect very little, after all. he was what is called by some a compositor, in the queen’s printing house, then conducted by a mr james watson. in the course of our conversation that night, i told him that i was a first-rate classical scholar, and would gladly turn my attention to some business where- in my education might avail me something; and that there was nothing would delight me so much as an en- gagement in the queen’s printing ofi'ice. linton made the private memoirs and was wrought off; and i never shall forget how my heart exulted when at the printing house this day, i saw what numbers of my works were to go abroad among mankind, and i determined with myself that i would not put the border name of elliot, which i had assumed, to the work. thus far have my history and confessions been carried. i must now furnish my christian readers with a key to the process, management, and winding up of the whole matterl; which i propose, by the assistance of god to limit to a very few pages. charters, [uly , .—my hopes and prospects are a wreck. my precious journal is lost ! consigned to the flames ! my enemy hath found me out, and there is no hope of peace or rest for me on this side the grave. in the beginning of the last week, my fellow lodger came home, running in a great panic, and told me a story of the devil having appeared twice in the printing house, assisting the workmen at the printing of my book, and that some of them had been frightened out of their wits. that the story was told to mr watson, who till that time had never paid any attention to the treatise, but who, out of curiosity, began and read a part of it, and there- upon flew into a great rage, called my work a medley of lies and blasphemy, and ordered the whole to be con- signed to the flames, blaming his foreman, and all connected with the press, for letting a work go so far, that was enough to bring down the vengeance of heaven on the concern. if ever i shed tears through perfect bitterness of spirit it was at that time, but i hope it was more for the confessions of a justified sinner. ‘then i can tell you, lad, it has been something neither good nor canny,’ said he : ‘it’s no for naething that our horses are snorking that gate.’ for the first time, i remarked that the animals were snorting and rearing as if they wished to break through the house. the man called to them by their names, and ordered them to be quiet ; but they raged still the more furiously. he then roused his drowsy companions, who were alike alarmed at the panic of the horses, all of them declaring that they had never seen either mause or jolly start in their lives before. my bed-fellow and another then ventured down the ladder, and i heard one of them saying, ‘lord be wi’ us! what can be i’ the house? the sweat’s rinning off the poor beasts like water.’ they agreed to sally out together, and if possible to reach the kitchen and bring a light. i was glad at this, but not so much so when i heard the one man saying to the other, in a whisper, ‘i wish that stranger man may be canny enough.’ ‘gude kens !’ said the other: ‘it doesnae look unco weel.’ the lad in the other bed, hearing this, set up his head in manifest affright as the other two departed for the kitchen ; and, i believe, he would have been glad to have been in their company. this lad was next the ladder, at. which i was extremely glad, for had he not been there, the world should not have induced me to wait the return of these two men. they were not well gone, before i heard another distinctly enter the stable, and come towards the ladder. the lad who was sitting up in his bed, intent on the watch, called out, ‘wha’s that there? walker, is that you? purdie, i say, is it you?’ the darkling intruder paused for a few moments, and the private memoirs and glen, whom should i meet full in the face, but the very being in all the universe of god i would the most gladly have shunned. i had no power to fly from him, neither durst i, for the spirit within me, accuse him of falsehood, and renounce his fellowship. i stood before him like a condemned criminal, staring him in the face, ready to be winded, twisted, and tormented as be pleased. he re- garded me with a sad and solemn look. how changed was now that majestic countenance, to one of haggard despair—changed in all save the extraordinary likeness to my late brother, a resemblance which misfortune and despair tended only to heighten. there were no kind greetings passed between us at meeting, like those which pass between the men of the world; he looked on me with eyes that froze the currents of my blood, but spoke not, till i assumed as much courage as to articulate— ‘you here! i hope you have brought me tidings of comfort ?’ ‘tidings of despair ! ’ said he. ‘but such tidings as the timid and the ungrateful deserve, and have reason to expect. you are an outlaw, and a vagabond in your country, and a high reward is offered for your apprehen- sion. the enraged populace have burnt your house, and all that is within it; and the farmers on the land bless themselves at being rid of you. so fare it with everyone, who puts his hand to the great work of man’s restoration to freedom and draweth back, contemning the light that is within him! your enormities caused me to leave you to yourself for a season, and you see what the issue has been. you have given some evil ones power over you, who longed to devour you, both soul and body, and it has required all my power and influence to save you. had it not been for my hand, you had been torn in ti“— confessions of a justified sinner. pieces last night ; but for once i prevailed. we must leave this’land forthwith, for here there is neither peace, safety, nor comfort for us. do you now and here pledge yourself to one who has so often saved your life and has put his own at stake to do so? do you pledge yourself that you will henceforth be guided by my counsel and follow me whithersoever i choose to lead.’ ‘i have always‘been swayed by your counsels,’ said i ‘and for your sake, principally, am i sorry that all our measures have proved abortive. but i hope still to be useful in my native isle, therefore let me plead that your highness will abandon a poor despised and outcast wretch to his fate, and betake you to your realms, where your presence cannot but be greatly wanted.’ ‘would that i could do so !’ said he, wofully. ‘but to talk of that is to talk of an impossibility. i am wedded to you so closely that i feel as if i were the same person. our essences are one, our bodies and spirits being united, so that i am drawn towards you as by magnetism, and wherever you are, there must my presence be with you.’ perceiving how this assurance affected me, he began to chide to me most bitterly for my ingratitude; and then he assumed such looks, that it was impossible for me longer to bear them; therefore, i staggered out the way, begging and beseeching of him to give me up to my fate, and hardly knowing what i said ; for it struck me, that with all his assumed appearance of misery and wretchedness there were traits of exultation in his hideous countenance, manifesting a secret and inward joy at my utter despair. it was long before i durst look over my shoulder, but when i did so, i perceived this ruined and debased potentate coming slowly on the same path, and i prayed the private memoirs and i had of late been inured; but they kept at a distance, and i was soon persuaded that there was a power pro- tected that house superior to those that contended for, or had the mastery over me. oveijoyed at finding such an asylum, i remained in the humble cot. this is the third day i have lived under the roof, freed of my hellish assailants, spending my time in prayer, and writing out this my journal, which i have fashioned to stick in with my printed work, and to which i intend to add portions while i remain in this pilgrimage state which, i find too well, cannot be long. august , .—this morning the hind has brought me word from redesdale, whither he had been for coals, that a stranger gentleman had been traversing that country, making the most earnest inquiries after me, or one of the same appearance ; and from the description that he brought of this stranger, i could easily perceive who it was. rejoicing that my tormentor has lost traces of me for once, i am making haste to leave my asylum, on pretence of following this stranger, but in reality to conceal myself still more completely from his search. perhaps this may be the last sentence ever i am destined to write. if so, farewell christian reader ! may god grant to thee a happier destiny than has been allotted to me here on earth, and the same assurance of acceptance above! amen. ault-riglz, august , r .—-here am i, set down on the open moor to add one sentence more to my woful journal ; and then, farewell all beneath the sun ! on leaving the hind’s cottage on the border, i hasted to the north-west, because in that quarter i perceived the highest and wildest hills before me. as i crossed the mountains above hawick, i exchanged clothes with a confessions of a justified sinner. poor homely shepherd, whom i found lying on a hillside, singing to himself some woful love ditty. he was glad of the change, and proud of his saintly apparel; and i was no less delighted with mine, by which i now supposed myself completely disguised; and i found moreover that in this garb of a common shepherd i was made welcome in every house. i slept the first night in a farm-house nigh to the church of roberton, without hearing or seeing aught extraordinary; yet i observed next morning that all the servants kept aloof from me, and regarded me with looks of aversion. the next night i came to this house, where the farmer engaged me as a shepherd; and finding him a kind, worthy, and religious man, i accepted of his terms with great gladness. i had not, however, gone many times to the sheep, before all the rest of the shepherds told my master that i knew nothing about herding, and begged of him to dismiss me. he perceived too well the truth of their intelligence; but being much taken with my learning, and religious conversation, he would not put me away, but set me to herd his cattle. it was lucky for me, that before i came here, a report had prevailed, perhaps for an age, that this farm-house was haunted at certain seasons by a ghost. i say it was lucky for me, for i had not been in it many days before the same appalling noises began to prevail around me about midnight, often continuing till near the dawning. still, they kept aloof, and without-doors ; for this gentle- man’s house, like the cottage i was in formerly, seemed to be a sanctuary from all demoniacal power. he appears to be a good man and a just, and mocks at the idea of supernatural agency, and he either does not hear these persecuting spirits, or will not acknowledge it, though of late he appears much perturbed. confessions of a justified sinner. eternal counsel, or in the smallest degree alter or extenu- ate one event which was decreed before the foundations of the world were laid. he said he had watched over me with the greatest anxiety, but perceiving my rooted aversion towards him he had forborne troubling me with his presence. but now, seeing that i was certainly to be driven from my sanctuary that night, and that there would be a number of infernals watching to make a prey of my body, he came to caution me not to despair, for that he would protect me at all risks, if the power remained with him. he then repeated an ejaculatory prayer, which i was to pronounce, if in great extremity. i objected to the words as equivocal, and susceptible of being rendered in a meaning perfectly dreadful ; but he reasoned against this, and all reasoning with him is to no purpose. he said he did not ask me to repeat the‘words unless greatly straitened; and that i saw his strength and power giving way, and when perhaps nothing else could save me. the dreaded hour of night arrived; and as he said, i was expelled from the family residence, and ordered to a byre or cow-house, that stood parallel with the dwelling- house behind, where on a divot loft, my humble bedstead stood, and the cattle grunted and puffed below me. how unlike the splendid halls of dalcastle ? and to what i am now reduced, let the reflecting reader judge. lord, thou knowest all that i have done for thy cause on earth why then art thou laying thy hand so sore upon me? why hast thou set me as a butt of thy malice? but thy will must be done; thou wilt repay me in a better world. amen. september .—my first night of trial in this place is overpast! \vould that it were the last that i should confessions of a justified sinner. _ ! ance is past, and now my fate is inevitable—amen for ever! i will now seal up my little book and conceal it ; and cursed be he who trieth to alter or amend ! end of the memoir. yvhat can this work be? sure, you will say, it must be an allegory; or (as the writer calls it) a religious parable, showing the dreadful danger of self-righteousness? i cannot tell. attend to the sequel; which is a thing so extraordinary, so unprecedented, and so far out of the common course of human events, that if there were not hundreds of living witnesses to attest the truth of it, i would not bid any rational being believe it. in the first place take the following extract from an authentic letter, published in blackwood’s alagazzize, for august, . ‘on the top of a wild height called cowan’s croft where the lands of three proprietors meet all at one point, there has been for long and many years the grave of a suicide marked out by a stone standing at the head, and another at the feet. often have i stood musing over it myself, when a shepherd on one of the farms, of which it formed the extreme boundary, and thinking what could induce a young man, who had scarcely reached the prime of life, to brave his maker, and rush into his presence by an act of his own erring hand, and one so unnatural and preposterous. but it never once occurred to me, as an object of curiosity, to dig up the mouldering bones of the culprit, which i considered as the most revolting of all objects. the thing was, however, done last month, and confessions of a justified sinner. a strange frightful position at the side of one of eldin- hope hay-ricks. the driver’s attention was riveted on this strange uncouth figure, and as the drove road passed at no great distance from the spot, he first called, but receiving no answer, he went up to the spot, and behold it was the above-mentioned young man, who had hung himself in the hay rope that was tying down the rick. ‘this was accounted a great wonder, and every one said, if the devil had not assisted him it was impossible the thing could have been done; for in general, these ropes are so brittle, being made of green hay, that they will scargely bear to be bound over the rick. and the more to horrify the good people of this neighbourhood, the driver said, when he first came in view, he could almost give his oath that he saw two people busily en- gaged at the hay-rick, going round it and round it, and he thought they were dressing it. ‘if this asseveration approximated at all to truth, it makes this evident at least, that the unfortunate young man had hanged himself after the man with the lambs came in view, he was, however, quite dead when he cut him down. he had fastened two of the old hay-ropes at the bottom of the rick on one side, (indeed they are all fastened so when first laid on), so that he had nothing to do but to loosen two of the ends on the other side. these he had tied in a knot round his neck, and then slackening his knees, and letting himself down gradually, till the hay-rope bore all his weight, he had contrived to put an end to his existence in that way. now the fact is, that if you try all the ropes that are thrown over all the outfield hay-ricks in scotland, there is not one among a thousand of them will hang a colley dog ; so that the the private memoirs and manner of this wretch’s death was rather a singular circumstance. ‘early next morning, mr anderson’s servants went reluctantly away, and taking an old blanket with them for a winding-sheet, they rolled up the body of the deceased, first in his own plaid, letting the hay-rope still remain about his neck, and then rolling the old blanket over all, they bore the loathed remains away to the distance of three miles or so, on spokes, to the top of cowan’s croft, at the very point where the duke of buccleuch’s land, the laird of drummelzier’s, and lord napier’s meet, and there they buried him, with all that he had on and about him, silver knife and fork and all to- gether. thus far went tradition, and no one ever dis- puted one jot of the disgusting oral tale. . ‘a nephew of that mr anderson’s who was with the hapless youth that day he died, says, that, as far as he can gather from the relations of friends that he remembers, and of that same uncle in particular, it is one hundred and five years next month (that is september, ), since that event happened; and i think it likely that this gentleman’s information is correct. but sundry other people, much older than he, whom i have consulted, i pretend that it is six or seven years more. they say they have heard that mr james anderson was then a boy ten years of age ; that he lived to an old age, upwards of fourscore, and it is two-and-forty years since he died. whichever way it may be, it was about that period some way, of that there is no doubt.’ . . . . ‘it so happened, that two young men, william shiel and w. sword, were out, on an adjoining height, this summer, casting peats, and it came into their heads to open this grave in the wilderness, and see if there confessions of a justified sinner. , market ground. we went into a shepherd’s cot to get a drink of milk, when i read to our guide mr hogg’s description, asking him if he thought it correct ? he said there was hardly a bit o’t correct, for the grave was not on the hill of cowan’s croft, nor yet on the point where three lairds’ lands met, but on the top of a hill called the f aw law, where there was no land that was not the duke of buccleuch’s within a quarter of a mile. he added that it was a wonder how the poet could be mistaken there, who once herded the very ground where the grave is, and saw both hills from his own window. mr l w testified great surprise at such a singular blunder, as also how the body came not to be buried at the meeting of three or four lairds’ lands, which had always been customary in the south of scotland. our guide said he had always heard it reported, that the eltrive men, with mr david anderson at their head, had risen before day on the monday morning, it having been on the sabbath day that the man put down himself; and that they set out with the intention of burying him on cowan’s croft, where three marches met at a point. but it having been an invariable rule to bury such lost sinners before the rising of the sun, these five men were overtaken by day- light, as they passed the house of berry-knowe ; and by the time they reached the top of the f aw law, the sun was beginning to skair the east. on this they laid down the body, and digged a deep grave with all expedition; but when they had done, it was too short, and the body being stiff, it would not go down, on which mr david anderson looking to the east, and perceiving that the sun would be upon them in a few minutes, set his foot on the suicide’s brow, and tramped down his head into the grave with his iron heeled shoe, until his nose and the private memoirs and thought of returning it into the grave, if he could have made out but a line or two, to have seen what was its tendency. ‘ grave, man ! ’ exclaimed l——w, who speaks excellent strong broad scots : ‘ my truly, but ye grave weel ! i wad esteem the contents ’ that spleuchan as the most precious treasure. i’ll tell you what it is, sir : i hae often wondered how it was that this man’s corpse has been miraculously preserved frae decay, a hunder times longer than ony other body’s, or than even a tanner’s but now i could wager a guinea, it ‘has been for the preservation ’ that little book. and lord kens what may be in’t! it will maybe reveal some mystery that mankind disna ken naething about yet.’ ‘if there be any mysteries in it,’ returned the other ‘ it is not for your handling, my dear friend, who are too much taken up about mysteries already.’ and with these words he presented the mysterious pamphlet to me. with very little trouble, save that of a thorough drying, i unrolled it all with ease, and found the very tract which i have ventured to lay before the public, part of it in small bad print, and the remainder in manuscript. the title page is written, and is as follows : the private memoirs and confessions of a justified sinner: written by himself. deeli certa merces. and, alongst the head, it is the same as given in the present edition of the work. i altered the title to a self-justified sinner, but my booksellers did not _‘ "_ -___ confessions of a justified sinner. approve of it; and there being a curse pronounced by the writer on him that should dare to alter or amend, i have let it stand as it is. should it be thought to attach discredit to any received principle of our church, i am blameless. the printed part ends at page , and the rest is in a fine old hand, extremely small and close. i have ordered the printer to .procure a fac-simile of it, to be bound in with the volume. with regard to the work itself, i dare not venture a judgment, for i do not understand it. i believe no person, man or woman, will ever peruse it with the same attention that i have done, and yet i confess that i do not comprehend the writer’s drift. it is certainly impossible that these scenes could ever have occurred, that he describes as having himself transacted. i think it may be possible that he had some hand in the death of his brother, and yet i am disposed greatly to doubt it ; and the numerous distorted traditions, etc., which remain of that event, may be attributable to the work having been printed and burnt, and of course the story known to all the printers, with their families and gossips. that the young laird of dalcastle came by a violent death, there remains no doubt ; but that this wretch slew him, there is to me a good deal. however, allowing this to have been the case, i account all the rest either dreaming or mad- ness ; or, as he says to mr watson, a religious parable, on purpose to illustrate something scarcely tangible, but to which he seems to have attached great weight. were the relation at all consistent with reason, it corresponds so minutely with traditionary facts, that it could scarcely have missed to have been received as authentic; but in' this day, and with the present generation, it will not go down, that a man should be daily tempted by the devil, i confessions of a justified sinner. in the semblance of a fellow-creature ; and at length lured to self-destruction, in the hopes that this same fiend and tormentor was to suffer and fall along with him. it was a bold theme for an allegory, and would have suited that age well had it been taken up by one fully qualified for the task, which this writer was not. in short, we must either conceive him not only the greatest fool, but the greatest wretch, on whom was ever stamped the form of humanity; or, that he was a religious maniac, who wrote and wrote about a deluded creature, till he arrived at that height .of madness, that he believed himself the very object whom he had been all along describing. and in order to escape from an ideal tormentor, committed that act for which, according to the tenets he embraced, there was no remission, and which consigned his memory and his name to everlasting detestation. the end j. miller and son, printers, edinburgh l jeo- lvv ' i .vlj‘ a... . t , , _ “jaws *ngtfz“: "wivm. .,, .. ska”. .v .t- i ' ' a. nu ' ’ ’ jr‘vj,"f.n-’ m r' “. , -\"r' '.“ .l ‘ -nl?}{ , ,- i"" \‘ ‘\~ o ".“ ’ ,. ' ' ff! -. .. 'nvrrv- v ' : ~ _ ' ;iwi‘.’l’-ih ’ ‘ ‘,~.i.“ - :q ".“ "\‘n ?‘ ~ “' ‘ i er. ;a p}, i --_v "a ,a.. ‘.:‘,, : . “f‘. “ ~,~ ‘; -\oh.__~ ‘ o \v "' \ \' i ‘ v ) , i \ \ a. \ copyright, , by a. c. (renter. all rights reserved. '. contents. book i. the metamorphosis of miss lillian travers- pm! chapter i.—-the purchase at vedder's, - - “ ii.-the peeping eve of the ponce de leon, - - - - - “ iii._the widow’s fluttering pulse, - iv.-“ for women who suffer ! " - l v.--the marvellous record of hauser oglethorpe, - - - ~ ' vi.-“ why not ?" - - - . ‘ book ii. \ the boyhood of lilly traver ~ chapter vii.-“ ah ! naughty boy—what shall i christen you?” - - - “ viii.--the hop at the ponce de leon, | “ ix.—“ my man, jane," - - - “ x.-“ have i, like frankenstein, raised up a monster to destroy me p” contents . fab chaptbr xl—“good-by, bessie ! " - - - “ xil—the monster becomes danger- ous, - - - - - - go " xiii—doctor fred would like a kiss, book iii. the wonderful adventures !" mr. lawrence talbot. chapter xiv.—wild oats, - - - - - [ " xv. —floating garments from the ockla- waha, - - - - “ xvi.—doctor freddie plays the virtuous detective, - - - ~ xvii. —a duel among the orange trees, xviii.--the horrible metamorphosis of doctor frederick cassadene, - “ xix—“ i’ve come for that seed," - a florida enchantment. book ‘ . the metamorphosis f miss lillian travers- chapter i. the purchase at vedder's. “ yes, right there !--the one between the rattle- snake’s fangs and the alligator’s skin." ‘ “ oh! the little black box,” remarks the sales- woman. “ yes—the ebony casket,” says miss lillian trav- ers to the woman who presides behind the counter in that portion of vedder's extraordinary museum, which is devoted to commerce in the form of dis- posing of florida curiosities and horrors, to north. em tourists. these crowd the place now, for it is the beginning of february of the year , and already many have escaped from wintry winds and snowy blasts, to throng st. augustine, bask in its sun, and drink in the mild orange-scented breezes, a florida enchantment. that prevail the first four months of the year, to make this place a paradise to lovers of tropic scenes and nursers of failing lungs. “ this thing? " exclaims the woman in an aston- ished tone of voice, for she has been expecting a liberal order in sharks’ jaws, manatee-skins, and bead-work, from her customer, and is rather sur- prised at the young lady's selection. “yes,” rejoins lilly travers hurriedly; “how much is it p " “ain’t no price marked on it—but five dollars’ll do ! " “ i’ll take it ! " . “ five dollars for that ./ ” cries a bright, laughing voice in miss travers’ shell-like car. this is from pretty bessie horton, who being a resident of st. augustine, is showing lillian the sights of the town. “five dollars for an old moth-eaten, cobweb-cov- ered black box, without any key to its lock ! " “hush!” whispers the new york girl, to her lively companion. “ that’s the reason i want it; it hasn’t been opened for a long time—there may be something in it." then she turns to the woman who is about to wrap up her purchase, and says: “ do you know where that thing came from p ” “ no," replies the saleslady; “it’s been on that shelf ever since icame here. i told mr. vedder that i didn’t think it was any good keeping it there, as nobody would buy it; but he said, ‘this is the shop to sell odds and ends! always find a cus- tomer for everything, some time or other.’ " “can i see mr. vedder?" inquires miss lilly eagerly. a florida enchantment» " oh, he’s gone out for the afternoon; he’s over on anastasia island, hunting rattlesnakes—our stock’s pretty low." here their conversation is broken in upon by a juvenile, high-keyed voice crying to the ebbing and flowing crowd: “walk in now, ladies and gents. the animals in the back yard—the ’gators in the water trough—and the snakes in the snake-room. our new diamond-back rattler is about to eat a squirrel. please walk in to the feed, and don’t faint if the moccasin hisses!” this harangue calls forth from various ladies stifled exclamations of horror, emphasized by viva- cious feminine shudders. but lillian travers takes vedder's boy aside and says nervously to him : “what do you make such horrid remarks for? one would think you like to frighten people." “ so i does," grins the youth solemnly, “ when the old man’s out. wouldn't you like me to show you our stufled rattler? it’s the largest in the world—- it’s itwelve feet long and as big as a boa con- stricter.” “ no,” replies the young lady with a little stifled cry; “ but i‘would like you to tell me if you know where this little black box came from?” she has the article in her hand. “ oh," answers the boy, “ that was taken out of the sand on ’stasia island, a couple of miles below the light-house—about five years ago. i was a kid at the time.” he is only about fifteen as he makes the remark. “ and it’s been lying up there ever since.” he points to the dusty shelf. “ no one has opened it p" ' a florida enchantment. “ no one, as i knows on. we ain't had any time to bother, as there warn’t no key. perhaps dey don't want it sold.” “ it is already sold ” cries miss travers excitedly. “ i have bought it! don’t you dare try and take it from me! — have paid for it!" which she has already done, and clinging to her prize, she rushes out into bay street, as if fearing she may be pur- sued, and her treasure taken from her. “ why did you pay five dollars for such a worthless thing p—and you are really frightened that they will take it away from you,” laughs pretty bessie hor- ton, as she follows her companion. “ don’t you see," answers lilly hurriedly, as she walks along the unpaved street, drawing in the fresh breeze that is blowing from the open waters of the atlantic, over matanzas inlet, as if she enjoyed it. “ don't you see, bessie, that this is perhaps a dupli- cate of the ebony cabinet on aunt constantia’s parlor table, which is considered one of our family heirlooms? that’s the reason i paid five dollars for it." “yes—i remember i’ve seen it on miss connie’s table," acquiesces bessie. “ i would have paid fifty, if they had had the sense to ask me," continues the possessor of the box eagerly,—-for miss lilly travers, when she is twenty- five will come into a very pretty new york fortune. at present she is considered twenty-one by her friends, and hardly looks even that age as she trips gracefully along with cheeks reddened in the sea breeze that is tossing her delicate laces and mousse- linc de soie about her lithe and charming figure and a florida en chantment. ll giving passing glimpses of a pair of pretty feet and charming ankles perfectly booted and hosed. but if her figure, which, though tall, is exquisitely graceful and feminine, is alluring to the eye, lillian travers' face is even more so. though an ameri< can, there is almost a foreign piquancy in her laugh- ing lips and sparkling eyes. these last are dark, grand and scintillating, but at times of wondrous softness and tenderness,—indicating that when this young lady loves she loves deeply, passionately —even jealously. the whole effect of her counte- nance would be softly feminine, were it not for a grecian nose, as delicately chiselled as that of a. classic statue, but with a peculiar dilation of the nostril that gives to it whenever her pride is deeply wounded a haughty, even aggressive, firm. ness. she is in direct contrast to the pretty southern girl who trips beside her trying to keep step with the longer and firmer stride of her northern companion; for miss bessie horton is a plump little blonde, with golden hair and violet eyes and a rounded figure whose graceful outlines and exquisite contours go straight to the masculine eye and enslave the masculine heart. she has the soft, cooing speech that is peculiar to southern women, and is a mem- ber of an old florida family who make their home at st. augustine, her father owning considerable orange lands and phosphate properties in the south- ern portion of that state. miss travers, on the contrary, is an importation direct from new york. her father had been a wall street banker, though her mother was a a florida enchantment. member of the oglethorpe family, one of the best known in florida, descendants from the grand old governor of colonial times. at present she is visiting her aunt, miss constantia oglethorpe, a maiden of some fifty-five summers and winters, who lives near the shell-road in a pretty villa that, sur» rounded by orange-trees, palms, and cacti, faces the blue waters of matanzas inlet. upon this lovely piece of water the girls are gaz- ing as they pass along bay street and enjoy its picturesque beauty. faced as this street is by old buildings on one side, that give it an air of anti- quity and romance, enlivened by its crowds of white. sleeved, bare-armed boatmen at each of the little wharves that run out into the limpid waves—embel- lished by its northern tourists and a few southern planters and orange growers—dotted by shining negroes and yellow-skinned mulatto boys; and fringed on the other by the rippling waters of the bay, which are made lively by sail and fishing boats and bright yachts whose white wings have brought them from the far north in search of perpetual summer; under the azure sky and soft warm sun it is like the riviera in april, though no mountains are back of it to give it grandeur, nor antique pal- aces to lend it romance. out on the blue ripples is a steam pleasure ship whose millionnaire owner has fled from winter to seek abstraction from business in pursuit of game and fish on southern rivers, or beautiful women in the gardens of the ponce de leon or balconies of the cérdova. lillian travers thinks the sparkling scene very beautiful after new york snow and cries enthusi_ a florida enchantment. a moment after the southern girl whispers to the northern one: “you were quite right; he it too old for anything except giving me a sail on his yacht." for stockton remington is a man who is sixty and has spent two-thirds of his life in fighting for a fortune in wall street, and his face shows signs of the struggle. “this is an unexpected pleasure," he remarks, “ my dear miss travers. i had supposed you could not run away from new york gayeties.” “ oh," replies lillian lightly, “ when lent begins, new york functions cease, and i come to florida.— i arrived on the ‘ special ' last evening.” “ah, in search of fun?" remarks mr. reming- ton. “perhaps,” answers the young lady, though her countenance grows serious as she utters the word. “ bound for the centre of town p ” “yes. i have just been to vedder’s and made a purchase, and am now in search of a locksmith,” says miss travers smiling. “ a locksmith p ” exclaims the gentleman, astound- ed—“a locksmith to unlock the alligator's jaws p " “oh no; i have just bought this little black box, and want to find out what is inside of it,” returns lillian, holding up the article for inspection. “ may i carry it for you p " “not for worlds—its contents may be very pre- cious," laughs miss travers. “the article does not look very promising," re- marks remington examining it—“i hardly think you’ll get your money’s worth.” “ oh yes, i will ! " answers lilly gayly. a florida enchantment. is “ of what? " “ curiosity—romance—whatever’s inside it "—- returns the girl, and they pass up cathedral street, chatting on the various subjects peculiar to the time and place. at the corner of st. george street miss travers says: “ we must bid you good-by, mr. remington, for the locksmith’s.” “you are not stopping at any of the hotels, miss travers?" queries the yachtsman. “i must know your address. the gadabout is lonely! you must make up a sailing party for me soon." “ no ;——with my aunt, miss oglethorpe, just off the shell-road, where i shall be delighted to see you.” “ i shall undoubtedly drive on the shell-road,” re. sponds mr. remington gallantly. “ at present i am on my way to the ponce de leon to see mrs. lovejoy." “ stella lovejoy? ” asks lilly eagerly, with a shade of apprehension in her voice, which has been laugh- ing a moment before. _ “certainly, the pretty widow. she came down on the gadabout as my guest and as chaperon for my party, with mr. wilkes and miss key of balti- more. now, having grown tired of sea-life, the whole crowd have deserted my ship for more roomy quarters at the ponce de leon. there’s gratitude for you l" answers the yachtsman with a grin. “ mr. wilkes," cries miss bessie suddenly,—-“ mr. charley wilkes?” “ yes.” “ why, he is the young man to whom father sold the orange grove on indian river. he comes a florida enchantment. here every winter. he isn’t a new-yorker,—-—he’s a floridian. he’s too consumptive to be a new- yorker! " laughs the southern girl. then she says with a pretty pout: “ of course he is devoted to the beautiful widow.” “ he was, on the yacht," replies the gentleman sententiously; “but on shore "—here he chuckles slyly and remarks impressively—“ there is a doctor." “ a doctor! who p ” asks miss travers sud- denly, turning to remington who notes with aston- ishment that the young lady’s eyes have somehow grown quite sad. “ oh, i never tell secrets," the new-yorker says pointedly.--then as if to cut off further questions, he raises his hat, and remarks suggestively, “ shall i give your regards to mrs. lovejoy p” “ certainly,” replies lillian in a set tone of voice, as remington turns towards the ponce de leon, wondering what the deuce affects miss travers, who is believed in new york society to be heartless, as she has never given her heart away to any of its beaux or social lions, though many have sought it—— for her beauty is great and her fortune will be large when she is twenty-five. “ and now, the locksmith’s,” laughs miss bessie. “ i am dying to see what is in the ebony box.” “ah! the locksmith’s,” ejaculates lilly, as if she had suddenly remembered something—an absent- minded mood that remains with her until they reach the artisan’s place of business. after a few moments’ examination and some minutes employed in fitting a key to its wards, the workman remarks: “ the lock is rather rusty.” a florida enchantment. i “rusty! i should think so,” cries bessie. “it perhaps has not been opened for a hundred years.” “ it works as if it hadn’t been opened for a thou. sand,”_rep ies the artisan; but after deluging the wards with oil and working the key about in the lock with his vise-like hands for some little time the bolts finally yield to his strong fingers and spring back. he is about to open the lid, when miss travers, who has been gazing at him in a preoc- cupied manner, suddenly gives a gasp, seizes the box and astonishes both the locksmith and miss bessie as she exclaims : “ not now! there may be a secret inside it—a secret for which i paid five dollars. please do the box up in paper; i'll take it home with me for examination there." “and i am not going to see what is inside that box now! if they are jewels—i 'shall expect a present," pouts bessie with curious eyes, for the girl has been letting her imagination run riot on the contents of the old casket and would not be surprised if it disclosed the wealth of golconda in diamonds and rubies. “not until we get to my aunt's, anyway—and then perhaps i shall want the secret all to myself," returns lilly, who has apparently awakened to what is passing around her and thrown off any cloud that may have been on her mind. “then, perhaps, if you are a good girl ” “ oh, i'll be very good," laughs bessie; “ with a secret ahead of me, i am always to be relied upon. suppose we go to the ponce de leon and listen to the band; it makes me feel romantic and poetic these sunny mornings.” a florida enchantment. rv-“‘a"'r'w'—_ . . r n -ww wrr v so chatting together, the two girls walk straight to the alameda and are soon standing in old spain where miss lillian travers gets one of the shocks of her life. chapter ii. the peeping eve of the ponce de leon. the young ladies are between the two great hotels of st. augustine—the cordova, with its moorish windows, square turrets and narrow arches, and the ponce de leon, whose spanish-domed towers and sloping tiled roofs in the architecture of seville or valencia are embowered in its gardens of orange and palm and flowering shrubs. imme- diately facing them is the square of the alcazar with 'its ceaseless fountain and tropical plants; be- yond, the villa zorayda looking like some grana- dan villa from which the emirs of the moorish kingdom issued five hundred years ago to sack andalusian villages and carry off the maids of fair castile to eastern harems. through this scene of the old world passes the alameda which is all of the modern; its asphalt pavement, covered with prancing steeds and liveried equipages; its stone sidewalks peopled with bril- liantly dressed men and women displaying the toilets of paris and new york. arch this scene with a bright blue sky, without a single cloud; light it up by a tropic sun, temper its heat by a sea-breeze that gently moves and rustles a florida enchantment. the foliage of the luxuriant vegetation ; brighten this all with lovely american women—make it musical by the light laughter of people who live but for pleasure, mingled with the soft melodies of a brilliant band playing one of verdi's love songs, and you have what the two young ladies look upon this morning in st. augustine,—-this old town of the spanish conquistadores, now rebuilt and revivified by a modern conqueror of finance and oil. after a short pause of contemplative enjoyment, miss bessie, to whom the scene is much more familiar than to miss travers, hurries her com- panion along, stopping occasionally to greet a pass- ing friend, lilly also recognizing one or two northern visitors. a moment after miss bessie says: “oh my! here’s papa.” and miss travers finds herself warmly greeted by an old-time southern gentleman of semi-military manner and semi-planter dress ;—for major calhoun benham horton prides himself upon always remem- bering that he once held a commission in the con. federate army signed by jefferson davis. he bows to the young lady with punctilious politeness and welcomes her to st. augustine and southern hospl tality with the grace of a modern bayard. “ egad l ” he remarks; “ miss lillian, those north- ern roses on your cheeks look so charming, that if i were—ahem !—slightly younger, i should certainly think of giving bess a stepmother." at this miss bessie gives a little pout and mut- ters—“you'd better not—not even lilly!" thea wishing to turn the conversation—for miss horton a florida enchantment. lives in horror of her father in his gallantry to the, fair sex giving her a stepmother to rule her—she says: “ have you seen mr. remington? he’s just come ashore from his steam yacht." “ no. is remington here?” asks the major, hur- riedly. then he continues: “i must see him at once. those phosphate lands he wrote me about are almost disposed of to an english company, and if he does not move in a hurry, johnny bull will for once in his life get ahead of the yankees.” “mr. remington is probably in the ponce," re- marks miss travers; and the three stroll into the co"*t-yard of that beautiful building, where the major cries out sans cirdmanie to a dark-colored gentleman in gorgeous yellow livery, knee breeches and silk stockings, “ here, boy, chairs for the ladiesl”—-and darts for the office, or the billiard- room, or the bar, or some other place usually fre- quented by masculine humanity, in search of the northern capitalist. a moment after the two girls are provided with camp-stools, miss travers’ quarter of a dollar soothing the colored servant’s vanity that has been deeply wounded by the major’s “ boy!" then they listen to the music of the band from the loggia, and look over the lovely garden with its gushing fountain—hemmed in on all sides by these modern buildings of old-fashioned spanish archi- tecture, making it look like the patio of some great chilean house or mexican hacienda. the soft southern air and dreamy melodies bring contemplation to miss travers. she sits looking at the little ebony box which the locksmith has done up in paper, as it lies on her lap, and indulge: a florida enchantme'nt. cussing leans against the pillar of the veranda as if overcome by some cruel emotion. “i wonder who she is," babbles bessie. “ she must be awfully in love with him." “ in love with him i” “yes ; of course—the gentleman that girl adores— suppose we run up to that balcony and take a peep ourselves." “ do you think it would be precisely fair?” re- marks miss travers. “ yes—if he's handsome ! come on l you know icannot go alone, but together we can wander up nonchalantly and carelessly. he must be a lovely fellow, to produce such potent emotions. quick, or it will be over'." thus adjured, after a careless refusal or two, miss lilly, who is a woman and also curious, follows bessie into the hotel, and a few minutes after they are on the balcony, chatting in apparent carelessness. the rustle of their dresses—perhaps the sound of their voices—reaches the object of their solicitude, who has been gazing intently upon a little moorish balcony that communicates with one of the suites of apartments in the right wing of the building. the moment she sees them, her face by a mighty effort becomes placid, calm—perhaps even careless; and a second or two after she saunters off the veranda into the rotunda, humming in apparent nonchalance the air the band is playing. “ a wonderful actress,” whispers bess enthusiasti- cally. “ perhaps she may be a real one. now, let us see this romeo who was the cause of her passion, ’palousy and despair." a florida enchantment. is alleys of the ponce de leon and crossed the crowded alameda into the more lonely plaza of the alcazar, where only the hum of voices from the crowd comes floating to lzer. the music of the distant band seems a requiem of hopes never to be realized—of love that perchance has passed away,—and she sinks on a bench screened by a spreading oleander, where the splashing fountain murmurs in her ears the despairing refrain: “ he whom i loved and trusted -who was to have been my husband—has forgotten me! ” she writhes under this thought, and mutters- “ fred—fred—fred!” as if to call her careless lover back to her." then pride comes to her, and self-esteem tells her that if mrs. stella lovejoy, whom she has easily recognized as a new york acquaintance of hers, is a rich and beautiful widow, she lillian travers is a rich and beautiful girl—and she says reassuringly to herself : “ of course, it was a professional call—i should remember my fiancé is a doctor.—-a woman who gives her heart should give her faith.”—next she cries out in feminine logic, “i who was that horrid jealous girl who was spying upon him ?—i’ll—i’ll make fred give me a satis- factory explanation as to lzer—i’ll—he must have got my note by this time, he must know i’m in st. augustine—he’ll be at my aunt’s this afternoon i must hurry home and dress—i’ll try and show him i’m not jealous—jealousy seems despicable in a man’s eyes—there was no man gazing in agony from that veranda at stella lovejoy,-—then says desperately, “ oh, if i could love like a man !" rising from her seat to go in search of bessie. t a noqu enchantmen‘i'. but turning her eyes toward the ponce de leon she catches sight of that young lady deeply engaged with mr. wilkes, and this gives her mind another wrench—“ even that creature,” she thinks contempt. uously, for wilkes is not a noble looking biped, “is a man, and has forgotten mrs. lovejoy in bess's bright eyes. and yet remington said he had been cut out of the beautiful widow's affections by a doctor."—here her heart gives a throb of agony and she cries savagely, “ what doctor p—my doctor fred p—if it should be " and clinches her pretty fist—then snifi's at the fountain and mutters, “ what horrid sulphur water l—this place is not healthy! ” and almost tottering to the alameda calls a carriage and gasps, “ miss oglethorpe’s place—sunny grove ~>quick l" so, getting in, she is driven to her aunt’s home in so gloomy, meditative and sighing a mood that she entirely forgets the box that lies carelessly upon her lap. ,an abstraction that does not argue well for doctor fred when he makes his afternoon call upon his pretty fiancée; as miss lillian travers had but an hour ago a very lively curiosity as to its contents. chapter iii. the wmow’s fluttering pulse. her indifference to the object lying in her lap is not surprising; for lillian travers is running over in her mind the events of the last six months. the a florida enchantment. and when she left that watering place, doctor fred’l engagement ring sparkled on her white hand. during the first of the winter the doctor had fol- lowed her to new york and pressed her for an early marriage, stating very candidly that his means were only the uncertain income derived from a practice in saratoga during the summer months, and an equally precarious attendance upon invalids in st. augustine during the winter exodus of northern tourists to that celebrated resort. this exposé of his financial inequality with the new york heiress had been made with seeming ingenuousness but with great ingenuity; for doctor cassadene knew that lillian loved him well enough to take him, rich or poor, and be only happy that her wealth could add to the prosperity of the man she adored. at his request miss travers had immediately in- formed him of the peculiarity of her father’s will, and had been delighted at the generosity of his reply; for he had implored her to marry him imme diately, saying that he loved her too well to post“ pone the happiness of being her husband for the pleasure of being rich. she loved him more than ever as she answered, “ had we not better wait until i am twenty-five? ~—-~then i can lavish upon you the principal, not the interest, of my fortune, fred.” “fancy the horror of waiting four years!” he had muttered. whereupon she had given him a roguish smile and remarked demurely, “perhaps the four years will run around sooner than you think. wait until next spring; then if you wish a florida enchantment. @ to marry me immediately, you may have my hand as you have my heart now.” a few days after this promise, the doctor had departed for st. augustine, carrying the kisses of his beautiful fiancée upon his lips, and two months later, lilly travers had suddenly taken the— “ florida special " to visit her aunt, following the man she loved, with a great gladness in her heart and a rapturous surprise for him in her mind. perhaps it is this that causes her to murmur as she drives up the pretty avenue of orange trees, “ fred, if you knew the revelation i have in store for you, the confession i have to make to you—you would be waiting for me on that porch—now ! ” as she says this, she steps out of the carriage and is welcomed by her aunt, miss constantia ogle- thorpe, with the soft words and tender kisses an old lady gives to a young one who is very near her heart. they sit down to lunch and miss connie remarks, “ you did not eat anything for breakfast, lil, and have no appetite now—perhaps this letter may improve it,”—and smilingly produces a little note that lilly, clutching with a cry of j y, tears quickly open. with hasty perusal comes sunshine and content. she says: “ auntie, he is coming this afternoon at three. he reproaches me for not telegraphing him. then he could have met me at the train.” “ah!” replies miss constantia; “then i shall soon see the doctor fred of your letters, lilly, bessie horton knows him slightly and says he’s very handsome—and you told me the same, i be- lieve, last night."—-here the aunt gives a roguish 'fl a fidrida enchan'i'mbnt. glance at the niece, for these two are great chums and confidants, and miss connie has had lilly'l secret in her keeping almost from the time it was a secret. a moment after, lilly cries impulsively: “and to think that i doubted "—she checks herself. “ to think that you doubted what p " “oh, nothing," says the girl, reddening; then remarks suddenly, as if to turn the conversation, “ aunt connie, tell me the story of that old ebony casket—the little one in your parlor—the family heirloom.-—it has a romantic history, has it not p ” to which miss constantia replies: “there is nothing peculiar connected with that casket, though i believe there is a very extraordinary story linked with the other one! ” “ the other casket l what otker casket p " “why, there was once a duplicate of the one in the parlor," replies miss connie, smiling at her niece’s eagerness. “ both of them belonged to my grandfather, old captain hauser oglethorpe.” “ah! the great sea-dog of our family, the one whose picture i am looking at," says lilly, glancing at the portrait of a bronzed and wind-battered tar whose wicked face seems to leer into hers from a gilt frame on the opposite wall of the dining room.— she can’t stand the gaze of this man on canvas, and her drooping eyes fall upon the little bundle she has brought home with her, which is standing upon the side-board. “yes,” continues her aunt, who, like most old ladies, is always eager to tell a story of the past. “ during the war of , when my grandfather and a florida enchan tm en t. i your great-grandfather returned from a voyage to africa, where i believe, my dear"—here she laughs a little—“ he had been for a cargo of slaves, though that is omitted in the family annals, he was pursued by a british sloop-of-war, the falcon, and his vessel, the firefly, was wrecked about a mile or two below the lighthouse over there”—she points to the one that towers above anastasia island. “a mile or two below the lighthouse over there,” exclaims lilly with an excited start, the boy’s re- marks at vedder’s in regard to her purchase flying into her mind. “yes,” continues miss constantia, unheeding the interruption; “his sufferings during the shipwreck and g'ale,were such that his mind was shattered. as a child i can remember old grandpa hauser, and he was then a gibbering idiot, in his dotage and nearly ninety years of age. he was always crying and pointing to that island, and saying that in the other casket, lost forever beneath the ocean, was what would make him very rich and some woman very happy.” “some woman very happy! ” ejaculates lillian. “ why, all women are happy—any woman that is in love—any woman who is loved." “ah! you are certain of that, my dear?” remarks her aunt, a sad light of the past coming into her eyes. “ don’t be too sure. the poor old imbecile had some curious ideas, however, for he said ‘it would make that woman a man ' ! " “make the woman a man! what an absurd idea! " and miss lilly giggles merrily. “yes, it is an atrocious thought—one in which a florida enchantment. only a strong-minded woman would indulge,” says constantia stemly. “ i wonder how i would look as a boy," cries her niece, rising and strutting about; for fred's letter has made her vivaciously happy. “ dumpy,” remarks connie sententiously. “ dumpy! i—dumpy? why, i am quite tall—- five feet six and one-half inches.” “that is very well for a girl,” replies constantia, “ but i’ll warrant you would not think doctor fred tall with that number of feet and inches.” this puts another idea into the you'ng lady’s head and she mutters to herself, “ then, if i were a man, i could not love a man,—i could not love fred. awful! ” next she gives a playful little shudder, glances at her watch and exclaims, “ half-past two. i must run up and dress for him. doctor fred does not like to be kept waiting. physicians love a punctual patient.” “ or sweetheart," suggests constantia. this is drowned by lilly’s joyous laugh as she runs up to her room, and cries to her mulatto maid, “ jane—you’ve only twenty-five minutes to make me good-looking,” forgetting, in her anxiety to achieve an effective toilet, the purchase that had occupied so much of her thoughts during the early morning. “ bless yo heart, yo’s a venus already. what more dos yo want—i knows what’s de matter wid yo. doc fred’s coming, honey—i felt jus’ the same when my gus was here last night "—says her saffron-hued attendant who is very eprz's with a col- ored gentleman of sixth avenue, new york, who is at present acting as the second waiter of the ponce a florida enchantment. de leon and one of the glories of its dining room. “ nevertheless venus will indulge in a new dress ! " replies lilly and places herself under jane's deft hands with such good results that when half an hour afterwards dr. fred cassadene springs from a carriage and enters miss connie’s parlor he thinks he does see a venus, and ejaculates to himself—- “ great powers! i’d forgotten how lovely lilly was!” in truth lilly travers might cause rapture to any masculine heart as she floats towards him, some bright shimmering gauzy dress clinging to and draping her graceful figure, a love light in her young eyes and tender kisses on her rosy lips. over this beautiful vision the reckless young doc- tor goes into a lover’s transport, forgetting that a beautiful patient is impatiently awaiting another professional visit from him at the ponce de leon hotel. for fred cassadene generally loved best in his careless way the woman whose eyes he was gazing into. after a few minutes of mutual rapture, ' the conversation passes from the romantic to the every-day concerns of life, that affect lovers as well as other people. then, this gentleman, who has learned to read a woman’s mind much more ac‘ curately than he diagnoses a patient's disease, noting that his sweetheart’s manner is a trifle embarrassed, thinks to himself, “ if she suspects i'll set myself right before she opens the battle,” and cries lightly: “ ha ha! you've a secret, lilly." “yes; two,” says the girl, emphasizing this re- mark with both a pout and a blush, as if one were pleasant and the other not so agreeable to her. / a florida enchantment. “ humph! you'll tell ’em to me of course. no secrets from your loving fred—who has none from you." and mr. assurance looks severely upon miss innocence who blushes nervously. “ then let us go into the garden l ” mutters lilly. “ i don’t want to be at home to anybody but you, fred, on this our first meeting for nearly two long months! ” “ yes—it did seem an awful time to me here in st. augustine," returns the gentleman as he follows her into one of the orange alleys that leads to a summer house overlooking the blue waves of matanzas inlet —“ but for you in gay new york, the balls, parties, opera—eh, naughty lilly ” and he makes his sweet heart happy by giving the pink shell she calls her ear a dainty pinch. “ pooh! i didn’t go to any! not a function this season,” whispers the girl with a blush. “you would not have been there—and i was unhappyas i thought of you in lonely st. augustine." “ of course—very lonely st. augustine; there were few visitors here until the last week, but then—--" here fred checks himself suddenly. “ but for the last week you’ve done pretty well,’ laughs lilly. then she says sadly, perhaps point- edly: “the gadabout arrived here a week ago?" and gives a little sigh. “ oh—ahl that's where the land lies,” thinks this medical machiavelli and remarks, “ yes, that yacht brought me apatient~a friend of yours: mrs. love- joy "—and hoping to carry the war into africa con- tinues rapidly: “ but your secrets, ma belle .p—you needn’t fear confession—you have a merciful judge—- a florida enchantment. your beauty shall plead in mitigation of your follies. you’ve been indulging in a little flirtation—eh p " at this his sweetheart cries, “oh, fred—for shame! "in indignant tones and wounded voice—and with flashing eyes, confronts him—hitting him harder than she guesses as she says, “ do you think so meanly of me as to suppose i could flirt with any man with your engagement ring upon my finger?" and flashes the diamond in his face to make him ashamed of himself—for a moment—his impulses good or bad seldom last longer. he cries quickly, “ forgive me-don’t cry and break my heart "—for tears of wounded pride are in the girl's eyes," then utters impetuously, “don’t cry, and i’ll never make you weep again i " and means every word he says as he looks at his beauti- ful sweetheart. “very well,” she whispers, glowing under his attentions. “ you forgive me ?” “ of course—i could forgive you much more than that! i have forgiven much more to-dayl ” “ to-day—how have i offended p " he looks carelessly innocent as he puts the question. “ ask your own heart? ” " my heart tells me nothing but that i i". you i” “you are sure? " “ sure as that i love you!” “ then you have something to forgive me,” whispers lilly, made radiant by his declaration, and she tells him the incident she had witnessed in the morning at the ponce de leon. next, being very a florida enchantment. happy to get the thing off her mind she laughs, “ and i was so jealous, fred." this gives her lover an opening. he suddenly thinks any jealous tendency in his sweetheart must be crushed or he will have an un- comfortable time between his beautiful fiancée and the lovely widow. with this idea in his head he says, “jealous, lilly ! " in a wounded tone that makes her start, and then pronounces judicially the following oration: “ you must learn not to be jeal- ous, you must understand that a medical man has certain duties—i presume after we are married you will be uneasy if i go to the club—if i stay out late of nights when my patients call me away. but, lilly, this will not do for the wife of a practising physician—you must learn to control yourself as a man would. you must have a man’s faith. men are never jealous.” at this extraordinary statement the girl gasps, “ men never jealous? ” “at least very seldom. did you see any man on that balcony at the ponce gazing in anguish at mrs. lovejoy?” he asks with a smile. “ and yet i pre- sume some men think her handsome-—one man has loved her.” “ who p ” ejaculates lilly in sudden anxiety. " her husband !” replies fred in careless nonchalance -—“ she’s a widow, she must have had a husband." “ oh, fred! how curiously you do put things ! ” murmurs miss travers with a sigh of relief. then she whispers, a beautiful blush flashing over her mobile features and a soft tender light coming into her eyes, though she turns them away from his a florida enchan'i'ment. glance and droops her head—“ i’ve something else to tell you, my own—something i came all the way from new york to tell you—i’ve got all my prop- erty ! " she is interrupted here by an astounded “ what ?" from the doctor; but continues excitedly, “ yes—all --bonds, securities, money in bank—real estate!" 'l'hen blushes and hides her head upon his shoulder and whispers, “ you remember what you asked me in new york. there's nothing to stop our— " she goes on desperately, “ our marriage now i " “impossible! " cries fred in an astonished voice, for he hardly can believe her. “your father's will said you couldn't come into possession till you were twenty-five—and you're only twenty-one and don’t look that." but here a greater surprise comes to him—perhaps a shock; his sweetheart gives him a glance of femi~ nine reproach and mutters, “ men can nevcr take a hint!" “a hint of what p ” ‘ “a hint of anything sensible. don't you know a girl never likes to tell her full age to her lover "—- cries lilly desperately. “ oh, how hard you make it! a week ago iwas—" she cuts the awful sentence short by hiding her face again on the astounded frederick's shoulder. but he finishes the sentence for her by ejaculat- ing, “ you—you were twenty~five, by jupiterl " “y-e-s! " this is a sigh from under his chin where lilly’s head is. “ ah, now i understand," he goes on after a second’s pause—-“ that was the meaning of your a florida enchantment. smiles and laughter when i groaned ‘ four years was a long time to wait '——whcn you mocked my impatience by ” but she interrupts him, crying, “ don’t reproach me—i only thought you would be delighted by the surprisev-i " “ and you deceived the man you love?" and fred would be very stem with her, but the girl having gotten over her confession regains her spirits and laughs, “ that wasn't very difl'icult—look at me! i don't appear more than twenty-one; do i?” then glancing at her the doctor is appeased. he cries, “ my heaven! how beautiful you are—my own, my promised wife ! " and seizes her to his breast, as her tender arms close round him and she pleads to him with kisses. after a series of confidences and raptures, and almost naming the wedding day, cassadene with medical prudence and lover’s care says—“i must keep you from the evening fog—where’s your wrap, lil p—you don’t know our florida evenings "—then looking at his watch cries, “ nearly six o’clock,--what will my patients think p—i’ must be going," and lilly, hanging on his arm as happy as any girl the sun is shining on, strolls towards the house. “ won't you come in and see my aunt p " suggests the young lady. “ not now—~what'll my patients do? ” “ of course you'll come this evening! " “ well, i should rather think so," says fred, with alittle squeeze which makes his sweetheart very mppy- a florida en chantment. ‘i chapter iv. “for women wno surreal" miss lilly comes in, her face covered with smiles of happy hope. “ aunt connie,” she says playfully, “ doctor fred did not have time to be introduced to you this after- noon. he had so much to tell me." “ so it seems," replies the old lady grimly, for in matters of etiquette she is as punctilious as a span- ish grandee and thinks herself slighted in her future nephew-in-law having visited her house without going through the ceremony of presentation to its mistress. “ but he will be here again this evening, and then you will be able to judge how handsome he is,“ mutters lilly apologetically. “ oh, i have already seen him." “ indeed l—where ? " queries the niece. “ walking up the path with you this afternoon,“ answers the aunt rather savagely. “ then i discov- ered i knew doctor cassadene very well by sight, though not by name. i recognized him as agentle- man i had often seen driving about st. augustine, during the last two months. my attention had been called to him by the beaut ” the old lady checks herself suddenly and cries, “ but come in to tea, lilly, at once." “ by the beautiful what p " asks miss travers eagerly. “ which do you like best. tea or coffee?" says the aunt, as they seat themselves at the table. a florida enchantment. “ with whom did you see doctor fred driving p" “ with his patients, i presume," is miss connie's unsatisfactory response. “ tea or coffee? " “tea ! " replies lilly desperately, knowing she will get no further information until she has informed her relative on this point. a few minutes after she tries to turn the conver- sation/to the matter once more, but to her chagrin. constantia deftly refuses the subject, apparently having made up her mind to discuss doctor cassa dene no further with her niece, at present. ‘ so the meal runs along, lilly dividing her atten- tion between old hauser oglethorpe's picture, which still leers at her from its frame, the clock on the mantel-piece, and her purchase, which is yet on the sideboard, in exactly the same state in which she has brought it home from vedder's museum. the clock, however, receives most of her attention. it is now striking seven, and lilly’s thoughts are turning to the half hour when doctor fred will again be by her side, when a rap is heard upon the hall door, and one of the servants answering it, ushers in a messenger boy, who carries a magnificent bunch of roses, and a note, in a well-known handwriting. “ for me !" cries lilly, seizing both note and bou- quet, at the same moment. “ look, auntie, lovely roses from doctor fred! isn't he a darling boy?" and smells the perfumed buds in so caressing a manner, that miss connie says significantly, “ don't mistake the gift for the giver! " but even as she does so, pauses in her laugh, for lilly, having torn open the envelope and glanced over the note, gives a cry of disappointment, then a florida enchantment. a pouts, and there are tears in her eyes, for she in reading the following: power on loan horn. r. auous'rma, from february mt, i . my manna lruxz horror of horrors! i'm just called to attend a desperate case of snake-bite, about four miles from here, out on the tocol road. i must leave immediately. as the snake was a rattler, or moccasin, and every instant is important. i send with this an invitation to the hop at the ponce to- morrow evening, to which of course i will take you. also send a bunch of flowers, all my love and ten thousand kisses- yours forever, fie-d. \. p. . i’ll give you the kisses in person to-mormw, with interest. “what is the matter? asks miss connie, for lilly’s face is now almost despairing. “this,” cries the girl, impulsively holding the letter before her aunt’s eyes. but suddenly with- drawing it she remarks: “i’ll paraphrase it, dear connie. he is called suddenly away, to attend a patient on the tocoi road, who has been bitten by a snake. of course he had to leave instantly." “ of course l " responds miss connie dryly. “but the dear fellow will be here tomorrow morning to make his apologies,-—and by the by, he has sent me an invitation to the hop at the ponce de leon," continues miss travers as if mak- ing excuses for her absent lover. “any answer?” interrupts the messenger boy, ' who has been gazing open-eyed at lilly's beautiful face and stunning gown. “no,” replies that young lady hastily: but as q a fidrida ancnamem. the lad turns to go, she suddenly cries “ stay! " and sitting at her desk, writes one of the sweetest, loveliest, dearest notes a girl has ever penned to her lover. one that would make that reprobate blush with shame, if he could read it, but dr. fred- erick cassadene has other occupation this evening. this being despatched, and the boy made happy by a liberal fee, lilly, after reading the note over again, curiously enough gets the blues. she tries the piano and sings a pretty love melody, and that brings tears into her eyes. . she wanders about the house, and fidgets her aunt, who has just become interested in a new novel, until that long-suffering female looks up and says: “ what’s the matter with you p ” “ noth—nothingl " “ yes, there is ! since you came here last night, you are not the comfortable girl you used to be a year ago.” “yes, i am. i’m very comfortable—i—aunt connie! why do you tease me so? don’t you seel have got enough to worry me?" and tears trickle down her fair cheeks. “ now i know what’s the matter with you ! ” cries connie sternly. “ you are jealous l ” “i—jealous! what makes you think that?” mutters lilly indignantly, though nervously. “ if you are not jealous, why did you try to pump me about the people doctor cassadene rode with, before you came here—eh?” growls miss con- stantia. c‘ did i do that?" this is attempted surprise by the sufferer. a florida enchantmen'i‘. q “ yes, you did at tea, twice—no, time times! " “ well, whom did he ride with?” cries the girl anxiously—almost savagely. i “ there! you're bothering me about it again. i suppose you are jealous of the beautiful widow who has been at the ponce de leon for the last week ! ” “ stella lovejoy! ” cries lilly suddenly. “ ha—ah! you have said it i " remarks the old diplomat with a knowing smile. “ and so have you i she was the person you saw fred driving with, before i came here l ” gasps lilly, growing very pale. “yes,” replies constantia, shortly. then seeing what a terrible effect this revelation has upon her niece, she goes on: “ haven't you faith in fred p” “ lots ! ” cries lilly enthusiastically, and then more slowly: “ he—he needs lots.” this last with a little sniffle in her voice. whereupon miss connie astonishes her niece by ejaculating: “so does every man!" then says oracularly: “ as awoman who has profited by sixty years of heart-breaking spinsterhood, i tell you, lilly, don't remain single, as i am! marry and believe " “ everything? " “everything,” returns miss elder spinster. “if your husband says he has been detained until two in the morning by business, swallow it! if he de- clares that he has been at his club until three—don't ask him which club ! if he swears he was locked out and struggled to get into the front door all night, don't doubt it! have the faith of the martyrs—- believe in miracles! it is the only way to be a happy wife ! " fl a fidrida enchantment.- “have the faith of the martyrs!” gasps lilly. then she mutters: “ you think all women are mar- tyrs p"-—-a kind of horror coming into her beautiful eyes. “ most wives are l " remarks miss connie senten- tiously. “what wretches men must be i " is lilly's shud. dering answer to this awful statement. “ not at all! they are what nature made them --selfish animals, and as nature has been very kind to them," remarks her aunt with a grim smile, “they do the best for themselves, and have a pretty good time in this world. ours will come in the next, my dear ! " at which her niece astonished her, for she cries: “ i can't wait! i have too impatient a disposition. i—i believe i’d like to be a man, aunt ! " whereupon the aged spinster raises up her hands in horror, and ejaculates: “ thank heaven! you are of a nobler nature than our tyrant, man. love your doctor fred, but love him blindly, and- please—please let me read my novel ! " with that, she takes her precious book with her, and departs, leaving lilly muttering to herself: “love doctor fred—love him blindly! if he rides with that widow again, i shall hate doctor fred and hate him blindly!" then cries, “no, no—” in horror at the thought. “i love him, for i am jeal- ous. it is awful !—awful! if icould but remember aunt connie's instructions and fred’s advice—if i could only love in the selfish, careless way men do, and be happy!" as she says this, her eyes fall upon the picture of old hauser oglethorpe, f ! a florida enchantment. the foregoing conversation has taken place in the dining room. the small cunning cruel eyes of the canvas seem to grin and leer at, and mock her. this,makes her remember the purchase of the morning, and she thinks, “ i’ll drive fred out of my mind, and become at least placid, by investigating the contents of the little box,” and so picks it up. but as she does so, her eyes are turned once more to the picture on the wall, and now it seems to have a broad grin upon its countenance, and she mutters to herself, “ absurd !' my nerves are running away with me ! the idea of a picture grinning ! ” then shaking her finger at it, she forces herself to say: “ i’ll not open this in face of you, sir,” and passes, box in hand, to the parlor. ‘ here, sitting down near the little table that holds the old ebony casket, the family heirloom, she re- ceives another shock ; for as she takes off the wrapper from the one purchased at vedder's, she perceives that barring sea water and the stains of exposure to weather, the two are identical, and drops the one she' has in her hands, with a start, beside its duplicate. at this moment the voice of her maid, who comes in with a tray covered with tea-things and sand- wiches gives her confidence. jane says to her, “ honey, ef yo’s goin' to sit up late, i thought a cup of tea would be refreshin' to yo’. yo’ aunt has gone to bed with her novel, so i was afeared yo’d be lonely." “ tea is just what i want, jane,” returns her mis- tress. “ you can put it on the stand over there, and i shall not require you any further this evening. w l mrida enchantment. chapter v. the marvilidus record of hauser oom- thorpe. “for women who suffer,” quotes lilly—with a bewitching little shudder, and turns to the perusal of the first and smaller document. this has apparently been hurriedly written. its paper is yellow with time and stained with sea water, and is covered with a peculiar, cramped hand- writing. this she manages to decipher, but only by taking the utmost care, and even then very slowly. it reads: october th, in the year of our lord . being pursued by the english sloop of war, fal- am, and in danger of wreckage and losing my ship off the coast of florida,—-i, hauser oglethorpe, of the parish of st. mark, carolina plantations, in order to increase the worldly goods of my kindred and make them rich, give to them the following mar. vellous statement written at my leisure on board ship, fearing some such fate as has come upon me. it will not be believed, but it is the devil’s own truth, so help me beelzebub! i have not much more time for writing, as that accursed british sea tramp has already opened fire upon us unarmed slavers with his long thirty-two, for which may they all go to davy jones' locker and their infernal souls go to the place i am bound for! . . . . . ' the paper finishes with two or three imprecations so horrible in their blasphemous intensity that the a florida en chantment. \ girl drops it with a gasp; but fired by curiosity, after a little time picks up and deciphers the longer document which is headed: rzoord of my marvellous discovery of the t rec of sexual change. and drops it with a cry of mocking unbelief. but gazing at the document again gives a little gasp of wonder—for it continues in a kind of weird presti‘ digitation: t hat's what i knew you'd do—you’d drop the paper and say it was an infernal sailor’s yarn. read to the end—then try a seed! on this voyage to the west coast of africa, after being driven by contrary winds to take refuge between quorra, or the mouth of the niger river, and bonny, on an excursion after both white and black ivory, i was compelled by the presence of an accursed british frigate to slip my cables in the night. i sailed n. by w. about miles, taking refuge from the observation of my enemy between the islands that stud the lower part of this coast, and the main land, in anchorage too shallow to per- mit entry by the frigate, and confident that i and my crew of fifty sturdy yankee tars could give ac- count of any boats that they might send against me. the longitude of this place is about ° e. and latitude ° ' n. and i soon succeeded in obtaining a cargo of slaves from a barracoon in charge of a couple of portuguese, paying, however, a good price for them in beads, muskets and ammunition. chanc- ing to notice one of the coffles of slaves as they came on board, to my astonishment i perceived they were a florida enchantment. all men—a most unusual circumstance ; arm on ques- tioning one of my portuguese factors,i was told the astounding story that they came from a tribe of natives who were all men. not believing such bosh, i shouted, “ one thou- sand pounds of ivory against a hundred niggers that story is a marine’s yarn!" judge of my astonish- ment when my wager was promptly taken up. to settle this, the portuguese trader and i made a journey to the village of the tribe, located where the hills come down to join the lowlands, one day’s march in the interior. may i be cat-hauled if i hadn't lost my bet! the tribe were all men—be- yond peradventure! on investigation i found they recruited their ranks by capturing women from the surrounding tribes, and these women, extraordinary to tell, soon after entering the village became men also-every man jack of them—or every woman jack of them— whichever you like to put it. quassi, the chief of this singular gang, was a wily nigger. i tried to get his wondrous seci'et out of him, but he only muttered that spirits would punish him if he told; for these sacrilegious brutes have an extraordinary superstition that evil will come to them if they reveal the mighty secret they possess. but it was a mighty secret i had determined to know. i made quassi drunk—then plied him with questions, but he only jabbered, ‘ who wants to be woman when can be man ! ’ disappointed in milder means, by the use of the all-potent fire-water, i inveigled quassi to the coast, the creature going with me very simply, thinking a florida enchantmen'i‘. me his friend; and carrying him on board my ship, i ordered him to tell me his secret, but in the surly manner of these dogged blacks he muttered that misfortune would come to him if he did. i told him misfortune would come to him if he didn’t, and turning him over to my boatswain, an athletic spaniard with the temper of old nick,i ordered him four round dozen at the gang-way with the cat-o’-nine-tails, and a brine dip afterwards. under the persuasion of my athletic warrant officer the wretch gave up his secret. there was a tree, he sobbed, the seeds of which changed men to women, and vice versa, women to men. no man ever ate one, but all the women of his tribe did. i ordered him to take me to this wonderful tree, at which the wretch cried out he would be cursed forever by his obi if he did,-—but another two dozen at the gang-way persuaded him to do my bidding. next day we set out—i, my boatswain, and four stalwart seamen—in my gig, carrying with us a week’s provisions; for quassi in his gibbering way had made known to me it was a three days’ jour- ney to the object of my desires. the surly savage i carried manacled with me in the stern of my boat. as we left the ship i clapped a pistol to his head and told him as he loved his life not to betray me. under my boatswain’s persuasions, he guided us to a two days’ journey up the coast, to where the cliffs come down to the sea, and then began to tremble and pray to his gods, as nearly as i could make out, in his lingo, to forgive him what he was doing. i clapped the pistol to his head and persuaded him again, and under his direction my gig was turned for a florida enchantment. about two miles from us the sun—even now sinking behind the mountain tops—rested on a beautiful island, which quassi pointed out as the end of our journey, and sunk on his knees and jab- bered petitions to his deities to forgive him for dis closing the sacred secrets of his tribe. inspired by the news, my men gave way readily and the boat surged through the calm waters, once in a while colliding with a crocodile, for all the beasts and reptiles and fishes about here knew so little of man that they did not fear him. under the stalwart strokes of my crew, before the sun had sunk, we reached the island, which was but one hundred feet long by half that width, and upon it for the first time i saw the i “tree of sexual change," the most beautiful plant upon which the sun has ever shone—the most curious that ever human eyes have gazed upon. its long stems rise to the height of fifty feet, covered with graceful leaves of a supernatural green and crimson blossoms of such marvellous beauty and size that our eyes could hardly be withdrawn from their loveliness. even the perfume of its flowers had a wondrous effect. as we breathed we seemed to become effeminate and our natures milder, and even our cruel spanish boatswain became softer in his language and less savage in his blasphemy. this tree, quassi informed me, blossomed and seeded but once in a thousand moons~the sacred periods of its harvest being carefully kept by the obi men of his tribe. at these times carefully watched for through suo a florida enchantment. .s l . ceeding years—a party of picked men came from the village in canoes to harvest the precious seeds, and these were then kept guarded in the tribe’s obi-house for the use of future generations until the tree bloomed again,- ne thousand moons thereafter. while listening to his yarn ii was inspecting the tree, and cried : “ here’s luck; we’ve struck the time of harvest—once in a thousand moons;” for the pods were ripe and opening, and dropping over the ground the amber-colored seeds. at this announcement, my crew—all of them hav- ing discovered the secret on our journey—gave a cheer, and into quassi’s eyes came a cruel, cunning gleam that spoke of vengeance for the boatswain’s cat-o’-nine-tails that had scored his old back with many a sore welt and burning blister. had i not been too much interested in the tree—fool that i was—i would have noticed his gleaming eyeballs, that had become red by suffering, and the hideous grin that showed his white teeth, and would have known what they meant. securing the boat, the crew landed, bringing quassi with them, and we stood upon the shore—- myself, five white men and one grinning negro, and before us was the tree, in whose wondrous power we as yet scarcely believed but soon would know. “blow my eyesl” cried bill jones, a strapping sailor who pulled bow oar in my gig. “ one of them little things turn me into a woman p” and before i could stop him—he had bolted one of the amber seeds and stood looking at us astonished, his eyes rolling, half in fear half in amazement. then he suddenly uttered a bashful cry and hid himself be a florida enchantment. hind the foliage as if timid and ashamed; while we gazed open-mouthed upon him,—for his screams were no more those of the hoarse sailor, but those of a shrill-voiced woman, and he simpered and giggled and looked at us in coquetry. then his maiden an- tics made us laugh until the tears rolled down our checks, for bill jones was by no means a prim-mam nered prude—in fact, so inspired the rest of us men with curiosity that, idiots that we were, we all did eat a seed, save the spanish boatswain, who swore nothing would make him become a woman, espe- cially when there would be five fat, lusty and healthy wenches on the same lone island as himself. and soon we all became women, and thought ourselves beautiful and had wench’s airs, graces, feel- ings—and walked down to see our reflections in the limpid water and ask ourselves if we were not love- ly. and after that we five did look lovingly upon the boatswain, for he was the only white man among us,—and so grew jealous of each other, and fought with each other, that the boatswain might be our own best fellow, scratching and tearing each other’s hair,—while he, our lord and master, looked on and laughed, crying in a jocular way: “ go it, poll ! scratch her, sue! ho ho! this is a rare harem for the boatswain of the firefly—i have as many wenches as an arab sheik! ” upon this scene quassi looked with grins of pleasure, hoping, as i afterwards knew, in his cun- ning african mind, that the boatswain would eat a seed, so he could conquer all of us; for the four sailors and myself, having become women, were timid and would not encounter man in battle.— a florida enchantment. theboatswain also liking the situation vastly, used his power over us and forbade us to eat the seeds, so that we might become men again and his equals and masters. thus we might have continued there forever, had not i, in preparing his evening meal for the savage boatswain, with whom i had fallen deeply in love and of whom i was much afraid, it! gathering wood for the fire accidentally picked up one of the seeds; and curiosity coming upon me, awoman, i had eaten it, and found myself once more a man, and as such the spaniard’s captain. striding up to him as he sat languishing under the attentions of two handsome girls—one of whom had been the coxswain of my boat and the other pulled the bow oar—i commanded him to hold each of the four women while i administered a seed to them. recognizing that i was myself again and as such his commanding officer, he did my bidding, though sulkily, and a few minutes after my crew of stalwart - men, under my orders, was quickly loading the boat with several bags full of the precious seeds we gath- ered hastily from the wondrous tree of sexual change. but rapid as had been our labors, the night had come upon us more quickly. safe navigation of the lagoon in the darkness was impossible,——we must wait upon this island until the morning. then the men, made superstitious by the astounding properties of this unnatural tree, grew timid at the thought and built a huge bonfire so that light might give them courage; and i ordered them to construct a pyre a florida enchantment. round the tree of sexual change, to be lighted as we left the island, for i feared other adventurers and discoverers and wanted a monopoly of the won- drous seeds so that women would beg me for them, and queens and princesses cringe to me the gruff old sailor and the treasures of the earth be poured upon me by beauties who longed to be beauties no more—only simple men. i served out extra rations of rum at six bells; then taking our bite of hard tack and salt horse, we all lay down to sleep together. but i could not close my eyes, which was fortunate, otherwise i would not have been writing this. as nearly as i could make it out, about three o'clock in the morning, old quassi became restless in his irons (for we still kept him securely bound and chained), and his restlessness made me suspi- cious. looking at him by the flickering light of the camp-fire, i could see that he was listening in- tently. i opened my ears also, but heard nothing, - savage senses beating civilized senses. he appar- ently heard something which pleased him, because he began to chuckle to himself and grin and chant and laugh in an uncanny manner,—and listening again i heard a sound that made me start up and wake my men; and cry, “ the splash of paddles on the lagoon—the savages l ” another second and the crew had silently manned the boat,-—but on looking round for quassi he had disappeared. ironed as he was, the old man had wriggled himself into the thicket, and we had no time to search for him, for the paddles of the canoes sounded very near. a florida enchantment. ’ ! canoes more strongly. “throw over everything,” i whispered, “except the precious seeds. they will make our fortune forever if we carry them away." then overboard went everything except our arms, one small keg of biscuit and our water cask. thus lightened, the savages overtook us more slowly, though they were almost fatally near, when bill jones, the bow man, screamed. out, “ we are at the cliff, cap’n—i think i see the opening! by jove! we’ve struck it right.” then the men made the ash blades of their oars bend with a mighty sweep, and a shock nearly threw me out of the boat; for in the darkness we had mis- taken the passage and dashed against the solid cliff. ' the next instant we were all struggling in the water and arrows from the savages flying among us, their war clubs striking us—the light from the most marvellous of god’s plants that we had impiously fired lighting up the lake to show us to our ene- mies. being an expert swimmer, i took a long dive and turned towards the marshy shores of the lagoon, where i made a landing and found myself followed by the spanish boatswain, who swam like a fish, and bill jones, the active bow oar of my gig. to my astonishment, the boatswain carried one of the smaller sacks of the precious seeds in his hand. he had clenched it even under the arrows of the savages and the waves of the crocodile-haunted lagoon. silently we pressed through the swamp, its sicken- ing miasma mingling with the early morning air, for the sun was just rising,—and sneaked through the a florida enchantment. thick jungle, the cries of our pursuers showing they had found our trail. still we struggled on, the sun coming up to burn us; when, just as we were about to reach the higher ground and leave the swamp slime behind us, jones shrieked out a horrid cry, ‘ my god, cap’n, he’s hit me!’ and looking back i saw a dying sailor, and beside him one of those awful serpents of west african marshes and damp ground, the river-jack, the bite of which is death. to remain meant capture and death for us also ; and the boatswain and myself hurried along, turn- ing our steps toward the sea, which now could not be more than a mile or two away from us, though we had a range of hills to climb before we would reach it. ere we lost sight of our dying comrade, the savages, headed by old quassi, came up to him, and looking backwards i shuddered as i saw the vindictive nigger finish jones' agony by a smash from a war club and then bound on with a whoop of joy in pursuit of me and the spanish boatswain in vengeance for his tortured body and his outraged deities. \ through a dense forest of trees filled with mon- keys, whose horrid jabberings as we passed beneath them gave signal to our enemies of the path we fol lowed, we struggled along, running where the ground permitted, but most times clambering through dense underbrush, yet all the time struggling onward. then the murmuring of the distant sea brought hope to us, and the boatswain muttered: “we’ve pulled through the trip—with seeds enough to make us nabobs.” a florida enchantment. but even as this left his lips the wood resounded with a mighty roar, a yellow, tawny beast flew through the air and struck the spaniard to the ground with its big claws, and the white fangs of a lioness whose two cubs were playing in the pathway sunk themselves into the neck of the sailor as he uttered his death shriek. the bag of precious seeds was torn to pieces in this awful struggle of man and beast, and the amber pellets tossed hither and thither were trampled into the black mould and swampy undergrowth. almost struggling with the lioness myself, in my despera- tion i quickly gathered what i could of the sacred seeds, for quassi and his gang were now upon me. they were only four; but four of these magic things were enough if i could escape ! _ the lioness was barring the pathway to my pur- suers, and snarling in their faces, they did not dare to dispute the way with her, and so with gasps of joy i hurried to the beach, which by a blessed fore- thought i had ordered to be patrolled by a boat under the command of ‘my second ofi'icer. he soon saw my signal, and by the next dayi was on board my ship, minus the crew of my gig and the spanish boatswain, but having in my pocket the four wondrous seeds in the little vial i have marked “ for women who suffer," which mean to me four fortunes; for rich women as well as poor ones suffer the pangs of their weak, down-trodden sex, and i can sell them to the princesses and queens of the world. within half an hour of getting on shipboard—- our cargo being all below the hatches—we weighed a florida enchantment. anchor and put (to sea; for quassi’s whole tribe would soon be upon us to avenge the insult to their gods in the destruction of the tree that blooms once in a thousand moons to make such women as are blest by eating of its seeds masculine and happy. this story will not be believed by the average man, or average woman, either, but to these facts i swear as i am now a living man and was for one short hour a woman and very beautiful and very vain. hauser oglethorpe, of the parish of st. mark, carolina plantations. given on the th day of august, anno domini , upon the american bark firzfiy. chapter vi. “why not?" as lillian finishes the manuscript, which she has read eagerly—intently ; pausing at times to shudder at the old man’s cruelty, disclosed by its pages, she exclaims: “ hauser oglethorpe a woman—and very beautiful l ” and thinking of the old sea-dog’s leering picture in the dining-room, a harsh and strained laugh comes from between her pretty, lips. this is succeeded by a pause of contemplation when she suddenly ejaculates, “ what a rider hag- gardish story! i feel like the veritable ‘ she ’ her- self ; ” the record having made a strange impression on her. she tries to shake it exclaiming, “ pooh! one would think i believe this likely sea yarn ! " then the shining amber seeds catching her eye a florida enchantment. “ no, miss, it ain't burglars, it's only gus! ” is the reply. in the moonlight she sees the mulatto girl, in a state of great excitement, listening with open mouth and open eyes to some extraordinary news that her lover, gustavus duncan, has brought from the ponce de leon. “ no, ma'm, it isn't burglars," says that gentle- man; “ dar's been a terr’ble accident down on de bay." “ an accident?" cries lilly, and steps out on to the veranda to hear all about it. “yes, miss travers; dar's been an accident, as i befo' explained to you,-—on mr. remington's steam yacht, de runabout.” “ nothing’s happened, i hope, to mr. reming- ton,” says lilly quickly. “no, miss; mr. remington he's all right. but it's de widder." “ the widow—mrs. stella lovejoy?" “ yes ;-—a boat takin’ her to de yacht was drowned." “a boat drowned!" gasps lilly astounded at this extraordinary statement. then she says slowly, “ and stella was drowned also? " and there are tears in her eyes as she thinks of the beautiful woman she has seen in health and loveliness only this morning. “ no, miss travers; she was saved by de gal. lantry of a gent,” remarks gustavus, with a wave oi his hand similar to that with which he indicates a chair to a guest of the ponce de leon. “ the noble fellow ! ” cries lilly enthusiastically. “yes; de doc’, he plumped right in after her like a porpoise, an’ pulled her out," adds gus excitedly. but here jane suddenly lifts up her voice and a florida enchantment. yells: “ doan’ yo’ tell her, gus. yo’ ' break her heart. you doan’ know what yo’ ’ doin'.” but this makes lilly very eager—perhaps anxious. she mutters: “ doc’ p—what doc’ p " “doctah fred cassadene," answers gus—and the secret is out. the young lady grows very pale and places a little trembling hand on the railing of the veranda to steady herself as she whispers: “fred there !—” then she cries out suddenly: “ no! he was with a patient on the tocoi road. impossible! he was called away to a desperate case of snake-bite.” “ snake-bite? ha ha—ho ho l—he he! "—this is a hideous chuckle from between gus's white teeth. “doan’ you tell her—you’ll break her heart; doan’ you tell her,” shrieks jane. “ he shall tell me now! ” cries her mistress in an awful voice, and striding up to the disconcerted second man in the dining-room of the ponce de leon, lilly says sternly—“ i want all your news. don’t dare prevaricate ! ” “ well—” answers gus in a sheepish manner ‘ ‘" well, de doc’ was goin’ on a moonlight sail with de widder." “and the—-the snake-bite—what of that?" gasps the girl, a sudden dread coming into her countenance. “ dar wan’t no snake-bite. de widder ain’t got no snake-bite. doc’ fred was wid her at dinner an’ took her off right from de table to de boat.” “ you are sure p " “ sartin l didn’t i stan’ behin' ’em at dinner to- a florida enchantment. day, and wasn't dey talkin' all cle time 'bout de boat-ride dey was going to have—and how de moonlight was becoming to widders. lawd bless yo’! dar w'an't no case of snake-bite.” “oh lawdy! what’s de matter with yo’, miss lilly? ” breaks in jane suddenly upon the harangue, for the girl's face has become an awful one. she has put her hand to her heart, and is reeling and staggering. then she suddenly cries: “ there was a case of snake-bitel—the snake has bitten me ! " the next instant she bursts into a jeering laugh, for her words have struck terror to her sable aud- itors, and jane has bounded upon a chair for refuge, and is screaming: “ oh massy! is it a rattler?" and gus crying: “a snake on the veranda! oh, lawdy ll lawdy ! ” has sprung over the railing, and chancing to land in a thorn bush is now shrieking, “ i’se been stung too!” a moment after, the girl stops these demonstrations. she says in a set, hard voice, “the snake was a metaphor! don’t either of you dare to tell what has happened to-night! " then staggers, and would fall, did she not clutch the curtains of the window; though to jane’s proffered assistance and words of love, she mutters “ no! don’t dare to come near me to-night ! go to your lover and tell him to say no word of this—espe- cially to doctor cassadene! " so passing to her chamber she crosses the dining- room, and as she does so beholds the picture of old hauser oglethorpe, which now seems to literally laugh and chuckle at her, and this brings to her mind what she carries in her pocket, and she cries to him: “for women who suffer!” and laughs a florida enchantment. s back at the canvas man; for at this moment, jeal- ousy, despair, and the agony of knowing that the man she loves has lied to her and deceived her for the smiles of another—has made this poor stricken creature almost insane. then getting to her bedroom she sinks upon a chair, and thinks: “ how can i endure the agony of this night p—my god !—i must have some drug to destroy thought—for a little while ! ” as she does so, she feels the vial in her pocket press against the woodwork upon which she is sitting, and drawing out the manuscript and tossing it on one side, by the mellow light of her lamp, which has been lit for her coming, she gazes at the sparkling seeds that dance and flash, roll over and play, and juggle with one another in the yellow beams, and sighs—“ if this would only take away my jealous woman’s heart—to make me cold—indifferent—self- ish—as men, our masters, who torture us by mak- ing us love them!” then, breaking the sealing wax that surrounds the glass stopper, she uncorks'the bottle, from which a faint, delicious odor comes, and sits look- ing at the seeds and conning over in her mind the marvelous story of the old slaver, and quotes poor quassi, “who would be woman when can be man?” an astounded look comes into her eyes, and she mutters, “ my heaven, if this wondrous tale is true! if i took one and became a man, what kind would i become? an ‘ out and outer,’ a ‘ throughbred,’ to play with women—to break their hearts, to make their love and truth a curse to them—like fred does me ? ” a florida enchantment. here her agony becoming too potent, she stag. gers to her feet and totters about the room wring- ing her hands and gasping, “ what is life without him—and i a woman? were i a man, i should love him no more! if i remain in my own sex, he will come to me, and again cajole me and take my feeble female heart into his grasp, to juggle with, until i forget his treachery—and love him again and so sufi'er on and on so long as i live. never!!! what do i care! these seeds may give me death—but what is life without him?” with this—a kind of ecstasy comes into her beau- tiful eyes and she cries “ [fit skauldbé true i "-and desperately, as if not daring to contemplate what she is doing, seizes between two white fingers, one of the amber-colored seeds, and opening a pair of as rosy lips as were ever kissed by man, she gasps in awful voice, “why not?" and tosses the “seed- of-sexual-change ” into her mouth. its effect is horrible—appalling—it seems to be alive—to have wings and fly down her throat, giv- ing her tonsils an awful twinge as it passes them, and springs straight to the centres of her brain. she reels and sinks upon the sofa and lies there half dazed, half stunned—electric thrills run through her and make her muscles tingle and throb and even her bones to creak under their subtle waves—and sensations indescribable and unknown to her leave the ether about her and become part of herself—and others pass away from her to give them room.-— after a time her mind appears to suddenly become more logical than it had been before, and her nerves to grow stronger, and have more toughness to defy a florida enchantment. sensation. she feels sleepy, not as if affected by a narcotic, but simply as if her mind were easy and content, and burdened by no despairing jealousy, because she loves herself better than anything else on earth. she mutters “ i think i'll turn in!” and hastily undresses—no longer with dainty care and careful folding of garments— but with reckless untidy haste, tossing her boots to one corner of the room, her stockings to another, firing her garters on the man. telpiece, and throwing the other articles of her-ap- parel in reckless disorder over floor and furniture. then she springs into bed, with a dashing bound, and rolling herself up in the clothes says, “ by jove, that’s the first time in my life i didn’t squint under the bed, for burglars l—burglars be blowed," and her lovely eyes look astonished at this remark. a minute afterwards her breath becomes long drawn and regular, and sleep comes upon her, but anyone standing by her and looking at her glorious wavy dark brown locks that cover her pillow would have heard her coral lips murmur, “ i’ll bet fred had a bang-up time to-night—with that fetching little widow ! " i a very quaint and curious speech to come from the lips of a jealous maiden about her lover and her rival. a» a- i- a- * the next morning jane entering her mistress's chamber somewhat later than usual, finds her diffi cult to awake—an unusual thing, for lilly’s slum- bers are always of the lightest. then an astonished expression comes on jane’s a florida enchantment. “no warm baths!” says the girl sharply; then she shocks her servant again, for she remarks briskly, “ you think i'm a spring chickenp” “ oh, lawd; how curious you does talk! ” “ perhaps i do,” answers lilly, with a contempla tive smile; “i feel a little peculiar this morning. i—i believe i have had some extraordinary dream in the night. i cannot remember it exactly.” after knitting her brows in thought for a second or two, she cries out in sudden excitement: “oh, yes i do! jane, i'll tell you all about it ;——it’s a corker! jane, i dreamed last night i became a man! what do you think of that? there’s a funny vision for you," says lilly, and gives a pleas- ant laugh.’ y “ yes, indeedy p " answers jane; “ i’d like to be one myself. that gus is driving me to desperation, he is,”—~and would go on with melancholy account of her wrongs, did not the smile on her mistress’s face at this moment become a horrified giggle, and miss travers, with an astounded, “well, i’ll be hanged ” sink down among the bed-clothes, rolling over in them as if to conceal herself from view. for this young lady, chancing in a lazy way to fold her arms over her bosom, has suddenly discov- ered, in place of the usual rounded billowy softness, a massive masculine chest that would do honor to a yale rusher ;--and recollection, astonishment, horror and trepidation have fallen upon her. “ massy ! what’s de matter with you, miss lilly?” cries her attendant—“sayin’ cuss words, too! is yo’ out of yo’ head p ” for poor lilly at this moment a florida enchantment. is gasping and uttering yelps of surprised astonish- ment and panic terror. after a little miss travers recollects that she is still alive anyway and becomes somewhat calmer. she cries: “'get out of the room ! " in a voice of such deep contralto that she is astounded at the noise she makes. “ an' fix yo’ bath p " “ yes; anything—fix my bath.” and her attend- ant having withdrawn reluctantly from the apart- ment with exclamations of astonished concern, lillian travers gives one desperate bound from the bed and staggering in a dazed way to her bureau, picks up the paper she had tossed away the night before. there it is—old vhauser's wondrous tale, in his cramped characters; and before her stands the vial with its three little miraculous seeds danc_ ing in the yellow sunlight to give proof that it’s no hallucination of her wandering mind. she gives one look at the mirror, staring in' it to see if her face betrays aught of the great physical change which has somehow come upon her. no; her features are the same—only wondrously ex- cited and astonished, and containing a threat of coarseness in the near future, for a bolder light seems to gleam in the staring, questioning eyes that look upon her as she gasps, “ great god! can it be possible? i am a man!" and sinks down upon her knees, a prey to the most singular and varied sensations that ever rent a human frame. for at last she knows the truth! and it stuns as well as horrifies her. at times she thinks anothersoul is inside of her and her true spirit has wandered into a florida enchantmen'i. space—but so perfect a recollection of the lillian travers of yesterday and of every preceding event in miss travers’ life comes home to her so clearly that she knows she is the same spirit, though man instead of woman. after the first horror of this knowledge there comes an exalted sense of supremacy, a feeling that the world is now hers from which to choose her amuse- ment and her career in life, and this gives promise to her—excited and nervous as she still is—of a happy future. she turns an inward gaze upon herself, she is apparently well, strong, and certainly hungry—and sits in a kind of dreamy contentment gazing vacu~ ously about her. “yo’r bath is ready, miss lilly," remarks jane and calls her from herself. “i’m so hungry i think i’ll take my breakfast first,” says the putative miss travers, for the first ' time in her life discovering what a masculine appe- tite really is. and jane departing on her errand, her mistress takes advantage of her absence to put very safely away the vial with its three precious seeds and the curious record of old hauser. this is hardly done when jane steps briskly in with the breakfast. “ah! that coffee smells good—jane, you’re a brick! " “ miss lilly, is yo' crazy?” cries out the maid to this repetition of the curious language that has caused her so much astonishment during the morning. “ ’cause if you is, i want to get out ob heah." “ neither crazy nor sick, jane, but better thani have ever been before,” remarks her mistress orac' ' a florida enchantment. ularlv. “ by the by, don’t you tell aunt any con- ”qunded nonsense about what i have said to you this morning. here’s fifty cents for you," and she tosses her attendant a coin, thinking, like most other men, that money is stronger than sentiment. then donning a robe de chambre she sits down to the smoking breakfast, which jane has placed on a small table, and does justice to it in a way that makes her handmaiden open her dusky eyes. after a little miss travers says, “ jane, get out.” “get out? what fo’?” asks her maid, astonished. “ i’m going to dress ! " “ of course, i always helps you! " _ “ but you are going to do so no more. your fuss- ing would make me wild. get out ! " and so jane departs wondering what crank has come upon her young missus. the next instant lilly begins her toilet, communing with herself that great'caution and self-command must temper her conscious possession of manhood. of femininity, a small amount yet remains, else she would be peril- ously near immediate exposure. from the immedi- ate revelation of her marvelous transformation she still has sufficient womanhood to shrink aghast. the little lillian travers left in her thinks, “only for to-day i will be a man, to see what it is like— and then go back to my old self again—and love him—” but here suddenly her new nature bursts forth. “never! i’m in for a good thing, and i'll clinch to it! ” for her peace of mind shows her that if, as a woman, she was entirely engrossed in fred cassadene, as a man she is entirely absorbed in self—a much more comfortable and contented state of feeling. a florida enchantmen'r. have concluded to throw off [care and forget doctor fred and be happy without him.—fly down and tell the girls to remain one second—stay, i’ll catch them myself!" and lilly strides down hastily to the parlor to receive and inflict new and wondrous sensations. book ii. the bovnoon f lilly travers. chapter vii. “ah! naughty boy—what shall i christen you p " she swoops down-stairs, but her long, trailing skirts have become awkward to her, who yesterday in these same clinging garments, was the poetry of motion, and grace itself. giving her trailing jupe, which at this moment gets under her feet, almost throwing her down, a very vicious and masculine . yank, lilly enters the parlor, from which through the half open door, comes the staid voice of con- stantia, mingled with the more vivacious tones of stella lovejoy, and the delicious southern babble of bessie horton. ' “i hardly think she’s got over the effect of her railroad journey,” remarks her relative, apparently apologizing for her niece’s laziness. “ why, she was as bright as an oriole,” murmurs miss bessie, “ when we went to vedder’s yesterday morning." “i have counted on miss travers for our hop a florida enchantment. to-night,” says the widow. “you don't think she will disappoint me ? " “ hardly ! ” mutters constantia grimly, turning her glasses upon mrs. lovejoy, and thinking: “ no wonder lilly is jealous of her." as she says non- chalantly: “ my niece has only got the blues." “not this morning, aunty ” cries lilly, breaking in upon this scene. then giving miss connie a loving but careless kiss of relationship, miss travers lifts up her eyes, and gives an astonished gasp as she gazes upon stella lovejoy and bessie horton, for it is the first time she has ever seen the won- drous loveliness of women with masculine eyes. the two are in delicious contrast: bessie looking like a lovely wild flower in the light muslin dress of girlhood—stella in some fieecy creation of worth's that makes her exquisitely developed figure a series of curves of beauty, as she rises languidly to receive lilly’s greeting. “ the blues of which your aunt accuses you, seem to have changed into a cold. you’re very hoarse, my dear," remarks the beautiful stella. “not half as hoarse as you should be, from your moonlight ducking last night. doctor fred pulled you out in great shape, i bean—rather romantic, i imagine," remarks lilly, in easy enjoyment of mrs. lovejoy’s embarrassment at her adventure being known to her rival, for as such she regards miss travers—especially as she thinks uneasily, “ she is not jealous, therefore she feels sure of her position with cassadene.”' ‘ “ oh, you know of our unfortunate accident," murmurs stella, and she extends her hand to lilly a florida enchantment. i and then to stop further discussion of the moonlight episode nonchalantly holds up a luscious rosy mouth to be kissed, for she is one of those women who always kiss other women. a pair of dark brown eyes gaze into the radiant blue ones ;--the invitation is accepted suddenly, ardently !—-lilly’s coral lips press those of the beauti- ful widow ;—a thrill—an ecstasy—an electric shock! stella’s lovely face becomes rosy with sudden blushes; she turns away and sinks into her chair, uttering a kind of lingering, longing sigh. as for lilly, though somewhat prepared, the sen— sation she experiences is much more potently soft, tender and exquisite than she expected. this first kiss of man to woman. her hand seems to linger longingly, perhaps car- essingly, on the widow’s rounded shoulder, as she turns away towards bessie, who has cried in girlish enthusiasm : “ my turn next!” for these two hav- ing known each other from childhood, kiss at sight in the careless, easy way peculiar to girls. at first miss travers seems inclined to disregard this demand. she turns away as if about to sit down, but bessie’s face is thrust before hers and a wounded voice is in her ear, muttering—“ it was my turn first—you sha’n’t slight me altogether.” fighting to subdue the tender feelings that are in her, miss travers grants the plump little blonde’s demand, and apparently produces a great sensation on that young lady, for she ecstatically cries: “ just one more!” and gives the tall brunette another salute that comes from the very bottom of her heart and goes on enthusiastically, “ lilly, you are a florida enchan'i‘ment. the best kisser i ever saw—boys or girls!" then suddenly pauses—for miss connie’s voice is heard in reproving tones “ bess ! " whereupon the maiden stammers, “no, i don’t mean that ! of course i don't! i don't know what i am talking about ! ” and sits down coveredwith rosy blushes. the laugh attendant upon this serves to conceal the putative miss travers’ emotions which are like those of a romeo after juliet's first kiss—for if stella’s salute has caused rapture, bessie’s sweet lips red and dewy as two morning rosebuds have brought ecstasy. she sinks into a chair, muttering “ darling bessie! ” and hardly heeds the conversation, which has fallen upon the ordinary woman’s topics of the day. bessie running on vivaciously about the lovely time she expects at the hop this evening, and aunt con- nie giving lilly a receipt for colds that has been transmitted to 'her from the dark ages. but all this time, stella's lovely eyes, though she forces them to wander about the room, return always to lilly, 'an inquiring and wondering look in them. once or twice their glances meet, and though the widow’s droop under the bolder looks of the young lady, lilly gets uneasy herself and wonders in a nervous feminine manner, “ can she suspect?" but masculine logic coming to her aid, she thinks, “ pooh! suspect a miracle? as a little girl i went to school with her ! ” then her eyes turn to bessie, and she says to herself: “the dear little girl! funny i never thought her so lovely before ! ” for bessie as she sits a florida enchantment. prattling away, an unknown happiness in her heart, one pretty foot and ankle carelessly peeping from under her dress, makes a very lovely picture to masculine eyes, though she does not know that they are upon her. shortly after this, miss connie produces a sensa- tion. she says suddenly: “ lilly, i shall insist upon your calling in a doctor!" “ a doctor—for what? ” “ for your cold. it is awful. your voice is hoarser than i have ever known it." “ perhaps you had better send for doctor cassa- dene. he must have finished his case of snake-bite by this time,” remarks the supposed invalid glancing at mrs. lovejoy maliciously and rather enjoying teasing a pretty woman after the taste of average masculinity. at this the widow blushes and looks uncomfort- able, and lilly, eyeing her, knows that doctor fred has told her of the lie that he had written, and were it last night, she would hate—irate—hate her ; but now, this morning, noting the wondrous loveliness of her former rival she thinks: “ no wonder fred is spoons on that catchey stella—george ! what an ankle! " sneaking a peep at a delicious little boot that is making her heart beat very rapidly. then she continues aloud : “ of course i shall see doctor fred to-day. he is going to take me to the ‘hop ’ this evening,” and astonishes herself by being annoyed because she sees she has planted a dagger in the widow’s heart, and wonders, “ what the deuce can stella see to like in fred, anyway? i should think i would be more in her style." a florida enchantment. hand under miss travers’ arm, who looks back at fred with mocking eyes, as she takes the two beau- ties out to their carriage. they are at the gate, and stella says laughingly: " i must have another one of your pretty kisses, lilly!” “ and i, too!” cries bessie, not to be outdone. whereupon the putative young lady kindly ac~ commodates them both with an enthusiasm that astonishes them, and putting them blushing, laugh- ing and very beautiful, into their carriage, would lift her hat if she had one on her head, after the manner of a fifth avenue swell, as they drive away. then she suddenly says to herself in an affrighted, reproving yet reflective manner: “ah, naughty boy! ” and gazing at her shadow on the sunlight of the walk murmurs, “i wonder what i'll christen you p” and looks complacently on herself, for verily the joys of young manhood are exceeding great! a moment after she gives out a low, affrighted “wh-e-w! if aunt connie only knew she’d go out of her head! ” then turns with merry laugh towards the house. but at the threshold a fearful scowl comes over her mobile features. she hesitates and mutters : “ i sup. pose fred’ll want to kiss me. my heaven, how sickening!" and a shudder runs over her. then her face grows very determined and she cogitates: “if he does i’ll fix him ! ” and with this threat to her own dear sweetheart of yesterday, she strides into the house whistling in easy abandon, “the girl i left behind me " ! a very few bars of her music brings miss connie a florida enchantment. to her. that outraged spinster appearing on the portico whispers, “ whistling, lilly?” in a horrified tone, next remarks severely, “ what’s come to you this morning ?—your manners have been some- thing awful for a young lady. now go to your fiancé—i hope he has not heard you whistling—it would be quite a shock to him.” taking her aunt’s advice the late miss travers steps into the parlor where doctor frederick sits alone and sulking. mrs. lovejoy has wounded his pride; besides, this young gentleman has some- how an intuition that his sweetheart knows of his defection on the night before, and that he has an uncomfortable interview before him. such ideas are soon driven from his mind. lilly says in easy nonchalance : “ well, old boy, did you have a high old time last evening, with that pretty widow?” and nods her head in the direction of the departed stella. “ yes, you see ” gasps fred, astounded. “oh, her beauty is excuse enough. and how's the patient with the snake-bite p dead, i presume- most of your patients usually die.” “if you will let me explain, lilly,’ doctor. “oh, no need of that,” says the putative young lady. “i know about how it is myself ! " and with these extraordinary words, she flops into a roomy chair, assuming such an easy and mannish attitude that her lover stares at her in astonished silence. “ what time are you going to take me to the ball —eh? why don’t you wake up, freddie, and answer i ” , mutters the a florida enchantment. but cassadene’s love, like most men’s, is increased by the lady’s coldness. he says: “you speak to me that wayl you refuse to hear my apologies ——my excuses. we have been parted twelve long hours, and as yet not one kiss, my darling! ” and approaches her with outstretched arms, to play the engaged and ardent lover, but finds her very coy. she artfully eludes several strategic moves on his part, and then, he being on the point of victory, suddenly cries out in a desperate tone: “,not a kiss, fred, until you have explained the snake-bite." “my heaven ! ” he bursts out.——“ how can i ex- plain it, except that after writing you that note, just as i was mounting to gallop to my patient, a man rode up to the hotel and told me that there was no need of my going there. the man had not been bitten by a snake—it was simply the scratch of a thorn brush in the swamp that he had supposed the stroke of a water moccasin, and had nearly died from fear, not poison." “ah, that was the reason!" mutters lilly, as- tounded at this audacious and ingenious lie, which had been carefully prepared by doctor fred in case of his perfidy being discovered. she is thinking, “ i wonder if i'll ever learn to fib in that glorious man. ner,” when she finds herself in his arms, and then kiss l—kissl—k-i-s-s !--the agony has begun! she groans inwardly, and struggling turns so savage and scowling a face over the doctor’s shoulder that could he see it despair would be upon him. she wants to clutch the brawny throat in front of her, and choke it with all her newly acquired muscle: a florida enchantment. but the cigar-perfumed mustache is pressed again and again upon her lips that now shrink from it for the first time. then a sudden consciousness that she must play her part, in order to preserve her secret, coming to her, she tries to be the lilly travers of old, but does not do it very well, for a moment after he turns from her muttering : “your kisses are cold—cold—cold ! " then her very iciness adding to his flame, he cries out desperately, “can you doubt the love of the man who would die for you? your promised husband!” and goes into many other masculine rhapsodies and extravagances that would have seemed lovely to her but twelve hours before, but now make her laugh. as she bursts into a sneering snicker, he becomes very angry and growls at her: “ not only coldness, but derision ! " next goes on in aheart-broken voice, putting her into momentary panic as he mutters, “ your conduct is very unnatural.” “ unnatural? how?" gasps the girl. “ you were indifferent to me last night. why shouldn’t i be, indifferent to you to-day?" “ some women might, but not the girl i worship —the girl i adore," he returns pathetically; and there are real tears in the great big flirt’s eyes, for her indifference makes him desperate. then he frightens her terribly as he cries: “ you are not the lilly travers of yesterday." , at this, fearing that perhaps he may suspect a miracle—she is delighted when aunt connie makes her appearance. “ before you go, doctor,” says miss constantia, a florida enchantment. “i want you to examine lilly's throat and chest. you notice how hoarse she is p " “ examine me! ” gasps her niece, all in a tremble, “my heavens!" exclaims fred, suddenly; for he has been too agitated and excited up to this moment to note anything but his sweetheart’s in- , difference. “ what a cold you have! allow me." but she draws back from him with an affrighted “no! no! "—and shudders with burning panic blushes. “ as your physician, my dearest,” remarks the doctor tenderly. “ this is absurd delicacy in such a case," says her aunt; but to lilly’s relief, doctor fred remarks, after looking at her attentively: “i do not think her cold is at all serious.” then he adds rather maliciously: “ i am sure from the way she whistled a few moments ago that her lungs are not affected, and as she seems to be rather anxious to avoid my attentions both as physician and lover this after. noon, i shall not force them upon her." _ for this he gets such a heartfelt, grateful and almost loving “ thank you” from his fiancée, that joy flies into his eyes, and miss connie, having de- parted with a sniff of contempt at her niece’s absurd prudery, doctor fred falls to again rapturously and forces the putative miss travers to undergo some most tender and horrible caresses at his hands. for she is desperately afraid of his physician’s prac- tised eye giving him some suspicion of the extraor- dinary change that has taken place in her, and tries to play the sweetheart and the woman who has parted from him but yesterday. w a florida enchantment- “ ah, now you are my own once more!” he has seized her and is lavishing kisses upon her. “ you have missed me, haven’t you, darling? a little jealous, eh, but she couldn't be long angry with her freddie, could she ? " then he cries out, “ my precious one, you look pale and unlike yourself. come to the light.” upon this lilly tries to droop her eyelids in the old, submissive way, which is for- tunate, as they veil two very savage looking optics as he leads her to one of the open french windows of the room. “ now, look me in the eyes! ”—-he playfully chucks her under the chin. “ you have been griev. ing for me—jealous and all that foolishness, my pet! (kiss) those lovely shadows below your delicious eyes mean that—don’t they, my sweetheart p” “ you bet they don’t! ! ! ” is the fierce rejoinder spoken in so savage a whisper that he staggers back. after a moment, however, attributing it still to some remnants of the aforesaid jealousy he renews the attack, and suddenly gives her a fearful shock, for he says: “ darling, you must name our wedding day!” “ not now! for god’s sake, not now!" she stutters. “ well, then, my angel, to-morrow—you must tell me when you will make me the happiest man in florida.—don’t forget—i will call for you at half- past eight this evening.” so, with a few more en- dearments which yesterday she would have loved but to-day she hates, doctor fred goes away in a very happy and contented mind, remarking to him< self sotto wee : “ the widow may cut up rough, but lilly is mine anyway." a florida enchantment. ! and she stands staring after him wondering to herself : ‘ “ how did i endure his suffocating and nauseating kisses? o-o-ugh! name the wedding day? this is the deuce of a joke on fred !—if he knew? ha! ha! hal—ho! ho! hol—he! he! he!" these are such masculine guffaws that aunt con- nie runs out upon the veranda where she is standing and asks her very savagely if she is crazy ! chapter viii. the hop at the ponce de leon. “ another thing i will tell you,” continues miss constantia, after this outburst is over,—“ is that you do not go to the hop this evening." “ not to the hop p " remarks lilly piteously, thinking of how lovely stella ,and bessie will look arrayed for that entertainment. “ not with that cold." “ i am going, cold or no cold. besides, my voice is much better," and she attempts by raising her vocal pitch to give herself some of the tones of yes- terday that made her voice so liquid, brilliant and beautiful. “ well, anyway,” remarks miss constantia, “ you are not going to the ball in a low-neck dress; with that cold a decolleté gown would be death ! i know your parisian gowns—and i don’t care if you have a pretty neck and shoulders." this is a very pleasant suggestion to lilly, who a florida enchantment- has been in somewhat of a quandary as to what will be the best thing to wear on this occasion for the more efl'ectual concealment of deficiencies. “ very well, auntie," she says dutifully; “ i think i'll wear my black lace robe, brightened up with flowers of some kind. it is quite high enough at the throat to cover the trouble. now, a favor to me—you must go with me, you dear old auntie, and play chaperon this evening." “ in my day," remarks miss constantia severely, “ a girl did not need a chaperon when she went with the man whom she was going to marry. i am down on these foreign notions; but if it will give you any pleasure for me to go with you, i shall be delighted. perhaps major horton will be there also." “ of course he will,” cries lilly. “ he must be there with his daughter." at this the old lady's eyes twinkle eagerly, for miss constantia oglethorpe has a very tender spot in her time-worn heart for the dashing major of the passed-away confederacy. “ very well," says the niece shortly; “ that is set- tled," and feels relieved, for she knows that her aunt’s presence will be certain safety to her from any lover-like attentions that fred may feel dis- posed to inflict upon her during the journey to and from the entertainment. half an hour after this lilly goes for a drive, which she enjoys immensely, and coming home en~ thusiastically cries out: “i never thought there were so many beautiful women in the world before!" and goes into such rhapsodies over the ladies of st. a florida enchantment. and—well, to other men’s eyes-your bewitching shoulders and arms. i do not mind other men's sweethearts being dressed that way, but i want my own dear love’s dress high—even to the throat.” “if it pleases you,” grumbles lilly, “respect it, ——and don’t rumple it." “so i will,—going to the ball,” says the doctor; “but coming home "—he gives a longing sigh. , “ i have provided for that," remarks miss travers archly; and she points to miss connie, now enter- ing the door arrayed in her best black silk.—“ be- hold my chaperon!” at which her sweetheart be- comes very sulky and she thinks she hears him swear under his breath. a few seconds after they are rolling away towards the ponce de leon. as the carriage leaves the shell-road to travel over the oasis of asphalt in the centre of the town, the conversation, which has lan- guished, becomes more rapid, and here miss lilly brings rapture to fred’s heart. she remarks sententiously: “you know the mis- erable dearth of men at all watering-place hops,—i presume there will be fewer of these masculine dei- ties here than farther north.” “ oh, don’t fear,” remarks her fiancé ; “ you will have plenty of partners to haul you about.” then he continues: “i by no means approve of young ladies dancing with every man they meet at such public assemblies." “ neither do i,” says lilly, and gives her sweet. heart a sudden rapture, for she whispers: “ fred, i have determined to give the ladies a treat this evening." a florida enchantment. “ what do you mean?" “i’m going to dance only with girls. will that please you p" “please me, darling!" and he gives her hand in the convenient darkness a tender squeeze. “you will dance with no men this evening?” “with none,” answers the girl determinedly; whereupon miss connie, awaking from a meditation on her ex-major of the confederacy, remarks sud- denly: “ lilly, don’t talk such nonsense. it is perfectly unnatural for girls to dance with each other, when good-looking, able-bodied fellows are about." “very well, aunt; to-night i am going to be un- natural," says her niece prophetically. then amid flashing lights, the hum of voices, the babble of fountains and cadence of the distant or. chestra they roll into the covered driveway of the ponce de leon. while doctor cassadene is carefully assisting miss connie out of the carriage, lilly quietly opens the door and steps out on the other side, agilely dodging a team which is driving up after them, and thinking with delight, “ i'm taking care of myself just like a man ! " “you didn’t wait for my assistance," remarks fred, biting his mustache in annoyance as he sees her performance. “no. i am trying to accustom myself to doing without it.” unheeding her significant reply, a moment after he is by her side whispering: “ you are very unkind, but i forgive you,” and offering his arm, which the a. florida enchantment' m “ yes-devoted enough to dance with awoman i” answers lilly craftily, “if you will let me. you know how scarce men are here. to-night i am going to devote myself to your—to our sex. will you dance with me ?” “y-e—s!” sighs the widow. then she says sud denly, her eyes beaming brilliantly: “ such devotion to our sex should be rewarded—you shall have two," and leaves lilly delighted; for though not now jealous of fred's attentions to mrs. lovejoy, she has suddenly become worried at mrs. lovejoy’s fondness for the doctor. "i wonder if i could not cut fred out—why shouldn’t i? i believe i could, if she only knew," thinks lilly and utters a playful but malicious laugh. the next instant the widow is obliterated from her heart. miss connie whispers, “ why don’t you help that poor child with her shoes?” and with throbbing pulse she gazes at miss bessie horton, who in charming disarray is seated upon a chair in the corner of the room coquettishly struggling with a satin slipper—and making too bewitching a pictp ure for masculine eyes. unmindful of torn laces and feminine screams the late miss travers forces her way through the crowd of indignant beauty and is beside her love of loves. as lilly gains miss horton’s side that young lady conquers her foot-gear. “ i have been gazing at you for the last five min- utes, and you haven’t even noticed me, lil,” mut- ters bessie, anger in her tones and pique in her voice. then she says inquiringly: “just look—- [m a florida enchantment. don't you think my slippers match my dress beam tifully? " casting her eyes down, the putative miss travers is enthralled and whispers, “ you have the prettiest feet, bess, in the world.” and so they are, this evening, arrayed in the delicate hosiery and fairy slippers of a toilette dz ball. “i didn’t ask about the feet,i asked about my slippers l" pouts bess. “ you're altogether too lovely for anything!” cries the late miss travers overcome. “ i'm delighted you think i'm all right," answers miss horton easily, and a moment after asks: “ did doctor cassadene come with you ? " perhaps a little too eagerly. “ he is going to dance with me." “yes!” says lilly snappily. then she remarks contemplatively: “ you must not give him any more dances." “why not—if he asks for them? he is very handsome, and men are very scarce ”--this last with a little defiant moue. “ and for that reason,” says lilly,“ i am going to take pity on you; i am going to dance with the girls this evening.” then assuming the attitude of a cavalier and the drawl of a dandy she lisps, “ may i have, the—aw—honah of a aw—turn with you this evening, miss horton?” and pretending to stroke an imaginary mustache becomes suddenly red and then very pale, for she finds her upper lip has some- how grown very rough and exceeding fuzzy during the day. “ certainly; take all you want," cries bessie with such enthusiasm that lilly forgets her alarm in the joy of bessie’s friendship. a florida enchantment. ioi a moment after her companion gives her a start by saying: “ you have not told me yet what was in that casket you bought at vedder’s! why, how red you are, lilly! here’s my powder puff!" but miss travers suddenly points across the room whispering, “ that is the girl we saw in the balcony -—you remember p—the one that was looking at doctor cassadene ! do you know her name p" “ oh yes,” babbles bess, “ i made a point of inquiring about her. she’s miss rosa king of charleston.—she met dr. fred last month and hates mrs. lovejoy.—i)on’t you think stella is per- fectly lovely?” “ she is very nice.’ miss travers. “ mr. wilkes introduced me to her yesterday, and she has been very kind and attentive to me all day,” rattles on bessie. “ i think she is perfectly charming.” “charming! she’s adorable,” answers lilly with so much enthusiasm that bessie returns reproach- fully: “well, i don’t like her as much as i do you any. way." an answer that makes lilly’s glances very ardent. under them her companion grows restless and suddenly remarks, “but we are missing all the danc- ing, miss connie is beckoning impatiently to us, and i suppose my father and dr. fred have been savagely pacing the corridor outside for the last ten minutes.” thirty seconds after they are in the hallway of the giant hotel where miss lilly finds bess’s predic- this last diplomatically from ' ioz a florida enchantment. tion is true—and the major and dr. fred both in very bad tempers. so they all go down together through the great corridors into the rotunda, and so to the dining-. room of this huge caravansary. this has been turned into a ball-room for the evening, though only a portion of its parquet floor is used for dancing, the rest being occupied by spec- tators, for whom seats have been arranged. in one of these chairs miss connie is made comfortable, and miss travers, taking bessie under her protecting wing, strolls about the ball-room, which is only fairly filled, the season at this florida watering- place being still in its infancy. even now, however, there is quite an assemblage 'of women, though the dress suits of gentlemen are very few and wide apart, producing a dismal prospect of masculine companionship in the dance, to the numerous ladies who are strolling about in pretty evening costumes. the music is just breaking into a waltz, and cassadene overtaking miss bessie and her com- panion, remarks with the easy assurance of mascu- line proprietorship: “miss travers, my dance, i believe,” and is astonished and disconcerted at her answer. lilly with a provoking smile returns: “ you for- get the promise i made you.” “ the promise to dance with no other gentleman but me ?--of course i remember that i " “i beg your pardon—the promise to dance with # gentleman this evening.” “not even me?” the astonishment of this a florida‘ enchantment. : adonis would be ludicrous were his face not so pit- eous-for fred always wants most what he cannot get. “ certainly not. i am a man—i mean a—a woman of my word.” and lilly’s voice and manner would be very dignified did she not get confused over the last part of her speech. “ yes, she has promised to dance only with girls this evening, doctor cassadene,” breaks in bessie, “and i’ve got four of them.” - and before fred can make reply, the twb young ladies are in each other’s arms whirling away to the soft strains of the “ estudiantina.” bessie whispering in her compan- ion’s ear: “ how beautifully you guide-just like a man! your arms seem so strong and firm and you never seem to hesitate like other girls when bumped about in a crowd." a few moments after they stand by miss connie’s side taking a little breathing spell, and mrs. lovejoy, turning from mr. remington, says suddenly: “ lilly, have you forgotten your promise—my turn next." unheeding bessie’s reproachful: “ why, our dance > is not finished yet,” miss'travers whirls the widow in among the waltzers with as much grace and vigor as any of the dress-coats that are perform- ing beside her, and with such effect that stella's eyes droop as her feet keep time to the music, and she whispers to her partner: “i could dance with you forever, if you were only a man. your waltzing will make many a young lady happy this evening—oh,'y u madcap l ” for lilly has answered this eulogium by a sudden almost involuntary but fervid squeeze. a florida enchantmen i. “yes,” whispers the putative miss travers, em thusiastically—for the music is in her soul and the perfume from the delicate bouquet in mrs. love- joy’s hands is in her nostrils and her arm is clasping her willowy waist,-—“i intend to give the girls a treat this evening.” and so she does, making many a fair one, who has been lamenting the dearth of gentlemen, for- get for a few short, blissful moments that she is not dancing with a claw-hammer coat and that a black broadcloth sleeve is not around her waist. but she devotes most of her time to dear little bessie, who, despite numerous applications from the other sex, gives lilly about all the dances she wants. in one of the pauses of their exercise, miss travers mutters partly to herself, “and to think that i should ever enjoy dancing with a girl.” “ yes, it is funny! " cries bessie, impulsively. “ i like it also—give me another turn.” and the two fly about in each other’s arms till the major, bessie’s father, remarks sarcastically: “ you girls are mighty hard on the boys this evening.” with the widow, however, lilly dances only twice ; for mrs. lovejoy has command of all the gentlemen_ she wishes and though she likes to dance with lilly, she also likes the satisfaction of showing that she can have all the masculine devotion she desires. as for the men, there are many of them about her during the evening, for miss travers has a repu- tation for both beauty and wealth; sugar plums which always attract the masculine portion of hu- manity. but lilly refuses them all in so off-hand and careless a style that miss connie whispers re a florida en chantmen t. provingly to her several times during the evening, and young mr. wilkes, the northern orange grower from indian river, upon being introduced and his request for a turn refused, walks off savagely to the bar-room to forget his chagrin in the flowing bowl. and meeting some other gentlemen there, descants upon the northern heiress’s hauteur, remarking, “by jove! fellows; i merely asked her to dance with me once, and she looked as if she would knock me down—hang me if she didn’t ”--a remark that is more truthful than mr. wilkes imagines as he makes it. but the evening is not all triumph to the recently emancipated. old remington who is somewhat of a cynic and philosopher remarks to old horton, “ isn’t lilly travers changed? i saw her a year ago at one of the patriarchs’ in new york, and she was a perfect dream of beauty—and now by all the phos. phates in florida! she’s a gawk—that what she is!” “in truth, age does not improve any of us,” re- turns the major sadly—“ i knew her aunt when she was a girl of eighteen. she was the loveliest creature in st. augustine. i and young pinckney of charles- ton fought a duel about her." “ and then ” suggests the northerner. “ then,” says the floridian, “ she would have neither of us~and now———-” he looks over at miss connie’s prim and rather gaunt figure and spectacled eyes and gives a reflective sigh.‘ “ did you see that p” whispers adams winthrop dunbar of beacon street, boston. “ what p—my dear chappy!” lisps prescott cad chowders, of fifth avenue, new york. a florida enchantment- “ that travers girl—a waiter happened to bump against her, and she clinched her fist as if she would floor the darkey—she’s strong-minded, i can tell you i" “ yaahnd strong-armed—my dear boy i--how she twists that widow about—steers her with as much power as harvey de witt van favors who leads all our germans this year. won’t she give it to the fellah who marries her and her million ! ” some of these floating remarks coming to miss constantia’s ears make that ancient and prim spin_ ster very savage with her niece. this evening also there are certain things that do not suit the erratic lilly—she cannot assume all the privileges of the sex, she cannot boast and brag to her fellows of her conquests—she can’t stroke her mustache in a knowing manner when stella's name is mentioned, she can’t take darling little bessie un_ der her arm and elbow her way through envious swains and put her in her carriage with a soft squeeze of the hand and a killing glance in her eyes. -for the late miss travers is still only a reckless boy and has a young blood’s eagerness to show off and triumph over and be envied by his fellows and his rivals. so, as miss horton has departed escorted by an- other young gentleman to her carriage, upon whom lilly looks with by no means angelic glances though very well pleased to see the old major is also at his daughter’s side, and the hop being nearly over, these ponce de leon dances being generally early and hungry ones as the hotel provides no supper for its guests, miss travers strolls out into the beautiful a florida enchantment. io] court yard to sit among its flowers, listen to the babble of its fountain and hear the hum of the last expiring waltz of the orchestra. this she does alone, for women wander about these florida hotels in the free and easy manner peculiar to this southern town that for three short months seems on a continuous picnic. solitude is pleasing to her, she wants to think over the excitement of this first evening of her boy- hood, in which she has been so happy.--she thinks as she sits beneath a magnolia and shaded by its leaves—-“ to-night would have been perfect—if i’d had a swallow-tail.—that widow, oh !—and bessie, ah!" these exclamations stand for sighs of ecstasy. she would perhaps run on in this strain indefi~ nitely, did not a faint sob from the other side of the little hedge that cuts her off from another path come wafted to her ears. it is a woman’s and as such appeals to the mas- culine heart. all the boy in miss travers is up to go to the assistance of beauty in distress, when a gentleman's voice comes to her ears from the same spot, and it is one that makes her hesitate and pause—~the one that was like music to her but yes- terday—doctor fred’s! ’ it says very politely, “ rosa, i am astounded at this outburst.—-how can i help myself l” and lilly knows the lady he addresses is the one that looked in anguish on his attentions to stella the day be- fore. “ how can you help it?” the girl repeats, “ how can you help it? you haven’t even asked me to dance once to-night--when before mrs. lovejfly a fidrida enchantment. came and that gawky travers girl got here—you— were so different—oh fred, can’t you remember ?—- it's only two weeks ago—only-——" miss travers rises and walks off—smiling a little at the thought that she is gawky now, and then mut- tering to herself in sneer at the sex she has det serted, “ and yesterday i was one of those sigh- ing, appealing, entreating creatures like her—i’m a rather different article now.—from this time on i do the heart-breaking."—and the recollection of this scene hardens her against her erstwhile lover and makes it easy for her to give him his conga— which she determines to do this very night. she strolls in, joins her aunt, and in a few minutes they are ready for the drive home, doctor cassadene coming up just about this moment with a somewhat annoyed yet triumphant look on his handsome face to receive a very free and easy “ hello, fred, who was the young lady in the moonlight ?—we fellahs are having a night of it—ain’t we?" this is answered by a frown from the gentleman addressed and a subdued snort of horror from miss connie as they go down to their carriage. chapter ix. “in! man, janb.‘ and so they all drive home from the ball, the aunt so savage at her niece’s eccentricities that she says very little, and doctor fred in very glum and ii!) a florztja enchantment. " oh half a dozen—i'm not sleepy! " “then come round the corner of the veranda; we shall be out of the driver’s sight and hearing." “ certainly. light your cigar ? i see you are dying for a smoke! if you have two in your case, i'll-“i’ll join you l—you—you don't offer it ?—oh how stingy! " remarks lilly roguishly. they have passed to the other side of the house now, and fred turns upon her in severe displeasure. “ this last request of yours, miss travers,” he says sternly, “is in line with your other perform. ances this evening. perhaps you wish by such un- ladylike conduct to alienate my affection." “ you have guessed it, fred,” she answers. “ after this, i only wish to be to you as one good fellow is to another good fellow—friends—nothing more. i do not even "—here she smiles—“ claim the privilege of sisterhood." the reply she receives astonishes her. “and do you think to destroy my love, by these pranks? lilly--i—i love you all the more for your spiritwyou can’t deceive the eyes of love though you play your part very nicely ! ” cries the doctor in longing tones; for now the girl who is passing away from him seems dearer to him than ever. “don’t talk nonsense," says lilly in a business- like way. “it is impossible for me ever to become your wife." “ how long have you known this ?” gasps the man. “ since yesterday evening.” “ah, it is always yesterday evening.” then he whispers: “if it had not been for that unfortunate occurrence, for my stupidity-my neglect, if you a florida enchantment. changed. no man would love such a girl as you. it would not be natural. you are too bold. you are not retiring. you clenched your fist at a waiter this evening—j saw you; you needn't attempt to deny it, your glove is torn even now from your violence l " and looking down lilly sees her aunt's remark is true,--during the evening her growing hands have made her gloves a torture to her, and now one has burst in a disreputable rent under the increasing strain. “you would have knocked him down, had you dared,” cries miss connie in continuation. “you are a tom-boy—that’s what you are, and to think only yesterday you seemed so different—so womanly --so lovable! — am dzs-gus-ted/ ” and a burst of tears closes this harang'ue. , her niece’s “ now, don’t cut up rough, old lady! ” “just go easy, will you, a little while,”--and other masculine expressions of penitence produce new spasms in her aunt. she retires weeping to the solitude of her chamber. a moment after lilly runs up to her apartment, throws herself into a chair and mutters: “ i’ve had a pretty good time myself, but others don't seem to enjoy me as much, barring the widow and bess.-—this can’t last long. i shall be dis- covered. my woman’s nature is being kicked out of me by masculine impulses.” then she glances at the glass and laughs at her- self, remarking, “i shall soon have to shave! i hardly think i can ever persuade aunt connie and jane that i’m a bearded woman l ” this sends her into a profound meditation as to a florida enchantment. her future course—and thinking of bess, she mutters, “ i’ll never go back to the trammels of young lady- hood—i love and can tell my love—unchained by the shackles of maiden modesty "—and so goes to ponder. ing upon the best method of carrying out her plans. one thing strikes her at once. jane will certainly discover her secret soon.—she turns this matter over in her mind and after a little bursts into a laugh and cries, “ a gentleman should have a valet.” at this moment her meditations are broken in upon' by a groaning and wailing and gnashing of teeth and she hears a subdued : “ oh, gus ! yo’ break my heart," coming from the dressing-room, that is oc- cupied by jane. the next instant she laughs: “ i've struck it. i’ll make her a particeps crimz'nz's in my offence of becoming a man !”—and with masculine promptness proceeds to act upon her idea. she opens the door and finds her dusky abigail dressed and seated upon the bed in a state of darky frenzy. “ didn’t i tell you to not wait up for me p” lilly says sternly. “ yes, miss ;—-(:ab)—“ i knows dat ; ”—(sob)--“ but i couldn’t go to sleep, i'se so wretched l ” (sob—sob— .rob !) “ come in here and tell me what’s the trouble with you,” cries her mistress sharply, smothering alaugh, for she has made a shrewd guess as to what is the matter. “ it’s dat gus feller, dat’s what it is. he’s busted my heart!” answers jane, and entering she gushes forth in rage, “ he's been cuttin' up shines wid dat antoinyet dat works in de ha’r-dresser shop in de i a florida enchantment. alcazar;—a low down spanish nigger, dat’s whi she is. some day i’ll get desp’ret an’ razor him— i will i " “ no you won’t," says lilly sharply. “and i won’t have such talk from you. you are jealous, that's what’s the matter with you." “jealous l—well, isn’t dat ’nuff? ” “jealous! and i’ve got a remedy for it! do you think you’d like to take something soothing to the wounded female heart?” “if yo' could give me somethin’ as would make me close my eyeballs in sleep—and keep me from goin' plump out of my head, i’d go down on my knees to bless yo’, miss lilly! ” sobs her maid. “ then,” remarks lilly, unlocking her jewel case and producing the vial with its three precious seeds, “ open your mouth ! " “ is dat med’cine? ”-suspiciously. “yes; medicine for jealousy. take it, and you will be all right." and this fair intruder on the domain of man selects one of the sacred african pellets. “ yo’ sho’ tain’t pizen ?” “ nonsense! i took one last night myself. wasn't i jealous of doctor frederick then?" answers the mistress, and she places the seed in a glass and adds a few drops of laudanum from her travelling medi- cine case, for she fears the vigor of jane’s lungs after she experiences the effects of the weird pill. “ y-e-s ; yo’ was, jealous to death yo' was! ' mut- ters jane with a guffaw. “very well; have i been jealous of him since? haven’t i been light-hearted,—-gay,—happy? " a florida enchantmen'i'. us “yes ; yo’s been too almighty uppish, miss lilly." “ very well ; open your mouth and be the same! would you like it with a little whiskey ? ” and miss travers cunningly adds the spirit. “ open your mouth!" and as jane unable to withstand the temptation obeys, she skilfully flips the seed, whiskey and lau- danum down the capacious opening, which gaps be- fore her, nearly large enough to take in a cannon- ball. this closes upon the amber pellet and then suddenly flies open again to give out one long-drawn awful howl of astonishment and terror! it would give out a succession of these did not at this mo- ment a pair of white and delicate but vise-like and desperate hands clutch her throat. “ what am de mattah wid me? what's got hold of my insides? it’s pizen! it’s pizen! dat's what it is, sho’ l-i’se gone—-i’se dead ! " gasps the hand- maiden in struggling gurgling whispers. “ hang you!” whispers the late miss travers; “ if you don’t stop screaming, you’ll alarm the housa stop! or i’ll throttle you i " and the white, desper- ate, vise-like hands give jane’s dusky throat another savage pinch. “ laws! yo's as strong asaman—yo’ is—oughl " gasps the dusky abigail being propelled at this mo- ment by the powerful arms of the putative miss travers into a chair. ' “yes; wouldn’t you like to be a man ? honest, now—tell me the truth.” “ob co’se—i’d like to be a man, de bes' in do worl’! did yo' ebber see a woman dat wouldn’t be. cf she could—'cause i ain't." : a florida enchantmen‘i‘. “ nor i either, jane," remarks her mistress com cordantly. “ it has been the universal desire of your down-trodden sex, from the time they can think." “ yes, an’ yo’down-trodden sex, too," returns the dusky abigail rather sleepily, for the laudanum is producing its effect. but here, her mistress’s words come to her in such a mysterious and awful manner that she wakes up with a horrified start and rolls her eye-balls, and her jaws shake and her teeth chatter, and she would howl but is too terrified to do more than gasp, for now lilly remarks solemnly: “my downstrodden sex yesterday—but, last night, jane, an extraordi. nary change took place in me—i became a man.” then she tells her, in as simple manner as she can, the wonderful story of old hauser oglethorpe and the extraordinary transformation that has been effected in her by one of the amber seeds. ' “ an’ i took one ob ’em obi-nuts too,” cries jane. “ oh, lawdy! lawdy! yo’ mean to tell me i'll be a man to-morrow?" “ yes—or sooner." “ tain’t possible :-i know i'se goin' to die! golly! my insides is bein' uprooted.” “ you are not going to die,—so make up your mind to take it calmly. supposing you had been born so-—you would not have been frightened then, would you ? now, don’t be astonished." "astonished ? i’d be astonished now, i'd be howlin', but i’m too sleepy to do—much camp- meetin‘ business—to-night.” “yes, i have given you a narcotic—now. to a florida enchantment. if that is forgery. if so, i am going to do a good deal of it in the next few days." ' soon she jumps into bed and, turning various problems over in her mind, goes to sleep murmuring: “ dear little bessie. i wonder if she’ll think larry talbot is a nice young fellow. i’ll give her a chance to judge of him before long." and so dreams come to her, and they are pleasant ones, for she laughs in her sleep—to be awakened from them the next morning by the sun shining brightly into her apart~ ment, and, springing up, she looks at her watch and finds it nine o’clock and begins to think of bessie. then she gives a sudden jump—for from the next room is coming in a deep, masculine tone, sung with emphasis and effect, and joyous enthusiasm : ' de lawd am risen l bress de lawd l de lawd am risen " “all! that’s my man jane!" says miss lilly travers and tips a knowing little wink to mr. law- rence talbot who returns it from the mirror. the next instant the hosanna ends in a squeak of terror, the door from jane's room flies open and that new recruit to masculine ranks clashes in, one shak- ing, trembling, flying mass of panic. in another second she would be in the hall to arouse the household, but, like a flash of lightning lilly pins her, and forces her into- a chair. “ let me get ’way from here-dc obi’s workin’ too much on me—de debble's conjered me.—-i’se—- i’se mose gwine! " gasps the dusky jane struggling vainly. a florida enchantment. “keep still until your senses come back! are you crazy—going on like this? why did you say you’d like to be a man if you didn’t mean it?" “ i did mean it, miss—massa lilly; but i didn’t know it was goin’ to work so pow’ful—i was sing- ing a jubilee for joy when i felt it—a big lump in my throat—it’s goin’ to bust an' let out de life blood—honey, i'se most gone now.--look at de tumor,” and jane exhibits a well-developed and prominent adam’s apple to lilly’s relieved eyes. “ pooh! ” says the emancipated mistress. “ that’s only a proof of manhood. all men have one. i’ve one myself,” and placing her hand to her white throat lilly gives a start, for she has a very nice little one also. “ and did yo’ hear my voice?” returns jane more quietly—“ i’se got a debble of a cold.” “ so have i,” says lilly. “ didn’t you notice my contralto yesterday? now you listen to me : don’t sing. if you do, aunt connie will think there is a man up here.” “ an' so dere is, miss—massa lilly—two ob em,” retorts jane, beginning to giggle, and recover- ing her spirits rapidly after the volatile manner of the negro. “ we’s bof in de same boat, praise de lawd." “ yes; and if we are to remain in the same boat, don’t you speak of what has happened—not a word to any one. jane, we might be arrested for walk- ing about in women’s clothes ! think of that l " “jailed ! den my lips has de lockjaw ! " mutters the masculine maid-servant, and after a moment bursts into an uncdntrollable guffaw, keeping this up a florida enchantment. till her mistress says angrily: “what amuses you so ?" “i’se jes’ thinkin’—whaugh—whaugh—’bout dat gus—how mad he’s goin' to be—whaugh ! whaugh! whaugh ! ” and jane indulges in suppressed whoops till the tears roll down her face. “great goodness, you didn’t think of telling him ?” “ ’deed i did.—it would have made gus feel so cheap.—tryin’ to be sweet to a man! " “gus is to know nothing about this business! throw him over. let him be as angry as he chooses, but hold your tongue to him!” whispers lilly in alarm. ' “ but ef he comes roun’ tryin’ to kiss me, i’se sartin to slug him.” “ not at all—you must act like a modest, bashful young woman," says the late miss travers sooth- ingly. “ dat’s purtty hard now, massa lilly— ' means miss lilly. lawd! i don't know what i mean! i’se so uppity, there’ll be no keepin’ me down.” “very well; get rid of your surplus energy by helping me to dress," cries the mistress sharply; and jane does so grinning and chuckling with darky delight over the efforts she has to make to get her master into his corsets and the groans and writhings that he emits under her strong and vigorous ma_ nipulations as she draws the lacing together. all this makes miss travers satisfied that the resolution she has made the night before is the only safe one: flight her only resource. she is now convinced that even if accident does not disclose the marvellous a florida enchantment. ! transformation of her life, her man jane will do it for her in some unguarded moment. this causes her to make a foolish threat. she says sternly: “ jane, do you like to be a man? ” “ yes’m ; i’se feelin’ fust rate ’bout it.” “then, do as i bid you, or i’ll give you one of those obi seeds and change you back into a woman." “ foh de lawd’s sake, doan’ do it, miss—- massa ! ” “ i will, if you don’t do exactly as i tell you: you are not to leave the house, on any account; you must also stay as much as you can in my rooms until we leave st. augustine.” “ when ’ dat be p ” sullenly. “to-morrow morning—you may go to packing my trunks now—leave one open for me!” “well, miss—mia, i’ll try to keep in; but i be feelin’ so fine an’ uppity, i’d like to take a walk roun’ town.-—doan’ yo’ think malvina, miss constanshe’s housemaid—is a kinder fine-lookin’ gal, miss? " “ don’t you dare think of girls,—until you have left st. augustine. if you do, you’ll be one your- self—i swear it,” cries the author of jane’s muta- tion. “ well, ma’am, i’ll do as yo’ orders,” mutters the man jane in a dogged and perhaps surly manner, as lilly steps down to breakfast to try and play her part with miss connie who is waiting for her at the table. a florida enchantment. chapter x. "have i, like frankenstein,i raised up a monster to destroy me?" she enters the dining-room, kisses her aunt pen- itently and says: “dear connie, i hope you will forgive me for being so foolish and so unladylike last night ; but my heart—my breaking heart—ran away with me. fred has destroyed my—my happiness.” “ my poor child l” and connie’s old arms go sympathizingly round her putative niece’s waist. " what makes you think doctor cassadene has not treated you properly?” “ i--i know it. i’ve broken with him now, and can tell you." then in a half sobbing way she relates to the sympathizing old lady the record of fred’s lying note and his treachery in taking stella for the moonlight sail. “ well,” remarks miss constantia. ‘f i have only known mrs. lovejoy one day, but i do not trust her. she is a very designing widow, lilly.” “ oh, i have nothing more to fear from widows," says the girl of yesterday, quite confidently. “ i am going away from here. i am going north again. i -—i came down to marry fred, but now that is all over, and the sooner i go away the better. i—i can’t stand it here." and she squeezes a counterfeit tear from her eye-lids, but recollecting that she is going to leave dear bessie, makes it a real one. “ yes—i expect it is the best thing you can do," returns her aunt contemplatively, for even in this short conversation lilly has unwittingly let fall one a florida enchantment. or two masculine expressions. “ when do you think of going ? ” “ to-morrow morning—‘ florida special.'—-i must look after my tickets! ” whereupon lilly proceeds to make her arrange- ments as scheduled in her mind. she requests her aunt to return her horses and carriage that she has sent from the north and are now due in st. augus- tine—drives to the first national bank, cashes her check, and then to the railway ticket office in the ponce de leon, where she engages a state-room in the boudoir car that leaves for the north next morning. this is easily done, as the rush in february is all southward, the trains running out quite empty and returning very full to this florida watering-place. next a curious masculine idea having come into her head, she goes to a gun store and purchases a small revolver and has it loaded by the shopman who shows her how to work the mechanism of the arm. this stowed away in her pocket, she drives back to her relative and falls to discussing with her aunt her return to new york, receiving some unintentional stabs from the dear old lady, who loves her as the apple of her eye and appears very loath to part from her, though in truth some of lilly’s performances of the preceding day have been very shocking and by no means pleasant to this good old representative of ancient etiquette: but lilly throws conscience to the winds. her one thought is—bessie will be coming soon ./ so she steps into the front garden to be on hand to welcome her beautiful little sweetheart—for such she has got to calling bessie in her mind. this she a florida enchantment. i “then, i suppose i must,” mutters the late miss travers; “ you are a wilful little despot,"—and she gives her tyrant a playful buss. but one playful buss brings on another, and before they go into the house bessie cannot complain of lilly’s neglect. lunch is ready, and at this meal miss connie opens her eyes at her niece’s gallant care of their guest. she remarks playfully: “i believe in hos~ pitality, but, lilly, bessie will live if she doesn’t eat strawberries and cream more than twice at a meal; and my cake is good, i know ; but you will kill her if you force her to eat another mouthful.” “yes,” mutters bess, with a sigh of repletion; “ i think i’ll do until supper-time ”--then she con- tinues anxiously, “ lilly hasn’t eaten anything." “ no,” cries connie, “ she has been doing nothing but watch you. she had a good appetite when she was here last, but now "—here the old lady gives a sigh, for she imagines that the broken engagement and fred cassadene’s miserable behavior are the causes of her beloved niece’s lack of appetite. watch- ing her opportunity she takes lilly aside and says: “ don’t grieve so much for him. perhaps when you get away from here you will forget him and be happier.” “ happier? i shall not, i am sure,” answers lilly with a sigh, thinking of bidding bessie adieu. “when i am away from her—i—i mean here—i shall be even more miserable." “ then you had better stay! ” “ impossible !—i dare not." “ dare not ! ” cries the aunt in rage and astonish- ment. “ do you love this miserable doctor so you a florida enchantment. fear your heart again? lilly, you surprise me ! ” and with a snort of anger miss connie goes away, leav- ing lilly to break the news of her intended depart- ure to the little blonde whose blue eyes have been merry and whose mouth has been laughing, but whose eyes now become sad and whose mouth goes into a pout of pain as she hears this terrible news. she cries out: “you—you have only been here two days. what do you mean—going away? the season has not commenced yet; ” and getting up from the table with a“ gulp ”in her throat suddenly walks into the garden. “ what’s the matter with her? ” ejaculates connie, looking from the parlor. “ you have set her to cry- ing;” for the suspicion of a sob floats in the door- way, which after the maniier of most florida houses in this beautiful spring climate is nearly always open. “ oh, i’ll fix her,” says lilly. “ just leave her to me,” and runs to overtake the distressed damsel, rather delighted that her announcement has been so effective. but miss horton has disappeared. she looks for her through the orange vistas—in vain. she cries out “bessie!”—no answer. she darts hither and thither in pursuit of this elusive chick—without success. then she lifts up her voice and calls: “ bessie ?—dear bessie p—darling bes- sie?”—until finally some of these adjectives appar- ently softening the secluded one, a broken-hearted voice comes to her through the grape vines that en- tirely screen a little arbor: “ i am here, but i don’t want to see you—go away; leave me alone! one would think you loved a florida enchantment. me by the things you call me—but acts are "- (sob). by this time lillyhas broken through the surround. ing branches to find a bewitching but mournful picture. bess has thrown herself into a hammock that has been swung in the little arbor for summer uses and has given herself up to grief. “ go away; i don’t love you,” she mutters. “ oh, yes, you do,” answers lilly desperately. “ no, i don’t”-—(sob); “ you’re going away ”—<- (sob) “ you don’t hire me ”—(sob—sob——sob). ’ “yes, i do,” says miss travers with energy. then she cries out desperately: “ come, get up at once. your performances are driving me crazy, "—- as in truth they are, for miss bessie’s easy abandon of grief in the hammock is full of most potent and distracting allurements to lilly’s masculine eyes. “ come, sit up,” she says; “ sit up and talk sensi- bly. you know i’ve got to go away from here to- morrow. it is impossible for me to remain.” “ not one more day?” “not a day—not an hour—not a minute! my stateroom is engaged. the ‘ florida special' has got to take me away. come. make the most of this after~ noon. don’t make our parting too hard, for i "— here the emancipated one, having got her arms about the tempting one, cries out: “i am unhappy, also ! " and her misery seems to soothe bessie. “ ah! you're sorry. that makes our parting easier. if you are unhappy to leave me, i know you will come back to me. promise, and i will be a good girl, even a glad girl, this afternoon," purrs the blonde fairy. a florida enchantment. “ i--i swear it!" is uttered in tones of such de- termination that even bessie believes, and suffers herself to be consoled; and still lying in the ham- mock, she turns a tear-stained but lovely face upon miss travers, and seizing some orange blossoms that are growing over the hammock, twists them into a wreath and crowns her lovely head, and toss- ing others about her, says: “ do i look pretty?” and the orange blossoms getting into the late miss travers’ brain, cause her masculine mind to think of what orange blossoms mean, and she looks upon the picture, and it is too lovely, too entrancing, too inviting for masculine eyes; for the girl’s exquisite figure with its rounded, though maiden contours, is wonderfully outlined by her attitude, and two adorable ankles robed in gleaming silk and disclosing insertion are flashing in and out beneath the white muslin dress, as she swings in lazy motion. the blood surges to the late miss travers' head. she gasps, “ t alluring! t beautiful ! " and un- able to stand the fascination of the picture, destroys it; for she plucks bessie out of the hammock bodily by force. then she says: “come. let us take a drive about the town, and then ” “and then, i suppose,” pouts bessie, “ papa will take me home.” “ not immediately,” remarks miss travers; “ he shall stay to dinner, and then we will inveigle him into a game of cards,"——for she knows the major's weakness. thus the two walk about chatting while con- stantia’s carriage is being made ready for them; a a florida enchantment. i” few minutes of this and miss bessie, whose agile mind hops from subject to subject as a bird from twig to twig, suddenly says: “ oh! i forgot—fancy l i forgot l” “ forgot what p " “ forgot to ask you about the box you bought at vedder’s? what was in it p—something romantic, i am sure. you seem to have been a different girl since you got it,” cries miss horton. then gazing on the blushing emancipated one she continues, “ i know there was something in it, because your face is so red.” “ pshaw ! ” jeers lilly, attempting lightness ; “ you saw the casket on our parlor table when you came in yesterday." “yes!” “ you saw it half an hour ago." “yes ; it was open.” “ what did it contain?" “ nothing,”-—disappointedly. “that is what i found.” “well, that is very curious," cries miss horton in suspicious unbelief ; “ because i lifted that casket half an hour ago, and it was not nearly so heavy after it had been opened as it was before. why, lilly, what’s the matter with you p "—for miss travers has grown very pale. a moment after, however, she forces herself to say, “there was nothing in it when i opened it. bessie, you must believe me if you want to be my friend. do you believe me?” “ certainly, i do! rather than quarrel with yol i’d believe you if you told a lie.” [w a florida enchantment. “that is more blissful than complimentary,“ answers lilly, with an attempted laugh. “i expect miss connie must have opened it before you,” says bessie, “ and got some great secret out of it—something so great she won’t tell anybody else—i’ll ask her.” this gives lilly another shudder. she cries— " not now; we haven’t time—carriage is here." with this she jumps the inquiring blonde into the equipage in such a vicious, vigorous and mas- culine manner that bessie whispers, “you don't want me to ask miss connie, do you ? " “ stop talking nonsense,” replies her companion. “ let us enjoy ourselves for this afternoon—the last i’ll have with you for some time.” this silences miss horton, and when she opens her mouth again it is upon another subject. so the two drive away to have a pleasant after- noon in the pretty streets of st. augustine, and listen to the band at the cordova, and see a swim- ming contest in the alcazar bath, and come home, having spent a day that would be a happy one, were they not to part on the morrow. the evening brings the major who has driven down for his daughter, but to the girls’ entreaties miss connie adds her word and he finally is in- duced to remain an hour or two, though he says the night looks threatening. after tea in the parlor they have cards, the puta- tive miss travers making herself very attentive to the old gentleman, as if she were anxious to gain his respect and confidence. constantia, who has opened her eyes several time: a florida enchantment. i}! at lilly’s deference to the rather dogmatic assertions of the major, remarks aside to her: “ what’s come into you ?—you’re as obsequious as if you were a young gentleman with designs on miss bessie "—- and wonders what brings so much color into her niece’s cheeks. but a chance shot of the major’s wounds the emancipated one most deeply.—there has been a two-headed cow on exhibition on bay street, the ex-confederate has seen it and has not thought he had got his quarter’s worth, and tells his wrongs, asserting that the two-headed critter hasn’t brains enough to run one animal; and thus being started upon the subject he runs on in a most uncompli- mentary way about dime-museum freaks, of whom he has apparently seen a goodly quantity, remark- ing they are all frauds, and that living skeletons, siamese-twins, tattooed ladies, circassian beauties and bearded women should be all put under ground as soon as born. at this attack on bearded women miss travers' face grows rosy and then pallid, and for her life she can’t keep her fingers from her fuzzy upper lip. she feels she is being called a dime-museum freak and wonders what the major would say to a woman- man demanding his adored bessie's hand in mar- riage, and sickens at the thought. but the cards are now over and the major, rising to go, perceives that his predicted storm has come upon him-—the rain which has been pattcring un~ noticed for an hour, is now pouring down in too rents, and the wind is howling through the iii“- nolias, palm and orange trees. a florida enchantment. “ great goliah ! " mutters the old gentleman, strid- ing to the window. “what a night! the roads will be fearful. can you lend bess a tarpaulin?” but miss connie hurriedly exclaims: “ do you suppose i’m going to let you and your daughter pass out of my doors on such a night as this? i have ordered your horses roundto the stable and they are taken care of and warm now.” these remarks are commonplace, but they bring panic perspiration all over the putative miss trav- ers’ forehead; her heart beats wild and frightened, her finger tips grow icy. “ isn’t this lovely, lil?" bess chimes in enthusi~ astically. “if i stay here all night i can go down with you to the train in the morning and see the very last of you." , but lilly is not responsive and stands aloof ner- vously tapping on the window pane, and staring out into the night to keep the agitation on her face from notice. a moment after, the major having yawned once or twice in 'a suggestive manner, miss connie rings the bell and says to the answering servant, “ malvina, show major horton to the blue chamber. a fire is made up there ;-light it." and having said “good-night" the ex-confederate is ushered away to enjoy his solitary cigar and night- cap and then turn in. his departing steps have hardly died away when miss connie, addressing her niece, says in tones that seem like thunder claps, though not intended as such, “lilly, take bess with you and go to md.” " l—i think she had better have the wingwoom,’ a florida enchantmenth answers lilly nervously; then seeing a wounded look in bessie's violet eyes, she continues: “ bess would never be able to sleep in my room. my maid’s snoring is something awful, and jane, you know, occupies my dressing room." “ oh, i don’t mind snoring, lilly," says bess un- concernedly. “ father snores, -—-you’ll hear him yourself to-night ! ” “anyway, get along to bed, both of you," cries miss connie. “lilly, don’t forget you have got to get up early to-morrow morning to catch that train.” and the old lady having kissed them, goes away, and miss bessie says~innocent words that make the emancipated one very nervous : “ this is jolly ! " she cries. “ come along, quick— dear! it is going to be a cold night, and i love to cuddle." at this a sudden gleam of fire comes into the late miss travers’ eyes and a fervid shiver seems to fly through her body. “ besides, you can tell me all about the mysterious contents of the black box that you seem to wish to keep to yourself so much " —-whispers bessie as they go up-stairs. “ why don’t you speak to me? you seem to be thinking about something.” “and so i am,” mutters lilly sharply—“ think- ing i am not going to keep you awake to-night by snoring and kicking about as i always do in my sleep. which added to jane’s performances in the next room, means for you a sleepless night.” “ oh ! what a whop—" cries bessie in a rage, check. ing herself, however, on the last word and going on in a plaintive voice, “i stayed with you last spring when you were here, and you were a lovely bed- a florida enchantment. i course she shall pursue with the self-willed little beauty in the next room. she is aroused from this reverie by a strange sound from the wing-chamber, and stepping cau- tiously to the door she listens. bessie is sobbing in a heart-broken way upon the other side of it; she whispers softly: “ what’s the matter?" “you—you know,” comes from the other side. “i'm—i’m lonely here—in a strange room. how mean you are! you've broken my heart.” this reproachful pathos overcomes the late miss travers. a sudden inspiration flying into her mind \she opens the door, and stands dazed at the lovely vision, for bessie has thrown off her gown and unbound her tresses and is beautiful as a dream, her blonde hair flowing over shining shoulders and white garments. “ bessie, you know i’ve got some packing to do,” gasps lilly retreating but gazing. “yes. let me help you ! " “ no—you’ll only be in my way. it will take me an hour. g to sleep and ” “ and when you’ve finished packing you will come to bed with me?” savagely. “ yes! ” desperately. “ very well,” says the girl tossing her hair about and making it gold in the lamplight. “it’s a bar- gain, though i don’t trust you. that ‘ yes ' of yours was a kind of wail." and lilly turning from the lamplit beauty into the dim light of her own room mutters to herself : “ for one night for my little sweetheart’s sake i’ll be once more a woman!” and a chill of fear runs i a florida enchantment. over her that manhood may never come again and the happiness of wooing her own sweet bessie be lost to her forever. but even as she thinks this there is a little patter of unshod feet upon the carpet, and a soft voice comes to her, “ lilly, i hate to trouble you but i’m —i’m laced so tight, i can’t undo myself without my maid. where’s yours ? " “jane!” this is a horrified gasp from miss travers. “of course jane—she’s in there ! " and though lilly hurriedly cries, “you—you mustn’t awake her,” bessie has the door open and looking in says, “there is no chance of my'waking her—jane has gone out.” “out!” and lilly is at the door gazing on her man jane’s unoccupied bed and wondering what new embarrassment the untutored masculine maid- servant may bring upon her, gadding about the streets of st. augustine. “i suppose by your not wishing me to awake jane, you intended to do me the kindness yourself. lilly, please help me, i’m tied up so tight?”'en- treats bessie. so over corset strings with flushed cheeks, shining eyes, thumping heart and fingers made clumsy by haste the late miss travers toils, and bessie smiling in her face sees admiration and laughs, “ don’t you think i’ve a pretty figure? ” “ you’d have a better one if you didn’t lace it so tight,” answers lilly, with masculine devotion to hygiene. “ why, what's come over you!” says bess in a florida enchantment. i astonished pique.--“ you used to be a wasp-waist yourself, and now lecturing—you talk like an idiot man! besides, i’m not laced tight—behold me!” with this she gives a little shadow dance in front of the fire that displays by its ruddy gleams such lithe graces of pose and figure and glimpses of general fairy beauty that the putative miss travers writhes under its allurements and mutters hoarsely “ be still i " but bessie answers; “ say i haven’t a pretty figure now—mean one! ” and would continue her “for de fascination,” did not her companion with tormented eyes cry “ stop!” so imperiously that the figurante gives a startled pause and asks, “ what’s the matter p” “ nothing ! ” answers the emancipated one shortly.—“ but sit down on the sofa.—be quiet—i want to talk to you—i’m—i’m going away to-mor- row.” this last sadly. “ do you suppose i’ve forgotten that !” murmurs bessie softly; then she says archly, “ say i’ve a pretty figure and i’ll sit down !" “ darling, you’ve the loveliest in the world,” cries lilly, tenderness and admiration fighting with each other in her voice. “ well, having convinced you i’ll sit down !” with a purr of content bessie cuddles herself in a white beauty-ball upon the sofa, while miss travers who somehow appears afraid of being too near this torturing loveliness sits in a chair and watches the firelight play about her charmer’s golden hair and throw soft shadows about her fair young head- a second after lilly says suddenly, “ bess, you would like a lover?” ‘ “ pooh! ” says miss beauty “ i’ve had lots! " a florida enchantment. and in the firelight with a tremble in her voice as if she were pleading her own cause, not another's, the late miss travers tells the present juliet the sad story of the absent romeo. “ he has but few rela- tives and is very well off—i am sure he will make a good husband,” she concludes. “ oh, but he may not want me ! ” “ he will want you ! ” says lilly impressively. “ he shall marry you! " “ what a matchmaker you are ! " answers bessie lightly and then she laughs. “ send your lawrence talbot along and i’ll inspect him.” “ yes, he's coming from england—he’ll be in florida within a month. i’ll give him a letter of introduction,” cries miss travers enthusiastically. “ all right—but i sha’n’t love him half as well as i do you ! ” says bessie. “ and why not ? ” “oh, he won't boss me about as you do, lil- you're such a lovely tyrant! " “ then i'll cam my title—” returns lillian lightly. “ go to bed : get your beauty sleep and let me pack! ” “ i won't! ” says the obedient one defiantly. “ to bed ! or i revoke my promise! " “ oh, what a boss you are, lil. but there! " and two soft white arms close about the putative miss travers and fresh sweet lips press upon her trembling ones and give her\ courage to make her sacrifice, as bessie trips away to bed. the instant she is alone, with a sigh of resigna- tion, but determined mien and eye, lilly is at her jewel case in which she has locked up the sacred seeds. a florida enchantment. the key is in the lock—astonishment! the vial, seeds and record are all gone—despair ! for a mpment, she tremblingly thinks she may have carelessly left the key in the lock; she may, in some temporary fit of caution and forgetfulness have secreted the vial and its precious contents in some other hiding spot. ' she flashes up her lamp and makes hurried—anx- ious—trembling search—tumbling over her unpacked things with careless speed and reckless noise. upon this bessie’s voice comes from the next room in protest. “what are you prowling about for, so lil ? " she growls.—“ why don’t you come to bed ?—i’m—i’m cold.” this sends a shiver through miss travers. she is at her search again. a sudden thought! jane may have packed the seeds in one of her trunks. into her locked-up boxes she plunges. their carefully arranged contents fly out. in a jiffy robes are tossed one way, bonnets the other.—she is bending down anxiously into a saratoga when bess springs from the next room in lacey night robe and par- alyzed horror and whispers “ burglars ! ” “ burglars, nonsense ! ” “a burglar; i hear his steps on the roof of the veranda—listen—oh mercy! ” for at this moment mixed with the sound of rain- drops a heavy tread is heard outside the window. “ i'm going to scream ! ” “ stop ! ” mutters lilly desperately—“ you'll alarm the house! not a word! ”--and perhaps anxious to play the hero before such a lovely hero- ine, and perchance making a shrewd guess as to the a florida enchantment. i truth, the late miss travers produces her newly purchased weapon—and springing to the window she throws it open and claps the pistol to the in- truder’s head—whispering, “ speak, or i shoot l" “ don’t—for de lawd’s sake! don’t! i’se jane!” gasps a voice outside. “ jane ! " echoes lilly. and bessie gasps in admiration, “ how brave you are !—you're like a man ! ” “ nonsense,” mutters miss travers. then she cries, “ come in, you hussy ! " and her handmaiden in dripping dress and muddy boots totters in and horrifies her. she says, “ i’se got clean away.” “got away—from whom, jane?” “ de constable! " “ why, what have you been doing?” this is in bessie’s voice and puts lilly into instant action. in a second she has dragged the white-robed one into the wing-chamber, crying, “ with that window open—you’ll catch your death of cold~get into bed!” and before the astounded bessie can lift up her voice in expostulation miss travers has dashed back into her own room and locked the door between and is standing in judgment over the errant jane. “ now," she says in an awful voice, “ where have you been p " “ jus’ round a leetle, miss—'mister lilly . “ round a little p—what have you been doing p” “ gurl huntin’ ! ” says jane stolidly; then she grins towards the room into which bessie has just disappeared and mutters, “yo's been doin' some thing in dat way " fl [ a florida enchantment. she gets no further. the last word is squeezed back into her throat by lilly's clutch. “ keep your tongue quiet or i’ll—fix you ! ” she whispers. “ now answer my questions as quickly as you can. you say the oflicers are after you—what have you done? ” “ well, i kinder wandered round to the servants’ quarters of de ponce, and gus duncan he seed me and wanted to make up, and i kinder led him on till he tried to kiss me and den ” “ and then? "—says lilly anxiously. “then i let him have it good. dere was quite a crowd round and it did me proud to see how “’sprised dey was at a woman laying out de second man in de ponce de leon dinin’-room, de one what shows de folks to der chairs.” “ did you injure him ? ” queries lilly uneasily. “ no marm—i means sir—i only jumped on gus a few times.—he’s gone to de hospital. he said he’d get a warrant for me!” “ a warrant ! ” mutters lilly in a despairing voice; then she cries suddenly,“jane, where arethose seeds?” “ dem seeds p—am dey gone?” asks the abigail --“ oh lawdy! lawdy! more trouble ! ” and she would raise her voice in lamentation. “ none of that for me—you—you ! ” lilly stam- mers in rage. “ now just tell me exactly where you put them." “ i didn't put ’em nowhere!” “ jane, if you're afraid i’ll make you take one and become a woman again, i swear to you i will not—- only i must have the seeds !" pleads lilly, who is very anxious now. “ i don’t done nothin’ wid de seeds. please let a florida enchantment. me alone. i’se so cold and wet and scared i can’t think of nothin’ else—what’ll dey do wid me when dey cotch me? golly! what'll de jidge say when he finds i’se a man l—oh, camp-meetin'!" and jane gives a guffaw which is answered by a gasp from lilly, to whom these words strike terror. with jane arrested the secret is sure to come out. she says hurriedly—“ go into your room and change your damp things. you’ll be put in the chain-gang or sent to the convict-camp if they catch you.” “ de convict-camp!” gasps jane, her face dusky with horror, for she has heard of the monstrous cruelties of these hells of justice. “ yes—your one chance is for me to get you out of st. augustine this morning ”-—answers lilly, glancing at the clock which points to two. “ get clean things on and help me pack my trunks.” and jane departing—the late miss travers gives a shiver of misery. an angry voice comes from behind bessie's door, and her sweetheart is rattling the handle of the lock savagely and calling her names, and she thinks, “ jane arrested—my secret discovered—my god! the major—! what will he do ? ”—and shudders with fright and mutters— “my heaven, am i like frankenstein? have i raised up in jane a monster that will destroy me?” chapter xi. " good-by, bessie! " but the thought of the major's future rage is driven out by his daughter's present one—miss a florida enchantment. bessie's tones show she is in an awful temper. she now cries, “ if you don’t unlock this door in one second i shall scream—‘murder/ ’ ” this 'is a faint yell. anything but publicity. miss travers throws open the portal, and wounded affection and insulted pride stand in front of her. miss bess is in an awful state. “ how—how dare you lock me in?" she stam- mers in fury. “ my—my own father wouldn’t dare to lock me in! one would think you—you were miss prince--” the lady last mentioned is her former schoolmistress and about the only being who rep- resents discipline to this young beauty, who has been petted and humored by her doting father ever since her dying mother placed a blue-eyed baby in his arms. “ well,” says lilly, who has heard of this school tyrant before, “ suppose you imagine me miss prince for to-night, and go to bed;” here miss travers tries a ghastly smile. “ i--i could never imagine you miss prince,” mutters bessie savagely. “ and why not?" “because i was afraid of her, and—you don't frighten me a little bit! ” ' “ please go to bed—if you don’t i won’t kiss you in the morning,” murmurs lilly, attempting a bribe. “you won’t! you needn’t—you sha’n’t kiss me in’ the morning—you shall never kiss me again," cries bessie. “you lock me in—you go prowling about so i can’t sleep—you won’t come to bed— you’re the meanest thing on earth—~i—i wouldn’t a florida enchantment. r treat—you—so ! " and rage turns to tears that touch miss travers to the heart. her voice grows very tender and her eyes grow very sad and she gasps out, “you—you wouldn’t reproach me—if—if you knew! " “ knew what p” 'bessie’s blue eyes open with interest. “that jane's going to be arrested in the morn- ing.” “ arrested ! for what?” bessie's blue eyes blaze with curiosity. “ for thrashing his—her sweetheart gus duncan, the second man in the ponce de leon dining-room, because he wanted to kiss her.” “ what—that highfalutin darky who waves you to a seat—jane whipped him / oh, my! how—- how lovely!” and bessie, who sees this grand dark mass of conceit and hauteur coming to grief, in her vivacious imagination, becomes very merry. “oh, you laugh! it’s funny to travel without one's maid—~and—and look at my trunks—how shall i ever pack themp”—here miss travers gives a despairing sigh as she surveys her ravaged boxes. “ why, what ever made you toss your things out in that way? ” “ i thought i—i had lost some diamonds,” mut- ters the emancipated one, who has learnt to fib during her two days’ manhood. “and you’ve found them?” “ yes.” “very well, i’ll help you pack ! " “ not in that costume—you’ll catch cold. jane’s -]ane’s coming! ” cries lilly in an uneasy tone. to a florida enchantment. “then jane’s all right ! ” laughs bess, who has a great opinion of her father’s general potency. this idea is borne out by the major’s entering the breakfast room just as the ladies sit down and re. marking: “ miss lilly, that hundred dollar bill of yours soothed the wounded gustavus’ feelings—he will not swear out a warrant, though he swears that he’ll never marry jane.” this news so relieves miss travers that bessie thinks her spirits are too good for the occasion and remarks reproachfully: “why, you are happy and yet are going away ! ” which brings tears to miss connie's eyes and to lilly’s also, for she knows that her aunt will never again see the niece she has loved so well ;—and as she parts from the dear old lady, she embraces her and seems loath to tear herself away from her arms, for it is to her like—the parting of death. but trains wait for no man nor woman—and lilly and bessie find themselves in the carriage ready to drive to the depot; miss connie and the major remaining behind—they thinking the girls will have some confidences to make during the drive. “ come back soon, lilly,” says constantia, trying to smile. “ bess, what are your eyes so red for? " asks the major, raising his hat. “ i should think they would be red—” replies his darling, “i stayed up all night!" “ good scott—what for?” “ helping lilly pack " at this the major gives the late miss travers a a florida enchantment. i mourn for lilly travers—for they will never meet again. she says, attempting lightness: “i’ll send law- rence talbot down to replace me—bessie, you will love him for my sake—good-by ! " for the conductor has called “ all aboard! ” “ tell me you'll come back soon!" and two blue eyes grew desperate. “ i’ll~ i'll try." “ that won’t do—you’ll run off to europe or something awful if you don’t-promise—promise ! ” “ all aboard for the last time l ” the bell of the locomotive is clanging its warning. “ you must go now, bess." lilly has got her to the platform of the car. their lips meet in a rage of kisses and bessie is on the wooden walk of the station trying to keep up with the moving car and crying, “ promise you’ll come back soon! " “ if possible! " “ promise. don’t go away and not promise. the train’s moving so fast ! ” “ i’ll send lawrence talbot to " but here bessie stops running, fire flashes from her eyes, she stamps her little feet and clenches her dear little hands and gives miss travers a shock, for she screams out, “ i hate lawrence talbot. there! you hear me! i hate lawrence talbot! " and so the train parts lilly travers forever from bessie horton as the locomotive turns its face from florida, the land of sunshine, and dashes on its fiery path for far-away new york and february snow and ice. miss travers waves a last adieu and then steps iso a florida enchantmen'i‘. into her stateroom and meditates: “ wonder if i’ve overdone lawrence talbot;” then thinking of the qacred seeds that have disappeared, the only path to departed womanhood, she mutters, “you’re on the lawrence talbot side of the fence, and that’s the side that leads to the minister—i rather imagine the reason that bessie horton thinks so much of lilly travers is because lilly travers has become lawrence tal- bot.” _-_._. chapter xii. the monster becomes dangerous. the next day, as dusk is falling upon new york, the pennsylvania railroad ferry boat brings what is called lillian travers, and what is named jane rouser, into that great city. the two are very tired, for a thirty-three hours railway journey, even on that most luxurious of trains—-“ the florida special ”— is wearisome, and miss travers has had a great many precautions to take during this trip, that are not necessary to ordinary travellers. besides these she has been compelled to keep a very wary, watchful and suspicious eye upon her man jane, who, though confined as closely as it is possible, to the stateroom, has made several furtive but dangerous attempts to enter into a flirtation with the pretty quadroon stewardess attached to this sybaritic train, to look after the special wants of women. these, with two or three other erratic perform- ances of her putative maid, such as his answering promptly “ yes, sir” and “ no. sir ” at various inop a florida enchantment, isl pncune times, have put lillian into a nervous frame \' mind. she knows she has made an unwise move, in trans- forming her faithful maid-servant jane, into her un- ruly man “ friday." that though jane intends to be faithful to her interests, and keep the secret, still, instead of a prim lady’s maid, she is now a head- strong, wild and harum-scarum darky boy, with that peculiar addition called down south “ nigger- brains,” at this time peculiarly dangerous to her from its idiotic logic and extraordinary syllogisms. during the last few hours of the trip, she has got to thinking jane once more “ her monster " and likening herself to frankenstein in his unfortunate experiment. she therefore welcomes the sight of fifth avenue, her old family mansion, which is at present in charge of the cook, a darky woman of wondrous potency with canvas-back ducks, and woful avoirdupois. this lady of color has been left in charge of the house, miss travers wisely thinking the cook the nucleus of all domestic bliss. this servitor, having been notified by telegraph, admits miss lilly and her maid. “ i am only going to remain for a few days, dinah,” remarks lilly, “ so i shall not add to my establishment. an omelet, steak, and some of your coffee and rolls, are all that i shall want here. more elaborate meals i shall get at a restaurant," for she knows the fewer servants in the house, the greater safety to her secret. then miss travers goes up-stairs, and after get- ting a shock from many of the pretty feminine arti cles in her dainty boudoir, that remind her of the ' a florida enchantment. refined femininity that she had—but has no more; of the womanhood that was—but is not, turns, and says to jane with masculine severity: “ a few words before you go to bed, my man. first of all, you are still to be a woman." “ that ain't possible, mr.--miss lilly." “ you are still to appear a woman to the outside world." “what—no promenade down sixth abenue wid de boys, no showin’ de gals what a han’some youn’ man i is?" mutters jane ruefully, he having appar- antly laid out for himself what might be called “ a high old spree " upon his first visit to new york as a gentleman. “ not until i tell you to ; probably not till we leave new york." at this disappointing statement, jane turns away in disgust, his master adding: “ you had better go to bed now; you are tired out. so am i, and i have lots to do in the morning. and don't you call me mr. lilly again, as you value your situation.” “ no, sir—yes, miss," answers jane hurriedly and disappears. the next morning, miss travers, who has appar- ently made up her mind what to do, sets about it with energy and rapidity. she drives to tiffany’s and selects a ring that she knows will make bessie’s heart glad. this being sent home to her later in the day, she forwards to miss horton with a little note saying, “ dear bess, i send you this in return for ‘ the silent bessie.’ you will see it has engraved on it ‘ to b. h. from l. t.'—-by the by, l. t. stands for lawrence talbot as well a florida enchantment. \‘ as lilly travers.—why not consider it an engage. ment ring from him p” meantime she has called upon her lawyer, and incidentally looking over her securities, found a good portion is in convertible bonds. this is satis- factory to her. she asks that gentleman a few ques- tions, and then departs in search of further informa- tion. this she picks up deftly, in the course of the next day or two, from various friends of hers- brokers, real estate speculators, etc., by feminine questions, aided by a masculine fixed purpose. some of her queries, however, are of a very astonishing nature to be put by a fifth avenue ‘belle, and one of her friends, a stock broker, in- cidentally remarks at his club, that he thinks “lilly travers is going into business. by jove! the way she asked me about convertible securities, unindorsed stock, and non-registered governments, made me think she’d got wall street in her eye. perhaps she’s a coming hetty green, and’ll make me her broker. i wonder how long it would take her to get away with the million and a half that’s been left to her by the old gentleman.” and, in fact, miss travers seems to be bent upon getting away with her fortune. she instructs her real estate brokers to sell all her realty in new york. they open their eyes at her orders, but do her bid- ding, miss travers being her own mistress, and any conveyances she may make perfectly valid and good. this is very shortly done, for new york realty well located, is a very convertible asset, and though she loses a slight percentage upon its actual value, still being willing to make a sacrifice for speed in ‘ a florida enchantmen'i transfer, she gets it in a surprisingly short space of time, the lawyers making the examinations of title, being spurred on by a liberal douceur, accompanied by the statement that miss travers wishes to hurry the business as much as possible, on account of her intended departure from new york. these transfers are made and the money paid into miss travers' account. meantime she has converted all registered secur- ities into cash, and has abstracted the stones con' tained in the family jewels from their old settings, for she wishes to obliterate everything that can tend, by any means whatsoever, to the suspicion that lilly travers has been generous to lawrence talbot. she looks in the glass each morning, into the smiling, bold, and rapidly becoming masculine face of the young gentleman who nods back at her, and says: “ i’m going to treat you very well, my young man, for bessie’s sake. you shall be very rich— almost as rich as lillian travers was. i can’t give you real estate; that would force you to be identi- fied, and you are unknown to every one but me. i can’t make a will in your favor, for it might be disputed by envious relatives, who would say i was insane to leave to you—even handsome fellow that you are—my property, from my kindred. conse- quently, i’ve got to give you unregistered govern- ment bonds, my boy, and you can re-invest them carefully for yourself and bessie.” and then the handsome young gentleman smiles back at her, and says: “thank you, miss travers. you’re uncommon good to an unknown fellow like] fl a florida enchantment. r me. i’ll try and make myself comfortable upon your liberal donation." and the two laugh and shake hands together, and have a very pleasant time, one with the other. until suddenly, some new idea coming into the young lady’s mind, she shakes her fist at the gentle man, scowls at him, and says threateningly: “ if you don’t treat bessie well, look out for me! lawrence talbot, lilly travers is going to be your mother-in. law!" and so turns away laughing, to do a great piece of work for the young gentleman this day. she goes to the central safe deposit company, and there engages one of the larger boxes, such as are fitted with combination locks, paying the year's rent in advance. she enters her name on the books of the institu~ tion as requested and says: “ i wish to make this deposit box open to myself and one other, mr. lawrence m. talbot. i shall be away from new york, but mr. talbot will bring a letter of introduction from me to you; he will also give you the pass-word: ‘ my turn next l ’ this is his signature ;” and she hands them a card, upon which she has already written in as masculine hand as she can command : “ lawrence m. tal- bot.” / she goes over these methods of introduction and recognition, that lawrence talbot will have, with the safe company’s officers, so that there can be no mistake, telling them mr. talbot will also receive from her the combination of the lock to the box she has engaged, which will be an additional proof of his identity. this shall be all the identification the, i a florida enchantment. can require from mr. talbot, as she will be out of town, and he has no friends, she thinks, in america. all this being very definitely and accurately set- tled, through various brokers she converts her whole fortune, with the exception of a few thousand dollars, into unregistered u. s. government bonds, and this being done, in the course of a few days, she deposits them in the box in the central safe deposit com- pany, which is open to mr. lawrence talbot, as well as to herself. all this has been accomplished with as much speed as the transaction of the business will permit, for she is spurred on by the following letter, that is addressed “ miss lillian travers " and post-marked “ st. augustine, f lorida,” and is in bessie’s pretty and feminine handwriting. it reads: st. aucusnmz, fefiruary th, . dear lilly : your lovely, lovely present is here, and i have been thinking about you all night ; not of my present, but of your letter. some- how i’ve cried over it. its words were cheery but its tone gave me the shivers! it seemed almost to say ‘adieu !’ to me. it didn’t say it, but it seemed to say it. but then, you know, i am a creature of impulschand perhaps it didn’t say anything of the kind, except to my excited longing for your quick return. besides i have thought over it all night, and have just got the clue, and i think you’re the meanest creature in the world not to tell me about it before. i have just been reading a jacksonville paper which says in its horrid society news that the beautiful and accomplished new york heiress, miss lillian travers, has gone to new york to order her trousseau, for her approaching marriage with doctor frederick cassadene, thl distinguished and popular physician at the ponce de leon hotel. if this is so (and i don’t believe it) write me at once. any way i know the report will make that beautiful mrs. lovejoy very angry. she is so very—but oh, i must be careful, especially if you’re en- gaged to him. i’ll turn to another subject—myself. perhaps you’d a florida enchantment. like to hear a little bit about bessie. bessie is getting along very well. she has a very nice time. she has lots of beaux—one of them in particular, is very nice—so you needn’t send mr. lawrence talbot down here at all. but please come yourself, right oe—as soon as possible, immediately—for i shall not be happy until i hear your voice again. papa was very angry at your keeping me up all night, packing your trunks ; he has forgiven you by this time, at my intercession, and sends you his love. i know miss connie does the same also, and so do l—lots of it—from your loving bessm. p. s.-how do you like “ the silent bessie ” ? is she behaving her self well ? i send you the enclosed notice. the newspaper clipping reads: it is reported on the best authority, that miss lillian travers, the lovely and fascinating new york heiress, who has spent several of her springs among florida orange groves, is shortly to become a. real floridian, by marrying doctor frederick cassadene, the very accomplished and popular physician of the ponce de leon. our reporter mentioned this rumor to the doctor, who smiled, and looked as men always do, when they expect to become benedicts, though he refused to commit himself. in support however, of our statement, miss travers has gone to new york, suddenly, with the intention it is understood, of ordering such a trousseau as only a new york heiress can order. we presume some of these beautiful toi- lettes will be seen in the parlors of the ponce de leon before the season closes, as we understand that the wedding is to take place before the end of march. over this notice lilly bursts into laughter; but bessie’s remarks about beaux, and that mr. law- rence talbot’s appearance will not be necessary, give her a fit of the blues, and the late miss travers knows that masculine jealousy is as potent a factor of misery and anxiety as feminine jealousy. she is also incited to further speed by two or l a florida enchantment. three ominous occurrences that have taken place, from time to time, which indicate that if she does not change from the feminine to the masculine mode of life, of her own volition, providence will change it for her. a moustache, day by day, to her dread, but also to her pride, becomes beautifully developed. not daring to trust to a barber’s skill, she has been com- pelled to try her own, and her first shave has been a gory operation, and is not considered a success. besides this, on cashing a check the paying teller, who knows her very well by sight looks up and says : “ ah ! personal application !” “ what does that matter?” she asks. “ well, if you had not brought it in person, miss travers, i should not have paid it.” “ is not my account good ? ” “perfectly—very good!” with a great emphasis on the'very. “ but to tell you the truth, this signa- ture does not seem to be exactly that of a woman." “ indeed?" she says, struggling to restrain the agitation that, despite herself, flies into her face. “ what is it then ? " “ why, it looks like the signature of a man." “ ah ! delighted to hear that ! ” she returns, forc- ing a smile. “ i'm trying to make myself a business woman, and a masculine handwriting will perhaps assist me ! ” but all these portentous incidents are as nothing, to the dread and horror brought upon her by her man jane. she has driven home one evening, after a hard day's work in making her various business arrange- a florida enchantment. isq ments, when as she steps out of her coupe, about nine o'clock in the evening, the night watchman, chancing to pass by, salutes her. he says respectfully: “ miss travers, can i say a word to you p” “ certainly l " she replies. something in his tone giving her alarm, and fortunately putting her on her guard. - he asks: “have you a negro man i'. your em- ploy?" a sudden instinct prompts her to gasp “ yes !— my maid—” then getting confused she corrects herself and murmurs : “i mean, my valet—my foot- man. why did you ask?” “ well, miss travers,” says the watchman, “ quite often, early in the morning—a negro man lets him- self into your house. i supposed he was some sweetheart of one of your servants, but still i thought it was best to ask. now that i know he is in your employ, it is all right.” “i’m very much obliged to you," remarks lilly. “ please take this for your care of my interests ; ” and pressing a liberal tip into the watchman's hand, she goes up the stairs, enters the house, and mutters to herself these feminine words: “damn him! it's that infernal jane, i know. i’ll fix him to-nightl" that evening she kills time by a novel and think ing of bessie. at eleven o’clock, she investigates jane's room. that putative maid-servant is not in. then she sits down in her abigail’s apartment and waits—and waits—and then waits. as the clock strikes two, she gets what she is waiting for—a sensation, and would scream, were a florida enchantment. she a woman, but being a man, she stands, gazes and gasps, for with a flippant air, and a smile of tri- umph on his face, and two or three chuckles on his lips, a typical sixth avenue darky dude enters the apartment. with flashing eyes lilly cries: “what are you here for? out of my house this instant ! are you a sweetheart of jane’s ?” “whaugh! whaugh!-i’se jane hersel’!” cries the dude and bursts into a guffaw. “ ’clare to goodness—oh lawdy! yo' didn't know me, mr. lilly.” “i know you now! so you’ve been masquerad. ing about in men’s clothes, night after night, to destroy my secret, my happiness, my life!" .lilly mutters, a fearful intensity in her tones, and the ferocity of despair in her manner. , “ got to wear dis kind ’ clothes, mr. lilly. ’gin de law to wear any oder!” “ never you mind what the law is. my law is that you are still my maid-servant, till i permit you to assume the sex i gave you.” “ yo’ can’t turn me back into a woman agin, any way, mr. lilly," remarks jane, with a grin. “ no, but i will send you to the florida convict- camp. i’ll get gus to revive his warrant against you." “guess dat wouldn’t go,” remarks jane, with a grin. “gus’ll swear a woman whipped him—i’ll prove i'se a man. golly, i’se got yo’ dar. i'se been gettin’ pints on de abenue." " my heaven! have you told any one p ” gasps miss travers, turning very pale. a florida enchantment. ! “ no—no—but i’se been gettin' pints without tellin’, and i’se diskivered that i’se worth a thou- san’ dollars a week, to a dime museum, as de greatest freak on earth ! ” “very well!” cries lilly desperately. “go to your dime museum, and tell them your story, and they'll put you in an insane asylum—that's where ‘ the greatest freak on earth ' will land. who would believe you p ” “ believe me! they’se got to believe me i ” mut- ters jane excitedly. “ i’ll prove it by de seeds! " he makes an attempt to choke the last word in his throat, but is too late! with the power born of desperation, the late miss travers is upon him. she has thrown him down. her hands are at his throat. she chokes him till he is gray in the face. then she mutters slowly: “give me those seeds, or i will kill you! tell me where they are ! ” “ ’deed, miss lilly——” “ never mind about your ‘ deeds ’--tell me where the seeds are l” and she emphasizes her command by producing her pistol. “ dey is hid in one of my ’ stockin's in de bot- tom of my trunk l—please—please let me git some wind ! " “very well—get them !” and jane, who is appar- , ently subdued, sullenly fishes them out from this odd receptacle, and lilly once more has the little vial with its two magic seeds in her possession that sparkle in amber beauty. she looks on them gloatingly—lovingly-~they seem to give her new power. it [ a florida enchantmen'i'. “ why did you take these?” she asks. “'cause yo' said if i didn’t behave myself yo'd turn me back into a woman agin, and i wasn’t goin' to habe one of dose things forced down my throat, and i won’t habe it now. i’ll go away from yo’ fust," cries jane savagely. “ promise to obey me and i will promise to let you remain as you are, though i don’t think you are an improvement upon my obedient and faithful maid-servant, jane. any way you won’t have to remain as my maid much longer. we leave new york soon, and in a few days you shall be no more my maid jane rouser, but my man, jack robbins! ” “ an’ yo’, miss lilly, what’ll yo’ be?” mutters jane. “ i shall be mr. lawrence talbot! ” this name evidently impresses jane. he mut- ters: “ ’pears to me, as you habe done such mighty high work for yo’self, yo’ could do a little better fo’ me, mis’ lilly ? ” “ no. jack robbins is good enough for you,” remarks the master, stemly. then, after a few more admonitions and direc- tions, she goes away and carefully securing the glass vial with its potent seeds in a little bag she hangs about her neck by a thin golden chain she gets ready for bed. while doing this a mocking smile is on her lips, she sneers, “i wonder how much a dime museum would give for me?” then shudders: “ my monster, jane, will destroy me. like franken- stein, i have raised him up to be my ruin !” and this idea running in her head, she goes to a florida enchantment. sleep, and has a fearful nightmare; and sees three- sheet posters like the following, in gigantic type and lurid characters covering all the city walls and bill- mm musewm. liqhteffalqf au-‘acssr juwnencz‘ru‘sor he. mama traverba only one more seed. mm. mm axon! em $ , , ofiered itshmdo member or the rothschild family bought ma‘p‘miqu ’ one and has just been voted into the ’ l, , v , “ risia n jockey lellllsg an nation wide: in new york‘toinauegotlutlon for £ wa i queen i "who, wants to be *. king bef re' she dim.“ “ performances a m n! p- in condunction with' no missing link ma ' “the ma; all-w a florida enchantment. chapter xiii. doctor fred would like a kiss. all these considerations urge desperate haste. lilly forces the last few remaining preparations for her departure, finding time, however, to initiate her maid jane into acting her man jack. every morning, they rehearse. miss lilly calls in authoritative gruff voice: “ my shaving water, jack ! " “ yes, mr. lawrence,” replies jane. or: “ put cigars and whiskey on the table, robbins.” “ yes, mr. lawrence;' and jane doing as she is bid, places cigars, cigarettes and fiery spirits on the table, which lilly, by way of educating herself to her new manhood, forces herself to indulge in, though she hates the taste of whiskey, and the cigars make her very sick. one of these petites comedies is taking place when she is startled by the cook bringing up to her an epistle in a masculine hand which she easily recog_ nizes as that of her erstwhile fiancé. it is a hastily written, impulsive letter, of the discarded suitor style; full of wild outcries of wounded love, com- plaints and reproaches. for, after the manner of ,his kind, doctor freddie has got to longing and mourning and suffering for lack of the love he has destroyed, and lilly travers now seems to him the only woman who can ever make his life happy. this he tells her in his letter, the conclusion of which is so dictatorial that it is scarcely polite. it a, florida enchantment. says: “if you do not return to florida very soon, i shall go to new york after you. you remember my boast, lilly—within four weeks you shall be the bride of yours till death, fred.” the first part of this epistle produces a smile; the latter part causes consideration, even concern. doctor cassadene hanging round the skirts of miss lilly travers will embarrass her preparations to become mr. lawrence talbot! this is another motive for speedy departure from new york, which place has been getting gradually distasteful to her. she longs to enter society as one of the sex into which she has grad- uated, and cannot do it. she has got to muttering to herself savagely: “ i am tired of being a hermit." as she drives down fifth avenue, she has fallen into the habit of looking at the club buildings of this most clubby street and thinking she would like to sit in their windows, like other male bipeds, and enjoy the feminine beauty that passes in parade in front of them, while sybaritic man gaaes on, enjoy. ing cigars, cocktails and other frivolities peculiar to the sterner sex, that she is getting gradually to like with the love of the manhood that has come to her. driving past the manhattan, the new york, or the union, she mutters: “ i'll be put up there some day; i’ll sit in that window and that chair myself." she has a tremendous hankering after the de- lights of delmonicos’ café, sacred to gentlemen. she has even wild ideas of donning some of mr. lawrence talbot's new clothes and “doing” kos- ter & bial's, or taking a merry little spree on the a florida enchantment. banks; these living waters that are liquid-ether as they bubble from the grottos that give out the purple tints; all seem of another and unreal, though perchance a happier state, to this being, who, still calling herself lilly travers, is living a life no other being ever lived before. but she has short time to gaze astonished,--the train has scarcely run upon the little wharf before the steamer blows its whistle, and freight and lug- gage and passengers being hurried on board, the pygmy okalzumpka, her stern wheel revolving, is gliding out from her landing, past “the ladies’ parlor " and “the gentlemen’s smoking-room ”— fountains of weird, cloud-like water, but of earthy name—and darting down this marvellous river, whose silver stream within a few miles will be swal- lowed in the slimy, blackish oozes of the swamp- born ocklawaha. water ethereal supports the tiny steamer, and lilly travers, looking over its side, for a moment grows dizzy and staggers back—thinking she is an aeronaut; for the boat seems like a balloon with air above her and air beneath her. a moment after she calms her nerves, and standing on the upper deck gazes at the panorama through which she passes-dong vistas of cypress trees, rising from this glassy water mirror like giant storks' legs to their canopy of green and moss above. impressed by her strange position she thinks: ‘ like ponce de leon, who came to find youth, i have come here to find manhood. he failed and died. shall i be disappointed also?”——and looking at the clear, living stream upon which she is float- a florida enchantment. i ! ders: “ what cursed ill-luck has sent this love-sick sop here to make my task more difficult p ” though she does not know it; her day’s delay in jacksonville, her additional lingering twenty-four hours in citra,—have brought this misadventure upon her. ‘ cassadene, glancing over the papers, has noted in the society columns that miss lillian travers, one of the great catches of new york and the reported fiancée of the dashing doctor of the ponce de leon, is now in jacksonville, accompanied by her maid; that she in the next day or two is bound for ocala with the object of making the celebrated ocklawaha trip, for which she has already engaged a stateroom. this has put a sudden idea into the doctor’s mind. he will meet the boat at silver spring also, and miss travers, being on board, will perforce be com- pelled to accept his presence, which she will not be able to dodge, these steamboats being very small. in the twenty hours’ run through romantic cypress swamps and in the shadows of the great trees and at night by the light of the burning pine knots, he will again press his suit, and having been made vain by his fortune among the fair sex, he has no doubt he will once more be successful. this is the reason that doctor fred, chewing his mustache savagely, is now gazing upon miss trav- ers, whose conduct again surprises him. the boat has already plunged into the cypress swamps. the crystal waters of the silver run have been swallowed by the dark stream of the larger river which cuts them off, sharp as a knife blade. the steamer is now some miles down the ocklawaha. a florida enchantment. i he strolls up to her and murmurs in his sweetest voice: “ ah, lilly! the old feeling is coming into your heart. your eyes have again a longing look in them." “yes—for a cigar,” mutters miss travers snap~ pishly; and again disconcerted he retreats from her. and this is true; for it is a hankering after his cigar, not him, which has attracted the late miss travers’ eager eyes. she.is gradually acquiring, among her mannish accomplishments, a love for the weed, and thinks a cigar would be uncommonly pleasant, dare she but use one. this makes her angry. and she says to herself: “ to-night, whether he is on the boat or not !——to-morrow i will have the privileges and rights of a man ! ” her unfeminine disregard, as doctor fred terms it, of his feelings, has made that gentleman sulky and surly, and, greatly to her relief, he does not bother miss travers for some hours. after a. time, at a little landing lilly sees an orange grove and stepping on shore gathers aided by the lady of the plantation a branch covered with juicy fruit and coming on board again goes to eat- ing and tossing the peels over the side as the steam- er pushes along under palmetto and cypress that shadow her decks and make leafy arches overhead. so lilly putting fred out of her mind gets to looking upon and enjoying the panorama that un- folds itself as the boat threads its way through this foliage-lined stream, making turns innumerable, and sometimes appearing to drive straight for the cypress belt to plunge within its swamps, then sud- denly poled off by the sable deck~hands turning i a florida enchantment. from it and bending, as it were, back on its course, after the style of the letter s. next she notes the skill of the negro pilot as he swings the craft on its course, and gets to looking for alligators, a few of which she sees. most of them are not very large, though extremely wary, for until a few years ago, sportsmen brought their rifles and shooting-irons on deck and the boat’s passage was marked by a fusillade on the inhabitants of the swamp, so now the surviving alligators skulk away from the path of the steamer and into the swamps which lie for miles and miles on either side of the river, a mass of submerged cypress, dense under- growth and jungle, impenetrable to man and still the haunt of the hunted “ gator.” thus the day wears on, miss travers making but one appearance in the dining-room of the little craft, for anxiety has taken away her appetite. and now after passing two giant cypresses that graze the boat on either side, early night falls upon the river, for the great trees grow so thick together that the declining sun cannot penetrate theirleafy screen. after a little the noises of the swamp begin to be heard in the stillness of the night ; and knots of fat pine are lighted on the pilot-house to throw a glow over the river by which the boat can feel its way round the bends and sometimes in the trees torches blaze in the hands of kindly darkeys to help the pilots of the boat. - at the little landings negroes come down with blazing pine knots to light the deck-hands’as they take on cargo. this romantic scene impresses miss travers and r a florida enchantment. twists ’bout, right dar. den we come up to enoch collins’, an’ den needle’s eye, an’ after a little while we’s at orange spring lan’in'." as his words come to lilly's ear, her heart gives a bound; for, ever since she has made some appar- ently careless inquiries at citra, orange spring landing is the place she has selected where the earth will know miss travers no more. even as she thinks this, doctor fred is at her side. this gentleman has apparently got over his huffiness of the morning. her very rebuffs have made him more eager for her favor. in the dark- ness he cannot see the change that has come to this woman when he still loves in his own desultory fashion, perhaps as well as he 'can love anybody—- except himself. he pictures in his imagination the girl he was once engaged to, and lilly travers in the darkness of this night is as femininely beautiful as the lilly travers of a month ago. he com- mences to plead with her. he tells her how he loves her, and, receiving no answer, his vanity whis. pers to him, “you will succeed this time!" “dear lilly," he continues, “you love me still. you have stayed on deck so as to hear from me once more the tones you used to love—the words you used to drink in from my lips." then the two being alone and in the shadow, doctor fred fol- lows a maxim he has laid down for himself: “ strike while the iron is hot.” he suddenly gives the puta- tive miss travers a tender yet enthusiastic embrace, and whispering “i love you,” would again feast upon the lips whose sweetness he remembers.. but this young delicate lady, to his surprise, tears a florida enchantment. herself from him suddenly, with a force that aston- ishes the stalwart frederick, and whispers in tones of deadly rage, “ hang you, sir, if you dare to touch me again, i’ll knock you overboard to the alligators ! " then a sudden change seems to come over the girl, and she says to her astonished, dismayed and disgusted suitor: “ forgive me.——good-night, doc- tor freddie. we shall be better friends when we meet next.” this idea seems to amuse her, for she passes from his side and goes off to her stateroom, laugh- ing an uneasy, mocking laugh, and this is the last that doctor frederick cassadene ever hears from the lips of lilly travers. half an hour afterward, the boat pulls up at orange creek landing. there is quite a lot of freight to put aboard, the deck hands are busy, the captain and pilot occupied, and fred cassadene is carelessly smoking a cigar near the gang-plank, looking at the labors of the night and ruminating over his ill-success with the new york heiress,— when, a young man in gray travelling suit, with a fishing-rod in his hand and attended by a darkey servant carrying a gun case and small satchel, passes quickly over the gang-plank. the pine knot in the hand of a negro standing on the landing for a mo- ment lights up the face of the young man, though partially concealed by a slouched hat, and cassadene gives a momentary start ; then mutters: “ it's funny i can’t get lilly travers' eyes out of my head. everyone i look at seems to have her optics!" then, he queries wonderingly : “ that young sports- man must have kept himself pretty well boxed up a florida enchantment. and though bessie’s face has begun to be anxious among st. augustine orange groves and she some. times mutters, “ why don’t she write p" and miss con- nie ofttimes says, “ lilly must have gone straight to havana, that’s the fad trip this year,——she’ll be back soon," very little has been thought of miss travers' disappearance—what’s one little girl in this great world of ours—even if she be a beauty and an heiress-save to those who love her? book iii. the wonderful adventures of mr. lawrence talbot. chapter xiv. wild oats. shortly after this—the palatka train brings in one evening to st. augustine a dark-skinned, sun. burnt young man who says to his servant, “ jack, tell the hackman the cordova. wilson always makes everybody comfortable ! ” in this gorgeous hostelry, mr. lawrence talbot soon finds himself very cosily housed, occupying two of the small but pretty tower rooms that look out on the alameda, diagonally opposite the ponce de leon. he is fortunate in securing these apart- ments, but the season is drawing towards its close and already travellers are commencing to turn their faces in search of a new spring that will soon be found in virginia and north carolina watering. places. it is altogether too late by the time mr. talbot receives his trunks, for him to achieve a toilet and a florida enchantmen'i‘. i addressed. then he answers himself eagerly, “ im. mensely!” a longing light coming into his eyes and his countenance growing vivacious, for sudden thought suggests—“ perhaps bessie will be there," -—as he bounds up-stairs to encounter that joy of budding manhood, his first dress suit. calling in his servant, he says: “ jack, get out my swallow-tail; i am going to christen it to-night,” and soon finds himself arrayed in a well-fitting evening costume that suits his lithe, though slight, figure perfectly, having come from the hands of a first-rate new york tailor. looking at the glass, mr. lawrence talbot remarks: “i think this will do the girls this evening; " and then mutters in sudden joy: “ my first hop as a full-fledged man!” a moment after he steps down-stairs, to find his invitation waiting for him at the office. then shielded from the evening mist by a light overcoat he crosses the alameda, and entering the gardened court-yard of the ponce de leon and passing its sulphur-scented fountain, he strolls into that great hostelry to see bessie and not be over-pleased with what his sweetheart is doing. having put away his hat and overcoat, he enters the dining-room, where the dance is going on, and joins the spectators. it is the usual watering-place hop, that lawrence gazes on—the dancing ladies many, the dancing men few. as lawrence's eyes rove over the assemblage seeking his little sweetheart's pretty figure, his in- quisitorial glances bring odd feelings with them. mr. talbot sees acquaintances and intimate friends a florida enchantment. of lilly travers, and would like to recognize and speak to them, but dare not. then he notices some gentlemen who once bowed down at the shrine of the late new york heiress’s beauty, and mutters “ wouldn’t they jump, if they but knew! " incidentally, among these he sees the stalwart form of doctor fred, who is just entering the ball-room with the radiant mrs. stella lovejoy on his arm. this lady appears even more beautiful than before to mr. talbot, who divorced from the society of women for the last two or three weeks, now hun- gers for it with all a boy’s enthusiasm. but even as he drinks in the widow’s beauty, a voice beside him makes him start and blush with joy. it is from blue-eyed miss bessie, and says to the gentleman upon whose arm she is leaning: “ mr. wilkes, your description of your orange grove on indian river gives me a yearning for oranges ! " “ah, thank you,” remarks that gentleman excit- edly. “then,” he says with insinuation, “ you must also like orange blossoms p” “if the right man came with them!” answers the young lady, and the blue eyes droop coquettishly. lawrence talbot looks at this little scene, and rage comes into his heart; he thinks savagely:- “how dares bessie talk of orange blossoms to any man but me p—what a little flirt she is-—~for of course she don’t care a copper for that idiotic wilkes.” with this fires of masculine jealousy come into his brain and make his eyes glare upon the offend- ing orange grower. mr. wilkes however is $ a florida enchantment. “ pretty? well, rather,” says malcolm, who is a man past middle age. “she is miss bessie horton, one of the belles of this place. would you like to be presented to her? dancing men are scarce about here, and you look as though you might make yourself useful, talbot!” “ miss horton?" remarks lawrence, as if trying to recollect something. then he says suddenly: “oh yes—miss bessie horton; i remember. i believe i have a letter of introduction to her in my trunk at the hotel. i should be delighted if your kindness would permit me to anticipate it this even- ing." ‘ “ all right, my boy; i'll speak to her," answers malcolm, who is rather proud of his acquaintance with this eligible young gentleman, whose clothes and general get-up are unmistakably those of a new york swell. a moment after, the debutant in manhood sees him speaking to miss bessie and her blue eyes get- ting very big with sudden interest, as she hears that mr. lawrence talbot would like an introduction; then his head buzzes; he is standing looking into his sweetheart’s eyes and listening to her soft south- ern voice and thinking her even sweeter, prettier and more piquantly charming than the dear little bessie of old. “ mr. lawrence talbot?" she remarks, looking him over. then she says impulsively, “ has lilly travers ever spoken to you of me ?" “ very often,” replies the young gentleman eager- ly. “ i have a letter of introduction to you from her. i intend to present it to-morrow!” a florida enchantment. r lovejoy, who looks with kindly eyes upon mr. talbot, and thinks he might make a new recruit in her ranks of adorers and a pleasant foil to doc- tor fred, and a card with which to draw out that gentleman’s trumps in the game in which the widow and he are playing. an idea which shortly after, wards produces some curious complications in mr. lawrence talbot’s life. miss bessie in her warm-hearted, impulsive, south- ern way does the introduction business by the wholesale, and mr. talbot soon finds himself once more acquainted with many of miss travers' old friends, having great difficulty in preventing himself from treating the ladies with the familiarity that lilly was wont to do. these peculiar actions of her escort coming under miss bessie’s sharp eyes, she gives a little laugh and whispers: “ i am afraid you are a very bold young gentleman.” “ indeed? why p" “ oh, because—because you look so familiarly affectionate at many of the ladies on introduction.” a moment after she says : “ you must know my father," and presents him to the old major, who, ‘ learning that the young man has been in southern florida, grows effusive about his phosphate proper- ties in that region, telling him that he is forming a company that will deliver an “a, no. i," eighty per cent. fertilizer right on the liverpool docks, for five dollars a ton, and remarks: “ what do you think of that p " to which lawrence, in bad judgment, replies: “ i can't exactly tell—i am not a business man.” i a florida enchantment. “ ha—ah ! then we’ll teach you! america is a business country. perhaps you will make your for- tune here! ” remarks the major patronizingly. but lawrence does not care for his future father- in-law to imagine that his future son-in-law’s fortune is yet to be made. he says airily: “ oh, my an- cestors did that for me long ago ! " and so turning to mrs. lovejoy's attractive side he leaves the future father-in-law impressed by the to-_be son-in-law’s wealth. for the major remarks to miss bessie the first chance he gets in a playful father’s aside: “ has she caught a young and rich beau, papa’s wise little girl?” playfully pinching miss bessie’s pretty ear. at which the girl says: “pshaw! i have only known mr. talbot ten minutes. what makes you say such horrid things? do you like to make me blush ? " but this conversation is interrupted by the atten- tive mr. wilkes, who again makes his appearance with some more remarks about oranges and orange blossoms and takes the young lady to dance. looking upon this, as he is conversing with the radiant stella, jealousy again gets into mr. talbot’s heart, and a moment after, the opportunity coming to him, he takes miss bessie upon his arm and pro- poses a little promenade in the big corridors of the hotel. the girl assents so' readily to his proposition i that this rash young gentleman becoming very bold, thinks to take up his running where miss lilly travers left off—a mistake which brings its own punishment with it. after a few commonplaces, he twists the subject a florida enchantment. his hat and offer his arm, as the beauty descends from her victoria. escorting her into the gardens, he speedily has a couple of seats (for he has been lib- eral, last night, with the servants of the ponce de leon, and they remember him), and the two sitting down amid flowers and sunshine listen to the band playing in the loggia. in their conversation, mrs. lovejoy soon discovers that this young gentleman is a distant cousin of miss travers. this lady, she at present considers her rival with the medical adonis, and becomes anxious for mr. lawrence’s intimacy, thinking she may obtain from him infor- mation of the doctor’s position with that new york belle, that may be of use to her. a few minutes after remarking with an entranc- ing smile: “the band has stopped work! " she suggests, “why not come up to my parlor, mr. talbot? it is cooler there, and in a few minutes it will be time for lunch, and you can be my guest.” so in a very few moments lawrence finds him- self seated with the beautiful stella on the very balcony which miss travers saw occupied by doctor cassadene and this dainty charmer when the first pangs of wounded love came to lilly’s heart to make her on that eventful night turn away from weak womanhood to obtain, perchance, weaker man- hood. i on account of mr. talbot, mrs. lovejoy and doc. tor fred have had a lovers' quarrel the evening before, and as lawrence and she say sweet nothings to each other on the balcony, this gentleman's card being brought up to her, the widow returns “ not at home!” a florida enchantment. ' this makes mr. talbot very proud and conceited, he thinking that his charms have literally floored the handsome doctor in the very first round. he strokes his not entirely completed mustache con. templatively and meditates: “ i believe i could capture stella myself—for keeps, if i but wanted her;” and thoughtlessly proceeds to put some nails in doctor freddie’s amorous coffin in the easy way that one gentleman rival does to another. “ i believe you know my cousin lilly, mrs. love- joy,” he remarks casually. “ yes—slightly," replies stella, forgetful of the kisses she has placed on miss travers’ lips in the very room into which they are looking—the one that had been occupied as a dressing-room on the occasion of the hop a few weeks before. then she says anxiously: “ the papers have given us rumors that doctor cassadene is engaged to your cousin. do you know whether there is anything in it p" “ don’t know whether there is anything in it mw,” answers lawrence nonchalantly; “ but at one time i am very sure the doctor was rather far gone on la belle travers. ” “ at one time? what time p” “ oh, not so long ago." “ you are sure?” “yes, ra-th-er certain, the words are drawled out by the young neophyte in manhood. “ just ask him about the ocklawaha boat three weeks ago. do l—-i want to hear what he says about it p ” and lawrence laughs. “ ask him if he didn’t pester lil with his attentions until she actually threatened to knock him overboard.” .. we" ' -» .' .m' “hug” a florida enchantment. “ a very curious threat for a young lady to make," mutters stella with pale lips, yet blazing eyes. “ yes, my cousin was—i mean, is a very extraor- dinary girl.” “and she has made you very much her confi- dant,” remarks mrs. lovejoy, eager to get more in- formation, yet dreading what she may hear. then she says suddenly, “ oh ! perhaps she was also inter- ested in you.” “ i never tell tales,” remarks lawrence in the easy vanity of his new-found manhood ; “ but why ask me of other women? at present, i remember only ” “ who?”-says the widow impulsively; for she knows that at present she is in a very becoming posi- tion in her lazy chair with a most alluring glimpse of arm and a very slight but catchy peep of ankle in view. upon this mr. talbot,—who from the knowl- edge bequeathed him of her sex by the late miss travers, understands very well how to woo and win women,— rises from his seat, walks deliberately over to the fascinating, knock-every-thing-else-out-of- your-head picture before him, and is about to whis- per, “ you.” but at this moment, the fair stella gives a sud- den start, and cries: “ no, don’t answer that ques- tion "—though her eyes droop under the ardent glances of young mr. wild oats. “if not now, very soon," he murmurs. then he says laughingly, " why didn't you let me answer you ? " . “because i saw a naughty boy’s eyes were full a florida enchantment. ’ of nonsense ! ” answers stella rising and tapping him with playful fan. “ now we must have lunch. will you escort me to the dining-room?” as she says this lawrence talbot sees a sight that makes him start. from the selfsame balcony upon which lilly travers suffered but six weeks before doctor freddie stands and glares at him with jealous anguish; and mocking laughter comes to talbot’s lips. “you seem very merry!" remarks mrs. lovejoy. “ have i not cause to be ! "cries lawrence signifi- cantly, and feeling very proud at having the prettiest woman in the hotel to sit opposite him he takes her to lunch to make other men jealous, especially doctor frederick. this gentleman shortly enters the dining-room, slight and insult in his soul and hate and rage in his heart for this young popinjay who steps so easily between the medical adonis and the woman he regarded as already conquered. as for lawrence, unheeding the lowering glances which the unfortunate cassadene gives him from a neighboring table, he vivaciously and carelessly chats over his meal with the pretty widow, thought- less of how his words about miss travers’ trip upon the ocklawaha may yet be brought back to him by a man who hates him; careless, though he dearly loves bessie, yet will, after the manner of his sex, scent forbidden fruit, the perfume of which is sweet unto his nostrils. lunch being finished, he proffers his escort to mrs. lovejoy for a drive to the base-ball grounds, near the railway station, where two professional clubs from great northern cities are getting into early spring training. here they meet a number of other a florida enchantment. bright with triumph. he ejaculates : “ i have her! she can struggle—but i have her! ” and hurrying through his dinner makes a wondrously elaborate. toilet for the benefit of old miss con- stantia oglethorpe. thus, attired and embellished, this young sprig of fashion about eight o’clock in the evening strolls up the well-known walk that leads to his aunt’s house— to receive a pang from conscience. he has not thought much, in the excitement of his adventures, of the sorrow that lilly travers’ disappearance will bring upon those who loved her best. but now this is to be brought home to him. forcing himself to remember who he is and to forget what he has been, mr. talbot succeeds in preventing himself from walking in unannounced and giving miss connie 'the affectionate salutation that lilly was wont to bestow upon her dear old relative. he rings the bell and is shown into the parlor by the brown malvina, who tells him that miss ogle- thorpe will be down in a minute, and leaves him sit- ting in the very room in which six weels before his marvellous change had been foreshadowed by old hauser’s narrative. there it is—the little ebony casket—open as lilly left it. he gazes at it in a benumbed, dazed sort of way, for the memories it brings to him would appall an older man. ' this reverie is suddenly broken in upon by miss bessie’s voice in the hall. that young lady who has just come in with her father, is saying: “very well, papa; if you have business in town this evening, you may leave me here and come back for me ;—only, a florida enchantment. don’t let your phosphate negotiations keep your little bessie out too late." a a moment after the front door is closed by the major’s retreating hand and the veranda echoes with his departing footsteps, while miss bessie turns to the servant and remarks: “ malvina, tell miss connie i am in the parlor;" and walking in, is surprised to find mr. lawrence talbot, who has risen with ex- pectant pleasure on his face. “ ah! you have come. how good of you!” says the young lady, who has apparently made up her mind to forget her anger of the night before. she smiles sweetly upon him and continues: “ i hope you have left your advice behind, but brought your letter of introduction. you might have driven out to have delivered it today as promised ;—but i hear there are very beautiful widows at the ponce de leon ”——which shows that somehow she has learnt of how lawrence has passed his day; this town of st. augustine being rather small and gossip travelling very rapidly about it. “ do you think your reception of me last evening warranted my bringing you this letter to-day?” remarks lawrence, passing over the document in question. , “my reception of you was all you could ask,” laughs bessie; “ but my reception of your advice ” —here she pouts a little,——“ my reception of all advice is generally unsatisfactory to those who give it. you will shortly discover that, mr. law~ rence.” then, opening the epistle from miss travers, bessie has no more eyes for anything else. this a florida enchantment. pleases lawrence who sapiently thinks, “ is not love for lilly—love for me ! " but here miss connie comes in to welcome him very cordially, and say: “i am delighted to see you, lawrence—you will pardon an old woman calling you that, because i understand from bessie you are a cousin of lilly’s, though she never mentioned your name to me.” “ a distant one,” murmurs the young gentleman looking with very kindly eyes upon his aunt and fighting down a sudden impulse to seize the dear lady in his arms and give her one of lilly travers' old-time kisses. “ and yet,” goes on miss connie musingly, “ as i look in your face, i know you must be some rela- tive of lilly’s. why! you are as much like her as man can be like woman.” a minute after lawrence making some uncon- scious movement, she mutters : “ lilly’s very gest- ure! and—and—i have not heard from her for three weeks,” and tears come into the dear old lady’s eyes and produce pangs of conscience in the prodigal, for whose return the fatted calf would be killed did his relative but recognize him. then constantia goes on eagerly to question law- rence about what he knows of her niece’s latest move- ments, and some of her queries are more pertinent than she imagines and give the young reprobate pangs while answering them; for they run like this: does lawrence know when lilly will return to st. augustine? did her niece appear well when he last saw her? that lilly seemed to have something on her mind when she went away, and miss connie a florida enchantment. hopes that is all over. then she whispers: “as her cousin perhaps you are already her confidant. did she say anything to you when you last met her about doctor cassadene?" ' “ oh! on that point,” remarks lawrence easily, happy to be able to remove connie’s fears, “i can assure you she cares no more for doctor fred than i do,—which is very little.'_' “ but where do you think she is now?” queries constantia anxiously. “ she came to florida some three weeks ago. she should not be—very far—from here,” murmurs the transformed one, struggling with a blush. “well, i have always said she went to cuba. that is the latest travelling fad," remarks miss con- nie. “though bessie says she would have surely visited us had she come within a hundred. miles of st. augustine! ” “ but i know she was here,” cries talbot im- pulsively. “ i am almost certain she took the ock- lawaha trip about that time.” “ indeed ? " returns miss connie. “ i shall write to the officers of that line of steamers in palatka to-night ; "—which she does this very evening, to receive an answer some time after which produces more effect on the young gentleman who is talking to her than he at present imagines. but at this moment they are startled by bessie horton. that young lady having finished a second perusal of the letter of introduction, suddenly hands it to miss oglethorpe crying : “ connie, read it your- self. every letter that girl has written to me since she left for new york has had a meaning between a florida enchantment. the lines. tell me—does not this say ‘adieu’ to me p it does not put it in so many words, but i feel ‘ good-by’ as i read it. what has become of lilly?" “ well," says constantia, looking over the letter, “ i do not see anything in it but a plain note intro- duc'inga young gentleman "'—-here she looks at law- rence and laughs—“ whom lilly recommends very highly and seems to want to put before you as a very desirable beau and perhaps as a ” “you needn’t continue," interrupts bessie with sudden blush. “you read between the lines very differently to what i do! ” then they fall into a general conversation which lasts but a short half-hour, being broken in upon by the return of the major, who has not found the phosphate speculators that he expected to meet. and miss connie, devoting herself to the ex-confed- erate, leaves lawrence free to make himself agree- able to the major’s daughter. so the two wander out on the veranda together, into the light of a new moon—a different one to that which shone upon lilly travers and bessie horton one night in the same spot, not two months ago. . then anxious to put off the look of anxiety that is upon his sweetheart’s face (as this rapid young gentleman has got again to calling miss bessie in his mind) he remarks: “ don’t you think you are a little morbid in your views about lilly p" “ if you love her as i do, you would be as anxious for her as i am," says bessie. then she continues suddenly: “ and i suppose you love her very much," and a moment after smiles uneasily and inquires: “ how much? ” a florida enchantment. “ about as much as i do myself, " answers law. rence, the earnestness of truth in his voice. this reply gains him miss bessie’s good graces. she says hurriedly: “ ah, you love her almost as much as i do! ” and after this the conversation is very pleasant, and some of the old look with which she regarded lilly travers in the two days before that young lady departed from st. augustine, seems to come into the girl’s eyes. after a little she gets to telling lawrence anecdotes about her- self and lilly and about the night the two girls had spent together in the rooms up-stairs, where lilly dinged into her ears all evening—the name of a young ,man—as she made her pack her trunks. “yes, i know,” answers lawrence, recollection making his eyes bright and his heart beat fast. whereupon the young lady looks at him in as- tonishment for a moment, and then says: “lilly travers must think a great deal of you. she told you everything—even that last unfortunate remark i made about you. but we won’t think about that; we’ll forget it! ” then she cries imperiously, “ you must try to make me forget it ! ” “i will,” says lawrence gallantly, and he keeps his promise so well that their téte-d-tlte is only broken by the major calling out in paternal chaff: “come in, bess; it’s eleven o’clock. i must take you home from your beau.” “oh, don’t mind what papa says!” whispers bes- sie with a blush. “ he thinks every young man that talks to me adores me, and sometimes makes fearful mistakes.” a florida enchantment. as to this, lawrence answers with intention: " he seems more discerning than his daughter.” “ oh, if you are going to talk to me in that way," says bessie, “it is time for me to go ;” and she passes into the parlor, pausing at the open window, to toss over her pretty shoulder a glance that shows she is not very angry at the gentleman she is leaving. driving home that evening, she remarks to her father: “ i wonder if the young men were as nice when you were a boy, papa p ” “ much finer," replies the major decidedly. “ in my day the bucks and blades would fight for a woman as well as love one." here the veteran chuckles to himself and continues: “ young tal- bot seems to have made a very favorable impression on my little bessie ; ” and gives her ear such a play- ful pinch that little bessie gives a playful little squeal. as for the young gentleman spoken of, he bids miss connie an extraordinarily tender farewell for one who has known her an hour or two, for he says to his aunt: “ do you know what i am going to do p ” “ no," remarks that lady, somewhat astonished at the affection in his glance. “ i am going to give you a kiss, and i am going to adopt you as my aunt—for lilly’s sake,” and does so though miss connie is astounded. she has a very tender heart, and something in this young man's demeanor seems to have got very close to it, and she mutters, returning his salute: “ you have so many little tom-boy ways that remind me of lilly, my dear, that i adopt you as my nephew.” a florida enchantment. so he goes away, murmuring to himself: “ the nephew will try to make up the loss of the niece," and gets home to the cordova in a very happy state. here he is greeted efiusively by his man jack. that sable worthy says : “ yo’ did yo’self proud to- day mr. lil—i mean lawrence. yo’ skooped in de widder from de doc, i seed yo’. i’m doin’ a leetle myself; i’se caught gus's new gal—antoinette of de alcazar—gus’ld like to razor me, he would—and by de way, massa lawrence, i’se been making queries about heah, and twenty dollars a month may be good wages for a 'maid but fifty’s 'bout de figure for a gen'man’s body-servant. i rather cal’late my wages has been riz by act of pro’dence, massa lawrence.” “ yes—i rather think they have ! " assents talbot. --then he says suddenly, “but keep the act of providence to yourself for heaven’s sake !" and so goes to bed. the next day lawrence finds his way to the orange groves on the san sebastian, and passes a very pleasant afternoon with miss horton. where he must have done some good for himself, as the girl’s eyes look very tenderly after him as he drives away. so the days run on, lawrence struggling to gain her heart and forgetting everything but bessie’s smiles. but devoting himself too closely to his work he wounds some others. first young mr. wilkes whom he succeeds in ousting from his sweetheart’s mind, orange groves and all : and second mrs. lovejoy, who is not accustomed to being neglected by gentlemen a florida en chantmen t. “ what's the matter—darling? " “ oh, gracious! i’ve lost the ring lilly gave me down that horrid fiddler’s hole.” “ never mind,” says mr. talbot grandiloquently, “ i’ll get you another.” “ get me the same ./ ” implores bessie, “ lilly would never forgive me, if i lost it. she will be coming some day, to cry ‘bess, where is that ring? "’ and tears of appeal come into the blue eyes. then miss horton suddenly ejaculates: “ look out! they’ll bite you.” for lawrence has pulled up his coat sleeve and is digging with his hand into the den of the fiddlers. “ pooh! ” remarks that young gentleman ; “they are more afraid of me than i am of them ; ” and after a little excavating with his cane in the sand and groping around in the hole with his finger, he finally brings out two fiddlers and the ring; the fiddlers very much the worse for wear and the ring as good as new, as he laughingly remarks. “oh, thank you,” says bessie in an excited way. “ how brave you are, to put your hand among those awful things.” “ i am delighted to be able to restore the ring," says lawrence, taking her hand. “ how did you come to lose it? ” “ well, lilly didn’t seem to have the right meas ure. her second finger was the same size as my big finger, and i suppose she selected it by her own, and made some mistake.” of this statement lawrence has no doubt, for he remembers that lilly travers’ hand had grown very rapidly just before sending the present, and easily io a florida enchantment. “ you have been engaged before,” gasps law. rence, growing pale. “ yes ! " “ my god ! " “ when i was ten; that is the only time," mutters miss horton. “ little willie johnson said i was to marry him, but he didn’t give me any ring." then bessie commences to laugh, and says: “what makes you so jealous, you foolish fellow; " and continues . eagerly: “ have you ever been engaged ? " “ never to a woman !” stammers lawrence. “ well, then, you may commence with me,” says bessie archly. so the two turn again to miss connie, who has been enjoying a distant view of this scene, and law- rence remarks: “ i will leave her in your hands. her father will come for her soon. i believe there are rings in jewellers’ stores in st. augustine, but none worthy of her. bessie, would you like to wait until i can go to new york for it ?" “no; give me a moss agate, but don’t go away!” answers bess anxiously. then they walk down to the gate together, where lawrence entraps his sweetheart by asking: “ when will you go to church with me?” “ next sunday, with pleasure.” “ done ! ” cries the boy. “ oh l not to get married l" screams bessie. “ i—i don’t mean that." and looking at him with maiden dignity she says: “certainly not until you receive my father's consent, mr. talbot. besides—lawrence, i am going to wait until lilly can be my bridesmaid.” this brings dismay upon him and he cries eagerly: a florida enchantment. to himself and his charming bride. immediately after this, from new york he will mail a letter, written in his very best imitation of the late miss travers’ feminine style and hand, to miss constantia oglethorpe, informing that lady that her niece is well and happy and of her intended immediate de- parture for europe. this he fondly expects will eliminate any idea from his aunt’s mind of her beloved niece being out of the world and pave the way to his nuptials with his charming sweetheart, which he determines shall take place before the end of the florida season, if possible. the details of these transactions having been set- tled to his own satisfaction, he goes back to his room in the cordova, to find his trunks already locked and strapped, and to think that his man jack is turning out a better valet than he had at first supposed to be possible. so the next morning, after liquidating his bill, he drives to the “ florida special ” in company with his man, to receive a most charming and delightful sur- prise from his little fiancée, for that young lady, in company with her father, is waiting for him at the depot. his parting from her makes him curiously happy, as she, in the sorrow of losing him for a little while, promises that the next time this train runs out for the north with lawrence talbot, he shall take her with him as his very own—his bride. the sun shines brightly as the train moves out of the station, and mr. talbot is exceedingly con- tent, and thinks the world before him is now very easy, and does not know at this careless and happy a fijorida enchantment. : this in the course of the day he transfers to an- other box engaged in his own name in another safe deposit company; and these securities being de- posited for his own special use and benefit, he re- marks to himself: “if lilly travers comes to life now, she will be a very poor girl ; in building up my own fortune i have wrecked hers.” 'a small portion of these bonds, however, he sells and opens an account in a well-known bank, leaving with them a thumping big balance for future emergencies and the wedding trip that is now grow- ing gradually nearer and more certain. then he turns his attention to miss lilly travers’ affairs, and indites a letter in that young lady’s handwriting to miss connie in st. augustine, lilly stating that she has heard from mr. talbot the anxiety felt for her by her relative, and writes to reassure her. that' her maid jane has confessed to her that she tossed the garments over from the ocklawaha boat that night in her careless negro way to avoid the trouble of carrying the worn-out things along. miss lilly further states that she is going to europe for an extended tour and may perhaps even visit egypt and india and return via japan and san francisco; consequently, her aunt is to put all anxiety out of her head regarding her. this letter mr. talbot himself posts in new york, and then an emotional idea coming into his head—— that poor bessie will feel slighted if lilly does not _write to her-he chuckles to himself at the thought, and sends a very gushing girl’s letter, also in miss travers’ handwriting and bearing lilly’s signature, to his sweetheart, giving a very good recommenda' a florida enchantment. tion to himself and congratulating bessie upon the fine fellow she is going to get as a husband; stating that miss travers cannot be present at the wedding, on account of her immediate departure for europe, but that she sends through lawrence a present that will show her love for “ dearest bessie " and “dear lawrence,”whom she hopes to meet in europe very shortly. looking over this, mr. talbot thinks he has perpetrated a very sweet, practical joke upon his fiancée, and sealing it hands it to his man john to post ; for inspired with the delights that new york offers to a wandering bachelor, he is anxious to go to dinner with one or two gilded youths erstwhile adorers of lilly travers whose re-acquaintance he has made by letters of introduction to which he has also attached lilly travers’ signature, this youthful penman seeming like most other forgers to glory in his art. in company with these young gentlemen he has a very astonishing and enjoyable and perhaps wild evening, for he sees new york by gas-light for the first time from the standpoint of a man of wealth and fashion and it appears to him a very beautiful though a wondrously wicked city: and leaves his companions vastly delighted that he has never mar- ried one of them. the next morning finds him on a south-bound train, with a very handsome present he has bought at tiffany’s to give in the name/of lilly to his sweetheart, and an engagement ring that he fondly thinks will make bessie open her clear blue eyes. so on the evening of the fifth day from his do a florida enchantment. walked down to the cordova letter box, and not being well up in the postal service of the hotel, has asked doctor cassadene, who is lounging near, the proper way of disposing of the epistle. that gen- tleman, glancing at the envelope, has recognized the wellknown writing of his lost fiancée, as he reads the address, and after showing jack the letter box in which to deposit it, has asked excitedly, “ so, miss travers is in town—after all i" “ no, sah ! ” gasps jack. “ why, she must be here! that letter is from her.” “ no, sah! got de letter in new york. mr. tale bot gave me dat letter in new york, to post. i for‘ got to put it in, sah.” “well then, miss travers is in new yor .” “ certainly, sah! miss lilly travers in new york. —saw her maid jane der, sah—dc hotel buckin’- ' ham, sah. mr. talbot told me miss travers is gone to europe.” and having settled this matter in his easy darkey way, jack robbins, nee jane rouser, de- parts up-stairs, chuckling to himself triumphantly: “ reckon i had dat damn doctor!" he does not say anything about this, however, to his master, thinking perhaps that it is just as well not to confess he had forgotten to post the letter in new york. and to this thing being added other information that doctor frederick now receives from the ock- lawaha boat company; this gentleman’s eyes open very wide, as he says to himself: “ can it be? the infernal scoundrel!" a moment after he mutters, “ pshaw! impossible! what motive l” but still goes on thinking and putting two and two together a florida enchan tmen t. young gentleman shall call upon her that evening, as she expects a few friends for a euchre party, and idleness prompting this careless young man, who has not yet learned enough of beauty to fly from it, he accepts with alacrity her invitation. so that evening about nine o'clock, sending up his card, he is shown into the parlor of the widow’s ex- tensive suite of apartments, where the servant asks him to wait, stating that mrs. lovejoy will be with him in a few minutes. the euchre party apparently have not yet arrived, and lawrence idles his time away inspecting curios and knicknacks about the room. while doing so, he hears the servant announce to doctor cassadene, who apparently has called in per- son, that mrs. lovejoy is not at home, and with the vanity of very young men smiles and mutters, “i down freddie every trip. he’s not even invited to the euchre party." the door has hardly closed upon the doctor’s retreat, before stella proves to him that she is very much at home, by coming in laughingly, and saying, “ my party has disappointed me. you are the only one! ” then she adds: “ i am glad of it!” with her tenderest smile. “ and i, too ! ” returns lawrence, for he is looking upon a beautiful woman, who has made herself even more radiant and dazzling than is her wont, for his undoing, though in the innocence of his heart, mr. talbot does not know it. “your servant said you were not at home, a minute ago," he continues. “ yes, not at home to anybody but you. i thought as the euchre party had disappointed me, q a florida enchantment. \ as he emphasizes this with his eyes, she ringsa bell, and tea being shortly brought in, is poured out by her, in the free and easy manner of an accom- plished hostess, and gulped down in a nervous excited way by the youthful mr. talbot, who sits with uneasy eyes gazing at the alluring loveliness which has been thrown before him, to make him forget everything in this world, save the beauty of stella lovejoy, so that the lady may have the pleasure of hearing him speak some wild words of love, and tell him what a naughty boy he is, just to soothe her vanity —just to show him that all men are as wax before her. and this dashing, reckless young gentleman, who has had no such experience before in his short existence as a man, seems about to play the rble expected of him. his eyes look tenderly upon the gleaming picture before him and grow wilder and wilder and flash more and more fervidly as his circe plies him with the blandishments her experience has taught her effective with youthful worshippers of her charms. her eyes seem misty with tenderness, she shows him bashful blushes that enchant him and make him lose his adolescent head. each pose she gives him of her lovely self seems more beautiful than the one she moved from—she tantalizes him with her varying graces. once she seems angry with him and pouts and turns her back upon him, but it is to show the dainty dimples in her shoulders—she laughs because her teeth are pearls, she waves her hands because her arms would make the lost ones of the medicean venus, she play- a a florida enchantment. fully shows him the step of the last new society fad polka, but it is only that her little feet and adorable ankles in their silk and satin adornments may com. plete this boy’s conquest. and all the time by subtle arts of look and tone and gesture, she says to him “ i love you!" though not in words—and he is as tinder ready to blaze up—when she applies the spark. “ lawrence, play the gallant again ! ” she cries “ and put my tea-cup away.” he does so—their hands meet—their hands clasp ~—the tea-cup falls and is broken upon the hearth- stone. lawrence's eyes seek hers that droop before his impetuous glances; he hoarsely mutters : “ stella— my god! how beautiful you are! —" and in another moment would show his temptress, by some wild cry of passion, that lawrence talbot has for- gotten the tenderest, dearest little sweetheart upon this earth. as for the widow, her eyes are triumphant. she feels she has this fluttering, adolescent heart in her grasp. but at this moment, dallying with her power she destroys it. _ she whispers coquettishly: “ why, what would miss bessie say to this ? " and expects him to answer, " what do i care what she says! ” or other- wild words that will give her triumph over the innocent girl whose heart she would sacrifice to her vanity. but with bessie’s name, the charm is broken, the string of passion is snapped. mr. talbot turns deathly pale to his very lips and gasps these astounding words—f‘ she would say 'i a florida enchantmen'i‘. ‘ ognized his rival, and his valet jack robbins, as the two men who left the okalzumpka that same night at orange spring landing. filled with the idea that there was something mysterious in the whole affair, more especially as, after casual inquiry, he has discovered that the sup- posed missing heiress was a cousin of young talbot’s, he has written to the ocklawaha boat company, and received from them a reply that makes him wrinkle his brow very thoughtfully, for it states that no person by the name of lawrence talbot travelled on the oka/zumpka from silver spring on that trip. in fact, that no person by the name'of lawrence talbot has ever registered upon any of their boats. doctor fred utters a prolonged whistle on re- ceiving this information, and mutters to himself: “the fellow travelled incognito—surreptitiously. besides, he sneaked off the boat at an inconven- ient place on the river, apparently not daring to remain on the steamer till she reached palatka. therefore this young man's presence on the boat was for some purpose that he dared not disclose to others—perhaps with some criminal intent. his presence on the steamer may have had something to do with the mysterious disappearance of his cousin on that trip. though what motive could the young popinjay have had? ” he has said this to himself several times. but upon the knowledge being made public in st. au- gustine, that miss constantia had received a letter from her niece in new york, cassadene has put from his mind this suspicion as being impracticable for his purposes of revenge. a florida enchantment. though, seeing the letter addressed in his old sweetheart’s handwriting, in the hands of mr. tal- bot’s servant, it has again revived in his mind, and he has written to new york to the buckingham hotel, where jack had stated miss lilly travers had stopped, for information of that young lady’s movements. furthermore he has also written a let- ter to her new york lawyers, asking for information as to the date of miss travers’ departure for europe, knowing that they will answer him, as these gentle. men, he is confident, are aware of miss travers’ en- gagement to him, and probably she has not taken the trouble to tell them of the affair being broken off. the answers to these letters have not yet arrived, and at present he is in doubt as to what course he shall take on this point with the young gentleman whom he hates so cordially. but in investigating lawrence talbot’s record, he has also learned of the young man’s visit to southern florida, and inciden- tally heard of the remark of his guide, that lawrence talbot was the worst “ shooter” he had ever,seen, and had never hit anything in a three weeks' sport- ing tour, save the air. this fact coming strongly into his mind on the evening of the last terrible laceration of his vanity and pride as a capturer of women, and more par. ticularly the beautiful widow of the ponce de leon, it suddenly occurs to him that he can cover himself with glory and honor, at comparatively little risk to himself, by wiping his irritating rival out of his track by means of the good old-fashioned duello—the cus- tom of which has not yet entirely passed away from florida. an affair of this kind he fondly thinks will a florida enchantment. make him quite a hero, and will probably reinstate him thoroughly in the affections of the rich mrs. lovejoy, upon whose hand and whose fortune he has determined to make a desperate onset, ever since he suffered the shame of a second refusal from the new york heiress, upon the ocklawaha boat. filled with this idea, the next morning doctor freddie proceeds to put his bloodthirsty plan in operation, and as usual in such matters, is very cheerfully aided and abetted by the father of all duels—his satanic majesty! mr. talbot, aroused to bolt a hasty breakfast and make a hurried toilet, by his faithful servitor, john, goes to the depot,filled with the hope of again meet- ing his sweetheart, but finds himself disappointed. her father, stepping off the train, greets him very kindly, however, and says: “ my boy, you will have to wait till to-morrow. bessie couldn’t get through her shopping as quickly as she expected.” then the ex-confederate gives a sigh, for he knows his daughter has contrived to spend the value of a good many acres of phosphate land the preceding day in jacksonville, and he imagines that she will make even a more aggressive attack on his check-book when she has a full swing at the dry goods stores, uncontrolled by his presence and advice. the absence of his fiancée is not pleasing to mr. talbot, who has got desperately anxious for a sight of bessie’s blue eyes, and he mutters several anath- emas under his breath, as he and the major drive back' to the centre of the town, where that gentle man leaves his future son-in-law, and goes off on business of his own. a florida enchantment. so, lawrence, in rather a huffy temper, wanders into the ponce de leon billiard room, thinking he will kill time over the green cloth, and having been quite a feminine expert as miss lilly travers, goes to knocking the balls about in avicious and reckless, nervous way, waiting for some acquaintance to come in and indulge him in a game. this individual soon makes his appearance, in the person of mr. wilkes, the florida orange grower, who doesn’t love mr. talbot particularly well himself, but is very willing to win a few dollars from the young man, who, though he played well for a woman, is by no means an expert for a man. after a little, it chances that doctor freddie cassadene saunters in, his mind full of the purpose that had entered it the night before. so sitting down by the table, with this idea in view, he pro- ceeds to make ill-natured, ill-mannered, and gibing remarks about young talbot’s performances with the cue, laughing at his shots in a boisterous and sneer- ing manner. to these, after a time, this young gentleman, not being in the best of tempers, vreplies quite warmly, and with equally well intended witticisms, and finally remarks to the doctor: “why don’t you go up- stairs? i don’t see what you can enjoy down here. this is the gentleman’s department, and the lady’s is more in your line.” then he sneers, “ have they all deserted you? is the big adonis lonely? can’t he find a single sweetheart on the piazza? " which remark makes the doctor chew his mus~ tache very savagely, for it reminds him of the dis- eomfiture this young puppy, as he dubs him, has a florida enchantment. ! surreptitiously taken passage on the same boat, left it in the middle of the night at orange creek land- ing. third, since that time miss travers has really never been heard of, though this same lawrence talbot has brought a letter, purporting to come from miss travers in new york, where miss travers has not been ; therefore the letter is a forgery. from all this he concludes that lawrence talbot did murder his cousin, lilly travers, on the night of february th, and that he has kept the secret of her demise from her relatives and friends, by forged letters purporting to come from his victim, and that he had every motive for the act. for his cousin, believing in his honesty and manhood, had for some reason or other, left open to him her safe deposit box, he perhaps having some small sum in it, so that, lilly travers dead, all her wealth, securities, and bonds were as free to this young man, as if they were his own. “ he must have used them as his own," concludes the doctor, for lawrence’s presents to bessie have been the talk of st. augustine, and this young gen_ tleman has thrown his money away very recklessly and extravagantly on all occasions. looking over the evidence before him. cassadene sighs: “ my heaven! poor, poor lilly!” and then mutters to himself, dashing away a tear: “this infernal monster shall pay for his dastard work! i’ll hang the scoundrel as an assassin—not shoot him as i would a gentleman ! " ’ a florida enchantment. accomplice john robbins! ah ! that brought you!” cries the doctor in triumph, for at his words law- rence has grown very pale, and sunk into a chair, and there is a murmured “ oh golly! oh lawdy! i’se ’cused of suicide i " and a clashing together of ivories, from “ the accomplice, john robbins," who has gone into an ecstasy of mingled laughter and terror, in the next room. “ what—makes—you—think that p" stammers talbot after a moment. “ think it—i know it! ” cries the doctor. “ i can prove it! i can hang you, you cruel monster that murdered that poor girl, who would have loved me if you had but let her live i " but this is interrupted by a fearful giggle from lawrence. “quiet, you—you young fiend! ” biases cassa- dene. “ give me your proofs! " whispers lawrence. “ i would hate the man who had murdered lilly trav- ers as much as you—yes—muclz mare i ” “very well! here they are—convincing ones. only don’t try and come the sympathetic dodge—it won’t work on me. i was on the boat that night i " cries the doctor. “i saw you get off at grange spring landing—you and your accomplice john. you had the same suits of clothes on in which you left st. augustine for new yor ." ‘ “i admit i was on the beat," remarks lawnnce candidly. “ i remember perfectly miss travers threatening to knock you overboard, if you did put your hand upon her shoulder agalli.” “ah, ha! you confeaai " a fidrida enchantment. ing the doctor, he grows pale also, and murmurs. “ good heavens! what do you mean ?” “ i mean that you are not accusing me of murdu but suicide ! ” “ suicide? ha ha i—ho ho !—he he!" and the doctor jeers him. “ yes, suicide ! " cries lawrence desperately. “ for i am lilly travers! " “you, a man, assert that you’re a woman l " cas sadene gasps. “ i can prove it i " “ you tell this bosh to me—a doctor?" “ yes. listen to me, ” and he rapidly gives fred the record of two or three interviews, that no one but lilly travers could know. but cassadene turns this off with, “ bah! she has told them to you. she trusted you as her cousin, and you murdered her! " “not at all! i simply transformed her into myselfl " “what gibberish are you giving me?" cries the doctor. “ do you think you will escape by making yourself out a lunatic?” then he turns pale, for he suddenly thinks he is in the presence of a madman whose craze is murder. “ i am as sane as you are! don't bandy words!" begs lawrence appealingly. “listen to me, fred, and believe." then to his accuser’s astonishment, he says: “ you remember the casket i spoke to you about purchasing, at vedder’s?" “ yes," says cassadene, shortly, as anxious to put a stop to what he thinks absurd palaver. “ you remember how you deceived me by writing a florida enchantment. the jury and they will put you in an insane asylum, but never anywhere else. keep the hand that slaughtered my lost sweetheart away from me. i am going to have you arrested i " “ that you shall not do!" cries lawrence desper. ately. “ i can prove by one of these seeds—by trans- forming myself into a woman_again, that though now i am lawrence talbot, i once was lilly travers.” “very well!" scofl's the doctor. “take it! swallow it in front of me, and when you become lilly travers again, i will love you as of old, and i will marry you ! ” but lawrence, starting back, gasps: “ marry you, who make love to all women, and think as little of breaking a girl’s heart as you would of destroying a microbe—marry you—never! and for that reason i’ll never become a woman again! but you shall not make this public! my god! what would bessie say? her father would regard me as one ac- cursed—she would look on me as weird—uncanny— unnatural—she would not marry me. you shall believe—by this i " and opening the vial, lawrence takes forth one of the obi-seeds of hauser oglethorpe. “ you will take it p ” says cassadene to lawrence, who is half minded, in his despair, to become a woman again, for one short moment, to make this man believe him. but as he thinks this and shudders at it, looking through the open curtains of the door to his bed- room, he sees the stalwart ethiopian his maid jane has developed into, and motions. and the negro a florida enchantment. this scene would be weird and awful and crud were it not for the hideous laughter of the negro, who gufiaws: “ golly ! s'pose we had been brought up for murd'rin’ ourselves! dat ain’t a possible crime, is it, mr. lawrence?”‘and chuckles now and then, “ what will de widder say to yo’, missus doctor!” and other hideous samples of darkey wit and humor. but there is a knocking at the door, and lawrence says: “ open it! i think we have nothing to fear from this lady ! " and bows politely to cassadene, who suddenly looks at him, and astonishes him by saying: “ what a handsome young man you are ! " as the major enters the apartment. this gentleman starts upon seeing the doctor, and says : “ this visit to the gentleman i represent is so out of time and place, that hearing of it from an employee of the hotel, i found your second, and brought mr. wilkes with me to take you away. i demand your withdrawal from this room until you meet my friend upon the field of honor. these pistols, i think, mr. wilkes, will settle the business," and he produces two good old-fashioned duelling pistols. but here the doctor rises from his seat, and says, nervously: “ you are sure they are not loaded! i don’t like to look at pistols ! they always make me frightened. their noise is quite shocking! " and wilkes and the major stare at each other astonished. “ why, you fire-eater ! ” cries the ex-confederate. “ is the rage oozing out of the ends of your fingers? you have come here to apologize, i suppose." “ i didn't come here for that, but i am so nervous about pistols and such things ; please put them a fidrida enchanthent-. r claims: “ was it about a woman?" next, apparently frightened, stammers: “ no, no; don’t tell me.” “ it was about a woman," answers lawrence. “ah! don't tell me." “ it was about lilly travers," continues this young man in nonchalant prevarication. “ ah !—he thought she loved you p” says bessie. “ no; cassadene thought i had been instrumental in preventing that young lady marrying him." “ and you were ?" “ very much! i was the chief obstacle to his leading lilly travers to the altar, and he knows 'it now.” with this lawrence gives a little laugh. this is echoed by the young lady; who says: “ i am very glad you prevented lilly marrying the doctor. i think he is very insincere in his attentions to my sex. look at poor stella lovejoy at the ponce de leon—how he has dallied with her.” “well,i rather imagine this deal has fixed him with her also,” says lawrence, his ripple of laughter growing into a broad grin. next he asks: “ but bess, how about the trousseau ?"-and continues nervously: “will it be ready in time?" for this young man, in the presence of his vivacious fiancée, grows very anxious for his coming happiness. ‘, “y-e-s," murmurs miss bess, getting rosy with blushes, and the two go into a conversation that only lovers engage in who have passed the rubicon of courtship and whose wedding-day and wedding~bells and orange blossoms are very near to them. but before this takes place, a very curious adven- ture happens to mr. talbot. chancing to visit jacksonville one day on some errand for his sweet: a florida enchantmentc heart, he stops at the st. james hotel, and while there, word is brought to him that a lady wishes to see him in the parlor. he carelessly steps in, and a tall, gaunt, masculine-looking woman with a hunted look in her face, gathering her gown about her in an uneasy way, rises and glares at him, whispering: “ don't you know mepi’ he almost staggers as he gasps: “ doctor freddie! " “don’t mention my late name, dear,” she says, giving him what she imagines to be a captivating ogle. “ i dare not go back to st. augustine, but i waited around here, for i could not leave you. you looked so beautiful to me that awful day you made me a woman, that i have lingered about hoping to see your loved face once more before you foolishly wedded another and destroyed both our lives. for the memory of our old love has come into my heart to make me, as a woman, love you as a man." to this lawrence replies nothing, though his face grows very white; and she goes on again in the im_ pulsive manner of woman’s self-sacrifice, and says: “ if you will marry me, i will make you the best wife in this world. i will complain of nothing. i will be your slave—your idolater—your worshipper, my own, my beautiful boy! you shall go to the club and i will not reproach you if you stay out till the morning hours. you shall have the love of a wife, with the devotion of a slave. you are all that is left for me now. think how i love you ! ” and she gives him loving glances that seem to him hideous coming from this gaunt and masculine creature. he shudderingly mutters: “ no ! no ! impossible." reasons why you s h u l d obtain a cat- alogue of our publications . you will possess a comprehen- sive and classified list of all the best standard books published, at prices less than offered by others. . you will find listed in'our cata' logue books on every topic : poetry, fiction, romance, travel, adven- ture, humor, science, history, re- ligion, biography, drama, etc., be- sides dictionaries and manuals, bibles, recitation and hand books, sets, octavos, presentation books and juvenile and nursery literature in immense variety. a parlal to u: will place it in your band: . you will be able to purchase books at prices within your reach; as low as cents for paper covered books, to $ . for books bound in cloth or leather, adaptable for gift and presentation purposes, to suit the tastes of the most critical. . you will save considerable money by taking advantage of our special discounts, which we offer to those whose purchases are large enough to warrant us in making a reduction. hurst &: ( ., ‘pablr'shers, , , broadway, new york. helen’s babies shhn habberton interesting! entertaining! amusing! book with a famous reputation. it is safe to say that no book, illustrating the doings of child- ren, has ever been published that has reached the popularity enjoyed by “ helen's babies." brilliantly written, habberton records in this volume some of the cutest, wittiest and most amusing of childish sayings, whims and pranks, all at the expense of a bachelor uncle. the book is elaborately illustrated, which greatly assists the reader in appreciating page by page, habberton's masterpiece. published as follows: popular price edition, cloth, ., postpaid. quarto edition, with six colored plates, cloth, $ . , postpaid. we guarantee that you will not suffer from “ the blues " after reading this book. ask for our complete catalogue. mailed upon request. hurst & c .. publishers, - broadway, new york. | - | || | | | - - - - - - - - - - - - - -- - --|| |--| ----- |- | -- --- -----| | -| -|-|-||| | | |-| ----|- | || | | william charvat american fiction collection the ohio state university libraries - : k/ * the flight of a pigeon and other stories arthur henry maude wood henry illustrations by jessamy harte toledo qöl. . squire publisher copyright, , by arthur henry. ten short stories. page. the flight of a pigeon ------------------ the spinster of drowsy dingle--------- hallidina and the king's hair---------- the magic milk-pan ----------, --- - - - eudora : a hamadryad . .--------------- jack-in-the-pulpit ----------------- - - - - jack frost: magician- - - - - - - - ------ the wood-witch --------- - - - - - - - - - -- a forest tragedy------- - - - - - - - - - - the forgotten goddess-- - - - ------------ ^ heodora was the daughter % of a peasant. the valley which had been the home of her people for many generations was one of the most beautiful in the kingdom. her father's ancient cottage stood on the border of a beech grove, and a cheerful brook passed not many yards away. on all sides of the peaceful valley stretched the flight of a pigeon. forests and hills, and in the distance could be seen on clear days the turrets of three castles: one to the north, one to the west, and one upon the crest of a formidable cliff far to the east. to the south, at the head of the valley, was the king's court and his palace of the royal oaks. for many summers theodora had plied her spinning-wheel in the door- yard of her father's cottage and watched the glimmer of the sunshine upon the distant turrets. sometimes a brilliant cavalcade passed through the valley, and the ladies' jewels and the rich adornments of the merry gentlemen filled her with wonder. sometimes she spoke of these things to adolphus, the son of a neighboring farmer; but adolphus only frowned and grew angry with her reveries. her father would shake his head re- the flight of a pigeon. provingly, and her mother would say: “we are to be thankful, theodora, for our simple life in the valley,” or : “it is a blessing that we see no more of these fine people.” but the dreams of theodora were spun of richer thread than her homely garments, and she looked in silence toward the hills. one day adolphus was seated alone upon a mound in the meadow, while all about him roamed a flock of sheep. but he was not watching them. his face was hidden in his hands. that very morning he had been to theo- dora's cottage and she had not smiled. all day the sorrowful lover sat upon the mound. butterflies flitted about his shoulders; ground-squirrels frisked at his feet, and even the sheep were conscious of his neglect, and looked at him at times inquiringly. the flight of a pigeon. when his shadow had stretched for some distance to the east, he looked about him listlessly and called his flock. many had wandered far down the valley, but at the sound of his voice they lifted their mild eyes and returned. they, too, hung their heads as their master led them home. when the gates of the fold were se- cured, adolphus entered the little stable where a team of good horses would find a shelter for the night. the father had not yet returned, and a silence strangely soothing to the heavy-hearted adolphus pervaded the place. he looked toward the loft and whistled. there was a flutter of wings, and a pigeon sailed out of the dusk and settled gracefully upon his alr . “ah, my little anita,” sighed adol- phus, caressing its soft throat lightly. the flight of a pigeon. “were you only a woman i might for- get one who wounds me so.” anita crept to his shoulder and nestled there. “’nita,” cried adolphus, suddenly, “i will give you to her. who knows but that your simple love and content- ment may change her heart? she is good, anita, and she loves me; but the glitter of the ladies' jewels has filled her mind with foolish fancies. go, my sweet anita, and teach her thine own contentment.” holding the pigeon gently against his breast, he hastened through the valley to the cottage of theodora. she was sitting in the twilight on the door-sill, listening to the wind stir- ring idly in the beech-trees, and the merry little brook as it scampered past. she looked up as adolphus came before her. the flight of a pigeon. “theodora,” he said, simply, “i have brought you anita; will you care for her for me?” she saw the great dark eyes of her lover moisten with an uncontrollable tenderness, and her breath came quickly. “adolphus,” she exclaimed, “for- give me. how can you care for one so vain as i ?” then she placed her hands upon his great shoulders and lifted up her lips. anita flitted from one to the other, cooing and fussing like the comfortable and knowing creature she really was. for a long time after this theodora never looked to see if the sun shone upon the castles, nor gave a thought to the gay life of the king's court. she spun diligently the flight of a pigeon. presence of such splendor, the leader of the company, a fierce and stalwart courtier, rode close to her, and touch- ing the plume of his bonnet, said lightly: “my sweet maid, have you a draught of milk for one of the ladies who at- tends me? it is a long way yet to the king's court, and she is weary.” “indeed, sir,” said theodora, blush- ing in confusion, “will you not all drink of my mother's wine per- haps,” she added hastily, “it will seem very poor to you.” the knight looked down upon the blushing maiden with a curious smile. bewildered and filled with strange emotions, theodora hastened into the cottage. she filled all the glasses in the place with the delicious wine that had stood so long untasted in the cool cellar, and with the assistance of her the flight of a pigeon. knight with the melodious voice and the plumed bonnet. he looked hastily toward the cottage. “i have not forgotten you, pretty one,” said he. “yonder is my castle on the cliff.” he pointed to the east. “your dainty wrists were made for bracelets and your throat for jewels. silken slippers should clasp your feet. come, will you not go with me?” she hung her head. there was that in his voice and tempting words, his manner and the splendor of his apparel that confused her. anita fluttered to her breast. she clasped the pigeon passionately. “no, no,” she sobbed, “i cannot—i–i cannot.” then the knight leaned quickly from his saddle, caught her from the ground and galloped up the valley. adolphus found the old mother weep- ing in the cottage that evening, and the flight of a pigeon. heard of theodora's disappearance from the father, who sat in stern com- posure by her side. adolphus made no reply, but as he turned from the cottage he stopped upon the threshold and shook his great fist at the castle to the north, and the one to the west, and the one upon the crest of a for- midable cliff to the east; then with a single sob of anguish he hurried away. no sooner had theodora felt the strong arm of the stranger knight about her than her foolish vanity van- ished forever, and she pleaded piteous- ly to be released. the knight paid no attention to her appeals, but spurred his horse on the faster. just as they were leaving the valley they were joined by the cavalcade which had before attended him. the ladies recognized in theodora the pretty the flight of a pigeon. great gates of the court closed be- hind. when the knight placed her on the ground and dismounted, she fell upon her knees and cried : “what is it that you want of me? i am but a poor peasant girl, and love none but adolphus. do not force me to live away from my people in the valley. you need not take me back, but in the name of pity, let me step without the gate yonder and i will find my own way.” the merry gentlemen and ladies laughed at this simple plea, and the great knight who had brought her there replied: “it is not every peasant's daughter that is born to grace the palace of a a lord, my foolish maiden. and now, if you have satisfied your modesty, you may accompany a servant to your chamber. there you will find gar- ments more suited to your new station, the flight of a pigeon. and a necklace of pearls which i fancy you will not find unworthy to wear.” theodora bowed her head in despair, and pressed more closely the faithful anita, who had nestled to her bosom all the way, hidden by the loose folds of her garments. then she arose and silently followed the attendant to the chamber, which seemed to be already prepared for her. she looked about her for a moment, and then, overcome by fright and weariness, sank upon a couch to weep. anita did not seem to take the mat- ter so seriously as her mistress. she shook herself and arranged her ruffled feathers. when this hasty toilet was completed, she said, “theodora– theodora,” as plainly as she could, and hopped upon the shoulder of the unhappy girl. theodora dried her eyes and cried : the flight of a pigeon. “oh, my beloved anita, what am i to do?” the pigeon replied, almost as distinctly as any one could have done : “look, theodora. look— look, theodora,” and then flew to a writing cabinet across the room. theodora understood, and with a cry of delight ran first to the door to fasten it and then to the cabinet. she wrote hastily: “my adolphus, believe that i love you. if you can but rescue me from the castle on the cliff i will never leave you alone for even a moment again. i now see how simple my dreams have been. hasten, adolphus, for i know not what may befall me.” this she tied hastily beneath the wing of anita, and pressing the bird passionately to her breast she hastened to the window. anita left the hand of her mistress and ascended in swift the flight of a pigeon. circles high into the air. then, as if catching a glimpse of the little cot- tage far away in the valley, she selected her course and in a few moments van- ished from the view of the trembling theodora at the window. but theodora did not notice the dan- ger that threatened her messenger. scarcely had anita fixed her course when she was spied by a falcon that chanced to be loose in the courtyard. the fierce hunter instantly spread its wings and before anita was aware of the attack was hovering directly over her. it was indeed a desperate race. twice the falcon struck at her with its fatal taions, and each time anita escaped only by a miracle. them both the pigeon and the pursuer sped with almost incredible speed, with hardly a feather's breadth between them. sud- denly the falcon rose abruptly and the flight of a pigeon. wheeling about in a wide circle, re- turned. had the pigeon confided to him the nature of her errand, and had the story touched the heart of the falcon? it may have been, for on his return he settled for a moment on the window-sill of - the captive's chamber and peered curi- = ously within. meanwhile anita was nearing the - * '' "... cottage in the ... ... " "ma ". . . it ". * . #. | valley. already the ... '" - shadows of the early " ",". - |- " - evening were lengthen- ing. did the pigeon spy the bowed head of adolphus as he was hastening toward the forest? suddenly there was a terrible whistle beneath her and then a pain in her breast. it was an the flight of a pigeon. arrow. she fell heavily to the ground. a knight rode through the bushes to where she lay and looked down upon her. he caught the reproachful glance in the eyes of the dying pigeon and then he saw the note beneath her wing. he leaped from his horse and took anita tenderly from among the violets where she had fallen. “i am indeed a murderer,” he mut- tered, and unfastened the note hastily. “alas! what have i done ” he cried, as he read the pitiful appeal of theo- dora. “i cannot now discover this adolphus, for you alone know the way.” at that moment a rough hand was aid upon his arm and the face of a youth peered fiercely into his. “i am adolphus,” he said, hoarse- ly. “what new evil do you seek to do ine ” the flight of a pigeon. and bowed heads. the great sir gaspar himself and all his lordly reti- nue hastened from the palace to meet them. from all the people in the court came the shout : “the king ! the king ! long live the king !” adolphus then understood the mys- tery, and in his confusion forgot to remove his bonnet of coarse sheepskin. “stop, gaspar,” said the king stern- ly, as the lord of the castle approached him. “bring forth the daughter of the peasant you have captive here.” sir gaspar turned pale with rage. he clapped his hand impetuously to his sword-hilt. he looked at the stern face of the king and hesitated. then with a bow of submission he entered the palace, and while the court and the retainers of the proud lord stood by in wonder he brought theodora to the flight of a pigeon. the king. she had not changed her garments, and there were no pearls upon her breast. the king bent to- ward her gravely and laid the body of anita in her hands. “take this dead bird, and let her truth and constancy live again in thy love for adolphus. adolphus, here is thy bride. as for thee, gaspar, i will leave thy title and thy lands at the mercy of theodora. speak, my child; shall i make a lord of thy young hus- band and a peasant of this knight?” “pray take me from these desolat- ing walls and let me live in the peace- ful valley with adolphus. i care no longer for the titles or the dwellings of others. poor anita, i would you had been the woman whom adolphus oved.” adolphus took the weeping maiden into his strong arms and comforted cbe spinster of #drowgp tingle. the spinster of drowsy dingle. * own in drow sy dingle was the strangest school £ = that was ever kept. not that * * the mistress of it was peculiar, • \} for she was only an ancient spinster with green spectacles over her nose and two long curls in front of her ears. not that the children were dif- ferent from ordinary children, for they made paper wads and faces at the poor spinster. not that the school-house was odd, for it was just a little red school-house cut up somewhat with jack-knives. spinster of drowsy dingle. girls with flaxen pig-tails. the same old women related how the ogre was finally made captive by a gentle little elf, no bigger than one's thumb, who touched him first with her willow wand and then bade him follow her out of the dingle, which he did, never ap- pearing again. all the children were, of course, released from the spells of the ogre and returned to the bosoms of their rejoicing parents. to be sure there were those who laughed at the tales of the old women; but a few good souls believed down in their hearts that the ogre had existed, and when the village built - the red school-house . on the very edge of *]." drowsy dingle, they £ protested loudly and tna even kept their chil- t", - % z spinster of drowsy dingle. this secret reason that the spinster kept her school out of doors all the summer long. drowsy dingle was an enchanting spot. it was a hollow set deep below the school-house, fringed round with trees that the ground close by * the green bank where the children said their lessons. many wood-blooms grew in the dell, thrust- ing their fragrant cups beneath the long nose of the spinster and the snub- noses of her boys and girls. school here was one long sunshiny holiday, vastly better than when held in the red school-house, where the butterflies and soft winds tempted truancy. spinster of drowsy dingle. june had come to drowsy dingle, when, one day, the spinster laid aside her green spectacles to rest her weary eyes. she had just done this when a horseman galloped down the lane that leads to the dell. he kept straight on until he arrived on the outskirts of the little school. when the children saw the stranger they dropped their books and opened their eyes and mouths, staring at him until he laughed aloud. his voice was so light and gay that the spinster hastily donned her green glasses, and soon, like the children, she was staring hopelessly at the in- truder. instead of laughing, the stranger doffed his hat and politely bade her good-morning. at this, the spinster, though ancient, simpered and blushed. what an apparition was this youth for a summer's day ! such manly grace had never before pene- spinster of drowsy dingle. trated drowsy dingle. in truth, it may be said, that since the time of the ogre no man other than the long- bearded magistrates of the village had ever set foot into the dell at all. gaudy plumes nodded in the three- cornered hat of the horseman. a broidered girdle confined his silken waistcoat, while over this was care- lessly worn a cape of such magnificent pattern that the spinster sighed as she looked upon it. even his boots had a jaunty air; and the manner in which the youth cracked his riding-whip against the heels of his black steed was entrancing in itself. before the school was through with its wonder- ing gaze the stranger addressed the spinster. “i crave indulgence, fair maiden,” he said, “for thus awkwardly stum- bling upon your charming school. i spinster of drowsy dingle. was making my way through the vil- lage and but happened to take the side-path which led me here. but if you can find it in your heart to pardon, i will further trespass upon your kind- ness and tarry a while for rest.” this polite language overcame the spinster. she coughed, and, taking off her spectacles again, polished them until they shone. but the ease of the handsome youth soon banished her confusion. she fell to talking ani- matedly about the school, even relat- ing the tales concerning the dingle. these pleased the visitor vastly. be- fore he mounted his horse to leave the dell he bent gallantly above the ven- erable damsel, imprinted a kiss upon her withered fingers and promised to return. the spinster sat watching the youth until the last vestige of his bright spinster of drowsy dingle. remembered that the spinster had al- ways thought she would. and here she was, happily, opportunely enough. her face was like a rose-leaf, and she wore a spangled crown. in her hand was a willow wand, the identical wand that once touched the dreadful ogre. she addressed the spinster. “i have intended these many months to make myself known to you,” she began cordially, “for it is pleasant indeed to find one who has faith in invisible creatures. i should have come before had i not wisely foreseen that some day i could be of more ser- vice to you.” here the elf pointed her wand in the direction taken by the gallant youth. “in a word, my dear melinda, i will show you a spring where you may find the youthful beauty you seek. come with me.” spinster of drowsy dingle. the spinster needed no second bid- ding. she hurried after the fairy, and presently reached a spot in the dingle hitherto unknown to her. she lost no time in peering into the spring. and to her great joy she no more beheld the bobbing ear-curls and green specta- cles. instead, a girlish face of sur- passing fairness, all dimpled and pink, flashed its saucy reflection at her. her garments, too, were transformed. such an exquisite frock as she wore had never been dreamed of in the vil- lage. her lean and withered hands were now as plump as partridges. her arms were round. her throat was white. her feet were shod in slippers smaller than the famed cinderella's. but, better than all, her heart was filled with all the delightful impulses and hopes of maidenhood. she turned to thank the fairy, but the little crea- spinster of drowsy dingle. it touched only a soft little ringlet that had fallen low on her forehead. this consoled her somewhat. she re- , flected that after all the stranger might return, as he had shown un- usual interest in her tales of the dell and its dreadful inhabitant, the ogre. “but if he should, how can i ever speak to him ” said poor melinda, seeing herself again as a spinster. then she remembered, with a merry laugh, that he would not know her as the spinster at all. she would make a conquest on her own account, and if he really had felt any admiration for the ugly damsel she had been, she concluded, coquettishly, that it would not be difficult to transfer his fancy. so melinda tripped along holding the lace ruffles of her cambric skirt high above her pretty slippers that she might the better see them. often she spinster of drowsy dingle. stopped in the shadowy dingle to pluck a buttercup for her corsage, or to hold it beneath her chin for a moment, her ran upon what would the villagers as children do. thoughts many things. say of her frock, and what should she tell them of herself? she enjoyed the idea of appearing among the country maidens, of eclipsing them all and arousing fears for the ir sweethearts. this brought her back again to the h and so me youth. again she fell to musing about him, and a shyness crept into her girlish heart as she dreamed of love. spinster of drowsy dingle. “at any rate, fair maid,” continued the youth boldly, “she promised me, when her school was done for the day, that she would show me the mysteries of this charming dell. perhaps, now, you are acquainted with the tales con- cerning it, or know the very spot where the old ogre used to hide the children. ” he had ridden nearer, this jaunty lad, and bent from his horse to peep more closely into melinda's face. she twisted the ribbons of her straw hat, while her heart beat so loudly that she thought he must surely hear it. in this way they stood there. finally melinda dared to raise her eyes and even smiled at the stranger's pleas- antries. “come now,” he said at last, “why should you not show me the dell, as i spinster of drowsy dingle. down beside him gently. there was no need to gain her consent. so the youth told to her wondering ears a tale of the home of his youth, far away from drowsy dingle : a home across the blue sea in a sunny land. he had wandered away one day — a long time ago, it seemed to him now, in quest of adventure. all that he had loved in the old home were gone, he told her sadly; the house with its vine-covered walls alone awaited him. but he could not return to its de- serted gardens, not even for the sunny skies above them. “some day,” he murmured, and then forgot to finish what he had meant to say, for he had taken melinda's hand in his and was pressing it ever so lightly, while he tried to peer into her eyes. but, sad as it may seem, melinda spinster of drowsy dingle. saw, at that very moment, the ogre. there he was, not a dozen yards dis- tant, sitting on a stump, with his legs crossed, a broad grin showing every one of his long yellow teeth, and a demon glaring from each green eye. the apparition frightened her so that —well, poor melinda awakened from her pretty dream. she found herself an ancient spin- ster, leaning against the trunk of a tree, and surrounded by a group of tow- headed children, all fast asleep. on the ground lay the green spectacles that had fallen off while she slum- bered. the two long curls bobbed spitefully about her ears again. it was growing dark. the spin- ster, still feeling the warm hand-pres- sure of the gallant youth, arose and strained her eyes for a glimpse of him tballioina ano * : .. - - Ż the king' tbair. * * * : , , , , – ./ * '' i. l | | - ''' - | ". * |||| - * ". - ~~~ - || || || || - * ** | - '' r" - all lift || || | | | | || | | || || | - | || t | : , : - – - - : | | - "> a ~ . --- - £ * *~e. **z, *- ==-- - - - - - ~- * * "l. - - *>- - - * * - - - --. - - - - " - hallidina. “when i am rich,” answered hal- lidina hopefully, “i will give you a bag of gold for your goat's milk.” late in the afternoon he saw the turrets of a great castle towering over the trees, and turning a bend in the road he crø ** * ing handson- er than he had ever seen before. he thought this must be the mansion of the king. as he stood in the dusty road wondering if he could slip into the stables to sleep, the door of the mansion opened and a fat woman with a lace cap on her curls and a silken apron tied about her comfortable waist, came out hurriedly. hallidina. “you beautiful boy—my raphael !” she exclaimed, catching the astonished wanderer to her breast. “i—i am not your raphael,” he gasped, attempting to free himself in vain. “i am hallidina, the son of a shepherd.” “listen '" said the woman, releas- ing him from her embrace, but still holding his hand tightly, “i live here. my little boy raphael is dead; but his hair was long and hung in golden curls as yours does, and his face was as fair and innocent. will you not come to fill his place will you live with me?” it suddenly occurred to hallidina that this might be the fortune he was looking for, and that at least such a bed as he knew must be in the mansion was better than stable straw. so he hallidina. let the motherly woman lead him into the house. it was not until the next day that he discovered it was merely the home of the king's gate-keeper, and that the king's palace was fur- ther on, along a forest road. the turrets could be plainly seen above the trees in the distance. this depressed him very much, for although there were many strange lux- uries about him, his dreams had placed him far above the child of a gate-keeper — even to the king. but he would not abandon the good o woman so unworthily, and determined to make her miss the dead raphael as ittle as possible. hallidina. one day little hallidina was seated on a stone in the forest, watching the squirrels chasing each other about the trees. suddenly he saw a child before him. at first he thought her the queen of the fairies, but as he looked he saw she was very nearly his own size and that she smiled upon him. he arose hastily that she might be seated on the stone. never before had he seen raiment so rich and dainty. her little white hands were adorned with two tiny rings, one set with a pearl that shone as a dewdrop in the sun, and one with a brilliant topaz. and the two played together in the forest. after a time she said she must go or the people would become uneasy about her. so she kissed hallidina, and pat- ted his soft cheeks with her fairy hands and departed, saying she would return. -> - : l i. | \ s :*/el | '. t £ -"lil', . - | −". Ż - * - . ~~~~ - hallidina. the summer passed and every day the little sun-child, as hallidina called her, came to the cottage of the gate- keeper. the good woman, who had learned to love hallidina as her son, looked on at their play with a strange expression of wonder and apprehen- sion. in the mornings she and hal- lidina had many conversations, and she told him wonderful stories of the king and his great court, until he longed and feared to venture there. but he forgot all these wandering fancies in the presence of the sun-child. one day she said to him : “i wish you might marry me, hal- lidina.” “ah,” cried the boy, clasping her hands eagerly, “why should it not be so ” “because,” she answered, looking sadly at a star-flower growing at her hallidina. where it touches the earth. and no one has ever tried to tell the number of hairs on my father's head, because of course no one knows. and so, my darling hallidina, it cannot be, unless we should prevail upon my father to relent.” “why do all these people obey your father ? what does the king say to such a strange thing here in his king- dom ?” “the king !” said the child, “my father is the king.” - “why,” cried hallidina, merrily, “then he can order everything as he pleases, and perhaps he will do away with those stupid tasks.” so the two hurried through the woods to the king's court. hallidina was full of wonder at the splendor of the palace and bewildered by the con- fusion. horses were prancing and hallidina. neighing as the grooms led them to exercise, and hundreds of servants in gay apparel stared hard at the youth as the princess led him past. and though the princess held his hand tightly to reassure him, he felt not a little awe as he thought of the great king on his throne. he was sur- prised when she led him straight to a fat, jovial looking fellow, seated at the door of the great stables enjoying a sun-bath and the sight of his beau- tiful horses. “father,” said the maid, placing one of her little hands on his big, round knee, “this is hallidina, and he wishes to marry me. he cannot cut down the forest of the twelve bats, as you can see, nor can he throw a stone across the lake in the valley, and as no one has ever been absurd enough to attempt a tower to the hallidina. moon, or to tell the number of the hairs on your dear old head, you cannot ex- pect him to. but, father, hallidina is my true lover.” she looked beseechingly into the face of the aston- ished king and hesitated. then the king looked up- on hallidina, who stood proudly by the side of the princess, entirely un con- scious of the boldness of his adventure. then he looked at his daughter again and the sight of her tender anxiety worried him. just to gain time he said to hallidina : “who are you that you should ask for the princess ” “i am the son of thoss elbert, the shepherd.” at this the king grew suddenly angry. “thoss elbert i" he shouted, hallidina. frowning fiercely on the startled chil- dren, “thoss elbert ! your dishonest father, my sweet-faced boy, sold me a sick lamb, and i nearly died after eat- ing it. the servants will feed you, but don’t let me ever see you with the princess again.” and the king caught his daughter in his arms and carried her weeping into the palace. when hallidina saw her last she was kicking her tiny heels against her father's big breast, and pulling with all her strength at his beard. hallidina rushed after them, shout- ing : “you have six hundred thousand and three hairs on your head. i have fulfilled the task i have fulfilled the task " but the palace door was shut, and he could only beat it with his hands, and cry : “i have fulfilled the hallidina. task.” suddenly an angry servant appeared and said: “what do you want? come, brat, don’t make so much noise here.” hallidina instantly composed him- self, and said calmly : “i merely wish to announce that i have come to tell the king the number of hairs on his head and to demand the hand of the princess ''” the servant looked upon him in as- tonishment, but went with his mes" sage to the king. “how, now !” demanded the king sternly, when he was admitted to his presence. “you are as impudent as your father is dishonest.” “sir,” answered hallidina, looking in vain for the princess, “you have six hundred thousand and three hairs on your head.” “how do you know that ?” hallidina. “i am not required to tell how i discovered it, but merely to announce the number. i have done so, and now i demand the hand of the princess.” “hold on,” said the king with a look of cunning, “not so fast. you are wrong by thirteen. there are six hundred thousand and sixteen hairs on my head, sir, and you shall be turned out naked into the woods because of your insolence.” “i maintain that i am right,” an- swered hallidina stoutly, “and re- quest a count.” “a count ” cried the king. “a count,” repeated hallidina firm- y. there was evidently no way out of it, for the king was just, and though he summoned his wise men and pondered over the uncomfortable situation, he saw no reasonable ground on which to refuse the count. hallidina. meanwhile the princess, all unawares of the adventure of her little lover, grieved because she could not find him. she spent all of her nights weeping and her days in fruitless search. hal- lidina was kept a prisoner in the palace while the king consulted with his wise men. the day was set. “the king is to have his hair counted,” whispered the servants and the people about the palace, until the strange event was noised far and near. the wood-chopper in the forest of the twelve bats redoubled his efforts, and the men by the lake sought desperate- ly for the enchanted stone, which was said to lie somewhere along the shore. the princess heard of it and grew very faint. “what if he were right !” she whispered to her heart, and then she cried aloud to hallidina, asking if he had forgotten her. hallidina. the day came. hallidina stood upon the chair beside the king and in the presence of his whole court began to count. every time he separated a hair from the rest he pulled it a little, and the king passed the most unhappy hour of his '..." = life. “can't you avoid : pulling ?” he cried. “if i ' could,” answered hallidina . ly should, but you see your hair is in such a tangle that there ... is no other way of be- w . ing accurate.” “ouch!” exclaimed the king, squirming uneasily on his throne, “great heavens, how can i endure it!” just then the princess, who had not dared to venture upon the scene before, peered anxiously into the room. she hallidina. saw hallidina, and hastily arranging her curls she fairly flew across the floor, and fell weeping and laughing together at her father's feet. “stop!” cried the king, lifting his hand toward hallidina. “i cannot harden myself longer against the tears of my beautiful daughter. take her, hallidina, and for goodness' sake stop pulling my hair.” so hallidina and the princess were married. thoss elbert came to live in the palace, and he and the old king quarreled together with great mutual pleasure for ..'s: the old wo- £ the bag of ~ goat's milk, £f of the gate- many years. man received gold for her and the wife keeper was appointed the royal nurse. but nobody ever knew just how many hairs the king had on his the dagic dill-pan. & - ^ -z. a << || || ~ < % * : – - = | # . ill #|| | o "||t. t %z. | * - - - - | |x| # *\ £ ź. # # n \ % - % \ {}(x) # (#) £% Ž %z% - - % -ull.ii:# }/ | - - p | % % % % # © | – |-> t-tttt a % Ż < the magic milk-pan. reenbriar-wood lay a full league away from the lit- tle cottage of giles and josepha. hith- * er the young couple " ' betook themselves * * one bright march # n day, giles with his axe swung over % his shoulder and - josepha binding her *: z. yellow tresses away %--~~ from the wind. giles ". talked of the tree he intended felling in the border, but his the magic milk-pan. would never have replied in this man- ner, no matter how foolish a thought josepha had ventured. but a year of wedded life often robs men of the soft speech of courtship days—and, in truth, they frequently become far more sensible. josepha, however, minded not the cynical giles. her tongue ran on, dwelling upon the strange ways of the old woman of the woods, who was said to hunt her precious roots only at dawn and twilight, van- ishing the moment the sun sailed clear of the rosy morning mist, or the first star trembled in the evening sky. it was evident, too, from what josepha related—though unheard by giles, for he had taken to whistling – that the herb-woman minded well her business, eluding the prying eyes of those who ventured into greenbriar-wood by the magic milk-pan. losing herself in a maze of underbrush as quickly as possible. “how i should like to see her !” said josepha, “she must make a funny figure in a green bonnet and red ruff.” - thus, pleasantly beguiled by their fancies, the young couple reached the forest. giles went straightway to a great, bare-boughed tree. he felt its bark as if he were a wood- chopper born and bred; then com- menced to cut it lightly in the place where he intended to work. the mark made, he threw off his coat, tossed his broad hat upon the ground, turned up the sleeves of his blue- checked blouse, and was soon steam- ing like a plow-horse. josepha wan- dered away in the hope of catching a glimpse of the old herb-woman, but she grew tired and returned to watch the magic milk-pan. “are you thinking of the herb- woman again " laughed giles, now quite rested, and easily pleased with his pretty wife. “well, then, we will take it up. we shall see what will grow in your magic ring.” giles' broad hands loosened the soil carefully about the circle. he fetched his hat, and laid the lump of mold on its wide brim. “i really do think,” said josepha, much delighted, “that these are foot- prints about us. would it not be strange if the old woman had walked over this very spot?” shouldering his axe and picking up his hat, giles went slowly homeward with his wife. once more within their little cottage the kettle was soon atune for its homely night-song. josepha bound her wind-tossed ringlets high up on the magic milk-pan. her head, tied a coquettish apron about her trim waist, and spread the cloth for supper. giles busied him- self with a great milk-pan, which presently turned into a shining hang- ing-basket in the sunny south window, filled with the bare, brown wood-mold. “it may be we shall find a crop of golden eagles by morning,” he said, merrily. every morning for a week the young couple peered into the pan, but though the mold had generous draughts of water and sunlight, not even a grass-blade grew. finally they forgot all about it. then giles and josepha had a quarrel. it should be related in a whisper, for it was caused by that bone of contention, the family purse. josepha, at breakfast- time, had kissed giles as a fond wife should, then, perched upon his knee, the magic milk-pan. better to see it. “it is like those you used to give me when we were sweet- hearts.” “yes,” returned giles, very red in the face. “it is the same, truly.” then, for giles was a manly fellow, he caught josepha's hand and said honestly : “i guess it grew on pur- pose to teach me a lesson, little wife. for it means something. you have not forgotten that ?” “it means,” whispered josepha, “it means ‘i offer you my all, dear giles.” “and you shall have it,” said giles warmly. “here, josepha, go buy your bauble in the shop and as many more as you wish.” josepha, with many protestations that she wanted nothing in the world but his love, endeavored to thrust the glittering golden coin back into her husband's hand ; but somehow he did the magic milk-pan. not take it after all. it went rolling into a corner, and after giles had gone to the wood, josepha pounced upon it. that afternoon she was a-shopping. after the mysterious bloom of the shepherd's-purse the milk- pan was as vacant as ever. the flower withered in a night, mingling its dead leaves with the mold, as though, its mission fulfilled, there was nothing further to / live for. josepha wore her giles declared it was only beautiful because of the white throat it circled. all went well enough for a fortnight. and then giles became jealous with good reason. decked in the finery bought with the golden coin josepha had walked into the village to dis- - - - - - s /- | e. # Ø-:.* " à Ž the magic milk-pan. still josepha kept silence. dark- ness came, night turned into day and the storm to a cold calm. giles took his axe and strode away into the wood. josepha walked disconsolately to the sunny south window. then between her tears she saw the second miracle of the milk-pan. side by side, clinging together tenderly, were two dewy violets, one as blue as the summer sky, one as white as the frost-flowers. there was no need to tell her of their significance. she knew the white violet spoke of purity, the blue of faithfulness and love. but these were not all. quite by itself, on the opposite side of the pan, stood a flaunting yellow dandelion, the symbol of coquetry. and so loud and intrusive was it that the two violets drooped their sweet heads in very shame for its effrontery. josepha the magic milk-pan. wondered greatly at their appearance, for she was certain nothing had been in the milk-pan before. “surely,” she said aloud, “this hanging-basket is enchanted. we have had two lessons from it, and i shall profit by this one as did giles by the first.” tying on her bonnet she hastened away to overtake her husband and tell him how sorry she was for her vanity. “it must be as i said,” she ventured. “the herb-woman really walked over the spot.” giles was beginning to think there might be something in the superstition of the villagers after all, but he was ashamed to confess this to his wife, and laughed away her fancy. peace restored again, the magic pan was forgotten. but many a time that the magic milk-pan. summer giles and josepha had occa- sion to marvel at its contents. when giles grew harsh and took to preach- ing to his wife concerning her behav- ior, up sprang a jack-in-the-pulpit. on a morning when josepha felt indo- lent and swept the dust under the bed, she was rebuked by a fragrant bunch of scarlet clover, which hinted of industry. twice did mullens peep over the edge of the pan to encourage good-nature. and once for a brief moment the young couple thought they beheld a golden-cup, which spoke of riches. but before they could reach the wonderful pan the blossom had vanished. last of all, and this dis- pelled every doubt in the heart of the cynical giles, there came a day when a beautiful may-flower crept timidly out of the mold. “welcome, little stranger,” it seem- the magic milk-pan. ed to say. for in a cradle which giles' own hands had fashioned, lay a tiny pink image of josepha. “we will name her mayflower,” said the young couple together. “we have learned many things from our enchanted milk-pan, and they have all brought us good.” and the moral of this story is: that, although it has gone quite out of fashion for people to know the lan- guage of flowers, yet it is well to emulate the virtues of even the blos- soms of the field at times. e eudora : a hamadryad. #nú £) hilip and roger were broth- £/ ers, the sons of ralph for- - # rest, the wood-chopper, and * his good wife, ruth. philip, |\ been of much service to his father. when a boy he be- moaned the destruction of the trees, and wept bitterly whenever he chanced upon a green stump in the forest. *. as he grew older he became more and more pensive and silent. his eyes were large and dreamy, and filled at times with a strange light. his hair grew long, and hung in dark curls about his shoulders. he was eudora : a hamadryad. indeed beautiful, but so delicate and retiring that his good parents never thought of imposing tasks upon him. if ever he attended his sturdy brother into the woods, he would beg of him to be more careful as he walked and not crush the flowers. “for,” he would say, “who knows but that it hurts them, roger ?” or, “perhaps, roger, they are the shelter of sleeping fays !” at this his father would say “bah!” and his big brother would laugh good-naturedly, for he loved the delicate and mysterious philip. he did not believe in his fantastic notions, but he liked none the less to hear the quaint tales he told of the trolls that live under the hills; of the brownies that once dwelt with good people until they were driven out of the world by its laughter, eudora : a hamadryad. at least so thought good roger, although he hadn’t time to choose the proper syllables and put them into rhyme. but, rhyme or not, good roger, like many honest beaux, could love a girl that willing was in downright pretty prose. # % down in an unfrequented '* se? hollow of the forest, where *% % the squirrels held their year- z £ ly festivals and the black- berries ripened only for the birds, where violets and blushing anemones bloomed and faded without fear, and where weary winds found always a momentary repose, grew a stately oak, the life and abiding place of eudo- eudora : a hamadryad. ra, a hamadryad. she was descended from a race of grecian nymphs, the attendants of circe. upon the de- struction of mythology, when the al- tars and temples, the groves and fountains of the nymphs were aban- doned, when the oreads, naiads, lim- niads, nereides, dryads and hama- dryads were scattered helter-skelter over the earth, one of the fairest of the fugitives chanced upon this un- molested hollow. here her oak-tree grew. here it had fallen in its old age and crumbled to dust. from one of its acorns sprang another tree, and with it appeared eudora, a hama- dryad. for many summers this hollow had been the haunt of philip. he did not know, however, that the invisible eudora sometimes seated herself be- eudora : a hamadryad. side him as he lay dreaming beneath the oak, and he could not see her smile as he stoop- s. * . ... ed to lift the | £ head of a \" '' ...,'", r c.' * hi. (... " blossom he ". '': - | '' #. had crushed. -:s: early one lihu" "). % ' little. , *::= - %.' ' ". " . ". - morning eudo- .." ra was awakened from a sweet sleep by the sound of voices. she peeped from her retreat in the bosom of the tree, and saw two strange men standing near. they were removing their coats, and had tossed their hats upon the ground. poor eudora looked and trembled. she saw the bright blades of their axes blaze in the sunlight fall- ing between the leaves. she shud- dered at the inevitable death awaiting her. she looked upon the younger of the wood-choppers, and knew by eudora : a hamadryad. his good-natured face that could she but speak to him he would spare the tree for the sake of her tender body which must soon be hacked and bleed- ing with the pitiless blows. but she could do nothing from very fear. the two men swung their axes above their heads. “father father ” came from the bushes, and pale, hastened to the choppers. “do not, i beg of you; do not destroy the shelter ". of my hollow. this one place in all the world is dear to me. leave to me its silence and its soli- tude, and i will ask no more of you.” his distress so moved the two that eudora : a hamadryad. they went into another part of the forest, wondering at his behavior. philip was greatly affected. he prostrated himself beneath the tree. suddenly he beheld a creature of such dazzling beauty that his heart stopped beating and his eyes closed involun- tarily for a moment. when he looked again she was kneeling by his side and smiling upon him with the tender- ness of a young wife. from that day philip lived in the forest, and when his mother reproached him for his long absences he would shake his head and smile sadly as if to say: “it would be no use to explain.” and indeed it would have been worse than useless. eudora : a hamadryad. in the stillness of the forest, in the cool and dim retreat, he had watched the fairies dancing, seen the flitting of their feet, heard their tiny shouts of laughter and the tinkling of the bells that adorned their bobbing bonnets as they scattered through the dells. he had loved the hamadryad, and had touched her magic lips: he had tasted of the nectar that the thirsty cupid sips; but it's best to keep it secret, when a lucky lover loves a nymph that's wandered to him from the sacred grecian groves. eudora : a hamadryad. tabitha perrin was the pride of the village, the anxiety of the good old dames, the terror of the simple- - - - minded maidens, and the • *--- miles around. she was not too plump and not too spare, and her arms were round and soft and white, and her ankles, not entirely concealed by her bright petticoat, were as slender and shapely as the most discriminating person could desire. her cheeks were always rosy, her lips were always saucy and her eyes were bright. every heart had felt the effect of her graces, and many a feud had been established in her eudora : a hamadryad. tabitha, tripping merrily in the same direction with a basket on her arm. “where are you going thus early in the day?” said roger, blushing, and trembling with a strange timidity. “into the woods,” she answered, turning away. he watched her dis- appear over a rise in the meadow, while the lump where his heart should be grew very hard. and the next day he overtook her again. this time it was when return- ing from the woods, and her basket was overflowing with may-flowers. he did not speak to her, and she did not look up. he frowned as he entered the cottage. “mother,” said he, “where is philip " “it is now three days since i have seen him,” said the old lady, turning the sputtering pieces of a rabbit in eudora : a hama dryad. the pan, “and i am worried because of the ad.” she had hardly finished the sentence with a sigh when philip stepped through the doorway. - “where did you get that ?” cried roger, snatching a may-flower from his hand. “the old tree in the hol- low is a fine shelter, indeed, for a pair of lovers,” he continued, angrily. but philip did not seem to hear. he only smiled, and the light in his eyes grew brighter. in the morning philip was still sleeping. there was a flush upon his pale cheeks and his white lips were parted. he moved restlessly as roger arose, and murmured in his sleep : “she will be my bride to-day.” roger hurried from the cottage, muttering : “and i will chop down the oak to- day.” eudora : a hamadryad. eudora, the beautiful hamadryad, was out of her chamber early. she arrayed her limbs in the sunlight and hastened to the brook. she bathed, and her pink toes gleamed like tiny shells in the sand. seated upon the bank, combing her hair with a comb of locust thorns, she sang softly: “when once my lover has wedded me in the still hollow, we'll live in the heart of the old oak- tree, in the still hollow. oh, tiny brook, sing to me; gentle breeze, bring to me some tender word of him : surely you've heard of him, in the still hollow ” the song ended in a cry of pain. she pressed her hands quickly against her breast. from between her fingers eudora : a hamadryad. a little stream of crimson flowed. again and again the wounds appeared, and the beautiful creature, knowing that her end was near, fell moaning and trembling beside the brook. the oak shook beneath the blows of the unhappy roger, and fell at last with a crash that filled the hollow. a thousand blooms were crushed ; homeless birds flew among the trees; eudora lay, a broken lily, up on the *-b a n k, and roger, with a h a r d he art heavy within ''', him, strode out of the forest. in a blooming mead- ow not far from his own cottage he chanced upon tabitha eudora : a hamadryad. picking flowers. when she saw him she became too busy even to look up. but as he passed by without a word, the foolish maiden forgot her flowers and her vanity, and called with tears of vexation in her eyes: “roger, roger, why do you not speak to me?” “why should i speak to you?” he replied, turning about fiercely. “do not frown upon me, roger, for i love you. it was stupid to say i did not care for you ; because i do, and when i sent you a may-flower i thought you would understand and come to me. but i could wait no longer. do you not love me, roger ?” “it was to philip you gave the may-flower,” roger replied, coldly. “oh, roger,” cried tabitha, com- ing closer, “it was to you i sent it. when you passed me yesterday and eudora : a hamadry a.d. did not speak, i was so disappointed that i could have cried. and as i stood there philip came, and i gave him a may-flower, saying, “it is for roger, he will understand.” did he not tell you, roger ?” but roger could only moan and say over and over again in a tone of de- spair: “what have i done, what have i done ” when he told tabitha of his suspicions and his revenge, she could not find words to comfort him, for prodigal affection can not undo the mischief it has wrought. “i could not have harmed him more,” said roger, bitterly, “for he is a strange lad.” as they entered the cottage, philip ifted himself from the bed, where he had tossed feverishly all the morning. he looked closely at them and shud- dered. “there is blood on it,” he eudora : a hamadryad. cried, pointing to the axe that roger held. “there is nothing there,' * said his mother, soothingly. “see, tabitha has brought you a basket of flowers.” “poor little fays,” said philip, fall- ing back upon the pillow. the fever faded from his face. he grew cold and still. and the lover of eudora had passed out of a world so cruel to the flowers and the fairy folk into the blessed barbarism of a paradise where forests and may-flowers are unmolested, and where honest loves and lovers are not annoyed and destroyed by the vanity of village belles. ack=in=tbe-bulpit. jack- in- the- pulpit. nce there dwelt in a forest a dwarf y named jack, with \ very crooked legs \ and ugly counten- ance. he was the terror of a the wood-folk because of the ravages he made among them, but none dared to lift his voice against his pranks, as the dwarf was larger than they and more powerful. more- over, the dwarf had a way of laying his misdemeanors on innocent shoul- jack-in-the-pulpit. ders and afterwards prating about mo- rality, which was indeed exasperating. if a brace of fat blackbirds were sur- reptitiously plucked from the larder of a fairy, the dwarf would be sure to appear when the clamor was greatest, and poking his fingers into the round stomach of a loitering fay, declare him the culprit. in the autumn, stores of rosy apples were spirited away, and as the dwarf was known % to have a fondness for them, he was of course suspected. but after their disappearance he was always seen down on his knees in the long grass searching diligently for the fruit. had a band of elves been so bold as to attempt to seek out their belongings in his home, they would only have been lost for their pains ; for the dwarf was of a jack-in-the-pulpit. and brown, and bewitching dimples were in their red cheeks after they had become settled, a little music- master pitched a tune on a reed and the fairies joined him in a song. fill up, fill up each buttercup, and fill it to the brink, and to our queen, the fairest seen, a long, deep health we'll drink. no home have we, nor dear country, save where she builds her bower; but every place assumes a grace that feels her gentle power. oh, kindly night, mislead the sprite that seeks her ill to do. jack-in-the-pulpit. oh, twinkling star, guide safe from far the king who comes to woo. this quaint music, and the odors of early flowers that drifted through the woods, pleased even the dwarf. he listened eagerly, and as he looked he became enamored of the fairy queen. when she was seated alone in a remote part of the brush, he rudely intruded ** | ugly figure in the bower. ~ ) # (". “i crave pardon, my dear,” he said, insolently. the little queen looked in dismay at the curtain of violets she had hung across the opening to her retreat. the dwarf's foot had crushed it on the ground. when she saw him leer- ing above her she shuddered. “you have a fine camp,” said the jack-in-the-pulpit. dwarf. “i was watching you from behind the brush.” “sir !” stammered the queen, in- dignantly. “and you were the prettiest one there. i quite lost my heart.” the dwarf grinned frightfully, though he intended to smile. he stooped still lower and touched the dimple on the queen's chin with his finger. she drew back in affright. “what do you here ?” she de- manded. “leave me instantly or i will call my band.” she lifted a tiny silver horn to her lips. the dwarf snatched it from her and emitted an exclamation of de- light as it gleamed in the moonlight. he thrust it quickly into his pocket, then cast an avaricious eye on the jewels in her crown. even the night could not hide their beauty. dia- jack-in-the-pulpit. monds, emeralds, pearls, with many other stones, mingled their flashing colors as the queen moved her head. the dwarf gloated over the priceless coronet, and taking advantage of her agitation, tore it from the nut-brown curls and sprang out the opening, leaving ruin in the bower. with a piercing cry the fairy queen ran after him. instantly the whole camp was astir, and the fairy band closed in around the dwarf. in the midst of the excitement a herald in shining livery rode up on the bank, calling loudly: “ho, the king ! make way for the king of the dwarfs.” the dwarf was filled with terror at this sudden approach, and broke through the obstructing circle of fair- ies as if they had been so many dry twigs. but he had no sooner done jack-in-the-pulpit. this than he found himself in the midst of a merry retinue and face to face with the king. “hold !” cried the jovial monarch of the forest. “whither are you go- ing, and why such haste that you cannot give proper greeting to your king ” then he spied the group of fright- ened fairies huddled about their disheveled queen, and surmising that something was amiss ordered the de- tention of the dwarf. he dismounted and approached the queen, saying: “make yourself at rest, fair queen, and if any harm has been done you i will make haste to redress it.” then the queen told what had be- fallen her, and made many sweet apologies for the disarrangement of her royal raiment and the disheveled condition of her hair. jack-in-the-pulpit. greatness, but only because others have appealed to me have i exercised my strength and wisdom for the peace and prosperity of your kingdom.” the dwarf ventured to glance at the king's face, but saw little there to comfort him. “most of all, o mighty monarch,” he continued, with increased gravity, “have i labored to teach humility and a horror of vain things, so that your subjects should at all times be more submissive to your will. in this i had been successful until this fairy queen and her strolling band camped in your possessions, and led the hearts of your people away from my pre- cepts by the glitter of their jewels and the colors of their gaudy raiment. it is because of this that i seized the coronet and the silver horn with the intention of burying them deep in the jack-in-the-pulpit. forest where they could do no harm.” “hand them to me,” said the king, coldly, and taking the sparkling treasures from the trembling dwarf he placed the coronet gently upon the queen's head, and the silver horn he hung upon her girdle. then he turned to the dwarf and said with a sarcastic smile : “i observe that you have a fondness for preaching, and in return for your zealous labor in my behalf, i will fur- nish you with a pulpit.” as he spoke he touched the ground between the dwarf's feet, and a green leaf appeared and grew until it com- pletely enveloped him and hung in a canopy over him, while he grew small- er and smaller until he was no taller than a fay. “there !” said the king. “you may devote the remainder of your jack-in-the-pulpit. existence to the revelation of your own virtues, and at the same time be pre- vented from doing any further mis- chief.” the dwarf tried in vain to free himself from the folds of the fibrous leaf. he called to the king, who with his laughing retinue rode away through the forest, bearing with him the blushing queen of the fairies and her fairy band. one morning late in may the sun broke over the for- est, sweeping its rays down- ward until the tender green leaves were covered with yellow freckles. finally it crept down to the roots of the trees and made strange shadows in the grass. the jack-in-the-pulpit. brook that ran through the forest bubbled over with merriment at the grotesque pictures, half drowning a colony of snails that lived on a mossy log by its brink. all the inhabitants of the wood were particularly gleeful that morning. butterflies spread their wings and paid short, social calls on the flowers they liked the best. and the flowers themselves succumbed to the caresses of the fickle wooers, and - bared their foolish little hearts. not far from the border of the forest was a green bank where the sun shone all day. here the first anemone opened its eyes in the spring, and summer was well advanced before the last blossom had departed. it was the identical bank where the king had once trans- formed a dwarf into a jack-in-the- pulpit. the dwarf had grown old since that jack-in-the-pulpit. time, but had not mended his ways though he wore a different guise. he was as ugly as ever, but his green dress suited his envious disposition. on this bright may morning he was particularly out of sorts, for everything about him was gay and happy, while he could only crouch in his dull pulpit. he had got tired of preaching when there was no fun in it, but there was nothing else to do. jack was in the habit of venting his spite upon all the flowers that grew within earshot. he would have enjoyed shaking them all soundly for their pretty faces. the only consideration he showed was for a yellow dock as ugly as himself. a little family of purple violets lived near him, as unassuming as violets usually are, but jack hated them for their virtues. on this may morning he looked out of his pulpit and saw jack-in-the-pulpit. them all drinking cool draughts of dew, while he was dreadfully thirsty and unable to get a drop. “you great gourmands !” he said sharply, “always eating and drinking, eating and drinking. some day you’ll drown yourselves through your own greed.” a pert little adder-lily thrust out its yellow tongue at jack, saying : “you old croaker, pity you can't shut up and go to sleep.” at this, a calm white flower, first cousin to the blood-root, though in- heriting none of its hot-headed ways, spoke rebukingly : “for shame, young adder " she cried. “jack-in-the-pulpit will work his own ruin fast enough. mind your own manners and learn to hold that unruly tongue.” just then a maiden entered the jack-in-the-pulpit. forest and soon stood at the foot of the gentle declivity abloom in the sun. long braids of hair whose color was red-gold hung down her back, while little ringlets of the same hue lay on her white forehead. she was clad in flowing raiment pure as her brow. despite her beauty a pensive expres- sion was in her face, and she moved forward slowly. she was searching for something. all the flowers on the bank put on their brightest looks, for each hoped to rest against the fair bosom of the maiden. presently she stooped, and even jack stood breath- lessly on tiptoe peering over the edge of his pulpit. he was filled with rage when he beheld her with a field-daisy in her pink palm. was not this the very flower he had despised the most its circle of white petals and golden heart taunted him with their purity. - - - - d - is "a a/ / - Ż/im|| \ - - | l l - - %// - | | | ". | - - ~% "w/ // %// ~ |- - -xx % - s- // || - - - - "- |- <a - n. *u | | all'a). " # ("t , == #!'" -> /~ - - *tim jack-in-the-pulpit. and no flower on the bank had re- ceived his railings with such humility. the maiden's lips parted in a half expectant smile as she tore off a leaf of the daisy, murmuring fondly : “he loves me—” “he loves me not,” she said sadly, when the second leaf fell fluttering to the ground. with each falling petal the lovely *t maiden sighed, alternating between hope and fear. then a rosy flush overspread her cheeks, and exclaiming exultantly “he loves me,” she tossed the golden heart to the ground to die, and fled from the woods. - as the poor blossom lay there on the mossy bank among its scattered petals, jack rallied him- self and began a tirade of sarcasm. but in the midst of it all the daisy - =- jack-in-the-pulpit. expired with a happy throb of the yellow heart. then a party of romping children ran into the forest, waking the echoes with their shrill laughter. they pounced upon the blooming bank and made it desolate. as they hurried away with brimming baskets, one little (?, w girl, with a fluff of hair and */ *** roguish eyes, lingered. she \ \,\ \\ laid her plump hands on |## jack-in-the-pulpit, looked at \ } him curiously, then squeezed him gen- tly. he emitted a faint, squeaky pro- test. at this she screamed with de- light, pulled him up roughly by the roots and gave him a fearful squeeze that killed him outright. she then ran after her playmates with the dwarf's body in her hat. ack jroat: (dagician. – * long ago, when the earth * - / £g £, bloomed perpetually, break- n'``ing forth each morning into new verdure and blossom. sea- - fruitage time tossed fair w y burdens into the apron of the earth-mother, mellow €w burdens swollen with ri- fe. pening, and almost burst- ing with the juices they held. but jack frost: magician. buds and fruits were twins, ever clasping hands and melting one into the other. at this happy beginning of co tenance was × # * so dazzling, so ###. * * bright a color of *''':###### '#:* gold, that few £) - - £ # |\* *\ :\ # (\ \ it without becom- */rs' wv. ing blind. yet many braved the shining face of their idolatrous worship and looked until stricken to the ground. for the yellow god kept watch over his people from high up in the heavens, swinging his huge head from side to side of the earth once every day. at twilight he wrapped a veil of gorgeous hues about his face, and jack frost : magician. one of the earth's people during the reign of this haughty and self-loving god, was a roystering fellow who cared little or nothing for religion of any sort. he commanded a band of queer little followers as rollicking and freakish as himself. this fellow, who was known by the name of jack frost, led an idle enough life, whiling away most of his time in quest of ad- venture. but, despite his vagrant proclivities, he was good-hearted and a power in his way. he possessed magic. he could at any moment he chose make himself invisible, and with this fascinating but fearful accom- plishment he was able to play rare pranks, you may be sure. it was only when jack frost met and was conquered by as dainty a bit of handiwork as the earth ever pro- duced, that he settled down to a jack frost : magician. quieter existence. she was a fay, of diminutive proportions, but entran- cing beauty. she led a winsome band of her own, but night always found her asleep beneath one of her favorite trees, unattended. sometimes the holly-berry bent its scarlet fruit and polished leaves above her. sometimes it was the mistletoe or the hemlock. it # was here one starlit night after the sun-worshipers had fallen fast asleep on their roofs that jack frost found her. her bosom stirred as faintly as the branches of the holly moved by the evening winds. the waxen eyelids trembled as the daring fellow gazed ; but when once parted, fell again abashed at his ad- miration. after this, friendship was an easy matter. they were soon as jack frost : magician. deeply in love as a fay and vagabond could possibly be. jack frost almost forsook his wild companions, and in- stead of scouring the country for ad- venture, spent his time in building bowers for the fay queen and weaving pretty love-tales. one night as she slept as usual be- neath the boughs of a forest tree, an idea came to jack frost. he would seek her out and while she slumbered rear a castle about her, so that upon awakening she would find herself im- prisoned in a house more beautiful than any bower he had ever made. but of what to build it was a question that puzzled him sorely. finally he re- scarcely knew the extent of his own power, and knew nothing at all about its source, which, in truth, had rarely bothered him. jack frost : magician. her. she had awakened in time to see his name above the portals before the front wall fel . jack frost instantly saw that this was the work of the sun-god. he had arisen, ill-natured like enough, and seeing the lovely castle built by the irreverent roysterer, had applied his scorching rays and melted it where it stood. there was the water in proof of this. so jack betook him- self to his own domain and began to plot revenge. he sprang up at last, waved his hat three times in the air and exclaimed in a loud voice: ‘‘i have it !” for a time he capered about ridicu- lously, then settled to quiet converse with himself. “with my magic,” he said, “i will blight the earth, shrivel up all the flowers and spoil the fruit. i will do jack frost : magician. their leader. then it was that jack frost unfolded his magnificent plan of revenge. all through the hours of darkness they worked together stealth- ily, making no sound to betray their employment. countless stars blinked solemnly above them, but jack frost had no fear of them. they were lesser gods than the ruler of the day, and strove not for worship. next morning the sun-god rubbed his sleepy eyes and yawned behind his rosy veil. then he swept the film from his face and appeared to the world pom- pous and ra- diant. but what was this he beheld was he yet dreaming? or had some jack frost : magicia.n. yester morn, has been abroad with his mischief-making band. he thinks it a fine frolic, no doubt, but i will show him how insignificant is his power to mine. he may create, but i can destroy.” so saying the god blew fiery breaths upon the white world below, but his passion only added to its beauty. it sent back a shimmering reflection of his own rays that almost dazzled his eyes. in his fury the god forgot the people who worshiped him, and smote them with heat until they ran for shelter to the furthermost corners of their dwellings. at last all this began to have effect. slowly the earth com- menced to lose its sparkling mantle, and the bluebell and wild-rose dropped their silver linings. but jack frost had worked well. he had laid his blight on fruit and flower. the sun- jack frost : magician. and again until it had killed all living vegetation. not all, for the holly, the mistletoe and all the favorite trees of the fay queen remained untouched, and in the midst of desolation held aloft their polished leaves of green and ruddy berries. for the vagabond and the fay were united, and the win- some band was close allied to that of the roysterer frost. they have worked together for many hundred years, their power perpetuated, while the sun-worshipers have found another god more merciful than the old. and to this day there are those who point to a white, sparkling night magic and say : “jack frost has come again. be- hold his handiwork.” but they do not know that it is dame frost who weaves the finest of the silvery laces, sprinkles the dia- jack frost : magician. monds in the cobwebs, and with her mimble fingers etches the quaint ghost-figures on the window-panes. the wood-witch. pliment, which brought roses to her cheeks that put to shame the paper blossoms twined about the maypole. no one had a better right to confi- dences than the lovers. the banns of the young farmer and the bewitching daughter of the old village sexton had been sounded only the sunday pre- vious. there had been quite a clamor over it, especially among the maidens of the village, who were all half in love with the hand- some, sun-browned fel- low and desperately jealous of his fiancée. on this may morn- ing rudolph and doro- thea were off for a pic- nic in the woodland skirting the town. they chose this way of spending their hol- the wood-witch. rudolph liked this pretty imperious- ness vastly, and to prolong the en- chantment of the moment he teased dorothea to accompany him, pretend- ing to have forgotten the location of the spring. “and leave the picnic dinner for the birds to quarrel over ? be off with you, mister rudolph. 'tis high time you had some one to teach you man- agement.” dorothea set her head on one side so coquettishly that rudolph was loath to depart, but another glimpse of the feast on the white cloth made him think better of it, and he hastened away with the jug, whistling a tune as light as the thistle-down. to while away his absence dorothea fashioned two cups from the leaves of the plantain, and baskets for her rice- | '' | '' | | * £ '"| #| | * | | |'' the wood-witch. startling information over in her mind, the witch indicated the picnic luncheon awaiting the miscreant lover. “an appetizing sight for an old woman to behold, upon my soul | have you a crumb, damsel, to spare ?” dorothea reopened her basket, and handed it to the crone in silence. with a wave of her hand which had helped her plentifully to its contents, the witch cried : “thanks and a good-day, my lady. we may meet again,” and vanished among the trees. no sooner had she gone than rudolph's cheery whistle resounded through the woods. “he is coming,” thought dorothea, trembling with conflicting anger and pride. she composed herself, and busied her hands with the cups. “i lingered long, my little house- the wood-witch. wife, did i not ? but you will forgive me. i saw a squirrel with a fine tail for your winter tippet, and a merry chase he led me, but he got away at last.” to this dorothea said nothing, but inquired for the jug instead. the story of the unsuccessful quest served but to strengthen what the witch had told her. rudolph noticed his sweetheart's silence, and was grieved as he seated himself on the grass. he addressed dorothea with many tender words as they partook of the picnic feast. but she avoided his eyes, and her manner was reserved even to coldness. ru- dolph was as proud as dorothea. he asked no reason for all this, but arose quickly after the meal was finished, and with a light pretext strode away into the woods. the maiden's heart the wood-witch. ness, he told himself bitterly. while he had been filling the jug and chas- ing the squirrel for his tail to orna- ment her tippet, a lordly gentleman was making love to his promised bride. a pretty affair, truly. finally, , he too grew angry as dorothea had done, and hastened away to take her home, only to find that she had gone on before. he stood on the deserted spot where he had been so happy only that morning, and decided as many a man had done before him that all women were false and heartless. at last his bitter thoughts exhausted themselves, and a tenderly sorrowful feeling stole into his heart. he re- called the love-glances of his be- trothed and the gentle endearments she had bestowed upon him. moonlight had fallen upon the for- est when he started wearily home- the wood-witch. ward. dorothea must have gone, he reasoned. there was nothing to do but to return to the village alone. suddenly rudolph heard a twig snap beneath his feet, and then an- other and another. then something rustled in the boughs above him. he looked up and beheld the identical squirrel he had pursued in the vicinity of the spring. the little creature was shaking its bushy tail saucily and winking its eyes at rudolph from a branch not far above his head, as if daring him to a second chase. ru- dolph was still meditating. he for- got that squirrels could not understand the language of men, and spoke aloud: “fear not, pretty fellow. you may keep your fine tail. she who was to wed me has departed. another wooer came and stole away her heart from the poor rustic.” the wood-witch. ing rudolph to ponder over the situ- ation. the wood-witch had entertained dorothea with her stories as she led her through the forest. they had gone a long way before the aged hag announced that they had arrived. dorothea looked in vain for some habi- tation. brambles grew thickly about the spot. a huge stone, which travel- ers knew as the lone rock, stood not a dozen yards distant. the witch poked the ground with her stick and murmured a word. instantly the brambles parted and disclosed a flight of stone steps down which the old woman escorted dorothea, now thor- oughly frightened. the steps led into a stone cave, snugly built, with skins of wild animals on the floor and a crackling fire. the sun never pene- the wood-witch. trated this underground house, and it was chilly even in summer. the witch lighted a torch and hung it in the center of the room. then she gave the fire-logs a turn that sent splinters of light all through the cave, reassuring dorothea somewhat with their brightness. the witch grinned a welcome. pointing to a rude chair she drew another to the blaze and seated herself. “a strange house, is it not, damsel? yet it suits the old woman well. let me brew a hot potion before i continue my story.” she reached for a bundle of queer- smelling herbs, breaking a handful into a pot of water. they simmered over the fire, sputtering violently as the old woman waved her hands to and fro, repeating : the wood-witch. bubble up! bubble up! a maid will drink from out the cup.” dorothea put her lips to the potion but did not drink, while the old wood- witch drained hers to the last drop. “i will show you how he looked, damsel, down in the dell with the dark-haired woman,” she said, draw- ing up her shriveled mouth with a long hissing sound. the fire-light imme- diately went down, leaving the cave in utter darkness except the spot where they sat. - “in the corner—in the corner—” the witch had woven her spell in a twinkling. following the indication of her bony finger dorothea saw a slender light appear in a remote corner of the cave and then extend the wood-witch. sel ?” asked the witch, with a hideous cackle of laughter that rang through the cave. “i will show you how they looked as i was returning for my herb.” “bestir thee, idle drone, and paint another one !” the light approached the corner, but retired almost instantly. the wood-witch started to her feet, shriek- ing angrily. again the light appeared and this time it spread as before. but to the consternation of the hag the picture was not of the guilty pair with their lips close pressed together. rudolph sat alone on the fallen log, his head bowed down upon his knee. dorothea started at this, and gave a little sob. the wood-witch, with a venomous glance directed toward the a forest tragedy. “this is snug,” said * “snug and cheerful, as i take it." then he drew the cork from a fat black jug. he slapped its round sides jovially as he set it down again near his chair. “now for a snooze,” said peter. - a venerable cricket hobbled out as if accustomed to hearing these words, a forest tragedy. and began a long meter hymn. old peter's hobby was his hearthstone. he was noted for the finest fires in the country. he knew to a nicety where to lay the backlog and how to make the embers glow. and, being old himself, and kind-hearted, he liked the rheumatic cricket that came to sing to him. some neighbors whis- pered that old peter was too fond of the black jug, and that strange things happened after they had been seen together. at any rate, peter went to sleep before the long meter hymn was sung. presently he stirred in his chair and yawned. “dear me !” he exclaimed. the fire was low, and on one of old peter's brass and irons sat a wood- sprite. his head was perched on one side, his legs were crossed, and he a forest tragedy. balanced himself on the hollow knob in a wonderful fashion. “dear me!” said peter, again. “my goodness gracious !” the little fellow winked at him out of a pair of beads. then he took off his hat. his hair was braided in a pigtail and looked like cornsilk. it hung over the velvet collar of a scarlet coat with snail-shell buttons. green breeches reached to his plump knees. his high-topped boots were made of elm bark. he had tossed his over- coat, a present from a field-mouse, on the floor. “who are you?” old peter queried. “me ” asked the wood-sprite. “who are you?” “i'm peter weasel. this is my house. may i ask what you are doing here ” “you’re peter weasel, eh?” re- a forest tragedy. peter pinched himself. “you can't mean me?” “you !” a sneer sat upon the sprite's face. then he changed his tone, and indicating the backlog with a sorrowful gesture, said: “it is because you are cold and must warm your worth- less shins before a winter's fire, that my old friend the walnut-tree fell from his place in the forest. his noble life was sacrificed for your comfort. the little creatures of the wood weep that you may be warm. a century of shade and numberless be- nevolences end here in ashes.” peter weasel was astounded. he cast a wondering glance at the back- log, blazing fitfully. “i—i’m sure i didn’t mean to,” he a forest tragedy. was named for the great green ferns that nod about my home-–" braken, the little queen in my day was nothing less than an angel. she came to the moonlight dances with gifts for all of us. she presided at the head of the banquet board herself. ah! her robe, my little one; it was spun by her own spiders, among the green fringes of the hazel brush. dews of - the morning had linger- ,” ed in it and reflected a thousand tints of the sun. the queen's cheeks were as rosy as the dawn, and her hair was like loops of sunbeams.’ “but to come back to my day.” the wood-sprite drew a long breath. a forest tragedy. mourning that day. as i turned away down the path, the brown leaves rus- tled sadly beneath my feet. a long sigh swept through the trees of the forest. i met a squirrel on the way home and inquired about the dis- aster that had overtaken all of us. he complained bitterly. his entire winter store of nuts was gone. he had lived in the tree with his young ones and had barely time to get them away. they had taken refuge in a bush near by for the present. but i could learn nothing of the marauders, save that they had come a few days later and had taken the logs away in a wagon. i pursued my way through the woods meditating upon what the squirrel had told me. a cricket hopped across the path and startled me by the slight noise he made. i accosted him, inquir- ing if he knew anything about the fate a forest tragedy. a dear neighbor of mine. as quickly as i had finished, she said: “‘why, my braken, hearten up. i can help you in a twinkling, though it's a bad thing for all of us.” “she told how she had been con- cealed in the walnut-tree when the wood-choppers began work. she re- mained in the vicinity all the after- noon they were gathering up the logs, secreting herself in the bark of one of them when the wagon started. in this way she arrived at your door. she was struggling along homeward when i encountered her. “‘take me to peter weasel's house at once, i commanded the glow. “‘but it's a long way, she answered me. ‘start !” i said. “she went on ahead, her lantern leaving a little drift of light in the path. never have i known a glow to the forgotten goddess. melissa held her bonnet by its long strings, and looked demurely at her pretty slippers. “i can do nothing to please you,” said jason, with a heavy sigh. she tapped the ground lightly with her foot and was silent. he looked upon her sadly for a moment and walked away. she watched him covertly until he passed over the hill. she was vexed because he did not look back. she tossed her bonnet upon the grass and sang softly as she picked the wild roses that bloomed upon the banks; but he did not return. the morning became very warm, and she seated herself in the shade of the locusts by the dripping trough. the wild roses drooped, and the shadow of the hill above the trough and of the locusts stretched across the road; but he did not return. the forgotten goddess. jason pulled his hat over his eyes as he trudged on beyond the hill. the sun rose higher and beat upon him. the hot dust clung to his shoes and the wind deepened the tan of his cheeks. a grove of wild crab-apple trees cast a - - ° - cool shadow • *. . s' } upon the hill-' %: side, but he #: did not see it. - he did not hear * the babble of the ** ..." |...". 'w'. brook as he passed * £". 'rithm z ' |t|| * ". - 'l- i", ill v. over it, nor see the water that his parched lips craved. his feet grew weary but he did not feel them, and his head throbbed unheeded. his heart was heavy. now and then he pressed his side with his hand as though a wound the forgotten goddess. the little creature is,” said jason aloud, as he turned about. “agreed,” piped a shrill voice from a tree. he looked up and saw nothing but a crow. but as he looked the bird flew to the ground. she turned one of her bright eyes up at him and said: “i will tell you the name of the fairy, but first toss me your hat; it will make a good nest for me.” jason laughed, and cried : “be quick then, for melissa is waiting by the roadside.” “her name is love,” said the crow, hopping into the soft hat and out again with satisfaction. “love ''” exclaimed jason. “love | much you know about it. why, love is a fat little fellow with pigeon wings.” “that is not love,” replied the crow, disdainfully. “love is the gentle the forgotten goddess. creature you have just seen. she sometimes follows her vicious little brother to heal the wounds his arrows have made.” with this the crow lugged the hat away, and jason turned his face to- ward melissa. |- | - - h. t a *... - . - - - - william charvat american fiction collection the ohio state university libraries £ wel." £ w -c "'> o-s, w w w an optimist the optimist by susan taber author of “unexpected affinities,” “the jewel of their souls,” “country neighbors,” new york duffield & company . t copyright , by duffield & company to susan taber borgialli contents page the optimist . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . two feminists. . . . . . . . . . . • • • • • • • * * * * * * * the spoll ed child. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . the sword. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . his brother’s story. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . the winter of her discontent. . . . . . . . . i the patriot. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . alethia . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . the wedding weil. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . a legacy. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . • • * * * * * * * * * easter morning. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . alice in wonderland. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . the optimist the optimist said. “yes, but we appreciate it all the more when it comes late.” “it’s your way, ma'am, to think so,” he answered stolidly. she took the letter he handed her and entered the house. it was a neat little house and it faced the street uncompromisingly, with no yard between. and the town was like the house, old and pleasant and rather the worse for wear. they had both seen better days. the street was the only concession to business; but the ten-cent store opposite, the hotel just beyond, even the trolley itself, were in a subdued key, as if it was always sunday. on every side one caught glimpses of salt water, and at in- tervals quiet little lanes shaded with trees led to the inlet. mrs. rawlins' garden overlooked it, too, a cold spring, mrs. rawlins,” the postman . the optimist and she paused by the window on entering to see if there were any signs of spring. she was tall, and almost gaunt, her complexion was dark and her features rather irregular. it was her smile that misled you into thinking her beautiful —also perhaps the carriage of her head. “a letter for me, mother?” a girl’s voice asked. “oh!” in a disappointed tone, “it’s to you from the hotel.” - “probably about the red cross concert — put it on my desk, dear, and help me with the breakfast.” “mother,” the girl said a little later, “now you have had your coffee, prepare for bad news. the hollyhocks are all dead — the winter has killed them.” “oh!” exclaimed mrs. rawlins. she rose and hurried into the yard. everything looked desolate and bare, not a sign of green in the turf or on the trees — even the birds were still. in the border next the house, where last year the flowers had bloomed in all their beauty, were now heaps of blackened earth, dried remnants of the dead holly- hocks. the light died out of her face, and without a word she returned and took her seat. “how you worked over them,” murmured the girl. “jeannie,” admonished her brother, “don’t rub it in.” the optimist “i enjoyed the work,” mrs. rawlins answered, then with sudden resolution, “and only think how interesting it will be to make over the garden.” “i don’t believe there is a thing in the world that you wouldn’t find some good in,” jeannie said, almost pettishly. “yes, there is one thing,” replied her mother. “but when it came you would look on the bright side of it.” “i’m afraid not.” “and mary ann says,” went on jeannie, “that she doesn’t see how you stand it.” * stand what?” “living as we do, in aunt jane's old house after your beautiful place.” “i have always loved this house.” “and doing your own work after having twelve servants.” “six,” corrected mrs. rawlins. “and leaving new york.” “i was delighted to get away.” “that is just what mary ann says — that you make the best of everything.” mrs. rawlins laughed. “it was hard enough to make the best of mary ann even when she lived with me. come, jeannie, the optimist you will be late for school if you don’t begin to get ready.” jeannie's pretty little face puckered with per- plexity. “i don’t see how you manage,” she said at last, “the other girls all have such complaining mothers.” “and you are sorry you have not?” “please don’t make fun of me.” “don’t be a fool, then,” interrupted her brother, “you know mother isn’t like anyone else.” “be quiet, eddie, i want to understand.” “understand what, dear child?” “how you can make the best of everything.” “i have told you that i cannot.” “almost everything, then.” a warm smile flooded her mother’s face. “i try,” she said, “to look on the dark side of other people's troubles and the bright side of my own — most women do the opposite. and now children you really must get ready.” she saw them off to school and returned to her work. the sun had risen and shone with the hard white light of early spring, before the leaves are out, lighting each dormant plant in the little yard, and showing up the dried remnants of the dead hollyhocks. a sharp wind, fresh from the sea, swept in through the open door, the optimist it was a quaint, low room, a little faded, a little shabby, with the charm that comes from old fur- niture pleasantly arranged, and old portraits on the walls. mrs. rawlins, leisurely dusting the papers on her desk, noticed for the first time the letter the postman had given her some hours before. “how careless of me,” she exclaimed, turning it over to read the address. suddenly her eyes widened. she passed her hand across them and looked again. she made an effort to open the letter — her hand went to her throat, she sank upon her knees before the window, staring blankly at the dead hollyhocks. the one thing had happened which she could not make the best of. * * * * * * * the postman after finishing his rounds made his way to the hotel, with the laudable intention of for- tifying himself against the effects of the wind. “it do beat all, how some folks take things,” he remarked as he sipped his whiskey at the bar. “heard what miss rawlins said?” the hotel keeper replaced his feet on the counter. “no, do tell.” “‘a cold spring, says i. ‘yes,’ says she, “but we 'preciate it more when it comes late.” beat that if ye can for lookin' on the bright side.” the optimist “she'd need to,” the hotel keeper replied, “after such a come-down.” “i say so, too — from a palace over fall river way to that house of her aunt jane’s – her that used to spend her winters in new york.” “what did you expect,” the other answered with scorn, “old man rawlins knew how to run a factory, that husband of hers never did – ’twernt in him. i always said he'd land it in the ditch.” “i dunno what mrs. rawlins would 'a done after he died, if her aunt jane hadn’t up and died, too, and left her the house.” “was mrs. rawlins from here?” inquired a new voice. the postman was so startled at this interrup- tion, that he upset his whiskey over the counter and forgot it in observing the speaker. he was small and slight, his clothes were worn and there was nothing unusual about his appearance, yet the men before him had a sense of constraint, a vague un- easiness, as in the presence of a superior. “her folks have lived in this place ever since mas- sachusetts was founded,” the hotel keeper answered with dignity. the man he addressed gave a low laugh and rising from his place by the stove, sauntered over to the bar. “have a drink with me,” he said to the optimist the postman. “so you think mrs. rawlins looks on the bright side of things,” he continued, when their glasses were filled. “she never used to.” “pr'aps you knew her to new york?” the postman asked with an inspiration that left him breathless. “pr'aps you’re from there, too?” he finished in an awed tone. “i am — unfortunately.” the postman was so electrified at this confirma- tion of his opinion that he stared open-mouthed and the conversation went on without him. “so you knew miss rawlins in new york?” the hotel keeper asked in the manner of a lawyer ques- tioning a witness. the young man set down his glass. “i did.” “ever seen her since?” “this is my first visit to your delightful town.” * goin’ to see her now?” the postman had regained his breath. “she's to home. it's your likeliest time to find her while the children are at school.” the other observed him curiously. “so the children are at school?” “yes, mrs. rawlins waits in to give them their the optimist dinner; but it’s early yet. she'll be real glad to see you.” the young man laughed. “i don’t know about that — but i’m inclined to find out. thanks for the suggestion.” he paid his reckoning, nodded, and left the bar. “a queer fish,” the hotel keeper muttered. “i wonder,” the postman said, finishing his drink, “if she will be glad to see him?” the street looked even quieter than before as mrs. rawlins' friend emerged from the hotel. a ford car was drawn up at the curb while its driver dis- cussed the weather with an acquaintance; two young girls were taking their dog for a walk; a farm wagon rattled by in a cloud of dust. it was growing rap- idly colder and the biting sea air made the young man shiver when he stopped to light a cigarette. “spring weather, indeed,” he muttered angrily. the two girls, apparently intent on their dog, approached, furtively staring at him. he raised his hat. - “can you tell me where mrs. rawlins lives?” they laughed and pointed opposite. he had stopped in front of the very house he was looking for. for a moment he smoked in silence, then threw away his cigarette, crossed the street and ascended the optimist ii the steps. at the door he paused and listened - not a sound. he laid his hand on the bell and paused again. the two young girls were watching him from the other side of the street; the man in the ford car had begun to watch, too. he pulled the bell. the sound reverberated through the house and out into the quiet street. for a time nothing moved, then he heard a step; it stopped, started, and stopped again. a second time he pulled the bell. there was a long silence. the door opened - mrs. rawlins stood before him. it was he who spoke first. “you did not expect me so soon? may i come in?” she stood aside for him to pass and he entered. his eyes took in every detail of the quaint low room — its faded coloring, its dim atmosphere of other days — and then returned to her face. she had taken refuge near a portrait of her aunt jane's, and something of the spirit of that puritan gentlewoman had passed into her veins. there was no trace now of weakness and despair. - “you are more attractive than ever, jane,” he said coolly. she made a repellent gesture. “such remarks are thrown away on me now. “your letter asked to see me,” she continued; “you the optimist did not wait for an answer. no matter,” she sat down and pointed to a chair, “we may as well get this over. what do you want?” he laughed. “if i tell you i shall make you angry.” “that is finished.” “very well then – i wanted to see how you looked.” her eyes flashed. “i told you not to speak in that way.” he laughed again. “i said i should make you angry. wait a mo- ment,” as she started to rise, “i promise not to refer to your looks – may i smoke? now,” when he had lighted a cigarette, “why should we quarrel during our short time together? tell me, instead, how did you manage to efface yourself? i had great trouble in finding you. you don’t mean,” as she continued silent, “that was what you intended?” “i did not consider you,” she answered with dignity; “there was nothing left after the business was wound up. i was only too glad of this refuge.” “but why break with your friends?” “it is out of sight out of mind with most of them; those who have not forgotten me, respect my wishes.” the optimist i for the first time a note of hesitation crept into his voice. “i suppose you will not believe me — but i didn’t know. i thought you had plenty.” “would it have made any difference if you had known?” - “probably not; i can’t say after this length of time; but the fact remains — i did not know.” she made an effort to look at him and failed. “you are just the same,” she said, “life hasn’t changed you.” he smiled ruefully. “i am as i was made, i suppose. if i had lived a few hundred years ago, i should have been called a hero — now i am only a scoundrel.” “where have you been?” “wherever there was trouble; first in the philip- pines, while something was going on; afterwards in the russian-japanese war — the czar gave me a decoration — then back by way of mexico; but things were too hot there even for me.” “and now?” she inquired grimly. “i got an infection after a wound; it was so bad it almost finished me — i had to come home.” she forced herself to look at him; for a moment he was off his guard and his face was drawn with pain; there were blue lines about his mouth. the optimist “i didn’t suppose you could be ill,” escaped from her. “i didn’t myself until i found out my mistake. do you like this air? it strikes me as chilly.” she rose and closed the window beside her. “i suppose,” she said at last, with averted face, “that you want to see the boy.” “i am not a hypocrite, thank god; children don’t interest me. i never have cared about them.” she raised her clasped hands. “is there anyone on god’s earth that you do care about?” “yes,” he answered, “just now i care about you. i am interested to know why you have changed. what has made you look on the bright side of things?” “why do you ask me that?” “because i hear that you do. i think you will not deny that when i met you, you were anything but an optimist.” “i don’t deny it.” “and yet,” he went on, “you had everything to make you so. i remember the first time i saw you — at a dance, wasn’t it, in your own house? — i thought you just suited your exquisite surround- ings. you felt differently.” “yes,” she assented, “i did.” the optimist “you had friends, admirers, an adoring hus- band “why mention him?” she asked with set lips. “why shouldn't i? he was everything that i am not, even if his mistakes sometimes annoyed you - but in those days you never looked on the bright side of anything. what has made you an optimist?” she rose and faced him and he rose, too, with a look of involuntary admiration. “what made me an optimist?” she said with passion. “you! yes, you! after what i have suffered through you, everything else is tolerable. a woman who can bear what i have borne, has noth- ing to fear on earth — loss of money, comfort, friends, whatever people value, what do they matter to me? nothing! you say i suffered when things went wrong, when people hurt me, when my husband made mistakes, i did suffer, because i dreaded the consequences! you have taught me that there is nothing left to dread. if i can live through this, i can live through anything, and what i have done my children can do, and those i love. there is nothing so bad but it can be borne. that is what has made me an optimist!” he braced himself against her wrath, as he would have braced himself against a volley of musketry — when it passed it left him untouched. the optimist “i know i acted like a cad and a blackguard— but what could you expect? i was in a hole and there was no other way out — being what i am. janie, you must see that if i had stayed, it would have been worse for you.” “why, then,” she whispered, “did you pursue me — from the first? i was married, i was doing my best for my husband, i was not your sort or in your set, yet you left me no peace night or day until you made me love you? why did you do it? you must have known what sort of man you were.” “i suppose because i was in love with you; that seemed reason enough at the time.” “you say that after what you have done?” “of course, love doesn’t change a man. i al- ways told you i was no stickler for duty. i never deceived you. and, besides,” appealing against her silence, “you speak as if i had made you wrong your husband.” “was it your fault that i did not?” “no, i must admit it was yours.” “and afterwards why did you commit the worst sin of all, why did you marry me?” “what would you have me do? i was in love, and there was no other way to get you. i told you that marriage didn’t appeal to me. you wouldn’t believe me.” the optimist “i trusted you in spite of myself.” “no, you did not trust me. you expected to re- form me. you thought you could make me over. isn’t that so?” “perhaps i may have thought so — once.” “and during our year together, you tried to, didn’t you?” “perhaps i did.” “well, you ought not to have tried — you should have made the best of me — that was the only thing to do.” “do you put the blame on me?” she asked with a despairing gesture. “heavens, no! i don’t put it anywhere. i told you i acted like a cad and a blackguard. i might have just the same, no matter what you have done —i had to have my liberty.” “was that why you deserted me; was that why you left me alone in the world, to bring up your boy?” - “if you like to put it so — yes.” he rose, took two or three turns about the room. and lighted another cigarette. yet underneath this airy manner a something showed that almost looked like shame. he paused at last beside her, the optimist “it was decent in you not to give me away,” he said in a sobered tone. - “my friends didn’t need to know — i told them we couldn’t agree — i took my old name and came here among strangers. there was nothing left to remind me of you. why have you come back?” “i don’t suppose i could make you understand - yet.” she considered him as one considers some strange fantastic thing, exciting half wonder, half repulsion. “i have tried to understand you,” she said. “as you tell me we cannot change our natures. i was brought up to keep my word and to believe in duty. you are different. i suppose i did make it hard for you. i suppose i did try to change you — but i was punished.” “don’t worry,” he said with a deep-drawn breath, “you have nothing more to dread. put it that i came back to make you a philosopher — for you did dread meeting me.” “as people dread death.” “well, i am living on too intimate terms with death to dread it. when it catches me, i shall just go off by myself as a dog does and trouble no one but in the meantime — i thought i would come back and say good-bye.” he made her an odd little how. “morituri te the optimist salutant,” he muttered under his breath. if she heard, she did not understand; she was listening to the sound of a bell. it peeled out very slowly from the tower of a neighboring church. she counted the strokes. - “twelve o’clock,” she said, “the children will be coming home from school.” “then i must go.” she caught his hand in hers. “the boy, ned, have you forgotten? you can’t go until you have seen the boy.” he hesitated, his face softened, his hand closed over hers; then he dropped her hand and said lightly: “why should i? he will hear about me soon enough — i had better go before he comes.” his eyes took in her every feature. “i want to remember just how you look.” she touched his arm and pointed. “there they are.” the children were coming home along the street, the boy leading. he caught a glimpse of his mother at the window and waved his hand; then seeing a stranger, he drew back and waited for his sister. his face was flushed; his eyes gleamed, he was a picture of youthful charm. for one moment his father's eyes rested upon him; the next he turned away. “a fine boy,” he said coldly. “i hope he will the optimist be like you.” his hand fumbled in his coat; she caught the gleam of gold; he was pinning something on her dress. “what is it?” she asked. “my decoration for bravery; you ought to have it. and, janie,” again his hand closed on hers, “i am glad you look on the bright side of things. some day will you try to look on the bright side of me?” “yes,” she answered, “i will try.” the children drew nearer; he was gone. she was left beside the remnants of the dead hollyhocks. two feminists es, this is the home for girls — it is one y: the workers. oh! is that you, judge jen- kyns, this is miss bradford — a first offender – of course we will take her for a few days — no, i don’t in the least mind her being a hard case – at the night court, now — then send her round at once – we shall be ready.” the room had been the drawing-room of a de- serted dwelling in the lower part of the city, and its spacious, defaced beauty had been cleverly preserved and utilized. the shabby furniture suited it, the absence of ornaments emphasized it, and the grow- ing plants in the window gave it a friendly character. in spite of its bareness, it really looked like a home, and mary bradford like its mistress. the same critics who had whispered that she took an austere pleasure in the becoming quality of her black dress, and the folds of the muslin kerchief the optimist against her white skin, asserted that she had given up a home of her own and broken off a love match because the man she was engaged to was not in sym- pathy with her advanced views about women, or her work among them, and they added that it was per- haps fortunate for him she had, as her determination to see only the best in women had led her to believe only the worst of men. mary bradford hung up the receiver and, stretch- ing herself wearily, walked over to the window and sat down. it was a damp, close night in early spring; and a faint whiff of the city was wafted in by the breeze to the music of a neighboring dance-hall, clangs, cries, rumbles, noises; but all so confused and intermingled that they sounded like the breath of the monster, rather than his voice. and now mary distinguished another sound, monotonous, re- current and yet heard above everything else — footsteps; first at a distance in the direction of the night court; nearer, along the street, pausing before the house; mounting the steps. the door opened noiselessly, and softly closed again — her guest had come. at first, in the dim light, she could distinguish only an outline, and one unhappily familiar to her — the attenuated form, the sheath-like skirt; the narrow shoulders and thin yet rounded throat above two feminists which gleamed a sharp profile like the beak of a bird were everyday sights to mary bradford! what was new and startling was the face peering out at her from under the rakish, diminutive hat. it inspired fear, repulsion, and a curious fascination! the eyes held her, they had in them an almost animal quality and yet she could not distinguish their color or shape. “so,” the girl said at last, and her voice, though shrill, was not unpleasant in quality. “so this is the great miss bradford!” “i am mary bradford,” mary answered simply; her tone was very gentle, even friendly, and yet it brushed aside all familiarity. “i always wanted to have a look at you,” the girl went on in the same half-sneering, half-humorous manner, “but not just in this way,” she laughed, a sharp grating laugh, that had yet an infectious quality of mirth in it. “won’t you take off your things?” mary sug- gested, “and let me give you something to eat? then we can talk.” “no,” the other said, “talk all you please, i'm not hungry.” she removed her hat with a sweep of her hand, jammed her hat pin into it, and tossed it on the table, then, running her fingers through her tousled the optimist hair, she flung herself into a chair, crossed her legs and went on jauntily: “fire away! i'm ready!” “for what?” asked mary bradford. “ain’t you going to question me?” demanded the girl. “why should i? they have sent your record with you. it isn’t a question now of how you got in here, but of how you are going to get out.” the girl opened her eyes wide and then brought her lips together with a low whistle. “so that’s your dodge,” she said. “well, i’m agreeable; but i guess all the same the one depends on the other.” - “they both depend on you,” answered mary. the girl peered at her obliquely from under half- closed lids. “do you know why i'm here,” she demanded. “i only know that you have made one mistake and need my help to remedy it.” - mary's face expressed the same gentle friendli- ness it had worn from the first, and appeared to arouse in her companion only surprised incredulity. “why should you take so much trouble about me?” escaped involuntarily from her lips, and some- thing familiar in the intonation made mary start. two feminists “one reason is that we are both from new eng- land.” the other’s expression changed from stupefaction to blind fury. “you mean sneak to pretend you didn’t know me.” “but i don’t,” mary answered with convincing sincerity; “i don’t even know your name, but i can see that you are from new england, because i come from there myself.” the girl grasped her elbows, beating a tattoo with hér fingers on her bare arms. at last — “you don’t look like a sneak!” she said, “give me your hand!” and as mary placed hers in it: “honest, you don’t know anything about me?” “nothing,” mary answered firmly, “not even why you are here!” “then i'll tell you.” her face relaxed. “i’m here because i was a fool!'” she said. “i’m here for stealing!” “you were in need?” “need nothing. i haven’t sunk as low as that! a pair of silk stockings fell off the counter and i put them in my pocket! i thought they'd look well on my feet!” she glanced down at them with a smile of approval, “and i never thought i’d get the optimist caught — give you my word, i never thought i’d get caught!” “and they arrested you?” “of course; ’twas a decoy; just my luck. and then, 'count of my age and first offense they shipped me on to you — there you have the whole story.” “and is there no one you want to send word to? who could help you, i mean,” mary added in answer to another furious look. “there's only the floor-walker in the store where i work – that i’m keeping company with — it’s likely i’d tell him!” the girl answered tartly; them in her usual voice: “no, i’ve got myself into this scrape and i’ll get myself out of it, thank you kindly!” “why, how old are you?” asked mary. “eighteen and single yet!” the girl said regret- fully. mary pondered the face opposite her with baffled curiosity, it was still swollen with anger and the half humorous, half sensual mouth, was twisted into a wry smile; but the colorless eyes held her, as they had from the first. she was trying to understand, and it seemed as if the girl herself were engaged in the same struggle, for she repeated wonderingly: “why are you taking all this trouble about me? why do you care?” two feminists “i care,” mary bradford said, and her quiet voice rose on a wave of enthusiasm, “because you are a woman and i want you to be worthy of it! i know what women have to bear; i know how fine they can be, and i want to help them.” the music from the neighboring dance hall burst in through the window, and a couple who were pass- ing, catching the beguiling strain, broke into a lively two-step, and swirled by amid shrieks of laughter. the girl touched mary’s arm and pointed to them: “that’s what women are like,” she said. “but i want you to rise above it,” mary cried. “i don’t want you to be a man’s toy! you are his superior!” the girl’s laugh rang out. “toy! i like that — toy! it's the other way round, let me tell you. i never met the man yet i couldn’t twist about my little finger. except one, and then i took the wrong way; but i learned my lesson l’” - “why did you leave your home?” mary asked abruptly. the girl’s smile froze on her lips; she started as though she had been struck from behind. “tell me, why did you leave?” insisted mary; “wasn’t it because of some man?” “and if it was what has that to do with it?” the optimist “everything,” mary answered sadly, “for he has dragged you down to his level.” “it ain’t so. i stand on my own two legs, i do, and no man can hurt me or help me. i can take care of myself.” she faced mary defiantly with her hands in her pockets, balancing herself on her pointed, high-heeled shoes. then, with a sudden softening of her voice: “you ain’t a bad sort; but you don’t understand women 'cause you judge 'em by yourself.” “i want to understand you,” mary answered softly, again under the influence of her curious charm. the girl broke into a loud laugh. “oh! you do, do you? all right; but remember you brought it on yourself!” the defiance on her face had been replaced by a hard look of determina- tion; she began to walk about the room, her thin young body in its sheath-like drapery giving her a fantastic likeness to a wild animal pacing back and forth in his cage. “you want to know why i left home?” she began, and her voice had regained its old sneering note. “very well, i'll tell you. - “ever heard of a town called freeport?” the shadow on mary's face deepened, she nodded silently. - “i thought so; well, that’s where i come from, two feminists and a duller hole to live in you’d find it hard work to scare up!” - “haven’t you parents?” whispered mary. “yes, i have, old-fashioned folks that know no more about the world than you do — without the excuse of being too good for it. well, they couldn’t stand me or i them and i made up my mind i’d get out.” - “did no one ever try to teach you better?” “tell you what they did teach me,” snapped the girl: “that a woman had as good a right to her own way as a man! i learned that at school if i learned nothing else.” mary made no reply to this appalling travesty of her most cherished ideals. “didn’t they teach you to support yourself?” the girl laughed. “yes, they did; but i wanted a man to support me! other girls get a rich husband, why shouldn’t i?” she stopped with her eyes on mary's face, where the shadow had widened and darkened. “i picked out the best match in the town!” she caught at her elbows again with her two hands and hugged herself, swaying gently to and fro, “his father owned all our factories and was our big man, and he had been away at college and in the optimist europe, and when he came back all the girls went crazy over him. they hadn’t met him, but they swapped stories about him —what a charmer he was, how lucky a girl would be to get him, and i made up my mind i’d have a try. yes,” she went on, in defiance of mary’s look, “that’s what a man would have done and that’s what i did. i threw myself in his way.” how? the girl strode to the window and pointed silently towards the dance hall on the other side of the street. the couple they had before noticed were standing in front of it, and she was leaning against him in a soft effort of persuasion. * that’s how !” “oh, how could you?” burst from mary. “didn’t i tell you, you were too good for it; didn’t i say you wouldn’t understand?” she turned from the window and began to walk about again. “it ain’t true what you say that women are bet- ter than men!” she threw out over her shoulder. “i’m not, so i know.” “why are you telling me this?” mary asked in a shaken voice. “because i am trying to make you understand,” the other answered triumphantly. “i tickled his fancy, and it flattered him to see me so crazy about two feminists him, and in a mighty short time i had him cold - at least i thought i had — but i hadn’t ! i found that out as soon as i let drop a word of what i was driv- ing at — and then i made up my mind that i’d try a stronger way!” the ghost of a blush crossed her face. “i went off with him!'” she finished breath- lessly. “oh!” fell from mary. “nobody knew then because i gave them some lingo about going to my aunt’s for the fourth; but afterwards they began to talk! my how they talked!” there was another long pause. “perhaps i might have brought him up to the point,” the girl said at last in her old flippant tone, “if my folks had let us alone; but they didn’t! oh! no, they must needs put their fingers in the pie and there was an awful row! — and somehow i think he began to see through me! he didn’t at first, he blamed them — and then all of a sudden it burst on him what a humbug i was — and he pulled up short! you see he wasn’t such a fool as he seemed, and then he had met a good woman and knew the difference!” she waited, but there was no sound from mary. “well, we had a heart to heart talk, and i saw that the game was up! i’m not one to cry over spilt milk, and i know when i’m beaten, so we parted friends! — oh! no!” in answer to mary’s the optimist face, “not one red cent have i had from him since. why should i? i can support myself; but i had to get out of freeport; the place was too hot to hold me! — so now you know!” mary rose very slowly and stiffly, steadying herself on the arms of her chair. “you are nan dayton.” “yes, i am nan dayton.” the music from the dance hall had ceased as sud- denly as it begun, and nothing now could be heard but the city’s dull road. “did you ever hear about me?” mary bradford asked. “yes, i heard.” “what did you hear?” “i heard you were engaged to him afterwards, and that you were very beautiful and he cared a great deal about you — and then i heard that you'd broken it off.” “do you know why?” another ghest of a blush, like the reflection from her lost youth stained the rouge on nan's cheeks. “on account of me,” she faltered. “on account of you, and on account of all the other women who have been men's victims! — and now you make me feel that my sacrifice is in vain!” the girl’s little sharp teeth gleamed in a smile. two feminists “i can take care of myself!” she said, “and so can these other women! why not, if we’re as good as you say?” mary examined her for a moment. “have you no feeling for anyone but yourself?” she asked at last. “are you just flesh and blood to ensnare a man?” “dunno,” nan answered with a shrug. “but whatever i am, i won’t change, and there are lots like me, though they haven’t the nerve to tell you so. we’re out for our own way and you’ll have to begin with us if you want to reform women, not but it’s kind of you to try!” she concluded magnani- mously. “is that why you told me?” “i told you because i like fair play, and you weren’t getting it! you meant to do me a good turn and i’m no dog in the manger — to hold on to a man who doesn’t want me — so it was up to me to clear him.” “it’s too late for that now,” whispered mary. nan came closer to her, her eyes had become as soft as a young animal’s. “you’re very good looking,” she said, “and you’re good. i didn’t quite believe it, in spite of all they said; but now i see it's so. but — you don’t un- derstand! lock at me and try to put yourself in two feminists ately. “let me help you; i have influence. go back to your parents, and i —” nan turned on her like a fury. “go back to that wretched little hole of a free- port, after living in new york city, to be bullied by a couple of old-fashioned folks who don’t know what fun is — not much! you mean well, miss brad- ford; but you don’t understand this young woman! no! i’ve made a fool of myself and i’ll take my medicine and no kicking; but that’s all! i’ll not go home and i’ll not eat humble pie! i stand on my own two legs, i do, and i’ll not be beholden to no- body, not even yo” – though it’s kind of you to try.” “is there nothing to be done with you?” mary cried with passion. - “nothing except to lock me up till i experience a change of heart,” answered the girl, balancing herself airily on her little high-heeled shoes. the spoiled child the spoiled child he first time i saw her was in the month of august at a new england seaside resort. she was dancing the “turkey trot,” and it seemed to me that she gave distinction to this rather ques- tionable art. she was very young and unformed, and yet her general appearance in nowise denoted ex- treme youth. her face and throat were full, and there was something eastern about her narrow half- closed eyes, her red lips opening slightly, as she spoke with a slow, thick utterance. she was unique, even to the clothes she wore which, bizarre and outré as they looked, suited her. you felt that she was satisfied with them just as she was with her frizzled red-brown hair, and jeweled bandeau, her white skin, her straight limbs and arched feet; and even her short upper lip showing her white teeth in a vague, fleeting smile. she seemed as filled with serene self- conscious charm as a large black kitten basking be- the optimist fore the fire and complacently licking her paws in the sun. as the girl passed me on her companion’s arm, i was struck with something vaguely familiar about her, and the sense of this increased when she joined a lady, evidently her mother, on the piazza. the latter instantly rose and wrapped a lace scarf about her daughter’s shoulders, receiving, it seemed to me, a scant acknowledgement for her attention. “a spoiled child!” i decided in my own mind. there was nothing about the mother’s small com- monplace face in any way to arrest my attention, and yet i felt sure that i had met her. i was de- bating with myself where when she spoke to me with voluble cordiality. “how do you do? i thought i knew you; then i wasn’t quite sure and people change so, and it was rather dark, of course, and, as i said to joseph- ine, one hates to make that kind of mistake with a stranger. but now i see i was quite right, as i am apt to be — in recognizing people, i mean — and it really is you, though you have grown older, of course, which is quite natural, seeing that it was ten years ago, and my dear husband and your dear father still alive!” i bowed. before i could speak – “you see,” she went on the spoiled child in her steady, cheerful monotone, “josephine was a little girl then, only ten — she is twenty now — and you — let me see, you must have been the same age then — i mean the same she is now — while i smiling archly. i interrupted the dangerous question of ages to say: “we met ten years ago in “in paris, of course; you remember, i was there for my dear husband's health, and to buy some winter clothes, and your father oh! there is josephine now! come here, dear, you see i was quite right, it is our old friend.” josephine came slowly forward to meet me, and the young man with her came, too. “how do you do,” she said briefly. whatever her resemblance in other matters, in speech she was not like her mother. “this is jack hayward,” mrs. vance introduced sociably. “he is from new york, too, so perhaps you already know him.” now, it really did happen that i knew his people, and as i said so i noticed that he flushed. they were neither rich, nor distinguished in any way except for their social position, but they invariably associated with people who were, and i found myself wondering whether they would approve of josephine. the spoiled child “what do you find to do-here all day long? i should think you’d be bored.” she gave me another gleam from under her half- closed lids: “i’m never bored.” “you are lucky,” i replied. “oh, there are always men everywhere!” she said, with the faintest turn of her head toward jack hay- ward’s cigarette. he laughed. “it suits mother, you see,” she added, apparently in answer to what i did not say, “and so few places do. mother is nervous.” * she doesn’t look so.” “but she is.” “and you,” i asked lightly, “are you nervous?” jack hayward made a sudden quick movement and tossed away his cigarette. “oh, no, i am like my father.” “josephine, mrs. smith wants to speak to you about the party they are getting up!” exclaimed mrs. vance, returning at this moment, and her daughter and jack hayward strolled away. “i declare,” she went on, “i really believe i have broken down my health trying to take care of her — this place, for instance — i am here entirely on her account. why, sometimes at night i am prefectly done up, just the optimist taking her about, and getting her clothes and answer- ing her notes and watching the boys she goes with — she has a great deal of attention, almost as much as i had when i was her age, and that is saying a good deal!” for the first time i looked at josephine's mother critically, and something that i saw in her convinced me that she spoke the truth. she had all the quality of youth which her daughter so conspicuously lacked; her small, trim features stood out neatly from her unlined face, and her compact figure was as straight and slim as if she were eighteen; there was something at once finished and yet childlike about her. she seemed a negligible quantity, and yet — i knew now where josephine got her charm. “i know i have spoiled her,” mrs. vance went on as josephine rejoined us. “i sometimes think she is good for nothing except to be looked at!” “oh, yes, mother,” josephine answered with per- fect good nature, “i can trim hats!” a sudden wave of sympathy swept over me at the thought of a girl cast loose upon the world, in this utilitarian age, with no more useful accomplishment than this! what would happen, i wondered, if she were taken out of her gilded cage and exposed to real life, with no mother to stand between her and anything dis- agreeable? the spoiled child i asked myself this question again that evening as i watched her leave the piazza, with her mother, in a pretty show of dependence, leaning upon her arm. “a spoiled child!” i said to myself, “and mrs. vance has revolved around her, as she revolved around her father, until they both fancied themselves the sun ??” this may have been the reason that the next morn- ing i took jack hayward into my confidence in regard to the character of mrs. vance's trustee. he was inclined to view it very seriously. “they ought to be warned,” he said, “and de- mand an accounting at once. mr. wance may have been a good manufacturer, but he was a poor judge of men, for he has left fenwick in complete control of all their property. you should speak to josephine.” but that it seemed was easier said than done. i found on proposing the interview to her that she had engagements for every hour of the day. “but i will try to be home early enough to see you before dinner,” she said graciously. “i am always glad to meet a friend of my father's.” it happened, however, that this friendship was not to be put to the test, for when i came down late in the afternoon to keep my appointment with her, i was met by jack hayward. the optimist “the game is up,” he said abruptly, handing me the new york paper. “henry fenwick has failed.” “defaulted, you mean,” i exclaimed, glancing it over hurriedly. “i don’t want her to see it without warning. will you speak to her.” “who, mrs. vance?” “mrs. vance? no, josephine.” “i can’t now,” i said, looking over to where she stood, surrounded by men, and i continued with a smile, that made us friends at once: “besides, she would rather hear it from you than from me. i will prepare mrs. vance.” “you must come and see us in new york this winter,” she began complacently, as i dropped into a seat beside her. “we have taken an apartment at the elmore; such lovely rooms — just what i wanted; it has been the dream of my life to live in an apartment hotel. i love hotels,” she concluded, let- ting her eye linger almost like a caress about the hall. i could see jack slowly making his way through the group about josephine, gaining first a look, then a word, finally a share of her fugitive attention. i watched with fascination the circle of men gradually thin and melt away. she had the paper — she was reading it – they were entering the house - cross- ing the hall — coming towards us. the spoiled child “mother,” josephine said with her slow drawl, and the veiled glance that took us both in, “you know you always distrusted cousin henry; you were right. he has failed!” mrs. vance's puzzled expression changed to one of triumphant satisfaction. “there, now, josephine, what did i tell you? next time i hope you will believe your mother. distrusted him — of course i did! i knew he had designs on us from the time he refused to let me sell those bonds to buy a diamond necklace. i wanted to take my money right away, as you very well know, and you said it was impossible, or illegal, or some such non- sense — as if that wasn’t what lawyers were for " now i shall have my own way, i shall take my money from him, just as soon as i get back to new york.” “i think you ought to go there at once, in that case,” i answered, humoring her mood; but she turned on me. “what, leave this hotel! i love it!” “but the expense ” josephine began in a quick, sharp voice, and then checked herself, for her mother’s eyes had opened wide in horror. “you don’t mean there is any question of that?” she gasped. “you don’t mean that he won’t give up our money? oh! what is going to become of the optimist me?” she cried, “and josephine of absolutely no use!” “oh, yes, mother,” josephine answered flippantly, patting the curls on her forehead, “you forget i can trim hats!” * * * * * * * on my return to town after some autumn visits i went at once to the club and hunted up jack hay- ward, who greeted me with melancholy cordiality. “how about our friends?” i asked. “is it as bad as we feared?” “worse,” he replied emphatically. “you mean they have nothing left?” “as far as i can make out, nothing.” “have they no relations or friends to help them?” “they have me,” said the young fellow brusquely, “but so far i haven’t heard of anyone else. mrs. vance's family are dead, and mr. vance left no one able to be of any use.” “then what are they going to do?” “i want josephine to marry me,” he answered simply. “she has refused.” * refused?” i asked. “for what reason?” “she didn’t give me any, just said it was impos- sible. talks of earning her own living, which, of course, is preposterous. how can a girl like that earn her living?” the spoiled child “she could trim hats,” i exclaimed with sudden recollection. “that is what she is going to do!” he replied. “and what does mrs. vance do?” i asked with sudden curiosity. “mrs. vance has done nothing so far except cry,” he replied impatiently. “and so josephine has really risen to the oc- casion,” i asked incredulously. “she has more than risen to it; she has dominated it!” later i had occasion to echo his words. when i called upon josephine that afternoon, at the elmore, i found her absolutely unchanged; she had the same nonchalant manner; the same veiled glance, the same soft, slow way of pronouncing her words. while i was seeking an excuse to approach the subject of her loss, she forestalled me by saying, in a matter-of-fact tone: “jack has told you, i suppose, about our affairs?” “yes,” i answered, “and i cannot tell you how sorry “of course, so is everyone; so am i myself; but that doesn’t help!” “jack told me,” i ventured, “of a remedy he had suggested.” “jack was very kind,” she said quietly, “but i couldn’t think of putting him to the test.” the optimist “i don’t think he looked at it in that way.” “perhaps not, where i am concerned, but you see there is mother!” “yes,” i said lamely; “yes, i suppose that is so.” “you see,” she said, softly tapping her foot in and out of her high-heeled, jeweled slipper; “you see, i have to look after her. i promised father i would.” “yes, i see, but “father always did, while he lived. he gave her everything she wanted — he nearly killed himself sometimes to get the money — and he let her have her own way, wherever he could, and travel and buy pretty clothes; and he made me promise before he died that i would do the same.” “but couldn’t you take care of her just the same if you married?” “perhaps, but it wouldn’t be fair to jack! when mother is nervous the doctor says she must have her own way; and no man is willing to give up his. even father didn’t like it. but then, you see, she was his wife and so there was nothing else for him to do.” i paused, aghast at the magnitude of this as- sumption, and she went quietly on: “no, it wouldn’t be fair to jack, and so the only thing left for me is to support her!” the optimist “yes, they are to be cheap — fifteen dollars apiece, and some are worth it, so the good ones will carry the bad, and the money i make will give me a start, for this is only a beginning!” “how a beginning?” “i have taken rooms in a house on east thirty- first street; they are cheap and nasty, but that can’t be helped — and i want to get some little milliner to go in with me and open a shop there.” and this was the girl i had dismissed to myself as a spoiled child! “the hotel keeper has been awfully kind to me. he has taken as much pains about this sale as if it were for himself. in fact, all the men i know have been kind,” she concluded, with her veiled glance, but i was in no mood for it now. “i will send notices to my friends,” i said stoutly. at this moment the door opened, and she whispered: “here is mother; don’t say anything to her about my plans.” # * * * * * * josephine's sale was a great success. i was there in a semi-official capacity to assist in the difficult but necessary task of making change. also with the unacknowledged one of taking a friend who has a the spoiled child mania for hats just as some people have for china — and who i felt might be of assistance to josephine. i saw i was right when we reached the door and caught sight of the struggling crowd within. “it is like a sale at lichtenstein’s,” she exclaimed with a rapt expression, “the hats are perfectly lovely!” she emerged some ten minutes later with two in her hand and made her way to where i stood with josephine. “will you hold these, please,” she said grimly, handing them to me, “and don’t let any one get them away from you, on your life!” “i will put your name on them,” interposed je- sephine, then, as a shade crossed the other's face, “you may take it off later if you don’t want them.” “isn’t that risky?” i whispered. “not at all. she is sure to want them as long as some one else does.” from where i stood i could see only a swaying, swirling mass of women, out of which every now and then one would emerge, grasping a hat, and make her way to josephine, for advice or assistance — and then the same thing would begin over again, and so on, until all the hats were gone. it was then that mv friend returned to us, with the last one in her hand. the spoiled child “pitiful! it's magnificent!” i interrupted. “but,” coming down to earth again, “how does she manage about her credit, and who keeps her books?” “well, you see,” jack answered rather shame- facedly, “she has always had bills everywhere, and when she started in business she saw all these people and somehow she has got them to trust her.” his face relaxed a little. “and as for her books, for the present i am keeping them.” “i see that josephine has not lost her friends, as well as her money!” i said, to which he assented with emphasis. that was his first enthusiastic account; the second was less rose-colored. “it is beginning to tell on her!” he announced. “she has lost all her fine color and has grown thin and her mouth droops! i am afraid,” despairingly, “that she can’t stand it much longer.” “what is the matter? has business given out or is the work too much for her?” “it’s not business!” he said with venom, “it’s her mother!” i decided to see for myself what was wrong, so i called on josephine one afternoon, late enough, i hoped, to find the hats “all whisked away into the big closet.” it was an evening when the weather seemed to waver despondently between rain and snow, the optimist as if unable to decide which was dreariest. every now and then a strong east wind would charge down from the high buildings, and swirl through the streets, sweeping them clean in places, and then cov- ering them again with dust. as far as my eye could reach huge sky-scrapers and deserted dwelling houses swore softly at each other. in the little side street. they were too hopeless even to swear. i picked my way between the dingy houses, and, having stumbled up the dark stairway of one of the dingiest, i found the room into which i entered, by contrast, pe- culiarly cheerful. - it was the sitting room of what had once been a private dwelling, and enough of its dignity lingered, in the hardwood floors and carved woodwork for josephine to make as much of as of her talent for trimming hats. bits of painted furniture, formerly in her bedroom, showed against the white walls, while a few hat boxes, matching the chintz on her sofa, rather added than detracted from the effect. there was a real fireplace, and a real fire. mrs. vance sat in an easy chair before it, with a novel on her lap, and beside her a bunch of roses and an untasted cup of tea; but in spite of these stimu- lants to cheerfulness, she was rocking herself to and fro in abject despair. josephine stood at her side and i recognized at a glance the truth of jack's the spoiled child picture. her fleeting smile was absent and i missed in her voice its old alluring note. “it is kind of you to come,” mrs. vance murmured plaintively, “but i shall hardly trouble anyone long.” “let me get you a cup of hot tea,” josephine in- terposed. “you don’t mind if i leave you with her for a few moments,” she whispered hurriedly. “it’s a relief to her to complain to some one besides me.” i took the vacant chair at mrs. vance's side and looked at her carefully. she was certainly an object of pity; her trim little features were distorted with grief, and her small, vacant face had taken on an expression of such wrathful desolation as almost to give it dignity; while her voice had a pathetic quality that recalled her daughter's, as she said: “look what i have come to !” i was too impressed to answer except by a sym- pathetic murmur. “it isn’t fair,” she moaned, “and if there was such a thing as justice in the world it couldn’t have happened! if ever there was a woman who deserved consideration and attention and an easy life it's i! i never think of myself; i never have; from the time that josephine was born i have always done everything and sacrificed everything and given up everything for her; just as i did before for her dear father! and now when i thought i should have the optimist my reward and settle down for a little comfort in a hotel in new york, i am cheated out of it by that wicked cousin of my husband’s !” “it is very hard?” i exclaimed, caught and car- ried away in spite of myself by the very extremity of her grief. “hard!” it was impossible to convey a stronger note of self-pity into any voice than rang through mrs. wance’s now. “and to think that josephine should bring me here!” “but what else could she do?” i braced myself to ask. “she might have let me stay where i was !” sobbed (mrs. vance. she paused as though to recall her vanished happiness. “that nice man at the elmore would have gone on trusting us a little longer be- cause ” she raised her drenched face. “did it ever occur to you that jack hayward might want to marry her?” before i could decide how to answer this embar- rassing question i heard a slight sound and josephine stood beside us; there was something about the way in which she set down the tea kettle and lighted the lamp that convinced me she had heard her mother's last words. “yes,” she said in a sharp, crisp voice, utterly unlike her usual soft tones, “jack hayward does the spoiled child window, divided between a good cigar and a strong inclination to sleep, when jack hayward burst in upon me. “mrs. vance wants you,” he whispered excitedly, “she sent me for you.” “what for? is she ill?” “ill, no. she wants your advice.” “my advice!” i exclaimed eagerly, for my advice is not, it must be confessed, at a premium. “about what?” “i can guess,” he replied with gusto, “but she will tell you better herself. come!” i found mrs. wance sitting much as i had last seen her, with her hands folded upon her lap, but her face had regained the soft cheerfulness, the pleasant commonplaceness, the serene contentment that i had noticed when we first met. “i want so much to consult you; thank you for coming,” she said, giving me her hand with some- thing in her eyes that reminded me of josephine. “you remember our conversation with my daughter? when i told you about my friend, the man i wouldn’t marry on her account – well, i answered his letter! i answered his letter, and i told him about our loss and how cruelly josephine had acted, and would you believe it, he came right on here from cleveland to see me. he lives in cleveland, you know — and that the optimist was really one reason i wouldn’t marry him before, because i couldn’t bring myself to live out of new york — but now things have changed! he has prom- ised to let me stay in new york every year for at least one month. i can easily get him to make it two, later on — and so now the question is - shall i marry him?” i uttered an irrepressible ejaculation. “oh! i see you understand; i never consider myself, but this thing can’t go on! it is killing me and wearing out josephine, and so the question is, ought i to make the sacrifice? you are a man of the world, not governed by foolish sentiment, like me. is it my duty to marry this man, and go to live in cleveland?” she took both my hands, and looked into my eyes. “yes,” i answered with jubilant firmness, “i be- lieve it is your duty to sacrifice yourself, to marry him and go and live in cleveland.” she smiled a softly relieved smile, dropped my hands and leaned back in her chair. “that is just what i had made up my mind to do.” later that evening i took my three friends out to dinner with me to celebrate the joyful event. “so you have shifted your cares,” i whispered to josephine, as i helped her on with her wrap, “i am not so sure,” she said thoughtfully. “i the spoiled child have an idea that he can hold his own, even against mother.” “and jack?” i asked eagerly. “now that she is cared for, you will make him happy, won’t you?” “perhaps,” answered josephine looking at him from under half-veiled lids. “i believe i rather like to be taken care of again!” she finished aloud. “you spoiled child!” exclaimed mrs. vance. “oh, josephine is a modern girl,” jack said laugh- ing, “ and so,” bowing gallantly to mrs. vance, “even an old-fashioned mother couldn’t spoil her.” “was he right?” i wondered, as she answered him with the fleeting smile that showed her white teeth. the sword the sword he fog was sweeping in across the swansea t: in august, - just as it does to-day – driven forward by a crisp salt breeze, chilled by the waters of the atlantic. the sun was still hot, and john martin's horse sniffed it gladly, shaking his head free of its halo of mosquitoes and flies, while his rider paused, before turning into the highway that led to wanamosett. he was a tall man and his movements had a slow, ponderous charm that made him noticeable even here, where the wide stretches of landscape harmonized with his tranquil composure and freedom from self- consciousness. he wore his plain homespun suit with such a fine air that it hardly seemed out of keeping with the sword at his side, and which he fingered from time to time in a curious stealthy fashion. for a moment he glanced about in the " the optimist direction of the myles block house — the scene of former indian conflicts — and his face darkened; then, settling himself in his seat, he lifted the reins and proceeded slowly along towards his father's place. it lay on the new-meadows river, near the ferry, leading to the place of trade of the prosperous bap- tist settlement founded by the reverend john myles, and a stone at its entrance dated marked the year of its purchase; though the original dwelling had since been burned by the indians. the present house stood a little back from the highway and faced south — as was then the custom — but its builder had shown a taste in his choice of location unusual in those days, when a sheltered position, rather than a fine view, was the ideal sought. the house itself, a shingled two-story structure — built outside its central chimney —had much of the sturdy distinction which characterized its owner's son. it had also his air of smart neatness; the clear- ing in front was well kept; the orchards well tended; everything looked solid and substantial, as though built to stay. perhaps at another time john martin might have noted this for, living as he did at re- hobeth, some ten miles distant, he was interested in all that concerned his old home, but to-day he no- ticed nothing, the optimist as ever. so that even beside his son's youthful vigor he shone out a sample of matchless old age – ripened, but not decayed by time. “wherefore the sword?” he asked at last, his eyes traveling from it upward towards the face of his son. “i like the feel of it!” the other said briefly. “the war has had a curious effect on thee, jack,” his father answered, “ever since the canada expedi- tion, where you managed to capture a sword and the name of a dare-devil, you have seen fit to go about armed as if in an enemy’s country. remember that this is the colony of massachusetts, and we are a god-fearing people.” “i attack no one,” jack said in the same half- sullen fashion, as of a schoolboy expecting punish- ment. “i suppose,” the old man went on, “that 'tis to make a brave appearance before mistress mercy thurber – i was that way myself at your age — nevertheless it is unseemly and causes comment; we want no sword-buckling gentry here!” “you had them in devon.” “i know, and i left there many years ago — on that account!” he added as if in afterthought. “father,” his son asked, as his eyes trailed over the rich opulent landscape, “isn’t this like devon?” the sword ' “ye—s,” john martin admitted, “the country is like it, though not, of course, the houses.” “and the houses, don’t you miss them, with their panelled walls and brave hangings?” “jack, how didst know the walls were panelled?” “how, unless you told me,” jack answered. “and that i’ll swear i did not!” exclaimed his father; but receiving no answer he continued more mildly, “yes, the panelling in our house at home was very fine; but i never said so.” “don’t you miss it all sometimes, the houses and the people; the women in silken finery, and the men in brave apparel; and the shows; and the brawlings; don’t you miss them?” “for god’s sake, hush,” his father cried, “here comes thy mother.” - they both listened breathlessly and the little salt breeze played about their faces and their deprecating smile was very much the same. “i was mistaken,” john martin said at last in a relieved tone. “i thought it was her voice, and i would not that she heard thee.” why? “because she might fear that i missed my un- regenerate days before i met her!” jack bowed, lacking courage to ask the question that trembled on his lips; then, as his eyes again t the optimist rested on the open bible, he suddenly changed its form. “father,” he asked with the faintest ghost of a smile, “why is your bible always open at the same chapter of numbers?” for a moment john martin stared angrily, then turned again to the house to listen for his wife's coming. then, at last his eyes searched his son’s face, and the same furtive, humorous smile gleamed in his eyes. “jack,” he said, “i had not a godly bringing up like thee! i was not taught from my youth up to read the word of god.” “no,” answered his son, “we are neither of us religious!” “hold thy tongue, boy!” exclaimed his father. “what is this, heresy?” “the truth!” replied jack boldly. “why not speak it? no one can hear us!” a rueful expression appeared on the old man’s face, “no, jack,” he acknowledged at last, “we are not religious; but then, as godly mr. myles used to say, ‘god knows that and will require the less at our hands !’” “and we see things as they are!” “god forgive us, jack, we do!” the optimist “well? * “you have felt the curse!” “the curse,” said jack with something like a sneer, “that is my mother's saying!” “and ’tis mine, too !” his father answered, “for i have felt it –“ the curse of worldliness!” i tell you, son, that had it not been for your mother and that holy man of god, the reverend mr. myles, i had been lost! he understood me and since his death she has been the only one who did! you say they distrust me here, and perhaps 'tis true, but the curse has lifted as 'twill with thee! there is nothing will save you, jack, but a good wife — an she be submissive — and mistress mercy is.” “i care not to marry,” his son said coldly. “she is fair and comely to look at, and of an even disposition; and has housewifely gifts; and she can read thee like a book!” “father, all that matters not to me — i must away!” there was a silence, and the mist crept farther up the river. “where?” asked the old man at length. “anywhere, so it be from here?” the heavy frown on john martin’s lips lightened into a smile. “has mistress mercy refused thee?” the sword “no, nor will not!” his son replied, “for i shall not ask her. i am tired of it all; i have been mar- ried once for my soul’s weal and that was once too often! now i want my freedom.” “mistress mercy is a widow and may feel the same way!” “very likely; but it matters not! i shall be gone!” “and your children?” demanded his father. “they have money enough from their mother and my mother will bring them up better than i can!” “she will indeed; and what about her?” the eyes of both men turned towards the house and then searched each other’s faces. “i am sorry,” jack muttered, “but i must go!” john martin let himself sink back upon his seat and leaned his head on his staff. “boy,” he said at last, “tell me the truth; how camest thou by the sword? 'tis though it had be- witched thee!” the sullen expression on jack’s face gave way for the first time, and for the first time he spoke and acted like a man. “i won it!” he cried. “i won it by mine own good arm – in single combat with a frenchman! a fair fight and no favor! i had him down; my hands were on his throat; prepared to take his life and — i could not! – even though he was a papist and ac- ' the optimist cursed, he had fought too well! reproach me not, did i not own that i was not religious! — i took my hands away and motioned him to rise. “yield thee, i said, and he handed me his sword! 'tis a toledo blade and i had never seen one. i was examining it when they took me prisoner!” he paused and ran his fingers lovingly along the blade. “i thought then that my last hour had come, for there were indians among them, and they had taken away the sword — i suspected even my frenchman — but no, he placed himself before me; he said something, they fell back and with a low bow he signed to me to follow. it seems it was the seigneur i had fought, and he was taking me to the seigneurie.” “i see; i could never understand before why they released thee! but — whence this secrecy?” a deep flush flooded the young man’s cheek. “”twere hopeless to make you understand.” it was as though he was striving to express some- thing dark even to himself, and to be groping about for some way to put it into words. “it was all so different from here, all but the people, and they were the same, only — more civil, and generous; i cannot tell you how generous! the seigneur took me to his house — such a house as i had never seen — panelled in white; perhaps the panelling in your old home was like it; and so beau- the sword tiful! i had supper with him — such a supper- flowers on the table, and the dishes of silver! — his wife, too, was there, with her maidens, all in brave attire – and such courtesy ! — not a word to re- mind me that to her i was only a heretic?” “jack, didst also forget that to thee she was only a papist?” “yes,” jack answered, “and so would you, had you been with me!” john martin sighed and shook his head; but did not otherwise dispute the assertion. “how could i recall a thing like that?” his son went on, “in face of such fair courtesy' — when she thanked me for having spared her husband; when she told me that i was free; when, before them all, she handed me back the sword and said, ‘you have won it, mon beau chevalier!’ wouldst have me show myself less generous? answer me!” “no,” escaped involuntarily from john martin. “why — why may i not be a man instead of a saint. i am not the stuff of which saints are made, even poor ones, father — any more than you! i want to go out in the world; i want to fight for my- self and conquer as i conquered the frenchman.” “and suppose, jack,” his father asked, “that the world conquers thee!” the optimist “even then, if i am to be lost for it! at least let me have a few years of freedom!” he flung out his challenge as though in this mo- ment of madness he was ready to defy, not only god, but all creation as well. yet the river rippled on, and the little sea breeze played with the hair on his forehead, and even his father's face retained its tolerant look. “freedom,” he asked, “to sin.” “no, to be happy.” “so be it,” john martin said, “and here i score, for here i am on my own ground. about the other world i am no great judge, but about this one i know as much as the veriest saint, and i tell you, boy, your bargain’s a poor one! happy! you'll be the most miserable thing alive! a poor man, with a proud stomach; a weak man with a high spirit and a taste for adventure! ”tis a cruel world, jack, as well as wicked, and ’twill squeeze you dry like an orange and then toss you into the gutter. dost think i don’t know; why i have ground my teeth for very rage in past years, for my own impotence and misery. — that was before i met your mother! that is what i would save you from.” “and if i persist, will you forbid me to go?” his father frowned and glanced towards the house; then seemed to come to a decision. the sword “no,” he said. “i shall not, for i know that this would only make you more determined; but as for any other help from me count not on my weakness! rocky river farm is yours; but try to sell it against my will and see what follows! if one of the brethren should chance to buy it, he’ll salve his conscience by paying a small price, mark my words well.” “honored sir, in any case, may i not have your blessing?” “my blessing, yes, god forgive me jack, thou hast it! but hush, this time it is thy mother!” from within the house a voice could be heard call- ing; a low, feeble voice, very different from john martin’s strident tones, and the contrast between them became even more apparent, as, receiving no answer, she came herself to the door to look out. johanna martin was twelve years younger than her husband; but she appeared that much older. her small, slight form was bent as well as wasted, shriv- elled would be a better word, except that it conveys an impression of lifelessness, which could not be ap- plied to her. her worn face breathed vitality; the glow of it was in her eyes, vague blue eyes that hardly seemed to see what was before them; but to be fixed somewhere far, far beyond and above the horizon. those eyes – the eyes of a welsh seer — were the only noticeable things about her, for her face was the optimist gentle and colorless – after a typical welsh fash- ion – and her manner even more so; while her voice had still the faintest ghost of a foreign accent; though she and her family had left wales, with the reverend john myles some forty years before, “i called you once before, son john,” she said, “how is it you have kept me waiting?” her fashion of speaking was different from her husband's. john martin’s had always a certain air as of one “to the manner born,” and though his language often appeared old-fashioned, as pertaining to the period at which he had left england, it was always that of a man of the world, while his wife's seemed to belong to her alone, and to be not so much provincial as individual. “yes,” she said with her vague smile, “i have waited long; come in.” she led the way into the house, and her son fol- lowed silently, leaving his father still outside, and bending his head a little as he entered the door. inside it was already growing dark, the small win- dows, with their opaque glass admitting little light and, in spite of the warmth of the day, the air felt damp. the ceiling was very low, and its deep beams made it seem even lower, so that the room, though spacious for that period, looked curiously con- tracted as they entered it from the open air. the sword he leaned over her, grasping her hands. “mother, i want to go away; to see the world; to feel what 'tis like; to conquer, or else renounce it! i want some credit for my choice and not to be kept here and married against my will, and forced against my will to be a christian! i am a man and not a saint, and i want my freedom!” as he paused, overwhelmed at his own audacity, she suddenly called out: “how like thy father?” she put her arms about him, defending him from an evil spirit: “oh! my son, you are so like him! so much more like him than any child i have, that i must be patient! oh! i have heard him say the like so many times before — yet he repented, as thou wilt! be warned and struggle against the tempter! remember your babes, for whom god holds you re- sponsible. remember your father, who is failing — i can see it though all else are blind. if you go, you will never meet him in this world again, no nor unless god have mercy in the world to come.” “mother,” he pleaded, “you have many other children, what does it matter about me? my brother, melitiah, is wise and studious, and ephriam knows how to make his way in the world, and manasseh is a godly minister, and — ebenezer is like you and the the optimist favorite - why can you not spare one son? let me go my own way, even to destruction!” she motioned him to her side with a commanding gesture, and pointed to the distant meadows, where the sheep were being rounded up into the fold. “‘how think ye,’” she quoted, ““if a man have a hundred sheep and one of them be gone astray, doth he not leave the ninety and nine, and goeth into the mountain and seeketh that which is gone astray?’ to me, at this time, you are the most precious child i have! pray, my son, pray that this curse be lifted from thee!” a ray of sunshine touched her bowed head as she folded her hands and then raised them in blessing. “i will strive against it,” he answered, over- whelmed by the force of her appeal. outside could be heard the tinkle of bells and the soft thud of the cattle's feet as they trotted home for milking time. mistress joan lifted her head. “your father will be wanting his supper,” she murmured, and, rising, she greeted her husband calmly as he entered the door. “it is not often, sweetheart, that i find your sup- per late,” he said, glancing in a questioning manner between her and his son. “i await the children, they have gone to mistress mercy thurber’s, and that reminds me, my son,” the optimist of her shapely figure, and every line of her blooming face – with its blond coloring and childlike sensuous- ness — was brought out by the dress which she wore, an austere dress, gray, close-fitting, yet designed with such calculated art that it might rather have belonged to a stage puritan, instead of a living one. “were you waiting for john martin?” a voice said, as a girl’s figure appeared in the twilight, “is the door open for him?” “how you startled me, nan!” “is he coming to-night,” went on the other glanc- ing about her, “is that why you have sent away your maiden and the boy?” “the boy is asleep,” mercy answered serenely, “and as for the maiden, it is as you say. i like not a tattler about.” she spoke in the assured tone of a village heauty, and her voice, although not sweet like her face, seemed to command attention as well as to exact obedience. “oh! i shall go before he comes,” laughed the maiden she had called nan, seating herself on a stool by the fire. “i came because i thought you might be lonely.” “i am never lonely,” mercy answered. “i have the sword too much to do,” then, as though repenting the im- plication, “but i am glad to see thee, nan.” nan laughed; she was stout and comely and evi- dently a negligible quantity. “tell me,” she continued, peering at the face before her, “why did you not marry john martin in the beginning? he would have suited you far better than my cousin.” “i had no choice,” replied mercy, “and neither had master martin, ’twas all decided for us.” “i marvel at that, for now, at least, his family are eager to have him marry you.” “yes, to keep him here and prevent his going to the war; the question now is, what have we to say?” “oh! by all means say yes, mercy, dear,” tittered her companion, “he is so handsome and looks so unhappy and, besides, he might buy this place for you, and put you up a fine new house, such as you have always wished for.” mercy’s eyes glowed. “i should like that above everything, and 'twould be a great help to you, too, if you could sell the place, and give you the means to marry,” she added archly. nan flushed and bridled: “’twas on your account i spoke, mercy, dear, for sold it must be. 'tis said your husband got too cheap a rent because he was a kinsman, the optimist and that we must get more. i understand not such matters, but i should like you to keep the place.” “never fear, nan, but what i shall!” answered mercy sweetly. there was a silence and the melancholy howl of a wolf could be heard. “ough, how dreary!” muttered nan, “’tis lonely here i must say for a woman like you — without a husband!” “say rather, restful!” answered mercy, “men are such a care. “true; but ’tis hard to manage without them!” “i have more men to help me now than i am like to have after i marry!” replied the spoiled beauty. “hark, what’s that?” a long breath of wind rose and mixed with it could be heard the distant thud of a horse’s hoofs. the wind fell, then rose, again, and with it the other sound. “that must be john martin!” laughed nan; “never fear, i am going; good-night! mistress.” and, gathering up her cloak, she slipped unceremon- iously away, leaving mercy absorbed in listening. but as the sounds increased, paused, and then stopped again she did not rise nor did she go to the sword meet them, but sat perfectly still, the fire lighting her face, her eyes fixed on the door. only as a tall form entered and stood stiffly observing her, she ut- tered a faint cry. “master martin | * “yes, mistress. you sent for me, and i am here.” “’twas kind of you to come,” whispered mercy. she rose and lighted the candle in an iron candle- stick on the table; it sputtered, then burned more steadily and for the first time she was able to see his face. “you look tired,” she said, “sit down and i will get you a cup of mulled wine.” he took a seat by the fire and watched with an unconscious softening of his features, while she pre- pared the drink; and it was not so much the grace of her movements that struck him, as the marvelous manner in which everything came ready to her hand, so that without noise or effort within a few minutes she had laid before him a delicious repast and he realized that he was faint and exhausted, and had eaten nothing at his father’s some hours before. “”tis late, and i see you have had no supper,” she said, taking a seat beside him; “eat a little, master martin, later i have business with thee, but there is plenty of time for that.” the optimist jack tasted the drink she had prepared, and the venison pastry she had made, and felt revived. “you are a good provider, mistress,” he said, looking up to meet her smile. “i had to be. my husband required it of me.” his haggard face relaxed a little. “i remember,” he said, “that you had a fine training from your honored mother. the first time i saw you i marveled that so much beauty should go with such housewifely gifts.” “god has blessed me with a good mother and good health,” answered mercy, dropping her lids. “i value not beauty which is deceitful, nor gifts which are vain.” “my poor wife was not blessed with either, but ’twas a pious soul!” “i know, and so perchance might i have been; but i assure you, master martin, my husband left me little time to be religious – ’twas all taken up with him.” “nay, never excuse yourself,” he answered, “it would not become me to complain, for that you are far too comely.” she looked him squarely in the eyes. “a truce to compliments! you have seen too many comelier women at the war to notice me.” he rose hastily, his sword clanking as he moved, the sword but she had risen, too, and was rapidly removing all traces of his meal. “i have heard that the french women are fair to look at,” she began suddenly. “what say you?” a dark flush rose to his brow. “”tis not so much their looks that are fair as they ways and their fashions!” “ah!” escaped from mercy. she was watching him intently from under lowered lids, and her thin lips parted to emit her quick breath. she bent down and touched his sword. “”twas a french woman gave you this.” for a moment her eyes held him. “and you would go back to her?” she finished, dropping them. “how did you guess?” asked john martin. she gave a curious sound between a gasp and a laugh. “”tis plain enough.” again the wolf howled and a little puff of wind rattled the window pane. “does she love thee?” mercy asked in the same detached tone. “love me,” he burst forth, “why, to her i am nothing; a boor, a heretic! why, she is the wife of the seigneur ! she is as much above me as the moon out there!” the optimist he strode to the door and pointed upward. the moon had risen higher and its hard white light was on his face. mercy crept to his side and touched his arm. “never reproach thyself,” she said. “i under- stand.” he turned and laid his hand on hers. “i blame thee not; ’tis said we can control the heart, but ’tis not so.” his face softened. “yes, i un- derstand. you love her and you want to go out in the world and do something so that she may value you.” “how did you know?” again asked john martin. she gave another queer little laugh and drew him back into the room. on the table the candle still flickered and sputtered as the flame blew to and fro in the draught, casting ghostly shadows on the wall, and lighting up their faces, his haggard and irreso- lute, hers pale and determined. “may it not be that you are making a mistake about her?” he started and drew away, but her hand held him fast. “you would go out in the world to learn her ways, so she may value you. perhaps she values you already, perhaps that is why she gave you the sword.” - “she said, ‘you have won it, mon beau cheva- lier!’” he answered softly. mercy’s lips tightened and her voice cut like pol- the sword ished steel. “i know much of such great ladies from my mother. they are kind and change- able and cruel. such as you were you took her fancy because she had never seen your like before; would you ruin yourself to be different, just to please her, and find out too late that it was all in vain?” “cease,” he cried with passion, “’tis not alone for her sake i would go, ’tis for mine own. i want my freedom!” she remained for a time in deep thought. the light was upon her face and his eyes followed it as if drawn by a magnet. “listen,” she said at last, “i have long wished to counsel thee. wilt hear me?” he assented with the look of a man about whom the toils are tightening. “your family are working to keep you here by any means, fair or foul–oh! i speak plainly because the time has come for it — i know you think your father takes your part, and that per- chance were true, were you alone concerned; but – there is your mother — and your brothers! they brook no interference with their plan for your sal- vation - witness your marriage. make no mistake, they have the power to enforce their will and they will use it. you have no one in all the world to stand your friend but me!” the optimist “too true.” she held out her hand. “i will help you to go.” he looked at her in stupefaction through which pierced a gleam of dismay. “you will help me to go?” “do you doubt it.” he held her hand pressed in his, while she went rapidly on. “you must have money and that you will find is very hard to get. oh! i know you have your farm, but can you dis- pose of it against your parents’ wishes?” “he said the same,” he muttered. “there i can help you! if you wish to sell now, at once, i will speak to my kinsman, richard harding.” “he will never buy it,” exclaimed jack, but her answer came sharp and clear. “he will if i ask him.” “what mean you?” he asked. “wilt play him off against me?” “why not, if it will help you?” a pause and she added softly, “he will do much to please me.” “and you wilt do the same for him?” “surely not,” she replied demurely, “is he not a married man?” he drew away with something like an oath and the sword strode up and down the room, his mouth set, his large bulk throwing huge shadows on the wall. at last he paused beside her. “that was a bitter jibe, mistress mercy, but i deserved it, i pray your pardon!” “i brought it on myself. have i no offered you my help?” - he resumed his pacing of the floor, and his tall shadow followed him along the wall. “i cannot accept such help from a woman,” he said at last, “’tis against my conscience.” “your conscience works strangely, master mar- tin, 'twill permit you to desert your children, and shame your father and break your mother's heart, but it balks at help from a woman. of a truth i erred when i said i understood you.” he bent and caught her roughly by the arm: “dost not see that such help were to disgrace me?” “if so,” she answered withdrawing her hand, “’twould disgrace thee far more to go.” he drew back so suddenly that his sword rang with a hollow thud against the floor. “i have the right,” he cried, “to hurt myself; i would not hurt you!” “”tis what you have done,” she answered, and he saw with dismay the bruises on her arm. “it the optimist matters not! what matters is that you refuse my help. what then remains to you?” “the life of a hypocrite!” “oh, no,” she protested; but he went on, the words dropping hot from his lips, like lava from a volcano. “i would go out in the world and fight my way! i would conquer or die; and instead — i remain to a life i despise, with people who distrust me, and must humble myself to be like them. you may call that duty, mistress, but to me it spells dishonor. 'tis the life of a weakling!” “nay,” she pleaded, “of a soldier who fears to desert his post.” “god knows, ’tis the only fear i have!” “god knows,” she answered, breaking into sobs, “’tis my reason for wishing thee to stay!” he moved from her side and stood by the window looking out at the moonlit scene. everything was very white and still. the pear tree loomed like a shadowy specter out of the luminous darkness; the little salt breeze just lifted the edge of its leaves and rustled the blades of grass. beyond that no sound but her faint sobs. very gently he drew forth the sword, held it a moment and ran his fingers along the blade. then with one last look he laid it down beside the sputtering candle. she heard the movement, but the optimist he shivered again, and again he held her closely in his arms. he married mistress mercy, and he bought the place where she had lived, and built her a fair new house, such as she had always longed for – it is standing yet — and she was satisfied. and when it rose at last, a quaint shingled structure, its color silver-gray, the shape of its roof as fair as the curve of its mistress’ form, he had a moment of rare con- tent, as of an ideal realized. and sitting with her in the best room he watched the panelling on the mantel, and his thoughts were of devon and of his father — but such moments were rare. he had many interests and his life was a very busy one. he became a member of the church and promi- nent in the town; people spoke of him as a respected and prosperous man. yet all that remained of his youthful dream was this house which he had built and — the sword. for it is recorded that when he was about to die, and children and grandchildren crowded about his bed, he turned to mistress mercy, who was kneeling beside him, and said to her softly: * the sword.” and, as she placed it in his hand, he clasped it for the last time and whispered: “you have won it, mon beau chevalier!” and died. his brother's story his brother's story t won't do, my dear boy, the public would i never stand for it!” charles grosvenor was smiling and all his features smiled with him, until the smile seemed to take in his whole personality. the man facing him was not in a mood to appre- ciate this humorous philosophy, which some of the editor’s enemies called a glorified philistinism. he stood there rather stiffly, his boyish figure — the figure of an athlete — drawn up to its full height, his wide-open blue eyes staring straight before him, his face puckered into a puzzled, worried frown. “what is the matter with it?” he asked at length, bringing his eyes down to the level of the other’s face. * it is well written?” i the optimist “i couldn’t have done it better myself,” grosvenor agreed complacently. “that isn’t the question!” “and it is true to life?” went on his companion eagerly. “yes — i suppose so, but that isn’t the question, either. the public doesn’t want to read about real people. they want noble characters such as you write about, tanner,” he ended pleasantly. gilbert tanner's long, elastic fingers mechanically caressed a check he was holding loosely in his hand. “i am so sorry,” he said at last. “so am i,” the other answered still genially. “will your brother take it very hard?” “yes,” gilbert said with the same puzzled frown. “it meant a good deal to him; he had been working on it a long time.” “oh! well, we all work hard,” grosvenor answered briskly, “and one man’s loss is another man’s gain. you surely have no reason for complaint,” and he pointed to the check which the other had allowed to slip from his hand. “it isn’t exactly the money part of it with him,” gilbert said, folding up the check, “he isn’t like me, grosvenor,” he added with some bitterness, “he works for posterity!” “of course, of course,” agreed charles grosvenor, “but she is a much more trying taskmaster than the his brother's story public. it isn’t everyone, my dear boy, who has your luck; you couldn’t expect two such successes in the same family,” he ended with a bow. gilbert did not disclaim the compliment; indeed to have done so would have seemed foolish, when everything about him proclaimed it. the new house he had just bought; the automobile which had brought him there, even the very check which he held in his hand, were they not a sign and proof of that success which was denied to his brother? he took up the manuscript, rolled it up and put it in his pocket. “i am sorry,” he repeated again, turning away without the heart to echo the publisher’s smile. it was a misty yet glaring day, when the sun seemed to lie just behind a thin veneer of clouds, ready to break out at any moment. a little damp breeze occasionally swept up from the river, chilling the air for a moment and then leaving it even closer than before. it had rained during the night and nothing had as yet had time to dry. patches of wet stood on the sidewalks and little puddles in the gut- ters, while the dirt in the street was only in part washed away. indeed everything had a partially cleaned, scrubbed appearance, as though inter- rupted in the midst of a bath. though the sun was not yet out, its effect could be seen in places, and felt i the optimist in the current of dry air waich every now and then swept by. the early scavengers of the city were already up and about; private ashmen were fill- ing carts with refuse — which the wind as usual scattered far and wide — sweepers were at work upon the streets, as if to aid in the cleansing process, at which the sun laughed slyly behind its clouds, and then shone out again to show the futility of the attempt. gilbert’s house in gramercy park represented solid substantial success, success measured in brick and mortar; something which he could point to and say confidingly to a friend: “that is what my first book counted me in that is what a best seller can do!” “is that you, gilbert?” his wife's voice asked, as he let himself in at the door. she was a tall, well-developed woman, but her com- plexion, originally fair, had the scorched look which only exposure to sun and wind can give, while her white, open-necked blouse brought into greater prom- inence the red-brown of her skin, on which the mark of last year’s sun was still to be seen. there was something contradictory about her, for the deeply marked lines on her face ran down, yet her drooping mouth was gay when she smiled, and her smile was frequent and merry. it was as though his brother’s story i a constant struggle were going on in her between a mad and a sad imp, and the former triumphed; for in the main the impression she produced was one of * astounding gaiety; a spirit at once bold and free; " disdaining pain; demanding joy in life. eleanor tanner had been an athlete before her marriage, and indeed would still have so considered herself; and curiously enough it had been her first bond with her husband. for in this respect gilbert's appearance did not belie him; he was of so muscular a type that at college he had been less noted for suc- cess in the field of letters than that of sport, and even later the same thing held true. “i married you because you were one of the few men who could beat me at golf,” his wife had said with her curious drooping smile, “and now instead you suddenly take up with literature, where i am quite willing that anyone should beat me!” she added with a slight shrug. “i never deceived you, you know,” gilbert had replied, between jest and earnest. “i told you i had literary aspirations.” “but i didn’t believe you. if i had i should have said, “no thank you’; i hate literary men.” “so do i,” answered gilbert, and he had tried his best not to act the part. that was some time ago, when he was first mar- his brother's story another; that what applied to them did not apply to him, and that when they differed, he was right and they were wrong. this was at first, but even then his wife's look had begun to haunt him, he could not argue it away, he could not explain it. it was like a strong acid eating into the substance it puri- fies — and to-day more than ever he saw the reflection of it on her face as they entered the drawing-room. “you were frowning. what is it?” she asked. he took out the check and handed it to her. “what, all that!” she exclaimed. “they seem to have a wonderful opinion of you!” “does that surprise you?” he asked, trying to suppress his long-felt bitterness. “i thought you had given up expecting to make an impression on me,” eleanor answered, looking from him to the check. “this ought to show what you are worth! doesn’t it?” “i don’t know!” the expression was wrung from him. “nellie, they have — refused my brother's story!” “well,” she said coolly, “is there any reason why they should accept it?” “none, except that it is good; better than any- thing i have ever done!” she examined his face with anxious curiosity – she had never suspected him of jealousy, and yet — ii. the optimist “i suppose they are the best judges of that,” she replied, still watching him. “they ought to be,” he said harshly, “but you can hardly expect him to feel it! nellie, how long do you think he worked on that story of his — over a year! and mine were dashed off in a few weeks!” “but you are a genius,” she answered with a mocking smile, but even while he reddened under the jibe she had in her heart acquitted him of jealousy. she could not suspect him of that while she watched his face; that face which to her was so infinitely finer than anything he wrote. she followed his movements with a kind of unwilling approval; the sense of his being, mentally, as well as physically, so very much alive. his wide-open blue eyes searched hers with eager scrutiny, the mental alertness of one able to count each leaf upon a tree while look- ing through them at the sun. his face had the attraction of a child’s, and for the same reason that you felt his unflagging interest in everything he saw; and his voice had the alertness that shone in his eyes. she noticed this with a softening that showed in the upward curve of her lip as she said: “i should like to read your brother's story, gil- bert. may i?” he made a sudden movement towards her and then checked himself, his brother's story “i want you to read it and i know he would, too. tell me what you think ” he paused and added hurriedly, “and don’t mind hurting my feelings by saying it is better than mine!” he turned, caught up his hat and went out. eleanor remained for a moment looking after him, with a discouraged expression in the downward curve of her mouth. he was so infinitely above what he wrote — that had been her objection all along. he was too good for it she had told herself with scorn, even while she was reaping the advantage of its re- sults. if this was what they called art, if that was what they termed success then she was well out of it. but she had not meant him to know, she had just tried to keep them apart in her mind, him and his work. was he beginning to see too? was this strange dis- satisfaction due merely to his brother's failure? or did he realize for the first time his own inferiority? did he know that he did not deserve his success? a sudden rush of love and pity overwhelmed her for that part of him which was not in his books. with a sigh she began his brother’s story. gradually as she read her face changed again and her beautiful mouth curled upward. here was the sympathetic touch that she knew so well in him, and which was so perfectly absent in his books; here was pity for the tragedy of real life, here was under- i the optimist standing in this story of his brother's, which should have been his story. and when she thought of her husband and then remembered his brother, she mar- velled that it was his brother to whom the gift of ex- pression had been given. she was lost in the wonder of finding in this work of another man the vague yearnings she had tried so hard to put into words, before she had at last taken refuge behind her acknowledged ignorance of art. well, it was too late now, gilbert would never understand, she must be thankful for what he was. as for his work, it paid — that was all that could be said. but did it pay? she glanced about the room, a pretty room, thanks to her, for pretty things were as much a part of her life as his writing was a part of her husband's. here was the old painted furniture which until lately she had never been able to afford; here was the rug, whose coloring blended so per- fectly with it, that the one seemed to have been made for the other; here were the curtains she had had dyed to match; and there, on the mantel, was the delicate french clock that suited them. she was sure that now she could afford a pair of old italian vases whose yellow and blue coloring would just com- plete her scheme – if she wished. no, a thousand times, no! better the old things! there were not many left, but she loved them for the association; his brother's story they carried her back to the first years of her mar- riage, before her husband’s success. they had lived very simply then in a small apart- ment, and she had been far more concerned at the cost of beef than at the price of painted furniture, while her smart friends had pitied her and considered it almost in the light of a charity to ask them out to dinner. they had reminded her, too, playfully, some of them, how well she might have married – for eleanor had been a belle in her day — and she had made an effort to reply in her inarticulate fashion that she had chosen the best man! now the same women invited her to dinner weeks in advance and said to her with well-meant congratulations: “you sly girl, to have guessed from the first what he had in him,” and she had nothing to say. no, it had not paid! with the quiet tears that rose to her eyes a faint hope stirred, faint as the ticking of her little clock. was it possible that he too might have seen, that he might have noticed the contrast, that this blessed dissatisfaction with himself might work its own cure? the clock struck, she heard the turn of his key in the door. he came towards her slowly and hesitatingly. - * you have read it?” “yes, dear,” she answered quietly, “i have read it.” the optimist his face changed at the unwonted endearment, she felt that he was bracing himself for what she had to say. “and you like it?” he asked in a low voice. “you think it good?” she nerved herself to her task and looked at him unflinchingly in the eyes. “i think it wonderful,” she said, “it is true; it is lifelike; it is the way i want you to write.” her voice had risen unconsciously and she faced him with a determined look. - “gilbert! why don’t you write about real people? why do you amuse the public with fairy tales; why do you sell your brains for money? why are you so much finer than anything you write?” there was a pause, while she listened to his hard breathing, and felt his nearness, suddenly there was the sharp grip of his hand on her arm, and the sound of his voice with its startled ring: “so that was what your look meant!” he said. he seized her other hand. “you want me to write like this?” yes.” “even if it leads to poverty or failure?” “yes.” - “you know it is good, and that my way is bad?” yes.” his brother's story ii. written? because it wasn’t true? no, for you’ve accepted and paid for badly written trash fom me too often before! i will tell you why you refused this. it was by a new man, it had new stuff in it, and you hate anything new, you and your kind, as you hate poison!” - charles grosvenor had listened to these accusa- tions in absolute silence, and he remained silent for a moment after they were finished, then he suddenly leaned his head against the back of the chair and laughed until the tears rolled down his cheeks. “i’ve been abused for everything in the world by almost everybody in it,” he said at last, wiping his eyes, though his lips still twitched, “but this is the first time i’ve ever been blamed by an author for overpaying his work. really, my dear tanner, you are right! you have the gift of originality!” he paused to laugh again — till all at once his eyes lighted on the manuscript, lying face downward, be- tween them, on the table. “and so you are the author !” he said, taking it up and beginning to glance through the leaves, “why didn’t you tell me that at the time and save all this bother? a capital story, as i said before, my dear tanner, well writ- ten, i couldn’t have done it better myself! let us make a bargain. i will publish it, and pay you with the check on the table—on condition that you sign ii the optimist your name to it. you think the public will like it? perhaps they may; they have always liked you,” he ended with his genial smile. gilbert tanner had listened silently, as had the other to his outbreak, and even now he did not an- swer, but stood looking gravely, as the lion might have looked down on the mouse, only that in this case the lion looked, it must be confessed, a little foolish. there was nothing more to do; he had had his say; and what he demanded was granted; he remained the victor; and yet it was he, and not his opponent, who was made to appear the fool. “you hesitate,” remarked the editor blandly. “i hope you do not still consider the money tainted.” and then gilbert’s mouth relaxed into a smile. “indeed,” he stammered, “you certainly have given me the retort courteous.” “not at all; not at all, my dear boy, i have only got a story for nothing. and as for this one,” he continued pleasantly, “who knows? the public may like it now that you have signed your name to it. they are such asses!” he added under his breath. and as it happened, he was right - the public did. the winter of her discontent the winter of her discontent o this is the end,” angela said aloud, “for s which i have sacrificed everything.” her eyes swept the dim recesses of the hall with a last thrill of possession. its noble simplicity of out- line, its mellow tints of coloring showed in the waning light. beyond the line of portraits flashed out a view of the river, half hidden by a swirling mist of snow. open doorways gave glimpses of lofty, tran- quil interiors as setting for white shrouded furniture, and she revelled in their desolate cleanliness. she felt they were in mourning for her — white mourning such as a queen of france would wear. the dull the optimist panelled walls and faded hangings were bidding her good-bye. “it's not my fault,” she answered their mute re- proach. “i gave up everything, even percy!” it was growing dark now; she was no longer able to distinguish the river; suddenly she felt a touch on her arm, and heard a low whine. carlos, the cocker spaniel, was demanding his supper. she roused her- self with a start and made her way to her own room - a sitting room, used in summer by her cou- sin’s housekeeper. there was a fire ready to light and before it a table laid for dinner. angela’s maid came daily to prepare it, and then went home, leaving her to serve herself alone. she wondered how she could ever have considered this a hardship. “i never appreciated my blessings,” she thought bitterly. “i pitied myself for being her caretaker, a servant in my own house. i am justly punished for ingratitude.” she gave carlos his supper, and even attempted, though vainly, to eat something herself, but she was conscious all the time of a force which drew her else- where. on a table in the farthest corner, lay a crumpled letter, just where she had thrown it, and every now and then she cast oblique glances towards it, partly of fear, partly of attraction, now yielding the winter of her discontent to, now resisting, an irresistible desire to read it - to make certain that it left no loophole of escape. it was only after she had cleared the things away, and was seated before the fire in a vain effort a composure, that she yielded. it seemed to her, as she smoothed out the paper with shaking fingers, that from the moment when she recognized mrs. farnham’s handwriting, she had had a premonition of evil. “i am not a demonstrative person, angela, dear,” her cousin had once said, “when you don’t hear to the contrary, you may know that i am suited with you,” and she had found by experience that the re- verse held true. “dearest angela,” wrote mrs. farnham. “i am afraid that my news is going to upset you very much. i wish i might have spared you ” here followed a page of regrets and protestations, during which her reader’s mind had ranged wildly through every conceivable conjecture until she was suddenly confronted with the words: “i have felt for some time that i ought not to have a country place!” here followed another page in which delicate health and straitened circumstances led up confusedly to the terrible climax: “i have decided to sell the house!” the winter of her discontent door open, and carlos left his bed and stole after her, picking his way carefully in the dim light. through the glass doors, overlooking the river, she could see the tall evergreens, swaying gently back and forth; every now and then a drift of snow would fall from their branches with a soft thud, against the glass. it was very still, so still that each breath of wind could be heard, and even the wind itself became as ghostlike as the snow, which it sifted silently and continuously through the door. “it was just such a night as this,” she said to her- self, “when percy went away!” and she began to pace the hall, gliding back and forth as quietly as the branches, which swayed against the pane. an- gela’s beauty had taken on a similar character, as if the winters she had spent on the hudson had pinched her features and shrivelled her rich bloom. her blue eyes were lustreless; her blond coloring had grown dim. she looked as lacking in warmth as the snow- flakes which were dropping out of the shadows on to the evergreens. her mind had gone back, back many years ago, until she was again the young girl who had stood there; and then as now the subject in her mind was the same — only then it was against her young lover that she defended it, as now against herself. “you have made a fetich of this house!” he had said to her, “just as your father has always the optimist done and some day you will awake to your mistake, as he is beginning to do now.” “have i awakened to it?” she asked herself, and there was no answer. except the swish of the snow against the door. “it is all foolish pride!” she seemed to hear his fierce young voice say, “and i don’t intend to sacri- fice my life to it, as the rest of my family have done, even if i am a lancey!” and she had smiled at the unconscious ring of pride in his voice. “i am going out to alaska to make my own way and be my own ancestor, instead of staying on here to waste my life for an idea!” “and the house, percy?” she had pleaded, “which has always belonged to us, will you not help me to save it?” but he had replied brutally: “no, let the house go; it has sacrificed lives enough already!” then with a soft appealing note that she could hear yet: “you will have to choose between the house and me, angela! will you come with me?” she felt again the compelling force which had drawn her to him — requiring all her utmost strength to resist — but she had resisted with a force that increased in intensity with every appeal that he made. she had grown to believe herself the defender of her the winter of her discontent family, the champion of a long line of ancestors who had dwelt here, striving vainly to preserve their heri- tage, fighting the fatality which drew her down and which percy had refused to help avert. she remembered how brutally he had refused, and tried to steel her heart again against him; her pang of resentment, struggling with the consciousness which had come to her — that he was right! for she was beaten, just as her father had been, and, unlike him, she had not even kept her home! nothing was left to her but a few old portraits, an historic name, and this terrible ache at her heart. she pressed her hands against her temples, they were burning, and she felt as though there were fire in her veins. she went to the door and threw it open; the snow drifted in across the sill, forming ghostly pictures on the floor, as she stood there wait- ing. she pushed it to, it resisted, and after great effort she succeeded in closing it. she shook herself free of snow, and went back to the fire, leaving carlos on the stairs watching the door. angela knelt upon the hearth, and raked the em- bers together in a cheerful glow, striving to warm herself at the blaze; but she found it impossible, and at last she became conscious of a draught that chilled her, faster than the fire could give her warmth. car- los growled, and, going back into the hall, she found the optimist that the door, insecurely fastened, had blown open, and the snow was drifting in as before. she closed it securely, taking care to lock it and put on the chain, and, restored to warmth by her exertion, she re- sumed her monotonous pacing of the floor. “be still, carlos' " she muttered, for the dog had begun again his low wailing growl. she glanced at him in speaking and a cold shiver crept over her, and for a moment made her heart stand still. all along the little dog's back the hairs had begun to rise, till they stood in stiff bristles down his spine; he himself sat crouched upon the floor ready to spring – and as he emitted another low wail the truth burst upon angela. the little dog was afraid! she stood for a moment, watching with a sort of fascination the curious erect fashion in which each black and white hair stood up upon his head, and the conviction forced itself on her. some one had come in through the open door! a dull terror seized her, and again her heart al- most stopped beating, then pounded so loudly that she felt it could be heard. carlos had moved nearer and stood facing the dining room, in his eyes an expression of almost human distress. it was several minutes that angela waited, the dog beside her, her eyes fixed upon the door towards which he steadily pointed. the light was dim in the hall and dimmer the winter of her discontent still in the room he was watching, but gradually she was able to distinguish some objects there. she saw, swathed in white, the form of an old mahogany side- board, above it the portrait of a revolutionary of- ficer, her great-grandfather, the light showing the proud curl of his lip which was so like percy—and, as she strained her eyes to penetrate the darkness, it seemed as though a tall shadow of some unknown presence lay across the floor. “spirits have no shadows,” she whispered with white lips, a gust of wind shook the house, the snow from the hemlock tree beat upon the pane. stealthy noises sounded; flickering, swaying shadows surged out of the light, and melted away into the gloom — the wind ceased, the shadows disappeared, for a mo- ment angela heard the swish of the snow — she listened tensely to catch the meaning of another sound and her heart beat almost to suffocation, for what she heard was a groan. and while she listened, faint and breathless, she saw a shadowy form detach itself from the darkness, • just within the door, it wavered, she stared rigid with horror, it raised its arms crying: “angela, i have come home to you,” and sank a heavy mass at her feet, upon the floor. - * *k *k *k sk *k * the optimist for a time angela remained unconscious of her surroundings. when she came to herself he lay on the sofa in her sitting room — where she must have partly supported, partly dragged him — and she noted while applying restoratives the changes which had occurred. she shuddered, and rush of tender- ness swept over her for the helpless wreck of the man she had loved. perhaps the touch of her protecting arms, per- haps her breath upon his cheek, roused him finally, or had he possibly been conscious and lacked the strength to speak, she could not tell; she saw his eye- lids quiver and open, he made a movement to rise; he whispered, “i am better now!” and sat up facing her. “i ought not to have come this way!” he gasped; “i did not mean to; but my train was late, and the walk from the station finished me.” “but what has happened? have you been ill?” “it is the effect of starvation,” he answered simply. “not lately,” as she made a horror-struck movement, “but i never got over it, and the fatigue and the sight of you together were too much for me.” she got him a glass of milk, which he drank very slowly, pausing between each mouthful to rest, then with a smile for the first time puckering his lips: “you and the house are still beautiful. angela, i ought not to have left you.” the optimist in the mines like a slave-looking for gold! and when i got it forced to squander it away for a warm coat, a pair of shoes! and you think it pays? why, do you know that when i came on here i slept in a bed for the first time in two years, and it felt so soft it strangled me. i lay awake all night and i verily believe that is why i cannot sleep now! and the sights i have seen, and the horrors i have shared! do you suppose i can forget them, even if my strength had not given out? no, angela, no, it has not paid. it is my punishment for leaving you — and the house. i don’t deserve to have you,” he ended with a break in his voice. she kissed the hand she held, as it dawned on her how utterly the house had faded out of her mind except as it affected him. “you must not feel that way,” she said, “because if you had stayed, other things — the house, for in- stance — might have come between us. now i have found out how very much more i care for you. i was slowly freezing to death, and you have thawed me back to life again.” “i have not much left myself!” he answered grimly, another rush of pity swept over her, and she gathered him into her arms in a protecting way. “do you think i don’t love you all the better? yes, broken and weak and poor as you are, i care the winter of her discontent more for you, though you have failed, than if you had succeeded!” he pressed her to him, laughing softly. “but, angela, dear, i haven’t failed; at least not in your way; i am not poor, you know; on the con- trary, i believe out there i am called the “bonanza king.’” “not poor; then why did you speak as if “i had failed? so i have, but not in that way! oh, i got what i went for — money! but was it worth it, at such a cost? my sacrifice seems to have worked out very much like yours. for now that i have succeeded, at the price of ten years of my life, do you know that the only pleasure i get out of it is the thought that i can save the house for you?” angela laughed through her tears. “darling. i am afraid it is too late for that; the house! — i hate to tell you — the house has been sold!” “i know,” he answered calmly, “it was the first thing i did, after i got that big lead. i bought the house, angela, for you!” the patriot the patriot thing for his country — he did not exactly care what. his daydreams and waking visions took different forms. sometimes he defended her valiantly from the deck of a sinking ship, manfully cursing the foe who wronged her. sometimes he crossed moun- tains and forded rivers in pursuit of her enemy. sometimes — and this was his favorite picture — he mounted guard over his father's house on the hud- son shooting down her invaders one by one, as they strove to scale the heights on which it stood. he revelled so long in the details of this conflict that he was late for school on three separate occasions, and endured stern rebuke, and still sterner punish- ment with the complacent courage of a martyr. perhaps in the resultant exaltation he might have taken his family into his confidence had the oppor- tunity been offered him, but it was not. mr. rogers j' rogers was very anxious to do some, the optimist was a very busy man, who gave his wife and chil- dren everything they asked for, subscribed to the navy league and thanked god he was an american. mrs. rogers was a fair pacifist and associated with so many schemes for world betterment that her time and strength were quite used up. true, jimmy was at home now for the easter holidays, but she was taking a rest cure in consequence of a nervous breakdown. - so he was left alone to plan for the defense of his country and there was much to encourage his tense state of mind. he sensed a feeling of unrest in the air; the servants talked aside in suppressed voices and conversation ceased when he joined the group. he divined a present danger, felt but hardly understood. mr. rogers’ house was but a short distance from the machine shop where men were working day and night in making ammunition, and jimmy, who, just before retiring, used to watch the light of their fur- nace reflected in the river, watched it now with a sense of injury, for he was both hurt and offended by the conduct of his friends at the shop. “they don’t seem to want me there any more,” he confided to his father’s chauffeur. it was a soft spring evening and they were looking down at the factory which lay by the river, under- neath the hill upon which the house stood. the patriot “too busy, perhaps,” the chauffeur answered in his careful, correct english, with just the ghost of a foreign accent. this was what had checked jimmy's confession of patriotism more than once. conrad was not an american, therefore the country’s difficul- ties should not be discussed before him — at least so jimmy felt. with this exception his confidence was unbounded and he cherished an admiration for the chauffeur, greater than for anyone he had ever met. it was conrad who had given him his first lesson in machinery; it was conrad who had taught him to drive his ford car, and indirectly stimulated his warlike zeal. jimmy knew enough of physical training to realize that the chauffeur's physique was perfect, and he had spent hours before the mirror in a vain effort to make his overgrown figure conform to this fine model. there was something about the line of conrad's back, and the way he held his head, which appealed to the boy's sense of beauty. he had not confessed this admiration, partly because there was no one in whom he cared to confess. “never used to be too busy,” he answered conrad's apology, “looks more like swelled head.” conrad smiled an interrogation. “stuck on themselves, you know, for getting those war orders.” i the optimist “it's the way of the world,” answered the philo- sophic chauffeur. “it’s not my way, i’ll have you to know — when i'm a friend it's for keeps. i wouldn’t throw you ever, conrad, just because i’m going into military camp this summer.” “who knows,” answered conrad. “i tell you i wouldn’t. you’ve been awfully de- cent to me, and i shan’t forget,” concluded jimmy magnificently. he was interrupted by his mother, wrapped in furs, to take a turn about the place, and conrad left with the fine salute which always so impressed jimmy. “why are you always with that chauffeur?” mrs. rogers demanded. “where’s the harm?” answered her son. “none, if you enjoy his company.” “he is a mighty sight better company than any of those rotten pacifists,” jimmy retorted indig- nantly, “and i’m so bored that i’m glad to talk to anyone.” “i am sorry your home bores you!” jimmy strug- gled inarticulately in an effort to explain. at last, giving it up as hopeless, he shrugged his shoulders and turned away towards the dog kennel. “that boy grows more trying every day,” mrs. rogers confided to her husband, who arrived from the patriot the station at that moment, very tired from a de- pressing day in town. “what has he done now?” he asked patiently. “nothing – that’s what i complain of. i de- clare much as i disapprove a military training i am glad he is to have some discipline % “i am glad, too,” he answered still patiently, for mrs. rogers looked very pretty in her fur coat. “i only wish his vacation was over, for to tell the truth i am not at all happy about his being here. i have told them to keep him out of that machine shop; but i can’t help being anxious.” “what, a strike again? i have always felt that these men were underpaid.” “the men are all right; it’s the ammunition — explosions are occurring all the time and “oh! well, of course, james, as one of the peace party i disapprove of the manufacture of arms by anybody for anyone “and you approve, i suppose, of blowing them up, to show your love of peace?” mrs. rogers shrugged her shoulders. “i do hope when we get the vote we shall not be obliged to argue with men. of course, i don’t want to blow anyone up. i deprecate it; but if there is no other way to have peace “don’t blow up your son, that's all i ask,” an- the optimist swered mr. rogers, losing patience. “i am too tired to-night to quarrel about peace, but i don’t like the look of things at all, and neither does brown.” brown was the president of the company who owned the machine shop. “do you really think there is going to be trouble?” asked mrs. rogers in a changed one. “i know there's trouble, but i don’t know just how far it will go,” her husband answered again, patiently. “the worst of it is there seems no way of tracing the scoundrel, whoever he is. the men in charge of the plant where the explosions have oc- curred are old trusted employees and took every precaution. they tried to hush it up at first, hop- ing to catch the fellow, but now every one knows, and they say if they find the spy they will make short work of him.” “why not shoot him?” jimmy asked, appearing at this moment. “what about the german vote?” his father an- swered grimly, and he spent some time in explain- ing to his son his own views of neutrality, but the result may be summed up in jimmy’s closing comment: “the thing to do with a spy is to shoot him!” “you have a good deal to learn, my son, even for a boy of fifteen,” mr. rogers said over his shoulder. the patriot “amy, remember we are dining out.” mrs. rogers followed her husband, and jimmy betook himself to the garage, to ponder again the subject under dis- cussion. he felt that it vastly complicated his whole scheme of defense. if it was easy for a spy to enter the factory, how much easier for one to worm his way in here. he pictured himself preparing his plan and perfecting every detail, only to be confronted at the end by a tall uniformed figure, and to hear a voice say, “surrender, you are surrounded.” it was all so real to him that he awoke with a shiver to his actual surroundings. the garage was built on a platform just over the ravine in which the factory was located, and jimmy was seated in a small nook he had made for himself, near the stone wall, where he was well hidden from view. as he stared down, through the tree tops, suddenly and without any warning, conrad's head appeared, then his shoulders and finally his whole body, rising out of the ground. he stooped and fumbled as if replacing something and jimmy noted a bent tree which marked the place where he was. with quick, noiseless footsteps conrad ascended to the platform, entered the garage, and disappeared from view. jimmy sat for a long time perfectly still, breath- ing with difficulty, yet not daring to move for fear the optimist of detection — and all the time his mind worked, worked with such extraordinary rapidity that he could almost hear the thoughts which raced across his brain. like many dreamers, once his suspicions were aroused he reasoned with perfect directness, and drew his conclusions with the speed of forked lightning. his dim blue eyes hardened, his eager, wistful face grew sharp and shrewd, he ran his fingers automatically through his shock of fair hair. at last he drew himself up and glanced about him. he could hear conrad getting the car ready to take mr. and mrs. rogers out to dinner! he waited until the noise of the engine drowned the sound of his movements and then fled precipitately. he was only just in time; his supper was waiting and his mother had been asking for him. “what is the matter with your hair and where have you been?” she inquired, looking very lovely and plaintive in her evening dress. jimmy passed a hand over his head. “at the garage.” “that chauffeur again. james, do you consider him a fit companion for your son?” “he is a very good chauffeur.” “that isn’t the question; do you know anything else about him?” the patriot “not very much; it's his first place in this coun- try; but he had excellent references abroad.” “did you verify them?” “no, i took him on approval and he has made good. come, my dear, we shall be late if we wrangle any longer over conrad,” and they left. “the mistress is right, mr. jimmy, though i wouldn’t tell her so,” remarked mrs. rogers’ maid, who had lived with them so long that she felt it a duty to be dictatorial. “i don’t take any stock in that conrad.” “what do you mean by that.” jimmy was devouring his supper as he spoke; he was always a rapid eater, but this was his record meal. mary pursed up her lips. “look what he dropped to-day.” jimmy took the object she offered him and turned it over curiously. it was a small gold seal such as men wear on their watch chains. “see that,” and mary pointed grimly to a coat of arms engraved on its face. “now you needn’t tell me that belongs to conrad.” “you think he stole it?” jimmy said at last. “i most surely do.” “well, don’t tell anyone, and i’ll see he gets called down. is it a go?” the optimist she nodded assent and jimmy, with one last gulp, slipped the seal in his pocket, and fled again, this time to his own room. he was in such desperate haste that in his search for a book he tumbled everything in his bookcase off on the floor before finding what he wanted. at last he discovered an old “history of westchester county,” and, carrying it to the window, he read by the dim light: “barrytown on the hudson was the site of a curious phenomenon, which became the occasion of a fine national exploit. a lofty cave once formed a passage between the river and the heights protect- ing it — this was used by the tories as a storage room for arms. one of the patriots, knowing of the existence of their hiding place — from having used it to conceal smuggled rum — determined to destroy these stolen hoards. he therefore concealed himself within the cave — just in front of the powder — and on the arrival of the traitor band he threatened to blow them all up unless they yielded. the fear of a fiery death overcame them, they laid down their arms – followed him out — upon which he fired the powder and blocked the cave's entrance. thus this noble man, alone and single-handed, destroyed a host of enemies.” jimmy drew in his breath sharply as he finished the optimist ing a little way the hole grew larger, he turned on his electric light and saw that he could stand up. but here began his first disillusionment — either the historian of westchester had been misled, or the patriot had fearfully mangled the cave, for it was now little larger than a drain-pipe. the water oozed from the walls, and jimmy’s feet slipped on the muddy ground. he recovered himself, but the next moment he slipped again, this time almost tripping against some packages which blocked the way. as he did so the truth leaped into his mind — it was dynamite! it had perhaps arrived that afternoon, leaving con- rad only just time to conceal it. jimmy, like most boys, felt no qualms; he was never afraid of anything which could really hurt him. the cave, as it continued down to the river, be- came so precipitous that it was easier to slide than walk, and jimmy found on reconnoitering that it opened out into a larger one, evidently near the ma- chine shop, for he could hear the muffled noise of the engines. this larger cave had been fitted up with a kind of rude comfort; there was a seat, a workman’s bench and tools, and a miner's lantern hung from the roof, which jimmy speedily lighted. he did not wait to examine further, but started back at once to carry down the dynamite. it was a hard task, which taxed at once both his strength and patience, the patriot he made a step to take it, and looked into the muzzle. “now, conrad,” jimmy said, “none of that, i am on to everything.” “what do you mean?” “i mean that you came here to blow up this plant.” “you are crazy, mr. jimmy!” “don’t call me that, don’t try to pull it over me. i know everything.” “so — my young friend, then how happens it that you are here; that you do not inform against me.” for the first time jimmy lost his temper. “you mean spy,” he cried, “don’t you know i’m not that kind.” “you talked of protecting your country,” sneered conrad. “an american never does a dirty thing even for his country; we leave that to you!” “so you have spoken to nobody?” “i’m not lying. i told you before i was your friend for keeps.” conrad started forward with outstretched hands and again met the cold black muzzle. “not one step,” jimmy said coldly. “i couldn’t shake hands with you.” “but, you young devil, you said you wouldn’t give me up.” i the optimist “of course not,” answered jimmy, “but that’s not shaking hands.” conrad burst into a spasm of nervous laughter; the boy stared at him in mute reproach. “why did you do it?” he asked. “if anyone had said it of you, i would have rammed it down his throat.” “why did i do it?” conrad's manner changed from contempt to wild enthusiasm. “you talk about your country. gott im himmel, what about mine? i am in this pit, forbidden to fight, working all night like a mole in the ground, in the daytime submitting to insult – and you ask me why i do it. you don’t know what it is to have a waterland.” “mine would never want me to do this.” “no,” answered conrad, “she wants you to make money; that is what she wants, and yet she is too mean to fight for it.” jimmy writhed uneasily. “the country is in a bad way, conrad. i didn’t intend you to know, because you’re not an american; but since you’ve caught on, i’ll own up to it. some people care a lot for money and some people don’t care to fight; but there's enough patriots like me to put an end to traitors. don’t you make any mistake. we’re real americans, we are, and we’ve got the spirit of ' .” the patriot “if there were more like you perhaps i shouldn’t be here — who knows; but here i am, and what are you going to do about it?” “you’ll soon find out,” answered jimmy. conrad moved a little closer. “stop,” he said, as jimmy raised his arm. “i will stay where i am and talk this over. what is it you want me to do?” “i want you to clear out.” conrad reflected a moment. “if i do will you give me time to get my things together? i can’t leave like this.” “why should i give you time?” “because if you don’t you might as well hand me over to the authorities. i must notify my friends. i must make arrangements for my safety.” “if i let you stay here, how long would you need?” conrad’s eyes glistened. “just long enough to get an answer from them.” “you are lying,” exclaimed jimmy suddenly. “you have something up your sleeve. i don’t know what it is; but it’s there.” conrad swore softly to himself. “i thought you believed in me, jimmy.” “i did; but i don’t any more. you have got to go — now!” the optimist conrad's eyes blazed; his teeth showed in an ugly line. - “very well,” he said, “since you will have it so, i wash my hands of it ” he drew nearer and his hand stole to his hip. “not one step will i stir out of this place or you either — until i have finished my job. i don’t want to hurt you, but i’ve no time to waste. give me that pistol!” he sprang at the boy and wrenched it out of his hand. jimmy after the first offered no resistance and retreated steadily. then, as conrad, slipping the pistol in his pocket, made a motion to follow, he suddenly sprang in front of the dynamite, seized the hammer and swung it above his head. “stand back,” he shouted, “ or i’ll blow us into kingdom come.” he never knew how long he stood there with the hammer poised ready to fling. he heard the muffled whirr of the machines and above it the dropping of the water on the floor; outside himself somebody seemed to be repeating: “charge, chester, charge on, stanley, on, were the last words of marmion.” at last there was another voice and he felt rather than heard that conrad said: “you are a brave little devil.” alethia t was very hot that day on the taunton road i when my motor broke down; the rays of the sun bored their way into the very stones, and then exuded again in a sizzling vapor. i had the feeling as i worked that each drop of blood in my veins was heated to the boiling point and just ready to ex- plode; and yet i failed to discover the cause of the trouble. when at last i paused, less to rest than to take stock of my surroundings, i found that i had been caught in a curious little nook on a bend where two roads meet – just before the bridge crosses a slug- gish stream — and that before me lay a store and a post office. three white houses, a church, and two barns were the only other buildings in sight; but the signs were unmistakable – i was in a vil- lage street. it lay there in the blistering afternoon sun, a peaceful little place, forgotten by the world, the optimist father — had a taste for mechanics, there was such a loving touch in the very way he fingered the handle of the crank. i suppressed a haunting fear that from the first had assailed me, and prepared to assist him — in vain! in spite of our combined efforts the engine would not go. the fear settled down on me now, cold and relentless; i stopped my work and looked him in the face. “that crank shaft is broken,” i said. “guess that’s about the size of it,” he answered with a smile. my mind travelled with lightning rapidity from one grim consequence to another. “i can telephone to taunton,” i said at last. “yes, and yer can telephone to providence,” he answered cheerfully, “and ’twill do ye just as much good. you’ll have to come to bosting in the end. why not now and save an extrer call?” but i refused to be guided by this precept of econ- omy! my mind was ranging now through a whole gamut of regrets and surmises. the car laid up at the beginning of my holiday; my plan for spending the night with my friends upset; the impossibility of starting on our tour the next morning; and to break down on my first day out from new york — i will not repeat the word i used. “of course,” went on my new friend, “yer can alethia try tanten. i once knew a man who got what he wanted to tanten.” “the trolley will take you there,” the girl said suddenly, and i was amazed at her voice; it was full and clear, the enunciation perfectly correct. i looked at her with new interest; her words had distinctly im- plied a hope that i would go. “i can wait here and tell them to send me what i want,” i hazarded. a shadow crossed her face; but her father inter- posed before she could reply. “wait here all right; but you’ll get nothing short of bosting. come in and telephone; the quicker ye do the quicker you’ll see that i’m right!” and he proved to be, as i found to my cost during a weary hour at the telephone. after a succession of interminable waits, interspersed with hectic en- deavors to make myself understood at all the motor supply places in taunton, i was finally obliged to transfer my efforts to boston. yes, they had what i wanted; of course they would send it by the first train; it would reach me at latest to-morrow morn- ing; glad to be of use to me. i hung up the receiver at last, my satisfaction only tempered by thoughts of the night before me. i met the girl’s eyes as i turned from the telephone. she was sitting very stiff and rigid in a straight- the optimist backed rocker, her hands clasping its arms, and i noticed that her knuckles were tense as though strained in a nervous clasp. “it's all right,” i said to her father, “thanks to you; and by-the-bye what am i to call you?” he mentioned a name very well known in boston- my mother was from there – but which i will not re- peat, as it was her own. “what do you think of that,” he exclaimed when i had reported this fact to him. “and so ye're a de- scendant of the guvner, too! i claim from him on both sides of the house; you see my father was cousin to my mother, and his mother was kin to his father and so on. we’re all related round here, and every- one calls me cousin hiram. you can, too, if yer want to, as you belong to the family!” “if i may,” i said to him, “i will leave my motor in your care and take the trolley to taunton. i can return early in the morning to make mv repairs.” “not a bit of it,” he declared, slapping me on the shoulder, “you don’t think i’d let one of the guvner's folks go off in that way? you jest stay right here. you won’t have as slick a room or as fine meals as you would to tanten, but you’ll be a deal cooler and that's worth something.” the knuckles on the girl’s hands were strained alethia now, until they were almost blue. she opened her lips as if to object and then closed them tightly. “i am afraid,” i began, “that it will be giving you too much trouble!” “trouble!” he repeated scathingly, “not much. i killed a chicken to-day for alethia’s birthday — she'll be eighteen to-morrow — and we can have it for supper, and as for the room “which room?” alethia broke in. “why, the north room, child. what other have we got? and you’ll soon have it ready, won’t you, honey?” she swallowed again before answering; but when she spoke her voice was quite steady. “i don’t think we can make you comfortable; i think you had better go to taunton.” i have always believed that but for that i should have gone. i had no wish to stay; the house as i had glimpsed it, in intervals of desperate telephoning, was not inviting, being old only in the sense of shabbiness and absence of all modern conveniences, and the room where we sat was extraordinarily un- tidy; every object being exactly where it was not intended to be. at the time i said to myself that the trip to taunton was sure to be dreadful and the hotel hot and nasty; but i knew in my heart that this was not the reason. what kept me was the girl! the optimist she did not wish me to stay; very well, she should change her mind. it struck me that she might be already beginning to do so, for from the moment of my decision, she seemed to accept my presence as a necessary evil and went to work promptly to make me comfortable. i found on going up to my room that it was better than i expected, for being at the back of the house it was far from the trolley and also relatively cool. it had a curly maple bed and a chest of drawers, both much the worse for wear, and by the window a really fine old secretary, its bookcase filled with vol- umes in faded bindings. i opened it idly and began to turn them over one by one. there was the usual collection of travels and sermons, with now and then a book of old-fashioned verse, but among these was one of a different kind. it was a modern history of italian art and on the flyleaf was written in a bold sprawling hand, “james marwood.” a sound attracted my attention. i raised my eyes and glanced out of the window. it was a pretty country view; a sluggish stream flowed through rich meadow where holstein cattle were grazing, and a bit of lawn next the house was surmounted by a well at which a man was drawing water. at this moment alethia slipped out and touched him on the arm- she spoke for some time, quietly, but with intense alethia i earnestness; he started and glanced towards my win- dow. he seemed to speak reassuring words and patted her hand, until at last, with a glance in my direction, she turned and vanished leaving me more than ever a prey to interest and mortification. when, somewhat later in the evening, i went down to supper it had grown cooler and the wind was be- ginning to rise. the back door stood open giving a glimpse of the sluggish stream without, and there was a faint, damp odor of rain in the air. i had changed and rested and felt more contented with my lot. as i entered the sitting room i caught sight of . cousin hiram, tipping back in his chair on the porch, talking to the man i had seen from my window. “so yer won’t give me a hand with the chores,” the latter said, as i appeared. cousin hiram shook his head and jerked his thumb in my direction. “not to-night, nathan,” he answered, and the other lurched away. alethia herself looked-up as i entered and silently made a place for me beside her. she had changed her limp cotton gown for a starched white dress, and appeared far less like a botticelli madonna. her manner had changed, too; it was still very shy, but she no longer seemed frightened, the optimist “i am afraid,” i said, “that i am giving you a great deal of trouble.” “it is not the trouble,” she began, then checking herself, “it is only on your own account!” her ex- pression would have melted a harder heart than mine. “you have entertained me,” i reassured her, “and thereby gained a blessing.” she started and clasped her hands. “do you think so,” she said, her sad eyes appeal- ing to me, “do you really, really think so?” “‘i was a stranger and ye took me in,’” i quoted, smiling. she looked at me so strangely that for the sake of covering my embarrassment i remarked: “you must be very lonely here all my yourself.” “oh! no,” she answered, “i read,” and in reply to my surprise, “i can have all the books i want to out of the library,” a pause and she added shyly, “and then i have to entertain my father.” “to entertain your father, why he must be busy about the farm !” “oh! no,” she said. “father doesn’t do any work now; he hasn’t, you know, since mother died. he used to sometimes, to please her.” “then who takes care of the place?” “nathan, our hired man,” she explained, “and father helps him, as he helped you.” i the optimist there was a silence that could be felt - then sud- denly the trolley shrieked by, shaking the house to its foundation – the man nathan had dropped the plate he was holding and stared at me mutely without stop- ping to pick it up; the girl sat as if turned to stone; only her father's face retained its usual look, except that a white streak appeared on either side of his mouth. “why?” he drawled at last. “there is a book of his in my room,” i answered, aghast at the sensation i had produced. “is he a relative?” “not that i know on,” cousin hiram answered, “he's our last boarder before you.” the girl drew in her breath quickly, and nathan gathered up the broken plate and carried it away. “yes,” the old man went on, “it’s over two years now since he had your room.” it was just two years since his wife’s death; that accounted perhaps for their agitation. “was he an artist?” i asked for the sake of breaking the silence. alethia gasped and nathan, just returning, stopped short at the door. “how did you know,” cousin hiram inquired, looking me suspiciously in the eyes. “i didn’t; his book was on art.” alethia “we—ll,” he replied grimly, “guess that's what my wife would 'a called him. i know he said he'd never leave here alive till he'd learnt how to paint them fields out there,” and he pointed with a large gesture through the open door. “and did he?” i asked politely. “think not,” my host answered, “but ’tain’t his fault, he’s dead.” * * * * * * * i was up very early the next morning, determined to make my repairs and go — but i found my resolve premature — the trolley from taunton arrived promptly, but my express package did not come. “guess they didn’t have that crank shaft after all,” drawled cousin hiram. “i shall tell them what i think,” i answered angrily. a pause. i caught a gleam in alethia’s eyes and changed my mind. “what’s the use, it won’t get here any sooner.” he laughed. “oh, well, it'll get here soon enough, and it’s a great day for a bake.” * a what?” “it’s plain you do come from new york. it’s the optimist allie's birthday and i mean to give her a clambake on our own grounds.” this was work which cousin hiram could do and he began his preparations at once; alethia looked plaintively happy; only nathan remained glum. “the buckwheat is a 'most spoilt already,” he muttered; “it’s the day to take it in.” “it’s the day for a clambake,” cousin hiram con- tradicted, “let the darn buckwheat go and give us a hand with them clams,” and nathan did. so our preparations went merrily on, save for one regrettable incident. the house dog, a mixture of setter and spaniel with a dash of terrier thrown in, had from the first evinced a fondness for me, due possibly to tidbits; more probably to a feminine love for strangers. now as i stood caressing her, cousin hiram called her from the house; she did not stir; he called again, but she continued to lick my hand. suddenly at the third call he was beside me; his face distorted, his eyes blazing fury — with one kick he sent the animal howling into the air, while he shrieked: “that ul teach ye to go back on your master.” “hiram,” nathan said laying his hand on his arm; he started, as if about to turn on him; checked himself; mopped his face and muttered: “we—ll, she deserved it anyway!” alethia had sprung after the dog and clasped it alethia i in her arms, turning on her father the only reproach- ful look i ever saw her give him. “now, allie,” he pleaded, patting them both, “i’ll own i was in the wrong, but she’d no right to make me jealous. it's the way i am,” he continued, turning to me; “i can’t stand to have my women folk go back on me!” alethia did not answer. she bent over the dog until her face was hidden. then rising, she went into the house, with the dog still in her arms. the old man followed her. “now who would have thought that he could be so jealous!” i said to nathan. “he ain’t no cause to be with lethia,” he flashed back on me. i was annoyed less by his words than their fancied implication. “how about james marwood?” i said, feeling that i had found a reason for the disturbing influence of this name; but my bolt missed fire. “lethia ain’t never seen james marwood,” he an- swered, “he was her ma’s friend.” it may seem strange that after this we should have enjoyed ourselves – looking back on it afterwards i am glad for alethia’s sake that we did. it was her birthday, and somehow she seemed to have discarded her terrors and to have become a botticelli spring, alethia asked you three times already, how you like our bake?” ~ - this recalled my mind to the present and i an- swered truthfully that i was enjoying myself very much. i even went further, in reply to his expres- sion, and asserted that i was glad of the delay in sending my things. “well, now, ain’t that funny, when this morning you were so mad about it. what a compliment, allie, to us,” and he wheeled round to his daughter, in time to catch her look. faint memories of that clambake still float through my mind – the damp odor of sea-weed — the fishy scent of the sea — the smoky taint that clung to it all — but only one thing stands out. when the lob- ster was passed alethia shyly offered me the claws. “take them,” hiram cried. “she used to give them to me — it’s your turn now.” i took them fearing to offend. later the telephone rang; alethia answered it and returned in a moment, her face excited, her voice tense. “it’s from boston; they have tried everywhere and can’t get what you want. shall they send to new york?” “of course,” i answered, “it’s the only thing to do.” she gave me a look in which joy was blended alethia it fell in sheets, in torrents. i slipped on a dressing gown and went to the window to close it. i became conscious of a sound, very faint and stealthy; at first it seemed to come from my room, but later i realized that it was outside the door. it had the suggestion of a footstep. at another time i should have thought nothing of it, but that night i was a prey to fantastic notions. i was obsessed by a vision of james marwood crouching outside in the hall. i crossed the room, threw open the door and was confronted by — cousin hiram! a shriek rang out — i can hear it yet on bad nights – alethia stood there poised for a moment- then dropped pale and breathless against the wall. “allie, what is it?” her father cried. “i was only closing the window. look up, honey, and tell me how ye are.” he chafed her hands; the color returned to her cheeks, and the light to her eyes as they met mine. “you are not hurt!” she murmured in a tone of unutterable relief. he turned on me; a spasm crossed his face, two white streaks appeared on either side of it, and the lines about his mouth curled upward into a sinister smile; but his voice did not lose its soft drawl. “so,” he said, “you’re playing me the same trick he did!—but i’m on to you, as i was on to my wife, the optimist when she told her,” pointing a finger at alethia, “how i’d punished him !” with a sweep of his arm he brushed us apart and entered my room - strode to the secretary, opened it, fumbled a mo- ment, and faced me, with his hand at his side. “you asked me who james marwood was,” he cried, “i’ll tell you ; he was a thief; just like you. he stole my wife's heart away as you’re trying to do with my girl — and i killed him for it; just as i mean to kill you!” he raised his hand and aimed straight at my heart. i sprang aside; but it was too late. alethia had re- ceived the shot intended for me. as the smoke passed i caught her in my arms. she turned her little head until it lay upon my breast. i caught a glimpse of her bow-like mouth above her pointed chin. “i am glad,” she said, “that it was for you.” a lovely smile crossed her lips. she shivered, and was dead. - the wedding veil the wedding veil “father says you made a lovely bride,” he re- marked in the gentle tone that took all familiarity from the words. “i was sorry not to be there to see you but we couldn’t both leave.” “tell vincent about your veil,” his father inter- posed. “yes, tell him, mary,” added my husband. “it was my grandmother's, the one aileen was named for,” i answered, rather embarrassed at so much attention. “it’s an old saying of hers that no bride in her family was ever lucky unless she wore it. she left to to me.” “and is aileen to wear it, too?” asked mr. fair- field, smiling. “of course, and i have promised to dress her for her wedding; that is if she marries to suit me,” i finished with a smile. my eyes met vincent’s and i was startled by their expression, though as yet i hardly felt concern. i was still in a state of too great satisfaction with all my surroundings — even their defects. the shabby paint, the worn furniture, the general out-at-elbows look about the place, were to me so many added charms. as i went to my sister’s room that evening i glimpsed the avenue of oaks that led to the river. its marshy banks shook and gleamed in the moon- the optimist light; the frogs croaked and splashed; the moss on the live oaks swayed back and forth. “a tropical paradise,” i remarked as i unhooked her gown. she glanced out with repugnance. “i hate that moss; it's killing those trees.” “it's taken a long time to do it,” i retaliated. “it will strangle them in the end,” she said with a shiver, “and that sand “yes, isn’t it lovely?” “i hate it; it’s like a desert!” “and vincent fairfield, do you hate him, too?” i asked a little sharply, for i was nettled at her criticism. “i don’t like the way he looks at me!” “really, dear,” i said with mild sarcasm, “i didn’t know that you objected to being looked at.” “i object very much to being looked at in that way.” she walked to the window and stared moodily out at the swaying moss. “mary,” she asked at length, “did you ever have a presentiment?” “a great many times! but it has never come true.” “don’t laugh, mary; remember grandmother?” “grandmother was scotch,” i said impatiently, the wedding veil “and brought up to consider her second-sight a proof of gentility — you ought to know better.” she made a half nervous, half petulant gesture and i left her with my satisfaction somewhat dimmed. it returned, however, when i woke the next morn- ing to a sunny day with a fresh wind stirring. it was in february and we had left cold, wet weather behind us; slush and mud under foot and gray clouds overhead. even aileen was affected by the change and her face lost its pensive, sullen expression. vincent fairfield had changed, too. i had no longer cause to dread the way he looked at my sis- ter, for he did not look at her at all, but addressed his remarks to me. i expressed my enthusiasm for the place. “it’s home, so of course i love it!” he answered simply. we were sitting, we three, in the garden after breakfast, with our backs to the sun, and his eye swept the beds of camelias and azaleas, the sandy walks, and sun-baked ground, with a look of affec- tion. i was afraid that aileen might express some- thing of what she had said to me, but she merely asked: “what do you do all day long?” he looked puzzled for a moment, and then in a tone one might use to a child: the optimist “i have my work; i take charge of the plantation.” “of course,” she said vaguely, “but how about amusements.” “we have wonderful shooting and fishing and then there are the fox hunts.” she looked interested. “like those in england?” “yes, only that ours are at night.” “at night,” i asked incredulously. “where?” “in the woods; you can start a fox almost any- where.” “and you chase him through the woods at night?” “of course.” “but how do you see to guide your horse?” “i don’t, i give him his head; there is no danger if you are cool and steady.” “and if not,” asked aileen. “then you come a cropper.” she shuddered. “it must be terrible at night in those woods.” his eyes shone. “it's glorious; the light of the torches; the bay- ing of the hounds; the chase; the motion; there is nothing like it in the world!” then in a changed tone as he watched her face: “but you must see for yourself. dick,” to my husband who appeared just the wedding weil i posin’ i drive that-a-way. if we’re lucky p’r'aps we see 'em come in.” “any way you like,” i assented. we lurched blindly along through the darkness, sometimes so violently jolted that we were almost unseated, jim encouraging the horse by unearthly noises, aileen still clinging to my arm. i could see that we were plunging deeper and deeper into the forest, probably taking a short road that might intercept the hunt — but i was no longer stirred by the gloom. my mind was on my sister. i could hear her quick breathing, and feel her heart beat against mine, but she did not speak. how long our drive lasted i cannot say, nor how long we waited after- wards in the silent darkness — at last jim spoke. “there they be,” he said. - i heard a very faint distant bay, it rose, fell and rose again; again flames licked up the darkness; a figure sprang out; aileen uttered a cry. it was vincent! he was leading; the reins on his horse's neck, his face set in a desperate line. he passed; a branch grazed his head; another dealt him a blow almost unseating him; he recovered himself and dashed on. the next instant shouts were heard; the tramp of hoofs stopped; the dogs’ bay increased; the fox was run to earth! we made our way there and almost before we reached the spot aileen got i the optimist out. i saw her join vincent; saw them speaking to- gether, and turned to find my husband beside me. “i believe vincent is born to be hanged,” he said angrily, “he rode as if he had ten lives to throw away instead of one. what had aileen done to him?” “it seems to be all right now,” i answered, but something within me contradicted the words. i was not at all surprised the next morning when my sister told me that she had promised to marry vincent. she came to me in the little sun-baked gar- den, where i was gathering azaleas for the table, and i have never been able to see them since without the thought of her face. she looked as fragile and lovely and as unsuited to endure a storm. “i know what you are going to say, mary,” she went on in reply to my silence, “but don’t say it, because i have said it all to myself.” we searched each other’s eyes and i seemed to see into her mind. “i love him,” she continued, “nobody but you will ever understand how much i love him. i found it out last night.” “then you had refused him?” “yes, i knew very well it was the only thing to do, but when i realized what it meant to him i had to give in.” the wedding veil “nothing can change my love for vincent,” she insisted proudly. - “that may be, but in that case no harm can come of waiting. it is no use, aileen, my mind is made up. i can’t prevent your marrying vincent, but you must give yourself time and be married from your own home, or else “well?” she asked. “you shall not wear my wedding veil.” “you wouldn’t be so mean?” “oh, yes, i would, if you refused to listen to me.” she yielded, as i had known she would, and it was finally agreed that she should be married late that spring, in new york. vincent seemed perfectly satisfied. “your sister is quite right,” he declared, “though, of course, i should love to have our wedding in the old church here. it will always be the most beautiful in the world to me and i see,” stroking her cheek, “that you feel just as i do.” her silence seemed to give consent. after that i have only a confused recollection of our stay. vincent was always with my sister, and she cared for him, there could be no doubt that she cared for him. her face grew lovelier daily; she basked on his affection, as the flowers basked in the sun-baked garden. the optimist then came the day of parting. i remember that it was very close and hot — though there was no sun — and the mist hung low. the only other memory i have, outside of aileen’s tearful face, is of the little old church where she had wished to be married. i saw it, the last thing as we drove away, its low bare outline unsoftened by ornament, the mellow tints of age its greatest beauty. it foreshadowed to me the life that might be hers. # * * * * * * we reached home very tired late one afternoon. my house is large for new york—it had belonged to my mother—but it seemed to me it had never looked so small. a drizzling rain fell, making the view of the street most depressing, and the steam-heated air weighed me down. yet as we entered my sitting room aileen’s face brightened. “how very, very smart and neat,” she cried, “and how nice it seems to hear the noise of the city.” i looked at her aghast; her sad face had lighted up; she was quite her former self. “how lovely to bathe again out of a porcelain tub,” she continued gaily, “and do you realize we shall have dinner, not supper, to-night — and on time!” \ “i realize that i am very tired, and very homesick the wedding veil for the south,” i added reproachfully; but she did not seem to see my point. however this mood did not last long, for when i entered her room a little later, she had unpacked vincent’s picture, and was so absorbed in studying it that she hardly noticed my entrance. yet when she came down to dinner, she had regained her cheerful- ness in planning a shopping expedition for the next day. - and so it continued for some time to come. she announced her engagement to vincent and began to order her trousseau. she wrote to him daily and slept with his letters under her pillow; but she rarely men- tioned his name. meanwhile her old gay life went on, her flower-like face grew sunny again; she was just as she used to be. i watched her with that sinking of the heart which i still refused to call a presentiment. i had left the details of the wedding to her. my part seemed principally to consist in explaining to her friends that she was not to live in new york. i did this to spare her, but whether she was grateful i cannot say, she gave no sign. one day she came to me radiant. “i have a telegram from vincent,” she cried, “he will be here to-night!” i had dreaded this meeting, expecting i knew not what ill results from it; but i found i had no cause the wedding veil “and – she likes it?” “yes,” i answered again. “i think she does.” that was all; but i wondered if he was beginning to understand. after that i distinguished a shadow stealing up between them and i saw its reflection upon my sister. her mouth drooped; she had regained the half sullen, half distressed expression, which i had noted on her first meeting with vincent. i dreaded yet longed for her confidence; but when it came i found it worse than i had feared. “i can’t stand it any longer,” she said to me. “i must talk to some one or i shall go mad.” it was late one afternoon and vincent had just left her; she sat down on the floor and buried her little head in my lap. “i have tried,” she sobbed, “to make up my mind to it, and i can't! i hate it more and more every day.” “to marry vincent,” i asked sternly. “no, no; to live away from here.” “aileen,” i said harshly, because pity was gaining on me, “it is time to stop this. you can’t go on playing fast and loose with a man in this way. if you don’t love vincent more than new york you ought to tell him so at once and break it off.” she opened her large despairing eyes. the optimist “i do, i do love him! it's the thought of that place. i can’t get it out of my mind; the quiet and the sand, and those grinning black faces, and then that moss! — i was all right till he mentioned that moss | * “this is an obsession, aileen.” “i know, i don’t defend myself. i have had a pre- sentiment of evil since the first night i met vincent.” “nonsense,” i answered harshly because her words reflected my own dread. “i am ashamed of you for dwelling on a thing like this.” “hush,” she whispered, wiping her eyes, “here's vincent.” he came in hurriedly; it was dark but there was light enough to see that he looked upset. “aileen,” he said, “i have a letter from my father.” “indeed,” she asked with real interest. “i hope his cold is better.” “i am afraid not,” vincent answered, “and i can see he is doing too much. i think i ought to go back.” “go back,” she replied, her lips whitening. when? “i thought of going to-night.” she did not an- swer and he went on persuasively: “you see, aileen, it's the end of the week; if i get there now there is the wedding veil a great deal that i can do to help him before monday; and i should have to leave next week in any case.” “wincent,” she begged in a voice that startled me, “please don’t go; i can’t spare you.” “but, my darling,” he insisted, “be reasonable. remember how much my father depends on me, and that i hardly ever leave him. why, after we are married, you know, we can stay with him together; you will be there for good and all.” i have wondered since whether things might have been different if he had not said that. i saw her wince; i laid my hand on her arm. “vincent,” she repeated, drawing away from me, “i ask you not to go.” “but i must,” he replied gravely; “come, dear, don’t make it too hard for me.” my sister is always pale when she is angry, and she never raises her voice — now she was white. “so this is the return,” she said, “for all my sacrifice!” “your sacrifice!” vincent asked in a dazed tone. “what sacrifice?” i put out my hand to stop her, but it was too late. “only my life,” she answered, “my pleasure, my friends, everything i care for. it may seem nothing to you — it’s my all.” the optimist for me near the front. no one noticed me, for they were watching for aileen, and i felt worried. i was sure she needed me to help her dress, and put on her veil. i sprang up to go to her. as i did so the music sounded; people turned towards the door. i tried to look, too, but i could not see; i tried speak, but i could not utter a word. some- thing clutched my heart that meant fear! i knew they were not playing a wedding march. the music ceased; there was a silence and when i was able to see the people had gone. i was alone in the church with my sister. she came towards me in all her wedding finery — but it was black! — and in her hand was something dark and shapeless that cast a shadow ! she held it out to me and i wondered what it was. “mary,” she said, “you always promised to dress me for my wedding and this is my wedding veil!” then i knew ! — and i threw the black thing over her head. * * * * * * * i was roused — if i had been asleep — by the sound of my name. the fire had burnt low; i was shaking and covered with a cold sweat. it was my husband’s voice calling me. i sprang up and stag- gered to my feet. “what is it,” i cried out. a legacy a legacy i' was a dull winter afternoon and a little sharp wind was whipping up the whitecaps on the sea and driving a thin spray of rain into their faces. to hervey king, with senses sharpened by what he had already gone through, each dreary detail of the landscape was photographed on his brain. there were no longer any outlines or any horizon, only a dull, grey pall which shifted from time to time as the wind rose or fell. the road had become a straight, silent lane with no apparent outlet but the water, until it suddenly turned into the chantry’s place. there everything was grey; the rich flat mea- dows, the sparse fringe of trees — everything but the whitecaps on the sea. even the house itself with its shingles and white facing had melted away al- together into the universal grey. as the motor drew up at the door and hervey was about to leave the car: “beg pardon, sir!” the the optimist chauffeur said, “but i wanted to tell you that i am sorry.” “thank you,” hervey answered. “she was a kind lady,” the other continued. “last fall when i was took sick and went to the hos- pital, there ain’t any end to what she did for me! i never thanked her; somehow i didn’t know if she'd care to have me. i wanted you to know, sir, now she's gone.” * “i’m glad you told me,” replied hervey. he ran up the steps and crossed the darkened hall, when a young girl’s form detached itself from the shadows. “sylvia!” he cried, catching her to him; “you here!” “she sent for me. oh! hervey, it has been terrible!” “it was like annie, she knew how much i should need you.” “i don’t think it was on your account,” sylvia answered. “i mean,” she added hastily, “she wanted me herself! grandmother and i have been here ever since.” she clung to him as he took off his things. “oh! i am so glad to have you back,” and she drew him into the drawing room. it was pleasant rather than handsome, with three large windows looking out on the water, but to her- the optimist almost bitter in expression, while her eyes were so eager and pitiful. his lips tightened in a manner that increased the resemblance between them. sylvia watched him with a startled comprehension of all that he not express. she was a pretty, child- like creature, but her tear-stained face had the utterly desolate look one one brought suddenly into contact with an unexpected grief. “we owe everything to her,” she began; “it was she who made our engagement possible.” “i know,” hervey answered in an abstracted tone. “it was she who lent you the money to buy your ranch,” sylvia continued, almost combatively. “of course,” replied hervey, “and i would have done the same for her if my mother had been a rich woman instead of hers.” “if you had she would have thanked you,” ex- claimed sylvia. “hervey, have you thanked her?” “there was no question of thanks between annie and me; she understood how i felt,” he answered coldly, then, between anger and amazement: “what do you mean, sylvia? are you trying to make out that i didn’t appreciate my sister?” for a moment sylvia did not answer and hervey noticed, in gathering perplexity, the expression on her face; it faded; her pretty lips parted in a smile. the optimist visible hand — and through it crept the shadow of a dog. “it is the pomeranian!” whispered sylvia, draw- ing closer to hervey; “he's looking for annie! here, bennie, poor little bennie!” the dog paid no atten- tion, with panting breath and nose glued to the ground he circled about the room. then suddenly he seemed to catch the scent and with on eager bound started off in hot pursuit — leaving only the echo of his little pattering feet. “he does that every afternoon,” murmured sylvia. but hervey had risen and was inspecting an empty basin in the corner. “have you remembered to give him water?” he asked reproachfully. “we none of us thought of it! and annie al- ways kept that basin filled because alec objected to him in the other rooms. poor little fellow ! no wonder he misses her!” she added with a bitterness hervey could not understand. at this moment a man’s figure was outlined against the gloom. “that's alec,” sylvia said. hervey could not distinguish his face in the dim light, but his voice had all its old-time ring as he exclaimed: “hervey, it's good to have you back!” a legacy pathy, and overwhelmed at the same time by an unaccountable feeling of self-reproach. “i am glad you are to be here to-night,” alec went on, beginning to move about again with long, nervous strides. “i have sent for a number of people to come and hear her will. she left a legacy, you remember, to the hospital in the village.” “she was devoted to it.” “i suppose you know she settled an income on you when you married,” his brother-in-law continued. “yes,” replied hervey, “she wrote me so a short time ago. i — i never answered the letter. i meant to every day.” “she was never the same after you went away!” alec said reproachfully. - “then why didn’t you let her come out to see me?” hervey retorted. “the doctor said the life out there might help her.” “nonsense!” answered alec. “the life here suited her best; she hated traveling just as much as i do! besides, she wouldn’t leave me — you know yourself she was never happy out of my sight. how could i know how ill she was, when she didn’t com- plain? in all the years we were married i never once heard her say she wasn’t well enough to do any- thing i wished! and as for these attacks, she had the optimist had them before, and got well!” his voice broke. “i couldn’t know how ill she was, now could i?” “we all made the same mistake,” hervey answered bitterly. “annie didn’t want us to know,” her husband went on, “she didn’t care for sympathy. i sometimes think that i am the only one in the world who understood her! what she did for me, nobody knows! after her death i had to engage a secretary.” “why didn't you do so before?” “she wouldn’t have allowed it. she wanted to do everything for me herself — and as to thanking her, she didn’t want to be thanked. the joy of giving was enough!” he turned, and hervey saw that his exalted ela- tion had faded away. he had suddenly become old and careworn, he stooped and his shoulders sank forward. “you will want to go to your room,” he said in a voice out of which all energy had fled, and hervey felt that the interview was closed. he crossed the hall, looking to right and left in search of sylvia, but she was nowhere visible, and he was just about to ascend the stairs when a slight, elderly woman met him with a start of welcome. “it's a hard home-coming, katherine!” the optimist he had not even missed his father. he recalled her look on her wedding day when he asked her with boyish jealousy: “why did you marry him, annie? we were very well as we were.” “i married him because he needed me,” she had answered with a radiant smile, and added: “ and be- cause he is devoted to me.” “aren’t we all devoted to you?” he had demanded indignantly, and she had laughed and shaken her head. all at once it dawned upon him that even sylvia — dearly as he loved her — could never take annie's place; the world without her was different; she was his ideal woman! and he had never told her so! * * * * * * * “it is a bad night for the meeting!” alec chantry said as they gathered in the drawing room that eve- ning. he had led the way there directly after din- ner, and the others had not ventured to express sur- prise. for it had been mrs. chantry's favorite room — though as her husband disliked it, just as he dis- liked her little pomeranian — she had as usual yielded to his wishes, and they never occupied it when he was at home. sylvia was restless; she got up and sat down con- tinually, straightening a light here and a book there. a legacy “do keep still, child,” observed her grandmother, a comfortable, portly old lady, with a good-humored face and shrewd eyes. “let the room alone,” she added in a low voice as alec moved to the window, “you cannot make it look as it did when annie was here, and you needn’t try.” “he is beginning to realize what a housekeeper he has lost!” she continued to hervey. “did you notice our dinner to-night?” and she gave an ex- pressive shrug. “i always said she had the best table of any woman i ever knew. i wish i had told her so,” she added reflectively, “but then it is too late for that now ! well, she was a sweet, lovely young thing when she married; she had only one fault, and i see by your face you are like her — if i may say so without offense — she was too sensitive, and she couldn’t talk back! it is a bad plan to be sensitive!” she concluded as he reddened under her look. but, indeed, he hardly noted, so absorbed was he in sylvia — who had sunk upon the sofa, apparently unconscious of his presence — for it dawned on him that something painful and oppressive was haunting her. “yes,” alec repeated, as he turned from the win- dow, “it is a bad night for the meeting.” he had regained his alert, elated manner and began rapidly a legacy left,” and he raised his arms to a panel in the desk which concealed a secret drawer. “no! no!” sylvia cried in rasping tones as she sprang to her feet. “it’s not there!” “we shall soon see,” he answered, fumbling with the panel; but with one bound she was beside him barring the way. “i tell you,” she cried, “it’s not there!” “why, sylvia, child, how you do act!” her grand- mother exclaimed, while hervey made his way to her side. - “it’s not there,” sylvia gasped, her voice breaking and tears forcing themselves to her eyes. “i have looked and i know,” but at that very moment the panel yielded and the drawer within came into view, showing, not the looked-for memorandum, but a folded paper in a blank envelope. “please, alec, take my word for it and don’t look,” sylvia begged, grasping his arm as he worked at the drawer; but he answered only by wrenching it open, and as he did so she suddenly pounced upon the paper and faced him, holding it behind her back. “sylvia, give me that paper,” alec exclaimed, still more in amazement than anger. “never,” faltered sylvia. “i put it there myself.” * easter morning easter morning "yould she come? that was the question he w: asked himself through the long hours of a sleepless night and a weary waiting for dawn. would she come? through the vestry door he could get glimpses of the church, and of the people as they came in — she was not there! a cloying odor of lilies floated out to him; the sun through the stained glass made rain- bow pictures on the floor. the stained glass was not of the best, nor were the lilies, but they were all the little church could afford, and as such he had valued them. now they went unnoticed. the organ sounded the first chords of the opening hymn; the choir had formed; he settled his surplice and followed them into the church. his eyes swept its innermost recesses — she was not there! to the rector of st. anne's the triumphant music had be- come a funeral march, and when he knelt in prayer easter morning radiated peace, his mouth breathed good will, and they felt it. his companion apparently felt it, too, for her expression lightened a little. “do you realize,” she asked, “how many years i have been coming here to breakfast, after easter service?” “just five — ever since you were married.” her face clouded again, but by this time they had reached the house and the door was opened promptly from within. - “you’re late and the breakfast ’ull be spoilt. miss florence, you shouldn’t 'a let them keep the master so long.” - “it isn’t her fault, mary, and i know nothing can spoil your breakfast,” he answered. as florence entered the bare, white room, whose immaculate cleanliness and restful lack of ornament had its usual soothing effect on her, she noticed that he had left her. a noise in the street explained his absence. he was distributing easter eggs to a crowd of children gathered about him, and their shrieks of delight were cheerful if not agreeable evi- dence of their appreciation. “that's where all his money goes,” mary's voice said, “and all his time and all his strength, wasted on other people,” she finished as he returned. easter morning “yes, and i have never told a lie since. i wish he was alive now, poor old dear!” “to punish you?” “no, to take my part.” she looked at him from under half closed lids, but he did not smile and she continued to play with her breakfast. when it was finished he glanced at his watch and led the way to the study. “it is early yet; we have a few minutes before service. he lighted his pipe and she flung herself into a chair by the fire – his only luxury – and raised her hands above her head. the study was as plain as all the house, but its austere simplicity was somewhat relieved by rows of books and a fine print of st. george and the dragon from a little-known painting in venice. she was nerving herself to break the silence when he spoke: “i was afraid you wouldn’t come.” the color rushed to her face. “did you think i would go back on you like that?” “it isn’t a question of me, it is what the service stands for.” “and you thought i had given it up?” yes.” she rose defiantly. “i insist upon knowing what mother has told you.” easter morning “is he degrading you in any way?” “of course not.” * then what is the trouble?” she made a magnificent gesture. “he doesn’t love me.” * he did once.” “i know; but he has changed.” “strange!” edmund murmured with infinite ironry, “when you love him so.” “you know that i don’t.” “then why did you marry him, florence?” “perhaps i used to; of course i know that i did. what is the object of all these questions?” “to get at the truth.” “then here it is in a nutshell; he doesn’t love me and i am going to leave him.” “does he know that you care for another man?” she sprang up. “who told you?” “no one; in my profession one learns to look at life without frills.” she seemed to be struggling between shame and angry defiance. \ - “we may as well have this thing out first as last. if i did love another man i see nothing to be ashamed of.” “neither do i – so far.” the optimist she was taken aback. “of course i know what you are aiming at. but i deny your authority, and i deny your principles !” * on what?” she turned her lovely flushed face upon him and his eyes dropped before hers. “on love,” she answered softly. “tell me yours, florence.” - she was drawn to her full height, her eyes aflame, her mouth aglow. “love, why it is the most beautiful thing in the world, the most glorious. everything else should yield to it. it is all that makes our lives endurable, and makes us believe in heaven.” “i seem to have heard you say all this before.” when? “about your husband.” “how dare you mention him; how dare you com- pare his love with arthur’s?” “i know nothing against arthur,” he answered quietly, “ or against your husband — except one thing.” “well? * “they are men, and apt to change.” “what do you mean?” “look behind you, florence.” the optimist “i didn’t suppose it was in you to be so cruel,” she whispered. he took two or three turns about the room. “the truth is always cruel, florence, that is why people dislike it. they don’t want to believe that love can change.” “real love never would, even if i lost my looks a thousand times.” “what do you call real love?” she drew herself up proudly. “the devotion i have inspired in arthur.” “how has he shown it?” “shown it,” she repeated. “yes, has he made you happy?” she winced. “you are too honest to claim that he has.” “i shall be when this struggle is over “a struggle with duty?” he asked coldly. “don’t you dare to use that word to me, eddie. women have been sacrificed to it long enough.” “let us drop it then, as we have religion, and take our stand on happiness. how do you know you will be any happier with arthur than with your husband?” “because they are different.” “they are alike in not believing in duty.” the optimist “i don’t understand.” “i think you do; i think you begin to see that, even if we eliminate duty, there must be conces- sions.” “i will make them — in reason.” “and suppose arthur is unreasonable?” she was silent. “and suppose he leaves you to go after big game — or golf. you will be lonely, won’t you, just as merwin was?” “are you making a bid for my sympathy?” “no, for your sense of fair play.” she made an impatient gesture. “look here, eddie, it is useless to argue any more with me. even if you could convert me to your ideas of love, i shouldn’t have the courage to admit it.” “no,” his eyes caught fire. “you have been living in a fool’s paradise. you think that calling a thing so can make it so, that the world owes you happiness and when you don’t get it, it’s some man’s fault and some other man can give it to you — but it isn’t so.” his voice rose. “arthur cannot give you happi- ness!” she dropped again into her seat by the fire, her hands hanging limp at her side, her whole figure expressing supreme discouragement. from the street came the murmur of voices, as accompaniment the optimist “eddie,” she said, “it is no use, i can’t do it. if i promised i should fail and disappoint you all the more; i play fair, whatever my faults. i dare say it’s true that i don’t deserve to be loved; but it’s too late to change now, and even if i did there is no one to care. i am miserable with merwin and i mean to leave him and let the future take care of itself. it can’t be worse than the past.” there was a long silence. once he tried to speak and failed. at last he lifted his head and looked her in the face. “florence, you say you want love, an unselfish love that doesn’t change. i have loved you always — better than myself, better than your looks, better even than your own happiness — and i ask nothing in return — except one thing.” she caught hold of the arm of the chair to steady herself, her face transfigured. - “what — do you — want of me?” she said halt- ingly. “i want you to live up to my ideal of you.” “it's too high.” “it’s what you were intended to be.” “i will rise to it,” she answered with the look of one who sees a vision. for a time she stood in silence still holding on to the arm of the chair, then she moved unsteadily alice in wonderland the optimist “you must be gentle with her, jack; she needs tender handling.” “tender fiddlesticks,” interrupted mr. morris, “she is your only girl and you have spoilt her.” “sympathy doesn’t spoil anyone.” “sympathy for what?” “that i must find out from alice,” she answered firmly, and left the room. - “and now, jack,” asked alice’s father, “as man to man, what have you done?” “as man to man, i don’t know.” “you needn’t mind speaking out, there isn’t a darned woman in sight.” “it wouldn’t make any difference to me if there were a hundred.” “you really don’t know why alice has broken off her engagement with you.” “i really don’t know,” jack answered, setting his shoulders. they were fine, square shoulders, and his jaw was square, too, and made his pink young face look heavy — dull one might have said except for his eyes. “and you have no suspicion?” asked mr. morris. “i didn’t say that.” “now we are getting down to it. who do you suspect of coming between you — a man?” jack flushed to the roots of his fair hair. alice in wonderland “i think – i am sure there is no other man with alice.” “a woman then?” “alice doesn’t like women.” “then who in thunder is it?” “an evil influence,” answered jack. his eyes showed the effort he was making to put his feeling into words. “i noticed it,” he said at last, “months ago — first i couldn’t understand because it had all been so different — then it came to me — she had changed.” “how changed — angry?” “no, disgusted!” “humph,” commented mr. morris. “when i said the most obvious things she stared at me, and one day — she was reading - i came up suddenly, she dropped her book, jumped up and left the room.” “what was the book?” “i don’t know; i went after alice.” “humph,” again commented mr. morris. “perhaps she thinks i am not fond enough of reading,” admitted jack. “i do like kipling and stevenson, but somehow i never can get interested in the books she cares about.” the optimist “my dear boy, you needn’t apologize; i haven’t opened a book in years.” “i thought you were so fond of reading.” “so i was, jack, when i was her age and reading matter was different. where is alice now?” “upstairs in the sitting room.” “very well, wait for me a moment, i mean to get to the bottom of this.” he went out, leaving jack uncomfortably seated upon the edge of the sofa trying to think. this came very hard for him because he was a man who preferred to act first and do his thinking afterwards; but in this case there was nothing left for him to do. he was a little encouraged by seeing mr. morris re- turn with a pile of books under his arm. “here,” said the latter, pitching them on the floor, “are what i found in alice's room, so they must be her pets. look them over, will you, while i try to get something out of her.” he left the room again and jack followed him into the hall and waited, listening. from above could be heard the steady murmur of voices coming from the sitting room. mr. morris ascended the stairs, the heavy carpet deadening the sound of his foot- steps, and, when at the top, he stopped and motioned jack back, laying his finger on his lips. for a moment jack stood irresolute, then he returned to alice in wonderland modern marriage, and here in ‘the sec"t of peace,’ is just the man she wants.” “i know, i have been one myself. what shall you do?” “give it to her,” answered jack. “can you?” “i can do anything to keep alice. mr. morris, the peace party has a meeting to-night. i shall go.” * * *k * * sk *k the meeting was just about to begin. the speakers were divided between anticipation and dread, oppressed as much by eloquence as their own fears. the shabby, badly lighted hall and dust-laden air, the swarming, chattering throng had gotten on their nerves. a feeling of uneasiness was in the air. jack ainsworth, seated far back on one side next the aisle was acutely conscious of it. he did not recognize its cause; he thought it was because he was watching for alice. he examined the women’s faces, and looked at each new arrival, his restless blue eyes taking everything in. the “peace party” appealed to many different types and classes and it seemed to emphasize rather than to lessen their differences. there was mrs. blundy, the chairman, plump, placid and pleasant, her face expressing her determination to see people happy and well-fed. there was miss daws, the pale the optimist in tears and blood. let us paraphrase patrick henry’s words and say: ‘give me peace or give me death. it is the guiding spirit of our fathers.” “how about george washington and abraham lincoln?” called out a voice. jack always feared it was his own. there was a turmoil, cries of “put him out !” “there is something in that!” laughter and shouts of “shame.” in the midst of which jack heard be- hind him the woman’s voice he had noticed before. “what if they come to blows over peace!” the man laughed. * so much the better for us!” then order was restored and another speaker sprang to his feet. “i accept the challenge,” he shouted. “i accept it boldly. what have george washington and abra- ham lincoln to do with us? they believed in war – we do not; they were religious men, we are not! we live in a greater and better age — the age of peace! let us inscribe on our banner a sign given in scorn. the white feather, once a signal of shame, shall become for us an emblem of glory!” he was interrupted by a storm of hisses and ap- plause. the chairman rapped madly for order. the speaker endeavored to continue; the cries redoubled; the hisses increased; there were cat-calls from the the optimist “i have been a very foolish girl, and very unjust. i didn’t know, i didn’t realize what you were.” “it had to be done,” he cried, seizing her hands. “i was afraid you wouldn’t understand.” “but i do! you have proved that you are will- ing to fight for peace.” the end th lon chaney c l d |o. . al | - & |w | l - , -- *a- - *** * * * = mr. ralph b. emery main street springvale, maine * the phantom of the opera the phantom of the opera. er would-be tine and h \ s zom chaney. m pursues chri a - / icture with nto the ph a universa scuers re | the phantom of the opera by gaston leroux illustrated by andre castaicne and with scenes from the universal production starring lon chaney # gross et & d unlap pu b l i s h e r s n e w york made in the united states of america copyright the bobbs-merrill company chapter ii iii iv vi vii viii ix xi xii xiii xiv xv xvi xvii xviii contents prologue is it the ghost? the new margarita . the mysterious reason box five the enchanted violin a visit to box five faust and what followed the mysterious brougham at the masked ball forget the name of the man’s voice above the trap-doors *** apollo's lyre a master-stroke of the trap-door lover the singular attitude of a safety- pin christine! christine! mme. giry's revelations the safety-pin again the commissary, the viscount and the persian page i i io ii i o contents chapter xix xx xxi xxii xxiii xxiv xxv xxvi the viscount and the persian in the cellars of the opera interesting wicissitudes in the torture chamber the tortures begin barrels barrels' the scorpion or the grasshopper: which p the end of the ghost's love story epilogue i.e. page i i the phantom of the opera - - -="- the phantom of the opera prologue in which the author of this singular work informs the reader how he acquired the certainty that the opera ghost really existed he opera ghost really existed. he was not, as was long believed, a creature of the imagina- tion of the artists, the superstition of the managers, or a product of the absurd and impressionable brains of the young ladies of the ballet, their mothers, the box-keepers, the cloak-room attendants or the con- cierge. yes, he existed in flesh and blood, although he assumed the complete appearance of a real phan- tom; that is to say, of a spectral shade. when i began to ransack the archives of the national academy of music i was at once struck by the surprising coincidences between the phenomena ascribed to the “ghost” and the most extraordinary and fantastic tragedy that ever excited the paris upper classes; and i soon conceived the idea that this tragedy might reasonably be explained by the phe- nomena in question. the events do not date more than thirty years back; and it would not be difficult to find at the present day, in the foyer of the ballet, i the phantom of the opera old men of the highest respectability, men upon whose word one could absolutely rely, who would remember as though they happened yesterday the mysterious and dramatic conditions that attended the kidnapping of christine daaé, the disappearance of the vicomte de chagny and the death of his elder brother, count philippe, whose body was found on the bank of the lake that exists in the lower cellars of the opera on the rue-scribe side. but none of those witnesses had until that day thought that there was any reason for connecting the more or less leg- endary figure of the opera ghost with that terrible story. the truth was slow to enter my mind, puzzled by an inquiry that at every moment was complicated by events which, at first sight, might be looked upon as superhuman; and more than once i was within an ace of abandoning a task in which i was exhausting myself in the hopeless pursuit of a vain image. at last, i received the proof that my presentiments had not deceived me, and i was rewarded for all my ef- forts on the day when i acquired the certainty that the opera ghost was more than a mere shade. on that day, i had spent long hours over the memoirs of a manager, the light and frivolous work of the too-skeptical moncharmin, who, during his term at the opera, understood nothing of the mysteri- ous behavior of the ghost and who was making all the fun of it that he could at the very moment when he became the first victim of the curious financial oper- ation that went on inside the “magic envelope.” prologue i had just left the library in despair, when i met the delightful acting-manager of our national acad- emy, who stood chatting on a landing with a lively and well-groomed little old man, to whom he intro- duced me gaily. the acting-manager knew all about my investigations and how eagerly and unsuccess- fully i had been trying to discover the whereabouts of the examining magistrate in the famous chagny case, m. faure. nobody knew what had become of him, alive or dead; and here he was back from can- ada, where he had spent fifteen years, and the first thing he had done, on his return to paris, was to come to the secretarial offices at the opera and ask for a free seat. the little old man was m. faure himself. we spent a good part of the evening together and he told me the whole chagny case as he had under- stood it at the time. he was bound to conclude in favor of the madness of the viscount and the acci- dental death of the elder brother, for lack of evi- dence to the contrary; but he was nevertheless persuaded that a terrible tragedy had taken place be- tween the two brothers in connection with christine daaé. he could not tell me what became of chris- tine or the viscount. when i mentioned the ghost, he only laughed. he, too, had been told of the curious manifestations that seemed to point to the existence of an abnormal being, residing in one of the most mysterious corners of the opera, and he knew the story of the envelope; but he had never seen anything in it worthy of his attention as magistrate in charge of a the phantom of the opera the chagny case, and it was as much as he had done to listen to the evidence of a witness who appeared of his own accord and declared that he had often met the ghost. this witness was none other than the man whom all paris called the “persian” and who was well-known to every subscriber to the opera. the magistrate took him for a visionary. i was immensely interested by this story of the persian. i wanted, if there were still time, to find this valuable and eccentric witness. my luck began to improve and i discovered him in his little flat in the rue de rivoli, where he had lived ever since and where he died five months after my visit. i was at first inclined to be suspicious; but when the persian had told me, with child-like candor, all that he knew about the ghost and had handed me the proofs of the ghost's existence—including the strange correspond- ence of christine daaé—to do as i pleased with, i was no longer able to doubt. no, the ghost was not a myth ! i have, i know, been told that this correspondence may have been forged from first to last by a man whose imagination had certainly been fed on the most seductive tales; but fortunately i discovered some of ) christine's writing outside the famous bundle of le. ters and, on a comparison between the two, all my doubts were removed. i also went into the past history of the persian and found that he was an up- right man, incapable of inventing a story that might have defeated the ends of justice. this, moreover, was the opinion of the more ser- prologue . ious people who, at one time or other, were mixed up in the chagny case, who were friends of the chagny family, to whom i showed all my documents and set forth all my inferences. in this connection, i should like to print a few lines which i received from gen- eral d— : sir: i can not urge you too strongly to publish the re- sults of your inquiry. i remember perfectly that, a few weeks before the disappearance of that great singer, christine daaé, and the tragedy which threw the whole of the faubourg saint-germain into mourning, there was a great deal of talk, in the foyer of the ballet, on the subject of the “ghost;” and i believe that it only ceased to be discussed in conse- quence of the later affair that excited us all so great- ly. but, if it be possible—as, after hearing you, i believe—to explain the tragedy through the ghost, then i beg you, sir, to talk to us about the ghost again. mysterious though the ghost may at first appear, he will always be more easily explained than the dis- mal story in which malevolent people have tried to picture two brothers killing each other who had wor- shiped each other all their lives. believe me, etc. lastly, with my bundle of papers in hand, i once more went over the ghost's vast domain, the huge building which he had made his kingdom. all that my eyes saw, all that my mind perceived, corrobor- ated the persian's documents precisely; and a won- derful discovery crowned my labors in a very definite fashion. it will be remembered that, later, when the phantom of the opera digging in the substructure of the opera, before burying the phonographic records of the artist's voice, the workmen laid bare a corpse. well, i was at once able to prove that this corpse was that of the opera ghost. i made the acting-manager put this proof to the test with his own hand; and it is now a matter of supreme indifference to me if the papers pretend that the body was that of a victim of the commune. the wretches who were massacred, under the commune, in the cellars of the opera, were not bur- ied on this side; i will tell where their skeletons can be found in a spot not very far from that immense crypt which was stocked during the siege with all sorts of provisions. i came upon this track just when i was looking for the remains of the opera ghost, which i should never have discovered but for the unheard-of chance described above. but we will return to the corpse and what ought to be done with it. for the present, i must conclude this very necessary introduction by thanking m. mifroid (who was the commissary of police called in for the first investigations after the disappearance of christine daaé), m. rémy, the late secretary, m. mercier, the late acting-manager, m. gabriel, the late chorus-master, and more particularly mme. la baronne de castelot-barbezac, who was once the “little meg” of the story (and who is not ashamed of it), the most charming star of our admirable corps de ballet, the eldest daughter of the worthy mme. giry, now deceased, who had charge of the prologue ghost's private box. all these were of the greatest assistance to me; and, thanks to them, i shall be able to reproduce those hours of sheer love and terror, in their smallest details, before the reader's eyes. and i should be ungrateful indeed if i omitted, while standing on the threshold of this dreadful and veracious story, to thank the present management of the opera, which has so kindly assisted me in all my inquiries, and m. messager in particular, together with m. gabion, the acting-manager, and that most amiable of men, the architect intrusted with the pres- ervation of the building, who did not hesitate to lend me the works of charles garnier, although he was almost sure that i would never return them to him. lastly, i must pay a public tribute to the generosity of my friend and former collaborator, m. j. le croze, who allowed me to dip into his splendid the- atrical library and to borrow the rarest editions of books by which he set great store. gaston leroux. chapter i is it the ghost? t was the evening on which mm. debienne and poligny, the managers of the opera, were giv- ing a last gala performance to mark their retirement. suddenly the dressing-room of la sorelli, one of the principal dancers, was invaded by half-a-dozen young ladies of the ballet, who had come up from the stage after “dancing” polyeucte. they rushed in amid great confusion, some giving vent to forced and un- natural laughter, others to cries of terror. sorelli, who wished to be alone for a moment to “run through” the speech which she was to make to the resigning managers, looked around angrily at the mad and tumultuous crowd. it was little jammes— the girl with the tip-tilted nose, the forget-me-not eyes, the rose-red cheeks and the lily-white neck and shoulders—who gave the explanation in a trembling voice: “it's the ghost!” and she locked the door. sorelli's dressing-room was fitted up with official, commonplace elegance. a pier-glass, a sofa, a dress- ing-table and a cupboard or two provided the neces- sary furniture. on the walls hung a few engravings, relics of the mother, who had known the glories of the old opera in the rue le peletier; portraits of is it the ghost? vestris, gardel, dupont, bigottini. but the room seemed a palace to the brats of the corps de ballet, who were lodged in common dressing-rooms where they spent their time singing, quarreling, smacking the dressers and hair-dressers and buying one another glasses of cassis, beer, or even rhum, until the call- boy's bell rang. sorelli was very superstitious. she shuddered when she heard little jammes speak of the ghost, called her a “silly little fool” and then, as she was the first to believe in ghosts in general, and the opera ghost in particular, at once asked for details: “have you seen him?” “as plainly as i see you now!” said little jammes, whose legs were giving way beneath her, and she dropped with a moan into a chair. thereupon little giry—the girl with eyes black as sloes, hair black as ink, a swarthy complexion and a poor little skin stretched over poor little bones— little giry added: “if that's the ghost, he's very ugly l” “oh, yes!' cried the chorus of ballet-girls. and they all began to talk together. the ghost had appeared to them in the shape of a gentleman in dress-clothes, who had suddenly stood before them in the passage, without their knowing where he came from. he seemed to have come straight through the wall. / “pooh!” said one of them, who had more or less kept her head. “you see the ghost everywhere!” and it was true. for several months, there had *io the phantom of the opera been nothing discussed at the opera but this ghost in dress-clothes who stalked about the building, from top to bottom, like a shadow, who spoke to nobody, to whom nobody dared speak and who vanished as soon as he was seen, no one knowing how or where. as became a real ghost, he made no noise in walking. people began by laughing and making fun of this specter dressed like a man of fashion or an under- taker; but the ghost legend soon swelled to enor- mous proportions among the corps de ballet. all the girls pretended to have met this supernatural being more or less often. and those who laughed the loudest were not the most at ease. when he did not show himself, he betrayed his presence or his passing by accident, comic or serious, for which the general superstition held him responsible. had any one met with a fall, or suffered a practical joke at the hands of one of the other girls, or lost a powder- puff, it was at once the fault of the ghost, of the opera ghost. after all, who had seen him? you meet so many men in dress-clothes at the opera who are not ghosts. but this dress-suit had a peculiarity of its own. it covered a skeleton. at least, so the ballet-girls said. and, of course, it had a death's head. was all this serious? the truth is that the idea of the skeleton came from the description of the ghost given by joseph buquet, the chief scene-shifter, who had really seen the ghost. he had run up against the ghost on the little staircase, by the foot- lights, which leads to “the cellars.” he had seen is it the ghost? ii him for a second—for the ghost had fled—and to any one who cared to listen to him he said: “he is extraordinarily thin and his dress-coat hangs on a skeleton frame. his eyes are so deep that you can hardly see the fixed pupils. you just see two big black holes, as in a dead man's skull. his skin, which is stretched across his bones like a drumhead, is not white, but a nasty yellow. his nose is so little worth talking about that you can't see it side-face; and the absence of that nose is a horrible thing to look at. all the hair he has is three or four long dark locks on his forehead and behind his ears.” this chief scene-shifter was a serious, sober, steady man, very slow at imagining things. his words were received with interest and amazement; and soon there were other people to say that they too had met a man in dress-clothes with a death's head on his shoulders. sensible men who had wind of the story began by saying that joseph buquet had been the victim of a joke played by one of his assist- ants. and then, one after the other, there came a series of incidents so curious and so inexplicable that the very shrewdest people began to feel uneasy. for instance, a fireman is a brave fellow ! he fears nothing, least of all fire! well, the fireman in question, who had gone to make a round of inspec- tion in the cellars and who, it seems, had ventured a little farther than usual, suddenly reappeared on the stage, pale, scared, trembling, with his eyes start- ing out of his head, and practically fainted in the i the phantom of the opera arms of the proud mother of little jammes.* and why? because he had seen coming toward him, at the level of his head, but without a body attached to it, a head of fire! and, as i said, a fireman is not afraid of fire. the fireman's name was pampin. the corps de ballet was flung into consternation. at first sight, this fiery head in no way corresponded with joseph buquet's description of the ghost. but the young ladies soon persuaded themselves that the ghost had several heads, which he changed about as he pleased. and, of course, they at once imagined that they were in the greatest danger. once a fire- man did not hesitate to faint, leaders and front-row and back-row girls alike had plenty of excuses for the fright that made them quicken their pace when passing some dark corner or ill-lighted corridor. sorelli herself, on the day after the adventure of the fireman, placed a horse-shoe on the table in front of the stage-door-keeper's box, which every one who en- tered the opera otherwise than as a spectator must touch before setting foot on the first tread of the staircase. this horse-shoe was not invented by me— any more than any other part of this story, alas!— and may still be seen on the table in the passage out- side the stage-door-keeper's box, when you enter the opera through the court known as the cour de l'ad- ministration. *i have the anecdote, which is quite authentic, from m. - pedro gailhard himself, the late manager of the opera. is it the ghost? i to return to the evening in question. “it's the ghost!” little jammes had cried. an agonizing silence now reigned in the dressing- room. nothing was heard but the hard breathing of the girls. at last, jammes, flinging herself upon the farthest corner of the wall, with every mark of real terror on her face, whispered: “listen!” everybody seemed to hear a rustling outside the door. there was no sound of footsteps. it was like light silk sliding over the panel. then it stopped. sorelli tried to show more pluck than the others. she went up to the door and, in a quavering voice, asked: “who’s there?” ** but nobody answered. then feeling all eyes upon her, watching her last movement, she made an effort to show courage, and said very loudly: “is there any one behind the door?” “oh, yes, yes! of course there is!” cried that little dried plum of a meg giry, heroically holding sorelli back by her gauze skirt. “whatever you do, don't open the door! oh, lord, don't open the door l’” * but sorelli, armed with a dagger that never left her, turned the key and drew back the door, while the ballet-girls retreated to the inner dressing-room and meg giry sighed: “mother! mother l’” sorelli looked into the passage bravely. it was empty; a gas-flame, in its glass prison, cast a red and the phantom of the opera suspicious light into the surrounding darkness, with- out succeeding in dispelling it. and the dancer slammed the door again, with a deep sigh. “no,” she said, “there is no one there.” “still, we saw him l” jammes declared, returning with timid little steps to her place beside sorelli. “he must be somewhere prowling about. i shan’t go back to dress. we had better all go down to the foyer together, at once, for the speech, and we will come up again together.” and the child reverently touched the little coral finger-ring which she wore as a charm against bad luck, while sorelli, stealthily, with the tip of her pink right thumb-nail, made a st. andrew's cross on the wooden ring which adorned the fourth finger of her left hand. she said to the little ballet-girls: “come, children, pull yourselves together! i dare say no one has ever seen the ghost.” “yes, yes, we saw him—we saw him just now !” cried the girls. “he had his death's head and his dress-coat, just as when he appeared to joseph buquet!” “and gabriel saw him too !” said jammes. “only yesterday! yesterday afternoon—in broad day- light—” “gabriel, the chorus-master?” “why, yes, didn't you know?” “and he was wearing his dress-clothes, in broad daylight?” “who? gabriel ?” “why, no, the ghost!” is it the ghost? i “certainly! gabriel told me so himself. that's what he knew him by. gabriel was in the stage- manager's office. suddenly the door opened and the persian entered. you know the persian has the evil eye ?? “oh, yes!” answered the little ballet-girls in chorus, warding off ill-luck by pointing their fore- finger and little finger at the absent persian, while their second and third fingers were bent on the palm and held down by the thumb. “and you know how superstitious gabriel is,” con- tinued jammes. “however, he is always polite. when he meets the persian, he just puts his hand in his pocket and touches his keys. well, the moment the persian appeared in the doorway, gabriel gave one jump from his chair to the lock of the cupboard, so as to touch iron l in doing so, he tore a whole skirt of his overcoat on a nail. hurrying to get out of the room, he banged his forehead against a hat-peg and gave himself a huge bump; then, suddenly stepping back, he skinned his arm on the screen, near the piano; he tried to lean on the piano, but the lid fell on his hands and crushed his fingers; he rushed out of the office like a madman, slipped on the staircase and came down the whole of the first flight on his back. i was just passing with mother. we picked him up. he was covered with bruises and his face was all over blood. we were frightened out of our lives, but, all at once, he began to thank providence that he had got off so cheaply. then he told us what had frightened him. he had seen the ghost behind i the phantom of the opera the persian, the ghost with the death's head, just like joseph buquet's description l” jammes had told her story ever so quickly, as though the ghost were at her heels, and was quite out of breath at the finish. a silence followed, while sorelli polished her nails in great excitement. it was broken by little giry, who said: “joseph buquet would do better to hold his tongue.” “why should he hold his tongue?” asked some- body. “that's mother's opinion,” replied meg, lower- ing her voice and looking all about her as though fearing lest other ears than those present might overhear. “and why is it your mother's opinion?” “hush! mother says the ghost doesn't like being talked about.” “and why does your mother say so?” “because—because—nothing—” this reticence exasperated the curiosity of the young ladies, who crowded round little giry, begging her to explain herself. they were there, side by side, leaning forward simultaneously in one move- ment of entreaty and fear, communicating their ter- ror to one another, taking a keen pleasure in feeling their blood freeze in their veins. “i swore not to tell!” gasped meg. but they left her no peace and promised to keep the secret, until meg, burning to say all she knew, began, with her eyes fixed on the door: is it the ghost? “well, it's because of the private box.” “what private box?” “the ghost's box!” “has the ghost a box? oh, do tell us, do tell us!” “not so loud!” said meg. “it's box five, you know, the box on the grand tier, next to the stage- box, on the left.” “oh, nonsense !” “i tell you it is. mother has charge of it. but you swear you won't say a word?” “of course, of course.” “well, that's the ghost's box. no one has had it for over a month, except the ghost, and orders have been given at the box-office that it must never be sold.” “and does the ghost really come there?” “yes.” “then somebody does come?” “why, no! the ghost comes, but there is no- body there.” the little ballet-girls exchanged glances. if the ghost came to the box, he must be seen, because he wore a dress-coat and a death's head. this was what they tried to make meg understand, but she replied: “that's just it! the ghost is not seen. and he has no dress-coat and no head! all that talk about his death's head and his head of fire is nonsense! there's nothing in it. you only hear him when he is in the box. mother has never seen him, but she i the phantom of the opera has heard him. mother knows, because she gives him his program.” sorelli interfered. “giry, child, you're getting at us!” thereupon little giry began to cry. “i ought to have held my tongue—if mother ever came to know ! but i was quite right, joseph bu- quet had no business to talk of things that don't con- cern him—it will bring him bad luck—mother was saying so last night there was a sound of hurried and heavy footsteps in the passage and a breathless voice cried: “cecile! cecile ! are you there?” “it's mother's voice,” said jammes. “what's the matter?” she opened the door. a respectable lady, built on the lines of a pomeranian grenadier, burst into the dressing-room and dropped groaning into a va- cant arm-chair. her eyes rolled madly in her brick- dust colored face. “how awful!” she said. “how awful!” “what? what?” “joseph buquet “what about him p” “joseph buquet is dead!” the room became filled with exclamations, with astonished outcries, with scared requests for explana- tions. “yes, he was found hanging in the third-floor cel- lar !” “it's the ghost!” little giry blurted, as though in is it the ghost? i spite of herself; but she at once corrected herself, with her hands pressed to her mouth: “no, no!— i didn't say it!—i didn't say it! all around her, her panic-stricken companions re- peated under their breaths: “yes—it must be the ghost!” sorelli was very pale. “i shall never be able to recite my speech,” she said. ma jammes gave her opinion, while she emptied a glass of liqueur that happened to be standing on a table; the ghost must have something to do with it. the truth is that no one ever knew how joseph buquet met his death. the verdict at the inquest was “natural suicide.” in his memoirs of a mana- ger, m. moncharmin, one of the joint managers who succeeded mm. debienne and poligny, describes the incident as follows: “a grievous accident spoiled the little party which mm. debienne and poligny gave to celebrate their retirement. k was in the manager's office, when mer- cier, the acting-manager, suddenly came darting in. he seemed half mad and told me that the body of a scene-shifter had been found hanging in the third cellar under the stage, between a farm-house and a scene from the roi de lahore. i shouted: “‘come and cut him down!' “by the time i had rushed down the staircase and the jacob's ladder, the man was no longer hanging from his rope!” so this is an event which m. moncharmin thinks natural. a man hangs at the end of a rope; they go o the phantom of the opera to cut him down; the rope has disappeared. oh, m. moncharmin found a very simple explanation! listen to him: “it was just after the ballet; and leaders and dancing-girls lost no time in taking their precautions against the evil eye.” there you are ! picture the corps de ballet scut- tling down the jacob's ladder and dividing the sui- cide's rope among themselves in less time than it takes to write! when, on the other hand, i think of the exact spot where the body was discovered— the third cellar underneath the stage—i imagine that somebody must have been interested in seeing that the rope disappeared after it had effected its purpose; and time will show if i am wrong. the horrid news soon spread all over the opera, where joseph buquet was very popular. the dress- ing-rooms emptied and the ballet-girls, crowding around sorelli like timid sheep around their shep- herdess, made for the foyer through the ill-lit pas- sages and staircases, trotting as fast as their little pink legs could carry them. chapter ii the new margarita n the first landing, sorelli ran against the comte de chagny, who was coming up-stairs. the count, who was generally so calm, seemed greatly ex- cited. “i was just going to you,” he said, taking off his hat. “oh, sorelli, what an evening! and chris- tine daaé: what a triumph!” “impossible!” said meg giry. “six months ago, she used to sing like a crock / but do let us get by, my dear count,” continues the brat, with a saucy curt- sey. “we are going to inquire after a poor man who was found hanging by the neck.” just then the acting-manager came fussing past and stopped when he heard this remark. “what!” he exclaimed roughly. “have you girls heard already? well, please forget about it for to- night—and above all don’t let m. debienne and m. poligny hear; it would upset them too much on their last day.” they all went on to the foyer of the ballet, which was already full of people. the comte de chagny was right; no gala performance ever equalled this one. all the great composers of the day had con- ducted their own works in turns. faure and krauss i the phantom of the opera had sung; and, on that evening, christine daaé had revealed her true self, for the first time, to the aston- ished and enthusiastic audience. gounod had con- ducted the funeral march of a marionnette; reyer, his beautiful overture to siguar; saint saëns, the danse macabre and a réverie orientale; massenet, an unpublished hungarian march; guiraud, his car- naval; delibes, the valse lente from sylvia and the pizzicati from coppelia. mlle. krauss had sung the bolero in the vespri siciliani; and mlle. denise bloch the drinking song in lucrezia borgia. but the real triumph was reserved for christine daaé, who had begun by singing a few passages from romeo and juliet. it was the first time that the young artist sang in this work of gounod, which had not been transferred to the opera and which was re- vived at the opéra comique after it had been pro- duced at the old theatre lyrique by mme. car- valho. those who heard her say that her voice, in these passages, was seraphic; but this was nothing to the superhuman notes that she gave forth in the prison scene and the final trio in faust, which she sang in the place of la carlotta, who was ill. no one had ever heard or seen anything like it. daaé revealed a new margarita that night, a mar- garita of a splendor, a radiance hitherto unsuspected. the whole house went mad, rising to its feet, shout- ing, cheering, clapping, while christine sobbed and fainted in the arms of her fellow-singers and had to be carried to her dressing-room. a few subscribers, however, protested. why had so great a treasure the new margarita been kept from them all that time? till then, chris- tine daaé had played a good siebel to carlotta's rather too splendidly material margarita. and it had needed carlotta's incomprehensible and inexcus- able absence from this gala night for the little daaé, at a moment's warning, to show all that she could do in a part of the program reserved for the spanish dival well, what the subscribers wanted to know was, why had debienne and poligny applied to daaé, when carlotta was taken ill? did they know of her hidden genius? and, if they knew of it, why had they kept it hidden? and why had she kept it hid- den? oddly enough, she was not known to have a professor of singing at that moment. she had often said she meant to practise alone for the future. the whole thing was a mystery. the comte de chagny, standing up in his box, listened to all this frenzy and took part in it by loudly applauding. philippe georges marie comte de chagny was just forty-one years of age. he was a great aristocrat and a good-looking man, above middle height and with attractive features, in spite of his hard forehead and his rather cold eyes. he was exquisitely polite to the women and a little haughty to the men, who did not always forgive him for his successes in society. he had an excellent heart and an irreproachable conscience. on the death of old count philibert, he became the head of one of the oldest and most distinguished families in france, whose arms dated back to the fourteenth century. the chagnys owned a great deal of property; and, the phantom of the opera when the old count, who was a widower, died, it was no easy task for philippe to accept the management of so large an estate. his two sisters and his brother, raoul, would not hear of a division and waived their claim to their shares, leaving themselves entirely in philippe's hands, as though the right of primogeni- ture had never ceased to exist. when the two sis- ters married, on the same day, they received their por- tion from their brother, not as a thing rightfully belonging to them, but as a dowry for which they thanked him. the comtesse de chagny, née de moerogis de la martyniere, had died in giving birth to raoul, who was born twenty years after his elder brother. at the time of the old count's death, raoul was twelve years of age. philippe busied himself actively with the youngster's education. he was admirably as- sisted in this work first by his sisters and afterward by an old aunt, the widow of a naval officer, who lived at brest and gave young raoul a taste for the sea. the lad entered the borda training-ship, fin- ished his course with honors and quietly made his trip round the world. thanks to powerful influence, he had just been appointed a member of the official expedition on board the requin, which was to be sent to the arctic circle in search of the survivors of the d'artoi's expedition, of whom nothing had been heard for three years. meanwhile, he was enjoying a long furlough which would not be over for six months; and already the dowagers of the faubourg saint-germain were pitying the handsome and appar- the new margarita . ently delicate stripling for the hard work in store for him. the shyness of the sailor-lad—i was almost saying his innocence—was remarkable. he seemed to have but just left the women's apron-strings. as a mat- ter of fact, petted as he was by his two sisters and his old aunt, he had retained from this purely feminine education mamlers that were almost candid and stamped with a charm that nothing had yet been able to sully. he was a little over twenty-one years of age and looked eighteen. he had a small, fair mustache, beautiful blue eyes and a complexion like a girl's. philippe spoiled raoul. to begin with, he was very proud of him and pleased to foresee a glorious career for his junior in the navy in which one of their ancestors, the famous chagny de la roche, had held the rank of admiral. he took advantage of the young man's leave of absence to show him paris, with all its luxurious and artistic delights. the count considered that, at raoul's age, it is not good to be too good. philippe himself had a character that was very well-balanced in work and pleasure alike; his demeanor was always faultless; and he was incap- able of setting his brother a bad example. he took him with him wherever he went. he even intro- duced him to the foyer of the ballet. i know that the count was said to be “on terms” with sorelli. but it could hardly be reckoned as a crime for this nobleman, a bachelor, with plenty of leisure, especially since his sisters were settled, to come and spend an the phantom of the opera hour or two after dinner in the company of a dancer, who, though not so very, very witty, had the finest eyes that ever were seen and, besides, there are places where a true parisian, when he has the rank of the comte de chagny, is bound to show himself; and at that time the foyer of the ballet at the opera was one of those places. lastly, philippe would perhaps not have taken his brother behind the scenes of the opera if raoul had not been the first to ask him, repeatedly renew- ing his request with a gentle obstinacy which the count remembered at a later date. on that evening, philippe, after applauding the daaé, turned to raoul and saw that he was quite pale. “don’t you see,” said raoul, “that the woman's fainting?” “you look like fainting yourself,” said the count. “what's the matter?” but raoul had recovered himself and was stand- ing up. “let’s go and see,” he said, “she never sang like that before.” the count gave his brother a curious smiling glance and seemed quite pleased. they were soon at the door leading from the house to the stage. numbers of subscribers were slowly making their way through. raoul tore his gloves without knowing what he was doing and philippe had much too kind a heart to laugh at him for his impatience. but he now under- stood why raoul was absent-minded when spoken to the new margarita and why he always tried to turn every conversation to the subject of the opera. they reached the stage and pushed through the crowd of gentlemen, scene-shifters, supers and chor- us-girls, raoul leading the way, feeling that his heart no longer belonged to him, his face set with passion, while count philippe followed him with difficulty and continued to smile. at the back of the stage, raoul had to stop before the inrush of the little troop of ballet-girls who blocked the passage which he was trying to enter. more than one chaffing phrase darted from little made-up lips, to which he did not reply; and at last he was able to pass, and dived into the semi-darkness of a corridor ringing with the name of “daaé! daaé!” the count was surprised to find that raoul knew the way. he had never taken him to christine's himself and came to the conclusion that raoul must have gone there alone while the count stayed talking in the foyer with so- relli, who often asked him to wait until it was her time to “go on” and sometimes handed him the little gaiters in which she ran down from her dressing- room to preserve the spotlessness of her satin danc- ing-shoes and her flesh-colored tights. sorelli had an excuse; she had lost her mother. postponing his usual visit to sorelli for a few min- utes, the count followed his brother down the passage that led to daaé's dressing-room and saw that it had never been so crammed as on that evening, when the whole house seemed excited by her success and also by her fainting fit. for the girl had not yet come to; the phantom of the opera and the doctor of the theater had just arrived at the moment when raoul entered at his heels. christine, therefore, received the first aid of the one, while opening her eyes in the arms of the other. the count and many more remained crowding in the doorway. “don’t you think, doctor, that those gentlemen had better clear the room?” asked raoul coolly. “there's no breathing here.” “you’re quite right,” said the doctor. and he sent every one away, except raoul and the maid, who looked at raoul with eyes of the most un- disguised astonishment. she had never seen him be- fore and yet dared not question him; and the doctor imagined that the young man was only acting as he did because he had the right to. the viscount, there- fore, remained in the room watching christine as she slowly returned to life, while even the joint managers, debienne and poligny, who had come to offer their sympathy and congratulations, found themselves thrust into the passage among the crowd of dandies. the comte de chagny, who was one of those stand- ing outside, laughed: “oh, the rogue, the rogue !” and he added, under his breath: “those youngsters with their school-girl airs! so he's a chagny after all!” he turned to go to sorelli's dressing-room, but met her on the way, with her little troop of trembling ballet-girls, as we have seen. meanwhile, christine daaé uttered a deep sigh, which was answered by a groan. she turned her head, saw raoul and started. she looked at the doc- the phantom of the opera then he said good night and raoul was left alone. the whole of this part of the theater was now de- serted. the farewell ceremony was no doubt taking place in the foyer of the ballet. raoul thought that daaé might go to it and he waited in the silent soli- tude, even hiding in the favoring shadow of a door- way. he felt a terrible pain at his heart and it was of this that he wanted to speak to daaé without delay. suddenly the dressing-room door opened and the maid came out by herself, carrying bundles. he stopped her and asked how her mistress was. the woman laughed and said that she was quite well, but that he must not disturb her, for she wished to be left alone. and she passed on. one idea alone filled raoul's burning brain: of course, daaé wished to be left alone for him! had he not told her that he wanted to speak to her privately? hardly breathing, he went up to the dressing-room and, with his ear to the door to catch her reply, pre- pared to knock. but his hand dropped. he had heard a man's voice in the dressing-room, saying, in a curiously masterful tone: “christine, you must love me!” and christine's voice, infinitely sad and trembling, as though accompanied by tears, replied: “how can you talk like that? when i sing only for you!” raoul leaned against the panel to ease his pain. his heart, which had seemed gone for ever, returned to his breast and was throbbing loudly. the whole the new margarita i. passage echoed with its beating and raoul's ears were deafened. surely, if his heart continued to make such a noise, they would hear it inside, they would open the door and the young man would be turned away in disgrace. what a position for a chagny! to be caught listening behind a door! he took his heart in his two hands to make it stop. the man's voice spoke again: “are you very tired?” “oh, to-night i gave you my soul and i am dead!” christine replied. “your soul is a beautiful thing, child,” replied the grave man’s voice, “and i thank you. no emperor ever received so fair a gift. the angels wept to- night.” raoul heard nothing after that. nevertheless, he did not go away, but, as though he feared lest he should be caught, he returned to his dark corner, de- termined to wait for the man to leave the room. at one and the same time, he had learned what love meant, and hatred. he knew that he loved. he wanted to know whom he hated. to his great aston- ishment, the door opened and christine daaé ap- peared, wrapped in furs, with her face hidden in a lace veil, alone. she closed the door behind her, but raoul observed that she did not lock it. she passed him. he did not even follow her with his eyes, for his eyes were fixed on the door, which did not open again. when the passage was once more deserted, he crossed it, opened the door of the dressing-room, the phantom of the opera went in and shut the door. he found himself in ab- solute darkness. the gas had been turned out. “there is some one here!” said raoul, with his back against the closed door, in a quivering voice. “what are you hiding for?” all was darkness and silence. raoul heard only the sound of his own breathing. he quite failed to see that the indiscretion of his conduct was exceed- ing all bounds. “you shan’t leave this until i let you!” he ex- claimed. “if you don't answer, you are a coward! but i'll expose you!” and he struck a match. the blaze lit up the room. there was no one in the room | raoul, first turning the key in the door, lit the gas-jets. he went into the dressing-closet, opened the cupboards, hunted about, felt the walls with his moist hands. nothing! - “look here !” he said, aloud. “am i going mad?” he stood for ten minutes listening to the gas flaring in the silence of the empty room; lover though he was, he did not even think of stealing a ribbon that would have given him the perfume of the woman he loved. he went out, not knowing what he was doing nor where he was going. at a given moment in his wayward progress, an icy draft struck him in the face. he found himself at the bottom of a stair- case, down which, behind him, a procession of work- men were carrying a sort of stretcher, covered with a white sheet. - the new margarita “which is the way out, please?” he asked of one of the men. “straight in front of you, the door is open. but let us pass.” pointing to the stretcher, he asked mechanically: “what's that?” the workmen answered: “‘that’ is joseph buquet, who was found in the third cellar, hanging between a farm-house and a scene from the roi de lahore.” he took off his hat, fell back to make room for the procession and went out. chapter iii the mysterious reason uring this time, the farewell ceremony was taking place. i have already said that this magnificent function was being given on the occasion of the retirement of m. debienne and m. poligny, who had determined to “die game,” as we say now- adays. they had been assisted in the realization of their ideal, though melancholy, program by all that counted in the social and artistic world of paris. all these people met, after the performance, in the foyer of the ballet, where sorelli waited for the arrival of the retiring managers with a glass of champagne in her hand and a little prepared speech at the tip of her tongue. behind her, the members of the corps de ballet, young and old, discussed the events of the day in whispers or exchanged discreet signals with their friends, a noisy crowd of whom surrounded the supper-tables arranged along the slanting floor. a few of the dancers had already changed into ordinary dress; but most of them wore their skirts of gossamer gauze; and all had thought it the right thing to put on a special face for the occasion: all, that is, except little jammes, whose fifteen summers —happy age!—seemed already to have forgotten the ghost and the death of joseph buquet. she never ceased to laugh and chatter, to hop about and the mysterious reason play practical jokes, until mm. debienne and pol- igny appeared on the steps of the foyer, when she was severely called to order by the impatient sorelli. everybody remarked that the retiring managers looked cheerful, as is the paris way. none will ever be a true parisian who has not learned to wear a mask of gaiety over his sorrows and one of sadness, bore- dom or indifference over his inward joy. you know that one of your friends is in trouble; do not try to console him: he will tell you that he is already com- forted; but, should he have met with good fortune, be careful how you congratulate him: he thinks it so natural that he is surprised that you should speak of it. in paris, our lives are one masked ball; and the foyer of the ballet is the last place in which two men so “knowing” as m. debienne and m. poligny would have made the mistake of betraying their grief, however genuine it might be. and they were already smiling rather too broadly upon sorelli, who had begun to recite her speech, when an exclamation from that little madcap of a jammes broke the smile of the managers so brutally that the expression of distress and dismay that lay beneath it became appar- ent to all eyes: “the opera ghost!” jammes yelled these words in a tone of unspeak- able terror; and her finger pointed, among the crowd of dandies, to a face so pallid, so lugubrious and so ugly, with two such deep black cavities under the straddling eyebrows, that the death's head in ques- tion immediately scored a huge success. the phantom of the opera “the opera ghost! the opera ghost!” everybody laughed and pushed his neighbor and wanted to offer the opera ghost a drink, but he was gone. he had slipped through the crowd; and the others vainly hunted for him, while two old gentle- men tried to calm little jammes and while little giry stood screaming like a peacock. sorelli was furious; she had not been able to finish her speech; the managers had kissed her, thanked her and run away as fast as the ghost himself. no one was surprised at this, for it was known that they were to go through the same ceremony on the floor above, in the foyer of the singers, and that finally they were themselves to receive their personal friends, for the last time, in the great lobby outside the managers' office, where a regular supper would be served. here they found the new managers, m. armand moncharmin and m. firmin richard, whom they hardly knew; nevertheless, they were lavish in pro- testations of friendship and received a thousand flat- tering compliments in reply, so that those of the guests who had feared that they had a rather tedious evening in store for them at once put on brighter faces. the supper was almost gay and a particularly clever speech of the representative of the govern- ment, mingling the glories of the past with the suc- cesses of the future, caused the greatest cordiality to prevail. the retiring managers had already handed over ,to their successors the two tiny master-keys which the mysterious reason opened all the doors—thousands of doors—of the opera house. and those little keys, the object of general curiosity, were being passed from hand to hand, when the attention of some of the guests was diverted by their discovery, at the end of the table, of that strange, wan and fantastic face, with the hol- low eyes, which had already appeared in the foyer of the ballet and been greeted by little jammes' ex- clamation: “the opera ghost!” there sat the ghost, as natural as could be, except that he neither ate nor drank. those who began by looking at him with a smile ended by turning away their heads, for the sight of him at once provoked the most funereal thoughts. no one repeated the joke of the foyer, no one exclaimed: “there's the opera ghost!” he himself did not speak a word and his very neighbors could not have stated at what precise mo- ment he had sat down between them; but every one felt that if the dead did ever come and sit at the table of the living, they could not cut a more ghastly figure. the friends of firmin richard and armand moncharmin thought that this lean and skinny guest was an acquaintance of debienne's or poligny's, while debienne's and poligny's friends believed that the cadaverous individual belonged to firmin rich- ard and armand moncharmin's party. the result was that no request was made for an explanation; no unpleasant remark; no joke in bad taste, which might have offended this visitor from the phantom of the opera • the tomb. a few of those present who knew the story of the ghost and the description of him given by the chief scene-shifter—they did not know of jo- seph buquet's death—thought, in their own minds, that the man at the end of the table might easily have passed for him; and yet, according to the story, the ghost had no nose and the person in question had. but m. moncharmin declares, in his memoirs, that the guest's nose was transparent: “long, thin and transparent” are his exact words. i, for my part, will add that this might very well apply to a false nose. m. moncharmin may have taken for trans- parency what was only shininess. everybody knows that orthopaedic science provides beautiful false noses for those who have lost their noses naturally or as the result of an operation. did the ghost really take a seat at the managers' supper-table that night, uninvited? and can we be sure that the figure was that of the opera ghost him- self? who would venture to assert as much? i mention the incident, not because i wish for a second to make the reader believe—or even to try to make him believe—that the ghost was capable of such a sublime piece of impudence; but because, after all, the thing is impossible. m. armand moncharmin, in chapter eleven of his memoirs, says: “when i think of this first evening, i can not sep- arate the secret confided to us by mm. debienne and poligny in their office from the presence at our sup- per of that ghostly person whom none of us knew.” the mysterious reason what happened was this: mm. debienne and po- ligny, sitting at the center of the table, had not seen the man with the death's head. suddenly he began to speak. “the ballet-girls are right,” he said. “the death of that poor buquet is perhaps not so natural as people think.” - debienne and poligny gave a start. “is buquet dead?” they cried. “yes,” replied the man, or the shadow of a man, quietly. “he was found, this evening, hanging in the third cellar, between a farm-house and a scene from the roi de lahore.” the two managers, or rather ex-managers, at once rose and stared strangely at the speaker. they were more excited than they need have been, that is to say, more excited than any one need be by the an- nouncement of the suicide of a chief scene-shifter. they looked at each other. they had both turned whiter than the table-cloth. at last, debienne made a sign to mm. richard and moncharmin; poligny muttered a few words of excuse to the guests; and all four went into the managers' office. i leave m. mon- charmin to complete the story. in his memoirs, he says: “mm. debienne and poligny seemed to grow more and more excited, and they appeared to have something very difficult to tell us. first, they asked us if we knew the man, sitting at the end of the table, who had told them of the death of joseph buquet; the phantom of the opera and, when we answered in the negative, they looked still more concerned. they took the master-keys from our hands, stared at them for a moment and advised us to have new locks made, with the greatest secrecy, for the rooms, closets and presses that we might wish to have hermetically closed. they said this so funnily that we began to laugh and to ask if there were thieves at the opera. they replied that there was something worse, which was the ghost. we began to laugh again, feeling sure that they were indulging in some joke that was intended to crown our little entertainment. then, at their request, we became 'serious, resolving to humor them and to enter into the spirit of the game. they told us that they never would have spoken to us of the ghost, if they had not received formal or- ders from the ghost himself to ask us to be pleasant to him and to grant any request that he might make. however, in their relief at leaving a domain where that tyrannical shade held sway, they had hesitated until the last moment to tell us this curious story, which our skeptical minds were certainly not pre- pared to entertain. but the announcement of the death of joseph buquet had served them as a brutal reminder that, whenever they had disregarded the ghost's wishes, some fantastic or disastrous event had brought them to a sense of their dependence. “during these unexpected utterances made in a tone of the most secret and important confidence, i looked at richard. richard, in his student days, had acquired a great reputation for practical joking, the mysterious reason and he seemed to relish the dish which was being served up to him in his turn. he did not miss a morsel of it, though the seasoning was a little grue- some because of the death of buquet. he nodded his head sadly, while the others spoke, and his feat- ures assumed the air of a man who bitterly regretted having taken over the opera, now that he knew that there was a ghost mixed up in the business. i could think of nothing better than to give him a servile imitation of this attitude of despair. however, in spite of all our efforts, we could not, at the finish, help bursting out laughing in the faces of mm. deb- ienne and poligny, who, seeing us pass straight from the gloomiest state of mind to one of the most inso- lent merriment, acted as though they thought that we had gone mad. “the joke became a little tedious; and richard asked half-seriously and half in jest: “‘but, after all, what does this ghost of yours want?” “m. poligny went to his desk and returned with a copy of the memorandum-book. the memorandum- book begins with the well-known words saying that ‘the management of the opera shall give to the per- formance of the national academy of music the splendor that becomes the first lyric stage in france' and ends with clause , which says that the privi- lege can be withdrawn if the manager infringes the conditions stipulated in the memorandum-book. this is followed by the conditions, which are four in num- ber. the phantom of the opera “the copy produced by m. poligny was written in black ink and exactly similar to that in our possession, except that, at the end, it contained a paragraph in red ink and in a queer, labored handwriting, as though it had been produced by dipping the heads of matches into the ink, the writing of a child that has never got beyond the down-strokes and has not learned to join its letters. this paragraph ran, word for word, as follows: “‘ . or if the manager, in any month, delay for more than a fortnight the payment of the allowance which he shall make to the opera ghost, an allowance of twenty thousand francs a month, say two hundred and forty thousand francs a year.” “m. poligny pointed with a hesitating finger to this last clause, which we certainly did not expect. “‘is this all? does he not want anything else?" asked richard, with the greatest coolness. “‘yes, he does, replied poligny. “and he turned over the pages of the memoran- dum-book until he came to the clause specifying the days on which certain private boxes were to be re- served for the free use of the president of the repub- lic, the ministers and so on. at the end of this clause, a line had been added, also in red ink: “‘box five on the grand tier shall be placed at the disposal of the opera ghost for every performance.” “when we saw this, there was nothing else for us to do but to rise from our chairs, shake our two pre- decessors warmly by the hand and congratulate them on thinking of this charming little joke, which proved chapter iv box five rmand moncharmin wrote such voluminous memoirs during the fairly long period of his co-management that we may well ask if he ever found time to attend to the affairs of the opera otherwise than by telling what went on there. m. moncharmin did not know a note of music, but he called the min- ister of education and fine arts by his christian name, had dabbled a little in society journalism and enjoyed a considerable private income. lastly, he was a charming fellow and 'showed that he was not lacking in intelligence, for, as soon as he made up his mind to be a sleeping partner in the opera, he selected the best possible active manager and went straight to firmin richard. firmin richard was a very distinguished com- poser, who had published a number of successful pieces of all kinds and who liked nearly every form of music and every sort of musician. clearly, there- fore, it was the duty of every sort of musician to like m. firmin richard. the only things to be said against him were that he was rather masterful in his ways and endowed with a very hasty temper. the first few days which the partners spent at the opera were given over to the delight of finding them- selves the head of so magnificent an enterprise; and . box five . they had forgotten all about that curious, fantastic story of the ghost, when an incident occurred that proved to them that the joke—if joke it were—was not over. m. firmin richard reached his office that morning at eleven o’clock. his secretary, m. rémy, showed him half a dozen letters which he had not opened because they were marked “private.” one of the letters had at once attracted richard's attention not only because the envelope was addressed in red ink, but because he seemed to have seen the writing before. he soon rememberd that it was the red handwriting in which the memorandum-book had been so curiously completed. he recognized the clumsy childish hand. he opened the letter and read: dear mr. manager: i am sorry to have to trouble you at a time when you must be so very busy, renewing important en- gagements, signing fresh ones and generally display- ing your excellent taste. i know what you have done for carlotta, sorelli and little jammes and for a few others whose admirable qualities of talent or genius you have suspected. of course, when i use these words, i do not mean to apply them to la carlotta, who sings like a squirt and who ought never to have been allowed to leave the ambassadeurs and the café jacquin; nor to la sorelli, who owes her success mainly to the coach- builders; nor to little jammes, who dances like a calf in a field. and i am not speaking of christine daaé either, though her genius is certain, whereas your jealousy prevents her from creating any important the phantom of the opera part. when all is said, you are free to conduct your little business as you think best, are you not? all the same, i should like to take advantage of the fact that you have not yet turned christine daaé out of doors by hearing her this evening in the part of siebel, as that of margarita has been forbidden her since her triumph of the other evening; and i will ask you not to dispose of my box to-day nor on the fol- lowing days, for i can not end this letter without tell- ing you how disagreeably surprised i have been once or twice, to hear, on arriving at the opera, that my box had been sold, at the box-office, by your orders. i did not protest, first, because i dislike scandal, and, second, because i thought that your predeces- sors, mm. debienne and poligny, who were always charming to me, had neglected, before leaving, to mention my little fads to you. i have now received a reply from those gentlemen to my letter asking for an explanation, and this reply proves that you know all about my memorandum-book and, consequently, that you are treating me with outrageous contempt. if you wish to live in peace, you must not begin by taking away my private box. believe me to be, dear mr. manager, without pre- judice to these little observations, your most humble and obedient servant, opera ghost. the letter was accompanied by a cutting from the agony-column of the revue théâtrale, which ran: o. g.—there is no excuse for r. and m. we . told them and left your memorandum-book in their hands. kind regards. m. firmin richard had hardly finished reading this letter when m. armand moncharmin entered, box five carrying one exactly similar. they looked at each other and burst out laughing. “they are keeping up the joke,” said m. richard, “but i don't call it funny.” “what does it all mean?” asked m. moncharmin. “do they imagine that, because they have been man- agers of the opera, we are going to let them have a box for an indefinite period?” “i am not in the mood to let myself be laughed at long,” said firmin richard. “it's harmless enough,” observed armand mon- charmin. “what is it they really want? a box for to-night?” m. firmin richard told his secretary to send box five on the grand tier to mm. debienne and polig- ny, if it was not sold. it was not. it was sent off to them. debienne lived at the corner of the rue scribe and the boulevard des capucines; poligny, in the rue auber. o. ghost's two letters had been posted at the boulevard des capucines post-office, as mon- charmin remarked after examining the envelopes. “you see!” said richard. they shrugged their shoulders and regretted that two men of that age should amuse themselves with such childish tricks. “they might have been civil, for all that!” said moncharmin. “did you notice how they treat us with regard to carlotta, sorelli and little jammes?” “why, my dear fellow, these two are mad with jealousy! to think that they went to the expense of. the phantom of the opera an advertisement in the revue théâtrale! have they nothing better to do?” “by the way,” said moncharmin, “they seem to be greatly interested in that little christine daaé!” “you know as well as i do that she has the repu- tation of being quite good,” said richard. “reputations are easily obtained,” replied mon- charmin. “haven’t i a reputation for knowing all about music? and i don't know one key from another.” “don’t be afraid: you never had that reputation,” richard declared. thereupon he ordered the artists to be shown in, who, for the last two hours, had been walking up. and down outside the door behind which fame and fortune—or dismissal—awaited them. the whole day was spent in discussing, negotiat- ing, signing or cancelling contracts; and the two over- worked managers went to bed early, without so much as casting a glance at box five to see whether m. debienne and m. poligny were enjoying the per- formance. next morning, the managers received a card of thanks from the ghost: dear mr. manager: thanks. charming evening. daaé exquisite. cho- ruses want waking up. carlotta a splendid com- monplace instrument. will write you soon for the , francs, or , fr. c., to be correct. mm. debienne and poligny have sent me the , fr. c. representing the first ten days of my allow- box five ance for the current year; their privileges finished on the evening of the tenth inst. kind regards. o. g. on the other hand, there was a letter from mm. debienne and poligny: gentlemen: we are much obliged for your kind thought of us, but you will easily understand that the prospect of again hearing faust, pleasant though it is to ex-man- agers of the opera, can not make us forget that we have no right to occupy box five on the grand tier, which is the exclusive property of him of whom we spoke to you when we went through the memo- randum-book with you for the last time. see clause , final paragraph. accept, gentlemen, etc. “oh, those fellows are beginning to annoy me!” shouted firmin richard, snatching up the letter. and that evening box five was sold. the next morning, mm. richard and monchar- min, on reaching their office, found an inspector's re- port relating to an incident that had happened, the night before, in box five. i give the essential part of the report: i was obliged to call in a municipal guard twice, this evening, to clear box five on the grand tier, once at the beginning and once in the middle of the second act. the occupants, who arrived as the curtain rose on the second act, created a regular scandal by their laughter and their ridiculous observations. there the phantom of the opera were cries of “hush !” all around them and the whole house was beginning to protest, when the box-keeper came to fetch me. i entered the box and said what i thought necessary. the people did not seem to me to be in their right mind; and they made stupid re- marks. i said that, if the noise was repeated, i should be compelled to clear the box. the moment i left, i heard the laughing again, with fresh protests from the house. i returned with a municipal guard, who turned them out. they protested, still laughing, saying they would not go unless they had their money back. at last, they became quiet and i allowed them to enter the box again. the laughter at once recom- menced; and, this time, i had them turned out definitely. “send for the inspector,” said richard to his sec- retary, who had already read the report and marked it with blue pencil. m. rémy, the secretary, had foreseen the order and called the inspector at once. “tell us what happened,” said richard bluntly. the inspector began to splutter and referred to the report. “well, but what were those people laughing at?” asked moncharmin. “they must have been dining, sir, and seemed more inclined to lark about than to listen to good music. the moment they entered the box, they came out again and called the box-keeper, who asked them what they wanted. they said, ‘look in the box: there's no one there, is there?’ ‘no,' said the woman. “well,” said they, when we went in, we heard a voice saying that the box was taken!’” box five i m. moncharmin could not help smiling as he looked at m. richard; but m. richard did not smile. he himself had done too much in that way in his time not to recognize, in the inspector's story, all the marks of one of those practical jokes which begin by amusing and end by enraging the victims. the in- spector, to curry favor with m. moncharmin, who was smiling, thought it best to give a smile too. a most unfortunate smile ! m. richard glared at his subordinate, who thenceforth made it his business to display a face of utter consternation. “however, when the people arrived,” roared richard, “there was no one in the box, was there?” “not a soul, sir, not a soul! nor in the box on the right, nor in the box on the left: not a soul, sir, i swear! the box-keeper told it me often enough, which proves that it was all a joke.” “oh, you agree, do you?” said richard. “you agree! it's a joke! and you think it funny, no doubt?” “i think it in very bad taste, sir.” “and what did the box-keeper say?” “oh, she just said that it was the opera ghost. that's all she said!” and the inspector grinned. but he soon found that he had made a mistake in grinning, for the words had no sooner left his mouth than m. richard, from gloomy, became furious. “send for the box-keeper!” he shouted. “send for her ! this minute! this minute! and bring her in to me here! and turn all those people out!” the phantom of the opera the inspector tried to protest, but richard closed his mouth with an angry order to hold his tongue. then, when the wretched man's lips seemed shut for ever, the manager commanded him to open them once imore. “who is this ‘opera ghost?’” he snarled. but the inspector was by this time incapable of speaking a word. he managed to convey, by a de- spairing gesture, that he knew nothing about it, or rather that he did not wish to know. “have you ever seen him, have you seen the opera ghost?” the inspector, by means of a vigorous shake of the head, denied ever having seen the ghost in ques- tion. “very well!” said m. richard coldly. the inspector's eyes started out of his head, as though to ask why the manager had uttered that ominous “very well!” “because i'm going to settle the account of any one who has not seen him l” explained the manager. “as he seems to be everywhere, i can't have people telling me that they see him nowhere. i like people to work for me when i employ them!” having said this, m. richard paid no attention to the inspector and discussed various matters of busi- ness with his acting-manager, who had entered the room meanwhile. the inspector thought he could go and was gently—oh, so gently l—sidling toward the door, when m. richard nailed the man to the floor with a thundering: box five ?? “stay where you are ! m. rémy had sent for the box-keeper to the rue de provence, close to the opera, where she was en- gaged as a porteress. she soon made her appearance. “what's your name?” i “mame giry. you know me well enough, sir; i'm the mother of little giry, little meg, what!” this was said in so rough and solemn a tone that, for a moment, m. richard was impressed. he looked at mame giry, in her faded shawl, her worn shoes, her old taffeta dress and dingy bonnet. it was quite evident from the manager's attitude, that he either did not know or could not remember having met mame giry, nor even little giry, nor even “little meg!” but mame giry's pride was so great that the celebrated box-keeper imagined that everybody knew her. “never heard of her!” the manager declared. “but that's no reason, mame giry, why i shouldn't ask you what happened last night to make you and the inspector call in a municipal guard .” “i was just wanting to see you, sir, and talk to you about it, so that you mightn't have the same unpleasantness as m. debienne and m. poligny. they wouldn’t listen to me either, at first.” “i’m not asking you about all that. i'm asking what happened last night.” mame giry turned purple with indignation. never had she been spoken to like that. she rose as though to go, gathering up the folds of her skirt and waving the feathers of her dingy bonnet with the phantom of the opera dignity, but, changing her mind, she sat down again and said, in a haughty voice: “i’ll tell you what happened. the ghost was an- noyed again!” thereupon, as m. richard was on the point of bursting out, m. moncharmin interfered and con- ducted the interrogatory, whence it appeared that mame giry thought it quite natural that a voice should be heard to say that a box was taken, when there was nobody in the box. she was unable to explain this phenomenon, which was not new to her, except by the intervention of the ghost. nobody could see the ghost in his box, but everybody could hear him. she had often heard him; and they could believe her, for she always spoke the truth. they could ask m. debienne and m. poligny, and anybody who knew her; and also m. isidore saack, who had had a leg broken by the ghost! “indeed!” said moncharmin, interrupting her. “did the ghost break poor isidore saack's leg?” mame giry opened her eyes with astonishment at such ignorance. however, she consented to enlighten those two poor innocents. the thing had happened in m. debienne and m. poligny's time, also in box five and also during a performance of faust. mame giry coughed, cleared her throat—it sounded as though she were preparing to sing the whole of gounod's score—and began: “it was like this, sir. that night, m. maniera and his lady, the jewelers in the rue mogador, were sitting in the front of the box, with their great friend, box five m. isidore saack, sitting behind mme. maniera. mephistopheles was singing”—mame giry here burst into song herself—“‘catarina, while you play at sleeping, and then m. maniera heard a voice in his right ear (his wife was on his left) saying, ‘ha, ha! julie's not playing at sleeping!' his wife hap- pened to be called julie. so. m. maniera turns to the right to see who was talking to him like that. nobody there! he rubs his ear and asks himself if he's dreaming. then mephistopheles went on with his serenade. . . . but, perhaps i’m bor- ing you gentlemen?” “no, no, go on.” “you are too good, gentlemen,” with a smirk. “well, then, mephistopheles went on with his sere- nade”—mame giry, burst into song again—“‘saint, unclose thy portals holy and accord the bliss, to a mortal bending lowly, of a pardon-kiss. and then m. maniera again hears the voice in his right ear, saying, this time, ‘ha, ha! julie wouldn't mind ac- cording a kiss to isidore!' then he turns round again, but, this time, to the left; and what do you think he sees? isidore, who had taken his lady's hand and was covering it with kisses through the little round place in the glove—like this, gen- tlemen”—rapturously kissing the bit of palm left bare in the middle of her thread gloves. “then they had a lively time between them! bang! bang! m. maniera, who was big and strong, like you, m. richard, gave two blows to m. isidore saack, who was small and weak like m. moncharmin, saving his the phantom of the opera presence. there was a great uproar. people in the house shouted, “that will do! stop them he'll kill him!' then, at last, m. isidore saack managed to run away.” “then the ghost had not broken his leg?” asked m. moncharmin, a little vexed that his figure had made so little impression on mame giry. “he did break it for him, sir,” replied mame giry haughtily. “he broke it for him on the grand stair- case, which he ran down too fast, sir, and it will be long before the poor gentleman will be able to go up it again!” “did the ghost tell you what he said in m. maniera's right ear?” asked m. moncharmin, with a gravity which he thought exceedingly humorous. “no, sir, it was m. maniera himself. so—” “but you have spoken to the ghost, my good lady?” “as i'm speaking to you now, my good sir!” mame giry replied. “and, when the ghost speaks to you, what does he say?” “well, he tells me to bring him a footstool!” this time, richard burst out laughing, as did moncharmin and rémy, the secretary. only the in- spector, warned by experience, was careful not to laugh, while mame giry ventured to adopt an atti- tude that was positively threatening. “instead of laughing,” she cried indignantly, “you'd do better to do as m. poligny did, who found out for himself.” box five “found out about what?” asked moncharmin, who had never been so much amused in his life. “about the ghost, of course! . . . look here .” she suddenly calmed herself, feeling that this was a solemn moment in her life: “look here,” she repeated. “they were playing la juive. m. poligny thought he would watch the performance from the ghost's box. . . . well, when léopold cries, ‘let us fly!’—you know—and eléazer stops them and says, “whither go ye?” • well, m. poligny—i was watching him from the back of the next box, which was empty—m. poligny got up and walked out quite stifly, like a statue, and before i had time to ask him, ‘whither go ye?” like eléazer, he was down the staircase, but without breaking his leg. .” “still, that doesn't let us know how the opera ghost came to ask you for a footstool,” insisted m. moncharmin. “well, from that evening, no one tried to take the ghost's private box from him. the manager gave orders that he was to have it at each perfor- mance. and, whenever he came, he asked me for a footstool.” “tut, tut! a ghost asking for a footstool! then this ghost of yours is a woman?” “no, the ghost is a man.” “how do you know?” “he has a man's voice, oh, such a lovely man's voice! this is what happens: when he comes to the phantom of the opera the opera, it's usually in the middle of the first act. he gives three little taps on the door of box five. the first time i heard those three taps, when i knew there was no one in the box, you can think how puz- zled i was ! i opened the door, listened, looked; no- body! and then i heard a voice say, ‘mame jules'— my poor husband's name was jules—'a footstool, please. saving your presence, gentlemen, it made me feel all-overish like. but the voice went on, ‘don’t be frightened, mame jules, i'm the opera ghost!' and the voice was so soft and kind that i hardly felt frightened. the voice was sitting in the corner chair, on the right, in the front row.” “was there any one in the box on the right of box five?” asked moncharmin. “no; box seven, and box three, the one on the left, were both empty. the curtain had only just gone up.” “and what did you do?” “well, i brought the footstool. of course, it wasn't for himself he wanted it, but for his lady! but i never heard her nor saw her.” “eh? what? so now the ghost is married!” . the eyes of the two managers traveled from mame giry to the inspector, who, standing behind the box- keeper, was waving his arms to attract their atten- tion. he tapped his forehead with a distressful forefinger, to convey his opinion that the widow jules giry was most certainly mad, a piece of pantomime which confirmed m. richard in his determination to get rid of an inspector who kept a lunatic in his serv- box five ice. meanwhile, the worthy lady went on about her ghost, now painting his generosity: “at the end of the performance, he always gives me two francs, sometimes five, sometimes even ten, when he has been many days without coming. only, since people have begun to annoy him again, he gives me nothing at all. . . .” “excuse me, my good woman,” said moncharmin, while mame giry tossed the feathers in her dingy hat at this persistent familiarity, “excuse me, how does the ghost manage to give you your two frames?” “why, he leaves them on the little shelf in the box, of course. i find them with the program, which i always give him. some evenings, i find flowers in the box, a rose that must have dropped from his lady's bodice . . . for he brings a lady with him sometimes; one day, they left a fan behind them.” “oh, the ghost left a fan, did he? and what did you do with it?” “well, i brought it back to the box next night.” here the inspector's voice was raised. “you’ve broken the rules; i shall have to fine you, mame giry.” “hold your tongue, you fool!” muttered m. fir- min richard. “you brought back the fan. and then?” “well, then, they took it away with them, sir; it was not there at the end of the performance; and in its place they left me a box of english sweets, which i'm very fond of. that's one of the ghost's pretty thoughts.” o the phantom of the opera “that will do, mame giry. you can go.” when mame giry had bowed herself out, with the dignity that never deserted her, the manager told the inspector that they had decided to dispense with that old madwoman's services; and, when he had gone in his turn, they instructed the acting-manager to make up the inspector's accounts. left alone, the managers told each other of the idea which they both had in mind, which was that they should look into that rittle matter of box five themselves. chapter v the enchanted wiolin hristine daae, owing to intrigues to which i will return later, did not immediately continue her triumph at the opera. after the famous gala night, she sang once at the duchess de zurich's; but this was the last occasion on which she was heard in private. she refused, without plausible excuse, to appear at a charity concert to which she had promised her assistance. she acted throughout as though she were no longer the mistress of her own destiny and as though she feared a fresh triumph. she knew that the comte de chagny, to please his brother, had done his best on her behalf with m. richard; and she wrote to thank him and also to ask him to cease speaking in her favor. her reason for this curious attitude was never known. some pretended that it was due to overweening pride; others spoke of her heavenly modesty. but people on the stage are not so modest as all that; and i think that i shall not be far from the truth if i ascribe her action simply to fear. yes, i believe that chris- tine daaé was frightened by what had happened to her. i have a letter of christine's (it forms part of the persian's collection), relating to this period, which suggests a feeling of absolute dismay: i the phantom of the opera “i don’t know myself when i sing,” writes the poor child. she showed herself nowhere; and the wicomte de chagny tried in vain to meet her. he wrote to her, asking to call upon her, but despaired of receiving a reply when, one morning, she sent him the follow- ing note: monsieur: i have not forgotten the little boy who went into the sea to rescue my scarf. i feel that i must write to you to-day, when i am going to perros, in fulfil- ment of a sacred duty. to-morrow is the anniversary of the death of my poor father, whom you knew and who was very fond of you. he is buried there, with his violin, in the graveyard of the little church, at the bottom of the slope where we used to play as children, beside the road where, when we were a little bigger, we said good-by for the last time. the vicomte de chagny hurriedly consulted a rail- way guide, dressed as quickly as he could, wrote a few lines for his valet to take to his brother and jumped into a cab which brought him to the gare montparnasse just in time to miss the morning train. he spent a dismal day in town and did not recover his spirits until the evening, when he was seated in his compartment in the brittany express. he read christine's note over and over again, smelling its perfume, recalling the sweet pictures of his childhood, and spent the rest of that tedious night journey in feverish dreams that began and ended with chris- tine daaé. day was breaking when he alighted at the enchanted wiolin lannion. he hurried to the diligence for perros- guirec. he was the only passenger. he questioned the driver and learned that, on the evening of the previous day, a young lady who looked like a paris- ian had gone to perros and put up at the inn known as the setting sun. the nearer he drew to her, the more fondly he remembered the story of the little swedish singer. most of the details are still unknown to the public. there was once, in a little market-town not far from upsala, a peasant who lived there with his fam- ily, digging the earth during the week and singing in the choir on sundays. this peasant had a little daughter to whom he taught the musical alphabet before she knew how to read. daaé's father was a great musician, perhaps without knowing it. not a fiddler throughout the length and breadth of scan- dinavia played as he did. his reputation was wide- spread and he was always invited to set the couples dancing at weddings and other festivals. his wife died when christine was entering upon her sixth year. then the father, who cared only for his daugh- ter and his music, sold his patch of ground and went to upsala in search of fame and fortune. he found nothing but poverty. he returned to the country, wandering from fair to fair, strumming his scandinavian melodies, while his child, who never left his side, listened to him in esctasy or sang to his playing. one day, at ljimby fair, professor valérius heard them and took them to gothenburg. he maintained that the father was the phantom of the opera * the first violinist in the world and that the daughter had the making of a great artist. her education and instruction were provided for. she made rapid progress and charmed everybody with her prettiness, her grace of manner and her genuine eagerness to please. when valérius and his wife went to settle in france, they took daaé and christine with them. “mamma” valérius treated christine as her daugh- ter. as for daaé, he began to pine away with home- sickness. he never went out of doors in paris, but lived in a sort of dream which he kept up with his violin. for hours at a time, he remained locked up in his bedroom with his daughter, fiddling and sing- ing, very, very softly. sometimes mamma valérius would come and listen behind the door, wipe away a tear and go down-stairs again on tiptoe, sighing for her scandinavian skies. daaé seemed not to recover his strength until the summer, when the whole family went to stay at perros-guirec, in a far-away corner of brittany, where the sea was of the same color as in his own country. often he would play his saddest tunes on the beach and pretend that the sea stopped its roar- ing to listen to them. and then he induced mamma valérius to indulge a queer whim of his. at the time of the “pardons,” or breton pilgrimages, the village festival and dances, he went off with his fiddle, as in the old days, and was allowed to take his daughter with him for a week. they gave the smallest ham- lets music to last them for a year and slept at night the enchanted wiolin . in a barn, refusing a bed at the inn, lying close to- gether on the straw, as when they were so poor in sweden. at the same time, they were very neatly dressed, made no collection, refused the halfpence offered them; and the people around could not under- stand the conduct of this rustic fiddler, who tramped the roads with that pretty child who sang like an angel from heaven. they followed them from vil- lage to village. one day, a little boy, who was out with his gov- erness, made her take a longer walk than he intended, for he could not tear himself from the little girl whose pure, sweet voice seemed to bind him to her. they came to the shore of an inlet which is still called trestraou, but which now, i believe, harbors a casino or something of the sort. at that time, there was nothing but sky and sea and a stretch of golden beach. only, there was also a high wind, which blew christine's scarf out to sea. christine gave a cry and put out her arms, but the scarf was already far on the waves. then she heard a voice say: “it's all right, i’ll go and fetch your scarf out of the sea.” and she saw a little boy running fast, in spite of the outcries and the indignant protests of a worthy lady in black. the little boy ran into the sea, dressed as he was, and brought her back her scarf. boy and scarf were both soaked through. the lady in black made a great fuss, but christine laughed merrily and kissed the little boy, who was none other the phantom of the opera than the vicomte raoul de chagny, staying at lan- nion with his aunt. during the season, they saw each other and played together almost every day. at the aunt's request, seconded by professor valérius, daaé consented to give the young viscount some violin lessons. in this way, raoul learned to love the same airs that had charmed christine's childhood. they also both had the same calm and dreamy little cast of mind. they delighted in stories, in old breton legends; and their favorite sport was to go and ask for them at the cottage-doors, like beggars: “ma’am . . .” or, “kind gentleman have you a little story to tell us, please?” and it seldom happened that they did not have one “given” them; for nearly every old breton grandame has, at least once in her life, seen the “korrigans” dance by moonlight on the heather. but their great treat was, in the twilight, in the great silence of the evening, after the sun had set in the sea, when daaé came and sat down by them on the roadside and, in a low voice, as though fearing lest he should frighten the ghosts whom he evoked, told them the legends of the land of the north. and, the moment he stopped, the children would ask for imore. there was one story that began: “a king sat in a little boat on one of those deep, still lakes that open like a bright eye in the midst of the norwegian mountains .” and another: the enchanted wiolin “little lotte thought of everything and nothing. her hair was golden as the sun's rays and her soul as clear and blue as her eyes. she wheedled her mother, was kind to her doll, took great care of her frock and her little red shoes and her fiddle, but most of all loved, when she went to sleep, to hear the angel of music.” while the old man told this story, raoul looked at christine's blue eyes and golden hair; and chris- tine thought that lotte was very lucky to hear the angel of music when she went to sleep. the angel of music played a part in all daddy daaé's tales; and he maintained that every great musician, every great artist received a visit from the angel at least once in his life. sometimes the angel leans over their cradle, as happened to lotte, and that is how there are little prodigies who play the fiddle at six better than men at fifty, which, you must admit, is very wonderful. sometimes, the angel comes much later, because the children are naughty and won't learn their lessons or practise their scales. and, sometimes, he does not come at all, because the children have a bad heart or a bad conscience. no one ever sees the angel; but he is heard by those who are meant to hear him. he often comes when they least expect him, when they are sad and disheartened. then their ears suddenly perceive celestial harmonies, a divine voice, which they remem- ber all their lives. persons who are visited by the angel quiver with a thrill unknown to the rest of mankind. and they can not touch an instrument, or the phantom of the opera open their mouths to sing, without producing sounds that put all other human sounds to shame. then people who do not know that the angel has visited those persons say that they have genius. little christine asked her father if he had heard the angel of music. but daddy daaé shook his head sadly; and then his eyes lit up, as he said: “you will hear him one day, my child! when i am in heaven, i will send him to you!” daddy was beginning to cough at that time. three years later, raoul and christine met again at perros. professor valérius was dead, but his widow remained in france with daddy daaé and his daughter, who continued to play the violin and sing, wrapping in their dream of harmony their kind patroness, who seemed henceforth to live on music alone. the young man, as he now was, had come to perros on the chance of finding them and went straight to the house in which they used to stay. he first saw the old man; and then christine entered, carrying the tea-tray. she flushed at the sight of raoul, who went up to her and kissed her. she asked him a few questions, performed her duties as hostess prettily, took up the tray again and left the room. then she ran into the garden and took refuge on a bench, a prey to feelings that stirred her young heart for the first time. raoul followed her and they talked till the evening, very shyly. they were quite changed, cautious as two diplomatists, and told each other things that had nothing to do with their budding sentiments. when they took leave of each the enchanted wiolin other by the roadside, raoul, pressing a kiss on christine's trembling hand, said: “mademoiselle, i shall never forget you and he went away regretting his words, for he knew that christine could not be the wife of the vicomte de chagny. as for christine, she tried not to think of him and devoted herself wholly to her art. she made won- derful progress and those who heard her prophesied that she would be the greatest singer in the world. meanwhile, the father died; and, suddenly, she seemed to have lost, with him, her voice, her soul and her genius. she retained just, but only just, enough of this to enter the conservatoire, where she did not distinguish herself at all, attending the classes without enthusiasm and taking a prize only to please old mamma valérius, with whom she continued to live. the first time that raoul saw christine at the opera, he was charmed by the girl's beauty and by the sweet images of the past which it evoked, but was rather surprised at the negative side of her art. he returned to listen to her. he followed her in the wings. he waited for her behind a jacob's ladder. he tried to attract her attention. more than once, he walked after her to the door of her box, but she did not see him. she seemed, for that matter, to see nobody. she was all indifference. raoul suf- fered, for she was very beautiful and he was shy and dared not confess his love, even to himself. and then came the lightning-flash of the gala performance: !” the phantom of the opera the heavens torn asunder and an angel's voice heard upon earth for the delight of mankind and the utter capture of his heart. and then . . . and then there was that man's voice behind the door—“you must love me!"—and no one in the room. . . . why did she laugh when he reminded her of the incident of the scarf? why did she not recognize him? and why had she written to him? perros was reached at last. raoul walked into the smoky sitting-room of the setting sun and at once saw christine standing before him, smiling and show- ing no astonishment. “so you have come,” she said. “i felt that i should find you here, when i came back from mass. some one told me so, at the church.” “who?” asked raoul, taking her little hand in his. “why, my poor father, who is dead.” there was a silence; and then raoul asked: “did your father tell you that i love you, chris- tine, and that i can not live without you?” christine blushed to the eyes and turned away her head. in a trembling voice, she said: “me? you are dreaming, my friend!” and she burst out laughing, to put herself in coun- tenance. “don’t laugh, christine; i am quite serious,” raoul answered. and she replied gravely: “i did not make you come to tell me such things as that.” “you made me come, christine; you knew that the enchanted wiolin your letter would not leave me indignant and that i should hasten to perros. how can you have thought that, if you did not think i loved you?” “i thought you would remember our games here, as children, in which my father so often joined. i really don’t know what i thought. . . . per- haps i was wrong to write to you. . . . this anniversary and your sudden appearance in my room at the opera, the other evening, reminded me of the time long past and made me write to you as the little girl that i then was. . . .” there was something in christine's attitude that seemed to raoul not natural. he did not feel any hostility in her; far from it: the distressed affection shining in her eyes told him that. but why was this affection distressed? that was what he wished to know and what was irritating him. “when you saw me in your dressing-room, was that the first time you noticed me, christine?” she was incapable of lying. “no,” she said, “i had seen you several times in your brother's box. and also on the stage.” “i thought so!” said raoul, compressing his lips. “but then why, when you saw me in your room, at your feet, reminding you that i had rescued your scarf from the sea, why did you answer as though you did not know me and also why did you laugh?” the tone of these questions was so rough that christine stared at raoul without replying. the young man himself was aghast at the sudden quarrel which he had dared to raise at the very moment when the phantom of the opera he had resolved to speak words of gentleness, love and submission to christine. a husband, a lover with all rights, would talk no differently to a wife, a mis- tress who had offended him. but he had gone too far and saw no other way out of the ridiculous posi- tion than to behave odiously. “you don’t answer!” he said angrily and unhap- pily. “well, i will answer for you. it was because there was some one in the room who was in your way, christine, some one that you did not wish to know that you could be interested in any one else!” “if any one was in my way, my friend,” christine broke in coldly, “if any one was in my way, that even- ing, it was yourself, since i told you to leave the room!” “yes, so that you might remain with the other!” “what are you saying, monsieur?” asked the girl excitedly. “and to what other do you refer?” “to the man to whom you said, ‘i sing only for you! . . . to-night i gave you my soul and i am dead!’” christine seized raoul's arm and clutched it with a strength which no one would have suspected in so frail a creature. “then you were listening behind the door?” “yes, because i love you . . . and i heard everything. .” “you heard what?” and the young girl, becoming strangely calm, re- leased raoul's arm. “he said to you, ‘christine, you must love me!’” the enchanted wiolin at these words, a deathly pallor spread over chris- tine's face, dark rings formed round her eyes, she staggered and seemed on the point of swooning. raoul darted forward, with arms outstretched, but christine had overcome her passing faintness and said, in a low voice: “go on! go on! tell me all you heard l” at an utter loss to understand, raoul answered: “i heard him reply, when you said you had given him your soul, “your soul is a beautiful thing, child, and i thank you. no emperor ever received so fair a gift. the angels wept to-night.’” christine carried her hand to her heart, a prey to indescribable emotion. her eyes stared before her like a madwoman's. raoul was terror-stricken. but suddenly christine's eyes moistened and two great tears trickled, like two pearls, down her ivory cheeks. “christine!” “raoul l’” the young man tried to take her in his arms, but she escaped and fled in great disorder. while christine remained locked in her room, raoul was at his wit’s end what to do. he refused to breakfast. he was terribly concerned and bitterly grieved to see the hours, which he had hoped to find so sweet, slip past without the presence of the young swedish girl. why did she not come to roam with him through the country where they had so many memories in common? he heard that she had had a mass said, that morning, for the repose of her father's soul and spent a long time praying in the the phantom of the opera little church and on the fiddler's tomb. then, as she seemed to have nothing more to do at perros and, in fact, was doing nothing there, why did she not go back to paris at once? raoul walked away, dejectedly, to the graveyard in which the church stood and was indeed alone among the tombs, reading the inscriptions; but, when he turned behind the apse, he was suddenly struck by the dazzling note of the flowers that straggled over the white ground. they were marvelous red roses that had blossomed in the morning, in the snow, giving a glimpse of life among the dead, for death was all around him. it also, like the flowers, issued from the ground, which had flung back a number of its corpses. skeletons and skulls by the hundred were heaped against the wall of the church, held in posi- tion by a wire that left the whole gruesome stack visible. dead men's bones, arranged in rows, like bricks, to form the first course upon which the walls of the sacristy had been built. the door of the sacristy opened in the middle of that bony structure, as is often seen in old breton churches. raoul said a prayer for daaé and then, painfully impressed by all those eternal smiles on the mouths of skulls, he climbed the slope and sat down on the edge of the heath overlooking the sea. the wind fell with the evening. raoul was surrounded by icy darkness, but he did not feel the cold. it was here, he remembered, that he used to come with little chris- tine to see the korrigans dance at the rising of the moon. he had never seen any, though his eyes were the enchanted wiolin good, whereas christine, who was a little short- sighted, pretended that she had seen many. he smiled at the thought and then suddenly gave a start. a voice behind him said: “do you think the korrigans will come this even- ing?” it was christine. he tried to speak. she put her gloved hand on his mouth. “listen, raoul. i have decided to tell you some- thing serious, very serious. . . . do you remem- ber the legend of the angel of music?” “i do indeed,” he said. “i believe it was here that your father first told it to us.” “and it was here that he said, “when i am in heaven, my child, i will send him to you.’ well, raoul, my father is in heaven, and i have been visited by the angel of music.” “i have no doubt of it,” replied the young man gravely, for it seemed to him that his friend, in obedi- ence to a pious thought, was connecting the memory of her father with the brilliancy of her last triumph. christine appeared astonished at the vicomte de chagny's coolness: “how do you understand it?” she asked, bring- ing her pale face so close to his that he might have thought that christine was going to give him a kiss; but she only wanted to read his eyes in spite of the dark. “i understand,” he said, “that no human being can sing as you sang the other evening without the intervention of some miracle. no professor on earth the phantom of the opera can teach you such accents as those. you have heard the angel of music, christine.” “yes,” she said solemnly, “in my dressing-room. that is where he comes to give me my lessons daily.” “in your dressing-room?” he echoed stupidly. “yes, that is where i have heard him; and i have not been the only one to hear him.” “who else heard him, christine?” “you, my friend.” “i? i heard the angel of music?” “yes, the other evening, it was he who was talk- ing when you were listening behind the door. it was he who said, ‘you must love me.” but i then thought that i was the only one to hear his voice. imagine my astonishment when you told me, this morning, that you could hear him too.” raoul burst out laughing. the first rays of the moon came and shrouded the two young people in their light. christine turned on raoul with a hostile air. her eyes, usually so gentle, flashed fire. “what are you laughing at? you think you heard a man’s voice, i suppose?” “well! . . .” replied the young man, whose ideas began to grow confused in the face of chris- tine's determined attitude. “it's you, raoul, who say that? you, an old play- fellow of my own a friend of my father's l but you have changed since those days. what are you thinking of? i am an honest girl, m. le vicomte de chagny, and i don’t lock myself up in my dressing- room with men's voices. if you had opened the door, the enchanted wiolin you would have seen that there was nobody in the room l’’ “that's true! i did open the door, when you were gone, and i found no one in the room.” “so you see! . . . well?” the viscount summoned up all his courage. “well, christine, i think that somebody is making game of you.” - she gave a cry and ran away. he ran after her, but, in a tone of fierce anger, she called out: “leave me! leave me!” and she disappeared. raoul returned to the inn feeling very weary, very low-spirited and very sad. he was told that chris- tine had gone to her bedroom saying that she would not be down to dinner. raoul dined alone, in a very gloomy mood. then he went to his room and tried to read, went to bed and tried to sleep. there was no sound in the next room. the hours passed slowly. it was about half-past eleven when he distinctly heard some one moving, with a light, stealthy step, in the room next to his. then christine had not gone to bed! without trou- bling for a reason, raoul dressed, taking care not to make a sound, and waited. waited for what? how could he tell? but his heart thumped in his chest when he heard christine's door turn slowly on its hinges. where could she be going, at this hour, when every one was fast asleep at perros? softly opening the door, he saw christine's white form, in the moon- light, slipping along the passage. she went down the stairs and he leaned over the baluster above her. the phantom of the opera suddenly he heard two voices in rapid conversation. he caught one sentence: “don’t lose the key.” it was the landlady's voice. the door facing the sea was opened and locked again. then all was still. raoul ran back to his room and threw back the window. christine's white form stood on the de- serted quay. the first floor of the setting sun was at no great height and a tree growing against the wall held out its branches to raoul's impatient arms and enabled him to climb down unknown to the landlady. her amazement, therefore, was all the greater when, the next morning, the young man was brought back to her half frozen, more dead than alive, and when she learned that he had been found stretched at full length on the steps of the high altar of the little church. she ran at once to tell christine, who hurried down and, with the help of the landlady, did her best to revive him. he soon opened his eyes and was not long in recovering when he saw his friend's charm- ing face leaning over him. a few weeks later, when the tragedy at the opera compelled the intervention of the public prosecutor, m. mifroid, the commissary of police, examined the vicomte de chagny touching the events of the night at perros. i quote the questions and answers as given in the official report pp. et seq.: q. “did mlle. daaé not see you come down from your room by the curious road which you selected ?” the enchanted wiolin r. “no, monsieur, no, although, when walking behind her, i took no pains to deaden the sound of my footsteps. in fact, i was anxious that she should turn round and see me. i realized that i had no excuse for following her and that this way of spying on her was unworthy of me. but she seemed not to hear me and acted exactly as though i were not there. she quietly left the quay and then suddenly walked quickly up the road. the church-clock had struck a quarter to twelve and i thought that this must have made her hurry, for she began almost to run and continued hastening until she came to the church.” q. “was the gate open?” r. “yes, monsieur, and this surprised me, but did not seem to surprise mlle. daaé.” q. “was there no one in the churchyard?” r. “i did not see any one; and, if there had been, i must have seen him. the moon was shining on the snow and made the night quite light.” q. “was it possible for any one to hide behind the tombstones?” r. “no, monsieur. they were quite small, poor tombstones, partly hidden under the snow, with their crosses just above the level of the ground. the only shadows were those of the crosses and ourselves. the church stood out quite brightly. i never saw so clear a night. it was very fine and very cold and one could see everything.” q. “are you at all superstitious?” r. “no, monsieur, i am a practising catholic.” q. “in what condition of mind were you?” the enchanted wiolin i q. “did it not occur to you that the musician might be hiding behind that very heap of bones?” r. “it was the one thought that did occur to me, monsieur, so much so that i omitted to follow mlle. daaé, when she stood up and walked slowly to the gate. she was so much absorbed just then that i am not surprised that she did not see me.” q. “then what happened that you were found in the morning lying half-dead on the steps of the high altar?” r. “first a skull rolled to my feet . . . then another . . . then another . . . it was as if i were the mark of that ghastly game of bowls. and i had an idea that false step must have destroyed the balance of the structure behind which our musi- cian was concealed. this surmise seemed to be con- firmed when i saw a shadow suddenly glide along the sacristy wall. i ran up. the shadow had al- ready pushed open the door and entered the church. but i was quicker than the shadow and caught hold of a corner of its cloak. at that moment, we were just in front of the high altar; and the moonbeams fell straight upon us through the stained-glass win- dows of the apse. as i did not let go of the cloak, the shadow turned round; and i saw a terrible death's head, which darted a look at me from a pair of scorching eyes. i felt as if i were face to face with satan; and, in the presence of this unearthly appari- tion, my heart gave way, my courage failed me and i remember nothing more until i re- covered consciousness at the setting sun.” chapter vi a visit to box five e left m. firmin richard and m. armand moncharmin at the moment when they were deciding “to look into that little matter of box five.” leaving behind them the broad staircase which leads from the lobby outside the managers' offices to the stage and its dependencies, they crossed the stage, went out by the subscribers' door and entered the house through the first little passage on the left. then they made their way through the front rows of stalls and looked at box five on the grand tier. they could not see it well, because it was half in darkness and because great covers were flung over the red velvet of the ledges of all the boxes. they were almost alone in the huge, gloomy house; and a great silence surrounded them. it was the time when most of the stage-hands go out for a drink. the staff had left the boards for the moment, leaving a scene half set. a few rays of light, a wan, sinister light, that seemed to have been stolen from an expir- ing luminary, fell through some opening or other upon an old tower that raised its pasteboard battle- ments on the stage; everything, in this deceptive light, adopted a fantastic shape. in the orchestra stalls, the drugget covering them looked like an angry sea, whose glaucous waves had been suddenly rendered a visit to box five stationary by a secret order from the storm phantom, who, as everybody knows, is called adamastor. mm. moncharmin and richard were the shipwreck- ed mariners amid this motionless turmoil of a calico sea. they made for the left boxes, plowing their way like sailors who leave their ship and try to strug- gle to the shore. the eight great polished columns stood up in the dusk like so many huge piles support- ing the threatening, crumbling, big-bellied cliffs whose layers were represented by the circular, parallel, wav- ing lines of the balconies of the grand, first and second tiers of boxes. at the top, right on top of the cliff, lost in m. lenepveu's copper ceiling, figures grinned and grimaced, laughed and jeered at mm. richard and moncharmin's distress. and yet these figures were usually very serious. their names were isis, amphitrite, hebe, pandora, psyche, thetis, pomona, daphne, clytie, galatea and arethusa. yes, areth- usa herself and pandora, whom we all know by her box, looked down upon the two new managers of the opera, who ended by clutching at some piece of wreckage and from there stared silently at box five on the grand tier. i have said that they were distressed. at least, i presume so. m. moncharmin, in any case, admits that he was impressed. to quote his own words, in his memoirs: “this moonshine about the opera ghost in which, since we first took over the duties of mm. poligny and debienne, we had been so nicely steeped”— moncharmin's style is not always irreproachable— the phantom of the opera “had no doubt ended by blinding my imaginative and also my visual faculties. it may be that the excep- tional surroundings in which we found ourselves, in the midst of an incredible silence, impressed us to an unusual extent. it may be that we were the sport of a kind of hallucination brought about by the semi- darkness of the theater and the partial gloom that filled box five. at any rate, i saw and richard also saw a shape in the box. richard said nothing, nor i either. but we spontaneously seized each other's hand. we stood like that for some minutes, without moving, with our eyes fixed on the same point; but the figure had disappeared. then we went out and, in the lobby, communicated our impressions to each other and talked about the shape. the mis- fortune was that my shape was not in the least like richard's. i had seen a thing like a death's head resting on the ledge of the box, whereas richard saw the shape of an old woman who looked like mame giry. we soon discovered that we had really been the victims of an illusion, whereupon, without further delay and laughing like madmen, we ran to box five on : grand tier, went inside and found no shape of any kind.” box five is just like all the other grand tier boxes. there is nothing to distinguish it from any of the others. m. moncharmin and m. richard, ostensi- bly highly amused and laughing at each other, moved the furniture of the box, lifted the cloths and the chairs and particularly examined the arm-chair in which “the man's voice” used to sit. but they saw that it was a respectable arm-chair, with no magic about it. altogether, the box was the most ordinary box in the world, with its red hangings, its chairs, a visit to box five its carpet and its ledge covered in red velvet. after feeling the carpet in the most serious manner possi- ble, and discovering nothing more here or anywhere else, they went down to the corresponding box on the pit tier below. in box five on the pit tier, which is just inside the first exit from the stalls on the left, they found nothing worth mentioning either. “those people are all making fools of us!” firmin richard ended by exclaiming. “it will be faust on saturday: let us both see the performance from box five on the grand tier!” chapter vii faust and what followed n the saturday morning, on reaching their office, the joint managers found a letter from o. g. worded in these terms: my dear managers: so it is to be war between us? if you still care for peace, here is my ultimatum. it consists of the four following conditions: . you must give me back my private box; and i wish it to be at my free disposal from henceforward. . the part of margarita shall be sung this even- ing by christine daaé. never mind about carlotta; she will be ill. . i absolutely insist upon the good and loyal ser- vices of mme. giry, my box-keeper, whom you will reinstate in her functions forthwith. . let me know by a letter handed to mme. giry, who will see that it reaches me, that you ac- cept, as your predecessors did, the conditions in my memorandum-book relating to my monthly allowance. i will inform you later how you are to pay it to me. if you refuse, you will give faust to-night in a house with a curse upon it. take my advice and be warned in time. o. g. “look here, i'm getting sick of him, sick of him !” shouted richard, bringing his fists down on his office- table. faust and what followed just then, mercier, the acting-manager, entered. “lachenel would like to see one of you gentlemen,” he said. “he says that his business is urgent and he seems quite upset.” “who’s lachenel?” asked richard. “he’s your stud-groom.” “what do you mean? my stud-groom?” “yes, sir,” explained mercier, “there are several grooms at the opera and m. lachenel is at the head of them.” “and what does this groom do?” “he has the chief management of the stable.” “what stable?” “why, yours, sir, the stable of the opera.” “is there a stable at the opera? upon my word, i didn’t know. where is it?” “in the cellars, on the rotunda side. it's a very important department; we have twelve horses.” “twelve horses! and what for, in heaven's name?” “why, we want trained horses for the processions in the juive, the profeta and so on; horses used to the boards. it is the grooms' business to teach them. m. lachenel is very clever at it. he used to manage franconi's stables.” “very well . . . but what does he want?” “i don't know; i never saw him in such a state.” “he can come in.” m. lachenel came in, carrying a riding-whip, with which he struck his right boot in an irritable manner. “good morning, m. lachenel,” said richard, the phantom of the opera somewhat impressed. “to what do we owe the honor of your visit?” “mr. manager, i have come to ask you to get rid of the whole stable.” “what, you want to get rid of our horses?” “i’m not talking of the horses, but of the stable- men.” “how many stablemen have you, m. lachenel?” “six.” “six stablemen! that's at least two too many.” “these are places,’” mercier interposed, “created and forced upon us by the under-secretary for fine arts. they are filled by protégées of the government and, if i may venture to .” “i don’t care a hang for the government!” roared richard. “we don't need more than four stablemen for twelve horses.” “eleven,” said the head riding-master, correcting him. “twelve,” repeated richard. “eleven,” repeated lachenel. “oh, the acting-manager told me that you had twelve horses!” “i did have twelve, but i have only eleven since césar was stolen.” and m. lachenel gave himself a great smack on the boot with his whip. “has césar been stolen?” cried the acting-man- ager. “césar, the white horse in the profeta?” “there are not two césars,” said the stud-groom dryly. “i was ten years at franconi's and i have faust and what followed seen plenty of horses in my time. well, there are not two césars. and he's been stolen.” “how ?” “i don’t know. nobody knows. that's why i have come to ask you to sack the whole stable.” “what do your stablemen say?” “all sorts of nonsense. some of them accuse the supers. others pretend that it's the acting-manager's doorkeeper ...” “my doorkeeper? i'll answer for him as i would for myself!” protested mercier. - “but, after all, m. lachenel,” cried richard, “you must have some idea.” “yes, i have,” m. lachenel declared. “i have an idea and i'll tell you what it is. there's no doubt about it in my mind.” he walked up to the two man- agers and whispered. “it's the ghost who did the trick!” richard gave a jump. “what, you too ! you too!” “how do you mean, i too? isn't it natural, after what i saw p” “what did you see?” “i saw, as clearly as i now see you, a black shadow riding a white horse that was as like césar as two peas!” “and did you run after them?” “i did and i shouted, but they were too fast for me and disappeared in the darkness of the under- ground gallery.” m. richard rose. “that will do, m. lachenel. the phantom of the opera you can go. . . . we will lodge a complaint against the ghost.” “and sack my stable?” “oh, of course! good morning.” m. lachenel bowed and withdrew. richard foamed at the mouth. - “settle that idiot's account at once, please.” “he is a friend of the government representa- tive's l” mercier ventured to say. “and he takes his vermouth at tortoni's with lagréné, scholl and pertuiset, the lion-hunter,” added moncharmin. “we shall have the whole press against us! he'll tell the story of the ghost; and everybody will be laughing at our expense! we may as well be dead as ridiculous!” “all right, say no more about it.” at that moment the door opened. it must have been deserted by its usual cerberus, for mame giry entered without ceremony, holding a letter in her hand, and said hurriedly: “i beg your pardon, excuse me, gentlemen, but i had a letter this morning from the opera ghost. he told me to come to you, that you had something to . . .” she did not complete the sentence. she saw firmin richard's face; and it was a terrible sight. he seemed ready to burst. he said nothing, he could not speak. but suddenly he acted. first, his left arm seized upon the quaint person of mame giry and made her describe so unexpected a semicircle that she uttered a despairing cry. next, his right faust and what followed foot imprinted its sole on the black taffeta of a skirt which certainly had never before undergone a similar outrage in a similar place. the thing happened so quickly that mame giry, when in the passage, was still quite bewildered and seemed not to understand. but, suddenly, she understood; and the opera rang with her indignant yells, her violent protests and threats. about the same time, carlotta, who had a small house of her own in the rue du faubourg st.- honoré, rang for her maid, who brought her letters to her bed. among them was an anonymous missive, written in red ink, in a hesitating, clumsy hand, which ran : if you appear to-night, you must be prepared for a great misfortune at the moment when you open your mouth to sing . . . a misfortune worse than death. the letter took away carlotta's appetite for break- fast. she pushed back her chocolate, sat up in bed and thought hard. it was not the first letter of the kind which she had received, but she never had one couched in such threatening terms. she thought herself, at that time, the victim of a thousand jealous attempts and went about saying that she had a secret enemy who had sworn to ruin her. she pretended that a wicked plot was being hatched against her, a cabal which would come to a head one of those days; but she added that she was not the woman to be intimidated. the phantom of the opera the truth is that, if there was a cabal, it was led by carlotta herself against poor christine, who had no suspicion of it. carlotta had never forgiven christine for the triumph which she had achieved when taking her place at a moment's notice. when carlotta heard of the astounding reception bestowed upon her understudy, she was at once cured of an incipient attack of bronchitis and a bad fit of sulking against the management and lost the slightest inclina- tion to shirk her duties. from that time, she worked with all her might to “smother” her rival, enlisting the services of influential friends to persuade the man- agers not to give christine an opportunity for a fresh triumph. certain newspapers which had begun to extol the talent of christine now interested themselves only in the fame of carlotta. lastly, in the theater itself, the celebrated, but heartless and soulless diva made the most scandalous remarks about christine and tried to cause her endless minor unpleasantnesses. when carlotta had finished thinking over the threat contained in the strange letter, she got up. “we shall see,” she said, adding a few oaths in her native spanish with a very determined air. the first thing she saw, when looking out of her window, was a hearse. she was very superstitious; and the hearse and the letter convinced her that she was running the most serious dangers that evening. she collected all her supporters, told them that she was threatened at that evening's performance with a plot organized by christine daaé and declared that they must play a trick upon that chit by filling the faust and what followed house with her, carlotta's, admirers. she had no lack of them, had she? she relied upon them to hold themselves prepared for any eventuality and to silence the adversaries, if, as she feared, they created a dis- turbance. m. richard's private secretary called to ask after the diva's health and returned with the assurance that she was perfectly well and that, “were she dying,” she would sing the part of margarita that evening. the secretary urged her, in his chief's name, to commit no imprudence, to stay at home all day and to be careful of drafts; and carlotta could not help, after he had gone, comparing this unusual and unexpected ad- vice with the threats contained in the letter. it was five o'clock when the post brought a second anonymous letter in the same hand as the first. it was short and said simply: you have a bad cold. if you are wise, you will see that it is madness to try to sing to-night. carlotta sneered, shrugged her handsome shoulders and sang two or three notes to reassure herself. her friends were faithful to their promise. they were all at the opera that night, but looked round in vain for the fierce conspirators whom they were, instructed to suppress. the only unusual thing was the presence of m. richard and m. moncharmin in box five. carlotta's friends thought that, perhaps, the managers had wind, on their side, of the proposed disturbance and that they had determined to be in the house, so as to stop it then and there; but this the phantom of the opera was unjustifiable supposition, as the reader knows. m. richard and m. moncharmin were thinking of nothing but their ghost. “wain! in vain do i call, through my vigil weary, on creation and its lord! never reply will break the silence dreary! no sign l no single word!” the famous baritone, carolus fonta, had hardly finished doctor faust's first appeal to the powers of darkness, when m. firmin richard, who was sitting in the ghost's own chair, the front chair on the right, leaned over to his partner and asked him chaffingly: “well, has the ghost whispered a word in your ear yet?” “wait, don't be in such a hurry,” replied m. ar- mand moncharmin, in the same gay tone. “the per- formance has only begun and you know that the ghost does not usually come until the middle of the first act.” the first act passed without incident, which did not surprise carlotta's friends, because margarita does not sing in this act. as for the managers, they looked at each other, when the curtain fell. “that's one !” said moncharmin. “yes, the ghost is late,” said firmin richard. “it's not a bad house,” said moncharmin, “for ‘a house with a curse on it.’” m. richard smiled and pointed to a fat, rather vulgar woman, dressed in black, sitting in a stall in the middle of the auditorium with a man in a broad- cloth frock-coat on either side of her. faust and what followed “who on earth are ‘those?’” asked moncharmin. ““those, my dear fellow, are my concierge, her husband and her brother.” “did you give them their tickets?” “i did. . . my concierge had never been to the opera—this is the first time—and, as she is now going to come every night, i wanted her to have a good seat, before spending her time showing other people to theirs.” moncharmin asked what he meant and richard answered that he had persuaded his concierge, in whom he had the greatest confidence, to come and take mame giry's place. yes, he would like to see if, with that woman instead of the old lunatic, box five would continue to astonish the natives? “by the way,” said moncharmin, “you know that mother giry is going to lodge a complaint against you.” “with whom? the ghost?” the ghost! moncharmin had almost forgotten him. however, that mysterious person did nothing to bring himself to the memory of the managers; and they were just saying so to each other for the second time, when the door of the box suddenly opened to admit the startled stage-manager. “what's the matter?” they both asked, amazed at seeing him there at such a time. “it seems there's a plot got up by christine daaé's friends against carlotta. carlotta's furious.” “what on earth . . .?” said richard, knitting his brows. the phantom of the opera but the curtain rose on the kermess scene and richard made a sign to the stage-manager to go away. when the two were alone again, moncharmin lcaned over to richard: “then daaé has friends?” he asked. “yes, she has.” “whom ?” richard glanced across at a box on the grand tier containing no one but two men. “the comte de chagny?” “yes, he spoke to me in her favor with such warmth that, if i had not known him to be sorelli’s friend . . .” “really? really?” said moncharmin. “and who is that pale young man beside him?” “that's his brother, the viscount.” “he ought to be in his bed. he looks ill.” the stage rang with gay song: “red or white liquor, coarse or fine! what can it matter, so we have wine?” students, citizens, soldiers, girls and matrons whirled light-heartedly before the inn with the figure of bacchus for a sign. siebel made her entrance. christine daaé looked charming in her boy's clothes; and carlotta's partisans expected to hear her greeted with an ovation which would have enlightened them as to the intentions of her friends. but nothing happened. the phantom of the opera then . . . and then . . . they seemed to feel a curious sort of draft around them. . . . they sat down in silence. the scene represented margarita's garden: “gentle flow'rs in the dew, be message from me . . . ?? as she sang these first two lines, with her bunch of roses and lilacs in her hand, christine, raising her head, saw the vicomte de chagny in his box; and, from that moment, her voice seemed less sure, less crystal-clear than usual. something seemed to deaden and dull her singing. . . . “what a queer girl she is !” said one of carlotta's friends in the stalls, almost aloud. “the other day she was divine; and to-night she's simply bleating. she has no experience, no training.” “gentle flow’rs, lie ye there and tell her from me . . . the viscount put his head under his hands and wept. the count, behind him, viciously gnawed his mustache, shrugged his shoulders and frowned. for him, usually so cold and correct, to betray his inner feelings like that, by outward signs, the count must be very angry. he was. he had seen his brother return from a rapid and mysterious journey in an alarming state of health. the explanation that fol- lowed was unsatisfactory and the count asked chris- tine daaé for an appointment. she had the audacity faust and what followed to reply that she could not see either him or his brother. “would she but deign to hear me and with one smile to cheer me . . . “the little baggage!” growled the count. and he wondered what she wanted. what she was hoping for. . . . she was a virtuous girl, she was said to have no friend, no protector of any sort. . . . that angel from the north must be very artful! raoul, behind the curtain of his hands that veiled his boyish tears, thought only of the letter which he received on his return to paris, where christine, flee- ing from perros like a thief in the night, had arrived before him: my dear little playfellow: you must have the courage not to see me again, not to speak of me again. if you love me just a little, do this for me, for me who will never forget you, my dear raoul. my life depends upon it. your life depends upon it. your little christine. thunders of applause. carlotta made her en- trance. “i wish i could but know who was he that addressed me, • if he was noble, or, at least, what his name s . ioo the phantom of the opera when margarita had finished singing the ballad of the king of thule, she was loudly cheered and again when she came to the end of the jewel song: “ah, the joy of past compare these jewels bright to wear ! . .” thenceforth, certain of herself, certain of her friends in the house, certain of her voice and her suc- cess, fearing nothing, carlotta flung herself into her part without restraint of modesty. . . . she was no longer margarita, she was carmen. she was applauded all the more; and her début with faust seemed about to bring her a new success, when sud- denly . . . a terrible thing happened. faust had knelt on one knee: “let me gaze on the form below me, while from yonder ether blue look how the star of eve, bright and tender, lingers o'er me, - to love thy beauty too!” and margarita replied: “oh, how strange! like a spell does the evening bind me! and a deep languid charm i feel without alarm with its melody enwind me and all my heart subdue.” at that moment, at that identical moment, the ter- faust and what followed ioi rible thing happened. . . . carlotta croaked like a toad: “co-ack!” there was consternation on carlotta's face and consternation on the faces of all the audience. the two managers in their box could not suppress an ex- clamation of horror. every one felt that the thing was not natural, that there was witchcraft behind it. that toad smelt of brimstone. poor, wretched, de- spairing, crushed carlotta ! the uproar in the house was indescribable. if the thing had happened to any one but carlotta, she would have been hooted. but everybody knew how perfect an instrument her voice was; and there was no display of anger, but only of horror and dismay, the sort of dismay which men would have felt if they had witnessed the catastrophe that broke the arms of the venus de milo. . . . and even then they would have seen . . . and understood • but here that toad was incomprehensible! so much so that, after some seconds spent in asking her- self if she had really heard that note, that sound, that infernal noise issue from her throat, she tried to per- suade herself that it was not so, that she was the vic- tim of an illusion, an illusion of the ear, and not of an act of treachery on the part of her voice. . . . meanwhile, in box five, moncharmin and richard had turned very pale. this extraordinary and inex- plicable incident filled them with a dread which was the more mysterious inasmuch as for some little while, they had fallen within the direct influence of the ghost. the phantom of the opera they had felt his breath. moncharmin's hair stood on end. richard wiped the perspiration from his forehead. yes, the ghost was there, around them, behind them, beside them; they felt his presence without seeing him, they heard his breath, close, close, close to them! . . . they were sure that there were three people in the box. . . . they trem- bled. . . . they thought of running away. they dared not. . . . they dared not make a movement or exchange a word that would have told the ghost that they knew that he was there! . . what was going to happen? this happened. “co-ack!” their joint exclamation of horror was heard all over the house. they felt that they were smarting under the ghost's attacks. leaning over the ledge of their box, they stared at carlotta as though they did not recognize her. that infernal girl must have given the signal for some catastrophe. ah, they were waiting for the catastrophel the ghost had told them it would come ! the house had a curse upon it! the two managers gasped and panted under the weight of the catastrophe. richard's stifled voice was heard calling to carlotta: “well, go on!” no, carlotta did not go on. . . . bravely, heroically, she started afresh on the fatal line at the end of which the toad had appeared. an awful silence succeeded the uproar. carlotta's voice alone once more filled the resounding house: the phantom of the opera functions! she died on the spot and, the next morn- ing, a newspaper appeared with this heading: two hundred kilos on the head of a concierge that was her sole epitaph ! chapter viii the mysterious brougham hat tragic evening was bad for everybody. carlotta fell ill. as for christine daaé, she disappeared after the performance. a fortnight elapsed during which she was seen neither at the opera nor outside. raoul, of course, was the first to be astonished at the prima donna's absence. he wrote to her at mme. valérius' flat and received no reply. his grief in- creased and he ended by being seriously alarmed at never seeing her name on the program. faust was played without her. one afternoon he went to the managers' office to ask the reason of christine's disappearance. he found them both looking extremely worried. their own friends did not recognize them: they had lost all their gaiety and spirits. they were seen crossing the stage with hanging heads, care-worn brows, pale cheeks, as though pursued by some abominable thought or a prey to some persistent sport of fate. the fall of the chandelier had involved them in no little responsibility; but it was difficult to make them speak about it. the inquest had ended in a verdict of accidental death, caused by the wear and tear of the chains by which the chandelier was hung from the ceiling; but it was the duty of both the old and io . 'io the phantom of the opera the new managers to have discovered this wear and tear and to have remedied it in time. and i feel bound to say that mm. richard and moncharmin at this time appeared so changed, so absent-minded, so mysterious, so incomprehensible that many of the sub- scribers thought that some event even more horrible than the fall of the chandelier must have affected their state of mind. in their daily intercourse, they showed themselves very impatient, except with mme. giry, who had been reinstated in her functions. and their reception of the vicomte de chagny, when he came to ask about christine, was anything but cordial. they merely told him that she was taking a holiday. he asked how long the holiday was for, and they replied curtly that it was for an unlimited period, as mlle. daaé had requested leave of absence for reasons of health. “then she is ill!” he cried. “what is the matter with her?” “we don't know.” “didn't you send the doctor of the opera to see her ?” “no, she did not ask for him; and, as we trust her, we took her word.” raoul left the building a prey to the gloomiest thoughts. he resolved, come what might, to go and inquire of mamma valérius. he remembered the strong phrases in christine's letter, forbidding him to make any attempt to see her. but what he had seen at perros, what he had heard behind the dress- ing-room door, his conversation with christine at the the mysterious brougham edge of the moor made him suspect some machina- tion which, devilish though it might be, was none the less human. the girl's highly strung imagina- tion, her affectionate and credulous mind, the primi- tive education which had surrounded her childhood with a circle of legends, the constant brooding over her dead father and, above all, the state of sublime ecstasy into which music threw her from the moment that this art was made manifest to her in certain exceptional conditions, as in the churchyard at perros; all this seemed to him to constitute a moral ground only too favorable for the malevolent designs of some mysterious and unscrupulous person. of whom was christine daaé the victim? this was the very reasonable question which raoul put to himself as he hurried off to mamma valérius. he trembled as he rang at a little flat in the rue notre-dame-des-victoires. the door was opened by the maid whom he had seen coming out of christine's dressing-room one evening. he asked if he could speak to mme. valérius. he was told that she was ill in bed and was not receiving visitors. “take in my card, please,” he said. the maid soon returned and showed him into a small and scantily furnished drawing-room, in which portraits of professor valérius and old daaé hung on opposite walls. “madame begs monsieur le vicomte to excuse her,” said the servant. “she can only see him in her bed- room, because she can no longer stand on her poor legs.” io the phantom of the opera five minutes later, raoul was ushered into an ill- lit room where he at once recognized the good, kind face of christine's benefactress in the semi-darkness of an alcove. mamma valérius’ hair was now quite white, but her eyes had grown no older; never, on the contrary, had their expression been so bright, so pure, so child-like. “m. de chagny l” she cried gaily, putting out both her hands to her visitor. “ah, it's heaven that sends you here! . . . we can talk of her.” this last sentence sounded very gloomily in the young man's ears. he at once asked: “madame . . . where is christine?” and the old lady replied calmly: “she is with her good genius!” “what good genius?” exclaimed poor raoul. “why, the angel of music!” the viscount dropped into a chair. really? christine was with the angel of music? and there lay mamma valérius in bed, smiling to him and put- ting her finger to her lips, to warn him to be silent! and she added: “you must not tell anybody!” “you can rely on me,” said raoul. he hardly knew what he was saying, for his ideas about christine, already greatly confused, were be- coming more and more entangled; and it seemed as if everything was beginning to turn around him, around the room, around that extraordinary good lady with the white hair and forget-me-not eyes. “i know! i know i can!” she said, with a happy the mysterious brougham laugh. “but why don't you come near me, as you used to do when you were a little boy? give me your hands, as when you brought me the story of little lotte, which daddy daaé had told you. i am very fond of you, m. raoul, you know. and so is chris- tine too!” “she is fond of me!” sighed the young man. he found a difficulty in collecting his thoughts and bring- ing them to bear on mamma valérius’ “good genius,” on the angel of music of whom christine had spoken to him so strangely, on the death's head which he had seen in a sort of nightmare on the high altar at perros and also on the opera ghost, whose fame had come to his ears one evening when he was standing behind the scenes, within hearing of a group of scene- shifters who were repeating the ghastly description which the hanged man, joseph buquet, had given of the ghost before his mysterious death. he asked in a low voice: “what makes you think that christine is fond of me, madame?” “she used to speak of you every day.” “really? . . . and what did she tell you?” “she told me that you had made her a proposal !” and the good old lady began laughing whole- heartedly. raoul sprang from his chair, flushing to the temples, suffering agonies. “what's this? where are you going? sit down again at once, will you? . . . do you think i will let you go like that? . . . if you're angry with me for laughing, i beg your pardon after all, what has happened isn't your fault. i io the phantom of the opera didn't you know? . . . did you think that christine was free? .” “is christine engaged to be married?” the wretched raoul asked, in a choking voice. “why no! why no! . . . you know as well as i do that christine couldn't marry, even if she wanted to ! .” “but i don't know anything about it! and why can't christine marry?” “because of the angel of music, of course ! “i don’t follow . . .” “yes, he forbids her to ! . . .” “he forbids her! . . . the angel of music forbids her to marry! . .” “oh, he forbids her . . . without forbidding her. it's like this: he tells her that, if she got mar- ried, she would never hear him again. that's all! • and that he would go away for ever! so, you understand, she can't let the angel of music go. it's quite natural.” “yes, yes,” echoed raoul submissively, “it’s quite natural.” “besides, i thought christine had told you all that, when she met you at perros, where she went with her good genius.” “oh, she went to perros with her good genius, did she?” “that is to say, he arranged to meet her down there, in perros churchyard, at daaé's grave. he promised to play her the resurrection of lazarus on her father's violin l’” • the mysterious brougham iii raoul de chagny rose and, with a very authorita- tive air, pronounced these peremptory words: “madame, you will have the goodness to tell me where that genius lives.” the old lady did not seem surprised at this indis- creet command. she raised her eyes and said: “in heaven!” such simplicity baffled him. he did not know what to say in the presence of this candid and perfect faith in a genius who came down nightly from heaven to haunt the dressing-rooms at the opera. he now realized the possible state of mind of a girl brought up between a superstitious fiddler and a visionary old lady and he shuddered when he thought of the consequences of it all. “is christine still a good girl?” he asked suddenly, in spite of himself. “i swear it, as i hope to be saved !” exclaimed the old woman, who, this time, seemed to be incensed. “and, if you doubt it, sir, i don't know what you are here for !” raoul tore at his gloves. “how long has she known this genius?’” “about three months. . . . yes, it's quite three months since he began to give her lessons.” the viscount threw up his arms with a gesture of despair. “the genius gives her lessons ! where, pray?” “now that she has gone away with him, i can't say; but, up to a fortnight ago, it was in christine's . . and ii the phantom of the opera dressing-room. it would be impossible in this little flat. the whole house would hear them. whereas, at the opera, at eight o'clock in the morning, there is no one about, do you see!” “yes, i see i see l’’ cried the viscount. and he hurriedly took leave of mme. valérius, who asked herself if the young nobleman was not a little off his head. he walked home to his brother's house in a pitiful state. he could have struck himself, banged his head against the walls! to think that he had be- lieved in her innocence, in her purity! the angel of music! he knew him now ! he saw him! it was beyond a doubt some unspeakable tenor, a good-look- ing jackanapes, who mouthed and simpered as he sang! he thought himself as absurd and as wretched as could be. oh, what a miserable, little, insignificant, silly young man was m. le vicomte de chagny! thought raoul furiously. and she, what a bold and damnable sly creature! his brother was waiting for him and raoul fell into his arms, like a child. the count consoled him, without asking for explanations; and raoul would certainly have long hesitated before telling him the story of the angel of music. his brother sug- gested taking him out to dinner. overcome as he was with despair, raoul would probably have refused any invitation that evening, if the count had not, as an inducement, told him that the lady of his thoughts had been seen, the night before, in company of the other sex in the bois. at first, the viscount refused the mysterious brougham to believe; but he received such exact details that he ceased protesting. she had been seen, it appeared, driving in a brougham, with the window down. she seemed to be slowly taking in the icy night air. there was a glorious moon shining. she was recognized beyond a doubt. as for her companion, only his shadowy outline was distinguished leaning back in the dark. the carriage was going at a walking pace in a lonely drive behind the grand stand at long- champ. raoul dressed in frantic haste, prepared to forget his distress by flinging himself, as people say, into “the vortex of pleasure.” alas, he was a very sorry guest and, leaving his brother early, found himself, by ten o'clock in the evening, in a cab, behind the long- champ race-course. it was bitterly cold. the road seemed deserted and very bright under the moonlight. he told the driver to wait for him patiently at the corner of a near turning and, hiding himself as well as he could, stood stamping his feet to keep warm. he had been indulging in this healthy exercise for half an hour or so, when a carriage turned the corner of the road and came quietly in his direction, at a walking pace. as it approached, he saw that a woman was leaning her head from the window. and, suddenly, the moon shed a pale gleam over her features. “christine!” the sacred name of his love had sprung from his heart and his lips. he could not keep it back. he would have given anything to withdraw it, for the phantom of the opera that name, proclaimed in the stillness of the night, had acted as though it were the preconcerted signal for a furious rush on the part of the whole turn-out, which dashed past him before he could put into execution his plan of leaping at the horses' heads. the carriage window had been closed and the girl's face had disappeared. and the brougham, behind which he was now running, was no more than a black spot on the white road. he called out again: “christine!” no reply. and he stopped in the midst of the silence. with a lack-luster eye, he stared down that cold, desolate road and into the pale, dead night. nothing was colder than his heart, nothing half so dead: he had loved an angel and now he despised a woman! raoul, how that little fairy of the north has trifled with you! was it really, was it really necessary to have so fresh and young a face, a forehead so shy and always ready to cover itself with the pink blush of modesty in order to pass in the lonely night, in a car- riage and pair, accompanied by a mysterious lover? surely there should be some limit to hypocrisy and lying! © she had passed without answering his cry. . . . and he was thinking of dying; and he was twenty years old ! . . . * his valet found him in the morning sitting on his bed. he had not undressed and the servant feared, at the sight of his face, that some disaster had occurred. raoul snatched his letters from the the mysterious brougham man's hands. he had recognized christine's paper and hand-writing. she said: dear: go to the masked ball at the opera on the night after to-morrow. at twelve o’clock, be in the little room behind the chimney-place of the big crush-room. stand near the door that leads to the rotunda. don’t mention this appointment to any one on earth. wear a white domino and be carefully masked. as you love me, do not let yourself be recognized. christine. chapter ix at the masked ball he envelope was covered with mud and un- stamped. it bore the words “to be handed to m. le wicomte raoul de chagny,” with the address in pencil. it must have been flung out in the hope that a passer-by would pick up the note and deliver it, which was what happened. the note had been picked up on the pavement of the place de l’opera. raoul read it over again with fevered eyes. no more was needed to revive his hope. the somber picture which he had for a moment imagined of a christine forgetting her duty to herself made way for his original conception of an unfortunate, innocent child, the victim of imprudence and exaggerated sen- sibility. to what extent, at this time, was she really a victim? whose prisoner was she? into what whirlpool had she been dragged? he asked himself these questions with a cruel anguish; but even this pain seemed endurable beside the frenzy into which he was thrown at the thought of a lying and deceitful christine. what had happened? what influence had she undergone? what monster had carried her off and by what means? . • by what means indeed but that of music? he knew christine's story. after her father's death, she acquired a distaste of everything in life, including her ii at the masked ball art. she went through the conservatoire like a poor soulless singing-machine. and, suddenly, she awoke as though through the intervention of a god. the angel of music appeared upon the scene! she sang margarita in faust and triumphed ! • the angel of music! . . . for three months the angel of music had been giving christine les- sons. . . . ah, he was a punctual singing-mas- ter! . . . and now he was taking her for drives in the bois! . . raoul's fingers clutched at his flesh, above his jealous heart. in his inexperience, he now asked him- self with terror what game the girl was playing? up to what point could an opera-singer make a fool of a good-natured young man, quite new to love? o misery! © thus did raoul's thoughts fly from one extreme to the other. he no longer knew whether to pity christine or to curse her; and he pitied and cursed her turn and turn about. at all events, he bought a white domino. the hour of the appointment came at last. with his face in a mask trimmed with long, thick lace, looking like a pierrot in his white wrap, the viscount thought himself very ridiculous. men of the world do not go to the opera ball in fancy-dress! it was absurd. one thought, however, consoled the vis- count: he would certainly never be recognized ! this ball was an exceptional affair, given some time before shrovetide, in honor of the anniversary of the birth of a famous draftsman; and it was ex- ii the phantom of the opera pected to be much gayer, noisier, more bohemian than the ordinary masked ball. numbers of artists had arranged to go, accompanied by a whole cohort of models and pupils, who, by midnight, began to create a tremendous din. raoul climbed the grand stair- case at five minutes to twelve, did not linger to look at the motley dresses displayed all the way up the marble steps, one of the richest settings in the world, allowed no facetious mask to draw him into a war of wits, replied to no jests and shook off the bold familiarity of a number of couples who had already become a trifle too gay. crossing the big crush-room and escaping from a mad whirl of dancers in which he was caught for a moment, he at last entered the room mentioned in christine's letter. he found it crammed; for this small space was the point where all those who were going to supper in the rotunda crossed those who were returning from taking a glass of champagne. the fun, here, waxed fast and furious. raoul leaned against a door-post and waited. he did not wait long. a black domino passed and gave a quick squeeze to the tips of his fingers. he under- stood that it was she and followed her: “is that you, christine?” he asked, between his teeth. the black domino turned round promptly and raised her finger to her lips, no doubt to warn him not to mention her name again. raoul continued to follow her in silence. he was afraid of losing her, after meeting her at the masked ball ii again in such strange circumstances. his grudge against her was gone. he no longer doubted that she had “nothing to reproach herself with,” however peculiar and inexplicable her conduct might seem. he was ready to make any display of clemency, forgive- ness or cowardice. he was in love. and, no doubt, he would soon receive a very natural explanation of her curious absence. the black domino turned back from time to time to see if the white domino was still following. as raoul once more passed through the great crush- room, this time in the wake of his guide, he could not help noticing a group crowding round a person whose disguise, eccentric air and gruesome appearance were causing a sensation. it was a man dressed all in scar- let, with a huge hat and feathers on the top of a won- derful death's head. from his shoulders hung an immense red-velvet cloak, which trailed along the floor like a king's train; and on this cloak was em- broidered, in gold letters, which every one read and repeated aloud, “don’t touch me! i am red death stalking abroad!” then one, greatly daring, did try to touch him d but a skeleton hand shot out of a crimson sleeve and violently seized the rash one's wrist; and he, feeling the clutch of the knucklebones, the furious grasp of death, uttered a cry of pain and terror. when red death released him at last, he ran away like a very madman, pursued by the jeers of the bystanders. - it was at this moment that raoul passed in front i o the phantom of the opera of the funereal masquerader, who had just happened to turn in his direction. and he nearly exclaimed: “the death's head of perros-guirecl” he had recognized him ! . . . he wanted to dart forward, forgetting christine; but the black domino, who also seemed a prey to some strange excitement, caught him by the arm and dragged him from the crush-room, far from the mad crowd through which red death was stalking. . . . the black domino kept on turning back and, ap- parently, on two occasions saw something that startled her, for she hurried her pace and raoul's as though they were being pursued. they went up two floors. here, the stairs and corridors were almost deserted. the black domino opened the door of a private box and beckoned to the white domino to follow her. then christine, whom he recognized by the sound of her voice, closed the door behind them and warned him, in a whisper, to remain at the back of the box and on no account to show himself. raoul took off his mask. christine kept hers on. and, when raoul was about to ask her to remove it, he was surprised to see her put her ear to the partition and listen eagerly for a sound outside. then she opened the door ajar, looked out into the corridor and, in a low voice, said: “he must have gone up higher.” suddenly she exclaimed: “he is coming down again!” she tried to close the door, but raoul prevented her; for he had seen, on the top step of the stair- case that led to the floor above, a red foot, followed at the masked ball i i by another . . . and slowly, majestically, the whole scarlet dress of red death met his eyes. and he once more saw the death's head of perros-guirec. “it's hel” he exclaimed. “this time, he shall not escape me! . . .” but christian had slammed the door at the moment when raoul was on the point of rushing out. he tried to push her aside. “whom do you mean by he’?” she asked, in a changed voice. “who shall not escape you?” raoul tried to overcome the girl's resistance by force, but she repelled him with a strength which he would not have suspected in her. he understood, or thought he understood, and at once lost his tem- per. “who?” he repeated angrily. “why, he, the man who hides behind that hideous mask of death! . . . the evil genius of the churchyard at perros! . . . red death ! . . . in a word, madam, your friend . . . your angel of music! . . . but i shall snatch off his mask, as i shall snatch off my own; and, this time, we shall look each other in the face, he and i, with no veil and no lies between us; and i shall know whom you love and who loves you!” he burst into a mad laugh, while christine gave a disconsolate moan behind her velvet mask. with a tragic gesture, she flung out her two arms, which fixed a barrier of white flesh against the door. “in the name of our love, raoul, you shall not pass! . . .” i the phantom of the opera he stopped. what had she said? . . . in the name of their love? . . . never before had she confessed that she loved him. and yet she had had opportunities enough. . . . pooh, her only object was to gain a few seconds! . . . she wished to give the red death time to escape. . . and, in accents of childish hatred, he said: “you lie, madam, for you do not love me and you have never loved me! what a poor fellow i must be to let you mock and flout me as you have done! why did you give me every reason for hope, at perros . . . for honest hope, madam, for i am an honest man and i believed you to be an honest woman, when your only intention was to deceive me! alas, you have deceived us all! you have taken a shameful advantage of the candid affection of your benefactress herself, who continues to believe in your sincerity while you go about the opera ball with red death! . . . i despise you! . . .” and he burst into tears. she allowed him to insult her. she thought of but one thing, to keep him from leaving the box. “you will beg my pardon, one day, for all those ugly words, raoul, and when you do i shall forgive you!” he shook his head. “no, no, you have driven me mad! when i think that i had only one object in life: to give my name to an opera wench !” “raoul! . . . how can you?” “i shall die of shame!” at the masked ball i “no, dear, live!” said christine's grave and changed voice. “and . . . good-by. good- by, raoul . . .” the boy stepped forward, staggering as he went. he risked one more sarcasm: “oh, you must let me come and applaud you from time to time!” “i shall never sing again, raoul ! “really?” he replied, still more satirically. “so he is taking you off the stage: i congratulate you! but we shall meet in the bois, one of these evenings!” “not in the bois nor anywhere, raoul: you shall not see me again .” “may one ask at least to what darkness you are returning? . . . for what hell are you leaving, mysterious lady . . . or for what paradise?” “i came to tell you, dear, but i can't tell you now • you would not believe me! you have lost faith in me, raoul; it is finished !” she spoke in such a despairing voice that the lad began to feel remorse for his cruelty. “but look here!” he cried. “can't you tell me what all this means ! . . . you are free, there is no one to interfere with you. . . . you go about paris. . . . you put on a domino to come to the ball. . . . why do you not go home? • what have you been doing this past fort- night? . . . what is this tale about the angel of music, which you have been telling mamma valérius? some one may have taken you in, played % e the phantom of the opera upon your innocence. i was a witness of it myself, at perros . . but you know what to believe now ! you seem to me quite sensible, christine. you know what you are doing. . . . and meanwhile mam- ma valérius lies waiting for you at home and appeal- ing to your good genius! . . . explain your- self, christine, i beg of you! any one might have been deceived as i was. what is this farce?” christine simply took off her mask and said: “dear, it is a tragedy l” raoul now saw her face and could not restrain an exclamation of surprise and terror. the fresh complexion of former days was gone. a mortal pallor covered those features, which he had known so charming and so gentle, and sorrow had furrowed them with pitiless lines and traced dark and unspeak- ably sad shadows under her eyes. “my dearest! my dearest!” he moaned, holding out his arms. “you promised to forgive me . . .” “perhaps! . . . some day, perhaps!” she said, resuming her mask; and she went away, forbid- ding him, with a gesture, to follow her. he tried to disobey her; but she turned round and repeated her gesture of farewell with such authority that he dared not move a step. he watched her till she was out of sight. then he also went down among the crowd, hardly know- ing what he was doing, with throbbing temples and an aching heart; and, as he crossed the dancing- floor, he asked if anybody had seen red death. yes, every one had seen red death; but raoul could not at the masked ball i find him; and, at two o'clock in the morning, he turned down the passage, behind the scenes, that led to christine daaé's dressing-room. his footsteps took him to that room where he had first known suffering. he tapped at the door. there was no answer. he entered, as he had entered when he looked everywhere for “the man's voice.” the room was empty. a gas-jet was burning, turned down low. he saw some writing-paper on a little desk. he thought of writing to christine, but he heard steps in the passage. he had only time to hide in the inner room, which was separated from the dressing-room by a curtain. christine entered, took off her mask with a weary movement and flung it on the table. she sighed and let her pretty head fall into her two hands. what was she thinking of? of raoul? no, for raoul heard her murmur: “poor erik i’’ at first, he thought he must be mistaken. to be- gin with, he was persuaded that, if any one was to be pitied, it was he, raoul. it would have been quite natural if she had said, “poor raoul,” after what had happened between them. but, shaking her head, she repeated: “poor erik!” what had this erik to do with christine's sighs and why was she pitying erik when raoul was so unhappy? christine began to write, deliberately, calmly and so placidly that raoul, who was still trembling from the effects of the tragedy that separated them, was painfully impressed. the phan (om of the opera “what coolness!” he said to himself. she wrote on, filling two, three, four sheets. sud- denly, she raised her head and hid the sheets in her bodice. . . . she seemed to be listening. . . raoul also listened. . . whence came that strange sound, that distant rhythm? . . . a faint singing seemed to issue from the walls yes, it was as though the walls themselves were sing- ing! . . . the song became plainer . . the words were now distinguishable . . . he heard a voice, a very beautiful, very soft, very capti- vating voice . . . but, for all its softness, it remained a male voice. . . the voice came nearer and nearer . . . it came through the wall it approached . . . and now the voice was in the room, in front of christine. christine rose and addressed the voice, as though speaking to some one: “here i am, erik,” she said. “i am ready. but you are late.” raoul, peeping from behind the curtain, could not believe his eyes, which showed him nothing. chris- tine's face lit up. a smile of happiness appeared upon her bloodless lips, a smile like that of sick people when they receive the first hope of recovery. the voice without a body went on singing; and cer- tainly raoul had never in his life heard anything more absolutely and heroically sweet, more gloriously insidious, more delicate, more powerful, in short, more irresistibly triumphant. he listened to it in a fever and he now began to understand how chris- tine daaé was able to appear one evening, before the at the masked ball stupefied audience, with accents of a beauty hitherto unknown, of a superhuman exaltation, while doubtless still under the influence of the mysterious and invisi- ble master. the voice was singing the wedding-night song from romeo and juliet. raoul saw christine stretch out her arms to the voice as she had done, in perros churchyard, to the invisible violin playing the resur- rection of lazarus. and nothing could describe the passion with which the voice sang: “fate links thee to me for ever and a day!” the strains went through raoul's heart. strug- gling against the charm that seemed to deprive him of all his will and all his energy and of almost all his lucidity at the moment when he needed them most, he succeeded in drawing back the curtain that hid him and he walked to where christine stood. she herself was moving to the back of the room, the whole wall of which was occupied by a great mirror that reflected her image, but not his, for he was just behind her and entirely covered by her. “fate links thee to me for ever and a day!” christine walked toward her image in the glass and the image came toward her. the two chris- tines—the real one and the reflection—ended by touching; and raoul put out his arms to clasp the two in one embrace. but, by a sort of dazzling miracle that sent him staggering, raoul was sudden- ly flung back, while an icy blast swept over his face; i the phantom of the opera he saw, not two, but four, eight, twenty christines spinning round him, laughing at him and fleeing so swiftly that he could not touch one of them. at last, everything stood still again; and he saw himself in the glass. but christine had disappeared. he rushed up to the glass. he struck at the walls. nobody! and meanwhile the room still echoed with a distant passionate singing: “fate links thee to me for ever and a day!” which way, which way had christine gone? . . which way would she return? e would she return? alas, had she not declared . to him that everything was finished? and was the voice not repeating: “fate links thee to me for ever and a day!” to me? to whom? then, worn out, beaten, empty-brained, he sat down on the chair which christine had just left. like her, he let his head fall into his hands. when he raised it, the tears were streaming down his young cheeks, real, heavy tears like those which jealous children shed, tears that wept for a sorrow which was in no way fanciful, but which is common to all the lovers on earth and which he expressed aloud: “who is this erik?” he said. chapter x forget the name of the man's voice he day after christine had vanished before his eyes in a sort of dazzlement that still made him doubt the evidence of his senses, m. le vicomte de chagny called to inquire at mamma valérius'. he came upon a charming picture. christine herself was seated by the bedside of the old lady, who was sitting up against the pillows, knitting. the pink and white had returned to the young girl's cheeks. the dark rings round her eyes had disappeared. raoul no longer recognized the tragic face of the day before. if the veil of melancholy over those ador- able features had not still appeared to the young man as the last trace of the weird drama in whose toils that mysterious child was struggling, he could have believed that christine was not its heroine at all. she rose, without showing any emotion, and offered him her hand. but raoul's stupefaction was so great that he stood there dumfounded, without a gesture, without a word. “well, m. de chagny,” exclaimed mamma valé- rius, “don’t you know our christine? her good genius has sent her back to us!” “mamma!” the girl broke in promptly, while a deep blush mantled to her eyes. “i thought, mamma, that there was to be no more question of that! . . i the phantom of the opera you know there is no such thing as the angel of music!” “but, child, he gave you lessons for three months!” “mamma, i have promised to explain everything to you one of these days; and i hope to do so but you have promised me, until that day, to be silent and to ask me no more questions whatever!” “provided that you promised never to leave me again! but have you promised that, christine?” “mamma, all this can not interest m. de chagny.” “on the contrary, mademoiselle,” said the young man, in a voice which he tried to make firm and brave, but which still trembled, “anything that concerns you interests me to an extent which perhaps you will one day understand. i do not deny that my surprise equals my pleasure at finding you with your adopted mother and that, after what happened be- tween us yesterday, after what you said and what i was able to guess, i hardly expected to see you here so soon. i should be the first to delight at your return, if you were not so bent on preserving a secrecy that may be fatal to you . . . and i have been your friend too long not to be alarmed, with mme. valérius, at a disastrous adventure which will remain dangerous so long as we have not unraveled its threads and of which you will certainly end by being the victim, christine.” at these words, mamma valérius tossed about in her bed. “what does this mean?” she cried. “is christine in danger?” the name of the man's voice “yes, madame,” said raoul courageously, notwith- standing the signs which christine made to him. “my god!” exclaimed the good, simple old woman, gasping for breath. “you must tell me every- thing, christine! why did you try to reassure me? and what danger is it, m. de chagny?” “an impostor is abusing her good faith.” “is the angel of music an impostor?” “she told you herself that there is no angel of music.” “but then what is it, in heaven's name? you will be the death of me!” “there is a terrible mystery around us, madame, around you, around christine, a mystery much more to be feared than any number of ghosts or genii!” mamma valérius turned a terrified face to chris- tine, who had already run to her adopted mother and was holding her in her arms. “don’t believe him, mummy, don't believe him,” she repeated. “then tell me that you will never leave me again,” implored the widow. christine was silent and raoul resumed. “that is what you must promise, christine. it is the only thing that can reassure your mother and me. we will undertake not to ask you a single question about the past, if you promise us to remain under our protection in future.” “that is an undertaking which i have not asked of you and a promise which i refuse to make you!” said the young girl haughtily. “i am mistress of my the phantom of the opera own actions, m. de chagny: you have no right to control them, and i will beg you to desist henceforth. as to what i have done during the last fortnight, there is only one man in the world who has the right to demand an account of me: my husband! well, i have no husband and i never mean to marry!” she threw out her hands to emphasize her words and raoul turned pale, not only because of the words which he had heard, but because he had caught sight of a plain gold ring on christine's finger. “you have no husband and yet you wear a wedding- ring. he tried to seize her hand, but she swiftly drew it back. “that's a present!” she said. blushing once more and vainly striving to hide her embarrassment. “christine! as you have no husband, that ring can only have been given by one who hopes to make you his wife! why deceive us further? why tor- ture me still more? that ring is a promise; and that promise has been accepted!” “that's what i said!” exclaimed the old lady. “and what did she answer, madame?” “what i chose,” said christine, driven to exaspera- tion. “don’t you think, monsieur, that this cross- examination has lasted long enough? as far as i am concerned .” raoul was afraid to let her finish her speech. he interrupted her: “i beg your pardon for speaking as i did, mademoiselle. you know the good intentions that the name of the man's voice make me meddle, just now, in matters which, you no doubt think, have nothing to do with me. but allow me to tell you what i have seen—and i have seen more than you suspect, christine—or what i thought i saw, for, to tell you the truth, i have sometimes been inclined to doubt the evidence of my eyes.” “well, what did you see, sir, or think you saw?” “i saw your ecstasy at the sound of the voice, christine: the voice that came from the wall or the next room to yours . . . yes, your ecstasy! and that is what makes me alarmed on your behalf. you are under a very dangerous spell. and yet it seems that you are aware of the imposture, because you say to-day that there is no angel of music! in that case, christine, why did you follow him that time? why did you stand up, with radiant features, as though you were really hearing angels? . . . ah, it is a very dangerous voice, christine, for i myself, when i heard it, was so much fascinated by it that you vanished before my eyes without my seeing which way you passed! christine, christine, in the name of heaven, in the name of your father who is in heaven now and who loved you so dearly and who loved me too, christine, tell us, tell your benefactress and me, to whom does that voice belong? if you do, we will save you in spite of yourself. come, christine, the name of the man! the name of the man who had the audacity to put a ring on your finger!” “m. de chagny,” the girl declared coldly, “you shall never know !” thereupon, seeing the hostility with which her the phantom of the opera ward had addressed the viscount, mamma valérius suddenly took christine's part. “and, if she does love that man, monsieur le vicomte, even then it is no business of yours!” “alas, madame,” raoul humbly replied, unable to restrain his tears, “alas, i believe that christine really does love him . . . but it is not only that which drives me to despair; for what i am not cer- tain of, madame, is that the man whom christine loves is worthy of her love!” “it is for me to be the judge of that, monsieur !” said christine, looking raoul angrily in the face. “when a man,” continued raoul, “adopts such romantic methods to entice a young girl's affections ?? “the man must be either a villain, or the girl a fool: is that it?” “christine!” “raoul, why do you condemn a man whom you have never seen, whom no one knows and about whom you yourself know nothing?” “yes, christine. . . . yes. . . . i at least know the name that you thought to keep from me for ever. . . . the name of your angel of music, mademoiselle, is erik i’’ christine at once betrayed herself. she turned as white as a sheet and stammered: “who told you?” “you yourself!” “how do you mean?” “by pitying him the other night, the night of the the name of the man's voice masked ball. when you went to your dressing-room, did you not say, “poor erik? well, christine, there was a poor raoul who overheard you.” “this is the second time that you have listened be- hind the door, m. de chagny!” “i was not behind the door . . . i was in the dressing-room, in the inner room, mademoiselle.” “oh, unhappy man!” moaned the girl, showing every sign of unspeakable terror. “unhappy man! do you want to be killed?” “perhaps.” raoul uttered this “perhaps” with so much love and despair in his voice that christine could not keep back a sob. she took his hands and looked at him with all the pure affection of which she was capable: “raoul,” she said, “forget the man's voice and do not even remember its name. . . you must never try to fathom the mystery of the man's voice.” “is the mystery so very terrible?” “there is no more awful mystery on this earth. swear to me that you will make no attempt to find out,” she insisted. “swear to me that you will never come to my dressing-room, unless i send for you.” “then you promise to send for me sometimes, christine?” “i promise.” “when?” “to-morrow.” “then i swear to do as you ask.” he kissed her hands and went away, cursing erik and resolving to be patient. chapter xi above the trap-doors tnhe next day, he saw her at the opera. she was - still wearing the plain gold ring. she was gentle and kind to him. she talked to him of the plans which he was forming, of his future, of his career. he told her that the date of the polar expedition had been put forward and that he would leave france in three weeks, or a month at latest. she suggested, almost gaily, that he must look upon the voyage with delight, as a stage toward his coming fame. and when he replied that fame without love was no attrac- tion in his eyes, she treated him as a child whose sorrows were only short-lived. “how can you speak so lightly of such serious things?” he asked. “perhaps we shall never see each other again! i may die during that expedition.” “or i,” she said simply. she no longer smiled or jested. she seemed to be thinking of some new thing that had entered her mind for the first time. her eyes were all aglow with it. “what are you thinking of, christine?” “i am thinking that we shall not see each other again .” “and does that make you so radiant?” above the trap-doors “and that, in a month, we shall have to say good- by for ever!” “unless, christine, we pledge our faith and wait for each other for ever.” she put her hand on his mouth. “hush, raoul | . . . you know there is no question of that . . . and we shall never be married: that is understood l” she seemed suddenly almost unable to contain an overpowering gaiety. she clapped her hands with childish glee. raoul stared at her in amazement. “but . . . but,” she continued, holding out her two hands to raoul, or rather giving them to him, as though she had suddenly resolved to make him a present of them, “but if we can not be married, we can . . . we can be engaged! nobody will know but ourselves, raoul. there have been plenty of secret marriages: why not a secret engagement? • ... we are engaged, dear, for a month! in a month, you will go away, and i can be happy at the thought of that month all my life long!” she was enchanted with her inspiration. then she became serious again. “this,” she said, “is a happiness that will harm no one.” raoul jumped at the idea. he bowed to christine and said: “mademoiselle, i have the honor to ask for your hand.” “why, you have both of them already, my dear betrothed! . . . oh, raoul, how happy we the phantom of the opera shall be . . . we must play at being engaged all day long.” s it was the prettiest game in the world and they enjoyed it like the children that they were. oh, the wonderful speeches they made to each other and the eternal vows they exchanged ! they played at hearts as other children might play at ball; only, as it was really their two hearts that they flung to and fro, they had to be very, very handy to catch them, each time, without hurting them. one day, about a week after the game began, raoul's heart was badly hurt and he stopped play- ing and uttered these wild words: “i shan’t go to the north pole!” christine, who, in her innocence, had not dreamed of such a possibility, suddenly discovered the danger of the game and reproached herself bitterly. she did not say a word in reply to raoul's remark and went straight home. this happened in the afternoon, in the singer's dressing-room, where they met every day and where they amused themselves by dining on three biscuits, two glasses of port and a bunch of violets. in the evening, she did not sing; and he did not receive his usual letter, though they had arranged to write to each other daily during that month. the next morn- ing, he ran off to mamma valérius, who told him that christine had gone away for two days. she had left at five o'clock the day before. raoul was distracted. he hated mamma valérius for giving him such news as that with such stupefy- above the trap-doors i ing calmness. he tried to sound her, but the old lady obviously knew nothing. christine returned on the following day. she re- turned in triumph. she renewed her extraordinary success of the gala performance. since the adventure of the “toad,” carlotta had not been able to appear on the stage. the terror of a fresh “co-ack” filled her heart and deprived her of all her power of singing; and the theater that had witnessed her in- comprehensible disgrace had become odious to her. she contrived to cancel her contract. daaé was offer- ed the vacant place for the time. she received thun- ders of applause in the juive. the viscount, who, of course, was present, was the only one to suffer on hearing the thousand echoes of this fresh triumph; for christine still wore her plain gold ring. a distant voice whispered in the young man's ear: “she is wearing the ring again to-night; and you did not give it to her. she gave her soul again to- night and did not give it to you. . . . if she will not tell you what she has been doing the past two days . . . you must go and ask erik!” he ran behind the scenes and placed himself in her way. she saw him for her eyes were looking for him. she said: “quick! quick! . . . come!” and she dragged him to her dressing-room. raoul at once threw himself on his knees before her. he swore to her that he would go and he en- treated her never again to withhold a single hour the phantom of the opera of the ideal happiness which she had promised him. she let her tears flow. they kissed like a despairing brother and sister who have been smitten with a com- mon loss and who meet to mourn a dead parent. suddenly, she snatched herself from the young man's soft and timid embrace, seemed to listen to something, and, with a quick gesture, pointed to the door. when he was on the threshold, she said, in so low a voice that the viscount guessed rather than heard her words: “to-morrow, my dear betrothed! and be happy, raoul: i sang for you to-night!” he returned the next day. but those two days of absence had broken the charm of their delightful make-believe. they looked at each other, in the dressing-room, with their sad eyes, without exchang- ing a word. raoul had to restrain himself not to cry out: “i am jealous! i am jealous! i am jealous!” but she heard him all the same. then she said: “come for a walk, dear. the air will do you good.” raoul thought that she would propose a stroll in the country, far from that building which he detested as a prison whose jailer he could feel walking within the walls . . . the jailer erik. . . . but she took him to the stage and made him sit on the wooden curb of a well, in the doubtful peace and coolness of a first scene set for the evening's perfor- imance. on another day, she wandered with him, hand in above the trap-doors i i hand, along the deserted paths of a garden whose creepers had been cut out by a decorator's skilful hands. it was as though the real sky, the real flow- ers, the real earth were forbidden her for all time and she condemned to breathe no other air than that of the theater. an occasional fireman passed, watching over their melancholy idyll from afar. and she would drag him up above the clouds, in the magnificent dis- order of the grid, where she loved to make him giddy by running in front of him along the frail bridges, among the thousands of ropes fastened to the pulleys, the windlasses, the rollers, in the midst of a regular forest of yards and masts. if he hesitated, she said, with an adorable pout of her lips: “you, a sailor!” and then they returned to terra firma, that is to say, to some passage that led them to the little girls' dancing-school, where brats between six and ten were practising their steps, in the hope of becoming great dancers one day, “covered with diamonds. .” meanwhile, christine gave them sweets instead. she took him to the wardrobe and property-rooms, took him all over her empire, which was artificial, but immense, covering seventeen stories from the ground- floor to the roof and inhabited by an army of sub- jects. she moved among them like a popular queen, encouraging them in their labors, sitting down in the workshops, giving words of advice to the work- men whose hands hesitated to cut into the rich stuffs that were to clothe heroes. there were inhabitants of that country who practised every trade. there the phantom of the opera were cobblers, there were goldsmiths. all had learned to know her and to love her, for she always interested herself in all their troubles and all their little hobbies. she knew unsuspected corners that were secretly occupied by little old couples. she knocked at their door and introduced raoul to them as a prince charm- ing who had asked for her hand; and the two of them, sitting on some worm-eaten “property,” would listen to the legends of the opera, even as, in their child- hood, they had listened to the old breton tales. those old people remembered nothing outside the opera. they had lived there for years without num- ber. past managements had forgotten them; palace revolutions had taken no notice of them; the history of france had run its course unknown to them; and nobody recollected their existence. the precious days sped in this way; and raoul and christine, by affecting excessive interest in outside matters, strove awkwardly to hide from each other the one thought of their hearts. one fact was certain, that christine, who until then had shown herself the stronger of the two, became suddenly inexpressibly nervous. when on their expeditions, she would start running without reason or else suddenly stop; and her hand, turning ice-cold in a moment, would hold the young man back. sometimes her eyes seemed to pur- sue imaginary shadows. she cried, “this way,” and “this way,” and “this way,” laughing a breathless laugh that often ended in tears. then raoul tried to speak, to question her, in spite of his promises. above the trap-doors i but, even before he had worded his question, she an- swered feverishly: “nothing . . . i swear it is nothing.” once, when they were passing before an open trap- door on the stage, raoul stopped over the dark cavity. “you have shown me over the upper part of your empire, christine, but there are strange stories told of the lower part. shall we go down?” she caught him in her arms, as though she feared to see him disappear down the black hole, and, in a trembling voice, whispered: “never! . . . i will not have you go there! besides, it's not mine . . . everything that is underground belongs to him!” raoul looked her in the eyes and said roughly: “so he lives down there, does he?” “i never said so. . . . who told you a thing like that? come away! i sometimes wonder if you are quite sane, raoul. . . . you always take things in such an impossible way. . . . come along! come!” and she literally dragged him away, for he was obstinate and wanted to remain by the trap-door; that hole attracted him. suddenly, the trap-door was closed and so quickly that they did not even see the hand that worked it; and they remained quite dazed. “perhaps he was there,” raoul said, at last. she shrugged her shoulders, but did not seem easy. “no, no, it was the ‘trap-door-shutters. they must do something, you know. . . . they open the phantom of the opera and shut the trap-doors without any particular rea- son. . . . it's like the “door-shutters: they must spend their time somehow.” “but suppose it were he, christine?” “no, no! he has shut himself up, he is working.” “oh, really! he's working, is he?” “yes, he can't open and shut the trap-doors and work at the same time.” she shivered. “what is he working at?” “oh, something terrible! . . . but it's all the better for us. . . . when he's working at that, he sees nothing; he does not eat, drink, or breathe for days and nights at a time . . . he becomes a living dead man and has no time to amuse himself with the trap-doors.” she shivered again. she was still holding him in her arms. then she sighed and said, in her turn: “suppose it were he/” “are you afraid of him?” “no, no, of course not,” she said. for all that, on the next day and the following days, christine was careful to avoid the trap-doors. her agitation only increased as the hours passed. at last, one afternoon, she arrived very late, with her face so desperately pale and her eyes so desperately red, that raoul resolved to go to all lengths, includ- ing that which he foreshadowed when he blurted out that he would not go on the north pole expedition unless she first told him the secret of the man's voice. “hush! hush, in heaven's name! suppose he heard you, you unfortunate raoul!” h above the trap-doors i and christine's eyes stared wildly at everything around her. “i will remove you from his power, christine, i swear it. and you shall not think of him any more.” “is it possible?” she allowed herself this doubt, which was an en- couragement, while dragging the young man up to the topmost floor of the theater, far, very far from the trap-doors. “i shall hide you in some unknown corner of the world, where he can not come to look for you. you will be safe; and then i shall go away . . . as you have sworn never to marry.” christine seized raoul's hands and squeezed them with incredible rapture. but, suddenly becoming alarmed again, she turned away her head. “higher !” was all she said. “higher still!” and she dragged him up toward the summit. he had a difficulty in following her. they were soon under the very roof, in the maze of timber-work. they slipped through the buttresses, the rafters, the joists; they ran from beam to beam as they might have run from tree to tree in a forest. and, despite the care which she took to look be- hind her at every moment, she failed to see a shadow which followed her like her own shadow, which stopped when she stopped, which started again when she did and which made no more noise than a well- conducted shadow should. as for raoul, he saw nothing either; for, when he had christine in front of him, nothing interested him that happened behind. chapter xii apollo's lyre n this way, they reached the roof. christine tripped over it as lightly as a swallow. their eyes swept the empty space between the three domes and the triangular pediment. she breathed freely over paris, the whole valley of which was seen at work below. she called raoul to come quite close to her and they walked side by side along the zinc streets, in the leaden avenues; they looked at their twin shapes in the huge tanks, full of stagnant water, where, in the hot weather, the little boys of the ballet, a score or so, learn to swim and dive. the shadow had followed behind them, clinging to their steps; and the two children little suspected its presence when they at last sat down, trustingly, under the mighty protection of apollo, who, with a great bronze gesture, lifted his huge lyre to the heart of a crimson sky. it was a gorgeous spring evening. clouds, which had just received their gossamer robe of gold and purple from the setting sun, drifted slowly by; and christine said to raoul: “soon we shall go farther and faster than the clouds, to the end of the world, and then you will leave me, raoul. but, if, when the moment comes apollo’s lyre i for you to take me away, i refuse to go with you— well you must carry me off by force!” “are you afraid that you will change your mind, christine?” “i don’t know,” she said, shaking her head in an odd fashion. “he is a demon l’” and she shivered and nestled in his arms with a moan. “i am afraid now of going back to live with him . . . in the ground !” “what compels you to go back, christine?” “if i do not go back to him, terrible misfortunes may happen! . . . but i can’t do it, i can't do it! . . . i know one ought to be sorry for people who live underground. . . . but he is too horri- ble! and yet the time is at hand; i have only a day left; and, if i do not go, he will come and fetch me with his voice. and he will drag me with him, under- ground, and go on his knees before me, with his death's head. and he will tell me that he loves me! and he will cry! oh, those tears, raoul, those tears in the two black eye-sockets of the death's head! i can not see those tears flow again!” she wrung her hands in anguish, while raoul pressed her to his heart. “no, no, you shall never again hear him tell you that he loves you! you shall not see his tears! let us fly, christine, let us fly at once!” and he tried to drag her away, then and there. but she stopped him. “no, no,” she said, shaking her head sadly. “not now ! . . . it would be too cruel . . . let the phantom of the opera him hear me sing to-morrow evening . . . and then we will go away. you must come and fetch me in my dressing-room at midnight exactly. he will then be waiting for me in the dining-room by the lake . . . we shall be free and you shall take me away. . . . you must promise me that, raoul, even if i refuse; for i feel that, if i go back this time, i shall perhaps never return.” and she gave a sigh to which it seemed to her that another sigh, behind her, replied. “didn't you hear?” her teeth chattered. “no,” said raoul, “i heard nothing.” “it is too terrible,” she confessed, “to be always trembling like this! . . . and yet we run no danger here; we are at home, in the sky, in the open air, in the light. the sun is flaming;..and night-birds can not bear to look at the sun. i have never seen him by daylight . . . it must be awful! • oh, the first time i saw him . . . i thought that he was going to die.” “why?” asked raoul, really frightened at the aspect which this strange confidence was taking. “because. i had seen him." this time, raoul and christine turned round at the same time: “there is some one in pain,” said raoul. “per- haps some one has been hurt. did you hear?” “i can’t say,” christine confessed. “even when he is not there, my ears are full of his sighs. still, ..if you heard .” apollo’s lyre i they stood up and looked around them. they were quite alone on the immense lead roof. they sat down again and raoul said: . “tell me how you saw him first.” “i had heard him for three months without seeing him. the first time i heard it, i thought, as you did, that that adorable voice was singing in another room. i went out and looked everywhere; but, as you know, raoul, my dressing-room is very much by itself; and i could not find the voice outside my room, whereas it went on steadily inside. and it not only sang, but it spoke to me and answered my questions, like a real man's voice, with this difference, that it was as beautiful as the voice of an angel. i had never got the angel of music whom my poor father had promised to send me as soon as he was dead. i really think that mamma valérius was a little bit to blame. i told her about it; and she at once said, “it must be the angel; at any rate, you can do no harm by asking him.’ i did so; and the man's voice replied that, yes, it was the angel's voice, the voice which i was expecting and which my father had promised me. from that time onward, the voice and i became great friends. it asked leave to give me lessons every day. i agreed and never failed to keep the appoint- ment which it gave me in my dressing-room. you have no idea, though you have heard the voice, of what those lessons were like.” “no, i have no idea,” said raoul. “what was your accompaniment?” “we were accompanied by a music which i do not the phantom of the opera know: it was behind the wall and wonderfully ac- curate. the voice seemed to understand mine ex- actly, to know precisely where my father had left off teaching me. in a few weeks' time, i hardly knew myself when i sang. i was even frightened. i seemed to dread a sort of witchcraft behind it; but mamma valérius reassured me. she said that she knew i was much too simple a girl to give the devil a hold on me. . . . my progress, by the voice's own order, was kept a secret between the voice, mamma valérius and myself. it was a curious thing, but, outside the dressing-room, i sang with my ordi- nary, every-day voice and nobody noticed anything. i did all that the voice asked. it said, “wait and see: we shall astonish paris!' and i waited and lived on in a sort of ecstatic dream. it was then that i saw you for the first time one evening, in the house. i was so glad that i never thought of concealing my delight when i reached my dressing-room. unfor- tunately, the voice was there before me and soon noticed, by my air, that something had happened. it asked what was the matter and i saw no reason for keeping our story secret or concealing the place which you filled in my heart. then the voice was silent. i called to it, but it did not reply; i begged and en- treated, but in vain. i was terrified lest it had gone for good. i wish to heaven it had, dear! that night, i went home in a desperate condition. i told mamma valérius, who said, “why, of course, the voice is jealous!' and that, dear, first revealed to me that i loved you.” | apollo’s lyre i i christine stopped and laid her head on raoul's shoulder. they sat like that for a moment, in silence, and they did not see, did not perceive the movement, at a few steps from them, of the creeping shadow of two great black wings, a shadow that came along the roof so near, so near them that it could have stifled them by closing over them. “the next day,” christine continued, with a sigh, “i went back to my dressing-room in a very pensive frame of mind. the voice was there, spoke to me with great sadness and told me plainly that, if i must bestow my heart on earth, there was nothing for the voice to do but to go back to heaven. and it said this with such an accent of human sorrow that i ought then and there to have suspected and begun to believe that i was the victim of my deluded senses. but my faith in the voice, with which the memory of my father was so closely intermingled, remained undisturbed. i feared nothing so much as that i might never hear it again; i had thought about my love for you and realized all the useless danger of it; and i did not even know if you remembered me. whatever happened, your position in society forbade me to contemplate the possibility of ever marrying you; and i swore to the voice that you were no more than a brother to me nor ever would be and that my heart was incapable of any earthly love. and that, dear, was why i refused to recognize or see you when i met you on the stage or in the passages. mean- while, the hours during which the voice taught me were spent in a divine frenzy, until, at last, the the phantom of the opera voice said to me, ‘you can now, christine daaé, give to men a little of the music of heaven.' i don't know how it was that carlotta did not come to the theater that night nor why i was called upon to sing in her stead; but i sang with a rapture i had never known before and i felt for a moment as if my soul were leaving my body!” “oh, christine,” said raoul, “my heart quivered that night at every accent of your voice. i saw the tears stream down your cheeks and i wept with you. how could you sing, sing like that while crying?” “i felt myself fainting,” said christine, “i closed my eyes. when i opened them, you were by my side. but the voice was there also, raoul | i was afraid for your sake and again i would not recognize you and began to laugh when you reminded me that you had picked up my scarf in the sea! alas, there is no deceiving the voice! . . . the voice recognized you and the voice was jealous! it said that, if i did not love you, i would not avoid you, but treat you like any other old friend. it made me scene upon scene. at last, i said to the voice, “that will do! i am going to perros to-mor- row, to pray on my father's grave, and i shall ask m. raoul de chagny to go with me.’ ‘do as you please,' replied the voice, but i shall be at perros too, for i am wherever you are, christine; and, if you are still worthy of me, if you have not lied to me, i will play you the resurrection of lazarus, on the stroke of midnight, on your father's tomb and on your father's violin. that, dear, was how i came to write you the apollo’s lyre i letter that brought you to perros. how could i have been so beguiled? how was it, when i saw the per- sonal, the selfish point of view of the voice, that i did not suspect some impostor? alas, i was no longer mistress of myself: i had become his thing!” “but, after all,” cried raoul, “you soon came to know the truth! why did you not at once rid your- self of that abominable nightmare?” “know the truth, raoul? rid myself of that nightmare ? but, my poor boy, i was not caught in the nightmare until the day when i learned the truth! pity me, raoul, pity me! . . . you re- member the terrible evening when carlotta thought that she had been turned into a toad on the stage and when the house was suddenly plunged in darkness through the chandelier crashing to the floor? there were killed and wounded that night and the whole theater rang with terrified screams. my first thought was for you and the voice. i was at once easy, where you were concerned, for i had seen you in your brother's box and i knew that you were not in danger. but the voice had told me that it would be at the performance and i was really afraid for it, just as if it had been an ordinary person who was capable of dying. i thought to myself, ‘the chandelier may have come down upon the voice.’ i was then on the stage and was nearly running into the house, to look for the voice among the killed and wounded, when i thought that, if the voice was safe, it would be sure to be in my dressing-room and i rushed to my room. the voice was not there. i the phantom of the opera locked my door and, with tears in my eyes, besought it, if it were still alive, to manifest itself to me. the voice did not reply, but suddenly i heard a long, beautiful wail which i knew well. it is the plaint of lazarus when, at the sound of the redeemer's voice, he begins to open his eyes and see the light of day. it was the music which you and i, raoul, heard at perros. and then the voice began to sing the leading phrase, “come! and believe in me! whoso be- lieves in me shall live! walk! whoso hath be- lieved in me shall never die! . . .” i can not tell you the effect which that music had upon me. it seemed to command me, personally, to come, to stand up and come to it. it retreated and i followed. ‘come! and believe in me!' i believed in it, i came. . . . i came and—this was the extraor- dinary thing—my dressing-room, as i moved, seemed to lengthen out . . . to lengthen out. • evidently, it must have been an effect of mirrors for i had the mirror in front of me and, suddenly, i was outside the room without know- ing how !” “what! without knowing how? christine, christine, you must really stop dreaming!” “i was not dreaming, dear, i was outside my room without knowing how. you, who saw me disappear from my room one evening, may be able to explain it; but i can not. i can only tell you that, suddenly, there was no mirror before me and no dressing-room. i was in a dark passage, i was frightened and i cried out. it was quite dark, but for a faint red glimmer the phantom of the opera which i had so often fed with sugar and sweets. i remembered that, one evening, there was a rumor in the theater that the horse had disappeared and that it had been stolen by the opera ghost. i believed in the voice, but had never believed in the ghost. now, however, i began to wonder, with a shiver, whether i was the ghost's prisoner. i called upon the voice to help me, for i should never have imagined that the voice and the ghost were one. you have heard about the opera ghost, have you not, raoul ?” “yes, but tell me what happened when you were on the white horse of the profeta?” “i made no movement and let myself go. the black shape held me up, and i made no effort to escape. a curious feeling of peacefulness came over me and i thought that i must be under the influence of some cordial. i had the full com- mand of my senses; and my eyes became used to the darkness, which was lit, here and there, by fitful gleams. i calculated that we were in a narrow cir- cular gallery, probably running all round the opera, which is immense, underground. i had once been down into those cellars, but had stopped at the third | floor, though there were two lower still, large enough to hold a town. but the figures of which i caught sight had made me run away. there are demons down there, quite black, standing in front of boilers, and they wield shovels and pitchforks and poke up fires and stir up flames and, if you come too near them, they frighten you by suddenly opening the red apollo’s lyre i mouths of their furnaces. . . . well, while césar was quietly carrying me on his back, i saw those black demons in the distance, looking quite small, in front of the red fires of their furnaces: they came into sight, disappeared and came into sight again, as we went on our winding way. at last, they disap- peared altogether. the shape was still holding me up and césar walked on, unled and sure-footed. i could not tell you, even approximately, how long this ride lasted; i only know that we seemed to turn and turn and often went down a spiral stair into the very heart of the earth. even then, it may be that my head was turning, but i don’t think so: no, my mind was quite clear. at last, césar raised his nostrils, sniffed the air and quickened his pace a little. i felt a moistness in the air and césar stopped. the darkness had lifted. a sort of bluey light surrounded us. we were on the edge of a lake, whose leaden waters stretched into the distance, into the darkness; but the blue light lit up the bank and i saw a little boat fastened to an iron ring on the wharf l’” “a boat!” “yes, but i knew that all that existed and that there was nothing supernatural about that under- ground lake and boat. but think of the exceptional conditions in which i arrived upon that shore! i don’t know whether the effects of the cordial had worn off when the man's shape lifted me into the boat, but my terror began all over again. my gruesome escort must have noticed it, for he sent césar back and i the phantom of the opera heard his hoofs trampling up a staircase while the man jumped into the boat, untied the rope that held it and seized the oars. he rowed with a quick, pow- erful stroke; and his eyes, under the mask, never left me. we slipped across the noiseless water in the bluey light which i told you of; then we were in the dark again and we touched shore. and i was once more taken up in the man's arms. i cried aloud. and then, suddenly, i was silent, dazed by the light. e yes, a dazzling light in the midst of which i had been put down. i sprang to my feet. i was in the middle of a drawing-room that seemed to me to be decorated, adorned and furnished with nothing but flowers, flowers both magnificent and stupid, be- cause of the silk ribbons that tied them to baskets, like those which they sell in the shops on the boule- vards. they were much too civilized flowers, like those which i used to find in my dressing-room after a first night. and, in the midst of all these flowers, stood the black shape of the man in the mask, with arms crossed, and he said, ‘don’t be afraid, christine; you are in no danger. it was the voice! “my anger equaled my amazement. i rushed at the mask and tried to snatch it away, so as to see the face of the voice. the man said, ‘you are in no dan- ger, so long as you do not touch the mask.” and, tak- ing me gently by the wrists, he forced me into a chair and then went down on his knees before me and said nothing more! his humility gave me back some of my courage; and the light restored me to the realities of life. however extraordinary the adven- apollo’s lyre i ture might be, i was now surrounded by mortal, visi- ble, tangible things. the furniture, the hangings, the candles, the vases and the very flowers in their bas- kets, of which i could almost have told whence they came and what they cost, were bound to confine my imagination to the limits of a drawing-room quite as commonplace as any that, at least, had the excuse of not being in the cellars of the opera. i had, no doubt, to do with a terrible, eccentric person, who, in some mysterious fashion, had succeeded in taking up his abode there, under the opera house, five stories below the level of the ground. and the voice, the voice which i had recognized under the mask, was on its knees before me, was a man / and i began to cry. . . . the man, still kneeling, must have understood the cause of my tears, for he said, ‘it is true, christine ! . . . i am not an angel, nor a genius, nor a ghost . . . i am erik i’” christine's narrative was again interrupted. an echo behind them seemed to repeat the word after her. “erik i’” what echo? . . . they both turned round and saw that night had fallen. raoul made a move- ment as though to rise, but christine kept him beside her. “don’t go,” she said. “i want you to know every- thing here!” “but why here, christine? i am afraid of your catching cold.” “we have nothing to fear except the trap-doors, i o the phantom of the opera dear, and here we are miles away from the trap-doors and i am not allowed to see you outside the theater. this is not the time to annoy him. we must not arouse his suspicion.” “christine! christine! something tells me that we are wrong to wait till to-morrow evening and that we ought to fly at once.” “i tell you that, if he does not hear me sing to- morrow, it will cause him infinite pain.” “it is difficult not to cause him pain and yet to escape from him for good.” “you are right in that, raoul, for certainly he will die of my flight.” and she added in a dull voice, “but then it counts both ways . . . for we risk his killing us.” “does he love you so much?” “he would commit murder for me.” “but one can find out where he lives. one can go in search of him. now that we know that erik is not a ghost, one can speak to him and force him to answer !” christine shook her head. “no, no! there is nothing to be done with erik except to run away!” “then why, when you were able to run away, did you go back to him?” “because i had to. and you will understand that when i tell you how i left him.” “oh, i hate him !” cried raoul. “and you, chris- tine, tell me, do you hate him too?” “no,” said christine simply. apollo’s lyre “no, of course not. . . . why, you love him! your fear, your terror, all of that is just love and love of the most exquisite kind, the kind which people do not admit even to themselves,” said raoul bitterly. “the kind that gives you a thrill, when you think of it. . . . picture it: a man who lives in a palace underground !” and he gave a leer. “then you want me to go back there?” said the young girl cruelly. “take care, raoul; i have told you: i should never return l” there was an appalling silence between the three of them: the two who spoke and the shadow that listened, behind them. “before answering that,” said raoul, at last, speak- ing very slowly, “i should like to know with what feeling he inspires you, since you do not hate him.” “with horror!” she said. “that is the terrible thing about it. he fills me with horror and i do not hate him. how can i hate him, raoul? think of erik at my feet, in the house on the lake, underground. he accuses himself, he curses him- self, he implores my forgiveness! . . . he con- fesses his cheat. he loves me! he lays at my feet an immense and tragic love. . . . he has car- ried me off for love! . . . he has imprisoned me with him, underground, for love! . . . but he respects me: he crawls, he moans, he weeps! . . . and, when i stood up, raoul, and told him that i could only despise him if he did not, then and there, give me my liberty . . . he offered it he offered to show me the mysterious road i the phantom of the opera only . . . only he rose too . . . and i was made to remember that, though he was not an angel, nor a ghost, nor a genius, he remained the voice . . . for he sang. and i listened . and stayed ! . . . that night, we did not ex- change another word. he sang me to sleep. - “when i woke up, i was alone, lying on a sofa in a simply furnished little bedroom, with an ordi- nary mahogany bedstead, lit by a lamp standing on the marble top of an old louis-philippe chest of drawers. i soon discovered that i was a prisoner and that the only outlet from my room led to a very comfortable bath-room. on returning to the bed- room, i saw on the chest of drawers a note, in red ink, which said, “my dear christine, you need have no concern as to your fate. you have no better nor more respectful friend in the world than myself. you are alone, at present, in this home which is yours. i am going out shopping to fetch you all the things that you can need.’ i felt sure that i had fallen into the hands of a madman. i ran round my little apart- ment, looking for a way of escape which i could not find. i upbraided myself for my absurd superstition, which had caused me to fall into the trap. i felt in- clined to laugh and to cry at the same time. “this was the state of mind in which erik found me. after giving three taps on the wall, he walked in quietly through a door which i had not noticed and which he left open. he had his arms full of boxes and parcels and arranged them on the bed, in a leisurely apollo’s lyre fashion, while i overwhelmed him with abuse and called upon him to take off his mask, if it covered the face of an honest man. he replied serenely, ‘you shall never see erik's face.’ and he reproached me with not having finished dressing at that time of day: he was good enough to tell me that it was two o'clock in the afternoon. he said he would give me half an hour and, while he spoke, wound up my watch and set it for me. after which, he asked me to come to the dining-room, where a nice lunch was waiting for us. “i was very angry, slammed the door in his face and went to the bath-room. . . . when i came out again, feeling greatly refreshed, erik said that he loved me, but that he would never tell me so ex- cept when i allowed him and that the rest of the time would be devoted to music. “what do you mean by the rest of the time?” i asked. “five days, he said, with decision. i asked him if i should then be free and he said, ‘you will be free, christine, for, when those five days are past, you will have learned not to see me; and then, from time to time, you will come to see your poor erik!' he pointed to a chair opposite him, at a small table, and i sat down, feeling greatly perturbed. however, i ate a few prawns and the wing of a chicken and drank half a glass of tokay, which he had himself, he told me, brought from the königsberg cellars. erik did not eat or drink. i asked him what his nationality was and if that name of erik did not point to his scandinavian origin. he apollo’s lyre teen days and nights together, during which i live on music only, and then i rest for years at a time.” “will you play me something out of your don juan tri- umphant?” i asked, thinking to please him. “you must never ask me that, he said, in a gloomy voice. ‘i will play you mozart, if you like, which will only make you weep; but my don juan, christine, burns; and yet he is not struck by fire from heaven. there- upon we returned to the drawing-room. i noticed that there was no mirror in the whole apartment. i was going to remark upon this, but erik had al- ready sat down to the piano. he said, ‘you see, christine, there is some music that is so terrible that it consumes all those who approach it. fortunately, you have not come to that music yet, for you would lose all your pretty coloring and nobody would know you when you returned to paris. let us sing some- thing from the opera, christine daaé. he spoke these last words as though he were flinging an insult at me.” “what did you do?” “i had no time to think about the meaning he put into his words. we at once began the duet in othello and already the catastrophe was upon us. i 'sang desdemona with a despair, a terror which i had never displayed before. as for him, his voice thun- dered forth his revengeful soul at every note. love, jealousy, hatred, burst out around us in harrowing cries. erik's black mask made me think of the natural mask of the moor of venice. he was othel- lo himself. suddenly, i felt a need to see beneath i the phantom of the opera the mask. i wanted to know the face of the voice, and, with a movement which i was utterly unable to control, swiftly my fingers tore away the mask. oh, horror, horror, horror!” christine stopped, at the thought of the vision that had scared her, while the echoes of the night, which had repeated the name of erik, now thrice moaned the cry: “horror! . . . horror! . . . horror!” raoul and christine, clasping each other closely, raised their eyes to the stars that shone in a clear and peaceful sky. raoul said: “strange, christine, that this calm, soft night should be so full of plaintive sounds. one would think that it was sorrowing with us.” “when you know the secret, raoul, your ears, like mine, will be full of lamentations.” she took raoul's protecting hands in hers and, with a long shiver, continued: “yes, if i lived to be a hundred, i should always hear the superhuman cry of grief and rage which he uttered when the terrible sight appeared before my eyes. . . . raoul, you have seen death's heads, when they have been dried and withered by the cen- turies, and, perhaps, if you were not the victim of a nightmare, you saw his death's head at perros. and then you saw red death stalking about at the last masked ball. but all those death's heads were motionless and their dumb horror was not alive. but imagine, if you can, red death's mask suddenly coming to life in order to express, with the apollo’s lyre four black holes of its eyes, its nose, and its mouth, the extreme anger, the mighty fury of a demon; and not a ray of light from the sockets, for, as i learned later, you can not see his blazing eyes except in the dark. “i fell back against the wall and he came up to me, grinding his teeth, and, as i fell upon my knees, he hissed mad, incoherent words and curses at me. leaning over me, he cried, ‘look! you want to see! see ! feast your eyes, glut your soul on my cursed ugliness! look at erik's face! now you know the face of the voice! you were not content to hear me, eh? you wanted to know what i looked like oh, you women are so inquisitivel well, are you satis- fied? i’m a very good-looking fellow, eh? . . . when a woman has seen me, as you have, she belongs to me. she loves me for ever. i am a kind of don juan, you know!' and, drawing himself up to his full height, with his hand on his hip, wagging the hideous thing that was his head on his shoulders, he roared, ‘look at me! i am don juan triumphant!” and, when i turned away my head and begged for mercy, he drew it to him, brutally, twisting his dead fingers into my hair.” “enough ! enough!” cried raoul. “i will kill him. in heaven's name, christine, tell me where the dining-room on the lake is ! i must kill him!” “oh, be quiet, raoul, if you want to know!” “yes, i want to know how and why you went back; i must know! . . . but, in any case, i will kill him l’’ i the phantom of the opera “oh, raoul, listen, listen! . . . he dragged me by my hair and then . . . and then oh, it is too horrible!” “well, what? out with it!” exclaimed raoul fiercely. “out with it, quick!” “then he hissed at me. “ah, i frighten you, do i? . . . i dare say! . . . perhaps you think that i have another mask, eh, and that this this . . . my head is a mask? well,' he roared, tear it off as you did the other! come! come along ! i insist! your hands ! your hands ! give me your hands!' and he seized my hands and dug them into his awful face. he tore his flesh with my nails, tore his terrible dead flesh with my nails! © ‘know, he shouted, while his throat throbbed and panted like a furnace, know that i am built up of death from head to foot and that it is a corpse that loves you and adores you and will never, never leave you! . . . look, i am not laugh- ing now, i am crying, crying for you, christine, who have torn off my mask and who therefore can never leave me again! . . . as long as you thought me handsome, you could have come back, i know you would have come back . . . but, now that you know my hideousness, you would run away for good. so i shall keep you here! . . . why did you want to see me? oh, mad christine, who wanted to see me ! . . . when my own father never saw me and when my mother, so as not to see me, made me a present of my first mask!” “he had let go of me at last and was dragging apollo’s lyre himself about on the floor, uttering terrible sobs. and then he crawled away like a snake, went into his room, closed the door and left me alone to my reflections. presently i heard the sound of the or- gan; and then i began to understand erik's con- temptuous phrase when he spoke about opera music. what i now heard was utterly different from what i had heard up to then. his don juan triumphant (for i had not a doubt but that he had rushed to his masterpiece to forget the horror of the moment) seemed to me at first one long, awful, mag- nificent sob. but, little by little, it expressed every emotion, every suffering of which mankind is capable. it intoxicated me; and i opened the door that sepa- rated us. erik rose, as i entered, but dared not turn in my direction. ‘erik, i cried, show me your face without fear ! i swear that you are the most unhappy and sublime of men; and, if ever again i shiver when i look at you, it will be because i am thinking of the splendor of your genius ! then erik turned round, for he believed me, and i also had faith in myself. he fell at my feet, with words of love with words of love in his dead mouth • and the music had ceased . . . he kissed the hem of my dress and did not see that i closed my eyes. “what more can i tell you, dear? you now know the tragedy. it went on for a fortnight—a fortnight during which i lied to him. my lies were as hideous as the monster who inspired them; but they were the price of my liberty. i burned his mask; and i man- chapter xiii a master-stroke of the trap-door lover aoul and christine ran, eager to escape from the roof and the blazing eyes that showed only in the dark; and they did not stop before they came to the eighth floor on the way down. there was no performance at the opera that night and the passages were empty. suddenly, a queer- looking form stood before them and blocked the road: “no, not this way!” and the form pointed to another passage by which they were to reach the wings. raoul wanted to stop and ask for an explanation. but the form, which wore a sort of long frock-coat and a pointed cap, said: “quick! go away quickly christine was already dragging raoul, compelling him to start running again. “but who is he? who is that man?” he asked. christine replied: “it's the persian.” “what's he doing here?” “nobody knows. he is always in the opera.” “you are making me run away, for the first time in my life. if we really saw erik, what i ought to have done was to nail him to apollo's lyre, just as we nail the owls to the walls of our breton farms; and there would have been no more question of him.” !" the trap-door lover “my dear raoul, you would first have had to climb up to apollo's lyre: that is no easy matter.” “the blazing eyes were there!” “oh, you are getting like me now, seeing him everywhere! what i took for blazing eyes was prob- ably a couple of stars shining through the strings of the lyre.” and christine went down another floor, with raoul following her. “as you have quite made up your mind to go, christine, i assure you it would be better to go at once. why wait for to-morrow? he may have heard us to-night.” “no, no, he is working, i tell you, at his don juan triumphant and not thinking of us.” “you're so sure of that you keep on looking be- hind you!” “come to my dressing-room.” “hadn't we better meet outside the opera?” “never, till we go away for good! it would bring us bad luck, if i did not keep my word. i promised him to see you only here.” “it’s a good thing for me that he allowed you even that. do you know,” said raoul bitterly, “that it was very plucky of you to let us play at being en- gaged?” “why, my dear, he knows all about it! he said, “i trust you, christine. m. de chagny is in love with you and is going abroad. before he goes, i want him to be as happy as i am. are people so unhappy when they love?” the phantom of the opera “yes, christine, when they love and are not sure of being loved.” they came to christine's dressing-room. “why do you think that you are safer in this room than on the stage?” asked raoul. “you heard him through the walls here, therefore he can certainly hear us.” “no. he gave me his word not to be behind the walls of my dressing-room again and i believe erik's word. this room and my bedroom on the lake are for me, exclusively, and not to be approached by him.” “how can you have gone from this room into that dark passage, christine? suppose we try to repeat your movements; shall we?” “it is dangerous, dear, for the glass might carry me off again; and, instead of running away, i should be obliged to go to the end of the secret passage to the lake and there call erik.” “would he hear you?” “erik will hear me wherever i call him. he told me so. he is a very curious genius. you must not think, raoul, that he is simply a man who amuses himself by living underground. he does things that no other man could do; he knows things which no- body in the world knows.” “take care, christine, you are making a ghost of him again!” “no, he is not a ghost; he is a man of heaven and earth, that is all.” “a man of heaven and earth . . . that is all! the trap-door lover a nice way to speak of him! . . . and are you still resolved to run away from him?” “yes, to-morrow.” “to-morrow, you will have no resolve left!” “then, raoul, you must run away with me in spite of myself; is that understood?” “i shall be here at twelve to-morrow night; i shall keep my promise, whatever happens. you say that, after listening to the performance, he is to wait for you in the dining-room on the lake?” “yes.” “and how are you to reach him, if you don't know how to go out by the glass?” “why, by going straight to the edge of the lake.” christine opened a box, took out an enormous key and showed it to raoul. “what's that?” he asked. “the key of the gate to the underground passage in the rue scribe.” “i understand, christine. it leads straight to the lake. give it to me, christine, will you?” “never!” she said. “that would be treacherous!” suddenly christine changed color. a mortal pal- lor overspread her features. “oh heavens !” she cried. “erik | erik! have pity on me!” “hold your tongue!” said raoul. “you told me he could hear you!” but the singer's attitude became more and more inexplicable. she wrung her fingers, repeating, with a distraught air: the phantom of the opera “oh, heaven i oh, heaven!” “but what is it? what is it?” raoul implored. “the ring . . . the gold ring he gave me.” “oh, so erik gave you that ring!” “you know he did, raoul! but what you don't know is that, when he gave it to me, he said, ‘i give you back your liberty, christine, on condition that this ring is always on your finger. as long as you keep it, you will be protected against all danger and erik will remain your friend. but woe to you if you ever part with it, for erik will have his revenge!’ . . . my dear, my dear, the ring is gone! woe to us both !” they both looked for the ring, but could not find it. christine refused to be pacified. “it was while i gave you that kiss, up above, under apollo's lyre,” she said. “the ring must have slipped from my finger and dropped into the street! we can never find it. and what misfortunes are in store for us now ! oh, to run away!” “let us run away at once,” raoul insisted, once more. she hesitated. he thought that she was going to say yes. . . . then her bright pupils became dim- med and she said: “no || to-morrow !” and she left him hurriedly, still wringing and rub- bing her fingers, as though she hoped to bring the ring back like that. raoul went home, greatly perturbed at all that he had heard. the phantom of the opera looked out, saw nothing and closed the window again. he went back to bed, shivering, for the night was cold, and put the revolver on the table within his reach. the eyes were still there, at the foot of the bed. were they between the bed and the window-pane or behind the pane, that is to say, on the balcony? that was what raoul wanted to know. he also wanted to know if those eyes belonged to a human being. . . . he wanted to know everything. then, patiently, calmly, he seized his revolver and took aim. he aimed a little above the two eyes. surely, if they were eyes and if above those two eyes there was a forehead and if raoul was not too clumsy the shot made a terrible din amid the silence of the slumbering house. and, while footsteps came hurrying along the passages, raoul sat up with out- stretched arm, ready to fire again, if need be. this time, the two eyes had disappeared. servants appeared, carrying lights; count philippe, terribly anxious: “what is it?” “i think i have been dreaming,” replied the young man. “i fired at two stars that kept me from sleeping.” “you’re raving! are you ill? for god's sake, tell me, raoul: what happened?” and the count seized hold of the revolver. “no, no, i'm not raving. . . besides, we shall soon see .” the trap-door lover he got out of bed, put on a dressing-gown and slippers, took a light from the hands of a servant and, opening the window, stepped out on the balcony. the count saw that the window had been pierced by a bullet at a man's height. raoul was leaning over the balcony with his candle: “aha!” he said. “blood! . . . blood! here, there, more blood! . . . that's a good thing! a ghost who bleeds is less dangerous!” he grinned. “raoul | raoul | raoul l’’ the count was shaking him as though he were try- ing to waken a sleep-walker. “but, my dear brother, i'm not asleep!” raoul pro- tested impatiently. “you can see the blood for your- self. i thought i had been dreaming and firing at two stars. it was erik's eyes . . . and here is his blood! . . . after all, perhaps i was wrong to shoot; and christine is quite capable of never forgiv- ing me. . . . all this would not have happened if i had drawn the curtains before going to bed.” “raoul, have you suddenly gone mad? wake up p" “what, still? you would do better to help me find erik . . . for, after all, a ghost who bleeds can always be found.” the count's valet said: “that is so, sir; there is blood on the balcony.” the other man-servant brought a lamp, by the light of which they examined the balcony carefully. the o the phantom of the opera marks of blood followed the rail till they reached a gutter-spout; then they went up the gutter-spout. “my dear fellow,” said count philippe, “you have fired at a cat.” “the misfortune is,” said raoul, with a grin, “that it's quite possible. with erik, you never know. is it erik? is it the cat? is it the ghost? no, with erik, you can’t tell!” raoul went on making this strange sort of re- marks which corresponded so intimately and logically with the preoccupation of his brain and which, at the same time, tended to persuade many people that his mind was unhinged. the count himself was seized with this idea; and, later, the examining magis- trate, on receiving the report of the commissary of police, came to the same conclusion. “who is erik?” asked the count, pressing his brother's hand. “he is my rival. and, if he's not dead, it's a pity.” he dismissed the servants with a wave of the hand and the two chagnys were left alone. but the men were not out of earshot before the count's valet heard raoul say, distinctly and emphatically: “i shall carry off christine daaé to-night.” this phrase was afterward repeated to m. faure, the examining-magistrate. but no one ever knew exactly what passed between the two brothers at this interview. the servants declared that this was not their first quarrel. their voices penetrated the wall; and it was always an actress called christine daaé that was in question. the trap-door lover i i at breakfast—the early morning breakfast, which the count took in his study—philippe sent for his brother. raoul arrived silent and gloomy. the scene was a very short one. philippe handed his brother a copy of the epoque and said: “read that l” the viscount read: “the latest news in the faubourg is that there is a promise of marriage between mlle. christine daaé, the opera-singer, and m. le vicomte raoul de chagny. if the gossips are to be credited, count philippe has sworn that, for the first time on record, the chagnys shall not keep their promise. but, as love is all-powerful, at the opera as—and even more than–elsewhere, we wonder how count philippe intends to prevent the viscount, his brother, from leading the new margarita to the altar. the two brothers are said to adore each other; but the count is curiously mistaken if he imagines that brotherly love will triumph over love pure and simple.” “you see, raoul,” said the count, “you are making us ridiculous! that little girl has turned your head with her ghost-stories.” the viscount had evidently repeated christine's narrative to his brother, during the night. all that he now said was: “good-by, philippe.” “have you quite made up your mind? you are going to-night? with her?” no reply. “surely you will not do anything so foolish? i shall know how to prevent you!” the trap-door lover trate afterward believed that this shadow was that of the vicomte raoul de chagny; but i do not agree, seeing that that evening, as every evening, the wi- comte de chagny was wearing a tall hat, which hat, besides, was subsequently found. i am more inclined to think that the shadow was that of the ghost, who knew all about the whole affair, as the reader will soon perceive. they were giving faust, as it happened, before a splendid house. the faubourg was magnificently represented; and the paragraph in that morning's epoque had already produced its effect, for all eyes were turned to the box in which count philippe sat alone, apparently in a very indifferent and careless frame of mind. the feminine element in the brilliant audience seemed curiously puzzled; and the viscount's absence gave rise to any amount of whispering be- hind the fans. christine daaé met with a rather cold reception. that special audience could not for- give her for aiming so high. the singer noticed this unfavorable attitude of a portion of the house and was confused by it. the regular frequenters of the opera, who pre- tended to know the truth about the viscount's love- story, exchanged significant smiles at certain passages in margarita's part; and they made a show of turn- ing and looking at philippe de chagny's box when christine sang: “i wish i could but know who was he that addressed me, if he was noble, or, at least, what his name is.” the phantom of the opera the count sat with his chin on his hand and seemed to pay no attention to these manifestations. he kept his eyes fixed on the stage; but his thoughts appeared to be far away. christine lost her self-assurance more and more. she trembled. she felt on the verge of a breakdown. carolus fonta wondered if she was ill, if she could keep the stage until the end of the garden act. in the front of the house, people remembered the catastrophe that had befallen carlotta at the end of that act and the historic “co-ack” which had mo- mentarily interrupted her career in paris. just then, carlotta made her entrance in a box facing the stage, a sensational entrance. poor chris- tine raised her eyes upon this fresh subject of excite- ment. she recognized her rival. she thought she saw a sneer on her lips. that saved her. she forgot everything, in order to triumph once more. from that moment the prima donna sang with all her heart and soul. she tried to surpass all that she had done till then; and she succeeded. in the last act when she began the invocation to the angels, she made all the members of the audience feel as though they too had wings. in the center of the amphitheater a man stood up and remained standing, facing the singer. it was raoul. “holy angel, in heaven blessed . . . and christine, her arms outstretched, her throat the trap-door lover filled with music, the glory of her hair falling over her bare shoulders, uttered the divine cry: “my spirit longs with thee to rest!” it was at that moment that the stage was suddenly plunged in darkness. it happened so quickly that the spectators hardly had time to utter a sound of stupe- faction, for the gas at once lit up the stage again. but christine daaé was no longer there! what had become of her? what was that miracle? all exchanged glances without understanding, and the excitement at once reached its height. nor was the tension any less great on the stage itself. men rushed from the wings to the spot where christine had been singing that very instant. the performance was in- terrupted amid the greatest disorder. where had christine gone? what witchcraft had snatched her away before the eyes of thousands of enthusiastic onlookers and from the arms of carolus fonta himself? it was as though the angels had really carried her up “to rest.” raoul, still standing up in the amphitheater, had uttered a cry. count philippe had sprung to his feet in his box. people looked at the stage, at the count, at raoul, and wondered if this curious event was con- nected in any way with the paragraph in that morn- ing's paper. but raoul hurriedly left his seat, the count disappeared from his box and, while the curtain was lowered, the subscribers rushed to the door that led behind the scenes. the rest of the audience waited i the phantom of the opera amid an indescribable hubbub. every one spoke at once. every one tried to suggest an explanation of the extraordinary incident. at last, the curtain rose slowly and carolus fonta stepped to the conductor's desk and, in a sad and serious voice, said: “ladies and gentlemen, an unprecedented event has taken place and thrown us into a state of the greatest alarm. our sister-artist, christine daaé, has disap- peared before our eyes and nobody can tell us how !” chapter xiv the singular attitude of a safety-pin ehind the curtain, there was an indescribable crowd. artists, scene-shifters, dancers, supers, choristers, subscribers were all asking questions, shouting and hustling one another. “what became of her?” “she's run away.” “with the vicomte de chagny, of course!” “no, with the count!” - “ah, here's carlotta! carlotta did the trick!” “no, it was the ghost!” and a few laughed, especially as a careful examina- tion of the trap-doors and boards had put the idea of an accident out of the question. amid this noisy throng, three men stood talking in a low voice and with despairing gestures. they were gabriel, the chorus-master; mercier, the acting-man- ager; and rémy, the secretary. they retired to a corner of the lobby by which the stage communicates with the wide passage leading to the foyer of the bal- let. here they stood and argued behind some enor- mous “properties.” “i knocked at the door,” said rémy. “they did not answer. perhaps they are not in the office. in any case, it's impossible to find out, for they took the keys with them.” the attitude of a safety-pin mauclair was the gas-man, who dispensed day and night at will on the stage of the opera. “mauclair is not to be found !” repeated mercier, taken aback. “well, what about his assistants?” “there's no mauclair and no assistants! no one at the lights, i tell you! you can imagine,” roared the stage-manager, “that that little girl must have been carried off by somebody else: she didn't run away by herself! it was a calculated stroke and we have to find out about it. . . . and what are the managers doing all this time? . . . i gave orders that no one was to go down to the lights and i posted a fireman in front of the gas-man's box be- side the organ. wasn’t that right?” “yes, yes, quite right, quite right. and now let's wait for the commissary.” the stage-manager walked away, shrugging his shoulders, fuming, muttering insults at those milksops who remained quietly squatting in a corner while the whole theater was topsyturvy. gabriel and mercier were not so quiet as all that. only they had received an order that paralyzed them. the managers were not to be disturbed on any ac- count. rémy had violated that order and met with success. at that moment he returned from his new expedi- tion, wearing a curiously startled air. “well, have you seen them?” asked mercier. “moncharmin opened the door at last. his eyes were starting out of his head. i thought he meant to strike me. i could not get a word in; and what do the phantom of the opera you think he shouted at me? have you a safety-pin?’ “no !’ ‘well, then, clear out! i tried to tell him that an unheard-of thing had happened on the stage, but he roared, ‘a safety-pin i give me a safety-pin at once!” a boy heard him—he was bellowing like a bull—ran up with a safety-pin and gave it to him; whereupon moncharmin slammed the door in my face, and there you are !” “and couldn't you have said, ‘christine daaé.’” “i should like to have seen you in my place. he was foaming at the mouth. he thought of nothing but his safety-pin. i believe, if they hadn't brought him one on the spot, he would have fallen down in a fit ! . . oh, all this isn't natural; and our mana- gers are going mad! . . besides, it can't go on like this! i'm not used to being treated in that fashion l” suddenly gabriel whispered: “it's another trick of o. g.'s.” rémy gave a grin, mercier a sigh and seemed about to speak . . . but, meeting gabriel's eye, said nothing. however, mercier felt his responsibility increased as the minutes passed without the managers' appear- ing; and, at last, he could stand it no longer. “look here, i'll go and hunt them out myself!” gabriel, turning very gloomy and serious, stopped him. “be careful what you're doing, mercier! if they're staying in their office, it's probably because the attitude of a safety-pin they have to ! o. g. has more than one trick in his bag!” but mercier shook his head. “that's their lookout! i'm going! if people had listened to me, the police would have known every- thing long ago!” and he went. “what's everything?” asked rémy. “what was there to tell the police? why don’t you answer, ga- briel? . . . ah, so you know something! well, you would do better to tell me, too, if you don't want me to shout out that you/are all going mad! . . . yes, that's what you are: mad!” gabriel put on a stupid look and pretended not to understand the private secretary's unseemly outburst. “what something am i supposed to know?” he said. “i don’t know what you mean.” rémy began to lose his temper. “this evening, richard and moncharmin were be- having like lunatics, here, between the acts.” “i never noticed it,” growled gabriel, very much annoyed. “then you're the only one! . . . do you think that i didn’t see them? . . . and that m. parabise, the manager of the crédit central, noticed nothing? . . . and that m. de la borderie, the ambassador, has no eyes to see with? why, all the subscribers were pointing at our man- agers!” “but what were our managers doing?” asked ga- briel, putting on his most innocent air. the attitude of a safety-pin m. le directeur." am i supposed to have an infec- tious disease?” “it’s incredible!” “and, a little later, when m. de la borderie went up to m. richard, didn't you see m. moncharmin fling himself between them and hear him exclaim, ‘m. l'ambassadeur, i entreat you not to touch m. le directeur’?” “it's terrible! . . . and what was richard doing meanwhile?” “what was he doing? why, you saw him he turned about, bowed in front of him, though there was nobody in front of him, and withdrew back- ward.” “backward?” “and moncharmin, behind richard, also turned about; that is, he described a semicircle behind rich- ard and also walked backward! . . . and they went like that to the staircase leading to the managers' office: backward, backward, backward/ e well, if they are not mad, will you explain what it means?” “perhaps they were practising a figure in the bal- \let,” suggested gabriel, without much conviction in |his voice. the secretary was furious at this wretched joke, made at so dramatic a moment. he knit his brows and contracted his lips. then he put his mouth to gabriel's ear: “don’t be so sly, gabriel. there are things going on for which you and mercier are partly responsible.” the phantom of the opera “what do you mean?” asked gabriel. “christine daaé is not the only one who suddenly disappeared to-night.” “oh, nonsense!” “there's no nonsense about it. perhaps you can tell me why, when mother giry came down to the foyer just now, mercier took her by the hand and hurried her away with him?” “really?” said gabriel, “i never saw it.” “you did see it, gabriel, for you went with mercier and mother giry to mercier's office. since then, you and mercier have been seen, but no one has seen mother giry.” “do you think we've eaten her?” “no, but you’ve locked her up in the office; and any one passing the office can hear her yelling, ‘oh, the scoundrels l oh, the scoundrels l” at this point of this singular conversation, mercier arrived, all out of breath. “there!” he said, in a gloomy voice. “it's worse than ever! . . . i shouted, ‘it’s a serious mat- ter! open the door! it's i, mercier. i heard foot- steps. the door opened and moncharmin appeared. he was very pale. he said, ‘what do you want? i answered, “some one has run away with christine daaé. what do you think he said? “and a good job, too!’ and he shut the door, after putting this in my hand.” mercier opened his hand; rémy and gabriel looked. “the safety-pin l” cried rémy. the attitude of a safety-pin “strangel strange!” muttered gabriel, who could not help shivering. suddenly a voice made them all three turn round. “i beg your pardon, gentlemen. could you tell me where christine daaé is?” in spite of the seriousness of the circumstances, the absurdity of the question would have made them roar with laughter, if they had not caught sight of a face so sorrow-stricken that they were at once seized with pity. it was the vicomte raoul de chagny. chapter xv christine christine! aoul’s first thought, after christine daaé's fantastic disappearance, was to accuse erik. he no longer doubted the almost supernatural powers of the angel of music, in this domain of the opera in which he had set up his empire. and raoul rushed on the stage, in a mad fit of love and despair. “christine! christine!” he moaned, calling to her as he felt that she must be calling to him from the depths of that dark pit to which the monster had carried her. “christine! christine!” and he seemed to hear the girl's screams through the frail boards that separated him from her. he bent forward, he listened, . . . he wandered over the stage like a madman. ah, to descend, to descend into that pit of darkness every entrance to which was closed to him, . . . for the stairs that led below the stage were forbidden to one and all that night! “christine! christine! . . .” people pushed him aside, laughing. they made fun of him. they thought the poor lover's brain was gone! by what mad road, through what passages of mys- tery and darkness known to him alone had erik dragged that pure-souled £d to the awful haunt, i christine! christine! i with the larim- room, opening out on the lake? “christine ! c" . . . why don't you answer? . . . are you alive? .” hideous thoughts flashed through raoul's congested brain. of course, erik must have discovered their secret, must have known that christine had played him false. what a vengeance would be his! and raoul thought again of the yellow stars that had come, the night before, and roamed over his balcony. why had he not put them out for good? there were some men's eyes that dilated in the dark- ness and shone like stars or like cats' eyes. certainly albinos, who seemed to have rabbits’ eyes by day, had cats' eyes at night: everybody knew that! . yes, yes, he had undoubtedly fired at erik. why had he not killed him? the monster had fled up the gutter-spout like a cat or a convict who—everybody knew that also—would scale the very skies, with the help of a gutter-spout. . . . no doubt erik was at that time contemplating some decisive step against raoul, but he had been wounded and had escaped to turn against poor christine instead. such were the cruel thoughts that haunted raoul as he ran to the singer's dressing-room. “christinel christine!” bitter tears scorched the boy's eyelids as he saw scattered over the furniture the clothes which his beautiful bride was to have worn at the hour of their flight. oh, why had she refused to leave earlier? why had she toyed with the threatening catastro- the phantom of the opera phe? why toyed with the monster's heart? why, in a final access of pity, had she insisted on flinging, as a last sop to that demon's soul, her divine song: “holy angel, in heaven blessed, my spirit longs with thee to rest!” raoul, his throat filled with sobs, oaths and insults, fumbled awkwardly at the great mirror that had opened one night, before his eyes, to let christine pass to the murky dwelling below. he pushed, pressed, groped about, but the glass apparently obeyed no one but erik. . . . perhaps actions were not enough with a glass of the kind? perhaps he was expected to utter certain words? when he was a little boy, he had heard that there were things that obeyed the spoken word | suddenly, raoul remembered something about a gate opening into the rue scribe, an underground passage running straight to the rue scribe from the lake. . . . yes, christine had told him about that. . . . and, when he found that the key was no longer in the box, he nevertheless ran to the rue scribe. outside, in the street, he passed his trembling hands over the huge stones, felt for outlets . . . met with iron bars . . . were those they? or these? . . . or could it be that air-hole? • he plunged his useless eyes through the bars. . . . how dark it was in there! . . . he listened. . . . all was silence! . . . he went round the building . . . and came to bigger christine! christine! bars, immense gates! . . . it was the entrance to the cour de l'administration. raoul rushed into the doorkeeper's lodge. “i beg your pardon, madame, could you tell me where to find a gate or door, made of bars, iron bars, opening into the rue scribe \ . . . and leading to the lake? . . . you know the lake i mean? • . yes, the underground lake . . . under the opera.” s “yes, sir, i know there is a lake under the opera, but i don’t know which door leads to it. i have never been there!” “and the rue scribe, madame, the rue scribe? have you never been to the rue scribe?” the woman laughed, screamed with laughter! raoul darted away, roaring with anger, ran up-stairs, four stairs at a time, down-stairs, rushed through the whole of the business side of the opera-house, found himself once more in the light of the stage. he stopped, with his heart thumping in his chest: suppose christine daaé had been found? he saw a group of men and asked: “i beg your pardon, gentlemen. could you tell me , where christine daaé is?” and somebody laughed. at the same moment the stage buzzed with a new sound and, amid a crowd of men in evening-dress, all talking and gesticulating together, appeared a man who seemed very calm and displayed a pleasant face, all pink and chubby-cheeked, crowned with curly hair and lit up by a pair of wonderfully serene blue eyes. oo the phantom of the opera mercier, the acting-manager, called the vicomte de chagny's attention to him and said: “this is the gentleman to whom you should put your question, monsieur. let me introduce m. mifroid, the commissary of police.” “ah, m. le wicomte de chagny! delighted to meet you, monsieur,” said the commissary. “would you mind coming with me? . . . and now where are the managers? . . . where are the managers? . . .” mercier did not answer, and rémy, the secretary, volunteered the information that the managers were locked up in their office and that they knew nothing as yet of what had happened. “you don't mean to say sol let us go up to the office!” and m. mifroid, followed by an ever-increasing crowd, turned toward the business side of the build- ing. mercier took advantage of the confusion to slip a key into gabriel's hand: “this is all going very badly,” he whispered. “you had better let mother giry out.” and gabriel moved away. they soon came to the managers' door. mercier stormed in vain: the door remained closed. “open in the name of the law !” commanded m. mifroid, in a loud and rather anxious voice. at last the door was opened. all rushed in to the office, on the commissary's heels. raoul was the last to enter. as he was about to a universal picture with lon chaney. .whe phantom of the opera. “i am red death" the phantom said as he walked down the grand staircase at the masked ball. christine | christine! oi £ollow the rest into the room, a hand was laid on his shoulder and he heard these words spoken in his ear: “erik's secrets concern no one but himself!” he turned around, with a stifled exclamation. the hand that was laid on his shoulder was now placed on the lips of a person with an ebony skin, with eyes of jade and with an astrakhan cap on his head: the persian | the stranger kept up the gesture that recommended discretion and then, at the moment when the aston- ished viscount was about to ask the reason of his mys- terious intervention, bowed and disappeared. chapter xvi mme. giry's astounding revelations as to her personal relations with the opera ghost efore following the commissary into the manager's office i must describe certain ex- traordinary occurrences that took place in that office which rémy and mercier had vainly tried to enter and into which mm. richard and moncharmin had locked themselves with an object which the reader does not yet know, but which it is my duty, as an his- torian, to reveal without further postponement. i have had occasion to say that the managers' mood had undergone a disagreeable change for some time past and to convey the fact that this change was due not only to the fall of the chandelier on the famous night of the gala performance. the reader must know that the ghost had calmly been paid his first twenty thousand francs. oh, there had been wailing and gnashing of teeth, indeed! and yet the thing had happened as simply as could be. one morning, the managers found on their table an envelope addressed to “monsieur o. g. (private)” and accompanied by a note from o. g. himself: the time has come to carry out the clause in the memorandum-book. please put twenty notes of a thousand francs each into this envelope, seal it with your own seal and hand it to mme. giry, who will do what is necessary. o mme. giry's revelations o the managers did not hesitate; without wasting time in asking how these confounded communications came to be delivered in an office which they were care- ful to keep locked, they seized this opportunity of laying hands on the mysterious blackmailer. and, after telling the whole story, under the promise of secrecy, to gabriel and mercier, they put the twenty thousand francs into the envelope and without asking for explanations, handed it to mme. giry, who had been reinstated in her functions. the box-keeper dis- played no astonishment. i need hardly say that she was well watched. she went straight to the ghost's box and placed the precious envelope on the little shelf attached to the ledge. the two managers, as well as gabriel and mercier, were hidden in such a way that they did not lose sight of the envelope for a second during the performance and even afterward, for, as the envelope had not moved, those who watched it did not move either; and mme. giry went away while the managers, gabriel and mercier were still there. at last, they became tired of waiting and opened the envelope, after ascertaining that the seals had not been broken. at first sight, richard and moncharmin thought that the notes were still there; but soon they per- ceived that they were not the same. the twenty real notes were gone and had been replaced by twenty notes of the “bank of st. farce”!* *flash notes drawn on the “bank of st. farce” in france correspond with those drawn on the “bank of engraving” in england.—translator's note. the phantom of the opera the managers' rage and fright were unmistakable. moncharmin wanted to send for the commissary of police, but richard objected. he no doubt had a plan, for he said: “don’t let us make ourselves ridiculous! all paris would laugh at us. o. g. has won the first game: we will win the second.” he was thinking of the next month's allowance. nevertheless, they had been so absolutely tricked that they were bound to suffer a certain dejection. and, upon my word, it was not difficult to understand. we must not forget that the managers had an idea at the back of their minds, all the time, that this strange incident might be an unpleasant practical joke on the part of their predecessors and that it would not do to divulge it prematurely. on the other hand, moncharmin was sometimes troubled with a suspicion of richard himself, who occasionally took fanciful whims into his head. and so they were content to await events, while keeping an eye on mother giry. richard would not have her spoken to. “if she is a confederate,” he said, “the notes are gone long ago. but, in my opinion, she is merely an idiot.” “she's not the only idiot in this business,” said moncharmin pensively. “well, who could have thought it?” moaned rich- ard. “but don’t be afraid . . . next time, i shall have taken my precautions.” the next time fell on the same day that beheld the disappearance of christine daaé. in the morning, a mme. giry's revelations note from the ghost reminded them that the money was due. it read: do just as you did last time. it went very well. put the twenty thousand in the envelope and hand it to our excellent mme. giry. and the note was accompanied by the usual en- velope. they had only to insert the notes. this was done about half an hour before the cur- tain rose on the first act of faust. richard showed the envelope to moncharmin. then he counted the twenty thousand-franc notes in front of him and put the notes into the envelope, but without closing it. “and now,” he said, “let’s have mother giry in.” the old woman was sent for. she entered with a sweeping courtesy. she still wore her black taffeta dress, the color of which was rapidly turning to rust and lilac, to say nothing of the dingy bonnet. she seemed in a good temper. she at once said: “good evening, gentlemen! it's for the envelope, i suppose?” “yes, mme. giry,” said richard, most amiably. “for the envelope . . . and something else be- sides.” “at your service, m. richard, at your service. and what is the something else, please?” “first of all, mme. giry, i have a little question to put to you.” “by all means, m. richard: mme. giry is here to answer you.” “are you still on good terms with the ghost?” o the phantom of the opera “couldn’t be better, sir; couldn’t be better.” “ah, we are delighted. . . . look here, mme. giry,” said richard, in the tone of making an important confidence. “we may just as well tell you, among ourselves . . . you're no fool!” “why, sir,” exclaimed the box-keeper, stopping the pleasant nodding of the black feathers in her dingy bonnet, “i assure you no one has ever doubted that!” “we are quite agreed and we shall soon understand one another. the story of the ghost is all humbug, isn’t it? . . . well, still between ourselves, it has lasted long enough.” mme. giry looked at the managers as though they were talking chinese. she walked up to richard's table and asked, rather anxiously: “what do you mean? i don’t understand.” “oh, you understand quite well. in any case, you've got to understand. . . . and, first of all, tell us his name.” - “whose name?” “the name of the man whose accomplice you are, mme. giry!” “i am the ghost's accomplice? i? . . . his accomplice in what, pray?” “you do all he wants.” “oh! he's not very troublesome, you know.” “and does he still tip you?” “i mustn't complain.” “how much does he give you for bringing him that envelope?” “ten francs.” mme. giry's revelations “you poor thing! that's not much, is it? “why?” “i’ll tell you that presently, mme. giry. just now we should like to know for what extraordinary rea- son you have given yourself body and soul, to this ghost . . . mme. giry's friendship and devo- tion are not to be bought for five francs or ten francs.” “that's true enough. . . . and i can tell you the reason, sir. there's no disgrace about it. on the contrary.” “we’re quite sure of that, mme. giry!” “well, it's like this . . . only the ghost doesn't like me to talk about his business.” “indeed?” sneered richard. “but this is a matter that concerns myself alone. well, it was in box five one evening, i found a letter addressed to myself, a sort of note written in red ink. i needn't read the letter to you, sir; i know it by heart, and i shall never forget it if i live to be a hundred !” and mme. giry, drawing herself up, recited the letter with touching eloquence: madam: . mlle. ménétrier, leader of the ballet, be- came marquise de cussy. . mlle. marie taglioni, a dancer, became comtesse gilbert des voisins. . la sota, a dancer, married a brother of the king of spain. . lola montes, a dancer, became the mor- the phantom of the opera ganatic wife of king louis of bavaria and was created countess of landsfeld. . mlle. maria, a dancer, became baronne d'herneville. . thérèsa hessier, a dancer, married dom fernando, brother to the king of portugal. richard and moncharmin listened to the old woman, who, as she proceeded with the enumeration of these glorious nuptials, swelled out, took courage and, at last, in a voice bursting with pride, flung out the last sentence of the prophetic letter: . meg giry, empress! exhausted by this supreme effort, the box-keeper fell into a chair, saying: “gentlemen, the letter was signed, “opera ghost.” i had heard much of the ghost, but only half be- lieved in him. from the day when he declared that my little meg, the flesh of my flesh, the fruit of my womb, would be empress, i believed in him alto- gether.” and really it was not necessary to make a long study of mme. giry's excited features to understand what could be got out of that fine intellect with the two words “ghost” and “empress.” but who pulled the strings of that extraordinary puppet? that was the question. “you have never seen him; he speaks to you and you believe all he says?” asked moncharmin. “yes. to begin with, i owe it to him that my little meg was promoted to be the leader of a row. i mme. giry's revelations said to the ghost, “if she is to be empress in , there is no time to lose; she must become a leader at once.’ he said, ‘look upon it as done.’ and he had only a word to say to m. poligny and the thing was done.” “so you see that m. poligny saw him!” “no, not any more than i did; but he heard him. the ghost said a word in his ear, you know, on the evening when he left box five, looking so dreadfully pale.” moncharmin heaved a sigh. “what a business!” he groaned. “ah!” said mme. giry. “i always thought there were secrets between the ghost and m. poligny. any- thing that the ghost asked m. poligny to do m. poligny did. m. poligny could refuse the ghost nothing.” “you hear, richard: poligny could refuse the ghost nothing.” “yes, yes, i hear!” said richard. “m. poligny is a friend of the ghost; and, as mme. giry is a friend of m. poligny, there we are ! . . . but i don’t care a hang about m. poligny,” he added roughly. “the only person whose fate really interests me is mme. giry. . . . mme. giry, do you know what is in this envelope?” “why, of course not,” she said. “well, look.” mme. giry looked into the envelope with a lack- luster eye, which soon recovered its brilliancy. “thousand-franc notes !” she cried. io the phantom of the opera “yes, mme. giry, thousand-franc notes! and you knew it!” “i, sir? i? . . . i swear - “don’t swear, mme. giry! . . . and now i will tell you the second reason why i sent for you. mme. giry, i am going to have you arrested.” the two black feathers on the dingy bonnet, which usually affected the attitude of two notes of interroga- tion, changed into two notes of exclamation; as for the bonnet itself, it swayed in menace on the old lady's tempestuous chignon. surprise, indignation, protest and dismay were furthermore displayed by little meg's mother in a sort of extravagant movement of offended virtue, half bound, half slide, that brought her right under the nose of m. richard, who could not help pushing back his chair. “have me arrested!” the mouth that spoke those words seemed to spit the three teeth that were left to it into richard's face. m. richard behaved like a hero. he retreated no farther. his threatening forefinger seemed already to be pointing out the keeper of box five to the absent magistrates. “i am going to have you arrested, mme. giry, as a thief l” * “say that again!” and mme. giry caught mr. manager richard a mighty box on the ear, before mr. manager mon- charmin had time to intervene. but it was not the withered hand of the angry old beldame that fell on the managerial ear, but the envelope itself, the % mme. giry's revelations ii cause of all the trouble, the magic envelope that open- ed with the blow, scattering the bank-notes, which escaped in a fantastic whirl of giant butterflies. the two managers gave a shout, and the same thought made them both go on their knees, feverishly picking up and hurriedly examining the precious scraps of paper. “are they still genuine, moncharmin?” “are they still genuine, richard?” “yes, they are still genuine!” above their heads, mame giry's three teeth were clashing in a noisy contest, full of hideous interjec- tions. but all that could be clearly distinguished was this leit-motif: \ “i, a thief! . . . i, a thief, i?” she choked with rage. she shouted: “i never heard of such a thing!” and, suddenly, she darted up to richard again. “in any case,” she yelped, “you, m. richard, ought to know better than i where the twenty thou- sand francs went to !” “i?” asked richard, astounded. “and how should i know?” moncharmin, looking severe and dissatisfied, at once insisted that the good lady should explain her- self. “what does this mean, mme. giry?” he asked. “and why do you say that m. richard ought to know better than you where the twenty-thousand francs went to?” as for richard, who felt himself turning red un- the phantom of the opera der moncharmin’s eyes, he took mme. giry by the wrist and shook it violently. in a voice growling and rolling like thunder, he roared: “why should i know better than you where the twenty-thousand francs went to? why? answer me!” “because they went into your pocket!” gasped the old woman, looking at him as if he were the devil incarnate. richard would have rushed upon mme. giry, if moncharmin had not stayed his avenging hand and hastened to ask her, more gently: “how can you suspect my partner, m. richard, of putting twenty-thousand francs in his pocket?” “i never said that,” declared mame giry, “seeing that it was myself who put the twenty-thousand francs into m. richard's pocket.” and she added, under her voice, “there ! it's out! . . . and may the ghost forgive me!” richard began bellowing anew, but moncharmin authoritatively ordered him to be silent. “allow me! allow me! let the woman explain herself. let me question her.” and he added: “it is really astonishing that you should take up such a tone! . . . we are on the verge of clearing up the whole mystery. and you're in a rage | you're wrong to behave like that. . . i'm enjoy- ing myself immensely.” mame giry, like the martyr that she was, raised her head, her face beaming with faith in her own innocence. the phantom of the opera i went down to the ballet-foyer for a moment. i was on the foyer steps. . . . the under-secretary and his chief clerk were in the foyer itself. . . . i suddenly turned around . . . you had passed behind me, mme. giry. . . . you seemed to push against me. . . . oh, i can see you still, i can see you still!” “yes, that's it, sir, that's it. i had just finished my little business. that pocket of yours, sir, is very handy!” and mame giry once more suited the action to the word. she passed behind m. richard and, so nim- bly that moncharmin himself was impressed by it, slipped the envelope into the pocket of one of the tails of m. richard's dress-coat. “of course!” exclaimed richard, looking a little pale. “it's very clever of o. g. the problem which he had to solve was this: how to do away with any dangerous intermediary between the man who gives the twenty-thousand francs and the man who re- ceives it. and by far the best thing he could hit upon was to come and take the money from my pocket without my noticing it, as i myself did not know that it was there. it's wonderful!” “oh, wonderful, no doubt!” moncharmin agreed. “only, you forget, richard, that i provided ten-thou- sand francs of the twenty and that nobody put any- thing in my pocket!” chapter xvii the safety-pin again oncharmin's last phrase so clearly ex- pressed the suspicion in which he now held his partner that it was bound to cause a stormy ex- planation, at the end of which it was agreed that richard should yield to all moncharmin’s wishes, with the object of helping him to discover the mis- creant who was victimizing them. this brings us to the interval after the garden act, with the strange conduct observed by m. rémy and those curious lapses from the dignity that might be expected of the managers. it was arranged between richard and moncharmin, first, that richard should repeat the exact movements which he had made on the night of the disappearance of the first twenty- thousand francs; and, second, that moncharmin should not for an instant lose sight of richard's coat- tail pocket, into which mame giry was to slip the twenty-thousand francs. m. richard went and placed himself at the iden- tical spot where he had stood when he bowed to the under-secretary for fine arts. m. moncharmin took up his position a few steps behind him. mame giry passed, rubbed up against m. richard, got rid of her twenty-thousand francs in the mana- the phantom of the opera ger's coat-tail pocket and disappeared. . . . or rather she was conjured away. in accordance with the instructions received from moncharmin a few minutes earlier, mercier took the good lady to the acting- manager's office and turned the key on her, thus mak- ing it impossible for her to communicate with her ghost. meanwhile, m. richard was bending and bowing and scraping and walking backward, just as if he had that high and mighty minister, the under-secretary for fine arts, before him. only, though these marks of politeness would have created no astonishment if the under-secretary of state had really been in front of m. richard, they caused an easily comprehensible amazement to the spectators of this very natural but quite inexplicable scene when m. richard had no- body in front of him. m. richard bowed . . . to nobody; bent his back . . . before nobody; and walked back- ward . . . before nobody. . . . and, a few steps behind him, m. moncharmin did the same thing that he was doing, in addition to pushing away m. rémy and begging m. de la borderie, the am- bassador, and the manager of the crédit central “not to touch m. le directeur.” moncharmin, who had his own ideas, did not want richard to come to him presently, when the twenty- thousand francs were gone, and say: “perhaps it was the ambassador . . . or the manager of the crédit central . . . or rémy.” the more so as, at the time of the first scene, as o the phantom of the opera the stage and followed close behind you down this passage.” “that's true!” sighed richard, shaking his head and passively obeying moncharmin. two minutes later, the joint managers locked them- selves into their office. moncharmin himself put the key in his pocket: “we remained locked up like this, last time,” he said, “until you left the opera to go home.” “that's so. no one came and disturbed us, i sup- pose?” “no one.” “then,” said richard, who was trying to collect his memory, “then i must certainly have been robbed on my way home from the opera.” “no,” said moncharmin in a drier tone than ever, “no, that's impossible. for i dropped you in my cab. the twenty-thousand francs disappeared at your * place: there's not a shadow of a doubt about that.” “it's incredible!” protested richard. “i am sure of my servants . . . and if one of them had done it, he would have disappeared since.” moncharmin shrugged his shoulders, as though to ! say that he did not wish to enter into details, and | richard began to think that moncharmin was treat- ing him in a very insupportable fashion. “moncharmin, i’ve had enough of this!” “richard, i’ve had too much of it!” “do you dare to suspect me?” “yes, of a silly joke.” “one doesn’t joke with twenty-thousand francs.” the safety-pin again i “that's what i think,” declared moncharmin, un- folding a newspaper and ostentatiously studying its contents. “what are you doing?” asked richard. “are you going to read the paper next?” “yes, richard, until i take you home.” “like last time?” “yes, like last time.” richard snatched the paper from moncharmin's hands. moncharmin stood up, more irritated than ever, and found himself faced by an exasperated richard, who, crossing his arms on his chest, said: “look here, i’m thinking of this, i’m thinking of what i might think if, like last time, after my spend- ing the evening alone with you, you brought me home and if, at the moment of parting, i perceived that twenty-thousand francs had disappeared from my coat-pocket . . . like last time.” “and what might you think?” asked moncharmin, crimson with rage. “i might think that, as you hadn't left me by a foot's breadth and as, by your own wish, you were the only one to approach me, like last time, i might think that, if that twenty-thousand francs was no longer in my pocket, it stood a very good chance of being in yours!” moncharmin leaped up at the suggestion. “oh!” he shouted. “a safety-pin l’” “what do you want a safety-pin for?” “to fasten you up with ! . . . a safety-pin' a safety-pin l” the phantom of the opera “you want to fasten me with a safety-pin?” “yes, to fasten you to the twenty-thousand francs | then, whether it's here, or on the drive from here to your place, or at your place, you will feel the hand that pulls at your pocket and you will see if it's mine! oh, so you're suspecting me now, are you? a safety-pin l’” and that was the moment when moncharmin open- ed the door on the passage and shouted: “a safety-pin l . . . somebody give me a safety-pin l” and we also know how, at the same moment, rémy, who had no safety-pin, was received by mon- charmin, while a boy procured the pin so eagerly longed for. and what happened was this: mon- charmin first locked the door again. then he knelt down behind richard's back. “i hope,” he said, “that the notes are still there?” “so do i,” said richard. “the real ones?” asked moncharmin, resolved not to be “had” this time. “look for yourself,” said richard. “i refuse to touch them.” moncharmin took the envelope from richard's pocket and drew out the bank-notes with a trembling hand, for, this time, in order frequently to make sure of the presence of the notes, he had not sealed the envelope nor even fastened it. he felt reassured on finding that they were all there and quite genuine. he put them back in the tail-pocket and pinned them the safety-pin again with great care. then he sat down behind richard's coat-tails and kept his eyes fixed on them, while richard, sitting at his writing-table, did not stir. “a little patience, richard,” said moncharmin. “we have only a few minutes to wait. . . . the clock will soon strike twelve. last time, we left at the last stroke of twelve.” “oh, i shall have all the patience necessary!” the time passed, slow, heavy, mysterious, stifling. richard tried to laugh. “i shall end by believing in the omnipotence of the ghost,” he said. “just now, don't you find something uncomfortable, disquieting, alarming in the atmos- phere of this room?” “you’re quite right,” said moncharmin, who was really impressed. “the ghost!” continued richard, in a low voice, as though fearing lest he should be overheard by invisible ears. “the ghost! suppose, all the same, it were a ghost who puts the magic envelopes on the table . . . who talks in box five . . . who killed joseph buquet . . . who unhooked the chandelier . . . and who robs us! for, after all, after all, after all, there is no one here except you and me, and, if the notes disappear and neither you nor i have anything to do with it, well, we shall have to believe in the ghost . . . in the ghost.” at that moment, the clock on the mantlepiece gave its warning click and the first stroke of twelve struck. the two managers shuddered. the perspiration a- the phantom of the opera streamed from their foreheads. the twelfth stroke sounded strangely in their ears. when the clock stopped, they gave a sigh and rose from their chairs. “i think we can go now,” said moncharmin. “i think so,” richard agreed. “before we go, do you mind if i look in your pocket?” “but, of course, moncharmin, you must/ well?” he asked, as moncharmin was feeling at the pocket. “well, i can feel the pin.” “of course, as you said, we can't be robbed with- out noticing it.” but moncharmin, whose hands were still fumbling, bellowed: “i can feel the pin, but i can't feel the notes “come, no joking, moncharmin! . . . this isn't the time for it.” “well, feel for yourself.” richard tore off his coat. the two managers turned the pocket inside out. the pocket was empty. and the curious thing was that the pin remained, stuck in the same place. richard and moncharmin turned pale. there was no longer any doubt about the witchcraft. “the ghost!” muttered moncharmin. but richard suddenly sprang upon his partner. “no one but you has touched my pocket! give me back my twenty-thousand francs | . . . give me back my twenty-thousand francs | .” !” the safety-pin again “on my soul,” sighed moncharmin, who was ready to swoon, “on my soul, i swear that i haven’t got it!” then somebody knocked at the door. monchar- min opened it automatically, seemed hardly to recog- nize mercier, his business-manager, exchanged a few words with him, without knowing what he was say- ing and, with an unconscious movement, put the safety-pin, for which he had no further use, into the hands of his bewildered subordinate. . . . chapter xviii the commissary, the viscount and the persian. he first words of the commissary of police, on entering the managers' office, were to ask after the missing prima donna. “is christine daaé here?” “christine daaé here?” echoed richard. “no. why?” as for moncharmin, he had not the strength left to utter a word. richard repeated, for the commissary and the com- pact crowd which had followed him into the office observed an impressive silence. “why do you ask if christine daaé is here, m. le commissaire?” “because she has to be found,” declared the com- missary of police solemnly. “what do you mean, she has to be found? has she disappeared?” “in the middle of the performance!” “in the middle of the performance? this is ex- traordinary!” “isn’t it? and what is quite as extraordinary is that you should first learn it from me!” “yes,” said richard, taking his head in his hands and muttering. “what is this new business? oh, it's enough to make a man send in his resignation!” the phantom of the opera richard and moncharmin shook their heads, with- out even speaking. “oh,” said the viscount, “those gentlemen have heard of the opera ghost. well, i am in a position to state that the opera ghost and the angel of music are one and the same person; and his real name is erik.” m. mifroid rose and looked at raoul attentively. “i beg your pardon, monsieur, but is it your in- tention to make fun of the law? and, if not, what is all this about the opera ghost?” “i say that these gentlemen have heard of him.” “gentlemen, it appears that you know the opera ghost?” richard rose, with the remaining hairs of his mustache in his hand. “no, m. commissary, no, we do not know him, but we wish that we did, for this very evening he has robbed us of twenty-thousand francs!” and richard turned a terrible look on monchar- min, which seemed to say: “give me back the twenty-thousand francs, or i'll tell the whole story.” moncharmin understood what he meant, for, with a distracted gesture, he said: “oh, tell everything and have done with it!” as for mifroid, he looked at the managers and at raoul by turns and wondered whether he had strayed into a lunatic asylum. he passed his hand through his hair. “a ghost,” he said, “who, on the same evening, the commissary and wiscount carries off an opera-singer and steals twenty-thousand francs is a ghost who must have his hands very full! if you don't mind, we will take the questions in order. the singer first, the twenty-thousand francs after. come, m. de chagny, let us try to talk seriously. you believe that mlle. christine daaé has been car- ried off by an individual called erik. do you know this person? have you seen him?” “yes.” “where?” “in a churchyard.” m. mifroid gave a start, began to scrutinize raoul again and said: “of course! . . . that's where ghosts usual- ly hang out! . . . and what were you doing in that churchyard?” “monsieur,” said raoul, “i can quite understand how absurd my replies must seem to you. but i beg you to believe that i am in full possession of my facul- ties. the safety of the person dearest to me in the world is at stake. i should like to convince you in a few words, for time is pressing and every minute is valuable. unfortunately, if i do not tell you the strangest story that ever was from the beginning, you will not believe me. i will tell you all i know about the opera ghost, m. commissary. alas, i do not know much ! . . .” - “never mind, go on, go on!” exclaimed richard and moncharmin, suddenly greatly interested. unfortunately for their hopes of learning some detail that could put them on the track of their the commissary and wiscount “and nevertheless your carriage is still outside the rotunda awaiting your orders, is it not?” “yes, m. le commissaire.” “did you know that there were three other car- riages there, in addition to yours?” “i did not pay the least attention.” “they were the carriages of mlle. sorelli, which could not find room in the cour de l'administration; of carlotta; and of your brother, m. le comte de chagny. . . .” “very likely. “what is certain is that, though your carriage and sorelli's and carlotta's are still there, by the rotunda pavement, m. le comte de chagny's carriage is gone.” “this has nothing to say to . • “i beg your pardon. was not m. le comte op- posed to your marriage with mlle. daaé?” “that is a matter that only concerns the family.” “you have answered my question: he was opposed to it . . . and that was why you were carrying christine daaé out of your brother's reach. . . . well, m. de chagny, allow me to inform you that your brother has been smarter than you ! it is he who has carried off christine daaé!” “oh, impossible!” moaned raoul, pressing his hand to his heart. “are you sure?” “immediately after the artist's disappearance, which was procured by means which we have still to ascertain, he flung into his carriage, which drove right across paris at a furious pace.” % the phantom of the opera “across paris?” asked poor raoul, in a hoarse voice. “what do you mean by across paris?” “across paris and out of paris . . . by the brussels road.” “oh,” cried the young man, “i shall catch them!” and he rushed out of the office. “and bring her back to us!” cried the commis- sary gaily. . . . “ah, that's a trick worth two of the angel of music's ” and, turning to his audience, m. mifroid deliv- ered a little lecture on police methods. “i don't know for a moment whether m. le comte de chagny has really carried christine daaé off or not . . . but i want to know and i believe that, at this moment, no one is more anxious to inform us than his brother. . . . and now he is flying in pursuit of him ! he is my chief auxiliary! this, gentlemen, is the art of the police, which is believed to be so complicated and which, nevertheless, appears so simple as soon as you see that it consists in get- ting your work done by people who have nothing to do with the police.” but m. le commissaire de police mifroid would not have been quite so satisfied with himself if he had known that the rush of his rapid emissary was stopped at the entrance to the very first corridor. a tall figure blocked raoul's way. “where are you going so fast, m. de chagny?” asked a voice. raoul impatiently raised his eyes and recognized the astrakhan cap of an hour ago. he stopped: the commissary and wiscount “it's you!” he cried, in a feverish voice. “you, who know erik's secrets and don't want me to speak of them. who are you?” “you know who i am! . . . i am the per- sian l’” chapter xix the wiscount and the persian aoul now remembered that his brother had once shown him that mysterious person, of whom nothing was known except that he was a per- sian and that he lived in a little old-fashioned flat in the rue de rivoli. the man with the ebony skin, the eyes of jade and the astrakhan cap bent over raoul. “i hope, m. de chagny,” he said, “that you have not betrayed erik's secret?” “and why should i hesitate to betray that monster, sir?” raoul rejoined haughtily, trying to shake off the intruder. “is he your friend, by any chance?” “i hope that you said nothing about erik, sir, because erik's secret is also christine daaé's and to talk about one is to talk about the other!” “oh, sir,” said raoul, becoming more and more impatient, “you seem to know about many things that interest me; and yet i have no time to listen to you!” “once more, m. de chagny, where are you going so fast?” “can not you guess? to christine daaé's assist- cc. .” “then, sir, stay here, for christine daaé is here!” “with erik?” . the wiscount and persian “with erik.” “how do you know?” “i was at the performance and no one in the world but erik could contrive an abduction like that! . . . oh,” he said, with a deep sigh, “i recognized the monster's touch ! .” “you know him then?” the persian did not reply, but heaved a fresh sigh. “sir,” said raoul, “i do not know what your in- tentions are, but can you do anything to help me? i mean, to help christine daaé?” “i think so, m. de chagny, and that is why i spoke to you.” “what can you do?” “try to take you to her . . . and to him.” “if you can do me that service, sir, my life is yours! . . . one word more: the commissary of police tells me that christine daaé has been carried off by my brother, count philippe.” “oh, m. de chagny, i don't believe a word of it.” “it's not possible, is it?” “i don't know if it is possible or not; but there are ways and ways of carrying people off; and m. le comte philippe has never, as far as i know, had anything to do with witchcraft.” “your arguments are convincing, sir, and i am a fool! . . . oh, let us make haste! i place my- self entirely in your hands! . . . how should i not believe you, when you are the only one to be- lieve me . . . when you are the only one not to smile when erik's name is mentioned?” the phantom of the opera and the young man impetuously seized the per- sian's hands. they were ice-cold. “silence!” said the persian, stopping and listen- ing to the distant sounds of the theater. “we must not mention that name here. let us say “he” and ‘him; then there will be less danger of attracting his attention.” “do you think he is near us?” “it is quite possible, sir, if he is not, at this mo- ment, with his victim, in the house on the lake.” “ah, so you know that house too?” “if he is not there, he may be here, in this wall, in this floor, in this ceiling! . . . come!” and the persian, asking raoul to deaden the sound of his footsteps, led him down passages which raoul had never seen before, even at the time when chris- tine used to take him for walks through that laby- rinth. “if only darius has come!” said the persian. “who is darius p” “darius? my servant.” . they were now in the center of a real deserted square, an immense apartment ill-lit by a small lamp. the persian stopped raoul and, in the softest of whispers, asked: “what did you say to the commissary?” “i said that christine daaé's abductor was the angel of music, alias the opera ghost, and that the real name was . .” “hush! . . . and did he believe you?” “no.” the wiscount and persian “he attached no importance to what you said?” “no.” “he took you for a bit of a madman?” “yes.” “so much the better!” sighed the persian. and they continued their road. after going up and down several staircases which raoul had never seen before, the two men found themselves in front of a door which the persian opened with a master- key. the persian and raoul were both, of course, in dress-clothes; but, whereas raoul had a tall hat, the persian wore the astrakhan cap which i have already mentioned. it was an infringement of the rule which insists upon the tall hat behind the scenes; but in france foreigners are allowed every license: the englishman his traveling-cap, the persian his cap of astrakhan. “sir” said the persian, “your tall hat will be in your way: you would do well to leave it in the dress- ing-room.” “what dressing-room?” asked raoul. “christine daaé's.” and the persian, letting raoul through the door which he had just opened, showed him the actress’ room opposite. they were at the end of the passage the whole length of which raoul had been accustomed to tra- verse before knocking at christine's door. “how well you know the opera, sir!” “not so well as “he does!” said the persian modestly. the phantom of the opera and he pushed the young man into christine's dressing-room, which was as raoul had left it a few minutes earlier. closing the door, the persian went to a very thin partition that separated the dressing-room from a big lumber-room next to it. he listened and then coughed loudly. there was a sound of some one stirring in the lumber-room; and, a few seconds later, a finger tapped at the door. “come in,” said the persian. a man entered, also wearing an astrakhan cap and dressed in a long overcoat. he bowed and took a richly carved case from under his coat, put it on the dressing-table, bowed once again and went to the door. “did no one see you come in, darius?” “no, master.” “let no one see you go out.” the servant glanced down the passage and swiftly disappeared. the persian opened the case. it contained a pair of long pistols. “when christine daaé was carried off, sir, i sent word to my servant to bring me these pistols. i have had them a long time and they can be relied upon.” “do you mean to fight a duel?” asked the young n n. “it will certainly be a duel which we shall have to fight,” said the other, examining the priming of his pistols. “and what a duel!” handing one of the pistols to raoul, he added, “in this duel, we shall the viscount and persian be two to one; but you must be prepared for every- thing, for we shall be fighting the most terrible adver- sary that you can imagine. but you love christine daaé, do you not?” “i worship the ground she stands on! but you, sir, who do not love her, tell me why i find you ready to risk your life for her! you must certainly hate erik!” “no, sir,” said the persian sadly, “i do not hate him. if i hated him, he would long ago have ceased doing harm.” “has he done you harm?” “i have forgiven him the harm which he has done me.” “i do not understand you. you treat him as a monster, you speak of his crime, he has done you harm and i find in you the same inexplicable pity that drove me to despair when i saw it in christine!” the persian did not reply. he fetched a stool and set it against the wall facing the great mirror that filled the whole of the wall-space opposite. then he climbed on the stool and, with his nose to the wall- paper, seemed to be looking for something. “ah,” he said, after a long search, “i have it!” and, raising his finger above his head, he pressed against a corner in the pattern of the paper. then he turned round and jumped off the stool: “in half a minute,” he said, “we shall be on his road!” and crossing the whole length of the dressing- room he felt the great mirror. “no, it is not yielding yet,” he muttered." in the cellars of the opera “let go!” said a voice. and he dropped into the arms of the persian, who told him to lie down flat, closed the trap-door above him and crouched down beside him. raoul tried to ask a question, but the persian's hand was on his mouth and he heard a voice which he recognized as that of the commissary of police. raoul and the persian were completely hidden be- hind a wooden partition. near them, a small stair- case led to a little room in which the commissary appeared to be walking up and down, asking ques- tions. the faint light was just enough to enable raoul to distinguish the shape of things around him. and he could not restrain a dull cry: there were three corpses there. the first lay on the narrow landing of the little staircase; the two others had rolled to the bottom of the staircase. raoul could have touched one of the two poor wretches by passing his fingers through the partition. “silence!” whispered the persian. he too had seen the bodies and he gave one word in explanation: “he!” the commissary's voice was now heard more dis- tinctly. he was asking for information about the system of lighting, which the stage-manager sup- plied. the commissary therefore must be in the “organ” or its immediate neighborhood. contrary to what one might think, especially in connection with an opera-house, the “organ” is not the phantom of the opera a musical instrument. at that time, electricity was employed only for a very few scenic effects and for the bells. the immense building and the stage itself were still lit by gas; hydrogen was used to regulate and modify the lighting of a scene; and this was done by means of a special apparatus which, because of the multiplicity of its pipes, was known as the “organ.” a box beside the prompter's box was reserved for the chief gas-man, who from there gave his orders to his assistants and saw that they were executed. mauclair stayed in this box during all the performances. but now mauclair was not in his box and his as- sistants not in their places. “mauclair! mauclair l” the stage-manager's voice echoed through the cellars. but mauclair did not reply. i have said that a door opened on a little stair- case that led to the second cellar. the commissary pushed it, but it resisted. “i say,” he said to the stage-manager, “i can't open this door: is it always so difficult?” the stage-manager forced it open with his shoul- der. he saw that, at the same time, he was push- ing a human body and he could not keep back an ex- clamation, for he recognized the body at once: “mauclair! poor devil! he is dead!” but mr. commissary mifroid, whom nothing sur- prised, was stooping over that big body. “no,” he said, “he is dead-drunk, which is not quite the same thing.” “it's the first time, if so,” said the stage-manager. in the cellars of the opera “then some one has given him a narcotic. that is quite possible.” mifroid went down a few steps and said: “look!” by the light of a little red lantern, at the foot of the stairs, they saw two other bodies. the stage- manager recognized mauclair's assistants. mifroid went down and listened to their breathing. “they are sound asleep,” he said. “very curious business! some person unknown must have inter- fered with the gas-man and his staff . . . and that person unknown was obviously working on be- half of the kidnapper. . . . but what a funny idea to kidnap a performer on the stage! • send for the doctor of the theater, please.” and mifroid repeated, “curious, decidedly curious busi- ness!” then he turned to the little room, addressing the people whom raoul and the persian were unable to see from where they lay. “what do you say to all this, gentlemen? you are the only ones who have not given your views. and yet you must have an opinion of some sort.” thereupon, raoul and the persian saw the star- tled faces of the joint managers appear above the landing—and they heard moncharmin's excited voice: “there are things happening here, mr. commis- sary, which we are unable to explain.” and the two faces disappeared. the phantom of the opera “thank you for the information, gentlemen,” said mifroid, with a jeer. but the stage-manager, holding his chin in the hol- low of his right hand, which is the attitude of pro- found thought, said: “it is not the first time that mauclair has fallen asleep in the theater. i remember finding him, one evening, snoring in his little recess, with his snuff-box beside him.” “is that long ago?” asked m. mifroid, carefully wiping his eye-glasses. “no, not so very long ago. . . . wait a bit! . . . it was the night . . . of course, yes . . . it was the night when carlotta—you know, mr. commissary—gave her famous co-ack’l” “really? the night when carlotta gave her famous co-ack’?” and m. mifroid, replacing his gleaming glasses on his nose, fixed the stage-manager with a contem- plative stare. “so mauclair takes snuff, does he?” he asked carelessly. “yes, mr. commissary. . . . look, there is his snuff-box on that little shelf. . . . oh, he's a great snuff-taker!” “so am i,’” said mifroid and put the snuff-box in his pocket. raoul and the persian, themselves unobserved, watched the removal of the three bodies by a num- ber of scene-shifters, who were followed by the com- missary and all the people with him. their steps o the phantom of the opera showing him how he himself carried his hand as if always ready to fire, though the pistol was in his pocket. suddenly, a loud voice made them stop. some one above them shouted: “all the door-shutters on the stage! the com- missary of police wants them l” steps were heard and shadows glided through the darkness. the persian drew raoul behind a set piece. they saw passing before and above them old men bent by age and the past burden of opera- scenery. some could hardly drag themselves along; others, from habit, with stooping bodies and out- stretched hands, looked for doors to shut. they were the door-shutters, the old, worn-out scene-shifters, on whom a charitable management had taken pity, giving them the job of shutting doors above and below the stage. they went about inces- santly, from top to bottom of the building, shutting the doors; and they were also called “the draft- expellers,” at least at that time, for i have little doubt that by now they are all dead. drafts are very bad for the voice, wherever they may come from.* the persian and raoul welcomed this incident, which relieved them of inconvenient witnesses, for some of those door-shutters, having nothing else to do or nowhere to lay their heads, stayed at the opera, from idleness or necessity, and spent the night there. *m. pedro gailhard has himself told me that he created a few additional posts as door-shutters for old stage-carpenters &# he was unwilling to dismiss from the service of the pera. in the cellars of the opera the two men might have stumbled over them, waking them up and provoking a request for explanations. for the moment, m. mifroid's inquiry saved them from any such unpleasant encounters. but they were not left to enjoy their solitude for long. other shades now came down by the same way by which the door-shutters had gone up. each of these shades carried a little lantern and moved it about, above, below and all around, as though look- ing for something or somebody. “hang it!” muttered the persian. “i don't know what they are looking for, but they might easily find us. . . . let us get away, quick! • your hand up, sir, ready to fire! . . . bend your arm . . . more . . . that's it! . . . hand at the level of your eye, as though you were fighting a duel and waiting for the word to fire! . . . oh, leave your pistol in your pocket. quick, come along, down-stairs. level of your eyel question of life or death! . . . here, this way, these stairs!” they reached the fifth cellar. “oh, what a duel, sir, what a duel!” once in the fifth cellar, the persian drew breath. he seemed to enjoy a rather greater sense of security, than he had displayed when they both stopped in the third; but he never altered the attitude of his hand. and raoul, remembering the persian's observation— “i know these pistols can be relied upon”—was more and more astonished, wondering why any one should be so gratified at being able to rely upon a pistol which he did not intend to use ! in the cellars of the opera “is it some one belonging to the theater police?” asked raoul. “it's some one much worse than that!” replied the persian, without giving any further explanation.* “it's not . . . he?” “he? . . . if he does not come behind us, we shall always see his yellow eyes! . . . that is more or less our safeguard to-night. . . . but he may come from behind, stealing up; and we are dead men if we do not keep our hands as though about to fire, at the level of our eyes, in front!” the persian had hardly finished speaking, when a fantastic face came in sight . . . a whole fiery face, not only two yellow eyes! - yes, a head of fire came toward them, at a man's height, but with no body attached to it. the face shed fire, looked in the darkness like a flame shaped as a man's face. “oh,” said the persian, between his teeth. “i have never seen this before! . . . pampin was not mad, after all: he had seen it ! . . . what can that flame be? it is not he, but he may have . *like the persian, i can give no further explanation touch- ing the apparition of this shade. whereas, in this historic narrative, everything else will be normally explained, however abnormal the course of events may seem, i can not give the reader expressly to understand what the persian meant by the words, “it is some one much worse than that!” the reader must try to guess for himself, for i promised m. pedro gailhard, the former manager of the opera, to keep his secret regarding the extremely interesting and useful personality of the wandering, cloaked shade which, while condemning itself to live in the cellars of the opera, rendered such immense services to those who, on gala evenings, for instance, venture to stray away from the stage. i am speaking of state services; and, upon my word of honor, i can say no more. the phantom of the opera sent it! . . . take care! . . . take care! your hand at the level of your eyes, in heaven's name, at the level of your eyes! . . . i know most of his tricks . . . but not this one. . . . come, let us run. . . . it is safer. , hand at the level of your eyes!” and they fled down the long passage that opened before them. after a few seconds, that seemed to them like long minutes, they stopped. “he doesn't often come this way,” said the per- sian. “this side has nothing to do with him. this side does not lead to the lake nor to the house on the lake. . . . but perhaps he knows that we are at his heels . . . although i promised him to leave him alone and never to meddle in his busi- ness again!” so saying, he turned his head and raoul also turned his head; and they again saw the head of fire behind their two heads. it had followed them. and it must have run also, and perhaps faster than they, for it seemed to be nearer to them. at the same time, they began to perceive a certain noise of which they could not guess the nature. they simply noticed that the sound seemed to move and to approach with the fiery face. it was a noise as though thousands of nails had been scraped against a blackboard, the perfectly unendurable noise that is sometimes made by a little stone inside the chalk that grates on the blackboard. they continued to retreat, but the fiery face came in the cellars of the opera on, came on, gaining on them. they could see its features clearly now. the eyes were round and star- ing, the nose a little crooked and the mouth large, with a hanging lower lip, very like the eyes, nose and lip of the moon, when the moon is quite red, bright red. how did that red moon manage to glide through the darkness, at a man's height, with nothing to sup- port it, at least apparently? and how did it go so fast, so straight ahead, with such staring, staring eyes? and what was that scratching, scraping, grat- ing sound which it brought with it? the persian and raoul could retreat no farther and flattened themselves against the wall, not know- ing what was going to happen because of that incom- prehensible head of fire, and especially now, because of the more intense, swarming, living, “numerous” sound, for the sound was certainly made up of hun- dreds of little sounds that moved in the darkness, under the fiery face. and the fiery face came on . . . with its noise . . . came level with them | and the two companions, flat against their wall, felt their hair stand on end with horror, for they now knew what the thousand noises meant. they came in a troop, hustled along in the shadow by innumer- able little hurried waves, swifter than the waves that rush over the sands at high tide, little night-waves foaming under the moon, under the fiery head that was like a moon. and the little waves passed be- tween their legs, climbing up their legs, irresistibly, the phantom of the opera “ah, if i had not that hope, i would not have come to fetch you!” “and how can one enter the house on the lake without crossing the lake?” “from the third cellar, from which we were so unluckily driven away. we will go back there now. i will tell you,” said the persian, with a sud- den change in his voice, “i will tell you the exact place, sir: it is between a set piece and a discarded scene from roi de lahore, exactly at the spot where joseph buquet died. . . . come, sir, take courage and follow me! and hold your hand at the level of your eyes! . . . but where are we?” the persian lit his lamp again and flung its rays down two enormous corridors that crossed each other at right angles. “we must be,” he said, “in the part used more particularly for the waterworks. i see no fire coming from the furnaces.” he went in front of raoul, seeking his road, stop- ping abruptly when he was afraid of meeting some waterman. then they had to protect themselves against the glow of a sort of underground forge, which the men were extinguishing, and at which raoul recognized the demons whom christine had seen at the time of her first captivity. in this way, they gradually arrived beneath the huge cellars below the stage. they must at this time have been at the very bottom of the “tub” and at an extremely great depth, when we remember that the in the cellars of the opera earth was dug out at fifty feet below the water that lay under the whole of that part of paris.” the persian touched a partition-wall and said: “if i am not mistaken, this is a wall that might easily belong to the house on the lake.” he was striking a partition-wall of the “tub,” and perhaps it would be as well for the reader to know how the bottom and the partition-walls of the tub were built. in order to prevent the water surround- ing the building-operations from remaining in imme- diate contact with the walls supporting the whole of the theatrical machinery, the architect was obliged to build a double case in every direction. the work of constructing this double case took a whole year. it was the wall of the first inner case that the persian struck when speaking to raoul of the house on the lake. to any one understanding the architecture of the edifice, the persian's action would seem to indi- cate that erik's mysterious house had been built in the double case, formed of a thick wall constructed as an embankment or dam, then of a brick wall, a tre- mendous layer of cement and another wall several yards in thickness. at the persian's words, raoul flung himself against the wall and listened eagerly. but he heard nothing . . . nothing . . . except distant steps *all the water had to be exhausted, in the building of the opera. to give an idea of the amount of water that was pumped up, i can tell the reader that it represented the area of the court-yard of the louvre and a height half as deep again as the towers of notre dame. and nevertheless the engineers had to leave a lake. o the phantom of the opera sounding on the floor of the upper portions of the theater. the persian darkened his lantern again. “lookout!” he said. “keep your hand up! and silence! for we shall try another way of getting in.” and he led him to the little staircase by which they had come down lately. they went up, stopping at each step, peering into the darkness and the silence, till they came to the third cellar. here the persian motioned to raoul to go on his knees; and, in this way, crawling on both knees and one hand—for the other hand was held in the position indicated—they reached the end wall. against this wall stood a large discarded scene from the roi de lahore. close to this scene was a set piece. between the scene and the set piece there was just room for a body . . . for a body which one day was found hanging there. the body of joseph buquet. the persian, still kneeling, stopped and listened. for a moment, he seemed to hesitate and looked at raoul; then he turned his eyes upward, toward the second cellar, which sent down the faint glimmer of a lantern, through a cranny between two boards. this glimmer seemed to trouble the persian. at last, he tossed his head and made up his mind to act. he slipped between the set piece and the scene from the roi de lahore, with raoul close upon his heels. with his free hand, the persian felt the wall. raoul saw him bear heavily upon the wall, just as he had pressed against the wall in christine's in the cellars of the opera dressing-room. then a stone gave way, leaving a hole in the wall. this time, the persian took his pistol from his pocket and made a sign to raoul to do as he did. he cocked the pistol. and, resolutely, still on his knees, he wiggled through the hole in the wall. raoul, who had wished to pass first, had to be content to follow him. the hole was very narrow. the persian stopped almost at once. raoul heard him feeling the stones around him. then the persian took out his dark lantern again, stooped forward, examined something beneath him and immediately extinguished his lan- tern. raoul heard him say, in a whisper: “we shall have to drop a few yards, without mak- ing a noise; take off your boots.” the persian handed his own shoes to raoul. “put them outside the wall,” he said. “we shall find them there when we leave.” he crawled a little farther on his knees, then turned right round and said: “i am going to hang by my hands from the edge of the stone and let myself drop into his house. you must do exactly the same. do not be afraid. i will catch you in my arms.” raoul soon heard a dull sound, evidently produced by the fall of the persian, and then dropped down. *these two pairs of boots, which were placed, according to the persian's papers, just between the set piece and the scene from the roi de lahore, on the spot where joseph buquet was found hanging, were never discovered. they must have been taken by some stage-carpenter or “door-shutter.” ? the phantom of the opera he felt himself clasped in the persian's arms. “hush !” said the persian. and they stood motionless, listening. the darkness was thick around them, the silence heavy and terrible. then the persian began to make play with the dark lantern again, turning the rays over their heads, look- ing for the hole through which they had come, and failing to find it: “oh!” he said. “the stone has closed of itself!” and the light of the lantern swept down the wall and over the floor. the persian stooped and picked up something, a sort of cord, which he examined for a second and flung away with horror. “the punjab lasso !” he muttered. “what is it?” asked raoul. the persian shivered. “it might very well be the rope by which the man was hanged, and which was looked for so long.” and, suddenly seized with fresh anxiety, he moved the little red disk of his lantern over the walls. in this way, he lit up a curious thing: the trunk of a tree, which seemed still quite alive, with its leaves; and the branches of that tree ran right up the walls and disappeared in the ceiling. because of the smallness of the luminous disk, it was difficult at first to make out the appearance of things: they saw a corner of a branch . . . and a leaf . . . and another leaf . . . and, next to it, nothing at all, nothing but the ray of light a universal picture with lon ch zney. the / 'hantom of the opera. raoul pleads with christine, not knowing the sinister hold the phantom has upon her. interesting wicissitudes i spoke to him severely. “it's a trick that nearly killed me!” i said. “and it may have been fatal to others! you know what you promised me, erik? no more murders!” “have i really committed murders?” he asked, putting on his most amiable air. “wretched man!” i cried. “have you forgotten the rosy hours of mazenderan?” “yes,” he replied, in a sadder tone, “i prefer to forget them. i used to make the little sultana laugh, though !” “all that belongs to the past,” i declared; “but there is the present . . . and you are responsi- ble to me for the present, because, if i had wished, there would have been none at all for you. re- member that, erik: i saved your life!” and i took advantage of the turn of conversation to speak to him of something that had long been on my mind: “erik,” i asked, “erik, swear that . . .” “what?” he retorted. “you know i never keep my oaths. oaths are made to catch gulls with.” “tell me . . . you can tell me, at any rate. . . .” “well ?” “well, the chandelier . . . the chandelier, erik? . . .” “what about the chandelier?” “you know what i mean.” “oh,” he sniggered, “i don't mind telling you interesting wicissitudes everything for others.” and whenever some acci- dent, some fatal event happened, i always thought to myself, “i should not be surprised if that were erik,” even as others used to say, “it's the ghost!” how often have i not heard people utter that phrase with a smile! poor devils! if they had known that the ghost existed in the flesh, i swear they would not have laughed ! although erik announced to me very solemnly that he had changed and that he had become the most virtuous of men since he was loved for himself—a sentence that, at first, perplexed me most terribly— i could not help shuddering when i thought of the monster. his horrible, unparalleled and repulsive ugliness put him without the pale of humanity; and it often seemed to me that, for this reason, he no longer believed that he had any duty toward the human race. the way in which he spoke of his love- affairs only increased my alarm, for i foresaw the cause of fresh and more hideous tragedies in this event to which he alluded so boastfully. on the other hand, i soon discovered the curious moral traffic established between the monster and christine daaé. hiding in the lumber-room next to *the persian might easily have admitted that erik's fate also interested himself, for he was well aware that, if the gov- ernment of teheran had learned that erik was still alive, it would have been all up with the modest pension of the erst- while daroga. it is only fair, however, to add tha: the per- sian had a noble and generous heart; and i do not doubt for a moment that the catastrophes which he feared for others greatly occupied his mind. his conduct, throughout this business, proves it and is above all praise. o the phantom of the opera the young prima donna's dressing-room, i listened to wonderful musical displays that evidently flung christine into marvelous ecstasy; but, all the same, i would never have thought that erik's voice—which was loud as thunder or soft as angels' voices, at will— could have made her forget his ugliness. i understood all when i learned that christine had not yet seen him! i had occasion to go to the dressing-room and, remembering the lessons he had once given me, i had no difficulty in discovering the trick that made the wall with the mirror swing round and i ascertained the means—of hollow bricks and so on—by which he made his voice carry to christine as though she heard it close beside her. in this way also i discovered the road that led to the well and the dungeon—the communists’ dungeon—and also the trap-door that enabled erik to go straight to the cellars below the stage. a few days later, what was not my amazement to learn by my own eyes and ears that erik and chris- tine daaé saw each other and to catch the monster stooping over the little well, in the communists’ road and sprinkling the forehead of christine daaé, who had fainted. a white horse, the horse out of the profeta, which had disappeared from the stables under the opera, was standing quietly beside them. i showed myself. it was terrible. i saw sparks fly from those yellow eyes and, before i had time to say a word, i received a blow on the head that stunned me. when i came to myself, erik, christine and the interesting wicissitudes white horse had disappeared. i felt sure that the poor girl was a prisoner in the house on the lake. without hesitation, i resolved to return to the bank, notwithstanding the attendant danger. for twenty- four hours, i lay in wait for the monster to appear; for i felt that he must go out, driven by the need of obtaining provisions. and, in this connection, i may say, that, when he went out in the streets or ventured to show himself in public, he wore a pasteboard nose, with a mustache attached to it, instead of his own horrible hole of a nose. this did not quite take away his corpse-like air, but it made him almost, i say almost, endurable to look at. i therefore watched on the bank of the lake and, weary of long waiting, was beginning to think that he had gone through the other door, the door in the third cellar, when i heard a slight splashing in the dark, i saw the two yellow eyes shining like candles and soon the boat touched shore. erik jumped out and walked up to me: “you’ve been here for twenty-four hours,” he said, “and you're annoying me. i tell you, all this will end very badly. and you will have brought it upon your- self; for i have been extraordinarily patient with you. you think you are following me, you great booby, whereas it's i who am following you; and i know all that you know about me, here. i spared you yes- terday, in my communists’ road; but i warn you, seriously, don’t let me catch you there again! upon my word, you don’t seem able to take a hint!” he was so furious that i did not think, for the the phantom of the opera moment, of interrupting him. after puffing and blowing like a walrus, he put his horrible thought into words: “yes, you must learn, once and for all—once and for all, i say—to take a hint! i tell you that, with your recklessness—for you have already been twice arrested by the shade in the felt hat, who did not know what you were doing in the cellars and took you to the managers, who looked upon you as an ec- centric persian interested in stage mechanism and life behind the scenes: i know all about it, i was there, in the office; you know i am everywhere—well, i tell you that, with your recklessness, they will end by wondering what you are after here . . . and they will end by knowing that you are after erik . . . and then they will be after erik themselves and they will discover the house on the lake. . . . if they do, it will be a bad look- out for you, old chap, a bad lookout! . . . i won't answer for anything.” again he puffed and blew like a walrus. “i won't answer for anything! . . . if erik's secrets cease to be erik's secrets, it will be a bad look- out for a goodly number of the human race/ that's all i have to tell you, and unless you are a great booby, it ought to be enough for you . . . except that you don't know how to take a hint.” he had sat down on the stern of his boat and was kicking his heels against the planks, waiting to hear what i had to answer. i simply said: “it's not erik that i'm after here!” interesting wicissitudes “who then p” “you know as well as i do: it's christine daaé,” i answered. he retorted: “i have every right to see her in my own house. i am loved for my own sake.” “that's not true,” i said. “you have carried her off and are keeping her locked up.” “listen,” he said. “will you promise never to meddle with my affairs again, if i prove to you that i am loved for my own sake?” “yes, i promise you,” i replied, without hesita- tion, for i felt convinced that for such a monster the proof was impossible. “well, then, it's quite simple. . . . christine daaé shall leave this as she pleases and come back again! . . . yes, come back again, because she wishes . . . come back of herself, because she loves me for myself! .” “oh, i doubt if she will come back! . . . but it is your duty to let her go.” “my duty, you great booby! . . . it is my wish . . . my wish to let her go; and she will come back again . . . for she loves me! all this will end in a marriage . . . a marriage at the madeleine, you great booby! do you believe me now? when i tell you that my nuptial mass is written . . . wait till you hear the kyrie. .” he beat time with his heels on the planks of the boat and sang: “kyrie! . . . kyrie! . . . kyrie the phantom of the opera eleison! . . . wait till you hear, wait till you hear that mass.” “look here,” i said. “i shall believe you if i see christine daaé come out of the house on the lake and go back to it of her own accord.” “and you won't meddle any more in my affairs?” “no.” “very well, you shall see that to-night. come to the masked ball. christine and i will go and have a look round. then you can hide in the lumber- room and you shall see christine, who will have gone to her dressing-room, delighted to come back by the communists' road. . . . and, now, be off, for i must go and do some shopping!” to my intense astonishment, things happened as he had announced. christine daaé left the house on the lake and returned to it several times, without, ap- parently, being forced to do so. it was very difficult for me to clear my mind of erik. however, i re- solved to be extremely prudent, and did not make the mistake of returning to the shore of the lake, or of going by the communists’ road. but the idea of the secret entrance in the third cellar haunted me, and i repeatedly went and waited for hours behind a scene! from the roi de lahore, which had been left there for some reason or other. at last my patience was rewarded. one day, i saw the monster come toward me, on his knees. i was certain that he could not see me. he passed between the scene behind which i stood and a set piece, went to the wall and pressed on a spring that moved a stone and afforded him an in- interesting wicissitudes gress. he passed through this, and the stone closed behind him. i waited for at least thirty minutes and then pressed the spring in my turn. everything happened as with erik. but i was careful not to go through the hole myself, for i knew that erik was inside. on the other hand, the idea that i might be caught by erik suddenly made me think of the death of joseph buquet. i did not wish to jeopardize the advan- tages of so great a discovery which might be useful to many people, “to a goodly number of the human race,” in erik's words; and i left the cellars of the opera after carefully replacing the stone. i continued to be greatly interested in the relations between erik and christine daaé, not from any mor- bid curiosity, but because of the terrible thought which obsessed my mind that erik was capable of anything, if he once discovered that he was not loved for his own sake, as he imagined. i continued to wander, very cautiously, about the opera and soon learned the truth about the monster's dreary love- affair. he filled christine's mind, through the terror with which he inspired her, but the dear child's heart belonged wholly to the vicomte raoul de chagny. while they played about, like an innocent engaged couple, on the upper floors of the opera, to avoid the monster, they little suspected that some one was watching over them. i was prepared to do anything: to kill the monster, if necessary, and explain to the police afterward. but erik did not show the phantom of the opera to him. the little viscount is a brave fellow, but he knew hardly anything about his adversary; and it was so much the better. my great fear was that he was already somewhere near us, preparing the punjab lasso. no one knows better than he how to throw the punjab lasso, for he is the king of stranglers even as he is the prince of conjurors. when he had fin- ished making the little sultana laugh, at the time of the “rosy hours of mazenderan,” she herself used to ask him to amuse her by giving her a thrill. it was then that he introduced the sport of the punjab lasso. he had lived in india and acquired an incred- ible skill in the art of strangulation. he would make them lock him into a courtyard to which they brought a warrior—usually, a man condemned to death— armed with a long pike and broadsword. erik had only his lasso; and it was always just when the war- rior thought that he was going to fell erik with a tremendous blow that we heard the lasso whistle through the air. with a turn of the wrist, erik tightened the noose round his adversary's neck and, in this fashion, dragged him before the little sultana and her women, who sat looking from a window and applauding. the little sultana herself learned to wield the punjab lasso and killed several of her women and even of the friends who visited her. but i prefer to drop this terrible subject of the rosy hours of mazenderan. i have mentioned it only to explain why, on arriving with the vicomte de chagny in the cellars of the opera, i was bound to protect my com- interesting wicissitudes panion against the ever-threatening danger of death by strangling. my pistols could serve no purpose, for erik was not likely to show himself; but erik could always strangle us. i had no time to explain all this to the viscount; besides, there was nothing to be gained by complicating the position. i simply told m. de chagny to keep his hand at the level of his eyes, with the arm bent, as though waiting for the command to fire. with his victim in this attitude, it is impossible even for the most expert strangler to throw the lasso with advantage. it catches you not only round the neck, but also round the arm or hand. this enables you easily to unloose the lasso, which then becomes harmless. after avoiding the commissary of police, a num- ber of door-shutters and the firemen, after meeting the rat-catcher and passing the man in the felt hat unperceived, the viscount and i arrived without ob- stacle in the third cellar, between the set piece and the scene from the roi de lahore. i worked the stone, and we jumped into the house which erik had built himself in the double case of the foundation- walls of the opera. and this was the easiest thing in the world for him to do, because erik was one of the chief contractors under philippe garnier, the architect of the opera, and continued to work by himself when the works were officially suspended, dur- ing the war, the siege of paris and the commune. i knew my erik too well to feel at all comfortable on jumping into his house. i knew what he had made of a certain palace at mazenderan. from being o the phantom of the opera the most honest building conceivable, he soon turned it into a house of the very devil, where you could not utter a word but it was overheard or repeated by an echo. with his trap-doors the monster was respon- sible for endless tragedies of all kinds. he hit upon astonishing inventions. of these, the most curious, horrible and dangerous was the so-called torture- chamber. except in special cases, when the little sul- tana amused herself by inflicting suffering upon some unoffending citizen, no one was let into it but wretches condemned to death. and, even then, when these had “had enough,” they were always at liberty to put an end to themselves with a punjab lasso or bow- string, left for their use at the foot of an iron tree. my alarm, therefore, was great when i saw that the room into which m. le vicomte de chagny and i had dropped was an exact copy of the torture-cham- ber of the rosy hours of mazenderan. at our feet, i found the punjab lasso which i had been dreading all the evening. i was convinced that this rope had already done duty for joseph buquet, who, like my- self, must have caught erik one evening working the stone in the third cellar. he probably tried it in his turn, fell into the torture-chamber and only left it hanged. i can well imagine erik dragging the body, in order to get rid of it, to the scene from the roi de lahore, and hanging it there as an example, or to increase the superstitious terror that was to help him in guarding the approaches to his lair! then, upon reflection, erik went back to fetch the punjab lasso, which is very curiously made out of catgut, and interesting wicissitudes i which might have set an examining magistrate think- ing. this explains the disappearance of the rope. and now i discovered the lasso, at our feet, in the torture-chamber! . . . i am no coward, but a cold sweat covered my forehead as i moved the lit- tle red disk of my lantern over the walls. m. de chagny noticed it and asked: “what is the matter, sir?” i made him a violent sign to be silent. * chapter xxii in the torture chamber the persian's narrative continued e were in the middle of a little six-cornered room, the sides of which were covered with mirrors from top to bottom. in the corners, we could clearly see the “joins” in the glasses, the segments in- tended to turn on their gear; yes, i recognized them and i recognized the iron tree in the corner, at the bottom of one of those segments . . . the iron tree, with its iron branch, for the hanged men. i seized my companion's arm: the vicomte de chagny was all a-quiver, eager to shout to his be- trothed that he was bringing her help. i feared that he would not be able to contain himself. suddenly, we heard a noise on our left. it sounded at first like a door opening and shutting in the next room; and then there was a dull moan. i clutched m. de chagny's arm more firmly still; and then we distinctly heard these words: “you must make your choice! the wedding mass or the requiem mass!” i recognized the voice of the monster. there was another moan, followed by a long silence. in the torture chamber i was persuaded by now that the monster was un- aware of our presence in his house, for otherwise he would certainly have managed not to let us hear him. he would only have had to close the little invisible window through which the torture-lovers look down into the torture-chamber. besides, i was certain that, if he had known of our presence, the tortures would have begun at once. the important thing was not to let him know; and i dreaded nothing so much as the impulsiveness of the vicomte de chagny, who wanted to rush through the walls to christine daaé, whose moans we continued to hear at intervals. “the requiem mass is not at all gay,” erik's voice resumed, “whereas the wedding mass—you can take my word for it—is magnificent! you must take a resolution and know your own mind! i can’t go on living like this, like a mole in a burrow! don juan triumphant is finished; and now i want to live like everybody else. i want to have a wife like everybody else and to take her out on sundays. i have invented a mask that makes me look like anybody. people will not even turn round in the streets. you will be the happiest of women. and we will sing, all by ourselves, till we swoon away with delight. you are crying! you are afraid of me! and yet i am not really wicked. love me and you shall see! all i wanted was to be loved for myself. if you loved me i should be as gentle as a lamb; and you could do anything with me that you pleased.” soon the moans that accompanied this sort of love's in the torture chamber here. . . . i am going to tell the siren to open the door.” steps moved away, a door closed. i had no time to think of the fresh horror that was preparing; i forgot that the monster was only going out perhaps to perpetrate a fresh crime; i understood but one thing: christine was alone behind the wall! the vicomte de chagny was already calling to her: “christine ! christine!” as we could hear what was said in the next room, there was no reason why my companion should not be heard in his turn. nevertheless, the viscount had to repeat his cry time after time. at last, a faint voice reached us. “i am dreaming!” it said. “christine, christine, it is i, raoul!” a silence. “but answer me, christine! . . . in heaven's name, if you are alone, answer me!” then christine's voice whispered raoul's name. “yes! yes! it is il it is not a dream | . . . christine, trust me! . . . we are here to save you . . . but be prudent! when you hear the monster, warn us!” then christine gave way to fear. she trembled lest erik should discover where raoul was hidden; she told us in a few hurried words that erik had gone quite mad with love and that he had decided to kill everybody and himself with everybody if she did not consent to become his wife. he had given her till in the torture chamber “is it a door with a lock to it?” i asked. “yes, with a lock.” “mademoiselle,” i said, “it is absolutely necessary that you should open that door to us!” “but how p” asked the poor girl tearfully. we heard her straining, trying to free herself from the bonds that held her. “i know where the key is,” she said, in a voice that seemed exhausted by the effort she had made. “but i am fastened so tight. . . . oh, the wretch !” and she gave a sob. “where is the key?” i asked, signing to m. de chagny not to speak and to leave the business to me, for we had not a moment to lose. “in the next room, near the organ, with another little bronze key, which he also forbade me to touch. they are both in a little leather bag which he calls the bag of life and death. . . . raoul | raoul | fly! everything is mysterious and terrible here, and erik will soon have gone quite mad, and you are in the torture-chamber . . . go back by the way you came. there must be a reason why the room is called by that name !” “christine,” said the young man. “we will go from here together or die together!” “we must keep cool,” i whispered. “why has he fastened you, mademoiselle? you can't escape from his house; and he knows it!” “i tried to commit suicide! the monster went out last night, after carrying me here fainting and half the phantom of the opera chloroformed. he was going to his banker, so he said! . . . when he returned he found me with my face covered with blood. . . . i had tried to kill myself by striking my forehead against the walls.” “christine!” groaned raoul; and he began to sob. “then he bound me. . . . i am not allowed to die until eleven o'clock to-morrow even- ing.” “mademoiselle,” i declared, “the monster bound you . . . and he shall unbind you. you have only to play the necessary part! remember that he loves you!” “alas!” we heard. “am i likely to forget it!” “remember it and smile to him . . . en- treat him . . . tell him that your bonds hurt you.” but christine daaé said: “hush! . . . i hear something in the wall on the lake! . . . it is hel . . . go away! go away! go away!” “we could not go away, even if we wanted to,” i said, as impressively as i could. “we can not leave this! and we are in the torture-chamber!” “hush !” whispered christine again. heavy steps sounded slowly behind the wall, then stopped and made the floor creak once more. next came a tremendous sigh, followed by a cry of horror from christine, and we heard erik's voice: “i beg your pardon for letting you see a face like this! what a state i am in, am i not? it's the phantom of the opera door just now—go and look if he's ringing at the bottom of the lake-well, he was rather like. there, turn round . . . are you glad? you're free now. . . . oh, my poor christine, look at your wrists: tell me, have i hurt them? . . . that alone deserves death. . . . talking of death, i must sing his requiem!” hearing these terrible remarks, i received an aw- ful presentiment . . . i too had once rung at the monster's door . . . and, without know- ing it, must have set some warning current in motion. and i remembered the two arms that had emerged from the inky waters. . . . what poor wretch had strayed to that shore this time? who was the other one, the one whose requiem we now heard sung? erik sang like the god of thunder, sang a dies ira that enveloped us as in a storm. the elements seemed to rage around us. suddenly, the organ and the voice ceased so suddenly that m. de chagny sprang back, on the other side of the wall, with emo- tion. and the voice, changed and transformed, dis- tinctly grated out these metallic syllables: “what have you done with my bag?” the tortures begin my love, we need not open the door to see what is happening in the torture-chamber. would you like to see? would you like to see? look here! if there is some one, if there is really some one there, you will see the invisible window light up at the top, near the ceiling. we need only draw the black curtain and put out the light in here. there, that's it. i- let's put out the light! you're not afraid of the dark, when you're with your little husband l” then we heard christine's voice of anguish: “no ! . . . i'm frightened! . . . i tell you, i'm afraid of the dark! . . . i don't care about that room now. . . . you're always frightening me, like a child, with your torture-cham- ber! . . . and so i became inquisitive. but i don't care about it now . . . not a bit . . . not a bit!” and that which i feared above all things began, automatically. we were suddenly flooded with light! yes, on our side of the wall, everything seemed aglow. the vicomte de chagny was so much taken aback that he staggered. and the angry voice roared: “i told you there was some one! do you see the window now? the lighted window, right up there? the man behind the wall can't see it! but you shall go up the folding steps: that is what they are there for ! . . . you have often asked me to tell you; and now you know! . . . they are there to give a peep into the torture-chamber . . . you inquisitive little thing!” the tortures begin matter, christine?...you're not going to faint, are you . . . as there is no one there? . . . here . . . come down . . . there! . pull yourself together . . . as there is no one there! . . . but how do you like the land- scape?” “oh, very much!” “there, that's better! . . . you're better now, are you not? . . . that's all right, you're better! . . . no excitement! . . . and what a funny house, isn't it, with landscapes like that in it?” “yes, it's like the musée grévin. . . . but, i say, erik . . . there are no tortures in there! - what a fright you gave me!” “why . . . as there is no one there?” “did you design that room? it's very handsome. you're a great artist, erik.” “yes, a great artist, in my own line.” “but tell me, erik, why did you call that room the torture-chamber?” “oh, it's very simple. first of all, what did you see?” “i saw a forest.” “and what is in a forest?” “trees.” “and what is in a tree?” “birds.” “did you see any birds?” “no, i did not see any birds.” “well, what did you see? think! you saw the phantom of the opera branches! and what are the branches?” asked the terrible voice. “there’s a gibbet! that is why i call my wood the torture-chamber! . . . you see, it's all a joke. i never express myself like other peo- ple. but i am very tired of it! . . . i'm sick and tired of having a forest and a torture-chamber in my house and of living like a mountebank, in a house with a false bottom . . . i'm tired of it! i want to have a nice, quiet flat, with ordinary doors and windows and a wife inside it, like anybody else! a wife whom i could love and take out on sun- days and keep amused on week-days. . . here, shall i show you some card-tricks? that will help us to pass a few minutes, while waiting for eleven o'clock to-morrow evening. . . . my dear little christine! . . . are you listening to me? . . . tell me you love me! no, you don't love me . . . but no matter, you will! . . . once, you could not look at my mask because you knew what was behind. and now you don't mind looking at it and you for- get what is behind | . . . one can get used to everything . . . if one wishes. . . . plenty of young people who did not care for each other be- fore marriage have adored each other sincel oh, i don't know what i am talking about! but you would have lots of fun with me. for instance, i am the greatest ventriloquist that ever lived, i am the first ventriloquist in the world! . . . you’re laugh- ing. . . . perhaps you don't believe me? listen.” the tortures begin the wretch, who really was the first ventriloquist in the world, was only trying to divert the child's attention from the torture-chamber; but it was a stupid scheme, for christine thought of nothing but us! she repeatedly besought him, in the gentlest tones which she could assume: “put out the light in the little window ! . . . erik, do put out the light in the little window!” for she saw that this light, which appeared so sud- denly and of which the monster had spoken in so threatening a voice, must mean something terrible. one thing must have pacified her for a moment; and that was seeing the two of us, behind the wall, in the midst of that resplendent light, alive and well. but she would certainly have felt much easier if the light had been put out. meantime, the other had already begun to play the ventriloquist. he said: “here, i raise my mask a little. . . . oh, only a little! . . . you see my lips, such lips as i have? they're not moving! . . . my mouth is closed—such mouth as i have—and yet you hear my voice. . . . where will you have it? in your left ear? in your right ear? in the table? in those little ebony boxes on the mantelpiece? © listen, dear, it's in the little box on the right of the mantelpiece: what does it say? 'shall i turn the scorpion?” . . . and now, crack! what does it say in the little box on the left? 'shall i turn the grasshopper?” . . . and now, crack! here it is in the little leather bag. . . . what the phantom of the opera does it say? 'i am the little bag of life and death!” - and now, crack! it is in carlotta's throat, in carlotta's golden throat, in carlotta's crystal throat, as i live! what does it say? it says, “it's i, mr. toad, it's i singing! i feel without alarm— co-ack—with its melody enwind me—co-ack!” and now, crack! it is on a chair in the ghost's box and it says, ‘madame carlotta is singing to-night to bring the chandelier down!” • and now, crack! aha! where is erik's voice now? listen, christine, darling! listen! it is behind the door of the torture-chamber! listen! it's myself in the torture-chamber! and what do i say? i say, ‘woe to them that have a nose, a real nose, and come to look round the torture-chamber! aha, aha, aha !” oh, the ventriloquist's terrible voice! it was everywhere, everywhere. it passed through the lit- tle invisible window, through the walls. it ran around us, between us. erik was there, speaking to us! we made a movement as though to fling our- selves upon him. but, already, swifter, more fleeting than the voice of the echo, erik's voice had leaped back behind the wall! soon we heard nothing more at all, for this is what happened: “erik | erik l’” said christine's voice. “you tire me with your voice. don't go on, erik! isn't it very hot here?” “oh, yes,” replied erik's voice, “the heat is un- endurable !” “but what does this mean? . . . the wall barrels | barrelsi oi scene thus obtained was twice altered instantaneously into two successive other scenes, by means of the automatic rotation of the drums or rollers in the corners. these were divided into three sections, fit- ting into the angles of the mirrors and each support- ing a decorative scheme that came into sight as the roller revolved upon its axis. the walls of this strange room gave the patient nothing to lay hold of, because, apart from the solid decorative object, they were simply furnished with mirrors, thick enough to withstand any onslaught of the victim, who was flung into the chamber empty- handed and barefoot. there was no furniture. the ceiling was capable of being lit up. an ingenious system of electric heat- ing, which has since been imitated, allowed the tem- perature of the walls and room to be increased at will. i am giving all these details of a perfectly natural invention, producing, with a few painted branches, the supernatural illusion of an equatorial forest blaz- ing under the tropical sun, so that no one may doubt the present balance of my brain or feel entitled to say that i am mad or lying or that i take him for a fool.* i now return to the facts where i left them. when *it is very natural that, at the time when the persian was writing, he should take so many precautions against any spirit of incredulity on the part of those who were likely to read his narrative. nowadays, when we have all seen this sort of room. his precautions would be superfluous. the phantom of the opera the ceiling lit up and the forest became visible around us, the viscount's stupefaction was immense. that impenetrable forest, with its innumerable trunks and branches, threw him into a terrible state of conster- nation. he passed his hands over his forehead, as though to drive away a dream; his eyes blinked; and, for a moment, he forgot to listen. i have already said that the sight of the forest did not surprise me at all; and therefore i listened for the two of us to what was happening next door. lastly, my attention was especially attracted, not so much to the scene, as to the mirrors that produced it. these mirrors were broken in parts. yes, they were marked and scratched; they had been “starred,” in spite of their solidity; and this proved to me that the torture-chamber in which we now were had already served a purpose. yes, some wretch, whose feet were not bare like those of the victims of the rosy hours of mazen- deran, had certainly fallen into this “mortal illusion” and, mad with rage, had kicked against those mirrors which, nevertheless, continued to reflect his agony. and the branch of the tree on which he had put an end to his own sufferings was arranged in such a way that, before dying, he had seen, for his last consola- tion, a thousand men writhing in his company. yes, joseph buquet had undoubtedly been through all this! were we to die as he had done? i did not think so, for i knew that we had a few hours before us and that i could employ them to bet- ter purpose than joseph buquet was able to do. af- barrels! barrels! pivots. this weak point might be a mere speck on the glass, no larger than a pea, under which the spring lay hidden. i hunted and hunted. i felt as high as my hands could reach. erik was about the same height as myself and i thought that he would not have placed the spring higher than suited his stature. while groping over the successive panels with the greatest care, i endeavored not to lose a minute, for i was feeling more and more overcome with the heat and we were literally roasting in that blazing forest. i had been working like this for half an hour and had finished three panels, when, as ill-luck would have it, i turned round on hearing a muttered ex- clamation from the viscount. “i am stifling,” he said. “all those mirrors are sending out an infernal heat! do you think you will find that spring soon? if you are much longer about it, we shall be roasted alive!” i was not sorry to hear him talk like this. he had not said a word of the forest and i hoped that my companion's reason would hold out some time longer against the torture. but he added: “what consoles me is that the monster has given christine until eleven to-morrow evening. if we can't get out of here and go to her assistance, at least we shall be dead before her then erik's mass can serve for all of us!” and he gulped down a breath of hot air that nearly made him faint. the phantom of the opera as i had not the same desperate reasons as m. le wicomte for accepting death, i returned, after giving him a word of encouragement, to my panel, but i had made the mistake of taking a few steps while speaking and, in the tangle of the illusive for- est, i was no longer able to find my panel for cer- tain i i had to begin all over again, at random, feeling, fumbling, groping. now the fever laid hold of me in my turn . . . for i found nothing, absolutely nothing. in the next room, all was silence. we were quite lost in the for- est, without an outlet, a compass, a guide or anything. oh, i knew what awaited us if nobody came to our aid . . . or if i did not find the spring! but, look as i might, i found nothing but branches, beauti- ful branches that stood straight up before me, or spread gracefully over my head. but they gave no shade. and this was natural enough, as we were in an equatorial forest, with the sun right above our heads, an african forest. m. de chagny and i had repeatedly taken off our coats and put them on again, finding at one time that they made us feel still hotter and at another that they protected us against the heat. i was still mak- ing a moral resistance, but m. de chagny seemed to me quite “gone.” he pretended that he had been walking in that forest for three days and nights, without stopping, looking for christine daaé! from time to time, he thought he saw her behind the trunk of a tree, or gliding between the branches; and he the phantom of the opera and the roaring began again, louder than before. and the viscount fired, but i do not think that he hit the lion; only, he smashed a mirror, as i per- ceived the next morning, at daybreak. we must have covered a good distance during the night, for we suddenly found ourselves on the edge of the desert, an immense desert of sand, stones and rocks. it was really not worth while leaving the forest to come upon the desert. tired out, i flung myself down beside the viscount, for i had had enough of looking for springs which i could not find. i was quite surprised—and i said so to the vis- count—that we had encountered no other dangerous animals during the night. usually, after the lion came the leopard and sometimes the buzz of the tsetse fly. these were easily obtained effects; and i explained to m. de chagny that erik imitated the roar of a lion on a long tabour or timbrel, with an ass's skin at one end. over this skin he tied a string of catgut, which was fastened at the middle to another similar string passing through the whole length of the tabour. erik had only to rub this string with a glove smeared with resin and, accord- ing to the manner in which he rubbed it, he imitated to perfection the voice of the lion or the leopard, or even the buzzing of the tsetse fly. the idea that erik was probably in the room be- side us, working his trick, made me suddenly resolve to enter into a parley with him, for we must obviously give up all thought of taking him by surprise. and by this time he must be quite aware who were the o the phantom of the opera i must be either blind or mad to imagine that all that water flowing over there, among those splendid, numberless trees, was not real water ! . . . and the desert was real! . . . and so was the for- est! . . . and it was no use trying to take him in . . . he was an old, experienced trav- eler . . . he had been all over the place! and he dragged himself along, saying: “water ! water i’’ and his mouth was open, as though he were drink- ing. and my mouth was open too, as though i were drinking. for we not only saw the water, but we heard it/ we heard it flow, we heard it ripple! do you understand that word “ripple?” . . . it is a sound which you hear with your tongue! • you put your tongue out of your mouth to listen to it better! lastly—and this was the most pitiless torture of all—we heard the rain and it was not raining! this was an infernal invention. . . . oh, i knew well enough how erik obtained it! he filled with little stones a very long and narrow box, broken up inside with wooden and metal projections. the stones, in falling, struck against these projections and rebounded from one to another; and the result was a series of pattering sounds that exactly imitated a rainstorm. ah, you should have seen us putting out our tongues and dragging ourselves toward the rippling barrels barrels i ii river-bank! our eyes and ears were full of water, but our tongues were hard and dry as horn when we reached the mirror, m. de chagny licked it . . . and i also licked the glass. it was burning hot! then we rolled on the floor with a hoarse cry of "despair. m. de chagny put the one pistol that was still loaded to his temple; and i stared at the punjab lasso at the foot of the iron tree. i knew why the iron tree had returned, in this third change of scene ! the iron tree was waiting for me ! • but, as i stared at the punjab lasso, i saw a thing that made me start so violently that m. de chagny delayed his attempt at suicide. i took his arm. and then i caught the pistol from him . . . and then i dragged myself on my knees toward what i had seen. i had discovered, near the punjab lasso, in a groove in the floor, a black-headed nail of which i knew the use. at last i had discovered the spring! i felt the nail. . . . i lifted a radiant face to m. de chagny. . . . the black-headed nail yielded to my pressure. • and then. and then we saw not a door opened in the wall, but a cellar-flap released in the floor. cool air came up to us from the black hole below. we stooped over that square of darkness as though over a limpid well. with our chins in the cool shade, we drank t n. and we bent lower and lower over the trap-door. the phantom of the opera the viscount put his two full hands close to my lantern. . . . i stooped to look . . . and at once threw away the lantern with such violence that it broke and went out, leaving us in utter dark- iness. what i had seen in m. de chagny's hands . . . was gun-powder! chapter xxv the scorpion or the grasshopper: which the persian's narrative concluded he discovery flung us into a state of alarm that made us forget all our past and present suffer- ings. we now knew all that the monster meant to convey when he said to christine daaé: “yes or no! if your answer is no, everybody will be dead and buried!” yes, buried under the ruins of the paris grand opera! the monster had given her until eleven o'clock in the evening. he had chosen his time well. there would be many people, many “members of the human race,” up there, in the resplendent theater. what finer retinue could be expected for his funeral? he would go down to the tomb escorted by the whitest shoulders in the world, decked with the richest jewels. eleven o'clock to-morrow evening! we were all to be blown up in the middle of the performance . . . if christine daaé said no! eleven o'clock to-morrow evening! . . . and what else could christine say but no? would she not prefer to espouse death itself rather than that living corpse? she did not know that on her accep- i scorpion or grasshopper? we found the trap-door still open, but it was now as dark in the room of mirrors as in the cellar which we had left. we dragged ourselves along the floor of the torture-chamber, the floor that separated us from the powder-magazine. what was the time? we shouted, we called: m. de chagny to christine, i to erik. i reminded him that i had saved his life. but no answer, save that of our despair, of our mad- ness: what was the time? we argued, we tried to cal- culate the time which we had spent there, but we were incapable of reasoning. if only we could see the face of a watch! . . . mine had stopped, but m. de chagny's was still going. . . . he told me that he had wound it up before dressing for the opera. . . . we had not a match upon us. • and yet we must know. . . . m. de chagny broke the glass of his watch and felt the two hands. . . . he questioned the hands of the watch with his finger-tips, going by the position of the ring of the watch. . . . judging by the space between the hands, he thought it might be just eleven o'clock! but perhaps it was not the eleven o'clock of which we stood in dread. perhaps we had still twelve hours before us! t suddenly, i exclaimed: “hush!” i seemed to hear footsteps in the next room. some one tapped against the wall. christine daaé's voice said: * “raoul | raoul!” we were now all talking at once, on either side scorpion or grasshopper? and he laughed like a drunken demon. i did noth- ing but beg and entreat him to give me the key of the torture-chamber, promising to be his wife if he granted me that request. . . . but he told me that there was no future need for that key and that he was going to throw it into the lake! and he again laughed like a drunken demon and left me. oh, his last words were, “the grasshopper! be careful of the grasshopper! a grasshopper does not only turn: it hops! it hops! and it hops jolly high!’” the five minutes had nearly elapsed and the scorpion and the grasshopper were scratching at my brain. nevertheless, i had sufficient lucidity left to understand that, if the grasshopper were turned, it would hop . . . and with it many members of the human race! there was no doubt but that the grasshopper controlled an electric current intended to blow up the powder-magazine! m. de chagny, who seemed to have recovered all his moral force from hearing christine's voice, ex- plained to her, in a few hurried words, the situation in which we and all the opera were. he told her to turn the scorpion at once. there was a pause. “christine,” i cried, “where are you?” “by the scorpion.” “don’t touch it!” the idea had come to me—for i knew my erik— that the monster had perhaps deceived the girl once more. perhaps it was the scorpion that would blow scorpion or grasshopper? enough gun-powder under our feet to blow up a whole quarter of paris. if you turn the scorpion, made- moiselle, all that powder will be soaked and drowned. mademoiselle, to celebrate our wedding, you shall make a very handsome present to a few hundred pari- sians who are at this moment applauding a poor masterpiece of meyerbeer's . . . you shall make them a present of their lives. . . . for, whh your own fair hands, you shall turn the scorpion. . . . and merrily, merrily, we will be married!” a pause; and then: “if, in two minutes, mademoiselle, you have not turned the scorpion, i shall turn the grasshopper . . . and the grasshopper, i tell you, hops jolly high!” the terrible silence began anew. the vicomte de chagny, realizing that there was nothing left to do but pray, went down on his knees and prayed. as for me, my blood beat so fiercely that i had to take my heart in both hands, lest it should burst. at last, we heard erik's voice: “the two minutes are past. . . . good-by, mademoiselle. . . . hop, grasshopper! .” “erik,” cried christine, “do you swear to me, monster, do you swear to me that the scorpion is the one to turn? .” “yes, to hop at our wedding.” “ah, you see! you said, to hop!” “at our wedding, ingenuous child! . . . the scorpion opens the ball. . . . but that will do! the phantom of the opera e - you won't have the scorpion? then i turn the grasshopper!” “erik i’” “enough!” i was crying out in concert with christine. m. de chagny was still on his knees, praying. “erik! i have turned the scorpion!” oh, the second through which we passed! waiting! waiting to find ourselves in fragments, amid the roar and the ruins! feeling something crack beneath our feet, hear- ing an appalling hiss through the open trap-door, a hiss like the first sound of a rocket! it came softly, at first, then louder, then very loud. but it was not the hiss of fire. it was more like the hiss of water. and now it became a gurgling sound: “guggle! guggle !” we rushed to the trap-door. all our thirst, which vanished when the terror came, now returned with the lapping of the water. the water rose in the cellar, above the barrels, the powder-barrels—“barrels l . . . barrels! any barrels to sell?”—and we went down to it with parched throats. it rose to our chins, to our mouths. and we drank. we stood on the floor of the cellar and drank. and we went up the stairs again in the dark, step by step, went up with the water. the water came out of the cellar with us and spread over the floor of the room. if this went on, the whole house on the lake would be swamped. the the phantom of the opera we whirled around in the water like so much wreckage. but, suddenly, my straying hands seized the trunk of the iron tree! i called m. de chagny, and we both hung to the branch of the iron tree. and the water rose still higher. “oh! oh! can you remember? how much space is there between the branch of the tree and the dome-shaped ceiling? do try to remember! • after all, the water may stop, it must find its level ! . . . there, i think it is stopping! . . . no, no, oh, horrible! . . . swim i swim for your life!” our arms became entangled in the effort of swim- ming; we choked; we fought in the dark water; al- ready we could hardly breathe the dark air above the dark water, the air which escaped, which we could hear escaping through some vent-hole or other. “oh, let us turn and turn and turn until we find the air hole and then glue our mouths to it!” but i lost my strength; i tried to lay hold of the walls! oh, how those glass walls slipped from under my groping fingers! . . . we whirled round again! . . . we began to sink! . . . one last effort! . . . a last cry: “erik! . . . christine! . . .” “guggle, guggle, guggle!” in our ears. “guggle! guggle!” at the bottom of the dark water, our ears went, “guggle! guggle !” and, before losing consciousness entirely, i seemed to hear, between two guggles: “barrels! barrels! any barrels to sell ?” the phantom of the opera found himself lying on a bed. m. de chagny was on a sofa, beside the wardrobe. an angel and a devil were watching over them. after the deceptions and illusions of the torture- chamber, the precision of the details of that quiet lit- tle middle-class room seemed to have been invented for the express purpose of puzzling the mind of the mortal rash enough to stray into that abode of living nightmare. the wooden bedstead, the waxed ma- hogany chairs, the chest of drawers, those brasses, the little square antimacassars carefully placed on the backs of the chairs, the clock on the mantelpiece and the harmless-looking ebony caskets at either end, lastly, the whatnot filled with shells, with red pin- cushions, with mother-of-pearl boats and an enor- mous ostrich-egg, the whole discreetly lighted by a shaded lamp standing on a small round table: this collection of ugly, peaceable, reasonable furniture, at the bottom of the opera cellars, bewildered the imagination more than all the late fantastic happen- ngs. and the figure of the masked man seemed all the more formidable in this old-fashioned, neat and trim little frame. it bent down over the persian and said, in his ear: “are you better, daroga? . . . you are look- ing at my furniture? . . . it is all that i have left of my poor unhappy mother.” christine daaé did not say a word: she moved about noiselessly, like a sister of charity, who had taken a vow of silence. she brought a cup of cordial, the phantom of the opera editions of the imitation that look like that. the persian still had in his ears the natural tone in which the other had said, “to please my wife.” very gently, he called her again; but christine was wrapped up in her book and did not hear him. erik returned, mixed the daroga a draft and advised him not to speak to “his wife” again nor to any one, because it might be very dangerous to every- body's health. eventually, the persian fell asleep, like m. de chagny, and did not wake until he was in his own room, nursed by his faithful darius, who told him that, on the night before, he was found propped against the door of his flat, where he had been brought by a stranger, who rang the bell before going away. as soon as the daroga recovered his strength and his wits, he sent to count philippe's house to inquire after the viscount's health. the answer was that the young man had not been seen and that count philippe was dead. his body was found on the bank of the opera lake, on the rue-scribe side. the persian re- membered the requiem mass which he had heard from behind the wall of the torture-chamber, and had no doubt concerning the crime and the criminal. knowing erik as he did, he easily reconstructed the tragedy. thinking that his brother had run away with christine daaé, philippe had dashed in pursuit of him along the brussels road, where he knew that everything was prepared for the elopement. failing to find the pair, he hurried back to the opera, remem- a universal picture with lon chaney. the phantom of the opera. the infuriated mob pursues the phantom through the cellar of the opera. end of ghost's love story bered raoul's strange confidence about his fantastic rival and learned that the viscount had made every effort to enter the cellars of the theater and that he had disappeared, leaving his hat in the prima donna's dressing-room beside an empty pistol-case. and the count, who no longer entertained any doubt of his brother's madness, in his turn darted into that infer- nal underground maze. this was enough, in the persian's eyes, to explain the discovery of the comte de chagny's corpse on the shore of the lake, where the siren, erik's siren, kept watch. the persian did not hesitate. he determined to inform the police. now the case was in the hands of an examining-magistrate called faure, an incredu- lous, commonplace, superficial sort of person, (i write as i think), with a mind utterly unprepared to receive a confidence of this kind. m. faure took down the daroga's depositions and proceeded to treat him as a madman. - despairing of ever obtaining a hearing, the per- sian sat down to write. as the police did not want his evidence, perhaps the press would be glad of it; and he had just written the last line of the narrative i have quoted in the preceding chapters, when darius announced the visit of a stranger who refused his name, who would not show his face and declared simply that he did not intend to leave the place until he had spoken to the daroga. the persian at once felt who his singular visitor was and ordered him to be shown in. the daroga was right. it was the ghost, it was erik! end of ghost's love story still . . . daroga . . . and i am dying of love for her, i . . . i tell you! . . . if you knew how beautiful she was . . . when she let me kiss her . . . alive. . . . it was the first . . . time, daroga, the first time i ever. kissed a woman. . . . yes, alive. e i kissed her alive . . . and she looked as beautiful as if she had been dead! . . .” the persian shook erik by the arm: “will you tell me if she is alive or dead.” “why do you shake me like that?” asked erik, making an effort to speak more connectedly. “i tell you that i am going to die. . . . yes, i kissed her alive. . .” “and now she is dead?” “i tell you i kissed her just like that, on her fore- head . . . and she did not draw back her fore- head from my lips! . . . oh, she is a good girl! . . . as to her being dead, i don’t think so; but it has nothing to do with me. . . . no, no, she is not dead! and no one shall touch a hair of her head! she is a good, honest girl, and she saved your life, daroga, at a moment when i would not have given twopence for your persian skin. as a matter of fact, nobody bothered about you. why were you there with that little chap? you would have died as well as hel my word, how she en- treated me for her little chap! but i told her that, as she had turned the scorpion, she had, through that very fact, and of her own free will, become engaged to me and that she did not need to have two men engaged to her, which was true enough. end of ghost's love story erik here rose solemnly. then he continued, but, as he spoke, he was overcome by all his former emo- tion and began to tremble like a leaf: “yes, she was waiting for me . . . waiting for me erect and alive, a real, living bride . . . as she hoped to be saved. . . . and, when i • came forward, more timid than - a little child, she did not run away . . . no, no she stayed . . she waited for me. • i even believe . . . daroga • that she put out her forehead . . . a little oh, not much . . . just a little © like a living bride. . . . and . . . and . . . i . . . kissed her! . . . il . . . i! . . il . . . and she did not die! . . . oh, how good it is, daroga, to kiss somebody on the forehead! . . . you can't tell! but il il . . . my mother, daroga, my poor, unhappy mother would never . . . let me kiss her. . . . she used to run away . . . and throw me my mask! . . . nor any other woman . . . ever, ever! . . . ah, you can understand, my happiness was so great, i cried. and i fell at her feet, crying . . . and i kissed her feet . . . her little feet . . . crying. you're crying, too, daroga . . . and she cried also . . . the angel cried! . . .” erik sobbed aloud and the persian himself could not retain his tears in the presence of that masked man, who, with his shoulders shaking and his hands clutched at his chest, was moaning with pain and love by turns. the phantom of the opera “yes, daroga. . . . i felt her tears flow on my forehead . . . on mine, mine! . . . they were soft . . . they were sweet! • they trickled under my mask . . . they min- gled with my tears in my eyes . . . they flowed between my lips. . . . listen, daroga, listen to what i did. . . . i tore off my mask so as not to lose one of her tears . . . and she did not run away! . . . and she did not die! • she remained alive, weeping over me, with me. we cried together! i have tasted all the happiness the world can offer!” and erik fell into a chair, choking for breath: “ah, i am not going to die yet . . . presently i shall . . . but let me cry! . . . listen, daroga . . . listen to this. . . . while i was at her feet . . . i heard her say, “poor, un- happy erik!' . . . and she took my hand! • i had become no more, you know, than a poor dog ready to die for her. . . . i mean it, daroga! . . . i held in my hand a ring, a plain gold ring which i had given her . . . which she had lost . . . and which i had found again • • a wedding-ring, you know. . . . i slipped it into her little hand and said, “there! • take it ! . . . take it for you . • and him! . . . it shall be my wedding-present a present from your poor, unhappy erik. i know you love the boy . . . don't cry any more!' . . . she asked me, in a very soft voice, what i meant. . . . then i made her understand that, where she was concerned, i was end of ghost's love story only a poor dog, ready to die for her . . . but that she could marry the young man when she pleased, because she had cried with me and mingled her tears with mine! . . .” erik's emotion was so great that he had to tell the persian not to look at him, for he was choking and must take off his mask. the daroga went to the window and opened it. his heart was full of pity, but he took care to keep his eyes fixed on the trees in the tuileries gardens, lest he should see the monster's face. “i went and released the young man,” erik con- tinued, “and told him to come with me to christine. . they kissed before me in the louis-philippe room. . . . christine had my ring. . . . i made christine swear to come back, one night, when i was dead, crossing the lake from the rue-scribe side, and bury me in the greatest secrecy with the gold ring, which she was to wear until that mo- ment. . . . i told her where she would find my body and what to do with it. . . . then chris- tine kissed me, for the first time, herself, here, on the forehead—don't look, daroga l—here, on the fore- head . . . on my forehead, mine—don't look, daroga l—and they went off together. . . . christine had stopped crying. . . . i alone cried. . . . daroga, daroga, if christine keeps her promise, she will come back soon l . . .” the persian asked him no questions. he was quite reassured as to the fate of raoul chagny and christine daaé; no one could have doubted the word of the weeping erik that night. o the phantom of the opera i then spoke of the two successors and expressed my surprise that, in his memoirs of a manager, m. moncharmin should describe the opera ghost's be- havior at such length in the first part of the book and hardly mention it at all in the second. in reply to this, the persian, who knew the memoirs as thor- oughly as if he had written them himself, observed that i should find the explanation of the whole busi- ness if i would just recollect the few lines which mon- charmin devotes to the ghost in the second part afore- said. i quote these lines, which are particularly in- teresting because they describe the very simple man- ner in which the famous incident of the twenty-thou- sand francs was closed: “as for o. g., some of whose curious tricks i have related in the first part of my memoirs, i will only say that he redeemed by one spontaneous fine action all the worry which he had caused my dear friend and partner and, i am bound to say, myself. he felt, no doubt, that there are limits to a joke, especially when it is so expensive and when the commissary of police has been informed, for, at the moment when we had made an appointment in our office with m. mifroid to tell him the whole story, a few days after the disappearance of christine daaé, we found, on richard's table, a large envelope, inscribed, in red ink, “with o. g.'s compliments.” it contained the large sum of money which he had succeeded in play- fully extracting, for the time being, from the treasury. richard was at once of the opinion that we must be content with that and drop the business. i agreed with richard. all's well that ends well. what do you say, o. g. ?” epilogue i of course, moncharmin, especially after the money had been restored, continued to believe that he had, for a short while, been the butt of richard's sense of humor, whereas richard, on his side, was convinced that moncharmin had amused himself by inventing the whole of the affair of the opera ghost, in order to revenge himself for a few jokes. i asked the persian to tell me by what trick the ghost had taken twenty-thousand francs from rich- ard's pocket in spite of the safety-pin. he replied that he had not gone into this little detail, but that, if i myself cared to make an investigation on the spot, i should certainly find the solution to the riddle in the managers' office by remembering that erik had not been nicknamed the trap-door lover for nothing. i promised the persian to do so as soon as i had time, and i may as well tell the reader at once that the results of my investigation were perfectly satis- factory; and i hardly believed that i should ever dis- cover so many undeniable proofs of the authenticity of the feats ascribed to the ghost. the persian's manuscript, christine daaé's papers, the statements made to me by the people who used to work under mm. richard and moncharmin, by little meg herself (the worthy madame giry, i am sorry to say, is no more) and by sorelli, who is now living in retirement at louveciennes: all the documents relating to the existence of the ghost, which i propose to deposit in the archives of the opera, have been checked and confirmed by a num- epilogue knew too much. then, tired of his adventurous, formidable and monstrous life, he longed to be some one “like everybody else.” and he became a con- tractor, like any ordinary contractor, building ordi- nary houses with ordinary bricks. he tendered for part of the foundations in the opera. his estimate was accepted. when he found himself in the cellars of the enormous playhouse, his artistic, fantastic, wiz- ard nature resumed the upper hand. besides, was he not as ugly as ever? he dreamed of creating for his own use a dwelling unknown to the rest of the earth, where he could hide from men's eyes for all time. the reader knows and guesses the rest. it is all in keeping with this incredible and yet veracious story. poor, unhappy erik shall we pity him? shall we curse him? he asked only to be “some one,” like everybody else. but he was too ugly and he had to hide his genius or use it to play tricks with, when, with an ordinary face, he would have been one of the most distinguished of mankind he had a heart that could have held the empire of the world; and, in the end, he had to content himself with a cellar. ah, yes, we must needs pity the opera ghost. i have prayed over his mortal remains, that god might show him mercy notwithstanding his crimes. yes, i am sure, quite sure that i prayed beside his body, the other day, when they took it from the spot where they were burying the phonographic records. it was his skeleton. i did not recognize it by the ugliness of the head, for all men are ugly when they have been dead as long as that, but by the plain gold the paris opera house high to be lowered on its frame. it was therefore nec- essary to lay a foundation in a soil soaked with water which should be sufficiently solid to sustain a weight of , , pounds, and at the same time to be perfectly dry, as the cellars were intended for the storage of scenery and properties. while the work was in progress, the excavation was kept free from water by means of eight pumps, worked by steam power, and in operation, without interruption, day and night, from march second to october thirteenth. the floor of the cellar was covered with a layer of concrete, then with two coats of cement, another layer of concrete and a coat of bitumen. the wall includes an outer wall built as a coffer-dam, a brick wall, a coat of cement, and a wall proper, a little over a yard thick. after all this was done the whole was filled with water, in order that the fluid, by pene- trating into the most minute interstices, might deposit a sediment which would close them more surely and perfectly than it would be possible to do by hand. twelve years elapsed before the completion of the building, and during that time it was demonstrated that the precautions taken secured absolute imperme- ability and solidity. ! “the events of interrupted work just as it was about to be prosecuted most vigorously, and the new opera house was put to new and unexpected uses. during the siege, it was converted into a vast mili- tary storehouse and filled with a heterogeneous mass of goods. after the siege the building fell into the hands of the commune and the roof was turned into the paris opera house floor has been given the same slope as that of the stage, so that the labor expended may be thoroughly profitable to the performance. the singers' foyer, on the same floor, is a much less lively resort than the foyer de la danse, as vocalists rarely leave their dress- ing-rooms before they are summoned to the stage. thirty panels with portraits of the artists of repute in the annals of the opera adorn this foyer. “some estimate . . . may be arrived at by sitting before the concierge an hour or so before the representation commences. first appear the stage carpenters, who are always seventy, and sometimes, when l'africaine, for example, with its ship scene, is the opera, one hundred and ten strong. then come stage upholsterers, whose sole duty is to lay carpets, hang curtains, etc.; gas-men, and a squad of firemen. claqueurs, call-boys, property-men, dressers, coiffeurs, supernumeraries, and artists, follow. the super- numeraries number about one hundred; some are hired by the year, but the masses are generally recruited at the last minute and are generally work- ing-men who seek to add to their meagre earnings. there are about a hundred choristers, and about eighty musicians. “next we behold equeries, whose horses are hoisted on the stage by means of an elevator; elec- tricians who manage the light-producing batteries; hydrauliciens to take charge of the water-works in ballets like la source; artificers who prepare the conflagration in le profeta; florists who make ready margarita's garden, and a host of minor em- e- r u by m. ay re’s novels may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset & dunlap's list. richard chatterton a fascinating story in which love and jealousy play strange tricks with women's souls. a bachelor husband can a woman love two men at the same time? in its solving of this particular variety of triangle “a bachelor husband” will [' interest, and strangel enough, without one shock to the most conventional min # the scar with fine comprehension and insight the author shows a terrific contrast between the woman whose love was of the flesh and one whose love was of the spirit. the marriage of barry wicklow here is a man and woman who, marrying for love, yet to build their wedded life upon a gospel of hate for eac : : yet win back to a greater love for each other in e enol. the uphill road the heroine of this story was a consort of thieves. the man was fine, clean, fresh from the west. it is a story of strength and passion. winds of the world jill, a poor little typist, marries the great henry sturgess and inherits millions, but not happiness. then at last—but .. must leave that to ruby m. ayres to tell you as only me can. the second honeymoon in this '' the author has produced a book which no one who has loved or hopes to love can afford to miss. the story fairly leaps from climax to climax. the phantom lover have you not often heard of someone being in love with love rather than the person they believed the object of their affections? that was esther! but she passes through the crisis into a deep and profound love. grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york (m- booth tarkington's nov e l s may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset & dunlap's list. seventeen. illustrated by arthur william brown. no one but the creator of penrod could have portrayed the immortal young people of this story. its humor is irre- sistible and reminiscent of the time when the reader was seventeen. penrod. illustrated by gordon grant. this is a picture of a boy's heart, full of the lovable, hu- morous, tragic things which are locked secrets to most older folks. it is a finished, exquisite work. penrod and sam. illustrated by worth brehm. like “ penrod” and “seventeen,” this book contains some remarkable phases of real boyhood and some of the best stories of juvenile prankishness that have ever been written. the turmoil. illustrated by c. e. chambers. bibbs sheridan is a dreamy, imaginative youth, who re- volts against his father's plans for him to be a servitor of big business. the love of a fine girl turns bibb's life from failure to success. the gentleman from indiana. frontispiece. . a story of love and politics,—more especially a picture of a country editor's life in indiana, but the charm of the book lies in the love interest. the flirt. illustrated by clarence f. underwood. the “flirt,” the younger of two sisters, breaks one girl's engagement, drives one man to suicide, causes the murder of another, leads another to lose his fortune, and in the end marries a stupid and unpromising suitor, leaving the really worthy one to marry her sister. ask for complete free list of g. & d. popular copyrighted fiction grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york e- in memory of james whitcomb riley who knew the child-mind and delighted in its every fanciful imagining; who was himself a child at heart, a player of make-believe, a dweller in fairyland. indebted to the great hoosier for guidance and inspiration, another and a lesser hoosier has long felt a compelling desire to show through the making of some such volume as is here offered in dedication, his deep appreciation and his abiding affection. johnny enelle little orphant annie * by james whitcomb riley litti ittle orphant annie's come to our house to stay, an' wash the cups an' saucers up, an' brush the crumbs away, an' shoo the chickens off the porch, an' dust the hearth, an' sweep, an' make the fire, an' bake the bread, an' earn her board-an' keep; an' all us other childern, when the supper-things is done, we set around the kitchen fire an' has the mostest fun a list'nin' to the witch-tales 'at annie tells about, an' the gobble-uns 'at gits you ef you don't watch out! wunst they wuz a little boy wouldn't say his prayers,— an' when he went to bed at night, away up-stairs, his mammy heerd him holler, an' his daddy heerd him bawl, an' when they turn't the kivvers down, he wuzn't there at all! an' they seeked him in the rafter-room, an' cubby-hole, an' press, an' seeked him up the chimbly-flue, an' ever'wheres, i guess; but all they ever found wuz thist his pants an' roundabout: an' the gobble-uns 'll git you ef you don't watch out! ** copyright, , , , , james whitcomb riley. orphant annie greencastle?" then in a gruff voice: "no, lady, this is the ten forty-five for indianapolis." "oh, dear!" orphant annie went on, but now in the thin quavering voice of an old lady, “i wanted to go to green- castle!" the children could see the old lady with her shawl pinned about her stooped shoulders and a little black bonnet tied on her white head, while there before her stood the big conductor with all his shiny brass buttons and his blue and gold cap. "well, i'll tell you what, missus, we'll change this train to run to greencastle instead of indianapolis! get aboard there and you'll find a seat right by the third window. that's it! there you are!" then as the children imagined the con- ductor helping the little old lady on the train, orphant annie turned and cupped her hands as if shouting a long way down the train. "hey, bill!" and bill answered from way off where he sat in the engine cab, "whatcha want?” “turn the train 'round, here's a nice ole lady wants to go to green- castle 'stead of indianapolis !" the conductor answered. "aw right,” came back from bill, sitting up in his cab window way down at the head of the train. then with a cry from the con- ductor of “all aboard!” orphant annie picked up an arm- ful of dry dishes and with much chug, chugging and shuffling of feet, turned the train around and sent it to greencastle while she herself carried the dishes and arranged them in the cupboard. many accidents happened on the trip, which lasted until all the dishes were wiped and placed on the shelves. as the last cup was put away, the train whistled and came to a stop, and the conductor helped down the old lady, who promised to remember him in her will. "there!" said orphant annie, her eyes dancing, “le's go in and play the organ and sing songs!" and with their arms about her, the children went skipping from the kitchen. story book "oh, you mean the little gnome! i had forgotten!" laughed orphant annie. “it isn't every time that i can peel a whole potato without breaking the curl! it's a sign of good luck when you can do that, or else you will find a hidden treasure, or a pocketbook filled with money that doesn't belong to any one." at the side of the woodshed there stood an old apple tree, gnarled and twisted in all the agony of apple trees, and at the bottom of the trunk there was a hole large enough for an ordinary sized cat to crawl in and out. "did the little gnome go into the hole in the apple tree?" carl asked. “no, he just came out and went across the meadow," orphant annie answered. "oh pshaw! i broke that one!" she added, as another long curl fell in two pieces. carl and bessie walked down to the apple tree and took turns looking up into the hole, but it was so dark inside they could see nothing. orphant annie went on peeling the potatoes and paid not the least heed to the children until they came again and sat on the steps beside her. then, as if it were quite natural for them to know, she said, “yes, he's lived there ever since the tree was knee-high to a grasshopper.” “how do you know, orphant annie?” bessie asked. orphant annie looked at her in surprise, but did not teil how she knew. “when that apple tree was a teeny weeny apple tree,” said orphant annie, “the little gnome lived over in a great oak in the woods. he was a very kindly little fellow and when- ever any of the other woodland folk were in trouble, he would always help them as much as he could. when mrs. bunnikin's rabbit babies ate bitter toadstools, the little gnome ran over to the bunnikin home and gave them just the right kind of medicine, so their fat little stomachs would not ache. indeed ၁၀၀၀၀၀၀၀ со ei johnny when mrs. bunnikin's rabbit babies ate bitter toadstools, the little gnome ran over to the bunnikin home and gave them just the right kind of medicine, so their fat little stomachs would not ache orphant annie when any of the woodland creatures came quietly along, they could bump right into him and knock him head over heels! so you see, even if minky-the-magician was invisible, he could be scented and he could be felt. . “one day wally woodpecker, the woodland mail carrier, who wears such a fine red hat, brought the little gnome word that mrs. henrietta hedgehog wanted him to run right over to her house, for one of the hedgehog twins had swal- lowed an acorn and had a very bad stomach-ache. so the little gnome picked up his medicine case and ran out the door of his tree-home as fast as he could run, and as it happened, minky-the-magician was at that moment looking through the little gnome's keyhole, so when the little gnome ran out through the door, he bumped right smack into minky-the- vagician and knocked him down. the little gnome was sur- prised to feel such a bump and not be able to see what caused it, but he was in a hurry, so, picking up his hat, he ran on through the woods to mrs. henrietta's home. of course the little gnome did not know that minky-the-magician was very angry because he had been bumped into and knocked over, nor did he know that minky had a large stick with which he intended whacking the little gnome when he caught up with him. nor did the little gnome know that minky-the- magician was so close at his heels when he opened mrs. henrietta hedgehog's door and slammed it shut behind him. if the little gnome had known that minky-the-magi- orphant annie years. and do "and minky said he thought that would be very nice, so he moved right in with the little gnome and the two of them have been living there for years and you know it is very hard to tell minky from the little gnome when you see them together. i do not believe that many of the woodfolk know whether it is minky or the little gnome who is doing kindnesses for them!" "does minky-the-magician help the little gnome take care of the woodland creatures?" bessie asked. "oh, yes!" orphant annie replied. "and he has taught the little gnome all the good magic there was in the large magic book, so that between the two of them, they can do a great deal of good and bring a lot of happiness to the woodland creatures. "gracious me! was that eleven o'clock that just struck?" orphant annie cried as she got to her feet. “i'll have to fry these potatoes in a jiffy for i heard your daddy say he wanted an early dinner so he could get into town around one o'clock!" and with this, orphant annie ran into the kitchen, leaving the children sitting on the porch step gazing in the direction of the gnarled apple tree, in the hope that they might catch a glimpse of the little gnome or the magician who had been changed from an ugly selfish creature into a happy one with a heart filled with sympathy and love for others. orphant annie arms. up at the tired old horse. there was a twinkle in orphant annie's eyes as she nodded her head and said: “dan, i believe you were fibbing to me!" carl and bessie smiled, but remained silent. “if you two could understand horse talk, i'd have old dan tell you what he just told me!" laughed orphant annie as she lay back on the grass and pillowed her head upon her “but you can't understand him so i'll tell you myself what it was. “he said that his great-great-grandfather-horse worked for a man who did nothing but pick up rags and bottles and bones and pieces of iron and brass which he sold to a junk dealer. and he said that the rag-man for whom he worked was such a gentle and kindly man that he never touched him with a whip or even spoke crossly to him. every evening dan's grandpa-horse and the rag-man went to the rag-man's home and the rag-man always fed and watered the grandpa- horse before he ate his own supper. and the rag-man was very, very poor for he only made a few pennies each day. but all the children in the town liked the rag-mạn and his grandpa-horse, because the rag-man gave them pennies to buy goodies with, and the old grandpa-horse would let them climb all over his back or even pull his tail without so much as alicking an ear. “but there were people in the town who did not like the rag-man. it may have been because he was just a rag-man, or it may have been because he was poor and did not live in à fine house and wear fine clothes as they did. anyway, one of the persons who did not like the rag-man and the grandpa- horse was a very rich man with very fine clothes, who had lots and lots of gold dollars and who owned lots and lots of big houses. in fact, he even owned the barn in which the rag-man and his grandpa-horse lived. but the rich man would never do anything for any of his houses. he let them go until the roofs leaked and the people had to sit in bed with gruelle old mister doodlesnipper didn't say a word, he just went out to the kitchen and ate all the goblins' pancakes and maple syrup and then came in and sat down facing gertrude gartersnake orphant annie her things out of the cunning little acorn house. and charlie cricket said 'deed, he would be glad to when he got back from aunty katydid's new corncob house. "so mama ladybug promised aunty katydid that she would come over and see her some day and asked aunty katy- did to come back and see her too: “then after aunty katydid had gone, mama ladybug sat down and thought, 'i believe i'll run down to town and tell daddy ladybug. he'll be mighty tickled i know! "so mama ladybug ran all the way down to the little bug village and told daddy ladybug. and daddy ladybug was real tickled. " "i'll tell you what, mama ladybug! daddy ladybug said, 'you go back home and pack all the dishes, and i'll bring a lot of paint and we'll paint the inside of the corncob house just like aunty katydid's new house!' “mama ladybug thought this was very nice, so she ran home to pack the dishes and daddy ladybug took a lot of paint and painted the long hall of the new corncob house. then when charlie cricket did not return from aunty katy- did's house and it began to grow dark, instead of staying in their own cozy, cunning little acorn house until morning, daddy ladybug ran over and said, 'mama ladybug, shall we spend the night at the new house?' and mama ladybug said, you betcha!' and hippitty hop they went right over in the dark to their corncob house. but the paint was still wet and the two foolish ladybugs had to crawl up to the ceiling of the long corncob hall and hang there all night." "i would rather have stayed in the cunning little acorn house," said bessie. “so would i," exclaimed carl. "well, that's just what i say!" orphant annie agreed, as she smiled at the ladybug still walking up her hand. "but they went anyway and climbed to the top of the hallway out of the wet paint. then they had hardly got to sleep when some larger creature, running through the woods stepped on the corncob house and sent it rolling down the hill. and as the corncob house went rolling along, mama and daddy ladybug began running around the sides of the long hallway, first across the ceiling, then as the corncob turned over, they found themselves running across the wet paint. and when their feet got covered with the wet paint, they would slip from the ceiling and, splash! they would fall down into the wet red paint upon their backs!" carl and bessie joined in orphant annie's laughter as they thought of the two ladybugs scrambling over the walls as the corncob house rolled along. "finally,” said orphant annie, "when the corncob house stopped rolling, mama ladybug and daddy ladybug were so tired they just lay down where they were and went sound asleep. and in the morning, what a sight they were! their backs were covered with red paint that had dried hard in the night, so instead of being nice white ladybugs, they were red ladybugs. “mama ladybug looked at daddy ladybug and cried and cried, and daddy ladybug looked at mama ladybug and he cried and cried. at last, thinking of their nice little cozy acorn house, they opened the door of the corncob house and vi the nine little goblins with green eyes "o !" said orphant annie, when the children had teased her into telling them a story. “and they had nine little goblin wives with red eyes. the nine little goblin wives had red eyes because they spent all their time in weeping. they were always sad, it seemed, and nothing the nine little green-eyed goblins could do seemed to please them. "if it happened to be a rainy day, one of the little green eyed goblins would look out of the window and say: 'ho, ho! it's raining to-day! and at that all of the nine little goblin wives would begin crying in different keys, which sounded so funny that the nine little green-eyed goblin husbands would have to run out in the kitchen and snicker with their hankies in their mouths to keep their wives from hearing them laugh. for the nine little green-eyed goblins were happy little fellows and could see fun in almost anything. "and when the goblins awakened in the morning to find the sun shining brightly, if one of the little green-eyed goblins orphant annie the groundhog children sometimes muss the garden up a good deal!" "shucks!" carl exclaimed, "what difference does it make? we always have more than we can use anyway and stuff is left in the garden that just lays there and spoils!" "you are right, carl," orphant annie laughed, "but the hired man does not think of that. why, when georgiana groundhog says to one of the groundhog boys, willie, take the basket and run over to the garden and bring back some vegetables,' willie groundhog hustles about his errand with his little groundhog heart beating as happily as any real for sure, grown-up boy's, when he is doing something nice to help his mother. and if, when he runs to the garden, he sees a great big hired man rise up from behind the fence with something in his hands that makes a great bang, you can imagine just how frightened willie becomes. you see, the groundhogs do not know that the hired man plants the vegetables in the garden. the groundhogs think they just grow there for every one who cares to take them. so they don't know it is stealing when they take the vegetables !" "i wonder what groundhogs do to amuse themselves?" carl asked. "oh, don't worry," laughed orphant annie, “they have lots of fun, and that is what i started out to tell you. you know, nearly all animals can see much better than we can, for mother nature has given them very keen eyes. so they often see fairies and pixies and dwarfs and elves and gnomes and everything like that; and it is quite easy for georgiana groundhog to see a pixie, if the pixie wishes to be seen. "well, one day a pixie did wish to be seen, for he walked right up to georgiana groundhog's doorway where she was sweeping and said: 'good morning georgiana groundhog. it's a nice day, isn't it?' orphant annie “and georgiana groundhog looked around and saw the dear little pixie and she said: 'good morning, cunning little pixie! yes, it is a lovely day.' “and the pixie dug his little toe in the soft ground as if he wanted to ask something but was shy about doing it. so georgiana groundhog laughed a little groundhog laugh and asked: “what is it you want, little pixie?' “then the little pixie laughed a little pixie laugh and said: 'i'd like a piece of bread and butter with sugar on it.' “so georgiana groundhog leaned her broom against the front door and said, 'come around to the kitchen, mr. pixie, and i'll see what we can find !' "then georgiana groundhog led the way to the kitchen and opened the cupboard door. "which would you rather have, mister pixie?' georgiana groundhog asked, 'bread and butter with sugar on it, or bread and butter with honey on it, or bread and butter with raspberry jelly on it?' “the little pixie fidgeted around as if he were embar- rassed, so georgiana groundhog laughed again and said, 'now, mister pixie, you just sit on that chair and i'll fix you a piece of bread and butter with sugar on it, and a piece of bread and butter with honey on it, and a piece of bread and butter with raspberry jelly on it! and that is what she did. "then she gave the little pixie a glass of spring water and when he had eaten the three pieces of bread, she washed the raspberry jelly from around his mouth and asked him: 'have you had enough?' “and the little pixie said, 'yes, thank you, and it was very, very good, too." “i'm glad you liked it,' georgiana groundhog said. "i guess i'll go home now,' replied the little pixie. "where do you live?' georgiana groundhog asked him. “would you like to see where i live?' the little pixie asked in reply. and when georgiana groundhog exclaimed, story book and so something to wear grew on all the bushes, neckties and everything, and all the groundhogs had to do was to pick the slippers, stockings, pants and dresses and bonnets and hats that fitted them, and the first thing you knew, they were dressed so prettily they hardly knew themselves. "then when the little pixie came out he was so pleased to see they had helped themselves that he told them the pixies always grew the clothes for little creatures of the fields and forests, and led them out the back garden gate and into what looked like a large fair ground, for there were shows and swings and candy booths and pop-corn places and peanut- brittle shops and lemonade stands and ice-cream soda, foun- tains and roller-coasters and merry-go-rounds, and everything. not large ones like we have, but small, ones for the little creatures of the fields and forests. and there, riding on the merry-go-rounds and roller-coasters and eating ice-cream and lollypops, were hundreds of little creatures, playing together and having the nicest time. you see,' said the little pixie, ‘all of the creatures here have been invited by the pixies, and it is a pixie law that there must be no fighting or quarreling, nor must any creature harm another while in pixie land! "and sure enough, the happy groundhog family saw that old mister fox was having the nicest time riding on the merry-go-round with mrs rabbit, and winifred weazel was showing two little chipmunk boys all around the great amusement park. « now i must leave you,' said pixie to the groundhog family, ‘and go bring others here, so have as much fun as you possibly can and when you get ready to leave just walk to the spot where you came in and say what i told you to say at the stone. then you can go back home! “so georgiana groundhog and george groundhog and willie and winnie groundhog all thanked the dear little pixie and asked him to come see them. and then they went ix the thingamajig and the whatchamacallit "the he thingamajig and the whatchamacallit once had an argument as to which one was right,” said orphant annie, as she held the new pup under the pump while carl pumped the water over him. “the thingamajig said that fleas hopped and the whatchamacallit said that fleas jumped. "here, now! don't you do that!" orphant annie cried, as the puppy wiggled and twisted to get out from under the water spout. “you have to get your bath. there, that's enough, carl. now hand me the soap, please. “well, sir," orphant annie said, as she rubbed the new puppy dog's back with the soap and covered him with the lather, "the thingamajig and the whatchamacallit argued and argued until they grew tired, then they rested and thought up new things to say to each other, then they would start all over again and argue until it was time to go to bed. wheeswiddle grocery oro fm johnn grue lle the thingamajig and the whatchamacallit argued and argued orphant annie good evening to him and then started their argument all over again. " 'i tell you, whatchamacallit, you are wrong! cried the thingamajig “'i tell you i'm right and it is you who are wrong! the whatchamacallit replied, as he reached in the cracker barrel and took a handful of crackers. “ 'i tell you that i am right! cried the thingamajig, as he, too, reached into the cracker barrel and took a handful of crackers. “ 'it looks like it might rain to-morrow,' said the snarſy- gig, as he reached into the cracker barrel and took a handful of crackers. “they jump! cried the whatchamacallit with his mouth full of crackers. hismark berring womente polly ti ginger (rackers snaps i|||| per ‘oh, yes,' said the snarlygig, as he reached into the prune box and took another handful of prunes. 'every one knows that fleas skip. yes, yes, indeed.' "'i knew they did,' said the thingamajig and the what- chamacallit together, “but i didn't want to let on that i knew it.' “so the thingamajig and the whatchamacallit shook hands and agreed never to argue again, and went home. "when they got home, the thingamajig said, 'i knew all along that fleas jumped.' and the whatchamacallit said, 'and i knew all along that fleas hopped, and we have just been contrary, and all about some silly little thing, too.' “ 'yes,' replied the thingamajig, and i am ashamed of myself. "and i am ashamed of myself, too,' said the whatchama- callit. jom མམས ༦ • ཙ ་ཆགས་ Ć el of boards and put a padlock on it so that no one could open it except herself.”' “didn't she give them any food ?" carl asked. "oh, yes,” orphant annie replied, "witchy crosspatch knew that the tiny little people would not last until summer time unless she fed them. but she only gave them bread crumbs, and lots and lots of nights she forgot to give them anything at all." "she must have been very wicked and cruel,” bessie said, her heart swelling at the thought of any one mistreating such dear little cunning creatures. "indeed she was," orphant annie agreed. “but cross- patches always think more of themselves than of others, or they would not be crosspatches. “but someway or other, even though they did not get the kind of food they were used to, the little fairy family lived in the wooden box until the warm sun melted the ice and snow, and the leaves and grasses became green in their summer dresses. then witchy crosspatch caught the epizoodick from eating too many toadstools and had to stay in her bed for days and days, so the tiny little fairies went without any- thing to eat at all. Ć orphant annie when he saw that it was georgie grasshopper, 'for witchy crosspatch has locked all my brothers and sisters in it, and i am sure they must be very tired living in a stuffy box!' “ yes, indeed, they must be uncomfortable! georgie grass- hopper said, and he scratched his head, trying to think of a way to help the little fairy rescue the other fairies. finally georgie grasshopper scratched just the right spot on his head and so thought of a plan. “just you wait until i return! he said to the little fairy. and georgie grasshopper crawled out under the kitchen door. pretty soon he was back again, and with him came hundreds of his uncles and aunts and cousins and grandpas and grandmas, and georgie grasshopper jumped up on the wooden box and said, now i will work until i get tired, then another grasshopper can work until he gets tired and in a short time we will have all of the little fairies out of the box.' "the little fairy wondered how georgia grasshopper ex- pected to get the box opened but it did not take him very long to find out. see,” said orphant annie as she held up the grasshopper. “each grasshopper has queer long legs that look just like saws. and of course that is what georgie grass- hopper thought of. so he sat down on the edge of the top of the box and used one leg as a saw until it grew tired, then he used the other leg and sawed away until it grew tired. when he had done this six or seven times, georgie grass- hopper was ready for a rest, so another grasshopper jumped up on the box, took his place and sawed until he grew tired. “it was fortunate that witchy crosspatch had made the box out of thin boards, for it was very hard work for the grasshoppers. but they were willing little workers and kept at it until they sawed a hole large enough for all the fairies to climb through. and it wasn't a very large hole either, for living only on bread crumbs had not by any means made the little fairies any fatter. pennstate hazleton campus hazleton campus library the ingoldsby legends. : ab მმმ “while, high on the first wave that rolled in, was seen, riding proudly, the form of the angry lurline.” p. . tie ingoldsby legends: or, mirth and marvels. by richard larris barham. [thomas ingoldsby, esquire.) ustratea. piiiladelphia: porter & coates the pennsylvania state university commonwealth campus libraries hazleton high on the first wave that rolled in, was seen, i proudly, the form of the angry lurline." p. . the ingoldsby legends; or, mirth and marvels. by richard harris barh a m. [thomas ingoldsby, esquire.] yllustrated. philadelphia: porter & coates. the pennsylvania state university commonwealth campus libraries hazleton memoir of the author. richard harris barham, a celebrated humorist, better known by his nom de plume of "thomas ingoldsby,” was born at canterbury, december , . at seven years of age he lost his father, who left him a small estate, part of which was the manor of tappington, so frequently mentioned in the legends. at nine he was sent to st. paul's school, but his studies were interrupted by an accident which shattered his arm and partially crippled it for life. thus deprived of the power of bodily activity, he became a great reader and diligent student. in he entered brasenose college, oxford, in- tending at first to study for the profession of the law. cir- cumstances, however, induced him to change his mind and to enter the church. the choice seems surprising, for he had from childhood displayed that propensity to fun in the form of parody and punning which afterwards made him a reputa- tion. in he was ordained and took a country curacy; he married in the following year, and in removed to london on obtaining the appointment of minor canon of st. paul's cathedral. three years later he became one of the priests in ordinary of his majesty's chapel royal. in he first contributed to blackwood's magazine; and on the estab- lishment of bentley's miscellany in he began to furnish the series of grotesque metrical tales known as the ingoldsby legends. these became very popular, were published in a collected form, and have since passed through numerous editions. in variety and whimsicality of rhymes these verses (v) vi memoir of the author. have hardly a rival since the days of hudibras. but beneath this obvious popular quality there lies a store of solid anti- quarian learning, the fruit of patient enthusiastic research by the light of the midnight lamp, in out-of-the-way old books, which few readers who laugh over his pages detect. if it were of any avail we might regret that a more active faculty of veneration did not keep him from writing some objection- able passages of the legends. his life was grave, dignified, and highly honored. his sound judgment and his kind heart made him the trusted counsellor, the valued friend, and the frequent peacemaker; and he was intolerant of all that was mean, and base, and false. in politics he was a tory of the old school; yet he was the life-long friend of the liberal sydney smith, whom in many respects he singularly resem- bled. theodore hook was one of his most intimate friends. mr. barham was a contributor to the edinburgh review and the literary gazette; published a novel in three volumes, entitled my cousin nicholas; and, strange to tell, wrote nearly a third of the articles in gorton's biographical dictionary. his life was not without such changes and sorrows as make men grave. he had nine children, and six of them died in his lifetime. but he retained vigor and freshness of heart and mind to the last, and his latest verses show no signs of decay. he died in london after a long and painful illness, june , .- encyclopædia britannica. a er i to richard bentley, esq. my dear sir: you wish me to collect into a single volume certain ram- bling extracts from our family memoranda, many of which have already appeared in the pages of your miscellany. at the same time you tell me that doubts are entertained in certain quarters as to the authenticity of their details. now with respect to their genuineness, the old oak chest, in which the originals are deposited, is not more familiar to my eyes than it is to your own; and if its contents have any value at all, it consists in the strict veracity of the facts they record. to convince the most incredulous i can only add that should business-pleasure is out of the question-ever call them into the neighborhood of folkestone, let them take the high-road from canterbury to dover till they reach the eastern extremity of barham downs. here a beautiful green lane diverging abruptly to the right will carry them through the oxenden plantations and the unpretending village of denton to the foot of a very respectable hill, -as hills go in this part of europe. on reaching its summit let them look straight before them,-and if, among the hanging woods which crown the opposite side of the valley, they cannot distinguish an antiquated manor-house of elizabethan architecture, with its gable ends, stone stanchions, and tortuous chimneys rising above the surrounding trees, why—the sooner they procure a pair of dollond's patent spectacles the better. (vii) viii preface. pi if, on the contrary, they can manage to descry it, and, pro- ceeding some five or six furlongs through the avenue, will ring at the lodge gate,-they cannot mistake the stone lion with the ingoldsby escutcheon (ermine, a saltire engrailed gules) in his paws,-they will be received with a hearty old english welcome. the papers in question having been written by different parties, and at various periods, i have thought it advisable to reduce the more ancient of them into a comparatively modern phraseology, and to make my collateral ancestor, father john, especially, “deliver himself like a man of this world;" mr. maguire, indeed, is the only gentleman who, in his account of the late coronation, retains his own rich vernacular. as to arrangement, i shall adopt the sentiment expressed by the constable of bourbon four centuries ago, teste shak- speare, one which seems to become more fashionable every day, "the devil take all order ! !—i'll to the throng !" ve at sha wo to su of believe me to be, my dear sir, yours, most indubitably and immeasurably, in the ex thomas ingoldsby. er th it tappington everard, jan. , . en to de preface to the second edition. to richard bentley, esq. my dear sir: i should have replied sooner to your letter, but that the last three days in january are, as you are aware, always dedicated, at the hall, to an especial battue, and the old house is full of shooting-jackets, shot-belts, and “double joes." even the women wear percussion caps, and your favorite (?) rover, who, you may remember, examined the calves of your legs with such suspicious curiosity at christmas, is as pheasant-mad as if he were a biped, instead of being a genuine four-legged scion of the blenheim breed. i have managed, however, to avail myself of a lucid interval in the general hallucination (how the rain did come down on monday !), and as you tell me the excellent friend whom you are in the habit of styling “a gen- erous and enlightened public" has emptied your shelves of the first edition, and “asks for more,” why, i agree with you, it would be a want of respect to that very respectable person- ification, when furnishing him with a further supply, not to endeavor, at least, to amend my faults, which are few, and your own, which are more numerous. i have, therefore, gone to work con amore, supplying occasionally on my own part a deficient note or elucidatory stanza, and on yours knocking out, without remorse, your superfluous i's, and now and then eviscerating your colon. my duty to your illustrious friend thus performed, i have (ix ) x preface to the second edition. a crow to pluck with him. why will he persist-as you tell me he does persist-in calling me by all sorts of names but those to which i am entitled by birth and baptism-my “sponsorial and patronymic appellations," as dr. pangloss has it? mrs. malaprop complains, and with justice, of an "assault upon her parts of speech ;" but to attack one's very existence—to deny that one is a person in esse, and scarcely to admit that one may be a person in posse—is tenfold cruelty ;- “it is pressing to death, whipping, and hanging!” let me entreat all such likewise to remember that, as shakspeare beautifully expresses himself elsewhere i give his words as quoted by a very worthy baronet in a neighboring county, when protesting against a defamatory placard at a general election “who steals my purse steals stuff!- 'twas mine-'tisn't his—nor nobody else's! but he who runs away with my good name, robs me of what does not do him any good, and makes me deuced poor!!”* in order utterly to squabash and demolish every gainsayer, i had thought, at one time, of asking my old and esteemed friend, richard lane, to crush them at once with his magic pencil, and to transmit my features to posterity, where all his works are sure to be “delivered according to the direction;" but somehow the noble-looking profiles which he has recently executed of the kemble family put me a little out of conceit of my own; while the undisguised amusement which my · mephistopheles eyebrow,” as he termed it, afforded him in the “full face," induced me to lay aside the design. besides, my dear sir, since, as has been well observed," there never was a married man yet who had not somebody remarkably like him walking about town,” it is a thousand to one but my lin- eaments might after all, out of sheer perverseness, be ascribed * a reading which seems most unaccountably to have escaped the researches of all modern shakspeareans, including the rival editors of the new and illustrated versions. preface to the second edition. xi to any body rather than to the real owner. i have therefore sent you, instead thereof, a fair sketch of tappington, taken from the folkestone road (i tore it last night out of julia simpkinson's album): get gilks to make a woodcut of it. tag ', t and now, if any miscreant (i use the word only in its primary and “pickwickian" sense of “unbeliever") ventures to throw any further doubt upon the matter, why, as jack cade's friend says in the play, “there are the chimneys in my father's house, and the bricks are alive at this day to testify it!” "why, very well then—we hope here be truths!" heaven be with you, my dear sir!—i was getting a little excited; but you, who are mild as the milk that dews the soft whisker of the new-weaned kitten, will forgive me when, wiping away the nascent moisture from my brow, i “pull in,” and subscribe myself, yours quite as much as his own, thomas ingoldsby. tappington everard, feb. , . contents. first series. page at the the spectre of tappington the nurse's story—the hand of glory . patty morgan the milkmaid's story_"look clock" gray dolphin the ghost the cynotaph mrs. botherby's story—the leech of folkestone legend of hamilton tighe the witches' frolic singular passage in the life of the late henry harris, d.d. the jackdaw of rheims. a lay of st. dunstan a lay of st. gengulphus the lay of st. odille a lay of st. nicholas . . . . the lady rohesia the tragedy mr. barney maguire's account of the coronation the “monstre” balloon hon. mr. sucklethumbkin's story—the execution some account of a new play mr. peters's story—the bagman's dog appendix ( xiii ) . xiv contents. second series. page the lord the t the blasi . the brot the knig the hoces tae forl jerry ja the black mousquetaire sir rupert the fearless the merchant of venice the auto-da-fÉ the ingoldsby penance netley abbey fragment nell cook nursery reminiscences aunt fanny. misadventures at margate the smuggler's leap bloudie jacke of sarewsberrie the babes in the wood. the dead drummer a row in an omnibus (box) the lay of st. cuthbert the lay of st. aloys the lay of the old woman clothed in gray raising the devil st. medard c'ssophis hermans hints fol marie m the ter. the pop me lete new-mad the cox bong epigra. epigea song as i le contents. xv third series. page . the lord of thoulouse . the wedding-day; or, the buccaneer's curse the blasphemer's warning the brothers of birchington the knight and the lady the house-warming the forlorn one jerry jarvis's wig unsophisticated wishes . hermann; or, the broken spear hints for an historical play marie mignot the truants the poplar. my letters new-made honor the confession song epigram epigram song as i laye a-thynkynge . the ingoldsby legends. the spectre of tappington. “it is very odd, though; what can have become of them?”. said charles seaforth, as he peeped under the valance of an old-fashioned bedstead, in an old-fashioned apartment of a still more old-fashioned manor house ; " 'tis confoundedly odd, and i can't make it out at all. why, barney, where are they? —and where the d-l are you ?” no answer was returned to this appeal; and the lieutenant, who was, in the main, a reasonable person-at least as reason- able a person as any young gentleman of twenty-two in “the service” can fairly be expected to be-cooled when he reflected that his servant could scarcely reply extempore to a summons which it was impossible he should hear. an application to the bell was the considerate result; and the footsteps of as tight a lad as ever put pipe-clay to belt sounded along the gallery. “come in !” said his master. an ineffectual attempt upon the door reminded mr. seaforth that he had locked himself in. “by heaven! this is the oddest thing of all,” said he, as he turned the key and admitted mr. maguire into his dormitory. "barney, where are my pantaloons ?” “is it the breeches ?" asked the valet, casting an inquiring eye round the apartment:-“is it the breeches, sir?” “yes; what have you done with them ?” “sure then your honor had them on when you went to bed, and it's hereabout they'll be, i'll be bail ;” and barney lifted a fashionable tunic from a cane-backed arm-chair, proceeding in ( ) the spectre of tappington. his examination. but the search was vain : there was the tunic aforesaid; there was a smart-looking kersey mere waistcoat; but the most important article of all in a gentleman's wardrobe was still wanting. “where can they be ?” asked the master, with a strong ac- cent on the auxiliary verb. “sorrow a know i knows,” said the man. “it must have been the devil, then, after all, who has been here and carried them off!” cried seaforth, staring full into barney's face. mr. maguire was not devoid of the superstition of his country- men, still he looked as if he did not quite subscribe to the sequitur. his master read incredulity in his countenance. “why, i tell you, barney, i put them there, on that arm-chair, when i got into bed; and, by heaven! i distinctly saw the ghost of the old fellow they told me of come in at midnight, put on my pantaloons, and walk away with them.” “may be so," was the cautious reply. “i thought, of course, it was a dream; but then—where the d- are the breeches ?” the question was more easily asked than answered. barney renewed his search, while the lieutenant folded his arms, and, leaning against the toilet, sank into a reverie. “after all, it must be some trick of my laughter-loving cousins," said seaforth. “ah! then, the ladies !” chimed in mr. maguire, though the observation was not addressed to him; “and will it be miss caroline or miss fanny that's stole your honor's things ?” “i hardly know what to think of it,” pursued the bereaved lieutenant, still speaking in soliloquy, with his eye resting dubi- ously on the chamber-door. “i locked myself in, that's certain; and—but there must be some other entrance to the room-pooh! i remember--the private staircase; how could i be such a fool?” and he crossed the chamber to where a low oaken doorcase was dimly visible in a distant corner. he paused before it. nothing now interfered to screen it from observation; but it bore tokens of having been at some earlier period concealed by tapestry, remains of which yet clothed the walls on either side the portal. tie spectre of tappington. “this way they must have come,” said seaforth; "i wish with all my heart i had caught them !” “och! the kittens !" sighed mr. barney maguire. but the mystery was yet as far from being solved as before. true, there was the “other door;" but then that, too, on ex- amination, was even more firmly secured than the one which opened on the gallery,—two heavy bolts on the inside effectu- ally prevented any coup de main on the lieutenant's bivouac from that quarter. he was more puzzled than ever; nor did the minutest inspection of the walls and floor throw any light upon the subject: one thing only was clear,—the breeches were gone! “ it is very singular," said the lieutenant. tappington (generally called tapton) everard is an anti- quated but commodious manor house in the eastern division of the county of kent. a former proprietor had been high-sheriff in the days of elizabeth, and many a dark and dismal tradition was yet extant of the licentiousness of his life and the enormity of his offences. the glen, which the keeper's daughter was seen to enter, but never known to quit, still frowns darkly as of yore; while an ineradicable bloodstain on the oaken stair yet bids defiance to the united energies of soap and sand. but it is with one particular apartment that a deed of more especial atrocity is said to be connected. a stranger guest—so runs the legend-arrived unexpectedly at the mansion of the “bad sir giles.” they met in apparent friendship; but the ill-concealed scowl on their master's brow told the domestics that the visit was not a welcome one; the banquet, however, was not spared; the wine cup circulated freely,—too freely, perhaps, for sounds of discord at length reached the ears of even the excluded serving-men, as they were doing their best to imitate their bet- ters in the lower hall. alarmed, some of them ventured to approach the parlor; one, an old and favored retainer of the house, went so far as to break in upon his master's privacy. sir giles, already high in oath, fiercely enjoined his absence, and he retired; not, however, before he had distinctly heard from the stranger's lips a menace that "there was that within the spectre of tappington. or any his pocket which could disprove the knight's right to issue that other command within the walls of tapton.” the intrusion, though momentary, seemed to have produced a beneficial effect; the voices of the disputants fell, and the con- versation was carried on thenceforth in a more subdued tone, till, as evening closed in, the domestics, when summoned to attend with lights, found not only cordiality restored, but that a still deeper carouse was meditated. fresh stoups, and from the choicest bins, were produced; nor was it till at a late, or rather early, hour that the revellers sought their chambers. the one allotted to the stranger occupied the first floor of the eastern angle of the building, and had once been the favorite apartment of sir giles himself. scandal ascribed this prefer- ence to the facility which a private staircase, communicating with the grounds, had afforded him, in the old knight's time, of following his wicked courses unchecked by parental observation; a consideration which ceased to be of weight when the death of his father left him uncontrolled master of his estate and actions. from that period sir giles had established himself in what were called the “state apartments,” and the “oaken chamber" was rarely tenanted, save on occasions of extraordinary festivity, or when the yule log drew an unusually large accession of guests around the christmas hearth. on this eventful night it was prepared for the unknown visitor, who sought his couch heated and inflamed from his midnight orgies, and in the morning was found in his bed a swollen and blackened corpse. no marks of violence appeared upon the body; but the livid hue of the lips, and certain dark- colored spots visible on the skin, aroused suspicions which those who entertained them were too timid to express. apoplexy, induced by the excesses of the preceding night, sir giles's con- fidential leech pronounced to be the cause of his sudden disso- lution. the body was buried in peace; and though some shook their heads as they witnessed the haste with which the funeral rites were hurried on, none ventured to murmur. other events arose to distract the attention of the retainers; men's minds became occupied by the stirring politics of the day; while the near approach of that formidable armada, so vainly arrogating to itself a title which the very elements joined with human the spectre of tappington. valor to disprove, soon interfered to weaken, if not obliterate, all remembrance of the nameless stranger who had died within the walls of tapton everard. years rolled on: the “ bad sir giles” had himself long since gone to his account, the last, as it was believed, of his immediate line; though a few of the older tenants were sometimes heard to speak of an elder brother, who had disappeared in early life, and never inherited the estate. rumors, too, of his having left a son in foreign lands were at one time rife; but they died away, nothing occurring to support them: the property passed unchallenged to a collateral branch of the family, and the secret, if secret there were, was buried in denton churchyard, in the lonely grave of the mysterious stranger. one circum- stance alone occurred, after a long intervening period, to revive the memory of these transactions. some workmen employed in grubbing an old plantation, for the purpose of raising on its.site a modern shrubbery, dug up, in the execution of their task, the mildewed remnants of what seemed to have been once a garment. on more minute inspection, enough re- mained of silken slashes and a coarse embroidery to identify the relics as having once formed part of a pair of trunk hose; while a few papers which fell from them, altogether illegible from damp and age, were by the unlearned rustics conveyed to the then owner of the estate. whether the squire was more successful in deciphering them was never known; he certainly never alluded to their contents; and little would have been thought of the matter but for the inconvenient memory of an old woman, who declared she heard her grandfather say that when the “stranger guest” was poi- soned, though all the rest of his clothes were there, his breeches, the supposed repository of the supposed documents, could never be found. the master of tapton everard smiled when hy heard dame jones's hint of deeds which might impeach the validity of his own title in favor of some unknown descendant of some unknown heir; and the story was rarely alluded to, save by one or two miracle-mongers, who had heard that others had seen the ghost of old sir giles, in his nightcap, issue from the postern, enter the adjoining copse, and wring his shadowy hands in agony, as he seemed to search vainly for something tiie spectre of tappington. hidden among the evergreens. the stranger's death-room had, of course, been occasionally haunted from the time of his decease; but the periods of visitation had latterly become very rare—even mrs. botherby, the housekeeper, being forced to admit that during her long sojourn at the månor she had never “met with anything worse than herself;" though, as the old lady afterwards added upon more mature reflection, “i must say i think i saw the devil once." such was the legend attached to tapton everard, and such the story which the lively caroline ingoldsby detailed to her equally mercurial cousin, charles seaforth, lieutenant in the hon. east india company's second regiment of bombay fen- cibles, as arm-in-arm they promenaded a gallery decked with some dozen grim-looking ancestral portraits, and, among others, with that of the redoubted sir giles himself. the gallant com- mander had that very morning paid his first visit to the house of his maternal uncle, after an absence of several years passed with his regiment on the arid plains of hindostan, whence he was now returned on a three years' furlough. he had gone out a boy-he returned a man; but the impression made upon his youthful fancy by his favorite cousin remained unimpaired, and to tapton he directed his steps, even before he sought the home of his widowed mother,-comforting himself in this breach of filial decorum by the reflection that, as the manor was so little out of his way, it would be unkind to pass, as it were, the door of his relatives, without just looking in for a few hours. but he found his uncle as hospitable, and his cousin more charming than ever; and the looks of one, and the requests of the other, soon precluded the possibility of refusing to lengthen the “few hours” into a few days, though the house was at the moment full of visitors. the peterses were there from ramsgate; and mr., mrs., and the two miss simpkinsons, from bath, had come to pass a month with the family; and tom ingoldsby had brought down his college friend the honorable augustus sucklethumbkin, with his groom and pointers, to take a fortnight's shooting. and then there was mrs. ogleton, the rich young widow, with her large black eyes, who, people did say, was setting her cap at the young squire, though mrs. botherby did not believe it; and, the spectre of tappington. was above all, there was mademoiselle pauline, her femme de cham- bre, who “mon-dieu'd” everything and everybody, and cried "quel horreur !" at mrs. botherby's cap. in short, to use the last-named and much-respected lady's own expression, the house choke-full” to the very attics,-all save the “oaken cham- ber," which, as the lieutenant expressed a most magnanimous disregard of ghosts, was forthwith appropriated to his particular accommodation. mr. maguire meanwhile was fain to share the apartment of oliver dobbs, the squire's own man: a jocular pro- posal of joint occupancy having been first indignantly rejected by “mademoiselle,” though preferred with the “laste taste in life” of mr. barney's most insinuating brogue. “come, charles, the urn is absolutely getting cold; your breakfast will be quite spoiled: what can have made you so idle ?” such was the morning salutation of miss ingoldsby to the militaire as he entered the breakfast-room half an hour after the latest of the party. "a pretty gentleman, truly, to make an appointment with !" chimed in miss frances. “ what is become of our ramble to the rocks before breakfast ?”! “oh! the young men never think of keeping a promise now," said mrs. peters, a little ferret-faced woman with underdone eyes. “when i was a young man,” said mr. peters, “i remember i always made a point of "pray, how long ago was that ?” asked mr. simpkinson from bath. " why, sir, when i married mrs. peters, i was—let me see- i was “do pray hold your tongue, p., and eat your breakfast!" interrupted his better half, who had a mortal horror of chron- ological references ; "it's very rude to tease people with your family affairs.” the lieutenant had by this time taken his seat in silence a good-humored nod, and a glance, half-smiling, half-inquisitive, being the extent of his salutation. smitten as he was, and in the the spectre of tappington. immediate presence of her who had made so large a hole in his heart, his manner was evidently distrait, which the fair caroline in her secret soul attributed to his being solely occupied by her agrémens: how would she have bridled had she known that they only shared his meditations with a pair of breeches ! charles drank his coffee and spiked some half-dozen eggs, darting occasionally a penetrating glance at the ladies, in hope of detecting the supposed waggery by the evidence of some fur- tive smile or conscious look. but in vain; not a dimple moved indicative of roguery, nor did the slightest elevation of eyebrow rise confirmative of his suspicions. hints and insinuations passed unheeded-more particular inquiries were out of the question the subject was unapproachable. in the meantime, “patent cords” were just the thing for a morning's ride; and, breakfast ended, away cantered the party over the downs, till, every faculty absorbed by the beauties, animate and inanimate, which surrounded him, lieutenant seaforth of the bombay fencibles bestowed no more thought upon his breeches than if he had been born on the top of ben lomond. another night had passed away; the sun rose brilliantly, forming with his level beams a splendid rainbow in the far-off west, whither the heavy cloud, which for the last two hours had been pouring its waters on the earth, was now flying before him. “ah! then, and it's little good it'll be the claning of ye,” apostrophized mr. barney maguire, as he deposited in front of his master's toilet a pair of "bran new” jockey boots, one of hoby's primest fits, which the lieutenant had purchased in his way through town. on that very moruing had they come for the first time under the valet's depurating hand, so little soiled, indeed, from the turfy ride of the preceding day, that a less scrupulous domestic might, perhaps, have considered the appli- cation of “warren's matchless," or oxalic acid, altogether superfluous. not so barney: with the nicest care had he re- moved the slightest impurity from each polished surface, and there they stood, rejoicing in their sable radiance. no wonder a pang shot across mr. maguire's breast as he thought on the the spectre of tappington, work now cut out for them, so different from the light labors of the day before; no wonder he murmured with a sigh, as the scarce-dried window-panes disclosed a road now inch deep in mud, “ah! then, it's little good the claning of ye!"-for well bad he learned in the hall below that eight miles of a stiff clay soil lay between the manor and bolsqver abbey, whose pictur- esque ruins, “like ancient rome, majestic in decay,” the party had determined to explore. the master had already commenced dressing, and the man was fitting straps upon a light pair of crane-necked spurs, when his hand was arrested by the old question—"barney, where are the breeches ?” they were nowhere to be found ! mr. seaforth descended that morning, whip in hand, and equipped in a handsome green riding-frock, but no “ breeches and boots to match” were there: loose jean trousers, surmount- ing a pair of diminutive wellingtons, embraced, somewhat in- congruously, his nether man, vice the "patent cords,” returned, like yesterday's pantaloons, absent without leave. the “top- boots” had a holiday. “a fine morning after the rain,” said mr. simpkinson from bath. “just the thing for the 'ops," said mr. peters. “i remember when i was a boy- do hold your tongue, p.,” said mrs. peters—advice which that exemplary matron was in the constant habit of administer- ing to "her p.," as she called him, whenever he prepared to vent his reminiscences. her precise reason for this it would be difficult to determine, unless, indeed, the story be true which a little bird had whispered into mrs. botherby's ear—mr. peters, though now a wealthy man, had received a liberal education at a charity school, and was apt to recur to the days of his muffin- cap and leathers. as usual, he took his wife's hint in good part, and "paused in his reply.” “a glorious day for the ruins !” said young ingoldsby. “but, the spectre of tappington. charles, what the deuce are you about? you don't mean to ride through our lanes in such toggery as that?" “lassy me!” said miss julia simpkinson, “won't you be very wet?” “you had better take tom's cab," quoth the squire. but this proposition was at once overruled; mrs. ogleton had already nailed the cab, a vehicle of all others the best adapted for a snug flirtation. "or drive miss julia in the phaeton ?" no; that was the post of mr. peters, who, indifferent as an equestrian, had ac- quired some fame as a whip while travelling through the mid- land counties for the firm of bagshaw, snivelby, and ghrimes. “thank you, i shall ride with my cousins," said charles, with as much nonchalance as he could assume -and he did so; mr. ingoldsby, mrs. peters, mr. simpkinson from bath, and his eldest daughter with her album, following in the family coach. the gentleman-commoner “voted the affair d-d slow," and declined the party altogether in favor of the gamekeeper and a cigar. “there was no fun' in looking at old houses !” mrs. simpkinson preferred a short séjour in the still-room with mrs. botherby, who had promised to initiate her in that grand ar- canum, the transmutation of gooseberry jam into guava jelly. "did you ever see an old abbey before, mr. peters ?" yes, miss, a french one; we have got one at ramsgate; he teaches the miss joneses to parley-voo, and is turned of sixty." miss simpkinson closed her album with an air of ineffable disdain. mr. simpkinson from bath was a professed antiquary, and one of the first water; he was master of gwillim's heraldry and mills's history of the crusades; knew every plate in the monasticon, had written an essay on the origin and dignity of the office of overseer, and settled the date on a queen anne's farthing. an influential member of the antiquarian society, to whose“ beauties of bagnigge wells" he had been a liberal subscriber, procured him a seat at the board of that learned body, since which happy epoch sylvanus urban had not a more tae spectre of tappington. indefatigable correspondent. his inaugural essay on the presi- dent's cocked hat was considered a miracle of erudition; and his account of the earliest application of gilding to gingerbread, a masterpiece of antiquarian research. his eldest daughter was of a kindred spirit: if her father's mantle had not fallen upon her, it was only because he had not thrown it off himself; she had caught hold of its tail, however, while it yet hung upon his honored shoulders. to souls so congenial, what a sight was the magnificent ruin of bolsover! its broken arches, its mouldering pinnacles, and the airy tracery of its half-demolished windows. the party were in raptures; mr. simpkinson began to meditate an essay, and his daughter an ode: even seaforth, as he gazed on these lonely relics of the olden time, was betrayed into a momentary forgetfulness of his love and losses: the widow's eye-glass turned from her cicisbeo's whiskers to the mantling ivy; mrs. peters wiped her spectacles; and “her p.” supposed the central tower “had once been the county jail.” the squire was a philosopher, and had been there often before, so he ordered out the .cold tongue and chickens. "bolsover priory,” said mr. simpkinson, with the air of a connoisseur,—“bolsover priory was founded in the reign of henry the sixth, about the beginning of the eleventh century. hugh de bolsover had accompanied thát monarch to the holy land in the expedition undertaken by way of penance for the murder of his young nephews in the tower. upon the dissolu- tion of the monasteries, the veteran was enfeoffed in the lands and manor, to which he gave his own name of bowlsover, or bee-owls-over (by corruption bolsover),-a bee in chief, over three owls, all proper, being the armorial ensigns borne by this distinguished crusader at the siege of acre." "ah! that was sir sidney smith," said mr. peters; "i've heard tell of him, and all about mrs. partington, and "p., be quiet, and don't expose yourself!" sharply interrupted his lady. p. was silenced, and betook himself to the bottled stout. “these lands," continued the antiquary, “were held in grand sergeantry by the presentation of three white owls and a pot of honey lassy me! how nice!" said miss julia. mr. peters licked his lips. the spectre of tappington. >> “pray give me leave, my dear-owls and honey, whenever the king should come a rat-catching into this part of the country." rat-catching !" ejaculated the squire, pausing abruptly in the mastication of a drumstick. “to be sure, my dear sir: don't you remember the rats once came under the forest laws-a minor species of venison? 'rats, mice, and such small deer,' eh ?-shakspeare, you know. our ancestors ate rats (the nasty fellows!' shuddered miss julia, in a parenthesis); and owls, you know, are capital mousers- “i've seen a howl,” said mr. peters; “ there's one in the so- hological gardens, -- a little hook-nosed chap in a wig, -only its feathers and- poor p. was destined never to finish a speech. “do be quiet !” cried the authoritative voice; and the would- be naturalist shrank into his shell, like a snail in the “soho- logical gardens." “you should read blount's 'jocular tenures,' mr. ingolds- by,” pursued simpkinson. “a learned man was blount! why, sir, his royal highness the duke of york once paid a silver horse-shoe to lord ferrers- “i've heard of him,” broke in the incorrigible peters; "he was hanged at the old bailey in a silk rope for shooting dr. johnson." the antiquary vouchsafed no notice of the interruption; but, taking a pinch of snuff, continued his harangue. “a silver horse-shoe, sir, which is due from every scion of royalty who rides across one of his manors; and, if you look into the penny county histories, now publishing by an eminent friend of mine, you will find that langhale in co. norf. was held by one baldwin per saltum, sufflatum, et pettum ; that is, he was to come every christmas into westminster hall, there to take a leap, cry hem! and- “mr. simpkinson, a glass of sherry?” cried tom ingoldsby, hastily. "not any, thank you, sir. this baldwin, surnamed le- “mrs. ogleton challenges you, sir; she insists upon it,” said tom, still more rapidly, at the same time filling a glass and forcing it on the sçavant, who, thus arrested in the very crisis > the spectre of tappington. of his narrative, received and swallowed the potation as if it had been physic. “what on earth has miss simpkinson discovered there?” continued tom; "something of interest. see how fast she is writing.” the diversion was effectual; every one looked towards miss simpkinson, who, far too ethereal for “creature comforts," was seated apart on the dilapidated remains of an altar-tomb, com- mitting eagerly to paper something that had strongly impressed her; the air—the eye in a “fine frenzy rolling,”-all betokened that the divine afflatus was come. her father rose and stole silently towards her. “what an old boar!” muttered young ingoldsby; alluding perhaps to a slice of brawn which he had just begun to operate upon, but which, from the celerity with which it disappeared, did not seem so very difficult of mastication. but what had become of seaforth and his fair caroline all this while? why, it so happened that they had been simul- taneously stricken with the picturesque appearance of one of those high and pointed arches which that eminent antiquary, mr. horseley curties, has described in his “ ancient records" as “a gothic window of the saxon order;" and then the ivy clustered so thickly and so beautifully on the other side that they went round to look at that; and then their proximity de- prived it of half its effect, and so they walked across to a little knoll, a hundred yards off, and in crossing a small ravine they came to what in ireland they call “ a bad step," and charles had to carry his cousin over it; and then when they had to come back, she would not give him the trouble again for the world, so they followed a better but more circuitous route, and there were hedges and ditches in the way, and stiles to get over and gates to get through, so that an hour or more had elapsed before they were able to rejoin the party. lassy me!” said miss julia simpkinson, “ how long you have been gone!" and so they had. the remark was a very just as well as a very natural one. they were gone a long while, and a nice cosy chat they had; and what do you think it was all about, my dear miss ? the spectre of tappington: . “oh, lassy me! love, no doubt, and the moon, and eyes, and nightingales, and stay, stay, my sweet young lady; do not let the fervor of your feelings run away with you! i do not pretend to say, in- deed, that one or more of these pretty subjects might not have been introduced; but the most important and leading topic of the conference was-lieutenant seaforth's breeches. "caroline," said charles, "i have had some very odd dreams since i have been at tappington.” dreams, have you ?” smiled the young lady, arching her taper neck like a swan in pluming dreams, have you ?” “ay, dreamis,-or dream, perhaps, i should say; for, though repeated, it was still the same. and what do you imagine was its subject ?" “it is impossible for me to divine,” said the tongue ;—"i have not the least difficulty in guessing," said the eye, as plainly as ever eye spoke. “i dreamt-of your great-grandfather!" there was a change in the glance—“my great-grand- father?" “yes, the old sir giles, or sir john, you told me about the other day: he walked into my bedroom in his short cloak of murrey-colored velvet, his long rapier, and his raleigh-looking hat and feather, just as the picture represents him; but with one exception." “and what was that?” why, his lower extremities, which were visible, were those of a skeleton.” “ well ?" “well, after taking a turn or two about the room, and look- ing round him with a wistful air, he came to the bed's foot, stared at me in a manner impossible to describe, -and then he - he laid hold of my pantaloons; whipped his long bony legs into them in a twinkling; and strutting up to the glass, seemed to view himself in it with great complacency. i tried to speak, but in vain. the effort, however, seemed to excite his atten- tion; for, wheeling about, he showed me the grimmest-looking death's head you can well imagine, and with an indescribable grin strutted out of the room.” the spectre of tappington. “absurd ! charles. how can you talk such nonsense ?” “but, caroline,-the breeches are really gone." on the following morning, contrary to his usual custom, sea- forth was the first person in the breakfast parlor. as no one else was present, he did precisely what nine young men out of ten so situated would have done; he walked up to the mantle- piece, established himself upon the rug, and, subducting his coat-tails one under each arm, turned towards the fire that por- tion of the human frame which it is considered equally indeco- rous to present to a friend or an enemy. a serious, not to say anxious, expression was visible upon his good-humored counte- nance, and his mouth was fast buttoning itself up for an incip- ient whistle, when little floy, a tiny spaniel of the blenheim breed,—the pet object of miss julia simpkinson's affections,- bounced out from beneath a sofa, and began to bark at-his pantaloons. they were cleverly" built,” of a light-gray mixture, a broad stripe of the most vivid scarlet traversing each seam in a per- pendicular direction from hip to ankle-in short, the regimental costume of the royal bombay fencibles. the animal, educated in the country, had never seen such a pair of breeches in her life omne ignotum pro magnifico! the scarlet streak, inflamed as it was by the reflection of the fire, seemed to act on flora's nerves as the same color does on those of bulls and turkeys; she advanced at the pas de charge, and her vociferation, like her amazement, was unbounded. a sound kick from the disgusted officer changed its character, and induced a retreat at the very moment when the mistress of the pugnacious quadruped entered to the rescue. “ lassy me! flo, what is the matter ?” cried the sympathiz- ing lady, with a scrutinizing glance levelled at the gentleman. it might as well have lighted on a feather bed. his air of imperturbable unconsciousness defied examination; and as he would not, and flora could not, expound, that injured individual was compelled to pocket up her wrongs. others of the house- hold soon dropped in, and clustered round the board dedicated to the most sociable of meals; the urn was paraded “hissing the spectre of tappington. hot," and the cups which “cheer, but not inebriate," steamed redolent of hyson and pekoe; muffins and marmalade, news- papers and finnon haddies, left little room for observation on the character of charles's warlike “turn-out." at length a look from caroline, followed by a smile that nearly ripened to a titter, caused him to turn abruptly and address his neighbor. it was miss simpkinson, who, deeply engaged in sipping her tea and turning over her album, seemed, like a female chronono- tonthologos, “immersed in cogibundity of cogitation.” an interrogatory on the subject of her studies drew from her the confession that she was at that moment employed in putting the finishing touches to a poem inspired by the romantic shades of bolsover. the entreaties of the company were of course urgent. mr. peters, “who liked verses," was especially persevering, and sappho at length compliant. after a preparatory heni! and a glance at the mirror to ascertain that her look was sufficiently sentimental, the poetess began : “ there is a calm, a holy feeling, vulgar minds can never know, o'er the bosom softly stealing,- chasten'd grief, delicious woe! oh! how sweet at eve regaining yon lone tower's sequester'd shade sadly mute and uncomplaining —" -yow!-yeough !-yeough!-yow!-yow! yelled a hapless suf- ferer from beneath the table. it was an unlucky hour for quadrupeds ; and if “every dog will have his day,” he could not have selected a more unpropitious one than this. mrs. ogleton, too, had a pet,-a favorite pug,—whose squab figure, black muzzle, and tortuosity of tail, that curled like a head of celery in a salad-bowl, bespoke his dutch extraction. yow! yow! yow! continued the brute,-a chorus in which flo in- stantly joined. sooth to say, pug had more reason to express his dissatisfaction than was given him by the muse of simpkin- son; the other only barked for company. scarcely had the poetess got through her first stanza, when tom ingoldsby, in the enthusiasm of the moment, became so lost in the material world, that, in his abstraction, he unwarily laid his hand on the cock of the urn. quivering with emotion, he gave it such an the spectre of tappington. unlucky twist that the full stream of its scalding contents de- scended on the gingerbread hide of the unlucky cupid. the confusion was complete; the whole economy of the table disar- ranged—the company broke up in most admired disorder-and vulgar minds will never know” anything more of miss simp- kinson's ode till they peruse it in some forthcoming annual. seaforth profited by the confusion, to take the delinquent who had caused this “stramash” by the arm, and to lead him to the lawn, where he had a word or two for his private ear. the con- ference between the young gentlemen was neither brief in its duration nor unimportant in its result. the subject was what the lawyers call tripartite, embracing the information that charles seaforth was over head and ears in love with tom ingoldsby's sister; secondly, that the lady had referred him to “papa” for his sanction; thirdly and lastly, his nightly visitations, and consequent bereavement. at the two first items tom smiled auspiciously—at the last he burst out into an absolute "guffaw.” “steal your breeches! miss bailey over again, by jove," shouted ingoldsby. “but a gentleman, you say,—and sir giles too. i am not sure, charles, whether i ought not to call you out for aspersing the honor of the family." “ laugh as you will, tom,—be as incredulous as you please. one fact is incontestable—the breeches are gone! look here- i am reduced to my regimentals; and if these go, to-morrow i must borrow of rochefoucauld says there is something there is something in the misfortunes of our very best friends that does not displease us; assuredly we can, most of us, laugh at their petty inconveniences, till called upon to supply them. tom composed his features on the in- stant, and replied with more gravity, as well as with an exple- tive which, if my lord mayor had been within hearing, might have cost him five shillings. "there is something very queer in this, after all. the clothes, you say, have positively disappeared. somebody is playing you a trick; and, ten to one, your servant has a hand in it. by the way, i heard something yesterday of his kicking up a bobbery in the kitchen, and seeing a ghost, or something of that kind, himself. depend upon it, barney is in the plot.” you !” the spectre of tappington. it now struck the lieutenant at once that the usually buoyant spirits of his attendant had of late been materially sobered down, his loquacity obviously circumscribed, and that he, the said lieu- tenant, had actually rung his bell three several times that very morning before he could procure his attendance. mr. maguire was forthwith summoned, and underwent a close examination. the “ bobbery” was easily explained. mr. oliver dobbs had hinted his disapprobation of a flirtation carrying on between the gentleman from munster and the lady from the rue st. honoré. mademoiselle had boxed mr. maguire's ears, and mr. maguire had pulled mademoiselle upon his knee, and the lady had not cried mon dieu! and mr. oliver dobbs said it was very wrong; and mrs. botherby said it was “scandalous," and what ought not to be done in any moral kitchen; and mr. maguire had got hold of the honorable augustus sucklethumbkin's powder- flask, and had put large pinches of the best double dartford into mr. dobbs’s tobacco-box; and mr. dobbs's pipe had exploded, and set fire to mrs. botherby's sunday cap; and mr. maguire had put it out with the slop-basin, “barring the wig;" and then they were all so cantankerous” that barney had gone to take a walk in the garden; and then—then mr. barney had seen a ghost. “a what? you blockhead !" asked tom ingoldsby. “sure then, and it's meself will tell your honor the rights of it,” said the ghost-seer. “meself and miss pauline, sir,-or miss pauline and meself, for the ladies comes first anyhow,- we got tired of the hobstroppylous scrimmaging among the ould servants, that didn't know a joke when they seen one: and we went out to look at the comet,—that's the rorybory-alehouse, they calls him in this country, and we walked upon the lawn, —and divil of any alehouse there was there at all; and miss pauline said it was bekase of the shrubbery maybe, and why wouldn't we see it better beyonst the trees? and so we went to the trees, but sorrow a comet did meself see there, barring a big ghost instead of it.” “a ghost? and what sort of a ghost, barney ?” “och, then, divil a lie i'll tell your honor. a tall ould gen- tleman he was, all in white, with a shovel on the shoulder of him, and a big torch in his fist,—though what he wanted with the spectre of tappington. that it's meself can't tell, for his eyes were like gig-lamps, let alone the moon and the comet, which wasn't there at all :-and barney,' says he to me,—'cause why he knew me, barney,' says he, what is it you're doing with the colleen there, barney ? divil a word did i say. miss pauline screeched, and cried murther in french, and ran off with herself; and of course meself was in a mighty hurry after the lady, and had no time to stop palavering with him any way: so i dispersed at once, and the ghost vanished in a flame of fire!" mr. maguire's account was received with avowed incredulity by both gentlemen; but barney stuck to his text with unflinch- ing pertinacity. a reference to mademoiselle was suggested, but abandoned, as neither party had a taste for delicate inves- tigations. “i'll tell you what, seaforth," said ingoldsby, after barney had received his dismissal," that there is a trick here is evident; and barney's vision may possibly be a part of it. whether he is most knave or fool you best know. at all events, i will sit up with you to-night, and see if i can convert my ancestor into a visiting acquaintance. meanwhile your finger on your lip!” “ 'twas now the very witching time of night, when churchyards yawn, and graves give up their dead." gladly would i grace my tale with decent horror, and there- fore i do beseech the “gentle reader” to believe that if all the succedanea to this mysterious narrative are not in strict keeping, he will ascribe it only to the disgraceful innovations of modern degeneracy upon the sober and dignified habits of our ancestors. i can introduce him, it is true, into an old and high-roof cham- ber, its walls covered on three sides with black oak wainscoting, adorned with carvings of fruit and flowers long anterior to those of grinling gibbons; the fourth side is clothed with a curious rem- nant of dingy tapestry, once elucidatory of some scriptural his- tory, but of which not even mrs. botherby could determine. mr. simpkinson, who had examined it carefully, inclined to believe the principal figure to be either bathsheba, or daniel in the the spectre of tappington. lions' den; while tom ingoldsby decided in favor of the king of bashan. all, however, was conjecture, tradition being silent on the subject. a lofty arched portal led into, and a little arched portal led out of, this apartment; they were opposite each other, and each possessed the security of massy bolts on its interior. the bedstead, too, was not one of yesterday, but manifestly coeval with days ere seddons was, and when a good four-post “article” was deemed worthy of being a royal bequest. the bed itself, with all the appurtenances of palliasse, mattresses, etc., was of far later date, and looked most incongruously com- fortable; the casements, too, with their little diamond-shaped panes and iron binding, had given way to the modern hetero- doxy of the sash-window. nor was this all that conspired to ruin the costume, and render the room a meet haunt for such “mixed spirits” only as could condescend to don at the same time an elizabethan doublet and bond street inexpressibles. with their green morocco slippers on a modern fender, in front of a disgracefully modern grate, sat two young gentlemen, clad in “shawl-pattern” dressing-gowns and black silk stocks, much at variance with the high cane-backed chairs which sup- ported them. a bunch of abomination, called a cigar, reeked in the left-hand corner of the mouth of one, and in the right- hand corner of the mouth of the other—an arrangement hap- pily adapted for the escape of the noxious fumes up the chim- ney without that unmerciful “ funking” each other which a less scientific disposition of the weed would have induced. a small pembroke table filled up the intervening space between them, sustaining, at each extremity, an elbow and a glass of toddy—thus in “ lonely pensive contemplation” were the two worthies occupied, when the “iron tongue of midnight had tolled twelve." "ghost-time's come !" said ingoldsby, taking from his waist- coat pocket a watch like a gold half-crown, and consulting it as though he suspected the turret-clock over the stables of men- dacity. “hush !” said charles ; “ did i not hear a footstep ?" there was a pause :—there was a footstep-it sounded dis- tinctly-it reached the door-it hesitated, stopped, and-passed on. the spectre of tappington. tom darted across the room, threw open the door, and became aware of mrs. botherby toddling to her chamber, at the other end of the gallery, after dosing one of the housemaids with an approved julep from the countess of kent's choice manual. “good-night, sir!" said mrs. botherby. “go to the d- !” said the disappointed ghost-hunter. an hour-two-rolled on, and still no spectral visitation, nor did aught intervene to make night bideous; and when the turret-clock sounded at length the hour of three, ingoldsby, whose patience and grog were alike exhausted, sprang from his chair, saying- “this is all infernal nonsense, my good fellow. deuce of any ghost shall we see to-night; it's long past the canonical hour. i'm off to bed ; and as to your breeches, i'll insure them for the next twenty-four hours at least, at the price of the buck- ram.” “ certainly.-oh! thank'ee-to be sure!” stammered charles, rousing himself from a reverie which had degenerated into an absolute snooze. “good-night, my boy! bolt the door behind me; and defy the pope, the devil, and the pretender !" seaforth followed his friend's advice, and the next morning came down to breakfast dressed in the habiliments of the pre- ceding day. the charm was broken, the demon defeated; the light grays with the red stripe down the seams were yet in rerum naturâ, and adorned the person of their lawful proprietor. tom felicitated himself and his partner of the watch on the result of their vigilance; but there is a rustic adage which warns us against self-gratulation before we are quite “out of the wood.”—seaforth was yet within its verge. a rap at tom ingoldsby's door the following morning startled him as he was shaving—he cut his chin. “come in, and be d-d to you !” said the martyr, pressing his thumb on the scarified epidermis. the door opened, and exhibited mr. barney maguire. the spectre of tappington. “well, barney, what is it ?” quoth the sufferer, adopting the vernacular of his visitant. “ the master, sir- well, what does he want?” “the loanst of a breeches, plase your honor.” 'why, you don't mean to tell me -by heaven, this is too good !" shouted tom, bursting into a fit of uncontrollable laugh- ter. “why, barney, you don't mean to say the ghost has got them again ?" mr. maguire did not respond to the young squire's risibility ; the cast of his countenance was decidedly serious. faith, then, it's gone they are, sure enough! hasn't meself been looking over the bed, and under the bed, and in the bed, for the matter of that, and divil a ha’p’orth of breeches is there to the fore at all :- i'm bothered entirely!" “hark’ee! mr. barney," said tom, incautiously removing his thumb and letting a crimson stream“ incarnadine the mul- titudinous” lather that plastered his throat—"this may be all very well with your master, but you don't humbug me, sir :- tell me instantly what have you done with the clothes ?” this abrupt transition from “lively to severe" certainly took maguire by surprise, and he seemed for an instant as much dis- concerted as it is possible to disconcert an irish gentleman's gentleman. “me? is it meself, then, that's the ghost to your honor's think- ing ?” said he after a moment's pause, and with a slight shade of indignation in his tones: “is it i would stale the master's things—and what would i do with them?" “ that you best know :—what your purpose is i can't guess, for i don't think you mean to stale' them, as you call it; but that you are concerned in their disappearance, i am satisfied. confound this blood !-give me a towel, barney." maguire acquitted himself of the commission. “as i've a sowl, your honor,” said he, solemnly, "little it is meself knows of the matter : and after what i seen- “what you've seen! why, what have you seen ?-barney, i don't want to inquire into your flirtations; but don't suppose you can palm off your saucer eyes and gig-lamps upon me!” “then, as sure as your honor's standing there, i saw him: tie spectre of tappington. and why wouldn't i, when miss pauline was to the fore as well as meself, and “get along with your nonsense-leave the room, sir!" “but the master ?” said barney, imploringly; "and without a breeches ?—sure he'll be catching cowld !- “take that, rascal !” replied ingoldsby, throwing a pair of pantaloons at, rather than to, him: “but don't suppose, sir, you shall carry on your tricks here with impunity ; recollect there is such a thing as a treadmill, and that my father is a county magistrate." barney's eye flashed fire-he stood erect, and was about to speak; but, mastering himself, not without an effort, he took up the garment, and left the room as perpendicular as a quaker. ingoldsby,” said charles seaforth, after breakfast,“ this is now past a joke; to-day is the last of my stay; for, notwith- standing the ties which detain me, common decency obliges me to visit home after so long an absence. i shall come to an im- mediate explanation with your father on the subject nearest my heart, and depart while i have a change of dress left. on his answer will my return depend ! in the meantime tell me can- didly,-i ask it in all seriousness, and as a friend,-am i not a dupe to your well-known propensity to hoaxing? have you not a hand in no, by heaven, seaforth ; i see what you mean: on my honor, i am as much mystified as yourself; and if your serv- ant- “ not he: if there be a trick, he at least is not privy to it.” “if there be a trick? why, charles, do you think- “i know not what to think, tom. as surely as you are a living man, so surely did that spectral anatomy visit my room again last night, grin in my face, and walk away with my trousers : nor was i able to spring from my bed, or break the chain which seemed to bind me to my pillow." “ seaforth !” said ingoldsby, after a short pause, “i will- but hush! here are the girls and my father.— i will carry off the spectre of tappington. the females, and leave you a clear field with the governor: carry your point with him, and we will talk about your breeches afterwards.' tom's diversion was successful; he carried off the ladies en mase to look at a remarkable specimen of the class dodecan- dria monogynia,—which they could not find ;—while seaforth marched boldly up to the encounter, and carried “the gov- ernor's” outworks by a coup de main. i shall not stop to describe the progress of the attack; suffice it that it was as successful as could have been wished, and that seaforth was referred back again to the lady. the happy lover was off at a tangent; the botanical party was soon overtaken; and the arm of caroline, whom a vain endeavor to spell out the linnæan name of a daffy-down-dilly had detained a little in the rear of the others, was soon firmly locked in his own. “what was the world to them, its noise, its nonsense, and its ' breeches,' all ?” seaforth was in the seventh heaven; he retired to his room that night as happy as if no such thing as a goblin had ever been heard of, and personal chattels were as well fenced in by law as real property. not so tom ingoldsby: the mystery,--for mystery there evidently was,-had not only piqued his curiosity, but ruffled his temper. the watch of the previous night had been unsuccessful, probably because it was undisguised. to- night he would “ ensconce himself,” not indeed “ behind the arras,” ”—for the little that remained was, as we have seen, nailed to the wall,—but in a small closet which opened from one corner of the room, and, by leaving the door ajar, would give to its occupant a view of all that might pass in the apartment. here did the young ghost-hunter take up a position, with a good stout sapling under his arm, a full half-hour before seaforth retired for the night. not even his friend did he let into his confi- dence, fully determined that if his plan did not succeed, the failure should be attributed to himself alone. at the usual hour of separation for the night, tom saw, from his concealment, the lieutenant enter his room, and after taking a few turns in it, with an expression so joyous as to betoken that his thoughts were mainly occupied by his approaching hap- the spectre of tappington. piness, proceed slowly to disrobe himself. the coat, the waist- coat, the black silk stock, were gradually discarded; the green morocco slippers were kicked off, and then-ay, and then his countenance grew grave; it seemed to occur to him all at once that this was his last stake,-nay, that the very breeches he had on were not his own,—that to-morrow morning was his last, and that if he lost them— a glance showed that his mind was made up; he replaced the single button he had just subducted, and threw himself upon the bed in a state of transition,-half chrysalis, half grub. wearily did tom ingoldsby watch the sleeper by the flicker- ing light of the night-lamp, till the clock striking one induced him to increase the narrow opening which he had left for the purpose of observation. the motion, slight as it was, seemed to attract charles's attention; for he raised himself suddenly to a sitting posture, listened for a moment, and then stood up- right upon the floor. ingoldsby was on the point of discovering himself, when, the light flashing full upon his friend's counte- nance, he perceived that, though his eyes were open, “their sense was shut,”—that he was yet under the influence of sleep. seaforth advanced slowly to the toilet, lit his candle at the lamp that stood on it, then, going back to the bed's foot, appeared to search eagerly for something which he could not find. for a few moments he seemed restless and uneasy, walking round the apartment and examining the chairs, till, coming fully in front of a large swing glass that flanked the dressing-table, he paused as if contemplating his figure in it. he now returned towards the bed; put on his slippers, and with cautious and stealthy steps proceeded towards the little arched doorway that opened on the private staircase. as he drew the bolt, tom ingoldsby emerged from his hiding- place; but the sleep-walker heard him not; he proceeded softly down stairs, followed at a due distance by his friend ; opened the door which led out upon the gardens; and stood at once among the thickest of the shrubs, which there clustered round the base of a corner turret, and screened the postern from common obser- vation. at this moment ingoldsby had nearly spoiled all by making a false step: the sound attracted seaforth's attention,- he paused and turned ; and, as the full moon shed her light the spectre of tappington. directly upon his pale and troubled features, tom marked, almost with dismay, the fixed and rayless appearance of his eyes :- “there was no speculation in those orbs that he did glare withal.” the perfect stillness preserved by his follower seemed to reassure him; he turned aside, and from the midst of a thickset laurus- tinus drew forth a gardener's spade, shouldering which he pro- ceeded with greater rapidity into the midst of the shrubbery. arrived at a certain point where the earth seemed to have been recently disturbed, he set himself heartily to the task of digging, till, having thrown up several shovelfuls of mould, he stopped, flung down his tool, and very composedly began to disencumber himself of his pantaloons. up to this moment tom had watched him with a wary eye: he now advanced cautiously, and, as his friend was busily en- gaged in disentangling himself from his garment, made himself master of the spade. seaforth, meanwhile, had accomplished his purpose : : he stood for a moment with “his streamers waving in the wind," occupied in carefully rolling up the small-clothes into as com- pact a form as possible, and all heedless of the breath of heaven, which might certainly be supposed at such a moment, and in such a plight, to "visit his frame too roughly." he was in the act of stooping low to deposit the pantaloons in the grave which he had been digging for them, when tom ingoldsby came close behind him, and with the flat side of the spade- the shock was effectual ;-never again was lieutenant sea- forth known to act the part of a somnambulist. one by one, his breeches,-his trousers,—his pantaloons,-his silk-net tights, -his patent cords,-his showy grays with the broad red stripe of the bombay fencibles, were brought to light,-rescued from the grave in which they had been buried, like the strata of a the spectre of tappington. christmas pie; and after having been well aired by mrs. both- erby, became once again effective. the family, the ladies especially, laughed ;-the peterses laughed ;-the simpkinsons laughed ;-barney maguire cried “botheration !" and mam’selle pauline, “ mon dieu !" charles seaforth, unable to face the quizzing which awaited him on all sides, started off two hours earlier than he had pro- posed :-he soon returned, however; and having, at his father- in-law's request, given up the occupation of rajah-hunting and shooting nabobs, led his blushing bride to the altar. mr. simpkinson from bath did not attend the ceremony, being engaged at the grand junction meeting of sçavans, then congre- gating from all parts of the known world in the city of dublin. his essay, demonstrating that the globe is a great custard, whipped into coagulation by whirlwinds, and cooked by elec- tricity,—a little too much baked in the isle of portland, and a thought underdone about the bog of allen, -was highly spoken of, and narrowly escaped obtaining a bridgewater prize. miss simpkinson and her sister acted as bridesmaids on the occasion; the former wrote an epithalamium, and the latter cried “ lassy me!" at the clergyman's wig. some years have since rolled on; the union has been crowned with two or three tidy little offshoots from the family tree, of whom master neddy is “grandpapa's darling," and mary anne mamma's particular “sock.” i shall only add, that mr. and mrs. seaforth are living together quite as happily as two good-hearted, good-tempered bodies, very fond of each other, can possibly do; and that, since the day of his marriage, charles has shown no disposi- tion to jump out of bed, or ramble out of doors o’nights, though from his entire devotion to every wish and whim of his young wife, tom insinuates that the fair caroline does still occasionally take advantage of it so far as to "slip on the breeches." it was not till some years after the events just recorded that miss mary anne, the “pet sock” before alluded to, was made acquainted with the following piece of family biography. it was communicated to her in strict confidence by nurse botherby, a the nurse's story. maiden niece of the old lady's, then recently promoted from the ranks in the still-room, to be second in command in the nursery department. the story is connected with a dingy wizen-faced portrait, in an oval frame, generally known by the name of “uncle ste- phen,” though from the style of his cut-velvet it is evident that some generations must have passed away since any living being could have stood towards him in that degree of consanguinity. the nurse's story. the hand of glory. “malefica quædam auguriatrix in angliâ fuit, quam demones horribiliter extrax- erunt, et imponentes super equum terribilem, per aera rapuerunt; clamoresque terribiles (ut ferunt) per quatuor fermè miliaria audiebantur."-nuremb. chron. on nth one bleak moor, at the midnight hour, beneath the gallows tree, hand in hand the murderers stand by one, by two, by three! and the moon that night with a gray, cold light each baleful object tips; one half of her form is seen through the storm, the other half's hid in eclipse ! and the cold wind howls, and the thunder growls, and the lightning is broad and bright; and altogether it's very bad weather, and an unpleasant sort of a night! “now mount who list, and close by the wrist sever me quickly the dead man's fist !— now climb who dare where he swings in air, and pluck me five locks of the dead man's hair!” the hand. of glory. there's an old woman dwells upon tappington moor, she hath years on her back at the least fourscore, and some people fancy a great many more; her nose it is hook’d, her back it is crook', her eyes blear and red: on the top of her head is a mutch, and on that a shocking bad hat, extinguisher-shaped, the brim narrow and flat! then,-my gracious !-her beard !-it would sadly perplex a spectator at first to distinguish her sex ; nor, i'll venture to say, without scrutiny could he pronounce her, off-handed, a punch or a judy. did you see her, in short, that mud-hovel within, with her knees to her nose, and her nose to her chin, leering up with that queer, indescribable grin, you'd lift up your hands in amazement, and cry, '-well i-i never did see such a regular guy!" and now before that old woman's door, where nought that's good may be, hand in hand the murderers stand by one, by two, by three ! oh! 'tis a horrible sight to view, in that horrible hovel, that horrible crew, by the pale blue glare of that flickering flame, doing the deed that hath never a name! 'tis awful to hear those words of fear! the prayer mutter'd backwards and said with a sneer! (matthew hopkins himself has assured us that when a witch says her prayers, she begins with “amen.")— _'tis awful to see on that old woman's knee the dead, shrivell’d hand, as she clasps it with glee ! and now with care, the five locks of hair from the skull of the gentleman dangling up there, with the grease and the fat of a black tom cat she hastens to mix, and to twist into wicks, and one on the thumb and each finger to fix.- (for another receipt the same charm to prepare, consult mr. ainsworth and petit albert.) the nurse's story. now open lock to the dead man's knock! fly bolt, and bar, and band ! nor move, nor swerve joint, muscle, or nerve, at the spell of the dead man's hand ! sleep all who sleep!- wake all who wake! - but be as the dead for the dead man's sake! all is silent! all is still, save the ceaseless moan of the bubbling rill as it wells from the bosom of tappington hill, and in tappington hall great and small, gentle and simple, squire and groom, each one hath sought his separate room, and sleep her dark mantle hath o'er them cast, for the midnight hour hath long been past! all is darksome in earth and sky, save, from yon casement, narrow and high, a quivering beam on the tiny stream plays, like some taper’s fitful gleam by one that is watching wearily. within that casement, narrow and high, in his secret lair, where none may spy, sits one whose brow is wrinkled with care, and the thin gray locks of his failing hair have left his little bald pate all bare; for his full-bottom'd wig hangs, bushy and big, on the top of his old-fashion'd, high-back'd chair. unbraced are his clothes, ungarter'd his hose, his gown is bedizen'd with tulip and rose, flowers of remarkable size and hue, flowers such as eden never knew; -and there by many a sparkling heap of the good red gold, the tale is told what powerful spell avails to keep that careworn man from his needful sleep! haply he deems no eye can see as he gloats on his treasure greedily,- the hand of glory. . the shining store of glittering ore, the fair rose-noble, the bright moidore, and the broad double-joe from ayont the sea, - but there's one that watches as well as he; for, wakeful and sly, in a closet hard by, on his truckle bed lieth a little foot-page, a boy who's uncommonly sharp of his age, like young master horner, who erst in a corner sat eating a christmas pie: and, while that old gentleman's counting his hoards, little hugh peeps through a crack in the boards ! there's a voice in the air, there's a step on the stair, the old man starts in his cane-back'd chair; at the first faint sound he gazes around, and holds up his dip of sixteen to the pound. then half arose from beside his toes his little pug-dog with his little pug nose, but, ere he can vent one inquisitive sniff, that little pug-dog stands stark and stiff, for low, yet clear, now fall on the ear, -where once pronounced for ever they dwell- the unholy words of the dead man's spell ! open lock to the dead man's knock! fly bolt, and bar, and band !- nor move, nor swerve joint, muscle, or nerve, at the spell of the dead man's hand! sleep all who sleep !-wake all who wake! - but be as the dead for the dead man's sake!” now lock, nor bolt, nor bar avails, nor stout oak panel thick-studded with nails. heavy and harsh the hinges creak, though they had been oil'd in the course of the week ; the door opens wide as wide may be, and there they stand, that murderous band, lit by the light of the glorious hand, by one !-by two!—by three ! the nurse's story. they have pass'd through the porch, they have pass’d through the hall, where the porter sat snoring against the wall; the very snore froze in his very snub nose, you'd have verily deem'd he had snored his last when the glorious hand by the side of him pass'd! e'en the little wee mouse, as it ran o'er the mat at the top of its speed to escape from the cat, though half dead with affright, paused in its flight; and the cat that was chasing that little wee thing lay couch'd as a statue in act to spring! and now they are there, on the head of the stair, and the long crooked whittle is gleaming and bare! -i really don't think any money would bribe me the horrible scene that ensued to describe, or the wild, wild glare of that old man's eye, his dumb despair, and deep agony. the kid from the pen, and the lamb from the fold, unmoved may the blade of the butcher behold; they dream not-ah, happier they !—that the knife, though uplifted, can menace their innocent life; it falls ;-the frail thread of their being is riven, they dread not, suspect not, the blow till 'tis given.- but, oh! what a thing 'tis to see and to know that the bare knife is raised in the hand of the foe, without hope to repel, or to ward off the blow !- -enough !-let's pass over as fast as we can the fate of that gray, that unhappy old man ! but fancy poor hugh, aghast at the view, powerless alike to speak or to do! in vain doth he try to open the eye that is shut, or close that which is clapt to the chink, though he'd give all the world to be able to wink ! - no!—for all that this world can give or refuse, i would not be now in that little boy's shoes, or indeed any garment at all that is hugh's! the hand of glory. —'tis lucky for him that the chink in the wall he has peep'd through so long, is so parrow and small! wailing voices, sounds of woe such as follow departing friends, that fatal night round tappington go, its long-drawn roofs and its gable ends : ethereal spirits, gentle and good, aye weep and lament o'er a deed of blood. 'tis early dawn—the morn is gray, and the clouds and the tempest have pass'd away, and all things betoken a very fine day; but, while the lark her carol is singing, shrieks and screams are through tappington ringing. upstarting all, great and small, each one who's found within tappington hall, gentle and simple, squire or groom, all seek at once that old gentleman's room; and there, on the floor, drench'd in its gore, a ghastly corpse lies exposed to the view, carotid and jugular both cut through! and there, by its side, 'mid the crimson tide, kneels a little foot-page of tenderest years ; adown his pale cheek the fast-falling tears are coursing each other round and big, and he's stanching the blood with a full-bottom'd wig. alas! and alack for his stanching !—'tis plain, as anatomists tell us, that never again shall life revisit the foully slain, when once they've been cut through the jugular vein. there's a hue and a cry through the county of kent, and in chase of the cut-throats a constable's sent. but no one can tell the man which way they went: there's a little foot-page with that constable goes, and a little pug-dog with a little pug nose. the nurse's story. in rochester town, at the sign of the crown, three shabby-genteel men are just sitting down to a fat stubble-goose, with potatoes done brown; when a little foot-page rushes in, in a rage, upsetting the apple-sauce, onions, and sage. that little foot-page takes the first by the throat, and a little pug-dog takes the next by the coat, and a constable seizes the one more remote; and fair rose-nobles and broad moidores the waiter pulls out of their pockets by scores, and the boots and the chambermaids run in and stare; and the constable says, with a dignified air, “you're wanted, gen'lemen, one and all, for that 'ere precious lark at tappington hall !" there's a black gibbet frowns upon tappington moor, where a former black gibbet has frowned before: it is as black as black may and murderers there are dangling in air, by one!-by two !-by three! be, there's a horrid old hag in a steeple-crowned hat, round her neck they have tied to a hempen cravat a dead man's hand, and a dead tom cat! they have tied up her thumbs, they have tied up her toes, they have tied up her eyes, they have tied up her limbs; into tappington mill-dam souse she goes, with a whoop and a halloo ! —"she swims !—she swims!" they have dragged her to land, and every one's hand is grasping a fagot, a billet, or brand, when a queer-looking horseman, drest all in black, snatches up that old harridan just like a sack to the crupper behind him, puts spurs to his hack, makes a dash through the crowd, and is off in a crack! no one can tell, though they guess pretty well, which way that grim rider and old woman go, for all see he's a sort of infernal ducrow; and she screamed so, and cried, we may fairly decide that the old woman did not much relish her ride! " look at the clock!" moral. this truest of stories confirms beyond doubt that truest of adages—“murder will out!" in vain may the blood-spiller “double" and fly, in vain even witchcraft and sorcery try: although for a time he may 'scape, by-and-by he'll be sure to be caught by a hugh and a cry! one marvel follows another as naturally as one “shoulder of mutton” is said “ to drive another down." a little welsh girl, who sometimes makes her way from the kitchen into the nursery, after listening with intense interest to this tale, imme- diately started off at score with the sum and substance of what, in due reverence for such authority, i shall call patty morgan the milkmaid's story. “look at the clock.” fytte i. "loo ook at the clock !” quoth winifred pryce, as she opened the door to her husband's knock, then paused to give him a piece of advice, "you nasty warmint, look at the clock! is this the way, you wretch, every day you treat her who vowed to love and obey you ?- out all night! me in a fright; staggering home as it's just getting light! you intoxified brute !-you insensible block ! look at the clock !-do-look at the clock !" winifred pryce was tidy and clean, her gown was a flowered one, her petticoat green, the milkmaid's story. her buckles were bright as her milking cans, and her hat was a beaver, and made like a man's; her little red eyes were deep set in their socket-holes, her gown-tail was turned up, and tucked through the pocket- holes; a face like a ferret betokened her spirit: to conclude, mrs. pryce was not over young, had very short legs, and a very long tongue. now david pryce had one darling vice; remarkably partial to anything nice, nought that was good to him came amiss, whether to eat, or to drink, or to kiss ! especially ale- if it was not too stale i really believe he'd have emptied a pail; not that in wales they talk of their ales; to pronounce the word they make use of might trouble you, being spelt with a c, two rs, and a w. that particular day, as i've heard people say, mr. david pryce had been soaking his clay, and amusing himself with his pipe and cheroots, the whole afternoon, at the goat-in-boots, with a couple more soakers, thoroughbred smokers, both, like himself, prime singers and jokers; and long after day had drawn to a close, and the rest of the world was wrapp'd in repose, they were roaring out “shenkin!” and “ar hydd y nos ;" while david himself, to a sassenach tune, sang, “we've drunk down the sun, boys! let's drink down the moon ! what have we with day to do? mrs. winifred price, 'twas made for you;" at length, when they couldn't well drink any more, old “goat-in-boots” show'd them the door: and then came that knock, and the sensible shock david felt when his wife cried, “look at the clock !" for the hands stood as crooked as crooked might be, the long at the twelve, and the short at the three! "look at the clock!" that self-same clock had long been a bone of contention between this darby and joan, and often, among their pother and rout, when this otherwise amiable couple fell out, pryce would drop a cool hint, with an ominous squint at its case, of an "uncle" of his, who'd a “spout.” that horrid word “spout” no sooner came out than winifred pryce would turn her about, and with scorn on her lip, and a hand on each hip, spout” herself till her nose grew red at the tip. “you thundering willin, i know you'd be killing your wife—ay, a dozen of wives—for a shilling! you may do what you please, you may sell my chemise (mrs. p. was too well-bred to mention her smock), but i never will part with my grandmother's clock !" mrs. pryce's tongue ran long and ran fast; but patience is apt to wear out at last, and david pryce in temper was quick, so he stretch'd out his hand and caught hold of a stick; perhaps in its use he might mean to be lenient, but walking just then wasn't very convenient. so he threw it, instead, direct at her head; it knock'd off her hat; down she fell flat; her case, perhaps, was not much mended by that: but whatever it was,—whether rage and pain produced apoplexy, or burst a vein, or her tumble produced a concussion of brain, i can't say for certain,—but this i can, when, sober'd by fright, to assist her he ran, mrs. winifred pryce was as dead as queen anne! the fearful catastrophe named in my last strophe as adding to grim death’s exploits such a vast trophy, made a great noise; and the shocking fatality ran over, like wildfire, the whole principality. and then came mr. ap thomas, the coroner, with his jury to sit, some dozen or more, on her. mr. pryce, to commence his "ingenious defence,” made a “powerful appeal” to the jury's “good sense :" the milkmaid's story, “the world he must defy ever to justify any presumption of malice prepense.' the unlucky lick from the end of his stick he“ deplored,”—he was “apt to be rather too quick;"- but, really, her prating was so aggravating : some trifling correction was just what he meant:-all the rest, he assured them, was "quite accidental!" then he calls mr. jones, who depones to her tones, and her gestures, and hints about “ breaking his bones ;" while mr. ap morgan and mr. ap rhys declare the deceased had styled him “a beast," and swear they had witness'd, with grief and surprise, the allusion she made to his limbs and his eyes. the jury, in fine, having sat on the body the whole day, discussing the case, and gin toddy, return'd about half-past eleven at night the following verdict, “we find, sarve her right !" mr. pryce, mrs. winifred pryce being dead, felt lonely, and moped ; and one evening he said he would marry miss davis at once in her stead. not far from his dwelling, from the vale proudly swelling, rose a mountain ; its name you'll excuse me from telling, for the vowels made use of in welsh are so few, that the a and the e, the i, o, and the u, have really but little or nothing to do; and the duty, of course, falls the heavier by far on the l, and the h, and the n, and the r. its first syllable, “pen," is pronounceable ;—then come two l ls, and two h hs, two f fs, and an n, about half a score rs, and some ws follow, beating all my best efforts at euphony hollow: but we shan't have to mention it often, so when we do, with your leave, we'll curtail it to “pen.” well—the moon shone bright upon “ pen,” that night, when pryce, being quit of his fuss and his fright, "look at the clock!” was scaling its side with that sort of stride a man puts out when walking in search of a bride. mounting higher and higher, he began to perspire, till, finding his legs were beginning to tire, and feeling opprest by a pain in his chest, he paused, and turned round to take breath and to rest : a walk all up hill is apt, we know, to make one, however robust, puff and blow, so he stopped and looked down on the valley below. o'er fell and o'er fen, over mountain and glen, all bright in the moonshine, his eye roved, and then all the patriot rose in his soul, and he thought upon wales, and her glories, and all he'd been taught of her heroes of old, so brave and so bold, of her bards with long beards, and harps mounted in gold: of king edward the first, of memory accurst; and the scandalous manner in which he behaved, killing poets by dozens with their uncles and cousins, of whom not one in fifty had ever been shaved- of the court ball, at which, by a lucky mishap, owen tudor fell into queen katherine's lap; and how mr. tudor successfully wooed her, till the dowager put on a new wedding ring, and so made him father-in-law to the king. he thought upon arthur and merlin of yore, on gryffith ap conan and owen glendour; on pendragon, and heaven knows how many more. he thought of all this, as he gazed, in a trice, and on all things, in short, but the late mrs. pryce; when a lumbering noise from behind made him start, and sent the blood back in full tide to his heart, which went pit-a-pat, as he cried out, “what's that?” — that very queer sound ?— does it come from the ground ? or the air, from above, or below, or around ?- it is not like talking, it is not like walking, it's not like the clattering of pot or of pan, or the tramp of á horse, -or the tread of a man, the milkmaid's story. or the hum of a crowd, or the shouting of boys, it's really a deuced odd sort of a noise! not unlike a cart's,-but that can't be; for when could "all the king's horses, and all the king's men,” with old nick for a wagoner, drive one up“ pen”? pryce, usually brimful of valor when drunk, now experienced what schoolboys denominate “funk.” in vain he looked back on the whole of the track he had traversed; a thick cloud, uncommonly black, at this moment obscured the broad disk of the moon, and did not seem likely to pass away soon; while clearer and clearer, 'twas plain to the hearer, be the noise what it might, it drew nearer and nearer, and sounded, as pryce to this moment declares, very much“ like a coffin a-walking up stairs.” mr. pryce had begun to "make up" for a run, as in such a companion he saw no great fun, when a single bright ray shone out on the way he had passed, and he saw, with no little dismay, coming after him, bounding o'er crag and o'er rock, the deceased mrs. winifred's “grandmother's clock !!" 'twas so !—it had certainly moved from its place, and come lumbering on thus, to hold him in chase; 'twas the very same head, and the very same case, and nothing was altered at all—but the face ! in that he perceived, with no little surprise, the two little winder-holes turned into eyes blazing with ire, like two coals of fire; and the “name of the maker” was changed to a lip, and the hands to a nose with a very red tip. no!he could not mistake it,—'twas she to the life! the identical face of his poor defunct wife! one glance was enough, completely “quant. suff," as the doctors write down when they send you their “stuff.” like a weather-cock whirled by a vehement puff, ! “but run as he will, or roll down the hill, the bugbear behind him is after him still !" p. . “look at the clock!" david turned himself round; ten feet of ground he cleared, in his start, at the very first bound ! i've seen people run at west-end fair for cheeses, i've seen ladies run at bow fair for chemises, at greenwich fair twenty men run for a hat, and one from a bailiff much faster than that: at foot-ball i've seen lads run after the bladder- i've seen irish bricklayers run up a ladder- i've seen little boys run away from a cane- and i've seen (that is, read of) good running in spain ;* but i never did read of, or witness, such speed as david exerted that evening.- indeed all i have ever heard of boys, women, or men, falls far short of pryce, as he ran over pen! he reaches its brow, he has past it, and now, having once gained the summit, and managed to cross it, he rolls down the side with uncommon velocity; but run as he will, or roll down the hill, the bugbear behind him is after him still! and close at his heels, not at all to his liking, the terrible clock keeps on ticking and striking, till, exhausted and sore, he can't run any more, but falls as he reaches miss davis's door, and screams when they rush out, alarmed at his knock, “oh! look at the clock !-do! look at the clock !!” miss davis looked up, miss davis looked down, she saw nothing there to alarm her;—a frown came o'er her white forehead; she said, “it was horrid a man should come knocking at that time of night, and give her mamma and herself such a fright; to squall and to bawl about nothing at all!” she begged "he'd not think of repeating his call: his late wife's disaster by no means had past her ;" she'd “have him to know she was meat for his master !” then regardless alike of his love and his woes, she turned on her heel and she turned up her nose. * i-run is a town said to have been so named from something of this sort. the milkmaid's story. poor david in vain implored to remain ; he“ dared not,” he said, “ cross the mountain again.” why the fair was obdurate none knows,-to be sure, it was said she was setting her cap at the curate. be that as it may, it is certain the sole hole pryce found to creep into that night was the coal-hole! in that shady retreat, with nothing to eat, and with very bruised limbs, and with very sore feet, all night close he kept; i can't say he slept; but he sighed, and he sobbed, and he groaned, and he wept; lamenting his sins, and his two broken shins, bewailing his fate with contortions and grins, and her he once thought a complete rara avis, consigning to satan,—viz., cruel miss davis ! mr. david has since had a “serious call,” he never drinks ale, wine, or spirits, at all, and they say he is going to exeter hall to make a grand speech, and to preach, and to teach people that “they can't brew their malt liquor too small.” that an ancient welsh poet, one pyndar ap tudor, was right in proclaiming “ariston men udor!” which means pure element is for man's belly meant!" and that gin's but a snare of old nick the deluder! “ the and “still on each evening when pleasure fills up,” at the old goat-in-boots, with metheglin, each cup, mr. pryce, if he's there, will get into “ the chair," and make all his quondam associates stare by calling aloud to the landlady's daughter, “patty, bring a cigar, and a glass of spring water !" the dial he constantly watches; and when the long hand's at the “ xii.," and the short at the “x.," he gets on his legs, drains his glass to the dregs, takes his hat and great-coat off their several pegs, with his president's hammer bestows his last knock, and says solemnly—“gentlemen! look at the clock !!!" a legend of sheppey. the succeeding legend has long been an established favorite with all of us, as containing much of the personal history of one of the greatest ornaments of the family tree. to the wedding between the sole heiress of this redoubted hero and a direct ancestor is it owing that the lioncels of shurland hang so lovingly parallel with the saltire of the ingoldsbys, and now form as cherished a quartering in their escutcheon as the “ dozen white lowses” in the “old coat” of shallow. gray dolphin. a legend of sheppey. “he the baron. e won't-won't he? then bring me my boots !” said the baron. consternation was at its height in the castle of shurland—a caitiff had dared to disobey the baron! and—the baron had called for his boots ! a thunderbolt in the great hall had been a bagatelle to it. a few days before a notable miracle had been wrought in the neighborhood; and in those times miracles were not so common as they are now; no royal balloons, no steam, no railroads, while the few saints who took the trouble to walk with their heads under their arms, or to pull the devil by the nose, scarcely appeared above once in a century ;-s the affair made the greater sensation. the clock had done striking twelve, and the clerk of chat- ham was untrussing his points preparatory to seeking his truckle-bed; a half-emptied tankard of mild ale stood at his elbow, the roasted crab yet floating on its surface. midnight had surprised the worthy functionary while occupied in discuss- ing it, and with his task yet unaccomplished. he meditated a mighty draft: one hand was fumbling with his tags, while the other was extended in the act of grasping the jorum, when a knock on the portal, solemn and sonorous, arrested his fingers. it was repeated thrice ere emmanuel saddleton had presence gray dolphin. of mind sufficient to inquire who sought admittance at that un- timeous hour. “open! open! good clerk of st. bridget's,” said a female voice, small yet distinct and sweet,-an excellent thing in woman, the clerk arose, crossed to the doorway, and undid the latchet. on the threshold stood a lady of surpassing beauty: her robes were rich, and large, and full; and a diadem, sparkling with gems that shed a halo around, crowned her brow: she beckoned the clerk as he stood in astonishment before her. “ emmanuel !” said the lady; and her tones sounded like those of a silver flute. “ emmanuel saddleton, truss up your points, and follow me!" the worthy clerk stared aghast at the vision; the purple robe, the cymar, the coronet,-above all, the smile; no, there was no mistaking her; it was the blessed st. bridget herself! and what could have brought the sainted lady out of her warm shrine at such a time of night? and on such a night? for it was as dark as pitch, and, metaphorically speaking, “rained cats and dogs.” emmanuel could not speak, so he looked the question. “no matter for that," said the saint, answering to his thought. “no matter for that, emmanuel saddleton; only follow me, and you'll see !" the clerk turned a wistful eye at the corner cupboard. “oh! never mind the lantern, emmanuel : you'll not want it: but you may bring a mattock and a shovel.” as she spoke, the beautiful apparition held up her delicate hand. from the tip of each of her long taper fingers issued a lambent flame of such surpassing brilliancy as would have plunged a whole gas company into despair-it was a "hand of glory,"* such a one as tradition tells us yet burns in rochester castle every st. mark's eve. many are the daring individuals who have watched in gundulph's tower, hoping to find it, and the treas- ure it guards ;—but none of them ever did. “this way, emmanuel !" and a flame of peculiar radiance * one of the uses to which this mystic chandelier was put was the protection of secreted treasure. blow out all the fingers at one puff and you had the money. a legend of sheppey. streamed from her little finger, as it pointed to the pathway leading to the churchyard. saddleton shouldered his tools, and followed in silence. the cemetery of st. bridget's was some half-mile distant from the clerk's domicile, and adjoined a chapel dedicated to that illustrious lady, who, after leading but a so-so life, had died in the odor of sanctity. emmanuel saddleton was fat and scant of breath, the mattock was heavy, and the saint walked too fast for him: he paused to take second wind at the end of the first furlong. emmanuel,” said the holy lady, good-humoredly, for she heard him puffing; "rest awhile, emmanuel, and i'll tell you what i want with you.” her auditor wiped his brow with the back of his hand, and looked all attention and obedience. emmanuel,” continued she, “what did you and father fothergill, and the rest of you, mean yesterday by burying that drowned man so close to me? he died in mortal sin, emman- uel; no shrift, no unction, no absolution : why he might as well have been excommunicated. he plagues me with his grinning, and i can't have any peace in my shrine. you must howk him up again, emmanuel !" “to be sure, madam,-my lady,--that is, your holiness," stammered saddleton, trembling at the thought of the task assigned him. “to be sure, your ladyship; only—that is- “emmanuel,” said the saint, "you'll do my bidding, or it would be better you had !” and her eye changed from a dove's eye to that of a hawk, and a flash came from it as bright as the one from her little finger. the clerk shook in his shoes; and, again dashing the cold perspiration from his brow, followed the footsteps of his mysterious guide. the next morning all chatham was in an uproar. the clerk of st. bridget's had found himself at home at daybreak, seated in his own arm-chair, the fire out, and—the tankard of ale out too! who had drunk it ?—where had he been ?-how had he got home ?—all was a mystery !-he remembered a mass of gray dolphin. things, but nothing distinctly;" all was fog and fantasy. what he could clearly recollect was that he had dug up the grinning sailor, and that the saint had helped to throw him into the river again. all was thenceforth wonderment and devotion. masses were sung, tapers were kindled, bells were tolled; the monks of st. romuald had a solemn procession, the abbot at their head, the sacristan at their tail, and the holy breeches of st. thomas à becket in the centre ;-father fothergill brewed a xxx puncheop of holy water. the rood of gillingham was deserted; the chapel of rainham forsaken; every one who had a soul to be saved flocked with his offering to st. bridget's shrine, and emmanuel saddleton gathered more fees from the promiscuous piety of that one week than he had pocketed dur- ing the twelve preceding months. meanwhile the corpse of the ejected reprobate oscillated like a pendulum between sheerness and gillingham reach. now borne by the medway into the western swale, now carried by the refluent tide back to the vicinity of its old quarters,-it seemed as though the river god and neptune were amusing themselves with a game of subaqueous battledore, and had chosen this unfortunate carcass as a marine shuttlecock. for some time the alternation was kept up with great spirit, till boreas, interfering in the shape of a stiffish “nor’wester," drifted the bone (and flesh) of contention ashore on the shur- land domain, where it lay in all the majesty of mud. it was soon discovered by the retainers, and dragged from its oozy bed, grinning worse than ever. tidings of the godsend were of course carried instantly to the castle; for the baron was a very great man; and if a dun cow had flown across his property un- announced by the warder, the baron would have kicked him, the said warder, from the topmost battlement into the bottom- most ditch,-a descent of peril, and one which “ludwig the leaper," or the illustrious trenck himself, might well have shrunk from encountering. "an't please your lordship” said peter periwinkle. “no, villain! it does not please me!" roared the baron. his lordship was deeply engaged with a peck of feversham oysters: he doted on shellfish, hated interruption at meals, and had not yet despatched more than twenty dozen of the “natives.” . a legend of sheppey. “there's a body, my lord, washed ashore in the lower creek," said the seneschal. the baron was going to throw the shells at his head; but paused in the act, and said, with much dignity,- “turn out the fellow's pockets !" but the defunct had before been subjected to the double scrutiny of father fothergill and the clerk of st. bridget’s. it was ill gleaning after such hands; there was not a single marayedi. we have already said that sir robert de shurland, lord of the isle of sheppey, and of many a fair manor on the mainland, was a man of worship. he had rights of freewarren, saccage and sockage, cuisage and jambage, fosse and fork, infang theofe and outfang theof; and all waifs and strays belonged to him in fee simple. “ turn out his pockets !” said the knight. “ an't please you, my lord, i must say as how they was turned out afore, and the devil a rap's left.” “then bury the blackguard !" “please your lordship, he has been buried once." “then bury him again, and be - !” the baron bestowed a benediction. the seneschal bowed low as he left the room, and the baron went on with his oysters. scarcely ten dozen more had vanished when periwinkle re- appeared. “an't please you, my lord, father fothergill says as how that it's the grinning sailor, and he won't bury him anyhow." “oh! he won't-won't he ?” said the baron. can it be won- dered at that he called for his boots ? sir robert de shurland, lord of shurland and minster, baron of sheppey in comitatu kent, was, as has been before hinted, a very great man. he was also a very little man ; that is, he was relatively great, and relatively little or physically little, and metaphorically great-like sir sidney smith and the late mr. buonaparte. to the frame of a dwarf he united the soul of a giant and the valor of a gamecock. then, for so small a man, his strength was prodigious; his fist would fell an ox, and his kick-oh! his kick was tremendous, and, when he had his gray dolphin. but boots on, would—to use an expression of his own, which he had picked up in the holy wars—would “send a man from jericho to june." he was bull-necked and bandy-legged; his chest was broad and deep, his head large and uncommonly thick, his eyes a little bloodshot, and his nose retroussé, with a remarkably red tip. strictly speaking, the baron could not be called hand- some; but his tout ensemble was singularly impressive; and when he called for his boots everybody trembled, and dreaded the worst. “periwinkle,” said the baron, as he encased his better leg, "let the grave be twenty feet deep !" “ your lordship’s command is law." “ and, periwinkle ”—sir robert stamped his left heel into its receptacle—"and, periwinkle, see that it be wide enough to hold not exceeding two!” "ye-ye-yes, my lord." and, periwinkle—tell father fothergill i would fain speak with his reverence.” “yeye-yes, my lord.” the baron's beard was peaked : and his moustaches, stiff and stumpy, projected horizontally, like those of a tom cat; he twirled the one, he stroked the other, he drew the buckle of his surcingle a thought tighter, and strode down the great staircase three steps at a stride. the vassals were assembled in the great hall of shurland castle; every cheek was pale, every tongue was mute : expect- ation and perplexity were visible on every brow. what would his lordship do? were the recusant anybody else, gyves to the heels and hemp to the throat were but too good for him; but it was father fothergill who had said “i won't;” and though the baron was a very great man, the pope was a greater, and the pope was father fothergill's great friend-some people said he was his uncle. father fothergill was busy in the refectory trying conclu- sions with a venison pasty, when he received the summons of his patron to attend him in the chapel cemetery. of course he lost no time in obeying it, for obedience was the general rule in shurland castle. if anybody, ever said “i won't,” it was the exception; and, like all other exceptions, only proved the rule a legend of sheppey. the stronger. the father was a friar of the augustine persua- sion ; a brotherhood which, having been planted in kent some few centuries earlier, had taken very kindly to the soil, and overspread the county much as hops did some few centuries later. he was plump and portly, a little thick-winded, especi- ally after dinner, stood five feet four in his sandals, and weighed hard upon eighteen stone. he was, moreover, a personage of singular piety; and the iron girdle, which, he said, he wore under his cassock to mortify withal, might have been well mis- taken for the tire of a cart-wheel. when he arrived, sir robert was pacing up and down by the side of a newly-opened grave. “benedicite! fair son” (the baron was as brown as a cigar) “benedicite !" said the chaplain. the baron was too angry to stand upon compliment. “bury me that grinning caitiff there!” quoth he, pointing to the de- funct. " it may not be, fair son," said the friar; "he hath perished without absolution." “bury the body l" roared sir robert. “ water and earth alike reject him," returned the chaplain; "holy st. bridget herself—" bridget me no bridgets !-do me thine office quickly, sir shaveling! or, by the piper that played before moses-” the oath was a fearful one; and whenever the baron swore to do mischiefs he was never known to perjure himself. he was playing with the hilt of his sword. “do me thine office, i say. give him his passport to heaven.” “he is already gone to hell !” stammered the friar. “then do you go after him!” thundered the lord of shur- land. his sword half leaped from its scabbard. no!—the tren- chant blade, that had cut suleiman ben malek ben buckskin from helmet to chine, disdained to daub itself with the cerebel- lum of a miserable monk ;-it leaped back again ;-and as the chaplain, scared at its flash, turned him in terror, the baron gave him a kick !-one kick !—it was but one !--but such a one! despite its obesity, up flew his holy body in an angle of forty- five degrees; then, having reached its highest point of elevation, sank headlong into the open grave that yawned to receive it. gray dolphin. if the reverend gentleman had possessed such a thing as a neck, he had infallibly broken it! as he did not, he only dislocated his vertebræbut that did quite as well. he was as dead as ditch-water! in with the other rascal!” said the baron-and he was obeyed; for there he stood in his boots. mattock and shovel made short work of it; twenty feet of superincumbent mold pressed down alike the saint and the sinner. “now sing a re- quiem who list !” said the baron, and his lordship went back to his oysters. the vassals at castle shurland were astounded, or, as the seneschal hugh better expressed it, “perfectly conglomerated," by this event. what! murder a monk in the odor of sanctity— and on consecrated ground too! they trembled for the health of the baron's soul. to the unsophisticated many it seemed that matters could not have been much worse had he shot a bishop's coach-horse-all looked for some signal judgment. the melancholy catastrophe of their neighbors at canterbury was yet rife in their memories : not two centuries had elapsed since those miserable sinners had cut off the tail of the blessed st. thomas's mule. the tail of the mule, it was well known, had been forthwith affixed to that of the mayor; and rumor said it had since been hereditary in the corporation. the least that could be expected was that sir robert should have a friar tacked on to his for the term of his natural life! some bolder spirits there were, 'tis true, who viewed the matter in various lights, according to their different temperaments and disposi- tions; for perfect unanimity existed not even in the good old times. the verderer, roistering hob roebuck, swore roundly, “ 'twere as good a deed as eat to kick down the chapel as well as the monk.” hob had stood there in a white sheet for kissing giles miller's daughter. on the other hand, simpkin agnew, the bell-ringer, doubted if the devil's cellar, which runs under the bottomless abyss, were quite deep enough for the delinquent, and speculated on the probability of a hole being dug in it for his especial accommodation. the philosophers and economists thought, with saunders mcbullock, the baron's bagpiper, that feckless monk more or less was nae great subject for a clam- jamphry," especially as “the supply considerably exceeded the a a legend of sheppey. demand;" while malthouse, the tapster, was arguing to dame martin that a murder now and then was a seasonable check to population, without which the isle of sheppey would in time be devoured, like a mouldy cheese, by inhabitants of its own producing. meanwhile, the baron ate his oysters and thought no more of the matter. but this tranquillity of his lordship was not to last. a couple of saints had been seriously offended; and we have all of us read at school that celestial minds are by no means in- sensible to the provocations of anger. there were those who expected that st. bridget would come in person, and have the friar up again, as she did the sailor; but perhaps her ladyship did not care to trust herself within the walls of shurland castle. to say the truth, it was scarcely a decent house for a female saint to be seen in. the baron's gallantries, since he became a widower, had been but too notorious"; and her own reputation was a little blown upon in the earlier days of her earthly pil- grimage: then things were so apt to be misrepresented-in short, she would leave the whole affair to st. austin, who, being a gentleman, could interfere with propriety, avenge her affront as well as his own, and leave no loophole for scandal. st. austin himself seems to have had his scruples, though of their precise nature it would be difficult to determine, for it were idle to suppose him at all afraid of the baron's boots. be this as it may, the mode which he adopted was at once prudent and effi- cacious. as an ecclesiastic, he could not well call the baron out—had his boots been out of the question; so he resolved to have recourse to the law. instead of shurland castle, there- fore, he repaired forthwith to his own magnificent monastery, situate just within the walls of canterbury, and presented him- self in a vision to its abbot. no one who has ever visited that ancient city can fail to recollect the splendid gateway which terminates the vista of st. paul's street, and stands there yet in all its pristine beauty. the tiny train of miniature artillery which now adorns its battlements is, it is true, an ornament of a later date; and is said to have been added some centuries after by a learned but jealous proprietor, for the purpose of shooting any wiser man than himself who might chance to come that way. tradition is silent as to any discharge having taken gray dolphin. place, nor can the oldest inhabitant of modern days recollect any such occurrence.* here it was, in a handsome chamber, immediately over the lofty archway, that the superior of the monastery lay buried in a brief slumber, snatched from his accustomed vigils. his mitre—for he was a mitred abbot, and ha a seat in parliament—rested on a table beside him; near it stood a silver flagon of gascony wine, ready, no doubt, for the pious uses of the morrow. fasting and watching had made him more than usually somnolent, than which nothing could have been better for the purpose of the saint, who now appeared to him radiant in all the colors of the rainbow. “anselm !” said the beatific vision,—“anselm ! are you not a pretty fellow to lie snoring there when your brethren are being knocked at head, and mother church herself is menaced ?-it is a sin and a shame, anselm !” what's the matter ?–who are you ? cried the abbot, rub- bing his eyes, which the celestial splendor of his visitor had set a winking. “ave maria! st. austin himself! speak, beatis- sime! what would you with the humblest of your votaries ?” “anselm !” said the saint, a brother of our order, whose soul heaven assoilzie! hath been foully murdered. he hath been ignominiously kicked to the death, anselm; and there he lieth cheek-by-jowl with a wretched carcass, which our sister bridget has turned out of her cemetery for unseemly grinning. arouse thee, anselm !" “ay, so please you, sanctissime !" said the abbot. “i will order forth with that thirty masses be said, thirty paters, and thirty aves." thirty fools' heads !" interrupted his patron, who was a little peppery. “i will send for bell, book, and candle" “send for an inkhorn, anselm. write me now a letter to his holiness the pope in good round terms, and another to the coroner, and another to the sheriff, and seize me the never- enough-to-be-anathematized villain who hath done this deed ! hang him as high as haman, anselm !-up with him !--down with his dwelling-place, root and branch, hearth-stone and roof- * since the appearance of the first edition of this legend "the guns” have been dismounted. rumor hints at some alarm on the part of the town council, a legend of sheppey. # tree,--down with it all, and sow the site with salt and saw- dust!” st. austin, it will be perceived, was a radical reformer. “marry will i," quoth the abbot, warming with the saint's eloquence; "ay, marry will i, and that instanter. but there is one thing you have forgotten, most beatified the name of the culprit." “robert de shurland.” “ the lord of sheppey! bless me!" said the abbot, cross- ing himself, “won't that be rather inconvenient ? sir robert is a bold baron, and a powerful; blows will come and go, and crowns will be cracked, and “what is that to you, since yours will not be of the number?” * very true, beatissime !—i will don me with speed, and do your bidding.” “do so, anselm !—fail not to hang the baron, burn his castle, confiscate his estate, and buy me two large wax candles for my own particular shrine out of your share of the property." with this solemn injunction the vision began to fade. “one thing more!" cried the abbot, grasping his rosary. “what is that ?” asked the saint. “o beate augustine, ora pro nobis !” “of course i shall,” said st. austin. “pax vobiscum !”- and abbot anselm was left alone. within an hour all canterbury was in commotion. a friar had been murdered,—two friars—ten—twenty; a whole convent had been assaulted, sacked, burnt,-all the monks had been killed, and all the nuns had been kissed! murder! fire! sacri- lege! never was city in such an uproar. from st. george's gate to st. dunstan's suburb, from the donjon to the borough of staplegate, all was noise and hubbub. “ where was it?"- “when was it?"_“how was it ?” the mayor caught up his chain, the aldermen donned their furred gowns, the town clerk put on his spectacles. “who was he?”—“what was he?" -“ where was he?”—he should be hanged,-he should be burned, he should be broiled,- he should be fried,he should be scraped to death with red-hot oyster shells! “who was he ?" “ what was his name?” the abbot's apparitor drew forth his roll and read aloud :- gray dolphin. "sir robert de shurland, knight banneret, baron of shurland and minster, and lord of sheppey." the mayor put his chain in his pocket, the aldermen took off their gowns, the town clerk put his pen behind his ear. it was a county business altogether :—the sheriff had better call out the posse comitatus. while saints and sinners were thus leaguing against him, the baron de shurland was quietly eating his breakfast. he had passed a tranquil night, undisturbed by dreams of cowl or capuchin; nor was his appetite more affected than his con- science. on the contrary, he sat rather longer over his meal than usual: luncheon time came, and he was ready as ever for his oysters; but scarcely had dame martin opened his first half- dozen when the warder's horn was heard from the barbican. “who the devil's that?” said sir robert. “i'm not at home, periwinkle. i hate to be disturbed at meals, and i won't be at home to anybody." “ an't please your lordship,” answered the seneschal, “paul prior hath given notice that there is a body" “another body!” roared the baron. “am i to be everlast- ingly plagued with bodies—no time allowed me to swallow a morsel ? throw it into the moat!" “so please you, my lord, it is a body of horse,--and-and paul says there is a still larger body of foot behind it; and he thinks, my lord--that is, he does not know, but he thinks-and we all think, my lord—that they are coming to—to besiege the castle!” * besiege the castle! who? what? what for ?” “paul says, my lord, that he can see the banner of st. aus- tin, and the bleeding heart of hamo de crevecour, the abbot's chief vassal; and there is john de northwood, the sheriff, with his red cross engrailed; and heyer, and leybourne, and heaven knows how many more; and they are all coming on as fast as ever they can.” periwinkle," said the baron, “ up with the drawbridge ; down with the portcullis. bring me a cup of canary and my nightcap. i won't be bothered with them: i shall go to bed.” to bed, my lord !” cried periwinkle, with a look that seemed to say, “he's crazy!" a legend of sheppey. at this moment the shrill tones of a trumpet were heard to sound thrice from the champaign. it was the signal for par- ley. the baron changed his mind: instead of going to bed, he went to the ramparts. “well, rapscallions! and what now?" said the baron. a herald, two pursuivants, and a trumpeter, occupied the foreground of the scene; behind them, some three hundred paces off, upon a rising ground, was drawn up in battle array the main body of the ecclesiastical forces. “hear you, robert de shurland, knight, baron of shurland and minster, and lord of sheppey, and know all men by these presents, that i do hereby attach you, the said robert, of mur- der and sacrilege, now or of late done and committed by you, the said robert, contrary to the peace of our sovereign lord the king, his crown and dignity; and i do hereby require and charge you, the said robert, to forth with surrender and give up your own proper person, together with the castle of shurland afore- said, in order that the same may be duly dealt with according to law. and here standeth john de northwood, esquire, good man and true, sheriff of this his majesty's most loyal county of kent, to enforce the same, if need be, with his posse comitatus- “ his what ?" said the baron. “ his posse comitatus, and “ go to bath !” said the baron. a defiance so contemptuous roused the ire of the adverse commanders. a volley of missiles rattled about the baron's ears. nightcaps avail little against contusions. he left the walls and returned to the great hall. “let them pelt away,” quoth the baron: "there are no win- dows to break, and they can't get in.” so he took his after- noon nap, and the siege went on. towards evening his lordship awoke, and grew tired of the din. guy pearson, too, had got a black eye from a brickbat, and the assailants were clambering over the outer wall. so the baron called for his sunday hauberk of milan steel and his great two-handed sword with the terrible name. it was the fashion in feudal times to give names to swords: king arthur's was christened excalibar; the baron called his tickletoby, and whenever he took it in hand it was no joke. << gray dolphin. ers. "up with the portcullis ! down with the bridge!" said sir robert; and out he sallied, followed by the élite of his retain- then there was a pretty to-do. heads flew one way, arms and legs another. round went tickletoby; and wher- ever it alighted, down came horse and man. the baron ex- celled himself that day. all that he had done in palestine faded in the comparison; he had fought for fun there, but now it was for life and lands. away went john de northwood; away went william of hever and roger of leybourne. hamo de crevecoeur, with the church vassals and the banner of st. austin, had been gone some time. the siege was raised, and the lord of sheppey was left alone in his glory. but, brave as the baron undoubtedly was, and total as had been the defeat of his enemies, it cannot be supposed that la stoccata would be allowed to carry it away thus. it has before been hinted that abbot anselm had written to the pope, and boniface the eighth piqued himself on his punctuality as a correspondent in all matters connected with church discipline. he sent back an answer by return of post; and by it all chris- tian people were strictly enjoined to aid in exterminating the offender, on pain of the greater excommunication in this world, and a million of years of purgatory in the next. but then, again, boniface the eighth was rather at a discount in england just then. he had affronted longshanks, as the royal lieges had nicknamed their monarch; and longshanks had been rather sharp upon the clergy in consequence. if the baron de shurland could but get the king's pardon for what, in his cooler moments, he admitted to be a peccadillo, he might sniff at the pope, and bid him “ do his devilmost." fortune, who, as the poet says, delights to favor the bold, stood his friend on this occasion. edward had been for some time collecting a large force on the coast of kent, to carry on his french wars for the recovery of guienne; he was expected shortly to review it in person; but, then, the troops lay princi- pally in cantonments about the mouth of the thames, and his majesty was to come down by water. what was to be done? the royal barge was in sight, and john de northwood and hamo de crevecậur had broken up all the boats to boil their camp-kettles. a truly great mind is never without resources. a legend of sheppey. a mer- bring me my boots !" said the baron. they brought him his boots, and his dapple-gray steed along with them. such a courser! all blood and bone, short-backed, broad-chested, and—but that he was a little ewe-necked-fault- less in form and figure. the baron sprang upon his back, and dashed at once into the river. the barge which carried edward longshanks and his for- tunes had by this time nearly reached the nore; the stream was broad and the current strong, but sir robert and his steed were almost as broad, and a great deal stronger. after breast- ing the tide gallantly for a couple of miles, the knight was near enough to hail the steersman. “what have we got here?” said the king. “it's maid,” said one. “it's a grampus," said another. "it's the devil,” said a third. but they were all wrong; it was only robert de shurland. “grammercy," said the king, “that fellow was never born to be drowned !” it has been said before that the baron had fought in the holy wars; in fact, he had accompanied longshanks, when only heir apparent, in his expedition twenty-five years before, although his name is unaccountably omitted by sir harris nicolas in his list of crusaders. he had been present at acre when amirand of joppa stabbed the prince with a poisoned dagger, and had lent princess eleanor his own tooth-brush after she had sucked out the venom from the wound. he had slain certain saracens, contented himself with his own plunder, and never dunned the commissariat for arrears of pay. of course he ranked high in edward's good graces, and had received the honor of knight- hood at his hands on the field of battle. in one so circumstanced it cannot be supposed that such a trifle as the killing of a frowzy friar would be much resented, even had he not taken so bold a measure to obtain his pardon. his petition was granted, of course, as soon as asked ; and so it would have been had the indictment drawn up by the canter- bury town-clerk, viz., "that he, the said robert de shurland, etc., had then and there, with several, to wit, one thousand, pairs of boots, given sundry, to wit, two thousand, kicks, and therewith and thereby killed divers, to wit, ten thousand, austin friars,” been true to the letter. gray dolphin. . thrice did the gallant gray circumnavigate the barge, while robert de winchelsey, the chancellor and archbishop to boot, was making out, albeit with great reluctance, the royal pardon. the interval was sufficiently long to enable bis majesty, who, gracious as he was, had always an eye to business, just to hint that the gratitude he felt towards the baron was not unmixed with a lively sense of services to come; and that, if life were now spared him, common decency must oblige him to make himself useful. before the archbishop, who had scalded his fingers with the wax in affixing the great seal, had time to take them out of his mouth, all was settled, and the baron de shur- land had pledged himself to be forth with in readiness, cum suis, to accompany his liege lord to guienne. with the royal pardon secured in his vest, boldly did his lordship turn again to the shore; and as boldly did his courser oppose his breadth of chest to the stream. it was a work of no common difficulty or danger; a steed of less “mettle and bone” had long since sunk in the effort: as it was, the baron's boots were full of water, and gray dolphin's chamfrain more than once dipped beneath the wave. the convulsive snorts of the noble animal showed his distress ; each instant they became more loud and frequent; when his hoof touched the strand, and “the horse and his rider" stood once again in safety on the shore. rapidly dismounting, the baron was loosening the girths of his demi-pique, to give the panting animal breath, when he was aware of as ugly an old woman as he had ever clapped eyes upon, peeping at him under the horse's belly. “make much of your steed, robert shurland! make much of your steed!” cried the hag, shaking at him her long and bony finger. “groom to the hide, and corn to the manger! he has saved your life, robert shurland, for the nonce; but he shall yet be the means of your losing it for all that !” the baron started: “what's that you say, you old fagot ?” he ran round by his horse's tail; the woman was gone ! the baron paused; his great soul was not to be shaken by trifles; he looked around him, and solemnly ejaculated the word “humbug!" then, slinging the bridle across his arm, walked slowly on in the direction of the castle. a legend of sheppey. the appearance, and still more the disappearance, of the crone had, however, made an impression; every step he took he became more thoughtful. “ 'twould be deuced provoking, though, if he should break my neck after all.” he turned and gazed at dolphin with the scrutinizing eye of a veterinary sur- geon. “i'll be shot if he is not groggy!” said the baron. with his lordship, like another great commander, “once to be in doubt, was once to be resolved :" it would never do to go to the wars on a rickety prad. he dropped the rein, drew forth tickletoby, and, as the enfranchised dolphin, good easy horse, stretched out his ewe-neck to the herbage, struck off his head at a single blow. “there, you lying old beldame!” said the baron ; “now take him away to the knacker's.” three years were come and gone. king edward's french wars were over; both parties having fought till they came to a stand-still, shook hands, and the quarrel, as usual, was patched up by a royal marriage. this happy event gave his majesty leisure to turn his attention to scotland, where things, through the intervention of william wallace, were looking rather queerish. as his reconciliation with philip now allowed of his fighting the scotch in peace and quietness, the monarch lost no time in marching his long legs across the border, and the short ones of the baron followed him of course. at falkirk, tickle- toby was in great request; and in the year following, we find a contemporary poet hinting at his master's prowess under the walls of caerlaverock- obec eus fu achiminez li beau robert de shurland ki kant seoit sur le chebal ne semblo it home ke someille. a quatrain which mr. simpkinson translates, “with them was marching the good robert de shurland, who, when seated on horseback, does not resemble a man asleep!” so thoroughly awake, indeed, does he seem to have proved gray dolphin. himself, that the bard subsequently exclaims in an ecstasy of admiration, si le estoie une pucelette je li donrie ceur et cors tant est de lu bons li recors. “if i were a young maiden, i would give my heart and person, so great is his fame!” fortunately the poet was a tough old monk of exeter ; since such a present to a nobleman, now in his grand climacteric, would hardly have been worth the carriage. with the reduc- tion of this stronghold of the maxwells seem to have concluded the baron's military services; as on the very first day of the fourteenth century we find him once more landed on his native shore, and marching, with such of his retainers as the wars had left him, towards the hospitable shelter of shurland castle. it was then, upon that very beach, some hundred yards distant from high-water mark, that his eye fell upon something like an ugly old woman in a red cloak. she was seated on what seemed to be a large stone, in an interesting attitude, with her elbows resting upon her knees, and her chin upon her thumbs. the baron started: the remembrance of his interview with a similar personage in the same place, some three years since, flashed upon his recollection. he rushed towards the spot, but the form was gone ;-nothing remained but the seat it had appeared to occupy. this, on examination, turned out to be no stone, but the whitened skull of a dead horse! a tender remem- brance of the deceased gray dolphin shot a momentary pang into the baron's bosom; he drew the back of his hand across his face; the thought of the hag's prediction in an instant rose, and banished all softer emotions. in utter contempt of his own weakness, yet with a tremor that deprived his redoubtable kick of half its wonted force, he spurned the relic with his foot. one word alone issued from his lips, elucidatory of what was passing in his mind-it long remained imprinted on the mem- ory of his faithful followers--that word was “gammon !” the skull bounded across the beach till it reached the very margin of the stream ;-one instant more and it would be engulfed for ever. at that moment a loud “ha! ha! ha!” was dis- a legend of sheppey. tinctly heard by the whole train to issue from its bleached and toothless jaws: it sank beneath the flood in a horse laugh. meanwhile sir robert de shurland felt an odd sort of sensa- tion in his right foot. his boots had suffered in the wars. great pains had been taken for their preservation. they had been “soled” and “heeled” more than once ;-had they been “go- loshed,” their owner might have defied fate! well has it been said that “there is no such thing as a trifle:” a nobleman's life depended upon a question of ninepence. the baron marched on; the uneasiness in his foot increased. he plucked off his boot ;-a horse's tooth was sticking in his great toe! the result may be anticipated. lame as he was, his lordship, with characteristic decision, would hobble on to shurland; his walk increased the inflammation; a flagon of aqua vitæ did not mend matters. he was in a high fever; he took to his bed. next morning the toe presented the appearance of a bedford- shire carrot; by dinner-time it had deepened to a beet-root; and when bargrave, the leech, at last sliced it off, the gangrene was too confirmed to admit of remedy. dame martin thought it high time to send for miss margaret, who, ever since her mother's death, had been living with her maternal aunt, the abbess, in the ursuline convent at greenwich. the young lady came, and with her came one master ingoldsby, her cousin- german by the mother's side; but the baron was too far gone in the dead-thraw to recognize either. he died as he lived, unconquered and unconquerable. his last words were—“tell the old hag she may go to—.” whither remains a secret. he expired without fully articulating the place of her destina- tion. but who and what was the crone who prophesied the catas- trophe? ay, “that is the mystery of this wonderful history.” some say it was dame fothergill, the late confessor's mamma; others, st. bridget herself; others thought it was nobody at all, but only a phantom conjured up by conscience. as we do not know, we decline giving an opinion. and what became of the clerk of chatham ?–mr. simpkin- son avers that he lived to a good old age, and was at last hanged by jack cade, with his inkhorn about his neck, for “setting gray dolphin. em-. boys copies.” in support of this he adduces his name manuel," and refers to the historian shakspeare. mr. peters, on the contrary, considers this to be what he calls one of mr. simpkinson's“ anacreonisms," inasmuch as, at the introduction of mr. cade's reform measure, the clerk, if alive, would have been hard upon two hundred years old. the probability is that the unfortunate alluded to was his great-grandson. margaret shurland in due course became margaret ingoldsby: her portrait still hangs in the gallery at tappington. the feat- ures are handsome, but shrewish, betraying, as it were, a touch of the old baron's temperament; but we never could learn that she actually kicked her husband. she brought him a very pretty fortune in chains, owches, and saracen ear-rings; the barony, being a male fief, reverted to the crown. in the abbey-church at minster may yet be seen the tomb of a recumbent warrior, clad in the chain-mail of the thirteenth century.* his hands are clasped in prayer; his legs, crossed in that position so prized by templars in ancient and tailors in modern days, bespeak him a soldier of the faith in palestine. close behind his dexter calf lies, sculptured in bold relief, a horse's head : and a respectable elderly lady, as she shows the monument, fails not to read her auditors a fine moral lesson on the sin of ingratitude, or to claim a sympathizing tear to the memory of poor “gray dolphin !" * subsequent to the first appearance of the foregoing narrative, the tomb alluded to has been opened during the course of certain repairs which the church has undergone, mr. simpkinson, who was present at the exhumation of the body within, and has en- riched his collection with three of its grinders, says the bones of one of the great toes were wanting: he speaks in terms of great admiration at the thickness of the skull, and is of opinion that the skeleton is that of a great patriot much addicted to lundy- foot. the ghost. it is on my own personal reminiscences that i draw for the following story: the scene of its leading event was most familiar to me in early life. if the principal actor in it be yet living, he must have reached a very advanced age. he was often at the hall, in my infancy, on professional visits. it is, how- ever, only from those who "prated of his whereabouts” that i learned the history of this adventure with the ghost. where stands a city,-neither large nor small, - its air and situation sweet and pretty; it matters very little—if at all- whether its denizens are dull or witty, whether the ladies there are short or tall, brunettes or blonds, only, there stands a city! perhaps 'tis also requisite to minute that there's a castle and a cobbler in it. a fair cathedral, too, the story goes, and kings and heroes lie entombed within her; there pious saints in marble pomp repose, whose shrines are worn by knees of many a sinner; there, too, full many an aldermanic nose rolled its loud diapason after dinner; and there stood high the holy sconce of becket, -till four assassins came from france to crack it. the castle was a huge and antique mound, proof against all th' artillery of the quiver, ere those abominable guns were found, to send cold lead through gallant warrior's liver. it stands upon a gently rising ground, sloping down gradually to the river, resembling (to compare great things with smaller) a well-scooped, mouldy stilton cheese—but taller. the ghost. the keep, i find, 's been sadly altered lately, and 'stead of mail-clad knights, of honor jealous, in martial panoply so grand and stately, its walls are filled with money-making fellows, and stuffed, unless i'm misinformed greatly, with leaden pipes, and coke, and coals, and bellows; in short, so great a change has come to pass, 'tis now a manufactory of gas. but to my tale. before this profanation, and ere its ancient glories were cut short all, a poor hard-working cobbler took his station in a small house, just opposite the portal; his birth, his parentage, and education, i know but little of—a strange, odd mortal; his aspect, air, and gait, were all ridiculous; his name was mason-he'd been christened nicholas. nick had a wife possessed of many a charm, and of the lady huntingdon persuasion; but, spite of all her piety, her arm she'd sometimes exercise when in a passion; and, being of a temper somewhat warm, would now and then seize, upon small occasion, a stick, or stool, or anything that round did lie, and baste her lord and master most confoundedly. no matter !—'tis a thing that's not uncommon, 'tis what we all have heard and most have read of i mean a bruising, pugilistic woman, such as i own i entertain a dread of, -and so did nick, whom sometimes there would come on a sort of fear his spouse might knock his head off, demolish half his teeth, or drive a rib in, she shone so much in “facers” and in “ fibbing." “ there's time and place for all things,” said a sage (king solomon, i think), and this i can say, within a well-roped ring, or on a stage, boxing may be a very pretty fancy, the ghost. when messrs. burke or bendigo engage; —'tis not so well in susan, jane, or nancy to get well milled by any one's an evil, but by a lady—'tis the very devil. and so thought nicholas, whose only trouble (at least his worst) was this his rib's propensity; for sometimes from the alehouse he would hobble, his senses lost in a sublime immensity of cogitation; then he couldn't cobble- and then his wife would often try the density of his poor skull, and strike with all her might, as fast as kitchen-wenches strike a light. mason, meek soul, who ever hated strife, of this same striking had a morbid dread; he hated it like poison-or his wife a vast antipathy !—but so he said ; and very often, for a quiet life, on these occasions he'd sneak up to bed, grope darkling in, and, soon as at the door he heard his lady, he'd pretend to snore. one night, then, ever partial to society, nick, with a friend (another jovial fellow), went to a club i should have said society- at the “city arms," once called the porto bello; a spouting party, which, though some decry it, i consider no bad lounge when one is mellow; there they discuss the tax on salt and leather, and change of ministers and change of weather. in short, it was a kind of british forum, like john gale jones's, erst in piccadilly, only they managed things with more decorum, and the orations were not quite so silly; far different questions, too, would come before 'em, not always politics, which, will ye nill ye, their london prototypes were always willing to give one quantum suff. of—for a shilling. the ghost. it more resembled one of later date, and tenfold talent, as i'm told, in bow street, where kindlier-natured souls do congregate; and, though there are who deem that same a low street, yet, i'm assured, for frolicsome debate and genuine humor, it's surpassed by no street, when the “chief baron” enters, and assumes to "rule" o'er mimic “ thesigers" and "broughams.” here they would oft forget their rulers' faults, and waste in ancient lore the midnight taper; inquire if orpheus first produced the waltz, how gaslights differ from the delphic vapor, whether hippocrates gave glauber's salts, and what the romans wrote on ere they'd paper. this night the subject of their disquisitions was ghosts, hobgoblins, sprites, and apparitions. one learned gentleman, “a sage, grave man," talked of the ghost in hamlet, “sheathed in steel ;" his well-read friend, who next to speak began, said “that was poetry, and nothing real;" a third, of more extensive learning, ran to sir george villiers' ghost, and mrs. veal,- of sheeted spectres spoke with shortened breath, and thrice he quoted “drelincourt on death.” nick smoked and smoked, and trembled as he heard the point discussed, and all they said upon it: how, frequently, some murdered man appeared, to tell his wife and children who had done it; or how a miser's ghost, with grisly beard, and pale lean visage, in an old scotch bonnet, wandered about to watch his buried money! when all at once nick heard the clock strike one-he sprang from his seat, not doubting but a lecture impended from his fond and faithful she; nor could he well to pardon him expect her, for he had promised to “ be home to tea;" the ghost. but having luckily the key o' the back door, he fondly hoped that, unperceived, he might creep up stairs again, pretend to doze, and hoax his spouse with music from his nose. vain, fruitless hope !—the wearied sentinel at eve may overlook the crouching foe, till, ere his hand can sound the alarum-bell, he sinks beneath the unexpected blow; before the whiskers of grimalkin fell, when slumbering on her post, the mouse may go- but woman, wakeful woman, 's never weary, -above all, when she waits to thump her deary. soon mrs. mason heard the well-known tread; she heard the key slow creaking in the door, spied, through the gloom obscure, towards the bed nick creeping soft, as oft he had crept before; when, bang, she threw a something at his head, and nick at once lay prostrate on the floor; while she exclaimed, with her indignant face on- “how dare you use your wife so, mr. mason ?” spare we to tell how fiercely she debated, especially the length of her oration- spare we to tell how nick expostulated, roused by the bump into a good set passion, so great that more than once he execrated, ere he crawled into bed in his usual fashion; -the muses hate brawls; suffice it then to say, he ducked below the clothes—and there he lay! 'twas now the very witching time of night, when churchyards groan, and graves give up their dead, and many a mischievous, enfranchised sprite had long since burst his bonds of stone or lead, and hurried off, with schoolboy-like delight, to play his pranks near some poor wretch’s bed, sleeping, perhaps serenely as a porpoise, nor dreaming of this fiendish habeas corpus. the ghost. not so our nicholas : his meditations still to the same tremendous theme recurred, the same dread subject of the dark narrations, which, backed with such authority, he'd heard: lost in his own horrific contemplations, he pondered o’er each well-remembered word; when at the bed's foot, close beside the post, he verily believed he saw-a ghost ! plain, and more plain, the unsubstantial sprite to his astonished gaze each moment grew; ghastly and gaunt, it reared its shadowy height, of more than mortal seeming to the view, and round its long, thin, bony fingers drew a tattered winding-sheet, of course all white;- the moon that moment peeping through a cloud, nick very plainly saw it through the shroud ! and now those matted locks, which never yet had yielded to the comb's unkind divorce, their long-contracted amity forget, and spring asunder with elastic force; nay, e'en the very cap, of texture coarse, whose ruby cincture crowned that brow of jet, uprose in agony—the gorgon's head was but a type of nick's up-squatting in the bed. from every pore distilled a clammy dew, quaked every limb—the candle, too, no doubt, en règle, would have burnt extremely blue, but nick unluckily had put it out; and he, though naturally bold and stout, in short, was in a most tremendous stew ;- the room was filled with a sulphureous smell, but where that came from mason could not tell. all motionless the spectre stood—and now its rev’rend form more clearly shone confest. from the pale cheek a beard of purest snow descended o'er its venerable breast; the ghost. the thin gray hairs, that crowned its furrowed brow, told of years long gone by.-an awful guest it stood, and with an action of command, beckoned the cobbler with its wan right hand. whence and what art thou, execrable shape ?” nick might have cried, could he have found a tongue, but his distended jaws could only gape, and not a sound upon the welkin rung; his gooseberry orbs seemed as they would have sprung forth from their sockets-like a frightened ape he sat upon his haunches, bolt upright, and shook, and grinned, and chattered with affright. and still the shadowy finger, long and lean, now beckoned nick, now pointed to the door ; and many an ireful glance, and frown, between, the angry visage of the phantom wore, as if quite vexed that nick would do no more than stare, without e'en asking, “what d' ye mean?” because, as we are told-a sad old joke, too- ghosts, like the ladies, “never speak till spoke to.” cowards, 'tis said, in certain situations, derive a sort of courage from despair, and then perform, from downright desperation, much more than many a bolder man would dare. nick saw the ghost was getting in a passion, and therefore, groping till he found the chair, seized on his awl, crept softly out of bed, and followed, quaking, where the spectre led. and down the winding stair, with noiseless tread, the tenant of the tomb passed slowly on; each mazy turning of the humble shed seemed to his step at once familiar grown, so safe and sure the labyrinth did he tread as though the domicile had been his own, though nick himself, in passing through the shop, had almost broke his nose against the mop. the ghost. despite its wooden bolt, with jarring sound the door upon its hinges open flew; and forth the spirit issued-yet around it turned, as if its follower's fears it knew, and, once more beckoning, pointed to the mound, the antique keep, on which the bright moon threw with such effulgence her mild silvery gleam, the visionary form seemed melting in her beam. beneath a pond'rous archway's sombre shade, where once the huge portcullis swung sublime, 'mid ivied battlements in ruin laid, sole, sad memorials of the olden time, the phantom held its way—and though afraid even of the owls that sung their vesper chime, pale nicholas pursued, its steps attending, and wondering what on earth it all would end in. within the mouldering fabric's deep recess at length they reached a court obscure and lone it seemed a drear and desolate wilderness, the blackened walls with ivy all o’ergrown; the night-bird shrieked her note of wild distress, disturbed upon her solitary throne, as though indignant mortal step should dare, so led, at such an hour, to venture there! -the apparition paused, and would have spoke, pointing to what nick thought an iron ring, but then a neighboring chanticleer awoke, and loudly 'gan his early matins sing; and then“ it started like a guilty thing," as that shrill clarion the silence broke. -we know how much dead gentlefolks eschew the appalling sound of “cock-a-doodle-do!” the vision was no more-and nick alone- “his streamers waving” in the midnight wind, which through the ruins ceased not to groan ; -his garment, too, was somewhat short behind, - the ghost. and, worst of all, he knew not where to find the ring,—which made him most his fate bemoan- the iron ring, no doubt of some trap-door, 'neath which the old dead miser kept his store. “ what's to be done?” he cried; “ 'twere vain to stay here in the dark without a single clue- oh, for a candle now, or moonlight ray! fore george, i'm vastly puzzled what to do” (then clapped his hand behind),—“'tis chilly, toom i'll mark the spot, and come again by day. what can i mark it by ?-oh, here's the wall- the mortar's yielding—here i'll stick my awl!" then rose from earth to sky a withering shriek, a loud, a long-protracted note of woe, such as when tempests roar, and timbers creak, and o'er the side the masts in thunder go; while on the deck resistless billows break, · and drag their victims to the gulfs below; such was the scream when, for the want of candle, nick mason drove his awl in up to the handle. scared by his lady's heart-appalling cry, vanished at once poor mason's golden dream- for dream it was ;-and all his visions high, of wealth and grandeur, fled before that scream- and still he listens with averted eye, when gibing neighbors make“ the ghost” their theme; while ever from that hour they all declare that mrs. mason used a cushion in her chair! the cynotaph. confound not, i beseech thee, reader, the subject of the fol- lowing monody with the hapless hero of the tea-urn, cupid, of “yow-yow-ing" memory. tray was an attached favorite of many years' standing. most people worth loving have had a friend of this kind; lord byron says he "never had but one, and here he (the dog, not the nobleman) lies !” the cynotaph. poor tray charmant! poor tray de mon ami! dog-bury and vergers. h! where shall i bury my poor dog tray, now his fleeting breath has passed away ?- seventeen years, i can venture to say, have i seen him gambol, and frolic, and play, evermore happy, and frisky, and gay, as though every one of his months was may, and the whole of his life one long holiday- now he's a lifeless lump of clay, oh! where shall i bury my faithful tray? i am almost tempted to think it hard that it may not be there, in yon sunny churchyard, where the green willows wave o'er the peaceful grave, which holds all that once was honest and brave, kind, and courteous, and faithful, and true; qualities, tray, that were found in you. but it may not be-yon sacred ground, by holiest feelings fenced around, may ne'er within its hallowed bound receive the dust of a soulless hound. i would not place him in yonder fane, where the midday sun through the storied pane throws on the pavement a crimson stain; where the banners of chivalry heavily swing o'er the pinnacled tomb of the warrior king, with helmet and shield, and all that sort of thing. the cynotaph. no come what may, my gentle tray shan't be an intruder on bluff harry tudor, or panoplied monarchs yet earlier and ruder whom you see on their backs, in stone or in wax, though the sacristans now are “ forbidden to ax" for what mr. hume calls “ a scandalous tax;" while the chartists insist they've a right to go snacks- no!—tray's humble tomb would look but shabby 'mid the sculptured shrines of that gorgeous abbey. besides, in the place they say there's not space to bury what wet-nurses call a “babby.” even “ rare ben jonson,” that famous wight, i am told, is interred there bolt upright, in just such a posture, beneath his bust, as tray used to sit in to beg for a crust. the epitaph, too, would scarcely do: for what could it say, but "here lies tray, a very good kind of a dog in his day!" and satirical folks might be apt to imagine it meant as a quiz on the house of plantagenet. no! no !—the abbey may do very well for a feudal“ nob,” or poetical “swell,” “crusaders,” or “poets," or "knights of st. john," or knights of st. john's wood, who once went on to the castle of goode lorde eglintoune. count fiddle-fumkin, and lord fiddle-faddle, “sir cravan,” “sir gael," and "sir campbell of saddell” (who, as poor hook said, when he heard of the feat, “was somehow knocked out of his family-seat"); the esquires of the body to my lord tomnoddy; “sir fairlie,” “ sir lambe,” and the “knight of the ram,” the “knight of the rose," and the “knight of the dragon," who, save at the flagon, and prog in the wagon, the newspapers tell us did little "to brag on;" and more, though the muse knows but little concerning 'em, “sir hopkins," “sir popkins,” “sir gage,” and “sir jerning- ham,”- the cynotaph. all preux chevaliers, in friendly rivalry who should best bring back the glory of chi-valry.- -(pray be so good, for the sake of my song, to pronounce here the ante-penultimate long; or some hyper-critic will certainly cry, “the word 'chivalry' is but a rhyme to the eye.” and i own it is clear a fastidious ear will be, more or less, always annoyed with you when you insert any rhyme that's not perfectly genuine. as to pleasing the “eye,” 'tisn't worth while to try, since moore and tom campbell themselves admit “spinach” is perfectly antiphonetic to “greenwich.”)— but stay!—i say ! let me pause while i may- this digression is leading me sadly astray from my object-a grave for my poor dog tray! i would not place him beneath thy walls, and proud o'ershadowing dome, st. paul's! though i've always considered sir christopher wren, as an architect, one of the greatest of men; and, talking of epitaphs-much i admire his, “circumspice si monumentum requiris;" which an erudite verger translated to me, “ if you ask for his monument, sir-come-spy-see !"- no!—i should not know where to place him there; i would not have him by surly johnson be ;- or that queer-looking horse that is rolling on ponsonby ;- or those ugly minxes the sister sphynxes, mixed creatures, half lady, half lioness, ergo (denon says), the emblems of leo and virgo; on one of the backs of which singular jumble, sir ralph abercrombie is going to tumble, with a thump which alone were enough to despatch him, if the scotchman in front shouldn't happen to catch him. t no! i'd not have him there,-nor nearer the door, where the man and the angel have got sir john moore,* * see note at end of “the cynotaph." the cynotaph. and are quietly letting him down through the floor, by gillespie, the one who escaped, at vellore, alone from the row; neither he nor lord howe would like to be plagued with a little bow-wow. no, tray, we must yield, and go further a-field; to lay you by nelson were downright effront'ry; -we'll be off from the city, and look at the country. it shall not be there, in that sepulchred square, where folks are interred for the sake of the air (though, pay but the dues, they could hardly refuse to tray what they grant to thugs, and hindoos, turks, infidels, heretics, jumpers, and jews), where the tombstones are placed in the very best taste, at the feet and the head of the elegant dead, and no one's received who's not “buried in lead :" for, there lie the bones of deputy jones, whom the widow's tears and the orphan's groans affected as much as they do the stones his executors laid on the deputy's bones; little rest, poor knave! would tray have in his grave; since spirits, 'tis plain, are sent back again, to roam round their bodies,—the bad ones in pain,- dragging after them sometimes a heavy jack-chain; whenever they met, alarmed by its groans, his ghost all night long would be barking at jones's. nor shall he be laid by that cross old maid, miss penelope bird,-of whom it is said all the dogs in the parish were ever afraid. he must not be placed by one so strait-laced in her temper, her taste, her morals, and waist. for 'tis said, when she went up to heaven, and st. peter, who happened to meet her, came forward to greet her, she pursed up with scorn every vinegar feature, and bade him “get out for a horrid male creature !" so the saint, after looking as if he could eat her, not knowing, perhaps, very well how to treat her, the cynotaph. and not being willing, -or able,-to beat her, sent her back to her grave till her temper grew sweeter, with an epithet which i decline to repeat here. no,-if tray were interred by penelope bird, no dog would be e'er so be-“whelp”ed and be-“ cur”red- all the night long her cantankerous sprite would be running about in the pale moonlight, chasing him round, and attempting to lick the ghost of poor tray with the ghost of a stick. stay !-let me see - ay-here it shall be at the root of this gnarled and time-worn tree, where tray and i would often lie, and watch the bright clouds as they floated by in the broad expanse of the clear blue sky, when the sun was bidding the world good-bye; and the plaintive nightingale, warbling nigh, poured forth her mournful melody; while the tender wood-pigeon's cooing cry has made me say to myself, with a sigh, “how nice you would eat with a steak in a pie!”. ay, here it shall be l-far, far from the view of the noisy world and its maddening crew; simple and few, tender and true, the lines o'er his grave.—they have, some of them, too, the advantage of being remarkably new. epitaph. affliction sore long time he bore, physicians were in vain ! grown blind, alas ! he'd some prussic acid, and that put him out of his pain! note, page . in the autumn of , captain medwin having hinted that certain beautiful lines on the burial of this gallant officer might have been the production of lord byron's muse, the late mr. sydney taylor, some- the cynotaph. what indignantly, claimed them for their rightful owner, the rev. charles wolfe. during the controversy a third claimant started up in the person of a soi-disant “doctor marshall,” who turned out to be a durhamn blacksmith, and his pretensions a hoax. it was then that a certain “doctor peppercorn" put forth his pretensions, to what he averred was the only “true and original" version, viz.- not a sous had he got,-not a guinea or note, and he looked confoundedly flurried, as he bolted away without paying his shot, and the landlady after him hurried. we saw him again at dead of night, when home from the club returning; we twigged the doctor beneath the light of the gas-lamp brilliantly burning. all bare, and exposed to the midnight dews, reclined in the gutter we found him: and he looked like a gentleman taking a snooze, with his marshall cloak around him. “the doctor's as drunk as the devil,” we said, and we managed a shutter to borrow; we raised him, and sighed at the thought that his head would “consumedly ache” on the morrow. we bore him home, and we put him to bed, and we told his wife and his daughter to give him, next morning, a couple of red herrings, with soda-water.- loudly they talked of his money that's gone, and his lady began to upbraid him; but little he reck’d, so they let him snore on 'neath the counterpane just as we laid him. we tuck'd him in, and had hardly done when, beneath the window calling, we heard the rough voice of a son of a gun of a watchman “one o'clock !” bawling. slowly and sadly we all walked down from his room in the uppermost story; a rushlight we placed on the cold hearth-stone, and we left him alone in his glory. hos ego versiculos feci, tulit alter honores.—virgil. i wrote the lines—* * owned them he told stories ! thomas ingoldsby. the leech of folkestone. mrs. botherby's story. the leech of folkestone. r eader, were you ever bewitched ?—i do not mean by a “white wench’s black eye,” or by love-potions imbibed from a ruby lip;—but, were you ever really and bona fide bewitched, in the true matthew hopkins sense of the word ? did you ever, for instance, find yourself from head to heel one vast complication of cramps ?-or burst out into sudorific exu- dation like a cold thaw, with the thermometer at zero? were your eyes ever turned upside down, exhibiting nothing but their whites? did you ever vomit a paper of crooked pins ? or expectorate whitechapel needles? these are genuine and undoubted marks of possession; and if you never experienced any of them,—why, "happy man be his dole!” yet such things have been : yea, we are assured, and that on no mean authority, still are. the world, according to the best geographers, is divided into europe, asia, africa, america, and romney marsh. in this last-named and fifth quarter of the globe, a witch may still be occasionally discovered in favorable, i. e., stormy, seasons, weathering dungeness point in an eggshell, or careering on her broomstick over dymchurch wall. a cow may yet be some- times seen galloping like mad, with tail erect, and an old pair of breeches on her horns, an unerring guide to the door of the crone whose magic arts have drained her udder. i do not, however, remember to have heard that any conjurer has of late been detected in the district. not many miles removed from the verge of this recondite region stands a collection of houses, which its maligners call a fishing-town, and its well-wishers a watering-place. a limb of one of the cinque ports, it has (or lately had) a corporation of its own, and has been thought considerable enough to give a second title to, a noble family. rome stood on seven hills; the leech of folkestone. folkestone seems to have been built upon seventy. its streets, lanes, and alleys,-fanciful distinctions without much real dif- ference, -are agreeable enough to persons who do not mind run- ning up and down stairs; and the only inconvenience at all felt by such of its inhabitants as are not asthmatic, is when some heedless urchin tumbles down a chimney, or an imperti- nent pedestrian peeps into a garret window. at the eastern extremity of the town, on the sea-beach, and scarcely above high-water mark, stood, in the good old times, a row of houses then denominated "frog-hole.” modern refine- ment subsequently euphonized the name into “east street ;" but “what's in a name?" the encroachments of ocean have long since levelled all in one common ruin. here, in the early part of the seventeenth century, flourished in somewhat doubtful reputation, but comparative opulence, a compounder of medicines, one master erasmus buckthorne,- the effluvia of whose drugs from within, mingling agreeably with the "ancient and fish-like smells” from without, wafted a delicious perfume throughout the neighborhood. at seven of the clock on the morning when mrs. botherby's narrative commences, a stout suffolk “punch," about thirteen hands and a half in height, was slowly led up and down before the door of the pharmacopolist by a lean and withered lad, whose appearance warranted an opinion, pretty generally ex- pressed, that his master found him as useful in experimental- izing as in household drudgery; and that, for every pound avoirdupois of solid meat, he swallowed at the least two pounds troy weight of chemicals and galenicals. as the town clock struck the quarter, master buckthorne emerged from his lab- oratory, and, putting the key carefully into his pocket, mounted the sure-footed cob aforesaid, and proceeded up and down the acclivities and declivities of the town with the gravity due to his station and profession. when he reached the open country his pace was increased to a sedate canter, which, in somewhat more than half an hour, brought “ the horse and his rider" in front of a handsome and substantial mansion, the numerous gable ends and bayed windows of which bespoke the owner a man of worship, and one well to do in the world. “how now, hodge gardener ?” quoth the leech, scarcely mrs. botherby's story. “ how now, as it drawing bit; for punch seemed to be aware that he had reached his destination, and paused of his own accord. man? how fares thine employer, worthy master marsh ? how hath he done? how hath he slept? my potion hath done its office ? ha!” “alack! ill at ease, worthy sir, ill at ease," returned the hind. “his honor is up and stirring; but he hath rested none, and complaineth that the same gnawing pain devoureth, were, his very vitals. in sooth he is ill at ease.' “morrow, doctor!" interrupted a voice from a casement opening on the lawn. “good morrow! i have looked for, longed for, thy coming this hour and more, enter at once : the pastry and tankard are impatient for thine attack.” marry, heaven forbid that i should balk their fancy !” quoth the leech sotto voce, as, abandoning the bridle to honest hodge, he dismounted and followed a buxom-looking hand- maiden into the breakfast parlor. there, at the head of his well-furnished board, sat master thomas marsh, of marston hall, a yeoman well respected in his degree: one of that sturdy and sterling class which, taking rank immediately below the esquire (a title in its origin purely military), occupied, in the wealthier counties, the position in society now filled by the country gentleman. he was one of those of whom the proverb ran :- “a knight of cales, a gentleman of wales, and a laird of the north countree, a yeoman of kent, with his yearly rent, will buy them out all three !" a cold sirloin, big enough to frighten a frenchman, filled the place of honor, counterchecked by a game-pie of no stinted dimensions; while a silver flagon of “humming-bub”-viz., ale strong enough to blow a man's beaver off-smiled opposite in treacherous amenity. the sideboard groaned beneath sundry massive cups and waiters of the purest silver; while the huge skull of a fallow-deer, with its branching horns, frowned majes- tically above. all spoke of affluence, of comfort; all save the master, whose restless eye and feverish look hinted but too the leech of folkestone. plainly the severest mental or bodily disorder. by the side of the proprietor of the mansion sat his consort, a lady now past the bloom of youth, yet still retaining many of its charms. the clear olive of her complexion, and "the darkness of her andalusian eye,” at once betrayed her foreign origin; in fact, her “lord and master,” as husbands were even then, by a legal fiction, denominated, had taken her to his bosom in a foreign country. the cadet of his family, master thomas marsh had early in life been engaged in commerce. in the pursuit of his vocation he had visited antwerp, hamburg, and most of the hanse towns; and had already formed a tender connection with the orphan offspring of one of old alva's officers, when the unexpected deaths of one immediate and two presumptive heirs placed him next in succession to the family acres. he married, and brought home his bride: who, by the decease of the venerable possessor, heart-broken at the loss of his elder children, became eventually lady of marston hall. it has been said that she was beautiful, yet was her beauty of a char- acter that operates on the fancy more than the affections; she was one to be admired rather than loved. the proud curl of her lip, the firmness of her tread, her arched brow and stately carriage, showed the decision, not to say haughtiness, of her soul; while her glances, whether lightening with anger or melt- ing in extreme softness, betrayed the existence of passions as intense in kind as opposite in quality. she rose as erasmus entered the parlor, and, bestowing on him a look fraught with meaning, quitted the room, leaving him in unrestrained com- munication with his patient. “fore george, master buckthorne !” exclaimed the latter, as the leech drew near, “i will no more of your pharmacy ;- burn, burn, gnaw, gnaw, i had as lief the foul fiend were in my gizzard as one of your drugs. tell me, in the devil's name, what is the matter with me!”. thus conjured, the practitioner paused, and even turned some- what pale. there was a perceptible faltering in his voice as, evading the question, he asked, “what say your other physi- cians ?” “ doctor phiz says it is wind,-doctor fuz says it is water,– and doctor buz says it is something between wind and water.” mrs. botherby's story. they are all of them wrong," said erasmus buckthorne. “truly, i think so," returned the patient. “they are mani- fest asses; but you, good leech, you are a horse of another color. the world talks loudly of your learning, your skill, and cunning in arts the most abstruse; nay, sooth to say, some look coldly on you therefor, and stickle not to aver that you are cater-cousin with beelzebub himself.” " it is ever the fate of science,” murmured the professor, “ to be maligned by the ignorant and superstitious. but a truce with such folly ;-let me examine your palate." master marsh thrust out a tongue long, clear, and red as a beet-root. “there is nothing wrong there," said the leech. "your wrist :no;—the pulse is firm and regular, the skin cool and temperate. sir, there is nothing the matter with you.” nothing the matter with me, sir ’potecary ?—but i tell you there is the matter with me,-much the matter with me. why is it that something seems ever gnawing at my heart-strings ?- whence this pain in the region of the liver ?—why is it that i sleep not o' nights,-rest not o' days ? why- “you are fidgety, master marsh,” said the doctor. master marsh's brow grew dark: he half rose from his seat, supported himself by both hands on the arms of his elbow chair, and, in accents of mingled anger and astonishment, repeated the word “fidgety!" “ay, fidgety," returned the doctor, calmly. “tut, man, there is nought ails thee save thine own overweening fancies. take less of food, more air, put aside thy flagon, call for thy horse; be boot and saddle the word! why, hast thou not youth ?” “i have,” said the patient. “ wealth and a fair domain ?” “granted,” quoth marsh, cheerily. “ and a fair wife ?” “yea," was the response, but in a tone something less satis- fied. “then arouse thee, man, shake off this fantasy, betake thyself to thy lawful occasions—use thy good hap,-follow thy pleas- ures, and think no more of these fancied ailments." “but i tell you, master mine, these ailments are not fancied. i lose my rest, i loathe my food, my doublet sits loosely on the leech of folkestone. me,—these racking pains. my wife, too, when i meet her gaze, the cold sweat stands on my forehead, and i could almost think marsh paused abruptly, mused a while, then added, looking steadily at his visitor, “these things are not right; they pass the common, master erasmus buckthorne.” a slight shade crossed the brow of the leech, but its passage was momentary; his features softened to a smile, in which pity seemed slightly blended with contempt. “have done with such follies, master marsh! you are well, an you would but think so. ride, i say, hunt, shoot, do anything,-disperse these mel- ancholic humors, and become yourself again. “well, i will do your bidding," said marsh, thoughtfully. “ it may be so; and yet,—but i will do your bidding. master cobb of brenzet writes me that he hath a score or two of fat ewes to be sold a pennyworth ; i had thought to have sent ralph looker, but i will essay to go myself. ho, there !—saddle me the brown mare, and bid ralph be ready to attend me on the gelding.” an expression of pain contracted the features of master marsh as he rose and slowly quitted the apartment to prepare for his journey; while the leech, having bidden him farewell, vanished through an opposite door, and betook himself to the private boudoir of the fair mistress of marston, muttering as he went a quotation from a then newly-published play, - “not poppy, nor mandragora, nor all the drowsy syrups of the world, shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep which thou ownedst yesterday.” * * of what passed at this interview between the folkestone doctor and the fair spaniard, mrs. botherby declares she could never obtain any satisfactory elucidation. not that tradition is silent on the subject,-quite the contrary; it is the abundance, not paucity, of the materials she supplies, and the consequent embarrassment of selection, that makes the difficulty. some have averred that the leech, whose character, as has been before hinted, was more than threadbare, employed his time in teach- ing her the mode of administering certain noxious compounds, the unconscious partaker whereof would pine and die so slowly mrs. botherby's story. and gradually as to defy suspicion. others there were who affirmed that lucifer himself was then and there raised in pro- priâ personâ, with all his terrible attributes of horn and hoof. in support of this assertion, they adduce the testimony of the aforesaid buxom housemaid, who protested that the hall smelt that evening like a manufactory of matches. all, however, seemed to agree that the confabulation, whether human or in- fernal, was conducted with profound secrecy, and protracted to a considerable length; that its object, as far as could be divined, meant anything but good to the head of the family; that the lady, moreover, was heartily tired of her husband; and that, in the event of his removal by disease or casualty, master eras- mus buckthorne, albeit a great philosophist, would have no violent objection to “throw physic to the dogs,” and exchange his laboratory for the estate of marston, its live stock included. some, too, have inferred that to him did madame isabel seriously incline; while others have thought, induced perhaps by subse- quent events, that she was merely using him for her purposes ; that one josé, a tall, bright-eyed, hook-nosed stripling from her native land, was a personage not unlikely to put a spoke in the doctor's wheel; and that, should such a chance arise, the sage, wise as he was, would, after all, run no slight risk of being “bamboozled." master josé was a youth well-favored and comely to look upon. his office was that of page to the dame; an office which, after long remaining in abeyance, has been of late years revived, as may well be seen in the persons of sundry smart hobblede- hoys, now constantly to be met with on staircases and in bou- doirs, clad, for the most part, in garments fitted tightly to the shape, the lower moiety adorned with a broad stripe of crimson or silver lace, and the upper with what the first wit of our times has described as “a favorable eruption of buttons.” the precişe duties of this employment have never, as far as we have heard, been accurately defined. the perfuming a handkerchief, the combing a lap-dog, and the occasional presentation of a sippet-shaped billet doux, are, and always have been, among them ; but these a young gentleman standing five foot ten, and aged nineteen “last grass,” might well be supposed to have out- grown. josé, however, kept his place, perhaps because he was the leech of folkestone. not fit for any other. to the conference between his mistress and the physician he had not been admitted; his post was to keep watch and ward in the ante-room; and, when the inter- view was concluded, he attended the lady and her visitor as far as the courtyard, where he held, with all due respect, the stirrup for the latter, as he once more resumed his position on the back of punch. who is it that says, “ little pitchers have large ears ”? some deep metaphysician of the potteries, who might have added that they have also quick eyes, and sometimes silent tongues. there was a little metaphorical piece of crockery of this class, who, screened by a huge elbow-chair, had sat a quiet and unobserved spectator of the whole proceedings between her mamma and master erasmus buckthorne. this was miss marian marsh, a rosy-cheeked, laughter-loving imp of some six years old, but one who could be mute as a mouse when the fit was on her. a handsome and highly-polished cabinet, of the darkest ebony, occupied a recess at one end of the apartment; this had long been a great subject of speculation to little miss. her curiosity, however, had always been repelled; nor had all her coaxing even won her an inspection of the thousand and one pretty things which its recesses no doubt contained. on this occasion it was unlocked, and marian was about to rush forward in eager anticipation of a peep at its interior, when, child as she was, the reflection struck her that she would stand a better chance of carrying her point by remaining perdue. fortune for once favored her: she crouched closer than before, and saw her mother take something from one of the drawers, which she handed over to the leech. strange mutterings followed, and words whose sound was foreign to her youthful ears. had she been older, their import, perhaps, might have been equally un- known. after a while there was a pause; and then the lady, as in answer to a requisition from the gentleman, placed in his hand a something which she took from her toilet. the trans- action, whatever its nature, seemed now to be complete, and the article was carefully replaced in the drawer from which it had been taken. a long and apparently interesting conversation then took place between the parties, carried on in a low tone. at its termination, mistress marsh and master erasmus buck- mrs. botherby's story. thorne quitted the boudoir together. but the cabinet !-ay, that was left unfastened; the folding doors still remained invit- ingly expanded, the bunch of keys dangling from the lock. in an instant the spoiled child was in a chair; the drawer so re- cently closed yielded at once to her hand, and her hurried researches were rewarded by the prettiest little waxen doll imaginable. it was a first-rate prize, and miss lost no time. in appropriating it to herself. long before madame marsh had returned to her sanctum marian was seated under a laurustinus in the garden, nursing her new baby with the most affectionate solicitude. * “susan, look here; see what a nasty scratch i have got upon my hand,” said the young lady, when routed at length from her hiding-place to her noontide meal. “yes, miss, this is always the way with you! mend, mend, mend, -nothing but mend! scrambling about among the bushes, and tearing your clothes to rags. what with you, and with madam's farthingales and kirtles, a poor bower-maiden has a fine time of it!" “but i have not torn my clothes, susan, and it was not the bushes ; it was the doll: only see what a great ugly pin i have pulled out of it! and look, here is another!" as she spoke, marian drew forth one of those extended pieces of black pointed wire with which, in the days of toupees and pompoons, our fore- mothers were wont to secure their fly caps and head-gear from the impertinent assaults of “ zephyrus and the little breezes.” “and pray, miss, where did you get this pretty doll, as you call it?" asked susan, turning over the puppet, and viewing it with a scrutinizing eye. “mamma gave it me," said the child.—this was a fib. "indeed !" quoth the girl thoughtfully; and then, in a half soliloquy, and a lower key, “well! i wish i may die if it doesn't look like master! but come to your dinner, miss ! hark! the bell is striking one!" meanwhile master thomas marsh and his man ralph were threading the devious paths, then, as now, most pseudonymously dignified with the name of roads, that wound between marston hall and the frontier of romney marsh. their progress was the leech of folkestone. comparatively slow; for though the brown mare was as good a roadster as man might back, and the gelding no mean nag of his hands, yet the tracts, rarely traversed save by the rude wains of the day, miry in the “bottoms," and covered with loose and rolling stones on the higher grounds, rendered barely passable the perpetual alternation of hill and valley. the master rode on in pain, and the man in listlessness ; although the intercourse between two individuals so situated was much less restrained in those days than might suit the re- finement of a later age, little passed approximating to conver- sation beyond an occasional and half-stifled groan from the one, or a vacant whistle from the other. an hour's riding had brought them among the woods of acryse; and they were about to descend one of those green and leafy lanes, rendered by matted and overarching branches alike impervious to shower or sunbeam, when a sudden and violent spasm seized on master marsh, and nearly caused him to fall from his horse. with some difficulty he succeeded in dismounting and seating him- self by the roadside. here he remained for a full half-hour in great apparent agony; the cold sweat rolled in large round drops adown his clammy forehead, a universal shivering palsied every limb, his eyeballs appeared to be starting from their sockets, and to his attached though dull and heavy serving- man he seemed as one struggling in the pangs of impending dissolution. his groans rose thick and frequent; and the alarmed ralph was hesitating between his disinclination to leave him and his desire to procure such assistance as one of the few cottages, rarely sprinkled in that wild country, might afford, when, after a long-drawn sigh, his master's features as suddenly relaxed; he declared himself better, the pang had passed away, and, to use his own expression, he “ felt as if a knife had been drawn from out his very heart.” with ralph's assistance, after a while he again reached his saddle; and though still ill at ease, from a deep-seated and gnawing pain, which ceased not, as he averred, to torment him, the violence of the paroxysm was spent, and it returned no more. master and man pursued their way with increased speed as, emerging from the wooded defiles, they at length neared the coast; then, leaving the romantic castle of saltwood, with its mrs. botherby's story. neighboring town of hithe, a little on their left, they proceeded along the ancient paved causeway, and, crossing the old roman road, or watling, plunged again into the woods that stretched between lympne and ostenhanger. the sun rode high in the heavens, and its meridian blaze was powerfully felt by man and horse, when, again quitting their leafy covert, the travellers debouched on the open plain of al- dington frith, a wide tract of unenclosed country stretching down to the very borders of “the marsh” itself. here it was, in the neighboring chapelry, the site of which may yet be traced by the curious antiquary, that elizabeth barton, the “holy maid of kent,” had, something less than a hundred years previous to the period of our narrative, com- menced that series of supernatural pranks which eventually procured for her head an unenvied elevation upon london bridge; and though the parish had since enjoyed the benefit of the incumbency of master erasmus's illustrious and enlight- ened namesake, still, truth to tell, some of the old leaven was even yet supposed to be at work. the place had, in fact, an ill name; and, though popish miracles had ceased to electrify its denizens, spells and charms, operating by a no less wondrous agency, were said to have taken their place. warlocks and other unholy subjects of satan were reported to make its wild recesses their favorite rendezvous, and that to an extent which eventually attracted the notice of no less a person than the sagacious matthew hopkins himself, witchfinder-general to the british government. a great portion of the frith, or fright, as the name was then, and is still, pronounced, had formerly been a chase, with rights of free-warren, etc., appertaining to the archbishops of the province. since the reformation, however, it had been disparked ; and when master thomas marsh and his man ralph entered upon its confines, the open greensward exhibited a lively scene, sufficiently explanatory of certain sounds that had already reached their ears while yet within the sylvan screen that concealed their origin. it was fair-day; booths, stalls, and all the rude parapher- nalia of an assembly that then met as much for the purposes of traffic as festivity, were scattered irregularly over the turf; mrs. botherby's story. had hitherto kept himself ensconced; occupied, no doubt, in the preparation and arrangement of that wonderful panacea which was hereafter to shed the blessings of health among the admiring crowd. meanwhile his attendant jack-pudding was busily employed on the proscenium, doing his best to attract attention by a practical facetiousness which took wonderfully with the spectators, interspersing it with the melodious notes of a huge cow's horn. the fellow's costume varied but little in character from that in which the late (alas! that we should have to write the word—late!) mr. joseph grimaldi was ac- customed to present himself before “a generous and enlightened public;" the principal difference consisted in this, that the upper garment was a long white tunic, of a coarse linen, surmounted by a caricature of the ruff then fast falling into disuse, and was secured from the throat downwards by a single row of broad white metal buttons; and his legs were cased in loose wide trousers of the same material; while his sleeves, prolonged to a most disproportionate extent, descended far below the fingers, and acted as flappers in the somersets and caracoles with which he diversified and enlivened his antics. consummate impu- dence, not altogether unmixed with a certain sly humor, spar- kled in his eye through the chalk and ochre with which his features were plentifully bedaubed ; and especially displayed itself in a succession of jokes, the coarseness of which did not seem to detract from their merit in the eyes of his applauding audience. he was in the midst of a long and animated harangue ex- planatory of his master's high pretensions; he had informed his gaping auditors that the latter was the seventh son of a seventh son, and of course, as they very well knew, an unborn doctor; that to this happy accident of birth he added the advantage of most extensive travel; that in his search after science he had not only perambulated the whole of this world, but had trespassed on the boundaries of the next; that the depths of the ocean and the bowels of the earth were alike familiar to him; that besides salves and cataplasms of sovereign virtue, by combining sundry mosses, gathered many thousand fathoms below the surface of the sea, with certain unknown drugs found in an undiscovered island, and boiling the whole the leech of folkestone. in the lava of vesuvius, he had succeeded in producing his celebrated balsam of crackapanoko, the never failing remedy for all human disorders, and which, a proper trial allowed, would go near to reanimate the dead. * draw near !" continued the worthy, “ draw near, my masters! and you, my good mis- tresses, draw near, every one of you. fear not high and haughty carriage: though greater than king or kaiser, yet is the mighty aldrovando milder than mother's milk ; flint to the proud, to the humble he is as melting wax; he asks not your disorders, he sees them himself at a glance-nay, without a glance; he tells your ailments with his eyes shut !-draw near! draw near! . the more incurable the better! list to the illustrious doctor aldrovando, first physician to prester john, leech to the grand llama, and hakim in ordinary to mustapha muley bey!" “hath your master ever a charm for the toothache, an't please you ?” asked an elderly countryman, whose swollen cheek bespoke his interest in the question. “a charm!—a thousand, and every one of them infallible. toothache, quotha! i had hoped you had come with every bone in your body fractured or out of joint. a toothache! propound a tester, master o'mine-we ask not more for such trifles: do my bidding, and thy jaws, even with the word, shall cease to trouble thee!” the clown, fumbling a while in a deep leathern purse, at length produced a sixpence, which he tendered to the jester. “now to thy master, and bring me the charm forthwith.” “ nay, honest man;. to disturb the mighty aldrovando on such slight occasion were pity of my life: areed my counsel aright, and i will warrant thee for the nonce. hie thee home, friend; infuse this powder in cold spring-water, fill thy mouth with the mixture, and sit upon the fire till it boils !" “out on thee for a pestilent knave !" cried the cozened coun- tryman; but the roar of merriment around bespoke the by- standers well pleased with the jape put upon him. he retired, venting his spleen in audible murmurs; and the mountebank, finding the feelings of the mob enlisted on his side, waxed more impudent every instant, filling up the intervals between his fooleries with sundry capers and contortions and discordant notes from the cow's horn, mrs. botherby's story. “draw near, draw near, my masters! here have ye a rem- edy for every evil under the sun, moral, physical, natural, and supernatural! hath any man a termagant wife?–here is that will tame her presently! hath any one a smoky chimney ?- here is an incontinent cure !" to the first infliction no man ventured to plead guilty, though there were those standing by who thought their neighbors might have profited withal. for the last-named recipe started forth at least half a dozen candidates. with the greatest gravity imaginable, pierrot, having pocketed their groats, delivered to each a small packet curiously folded and closely sealed, con- taining, as he averred, directions which, if truly observed, woald preclude any chimney from smoking for a whole year. they whose curiosity led them to dive into the mystery found that a sprig of mountain ash culled by moonlight was the charm recommended, coupled, however, with the proviso that no fire should be lighted on the hearth during its exercise. the frequent bursts of merriment proceeding from this quar- ter at length attracted the attention of master marsh, whose line of road necessarily brought him near this end of the fair ; he drew bit in front of the stage just as its noisy occupant, having laid aside his formidable horn, was drawing still more largely on the amazement of “the public" by a feat of especial wonder,-he was eating fire! curiosity mingled with astonish- ment was at its height; and feelings not unallied to alarm were beginning to manifest themselves, among the softer sex espe- cially, as they gazed on the flames that issued from the mouth of the living volcano. all eyes, indeed, were fixed upon the fire-eater with an intentness that left no room for observing another worthy who had now emerged upon the scene. this was, however, no less a personage than the deus ex machina, - the illustrious aldrovando himself. short in stature and spare in form, the sage had somewhat increased the former by a steeple-crowned hat adorned with a cock's feather; while the thick shoulder-padding of a quilted doublet, surmounted by a falling band, added a little to his personal importance in point of breadth. his habit was com- posed throughout of black serge, relieved with scarlet slashes in the sleeves and trunks; red was the feather in his hat, red were the leech of folkestone. the roses in his shoes, which rejoiced, moreover, in a pair of red heels. the lining of a short cloak of faded velvet, that hung transversely over his left shoulder, was also red. indeed, from all that we could ever see or hear, this agreeable alternation of red and black appears to be the mixture of colors most approved at the court of beelzebub, and the one most generally adopted by his friends and favorites. his features were sharp and shrewd, and a fire sparkled in his keen gray eye, much at variance with the wrinkles that ran their irregular furrows above his prominent and bushy brows. he had advanced slowly from behind his screen while the attention of the mul- titude was observed by the pyrotechnics of mr. merryman, and stationing himself at the extreme corner of the stage, stood quietly leaning on a crutch-handle walking-staff of blackest ebony, his glance steadily fixed on the face of marsh, from whose countenance the amusement he had insensibly begun to derive had not succeeded in removing all traces of bodily pain. for a while the latter was unobservant of the inquisitorial survey with which he was regarded; the eyes of the parties, however, at length met. the brown mare had a fine shoulder; she stood pretty nearly sixteen hands. marsh himself, though slightly bowed by ill-health and the "coming autumn” of life, was full six feet in height. his elevation giving him an un- obstructed view over the heads of the pedestrians, he had nat- urally fallen into the rear of the assembly, which brought him close to the diminutive doctor, with whose face, despite the red heels, his own was about upon a level. “ and what makes master marsh here? what sees he in the mummeries of a miserable buffoon to divert him when his life is in jeopardy ?” said a shrill cracked voice that sounded as in his very ear. it was the doctor who spoke. knowest thou me, friend ?” said marsh, scanning with awakened interest the figure of his questioner: “i call thee not to mind; and yet-stay, where have we met ?” “ it skills not to declare,” was the answer; " suffice it we have met—in other climes perchance-and now meet happily again- happily at least for thee." why, truly the trick of thy countenance reminds me of mrs. botherby's story. somewhat i have seen before; where or when i know not: but what wouldst thou with me?" nay, rather what wouldst thou here, thomas marsh? what wouldst thou on the frith of aldington ? is it a score or two of paltry sheep? or is it something nearer to thy heart ?” marsh started as the last words were pronounced with more than common significance: a pang shot through him at the moment, and the vinegar aspect of the charlatan seemed to relax into a smile half compassionate, half sardonic. “grammercy," quoth marsh, after a long-drawn breath, “what knowest thou of me, fellow, or of my concerns ? what knowest thou- this know i, master thomas marsh,” said the stranger gravely, “that thy life is even now perilled, evil practices are against thee; but no matter, thou art quit for the nonce other hands than mine have saved thee! thy pains are over. hark! the clock strikes one!" as he spoke, a single toll from the bell- tower of bilsington came, wafted by the western breeze, over the thick-set and lofty oaks which intervened between the frith and what had once been a priory. doctor aldrovando turned as the sound came floating on the wind, and was moving, as if half in anger, towards the other side of the stage, where the mountebank, his fires extinct, was now disgorging to the admir- ing crowd yard after yard of gaudy-colored ribbon. “stay! nay, prithee stay!" cried marsh, eagerly. “i was wrong; in faith i was. a change, and that a sudden and most marvellous, hath indeed come over me; i am free; i breathe again; i feel as though a load of years had been removed; and, is it possible ?-hast thou done this ?”' “ thomas marsh !" said the doctor, pausing, and turning for the moment on his heel, “ i have not: i repeat, that other and more innocent hands than mine have done this deed. never- theless, heed my counsel well! thou art parlously encompassed; i, and i only, have the means of relieving thee. follow thy courses ; pursue thy journey; but as thou valuest life and more than life, be at the foot of yonder woody knoll what time the rising moon throws her first beam upon the bare and blighted summit that towers above its trees." he crossed abruptly to the opposite quarter of the scaffolding, the leech of folkestone. and was in an instant deeply engaged in listening to those whom the cow's horn had attracted, and in prescribing for their real or fancied ailments. vain were all marsh's efforts again to attract his notice; it was evident that he studiously avoided him; and when, after an hour or more spent in useless en- deavor, he saw the object of his anxiety seclude himself once more within his canvas screen, he rode slowly and thoughtfully off the field. what should he do? was the man a mere quack? an im- postor? his name thus obtained ! that might be easily done. but then, his secret griefs; the doctor's knowledge of them; their cure: for he felt that his pains were gone, his healthful feelings restored! true, aldrovando, if that were his name, had disclaimed all co-operation in his recovery; but he knew, or he at least an- nounced it. nay, more; he had hinted that he was yet in jeop- ardy; that practices—and the chord sounded strangely in unison with one that had before vibrated within him—that practices were in operation against his life! it was enough! he would keep tryst with the conjurer, if conjurer he were; and, at least, ascertain who and what he was, and how he had become acquainted with his own person and secret afflictions. when the late mr. pitt was determined to keep out buona- parte, and prevent his gaining a settlement in the county of kent, among other ingenious devices adopted for that purpose, he caused to be constructed what was then, and has ever since been, conventionally termed a “military canal.” this is not a very practicable ditch, some thirty feet wide, and nearly nine feet deep in the middle, extending from the town and port of hithe to within a mile of the town and port of rye, a distance of about twenty miles; and forming, as it were, the cord of a bow, the arc of which constitutes that remote fifth quarter of the globe spoken of by travellers. trivial objections to the plan were made at the time by cavillers; and an old gentleman of the neighborhood, who proposed, as a cheap substitute, to put down his own cocked hat upon a pole, was deservedly pooh- poohed down; in fact, the job, though rather an expensive one, was found to answer remarkably well. the french managed, indeed, to scramble over the rhine, and the rhone, and other mrs. botherby's story. insignificant currents; but they never did, or could, pass mr. pitt's “military canal.” at no great distance from the centre of this cord rises abruptly a sort of woody promontory, in shape almost conical ; its sides covered with thick underwood, above which is seen a bare and brown summit rising like an alp in miniature. the “defence of the nation” not being then in ex- istence, master marsh met with no obstruction in reaching this place of appointment long before the time prescribed. so much, indeed, was his mind occupied by his adventure and extraordinary cure that his original design had been aban- doned, and master cobbe remained unvisited. a rude hostel in the neighborhood furnished entertainment for man and horse; and here, a full hour before the rising of the moon, he left ralph and the other beasts, proceeding to his rendezvous on foot and alone. “you are punctual, master marsh,” squeaked the shrill voice of the doctor, issuing from the thicket as the first silvery gleam trembled on the aspens above. “ 'tis well; now follow me, and in silence." the first part of the command marsh hesitated not to obey ; the second was more difficult of observance. “who and what are you? whither are you leading me?" burst not unnaturally from his lips; but all question was at once cut short by the peremptory tones of his guide. “hush! i say; your finger on your lip: there be hawks abroad. follow me, and that silently and quickly.” the little man turned as he spoke, and led the way through a scarcely perceptible path, or track, which wound among the underwood. the lapse of a few minutes brought them to the door of a low building, so hidden by the surrounding trees that few would have suspected its existence. it was a cottage of rather extraordinary dimensions, but consisting of only one floor. no smoke rose from its solitary chimney'; no cheering ray streamed from its single window, which was, however, secured by a shutter of such thickness as to preclude the pos- sibility of any stray beam issuing from within. the exact size of the building it was, in that uncertain light, difficult to dis- tinguish, a portion of it seeming buried in the wood behind. the door gave way on the application of a key, and marsh fol- the leech of folkestone. lowed his conductor resolutely, but cautiously, along a narrow passage, feebly lighted by a small taper that winked and twinkled at its farther extremity. the doctor, as he ap- proached, raised it from the ground, and, opening an adjoining door, ushered his guest into the room beyond. it was a large and oddly furnished apartment, insufficiently lighted by an iron lamp that hung from the roof, and scarcely illumined the walls and angles, which seemed to be composed of some dark-colored wood. on one side, however, master marsh could discover an article bearing strong resemblance to a coffin; on the other was a large oval mirror in an ebony frame; and in the midst of the floor was described, in red chalk, a double circle, about six feet in diameter, its inner verge inscribed with sundry hieroglyphics, agreeably relieved at intervals with an alternation of skulls and cross-bones. in the very centre was deposited one skull of such surpassing size and thickness as would have filled the soul of a spurzheim or de ville with wonderment. a large book, a naked sword, an hour-glass, a chafing-dish, and a black cat, completed the list of movables, with the exception of a couple of tapers which stood on each side of the mirror, and which the strange gen- tleman now proceeded to light from the one in his hand. as they flared up with what marsh thought a most unnatural bril- liancy, he perceived reflected in the glass behind a dial sus- pended over the coffin-like article already mentioned; the hand was fast verging towards the hour of nine. the eyes of the little doctor seemed riveted on the horologe. “now strip thee, master marsh, and that quickly: untruss, i say! discard thy boots, doff doublet and hose, and place thy- self incontinent in yonder bath.” the visitor cast his eyes again upon the formidable-looking article, and perceived that it was nearly filled with water. cold bath, at such an hour and under such auspices, was any- thing but inviting: he hesitated, and turned his eyes alter- nately on the doctor and the black cat. “ trifle not the time, man, an you be wise,” said the former. “passion of my heart! let but yon minute-hand reach the hour, and thou not immersed, thy life were not worth a pin's fee!” the black cat gave vent to a single mew,-a most unnatural mrs. botherby's story. sound for a mouser : it seemed as it were mewed through a cow's horn. " quick, master marsh! uncase, or you perish !" repeated his strange host, throwing as he spoke a handful of some dingy-looking powders into the brasier. “behold, the attack is begun!” a thick cloud rose from the embers; a cold shiv- ering shook the astonished yeoman; sharp pricking pains pen- etrated his ankles and the palms of his hands; and as the smoke cleared away, he distinctly saw and recognized in the mirror the boudoir of marston hall. the doors of the well-known ebony cabinet were closed; but fixed against them, and standing out in strong relief from the contrast afforded by the sable background, was a waxen im- age-of himself! it appeared to be secured, and sustained in an upright posture, by large black pins driven through the feet and palms, the latter of which were extended in a cruciform position. to the right and left stood his wife and josé; in the middle, with his back towards him, was a figure which he had no difficulty in recognizing as that of the leech of folkestone. the latter had just succeeded in fastening the dexter hand of the image, and was now in the act of drawing a broad and keen-edged sabre from its sheath. the black cat mewed again. “haste, or you die!" said the doctor. marsh looked at the dial; it wanted but four minutes of nine: he felt that the crisis of his fate was come. off went his heavy boots ; doublet to the right, galligaskins to the left; never was man more swiftly disrobed. in two minutes, to use an indian ex- pression, he was “all face;" in another he was on his back and up to his chin in a bath which smelt strongly as of brimstone and garlic. “heed well the clock !" cried the conjurer. “with the first stroke of nine plunge thy head beneath the water,--suffer not a hair above the surface: plunge deeply, or thou art lost!" the little man had seated himself in the centre of the circle upon the large skull, elevating his legs at an angle of forty-five degrees. in this position he spun round with a velocity to be equalled only by that of a teetotum, the red roses on his insteps seeming to describe a circle of fire. the best buckskins that ever mounted at melton had soon yielded to such rotatory fric- the leech of folkestone. tion; but he spun on; the cat mewed, bats and obscene birds fluttered overhead; erasmus was seen to raise his weapon; the clock struck !-and marsh, who had “ducked" at the instant, popped up his head again, spitting and sputtering, half choked with the infernal solution, which had insinuated itself into his mouth and ears and nose. all disgust at his nauseous dip was, however, at once removed when, casting his eyes on the glass, he saw the consternation of the party whose persons it exhib- ited. erasmus had evidently made his blow and failed; the figure was unmutilated; the hilt remained in the hand of the striker, while the shivered blade lay in shining fragments on the floor. the conjurer ceased his spinning and brought himself to an anchor; the black cat purred: its purring seemed strangely mixed with the self-satisfied chuckle of a human being. where had marsh heard something like it before? he was rising from his unsavory couch when a motion from the little man checked him. “rest where you are, thomas marsh: so far all goes well, but the danger is not yet over.” he looked again, and perceived that the shadowy triumvirate were in deep and eager consultation; the fragments of the shattered weapon appeared to undergo a close scrutiny. the result was clearly unsatisfactory; the lips of the parties moved rapidly, and much gesticulation might be observed, but no sound fell upon the ear. the hand of the dial had nearly reached the quarter: at once the parties separated; and buck- thorne stood again before the figure, his hand armed with a long and sharp-pointed misericorde, a dagger little in use of late, but such as, a century before, often performed the part of a modern oyster-knife in tickling the osteology of a dismounted cavalier through the shelly defences of his plate armor. again he raised his arm. “duck !" roared the doctor, spinning away upon his cephalic pivot :the black cat cocked his tail, and seemed to mew the word “duck!” down went master marsh's head; one of his hands had unluckily been resting on the edge of the bath; he drew it hastily in, but not altogether scathe- less : the stump of a rusty nail, projecting from the margin of the bath, had caught and slightly grazed it. the pain was more acute than is usually produced by such trivial accidents ; mrs. botherby's story. and marsh, on once more raising his head, beheld the dagger of the leech sticking in the little finger of the wax figure, which it had seemingly nailed to the cabinet door. "by my truly, a scape of the narrowest !" quoth the conjurer. “the next course, dive you not the readier, there is no more life in you than in a pickled herring. what! courage, master marsh; but be heedful: an they miss again, let them bide the issue !" he drew his hand athwart his brow as he spoke, and dashed off the perspiration which the violence of his exercise had drawn from every pore. black tom sprang upon the edge of the bath and stared full in the face of the bather. his sea-green eyes were lambent with unholy fire, but their marvellous obliquity of vision was not to be mistaken ;-the very countenance too! could it be?—the features were feline, but their expression was that of the jack-pudding! was the mountebank a cat? or the cat a mountebank? it was all a mystery !—and heaven knows how long marsh might have continued staring at grim- alkin had not his attention been again called by aldrovando to the magic mirror. great dissatisfaction, not to say dismay, seemed now to per- vade the conspirators. dame isabel was closely inspecting the figure's wounded hand, while josé was aiding the pharmacopo- list to charge a huge petronel with powder and bullets. the load was a heavy one; but erasmus seemed determined this time to make sure of his object. somewhat of trepidation might be observed in his manner as he rammed down the balls, and his withered cheek appeared to have acquired an increase of paleness; but amazement rather than fear was the prevailing symptom, and his countenance betrayed no jot of irresolution. as the clock was about to chime half-past nine, he planted himself with a firm foot in front of the image, waved his un- occupied hand with a cautionary gesture to his companions, and, as they hastily retired on either side, brought the muzzle of his weapon within half a foot of his mark. as the shadowy form was about to draw the trigger, marsh again plunged his head beneath the surface; and the sound of an explosion, as of fire-arms, mingled with the rush of water that poured into his his immersion was but momentary, yet did he feel as though half suffocated: he sprang from the bath, and, as his ears. the leech of folkestone. eye fell on the mirror, he saw,-or thought he saw,—the leech of folkestone lying dead on the floor of his wife's boudoir, his head shattered to pieces, and his hand still grasping the stock of a bursten petronel. he saw no more; his head swam, his senses reeled, the whole room was turning round, and, as he fell to the ground, the last impressions to which he was conscious were the chucklings of a hoarse laughter, and the mewings of a tom cat! master marsh was found the next morning by his bewildered serving-man, stretched before the door of the humble hostel at which he sojourned. his clothes were somewhat torn and much bemired; and deeply did honest ralph marvel that one 'staid and grave as master marsh of marston should thus have played the roisterer, missing, perchance, a profitable bargain for the drunken orgies of midnight wassail, or the endearments of some rustic light-o'-love. tenfold was his astonishment increased when, after retracing in silence their journey of the preceding day, the hall, on their arrival about noon, was found in a state of the uttermost confusion. no wife stood there to greet with the 'smile of bland affection her returning spouse; no page to hold his stirrup, or receive his gloves, his hat, and riding-rod. the doors were open, the rooms in most admired disorder; men and maidens peeping, hurrying hither and thither, and popping in and out, like rabbits in a the lady of the mansion was nowhere to be found. josé, too, had disappeared; the latter had been last seen riding furiously towards folkestone early in the preceding afternoon: to a question from hodge gardener he had hastily answered that he bore a missive of moment from his mistress. the lean apprentice of erasmus buckthorne declared that the page had summoned his master, in haste, about six of the clock, and that they had rode forth together, as he verily believed, on their way back to the hall, where he had supposed master buckthorne's services to be suddenly required on some pressing emergency. since that time he had seen nought of either of them; the gray cob, however, had returned late at night, masterless, with his girths loose and the saddle turned upside down. nor was master erasmus buckthorne ever seen again. strict warren, mrs. botherby's story. search was made through the neighborhood, but without suc- cess; and it was at length presumed that he must, for reasons which nobody could divine, have absconded, together with josé and his faithless mistress. the latter had carried off with her the strong box, divers articles of valuable plate, and jewels of price. her boudoir appeared to have been completely ransacked; the cabinet and drawers stood open and empty; the very carpet, a luxury then newly introduced into england, was gone. marsh, however, could trace no vestige of the visionary scene which he affirmed to have been last night presented to his eyes. much did the neighbors marvel at his story :-some thought him mad; others that he was merely indulging in that privilege to which, as a traveller, he had a right indefeasible. trusty ralph said nothing, but shrugged his shoulders; and, falling into the rear, imitated the action of raising a wine-cup to his lips. an opinion, indeed, soon prevailed that master thomas marsh had gotten, in common parlance, exceedingly drunk on the preceding evening, and had dreamt all that he so circum- stantially related. this belief acquired additional credit when they whom curiosity induced to visit the woody knoll of aldington mount declared that they could find no building such as that described, nor any cottage near; save one, indeed, a low-roofed hovel, once a house of public entertainment, but now half in ruins. the “old cat and fiddle"- was the tenement called— had been long uninhabited; yet still exhib- ited the remains of a broken sign, on which the keen observer might decipher something like a rude portrait of the animal from which it derived its name. it was also supposed still to afford an occasional asylum to the smugglers of the coast, but no trace of any visit from sage or mountebank could be de- tected; nor was the wise aldrovando, whom many remembered to have seen at the fair, ever found again on all that country-side. of the runaways nothing was ever certainly known. a boat, the property of an old fisherman who plied his trade on the outskirts of the town, had been seen to quit the bay that night; and there were those who declared that she had more hands on board than carden and his son, her usual comple- ment; but as the gale came on, and the frail bark was the leech of folkestone. eventually found keel upwards on the goodwin sands, it was presumed that she had struck on that fatal quicksand in the dark, and that all on board had perished. little marian, whom her profligate mother had abandoned, grew up to be a fine girl, and a handsome. she became, more- over, heiress to marston hall, and brought the estate into the ingoldsby family by her marriage with one of its scions. thus far mrs. botherby. it is a little singular that, on pulling down the old hall in my grandfather's time, a human skeleton was discovered among the rubbish; under what particular part of the building i fo or could never with any accuracy ascertain; but it was found enveloped in tattered cloth that seemed to have been once a carpet, and which fell to pieces almost immediately on being exposed to the air. the bones were perfect, but those of one hand were wanting; and the skull, perhaps from the laborer's pickaxe, had received considerable injury; the worm-eaten stock of an old-fashioned pistol lay near, together with a rusty piece of iron which a workman, more sagacious than his fellows, mrs. botherby's story. pronounced a portion of the lock; but nothing was found which the utmost stretch of human ingenuity could twist into a barrel. the portrait of the fair marian hangs yet in the gallery of tappington; and near it is another, of a young man in the prime of life, which mrs. botherby affirms to be that of her father. it exhibits a mild and rather melancholy countenance, with a high forehead, and the peaked beard and moustaches of the seventeenth century. the signet-finger of the left hand is gone, and appears, on close inspection, to have been painted out by some later artist; possibly in compliment to the tra- dition, which, teste botherby, records that of mr. marsh to have gangrened, and to have undergone amputation at the knuckle-joint. if really the resemblance of the gentleman alluded to, it must have been taken at some period antecedent to his marriage. there is neither date nor painter's name; but a little above the head, on the dexter side of the picture, is an escutcheon, bearing “quarterly, gules and argent, in the first quarter a horse's head of the second;" beneath it are the words “Ætatis suce .” on the opposite side is the following mark, which mr. simpkinson declares to be that of a merchant of the staple, and pretends to discover, in the monogram com- prised in it, all the characters which compose the name of thomas marsh, of marston. respect for the feelings of an honorable family, -nearly connected with the ingoldsbys,-has induced me to veil the real “sponsorial and patronymic appellations” of my next hero under a sobriquet interfering neither with rhyme nor rhythm. i shall merely add that every incident in the story bears on the face of it the stamp of veracity, and that many “persons of honor” in the county of berks, who well recollected sir george rooks's expedition against gibraltar, would, if they were now alive, gladly bear testimony to the truth of every syllable. * pack o'nonsense !—everybody as belongs to him is dead and gone—and everybody knows that the poor young gentleman's real name wasn't sobriquet at all, but hamp- den pye, esq., and that one of his uncles-or cousins--used to make verses about the legend of hamilton tighe. legend of hamilton tighe. t the captain is walking his quarter-deck, with a troubled brow and a bended neck; one eye is down through the hatchway cast, the other turns up to the truck on the mast; yet none of the crew may venture to hint “our skipper hath gotten a sinister squint!” the captain again the letter hath read which the bumboat woman brought out to spithead- still, since the good ship sailed away, he reads that letter three times a day; yet the writing is broad and fair to see as a skipper may read, in his degree, and the seal is as black, and as broad, and as flat, as his own cockade in his own cocked hat: he reads, and he says, as he walks to and fro, “ curse the old woman-she bothers me so !” he pauses now, for the topmen hail- “on the larboard quarter a saill a sail !” that grim old captain he turns him quick, and bawls through his trumpet for hairy-faced dick. “the breeze is blowing-huzza! huzza ! the breeze is blowing-away! away! the breeze is blowing—a race! a race! the breeze is blowing—we near the chase! blood will flow, and bullets will fly,- oh where will be then young hamilton tighe ?” -“on the foeman's deck, where a man should be, with his sword in his hand, and his foe at his knee. cockswain, or boatswain, or reefer may try, but the first man on board will be hamilton tighe!" king and the queen, and had a sack of money for doing it every year ;-and that's his picture in the blue coat and little gold-laced cocked hat that hangs on the stairs over the door of the passage that leads to the blue room.-sobriquet !—but there!—the squire wrote it after dinner!-elizabeth botherby, legend of hamilton tighe hairy-faced dick hath a swarthy hue, between a gingerbread-nut and a jew, and his pigtail is long, and bushy, and thick, like a pump-handle stuck on the end of a stick. hairy-faced dick understands his trade; he stands by the breech of a long carronade, the linstock glows in his bony hand, waiting that grim old skipper's command. “the bullets are flying-huzza! huzza! the bullets are flying-away! away!" the brawny boarders mount by the chains, and are over their buckles in blood and in brains : on the foeman's deck, where a man should be, young hamilton tighe waves his cutlass high, and capitaine crapaud bends low at his knee. hairy-faced dick, linstock in hand, is waiting that grim-looking skipper's command: a wink comes sly from that sinister eye hairy-faced dick at once lets fly, and knocks off the head of young hamilton tighe! there's a lady sits lonely in bower and hall, her pages and handmaidens come at her call : “now, haste ye, my handmaidens, haste and see how he sits there and glow'rs with his head on his knee!" the maidens smile, and, her thought to destroy, they bring her a little, pale, mealy-faced boy ; and the mealy-faced boy says, "mother, dear, now hamilton's dead, i've a thousand a year !" the lady has donned her mantle and hood, she is bound for shrift at saint mary's rood - "oh! the taper shall burn, and the bell shall toll, and the mass shall be said for my stepson's soul, and the tablet fair shall be hung on high, orate pro anima hamilton tighe." legend of hamilton tighe. her coach and four draws up to the door, with her groom and her footman, and half a score more; the lady steps into her coach alone, they hear her sigh, and they hear her groan, they close the door, and they turn the pin, but there's one rides with her that never stept in! all the way there, and all the way back, the harness strains and the coach-springs crack, the horses snort and plunge and kick, till the coachman thinks he is driving old nick; and the grooms and the footmen wonder, and say “what makes the old coach so heavy to-day?” but the mealy-faced boy peeps in and sees a man sitting there with his head on his knees ! 'tis ever the same,-in hall or in bower, wherever the place, whatever the hour, that lady mutters, and talks to the air, and her eye is fixed on an empty chair ; but the mealy-faced boy still whispers with dread, she talks to a man with never a head !” there's an old yellow admiral living at bath, as gray as a badger, as thin as a lath; and his very queer eyes have such very queer leers, they seem to be trying to peep at his ears; that old yellow admiral goes to the rooms, and he plays long whist, but he frets and he fumes, for all his knaves stand upside down, and the jack of clubs does nothing but frown; and the kings, and the aces, and all the best trumps get into the hands of the other old frumps; while, close to his partner, a man he sees counting the tricks with his head on his knees. in ratcliffe highway there's an old marine store, and a great black doll hangs out of the door; legend of hamilton tighe. there are rusty locks, and dusty bags, and musty phials, and fusty rags, and a lusty old woman, called thirsty nan, and her crusty old husband's a hairy-faced man! that hairy-faced man is sallow and wan, and his great thick pigtail is withered and gone; and he cries, “take away that lubberly chap that sits there and grins with his head in his lap!” and the neighbors say, as they see him look sick, “what a rum old covey is hairy-faced dick !” that admiral, lady, and hairy-faced man may say what they please, and may do what they can; but one thing seems remarkably clear, they may die to-morrow, or live till next year, but wherever they live, or whenever they die, they'll never get quit of young hamilton tighe! the when, the where,- and the how,-of the succeeding narrative speak for themselves. it may be proper, however, to observe that the ruins here alluded to, and improperly termed “the abbey," are not those of bolsover, described in a pre- ceding page, but the remains of a preceptory once belonging to the knights templars, situate near swynfield, swinkefield, or, as it is now generally spelt and pronounced, swingfield, minnis, a rough tract of common land now undergoing the process of enclosure, and adjoining the woods and arable lands of tappington, at the distance of some two miles from the hall, to the southeastern windows of which the time-worn walls in question, as seen over the intervening coppices, pre- sent a picturesque and striking object. the witches frolic. the witches' frolic. [scene, the “snuggery” at tappington.-grandpapa in a high-backed cane-bottomed elbow-chair of carved walnut-tree, dozing; his nose at an angle of forty-five degrees,-his thumbs slowly perform the rotatory motion described by lexico- graphers as “twiddling.”—the “hope of the family” astride on a walking-stick, with burnt-cork moustaches, and a pheasant's tail pinned in his cap, solaceth himself with martial music.-roused by a strain of surpassing dissonance, grand- papa loquitur.] come yome hither, come hither, my little boy ned! come hither unto my knee i cannot away with that horrible din, that sixpenny drum, and that trumpet of tin. oh, better to wander frank and free through the fair of good st. bartlemy, than list to such awful minstrelsie. now lay, little ned, those nuisances by, and i'll rede ye a lay of grammarye. (grandpapa riseth, yawneth like the crater of an extinct volcano, proceedeth slowly to the window, and apostrophizeth the abbey in the distance.] i love thy tower, gray ruin, i joy thy form to see, though reft of all, cell, cloister, and hall, nothing is left save a tottering wall that, awfully grand and darkly dull, threatened to fall and demolish my skull, as, ages ago, i wandered along careless thy grass-grown courts among, in sky-blue jacket, and trousers laced, the latter uncommonly short in the waist. thou art dearer to me, thou ruin gray, than the squire's veranda over the way; and fairer, i ween, the ivy-sheen that thy mouldering turret binds, than the alderman's house about half a mile off, with the green venetian blinds. full many a tale would my grandam tell, in many a bygone day, the witches frolic. of darksome deeds, which of old befell in thee, thou ruin gray ! and i the readiest ear would lend, and stare like frightened pig ! while my grandfather's hair would have stood up on end, had he not worn wig. one tale i remember of mickle dread- now lithe and listen, my little boy ned! thou mayest have read, my little boy ned, though thy mother thine idlesse blames, in doctor goldsmith's history book, of a gentleman called king james, in quilted doublet, and great trunk breeches, who held in abhorrence tobacco and witches. well,-in king james's golden days, - for the days were golden then,- they could not be less, for good queen bess had died, aged threescore and ten, and her days, we know, were all of them so; while the court poets sung, and the court gallants swore that the days were as golden still as before. some people, 'tis true, a troublesome few, who historical points would unsettle, have lately thrown out a sort of a doubt of the genuine ring of the metal; but who can believe to a monarch so wise people would dare tell a parcel of lies ! -well, then, in good king james's days,—. golden or not does not matter a jot, yon ruin a sort of a roof had got; for though, repairs lacking, its walls had been cracking since harry the eighth sent its people a-packing, the witches' frolic. though joists, and floors, and windows, and doors, had all disappeared, yet pillars by scores remained, and still propped up a ceiling or two, while the belfry was almost as good as new; you are not to suppose matters looked just so in the ruin some two hundred years ago. just in the furthermost angle, where there are still the remains of a winding stair, one turret especially high in air upreared its tall gaunt form; as if defying the power of fate, or the hand of “ time the innovator;" and though to the pitiless storm its weaker brethren all around bowing, in ruin had strewed the ground, alone it stood, while its fellows lay strewed, like a four-bottle man in a company “screwed,”– not firm on his legs, but by no means subdued. one night,-'twas in sixteen hundred and six,- i like when i can, ned, the date to fix,- the month was may, though i can't well say at this distance of time the particular day- but oh! that night, that horrible night! -folks ever afterwards said with affright that they never had seen such a terrible sight. the sun had gone down fiery red; and if, that evening, he laid his head in thetis's lap beneath the seas, he must have scalded the goddess's knees. he left behind him a lurid track of blood-red light upon clouds so black, that warren and hunt, with the whole of their crew, could scarcely have given them a darker hue. there came a shrill and a whistling sound, above, beneath, beside, and around, the witches' frolic. yet leaf ne'er moved on tree! so that some people thought old beelzebub must have been locked out of doors, and was blowing the dust from the pipe of his street-door key. and then a hollow moaning blast came, sounding more dismally still than the last, and the lightning flashed, and the thunder growled, and louder and louder the tempest howled, and the rain came down in such sheets as would stagger a bard for a simile short of niagara. rob gilpin " was a citizen;" but though of some renown," of no great “credit” in his own or any other town, he was a wild and roving lad, for ever in the alehouse boozing ; or romping, which is quite as bad, - with female friends of his own choosing. and rob this very day, had made, not dreaming such a storm was brewing, an assignation with miss slade, - their trysting-place that same gray ruin. but gertrude slade became afraid, and to keep her appointment unwilling, when she spied the rain on her window-pane in drops as big as a shilling; she put off her hat and her mantle again : “he'll never expect me in all this rain !" but little he recks of the fears of the sex, or that maiden false to her tryst could be. he had stood there a good half hour, ere yet had commenced that perilous shower, alone by the trysting-tree ! the witches' frolic. robin looks east, robin looks west, but he sees not her whom he loves the best; robin looks up, and robin looks down, but no one comes from the neighboring town. the storm came at last ;-loud roared the blast, and the shades of evening fell thick and fast; the tempest grew; and the straggling yew, his leafy umbrella, was wet through and through. rob was half dead with cold and with fright, when he spies in the ruins a twinkling light- a hop, two skips, and a jump, and straight rob stands within that postern gate. and there were gossips sitting there, by one, by two, by three: two were an old ill-favored pair: but the third was young and passing fair, with laughing eyes and with coal-black hair; a dainty quean was she ! rob would have given his ears to sip but a single salute from her cherry lip. as they sat in that old and haunted room, in each one's hand was a huge birch broom, on each one's head was a steeple-crowned hat, on each one's knee was a coal-black cat; each had a kirtle of lincoln green- it was, i trow, a fearsome scene. “now riddle me, riddle me right, madge gray, what foot unhallowed wends this way? goody price, goody price, now areed me right, who roams the old ruins this drearisome night?” then up and spake that sonsie quean, and she spake both loud and clear: “oh, be it for weal, or be it for woe, enter friend, or enter foe, rob gilpin is welcome here!"- the witches' frolic. “now tread we a measure! a hall! a hall ! now tread we a measure," quoth she the heart of robin beat quick and throbbing- roving rob, tread a measure with me!” “ay, lassie !" quoth rob, as her hand he gripes, though satan himself were blowing the pipes !" now around they go, and around, and around, with hop-skip-and-jump, and frolicsome bound; such sailing and gliding, such sinking and sliding, such lofty curvetting, and grand pirouetting, ned, you would swear that monsieur gilbert and miss taglioni were capering there! and oh! such awful music! ne'er fell sounds so uncanny on mortal ear. there were the tones of a dying man's groans mixed with the rattling of dead men's bones : had you heard the shrieks, and the squeals, and the squeaks, you'd not have forgotten the sound for weeks. and around, and around, and around they go, heel to heel, and toe to toe,– prance and caper, curvet and wheel, toe to toe, and heel heel. “'tis merry, 'tis merry, cummers, i trow, to dance thus beneath the nightshade bough!”— “goody price, goody price, now riddle me right, where may we sup this frolicsome night?” “ mine host of the dragon hath mutton and veal ; the squire hath partridge, and widgeon, and teal; but old sir thopas hath daintier cheer, a pasty made of the good red deer, a huge grouse-pie, and a fine florentine, a fat roast goose, and a turkey and chine.”— “madge gray, madge gray, now tell me, i pray, where's the best wassail bowl to our roundelay ?” . the witches" frolic. “there is ale in the cellars of tappington hall, but the squire* is a churl, and his drink is small; mine host of the dragon hath many a flagon of double ale, lambs' wool, and eau de vie, but sir thopas, the vicar, hath costlier liquor,- a butt of the choicest malvoisie. he doth not lack canary or sack; and a good pint stoup of clary wine smacks merrily off with a turkey and chine!” “ now away! and away! without delay, hey cockalorum! my broomstick gay! we must be back ere the dawn of the day: hey up the chimney! away! away!"- old goody price mounts in a trice, in showing her legs she is not over nice; old goody jones, all skin and bones, follows “like winking.”—away go the crones, knees and nose in a line with the toes, sitting their brooms like so many ducrows; latest and last the damsel passed, one glance of her coal-black eye she cast; she laughed with glee loud laughters three. "dost fear, rob gilpin, to ride with me?"- oh, never might man unscathed espy one single glance from that coal-black eye. -away she flew !— without more ado rob seizes and mounts on a broomstick too, “hey up the chimney, lass! hey after you!" it's a very fine thing, on a fine day in june, to ride through the air in a nassau balloon ; but you'll find very soon, if you aim at the moon in a carriage like that, you're a bit of a “spoon," * stephen ingoldsby, surnamed “the niggard,” second cousin and successor to “the bad sir giles." (visitation of kent, .) for an account of his murder by burglars, and their subsequent execution, see dodsley's “remarkable trials,” etc. lond. , vol. ii. p. , ex the present volume, art. “hand of glory.” the witches frolic. for the largest can't fly above twenty miles high, and you're not half way then on your journey, nor nigh; while no man alive could ever contrive, mr. green has declared, to get higher than five. and the soundest philosophers hold that, perhaps, if you reached twenty miles your balloon would collapse, or pass by such action the sphere of attraction, getting into the track of some comet-good lack ! 'tis a thousand to one that you'd never come back; and the boldest of mortals a danger like that must fear, rashly protruding beyond our own atmosphere. no, no; when i try a trip to the sky, i shan't go in that thing of yours, mr. gye, though messieurs monck mason, and spencer, and beazly, all join in saying it travels so easily. no; there's nothing so good as a pony of wood- not like that which, of late, they stuck up on the gate at the end of the park, which caused so much debate, and gave so much trouble to make it stand straight- but a regular broomstick-you'll find that the favorite above all, when, like robin, you haven't to pay for it. -stay-really i dread— i am losing the thread of my tale; and it's time you should be in your bed, so lithe now, and listen, my little boy ned! the vicarage walls are lofty and thick, and the copings are stone, and the sides are brick; the casements are narrow, and bolted and barred, and the stout oak door is heavy and hard; moreover, by way of additional guard, a great big dog runs loose in the yard, and a horse-shoe is nailed on the threshold sill, to keep out aught that savors of ill, - but, alack! the chimney-pot's open still ! - that great big dog begins to quail, between his hind legs he drops his tail. the witches' frolic. crouched on the ground, the terrified hound gives vent to a very odd sort of a sound; it is not a bark, loud, open, and free, as an honest old watch-dog's bark should be; it is not a yelp, it is not a growl, but a something between a whine and a howl; and, hark !-a sound from the window high responds to the watch-dog's pitiful cry: it is not a moan, it is not a groan: it comes from a nose,—but is not what a nose produces in healthy and sound repose. yet sir thopas the vicar is fast asleep, and his respirations are heavy and deep! he snores, 'tis true, but he snores no more as he's aye been accustomed to snore before, and as men of his kidney are wont to snore (sir thopas's weight is sixteen stone four);- he draws his breath like a man distressed by pain or grief, or like one oppressed by some ugly old incubus perched on his breast. a something seems to disturb his dreams, and thrice on his ear, distinct and clear, falls a voice as of somebody whispering near in still small accents, faint and few, “ “hey down the chimney-pot! hey after you !" throughout the vicarage, near and far, there is no lack of bolt or of bar; there are plenty of locks to closet and box, yet the pantry wicket is standing ajar! and the little low door, through which you must go, down some half dozen steps, to the cellar below, is also unfastened, though no one may know, by so much as a guess, how it comes to be so; for wicket and door, the evening before, were both of them locked, and the key safely placed on the bunch that hangs down from the housekeeper's waist. the witches' frolig oh! 'twas a jovial sight to view in that snug little cellar that frolicsome crew! old goody price had got something nice, a turkey-poult larded with bacon and spice; old goody jones would touch nought that had bones, she might just as well mumble a parcel of stones. goody jones, in sooth, had got never a tooth, and a new-college pudding of marrow and plums is the dish of all others that suiteth her gums. madge gray was picking the breast of a chicken ; her coal-black eye, with its glance so sly, was fixed on rob gilpin himself, sitting by with his heart full of love, and his mouth full of pie; grouse-pie, with hare in the middle, is fare which, duly concocted with science and care, doctor kitchener says is beyond all compare ; and a tenderer leveret robin had never ate; so, in after times, oft he was wont to asseverate. “now pledge we the wine-cup !-a health !-a health! sweet are the pleasures obtained by stealth ! fill up! fill up!-the brim of the cup is the part that aye holdeth the toothsomest sup! here's to thee, goody price !-goody jones, to thee to thee, roving rob! and again to me! many a sip, never a slip, come to us four 'twixt the cup and the lip!" the cups pass quick, the toasts fly thick, rob tries in vain out their meaning to pick, but hears the words "scratch," and "old bogey," and “nick." more familiar grown, now he stands up alone, volunteering to give them a toast of his own. “ a bumper of wine! fill thine! fill mine! here's a health to old noah who planted the vine!” oh then what sneezing, what coughing and wheezing, ensued in a way that was not over pleasing; goody price, goody jones, and the pretty madge gray, all seemed as their liquor had gone the wrong way.. the witches' frolic. but the best of the joke was, the moment he spoke those words which the party seemed almost to choke, as by mentioning noah some spell had been broke, every soul in the house at that instant awoke! and, hearing the din from barrel and bin, drew at once the conclusion that thieves had got in. up jumped the cook and caught hold of her spit; up jumped the groom and took bridle and bit; up jumped the gardener and shouldered his spade; up jumped the scullion,-the footman,--the maid (the two last, by the way, occasioned some scandal by appearing together with only one candle, which gave for unpleasant surmises some handle); up jumped the swineherd, -and up jumped the big boy, a nondescript under him, acting as pig-boy; butler, housekeeper, coachman-from bottom to top everybody jumped up without parley or stop, with the weapon which first in their way chanced to drop, whip, warming-pan, wig-block, mug, musket, and mop. last of all doth appear, with some symptoms of fear, sir thopas in person to bring up the rear, in a mixed kind of costume half pontificalibus, half what scholars denominate pure naturalibus ; nay, the truth to express, as you'll easily guess, they have none of them time to attend much to dress ; but he, or she, as the case may be, he or she seizes what he or she pleases, trunk-hosen or kirtles, and shirts or chemises, and thus one and all, great and small, short and tall, muster at once in the vicarage hall, with upstanding locks, starting eyes, shortened breath, like the folks in the gallery scene in macbeth, when macduff is announcing their sovereign's death. and hark !—what accents clear and strong to the listening throng came floating along ! 'tis robin encoring himself in a song- “very good song! very well sung! jolly companions every one!" the witches frolic. on, on to the cellar! away! away! on, on to the cellar without more delay! the whole posse rush onwards in battle array- conceive the dismay of the party so gay, old goody jones, goody price, and madge gray, when the door bursting wide, they descried the allied troops, prepared for the onslaught, roll in like a tide, and the spits, and the tongs, and the pokers beside - “boot and saddle's the word ! mount, cummers, and ride!"- alarm was ne'er caused more strong and indigenous by cats among rats, or a hawk in a pigeon-house; quick from the view away they all flew, with a yell, and a screech, and a halliballoo, “hey up the chimney! hey after you !"- the volscians themselves made an exit less speedy from corioli, “flutter'd like doves" by macready. they are gone, -save one, robin alone! robin, whose high state of civilization precludes all idea of aërostation; and who now has no notion of more locomotion than suffices to kick, with much zeal and devotion, right and left at the party, who pounced on their victim, and mauled him, and kicked him, and licked him, and pricked him, as they bore him away scarce aware what was done, and believing it all but a part of the fun, hic-hiccoughing out the same strain he'd begun, “ jol-jolly companions every one !" * * * morning gray scarce burst into day ere at tappington hall there's the deuce to pay; the tables and chairs are all placed in array in the old oak-parlor, and in and out domestics and neighbors, a motley rout, are walking, and whispering, and standing about; and the squire is there in his large arm-chair, leaning back with a grave magisterial air; the witches' frolic. in the front of a seat a huge volume, called fleta, and bracton, a tome of an old-fashioned look, and coke upon lyttelton, then a new book; and he moistens his lips with occasional sips from a luscious sack-posset that smiles in a tankard close by on a side-table-not that he drank hard, but because at that day, i hardly need say, the hong merchants had not yet invented how qua, nor as yet would you see souchong or bohea at the tables of persons of any degree: how our ancestors managed to do without tea i must fairly confess is a mystery to me; yet your lydgates and chaucers and saucers; their breakfast, in fact, and the best they could get, was a sort of déjeuner à la fourchette ; instead of our slops they had cutlets and chops, and sack-possets, and ale in stoups, tankards, and pots ; and they wound up the meal with rumpsteaks and ’schalots. had no cups now the squire lifts his hand with an air of command, and gives them a sign, which they all understand, to bring in the culprit; and straightway the carter and huntsman drag in that unfortunate martyr, still kicking, and crying “come,--what are you arter ?” the charge is prepared, and the evidence clear, "he was caught in the cellar a-drinking the beer! · and came there, there's very great reason to fear, with companions,—to say but the least of them,- queer; such as witches, and creatures with horrible features, and horrible grins, and hooked noses and chins, who'd been playing the deuce with his reverence's bins.” the face of his worship grows graver and graver, as the parties detail robin's shameful behavior; mister buzzard, the clerk, while the tale is reciting, sits down to reduce the affair into writing, with all proper diction, and due “legal fiction :" viz., “that he, the said prisoner, as clearly was shown, conspiring with folks to deponents unknown, the witches' frolic. with divers—that is to say, two thousand people, in two thousand hats, each hat peaked like a steeple, with force and with arms, and with sorcery and charms, upon two thousand brooms, entered four thousand rooms, to wit, two thousand pantries, and two thousand cellars, put in bodily fear twenty thousand in-dwellers, and with sundry—that is to say, two thousand-forks, drew divers—that is to say, ten thousand-corks, and, with malice prepense, down their two thousand throttles emptied various—that is to say, ten thousand—bottles ; all in breach of the peace,-moved by satan's malignity- and in spite of king james, and his crown, and his dignity.” at words so profound rob gazes around, but no glance sympathetic to cheer him is found. -no glance, did i say! yes, one !—madge gray! she is there in the midst of the crowd standing by, and she gives him one glance from her coal-black eye, one touch to his hand, and one word to his ear (that's a line which i've stolen from sir walter, i fear),- while nobody near seems to see her or hear; as his worship takes up, and surveys with a strict eye, the broom now produced as the corpus delicti, ere his fingers can clasp, it is snatched from his grasp, the end poked in his chest with a force makes him gasp, and despite the decorum so due to the quorum, his worship's upset, and so too is his jorum; and madge is astride on the broomstick before 'em, - "hocus pocus! quick, presto! and hey cockalorum! mount, mount for your life, rob !-sir justice, adieu ! - hey up the chimney-pot! hey after you!" through the mystified group, with a halloo and a whoop, madge on the pommel, and robin en croupe, the pair through the air ride as if in a chair, while the party below stand mouth open and stare; “clean bumbaized” and amazed, and fixed, all the room stick, oh! what's gone with robin,-and madge,—and the broom- stick? the witches' frolic. ay, “what's gone" indeed, ned ?-of what befell madge gray and the broomstick, i never heard tell: but robin was found, that morn, on the ground, in yon old gray ruin again, safe and sound, except that at first he complained much of thirst, and a shocking bad headache, of all ills the worst, and close by his knee a flask you might see, but an empty one, smelling of eau-de-vie. rob from this hour is an altered man; he runs home to his lodgings as fast as he can, sticks to his trade, marries miss slade, becomes a teetotaller—that is, the same as teetotallers now, one in all but the name; grows fond of small-beer, which is always a steady sign, never drinks spirits except as a medicine; learns to despise coal-black eyes, minds pretty girls no more than so many guys; has a family, lives to be sixty, and dies ! now, my little boy ned, brush off to your bed, tie your nightcap on safe, or a napkin instead, or these terrible nights you'll catch cold in your head. and remember my tale, and the moral it teaches, which you'll find much the same as what solomon preaches : don't flirt with young ladies ; don't practice soft speeches; avoid waltzes, quadrilles, pumps, silk hose, and knee-breeches ;- frequent not gray ruins,--shun riot and revelry, hocus pocus, and conjuring, and all sorts of devilry - don't meddle with broomsticks,-they're beelzebub's switches, of cellars keep clear,--they're the devil's own ditches; and beware of balls, banquetings, brandy, and—witches; above all, don't run after black eyes !-if you do,– depend on't you'll find what i say will come true,- old nick, some fine morning, will “hey after you !" singular passage in the life of strange as the events detailed in the succeeding narrative may appear, they are, i have not the slightest doubt, true to the letter. whatever impression they make upon the reader, that produced by them on the narrator, i can aver, was neither light nor transient. singular passage in the life of the late henry harris, doctor in divinity, as related by the rev. jasper ingoldsby, m.a., his friend and executor. in n order that the extraordinary circumstance which i am about to relate may meet with the credit it deserves, i think it necessary to premise that my reverend friend, among whose papers i find it recorded, was, in his lifetime, ever esteemed as a man of good plain understanding, strict veracity, and unimpeached morals,—by no means of a nervous tempera- ment, or one likely to attach undue weight to any occurrence out of the common course of events merely because his reflec- tions might not, at the moment, afford him a ready solution of its difficulties. on the truth of his narrative, as far as he was personally concerned, no one who knew him would hesitate to place the most implicit reliance. his history is briefly this —he had married early in life, and was a widower at the age of thirty- nine, with an only daughter, who had then arrived at puberty, and was just married to a near connection of our own family. the sudden death of her husband, occasioned by a fall from his horse, only three days after her confinement, was abruptly communicated to mrs. s— by a thoughtless girl, who saw her master brought lifeless into the house, and, with all that in- explicable anxiety to be the first to tell bad news, so common among the lower orders, rushed at once into the sick-room with her intelligence. the shock was too severe; and though the young widow survived the fatal event several months, yet she the late henry harris, d.d. gradually sank under the blow, and expired, leaving a boy, not a twelvemonth old, to the care of his maternal grandfather. my poor friend was sadly shaken by this melancholy catas- trophe; time, however, and a strong religious feeling, succeeded at length in moderating the poignancy of his grief—a consum- mation much advanced by his infant charge, who now succeeded, as it were by inheritance, to the place in his affections left va- cant by his daughter's decease. frederick s— grew up to be a fine lad; his person and features were decidedly handsome; still there was, as i remember, an unpleasant expression in his countenance, and an air of reserve, attributed, by the few per- sons who called occasionally at the vicarage, to the retired life led by his grandfather, and the little opportunity he had, in consequence, of mixing in the society of his equals in age and intellect. brought up entirely at home, his progress in the common branches of education was, without any great display of precocity, rather in advance of the generality of boys of his own standing; partly owing, perhaps, to the turn which even his amusements took from the first. his sole associate was the son of the village apothecary, a boy about two years older than himself, whose father, being really clever in his profession, and a good operative chemist, had constructed for himself a small laboratory, in which, as he was fond of children, the two boys spent a great portion of their leisure time, witnessing many of those little experiments so attractive to youth, and in time aspiring to imitate what they admired. in such society, it is not surprising that frederick s- should imbibe a strong taste for the sciences which formed his principal amusement; or that when, in process of time, it be- came necessary to choose his walk in life, a profession so inti- mately connected with his favorite pursuit, as that of medicine, should be eagerly selected. no opposition was offered by my friend, who, knowing that the greater part of his own income would expire with his life, and that the remainder would prove an insufficient resource to his grandchild, was only anxious that he should follow such a path as would secure him that moder- ate and respectable competency which is, perhaps, more condu- cive to real happiness than a more elevated or wealthy station. frederick was, accordingly, at the proper age, matriculated at singular passage in the life of oxford, with the view of studying the higher branches of medi- cine, a few months after his friend, john w—, had proceeded to leyden, for the purpose of making himself acquainted with the practice of surgery in the hospitals and lecture-rooms attached to that university. the boyish intimacy of their younger days did not, as is frequently the case, yield to separa- tion; on the contrary, a close correspondence was kept up between them. dr. harris was even prevailed upon to allow frederick to take a trip to holland to see his friend; and john returned the visit to frederick at oxford. satisfactory as, for some time, were the accounts of the gene- ral course of frederick s’s studies, by degrees rumors of a less pleasant nature reached the ears of some of his friends; to the vicarage, however, i have reason to believe they never pen- etrated. the good old doctor was too well beloved in his parish for any one voluntarily to give him pain; and, after all, noth- ing beyond whispers and surmises had reached x-, when the worthy vicar was surprised on a sudden by a request from his grandchild that he might be permitted to take his name off the books of the university, and proceed to finish his education in conjunction with his friend w at leyden. such a pro- posal, made, too, at a time when the period for his graduat- ing could not be far distant, both surprised and grieved the doctor; he combated the design with more perseverance than he had ever been known to exert in opposition to any declared wish of his darling boy before, but, as usual, gave way when more strongly pressed, from sheer inability to persist in a re- fusal which seemed to give so much pain to frederick, espe- cially when the latter, with more energy than was quite becom- ing their relative situations, expressed his positive determination of not returning to oxford, whatever might be the result of his grandfather's decision. my friend, his mind, perhaps, a little weakened by a short but severe nervous attack from which he had scarcely recovered, at length yielded a reluctant consent, and frederick quitted england. it was not till some months had elapsed after his departure that i had reason to suspect that the eager desire of availing himself of opportunities for study abroad, not afforded him at home, was not the sole, or even the principal, reason which had the late henry harris, d.d. drawn frederick so abruptly from his alma mater. a chance visit to the university, and a conversation with a senior fellow belonging to his late college, convinced me of this; still i found it impossible to extract from the latter the precise nature of his offence. that he had given way to most culpable indulgences i had before heard hinted; and when i recollected how he had been at once launched, from a state of what might be well called seclusion, into a world where so many enticements were lying in wait to allure—with liberty, example, everything to tempt him from the straight road-regret, i frankly own, was more the predominant feeling in my mind than either surprise or condemnation. but here was evidently something more than mere ordinary excess—some act of profligacy, perhaps of a deeper stain, which had induced his superiors, who, at first, had been loud in his praises, to desire him to withdraw himself quietly, but for ever; and such an intimation, i found, had, in fact, been conveyed to him from an authority which it was impossible to resist. seeing that my informant was determined not to be explicit, i did not press for a disclosure, which, if made, would, in all probability, only have given me pain, and that the rather as my old friend the doctor had recently ob- tained a valuable living from lord m-, only a few miles distant from the market town in which i resided, where he now was, amusing himself in putting his grounds into order, orna- menting his house, and getting everything ready against his grandson’s expected visit in the following autumn. october came, and with it came frederick: he rode over more than once to see me, sometimes accompanied by the doctor, between whom and myself the recent loss of my poor daughter louisa had drawn the cords of sympathy still closer. more than two years had flown on in this way, in which frederick shad as many times made temporary visits to his native country. the time was fast approaching when he was expected to return and finally take up his residence in england, when the sudden illness of my wife's father obliged us to take a journey into lancashire, my old friend, who had himself a curate, kindly offering to fix his quarters at my par- sonage, and superintend the concerns of my parish till my re- turn. alas! when i saw him next he was on the bed of death! singular passage in the life of my absence was necessarily prolonged much beyond what i had anticipated. a letter, with a foreign post-mark, had, as i afterwards found, been brought over from his own house to my venerable substitute in the interval, and, barely giving himself time to transfer the charge he had undertaken to a neighboring clergyman, he had hurried off at once to leyden. his arrival there was, however, too late. frederick was dead !-killed in a duel, occasioned, it was said, by no ordinary provocation on his part, although the flight of his antagonist had added to the mystery which enveloped its origin. the long journey, its mel- ancholy termination, and the complete overthrow of all my poor friend's earthly hopes, were too much for him. he ap- peared too—as i was informed by the proprietor of the house in which i found him, when his summons at length had brought me to his bedside to have received some sudden and unac- countable shock, which even the death of his grandson was inadequate to explain. there was, indeed, a wildness in his fast-glazing eye, which mingled strangely with the glance of satisfaction thrown upon me as he pressed my hand; he endeav- ored to raise himself, and would have spoken, but fell back in the effort, and closed his eyes for ever. i buried him there, by the side of the object of his more than parental affection—in a foreign land. it is from the papers that i discovered in his travelling-case that i submit the following extracts, without, however, presum- ing to advance an opinion on the strange circumstances which they detail, or even as to the connection which some may fancy they discover between different parts of them. the first was evidently written at my own house, and bears date august the th, —, about three weeks after my own departure for preston. it begins thus : tuesday, august .—poor girl !—i forget who it is that says, “the real ills of life are light in comparison with fancied evils;' and certainly the scene i have just witnessed goes some way towards establishing the truth of the hypothesis. among the afflictions which flesh is heir to, a diseased imagination is far from being the lightest, even when considered separately, and without taking into the account those bodily pains and tiie late henry harris, d.d. sufferings which so close is the connection between mind and matter—are but too frequently attendant upon any disorder of the fancy. seldom has my interest been more powerfully ex- cited than by poor mary graham. her age, her appearance, her pale, melancholy features, the very contour of her counte- nance, all conspire to remind me, but too forcibly, of one who, waking or sleeping, is never long absent from my thoughts. but enough of this. "a fine morning had succeeded one of the most tempestuous nights i ever remember, and i was just sitting down to a sub- stantial breakfast, which the care of my friend ingoldsby's housekeeper, kind-hearted mrs. wilson, had prepared for me, when i was interrupted by a summons to the sick-bed of a young parishioner whom i had frequently seen in my walks, and had remarked for the regularity of her attendance at divine worship. mary graham is the elder of two daughters, residing with their mother, the widow of an attorney, who, dying suddenly in the prime of life, left his family but slenderly provided for. a strict though not parsimonious economy has, however, enabled them to live with an appearance of respectability and comfort; and from the personal attractions which both the girls possess, their mother is evidently not without hopes of seeing one, at least, of them advantageously settled in life. as far as poor mary is concerned, i fear she is doomed to inevitable disappoint- ment, as i am much mistaken if consumption has not laid its wasting finger upon her; while this last recurrence, of what i cannot but believe to be a formidable epileptic attack, threatens to shake out, with even added velocity, the little sand that may yet remain within the hour-glass of time. her very delusion, too, is of such a nature as, by adding to bodily illness the agita- tion of superstitious terror, can scarcely fail to accelerate the catastrophe, which i think i see fast approaching. “before i was introduced into the sick-room, her sister, who had been watching my arrival from the window, took me into their little parlor, and, after the usual civilities, began to pre- pare me for the visit i was about to pay. her countenance was marked at once with trouble and alarm, and in a low tone of voice, which some internal emotion, rather than the fear of dis- turbing the invalid in a distant room, had subdued almost to a singular passage in the life of whisper, informed me that my presence was become necessary, not more as a clergyman than a magistrate; that the disorder with which her sister had, during the night, been so suddenly and unaccountably seized, was one of no common kind, but attended with circumstances which, coupled with the declara- tions of the sufferer, took it out of all ordinary calculations, and, to use her own expression, that ‘malice was at the bottom of it.' “naturally supposing that these insinuations were intended to intimate the partaking of some deleterious substance on the part of the invalid, i inquired what reason she had for imagin- ing, in the first place, that anything of a poisonous nature had been administered at all; and, secondly, what possible incite- ment any human being could have for the perpetration of so foul a deed towards so innocent and unoffending an individual. her answer considerably relieved the apprehensions i had begun to entertain lest the poor girl should, from some unknown cause, have herself been attempting to rush uncalled into the presence of her creator; at the same time, it surprised me not a little by its apparent want of rationality and common sense.' she had no reason to believe, she said, that her sister had taken poison, or that any attempt upon her life had been made, or was, per- haps, contemplated, but that still malice was at work-the malice of villains or fiends, or of both combined; that no causes purely natural would suffice to account for the state in which her sister had been now twice placed, or for the dreadful suffer- ‘ings she had undergone while in that state;' and that she was determined the whole affair should undergo a thorough investi- gation. seeing that the poor girl was now herself laboring under a great degree of excitement, i did not think it necessary to enter at that moment into a discussion upon the absurdity of her opinion, but applied myself to the tranquillizing of her mind by assurances of a proper inquiry, and then drew her attention to the symptoms of the indisposition, and the way in which it had first made its appearance. “the violence of the storm last night had, i found, induced the whole family to sit up far beyond their usual hour, till, wearied out at length, and, as their mother observed, tired of burning fire and candle to no purpose,' they repaired to their several chambers. the late henry harris, d.d. “the sisters occupied the same room; elizabeth was already at her humble toilet, and had commenced the arrangement of her hair for the night, when her attention was at once drawn from her employment by a half-smothered shriek and exclama- tion from her sister, who, in her delicate state of health, had found walking up two flights of stairs, perhaps a little more quickly than usual, an exertion, to recover from which she had seated herself in a large arm-chair. “turning hastily at the sound, she perceived mary deadly pale, grasping, as it were convulsively, each arm of the chair which supported her, and bending forward in the attitude of listening; her lips were trembling and bloodless, cold drops of perspiration stood upon her forehead, and in an instant after, exclaiming in a piercing tone, ‘hark! they are calling me again! it is—it is the same voice ;—oh no, no !-oh my god! save me, betsy-hold me-save me!' she fell forward upon the floor. elizabeth flew to her assistance, raised her, and by her cries brought both her mother, who had not yet got into bed, and their only servant-girl, to her aid. the latter was despatched at once for medical help; but, from the appearance of the suf- ferer, it was much to be feared that she would soon be beyond the reach of art. her agonized parent and sister succeeded in bearing her between them and placing her on a bed : a faint and intermittent pulsation was for a while perceptible; but in a few moments a general shudder shook the whole body; the pulse ceased, the eyes became fixed and glassy, the jaw dropped, a cold clamminess usurped the place of the genial warmth of life. before mr. i arrived everything announced that dissolution had taken place, and that the freed spirit had quitted its mortal tenement. « the appearance of the surgeon confirmed their worst appre- hensions; a vein was opened, but the blood refused to flow, and mr. i-pronounced that the vital spark was indeed extin- guished. * the poor mother, whose attachment to her children was perhaps the more powerful as they were the sole relatives or connections she had in the world, was overwhelmed with a grief amounting almost to frenzy. it was with difficulty that she was removed to her own room by the united strength of singular passage in the life of her daughter and medical adviser. nearly an hour had elapsed during the endeavor at calming her transports; they had succeeded, however, to a certain extent, and mr. i- had taken his leave, when elizabeth, re-entering the bed. chamber in which her sister lay, in order to pay the last sad duties to her corpse, was horror-struck at seeing a crimson stream of blood running down the side of the counterpane to the floor. her exclamation brought the girl again to her side, when it was perceived, to their astonishment, that the sanguine stream proceeded from the arm of the body, which was now manifesting signs of returning life. the half-frantic mother flew to the room, and it was with difficulty that they could pre- vent her, in her agitation, from so acting as to extinguish for ever the hope which had begun to rise in their bosoms. a long-drawn sigh, amounting almost to a groan, followed by several convulsive gaspings, was the prelude to the restoration of the animal functions in poor mary: a shriek, almost preter- naturally loud considering her state of exhaustion, succeeded; but she did recover, and, with the help of restoratives, was well enough towards morning to express a strong desire that i should be sent for—a desire the more readily complied with inasmuch as the strange expressions and declarations she had made since her restoration to consciousness had filled her sister with the most horrible suspicions. the nature of these sus- picions was such as would at any other time, perhaps, have raised a smile upon my lips; but the distress and even agony of the poor girl as she half hinted and half expressed them were such as entirely to preclude every sensation at all ap- proaching to mirth. without endeavoring, therefore, to com- bat ideas evidently too strongly impressed upon her mind at the moment to admit of present refutation, i merely used a few encouraging words, and requested her to precede me to the sick- chamber. “the invalid was lying on the outside of the bed, partly dressed, and wearing a white dimity wrapping-gown, the color of which corresponded but too well with the deadly paleness of her complexion. her cheek was wan and sunken, giving an extraordinary prominence to her eye, which gleamed with a lustrous brilliancy not unfrequently characteristic of the aber- the late henry harris, d.d. ration of intellect. i took her hand : it was chill and clammy, the pulse feeble and intermittent, and the general debility of her frame was such that i would fain have persuaded her to defer, any conversation which, in her present state, she might not be equal to support. her positive assurance that, until she had disburdened herself of what she called her dreadful secret,' she could know no rest either of mind or body, at length induced me to comply with her wish, opposition to which, in her then frame of mind, might perhaps be attended with even worse effects than its indulgence. i bowed acquies- cence, and in a low and faltering voice, with frequent interrup- tions occasioned by her weakness, she gave me the following singular account of the sensations which, she averred, had been experienced by her during her trance: “this, sir,' she began, 'is not the first time that the cruelty of others has, for what purpose i am unable to conjecture, put me to a degree of torture which i can compare to no suffering, either of body or mind, which i have ever before experienced. on a former occasion i was willing to believe it the mere effect of a hideous dream, or what is vulgarly termed the nightmare; but this repetition, and the circumstances under which i was last summoned,-at a time, too, when i had not even composed myself to rest,-fatally convince me of the reality of what i have seen and suffered. « « this is no time for concealment of any kind. it is now more than a twelvemonth since i was in the habit of occasion- ally encountering in my walks a young man of prepossessing appearance and gentlemanly deportment. he was always alone, and generally reading; but i could not be long in doubt that these rencounters, which became every week more fre- quent, were not the effect of accident, or that his attention, when we did meet, was less directed to his book than to my sister and myself. he even seemed to wish to address us, and i have no doubt would have taken some other opportunity of doing so had not one been afforded him by a strange dog attacking us one sunday morning in our way to church, which he beat off, and made use of this little service to promote an acquaintance. his name, he said, was francis somers, and added that he was on a visit to a relation of the same name, singular passage in the life of resident a few miles from x - he gave us to understand that he was himself studying surgery with the view to a med- ical appointment in one of the colonies. you are not to sup- pose, sir, that he had entered thus into his concerns at the first interview; it was not till our acquaintance had ripened, and he had visited our house more than once with my mother's sanc- tion, that these particulars were elicited. he never disguised, from the first, that an attachment to myself was his object orig- inally in introducing himself to our notice. as his prospects were comparatively flattering, my mother did not raise any impediment to his attentions, and i own i received them with pleasure. ““ days and weeks elapsed; and although the distance at which his relation resided prevented the possibility of an unin- terrupted intercourse, yet neither was it so great as to preclude his frequent visits. the interval of a day, or at most of two, was all that intervened; and these temporary absences cer- tainly did not decrease the pleasure of the meetings which they terminated. at length a pensive expression began to exhibit itself upon his countenance, and i could not but remark that at every visit he became more abstracted and reserved. the eye of affection is not slow to detect any symptom of uneasiness in a quarter dear to it. i spoke to him, questioned him, on the subject; his answer was evasive, and i said no more. my mother too, however, had marked the same appearance of mel- ancholy, and pressed him more strongly. he at length admit- ted that his spirits were depressed, and that their depression was caused by the necessity of an early, though but a tem- porary, separation. his uncle, and only friend, he said, had long insisted on his spending some months on the continent, with the view of completing his professional education, and that the time was now fast approaching when it would be necessary for him to commence his journey. a look made the inquiry which my tongue refused to utter. “yes, dearest mary," was his reply: “i have communicated our attachment to him, partially at least; and though i dare not say that the intimation was received as i could have wished, yet i have perhaps, on the whole, no fair reason to be dissatisfied with his reply. the late henry harris, d.d. ««« the completion of my studies, and my settlement in the world, must, my uncle told me, be the first consideration; when these material points were achieved, he should not interfere with any arrangement that might be found essential to my happiness; at the same time he has positively refused to sanc- tion any engagement at present, which may, he says, have a tendency to divert my attention from those pursuits on the due prosecution of which my future situation in life must depend. a compromise between love and duty was eventually wrung from me, though reluctantly; i have pledged myself to proceed immediately to my destination abroad, with a full understand- ing that on my return, a twelvemonth hence, no obstacle shall be thrown in the way of what are, i trust, our mutual wishes.” ““i will not attempt to describe the feelings with which i received this communication, nor will it be necessary to say anything of what passed at the few interviews which took place before francis quitted x-the evening immediately pre- vious to that of his departure he passed in this house, and, before we separated, renewed his protestations of an unchange- able affection, requiring a similar assurance from me in return. i did not hesitate to make it. "be satisfied, my dear francis," " that no diminution in the regard i have avowed can ever take place, and though absent in body, my heart and soul will still be with you.” _“swear this," he cried with a sud- denness and energy which surprised and rather startled me: promise me that you will be with me in spirit, at least, when i am far away.” i gave him my hand, but that was not suf- ficient. “one of these dark shining ringlets, my dear mary,” said he, as a pledge that you will not forget your vow!” i suffered him to take the scissors from my work-box and to sever a lock of my hair, which he placed in his bosom. the next day he was pursuing his journey, and the waves were already bear- ing him from england. “i had letters from him repeatedly during the first three months of his absence: they spoke of his health, his prospects, and of his love; but by degrees the intervals between each arrival became longer, and i fancied i perceived some falling off from that warmth of expression which had at first charac- terized his communications. said i, singular passage in the life of upon me. “one night i had retired to rest rather later than usual, having sat by the bedside comparing his last brief note with some of his earlier letters, and was endeavoring to convince myself that my apprehensions of his fickleness were unfounded, when an undefinable sensation of restlessness and anxiety seized i cannot compare it to anything i had ever experi- enced before; my pulse fluttered, my heart beat with a quick- ness and violence which alarmed me, and a strange tremor shook my whole frame. i retired hastily to bed, in hopes of getting rid of so unpleasant a sensation, but in vain; a vague apprehension of i know not what occupied my mind, and vainly did i endeavor to shake it off. i can compare my feel- ings to nothing but those which we sometimes experience when about to undertake a long and unpleasant journey, leaving those we love behind us. more than once did i raise myself in my bed and listen, fancying that i heard myself called; and on each of these occasions the fluttering of my heart increased. twice i was on the point of calling to my sister, who then slept in an adjoining room; but she had gone to bed indisposed, and an unwillingness to disturb either her or my mother checked the large clock in the room below at this moment began to strike the hour of twelve; i distinctly heard its vibrations, but ere its sounds had ceased a burning heat, as if a hot iron had been applied to my temple, was succeeded by a dizzinesss,- a swoon, ,-a total loss of consciousness as to where or in what situation i was. “a pain, violent, sharp, and piercing, as though my whole frame were lacerated by some keen-edged weapon, roused me from this stupor ;—but where was i ? everything was strange around me; a shadowy dimness rendered every object indistinct and uncertain ; methought, however, that i was seated in a large antique high-backed chair, several of which were near, their tall black carved frames and seats interwoven with a lattice- work of cane. the apartment in which i sat was one of mod- erate dimensions, and, from its sloping roof, seemed to be the upper story of the edifice, a fact confirmed by the moon shining without, in full effulgence, on a huge round tower, which its light rendered plainly visible through the open casement, and the summit of which appeared but little superior in elevation me. the late henry harris, d.d. to the room i occupied. rather to the right, and in the dis- tance, the spire of some cathedral or lofty church was visible, while sundry gable ends and tops of houses told me i was in the midst of a populous but unknown city. « « the apartment itself had something strange in its appear- ance; and, in the character of its furniture and appurtenances, bore little or no resemblance to any i had ever seen before. the fireplace was large and wide, with a pair of what are some- times called andirons, betokening that wood was the principal if not the only fuel consumed within its recess; a fierce fire was now blazing in it, the light from which rendered visible the remotest parts of the chamber. over a lofty old-fashioned mantlepiece, carved heavily in imitation of fruits and flowers, hung the half-length portrait of a gentleman in a dark-colored foreign habit, with a peaked beard and moustaches, one hand resting upon a table, the other supporting a sort of baton, or short military staff, the summit of which was surmounted by a silver falcon. several antique chairs, similar in appearance to those already mentioned, surrounded a massive oaken table, the length of which much exceeded its width. at the lower end of this piece of furniture stood the chair i occupied ; on the upper was placed a small chafing-dish filled with burning coals, and darting forth occasionally long flashes of various-colored fire, the brilliance of which made itself visible, even above the strong illumination emitted from the chimney. two huge black japanned cabinets, with clawed feet, reflecting from their polished surfaces the effulgence of the flame, were placed one on each side the casement-window to which i have alluded, and with a few shelves loaded with books, many of which were also strewed in disorder on the floor, completed the list of the furniture in the apartment. some strange-looking instru- ments, of unknown form and purpose, lay on the table near the chafing-dish, on the other side of which a miniature por- trait of myself hung, reflected by a small oval mirror in a dark-colored frame, while a large open volume, traced with strange characters of the color of blood, lay in front; a goblet, containing a few drops of liquid of the same ensanguined hue, was by its side. “but of the objects which i have endeavored to describe, singular passage in t'iie life of none arrested my attention so forcibly as two others. these were the figures of two young men, in the prime of life, only separated from me by the table. they were dressed alike, each in a long flowing gown, made of some sad-colored stuff, and confined at the waist by a crimson girdle; one of them, the shorter of the two, was occupied in feeding the embers of the chafing-dish with a resinous powder, which produced and main- tained a brilliant but flickering blaze, to the action of which his companion was exposing a long lock of dark chestnut hair, that shrank and shrivelled as it approached the flame. but, o god !--that hair!-and the form of him who held it! that face! those features !--not for one instant could i entertain a doubt-it was he! francis !—the lock he grasped was mine, the very pledge of affection i had given him, and still, as it partially encountered the fire, a burning heat seemed to scorch the temple from which it had been taken, conveying a torturing sensation that affected my very brain. “how shall i proceed ?—but no, it is impossible, -not even to you, sir, can -dare i-recount the proceedings of that un- hallowed night of horror and of shame. were my life extended to a term commensurate with that of the patriarchs of old, never could its detestable, its damning pollutions be effaced from my remembrance; and oh! above all, never could i forget the diabolical glee which sparkled in the eyes of my fiendish tormentors, as they witnessed the worse than useless struggles of their miserable victim. oh! why was it not permitted me to take refuge in unconsciousness, nay, in death itself, from the abominations of which i was compelled to be, not only a wit- ness, but a partaker ? but it is enough, sir; i will not further shock your nature by dwelling longer on the scene, the full horrors of which words, if i even dared employ any, would be inadequate to express; suffice it to say that after being subjected to it, how long i knew not, but certainly for more than an hour, a noise from below seemed to alarm my persecutors; a pause ensued,—the lights were extinguished,-and, as the sound of a footstep ascending a staircase became more distinct, my forehead felt again the excruciating sensation of heat, while the embers, kindling into a momentary flame, betrayed another portion of the ringlet consuming in the blaze. fresh agonies succeeded, the late henry harris, d.d. my sister to aid; not less severe, and of a similar description to those which had seized upon me at first; oblivion again followed, and on being at length restored to consciousness, i found myself as you see me now, faint and exhausted, weakened in every limb, and every fibre quivering with agitation. my groans soon brought my it was long before i could summon resolu- tion to confide, even to her, the dreadful secret, and when i had done so, her strongest efforts were not wanting to persuade me that i had been laboring under a severe attack of nightmare. i ceased to argue, but i was not convinced: the whole scene was then too present, too awfully real, to permit me to doubt the character of the transaction; and if, when a few days had elapsed, the hopelessness of imparting to others the conviction i entertained myself produced in me an apparent acquiescence with their opinion, i have never been the less satisfied that no cause reducible to the known laws of nature occasioned my sufferings on that hellish evening. whether that firm belief might have eventually yielded to time, whether i might at length have been brought to consider all that had passed, and the circumstances which i could never cease to remember, as a mere phantasm, the offspring of a heated imagination, acting upon an enfeebled body, i know not-last night, however, would in any case have dispelled the flattering illusion—last night- last night was the whole horrible scene acted over again. the place—the actors—the whole infernal apparatus were the same; -the same insults, the same torments, the same brutalities—all were renewed, save that the period of my agony was not so pro- longed. i became sensible to an incision in my arm, though the hand that made it was not visible; at the same moment my persecutors paused; they were manifestly disconcerted, and the companion of him, whose name shall never more pass my lips, muttered something to his abettor in evident agitation; the formula of an oath of horrible import was dictated to me in terms fearfully distinct. i refused it unhesitatingly; again and again was it proposed, with menaces i tremble to think on-but i refused; the same sound was heard—interruption was evi- dently apprehended,—the same ceremony was hastily repeated, and i again found myself released, lying on my own bed, with my mother and my sister weeping over me. o god! o god! singular passage in the life of when and how is this to end ?-when will my spirit be left in peace ?—where or with whom shall i find refuge ?' "it is impossible to convey any adequate idea of the emotions with which this unhappy girl's narrative affected me. it must not be supposed that her story was delivered in the same con- tinuous and uninterrupted strain in which i have transcribed its substance. on the contrary, it was not without frequent intervals, of longer or shorter duration, that her account was brought to a conclusion: indeed, many passages of her strange dream were not without the greatest difficulty and reluctance communicated at all. my task was no easy one; never, in the course of a long life spent in the active duties of my christian calling,-never had i been summoned to such a conference before. “to the half-avowed and palliated confession of committed guilt i had often listened, and pointed out the only road to secure its forgiveness. i had succeeded in cheering the spirit of despondency, and sometimes even in calming the ravings of despair; but here i had a different enemy to combat, an in- eradicable prejudice to encounter, evidently backed by no com- mon share of superstition, and confirmed by the mental weak- ness attendant upon severe bodily pain. to argue the sufferer out of an opinion so rooted was a hopeless attempt. i did, however, essay it; i spoke to her of the strong and mysterious connection maintained between our waking images and those which haunt us in our dreams, and more especially during that morbid oppression commonly called nightmare. i was even enabled to adduce myself as a strong and living instance of the excess to which fancy sometimes carries her freaks on those occasions; while, by an odd coincidence, the impression made upon my own mind, which i adduced as an example, bore no slight resemblance to her own. i stated to her that on my recovery from the fit of epilepsy which had attacked me about two years since, just before my grandson frederick left oxford, it was with the greatest difficulty i could persuade myself that i had not visited him, during the interval, in his rooms at braze- nose, and even conversed with himself and his friend w- seated in his arm-chair, and gazing through the window full upon the statue of cain, as it stands in the centre of the quad- > the late henry harris, d.d. rangle. i told her of the pain i underwent both at the com- mencement and termination of my attack; of the extreme lassitude that succeeded; but my efforts were all in vain : she listened to me, indeed, with an interest almost breathless, espe- cially when i informed her of my having actually experienced the very burning sensation in the brain alluded to, no doubt a strong attendant symptom of this peculiar affection, and a proof of the identity of the complaint; but i could plainly perceive that i failed entirely in shaking the rooted opinion which pos- sessed her, that her spirit had, by some nefarious and unhal- lowed means, been actually subtracted for a time from its earthly tenement." the next extract which i shall give from my old friend's memoranda is dated august th, more than a week subsequent to his first visit at mrs. graham's. he appears, from his papers, to have visited the poor young woman more than once during the interval, and to have afforded her those spiritual consolations which no one was more capable of communicating. his patient, for so in a religious sense she may well be termed, had been sinking under the agitation she had experienced ; and the constant dread she was under of similar sufferings operated so strongly on a frame already enervated that life at length seemed to hang only by a thread. his papers go on to say- “i have just seen poor mary graham, i fear for the last time. nature is evidently quite worn out; she is aware that she is dying, and looks forward to the termination of her exist- ence here, not only with resignation but with joy. it is clear that her dream, or what she persists in calling her subtraction,' has much to do with this. for the last three days her behavior has been altered; she has avoided conversing on the subject of her delusion, and seems to wish that i should consider her as a convert to my view of her case. this may, perhaps, be partly owing to the flippancies of her medical attendant upon the sub- ject, for mr. i-has, somehow or other, got an inkling that she has been much agitated by a dream, and thinks to laugh off the impression-in my opinion injudiciously; but though a singular passage in the life of skillful and a kind-hearted, he is a young man, and of a dis- position, perhaps, rather too mercurial for the chamber of a nervous invalid. her manner has since been much more re- served to both of us: in my case, probably because she suspects me of betraying her secret." “august th.—mary graham is yet alive, but sinking fast; her cordiality towards me has returned since her sister confessed yesterday that she had herself told mr. i—that his patient's mind' had been affected by a terrible vision.' i am evidently restored to her confidence. she asked me this morning, with much earnestness, “what i believed to be the state of departed spirits during the interval between dissolution and the final day of account? and whether i thought they would be safe, in another world, from the influence of wicked persons em- ploying an agency more than human ?' poor child! one cannot mistake the prevailing bias of her mind. poor child !” “august th.-it is nearly over; she is sinking rapidly, but quietly and without pain. i have just administered to her the sacred elements, of which her mother partook. elizabeth declined doing the same: she cannot, she says, yet bring herself to forgive the villain who has destroyed her sister. it is singular that she, a young woman of good plain sense in ordinary matters, should so easily adopt, and so pert- inaciously retain, a superstition so puerile and ridiculous. this must be matter of a future conversation between us; at present, with the form of the dying girl before her eyes, it were vain to argue with her. the mother, i find, has written to young somers, stating the dangerous situation of his affianced wife; indignant, as she justly is, at his long silence, it is fortunate that she has no knowledge of the sus- picions entertained by her daughter. i have seen her letter; it is addressed to mr. francis somers, in the hogewoert, at the late henry harris, d.d.' leyden-a fellow-student, then, of frederick's. i must re- member to inquire if he is acquainted with this young man.” several pages mary graham, it appears, died the same night. before her departure, she repeated to my friend the singular story she had before told him, without any material variation from the detail she had formerly given. to the last she persisted in believing that her unworthy lover had practiced upon her by forbidden arts. she once more described the apart- ment with great minuteness, and even the person of francis's alleged companion, who was, she said, about the middle height, hard-featured, with a rather remarkable scar upon his left cheek, extending in a transverse direction from below the eye to the nose. of my reverend friend's man- uscript are filled with reflections upon this extraordinary confession, which, joined with its melancholy termination, seems to have produced no common effect upon him. he alludes to more than one subsequent discussion with the sur- viving sister, and piques himself on having made some progress in convincing her of the folly of her theory respecting the origin and nature of the illness itself. his memoranda on this and other subjects are continued till about the middle of september, when a break ensues, occasioned, no doubt, by the unwelcome news of his grandson's dangerous state, which induces him to set out forthwith for holland. his arrival at leyden was, as i have already said, too late. frederick s- frederick shad expired after thirty hours' intense suffering, from a wound received in a duel with a brother student. the cause of quarrel was variously related; but, according to his landlord's version, it had originated in some silly dispute about a dream of his antagonist's, who had been the challenger. such, at least, was the account given to him, as he said, by frederick's friend and fellow-lodger, w who had acted as second on the occasion, thus ac- quitting himself of an obligation of the same kind due to the deceased, whose services he had put in requisition about a year singular passage in the life of before on a similar occasion, when he had himself been severely wounded in the face. from the same authority i learned that my poor friend was much affected on finding that his arrival had been deferred too long. every attention was shown him by the proprietor of the house, a respectable tradesman, and a chamber was pre- pared for his accommodation; the books and few effects of his deceased grandson were delivered over to him, duly in- ventoried, and, late as it was in the evening when he reached leyden, he insisted on being conducted immediately to the apartments which frederick had occupied, there to indulge the first ebullitions of his sorrow, before he retired to his own. madame müller accordingly led the way to an upper room, which, being situated at the top of the house, had been, from its privacy and distance from the street, selected by frederick as his study. the doctor entered, and taking the lamp from his conductress motioned to be left alone. his implied wish was of course complied with: and nearly two hours had elapsed before his kind-hearted hostess reascended, in the hope of prevailing upon him to return with her, and partake of that refreshment which he had in the first instance peremptorily declined. her application for admission was unnoticed :-she repeated it more than once, without success; then, becoming somewhat alarmed at the continued silence, opened the door and perceived her new inmate stretched on the floor in a fainting fit. restoratives were instantly administered, and prompt medical aid succeeded at length in restoring him to consciousness. but his mind had received a shock from which, during the few weeks he survived, it never entirely recovered. his thoughts wandered perpetually; and though, from the very slight acquaintance which his hosts had with the english language, the greater part of what fell from him remained unknown, yet enough was understood to induce them to believe that something more than the mere death of his grandson had contributed thus to paralyze his faculties. when his situation was first discovered, a small miniature was found tightly grasped in his right hand. it had been the property of frederick, and had more than once been seen by the müllers in his possession. to this the patient made the late henry harris, d.d. continued reference, and would not suffer it one moment from his sight: it was in his hand when he expired. at my request it was produced to me. the portrait was that of a young woman, in an english morning dress, whose pleasing and regular features, with their mild and somewhat pensive ex- pression, were not, i thought, altogether unknown to me. her age was apparently about twenty. a profusion of dark chestnut hair was arranged in the madonna style above a brow of unsullied whiteness, a single ringlet depending on the left side. a glossy lock of the same color, and evidently belonging to the original, appeared beneath a small crystal, inlaid in the back of the picture, which was plainly set in gold, and bore in a cipher the letters m. g., with the date %. from the inspection of this portrait i could at the time collect nothing, nor from that of the doctor himself, which, also, i found the next morning in frederick's desk, accompanied by two separate portions of hair. one of them was a lock, short and deeply tinged with gray, and had been taken, i have little doubt, from the head of my old friend himself; the other corresponded in color and appearance with that at the back of the miniature. it was not till a few days had elapsed, and i had seen the worthy doctor's remains quietly consigned to the narrow house, that, while arranging his papers previous to my intended return upon the morrow, i encountered the narrative i have already transcribed. the name of the unfortunate young woman connected with it forcibly arrested my attention. i recollected it immediately as one belonging to a parishioner of my own, and at once recognized the original of the female portrait as its owner. i rose not from the perusal of his very singular statement till i had gone through the whole of it. it was late, and the rays of the single lamp by which i was reading did but very faintly illumine the remoter parts of the room in which i sat. the brilliancy of an unclouded november moon, then some twelve nights old, and shining full into the apartment, did much towards remedying the defect. my thoughts filled with the melancholy details i had read, i rose and walked to the window. the beautiful planet rose high in the firmament, and gave to the snowy roofs of the houses, and pendent icicles, singular passage in the life of all the sparkling radiance of clustering gems. the stillness of the scene harmonized well with the state of my feelings. i threw open the casement and looked abroad. far below me the waters of the principal canal shone like a broad mirror in the moonlight. to the left rose the burght, a huge round tower of remarkable appearance, pierced with embrasures at its summit; while a little to the right, and in the distance, the spire and pinnacles of the cathedral of leyden rose in all their majesty, presenting a coup d'oeil of surpassing though simple beauty. to a spectator of calm, unoccupied mind, the scene would have been delightful. on me it acted with an electric effect. i turned hastily to survey the apartment in which i had been sitting. it was the one designated as the study of the late frederick - the sides of the room were covered with dark wainscot; the spacious fireplace oppo- site to me, with its polished andirons, was surmounted by a large old-fashioned mantlepiece, heavily carved in the dutch style with fruits and flowers; above it frowned a portrait, in a vandyke dress, with a peaked beard and moustaches; one hand of the figure rested on a table, while the other bore a marshal's staff, surmounted with a silver falcon; and either my imagin- ation, already heated by the scene, deceived me, or a smile as of malicious triumph curled the lip and glared in the cold leaden eye that seemed fixed upon my own. the heavy antique cane-backed chairs, the large oaken table, the book- shelves, the scattered volumes,-all, all were there; while, to complete the picture, to my right and left, as half breathless i leaned my back against the casement, rose, on each side, a tall, dark ebony cabinet, in whose polished sides the single lamp upon the table shone reflected as in a mirror. what am i to think ?—can it be that the story i have been reading was written by my poor friend here, and under the in- fluence of delirium ?-impossible! besides, they all assure me that from that fatal night of his arrival he never left his bed- never put pen to paper. his very directions to have me sum- moned from england were verbally given, during one of those the late henry harris, d.d. few and brief intervals in which reason seemed partially to re- sume her sway. can it then be possible that? w-? where is he who alone may be able to throw light on this horri- ble mystery? no one knows. he absconded, it seems, imme- diately after the duel. no trace of him exists, nor, after repeated and anxious inquiries, can i find that any student has ever been known in the university of leyden by the name of francis somers. "there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of .in your philosophy!" father john ingoldsby, to whose papers i am largely indebted for the saintly records which follow, was brought up by his father, a cadet of the family, in the romish faith, and was educated at douai for the church. besides the manuscripts now at tappington, he was the author of two controversial treatises on the connection between the papal hierarchy and the nine of diamonds. from his well-known loyalty, evinced by secret services to the royal cause during the protectorate, he was excepted by name out of the acts against the papists, became superintend- ent of the queen dowager's chapel at somerset house, and enjoyed a small pension until his death, which took place in the third year of queen anne ( ), at the mature age of ninety- six. he was an ecclesiastic of great learning and piety, but, from the stiff and antiquated phraseology which he adopted, i have thought it necessary to modernize it a little: this will account for certain anachronisms that have unavoidably crept in; the substance of his narratives has, however, throughout been strictly adhered to. his hair-shirt, almost as good as new, is still preserved at tappington,-but nobody ever wears it. the jackdaw of rheims. the jackdaw of rheims. “tunc miser corvus adeo conscientiæ stimulis compunctus fuit, et execratio eum tantopere excarneficavit, ut exinde tabescere inciperet, maciem contraheret, omnem cibum aversaretur, nec ampliùs crocitaret: pennæ præterea ei defluebant, et alis pen- dulis omnes facetias intermisit, et tam macer apparuit ut omnes ejus miserescent." * “tunc abbas sacerdotibus mandavit ut rursus furem absolverent; quo facto, corvus, omnibus mirantibus, propediem convaluit, et pristinam sanitatem recuperavit." de illust. ord. cisterc. the jackdaw sat on the cardinal's chair! the jackdaw sat on the cardinal's chair! bishop, and abbot, and prior were there; many a monk, and many a friar, many a knight, and many a squire, with a great many more of lesser degree in sooth a goodly company; and they served the lord primate on bended knee. never, i ween, was a prouder seen, read of in books, or dreamt of in dreams, than the cardinal lord archbishop of rheims ! in and out through the motley rout, that little jackdaw kept hopping about; here and there like a dog in a fair, over comfits and cakes, and dishes and plates, cowl and cope, and rochet and pall, mitre and crosier! he hopped upon all! with saucy air, he perched on the chair where, in state, the great lord cardinal sat in the great lord cardinal's great red hat; and he peered in the face of his lordship's grace, with a satisfied look, as if he would say, “we two are the greatest folks here to-day!” and the priests, with awe, as such freaks they saw, said, “the devil must be in that little jackdaw !” the feast was over, the board was cleared, the flawns and the custards had all disappeared, the jackdaw of rheims. and six little singing-boys, dear little souls ! in nice clean faces, and nice white stoles, came, in order due, two by two, marching that grand refectory through! a nice little boy held a golden ewer, embossed and filled with water, as pure as any that flows between rheims and namur, which a nice little boy stood ready to catch in a fine golden hand-basin made to match. two nice little boys, rather more grown, carried lavender-water and eau de cologne; and a nice little boy had a nice cake of soap, worthy of washing the hands of the pope. one little boy more a napkin bore, of the best white diaper, fringed with pink, and a cardinal's hat marked in “permanent ink.” the great lord cardinal turns at the sight of these nice little boys dressed all in white: from his finger he draws his costly turquoise ; and, not thinking at all about little jackdaws, deposits it straight by the side of his plate, while the nice little boys on his eminence wait; till, when nobody's dreaming of any such thing, that little jackdaw hops off with the ring ! there's a cry and a shout, and a deuce of a rout, and nobody seems to know what they're about, but the monks have their pockets all turned inside out; the friars are kneeling, and hunting, and feeling the carpet, the floor, and the walls, and the ceiling. the cardinal drew off each plum-colored shoe, and left his red stockings exposed to the view; he peeps, and he feels in the toes and the heels; , they turn up the dishes,-they turn up the plates, - they take up the poker and poke out the grates, the jackdaw of rheims. - they turn up the rugs, they examine the mugs :- but no !--no such thing ;- they can't find the ring! and the abbot declared that “when nobody twigged it, some rascal or other had popped in and prigged it!” the cardinal rose with a dignified look, he called for his candle, his bell, and his book! in holy anger, and pious grief, he solemnly cursed that rascally thief! he cursed him at board, he cursed him in bed ; from the sole of his foot to the crown of his head ; he cursed him in sleeping, that every night he should dream of the devil, and wake in a fright; he cursed him in eating, he cursed him in drinking, he cursed him in coughing, in sneezing, in winking; he cursed him in sitting, in standing, in lying ; he cursed him in walking, in riding, in flying, he cursed him in living, he cursed himin dying !- never was heard such a terrible curse! but what gave rise to no little surprise, nobody seemed one penny the worse ! hand; the day was gone, the night came on, the monks and the friars they searched till dawn; when the sacristan saw, on crumpled claw, come limping a poor little lame jackdaw; no longer gay, as on yesterday; his feathers all seemed to be turned the wrong way ;-- his pinions drooped_he could hardly stand, his head was as bald as the palm of your his eye so dim, so wasted each limb, that, heedless of grammar, they all cried, “that's him! - that's the scamp that has done this scandalous thing ! that's the thief that has got my lord cardinal's ring !" the poor little jackdaw, when the monks he saw, feebly gave vent to the ghost of a caw; and turned his bald head, as much as to say, “pray, be so good as to walk this way !" sopeu “no longer gay, as on yesterday; his feathers all seemed to be turned the wrong way.” p. . the jackdaw of rheims. slower and slower he limped on before, till they came to the back of the belfry door, where the first thing they saw, 'midst the sticks and the straw, was the ring in the nest of that little jackdaw! then the great lord cardinal called for his book, and off that terrible curse he took; the mute expression served in lieu of confession, and, being thus coupled with full restitution, the jackdaw got plenary absolution ! -when those words were heard, that poor little bird was so changed in a moment, 'twas really absurd; he grew sleek and fat; in addition to that, a fresh crop of feathers came thick as a mat! his tail waggled more even than before; but no longer it wagged with an impudent air, no longer he perched on the cardinal's chair. he hopped now about with a gait devout; at matins, at vespers, he never was out; and, so far from any more pilfering deeds, he always seemed telling the confessor's beads. if any one lied, or if any one swore, - or slumbered in prayer-time and happened to snore, that good jackdaw would give a great “caw!" as much as to say, “don't do so any more !” while many remarked, as his manners they saw, that they “never had known such a pious jackdaw.!” he long lived the pride of that country side, and at last in the odor of sanctity died ; when, as words were too faint his merits to paint, the conclave determined to make him a saint; and on newly-made saints and popes, as you know, it's the custom, at rome, new names to bestow, so they canonized himn by the name of jim crow! a lay of st. dunstan. a lay of st. dunstan. “ this holy childe dunstan was borne in pe pere of our lorde ix. hundred & xxv. that tyme reynynge in this londe kinge athelston. "whan it so was that sapnt dunstan was wery of prayer than used he to werke in goldsmythes werke with his owne handes for to eschewe ydelnes." golden legend. st. t. dunstan stood in his ivied tower, alembic, crucible, all were there; when in came nick to play him a trick, in guise of a damsel passing fair. every one knows how the story goes : he took up the tongs and caught hold of his nose. but i beg that you won't for a moment suppose that i mean to go through, in detail, to you a story at least as trite as it's true; nor do i intend an instant to spend on the tale, how he treated his monarch and friend. when bolting away to a chamber remote, inconceivably bored by his witen-gemote, edwy left them all joking, and drinking, and smoking, so tipsily grand, they'd stand nonsense from no king, but sent the archbishop their sovereign to fish up, with a hint that perchance on his crown he might feel taps unless he came back straight and took off his heel-taps. you must not be plagued with the same story twice, and perhaps have seen this one, by w. dyce, a lay of st. dunstan. at the royal academy, very well done, and marked in the catalogue, four, seven, one. you might there view the saint, who in sable arrayed is, coercing the monarch away from the ladies; his right hand has hold of his majesty's jerkin, his left shows the door, and he seems to say, “sir king, your most faithful commons won't hear of your shirking; quit your tea, and return to your barclai and perkyn; or, by jingo,* ere morning, no longer alive, a sad victim you'll lie to your love for elgiva !" no further to treat of this ungallant feat, what i mean to do now is succinctly to paint one particular fact in the life of the saint, which, somehow, for want of due care, i presume, has escaped the researches of rapin and hume, in recounting a miracle, both of them men who a great deal fall short of jacques, bishop of genoa, an historian who likes deeds like these to record see his aurea legenda, by wynkyn de worde. st. dunstan stood again in his tower, alembic, crucible, all complete; he had been standing a good half hour, and now he uttered the words of power, and called to his broomstick to bring him a seat. the words of power !-and what be they to which e'en broomsticks bow and obey ? why,-'twere uncommonly hard to say, as the prelate i named has recorded none of them, what they may be, but i know they are three, and abracadabra, i take it, is one of them: * st. jingo, or gengo (gengulphus), sometimes styled “the living jingo," from the great tenaciousness of vitality exhibited by his severed members. see his legend, as recorded hereafter in the present volume. a lay of st. dunstan. for i'm told that most cabalists use that identical word, written thus, in what they call “ a pentacle." abracadabra bracadabr ra cadab a cada ca.d a o however that be, you'll doubtless agree it signifies little to you or to me, as not being dabblers in grammarye; still, it must be confessed, for a saint to repeat such language aloud is scarcely discreet; for, as solomon hints to folks given to chatter, “a bird of the air may carry the matter;" and in sooth, from my youth, i remember a truth insisted on much in my earlier years, to wit, “ little pitchers have very long ears!" now, just such “pitcher" as those i allude to was outside the door, which his “ears” appeared glued to. a peter, the lay-brother, meagre and thin, five feet one in his sandal shoon, while the saint thought him sleeping, was listening and peeping, and watching his master the whole afternoon. a lay of st. dunstan. this peter the saint had picked out from his fellows, to look to his fire, and to blow with the bellows, to put on the wall's-ends and lambtons whenever he chose to indulge in a little orfevrerie; —of course you have read that st. dunstan was bred a goldsmith, and never quite gave up the trade! the company-richest in london, 'tis said- acknowledge him still as their patron and head; nor is it so long since a capital song in his praise-now recorded their archives among- delighted the noble and dignified throng of their guests, who, the newspapers told the whole town, with cheers "pledged the wine-cup to dunstan’s renown,” when lord lyndhurst, the duke, and sir robert were dining at the hall some time since with the prime warden twining.- -i am sadly digressing—a fault which sometimes one can hardly avoid in these gossiping rhymes- a slight deviation's forgiven! but then this is too long, i fear, for a decent parenthesis, so i'll rein up my pegasus sharp, and retreat, or you'll think i've forgotten the lay-brother peter, whom the saint, as i said, kept to turn down his bed, dress his palfreys and cobs, and do other odd jobs, - as reducing to writing whatever he might, in the course of the day or the night, be inditing, and cleaning the plate of his mitre with whiting; performing, in short, all those duties and offices abbots exact from lay-brothers and novices. it occurs to me here you'll perhaps think it queer that st. dunstan should have such a personage near, when he'd only to say those words,-be what they may, - and his broomstick at once his commands would obey.- that's true—but the fact is 'twas rarely his practice such aid to resort to, or such means apply, unless he'd some "dignified knot" to untie, a lay of st. dunstan. adopting, though sometimes, as now, he'd reverse it, old horace's maxim “nec broomstick intersit.”- -peter, the lay-brother, meagre and thin, heard all the saint was saying within ; peter, the lay-brother, sallow and spare, peeped through the keyhole, and—what saw he there ?- why, -a broomstick bringing a rush-bottomed chair! what shakspeare observes, in his play of king john, is undoubtedly right, that “ofttimes the sight of means to do ill deeds will make ill deeds done.” here's peter, the lay-brother, pale-faced and meagre, a good sort of man, only rather too eager to listen to what other people are saying when he ought to be minding his business or praying, gets into a scrape, and an awkward one, too,– as you'll find if you've patience enough to go through the whole of the story i'm laying before ye,- entirely from having "the means” in his view of doing a thing which he ought not to do! still rings in his ear, distinct and clear, abracadabra! that word of fear! and the two which i never get happened to hear. still doth he spy, with fancy's eye, the broomstick at work, and the saint standing by; and he chuckles, and says to himself, with glee, “aha! that broomstick shall work for me!” hark!—that swell o'er flood and o'er fell, mountain, and dingle, and moss-covered dell! list!-'tis the sound of the compline bell; and st. dunstan is quitting his ivied cell ; peter, i wot, is off like a shot, or a little dog scalded by something that's hot, for he hears his master approaching the spot where he'd listened so long, though he knew he ought not; a lay of st. dunstan. five lay-brothers stand behind his chair, but where is the sixth ?—where's peter ?-ay, where? 'tis an evening in june, and a little half moon, a brighter no fond lover ever set eyes on gleaming and beaming, and dancing the stream in, has made her appearance above the horizon; just such a half moon as you see, in a play, on the turban of mustapha muley bey, or the fair turk who weds with the “noble lord bateman;" - vide plate in george cruikshanks' memoirs of that great man. she shines on a turret remote and lone, a turret with ivy and moss overgrown, and lichens that thrive on the cold dank stone; such a tower as a poet of no mean calibre i once knew and loved, poor, dear reginald heber, assigns to oblivion*-a den for a she-bear; within it are found, strewed above and around, on the hearth, on the table, the shelves, and the ground, all sorts of instruments, all sorts of tools, to name which, and their uses, would puzzle the schools, and make very wise people look very like fools; pincers and hooks, and black-letter books, all sorts of pokers and all sorts of tongs, and all sorts of hammers, and all that belongs to goldsmiths' work, chemistry, alchemy,-all, in short, that a sage, in that erudite age, could require, was at hand, or at least within call. in the midst of the room lies a broomstick !-and there a lay-brother sits in a rush-bottomed chair! abracadabra, that fearful word, and the two which, i said, i have never yet heard, are uttered.—'tis done! peter, full of his fun, cries,“ broomstick! you lubberly son of a gun! * and cold oblivion, ʼmidst the ruin laid, folds her dank wing beneath the ivy shade. palestine. À lay of st. dunstan. bring ale !-bring a flagon—a hogshead—a tun! 'tis the same thing to you; i have nothing to do; and, 'fore george, i'll sit here, and i'll drink till all's blue !" no doubt you've remarked how uncommonly quick a newfoundland puppy runs after a stick, brings it back to his master, and gives it him-well, so potent the spell, the broomstick perceived it was vain to rebel, so ran off like that puppy;--some cellar was near, for in less than ten seconds 'twas back with the beer! peter seizes the flagon; but ere he can suck its contents, or enjoy what he thinks his good luck, the broomstick comes in with a tub in a truck; continues to run at the rate it begun, and, au pied de lettre, next brings in a tun; a fresh one succeeds, then a third, then another, discomfiting much the astounded lay-brother; who, had he possessed fifty pitchers or stoups, they all had been too few; for, arranging in groups the barrels, the broomstick next started the hoops : the ale deluged the floor, but still, through the door, said broomstick kept bolting, and bringing in more. e'en macbeth to macduff would have cried "hold enough !" if half as well drenched with such “perilous stuff," and peter, who did not expect such a rough visit, cried lustily, “stop !—that will do, broomstick !-sufficit !” but ah, well-a-day! the devil, they say, 'tis easier at all times to raise than to lay. again and again peter roared out in vain his abracadabra, and t’other words twain :- as well might one try a pack in full cry to check, and call off from their headlong career, by bawling out “yoicks !” with one's hand at one's ear. the longer he roared and the louder and quicker, the faster the broomstick was bringing in liquor. a lay of st. dunstan. the poor lay-brother knew not on earth what to do- he caught hold of the broomstick and snapt it in two.- worse and worse !-like a dart, each part made a start, and he found he'd been adding more fuel to fire, for both now came loaded with meux's entire; · combe's, delafield's, hanbury's, truman's—no stopping- goding's, charrington's, whitbread's, continued to drop in, with hodson's pale ale, from the sun brewhouse, wapping. the firms differed then, but i can't put a tax on my memory to say what their names were in saxon. to be sure the best beer of all did not appear; for i've said 'twas in june, and so late in the year the “trinity audit ale" is not come-at-able, -as i've found to my great grief when dining at that table. now extremely alarmed, peter screamed without ceasing, for a flood of brown stout he was up to his knees in, which, thanks to the broomstick, continued increasing ; he feared he'd be drowned, and he yelled till the sound of his voice, winged by terror, at last reached the ear of st. dunstan himself, who had finished his beer, and had put off his mitre, dalmatic, and shoes, and was just stepping into his bed for a snooze. his holiness paused when he heard such a clatter; he could not conceive what on earth was the matter. slipping on a few things, for the sake of decorum, he issued forthwith from his sanctum sanctorum, and calling a few of the lay-brothers near him, who were not yet in bed, and who happened to hear him, at once led the way, without further delay, to the tower where he'd been in the course of the day. poor peter !-alas! though st. dunstan was quick, there were two there before him-grim death and old nick a lay of st. dunstan. when they opened the door out the malt-liquor flowed, just as when the great vat burst in tott'n'am court road; the lay-brothers nearest were up to their necks in an instant, and swimming in strong double x; while peter, who, spite of himself, now had drank hard, after floating awhile, like a toast in a tankard, to the bottom had sunk, and was spied by a monk, stone-dead, like poor clarence, half drowned and half drunk. in vain did st. dunstan exclaim, “vade retro strongbeerum!-discede a lay-fratre petro !" queer latin, you'll say, that prefix of “lay,” and strongbeerum !—i own they'd have called me a block- head if at school i had ventured to use such a vocative; 'tis a barbarous word, and to me it's a query if you'll find it in patrick, morell, or moreri ; but the fact is, the saint was uncommonly flurried, and apt to be loose in his latin when hurried ; the brown-stout, however, obeys to the letter, quite as well as if talked to, in latin much better, by a grave cambridge johnian, or graver oxonian, whose language, we all know, is quite ciceronian. it retires from the corpse, which is left high and dry; but in vain do they snuff and hot towels apply, and other means used by the faculty try, when once a man's dead there's no more to be said ; peter's “beer with an e" was his “ bier with an i !” moral. by way of a moral permit me to pop in the following maxims :-beware of eaves-dropping !- don't make use of language that isn't well scanned !- don't meddle with matters you don't understand !- above all, what i'd wish to impress on both sexes is-keep clear of broomsticks, old nick, and three xxx's. a lay of st. dunstan. l'envoye. in goldsmiths' hall there's a handsome glass case, and in it a stone figure, found on the place, when, thinking the old hall no longer a pleasant one, they pulled it all down, and erected the present one. if you look, you'll perceive that this stone figure twists a thing like a broomstick in one of its fists. it's so injured by time, you can't make out a feature; but it is not st. dunstan, so doubtless it's peter. gengulphus, or, as he is usually styled in this country, "jingo," was perhaps more in the mouths of the “ general” than any other saint, on occasions of adjuration (see note, page ). mr. simpkinson from bath has kindly transmitted me a portion of a primitive ballad, which has escaped the researches of ritson and ellis, but is yet replete with beauties of no com- mon order. i am happy to say that, since these legends first appeared, i have recovered the whole of it. vide infra. “a franklyn's dogge leped ober a style, and hys name was littel byngo. b with a y-y with an n- n with a - with an , they called hym littel byngo! thys franklyn, syrs, he brewed goode aple, and he called it rare goode styngo! , c, d, n, y, ! he called it rare goode styngo! nowe is notte thys à prettie song? i thinke it is, bye iyngo! i wythe a y–n, e, i sweare yt is, bye jyngo!" a lay of st. gengulphus. a lay of st. gengulphus. “non multo post, gengulphus, in domo sua dormiens, occisus est à quodam clerico qui cum uxore suâ adulterare solebat. cujus corpus dum, in fereto, in sepulturam portaretur, multi infirmi de tactu sanati sunt.” “cum hoc illius uxori referretur ab ancillâ sua, scilicet dominum suum, quam mar- tyrem sanctum, miracula facere, irridens illa, et subsurrans, ait, ‘ita gengulphus miracula facitat ut pulvinarium meum cantat,'” etc., etc.-wolfii memorab. , with his scrip, and his bottle, and sandal shoon; full many a day hath he been away, yet his lady deems him returned full soon. full many a day hath he been away, yet scarce had he crossed ayont the sea, ere a spruce young spark of a learned clerk had called on his lady, and stopped to tea. this spruce young guest, so trimly drest, stayed with that lady, her revels to crown; they laughed, and they ate and they drank of the best, and they turned the old castle quite upside down. they would walk in the park, that spruce young clerk, with that frolicsome lady so frank and free, trying balls and plays, and all manner of ways, to get rid of what french people called ennui. now the festive board with viands is stored, savory dishes be there, i ween, rich puddings and big, a barbecued pig, and ox-tail soup in a china tureen. there's a flagon of ale as large as a pail- when, cockle on hat, and staff in hand, while on nought they are thinking save eating and drinking, gengulphus walks in from the holy land! a lay of st. gengulphus. “you must be pretty deep to catch weasels asleep," says the proverb: that is, “ take the fair unawares;" a maid o'er the banisters chancing to peep, whispers, “ ma'am, here's gengulphus a-coming up stairs.”, pig, pudding, and soup, the electrified group, with the flagon, pop under the sofa in haste, and contrive to deposit the clerk in the closet, as the dish least of all to gengulphus's taste. then oh! what rapture, what joy was exprest, when “poor dear gengulphus" at last appeared! she kissed and she pressed “the dear man” to her breast, in spite of his great, long, frizzly beard. such hugging and squeezing! 'twas almost unpleasing, a smile on her lip, and a tear in her eye ;* she was so very glad that she seemed half mad, and did not know whether to laugh or to cry. then she calls up the maid, and the table-cloth's laid, and she sends for a pint of the best brown stout; on the fire, too, she pops some nice mutton-chops, and she mixes a stiff glass of “cold without.” then again she began at the "poor dear" man; she pressed him to drink, and she pressed him to eat, and she brought a foot-pan, with hot water and bran, to comfort his “poor dear” travel-worn feet. “nor night nor day since he'd been away, had she had any rest,” she “vowed and declared;" never could eat one morsel of meat, for thinking how 'poor dear' gengulphus fared." she “ she "really did think she had not slept a wink since he left her, although he'd been absent so long;" he here shook his head,-right little he said, but he thought she was "coming it rather too strong." * evi sakpvol yedao ao a.-hom. a lay of st. gengulphus. now his palate she tickles with the chops and the pickles till, so great the effect of that stiff gin grog, his weakened body, subdued by the toddy, falls out of the chair, and he lies like a log. then out comes the clerk from his secret lair; he lifts up the legs, and she lifts up the head, and, between them, this most reprehensible pair undress poor gengulphus and put him to bed. then the bolster they place athwart his face, and his nightcap into his mouth they cram; and she pinches his nose underneath the clothes, till the poor dear soul” goes off like a lamb. and now they tried the deed to hide; for a little bird whispered, “perchance you may swing; here's a corpse in the case with a sad swelled face, and a medical crowner's a queer sort of thing!" so the clerk and wife, they each took a knife, and the nippers that nipped the loaf-sugar for tea; with the edges and points they severed the joints at the clavicle, elbow, hip, ankle, and knee. thus limb from limb they dismembered him so entirely, that e'en when they came to his wrists, with those great sugar-nippers they nipped off his "flippers,” as the clerk, very flippantly, termed his fists. when they'd cut off his head, entertaining a dread lest folks should remember gengulphus's face, they determined to throw it where no one could know it, down the well,--and the limbs in some different place. but first the long beard from the chin they sheared, and managed to stuff that sanctified hair, with a good deal of pushing, all into the cushion that filled up the seat of a large arm-chair. lay of st. gengulphus. they contrived to pack up the trunk in a sack, which they hid in an osier-bed outside the town, the clerk bearing arms, legs, and all on his back, as that vile mr. greenacre served mrs. brown. but to see now how strangely things sometimes turn out, and that in a manner the least expected ! who could surmise a man ever could rise who'd been thus carbonadoed, cut up, and dissected ? no doubt 'twould surprise the pupils at guy's; i am no unbeliever—no man can say that o' me- but st. thomas himself would scarce trust his own eyes if he saw such a thing in his school of anatomy. you may deal as you please with hindoos and chinese, or a mussulman making his heathen salaam, or a jew or a turk, but it's other guess work when a man has to do with a pilgrim or palmer. by chance the prince bishop, a royal divine, sends his cards round the neighborhood next day, and urges his wish to receive a snug party to dine of the resident clergy, the gentry, and burgesses. at a quarter past five they are all alive at the palace, for coaches are fast rolling in; and to every guest his card had expressed “half-past" as the hour for a “greasy chin." some thirty are seated, and handsomely treated with the choicest rhine wines in his highness's stock, when a count of the empire, who felt himself heated, requested some water to mix with his hock. the butler, who saw it, sent a maid out to draw it, but scarce had she given the windlass a twirl, ere gengulphus's head, from the well's bottom, said in mild accents, “do help us out, that's a good girl !" a lay of st. gengulphus. only fancy her dread when she saw a great head in her bucket;—with fright she was ready to drop :- conceive, if you can, how she roared and she ran, with the head rolling after her, bawling out “stop!" she ran and she roared, till she came to the board where the prince bishop sat with his party around, when gengulphus's poll, which continued to roll at her heels, on the table bounced up with a bound, never touching the cates, or the dishes or plates, the decanters or glasses, the sweetmeats or fruits, the head smiles, and begs them to bring him his legs, as a well-spoken gentleman asks for his boots. kicking open the casement, to each one's amazement, straight a right leg steps in, all impediment scorns, and near the head stopping, a left follows hopping behind,—for the left leg was troubled with corns. next, before the beholders, two great brawny shoulders, and arms on their bent elbows, dance through the throng, while two hands assist, though nipped off at the wrist, the said shoulders in bearing a body along. they march up to the head, not one syllable said, for the thirty guests all stare in wonder and doubt, as the limbs in their sight arrange and unite, till gengulphus, though dead, looks as sound as a trout. i will venture to say, from that hour to this day, ne'er did such an assembly behold such a scene; or a table divide fifteen guests of a side with a dead body placed in the centre between. yes, they stared—well they might at so novel a sight: no one uttered a whisper, a sneeze, or a hem, but sat all bolt upright, and pale with affright; and they gazed at the dead man, the dead man at them. a lay of st. geng ulphus. the prince bishop's jester, on punning intent, as he viewed the whole thirty, in jocular terms said, “ they put him in mind of a council of trente engaged in reviewing the diet of worms." but what should they do?-oh! nobody knew what was best to be done, either stranger or resident; the chancellor's self read his puffendorf through in vain, for his books could not furnish a precedent. the prince bishop muttered a curse, and a prayer, which his double capacity hit to a nicety; his princely, or lay, half induced him to swear, his episcopal moiety said “benedicite!” the coroner sat on the body that night, and the jury agreed,—not a doubt could they harbor,- that the chin of the corpse—the sole thing brought to light- had been recently shaved by a very bad barber.” they sent out von taünsend, von bürnie, von roe, von maine, and von rowantz—through châlets and châteaux, towns, villages, hamlets, they told them to go, and they stuck up placards on the walls of the stadthaus. “murder!! “whereas, a dead gentleman, surname unknown, has been recently found at his highness's banquet, rather shabbily drest in an amice, or gown, in appearance resembling a second-hand blanket; “and whereas, there's great reason indeed to suspect that some ill-disposed person, or persons, with malice aforethought, have killed, and begun to dissect the said gentleman, not very far from the palace; “this is to give notice !—whoever shall seize, and such person, or persons, to justice surrender, shall receive-such reward—as his highness shall please, on conviction of him, the aforesaid offender. a lay of st. gengulphus. “and, in order the matter more clearly to trace to the bottom, his highness, the prince bishop, further, of his clemency, offers free pardon and grace to all such as have not been concerned in the murther. “done this day, at our palace, -july twenty-five, - , by command, (signed) johann von rüssell. n. b. deceased rather in years—had a squint when alive; and smells slightly of gin-linen mark'd with a g.” the newspapers, too, made no little ado, though a different version each managed to dish up; some said, “the prince bishop had run a man through," others said, “an assassin had killed the prince bishop.” the "ghent herald” fell foul of the “ bruxelles gazette," the “ bruxelles gazette,” with much sneering ironical, scorned to remain in the “ghent herald's” debt, and the “amsterdam times” quizzed the “nuremberg chronicle.” in one thing, indeed, all the journals agreed, spite of “politics," “ bias,” or “party collision;" viz.: to “give,” when they'd “further accounts” of the deed, “full particulars” soon, in “a later edition.” but now, while on all sides they rode and they ran, trying all sorts of means to discover the caitiffs, losing patience, the holy gengulphus began to think it high time to “ astonish the natives.” first, a rittmeister's frau, who was weak in both eyes, and supposed the most short-sighted woman in holland, found greater relief, to her joy and surprise, from one glimpse of his "squint" than from glasses by dollond. by the slightest approach to the tip of his nose, megrims, headache, and vapors were put to the rout; a lay of st. gengulphus. and one single touch of his precious great toes was a certain specific for chilblains and gout. rheumatics, sciatica,-tic-doloureux ! apply to his shin-bones—not one of them lingers ;- all bilious complaints in an instant withdrew if the patient was tickled with one of his fingers. much virtue was found to reside in his thumbs ; when applied to the chest they cured scantness of breathing, sea-sickness, and colic; or, rubbed on the gums, were “a blessing to mothers,” for infants in teething. whoever saluted the nape of his neck, where the mark remained visible still of the knife, notwithstanding east winds perspiration might check, was safe from sore throat for the rest of his life. thus, while each acute and each chronic complaint giving way, proved an influence clearly divine, they perceived the dead gentleman must be a saint, so they locked him up, body and bones, in a shrine. through country and town his new saintship’s renown as a first-rate physician kept daily increasing, till, as alderman curtis told alderman brown, it seemed as if “wonders had never done ceasing." the three kings of cologne began, it was known, a sad falling off in their offrings to find, his feats were so many-still the greatest of any, in every sense of the word, was-behind; for the german police were beginning to cease from exertions which each day more fruitless appeared, when gengulphus himself, his fame still to increase, unravelled the whole by the help of_his beard ! if you look back you'll see the aforesaid barbe gris, when divorced from the chin of its murdered proprietor, had been stuffed in the seat of a kind of settee, or double-armed chair, to keep the thing quieter. a lay of st. geng ulphus. it may seem rather strange that it did not arrange itself in its place when the limbs joined together; p’rhaps it could not get out, for the cushion was stout, and constructed of good, strong, maroon-colored leather. or, what is more likely, gengulphus might choose, – for saints, e'en when dead, still retain their volition,- it should rest there, to aid some particular views produced by his very peculiar position. may, on the be that as it very first day that the widow gengulphus sat down on that settee, what occurred almost frightened her senses away, beside scaring her handmaidens, gertrude and betty. they were telling their mistress the wonderful deeds of the new saint, to whom all the town said their orisons : and especially how, as regards invalids, his miraculous.cures far outrivalled von morison's. “the cripples," said they, “fling their crutches away, and people born blind now can easily see us !"- but she (we presume a disciple of hume) shook her head, and said angrily, "credat judæus ! “those rascally liars, the monks and the friars, to bring grist to their mill these devices have hit on.- he works miracles ! pooh !—i'd believe it of you just as soon, you great geese,-or the chair that i sit on!” the chair !-at that word,-it seems really absurd, but the truth must be told, -what contortions and grins distorted her face !-she sprang up from her place just as though she'd been sitting on needles and pins ! for, as if the saint's beard the rash challenge had heard which she uttered, of what was beneath her forgetful, each particular hair stood on end in the chair, like a porcupine's quills when the animal's fretful. a lay of st. gengulphus. that stout maroon leather they pierced altogether, like tenter-hooks holding when clenched from within ; and the maids cried, “good gracious! how very tenacious!" —they as well might endeaver to pull off her skin! she shrieked with the pain, but all efforts were vain; in vain did they strain every sinew and muscle, – the cushion stuck fast !-from that hour to her last, she could never get rid of that comfortless “bustle”! and e'en as macbeth, when devising the death of his king, heard “the very stones prate of his whereabouts,” so this shocking bad wife heard a voice all her life crying "murder !" resound from the cushion-or thereabouts. with regard to the clerk, we are left in the dark as to what his fate was; but i cannot imagine he got off scot-free, though unnoticed it be both by ribadaneira and jacques de voragine; for cut-throats, we're sure, can be never secure, and “history's muse" still to prove it her pen holds, as you'll see if you look in a rather scarce book, “god's revenge against murder," by one mr. reynolds. moral. now, you grave married pilgrims, who wander away, like ulysses of old * (vide homer and naso), don't lengthen your stay to three years and a day, and when you are coming home, just write and say so! and you, learned clerks, who're not given to roam, stick close to your books, nor lose sight of decorum; don't visit a house when the master's from home! shun drinking,--and study the “vitæ sanctorum." above all, you gay ladies, who fancy neglect in your spouses, allow not your patience to fail; but remember gengulphus's wife! and reflect on the moral enforced by my terrible tale! * qui mores hominum multorum vidit et urbes. the lay of st. odille, mr. barney maguire has laid claim to the next saint as a countrywoman; and “why wouldn't he,” when all the world knows the o'dells were a fine ould ancient family, sated in tipperary “ere the lord mayor stole his collar of gowld, and sowld it away to a trader”?* he is manifestly wrong; but, as he very rationally observes, “no matter for that,-she's a saint any way!” the lay of st. odille. dille was a maid of a dignified race: ; such an air, such a grace, such a form, such a face, all agreed, 'twere a fruitless endeavor to trace in the court, or within fifty miles of the place. many ladies in strasburg were beautiful, still they were beat all to sticks by the lovely odille. but odille was devout, and, before she was nine, had "experienced a call” she considered divine, to put on the veil at st. ermengarde's shrine.- lords, dukes, and electors, and counts palatine, came to seek her in marriage from both sides the rhine; but vain their design, they are all left to pine, their oglings and smiles are all useless ; in fine, not one of these gentlefolks, try as they will, can draw “ ask my papa" from the cruel odille. at length one of her suitors, a certain count herman, a highly respectable man as a german, who smoked like a chimney, and drank like a merman, paid his court to her father, conceiving his firman * the "inglorious memory” of this ould ancient transaction is still, we understand, kept up in dublin by an annual proclamation at one of the city gates. the jewel which has replaced the abstracted ornament is said to have been presented by king william, and worn by daniel o'connell, esq. the lay of st. odille. would soon make her bend, and induce her to lend an ear to a love-tale in lieu of a sermon. he gained the old count, who said, “come, mynheer, fill! here's luck to yourself and my daughter odille!” the lady odille was quite nervous with fear when a little bird whispered that toast in her ear; she murmured, “oh dear! my papa has got queer, i am sadly afraid, with that nasty strong beer! he's so very austere, and severe, that it's clear, if he gets in his 'tantrums,' i can't remain here; but st. ermengarde's convent is luckily near: it were folly to stay pour prendre congé, i shall put on my bonnet and e'en run away!" -she unlocked the back door and descended the hill, on whose crest stood the towers of the sire of odille. -when he found she'd levanted, the count of alsace at first turned remarkably red in the face; he anathematized, with much unction and grace, every soul who came near, and consigned the whole race of runaway girls to a very warm place; with a frightful grimace he gave orders for chase; his vassals set off at a deuce of a pace, and of all whom they met, high or low, jack or jill, asked, “pray have you seen anything of lady odille ?" now i think i've been told,- for i'm no sporting man,- that the “knowing ones” call this by far the best plan, “take the lead and then keep it !”—that is, if you can. odille thought so too, so she set off and ran, put her best leg before, starting at score, as i said some lines since, from that little back door, and, not being missed until half after four, had what hunters call “law” for a good hour and more; doing her best, without stopping to rest, like “ young lochinvar who came out of the west.” “ 'tis done !—i am gone !-over briar, brook, and rill, they'll be sharp lads who catch me!” said young miss odille. tae lay of st. odille. but you've all read in Æsop, or phædrus, or gay, how a tortoise and hare ran together one day; how the hare, making play, "progressed right slick away," as “them tarnation chaps” the americans say; while the tortoise, whose figure is rather outré for racing, crawled straight on, without let or stay, having no post-horse duty or turnpikes to pay, till, ere noon's ruddy ray changed to eve's sober gray, though her form and obesity caused some delay, perseverance and patience brought up her lee-way, and she chased her fleet-footed “praycursor” until she o’ertook her at last ;-—so it fared with odille! for although, as i said, she ran gayly at first, and showed no inclination to pause, if she durst, she at length felt opprest with the heat, and with thirst its usual attendant; nor was that the worst, her shoes went down at heel ; at last one of them burst. now a gentleman smiles at a trot of ten miles; but not so the fair; then consider the stiles, and as then ladies seldom wore things with a frill round the ankle, these stiles sadly bothered odille. still, despite all the obstacles placed in her track, she kept steadily on, though the terrible crack in her shoe made of course her progression more slack, till she reached the swartz forest (in english the black); i cannot divine how the boundary line was passed which is somewhere there formed by the rhine- perhaps she'd the knack to float o'er on her back- or, perhaps, cross'd the old bridge of boats at brisach (which vauban, some years after, secured from attack by a bastion of stone which the germans call “ wacke"); all i know is, she took not so much as a snack, till, hungry and worn, feeling wretchedly ill, on a mountain's brow sank down the weary odille. i said on its “brow," but i should have said “ crown," for 'twas quite on the summit, bleak, barren, and brown, the lay of st. odille. and so high that 'twas frightful indeed to look down upon friburg, a place of some little renown, that lay at its foot; but imagine the frown that contracted her brow, when full many a clown she perceived coming up from that horrid post-town. they had followed her trail, and now thought without fail, as little boys say, to “lay salt on her tail;" while the count, who knew no other law but his will, swore that herman that evening should marry odille. alas, for odille! poor dear! what could she do? her father's retainers now had her in view, as she found from their raising a joyous halloo; while the count, riding on at the head of his crew, in their snuff-colored doublets and breeches of blue, was hụzzaing and urging them on to pursue- what, indeed, could she do? she very well knew if they caught her how much she should have to go through; but then-she'd so shocking a hole in her shoe! and to go further on was impossible ;-true she might jump o'er the precipice ;-still there are few, in her place, who could manage their courage to screw up to bidding the world such a sudden adieu : alack! how she envied the birds as they flew; no nassau balloon, with its wicker canoe, came to bear her from him she loathed worse than a jew; so she fell on her knees in a terrible stew, crying, “holy st. ermengarde! oh, from these vermin guard her whose last hope rests entirely on you ;- don't let papa catch me, dear saint !-rather kill at once, sur-le-champ, your devoted odille!" it's delightful to see those who strive to oppress get balked when they think themselves sure of success. the saint came to the rescued fairly confess i don't see, as a saint, how she well could do less the lay of st. odille. than to get such a votary out of her mess. odille had scarce closed her pathetic address when the rock, gaping wide as the thames at sheerness, closed again, and secured her within its recess in a natural grotto, which puzzled count otto, who could not conceive where the deuce she had got to. 'twas her voice -but 'twas vox et præterea nil! nor could any one guess what was gone with odille! then burst from the mountain a splendor that quite eclipsed, in its brilliance, the finest bude light, and there stood st. ermengarde, drest all in white, a palm-branch in her left hand, her beads in her right; while, with faces. fresh gilt, and with wings burnished bright, a great many little boys' heads took their flight above and around to a very great height, and seemed pretty lively considering their plight, since every one saw, with amazement and awe, they could never sit down, for they hadn't de quoi. all at the sight, from the knave to the knight, felt a very unpleasant sensation, called fright; while the saint, looking down with a terrible frown, said, “my lords, you are done most remarkably brown!— i am really ashamed of you both;—my nerves thrill at your scandalous conduct to poor dear odille! “come, make yourselves scarce !-it is useless to stay, you will gain nothing here by a longer delay. • quick! presto! begone l' as the conjurers say; for as to the lady, i've stowed her away in this hill, in a stratum of london blue clay; and i shan't, i assure you, restore her to-day till you faithfully promise no more to say 'nay,' but declare, if she will be a nun, why she may.' for this you've my word, and i never yet broke it! so put that in your pipe, my lord otto, and smoke it !- one hint to your vassals, -a month at the mill' shall be nuts to what they'll get who worry odille!” the lay of st. odille. : the saint disappeared as she ended, and so did the little boys' heads, which, above and below, as i told you a very few stanzas ago, had been flying about her, and jumping jim crow; though, without any body, or leg, foot, or toe, how they managed such antics, i really don't know; be that as it may, they all “ melted like snow off a dyke,” as the scotch say in sweet edinbro', and there stood the count with his men, on the mount, just like “twenty-four jackasses all on a row.” what was best to be done—'twas a sad bitter pill- but gulp it he must, or else lose his odille. the lord of alsace therefore altered his plan, and said to himself, like a sensible man, “i can't do as i would,-i must do as i can; it will not do to lie under any saint's ban, for your hide, when you do, they all manage to tan; so count herman must pick up some betsy or nan, instead of my girl,- some sue, polly, or fan; if he can't get the corn he must do with the bran, and make shift with the pot if he can't have the pan.” with such proverbs as these he went down on his knees, and said, “blessed st. ermengarde, just as you please they shall build a new convent,-—i'll pay the whole bill (taking discount),—its abbess shall be my odille." there are some of my readers, i'll venture to say, who have never seen friburg, though some of them may, and others, 'tis likely, may go there some day. now, if ever you happen to travel that way, i do beg and pray,-'twill your pains well repay, - that you'll take what the cockney folks call a “po-shay” (though in germany these things are more like a dray), you may reach this same hill with a single relay,- and do look how the rock, through the whole of its block, is split open, as though by some violent shock from an carthquake, or lightning, or horrid hard knock the lay of st. odille. from the club-bearing fist of some jolly old cock of a germanized giant, thor, woden, or lok; and see how it rears its two monstrous great ears, for when once you're between them such each side appears ; and list to the sound of the water one hears drip, drip, from the fissures, like raindrops or tears,— odille's, i believe,-which have flowed all these years; -i think they account for them so ;—but the rill i am sure is connected some way with odille. moral. to escape now then for a moral, which always arrives at the end, like the honey-bees take to their hives, and the more one observes it the better one thrives,- we have all heard it said in the course of our lives, “needs must when a certain old gentleman drives ;": 'tis the same with a lady,—if once she contrives to get hold of the ribbons, how vainly one strives from her lash or to shake off her gyves ! then let's act like count otto, and while one survives, succumb to our she-saints-videlicet wives ! (aside.) that is, if one has not “a good bunch of fives.”- (i can't think how that last line escaped from my quill, for i'm sure it has nothing to do with odille.) now, young ladies, to you - don't put on the shrew - and don't be surprised if your father looks blue when you're pert, and won't act as he wants you to do! be sure that you never elope ;-there are few,- believe me, you'll find what i say to be true, who run restive, but find as they bake they must brew, and come off at last with “a hole in their shoe;" since not even clapham, that sanctified ville, can produce enough saints to save every odille. À lay of st. nicholas. nycolas, eptezyn of pe cyte* of pancraes, was borne of ryche and holye kynne, and his fader was named epiphanus, and his moder johane. he was born on a cold frosty morning, on the th of decem- ber (upon which day his feast is still observed), but in what anno domini is not so clear; his baptismal register, together with that of his friend and colleague, st. thomas at hill, hav- ing been “lost in the great fire of london.” st. nicholas was a great patron of mariners, and,-saving your presence, -of thieves also, which honorable fraternity have long rejoiced in the appellation of his “clerks.". cer- vantes's story of sancho's detecting a sum of money in a swin- dler's walking-stick is merely a spanish version of a “lay of st. nicholas” extant “in choice italian” a century before honest miguel was born. a lay of st. nicholas. "statim sacerdoti apparuit diabolus in specie puellæ pulchritudinis miræ, et ecce divus, fide catholicâ, et cruce, et aquâ benedicta armatus venit, et aspersit aquam in nomine sanctæ et individuæ trinitatis, quam, quasi ardentem, diabolus, nequaquam sustinere valens, mugitibus fugit.”—roger hoveden. "lº ord abbot ! lord abbot! i'd fain confess; i am a-weary, and worn with woe; many a grief doth my heart oppress, and haunt me whithersoever i go!" on bended knee spake the beautiful maid: “now lithe and listen, lord abbot, to me!”— “now naye, fair daughter," the lord abbot said, “now naye, in sooth it may hardly be. “there is mess michael, and holy mess john, sage penitauncers i ween be they! and hard by doth dwell, in st. catherine's cell, ambrose, the anchoret old and gray! t!" * parish. a lay of st. nicholas. _ “oh, i will have none of ambrose or john, though sage penitauncers i trow they be; shrive me may none save the abbot alone, now listen, lord abbot, i speak to thee. “nor think foul scorn, though mitre adorn thy brow, to listen to shrift of mine! i am a maiden royally born, and i come of old plantagenet's line. “though hither i stray in lowly array, i am a damsel of high degree; and the compte of eu, and the lord of ponthieu, they serve my father on bended knee ! “ counts a many, and dukes a few, a suitoring came to my father's 'hall; but the duke of lorraine, with his large domain, he pleased my father beyond them all. “dukes a many, and counts a few, i would have wedded right cheerfullie; but the duke of lorraine was uncommonly plain, and i vow'd that he ne'er should my bridegroom be! “so hither i fly, in lowly guise, from their gilded domes and their princely halls; fain would i dwell in some holy cell, or within some convent's peaceful walls!” -then out and spake that proud lord abbot, “now rest thee, fair daughter, withouten fear, nor count nor duke but shall meet the rebuke of holy church an he seek thee here; "holy church denieth all search 'midst her sanctified ewes and her saintly rams, and the wolves doth mock who would scathe her flock, or, especially, worry her little pet lambs. a lay of st. nicholas. “then lay, fair daughter, thy fears aside, for here this day shalt thou dine with me!”— “now naye, now naye,” the fair maiden cried ; “in sooth, lord abbot, that scarce may be! “friends would whisper, and foes would frown, sith thou art a churchman of high degree, and ill mote it match with thy fair renown that a wandering damsel dine with thee! “there is simon the deacon hath pulse in store, with beans and lettuces fair to see; his lenten fair now let me share, i pray thee, lord abbot, in charitie !” - -“ though simon the deacon hath pulse in store, to our patron saint foul shame it were should wayworn guest, with toil oppressed, meet in his abbey such churlish fare. “there is peter the prior, and francis the friar, and roger the monk shall our convives be; small scandal i ween shall then be seen ; they are a goodly companie!" the abbot hath donned his mitre and ring, his rich dalmatic, and maniple fine; and the choristers sing, as the lay-brothers bring to the board a magnificent turkey and chine. the turkey and chine, they are done to a nicety; liver, and gizzard, and all are there; ne'er mote lord abbot pronounce benedicite over more luscious or delicate fare. but no pious stave, no pater or ave, pronounced, as he gazed on that maiden's face; she asked him for stuffing, she asked him for gravy, she asked him for gizzard ;—but not for grace! a lay of st. nicholas. yet gayly the lord abbot smiled, and pressed, and the blood-red wine in the wine-cup filled ; and he helped his guest to a bit of the breast, and he sent the drumsticks down to be grilled. there was no lack of old sherris sack, of hippocras fine, or of malmsey bright; and aye, as he drained off his cup with a smack, he grew less pious and more polite. she pledged him once, and she pledged him twice, and she drank as lady ought not to drink; and he pressed her hand 'neath the table thrice, and he winked as abbot ought not to wink. and peter the prior, and francis the friar, sat each with a napkin under his chin; but roger the monk got excessively drunk, so they put him to bed, and they tucked him in! the lay-brothers gazed on each other, amazed ; and simon the deacon, with grief and surprise, as he peeped through the keyhole, could scarce fancy real the scene he beheld, or believe his own eyes. in his ear was ringing the lord abbot singing, - he could not distinguish the words very plain, but 'twas all about “ cole,” and “jolly old soul,” and “fiddlers,” and “punch," and things quite as profane. even porter paul, at the sound of such revelling, with fervor himself began to bless; for he thought he must somehow have let the devil in,- and perhaps as not very much out in his guess. the accusing byers* “flew up to heaven's chancery," blushing like scarlet with shame and concern; the archangel took down his tale, and in answer he wept-(see the works of the late mr. sterne). * the prince of peripatetic informers, and terror of stage coachmen, when such things were. alack! alack! the railroads have ruined his “vested interest.” a lay of st. nicholas. indeed, it is said, a less taking both were in when, after a lapse of a great many years, they booked uncle toby five shillings for swearing, and blotted the fine out again with their tears! but st. nicholas' agony who may paint? his senses at first were well-nigh gone ; the beatified saint was ready to faint when he saw in his abbey such sad goings on! for never, i ween, had such doings been seen there before, from the time that most excellent prince, earl baldwin of flanders, and other commanders, had built and endowed it some centuries since. -but hark !—’tis a sound from the outermost gate! a startling sound from a powerful blow.- who knocks so late ?—it is half after eight by the clock,—and the clock’s five minutes too slow. never, perhaps, had such loud double raps been heard in st. nicholas' abbey before; all agreed“ it was shocking to keep people knocking," but none seemed inclined to “ answer the door.” now a louder bang through the cloisters rang, and the gate on its hinges wide open flew; and all were aware of a palmer there, with his cockle hat, staff, and his sandal shoe. many a furrow and many a frown by toil and time on his brow were traced ; and his long loose gown was of ginger brown, and his rosary dangled below his waist. now seldom, i ween, is such costume seen, except at a stage-play or masquerade; but who doth not know it was rather the go with pilgrims and saints in the second crusade? a lay of st. nicholas. with noiseless stride did that palmer glide across that oaken floor; and he made them all jump, he gave such a thump against the refectory door! wide open it flew, and plain to the view the lord abbot they all mote see ; in his hand was a cup, and he lifted it up, “here's the pope's good health with three !!” rang in their ears three deafening cheers, “huzza! huzza! huzza !” and one of the party said, “go it, my hearty!"- when out spake that pilgrim gray- “a boon, lord abbot! a boon! a boon ! worn is my foot, and empty my scrip; and nothing to speak of since yesterday noon of food, lord abbot, hath passed my lip. “and i am come from a far countree, and have visited many a holy shrine; and long have i trod the sacred sod where the saints do rest in palestine !”— “ an thou art come from a far countree, and if thou in paynim lands hast been, now rede me aright the most wonderful sight, thou palmer gray, that thine eyes have seen. "arede me aright the most wonderful sight, gray palmer, that ever thine eyes did see, and a manchette of bread, and a good warm bed, and a cup o' the best, shall thy guerdon be!" “oh! i have been east, and i have been west, and i have seen many a wonderful sight; but never to me did it happen to see a wonder like that which i see this night! a lay of st. nicholas. “to see a lord abbot, in rochet and stole, with prior and friar,-a strange mar-velle ! o'er a jolly full bowl sitting cheek by jowl, and hob-nobbing away with a devil from hell !” he felt in his gown of ginger brown, and he pulled out a flask from beneath ; it was rather tough work to get out the cork, but he drew it at last with his teeth. o'er a pint and a quarter of holy water, he made a sacred sign; and he dashed the whole on the soi-disant daughter of old plantagenet's line! oh! then did she reek, and squeak, and shriek, with a wild unearthly scream; and fizzled, and hissed, and produced such a mist, they were all half choked by the steam. her dove-like eyes turned to coals of fire, her beautiful nose to a horrible snout, her hands to paws, with nasty great claws, and her bosom went in, and her tail came out. on her chin there appeared a long nanny-goat's beard, and her tusks and her teeth no man mote tell; and her horns and her hoofs gave infallible proofs 'twas a frightful fiend from the nethermost hell! the palmer threw down his ginger gown, his hat and his cockle, and, plain to sight, stood st. nicholas' self, and his shaven crown had a glow-worm halo of heavenly light. the fiend made a grasp the abbot to clasp; but st. nicholas lifted his holy toe, and, just in the nick, let fly such a kick on his elderly namesake, he made him let go. a lay of st. nicholas. and out of the window he flew like a shot, for the foot flew up with a terrible thwack, and caught the foul demon about the spot where his tail joins on to the small of his back. and he bounded away like a foot-ball at play, till into the bottomless pit he fell slap, knocking mammon the meagre o'er pursy belphegor, and lucifer into beëlzebub's lap. oh! happy the slip from his succubine grip that saved the lord abbot—though, breathless with fright, in escaping he tumbled, and fractured his hip, and his left leg was shorter thenceforth than his right! on the banks of the rhine, as he's stopping to dine, from a certain inn-window the traveller is shown most picturesque ruins, the scene of these doings, some miles up the river, southeast of cologne. and, while "sour-kraut” she sells you, the landlady tells you that there, in those walls, now all roofless and bare, one simon, a deacon, from a lean grew a sleek one, on filling a ci-devant abbot’s state chair. how a ci-devant abbot, all clothed in drab, but of texture the coarsest, hair shirt, and no shoes (his mitre and ring, and all that sort of thing, laid aside), in yon cave lived a pious recluse; go one" how he rose with the sun, limping “ dot and to yon rill of the mountain, in all sorts of weather, where a prior and a friar, who lived somewhat higher up the rock, used to come and eat cresses together; how a thirsty old codger, the neighbors called roger, with them drank cold water in lieu of old wine! a lay of st. nicholas. what its quality wanted he made up in quantity, swigging as though he would empty the rhine! and how, as their bodily strength failed, the mental man gained tenfold vigor and force in all four; and how, to the day of their death, the “old gentleman” never attempted to kidnap them more. and how, when at length, in the odor of sanctity, all of them died without grief or complaint, the monks of st. nicholas said 'twas ridiculous not to suppose every one was a saint. and how, in the abbey, no one was so shabby as not to say yearly four masses a head, on the eve of that supper, and kick on the crupper which satan received, for the souls of the dead! how folks long held in reverence their reliques and memories, how the ci-devant abbot's obtained greater still, when some cripples, on touching his fractured os femoris, threw down their crutches and danced a quadrille! and how abbot simon (who turned out a prime one) these words, which grew into a proverb full soon, o'er the late abbot's grotto stuck up as a motto, tuho suppes with the deville sholde habe a long spoone!" rohesia, daughter of ambrose, and sister to sir everard ingoldsby, was born about the beginning of the sixteenth cen- tury, and was married in , at st. giles's, cripplegate, in the city of london. the following narrative contains all else that is known of the lady rohesia. the lady rohesia. the the lady rohesia lay on her death-bed! so said the doctor, and doctors are generally allowed to be judges in these matters; besides, doctor butts was the court physician: he carried a crutch-handled staff, with its cross of the blackest ebony-raison de plus. “ is there no hope, doctor ?” said beatrice grey. “is there no hope ?” said everard ingoldsby. “is there no hope ?” said sir guy de montgomeri. he was the lady rohesia's husband ;-he spoke the last. the doctor shook his head. he looked at the disconsolate widower in posse, then at the hour-glass; its waning sand seemed sadly to shadow forth the sinking pulse of his patient. dr. butts was a very learned man. “ars longa, vita brevis !”. said dr. butts. “i am very sorry to hear it,” quoth sir guy de montgomeri. sir guy was a brave knight, and a tall; but he was no scholar. "alas! my poor sister!" sighed ingoldsby. “alas! my poor mistress !” sobbed beatrice. sir guy neither sighed nor sobbed; his grief was too deep- seated for outward manifestation. “and how long, doctor the afflicted husband could not finish the sentence. dr. butts withdrew his hand from the wrist of the dying lady. he pointed to the horologe; scarcely a quarter of its sand remained in the upper moiety. again he shook his head. the eye of the patient waxed dimmer, the rattling in the throat increased. “what's become of father francis ?" whimpered beatrice. "the last consolations of the church—"suggested everard. a darker shade came over the brow of sir guy. “where is the confessor ?” continued his grieving brother- in-law. " in the pantry," cried marion hacket pertly, as she tripped down stairs in search of that venerable ecclesiastic ;-"in the pantry, i warrant me." the bower-woman was not wont to be " the lady rohesia. in the wrong: in the pantry was the holy man discovered-at. his devotions. “pax vobiscum !” said father francis, as he entered the chamber of death. * vita brevis !” retorted dr. butts. he was not a man to bei browbeat out of his latin,--and by a paltry friar minim, too. had it been a bishop, indeed, or even a mitred abbot ;-but a miserable franciscan! “ benedicite!” said the friar. “ars longa!" returned the leech. dr. butts adjusted the tassels of his falling band, drew his short sad-colored cloak closer around him, and, grasping his cross-handled walking-staff, stalked majestically out of the apartment. father francis had the field to himself. the worthy chaplain hastened to administer the last rites of the church. to all appearance he had little time to lose. as he concluded, the dismal toll of the passing-bell sounded from the belfry tower; little hubert, the bandy-legged sacristan, was pulling with all his might. it was a capital contrivance, that same passing-bell; which of the urbans or innocents invented it is a query; but, whoever he was, he deserved well of his country and of christendom. ah! our ancestors were not such fools, after all, as we, their degenerate children, conceit them to have been. the passing- bell-a most solemn warning to imps of every description-is not to be regarded with impunity; the most impudent succubus of them all dare as well dip his claws in holy water as come within the verge of its sound. old nick himself, if he sets any value at all upon his tail, had best convey himself clean out of hearing, and leave the way open to paradise. little hubert continued pulling with all his might—and st. peter began to look out for a customer. the knell seemed to have some effect even upon the lady rohesia: she raised her head slightly; inarticulate sounds issued from her lips,-inarticulate, that is, to the profane ears of the laity. those of father francis, indeed, were sharper; nothing, as he averred, could be more distinct than the words, "a thousand marks to the priory of st. mary rouncival.” now the lady rohesia ingoldsby had brought her husband the lady rohesia. broad lands and large possessions ; much of her ample dowry, too, was at her own disposal,--and nuncupative wills had not yet been abolished by act of parliament. “pious soul!" ejaculated father francis. “a thousand marks, she said “ if she did i'll be shot !” said sir guy de montgomeri. “-a thousand marks!" continued the confessor, fixing his cold gray eye upon the knight, as he went on heedless of the interruption ;-"a thousand marks! and as many aves and paters shall be duly said-as soon as the money is paid down." sir guy shrank from the monk's gaze; he turned to the window, and muttered to himself something that sounded like “don't you wish you may get it ?" the bell continued to toll. father francis had quitted the room, taking with him the remains of the holy oil he had been using for extreme unction. everard ingoldsby waited on him down stairs. “a thousand thanks !” said the latter. “a thousand marks !” said the friar. “a thousand devils !" growled sir guy de montgomeri from the top of the landing-place. but his accents fell unheeded : his brother-in-law and the friar were gone; he was left alone with his departing lady and beatrice grey. sir guy de montgomeri stood pensively at the foot of the bed; his arms were crossed upon his bosom, his chin was sunk upon his breast; his eyes were filled with tears; the dim rays of the fading watchlight gave a darker shade to the furrows on his brow, and a brighter tint to the little bald patch on the top of his head,-for sir guy was a middle-aged gentleman, tall and portly withal, with a slight bend in his shoulders, that not much; his complexion was somewhat florid, especially about the nose; but his lady was in extremis, and at this particular moment he was paler than usual. “bim! bome !" went the bell. the knight groaned audibly, beatrice grey wiped her eye with her little square apron . the lady rohesia. of lace de malines; there was a moment's pause--a mo- ment of intense affliction; she let it fall,—all but one corner, which remained between her finger and thumb. she looked at sir guy; drew the thumb and forefinger of her other hand slowly along its border, till they reached the opposite extremity. she sobbed aloud. “so kind a lady !" said beatrice grey.- "so excellent a wife!” responded sir guy.—“so good !” said - the damsel.-"so dear!" said the knight.-"so pious !" said she.—“so humble!” said he.—“so good to the poor!”—“so capital a manager !"-"so punctual at matins !"__"dinner dished to moment!”—“so devout !” said beatrice.—“so fond of me!” said sir guy.—“and of father francis !"_“ what the devil do you mean by that ?” said sir guy de mont- gomeri. the knight and the maiden had rung their antiphonic changes on the fine qualities of the departing lady, like the strophe and antistrophe of a greek play. the cardinal virtues once dis- posed of, her minor excellences came under review. she would drown a witch, drink lambs' wool at christmas, beg dominie dumps's boys a holiday, and dine upon sprats on good friday! a low moan from the subject of these eulogies seemed to inti- mate that the enumeration of her good deeds was not alto- gether lost on her,--that the parting spirit felt and rejoiced in the testimony. “she was too good for earth !" continued sir guy. “ye-ye-yes !" sobbed beatrice. “i did not deserve her!” said the knight. “no- - - !” cried the damsel. “not but that i made her an excellent husband, and a kind; but she is going, and—and—where, or when, or how-shall i get such another ?” “not in broad england—not in the whole wide world !” responded beatrice grey; "that is, not just such another !" her voice still faltered, but her accents on the whole were more articulate; she dropped the corner of her apron, and had re- course to her handkerchief; in fact, her eyes were getting red, —and so was the tip of her nose. sir guy was silent; he gazed for a few moments steadfastly on the face of his lady. the single word, “another!" fell from the lady rohesia. his lips like a distant echo ;-it is not often that the viewless nymph repeats more than is necessary. “bim! bome!" went the bell. bandy-legged hubert had been tolling for half an hour; he began to grow tired, and st. peter fidgety. “ beatrice grey !” said sir guy de montgomeri, “what's to be done? what's to become of montgomeri hall ?—and the buttery,--and the servants? and what-what's to become of me, beatrice grey ?" -there was pathos in his tones, and a sol- emn pause succeeded. “i'll turn monk myself!” said sir guy. “monk ?" said beatrice. “i'll be a carthusian!" repeated the knight, but in a tone less assured: he relapsed into a reverie.—shave his head !-he did not so much mind that,-he was getting rather bald already; -but, beans for dinner,-and those without butter and then a horse-hair shirt! the knight seemed undecided : his eye roamed gloomily around the apartment; it paused upon different objects, but as if it saw them not; its sense was shut, and there was no speculation in its glance: it rested at last upon the fair face of the sympathizing damsel at his side, beautiful in her grief. her tears had ceased; but her eyes were cast down, mourn- fully fixed upon her delicate little foot, which was beating the devil's tattoo. there is no talking to a female when she does not look at you. sir guy turned round,-he seated himself on the edge of the bed; and, placing his hand beneath the chin of the lady, turned up her face in an angle of fifteen degrees. “i don't think i shall take the vows, beatrice; but what's to become of me? poor, miserable, old—that is, poor, miserable, middle-aged man that i am !-no one to comfort, no one to care for me!”—beatrice's tears flowed afresh, but she opened not her lips.—“'pon my life!" continued he, “i don't believe there is a creature now would care a button if i were hanged to-morrow!" “oh! don't say so, sir guy!" sighed beatrice; "you know there's—there's master everard, and—and father francis- “pish !" cried sir guy testily. “and—there's your favorite old bitch.” the lady rohesia. "i am not thinking of old bitches !" quoth sir guy de mont- gomeri. another pause ensued; the knight had released her chin, and taken her hand; it was a pretty little hand, with long taper fingers and filbert-formed nails, and the softness of the palm said little for its owner's industry. “sit down, my dear beatrice,” said the knight thoughtfully; "you must be fatigued with your long watching. take a seat, my child.”—sir guy did not relinquish her hand; but he sidled along the counterpane, and made room for his compan- ion between himself and the bed-post. now this is a very awkward position for two people to be placed in, especially when the right hand of the one holds the right hand of the other :-in such an attitude, what the deuce can the gentleman do with his left? sir guy closed his till it became an absolute fist, and his knuckles rested on the bed a little in the rear of his companion. "another!" repeated sir guy, musing; "if, indeed, i could find such another!" he was talking to his thought, but beatrice grey answered him. “ there's madam fitzfoozle." “a frump!” said sir guy. “or the lady bumbarton.” “with her hump!" muttered he. “there's the dowager" “stop-stop!” said the knight, "stop one moment!”–he paused; he was all on the tremble; something seemed rising in his throat, but he gave a great gulp and swallowed it. “bea- trice," said he, “what think you of”-his voice sank into a most seductive softness,—"what think you of-beatrice grey?” the murder was out: the knight felt infinitely relieved: the knuckles of his left hand unclosed spontaneously; and the arm he had felt such a difficulty in disposing of found itself, nobody knows how,--all at once, encireling the jimp waist of the pretty beatrice. the young lady's reply was expressed in three syllables. they were, “oh, sir guy!” the words might be somewhat indefinite, but there was no mistaking the look. their eyes met; sir guy's left arm contracted itself spasmod- ically; when the eyes meet,—at least, as theirs inet,—the lips the lady rohesia. are very apt to follow the example. the knight had taken one long loving kiss-nectar and ambrosia! he thought on doc- tor butts and his repetatur haustus,--a prescription father francis had taken infinite pains to translate for him: he was about to repeat it, but the dose was interrupted in transitu. doubtless the adage, “ there's many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip,” hath reference to medicine. sir guy's lip was again all but in conjunction with that of his bride elect. it has been hinted already that there was a little round pol- ished patch on the summit of the knight's pericranium, from which his locks had gradually receded; a sort of oasis,-or rather a mont blanc in miniature, rising above the highest point of vegetation. it was on this little spot, undefended alike by art and nature, that at this interesting moment a blow de- scended, such as we must borrow a term from the sister island adequately to describe,- it was a “whack !" sir guy started upon his feet; beatrice grey started upon hers: but a single glance to the rear reversed her position, she fell upon her knees and screamed. the knight, too, wheeled about, and beheld a sight which might have turned a bolder man to stone. it was she!—the all-but-defunct rohesia—there she sat, bolt upright !-her eyes no longer glazed with the film of impending dissolution, but scintillating like flint and steel ; while in her hand she grasped the bed-staff--a weapon of mickle might, as her husband's bloody coxcomb could now well testify. words were yet want- ing, for the quinsy, which her rage had broken, still impeded her utterance; but the strength and rapidity of her guttural intonations augured well for her future eloquence. sir guy de montgomeri stood for a while like a man dis- traught; this resurrection—for such it seemed—had quite over- powered him. “a husband ofttimes makes the best physician," says the proverb; he was a living personification of its truth. still it was whispered he had been content with dr. butts; but his lady was restored to bless him for many years.—heavens, what a life he led ! the lady rohesia mended apace; her quinsy was cured; the the lady rohesia. bell was stopped, and little hubert, the sacristan, kicked out of the chapelry. st. peter opened his wicket and looked out; —there was nobody there; so he flung to the gate in a passion, and went back to his lodge, grumbling at being hoaxed by a runaway ring years rolled on. the improvement of lady rohesia's tem- per did not keep pace with that of her health ; and one fine morning sir guy de montgomeri was seen to enter the porte- cochère of durham house, at that time the town residence of sir walter raleigh. nothing more was ever heard of him; but a boat full of adventurers was known to have dropped down with the tide that evening to deptford hope, where lay the good ship the darling, commanded by captain keymis, who sailed next morning on the virginia voyage. a brass plate, some eighteen inches long, may yet be seen in denton chancel, let into a broad slab of bethersden marble; it represents a lady kneeling, in her wimple and hood; her hands are clasped in prayer, and beneath is an inscription in the char- acters of the age- " praie for pe sowle of pe lady royse, and for alle christen sowles l' the date is illegible; but it appears that she survived king henry the eighth, and that the dissolution of monasteries had lost st. mary rouncival her thousand marks. as for beatrice gray, it is well known that she was alive in , and then had. virginity enough left to be a maid of honor to "good queen bess.” it was during the “honey (or, as it is sometimes termed, the • treacle ') moon” that mr. and mrs. seaforth passed through london. a "good-natured friend,” who dropped in to dinner, forced them in the evening to the theatre for the purpose of getting rid of him. i give charles's account of the tragedy, just as it was written, without altering even the last couplet- for there would be no making “egerton” rhyme with “story." the tragedy. the tragedy. "quæque ipse miserrima vidi.”—virgil. ca yatherine of cleves was a lady of rank: she had lands and fine houses, and cash in the bank; she had jewels and rings, and a thousand smart things; was lovely and young, with a rather sharp tongue, and she wedded a noble of high degree with the star of the order of st. esprit; but the duke de guise was, by many degrees, her senior, and not very easy to please; he'd a sneer on his lip, and a scowl with his eye, and a frown on his brow,--and he looked like a guy,- so she took to intriguing with monsieur st. megrin, a young man of fashion, and figure, and worth, but with no great pretensions to fortune or birth; he would sing, fence, and dance, with the best man in france, and took his rappee with genteel nonchalance; he smiled, and he flattered, and flirted with ease, and was very superior to monseigneur de guise. now monsieur st. megrin was curious to know if the lady approved of his passion or no; so, without more ado, he put on his surtout, and went to a man with a beard like a jew, one signor ruggieri, a cunning-man near, he could conjure, tell fortunes, and calculate tides, perform tricks on the cards, and heaven knows what besides. bring back a strayed cow, silver ladle, or spoon, and was thought to be thick with the man in the moon. the sage took his stand with his wand in his hand, drew a circle, then gave the dread word of command, saying solemnly—“ presto !-hey, quick ! - cock-a-lorum ! !" when the duchess immediately popped up before 'em. just then a conjunction of venus and mars, or something peculiar above in the stars, attracted the notice of signor ruggieri, who “bolted,” and left him alone with his deary.-- the tragedy. monsieur st. megrin went down on his knees, and the duchess shed tears large as marrow-fat peas, when,-fancy the shock,- a loud double knock made the lady cry "get up, you fool i—there's de guise !" 'twas his grace, sure enough; so monsieur, looking bluff, strutted by, with his hat on, and fingering his ruff, while, unseen by either, away flew the dame through the opposite keyhole, the same way she came; but, alack! and alas! a mishap came to pass, in her hurry she, somehow or other, let fall a new silk bandana she'd worn as a shawl ; she had used it for drying her bright eyes while crying, and blowing her nose, as her beau talked of dying ! now the duke, who had seen it so lately adorn her, and knew the great c with the crown in the corner, the instant he spied it, smoked something amiss, and said, with some energy, “d— it! what's this ?” he went home in a fume, and bounced into her room, crying, “so, ma'am, i find i've some cause to be jealous ! look here!-here's a proof you run after the fellows ! -now take up that pen,-if it's bad choose a better, and write, as i dictate, this moment a letter to monsieur-you know who!” the lady looked blue, but replied with much firmness, “hang me if i do!" de guise grasped her wrist with his great bony fist, and pinched it, and gave it so painful a twist, that his hard iron gauntlet the flesh went an inch in,- she did not mind death, but she could not stand pinching; so she sat down and wrote this polite little note:- “dear mister st. megrin, the chiefs of the league in our house mean to dine this evening at nine; i shall, soon after ten, slip away from the men, and you'll find me up stairs in the drawing-room then; come up the back way, or those impudent thieves of servants will see you. yours, , “catherine of cleves." copter un weap wo ver duur men ale susules “so, ma'am, i find i've some cause to be jealous ! look here !-here's a proof you run after the fellows !" p. . the tragedy. she directed and sealed it, all pale as a ghost, and de guise put it into the twopenny post. st. megrin had almost jumped out of his skin for joy that day when the post came in; he read the note through, then began it anew, and thought it almost too good news to be true.- he clapped on his hat, and a hood over that, with a cloak to disguise him, and make him look fat; so great his impatience from half after four he was waiting till ten at de guise's back door. when he heard the great clock of st. genevieve chime he ran up the back staircase six steps at a time. he had scarce made his bow, he hardly knew how, when alas! and alack! there was no getting back, for the drawing-room door was banged to with a whack ;- in vain he applied to the handle and tried, somebody or other had locked it outside! and the duchess in agony mourned her mishap, “we are caught like a couple of rats in a trap.” now the duchess's page, about twelve years of age, for so little a boy was remarkably sage; and just in the nick, to their joy and amazement, popped the gas-lighter's ladder close under the casement. but all would not do,- though st. megrin got through the window,-below stood de guise and his crew, and though never man was more brave than st. megrin, yet fighting a score is extremely fatiguing ; he thrust carte and tierce uncommonly fierce, but not beëlzebub's self could their cuirasses pierce; while his doublet and hose, being holiday clothes, were soon cut through and throughi from his knees to his nose ; still an old crooked sixpence the conjurer gave him from pistol and sword was sufficient to save him; but when beat on his knees, that confounded de guise came behind with the "fogle" that caused all this breeze, whipped it tight round his neck, and when backward he'd jerked him, the rest of the rascals jumped on him and burked him. the tragedy. the poor little page, too, himself got no quarter, but was served the same way, and was found the next day with his heels in the air, and his head in the water-butt. catherine of cleves roared “murder !” and “thieves !” from the window above while they murdered her love; till, finding the rogues had accomplished his slaughter, she drank prussic acid without any water, and died like a duke-and-a-duchess's daughter ! moral. take warning, ye fair, from this tale of the bard's, and don't go where fortunes are told on the cards, but steer clear of conjurers,-never put query to “ wise mrs. williams,” or folks like ruggieri. when alone in your room shut the door close, and lock it! above all, handkerchief pocket! lest you too should stumble, and lord leveson gower, he be called on,-sad poet !-to tell your sad story! keep your safe in your it was in the summer of that a party from tappington reached the metropolis with a view of witnessing the coronation of their youthful queen, whom god long preserve !—this pur- pose they were fortunate enough to accomplish by the purchase of a peer's tickets from a stationer in the strand, who was en- abled so to dispose of some, greatly to the indignation of the hereditary earl marshal. how mr. barney managed to insin- uate himself into the abbey remains a mystery; his character- istic modesty and address doubtless assisted him, for there he unquestionably was. the result of his observations was thus communicated to his associates in the servants' hall, upon his return, to the infinite delectation of mademoiselle pauline, over a cruiskeen of his own concocting. account of the coronation. mr. barney maguire's account of the coronation. air.—" the groves of blarney." o° ch! the coronation! what celebration for emulation can with it compare ? when to westminster the royal spinster, and the duke of leinster, all in order did repair! 'twas there you'd see the new polishemen making a skrimmage at half after four, and the lords and ladies, and the miss o'gradys, all standing round before the abbey door. their pillows scorning, that self-same morning themselves adorning, all by the candle-light, with roses and lilies, and daffy-down-dillies, and gould and jewels, and rich di'monds bright. and then approaches five hundred coaches, with general dullbeak.-och! 'twas mighty fine to see how asy bould corporal casey, with his sword drawn, prancing made them kape the line. then the guns' alarums, and the king of arums, all in his garters and his clarence shoes, opening the massy doors to the bould ambassydors, the prince of potboys, and great haythen jews; 'twould have made you crazy to see esterhazy all jools from his jasey to his di'mond boots, with alderman harmer, and that swate charmer, the female heiress, miss anja-ly coutts. and wellington, walking with his swoord drawn, talking to hill and hardinge, haroes of great fame: and sir de lacy, and the duke dalmasy (they called him sowlt afore he changed his name), themselves presading lord melbourne, lading the queen, the darling, to her royal chair, barney maguire's and that fine ould fellow, the duke of pell-mello, the queen of portingal's chargy-de-fair. then the noble prussians, likewise the russians, in fine laced jackets with their goulden cuffs, and the bavarians, and the proud hungarians, and everythingarians all in furs and muffs. then misthur spaker, with misthur pays the quaker, all in the gallery you might persave; but lord brougham was missing, and gone a-fishing, ounly crass lord essex would not give him lave. there was baron alten himself exalting, and prince von schwartzenberg, and many more, och! i'd be bothered and entirely smothered to tell the half of 'em was to the fore; with the swate peeresses, in their crowns and dresses, and aldermanesses, and the boord of works; but mehemet ali said, quite gintaly, “i'd be proud to see the likes among the turks!” then the queen, heaven bless her! och! they did dress her in her purple garments and her goulden crown; like venus or hebe, or the queen of sheby, with eight young ladies houlding up her gown. sure 'twas grand to see her, also for to he-ar the big drums bating, and the trumpets blow, and sir george smart! oh! he played a consarto, with his four-and-twenty fiddlers all on a row! then the lord archbishop held a goulden dish up, for to resave her bounty and great wealth, saying, “plase your glory, great queen vic-tory! ye'll give the clargy lave to dhrink your health !" then his riverence, retrating, discoorsed the mating; “ boys! here's your queen! deny it if you can! and if any bould traitour, or infarior craythur, sneezes at that, i'd like to see the man!” account of the coronation. then the nobles kneeling to the powers appealing, “heaven send your majesty a glorious reign !” and sir claudius hunter he did confront her, all in his scarlet gown and goulden chain. the great lord may'r, too, sat in his chair, too, but mighty sarious, looking fit to cry, for the earl of surrey, all in his hurry, throwing the thirteens, hit him in his eye. then there was preaching, and good store of speeching, with dukes and marquises on bended knee; and they did splash her with raal macasshur, and the queen said, “ah! then thank ye all for me!”– then the trumpets braying, and the organ playing, and sweet trombones, with their silver tones; but lord rolle was rolling ;-—'twas mighty consoling to think his lordship did not break his bones ! then the crames and custard, and the beef and mustard, all on the tombstones like a poultherer's shop; with lobsters and white-bait, and other swate-meats, and wine and nagus, and imperial pop! there was cakes and apples in all the chapels, with fine polonies, and rich mellow pears, och! the count von strogonoff, sure he got prog enough, the sly ould divil, undernathe the stairs. then the cannons thundered, and the people wondered, crying, “god save victoria, our royal queen !”– -och! if myself should live to be a hundred, sure it's the proudest day that i'll have seen. and now, i've ended, what i pretended, this narration splendid in swate poe-thry, ye dear bewitcher, just hand the pitcher, faith, it's myself that's getting mighty dhry. the "monstre” balloon. as a pendant to the foregoing, i shall venture to insert mr. simpkinson's lucubrations on a subject to him, as a savant of the first class, scarcely less interesting. the aerial voyage to which it alludes took place about a year and a half previously to the august event already recorded, and the excitement mani- fested in the learned antiquary's effusion may give some faint idea of that which prevailed generally among the sons of science at that memorable epoch. the “monstre” balloon. ot h! the balloon, the great balloon, it left vauxhall one monday at noon, and every one said we should hear of it soon, with news from aleppo or scanderoon. but very soon after folks changed their tune: “the netting had burst-the silk—the shalloon ;- it had met with a trade-wind-a deuced monsoon- it was blown out to sea-it was blown to the moon they ought to have put off their journey till june; sure none but a donkey, a goose, or baboon would go up in november in any balloon !" then they talked about green—"oh! where's mister green ? and where's mr. holland who hired the machine? and where is monck mason, the man that has been up so often before-twelve times or thirteen- and who writes such nice letters describing the scene? and where's the cold fowl, and the ham, and poteen? the pressed beef, with the fat cut off-nothing but lean, and the portable soup in the patent tureen? have they got to grand cairo or reached aberdeen ? or jerusalem-hamburg-or ballyporeen? no! they have not been seen! oh! they haven't been seen!” the monstre” balloon. stay! here's mister gye-mr. frederick gye- “at paris," says he, “i've been up very high, a couple of hundred of toises, or nigh, a cockstride the tuileries' pantiles, to spy with dollond's best telescope stuck at my eye, and my umbrella under my arm like paul pry, but i could see nothing at all but the sky; so i thought with myself 'twas of no use to try any longer; and, feeling remarkably dry from sitting all day stuck up there, like a guy, i came down again, and you see-here am i!” but here's mr. hughes !—what says young mr. hughes ? why, i'm sorry to say we've not got any news since the letter they threw down in one of their shoes, which gave the mayor's nose such a deuce of a bruise, as he popped up his eye-glass to look at their cruise over dover; and which the folks flocked to peruse at squiers's bazaar, the same evening, in crews- politicians, news-mongers, town-council, and blues, turks, heretics, infidels, jumpers, and jews, scorning bachelor's papers, and warren's reviews: but the wind was then blowing towards helvoetsluys, and my father and i are in terrible stews, for so large a balloon is a sad thing to lose !”— fast; here's news come at last !-here's news come at last! a vessel's come in, which has sailed very and a gentleman serving before the mast,- mister nokes,-has declared that "the party has past safe across to the hague, where their grapnel they cast, as a fat burgomaster was staring aghast to see such a monster come borne on the blast, and it caught in his waistband, and there it stuck fast!"- oh fie! mister nokes,—for shame, mr. nokes ! to be poking your fun at us plain-dealing folks- sir, this isn't a time to be cracking your jokes, and such jesting your malice but scurvily cloaks; the "monstre” balloon. such a trumpery tale every one of us smokes, and we know very well your whole story's a hoax! - “oh! what shall we do?-oh! where will it end? can nobody go ?—can nobody send to calais-or bergen-op-zoom-or ostend ? can't you go there yourself?-can't you write to a friend, for news upon which we may safely depend ?"- huzza! huzza! one and eight-pence to pay for a letter from hamborough, just come to say they descended at weilburg, about break of day; and they've lent them the palace there during their stay, and the town is becoming uncommonly gay, and they're feasting the party, and soaking their clay with johannisberg, rudesheim, moselle, and tokay! and the landgraves, and margraves, and counts beg and pray that they won't think, as yet, about going away; notwithstanding, they don't mean to make much delay, but pack up the balloon in a wagon or dray, and pop themselves into a german "po-shay,' and get on to paris by lisle and tournay; where they boldly declare, any wager they'll lay if the gas people there do not ask them to pay such a sum as must force them at once to say “nay," they'll inflate the balloon in the champs-elysées, and be back again here the beginning of may.- dear me! what a treat for a juvenile fête ! what thousands will flock their arrival to greet! there'll be hardly a soul to be seen in the street, for at vauxhall the whole population will meet, and you'll scarcely get standing-room, much less a seat, for this all preceding attraction must beat; since they'll unfold what we want to be told, - how they coughed, how they sneezed, how they shivered with cold, how they tippled the “cordial" as racy and old as hodges, or deady, or smith ever sold, the "monstre” balloon. and how they all then felt remarkably bold; how they thought the boiled beef worth its own weight in gold, and how mr. green was beginning to scold because mr. mason would try to lay hold of the moon, and had very near overboard rolled ! and there they'll be seen, they'll be all to be seen,- the great-coats, the coffee-pots, mugs, and tureen! with the tight-rope, and fireworks, and dancing between, if the weather should only prove fair and serene; and there, on a beautiful transparent screen, in the middle you'll see a large picture of green, mr. holland on one side, who hired the machine, mr. mason on tother, describing the scene; and fame, on one leg, in the air, like a queen, with three wreaths and a trumpet, will over them lean; while envy, in serpents and black bombazin, looks on from below with an air of chagrin! then they'll play up a tune in the royal saloon, and the people will dance by the light of the moon, and keep up the ball till the next day at noon; and the peer and the peasant, the lord and the loon, the haughty grandee and the low picaroon, the six-foot life-guardsman and little gossoon, will all join in three cheers for the “monstre” balloon! it is much to be regretted that i have not as yet been able to discover more than a single specimen of my friend “suckle- thumbkin's" muse. the event it alludes to, probably the euthanasia of the late mr. greenacre, will scarcely have yet faded from the recollection of an admiring public. although, with the usual diffidence of a man of fashion, augustus has “sunk" the fact of his own presence on that interesting occa- sion, i have every reason to believe that, in describing the party at the auberge hereafter mentioned, he might have said, with a brother exquisite, “ quorum pars magna fui.” hon. mr. sucklethumbkin's story. hon. mr. sucklethumbkin's story. the execution. a sporting anecdote. my y lord tomnoddy got up one day; it was half after two, he had nothing to do, so his lordship rang for his cabriolet. tiger tim was clean of limb, his boots were polished, his jacket, was trim; with a very smart tie in his smart cravat, and a smart cockade on the top of his hat; tallest of boys, or shortest of men, he stood in his stockings just four foot ten; and he asked, as he held the door on the swing, * pray, did your lordship please to ring ?” my lord tomnoddy he raised his head, and thus to tiger tim he said: “malibran's dead, duvernay's fled, taglioni has not yet arrived in her stead; tiger tim, come tell me true, what may a nobleman find to do ?”— tim looked up, and tim looked down, he paused, and he put on a thoughtful frown, and he held up his hat, and he peeped in the crown; he bit his lip, and he scratched his head, he let go the handle, and thus he said, as the door, released, behind him banged : “an't please you, my lord, there's a man to be hanged.” my lord tomnoddy jumped up at the news, “run to mʻfuze, and lieutenant tregooze, and run to sir carnaby jenks, of the blues. the execution. rope-dancers a score i've seen before madam sacchi, antonio, and master black-more; but to see a man swing at the end of a string, with his neck in a noose, will be quite a new thing !” my lord tomnoddy stept into his cab- dark rifle green, with a lining of drab; through street and through square his high-trotting mare, like one of ducrow's, goes pawing the air. adown piccadilly and waterloo place went the high-trotting mare at a very quick pace; she produced some alarm, but did no great harm, save frightening a nurse with a child on her arm, spattering with clay two urchins at play, knocking down—very much to the sweeper's dismay- an old woman who wouldn't get out of the way, and upsetting a stall near exeter hall, which made all the pious church-mission folks squall. but eastward afar through temple bar, my lord tomnoddy directs his car; never heeding their squalls, or their calls, or their bawls, he passes by waithman's emporium for shawls, and, merely just catching a glimpse of st. paul's, turns down the old bailey, where in front of the gaol, he pulls up at the door of the gin-shop, and gayly cries, “what must i fork out to-night, my trump, for the whole first floor of the magpie and stump?” the clock strikes twelve-it is dark midnight- yet the magpie and stump is one blaze of light. the parties are met; the tables are set ; there is “punch,” “cold without,” “hot with,” heavy wet, ale-glasses and jugs, and rummers and mugs, and sand on the floor, without carpets or rugs, hon. mr. sucklethumbkin's story. cold fowl and cigars, pickled onions in jars, welsh rabbits and kidneys-rare work for the jaws- and very large lobsters, with very large claws; and there is m'fuze, and lieutenant tregooze; and there is sir carnaby jenks, of the blues, all come to see a man “ die in his shoes !” the clock strikes one! supper is done, and sir carnaby jenks is full of his fun, singing “jolly companions every one!” my lord tomnoddy is drinking gin-toddy, and laughing at ev'ry thing, and ev'ry body.- the clock strikes two! and the clock strikes three! “who so merry, so merry as we?” save captain m'fuze, who is taking a snooze, while sir carnaby jenks is busy at work blacking his nose with a piece of burnt cork. the clock strikes four! - round the debtors' door are gathered a couple of thousand or more; • as many await at the press-yard gate, till slowly its folding doors open, and straight the mob divides, and between their ranks a wagon comes loaded with posts and planks. the clock strikes five! the sheriffs arrive, and the crowd is so great that the street seems alive; but sir carnaby jenks blinks, and winks. a candle burns down in the socket, and stinks. lieutenant tregooze is dreaming of jews, and acceptances all the bill-brokers refuse; my lord tomnoddy has drunk all his toddy, and just as the dawn is beginning to peep, the whole of the party are fast asleep. sweetly, oh! sweetly, the morning breaks, with roseate streaks, like the first faint blush on a maiden's cheeks; the execution. seemed as that mild and clear blue sky smiled upon all things far and high, on all-save the wretch condemnd to die! alack! that ever so fair a sun, as that which its course has now begun, should rise on such scene of misery! should gild with rays so light and free that dismal, dark-frowning gallows-tree! and hark i-a sound comes, big with fate; the clock from st. sepulchre's tower strikes-eight! list to that low funereal bell: it is tolling, alas! a living man's knell ! - and see !—from forth that opening doo they come-he steps that threshold o'er who never shall tread upon threshold more! -god! 'tis a fearsome thing to see that pale wan man's mute agony, the glare of that wild, despairing eye, now bent on the crowd, now turned to the sky, as though 'twere scanning, in doubt and in fear, the path of the spirit's unknown career; those pinioned arms, those hands that ne'er shall be lifted again,-not even in prayer; that heaving chest !- enough—'tis done! the bolt has fallen !—the spirit is gone- for weal or for woe is known but to one!- -oh! 'twas a fearsome sight !-ah me, a deed to shudder at,- not to see. again that clock ! 'tis time, 'tis time! the hour is past: with its earliest chime the cord is severed, the lifeless clay by“ dungeon villains” is borne away: nine !—'twas the last concluding stroke! and then-my lord tomnoddy awoke! and tregooze and sir carnaby jenks arose, and captain m fuze, with the black on his nose: some account of a new play. and they stared at each other, as much as to say, “hollo! hollo! here's a rum go! why, captain!--my lord !-here's the devil to pay! the fellow's been cut down and taken away! what's to be done? we've miss'd all the funk- why, they'll laugh at and quiz us all over the town, we are all of us done so uncommonly brown!" what was to be done ?—'twas perfectly plain that they could not well hang the man over again : what was to be done ?—the man was dead ! nought could be done-nought could be said; so-my lord tomnoddy went home to bed! the following communication will speak for itself:- “on their own actions modest men are dumb !" some account of a new play, in a familiar epistle to my brother-in-law, lieut. sea- forth, h.p., late of the hon. e.i.c.'s second regt. of bombay fencibles. “the play's the thing !"-hamlet. tavistock hotel, nov. . dear charles, in reply to your letter, and fanny's, lord brougham, it appears, isn't dead, -though queen anne is; 'twas a "plot" and a "farce"-you hate farces, you say- take another "plot," then, viz., the plot of the play. some account of a new play. the countess of arundel, high in degree, as a lady possessed of an earldom in fee, was imprudent enough, at fifteen years of age, - a period of life when we're not over sage, — to form a liaison-in fact, to engage her hand to a hop-o'-my-thumb of a page. this put her papa- she had no mamma- as may well be supposed, in a deuce of a rage. mr. benjamin franklin was wont to repeat, in his budget of proverbs, “stol'n kisses are sweet!” but they have their alloy s fate assumed, to annoy miss arundel's peace, and embitter her joy, the equivocal shape of a fine little boy. when, through “the young stranger," her secret took wind, the old lord was neither “to haud nor to bind ;" he bounced up and down, and so fearful a frown contracted his brow, you'd have thought he'd been blind. the young lady, they say, having fainted away, was confined to her room for the whole of that day; while her beau-no rare thing in the old feudal system disappeared the next morning, and nobody missed him. dear young the fact is, his lordship,—who hadn't, it seems, formed the slightest idea, not ev'n in his dreams, that the pair had been wedded according to law,- conceived that his daughter had made a faux pas; so he bribed at a high rate a sort of a pirate to knock out the poor gentleman's brains, and gave him a handsome douceur for his pains. the page thus disposed of, his lordship now turns his attention at once to the lady's concerns ; and, alarmed for the future, looks out for a suitor, one not fond of raking, nor giv'n to "the pewter," but adapted to act both the husband and tutor ;- finds a highly respectable middle-aged widower, marries her off, and thanks heaven that he's rid of her. some account of a new play. relieved from his cares, the old peer now prepares to arrange in good earnest his worldly affairs; has his will made anew by a special attorney, sickens,—takes to his bed,—and sets out on his journey. which way he travelled has not been unravelled; to speculate much on the point were too curious, if the climate he reached were serene or sulphureous. to be sure, in his balance-sheet all must declare one item-the page—was an awkward affair; but, per contra, he'd lately endowed a new chantry for priests, with ten marks, and the run of the pantry. be that as it may, it's sufficient to say that his tomb in the chancel stands there to this day, built of bethersden marble-a dark bluish-gray. the figure, a fine one of pure alabaster, some cleanly churchwarden has covered with plaster; while some vandal or jew, with a taste for virtu, has knocked off his toes, to place, i suppose, in some pickwick museum, with part of his nose; from his belt and his sword and his misericorde the enamel's been chipped out, and never restored ; his ci-gît in old french is inscribed all around, and his head's in his helm, and his heel's on his hound; the palms of his hands, as if going to pray, are joined and upraised o'er his bosom— but stay! i forgot that his tomb's not described in the play! * * * * lady arundel, now in her own right a peeress, perplexes her noddle with no such nice queries, but produces in time, to her husband's great joy, another remarkably “fine little boy." as novel connections oft change the affections, and turn all one's love into different directions, now to young “johnny newcome” she seems to confine hers, neglecting the poor little dear out at dry-nurse; nay, far worse than that, she considers “the brat" as a bore,-fears her husband may smell out a rat. some account of a new play. for her legal adviser she takes an old miser, a sort of “poor cousin.” she might have been wiser ; for this arrant deceiver, by name maurice beevor, a shocking old scamp, should her own issue fail, by the law of the land stands the next in entail; so, as soon as she asked him to hit on some plan to provide for her eldest, away the rogue ran to that self-same unprincipled sea-faring man; in his ear whispered low *_“bully gaussen" said “ done! i burked the papa, now i'll bishop the son!” 'twas agreed; and, with speed to accomplish the deed, he adopted a scheme he was sure would succeed. by long cock-and-bull stories, of candish and noreys, of drake, and bold raleigh (then fresh in his glories, acquired ’mongst the indians, and rapparee tories), he so worked on the lad, that he left, which was bad, the only true friend in the world that he had, father onslow, a priest, though to quit him most loth, who in childhood had furnished his pap and his broth, at no small risk of scandal, indeed, to his cloth. the kidnapping crimp took the foolish young imp on board of his cutter so trim and so jimp, then, seizing him just as you'd handle a shrimp, twirled him thrice in the air with a whirligig motion, and soused him at once neck and heels in the ocean; this was off plymouth sound, and he must have been drowned, for 'twas nonsense to think he could swim to dry ground, if “a very great warman, called billy the norman," had not just at that moment sailed by, outward bound. a shark of great size, with his great glassy eyes, sheered off as he came, and relinquished the prize: so he picked up the lad,* swabbed and dry-rubbed and mopped him, and, having no children, resolved to adopt him. * an incident very like one in jack sheppard- a work some have lauded, and others have peppered- some account of a new play. full many a year did he hand, reef, and steer, and by no means considered himself as small beer, when old norman at length died and left him his frigate, with lots of pistoles in his coffer to rig it. a sailor ne'er moans; so, consigning the bones of his friend to the locker of one mr. jones, for england he steers. on the voyage it appears that he rescued a maid from the dey of algiers; and at length reached the sussex coast, where, in a bay, not a great way from brighton, most cosily lay his vessel at anchor, the very same day that the poet begins-thus commencing his play: Аст І. giles gaussen accosts old sir maurice de beevor, and puts the poor knight in a deuce of a fever, by saying the boy, whom he took out to please him, is come back a captain on purpose to tease him.- sir maurice, who gladly would see mr. gaussen breaking stones on the highway, or sweeping a crossing, dissembles-observes, it's of no use to fret, - and hints he may find some more work for him yet; then calls at the castle, and tells lady a. that the boy they had ten years ago sent away is returned a grown man, and, to come to the point, will put her son percy's nose clean out of joint; but adds, that herself she no longer need vex, if she'll buy him (sir maurice) a farm near the ex. “oh! take it,” she cries; “ but secure every document.”. “a bargain," says maurice, — "including the stock, you meant ?" where a dutch pirate kidnaps and tosses thames darrel just so in the sea, and he's saved by a barrel,- on the coast, if i recollect rightly, it's fung whole, and the hero, half drowned, scrainbles out of the bung-hole. [it ain't no sich thing!-the hero ain't bung'd in no barrel at all.-he's picked up by a captain, just as norman was arterwards.--print. dev.] some account of a new play. the captain, meanwhile, with a lover-like smile, and a fine cambric handkerchief, wipes off the tears from miss violet's eyelash, and hushes her fears. (that's the lady he saved from the dey of algiers.) now arises a delicate point, and this is it- the young lady herself is but down on a visit. she's perplexed; and, in fact, does not know how to act. it's her very first visit-and then to begin by asking a stranger, a gentleman, in- one with moustaches too-and a tuft on his chin- she “really don't know, he had much better go,"— here the countess steps in from behind, and says no!- fair sir, you are welcome. do, pray, stop and dine- you'll take our pot-luck-and we've decentish wine.” he bows, looks at miss,-and he does not decline. act ii. after dinner the captain recounts, with much glee, all he's heard, seen, and done since he first went to sea, all his perils and scrapes, and his hair-breadth escapes, talks of boa-constrictors, and lions, and apes, and fierce“ bengal tigers,” like that which, you know, if you've ever seen any respectable "show," “carried off the unfortunate mr. munro.” then, diverging awhile, he adverts to the mystery which hangs, like a cloud, o'er his own private history, how he ran off to sea—how they set him afloat (not a word, though, of barrel or bung-hole-see note), how he happened to meet with the algerine fleet, and forced them, by sheer dint of arms, to retreat, thus saving his violet-(one of his feet here just touched her toe, and she moved on her seat),-- how his vessel was battered in short he so chat- tered, now lively, now serious, so ogled and flattered, that the ladies much marvelled a person should be able to “make himself,” both said, “so very agreeable.” some account of a new play. captain norman's adventures were scarcely half done when percy lord ashdale, her ladyship's son, in a terrible fume, bounces into the room, and talks to his guest as you'd talk to your groom, claps his hand on his rapier, and swears he'll be through him— the captain does nothing at all but “pooh! pooh !” him- unable to smother his hate of his brother, he rails at his cousin, and blows up his mother.- "fie! fie!” says the first.-says the latter, "in sooth, this is sharper by far than a keen serpent's tooth !" (a remark, by the way, which king lear had made years ago, when he asked for his knights, and his daughters said, “here's a go!")— this made ashdale ashamed; but he must not be blamed too much for his warmth, for like many young fellows he was apt to lose temper when tortured by jealousy. still speaking quite gruff, he goes off in a huff; lady a., who is now what some call“ up to snuff,” straight determines to patch up a clandestine match between the sea-captain she dreads like old scratch, and miss,—whom she does not think any great catch for ashdale;—besides, he won't kick up such shindies were she once fairly married and off the indies. act iii. miss violet takes from the countess her tone: she agrees to meet norman “by moonlight alone,” and slip off to his bark, “the night being dark," though “the moon," the sea-captain says, rises in heaven “one hour before midnight," i. e. at eleven. from which speech i infer,– though perhaps i may err, that, though weatherwise, doubtless, 'midst surges and surf, he when “capering on shore” was by no means a murphy. he starts off, however, at sunset to reach an old chapel in ruins, that stands on the beach, some account of a new play. where the priest is to bring, as he's promised by letter, a paper to prove his name, “birthright," et cetera. being rather too late, gaussen, lying in wait, gives poor father onslow a knock on the pate, but bolts, seeing norman, before he has wrested from the hand of the priest, as sir maurice requested, the marriage certificate duly attested. - norman kneels by the clergyman fainting and gory, and begs he won't die till he's told him his story; the father complies, reopens his eyes, and tells him all how and about it and dies ! act iv. norman, now called le mesnil, instructed of all, goes back, though it's getting quite late for a call, hangs his hat and his cloak on a peg in the hall, and tells the proud countess it's useless to smother the fact any longer-he knows she's his mother! his pa's wedded spouse.- she questions his vous, and threatens to have him turned out of the house. - he still perseveres, till, in spite of her fears, she admits he's the son she had cast off for years, and he gives her the papers “all blistered with tears," when ashdale, who chances his nose in to poke, takes his hat and his cloak, just as if in a joke, determined to put in his wheel a new spoke, and slips off thus disguised, when he sees by the dial it 's time for the rendezvous fixed with miss violet.- -captain norman, who, after all, feels rather sore at his mother's reserve, vows to see her no more, rings the bell for the servant to open the door, and leaves his mamma in a fit on the floor. act v. now comes the catastrophe !-ashdale, who's wrapt in the cloak, with the hat and the plume of the captain, leads violet down through the grounds to the chapel where gaussen's concealed-he springs forward to grapple some account of a new play. the man he's erroneously led to suppose captain norman himself by the cut of his clothes. in the midst of their strife, and just as the knife of the pirate is raised to deprive him of life, the captain comes forward, drawn there by the squeals of the lady, and, knocking giles head over heels, fractures his " nob," saves the hangman a job, and executes justice most strictly, the rather, 'twas the spot where that rascal had murdered his father. then in comes the mother, who, finding one brother had the instant before saved the life of the other, explains the whole case. ashdale puts a good face on the matter; and, since he's obliged to give place, yields his coronet up with a pretty good grace; norman vows he won't have it—the kinsmen embrace, - and the captain, the first in this generous race, to remove every handle for gossip and scandal, sets the whole of the papers alight with the candle; an arrangement takes place—on the very same night, all is settled and done, and the points the most vital are, n. takes the personals ;-a., in requital, keeps the whole real property, mansion, and title.- v. falls to the share of the captain, and tries a sea voyage, as a bride, in the “royal eliza." both are pleased with the part they acquire as joint heirs, and old maurice beeyor is bundled down stairs ! moral. the public, perhaps, with the drama might quarrel if deprived of all epilogue, prologue, and moral; this may serve for all three then :- “young ladies of property, let lady a.'s history serve as a stopper t'ye; don't wed with low people beneath your degree, and if you've a baby, don't send it to sea! “young noblemen, shun everything like a brawl; and be sure when you dine out, or go to a ball, the bagman's dog. don't take the best hat that you find in the hall, and leave one in its stead that's worth nothing at all! "old knights, don't give bribes !-above all, never urge a man to steal people's things, or to stick an old clergyman ! “and you, ye sea captains! who've nothing to do but to run round the world, fight, and drink till all's blue, and tell us tough yarns, and then swear they are true, reflect, notwithstanding your seafaring life, that you can't get on well long, without you've a wife; so get one at once, treat her kindly and gently, write a nautical novel,—and send it to bentley !" it has been already hinted that mr. peters had been a "traveller” in his day. the only story which his lady would ever allow “her p.” to finish—he began as many as would fur- nish an additional volume to the “ thousand and one nights” -is the last i shall offer. the subject, i fear me, is not over new, but will remind my friends “of something better they have seen before.” mr. peters's story. the bagman's dog. stant littore puppies !-virgil. i wou alieterophede vand fixe left alive, t was a litter, a litter of five, four are drowned, and one left alive, he was thought worthy alone to survive, and the bagman resolved upon bringing him up, to eat of his bread and drink of his cup, he was such a dear little cock-tailed pup! mr. peters's story. the bagman taught him many a trick; he would carry, and fetch, and run after a stick, could well understand the word of command, and appear to doze with a crust on his nose till the bagman permissively waved his hand : then to throw up and catch it he never would fail, as he sat up on end, on his little cock-tail. never was puppy so bien instruit, or possessed of such natural talent as he; and as he grew older, every beholder agreed he grew handsomer, sleeker, and bolder.- time, however his wheels we may clog, wends steadily still with onward jog, and the cock-tailed puppy's a curly-tailed dog! when, just at the time he was reaching his prime, and all thought he'd be turning out something sublime, one unlucky day, how, no one could say, whether soft liaison induced him to stray, or some kidnapping vagabond coaxed him away, he was lost to the view, like the morning dew; he had been, and was not—that's all that they knew. and the bagman stormed, and the bagman swore as never a bagman had sworn before; but storming or swearing but little avails to recover lost dogs with great curly tails.- in a large paved court, close by billiter square, stands a mansion, old, but in thorough repair, the only thing strange, from the general air of its size and appearance, is how it got there; in front is a short semicircular stair of stone steps, ,-some half score, - then you reach the ground floor, with a shell-patterned architrave over the door. it is spacious, and seems to be built on the plan of a gentleman's house in the reign of queen anne; the bagman's dog. which is odd, for although, as we very well know, under tudors and stuarts the city could show many noblemen's seats above bridge and below, yet that fashion soon after induced them to go from st. michael cornhill, and st. mary-le-bow, to st. james, and st. george, and st. anne in soho.- be this as it may, at the date i assign to my tale,-that's about seventeen sixty-nine, this mansion, now rather upon the decline, had less dignified owners,-belonging, in fine, to turner, dry, weipersyde, rogers, and pyne a respectable house in the manchester line. there were a score of bagmen, and more, who had travell’d full oft for the firm before; but just at this period they wanted to send some person on whom they could safely depend, a trustworthy body, half agent, half friend, - on some mercantile matter as far as ostend; and the person they pitched on was anthony blogg, a grave, steady man, not addicted to grog, - the bagman, in short, who had lost this great dog. « the sea! the sea! the open sea!- that is the place where we all wish to be, rolling about on it merrily!" so all sing and say by night and by day, in the boudoir, the street, at the concert, and play, in a sort of coxcombical roundelay ;- you may roam through the city, transversely or straight, from whitechapel turnpike to cumberland gate, and every young lady who thrums a guitar, ev'ry moustachio'd shopman who smokes a cigar, with affected devotion, promulgates his notion, of being a “rover” and “child of the ocean”. whate'er their age, sex, or condition may be, they all of them long for the “ wide, wide sea !” mr. peters's story. but however they dote, only set them afloat in any craft bigger at all than a boat, take them down to the nore, and you'll see that, before the “wessel” they “ woyage” in has made half her way between shell-ness point and the pier at herne bay, let the wind meet the tide in the slightest degree, they'll be all of them heartily sick of “ the sea!” i've stood in margate, on a bridge of size inferior far to that described by byron, where “palaces and pris'ns on each hand rise,”- -that too's a stone one, this is made of iron- and little donkey-boys your steps environ, each proffering for your choice his tiny hack, vaunting its excellence; and should you hire one, for sixpence, will he urge, with frequent thwack, the much-enduring beast to buenos ayres—and back. and there, on many a raw and gusty day, i've stood, and turned my gaze upon the pier, and seen the crews, that did embark so gay that self-same morn, now disembark so queer; then to myself i've sighed and said, “oh dear! who would believe yon sickly-looking man’s a london jack tar,-a cheapside buccaneer!" but hold, my muse !—for this terrific stanza is all too stiffly grand for our extravaganza. “so now we'll go up, up, up, and now we'll go down, down, down, and now we'll go backwards and forwards, and now we'll go roun', roun', roun'.”— i hope you've sufficient discernment to see, gentle reader, that here the discarding the d is a fault which you must not attribute to me; the bagman's dog. thus my nurse cut it off when,“ with counterfeit glee,” she sung, as she danced me about on her knee, in the year of our lord eighteen hundred and three :- all i mean to say is that the muse is now free from the self-imposed trammels put on by her betters, and no longer like filch, 'midst the felons and debtors at drury lane, dances her hornpipe in fetters. resuming her track, at once she goes back to our hero, the bagman.-alas! and alack ! poor anthony blogg is as sick as a dog, spite of sundry unwonted potations of grog, by the time the dutch packet is fairly at sea, with the sands called the goodwins a league on her lee. and now, my good friends, i've a fine opportunity to obfuscate you all by sea terms with impunity, and talking of “calking," and “quarter-deck walking," “fore and aft,” and “abaft," “hookers," “barkeys," and “craft” (at which mr. poole has so wickedly laught), of binnacles,-bilboes,—the boom called the spanker, the best bower cable,-the jib,-and sheet anchor; of lower-deck guns, and broadsides and chases, of taffrails and topsails, and splicing main-braces, and “shiver my timbers !” and other odd phrases employed by old pilots with hard-featured faces - of the expletives seafaring gentlemen use, the allusions they make to the eyes of their crews ;- how the sailors, too, swear, how they cherish their hair, and what very long pigtails a great many wear. - but, reader, i scorn it-the fact is, i fear, to be candid, i can't make these matters so clear as marryat, or cooper, or captain chamier, or sir e. lytton bulwer, who brought up the rear of the “nauticals,” just at the end of the year eighteen thirty-nine-(how time flies !-oh, dear!) with a well-written preface, to make it appear that his play, the “sea-captain,"'s by no means small beer. mr. peters's story. there !—“ brought up the rear"—you see there's a mistake which none of the authors i've mentioned would make: i ought to have said, that he “sail'd in their wake.”. so i'll merely observe, as the water grew rougher the more my poor hero continued to suffer, till the sailors themselves cried, in pity, "poor buffer !” still rougher it grew, and still harder it blew, and the thunder kicked up such a hallibaloo, that even the skipper began to look blue; while the crew, who were few, looked very queer, too, and seemed not to know what exactly to do, and they who'd the charge of them wrote in the logs, “ wind n. e.-blows a hurricane-rains cats and dogs.” in short it soon grew to a tempest as rude as that shakspeare describes near the “still vext bermudas,"* when the winds, in their sport, drove aside from its port the king's ship, with the whole neapolitan court, and swamped it to give “the king's son, ferdinand," a soft moment or two with the lady miranda, while her pa met the rest, and severely rebuked 'em for unhandsomely doing him out of his dukedom. you don't want me, however, to paint you a storm, as so many have done, and in colors so warm: lord byron, for instance, in manner facetious, mr. ainsworth more gravely,-see also lucretius, -a writer who gave me no trifling vexation when a youngster at school on dean colet's foundation.- suffice it to say that the whole of that day, and the next, and the next, they were scudding away quite out of their course, propelled by the force of those flatulent folks known in classical story as aquilo, libs, notus, auster, and boreas, driven quite at their mercy 'twixt guernsey and jersey, till at length they came bump on the rocks and the shallows, in west longitude one, fifty-seven, near st. maloes; there you will not be surprised that the vessel capsized, * see appendix, p. . the bagman's dog. or that blogg, who had made, from intestine commotions, his specifical gravity less than the ocean's, should go floating away, 'midst the surges and spray, like a cork in a gutter, which, swoln by a shower, runs down holborn-hill about nine knots an hour. you've seen, i've no doubt, at bartholomew fair, gentle reader,—that is, if you've ever been there,- with their hands tied behind them, some two or three pair of boys round a bucket set up on a chair, skipping, and dipping eyes, nose, chin, and lip in, their faces and hair with the water all dripping, in an anxious attempt to catch hold of a pippin, that bobs up and down in the water whenever they touch it, as mocking the fruitless endeavor; exactly as poets say,-how, though, they can't tell us,- old nick's nonpareils play at bob with poor tantalus. . -stay !—i'm not clear but i'm rather out here; 'twas the water itself that slipped from him, i fear; faith, i can't recollect—and i haven't lempriere.- no matter,-poor blogg went on ducking and bobbing, sneezing out the salt water, and gulping and sobbing, just as clarence, in shakspeare, describes all the qualms he experienced while dreaming they'd drowned him in malmsey. “o lord,” he thought, “what pain it was to drown!" and saw great fishes with great goggling eyes, glaring as he was bobbing up and down, and looking as they thought him quite a prize; when, as he sank, and all was growing dark, a something seized him with its jaws !—a shark ?- no such thing, reader :-most opportunely for blogg, 'twas a very large, web-footed, curly-tailed dog! i'm not much of a trav'ller, and really can't boast that i know a great deal of the brittany coast; but i've often heard say that e'en to this day, mr. peters's story. . the people of granville, st. maloes, and thereabout are a class that society doesn't much care about; men who gain a subsistence by contraband dealing, and a mode of abstraction strict people call “stealing;" notwithstanding all which, they are civil of speech, above all to a stranger who comes within reach ; and they were so to blogg when the curly-tailed dog at last dragged him out, high and dry, on the beach. but we all have been told, by the proverb of old, by no means to think “all that glitters is gold;" and, in fact, some advance that most people in france join the manners and air of a maître de danse to the morals (as johnson of chesterfield said) of an elderly lady, in babylon bred, much addicted to flirting, and dressing in red. - be this as it might, it embarrassed blogg quite to find those about him so very polite. a suspicious observer perhaps might have traced the petites soins, tendered with so much good taste, to the sight of an old-fashioned pocket-book, placed in a black leather belt well secured round his waist, and a ring set with diamonds his finger that graced, so brilliant no one could have guessed they were paste. the group on the shore consisted of four; you will wonder, perhaps, there were not a few more; but the fact is they've not, in that part of the nation, what malthus would term a too dense population;" indeed the sole sign there of man's habitation was merely a single rude hut in a dingle that led away inland direct from the shingle, its sides clothed with underwood, gloomy and dark, some two hundred yards above high-water mark; and thither the party, so cordial and hearty, viz., an old man, his wife, and two lads, made a start, he, the bagman, proceeding. with equal good breeding, to express, in indifferent french, all he feels, the great curly-tailed dog keeping close to his heels.- i the bagman's dog. they soon reached the hut, which seemed partly in ruin, all the way bowing, chattering, shrugging, mon dieuing, grimacing, and what sailors call parley-vooing. to try, is it paris, or kitchener, reader, exhorts you, whenever your stomach's at all out of sorts, if you find richer viands won't stop in it, a basin of good mutton broth with a chop in it? (such a basin and chop as i once heard a witty one call, at the garrick, a cd committee one,” an expression, i own, i do not think a pretty one.) however, it's clear that, with sound table beer, such a mess as i speak of is very good cheer; especially too when a person's wet through, and is hungry, and tired, and don't know what to do. now just such a mess of delicious hot pottage was smoking away when they entered the cottage, and casting a truly delicious perfume through the whole of an ugly, old, ill-furnished room; hot, smoking hot,” on the fire was a pot well replenished, but really i can't say with what; for, famed as the french always are for ragouts, no creature can tell what they put in their stews, whether bull-frogs, old gloves, or old wigs, or old shoes; notwithstanding, when offered i rarely refuse, any more than poor blogg did, when, seeing the reeky repast placed before him, scarce able to speak, he in ecstacy muttered, “by jove, cocky-leeky!” in an instant, as soon as they gave him a spoon, every feeling and faculty bent on the gruel, he no more blamed fortune for treating him cruelly, but fell tooth and nail on the soup and the bouilli. meanwhile that old man standing by subducted his long coat-tails on high, with his back to the fire, as if to dry mr. peters's story. a part of his dress which the watery sky had visited rather inclemently.- blandly he smiled, but still he looked sly, and a something sinister lurked in his eye. indeed, had you seen him his maritime dress in, you'd have owned his appearance was not prepossessing ; he'd a "dreadnought" coat, and heavy sabots with thick wooden soles turned up at the toes, his nether man cased in a striped quelque chose, and a hump on his back, and a great hooked nose, so that nine out of ten would be led to suppose that the person before them was punch in plain clothes. yet still, as i told you, he smiled on all present, and did all that lay in his power to look pleasant. the old woman, too, made a mighty ado, helping her guest to a deal of the stew; she fished up the meat, and she helped him to that, she helped him to lean, and she helped him to fat, and it looked like hare—but it might have been cat. the little garçons too strove to express their sympathy towards the “child of distress" with a great deal of juvenile french politesse : but the bagman bluff continued to “stuff” of the fat and the lean, and the tender and tough, till they thought he would never cry, “hold, enough!" and the old woman's tones became far less agreeable, sounding like peste! and sacre ! and diable ! i've seen an old saw, which is well worth repeating, that says, “good eatynge beserbeth good drynkynge." you'll find it so printed by carton or ulynkyn, and a very good proverb it is, to my thinking. . blogg thought so too;— as he finished his stew, his ear caught the sound of the word “ morbleu !” pronounced by the old woman under her breath. now, not knowing what she could mean by “blue death !” the bagman's dog. he conceived she referred to a delicate brewing which is almost synonymous,-namely, “ blue ruin.” so he pursed up his lip to a smile, and with glee, in his cockneyfied accent, responded, “oh, vee!” which made her understand he was asking for brandy; so she turned to the cupboard, and, having some handy, produced, rightly deeming he would not object to it, an orbicular bulb with a very long neck to it; in fact you perceive her mistake was the same as his, each of them "reasoning right from wrong premises ;" -and here, by the way, allow me to say- kind reader, you sometimes permit me to stray- 'tis strange the french prove, when they take to aspersing, so inferior to us in the science of cursing; kick a frenchman down stairs, how absurdly he swears, and how odd 'tis to hear him, when beat to a jelly, roar out, in a passion, “ blue death !” and “blue belly !" “to return to our sheep" from this little digression :- blogg's features assumed a complacent expression as he emptied his glass, and she gave him a fresh one; too little he heeded how fast they succeeded. perhaps you or i might have done, though, as he did; for when once madam fortune deals out her hard raps, it's amazing to think how one cottons" to drink! at such times, of all things in nature, perhaps, there's not one that is half so seducing as schnapps. mr. blogg, besides being uncommonly dry, was, like most other bagmen, remarkably shy, -"did not like to deny"- "felt obliged to comply ” every time that she asked him to "wet t'other eye:” for 'twas worthy remark that she spared not the stoup, though before she had seemed so to grudge him the soup. at length the fumes rose to his brain; and his nose gave hints of a strong disposition to doze, and a yearning to seek “horizontal repose." mr. peters's story. his queer-looking host, who, firm at his post, during all the long meal had continued to toast that garment 'twere rude to do more than allude to, perceived, from his breathing and nodding, the views of his guest were directed to “taking a snooze:” so he caught up a lamp in his huge dirty paw, with (as blogg used to tell it) “mounseer, swivvy maw!" and “marshalled” him so “the way he should go," up stairs to an attic, large, gloomy, and low, without table or chair, or a movable there, save an old-fashioned bedstead, much out of repair, that stood at the end most removed from the stair.- with a grin and a shrug the host points to the rug, just as much as to say, "there !-i think you'll be snug!" puts the light on the floor, walks to the door, makes a formal salaam, and is then seen no more: when just as the ear lost the sound of his tread, to the bagman's surprise, and at first to his dread, the great curly-tailed dog crept from under the bed !-- - it's a very nice thing when a man's in a fright, and thinks matters all wrong, to find matters all right; as, for instance, when going home late-ish at night through a churchyard, and seeing a thing all in white, which, of course, one is led to consider a sprite, to find that the ghost is merely a post, or a miller, or chalky-faced donkey at most; or, when taking a walk as the evenings begin to close, or, as some people call it,“ draw in," and some undefined form, “looming large” through the haze, presents itself, right in your path, to your gaze, inducing a dread of a knock on the head, or a severed carotid, to find that, instead of one of those ruffians who murder and fleece men, it's your uncle, or one of the “rural policemen ;"'- then the blood flows again through artery and vein; you're delighted with what just before gave you pain; the bagman's dog. you laugh at your fears—and your friend in the fog meets a welcome as cordial as anthony blogg now bestowed on his friend-the great curly-tailed dog. for the dog leaped up, and his paws found a place on each side his neck in a canine embrace, and he licked blogg's hands, and he licked his face, and he waggled his tail as much as to say, “mr. blogg, we've foregathered before to-day !” and the bagman saw, as he now sprang up, what, beyond all doubt, he might have found out before, had he not been so eager to sup, 'twas sancho !—the dog he had reared from a pup! the dog who when sinking had seized his hair,- the dog who had saved, and conducted him there, - the dog he had lost out of billiter square !! it's passing sweet, an absolute treat, when friends, long severed by distance, meet, - with what warmth and affection each other they grect! especially too, as we very well know, if there seems any chance of a little cadeau, a “present from brighton,” or “ token" to show, in the shape of a work-box, ring, bracelet, or so, that our friends don't forget us, although they may go to ramsgate, or rome, or fernando po. if some little advantage seems likely to start, from a fifty-pound note to a two-penny tart, it's surprising to see how it softens the heart, and you'll find those whose hopes from the other are strongest, use, in common, endearments the thickest and longest. but, it was not so here; for although it is clear, when abroad, and we have not a single friend near, e'en a cur that will love us becomes very dear, and the balance of interest 'twixt him and the dog of course was inclining to anthony blogg, yet he, first of all, ceased to encourage the beast, perhaps thinking “enough is as good as a feast;" mr. peters's story. and besides, as we've said, being sleepy and mellow, he grew tired of patting, and crying “poor fellow !" so his smile by degrees hardened into a frown, and his “that's a good dog !” into “down, sancho! down!" but nothing could stop his mute fav'rite's caressing, who, in fact, seemed resolved to prevent his undressing, using paws, tail, and head, as if he had said, “most beloved of masters, pray, don't go to bed; you had much better sit up and pat me instead !” nay, at last, when, determined to take some repose, blogg threw himself down on the outside the clothes, spite of all he could do, the dog jumped up too, and kept him awake with his very cold nose ; scratching and whining, and moaning and pining, till blogg really believed he must have some design in thus breaking his rest; above all, when at length the dog scratched him off from the bed by sheer strength. extremely annoyed by the “tarnation whop," as it 's called in kentuck, on his head and its opposite, blogg showed fight; when he saw, by the light of the flickering candle, that had not yet quite burnt down in the socket, though not over bright, certain dark-colored stains, as of blood newly spilt, revealed by the dog's having scratched off the quilt,- which hinted a story of horror and guilt i- 'twas “no mistake,”— he was “ wide awake” in an instant; for, when only decently drunk, nothing sobers a man so completely as “funk.” and hark !-what's that ?— they have got into chat in the kitchen below—what the deuce are they at ? there's the ugly old fisherman scolding his wife and she—by the pope! she's whetting a knife ! - at each twist of her wrist, and her great mutton fist, the edge of the weapon sounds shriller and louder ! — the fierce kitchen fire had not made blogg perspire half so much, or a dose of the best james's powder. - the bagman's dog. it ceases-all's silent !-and now, i declare, there's somebody crawls up that rickety stair. the horrid old ruffian comes, cat-like, creeping ; he opens the door just sufficient to peep in, and sees, as he fancies, the bagman sleeping ! for blogg, when he'd once ascertained that there was some “precious mischief” on foot, had resolved to play " 'possum;"- down he went, legs and head, flat on the bed, apparently sleeping as sound as the dead; while, though none who looked at him would think such a thing, every nerve in his frame was braced up for a spring. then, just as the villain crept, stealthily still, in, and you'd not have insured his guest's life for a shilling, as the knife gleamed on high, bright and sharp as a razor, blogg, starting upright," tipped" the fellow “a facer;" — -down went man and weapon.-of all sorts of blows, from what mr. jackson reports, i suppose there are few that surpass a flush hit on the nose. now had i the pen of old ossian or homer (though each of these names some pronounce a misnomer, and say the first person was called james mʻpherson, while as to the second, they stoutly declare he was no one knows who, and born no one knows where), or had i the quill of pierce egan, a writer acknowledged the best theoretical fighter for the last twenty years, by the lively young peers, , who, doffing their coronets, collars, and ermine, treat boxers to “ max," at the one tun in jermyn street ;- i say, could i borrow these gentlemen's muses, more skilled than my meek one in “fibbings” and bruises, i'd describe now to you as “prime a set-to," and regular turn-up," as ever you knew; not inferior in “bottom” to aught you have read of since cribb, years ago, half knocked molyneux's head off. mr. peters's story. but my dainty urania says, “such things are shocking!" lace mittens she loves, detesting “the gloves ;" and turning, with air most disdainfully mocking, from melpomene's buskin, adopts the silk stocking. so, as far as i can see, i must leave you to “ fancy” the thumps and the bumps, and the ups and the downs, and the taps, and the slaps, and the raps on the crowns, that passed 'twixt the husband, wife, bagman, and dog, as blogg rolled over them, and they rolled over blogg, while what's called “the claret” flew over the garret, merely stating the fact, as each other they whacked, the dog his old master most gallantly backed ; making both the garçons, who came running in, sheer ofi, with “hippolyte’s” thumb and “alphonse’s” left ear off; next, making a stoop on the buffeting group on the floor, rent in tatters the old woman's jupon; then the old man turned up, and a fresh bite of sancho's tore out the whole seat of his striped calimancoes.— really, which way this desperate fray might have ended at last, i'm not able to say, the dog keeping thus the assassins at bay: but a few fresh arrivals decided the day; for bounce went the door, in came half a score of the passengers, sailors, and one or two more who had aided the party in gaining the shore ! it's a great many years ago-mine then were few- since i spent a short time in old courageux ; - i think that they say she had been, in her day, a first-rate, but was then what they termed a rasée,- and they took me on board in the downs, where she lay (captain wilkinson held the command, by the way). in her i picked up, on that single occasion, the little i know that concerns navigation, and obtained, inter alia, some vague information of a practice which often, in cases of robbing, is adopted on shipboard—i think it's called “cobbing.' how it's managed exactly i really can't say, the bagman'Ş dog. but i think that a bootjack is brought into play- that is, if i'm right:-it exceeds my ability to tell how 'tis done; but the system is one of which sancho's exploit would increase the facility, and, from all i can learn, i'd much rather be robbed of the little i have in my purse than be “cobbed;" that's mere matter of taste: but the frenchman was placed- i mean the old scoundrel whose actions we've traced, in such a position that, on this unmasking, his consent was the last thing the men thought of asking. the old woman, too, was obliged to go through, with her boys, the rough discipline used by the crew, who, before they let one of the set see the back of them, " cobbed” the whole party,-ay, “every man jack of them.” moral, and now, gentle reader, before that i say farewell for the present, and wish you good day, attend to the moral i draw from my lay :- if ever you travel, like anthony blogg, be wary of strangers !-don't take too much grog! and don't fall asleep, if you should, like a hog! above all, carry with you a curly-tailed dog ! lastly, don't act like blogg, who, i say it with blushing, sold sancho next month for two guineas, at flushing; but still on these words of the bard keep a fixed eye, ingratum si dixeris, omnia dixti ! l'envoye. i felt so disgusted with blogg, from sheer shame of him i never once thought to inquire what became of him; if you want to know, reader, the way, i opine, to achieve your design, - mind, it's no wish of mine, is (a penny will do 't) by addressing a line to turner, dry, weipersyde, rogers, and pine. mr. peters's story. appendix.* since penning this stanza, a learned antiquary has put my poor muse in no trifling quandary by writing an essay to prove that he knows a spot which, in truth, is the real "bermoothes," in the mediterranean,—now called lampedosa ; -for proofs, having made, as he further alleges, stir, an entry was found in the old parish register, the which at his instance the excellent vicar ex- tracted: viz., “ caliban, base son of sycorax.” --he had rather, by half, have found prospero's “staff;" but 'twas useless to dig, for the want of pick or axe.- colonel pasley, however, 'tis everywhere said, now he's blown up the old royal george at spithead, and the great cliff at dover, of which we've all read, takes his whole apparatus, and goes out to look and see if he can't try and blow up “ the book.” -gentle reader, farewell !-if i add one more line, “he'll be, in all likelihood, blowing up mine!" * see page . the ingoldsby legends. second series. to richard bentley, esq. my dear sir: you tell me that “a generous and enlightened public" has given a favorable reception to those extracts from our family papers, which, at your suggestion, were laid before it some two years since ;—and you hint, with all possible delicacy, that a second volume might not be altogether unacceptable at a period of the year when “auld-warld stories” are more especially in request. with all my heart,—the old oak chest is not yet empty; in addition to which i have recently laid my hand upon a long ms. correspondence of my great-uncle, sir pere- grine ingoldsby, a cadet of the family, who somehow contrived to attract the notice of george the second, and received from his “honor-giving hand” the accolade of knighthood. to this last-named source i am indebted for several of the accompany- ing histories, while my inestimable friend simpkinson has bent all the powers of his mighty mind to the task. from father john's stories i have drawn largely. our “honorable” friend sucklethumbkin—by the way, he has been beating our covers lately, when he shot a woodcock and one of the governor's pointers—gives a graphic account of the operatic “row" in which he was heretofore so conspicuous; while even mrs. bar- ney maguire (née mademoiselle pauline), whose horror of mrs. botherby's cap has no jot diminished, furnishes me with the opening legend of the series from the historiettes of her own belle france. ( ) preface to second series. why will you not run down to tappington this christmas ?- we have been rather busy of late carrying into execution the enclosure of swingfield minnis under the auspices of my lord radnor, and her majesty's visit to the neighborhood has kept us quite alive: the prince in one of his rides pulled up at the end of the avenue, and, as a * * told sucklethumbkin, was much taken with the picturesque appearance of our old gable ends. unluckily we were all at canterbury that morning, or proud indeed should we have been to offer his royal highness the humble hospitalities of the hall, -and then-fancy mrs. botherby's “my gracious!" by the way, the old lady tells left your nightcap here on your last visit; it is laid up in lavender for you ;-come and reclaim it. the yule log will burn bright as ever in the cedar room. bin no. is still one liquid ruby-the old october yet smiles like mantling amber, in utter disdain of that vile concoction of chamomile which you so pseudonymously dignify with the title of “bitter ale.”— make a start then ;-pitch printer's-ink to old harry,-and come and spend a fortnight with yours, till the crack of doom, thomas ingoldsby. me you tappington everard, dec. , . a legend of france. the black mousquetaire. a legend of france. canto i. franÇois xavier auguste was a gay mousque taire, the pride of the camp, the delight of the fair: he'd a mien so distingué and so debonnaire, and shrugged with a grace so recherché and rare, and he twirled his moustache with so charming an air, -his moustaches i should say, because he'd a pair,- and, in short, show'd so much of the true sçavoir faire, all the ladies in paris were wont to declare, that could any one draw them from dian's strict law, into what mrs. ramsbottom calls a “ fox paw," it would be françois xavier auguste de st. foix, now, i'm sorry to say, at that time of day the court of versailles was a little too gay; the courtiers were all much addicted to play, to bordeaux, chambertin, frontignac, st. peray, lafitte, chateau margaux, and sillery (a cargo on which john bull sensibly (?) lays an embargo, while louis quatorze kept about him, in scores, what the noblesse, in courtesy, termed his “ jane shores,” —they were called by a much coarser name out of doors. this, we all must admit, in a king's not befitting ! for such courses, when followed by persons of quality, are apt to detract on the score of morality. françois xavier auguste acted much like the rest of them, dressed, drank, and fought, and chasséed with the best of them; took oil de perdrix till he scarcely could see, he would then sally out in the streets for a “spree;" his rapier he'd draw, pink a bourgeois (a word which the english translate “ johnny raw"), the black mousquetaire. for your thorough french courtier, whenever the fit he's in, thinks it prime fun to astonish a citizen; and perhaps it's no wonder that this kind of scrapes, in a nation which voltaire, in one of his japes, defines "an amalgam of tigers and apes," should be merely considered as “ little escapes.” but i'm sorry to add, things are almost as bad a great deal nearer home, and that similar pranks amongst young men who move in the very first ranks are by no means confined to the land of the franks. be this as it will in the general, still, though blame him we must, it is really but just to our lively young friend, françois xavier auguste, to say, that howe'er well known his faults were, at his bacchanal parties he always drank fair, and, when gambling his worst, always played on the square; so that, being much more of pigeon than rook, he lost large sums at faro (a game like "blind hookey"), and continued to lose, and to give i o u's, till he lost e'en the credit he had with the jews; and, a parallel if i may venture to draw between françois xavier auguste de st. foix and his namesake, a still more distinguished françois, who wrote to his “soeur"* from pavia, “mon coeur, i have lost all i had in the world fors l'honneur.” so st. foix might have wrote no dissimilar note, “vive la bagatelle ! toujours gai-idem semper- i've lost all i had in the world but-my temper!" from the very beginning, indeed, of his sinning, his air was so cheerful, his manners so winning, that once he prevailed—or his friends coin the tale for him- on the bailiff who “nabbed” him, himself to “go bail” for him. * mrs. ingoldsby, who is deeply read in robertson, informs me that this is a mis- take; that the lady to whom this memorable billet was delivered by the hands of pen- nalosa was the unfortunate monarch's mamma, and not his sister. i would gladly rectify the error, but, then,-what am i to do for a rhyme ?-on the whole, i fear i must content myself, like talleyrand, with admitting that “it is worse than a fault- it's a blunder!" for which enormity,-as honest old pepys says when he records having kissed his cookmaid, "i humbly beg pardon of heaven," and mrs. ingoldsby. a legend of france. well-we know in these cases your“ crabs” and “ deuce aces" are wont to promote frequent changes of places; town doctors, indeed, are most apt to declare that there's nothing so good as the pure "country air," whenever exhaustion of person, or purse, in an invalid cramps him, and sets him a-cursing; a habit, i'm very much grieved at divulging, françois xavier auguste was too prone to indulge in. but what could be done? it's clear as the sun that, though nothing's more easy than say, “cut and run!” yet a guardsman can't live without some sort of fun- e'en i or you, if we'd nothing to do, should soon find ourselves looking remarkably blue. and, since no one denies what's so plain to all eyes, it won't, i am sure, create any surprise, that reflections like these half reduced to despair françois xavier auguste, the gay black mousquetaire. it's a very patience par force! he considered, of course, but in vain-he could hit on no sort of resource love?-liquor -law ?—loo? they would each of them do, there's excitement enough in all four, but in none he could hope to get on sans l'argent-i. l., money. love?- ;-ladies like little cadeaux from a suitor. liquor ?-no,—that won't do, when reduced to "the pewter." then law ?-'tis the same; fine game, but the fees and delays of “the courts” are a shame, as lord brougham says himself—who's a very great name, though the times made it clear he was perfectly lost in his classic attempt at translating demosthenes, and don't know his "particles.”- who wrote the articles, showing his greek up so, is not known very well; many thought barnes, others mitchell-some merivale; but it's scarce worth debate, because from the date of my tale one conclusion we safely may draw, viz. : 'twas not françois xavier auguste de st. foix ! the black mousquetaire. loo?-n ;-that he had tried; 'twas, in fact, his weak side, but required more than any a purse well supplied. “love?-liquor?-law?-loo? no! 'tis all the same story. stay! i have it-ma foi ! (that's 'odds bobs!') there is glory! away with dull care! vive le roi ! vive la guerre! peste! i'd almost forgot i'm a black mousquetaire ! when a man is like me, sans six sous, sans souci, a bankrupt in purse, and in character worse, with a shocking bad hat, and his credit at zero, what on earth can he hope to become, --but a hero ? what a famous thought this is ! i'll go as ulysses of old did—like him i'll see manners and know countries ;* cut paris,-and gaming, -and throats in the low countries." so said, and so done—he arranged his affairs, and was off like a shot to his black mousquetaires. now it happened just then that field-marshal turenne was a good deal in want of some active young men,” to fill up the gaps which, through sundry mishaps, had been made in his ranks by a certain “great condé," a general unrivalled—at least in his own day- whose valor was such that he did not care much if he fought with the french,-or the spaniards,-or dutch,- a fact which has stamped him a rather “cool hand,” being nearly related to louis le grand. it had been all the same had that king been his brother ; he fought sometimes with one, and sometimes with another; for war, so exciting, he took such delight in, he did not care whom he fought, so he was fighting. and, as i've just said, had amused himself then by tickling the tail of field-marshal turenne; since which, the field-marshal's most pressing concern was to tickle some other chief's tail in his turn. what a fine thing a battle is !-not one of those which one saw at the late mr. andrew ducrow's, * qui mores hominum multorum vidit et urbes. who viewed men's manners, londons, yorks, and derbys. a legend of france. where a dozen of scene-shifters, drawn up in rows, would a dozen more scene-shifters boldly oppose, taking great care their blows did not injure their foes, and alike, save in color and cut of their clothes, which were varied to give more effect to “ tableaux," while stickney the great flung the gauntlet to fate, and made us all tremble, so gallantly did he come on to encounter bold general widdicombe- but a real good fight, like pultowa, or lützen (which gustavus the great ended all his disputes in), or that which suwarrow engaged without boots in, or dettingen, fontenoy, blenheim, or minden, or the one mr. campbell describes, hohenlinden, where “the sun was low," the ground all over snow, and dark as mid-winter the swift iser's flow,- till its color was altered by general moreau : while the big drum was heard in the dead of the night, which rattled the bard out of bed in a fright, and he ran up the steeple to look at the fight. 'twas in just such another one (names only bother one- dutch ones indeed are sufficient to smother one), in the netherlands somewhere i cannot say where suffice it that there la fortune de guerre gave a cast of her calling to our mousquetaire. one fine morning, in short, françois xavier auguste, after making some scores of his foes“ bite the dust," got a mouthful himself of the very same crust; and though, as the bard says, “no law is more just than for necis artifices,"—so they called fiery soldados at rome,—"arte suâ perire,” yet fate did not draw this poetical law to its fullest extent in the case of st. foix. his good genius most probably found out some flaw, and diverted the shot from some deadlier spot to a bone which, i think, to the best of my memory, 's called by professional men the“ os femoris ;" the black mousquetaire. and the ball being one of those named from its shape, and some fancied resemblance it bears to the grape, st. foix went down, with a groan and a frown, and a hole in his small-clothes the size of a crown. -staggered a bit by this “palpable hit," he turned on his face, and went off in a fit. yes! a battle's a very fine thing while you're fighting, these same ups and downs are so very exciting. but a sombre sight is a battle-field to the sad survivor's sorrowing eye, where those, who scorned to fly or yield, in one promiscuous carnage lie; when the cannon's roar is heard no more, and the thick dun smoke has rolled away, and the victor comes for a last survey of the well-fought field of yesterday ! no triumphs flush that haughty brow,- no proud exulting look is there, - his eagle glance is humbled now, as, earthward bent, in anxious care it seeks the form whose stalwart pride but yester-morn was by its side! and there it lies !-on yonder bank of corses, which themselves had breath but yester-morn-now cold and dank with other dews than those of death! powerless as it had ne'er been born the hand that clasped his-yester-morn! and there are widows wand'ring there, that roam the blood-besprinkled plain, and listen in their dumb despair for sounds they ne'er may hear again! one word, however faint and low,- ay, e’en a groan,—were music now! a legend of france. and this is glory!-fame! but, pshaw ! miss muse, you're growing sentimental; besides, such things we never saw; in fact they're merely continental. and then your ladyship forgets some widows came for epaulettes. so go back to your canter; for one, i declare, is now fumbling about our capsized mousquetaire, a beetle-browed hag, with a knife and a bag, and an old tattered bonnet which, thrown back, discloses the ginger complexion, and one of those noses peculiar to females named levy and moses, such as nervous folks still, when they come in their way, shun, old vixen-faced tramps of the hebrew persuasion. you remember, i trust, françois xavier auguste had uncommon fine limbs, and a very fine bust. now there's something—i cannot tell what it may be- about good-looking gentlemen turned twenty-three, above all when laid up with a wound in the knee, which affects female hearts in no common degree, with emotions in which many feelings combine, very easy to fancy, though hard to define; ugly or pretty, stupid or witty, young or old, they experience, in country or city, what's clearly not love-yet it's warmer than pity- and some such a feeling, no doubt, 'tis that stays the hand you may see that old jezebel raise, armed with the blade so oft used in her trade, the horrible calling e'en now she is plying, despoiling the dead, and despatching the dying! for these "nimble conveyancers," after such battles, regarding as treasure trove all goods and chattels, think nought, in “perusing and settling" the titles, so safe as six inches of steel in the vitals. the black mousquetaire. now don't make a joke of that feeling i spoke of; for, as sure as you're born, that same feeling, -whate'er it may be,-saves the life of the young mousquetaire! - the knife, that was levelled erewhile at his throat, is employed now in ripping the lace from his coat, and from what, i suppose, i must call his culotte; and his pockets, no doubt, being turned inside out, that his mouchoir and gloves may be put “up the spout” (for of coin, you may well conceive, all she can do fails to ferret out even a single écu); as a muscular giant would handle an elf, the virago at last lifts the soldier himself, and, like a she-samson, at length lays him down in a hospital formed in the neighboring town! i am not very sure, but i think 'twas namur; and there she now leaves him, expecting a cure. canto ii. i abominate physic–i care not who knows that there's nothing on earth i detest like “a dose," — that yellowish-green-looking fluid, whose hue i consider extremely unpleasant to view, with its sickly appearance, that trenches so near on what homer defines the complexion of fear; xopov deos, i mean, a nasty pale green, though for want of some word that may better avail, i presume, our translators have rendered it “pale;" for consider the cheeks of those“ well-booted greeks,” their egyptian descent was a question of weeks ; their complexion, of course, like a half-decayed leek's; and you'll see in an instant the thing that i mean in it, a greek face in a funk had a good deal of green in it. i repeat, i abominate physic; but then, if folks will go campaigning about with such men as the great prince de condé and marshal turenne, they may fairly expect to be now and then checked a legend of france. by a bullet, or sabre-cut. then their best solace is found, i admit, in green potions and boluses; so, of course, i don't blame st. foix, wounded and lame, if he swallowed a decent quant. suff. of the same; though i'm told, in such cases it's not the french plan to pour in their drastics as fast as they can, the practice of many an english savan, but to let off a man with a little ptisanne, and gently to chafe the patella (knee-pan). “oh, woman!" sir walter observes, “when the brow 's wrung with pain, what a minist'ring angel art thou !" thou’rt a “minist'ring angel” in no less degree, i can boldly assert, when the pain's in the knee: and medical friction is, past contradiction, much better performed by a she than a he. a fact which, indeed, comes within my own knowledge, for i well recollect, when a youngster at college, and, therefore, can quote a surgeon of note, mr. grosvenor of oxford, who not only wrote on the subject a very fine treatise, but, still as his patients came in, certain soft-handed phyllises were at once set to work on their legs, arms, and backs, and rubbed out their complaints in a couple of cracks.- now, they say, to this day, when sick people can't pay on the continent, many of this kind of nurses attend, without any demand on their purses ; and these females, some old, others still in their teens, some call “sisters of charity," others “beguines.” they don't take the vows; but, half nun and half lay, attend you; and when you've got better, they say, “you're exceedingly welcome! there's nothing to pay. our task is now done; you are able to run. we never take money; we cure you for fun!” then they drop you a court'sy, and wish you good day, and go off to cure somebody else the same way. the black mousquetaire. -a great many of these, at the date of my tale, in namur walk'd the hospitals, workhouse, and jail. among them was one, a most sweet demi-nun, her cheek pensive and pale; tresses bright as the sun,- not carroty-no; though you'd fancy you saw burn such locks as the greeks loved, which moderns call auburn. these were partially seen through the veil which they wore all, her teeth were of pearl, and her lips were of coral; her eye-lashes silken; her eyes, fine large blue ones, were sapphires (i don't call these similes new ones; but, in metaphors, freely confess i've a leaning to such, new or old, as convey best one's meaning).- then, for figure! in faith it was downright barbarity to muffle a form might an anchoret warm in the fusty stuff gown soeur de la charité ; and no poet could fancy, no painter could draw, one more perfect in all points, more free from a flaw, than hers who now sits by the couch of st. foix, chafing there, with such care, and so dove-like an air, his leg, till her delicate fingers are charred with the steer's opodeldoc, joint-oil, and goulard; -their dutch appellations are really too hard to be brought into verse by a transmarine bard.— of a when a young now you'll see, and agree, i am certain, with me, man's laid up with a wound in his knee, and a lady sits there, on a rush-bottomed chair, to hand him the mixtures his doctors prepare, and a bit of lump-sugar to make matters square; above all, when the lady's remarkably fair, and the wounded young man is a gay mousquetaire, it's a ticklish affair, you may swear, for the pair, and may lead on to mischief before they're aware. i really don't think, spite of what friends would call his “ penchant for liaisons,” and graver men follies” a legend of france. (for my own part, i think planting thorns on their pillows, and leaving poor maidens to weep and wear willows, is not to be classed among mere peccadilloes), his “faults,” i should say—i don't think françois xavier entertained any thoughts of improper behavior tow'rds his nurse, or that once to induce her tỏ sin he meant while superintending his draughts and his liniment: but, as he grew stout, and was getting about, thoughts came into his head that had better been out; while cupid's an urchin we know deserves birching, he's so prone to delude folks, and leave them the lurch in. 'twas doubtless his doing that absolute ruin was the end of all poor dear therèse's shampooing.-- 'tis a subject i don't like to dwell on; but such things will happen-ay, e’en 'mongst the phlegmatic dutch. “when woman,” as goldsmith declares, “stoops to folly, and finds out too late that false man can betray,” she is apt to look dismal, and grow “ melancholy," and, in short, to be anything rather than gay. he goes on to remark that “to punish her lover, wring his bosom, and draw the tear into his eye, there is but one method” which he can discover that’s likely to answer—that one is “to die!” he's wrong—the wan and withering cheek; the thin lips, pale, and drawn apart; the dim yet tearless eyes, that speak the misery of the breaking heart; the wasted form, th' enfeebled tone that whispering mocks the pitying ear; th' imploring glances heavenward thrown, as heedless, helpless, hopeless here; these wring the false one's heart enough, if “made of penetrable stuff.” and poor therèse thus pines and decays, till, stung with remorse, st. foix takes a post-chaise the black mousquetaire. with, for “wheelers,” two bays, and, for “ leaders,” two grays, and soon reaches france, by the help of relays. flying shabbily off from the sight of his victim, and driving as fast as if old nick had kicked him. she, poor sinner, grows thinner and thinner, leaves off eating breakfast, and luncheon, and dinner, till you'd really suppose she could have nothing in her.- one evening—'twas just as the clock struck eleven- they saw she'd been sinking fast ever since seven, - she breathed one deep sigh, threw one look up to heaven, and all was o'er ! poor therèse was no more- she was gone !—the last breath that she managed to draw escaped in one half-uttered word—'twas “st. foix !” who can fly from himself? bitter cares, when you feel 'em, are not cured by travel-as horace says, “ colum non animum mutant qui currunt trans mare !" it's climate, not mind, that by roaming men vary- remorse for temptation to which you have yielded is a shadow you can't sell as peter schlemil did his ; it haunts you for ever min bed and at board,- ay, e'en in your dreams. and you can't find, it seems, any proof that a guilty man ever yet snored ! it is much if he slumbers at all, which but few, -françois xavier auguste was an instance,-can do. indeed, from the time he committed the crime which cut off poor sister therese in her prime, he was not the same man that he had been-his plan was quite changed--in wild freaks he no more led the van; he'd scarce sleep a wink in a week; but sit thinking, from company shrinking— he quite gave up drinking. at the mess-table, too, where now seldom he came, fish, fricassee, fricandeau, potage, or game, dindon aux truffes, or turbot à la crême, no!-he still shook his head,- it was always the same, still he never complained that the cook was to blame ! a legend of france. 'twas his appetite failed him—no matter how rare and recherché the dish, how delicious the fare, what he used to like best he no longer could bear; but he'd there sit and stare with an air of despair; took no care, but would wear boots that wanted repair ; irt too! you'd think he'd no linen to spare. he omitted to shave; he neglected his hair, and looked more like a guy than a gay mousquetaire. ich a a one thing, above all, most excited remark; in the evening he seldom sat long after dark. not that then, as of yore, he'd go out for “ lark” with his friends; but when they, after taking café, would have broiled bones and kidneys brought in on a tray, -which i own i consider a very good way, if a man's not dyspeptic, to wind up the day,- no persuasion on earth could induce him to stay; but he'd take up his candlestick, just nod his head, by way of “good evening !" and walk off to bed. yet even when there he seem'd no better off, for he'd wheeze, and he'd sneeze, and he'd hem, and he'd cough. and they'd hear him all night, sometimes sobbing out- right, while his valet, who often endeavored to peep, declared that “his master was never asleep! but would sigh, and would groan, slap his forehead, and weep; that about ten o'clock his door he would lock, and then never would open it, let who would knock ! he had heard him," he said, “sometimes jump out of bed, and talk as if speaking to one who was dead ! he'd groan, and he'd moan, in so piteous a tone, begging some one or other to let him alone, that it really would soften the heart of a stone to hear him exclaim so, and call upon heaven; then, the bother began always just at eleven!" françois xavier auguste, as i've told you before, i believe, was a popular man in his corps, the black mousquetaire. and his comrades, not one of whom knew of the nun, now began to consult what was best to be done. count cordon bleu and the sieur de la roue confessed they did not know at all what to do: but the chevalier hippolyte hector achille alphonse stanislaus emile de grandville made a fervent appeal to the zeal they must feel for their friend, so distinguished an officer, 's weal. “the first thing,” he said, “was to find out the matter that bored their poor friend so, and caused all this clatter- mort de ma vie !" —here he took some rappee- “be the cause what it may, he shall tell it to me!”— he was right, sure enough-in a couple of days he worms out the whole story of sister therèse, now entomb'd, poor dear soul! in some dutch père la chaise. -"but the worst thing of all,” françois xavier declares, “is, whenever i've taken my candle up stairs, there's therèse sitting thereupon one of those chairs ! such a frown, too, she wears, and so frightfully glares, that i'm really prevented from saying my pray’rs, while an odor,--the very reverse of perfume,- more like rhubarb or senna, pervades the whole room !” hector achille stanislaus emile, when he heard him talk so felt an odd sort of feel ; not that he cared for ghosts—he was far too genteel- still a queerish sensation came on when he saw him whom, for fun, they'd, by way of a pun on his person and principles, nicknamed sans foi, a man whom they had, you see, marked as a sadducee, - in his horns, all at once, so completely to draw, and to talk of a ghost, with such manifest awek- it excited the chevalier grandville's surprise; he shrugged up his shoulders, he turned up his eye , and he thought with himself that he could not do less than lay the whole matter before the whole mess. repetition's detestable ;- so, as you're best able, paint to yourself the effect at the mess-table- a legend of france. how the bold brigadiers pricked up their ears, and received the account, some with fears, some with sneers. how the sieur de la roue said to count cordon bleu, “ma foi ! c'est bien dróle-monseigneur, what say you ?”— how count cordon bleu declared he "thought so too;"— how the colonel affirmed that “the case was quite new;"- how the captains and majors began to lay wagers how far the ghost part of the story was true; how, at last, when asked “what was the best thing to do ?” everybody was silent,-for nobody knew - and how, in the end, they said, “no one could deal with the matter so well, from his prudence and zeal, as the gentleman who was the first to reveal this strange story-viz., hippolyte hector achille alphonse stanislaus emile de grandville !" i need scarcely relate the plans, little and great, which came into the chevalier hippolyte's pate to rescue his friend from his terrible foes, those mischievous imps, whom the world, i suppose from extravagant notions respecting their hue, has strangely agreed to denominate “blue," inasmuch as his schemes were of no more avail than those he had, early in life, found to fail, when he strove to lay salt on some little bird's tail. in vain did he try with strong waters to ply his friend, on the ground that he never could spy such a thing as a ghost, with a drop in his eye; st. foix never would drink now unless he was dry; besides, what the vulgar call “sucking the monkey' has much less effect on a man when he's funky. in vain did he strive to detain him at table till his “ dark hour” was over-he never was able, save once, when at mess, with that sort of address which the british call “ humbug," and frenchmen “ finesse" (it's “blarney” in irish–i don't know the scotch), he fell to admiring his friend's english watch.* * "tompion's, i presume?"-farquhar. the black mousquetaire. he examined the face, and the back of the case, and the young lady's portrait there, done on enamel, he “saw by the likeness was one of the family;" cried “superbe !—magnifique !" (with his tongue in his cheek)- then he opened the case, just to take a peep in it, and seized the occasion to pop back the minute hand. with a demi-congé, and a shrug, and a grin, he returns the bijou, and—c'est une affaire finie- i've done him,” thinks he, “ now, i'll wager a guinea!" it happened that day they were all very gay, 'twas the grand monarque's birthday—that is, 'twas st. louis's, which in catholic countries, of course, they would view as his- so when hippolyte saw him about to withdraw, he cried, “ come—that won't do, my fine fellow, st. foix,- give us five minutes longer, and drink vive le roi !" françois xavier auguste, without any mistrust of the trick that was played, drew his watch from his fob, just glanced at the hour, then agreed to "hob-nob," filled a bumper, and rose with “messieurs, i propose”- he paused-his blanched lips failed to utter the toast. 'twas eleven !-he thought it half-past ten at most- ev'ry limb, nerve, and muscle grew stiff as a post, - his jaw dropped-his eyes swelled to twice their own size and he stood as a pointer would stand-at a ghost ! -then shrieked, as he fell on the floor like a stone, “ah! sister therèse! now do let me alone!” it's amazing by sheer perseverance what men do,- as water wears stone by the “ sæpe cadendo,” if they stick to lord somebody's motto, “agendo !” was it not robert bruce?-i declare i've forgot, but i think it was robert-you'll find it in scott- who, when cursing dame fortune, was taught by a spider, “she's sure to come round, if you will but abide her.” a legend of france. then another great rob, called white-headed bob,” whom i once saw receive such a thump on the “nob” from a fist which might almost an elephant brain, that i really believed, at the first, he was slain, for he lay like a log on his back on the plain, till a gentleman present accustomed to train drew out a small lancet, and opened a vein just below his left eye, which relieving the pain, he stood up like a trump, with an air of disdain, , while his " backer” was fain,- for he could not refrain (he was dressed in pea-green, with a pin and gold chain, and i think i heard somebody call him “squire hayne"),- to whisper ten words one should always retain, -“ take a suck at the lemon and at him again!!!”— a hint ne’er surpassed, though thus spoken at random, since teucer's apostrophe-nil desperandum ! granville acted on it, and ordered his tandem. he had heard st. foix say, that no very great way from namur was a snug little town called grandpré, near which, a few miles from the banks of the maese, dwelt a pretty twin-sister of poor dear therèse, of the same age, of course, the same father, same mother, and as like to therèse as one pea to another ; she lived with her mamma, having lost her papa, late of contraband schnapps an unlicensed distiller, and her name was des moulins (in english, miss miller). now, though hippolyte hector could hardly expect her to feel much regard for her sister's “protector," when she'd seen him so shamefully leave and neglect her; still, he very well knew in this world there are few but are ready much christian forgiveness to show, for other folk's wrongs—if well paid so to do- and he'd seen to what acts “ res angusta" compel beaux and belles, whose affairs have once got out at elbows, with the magic effect of a handful of crowns upon people whose pockets boast nothing but "browns :" the black mousquetaire. a few francs well applied he'd no doubt would decide miss agnes des moulins to jump up and ride as far as head-quarters, next day, by his side; for the distance was nothing, to speak by comparison, to the town where the mousquetaires now lay in garrison; then he thought, by the aid of a veil, and gown made like those worn by the lady his friend had betrayed, they might dress up miss agnes so like to the shade, which he fancied he saw, of that poor injured maid, come each night, with her pale face, his guilt to upbraid, that if once introduced to his room, thus arrayed, and then unmasked as soon as she'd long enough stayed, 'twould be no very difficult task to persuade him the whole was a scurvy trick, cleverly played, out of spite and revenge, by a mischievous jade! with respect to the scheme—though i do not call that a gem- still i've known soldiers adopt a worse stratagem, and that, too, among the decided approvers of general sir david dundas's “manœuvres." there's a proverb, however, i've always thought clever, which my grandmother never was tired of repeating, “the proof of the pudding is found in the eating!" we shall see, in the sequel, how hector achille had mixed up the suet and plums for his meal. the night had set in ;—'twas a dark and a gloomy one: - off went st. foix to his chamber; a roomy one, five stories high, the first floor from the sky, and lofty enough to afford great facility for playing a game, with the youthful nobility, of "crack corps," a deal in request, when they're feeling, in dull country quarters, ennui on them stealing; a wet wafer's applied to a sixpence's side, then it's spun with the thumb up to stick on the ceiling; intellectual amusement, which custom allows old troops,- i've seen it here practiced at home by our household troops. he'd a table, and bed, and three chairs; and all's said.- a legend of france. a bachelor's barrack, where'er you discern it, you're sure not to find oyerburdened with furniture. françois xavier auguste locked and bolted his door with just the same caution he'd practiced before; little he knew that the count cordon bleu, with hector achille, and the sieur de la roue, had been up there before him, and drawn ev'ry screw! and now comes the moment-the watches and clocks all point to eleven !--the bolts and the locks give way—and the party turn out their bag-fox ! - : with step noiseless and light, though half in a fright, a cup in her left hand, a draught in her right, in her robe long and black, and her veil long and white, ma'amselle agnes des moulins walks in as a sprite ! she approaches the bed with the same silent tread, just as though she had been at least half a year dead ! then seating herself on the “rush-bottomed chair,” throws a cold stony glance on the black mousquetaire. * if you're one of the “play-going public,” kind reader, and not a moravian or rigid seceder, you've seen mr. kean, i mean in that scene of macbeth,-by some thought the crack one of the piece, which has been so well painted by mr. maclise, - when he wants, after having stood up to say grace,* to sit down to his haggis, and can't find a place; you remember his stare at the high-backed arm-chair, where the ghost sits that nobody else knows is there, and how, after saying “what man dares i dare!" he proceeds to declare he should not so much care if it came in the shape of a “tiger” or “ bear,” but he don't like it shaking its long gory hair! while the obstinate ghost, as determined to brave him, * “now, good digestion wait on appetite, and health on both."-macbeth. the black mousquetaire. with a horrible grin, sits and cocks up his chin, just as though he was asking the tyrant to shave him. and lennox and rosse seem quite at a loss if they ought to go on with their sheep's head and sauce; and lady macbeth looks uncommonly cross, and says in a huff, it's all “proper stuff!”— all this you'll have seen, reader, often enough; so perhaps 'twill assist you in forming some notion of what must have been françois xavier's emotion if you fancy what troubled macbeth to be doubled, and, instead of one banquo to stare in his face without “speculation,” suppose he'd a brace ! i wish i'd poor fuseli's pencil, who ne'er i bel- ieve was exceeded in painting the terrible, or that of sir joshua reynolds, who was so a- droit in depicting it-vide his piece descriptive of cardinal beaufort's decease, where that prelate is lying, decidedly dying, with the king and his suite standing just at his feet, and his hands, as dame quickly says, fumbling the sheet; while, close at his ear, with the air of a scorner, “busy, meddling” old nick's grinning up in the corner. but painting's an art i confess i am raw in, the fact is, i never took lessons in drawing; had i done so, instead of the lines you have read, i'd have giv’n you a sketch should have filled you with dread! françois xavier auguste squatting up in his bed, his hands widely spread, his complexion like lead, ev'ry hair that he has standing up on his head, as when, agnes des moulins first catching his view, now right, and now left, rapid glances he threw, then shrieked with a wild and unearthly holloo, “ mon dieu ! v'là deux! by the pope there two! ! !” are he fell back-one long aspiration he drew. in flew de la roue, and count cordon bleu, a legend of france. pommade, pomme-de-terre, and the rest of their crew: he stirred not, -he spoke not, -he none of them knew! and achille cried, "odzooks! i fear by his looks, our friend, françois xavier, has popped off the hooks!" 'twas too true! malheureux! it was done! he had ended his earthly career,- he had gone off at once with a flea in his ear: - the black mousquetaire was as dead as small-beer! l'envoye. a moral more in point i scarce could hope than this, from mr. alexander pope :- if ever chance should bring some cornet gay and pious maid, -as possibly it may,- from knightsbridge barracks, and the shades serene of clapham rise, as far as kensal green, - o’er some pale marble when they join their heads to kiss the falling tears each other sheds, oh! may they pause, and think, in silent awe, he, that he reads the words “ci git st. foix !” she, that the tombstone which her eye surveys bears this sad line, —“hic jacet sour therèse!"- then shall they sigh and weep, and murmuring say, “oh! may we never play such tricks as they !"- and if at such a time some bard there be, some sober bard, addicted much to tea and sentimental song-like ingoldsby- if such there be, who sings and sips so well, let him this sad, this tender story tell ! warned by the tale, the gentle pair shall boast, "i've 'scaped the broken heart!"-"and i the ghost !" sir rupert the fearless. the next in order of these “lays of many lands” refers to a period far earlier in point of date, and has for its scene the banks of what our teutonic friends are wont to call their "own imperial river.” the incidents which it records afford sufficient proof (and these are days of demonstration) that a propensity to flirtation is not confined to age or country, and that its consequences were not less disastrous to the mail-clad ritter of the dark ages than to the silken courtier of the sev- enteenth century. the whole narrative bears about it the stamp of truth; and from the papers among which it was dis- covered, i am inclined to think it must have been picked up by sir peregrine in the course of one of his valetudinary visits to “the german spa." sir rupert the fearless. a legend of germany. sir ir rupert the fearless, a gallant young knight, was equally ready to tipple or fight, crack a crown, or a bottle, cut sirloin, or throttle! in brief, or, as hume says, “to sum up the tottle,” unstained by dishonor, unsullied by fear, all his neighbors pronounced him a preux chevalier. despite these perfections, corporeal and mental, he had one slight defect, viz., a rather lean rental ; besides, as ’tis owned there are spots in the sun, so it must be confessed that sir rupert had one; being rather unthinking, he'd scarce sleep a wink in a night, but addict himself sadly to drinking, and, what moralists say is as naughty, to play,- to rouge et noir, hazard, short whist, ecarté ; till these, and a few less defensible fancies, brought the knight to the end of his slender finances. a legend of germany. when at length, through his boozing, . and tenants refusing their rents, swearing “ times were so bad they were losing," his steward said, “oh, sir, it's some time ago, sir, since aught through my hands reached the baker or grocer, and the tradesmen in general are grown great complainers,” sir rupert the brave thus addressed his retainers : “my friends, since the stock of my father's old hock is out, with the kürchwasser, barsac, moselle, and we're fairly reduced to the pump and the well, i presume to suggest, we shall all find it best for each to shake hands with his friends ere he goes, mount his horse, if he has one, and—follow his nose; as to me, i opine, left sans money or wine, my best way is to throw myself into the rhine, where pitying trav'llers may sigh, as they cross over, 'though he lived a roué, yet he died a philosopher.'” the knight, having bowed out his friends thus politely, got into his skiff, the full moon shining brightly, by the light of whose beam he soon spied on the stream a dame, whose complexion was fair as new cream; pretty pink silken hose cover'd ankles and toes, in other respects she was scanty of clothes ; for, so says tradition, both written and oral, her one garment was looped up with bunches of coral. full sweetly she sang to a sparkling guitar, with silver chords stretched over derbyshire spar, and she smiled on the knight, who, amazed at the sight, soon found his astonishment merged in delight; but the stream by degrees now rose up to her knees, till at length it invaded her very chemise, while the heavenly strain, as the wave seemed to swallow her, and slowly she sank, sounded fainter and hollower. -- jumping up in his boat, and discarding his coat, “here goes,” cried sir rupert, “by jingo, i'll follow her!” then into the water he plunged with a souse that was heard quite distinctly by those in the house. sir rupert the fearless. down, down, forty fathom and more from the brink, sir rupert the fearless continues to sink, and, as downward he goes, still the cold water flows through his ears, and his eyes, and his mouth, and his nose, till the rum and the brandy he'd swallowed since lunch wanted nothing but lemon to fill him with punch; some minutes elapsed since he entered the flood, ere his heels touched the bottom, and stuck in the mud. but oh! what a sight met the eyes of the knight, when he stood in the depth of the stream bolt upright ! - a grand stalactite hall, like the cave of fingal, rose above and about him ;-great fishes and small came thronging around him, regardless of danger, and seemed all agog for a peep at the stranger. their figures and forms to describe language fails— they'd such very odd heads, and such very odd tails; of their genus or species a sample to gain, you would ransack all hungerford market in vain; e'en the famed mr. myers would scarcely find buyers, though hundreds of passengers doubtless would stop to stare, were such monsters exposed in his shop. but little recked rupert these queer-looking brutes, or the efts and the newts that crawled up his boots. for a sight, beyond any of which i've made mention, in a moment completely absorbed his attention. a huge crystal bath, which, with water far clearer than george robins' filters, or thorpe's (which are dearer), have ever distilled, to the summit was filled, lay stretched out before him,-and every nerve thrilled as scores of young women were diving and swimming, till the vision a perfect quandary put him in ;- all slightly accoutred in gauzes and lawns, they came floating about him like so many prawns. sir rupert, who (barring the few peccadilloes alluded to) ere he leapt into the billows a legend of germany. possessed irreproachable morals, began to feel rather queer, as a modest young man ; when forth stepped a dame, whom he recognized soon as the one he had seen by the light of the moon, and lisped, while a soft smile attended each sentence, “sir rupert, i'm happy to make your acquaintance; my name is lurline, and the ladies you've seen all do me the honor to call me their queen; i'm delighted to see you, sir, down in the rhine here, and hope you can make it convenient to dine here." the knight blushed and bowed as he ogled the crowd of subaqueous beauties, then answered aloud: ma'am, you do me much honor, i cannot express the delight i shall feel—if you'll pardon my dress.— may i venture to say, when a gentleman jumps in the river at midnight for want of the dumps,' he rarely puts on his knee-breeches and pumps ; if i could but have guessed—what i sensibly feel- your politeness, i'd not have come en deshabille, but have put on my silk tights in lieu of my steel.” quoth the lady, “dear sir, no apologies, pray, you will take our pot-luck' in the family way; we can give you a dish of some decentish fish, and our water's thought fairish; but here in the rhine i can't say we pique ourselves much on our wine.” the knight made a bow more profound than before, when a dory-faced page oped the dining-room door, and said, bending his knee, “madame, on a servi !" rupert tendered his arm, led lurline to her place, and a fat little merman stood up and said grace. what boots it to tell of the viands, or how she apologized much for their plain water-souchy, want of harvey's, and crosse's, and burgess's sauces ? or how rupert, on bis side, protested, by jove, he preferred his fish plain, without soy or anchovy. sir rupert the fearless. suffice it the meal boasted trout, perch, and eel, besides some remarkably fine salmon peel. the knight, sooth to say, thought much less of the fishes than of what they were served on, the massive gold dishes ; while his eye, as it glanced now and then on the girls, was caught by their persons much less than their pearls, and a thought came across him and caused him to muse, “if i could but get hold of some of that gold, i might manage to pay off my rascally jews!” when dinner was done, at a sign to the lasses, the table was cleared, and they put on fresh glasses ; then the lady addrest her redoubtable guest much as dido, of old, did the pious Æneas, “dear sir, what induced you to come down and see us ?”– rupert gave her a glance most bewitchingly tender, lolled back in his chair, put his toes on the fender, and told her outright, how that he, a young knight, had never been last at a feast or a fight; but that keeping good cheer, every day in the year, and drinking neat wines all the same as small-beer, had exhausted his rent, and, his money all spent, how he borrowed large sums at two hundred per cent. ; how they followed-and then, the once civillest of men, messrs. howard and gibbs, made him bitterly rue it he 'd ever raised money by way of annuity; and, his mortgages being about to foreclose, how he jumped in the river to finish his woes ! lurline was affected, and owned, with a tear, that a story so mournful had ne'er met her ear; rupert, hearing her sigh, looked uncommonly sly, and said, with some emphasis, “ah! miss, had i a few pounds of those metals you waste here on kettles, then, lord once again of my spacious domain, a free count of the empire once more i might reign, with lurline at my side, my adorable bride (for the parson should come, and the knot should be tied); a legend of germany. no couple so happy.on earth should be seen as sir rupert the brave and his charming lurline; not that money's my object-no, hang it! i scorn it- and as for my rank-but that you'd so adorn it- i'd abandon it all to remain your true thrall, and instead of the great,' be called 'rupert the small;" – to gain but your smiles, were i sardanapalus, i'd descend from my throne, and be boots at an alehouse."* lurline hung her head, turned pale, and then red, growing faint at this sudden proposal to wed, as though his abruptness, in “popping the question so soon after dinner, disturbed her digestion. then, averting her eye, with a lover-like sigh, “you are welcome," she murmured in tones most bewitching, " to every utensil i have in my kitchen !” up started the knight, half mad with delight, round her finely-formed waist he immediately placed one arm, which the lady most closely embraced, of her lily-white fingers the other made capture, and he pressed his adored to his bosom with rapture. “and, oh !” he exclaimed, “ let them go catch my skiff, i 'll be home in a twinkling and back in a jiffy, nor one moment procrastinate longer my journey than to put up the banns and kick out the attorney.” one kiss to her lip, and one squeeze to her hand, and sir rupert already was half way to land, for a sour-visaged triton, with features would frighten old nick, caught him up in one hand, though no light one, sprang up through the waves, popped him into his funny, which some others already had half filled with money; in fact, 'twas so heavily laden with ore and pearls, 'twas a mercy he got it to shore: but sir rupert was strong, and while pulling along, still he heard, faintly sounding, the water-nymphs' song. * "sardanapalus” and “boots,” the zenith and nadir of human society. sir rupert the fearless. lay of the naiads. “away! away! to the mountain's brow, where the castle is darkly frowning; and the vassals, all in goodly row, weep for their lord a-drowning! away! away! to the steward's room, where law with its wig and robe is; throw us out john doe and richard roe, and sweetly we'll tickle their tobies !” the unearthly voices scarce had ceased their yelling, when rupert reached his old baronial dwelling. what rejoicing was there! how the vassals did stare! the old housekeeper put a clean shirt down to air, for she saw by her lamp that her master's was damp, and she feared he'd catch cold, and lumbago and cramp; but, scorning what she did, the knight never heeded wet jacket or trousers, nor thought of repining, since their pockets had got such a delicate lining. but oh! what dismay filled the tribe of ca sa, when they found he'd the cash, and intended to pay ! away went "cognovits," " bills," " bonds,” and “escheats," -- rupert cleared off all scores, and took proper receipts. now no more he sends out for pots of brown stout, or schnapps, but resolves to do henceforth without, abjure from this hour all excess and ebriety, enrol himself one of a temp'rance society, all riot eschew, begin life anew, and new-cushion and hassock the family pew! nay, to strengthen him more in his new mode of life, he boldly determines to take him a wife. now, many would think that the knight, from a nice sense of honor, should put lurline's name in the license, a legend of germany. and that, for a man of his breeding and quality, to break faith and troth, confirmed by an oath, is not quite consistent with rigid morality; but whether the nymph was forgot, or he thought her from her essence scarce wife, but at best wife-and-water, and declined, as unsuited, a bride so diluted- be this as it may, he, i'm sorry to say (for, all things considered, i own 'twas a rum thing), made proposals in form to miss una von-something (her name has escaped me), sole heiress and niece to a highly respectable justice of peace. “thrice happy's the wooing that's not long a-doing!” so much time is saved in the billing and cooing- the ring is now bought, the white favors, and gloves, and all the et cetera which crown people's loves ; a magnificent bride-cake comes home from the baker, and lastly appears, from the german long acre, that shaft which the sharpest in all cupid's quiver is, a plum-colored coach, and rich pompadour liveries. 'twas a comely sight to behold the knight, with his beautiful bride dressed all in white, and the bridesmaids fair with their long lace veils, as they all walked up to the altar rails, while nice little boys, the incense dispensers, marched in front with white surplices, bands, and gilt censers. with a gracious air, and a smiling look, mess john had opened his awful book, and had read so far as to ask if to wed he meant, and if “ he knew any just cause of impediment,” when from base to turret the castle shook!!! then came a sound of a mighty rain dashing against each storied pane, the wind blew loud, and a coal-black cloud o'ershadowed the church, and the party, and crowd; how it could happen they could not divine, the morning had been so remarkably fine! sir rupert the fearless. still the darkness increased, till it reached such a pass that the sextoness hastened to turn on the gas; but harder it poured, and the thunder roared as if heaven and earth were coming together : none ever had witnessed such terrible weather. now louder it crashed, and the lightning flashed, exciting the fears of the sweet little dears in the veils, as it danced on the brass chandeliers; the parson ran off, though a stout-hearted saxon, when he found that a flash had set fire to his caxon. though all the rest trembled, as might be expected, sir rupert was perfectly cool and collected, and endeavored to cheer his bride, in her ear whisp’ring tenderly, “pray don't be frightened, my dear; should it even set fire to the castle, and burn it, you're amply insured both for buildings and furniture.” but now, from without, a trustworthy scout rushed hurriedly in, wet through to the skin, informing his master "the river was rising, and flooding the grounds in a way quite surprising.” he'd no time to say more, for already the roar of the waters was heard as they reached the church-door, while, high on the first wave that rolled in, was seen, riding proudly, the form of the angry lurline; and all might observe, by her glance fierce and stormy, she was stung by the spretæ injuria forma. what she said to the knight, what she said to the bride, what she said to the ladies who stood by her side, what she said to the nice little boys in white clothes, oh, nobody mentions,—for nobody knows; for the roof tumbled in, and the walls tumbled out, and the folks tumbled down, all confusion and rout; the rain kept on pouring, the flood kept on roaring, the billows and water-nymphs rolled more and more in; ere the close of the day all was clean washed away- a legend of germany. one only survived who could hand down the news, a little old woman that opened the pews; she was borne off, but stuck, by the greatest good luck, in an oak-tree, and there she hung, crying and screaming, and saw all the rest swallowed up the wild stream in. in vain, all the week, did the fishermen seek for the bodies, and poke in each cranny and creek ; in vain was their search after aught in the church, they caught nothing but weeds, and perhaps a few perch; the humane society tried a variety of methods, and brought down, to drag for the wreck, tackles, but they only fished up the clerk's tortoise-shell spectacles. moral. this tale has a moral. ye youths, oh, beware of liquor, and how you run after the fair! shun playing at shorts—avoid quarrels and jars— and don't take to smoking those nasty cigars ! -let no run of bad luck, or despair for some jewess-eyed damsel, induce you to contemplate suicide! don't sit up much later than ten or eleven ! !- be up in the morning by half after seven! keep from flirting—nor risk, warned by rupert's miscarriage, an action for breach of a promise of marriage ;- don't fancy odd fishes! don't prig silver dishes ! and to sum up the whole, in the shortest phrase i know, beware of the rhine, and take care of the rhino! the merchant of venice. and now for “sunny italy,"—the "land of the unforgotten brave,”—the land of blue skies and black-eyed signoras. i cannot discover from any recorded memoranda that “uncle perry” was ever in venice, even in carnival time,-that he ever saw garrick in shylock i do not believe, and am satis- fied that he knew nothing of shakspeare, a circumstance that would by no means disqualify him from publishing an edition of that poet's works. i can only conclude that, in the course of his continental wanderings, sir peregrine had either read, or heard of, the following history, especially as he furnishes us with some particulars of the eventual destination of his dramatis personce which the bard of avon has omitted. if this solution be not accepted, i can only say, with mr. puff, that probably “two men hit upon the same idea, and shakespeare made use of it first.” the merchant of venice. a legend of italy. “... of the merchant of venice there are two to editions in , one by heyes and the other by roberts. the duke of devonshire and lord francis egerton have copies of the edition by heyes, and they vary importantly. “... it must be acknowledged that this is a very easy and happy emendation, which does not admit of a moment's doubt or dispute. “... readers in general are not at all aware of the nonsense they have in many cases been accustomed to receive as the genuine text of shakspeare !" reasons for a new edition of shakspeare's works, by j. payne collier. i believe there are few but have heard of a jew, named shylock, of venice, as arrant a screw in money transactions as ever you knew; an exorbitant miser, who never yet lent a ducat at less than three hundred per cent., insomuch that the veriest spendthrift in venice, who'd take no more care of his pounds than his pennies, when pressed for a loan, at the very first sight of his terms, would back out, and take refuge in flight. a legend of italy. it is not my purpose to pause and inquire if he might not, in managing thus to retire, jump out of the frying-pan into the fire; suffice it, that folks would have nothing to do, who could possibly help it, with shylock the jew. but, however discreetly one cuts and contrives, we've been most of us taught, in the course of our lives, that “needs must when the elderly gentleman drives !” in proof of this rule, a thoughtless young fool, , bassanio, a lord of the tomnoddy school, who, by showing at operas, balls, i'lays, and court, a "swelling” (payne collier would read “swilling”) “port,” and inviting his friends to dine, breakfast, and sup, had shrunk his “weak means," and was 'stumped” and “hard up," took occasion to send to his very good friend antonio, a merchant whose wealth had no end, and who'd often before had the kindness to lend him large sums, on his note, which he'd managed to spend. “antonio,” said he, “now listen to me: i've just hit on a scheme which, i think you'll agree, all matters considered, is no bad design, and which, if it succeeds, will suit your book and mine. “in the first place, you know all the money i've got, time and often, from you has been long gone to pot, and in making those loans you have made a bad shot; now do as the boys do when, shooting at sparrows and tomtits, they chance to lose one of their arrows,- shoot another the same way; i'll watch well its track, and, turtle to tripe, i'll bring both of them back ! - so list to my plan, and do what you can to attend to and second it, that's a good man! “there's a lady, young, handsome beyond all compare, at a place they call belmont, whom, when i was there, at the suppers and parties my friend lord mountferrat was giving last season, we all used to stare at. the merchant of venice. then, as to her wealth, her solicitor told mine, besides vast estates, a pearl-fishery, and gold mine, her iron strong box seems bursting its locks, it's stuffed so with shares in grand junction' and 'docks, not to speak of the money she's got in the stocks, french, dutch, and brazilian, colombian, and chilian, in english exchequer-bills full half a million, not 'kites,' manufactured to cheat and inveigle, but the right sort of flimsy,' all signed by monteagle. then i know not how much in canal shares and railways, and more speculations i need not detail, ways of ’vesting which, if not so safe as some think 'em, contribute a deal to improving one's income; in short, she's a mint! -now i say, deuce is in't if, with all my experience, i can't take a hint, and her 'eye's speechless messages,' plainer than print at the time that i told you of, known from a squint. in short, my dear tony, my trusty old crony, do stump up three thousand once more as a loan: i am sure of my game—though, of course, there are brutes of all sorts and sizes preferring their suits to her you may call the italian miss coutts, yet portia-she's named from that daughter of cato's, is not to be snapped up like little potatoes, and i have not a doubt i shall rout every lout ere you'll whisper jack robinson-cut them all out- surmount every barrier, carry her, marry her! — then, hey! my old tony, when once fairly noosed, for her three-and-a-half per cents-new and reduced !” with a wink of his eye his friend made reply in his jocular manner, sly, caustic, and dry. “still the same boy, bassanio-never say 'die'! -well, i hardly know how i shall do't, but i'll try.- don't suppose my affairs are at all in a hash, but the fact is, at present i'm quite out of cash; the bulk of my property, merged in rich cargoes, is tossing about, as you know, in my argosies, a legend of italy. tending, of course, my resources to cripple, -i 've one bound to england,-another to tripoli- cyprus-masulipatam-and bombay ;- a sixth, by the way, i consigned t'other day to sir gregor m'gregor, cacique of poyais, a country where silver's as common as clay. meantime, till they tack, and come, some of them, back, what with custom-house duties, and bills falling due, my account with jones loyd & co. looks rather blue; while, as for the ready,' i'm like a church-mouse, - i really don't think there's five pounds in the house. but, no matter for that, let me just get my hat, and my new silk umbrella that stands on the mat, and we'll go forth at once to the market, -we two, and try what credit in venice can do ; i stand well on 'change, and, when all's said and done, i don't doubt i shall get it for love or for money." my they were going to go, when, lo! down below, in the street, they heard somebody crying, “ old clo’!" -"by the pope, there's the man for our purpose !—i knew we should not have to search long. solanio, run you, -salarino, -quick !—haste! ere he get out of view, and call in that scoundrel, old shylock the jew!” with a pack like a sack of old clothes at his back, and three hats on his head, shylock came in a crack, saying, “rest you fair, signior antonio !-vat, pray, might your vorship be pleashed for to vant in ma vay?” -“why, shylock, although, as you very well know, i am what they call ‘warm,'—pay my way as i go, and, as to myself, neither borrow nor lend, i can break through a rule to oblige an old friend; and that's the case now-lord bassanio would raise some three thousand ducats-well,-knowing your ways, and that nought's to be got from you, say what one will, unless you've a couple of names to the bill, the merchant of venice. why, for once, i'll put mine to it, yea, seal and sign to it- now, then, old sinner, let's hear what you'll say as to 'doing' a bill at three months from to-day? three thousand gold ducats, mind-all in good bags of hard money–no sealing-wax, slippers, or rags !” -“vell, ma tear,” says the jew, “i'll see vat i can do ! but, mishter antonio, hark you, tish funny you say to me, 'shylock, ma tear, ve'd have money! ven you very vell knows how you shpit on ma clothes, and use naughty vords—calls me dog-mand avouch dat i put too much int'resht py half in ma pouch, and vhile i, like de resht of ma tribe, shrug and crouch, you find fault mit ma pargains, and say i'm a smouch. -vell !--no matters, ma tear, von vord in your ear! i'd be friends mit you bote—and to make dat appear, vy, i'll find you de moneys as soon as you vill, only von littel joke musht be put in de pill ;- ma tear, you musht say, if on such and such day such sum or such sums you shall fail to repay, i shall cut vhere i like, as de pargain is proke, a fair pound of your flesh-chest by vay of a joke.” so novel a clause caused bassanio to pause ; but antonio, like most of those sage “ johnny raws" who care not three straws about lawyers or laws, and think cheaply of “old father antic,” because they have never experienced a gripe from his claws, “pooh pooh'd” the whole thing.—“let the smouch have his way, why, what care i, pray, for his penalty ?—nay, it's a forfeit he'd never expect me to pay: and, come what come may, i hardly need say my ships will be back a full month ere the day.” so, anxious to see his friend off on his journey, and thinking the whole but a paltry concern, he affixed with all speed his name to a deed, duly stamped and drawn up by a sharp jew attorney. the merchant of venice. next day, while old shylock was making a racket, and threatening how well he'd dust every man's jacket who'd helped her in getting aboard of the packet, bassanio at belmont was capering and prancing, and bowing, and scraping, and singing, and dancing, making eyes at miss portia, and doing his best to perform the polite, and to cut out the rest; and, if left to herself, he no doubt had succeeded, for none of them waltzed so genteelly as he did; but an obstacle lay, of some weight, in his way, the defunct mr. p., who was now turned to clay, had been an odd man, and, though all for the best he meant, left but a queer sort of “ last will and testament,”- bequeathing her hand, with her houses and land, &c., from motives one don't understand, as she rev'renced his memory, and valued his blessing, to him who should turn out the best hand at guessing ! like a good girl, she did just what she was bid, in one of three caskets her picture she hid, and clapped a conundrum a-top of each lid. a couple of princes, a black and a white one, tried first, but they both failed in choosing the right one; another from naples, who shoed his own horses ; a french lord, whose graces might vie with count d'orsay's; a young english baron; a scotch peer his neighbor: a dull drunken saxon, all moustache and sabre, - all followed, and all had their pains for their labor. bassanio came last-happy man be his dole! put his conjuring cap on,-considered the whole,- the gold put aside as mere “hard food for midas," the silver bade trudge as a “pale common drudge;" then choosing the little lead box in the middle, came plump on the picture, and found out the riddle. now, you're not such a goose as to think, i dare say, gentle reader, that all this was done in a day, a legend of italy any more than the dome of st. peter's at rome was built in the same space of time; and, in fact, whilst bassanio was doing his billing and cooing, three months had gone by ere he reached the fifth act; meanwhile that unfortunate bill became due, which his lordship had almost forgot, to the jew, and antonio grew in a deuce of a stew, for he could not cash up, spite of all he could do (the bitter old israelite would not renew); what with contrary winds, storms, and wrecks, and embargoes, his funds were all stopped, or gone down in his argosies, none of the set having come into port, and shylock's attorney was moving the court for the forfeit supposed to be set down in sport. the serious news of this step of the jew's, and his fixed resolution all terms to refuse, gave the newly-made bridegroom a fit of “the blues," especially, too, as it came from the pen of his poor friend himself on the wedding-day,—then, when the parson had scarce shut his book up, and when the clerk was yet uttering the final amen. “dear friend,” it continued, “ all's up with me-i have nothing on earth now to do but to die ! and as death clears all scores, you're no longer my debtor; i should take it as kind could you come never mind- if your love don't persuade you, why,--don't let this letter!” i hardly need say this was scarcely read o'er ere a post-chaise and four was brought round to the door, and bassanio, though doubtless he thought it a bore, gave his lady one kiss, and then started at score. but scarce in his flight had he got out of sight ere portia, addressing a groom said, “my lad, you a journey must take on the instant to padua; the merchant of venice. find out there bellario, a doctor of laws, who, like follett, is never left out of a cause, and give him this note, which i've hastily wrote, take the papers he'll give you—then push for the ferry below, where i'll meet you; you'll do't in a wherry, if you can't find a boat on the brenta with sails to it. -stay, bring his gown too, and wig with three tails to it.” giovanni (that's jack) brought out his hack, made a bow to his mistress, then jumped on its back, put his hand to his hat, and was off in a crack. the signora soon followed, herself, taking as her own escort, nerissa, her maid, and balthasar. “the court is prepared, the lawyers are met the judges all ranged, a terrible show!" as captain macheath says, -and when one's in debt, the sight's as unpleasant a one as i know. yet still not so bad after all, i suppose, as if, when one cannot discharge what one owes, they should bid people cut off one's toes or one's nose; yet here, a worse fate, stands antonio, of late a merchant, might vie e'en with princes in state. with his waistcoat unbuttoned, prepared for the knife, which, in taking a pound of flesh, must take his life; - on the other side shylock, his bag on the floor, and three shocking bad hats on his head, as before, imperturbable stands, as he waits their commands with his scales and his great snicker-snee in his hands : -between them, equipt in a wig, gown, and bands, with a very smooth face, a young dandified lawyer, whose air, ne'ertheless, speaks him quite a top-sawyer, though his hopes are but feeble, does his possible to make the hard hebrew to mercy incline, and in lieu of his three thousand ducats take nine, which bassanio, for reasons we well may divine, shows in so many bags all drawn up in a line. but vain are all efforts to soften him-still a legend of italy. he points to the bond he so often has conn'd, and says in plain terms he'll be shot if he will. so the dandified lawyer, with talking grown hoarse, says, “i can say no more--let the law take its course.” just fancy the gleam of the eye of the jew, as he sharpened his knife on the sole of his shoe from the toe to the heel, and grasping the steel, with a business-like air was beginning to feel whereabouts he should cut, as a butcher would veal, when the dandified judge put a spoke in his wheel. “stay, shylock," says he; "here's one thing--you see this bond of yours gives you here no jot of blood ! —the words are 'a pound of flesh,'—that's clear as mud- slice away then, old fellow-but mind if you spill one drop of his claret that's not in your bill, i'll hang you like haman !-by jingo, i will !” when apprised of this flaw, you never yet saw such an awfully marked elongation of jaw as in shylock, who cried, “plesh ma heart! ish dat law?"- off went his three hats, and he looked as the cats do, whenever a mouse has escaped from their claw. _“ish't the law ??—why the thing won't admit of a query- no doubt of the fact, only look at the act; acto quinto, cap: tertio, dogi falieri- nay, if, rather than cut, you'd relinquish the debt, the law, master shy, has a hold on you yet. see foscari’s ‘statutes at large’- if a stranger a citizen's life shall, with malice, endanger, the whole of his property, little or great, shall go, on conviction, one half to the state, and one to the person pursued by his hate; and, not to create any further debate, the doge, if he pleases, may cut off his pate.' so down on your marrowbones, jew, and ask mercy! defendant and plaintiff are now wisy wersy.” the merchant of venice. what need to declare how pleased they all were at so joyful an end to so sad an affair ? or bassanio's delight at the turn things had taken, his friend having saved, to the letter, his bacon?- how shylock got shaved, and turned christian, though late, to save a life-int’rest in half his estate? how the dandified lawyer who'd managed the thing would not take any fee for his pains but a ring which mrs. bassanio had given to her spouse, with injunctions to keep it on leaving the house ?- how, when he and the spark who appeared as his clerk had thrown off their wigs, and their gowns, and their jetty coats, there stood nerissa and portia in petticoats ? how they pouted, and flouted, and acted the cruel, because lord bassanio had not kept his jewel ?- how they scolded and broke out, till, having their joke out, they kissed, and were friends, and, all blessing and blessed, drove home by the light of a moonshiny night, like the one in which troilus, the brave trojan knight, sat astride on a wall, and sigh'd after his cressid ?— all this, if 'twere meet, i'd go on to repeat, but a story spun out so's by no means a treat, so, i'll merely relate what, in spite of the pains i have taken to rummage among his remains, no edition of shakspeare i've met with contains; but, if the account which i've heard be the true one, we shall have it, no doubt, before long, in a new one. in an ms., then, sold for its full weight in gold, and knocked down to my friend lord tomnoddy, i'm told it's recorded that jessy, coquettish and vain, gave her husband, lorenzo, a good deal of pain; being mildly rebuked, she levanted again, ran away with a scotchman, and, crossing the main, became known by the name of the “flower of dunblane." a legend of italy. that antonio, whose piety caused, as we've seen, him to spit upon every old jew's gaberdine, and whose goodness to paint all colors were faint, acquired the well-merited prefix of “saint;" and the doge, his admirer, of honor the fount, having given him a patent, and made him a count, he went over to england, got nat'ralized there, and espoused a rich heiress in hanover square. that shylock came with him, no longer a jew, but converted, i think may be possibly true; but that walpole, as these self-same papers aver, by changing the y in his name into er, should allow him a fictitious surname to dish up, and in seventeen twenty-eight make him a bishop, i cannot believe, but shall still think them two men till some sage proves the fact “with his usual acumen.” moral. from this tale of the bard it's uncommonly hard if an editor can't draw a moral.—'tis clear, then,-in ev'ry young wife-seeking bachelor's ear a maxim, 'bove all other stories, this one drums, “pitch greek to old harry, and stick to conun- drums!” to new-married ladies this lesson it teaches, “you're 'no that far wrong' in assuming the breeches !" moneyed men upon 'change, and rich merchants, it schools to look well to assets, nor play with edge tools ! last of all, this remarkable history shows men what caution they need when they deal with old-clothes men; so bid john and mary to mind and be wary, and never let one of them come down the are'! the auto-da-fÉ. from st. mark to st. lawrence-from the rialto to the escurial—from one peninsula to another !—it is but a hop, step, and jump-your toe at genoa, your heel at marseilles, and a good hearty spring pops you down at once in the very heart of old castille. that sir peregrine ingoldsby, then a young man, was at madrid soon after the peace of ryswick, there is extant a long correspondence of his to prove. various passages in it countenance the supposition that his tour was partly undertaken for political purposes; and this opinion is much strengthened by certain allusions in several of his letters addressed, in after life, to his friend sir horace mann, then acting in the capacity of envoy to the court of tuscany. al- though the knight spent several months in spain, and visited many of her principal cities, there is no proof of his having actually "seen seville," beyond the internal evidence incident- ally supplied by the following legend. the events to which it alludes were, of course, of a much earlier date, though the gen- ealogical records of the “kings of both the indies" have been in vain consulted for the purpose of fixing their precise date; and even mr. simpkinson's research has failed to determine which of the royal stock rejoicing in the name of ferdinand is the hero of the legend. the conglomeration of christian names usual in the families of the haute noblesse of spain adds to the difficulty; not that this inconvenient accumulation of prefixes is peculiar to the country in question : witness my ex- cellent friend field-marshal count herman karl heinrich socrates von der nodgerrie zu pfefferkorn, whose appellations puzzled the recording clerk of one of our courts lately—and that not a little. that a splendid specimen of the genus homo, species monk, flourished in the earlier moiety of the fifteenth century, under the appellation of torquemada, is notorious—and this fact might seem to establish the era of the story; but then his a legend of spain. name was john, not dominic—though he was a dominican, and hence the mistake, if any, may perhaps have originated; but then, again, the spanish queen to whom he was confessor was called isabella, and not blanche. it is a puzzling affair altogether. from his own silence on the subject it may well be doubted whether the worthy transcriber knew himself the date of the transactions he has recorded; the authenticity of the details, however, cannot be well called in question. be this as it may, i shall make no further question, but at once introduce my “pensive public" to the auto-da-fe. a legend of spain. canto i. ith king paces ; from morn till eve he does nothing but grieve; sighings and sobbings his midriff heave, and he wipes his eyes with his ermined sleeve, and he presses his feverish hand to his brow, and he frowns and he looks i can't tell you how; and the spanish grandees, in their degrees, are whispering about in twos and in threes, and there is not a man of them seems at his ease, but they gaze on the monarch, as watching what he does, with their very long whiskers, and longer toledos. don gaspar, don gusman, don juan, don diego, don gomez, don pedro, don blas, don rodrigo, don jerome, don giacomo, join don alphonso in making inquiries of grave don ramirez, the chamberlain, what it is makes him take on so; a monarch so great that the soundest opinions maintain the sun can't set throughout his dominions. the auto-da-fÉ. but grave don ramirez in guessing no nigher is than the other grave dons who propound these inquiries ; when, pausing at length, as beginning to tire, his majesty beckons, with stately civility, to señor don lewis condé d'aranjuez, who in birth, wealth, and consequence second to few is, and señor don manuel, count de pacheco, a lineal descendant from king pharaoh neco, both knights of the golden fleece, highborn hidalgos, with whom e’en the king himself quite as a “pal" goes. “don lewis," says he, “ just listen to me; and you, count pacheco, i think that we three on matters of state for the most part agree, - now you both of you know that some six years ago, being then, for a king, no indifferent beau, at the altar i took, like my forbears of old, the peninsula's paragon, fair blanche of aragon, for better, for worse, and to have and to hold and you're fully aware, when the matter took air, how they shouted, and fired the great guns in the square, cried 'viva!' and rung all the bells in the steeple, and all that sort of thing the mob do when a king brings a queen-consort home for the good of his people. well !-six years and a day have flitted away since that blessed event, yet i'm sorry to say- in fact it's the principal cause of my pain- i don't see any signs of an infant of spain - now i want to ask you, cavaliers true, and councillors sage—what the deuce shall i do?- the state-don't you see ?--hey ?-an heir to the throne- every monarch, you know, should have one of his own- disputed succession-hey?-terrible go !- hum—hey?-old fellows-you see !-don't you know?" now, reader dear, if you've ever been near enough to a court to encounter a peer when his principal tenant's gone off in arrear, and his brewer has sent in a long bill for beer, a legend of spain. , and his butcher and baker, with faces austere, ask him to clear off, for furnished good cheer, bills they say “have been standing for more than a year,” and the tailor and shoemaker also appear with their "little account” of “trifling amount," for wellingtons, waistcoats, pea-jackets, and-gear which to name in society's thought rather queer,- while drummond's chief clerk, with his pen in his ear, and a kind of a sneer, says, “we've no effects here!” -or if ever you've seen an alderman keen after turtle, peep into a silver tureen, in search of the fat called par excellence "green," when there's none of the meat left-not even the lean! -or if ever you've witnessed the face of a sailor returned from a voyage, and escaped from a gale, or poetice "boreas," that "blustering railer," to find that his wife, when he hastens to “hail" her, has just run away with his cash-and a tailor- if one of these cases you've ever surveyed, you'll, without my aid, to yourself have portrayed the beautiful mystification displayed, and the puzzled expression of manner and air exhibited now by the dignified pair, when thus unexpectedly asked to declare their opinions as councillors, several and joint, on so delicate, grave, and important a point. señor don lewis condé d'aranjuez at length forced a smile 'twixt the prim and the grim, and looked at pacheco-pacheco at him, then, making a rev’rence, and dropping his eyes, coughed, hemmed, and delivered himself in this wise: “my liege !—unaccustomed as i am to speaking in public—an art i'm remarkably weak in- i feel i should be-quite unworthy the name of a man and a spaniard-and highly to blame, were there not in my breast what-can't be exprest, - and can therefore,-your majesty,-only be guessed- the auto-da-fÉ. -what i mean to say is-since your majesty deigns to ask my advice on your welfare—and spain's, and on that of your majesty's bride-that is, wife- it's the-as i may say-proudest day of my life! but as to the point-on a subject so nice it's a delicate matter to give one's advice, especially, too, when one don't clearly view the best mode of proceeding, or know what to do; my decided opinion, however, is this, and i fearlessly say that you can't do amiss, if, with all that fine tact both to think and to act, in which all know your majesty so much excels- yoù are graciously pleased tomask somebody else !" here the noble grandee made that sort of congée which, as hill used to say, "i once happened to see" the great indian conjurer, ramo samee, make, while swallowing what all thought a regular choker, viz., a small-sword as long and as stiff as a poker. then the count de pacheco, whose turn 'twas to speak, o- mitting all preface, exclaimed with devotion, sire, i beg leave to second don lewis's motion!” now a monarch of spain of course could not deign to expostulate, argue, or, much less, complain of an answer thus giv'n, or to ask them again; so he merely observed, with an air of disdain, “well, gentlemen,--since you both shrink from the task of advising your sovereign-pray whom shall i ask ?” each felt the rub, and in spain not a sub, much less an hidalgo, can stomach a snub, so the noses of these castilian grandees rise at once in an angle of several degrees, till the under-lip's almost becoming the upper, each perceptibly grows, too, more stiff in the crupper ; their right hands rest on the left side the breast, while the hilts of their swords, by their left hands deprest, make the ends of their scabbards to cock up behind, till they're quite horizontal instead of inclined, a legend of spain. and don lewis, with scarce an attempt to disguise the disgust he experiences, gravely replies, sire, ask the archbishop—his grace of toledo !- he understands these things much better than we do!” -pauca verba !-enough, each turns off in a huff, this twirling his moustache, that fingering his ruff, like a blue-bottle fly on a rather large scale, with a rather large corking-pin stuck through his tail. are king ferdinand paces the royal saloon, with a moody brow, and he looks like a “spoon,” and all the court nobles, who form the ring, have a spoony appearance, of course, like the king, all of them eying king ferdinand as he goes up and down, with his watch in his hand, which he claps to his ear as he walks to and fro, - “what is it can make the archbishop so slow ?” hark!—at last there's a sound in the courtyard below, where the beefeaters all drawn up in a row, i would say the “guards," for in spain they're in chief eaters of omelettes and garlic, and can't be called beefeaters; in fact, of the few individuals i knew who ever had happened to travel in spain, there has scarce been a person who did not complain of their cookery and dishes as all bad in grain, and no one, i'm sure, will deny it who's tried a vile compound they have that's called olla podrida. (this, by the by, 's a mere rhyme to the eye, for in spanish the i is pronounced like an e, and they've not quite our mode of pronouncing the d. in castille, for instance, it's given through the teeth, and what we call madrid, they sound more like madreeth.) of course you will see in a moment they've no men that at all correspond with our beefeating yeomen ; so call them “ walloons," or whatever you please, by their rattles and slaps they're not "standing at ease." the auto-da-fÉ. but, beyond all disputing, engaged in saluting some very great person among the grandees ;- here a gentleman usher walks in and declares, “his grace the archbishop's a-coming up stairs!" the most reverend don garcilasso quevedo was just at this time, as he now held the primacy (always attached to the see of toledo), a man of great worship officii virtute, versed in all that pertains to a councillor's duty, well skilled to combine civil laws with divine; as a statesman, inferior to none in that line; as an orator, too, he was equalled by few; uniting, in short, in tongue, head-piece, and pen, the very great powers of three very great men, talleyrand, -who will never drive down piccadilly more to the travellers' club-house -charles phillips-and phillimore. not only at home, but even at rome, there was not a prelate among them could cope with the primate of spain in the eyes of the pope. (the conclave was full, and they'd not a spare hat, or he 'd long since been cardinal, legate à latere, a dignity fairly his due, without flattery, so much he excited among all beholders their marvel to see at his age—thirty-three- such a very old head on such very young shoulders.) no wonder the king, then, in this his distress, should send for so sage an adviser express, who, you'll readily guess, could not do less than start off at once, without stopping to dress, in his haste to get majesty out of a mess. his grace the archbishop comes up the back way- set apart for such nobles as have the entrée, viz., grandees of the first class, both cleric and lay- walks up to the monarch, and makes him a bow, as a dignified clergyman always knows how, then replaces the mitre at once on his brow; a legend of spain. for in spain, recollect, as a mark of respect to the crown, if a grandee uncovers, it's quite as a matter of option, and not one of right; a thing not conceded by our royal masters, who always make noblemen take off their “castors,” except the heirs.male of john lord kinsale, a stalwart old baron, who, acting as henchman to one of our early kings, killed a big frenchman; a feat which his majesty deigning to smile on, allowed him thenceforward to stand with his “tile” on; and all his successors have kept the same privilege down from those barbarous times to our civil age. returning his bow with a slight demi-bob, and replacing the watch in his hand in his fob, "my lord,” said the king, “here's a rather tough job, which, it seems, of a sort is to puzzle our cortes, and since it has quite flabbergasted that diet, i look to your grace with no little anxiety concerning a point which has quite out of joint put us all with respect to the good of society : your grace is aware that we've not got an heir. now, it seems, one and all, they don't stick to declare that of all our advisers there is not in spain one can tell, like your grace, the best way to obtain one; so put your considering cap on-we're curious to learn your receipt for a prince of asturias.” one without the nice tact of his grace would have backt out at once, as the noblemen did, -and, in fact, he was, at the first, rather posed how to act, one moment—no more! bowing then as before, he said, “sire, 'twere superfluous for me to acquaint the most catholic king' in the world that a saint is the usual resource in these cases,—of course of their influence your majesty well knows the force; if i may be, therefore, allowed to suggest the plan which occurs to my mind as the best, your majesty may go at once to st. jago, whom, as spain's patron saint, i pick out from the rest : the auto-da-fÉ. if your majesty looks into guthrie, or brooks, in all the approved geographical books you will find compostella laid down in the maps some two hundred and sev’nty miles off; and, perhaps, in a case so important you may not decline a pedestrian excursion to visit his shrine; and, sire, should you choose to put peas in your shoes, the saint, as a gentleman, can't well refuse so distinguished a pilgrim, especially when he considers the boon will not cost him one penny !" his speech ended, his grace bowed, and put on his mitre as tight as before, and perhaps a thought tighter. "pooh! pooh !” says the king, “i shall do no such thing! it's nonsense,—old fellow-you seeno use talking- the peas set apart, i abominate walking- such a deuced way off too-hey?-walk there-what, me? pooh!—it's no go, old fellow !-you know-don't you see ?”. "well, sire," with much sweetness the prelate replied, "if your majesty don't like to walk, you can ride! and then, if you please, in lieu of the peas, a small portion of horse-hair, cut fine, we'll insert, as a substitute, under your majesty's shirt; then a rope round your collar instead of a laced band,- a few nettles tucked into your majesty's waistband, - assafoetida mixed with your bouquet and civet, i'll warrant you'll find yourself right as a trivet!” “pooh! pooh! i tell you,” quoth the king, “it won't do !” — a cold perspiration began to bedew his majesty's cheek, and he grew in a stew, when josé de humez, the king's privy-purse-keeper (many folks thought it could scarce have a worse keeper), came to the rescue, and said with a smile, "sire, your majesty can't go—twould take a long while, and you won't post it under two shillings a mile!! a legend of spain. twenty-seven pounds ten to get there—and then twenty-seven pounds ten more to get back agen!! sire, the tottle's enormous—you ought to be king of golconda as well as the indies, to fling such a vast sum away upon aạy such thing !" at this second rebuff the archbishop looked gruff, and his eye glanced on humez as if he'd say “stuff!” but seeing the king seemed himself in a huff, he changed his demeanor, and grew smooth enough; then taking his chin 'twixt his finger and thumb, as a help to reflection, gave vent to a “hum !” 'twas the pause of an instant-his eye assumed fast that expression which says, “come, i've got it at last !” “there's one plan,” he resumed, “which with all due respect to your majesty, no one, i think, can object to- -since your majesty don't like the peas in the shoe-or to travel—what say you to burning a jew or two? of all cookeries, most the saints love a roast ! and a jew's of all others the best dish to toast; and then for a cook we have not far to look- father dominic's self, sire, your own grand inquisitor, luckily now at your court is a visitor; of his rev'rence's functions there is not one weightier than heretic-burning-in fact, 'tis his métier. beside alguazils, who still follows his heels, he has always familiars enough at his beck at home to pick you up hebrews enough for a hecatomb! and depend on it, sire, such a glorious specific would make every queen throughout europe prolific !” says the king, “that'll do! pooh! pooh !-burn a jew? burn half a score jews—burn a dozen-burn two your grace, it's a match! burn all you can catch, men, women, and children-pooh! pooh !-great and small- old clothes-slippers—sealing-wax-pooh !—burn them all! the auto-da-fÉ. for once we'll be gay, a grand auto-da-fé is much better fun than a ball or a play!” so the warrant was made out without more delay, drawn, sealed, and delivered, and (signed) yo el re! canto ii. there is not a nation in europe but labors to toady itself and to humbug its neighbors- “earth has no such folks—no folks such a city, so great or so grand, or so fine or so pretty," said louis quatorze, “as this paris of ours !" -mr. daniel o'connell exclaims, “by the pow’rs, ould ireland's on all hands admitted to be the first flow'r of the earth, and first gim of the sea !”— -mr. bull will inform you that neptune,-a lad he, with more of affection than rey'rence, styles “ daddy,”- did not scruple to "say to freedom, one day,” that if ever he changed his aquatics for dry land, his home should be mr. b.'s “ tight little island.” he adds, too, that he, the said mr. b., of all possible frenchmen can fight any three; that, with no greater odds, he knows well how to treat them, to meet them, defeat them, and beat them, and eat them.- -in italy, too, 'tis the same to the letter; there each lazzarone will cry to his crony, “see naples, then die !* and the sooner the better!" the portuguese say, as a well-understood thing, “who has not seen lisbont has not seen a good thing !". while an old spanish proverb runs glibly as under, “quien no ha visto sevilla no ha visto mara- villa !” “he who ne'er has viewed seville has ne'er viewed a wonder!" and from all i can learn this is no such great blunder. * “vedi napoli e poi mori!" “quem não tem visto lisboa não tem visto cousa boa." a legend of spain. in fact, from the river. the famed guadalquiver, where many a knight's had cold steel through his liver,* the prospect is grand. the iglesia mayor has a splendid effect on the opposite shore, with its lofty giralda, while two or three score of magnificent structures around, perhaps more, as our irish friends have it, are there “to the fore:” then the old alcazar, more ancient by far, as some say, while some call it one of the palaces built in twelve hundred and odd by abdalasis, with its horse-shoe-shaped arches of arabesque tracery,- which the architect seems to have studied to place awry,- saracenic and rich; and more buildings “the which," as old lilly, in whom i've been looking a bit o' late, says, "you'd be bored should i now recapitulate.”+ in brief, then, the view is so fine and so new, it would make you exclaim, 'twould so forcibly strike ye, if a frenchman, “superbe !”-if an englishman, “ crikey!" yes! thou art “ wonderful!”—but oh, 'tis sad to think, 'mid scenes so bright as thine, fair seville, sounds of woe, and shrieks of pain and wild affright, and soul-wrung groans of deep despair, and blood, and death, should mingle there! yes! thou art “ wonderful!”—the flames that on thy towers reflected shine, while earth's proud lords and high-born dames, descendants of a mighty line, with cold unaltered looks are by to gaze, with an unpitying eye, on wretches in their agony, - * “rio verde, rio verde, etc." glassy water, glassy water, down whose current clear and strong, chiefs, confused in mutual slaughter, moor and christian, roll along.”— old spanish romance. † cum multis aliis quæ nunc perscribere longum est. propria quæ maribus. the auto-da-fÉ. all speak thee "wonderful"—the phrase befits thee well—the fearful blaze of yon piled fagots' lurid light, where writhing victims mock the sight,- the scorched limb shrivelling in its chains,- the hot blood parched in living veins,— the crackling nerve,—the fearful knell rung out by that remorseless bell, those shouts from human fiends that swell,- that withering scream,--that frantic yell,- all, seville, all too truly tell thou art a “ marvel”-and a hell! god! that the worm that thou hast made should thus his brother worm invade! count deeds like these good service done, and deem thine eye looks smiling on! yet there at his ease, with his whole court around him, king ferdinand sits “in his glory”-confound him- leaning back in his chair, with a satisfied air, and enjoying the bother, the smoke, and the smother, with one knee cocked carelessly over the other; his pouncet-box goes to and fro at his nose, as somewhat misliking the smell of old clothes, and seeming to hint, by this action emphatic, that jews, e'en when roasted, are not aromatic; there, too, fair ladies, from xeres and cadiz, catalinas, and julias, and fair iñesillas, in splendid lace veils, and becoming mantillas; elviras, antonias, and claras, and floras, and dark-eyed jacinthas, and soft isidoras, are crowding the "boxes," and looking on coolly though 'twas but one of their common tertulias, partaking, as usual, of wafer and ices, snow-water, and melons cut out into slices, and chocolate,-furnished at coffee-house prices; while many a suitor and gay coadjutor in the eating-and-drinking line scorns to be neuter; one, being perhaps just returned with his tutor a legend of spain. ! from travel in england, is tempting his “ future” with a luxury neat as imported, “ the pewter,” and charming the dear violantes and iñeses with a three-cornered sandwich and soupçon of “guinness's ;" while another, from paris but newly come back, hints “the least taste in life” of the best cognac. such ogling and eying, in short, and such sighing, and such complimenting (one must not say --g) of smart cavaliers with each other still vying, mixed up with the crying, and groans of the dying, all hissing, and spitting, and broiling, and frying, form a scene which, although there can be no denying to a bon catholique it may prove edifying, i doubt if a protestant smart beau, or merry belle, might not shrink from it as somewhat too terrible. it's a question with me if you ever surveyed a more stern-looking mortal than old torquemada, renowned father dominic, famous for twisting dom- estic and foreign necks all over christendom; morescoes or jews, not a penny to choose, if a dog of a heretic dare to refuse a glass of old port, or a slice from a griskin, the good padre soon would so set him a frisking, that i would not, for-more than i'll say-be in his skin. 'twas just the same thing with his own race and nation, and christian dissenters of every persuasion, muggletonian or quaker, or jumper or shaker, no matter with whom in opinion partaker, george whitfield, john bunyan, or thomas gat-acre, they'd no better chance than a bonze or a fakir; if a woman, it skilled not-if she did not deem as he bade her to deem touching papal supremacy, by the pope, but he'd make her! from error awake her, or else-pop her into an oven and bake her! in short, ever came half so near, as he did, to the full extirpation of heresy; and if, in the times of which now i am treating, there had been such a thing as a “ manchester meeting,” no one, the auto-da-fÉ. “pretty pork” he'd have made “moderator” and “ minister," had he but caught them on his side cape finisterre !— pye smith and the rest of them once in his, bonfire, hence- forth you'd have heard little more of the “ conference.” and there, on the opposite side of the ring, he, too, sits “in his glory,” confronting the king, with his cast-iron countenance frowning austerely, that matched with his embonpoint body but queerly, for, though grim his visage, his person was pursy, belying the rumor of fat folks' good humor; above waves his banner of “ justice and mercy,” below and around stand a terrible band add- ing much to the scene-viz., the “holy hermandad,” that's “brotherhood,”—each looking grave as a granddad. within the arena before them is seen a strange, odd-looking group, each one dressed in a garment not "dandified” clearly, as certainly “varment, ” being all over vipers and snakes, and stuck thick with multiplied silhouette profiles of nick ; and a cap of the same, all deyils and flame, extinguisher-shaped, much like salisbury spire, except that the latter's of course somewhat higher; a long yellow pinafore hangs down each chin afore, on which, ere the wearer had donned it, a man drew the scotch badge, a saltire or cross of st. andrew; though i fairly confess i am quite at a loss to guess why they should choose that particular cross, or to make clear to you what the scotch had to do at all with the business in hand,—though it's true that the vestment aforesaid, perhaps from its hue, viz., yellow in juxtaposition with blue (a tinge of which latter tint could but accrue on the faces of wretches, of course in a stew as to what their tormentors were going to do), might make people fancy, who no better knew, they were somehow connected with jeffrey's review; especially, too, as it's certain that few things would make father dominic blither or happier than to catch hold of it, or its chef, macvey napier. - the auto-da-fÉ. the king, at the same time, his dons and his visitors, sit sporting smiles, like the holy inquisitors. enough !—no more! thank heaven, 'tis o'er! the tragedy’s done! and we now draw a veil o’er a scene which makes outraged humanity quail; the last fire's exhausted, and spent like a rocket, the last wretched hebrew's burnt down in his socket, the barriers are open, and all, saints and sinners, king, court, lords, and commons, gone home to their dinners, with a pleasing emotion produced by the notion of having exhibited so much devotion, all chuckling to think how the saints are delighted at having seen so many “smouches” ignited : all save privy-purse humez, who sconced in his room is, and, cocker in hand, in his leather-backed chair, is puzzling to find out how much the “affair” (by deep calculations, the which i can't follow) cost,- the tottle, in short, of the whole of the holocaust. perhaps you may think it a rather odd thing that, while talking so much of the court and the king, in describing the scene through which we've just been i've not said one syllable as to the queen,- especially, too, as her majesty's "whereabouts," all things considered, might well be thought thereabouts ; the fact was, however, although little known, sa magestad had hit on a plan of her own, and suspecting, perhaps, that an auto alone might fail in securing this “heir to the throne,” had made up her mind, although well inclined towards galas and shows of no matter what kind, for once to retire, and bribe the saints higher than merely by sitting and seeing a fire,- a sight, after all, she did not much admire; so she locked herself up, without platter or cup, in her oriel, resolved not to take bite or sup, not so much as her matin draught (our "early purl"), nor put on her jewels, nor e'en let the girl who helped her to dress take her hair out of curl, a legend of spain. but to pass the whole morning in telling her beads, and in reading the lives of the saints, and their deeds, and in vowing to visit, without shoes or sandals, their shrines, with unlimited orders for candles, holy water, and masses of mozart's and handel's.* and many a pater, and ave, and credo did she, and her father confessor, quevedo (the clever archbishop, you know, of toledo), who came, as before, at a very short warning, get through, without doubt, in the course of that morning : shut up, as they were, with nobody there to at all interfere with so pious a pair; and the saints must have been stony-hearted indeed, if they had not allowed all these pains to succeed. nay, it's not quite clear to me, but their very ability might, spain throughout, have been brought into doubt, had the royal bed still remained cursed with sterility; st. jago, however, who always is jealous in spanish affairs, as their best authors tell us, and who, if he saw anything like a flaw in spain's, welfare, would soon sing, “old rose, burn the bellows !” set matters to rights like a king of good fellows: by his interference, three-fourths of a year hence, there was nothing but capering, dancing, and singing, cachucas, boleros, and bells set a ringing, in both the castilles, triple-bob-major peals, rope-dancing, and tumbling, and somerset-flinging, seguidillas, fandangos, while ev'ry gun bang goes ; and all the way through, from gibraltar to biscay, figueras and sherry make all the dons frisky (save moore's “blakes and o'donnells," who stick to the whisky); all the day long the dance and the song continue the general joy to prolong; and even long after the close of the day * "that is, she would have ordered them—but none are known, i fear, as his, for handel never wrote a mass, and so she'd david perez's— bow! wow! wow! fol, lol, etc., etc.” (posthumous note by the ghost of james smith, esq.) the auto-da-fÉ. you can hear little else but “hip! hip! hurray!”. the escurial, however, is not quite so gay, for, whether the saint had not perfectly heard the petition the queen and archbishop preferred, - or whether his head, from his not being used to an auto-da-fé, was a little confused, - or whether the king, in the smoke and the smother, got bothered, and so made some blunder or other, i am sure i can't say; all i know is, that day there must have been some mistake!-that, i'm afraid, is only too clear, inasmuch as the dear royal twins,—though fine babies,-proved both little ladies! moral. reader !--not knowing what your “persuasion" may be, mahometan, jewish, or even parsee, take a little advice which may serve for all three ! first—“when you are at rome, do as rome does !” and note all her ways-drink what she drinks! and don't turn tee-totaller! in spain, raison de plus, you must do as they do, inasmuch as they're all there “ at sixes and sevens," just as, you know, they were some years ago, in the days of don carlos and brigadier evans; don't be nice, then—but take what they've got in their shops, whether griskins or sausages, ham or pork chops ! next-avoid fancy trousers !—their colors and shapes sometimes, as you see, may lead folks into scrapes ! for myself, i confess i've but small taste in dress, my opinion is, therefore, worth nothing—or less— but some friends i've consulted,-much given to watch one's apparel,-do say it's by far the best way, and the safest, to do as lord brougham does—buy scotch ones! i might now volunteer some advice to a king, — let whigs say what they will, i shall do no such thing, but copy my betters, and never begin until, like sir robert, “i'm duly called in !” the ingoldsby penance. in this document it will be perceived that the death of lady alice ingoldsby is attributed to strangulation superinduced by suspension, whereas, in the veritable legend annexed, no allu- sion is made to the intervention of a halter. unluckily sir ingoldsby left no issue, or we might now be “calling cousins” with (ci-devant) mrs. otway cave, in whose favor the abeyance of the old barony of bray has recently been determined by the crown. to this same barony we ourselves were not without our pretensions, and, teste simpkinson, had “as good a right to it as any body else.” the “ collective wisdom of the country has, however, decided the point, and placed us among that very numerous class of claimants who are “wrongfully kept out of their property and dignities-by the right owners.” i seize with pleasure this opportunity of contradicting a malicious report that mr. simpkinson has, in a late publication, confounded king henry the fifth with the duke of monmouth, and positively deny that he has ever represented walter lord clifford (father to fair rosamond) as the leader of the o. p. row. the engoldsby penance. a legend of palestine and-west kent. “i'll devise thee brave punishments for him!”-shakspeare. fytte i. out and spake sir ingoldsby bray, a stalwart knight, i ween, was he, “come east, come west, come lance in rest, come falchion in hand, i'll tickle the best of all the soldan's chivalrie!” oh! they came west, and they came east, twenty-four emirs and sheiks at the least, and they hammered away at sir ingoldsby bray, cathedral, “standing on the top of the city ladder, near sixty steps high, with a whole pike in his hand, when others would not venture so high.” this feat of vandalism the cærulean worthy called “rattling down proud becket's glassie bones.” a legend of palestine. fall back, fall edge, cut, thrust, and point, but he topped off head, and he lopped off joint; twenty and three, of high degree, lay stark and stiff on the crimsoned lea, all-all save one and he ran up a tree! “now count them, my squire, now count them and see !" “twenty and three! twenty and three ! all of them nobles of high degree: there they be lying on ascalon lea!" out and spake sir ingoldsby bray, “what news? what news ? come, tell to me! what news? what news, thou little foot-page ? i've been whacking the foe till it seems an age since i was in ingoldsby hall so free! what news ? what news from ingoldsby hall? come tell me now, thou page so small !” "oh, hawk and hound are safe and sound, beast in byre and steed in stall; and the watch-dog's bark, as soon as it's dark, bays wakeful guard around ingoldsby hall !" -"i care not a pound for hawk or for hound, for steed in stall, or for watch-dog's bay; fain would i hear of my dainty dear: how fares dame alice, my lady gay?"- sir ingoldsby bray he said in his rage “what news? what news, thou naughty foot-page?” that little foot-page full low crouched he, and he doffed his cap, and he bended his knee: “now lithe and listen, sir bray, to me!-- lady alice sits lonely in bower and hall, her sighs they rise, and her tears they fall : she sits alone, and she makes her moan; dance and song she considers quite wrong, feast and revel mere snares of the devil; she mendeth her hose, and she crieth, 'alack ! when will sir ingoldsby bray come back?!” the ingoldsby penance. “thou liest, thou liest, thou naughty foot-page! full loud dost thou lie, false page, to me! there in thy breast, 'neath thy silken vest, what scroll is that, false page, i see?” sir ingoldsby bray in his rage drew near; that little foot-page he blenched with fear: “now where may the prior of abingdon lie? king richard's confessor i ween is he, and tidings rare to him do i bear, and news of price from his rich abbee !" “now nay, now nay, thou naughty page! no learned clerk, i trow, am i, but well i ween may there be seen dame alice's hand, with half an eye. now nay, now nay, thou naughty page, from abingdon abbey comes not thy news ; although no clerk, well may i mark the particular turn of her ps and her qs!" sir ingoldsby bray, in his fury and rage, , by the back of the neck takes that little foot-page; the scroll he seizes, the page he squeezes, and buffets, -and pinches his nose till he sneezes ; then he cuts with his dagger the silken threads which they used in those days 'stead of little queen's-heads. when the contents of the scroll met his view, sir ingoldsby bray in a passion grew; backward he drew his nailed shoe, and he kicked that naughty foot-page, that he flew like a cloth-yard shaft from a bended yew, i may whither-i never knew. not say “now count the slain upon ascalon plain,- go count them, my squire, go count them again!" a legend of palestine. twenty and three! there they be, stiff and stark on that crimsoned lea ! twenty and three? stay-let me see! stretched in his gore there lieth one more! by the pope's triple crown there are twenty and four ! twenty-four trunks, i ween, are there, but their heads and their limbs are nobody knows where! ay, twenty-four corses i rede there be, though one got away and ran up a tree!" “look nigher, look nigher, my trusty squire !" “one is the corse of a barefooted friar!” out and spake sir ingoldsby bray, "a boon, a boon, king richard !" quoth he; “now heav'n thee save! a boon i crave, a boon, sir king, on my bended knee. a year and a day have i been away, king richard, from ingoldsby hall so free; dame alice she sits there in lonely guise, and she makes her moan, and she sobs and she sighs, and tears like raindrops fall from her eyes, and she darneth her hose, and she crieth, 'alack ! oh! when will sir ingoldsby bray come back ?' a boon, a boon, my liege!" quoth he: "fair ingoldsby hall i fain would see !" “rise up, rise up, sir ingoldsby bray," king richard said right graciously; “of all in my host that i love the most, i love none better, sir bray, than thee! rise up, rise up, thou hast thy boon; but-mind you make haste, and come back again soon !" fytte ii. pope gregory sits in st. peter's chair, pontiff proud, i ween, is he,- and a belted knight, in armor dight, is begging a boon on his bended knee; the ingoldsby penance. with signs of grief and sounds of woe featly he kisseth his holiness' toe. “now pardon, holy father, i crave! o holy father, pardon and grace! in my fury and rage a little foot-page i have left, i fear me, in evil case ! a scroll of shame from a faithless dame did that naughty foot-page to a paramour bear: i gave him a “lick' with a stick, and a kick that sent him—i can't tell your holiness where! had he as many necks as hairs, hé had broken them all down those perilous stairs !" “rise up, rise up, sir ingoldsby bray! rise up, rise up, i say to thee; a soldier, i trow, of the cross art thou ; rise up, rise up from thy bended knee! ill it beseems that a soldier true of holy church should vainly sue:- -foot-pages, they are by no means rare; a thriftless crew, i ween, be they : well mote we spare a page or a pair, for the matter of that—sir ingoldsby bray. but stout and true soldiers, like you, grow scarcer and scarcer every day! be prayers for the dead duly read, let a mass be sung, and a pater be said ; so may your qualms of conscience cease, and the little foot-page shall rest in peace !" “now pardon, holy father, i crave! o holy father, pardon and grace! dame alice, my wife, the bane of my life, i have left, i fear me, in evil case ! a scroll of shame in my rage i tore, which that caitiff page to a paramour bore: 'twere bootless to tell how i stormed and swore; alack! alack! too surely i knew a legend of palestine. the turn of each p and the tail of each q, and away to ingoldsby hall i flew! dame alice i found, - she sank on the ground; i twisted her neck till i twisted it round! with jibe and jeer, and mock and scoff, i twisted it on-till i twisted it off! all the king's doctors and all the king's men can't put fair alice's head on agen!” “well-a-day! well-a-day! sir ingoldsby bray; why really i hardly know what to say : foul sin, i trow, a fair ladye to slay because she's perhaps been a little too gay. -monk must chant and nun must pray; for each mass they sing, and each prayer they say, for a year and a day, sir ingoldsby bray a fair rose-noble must duly pay! so may his qualms of conscience cease, and the soul of. dame alice may rest in peace.” “now pardon, holy father, i crave! o holy father, pardon and grace! no power could save that paramour knave; i left him, i wot, in evil case ! there, 'midst the slain upon ascalon plain, unburied, i trow, doth his body remain; his legs lie here, and his arms lie there, and his head lies—i can't tell your holiness where!” “now out and alas, sir ingoldsby bray! foul sin it were, thou doughty knight, to hack and to hew a champion true of holy church in such pitiful plight! foul sin her warriors so to slay, when they're scarcer and scarcer every day! -a chantry fair, and of monks a pair, to pray for his soul for ever and aye, thou must duly endow, sir ingoldsby bray, and fourteen marks by the year must thou pay for plenty of lights to burn there o' nights- a legend of palestine. -"pardon and grace !-now pardon and grace!" -sir ingoldsby bray fell flat on his face- “meâ culpâ !-in sooth i'm in pitiful case. peccavi! peccavi !—i've done very wrong! but my heart it is stout, and my arm it is strong, and i'll fight for holy church all the day long; and the ingoldsby lands are broad and fair, and they're here, and they're there, and i can't tell you where, and holy church shall come in for her share!" pope gregory paused, and he sat himself down, and he somewhat relaxed his terrible frown, and his cardinals three they picked up his crown. “now if it be so that you own you've been wrong, and your heart is so stout, and your arm is so strong, and you really will fight like a trump all day long; if the ingoldsby lands do lie here and there, and holy church shall come in for her share,- why, my cardinals three, you'll agree with me that it gives a new turn to the whole affair, and i think that the penitent need not despair! -if it be so, as you seem to say, rise up, rise up, sir ingoldsby bray "an abbey so fair sir bray shall found, whose innermost wall's encircling bound shall take in a couple of acres of ground; and there in that abbey, all the year round, a full choir of monks, and a full choir of nuns, shall live upon cabbage and hot-cross buns. and sir ingoldsby bray, without delay, shall hie him again to ascalon plain, and gather the bones of the foully slain, and shall place said bones, with all possible care, in an elegant shrine in his abbey so fair; the ingoldsby penance. and plenty of lights shall be there o' nights: none of your rascally 'dips, but sound, best superfine wax-wicks, four to the pound; and monk and nun shall pray, each one, for the soul of the prior of abingdon ! and sir ingoldsby bray, so bold and so brave, never shall wash himself, comb, or shave, nor adorn his body, nor drink gin toddy, nor indulge in a pipe, - but shall dine upon tripe, and blackberries gathered before they are ripe, and for ever abhor, renounce, and abjure rum, hollands, and brandy, wine, punch, and liqueur.” (sir ingoldsby bray here gave way to a feeling which prompted a word profane, but he swallowed it down, by an effort, again, and his holiness luckily fancied his gulp a mere repetition of o meâ culpa!) “thrice three times upon candlemas day, between vespers and compline, sir ingoldsby bray shall run round the abbey as best he may, subjecting his back to thump and to thwack, well and truly laid on by a barefooted friar with a stout cat-o'-ninetails of whip-cord and wire; and nor he nor his heir* shall take, use, or bear any more, from this day, the surname of bray, as being dishonored; but all issue male he has shall, with himself, go henceforth by an alias! so his qualms of conscience at length may cease, and page, dame, and prior shall rest in peace !" sir ingoldsby (now no longer bray) is off like a shot away and away, over the brine to far palestine, to rummage and hunt over ascalon plain for the unburied bones of his victim slain. * his brother reginald, it would seem by the pedigree, disregarded this prohibition. a legend of palestine. “look out, my squire, look higher and nigher, look out for the corpse of a barefooted friar ! and pick up the arms and the legs of the dead, and pick up his body, and pick up his head !” fytte iii. ingoldsby abbey is fair to see, - it hath manors a dozen, and royalties three, with right of free warren (whatever that be); rich pastures in front, and green woods in the rear, all in full leaf at the right time of year; about christmas, or so, they fall into the sear, and the prospect, of course, becomes rather more drear; but it's really delightful in spring time,-and near the great gate father thames rolls sun-bright and clear; cobham woods to the right on the opposite shore laindon hills in the distance, ten miles off or more; then you've milton and gravesend behind,-and before you can see almost all the way down to the nore.* so charming a spot it's rarely one's lot to see, and when seen it's as rarely forgot. yes, ingoldsby abbey is fair to see, and its monks and its nuns are fifty and three, and there they all stand each in their degree, drawn up in the front of their sacred abode, two by two in their regular mode, while a funeral comes down the rochester road. palmers twelve from a foreign strand, cockle in hat, and staff in hand, come marching in pairs, a holy band ! * alas! one might almost say that of this sacred and once splendid edifice, periêrunt etiam ruince. an elderly gentleman, however, of ecclesiastical cut, who oscillates be- tween the garrick club and the falcon in gravesend, and is said by the host to be a “foreigneering bishop,” does not scruple to identify the ruins still to be seen by the side of the high dover road, about a mile and a half below the town, with those of the haunted sacellum. the general features of the landscape certainly correspond, and tradition as certainly countenances his conjecture: the ingoldsby penance. little boys twelve, dressed all in white, each with his brazen censer bright, and singing away with all their might, follow the palmers—a goodly sight; next, high in air twelve yeomen bear on their sturdy necks, with a good deal of care, a patent sarcophagus firmly reared of spanish mahogany (not veneered), and behind walks a knight with a very long beard. close by his side is a friar, supplied with a stout cat-o'-ninetails of tough cow-hide, while all sorts of queer men bring up the rear_men- at-arms, nigger captives, and bow-men, and spear-men. it boots not to tell what you'll guess very well, how some sang the requiem, some tolled the bell ; suffice it to say, 'twas on candlemas day the procession i speak about reached the sacellum; and in lieu of a supper, the knight on his crupper received the first taste of the father's flagellum; that, as chronicles tell, he continued to dwell all the rest of his days in the abbey he'd founded, by the pious of both sexes ever surrounded, and, partaking the fare of the monks and the nuns, ate the cabbage alone, without touching the buns; - that year after year, having run round the quad with his back, as enjoined him, exposed to the rod, having not only kissed it, but blessed it and thanked it, he died, as all thought, in the odor of sanctity; when, strange to relate,-and you'll hardly believe what i'm going to tell you,-next.candlemas eve the monks and the nuns in the dead of the night tumble, all of them, out of their beds in affright, alarmed by the bawls, and the calls, and the squalls of some one who seemed running all round the walls ! looking out, soon by the light of the moon there appears most distinctly to ev'ry one's view, and making, as seems to them, all this ado, the form of a knight with a beard like a jew, a legend of palestine. as black as if steeped in that “matchless” of hunt's, and so bushy it would not disgrace mr. muntz; a barefooted friar stands behind him, and shakes a flagellum whose lashes appear to be snakes; while, more terrible still, the astounded beholders perceive the said friar has no head on his shoulders, but is holding his pate in his left hand, out straight, as if by a closer inspection to find where to get the best cut at his victim behind, with the aid of a small “ bull's-eye lantern,”—as placed by our own new police,-in a belt round his waist. all gaze with surprise, scarce believing their eyes, when the knight makes a start like a race-horse, and flies from his headless tormentor, repeating his cries; in vain,- for the friar to his skirts closely sticks, "running after him”-so said the abbot—"like bricks!” thrice three times did the phantom knight course round the abbey as best he might, bethwacked and besmacked by the headless sprite, while his shrieks so piercing made all hearts thrill; then a whoop and a halloo,-and all was still! ingoldsby abbey has passed away, and at this time of day one can hardly survey any traces or track, save a few ruins, gray with age, and fast mouldering into decay, of the structure once built by sir ingoldsby bray; but still there are many folks living who say that on every candlemas eve the knight, accoutred and dight in his armor bright, with his thick black beard, and the clerical sprite, with his head in his hand, and his lantern alight, run round the spot where the old abbey stood, and are seen in the neighboring glebe-land and wood; more especially still if it's stormy and windy, you may hear them for miles kicking up their wild shindy; and that once, in a gale of wind, sleet, and hail, they frightened the horses and upset the mail. the ingoldsby penance. what 'tis breaks the rest of these souls unblest would now be a thing rather hard to be guessed; though some say the squire, on his death-bed, confessed that on ascalon plain, when the bones of the slain were collected that day, and packed up in a chest calked and made water-tight by command of the knight, though the legs and the arms they'd got all pretty right, and the body itself in a decentish plight, yet the friar's pericranium was nowhere in sight; so, to save themselves trouble, they picked up instead, and popped on the shoulders, a saracen's head! thus the knight in the terms of his penance had failed, and the pope's absolution of course nought availed. now though this might be, it don't seem to agree with one thing which, i own, is a poser to me, - i mean, as the miracles wrought at the shrine containing the bones brought from far palestine were so great and notorious, 'tis hard to combine this fact with the reason these people assign, or suppose that the head of the murdered divine could be aught but what yankees would call“ genuine." 'tis a very nice question ; but be't as it may, the ghost of sir ingoldsby (ci-devant bray), it is boldly affirmed by the folks great and small about milton, and chalk, and around cobham hall, still on candlemas day haunts the old ruined wall, and that many have seen him, and more heard him squall. so i think, when the facts of the case you re recall, my inference, reader, you'll fairly forestall- viz., that, spite of the hope held out by the pope, sir ingoldsby bray was d—d after all! moral. foot-pages, and servants of ev'ry degree, in livery or out of it, listen to me! a legend of palestine. see what comes of lying! don't join in a league to humbug your master, or aid an intrigue! ladies !--married and single, from this understand how foolish it is to send letters by hand ! don't stand for the sake of a penny,—but when you 've a billet to send to a lover or friend, put it into the post, and don't cheat the revenue ! reverend gentlemen !-you who are given to roam, don't keep up a soft correspondence at home! but while you're abroad lead respectable lives; love your neighbors, and welcome,--but don't love their wives ! and, as bricklayers cry from the tiles and the leads when they're shovelling the snow off, “take care of your heads !” knights !-whose hearts are so stout, and whose arms are so strong, learn,—to twist a wife's neck is decidedly wrong! if your servants offend you, or give themselves airs, rebuke them—but mildly-don't kick them down stairs ! to “poor richard's” homely old proverb attend, “if you want matters well managed, go !--if not, send !" a servant's too often a negligent elf; -if it's business of consequence, do it yourself! the state of society seldom requires people now to bring home with them unburied friars, but they sometimes do bring home an inmate for life; now-don't do that by proxy !—but choose your own wife! for think how annoying 'twould be, when you're wed, to find in your bed, on the pillow, instead of the sweet face you look for-a saracen's head! netley abbey. alas for ingoldsby abbey !-alas that one should have to say periêrunt etiam ruinæ ! its very ruins now are tiny! there is a something in the very sight of an old abbey- family associations apart-as ossian says (or macpherson for him), “ pleasing yet mournful to the soul!" nor could i ever yet gaze on the roofless walls and ivy-clad towers of one of these venerable monuments of the piety of bygone days with- out something very like an unbidden tear rising to dim the prospect. something of this, i think, i have already hinted in recording our picnic with the seaforths at bolsover. since then i have paid a visit to the beautiful remains of what once was netley, and never experienced the sensation to which i have alluded, in a stronger degree ;-if its character was some- what changed before we parted, it is not my fault. still, be the drawbacks what they may, i shall ever mark with a white stone the day on which i for the first time beheld the time- worn cloisters of netley abbey. a legend of hampshire. i saw thee, netley, as the sun across the western wave was sinking slow, and a golden glow to thy roofless towers he gave; and the ivy sheen, with its mantle of green, that wrapt thy walls around, shone lovelily bright, in that glorious light, and i felt 'twas holy ground. then i thought of the ancient time- the days of the monks of old, a legend of hampshire. when to matin and vesper, and compline chime, the loud hosanna roll'd, and thy courts and “long-drawn aisles” among swelled the full tide of sacred song. and then a vision passed across my mental eye ;* and silver shrines, and shaven crowns, and delicate ladies, in bombazeen gowns and long white veils, went by; stiff, and staid, and solemn, and sad, - but one, methought, winked at the gardener-lad! then came the abbot, with mitre and ring, and pastoral staff, and all that sort of thing, and a monk with a book, and a monk with a bell, and "dear little souls," in clean linen stoles, swinging their censers, and making a smell.- and see where the choir-master walks in the rear, with front severe, and brow austere, now and then pinching a little boy's ear when he chants the responses too late or too soon, or his do, re, mi, fa, sol, la's not quite in tune. (then, you know, they'd a "movable do," not a fixed one as now-and of course never knew how to set up a musical hullabaloo.) it was, in sooth, a comely sight, and i welcomed the vision with pure delight. but then “ a change came o'er” my spirit-a change of fear- that gorgeous scene i beheld no more, but deep beneath the basement floor a dungeon dark and drear! and there was an ugly hole in the wall- for an oven too big,-for a cellar too small! and mortar and bricks all ready to fix, and i said, “here's a nun has been playing some tricks !— * “in my mind's eye, horatio!"—hamlet. netley abbey. that horrible hole!-it seems to say, ' i'm a grave that gaps for a living prey !'” and my heart grew sick, and my brow grew sad- and i thought of that wink at the gardener-lad. ah me! ah me!-'tis sad to think that maiden's eye, which was made to wink, should here be compelled to grow blear, and blink, or be closed for aye in this kind of way, shut out for ever from wholesome day, walled up in a hole with never a chink, no light,-no air,-no victuals,-no drink! and that maiden's lip, which was made to sip, should here grow withered and dry as a chip! - that wandering glance and furtive kiss, excecdingly naughty, and wrong, i wis, should yet be considered so much amiss as to call for a sentence severe as this !- and i said to myself, as i heard with a sigh the poor lone victim's stifled cry,* “well, i can't understand how any man's hand could wall up that hole in a christian land ! why a mussulman turk would recoil from the work, and though, when his ladies run after the fellows, he stands not on trifles, if maddened by jealousy, its objects, i'm sure, would declare, could they speak, in their georgian, circassian, or turkish, or greek, • when all's said and done, far better it was for us, tied back to back, and sewn up in a sack, to be pitched neck-and-heels from a boat in the bosphorus !" -oh! saint 'twould vex to think that the sex should be treated no better than combe's double x! sure some one might run to the abbess, and tell her a much better method of stocking her cellar." * about the middle of the last century a human skeleton was discovered in a recess in the wall among the ruins of netley. on examination the bones were pronounced to be those of a female, teste james harrison, a youthful but intelligent cab-driver of southampton, who “well remembers to have heard his grandmother say that "somebody told her so."" a legend of hampshire. if ever on polluted walls heaven's red right arm in vengeance falls, if e’er its justice wraps in flame the black abodes of sin and shame, that justice, in its own good time, shall visit for so foul a crime, ope desolation's floodgate wide, and blast thee, netley, in thy pride! lo where it comes !- the tempest lowers, it bursts on thy devoted towers ; ruthless tudor's bloated form rides on the blast, and guides the storm; i hear the sacrilegious cry, “ down with the nests, and the rooks will fly!" down! down they come--a fearful fall- arch, and pillar, and roof-tree, and all, stained pane, and sculptured stone, there they lie on the greensward strown- mouldering walls remain alone! shaven crown, bombazeen gown, mitre, and crozier, and all are flown! and yet, fair netley, as i gaze upon that gray and mouldering wall, the glories of thy palmy days its very stones recall ! - they “come like shadows, so depart”- i see thee as thou wert-and art- sublime in ruin !-grand in woe! lone refuge of the owl and bat; no voice awakes thine echoes now! no sound-good gracious!—what was that? was it the moan, the parting groan of her who died forlorn and alone, embedded in mortar, and bricks, and stone ?- fragment. “well—well !” quoth i, as i heaved a sigh, and a tear-drop fell from my twinkling eye, “my vastly good man, as i scarcely doubt that some day or other you'll find it out, should he come in your way, or'ride in your shay' (as perhaps he may), be so good as to say that a visitor, whom you drove over one day, was exceedingly angry, and very much scandalized, finding these beautiful ruins so vandalized, and thus of their owner to speak began, as he ordered you home in haste, no doubt he's a very respectable man, but~ i can't say much for his taste.” my very excellent brother-in-law, seaforth, late of the bombay fencibles (lucky dog to have quitted the service before this shocking afghan business !), seems to have been even more forcibly affected on the evening when he so narrowly escaped being locked in at westminster abbey, and when— but let him describe his own feelings, as he has done, indeed, in the subjoined fragment. a feeling sad came o'er me as i trod the sacred ground where tudors and plantagenets were lying all around: i stepped with noiseless foot, as though the sound of mortal tread might burst the bands of the dreamless sleep that wraps the mighty dead! * adieu, monsieur gil blas; je vous souhaite toutes sortes de prospérités, avec un peu plus de gout !-gil blas. fragment. the slanting ray of the evening sun shone through those cloisters pale, with fitful light on regal vest, and warrior's sculptured mail ; as from the stained and storied pane it danced with quivering gleam, each cold and prostrate form below seemed quickening in the beam. now, sinking low, no more was heard the organ's solemn swell, and faint upon the listening ear the last hosanna fell: it died-and not a breath did stir ;-above each knightly stall, unmoved, the bannered blazonry hung waveless as a pall. i stood alone !-a living thing. 'midst those that were no more i thought on ages past and gone—the glorious deeds of yore on edward's sable panoply, on cressy's tented plain, the fatal roses twined at length-on great eliza's reign. i thought on naseby-marston moor-on worc'ster's “crown- ing fight;" when on mine ear a sound there fell-it chilled me with affright, as thus in low, unearthly tones i heard a voice begin, -"this here's the cap of giniral monk i-sir! please put summut in!” cætera desiderantur. that seaforth's nervous system was powerfully acted upon on this occasion i can well believe. the circumstance brings to my recollection a fearful adventure or what might perhaps have proved one of my own in early life while grinding gerunds at canterbury. a sharp touch of the gout, and the reputed sanitary qualities of a certain spring in st. peter's a legend of the “dark entry." it was street, then in much repute, had induced my uncle to take up a temporary abode within the cathedral “precinct.” on one of those temporary visits which i was sometimes permitted to pay on half-holidays that, in self defence, i had to recount the following true narrative. i may add that this tradition is not yet worn out: a small maimed figure of a female in a sitting position, and holding something like a frying-pan in her hand, may still be seen on the covered passage which crosses the brick walk, and adjoins the house belonging to the sixth prebendal stall.— there are those whom i know who would, even yet, hesitate at threading the dark entry on a friday—"not" of course "that they believe one word about" nell cook. a legend of the “dark entry." the king's scholar's story. “from the ‘brick walk' branches off to the right a long narrow vaulted passage, paved with flagstones, vulgarly known by the name of the ‘dark entry.' its eastern extremity communicates with the cloisters, crypt, and, by a private staircase, with the interior of the cathedral. on the west it opens into the 'green-court, forming a communication between it and the portion of the ‘precinct' called the 'oaks.'”-a walk round canterbury, etc. [scene—a back parlor in mr. john ingoldsby's house in the precinct.-a blazing fire. -mine uncle is seated in a high-backed easy chair, twirling his thumbs, and con- templating his list shoe.—little tom, the “king's scholar," on a stool opposite.- mrs. john ingoldsby at the table, busily employed in manufacturing a cabbage- rose (cauliflower ?) in many-colored worsteds.—mine uncle's meditations are in- terrupted by the french clock on the mantle-piece. he prologizeth with vivacity.] “har ark! listen, mrs. ingoldsby,—the clock is striking nine ! give master tom another cake, and half a glass of wine, and ring the bell for jenny smith, and bid her bring his coat, and a warm bandana handkerchief to tie around his throat. nell cook. “and bid them go the nearest way, for mr. birch has said that nine o'clock's the hour he'll have his boarders all in bed ; and well we know when little boys their coming home delay, they often seem to walk and sit uneasily next day!" “now nay, dear uncle ingoldsby, now send me not, i pray, back by that entry dark, for that you know's the nearest way; i dread that entry dark with jane alone at such an hour, it fears me quite--it's friday night and then nell cook hath power!" “and who's nell cook, thou silly child ?—and what's nell cook to thee, that thou shouldst dread at night to tread with jane that dark entree ?" -"nay, list and hear, mine uncle dear! such fearsome things they tell of nelly cook that few may brook at night to meet with nell! “it was in bluff king harry's days,-and monks and friars were then, you know, dear uncle ingoldsby, a sort of clergymen. they'd coarse stuff gowns, and shaven crowns-no shirts, - and no cravats, and a cord was placed about their waist-they had no shovel hats ! “it was in bluff king harry's days, while yet he went to shrift, and long before he stamped and swore, and cut the pope adrift; there lived a portly canon then, a sage and learned clerk; he had, i trow, a goodly house, fast by that entry dark ! “ the canon was a portly man of latin and of greek, and learned lore, he had good store,-yet health was on his cheek. the priory fare was scant and spare, the bread was made of rye, the beer was weak, yet he was sleek-he had a merry eye. a legend of the “dark entry.” “for though within the priory the fare was scant and thin, the canon's house it stood without;-he kept good cheer within; unto the best he prest each guest with free and jovial look, and ellen bean ruled his cuisine,-he called her ‘nelly cook.' “for soups, and stews, and choice ragouts, nell cook was famous still ! she'd make them even of old shoes, she had such wondrous skill: her manchets fine were quite divine, her cakes were nicely browned, her boiled and roast they were the boast of all the “precinct” round. “and nelly was a comely lass, but calm and staid her air, and earthward bent her modest look-yet was she passing fair ; and though her gown was russet brown, their heads grave people shook : -they all agreed no clerk had need of such a pretty cook. “one day—'twas on a whitsun eve -there came a coach and four;- it passed the 'green-court' gate, and stopped before the canon's door; the travel stain on wheel and rein bespoke a weary way; each panting steed relaxed its speed-out stepped a lady gay. “now welcome! welcome! dearest niece,' the canon then did cry, and to his breast the lady pressed,-he had a merry eye; now welcome! welcome! dearest niece,-in sooth thou'rt welcome here; 'tis many a day since we have met :-how fares my brother dear?'— “now thanks, my loving uncle,' that lady gay replied: "gramercy for thy benison !-then ‘out, alas !' she sighed; 'my father dear he is not near,-he seeks the spanish main; he prays thee give me shelter here till he return again !- nell cook. «« now welcome! welcome! dearest niece; come lay thy man- tle by the canon kissed her ruby lip,-he had a merry eye; but nelly cook askew did look,-it came into her mind they were a little less than ‘kin,' and rather more than 'kind.' % “three weeks are gone and over-full three weeks and a day~ yet still within the canon's house doth dwell that lady gay; on capons fine they daily dine, rich cates and sauces rare, and they quaff good store of bordeaux wine, --so dainty is their fare. “and fine upon the virginal is that gay lady's touch, and sweet her voice unto the lute, you'll scarce hear any such ; but is it o sanctissima' she sings in dulcet tone? or 'angels ever bright and fair'?—ah no! it's 'bobbing joan'! “ the canon's house is lofty and spacious to the view ; the canon's cell is ordered well-yet nelly looks askew; the lady's bower is in the tower-yet nelly shakes her head: she hides the poker and the tongs in that gay lady's bed! six weeks were gone and over -full six weeks and a day- yet in that bed the poker and the tongs unheeded lay! from which i fear it's pretty clear that lady rest had none,- or if she slept in any bed, it was not in her own. “but where that lady passed her night i may not well divine, perhaps in pious orisons at good st. thomas' shrine, and for her father far away breathed tender vows and true; it may be so—i cannot say—but nelly looked askew. “and still at night, by fair moonlight, when all were locked in sleep, she'd listen at the canon's door, she'd through the keyhole peep; a legend of the “dark entry." i know not what she heard or saw, but fury filled her eye: -she bought some nasty doctor's-stuff, and she put it in a pie! “ it was a glorious summer's eve; with beams of rosy red the sun went down-all nature smiled—but nelly shook her head. full softly to the balmy breeze rung out the vesper bell; -upon the canon's startled ear it sounded like a knell! “now here's to thee, mine uncle! a health i drink to thee! now pledge me back in sherris sack, or a cup of malvoisie!'- the canon sighed, but, rousing, cried, 'i answer to thy call, and a warden-pie's a dainty dish to mortify withal ! “ 'tis early dawn; the matin chime rings out for morning prayer, and prior and friar is in his stall—the canon is not there; nor in the small refect'ry hall nor cloistered walk is he; all wonder—and the sacristan says, 'lauk-a-daisy me!' “they've searched the aisles and baptist'ry--they've searched above, around the 'sermon house,' the “audit room'-the canon is not found. they only find that pretty cook concocting a ragout; they ask her where her master is—but nelly looks askew. “they call for crowbars—jimmies' is the modern name they bear; they burst through lock, and bolt, and bar—but what a sight is there !- the canon's head lies on the bed-his niece lies on the floor! — they are as dead as any nail that is in any door! “the livid spot is on his breast, the spot is on his back; his portly form, no longer warm with life, is swoln and black !- the livid spot is on her cheek, it's on her neck of snow, and the prior sighs, and sadly cries, 'well-here's a pretty go!' À legend of the "dark entry." “ a hundred years have gone and past since last nell cook was seen, when, worn by use, that stone got loose, and they went and told the dean.- -says the dean, says he, my masons three! now haste and fix it tight; and the masons three peeped down to see, and they saw a fearsome sight. “beneath that heavy paving-stone a shocking hole they found it was not more than twelve feet deep, and barely twelve feet round; -a fleshless, sapless skeleton lay in that horrid well! but who the deuce 'twas put it there those masons could not tell. “and near this fleshless skeleton a pitcher small did lie, and a mouldy piece of 'kissing crust,' as from a warden-pie! and doctor jones declared the bones were female bones, and, • zooks ! i should not be surprised,' said he, 'if these were nelly cook's ! “it was in good dean bargrave's days, if i remember right, those fleshless bones beneath the stones these masons brought to light; and you may well in the 'dean's chapelle' dean bargrave's portrait view, who died one night,' says old tom wright, 'in sixteen forty-two!' “and so two hundred years have passed since that these masons three, with curious looks, did set nell cook's unquiet spirit free; that granite stone had kept her down till then—so some suppose, - -some spread their fingers out, and put their thumbs unto their nose. , nell cook. “but one thing's clear-that all the year, on every friday night, throughout that entry dark doth roam nell cook's unquiet sprite: on friday was that warden-pie all by that canon tried; on friday died he, and that tidy lady by his side! “and though two hundred years have flown, nell cook doth still pursue her weary walk, and they who cross her path the deed may rue; her fatal breath is fell as death! the simoom's blast is not more dire (a wind in africa that blows uncommon hot). “but all unlike the simoom's blast, her breath is deadly cold, delivering quivering, shivering shocks unto both young and old, and whoso in that entry dark doth feel that fatal breath, he ever dies within the year some dire untimely death! “no matter who—no matter what condition, age, or sex, but some 'get shot,' and some get drowned,' and some 'get' broken necks; some 'get run over' by a coach ; and one beyond the seas "got' scraped to death with oyster-shells among the caribbees ! “those masons three who set her free fell first-it is averred that two were hanged on tyburn tree for murdering of the third : charles storey,* too, his friend who slew, had ne'er, if truth they tell, been gibbeted on chatham downs, had they not met with nell! * in or about the year , a worthy of this name cut the throat of a journeyman paper-maker, was executed on oaten hill, and afterwards hung in chains near the scene of his crime. it was to this place, as being the extreme boundary of the city's jurisdiction, that the worthy mayor with so much naïveté wished to escort archbishop m*** on one of his progresses, when he begged to have the honor of " attending his grace as far as the gallows." a legend of the “dark entry." “then send me not, mine uncle dear, oh! send me not, i pray, back through that entry dark to-night, but round some other way! i will not be a truant boy, but good, and mind my book, for heaven forefend that ever i foregather with nell cook !" the class was called at morning tide, and master tom was there; he looked askew, and did eschew both stool, and bench, and chair. he did not talk, he did not walk, the tear was in his eye, - he had pot e'en that sad resource, to sit him down and cry. hence little boys may learn, when they from school go out to dine, they should not deal in rigmarole, but still be back by nine; for if, when they've their great coat on, they pause before they part, to tell a long and prosy tale,-perchance their own may smart. moral. - a few remarks to learned clerks in country and in town- don't keep a pretty serving-maid, though clad in russet brown don't let your niece sing “bobbing joan !”—don't, with a merry eye, hob-nob in sack and malvoisie,-and don't eat too much pie!! and oh! beware that entry dark,-especially at night, and don't go there with jenny smith all by the pale moon- light !- so bless the queen and her royal weans,—and the prince whose hand she took,– and bless us all, both great and small, -and keep us from nell cook ! nursery reminiscences. kind, good-hearted, gouty uncle john! how well i remem- ber all the kindness and affection which my mischievous pro- pensities so ill repaid-his bright blue coat and resplendent gilt buttons—his "frosty pow” si bien poudré-his little quill- like pigtail! of all my praiseworthy actions—they were "like angel visits, few and far between ”—the never failing and munificent rewarder; of my naughty deeds—they were mul- titudinous as the sands on the sea-shore—the ever-ready palliator; my intercessor, and sometimes even my defender against punishment, "staying harsh justice in its mid career!"- poor uncle john! he will ever rank among the dearest of my nursery reminiscences. i remember, i remember, when i was a little boy, one fine morning in september uncle brought me home a toy. i remember how he patted both my cheeks in kindliest mood; “then,” said he, “you little fat-head, there's a top because you're good.” grandmamma-a shrewd observer- i remember gazed upon my new top, and said with fervor, “oh! how kind of uncle john!" while mamma, my form caressing, in her eye the tear-drop stood, - read me this fine moral lesson, “see what comes of being good !” nursery reminiscences. i remember, i remember, on a wet and windy day, one cold morning in december, i stole out and went to play ; ! i remember billy hawkins came, and with his pewter squirt squibbed my pantaloons and stockings till they were all over dirt ! to my mother for protection i ran, quaking every limb: -she exclaimed, with fond affection, “gracious goodness! look at him!” pa cried, when he saw my garment- 'twas a newly-purchased dress- “oh! you nasty little warment, how came you in such a mess ?” then he caught me by the collar- cruel only to be kind- and, to my exceeding dolor, gave me-several slaps behind. grandmamma, while yet i smarted, as she saw my evil plight, said—'twas rather stony-hearted- “ little rascal! sarve him right!" i remember, i remember, from that sad and solemn day, never more in dark december did i venture out to play. and the moral which they taught, i well remember; thus they said: “little boys, when they are naughty, must be whipped and sent to bed !” aunt fanny. poor uncle john! after life's fitful fever he sleeps well,” in the old family vault in denton chancel; and dear aunt fanny too !-the latter also “loo'd me weel,” as the scotch song has it; and since at this moment i am in a most soft and sentimental humor (whisky toddy should ever be made by pouring the boiling fluid-hotter if possible-upon the thinnest lemon-peel, and then,-but everybody knows “what then”-), i dedicate the following “true history" to my beloved aunt fanny. a legend of a shirt. virginibus, puerisque canto.-hor. old maids and bachelors i chant to!-t. i. sing of a shirt that never was new ! i in the course of the year eighteen hundred and two, aunt fanny began, upon grandmamma’s plan, to make one for me, then her “dear little man.” at the epoch i speak about, i was between a man and a boy,– a hobble-de-hoy, a fat little paunchy concern of sixteen, just beginning to flirt and ogle, --so pert, i'd been whipt every day had i had my desert; —and aunt fan volunteered to make me a shirt ! i've said she began it;- some unlucky planet no doubt interfered ; for, before she and janet completed the "cutting out," "hemming," and "stitching," a tall irish footman appeared in the kitchen; - this took off the maid, and i'm sadly afraid my respected aunt fanny's attention, too, strayed ; for about the same period a gay son of mars, cornet jones of the tenth (then the prince's) hussars, a legend of a shirt. with his fine dark eyelashes, and finer moustaches, and the ostrich plume worked on the corps' sabretasches (i say nought of the gold-and-red cord of the sashes, or the boots far above the guards' vile spatterdashes),- so eyed, and so sighed, and so lovingly tried, to engage her whole ear as he lounged by her side, looking down on the rest with such dignified pride, that she made up her mind she should certainly find cornet jones at her feet, whisp’ring “fan, be my bride!” she had even resolved to say “yes,” should he ask it, -and i-and my shirt-were both left in the basket. to her grief and dismay she discovered one day cornet jones of the tenth was a little too gay; for, besides that she saw him—he could not say nay- wink at one of the actresses capering away in a spanish bolero, one night at the play, she found he'd already a wife at cambray, one at paris-a nymph of the corps de ballet- and a third down in kent, at a place called foot's cray. he viler than dirt!”– fanny vowed to exert all her powers to forget him and finish my shirt. but oh, lack-a-day! how time slips away! who'd have thought that while cupid was playing these tricks, ten years had elapsed, and—i'd turned twenty-six ! was “i care not a whit, he's not grown a bit,” says my aunt; "it will still be a very good fit.” so janet and she, now about thirty-three (the maid had been jilted by mr. magee), each taking one end of “the shirt” on her knee, again began working with hearty good will, felling the seams” and “whipping the frill;" for, twenty years since though the ruffle had vanished, a frill like a fan had by no means been banished; people wore them at playhouses, parties, and churches, like overgrown fins of overgrown perches. aunt fanny. now then, by these two thus laying their caps together, my shirt had been finished, perhaps, but for one of those queer little three-cornered straps, wbich the ladies call “side-bits,” that sever the “ “flaps ;" here unlucky janet took her needle and ran it right into her thumb, and cried loudly, “ads cuss it! i've spoiled myself now by that 'ere nasty gusset !" for a month to come poor dear janet's thumb was in that sort of state vulgar people call “rum;" at the end of that time, a youth, still in his prime, the doctor's fat errand-boy,-just such a dolt as is kept to mix draughts and spread plasters and poultices, who a bread-cataplasm each morning had carried her,- sighed, ogled, proposed, was accepted,--and married her! much did aunt fan disapprove of the plan: she turned up her dear little snub at “the man;" she “could not believe it,"— “could scarcely conceive it was possible-what! such a place and then leave it! and all for a ‘shrimp’ not as high as my hat- a little contemptible ‘shaver' like that, with a broad pancake face, and eyes buried in fat!" for her part, “she was sure she could never endure a lad with a lisp, and a leg like a skewer! such a name too ('twas potts) !-and so nasty a trade no, no,-she would much rather die an old maid ! he a husband, indeed !-well, mine, come what may come, sha'n't look like a blister, and smell of guaiacum !” but there! she'd “ declare it was janet's affair chacun à son goût; as she baked she might brew; she could not prevent her—'twas no use in trying it, oh no—she had made her own bed, and might lie in it. they'repent at leisure who marry at random.' no matter-de gustibus non disputandum !” consoling herself with this choice bit of latin, aunt fanny resignedly bought some white satin, a legend of a shirt. and, as the soubrette was a very great pet after all, she resolved to forgive and forget, and sat down to make her a bridal rosette, with magnificent bits of some white-looking metal stuck in, here and there, each forming a petal.- -on such an occasion one couldn't feel hurt, of course, that she ceased to remember—my shirt ! ten years,—or nigh,- had again gone by, when fan accidentally casting her eye on a dirty old work-basket, hung up on high in the store-closet where herbs were put by to dry, took it down to explore it-she didn't know why.- within, a pea-soup colored fragment she spied, of the hue of a november fog in cheapside, or a bad piece of gingerbread spoilt in the baking. -i still hear her cry, “i wish i may die if here isn't tom's shirt, that's been so long a-making! my gracious me! well,--only to see! i declare it's as yellow as yellow can be ! why, it looks as though't had been soaked in green tea! dear me, did you ever ? — but come—'twill be clever to bring matters round; so i'll do my endeavor- better late,' says an excellent proverb, than never!' it is stain'd, to be sure; but grass-bleaching' will bring it to rights in a jiffy.'—we'll wash it, and wring it; or, stay,— hudson's liquor' will do it still quicker, and here the new maid chimed in, “ma'am, salt of lemon will make it, in no time, quite fit for the gemman!" so they “set in the gathers,”—the large round the collar, while those at the wristbands of course were much smaller, the buttonholes now were at length “overcast;" then a button itself was sewn on-'twas the last ! all's done! all's won! never under the sun was shirt so late finished-so early begun! - aunt fanny. -the work would defy the most critical eye. it was "bleached,”-it was washed, -it was hung out to dry,– it was marked on the tail with a t and an i! on the back of a chair it was placed, -just to air it, in front of the fire. *tom to-morrow shall wear it!" - ccca mens hominum |--fanny, good soul, left her charge for one moment—but one-a vile coal bounced out from the grate, and set fire to the whole! had it been doctor amott's new stove—not a grate:- had the coal been a “lord mayor's coal,”—viz., a slate ;- what a different tale had i had to relate ! and aunt fan-and my shirt-been superior to fate ;- one moment—no more! -fan opened the door! the draught made the blaze ten times worse than before; and aunt fanny sank down-in despair-on the floor! you may fancy perhaps agrippina's amazement, when, looking one fine moonlight night from her casement, she saw, while thus gazing, all rome a-blazing, and, losing at once all restraint on her temper or feelings, exclaimed, “hang that scamp of an emperor, although he's my son !- -he thinks it prime fun, no doubt !-while the flames are demolishing rome, there's my nero a-fiddling and singing 'sweet home!” -stay—i'm really not sure 'twas that lady who said the words i've put down, as she stepped into bed, on reflection, i rather believe she was dead; but e'en when at college, i fairly acknowledge, i never was very precise in chronology ; so, if there's an error, pray set down as mine a mistake of no very great moment-in fine, a mere slip—'twas some pleb’s wife, if not agrippina. you may fancy that warrior, so stern and so stony, whom thirty years since we all used to call boney, a legend of a shirt. when, engaged in what he styled “fulfilling his destinies," he led his rapscallions across the borysthenes, and made up his mind snug quarters to find in moscow, against the catarrhs and the coughs which are apt to prevail 'mongst the "owskis” and “offs” at a time of the year when your nose and your ear are by no means so safe there as people's are here, inasmuch as " jack frost," that most fearful of bogles, makes folk leave their cartilage oft in their “fogles." you may fancy, i say, that same boney's dismay, when count rostopchin at once made him drop chin, and turn up his eyes, as his rappee he took, with a sort of mort-de-ma-vie kind of look, on perceiving that “swing,” and "all that sort of thing," was at work—that he'd just lost the game without knowing it: that the kremlin was blazing—the russians "a-going it," — every plug in the place frozen hard as the ground, and the deuce of a turn-cock at all to be found ! you may fancy king charles at some court fancy-ball (the date we may fix in sixteen sixty-six), in the room built by inigo jones at whitehall, whence his father, the martyr (as such mourned by all who, in his, wept the law's and the monarchy's fall), stept out to exchange regal robes for a pall- you may fancy king charles, i say, stopping the brawl,* as burst on his sight the old church of st. paul, by the light of its flames, now beginning to crawl from basement to buttress, and topping its wall- -you may fancy old clarendon making a call, and stating in cold, slow, monotonous drawl, “sire, from pudding lane's end, close by fishimongers' hall, to pye corner, in smithfield, there is not a stall there, in market or street --not a house, great or small, in which knight wields his falchion, or cobbler his awl, * not a "row," but a dance. “the brave lord keeper led the brawls, the seals and maces danced before him."-gray. - and truly sir christopher danced to some tune. aunt fanny. but's on fire!!”—you may fancy the general squall and bawl as they all call for wimple and shawl!- -you may fancy all this—but i boldly assert you can't fancy aunt fan-as she looked on my shirt!! was't apelles ? or zeuxis ?-i think 'twas apelles, that artist of old—i declare i can't tell his exact patronymic-i write and pronounce ill these classical names—whom some grecian town-council employed,—i believe, by command of the oracle,- to produce them a splendid piece, purely historical, for adorning the wall of some fane, or guildhall, and who for his subject determined to try a large painting in oils of miss iphigenia at the moment her sire, by especial desire of “that spalpeen, o'dysseus” (see barney maguire), has resolved to devote her beautiful throat to old chalcas's knife, and her limbs to the fire; -an act which we moderns by no means admire,- an off'ring, 'tis true, to jove, mars, or apollo, cost no trifling sum in those days, if a holocaust, - still, although for economy we should condemn none, in an avaş avdpov, like the great agamemnon, to give up to slaughter an elegant daughter, after all the french, music, and dancing they'd taught her, and singing,-at heaven knows how much a quarter,- in lieu of a calf ! it was too bad by half ! at a “nigger"* so pitiful who would not laugh, and turn up their noses at one who could find no decenter method of "raising the wind”? no doubt but he might, without any great flight, have obtained it by what we call “flying a kite,” or on mortgage or sure, if he couldn't so do it, he must have succeeded" by way of annuity.” but there—it appears, his crocodile tears, his “ohs,” and his “ahs,” his “oh laws,” and “oh dears," * hibernice “nigger," quasi “niggard.” vide b. maguire passim. misadventures at margate. it is to my excellent and erudite friend, simpkinson, that i am indebted for his graphic description of the well-known chalk-pit, between acol and minster, in the isle of thanet, known by the name of the “smuggler's leap.” the substance of the true history attached to it he picked up while visiting that admirable institution, the “sea-bathing infirmary," of which he is a “life governor," and enjoying his otium cum dignitate last summer at the least aristocratic of all possible watering-places. before i proceed to detail it, however, i cannot, in conscience, fail to bespeak for him the reader's sympathy in one of his own misadventures at margate. a legend of jarvis's jetty. mr. simpkinson (loquitur). ' was in margate last july, i walked upon the pier, i saw a little vulgar boy-i said, “what make you here? the gloom upon your youthful cheek speaks anything but joy;" again i said, “what make you here, you little vulgar boy ?” he frowned, that little vulgar boy,-he deemed i meant to scoff- and when the little heart is big, a little "sets it off;" he put his finger in his mouth, his little bosom rose, he had no little handkerchief to wipe his little nose ! - “hark! don't you hear, my little man ?--it's striking nine,” i said, “an hour when all good little boys and girls should be in bed. run home and get your supper, else your ma will scold-oh, fie! it's very wrong indeed for little boys to stand and cry!" a legend of jarvis's jetty. the tear-drop in his little eye again began to spring, his bosom throbbed with agony,-he cried like anything ! i stooped, and thus amidst his sobs i heard him murmur “ah! i haven't got no supper! and i haven't got no mall “my father he is on the seas,-my mother's dead and gone! and i am here, on this here pier, to roam the world alone! i have not had, this live-long day, one drop to cheer my heart, nor 'brown' to buy a bit of bread with, let alone a tart. “if there's a soul will give me food, or find me in employ, by day or night, then blow me tight !” (he was a vulgar boy); “and now i'm here, from this here pier it is my fixed intent to jump, as mister levi did from off the monu-ment !" “cheer up! cheer up! my little man-cheer up!" i kindly said, “you are a naughty boy to take such things into your head: if you should jump from off the pier, you'd surely break your legs, perhaps your neck-then bogey'd have you, sure as eggs are eggs ! “come home with me, my little man, come home with me and sup; my landlady is mrs. jones—we must not keep her up, — there's roast potatoes at the fire,-enough for me and you- come home, you little vulgar boy-i lodge at number .” i took him home to number , the house beside “the foy,” i bade him wipe his dirty shoes,—that little vulgar boy,- and then i said to mistress jones, the kindest of her sex, “pray be so good as go and fetch a pint of double x !” but mrs. jones was rather cross, she made a little noise, she said she“ did not like to wait on little vulgar boys,”- she with her apron wiped the plates, and as she rubbed the delf, said i might “go to jericho, and fetch my beer myself!" a legend of jarvis's jetty. to find that little vulgar boy, who'd gone and used me so; but when the crier cried, “o yes !" the people cried, “o no!” i went to “jarvis' landing-place," the glory of the town, there was a common sailor-man a-walking up and down; i told my talehe seemed to think i'd not been treated well, and called me “poor old buffer !”—what that means i cannot tell. that sailor-man he said he'd seen that morning on the shore, a son of—something—'twas a name i'd never heard before, a little "gallows-looking chap”-dear me! what could he mean - with a "carpet-swab” and “muckingtogs," and a hat turned up with green. it's very he spoke about his “precious eyes," and said he'd seen him “sheer," odd that sailor-men should talk so very queer- and then he hitched his trousers up, as is, i'm told, their use, - it's very odd that sailor-men should wear those things so loose. i did not understand him well, but think he meant to say he'd seen that little vulgar boy, that morning, swim away in captain large's royal george, about an hour before, and they were now, as he supposed, “ somewheres" about the nore. a landsman said, “i twig the chap-he's been upon the mill- and 'cause he gammons so the flats, ve calls him veeping bill !” he said, “he'd done me wery brown," and nicely “stowed the swag," --that's french, i fancy, for a hat—or else a carpet-bag. misadventures at margate, i went and told the constable my property to track ; he asked me if “i did not wish that i might get it back ?” i answered, “to be sure i do it's what i'm come about." he smiled and said, “sir, does your mother know that you are out?" not knowing what to do, i thought i'd hasten back to town, and beg our own lord mayor to catch the boy who'd “done me brown.” his lordship very kindly said he'd try and find him out, but he “rather thought that there were several vulgar boys about.” he sent for mr. withair then, and i described “the swag," my macintosh, my sugar-tongs, my spoons, and carpet-bag; he promised that the new police should all their powers employ! but never to this hour have i beheld that vulgar boy! moral. remember, then, what when a boy i've heard my grandma tell, “be warned in time by others' harm, and you shall do full well!” don't link yourself with vulgar folks who've got no fixed abode, tell lies, use naughty words, and say “they wish they may be blowed !” don't take too much of double x!-and don't at night go out to fetch your beer yourself, but make the pot-boy bring your stout! and when you go to margate next, just stop and ring the bell, give my respects to mrs. jones, and say i'm pretty well! a legend of thanet. and now for his legend, which, if the facts took place rather beyond “the memory of the oldest inhabitant,” are yet well known to have occurred in the neighborhood“ once on a time;" and the scene of them will be readily pointed out by any one of the fifty intelligent fly-drivers who ply upon the pier, and who will convey you safely to the spot for a guerdon which they term "three bob." the smuggler's leap. a legend of thanet. “near this hamlet (acol) is a long-disused chalk-pit of formidable depth, known by the name of the smuggler's leap.' the tradition of the parish runs that a riding- officer from sandwich, called anthony gill, lost his life here in the early part of the present (last) century, while in pursuit of a smuggler. a fog coming on, both parties went over the precipice. the smuggler's horse only, it is said, was found crushed beneath its rider. the spot has, of course, been haunted ever since.”-see “supplement to lewis's history of thanet, by the rev. samuel pegg, a.m., vicar of gomersham." w. bristow, canterbury, , p. . the the fire-flash shines from reculver cliff, and the answering light burns blue in the skiff, and there they stand, that smuggling band, some in the water and some on the sand, ready those contraband goods to land: the night is dark, they are silent and still, -at the head of the party is smuggler bill! “now lower away! come, lower away! we must be far ere the dawn of the day. if exciseman gill should get scent of the prey, and should come, and should catch us here, what would he say? come, lower away, lads-once on the hill, we'll laugh, ho! ho! at exciseman gill!” the cargo's lowered from the dark skiff's side, and the tow-line drags the tubs through the tide, no trick nor flam, but your real schiedam. “now mount, my merry men, mount and ride!” a legend of thanet. all, all, save one--exciseman gill,- he sticks to the skirts of smuggler bill! smuggler bill is six feet high, he has curling locks, and a roving eye, he has a tongue and he has a smile trained the female heart to beguile, and there is not a farmer's wife in the isle, from st. nicholas quite to the foreland light, but that eye, and that tongue, and that smile will wheedle her to have done with the grocer and make him her tea-dealer; there is not a farmer there but he still buys gin and tobacco from smuggler bill. smuggler bill rides gallant and gay on his dapple-gray mare, away, and away, and he pats her neck, and he seems to say, “ follow who will, ride after who may, in sooth he had need fodder his steed, in lieu of lent-corn, with a quicksilver feed; -nor oats, nor beans, nor the best of old hay, will make him a match for my own dapple-gray! ho! ho !-ho! ho!” says smuggler bill- he draws out a flask and he sips his fill, and he laughs “ho! ho !” at exciseman gill. down chislett lane, so free and so fleet, rides smuggler bill, and away to up street; sarre bridge is won bill thinks it fun; “ho! ho! the old tub-gauging son of a gun his wind will be thick, and his breeks be thin, ere a race like this he may hope to win!” away, away, goes the fleet dapple-gray, fresh as the breeze and free as the wind, and exciseman gill lags far behind. "i would give my soul," quoth exciseman gill, “for a nag that would catch that smuggler billl- the smuggler's leap. no matter for blood, no matter for bone, no matter for color, bay, brown, or roan, so i had but one!” a voice cried, “done !" “ay, dun,” said exciseman gill, and he spied a custom-house officer close by his side, on a high-trotting horse with a dun-colored hide.- “ devil take me," again quoth exciseman gill, “if i had but that horse, i'd have smuggler bill!" from his using such shocking expressions, it's plain that exciseman gill was rather profane. he was, it is true, as bad as a jew, a sad old scoundrel as ever you knew, and he rode in his stirrups sixteen stone two. -he'd just uttered the words which i've mentioned to you, when his horse coming slap on his knees with him, threw him head over heels, and away he flew, and exciseman gill was bruised black and blue. when he arose his hands and his clothes were as filthy as could be, he'd pitched on his nose, and rolled over and over again in the mud, and his nose and his chin were all covered with blood; yet he screamed with passion, “i'd rather grill than not come up with that smuggler bill !" -"mount! mount !" quoth the custom-house officer, “get on the back of my dun, you'll bother him yet. your words are plain, though they're somewhat rough, 'done and done' between gentlemen's always enough! i'll lend you a lift—there—you're up on him— , he's a rum one to look at-a devil to go!" exciseman gill dashed up the hill, and marked not, so eager was he in pursuit, the queer custom-house officer's queer-looking boot. smuggler bill rides on amain, he slacks not girth and he draws not rein, yet the dapple-gray mare bounds on in vain, for nearer now—and he hears it plain- sounds the tramp of a horse" 'tis the gauger again!" | a legend of thanet. smuggler bill dashes round by the mill that stands near the road upon monkton hill,- “now speed, -now speed, my dapple-gray steed, thou ever, my dapple, wert good at need! o’er monkton mead, and through minster level, we'll baffle him yet, be he gauger or devil ! for manston cave, away! away! now speed thee, now speed thee, my good dapple-gray! it shall never be said that smuggler bill was run down like a hare by exciseman gill ! manston cave was bill's abode; a mile to the north of the ramsgate road. (of late they say it's been taken away, that is, levelled and filled up with chalk and clay, by a gentleman there of the name of day.) thither he urges his good dapple-gray; and the dapple-gray steed, still good at need, though her chest it pants, and her flanks they bleed, dashes along at the top of her speed; but nearer and nearer exciseman gill cries, "yield thee! now yield thee, thou smuggler bill !" smuggler bill he looks behind, and he sees a dun horse come swift as the wind, and his nostrils smoke and his eyes they blaze like a couple of lamps on a yellow post-chaise ! every shoe he has got · appears red-hot ! and sparks round his ears snap, crackle, and play, and his tail cocks up in a very odd way; every hair in his mane seems a porcupine's quill, and there on his back sits exciseman gill, crying, “yield thee! now yield thee, thou smuggler bill!” smuggler bill from his holster drew a large horse-pistol, of which he had two, made by nock; he pulled back the cock as far as he could to the back of the lock; the trigger he touched, and the welkin rang to the sound of the weapon, it made such a bang; the smuggler’s leap. smuggler bill ne'er missed his aim, the shot told true on the dun—but there came from the hole where it entered—not blood, but flame! -he changed his plan, and fired at the man; but his second horse-pistol flashed in the pan! and exciseman gill, with a hearty good-will, made a grab at the collar of smuggler bill. the dapple-gray mare made a desperate bound when that queer dun horse on her flank she found,- alack! and alas! on what dangerous ground! it's enough to make one's flesh to creep, to stand on that fearful verge, and peep down the rugged sides so dreadfully steep, where the chalk-hole yawns full sixty feet deep, o'er which that steed took that desperate leap! it was so dark then under the trees, no horse in the world could tell chalk from cheese down they went-o'er that terrible fall,- horses, exciseman, smuggler, and all'!! ! below were found next day on the ground by an elderly gentleman walking his round (i wouldn't have seen such a sight for a pound), all smashed and dashed, three mangled corses, two of them human,—the third was a horse's that good dapple-gray, and exciseman gill yet grasping the collar of smuggler bill ! but where was the dun? that terrible dun? from that terrible night he was seen by none !- there are some people think, though i am not one, that part of the story all nonsense and fun, but the country-folks there one and all declare, when the “crowner's 'quest” came to sit on the pair, they heard a loud horse-laugh up in the air ! -if in one of the trips of the steamboat eclipse you should go down to margate to look at the ships, or to take what the bathing-room people call “ dips," · the shot told true on the dun-but there came from the hole where it entered—not blood, but flame!" p. . a legend of thanet. you may hear old folks talk of that quarry of chalk; or go over—it's rather too far for a walk, but a three-shilling drive will give you a peep at that fearful chalk-pit, so awfully deep, which is called to this moment “the smuggler's leap." nay more.— i am told, on a moonshiny night, if you're "plucky,” and not over subject to fright, and go and look over that chalk-pit white, you may see, if you will, the ghost of old gill grappling the ghost of smuggler bill, and the ghost of the dapple-gray lying between 'em.- i'm told so, i can't say i know one who's seen 'em! moral. and now, gentle reader, one word ere we part,- just take a friend's counsel, and lay it to heart. imprimis, don't smuggle !-if, bent to please beauty, you must buy french lace, purchase what has paid duty! don't use naughty words, in the next place; and ne'er in your language adopt a bad habit of swearing! never say “ devil take me!" or “shake mé!” or “bake me!" or such-like expressions :-remember old nick to take folks at their word is remarkably quick. another sound maxim i'd wish you to keep is, “mind what you're after, and-look ere you leap!" above all, to my last gravest caution attend : never borrow a horse you don't know, of a friend !! for the story which succeeds i am indebted to mrs. both- erby. she is a shropshire lady by birth, and i overheard her a few weeks since, in the nursery, chanting the following, one of the legends peculiar to her native county, for the amuse- ta bloudie jacke of shrewsberrie. ment and information of seaforth's little boy, who was indeed “all ears.” as ralph de diceto, who alludes to the main facts, was dean of st. paul's in , about the time that the temple church was consecrated, the history is evidently as ancient as it is authentic, though the author of the present par- aphrase has introduced many unauthorized as well as “anach- ronismatical interpolations." for the interesting note on the ancient family of ketch, i need scarcely say, i am obliged to the simpkinson. bloudie jacke of shrewsberrie. the shropshire bluebeard. a legend of “the proud salopians." hisce ferè temporibus, in agro salopiensi, quidam, cui nomen johannes, le sang- launt deinde nuncupatus, uxores quamplurimas ducit, enecat et (ita referunt) mandu- cat; ossa solùm cani miræ magnitudinis relinquens. tum demùm in flagrante delicto, vel “manu rubrâ,” ut dicunt jurisconsulti, deprensus, carnifice vix opprimitur.-ra- dulphus de diceto. h! why doth thine eye gleam so bright, bloudie jacke? oh! why doth thine eye gleam so bright? the mother's at home, the maid may not roam; she never will meet thee to-night, by the light of the moon-it's impossible, -quite ! yet thine eye is still brilliant and bright, bloudie jacke! gleams with a fiendish delight.- “'tis done she is won! nothing under the sun can loose the charmed ring, though it's slight! ho! ho! it fits so remarkably tight!" bloudie jacke of shrewsberrie. mary anne is gone over the lea, bloudie jacke! mary anne she is come to the tower! but it makes her heart quail, for it looks like a jail, a deal more than a fair lady's bower, so sour its ugly gray walls seem to lower. for the barbican’s massy and high, bloudie jacke! and the oak door is heavy and brown; and with iron it's plated and machicolated, to pour boiling oil and lead down; how you'd frown should a ladleful fall on your crown! the rock that it stands on is steep, bloudie jacke! to gain it one's forced for to creep; the portcullis is strong, and the drawbridge is long, and the water runs all round the keep; at a peep you can see that the moat's very deep! the drawbridge is long, but it's down, bloudie jacke! and the portcullis hangs in the air; and no warder is near, with his horn and his spear, to give notice when people come there.- i declare mary anne has run into the square! the oak door is heavy and brown, bloudie jacke! but the oak door is standing ajar, and no one is there to say, "pray take a chair, you seem tired, miss, with running so far so you are with grown people you're scarce on a par!" a legend of shropshire. but the young mary anne is not tired, bloudie jacke! she roams o'er your tower by herself; she runs through, very soon, each boudoir and saloon, , and examines each closet and shelf, your pelf, all your plate, and your china—and delf. she looks at your arras so fine, bloudie jacke! so rich, all description it mocks; and she now and then pauses to gaze at your vases, your pictures, and or-molu clocks; every box, every cupboard and drawer, she unlocks. she looks at the paintings so rare, bloudie jacke! that adorn every wall in your house; your impayable pieces, your paul veroneses, your rembrandts, your guidos, and dows, morland's cows, claude's landscapes,--and landseer's bow-wows. she looks at your statues so fine, bloudie jacke! and mighty great notice she takes of your niobe crying your mirmillo dying, your hercules strangling the snakes, - how he shakes the nasty great things as he wakes! your laocoon, his serpents and boys, bloudie acke! she views with some little dismay; a copy of that i can see in the vatican, unless the pope's sent it away, bloudie jacke of shrewsberrie. as they say, in the globe, he intended last may.* there's your belvidere phoebus, with which, bloudie jacke! mr. milman says none other vies. (his lines on apollo beat all the rest hollow, and gained him the newdigate prize.) how the eyes seem watching the shaft as it flies ! there's a room full of satins and silks, bloudie acke! there's a room full of velvet and lace, there are drawers full of rings and a thousand fine things, and a splendid gold watch with a case o'er its face, is in every room in the place. there are forty fine rooms on a floor, bloudie jacke! and every room fit for a ball, it's so gorgeous and rich, with so lofty a pitch, and so long, and so broad, and so tall; yes, all, save the last one and that's very small ! it boasts not stool, table, or chair, bloudie jacke! but one cabinet, costly and grand, which has little gold figures of little gold niggers, with fishing-rods stuck in each hand.- it's japanned, and it's placed on a splendid buhl stand. * “the pope is said this fact is hardly credible-to have sold the laocoon and the apollo belvidere to the emperor of russia for nine millions of francs."--globe and traveller. a legend of shropshire. its hinges and clasps are of gold, bloudie jacke! and of gold are its keyhole and key, and the drawers within have each a gold p and they're numbered with , , and ; you may all the figures in gold filigree! see number 's full of emeralds green, bloudie jacke! number ’s full of diamonds and pearl ; but what does she see in drawer number that makes all her sensės to whirl, poor girl! and each lock of her hair to uncurl? wedding fingers are sweet pretty things, bloudie jacke! to salute them one eagerly strives, when one kneels to “propose”- it's another quelque chose when, cut off at the knuckles with knives, from our wives, they are tied up in bunches of fives. yet there they lie, one, two, three, four! bloudie jacke! there lie they, five, six, seven, eight! and by them, in rows, lie eight little great-toes, to match in size, color, and weight! from their state, • it would seem they'd been severed of late. beside them are eight wedding-rings, bloudie jacke! and the gold is as thin as a thread- “ho! ho!-she is mine- this will make up the nine!” dear me! who those shocking words said ?- -she fled to hide herself under the bed. bloudie jacke of shrewsberrie. but, alas! there's no bed in the room, bloudie jacke! and she peeps from the window on high ; only fancy her fright at the terrible sight down below, which at once meets her eye! “oh my!!” she half uttered,—but stifled her cry. for she saw it was you and your men, bloudie jacke! and she heard your unpleasant “haw! haw!”. while her sister, stone dead, by the hair of her head o'er the bridge you were trying to draw, as she saw a thing quite contra-ry to law ! your man has got hold of her heels, bloudie jacke! bloudie jackel you've got hold of her hair !- but nor jacke nor his man can see young mary anne, she has hid herself under the stair, and there is a horrid great dog, i declare! his eyeballs are bloodshot and blear, bloudie jacke! he's a sad ugly cur for a pet; he seems of the breed of that “billy,” indeed, who used to kill rats for a bet; -i forget how many one morning he ate. he has skulls, ribs, and vertebræ there, bloudie jacke! and thigh-bones ;-and, though it's so dim, yet it's plain to be seen he has picked them quite clean,— she expects to be torn limb from limb, so grim he looks at her-and she looks at him. a legend of shropshire. she has given him a bun and a roll, bloudie jacke! she has given him a roll and a bun, and a shrewsbury cake of pailin's* own make, which she happened to take ere her run she begun- she'd been used to a luncheon at one. it's " a pretty particular fix," bloudie jacke! -above,-there's the maiden that's dead; below-growling at her- there's that cannibal cur who at present is munching her bread, instead of her leg,-or her arm,-or her head. it's “a pretty particular fix," bloudie jacke! she is caught like a mouse in a trap ;- stay !—there's something, i think, that has slipped through a chink, and fall'n, by a singular hap, slap into poor little mary anne's lap! it's a very fine little gold ring, bloudie jacke! yet, though slight, it's remarkably stout, but it's made a sad stain, which will always remain on her frock—for blood will not wash out, i doubt salts of lemon won't bring it about! she has grasped that gold ring in her hand, bloudie jacke! in an instant she stands on the floor, she makes but one bound o’er the back of the hound, and a hop, skip, and jump to the door, * oh, pailin! prince of cake-compounders! the mouth liquefies at thy very name but there! bloudie jacke of shrewsberrie. and she's o'er the drawbridge she'd traversed before ! : her hair's floating loose in the breeze, bloudie jacke! for gone is her “bonnet of blue.” -now the barbican's past !– her legs "go it” as fast as two drumsticks a-beating tattoo, as they do at réveille, parade, or review! she has run into shrewsbury town, bloudie jacke! she has called out the beadle and may'r, and the justice of peace, and the rural police, till “ battle field” swarms like a fair,- and see there! e'en the parson's beginning to swear!! there's a pretty to-do in your tower, bloudle acke! in your tower there's a pretty to-do ! all the people of shrewsbury playing old gooseberry with your choice bits of taste and vertu ; each bijou is upset in their search after you ! they are playing the deuce with your things, bloudie jacke! there's your cupid is broken in two, and so too, between us, is each of your venuses, the “antique” one you bought of the jew, and the new one, george robins swears came from st. cloud. a legend of shropshire. the callipyge's injured behind, bloudie jacke! the de medici's injured before! and the anadyomene 's injured in so many places, i think there's a score, if not more, of her fingers and toes on the floor. they are hunting you up stairs and down, bloudie jacke! every person to pass is forbid, while they turn out the closets and all their deposits- “there's the dust-hole-come lift up the lid !”— so they did - but they could not find where you were hid ! ah! ah !-they will have you at last, bloudie jacke! the chimneys to search they begin ;- they have found you at last - there you are, sticking fast, with your knees doubled up to your chin, though you're thin -dear me! what a mess you are in ! what a terrible pickle you're in, bloudie jacke! why, your face is as black as your hat! your fine holland shirt is all over dirt, and so is your point-lace cravat! what a flat to seek such an asylum as that! they can scarcely help laughing, i vow, bloudie jacke! in the midst of their turmoil and strife; you're not fit to be seen ! -you look like mr. kean in the play where he murders his wife ! on my life you ought to be scraped with a knife ! bloudie jacre of shrewsberrie. they have pulled you down flat on your back, bloudie jacke! they have pulled you down flat on your back! ! and they smack, and they thwack, till your "funny bones" crack as if you were stretched on the rack, at each thwack! good lack! what a savage attack ! they call for the parliament man, bloudie jacke! and the hangman, the matter to clinch; and they call for the judge, but others cry “fudge !- don't budge, mr. calcraft,* an inch ! mr. lyncht will do very well at a pinch !" it is useless to scuffle and cuff, bloudie jacke! it is useless to struggle and bite, and to kick and to scratch : you have met with your match,. and the shrewsbury boys hold you tight, despite your determined attempts to "show fight." * jehan de ketche acted as provost marshal to the army of william the conqueror, and received from that monarch a grant of the dignity of hereditary grand func- tionary of england, together with a "croft or parcel of land” known by the name of the old bailie, co. middx., to be held by him, and the heirs general of his body, in grand serjeantry, by the yearly presentation of "ane hempen cravatte." after re- maining for several generations in the same name, the office passed, by marriage of the heiress, into the ancient family of the kirbys, and thence again to that of callcraft ( st eliz. ). abhorson callcraft, esq., of saffron hill, co. ddx., the present rep- resentative of the ketches, exercised his "function” on a very recent occasion, and claimed and was allowed the fee of d. under the ancient grant as hangman's umages. arms.— st and th, quarterly, argent and sable; in the first quarter a gibbet of the second, noosed proper, callcraft. , sable, three nightcaps. argent, tufted gules, and , ketche. d, or a nosegay, fleurant, kirby. supporters.-dexter : a sheriff in his pride, robed gules, chained and collared or. sinister: an ordinary display proper, wigged and banded argent, nosed gules, motto. sic itur ad astra! † the american justinian, compiler of the “yankee pandects." a legend of shropshire. they are pulling you all sorts of ways, bloudie jacke! they are twisting your right leg nor'west, and your left leg due south, , and your knee's in your mouth, and your head is poked down on your breast, and it's prest, i protest, almost into your chest! they have pulled off your arms and your legs, bloudie jacke! as the naughty boys serve the blue flies; and they've torn from their sockets, and put in their pockets, your fingers and thumbs for a prize; and your eyes a doctor has bottled-from guy's!* your trunk, thus dismembered and torn, bloudie jacke! they hew, and they hack, and they chop; and, to finish the whole, they stick up a pole in the place that's still called the uuylde coppe, and they pop your grim gory head on the top! they have buried the fingers and toes, bloudie jacke! of the victims so lately your prey. from those fingers and eight toes sprang early potatoes, ladyes' fyngers" they're called to this day- so they say and you usually dig them in may. * a similar appropriation is said to have been made by an eminent practitioner of those of the late monsieur courvoisier. bloudie jacke of shrewsberrie. what became of the dear little girl, bloudie jacke! what became of the young mary anne ? why, i'm sadly afraid that she died an old maid, for she fancied that every young man had a plan to trepan her like “poor sister fan!” so they say she is now leading apes, bloudie jacke! and mends bachelors' small-clothes, below; the story is old, and has often been told, but i cannot believe it is so- no! no! depend on't the tale is "no go!" moral. and now for the moral i'd fain, bloudie jacke! that young ladies should draw from my pen :- it's—don't take these flights upon moonshiny nights with gay, harum-scarum young men, down a glen -- you really can't trust one in ten! let them think of your terrible tower, bloudie jacke! and don't let them liberties take, whether maidens or spouses, in bachelors' houses; or, some time or another, they'll make a mistake, and lose-more than a shrewsberrie cake! a legend of norfolk. her niece, of whom i have before made honorable mention, is not a whit behind mrs. botherby in furnishing entertainment for the young folks. if little charles has the aunt to sol fa him to slumber, miss jenny is equally fortunate in the posses- sion of a sappho of her own. it is to the air of " drops of brandy" that patty has adapted her version of a venerable ditty which we have all listened to with respect and affection under its old title of the babes in the wood; or, the norfolk tragedy. an old song to a new tune. wh hen we were all little and good,- a long time ago, i'm afraid, miss, we were told of the babes in the wood, by their false, cruel uncle betrayed, miss. their pa was a squire, or a knight'; in norfolk, i think, his estate lay- that is, if i recollect right, for i've not read the history lately.* rum ti, etc. their pa and their ma being seized with a tiresome complaint, which, in some seasons, people are apt to be seized with who're not on their guard against plum seasons, their medical man shook his head, as he could not well get to the root of it; * see bloomfield's history of the county of norfolk, in which all the particulars of this lamentable history are (or ought to be) fully detailed, together with the names of the parties, and an elaborate pedigree of the family. tae babes in the wood. and the babes stood on each side the bed, while their uncle he stood at the foot of it. “oh, brother!" their ma whispered, faint and low, for breath seeming to labor, “who'd think that this horrid complaint, that's been going about in the neighborhood, thus should attack me,-nay more, my poor husband besides, and so fall on him! bringing us so near to death's door that we can't avoid making a call on him! “now think, 'tis your sister invokes your aid, and the last word she says is, be kind to those dear little folks when our toes are turned up to the daisies ! by the servants don't let them be snubbed; let jane have her fruit and her custard ; and mind johnny's chilblains are rubbed well with whitehead's best essence of mustard. “you know they'll be pretty well off in respect to what's called 'worldly gear,' for john, when his pa's in his coffin, comes in to three hundred a year; and jane's to have five hundred pound on her marriage paid down, ev'ry penny, so you'll own a worse match might be found, any day in the week, than our jenny!” here the uncle pretended to cry, and, like an old thorough-paced rogue, he put his handkerchief up to his eye, and devoted himself to old bogey if he did not make matters all right; and said, should he covet their riches, he“ wished the old gentleman might fly away with him, body and breeches !” a legend of norfolk. no sooner, however, were they put to bed with a spade by the sexton, than he carried the darlings away out of that parish into the next one, giving out he should take them to town, and select the best school in the nation, that john might not grow up a clown, but receive a genteel education. “ greek and latin old twaddle i call !" says he; "while his mind's ductile and plastic, i'll place him at dotheboys hall, where he'll learn all that's new and gymnastic. while jane-as, when girls have the dumps, fortune-hunters by scores to entrap 'em rise shall go to those worthy old frumps, the two misses tickler of clapham rise!” having thought of the how and the when to get rid of his nephew and niece, he sent for two ill-looking men, and he gave them five guineas apiece.- says he, “ each of you take on the crupper, and when you have trotted some miles through that wood lone and wild, take your knife out and cut its carotid !" up a child "done!” and “done!" is pronounced on each side, while the poor little dears are delighted to think they a-cockhorse shall ride, and are not in the least degree frighted. they say their “tal tal" as they start, and they prattle so nice on their journey that the rogues themselves wish to their heart they could finish the job by attorney. nay, one was so taken aback by seeing such spirit and life in them, that he fairly exclaimed, " i say, jack, i'm blowed if i can put a knife in them !”- . the babes in the wood. "pooh!" says his pal," you great dunce! you've pouched the good gentleman's money, so out with your whinger at once, and scrag jane, while i spiflicate johnny.” he refused, and harsh language ensued, which ended at length in a duel, when he that was mildest in mood gave the truculent rascal his gruel ; the babes quake with hunger and fear, while the ruffian his dead comrade, jack, buries; then he cries, "loves, amuse yourselves here with the hips, and the haws, and the blackberries ! “i'll be back in a couple of shakes, so don't, dears, be quivering and quaking; i'm going to get you some cakes, and a nice buttered roll that's a-baking !" he rode off with a tear in his eye, which ran down his rough cheek, and wet it, as he said to himself with a-sigh, pretty souls !-don't they wish they may get it!!” from that moment the babes ne'er caught sight of the wretch who thus sought their undoing, but passed all that day and that night in wandering about and “boo-hoo”-ing. the night proved cold, dreary, and dark, so that, worn out with sighings and sobbings, next morn they were found stiff and stark, and stone-dead, by two little cock-robins. these two little birds it sore grieves to see what so cruel a dodge i call, they cover the bodies with leaves, an interment quite ornithological ; it might more expensive have been, but i doubt, though i've not been to see 'em, if among those in all kensal green you could find a more neat mausoleum. a legend of norfolk. now, whatever your rogues may suppose, conscience always makes restless their pillows, and justice, though blind, has a nose that sniffs out all concealed peccadilloes. the wicked old uncle, they say, in spite of his riot and revel, was hippish and qualmish all day, and dreamt all night long of the devil. he grew gouty, dyspeptic, and sour, and his brow, once so smooth and so placid, fresh wrinkles acquired every hour, and whatever he swallowed turned acid. the neighbors thought all was not right, scarcely one with him ventured to parley, and captain swing came in the night, and burnt all his beans and his barley. there was hardly a day but some fox ran away with his geese and his ganders: his wheat had the mildew, his flocks took the rot, and his horses the glanders; his daughters drank rum in their tea, his son, who had gone for a sailor, went down in a steamer at sea, and his wife ran away with a tailor! it was clear he lay under a curse; none would hold with him any communion; every day matters grew worse and worse, till they ended at length in the union; while his man being caught in some fact (the particular crime i've forgotten), when he came to be hanged for the act, split, and told the whole story to cotton. understanding the matter was blown, his employer became apprehensive of what, when 'twas more fully known, might ensue-he grew thoughtful and pensive; the babes in the wood. he purchased some sugar of lead, took it home, popped it into his porridge, ate it up, and then took to his bed, and so died in the workhouse at norwich. moral. ponder well now, dear parents, each word that i've wrote, and when sirius rages in the dog-days, don't be so absurd as to blow yourself out with green-gages ! of stone-fruits in general be shy, and reflect it's a fact beyond question that grapes, when they're spelt with an i, promote anything else but digestion.- -when you set about making your will, which is commonly done when a body's ill, mind and word it with caution and skill, and avoid, if you can, any codicil ! when once you've appointed an heir to the fortune you've made, or obtained, ere you leave a reversion beware whom you place in contingent remainder! executors, guardians, and all who have children to mind, don't ill treat them, nor think that, because they are small and weak, you may beat them, and cheat them; remember that “ill-gotten goods never thrive;" their possession's but cursory, so never turn out in the woods little folks you should keep in the nursery. be sure he who does such base things will ne'er stifle conscience's clamor; his "riches will make themselves wings," and his property come to the hammer! then he, and not those he bereaves, will have most cause for sighings and sobbings, when he finds himself smothered with leaves (of fat catalogues) heaped up by robins ! a legend of salisbury plain. the incidents recorded in the succeeding legend were com- municated to a dear friend of our family by the late lamented sir walter scott. the names and localities have been scrupu- lously retained, as she is ready to testify. the proceedings in this case are, i believe, recorded in some of our law reports, though i have never been able to lay my hand upon them. the dead drummer. a legend of salisbury plain. oh, salisbury plain is bleak and bare, at least so i've heard many people declare, for i fairly confess i never was there;- not a shrub nor a tree nor a bush can you see; no hedges, no ditches, no gates, no stiles, much less a house or a cottage, for miles ;- it's a very sad thing to be caught in the rain when night's coming on upon salisbury plain. now, i'd have you to know that a great while ago, the best part of a century, may be, or so, - across this same plain, so dull and so dreary, a couple of travellers, way-worn and weary, were making their way; their profession, you'd say, at a single glance did not admit of a query; the pump-handled pig-tail, and whiskers worn then, with scarce an exception, by sea-faring men, the jacket,—the loose trousers "bowsed up together"-all guiltless of braces, as those of charles wetherall, - the pigeon-toed step, and the rollicking motion, bespoke them two genuine sons of the ocean, and showed in a moment their real characters (the accent so placed on this word by our jack-tars). the one in advance was sturdy and strong, with arms uncommonly bony and long, the dead drummer. and his guernsey shirt was all pitch and dirt, which sailors don't think inconvenient or wrong. he was very broad-breasted, and very deep-chested; his sinewy frame correspond with the rest did, except as to height, for he could not be more at the most, you would say, than some five feet four, and, if measured, perhaps had been found a thought lower. dame nature, in fact,—whom some person or other, -a poet,—has called a “capricious stepmother,” you saw, when beside him, had somehow denied him in longitude what she had granted in latitude. a trifling defect you'd the sooner detect from his having contracted a stoop in his attitude. square-built and broad-shouldered, good-humored and gay, with his collar and countenance open as day the latter—'twas marked with small-pox, by the way- had a sort of expression good-will to bespeak; he'd a smile in his eye, and a quid in his cheek! and, in short, notwithstanding his failure in height, he was just such a man as you'd say, at first sight, you would much rather dine, or shake hands, with than fight. the other, his friend and companion, was taller, by five or six inches, at least, than the smaller ;- from his air and his mien it was plain to be seen that he was, or had been, a something between the real “ jack tar” and the “jolly marine.” for, though he would give an occasional hitch, sailor-like, to his “slops,” there was something the which on the whole savored more of the pipeclay than pitch.- such were now the two men who appeared on the hill, harry waters the tall one, the short spanking bill. to be caught in the rain, i repeat it again, is extremely unpleasant on salisbury plain ; and when with a good soaking shower there are blended blue lightnings and thunder, the matter's not mended; such was the case in this wild dreary place, on the day that i'm speaking of now, when the brace of trav'llers alluded to quickened their pace, a legend of salisbury plain. till a good steady walk became more like a race to get quit of the tempest which held them in chase. louder, and louder than mortal gunpowder, the heav'nly artillery kept crashing and roaring, the lightning kept flashing, the rain too kept pouring, while they, helter-skelter, in vain sought for shelter from what i've heard termed "a regular pelter;" but the deuce of a screen could be anywhere seen, or an object except that on one of the rises, an old way-post showed where the lavington road branched off to the left from the one to devizes ; and thither the footsteps of waters seemed tending, though a doubt might exist of the course he was bending, to a landsman, at least, who, wherever he goes, is content, for the most part, to follow his nose;- while harry kept “ backing" and and “filling"-and "tacking"- two nautical terms which, i'll wager a guinea, are meant to imply what you, reader, and i would call going zig-zag, and not rectilinear. but here, once for all, let me beg you'll excuse all mistakes i may make in the words sailors use 'mongst themselves on a cruise, or ashore with the jews, or in making their court to their polls and their sues," or addressing those slop-selling females afloat-women known in our navy as oddly-named-boat women. the fact is, i can't say i'm versed in the school so ably conducted by marryat and poole (see the last-mentioned gentleman's "admiral's daughter"); the grand vade mecum for all who to sea come, and get, the first time in their lives, in blue water; of course in the use of sea terms you'll not wonder if i now and then should fall into some blunder, for which captain chamier, or mr.t. p. cooke, would call me a “lubber,” and “son of a sea-cook.” a legend of salisbury plain. half so queer as this here, and i'm not very clear but that one of us two has good reason for fear. you to jaw about drummers with nobody near us! - i must say as how that i thinks it's mysterus.” “oh, mercy !" roared waters; "do keep him off, bill! and, andrew, forgive !—i'll confess all i-i will! i'll make a clean breast, and as for the rest, you may do with me just what the lawyers think best; but haunt me not thus !—let these visitings cease, and your vengeance accomplished, boy, leave me in peace!” harry paused for a moment,-then turning to bill, who stood with his mouth open, steady and still, began “spinning" what nauticals term a “tough yarn," viz., his tale of what bill called “this precious consarn." “it was in such an hour as this, on such a wild and wintry day, the forked lightning seemed to hiss, as now, athwart our lonely way, when first these dubious paths i tried- yon livid form was by my side “not livid then—the ruddy glow of life, and youth, and health it bore ! and bloodless was that gory brow, and cheerful was the smile it wore, and mildly then those eyes did shine- -those eyes which now are blasting mine! “they beamed with confidence and love upon my face,-and andrew brand had sooner feared yon frightened dove than harm from gervase matcham's hand! -i am no harry waters-men did call me gervase matcham then. the dead drummer. “and matcham, though a humble name, was stainless as the feathery flake from heaven, whose virgin whiteness came upon the newly-frozen lake; commander, comrade, all began to laud the soldier,-like the man. “nay, muse not, william, i have said i was a soldier-staunch and true as any he above whose head old england's lion banner flew; and, duty done, -her claims apart,- 'twas said i had a kindly heart. -oh! may “and years rolled on, and with them came promotion corporal—sergeant-all in turn-i kept mine honest fame our colonel's self,—whom men did call the veriest martinet-ev'n he, though cold to most, was kind to me! “one morn- that morning stand accursed in the rolls of fate till latest time there came command to carry forth a charge of weight to a detachment far away, -it was their regimental pay ! “and who so fit for such a task as trusty matcham, true and tried, who spurned the inebriating flask, with honor for his constant guide ?- on matcham fell their choice—and he,— *young drum,'-should bear him company! “and grateful was that sound to hear, for he was full of life and joy, the mess-room pet--to each one dear was that kind, gay, light-hearted boy: —the veriest churl in all our band had aye a smile for andrew brand. a legend of salisbury plain. -“nay, glare not as i name thy name! that threatening hand, that fearful brow relax-avert that glance of flame ! thou seest i do thy bidding now! vexed spirit, rest |-'twill soon be o'er,- thy blood shall cry to heav'n no more! "enough-we journeyed on the walk was long, -and dull and dark the day, and still young andrew's cheerful talk and merry laugh beguiled the way; noon came, a sheltering bank was there,- we paused our frugal meal to share. “then 'twas, with cautious hand, i sought to prove my charge secure,-and drew the packet from my vest, and brought the glittering mischief forth to view; and andrew cried,-no!-'twas not he! it was the tempter spoke to me! “but it was andrew's laughing voice that sounded in my tingling ear: -now, gervase matcham, at thy choice,' it seemed to say, ' are gauds and gear. and all that wealth can buy or bring, ease, -wassail, worship,-everything! “no tedious drill, no long parade, no bugle call at early dawn; for guard-room bench, or barrack bed, the downy couch, the sheets of lawn; and i thy page,-thy steps to tend, thy sworn companion,-servant,-friend ! “he ceased—that is, i heard no more, though other words passed idly by, and andrew chattered as before, and laughed—i marked him not-not i. ''tis at thy choice !' that sound alone rang in mine ear-voice else was none. the dead drummer. aye must be! “i could not eat,—the untasted flask mocked my parched lip, i passed it by. • what ails the man ? he seemed to ask.- i felt, but could not meet, his eye.- “'tis at thy choice!'-it sounded yet,- a sound i never may forget. -“. haste! haste! the day draws on,' i cried, and, andrew, thou hast far to go!- * hast far to go !' the fiend replied within me,—'twas not andrew-no! 'twas andrew's voice no more 'twas he whose then i was, and -“on, on we went;—the dreary plain was all around us—we were here! then came the storm,—the lightning, -rain; no earthly living thing was near, save one wild raven on the wing, -if that, indeed, were earthly thing ! “i heard its hoarse and screaming voice high hovering o'er my frenzied head, "tis, gervase matcham, at thy choice! but he—the boy!' methought it said. --nay, andrew, check that vengeful frown, - i loved thee when i struck thee down! “ 'twas done! the deed that damns me-done i know not how-i never knew ;- and here i stood-but not alone, the prostrate boy my madness slew was by my side-limb, feature, name, 'twas he!!-another-yet the same! "away! away! in frantic haste throughout that live-long night i few- away! away !-across the waste, - i know not how i never knew.- my mind was one wild blank—and i had but one thought, one hope-to fly! a legend of salisbury plain. “and still the lightning ploughed the ground, the thunder roared—and there would come amidst its loudest bursts a sound familiar once it was—a drum! then came the morn,-and light,-and then streets,-houses,--spires,-the hum of men. “and ocean rolled before me -fain would i have whelmed me in its tide, at once beneath the billowy main my shame, my guilt, my crime to hide; but he was there !—he crossed my track, i dared not pass—he waved me back! “and then rude hands detained mesure justice had grasped her victim-no! though powerless, hopeless, bound, secure, a captive thrall, it was not so; "the frenchman's on the wave! the press was hot—and i a slave. “they dragged me o'er the vessel's side; the world of waters rolled below; the gallant ship in all her pride of dreadful beauty sought her foe; - thou saw'st me, william, in the strife alack! i bore a charmed life! they cry, “in vain the bullets round me fly, in vain mine eager breast i bare; death shuns the wretch who longs to die, and every sword falls edgeless there! still he is near;—and seems to cry, 'not here, nor thus, may matcham die! - “thou saw'st me on that fearful day, when, fruitless all attempts to save, our pinnace foundering in the bay, the boat's-crew met a watery grave, — all, all-save one—the ravenous sea that swallowed all rejected me! the dead drummer. “and now, when fifteen suns have each fulfilled in turn its circling year, thrown back again on england's beach, our bark paid off, he drives me here! i could not die in flood or fight- he drives me here !!"- “and sarve you right! “what! bilk your commander !-desart—and then rob! and go scuttling a poor little drummer-boy’s nob! why, my precious eyes! what a bloodthirsty swab! there's old davy jones, who cracks sailors' bones, for his jaw-work would never, i'm sure, s'elp me bob, have come for to go for to do sich a job! hark ye, waters,-or matcham,—whichever's your purser- name, t'other, your own, is, i'm sartain, the worser name,- twelve years have we lived on like brother and brother; now-your course lays one way, and mine lays another!"- “no, william, it may not be so; “blood calls for blood !—'tis heaven's decree! and thou with me this night must go, and give me to the gallows tree! ha! see-he smiles, he points the way! on, william, on! no more delay !” now bill, --so the story, as told to me, goes, and who, as his last speech sufficiently shows, was a "regular trump,”—did not like to “turn nose;" but then came a thunder-clap louder than any of those that preceded, though they were so many; and hark! as its rumblings subside in a hum, what sound mingles too? by the hokey-a drum!! i remember i once heard my grandfather say that some sixty years since he was going that way, the dead drummer. moral. avis au voyageur. imprimis. if you contemplate walking o'er salisbury plain, consult mr. murphy, or moore, and refrain from selecting a day when it's likely to rain! º. when trav'lling, don't “flash” your notes or your cash before other people-it's foolish and rash! º. at dinner be cautious, and note well your party! there's little to dread where the appetite's hearty; but mind and look well to your purse and your throttle when you see a man shirking, and passing his bottle! º. if you chance to be needy, your coat and hat seedy, in war-time especially never go out when you've reason to think there's a press-gang about! º. don't chatter, nor tell people all that you think, nor blab secrets,-especially when you're in drink ;- but keep your own counsel in all that you do ! -or a counsel may, some day or other, keep you. º. discard superstition! and don't take a post, if you happen to see one at night, for a ghost ! last of all, if by choice or convenience you're led to cut a man's throat or demolish his head, don't do't in a thunder-storm-wait for the summer! and mind, above all things, the man's not a drummer !! a row in an omnibus (box). among a bundle of letters i find one from sucklethumbkin, dated from london, and containing his version of perhaps the greatest theatrical civil war since the celebrated “o. p. row.” as the circumstances are now become matter of history, and poor doldrum himself has been, alas ! for some time the den- izen of a far different “house,” i have ventured to preserve it. perhaps it may be unnecessary to add that my honorable friend has of late taken to poetry, and goes without his cravat. a row in an omnibus (box). a legend of the haymarket. omnibus hoc vitium cantoribus.-hor. ol-drum the manager sits in his chair, with a gloomy brow and dissatisfied air, and he says, as he slaps his hand on his knee, “i'll have nothing to do with fiddle-de-dee !"- but fiddle-de-dee sings clear and loud, and his trills and his quavers astonish the crowd ; such a singer as he you'll nowhere see: they'll all be screaming for fiddle-de-dee!”— “though fiddle-de-dee sings loud and clear, and his tones are sweet, yet his terms are dear; the 'glove won't fit !' the deuce a bit. i shall give an engagement to fal-de-ral-tit!” the prompter bowed, and he went to his stall, and the green baize rose at the prompter's call, and fal-de-ral-tit sang fol-de-rol-lol; but scarce had he done when a row” begun, such a noise was never heard under the sun. “fiddle-de-dee! -where is he? he's the artiste whom we all want to see! dol-drum! dol-drum! bid the manager come! it's a scandalous thing to exact such a sum a row in an omnibus (box). for boxes and gallery, stalls and pit, and then fob us off with a fal-de-ral-tit! deuce a bit! we'll never submit! vive fiddle-de-dee! à bas fal-de-ral-tit!” dol-drum the manager rose from his chair, with a gloomy brow and dissatisfied air; but he smoothed his brow as he well knew how, and he walked on, and made a most elegant bow, and he paused, and he smiled, and advanced to the lights, in his opera hat, and his opera tights; “ladies and gentlemen," then said he, “pray, what may you please to want with me?" “fiddle-de-dee! - fiddle-de-dee !" folks of all sorts and of every degree, snob, and snip, and haughty grandee, duchesses, countesses, fresh from their tea, and shopmen, who'd only come there for a spree, hallooed, and hooted, and roared with glee “fiddle-de-dee ! - none but he !- subscribe to his terms, whatever they be! - agree, agree, or you'll very soon see in a brace of shakes we'll get up an o.p.!” dol-drum the manager, full of care, with a gloomy brow and dissatisfied air, looks distrest, and he bows his best, and he puts his right hand on the side of his breast, and he says-says he, “ we can't agree; his terms are a vast deal too high for me. there's the rent, and the rates, and the sesses, and taxes— i can't afford fiddle-de-dee what he axes. if you'll only permit fal-de-ral-tit- the “generous public" cried “deuce a bit! dol-drum !-dol-drum! we'll none of us come. it's no go!--it's ‘gammon!'-it's all a hum :'- a legend of the haymarket. you're a miserly jew !- . 'cock-a-doodle-do!' he don't ask too much, as you know so you do- it's a shame-it's a sin—it's really too bad- you ought to be 'shamed of yourself—so you had !” dol-drum the manager never before in his lifetime had heard such a wild uproar. dol-drum the manager turned to flee; but he says—says he, “ mort de ma vie ! i shall nevare engage vid dat fiddle-de-dee !" then all the gentlefolks flew in a rage, and they jumped from the omnibus on to the stage, lords, squires, and knights, they came down to the lights, in their opera hats, and their opera tights. ma'am’selle cherrytoes shook to her very toes, she couldn't hop on, so hopped off on her merry toes ; and the "evening concluded” with "three times three !” hip-hip!-hurrah! for fiddle-de-dee!" dol-drum the manager, full of care, with a troubled brow and dissatisfied air, saddest of men, sat down, and then took from his table a perryan pen, , and he wrote to the “ news" how mac fuze and tregooze, lord tomnoddy, sir carnaby jenks of the blues, and the whole of their tail, and the separate crews of the tags and the rags, and the no-one-knows-whos, had combined monsieur fal-de-ral-tit to abuse, and make dol-drum agree with fiddle-de-dee, who was not a bit better singer than he. -dol-drum declared " he never could see, for the life of him, yet, why fiddle-de-dee, who in b flat, or c, or whatever the key, could never at any time get below g, should expect a fee the same in degree as the great burlybumbo who sings double d." then slyly he added a little n.b., “if they'd have him in paris he'd not come to me!" a row in an omnibus (box). the manager rings, and the prompter springs to his side in a jiffy, and with him he brings a set of those odd-looking envelope things, where britannia (who seems to be crucified) flings to her right and her left funny people with wings amongst elephants, quakers, and catabaw kings; and a taper and wax and small queen's heads in packs, which, when notes are too big, you're to stick on their backs. dol-drum the manager sealed with care the letter and copies he'd written so fair, and sat himself down with a satisfied air; without delay he sent them away, in time to appear in our columns” next day ! dol-drum the manager, full of care, walked on to the stage with an anxious air, and peeped through the curtain to see who were there. there was mac fuze, and lieutenant tregooze, and there was sir carnaby jenks of the blues, and the tags, and the rags, and the no-one-knows-whos; and the green baize rose at the prompter's call, and they all began to hoot, bellow, and bawl, and cry “cock-a-doodle," and scream and squall “dol-drum !-dol-drum !- bid the manager come!” you'd have thought from the tones of their hisses and groans, they were bent upon breaking his (opera) bones. and dol-drum comes, and he says-says he, “pray, what may you please to want with me?”- fiddle-de-dee! fiddle-de-dee! we'll have nobody give us sol fa but he ! for he's the artiste whom we all want to see.” } - manager dol-drum says-says he (and he looks like an owl in “ a hollow beech-tree") “well, since i see the thing must be, i'll sign an agreement with fiddle-de-dee !" then mac fuze, and tregooze, and jenks of the blues, and the tags, and the rags, and the no-one-knows-whos, a legend of the haymarket. extremely delighted to hear such good news, desist from their shrill “cock-a-doodle-doos." “ vive fiddle-de-dee! dol-drum and he! they are jolly good fellows as ever need be! and so’s burlybumbo, who sings double d! and whenever they sing, why, we'll all come and see!" so, after all this terrible squall, fiddle-de-dee 's at the top of the tree, and dol-drum and fal-de-ral-tit sing small ! now fiddle-de-dee sings loud and clear, at i can't tell you how many thousands a year, and fal-de-ral-tit is considered “small beer;" and ma'am'selle cherrytoes sports her merry toes, dancing away to the fiddles and flutes, in what the folks call a “ lithuanian” in boots. so here's an end to my one, two, and three; and bless the queen—and long live she! and grant that there never again may be such a halliballoo as we've happened to see about nothing on earth but “fiddle-de-dee!” we come now to the rummaging of father john's stores. the extracts which i shall submit from them are of the same character as those formerly derived from the same source, and may be considered as theologico-historical, or tracts for his times. with respect to the first legend on this list, i have to remark that, though the good father is silent on the subject, there is every reason to believe that the “ little curly-wigged” gentle- man who plays, though passively, so prominent a part in it, had ingoldsby blood in his veins. this conjecture is supported by the fact of the arms of scroope, impaling ingoldsby, being found, as in the bray case, in one of the windows, and by a very old marriage-settlement nearly, or quite, illegible, a fac simile of the seal affixed to which is appended to this true history. the lay of st. cuthbert. the lay of st. cuthbert; or, the devil's dinner-party. a legend of the north countree. nobilis quidam, cui nomen monsr. lescrop, chivaler, cum invitasset convivas, et, hora convivii jam instante et apparatu facto, spe frustratus esset, excusantibus se con- vivis cur non compararent, prorupit iratus in hæc verba: “veniant igitur omnes de mones, si nullus hominum mecum esse potest !" quod cum fieret, et dominus, et famuli, et ancillæ, a domo properantes, forte obliti, infantem in cunis jacentem secum non auferunt. dæmones incipiunt comessari et vociferari, prospicereque per fenestras formis ursorum, luporum, felium, et monstrare pocula vino repleta. ah, inquit pater, ubi infans meus? vix cum hæc dixisset, unus ex dæmonibus ulnis suis infantem ad fenestram gestat, etc.-chronicon de bolton. its t's in bolton hall, and the clock strikes one, and the roast meat’s brown and the boiled meat's done, and the barbecued sucking-pig's crisped to a turn, and the pancakes are fried, and beginning to burn; the fat stubble-goose swims in gravy and juice, with the mustard and apple-sauce ready for use; fish, flesh, and fowl, and all of the best, want nothing but eating—they're all ready drest; but where is the host, and where is the guest ? pantler and serving-man, henchman and page, stand sniffing the duck-stuffing (onion and sage), and the scullions and cooks, with fidgety looks, are grumbling and mutt'ring, and scowling as black as cooks always do when the dinner's put back; for though the board's deckt, and the napery, fair as the unsunned snowflake, is spread out with care, and the dais is furnished with stool and with chair, and plate of orféverie costly and rare, apostle-spoons, salt-cellar, all are there, and mess john in his place. with his rubicund face, and his hands ready folded, prepared to say grace; yet where is the host ? and his convives—where? a legend of the north countree. the scroope sits lonely in bolton hall, and he watches the dial that hangs by the wall; he watches the large hand, he watches the small, and he fidgets, and looks as cross as the cooks, and he utters—a word that we'll soften to zooks!” and he cries, " what on earth has become of them all ?— what can delay de vaux and de saye? what makes sir gilbert de umfraville stay? what's gone with poyntz, and sir reginald braye ? why are ralph ufford and marny away? and de nokes, and de styles, and lord marmaduke grey, and de roe, and de doe- poynings, and vavasour, where be they? fitz-walter, fitz-osborn, fitz-hugh, and fitz-john, and the mandevilles, père et fils (father and son) ? their cards said ' dinner precisely at one'! there's nothing i hate, in the world, like waiting! it's a monstrous great bore, when a gentleman feels a good appetite, thus to be kept from his meals!” it's in bolton hall, and the clock strikes two! and the scullions and cooks are themselves “in a stew," and the kitchen-maids stand, and don't know what to do, for the rich plum-puddings are bursting their bags, and the mutton and turnips are boiling to rags, and the fish is all spoiled, and the butter's all oiled, and the soup's got cold in the silver tureen, and there's nothing, in short, that is fit to be seen! while sir guy le scroope continues to fume and to fret by himself in the tapestried room, and still fidgets, and looks more cross than the cooks, and repeats that bad word which we've softened to “ zooks !" two o'clock's come, and two o'clock's gone, and the large and the small hands move steadily on; still nobody's there, no de roos or de clare, to taste of the scroope's most delicate fare, or to quaff off a health unto bolton's heir, the lay of st. cuthbert. that nice little boy who sits there in his chair, some four years old, and a few months to spare, with his laughing blue eyes, and his long curly hair, now sucking his thumb, and now munching his pear. * again sir guy the silence broke, "it's hard upon three !—it's just on the stroke! come, serve up the dinner !a joke is a joke!”– little he deems that stephen de hoaques, who “his fun," as the yankees say, everywhere “pokes,” and is always a great deal too fond of his jokes, has written a circular note to de nokes, and de styles, and de roe, and the rest of the folks, one and all, great and small, who were asked to the hall to dine there and sup, and wind up with a ball, and had told all the party a great bouncing lie, he cooked up, that "the fête was postponed sine die, the dcar little curly-wigged heir of le scroope being taken alarmingly ill with the croup!" when the clock struck three, and the page, on his knee, said “an't please you, sir guy le scroope, on a servi !" and the knight found the banquet-hall empty and clear, with nobody near to partake of his cheer, he stamped, and he stormed-then his language!-oh dear! 'twas awful to see, and 'twas awful to hear ! and he cried to the button-decked page at his knee, who had told him so civilly on a servi, “ten thousand fiends seize them, wherever they be! -the devil take them ! and the devil take thee ! and the devil may eat up the dinner for me!!” * for a full account of this facetious" chivaler," see the late (oh! that we should have to say "late!") theodore hook's "history of the illustrious commoners of great britain," as quoted in the memoirs of john bragg, esq., page of the th volume of the standard novels. in the third volume of sir harris nicolas's elaborate account of the scroope and grosvenor controversy, commonly called the “scrope roll,” a stephen de hoques, ecuyer, is described as giving his testimony on the grosvenor side. a legend of the north countree. in a terrible fume he bounced out of the room, he bounced out of the house-and page, footman, and groom, bounced after their master ; for scarce had they heard of this left-handed grace the last finishing word, ere the horn at the gate of the barbican tower was blown with a loud twenty-trumpeter power, and in rushed a troop of strange guests !- such a group as had ne'er before darkened the door of the scroope! this looks like de saye-yet-it is not de sayem and this is—no, 'tis not-sir reginald braye- this has somewhat the favor of marmaduke grey- but stay !— where on earth did he get those long nails ? why, they're claws !-then-good gracious !—they've all of them tails ! that can't be de vaux-why, his nose is a bill, or, i would say, a beak !-and he can't keep it still !- is that poynings -oh, gemini !-look at his feet!! why, they're absolute hoofs !-is it gout or his corns that have crumpled them up so ?-by jingo, he's horns ! run! run!—there's fitz-walter, fitz-hugh, and fitz-john, and the mandevilles, père et fils (father and son), and fitz-osbert, and ufford—they've all got them on! then their great saucer eyes it's the father of lies and his imporun, run! run !—they're all fiends in disguise, who've partly assumed, with more sombre complexions, the forms of sir guy le scroope's friends and connections, and he, at the top there—that grim-looking elf- run! run! that's the “muckle-horned clootie” himself! and now what a din without and within! for the courtyard is full of them. how they begin to mop, and to mowe, and make faces, and grin! cock their tails up together, like cows in hot weather, and butt at each other, all eating and drinking, the viands and wine disappearing like winking. and then such a lot as together had got ! master cabbage, the steward, who'd made a machine to calculate with, and count noses, -i ween the lay of st. cuthbert. the cleverest thing of the kind ever seen, declared, when he'd made, by the said machine's aid, up what's now called the “tottle" of those he surveyed, there were just-how he proved it i cannot divine- nine thousand, nine hundred, and ninety, and nine. exclusive of him who, giant in limb, and black as the crow they denominate jim, with a tail like a bull, and a head like a bear, stands forth at the window,-and what holds he there, which he hugs with such care, and pokes out in the air, and grasps as its limbs from each other he'd tear? oh! grief and despair! i vow and declare it's le scroope's poor, dear, sweet little curly-wigged heir ! whom the nurse had forgot, and left there in his chair, alternately sucking his thumb and his pear! what words can express the dismay and distress of sir guy, when he found what a terrible mess his cursing and banning had now got him into ? that words, which to use are a shame and a sin too, had thus on their speaker recoiled, and his malison placed in the hands of the devil's own "pal” his son ! he sobbed and he sighed, 'and he screamed and he cried, and behaved like a man that is mad, or in liquor,-he tore his peaked beard, and he dashed off his “ vicary, stamped on the jasey as though he were crazy, and staggering about just as if he were “ hazy," "* * a peruke so named from its inventor. robert de ros and eudo fitz-vicari were celebrated perruquiers, who flourished in the eleventh century. the latter is noticed in the battle-abbey roll, and is said to have curled william the conqueror's hair when dressing for the battle of hastings. dugdale makes no mention of him, but camden says that humfrey, one of his descendants, was summoned to parliament, jan. edw. i. ( ). it is doubtful, however, whether that writ can be deemed a regular writ of summons to parliament, for reasons amply detailed in the "synopsis of the british peerage" (art. fitz-john). a writ was subsequently addressed to him as “humfry fitz-vicari chivr.” jan. edw. ii. ( ), and his descendants appear to have been regularly summoned as late as and of philip and mary, – . soon after which peter fitz-vicari dying, s. p. m., this barony went into abeyance between his two daughters, joan, married to henry de truefit of fullbottom, and alice, wife of roger wigram, of caxon hall, in wigton, co. cumb., esq., among whose representatives it is presumed to be still in abeyance. the lay of st. cuthbert. and have lashed their bare backs, and—no matter-with twine, oh! list to the vow which i make to you now: only snatch my poor little boy out of the row which that imp's kicking up with his fiendish bow-wow, and his head like a bear, and his tail like a cow! bring him back here in safety !-perform but this task, and i'll give-oh! i'll give you whatever you ask! there is not a shrine in the county shall shine with a brilliancy half so resplendent as thine, or have so many candles, or look half so fine! haste, holy st. cuthbert, then,-hasten, in pity!" - conceive his surprise when a strange voice replies, “it's a bargain !—but mind, sir, the best spermaceti !" say, whose that voice? whose that form by his side ?- that old, old gray man, with his beard long and wide, in his coarse palmer's weeds, with his cockle and beads ? — and how did he come ?- did he walk ? did he ride? oh! none could determine-oh! none could decide; the fact is, i don't believe any one tried, for, while ev'ry one stared, with a dignified stride, and without a word more, he marched on before, up a flight of stone steps, and so through the front door, to the banqueting-hall, that was on the first floor, while the fiendish assembly were making a rare little shuttlecock there of the curly-wigged heir. -i wish, gentle reader, that you could have seen the pause that ensued when he stepped in between, with his resolute air and his dignified mien, and said, in a tone most decided, though mild, “ come-i'll trouble you just to hand over that child !” the demoniac crowd in an instant seemed cowed, not one of the crew volunteered a reply; all shrunk from the glance of that keen-flashing eye, save one horrid humgruffin, who seemed by his talk, and the airs he assumed, to be cock of the walk : a legend of the north countree. he quailed not before it, but saucily met it, and as saucily said, “don't you wish you may get it ?” my goodness! the look that the old palmer gave! and his frown! 'twas quite dreadful to witness“why, slave! you rascal !" quoth he, “this language to me!! -at once, mr. nicholas, down on your knee, and hand me that curly-wigged boy !—i command it ! come-none of your nonsense ! you know i won't stand it.” old nicholas trembled; he shook in his shoes, and seemed half inclined, but afraid, to refuse. “well, cuthbert,” said he, “if so it must be for you've had your own way from the first time i knew ye take your curly-wigged brat, and much good may he do ye! but i'll have in exchange"-here his eye flashed with rage- “that chap with the buttons: he gave me the page !" "come, come,” the saint answered, " you very well know the young man's no more his than your own to bestow touch one button of his if you dare, nick !-no! no! cut your stick, sir! come, mizzle! be off with you! go!” the devil grew hot— “if i do i'll be shot! an you come to that, cuthbert, i'll tell you what's what: he has asked us to dine here, and go we will not ! why, you skinflint, at least you may leave us the feast ! here we've come all that way from our brimstone abode- ten million good leagues, sir, as ever you strode- and the deuce of a luncheon we've had on the road. “go!' mizzle !' indeed! mr. saint, who are you, i should like to know.? 'go!—i'll be hanged if i do! he invited us all: we've a right here; it's known that a baron may do what he likes with his own. here, asmodeus, a slice of that beef; now the mustard - what have you got ?-oh, apple-pie; try it with custard !” the saint made a pause, as uncertain, because he knew nick is pretty well “up” in the laws, the lay of st. cuthbert. and they might be on his side; and then, he'd such claws! on the whole, it was better, he thought, to retire with the curly-wigged boy he'd picked out of the fire, and give up the victuals—to retrace his path, and to compromise (spite of the member for bath). so to old nick's appeal, as he turned on his heel he replied, “well, i'll leave you the mutton and veal, and the soup á la reine, and the sauce bechamel. as the scroope did invite you to dinner, i feel i can't well turn you out—'twould be hardly genteel; but be moderate, pray,-and remember thus much: since you're treated as gentlemen, show yourselves such, and don't make it late, but mind and go straight home to bed when you've finished ; and don't steal the plate, nor wrench off the knocker or bell from the gate. walk away, like respectable devils, in peace, and don't 'lark' with the watch or annoy the police !" having thus said his say, that palmer gray took up little le scroope and walked coolly away, while the demons all set up a “hip! hip! hurray!" then fell, tooth and claw, on the victuals, as they had been guests at guildhall upon lord mayor's day, all scrambling and scuffling for what was before 'em, no care for precedence or common decorum. few ate more hearty than madame astarte, and hecate, -considered the belles of the party. between them was seated leviathan, eager to “do the polite,” and take wine with belphegor ; here was morbleu (a french devil) supping soup-meagre, and there, munching leeks, davy jones of tredegar (a welsh one), who'd left the domains of ap morgan to " follow the sea ;" and next him demogorgon; then pan with his pipes, and fauns grinding the organ to mammon and belial, and half a score dancers, who'd joined with medusa to get up “the lancers." a legend of the north countree. here's lucifer lying blind drunk with scotch ale, while beëlzebub's tying huge knots in his, tail ; there's setebos storming because mephistopheles gave him the lie, said he'd “blacken his eye,” and dashed in his face a whole cup of hot coffee-lees. -ranting and roaring, hiccoughing, snoring, never was seen such a riot before in a gentleman's house, or such profligate revelling at any soirée—where they don't let the devil in. hark!-as sure as fate the clock's striking eight (an hour which our ancestors called “getting late"), when nick, who by this time was rather elate, rose up and addressed them. « 'tis full time," he said, “for all elderly devils to be in their bed. for my own part, i mean to be jogging, because i don't find myself now quite so young as i was; but, gentlemen, ere i depart from my post, i must call on you, all for one bumper; the toast which i have to propose is—our excellent host ! -many thanks for his kind hospitality !--may we also be able to see at our table himself, and enjoy, in a family way, his good company down stairs at no distant day! you'd, i'm sure, think me rude if i did not include in the toast my young friend there, the curly-wigged heir! he's in very good hands, for you're all well aware that st. cuthbert has taken him under his care; though i must not say "bless'- why, you'll easily guess may our curly-wigged friend's shadow never be less !" nick took off his heel-taps, bowed, smiled with an air most graciously grim-and vacated the chair. of course the élite rose at once on their feet, and followed their leader, and beat a retreat; when a skylarking imp took the president's seat, the lay of st. cuthbert. and, requesting that each would replenish his cup, said, “where we have dined, my boys, there let us sup!” -it was three in the morning before they broke up!!! i scarcely need say sir guy didn't delay to fulfill his vow made to st. cuthbert, or pay for the candles he'd promised, or make light as day the shrine he assured him he'd render so gay. in fact, when the votaries came there to pray, all said there was nought to compare with it-day, for fear that the abbey might think he was shabby, four brethren thenceforward, two cleric, two lay, he ordained should take charge of a new-founded chantry, with six marcs apiece, and some claims on the pantry; in short, the whole county declared, through his bounty the abbey of bolton exhibited fresh scenes from any displayed since sir william de meschines * and cecily roumeli came to this nation with william the norman, and laid its foundation. my for the rest, it is said, and i know i have read in some chronicle—whose, has gone out of head- that, what with these candles, and other expenses which no man would go to if quite in his senses, he reduced and brought low his property so, that, at last, he'd not much of it left to bestow; and that, many years after that terrible feast, sir guy, in the abbey, was living a priest; and there, in one thousand and-something--deceased. (it's supposed by this trick he bamboozled old nick, and slipped through his fingers remarkably "slick.") while, as to young curly-wig,—dear little soul, would you know more of him, you must look at “ the roll,” which records the dispute, and the subsequent suit, commenced in “thirteen sev'nty-five,”—which took root * vide dugdale's monasticon, art. prioratus de bolton, in agro eboracensi. a legend of the north countree. in le grosvenor's assuming the arms le scroope swore that none but his ancestors, ever before, in foray, joust, battle, or tournament wore, to wit, “ on a prussian-blue field, a bend or;" while the grosvenor averred that his ancestor bore the same, and scroope lied like a-somebody tore off the simile,-so i can tell you no more, till some a double s shall the fragment restore.* moral. this legend sound maxims exemplifies--e.g., mo. should anything tease you, annoy, or displease you, remember what lilly says, “ animum rege !"'+ and as for that shocking bad habit of swearing, in all good society voted past bearing - eschew it! and leave it to dustmen and mobs, nor commit yourself much beyond “ zooks!” or “odsbobs!" do. when asked out to dine by a person of quality, mind and observe the most strict punctuality! for should you come late, and make dinner wait, and the victuals get cold, you'll incur, sure as fate, the master's displeasure, the mistress's hate. and—though both may, perhaps, be too well-bred to swear- they'll heartily wish you—i need not say where. tio. look well to your maid-servants !--say you expect them to see to the children, and not to neglect them! and, if you're a widower, just throw a cursory glance in, at times, when you go near the nursery. * it is with the greatest satisfaction that i learn from mr. simpkinson this consum- mation, so devoutly to be wished, is about to be realized, and that the remainder of this most interesting document, containing the whole of the defendant's evidence, will appear in the course of the ensuing summer, under the same auspices as the former portion. we shall look with eagerness for the identification of “curly-wig." † animum rege! qui nisi paret, imperat.-lilly's grammar. a legend of blois. the lay of st. aloys. a legend of blois. s. heloïus in hac urbe fuit episcopus, qui, defunctus, sepulturus est a fidelibus. nocte autem sequenti, veniens quidam paganus lapidem, qui sarcophagum tegebat, revolvit, erectumque contra se corpus sancti spoliare, conatur. at ille, lacertis constrictum, ad se hominem fortiter amplexatur, et usque mane, populis spectantibus, tanquam con- stipatum loris, ita miserum brachiis detinebat. **** judex loci sepulchri violatorem jubet abstrahi, et legali pænæ sententiâ condemnari; sed non laxabatur a sancto. tunc intelligens voluntatem defuncti, judex, factâ de vità promissione, absolvit, deinde laxatur, et sic incolumis redditur: non vero fur demissus quin se vitam monastericam amplexurum spopondisset. greg.: turnoens: de gloria confessorum. saint aloys laint aloys was the bishop of blois, and a pitiful man was he; he grieved and he pined for the woes of mankind, and of brutes in their degree ;- he would rescue the rat from the claws of the cat, and set the poor captive free; though his cassock was swarming with all sorts of vermin, he'd not take the life of a flea ! kind, tender, forgiving, to all things living, from injury still he'd endeavor to screen 'em, fish, flesh, or fowl,—no difference between 'em- nihil putavit a se alienum. the bishop of blois was a holy man,- a holy man was he! for holy church he'd seek and he'd search as a bishop in his degree. from foe and from friend he'd "rap and he'd rend," to augment her treasurie. nought would he give, and little he'd lend, that holy church might have more to spend- thÈ lay of st. aloys. “count stephen ”* (of blois) “was a worthy peer, his breeches cost him but a crown, he held them sixpence all to dear, and so he called the tailor lown !”— had it been the bishop instead of the count, and he'd overcharged him to half the amount, he had knocked that tailor down! not for himself !– he despised the pelf; he dressed in sackcloth, he dined off delf; and, when it was cold, in lieu of a surtout, the good man would wrap himself up in his virtue.t alack! that a man so holy as he, so frank and free in his degree, and so good and so kind, should mortal be! yet so it is—for loud and clear from st. nicholas' tower, on the listening ear, with solemn swell the deep-toned bell flings to the gale a funeral knell; and hark !-at its sound, as a cunning old hound, when he opens, at once causes all the young whelps of the cry to put in their less dignified yelps, so—the little bells all, no matter how small, from the steeples both inside and outside the wall, with bell-metal throat respond to the note, and join the lament that a prelate so pious is forced thus to leave his disconsolate diocese, or, as blois' lord may'r is heard to declare, “should leave this here world for to go to that there." and see, the portals opening wide, from the abbey flows the living tide; forth from the doors the torrent pours, acolytes, monks, and friars in scores, * teste messire iago, a distinguished subaltern in the venetian service, circiter a.d. . his biographer, mr. william shakspeare, a contemporary writer of some note, makes him say “king stephen," inasmuch as the "worthy peer” subsequently usurped the crown of england. the anachronism is a pardonable one.--mr. simpkinson of bath. + virtute me involvo."-hor. “mea a legend of blois. this with his chasuble, that with his rosary, this from his incense pot turning his nose awry, holy father, and holy mother, holy sister, and holy brother, holy son, and holy daughter, holy wafer, and holy water, every one drest like a guest in his best, in the smartest of clothes they're permitted to wear, serge, sackcloth, and shirts of the same sort of hair as now we make use of to stuff an arm-chair, or weave into gloves at three shillings a pair, and employ for shampooing in cases rheumatic, -a special specific, i'm told, for sciatica. through groined arch, and by cloistered stone, with mosses and ivy long o'ergrown, slowly the throng come passing along, with many a chant and solemn song, adapted for holidays, high-days, and sundays,- dies iræ, and de profundis, miserere, and domine dirige nos, such as, i hear, to a very slow tune are all commonly chanted by monks at a funeral, to secure the defunct's repose, and to give a broad hint to old nick, should the news of a prelate's decease bring him there on a cruise, that he'd better be minding his ps and his qs, and not come too near,--since they can, if they choose, make him shake in his hoofs-as he does not wear shoes. still on they go, a goodly show, with footsteps sure, though certainly slow, two by two in a very long row; with feathers, and mutes in mourning suits, undertaker's men walking in hat-bands and boots.- then comes the crosier, all jewels and gold, borne by a lad about eighteen years old; next, on a black velvet cushion, the mitre, borne by a younger boy, 'cause it is lighter. a legend of blois. and by old and young the requiem” was sung: not vernacular french, but a classical tongue, that is, latin,—i don't think they meddled with greek- in short, the whole thing produced-so to speak- what in blois they would call a coup d'æil magnifique ! yet, surely, when the level ray of some mild eve's descending sun lights on the village pastor, gray in years ere ours had well begun- as there, in simplest vestment clad, he speaks, beneath the churchyard tree, in solemn tones,—but yet not sad, - of what man is—what man shall be ; and clustering round the grave, half hid by that same quiet churchyard yew, the rustic mourners bend to bid the dust they loved a last adieu- - that ray, methinks, that rests so sheen upon each briar-bound hillock green, so calm, so tranquil, so serene, gives to the eye a fairer scene, speaks to the heart with holier breath, than all this pageantry of death.- but chacun à son gout—this is talking at random- we all know “ de gustibus non disputandum !” so canter back, muse, to the scene of your story, the cathedral of blois - where the sainted aloys is by this time, you'll find, “ left alone in his glory.” “in the dead of the night,” though with labor opprest, some mortals” disdain “the calm blessings of rest;" your cracksman, for instance, thinks night-time the best to break open a door, or the lid of a chest ; and the gypsy who close round your premises prowls, to ransack your hen-roost, and steal all your fowls, always sneaks out at night with the bats and the owls, -so do witches and warlocks, ghosts, goblins, and ghouls, the lay of st. aloys. to say nothing at all of those troublesome “swells.” who come from the playhouses, "flash kens,” and “hells," to pull off people's knockers and ring people's bells. "* well—'tis now the hour ill things have power, and all who, in blois, entertain honest views have long been in bed and enjoying a snooze ; nought is waking save mischief and “faking," and a few who are sitting up brewing br baking, when an ill-looking infidel, sallow of hue, who stands in his slippers some six feet two (a rather remarkable height for a jew), creeps cautiously out of the churchwarden's pew, into which, during service, he managed to slide himself- while all were intent on the anthem--and hide himself. from his lurking-place, with stealthy pace, through the “long-drawn aisle" he begins to crawl, as you see a cat walk on the top of the wall when it's stuck full of glass, and she thinks she shall fall. he proceeds to feel for his flint and his steel (an invention on which we've improved a great deal of late years; the substitute best to rely on 's what jones of the strand calls his pyrogeneion); he strikes with despatch-his tinder catches - now, where is his candle ? and where are his matches ? 'tis done-they are found ! he stands up, and looks round by the light of a “dip" of sixteen to the pound ! -what is it now that makes his nerves to quiver, his hand to shake, and his limbs to shiver ?- fear ?—pooh! it is only a touch of the liver. all is silent—all is still ; it's “gammon”—it's “stuff!”—he may do what he will ! carefully now he approaches the shrine, *“nix my dolly, pals, fake away !"-words of deep and mysterious import in the ancient language of upper egypt, and recently inscribed on the sacred standard of mehemet ali. they are supposed to intimate to the initiated in the art of abstrac- tion the absence of all human observation, and to suggest the propriety of making the best use of their time--and fingers. a legend of blois. in which, as i've mentioned before, about nine they had placed in such state the lamented divine; -but not to worship-no! no such thing !- his aim is—to “prig” the pastoral ring !! fancy his fright when, with all his might having forced up the lid—which they'd not fastened quite- of the marble sarcophagus, "all in white" the dead bishop started up, bolt upright on his hinder end, and grasped him so tight that the clutch of a kite, or a bulldog's bite when he's most provoked and in bitterest spite, may well be conceived in comparison slight,- and, having thus “tackled” him—blew out his light!! oh dear! oh dear! the fright and the fear! - no one to hear !-nobody near ! - in the dead of the night!-at a bad time of year ! - a defunct bishop squatting upright on his bier, and shouting so loud that the drum of his ear he thought would have split as these awful words met it- “ah! ha! my good friend! don't you wish you may get it?” oh dear! oh dear! 'twas a night of fear! i should just like to know if the boldest man here, in his situation, would not have felt queer? the wretched man bawls, and he yells and he squalls, but there's nothing responds to his shrieks save the walls, and the desk and the pulpit, the pews and the stalls. held firmly at bay, kick and plunge as he may, his struggles are fruitless-he can't get away; he really can't tell what to do or to say, and, being a pagan, don't know how to pray, till through the east window a few streaks of gray announce the approach of the dawn of the day! oh, a welcome sight is the rosy light which lovelily heralds a morning bright, the lay of st. aloys. above all to a wretch kept in durance all night by a horrid dead gentleman holding him tight,- of all sorts of gins that a trespasser can trap, the most disagreeable kind of a man trap! -oh! welcome that bell's matin chime, which tells to one caught in this worst of all possible snares, that the hour is arrived to begin morning prayers, and the monks and the friars are coming down stairs ! conceive the surprise of the choir-how their eyes are distended to twice their original size, — how some begin bless,—some anathematize, - and all look on the thief as old nick in disguise. while the mystified abbot cries, “ well !-i declare !- — this is really a very mysterious affair !- bid the bandy-legged sexton go run for the may'r!” the may'r and his suite are soon on their feet (his worship kept house in the very same street),- at once he awakes, “his compliments” makes, “he'll be up at the church in a couple of shakes!" meanwhile the whole convent is pulling and hauling, and bawling and squalling, and terribly mauling the thief whose endeavor to follow his calling had thus brought him into a grasp so enthralling. now high, now low, they drag “ to and fro,"- now this way, now that way, they twist him-but-no! the glazed eye of st. aloys distinctly says “ poh! you may pull as you please, i shall not let him go!" nay, more ;—when his worship at length came to say he was perfectly ready to take him away, and fat him to grace the next auto-da-fé, still closer he prest the poor wretch to his breast, while a voice-though his jaws still together were jammed- was heard from his chest, “ if you do, i'll" here slammed the great door of the church,—with so awful a sound, that the close of the good bishop's sentence was drowned ! out spake frère jehan, a pitiful man, oh! a pitiful man was he! / a legend of blois. and he wept and he pined for the sins of mankind, as a friar in his degree. remember, good gentlefolks,” so he began, “dear aloys was always a pitiful man! that voice from his chest has clearly exprest he has pardoned the culprit—and as for the rest, before you shall burn him-he'll see you all blest !" the monks, and the abbot, the sexton, and clerk, were exceedingly struck with the friar's remark, and the judge, who himself was by no means a shark of a lawyer, and who did not do things in the dark, but still leaned (having once been himself a gay spark) to the merciful side,—like the late allan park,- agreed that, indeed, the best way to succeed, and by which this poor caitiff alone could be freed, would be to absolve him, and grant a free pardon, on a certain condition, and that not a hard one, viz.—“that he, the said infidel, straightway should ope his mind to conviction, and worship the pope, and 'ev'ry man jack’in an amice or cope; and that, to do so, he should forthwith go to rome, and salute there his holiness' toe ;- and never again read voltaire or tom paine, or percy bysshe shelley or lord byron's cain ;- his pilgrimage o'er, take st. francis's habit; if anything lay about never to 'nab' it; or, at worst, if he should light on articles gone astray, to be sure and deposit them safe in the monast'ry !" the oath he took- as he kissed the book, nave, transept, and aisle with a thunder-clap shook! the bishop sank down with a satisfied look, and the thief, released by the saint deceased, fell into the arms of a neighboring priest ! it skills not now to tell you how the transmogrified pagan performed his vow; how he quitted his home, travelled to rome, and went to st. peter's and looked at the dome, the lay of st. aloys. and obtained from the pope an assurance of bliss, and kissed—whatever he gave him to kiss- toe, relic, embroidery, nought came amiss ; and how pope urban had the man's turban hung up in the sistine chapel, by way of a relic-and how it hangs there to this day.- suffice it to tell, which will do quite as well, that the whole of the convent the miracle saw, and the abbot's report was sufficient to draw ev'ry bon catholique in la belle france to blois, among others, the monarch himself, françois, the archbishop of rheims, and his “pious jackdaw," and there was not a man in church, chapel, or meeting-house, still less in cabaret, hotel, or eating-house, but made an oration, and said, “in the nation if ever a man deserved canonization, it was the kind, pitiful, pious aloys.”. so the pope says-says he, “ then a saint he shall be!”— so he made him a saint,--and remitted the fee. what became of the pagan i really can't say; but i think i've been told, when he'd entered their fold, and was now a franciscan some twenty days old, he got up one fine morning before break of day, put the pyx in his pocket-and then ran away. moral. i think we may coax out a moral or two from the facts which have lately come under our view. first-don't meddle with saints !—for you'll find if you do they're what scotch people call" kittle cattle to shoe!” and when once they have managed to take you in tow, it's a deuced hard matter to make them let go! now to you, wicked pagans !—who wander about, up and down regent street every night, " on the scout,”— recollect the police keep a sharpish lookout, * vide page . a legend of blois. and if once you're suspected, your skirts they will stick to till they catch you at last in flagrante delicto ! - don't the inference draw that because he of blois suffered one to bilk “old father antic the law," that our may’rs and our aldermen-and we've a city full- show themselves, at our guildhall, quite so pitiful! lastly, as to the pagan who played such a trick, first assuming the tonsure, then cutting his stick, there is but one thing which occurs to me that is, - don't give too much credit to people who “rat!” -never forget early habit's a net which entangles us all, more or less, in its mesh; and “what's bred in the bone won't come out of the flesh !" we must all be aware nature's prone to rebel, as old juvenal tells us, naturam expellas tamen usque recurret! there's no use making her rat! so that all that i have on this head to advance is,—whatever they think of these matters in france, there's a proverb, the truth of which each one allows here, - “ you never can make a silk purse of a sow's ear!” in the succeeding legend we come nearer home. father ingoldsby is particular in describing its locality, situate some eight miles from the hall-less, if you take the bridle-road by the churchyard, and so along the valley by mr. fector's abbey. in the enumeration of the various attempts to appro- priate the treasure (drawn from a later source), is omitted one, said to have been undertaken by the worthy ecclesiastic him- self, who, as mrs. botherby insinuates, is reported to have started for dover, one fine morning, duly furnished with all the means and appliances of exorcism. i cannot learn, however, that the family was ever enriched by his expedition. the old woman clothed in gray. the lay of the old woman clothed in gray. a legend of dover. ona nce there lived, as i've heard people say, an “old woman clothed in gray,” so furrowed with care, so haggard her air, in her eye such a wild supernatural stare, that all who espied her immediately shied her, and strove to get out of her way. this fearsome old woman was taken ill ; -she sent for the doctor—he sent her a pill, and by way of a trial, a two-shilling phial of green-looking fluid, like lava diluted, to which i've professed an abhorrence most rooted.* one of those draughts they so commonly send us, labelled “ haustus catharticus, mane sumendus ;"– she made a wry face, and, without saying grace, tossed it off like a dram-it improved not her case. -the leech came again; he now opened a vein, still the little old woman continued in pain. so her “medical man,” although loth to distress her, conceived it high time that her father confessor should be sent for to shrive, and assoilzie, and bless her, that she might not slip out of these troublesome scenes “unanealed and unhouseled,"—whatever that means. growing afraid, he calls to his aid a bandy-legg'd neighbor, a “ tailor by trade," i tells him his fears, bids him lay by his shears, * vide page . † alack for poor william linley to settle the point! his elucidation of macbeth's "hurly-burly” casts a halo around his memory. in him the world lost one of its kindliest spirits, and the garrick club its acutest commentator. | all who are familiar with the police reports, and other records of our courts of justice, will recollect that every gentleman of this particular profession invariably thus describes himself, in contradistinction to the bricklayer, whom he probably pre-* sumes to be indigenous, and to the shoemaker, born a snob. a legend of dover. his thimble, his goose, and his needle, and hie with all possible speed to the convent hard by, requests him to say that he begs they'll all pray viz., the whole pious brotherhood, cleric and lay, for the soul of an old woman clothed in gray, who was just at that time in a very bad way, and he really believed couldn't last out the day ;- and to state his desire that some erudite friar would run over at once, and examine, and try her ; for he thought he would find there was "something behind," a something that weighed on the old woman's mind, - “ in fact, he was sure, from what fell from her tongue, that this little old woman had done something wrong." —then he wound up the whole with this hint to the man, “mind and pick out as holy a friar as you can!” now i'd have you to know that this story of woe which i'm telling you happened a long time ago ; i can't say exactly how long, nor, i own, what particular monarch was then on the throne, but 'twas here in old england; and all that one knows is, it must have preceded the wars of the roses.* inasmuch as the times described in these rhymes were as fruitful in virtues as ours are in crimes ; and if ’mongst the laity unseemly gayety sometimes betrayed an occasional taint or two, at once all the clerics went into hysterics, while scarcely a convent but boasted its saint or two; so it must have been long ere the line of the tudors, as since then the breed of saints rarely indeed with their dignified presence have darkened our pew doors. -hence the late mr. froude, and the live dr. pusey, we moderns consider as each worth a jew's eye; *“an ancient and most pugnacious family," says our bath friend. “one of their descendants, george rose, esq., late m.p. for christchurch (an elderly gentleman, now defunct), was equally celebrated for his vocal abilities and his wanton destruction of farniture when in a state of excitement. 'sing old rose, and burn the bellows !' has grown into a proverb. the old woman clothed in gray. as he ought; but instead, curiosity-led, - a feeling we all deem extremely ill-bred, - he contrived to secrete himself under the bed ! -not that he heard one half, or a third, of what passed as the monk and the patient conferred, but he here and there managed to pick up a word, such as “knife,” and "life," and he thought she said “wife," and "money," that "source of all evil and strife;"* then he plainly distinguished the words “gore” and “ gash,” whence he deemed—and i don't think his inference rash- she had cut some one's throat for the sake of his cash! intermixed with her moans, and her sighs and her groans, enough to have melted the hearts of the stones, came at intervals basil's sweet, soft, silver tones, for somehow it happened- i can't tell you why- the good friar's indignation,--at first rather high- to judge from the language he used in reply, ere the old woman ceased, had a good deal gone by; and he gently addressed her in accents of honey, daughter, don't you despair !—what's become of the money?" in one just at death's door, it was really absurd to see how her eye lighted up at that word- indeed there's not one in the language that i know (save its synonyms “spanish,” “blunt," "stumpy ” and “rhino”), which acts so direct and with so much effect on the human sens nsorium, or makes one erect one's ears so, as soon as the sound we detect- it's a question with me which of the three. father basil himself, though a grave s.t.p. (such as he have, you see, the degree of d.d.), or the eaves-dropping, bandy-legged tailor, or she, caught it quickest—however, traditions agree that the old woman perked up as brisk as a bee. — * “effodiuntur opes irritamenta malorum.” lilly's grammar. a legend of dover. 'twas the last quivering flare of the taper,--the fire it so often emits when about to expire! her excitement began the same instant to flag, she sank back, and whispered, “safe -safe in the bag !!" now i would not by any means have you suppose that the good father basil was just one of those who entertain views we're so apt to abuse, as neither befitting turks, christians, nor jews, who haunt death-bed scenes, by underhand means to toady or tease people into a legacy, - for few folk indeed had such good right to beg as he, since rome, in her pure apostolical beauty, not only permits, but enjoins as a duty, her sons to take care that, let who will be heir, the pontiff shall not be choused out of his share, nor stand any such mangling of chattels and goods as, they say, was the case with the late jemmy wood's; her conclaves, and councils, and synods, in short, main- tain principles adverse to statutes of mortmain; besides, you'll discern it, at once, when you learn that basil had something to give in return, since it rested with him to say how she should burn; nay, as to her ill-gotten wealth, should she turn it all to uses he named, he could say, “you shan't burn at all, or nothing to signify, not what you'd dignify so much as even to call it a roast, but a mere little singeing or scorching at most,- what many would think not unpleasantly warm,- just to keep up appearancemere matter of form.". all this in her ear he declared, but i fear that her senses were wand'ring—she seemed not to hear, or, at least, understand,—for mere unmeaning talk her parched lips babbled now,-such as “hookey!” and “ walker!” -she expired, with her last breath expressing a doubt if “his mother were fully aware he was out." the old woman clothed in gray. now it seems there's a place they call pugatry— i must write it, my verse not admitting the – but as for the venue, i vow i'm perplext to say if it's in this world, or if in the next- or whether in both-for 'tis very well known that st. patrick, at least, has got one of his own, in a “tight little island” that stands in a lake called “lough-dearg”—that's “the red lake,” unless i mistake in fermanagh—or antrim—or donegal—which i declare i can't tell, but i know very well it's in latitude , nearly their pitch (at tappington, now, i could look in the gazetteer, but i'm out on a visit, and nobody has it here). there are some, i'm aware, who don't stick to declare there's “no differ” at all 'twixt “this here” and “that there," that it's all the same place, but the saint reserves his entry for the separate use of the “finest of pisentry," and that his is no more than a mere private door from the rez-de-chaussée,-as some call the ground floor,- to the one which the pope had found out long before. but no matter—lay the locale where you may; -and where it is no one exactly can say there's one thing, at least, which is known very well, that it acts as a tap-room to satan's hotel. “ entertainment” there's worse both for “man and for horse;" for broiling the souls they use lord mayor's coals ;- then the sulphur's inferior, and boils up much slower than the fine fruity brimstone they give you down lower. means it's by no so strong- mere sloe-leaves to souchong, the “prokers” are not half so hot, or so long, by an inch or two, either in handle or prong ; the vipers and snakes are less sharp in the tooth, and the nondescript monsters not near so uncouth ;- "a legend of dover. in short, it's a place the good pope, its creator, made for what's called by cockneys a “minor the-âtre,” better suited, of course, for a "minor performer," than the “house,” that's so much better lighted and warmer, below, in that queer place which nobody mentions,— -you understand where, i don't question-down there, where in lieu of wood blocks, and such modern inventions, the paving commissioners use “good intentions,” materials which here would be thought on by few men, with so many founts of asphaltic bitumen at hand, at the same time to pave and illumine. to go on with my story, this same purga-tory (there! i've got in the o, to my muse's great glory) is close locked, and the pope keeps the key of it—that i can boldly affirm-in his desk in the vatican; -not those of st. peter- these of which i now treat are a bunch by themselves, and much smaller and neater- and so cleverly made, mr. chubb could not frame a key better contrived for its purpose—nor bramah. now it seems that by these most miraculous keys not only the pope, but his “clargy,” with ease can let people in and out just as they please; and-provided you "make it all right” about fees, there is not a friar, dr. wiseman will own, of them, but can always contrive to obtain a short loan of them; and basil, no doubt, had brought matters about, if the little old woman would but have “spoke out,” so far as to get for her one of those tickets, or passes, which clear both the great gates and wickets ; so that after a grill, or short turn on the mill, and with no worse a singeing, to purge her iniquity, than a freemason gets in the "lodge of antiquity," she'd have rubbed off old scores, popped out of doors, and sheered off at once for a happier port, like a whitewashed insolvent that's "gone through the court.” a legend of dover. i've a great mind to try: one can but apply; if things come to the worst, he can but deny the sky's rather high, to be sure; but, now i that cumbersome carcass of clay have laid by, i am just in the 'order' which some folks—though why i am sure i can't tell you-would call apple-pie.' then 'never say die; it won't do to be shy, so i'll tụck up my shroud, and here goes for a fly!" so said and so done: she was off like a shot, and kept on the whole way at a pretty smart trot. when she drew so near that the saint could see her, in a moment he frowned, and began to look queer, and scarce would allow her to make her case clear ere he pursed up his mouth 'twixt a sneer and a jeer, with "it's all very well—but you do not lodge here!” then, calling her everything but “my dear," he applied his great toe with some force au derrière, and dismissed her at once with a flea in her ear! “alas! poor ghost!" it's a doubt which is most to be pitied-one doomed to fry, broil, boil, and roast, or one bandied about thus from pillar to post, - to be all “abroad”—to be "stumped" not to know where to go- disgraced as not to be "placed," or, as crocky would say to jem bland, “ to be nowhere.” however that be, the affaire was finie, and the poor wretch rejected by all, as you see ! mr. oliver goldsmith observes-not the jew- that the “hare whom the hounds and the huntsmen pursue,” having no other sort of asylum in view, “returns back again to the place whence she flew,”— a fact which experience has proved to be true. mr. gray-in opinion with whom johnson clashes- declares that our wonted fires live in our ashes."* * “een in our ashes live their wonted fires !"--gray. “a position at which experience revolts, credulity hesitates, and even fancy stares !"-johnson. the old woman clothed in gray. these motives combined, perhaps, brought back the hag, the first to her mansion, the last to her bag, when only conceive her dismay and surprise, as a ghost how she opened her cold stony eyes, when there, on the spot where she'd hid her "supplies," in an underground cellar of very small size, working hard with a spade, all at once she surveyed that confounded old bandy-legged “ tailor by trade”! fancy the tone of the half moan, half groan, which burst from the breast of the ghost of the crone ! as she stood there, a figure 'twixt moonshine and stone, only fancy the glare in her eyeballs that shone ! although, as macbeth says, “they'd no speculation," while she uttered that word which american bird, or james fenimore cooper, would render “ tarnation !" at the noise which she made down went the spade, and up jumped the bandy-legged “tailor by trade" (who had shrewdly conjectured, from something that fell, her deposit was somewhere concealed in the cellar); turning round at a sound so extremely profound, the moment her shadowy form met his view he gave vent to a sort of a lengthened “b - -ho-o!”— with a countenance keeley alone could put on, made one grasshopper spring to the door—and was gone! erupit! evasit! as at rome they would phrase it- his flight was so swift the eye scarcely could trace it; though elderly, bandy-legged, meagre, and sickly, i doubt if the ghost could have vanished more quickly. he reached his own shop, and then fell into fits, and it's said never rightly recovered his wits, while the chuckling old hag takes his place and there sits ! i'll venture to say she'd sat there to this day, . brooding over what cobbett calls “vile yellow clay,” like a vulture, or other obscene bird of prey, o'er the nestful of eggs she had managed to lay, if, as legends relate and i think we may trust 'em-her stars had not brought her another-guess customer : a legend of dover. 'twas basil himself ! come to look for her pelf, but not, like the tailor, to dig, delve, and grovel, and grub in the cellar with pickaxe and shovel. full well he knew such tools would not do: far other the weapons he brought into play, viz., a wax taper “hallowed on candlemas day,” to light to her ducats; holy water two buckets (made with salt-half a peck to four gallons—which brew's a strong triple-x "strike:" see jacobus de chusa). with these, too, he took his bell and his book ; not a nerve ever trembled, his hand never shook, as he boldly marched up where she sat in her nook, glow'ring round with that wild indescribable look which some may have read of, perchance, in “nell cook,"* au, in “martha the gypsy,” by theodore hook. and now, for the reason i gave you before, of what passed then and there i can tell you no more, as no tailor was near with his ear at the door; but i've always been told, with respect to the gold for which she her "jewel eternal" had sold, that the old harridan, who, no doubt, knew her man, made some compromise, hit upon some sort of plan, by which friar and ghost were both equally pinned- heaven only knows how the "agreement” got wind; but its purpose was this, that the things done amiss by the hag should not hinder her ultimate bliss, provided—“imprimis, the cash from this time is the church’s, impounded for good pious uses-- father b. shall dispose of it just as he chooses, and act as trustee; in the mean time that she, the said ghostess,-or ghost, as the matter may be, - from 'impediment,'hindrance,' and 'let' shall be free, to sleep in her grave, or to wander, as he, the said friar, with said ghost may hereafter agree. moreover, the whole of the said cash or 'cole' shall be spent for the good of said old woman's soul! * see page . a legend of dover. basil now, i am told, walking off with the gold, went and straight got the document duly enrolled, and left the testatrix to mildew and mould in her sepulchre, cosy, cool, -not to say cold. but somehow—though how i can hardly divine a runlet of fine rich malvoisie wine found its way to the convent that night before nine, with custards, and "flawns," and a “fayre fiorentine," peach, apricot, nectarine, melon, and pine; and some half a score nuns of the rule bridgetine, abbess and all, were invited to dine at a very late hour,-that is, after compline, -father hilary's rubies began soon to shine with fresh lustre, as though newly dug from the mine; through all the next year, indeed, 'twould appear that the convent was much better off as to cheer; even basil himself, as i very much fear, no longer addicted himself to small beer; his complexion grew clear, while in front and in rear he enlarged so, bis shape seemed approaching a sphere. no wonder at all, then, one cold winter's night, that a servant girl, going down stairs with a light to the cellar we've spoken of, saw, with affright, an old woman, astride on a barrel, invite her to take, in a manner extremely polite, with her left hand, a bag she had got in her right; for tradition asserts that the old woman's purse had come back to her scarcely one penny the worse! the girl, as they say, ran screaming away, quite scared by the old woman clothed in gray; but there came down a knight, at no distant a day, sprightly and gay as the bird on the spray, one sir rufus mountfardington, lord of foot's-cray, whose estate, not unlike those of most of our “swell” beaux, was what's, by a metaphor, termed "out at elbows;" and the fact was, said knight was now merely delayed from crossing the water to join the crusade the old woman clothed in gray. for converting the pagans with bill, bow, and blade, by the want of a little pecuniary aid to buy arms and horses, the tools of his trade, and enable his troop to appear on parade; the unquiet shade thought sir rufus, 'tis said, just the man for her money,-she readily paid for the articles named, and with pleasure conveyed to his hands every farthing she ever had made; but alas ! i'm afraid most unwisely she laid out her cash-the beaux yeux of a saracen maid (truth compels me to say a most pestilent jade) converted the gallant converter-betrayed him to do everything which a knight could degrade, -e’en to worship mahound !-she required-he obeyed,- the consequence was, all the money was wasted on infidel pleasures he should not have tasted ; so that, after a very short respite, the hag was seen down in her cellar again with her bag. don't fancy, dear reader, i mean to go on seriatim through so many ages bygone, and to bore you with names of the squires and the dames who have managed, at times, to get hold of the sack, but spent the cash so that it always came back; the list is too long to be given in my song, there are reasons beside would perhaps make it wrong; i shall merely observe, in those orthodox days, when mary set smithfield all o'er in a blaze, and showed herself very se vere against heresy, while many a wretch scorned to flinch, or to scream, as he burnt for denying the papal supremacy, bishop bonner the bag got, and all thought the hag got released, as he spent all in fuel and fagot.- but somehow—though how i can't tell you, i vow- i suppose by mismanagement-ere the next reign the spectre had got all her money again. a legend of dover. the last time, i'm told, that the old woman's gold was obtained, -as before, for the asking,—'twas had by a mr. -something--from ballinafad; and the whole of it, so ʼtis reported, was sent to john wright's, in account for the catholic rent, and thus-like a great deal more money-it“ went!" so 'tis said at maynooth, but i can't think it's truth; though i know it was boldly asserted last season, still i can not believe it; and that for this reason, it's certain the cash has got back to its owner ! -now no part of the rent to do e'er was known-or, in any shape, ever come home to the donor. gentle reader! you must know the proverb, i think- “to a blind horse a nod is as good as a wink!" which some learned chap, in a square college cap, perhaps, would translate by the words "verbum sap!" -now should it so chance that you're going to france in the course of next spring, as you probably may, do pull up, and stay, pray, if but for a day, at dover, through which you must pass on your way, at the york,-or the ship,—where, as all people say, you'll get good wine yourself, and your horses good hay; perhaps, my good friend, you may find it will pay, and you cannot lose much by so short a delay. first dine!—you can do that on joint or ragoût- then say to the waiter, -" i'm just passing through- pray,—where can i find out the old maison dieu ?”– he'll show you the street (the french call it a rue, but you won't have to give here a petit écu). well,—when you've got there,-never mind how you're taunted, ask boldly, “pray, which is the house here that's haunted ?” -i'd tell you myself, but i can't recollect the proprietor's name; but he's one of that sect raising the devil. who call themselves “friends," and whom others call quakers," you'll be sure to find out if you ask at the baker's, – then go down with a light to the cellar at night! and as soon as you see her don't be in a fright! but ask the old hag, at once, for the bag! if you find that she's shy, or your senses would dazzle, say, “ma'am, i insist !-in the name of st. basil !” if she gives it you, seize it, and-do as you please but there is not a person i've asked but agrees, you should spend-part at least--for the old woman's ease! -for the rest—if it must go back some day--why-let it! meanwhile, if you're poor, and in love, or in debt, it may do you some good, and—i wish you may get it!!! to whom is the name of cornelius agrippa otherwise than familiar, since a “magician," of renown not inferior to his own, has brought him and his terrible “black book" again before the world? that he was celebrated, among other exploits, for raising the devil, we are all well aware ;-how he performed this feat, at least one-and that, perhaps, the most certain--method by which he did it is thus described. raising the devil. a legend of cornelius agrippa. “a halogra th our new an, abuse where shed nd hast thou nerve enough ?” he said, that gray old man, above whose head unnumbered years had rolled, - “and hast thou nerve to view," he cried, the incarnate fiend that heaven defied ! -art thou indeed so bold ? wn then in his startled pupil's face he dashed—an empty purse!" p. . a legend of cornelius agrippa. “say, canst thou, with unshrinking gaze, sustain, rash youth, the withering blaze of that unearthly eye, that blasts where'er it lights,—the breath that, like the simoom, scatters death on all that yet can die ! “ darest thou confront that fearful form, that rides the whirlwind, and the storm, 'in wild unholy revel! the terrors of that blasted brow, archangel's once,-though ruined now- -ay,—dar’st thou face the devil ?” “i dare!" the desperate youth replied, and placed him by that old man's side, in fierce and frantic glee, unblenched his cheek, and firm his limb: -“no paltry juggling fiend, but him, -the devil !—i fain would see! “in all his gorgon terrors clad, his worst, his fellest shape !" the lad rejoined in reckless tone.- _“have then thy wish !” agrippa said, and sighed, and shook his hoary head, with many a bitter groan. he drew the mystic circle's bound, with skull and cross-bones fenced around; he traced full many a sigil there; he muttered many a backward pray'r, that sounded like a curse- “he comes !”—he cried with wild grimace, “the fellest of apollyon's race!”— -then in his startled pupil's face he dashed-an empty purse!! saint medard. one more legend, and then, gentle reader, “a merry christmas to you and a happy new year!" we have trav- elled over many lands together, and had many a good-humored laugh by the way ;-if we have, occasionally, been “more merry than wise," at least we have not jostled our neighbors on the road,-much less have we kicked any one into a ditch. so, wishing you heartily all the compliments of the season, and thanking you cordially for your good company, i, thomas ingoldsby, bid you heartily farewell, and leave you in that of saint medard. a legend of afric. “heus tu! inquit diabolus, hei mihi! fessis insuper humeris reponenda est sarcina; fer opem quæso!" “le diable a des vices ;-c'est là ce qui le perd. il est gourmand. il eut dans cette minute-là l'idée de joindre l'âme de medard aux autres âmes qu'il allait emporter.- se rejeter en arrière, saisir de sa main droite son poignard, et en percer l'outre avec une violence, et un rapidité formidable,-c'est ce que fit medard. le diable poussa un grand cri. les âmes délivrés s'enfuirent par l'issue que le poignard venait de leur ouvrir, laissant dans l'outre leurs noirceurs, leurs crimes, et leurs méchancetés," etc. etc. in n good king dagobert's palmy days, when saints were many, and sins were few, old nick, 'tis said, was sore bested one evening, and could not tell what to do. he had been east, and he had been west, and far had he journeyed o'er land and sea ; for women and men were warier then, and he could not catch one where he'd now catch three. he had been north, and he had been south, from zembla's shores unto far peru, ere he filled the sack which he bore on his back- saints were so many, and sins so few! a legend of afric. the way was long, and the day was hot; his wings were weary ; his hoofs were sore; . and scarce could he trail his nerveless tail, as it furrowed the sand on the red sea shore ! the day had been hot, and the way was long; -hoof-sore, and weary, and faint, was he; he lowered his sack, and the heat of his back, as he leaned on a palni-trunk, blasted the tree ! he sat himself down in the palm-tree's shade, and he gazed, and he grinned in pure delight as he peeped inside the buffalo's hide he had sewn for a sack, and had crammed so tight. for, though he'd "gone over a good deal of ground,” and game had been scarce, he might well report that still he had got a decentish lot, and had had, on the whole, not a bad day's sport. he had picked up in france a maître de danse,- a maîtresse en titre,—two smart grisettes, a courtier at play,— and an english roué who had bolted from home without paying his debts. he had caught in great britain a scrivener's clerk, a quaker,-a baker,-a doctor of laws,- and a jockey of york- but paddy from cork “desayed the ould divil,” and slipped through his claws ! in moscow a boyar knouting his wife- a corsair's crew in the isles of greece and, under the dome of st. peter's at rome, he had snapped up a nice little cardinal's niece.- he had bagged an inquisitor fresh from spain- a mendicant friar—of monks a score, a grave don or two, and a portuguese jew, whom he nabbed while clipping a new moidore. the lay of st. medard. and he said to himself, as he licked his lips, “ those nice little dears !-what a delicate roast ! -then, that fine fat friar, at a very quick fire, dressed like a woodcock, and served on toast !" -at the sight of tit-bits so toothsome and choice never did mouth water more than nick's; but,-alas! and alack ! he had stuffed his sack so full that he found himself quite“ in a fix;" for, all he could do, or all he could say, when, a little recruited, he rose to go, alas! and alack ! he could not get the sack up again on his shoulders “whether or no!" old nick looked east, old nick looked west, with many a stretch, and with many a strain, he bent till his back was ready to crack, and he pulled, and he tugged, -but he tugged in vain. old nick looked north, old nick looked south : -weary was nicholas, weak and faint,- and he was aware of an old man there, in palmer's weeds, who looked much like a saint. nick eyed the saint,—then he eyed the sack- the greedy old glutton !-and thought, with a grin, “dear heart alive! if i could but contrive to pop that elderly gentleman in !- for, were i to choose among all the ragoûts the cuisine can exhibit,-flesh, fowl, or fish,- to myself i can paint that a barbecued saint would be for my palate the best side-dish !" now st. medard dwelt on the banks of the nile, in a pyramis fast by the lone red sea. (we call it “semiramis,” why not say pyramis ?- why should we change the s into d?) a legend of afric. st. medard he was a holy man, a holy man i ween was he, and even by day, when he went to pray, he would light up a candle, that all might see! he salaamed to the east,-he salaamed to the west ;- -of the gravest cut, and the holiest brown, were his palmer's weeds,— and he fingered his beads with the right side up, and the wrong side down.- * * * (hiatus in mss. valde deflendus.) st. medard dwelt on the banks of the nile ;- he had been living there years fourscore, - and now, “taking the air, and saying a prayer,” he was walking at eve on the red sea shore. little he deemed—that holy man! of old nick's wiles, and his fraudful tricks,- when he was aware of a stranger there, who seemed to have got himself into a fix. deeply that stranger groaned and sighed, that wayfaring stranger, grizzly and gray : “i can't raise my sack on my poor old back! oh, lend me a lift, kind gentleman, pray !- “for i have been east, and i have been west, foot-sore, weary, and faint am i, and, unless i get home ere the curfew bome, here in this desert i well may die !" “now heaven thee save!”—nick winced at the words, as ever he winces at words divine- “now heaven thee save!- what strength i have,- it's little, i wis,-shall be freely thine ! the lay of st. medard. “ for foul befall that christian man who shall fail, in a fix,-woe worth the whilel- his hand to lend to foe, or to friend, or to help a lame dog over a stile !” -st. medard hath booned himself for the task: to hoist up the sack he doth well begin ; but the fardel feels like a bag full of eels, for the folks are all curling and kicking within.- st. medard paused—he began to “smoke"- for a saint,-if he isn't exactly a cat, has a very good nose, as this world goes, and not worse than his neighbor's for “smelling a rat.” the saint looked up, and the saint looked down; he “smelt the rat," and he “smoked” the trick; -when he came to yiew his comical shoe, he saw in a moment his friend was nick! he whipped out his oyster-knife, broad and keen- a brummagem blade which he always bore, to aid him to eat, by way of a treat, the “natives” he found on the red sea shore :- he whipped out his brummagem blade so keen, and he made three slits in the buffalo's hide, and all its contents, through the rents and the vents, came tumbling out,—and away they all hied ! away went the quaker-away went the baker- away went the friar—that fine fat ghost, whose marrow old nick had intended to pick, dressed like a woodcock, and served on toast ! -away went the nice little cardinal's niece, and the pretty grisettes,--and the dons from spain- and the corsair's crew, and the coin-clipping jew,- and they scampered, like lamplighters, over the plain :- the lay of st. medard. all these,-and a thousand fine similes more,- such as all have heard of, or seen, or read recorded in print, may give you a hint how the stone bounced off from st. medard's head! -and it curled, and it twirled, and it whirled in air, as this great big stone at a tangent flew ! -just missing his crown, it at last came down plump upon nick's orthopedical shoe! oh! what a yell and a screech were there! how did he hop, skip, bellow, and roar! -"oh dear! oh dear!”- you might hear him here, though we're such a way off from the red sea shore ! it smashed his shin, and it smashed his hoof, notwithstanding his stout orthopedical shoe; and this is the way that, from that same day, old nick became what the french call boiteux ! quakers, and bakers, grisettes, and friars, and cardinal's nieces,-wherever ye be, st. medard bless; you can scarcely do less if you of your corps possess any esprit. and, mind and take care, yourselves,-and beware how you get in nick's buffalo bag !-if you do, i very much doubt if you'll ever get out, now sins are so many, and saints so few !! moral. gentle reader, attend to the voice of a friend ! and if ever you go to herne bay or southend, or any gay wat'ring-place outside the nore, don't walk out at eve on the lone sea-shore ! -unless you're too saintly to care about nick, and are sure that your head is sufficiently thick ! - learn not to be greedy !-and, when you've enough, don't be anxious your bags any tighter to stuff- a legend of afric. recollect that good fortune too far you may push, and, “a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush !" then turn not each thought to increasing your store, nor look always like "oliver asking for more!" gourmandise is a vice--a sad failing, at least;- so remember “enough is as good as a feast!" and don't set your heart on "stewed," "fried,” “boiled," or “roast," nor on delicate “ woodcocks served up upon toast!” don't give people nicknames !-don't, even in fun, call any one “snuff-colored son of a gun!” nor fancy, because a man nous seems to lack, that, whenever you please, you can "give him the sack!” last of all, as you'd thrive, and still sleep in whole bones, if you've any glass windows never throw stones !! the ingoldsby legends. third series. some few words are necessary, by way of explanation, in submitting the present volume to the reader. it is enough to state, as regards its object, that a wish was conveyed to his family by certain of the late mr. barham's friends, and through them by many also who knew him only from his writings, that a collection should be made of the remaining “ingoldsby legends," and printed uniformly with the first and second series, and that at the same time a more complete memoir of his life should be prefixed than any that had hitherto appeared in the public prints. such a request was of course entitled to every attention-the more so as it came strongly backed by the judgment of the gentleman who pro- posed to undertake the publication in question. it may, perhaps, be questioned whether, under any circum- stances, a very near relative is a fit person to fill the office of biographer: independently of the prepossession by which he must almost necessarily be swayed, and of the restraint which a consciousness of its existence induces, expressions both of eulogy and the reverse seem to fall ungracefully from his pen. the writer has no immunity to plead in the present instance from the effects of this law. there were considerations, how- ever, which precluded his entrusting the task to another; among the most weighty of which was an unwillingness to submit correspondence and memoranda, written with that unguarded openness for which mr. barham was remarkable, ( ) preface to the third series. to the eye of a third person : the unavoidable exposure indeed of matters of confidence, of which he was the depositary, would have rendered it highly improper to do so. there are two classes of readers, in particular, to whom this imperfect sketch will doubtless prove unsatisfactory: those who may take it up in the expectation of finding a budget of con- fidential letters and private anecdotes of the gifted individuals still living with whom it was the lot of its subject to be asso- ciated; and those who may desire a more regular and detailed biography, and who may be apt to consider the following pages of too unconnected and too light a character to answer to the title which they bear. for the first of these we have no an- swer ; but we would entreat the second to bear in mind that it is only in a literary point of view——only as a poet whose wit and originality attracted no ordinary notice-only, in short, as "thomas ingoldsby”—that mr. barham is brought before the public at all; and it is to these traits of character that we have been mainly confined, as being alone of sufficient general inter- est to demand or bear illustration. on the other hand, should it be urged that the poetical trifles here appended are not of a quality to advance the author's rep- utation, we must reply, at the risk of being taxed with a tend- ency to argue in a circle, that a reputation of the kind was not. an object of his ambition. to say that he was indifferent to applause and censure would be to invest him with a degree of stoicism which he was among the last either to profess or feel; but the fact of all his productions having appeared either anon- ymously or pseudonymously is sufficient to show that he pos- sessed no inordinate craving after fame. writing, in a word, was to him an amusement, the more agreeable if it chanced to conduce to that of others. it is in a similar spirit that the present collection is laid before the public; and a hope is en- tertained that it may not altogether do discredit to the par- tiality of those at whose suggestion it has been made. most of these poems have been previously published in vari- ous periodicals; some few are now printed for the first time. in the selection of the former, which are of an evanescent char- acter, for the most part bearing upon the gossip of the day, attention has almost of necessity been paid more to the com- preface to the third series. parative notoriety of the subject than to the degree of humor evinced in the performance. there remains, in conclusion, but to express a hope that no one will feel aggrieved by the appearance of any of the his- toriettes, etc., which have been inserted. the great variety of amusing matter of this kind contained in mr. barham's mem- oranda furnished perpetual temptations to transgress; how they have been resisted it is for others to decide. the anec- dotes recorded of living persons are few in number, and refer principally to men raised by their genius above the common level of society, and who, as a necessary condition to the em- inence they enjoy, must be content to dispense with much of that privilege of privacy which their less distinguished brethren have a right to claim; it is a kind of quit-rent of popularity which they are doubtless not indisposed to pay. r. h. d. barham. lolworth, nov. , . a legend of languedoc. the lord of thoulouse. a legend of languedoc. “veluti in speculum.”—theatre royal, covent garden. count raymond rules in languedoc, o'er the champaign fair and wide, with town and stronghold many a one, washed by the wave of the blue garonne, and from far auvergne to rousillon, and away to narbonne, and the mouths of the rhone; and his lyonnois silks, and his narbonne honey, bring in his lordship a great deal of money. a thousand lances, stout and true, attend count raymond's call; and knights and nobles of high degree, from guienne, provence, and burgundy, before count raymond bend the knee, and vail to him one and all. and isabel of aragon he weds, the pride of spain,- you might not find so rich a prize, a dame so "healthy, wealthy, and wise!" so pious withal—with such beautiful eyes- so exactly the venus de medicis size- in all that wide domain. then his cellar is stored as well as his board, with the choicest of all la belle france can afford; chambertin, château margaux, la rose, and lafitte, with moet's champagne, “ of the comet year,” “ neat as imported,”—“fine sparkling,”—and not over sweet; while his chaplain, good man, when called in to say grace, would groan, and put on an elongated face, a legend of languedoc. of popping at pheasants, quails, woodcocks, and peasants; of smoking, and joking, and soaking, provoking such headaches next day as his fine st. peray, though the best of all rhone wines, can never repay, till weary of war, women, roast-goose, and glory, with no great desire to be “ famous in story," all the day long, this was his song, “oh dear! what will become of us ? oh dear! what shall we do? we shall die of blue devils if some of us can't hit on something that's new !” meanwhile his sweet countess, so pious and good, such pomps and such vanities stoutly eschewed, , with all fermented liquors and high-seasoned food ; devilled kidneys, and sweetbreads, and ducks and green peas, baked sucking-pig, goose, and all viands like these, hashed calf's-head included, no longer could please ; a curry was sure to elicit a breeze, so was ale, or a glass of port-wine after cheese. indeed, anything strong, as to tipple, was wrong ; she stuck to “fine hyson,” “bohea," and "souchong, and similar imports direct from hong-kong. in vain does the family doctor exhort her to take with her chop one poor half-pint of porter ; no!-she alleges she's taken the pledges! determined to aid in a gen'ral crusade against publicans, vintners, and all of that trade, and to bring in sherbet, ginger-pop, lemonade, eau sucrée, and drinkables, mild and home made; so she claims her friends' efforts, and vows to devote all hers solely to found." the thoulousian teetotallers.” large sums she employs in dressing small boys in long duffle jackets, and short corduroys, and she boxes their ears when they make too much noise ; in short, she turns out a complete lady bountiful, filling with drugs and brown holland the county full. the lord of thoulouse. now just at the time when our story commences, it seems that a case past the common took place, to entail on her ladyship further expenses, in greeting with honor befitting his station the prior of arles, with a temperance legation, despatched by pope urban, who seized this occasion to aid in diluting that part of the nation. an excellent man, one who stuck to his can of cold water “without”-and he'd take such a lot of it; none of your sips that just moistens the lips; at one single draught he'd toss off a whole pot of it, - no such bad thing, by the way, if they bring it you iced, as at verey's, or fresh from the spring, when the dog star compels folks in town to take wing; though i own even then i should see no great sin in it were there three drops of sir felix's gin in it. well, leaving the lady to follow her pleasure, and finish the pump with the prior at leisure, let's go back to raymond, still bored beyond measure, and harping away on the same dismal lay, “oh dear! what will become of us ? oh dear! what can we do? we shall die of blue devils if some of us can't find out something that's new !” at length, in despair of obtaining his ends by his own mother wit, he takes courage and sends, like a sensible man as he is, for his friends, not his lyndhursts or eldons, or any such high sirs, but only a few of his " backstairs” advisers; “come hither,” says he, “my gallants so free, my bold rigmarole, and my brave rigmaree, and my grave baron proser, now listen to me! you three can't but see i'm half dead with ennui. what's to be done? i must have some fun, and i will too, that's flat-ay, as sure as a gun; so find me out something new under the sun,' or i'll knock your three jobbernowls all into one! a legend of languedoc. you three agree! come, what shall it be? resolve me-propound in three skips of a flea !" rigmarole gave a "ha!" rigmaree gave a “hem !" they looked at count raymond—count raymond at them, as much as to say have you nihil ad rem ?” at length baron proser responded, “you know, sir, that question's some time been a regular poser ; dear me !—let me see,– in the way of a 'spree' something new ?-eh?-no!-yes ! no!— tis really no go, sir.” says the count, “rigmarole, you're as jolly a soul, on the whole, as king cole, with his pipe and his bowl; come, i'm sure you'll devise something novel and droll.”— in vain,-rigmarole, with a look most profound, with his hand to his heart and his eye to the ground, shakes his head as if nothing was there to be found. “i can only remark that as touching a ‘lark' i'm, as much as your highness can be, in the dark; i can hit on no novelty-none, on my life, unless, peradventure, you'd ‘tea’ with your wife!” quoth raymond, “enough! nonsense !--humbug !-fudge !-stuff! rigmarole, you're an ass, -you're a regular muff! drink tea with her ladyship ?-i?-not a bit of it! call you that fun ?-faith, i can't see the wit of it. mort de ma vie! my dear rigmaree, you're the man, after all,-come, by way of a fee, if you will but be bright, from the simple degree of a knight i'll create you at once a mar-quis ! put your conjuring cap on-consider and see if you can't beat that stupid old “sumph' with his 'tea!” “that's the thing! that will do! ay, marry, that's new!" cries rigmaree, rubbing his hands; "that will please my conjuring cap'-it's the thing ;-it's the cheese!' it was only this morning i picked up the news; please your highness, a conjurer's come to thoulouse; i'll defy you to name us a man half so famous for devildoms,-sir, it's the great nostradamus! the lord of tio ulouse. cornelius agrippa, 'tis said, went to school to him, gyngell's an ass and old faustus a fool to him. talk of lilly, albertus, jack dee!-pooh! all six he'd soon put in a pretty particular fix; why, he'd beat, at digesting a sword, or 'gun tricks' the great northern wizard himself all to sticks! i should like to see you try to sauter le coup with this chap at short whist, or unlimited loo; by the pope, you'd soon find it a regular 'do.' why, he does as he likes with the cards,—when he's got 'em, there's always an ace or a king at the bottom; then for casting nativities -only you look at the volume he's published, -that wonderful book! in all france not another, to swear i dare venture, is like, by long chalks, his 'prophetical centuries'- don't you remember how, early last summer, he warned the late king 'gainst the tournament mummery? didn't his majesty call it all flummery, scorning the warning, and get the next morning his poke in the eye from that clumsy montgomery? why, he'll tell yon, before you're well inside his door, all your highness may wish to be up to, and more!” “bravo!-capital !-come, let's disguise ourselves—quick! -fortune's sent him on purpose here, just in the nick; we'll see if old hocus will smell out the trick; let's start off at once-rigmaree, you're a brick !" the moon in gentle radiance shone o'er lowly roof and lordly bower, o'er holy pile and armed tower, and danced upon the blue garonne: through all that silvered city fair, no sound disturbed the calm, cool air, save the lover's sigh alone! or where, perchance, some slumberer's nose proclaimed the depth of his repose, provoking from connubial toes a hint-or elbow bone; a legend of languedoc. it might, with such trifling exceptions, be said that thoulouse was as still as if thoulouse were dead, and her “oldest inhabitant” buried in lead. but hark! a sound invades the ear, of horses' hoofs advancing near! • they gain the bridge—they pass-they're here! side by side two strangers ride, for the streets in thoulouse are sufficiently wide, that is, i'm assured they are—not having tried. -see, now they stop near an odd-looking shop, and they knock, and they ring, and they won't be denied. at length the command of some unseen hand chains, and bolts, and bars obey, and the thick-ribbed oaken door, old and gray, in the pale moonlight gives, slowly, way. they leave their steeds to a page's care, who comes mounted behind on a flanders mare, and they enter the house, that resolute pair, with a blundering step, and a dare-devil air, and ascend a long, darksome, and rickety stair; while, armed with a lamp that just helps you to see how uncommonly dark a place can be, the grimmest of lads, with the grimmest of grins, says, “gentlemen, please to take care of your shins: who ventures this road need be firm on his pins ! now turn to the left—now turn to the right- now a step-now stoop-now again upright- now turn once again, and directly before ye 's the door of the great doctor's labora-tory." a word! a blow! and in they go! no time to prepare, or to get up a show, yet everything there they find quite comme il faut- such as queer-looking bottles and jars in a row, retorts, crucibles, such as all conjurers stow in the rooms they inhabit, huge bellows to blow a legend of languedoc. “now naye, now naye-no trav’llers ye! nobles ye be of high degree! with half an eye that one may easily see, count raymond, your servant !-yours, lord rigmaree! i must call you so now, since you're made a mar-quis; faith, clever boys both, but you can't humbug me! no matter for that! i see what you'd be at- well-pray no delay, for it's late, and ere day i myself must be hundreds of miles on my way; so tell me at once what you want with me-say! shall i call up the dead from their mouldering bed ?- shall i send you yourselves down to hades instead ? shall i summon old harry himself to this spot ?"- -“ ten thousand thanks, no! we had much rather not. we really can't say that we're curious that way; but, in brief, if you'll pardon the trouble we're giving, we'd much rather take a sly peep at the living ! rigmaree, what say you, in this case, as to viewing our spouses, and just ascertain what they're doing?” “just what pleases your highness—i don't care a sous in the matter—but don't let old nick and his crew in !” —“agreed !-pray proceed then, most sage nostradamus, and show us our wives—i dare swear they won't shame us !” a change comes o'er the wizard's face, and his solemn look by degrees gives place to a half grave, half comical, kind of grimace. “for good or for ill, i work your will! yours be the risk and mine the skill ; blame not my art if unpleasant the pill !” he takes from a shelf, and he pops on his head, a square sort of cap, black, and turned up with red, and desires not a syllable more may be said ; he goes on to mutter, and stutter, and sputter hard words, such as no men but wizards dare utter. “ dies mies !-hocus pocus adsis demon! non est jokus! a legend of languedoc. but enough has been seen. “ horse! horse! and away!" they have, neither, the least inclination to stay, e'en to thank nostradamus, or ask what's to pay.- they rush down the stair, how, they know not, nor care, the next moment the count is astride on his bay, and my lord rigmaree on his mettlesome gray; they dash through the town, now up, and now down, and the stones rattle under their hoofs as they ride, as if poor thoulouse were as mad as cheapside:* through lane, alley, and street, over all that they meet, the count leads the way on his courser so fleet, my lord rigmaree close pursuing his beat, with the page in the rear to protect the retreat. where the bridge spans the river, so wide and so deep, their headlong career o'er the causeway they keep, upsetting the watchman, two dogs, and a sweep, all the town population that was not asleep. they at length reach the castle, just outside the town, where—in peace it was usual with knights of renown- the portcullis was up, and the drawbridge was down. they dash by the sentinels—“france et thoulouse !” ev'ry soldier (they then wore cocked hats and long queues, appendages banished from modern reviews) his arquebus lowered, and bowed to his shoes; while count raymond pushed on to his lady's boudoir-he had made up his mind to make one at her soirée. he rushed to that door, where ever before he had rapped with his knuckles, and “tirled at the pin," till he heard the soft sound of his lady's “come in!” but now, with-a kick from his iron-heeled boot, which, applied to a brick wall, at once had gone through't, he dashed open the lock; it gave way at the shock! (-dear ladies, don't think, in recording the fact, that your bard's for one moment defending the act; * “the stones did rattle underneath, as if cheapside were mad.” gilpin's tour in middlesex and ieris. the lord of thoulouse. no—it is not a gentleman's—none but a low body now could perform it)-and there he saw-nobody!! nobody?-no!! oh, ho !-oh, ho! there was not a table—there was not a chair of all that count raymond had ever seen there (they'd maroon-leather bottoms well stuffed with horse-hair) that was out of its place! there was not a trace of a party—there was not a dish or a plate- no sign of a table-cloth-nothing to prate of a supper, symposium, or sitting up late; there was not a spark of fire left in the grate, it had all been poked out, and remained in that state. if there was not a fire, still less was there friar, marquise, or long glasses, or countess, or prior, and the count, who rushed in open mouthed, was struck dumb, and could only ejaculate, “ well this is rum !” he rang for the maids—had them into the room, with the butler, the footman, the coachman, the groom. he examined them all very strictly—but no! notwithstanding he cross- and re-questioned them so, 'twas in vain-it was clearly a case of “no go !” “ their lady,” they said, “had gone early to bed, having rather complained of a cold in her head- the stout little friar, as round as an apple, had passed the whole night in a vigil in chapel, while the prior himself, as he'd usually done, had rung in the morning, at half-after one, for his jug of cold water and twopenny bun, and been visible, since they were brought him, to none. but," the servants averred, “ from the sounds that were heard to proceed now and then from the father's sacellum, they thought he was purging his sins with a scourging, and making good use of his knotted flagellum." for madame rigmaree, they all testified, she had gone up to her bed-chamber soon after tea, and they really supposed that there still she must be, which her spouse, the mar-quis, found at once to agree with the rest of their tale, when he ran up to see. the lord of thoulouse. moral. good gentlemen all, who are subjects of hymen, don't make new acquaintances rashly, but try men! avoid above all things your cunning (that's sly) men! don't go out o' nights to see conjuring sleights, but shun all such people, delusion whose trade is; be wise !--stay at home and take tea with the ladies. if you chance to be out, at a "regular bout,' and get too much of “abbot's pale ale” or “ brown stout," don't be cross when you come home at night to your spouse, nor be noisy, nor kick up a dust in the house! be careful yourself, and admonish your sons, to beware of all folks who love twopenny buns ! and don't introduce to your wife or your daughter a sleek, meek, weak gent—who subsists on cold water! the main incident recorded in the following excerpta from our family papers has but too solid a foundation. the portrait of roger ingoldsby is not among those in the gallery ; but i have some recollection of having seen, when a boy, a picture answering the description here given of him, much injured, and lying without a frame in one of the attics. a family legend. the wedding day; or, the buccaneer’s curse. a family legend. it has a jocund sound, that gleeful marriage chime, as from the old and ivied tower it peals, at the early matin hour, its merry, merry round; and the spring is in its prime, and the song-bird, on the spray, trills from his throat, in varied note, an emulative lay- it has a joyous sound !! а and the vicar is there with his wig and his book, and the clerk, with his grave, quasi-sanctified look, and there stand the village maids, all with their posies, their lilies, and daffy-down-dillies, and roses, dight in white, a comely sight, fringing the path to the left and the right; -from our nursery days we all of us know ne'er doth “our ladye's garden grow" so fair for grand horticultural show” as when bordered with “pretty maids all on a row.” and the urchins are there, escaped from the rule of that "limbo of infants,” the national school, whooping and bawling, and squalling and calling, and crawling and creeping, and jumping and leaping, bo-peeping ʼmidst“ many a mouldering heap” in whose bosom their own rude forefathers” are sleeping; -young rascals !-instead of lamenting and weeping, laughing and gay, a gorge deployée- only now and then pausing--and checking their play, to wonder what 'tis makes the gentlefolks stay." the wedding-day. ah, well-a-day! little deem they, poor ignorant dears! the bells, ringing away, are anything else than mere parish bells, or that each of them, should we go into its history, is but a “symbol” of some deeper mystery- that the clappers and ropes are mere practical tropes of “trumpets” and “tongues,” and of “preachers” and popes, unless clement the fourth's worthy chaplain, durand, err, - see the " rationale" of that goosey-gander. gently! gently, miss muse! mind your ps and your qs! don't be malapert— laugh, miss, but never abuse ! calling names, whether done to attack or to back a schism, is, miss, believe me, a great piece of jackass-ism, and as, on the whole, you're a good-natured soul, you must never enact such a pitiful rôle. no, no, miss, pull up, and go back to your boys in the churchyard, who're making this hubbub and noise but hush! there's an end to their romping and mumming, for voices are heard-here's the company coming! and see,--the avenue gates unfold, and forth they pace, that bridal train, the grave, the gay, the young, the old, -- they cross the green and grassy lane, bridesman, bridesmaid, bridegroom, bride, two by two, and side by side, uncles and aunts, friends tried and proved, and cousins, a great many times removed. a fairer or a gentler she, a lovelier maid, in her degree, man's eye might never hope to see, than darling, bonnie maud ingoldsby, the flow'r of that goodly company; while whispering low, with bated voice, close by her side, her heart's dear choice, walks fredville's hope, young valentine boys. -but where, oh where, is ingoldsby's heir ? little jack ingoldsby ?-where, oh where? a family legend. why, he's here, and he's there, and he's everywhere he's there, and he's here; in the front-in the rear,- now this side, now that side,—now far, and now near- the puck of the party, the darling“ pet” boy, full of mischief and fun, and good humor and joy; with his laughing blue eye, and his cheek like a rose, and his long curly locks, and his little snub nose; in his tunic, and trousers, and cap—there he goes ! now pinching the bridesman,-now teasing his sister, and telling the bridesmaids how “valentine kissed her;" the torment, the plague, the delight of them all, see, he's into the churchyard !--he's over the wall- gambolling, frolicking, capering away, he's the first in the church, be the second who may ! 'tis o'er; the holy rite is done, the rite that “incorporates two in one,” - and now for the feasting, and frolic, and fun! spare we to tell of the smiling and sighing, the shaking of hands, the embracing, and crying, the “ toot-toot-toot” of the tabor and fute, of the white-wigged vicar's prolonged salute, or of how the blithe “ college youths,”—rather old stagers, accustomed, for years, to pull bell-ropes for wagers, - rang, faster than ever, their “triple-bob-majors (so loud as to charm ye at once and alarm ye; symbolic,” of course, of that rank in the army). spare we to tell of the fees and the dues to the “ little old woman that opened the pews," of the largesse bestowed on the sexton and clerk, of the four-year-old sheep roasted whole in the park, of the laughing and joking, the quaffing and smoking, and chaffing, and broaching—that is to say, poking a hole in a mighty magnificent tub of what men, in our hemisphere, term “humming bub,” a family legend. a thought, than they're commonly wont to aspire; his back and his buckskins exposed to the fire;- --bright, bright are his buttons,--and bright is the hue of his squarely-cut coat of fine saxony blue; and bright the shalloon of his little quilled queue ; white, white as “young england's,” the dimity vest which descends like an avalanche o'er his broad breast, till its further progression is put in arrest by the portly projection that springs from his chest, overhanging the garment—that can't be exprest; -white, white are his locks, --which, had nature fair play, had appeared a clear brown, slightly sprinkled with gray; but they're white as the peaks of plinlimmon to-day, or ben nevis, his pate is si bien poudré ! bright, bright are the boots that envelop his heels, -bright, bright is the gold chain suspending his seals, and still brighter yet may the gazer descry the tear-drop that spangles the fond father's eye as it lights on the bride- his beloved one—the pride and delight of his heart,-severed now from his side;- but brighter than all, arresting its fall, is the smile that rebukes it for spangling at all, -a clear case, in short, of what old poets tell, as blind homer, for instance, ev dakpvol yeas. then, there are the bride and the bridegroom, withdrawn to the deep gothic window that looks on the lawn, ensconced on a squab of maroon-colored leather, and talking—and thinking, no doubt-of the weather. but here comes the party-room! room for the guests ! in their pompadour coats, and laced ruffles, and vests, - first, sir charles grandison, baronet, and his son, charles,--the mamma does not venture to “show”– -miss byron, you know, she was called long ago- for that lady, 'twas said, had been playing the devil, last season, in town, with her old beau, squire greville, the wedding-day. which very much shocked, and chagrined, as may well be supposed, “doctor bartlett,” and “good uncle selby.” -sir charles, of course, could not give greville his gruel, in order to prove his abhorrence of duelling, nor try for, deterred by the serious expense, a complete separation, a thoro et mensä, so he“ kept a calm sough," and, when asked to a party, a dance, or a dinner, or tea and écarté, he went with his son, and said, looking demurely, he'd “left her at home, as she found herself poorly.” two foreigners near, “of distinction,” appear; a pair more illustrious you ne'er heard of, or saw, count ferdinand fathom,–count thaddeus of warsaw, all covered with glittring bijouterie and hair-poles, whom lord dudley stuart calls “patriot,”—hook “bare poles;" such rings, and such brooches, such studs, and such pins ! 'twere hard to say which were more gorgeous and rich, or more truly mosaic, their chains or their chins ! next sir roger de coverley,—mr. will ramble, with dame lismahago (née tabitha bramble), - mr. random and spouse, - mrs. pamela booby (whose nose was acquiring a tinge of the ruby, and “people did say”—but no matter for that,- folks were not then enlightened by good father mat.) - ) -three friends from “ the colonies” near them were seen, the great massachusetts man, general muff green, mr. jonathan w. doubikins,-men “influential some,”—and their “smart” uncle ben ;- rev. abraham adams (preferred to a stall), - -mr. jones and his lady, from allworthy hall; -our friend tom, by the way, had turned out rather gay for a married man-certainly “people did say” he was shrewdly suspected of using his wife ill, and being as sly as his half-brother blifil.- (miss seagrim, 'tis well known, was now in high feather, and “people did say" they'd been seen out together,- a family legend. a fact, the “boy jones," who, in our days, with malice aforethought, so often got into the palace, would seem to confirm, as, 'tis whispered he owns, he's the son of a natural son of tom jones's.) lady bellaston (mem, she had not been invited !), sir peregrine pickle, now recently knighted, all joyous, all happy, all looking delighted! - it would bore you to death should i pause to describe, or enumerate, half of the elegant tribe who filled the background, and among whom were found the élite of the old county families round, such as honeywood, oxenden, knatchbull, and norton, matthew robinson,* too, with his beard from monk's horton, the faggs, and finch-hattons, tokes, derings, and deedses, and fairfax (who then called the castle of leeds his); esquires, knights, and lords, in bag-wigs and swords; and the troops, and the groups, of fine ladies in hoops; the pompons, the toupées, and the diamonds and feathers, the flowered-silk sacques which they wore on their backs,- -how?-sacques and pompons, with the squire's boots and leathers ?- stay! stay !-i suspect, here's a trifling neglect on your part, madame muse, though you're commonly accurate, as to costume, as brown quaker, or black curate, for once i confess, here you're out as to dress ;- you've been fairly caught napping, which gives me distress, for i can't but acknowledge it is not the thing, sir roger de coverley's laced suit to bring into contact with square-cut coats, such as george byng, and poor dear sir francis, appeared in last spring ;- so, having for once been compelled to acknowledge i 've made a small hole in our mutual chronology, * a worthy and eccentric country gentleman, afterwards the second lord rokeby, being cousin (“a great many times removed") and successor in the barony to richard, archbishop of armagh, who first bore that title. his beard was truly patriarchal.- mr. muntz's—pooh! tae wedding-day. canter on, miss, without further apology, only don't make such another mistake, or you'll get in a scrape, of which i shall partake; enough!--you are sorry for what you have done, so dry your eyes, miss, blow your nose, and go on! well—the party are met, all radiant and gay, and how ev'ry person is dressed-we won't say; suffice it, they all come glad homage to pay to our dear “bonnie maud," on her own wedding-day, to dance at her bridal, and help “throw the stocking," -a practice that's now discontinued as shocking. * there's a breakfast, they know— there always is so on occasions like these, wheresoever you go. of course there are “ lots” of beef, potted and hung, prawns, lobsters, cold fowl, and cold ham, and cold tongue, hot tea and hot coffee, hot rolls and hot toast, cold pigeon-pie (rook?), and cold boild and cold roast, scotch marmalade, jellies, cold creams, and colder ices, blancmange, which young ladies say so very nice is,- rock-melons in thick, pines in much thinner, slices,- char, potted with clarified butter and spices, renewing an appetite long past its crisis- refined barley-sugar, in various devices, such as bridges, and baskets, and temples, and grottoes—– and nasty french lucifer snappers with mottoes. -in short, all those gimcracks together were met which people of fashion tell gunter to get when they give a grand déjeûner à la fourchette (a phrase which, though french, in our language still lingers, intending a breakfast with forks and not fingers). and see! what a mountainous bridecake !-a thing by itself-with small pieces to pass through the ring! now as to the wines !—“ay, the wine!" cries the squire, letting fall both his coat-tails—which nearly take fire,- a family legend. rubbing his hands, he calls out as he stands, to the serving-men waiting “his honor's" commands, “the wine !—to be sure here, you harry-bob-dick- the wine, don't you hear?-bring us lights—come, be quick! and a crowbar to knock down the mortar and brick- say what they may, 'fore george, we'll make way into old roger ingoldsby's cellar to-day, and let loose his captives, imprisoned so long, his flasks, and his casks, that he bricked up so strong !"- -“oh dear! oh dear! squire ingoldsby, bethink you what you do!” exclaims old mrs. botherby,*—she is in such a stew !-- “oh dear! oh dear! what do i hear ?-full oft you've heard me tell of the curse wild roger' left upon whoe'er should break his cell ! very day! “full five-and-twenty years are gone since roger went away, as i bethink me, too, it was upon this and i was then a comely dame, and you, a springald gay, were up and down to london town, at opera, ball, and play; your locks were nut-brown, then, squire-you grow a little gray ! “« wild roger,' so we called him then, your grandsire's youngest son, he was in truth a wayward youth, we feared him every one. in ev'ry thing he had his will, he would be staid by none, and when he did a naughty thing, he laughed and called it fun! -one day his father chid him sore i know not what he'd done, but he scorned reproof; and from this roof away that night he run. * great-grandmamma, by the father's side, to the excellent lady of the same name who yet "keeps the keys” at tappington. the wedding-day. seven years were gone and over—'wild roger' came again, he spoke of forays and of frays upon the spanish main; and he had store of gold galore, and silks and satins fine, and flasks, and casks of malvoisie, and precious gascon wine! rich booties he had brought, he said, across the western wave, and came, in penitence and shame, now of his sire to crave forgiveness and a welcome home-his sire was in his grave! “your father was a kindly man-he played a brother's part, he pressed his brother to his breast—he had a kindly heart; fain would he have him tarry here, their common hearth to share, but roger was the same man still,-he scorned his brother's pray'r! he called his crew,-away he flew, and on those foreign shores got killed in some outlandish place they call it the eye- sores; but ere he went, and quitted kent, -i well recall the day,- his flasks and casks of gascon wine he safely stowed away;' within the cellar's deepest nook he safely stowed them all, and mason jones brought bricks and stones, and they built up the wall. * “oh! then it was a fearful thing to hear wild roger's' ban! good gracious me! i never heard the like from mortal man. ‘here's that,' quoth he, shall serve me well, when i return at last, a battered hulk, to quaff and laugh at toils and dangers past; accurst be he, whoe'er he be, lays hand on gear of mine, till i come back again from sea, to broach my gascon wine! * azores? mrs. botherby's orthography, like that of her distinguished contempo- rary, baron duberly, was “a little loose. a family legend. “and more, he said, which filled with dread all those who listened there; in sooth my very blood ran cold, it lifted up my hair with very fear, to stand and hear “wild roger' curse and swear !! he saw my fright, as well he might, but still he made his game, he called me mother bounce-about;' my gracious! what a name! nay, more, 'an old'—some boat-woman,'-i may not say for shame!- then, gentle master, pause awhile, give heed to what i tell, nor break, on such a day as this, “wild roger's' secret cell!" “pooh! pooh!" quoth the squire, as he moved from the fire, and bade the old housekeeper quickly retire; pooh -never tell me! nonsense! fiddle-de-dee! what ?—wait uncle roger's return back from sea ? why, he may, as you say, have been somewhat too gay, and, no doubt, was a broth of a boy in his way; but what's that to us, now, at this time of day? what if some quarrel with dering or darrell- i hardly know which, but i think it was dering, sent him back in a huff to his old privateering ? or what his unfriends chose to call buccaneering. it's twenty years since, as we very well know, he was knocked on the head in a skirmish, and so why rake up'auld-warld' tales of deeds long ago? -foul befall him who would touch the deposit of living man, whether in cellar or closet! but since, as i've said, knocked on the head, uncle roger has now been some twenty years dead: as for his wine, i'm his heir, and it's mine! and i'd long ago worked it well, but that i tarried for this very day— and i'm sure you'll all say i was right-when my own darling maud should get married ! the wedding-day. so lights and a crowbar!-the only thing lies on my conscience, at all, with respect to this prize, is some little compunction anent the excise. come—you, master jack, be the first, and bring back whate'er comes to hand-claret, burgundy, sack, head the party, and mind that you're back in a crack !" away go the clan, with cup and with can, little jack ingoldsby leading the van; little reck they of the buccaneer's ban: hope whispers, “perchance we'll fall in with strong beer too here!” blest thought! which sets them all grinning from ear to ear! through cellar one, through cellar two, through cellar three they passed! and their way they took to the farthest nook of cellar four—the last! blithe and gay, they batter away, on this wedding-day of maud's, with all their might, to bring to light “wild roger's” “custom-house frauds!" and though stone and brick be never so thick, when stoutly assailed, they are no bar to the powerful charm of a yeoman's arm when wielding a decentish crowbar! down comes brick, and down comes stone, one by one the job's half done!- “ where is he?- now come -where's master john ?”— -there's a breach in the wall three feet by two, and little jack ingoldsby soon pops through! hark !—what sound's that?—a sob ?-a sigh?- the choking gasp of a stifled cry?- “ what can it be? let's see -let's see! it can't be little jack ingoldsby? the candle-quick!" through stone and through brick, they poke in the light on a long split stick; a family legend. but ere he who holds it can wave it about, he gasps, and he sneezes—the light goes out! yet were there those, in after days, who said that pale light's flickering blaze, for a moment, gleamed on a dark form there, seemed as bodied of foul black air!- -in mariner's dress,—with cutlass braced, by buckle and broad black belt, to its waist, — -on a cocked hat, laced with gold, and placed with a dégagé, devil-may-care kind of taste, o’er a balafré brow by a scar defaced ! that form, they said, so foul and so black, grinned as it pointed at poor little jack.- -i know not, i, how the truth may be, but the pent-up vapor, at length set free, set them all sneezing, and coughing, and wheezing, as, working its way to the regions of day, it, at last, let a purer and healthier breeze in! of their senses bereft, to the right and the left, those varlets so lately courageous and stout, there they lay kicking and sprawling about, like billingsgate fresh fish, unconscious of ice, or those which, the newspapers give us advice, mr. taylor, of lombard street, sells at half price! - nearer the door, some half dozen or more scramble away to the rez de chaussée (as our frenchified friend always calls his ground floor), and they call, and they bawl, and they bellow and roar for lights, vinegar, brandy, and fifty things more. at length, after no little clamor and din, the foul air let out and the fresh air let in, they drag one and all up into the hall, where a medical quaker, the great dr. lettsom, who's one of the party, “ bleeds, physics, and sweats 'em.” all ?-all-save one -“but he !--my son ?- merciful heaven !-where-where is john ?” the wedding-day. within that cell, so dark and deep, lies one, as in a tranquil sleep, a sight to make the sternest weep! -that little heart is pulseless now, and cold that fair and open brow, and closed that eye that beamed with joy and hope--"oh, god! my boy! my boy!" enough!-i may not,- dare not, -show the wretched father's frantic woe, the mother's tearless, speechless-no! i may not such a theme essay- too bitter thoughts crowd in and stay my pen-sad memory will have way! enough !-at oncc i close the lay of fair maud's fatal wedding-day! it has a mournful sound, that single, solemn bell! as to the hills and woods around it flings its deep-toned knell ! that measured toll !-alone-apart, it strikes upon the human heart! it has a mournful sound moral, come, come, mrs. muse, we can't part in this way, or you'll leave me as dull as ditch-water all day. try and squeeze out a moral or two from your lay! and let us part cheerful, at least, if not gay. first and foremost then, gentlefolks, learn from my song not to lock up your wine, or malt-liquor, too long! though port should have age, yet i don't think it sage to entomb it, as some of your connoisseurs do, till it's losing in flavor, and body, and hue; -i question if keeping it does it much good after ten years in bottle and three in the wood. a family legend. if any young man, though a snubbed younger brother, when told of his faults by his father and mother, runs restive, and goes off to sea in a huff, depend on't, my friends, that young man is a muff! next—ill-gotten gains are not worth the pains ! they prosper with no one !--so whether cheroots, or havana cigars,-or french gloves, or french boots,- whatever you want, pay the duty! nor when you buy any such articles, cheat the revenue! and “now to conclude,"— for it's high time i should, - when you do rejoice, mind, -whatsoever you do, - that the hearts of the lowly rejoice with you too! don't grudge them their jigs, and their frolics and "rigs," and don't interfere with their soapy-tailed pigs; nor, “because thou art virtuous," rail, and exhale an anathema, breathing of vengeance and wail, upon every complexion less pale than sea-kale ! nor dismiss the poor man to his pump and his pail, with “ drink there !-we'll have henceforth no more cakes and ale !!” mox regina filium peperit a multis optatem et a deo sanc- tificatum. cumque infans natus fuisset, statim clarâ voce, omnibus audientibus, clamavit “christianus sum! christianus sum! christianus sum !” ad hanc vocem presbyteri duo, widerinus et edwoldus, dicentes deo gratias, et omnes qui aderant mirantes, coeperunt cantare te deum laudamus. quo facto rogabat infans cathecumenum a widerino sacerdote fieri, et ab edwoldo teneri ad præsignaculum fidei et romwoldum vocari.-nov. legend. angl. in vita scti. romualdi, the blasphemer's warning. the blasphemer's warning. a lay of st. romwold. i there was seated of old n , there was seated of old a handsome young gentleman, courteous and bold; he'd an oaken strong-box, well replenished with gold, with broad lands, pasture, arable, woodland, and wold, not an acre of which had been mortgaged or sold; he'd a pleasaunce and hall passing fair to behold, he had beeves in the byre, he had flocks in the fold, and was somewhere about five-and-twenty years old. his figure and face, for beauty and grace, to the best in the country had scorned to give place. small marvel, then, if, of women and men whom he chanced to foregather with, nine out of ten expressed themselves charmed with sir alured denne. from my earliest youth i've been taught, as a truth, a maxim which most will consider as sooth, though a few, peradventure, may think it uncouth : there are three social duties the whole of the swarm in this great human hive of ours ought to perform, and that too as soon as conveniently may be; the first of the three is, the planting a tree; the next, the producing a book—then, a baby! (for my part, dear reader, without any jesting, i so far, at least, have accomplished my destiny.) from the foremost, i.e., the “planting the tree,” the knight may, perchance, have conceived himself free, inasmuch as that, which way soever he looks, over park, mead, or upland, by streamlets and brooks, his fine beeches and elms shelter thousands of rooks; in twelve eighty-two there would also accrue much latitude as to the article books; but if those we've disposed of, and need not recall, might, as duties, appear in comparison small, a lay of st. romwold. one remained there was no getting over at all,- the providing a male heir for bonnington hall; which, doubtless, induced the good knight to decide, as a matter of conscience, on taking a bride. it's a very fine thing, and delightful, to see inclination and duty unite and agree, because it's a case that so rarely takes place; in the instance before us, then, alured denne might well be esteemed the most lucky of men, inasmuch as hard by– indeed, so very nigh that her chimneys from his you might almost descry- dwelt a lady at whom he'd long cast a sheep's eye. - one whose character scandal itself could defy, while her charms and accomplishments ranked very high, and who would not deny a propitious reply, but reflect back his blushes, and give sigh for sigh (a line that's not mine, but tom moore's, by the bye). there was many a gay and trim bachelor near who felt sick at heart when the news met his ear that fair edith ingoldsby, she whom they all the “rosebud of tappington” ceased not to call, was going to say “honor, love, and obey," to sir alured denne, knight, of bonnington hall,- that all other suitors were left in the lurch, and the parties had even been "out-asked” in church; -for every one says, in those primitive days,- and i must own i think it redounds to their praise, - none dreamed of transferring a daughter or niece as a bride, by an "unstamped agreement,” or lease, 'fore a registrar's clerk, or a justice of peace; while young ladies had fain single women remain, and unwedded maids to the last “ crack of doom” stick, ere marry by taking a jump o'er a broomstick. so our bride and bridegroom agreed to appear at holy st. romwold's, a priory near, which a long while before, i can't say in what year, their forebears had joined with the neighbors to rear, the blasphemer's warning. and endowed, some with bucks, some with beef, some with beer, to comfort the friars, and make them good cheer; adorning the building with carving and gilding, and stone altars fixed to the chantries and filled in (papistic in substance and form, and on this count with judge herbert jenner fust justly at discount: see cambridge societas camdeniensis v. faulkner, tert. prim. januarii mensis, with "judgment reversed, costs of suit, and expenses"); all raised to st. romwold, with some reason styled, by duke humphrey's confessor,* "a wonderful child,” for ne'er yet was saint, except him, upon earth who made his “profession of faith” at his birth, and when scarce a foot high, or six inches in girth, converted his "ma,” and contrived to amend a sad hole in the creed of his grandsire, king penda. of course to the shrine of so young a divine flowed much holy water, and some little wine; and when any young folks did to marriage incline, the good friars were much in request, and not one was more “sought unto" than the sub-prior, mess john. to him, there and then, sir alured denne wrote a three-cornered note with a small crow-quill pen to say what he wanted, and fix "the time when;" and, as it's well known that your people of quality pique themselves justly on strict punctuality, just as the clock struck the hour he'd named in it, the whole bridal party rode up, to the minute. now whether it was that some rapturous dream, comprehending " fat pullets and clouted cream," had borne the good man, in its vision of bliss, far off to some happier region than this; * honest john capgrave, the veracious biographer of “english saints," author, or rather compiler, of the “nova legenda angliæ,” was chaplain to humphrey, "the good duke” of gloucester. a beautiful edition of his work was printed by wynkyn de worde. the blasphemer's warning. how in netherby chapel, “ at morning tide," the priest and the bridegroom stood waiting the bride: how they waited, “ but ne'er a bride was there." still i don't find, on reading the ballad with care, the bereaved mr. graham proceeded to swear- and yet to experience so serious a blight in one's dearest affections, is somewhat exciting. 'tis manifest then that sir alured denne had far less excuse for such bad language, when it was only the priest, not the bride, who was missing- he had filled up the interval better with kissing. and 'twas really surprising, and not very wise in a knight, to go on so anathematizing, when the head and the front of the clergyman's crime was but being a little behind as to time:- be that as it may, he swore so that day at the reverend gentleman's ill-judged delay, that not a bystander who heard what he said, but listened to all his expressions with dread, and felt all his hair stand on end on his head ; nay, many folks there did not stick to declare the phenomenon was not confined to the hair, for the little stone saint who sat perched o'er the door, st. romwold himself, as i told you before, what will scarce be believed, was plainly perceived to shrug up his shoulders, as very much grieved, and look down with a frown so remarkably brown, that all saw he'd now quite a different face on from that he received at the hands of the mason ; nay, many averred he half rose in his niche, when sir alured, always in metaphor rich, called his priest an old son of —” some animal—which, is not worth the inquiry—a hint's quite enough on the subject-for more i refer you to buffon. it's supposed that the knight himself saw the sight, and it's likely he did, as he easily might; for 'tis certain he paused in his wordy attack, and, in nautical language, seemed “taken aback." a lay of st. romwold. in so much that when now the “prime cause of the row," father john, in the chapel at last made his bow, the bridegroom elect was so mild and subdued, none could ever suppose he'd been noisy and rude, or made use of the language to which i allude. fair edith herself, while the knot was a-tying, her bridesmaids around her, some sobbing, some sighing, some smiling, some blushing, half laughing, half crying, scarce made her responses in tones more complying than he who'd been raging and storming so recently, all softness now, and behaving quite decently. many folks thought too the cold stony frown of the saint up aloft from his niche looking down, brought the sexton and clerk each an extra half-crown, when, the rite being over, the fees were all paid, and, the party remounting, the whole cavalcade prepared to ride home with no little parade. in a climate so very unsettled as ours it's as well to be cautious and guard against showers, for though, about one, you've a fine brilliant sun, when your walk or your ride is but barely begun, yet long ere the hour-hand approaches the two, there is not in the whole sky one atom of blue, but it “rains cats and dogs," and you're fairly wet through ere you know where to turn, what to say, or to do; for which reason i've bought, to protect myself well, a good stout taglioni and gingham umbrella. but in edward the first's days i very much fear had a gay cavalier thought fit to appear in any such "toggery"—then 'twas termed "gear"- he'd have met with a highly significant sneer, or a broad grin extending from ear unto ear on the features of every soul he came near; there was no taking refuge too then, as with us, on a slip-sloppy day, in a cab or a 'bus; as they rode through the woods in their wimples and hoods, the blasphemer's warning. their only resource against sleet, hail, or rain, was, as spenser describes it, to “pryck o'er the plaine;" that is, to clap spurs on, and ride helter-skelter in search of some building or other for shelter. now it seems that the sky, which had been of a dye as bright and as blue as your lady-love's eye, the season, in fact, being genial and dry, began to assume an appearance of gloom from the moment the knight began fidget and fume, which deepened and deepened till all the horizon grew blacker than aught they had ever set eyes on, and soon, from the far west the elements rumbling, increased and kept pace with sir alured's grumbling. bright flashes between, blue, red, and green, all livid and lurid began to be seen; at length down it came a whole deluge of rain, a perfect niagara, drenching the plain; and up came the reek, and down came the shriek of the winds like a steam-whistle starting a train; and the tempest began so to roar and to pour, that the dennes and the ingoldsbys, starting at score, as they did from the porch of st. romwold's church door, had scarce gained a mile, or a mere trifle more, ere the whole of the crew were completely wet through. they dashed o'er the downs, and they dashed through the vales, they dashed up the hills, and they dashed down the dales, as if elderly nick was himself at their tails; the bridegroom in vain attempts to restrain the bride's frightened palfrey by seizing the rein, when flash and a crash which produced such a splash that a yankee had called it "an almighty smash," came down so complete at his own courser's feet, that the rider, though famous for keeping his seat, from its kickings and plungings, now under, now upper, slipped out of his demi-pique over the crupper, and fell from the back of his terrified cob a a lay of st. romwold. on what bards less refined than myself term his “nob” (to obtain a genteel rhyme's sometimes a tough job).- just so—for the nonce to enliven my song with a classical simile cannot be wrong- just so, in such roads and in similar weather, tydides and nestor were riding together, when, so says old homer, the king of the sky, the great “cloud-compeller,” his lightnings let fly, and their horses both made such a desperate shy at this freak of old zeus, that at once they broke loose, reins, traces, bits, breechings, were all of no use; if the pylian sage, without any delay, had not whipped them sharp round and away from the fray, they'd have certainly upset his cabriolet, and there'd been the-a name i won't mention—to pay. well, the knight in a moment recovered his seat- mr. widdicombe's mode of performing that feat at astley's could not be more neat or complete, -it's recorded, indeed, by an eminent pen of our own days, that this our great widdicombe, then in the heyday of life, had afforded some ten or twelve lessons in riding to alured denne,– it is certain the knight was so agile and light that an instant sufficed him to set matters right, yet the bride was by this time almost out of sight; for her palfrey, a rare bit of blood, who could trace her descent from the “pure old caucasian race," sleek, slim, and bony, as mr. sidonia's fine “ arab steed” of the very same breed, which that elegant gentleman rode so genteelly -see "coningsby," written by “b. disraeli” – that palfrey, i say, from this trifling delay had made what at sea's called a great deal of way.” “more fleet than the roebuck,” and free as the wind, she had left the good company rather behind; a the blasphemer's warning. it's a they whipped and they spurred, and they after her pressed, - still sir alured's steed was “ by long chalks” the best of the party, and very soon distanced the rest ; but long ere e'en he had the fugitive neared, she dashed into the wood and at once disappeared. fashious" affair when you're out on a ride,– ev'n supposing you're not in pursuit of a bride; if you are, it's more fashious, which can't be denied, and you come to a place where three cross-roads divide, without any way-post stuck up by the side of the road to direct you and act as a guide, with a road leading here, and a road leading there, and a road leading no one exactly knows where. when sir alured came in pursuit of the dame to a fork of this kind-a three-pronged one-small blame to his scholarship if in selecting his way his respect for the classics now led him astray; but the rule, in a work i won't stop to describe, is in medio semper tutissimus ibis; so the knight, being forced of the three paths to enter one, dashed, with these words on his lips, down the centre one. up and down hill, up and down hill, through brake and o'er briar, he gallops on still, aye banning, blaspheming, and cursing his fill at his courser because he had given him a spill.” yet he did not gain ground on the palfrey; the sound, on the contrary, made by the hoofs of the beast grew fainter and fainter,--and fainter,-and-ceased! sir alured burst through the dingle at last, to a sort of a clearing, and there—he stuck fast; for his steed, though a freer one ne'er had a shoe on, stood fixed as the governor's nag in “don juan," or much like the statue that stands, cast in copper, a few yards southeast of the door of the opera, save that alured's horse had not got such a big tail, while alured wanted the cocked hat and pigtail. a lay of st. romwold. before him is seen a diminutive green scooped out from the covert—a thick leafy screen of wild foliage; trunks with broad branches between encircle it wholly, all radiant and sheen, for the weather at once appeared clear and serene, and the sky up above was a bright mazarine, just as though no such thing as a tempest had been; in short, it was one of those sweet little places in egypt and araby known as “ oases." there, under the shade that was made by the glade, the astonished sir alured sat and surveyed a little low building of bethersden stone, with ivy and parasite creepers o'ergrown, a sacellum or cell, in which chronicles tell saints and anchorets erst were accustomed to dwell ; a little round arch, on which, deeply indented, the zigzaggy pattern by saxons invented was cleverly chiselled and well represented, surmounted a door some five feet by four,- it might have been less, or it might have been more; in the primitive ages they made these things lower than we do, in buildings that had but one floor. and these chronicles say when an anchoret gray wished to shut himself up and keep out of the way, he was commonly wont in such low cells to stay, and pray night and day on the rez de chaussée. there, under the arch i've endeavored to paint, with no little surprise, and scarce trusting his eyes, the knight now saw standing that little boy saint !- the one whom before he'd seen over the door of the priory shaking his head as he swore- with mitre, and crozier, and rochet, and stole on, the very selfsame,-or at least his eidolon! with a voice all unlike to the infantine squeak you'd expect, that small saint now addressed him to speak; the blasphemer's warning. in a bold manly tone he began, while his stony cold lips breathed an odor quite eau de cologne-y; in fact, from his christening, according to rumor, he beat mr. brummell to sticks in perfumery.* “sir alured denne!" said the saint, “be atten- tive! your ancestors, all most respectable men, have for some generations been vot’ries of mine; they have bought me mould candles, and bowed at my shrine, they have made my monks presents of ven’son and wine, with a right of free pasturage, too, for their swine; and though you in this have been rather remiss, still i owe you a turn for the sake of 'lang syne,' and i now come to tell you your cursing and swearing have reached to a pitch that is really past bearing. 'twere a positive scandal in even a vandal- it ne'er should be done save with bell, book, and candle; and though i've now learned, as i've always suspected, your own education's been somewhat neglected, still you're not such an uninformed pagan, i hope, as not to know cursing belongs to the pope ! and his holiness feels, very properly, jealous of all such encroachments by paltry lay fellows. now, take my advice; advice; saints never speak twice, so take it at once, as i once for all give it: go home! you'll find there all as right as a trivet; but mind and remember, if once you give way to that shocking bad habit i'm sorry to say i have heard you so sadly indulge in to-day, as sure as you're born, on the very first trip that you make—the first oath that proceeds from your lip- make you i've said it, i'll do it! forewarned is forearmed :' you but you knew it. whate'er you hold dearest or nearest your heart, i'll take it away, if i come in a cart! i'll soon rue it! shan't say * in eodem autem prato in quo baptizatus sanctus romwoldus nunquam gratis- simus odor deficit; neque ibi herbæ pallescunt, sed semper in viriditate permanentes magna nectaris suavitate redolent.-nov. legend. angl. a lay of st. romwold. i will, on my honor! you know it's absurd to suppose that a saint ever forfeits his word for a pitiful knight, or to please any such man; i've said it-i'll do't !-if i don't, i'm a dutchman!" he ceased—he was gone as he closed his harangue, and some one inside shut the door with a bang! sparkling with dew, each green herb anew its profusion of sweets o'er sir alured threw, as pensive and thoughtful he slowly withdrew (for the hoofs of his horse had got rid of their glue), and the cud of reflection continued to chew till the gables of bonnington hall rose in view. little recked he what he smelt, what he saw; brilliance of scenery, fragrance of greenery, failed in impressing his mental machinery; many an hour had elapsed, well i ween, ere he fairly was able distinction to draw 'twixt the odor of garlic and bouquet du roi. merrily, merrily sounds the horn, and cheerily ring the bells; for the race is run, the goal is won, the little lost mutton is happily found, - the lady of bonnington's safe and sound in the hall where her new lord dwells ! hard had they ridden, that company gay, after fair edith, away and away: this had slipped back o'er his courser's rump, that had gone over his ears with a plump, but the lady herself had stuck on like a trump, till her panting steed relaxed her speed, and feeling, no doubt, as a gentleman feels when he's once shown a bailiff a fair pair of heels, stopped of herself, as it's very well known horses will do when they're thoroughly blown; and thus the whole group had foregathered again, just as the sunshine succeeded the rain. the blasphemer's warning. oh, now the joy, and the frolicking, rollicking doings indulged in by one and by all! gayety seized on the most melancholic in all the broad lands around bonnington hall; all sorts of revelry, all sorts of devilry, all play at "high jinks" and keep up the ball. days, weeks, and months, it is really astonishing, when one's so happy, how time flies away! meanwhile the bridegroom requires no admonishing as to what passed on his own wedding-day; never since then had sir alured denne let a word fall from his lip or his pen that began with a d or left off with an n! once, and once only, when put in a rage by a careless young rascal he'd hired as a page, all buttons and brass, who, in handling a glass of spiced hippocras, throws it all over his clothes, , and spoils his best pourpoint and smartest trunk hose, while stretching his hand out to take it and quaff it (he 'd given a rose noble a yard for the taffety); then, and then only, came into his head a very sad word that began with a z; but he checked his complaint he remembered the saint in the nick-lady denne was beginning to faint: that sight on his mouth acted quite as a bung; like mahomet's coffin, the shocking word hung half way 'twixt the root and the tip of his tongue. many a year of mirth and good cheer flew over their heads;—to each other more dear every day, they were quoted by peasant and peer as the rarest examples of love ever known since the days of le chivaler d'arbie and joanne, who in bonnington chancel lie sculptured in stone. well, it happened at last, after certain years past, that an embassy came to our court from afar- from the grand duke of muscovy, now called the czar- a lay of st. romwold. and the spindle-shanked monarch, determined to do all the grace that he could to a nobleman who had sailed all that way from a country which few in our england had heard of, and nobody knew, with a hat like a muff, and a beard like a jew, our arsenals, buildings, and dockyards to view, and to say how desirous his prince, wladimirus, had long been with mutual regard to inspire us, and how he regretted he was not much nigher us, with other fine things such as kings say to kings when each tries to humbug his dear royal brother, in hopes by such "gammon” to take one another in,- king longshanks, i say, being now on his way bound for france, where the rebels had kept him at bay, was living in clover at this time at dover, 'the castle there, waiting a tide to go over. he had summoned i can't tell you how many men, - knights, nobles, and squires,--to the wars of guienne, and among these, of course, was sir alured denne, who, acting like most of the knights in the host whose residence was not too far from the coast, had brought his wife with him, delaying their parting- fond souls !-till the very last moment of starting. of course, with such lots of lords, ladies, and knights, in their saracenettes* and their bright chain-mail tights, all accustomed to galas, grand doings, and sights, a matter like this was at once put to rights ; 'twould have been a strange thing if so polished a king, with his board of green cloth, and lord steward's depart- ment, couldn't teach an ambassador what the word “smart” meant. a banquet was ordered at once for a score, or more, of the corps that had just come on shore, and the king, though he thought it “a bit of a bore,” * this silk, of great repute among our ancestors, had been brought home, a few years before, by edward from the holy land. a lay of st. romwold. it's a hundred to one if the suite or their chief understand our plum-puddings, and barons of beef; but with five minutes' chat with their cooks or their valets we'd soon dish up something to tickle their palates!" with this happy conceit for improving the mess, pooh-poohing expense, he despatched an express in a wagon and four on the instant to deal, who dashed down the hill without locking the wheel, and, by means which i guess but decline to reveal, seduced from the downs, where at anchor their vessel rode, lumpoff icywitz, serf to a former count nesselrode, a cook of some fame, who invented the same cold pudding that still bears the family name. this accomplished, the chef's peace of mind was restored, and in due time a banquet was placed on the board "in the very best style,” which implies, in a word, “all the dainties the season” (and king) “could afford.” there were snipes, there were rails, there were woodcocks and quails, there were peacocks served up in their pride (that is, tails), fricandeau, fricassees, ducks and green peas, cotelettes à l'indienne, and chops à la soubise (which last you may call“ onion sauce" if you please); there were barbecued pigs stuffed with raisins and figs, omelettes and haricots, stews and ragouts, and pork griskins, which jews still refuse and abuse. then the wines,--round the circle how swiftly they went ! canary, sack, malaga, malvoisie, tent; old hock from the rhine, wine remarkably fine, of the charlemagne vintage of seven ninety-nine,- five cent'ries in bottle had made it divine! the rich juice of rousillon, gascoigne, bordeaux, marasquin, curaçoa, kirschen wasser, noyeau, and gin which the company voted “no go;" the guests all hob-nobbing, and bowing and bobbing; some prefer white wine, while others more valued red, few, a choice few, of more orthodox goût, stick to “old crusted port,” among whom was sir alured ; the blasphemer's warning. never indeed at a banquet before had that gallant commander enjoyed himself more. then came sweets”—served in silver were tartlets and pies— in glass, jellies composed of punch, calves' feet, and isinglass, creams, and whipt-syllabubs, some hot, some cool, blancmange, and quince-custards, and gooseberry fool. and now from the good taste which reigns it's confest, in a gentleman's, that is, an englishman's, breast, and makes him polite to a stranger and guest, they soon played the deuce with a large charlotte russe; more than one of the party despatched his plate twice with “i'm really ashamed, but-another small slice! your dishes from russia are really nice!” then the prime dish of all! "there was nothing so good in the whole of the feed," one and all were agreed, "as the great lumpoff icywitz' nesselrode pudding !" sir alured denne, who'd all day, to say sooth, like iago, been “plagued with a sad raging tooth," which had nevertheless interfered very little with his-what for rhyme i'm obliged to spell-vittle, requested a friend who sat near him to send him a spoonful of what he heard all so commend, and begged to take wine with him afterwards, grateful because for a spoonful he'd sent him a plateful. having emptied his glass—he ne'er balked it or spilled it, the gallant knight opened his mouth—and then filled it. you must really excuse me—there's nothing could bribe me at all to go on and attempt to describe the fearsome look then of sir alured denne! -astonishment, horror, distraction of mind, rage, misery, fear, and iced pudding-combined ! lip, forehead, and cheek-how these mingle and meet- all colors, all hues, now advance, now retreat, now pale as a turnip, now crimson as beet! how he grasps his arm-chair in attempting to rise ! see his veins how they swell! mark the roll of his eyes ! a lay of st. romwold. alas for the glories of bonnington hall ! alas for its splendor! alas for its fall ! long years have gone by since the trav’ller might spy any decentish house in the parish at all. for very soon after the awful event i've related, 'twas said through all that part of kent that the maids of a morning, when putting the chairs and the tables to rights, would oft pop unawares in one of the parlors, or galleries, or stairs, on a tall female figure, or find her, far horrider, slowly o' nights promenading the corridor; but whatever the hour, or wherever the place, no one could ever get sight of her face ! nor could they perceive any arm in her sleeve, while her legs and her feet, too, seemed mere “make-believe,” for she glided along with that shadow-like motion which gives one the notion of clouds on a zephyr, or ships on the ocean; and though of her gown they could hear the silk rustle, they saw but that side on't ornée with the bustle. the servants, of course, though the house they were born in, soon“ wanted to better themselves,” and gave warning, while even the new knight grew tired of a guest who would not let himself or his family rest; so he packed up his all, and made a bare wall of each well-furnished room in his ancestors' hall, then left the old mansion to stand or to fall, having previously barred up the windows and gates, to avoid paying cesses and taxes and rates, and settled on one of his other estates, where he built a new mansion, and called it denne hill, and there his descendants reside, i think, still. poor bonnington, empty, or left, at the most, to the joint occupation of rooks and a ghost, soon went to decay, and mouldered away, but whether it dropped down at last i can't say, or whether the jackdaws produced, by degrees, a spontaneous combustion like that one at pisa the blasphemer's warning. some centries ago, i'm sure i don't know, but you can't find a vestige now ever so tiny, perierunt,” as some one says, “etiam ruince." moral. the first maxim a couple of lines may be said in: if you are in a passion, don't swear at a wedding! whenever you chance to be asked out to dine, be exceedingly cautious-don't take too much wine! in your eating remember one principal point, whatever you do, have your eye on the joint! keep clear of side dishes, don't meddle with those which the servants in livery, or those in plain clothes, poke over your shoulders and under your nose; or, if you must live on the fat of the land, and feed on fine dishes you don't understand, buy a.good book of cookery! i've a compact one, first-rate of the kind, just brought out by miss acton; this will teach you their names, the ingredients they're made of, and which to indulge in, and which be afraid of, or else, ten to one, between ice and cayenne, you'll commit yourself some day, like alured denne. “to persons about to be married,” i'd say, , don't exhibit ill-humor, at least on the day! and should there perchance be a trifling delay on the part of officials, extend them your pardon, and don't snub the parson, the clerk, or church warden! to married men this—for the rest of your lives, think how your misconduct may act on your wives ! don't swear then before them, lest haply they faint, or, what sometimes occurs—run away with a saint ! a lay of st. thomas À becket. a serious error, similar to that which forms the subject of the following legend, is said to have occurred in the case of one, or rather two gentlemen named curina, who dwelt near hippo in the days of st. augustine. the matter was set right, and a friendly hint at the same time conveyed to the ill-used individual that it would be advisable for him to apply to the above-mentioned father, and be baptized with as little delay as possible. the story is quoted in "the doctor,” together with another of the same kind, which is given on no less authority than that of gregory the great. the brothers of birchington. a lay of st. thomas À becket. ou are all aware that on our throne there once sat a very great king who'd an angevin hat, with a great sprig of broom, which he wore as a badge in it, named, from this circumstance, henry plantagenet. pray don't suppose that i'm going to prose o'er queen eleanor's wrongs, or miss rosamond's woes, with the dagger and bowl, and all that sort of thing, not much to the credit of miss, queen, or king. the tale may be true, but between me and you, with the king's escapade i'll have nothing to do; but shall merely select, as a theme for my rhymes, a fact which occurred to some folks in his times. if for health, or a “lark," you should ever embark in that best of improvements on boats since the ark, the steam-vessel called the “red rover," the barge of an excellent officer, named captain large, . the brothers of birchington. you may see, some half way 'twixt the pier at herne bay and margate, the place where you're going to stay, a village called birchington, famed for its "rolls," as the fishing-bank, just in its front, is for soles. well,—there stood a fane in this harry broom's reign, on the edge of the cliff, overhanging the main, renowned for its sanctity all through the nation, and orthodox friars of the austin persuasion. among them there was one, whom if once i begun to describe as i ought i should never have done, father richard of birchington, so was the friar yclept whom the rest had elected their prior. he was tall and upright, about six feet in height, his complexion was what you'd denominate light, and the tonsure had left, 'mid his ringlets of brown, a little bald patch on the top of his crown. his bright sparkling eye was of hazel, and nigh rose a finely-arched eyebrow of similar dye; he'd a small, well-formed mouth, with the cupidon lip, and an aquiline nose, somewhat red at the tip. in doors and out he was very devout, with his aves and paters—and oh, such a knout!! for his self-flagellations : the monks used to say he would wear out two penn'orth of whipcord a day! then how his piety shows in his diet! he dines upon pulse, or, by way of variety, sand-eels or dabs; or his appetite mocks with those small periwinkles that crawl on the rocks. in brief, i don't stick to declare father dick,- so they called him, “ for short,”-was a “regular brick," a metaphor taken--i have not the page aright- out of an ethical work by the stagyrite. À lay of st. thomas À becret. now nature, 'tis said, is a comical jade, and among the fantastical tricks she has played, was the making our good father richard a brother, as like him in form as one pea's like another; he was tall and upright, about six feet in height, his complexion was what you'd denominate light, and, though he had not shorn his ringlets of brown, he'd a little bald patch on the top of his crown. he'd a bright sparkling eye of the hazel ; hard by rose a finely-arched sourcil of similar dye; he'd a small, well-shaped mouth, with a cupidon lip, and a good roman nose, rather red at the tip. but here, it's pretended, the parallel ended; in fact, there's no doubt his life might have been mended, and people who spoke of the prior with delight, shook their heads if you mentioned his brother, the knight. if you'd credit report, there was nothing but sport and high jinks going on night and day at “the court," where sir robert, instead of devotion and charity, spent all his time in unseemly hilarity. he drinks and he eats of choice liquors and meats, and he goes out on we'n'sdays and fridays to treats, gets tipsy whenever he dines or he sups, and is wont to come quarrelsome home in his cups. no paters, no aves; an absolute slave he's to tarts, pickled salmon, and sauces, and gravies; while as to his beads—what a shame in a knight! he really don't know the wrong end from the right! so, though 'twas owned then, by nine people in ten, that “robert and richard were two pretty men,” yet there the praise ceased, or, at least, the good priest was considered the "beauty,” sir robert the “beast.” - the brothers of birchington. indeed, i'm afraid more might have been laid to the charge of the knight than was openly said, for then we'd no “phiz's," no “h. b.'s," nor "leeches," to call roberts “bobs,” and illustrate their speeches. 'twas whispered he'd rob, nay murder! a job which would stamp him no “brick,” but a "regular snob” (an obsolete term, which, at this time of day, we should probably render by mauvais sujet). now if here such affairs get wind unawares, they are bruited about, doubtless, much more "down stairs," where old nick has a register-office, they say, with commissioners quite of such matters au fait. of course, when he heard what his people averred of sir robert's proceedings in deed and in word, he asked for the ledger, and hastened to look at the leaves on the creditor side of this book. 'twas with more than surprise that he now ran his eyes o'er the numberless items, oaths, curses, and lies, et cetera, set down in sir robert's account; he was quite "flabbergasted" to see the amount. “dear me! this is wrong! it's a great deal too strong; i'd no notion this bill had been standing so long- send levybub here !” and he filled up a writ of “ca sa,” duly prefaced with “ limbo to wit.” “here, levybub, quick !" to his bailiff said nick, “ i'm 'ryled,' and 'my dander's up,''go ahead slick' up to kent-not kentuck-and at once fetch away a snob there, i guess that's a mauvais sujet. "one de birchington, knight- 'tis not clear quite what his t'other name is—they've not entered it right, ralph, robert, or richard ? they've not gone so far. our critturs have put it down merely as ‘r.' À lay of st. thomas À becket. “but he's tall and upright, about six feet in height, his complexion, i reckon, you'd calculate light, and he's further 'set down'having ringlets of brown, with a little bald patch on the top of his crown. “then his eye and his lip, hook-nose, red at tip, are 'marks your attention can't easily slip; take slomanoch with you, he's got a good knack of soon grabbing his man, and be back in a crack !" that same afternoon father dick, who as soon would “knock in" or “cut chapel" as jump o'er the moon, was missing at vespers—at compline-all night! and his monks were, of course, in a deuce of a fright. morning dawned—'twas broad day, still no prior! the tray with his muffins and eggs went untasted away ;- he came not to luncheon -all said “it was rum of him!” -none could conceive what on earth had become of him. they examined his cell, they peeped down the well; they went up the tow'r, and looked into the bell ; they dragged the great fish-pond, the little one tried, but found nothing at all, save some carp—which they fried. “ dear me! dear me! why, where can he be? he's fallen over the cliff ?-tumbled into the sea ?” “stay-he talked,” exclaimed one, “if i recollect right, of making a call on his brother, the knight!” he turns as he speaks, the “ court lodge” he seeks, which was known then, as now, by the queer name of quekes, but scarce half a mile on his way had he sped, when he spied the good prior in the paddock-stone dead ! alas! 'twas too true! and i need not tell you in the convent his news made a pretty to do; through all its wide precincts so roomy and spacious, nothing was heard but “bless me!” and “good gracious !!” the brothers of birchington. they sent for the may'r and the doctor, a pair of grave men, who began to discuss the affair, when in bounced the coroner, foaming with fury, “because," as he said, “ 'twas pooh-poohing his jury. then commenced a dispute, and so hot they went to't that things seemed to threaten a serious émeute, when, just in the midst of the uproar and racket, who should walk in but st. thomas à becket. quoth his saintship, “how now? here's a fine coil, i trow; i should like to know, gentlemen, what's all this row? mr. wickliffe or wackliffe-whatever your name is— and you, mr. may'r, don't you know, sirs, what shame is ? ' pray what's all this clatter about?-what's the matter ?" here a monk, whose teeth funk and concern made to chatter, sobs out, as he points to the corpse on the floor, “ 'tis all dickey with poor father dick-he's no more!" “how !-what?" says the saint, “yes he is no he ain't !* he can't be deceased-pooh! it's merely a faint, or some foolish mistake which may serve for our laughter, 'he should have died,' like the old scotch queen, 'hereafter.' “his time is not out; some blunder, no doubt; it shall go hard but what i'll know what it's about- i shan't be surprised if that scurvy old nick's had a hand in't; it savors of one of his tricks.” when a crafty old hound claps his nose to the ground, then throws it up boldly and bays out, “ i've found !" and the pack catch the note, i'd as soon think to check it, as dream of bamboozling st. thomas à becket. * cantise for “is not;" st. thomas, it seems, had lived long enough in the country to pick up a few of its provincialisms. the brothers of birchington. “wrong man! don't tell me~ pooh -fiddle-de-dee! what's your right, scamp, to any man !-come, let me see; i'll teach you, you thorough-paced rascal, to meddle with church matters. come, sirrah, out with your schedule!” in support of his claim the fiend turns to the name of “ de birchington” written in letters of flame, below which long items stand, column on column, enough to have eked out a decent-sized volume! sins of all sorts and shapes, from small practical japes up to dicings and drinkings, and murders and rapes, and then of such standing !-a merciless tick, from an oxford tobacconist,- let alone nick. the saint in surprise scarce believed his own eyes, still he knew he'd to deal with the father of lies, and “so this !--you call this !” he exclaimed in a searching tone, "this!!! the account of my friend dick de birchington!” why,” said nick, with an air of great candor, “it's there lies the awkwardest part of this awkward affair i thought all was right-see the height tallies quite, the complexion's what all must consider as light; there's the nose, and the lip, and the ringlets of brown, and the little bald patch on the top of the crown. “and then the surname, so exactly the same i don't know-i can't tell how the accident came, but some how-i own it's a very sad job, · but-my bailiff grabbed dick when he should have nabbed bob. “i am vexed beyond bounds you should have such good grounds for complaint; i would rather have given five pounds, and any apology, sir, you may choose, i'll make with much pleasure, and put in the ‘news.' a lay of st. thomas À becket. “an apology !-pooh! much good that will do! an'apology' quotha !-and that too from you ! before any proposal is made of the sort, bring back your stol'n goods, thief l-produce them in court." in a moment, so small it seemed no time at all, father richard sat up on his what-do-ye-call- sur son séant-and, what was as wondrous as pleasing, at once began coughing, and sniffing, and sneezing. while, strange to relate, the knight, whom the fate of his brother had reached, and who knocked at the gate, to make further inquiries, had scarce made his bow to the saint, ere he vanished, and no one knew how! erupit-evasit, as tully would phrase it, and none could have known where to find his hic jacet that sentence which man his mortality teaches- sir robert had disappeared, body and breeches ! “heyday! sir, heyday! what's the matter now—eh ?” quoth a becket, observing the gen'ral dismay; how, again !-'pon my word, this is really too bad ! it would drive any saint in the calendar mad. “what, still at your tricking? you will have a kicking ? i see you won't rest till you've got a good licking- your claim, friend ?-what claim ?--why, you showed me before that your old claim was cancelled-you've crossed out the score ! “ is it that way you'd jew one? you've settled the true one! do you mean to tell me he has run up a new one? of the thousands you've cheated and scurvily treated, name one you've dared charge with a bill once receipted ! in the bankruptcy court should you dare to presume to attempt it, they'd soon kick you out of the room, -ask commissioner fonblanque, or ask my lord brougham. the brothers of birchington. “and then to make under so barefaced a blunder, your caption !-why, what's the world come to, i wonder? my patience! it's just like his impudence, drat bim! -stand out of the way there, and let me get at him!” the saint raised his arm, but old nick, in alarm, dashed up through the skylight, not doing much harm, while, quitte pour la peur, the knight, sound on the whole, down the chimney came tumbling as black as a coal ! spare we to tell of what after befell! how the saint lectured robert de birchington well, bade him alter his life, and held out as a warning the narrow escape he had made on't that morning. nor need we declare how, then and there, the jury and coroner blew up the may'r for his breach of decorum, as one of the quorum, in not having levybub brought up before 'em. nor will you require me to state how the prior could never thenceforth bear the sight of a fire, nor ever was heard to express a desire in cold weather to see the thermometer higher. nor shall i relate the subsequent fate of st. thomas à becket, whose reverend pate fitzurse and de morville, and brito and tracy, shaved off, as his crown had been merely a jasey.* suffice it to say, from that notable day the “twin birchington brothers” together grew gray- in the same holy convent continued to dwell, same food and same fastings, same habit, same cell. no more the knight rattles in broils and in battles, but sells, by de robins, his goods and his chattels, * nec satis fuit eis sanguine sacerdotis et nece ecclesiam prophanare, nisi, coronâ capitis amputatâ, funestis gladiis jam defuncti ejicerent cerebrum.-matt. paris. a lay of st. thomas À becket. and, counting all wealth a mere will-o'-the-wisp, disposes of quekes to sir nicholas crispe. one spot alone of all he had known of his spacious domain he retained as his own, in a neighboring parish, whose name, i may say, scarce any two people pronounce the same way. re-cul-ver some style it, while others revile it as bad, and say re-culver; 'tisn't worth while, it would seem, to dispute, when we know the result immat- erial: i accent, myself, the penultimate. sages with brains full of “saxon remains may call me a booby, perhaps, for my pains, still i hold, at the hazard of being thought dull by 'em, fast by the quantity marked for regulbium. call't as you will, the traveller still, in the voyage that we talked about, marks on the hill overhanging the sea the "twin towers" raised then by “robert and richard, those two pretty men." both tall and upright, and just equal in height; the trinity house talked of painting them white, and the thing was much spoken of some time ago, when the duke, i believe-but i really don't know- well, there the “ twins” stand on the verge of the land, to warn mariners off from the columbine sand; and many a poor man have robert and dick by their vow caused to 'scape, like themselves, from old nick. so, whether you're sailors, or tooley-street tailors broke loose from your masters, those sternest of jailers, and, bent upon pleasure, are taking your trip in a craft which you fondly conceive is a ship, the brothers of birchington. when you've passed by the nore, and you hear the winds roar in a manner you scarce could have fancied before, when the cordage and tackling are flapping and crack- ling, and the boy with the bell thinks it useless to tell you that "dinner's on table,” because you're unwell ;- when above you all's "scud,” and below you the flood looks a horrible mixture of soapsuds and mud, when the timbers are straining, and folks are com- plaining the dead-lights are letting the spray and the rain in, when the helmsman looks blue, and captain, large too, and you really don't know what on earth you shall do, - in this hubbub and row think where you'd be now, except for the birchington boys and their vow! and while o'er the wide wave you feel the craft pitch hard, praie for ye sowles of robertte and rychard ! moral. it's a subject of serious complaint in some houses, with young married men who have elderly spouses, that persons are seen in their figures and faces, with very queer people in very queer places, so like them that one for the other's oft taken, and conjugal confidence thereby much shaken: explanations too often are thought mere pretences, and richard gets scolded for robert's offences. in a matter so nice, if i'm asked my advice, i say copy king henry to obviate that, and stick something remarkable up in your hat ! the knight and. the lady. the knight and the lady. a domestic legend of the reign of queen anne. “hail, wedded love! mysterious tie!" thomson-or somebody. the the lady jane was tall and slim, the lady jane was fair, and sir thomas, her lord, was stout of limb, but his cough was short, and his eyes were dim, and he wore green “specs,” with a tortoise-shell rim, and his hat was remarkably broad in the brim, and she was uncommonly fond of him,- and they were a loving pair!- and the name and the fame of the knight and his dame were ev'rywhere hailed with the loudest acclaim; and wherever they went, or wherever they came, far and wide, the people cried, “huzza! for the lord of this noble domain,- huzza! huzza! huzza !-once again! encore !-encore ! one cheer more! -all sorts of pleasure, and no sort of pain, to sir thomas the good, and the fair lady jane!!" now sir thomas the good, be it well understood, was a man of a very contemplative mood, - he would pore by the hour o’er a weed or a flower, or the slugs that come crawling out after a shower; black-beetles, and bumble-bees,-blue-bottle flies, and moths, were of no small account in his eyes ; an “industrious flea” he'd by no means despise, while an “old daddy-long-legs,” whose “long legs” and thighs passed the common in shape, or in color, or size, he was wont to consider an absolute prize. nay, a hornet or wasp he could scarce “keep his paws off”—he the knight and the lady. “first dinner-bell” rang out its euphonous clang at five-folks kept early hours then—and the “ last” ding-donged, as it was ever wont, at half-past, while betsey and sally, and thompson the valet, and every one else was beginning to bless himself, wondering the knight had not come in to dress himself.- -quoth betsey, “dear me! why, the fish will be cold !”- quoth sally, “good gracious! how 'missis' will scold !” thompson, the valet, looked gravely at sally, as who should say, “truth must not always be told !" then, expressing a fear lest the knight might take cold, thus exposed to the dews, lamb’s-wool stockings and shoes, of each a fresh pair, he put down to air, and hung a clean shirt to the fire on a chair.- still the master was absent—the cook came and said, “he much feared, as the dinner had been so long ready, the roast and the boiled would be all of it spoiled, and the puddings her ladyship thought such a treat, he was morally sure, would be scarce fit to eat !” this closed the debate “ 'twould be folly to wait,” said the lady, “ dish up !-let the meal be served straight, and let two or three slices be put on a plate, and kept hot for sir thomas.--he's lost, sure as fate! and, a hundred to one, won't be home till it's late!” -captain dugald macbride then proceeded to face the lady at table,-stood up, and said grace, - then sat himself down in sir thomas's place. wearily, wearily, all that night, that live-long night, did the hours go by; and the lady jane, in grief and in pain, she sat herself down to cry! and captain macbride, who sat by her side, though i really can't say that he actually cried, at least had a tear in his eye!- as much as can well be expected, perhaps, · from “very young fellows" for very "old chaps ;" a legend of the reign of queen anne. and if he had said what he'd got in his head, 'twould have been “poor old buffer ! he's certainly dead !” the morning dawned, and the next,--and the next, and all in the mansion were still perplexed; · no watch-dog“ bayed a welcome home,” as a watch-dog should, to the “good sir thomas;" no knocker fell his approach to tell, not so much as a runaway ring at the bell- the hall was silent as hermit's cell. yet the sun shone bright upon tower and tree, and the meads smiled green as green may be, and the dear little dickey-birds carolled with glee, and the lambs in the park skipped merry and free without, all was joy and harmony ! “and thus 'twill be,-nor long the day,– ere we, like him, shall pass away! yon sun, that now our bosoms warms, shall shine,-but shine on other forms; yon grove, whose choir so sweetly cheers us now, shall sound on other ears,- the joyous lamb, as now, shall play, but other eyes its sports survey, - the stream we love shall roll as fair, the flowery sweets, the trim parterre, shall scent, as now, the ambient air,- the tree, whose bending branches bear the one loved name, shall yet be there; but where the hand that carved it ?- where?” these were hinted to me as the very ideas which passed through the mind of the fair lady jane, her thoughts having taken a sombre-ish train, as she walked on the esplanade, to and again, with captain macbride, of course, at her side, who could not look quite so forlorn,-though he tried, the knight and the lady. -an“idea," in fact, had got into his head, that if “poor dear sir thomas” should really be dead, it might be no bad “spec.” to be there in his stead, and, by simply contriving, in due time, to wed a lady who was young and fair, a lady slim and tall, to set himself down in comfort there the lord of tapton * hall.- thinks he, “ we have sent half over kent, and nobody knows how much money's been spent, yet no one's been found to say which way he went! the groom, who's been over to folkestone and dover, can't get any tidings at all of the rover ! -here's a fortnight and more has gone by, and we've tried every plan we could hit on-the whole country-side, upon all its dead walls, with placards we've supplied, - and we've sent out the crier, and had him well cried missing!! stolen, or strayed, lost, or mislaid, a gentleman ;-middle-aged, sober, and staid ;- stoops slightly ;-and when he left home was arrayed in a sad-colored suit, somewhat dingy and frayed ;- had spectacles on with a tortoise-shell rim, and a hat rather low-crowned, and broad in the brim. whoe'er shall bear, or shall send him with care (right side uppermost) home; or shall give notice where the said middle-aged gentleman is; or shall state any fact that may tend to throw light on his fate, to the man at the turnpike, called tappington gate, shall receive a reward of five pounds for his trouble.- (le n.b.-if defunct, the reward will be double!!' w) “ had he been above ground he must have been found. no; doubtless he's shot, -or he's hanged, -or he's drowned ! * the familiar abbreviation for tappington everard still in use among the tenantry. vide prefatory introduction to the ingoldsby legends. a legend of the reign of queen anne. then his widow-ay! ay! but what will folks say? -to address her at once-at so early a day? well—what then?—who cares ?—let 'em say what they may- a fig for their nonsense and chatter !-suffice it, her charms will excuse one for casting sheep's eyes at her!” when a man has decided as captain macbride did, and once fully made up his mind on the matter, he can't be too prompt in unmasking his battery. he began on the instant, and vowed that “her eyes far exceeded in brilliance the stars in the skies, – that her lips were like roses-her cheeks were like lilies- her breath had the odor of daffy-down-dillies !"- with a thousand more compliments equally true, and expressed in similitudes equally new! -then his left arm he placed round her jimp, taper waist- - ere she fixed to repulse, or return, his embrace, up came running a man, at a deuce of a pace, with that very peculiar expression of face which always betokens dismay or disaster, crying out—'twas the gardener—"oh, ma'am! we've found master !" -“where? where ?” screamed the lady; and echo screamed where ?" the man couldn't say « there !” he had no breath to spare, but, gasping for air, he could only respond by pointing—he pointed, alas !-to the pond! —'twas e'en -poor dear knight !—with his “specs" and his hat he'd gone poking his nose into this and to that; when, close to the side of the bank he espied an "uncommon fine” tadpole, remarkably fat ! he stooped; and he thought her his own ;-he had caught her! got hold of her tail,--and to land almost brought her, when-he plumped head and heels into fifteen feet water: the knight and the lady. the lady jane was tall and slim, the lady jane was fair, alas, for sir thomas !--she grieved for him, as she saw two serving-men, sturdy of limb, his body between them bear. she sobbed, and she sighed; she lamented, and cried, for of sorrow brimful was her cup; she swooned, and i think she'd have fall'n down and died, if captain macbride had not been by her side, with the gardener; they both their assistance supplied, and managed to hold her up.- but when she “ comes to," oh! 'tis shocking to view the sight which the corpse reveals! sir thomas's body, it looked so odd-he was half eaten up by the eels ! his waistcoat and hose, and the rest of his clothes, were all gnawed through and through ; and out of each shoe an eel they drew; and from each of his pockets they pulled out two, and the gardener himself had secreted a few, as well we may suppose ; for, when he came running to give the alarm, he had six in the basket that hung on his arm. good father john* was summoned anon; holy water was sprinkled, and little bells tinkled, and tapers were lighted, and incense ignited, and masses were sung, and masses were said, all day, for the quiet repose of the dead, and all night no one thought about going to bed. but lady jane was tall and slim, and lady jane was fair,- and, ere morning came, that winsome dame had made up her mind-or, what's much the same, had thought about-once more "changing her name,” * for some account of father john ingoldsby, to whose papers i am so much beholden, see p. . this was the last ecclesiastical act of his long and valuable life. the house-warming. of being squabashed, as in shakspeare we've read, caught a bad influenza, and died in his bed, in the tower, not far from the room where the guard is (the octagon one that adjoins duffus hardy's). —that, in short, all the 'facts' in the decem scriptores are nothing at all but sheer humbugging stories.” then if, as he vows, both this country and france in, historians thus gave themselves up to romancing, notwithstanding what most of them join in advancing respecting sir christopher's capering and prancing, 'twill cause no surprise if we find that his rise is not to be solely ascribed to his dancing! the fact is, sir christopher, early in life, as all bachelors should do, had taken a wife, a fanshawe by family, one of a house well descended, but boasting less "nobles" than nous; though e'en as to purse he might have done worse, for i find, on perusing her grandfather's will, it is clear she had “good gifts beside possibilities,”* owches and rings, and such sort of things, orellana shares (then the american stocks), jewelled stomachers, coifs, ruffs, silk stockings with clocks, point-lace, cambric handkerchiefs, nightcaps, and—socks (recondite apparel contained in her box). - then the height of her breeding and depth of her reading might captivate any gay youth, and, in leading him on “to propose,” well excuse the proceeding! truth to tell, as to “reading,” the lady was thought to do more than she should, and know more than she ought to do; her maid, it was said, declared that she read (a custom all staid folks discourage) in bed ; and that often o' nights, odd noises and sights in her mistress's chamber had giv'n her sad frights, after all in the mansion had put out their lights, * “seven hundred pounds and possibilities is good gifts." sir hugh evans. the house-warming. . the liquor she used, as i've said, she kept close, but, whatever it was, she now doubled the dose! (so true is the saying, “we never can stay, in our progress, when once with the foul fiend we league us.") -she “ doctored” the punch, and she “doctored” the negus, taking care not to put in sufficient to flavor it, till, at every fresh sip that moistened her lip, the virgin queen grew more attached to her favorite. “no end” now he commands of money and lands, and, as george robins says, when he's writing about houses, “messuages, tenements, crofts, tofts, and outhouses,” parks, manors, chases, she "gives and she grants, to him and his heirs, and his uncles and aunts ;? whatever he wants, he has only to ask it, and all other suitors are left in the basket," till dudley and rawleigh began to look squally, while even grave cecil, the famous lord burleigh, himself, “ shook his head,” and grew snappish and surly. all this was fine sport, as our authors report, to dame alice, become a great lady at court, where none than her ladyship’s husband looked bigger, who “ led the brawls”* still with the same grace and vigor, though losing a little in slimness and figure; for eating and drinking all day of the best of viands well drest, with “burgess's zest," is apt, by degrees, to enlarge a man's vest; and, what in sir christopher went to increase it, he 'd always been rather inclined to obesity; -few men in those times were found to grow thinner with beefsteaks for breakfast and pork-pie for dinner. . now it's really a difficult problem to say how long matters might have gone on in this way, if it had not unluckily happened one day that nick,—who, because he'd the gout in his claws and his hoofs (he's by no means so young as he was, *"the grave lord keeper led the brawls, the seals and maces danced before him."-gray. a legend of bleeding-heart yard. where the strawberries grow so fine and so big, which our grandmother's uncle tucked in like a pig, king richard the third, which you all must have read of the day,—don't you know ?—he cut hastings' head off- and mark me, proud prelate !—i'm speaking to you, bishop heaton !--you need not, my lord, look so blue give it up on the instant! i don't mean to shock you, or else, by—i-(the bishop was shocked !)-i'll unfrock you!!” the queen turns abruptly her back on the group, the courtiers all bow as she passes, and stoop to kiss, as she goes, the hind flounce of her hoop, and sir christopher, having thus danced to some tune, skips away with much glee in his best rigadoon! while poor bishop heaton, who found himself beaten, in serious alarm at the queen's contumelious and menacing tone, at once gave him up ely house, with every appurtenance thereto belonging, including the strawberry-beds 'twas so strong in; politely he bowed to the gratified minion, and said, “there can be, my good lord, in opinion no difference betwixt yours and mine as to fixtures, and tables, and chairs— we need no survey'rs- take them just as you find them, without reservation, grates, coppers, and all, at your own valuation !" well! the object is gained! a good town-house obtained ! the next thing to be thought of, is now the “house-warming” party—the when and the how,— the court ladies call, one and all, great and small, for an elegant “spread," and more elegant ball, so, sir christopher, vain as we know of his capering, no sooner had finished his painting and papering, than he sat down and wrote a nice little pink note to every great lord whom he knew, and his spouse, “from our poor place on holborn hill (late ely house), lord keeper and dame alice hatton request lord so-and-so’s (name, style, or title exprest) the house-warming. good company on the next eve of st. john, viz. friday week, june th, as their guest, to partake of pot-luck, and taste a fat buck. n. b. venison on table exactly at , quadrilles in the afternoon. r. s. v. p. “for my good lord of so-and-so these, and his wife; ride! ride! for thy life! for thy life! for thy life!” thus courtiers were wont to indorse their expresses in harry the viiith’s time, and also queen bess's. the dame, for her part, too, took order that cards should be sent to the mess-rooms of all the hussards, the household troops, train-bands, and horse and foot guards. well, the day for the rout at length came about, and the bells of st. andrew's rang merrily out, as'horse-litter, coach, and pad-nag with its pillion (the mode of conveyance then used by “the million”), all gallant and grand, defiled from the strand, some through chancery (then an unpaved and much wetter) lane, others through shoe (which was not a whit better) lane; others through fewtar's (corrupted to fetter) lane, some from cheapside and st. mary-le-bow, from bishopsgate street, dowgate hill,* and budge row. they come and they go, squire and dame, belle and beau, down snore hill (which we have since whitewashed to snow), all eager to see the magnificent show, and sport what some call “ a fantastical toe;" in silk and in satin, to batten and fatten upon the good cheer of sir christopher hatton. a flourish, trumpets !-sound again! he comes, bold drake, the chief who made a fine hash of all the pow'rs of spain, and so served out their grand armada : * sir francis drake's house, “the arbor," stood here. the forlorn one. the forlorn one. Α' h! why those piteous sounds of woe, lone wanderer of the dreary night? thy gushing tears in torrents flow, thy bosom pants in wild affright! and thou, within whose iron breast those frowns austere too truly tell, mild pity, heaven-descended guest, hath never, never deigned to dwell, - “that rude, uncivil touch forego," stern despot of a fleeting hour! nor “make the angels weep" to know the fond "fantastic tricks" of power! know'st thou not “mercy is not strained, but droppeth as the gentle dew," and while it blesseth him who gained, it blesseth him who gave it too ? say, what art thou ? and what is he, pale victim of despair and pain, whose streaming eyes and bended knee sue to thee thus-and sue in vain ? cold, callous man! he scorns to yield, or aught relax his felon gripe, but answers, "i'm inspector field! and this here warment's prigged your wipe!” a legend of the weald of rent. jerry jarvis's wig. a legend of the weald of kent. "the wig's the thing! the wig! the wig !"-old song. oe,” said old jarvis, looking out of his window-it was his ground-floor back-"joe, you seem to be very hot, joe, and you have got no wig !" “yes, sir," quoth joseph, pausing and resting upon his spade, “it's as hot a day as ever i see; but the celery must be got in, or there'll be no autumn crop, and—” well, but, joe, the sun's so hot, and it shines so on your bald head, it makes one wink to look at it. you'll have a coup de soleil, joe.” “a what, sir ?” “no matter : it's very hot working, and if you'll step in doors, i'll give you—” “thank ye, your honor; a drop of beer will be very accept- able." joe's countenance brightened amazingly. “ joe, i'll give you—my old wig !" the countenance of joseph fell. his gray eye had glistened as a blest vision of double x fitted athwart his fancy; its glance faded again into the old filmy, gooseberry-colored hue, as he growled in a minor key, “a wig, sir ?” yes, joe, a wig. the man who does not study the comfort of his dependents is an unfeeling scoundrel. you shall have my old wornout wig.” “i hope, sir, you'll give me a drop o' beer to drink your honor's health in; it is very hot, and—” “ come in, joe, and mrs. witherspoon shall give it you.” “heaven bless your honor!” said honest joe, striking his spade perpendicularly into the earth, and walking with more than usual alacrity towards the close-cut quickset hedge which separated mr. jarvis's garden from the high-road. from the quickset hedge aforesaid he now raised, with all due delicacy, a well-worn and somewhat dilapidated jacket, of jerry jarvis's wig. a stuff by drapers most pseudonymously termed "everlasting." alack! alack! what is there to which tempus edax rerum will accord that epithet? in its high and palmy days it had been all of a piece; but as its master's eye now fell upon it, the ex- pression of his countenance seemed to say with octavian, "those days are gone, floranthe!" it was now, from frequent patching, a coat 'not unlike that of the patriarch-one of many colors. joseph washford inserted his wrists into the corresponding orifices of the tattered garment, and with a steadiness of cir- cumgyration to be acquired only by long and sufficient prac- tice, swung it horizontally over his ears, and settled himself into it. “confound your old jacket !" cried a voice from the other side of the hedge; “ keep it down, you rascall don't you see my horse is frightened at it?" “sensible beast !" apostrophized joseph; "i've been fright- ened at it myself every day for the last two years." the gardener cast a rueful glance at its sleeve, and pursued his way to the door of the back kitchen. joe," said mrs. witherspoon, a fat, comely dame of about five-and-forty,—"joe, your master is but too good to you; he is always kind and considerate. joe, he has desired me to give you his old wig." “and the beer, ma'am witherspoon ?" said washford, taking the proffered caxon and looking at it with an expression some- what short of rapture; "and the beer, ma'am ?” “the beer, you guzzling wretch !-what beer? master said nothing about no beer. you ungrateful fellow, has not he given you a wig ?” why, yes, ma'am witherspoon; but then, you see, his honor said it was very hot, and i'm very dry, and—” “go to the pump, sot!” said mrs. witherspoon, as she slammed the back door in the face of the petitioner. | mrs. witherspoon was “ of the lady huntingdon persua- sion," and honorary assistant secretary to the appledore branch of the “ ladies' grand junction water-working tem- perance society." jerry jarvis's wig. house in the country-town is always the lawyer's, and it gen- erally boasts a green door, stone steps, and a brass knocker. in neither of these appendages to opulence was jeremiah deficient; but then he was so very rich: his reputed wealth, indeed, passed all the common modes of accounting for its increase. true, he was so universally a favorite that every man whose will he made was sure to leave him a legacy; that he was a sort of general assignee to all the bankruptcies within twenty miles of appledore; was clerk to half the “trusts,” and treasurer to most of the “rates," "funds,” and “subscrip- tions,” in that part of the country; that he was land-agent to lord mountrhino, and steward to the rich miss tabbytale of smerrididdle hall; that he had been guardian (?) to three young profligates who all ran through their property, which, somehow or another, came at last into his hands, “at an equitable valuation.” still his possessions were so considerable as not to be altogether accounted for, in vulgar esteem, even by these and other honorable modes of accumulation ; nor were there wanting those who conscientiously entertained a belief that a certain dark-colored gentleman, of indifferent character, known principally by his predilection for appearing in perpetual mourning, had been through life his great friend and counsellor, and had mainly assisted in the acquirement of his revenues. that “old jerry jarvis had sold himself to the devil” was, indeed, a dogma which it were heresy to doubt in appledore ;-on this hand, at least, there were few schis- matics in the parish. when the worthy “solicitor” next looked out of his ground- floor back, he smiled with much complacency at beholding joe washford again hard at work—in his wig—the little tail aforesaid oscillating like a pendulum in the breeze. if it be asked what could induce a gentleman whose leading principle seems to have been self-appropriation to make so magnificent a present, the answer is, that mr. jarvis might perhaps have thought an occasional act of benevolence necessary or politic; he is not the only person who, having stolen a quantity of leather, has given away a pair of shoes pour l'amour de dieu,- perhaps he had other motives. joe, meanwhile, worked away at the celery-bed; but, truth jerry jarvis's wig. alack! alack! what a piece of work is man!-how short his triumphs !-how frail his resolutions ! from this fine and very original moral reflection we turn reluctantly to record the sequel. the celery-bed, alluded to as the main scene of mr. washford's operations, was drawn in a rectilinear direction, nearly across the whole breadth of the parallelogram that comprised the “kitchen garden.” its northern extremity abutted to the hedge before mentioned; its southern one-woe is me that it should have been so !-was in fearful vicinity to the ribstone pippin-tree. one branch, low bowed to earth, seemed ready to discharge its precious burden into the very trench. as joseph stooped to insert the last plant with his dibble, an apple of more than ordinary beauty bobbed against his knuckles. "he's taking snuff, joe," whispered the same small voice the tail had twisted itself into its old position. “he is sneezing !-now, joel-now!" and, ere the agitated horticulturist could recover from his surprise and alarm, the fruit was severed, and in his hand ! “he! he! he!” shrilly laughed, or seemed to laugh, that accursed little pigtail. washford started at once to the per- pendicular;-with an enfrenzied grasp he tore the jasey from his head, and, with that in one hand and his ill-acquired spoil in the other, he rushed distractedly from the garden! all that night was the humble couch of the once-happy gardener haunted with the most fearful visions. he was stealing apples,-he was robbing hen-roosts,-he was altering the chalks upon the milk-score,—he had purloined three chemises from a hedge, and he awoke in the very act of cut- ting the throat of one of squire hodge's sheep! a clammy dew stood upon his temples,—the cold perspiration burst from every pore, -he sprang in terror from the bed. why, joe, what ails thee, man?” cried the usually in- curious mrs. washford; "what be the matter with thee? thee hast done nothing but grunt and growl all t night long, and now thee dost stare as if thee saw summut. what bees it, joe?” a legend of the weald of kent. a long-drawn sigh was her husband's only answer; his eye fell upon the bed. “how the devil came that here?” quoth joseph, with a sudden recoil ; "who put that thing on my pillow ?" “why, i did, joseph. th' ould nightcap is in the wash, and thee didst toss and tumble so, and kick the clothes off, i thought thee mightest catch cold, so i clapt t' wig atop o' thee head." and there it lay,—the little sinister-looking tail impudently perked up, like an infernal gnomon on a satanic dial-plate- larceny and ovicide shone in every hair of it! “the dawn was overcast, the morning lowered, and heavily in clouds brought on the day," ness. when joseph washford once more repaired to the scene of his daily labors; a sort of unpleasant consciousness flushed his countenance, and gave him an uneasy feeling as he opened the garden gate; for joe, generally speaking, was honest as the skin between his brows; his hand faltered as he pressed the latch. “pooh, pooh! 'twas but an apple, after all!” said joseph. he pushed open the wicket, and found himself be- neath the tempting tree. but vain now were all its fascinations ; like fairy gold seen by the morning light, its charms had faded into very nothing- worlds, to say nothing of apples, which in shape resemble them, would not have bought him to stretch forth an unhallowed hand again: he went steadily to his work. the day continued cloudy; huge drops of rain fell at in- tervals, stamping his bald pate with spots as big as half-pence; but joseph worked on. as the day advanced, showers fell thick and frequent; the fresh-turned earth was itself fragrant as a bouquet. joseph worked on; and when at last jupiter pluvius descended in all his majesty, soaking the ground into the consistency of a dingy pudding, he put on his party- colored jacket, and strode towards his humble home, rejoicing in his renewed integrity. “'twas but an apple, after all ! had it been an apple-pie, indeed !"- "an apple-pie !" the thought was a dangerous one--too dan- gerous to dwell on. but joseph's better genius was at this time lord of the ascendant ;-he dismissed it, and passed on. jerry jarvis's wig. on arriving at his cottage, an air of bustle and confusion prevailed within, much at variance with the peaceful serenity usually observable in its economy. mrs. washford was in high dudgeon; her heels clattered on the red-tiled floor, and she whisked about the house like a parched pea upon a drum-head; her voice, generally small and low—"an excellent thing in woman was pitched at least an octave above its ordinary level : she was talking fast and furious. something had evidently gone wrong. the mystery was soon explained. the “cussed ould twoad of a cat” had got into the dairy, and licked off the cream from the only pan their single cow had filled that morning! and there she now lay, purring as in scorn. tib, heretofore the meekest of mousers, the honestest, the least “scaddle” of the feline race,-a cat that one would have sworn might have been trusted with untold fish,-yes,- there was no denying it,-proofs were too strong against her,- yet there she lay, hardened in her iniquity, coolly licking her whiskers, and reposing quietly upon—what ?–jerry jarvis's old wig!! the patience of a stoic must have yielded !—it had been too much for the temperament of the man of uz. joseph wash- ford lifted his hand—that hand which had never yet been raised on tibby, save to fondle and caress; it now descended on her devoted head in one tremendous “ dowse.' never was cat so astonished, - enraged-all the tiger portion of her nature rose in her soul. instead of galloping off, hissing and sputter- ing, with arched back, and tail erected, as any ordinary grim- alkin would unquestionably have done under similar circum- stances, she paused a moment,-drew back on her haunches, all her energies seemed concentrated for one prodigious spring; a demoniac fire gleamed in her green and yellow eyeballs, as, bounding upwards, she fixed her talons firmly in each of her assailant's cheeks -many and many a day after were sadly visible the marks of those envenomed claws—then, dashing over his shoulder with an unearthly mew, she leaped through the open casement, and was seen no more. “the devil's in the cat!" was the apostrophe of mrs. mar- garet washford. her husband said nothing, but thrust the old wig into his pocket, and went to bathe his scratches at the pump. jerry jarvis's wig. “why, where's your wig, joseph ?" said the voice of his master from the well-known window; "what have you done with your wig ?” the question was embarrassing,—its tail had tickled his ear till it had made it sore! joseph had put the wig in his pocket. mr. jeremiah jarvis was indignant; he liked not that his benefits should be ill appreciated by the recipient. “hark ye, joseph washford,” said he, “either wear my wig, or let me have it again!" there was no mistaking the meaning of his tones; they were resonant of indignation and disgust, of mingled grief and anger, the amalgamation of sentiment naturally produced by "friendship unreturned, and unrequited love." washford's heart smote him: he felt all that was implied in his master's appeal. “it's here, your honor," said he; “i had only taken it off because we have had a smartish shower; but the sky is brightening now.” the wig was replaced, and the little tortuous pigtail wriggled itself into its accustomed posi- tion. at this moment neighbor jenkinson peeped over the hedge. “joe washford !" said neighbor jenkinson. “sir to you," was the reply. “how beautiful your tulips look after the rain !” “ah! sir, master sets no great store by them flowers,” re- turned the gardener. “ indeed! then perhaps he would have no objection to part with a few ?” “why, no!-i don't think master would like to give them- or anything else-away, sir;" and washford scratched his ear. “joe!!” said mr. jenkinson—"joe!" the sublime, observes longinus, is often embodied in a monosyllable—“ joe !!!”—mr. jenkinson said no more; but a half-crown shone from between his upraised fingers, and its “poor, poor dumb mouth” spoke for him. how joseph washford's left ear did itch! he looked to the ground-floor back-mr. jarvis had left the window. mr. jenkinson's ground-plot boasted, at daybreak next morn- a legend of the weald of kent. ing, a splendid semper augustus, “which was not so before,” and joseph washford was led home, much about the same time, in a most extraordinary state of “civilation,” from “ the three jolly pot-boys." from that hour he was the fiend's !! “facilis descensus averni !" says virgil. “it is only the first step that is attended with any difficulty,” says-somebody else -when speaking of the decollated martyr st. dennis's walk with his head under his arm. “the first step!"-joseph washford had taken that step! he had taken two-three-four steps; and now, from a hesitating, creeping, cat-like mode of progression, he had got into a firmer tread—an amble-a posi- tive trot! he took the family linen “to the wash :"-one of madame witherspoon's best holland chemises was never seen after. “lost ?-impossible! how could it be lost ?-where could it be gone to ?—who could have got it? it was her best—her very best !—she should know it among a hundred-among a thou- sand !-it was marked with a great w in the corner !-lost? -impossible. she would see !"—alas! she never did see-the chemise abiit, erupit, evasit !-it was “like the lost pleiad, seen on earth no more." -but joseph washford's sunday shirt was seen, finer and fairer than ever-the pride and dulce decus of the meeting. the meeting ?-ay, the meeting. joe washford never missed the appledore independent meeting-house, whether the service were in the morning or afternoon,-whether the rev. mr. slyandrý exhorted or made way for the rev. mr. tearbrain. let who would officiate, there was joe. as i have said before, he never missed ;—but other people missed—one missed an umbrella, -one a pair of clogs. farmer johnson missed his tobacco box,-farmer jackson his great coat,-miss jackson missed her hymn-book,-a diamond edition, bound in maroon- colored velvet, with gilt corners and clasps. everything, in short, was missing—but joe washford; there he sat, grave, jerry jarvis's wig. christmas compotation, seemed to have selected for his “thrice- driven bed of down” the thickest clump of the tallest and most imposing nettles, thereon to doze away the narcotic effects of superabundant juniper. this, at least, was mr. moneypenny's belief, or he would scarcely have uttered, at the highest pitch of his contralto, “what are you doing there, you drunken rascal ? frightening my horse!” we have already hinted, if not absolutely asserted, that peggy was a mare; but this was no time for verbal criti- cism. “get up, i say,-get up, and go home, you scoundrel !" but the “scoundrel” and “drunken rascal” answered not; he moved not, nor could the prolonged shouting of the appel- lant, aided by significant explosions from a double-thonged whip, succeed in eliciting a reply. no motion indicated that the recumbent figure, whose outline alone was visible, was a living and a breathing man. the clear, shrill tones of a ploughboy's whistle sounded at this moment from the bottom of the hill, where the broad green expanse of romney marsh stretches away from its foot for many a mile, and now gleamed through the mists of morning, dotted and enamelled with its thousand flocks. in a few min- utes his tiny figure was seen "slouching" up the ascent, casting a most disproportionate and ogre-like shadow before him. “come here, jack," quoth the doctor,—"come here, boy; lay hold of this bridle, and mind that my horse does not run away.” peggy threw up her head, and snorted disdain at the insinu- ation,-she had not the slightest intention of doing any such thing. mr. moneypenny meanwhile, disencumbered of his restive nag, proceeded, by manual application, to arouse the sleeper. alas! the seven of ephesus might sooner have been awakened from their century of somnolency. his was that dreamless sleep that knows no waking; his cares in this world were over. vainly did moneypenny practice his own constant precept, “to be well shaken !”—there lay before him the lifeless body of a murdered man! the corpse lay stretched upon its back, partially concealed, as we have before said, by the nettles which had sprung up a legend of the weald of kent. for their humane administration of the laws, the lieges of this portion of the realm have long been celebrated. here it was that merciful verdict was recorded in the case of the old lady accused of larceny, "we find her not guilty, and hope she will never do so any more!" here it was that the more experienced culprit, when called upon to plead with the cus- tomary, though somewhat superfluous, inquiry, as to "how he would be tried ?” substituted for the usual reply “by god and my country," that of “by your worship and a dymchurch jury." here it was—but enough! not even a dymchurch jury could resist such evidence, even though the gallows (i.e. the expense of erecting one) stared them, as well as the criminal, in the face. the very pigtail alone! ever at his ear!-a clearer case of suadante diabolo never was made out. had there been a doubt, its very conduct in the court-house would have settled the question. the rev. joel ingoldsby, umquhile chaplain to the romney bench, has left upon record that when exhibited in evidence, together with the blood-stained knife, its twistings, its caperings, its gleeful evolutions, quite “flabbergasted” the jury, and threw all beholders into consternation. it was remarked, too, by many in the court, that the forensic wig of the recorder himself was, on that trying occasion, palpably agitated, and that its three depending, learned-looking tails lost curl at once, and slunk beneath the obscurity of the powdered collar, just as the boldest dog recoils from a rabid animal of its own species, however small and insignificant. why prolong the painful scene?-joe washford was tried- joe washford was convicted-joe washford was hanged ! the fearful black gibbet, on which his body clanked in its chains to the midnight winds, frowns no more upon orlestone hill; it has sunk beneath the encroaching hand of civilization; but there it might be seen late in the last century, an awful warning to all bald-pated gentlemen how they wear, or accept, the old wig of a special attorney, timeo danaös et dona ferentes ! such gifts, as we have seen, may lead to a "morbid delusion, the climax of which is murder !" the fate of the wig itself is somewhat doubtful; nobody seems miscellaneous poems. hermann; or, the broken spear. Α' n emperor, famous in council and camp, has a son who turns out a remarkable scamp; takes to dicing and drinking, and d-mning and sinking, and carries off maids, wives, and widows, like winking! since the days of arminius, his namesake, than hermann there never was seen a more profligate german. he escapes from the city; and joins some banditti, insensible quite to remorse, fear, and pity; joins in all their carousals, and revels, and robberies, and in kicking up all sorts of shindies and bobberies. well, hearing, one day, his associates say that a bridal procession was coming their way, inflamed with desire, he breaks into a priory, and kicking out every man jack of a friar, he upsets in a twinkling the mass-books and hassocks, and dresses his rogues in the clergyman's cassocks. the new-married folks taken in by this hoax, mister hermann grows frisky and full of his jokes : to the serious chagrin of her late happy suitor, catching hold of the bride, he attempts to salute her. now heaven knows what had become of the lot- it's turtle to tripe they'd have all gone to pot- if a dumb lady, one of her friends, had not run to her aid, and, quite scandalized, stopped all his fun! ( ) Áermann; or, the broken spear. hermann joins in the melée, pounds this to a jelly, runs that through the back, and a third through the belly, till many a broken bone, bruised rib, and flat head, make his ci-devant friends curse the hour that he ratted. amid so many blows, of course you'll suppose he must get a black re, or, at least, bloody nose: “take that!” cried a bandit, and stuck, while he spoke it, his spear in his breast, and, in pulling it out, broke it. hermann fainted away, when, as breathless he lay, a rascal claimed all the renown of the day,- a recreant, cowardly, white-livered knight, who had skulked in a furze-bush the whole of the fight. but the dumb lady soon puts some gin in a spoon, and half strangles poor hermann, who wakes from his swoon, and exhibits his wound, when the head of the spear fits its handle, and makes his identity clear. the murder thus out, hermann's fêted and thanked, while his rascally rival gets tossed in a blanket; and to finish the play- as reformed rakes, they say, make the best of all husbands——the very same day hermann sends for a priest, as he must wed with some -lady, buys a ring and a license, and marries the dumb lady. moral. take warning, young people of every degree, from hermann's example, and don't live too free! if you get in bad company, fly from it soon! if you chance to get thrashed, take some gin in a spoon; and remember, since wedlock's not all sugar-candy, if you wish to 'scape "wigging," a dumb wife's the dandy! the truants. never was such confusion and wrack as they produced in the zodiac ! “huzza! huzza! away! away! let us go down to the earth and play! now we go up, up, up, now we go down, down, down, now we go backwards and forwards, now we go round, round, round!” thus they gambol, and scramble, and tear, till at last they arrive at the nethermost air. and pray now what were these devilets called ? these three little fiends so gay! one was cob! another was mob! the last and the least was young chittabob ! queer little devils were they ! cob was the strongest, mob was the wrongest, chittabob's tail was the finest and longest ! three more frolicsome imps, i ween, beelzebub's self hath seldom seen. over mountain, over fell, glassy fountain, mossy dell, rocky island, barren strand, over ocean, over land; with frisk and bound, and squeaks and squalls, heels over head, and head over heels ; with curlings and twistings, and twirls and wheeleries, down they drop at the gate of the tuileries. courtiers were bowing and making legs, while charley le roi was bolting eggs : “mob,” says cob, “chittabob,” says mob, “come here, you young devil, we're in for a job.” up jumps cob to the monarch's ear, "charley, my jolly boy, never fear; if you mind all their jaw about charter and law, you might just as well still be the count d'artois ! no such thing, show 'em you're king, tip 'em an ordinance, that's the thing !" charley dined, took his pen and signed; then mob kicked over his throne from behind ! the truants. “huzza! huzza! we may scamper now! for here we've kicked up a jolly good row !” “ over the water and over the sea, and over the water with charlie;" now they came skipping and grinning with glee, not pausing to chaff or to parley. over, over, on to dover; on fun intent, all through kent these mischievous devils so merrily went. over hill and over dale, sunken hollow, lofty ridge, frowning cliff, and smiling vale, down to the foot of westminster bridge. "hollo," says cob, “there's the duke and sir bob! after 'em, chittabob, after 'em, mob." mob flung gravel and chittabob pebbles, his grace c -'d them both for a couple of rebels: his feelings were hurt by the stones and the dirt- in went he, in an ecstacy, and blew up the nobles of high degree. “mr. brougham, mr. hume, may fret and may fume and so may all you whom i see in this room; come weal, come woe, come calm, come storm- i'll see you all-blessed-ere i give you reform !" “ bravo !” says chittabob, “ that's your sort! come along, schoolfellows, here's more sport. look there! look there! there's the great lord may'r, with the gravest of deputies close to his chair; with hobler, his clerk! just the thing for a lark; huzza! huzza! boys, follow me now; here we may kick up another good row.” here they are, swift as a star they shoot in mid-air, over temple bar! tom macaulay beheld the flight of these three little dusky sons of night, my letters. my letters. {"litera scriptera manet."-old saw. of clearing up there's no appearance; so i'll sit down without delay, and here, at least, i'll make a clearance ! oh, ne'er“ on such a day as this" would dido with her woes oppressed have wooed Æneas back to bliss, or troilus gone to hunt for cressid ! no, they'd have stayed at home, like me, and popped their toes upon the fender, and drank a quiet cup of tea :- on days like this one can't be tender. and put my so, molly, draw that basket nigher, desk upon the table bring that portfolio-stir the fire- now off as fast as you are able ! > first, here's a card from mrs. grimes, “a ball !”_she knows that i'm no dancer that woman's asked me fifty times, and yet i never send an answer. “dear jack,- just lend me twenty pounds till monday next, when i'll return it. yours truly, henry gibbs." why, z-ds! i've seen the man but twice-here, burn it. song. : 'tis not that janet's false, father, 'tis not that she's unkind; tho' busy flatterers swarm around, i know her constant mind. 'tis not her coldness, father, that chills my laboring breast; it's that confounded cucumber i've eat and can't digest. song. i. thi where sits a bird on yonder tree, more fond than cushat dove; there sits a bird on yonder tree, and sings to me of love. oh! stoop thee from thine eyrie down and nestle thee near my heart, for the moments fly, and the hour is nigh when thou and i must part, my love! when thou and i must part. ii. in yonder covert lurks a fawn, the pride of the sylvan scene; in yonder covert lurks a fawn, and i am his only queen; oh! bound from thy secret lair, for the sun is below the west; no mortal eye may, our meeting spy, for all are closed in rest, my love! each eye is closed in rest. . as i laye a:thynkynge. as i laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, sadly sang the birde as she sat upon the tree! there seemed a crimson plain, where a gallant knighte laye slayne, and a steed with broken rein ran free, as i laye a-thynkynge, most pitiful to see! as i laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, merrie sang the birde as she sat upon the boughe; a lovely mayde came bye, and a gentil youth was nyghe, and he breathed many a sighe and a vowe; as i laye a-thynkynge, her hearte was gladsome now. e dreil bere! esed as i laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, sadly sang the birde as she sat upon the thorne; no more a youth was there, but a maiden rent her haire, and cried in sad despaire, “ that i was borne !” as i laye a-thynkynge, she perished forlorne. as i laye 'a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, sweetly sang the birde as she sat upon the briar; there came a lovely childe, and his face was meek and mild, yet joyously he smiled on his sire; as i laye a-thynkynge, a cherub mote admire. dsby. orace stare; but i laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, and sadly sang the birde as it perched upon a bier : that joyous smile was gone, and the face was white and wan, as the downe upon the swan doth appear, as i laye a-thynkynge-oh! bitter flowed the tear! as i laye a-thynkynge. as i laye a-thynkynge, the golden sun was sinking, o merrie sang that birde as it glittered on her breast with a thousand gorgeous dyes, while, soaring to the skies, 'mid the stars she seemed to rise, as to her nest; as i laye a-thynkynge, her meaning was exprest: "follow, follow me away, it boots not to delay, 'twas so she seemed to saye, “ here is rest!” t. i. u a pr . ingoldsby, thomas, - . the ingoldsby legends; or, mirth and marvels. ali all cato musie educat ion ey b instruct material m .g a $ . in usa el publi entertainm think i can list - en all day to such stuff? be · off, or ru kick you down they dance stairs. t'empo primo hohen con pedale be l.h. l.h. ie να -- i speak se - vere - ly to my a tempo le be he boy, i beat him when he sneez- , for paster he can thoroughly on - joy the pep-per, the pep-per, the chorus allegro fa pep-per when he pleas-es! speak se vere-ly, speak se-vere-ly, speak se - tolo . poco crescendo, 他​_ 莲​) pp 九 ​ . (中 ​ritenuto 四​、 presto marcato wast-ing our breath;'“i'll be judge,l'l be ju - ry," said eun-ning old fu- ry,"i'll rit. try the whole cause, and con demn you to death, rit. (allegro) be a piacere slow almost spoken ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, i'u con • demn you to p b death." fast be he be be bolo [sc. young and handsome. i can't! the struggle's over-it is past ! to blight such love 'twould take a sterner blast. (aloud) madam, behold the generous friend you seek, i'm a brave spirit, not an airy sneak; i'll go through fire and water for your sake, and if i haven't strength to stir the lake, i'll call on my big brother winds, to rise, wherever i can find them in the skies; and such a jolly breeze we'll make together, no land nor water witch the storm shall weather. princ. do that—and i'll in turn be your adorer; and build a temple here, to you—and flora. exit princess, l. e. zephyr. my wife! that is a floorer! never mind ! for young and handsome still i'll raise the wind; and as i've so legitimate a view in it, even my wife can't blow me up for doing it! swift! let me see which way the wind blows. (runs to window, l. f.) oh! east and by north it's coming on to blow; that's not a bad wind, if we get enough of it. it's getting up! i just caught the first puff of it! ho! aquilo! aquilo, appears at the window, l. f. aquilo. hah! how d'ye do, young fellow? zephyr. step in, i want you. aquilo. (jumping in) now! what's up? zephyr. don't bellow! where's brother boreas ? aquilo. a few points behind. zephyr. just whistle to him then, but gently, mind. (aquilo whistles at the window) and auster? aquilo. he's gone round to blow a cloud with eurus. zephyr. hush ! for heaven's sake, not so loud ! here's boreas ! boreas, at the window, l. f. boreas. what's the row ? (enters) sc. vii.] young and handsome. enter zephyr, l. e. zephyr. where there's a will there is a way. a chink i found, by good luck, on the very brink of desperation, and i've wriggled through it; now i've no body, i'm the boy can do it! and here you are! living (crosses c.) on love, no doubt; half-starved, and dying for a good blow out, and you shall have it in a brace of shakes. (noise, l.) hark! what a row one of my brothers makes rumbling down after me! (goes to l.) alidor. who is this mighty brisk little fellow ? he seems rather flighty! cupid. zephyr! he has been visible to you before, and was your rival once. alidor. (starts) ah, true! cupid. but there is no occasion for that start,- to do much harm he never had the heart : but here comes one that has. now for the struggle. enter mordicanta and jealousy, r. e. mordi. hah! what strange phantoms with my senses juggle? what light now breaks on my suspicions dark ? cupid. the light of love—the most electric spark. mordi. out on thee for a false intriguing knave! what dost thou here? cupid. i came your love to save. behold him, perfect still in form and feature; and here's your monster, quite another creature: so tame, a child might play with him at snapdragon, or a young lady make of him a lap-dragon. mordi. alidor, still alive! jupiter ammon ! and you preserved him for my sake? jeal. (aside, r.) oh, gammon! cupid. yes, that you might release him without ransom, and, in the best of senses, do the handsome. jeal. by giving him to young and hansome-don't ! mordi. oh, never fear me-no! no! that i won't! dramatis personÆ. hoffmann counselor lindorf coppelius dapertutto doctor miracle spalanzani crespel andres cochenille frantz luther nathanael hermann stella giulietta olympia antonia nicklausse the muse a ghost les contes d' hoffmann. the tales of hoffmann fmann. i speak of her... nathanael. nathanael. you need not blush, i imagine our friend wilhelm who's there, burns for leonor and finds her divine. hermann loves gretchen and i am near ruined for the fausta. who? hoffmann. nobody... nothing, my spirit is dullish. nothing. klein-zach is better, mal- formed as he is ! chorus flick, flack, there's klein-zach. hoffmann (to wilhelm). yes, leonor, thy virtuose. (to hermann.) yes, gretchen, thy doll inert, of icy heart. (to nathanael.) and thy fausta, poor insensate, the courtezan with front of brass. hoffmann (throwing away his glass! peuh!... this beer is detestable, let's light up the punch and drink; and may the light-headed roll under the table. nathanael. morose spirit, many thanks for fausta, gretchen and leonore !... chorus. and may the light headed • roll under the table. . hoffmann. pish. they are all alike. chorus. nathanael. then your mistress is such a treasure that you despise so much our own? (the lights go out, luther fires an im- mense punch bowl.) luther is a brave man, tire la laire, tire lan la. 'tis to-morrow that we poison him, tire lan laire, tire lan la. his cellar is a goodly spot, tire lan laire. 'tis to-morrow we will make it hot, tire lan laire, tire lan la. hoffmann. my mistress, no, no, say rather three. charming trio of enchantresses. who are dividing my days. would you like the story of my crazy loves ?... nicklausse. very good, indeed. at least we are pruned with reason and practical sense! away with languorous hearts. chorus. yes, yes! nicklausse. what are you saying of three mis tresses ? hoffmann. smoke!... before this dead pipe is relighted you will have comprehended, you who in this play where my heart was consumed in good sense took the first prize! (all the students go to their places.) nathanael. let's wager that hoffmann's in love. hoffmann. what then? the tales of hoffmann chorus. listen. it is nice to drink, to the telling of a crazy tale, while following the fragrant cloud, that a pipe throws in the air. to the rays of love. divine hearth! sun whose ardor peno- trates and comes to kiss us. ineffable desire where one's whole being melts in a single kiss. let, let my flame, etc., etc. (nicklausse appears.) being hoffmann (sitting on corner of table). i begin. chorus. nicklausse. by jove, i felt sure you'd be here. silence. . hoffman (letting portiere fall). chut. hoffmann. the name of the first was olym- pia... (the curtain falls as hoffmann is speaking.) nicklausse. why? 'tis there that breathes the dove who's now your amorous care, the beautiful olympia ? go, my child, admire! act ii. hoffman. yes, i adore her! (a physician's room, richly nished.) fur- nicklausse. hoffman (alone). want to know her better. come! courage and confidence; i become a well of science. i must turn with the wind that blows, to deserve the one i love. i shall know how to find in myself the stuff of a learned man. she is there... if i dared. hoffman. the soul one loves is easy to know. nicklausse. what? by a look... through a win- dow ? (he softly, lifts the portiere.. hoffman. a look is enough to embrace the heavens. 'tis she! she sleeps... how beautiful! ah! together live... both in the same hope, the same remembrance divide our happiness and our sorrow, and share the future. let, let my flame pour in thee the light, let your soul but open nicklausse. what warmth !... at least she knows that you love her. hoffman. no. the tales of hoffmann the chorus (with energy). no! no! the supper... good thing... after we'll dance. cochenille. the supper awaits you. spalanzani. as you please... the chorus. supper, supper, supper awaits us! no, really, no host receives more richly! hoffman (approaching olympia). might i dare... (they go out.) hoffman. spalanzani (interrupting). she is a bit tired, wait for the ball. (he touches olympia's shoulder.) they are at last gone. ah, i breathe ! alone, alone, the two of us (approach- ing olympia); i have so many things to say, oh my olympia! let me admire. you! with your charming looks let me in- toxicate myself. olympia. yes. lanzani. (he touches her shoulder). you see. until then will you do me the favor to keep company with my olympia : olympia. fman. yes. oh liappiness! hoffman. spalanzani (aside, laughing). we'll see what kind a story he'll give her. i is it not a dream born of fever? i thought i heard a sigh escape your lips ! nicklausse (to spalanzani). won't she take supper? (he again touches her shoulder). olympia. palanzani. yes. no. hoffman. nicklausse (aside). poetic soul! (stalansani goes behind olympia. noise of a spring is heard. nick- lausse turnis around.) what did you say? sweet avowal, pledge of our love, you are mine, our hearts are united forever! ah! understand you, tell me, this eter- nal joy of silent hearts. living, with but one soul and with same stroke of wing, rush up to heaven! let, let, my flame show you the light of day! let your soul open to the rays of love. spalanzani. nothing, physics! ah, monsieur, physics! (he conducts olympia to a chair. gocs t with guests). the tales of hoffmann guilietta. what! why, i've wept for you three whole days. nicklausse. one word! i have two horses sad- dled. at the first dream that hoffman permits himself, i carry him off. pitichinaccio. good. schlemil (to pitichinaccio). microbe ! hoffman. and what dream ever could be born by such realities? does one love a courtezan? pitichinaccio. hola! vicklausse. yet this schlemi... giulietta. calm yourselves ! we have a strange poet among us. · (presenting) hoffman ! man. i am not schlemil. schlemil (with bad grace). monsieur ! nicklausse. take care, the devil is clever. dapertutto (appears at back). fman. hoffman. monsieur ! giulietta (to schlemil). smile on us, i beg, and come take your place at pharaoh! were it so, if he makes me love her, may he damn me, come! nicklausse. let us go (they go out.) the chorus. bravo! to pharaoh! (giulietta after having invited all to followe' her, goes toward door. hoff- man offers his hand to giulietta. schlemil comes between.) schlemil (taking giulietta's hand). by heavens! giuletta. to the game, gentlemen, to the game! dapertutto (alone). yes !... to fight you. the eyes of giulietta are a sure weapon, it needed that schlemil fail, faith of captain and soldier, you'll do like him. i will that giulietta shall use sorcery on you. (drawing from his finger a ring with a big sparkling diamond.) turn, turn, mirror, where the lark is caught, sparkle diamond, fascinate, draw her... the lark or the woman to this conquering bait the chorus. to the game, the game! (all go out ercept hoffman and nici- lausse.) the snowflake and the starfish ~~ // + syld to the three children, lee sharon, tommy, and their aunt shirley. the snowflake and the starfish the sea-witch came in on the tide, riding on the waves like foam, and her hair floated out behind her like seaweed. she came to the beach and lay there breathing slightly, and her eyes searched every- where like a hungry gull. and michael doyle's little daughter vicky, walking along the beach in search of colored shells, turned to her brother, little thomas, and said, “it’s time we went home to supper.” | || answer was no help to her. little boys always seemed satisfied with something ordinary, whereas little girls always had to look for something curious and rare. a secret treasure that nobody else knew about, a strangeness, a difference—a little moon to wear in her hair, a star of her own, a personal snowflake—they were such lovely dreams. that was what a hope chest was for: to hold dreams. that was why boys didn't have them. next morning, when the children woke up, there was a tiny, silvery starfish lying at the foot of vicky's bed; and on little thomas's counter- pane, a small stuffed eel. | || because it was a lovely warm day, the two children went down to play on the beach; and as they were play- ing there, in the bright sunny foam, the sea-witch looked out of a wave and saw them. her feelings had been hurt at seeing her gifts swept out along with scraps of paper, old bottle caps, bits of string, and a stocking with a hole in it, and it was some time before she could bring herself to speak to them. at last, however, when it was almost time for lunch, she took a deep breath, and came out of the water onto the sand, dressed in striped bombazine like somebody's nurse. | | which opened onto the porch, and peeked out. "you go first,” said vicky. "you go,” said little thomas. “you’re the oldest.” “but you're a boy,” said vicky. “well,” said little thomas, "you're a bold girl and unafraid of mice.” so vicky slipped out of doors into the gray dark misty damp night, fol- lowed by little thomas; and right away they began to run as hard as they could, which was a great mis- take, because the minute they started to run, the piggy bank began to jingle, and the witch heard them and was up and after them like a shot; whereas if they had gone very quietly she might never have known they were there. [ ] “to eat?” asked little thomas, backing away and dropping his space helmet in the sand, so that he had to bend down to look for it. but the sea-witch gave a silvery laugh that sounded the way a school of minnows looks when it flashes by, this way and that, in the clear water. “what- ever gave you that idea?” she cried. "i only want to play with you.” "oh,” said little thomas, “in that case. . . .” “we'd like that very much,” said vicky politely. the sea-witch jumped to her feet, and at once began calling in her spells from up and down the beach. [ ] -> ***.- - - ...…t. . .” ...:” past schools of sheepshead, croakers, minnows, mackerel, bass, zebra fish, goldfish—fish of every size, color, and shape—past squid and octopuses waving their weed-like arms, whales going by like battleships, tiny shrimp bobbing about in country dances. and every once in a while the sea-witch would point to a great heap of pearls, or a big lump of amethyst, or to piles and piles of golden doubloons, and ask hopefully, “is this what you want? will you buy it?” and every time, with a little gasp, vicky would say, “’no, thank you,” and clutch her hope chest tighter. [ || uc-nrlf b library of the university of california. gift of autha class t is a study of the elements of mystery aid terror in the tales of e. t. w. hoffmann and e. a. poe. submitted by edward w. locher, university of california. in partial satisfaction of the requirements for the degree of master of letters. may, iv. u - sdward nilaiu looke ca! preface. the comparative study of two authors such as hoffmann and poe is by no means a new and unex- plored field of critical research. the extent of the comparative study of two authors, in respect to their use of the elements of mystery and terror, has been, however, quite limited and, in the case of the two writers above-named, little more seems to have been done than mere suggesstion such as is found in the "introduction to the tales" by e. c. stedman in the woodberry-stedman edition, and the rore recent article of mr. gruener in volume xix the "publi- cations of the lodern language association". the present essay aims at two things: first, to present a discussion of the elements of mystery and terror, particularly as relates to their use in i. literature, and, in the second place, to illustrate the use of these elements by a study of the tales of hoffmann anil poe. it does not pretend to have handled the subject exhaustively, nor even to have the nerit of scientific accuracy and precision, but the writer hopes that what he has ione rey encourage others to carry further the study of this interest- ing subject ani, perhaps, to awaken ir.creased inter- est in the two authors under corsileration. the vriter desires, in this correction, to express his appreciation of the aid rendered him by friends and instructors. in particular, thanks are due to professor eurt for timely suggestions as to method and sources, as well as for ideas derived from his "ballad an] epic", and from an unpublished article, "mentative conslusions based on the tales of e. a. ioe, in volumes i-iii", written in ioverber, . to professor kurtz thanks are due for sug- gestions in relation to the treatment of rv'stcry and ii. - terror, and for ideas taken from his unpublished study of "the marvellous" special privileges, accorded by the university of california library, which have aided greatly ir the work involved in the preparation of this essay, are gratefully ac- knowledged the writer. berkeley, california. april , . iii. - there l':'fy introduction. in the july, , number of blackwood's edinburgh magazine! ) a reviewer, in discussing the re- cently published translation of hoffman's "die elixire des teufels", ( ) offers the following suggestive discus- sion of the subject of tales of mystery and terror: "nothing that is a part, a real essential part, of human nature ever can be exhausted, - and the regions of fear and terror never will be so. human flesh will creep to the end of time at the witches of macbeth, ex- actly because to the end of time it will creep in a mid- night charnel-vault;- 'so was it when the world began, so ever it will be.' ( ). pages - . ( ). the name of the reviewer is not given. the trans- lation of "die elixire des teufels" appears to have been anonymous. - - "ghosts, spirits of the elements, intermediate beings between angels and men, fire and water spirits, dwarf's of the mines, good and evil attendants on indi- vidual men in one word, all sorts of supernatural appearances, and wonderful interferences of invisible beings these, in spite of all that philosophy can do, have taken such a place in the imaginations, and, indeed, in the hearts of men, that their total banish- ment from thence must forever remain an impossibility. every story of that kind, everything that looks like an anecdote from the world of spirits, and in general, every attempt to support these fantastic existences, or to remove the grounds on which reason would shun or re- ject them, is sure of a favorable reception from the most part of mankind. even the more enlightened among us, persons who would on no account have it said of them that they are serious believers in ghost stories. or in the possibility of the incidents on which such d) stories turn, - even these persons are in common well - - . - pleased with an opportunity of chatting over such things in a quiet way, by the fireside. nay, the philos- opher himself, who, with all parade of reasoning, con- tends against the reality of these appearances on which the ghost-seers rest their faith, feels, at times, his own fancy getting the better of his judgment, and has often enough to do to prevent himself from forming the same wish which others would have no hesitation in ex- pressing, the wish, namely, that the facts of the story-teller might be more closely examined. "a tradition, which is as old as our species, or, at the least, many centuries older than philosophy, has produced, in regard to such things, a sort of universal belief and consent of all nations. from infancy, in whatever quarter of the globe we are born, we are sure to be nourished with the same unvarying provender of tales, dreams and visions, all connected with this beliel; and it acquires over us a power too deep ever entirely to be shaken, at a period when we are not only devoid of any suspiciousness in regard to others, but unprovided by - reason with any weapons wherewith to defend ourselves from the assaults of our own credulous imaginations. in a word, as horace says of nature in general, 'however con- temptuously we may toss from us feelings which are common to all men, there are moments in which they creep, unper- ceived, into our bosoms; so we are sincerely of opinion that the earth does not at this moment contain one single individual who never felt a superstitious shudder in pass- ing a churchyard at midnight. we are equally of opin- ion that so long as this feeling, this painful feeling, as to the reality of such things continues, the human mind will continue to receive a tragic pleasure from the skil- ful use made of them in works of imagination. who is he that hath not known the delightful horror of perusing a book full of ghosts and devils at midnight, - the dear shudder with which one turns over the leal, hall suspecting its rustle to be the approaching footsteps of some fearful creature, 'not of the earth earthy'? if there be any such person, let him congratulate himself let him hug himself as much and as long as he pleases we would not purchase his indifference to the pain by giving up our own sensibility to it. we like to be horrified: we delight in 'frankenstein'; we delight in 'grierson of lagg'; we delight in 'the devil's elixir'." this is the spirit of romanticism as opposed to classicism. in her thesis on "the tales of terror", ( ) miss christabel forsythe fiske of cornell university has considered this point, and her observations scem well worthy of note. says miss fiske: "heine speaks some- where of 'that inexplicable mysterious shudder which seizes one in reading these apparently harmless tales'. he questions, 'whence does it arise, if not from some hall unconscious undercurrent of our being, to which indefinite element the author has appealed?' dunlop speaks more explicitly. he says, 'there exists in every heart at all susceptible to the influence of the imagination, a ( ). published in , in lashington, d. c. "a thesis submitted to the columbian university in part satis- faction of the requirements for the degree of m.a." reprinted in "the conservative review" of march, . - c certain superstitious dread of the world unknown which easily suggests the ideas of commerce with that world'. now we all know how the classicists had laughed to scorn any tendency toward fanciful superstition. they viewed things in clear daylight. an ingrained ten- dency of the human soul cannot, however, be eternally snubbed; and in the general emancipation from the iron rule of the classicists, the superstitious soul-fibre, which the most prosaic of us at times recognize, claimed its right to stretch itself after its long repression. but how could a ghost trail its robe through the plain, matter-of-fact world of augustan sunshine? instinct ively the mind flew back to the dear old days of mediae - val darkness when churchyards yawned unchallenged, and an inheritance of phantoms was the proud possession of any family worth knowing." our standard of judgment for such terror tales as we may deal with is, as miss fiske points out, based on the distinct arreal to the superstitious ele- ment in our souls, this power to arouse in us that "in- - and violent men; to which add the dangers and horrors of adventure, and physical or natural phenomena, which almost exclude the supernatural. much, too, that is seemingly supernatural, as the appearances in ann radcliffe's works, is explained away on purely natural grounds; yet the mys- tery and its effect of terror are none the less present. she makes use of subjective fear and in the use of the element of physical terror she is among the best writers in this kind. charles brockden brown excludes the supernatural machinery of haunted gothic halls, ghosts, devils and superstitions. in its place he develops the subjective tendencies that mark mrs. radcliff's works. "psychical phenomena are his terror-engine." but our nerves are not calmed by this circumstance. we have only to read his books to see how effectively such psychological problems as somnambulism and ventriloquism are used to produce the horror effects. these uncanny manifestations are not lost sight of by hoffmannor poe. mesmerism, with all the eerie mysteries of mental phenom- ena, strange or abnormal mental and pathological conditions, - - and the workings of the occult or antique sciences are all part of the stock in trade of the terror writer. insanity, loathsome disease, unhuman dispositions, are simply abnormal manifestations of what is basically natural as opposed to supernatural. the foregoing pages aim to point out to the reader something of the nature and scope of the tales of mystery and terror, and, in a somewhat empirical man- ner, to explain the nature of their effectiveness on the reader's mind and the means whereby they are rendered ef- fective. it has been suggested that in the desire of the reader for this class of literature, we have the genuine romantic feeling. dr. kurtz, in his splendid treatment of the ( ) subject of the marvellous, has some very interesting ideas on cases of unusual surprise and certain related ( ). an unpublished, but excellent, scientific study of the subject of "the marvellous". that division which concerns "wonder and certain related states" has been drawn upon for the purposes of this essay. )) - - states of mind. the present essay will not permit of the extended notice which this subject really merits, but some of the ideas are certainly essential to the pres- ent discussion. dr. kurtz's work serves to show us wherein literature makes use of mystery, the strange or unusual,- and, further, that their accompaniment of pleas- urable terror is natural. he discusses belief in its relation to wonder and shows how the true romantic spirit arises out of ideal freedom. all of this will enable the reader better to see the reason and meaning in what has already been presented. dr. kurtz has divided surprise into two classes, sudden and unusual surprise. it is the un- this usual class with which the writer has to deal. class, as pointed out, manifests itself in cases of mere rarity, cases of improbability, and cases of impossibil- ity. in each case surprise may pass to wonder and as we pass from the lower stages of mere rarity in surprise to the higher stages of the impossible, we pass also from the lower stages of wonder to the higher stages where we - - . more than wonder we marvel. inasmuch as belief, (even though it be but an implied belief), is essential to a reader's experiencing of that pleasurable terror which we have considered as having its origin in mystery tales, therefore there must not intervene between the story and the reader anything which will destroy belief. to achieve this end rests in part with the author, in part with the reader. it must be the author's art to lend verisimilitude to his tale. he must, moreover, introduce his unusual surprises his mystery into his writing in a manner which shall be natural and unobtrus- ive, at least in direct proportion to the rarity, the im- probability, or the impossibility of his subject matter. the reader, on the other hand, cannot be the judicial critic, much less the skeptic or conservative of the watchdog, johnsonesque, classic type. dr. kurtz has pointed out that absolute belief is only less dangerous than no belief, for, as he puts it, rerity dies with ab- solute belief, or at least rarity ceases to be felt as such. "belief," he says, "introduces the marvellous - - by substituting the ideal standard of possibility. this throws us into literature. belief supports, it- self with an ideal realm of the possible, a world of the possible marvellous. in it there is freedom, an ideal freedom, which sulfices to explain away impossibility." here we have the seemingly illogical and paradoxical idea of the impossible being possible, but the requirements of romantic fiction justify and explain this apparent breach of sense. romanticism with its marvels opened to the german novelists a world of ideal freedom from which they eagerly drew materials. in hoffmann's tales the sym- bolism itself bore the scent of freedom. where meaning and sense fuse, we have the symbolism which is in fact romanticism. this is professor gayley's idea of a long- ing for ideal freedom as the keynote of romanticism. the present essay does not aim to undertake a complete discussion of the subject of mystery and terror in con- and the use of these elements in literature. tinuing the discussion of this subject which, as here given, - is simply introductory to the more intensive study of the tales, the writer of this essay desires to quote some passages from his own study and researches ( ) in relation to mystery and terror, merely with the end in view that the reader shall approach the subject with a somewhat clearer idea of its nature and hence a more certain sympathy for its treatment. oswald, in his etymological dictionary, has defined mystery as some thing carefully concealed and teat( ) therefore exciting curiosity and wonder. and skeat says it is something kept concealed or very obscure to the understanding. these definitions are pregnant with the meaning which we must attach to this term in relation to its use in literature. for, in handling subject matter which is unusual or strange, the artist who will achieve an effect of mystery must seek to keep ( ). a preliminary study of the subject of "iystery and terror in literature", made with a view to its use in the present essay: ( ). "dictionary of etymology". - . . his machinery hidden or obscure, and the nearer that the subject matter approaches the commonplace or tangible, the more will the artist be called upon to prove his art in gaining this effect of obscurity or concealment of meaning. in this connection it is interesting to note a passage taken from scott's well-known and ad- mirable article on "the supernatural in fictitious composition". ( ) he says: "the supernatural in fictitious composition must be managed with con- siderable delicacy inasmuch as criticism is ever on the alert. the interest which it excites is in- deed a powerful spring, but it is one which is pe- culiarly subject to be exhausted by coarse handling and repeated pressure. it is also of a character which it is extremely difficult to sustain and of which a very small proportion may be said to be better than (l). published in "the foreign quarterly review," , volume i, page . - - the whole. the marvellous, more than any other attribute of fictitious narrative, loses its effect by being brought much into view. the imagination of the reader is to be excited, if possible, without be- ing gratilied. if once, we, like macbeth, "sup full of horrors", our taste for the banquet is ended, and the thrill of terror with which we hear or read of a night-shriek becomes lost in that sated indiffer- ence with which the tyrant came at length to listen to the most deep catastrophes that could affect his house. the incidents of a supernatural character are usually those of a dark and indefinable nature, to which our fears attach more consequence, as we cannot tell what it is we behold or what is to be apprehended from it. obscurity, as burke says, is necessary to make anything terrible. in milton's description of death, all is dark, uncertain, confused, terrible and sublime to the last degree. this association of the terrible and sublime in mystery is of interest. the apparition which appears to job is cited by burke, - - who concludes by saying: "from these sublime and de- cisive authorities it is evident that the exhibition of supernatural appearances in fictitious narrative ought to be rare, brief and indistinct, and such as may become a being to us so incomprehensible, and so differ- ent from ourselves, of whom we cannot justly conjecture whence he comes or for what purpose, and of whose at- tributes we can have no regular or distinct perception. hence it usually happens that the first touch of the supernatural is always the rost effective and is rather / weakened and defaced, than strengthened, by the subse- quent recurrence of similar incidents. even in ham- let, the second entrance of the ghost is not nearly so impressive as the first; and in many romances the super- natural being forfeits all claim both to our terror and our veneration, by condescendins to appear too often; to mingle too much in the events of the story, and, above all, to become loquacious or as it is familiarly called, chatty. shakespeare makes his supernatural beings speak in language befitting them. in a leaner - - under the gradually approaching end, a peculiar condition of rapt suspense. this is termed pursuit or plot interest. among those elements which increase the interest of pursuit, by making it more exciting, is that of uncertainty, and the highest form of uncertainty," says bain, "is mystery, whose charm is due to the ideal chase that it opens up". it is this highly exciting inter- est which constitutes the most striking effect of mys- tery in fiction. "as uncertainty trenches on fear," bain says, "it must not be carried far" this sug- gests to us, that in the study of any author's use of mystery, we must inquire whether he has gone so far as to produce an effect of terror, both on the personages of his composition and on his readers. has he done this consciously or unconsciously? what means has he used? continuing, bain says: "absolute certainty unluly relaxes the bodily ani mental strain that is needed for the maximum of gratification. tie do not bring forth all our resources of pleasurable conscious- - - ག་ sully, in his "sensation and intuition" ( ) refers to the construction of an interesting and absorb- ing plot. "the attraction of plot", he says, "in its narrowest sense, is due, largely, to the play of the in- tellect and the will in curiosity and imaginative an- ticipation. any spectacle which involves great un- certainty of issue, however little value this issue may have in itself, may stimulate in a pleasurable manner the activities of attention and expectation. the highest degree of this gratification is obtained when the event is neither too improbable and unexpected, nor too certain. in the former case there may be a pleasurable shock of surprise, but the impulse to fol- low out the sequence of events is discouraged, and the mind is simply bewildered. on the other hand, if the issue appears too certain, there is no room for the excitement of susjense, and consequently the attention flags. ( ). sully:- "sensation and intuition", pages - . - "hence the purest form of this pleasurable excitement is afforded by a set of circumstances which opens up a number of possible issues, though we have not knowledge enough to determine which is the most probable. thus all spectacles of struggle between pretty equal forces, whether moral or physical, excite this feeling. in watching a twig moving down a stream amid a number of eddies, and in viewing a great battle, the observer derives a like pleasure in trying to forecast a doubtful result, and in watching the gradual unfolding of a dimly conjectured event." ( ) again, sully treats of the subject of mys- tery and what he says is highly pertinent to its use in fiction. "curiosity and tip-toe expectation are produced by a type of character which impresses us with the curious feeling of awe and incipient terror. evil natures ol great power, and having opportunities of mischief, stir, in the beholder's mind, vague anticipa- ( ). "sensation ani intuition", page . - - tions of tragic disaster, which, if not too distinct are of a pleasurable and stimulating character. when the presence of such a nature has made itself felt on us, it begins to exercise a fascinating influ- ence on our attention. with something of the men- tal tension and emotional excitement with which we watch the play of lightning when it is too ler to threaten us with immediate injury, we follow all the movements of a dangerous and volcanic nature in whose impenetrable recesses lie such possibilities of evil. accordingly, such characters are fitted to awaken an intense degree of that interest in personality on which the value of dramatic action and poetic narrative so largely depends." sully, in his "outlines o? igychology" (?) elaborates some of the ideas concerning wonder as a mental state, which dr. kurtz has treated in his re- searches before mentioned. as the discussion is ( ). sully: "outlines of isychology", pages - . - quite apropos to our study in reference to literature, it seems useful to quote somewhat from it. "all acquisition and discovery of new know- ledge," he says, "is fitted to give pleasure, the en- joyment being greater when the facts or truths con- trast strikingly with our previous knowledge. in this case we experience the pleasurable excitement of surprise or wonder. there is a feeling of perplexity and confusion in view of what is strange and exception- al. that is strange, - far removed from the ordinary level of our experience, may, as just pointed out, give the mind the pleasurable excitement of wonder. this feeling, if excessively indulged in, is antagonistic to knowledge. the intense craving for the wonderful, the love of the marvellous, has something of an intox- icating effect and paralyzes the impulses of inquiry. but, in moderate degrees, the emotion of wonder is the natural stimulus to further inquiry. tonder lives by isolating the new fact or circumstance from the familiar orier of experience." this important state- - - ment, is, as dr. kurtz suggests, the keynote in the employment of the mysterious or rare in literature. sully's succeeding remarks will call to mind some of the points touched upon earlier in the present essay. "such isolation," he says, "becomes disagreeable through the rise of the intellectual impulse to under- stand. when, on a close and prolonged direction of the mind to a thing, it maintains its isolated and strange appearance, the mind experiences a feeling of perplexity." if, in the above, which is an analysis of the state of mind of wonder in actual experience, we substitute for "disagreeable" such a formula as "grad- ually exciting" or "possessed of growing interest", we have transposed this to an analysis of this state of mind with reference to the reader of mystery and ter- ror piction. it is the maintaining, by a thing of wonder, of its isolation or strangeness of appearance, its baffling of interpretation on the part of the reader, which holds a continuous and growing interest in a given literary composition. in some of poe's - - tales, those of ratiocination, we have the solution to the mystery, but it is not given until the end. we are not shocked by the suddenness of the solution; - it is not absolutely sudden, for, while we do not really suspect the solution before it is given, we do feel its gradual approach as our interest grows. in some other tales, both of hoffmann and poe, the solution is not given, or perhaps even implied, but may be left to the reader to work out to his own satisfaction. ( ) "wonder", says sully, his related as a disturbing shock to the emotion of fear. what is wholly strange is apt to give us a sense of insecurity." this would seem to account for the feeling of fear which arises in spite of us, when in reading of the strange or mysterious, we seem to feel ourselves in its very presence. "the fear of the dark which seems to arise in young children apart from the suggestion of others, is probably connected with the strangeness and absence ( ). "outlines of psychology", pages - . - - it may of knowledge belonging to the situation." be added that the exhilarating and depressing effect of what is new and unfamiliar, varies much with in- dividual temperament. pathological conditions, as dr. kurtz suggests, are also a cause of variation in the degree of this effect. the part which belief plays in fiction of the mystery and terror kind, has been alluded to. ( ) in this connection mocosh has some interesting ob- servations. "every one knows that the feelings are capable of being moved by imaginary as well as real scenes. people weep over the distresses of the heroine of a novel as they do over actual sorrow,- they glory in the success of a hero on the stage as they do in the exploits of one who once lived on the earth. how are we to account for this? do we believe for the instant that the scenes are real? the common theory is that we do so. but is it nec- ( ). mccosh: "the emotions", page . - distracted by the other objects constantly pressing themselves on the attention. it is to gratify the appetences of our nature by means of ideas, call- ing forth feeling with its excitements and attach- ments, that tales have been invented; first recited, then written, and then printed. people at all ages of life and of all times delight in such crea- tions." to dr. mccosh's view, we may assent with this modification: namely; that, while there is no act- ual statement or conscious feeling of belief necessary, unbelief being absent, yet the very fact that there is no unbelief implies a belief which in the reader is un- conscious, yet present. and when we speak of belief in mystery and terror fiction, it is this unconscious implied belief which we mean. we may now conclude the discussion of mys- tery and terror in literature by quoting briefly from ( ) bain, who, in his treatment of terror, has shown ( ). "the emotions and the vill", tages - . - quite clearly its relation to mystery and its use in literature. he says: "mhe most characteristic feature in the situation of terror is uncertainty, ig- norance, darkness. in the case of a great but cer- tain and understood evil, the ideal pain may be simply a measure of the reality of the case. the irregular, disproportionate and eccentric courses connected with terror are brought into relief under future evil of un- known amount or character. there being no definite picture to control or study the movements of the mind, anything is received that the chance course of the thoughts may introduce; but as nothing is sure or abid - ing, the victim is tossed to and fro in distraction. under the ordinary laws of thought and feeling, there would naturally ensue a state of excitement, voluminous and painful. this is the genuine manifestation of terror. such is the case of a susceptible or super- stitious mind in a haunted castle. nothing is clear, definite or certain; there is a great evil possibility, and yet the person does not know when, where or what. - every trifle is suggestive; but all is speculation and incoherence; the mind shaken from its calm center, desolate and depressed, anticipates the worst, with- out knowing what the worst is. the gloomy excite ment grows and deepens." if this be the effect in actual experience, it becomes the problem of the writer of fiction, not alone to portray it in his story, but to instill it in his reader. as has been suggested, a clever writer will succeed in this, except that no writer may hope to bring his reader to that stage of despair which is the culmination of terror as depicted in actual experience. what he succeeds in àoing is in obtaining in his reader a kind of negative pleasure which is nothing less than a mild or intoxicat- ing terror, the pleasure being the result of excited interest. "the expression of fear," says bain'?) "makes a subject for the artist, whether painter or poet. the ( )."the emotions and the "ill", pages - . - . - actor brings it on the stage, both in tragic and in comic exhibitions. pictures and tales of thrill- ing interest are sometimes created out of the deepest horrors that reality or imagination can furnish. a genuine pright is, undoubtedly, an experience of real misery; but a slight fear, with speedy relieł, occur- ring in times of dullness and stolid composure, acts like a stimulant on the nervous system. in the flush of high bodily vigor, danger only heightens the interest of action or pursuit. the hunting of tigers is the most exciting of srorts. "but it is in the terror of fiction that the sting is most effectually extracted and only the pleas- urable stimulus left behind. in proportion as the reality of evil is removed far from ourselves, we are at liberty to join in the excitement produced by the expression of fear. the skillful dramatist is able to regulate the dose. some mirds can endure a large amount of this element, having that robustress of nerve that can throw off the pain and not be too - - - the emotions. i but, in the primitive world, people were uncomplex, not yet self-conscious, and they frankly delighted in terror-inspiring tales and re- ligions. is it true that the complex self-con- scious people of today do not delight in the things which inspire terror? or is it true that they are ashamed to make known their delight? what is it that lures boys to haunted houses after dark, compel- ling them to fling rocks and run away, with their hearts going so thunderously pit-a-pat as to drom the clatter of their flying feet? what is it that grips a child, forcing it to listen to ghost stories which drive it into ecstasies of fear, and yet forces it to beg for more? is it a baleful thing, - a thing his instinct warns him as unhealthy and evil,-. the while his heart leaps out to it? or, again, what sends the heart fluttering up and quickens the feet of the man or woman who goes alone down a long dark hall or up a winding stair? is it a stirring of the savage in them, - of the savage who has slept, but never died, - since the time when the river-foll crouched over the fires of their squatting-places, or the tree-folk bunched together and chattered in the dark? what- ever the thing is, and whether it be good or evil, it is a thing and it is real. it is the thing doe rouses in us, scaring us in broad day, and throwing us into 'admired disorders'. it is rarely that the grown person, who is afraid of the dark, will make con- fession. it does not seem to them proper to be a- fraid of the dark ani they are ashamed. ferhers people feel that it is not proper to delight in stor- ies that arouse fear and terror. they nay feel in- stinctively that it is bad and injurious to have such emotions aroused, and, because of this, they are im- pelled to say that they do not like such stories while in actuality they do like them." the reader must now have a somewhat well- defined and clear idea of mystery and terror and the allied states of mind which have been discussed, both with regard to their function in actual experience and - - to their uses and purposes in literary composition. while it is not the present intention of the writer to enlarge on the observations heretofore written down, in connection with the succeeding study of the tales of zoe and hoffman, it will not be amiss to state that the reader, having in mind the foregoing treatment of the subject of mystery and terror, will find himself better enabled to understand a treatment of tales involving these elements and to understand why such tales are so effective. we may pass nor to a brief discussion of the ideas of hoffman and poe, in regard to literary composition, both as exemplified in their own written opinions and through the direct evidence of their compositions. ferhaps hoffman had some definite theory for the construction of a tale, such as we find in foe's critical work, but it is nowhere dwelt upon in his col lected works. there are, however, several passages relative to the use of mystery and terror, found in that - collection of his works called "die serapions brüder! ) and in this connection they may profitably be considered. in "der dichter und der componist»( ), he speaks of the manner in which the marvellous may enter into a tale naturally and of necessity. "ich errinnere mich jetzt ganz genau des herrlichen phantastischen stücks, und noch fühle ich den tiefen eindruck, den es aúť mich machte. du hast recht, das underbare erscheint hier als notwendig und ist so poetisch wahr, dasz man willig daran glaubt." again, in discussing the writing and character of works of fancy, in the discussion following, "nuszknacker und lausekönig( ) he says: "zu keinem verk, würd' ich ferner sagen, gehöre mehr ein klares ruhiges gemüt, als zú einem solchen, das wie in regelloser spielender willkür von allen seiten ins blaue hinaus blitzend, doch einem festen kern in sich tregen solle und müsse. ( ). in the berlin edition of "hoffmann's werke", pub- lished by gustav hempel. published about . ( ). volume i, lages - . ( ). volume i, lages - . - - ܚ ܐ ܝ doch bleibt es ein gewagtes unternehmen, das durchaus phantastische ins gewöhnliche leben hineinzuspielen und ernsthaften leuten, obergerichtsräten, archivarien und studenten tolle zauberkappen überzuwerfen, das z sie wie fabelhafte spukgeister am hellen lichten tage durch die lebhaftesten straszen der bekanntesten städte schleichen und man irre werden kann an jedem ehrlichen nachbar. wahr ist es, dasz sich daraus ein gewisser ironisirender ton von selbst bildet, der den trägen geist stachelt oder ihn vielmehr ganz unvermerkt mit gutmütiger meine wie ein böser schalk hineinverlockt in das fremde gebiet. dieser ironische ton, möchte die gefährlichste ylippe sein, da an ihr sehr leicht die anmut der er- findung und darstellung, welche wir von jedem lliärchen verlangen, scheitern, rettungslos zu grunde gehen kann. ist es denn möglich, die bedingnisse solcher dichtungen festzustellen? tieck, der herrliche tiefe lleister, der schöpfer der anmutigsten märchen, die es geben mag, hat darüber den personen die im phantasus - auftreten, auch nur einzelne geistreiche und belehrende bemerkungen in den kund gelegt. nach diesen soll bedingnisz des märchens ein still fortschreitender ton der erzählung eine gewisse unschuld der darstellung sein, die wie san?t phantasirend l'usik ohne lärm und geräusch die seele pesselt. das werk der phantasie soll keinen bittern nachgeschmack zurück lassen, aber doch ein nachgenieszen, ein lachtönen. doch reicht dies wohl aus, den einzig richtigen ton dieser dich- tungsart anzugeben." he goes on to condemn "nutcracker" for its lack of perfection but says that, in his opinion, "der goldene top" will meet the ideals of tieck. after the story "nachricht aus dem leben eines bekannten wannegn(i) the serapion brethren discuss the use op the supernatural and witchcraft in connect- ion with fantasy and irony. "das unheir liche, spukhafte, das sonst dem 'furchtbar verneinenden ?rincip ( ). volume iii, lage . - der schöpfung' beiwohnt, kann durch den komischen contrast, in dem es erscheint, nur jenes seltsame gefühl hervorbringen, das, eine eigentümliche mischung des gravenhaften und ironischen, uns auf gar nicht unangenehme weise spannt. anders verhalt es sich mit den leidigen hexengeschichten. hier tritt das wirkliche leben ein mit allen seinen schrecken. mir war's, als ich von der hinrichtung der barbara roloffin las, als säh' ich noch den scheiterhaufen auf dem neuen markt dampfen, und alle greuel der fürchter- lichen hexenprozesse traten mir vor die seele. ein paar roth funkelnde augen, ein struppiges schwarzes oder graues haar, ein ausgedörrter ynochenleib - das reichte hin, ein altes armes teib für eine hexe zu er- klären, alles unheil ihren teufelskünsten zuzuschreiten, ihr in aller juristischen form zu leibe zu gehen und sie auf den scheiterhaufen zu bringen. die scharfe frage (tortur) bestätigte die unsinnigsten anklagen und ent- schied alles." - . ( ) in another place hoffmann speaks of his adherence to the principle oi welding the legendary on to the every-day life of his time. he says that the old supposition was that it was necessary to localize everything of the legendary kind in the remote east, taking scheherezade as the model in so doing. "in so doing, as soon as the writer touched upon the manners, the customs, the ways of life of the east, he got into a world which was apparently hovering adrift all in a sort of unreality, anchorless, before our eyes, all on the point of floating away and disappearing. this is why those tales so often strike coldly on us, the and have no power to kindle the inner spirit fancy. what i mean, and think, is, that the foot of the heavenly ladder, which we have got to mount in order to reach the higher regions, has to be fixed firmly in every-day life, so that everybody may be ( ). a. ewing: "translation of hoffmann's serapion brethren", book ii, volume iii. section v, pages - . - - able to climb up it along with us. when people then find that they have got climbed up higher and higher into a marvellous magical world, they will feel that that realm, too, belongs to their ordinary, every-day life, and is merely the wonderful and most glorious part thereof. for them it is the beautiful flower- garden beyond the city-wall, into which they can go, and in which they can wander and enjoy themselves, if they have but made up their minds to quit the gloomy walls of the city, for a time. but there are quantities of people who won't go up the ladder at all, because it isn't "proper" or "becoming". many turn giddy by the time they get to the third rung of it. nany never see it at all, though it is facing them in the broed, daily path of their lives and they pass it by every day. as re- gards the tales of the 'thousand and one nights', it is remarkable enough that most of those who have tried to imitate them, have overlooked that which is just what gives therr. life and reality. all the cobblers, tailors, dervishes, merchants, and so forth, who appear - as the characters in those tales, are people who are to be met with every day in the streets. and, in- asmuch as life is independent of times and manners, but is always the same affair in its essential condit- ions (and always must be so), it follows that we feel that all those folks upon whom, in the middle of their every-day lives, such extraordinary and magical adven- tures came, and such spells wound themselves, are really the sort of people who are actually walking about amongst us. such is the marvellous, mighty power of description, characterization, and represen- tation in that immortal book." in connection with the story of "der un- heimliche gast»( ) hoffman has a decidedly interest- ing introductory discussion which shows his full under standing and appreciation of the subjects of mystery and terror and the supernatural. his understanding of the sychological and physical relations of these elements, both as to their existence in actual exper- ( ). volume iii, page . - - and speaking of ghost-stories and their ef- ( ) fect: "wie würden jene geschichten, die uns als kinder doch die allerliebsten waren, so tief und ewig in unsrer seele wilerhallen, wenn nicht die wilertönen- den saiten in unserm eigenen innern lägen. niclt wegzuleugnen ist die geheimniszvolle geisterwelt, die uns urgiebt, und die oft in seltsamen ilängen ja, in wunderbaren visionen sich uns offenbart. die scrauer der furcht,'ies entsetzens mögen nur herrühren von der drarge des irdischen organismus. es ist das seh des eingekerkerten geistes, das sich darin ausspricht." ho? prann and poe have loth noted the necessity for certain artistic bounds in the use of the terrible or horrible in fiction. in the matter introductory to his tale, "vampyrismus mus ( ) one of the most revolting and awful of his stories, hoffmann says of the horrible, tarticularly such as is represented in this tale: "ein stoll kann aus dieser idee hervorgehen, der von einem ( ). volume iii, tages - . ( ). volume iv, tages - . - - phantasiereichen dichter, dem poetischer tact nicht fehlt, behandelt, die tiefen schauer jenes geheimnisz- vollen grauens erregt, das in unserer eigenen brust wohnt und, berührt von den elektrischen schlägen einer dunkeln geisterwelt, den sinn erschüttert, ohne ihn zu verstören. eben der richtige poetische takt des dichters wird es hindern, dasz das grauenhalte nicht aussrte ins "iderwärtige und ekelhalte, das dann aber reistentheils zugleich aberwitzis genus erscheint, un auch die leiseste wirkung auf unser gemüt zu verfehlen. warurn sollte es dem dichter nicht vergönnt sein, lie iiebel der furcht, les grauens, des entsetzens zu be- wegen? etwa weil hie und da ein schwaches gerüt dergleichen nicht verträgt? soll starke most par nicht auſgetragen werden, weil einige am tische sitzen, lie schwächlicher latur sind oder sich den l'accn ver- dorben haben?" again, in sieaking of the horrible: "wir wissen ja ulle, wie wunderbar die gröszten dichter vermöge jener lebel das menschliche gemüt in seinen tief- sten innern zu bewegen wuszten. tan darf je nur an - - shakespeare denken. und wer verstand sich auch darauf besser als unser herrlicher tieck in mancher seiner erzählungen? ich will nur des 'lieteszaubers' erwähnen. die idee dieses lärchens musz in jeder trust eiskalte todesschauer, ja der schlusz las tiefste entsetzen erregen, und noch sini die farben so glück- lich gemischt, dasz trotz alles grauens und entsetzens uns der geheimnisvolle cauberreiz des tragischen le- långt, der wir uns willig und gern hingeben. io wahr ist das, was ricct seinem lanfred in len lund legt, ur die einwürfe der frauen gegen das schauerliche in der _oesie zu widerlegen! ja, wohl ist das intsety- iche, was sich in der alltäglichen telt begiebt, eis nt- lich dasjenige, was die trust rit unverwindlichen cualen foltert berreiszt. jä, vohl gebärt die crausankeit der menschen, das leni, es grosze und kleine cyrannen, schonungslos mit dem teuflischen sohn der hölle scha!?er, die echten gespenster εeschichten. und ie schön sast nun ler dichter: 'in der gleichen marchanlite erfiring- en aber kann ja dieses eleni ter clt nur ie von muntern - - farben gebrochen hineinsiilen, und ich fächte, auch ein nicht starkes auge müszte es auſ diese teise er- tragen'." poe's ideas of the treatment of the horri- al". ( ) ble are found in the opening lines of his tale "the premature burial". he says: "there are certain themes of which the interest is all-absorbing, but which are too entirely horrible for the purposes of legitimate fiction. these the mere romanticist must eschew, if he do not wish to offend or to dis- gust. they are with propriety only handled, when the severity and majesty of truth sanctify and sus- tain them. we thrill, for example, with the most intense of 'pleasurable pain' over the accounts of the passage of the beresina, of the earthquake at lisbon, of the flague at london, of the l'assacre of st. barthol- omew, or of the stilling op the hundred and twenty- three frisoners in the dlack hole at calcutta. but ( ). see morks. x - - in these accounts, it is the fact it is the reality it is the history which excites. as inventions, we should regard them with simple abhorrence. ! ) scott, in his essay before mentioned, has some interesting remarks concerning hoffmann which seem to be adajted to the conclusion of our introductory iiscussion of that author. he says: "the attachrent of the gerrans to the mysterious has invented still another species of composition, which, perhaps, could hürily have made its way in any other country or language, (this article or scott's ras written before toe began to work in this class of fiction). this may le called the fantastic role of writine, in vihich the most wild and unbounded license is given to an irregular fancy and all si-cite of corbination, however ludicrous or how ever shocking, are attempted ani executed without scruple. in the other modes of treating the su erratural, even that mystic region is subjectel to some laws, owever ( ). "on the sun ernatural in fictitivus como-iliür". " slight, and farcy, in wandering through it, is reculated by some probabilities in the wildest flight." lote once more thut scott's essay eiearei bezore lou's tales ani hear scott say: "our english severity of taste will not easily adopt this wild ani fantastic tone into our own literat:re; nay, perhaps will scarce tolerate it in translations." scott mentions the translation of foffmann's "die elixire des eu els", as having with chamisso's "peter schlemihl" enl sinilcr gerran works, introlucet this style to the english. ti the autor who led the way in this department of literature was ernst theodor silhelm hoffmann, the peculiarity of whose genius, temper ari hatits, littel his to listinguish hir, sel. where imagination was to be strained to the witch of oility and bizarrerie. he apucars to have been a ran of rare talent, - a poet, an artist and a musician, but unfortunately of a hypochondriac ani whirsical lis- position which carried him to extremes in all his under- takings, so his rusic lecare capricious, his dravirgs caricatures anl his tales, as he himself termed them, lur- ". tastic extravagur.ces." t.e may easily compare his ! intemperate halits, (some recert writers declsre that hoffmann was far from being so intemperate as most of his biographers have ſainte nim', with those of loe. . it is interesting to note how hollrann clù vilied his terceptions from day to daj, ani lis riorks t sure- ly reflect these moods or kurors. "the humor of one day is a deep disposition toverd the romantic and religious; of a seconi, the perception of the exaltea or excited humorous; of į tira, that of the satirical humorous; of a fourth, that of the excited or extrava- gant musical sense; of a fifth, a romantic mood turned towards the unpleasing and the horrible; of a sixth, litterly satirical propensities uicitera to th: riost romantic, capricious ani exotic degree; of a seventh, a state of quietism of mind, open to receive the most beautiful, chaste, i leasing and imaginative impressions of a poetical character; of an eighth, a mood equally exciter, lut accessille only to ideas the most unplus- irg, the most horrilie, this most unrestrained at once i and most tormenting. te have accounts of joe's humors which might almost be substituted for some of the above. "to such ininds", says scott, "these r.anifestations become a positive disease." the tales of mystery anil terror often reflect these lathological conditions. the painful and gloomy mood of mind was nore common to hoffmann's mind than that which is pleasing, genial or delightful. fear had a far less lirited reign in his bosom than hore. his imaginaticn was ill-regulated and had an undue tendency to the hor- rible and distressing. ee was followed, thus, in his hours of solitude ani study, especially by the ap- prehension of mysterious sanger with which he con- ceivei hirself surrounded, ani to which he felt exposed, and he conjured up in his own es cited imasirution all sorts of finciful spectres, - Šoblins of the sort with which his pages are filled , - phantoms waich he was kim- self unable to endure in his night-time study." "thus", säis scott, "was the inventor, or, at least, first distinguished artist who exhibited the - --- of which man alone, not woman, is capable. it is disease, overstraining, delirious, but always manly. "from the devil down to caricatured child- ren's puppets from a discord of life, which rends the soul, to a discord of music, which only splits the ear the boundless kingdom of the ugly, the dis- gusting, the annoying, was gathered around him, and his pictures represent with unimitable life and truth, those tormenting objects, one after another, and the agonies they prepare for a sensative spirit. he is himself that mad musician kreisler, who, with his acute sen- sibility to the purest and most sacred tones, is re- duced to despair by the discords which everywhere malic- iously strike him as if echoing from hell. but he carried this acute sensibility not into music alone. through all the spheres of life, he finds those ugly and hostile caricatures, those demoniac powers, corres- ponding to musical dissonance, which subject the noblest spirits to the greatest torture." the flowers which bloom by night are - lovelier if we do not think of those which bloom by day. hoffmann's was truly the realm of night. in poe's essay on "the philosophy of ( ) composition", he gives some of his ideas as to the he says: proper method of constructing a tale. "nothing is more clear than that every plot worth the name, must be elaborated to its denouenient before anything be attempted with the pen. it is only with the denouement constantly in view that we can give a plot its indispensable air of consequence, or crusa- tion, by making the incidents, and especially the tone at all points, tend to the development of the intention. "there is a radical error, i think, in the us- ual mode of constructing a story. either history af- lords a thesis, or one is suggested by an incident of the day - or, at best, the author sets himself to work in the combination of striking events to form merely the basis of his narrative designing, generally, to fill in with description, dialogue, or autorial com- ment, whatever crevices of fact or action may, from page ( ). see works. - to page render themselves apparent. i prefer commencing with the consider- ation of an effect. keeping originality always in view,- for he is false to himself who ventures to dispense with so obvious and so easily attainable a source of interest,- i say to myself, in the first place, 'of the innumerable effects or impressions of which the heart, the intellect, or (more generally!. the soul is susceptible, what one shall i, on the present occasion, select?' having chosen a novel first, ani secondly, a vivid effect, i consider whether it can be best wrought by incident or tone, - whether by ordinary incidents and peculiar tone, or the con- verse, or by peculiarity both of incident and tone afterwards looking about me (or rather within), for such combinations of events or tone as shall best aid me in the construction of the effect." in another part of this essay hoe insists that, to be effective, a tale must be read at one sitting in order to obtain unity of im; ression; hence the length must not be - - ic great. there is, he says, a psychal necessity a for brevity. ( ) in his critique of hawthorne's tales he again alludes to the construction of the tale. he says: "in the brief tale, the author is enabled to carry out the fulness of his intention, be it what it may during the hour of perusal, the soul of x the reader is at the writer's control.y there are no external or extrinsic influences resulting from weariness or interruption. a skillful literary artist has constructed a tale. if wise, he has not fashioned his thoughts to accomodate his incidents; but, having conceived, with deliberate care, a certain unique or single effect to be wrought out, he then invents such incidents, he then combines such events, as may best aid him in es- if his very tablishing this preconceived effect. initial sentence tend not to the out-bringing of this effect, then he has failed in his very first step. in the whole composition there should be no word written ( ). see l.orks. - of which the tendency, direct or indirect, is not to the one pre-established design." so much then for poe's theory of com- position. he has said very little about his own use of mystery and terror. his ideas concerning the use of these elerents may only be gleaned from a study of the tales wherein he has applied them. Às introductory to the study of these tales, the fol- lowing discussion, taken from professor hart's study ( ) of poe, will be advantageous. "phase of life with poe is always slight, simple, more or less vague, ill-defined, shadowy. he seldom takes the trouble to name cities or countries except in 'old world romance' and local color means nothing to him. the time is for the most part vaguely mediaeval, ?e infer, - modern american or european life form occasional ex- ceptions. in all this a certain apartness, aloof- ( ). see ireface. "tentative conclusions rased on poe's tale, in volumes i-iii of doodberry-sted- man edition", november, . unpublished. ! - ness is evident, a lack of the immediate concrete, accidental, that mark individual time, place and character. the hero, moreover, we find usually isolated. he is a recluse, a solitary student, usually the last of an ancient family, the heir of all its vices or its weakness, never normal, sane, well-balanced, a man among men. the relation of brother and sister is marked by terror, of husband and wife by exaggerated and unhealthy passion, fear, hatred, and the like, - never the domestic aspect. poe's characters see nature in abnormal aspects, wild, mysterious, artificially, theatrically romantic, the nature of another world, manufactured beneath the study lamp or by virtue of a theory. katherine lee bates is quoted as placing the bulk of foe's fictions under the heads of mystery and horror. "this is certainly true", says irofessor fart, "for the phase of life, the abnormal, the isolated, the diseased, these are the relations that poe chooses. so in the central motives, springing from these relations, the passion is - often fear, dread, horror itself. if it is love, it is love, strange, abnormal, diseased, love marked by horror or by mystery. the passion of reasoning implies diseased mind. even then, the central motive is the fear concept, it is a concept implying horror, implying mystery, and if the motive shades of! into mood, it is the mood of terror, horror, dread. the central motive, then, is usually a passion; and of the passions fear or dread is the most common. "vagueness in, or lack of clear definition in, a reason for the revenge motive of 'the cask of amontillado' would seem," says "rofessor hart, "to make the tale more effect- ive, (in producing the effect of horror, though not in arousing the reader's sympathy)". professor hart also notes the mystery of poe's settings, the prevalence of the gothic romantic, the wild beauty of landscape; and of these the same is not less true of hoffmann. as to accessories, it is plain that the use of the occult is foreign to neither author, and marks that peculiar pseudo-science type of - x | mystery which is found in fiction. illedicine and the accompanying science of chemistry offers materials for these authors. electricity is a fertile field of mystery even music is used in peculiar connect- ions. both foe and hoffmann knew and appreciated the power and beauty of music, the writings of both be- ing rich in testimony to this fact. in discussing the technique of poe, professor hart says: "the abrupt beginning of many of poe's tales is of interest. poe is usually effective. the writer assumes that the reader must know of the thing, (some dark this is a one), which so completely fills his own mind. hint of the climax of sinister events to come, and this if often given in another way, by the insistence, namely, upon some peculiarity, some abnormal trait of character, which the reader feels vaguely must lead to gone tragedy. this mastery of suspense is due largely to the fact that in poe invsriably saw the end from the beginning. this handling of the mysterious, toe evidenti, kas great- er power than ioffran, though the latter has much to - - prove him a master of the art of suspense. verisimilitude is spoken of by professor hart. "poe has the air of believing his own story and this (in tales of mystery) goes a long way. his extremely improbable tales which need more than the mere horror to hold the reader, find it in scene or setting and details. the setting is usually the romantic isolated worla that is, no world. there te are willing to believe anything may happen; or it is that romantic europe, where we know (from other stories! the details are us- many strange things do happen. ually of the precise technical order and so are con- vincing, or else they convince, by their logical con- catenation as in the tales of ratiocination." ( ) in a letter to dr. anthon, toe calls his tales fantasy pieces, and in another letter, written ( ) to lowell he says, in speaking of his life: "i have ( ). see morks. ( ). see works. - been too deeply conscious of the mutability and evanescence of temporal things to give any continuous effort to anything. my life has been whim, - impulse, - passion,- a longing for solitude, - a scorn for all things present, in an earnest desire for the future. perhaps no incident of his life is more pathetic, and more characteristic than his nightly visits to the tomb of the deceased mother of his friend. ( ) she had been his loving, sympathetic confidant. "the thought of her sleeping there in her loneliness filled his heart with a profound incommunicable sorrow. when the nights were very dreary and cold, when the autumnal rains fell and the winds wailed mournfully over the graves, he lingered longest, and came away most regretfully." poe delineates character, moods and the like from him- ( ) sell. "he is", says stedman, his own protagonist." ( ). see stedman's introluction to the tales. ( ). introduction to the tales. - - | stedman's estimate of poe is of interest.( ) he says: "poe is often, and correctly enough, termed a romancer. certainly he was a writer of ornate, yet vision-bred and illusive, legends of some dreamland of his own, and not a novelist observing our every-ſlay world. his rarest tales have the quality of pure romance, and, otherwise his inventive prose is concerned with incident and adventure rather than with the portrayal of human character." some of the concluding words to wood - ( ) berry's narrative of foe's life will serve us here to conclude this brief estimate of poe's character and genius. "much as he derived nurture from other sources, he was the son of coleridge by the weird touch in his imagination, by the principles of his analytic criticism, and speculative bent of his mind. an artist frimarily, whose skill, helped by the finest sensitive and perceptive ( ). introduction to the tales. ( ). "life of foe", tage . - - take a few selected tales of each author, such as may be said to represent fairly typically the whole series, and to apply to these the scheme of treatment which may best illustrate the use of mystery and terror. it is the lesign of the writer, where possible, to select those tales which show similarity by comparison, and treat them together, in the first place, concluding the study by some notice of those tales which, for the most part, are dissimilar. the scheme used in this study involves, first, a study of the subject matter, the phases of life, motives, moods, emotions and the like; and secondly, a study of the means, the technique, - the plot, characters, settings, accessories, etc.; with some reference to the effect of the treatment on the characters, and to the ef- fect on the reader. the aim is to show in what connections and in what manner mystery and terror elements enter into are usei in the tales without regard to other elements save such as may be tributary to these. it - - a familiarity with the treatrent of mystery ani terror, anl with the discussion of hoffman and joe contained in the foregoing pages, should us- sist the reader in his perusal of the succeeding dis- cussion of the tales. - - a study of the elements of lystery and terror in the tales of e. t. i. hoffi'anit aid e. a. poe if poe shows the influence of hoffmann, as is grüener ( ) contended by such critics of literature as ana ( ) stedman there is certainly no one of foe's tales in which this influence is more notable than in the fall of the house of usher". this tale, which may be said to show the culmination of poe's art, has much in the way of motive, setting, incident and character, which recalls to the reader's mind the same elements in that most strik- ing of hoffmann's tales, "das majorat". the phase of life is possessed of that vagueness which professor hart has remarked; we feel the isolation of the settings and of the characters. roderick or usher is a man whose ( ). gustav grüener. "influence of hoffmann on poe". in "publications of the modern language association". volume , fages - . ( ). introiuction to the tales. - i - working toward utter ruin, which lends suspense to these tales, a suspense that is terrifying and uncanny. in "the fall of the house of usher", the lead- ing motive seems to be dread, even to horror, rendered even more unearthly and mysterious by the presence of ab- normal conditions of mind and circumstance. professor hart says that it is not the fear of a sane healthy mind of a vigorous positive character, but rather the abnormal passions of the degenerate weakling, possible only in a mind long turned in upon itself, living in an isolated mysterious world. in "das majorat", the motive is fear, sul erstitious and awful, fear of impending doom, of horrors foreboded. it is a fear which is felt only in the pres- ence of the inexplicable mysterious, in which the natural comes to wear the garb of the supernatural, and the common- place takes the form of the extraordinary. lalignant destiny, uncompromising, unchangeable. holds out no hope for ultimate good. such a fear must needs dear the im- love enters in press of the uncanny, the supernatural. to both these tales, but in both it is a subsidiary motive. - in usher it is an abnormal love, combining, as irofessor hart says, with a selfish fear. in "das lajorat" it is an improper, yet natural, love filled with that hope- lessness which is a part of immutable fate. hence it becomes a source of painful dread, in keeping with the hor- ror of the principal theme. e have seen that the characters are patholog- ical, that is to say, they are the types of diseased mind or nature. thus they contribute a tone of the unusual, extraordinary, to the tales. lady ladeline inspires a kind of supernatural horror,- the old steward of roland- sitten has also something terrific in his make up. both rodericks are strangely corpounded individuals. al- though there seems to be more of the vorldly natural in the earon than in usher. but it is in the use of setting that the raster- hand of both authors is apparent. in both we have the old ancestral house or castle, situated in a remote or gloony locality, lonely and melancholy. the castle of - - rolandsitten is near the baltic sea and is surrounded by dreary forests, the trees are gaunt and dark, presenting a forbidding arpearance. a dark dank tarn surrounds the house of usher and the forests here are dense, dark and gloomy. in both, the old castles are partly ruins or falling to ruins. even in the walls the hand of fate is present. the barely perceptible fissure in the wall of the house of usher is comparable to the rent let in the wall of rolandsitten by the falling tover. both these ideas haunt the observer. the interior of both castles is of the gloomy character of the gothic, mediaeval type. the high vaulted walls, the dark tapestries and draperies, the ob- scure corners into which the light may scarcely penetrate. the very light itself is faint and seems to only force its way into the apartments through high trellised windows. the putniture is dark and carved in gothic designs. the passages are dark and intricate. in these antique walls and decorations there lives a feeling of gloom which per- vades the souls of the dwellers, and forces itself into the heart of the reader. and in these dismal halls there are but few inhabitants, and these are of that mysterious diaeased type already alluded to. both the setting and the characters are in keeping with the motives. the use of accessory and incident in both tales contributes to the desired tone,- to the total effect. the similarity of these two tales has been already re- marked, and some particular incidents pointed out. in both stories the narrator plays a part. he tells the story in the first person. subjectivity is present far more in the narrator of the poe story than in the narrator of das majorat". foe himself seerus to be telling this story. his own susceptibility to the terror of mystery, his own superstitious sensibility, is found in the narrator. throughout all of the narra- tion this subjective manner is present. in ann's story we do not feel the narrator to be so thoroughly in accord with his surroundings. at times he gives way to subjective thoughts, but for the most fart he tells his tale merely objectively. this is one reason why poe's - - tale works more powerfully upon the imagination of the reader, who, perforce, must ally himself with the narrator, must feel himself in hermony with the narrator. of similar accessory incidents in the two tales, mention may be made of the use of mysterious sounds. the scratchings on the walled-up door in "das la jorat" have a counterpart in the screaming and grating sounds heard by the narrator of "the fall of the house of usher". the reading of ghost or terror stories by the charo cters is a device which both forfmann and foe may have borrowed from lirs. radcliffe. the foreseeing of death is another device. the old baron accurately foretells his doom while usher forebodes his less accur- ately, but none the less certainly and terribly. whe strange power of music, its mysterious relation to human emotions or passions, is not allowed to go untouched by either topprann or doe. and it is always the music o a wild, weird, mysterious nature that is usei. it be- comes a mania to the characters of these stories. foe does not often ex lain the supernatural by the ratural, but in usher the natural explanation of the terrible sounds is even more terrific than if re- garded as purely supernatural. and it is effect that poe desires. it was part of his art to leave unex- - plained that which explanation would kill the effect of. it is to be regrettea that mrs. radcliffe's art iid not go this far. hoffmann has also explained the myster ious scratchings and the night scenes; but his explana- ; tions are positively necessary to his effect and, more- over, they are not forced or inadequate. both hoff- mann and poe have made full use of the element of sus- pense in these tales. iaturalness and simplicity of manner hold the reader easily. his credulity is not disturbed by jarring inconsistencies or exaggerations and so he is led easily through the successive incidents of the story. at tires hoffmann borders on complex- ity, when we are apt to confuse the mystery theme with the love theme, but we are soon led back to an under- standing of his purpose and enabled to follow the course - of events readily. ( ) e. c. stedman points out also a similarity between "das majorat" and foe's "metzengerstein". the ominous conflagration which destroys the palace metzenger- stein is much of the same nature as the inevitable ominous destruction, - the ultimate absolute desolation and ruin of the castle of rolandsitten. here, also, we have the weird gloomy effects of the gothic and antique in decora- tions and architecture. ( ) stedman has also suggested a resemblance be- tween hoffmann's "doge und dogaresse" and foe's "the assign- ation", there is truly much in the motives, characters and settings which in the older work point unmistakably to the more recent one. here is the unusual and ever roran- tic idea of an old man wedded to a young and beautiful woman possessed of all the charms and all the lassions of youth. the young and handsome lover, the impossibility and desieration of the love, the clandestine meetings, all ( ). introduction to the tales. - these elements are present in both stories. the motive in both is desperate love, ominous, foreboding disaster. even the description of the dogaresse annunziata tallies in most respects with joe's picture of the marchesa aphrodite. it is true that the old doge is pictured in more favorable coloring than is lentoni, but, withal, they have much in common. the young lovers are of different social caste, but they are of the conventional type of romantic lovers. the setting in venice is common to both, - the romance and the splendor is present in each of these. the balcony scene is, as stelman suggests, common to the two tales and the tableau in which the larchesa meets the young lover, the aged l'entoni in the background, ray be sail to be a rost faithful representation of the balcony dven the picture on which thú earlier tale is based. rescue of the doge is faintly sugestive of the rescue of the child, and the accompanying incidents are full of suecestiveness. the portrait of annunziata has a counterpart in the portrait of the l'archesa. the night scenes on the water are very similar, and full of romantic - - 一 ​ meaning. the nervous, excited manner, the alrost in- sane character of poe's lover, is a touch which is splendidly handled and heightened by the gothic oriental splendor and richness of the setting, a setting which lends a tone of awe and mystery to the tale. hoffmann has not such a perfect power of giving tone to his stor- ies. it is use of incident rather than setting which lends tone to his tales. the finale of both stories, though more perfectly terrible in "the assignation" than in hoffmann's story, is only a portrayal of the same con- cept, that, namely, in which desperate love may only pur che se fulfillment in death. "stay for me there! i will not fail to meet thee in that hollow vale." there is nothing in hoffmann to exactly compare with foe's tales of ratiocination, and it is stretching a point too far to say that the letective store kere ere. vroper hal an earlier origin in lolfrarn. notwithstanding, certain elements in "das fraulein von scuiery" which lave something ot! e nature of the con- uire detective story. for exarrle, te lind to mystery of some lark anl awful crir es, ballling the for ers of the cutlic and the police alike, to understand. the peculiar nu ture of the crires in ilo pfrann's tal-.- the fact that each murder was ejecuted in the sum ran- rer enl that euch was accorpaniei by tie rolling of the nurdered inlivilual of jovels in his possession, gives raterial for speculation ind iancy, but it is all in vain. so we find in toe the crires, lark, awful, mysterious, ballling explanation. but in working out the mystery of toe's tales, the rative is purely the las- sion for reasoning, while with hole ann pe lind really tro motives, first, the lesire of the police to solve tliestery and second the love rotive. in "des frau- lein von scudery" te linl the use of hyrotheses in which it is thic aim of one side to prove the innocence can &ccusel jerson and of the other site to rove kis tuilt. in the solution of the hystery we have all the terror and horror of the darkest crires gradually uncov. . . but it is not dve to the reasonins that the mystery is - ܬܐ ܗ explained. in fact the rousoning is only an incient of the story. in toe's stories, on the other hand, it is the reasoning which leads to the solution. in fact, in hoffmann's tale the reasoning is proven fallacious while toe, secins the end iron the first, is ukle to work backward through the result to the cause ani thus establish a perfect explanation. in oe, also, we have account taken of psycholocical and physical conditions such as would be certain to arise. even mathenatics, the laws of probability and chance, are made use of. with roth authors the element of suspense is made use of, and the reader is held until the final solution. iut in poe it is the fascination of following from point to moint a well constructed chain of prolatilities until the final solution is inevitalle. in hoffrrann tiiw suspense is sustainel loti rapid change ? incident, t'ie ever- recurring hints of a mysterious nature, which cause the railer to fonder what is cominc nezt. e ortet final solution but do not know just exactly what it will be. it is fair to say that the average regler will - - probably suspect the old jeweller tene cardillac of the murders, before the story is ended, tut, even so, tie still rey wonder as to his motives. the reader of either toe or hoffmann will cx- verience the ascinating terror that crises out of un- explained mystery, throughout the period of his reading these tales. even after the explanation is given, the flush of horror at the very gruesomeness of it all will still be present. these tales, again, seer to justify the assertion that wo?pran seems able to obtain effect far better through concrete incident, while toe succeeds in getting a tone to his stories which proiuces the ef- fect desired. character and settire both contribute to this tone. the character of durin, gloors and loving the lark, with a passion for reasoning, tith a love of rystery and air ost superhuman poters orind; such a chiracter is abnormal, irving diseased mind end strarse terperament. naturally, such a character early gives tiie tone thich proluces an effect oneeriress on the reader. the narrator, too, ackno.lelges himsell to - - share the temerarent c? dujin, yet confesses himself rustified at the strange povers of this man. the iduâ of the dorrelyurver has been used by both hoffmann and ioe, more often by the former. ( ) this idea, as expressed by nir. erandes, is "the apper ition of a verson which appears to himself". in hofmann's tale, "der doppelganger" the use of this idea is to obtain the fantastically gruesore effect. "through it, as hr. brandes says, "all sorts of ab- surd mistakes are rade and the dread of doppelgangerei is turned to good account. in the story of "die elixire des teufels" we l'ind the sure idea involved. the monk ledardus is haunted by the visitations of another self - a double of his own personal & rearance. brentara has used this conception for the humorous, half-iudicrous effect; il. arn uses it for serious furuose. is one ll. coorse trandes: "lain currents in iin teenth century iitorature", "the iomantic school in germany." iuse . ( ). see vreceiins note, carros - . - - - the narrator, the better self of roe, for killian wilson is poe. tilliam wilson's is a mind susceptible to weird ir.pressions anlal'ictea, as he says, to wildest caprices, a urey to ungovernable passions. sich a temperar ent would be easily canable of being launted with visions or a double-coer. in this character there is nuch to remind us of hoffmann's ledardus ant kere, assin, v.e pind, in many respects, the author living in the character which he has producel out o. lis own strange furcy. the revenge motive which is raie use of by poe in such notalle instances as "ion frog" and "the cask of amontillado" is, for the most part absent in the tales of hoffrann. it is one of the most powerful of the motives in use in terror tales and finis its source in the passion of hate. lerhaps, in hoffmann's tales, there may be seen some resemblance in the hate motive present in the story of "der kampf der sanger", but here revenge, due to the revenge or the magician fails. hate, is not the central motive of this tale, being mere- - - - ly incidental. the revenge motive also enters into the tale of "der ragnetiseur", though here the victim is not the person upon whom the revenge is designed. the cool and calculating manner in which it is executed is only less effective than that o? foe's tales. the supernatural finis its way into many of the tales of both poe and hoffmann. the use of it by the latter is far freer and more unrestrained than in the case ol poe. in some of hoffmann's tales it is so handled as to produce rather a ludicrous than a ter- rifying effect. in poe, on the other hand, with one or two exceptions, it is used with a rore care ul regard for its limitations and necessary bounds. ir the use of the devil, in toe's tale "never bet the devil your head", it is purely for an effect of humor, farcical and this is not tlie us- with no fretense at seriousness. ual mooi opoe. in "letzengerstein" we have the use of the supernatural in the transformation of the horse in william in the tapestry into the fiery charger. wilson we may regard the final scene as involving super- natural manifestations. in all those tales in which - in edward use of this element, as phase of life. yardley's "the supernatural in romantic fiction ( ) interesting reference is made in several places to hoffmann's use of the supernatural. among other things, his animated dolls, and narical illusions and transformations are alluded to. in the tale, "nachricht aus dem leben eines bekannten hannes", the devil is introduced and indulges is any amount of fantastic caprice, causing superhuman antics aril again dipping into witchcraft and the black art; in the end turns into a bat, rushing into the flares in time to save the old woman who is being burned for witchcraft. again in "die brautwahl", which hoffmann des- ignates as "a story in which many entirely improbable ad- ventures happen", we have the devil again appearing in the guise of the goldsmith leonhard. the magic art is introduced and enchantments are practiced. perhaps the ( ). (fassim). - best example of hoffmann's free use of supernatural mystery is to be found in the tale, "der goldene topf". in this we find a most fanciful use of the supernatural. it is a strange combination of the natural and super- natural phases of life, yet it is worked out with a verisimilitude so striking that the reader does not fail to fall into the mood of the story. the settings and accessories are all of the no-world fanciful type and one is not shocked or disturbed by the intrusion of in- cidents which would seem absurd in any other environment. the mystery in these tales does not lead the reader into feelings of creepy terror. it is rather a fascina- tion mingled with wonder. in the tale, "die bergwerke zu falun", there is a more eery species of terror, de- rived from the mysterious and supernatural alpearances in the wines, far under the earth. the strange siirit of the old miner torbern, which haunts the nine, avalens suspenge in the reader, mingled with an uncanny feeling. hoffmann here arrroaches nearer to the senius of poe, in that he does not explain away the supernatural mystery, but leaves the explanation to the imagination of the reader. but here again we have the too close inter- ningling of natural and supernatural phases of life. hoffmann handles the settings well and one may not well imagine a better place for superstition to thrive than in the deep dark chasms far below the surface of the earth. still another use is made of "diablerie" in the story "der kampf der sanger", where the supernatural element is overcome. the motive of this tale is found in the concept of the power of music. lagic in this tale is represented as the weapon of the devil and it is only the power of art, pure and undefiled, which may conquer this. one more use of the supernatural in an entire- ly ludicrous ranner is to be found in the story of "the lost reflection". this is an evident atter.pt on the part of opfmann to initate the tale of peter schlemihi, d that fantastic, yet weiri, iroduction of chamisso. in all ol these examples of the use of the - - supernatural, joffmann fails to reach the power of toe's tales, because either of a lack of verisimilitude or through a too close approach to the ludicrous. we may now consider the tales involving the pseudo-sciences, a class common both to hoffmann and poe. l'agnetism seems to be a favorite concept with hoffmann. the tale, "der magnetiseur", illustrates this, perhaps better than any other. he is ower of one ferson over the mini of another, with the horrible possi- biltiies that this opens up, is made full use of in this connection. over all there is a haunting sense of evil to come, of a terrible conclusion, and the end does not disappoint the expectations. in this tale, moreover, hoffmann has proven his power in the use of the element of suspense and when one has completed the tale there yet hangs over one a strangely uncanny feeling. in this tale horimann approaches to something like the effect of poe. liesmerism is also used as a motive in some of hoffmann's stories, but its value as a source of mystery and terror does not appear to have been fully realized by - - * : , , this motive, but has some closely related conditions such as the cataleptic state of the lady madeline of usher and in the gruesomely horrible tale of "the pre- mature burial". in this latter tale we again find the striking verisimilitude of poe. he uses here settings perfectly normal and natural and develops the motivating concept of terror by hints and suggestions of horrible consequences possible to a cataleptic state. he makes his character suffer all the mor- tal mental terror of these ideas and his conclusion where the premature burial is actually experienced is a climax of pure horror. it is not the less fascinatingly ter- rible for the reader because he discovers that the appar- ent experience was a dream. this same idea of pre- mature burial is the incident which makes possible the terrible finale of "the fall of the house of usher". hophrann uses yet another strange concept, automatons. poe, i think, has not make use of this idea in his tales. hoffmann takes advantage of the eeriness which attaches to anything alperently inex- - - plainable and contrives to surround the characters in his tale, "die automaten", with a mysterious, and super- stitious fear. the mystery of fortune telling is made use of in this connection. the peculiarities of human nature are also made use of, and the strange power of music which hoffmann so well understood how to por- tray, is also used as an accessory to increase the effect. in the story "der sandmann", hoffmann introduces the automaton again. there is a certain terror found in this tale but it is derived from the settings and charact- ers rather than from the mystery of the automaton which is here used merely to give a ludicrously fantastic effect. the idea of metempsychosis and palingenisis are noteworthy. the have already noted hov, in letzenger- steir, the soul of the man seems to have passed from the master into the horse, and the strikingly terrible el- in the "tale of the fects which this gives rise to. be ragsed mountains", palingenisis is the concept. "in tales of lorella and ligeia also show this. - - mann is so fond of using. his settings for these tales are wild and lonely and in all of his accessories there is a pervading mood of eeriness, mysterious ter- ror. in hoffmann's story of "das öde haus" he leads us through a network of mysteries to a conclusion in which all the horrors of insanity play a part. terror itself seems to be the motive of the tale, but mystery and insanity are the accessories through which the effect is realized. in "der unheimliche gast" the concept of magnetism is used to account for a seemingly stronge rathological condition, bordering on insanity. perhaps hofnann has given us & no more fright- fully horrible and gruesome effect than that found in his tale "der vampyrisrus", and in this it is possible to find ruch of that power of sugcestion which toe uses so effect- ively in his most horrible tales. aurelie is markei by a singularly ghastly spectral appearance; moreover, her rental her body dis lays the effects of disease. state is confused, variable, restless, susresting con- stant fright and terror. the count is susceptible of - that type of being where fixed idea, - the determination upon one awful purpose, - has become a mania, with all of the cold blooded deliberateness so common to madness. in "the black cat", "the imp of the perverse" and "the tell tale heart", the characters are illustrative of the type of diseased mind which has brooded itself into madness. diseased mind is found in nearly all the characters of "ligeia", "lorella" and "eleonora". in berenice we have another type of fixed idea, a strange horrible lascination amounting to fanaticism. as professor hart has suggested, the horrible conclusion of this tale is almost disgusting in its revolting detail. "the hero", says wood berry, "is a ran struck with some secret disease, given to the use :drugs and to musing over old books in an antiquated and gloony chamber, and reserved for a horrible experience. in berenice. too, are such theres of evil fascination for ioe's lind as the epileptic patient and the premature burial; such marks of his handling as the cousinship of the principal actors, tho descriction of morbid physical changes, the - plained. with a few examples of typical cases found in the tales of both writers we may well conclude the present discussion. in "king pest" toe gives us the grotesquely horrible effect. certain features in "a. gordon pym" are introduced for apparently no other purpose than to arouse horror. the ship, loaded with the bodies of those who have died from horrible disease, is å feir ex- ample of this. the horrible and loathsome endings of "the facts in the case of w. valdemar", anl the tale of "beronice" provide illustrations of the degree of horror to which poe's fancy could lend itself. less loath- some, yet scarcely less awful, is the description of the horrible murders of the rue morgue. the efect of terror to be produced in the stories of "the black cat" and "the tell tale heart" is not less studied ani care- fully worked out than the conscience motive itsel?. the horror of the final scene of "the basque of the reci death" is very efectively worked out and the reader is prepared for the awful climax, by a graiual process of - - approach that shows the culnination of poe's genius in narration. how well poe succeeds in getting his read - er to "sup full o? horrors( ) is well expressed in this quotation taken from the letter of a certain ( ) ir. cooke, addressed to lir. poe. the val- demar case' i read in a number of your broadway journal last winter, - as i lay in a turkey blind, muffled to the eyes in overcoats, etc., and pronounce it, without hesitation, the most damnable, vraisemblable, horrible, hair-lifting, shocking, ingenious chapter of fiction that any brain ever conceived or hands treated. that gelatinous, viscous sound of men's voice! there never was such an idea before. that story scared me in broad day, armed with a double-barrel tyron tyrkey gun. what would it have done at midnight, in some old chostly country house? ( ). shakespeare: "macbeth". ( ). see in see in mr. jack london's article, "the terrible and tragic in fiction", in "critic", number , june , lages - . - - "i have always found some one remarkable thing in your stories to haunt me long after reading them. the teeth of 'berenice', the changing eyes of miorella', that red and glaring crack in the 'house of usher', the pores of the deck in the 'w. s. found in a bottle', the visible drops falling into the goblet in 'ligeia', etc., etc., there is always something of this sort to stick by the mind, - by mine at least." what a tribute, il so we way call it, to the potency of moe's artifices and accessories in the production of suspense and effect! hoffmann has given some equally revolting pictures and effects in his stories. in the story, "spielergluck" we have the terrible notion of the but we gambler stakins his om wife and losing her. are hardly prepared for the terrible catastrophe where the winner comes to claim his stake and finds that what he has won is the woman's dead body. the horrible conclusion of "varli yrismus" has been allude i to. in "die serapions-bruder" occurs a short tale which has - - no title. in it we find insanity mingling with superstition to form a motive for a series of horrors that are as awful as any that hoffmann gives us. over this story there seems to hang all the terror of foreboden death, mysterious and awful. and the re- sults justify the presentiments for, one by one, the characters sink through insanity to death, while the cause of this awful destiny is left undiscovered, leav- ing the reader to thrill with the horror of it all. the horrible conception of the dorpelganger has been alluded to and through this conception hoffmann has güined run of his most uncanny effects. from the foregoing we have seen that foe hop- and hoffmann use much the same phase of life. mann uses the supernatural more freely than loe, but his use of "the light that never was on land or sea" is not kept so well within the bounds of taste as it is with poe. rarely does poe indulge in the supernatural except for serious motives and the verisimilitude which he calls to his aid is often lacking in the case of hoff- - the characters of hoffmann are usually mor- tal, though colored by all the caprice of gernan fancy. e. c. stedman says of hoffmann's heroines in comparing ( ) this author to toe: "he drew charming mortal her- oines. his seraphinas, amunciatas and antonias are the warm and breathing dames and donnas, while poe's eleonor- as, ligeias and lorellas are the tapestry figures of man- sions to which the younger romancer held his title by suc- cession." stedman also remarks: "while hoffmann was wholly of the vaterland and foe a misfitted american, iſ the one had died before the other's birth, instead of thirteen years later, there would be a chance for a fretty pancy in behalf of the doctrine of me tempsychosis, which both writers utilized." poe undoubtedly surpasses hoffrann in most, if not all, of the divisions of the tale-writers' art. but while the world may choose to read his tales, in ( ). in the introduction to the tales. - - ВІВ ih i hy : 으 ​ih for the study of mystery and terror. *( ) blackwood's edinburgh lagazine, july , vol. , rases - . "die elixire des teufels." fiske, christabel forsythe:- shesis submitted to the columbian university in part satisfaction of the requirements for the degree of laster o? arts. cornell, . published by tile teule co., lashington, d. c. kurtz. dr. b. p.:- article on "the marvellous". unpublished. - . were used for the ( ). all referer.ces worked with a study of the tales, also. - hart, rrol. . wi- "ballad and epic"; "a study in the develop- ment of the narrative art". bostor, . ginn & co., under direction of the modern language departments of harvard university. eart, irof. w. i. : - "tentative conclusions based on the tales of poe, in volumes i-iii of the woodberry- stedran edition." unpublished. itovember, . locher, e. v. "prelimirary study of mastery and terror, iarticularly as regards the use of these mle- rents in literature." unpublished march, . ostwald, john:- "an etymological dictionary the inglish language." hiladelphia, . tublished by i. c. and j. bidale. *hoffmann, e. t. w.:- "werke"; volumes. berlin edition. published by gustav hempel, about . *ewing, lieutenant-colonel alex.i- "translation of the serapion-brethren" by e. t. . hoffmann. volunes. london and iew york, and . published by george bell & sons in bohn's "standard library." menzel:- "specimens of foreign literature" volures. "german literature", volumes, volume . translated from the german by c. c. felton. chapter on "callot-hoffmann". boston, . hilliard, gray & co., publishers. *stedman, edmund clarence, and woodberry, george edward:- "the works of edgar allan poe, itewly collected and edited, with a critical introduction and matthews, brander:- "the philosophy of the short story". new york. london and bombay, . published by langmans, green & company. wilkinson, william cleaver:- "chautauqua course -' ." "classic german course in english". chapter on "the romancers and romanticists". tages - . fer york, . published by the chautauqua press. ingram, john h.:- "the complete tales and coetical works of edgar allan poe, including essays on poetry, edited, annotated and arranged, with memoir. date . tublication not given. new york, published by a. l. burt. thitcomb, selden i.:- "the study of a novel". boston, . d. c. heath & co., fublishers. "hoffmann's strange stories". lublished in translation, boston, , by burnham brothers. bealby, j. t.:- "weird tales". by e. t. . hoffmann. a new translation from the german, with a biographical iiemoir. volumes. ier york, ( ) . charles scribner's sons. ; - :iii - lܬ of the univesity califor (l). besides those references given in the above bibliographical lists, reference was constantly had to the various encyclopaedias and diction- aries, ani, in the preliminary study, to a vast amount of miscellaneous tract and magazine matter. - - | | l llllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll | - - -- - - - - ****^^^ *, ， ， | | | → · — - _■ ... • !¿¿.* - ------ *- - | -- ----- r - - - - • * • - - * … § ） * , | ! » ! | * \, ---+---+ _*. --} --------- -- - " --- | -^ | -- - - - - / , ) （- ） { ~~ ~~~~） - - | - - " l e s oevvres dambroise pare → （- ~~~~ · | * ！ ! - |-· |-|- * - • ^ … |-į |-|- · ---- * :* … • * --> º · … · |-！ • • • • • ^ |- º, -~~~~ ！ - - ------ -！ ~）！-- - - ----- - - - -------— ———— — — - _< — —|-- - - - - l e s oevv dambroise - par e -■ ■ ■！-- - ， - | - - - - • - - - - - "• - - e ,qs º, # w, - : ) • • \ «º - | \ - - , , . * . *\ . °.', ; | | av tres chrestien r o y d e f r a n c e e t d e p o l o g n e h e n r y i i i. ?ſ% l r e , comme il faut que tous les membres du % corps humain ſoyent chacun à part ſoy, pour la conſeruation de ce tout,duquel ils ſont parties,en # z deuoir ſelon les offices & fonctions, à quoy natu- $ re les a produicts : auſſi eſt-il raiſon qu'au corps l)s public d'vn eſtat & police, chacun ſoit ententif à ſuyure celle vacation, à laquelle ila plû à dieu de l'appcller, ſans que l'vn ſe hazarde & ingere indiſcrettement ſur l'autre, & ſe meſle de ce dequoy il n'a aucune experience : car autrement ce ſeroit alterer l'ordre, & cauſer confuſion en la choſe qui de ſoy eſt bien dreſſée, & parfaictement agencée, & compoſée. ce que moy conſiderant, & me ſentant eſtre vn membre du corps de la france, ſuject à voſtre majeſté (qui eſt l'ame & le chef) & me voyant non du tout inutile, ny oiſif, ay taſché auſſi de faire paroiſtre mon deuoir, & entendre en quoy eſt-ce que ie ſers & profite au public, & quelle vtilité ie peus apporter aux particuliers. car (dieu m'eſt témoin,sire,& les hom- mes ne l'ignorent point) il y a plus de quarante ans que ie trauaille & me peine à l'eſclairciſſement & perfection de la chirurgie ; & m'oſe vanter de ces deux poincts, que i'ay donné de ſi viues atteintes à ce que ie pretendois empoigner, que les anciens (la trace deſquels i'ay ſuiuy pas à pas) ſeront par cy apres mieux entendus en ce qu'ils ont trauaillé & écrit de l'intention des preceptes, & que la poſterité ne pourra iuſtement nous blaſmer de pareſſe : ce que ie ſupplie qu'on ne prenne en mauuaiſe part, puis que tant qu'il m'a eſté poſſible, ie n'ay ſouffert que les threſors des bons peres fuſſent cachez & tenus ſecrets, les mettant en effet & euidence : & leſquels ie penſe auoir tellement enrichis de belles & neceſſaires additions ; que deſormais chacun les pourra lire auec plus de plaiſir, & non ſans recueillir pro- fit & contentement. en tout cecy ay-je eſtéſiprodigue de moy-meſ- ā ii c, me, de mon labeur, & de mes facultez, que n'y eſpargnant le temps pour le trauail par moy faict nuict & iour, ny les frais, y ayant em- · ployé vne grande ſomme de deniers pour ſatisfaire, & au deuoir re- quis en vn œuure ſi penible & important, & au deſir des pauures eſ- cholieis, leſquels eſtans inſtruicts en la theorique,ſe fuſſent refroidis, ne voyans nyles moyens, ny la voye pour effectuer, & practiquer la ſcience : les preceptes de laquelle ils auroient appris en l'eſchole. c'a eſté la cauſe, que poſtpoſant tout gain, & ayant eſgardau ſeul profit de la poſterité, & à l'ornement de l'empire françois ; ſujet à voſtre majeſté, i'ay par tous moyens poſſibles mis la chirurgie plus au net que jadis, ſoit pour la rudeſſe des ſiecles paſſez, ou enuie de ceux qui en faiſoient profeſſion. ie dy que ie l'ay miſe au net, augmentée , & enrichie, non ſeulement de raiſons & preceptes propres à la choſe que ie traicte, ains de plus de trois cens planches que i'ay fait tailler, & eſquelles ie comprens plus de cinq cens figures & pourtraicts, tant de l'anatomie, que des inſtrumens propres pour l'operation de noſtre art chirurgique, à chacun deſquels i'ay donné nom propre, & de- claré l'vſage de chacun, à fin que les figures ne ſoient vainement re- preſentées, et bien que (par la grace de dieu) il y ait peu d'hommes de ma qualité qui puiſſent auec plus de raiſon & experience ſe faire accroire de ce qu'ils propoſent : ſi n'ay-ie pourtant eſté ſi preſomp- tueux, que voulant faire ſortir ce liure en lumiere, ie ne l'aye com- muniqué à pluſieurs excellens hommes, tant medecins que chirur- giens, leſquels m'ont encouragé à paſſer outre, & venir iuſques au bout de la carriere. la pluſpart deſquels ſouhaittoient que cette piece fuſt en latin, pour le plaiſir des eſtrangers:ce que ie n'empcſche point que quelqu'vn d'entr'cux ne le faſſe, ſi bon luy ſemble, afin qu'ils ayent auec moy vne pareille gloire de faire ſentir aux nations cſtran- geres, qu'il n'y aeſpece de ſçauoir ſous le ciel, qui ne ſoit auec dex- terité manié & declaré auec perfection en ce royaume, ſur lequel vo- ſtre majeſté commande heureuſement. auſſi oſe-ie dire, ſans crain- dre de me meſprendre, que ie ne ſçache homme ſi chatoüilleux, ou difficile à contenter, qui ne puiſſe apprendre quelque cas en ce liure : ie parle & de ceux qui ſçauent la chirurgie, & de ceux qui en voient les experiences ordinaires. et pour ce (sire ) eſtant cecy vn chef- d'œuure, & l'amas de tous les trauaux d'vn de vos anciens ſeruiteurs & ſubjects : i'ay bien osé m'enhardir de le poſer aux pieds de voſtre majeſté, tant pour monſtrer l'obligation & ſeruice que luy dois,pour l'honneur qu'il vous a pleu me faire, me continuant en l'eſtat & ſer- uice de voſtre premier chirurgien', où i'ay ſeruy trois roys predeceſ- ſeurs d'icelle voſtre royale majeſté : à laquelle i'eſpere faire reco- gnoiſſance tres-fidele de ſeruice, & tres-humble affection à iamais. eſperant par ce moyen donner hardieſſe à ce liure d'aller le front leué par # -· # * •， artout le monde, ayant la faueur du plus grand & redouté monar- ucd'entre les chreſtiens : lequel ayant eſgard à mes anciens ſeruices, & aux fraiz que i'ay faits à preſent en l'impreſſion de ce liure,ne deſ- daignera auſſi & de ſupporter ma foibleſſe, & de ſeruir de garand à ceſiuy ſien client, qui luy offre tout ce qu'il a de precieux & de rare. auſſi eſt-il vray que feu de bonne memoire le roy charles ix. voulut voir ce liure, à ce induit parla reyne sereniſſime mere de vo- ſtre majeſté, laquelle me commanda le publier ſoubs le nom royal, auec prom eſſe que mes labeurs & ſeruices ne ſeroient point ſans icco- gnoiſſance : vos majeſtez n'ignorans ja combien de princes & sei- gneurs ont eſté par moy ſeruis & garentis, par vos commandemens, & par la grace de dieu, & diligence ſoigneuſe de ma main, & ex- perience de l'eſtat duquel ie fais profeſſion. de roy à roy, comme mes deſirs ont eſté ſucceſſifs, & mes ſeruices continuels : auſſi d'vn roy puiſſant à vn autre heureux, grand & inuicible ie rapporte mes vœus, & les fruicts,commel'on dit d'vnc ſeconde année:mais mieux ſaiſonnez & plus meurs que iamais : et vous dedie tout ce que i'ay ſceu faire pour voſtre ſeruice,& pour le bien public de vos ſubjectsaſ. ſeuré que la reyne,& le plus grand roy de l'vniuers fauoriſeront leur humble ſubject & ſeruiteur, enuielly au ſeruice de cette tres-chre- ſtienne maiſon de france : & honoreront ce liure auec le frontiſpice heureux & admirable du nom de henry , protecteur des muſes,& des gens lettrez, enfant de mars, le miroir de toute vertu, afin qu'il me ſerue de deffence & ſauuegarde pour me targuer, & preualoir con- tre les langues des enuieux & des calomniateurs ; le venin deſquels i'ay deſia ſenty, & croy qu'encore l'enuie n'a pris ſon aſſouuiſſement: mais ſa rage faudra que ceſſe, par l'ombragement du nom de mon roy, & par les rayons de ſa faueur, & grace pleine de iuſtice. au reſte, sire, mes liures ſont ſans aucun fard de paroles, me ſuffiſant que ie parle proprement, & vſe de mots qui ſoient ſignificatifs, & leſquels ſoient propres pour le profit du françois, auquel cét œuure eſt communiqué & adreſſé, & à vous, sire, dedié, comme au roy & seigneur ſouuerain, & d'eux & de moy : qui prie dieu, sire. veus donner à voſtre contentement, l'ongue proſperité & felicité eternelle. - - - voſtre tres-humble, etres obeyſſant, ſeruiteur & ſubject, a. par e'. sonnet s o n n e t d e l a v t h e v r. e liure maintenant que ie mets en lumiere_», de mon art l'heritier contient tous les ſecrets, que iadis bien au long les arabes , & grecs ns s ont laiſſé par eſcrit à la race derniere . in d'exemples il eſt de diuerſe maniere », cainſi que nous voyons de mille beaux pourtraicts les prez ſe bigarrer, eſchauffe{par les rais du soleil, lors qu'il fait ſa courſe printanniere . or ſus donc maintenant, va-t'en , mon fils tres-cher, ue depuis quarante-ans n'ay ceſſé de lechers va priant vn chacun qu'il leur plaiſe d'enſuire-> lypſe , qui reprint lappelles doucement : cmais arriere eauieux , car eternellement /g uerra maugré vous cc mien ouurage viure . #ukºkºkºkºukºukºkºcºkºukºukºukºukºukºukºkºkº. d. i o a n n is le cl e r c , r e g is a c n s il iis e t s v p r e m i s e n a t v s p a r i s i e n s i s tpreſidis , epigramma. a d p a r ae v m. #ºl o r v t , & famam longos extendit in annos, $ s$ chirurga & chiron mirus in arte fuit. # $ hic argonautas, fortémque inſtruxit achillem, % nº» vulncre tardatos reſtituitque duces. hoc potuit diuus, mundique xtate priore, semine cùm cœli terra caleret adhuc. purus aër , tellûſque recens, herbæque potentes, humanum poterant ſponte iuuare genus. occubuit chiron , ſed adhuc ſi viueret , vnus pro numero ægrorum vix ſupereſſe queat. gallicus in terras delapſus ab æthere chiron, curat ab innumeris putria membra malis. | , semiſepulta virûm ſubducit corpora letho, · abdita doctrinæ dat monumenta ſuæ. hoc mortalis agit , laſſa tellure , nec herbis fœcunda, infecto ſemine : maior vter? * v o t v m # # # # # kºkºkººuºukºukºukºkºkºkºkºkº# # # # # # vo tvm pro pa r ae i l ibr is, : i v e diu, ſed viue tuis, te poſtera norint secula, communi viue, paraee, bono : et bene ſoſpes eas, ficte fortunet apollo · delius, & multa iupiter auctet ope. scd quorſum haec inquis, me commoda verba, parace, deficiunt : poſſum nectacuiſſe tamen. miratus tuaſcripta ardenti incenſus amore, ingeniique ſimultot monumenta tui. vſque adeo tibi vt inuideat podalirius, & quos ob medicas artes ſecla priora ferunt. viue diu, quamuis mortalia facta peribunt, docte parace, tuum ſtat ſine morte decus. aeternum tibi nomen enim peperêre labores, poſt cineres viuet pars quoque magna tui. inde futurus eris multô poſt facta ſuperſtes, vindex nempe tuæ poſteritatis habes, - aere perenne magis monumentum, quódque vetuſtas, nec iouis ira nocens vnquam abolere poteſt. sic natis natorum, & qui naſcenturabillis profueris, certa ſcilicet arte tua. communi tu nate bono, ſecliſque futuris. ergo parze tibiviue, parace tuis, • ia c o b v s m a r e s c a l, domus " regie & fiſciprocurator. # # # % % % % % % % % % kººk# # # # # # # # # # # # # # # s o n n e t. vt cela que peut faire en quarante ans d'eſpace , # le labeur, l'artifice, & le dočteſpanoirs | tout cela que la main, l'vſage & le deuoir, * la raiſon & l'eſprit commandent que l'onfaſſe_ : tu le peux voir, lecteur, comprins en peu de place- , en ce liure qu'on doit pour diuinreceuoir ; car c'eſt imiter dieu, que guarir& pouuoir soulager les malheurs de noſtre humaine race . si jadis lapollon, pour aideraux mortels, · y receut en diuers lieux & temples & autels » noſtre france deuroit ( ſi la maligne enuie » ne luy ſilloit les yeux ) celebrer ton bon-heur : poète & voiſin, i'aurois ma part en ton honneur, d'autant que ton laual eſt pres de ma patrie . p. d e r o n sa r d. # # # % % % % # kºh# # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # #. qvatrain dv mesme av thev r. n lit ce liure pour apprendre », n%$ l'autre le lit comme enuieux, # # il eſt aisé de lereprendre , ** « mais mal-ais defaire mieux. sonne t . ººº ºººh# # # # #, k# # # # # # # # #,k,#rkºkºk,#,#,# s o nn e t. <sn rs g ， es icy, p a r e', ie m'auois veu en france_» s) # rien quefeu, rien queſang, que meurtres, & que morts, $ # u'allarmes , que combats, qu'aſſauts, qu'effrois, qu'efforts , * qu'horreur, que cruauté, queterreur, queſouffrance . si bien que ie prenois vne ferme aſſeurance », - voyant nos champs pauez de tant & tant de corps, les proyes de la mort, pournos ciuils diſcords, ue c'eſtoit fait de nous & de noſtre eſperance . : depuis voyant ton liure où les mains tu forma - - • la noſtre medecin, qui n'auoit point de bras ; calors plus aſſeuréparcette chirurgie , ie viens d'oréſnauant la guerre deſpiter: car quand meſme la guerre auroit brauéma vie_ , ton liure me pourroitfaire reſſuſciter. iv. de civer s e vs.' # *** kºkºokººº kºkºkºkºukºkºtº " av mº nf a " , dw # ntre les tiens tu as le premier lieu ; et ſi ta main heureuſe vn chacun dit, tu dois la gloire en referer à dieu, nº qui tes labeurs & ta main a benit. - \ b. d e m av r o m #º. - # $ on roy, qui eſtſur tout enſauoiradmirable , ) pourſon chirurgien premier ta retenu, p$ pour auoir ( mon pa r e')partes eſcrits cogneu, par tes oeuures auſſi, que tu n'as ton ſemblable-. - pigray. # # # # # # # # # # # # ºkºkºkºk# # # # # # kºuºuººhºuºuº, s o nn e t. - nſºait comme jadis le riche aſſyrien \$ _mettoit ſur les chemins les malades en veue, • " # ca fin que le paſſant, à la douleurcogneuë * seruiſt de medecin & de chirurgien : umais ores cét -autheur donne vn plus ſeur moyen, voulant eſtre en public ſa doctrine entenduë, car la methodey eſt de guarir contenuë, suiuant des mieux experts les labeurs & le ſien. * lainſi donc que le coq, pour ſa grande vigilence-º, et le ſerpentauec pour ſa caute prudence_ , sont d' aeſculape autemple appoſez pour ſymbole_ : soit la cigoine encor à ce par e donnée, - guid'vne charité ſainctement ordonnée , t-aux patiensſubuient de l'vn à l'autre pole->. ge ne e ， e ree#exe i n a m b r o s i i p a rae i, p r i m a r i i r e g i s c h r v r g i o p v s v. - - - - i o. a v r a t v s poèta regius. quae nullis, paucis fuit aut obnoxia morbis # $ et paucos habuit medicae tunc ſimplicis artis artifices : paucis fuit & contenta medelis, quas vno poterat perdiſcere quilibet anno, nec chartis mandare fuit praccepta ncceſſe, • • • . sed memori ſoliti fuerant committere menti · · · a patribus qua quiſque ſuis acceperat : atque - - ex ſe progentis cadem poſt tradere natis : * . vt medicina foret gentilis, auitáque certis . ! . res domibus : disti medicorum filij& inde sunt olim medici : quorum laus maxima primis eſt aſclepiadis, § eſt quibus author. nec diuiſa fuit vetus, ratioque medendi , ln gemina : quamuis podalirius atque machaon, hic herbis nomen: ſed pugnis debeat ille : et medicina herbas tractet, chirurgia plagas, altera ſecretis medicans ars, altera apertis - vulneribus, morbiſque ſed idem erat authorvtrique, chiron centauros inter iuſtiſſimus vnus : • • • . | • cuinomen dedit ipſa manus medicina ſalubris : vel quod prima fuit, vel quod celeberrima quondam donec adhuc homines contenti ſimplice victu, praeter quàm in bellis, medicae nihil artis egebant. at nunc deterior quàm ferrea cùm viget aetas, et plures gula quàmgladius, pluréſque libido, alea nequities, & inertia pallida vultum, - quàm labor aut ſenium, luxus quàm occidat egeſtas : multiplices morbi ſunt, multipliciarte leuandi: lnque artes diuiſa duas ars vna mcdentum. quaque prior fuerat chirurgica poſterior iam facta, tamendignum per ſecula ſeruat honorem, si modô non ſtolidis tonſoribus, inque peritis - . empiris commiſſa, ſed arte vſüque politis chirurgis, quales tulerit cùm gallia paucos, ln paucis noltro numerabilis eminet aeuo am b r os vs,chiron nunc regius ille parae v s, quo non alterab arte paratior eſt : neque plures ambroſixqui ſucco, & odorifera panaceæ, a noxis - a noxisvariis curauerit arte ſalubri: quam didicit puerà teneris ſubflore docentum septem annis: deinde à libris traduxit in vſum inter mille agros, quos hoſpita publica curanr: mille vbi morborum ſpecies, & corpora mille contemplans, moxin tantùm proceſſit honorem artis, vi in caſtris primim, tum regis in aula h e n r c , regimgue aliorum ponè ſequentum ordine perpetuò chirurgus regius vſque tertij ad h e nr c primum perueneritannum, egregiam praeſtans operam vel pace, velarmis, multa manu medica tractans, ſcribens quoque multa ipſe manu ſuper arte ſua: qua cunéta volumen nuper in hoc congeſta, ſuſſoue ornata figuris pluſquam quingentis, quibusars expreſſa ſecandi, artis & inſtrumenta, nouis & corpora formis prodigioſa, ſuo ſumptu magno atque labore, edidit in vulguspiusacta atate colonus: qui non contentus praeſens prodeſſe per acuum, iam ſenior varias diſponit in ordine plantas, vnde legant varijgratiſſima poma nepotes. –a - a aa b r o s io p a rae o c h i r vr g o r vaa r e gior v m pr i mi c e rio. º irurgo primas reges tribuere pa r e o vſu natura reliquos quia vincit & arte. st e p h. pa s c h a s vs. - -- ort b vs auxilio ha cmanus eſt, res martia, per quan seruata eſt medico ſape miniſterio. nº mortales eadem vt paſſim iuuet omne per acuum, his quoque paeoniis eſt operata notis. ite alacresin bella viri, nam dextera praſto eminus a m b ros i a : cominus am br o st a. f.m a ri vs. av taenrs - - - a. sº se- b» l. l w : \ , & citez en ce preſent oeuure. . i e s v s. moyſe. · sainct mathieu. sainct luc. dauid. iob. salomon. - º ' " amos. eſdras. eſaye. loſué. samuël. ezechias. sain t auguſtin. platon- empedocles. seneque. alexandre benedictus. plinc. ciceron. martianus saenétus. antonius muſa. lanfranc. lean viuier. simon vallambert. valeſien de tarente. iacques greuin. columbus. syluius. fallopius. nicander. hollier. rondelct. hierophile. philoxene. aëtius. veſalius. theodoric. albucraſis. - l auicenne. gourdon. borallus. amarus luſitanus. iouianus pontanus. damaſcene. · petrus aponenſis. . vitreuue. - aelien. appollonius. ' i iean leon. - - - ---* - a socrates. philippes ingarſias. iulius paulus. philippes de commines. macrobe. - | marc aurelle. | boiſtuau. - " caelius aurelianus. pierre franco. sextus cheronée, hippocrates.. galien. celſe. ariſtote. pythagoras. guidon. fuchſius. j pierre gellie. pierre rhodien. ; aſclepiades. theophraſte. aulus gellius. plutarque. tite-liue. herodote. franciſcus valeriola. de vigo. alexanderab alexandro. i $ # ， , -#lv ! " nº> - -- - a rc #$ - - --^s ，) • • • . ! r chez, • -- * -- , t , ſi paulus aegineta, rhaſis. - | | | soranus. '' º manardus. . · *. haliabas. - · gorra-us. . alechamp. - | # leoncellus fauentinus. . meſué. º, tegaut. ' , i. .. ! gabriel du preau. '' ' leuinus-lemnius. iean-baptiſte theodoſe. george agricola. . nicolas du haut-pas. . | lactance. homere, andré theuet. chryſippus. antoine mizaud. claude paradin. | ouide. nicolas godin. | thiery. guillelmus angelicus. maſſurius. ferrand ponzet. sauonarola. ioannes lengius. montanus. martinus cromerus. franciſcus picus. licoſthene. caelius rodiginus. hector boëtius. petrus crinitus. jolaus magnus. liebaut. | orace. fer é fernel. musée. garſias ab horto. iean marconuille. iacques ruel. § leon l'africain. | philippe foreſtus. antonius beniuenius. baptiſte leon. volaterranus. pierre de ronſard. louys lauater. | cardan. albert le scholiaſte. . bartholomæus magnus. munſterus. pierre meſſie. fallopius. paracelſe. matthiole. | : conciliator. fulgoſe. fgnatius. polydore virgile. arnaldus de villa-noua. diophanes. auega. melchior ouilladin. conſtantin. simeon de prouenchieres. iſaac. platarius. maſſa. symphorianus. · iphocilides. caton. ioubert. , iean de lery. fin des autheurs. | | orphée. le cenſeurvarron. oppian. heliodore. serenus. sexe cheronenſe. andreas à cruce. adrianus. | caſſianus. martin d'arles. pierre de la pallude. bodin. - iuſtin. valeſius de tarenta. heſiode. iacobus ruffus. ariſtomachus philoſophe. a v , n. $- º n$ -- tev r. \ \ )ſ 'h o m m e n'eſtant pointnay pour ſoy ſeulement,ny pour ſon # ſeul proffit,nature luy a donné vn inſtinct & inclination natu- , relle à aymerſon ſemblable,& enl'aymant,taſcher de leſecourir en ſes affaires:tellement que de cette mutuelle affection eſtve- nuë cette loy, non eſcrite ; mais grauée en nos cœurs. sois tel enuers autruy , que tu voudrois qu'on fuſt en ton endroit. de ſorte,que fi quelqu'vn n'eſt eſprint de cette courtoiſie,il eſt plu- ſtoſt à nombrer entre les beſtes qu'entre les hommes vſans de raiſon.entant que cette ſocieté qui nous ſepare des irraiſonna- bles,ne peut eſtre practiquée que par le ſecours mutuel des hommes,leſquelsviuans pour eux, & ſans eſgard des autres, ne meritent(comme dit eſt)le tiltre de raiſon, ny le nom d'hommes,de la douceur naturelle deſquels a prins ſource le nom d'humanité & cour- toiſie.c'eſt pourquoy ie ſuis miré & recogneu par deſſus ceux de ma vacation,& reſpe- âé par ceux meſme qui ne me connoiſſent (car il m'eſt loiſible de parler ainſi,eſtant en l'aage où ie ſuis)veu que toufiours i'ay eu cette charité grauée en moname,que la com- modité de mon frere & mon prochain m'a eſté agreable, & qu'en toutes mes actions ie me ſuis efforcé de ſeruir au public, & teſmoigner à chacun quel ie ſuis : ce que ie ſçay, comme ie l'entends,d'où ie l'ay puisé, & en qu'elle ſorte ie le practique.le laboureur a beau parler des ſaiſons, diſcourir de la façon de cultiuer la terre, deduire quelles ſe- mences ſont propres en chacun terroir : car tout cela n'eſt rien s'il ne met la main aux outils, s'il n'accouple ſes bœufs, & ne les lie à la charruë. auſſi n'eſt-ce grande choſe (bien que ce ſoit quelque cas) de fueilletter les liures, de gazoüiller & caqueter en vne chaire de la chirurgie, de ſes perfections, & comme c'eſt le premier inſtrument du medecin, le premier cogneu, & le plus ancien, & le plus anciennement vſité & practiqué ; la premiere cogneuë, la plus ancienne, & plus anciennement vſitée, & ſi la main (ſuyuant la ſignification du vocable ) ne beſongne, & s'il n'eſt mis envſage par bonne raiſon. voilà l'occaſion qui m'a faict ſortir en campagne pour rendre com- pte de ma ferme affection, & donner raiſon de ce que i'ay apprins par l'eſpace de qua- rante cinq ans ou plus , qu'il y a que ie traicte & practique la chirurgie, tant loüée jadis, & laquelle les princes & les roys ne deſdaignerent d'apprendre, pour l'vtilité, & pour la voir plus que neceſſaire pour noſtre vie. doncques de tout ce que i'ay veu & cogneu par l'eſpace dudict temps, i'ay faict vnc entiere recollection, n'ayant rien eſpargné pour en tirer la moüelle, & pour,eſclaircir ccux qui viendront apres nous, des choſes, qui n'ont peu eſtre cogneuës par cy-deuant : ou fi elles l'ont eſté,non ſi bien eſclaircies qu'il eſtoit requis. car les arts ne ſont encore ſi accomplis, qu'on n'y puiſſe faire addition : ils ſe parfont & poliſſent par ſucceſſion de temps, ils s'eſclairciſſent par certaines definitions, diuifions, demonſtrations, preceptes, & reigles vniuerſelles. c'eſt laſcheté trop reprochable de s'arreſter à l'inuention des premiers, en les imitans ſeulement, a la façon des pareſſeux, ſans rien adiouſter & accroiſtre à l'heritage qu'ils nous ont laiſsé, non pour le laiſſer deuenir en friche, mais pour le cultiuer & embel- lir, leur demeurant, comme à peres & autheurs l'honneur de la premiere inuention, mais à nous quelque petite proportion de gloire, pour l'enrichiſſement & illuſtration : reſtant à la verité plus de choſes à chercher qu'il n'y en a de trouuées. parquoy ne ſoyons fi fimples de nous repoſer & endormir ſur le labeur des anciens, comme s'ils auoient tout ſçeu , ou tout dict, ſans rien laiſſer à excogiter & dire à ceux qui vien- dront apres eux. nous auons appris du bon pere guidon, que nous ſommes comme l'enfant, qui eſt ſur le col du geant : c'eſt à dire, que par leurs eſcrits nousvoyons ce quils ont veu, & pouuons encore voir & entendre dauantage. autrement il fau- droit que nature euſt faict ſeulement le deuoir de vraye mere enuers ſes premiers enfans, & cnuers nous comme puiſ-nez ſe fuſt monſtrée maraſtre, nous laiſſansde- á illlcz l'homme n'eſt point nay pour ſoy. loy de nature. origine du nom d'huma- nité. charité de l'autheur. similitude priſe du la- boureuje pourquov r† # eſcrit ce liure. nombre des ans par leſquels l'autheur a traicté la chi- rurgie. neceſſité de ia chirurgie. rien n'eſt ſi parfaict qu'on n'y puiſſe ad- iouſtcr. reſtent plus de choſes à chercher qu'il n'y en a de trouuées. belle ſentence du bon perq guidºn. - nuez de tout eſprit, & ſteriles en inuention, ce qu'on ne luy peut improperer ſans luy faire grand tord, & ſans ſe rendre coulpable de crimc de parricide, accuſant in- iuſtcment vne ſi iuſte mcrc. ll cſt bien plus raiſonnable, que chacun de nous s'cffor- ce à employer les graces & dons d'eſprit receus d'elle au profit du public. pour à quoy paruenir i'ay ſordé les cœurs & ſecrets de pluſieurs empiriques, deſquels ic confeſſe auoir appris , non ſans grands frais, des choſes fort ſingulieres, & deſquelles p .. « ayantvsé auec raiſon,i'ay veu reüſſir des œuures admirables. or ſuiuant mon deſſein, #" de tout ce que ay oncques peu apprendre de rare & de ſingulier, i'en fais en ce liure, liberale , voire prodigue largeſſe , nc me ſouciant de ma deſpence, du labeur, ny du ſoing que i'ay cû à le rechercher , pourucu que ie ſerue au public, & faſſe choſe ag- greable à mon roy, plaiſante aux princes, & profitable à toute la nation françoiſe: & ce, à l'exemple de pluſieurs tant medecins , que chirurgiens qui ſouz vn pareil deſſein ont mis la main à la plume, ſoit pour ſupléer au dcfaut des anciens , ſoit pour polir ce qu'ils ſembloient auoir touché trop ſimplement, & ſans deuë intelli- , † gence. car pour ne mentir point, bien que les anciens ayent eſté excellents hommes, voir en ce qu'il ont cſcrit, ſi eſt ce que n'ayans tout veu, ny traitté, ſi d'autres apres eux n'euſſent continué d'eſcrire , nous ſerions à ſonger ſur la pluſpart des occurrences, comme ſi de noſtre temps nous taiſions la nouueauté des maladies ſuruenantes, & dedans le corps, & dehors. de mefme ceux qui viendroient apres nous, auroienr grande raiſon de nous blaſmer, ou d'ignorance, ou de pareſſe, ou d'enuie, ou de tous les trois enſemble, veu que de iour a autre,comme la corruption des hommes va en † croiſſant, les maladies auſſi ſe diuerſifient & renouuellent ; de ſorte que les medecins, #" qui ne ſçauroicnt que ce que les anciens ont eſcrit, demeureroient aupres des patiens, ſans leur donner autre remede que de patience. et dieu ſçait, combien de maladies ſe ſont deſcouuertes de noſtre temps , l'ignorance deſquelles, & de leur cauſe , & altcration de l'interieur a causé la mort d'vn nombre infiny de pauures miſerables langoureux. » , # ce que ie veux dire eſt, que bien que les anciens nous ſeruent d'eſchauguettes § pour veoir de loing,& que par le moyen leur fondement de l'art nous ait cſté cſlargy, " & comme laiſsé en heritage, ſi eſt-ce que noſtre bon naturel, pouſsé d'vne viuacité d'eſprit, a parfaict & poly ce qui auoit ie ne ſçay quoy de rudeſſe, & cccy non ſans grande commodité, eu cſgard à la diuerſité des temps, ſaiſons, temperatures des † corps, & des maladies : si bien qu'il ſemble, que chaſque ſiecle porte ſon renouuel- † lement de malheurs, yſſans ſur nous, comme de la boëtte de pandore. par ainſi l'art v§e ſe parfaict en l'inucntion des remcdes, appropriez aux qualitez des corps, & ſelon au liure intitu † les differences des maladies, & le tout auec le iugement qu'il a pleu à dieu nous de- le temps deſ- couuic tout. #rº ſur les premiers traits de l'art que nous ont dreſſez & baſtis nos anceſtres eſtant - choſe toute aſſeurée,que le iug ment du temps deſcouure en fin les occultes fautes, & le defaut,& qui pour cſtre pere de verité,& iuge ſans paſſion,a touſiours accouſtumé de donner iuſte ſentence de la vie ou de la mort des eſcritures : deſquelles ſi en ce mien oeuure i'ay pris quelque choſe(comme il eſt impoſſible qu'en ſi grand nombre de raiſons & experiences,ie ne me ſois aydé infiniment du labeur des anciens) ſi eſt ce que ie ne pretend leur deſrober, ny reſſembler les plaigiaires, leſquels faiſans parade du ſça- uoir d'autruy,le deſguiſans par eſchange de paroles, ſe l'attribuent comme propre. et †º au reſte,à fin que quelques trop ſeueres ſenſeurs ne penſent, que ie ſois entré en leurs cabinets, & que ie me ſois enrichy de leur doctrine,& auſſi à fin qu'ils n'ayent occa- ſion de ſe plaindre de mon entrepriſe, comme d'homme qui ait moiſſonné aux champs des autres, & vsé de larcins ſans les reconnoiſtre : ie diray hardiment que ie ne veux frauder les anciens de leur gloire, ny les accuſer d'auoir peu touché ce qui concerne la perfection de la chirurgie. - - neantmoins, ne veux-je me faire ce tort, que de rauir à ma diligence, ce qui luy ... eſt deu, pour l'attribuer à autre, à qui ie n'en ſuis redeuable. ie dy donc, que tout cét ceuure eſt à moy, & n'en puis eſtre fraudé, comme attentant nouuelleté, puiſque i'ay baſti en mon propre fond, & que l'edifice & les materiaux m'appartienncnt. et ce que i'ay d'ailleurs, ſont ſeulement quelques acceſſoires, que pour ſuiure la façon commune de traitter de toutes choſes methodiquement, i'ay prins comme reigles generales des écrits des anciens. et ne faut qu'on ſc picque ſi quelques fois ie ſemble - - paſſ partir, & lequel ne nous cſt pas donné pour le laiſſer aneantir, & ſeulement s'arreſter ， ， ， - :，- au lecteur. paſſer les bornes de ma vacation, ce que toutesfois ie ne fais, ny ne pretend faire, ſi ce n'eſt en la liaiſon, & accointance qui eſt entre les ſciences, comme lors que par- lant des fiévres, quelqu'vn penſera que ie contrefais le medecin, là où ceſte cognoiſ- ſance n'eſt point hors du ſçauoir & practique du chirurgien; eſtant impoſſible que l'ex- terieur du corps ſoit alteré par bleſſeure, que le dedans ne ſe reſſente de telle paſſion, comme l'vne des parties du corps compatiſſant auec l'autre, à cauſe de leur vnion na- turelle. - et par ainſi eſt-il beſoin de diſcourir des fiévres, & en auoir au vray la connoiſſan- # #- ce, pour remedier au dehors, mais d'en entreprendre la curation, i'en laiſſe la charge # aux medecins, & me contente de ce qui m'eſt loiſible par l'art, duquel ie fais prº-# feſſion, & pour l'accompliſſement duquel i'ay faict pluſieurs belles recherches, & " profitable recueils, qui ſeruiront à rafraiſchir la memoire de ceux qui n'ont loiſir de fueilleter tant de liures. attendu que ie ne ſçache. œuure parlant de la chirurgie , duquel la moëlle ne ſoit compriſe en ces miens eſcrits, non pour ſimplement en de- duire; ains comme en ayant faict l'experience, & pratiqué de main propre, horſmis eus, s. finciſion de la pierre en la veſſie , & lamputation des teſticules, s'ils n'eſtoient gan-# grenez,& du tout ſphacelez.et à fin qu'on voye quels moyens i'ay eu de faire de telles § ſe, & ſi grandes experiences, faut ſçauoir, que par l'eſpace de trois ans i'ay reſidé en " l'hoſtel-dieu de paris,où i'ay eu le moyen de voir & connoiſtre (eu eſgard à la grande diuerfité des malades y giſans ordinairement)tout ce qui peut eſtre d'alteration,& ma- ladie au corps humain; & enſemble y apprendre ſur vne infinité de corps morts, tout ce qui ſe peut dire & conſiderer ſur l'anatomie, ainſi que ſouuent i'en ay faict preuue tres-ſuffiſante,& cela publiquement à paris aux eſcoles de medecine. c'eſt beaucoup ce que deſſus, pour paruenir à la cognoiſſance des grands ſecrets # de la chirurgie. mais mon bon heur m'a faict veoir encore plus outre : car eſtant #" appellé au ſeruice des roys de noſtre france (quatre deſquels i'ay ſeruy)il n'y a eu " temps, ny moyens que ie n'aye employé à ce que ie peuſſe auoir la grace des mede- cins, & chirurgiens les plus ſçauans & mieux experimentez , ayant ceſte conſide-, . ration, que bien que le ſçauoir ſoit grande choſe, ſi eſt-ce que l'ame giſt en l'expe-§ des rience,deſquels i'ay apprins pluſieurs ſecrets,qui ne ſont auſſitenus cachez en ce liure. choſcs. ce n'eſtoit aſſez pour raſſaſſier mon deſir curieux d'apprendre tout ce qui ſe peut ſça- uoir pour la vacation à laquelle ie ſuis appellé, ſi encore ie n'euſſe veu les guerres, où l'on traitte les bleſſez ſans fard, & ſans les mignarder à la façon des villes. car ie me cauiheur ſuis trouué en campagne,aux batailles,eſcarmouches,aſſauts, & ſieges de villes & for-†"s : temps les tereſſes, comme i'ay eſté auſſi enclos és villages auec les aſſiegez, ayant charge de sºie . traitter les bleſſez. • | et dieu ſçait, combien le iugement d'vn homme ſe parfait en cét exercice, où le # renom- gain eſtant eſloigné, le ſeul honneur vous eſt proposé, & l'amitié de tant de braues # ſoldats, auſquels on ſauue la vie ; ainſi qu'apres dieu, ie me veux vanter d'auoir faict " à vn nombre infiny. et en ſomme i'ay appris ce dequoy ie traitte tant és lieux ſuſ- . dits, que de depuis en cette tres grande & fameuſe ville de paris,où(dieu graces ) i'ay # toufiours veſcu en tres-bonne reputation entre tous, & n'ay tenu le dernier rang en-† donner fo tre ceux de mon eſtat : veu qu'il ne s'eſt faict cure , tant grande & difficile fut-elle, "º où ma main, & mon conſeil n'ayent eſté requis, ainſi que ie le fais voir par ce mien oeuure, diſcourant de pluſieurs choſes ſingulieres aduenuës en mes practiques : és hi- ſtoires deſquelles, pour leur donner plus de foy, ie nomme les lieux, les patiens, & les aſſiſtans, à fin que les ieunes chirurgiens s'encouragent de faire comme moy, ou mieux s'ils peuuent,& d'y gaigner le los que i'ay acquis par ma diligence. en laquel- a qui ras. le, s'ils voyent(car c'eſt à cux, non aux doctes que i'adreſſe ces eſcrits ) que ie man-†º que en quelque endroit ( comme il eſt impoſſible qu'vn ſeul homme ſçache , ou # puiſſe tout faire)ils me feront plaiſir de pluſtoſt me remonſter ma faute gracieuſe-§ ment, que non pas vſer de calomnie; veu que ie ne ſuis homme ſientier en mes opi-r#" nions, que ie ne reconnoiſſe facilement ma faute, quand elle me ſera monſtrée. ie .† ' volonté des ſçay bien toutesfois, que les chirurgiens,qui me deuoient preſter la main, pour me #. ſouſleuer le menton, de peur que ie n'allaſſe au fond de l'eau, m'ont voulu plonger § la teſte pour me faire noyer, m'ont voulu rendre odieux au magiſtrat ciuil, à l'Éc-†" clefiaſtique, & au populaire, n'ont laiſsé pierre à remuer pour me faire chopper s'ils pouuoient : mais ayant le cœur bon, & ne ſongeantà danger quelconque, moycnnat que au lecteur - . que ie puiſſe laiſſer à la poſterité quelque teſmoignage de ma vie, i'ay ſurmonté par # § toute difficulté. car la bonté de ma cauſe m'aſſeuroit tant, & l'iniquité de †º leur fait me donnoit telle défiance de leur party, que le cœur me croiſſoit de iour en l'authcur. - - - - - iour pour aduancer mon deſſein. le deſir de faire ſeruice à mon pays, & faire plaiſir à - - - - • • ! - - - - la poſterité m'eſguillonnoit, mais l'enuie qu'ils auoient du ſoulagement de ceux qui , doreſnauant ſe voudroient meſler de la chirurgie, les émouuoit à me donner •m- etu d§" peſchement : ils diſoient que i'auois creué les yeux aux corneilles, que i'auois oſté le " voile de deuant les yeux de ceux quivoudroient par cy-apres practiquer la chirur- asſe ſimili gie, que ie leur auois mis l'inſtrument en main pour ſortir aiſément, & auec hon- tude. neur de toute affaire qui appartient au fait de la chirurgie. s'ils diſentvray, ils con- » ... feſſent l'honneur qui m'eſt deu. s'ils en ſont faſchez, ils monſtrent l'enuie qui leurs #. ronge le cœur, comme la roüille le fer,& le ver le bois. penſent-ils que les bornes de la bonne renommée,ſoient encloſes en ſi peu d'eſprit, qu'il ne leur reſte plus rien pour ſe faire paroiſtre en la practique de la chirurgie ? de ma part, i'ay deſparty liberale- ment à toutes perſonnes les biens que dieu m'a conferez, & ſi pour cela n'en ay pas moins , ainſi que la lumiere de la chandelle ne diminuë en rien, encores que pluſieurs y viennent allumer leurs flambeux. mais vn cœur abject, qui eſt empriſonné & en- ſerré en quelque cſtroicte cahuëtte, ne s'oſe decouurir, de peur(par maniere de dire ) d'eſtre frappé du vent. le voudrois auoir ſi bien faict, qu'il n'y euſt perſonne qui ne affinité & deuint par mes eſcrits beaucoup plus habile que moy,ie ne penſerois pas pour ccla mou- § § rir de faim par faute d'eſtre employé. au moins ceux qui auroient appris de mes liures, † confeſſeroient auoir eu l'addreſſe de moy. l'en rends l'honneur à dieu, & en prends sºº la peine pour moy. cliºrºs les medecins diſoient que i'auois paſſé les bornes & limites de la chirurgie, & † * principalement en traictant des fiévres. orie leur demanderois volontiers qui a fait mº le partage de la medecine & de la chirurgie,& où aucun en ſeroit fait, qui ſont ceux qui ſe ſont contentez de leur part, ſans quelque entrepriſe ſur l'autre : car hippo- r† crate, galien , aëtius, p. aeg. auicenne, bref tous les medecins, tant grecs, la- § tins, qu'arabes , n'ont iamais traicté de l'vn, qu'ils n'ayent traicté de l'autre, pour " la grande affinité & liaiſon qu'il y a entre les deux : & ſeroit bien difficile en faire au- ºceºe trement. la chirurgie a eſté eſtimée la premiere partie de la medecine, & l'vne & de la mede- .» - - - - cine. l'autre a eſté traictée par meſmes autheurs, n'ayans autres preceptes que la medeci- ignorance e§ ne, ny autres reigles pour eſtre enſeignez ſeparément. or, diſent-ils, que ie ne deuois † eſcrire en françois, & que par ce moyen la medecine en ſeroit tenuë à meſpris : ce ſçience . - - - - - - -" #º qui me ſemble le contraire, car ce que i'en ay faict eſt pluſtoſt pour la magnifier & a º t - - - - - - - - - - - § di honnorer.mais qui eſt celuy qui pourroit aneantir & denigrer vne doctrine tant inſi- uerſes langues, § gne & precieuſe, ayante ſté reuelée & enſeignée de dieu, & traictée des plus ſça- †** uans perſonnages qui oncques furent viuans ſoubs le ciel ? & faut entendre que les ſciences , tant plus elles ſont cognuës de pluſieurs, tant plus elles ſont loüées : veu p†, que science eſt vertu n'ont plus grand ennemy qu'ignorance. dauantage, ie deman- # derois volontiers ſi la philoſophie d'ariſtote, la medecine du diuin hippocrate, & de galien, ont eſté obſcurcies & amoindries, pour auoir eſté traduictes de grec en † latin, ou en langage arabic, ainſi que firent auerroës, aephadius, & autres arabes º# ſoigneux de leur republique ; auicenne prince de la medecine arabique n'a- il pas lc , ** ! " - - - , - • : u r - - qu§ traduit pluſieurs liures de galien en ſon jargon,au moyen dequoy la medecine a eſté † decorée en ſon païs d'arabic : pourquoy ſemblablement ne me ſera-il permis d'eſcri- # re en ma langue françoiſe,laquelle eſt autant noble que nulle autre eſtrangeré ? da- cognoiſſance § uantage, il eſt tres-néceſſaire que les chirurgiens ayent cognoiſſance des fiévres : & s'ils manquent en cela, ils feront vne infinité de fautes au danger de la vie des hom- mes. exemple, comme baillcr à manger & boire au commencement de l'accés & paroxyſme des fiévres ; en ce faiſant d'vne fiévre ephemere, en feront vne putride. car nature en lieu de cuire & digerer les viandes, elle fera vne pourriture, parce que la digeſtion ſe faict par le benefice de la chaleur naturelle ; & le malade eſtant au commencement de l'accés, nature ne peut cuire les aliments, & contrarier à la fiévrei ainſi que ſouuent par ce moyen on reuoque nature de ſon mouuement à l'expulſion des humeurs qui la moleſtent pour l'empeſcher à la concoction des viandes autre · accident. si le chirurgien fait vne ſaignée pendant que le malade aura friſſon de fié- vre, ſouucnt ſera cauſe de grand mal. a raiſon que la chaleur naturelle,& les º† - - - " ' ont - - | au lecteur. . ſont retirez au centre du corps, alors que les parties externes ſont vuides de ſang : & ſion en tiroit à l'heure, on debiliteroit grandement les vertus, voire ſouuent on cau- ſeroit la mort des malades. autre accident. si le chirurgien deſcouuroit le malade, pour le pcnſer de quelque playe, ou autre indiſpoſition(qu'il euſt au corps)à l'heure du friſſon de l'accez,il ſeroit cauſe de l'augmentation de la fiévre,ou autre plus grand accident,pour le froid qui pourroit ſaifir le malade. plus ſi le chirurgien ne connoiſt ſon bleſsé auoir la fiévre, il ne luy oſtera le vin ny les viandes, qui pourroient au- gmenter & entretenir la fiévre. et pour ces raiſons, & pluſieurs autres (que ie laiſſe de peur d ennuyer le liſeur ) ceux qui ont eſcrit deuant moy de la chirurgie : com- me guidon, de vigo, gourdon, & autres, n'ont iamais voulu laiſſer en arriere d'eſ- crire des fiévres , pour rendre leurs œuures plus parfaictes. ce que i'ay bien voulu faire à leur imitation, à cauſe qu'en toutes les maladies (ou la pluſpart ) où la main du chirugien eſt neceſſaire, comme playes,fractures,luxations, apoſtemes, cheuttes, pic- · queures & morſures, & autres, quaſi ordinairement les fiévres interuiennent. voilà pourquoy i'auosi eſcrit des fiévres:& en enſuiuant mes deuanciers au plus pres qu'il m'a eſté poſſible. et pour reuenir à mon œuure, i'en ay faicte la diuiſion par cy-deuant, mais crai- gnant que par icelle le corps deſpecé en parties, ne vinſt à quelque aneantiſſement, eſtant ainſi decoupé , eſchantillonné, ic l'ay(auec bon conſeil)reduit en vn volume, autant que le tout ainſi aſſemblé pourra mieux reſiſter aux iniures du temps, que s'il alloit çà & là ſeparé & mis en pieces. mais plus ay-je eſté incité à ce faire, pour ce que i'ay veu (ou me ſuis faict à croire) que les plus doctes & moins paſſionnez les ont cy-deuant leuz auec quelque contentement. au reſte eſtant françois, & ſçachant bien que pcu de liures de la chirurgie , compoſez par les grecs, latins & arabes, ſont à preſent traduicts en noſtre langue , qui fait que d'vne infinité de chirurgiens, la pluſpart n'apprend ceſte ſcience qu'en ſonvulgaire, l'oyant par les docteurs me- ecins traicter & interpreter en françois, dont nous voyons pour vn chirurgien la- tin, qu'il s'en trouue mille françois & plus,bien exerçans la chirurgie. ie n'ay voulu auſſi l'eſcrire en autre langage, que le vulgaire d'vn autre nation, ne voulant eſtre de ces curieux, & par trop ſuperſtitieux, qui veulent cabaliſer les arts, & les ſerrer ſouz les loix de quelque langue particuliere, en tant que i'ay appris, que les ſciences ſont compoſées de choſes, non de paroles, & que les ſçiences ſont de l'eſſence, les paro- les, pour exprimer & ſignifier. et ainſi chaque langue eſt propre à traicter les arts, & à les donner à entendre. ce que celſe nous a bien monſtré, quand il a dict, que les maladies ne ſont point gueries par paroles, ains par les remedes que duëment on y applique. . ' - - ' , .. · · · · · · • · • » ' s l'ordre par moy obſerué en cét œuure, eſt que ie le diuiſe en vingt-ſix liures, & chacun d'iceux eſt partie en chapitres, enſuiuant la methode commune de ceux qui mettent par eſcrit les conceptions de leurs ames. car en premier lieu, ſelon le pre- cepte du philoſophe, ie mets la definition de chacune choſe traictée, puis les diffe- rences en icelles conſiderées, les ſignes, cauſes, prognoſtiques : & apres cela cure ge- ncrale, puis la particuliere, auec les inſtrumens propres pour la curation de quelque maladie que ce ſoit : partie deſquels eſt de mon inuention : en quoy ( dieu mercy) i'ay eſté aſſez heureux, & le reſte ie l'ay retiré de l'antiquité, ainſi que i'en ay vſé és figures de l'anatomie : la pluſpart deſquelles i'ay empruntez d'andré veſal , hom- me rare, & le premier de ſon fiecle en ceſte partie de medecine : leſquelles pour la commodité du lecteur, i'ay fait reduire en petites planches, quoy qu'auec frais ex- ceſſifs, que i'eſtimeray bien employez, pourueu que ccla ſoit aggreable aux gens de bien, & que ceux de ma nation en puiſſent tirer quelque profit. auſſi le ſeul eſpoir pourquo r§ # mis toutes ſes gÈuures cr vn volume. chaque langue eſt propre traicter les arts. celſe en ſon premier , lture. l'ordre ob- ſerué en cét ceulutc, de ce ſuccez m'a fait ſurmonter toutes les difficultez qui ſe pourroient offrir en cét . endroit. veu meſmes, que ie voyois, qu'entre toutes choſes compriſes en l'vne & l'autre partie de medecine, l'anatomie eſt celle qui eſt plus neceſſaire, tant pour les medecins, que pour les chirurgiens, eſtant obligé chacun ouurier ( ſelon le dict du bon veillard guidon ) de cognoiſtre lc ſubject ſur lequel il s'exerce. car faillant en cét endroit, outre ce qu'il commettra vne infinité de fautes, & s'acquerra vn per- petuel diffame, encore hazardera-il folement la vie de ceux qui ſe ſont fiez, & mis entre ſes mains. et m'eſtonne, que les hommes ſont ſi fols, que de rechercher ce qui n'eſt ſubjet à leur connoiſſance , que par coniectures , & qu'ils s'arreſtent au - é nombre ncceſſité de l'anatemie. la cogneiſſan- ce du ſubj° « . ſur leq e\ s'exerce eſt eies necç ſaire, cl. au lecteur. a† nombre certain des eſtoiles , qui ſelon l'eſcriture ſaincte ſont innombrables : veu- #º lent ſçauoir le cours des cieux, les mouuements du soleil & de la lune, les dimen- n§igence ſions de la terre ; & cependant ne ſe ſoucient de ſe connoiſtre eux meſmes, & de #º 'ſçauoir l'exellence & merueilleuſe compoſition de leurs corps, compoſée de parties "† s infinies par le ſouuerain facteur & createur de toutes choſes : chacune deſquelles a † ſubſtance propre, ſon office, ſa faculté, & vtilité neceſſaire, tant pour ſon viure & §" mouuement , que pour ſeruir & entendre. en quoy ſont compriſes les perfections de ce tout , qui repreſente le grand corps de l'vnion, auec ſes quatre qualitez con- ſiderées auſſi bien au corps de l'homme, qui pour ce regard eſt appellé microcoſme, c'eſt à dire petit monde. et tout cecy eſt en fi grand nombre,auec telle varieté & liai- ſon des parties, que de toutes les œuures de dieu, le corps de l'homme eſt le plus parfaict, comprenant en ſoy l'harmonie accomplie des choſes contraires, leſquelles accommodées ſelon leur office , font leur accord le plus beau , & excellent qu'on ſçauroit deſirer. et pource (comme dict eſt)l'homme porte le tiltre de petit monde, n'ayant defaut de rapport en ſoy, & aux choſes celeſtes, & à ce qui eſt terreſtre ou aqueux , ou plus ſubtil, tenant de l'etheré. et qui plus eſt à admirer , ayant celle ame raiſonnable , qui comme l'ame de l'vniuers va s'eſpandant par ce petit monde, le regit & guide, & ſe ſert de ſes parties, comme de ſes inſtrumens & organes. tout canatomie cecy pourroit eſtre contemplé par celuy qui verroit l'anatomie (choſe digne d'cſtre # cognuë par tout homme de bon eſprit)comme d'autre coſté il y auroit dequoy ra- § baiſſer ſon orgueil, voyant que l'ame oſtée de ce beau chef d'œuure, ce n'eſt plus de bon eſprit. > - - - • _ • . qu'vn vaiſſeau plein de corruption, & la plus freſle choſe de la terre. mais i'entre ſur le diſcours excedant noſtre propos, auquel ie reuiens touchant ce mien œuure, que gus eea i'offre au benin & ſtudieux lecteur, auec ce petit mot, que jaçoit, que pluſieurs tant qu'vn corps †" anciens que modernes ayent eſcrit de l'anatomie, ſi verras-tu par le preſent œuure, que pas vn d'eux n'a gardétel ordre que ie fais, ny ſuiuy la methode auec telle faci- lité, & de cecy ie feray iuge tous ceux qui ſans ſe paſſionner prendront la patience ' d'en donner ſentence, auec equité & droicture. reçoy donc(amy lecteur) ce que de fi bon cœur, & auec telle liberalité ie te depart : & pour recompenſe, aye memoire que ma vie n'a eſté oifiue pour la republique, cherchant touſiours l'auancement des ieunes apprentifs en la chirurgie, auſquels mes eſcrits s'addreſſent. et neantmoins, toutes les peines que i'ay priſes par cy-deuant i'ay occaſion de loüer dieu, de ce qu'il rourneyl, luy a pleu m'appeller à l'operation medecinale, que vulgairement on nomme chi- † rurgie, qu'on ne ſçauroit acheter par or ny par argent, mais la ſeule vertu & lon- #. gue experience. et toutesfois eſt ſtable en tout pays : a cauſe que les loix de la ſa- § crée medecine ne ſont ſujettes à celles des roys, & autres seigneurs, ny à preſcri- " ption de temps, comme prenant ſon origine de dieu, lequel ie ſupplie qu'il luy plaiſe arrouſer cette mienne entrepriſe,à fin qu'il en ſoit glorifié eternellement. ainſiſoit-il. : | | | | | c a t a iii. iv. vii. viii. ix. • x. xi. xii. xiii. xiv. - - •s= - $ $sss$ -- catalo gve des livres cont e nvs en cet oevvre ! >q(# r e m i e r liure de l'introdu- - * r étion ou entrée pour paruenir à la vraye cognoiſſance de la chirur- gie- . , fol. liure des animaux , & de l'excel- lence de l'homme. de la nature , . liure traiéiant de l'anatomie de tout le corps humain illuſtrée des figures de chacune partie d'iceluy. liure traiéiant de l'anatomie lequel contient les parties vitales,contenués dans le thorax,nommé des françois, poiéirine . - i liure contenant les parties animales ſituées en la teſte . io . liureauquelſont contenués principalement les muſcles, & les os de tout le corps , auec deſcriptions de toutes les autres parties des extremitez . liure traičiant des tumeurs contre nature en general. liure traičiant des tumeurs contre nature en particulier. . - - liure traiéfant des playes recentes & ſanglantes, enge- neral. o liure traiétant desplayes recentes & ſanglantes, en par- ticulier. liure traičiant des playes faiéfes par arquebuſes, &' autres baſtons à feu, fleches, dards, & des accidents d'icelles. liure traiétant des contuſions, combuſtions, & gangre- º . i liure traicfant des vlceres, fiſtules, & hemorrhoides. ii liure traiétant des bandages. · xv. xv. liure traiétant des fračiures des os. xvi. liure traiétant des luxations. i xvii. liure traiétant de pluſieurs indiſpoſitions & operations particulieres, appartenantes au chirurgien. xviii. liure traiétant de lamaladie artritique, vulgairemenr, appellée goute . . xix. liure traiétant de la groſſe verole, dicte maladie vene- rienne, & des accidents qui aduiennent en icelle . xx. liure traiétant de la petiteverole, rougeole, & vers des petits enfans, & de la lepre . xxi. liuretraiétant des venins, & morſures des chiens enra- gez, & autres & picqueures de beſtes veneneuſes. . xxii. liure traiétant de la peſte . xxiii. liure traiétant des moyens & artifices d'adiouſter ce qui defaut naturellement, ou paraccident. z. xxiv. liure traiétant de la generation de l'homme, recueillydes anciens & modernes. xxv. liure traiétant des monſtres & prodiges. xxv i. liure traiétant de la faculté & vertu des medicamens ſimples, enſemble de la compoſition & vſage d'iceux. o . xxvii.liure traiétant des diſtillations. xxviii.liure traiétant des rapports, & du moyen d'embaûmer les corps morts. - xxix. eapologie & traiété contenant les voyages faiéis en di- uers lieux. xxx. liure traiétant des fiévres en general & enparticulier. oi. - l e ■ ■ ■ ■ ■ |- ！ ！！！！！！！！！！！！！！ ~~ ~ | ~~~~*~*~*=~ ---- -- - d r e r a c e. fd e l' inve n tio n e t e x c e l l e n c e de la e medecine & chirurgie . o vs les anciens & modernes tiennent que la medecine a eu ſon origine du ciel. % et premierement ceux qui ont le mieux ſenty de la creation du monde, ont eſcrit qu'apres la creation des elemens (lgrs qu'il n'y auoit encores homme viuant) les $ herbes, & les plantes ſortirent par le commandement de dieu, des cauernes de la #n terre, de diuerſe, & preſque incomprehenſible grandeur, couleur, odeur, ſaueur § & figure : & enſemble doiiees de propres vertus tant excelléntes & diuines, qu'il n'y a inuention d'ouurage ou art, quel qu'il ſoit, qui à meilleure occaſion ſoit attribuée à dien:& euſt eſté impoſſible à l'homme de rechercher,& cognoiſtre les natures & puiſſan- ces de telles choſes, ſi dieu ne les euſt premierement enſeignées.de † , ce grand architecteur & facteur de lvniuers, ſi toſt qu'il eut formé adam, & inſpiré en luy la lumiere de vie, luy monſtra & declara generalement les proprietez de tout ce que la terre produit & nourrit ; de ſorte que ſi quel- qu'vn penſe telles choſes pouuoir eſtre inuentées des hommes, celuy-là à bon droict (meſmes par le iugement de pline) doit eſtre eſtimé ingrat enuers dieu, & mal ſentant de ſa puiſſance. or apres adam telle cognoiſſance n'a eſté enſeuelie auec luy, mais a eſté encores reuelée de dieu à cer- tains hommes, qui ont eſté appellez pour adminiſtrer la medecine, & commis pour en départir & ordonnel à ceux qui en auroient neceſſité. b et cette opinion a cſté receuë non ſeulement par le commun accord des hommes en general, mais auſſi prouuée par moyſe , diſant que lesouuerain a creé, & produit de la terre les herbes & plantes, deſquelles toute la poſterité d'adam ſe pourroit ayder, & ſoulager pour guerir les mala- dies. ce qui a eſté auſſi depuis confirmé par ieſus fils de syrach, tres-ſage entre les hebrieux, le- quel en ſon liure eſcrit ce qui s'enſuit : honore le medecin, car le tres-haut l'a creé pour la ne- ceſſité : auſſi'toute ſanté & guariſon procede du dieu ſouuerain. noſtre seigneur a produict de la terre toutes les choſes medccinales, & ne les doit meſpriſer l'homme ſage. donne lieu, & fais hon- neur au medecin : car ila eſté creé du seigneur. les grecs qui ſemblent les premiers auoir fait ou- uerture d'vne plus pleine & illuſtre profeſſion de la medicine, eſcriuent conformément à ce pro- pos, qu'apollo eſt l'inuenteur d'icelle : ce qui n'eſt ſans quelque apparence de raiſon. car ſoit que ſelon leur maniere & couſtume de parler, par apollo ils entendent le soleil(planette qui de ſa cha- leur benigne & temperée viuifie toutes choſes, inſpirant les facultez aux plantes, les nourrit & en- tretient,pour produire les effects tels que nous voyons en nos corps : ) ſoit auſſi que par iceluy ils entendent vn homme, lequel ſuſcitéd'vn eſprit diuin & excellent par deſſus tous les autres de ſon temps, a le premier enſeigné & practiqué l'vſage des herbes : comme ſemble l'auoir entendu oui- de, le faiſant ainſi parler en ſes metamorphoſes. e_zmedeciner eſt mon inuention , ieſuis de tous l'ayde & ſubuention : subiette m'eſt des herbes la puiſſance_ ; dont giſt en moy de ſanté la fiance . - - - vrayement touſiours l'origine de la medecine ſera diuine & celeſte.or le moyen par lequel elle a eu credit cntre les hommes, eſt preſque tel.apres apollo, aeſculapius ſon fils, s'entremit de la medecine, laquelle eſtoit encores rude, & ſans methode : celuy-là commença à l'augmenter , & rcduire en meilleur ordre, au moyen dequoy il a eſté ſi grand, qu'on l'a eſtimé comme dieu. en ce meſme temps floriſſoit chiron centaure, lequel auoit vne grande cognoiſſance des herbes : & pource pline, & pluſieurs autres ont eu opinion qu'il eſtoit inuentur de la medecine, pour auoir veſcu non ſeulement d'vn meſme temps auec aeſculapius, mais auſſi pour auoir eſté ſon maiſtre en d la cognoiſſance des ſimples. or aeſculapius eut deux enfans , ſçauoir, podalirius, & machaon, qui ſuiuans la trace de leur pere, firent profeſſion de la medecine; & ſur tout de cette partie qu'on ap- pelle chirurgie, de laquelle pour ce, ils ſont eſtimez inuenteurs. apres eux, la famille d'aſclepia- des l'agrandement augmentée, & laiſſée à ſes ſucceſſeurs, comme choſe hereditaire : car par lcur moyen les remedes des maladies internes ont cſté inuentez. de cette tant illuſtre famille hippo- crate, fils d'heraclites, natif de l'iſle de coos, comme prince de tous les medecins qui furent deuant luy > paracheua cette ſcience, la mettant en lumiere par arts, & preceptes eſcrits en ſa langue maternelle, qui eſtoit la grecque. six cens ans apres lequel vint galien, qui tres expert en mede- - c i © origine di la medecl- / -v. geneſ . l chap. : apollo in- uenteur de la medeci- &-'. aeſculapiul, chiran. lib. . ch. . podalirius. amachaon. galierſ, • r . l'i'eface, cine a expliqué tout ce qui eſtoit obſcur & difficile en hippocrate. doncques tel a eſté le com- a mencement , accroiſſement & perfection de la medecine, entant qu'elle a peû eſtre miſe en auant par l'induſtrie des hommes : combien que ſi nous en voulons parler à la verité, l'experience, com- me en toutes choſes,a eu grande puiſſance en la medecine pour l'auancement d'icelle. car les hom- mes ayans obſerué telle & telle plante auoir eſté propres à la guariſon de telle & telle maladie, de pluſieurs choſes particulieres ils en ont faict vne generale , auec des regles, par leſquelles toute la polidore paſterité auroit à ſe gouuerner. ainſi liſons-nous dans les hiſtoires anciennes, que la medecine virgile, n'eſtans encores redigée en art & preceptes , les babyloniens & aſſyriens auoient de couſtume de poſer leurs malades és portes & entrées de leurs maiſons , ou és places & grands chemins, afin que par les paſſans , qui auroient autrefois eſté tourmentez de pareilles maladies, ils fuſſent aduer- tis des remedes dont ils auroient vsé, pour receuoir guariſon. strabo liure . de ſa coſmographie, raconte ceſte couſtume auoir eu lieu anciennement en grece, que les malades ſe retiraſſent en epi- daure, au temple conſacré au dieu aeſculapius, où dormans ils eſtoient aduertis en ſonge parice- luy des remedes qu'ils auoient à chercher pour recouurer ſanté : laquelle recouurée, ils deſcriuoient auec le diſcours & hiſtoire entiere de toutes leurs maladies,les remedes enſeignez par le dieu,en vn tableau qu'ils laiſſoient pendu en quelque autel ou pilier du temple, en recognoiſſance du bien receu d'aeſculapius : deſquels tableaux, comme des memoires & inſtructions recueillies, on dit hippocrate s'eſtre ſeruy à compoſer ſes œuures de l'art de medecine tant profitables & laborieuſes, comme deſcrit volatterran. b les beſtes pareillement les beſtes brutes ont enſeigné aux hómes pluſieurs remedes de medecine, par leur ont enſeigné inſtinct naturel, conſiderant qu'aucunes ſe guariſſent & cherchent leurs remedes ſans aucun mede- # cin, comme nous deſcrirons cy-apres parlant de la nature des beſtes. or icelle medecine eſt digne # | de recommandation plus que nulle autre ſcience , veule ſujet ſur lequel elle exerce ſes operations, qui eſt le corps humain : lequel eſt le plus excellent & parfaict que nul autre, & pour lequel toutes choſes de l'vniuers ont eſté crées. ce qui a meu herophile , ancien philoſophe, contemplant l'excellence & vtilité de cét art, de nommer le medecin, la main des dieux. car comme l'homme de ſes mains leue vn autre tombé : ainſi le medecin & le chirurgien docte & ſçauant en ſon art, guarit & chaſſe les maladies du corps humain,le releuant en ſa premiere ſanté, comme diuinement. au liure ºn- homere le prince des poëtes grecs, appelle le medecin le parangon des hommes pour l'heureuſe #- iſſuë de ſes œuures & experiences , & ſemble meriter loüanges, & graces pluſtoſt diuines qu'hu- l l'. - j> - - - - maines.c'eſt auſſi pourquoy les anciens auoient en fi grande reuerence les medecins, leſquels ils les mede eſtimoient , & honoroient comme dieux, ou enfans des dieux, tant eſtoient eſpouuantez & rauis # #. des effectseſmerueillables que les medecins & chirurgiens font apparoiſtre ionrnellement, pour c, honorez la conſeruation de la vie des hommes, par le moyen de leurs remedes & œuures de la main , qui les cºmme- font reluire de quelques marques & rayons de la diuinité. outre plus, ces excellens poëtes, or- disux. phée,muſée,heſioda, & ces grands philoſophes, pythagoras, platon, ariſtote, theophraſte, chry- ſippe, caton le cenſeur, varron, n'ont rien eu plus cher, plus exquis, ny en plus grande recom- c mandation, que de cognoiſtre la vertu des medicaments, meſme d'en rediger quelque choſe par #ranºhi - eſcrit. dauantage, cet art ennoblit tellement celuy qui en eſt doiié, & le faict ſi noble & franc, #º qu'il commande non ſeulement à toutes † de quelque qualité qu'ils ſoient , mais auſſi aux empereurs, roys , princes, pour la conſeruation de leur ſanté, & guariſon de leurs maladies. et ſi le gain rend en quelque ſorte les ſciences recommandables, il ſe trouuera que ceux qui ont faict profeſſion de la medecine, n'en ont emporté,comme l'on dit, honneur ſans profit. qui a eſtél'oc- caſion pour laquelle ceux qui ont exercé cet art par le paſsé, ont eſté en ſinguliere recommanda- tion , ainſi que pouuons cognoiſtre par l'exemple meſme d'hippocrate allant en abdere pour honneurs. traicter democrite : car lors non ſeulement les citoyens, mais auſſi les femmes, & meſmes iuſ- # hip- † aux petits enfans, aduertis de ſa venuë, luy allerent au deuant, le ſalüans, & l'appellans con- " ſeruateur & pere de lapatrie. dauantage, le sénat & peuple d'athenes, pource qu'il auoit dechaſ- sé la peſte de leurs païs , celebrerent en ſon honneur des jeux, & triomphes, & fut coronné d'vne couronne d'or peſant mil eſcus, tellement riche qu'elle eſtoit digne d'vn grand roy : d'abondant luy erigerent vne ſtatué pour perpetuelle memoire. eraſiſtratus fils d'vne des filles d'ariſtote, re- * sºixantº ceut cent talens d'or * du roy ptolomée, pour auoir guary antiochus ſon fils. auſſi antonius # muſa fut decoré & honoré d'vne ſtatuë d'or par auguſte ceſar empereur pour l'auoir guary de · moye, l'eſeu ſableſſure. quant à quintus stertinius, il auoit d'eſtat de l'empereur douze mil cinq cens eſcus vaillant . tous les ans. que dirons-nous que du temps de nos ayeuls, petrus aponenſis, ſurnommé le con- d ſºlº, ſelon la ciliateur, eſtoit en tel honneur en l'ltalie, qu'il ne ſortoit point hors la ville pour viſiter quelque #º grand perſonnage, à moins de cinquante eſcus par iour : & que meſmes eſtant quelques fois appel- ' lé pour viſiter honorius (lors le pape de rome) il rapporta de luy quatre cens eſcus pour chacun iour de ſesvacations ? nous ſçauons aſſez par nos annales de france en quelle authorité & cre- lacques cot- dit a eſté maiſtre iacques cottier medecin, enuers le roy louys x i. duquel pour la reputation # # de ſon haut ſçauoir, il receuoit de gages bien payez, tous les mois dix mil eſcus ; comme nous a louys # laiſsé par eſcrit le seigneur philippes de comines, en ſon hiſtoire de la vie & geſtes de cc roy. §i u, et d'abondant elle a eſté en telle eſtime par le paſsé, que les anciens roys, partie pour faire plaiſir les mois dix à la poſterité, partie pour perpetuer leur memoire en icelle , ont imposé leur nom à certaines plau- º ºſº * tes par eux trouuées & dcſcouuertes. de là cſt venu que la gentiane a pris ſon nom de gentius g .geº. roy des illyriens, & la lyſimachie de lyſimachus roy des macedoniens , & le scordium a eſté appellé herbe mithridate, de mithridates roy de pont, & de bithynie, l'achilleia d'achilles,le centaurium de chiron le centaure, l'artemiſia d'artemiſia royne de carie. attale roy de per- ^ game, salomon roy des huifs, euax roy des arabes, iuba roy de mauritanie, ont eſté non ſeu- lement curisux de cognoiſtre les plantes, mais la pluſpart d'eux en ont diligemment eſcrit quel- ques , - a l v. cl lv . - - a ques traictez : les autres ont au grand profit des hommes inuenté pluſieurs mixtions medicamena teuſes,composées des plantes. outre cela les roys , & empercurs romains entretenoient à grands frais, & deſpens en pluſieurs lieux & pays, hommes pour la cognoiſſance des ſimples medicaments, qui eſtoient de bonté finguliere, pour s'en ſeruir eux meſmes , & en donner la notice à la poſterite: laquelle curioſité tant vtile ne s'eſt.monſtrée cſteinte és cœurs de nos princes. témoin m'en ſera l'herbe, appellée des ancicns petum, à preſent catherinaire, ou medicée, ou herbe à la roy- ne : parce que l'vſage d'icelle eſtant incogneu en noſtre france, nous a eſté deſcouuert, au grand rofit d'infinis hommes, affligez d'vlceres malings , & autres ſolutions de continuité, par l'indu- ſtrieuſe diligence de la reyne mere des roys, catherine de medicis. par ce moyen les herbes, jeſquelles tous les ans reuiennent, repulullent, & reuerdoyent auec leurs racines, tiges, fueilles, fleurs, ſemences , & fruicts, d'vne indicible diuerſité, grandeur , couleur, figure, font ſouuenir aux hommes de ceux qui les ont trouuées , ou qui ont laiſſe à la poſterité quelque eſcrit des vertus, & proprietez d'icelles. et dauantage,ie ſouſtiendray mon propos eſtre vray, & pluſieurs grands roys ſe preſenteront pour approuuer mon dire, leſquels deuëment informez par les eſcrits des sages de l'artifice du corps humain, non imitable à choſe viuante, pour eſtre le domicile de l'ame immor- telle, ſeule entre toutes les creatures faicte à l'image de noſtre dieu , ſe ſont eſtudiez d'entendre ſon architecture admirable par diſſections anatomiques : deſquelles tant s'en faut, qu'ils aycnt re- tiré leur œil, qu'eux meſmes les ont faictes de leur propre main : ſi nous ne voulons accuſer de menſonge l'hiſtoire des anciens, qui nous propoſe entre les roys d egypte , apis, oſiris, ptolo- mée,au vœu deſquels n'a eſté ſatisfaict iuſques à ce que leur deſir ſe ſoit aſſouuy à l'ouuerture des ſecrets que nature auoit cachez à l'œil exterieur. le ſemblable deuons-nous croire dc salomon, d'alexandre le grand, de mithridate, d'attale roy de pergame , que tous ne peuuent auoir merité ſi haut nom en l'art de medecine ſans la familiere cognoiſſance del'anatomie, premier & principal fondement de la medecine,auſquels ie ne fais doute aucune qu'on ait proposé pluſieurs diſſections, veu qu'ils n'eſtimoient choſe digne de ſi grande contemplation que l'homme, & ſes parties : ores qu'ils euſſent trauersé infinies prouinces, & enicelles veu des miraçles incroyables. or la medecine de laquelle on fait auiourd'huyprofeſſion, eſt composée de trois parties : la pre- miere eſt ditte chirurgie,qui par manuelle operation guarit les maladies : la ſeconde, dietetique, laquelle donne ſecours aux maladies par bonne maniere de viure : la troiſieſme , pharmaceutiquc, laquelle par medicaments guarit les infimitez. pluſieurs grands perſonnages tant anciens que mo- dernes, debatent, & non ſans cauſe, quelle eſt la plus digne de recommandation : car tant l'vne que l'autre eſt grandement aduantagée de raiſon. Ét quand à la pharmacie , herophile dit que les mcdicaments ont eſté inuentez de la main d'appollo, qui eſtoit eſtimé comme dieu. quant à la dietetique,pline teſmoigne que tous les iours le plus pauure du monde prend en ſes repas les vrays remedes des malades. d'auantage les plus experts qui ont eſcrit de la medecine,diſent, que la cure des maladies faite par regime ſurpaſſe celle qui ſe fait par autre voye : meſme qu'il eſt plus expe- diant de ſortir d'vne maladie par bonne maniere de viure , que par medecines, qui ſont faſcheuſes à prendre, difficiles à retenir, penibles en leur operation. ce qui donna occaſion à aſclepiades de rejetter les medecines comme choſes nuiſiblesàl'eſtomach : toutesfois ſi nous nous rapportons à celſe, ny l'vn, ny l'autre ne ſera tellement à loiier , que la chirurgie : veu qu'en la curation des maladies faites par medicaments, & diette , nature a grand pouuoir, & ce qui aura profité quel- § ne ſert de rien ; tellement que l'on peut douter ſi la ſanté nous eſt rendue , ou par le benefice de nature, ou par la faculté des medicaments & regime. - dauantage, nous voyons pluſieurs maladies ſe guarir d'elles-meſmes, ſans l'ayde des medica- mens , ny diette, comme vne douleur des yeux, vne tumeur, ou fiévre quarte. mais la chirurgie ne s'exerce point ſur le corps humain ſans extreme neceſſité de ſon induſtrie, & vrgence du mal important qui requiert ſon aide, & meſme ne peut eſtre guary de nature : comme remettre vne fracture , ou luxation , trepaner, ſçcourir vne femme à vn enfantement laborieux , ou pour vne precipitation de matrice, oſter vne picrre, ouurir vn empyeme, extiper vn membre gangrené, ou ſphacelé dauantage, cette partie icy eſt plus ancienne que nulle autre, parce qu'en la guerre de troye, podalirius, & machaon, fils d'eſculape, ſeruirent le roy agamemnon, & donnerent grand lecours, non pour guarir les maladies internes, comme fiévres, & principalement la peſte, qui lors par l'ire de dieu rauageoit par le camp des grecs; mais ſeulement pour penſer les bleſſeu- res auec medicaments, & ferremens, comme tres-bien nous monſtre homere en ſon ſecond liure de l'iliade. pareillement pour la difficulté qui eſt en elle, nous dirons outrepaſſer les deux autres parties de medccine; conſideré que les ſciences tant plus qu'elles ſont difficiles à apprendre, ſont auſſi plus excellentes : or il eſt ainſi que la chirurgie eſt la plus difficile : ce qui nous eſt de- monſtré par galien, liure . de la compoſition des medicamensengeneral, diſant que la chirurgie eſt plus difficile que les deux autres parties; ſçauoir pharmacie, & diette, parce qu'elle ne ſe peut paſſer ſans les deux autres parties, & chacune d'icelles ſe peuuent bien paſſer de la chirurgie par- quoy ie conclus cette partie qui eſt la chirurgie, pour ſon antiquité, neceſſité, certitude, difficul- té outrepaſſer la pharmaceutique , & dietetique : toutesfois l'vne ſans l'autre ne ſçauroit faire choſe grandement à profit. car elles ſont tellement conioinctes enſemble, que ſi elles eſtoient ſeparées, & ne s'entr'aydoient, iamais le chirurgien, & medecin , ny apothicaire ne paruien- droient au but qu'ils ſe propoſent. et pource anciennement vn ſeul homme exerçoit les trois par- ties : mais depuis que le monde eſt grandement accreu, & au contraire que la vie du genre humain eſt decreue de beaucoup, ſi qu'elle ne ſembloit ſuffire pour les apprendre, & exercer toutes trois arfaictement, on les a ſeparées, chacun en prenant vne partie, conſiderant que pour la difficulté del'art, vne ſeule perſonne eſt aſſez empeſchée à la comprendre, & bien exercer. a tab l e petum, vr, herbe ca- therinaires. roys qui ont mis la main à l'anato- mie. diuiſion dé la medeci- , homere. comparai- ſon de la chirurgie. auec les au- tres parties• - [. " , n. | |\wr sº - - - - > - \ s = n$ . $ $ $ $ w.an t a b l e d e s %ſ c ha pit r e s de l'introduction de la chirurgie. ( ) : ve c'eſt que chirurgie. chap.j. $é des operations de chirurgie. ij. de remettre en ſa place (ſ(? qui eſt ſor- t). j- t'es choſes naturelles. iv. t)es elements. v. t)es temperamen;. vj. - t)e l'aage. - vij. tdes humeurs. viij. signes de l'homme ſanguin. ix. "praétique e exercice ſur les regles don- mées des temperamens & humeurs.x. t)es facultex. xj- t)es actiaus. xij. t'es eſprits. xiij. tdes annexes des choſes naturelles. xiv. t)es choſes uon naturelles. xv. de l'air. - xvj. du manger, c du boire. xvij. $ | ". - \ - | ， s - %a$.# $ º n n #|， -> #- - # - •! - - - du mouuement, & repos. xviij. du dormir &> rveiller. xix. t)e repletion,inanition,ouvuidange.xx. des accidens, ou perturbations de l'a- *. xx]. des choſes contre nature. xxij. des maladies. xxiij. des ſymptomes. xxiv. des indications. xxv, l'ordre de curer les maladies compli- quées. xxvj. de diuerſes manieres deguariſon. xxvij. pourquoy la fievre quarte, & autres maladies peuuent eſtre gueries par vne grande peur, ou par vne gran- de ioye. xxviij. exemples des maladies faictes par ima- ginations fantaſtiques. xxix. de certains impoſteurs. . xxx. le n l. - le dremier livr e de l' i n t r o d v cti on o v e n t r e'e p o v r p a r v e n i r a l a v r a y e c o n n o i s s a n c e. d e l a c h i r v r g i e. par a m b r o s e p a r e" de laual au mayne, conſeiller & premier chirurgien du roy. que c'eſt que chirurgie . c h a p t r e f r e m i e r. h r v r g e eſt vn rt qui enſeigne à methodiquement curer, preſeruer, & zefinitionr pallier les maladies, cauſes & accidens qui aduiennent au corps humain, princi- de chirura palement par operation manuelle. quelques-vns font vne autre deſcription, di- gie. ſans que chirurgie eſt vne partie de medecine , curant les maladies ſeulement par operation de la main, comme couper, cauteriſer, trepaner , reduire fractures , & luxations, & autres œuures que dirons bien-toſt : commel'autheur des definitions; en galien, lors qu'il definit chirurgie vne habilité , & induſtrieux mouuement d'vne main aſſeurée auec experience , ou vne action de main induſtrieuſe , tendant à quelque bonne operation de medecine. toutesfois il eſt impoſſible faire telles choſes par artifice ſans es deux autres inſtrumens ; ſçauoir eſt, regime de viure, & ce que nous appellons vulgairement mede- cine, qui conſiſte en purgation , & alteration, ou changement du corps , & ſans les ſçauoir diuerſifier ſelon les cauſes, maladies, & accidens, & autres choſes contenuës ſous les choſes naturelles , non na- turelles , & contre nature, & leurs annexes, qui ſeront deduites en bref cy-apres en leur ordre. et ſi aucuns veulent maintenir qu'il y a pluſieurs qui traittent de la chirurgie ſans auoir la cognoiſſance des choſes ſuſdictes , qui toutesfois font des cures deſeſperées : a ce ie leur reſpons, que telles cures ſont faites pluſtoſt par accident que par le benefice de l'art ; & fols ſont tous ceux qui en iceux ſe fient. car s'il vient par aduenture qu'vne fois il faſſent bien, ils feront apres dix mille maux, comme tres- bien a eſcrit galien en plufieurs lieux de ſa methode , parlant des empiriques. or puisque nous auons dit que chirurgie eſt operation manuelle, s'aydant de medecine , & diete, il faut ſçauoir quelles ſont b ſes operations. - des operations de chirurgie. c h a p. i i. s-s e s operations de chirurgie ſont cinq en general ; à ſçauoir, oſter le ſuperflu : remettre en ſa operations •" . place ce qui eſt ſorty : ſeparer le continu : ioindre le ſeparé : adiouſter & ayder à nature en ce de chirur* "- $ qui luy defaut : leſquelles operations ſe peuuent mieux apprendre, faire , & prattiquer par gie- l'exercice & vſage, que par le moyen des liures, ny meſme par la parole l'homme, tant ſoit- elle claire & elegante, ne pouuant ſi viuement exprimer, ny montrer, comme fait la veuë, & le toucher. , exemple d'oſter le ſuperflu. - - comme coupervn ſixieſme doigt en nombre ſuperflu,ou vn bras,ou autre partieſmonſtrueuſe lamputer vn membre pourry, & ſphacelé:extraire vn enfant mort, oul'arriere-faix, ouvne mole , ou autremauuais germe hors le ventre de la mere : amputer les excroiſſances,comme louppes, verruës, polypes, chancres,& autres chairs ſupesflues,extraire vne balle d'arquebuze, ou dragée,maille,fers, fleches, bois, bourre, dra- peau, eſquille d'os, eſpine, arreſte, & generalement toutes choſes eſtranges qui ſont en quelque partie de noſtre corps:arracher les poils des cils des yeux qui ſe renuerſent au dedans, couper vn vngula, occupant la conioinctiue,& partie de la cornée : curer toutes apoſtemes, extraire les pierres de la veſſie,ou en autre tet pierres partie du corpsar:racher vne dent pourrie,ou ſuperfluë; vne ongle entrant en la chair,couper vne portion s'engendrent de la vule trop relachée, ou vne partie dè la palpebre de l'œil , abbatre vne cataracte : amputer l'ombilic en §utes les des enfans nouuellement nez, ou le prepuce,ou les prerigomates des parties genitales des femmes, ou les parties du nymphes; c'eſt à dire, caruncules ſortantes hors la nature des femmes. - corps. c auſſi extraireles choſes eſtranges qui ſont entrées dedans les yeux,qui ſe fera en renuerſant les paupie- .. cboſes res auec le queue d'vne eſprouuette, puis tirer tout ce qui eſt eſtrange auec petites pincettes, ou autres eſtranges. choſes propres à ce faire:s'il y a du plus entre la cornée, & l'vuée, ſera vacué par inciſion:la cataracte ſera § yeux. abbatue par l'eſguille, comme ſera dit cy-apres. les choſes qui peuuent eſtre entrées aux oreilles ſont diuerſes , comme petites pierretes, dragées de oreilles. plomb,& autre petit corps qui ne s'enfle point par l'humidité des excremens contenus aux oreilles:& pour les tirer il faut mettre de l'huile dedans, fermer le nez & la bouche , & faire eſternuer le malade auecvn ſternutatoire : & ſi on ne le peut faire par ce moyen, il faut eſſayer à les tirer auec vn cure-oreille, petites pincettes,ou crochet:& ſi c'eſt vne petite balle de plomb, ſera tirée auec vn tire-balle ; figurée aux playes des harquebuzes. ce que i'ay fait,à cauſe que la pointe du tire-balle s'inſere dedans le plomb. les anciens commandent de faire pancher la teſte du patient ſur vne planche, (quand il eſt grandelet) a & luy () le premier liure de du nez . t)e la bou- che. hiſtoire. de la verge . hiſtoire. )u col de la matrice. du fiege. & luy attacher la teſte bien-ſerrée, puis eſleuant l'endroit de la planche où la teſte eſt attachée, la laiſſer a , tomber à plomb.quant à moy,ie ne ſuis dc cét aduis,parce que par la grande commotion,& esbranlement du cerueau, les veines,arteres,& fibres nerueux qui entrent, & ſortent par le crane, ſe pourroient rompre, & le ſangeſtant hors de ſon vaiſſeau ſe pourriroit, & par conſequent la mort s'enſuyuroit. si ce ſont des noyaux § ceriſes, poix, feves, & autres graines ſemblables, il les faut tirer le pluſtoſt qu'il ſera poſſible, auant qu'elles s'enflent par l'humidité contenue aux oreilles. car depuis qu'elles ſont enfiées & germées, elles font grande douleur par leur extenſion , & ne peuuent plus eſtre tirées entieres, & partant les faut rompre en petites pieces : & apres les auoir tirées, on appliquera aux oreilles de l'huile roſat , moyeux d'œuf, & autre choſe qu'on verra eſtre de beſoin. si quelques petites beſtioles y ſont entrées , comme perce-oreilles , puces , ou autres ſemblables, on mettra en l'oreille de l'huile, & du vinaigre, qui toſt apres les fera mourir. - s'il ya quelque corps eſtrange entré dedans le nez, s'il n'y a moyen de le tirerauec pincettes, qu'autre- ment on eſt quelquesfois contraint faire inciſion en long, afin de tirer dehors ce qui ſera entré dedans. il y a pluſieurs choſes qui peuuent eſtre entrées en la gorge,comme areſtes de poiſſon,petitsofſelets, vn dé, vne piece d'or , ou d'argent , vne eſguille, ou eſpingle, leſquelles tiennent en la gorge, & ne peuuent eſtre tirées, ny auallées.si on les peut voir la bouche ouuerte,quelquesfois aisément on les peut tirer auec pincettes, ou bec de corbin : ſi elles ſont ſi auant qu'on ne les puiſſe voir, il faut faire vomir le patient, luy faiſant mettre les doigts profondement en † : ſi par ce moyen on ne peut rien faire, il faut faire aual- ler quelque morceau de mie de pain tendre ſans macher, ou des figues retournées. autres attachent vn morceau d éponge, barboüillée de terebentine, ou de quelque ſyrop,ou vn morceau de poulmon de veau, ou de mouton cru, attaché bien dextremènt à vn filet double , & fort, & le font aualler , puis le retirent en haut. - si c'eſt vn morceau de pain, ou de chair, il faut faire comme ie fis à l'vn des ſeruiteurs de henry hazard me tailleur d'abits, demeurant ſur le pont s. michel. l'hiſtoire eſt telle : ils eſtoient ſix ſeruitcurs, leſ- quels ſe delibererent de faire vn bon deſieuner, & ſe cottiſerent de chacun vn liard pour employer à auoir des trippes, tous ce mirent en deuoir de bien eſcrimer de la dentivn d'entre eux print vn morceau de gros boyau cullier, l'ayant mis en ſa bouche, il luy tardoit qu'il ne fût en ſon eſtomac, il l'auala ſans macher pour retourner au reſte : ce morceau luy demeura au milieu de la gorge, & ne peut paſſer; qui luy cauſa vne tres-grande difficulté de reſpirer, & tomba comme epileptique, jettant le ſang par la bouche, par le nez, & oreilles, le viſage tout liuide, & noir; de façon qu'on eſtimoit que le pauure goulu mourroit de ce morceau de trippe. ie fus enuoyé querir, & ſçachant la cauſe de ſonmal, ie le fis leuer, & mettre en vne chaire , & prins vn porreau, luy ayant coupé la teſte, & deſpoüillé de deux robbes, luy ouuris la bouche auec vn ſpeculum oris, & pouſſay le porreau bien profondement en la gorge aſſez violentement,& le frap- pay de la main entre les deux eſpaules, ſi bien que le morceau tomba en l'eſtomach. et eſtant hors de ce danger, promptement jetta ſa veue ſur le plat où eſtoient les trippes,il ſe print à crier contre ſes compa- gnons,qu'ils auoient tout mangé ſans luy,diſant qu'il falloit qu'ils luy rendiſſent ſon argent.alors me hen- ry ſon maiſtre,voyant qu'au lieu de rendre graces à dieu de l'auoir tiré du peril de ſuffocation,& de mort, au contraire il crioit à la trippe,tout à l'heure luy paya ſes gages,& luy donna ſon congé,luy diſant.adieu goulu. et depuis entre les compagnons tailleurs de cette ville,a eſtétoufiours appellé goulu,& par deſpit s'en eſt retourné en ſon pays,qui n'eſt pas grande perte pour paris. ceſte hiſtoire pourra ſeruir au ieune chirurgien pour ſecourir quelqu'vn en casſemblable.si quelqu'vn auoitauallé vne ſangſuë,& ſe fuſtatta- c chée à la gorge,ou à l'eſtomach,on luy doit donner à boire de l'huile,ou du vinaigre,& elle ſe detachera. les choſes eſtranges qui peuuent entrer en la verge, ſont ees choſes que i'ay veües : vn iourie mis vne petite ſonde de plomb de la longueur d'vn doigt,en la verge d'vn grand seigneur,pour quelque indiſpoſitió qu'il auoit:trois heures apres elle eſtoit entrée iuſques pres le ſiege;& n'euſt eſté que ie l'auois vn peu rem- ployée par le bout,afin de la mieux retirer,ie croy qu'elle fuſt entrée en la veſſie:& fut auec peine que ie la retiray,en preſſant,& en la repouſſant doucement a l'extremité de la verge.si on ne me veut croire que la veſſie attire à ſoy les choſes eſtranges, ie les renuoyray à collo, qui trouua à vn nommé tire-vit, vne aiguille enueloppée en vne pierre apres la luy auoir tirée , & par excellence me la donnée , que ie garde par admiration. cette aiguille auoit eſté fichée par tire-vit au bout d'vn petit baſton, qu'il mit en ſa verge pour repouſſer vne petite pierre qui eſtoit deſcenduë au conduit de l'vrine,& s'eſtant ladite aiguille depar- tie d'vn baſton, laveſſie la tira à ſoy, & par ſucceſſion de temps fut enueloppée de la matiere pierreuſe. si au col de la matrice d'vne femme on auoit appliqué vn peſſaire,& qu'ellene le peut retirer,il faudroit appliquer le ſpeculum matricis, & le tirer auec vn inſtrument, nommé bec de corbin, ou pied de griffon, de peur qu'il ne ſe pourriſt là dedans, ou engardaſt la femme de conceuoir. et quant à extraire l'enfant mort,ou vif,ou l'arrierefaix, ou vne mole;on trouuera cy-apres les moyens bien au long au liure de la generation. et auſſi pour extraire les choſes eſtranges, comme balles, fleſches, & dards,& autres choſes cela ſe dira cy apres aux playes faictes par harquebuzes. or quant au ſiege, ſouuent on a veu les clyſteres , & ſuppoſitoires eſtre rendus par la bouche, qui eſt choſe fort eſtrange. exemple de remettre en ſaplace ce qui eſt ſorty. ch a p. iii. # o m m e reduire les os luxez, les inteſtins & omenton tombez en la bourſe, ou hors le nombril, $à ou par vne playe faicte au ventre, auſſi la matrice relaſchée, ou le bras , & jambe d'vn enfant ſorty hors la matrice, afin que plus facilement l'enfant ſoit jetté hors d'icelle, ou le gros boyau hors du ſiege, & le prepuce qui ſeroit renuersé au deſſus du glan, ou l'œil eſtant trop eminent hors de ſon orbite. exemple de ſeparer le continu. comme ſeparer les doigts vnis enſemble, ou autres parties , vice qui aduient par le defaut de la vertu formatrice , ou par accident, comme par bruſleure , playe , ou autrement. auſſi couper l'hymen, ou vne cicatrice faicte au conduit de la femme : couper le filet qui eſt ſous la langue, qui empeſche les enfans de teter, & parler,ou celuy de la verge qui empeſche que le prepuce ne ſoit deſcouuert:couper vne veine va- riſqueuſe , ou vne (artere) qui cauſe vne aneuriſme, ou vn nerf, ou tendon à demy coupé faiſant ſpaſme: trancher quelque membrane qui eſtoupe le conduit de l'oreille, yeux,nez, bouche,ou ſiege:inciſer la teſte & ventre d'vn enfant mort au ventre de la mere, pour vuider les ventoſitez, & aquoſitez, & autres excre- mens, afin que l'on le puiſſe apres plus librement extraire : ſeparer les palpebres des yeux:couper le cuir muſculeux,& pericrane qui couure le teſt,& trepaner, afin d'oſter les os qui compriment & picquent les meningessouvacuer le ſang tombé ſur icelles, ou quelques aquoſitez, ou hydrocephales:ouurir vne femme i'ccciltciilent l'introduction à la chirurgie. a recentement morte pour ſauuer l'enfant eſtant encore viuant : ouurir les apoſtemes pour vacuer les hu- meurs,& autre choſe eſtrange contenue en icelles:appliquer des cauteres,tant actuels que potentiels pour curer les nodus, caries, & alteration des os, ou faire ouuerture, ou vlcere pour diuettir, & tirer l'hu- meur au dehors,comme par ruiſſeaux, outuyaux:ainſi que l'on fait au derriere du col, pour diuertir l'hu- meur qui flue ſur les yeux,auſſi ſont appliquez aux bras,& jambes,& autres parties pour diuertir la fluxion qui ſe fait aux poulmons & jointures des genoux:phlebotomie,application de ſangſue,ventouſes auec ſcari- fications pour faire vacuation, deriuation,& reuulfion des humeurs ſuperflus coulans ſur quelque partie. picquer les boyaux eſtans ſortis hors du ventre par vne playe,pour vacuer les vents qui engardent eſtre re- duits : vice des os;on perce les os, ratiſſe, ſcie, lime, coupe : on les perce entrepanant le teſt,ou les co- ſtes,aux hvdropiques, thauraciſque, où l'eau eſt contenuë au thorax,& les os noirs, pourris, & vermolus. on ſcie les dents ebrechées, noires,& pourries : auſſi les cartilages vermolus. exemple de ioindre le ſeparé. - comme reünir les playes par le benefice des couſtures, compreſſes, & ligatures; repos, & ſituation bonne de la partie:reduire les fractures:lier vne veine, ou artere pour arreſter vn fiux de ſang, rejoindre les levres fenduës, dites bec de lievre, curer les vlceres, & fiſtules, exemple d'adiouſter ce qui defaut de nature , ou par accident. . comme adiouſter vne oreille,vn œil,vn nez,vne, ou pluſieurs dents, vne platine d'or, ou d'argent , ou vne tente pour eſtoupper quelque trou du palais, à cauſe que la verolle auroit corrodé, ou corrompu l'os; de façon,que le malade ne pourroit eſtre entendu par ſa parole, ſans ayde de ces moyens;vne langue artifi- cielle en defaut d'vne portion qui auroit eſté coupée à quelque perſonne ; à vne main, vn bras, vne jambe, vn corps de fer, vn pourpoint contrepointé, afin de tenir le corps droit & menu, vn ſoulier releué à vne perſonne boiteuſe, vn chauſſon attaché d'vne liſiere à la ceinture,pour faire marcher vne perſonne droict: toutes leſquelles operations ſerontamplement deduites ence preſent œuure,or telles operations à la veri- té ne ſe peuuent accomplir ſans douleur:car comme ſeroit-il poſſible de couper vn bras,ou vne jambe,cou- per & dilacerer le col de la veſſie,& y mettre pluſieurs inſtruments ſans vne extreme douleur?auſſi reduire vne luxation,où il faut tenir,tirer, & pouſſer la partie qui eſt ja eſpriſe de douleur ? ouurir les apoſtemes, paracheuer de couper vn nerf, ou tendon à demy coupez, faire poincts d'eſguille, couſant la chair pour reünir les levres des playes,appliquer fers ardans & bruſlans,tirer vn enfant mort,& pourry hors le ventre de la mere,& autres œuures,leſquelles iamais ne ſe peuuent faire ſans grandes,& ſouuent extremes dou- leurs:& toutesfois ſans layde du chirurgien,en tel cas,on meurtſubitement,ou miſerablement en languiſ- ſant. et faiſant telles œuures, faut-il pour cela appeller les chirurgiens, cruels & inhumains,& les auoir en , horreur ou leur faire ainſi que le peuple romain fit jadis à arcabuto,l'vn des premiers chirurgiens que les arcabuto romains receurent en leur republique,ainfi que sextus cheronée, nepueu de plutarque raconte. iceluy, premier chi- pource qu'il coupoit bras,& jambes,& faiſoit autres œuures cy-deſſus mêtionnées,fut en telle horreur au rurgien à peuple de rome,qu'il fut tiré de ſa maiſon,& lapidé au champ de mars. o quelle ingratitude,d'auoir e m- rome. ployé tout ſon bien,eſprit,& temps pour apprendre ſon art,& en l'exerçant eſtre ainſi maſſacré,& tué ! or jaçoit que le peuple ſemblaſt auoir quelque couleur en ce faict, ſieſt-ce qu'il ne fuſt aduoüé du senat,qui ne pouuantautrement reparervne fi grande faute,& meſcognoiſſance de cette populace (laquelle ſouuent eſt inconfiderée en ſes faits) pour recognoiſtre les ſeruices & perfections d'iceluy, luy fit eriger pourper- petuelle memoire vne ſtatuë d'or, qui § posée au temple d'eſculape. or quant à moy,ie ſuis de i'aduis c de celſe,qui admoneſte le chirurgien d'eſtre aſſeuré en ſes œuures, & non piteux , & craintifs en ſorte, sentente de que quand ilopere de ſes mains,il ne ſoit pour la clameur du malade, ny moins des aſſiſtans, retardé plus celſe. qu'il n'eſt de beſoin, & qu'il ne ſe haſte point plus qu'il faut : mais qu'il accompliſſe ſon œuure, ſans auoir eſgardau dire de ceux qui par leur ignorance meſpriſent le chirurgien : car on dit en commun prouerbe, prouerbe que le chirurgien ayant la face piteuſe, rend à ſon malade la playe venimeuſe. c // / / /• vtilitex der c l c c la chirurgie ne ſe pcut faire ſans douleur. - des choſes maturelles. c h a p. iv. mg o v r deuëment accomplir les ſuſdites operations, & methodiquement curer les maladies, le #chirurgien rationel doit,auant toutes choſes, auoir certaines indications & enſeignemens de ce , qu'il doit faire : autrement il ſeroit empirique , deſtitué de toute raiſon , faiſant ſes operations neceſſité det au hazard, & à l'aduanture, pluſtoſt qu'auec vne ferme aſſeurance , fondée en bonne ſcience, du tout infaillible, qui neveut que l'on procede en aucune guariſon, que par la conduitte des indications methodiques, leſquelles ſont generalement priſes des choſes naturelles,non naturelles, & contre natures enſemble de leurs annexes,qui ſont les trois poincts contenans en ſomme toute la chirurgie, ainſi que ſa- gement les ont inuentez nos anciens autheurs,gens de bon eſprit : à cette cauſe nºus deduirons toute la contemplation & theorique de noſtre art, ſuiuant cét ordre. or les choſes naturelles ont eſté ainſi nom- ourquoy le» mée, à cauſe qu'ellesdeclarent & contiennent la nature du corps humain, qui depend de la commixtion ººſºº ºtº & temperature de quatre premiers elemens, ainſi que l'a bien décrit hippocrate en ſon liure de la nature º ſºnt humaine; & pourtant la conſiderationd'icelles appartient à lapremiere partie de medecine,dite phyſiolo-ainſ nom- gie,comme contemplation des choſes non naturelles appartient à la ſeconde, qui ſe nomme hygtaine , ou méeº. diaitetique,à cauſe qu'elle taſche à garder la ſanté parl'vſage raiſonnable de telles choſes ne plus ne moins que l'intelligence des choſes dictes contre nature eſt deue à la troiſieſme, nommée therapeutique : c'eſt à deci dire,curatiue des maladies & autres affections, quil'offencent & la bleſſent. or ces choſes naturelles ont mººººº** indications. parties de cfté reduittes en nombre de ſept, ſans leurs annexes, ſçauoir eſt: - relemens , ſl'aage, - | temperaments , | i le ſexe , - # humeurs , # et leurs annexes, l la couleur, - les parties, ou membres, > qui ſont, { la commoderation, | facultez , | . | le temps, ! actions , ! : la region, - leſprits. j l l'art, & maniere de viure. des elemens. c h a p. v. - # l e m e n t, ainſi que communément eſt pris en la medecine , & que le definit galien au liure que c'eſt ， des elemens, eſt la tres-ſimple & moindre portion de la choſe qu il conſtitué, & à ſimplement q elemens & abſolument parler, elemens ſont appellez les quatre corps fimples,ſçauoir eſt , le feu, l'air, l'eau, & la a tctic » - le premier liure de terre, qui ſont la matiere de tous les corps naturels, mixtes, parfaicts, ou impaafaicts,eſtans ſous la cºnca-a uité du ciel,ſelon l'opinion des bons philoſophes naturels.tels elemens ſont ſeulemêt cogneus par l eſprit, $uels ſont § par aucun ſens exterieur toutesfois hippocrates laiſſant les propres noms des ſubſtances d'iceux,les a les clemens voulu plus facilement declarer par leurs qualitez,diſant,chaud,froid,humide,& ſec,à raiſon qu'en chacun ſelon hippº- des elemens il y a vne de ces qualitez qui luy eſt propre,eſſentielle,& domine non ſenlement ſelon toute ſa c f j, latitude,mais auſſi ſelon ſa force entiere d'agir,laquelle eſt accompagnée d'vne autre,qui vrayementeſtauſſi exceſſiue,& en ſouuerain degré comme l'autre en chacun element,nó pas en ſouueraine vertu d'operer,com- en cbaqu-medit galien au premier liure des elemens. comme par exemple,en l'air nous remarquons deux qualitez, element, il y chaleur, & humidité,toutes deux exceſſiues,autant chaleur qu'humidité.pourquoy donc (dira quelqu yn) §x qu - la chaleur en l'air n'opere-elle pas auſſi exceſſiuement comme au feu ? pource que (comme nous auons ditj litex, l'vne bien que la chaleur ſoit exceſſiue en l air ſelon ſon eſſence, latitude, & degré, auſſi bien qu elle eſt en l ele- ment du feu,toutesfois elle ne l'eſt pas ſelon ſa vertu d'agir, & operer. la raiſon eſt, qu'icelle vertud'eſ- enſuit plus la chaufferen l'air eſt empeſchée, & comme bridée par la qualité qui luy eſt compagne ; ſçauoir, l'humidité, § laquelle habete la vertu d'eſchauffer,comme au contraire la ſiccité l'aiguiſe.donc les quatre elemens ſont «hoſe & l'au tellement qualifiez , que intenſe, qui tre remiſe, qui n'eſt de noms des ſubſtances. ualitez premieres. #º le feu, chaud, & ſec , cl / /• l'air , humide, & chaud, b l'eau, eſt froide, & humide , la terre. seiche, & froide. or ces elemens en la compoſition des corps naturels retiennent leurs qualitez telles qu'auparauant, ſinon qu'elles ſont remiſes & adoucies, à raiſon de la contrarieté qui eſt eſdictes qualitez : & au reſte par tout entr'eux ſi bien mixtionnez, qu'il ne demeure rien ſimple ou pur , non plus qu'en la compoſition de mixtion des l'emplaſtre dicte diachalcitheos,il n'eſt poſſible monſtrer huile,axunge,litharge,& chalcitis à part, entant elemen . petite quantité que ce ſoit,tant ces quatre corps ſont bien meſlez & amaſſez auec la chaleur qui les aſſéble ainſi. telle mixtion des quatre elemens pourra eſtre cognuë par la reſolution d'iceux, faicte au bois verd exemple de bruſlant : car la flambe nous repreſente le feu, la fumée l'air, l'humidité qui reſude dudit bois reſſemble à pouuoir voir l'eau,& la cendre à la terre. par tel exemple tant ſenſible,il eſt facile à imaginer la diſſolution qui eſt vraye les elemens. corruption de ſubſtance:& au contraire , l'amas & vnion d'iceux telle, que rien ne demeure ſimple, autre- ment iamais ne ſe feroitgeneration : car ſi la chaleur qui eſt au feu extreme, demeuroit telle au corps,elle le corromproit:tout ainſi de la frigidité,humidité,& ſiccité.iaçoit que deux d'icelles qualitez ſoient dictes actiues,à cauſe qu'elles ont plus grande force que les autres,qui ſont chaleur & froideur:& les autres paſ- ſiuesà, raiſon que leurs vertus ne ſont de tant grande efficace que les autres, & pour la plufpart ſont touſ- iours plus tardiues à leurs effects.de telle mixtion des ſubſtances,& qualitez des elemens viennent les tem- peramens & complexions des corps,qui eſt la principale cauſe qui nous contraint d'eſtre tant curieux de la cognoiſſance des elemens.les vertus & effects d'icelles qualitez ie delaiſſeray à plus haute contemplation, pour declarer que de ces quatre premieres qualitez(ainſiappellées,pource qu'elles conuiennent premiere- ment & efſentiellement aux quatre premiers corps & elemens)en prouiennent d'autres,comme par conſe- quence,leſquelles pour ceſte cauſe ſont appellées qualitez ſecondes,ſçauoir, legeteté, & grauité, diuiſées c auſſi par les quatre elemens, ſelon qu'ils ſemblent plus participer de chaleur, froideur, ſiccité:ou humidi- té:car deux d'iceux elemens ſont legers, à cauſe qu'ils montent touſiours en haut:deux peſans,à cauſe que leur propre eſt de deſcendre en bas,comme l'on void.le feu tres-leger qui eſt le plus haut.l'airleger eſtant - au deſſous du feu. l'eau peſante miſe ſous l'air. la terre tres-peſante miſe & conſtituée au plus bas. gels ſont a ceſte cauſe les corps ou parties legeres retiennent les elemens legers, les peſantes au contraire. tels les elemens ſont les elemens du monde, cogneus ſeulement de l'eſprit : toutesfois il y a vne autre difference d'element de noſtre g prouenant de la commixtion des premiers ſuſdicts, comme elemens de generation, & elemens de noſtre ne ration. corps : leſquels certainement ſont † ſenſibles que les premiers : qui eſt la cauſe pourquoy hippocrates en ſon liure de la nature de l'homme, les a incontinent declarez , apres auoir traicté du chaud , froid, fec, & humide. les elemens de noſtre generation, & de toutes les beſtes ayans ſang, ſont la ſemence & le ſang elemens de menſtruel. les elemens de noſtre corps ſont les parties ſolides & ſimilaires , faictes & produictes des ele- noſtre corps. mens de generation : tels ſont les os, membranes, ligamens, veines, arteres , & autres, deſquelles dirons cy-apres en l'anatomie:qui ſont faciles à cognoiſtre, à cauſe qu'ils ſe repreſentent au ſens de la veuë. - des temperamens. c h a p. v i. zdefinition - -- e m p e r a m e n t ou complexion , eſt vne confuſion ou meſlange de chaud, froid , ſec de tempera- humide. autres diſent que c'eſt vne harmonie & accord des quatre ſimples qualitez ele- / / f. ) mentaires , à ſçauoir , chaleur, froideur, humidité &ſiccité, leſquelles ſont entre elles di- #%$ rectement contraires : cét accord & conſentement vient de ladite confuſion & meſlange de d quatre premiers elemens de l'vniuerſel monde, qui ſont le feu, l'air, l'eau, & la terre. ceſte harmonie, qui des grecs eſt auſſi autrement nommée craſis , eſt l'ametant des beſtes brutes que des plan- t es, laquelle comme eftant leur forme eſſentiele, leur donne eſtre, & vie. mais comme les plantes ſont in- ferieures en excellence & vertu aux beſtes , ainſi leur ame eſt beaucoup plus imparfaicte & de moindre vert u & efficace : car elle eſt ſeulement vegetatiue, c'eſt à dire, qu'elle leur donne force & vertu de ſucce- der & prendre leur nourriture de leur mere la terre,pour entretenir leur eſtre & vie,& auſſi de croiſtre iuſ- ques à vn certain but & grandéur limitée de nature, & puis ſinalement d'engendrer ſemence pour l'entre- , tenement de leur eſpece. mais celles des beſtes brutes , outre ces trois operations vegetatiues, à ſçauoir, attirer leur nourriture, croiſtre, engendrer ſemence , leur donne ſentiment & cognoiſſance interieure & exterieure,& de toutes les choſes qui leur nuiſent & portent profit à l'entretenement de leurvie,& auſſi de excellence ſe mouuoir volontairement d'vn lieu a autre, ſelon leur appetit ſenſuel. or celle de l'homme ſurpaſſant en de ſ'ame de nobleſſe & perfection toutes les autres, ne procede point de ceſte harmonie & accord des quatre elemens, l'homme. comme il ſera cy-apres declaré. l'on diuiſe le temperament en deux premieres differences : car ou il eſt remperamët temperé ou intemperé. l'intemperé eſt de deux ſortes , d'autant qu'il y a deux manieres d'intemperature: •ſ double. la premiere eſtvicieuſe,& l'autre excede bien de vray la mediocrité de la temperature:mais elle eſt encore d edans les limites de ſanté,comme celle qui n'offence pas lesactions trop euidemment, mais ſeulement eſt cauſe qu'elles ne ſont point fi deuement & parfaictement faictes comme par la temperature temperée. mais l'introduction à la chirurgie. a mais la vicieuſe empeſche du tout les operatiósice qu'elle fait en trois façons,ſçauoir eſt, les affoibliſſant, - les deprauant, ou du tout les aboliſſant.ainſi la ſtupeur debilite & rend le mouuement plus tardif qu'il ne doit : la conuulſion le depraue : la paralyſie l'oſte & l abolit entierement le tempºrament tempere eſt auſſi le tempera- de deux ſortes : car il eſt tel, ou au poids & egalite , ou à iuſtice. le tempere au poids (que l'on appelle ment ad «a pendu ) eſt celuy qui a egales portions & meſures des elemenssde ſorte que nulle qualité paſſe l autre, pondus, ains eſt exactement mis enmediocrité des quatre qualitez. - telle eſt la peau interieure des extremtez des doigts d'vn homme temperé à iuſtice : car le ſens du tact, qui principalement conſiſte cil telle partie,& y eſt le plus exact,doit eſtre ſans aucun excez des qualitez : autrement il n'euſt ſceu faire bon ugement, ny eſtre certain de chaleur,froideur humidité & ficcité. or telle temperature aduient à telle partie, dautant qu el- le eſt compoſée de chair qui eſt chaude & humide , & de tendons froids & ſecs : toutes leſquelles parties . meſlées enſemble, font la partie ainſi temperée.ainſi l'oeil qui eſt inſtrument de la veue pour diſcerner les couleurs, a eſté fait fans aucune apparence de certaine couleur:l ouye ſemblablement n'a eſté d'oüée d'au- cun ſon diſtinct,pour auoir plus certaine cognoiſſance desſons la langue auſſi pour bien iuger des ſaueurs, n'a receu aucune ſaueur de ſon propre naturel. le temperé à iuſtice eſt celuy qui n'a égale ny pareille por- tion des elemens, ains de telle proportion & meſure deſdictes qualitez à celle qui eſt conuenable à bien & deuement exercer les actions de tout le corps ainſi temperé : & tel temperament eſt cogneu par la bonté & perfection deſdictes actions. il eſt ainſi nommé, d'autant que tout de meſme que la iuſtice diſtribue la re- compenſe & la peine,ainſi qu'il appartient, ſelon la dignité & lemerite d'vn chacun : auſü nature faiſant chacune partie de noſtre corps ſelon la nature & excellence , a baillé vn tel temperament qui ſuffiſe à faire ſes actions tres-parfaictes : comme pour exemple l'os eſt conſtitué & compoſé des quatre elemens coiilinc b les autres parties ſimilaires mais toutesfois nature ayanteſgard à l'yſage de l'os qui eſt de ſouſtenir & porter, y a mis dauantage de l'element ſec, qui eſt la terre, que d'autre," fin qu'il fuſt plus dur & ſtable. le liga- ment qui ne deuoit auoir tel vſage,a eumoindre partie de l'element ſec que l os : toutesfois pour le regard . de ſon vſage , il en a receu dauantage que la chair, ou autre telle partie. ainſi a eſté gardée vne louable le tempera- diſtribution & proportion des elemens à chacune partie, ſelon ce qu'il luy appartient , que nous appellons ment à inſtis temperament à † es plantes, beſtes & autres corps naturels,tel temperament ſe trouue, quand pour ºe-. leurs actions ils ont telle meſure & proportion qu'il appartient à leur nature. par comparaiſon,au tempera- ment de iuſtice nous auons huict differences des temperamens intemperez, ſçauoir eſt, chaud, dité froid,-- temperez en humidité, & ſiccité. quatre ſimples° §de, - scc. « temperez en chaleur & froideur, leſquels temperamens ſont, ou de tout le corps, ou d'vne ſprincipale , comme cdu cerueau. du cœur. du foye. des teſticules. unon principale, comme de toutes les parties du corps. et iceux temperamens ſont dicts ſains ou ſalubres, quand ils ſuffiſent à bien exercer les actions ; ou ma- iadifs quand ils defaillent grandement à l'exercice de quelque actiqn. c les fignes de tels temperaments ſont deſcrits par galien au z.liure des temperamens,& au liure de arte comment medecinali. et faut icy noter, quand nous diſons vn corps ou partie chaude, qu'il faut entendre plus chaude vne partie , que la temperée à iuſtice de meſme eſpece : comme quand nous diſons qu'vn homme a le foye chaud,faut eſt diéte , entendre qu'il l'a plus chaud quen'eſt celuy de l'homme temperé à iuſtice : car à tel corps faut reduire & chaude, on rapporter tout temperament,ſoit du corps entier, ſoit d'vne partie, auquel en la curation des maladies faut frºiºº principalement auoir eſgard : car il doit eſtre gardé par ſon ſemblable , comme nous dirons cy-apres. et pour autant qu'il eſt tres-neceſſaire entendre la diſtinction des temperamens, ie deſcriray briefuement les temperatures des parties du corps, desaages, des parties de l'an, des humeurs,& des medicamens. des parties de noſtre corps ſelon le iugement non ſeulement du tact de la main de l'homme temperé à les tempe- iuſtice(qui ſouuent eſt trompé par la chaleur fluente,qui eſpanduë par tout le corps, faict qu'à l'attouche- ramens dºs ment toutes les parties du corps ſemblent chaudes)mais d'auantage ſelon la raiſon,compoſition,& ſubſtan- pº de » partie ce d'icelles parties eſt tel. \ - meſtre corps l'os tres-ſecs & tres-froid. galien . li- le cartilage moins que l'os. - ure des tem- le ligament moins que le cartilage. - peramens. le tendon moins que le ligament. le tendon plus froid, & ſec que la membrane. la membrane plus que l'arterere & veine. en apres ſont mis les nerfs durs : car les mols tiennent mediocrité en l'humidité & ſiccité, comme la les parties peau : combien que tous, tant mols & ſenſitifs que durs & motifs, ſont froids. toutes leſquelles parties du corps ſan* d ſont froides & exangues de la nature,toutesfois les veines & arteres ſont chaudes à raiſon du ſang qu'elles gaine . contiennent lequel ſang toutesfois prend ſa chaleur du cœur,qui eſt de toutes les parties du corps le plus ſanguin,& le plus chaud, & plus mol que la peau : le foye ſuit apres en l'ordre des parties chaudes, plus mol beaucoup que la peau.car ſi de l'opinion de galien à la fin du premier liure des temperamens,le cœur cſtvn peu moins dur que la peau, & que le cœur ſoit plus dur que le foye,comme il appert par l'attouche- ment, il faut que le foye ſoit beaucoup plus mol que la peau : i'entens la peau ſimple, ſans comprendre la chair qui au deſſous luy eſt adherante. la chair eſt plus humide & chaude que la peau, à cauſe du ſang. lamoelle de l'eſpine du dos eſt plus froide & humide que la peau : le cerueau plus humide qu'icelle, & la greſſe encores dauantage que le cerueau. les poulmons ſont moins humides que la greſſe, tout ainſi que la chair de la ratte,& des reins. toutes leſquelles parties ſont plus humides que la peau. selon les aages, la temperature tant du corps,que des parties,ſe change. qu'il ſoit vray,l'os eſt plus dur,ſec & froid en vieil- leſſe qu'en ieuneſſe ou puerilité,d'autant que la vie de l'homme tend toufiours à ſiccité:laquelle eſtant ex- treme en vn corps, cauſe la mort : qui eſt la raiſon pour laquelle il faut parler des temperamens des aages, apres auoir premierement expliqué par definition que c'eſt qu'aage. | o le premier liure de -- #- • -©- - - - - a de l' aage ». c h a p. v i i. a 'aage donc eſt vn cours ou eſpace de la vie , par lequel la conſtitution & temperature du $ corps ſe change euidemment de ſoy-meſme, & ſans furuenue d'aucun accident. or nous di- # uiſerons les aages en quatre, à ſçauoir, puerilité ; adoleſcence, ieuneſſe ou virilité, vieil- # leſſe. la puerilité, qui commence depuis la naiſſance de l'enfant, & dure juſques à dixhuict - ans, eſt de temperature chaude & humide, pour eſtre fort prochaine des principes de noſtre adeleſcen generation , ſçauoir ſang & ſemence , qui de leur temperature ſont chauds & humides. l'adoleſcence qui ſ º . commence depuis dixhuict ans, iuſques à vingt & cinq, eſt la temperée & moyenne entre tous excez. la leuneſſe. ieuneſſe ou virilité eſt priſe depuis vingt-cinq ans iuſques à trente cinq. tel aage eſt chaud & ſec de ſon propre temperament : partant la chaleur du corps eſt fort acre & mordante,qui en la puerilité eſtoit douce vieilleſſe. & amiable, à raiſon de l'humidité du corps, qui puisapresa eſté deſſeichée. vieilleſſe eſt diuiſée en deux parties:la premiere dure depuis trente-cinq ans iuſques à quarante-neuf : auquel aage les hommes ſont gal. lit. . appellez en latin, senes , c'eſt à dire vieils, la ſeconde partie de vieilleſſe, ſelon galien eſt diſtribuée en aph. . trois degrez : le premier eſt, quand les hommes ont encore la vertu virile pour vacquer aux negoces ciuiles:ce que ne peuuent faire ceux du ſecond degré,pour l'imbellicité de leurs vertus. ceux qui ſont au tiers degré ſont vexez d'extremes imbellicitez & angoiſſes,impotens tant du corps que des eſprits:ils ſont recourbez,idiots,& retournez en enfance, & ſont du tout inutiles, deſquels eſt dit, bu pueri ſeues. ceux du premier degré ſont ioyeux,& encore vertueux, on les appelle communément, veras vieillards : les ſeconds pourquoy ne demandent que la table,& le lict, & les derniers que la foſſe. or en vieilleſſe les hommes ſont froids la vieilleſſe & ſecs, iuſques aux parties ſolides, pour la conſomption de l'humidité ſubſtantifique ou radicale, proue- eſt froide & nant de la multitude des ans : ce qui peut auſſi aduenir par maladie febrile. mais ſi quelques-vns vouloient ſeiche. dire, que l'homme vieil ſouuent mouche & crache grande abondance d'humidité, ie leur reſpondray que le vieillard ne doit pour ce eſtre dit humide : car (comme dit quelque bon docteur) vne bouteille pleine , d'eau rend grand liqueur de ſa concauité, neantmoins elle a le corps ſec:ainſi le vieillatd eſt humide d'ex- cremens, par faute de chaleur naturelle. toutesfois ne faut tant aſtraindre ces deſcriptions des aages, qu'il les faille touſiours definir par les ans,veu qu'aucuns ſont plus vieils en l'aage de quarante ans,que les pythagoras. autres à cinquante. et pour le dire en bref : le grand philoſophe pythagoras diuiſe la vie des hommes en quatre aages,la comparant aux quatre temps de l'année:diſant que l'enfance eſt le printemps auquel toutes choſes ſont en fleur, commencent à croiſtre & augmenter. a ieuneſſe eſt comparée à l'eſté, pour la force & vertu que les hommes ont en cétaage.l'aage viril eſt comparé à l'autône, pource qu'en cét aage l'hom- me a l'experience,eſt meur,& de bon conſeil, auec cognoiſſance certaine de pluſieurs choſes.la vieilleſſe eſt comparée à l'hyuer, temps ſans fruict , ennuieux , & qui n'a le bien d'aucun fruict, ſinon qu'ils ſoient procedez d'autre temps. or quant à l'aage caduque & decrepite, qui dure iuſques à quatre vingts ans,eſt froide, ſeiche,& melancholique, tellement que ceux qui paruiennent iuſques à icelle, ſont faſcheux, cha- grins, deſdaigneux,deſpits,& ſouuent perdent la veue,&memoire, l'ouye, le parler, & cheminer, & veu- lent touſiours eſtre maiſtres, ſuperieurs & obeys, & enfin retournent en enfance, & font le ſemblable que .. ,., les enfans. en decrepitude le corps eſt fortapeſanty , & le iugement & entendement commence à diminuer *ºº & defaillir,tellement qu'ils deuiennent en enfance, & ne viuent qu'en douleur. toutesfois le ſens & en- ** º tendement demeure en ſa pureté & vertu, & ne defaut que par l'impuiſſance des inſtruments,où ſont con- tenues les facultezanimales,vitales,& naturelles, qui ſont ſubjectes à pluſieurs alterations, & corruptions: vide eemm. parce qu'ils ſont corporels & materiels, & non l'eſprit , lequel ne vieillit point, mais bien le corps. tels gal. in aph. ſont les temperamens des aages quimuent pareillement les mœurs:car les veillars ayment l'exercitation de .ſeéf. .lib. l'eſprit,& les ieunes l'exercitation du corps.auſſi les vieillars ſont fort ſubjects à l'auarice,& crainte:& les i. epid. ieunes au contraire ſont prodigues,gaillards, & hardis. faut auſſi declarer ceux des parties de l'année, qui a ſont quatre , comme auons dit cy-deſſus. le printemps, l'eſté, l'automne, l'hyuer. le printemps, qui commence au douzieſme ou treizieſme de mars, & finit enuiron la moitié du mois ds may,a eſté conſtitué d'hippocrate, chaud & humide. opinion qui n'eſt tant procedée de la verité, comme nous pouuons col- liger de galien au premier liure des temperamens , que de la ſentence des anciens philoſophes , qui ont voulu meſnager & departir les quatre temperatures des aages proportionnement aux quatre ſaiſons de l'an. car à vray parler,le printemps eſt de ſa propre nature tempcré, eſtant mis au milieu de tous excez, de cha- leur, froideur, humidité, ſiccité, non par comparaiſon qu'il ſoit plus chaud que l'hyuer, ny plus humide que l'eſté : car il eſt ainſi attrempé de ſa propre nature par ce moyen hippocrate a dit,que le printemps eſt tres-ſain & tres-ſalubre, n'eſtant point ſubiect à maladies qui puiſſent cauſer la mort:ce qui eſt entendu quand le printemps garde ſa nature,& propretemperature:car s'il a quelque intemperature,ou bien s'il ſuc- cede à quelque ſaiſonintemperée de l'automne,ou de l'hyuer,il eſt cauſe de pluſieurs maladies que deſcrit - - - - hippocrate:non qu'il face tellesmaladies, mais parce qu'il les demonſtre, & met en euidence, les inuitant l'eſté. à ſortir dehors par ſa tiedeur.l'eſté qui commence à la my-may & dure quatre mois,ou enuiron,eſt chaud, & ſec de ſa nature,fort ſubject aux maladies prouenantes de cholere, laquelle eſt en ce temps faite du ſang † a abondé du printemps. toutes les maladies qui ſuruiennent en eſté,ſont rendues briefues & de petite urée. l'automne, qui commence depuis que le soleil eſt entré en libra, & dure preſque autait que le printemps, eſt ſec de ſa nature, mais toutesfois en chaleur , & froidure inegal : car le matin & le ſoir ſont frais, le midy eſt chaud : partant il eſt fort ſubject à maladies, leſquelles ſont fort longues, principalement quand elles tiennent vn peu del'hyuer:au reſte fort pernicieux,pource que quotidiennes & repentines mu- hip. lib. . tations de chaud & froid ſont fort perilleuſes. l'hyuer, qui dure le reſte de l'an,de telle durée que l'eſté, aph°. eſt froid & humide de ſon temperament : à ceſte cauſe il augmente noſtre chaleur naturelle, l'appetit, & le hyºr phlegme : la chaleur par antiſperiſtaſe, qu'on appelle , c'eſt à dire, par contrarieté de l'air voiſin, qui eſtant froid, retient, & par ce moyen augmente & fortifie la chaleur interneau dedans : mais le phlegme, parce qu'augmentant l'appetit,il rend les hommes plus voraces, dont s'enſuit crudité : parquoy il rend les maladies plus longues & difficiles à guerir, que nulle autre partie de l'an. sous la contemplation des par- ties de l'an on peut comprendre la varieté des temperamens des iours particuliers qui ne ſont à meſpriſer ath. .lib. . pour faire eflections quand rienne nous preſſe, ſuiuant le dire d'hippocrate en ſes aphoriſmes, quand en vn meſme iour il fait chaud,& froid,il faut attendre auoir des maladies automnales:& de ce eſt priſe l'in- dication de l air circôuoiſin,comme nous dirons cy-apres parlant des indications curatoires:car s'il eſt ſem- *º°- blable à la maladie,il nous faſche beaucoup mais au contraire , s'il contrarie au mal, il nous ayde grande- # ment. les temperamens des regions & pays chauds,ou froids ne ſont pas de petite importance, mais ie les ' laiſſeray à meſſieurs les phyſiciel.s, a fin de dire des temperatures des humeurs. le ſang , comme repreſen- t i c idefinition, à aag &'. " puerilité. aph. .liu. - ér au liu. de l'air des lieux. automne. b l'introduction a la chirurgie. i i - - -- a tant la nature de l'air eſt eſtimé chaud & humide, ou pluſtoſt temperé, comme teſmoigne galien ſur là ſentence . du liure premier de natura humana : il eſt dit il,tout aſſeuré que le ſang n'eſt chaud & humide, mais tempere : & tellement temperé , qu'en iceluy nulle des quatre qualitez contraires he ſurpaſſe euidem- ment l'autre, comme le meſme galien repete ſur la ſentence .du meſine liure.le phlegme eſt froid & hu- mide, ſemblable à l'eau. la cholere eſt chaude, & ſeiche » tenant de la nature du feu. le ſuc mélancholi- . que eſt ſec & froid,eſtant de la nature de la terre:toutesfois les eſpeces du ſuc melancholique,& duphlegme ne ſont pas toutes froides : car le phlegme ſalé eſt de temperament chaud & ſec, auſſi toutes les eſpeces de melancholie contre nature, ſont fort chaudes, à raiſon qu'elles ſont faites par aduſtion, comme nous dirons au chapitre ſuiuant. les temperamens des medicamens ne ſont pas conſiderés en la maniere que les autres re, tempe- cv-deſſus,ſçauoir eſt de la qualité de l'element qui a eſté le maiſtreiains par les operations nous iugeons des ramen #s temperatures des medicamens, quand ils ſont appliquez ſur vn corps temperé. car vn medicament eſtant medica- mrs ſur tel corps , s'il eſchauffe , nous diſons que tel medicament eſt chaud : s'il refroidit , nous le tenons mens, pour froid, s il ſeiche, il ſera dit ſec : s'il humecte, il ſera dit humide:& ainſi par leurs effects nous les con- rituons chauds, froids, ſecs & humides, ainſi que nous declarerons cy-apres plus amplement au propre traicté des medicamens,où nous declarerons les temperez,& autres tant chauds, froids, ſecs,que humides, au . .. s. . degré : auquel traicté dirons auſſi des temperatures des ſaueurs, à cauſe que par icelles nous connoiſſons certainement les qualitez des medicamens. iuſques à preſent auons parlé des temperamens : faut venir aux humeurs,qui ne ſont de moindre vſage & conſideration qu'iceux temperamens. des humeurs. ch a p. v iii. a conſideration des humeurs eſt de grande importance , tant au medecin , qu'au chirurgien, $ à raiſon que toute maladie ayant matiere au corps, eſt engendrée de quelqu'vn des humeurs, ou de pluſieurs aſſemblez. ce qui a meu hippocrate au liure de natura humana , à dire, v que ſelon la diſpoſition d'iceux humeurs , l'homme en tout ſe porte bien ou mal. qu'ainſi e fys \ ſoit, toutes les fiévres putrides ſont faites d'humeurs putrefiez , & corrompus au corps humain : auſſi toutes ſortes d'apoſtemes & tumeurs contre nature dependent de quelqu'vn deſdicts humeurs : & ſelon la diuerfité d iceux, les differences des tumeurs ſont faites,ainſi que nous dirons cy-apres au propre chapitre des apoſtemes. les vlceres & playes, & fractures ſont guaries par le benefice des hu- meurs,nourriſſans les parties offenſées : qui eſt la cauſe que bien ſouuent en la curation, tant des apoſtemes - qu'autres ſolutions de continuité, nous ſommes contraincts de rectifier le ſang; c'eſt à dire,les quatre hu- meurs conſtituans la maſſe ſanguinaire,quand il peche en quantité ou qualité : car s'il ya vice au ſang par quantité, comme quand h eſt en trop grande abondance, ou s'il y mauuaiſe qualité, comme quand il eſt trop chaud, trop froid, trop efpais,& craſſe,trop coulant,& fluxile,ou ayant autre qualité ſemblable,nulle action de nature ſe pourra deuement faire.a ceſte cauſe ont eſté inuentez deux remedes loüables:la ſaignée, pour corriger la quantité du ſang, & la purgation, pour oſter la mauuaiſe qualité : à preſent declarerons , . ſeulement leſdicts humeurs , commançans à leur definition. humeur , eſt tout ce qui eſt fluxile, coulant, definition. liquide, tant és corps de l'homme, que de toutes beſtes ayans ſang , lequel eſt ou naturel, ou contre nous. . , - le naturel eſt ainſi appellé, à raiſon qu'il conſtitue le corps, & le maintient en ſon eſtre: faut entendre le diuiſion. contraire de celuy qui eſt contre nature. celuy qui eſt naturel a deux differences:car ou il eſt bon & profi- table pour nourrir les parties de noſtre corps, ou il eſt inutile à ce faire,ains a autre vſage au corps que de c nourrir, & eſt excrement du naturel,qui eſt nourriſſement, ainſi que dirons cy-apres. le naturel propre & qu'eſt-ce , conuenable pour nourrir noſtre corps, eſt l'humeur contenu és veines,& arteres d'vn corps bien diſpoſé & que ſang en temperé ſelon nature, lequel nous appellons ſang, qui eſt tout ce qui appert ſortir des veines quand on fait general , & vne ſaignée. et telle eſt la ſignification generale du ſang : car en particulier il eſt pour vne diſtinction de º particº- coulcur rouge, eſtant en la maſſe ſanguinaire. et pour declarer cecy plus facilement, ie commenceray à la lier. generation du ſang, tantpar ſa cauſe efficiente quematerielle qui n'eſt autre choſe que noſtre boire & man- ger, lequel eſtant attiré par la vertu attractrice du ventricule, & là retenu,par la vertu coctrice dudit ven- tricule,eſt tourné & conuerti en vne ſubſtance ſemblable à vn laict d'amandes:iaçoit que telle matiere ſoit fortdiſſemblable,& de parties bien diuerſes, ainſi qu'il ſe void en tant grande varieté des viandes que nous prenons. telle matiere eſtant ainſi cuitte audit ventricule, eſt appelé ( hilus, laquelle eſt apres pouſſée és chylus, inteſtins greſles,& ſuccée & attirée d'iceux par les veines meſeraiques,puis diſtribuée à la veine-porte, où - aucunement elle s'altere,& de la vaine porte eſt enuoyée au foye, qui par ſa chaleur & vertu de faire ſang à luy ſeul propre & particuliere, la conuertit en vne ſubſtance rouge ſemblable à vin, laquelle nous appel- lons ſang : & en ceſte operation du foye ſont faits tous les humeurs naturels, tant propres à nourrir, que non propres. le ſang eſt celuy qui doit nourrir, lequel certainement ne pourroit ce faire, s'il n'eſtoit pur- - gé de deux ſortes d'excremens : deſquels l'vn eſt attiré par le follicule du fiel, que nous appellons bilis flaua, de la chole- c'eſt à dire, cholere iaune : l'autre par la vertu attractrice de la ratte, que nous appellons humeur melan- re . cholique, qui ſont deux humeurs naturels, non toutesfois de nourriſſemens, mais de quelque autre vſage: p* ſue me- deſquels nous dirons plus amplement cy-apres, & auſſi des trois ſortes de concoctions qui ſont au corps. ºººººº d le ſang eſtant ainfipurgé de ces deux ſortes d'excremens,eſt porté par les veines,& arteres à toutes les par- ties du corps pour leur nourriſſement : lequel iaçoit qu'il ſemble eſtre ſimple,toutesfois on y peut trouuer quatre corps differens, qui ſont,le ſang,ainſi particulierement dit, le phlegme,la cholere,& le ſuc melan- cholique:leſquels ont eſté diſtinguez, non ſeulement par couleurs, mais auſſi ſaueurs & effects:car on trou- uera auſdits humeurs ſaueurs differentes,comme dit galienaucommentaire ſur le liure de la nature humai- piſtiné#ion ne : car l'humeur melancholique eſt aigre, la cholere amere, le ſang doux, & la pituite naturelle douce,in- d l r. ſipide,n'ayant aucune ſaueur apparente. les effects d'iceux ſont trouuez auſſi fort differens, tant en leurs p cºuleur , qualitez,qu'en la nourriture du corps, & generation des maladies : à ceſte cauſe il y a vne certaine propor-ſaueurs ér tion & meſure deſdits humeurs,laquelle eſtant gardée donne ſanté au corps:mais ſi elle eſt corrompue,elle effects. apporte,& cauſe maladie. qu'il ſoit vray, nous diſons qu'vn œdeme eſt fait de ſang phlegmatique,vn ſcir. rhe du melancholique, vn eryſipelas du bilieux & cholerique, vn phlegmon d'vn bon ſang & naturel. or . . l pour declarer & demonſtrer facilement les quatre humeurs eſtre cópriſes au ſang prins generalemét pour º.º": la maſſe ſanguinaire , galien donne exemple aſſez familier du vin nouueau, auquel on peut trouuer quatre º" aiſon de corps differens : car il y a la fleur qui eſt au deſſus, la lie qui eſt au fond, la verdure ou aquofité,& la bonne galien. liqueur,douce & amiable ; la fleur repreſente la cholere qui eſt la plus ſubtile des humeurs, ſe monſtrant touſiours au deſſus de couleur d'or & luiſante : la lie repreſente l'humeur melancholique,qui eſt touſiours au deſſous à cauſe de ſa peſanteur, & eſt comme la face & lie du ſang la verdure ou aquoſité eſt ſemblable au phlegme. car tout ainſi que la verdure , ſi elle n'eſt trop grande, par la chaleur naturelle duvin ſe peut - touri ºf vſage dei humeurs. generatio du ſang. e- v- p c c a l ll w , clq dequoy, & en queltemps ſe fait le bon ſang. confirma- tion de la temperature du ſang. au liure . de locis af- fectis. tourner en bonne fiqueur : auſſi le phlegme, qui n'eſt autre choſe qu'vn ſang imparfaict,,peut eſtre fait par a noſtre chaleur naturelle, bon ſang à ceſte cauſe nature n'a deſtiné aucun lieu propre pour le ſeparer du ſang, comme elle a fait des autres. la propre liqueur du vin repreſente le ſang, à cauſe que tout ainſi que telle liqueur eſt la partie meilleure & plus loüable du vin, ainſi le ſang eſt le plus parfait des humeurs. par tei exemple familier il eft facile à entendre la diſtinction des humeurs,laquelle ſera plus ample & claire par la table ſuiuante. nature. conſiſtan- l couleur. saueuf. vſage. cc« it ſang. de la nature de | mediocre, | trouge &° d : il nourrit principalement les par. l'air chaud & humi- | nytrop épais, | vetmeil. | ties muſculeuſes : eſt diſtribué par de , ou plntoſt tem- | my trop clair. les veines & arteres , donne cha- peré. leur à tout le corps. le phlegme , | zbe la nature de douce, ou plutoſt | elle nourrit le cerueau, comme ou pituite. l'eau, froide, & bu- | fluxille. tlanche. | fade:car ainſi eſti- | auſſi toutes autres parties froides mhide. mons - nous ceſte | & humides:modere le ſang,& ay- eau bonne qui n'a | de le mouuement des articles. - | aucun gouſt. | elle excite la vertu expultrice b de la nature du des inteſtins , attenue le phelegme la (holere. | feu , chaude & ſei- | tenue & | jaune, ou •amtrt. qui eſt en iceux:ce que i'entends de che. ſubtile. paſſe. | l'excremêtitielle:comme auſſi l'ali- ©. mêtaite nourrit les parties qui ap- l. prochent plus prés de ſon naturel. r l'humeur z)e la mature de l' * (oir. il excite l'appetit, il nourrit la melancholi- | la terre , froid & } (ras , eſpais, } | acide & poi- ratte , & toute autre partie qui t. ſec. &rlimoneux, # gnant. luy eft ſemblable en temperature, comme les or. le ſangeſt fait de la partie la plus benigne de tout le chylus,contenués veines,& principalementeſt formé au foye,ainſi qu'auons dit : il eſt procrée des alimens de bon ſuc,prins apres exercices moderez : & plus en vnaage qu'en vn autre:& en vne partie de l'année conuenable plus qu'en l'autre,qui eft le printemps,lequel du tout approche à la nature du ſang,(dont s'enſuit que le ſang ſoit temperé † qualitez,non § & humide ; comme ainſi ſoit que ſelon l'opinion de galien au premier liure des temperamens, le printemps eſt auſſi temperé, comme a eſté touché parcy-deuant.) parquoy en ce temps ſont faictes couſtumierement les bonnes ſaignées. l'aage fort propre à engendrer tel humeur eſt l'adoleſcence, ou, comme dit galien, depuis vingt cinq § lourez,amiables & vermeils,ioyeux,& plaiſans. - le phlegme eſt fait des alimens froids & cruds, mais principalemedt en hyuer, & en vielleſſe, à raiſon de la conſtitution froide & humide,tant de l'aage que de telle partie de l'an. il rendl'homme endormy, pa- reſſeux , & gras,ayant trop toſt les cheueux blancs. la cholere eſt comme la fureur des humeurs, laquelle eſt engendrée auec le ſang au foye,& portée és veines, & arteres:& celle qui excede, eſt enuoyée en partie au follicule du fiel,en partie s'exhale par inſenfible tranſpiration, & ſueurs : car le ſang des arteres eſt plus ſubtil, & plus jaune que celuy des veines, ainſi que dit galien en ieuneſſe, & en eſté eſt fait tel humeur tant des viandes acres, ameres,ou ſalées, que du trauail d'eſprit,& du corps : auſſi tel humeur eſt principa- lement purgé en tel temps. il rend l'homme leger, ſubit,facile à ſe cholerer, & prompt à toutes choſes, maigre , agile , qui a toſt fait digeſtion des viandes qu'il a priſes. l'humeur melancholique eſt la partie la plus groſſe du ſang , lequel en partie eſt rejetté du foye, & attiré par la rate pour la nutrition d'i- · celle, & expurgation du ſang en partie porté auec le ſang, pour nourrir les parties de noſtre corps les plus terreſtres. il eſt fait des alimens de gros ſuc,& difficiles à cuire, & auſſi des ennuis,& faſcheries de l'eſprit: il redonde principalement en automne, ou en l'aage declinant, & premiere vieilleſſe : & rend tel humeur les hommes triſtes , faſcheux, fermcs,ſeueres & rudes, enuieux & timides. et faut entendre que tels hu- , meurs ſe meuuent à certaines heures du iour:comme le ſang domine depuis les trois heures d'apres minuict des hu- meurs fepa- rez de la maſſe ſan- guinaire, &r de leur vſa- ge v. l'humeur ſerenx eſt 'x'cre//)é/ t vtile de la fremiere » rocfion. iuſques à neuf; la cholere depuis neufiuſques à trois apres midy:& depuis trois heures iuſques à neuf de ſoir la melancholie ; depuis meufheures iuſques à trois apres minuict le phlegme,ou pituite. lequelmou- uement des humeurs clairement ſe cognoiſt,entre autres en la groſſe verolle, ainſi que dirons cy-apres. il ya deux humeurs qui ſont ſeparez de la maſſe ſanguinaire,comme excremens de la ſeconde coction,deſquels l'vn eſt gros, & l'autre eſt ſubtil : ceſtuy-cy eſtappellé cholere,ſimplement dite,ou auec vne addition,cho- d' lere jaune:l'autre eſt dit, cholere noire. en latin melancholicus humor,quieſtattirée par la ratte,de la portion d'icelle la plus tenuë, & elabourée par la chaleur des arteres, qui ſont en ce lieutres-inſignes, la ratte ſe nourritiuſques à tant qu'elle la faſche pour ſa quantité,ou qualité:& alors icelle eſt portée de la ratte par le vaiſſeau veineux à l'orifice du ventricule, pour exciter l'appetit, & ayder les actions dudit ventricule. l'au- tre cholere eſt attirée par le follicule du fiel, où elle demeure tant qu'elle ne peche en quantité, ou qua- lité , & alors elle paſſe par les inteſtins, pour les purger & nettoyer par ſom amertume , & acrimonie, & pour irriter la vertu expultrice d'iceux, auſſi pour tuer les vers qui y ſont quelquesfois engendrez : tel hu- meur a couſtume de teindre de couleur jaune les vrines. il y a vn autre humeur ſereux,inutile à nourrir, mais au reſte fort profitable, lequel n'eſt excrement de la ſeconde coction, mais de la premiere : toutesfois n'a eſté ſeparé du chylus , comme l'autre excrement gros, ains gardé pour deſlayer, & deſtremper le ſang trop gros (& pour ce eſt appellé le vehicule du ſang)qui autrement ne pourroit eſtre facilement porté par les veines capillaires,tant de la partie ſime, que la gibbe du foye, iuſques à la veine caue:& iceluy humeur ſereux, auec quelque portion du ſang, eſt attiré des reins par les veines emulgentes, & ſeparé du ſang (lequel eſt la propre nourriture des reins ) puis eſt enuoyé à la veſſie , & fait vrine, & de la jetté hors. des quatre- touſiours quelque portion d'iceluy demeure auec le ſang,qui eſt purgé par ſueur, & eſt la propre matiere bumaurs. d'ieelle. ll y a quatre humeurs de nourriſſemens, (ainſi dicts, non que ceux qu'auons parauant dict eſtre contenus ques à trente-cinq : ceux,auſquels tel humeur abonde, ſont moderez,rouges,cou- c | - -cº: - | l'introduction à la chirurgie. a contenus en la maſſe ſanguinaire, ne nourriſſent auſſi, mais parce qu'ils ſont la matiere plus proche de l'ali- ment : comme les quatre contenus en la maſſe ſanguinaire, la matiere plus eſloignée)inuentez des arabes, que l'on nomme ſeconds. le premier d'iceux n'a point de nom , qui eſt l'humeur eſtant encore en l'extre- mité des petites veines, & là encore pendant comme vne petite goutte. le ſecond eſt appellé ros, qui eſt 'humeur ja imbu à la partie pour l'arroſer, & ja preparé à nourrir.le troiſieſme s'appelle cambium,qui eſt jachangé & agglutiné, & peu s'en faut jà tourné en nourriſſement. le quatrieſme eſt appellé gluten, qui eſt la propre humidité ſubſtantifique,& parfait nourriſſementdes parties ſimilaires:leſquels quatre humeurs ſeconds ſont fort ſemblables aux degrez de nutritió,deſcrits par galien és liures des facultez naturelles qui ſont,qu'il faut que le ſang afflue à la partie qui doit eſtre nourrie : puis qu'il ſoit fiché,& agglutiné:& fina- lement qu'il ſoit aſſimilé, & fait ſemblable à la partie. les humeurs contre nature ſont ceux, qui eſtans cor- rompusalterent le corps,& les parties où ils ſont,cauſans ordinairement maladies.ils retiennent les meſmes d., humeure noms des humeursnaturels de nourriſſement.tousleſquels par putrefaction ſont faicts chauds;jaçoit qu'au- § cuns d'iceux ſoient froids de leur naturetd'iceux les vns ſont faicts tels aux veines ſeulement,les autres non r . és veines, mais auſſi hors d'icelles. - ceux qui ſont engendrez és veinesſont le ſang, & la melancholie : la cholere, & le phlegme ſont faicts tant hors des veines que dedans icelles. le ſang en ſe corrompant,ſelon galien ſa portion plus ſubtile eſt tournée en cholere, & la groſſe en cholere noire;parquoy le ſang eſt corrópu,ou de luy-meſme, à raiſon de la pourriture,ou parmeſange de ſubſtance eſtrangere,commed'autres humeurs,enuoyées és veines par les autres parties comme du foye,de la ratelle, & poulmons...la melancholie qui eſt faite és veines,eſt de trois , differences.l'vne eſt faite d'humeur melancholique, par vne chaleur pourriſſante , ou autre,& tournée en b : cendre : partant telle melancholie eſt bruſlée,chaude,acre,& mordante.l'autre eſt engendrée de la cholere vitelline, c'eſt à dire,ſemblable à moyeux d'œuf laquelle paraduſtion eſt faicte porracée,apresairugineuſe, & à la fin rouge, & de rouge, noire, qui eſt la melancholie pire de toutes : car elle eſt maligne, bouillante, rongeante, exulcerante,iamais n'eſt tirée hors du corps ſans dommage.la troiſieſme eſt faicte de phlegme pourry és veines, & tournée en phlegme ſalé, & par grande chaleur eſtrange en melancholie, - ree veines , l'aigre, ou acide fort crud, lequel n'a receu aucune action outre celle du ventricu- - | le, ou bien petite. - le ſalé eſt fait du doux , eſtant pourry , & bruſlé, par le moyen qu'aucune partie du doux eſt meſlée auec les parties bruſlée . le pblegme contre nature hort des veines rl'vn eſt tenu, & ſubtil, comme l'eau difiillante du cerutau par le nex. eſt engendré, | ſont engendrex ex- | l'autre eſt ſemblable à morue , ainſi eſpaiſſe par le benefice d' vne petite chaleur. comme auons | cremens ſemblables •{ l'autre eſt ſemblable au verte fondu, au aubins d'œufs, qui eſt tres-froid. dit, ou à pblegme » deſ- | la quatrieſine eſt gipſeus, à eauſe qu'il adhere , & s'amaſſe tout ainſi que du (ºutis l- plafire, comme appert és iointures des doigts , & aux poulmons. celle qui reſſemble aux jaunes d'œufs , qui pour cette cauſe a efté appellée vitelli- me, qui eſt quaſi bruſlée, & cuite extremement par vne cbaleur acre, de laquel- le quelquefois és grandes maladies eſt faitte cholere airugineuſe,ou verdeisomme porreau , & ſemblable à pajiel. es veiner, c ' / / jg la thslere centre nature - . celle qui a la couleur de porreau, ditte perracée. eſt faite,ou . l'airugineuſe, ayant couleur de verd de gris. zdedans le ventri- . (elle de couleur de paſtel, dite iſatodes. - - - cule, s'engendre | - la rouge ſemblable au ſang quant à la couleur,differénte à raiſon qu'elle ne ſe prend point. l- c . la plus que vouge qui engendre fiévres ardantes. • •- ) telles ſortes de choleresſont quelquesfois jetttées hors par vomiſſement, leſquelles on ſent fort acres & mordantes »aucunesfois ameres, & faiſans mal és parties par où elles paſſent, ce qui aduient principa- lement à la declinaiſon des fiévres. des ſignes de l'homme ſanguin. , c h a p. x i. #r puis que du ſang s'engendre la chair, il eſt manifeſte que l'homme bien charnu, & mſcu- quel eſt leux, & qui a vne habitude de corps ferme,auec vne exhalation de tout le corps vapoureuſe & l'homme benigne,eſt ſanguin.la perſonne ſanguine a pareillement la couleur belle,vermeille,& meſlée ſaºrºiº É de blanc, & de rouge : de blanc, à cauſe du cuir partie ſpermatique,& blanche , de rouge, à º> raiſondu ſang qui eſtau deſſous : car pour le dire envnmot,telle couleur reluit en la face,quel eſtl'humeur caché deſſous le cuir : ſes mœurs ſont paiſibles, ioyeuſes, & facetieuſes : eſtant tel homme liberal, doux, benin, gratieux,courtois , & de bonne nature, riant, amoureux des dames. il ſe courrouſſe difficilement : car quels ſont humeurs, telles ſont les inclinations des mœurs. or eſt- l, que de tous les humeurs, il n'y en a point de plus doux, & paiſible que le ſang : l'homme ſanguin en outre, boit, & mange beaucoup, à cauſe qu'il a grande chaleur naturelle, il ſue volontiers, il ſonge choſes ioyeuſes, il eſt ſujet aux maladies causées du ſang , comme aux phlegmons, puſtules ſanguines, eſpandues par tout le corps,au flux de ſang par les narines, & grande abondance de flux menſtruel : il endure ſans danger la ſaignée, il eſt promptement offencé des choſes chaudes, & humides, & ſoulagé des contraires : au reſte ila le pouls fort grand , & plein,l'vrine copieuſe en quantité,mais mediocre en couleur, & ſubſtance. les ſignes de l'homme cholerique. ils ont la couleur citrine, ou jaunaſtre, & le corps maigre & greſle, & fort velu, les veines, & arters guel eſt fort groſſes, & amples; le pouls fort, & frequent : on trouue au toucher leur corps chaud, & fec,dur,ari- l'homme de , & aſpre, auecvne vapeur acre qui exhale de tout le corps : ils jettent beaucop de cholere par les cholariqne. ſelles,vomiſſemens, & vrines-dauantage, ils ſont adextres d'entendement , & merueilleuſement prompts, & vigilans : ils ſont auſſi felons, audacieux, conuoiteux de gloire , aſpres, vengeurs des iniures à eux faictes ; de ſorte,que le ſangleur boult d'ardeur, leur face,leur voix,leur geſte,leur mouuemens ſont chan- gez & mucz ;auſſi ſont liberaux,voire ſouuent prodigues. leur dormir eſt petit, & leger,leurs ſonges # b e i le premier liure de - : de choſes bruſlantes,furieuſes & luiſantes : ils ſe delectent à manger & boire choſes froides & humides, a dauantage ils ſont ſubiects aux fievres tierces, & aux ardantes , & reſueries, alienations d'entendement, aux jauniſſes, aux harpes, eryſipeles, & autres puſtules choleriques,& ont ſouuent amertume de bouche,& ſont ſubjets au flux de ventre,appellez diarrhées & dyſenteries. )uel eſt - - signes de l'homme phlegmatique. l'homme ils ont la face blanche,& quelquesfois plombine,& liuide, & enſemble bouffie lamaſſe du corps eſt graſ- phlegmati- ſe & mollaſſe, & froide au toucher : ils ſont ſubjects aux maladies faictes de phlegme,comme œdemes,tu- que, meurs molles & inſenſibles, aux hydropiſies, aux fiévres quotidiennes, à l'alopecie, aux frequentes diſtil- lations & rheumes ſur la trachée artere,& poulmons : ils ont l'eſprit lourd,groſſier & ſtupide : ils ſont fort pareſſeux, & dorment profondement : ils ſongent ſouuent qu'il pleut, & neige , & penſent nager,& noyer: ils vomiſſent beaucoup de phlegme & aquoſitez, & ſouuent crachent grande quantité de ſaliue , & iettent excremens ſemblables par les narines; ils ont la langue fort blanche & humide : ils ſont inſatiables, & ont vn appetit canin, quand la pituite predominante eſt de l'eſpece de celle qu'on appelle acide : & cuiſent leurs viandes tardiuement, dont s'enſuit qu'ils engendrent grande quantité d'humeurs froides & pituiteuſes,leſ- quelles le plus fouuent s amaſſent au boyau nommé colon, lequel par ce moyen ſe tend & fait vn bruit gre- noüillant, preſque ſemblable aux cris des grenoüilles, & ont grandes douleurss& leur ſemble que les par- ties dolentes ſoient tirées & bandées, dont s'enſuit la cholique paſſion : a raiſon que telle matiere humide & pituiteuſe par vne chaleur imbecille, telle qu'eſt celle des hommes phlegmatiques , s'eſleuent aisément : des ventoſitez, qui de leur legereté portées çà & là par les circonuolutions des inteftins , les enfient , & d'où preuiêt le bruit gre- moiéillät aux b cherchans iſſue dehors font vn bruit tel que le vent paſſant par vn lieu eſtroit & anguſte. b oyaux. les ſignes de l'homme melancholique. # le premier ſigne eſt pris de la couleur,c'eſt que la face eſt brune ou noiraſtre,auecvn regard inconſtant, farouche & agard, triſte, morne, & refrongné. le ſecond eſt pris des maladies, principalement lors que l'humeur melancholique eſt meſlé auec la cholere, & qu'il s'eſt tourné en aduſtion : car lors il aduient ron- ©ue c'eſt que gne & gratelle crouteuſe,morphée noire, chancre vlceré & non vlceré, ladrerie, & pſora, qui eſt vne ron- pſora. gne puante, où il eſt trouué de petits corps farineux, maladie qui eſt dite du vulgaire, mal ſainct main : ils ſont ſubiects aux ſchirres, hemorrhoides,varices ,fievres quartes, continués, intermittantes & freqflentes, quintaines,ſextaines, ſeptaines, qui toutesfois aduiennent fort rarement : à dureté & tumeur de la ratelle. ils ont les veines & arteres fort eſtroites a cauſe de la frigidité de leur temperament le propre de laquelle - eſt de reſtraindre, comme le propre de la chaleur eſt de dilater : que ſi quelquesfois les veines en telles per- - , ſonnes ſemblent enflées, ce n'eſt point vn bon ſang, mais pluſtoſt d'vne ſubſtance fiateuſe , à caufe dequoy - ils ſont difficiles à ſaigner, non ſeulement parce qu'il ne ſort rien ou peu la veine eſtant ouuerte , pour la - terreſtrité & tardité § leurs humeurs : mais à cauſe que laveine ne fait pas beau ieu à la premiere impreſ- - ſion de lancette, tant pource que le cuir des melancholiques eſt dur & rude, que auſſi qu'elle n'eſtant preſ- - quel eſt que pléine que de vent, elle fluctue,& ondoye ça & là. leur corps eſt froid & dur au toucher, ils ont ſon- · l'hommemº-ges & idées en dormant fort eſpouuentables car quelquesfois il leur eſt aduis qu'ils voyent des diables,ſer- # lanchºlique pens,manoirs obſcurs, ſepulcres, & corps morts , & autres choſes ſemblables, leſquelles impreſſions ſont faites au ſens,à cauſe des vapeurs fuligineuſes de l'humeur melancholique, qui monte au cerueau, ainſi que nous voyons aduenir à ceux qui tombent en hydrophobie. ils ſont graues & malins,frauduleux,trompeurs, chiches, & extremement auares, tardifs à payer leurs debtes, craintifs, triſtes, chagrins , grongnars, de c | peu de parole, pleureux, penſifs, ingenieux, deſirans grandes & excellentes choſes, & ſont fort ſoupçon- n neux,ſolitaires, haiſſans la compagnie des hommes, fermes & ſtables en leur opinion, tardifs à ire , mais quand ils ſe courroucent,ils s'appaiſent difficilement et lors que l'humeur melancholique a excedé ſon de- gré de iuſtice, ils deuiennent par pourriture & aduſtion dudit humeur furieux, maniaques, & ſouuent ſe precipitent & tuent. ils ſont cruels,opiniaſtres, inexorables, & leur eſprit n'a point ou peu de repos:dont toutesfois ne faut faire reigle generale,ains conſiderer ce que socrate reſpondit à ſes diſciples,qui ſe moc- x. quoient du phyſiognome qui auoit iugé leur maiſtre,(qu'on eſtimoit le plus côtinent & chaſte de ſon temps) " . eſtre paillard : i'eſtois( dit-il)tel de nature, mais la philoſophie m'a enſeigne autres mœurs. car la bonne -- nourriture,& les lettres peuuent changer l'inclination naturelle. les géns de cœur & magnanimes ont eſté - pour la pluſpart melancholiques,auſſi fort ingenieux,ſages & prudens. on void pareillement aucuns auoir - le viſage d'vne vierge,& le cœur d'vn lion,comme alexandre le grand. plutarque dit que ceux qui ne ſont pas totalement bien nez , eſtans ſecourus par bonne doctrine & exercitation , peuuent recouurer le defaut de leur nature : ainſi qu'vne terre aride & pierreuſe plus qu'il ne ſeroit de beſoin, eſtant neantmoins bien cultiuée, porte bon fruit.il eſt vray que ſelon la diuerſité des humeurs & temperamens, les hommes ſont ioyeux, riants, & amoureux, audacieux, conuoiteux de gloire, vengeurs des iniures , iniurieux , liberaux, prodigues , d'eſprit lourd , & tardif, groſſiers, pareſſeux, malins, frauduleux, trompeurs, chiches, auares, - : craintifs , triſtes, penſifs , ingenieux , ſolitaires , fermes , ſtables en leur opinion , furieux & maniaques» - menteurs, faciles à accoſter , miſericordieux, enuieux, ignares, fols, ſots, badins, variables, querelleux, par quel prudens,& ont autres affections de l'ame. or il faut icy noter qu'vn homme qui ſera de temperature& com- - moyen ſe plexion ſanguine, peut venir en complexion cholerique, ou melancholique, ou phlegmatique : comme le - peut changer ſanguin pourra deuenir cholerique, vſant d'alimens trop chauds & ſecs (car chacune choſe engendre,con- la comple- ſerue & angmente ſon ſemblable, & deſtruit ſon contraire)faiſant grands exercices : auſſi par interceſſion d l *iº naº- d'euacuation des excremenscholeriques, qui ſouloit eſtre faite, ou par art, ou naturellement. auſſi toute - relle. perſonne de quelque temperature qu'il ſoit,peut venir melancholique, vſant de viandes qui engendrent vn gros ſang, comme chair de bœuf, de cerf, vieils lievres, porcs, fourmage, & autres viandes trop ſalées. dauantage la vie triſte empeſchée de beaucoup d'affaires, ſoins, cogitations, contemplations, ſolicitudes, procez,eſtudes, ou lettres,& pour eſtre trop ſedentaires : car par faute d'exercice la chaleur naturelle s'aſ- " ſoupit,& les humeurs deuiennent gros & terreſtres : auſſi la demeure en vne region froide & ſeiche:pareil- lement faute d'euacuation accouſtumée de l'humeurmelancholique, qui auoit accouſtumé de fluer par les hemorrhoides, menſtrués, ou de l'euacuation des humeurs par le ſiege. toute perſonne pour tomber en temperature phlegmatique , (non par tranſmutation du ſang en phlegme , mais par eſchange & mutation de maniere de viure) s'il vſe d'alimens froids & humides, s'il prend auſſi viandes exceſſiuement & hors de temps & heure deue,& deuant que les premieres ſoyent cuittes, digerées,& diſtribuées:auſſi s'il fait grands mouuemens deuant que la concoction ſoit faite : pareillement la demeure en vne region froide & humide: la vie oyſiue ſans aucun ſoucy ne triſteſſe:l'intermiſſion de l'euacuation duphlegme faite naturellement,eu par l'artifice des medicamens , par vomiſſement , cracher, moucher, ſuer, toutes ces choſes amaſſent le | phlegme en noſtre corps, & rendent le ſang phlegmatique,& par conſequent changent toute l'habitude de - noſtre corps. ce qui eſt bien à noter pour ſçauoir ſi celuy qui eſt pituiteux,melancholic,oud'autre tempe- i illcilt - t - l'introduction a la chirurgie. rament, eſt tel de nature dés ſa premiere conformation, ou deuenu, & fait tel par maniere de viure deſ- ordonnée. quant aux parties du corps ou membres, ſeront deduites cy-apres bien amplement en l'anatomie, & pource n'eſt beſoin icy d'en parler : parquoy laiſſant icelles, nous viendrons aux facultez, apres auoir pre. mierement enſeigné par exemples plus particuliers la pratique des reigles generales des temperamens don- nées par cy-deuant pratique & exercice ſur les reigles données des temperamens & humeurs. c h a p. x. o v r accommoder la theorique des temperamens à la practique, il m'a ſemblé bon, pour les homº-s euiter la confuſion qui aduiendroit, ſi nous voulions ſuiure les differences qui ſont és tempe- ſont #en- ramens des hommes de toutes les prouinces de la terre , nous propoſer les quatre extremitez blable, # d'icelle : ſçauoir, l'orient, l'occident, le septentrion, le midy : & puis le milieu, & quaſi la diuerſe ſi- comme centre de ces quatre parties du monde habitable : afin que les temperamens des tuation des hommes de telles regions expliquez en couleur , en mœurs, en actions, eſtudes, & façon de viure, ſeruent regionaux de reigle & conduite à cognoiſtre & iuger du temperament de chacun en particulier , ſelon que le cognoi- ſtrons eſtre, ou approcher de ceſte region, ou de celle-là. des meridionaux,comme les aethiopiens, afriquains , arabes, egyptiens & autres ſont ordinairement comparai plus difformes,maigres,& defaits, de petite ſtature, la couleur tannée, obſcure, & baſanée; les yeux noirs, ſon des les levres groſſes & eſleuées, les cheueux creſpus , & la voix greſle, caſſée, & feminine. les septentrion- meridio- naux, comme les scythes , polaques, allemans , & autres,ſont au contraire de ſtature grande & bien diſ-nºux *ue let b poſee, le plus ſouuent de pleine & graſſe habitude de corps ; ils ont la couleur blanche, la peau deliée,les ºrº- cheueux vnis, longs, blonds, ou roux, les yeux de couleur de ciel, auec vne voix aſpre, forte, & enroüée. "º ceux d'entre-d'eux;comme les italiens, françois, & autres, ſont de couleur vn peu brune, beaux,gaillards, robuſtes , velus, greſles, charnus, ayans les yeux de chevre, ou tannez, la voix pleine, claire, & douce. les meridionaux eſtans plus foibles de corps, ſont fort excellens engentilleſſe d'eſprit, au contraire des septentrionaux qui l'ont lourd & groſſier, mais ſurpaſſans les autres en force corporelle. ce qui ſe cognoi- ſtra par les diſcours des hiſtoires, par leſquelles nous voyons touſiours les scythes,les gots & les vandales auoir fait infinis rauages par l'afrique &l'eſpagne : bref, touſiours les grandes monarchies ſe ſont dreſſées du septentrion vers le midy, & peu ou point du midy vers le septentrion. c'eſt pourquoy les peuples de ce pays ne vuidoient leurs querelles autrement que par le duel,comme on void és loix anciennes des lombards, anglois, bourguignons, danois, & allemans, meſmes que fronton roy de dannemarc ordonna les diffe- rens n'eſtre vuidez par autre moyen, comme ditsaxon l'hiſtorien : couſtume qui eſt generale en tout le païs de moſcouie.laquelle au contraire a touſiours eſté reprouuée comme choſe beſtiale par les meridionaux:& n'a iamais eſté receue & prattiquée des aſſyriens, perſes, hebrieux , & aegyptiens qui en recompenſe ſe ſont baſty & erigé vne monarchie ſur les lettres & ſciences occultes par leur bon eſprit, d'autant qu'eſtans naturellement melancholiques,à raiſon de la ſiccité de leur temperament, s'addonnent volontiers à ſolitudes & contemplations, eſtans tres-ſubtils & ingenieux. parquoy les aethiopiens,aegyptiens,libyens,ºebrieux, phœniciens, perſes, aſſyriens, & indiens , ont inuenté pluſieurs belles ſciences, deſcouuert les ſecrets de nature, dreſſé les mathematiques, obſerué les mouuemens celeſtes , & premierement dreſſé l'eſtat de la religion,iuſques là meſmes que les arabes, qui ne viuent que de larcin & brigandages, & qui pour toutes c maiſon n'ont que leurs chariots, ont pluſieurs belles obſeruations de l'aſtrologie , qu'ils baillent de main en main à leurs ſucceſſeurs ; & augmentent tous les iours comme recite leon l'africain. mais les septen- trionnaux, comme les allemans, pour l'abondance de l'humeur & du ſang qui empeſche la ſpeculation, s'appliquent plus aux choſes ſenſibles,& aux arts mechaniques,eſtans leurs eſprits groſſiers & lourds par la peſanteur du corps retirez du ciel en bas vers la terre; ſçauoir, à la recherche des metaux, & conduite des mines, fondre & forger ouurages en fer, acier,cuiure, airain, eſquels ils ſont admirables, iuſques à auoir inuenté la canonnerie, & imprimerie. les peuples d'entre-d'eux , n'eſtans nais ny aux ſciences occulte, comme les meridionaux, ny aux mechaniques comme les septentrionaux, s'addonnent aux affaires d'eſtat, à la police, & au trafic : eſtans au reſte doüez de ſuffiſante force corporelle pour donter les ruſes & fineſſes de ceux du midy,& d'aſſez bon conſeil,& aduis pour rompre l'impetuoſité de ceux du septentrion. cela ſe cognoiſt par l'exemple des carthaginois,africains,qui ayans long-temps trauaillé l'italie par ruſes,fineſſes & iurpriſes,n ont toutesfois peû euiter qu'ils ne ſoient tombez ſous le ioug & monarchie des romains.les gots,huns, & autres aquilonaires, ont faict pluſieurs ribleries ſur les romains, mais faute de prudence n'ont ſceu garder & retenir ce que la force corporelle leur auoit acquis. parquoy les hiſtoires nous teſmoi- gnent que les bônes loix,la façon de bien regir vne republique, la dialectique & eloquence ſont venues de la grece,italie,& france,qui ont fourny, & fourniſſent encores auiourdhuy(principalement les deux der- nieres) plus d'efcriuains,& gens de lettres, que tout le reſte du monde enſemble. donc pour attribuer à chacune region ce qui luy appartient : les meridionaux ſont propres à eſtudier:les septentrionaux, à guerroyer & executer : ceux d'entre-deux, à regir & commander : l'italien eſt prudent: l'eſpagnol eſt graue:le françois diligent & actif,de ſorte qu'on le diroit courir lors qu'il ne va que le pas,au d regard de l'eſpagnol;qui pour ce s'aide volontiers d'vn ſeruiteur françois,à raiſon de ſon allegreſſe en tou- tes ſes actions les orientaux entre-eux ſont plus vigoureux & fermes d'entendement , ne celans rien: car par droict nous diſons l'orient eſtre de nature ſolaire, & partant ceſte partie du iour doit eſtre eſtimée plus virile & dextre : auſſi voyons-nous és animaux les parties dextres eſtre plus robuſtes : au contraire les occidentaux ſont plus effeminez,mols & ſecrets : car ceſte partie eſt deue à la lune, qui ſe monſtre touſ- jours ves l'occident , entre les eſpaces interlunaires : au moyen dequoy ceſte partie eſtant oppoſée à l'o- rient, eſt comme nocturne, reputée gauche ou ſiniſtre. l'occident eſt moins temperé & ſalubre, de ſorte qu'entre tous les vents il n'y en a point de plus propice & ſalutaire,que celuy qu'on appelle subſolanus,qui ſouffle d'orient. car bien que le zephyrus, vent fauorable, ſoufhe de l'occident, toutesfois il ſouffle fort rarement,& preſque ſeulement lors que le soleil ſe couche. les septentrionaux mangent bien , & boiuent encor mieux,libres à parler apres le vin,non cauteleux , ſe deportans aisément de leur promeſſe, au reſte fort chaſtes.les meridionaux au côtraire ſont ſobres,ſecrets,ruſez & laſcifs en toute vilenie de paillardiſe. ariſtote en ſes problemes dit,que les nations tant celles qui ſont trauailléas de chaleur exceſſiue, que de . froidure, ſont barbares & fieres : d'autant que la bonne temperature de l'air rend les mœurs plus douces. parquoy les sythes, allemans, & autres septentrionaux, & pareillement les africains & meridionaux ſont cruels : ceux-là d'vne brauade, audace militaire, & pluſtoſt de cholere, que d'vne vengeance premeditée, parce qu'ils ne peuuent par raiſon dompter & brider leurs premiers mouuemens & impetuoſitez : ceux cv b de b a le premier liure de hiſtoire. autre hi- ſtoire. valere liu. . chap. . leon l'afri- cain, & al° ' 'č .. de la facul- te animale. de la facul- té vitale. vſage de la pulſation du cœur, & ar- fere . de la facul- té naturelle. que c'eſt que nutrition. - des quatre facultez na- tttrelles ſpe- ciales, chambrieres ºr ſeruantes des trois premieres. deux ſertes d'excremens. de pure & cauteleuſe malicº s & de propos deliberé, à raiſon de leur natureltriſte, & melancholique.des septentrionaux, nºus fera fo v la cruauté de ceux de tranſiluanie contre le ſeditieux duc george,lequel ils · firent deſchirer vifà belles dents par leurs ſoldats,qu'ils auoient pour ce faire tenus trois iours #ns manger: puisl'ayans fait roſtir à la broche, le firent deuorer par ceux qu'ils tenoint captifs de ſon party. pour les meridionaux nous ſuffira l'exemple du carthaginois hannibal : qui voyant quelques captifs romains, leſ- quels il faiſoit ſuiure ſon camp à pied, eſtre ſi las & du chemin, & du fardeau, qu'il les contraignoit porter qu'ils ne pouuoient paſſer outre , leur faiſoit couper le deuant des pieds, & les abandonnoit ainſi par le chemin. ' les autres qui ne s'eſtoient monſtrez recreus, & eſtoient paruenus iuſques où ils pretendoient il les faiſoit combattre frere contre frere,parent contre parent , & amy contre amy : ne ſe raſſaſiant de leur ſang reſpandu, tant qu'il les euſt tous reduicts à vn ſeul vainqueur. regardons les meridionaux de l'ame- rique # baignent leurs enfans dedans le ſang de leurs ennemis , en apres ils ſuccent,& ſe repaiſſent de leur chair eſprainte entre deux pierres. or comme les meridionaux ſont exempts d'vneinfinité de maladies pletoriques qui viennentd'abondance de ſang,auſquelles ſont ſubjects les septentrionaux, comme fiévres, #luxions, tumeurs, folie auec risée qui les incite à dancer , & ſauter durant l'accez, qu'ils appellent mal s. vitus, & le guariſſent par muſique : auſſi au contraire, ils ſont ſubjects aux freneſies qui viennent auec fureur, & rage, prediſans quelquesfois les choſes à aduenir, ayans pluſieurs ſonges eſtranges, & parlans pluſieurs langages incognus durant l'accez:à toutes ſortes de gratelle, & ladrerie , maladie ſi commune entre eux, qu'on ne rencontre par les champs en l'vne & l'autre mauritanie preſque qu'hoſpitaux pour les ladres. les montagnars ſont plus farouches , & durs au trauail. ceux qui habitent en la plaine, ſont plus mols: principalement ſi elle eſt mareſcageuſe, comme nous cognoiſſons par l'exemple des holandois, & friſons. mais ſi elle eſt battue de chaleur, & ſoufflée de pluſieurs vents impetueux, ils ſont d'eſprit turbulent,mutin, cupide de nouueauté,impatient de ioug, & ſeruitude,comme nous cognoiſſons par l'exemple de ceux de la gaule narbonnoiſe. ceux qui habitent en terroir ſterile ſont ordinairement de iugement plus accort , & plus excitez au trauail, comme nous monſtrent les exemples des atheniens en comparaiſon de ceux de la bœoce de grece, les romains en comparaiſon de ceux de la terre de labour, & les geneuois en compa- raiſon de leurs voiſins. - des facultez. ch a p. xi. a c v l t e' ou vertu , eſt vne cauſe efficiente prouenant du temperament de la partie , la- >$ quelle fait quelque action au corps. il y a au corps humain trois facultez principales qui le ， # regiſſent & gouuernent, & eſquelles conſiſte toute noſtre vie quand elles ſont entieres,à ſça- $ ) uoir, l'animale , vitale, naturelle. l'animale eſt aſſiſe au propre temperament du cerueau, #^#lºs qui la diſtribue a toutes les parties de noſtre corps, par le moyen des nerfs, par leſquels eſt donné ſentiment, & mouuement. icelle eſt de trois ſortes. - l'vne eſt motiue,l'autre ſenſitiue,& la tierce appellée princepr,c'eſt à dire,principale. la ſenſitiue conſiſte en cinq ſens exterieurs, ſçauoir eſt , la veuë, l'ouye, le gouſt,le flair,ou odorat,& l'attouchement. lamo- tiue conſiſte principalement és nerfs, & muſcles, qui ſont inſtrumens du mouuement volontaire. la prin- cipale eſt celle qui fait la ratiocination, la memoire,la fantaſie ou imagination, ſous laquelle galien com- prend le ſens commun, & interieur, bien qu'ariſtote les diſtingue l'vne d'auecl'autre. la vitale eſt ſituée au cœur, qui diſtribue chaleur , & vie aux parties de noſtre corps par le moyen des arteres. telle faculté eſt principalement empeſchée és affections de la poictrine ou thorax,comme la ſupe- rieure, quand ſuruient quelque affection du cerueau,la plus remarquable : car iaçoit qu'elle ſoit impaſſible de ſoy,ſi eſt-ce qu'en ces inſtrumens elle peut ſouffrir beaucoup.action de faculté vitale eſt la pulſation,& batement continuel du cœur,& des arteres : de laquelle il ſuruient trois profits, & vſages à tout le corps: car par la dilation du cœur, & des arteres l'eſprit vital par l'air ambient attiré eſt nourry, par leur contra- ction la fuligine eſt chaſſée hors:& par tous les deux la chaleur de tout le corps eſt rafraichie & temperée. la troiſieſme eſt la faculté naturelle eſtant au foye principalement:& celle qui donne nourriture à toutes les parties du corps,laquelle vniuerſellement eſt diuiſée en trois,ſçauoir eſt, generatrice, ſeruant à la genera- tion & formation de toutes les parties du corps au ventre de la mere : l'auctrice ou augmentatrice,qui com- mence depuis la delineation , & conformation,& dure iuſques à ce que les parties ſpermatiques ayent prins leur grandeur, & magnitude ſuffiſante en latitude,longitude,& profondité. car ainſi les parties de noſtre corps s'augmentét,& tout par le benefice de la nutritiue,laquelle ſert à la generatrice,& auctrice.la nutri- tiue donc eſt celle qui repare,& reſtablit la triple ſubſtance de noſtre corps,qui a eſté perdue,& diſſipée par le continuel fiux d'iceluy,s'il eſt ainſi que nutrition ne ſoit que repletion de ce quia eſtévuidé.ceſte faculté commence dés le premier commencement de la formation de noſtre corps,& dure iuſques à la diſſolution d'iceluy:parquoy elle eſt de grande contemplation.icelle eſt accomplie par l'aide des quatre autre facultez naturelles ſpeciales,ſçauoir eſt,attractrice,retétrice,concoctrice ou alteratrice,expultrice,& sequeſtrice. l'attractrice eſt celle qui a le moyen d'attirer à ſoy le ſuc & aliment qui luy eſt conuenable (& tel ſuc eſt celuy qui peut eſtre fait ſemblable à icelle partie ) comme aſſez euidemment elle ſe monſtre en vn homme affamé : car auant que le morceau ſoit maſché,il eſt rauy,& attiré par la vertu attractrice : ainſi en vn qui a grand ſoif, le boire eſt promptement attiré. la retentrice eſt celle qui garde,& retient ce qui a eſté attiré, iuſques à tant qu'il aye eſtécuit, digeré & preparé à nutrition : partant elle ſert grandement à la vertu co- ctrice:car la chaleur naturelle ne peut faire coction, ſi l'aliment n'eſt comprins,gardé, & arreſté pour eſtre alteré,& du tout entierement changé, & fait ſemblable : comme pour exemple, la viande eſtant attirée au ventricule ſi elle n'y eſt retenuë, elle ne pourra eſtre tournée en chilus. l'alteratrice, ou concoctrice chan- ge, & tourne ce qui aura eſté prins & retenu, & le fait du tout ſemblable à la partie dont elle eſt faculté, le tout par le propre temperament, & chaleur naturelle d'icelle partie. ainſi le ventricule fait vn chylus de tout le boire, & manger que nous prenons : ainſi le foye par ſa vertu coctrice tourne & change le chylus en ſang auſſi le nerf,& l'os muent, & changent le ſang qui leur eſt apporté parles veines capillaires, en ſub- ſtance blanche, & ſolide, qui auparauant eſtoit rouge & fluxile. telle coction en l'os, & nerf eſt plus diffi- cile à faire, qu'elle n'eſt en la chair muſculeuſe, car à icelle le ſang eſt fort ſemblable : parquoy auec petite alteration & deſiccation eſt tourné en chair;toutesfois telle alteration,& coction ne ſe peut deuement fai- re, ſi l'aliment n'eſt expurgé & nettoyé de ſes excremens,& choſes qui luy ſont eſtranges. parquoy non ſeu- lement à la premiere, & feconde coction (comme nous auons dit) y a deux ſortes d excremens,ſçauoir eſt, le gros, & le ſubtil, mais auſſi en la troiſiéme, qui ſe fait en chacune partie : l'vn eſt cogneu par l'entende- ment, que nous appellons inſenſible tranſpiration,l'autre eſt aucunesfois cogneu par ſueurs,autresfois par la generation a - - ſ l l \_)\ l \ , {- l l \ )ll cl lcl \ a llil u c. a generation du poil,& ongles, qui ſont engendrez des excremens fulgineux, gros & terreſtres de la troiſié- me coction : à ceſte cauſe il y a vne quatrieſme faculté naturelle, qui ayde a la nutrition qu'on appelle ex- pultrice,dediée à expeller & reietter les excremens ſeparez par la vertu ſequeſtrice,où les choſes n'ont peû eſtre alterées & cuittes, ny du tout aſſimilées. telles facultez aydantes à la nutrition, ſont en aucunes par- ties doubles, ſçauoir eſt, communes à tout le corps, & outre propres, & particulieres à elles, comme au ventricule, au foye,aux veines ; en aucunes, toutes quatre enſemble : comme aux parties cy-deſſus dictes: en aucunes deux ſeulement, comme au fiel, à la ratte, és reins , & à la veſſie : és autres parties ſont ſeule- ment particulieres & propres, comme és parties ſimilaires > & ſanguines , eſquelles, ſi l vne de ces quatre defaut, la partie eſt malſaine, demeurant aucunesfois atrophiée & difformée , autresfois vlcerée, autres- fois reçoit d'autres affections,à raiſon qu'elle n'eſt bonnement nourrie. or telles facultez faiſans deuëment que c'eſt leur deuoir, l'aliment ſera faict propre ſubſtance de la partie, qui eſt la vraye aſſimilation , par degrez, & qu'a#mi . moyens qui s'enſuiuent:car il faut premierement qu'il afflue à la partie, puis qu'il ſoit apposé & mis:eſtant ，ion. apposé , qu'il ſoit agglutiné, & fiché : finalement apresl'agglutination qu'il ſoit aſſimilé, & fait du tout ſemblable : la faculté ſequeſtrice ou ſeparante, eſt celle qui peut tirer, & faire choix des matieres entiere- ment confuſes & meſlées de bon & mauuais. exemple , la veſſie du fiel attire à ſoy la cholere du ſang, la- quelle n'apparoit au ſens de la veue dedans le ſang:& les rongnons tirent la ſeroſité du ſang,& la mettent à part qui eſt iettée par l'vrine.auſſi le laict eſt enuoyé des mammelles a la matrice,paſſant au trauers des vei- nes remplies de ſang.et la boue d'vne apoſtume faicte au bras ou ratelle,poulmons ou foye,& autres parties internes, eſt vacuée par les vrines,& par les ſelles,paſſant par le ſang,ſans ſe mixtionner auec luy.on void b cela aux choſes inanimées,comme és vaiſſeaux de verre nómez monte vins,le vin paſſer au trauers de l'eau, & l'eau au trauers du vin,ſans ſe meſler enséble.tar plus forte raiſon il ſe faict ſeparation des excremens,par la vertu,& faculté ſequeſtrice qui eſt au corps humain.maintenât faut parler des actiôs qui viénent d'icelles. des actions. c h a p. x l i. l c t i o n , ou fonction, ou operation, eſt vn mouuement actifprouenant de la faculté : car differencs # tout ainſi que la faculté dépend du temperament, ainſi l'action de la faculté, & de l'action d'aciion & l'œuure. et jaçoit que bien ſouuent ſont confondus action, & œuure, toutesfois, il y a diffe- œuure. rence entre les deux car l'action demonſtre le mouuement à faire quelque choſe, & l'œuure la choſe ja faicte,& du tout accomplie : comme nutrition, generation de chair, eſt action de nature les parties ja nourries, la chair engendrée en vn vlcere caue, eſt œuure d'icelle. parquoy l'œuure dépend de l'action, tout ainſi que l'action dépend de la faculté, par le benefice des inſtrumens bien diſpo- ſez,& entiers:car ſi la faculté defaut,ou qu'elle aye receu quelque offenſe, nulle action ſe pourra faire : de meſme,ſi les inſtrumens n'ont conuenable conformation (qui eſt leur propre ſanté, par laquelle les mem- bres & inſtruments ſont prompts à faire quelque action) l'action ſera nulle, ou peu louable. a ceſte cauſe, pour la bonté & perfection des actions, il faut que les facultez, & les inſtrumens d'icelies ſoient en dnë diſpoſition,& en leur entier. les actions ſont de deux differences:car ou elles ſont naturelles, ou volontai- diuiſion drs resiles naturelles ſontainſi appellées à raiſon qu'elles ſont non volontaires, & ont vne nèceſſité en ſoy,la- aäiºns. quelle nous ne pouuons empeſcher, comme le mouuement du cœur, le poulx de l'artere, l'expulſion des c excremens, & autres telles actions naturelles , qui ne ſe gouuernent point ſelon noftre propre vouloir. telles actions procedent,& viennent ou du foye, & des veines,ou du cœur, & des arteres : parquoy on les pourra ſpecialement appeller vitales & naturelles:car à chacune faculté faut attribuer vne action,autrement s'enſuiuroit qu'vne faculté ſeroit oiſiue,& ſans vſage.les non volontaires vitales ſont,dilatation du cœur, contraction des arteres, que nous appellons poulx. par la dilatation ſont attirées les matieres, & par la, contraction ſont dechaſſées les non volontaires naturelles ſont telles ; generation,) ſ generatrice. auction, }re de la faculté. auctrice. - nutrition, nutrice. generation n'eſt autre choſe qu'vne conformation de matiere,ou acquiſition de forme ſubſtantielle en la de la gene- matiere,laquelle eſt accomplie par le moyen de deux vertus & facultez:l'vne eſt alteratrice,qui prepare & ration , & altere la ſemence, & ſangmenſtruel,pour en faire os,chair,nerfs, ligamens, membres, & autres telles par- que c'eſt. ties:l'autre eſt formatrice,quiforme & figure la matiere ja preparée,& luy donne ſituation, compoſition,& figure conuenable. - auction,eſt ampliation ou augmentation des parties ſolides, en longueur, largeur, & profondité, gar- del'auaion, dant toutesfois la premiere forme, figure, & ſolidité. or eſt-il dict en ceſte definition, auction eſtream- pliation des parties ſolides,parce que d'icelles ſeules depend toute l'eſſence de faugmentation:car vn corps pour amplifier en charnure ou graiſſe, n'eſt pas dit s'augmenter, mais ſeulement ſi quant, & quant les par- ties ſolides s'augmentent,& principalement les os : dautant qu'iceux s'augmentens, tout le corps pareille- ment s'augmente,encores que peut eſtre il amaigriſſe. nutrition eſt parfaicte aſſimilation de la choſe qui doit nourrir, auec la partie qui doit eſtre nourrie. de la nutri- d icelle ſe parfait par le moyen de quatre autres actions particulieres, ſçauoir eſt, attraction, retention,co- tiºn. ction,& expulſion les actions volontaires qui tiennent entierement de noſtre volonté,ſont ainſi appellées, à raiſon que ſelon noſtre vouloir,nous les pouuons arreſter,ou exciter, & faire haſter , ou retarder, ainſi qu'il nous plaiſt. icelles ont trois differences:car où il y a ſentiment,ou mouuement,ou action principale, : & princeſſe. le ſentiment, ou ſenſation, eſt faict en cinq ſortes, qui font voir, ouyr, odorer, gouſter, & attoucher : leſquelles actions ſont faictes par la concurrence de trois choſes,à ſçauoir, d'vn organe ou in- ſtrument , d'vn moyen, & d'vn obiect. l'organe ou inſtrument eſt principalement l'eſprit animal (duquel nous parlerós cy-apres)cöduit & mené par les nerfs és propres parties où doiuent eſtre faits tels ſentiméts; partant icelles parties ſeront priſes à preſent pour inſtrumens,& organes. le moyen eſt vn corps qui porte 'obiect,& le repreſente à l'inſtrumét ou organe.l'obiect eſt vne qualité exterieure,qui a vertu d'eſmouuoir peurquoy les l'organe parl'ayde du moyen bien diſpoſe & affecté. ces choſes ſeront plus faciles,en declarant particulie- parties,éom- rement vne chacune action par ces trois poincts neceſſaires. la viſion eſt action de la faculté viſuelle , la- me l'œil, & quelle eſt faite en l'œil, qui eſt conſtitué de tuniques, & d'humeurs ſeruants à faire telles actions : partant autres , ſont ſont pour l'inſtrument de ladite viſion. l'obiect,& qualité viſible repreſentée audit inſtrument eſt double: priſº pººr car ou il eſt viſible de ſa propre nature,comme la lumiere, le ſoleil, le feu, la lune & les eſtoilles : ou par inſtrument. le benefice d'vn autre, comme par la clarté les couleurs nous ſont repreſentées : toutesfois tels obiects ne trou choſes ſont conduits à l'inſtrument,ſi ce n'eſt par le moyen d'vn corps qui eſt diaphane,& tranſparent,comme l'air # # # ou l'eau, ou la glace, ou le verre. - de la ſenſa- tion. -* b l'oury t le premier liure de cuyr. sentir. odorerº gouſter. toucher. de la mo- tion. comment la ve, iration . eſt attiô vo- lontaire. deciſion no- table de la reſpiration. de la frin- eipale, dite princeps. $ue c'eſt qu'eſprit. re l'eſprit animal de l 'eſprit •vital. de l'eſprit naturel. l'ouyr a pour inſtrument le conduit ou ttou de l'os petreux, nommé mammillaire, auquelil y a pânni- a cules, nerf auditoº & quelque air ou eſprit contenu audit trou de l'os petreux.son object eſt tout ſon, qui eſt engendré dela percuſſion de lair,& causé de la colliſion,& rencontre de deux corps,deſquels l'vn a receu le coup, l'autre l'a donné. le moyen eſt l'air exterieur qui porte le ſon à l'oreille.le ſentir,& odeur cſt faict és apophyſes mammillaires,produictes de la propre ſubſtance du cerueau,& aſſiſes ſurl'os emoide, ſelon galien, foutesfois il eſt faict és ventricules anterieurs du cerueau:telle action eſt fort petite à l'hom- me au regard des autres animaux : ſon obiect eſt toute ſorte d'odeur, qui eſt vne exhalation qui ſort des corps, le moyen par lequel tel object eſt repreſenté à l'odorat, eſt l'air, & aux poiſſons l'eau.le gouſter eſt faict à la langue diſpoſée par le benefice du nerf venant de la troiſieſme & quatrieſme coniugaiſon des nerfs du cerueau , & diſperſé à la ſuperficie de la langue. son object eſt toute ſorte de ſaueurs,deſquelles nous parlerons cy apres en noſtre antidotaire. le moyen par lequel tel object eſt conduit à l'inſtrument,eſt exterieur ou interieur : l'exterieur eſt vne ſaliue humide & vnctueuſe de la langue : l'interieur eſt la chair ſpongieuſe d'icelle langue. le toucher ou attouchement , eſt faict en toutes parties ayans nerfs,mais prin- cipalement en vne peau nerueuſe diſpoſée par tout le corps , & miſe ſous la peau:toutesfois le premier in- ſtrument eſt le cuir des doigts comme auons dit au chapitre ſixieſme des temperamens. l'object,eſt toute qualité tactile , ſçauoir eſt premiere,chaud,froid, humide, & ſec : ou ſeconde , rude, poly, leger, peſant; dur, mol, rare , denſe ; friable,vnctueux,ſubtil , & cras. le moyen,qui porte tel object à f§ à la peau, ou à la chair qui a beaucoup de nerfs meſlez auec elle, la ſeconde action animale,eſt motion, mouuement ſpecialement dit volontaire, qui eſt faict par le muſcle,appellé le propre inſtrument du mou- uement volontaire. les differences principales de telle action ſont, flexion, & extenſion:toutesfois il y a autant de diuerſité de telles actions, qu'il y a de ſortes de diſpoſitions ou differences locales:car le mouue- b ment eſt fait haut ou bas, à dextre ou à ſeneſtre,deuant ou derriere,eſquelles on pourra rapporter tant de ſortes de mouuemens que nous auons au corps, prouenans d'vne infinité de muſcles.au nombre de telles actions volontaires faut referer la reſpiration,âraiſon qu'icelle eſt faiéte par le moyen des muſcles,nonob- ſtant qu'elle ſerue à la † du cœur : car nous la pouuons arreſter pour quelque temps, quand il nous plaiſt, & la faire plus frequente , ou rare » qui ſont les propres conditions du mouuement volontaire. bref, pour ſatisfaire à vne infinité d'objections qu'on fait touchant cc poinct , nous dirons,que l'action de reſpirer appartient à la faculté animale, mais l'vſage & vtilité appartient à la vitale. l'onction principale, & premiere en dignité entre les actions volontaires , eſt diuiſée en trois : car, ou il y a imagination,ou cogitation & penſée, ou memoire.l'imagination eſtvne apprehenſion & recognoiſ- ſance des choſes & objects qui nous ſont repreſentez par les cinq actions ſenſitiues, cy-deuant declarées. la cogitation , ou ratiocination eſt le iugement, ou eſtimation,qui eſt faite des choſes conceuës & appre- hendées,en les comparant & aſſemblant les vnes auec les autres,ou les ſeparant l'vne d'auec l'autre. telle action eſt communement appellée raiſon,& eſt la plus excellente des trois.la memoire eſt la garde & con- ſeruation des choſes apprehendées & imaginées,de là iu ées & examinées,comme le threſor,qui eſt quel- quesfois deſployé & ouuert quand les autres actions ceſſent. or toutes telles actions,tant naturelles, qu'a- nimales & volontaires,ſont faictes par le moyen & benefice des eſprits , deſquels faut à preſent parler. - des eſprits. c h a p. xi i i. r, s p r r eſt vne ſubſtance ſubtile, aërée, tranſparente & luiſante, faicte de la partie du c | | #> ſang la plus legere & tenue, afin que par icelle la vertu des facultez † gouuer- = . : nent noſtre corps , ſoit conduite & portée aux autres parties, pour faire leur propre action. $ s' car ſi telle vertu n'eſtoit portée aux parties pour faire leur propre action, elles periroient # r n \ $ incontinent. tel eſprit eſt communément fait triple, animal , vital , & naturel. l'eſprit animaleſt mis & logé au cerueau : car és veines , & arteres dudit cerueau il eſt fait & elabouré , pour diſtribuer par les nerfs, & porter le ſentiment & mouuement és parties de noſtre corps. qu'il ſoit vray, il eſt manifeſte, qu'en hyuer, à cauſe de l'interception, ou glaciation dudit eſprit, faicte par le froid és parties externes, comme la main , ily a deprauation, ou diminuation du mouuement & ſentiment. il eſt appellé animal,non qu'il ſoit ſubſtance de l'ame,mais à raiſon que c'eſt le principal inſtrument d'icelle, qui eſt logée au cerueau.tel eſprit eſtvne ſubſtance fort ſubtile & ignée,laquelle ſelon la diuerſité des cinq ſens exterieures,a diuers noms:celuy qui fait la veuë ou viſió,eſt dit viſoire ou viſuel, lequel nous pourrons voir ſenſiblement ſaillir hors l'œil quand nous le frottons & agitons auec le doigt, & principalement la nuict. celuy qui eſt porté à l'ouye , eſt dit auditif : celuy du gouſt, gutatif : celuy du toucher, tactif ll eſt fait és anfractuoſitez des veines & arteres du cerueau de la partie la plus ſubtile de l'eſprit vital, porté en haut par l'artere carotide; en partie auſſi de l'air , ou vapeurs, ou odeurs que nous attirons,inſpirons par le nez és ventricules anterieurs du cerueau : & nous faiſons interception de tel eſprit par ligatures fort eſtreinctes quand nous voulons amputer quelque membre. en vne paralyſie auſſi, ou apoplexie, à raiſon de l'obſtru- ction qui fermela voye audit eſprit,quelquesfois la partie eſt priuée de mouuement, quelquesfois de mou- uement & ſentiment. - d l'eſprit vital, ſecond en dignité, eſt aſſis au cœur principalement au ventricule ſeneſtre d'iceluy, & eſt porté par les arteres à toutes les parties du corps, pour entretenir & garder la chaleur fixe & aſſiſe de chacune partie, laquelle autrement periroit ſi elle n'eſtoit maintenue par la chaleurfluente,qui vient auec ledit eſprit par les arteres en chacune partie. il eſt le plus ſubtilapres l'animal:partant il a eſté diligemment gardé en vne tunique fort eſpaiſſe,& preſque ſemblable au nerf, ſçauoir la tunique interieure de l'artere, qui'eſt cinq fois auſſi eſpaiſſe que celle de la veine,côme de l'opinion de herophile citée en galien en plu- ſieurs lieux.tel eſprit eſt fait de la partie la plus ſubtile du ſang,& de l'inſpiratiö de l'air:parquoy s'il ſe fait trop grande tranſpiration , ou vacuation exceſſiue, ou quelque corruption d'humeurs, il eſt incontinent perdu : auſſi s'il ſe faict quelque inſpiration d'vn air peſtilent,ou autrement putrefié & malin,ou de quelque odeur infecte,il eſt promptement corrompu,qui eſt la cauſe de la mort tant ſubite des peſtiferez.quelques- fois par obſtruction & redondance, ou quelque trop grande inflammation, tel eſprit ne peut bonnement reluire à la partie,& entretenir la chaleur naturelle d'icelle:dont s'enſuit corruption de toute la partie,que- nous appellons ſpacelle , ou ſyderation, de laquelle nous parlerons cy-apres. l'eſprit naturel ( ſi d'auenture il y en a vn ) eſt aſſis au foye & veines : il eſt plus gros beaucoup que les precedents, auſſi inferieur en dignité, action & vſage:lequel eſt d'ayder la nutrition de chacune partie,& cöduire le ſang & chaleur a icelle.il y a d'autres eſprits fixes & inſerez és parties ſimilaires ou ſimples de no- ſtre corps,qui ſont ſemblablement naturels & engendrez en vne chacune partie d'iceluy et d'autant qu'ils - ſont ſubſtances ttintroduction à la chirurgie. : a ſcbſtances etherées & ignées, ils ſont tellement conjoincts auec la chaleur naturelle,que ſans icelle ils ne peuuentnon plus ſubſiſter , ny demeurer que la flamme du feu ſans chaleur : leſquels auſſi auec icelle ſont comme les vagabonds, & fluans, les premiers inſtrumens des facultez , & operations d'vne chacune partie de noſtre corps. or ces eſprits fixes ſont nourris,& entretenus en noſtre corps de l'humeur radical,qui eſt de ſubſtance aërée,& huilleuſe contenu és parties ſimples & ſimilaires,lequel humeur eſt le fondement,& iubſtance de ces eſprits fixes, & de la chaleur naturelle : pourtant nul homme ne peut viure vn moment de temps ſans iceluy,pource qu'il eſt la matiere ſubjecte tant de cét eſprit icy, que de la chaleurnaturelle,ſans leſquels nul animal ne peut viure.car les premiers inſtrumens de la vie de l'animal,ſont les eſprits,& la'cha- leur naturelle, deſquels l'ame ſe ſert pour faire ſes operations : pourtant,ſi cette matiere,ou humeur radi- cale eſt diſſipée, qui eſt le propre ſiege des eſprits, & de la chaleur naturelle, comment ſera - il poſſible que leur ſubſtance puiſſe plus perfiſter, & demeurerºsi donc cette ſubſtance radicale,& ſubſtantifique pe- rit, il eſt certain que la chaleur maturelle s'eſteint, & par conſequent la mort s'enſuit, qui prouient par la reſolution de la chaleur naturelle. puis donc que cette eſpece d'eſprits auec la chaleur naturelle,eſt conte- nue en vne chacune partie ſimilaire de noſtre corps, car autrement elle ne pourroit perſiſter)il s'enſuit qu'il y en a autant comme de parties ſimilaires:car vne chacune d'icelles à ſon propre eſprit, & chaleur naturel- le, pource qu'elle a ſa propre temperance,& complexion, de laquelle l'eſprit,& chaleur naturelle procede : pourtant l'eſprit qui eſt en l'os, n'eſt pas celuy du nerf ny celuy du nerf,des veines.ainſi peut-on iuger de tous les autres qui ſont en vne partie ſimple.et cette varieté,& diuerſité des eſprits fixes prouient de la va- riable temperature,& mixion de quatre elemens d'où ils procedent. ortelle conſideration des eſprits n'eſt de petite conſequence,car en iceux conſiſtent nos vertus & forces : de là vient que nous ſommes affoiblis, & deſtituez quaſi de toutes forces, quand ils ont ſouffert par trop grande reſolution. parquoy faut auoir diligemment eſgard à la conſeruation, & maintien d'iceux : car s'ils ſont foibles, toute indication curatiue des maladies ceſſe, & bien ſouuent ſommes contraints laiſſer la propre cure pour les reſtaurer, & reſtablir en leur entier. ce que nous faiſons par viandes ja du tout preparées à nutrition,par bon vin,odeurs douces, & amiables. § il ſont retirez au dedans pour quelque grande oppreſſion de nature , à cette cauſe par odeurs puantes, & fetides ſommes contraints les reuocquer de dedans au dehors. iuſques à preſent auons declaré les choſes qui conſtituent & compoſent noſtre corps,que l'on appelle naturelles,& quelque vnes de leur annexes : reſte encore à parler d'aucunes d'icelles. l'aage , duquel nous auons traicté aux temperamensº le ſexe. les annexes des la couleur. . choſes naturelles< la commoderation , ou ſanté des parties inſtrumentaires. ſont, le temps , duquel nous auons traictéaux temperamens. la region. - l'art , ou eſtat, & maniere de viure. –- _l . c h a p. x iv. e ſexe n'eſt autre choſe que la difference du maſle,& de la femelle : en laquelle faut conſide- rer que la femme a toufiours moins de chaleur que l'homme, auſſi quelle a quelque parties - peu differentes, & ſituées en autre lieu que l'homme:dauantage que les parties ſpermatiques - d'icelle ſont plus froides , plus molles, & moins ſeiches que celles de l'homme, & que les . nſºn actions naturelles ne ſont tant parfaictes en elles,qu'en l'homme. a la nature de la femme faut rapporter les chaſtrez, carils degenerent en tel ſexe, & retiennent la nature d'iceluy , comme on void par la voix feminine, & defaut de poil par l'imbecille chaleur : toutesfois , faut auoir égard qu'aucunes femmes approchent grandement de la nature de l'homme, comme appert à la voix virile, & quelques fois on les voit porter barbeau menton. au contraire, aucuns hommes retiennent de la nature de la femme, pour autant on les appelle effeminez. l'ermaphrodite, à raiſon qu'il tient de la nature de l'homme,& de la femme, il eſt moyen entre les deux, participant de l'vn & de l'autre. la couleur externe & adherante à la peau , naturellement demonſtre le temperament:car ainſi que ga- lien dit au comm. ſur le . aphoriſme de la premiere ſect. & autres lieux ; la couleur ſe monſtre telle a la peau,quel eſt l'humeur contenu deſſous elle:& pourtant ſi elle eſt rouge,vermeille & luiſante,elle monſtre l'abondance du ſang & bonté des eſprits : ſi elle eſt jaune, elle declare la domination de cholere : ſi elle eſt paſle oublanche,elle teſmoigne aſſez la multitude de pituite & phlegme;ſi elle eſt noire ou tanée,elle môſtre l'humeurmelancholique dominer.es excremens naturels,elle eſt de grande conſideration:côme pour exem- ple en vn vlcere le pus ſortant blanc demonſtre bonne diſpoſition de la partie vlcerée:mais d'autre couleur comme rouge & ſanglant , ouverd,ou liuide,ou de pluſieurs autres meſlées enſemble,il declare l'imbecilli- té de ladite partie, qui n'a eſté aſſez forte pour le faire ſemblable à ſoy. auſſi és tumeurs contre nature, la couleur monſtre la difference deſdictes tumeurs, ou complication dicelles. la commoderation ou ſanté, des parties organiques conſiſte en figure, magnitude,nombre,ſituation & connexion conuenable de chacu- ne partie. en figure,comme ronde des parties externes,à fin qu'elles ſoient moins ſubjectes aux offenſes & dommages exterieurs.en grandeur & magnitude ſeante, comme ſi elles ſont graſſes & groſſes, oumaigres & extenuées. nombre des parties entier ou defaillant : entier, comme de cinq doigts à la main : defaillant, comme ſi quelque partie naturelle défaut pour quelque empeſchement de nature.en ſituation & connexion conuenable, quand chacune partie eſt en ſa ſituation naturelle, & bien vnie & aſſemblée l'vne auec l'autre. la partie de l'an a eſté ja declarée és temperamens.la region auſſi eſt comprinſe ſous l'air,duquel nous di- rons aux choſes non naturelles. l'art & maniere de viure & couſtume changent beaucoup,& du tout le temperament,parquoy ſont à con- ſiderer:mais elles ſont tant diuerſes & variables, qu'elles ne peuuent bonnement eſtre defcrites. car fi l'art eſt de grand trauail,comme des laboureurs,mariniers,& autres artiſans qui trauaillent beaucoup,elle rend les parties du corps plus ſolides,fermes, dures,& plus ſeiches:toutesfois ceux qui conuerſent ſur l'eau, ia- çoit qu'ils s'exercent beaucoup, ſont ſubjects à maladies froides:au contraire,ceux qui trauaillent aux me- taux, comme marechaux , ſerruriers, fondeurs, ſont eſprins ordinairement de maladies chaudes, comme fiévres,& autres.si elle eſt de petit trauail comme de couſturiers,& autres qui exercent leur art,ne trauail- lent pas beaucoup le corps, elle rendra le corps plus mol & excrementeux.autant en fait la maniere de vi- ure oiſiue,ſans trauail de corps, & d'eſprit auec abondance des viandes,laquelle ordinairement eſt ſubjecte à pierres,grauelles,& gouttes. celle qui a quelque occupation,& non trop laborieuſe,& auec mediocrité, des viandes,ou abſtinence,rendra le corps moins excrementeux,& le gardera aucunement en ſon tempera- b iilcil£ des annexes des choſes naturelles. de la cont- leur. de la cohn- moderation ou ſanté des parties in- ſtrumen- taires. de la re- gion. de l'art, ou de l'eſtat cr mariere de viure. ,o *-e premier liure de ment naturel. lº bon eſprit, & iugement naturel du chirurgien pourra dauantage comprendre en chacun a particulier. et puis qu auons fuffiſamment, & briefuement déclaré,tant les choſes naturelles que les anne- xes,faut venir mainterºnt aux ron naturelles. - - des choſes non naturelles. c h a p. xv. pourquo, $# o v s ºuons declaré le plus briefuement qu'il a eſté poſſible les chofes naturelles, qui font les #j w ss la conſtitution de noſtre corps, leſquelles ſont comprinſes en la premiere partie de medeci- ſont dites ne, nommée phyſiologie : faut à preſent deſcendre à celles qui gardent, & maintiennent le n / /f - corps , eſtantainſi conſtitué naturellement, c'eſt à dire,qui ſont hors la nature, & eſſence de relles. noſtre corps. telles choſes galien appelle conſeruatrices , à raiſon qu'elles conſeruent, & gardent les corps en ſanté : les modernes les ont nommées non naturelles, à raiſon qu'elles ne ſont de §onſtitution , ou compoſition du corps de l'homme, on les peut dire neutres , ou indifferentes : car elles tiennent le lieu moyen entre les naturelles , & celles qui ſont contre nature : joinct auſſi que ſi elles ſont deuëment appliquées , elles apporteront ſanté, & au contraire, ſi elles ſont mal adminiſtrées : à cette cauſe icelles ſont compriſes en la ſeconde partie de medecine,dite hygiaine ; c'eſt à dire, garde de ſanté : non pas qu'aucunes d'icelles ſoient telles,qu'elles ſoient touſiours ſalubres, autres inſalubres de leur nature : mais ſeulement pource qu'elles ſont faites, & rendues telles par vſage commode,ou incommode, - tel vſage conſiſte en quatre conditions, ſçauoir en quantité, & qualité, en l'occaſion, & en la maniere d'vſer : leſquelles ſi tu obſerues, tu feras que ces choſes qui de ſoy ſont indifferentes, ſeront touſiours ſalu- - bres : car de ces quatre dependent toutes les regles,& preceptes de cette partie de medecine,qui a eſgard a - la conſeruation de la ſanté.ces choſes nonnaturelles,comme dit galien aupremier liure de sanitate iuenda, b galien au ,. ſont compriſes en quatre genres, & dictions vniuerſelles, que l on nomme ſamenda.admauenda, educenda,fa- | § §nda. s menda, c'eſt à dire, choſes qui ſe prennent au dedans,ſoit par la bouche,ſoit autre-part,ſont l'air, - boire, & manger. admouenaa, c'eſt à dire , choſes qui s'appliquent par dehors, ſont tous medicamens, & toute autre choſe que l'on approche,tant au corps,qu'à quelque partie que ce ſoit. f.ducenda c'eſt à dire, ce - qui eſt tiré dehors, ſont tous excremens qui ſortent hors du corps, toutes choſes eſtranges que l'on tired'i- ， celuy. fatienda, c'eſt à dire , ce qu'il faut faire,ſon trauail,repos,dormir,veiller, & autres : toutesfois,com- l munément on les diuiſe en ſix , qui ſont, l' l'air. - boire , & manger. - : trauail , ou exercice, & repos. ' . - dormir, & veiller. - excretion,& retention, ou repletion,& inanition. : | les perturbations de l'ame. - -- de l'air. c h a p. xv i. neceſſité de sèz，s a r,eſt celuy ſans lequel nous ne pouuons viure s'il eſt ainſi que la reſpiration ne puiſſe eſtre l'air. #%) $ # ſeparée de la vie , dauantage, c'eſt celuy ſans lequel ne pouuons garder la ſanté, nyguarir les èjv$) maladies, ainſi que dit galien au neufvieſme de la methode; pour cette cauſe,il eſt de grande conſideration en la medecine,& chirurgie. qu'ainſi ſoit,il eſt tres-neceſſaire cognoiſte celuy · lº- n qui eſt bon,& celuy qui eſtmauuais,auſſi celuy qui eſt contraire à la maladie,ou quiayde icel. · · • le,& luy donne force,comme eſt celuy qui eſt du tout ſemblable à icelle:à cette cauſe,il doit eſtre changé,s'il à eſt naturel, & rendu artificiellement contraire à la maladie. qu'il ſoit vray, en hyuer,s'il ſuruient playe de ! teſte,en la penſant,& traittant,faiſons vn air chaud,par la reuerberation de quelque fer eſchauffé auparauant : au feu ( car le froid eſt du tout contraire au cerueau,& playes deteſte)& ainſi és autres maladies qui deman- le froid en- dent air accommodé à leur nature.quand l'air eſt trop chaud,& tiré au dedans par l'inſpiration,il eſchauffe nemy des les poulmons,le cœur,& les eſprits,& fait que les forces ſont affoiblies par diſſipation,à raiſon de la ſubti- # de la lité d'eſprits. auſſi lors qu'il eſt trop froid, il debilite les vertus, & les ſuffoque, tant par ſuppreſſion des teſte . excremens fuligineux , que par incraſſation des eſprits.l'air donc naturel, & tres-ſalubre , eſt celuy qui eſt exactement pur,ſubtil,clair , & libre de toutes parts, eſtant hors de toute corruption, tant de beſtes que d'autres choſes putrefiées, eſloigné du tout d'eſtangs, mareſcages, & cauernes : ny eſtant fait nebuleux par vne riuiere prochaine : tel air eſt conuenable(s'il eſt temperé, comme aduient au printemps) à toutes mala- dies, & leur ayde grandement. l'air qui eſt contraire au precedent : & du tout mal-ſain, eſt celuy qui eſt - pourry ſans aucune perflation, humide,enclos entre montaignes,corrompu de quelque mauuaiſe vapeur,ou exhalation de quelque maretz, eſtang , ou riuiere prochaine. tel air eſt nuiſible,& dommageable,non pas - - ſeulement à tous aages,& temperatures,mais auſſi à toutes maladies. or puis que l'air propre à chacune ma- ladie, ne peut eſtre icy bonnement deſcrits à raiſon qu'il eſt particulier,& diuers és maladies,ie me conten- teray de declarer ce qui eſt entendu generalement par l'air. ce qui eſt par l'air,les autheurs medecins entendent trois choſes,la preſente conſtitution de l'air,la region où nous entendu par ſommes,la partie de l'année. du temperament de la derniere auons traicté és choſes naturelles,parlans des d l'air. temperamens : donc nous parlerons ſeulement des deux autres. a # º º la preſente conſtitution de l'air,aucunefois eſt quelques iours ſemblable au printemps(c'eſt à dire,tem- ſtitution pre- perée)partant fort ſalubre,& peu maladiue:autresfois,elle repreſente l'eſté, c'eſt à dire elle eſt chaude, & ## de-» ſeiche: quelquesfois l'automne,autrefois l'hyuer, c'eſt à dire,elle eſt pluuieuſe,froide,& humide:& ſelon - ſes diuerſes conſtitutions, elle engendre ſouuentesfois fiévres,apoſtemes,& autres maladies,ſuiuant le dire - d'hipocrate, au troiſieſme des aphoriſmes quand en vn meſmeiour,tantoſt il fait froid, tantoſt chaud , il faut attendre maladies de l'automne. or telles varietez,& mutations de la conſtitution de l air aduiennent à raiſon de la diuerſité des vents qui ſoufflent, la nature deſquels eſt grandement à conſiderer : car par iceux nous cognoiſſons ſenſiblement les mutations del'air : partant les deſcrirons le plus briefuement que faire ſe pourra des vents. le vent d orient, qui eſt dit en latin subſolanus,en françois solaire,eſt de nature chaude,& ſeiche;ſalu- bre, & ſain le vent d'occident , dit fauonius ; & vulgairement galerne, eſt froid,& humide ; maladif, & inſalubre. le vent de midy eſt chaud, & humide, cauſe de corruption , & maladies prouenantes de pour- riture. le vent de septentrion, dit communément bize, eſt froid, & ſec ; ſain, & ſalubre, lequel s'il ſouffle durât les iours caniculaires,apporte ſalubrité a toute l'ânée,& ameine inſalubrité ſi elle a precedé.or telle deſcription des quatre vents eſt faite ſeulemét ſeló leur naturel & propre,qui eſt pris dunaturel de la regió, dont - : - - - - "- : c ， - - •l ， - *. • - "- l l l u\ l { i \ l l' )ll cl lcl. w. a ll i l u } -. a. r a dont ils commencent à ſouffler car autrement nous experimentons ſouuent des effects aux vents tous con- traires à leur propre nature,ſelon les lieux par où ils paſſent comme montagnes couuertes de neiges, mers, eitangs, riuieres, foreſts, campagnes ſablonneuſes, & autres lieux deſquels ils empruntent les qualitez, & nous les apportent venans vers nous.ainſi auons-nous dit le vent fauonius,c'eſt à dire,fauorable,eſtreneät- moins maladif & inſalubre,pour le reſpect de ſon naturel particulier, & de la region occidentale, froide, & humide, dont il part : & tel l'experimentent les gaſcons,tellement à leur dommage,que bien rarement il ſouffle en leur pays,ſàns quelque inſigne detriment és hômes,aux biés de la terre;& toutesfois les grecs, & italiens l'ont toufiours loüé comme le plus ſalubre. le leuer auſſi, ou coucher des eſtoilles les plus inſi- - gnes,eſleue quelquesfois tels vents froids, qui refroidiſſent grandement l'air,ou le changent en autre quali- te, eſleuent les exhalations, & vapeurs dont precedent les vents,nuées, orages, tourbillons, eſclairs, fou- dres, tonnerres,greſles,gelée,neiges,pluyes, tremblemens de terre, inondation d'eaux, auec flux,& reflux de marée,& autres calamitez:mais l'entiere cognoiſſance & contemplation, tant des vents que du mouue- ment des eſtoilles,appartient à l'aſtrônomie , comme la ſpeculation des regions,& des climats aux coſmo- graphes , & geographes.toutesfois hippocrate en a traicté en ſon liure de l'air, des lieux,& eaux,où il deſcrit les pays qui luy eſtoient cogneus,& voiſins auſſi manifeſtement nous cognoiſſons combien nuit, & profite l'air d'vne region plus que l'autre,& qu'il eſt plus conuenable à vne maladie que l autre,ainſi que dit guidon de cauliac,que les plaies de la teſte ſont plusfaſcheuſes à guerir à paris qu'en auignon,& au con rontou , s traire les vlceres des iambes plus faciles à guarir à paris qu'en auignon:à raiſon que l'air de paris eſt froid # # là & humide au pris de celuy d'auignô,partant il eſt ennemy des playes de la teſte:toutesfois iceluy par ſa cö- teſt. ſ , ſtitution condenſe les humeurs,& les rend moins fluxiles, dont ſont plus facilement guaris les vlceres des faſcheuſes à b jambes,la curation deſquelles eſt le plus ſouuent retardée , à raiſon des fiuxions qui ſe font eſdits vlceres. guarir à pa- parquoy il eſt notoire que les lieux chauds,& approchās de l'aequinociial,font grande diſſipation de noſtre rir & les vl- ſubſtance, & chaleur naturelle , dont elle eſt affoiblie, comme aduient és pays d'italie,& afrique:le con-ceres des iä- traire faut entendre des lieux eſloignez dudit aequinoctial,eſquels eſt fait moindre reſolution de la chaleur * " aº- naturelle : dont les forces & vertus ſont plus grandes eſdits lieux, qu'autre part;à ceſte cauſe ils endurent &" mieux la ſaignée : ceux du pays chaud portent mieux la purgation,& ſont plus difficiles à eſmouuoir:& faut attribuer tels accidens,& qualitez de l'air à vn pays chaud, que nous donnons a l'eſté,leſquelles ſont dou- bles en cette partie de l'année audit pays,& plus remiſes en hyuer,mais toutesfois ſemblables à l'eſté.plus curieuſes diſtinctions des habitations ie laiſſe aux geographes,auſquels appartient telle côtemplation:ſeu- l'air chan. lement ie diray que l'air change, & altere la conſtitution de noſtre ccrps:ou par ſa qualité,comme s'il eſt ge moſtre trop froid, chaud, ſec ou humide : ou par ſa ſubſtance , s'il eſt trop eſpais , ſubtil, ou corrompu d'exhala- certs par tions putrides:par ſon changement ſoudain,comme ſi de tranquille qu'il eſtoit, ſoudainement il vient à eſtre trois manic- impetueux. , me contentant au reſte d'auoir rudement eſcrit ce qui ſe peut pratiquer,& mettre en yſage, rº † à parler du boire & manger,qui apresl'air eſt la choſe plus neceſſaire au maintien,& ſubſtenta- tion du corps. du manger & boire_ . c h a p. xi v. º o v r traicter briefuement du manger, & boire, il nous faut parler de la bonté tant des vian- enqaeyeon- ſ des,que du breuage , de lameſure, & quantité, qualité, couſtume,& plaiſir , ou delectation: ſiſte la böté, d' auſſi de l'ordre , du temps,de l'aage , & de la partie de l'année.la bonté , ou malice eſt conſi- ou malice dé - # derée ſelon que telles viandes engendrent bon, & mauuais ſuc : car lemauuais ſang, que les l'aliment. $ grecs appellent cacochymie,eſt la ſource,&la cauſe de toutes maladies : au contraire, le bon ſang reſiſte à toutes maladies, & ne cauſe iamais icelles,s'il ne peche en quantité: † il eſt grâdement neceſſaire,& requis à ceux qui veulent garder leur ſanté,& obuier aux maladies,qu'ils vſent des viandes de bon ſuc : telles ſont,le bon vin,iaunes d'œufs,bon laict,bon pain, bonne chair de chappon , perdrix , gri- ues, aloüettes, veau,mouton, chéureau, autres que verras au liure de galien des facultez des alimens,où tu trouueras auſſi celles qui ſont de mauuais alimens,leſquelles cognoiſtras par vne qualité,&ſaueur mani- feſte,comme acre,amere,ſalée, aigre,auſtere,& acerbe. or la bonne viande telle qu elle ſoit, ne peut faire profit au corps, ſi elle n'eſt prinſe en deue quantité : mais au contraire elle nuit grandement,& cauſe mala- dies; tout ainſi que la mauuaiſe, prinſe en petite quantité aucunefois ne nuit point, ou bien peu:parquoy faut bien tenir meſure au boire,& aumanger, mais principalement aux maladies. car,comme dit hippo- aphor. & . crate,la viande eſt force pour les ſains,& maladie aux malades,fi la meſure,& quantité n'eſt bien obſeruée: ſect. . parquoy il eſt fort neceſſaire de cognoiſtre les maladies qui requierent diette eſtroitte, oularge, leſquelles galien a eſcrit au premier de l'art curatifad glauconem, diſant : qu'és maladies aigues, & qui viennent in- continent à leur vigueur, il faut peunourrir:és longues,du commencement il faut donner viandes plus lar- gement,afin qu'on puiſſe reſiſler,& ſupporter le mal:ce qui a eſté auſſi confirmé par hippocrate au premier iiure des aphoriſmes dauantage quand le mal vient à ſon eſtat,il faut nourrir fort eſtroittement, ſelon faut ucir i'aphoriſme huictieſme du premier liure : telle eſt la meſure du boire, & manger qu'il faut garder és ma- eſgard à la ladies, ayant toutesfois eſgard à la force, & vertu du patient,& couſtume d'iceluy, car la couſtume ſe vertu & doit changer peu à peu és maladies, & non tout à coup. telle couſtume eſt certainement fort diuerſe eºuſtume de d & variable, & depend du bon iugement, & prudence du medecin, ou chirurgien : auſſi és fains ne peut ºrº eſtre diſtinguée telle meſure, & quantité par poids certain ; car aucuns demandent plus grand nourriſſe- ment, les autres moindre, ſelon que la reſolution,ou diſſipation de la triple ſubſtance eſt plus grande, ou plus petite. qu'ainſi ſoit, les hommes à raiſon de l'actiuité de leur chaleur,& reſolution plus grande,ap- petent dauantage, & mangent plus que les femmes : ne plus ne moins qu'aux ieunes,doiuent eſtre alimens plus copieux qu'aux viels,& toutesfois encore aucuns des hommes ieunes ont beſoin de plus grande refe- ction que les autres, ſelon leur couſtume,& maniere de viure,& temperament.tanty a qu'il y a vne me- sentence de- ſure commune, vniuerſelle,qui eſt de ne manger iuſques à ſatieté , ſelon le dire d'hippocrate , diſant rée d'hippo- qu'il y a deux moyens de garder la ſanté ; l'vn eſt de n'eſtre oiſif, ny tardif à faire exercice, & trauailler: crate. l'autre de ne ſe remplir par trop,& ſaouler des viandes.telle doit eſtre la quantité, ou meſure du boire,& manger. il faut auſſi diligément conſiderer la qualité,tant pour les ſains que pour lesmalades, ſi elle eſt, ou premiere, comme chaude,froide,humide,ſeiche : ou ſeconde,comme attenuante ,incraſſante, obſtruante, ou aperiente, & les autres, ſelon leſquelles qualitez la maniere de viure doit eſtre diuerſe ésmalades & ſains.car les ſains demandent viandes qui les puiſſent maintenir,& garder en ſanté;parquoy faut qu'el- les ſoient ſemblables ſelon les qualitez à leur temperament,& nature,laquelle ſi elle eſt entiere nous tient en ſanté,comme à vne nature,& temperature chaude, & humide (tels ſont les enfans)faut donner viandes chaudes & humides:à vne nature froide, & ſeiche (comme ſont viellards)faut donnerviande # # à ctlf " - -xx- •-e premier liure de : • - leur temperaturº # †ue la ſanté doit eſtre maintenué,& gardée par choſes ſemblables.toutesfois a vieilleſſe eſt parce qº la vieillelie » ºue gaillarde qu'elle ſoit,eſt de ſa nature comme vn eſpece de maladie, il ſem- § v e ble meilleur la noºº des viandes contraires à ſon temperament ; ſçauoir,chaudes, & humides,pour tou- eſpece de jours retarderlºº cauſes de la mort,frigidité,& ficcité qui la talonné de bien prez.car à vne maladie ne faut maladie donner viandes ſemblables, puis qu'elle eſt contre nature, pour autant que l'on l'augmenteroit , & on luy donneroit vertu, mais contraires, & diſſemblables en qualité , afin qu'elles puiſſent combatre ladite ma- ſect . ladie : à cette cauſe , vne maladie chaude, comme phlegmon, ou erſipelas , demande viandes · refrige- aphor. . rantes : vnº froide, comme œdeme, ou ſcirrhe, eſchauffantes. qui eſt la raiſon pour laquelle hippocra- ſect. . te a dit en ſon .liure des aphoriſmes,que la maniere du viure humectante eſt conuenable à toutes fiévres, puis que la fiévre eſt affection ſeiche : faut donc bien entendre la nature de la maladre, pour luy ordonner diete contraire en qualité premiere ou ſeconde.or ce n'eſt pas aſſez d'auoir cogneu la quantité, & qualité des viandes,mais auſſi il faut entendre la couſtume,& maniere de les prendre, s'il eſt ainſi que ſelon le dire choſe di des principaux medecins,la couſtume(c'eſt à dire,maniere de viure)eſt vne autre nature. car icelle aucune- #. # fois change le propre tempe ament naturel,& en laiſſe vn autre acquis partant la couſtume non ſeulement notée. eſt à garder és ſains,mais,auſſi cs malades car ſi promptement vous la voulez changer de pire en meilleure, vous ferez certainement plus de mal que de bien , ſuiuant le dire d'hippocrate, que les mutations ſubites, & repentines ſont dangereuſes. a cette cauſe, ſi nous voulons changer la maniere de viure accouſtumée, ui eſt vicieuſe, ou qui engendre mal , ou l'entretient, peu à peu faut faire ce change, afin que la nature ne ſe faſche, & que ſans grande perturbation elle puiſſe prendre nouuelle couſtume : car encore qu'vne viande ne ſoit de ſoy. meſme de bon nourriſſement , elle ſera moins , ou plus tard cuite,& digerée qu'vne autre pire , & accouſtumée. qu'ainſi ſoit, nous voyons que gens ruſtiques cuiſent pluſtoſt la d,ou bœuf, b deſquels ordinairement ils vſent , qu'vne perdrix,ou chappon, ou autre viande de bon ſuc, laquelle ſe cor- rompra en leur eſtomac : & ne faut attribuer telle choſe ſeulement à leur chaleur naturelle forte, mais à leur couſtume,laquelle pour la familiarité conuertit, & tourne en ſangles viandes de tres-difficile digeſtió: tant a de vertu,& grace la couſtume, laquelle fait toutes les viandes delectables,& plaiſantes; à raiſon de- quoy, elles ſont mieux retenuës en l'eſtomach , & ſans donneraucune peſanteur,ou vomiſſement,ou nau- sée, cuittes , digerées , & diſtribuées. tel effect n'ont celles qui vient à contre cœur,& deſplaiſent à na- ture : car au contraire, en les abhorant, elle fait rots aigres, & puants, degouſtemens,nausées, vomiſſe- ment , peſanteur , mal de teſte, & facherie de tout le corps.parquoy faut diligemment s'enqueſter quelles viandes plaiſent au malade,afin de le mettre en gouſt, & appetitiprincipalement quand il eſt fort degouſté, ou debilité de quelque grande euacuation,& vomiſſement.car ſi les viandes luy en viennent à gré,il pourra mieux eſtre reſtauré, jaçoit qu'aucunesfois elles luy ſoient peu conuenables, & profitables, ainſi qu'hip- au .aph. pocrate a eſcrit. le boire , & manger qui eſt baillé, ſoit aux ſains, ou malades,eſt meilleur,& plus conue- du .liure. nable,s'ils le trouuent bon,& eſt à leur appetit,encore qu'il leur ſoit vn peu plus mauuais que celuy qui leur , eſt meilleur,combien qu'il ne leur ſoit pas ſi aggreable , ny à leur gouſt:par leſquelles paroles hippocrate monſtreaſſez qu'il faut bien ſouuét auoir eſgard au plaiſir du malade,pour luy ordôner ſa maniere de viure. l'ordre du boire,& mäger n'eſt de moindre eſgard que les precedens:car encore que les viandes ſoiët bon- nes, plaiſantes,& accouſtumées, ſi elles ne ſont priſes par ordre,elles ſont mal cuittes,& digerées,ou bail- lent grand trauail à l'eſtomach:pourquoy faut conſiderer quelles doiuent eſtre les premieres, & quelles les dernieres : car les viandes de facile digeſtion ne doiuent eſtre miſes apres celles de difficile coction , ny les aſtringentes, ou ſeiches deuant les lubriques:mais au contraire, faut prendre premierement viande fa- ciles à cuire , ou lubriques , comme choſes graſſes,humides,douces , pour laſcher le ventre pºis les vian- des de difficile digeſtion , ou aſtringentes ou ſeiches ſuiuront pour fermer l'orifice de l'eftomach , afin que par ce moyen il embraſſe de toutes parts les viandes, & que la chaleur ſoit contenuë , & ramaſſée en hipp deviºt. iceluy,& par ces deux moyens la viande ſoit mieux cuitte.a cette cauſe,hyppocrate a touſiours intention le ** iº mer. matin , & à diſner de bailler viandes qui faſſent deſcendre les excremens de la premiere coction, & au ſoir a ſ ſfff !j. celles qui peuuent nourrir. auſſi faut entendre ſelon le dire dudit hippocrate, que le manger doit touſiours preceder le boire,ainſi qu'il a eſcrit és liures des epidemies. de moindre conſideration n'eſt le temps de pré- dre le boire & manger , que l'ordre. car és maladies il eſt beaucoup plus difficile qu'és ſains, pour cauſe qu'és ſains leur heure accouſtumée ſe peut bien garder,ou quand ils ont appetit,ils peuuent manger moyé- nant toutesfois que l'exercice ou labeur ait eſté faict auparauant:car il faut tant qu'il eſt poſſible,dit hippo- crate,que le trauail & labeur precede le boire & manger,pour faire euacuation des excremens de la troiſieſ- me coction,& augmenter cette chaleur naturelle,& conforter les parties ſolides: qui ſont les vſages d'exer- temps de citation requis, & neceſſaires pour bien, & deuëment prendre ſa refection. ez maladies ne faut auoir "º * eſgard ny au matin, ny au ſoir , ny à l'heure accouſtumée,ains à la declination de leur accez:car ſi au com- "ºº mencement de l'accez, ou autre temps d'iceluy , la viande eſtoit donnée,elle ſeroit corrompue,& faicte matiere propre de la maladie, principalement aux fiévres. a cette cauſe,dit hippocrate,la viande eſt force, l., viand., & vertu pour les ſains , & maladie aux malades, ſi elle n'eſt priſe à l'heure deue, ayant touſiours la conſi doiuent eſtre deration de la vertu du malade , & de la vigueur,& eſtat de la maladie. il fautauſſi auoir eſgard que noſtre diuerſifées maniere de viure, c'eſt à dire que noſtre viande ſoit touſiours vne, ſimple,& ſemblable, dautant que na- d a»x " mala- ture enfin abhorreroit telle viande, & ne l'appeteroit, dont aduiendroit qu'elle ne la pourroit retenir,ny des. cuire. et ne faut croire à ces ſuperſtitieux medecins, qui penſent que la varieté des viandes trouble la con- coction, d'autant que nous cuiſons touſiours , & retenons mieux les viandes que nous appetons. or noſtre nature appete touſiours varieté : dauantage,comme ainſi ſoit que noſtre corps ſoit composé de ſubſtance ſolide, humide,& aerée, & que pour les exercices,& autres occupations, il aduienne ſouuent qu'vne ſub- ſtance eſt plus diſſipée que l'autre, il eſt neceſſaire d'vſer de diuerſité d'alimens de peur que quelque choſe ne defaille à la reparation de ce qui eſt perdu. auſſi l'aage, & partie de l'année nous monſtre la maniere d'ordonner le regime de viure:car autres viandes conuiennent à vn ieune qu'à vn viel,ne plus ne moins qu'en hyuer faut vſer d'autres viandes qu'en eſté.parquoy il eſt bon de cognoiſtre quelles viandes ſont propres à chacun aage , & partie de l'an. aux enfans communement viandes humides , & en grande quantité,ou par pluſieurs fois priſes,afin que non ſeulement ils ſoient nourris,mais auſſi prennent accroiſſement,à cette cauſe ils ne peuuent porter la faim.le contraire aduient aux viels,leſquels à raiſon de leur chaleur naturelle imbe- . cille portent plus facilement la faim que tous autres aages, eſquels conuiennent viandes chaudes & humi- des,pour humecter & eſchauffer leurs parties ſolides ja froides,& ſeiches.auxjeunes,& d'aage conſiſtant,à raiſon de leur chaleur exceſſiue, ſont conuenables par fois viandes de contraire qualité,pour moderer cette chaleur. a l'aage moyen & temperé,comme adoleſcence , viande ſemblable. ainſi en hyuer faut vſer des viandes chaudes, & deſſeichantes , comme roſty, vins forts, eſpiceries , pour raiſon de la conſtitution du temps, froid, & humide, & de l'abondance de la chaleur naturelle , qui eſt grande ence temps ; comme aphor. , l'ordre du boire & mä- ger. l a l l u l \ )\ l ll \- l lv ) l l ct lcl \ a llll l l c. a d comme auſſiau printemps, ſelon le dire d'hippocrate : qu'en hyuer & au printemps ſont les ventricules naturellement tres-chauds. faut faire le contraire en eſté : car en ce temps, à raiſon de l'exceſſiue chaleur de l'air ambiant, faut vſer de viandes froides & humides, pour corriger ceſte chaleur exceſſiue, & comme aph. ;. febrile : auſſi en ce temps le boire eſt plusgrand qu'en hyuer, & le manger moindre. au printemps faut vſer ſect.'i. de viandes temperées, à raiſon qu'il eſt temperé. en automne nous commençons à prendre vn peu de viandes dauantage qu'en eſté , & boire moins, & moins trempé : afin de peu à peu deſcendre à la maniere de viure deue à l'hyuer. du mouuement & repos. c h a p. xv i i i. paume, porter fardeau, & autres ſemblables : & ſous iceux eſt compriſe la friction, - - friction dure eſt, quand l'on frotte tout le corps , ou vne partie ſeule, fort & aſprement, ſoit auec la main ou toile neufue, eſponges, ou d'autres choſes. la vertu & qualité d'icelle eſt de condenſer, & aſtraindre,& rendre la chair dure. et ſi elle eſt longuement & ſouuentesfois continuée, rarefie , euapore, reſout, exte- nue & diminué la chair, & autre ſubſtance de noſtre corps. outre plus, fait reuulſion,& diuertit la fluxion des humeurs d'vne partie en autre. la molle eſt, quand l'on frotte doucement, laquelle fait le contraire de la dure : pource qu'elle amolit & relaxe, & rend le cuir doux & poly, toutesfois ſi elle eſt briefue ou peu longue, elle ne rend aucun effect. la mediocre tient le moyen entre les deux ſuſdictes, pource quelle fait augmentation d'aliment & nutrition, à cauſe qu'elle retient le ſang, & les eſprits qui ont eſté par icelle attirez ſans les euaporer & reſoudre,ainſi qu'il eſt teſtifié par galien chap. .liure. .desantate tuenda.voila sè$ a r mouuement en ce lieu ( comme dit fuchſius en ſon introduction de medecine) ſe doit en É\u'il faut tendre toute eſpece d'exercices, comme cheminer, danſer, courir, aller à cheual, ioiier à la § endre par - - •. - l'vſage de mouuement. laquelle a eſté des anciens en grande eſtime, & eſt encores à preſent. ils en ont fait pluſieurs de la un eſpeces & differences qui ſe peuuent reduire en trois, c'eſt à ſçauoir , dure,molle, mediocre. friction. vtilité de ; les effects des frictions en general, leſquelles ne faut nullement meſpriſer. pareillement, les commoditez ex . de l'exercice ſont grandes, ainſi que dit galien aux deuxieſme liure de sanitale tuenda : c'eſt qu'il augmente auſſi la chaleur naturelle,dont ſenſuit meilleure digeſtion,& par conſequent bonne nourriture,& expultion des excremens, les eſprits plus prompts à leur office : à cauſe que leurs conduits ſont par ce moyen pur- gez;& d'abondant ledit exercice laiſſe l'habitude du corps, & la reſpiration & autres actions plus fortes, dures, & robuſtes , au moyen de l'atrition mutuelle des parties qui ſe heurtent l'vne contre l'autre,dont ne ſont ſi fort, & ſi toſt trauaillées : ce qui eſt manifeſte aux ruſtiques, & autres manieres de gens qui ſont de grand trauail. voilà les commoditez de l'exercice,moyennant que lon le faſſe en temps oportun,en quan- tité legitime, en qualité competente, & par repetition & reiteration raiſonnable. le temps opportun ſera le temps de auant le paſt,pour exciter la chaleur naturelle à appeter les viandes,& apres auoir mis hors les excrements faire l'exer- de tant que nature affamée pourroit attirer par les veines meſaraïques,pour porter au foye vn ſuc mauuais cice. & en ce faiſant l'habitude du corps pourroit eſtre viciée. auſſi n'eſt conuenable faire exercice toſt apres le repas, & l'eſtomach eſtant remply, de peur qu'il ne face atraction des viandes non encores cuites. la me- ſure & quantité legitime de l'exercice eſt, quand le corps ſe tumefie & enfle, dont apparoit vne couleur rouge & vermeille, & qu'il ſuruient vne petite ſueur : & quand la reſpiration commence à ſe changer, & à eſtre grande & frequente , quand auſſi les membres ont leurs mouuemens libres ſans grande laſſitude : & alors que ces ſignes ſe monſtrent, faut deſiſter, de peur de trop grande laſſitude, & reſolution de la ſub- ſtance de noſtre corps:à cauſe qu'auec vne grande ſueur le bon ſuc ſubſtantifique,& les eſprits ſe reſoluent & conſument,dont aduient que le corps deuient maigre & froid.la qualité competente eſt miſe en la me- diocrité des qualitez exceſſues d'agitation du corps:tel eſt l'exercice qui n'eſt n'y trop leger,ny trop tardif, ou trop lent, ny trop robuſte, ny trop debile, ny trop vehement, ny trop remis & laſche, ny trop gaillard & bruſque,ny auſſi trop aſſoupy,& qui trauaille par egale proportion toutes les partiesdu corps.tel exer- . diuerſité cice eſt propre pour les corps ſains & temperez : mais s'ils ſont intemperez , il faudra choiſir exercices qui d'exerci , de leur qualité ſoient propres à corriger la qualité de leur intemperature : car les corps remplis d'humeurs ſelon la di- froids & eſpais, choiſiront vn exercice plus vehement, robuſte & de plus longue durée : tellement toutes- uerſité des fois , qu'ils ne s'y addonnent, que la premiere & ſeconde coction ne ſoit en eux paracheuée : ce qu'ils co- corps. gnoiſtront à leur vrine, laquelle lors, & non deuant, apparoiſtra teinte quelque peu de iaune : mais s'ils ſont bilieux, ils choiſiront exercice legers , & pluſtoſt gais que bruſques & contentieux,& ſans attendre que la ſeconde coction ſoit paracheuée en leur foye,& veines:car la chaleur de leurs parties ſolides,qui eſt acre , requiert telle matiere non du tout cuitte, de laquelle autrement ne feroit ſon profit la rotiſſant ; de ſorte qu'il ne reſteroit humidité & glutinoſité competente, poureſtre agglutinée aux parties. quant à la repetition de l'exercice, il faut autant de fois retourner au trauail que nous auons enuie de faire de repas:- car ſi ainſi eſt que l'exercice reſueille la chaleur naturelle, ſans laquelle la coction des viandes ne pourroit eſtre faicte,s'enſuit que ne ſçaurions faire noſtre profit de l'aliment ſi l'exercice n'a precedé. or la dernie- re partie d'exercitation parfaite, & conuenable, eſt vne friction mediocre, de laquelle vſent les ioüeurs de paulme, le ieu eſtant finy,quand ils ſe chauffent , frottent,& eſſuyent. ladicte friction expurge, nettoye & ſeiche la ſueur, & autres excremens qui ſont demeurez entre cuir,& chair,& prohibe les laſſitudes. et com- me d'exercice deuement fait aduiennent grandes vtilitez,auſſi fait grand detriment le repos oyſeux : car it engendre cruditez, humeurs gluans , obſtructions , pierres , tant és reins que dedans la veſlie , gouttes, *p°plexies , & autres mille maux. - du dormir & veiller. ch a p. xix. nº o v r auſſi briefuement traicter du dormir & veiller,nous faut declarer leurs vtilitez & incommo- ditez, le temps & heure, & la manicre de ſe coucher,les ſonges que l'on fait en dormant,& com- # me on ſe trouue apres le dormir. - • le dormir n'eſt autre choſe que le repos de tout le corps & principalemét de la faculté animale. d'où pro- iceluy prouient d'vne humidité vtile,imbué en la ſubſtance du cerueau,qui l'appeſantit, & aggraue:ou bien º*** º d'vne defectuoſité d'eſprits,qui diſſipez par le trauail,font que le corps ne peut demeurer debout,& cótrai-* gnent le cerueau à ſe repoſer pour en reparer d'autres des viandes priſes en l'eſtomach. iceluy deuement pris aide à la concoction à cauſe qu'en dormant le ſang,les eſprits & la chaleur naturelle ſe retient aux par- ties interieures : leſquelles eſtans eſchauffées,cuiſent & digerent, ou alterent mieux,non ſeulement en l'e- ſtomach, mais auſſi en toute l'habitude du corps. outre, efface par oubliance les paſſions & facheries de l eſprit,& guarit les laſſitudes du corps faites par grand labeur. lc temps le plus commode à dormir eſt la - - nu ci , / —xa- *-e premier liure de les incom- moditez du dormir de iour. gentil diſ. cours de la ſituation du corps en dor- m/, il y a trois ſortes de ſon- ges, de natu- rels qui ſui- uent la tem- perature de l'humeur qui nous repre- ſentent la nuict ce que ff ſ fd y veu le iour, ér de ſuper- naturcls que nous diuiſons en diuins, ou diaboliques aph. . ſect. . cöment. ſur l' aph. .du . liu. . meth. chap. . . de cäpoſ medic. loe chap. . . met. d'inamition. euacuation generale, euacuation particuliere. fafons di- uerſes d'euacua- tions. quelles doi- ment eſtre les ſueurs. - - . - nuict, pource l" elle meſme incite à dormir, tant pour ſon humidité, tranquillité, que pour ſon obſcuri- a té, au moyen de laquelle aduient que la chaleur & les eſprits ſont contenus au dedans du corps : comme au contraire ils ſont reuoquez & retirez en l'habitude\du corps par la lumiere, qui leur eſt aucunement ſemblable,dont s'enfuit le veiller : joinct qu'elle a le temps aſſez ſuffiſant pour faire la parfaite concoction. au contraire, dormir de iour eſt mauuais, à cauſe qu'il interrompt la digeſtion : parce que le temps auquel on dort de iour n'eſt ſuffiſant pour deuëment faire la concoction, & par ce moyen ſont faites cruditez en l'eſtomach, & rocts aigres, & ſont eſleuées groſſes vapeurs & humidités ſuperfluës au cerueau, dont s'en- ſuit douleur, & peſanteur de teſte, & maladies froides. et dauantage, combien que le dormir de nuict ſoit ſain, ſi faut-il qu'il ſoit mediocre : car celuy qui eſt immoderé, & ſuperflu, fait que les excremens,tant par haut, que par bas, ne ſont iettez hors en temps deu : & eſtans retenus dedans,la chaleur naturelle,& vertu attractiue attire d'iceux quelque ſuc mauuais , dont s'enſuiuent pluſieurs maladies. le temps d'auoiraſſez dormy, ſe cognoiſt à la parfaicte concoction des viandes,& non par certaines heures determinées : carau- cuns cuiſent pluſtoſt, les autres plus tard, combien que le plus ſouuent la concoction ſe fait en ſept ou huict heures, laquelle ſe cognoiſt, parce que l'eſtomach eſt laſche, & non tendu, & auſſi que l'vrine eſt dorée & jaune: & au contraire, l'indice de la concoction imparfaicte, ſont rocts aigres,tenſion du ventricule, dou- leur de teſte , & peſanteur de tout le corps. outre plus en l'obſeruation du dormir, faut prendre garde à la forme de coucher : car premierement ſe faut coucher ſur le coſté droict, à fin que la viande deſcende au fond de l'eſtomach , d'autant qu'il eſt charneux, & moins membraneux que le deſſus, par conſequent plus chaud, & propre à la concoction : puis quelque eſpace de temps ſur le gauche, afin que le foye ſe couche mieux ſur l'eſtomach : ce faiſant la digeſtion ſera mieux faite, d'autant que le foye qui eſt plus chaud que le ventricule, l'embraſant du tout, luy ſeruira comme d'vn brafier. il ne ſera impertinent,ce ſecond ſommeil acheué, le matin ſe retourner ſur le coſté droict, afin que par telle ſituation l'orifice de l'eſtomach demeu- rant ouuert, les vapeurs fuligineuſes excitées de l'ebullition du chyl , puiſſent mieux s'exhaler. ceux qui ſe pourront garder de dormir ſur le dos, feront bien, craignans de trop eſchauffer les reins, & engendrer grauelles, pierres, & autres grandes maladies, comme paralyſies,conuulſions, & toutes eſpeces de cathar- res, & fluxions qui ſe font par les nerfs le long de l'eſpine. quant au dormir ſur le ventre, il n'eſt mauuais pour ceux qui s'y peuuent accouſtumer, ſinon en cas qu'ils ſoient ſujects au mal des yeux : car par telle ſituation la fluxion s'encline dauantage ſur iceux : mais au reſte la concoction en eſt bien aidée,d'autant que la chaleur n'eſt † ſeulement retenue enuiron le ventricule, mais outre eſt augmentée par la tiedeur de la delicate plume du lict. - on doit auſſi conſiderer les ſonges qu'on a eu en dormant, pour cognoiſtre les affections,& la nature des humeurs ſuperflus,& mauuais. auſſi conſiderer ſi vn malade ſe trouue mieux, ou plus mal apres le dormir, pource qu'hippocrate dit, qu'alors qu'en maladie le dormir ſe tourne en peine , c'eſt ſigne de morts : au contrairenon. le veiller pareillement doit eſtre moderé : car l'immoderé corrompt la bonne temperature du cerueau, debilite les ſens, altere les eſprits, excite crudité, peſanteur de teſte, conſomption de chair, & amaigriſſement de tout le corps,rend les vlceres arides & ſeiches, & plus malignes. il y a autres conſi- derations leſquelles appartiennent plus au medecin qu'au chirurgien:parquoy te ſuffiſe ſçauoir quele dor- mir & veiller immoderez ſont mauuais pour les raiſons predites. de repletion,& inamition, ou vuidange_ . ch a p. xx. $ l ya deux ſortes de repletion ou abondance : l'vne eſt de qualité, en laquelle la ſimple & $n% ſeule qualité appellée t'blogloſa excede ſans humeur, comme il appert és intemperatures ſans # matiere : l'autre eſt de quantité, qui ſe fait par trop grande abondance de viandes ou hu- meurs, dont s'enſuiuent pluſieurs maladies. or l'abondance des viandes ſe nomme ſaturité - ou ſatieté, laquelle ſelon galien a deux eſpeces : l'vne dite vulgairement ad vaſa , l'autre ad vires ; la ſaturité ad vaſa, eſt lors que l'on a tant mangé que les vaiſſeaux , comme pour exemple l'eſtomach , s'enflent, & diſtendent. la ſaturité ad vires , eſt quand l'on prend plus de viandes que noſtre naturel ne porte. de meſme, l'abondance, & repletion d'humeurs eſt double : car ou elle eſt d'vn ſeul humeur , ou de tous. celle qui ſe fait de tous les humeurs eſt nommée plethore ou plenitude, ce que teſmoigne galien, diſant, que les humeurs ſont egalement augmentez, cela eſt dit plenitude,ou plethore. iaçoit qu'il dit que plenitude ſe fait quand le ſang ſeul eſt augmenté,toutesfois lors par ledit ſang,il entend les quatre humeurs, comme monſtre tres-bien fuchſius en ſa methode. la repletion qui ſe fait d'vn ſeul humeur, eſt dite cacochymie, comme nqus enſeigne galien. quand donc le corps eſt plein de cholere ou melancholie, ou phlegme, ou d'humeurs ſereux, cela ſe nomme cacochimie. or quant à inanition ou va- cuation , ce n'eſt autre choſe que ſeparation des humeurs, qui par leur trop grande quantité ou qualité moleſtent le corps humain. de ceſte euacuation il y en a vne generale, qui vniuerſellement fait euacuation des humeurs contenus en noſtre corps, comme par les purgations, vomiſſemens, ſueurs, ſaignées, & plu- ſieurs autres que declarerons cy apres. l'autre euacuation eſt particuliere, laquelle a égard à quelque par- tie : comme le cerueau ſe purge par les narines, palais, yeux,oreilles : les poulmons par le crachement, le ventricule par le vomiſſement,& fiege, les inteſtins par le ſiege; le foye,& ratele par lesvrines, & ſiege. or des ſuſdites euacuations, les vnes viennent de leur propremouuement ſans aucun medicament, ſçauoir par le benefice de nature, chaſſant ce qui luy eſt contraire : autres par artifice, nature eſtant aydée de quelque medicament. de ceſte cyl'vne eſt dite vulgairement legitime , l'autre illegitime. la legitime eſt, quand l'humeur pechant tant en quantité qu'en qualité , eſt euacué : l'illegitime ou extraordinaire, eſt celle quand l'humeur ſain, & non corrompu eſt euacué. toutes ces euacuations ſe font,ou par le prurit & demangeai- ſon, à cauſe de quelque humeur cholerique,ou pituite ſalée qui eſt contenue & arreſtée entre cuir & chair, ou bien en lieu d'icelle quelque matiere flatueuſe. si c'eſt humeur, en ſe grattant on luy donne iſſue par euacuation manifeſte de quelque matiere ſereuſe ou autre ſemblable,dont quelquesfois s'enſuiuent petites puſtulles & galles, & ſouuent vlceres, ſi l'humeur contenu eſtoit groſſier & eſpais : mais ſi c'eſt matiere fla- tueuſe, iſſue luy eſt donné inſenſiblement : d'autant que par grattement & frixon , le cuir eſtant rarefié & ouuert, telle matiere, comme miſe en liberté, s'eſuanouyt, & diſſipe aisément : parquoy tel grattement ne doit eſtre empeſché ne defendu,ſinon entant qu'il fuſt tant exceſſif, qu'il cauſaſt chaleur exceſſiue en la par- tie , dont peuſt s'enſuiure perpetuelle defluxion de nouuelle matiere en icelle. parapoſtemes , vlceres , & fiſtules, eſt ſemblablement euacué grande quantité d'humeurs : auſſi par ſueurs, leſquelles ſont profitables és maladies aigues, pourueu qu'elles ſoyent vniuerſelles,& aduiennent és iours critiques par vomiſſement: car ſouuent il purge les humeurs que les medecines fortes ne peuuent euacuer,faiſant reuulſion d'iceux de tout le corps, par la violeuce de ſon mouuement , attirant meſme des iointures, comme il ſe void en la sv n paralyſie l ntroduction a la lbirurgie. a paralyſie, & ſciatique. par cracher & bauer ſe fait auſſi grande euacuation,ce qui eſt manifeſte par l'expe- rience de ceux qui ſont vexez d'apoſteines aux coſtez,nommée pleureſie : car lors que la ſuppuration eſt faite, la ſanie eſt iettée par la bouche en crachant; et quant au bauer,il eſt bien manifeſte que les pauures verolez ſe purgent par iceluy : comme auſſi par le cracher, par l'eſternuer, & moucher, nature euacuë ſou- uent ce qui eſt ſuperdu ou nuiſible, quand le cerueau de ſon propre naturel & mouuement ordinaire , ou par artifice appoſant au nez,des ſternutatoires,ſe deſcharge par ce conduit:ce que l'on void manifeſtement a ceux qui ont le cerueau humide,côme petits enfans leſquels ſe purgent fort par cét èndroit.par rottement, & ſanglot il ſe fait vacuation des ventoſitez contenues enl'eſtomach,iettées par la vertu expultrice d'iceluy, leſquelles ſont procrées par crudité;comme pour auoir pris trop de viandes , ou pour auoir pris viandes fatueuſes & vaporeuſes comme pois, féves, nauets, raues, & leurs ſemblables, ou pour auoir trop beu de vin nouueau. par les vrines ſe fait vacuation , ce que l'on void : d'autant que par icelles ſe terminent grandes maladies , comme ſouuent aduient aux verolez, qui n'ayans peu auoir aucun flux de bouche, par le moyen de l'alexitere, qui eſt l'onction vifargentine, leur ſuruient flux d'vrine, dont ils guariſſent : par la meſme euacuation ſe terminent aucunes fiévres, & pluſieurs autres maladies. auſſi par flux de ſang cou- lant par le nez nature fait ſa deſcharge , dont pluſieurs maladies ſe guariſſent. par flux menſtruel,les fem- mes ſe purgent de beaucoup de ſuperfuitez , comme par les hemorrhoides ſe fait grande euacuation tant aux hômes qu'aux femmes.far fux de ventre ſe fait auſſi grandes euacuations d'humeurs pechans en quan- tité & qualité. il ſe fait pareillement par medicament laxatifs diuerſes euacuations : dauantage pluſieurs excrememens du corps,auec les eſprits,rar les poroſitez du cuir s'éuacuent & exhalent par inſenſible tran- ſpirations & ſueurs:ce qui ſe peut cognoiſtre aux tumeurs qui ſe reſoluent, voire encore qu'il y euſt du pus; ce qui ſe fait par le ſ ul benefice de nature, ou aydée par medicamens reſolutifs. auſſi par grand exercice, par diete, par bains,& eſtuues,rar long dormir, par pleurs,par ſuccer de la bouche le laict d'vne nourrice, ou quelque matiere venimeuſe, d'vne morſure ou picqueure, ou quelque ſang contenu en quelque partie; auſſi par ventouſe & cornets, par ſeringues , & par ſangſues. en toutes ces euacuations il faut conſiderer trois poincts , la quantité , la qualité , & la maniere de faire excretion d'iceux : comme pour exemple,en l'ouuerture d'vn empyeme, il faut que la bouë qui en ſort,reſponde par proportion à la quantité de la ma- tiere qui peut eſtre contenue dans la capacité du thorax : autrement ſi elle eſt en moindre quantité,il yau- ra recheute. il faut qu'en ſa qua'ité elle ſoit blanche , égale,& la moins puante qu'il eſt poſlible en tel ac- cident. quant à la maniere de l'excretion , il faut qu'elle ſorte à pluſieus fois , & peu & peu,non tout à coup : car ainſi s'enſuiuroit la mort par la diſfipation des eſprits, enſemble auec telle maniere inutile, com- me admoneſte hippocrate. - des accidens ou perturbations de l'ame ». c h a p. xx i. es accidens ou perturbations de l'ame ſont ainſi appellez , parce qu'ils ſont en l'ame tout ainſi que les accidens corporels ſont au corps. or le chirurgien ne les doit meſpriſer, tant pource qu'elles ont grande efficace & vertu , que pour autant qu'elles cauſent de grandes émotions : comme ioye, eſpoir, & amour, font mouuemens par leſquels le ſang , & les eſ- prits ſont doucement, & peu à peu, ou de viſteſſe reſpandus par la fruition du bien preſent ou aduenir : & tels mouuemens ſont faits par là dilatation du cœur, par laquelle ſemble que nous embraſ- ſions l'object preſent, & partant la face ſe montre vermeille, joyeuſe, & riante. or il eſt vray ſembla- ble que l object eſmeut la puiſſance par laquelle le cœur eſt eſmeu : car parauant qu elle ſe meuue à cour- roux , ou à joye, ou à autre paſſion, il faut qu'elle cognoiſſe l'iniure, ou le plaiſir,ou autres paſſions par les ob e:ts, car les ſens apperçoiuent premierement leurs objects, & de là ſont ſubit preſentez au ſens commun, lequel par vne prouidence diuine, & en vn moment les tranſmet aux facultez qui ſont en diuer- ſes parties du corps.exemple:nous ne rions iamais ſans cognoiſtre le fait,ou dit:& tout ſubit l auoir cogneu, nous nous mettons à rire pour la promptitude du conſentemét qu'ont les facultez l'vne auec l'autre.l'affe- ction riſifique dóc eſt miſe ſous la paſſ on de l'ame nommée ioye,laquelle comme dit eſt,procede du cœur, lequel eſtant frappé de ce qui luy eſt agreable, ſe dilate & eſlargit ſoiiefuement comme pour embraſſer l'ob- ject preſenté:& en ceſte dilatation il eſpand beaucoup de chaleur auec le ſang, & encore plus d'eſprits,deſ- quels en eſt enuoyé bonne portion à la face, lors que l'on rit de bonne affection,au moyen dequoy elle s'en- fe & eſlargit.parquoy le front eſt rendu clair & poly,& les yeux reſplandiſsäs,& luyſans,à cauſe qu'ils ſont pleins d'eſprits qui ſont montez en haut, qui fretillent de ſortir:les ioues demeurent vermeilles , les levres plattes,& toute la bouche aucunement ſe retire, façonnans aux deux ioues d'aucuns deux petites foſſettes, ou cauitez,que l on nomme gelaſines,qui ſe font par la contraction, que les muſcles endurent par la reple- tion, & abondance des eſprits qui y montent lors que le cœur ſe dilate.et pour le dire en bref, ioye forti- fie les vertus animales, & naturelles,reſueille les eſprits, ayde à la digeſtion,& generalement à toute l'ha bitude du corps car par icelle(comme nous auons dit) le cœur enuove beaucoup de chaleur naturelle auec le ſang, & encore plus d'eſprits à toute l'habitude du corps, dont les membres ſont imbus arrouſez & hu- mectez par l'humidité contenue en la maſſe ſanguinaire, & par ainſiles parties s'engroſiiſſent & engraiſſent. bref, de toutes les perturbations d eſprit, c eſte-cy ſeule cſt vtile, ainſi qu'il a eſté dit. ce qu'il faut enten- dre de la joye moderée : car celle qui eſt immoderée,& inſolente eſpand de telle vehemence le ſang , & les eſprits du cœur en l'habitude du corps, que le cœur entierement deſtitué de chaleur, en tombe en ſynco- pe,& on meurt promptement;comme eſcrit pline de chilon lacedemonien,lequel mourut de joye voyant venir ſon fils des jeux olympiques, où il auoit triomphé.aulus gelle, liu. .chap. . ranconte que diagore rhodien rendit l'ame deuant ſes trois fils les voyant tous victorieux, & couronnez en vn meſme iour. pa- reillement valere le grand eſcrit liu. . chap. .que deux femmes moururent ayans veu leurs fils,contre toute eſperance ſauuez d'vne bataille:ce qui aduient à ceux principalement qui ne ſont de nature ſi forte comme aux femmes, & vieilles gens. la cholere fait meſmes effects en nous,& mouuement de chaleur & de ſang, mais par beaucoup plusgrande vehemence que la joye : parquoy elle enfiamme les eſprits hu- mains , & en fin tout le corps, cauſant fiévres putrides , ſi le corps eſt cacochyme. l'homme eſtant en cholere deſire eſtre vengé des injures, & rendre le deſplaiſir qu'on luy aura fait : en ſorte que le ſang & eſprits, boüillonnent en ſes entrailles,qui cauſent qu'il fait pluſieurs, & diuers mouueméns deſordonnez, & autres choſes ſelon la temperature, vehemence, & cauſe de ſa cholere. il a ſes yeux ardans,& eſtince- lans auec vn regard furibond, les tournant çà & la:toute la face rouge, & fort enfiammée, & à aucuns eſt fort paſle & liuide , reſſemblant plus à vn mort qu'à vn vif, en ſorte qu'on le decognoiſt , ne reſſemblant plus a luy meſme,& ſemble eſtre trans-formé en beſte ſauuage. boiſteau au theatre du monde eſcrit qu'a- lexandre le grand ſe voyant en vne extreme peur de ſa vie en quelque bataille qu'il eut contre les indiens. c eſtans cauſe des rottement e# ſanglot. trois poinêtt cöſiderables f .x ºff ce ag- tions. aph . , du . liure. de la joye, belle deſcri- ption & cau- ſe du rire. vtilitez qui precedent de a ioye. chilon. hiſtoire. de la chole - ré. • . •-e premier liure qe- -- eſtans abandonné*º" ſecours , ſacholere s'alluma ſi bien qu'il ſuoit le ſang tout partºº ſon corps, & §ux barbares tout encerné de fiammes de feu, qui leur engendra ſi grande terreur,qu#furent contraints de l'abandonner.il a le front refrongné,ridé,& amoncelé,ſes cheueux ſe heriſſent,& dreſſent, ſes lévres tremouſſent, & ſouuent les mord. il grince, & craquette les dents. il baue, & eſcume comme vn ſanglier qui eſt aux abbois, remuant la teſte, & frappant ſes mains : il frappe la terre de ſes pieds. il a tout le corps tremblant comme s'il eſtoit au commencemét du friſſon d'vne fiévre:ſa reſpiration eſt contrainte, l n'y a rien ayant ſa parole interrompuë, ne la pouuant bien proferer. il y en a eu qui ſe font ſuffoquez & eſtaints,fau- au § te de reſpiration , autres ſe ſont precipitez. il iure,& faitpluſieurs blaſphemes.il inuoque,& ſe donne aux qui offuſque diables , & dit pluſieurs paroles hors de propos , dont apres s'en repent & pour le dire en vn mot , la cho- plus la rais lere eſt ennemie de la raiſon, & rend l'homme fol & inſenſé. ornous diſons que ! homme qui eſt ſans cho- que la cho- lere eſt ſans entendement, mais elle ne doit paſſer les bornes de raiſon. au contraire de la ioye,la triſteſſe lere. deſſeiche tout le corps, & rend l'eſprit lentement tenebreux. dont il aduient que l homme eſt du tout he- beté, le cœur perd toute ſon allegreſſe,& la perſonne vient iuſques à ſe hair ſoy meſme » tombe en deſeſ- de la triſt poir & enrage, de ſorte que pluſieurs ſe ſont tuez eux meſmes. comme fit herenne sicilien, qui eſtant me- teſſe & me- né priſonnier pour eſtre de la conſpiratioh de caius graccus, eſtonné du iugement futur,& ſaiſi de peur, lancholis. frappa de ſa teſte ſi grand coup contre vn poteau qu'il ſe tua auſſi plautius numide voyât ſa femme morte, en print ſi grand ennuy que ne pouuant ſouffrir la douleur, ſe donna de ſon eſpée dans le corps. la raiſon eſt,que par la triſteſſe le cœur eſt reſſerré & eſtreint,dont ne ſe peut engendrer aſſez grande quantité d'eſ- rits, & ſi peu qu'il y en a encore ne peuuent - ils eſtre aisément diſtribuez par les membres auec le ſang, § , la vertu vitale, & ſes compagnes ſont affoiblies : & par conſequent la viue couleur de la face èſt effacée, & preſque aneantie & par ainſi tout le corps deuient maigre, & attrophié,dont le plus ſouuent la de la crain- morts'enſuit. semblablement la crainte reuocque & attire , mais plus ſubitement, & auec plus grande te ou peur. rapidité , que la triſteſſe,le ſang,& eſprits au cœur,& partant on void que le viſage paillit,& les extremi- tez demeurent froides auec tremblement vniuerſel, & le ventre à quelques vns ſe laſche, & la voix eſt in- n terrompuë auec grand battement de cœur, parce qu'eſtouffé de la multitude du ſang,& des eſprits qui ſe retirent ſubitement vers luy, il ne ſe peut mouuoir librement , & deſire ſe refrigerer, & deſcharger de ſi grand faix : dont aduient qu'vne ſoudaine, & tres-grande crainte eſt quelquesfois cauſe d'vne mort ſubite a raiſon que le ſang ſe retire au cœur , qui eſtouffe, ſuffoque , & eſteint du tout la chaleur naturelle, & les - eſprits, domt la mort s'enſuit. ceſt pourquoy auſſi les hommes qui ont peur, dreſſent ſouuent les cheueux, pource que pendant qu'ils ſont en cette peur , la chaleur, le ſang , & les eſprits ſe retirent au centre du corps pour ſecourir le cœur,qui fait que les parties exterieures demeurent froides,dont les porres du cuir, honte, auſquels eſt fiché le poil ſe reſſerrent, qui eſt cauſe que les cheueux ſe dreſſent,& heriſſent. honte eſt vne affection meſlée de courroux & de crainte;& ſi la crainte ſurmonte le courroux,elle fait que le ſangfe teti- reau cœur : adonc leviſage pallit, & ſelon que telle affection ſera grande ou petite , s'enſuiuront les ac-s cidens deſſus nommez : au contraire , ſi le courroux ſurmonte la crainte , elle eſmeut le ſang, & le fait monter au viſage, & eſtincelle les yeux , & ſouuent eſcumer par la bouche. or il y a vne honte, que les latins appellent verecondia , qui cauſe que les eſprits ſe retirent au centre , & à l'inſtant meſme re- uiennent, laquelle choſe eſt fort familiere aux enfans, & aux vierges : elle peint la face d'vne couleur ver- meille, plaiſante & agreable : mais tel mouuement de ſang, & d'eſprits ſe fait ſi doucement, que de là # * agonie, ceſ à dire § eſtant composé, meſlé de crainte, & de colere , aſſaut le cœur de tous ces - deux mouuemens : parquoy en icelle ie danger y eſt bien grand pour la faculté vitalle. a ces ſix perturba- tions d'eſprit ſe rapportent toutes les autres, comme la haine, ( qui eſt vne ire enracinée,laquelle ne peut eſtre ſans cupidité de mal faire) la diſcorde,à la cholere : la gaillardiſe,& la vanterie, à la ioye:la tremeur, ccmment le l'exanimation, à la crainte : l'enuie de deſeſpoir, les lamantations à la triſeſſe : l'eſperance ſouuent profite medecin ou º malades , tellement que le medecin ou chirurgien fort deſiré , ou l'amy de l'amie , appaiſe de ſou c§, arriuée la grandeur du mal car la force de l'ame qui auparauant ſuccomboit au mal , eſt excitée appaiſent la & releuée de l'eſpoir , & aſſaut la maladie auec telle confiance qu'en fin elle la ſurmonte. or pour con- douleur de cluſion, les perturbations de l'ame font grande mutation en noſtre corps , pour autant qu'elles ſons leur mala- cauſe du mouuement des eſprits, & de la chaleur naturelle : parce qu'icelles dilatent , ou compriment de, en les le cœur au moyen dequoy les eſprits ſont reſolus ou aſtraints , & par ainſi la couleur de la face eft muée. viſitant ſeu- car c'eſt le propre du cœur de mettre en icelle certaines marques de ſes affections, qui en elle , pour la lement ſans rareté de ſbn cuir, ſont ſi apparentes, que par la face on cognoiſt le ieune d'auec les vieux , l'homme de º º la femme : la temperature du corps, comme le ſanguin du cholerique ; le pituiteux d'auec le melancho- des. lique , les mores d'auec les sauuages, les françois d'auec l'eſpagnol , le courroucé d'auec le ioyeux, auſſi le ſain d'auec le malade, & le vif du mort : meſmes aucuns ont voulu dire , qu'en la face on pou- uoit lire, & cognoiſtre les mœurs de l'homme. la face deſcouure les affections de l'ame, & le propre du cœur eſmeu poſe en la face les marques de ſon affection. tous les viſages ſont differens les vns des au- tres , afin que chacun fuſt recogneu. or de ces perturbations d'eſprit cy deuant expliquées , il n'en re- vtilitez des uient aucun profit à l'homme ſain, quelques mediocres qu'elles ſoient, ſi ce n'eſt (peut-eſtre ) de la joye, perturba- par le moyen que nous auons declaré. car la triſteſſe n'eſt vtile à aucun , ſinon d'auenture en cas qu'il fions, fuſt eſperdu, & tout reſolu de trop grande joye. la cholere n'eſt vtile à aucun , ſinon au caſanier, en- dormy, & pareſſeux, ou à celuy qui auroit quelque maladie d'humeur froid, & pituiteux. la crainte n'eſt profitable à perſonne, ſinon à ceux qui d'vne exceſſiue ſueur , flux de ſang, ou autre extreme euacuation ſeroient preſts à perdre la vie,par ainſi le chirurgien rationel aduiſera à ne precipiter ſon malade en acune de ces perturbations, ſinon pour occaſion de quelqu'vne de ces raiſons expliquées, ou autres ſemblables. ceux qui ſont de cœur fort grand, rare, & laſche, ne retiennent pas bien leurs eſprits lors qu'ils ſont en faſcherie , & ſont ordinairement coüars : au contraire, les hardis ont le cœur petit, eſpais & ſerré:au mo- yen dequoy les eſprits vitaux ne ſont facilement diſſipez. ariſtote dit, que ſes beſtes peureuſes ſont celles qui ont grand cœur & fletry : & les hardies, & courageuſes l'ont petit, & denſe. parquoy leſdites paſſions ne ſe doiuent ſimplement referer à l'ame, mais aux parties deſquelles la triſteſſe, & le courroux prennent miu. . des leur origine.voilà pourquoy ariſtote aiugé que l'ame eſtoit impaſſible que diray-ie dauantage des pertur- partie, des bations de l'ame : gal. i. ! des cauſes du pouls chap. . parlant de ces turbations, dit que le pouls ſe animaux, change par le courroux , & alors eſt haut, grand, vehement,viſte, & frequent:& par la joye eſt grand, ra- •hap. . re, & tardif, ne differant en rien du courroux ; au contraire , par la triſteſſe eſt petit, languiſſant,tardif,& rare.auſſi de ſa peur recente , eſt vehement, viſte , eſlancé , deſordonné & inegal : quant à la crainte inue- terée, elle eſt ſemblable à la triſteſſe. - de ces propos il appert euidemment que le mouuement des arte- res eſt alteré, & changé par les paſſions de l'ame. ce qui ſe peut confirmer par raiſqn en ceſte maniere. - lss le cœur n'en eſt ny opprimé, ny deſtitué : parquoy de ceſte honte ne s'enſuiuent grands accidens. mais c. c (- : s l a l l l l \ jv-l li \ l lv kl l cl lc{ v\ _ l l l l u c. les arteres ſont muées par le moyen du cœur , d'vn mouuement tout ſemblable au ſien : à ceſte cauſe les paſſions de l'ame peuuent eſtre cogneues par la diuerſité du mouuement du pouls. - des choſes contre nature ». c h a p. - x x i i. pres auoir traicté des choſes naturelles,& non naturelles,il ne reſte plus pour parfaire noſtre introduction qu'a declarer les choſes contre nature,qui ſont celles qui empirét noſtre corps en quelque maniere que ce ſoit. et ſont trois en general, à ſçauoir; cauſe de maladie, maladie, & sº mptome.cauſe de maladie, eſt affection contre nature, precedente, & faiſant la maladie. icelle eſt diuiſee en pluſieurs ſortes, & premierement en externe, & interne. l'externe dicte procatarctique, ou primitiue ) eſt hors de noſtre corps, comme ies viandes, baſtons & ferremens qui bleſ- ſent. mais l'interne a ſon eſſenc-,& ſiege au corps, & eſt ſubdiuiſée par la pluſpart des autheurs en antece- | dente, & coniointe. l'antecedente eſt celle qui precede la maladie,& ne la fait encores actuellement,com- bien qu'elle en ſoit fur le poinct,comme les humeurs fluans, ou preſts à fluer ſont cauſes antecedentes des apoſtemes.la coniointe fait actuellement & immediatemét la maladie,auec laquelle elle a telle affinité, que l'vne & l autre ſont touſiours abſentes ou preſentes enséble. de toutes ces cauſes predictes,les vnes ſöt nées auec nous,comme la mauuaiſe quantité, & qualité des deux ſemences,& du ſang menſtruel,prouenante des parens mal diſpoſés, ſont cauſes de pluſieurs maladies, & meſmes de celles que l'on nomme hereditaires. les autres viennent depuis noſtre natiuité, comme le mauuais regime , les coups, cheutes, & ſemblables. celles qui ſont nces auec nous ſont toutes ineuitables:mais il n'eſt pas ainſi des autres,deſquelles aucunes ſe peuuent euiter , comme les coups & cheutes,aucunes non,ains alterent neceſſairement norre corps, comme lair, qui nous enuironne, le boire, & manger , & c. et ſi quelqu'vn veut conter entre les cauſes in- ternes nées auec nous , & ineuitables , la conſomption de l humidité radicale que fait peu à peu la chaleur naturelle en vieilliſſant : ie ne m'en ſoucie pas beaucoup,non plus que de la diuiſion des cauſes que font les philoſophes, en la materielle,formelle, efficiente, & finale,ou d'autres pareilles diuiſions. car cela n'eſt du gibier du ieune chirurgien, lequel ie pretens enſeigner par les moyens plus faciles, & partant il ſe conten- tera de ce qu'en auons dit. - des c_ maladies. c h a p. xx i i i. a l a d e eſt affection contre nature, qui bleſſe l'action des parties immediatement, icelle eſt triple, à ſçauoir intemperature, mauuaiſe compoſition , & solution de continuité. la premiere dicte intemperature , eſt propre aux parties ſimilaires, eſlongnées de leur bon & naturel temperament. cét eſlongnement ſe fait en deux manieres : l'vne , quand il n'y a vice qu'en vne ſeule oppoſition de qualitez , dont eſt dicte intemperature, ſimple , & y en a qua- tre ſortes , à ſçauoir chaude , † , humide, & ſeiche : l'autre quand il y a vice en toutes les § oppoſitions : & ce pareillement en quatre façons, comme chaude & humide , chaude & ſeiche, froide & humide,& froide & ſeiche,& eſt telle intemperature dicte compoſée.auſſi quelquesfois l'intemperature n'eſt que de ſeule qualité, comme en phlogoſis : & quelquesfois eſt accompagnée de matiere, comme és tu- meurs contre nature. derechefl'intemperature eſt egale,comme en sphacele : ou inegale, comme en phle- gmon. la ſeconde, à ſçauoir mauuaiſe compoſition, eſt maladie propre aux parties inſtrumentaires,dont elle peruertit la bonne conſtitution, & a quatre eſpeces.la premiere eſt quand la conformation de la partie eſt vicieuſe en figure,ſoit naturellement,ou par accident : en ſa cauité comme ſi la partie qui doit eſtre ca- ue, eſt ſolide, maſſiue, ou autrement emplie & eſtoupée : en aſpreté & leuité,ſi au lieu d eſtre aſpre, & ru de ſa partie eſt liſſée & polie, ou au contraire. la ſeconde eſpece conſiſte en magnitude diminuée,ou au- gmentée outre le naturel.la troiſieſme, quand le nombre d'aucunes parties defaut ou abonde, comme s il n'y a que quatre doigts en la main,ou s'il y en a ſix. la quatrieſme giſt en la ſituation ou connexion vicieuſe quãd les parties leſquelles deuroient eſtre coniointes enſemole,ſont ſeparées, & hors de leur place naturel. le , comme il appertmanifeſtement és luxations. la tierce maladie, generale, à ſçauoirssolution d'ynité ou de continuité , eſt commune tant aux parties ſimilaires qu'aux inſtrumentaires : & meſmes a diuers noms, ſelon la diuerſité deſdites parties,comme en la chai" eſt nommée playe,en l'os fracture,& ainſi des autres. des symptomes. c h a p. x x i v. é o v s ne prenons pas icy symptome ou accident generalement, pour tout changement qui % aduient à l'homme , outre, ou contre ſon naturel , mais particulierement , pour celuv qui ſuruient à la maladie , & la ſuit , comme fait l'ombre le corps. ce symptome proprement pris , a trois eſpeces. la premiere eſt action abolie , diminuée, & deprauée : comme par bn exemple, la veue eſt abolie és aueugles, diminuée en ceux qui ne voyent que de prés, de praueé en ceux auſquels la cataracte commence à s'engendrer , qui penſe voir de petites mouches, poil , rets montans, & deſcendans, ou qu'vne choſe en ſoit deux. la ſeconde eſpece eſt des affections du corps qui ſont comme qualitez changées comme la couleur naturelle eſt changée en rougeur par phe- gmon,en liuidité,& noirceur par gangrene.l'odeur ou flairer naturel eſt changé en fœteur, par vn polypus és narines, ou par vne vlcere pourry en la bouche,&c.le gouſt,& ſauourer naturel eſt mué és icteriques, auſquels toutes choſes ſemblentameres.pareillement le ſentiment du taft en ceux qui ſouffrent douleur,& qui ont la peau calleuſe, aſpre, & dure. la troiſieſme eſpece de symptome concerne la retention,& vacua- tion des choſes qu'il ne faut euacuer ou retenir. car l'euacuation eſt contre nature , par laquelle les choſes bonnes en ſubſtance, qualité, & quantité, ſont miſes dehors, comme l'hemorragie ou flux de ſang ſurue- nant au corps non plethorique auſſi eſt bien la retention des choſes, deſquelles la ſubſtance , quantité , & qualité ſont vicieuſe, comme de la pierre en la veſſie , des menſtrues, des vrines , & ſueurs.semblablement il y a pluſieurs maladies, & ſymptomes, qui empruntent les noms des animaux. exemple r. taipa, ainſi appellé, à cauſe que les patiens omt vne apoſtume à la teſte reſſemblant à vne taupiniere. teſtude, parce qu'elle eſt ſemblable à vne tortuë. tolypus, vne chair croiſſant au nez, ſemblable au pied de poulpe, ou pourpre. ranula, eſt vne tumeur ſous la langue, reſſemblant à vne grenouille, & fait que les malades en parlant imitent le coax des grenouilles. charades, eſcroüelles,venant du mot grec (boiros , qui ſignifie vn pourceau : parce que les pourceaux · c font definition de chºſe ccna fre n»iture, d'où vien- ment les ma. la dies here = diaires, definition & diuiſion de maladie, intempera- ture n'eſt autre choſe qu'vn excés d'vne, ou de pluſieurs qualittez. . diuiſiou . diuiſicn mauuaiſe compoſition & ſes qua ire eſpecesr . eſpece. . eſpece. . eſpece. - eſpece. solution d'v- nite_ . double ar- ception de symptome . aétion abo- lie, diminuée & deprauée. ) salirez ſe= cödes cham- gées. euacuation & retention c / trê / f/ - v"c-j. . a-e premier liure de ſont ſujets à auoirº ſemblables tumeurs ſous la gorge:ou pource que ceux qui mangent de la chairde porc, a y ſont plus enclins quº les ºutres. les latins appellent ce mal scrophule, du mot scropha , qui ſignifie vne truye. - (ancer, eſt vne tumeur qui reſſemble à vn cancre de mer. #lepbanti ſi,ainſi appellée, à cauſe que les malades ont les bras, & iambes groſſes, & tubereuſes,comme les elephans. - buvo, ainſi nommé, parce que les apoſtumes qui viennent és cauitez des aines, & aiſſelles des malades,y ſont cachées, comme le hibou és creux des arbres. lagophthalmos, ainſi dit, à cauſe que l'œil ſe tient ouuert comme ceux des liévres. ce mot eſt compoſé de lago , c'eſt à dire liévre, & ophthclmos , œil. bec de liévre, à cauſe que les liévres ont la lévre ſuperieure fendue. leonina , à cauſe que les malades ont vn regard hideux , & fier comme lions. alopecie, vient du mot grec alepix, qui ſignifie vn renard : parce que les malades ont cheute de poil comme les renards opbiaſis, pelade : ainſi dicte, à cauſe que les malades ont cheute de poil par ondes , à la figure d'vn ſer- pent nommé en grec oph». vlcere vermineuſe , à cauſe qu'il s'y engendre des vers. vlcere teigneuſe, parce qu'elle ronge la chair , comme la teigne le drap. vlcere louuetiere , à cauſe qu'elle ronge la chair, & les os, comme feroient les loups. vlcere cuniculeuſe , à cauſe qu'il y a pluſieurs creux & cauitez, comme aux clapiers des conins. loupgarou, parce que les malades vont de nuict, & hurlent comme chiens & loups. b formicatio , ſont, certaines verrues és parties du corps , qui fourmillent , & demangent comme s'il y auoit des fourmis. - - dragonneau, ſelon aece de l'authorité de leonidas, eſt vn ainmal ſemblable à vn ver long & large, qui ſe meut entre cuir & chair, aux jambes, & quelques fois aux muſcles des bras. soranus,comme recite paul aeginete, dit que ce n eſt point vn animal , mais quelque ſubſtance nerueuſe, qui baille ſeulement opinion. de mouuement. il eſt ainſi appellé , à cauſe qu il a forme en longueur & tortuoſité d'vn petit ſerpent. mo, bus pedituiaru, à cauſe qu'on a grande quantité de poulx. - satyriaſis, à cauſe que l'on a touſiours, la verge virille tendue & droicte, comme les satyres. punais, à cauſe que les malades ont vne haleine qui put comme punaiſes. bouquin parce que la ſueur, & vapeur des malades eſt puante comme vn bouc. appetit canin, a cauſe que les malades ont vn appetit depraué comme les chiens,ne ſe pouuans ſaouler, & eſcachent les mourceaux ſi gros, que quelquefos il leur demeurent au milieu de la gorge. verminatio , vne maladie de vers qui aduient quaſi en toutes les parties du corps. tºulimos, faim enragée comme ſi on deuoit deuorer vn beuf: eſt vn mot compoſé de bous, qui ſignifie vn bœuf, limo, qui ſignifie faim. icterus, la jauniſſe , vient du mot läis , qui eſt à dire vne belette : à cauſe qu'elle a les yeux de couleur c d'or. (onuulſio canina, pource qu'en ceſte conuulſion on monſtre les dents comme vn chien qui veut mordre. myocephalon,eſt vne eſpece de cheute ou relaſchement de l'vuée,qui eſt vne des membranes de l'œil,qui ne fait que commencer, & eſt ſemblable à la teſte d'vne mouſche. des maladies de l'ait, qui retiennent le nom d'aucuns animaux. oeil de bœuf,eſt vne maladie d'œil,quand il eſt gros & eminent ſortant hors la teſte, comme l'on void des bœufs les auoir. . oeil de cochon, eſt quand l'œil eſt rond, & petit, & peu fendu , comme les ont les cochons, oeil de chat, qui ſe dit à raiſon que l'on void de nuict, ainſi que font les chats. - hippo, en grec, equus en latin , ceſte maladie eſt ainſi dite, pource que lœil ſautelle comme vn che- ual. igis en grec, œil de chevre,maladie qui vient à la cornée de l'œil, comme taches blanches,ainſi qu'on void aux chévres. myactphalon en grec muſ e caput , en latin , teſte de mouche c'eſt vne cheute,& deſcente de la membra- ne vuée, la cornée eſtant relaſchée, laquelle cheute repreſente la teſte d'vne mouche:ce mot eſt composé de myow, qui ſignifie mouche, & (ephali teſte. oeil de loup , ou de mauuais garçon,maladie de l'œil, quand ils ſont noirs enfoncez, regardans de tra- uers , comme les ont les loups, & ordinairement les traiſtres, & mauuais garçons. oeils verons qui eſt quand les yeux ſont bläcs & noirs,comme ont quelquesfois les cheuaux, dont eſt dit le cheual auoit l'œil veron. - leonius oculus , qui eſt quand les yeux ſont eſtincellans , comme les ont les lions , venant du mot latin d leo, qui ſignifie vn lion : ainſi les ont les ladres confirmez. - - - des lndications. c h a p. x x v. definition p r e s auoir amplement diſcouru des choſes naturelles, non naturelles , comme nature, & d indication leurs annexes : maintenant il nous faut parler des indications,leſquelles ſont neceſſaires, ſça- # uoir au chirurgien methodique,& rationel. or nous dirons premierement, que indication methodique eſt vne conduite , ou voye leure pour paruenir a quelque intention, qui guide & e conduit le chirurgien à conſeruer , preſeruer ou guarir le ſujet qui luy eſt mis entre les mains. car ainſi galien au deuxieſme liure de la methode chap. . definit en general indication, vne ct.cun art entrée à agir, & operer : au liure de optimaſ éta, chap. . definit, indication eſtre vne prompte appre- § §,. henſion de ce qui peut profiter ou nuire. .. les chirurgiens, medecins vſent de ce mot indication, qui de parle eſt propre à eux, & hors de l'vſage du vulgaire : car il faut conſiderer que chacun art a certaine façon de parler, qui n'eſt pas commune aux autres, comme les fauconniers ont certain langage qui leur eſt propre, auſſi les mariniers,laboureurs & ſoldats:& generallement tous artiſans ont chacun vn jargon à part,& meſ- mes qu'ils n'ont nul inſtrument qui ne ſoit nommé par ſon nó.les philoſophes,& gens de lettres parlent de leurs ſciences en autres termes que le commun peuple.ainſi pareillemét nous appellons indincationen chi- rurgie,ce que le chirurgien ſe met deuât les yeux,côme vne enſeigne,pour aduiſer quel remede il doit pré- de pour guai ir,ou preſeruer la perſonne,tout ainſi que les enſeignes des hoſteliers monſtrét qu'on y loge, ou qu'il : : | : - l lntroduction a la v nirurgie. a ou qu'il y a duvin à vendre : & les boites penduës aux maiſons des chirurgiens, donnent à entendre que leans on guar t des playes,& autres maladies appartenantes à la chirurgie:& les barbiers des baſſins,pour monſtrer qu'ils font des barbes or il ya trois eſpeces generales d'indications,deſquelles chacune ſe diuiſe en pluſieurs autres eſpeces particulieres. la t. eſpece eſt des choſes naturelles:la . des choſes non natu- relles : la . des choſes contre nature. les choſes naturelles indiquent,& enſeignent qu'elles doiuent enre conſeruées par leur séblable:& ſous icelles ſont comprinſes toutes les indications que l'on prend du corps & ſujet mis entre nos mains, quelles ſont les indications priſes des forces du malade la temperature,l'age, le ſexe, l'habitude, l'accouttumance & manſere de viure. les choſes non naturelles , comme eſtans de ſoy indifferentes , maintenant font indication ſemblable que les choſes naturelles,c'eſt à dire, coindiquent auec les choſes naturelles, forces , & temperament de noſtre corps : maintenant font indication ſemblable que les choſes contre nature, c eſt à dire, nous coindiquent , & demontrent meſmes moyens que la ma- ladie.or galié au neufieſme liure de ſa meth chapitre neufieſine,au lieu où il dit,que pour le faict des indi- cations, il faut conſiderer trois choſes,la maladie,la nature du corps malade,& l'air qui nous enuironne: pour toutes les choſes non naturelles, il ne conſidere , & ne met en compte que le ſeul air la raiſon eſt, dit il, que toutes les autres maticres non naturelles ſont en noſtre puiſſance de les prendre,ou fuir, ce qui n'eſt pas de l'air : car il faut,voulions ou non , porter & endurer la condition preſente de l air. l'air donc n us donne quelque indication , ou pluſtoſt coindication : car s'il eſt ſemblable à la maladie,il ſymboliſe en indications auec la maladie, & pource l'indication eſt de corrigeris'il eſt contraire à la maladie,il indique, trois eſpecet d'indication. & monſtre qu'il doit eſtre conſerué.les choſes contre nature nous indiquent qu'elles doiuent eſtre oſtées, eu'inai & prohibées, ou corrigées par leur contraire. donc pour deduire le tout par le menu , les eſpeces des in- quºi les b dications, ou enſeignes priſes des choſes naturelles , que nous appellons conſeruatiues , ſont pluſieurs. choſe. contrº les vnes ont eſgard à la force & vertu du malade , pour laquelle conſeruer, faut bien ſouuent laiſſer la nature ,. propre cure , & principale, pour leur ſubuenir : comme en rigueur ou tremblement , ou commencement de i'accez des fiévres, rien n'eſt tant contraire , prenant indication de la maladie , que le manger : car mangeant lors, le malade augmente la matiere morbifique : toutesfois cas aduenant que les forces fuſ- ſent tant debiles , que le malade ne peuſt reſiſter à l'effort de l'accez , il faut nourrir le malade , pre- nant indication des forces. les autres indications ſont priſes de la temperature du corps , comme s'il eſt ſanguin, choleric, pituiteux , ou melancholique. .. aucunes deſdites indications appartiennent à ſon habitude : en conſiderant s'il eſt delicat, mince , & de petite corpulence , & rare , ou robuſte & char- nu, & denſe. aucunes indications ſont priſes de la nature,ou complexion de la partie où eſt le mal , de laquelle on tire aduis & indications : comme de ſa ſubſtance, ſi elle eſt ſimilaire,ou organique. de la ſimi- laire on conſidere ſi elle eſt chaude, froide, ſeiche, ou humide, ou chaude , & ſeiche,chaude & humide, froide & ſeiche,froide & humide:auſſi ſi élle eſt molle comme la chair,dure comme l'os,moyenne comme les nerfs, & membranes. de l'organique, ſi elle eſt principale & noble : ou ſeruante à la moins noble,ou non noble du tout. pareillement on prend indication du ſentiment aigu ou hebeté de la partie, de ſa for- me, figure, magnitude , ou grandeur , nombre, colligance,ſituation,& finalement de ſon action & vſage: c car de toutes ces choſes,le chirurgien rationel doit prendre indication en la cure des maladies qui aduien- nent en chacune partie, pour les conſeruer en leur naturel, luy oſtant ce qui eſt contre nature. comme notabi, in l'vlcere des yeux ne ſeguerit comme celles des aureilles,le phlegmon en la gorge ne ſe cure comme en vne ，icatiº t - autre partie : car on ne fait repercuſſion par dehors, de peur de faire renuoy au dedans,ce qui ſeroit cauſe chant l' vſa" de ſuffocation:ſemblablement on n'vſe point de repercuſſifs , principalement ſi la fluxion eſt faite de cauſe ge des reper- antecedente prés les parties nobles,comme on feroit ſi elle eſtoit loing d'icelles. auſſi la ſolution de conti cuſſifs. nuité ne ſe guarit en partie nerueuſe,comme en partie charneuſe, en la partie ſeiche, comme en la partie humide. les indications donc priſes de la partie,ſont tirées de la temperature d'icelle, de ſa principauté & nobleſſe, de ſa forme, figure,& ſubſtance , de ſa ſituation, & ſenſibilité. la temperature d'icelle,comme ſi elle eſt humide,doit toufiours eſtre conſeruée,encores que la maladie fuſt humide, comme s'il y auoit vn vlcere. sa principauté requiert des aſtringens, encore qu'il fuſt queſtion de reſolutifs : comme en obſtru- ction du foº e,laquelle ſi prenant indication de la ſeule maladie,on penſe guarir par les ſeuls reſolutifs,ſans y meſler des aſtringens,& roboratifs,on rendra la partie ſi laſche,qu'elle ne pourra plus ſuffire à la ſanguifi- cation neceſſaire pour tout le corps. la formation,& ſubſtance de la partie monſtre que ſi elle eſt de ſub- ſtance plus rare, comme la ratele, elle ſera moins ſubjecte à obſtruction : ſi elle eſt moins rare, comme le fove , y ſera plus ſubjecte, de tant que les conduicts eſtans plus eſtroicts, l'humeur y eſt retenu plus obſti- nément sa fituation,ſi elle eſt profonde,monſtre qu'il faut que les medicamens ſoient plus forts & liquides pour penetrer plus auant à icelle ſi elle eſt ſuperficielle, donne indication , qu'il ſuffit que le medicament ſoit de mediocre force & conſiſtence la ſenſibilité de la partie fait, & monſtre qu'il faut eſtre plus doux en medicamens,& s'eſpargner dauâtage:car le medecin ſeroit eſtimé cruel,& deſraiſónable,qui en l'vlcere de d la cornée de l'œil appliqueroit medicamés auſſi acres,& deterſifs,comme à l'vlcere de la iambe. on prend pareillement indication du ſexe,de l'aage,attendu que chacun aage porte ſon indication car nous voyons qu'il y a des maladies qui ſont curables és ieunes gens,incurables es vieils:ce qui eſt prouué par hippocra- te, qui dit, que les longues maladies de vieilleſſe, comme le mal de reins,de la veſſie, la toux , la courte .. haleine, & pluſieurs autres maladies, ſont incurables, & les accompagnent iuſques à la mort. quant à la # . ſaiſon,il eſt aſſez clair que la fiévre quarte ne ſe guarit point en hyuer,& bien peu la quotidienne.auſſi tout # o. vlcere eſt plus difficile à curer en hyuer qu'en eſté.semblablement, chaque temps ou ſaiſon de l'année re- % # . quiert ſon medicament : car autre medecine faut aux iours caniculaires,qu'en hyuer,auſſi la diete ne ſe fait pb. . pas en hyuer ſi bien qu'au printemps. il faut auoir pareille indication de l'air naturel, ou autre:car ſi quel- qu'vn ſe trouue malade en vn autre air qu'en celuy de ſon pais,ou de ſa demeure ordinaire,& de long-téps habitué,ne ſe pourra guarir par meſme moyens,prenant indication de la difference des airs & regions : car autant d'airs & regions, autant y a-il de moyens de guarir : comme vne playe faicte à la teſte à rome, ou à naples, ou bien à la rochelle, malaisément eſt guarie, dequoy l'experience fait foy. pareillement , faut auoir egard au temps des maladies:car autres medicamens ſont requis au commencement qu'en l'augment, ou en l'augment qu'en l'eſtat, en l'eſtat qu'en la declination. auſſi on prend indication de l'eſtat, couſtu- me,& maniere de viure dumalade : car autrement faut medicamenter les hommes robuſtes,comme labou- reurs, mariniers, crocheteurs, chartiers que ceux qui ſont demeurans aux villes, vſans de viandes deli- cates, & ne faiſans grands exercices.sous ceſte maniere de viure faut comprendre quelque particularité,ou proprieté cachée du naturel : car aucuns ſi toſt qu'ils ont pris quelques viandes ou breuuages, vomiſſent, voire leur eſt fi contraire qu'aucuns en ſontmorts. ce qui eſt teſmoigné par gall. liu. de conſuetudine,da- rius i'eripateticus lequel en ardeur de fiévre eſtant contraint par les medecins qui luy aſſiſtoient,de boire de l'eau froide,mourut ſubitement épris de conuulſion:non pour autre raiſon ſinó pource que ſe cognoiſſat c auoir a a-/v-• p - - #... k \ l l v - v. \-• en quoy eſt diſtingué le vulgaire,du chirurgien rationel. )uelles par- ties ne ſe peuuent com- ſolider. auoirl'orifice de l'eſtomac froid,il ne s'eſtoit iamais voulu accouſtumer à tel breuuage. symphorianus re- cite, qu'il aduint à vn quidam, lequel auoit les medecines en telle horreur & deſdain, que l'odeur ſeule d'icelle ſentie contre ſon gré,luy deuoya tellement le ventre,qu'il fut contraint d'aller ſept fois à ſes affai- res à l'inſtant, iufques à en auoir vn accez de fiévre,la où celuy qui auoit prins ladite medecine de bonne volonté n'en fit que trois.pour le reſpect des indications qui ſe prennent des choſes contre nature, comme de la maladie, elles ſont priſes de la longueur, largeur, profondité des playes, & vlceres : de la figure, ſituation droicte, oblique, haute ou baſſe : de ſon egalité, ou inegalité, de ſon apparence ou couuerture, c'eſt à dire ſi elle eſt caue ou cuniculeuſe. semblablement le chirurgien prend indication de la grandeur & vehemence de la maladie, de ſa cauſe antecedente,ou coniointe,& des accidens,& complications d'icelle. car la cauſe ſouuent requiert remede tout contraire à la maladie , comme quand la fiévre eſt engendrée d'humeurs froids, & eſpais. de meſme le ſymptome, & accident requiert ſouuent, & indique ou enſei- gne remede contraire à la maladie : eſquels cas il faudra touſiours ſuiure l'indication de celuy qui preſſe plus le malade comme ſi en la fiévre ſuruient ſyndope ou defaillance de cœur , nous ne craindons donner du vin au malade,nonobſtant que la fiévre,maladie chaude,donne indication de breuuage d'eau froide. or voilà les indications qui font trouuer les moyens de guarir,& conſeruer , ou preſeruer les perſonnes.mais quelqu'vn pourroit dire,qu'il n'eſt point beſoin de rechercher tant d'indicatiós à guarir vne maladie,voyant que pluſieurs ont bruit d'eſtre bons chirurgiens, qui n'en vſent que d'vne a ſçauoir , de celle qu'ils pren- nent de l'eſſence de la maladie,laquelle indication eſt de guarir la maladie par ſon contraire. et pour ce re- gard il s'enſuiuroit que celle indication ſeule priſe de l'eſſence de la maladie,ſeroit ſuffiſante pour trouuer le moyen de curer la dite maladie, & nen faudroit point d'autre. la conſequence n'eſt pas bonne. toutes- b fois l'indication prinſe de l'eſſence de la maladie eſt bien eſtimée pour la premiere & principale, mais non pas pour ſeule. car elle n'indique pas le moyen, s'il eſt poſſible de guarir la maladie, ou non, comme font les autres indications ſuſdites, deſquelles quelques vnes pour ce regard,& autres conſiderations ſont auſſi nombrées entre elles principales, & neceſſaires. or de dire qu'vne maladie eſt curée par ſon contraire, cela comprend auſſi qu'il eſt beſoin de ſuiure les autres indications, leſquelles,comme nous auons dict,en- ſeignent pluſieurs moyés pour venir à l'effect de ceſte guariſon. ioint que telle indication n'eſt pas touſiours ſuyuie, mais lors ſeulement que les autres indications prinſes des autres circonſtances mentionnées s'y ac- cordent. car pour exemple, la plethore de ſon eſſence requiert que l'on tire du ſang, par indication tirée de ſon contraire : toutesfois qui eſt celuy, qui a vn enfant plethorique aagé de trois mois, voudroit à tel- le intention ouurir la veine adiouſte que telle indication n'eſt pas propre au chirurgien,eſtant commune au ſimple populaire, voir à vn enfant : car en ceſte indication il n'y a nul artifice qui ne ſoit commun , & manifeſte à vn chacun : meſme les ſimples gens , mechaniques & artiſans, s'il voyent quelque fracture ou luxation,diront bien qu'il faut reduire les os en leur place naturelle:mais ils ne ſçauroiét dire les raiſons,& moyens , par leſquelles on doit ces choſes accomplir, & mettre en execution. et c'eſt cela en quoy eſt di- ſtingué le vulgaire d'auec le chirurgien, vray curateur de telles indiſpoſitions, lequel pourra inuenter les choſes par § ſera mis en effect ce qui nous eſt inſinué, & donné à entendre par la premiere indica- tion. or toutes ces raiſons & moyens qu'il faut inuenter pour venir a cét effect, ou pour cognoiſtre ſi le mal eſt curable ou non, nous les trouuerons par les indications particulieres cy-deuant déduites & decla- rées, tant des choſes naturelles, non narurelles, que contre nature, leſquelles reſtraignent, & limitent ladite premiere indication, eſtans adiouſtez auec elle. pareillement le ſimple populaire , & empirique di- ront bien, que toute ſolution de continuité requiert vnion, & qu'en toute maladie ſon contraire eſt neceſ- ſaire: toutesfois c'eſt le faict du chirurgien ſçauant de cognoiſtre filadite vnion ſe peut faire en toutes par- ties , ou fi aucunes non.car le ſimple populaire eſt ignorant que la partie nerueuſe du diaphragme eſtant- bleſſée, ne ſe peut conſolider, ny les inteſtins greſles, le ceur, les poulmons, le foye, eſtomach , cerueau, veſſie. et pour le dire en vn mot , les empiriques ne ſçauent pas beaucoup dauantage que l'ignare, & ſim- ple populaire , quoy qu'ils faſſent grand cas de leur experience, laquelle,jaçoit qu'elle ſoit l vn des deux inſtrumens de toute intention, toutesfois elle ne peut, comme la raiſon ( qui eſt l'autre inſtrument d'in- uention ) trouuer ny enſeigner la ſubſtance de la partie où eſt le mal , ne ſon action, ne ſon vſage,vtilité ſituation, ou liayſon, ny les autres choſes dont on prend indications particulieres : moyennant leſquelles tout chirurgien rationel pourra preuoir,non ſeulement les maladies curables,& les remedes auec leſquels elles ſeront guaries , mais auſſi celles qui ne ſe peuuent guarir. a- l'ordre de curer les maladies compliquées. c h a p, xx vi. ( r les maladies compliquées requierent eſtre curées par ordre , les vnes apres les autres, q) ſinon qu'vne reſtaſt ſans pouuoir eſtre guarie. s'il y a maladie compliquée, vrgente & peril- l leuſe, elle nous indique & enſeigne eſtre de beſoin de commencer la cure par elle meſme, c nonobſtant que par ce moyen il en reſtaſt vne incurable , ou que l'on fuſt contraint d'en faire vne autre : ce qu'ordinairement nous faiſons pour oſter les choſes eſtranges , comme vne balle ou eſquille, car pour ce faire on aggrandit la playe : ou l'on couppe , & deſchire le col de laveſſie pour oſter vne pierre contenue en icelle, faiſant vne playe quelquesfois qui degenere en fiſtule d incurable : car le mal qui eſt vrgent & perilleux,eſt de telle conſequence , que pour le guarir il faut laiſier vn autre mal incurable. comme ſi vn nerfeſtoit picqué, & qu'il ſuruint ſpaſme ou conuulſion:à laquelle ne fuſt poſſible remedier par medicaments,lors en inciſant le nerfde trauers nous guariſſons la conuulſion, mais nous priuerons la partie où s'inſere le nerfs de certain mouuement volontaire. auſſi ſi en quelque grande iointure il ſuruient luxation auec playe, ſi nous eſſayons à la reduire , nous cauſerons conuulſion: parquoy faudra pour euiter la dite conuulſion,vaquer ſeulement à la playe , & laiſſer la luxation ſans eſtre . reduite. mais aux maladies compliquées quand il n'y a rien qui nous preſſe,ny tire hors de la cure princi- pale,c'eſt à dire de la maladie propoſée,nous tiendrons cét ordre, que ſuiuant l'indication de la choſe qui empeſche le plus,la principale cure de la maladie, & l'action de nature,nous guarirons icelle choſe la pre- miere : puis ferons ainſi des autres( s'il y en a pluſieurs ) tout par cét ordre,& par cette raiſon , tellement que nulle ne demeura ſans eſtre guarie. comme pour exemple, poſons vn vlcere ſitué à la jambe , auec alteration d'os, accompagné d'vne varice, & autour dudit vlcere vne tumeur, & intemperature phlegmo- neuſe , le corps cacochyme & plethore, l'ordre ſera de commencer aux choſes vniuerſelles par l'aduis du docte medecin, qui luy ordonnera ſa maniere de viure, purgations, ſaignée,& rectifiera en ce qui luy ſera poſſible la cacochymie : cela fait, on ſacrifiera la tumeur,& ſeront appliquées ſangſues, afin de deſcharger, & vacuer la matiere conioincte : puis ſeront appliquez cauteres pour corriger l'alteration de l'os, & en caute riſant on fera en ſorte que figure ronde de l'ylcere ſera de figure longue, ou triangulaire : cela fait qil coupera - - : - : • :: - · - - - : - : > - .. | : - -- u uuu-t v ct a - u º-. a on coupera la varice, & l'vlcere ſera traictécomme l'art le commande,puis conduit à cicatrice:& pendant la cure le malade ne ſe tiendra debout ny aſſis,mais couché,& ſera ſa jambe bandée comme il appartient, ce qui ſera plus amplement declaré cy-apres. or il y a quelquesfois des indications contraires,ſçauoir º aux vtc,- que toute l'habitude du corps ſera de temperature humide, & toutesfois la partie vlcerée ſera de tempera-, de . ture ſeiche : & au contraire, la temperature du corps ſera ſeiche,& celle de la partie,humide:pareillement be,i m i . en calidité , & frigidité, aduient ſouuent que tout le corps, & la partie ſont de diuerſes complexions, & de ſe doit te- par ainſi faudra touſiours meſler , & en ce meſlange augmenter, ou diminuer la doſe de tels , ou tels re- nir couché medes , ſelon que deſdictes indications contraires les vnes ont plus de force que les autres. comme pour exemple, ſi la partie vlcerée eſt intemperée naturellement de quatre degrez de ficcité,& tout le corps ſoit de trois degrez d'humidité,il eſt ceitain que le medicament qu onappliquera a ladite partie, doit eſtre plus ſec d'vn degré,que celuy que l'on appliquera à vne partie temperee. au contraire,poſons le cas que la tem- perature de tout le corps ſoit intéperée d vn degré d'humidité,& la partie le ſoit d'vn autre degré de ſicci- té, alors il ne faudra rien augmenter ny diminuer audit medicament,à cauſe que le degré du ſuperfiud'hu- midité, recompenſe celuy de ſiccité:choſe à la verite qui conſiſte plus en artificieuſe coniecture,qu'en cer- titude de raiſon. sur tout pour la fin de ce traicté ſouuenons nous, que des choſes cy deſſus mentionnées, qui nous côduisét à ce qu'il faut faire les vnes ſont indicatiues,les autres ſont coindicatiues,les autres ſöt repugnantes,les autres ſont correpugnantes.les indicatiues ſont celles, qui de ſoy-m eſmes, &de leur nature sommaire de enſeignét ce qui eſt à faire. coindicatiues ſont celles qu monſtrent,& enſeignét le meſme que les indicati- ce traiäé de ues,mais ſeulemét paraccident,& non propremét & eſſentiellemêt.les repugnantes ſont celles qui demon-indication , b ſtrent d'elles meſines,choſes toute contraire auxindicatiues.les correpugnantes ſót celles,qui auſſi conſeil- lent autres choſes que les indicatiues,mais ſeulemët par accident, ſçauoir en tät qu'elles s'accordét auec les repugnantes exemple de ce:la plethore de ſoy demonſtre qu'il faut tirer du ſang & le meſme coindique la ſaiſon du printemps:mais à cela repugne directement la faculté imbecile, & enſemble y correpugne l'aage de 'enfance. balance donc en ton eſprit,quand tu delibereras de ce que tu auras à faire,& ſuy pour la gue- riſon des maladies ces quatre choſes,& tè comporte de façon que tu executes pluſtoſt ce que te conſeille- . ront, & demonſtreront les choſes indicatiues,& repugnantes, qui ſont la maladie,& les forces du malade, que non pas ce que te conſeilleront les choſes coindicatiues,& correpugnantes, deſquelles la force,& ma- tiere de prendre indication eſt moindre. a ces diuerſes indications nous en pouuons adiouſter deuxautres efpeces : l'vne priſe de fimilitude,l'autre de ruſe,&ſubtile inuention,que les plus recens medecins ont ap- pellé ſtratageme. nous prenons indication de ſimilitudes,és maladies qui ſuruiennent tout nouuellement, lors que leur eſſence eſt inconnue,ne pouuans eſtre penſées par medicamensinuentés par indication priſe du contraire. parquoy pour la ſimilitude, que telles maladies ont, ou leurs ſymptomes, & accidens,auec telle ou telle autre maladie vulgaire,& commune,ſont penſées de meſme façon ainſi que du commencemét nos peresont practiqué ſur la verolle,laquelle ils penſoient comme la ladrerie, pour la ſimilitude des acci- dens de l'vne à l'autre maladie. mais nous prenons indication de guariſon par ruſe, & quaſi comme ſtrata- geme, lors que la maladie nous eſtant du tout incogneué, ou pour eſtre d'vnenature eſtrange,& bigearre, ou pour prouenir d'alteration d'vn ſuject à nous incongneu, comme de l'eſprit, ſommes contraincts, par défaut d indications tirées d'aucune choſe naturelle, auoir recours à quelques ſubtilitez,& comme ruſes de guerre, commenous entendons auoir eſté practiqué és maladies d'affections melancholiques,deſquelles les eſpeces ſont plus difformes monſtreuſes , & bigearres que les ſonges que l'on fait de la chimere com- me l'on dit en commun prouerbe. *-e， '# . •-s premier liure de t indication eſt vne con- duite , ou voye ſeure pour par- uenir à quelque in- tention, qui guide , & conduit le chirurgien « à conſeruer, preſeruer, ou guarir le ſujet , qui luy eſt mis entre ſes mains. icel- les ſont ti- rées des choſes rnaturelles, leſquelles indiquét & enſeignent † oiuent eſtre con - ſeruées par leurs ſem- blables > dont les vnes ſont priſes de ſemblables lon gal. . - - •- q a b l e d e s non naturelles , qui indiquent choſes ture, deſquelles nous ne conſiderons, ſe- contre nature,leſ- -- —- -- i n d i c a t i o zv j'. rpour leſquelles conſeruer,faut laiſſer la propre cure,& principale rla force, & vertu du malade pour leur ſuruenir. car où les forces du malade defaillent, le \ chirurgien ne peut venir à ſa fin pretendue. ſsanguin, la temperature du choleric, laquelle doit eſtre contregardée, encore qu'elle ſoit corps,comme s'il eſt | pituiteux, j# choſe accouſtumée. gal. .de la meth. \melancolique. son habi- rdelicat, - - - rchaude, ) rchaude, & ſeiche. de , cô- f mince, ſsimilaire froide, ycom- & chaude , & humide. tude c i# petite corpulence. # j# froide , & ſeiche. me s'il eſt u§ , ou charnu. |humide, froide, & humide. ſsub- { ſtance | principale, ou noble. la complexion de la nature de la partie où eſt le mal,de laquelle on tire aduis, & in- dications : comme de la { sentiment t organique & seruante à la moins noble. u non noble du tout. comme l'œil ne peut porter medicaments aigu. ſi forts que la chair. hebeté. forme, figure, magnitude, nombre , colligance, ſituation, action, vſage. / * , l'aage, attendu que ſ'car nous voyons qu'il y a des maladies qui ſont curables aux jeunes chacun aage porte ſon< gens, & incurables aux vieils : auſſi les vieils endurent la faim plus fa- indication. - *cilement que les jeunes. du sexe : {attendu que les femmes ne peuuent endurer remedes ſi forts que les hommes. la ſaiſon de {† autres medicaments ſont plus requis en hyuer qu'en eſté, & ainſi des l'année. autres ſaiſons de l'année. confideré qu'autant qu'il y a de regions,autant ya-il de manieres de guarir : qu'il ne ſoit ainſi, vne playe de teſte eſt plus difficile à guerir à paris qu'en auignon, & les vlceres des jambes plus faſcheuſes en auignon qu'à paris, comme nous auons dit cy-deſſus. ce qui eſt meſme teſmoigné par § la region. commencemcnt du temps ; car autres medicaments daugment - ſont requis , & conuenables au eſtat des maladies, declinaiſon rdelicats , comme ceux ) sur icelles nous rapportons †| qui ſont és villes, nour-| quelque particularité,ou pro- autrement j ris à leur aiſe. prieté occulte du naturel : car faut trait-} robuſtes, comme char- | aucûs ſi-toſt qu'ils ont pris de ter les tiers, crocheteurs, mari- | la ptiſane, pôme,ſole,perdrix, uniers , laboureurs. eau,ouautre choſe,vomiſſent. la maniere de viure, la- quelle doit eſtre conſer- uée comme le propre -temperament. semblable à la maladie , ſymbo-^ et pour ce l'indication eſt de le - indication auec elle. ſ corriger. aux naturelles, & contre na- liſant en ind | ou contraire à icelle, \ & lors monſtre } qu'il doit eſtre conſerué. de la mcth. que l'air qui ſera - rmaladie pre- rgrandeur. nant indica-a tion de ſa #º d'icelles, rl'vrgent, n r grâde douleur ] parquoy pour en vn vlcere. la guariſon des | la cauſe, maladies com- fluxion qui ſe quelles indiquent liquées , nous fait à la partie. # cauſe de rleſquelles nous § indi-) et celle ſans ſº p \oſtées : comme maladie. | indiquent re-ication de ces | laquelle la carie , ou medes ſouuent trois poincts , | maladie ne intemperature | contraires à la ! qui ſont : peut eſtre qui la peut ac- symptome. umaladie, oſtée. compagner. t a b l e ntroduction a la v nirurgie. tlte zte x ft#o d e, fo r go g no ytre le chi- rurgien cognoit & iuge des ma- ladies par la la les maladies par les cinq ſens. r - - - - | fiévre : eſtant boüeuſe , auoir vlcere aux reins, ou veſſie, ou autre partie. si la matiere fecale eſt meſlée auec bouë ; on iuge auoir vlcere aux ſ, cou" | boyaux : ſi la boue qui ſort d'vn vlcere eſt noiraſtre, & fœtide demon- leur , & ſtre corruption d'os : ſi elle eſt blanche, l'integrité de la partie. coiiliilc | si quelque perſonne a la couleur jaunaſtre, on le iugera eſtre icte- rique, & principalement fi le blanc des yeux eſt tei. - - | si vne tumeur eſt rouge en couleur, on cognoiſtra qu'elle ſera faite | de ſang : ſi elle eſt jaunaſtre, de bile : ſi elle eſt blanche, de pituite ; ſi \ elle eſt liuide, ou plombine, de melancholie. si vne jambe ou bras ſont luxez, on le cognoiſtra en les comparant à l'autre qui ne l'eſt pas , voyant vne cauité d'où -,.. } eſt party l'os, & vne eminence où il eſt tombé. figure m tl- uaiſe l confor. mation cil si l'os de la cuiſſe eſt hors de la boite, on verra la jambe eſtre plus courte, ſi la luxation eſt en dehors : & plus longue, ſi elle eſt faite en dedans. chara si vn malade a les yeux cauez, les temples abbatues,& le ctere nez pointu, on cognoiſt qu'il eſt proche de la mort. lors qu'vn malade tantoſt amaſſe tout à luy, tantoſt penſe amaſſer ſº# petits feſtus, on iuge qu'il eſt proche de la mort. - si vn malade fait beaucoup de ſingeries, vacillant en ſes faits,& pa- | roles,& pete deuant honneſtes perſonnes, ſans honte ne vergongne,on icognoiſt qu'il eſt malade de l'entendement. geſtes coiiliilc c q elque luxation,& principalement celle de l'eſpaule,ou cuiſſe eſt son , reduite, on le cognoiſt par vn ſon qui fait clocq. coiidii c r | ſi si on ſonde en la veſſie,& qu'il y ait pierre,on oit vn ſon qui fait tocq. s'il y a de la boue, ou autre humeur contenue au thorax, on oit vn ſon,comme d'vne bouteille à demy pleine qui gourgoüille. | l si quelqu'vn parle renault, on cognoiſt le palais eſtre troüé, ou oüye, eſtre enroüé. « § | ſ quand on oit ſortir vn ſon d'vne playe faite au thorax auec ſifflemét, dant {vents, | on cognoiſt la playe penetrer au dedans. si on oit de vents eſtre conte- quel- i comme nus au ventre inferieur, qu'hippocrate appelle borborygmes, on iuge que | eſtre vne colique venteuſe. reduiſant vne hargne, ſi on oit des vents, comme vn gourgoüille- | ment, on la iuge inteſtinale. quand vn malade dit tantoſt d'vn, & tantoſt de l'autre, & eſt du lpar• { tout inconſtant en ce qu'il dit, on iuge qu'il eſt malade de l'entende- iilcilts vne perſonne eſtre punais. odeur,par laquelle on ſ vne vlcere pourrie, & gangreneuſe. cognoiſt la carie des os. la boue eſtre loüable, ou non. ules ſueurs,vrines,& matieres qui ſortent,eſtre naturelles ou non. on cognoiſlra que la cholere redonde,ce qui eſt manifeſte ſ amer, à ceux qui ont la jauniſſe, ou fiévre tierce. sallé, { on jugera que le phlegme ſallé abonde. : gouſt, | séblable à œufs il monſtre auoir grande corruption en l'eſtomaeh , & len comme s'ils pourris, toute l'habitude du corps par l'excez de chaleur. eſt | semblable à vin- ſ il monſtre auoir corruption en l'eſtomach par excez de v aigre. { froidure. ſvn febricitant, n tact,par le- | vne debilitation ytouchant le poulx. "- | quel on co--# de forces j ugnoiſt la boue d'vne apoſteme eſtre proche, ou profonde par l'inondation.vne |† , par la pulſation, & quelquesfois par vn ſifflement qu'on ſent en preſſant deſſus. ] si l'vrine d'vn malade eſt rouge, & enflammée, on cognoiſt qu'il a \ tous leſquels cinq ſens exterieurs ne re- çoiuent , ſinon que ſuperficiellement les obiects , comme vii miroir fait, non pour autre fin , que pour les repreſenter à i'en- tendement, comme à leur prince , & ſei- gneur,afin de les diſ- cerner par la raiſoh, qui diuiſe, & iuge en dernier reſſort, pene- trant iuſques à la pro- fondité des choſes. de ſorte qu'elle in- uente le vrav, iuge le, faux, & diſtingue ce que de l'vn,& de l'au- tre s'enſuit, ou repu- gne,en rapportant lcs choſes veues , ouyes, odorées, gouſtées, & touchées.a quoyay- de grandement la me- moire , laquelle eſt comparée au greffe, auquel(comme apres vn procés debattu ) on retire, & garde ce qui a eſté arreſté pār l'entendement,& rai- ſon qui l'imprime,afin qu'il ſoit gardé , & qu'on s'en puiſſe ay- der quand il ſera ne- ceſſaire.et pour cette cauſe , dieu curieux de noſtre perfection nous a dôné ce ſingu- lier remede, prompt, & commode contre l'ignorance , & ou- bliâce des choſes,afin que par l'ayde d icel- le memoire nous ve- nions à cognoiſtre ce qu'auons veu, & ap- perçeu par les ſens, qui ſont la veue,oüye, odeur, gouſt, & tact, qui ſeront plus am- plement deſcrits par cy-apres. de_» #at -e premiertture de -- "- *--, a - de diuerſes manieres deguariſons. c h a p. xxvi i. #ſtoi m l ſe fait d'autres guariſons par choſe eſtranges,comme on peut voir par les hiſtoires ſuiuan- ! hiſtoire. % tes. alexander ab alexandro , & pierre gilie, afferment qu'en la pouille,contrée d'italie, il : y a vne eſpece d'araignée, que ceux du pavs nomment tarantule , le p. rhodien la nomme : s phalange , qui ſont au commencement de l'eſté ſi venimeuſes , que quiconque en eſt mordu, : " - ns s'il n'eſt bien ſoudainement ſecouru , il perd le ſentiment, & meurt ; & ſi quelqu'vn eſchappe : de la mort, il demeure inſensé, & totalement hors de ſov. auquel mal l'experience a trouué vn reme- : la muſique de qui eſt la muſique, ce que les autheurs en diſent , eſt comme des témoins de l'auoir, veu, diſans:que | eſt medeci ſi toſt que quelqu'vn en eſt mordu,on fait venir le pluſtoſt que l'on peut deuant luy des gens qui joüent des | nale. violles, fleutes,& autres inſtruments,dont ils ſonnent & chantent diuerſes chanſons:laquelle muſique en- tendue par le navré, il commence à bailler,faiſant diuerſes muances, comme ſi tout le temps de ſa vie il euſt - eſté accouſtumé au bal en laquelle furie, & force de bailler, il continue iuſques à ce que ce venin ſoit diſſi- pé.le meſme alexandre dit auoir veu,que des oüeurs ſe trouuans laſſez de ſonner,à faire danſer vn qui a- uoit eſté bleſsé de ceſte beſte,ayans ceſsé pour ſe repoſer,le pauure navré tóba incontinent en terre côme t mort,ayant perdu ſes forces : mais ſi toſt qu'ils recommencerent a ſonner,il veid le pauure malade ſe rele- uer de nouueau, & recommancer auec telle force qu'auparauant,iuſques à ce que le venin fuſt diſſipé. en- i cores dit il plus, qui eſt aduenu que quelqu'vn qui n'auoit pas eſté bien guary auec cette muſique, quelque temps apres oyant ſonner des inſtrumens,cčmençoit a demener les pieds,& eſtoit force qu'il baillaſt iuſques e, #. à pleine guariſon.ce qui eſt veritablement eſmerueillable en nature.aſclepiades eſcrit,que le chanter dou- b • # # cement,& ſonner de meſme quelque inſtrumºt de muſique,avde beaucoup aux phrenetiques.theophraſte, muſique. & aulus gele diſent que la muſique appaiſe la douleur de la ſciatique,& de la goutte encores trouuôs-nous en l'eſcriture ſaincte,que dauid auec la muſique oſtoit à saul la paſſion que le mauuais eſprit luv donnoit. | herodote,hiſtorien grec, au liure de ſon hiſtoire intitulé ( liv, recite que crœſus , roy de lydie, eut vn : hiſtoire. fils qui iuſques à grand aage fut muet : aduint que la ville où eſtoit le roy , eſtant priſe, vn ſoldat perſan : autre ma. eſtoit preſt à tuer le roy ſon pere , luytenant le poignard ſur la gorge ; lors ſondit fils(auparauant muet) | - niere de s'efforça tant par la forte apprehenſion qu'il eut de la mort de ſon pere qu'il rompit les liens de ſa langue, t guariſon. & dit , ne tue pas cét homme,ſoldat,c'eſt crœſus , le roy mon pere:& depuis le reſte de ſa vie parla fort bien. plutarque, au liure auquel il monſtre , que l'on peut tirer quelque profit de ſes ennemis,eſcrit qu'vn | autre. theſſalien, nommé prometheus,fut frappé d'vn ſien ennemy d'vn coup d'eſpée ſur vn viel vlcere, duquel il : n'auoit peu guarir,combien qu'il en euil eſté pensé par pluſieurs années,& en fut entierement guary auec la , autre. nouuelle playe. tite - liue eſcrit , que quintus fabius maximus eut la fiévre quarte par longues années, & - qu'en donnant la bataille aux sauoiſiens , de la grande ardeur qu'il auoit de combatre , chaſſa la fiévre, & : autre. oncques plus ne l'eut. l'homme de chambre de m. de lanſac le jeune diſoit n'agueres, qu'vn gentil-hom- : me françois eſtant en poulongne,ayant la fiévre quarte,ſe promenant le long de la viſtule fleuue, au com- |. mencement de ſon accez fut pouſſé par vn ſien amy, en riant, dedans ledit fleuue dont il eut telle frayeur, t combien qu'il ſçeuſt nager , comme ſçauoit bien celuy qui l'auoit pouſsé, que depuis n'eut la fiévre. au autre. camp d'amiens, le roy henry me commanda d'aller à dourlan pour penſer pluſieurs capitaines,& ſoldats hiſtoire du qui auoient eſté bleſſez par les eſpagnols en vne ſortie de la ville, qu'ils firent fur eux : le capitaine ſainct º#** aubindemeurant pres damiens, gentil-homme,& vaillant s'il y en a en france, auoit la fiévre quarte, c aubin. neantmoins quoy qu'il fuſt en ſon accez,ſe leua du lict,& môta à cheual pour commander à vne partie de ſa compagnie, fut bleſsé d'vn coup d'arquebuze tout au trauers du col dont il eut vne telle apprehenſion - de la mort qu'à l'inſtant il perdit ſa fiévre, & depuis fut guary de ſa bleſſeure,&eſt à preſent encore viuant. t monſieur ioubert recite vne hiſtoire d'vn ſinge,qui fut cauſe de la guariſon de ſon maiſtre,medecin de pro- | feſſion,abbandonné des medecins de montpellier. ce medecin eſtoit eſtranger,ſans femme,& § autre ma° de gens qui attendoient ſa deſpouille : le voyans fort bas , chacun d'eux ſe ſaiſit de quelque choſe.le ſinge : ,#"." regardant ce remuememét de meſnage print pour ſa part le chaperon rouge fourré,que ſon maiſtre portoit # §iſ aux actes ſolemnels , duquel il s'affubla d'vne ſi bonne grace deuant luy,que ledit medecin print ſi grand i. plaiſir à le contempler, qu'il fut contraint de rire ſi fort, que cette eſmotion eſpandue par tout ſe corps, eſmeut tellement nature(par la continuation de l aiſe qu'il en prenoit) qu'il en recouura la ſanté.c'eſt que le lien duquel les forces de nature eftoient empeſchées,fut rompu de l'impetuoſité, causée par le ris. car telle joye eſmeut la chaleur naturelle languiſſante, comme enſeuelie, & la reſpandant par tout le corps,la autre. fit venir au ſecours de nature, laquelle embraſſant ce moyen,& propre inſtrument,renforcée de tel ſecours, raiſon de la vint à combatre la maladie auec plus grande hardieſſe,tant qu'elle vint à ſurmonter le mal. car c'eſt nature ſanté recou- proprement qui guarit les maladies : le medecin,& les remedes ſont les ſecours qui fauoriſent nature.que *erte par le diray-je plus ? n'agueres vn gaſcon eſtant en cette ville,au logis d'agrippa,rue pauée,malade d'vne fiévre ris. ardante , tombé en phreneſie, ſe jetta de nuict par vne feneſtre,du ſecond eſtage ſur le paué, & ſe bleſſa en pluſieurs endroits de ſon corps.ie fus appellé pour le medicamenter:& incontinét qu'il fut posé en ſon lict, commença à ratiociner, & perdit du tout ſa phreneſie,& quelque temps apres fut du tout guary. monſieur d'ottoman,docteur regent,& profeſſeur du roy en l'vniuerſité de montpellier,m'a affermé qu'vn meuſ- nier demeurant à broquiers en albigeois,phrenetique,ſe jetta par vne feneſtre dans l'eau , d'où eſtant tiré ſubitement, perdit ſa fiévre phrenetique. qui voudroit faire recherche de telles hiſtoires, il s'en trouue- hiſtoire - - - - / | > - > - # ºſ . roit vn grand nombre. françois valeriola, medecin tres renommé d'arles , eſcrit en l'obſeruation qua- phrenetique. trieſme du ſecond liure de ſes obſeruations , d'vn habitant d'arles, nommé iean berle , lequel auoit eſté autre ma par pluſieurs années confiné en vn lict, à raiſon d'vne paraliſie:& aduint que le feu ſe mit en la chambre en miere de laquelle il eſtoit couché,qui fut tel , qui bruſla le plancher,& meſme quelques meubles de la chambre pro- fuariſon. che de ſon lict, ſe voyant en danger d'eſtre bruſlé, fit tant qu'il ſe leue,& gaigne vne feneſtre,par laquelle il ſe jette en bas,& commença incontinent à cheminer,& fut guary de ſa paral ſie. le meſme valeriola,eſcrit audit lieu,vne hiſtoire merueilleuſe d'vn cas aduenu en la perfonne d'vn ſien couſin maternel, nommé iean antre. sobirat, lequel eſtoit en auignon,perclus de l'vſage de ſes jambes,ayant les jarets retirez de conuulſion,y auoit enuiron ſix ans. ceſtuy vn iour ſe cholera tellement contre ſon valet,& s'efforça de ſorte à l'atteindre pour le battre,qu'à l'inſtant ſes nerfs s'eſtendirent,& amollirent:dont il recouura la force de ſes jambes, & marcha droit , comme il a touſiours fait depuis. galien à la fin du dernier chapitre,du liure de la ma- - - - niere de guarir par la ſaignée, recite qu'il auoit eſté appellé pour arreſter le ſang à vn homme,auquel auoit ºſº eſté couppée l'artere,enuiron la cheuille du pied,lequel fut guary ſans aneuriſme:& outre ce par le moyen de cette playe,fortuitement fut guary,& deliuré d'vne douleur de hanche qui l'auoit touſ métée pav l'eſpace de quatre ans , laquelle guariſon , bien qu'elle ſoit fondée en raiſon,à cauſe de l'euacuation de la matiere çonioincte, a | i - iti vi w.-ww.e. w.-j. w-/w w.vi. - w. l . • • • • • *--- -y- conioincte, qui ſe fit par l'ouuerture de l'artere du malleole:toutesfois pource qu'elle aduint fortuitement, ſans art,& ſans meſme qu'aucû medecin,bu chirurgié l'euſt osé entreprendre,elle m'a ſemblé meriter eſtre couchée au rang de celles-cy.pline eſcrit d'vn nommé phalerée, quiauoit vne maladie incurable de fiux de . . ſang par la bouche, dont il ſe deſplaiſoit,& cherchant ſa mort, ſe preſenta à vne bataille ſans armes;aduint hiſtoirè, u'il fut navré en la poictrine,& de la playe ſortit grande abondance de ſang,ceſſant le flux par la bouche: † puis les chirurgiens guariſſans la playe,con ſoliderent la veine rompue, qui luy cauſoit le flux par la bou- che, & demeura ſain, & guarit tant de la playe,que de ſon premier mal. ke ne veux laiſſer à dire; qu'aucuns guariſſent les playes auec eau pure, apres auoir dit deſſus certaines paroles,puis trempent en l'eau des lin- ges en croix , & les renouuellent ſouuent le dy que ce ne ſont les paroles,ny les croix,mais c'eſt l'eau qui nettoye la playe,& par ſa froideur garde l'inflammation,& la fluxion qui pourroit venir à la partie offensée, . à cauſe de la douleur. cette guariſon ſe peut faire lors que la playe eſt en vne partie charneuſe, & en vn corps ieune,& de bonne habitude, & aux playes ſimples. maintenant nous declarerons pourquoy la fiévre quarte, & autres maladies peuuent eſtre guaries parvne grande peur, ou par vne grande joye. pourquoy la fievre quarte,& autres maladies peuuent eſtre guaries par vne grande peur, ou par vne grande joye-º. c h a p. xxv i ii. e r s o n n e ne doute que les perturbations de l'ame n'ayent grande efficace, & ne produi- " - ſent de vermeilleux effets en nos corps, par la refraction,& condenſation,retraction, & effu-pºº ſion des humeurs, & des eſprits, qui ſont comme voicturiers d'iceux. hippocrate dit, que humana. * ſelon la diſpoſition des eſprits , & des humeurs, le corps humain eſt diſposé à maladie, ou - à ſamté : dautant qu'en la medecine les choſes ſont trouuées pour principales , & elemens, deſquels nos corps ſont compoſe . parquoy ce n'eſt de merueille , ſi les perturbations de leſprit, & entr'autres, la crainte , & la joye apportent ſubitement , & inopinément guariſon à des maladies, qui au- trement par art ſembloient incurables. de ce nombre, & ſorte de maladie eſt la fiévre quarte,de laquelle plufieurs longuement affligez,& ayans en vain experimenté töus remedes de l'art, ont enfin eſté guaris par vne peur. or quand nous parlons icy de peur,nous n'entendons pas vne petite peur pour eſpouuanter vn enfant mais vne peur ſubite,non preuenuë,& forte, c'eſt à dire conioincte auec l'apprehenſion d'vn grand, preſent danger de la mort,ſuffiſante pour ébranler vn homme,quelque fort,conſtant,& courageux qu'il ſoit telle peur peut donner fin,& guariſon à la fiévre quarte par deux moyens,par leſquels tous les medecins recognoiſſent,& aduoüent toutes fiévres receuoir guariſon,à ſçauoir,par concoctió,& euacuation de lama- tiere qui fait la fiévre.par la cöcoction,en ce que par peur la chaleur naturelle,auec les eſprits venäs à ſe re- tirer au dedans du corps,eſt diſpersée,qui eſtoit toute vnie,& aſſemblée au dedans du corps par conſequent fortifiéc,& côme redoublée,à plus d'efficace pour cuire,& digerer,diſſiper & reſoudre la matiere qui entre- tenoit telle fiévre par euacuation, en ce qu'auec la peur,& vehemente apprehenſion du danger preſent,ſur- uient vn effroy, horreur ou tremblement en tout le corps : & partel tremblement eſt fait vne ſecouſſe & concuſſion de tous les humeurs contenus dedans le corps.ainſi qu'on vient à rouſer vn muid de vin,par telle agitation la lie qui eſtoit raſſiſe au fond,vientà s'eſpandre,meſler,& confondre par tout le vin:auſſi l'humeur feculent & melancholique,qui comme vne lie peſante,& terreſtre, enfermée aux creux,&voûte du foye, vid l- c la ratte,& meſentere,ou en vn autre lieu ſecret,du corps,faiſoit la fiévre quarte venant par tremblement & d dirons,que les facultez,animale, vitale, naturelle, ont vne fympathie, & conſentement enſemble, en ſorte, agitation horrifique,d'vne forte & ſoudaine peur à eſtre eſmeu, & comme deſraciné de ſon giſte,& foyer, d'où par les medicamens, horreurs, & tremblemens ordinaires il ne pouuoit eſtre ébranlé,& deſplacé, ſe meſle, & reſpand eſgalement par tout le corps : & par conſequent eſt plus aisément cuit, & digeré par la chaleur naturelle, ou plus facilement euacué, & chaſſé hors du corps eſtant ja ébranlé, & deſraciné de ſa - miniere & foyer, où l'humeur melancholique ſe nouriſſoit & retenoit. dauantage onvoid pluſieurs perſon- nes tourmentez d'vn extreme douleur de dents,leſquels voyâs arriuer l'arracheur qu'ils auoiêt enuoyé que- rir, de crainte,& d'apprehenſion du mal,differer avne autrefois,ou ne ſentir plus de douleur,laquelle ſou- uent eſt du tout perduë. il ſe peut faire que l'humeur ſe deſtourne, & tranſporte du lieu malade à quelques autres parties du corps. voilà donc comme la peur peut guarir pluſieurs grandes maladies. par vne grande joye aucunes maladies peuuent eſtre guaries,parce qu'elle fait eſmotion de la chaleur na- de la joye. turelle, languiſſante, & comme enſeuelie, la reſpand partout le corps, & de là vient combattre la maladie. lcy faut noter, que d'vne trop grande & extreme joye, ou peur,on peut mourir,comme auons monſtré cy- deuant,chap. . car par la grande peur le cœur eſt ſerré,de façon qu'il ne peut faire ſon mouuement-par- tant la chaleur naturelle, & l'eſprit vital ſont eſtouffez par la trop grande joye le cœur eſt fort dilaté;de ſorte qu'il ne peut retenir le ſang,& l'eſprit vital dôt il eſt reſoult,qui fait que l'ame s'en va.et fautentédre, que la vie ne ſe perd ſeulemét par le defaut du cœur,mais auſſi par le defaut des autres facultez eſtâs en di- uerſes parties du corps,qui ſe communiquent ſubitement les vnes aux autres. car comme auons dit,les ſens monſieur apperçoiuent premierement leurs objects; de là ſont preſentez au ſens commun, lequel en vn moment les ioubert. tranſmet aux facultez qui ſont en diuerſes parties du corps : ainſi que les roues d'vn orloge,leſquelles vont toutes enſembles, mais diuerſement, & toutes par vne premiere,qui fait mouuoir les autres.parquoy nous le,facultez - - - - ont conſente- que quand vne ſouffre, les autres font de meſme. nous declarerons maintenant les maladies faites par ima-men nſem- gination fantaſtiques. ble. exemple des maladies faictes par imagination fantaſtique . c h a r. xxix. l s'eſt veu vn qui penſoit eſtre vn vaiſſeau de terre cuitte, & pour cette occaſion ſe reculoit,& re- gai.chap ;. e tiroit des paſſans, de peur d'eſtré caſsé. vn autre oyant chantér les coqs,& comme ils ſe battent liu. .de loc. des aiſles en chantant, ainſi auec les bras il frappoit ſes coftez,& coqueliquoit comme les cocqs. affect. vn certain bourguignon eftant à paris, logé pres l'egliſe s. iulien,és preſences de plufieurs ce-holier es ſa lebres medecins, affermoit qu'il eſtoit mort, & ſon frere auſſi qui eſtoit couché aupres de luy. peu apres pratique au ſa fantaiſie eſtant changée,il declamoit & prioit les medecins,qu'ils n'empeſchaſſent plusſon ame de voler º# du purgatoire au ciel. qu'il a faict - ſur le chap. autre. . - ' . , .. du mejan- vn autre penſoit eſtre mort,& pour cette cauſe,craignoit toutes ſortes de viandes,& n'en vouloit point, §qué . diſant que les morts ne mangent point. a la parfin, par vn bon conſeil & aduis, on feignit vn corps mort eſtre aſſis à table, à l'exemple duquel, il mangea. •a trf. —ss=- - - frerrrrertturv-vic- - - - autre. - vn autre penſoit ºauºir pºnt de teſte auquel philotimie fit faire vn bonnet de plomb,afin qu'eſtätgreué de la peſanteur du plomb, il cogneuſt, & ſentiſt qu'il auoit vne teſte. le meſme autheur au meſme cha- pitre dit , que les vns penſent auoir la teſte pleine & peſante, les autres legere & vuide, les autres ſeiche. autrc. auicenne au chapitre des signes de la melancholie, qui eſt au liure .fen. . traicté : ch. .dit que quel- ques-vns penſent eſtre rois,ou loups,ou demons,ou oyſeaux,ou inſtrumens artificiels d'autres rient perpe- tuellement , principalement ceux qui ont vne melancholie ſanguine, pource qu'ils s'imaginent des choſes qui leur plaiſent. | -attt f. depuis n'agueres,vn gentil-homme d'honneur amena ſa femme en ceſte ville,pour auoir conſeil de meſ- ſieurs le grand , duret, & moy, pour ſçauoir la cauſe qu'elle pleuroit & rioit ſans occaſion,& ne s'en pou- uoit garder.on luy fit pluſieurs remedes,mais ils luy ſeruirent peu,& en fin s'en retourna comme elle eſtoit venue. - - autrr. vne dame de noſtre cour diſoit eſtre empoiſonnée par duvif-argent,de façon qu'il luy ſembloit le ſentir courir par ſes membres.elle apella pluſieurs doctes medecins, pour luy donner remede à ceſte poiſon:qui ne luv iceurent oſter ceſte fantaiſie. en fin conclurent,que pour luy oſter ceſte opinion,on la baigneroit,& qu'on mettroit certaines herbes au bain, qui attireroient le vif argent, s'il y en auoit en ſon corps.on ietta dedans le bain trois ou quatre onces de vifargent & la dite dame eſtant hors , on le trouua au fonds de la cuue,qui luy fut monſtré. alors fut bien ioyeuſe,& creut eſtre guarie depuis & perdit ceſte fauſſe opinion, eſtimant pour certain qu'on luy auoit tiré le vifargent par le moyen du bain. autr f. le curé de moulhery print opinion d'eſtre empoiſonné.il vint en cette ville,appella meſſieurs holier,& syluius medecins celebres , & moy : ſe plaignant ſentir grandes douleurs par tous les membres,nous affir- mant qu'il ſçauoit eſtre empoiſonné.apres l'auoir bien examiné,il ſe retirera à part où nous concluſmes(le voyant auoir ceſte ferme opinió,& que ja auſſi il auoit appellé autres medecins,qui luy auoiêt fait pluſieurs choſes qui ne luy auoient rien profité)qu'on luy bailleroit du ſyropviolat,& qu'il en prinſt trois cueillerées deux heures deuant manger par l'eſpace de neufiours,que pour certain il guariroit.alors fut fort reſiouy, & voulut auoir noſtre ordonnance par eſcrit,ce qui luy fut refuſé.car quand il l'euſt eu,cela ne luy euſtau- cunement profité. l'apoticaire luy donna ledit ſyrop en vne fiole penſant eſtie vne excellente drogue pour luy oſter ſa poiſon.et tout ainſi qu'il print opinion auoir eſté empoiſonné,auſſi fit-il d'eſtre deſ-empoiſonné par ledit ſyrop. vn mois apres il retourna vers nous pour nous rendre graces du benefice qu'il auoit receu par noſtre moyen:& eſtoit gaillard & bien joyeux,ne ſentant plus de doleurs,& nous fit part à chacund'vn liévre. - _a l r & vn autre diſoit qu'il auoit des grenouilles dans le ventre, &eſtoit impoſſible de luy pouuoir oſter ceſte · opinion.en fin il y eut vn medecin,qui luy promit de luy faire jetter leſdites grenoüilles,hors de ſon ventre par le moyen d'vn clyſtere.ayant pris le clyſtere,ainſi qu'il le rendoit par derriere de ſa chaire percée,il fit couler cinq ou ſix petites grenouilles,leſquelles n'ayans accouſtumé viure en tels mareſts,commencerent à ſauteller par la place. le malade par opinion fut bien joyeux de voir leſdites grenouilles, & perdit ceſte folle fantaiſie. autre. vn gentil-homme de bône part,auoit opinion auoir la ceruelle pourrie.il s'en alla prier le roy,qu'il luy pleuſt commander à monſieur le grand,medecin,à monſieur pigray chirurgien ordinaire du roy,& a moy de luy coupper le teſt , & oſter ſon cerueau,diſant eſtre pourry, & luy en remettre d'autre:nous luy fiſmes beaucoup de choſes , mais il nous fut impoſſible luy racouſtrer ſa ceruelle. -allf /('. i'ay veu vn hôme s'eſtimât auoir la groſſe verolle:& ne pouuant gaigner ſur luy par toutes remöſtrances ne l'auoir point, il me dit que ſi ie ne le penſois comme il deſiroit , qu'il s'en iroit à vn autre pour ſe faire frotter. le voyant en telle volonté,de peur qu'il ne tombaſt en quelque meſchante mainqui l'euſt poſſible frotté à bon eſcient,ie luy accorday qu'il ſeroit frotté côme ceux qu'on guarit de la verolle.ie pris vneliure de beure, battu en vn mortier de plomb, pour auoir la couleur de l'vnguent,auquel entre le vif argent il fut frotté dudit beurre, & ſua partrois diuerſes matinées, & chacun iour ſe diſoit allegé de ſes douleurs. ainſi il fut guary par opinion ſens nulle offenſe de ſon corps. on dit y en auoir eu d'autres,qui opiniaſtrement ſe perſuadoient auoir des cornes,de ſorte que telle fan- taiſie ne leur a peu eſtre arrachée de leur melācholique & bizarre cerueau,iuſqu'à tant que leurs yeux eſtans bandez,on leur euſt eſgratigné le front de coſté & d'autre auec des cornes de beuf, à ce que par l'effuſion douloureuſe de leur propre ſang,ils ſe perſuadaſſét telles cornes leur auoir eſté arrachées de fait & de for- ce. il y a pluſieurs autres hiſtoires ſemblables,que ie delaiſſe à cauſe de briefueté. de certains impoſteurs. c h a p. xxx. r icy ie veux parler de certains impoſteurs,qui s'entremeſlent de traicter aucunes parties de la ? chirurgie,comme aucuns ſont ſi impudens, qu'ils ſe vantent de remettre les os rompus & deſ- : loüez,affermans que cette ſcience leur eſt acquiſe de race, c'eſt à dire de pere en fils:qui eſt vne % choſe fort ridicule,& hors de raiſon,veu que l'homme naiſt ſans ſçauoir aucune choſe:car s'il - *º" fuſt nay auec quelque art,il n'euſt voulu iamais apprêdre les autres.il eſt vray que dieu a dôné à chacû des autres animaux quelque choſe de particulier & de naturel de leur premiere eſſence, ce qu'il n'a fait à l'h me:mais en lieu que l'hôme eſt deſpourueu d'art,il eſt doüé de raiſon; par laquelle il peut appren- · dre tous arts,& ſciences,côme nous dirons au liure de la generatió,chapitre de l'ame.dôc de vouloir croi- re que le fils d'vn bon chirurgien peuſt eſtre chirurgien,ſi premierement il n'a eſté inſtruit:ce ſeroit choſe auſſi peu vray-ſemblable,que le fils d'vn gentilhomme,lequel ſçauroit bien picquer,& voltiger vn cheual, & courir la baque , pûit faire comume ſon pere,ſi premierement il n'auoit monté pluſieurs fois à cheual,& qu'on ne luy eult monſtré ceſte indruſtrie partât ce ſeroit vne choſe fort temeraire de vouloir aneâtir l'au- ctorité de tant d hommes doctes & illuſtres,fondée enraiſon & experience,pour ſuiure l'opinion des cho- ſes vulgaires & menſongeres, laquelle nonobſtant eſt ſi enracinée,non ſeulement au cerueau du ſimple po- pulaire, mais auſſi en l'eſprit de pluſieurs eſtimez doctes. il y a encores vn autre maniere de gens beaucoup plus fafchcux & importuns,qui affirment pouuoir remettre les os fracturez & luxez par paroles,moyennant a c -" qu'ils a c d 'introduction à la chirurgie · · - l'introduction à la chirurgie qu ils ayent le nom, & la ceinture du malade : mais ie m'émerueille comme il eſt poſſible aux hommes qui ont entendement (ou le doiuent auoir) de croire vn menſonge ſi appert, veu que la loy ſacrée des medecins anciens,principalement du diuin hippocrate,duquel pour reduire les os fracturez,& luxez,il faut tenir,ti- rer,& pouſſer,pour laquelle choſe ils ont inuenté vne infinité de machines & inſtruments(appellez gloſ- ſocomes) lors que par force des mainsonne peut aſſez ſuffiſamment tirer les membres pour faire la redu- ction. et ces impoſteurs veulent perſuader qu'ils feront par parole ce que la main,& les machines nepeu- uent quelquefois faire. -- il s'eſt trouué n'agueres vne autre impoſture en allemagne ; c'eſt qu'ils prennent d'vne pierre,nommée impoſture rein-brnch,laquelle ils pulueriſent,& en donnent à boire à celuy qui aura quelque partie rompuë,ou luxée, trouuée n'a- & maintiennent qu'elle a puiſſance de guarir telles diſpoſitions. il y en a encores d'autres en allemagne, sºrº en qui prennent vne eſpée ou dague, ou autre tel inſtrument quiaura bleſsé le malade, laquelle ayans accom- º&* modée envn lieu reclus,comme celuy qui eſt bleſsé,la penſent, & y appliquent lesmedicamens qui ſeroient requis à la propre playe,laiſſans le malade ſans y faire aucune choſe,& à meſure qu'on penſent ladite eſpée, la playe ſe guarit,ce diſent-ils. - - : - - - or eſt-il vray ſemblable, qu'vne choſe inanimée puiſſe receuoir ayde d'aucun medicament ? & encore qu'ainſi fuſt,ſeroit il poſſible qu'vnmalade en peuſt reſſentir quelque effectºle laiſſe telle impoſture au iuge- ment des idiots,tantayent-ils peu d'eſprit.et quant à moy telles choſesme ſont incroyables,& encores quê ..., . ie lesveiſſe de mes yeux,fi croiroy-je pluſtoſt que ce ſeroitvnevraye magie,&impoſture.ala derniere prin- hiſtoire de ſe de hedin, monſieur de martigues l'aiſné fut bleſsé d'vn coup d'arquebuze au trauers du thorax , lequel monſieur de ie penſois auec les medecins, & chirurgiens du defunct empereur charles, & de ceux de monſeigneur le amartigues. duc de sauoye, lequel deſiroit fort qu'il fût guary. pour ce en fit faire vne conſultation, par laquelle fut reſolu de tous,qu'il mourroit de ladite bleſſure,attendu que la balle auoit paſsé au trauers des poulmons, & qu'en la capacité du thorax eſtoit decoulé vne bien grande quantité de ſang. ilſe trouua vn impoſteur eſpagnol,qui entreprenoit le guarir, à peine de perdre la vie:qui fut cauſe que mondit seigneur le duc de sauoye, voyant le prognoſtic qu'en auions fait,le mit entre les mains de ce venerable impoſteur : où tout ſubit demanda l'vne des chemiſes dudit seigneur de martigues,& la mit par petits lambeaux,qu'il poſa en troix (auec certaines paroles) ſur ſes playes, & luy permit manger,& boire tout ce qu'il voudroit, luy di- ſant qu'il feroit diette pour luy : ce qu'il faiſoit, ne mangeant que peu de pruneaux, ne beuuant que de la biere nonobſtant tout cela deux iours apres ledit seigneur de martigues deceda & mon eſpagnol gaigna le haut,& croy que fi on l'euſt peu attraper,il euſt eſté pendu & eſtranglé, pour la fauſſe promeſſe qu'il auoit faicte. i'embaumay le corps mort dudit seigneur de martigues, en la preſence tant des medecins, chi- rurgiens, que de pluſieurs gentils-hommes, & autres : & ayant fait l'ouuerture , trouuay les poul- mons percez, & dilacerez, auecques vne bien grande quantité de ſang eſpandu ſur le diaphragme, qui fut cauſe de la mort dudit seigneur. et vrayement c'eſt vne grande impoſture de vouloir faire ac- croire à vn malade, qu'vn autre ſaiſant la diete pour luy, & luy donnant cependant liberté de manger & , - boire tout ce qu'il aura en volonté il puiſſe guarir en aucune façon. il y a encores vne autre eſpece de ces impºſteurs impoſteurs qui ſe diſent guarir toutes playes auecquescharpie ſeiche,oumouillée en eau,ou huile,ou autre º ºiſent liqueur,diſans quelques paroles,& bandent les playes auecques compreſſes & ligatures,dont quelques vns #. † : ce que veritablement i'ay veu : mais ce ſont playes ſimples, qui ne deſirent qu'vnion,laquelle ſe #ie ſeu- it par le ſeul benefice de nature, ainſi qu'on voit aux beſtes brutes qui auront quelque jambe, ou autre " partie rompue,le callus eſtre refait ſans aide de nulmedicament. mais où il y aura complication de diſpo- fitions,comme vne playe auec grande contuſion,& fracture d'os,& inflammation, ou autres ſemblables diſ. poſitions, leur charpie, & paroles ne pourront apporter au maladè que la mort:& partant ceux qui ſe fient à tels impoſteurs,ne ſont pas trop ſages, ny aduiſez pour la conſeruation de leur ſanté;& pour ce, les ma- giſtrats ne doiuent permettre que tels impoſteurs ayent lieu en leur republique, mais les punir ſelon leurs merites,& non leur permettre faire telles impoſtures ſur les chreſtiens. auicenne fen. . faict priere, que le feu du ciel, & l'eſprit de tourment rende le medecin impoſteur & auare, ſemblable aux habitans de so- impoſture , dome,& gomorrhe. les ſorciers, enchanteurs,deuins, magiciens,charmeurs,empoiſonneurs,exorciſeurs, faite par les ſe vantent de guarir plufieurs maladies : ce qu'ils font par les machinations,fraudres,erreurs,fureurs,ruſes, ſorciers. & puiſſance des diables,à ſçauoir, parparoles,conjurations, charmes, characteres, liaiſons,billets pendus au col,ou aux poignets,par anneaux,images,onguents,poudres, drapeaux appliquez en croix auſſi par eux, attouchemens,& autres ſemblables refueries infernales : & gaſtent, au preiudice de la vie des hommes, la loy ſacrée de medecine,la plus ancienne & neceſſaire de toutes les autres ſciences. les magiſtrats les doi- nent chaſſer de leur republique. il eſtoient non ſeulement chaſſez,mais punis en la vieille loy par l'edit de moyſevons n'endurerez pointviure les empoiſonneurs. ie ne veux icy reciter les guariſons miraculeu- ſes du fils de dieu i e s v s-c h r s t, & de ſes saincts,& apoſtres.car nul chreſtien n'en doit douter, attendu que les ſainctes eſcritures en ſont pleines, comme faire voir les aueugles, ouir les ſourds, marcher miraculeu- les paralytiques,chaſſer les malins eſprits qui poſſedent les perſonnes, guarir les ladres,rendre les femmes # ſteriles,ſecondes : reſſuſciter les morts, & vne infinité d'autres choſes ſurnaturelles & miraculeuſes,qui ſe ttb s. faiſoient par la vertu du ſaincteſprit. lequel ie ſupplie qu'il nous conſerue & defende des malins eſprits luc. . diaboliques,& nous face la grace que dirigions touſiours noſtre chemin au ciel,& que noſtre anchre y foit pcrpctuellement attachée.ainſi ſoit il, deuter. . guariſons d , t a b l e tab l e tre du traicté des animaux. g# e la nature des beſtes brutes. chap. j §\ % du pronoſtic des animaux. ij % de l'artifice & induſtrie des animaux. i i j # de l'induſtrie & artifice des oiſeaux à faire leurs nids. iv de l'artifice des araignées. . - v des mouches à miel. - v j du gouuernement des mouches à miel. · v ij des fourmis. - v i i j des vers qui font la ſoye ,. | ix . de l'induſtrie des animaux,& de la conſeruation &'amitié qu'ils ont , & principalement de leurs petits. " , . x · du temps que les animaux s'accouplent enſemble . xj de l'amour & charité des oiſeaux. x i j de la nature de l'elephanr,. x i ij des beſtes qui ſont és eaux. x i v que les beſtes peuuent eſtre appriuoisées. x v (bmment les animaux ont appris aux hommes à fourbir, & ai- guiſer leurs armures, & faire embuſcades. xvj des armes des beſtes. x vij . des beſtes qui ſont dociles. x v iij les oiſeaux cnt monſtré aux hommes à chanter enmuſique .. xix des oiſeaux qui parlent,ſublent & ſifflent . x x de l'antipathie, & sympathie . xx j (omme l'homme eſt plus excellent & parfaict que toutes les eſtes enſemble . , xxij · l'homme a le corps deſarmé. . xx i i j (omme dieu s'eſt monſtré admirable en la creation de l'homme . xx v la cauſe pourquoy les hommes nepreſagent comme les animaux. x x v l'homme a la dexterité d'apprendre toutes langues. xx v j l e le second livre · des an l m a v x, et d e , . l'excellence de l'homme. t)e la nature des beſtes brutes. ch a p t r e p r e m e r. #w#nº v par a v a n t que venir à la deſcription, & declaration particuliere du corps gal au # $ a > \ é ， humain , que l'on appelle anatomie, il n'y aura point de mal, ce me ſemble , de l'vſage des #\ $ toucher quelque choſe ſommairement des animaux , & beſtes brutes en general. pa#. $ % $ les beſtes brutes donc ſont autant differentes entre elles, que la nature des vnes ſ $ differe de celle des autres. car des animaux les vns ſont naturellement hardis, les autres timides : les vns farouches, les autres priuez, & comme ciuiliſez , autres $ comme ſolitaires , aucuns ſont armez de coquilles , & eſcailles , comme le crocodile, & la tortue, & pluſieurs poiſſons : autres d'aiguillons , & eſpines. le cheual a l'ongle forte , & comme animal leger, ſuperbe & courageux, il a eſté pourueu, & fait braue de ſes crins. le corps du lyon magnanime, hautain, & cruel , eſt armé de dents , d ongles , & de queue. le tanreau , & le sanglier ſe rendent formidables : le taureau, c'eſt à ſçauoir auec ſes cornes, & lesanglier auec ſes dents ou deffences eminentes, & deſcouuertes, qui ſont comme leurs armes natu- relles. le liévre animal paoureux & craintif, a le corps deſarmé, & totalement nud : mais en recompenſe, il eſt viſte & foudain à la fuite : car aux animaux paoureux, la viſteſſe leur eſt donnée , & aux hardis les le liévré armes. il y a vne infinité d'autres proprietez admirables, & de ſingulier artifice aux animaux, en lorte º de . qu'il eſt impoſſible de les comprendre & eſcrire. somme, les animaux ont chacun vne choſe particuliere, rande vi. comme le beuf la force, le ſerpent l'aſtuce, le taureau la furie, le mouton patience, & la douceur, le ºllº - crapaut la fierté,le renard la ruſe & ſubtilité, l'aſne la ſtolidité,le tygre la cruauté , la colombe la douceur, « # beſtes le fourmy la preuoyance, le teſſon oublereau,la negligence,le chien la fidelité, le mulet l'infidelité, le loup #. # la gloutonnie, l'elephant la prudence, le porc la ſaleté, la netteté l'eſcurieu , & ainſi des autres, comme §ue b il ſera plus amplement declaré cy-apres. si nous voulons contempler leurs façons de faire, nous trouue- §. - rons qu'elles ſont doüées de certaines vertus naturelles en chacune affection , de courage, prudence,force, clemence, dicipline. elles ſe cognoiſſent les vnes les autres, diſcernent entre elles , appetent les choſes qui leur ſont vtiles,fuyent le mal,euitent le peril, pouruoyent a l'aduenir, amaſſent ce qui leur eſt neceſ- ſaire,preſagent le beau & mauuais temps : elles ont monſtré pluſieurs choſes aux hommes , elles ont vn ſentiment exquis , elles chantent en muſique, elles ont vne induſtrie & amitié à la conſeruation de leurs petits, elles ont intelligence du pays où § naiſſent, elles gardent vne ſinguliere chaſteté , concorde & amour les vnes enuers les autres : elles ſont armées pour combattre, & ſe defendre, elles ſe laiſſent appri- uoileraux hommes, elles parlent & ſifflent, elles cognoiſſent la voix l'vne de l'autre, elles font entre elles comme vne petite republique, elles cognoiſſent ce qui leur eſt bon ou mauuais, tant pour preſeruer leur ſanté, que pour ſeguarir elles meſmes : ſçauent quelle diete il leur faut tenir, & de quelle viande elles doi- uent vſer,& quels remedes elles doiuent chercher contre leurs maladies, & ſi n'ont point apprins ces ſcien- ces des hommes : mais au contraire, elles les ont appriſes en partie aux hommes. ce qu'eſtant conſideré de pluſieurs anciens philoſophes, ils n'ont point eu honte de diſputer ou reuoquer en doute, ſi les beſtes brutes eſtoient participantes de raiſon:meſme le ſage salomon nous renuoye quelquesfois à leurs eſcoles,& - eſaye reproche aux iſraelites leur ingratitude enuers dieu, leur propoſant pour exemple le bœuf,& l'aſne, salomon• qui recognoiſſent leur maiſtre, mais iſraël a meſcognu ſon seigneur. pareillement pline dit, que les hom- # liu mes doiuent rendre graces aux beſtes, de pluſieurs medecines, & remedes qu'ils ont apprins d'icelles. #. ft , : qu'ainfi ſoit, les cerfs nous monſtrent que l'herbe nommée dictame, eſt bonne pour tirer les traicts, ou p. . . lestronçons defleche du corps de celuy qui en eſt frappé, puis que les meſmes cerfs quand ils en font na- vrez,yſent de ce meſme remede. ariſtote dit que les chévres ſauuages de candie font le ſemblable. la ... proprieté de l'herbe nommée eſclaire nous a eſté enſeignée par les hirondelles,& qu'elle eſtoit propre pour *ºº. la veue, voyans qu'elles en vſoient pour les yeux de leurs petits. les ſerpens vſent de fenouil, & ſillans les yeux s'en frottent les paupieres pour recouurer la veuë. la tortue mange de la ſariette contre la morſure des viperes. la belette mange de l'herbe nommée tapſus barbatus , & s'en frotte tout le corps , ſe cou- chant, & trainant par deſſus.les ours enuenimez pour auoir mangé des pommes de mandragore, ſe gua- - riſſent en mangeantdes fourmis : auſſiapres s'eſtre long-temps veautrez , ſortans de leur cauerne, mangent les ours l'herbe appellée aron ſauuage, pour leur amollir le ventre , qu'ils ont eu touſiours dur , & conſtipé pen- # des - dant qu'ils ont eſté en leurcauerne, & apres s'en vont a vne fourmillere, où ils ſe couchent, tirans la lan- #º gue , de laquelle il degoutte quelque humidité douce , la tenans touſiours tirée iuſques à ce qu ils ſentent purger. qu'elle ſoit couuerte de fourmis , lors qu'ils ſe ſentent malades, puis les auallent pour ſe purger. nous vºyons ordinairement les chiens, qui mangent de l'herbe nommée dent de chien, pour ſe vuider parvo- miſſement. les pourceaux cherchent les eſcreuiſſes, & les mangent quand ils ſont malades. les ramiers, - lºº merles, les perdrix vſent de feuilles de laurier pour leur purgation : les pigeons, tourterelles & poul- * laillespour ſe purger mangent de la parietaire. l'ibis, & ſemblablement la cicongne, nous a monſtre l'v- la cicongne ſage des clyſteres lequel ſe ſentant aggraué d humeurs, eſtant au riuage de la mer, remplit ſon bec, & ſon a enſeigné cold'eau marine, puis ſe ſeringue par la partie par laquelle il jette cs excremens, & peu de temps apres les clyſieres. d ſe vuide o -- "--ond liure des animau e» - » ! - / la chévre a ſe vuide, & ſe purge lºuention d'abbatre les tayes des yeux appellées catar ſtes, fut trouuée par vne enſeigné à chévre,qui auoit vne tayº deuant la pupille,ſe frottant & gallant contre des eſpines , abbatit ladite taye de abbattre les deuant la pupillc , & par ce moyen recouura laveuë. l'hippopotame ( qui eſt vn cheual de la riuiere du tayes des yeux. l hippopota- me auſſi a enſeigné à faire la ſai- gnée. la laine blanche peut trendre tºu- te; ſ rtes de teiutures. les poiſſons entendent la mutation du temps. lés oyſeaux.. plutarque. nil )nous a enſeigné la phlebotomie, lequel eſtant de nature gourmand & glouton,ſe ſentant aggraué de plenitude de ſang, ſe frotte contre les roſeaux rompus les plus picquans &, s'ouure vne veine de la cuiſſe, pour ſe deſcharger tant que beſoin luy eſt, puis ſe veautrant dedans la fange s'eſtanche le ſang. la tortue lors qu'elle a mangé de la chairde ſerpent,mange de l'origant, autrement marjoleine ſauuage. les anciens entrè leurs ſecrets ont experimenté certaines choſes, qui reſiſtent aux tonnerres & foudres,& entre les au- tres les plumes d'aigles portées en panache:auſſila ceinture de veaumarin empeſche que ceux quil'ont,n'en ſont iamais attaints. or qui voudroit raconter par le menu toutes les medecines & remedes que les beſtes ont enſeignées aux hommes deſquelles ariſtote,& pline , & autres ſemblablcs ont eſcrit , la choſe ſeroit fort longue:car ils font vn long recit des beſtes, & remedes qu'elles ont monſtrez aux hommes dauantage, nos veſtemens ſont faits des leurs, comme peau, laine, poil, & ſommes nourris de leur chair : la greſſe. moüelle, os , & excremens nous ſeruent à nos infirmitez , & guariſon. exemple des brebis. de la laine des brebis nous ſommes veſtus, laquelle eſtant blanche peut prendre toutes ſortes de teintu- res : on en fait tapiſſeries, auſſi fourrures, & autres choſes. de leur peau on fait parchemin pour eſcrire, & toutes manieres de veſtemens,& autres vſages à diuerſes choſes.leur chair eſt tres-bóne,& delicieuſe à manger : de leur ſuif ſont faicts flambeaux , chandelles , onguents , & pluſieurs autres choſes : de leurs boyaux ſont faites cordes ſeruans aux inſtrumens muſicaux. leur decoction ſert à faire clyſteres,& fomen- tations remollientes. et quant à leurs crottes & vrine , il ne ſe trouue nul fient plus excellent pour engraiſ- ſer la terre. dauantage, leurs os & mouelle ſeruent à faire fards pour embellir les femmes : meſmes leur cornes ſeruent à faire produire des aſperges en abondance, eſtans enterrées auec leurs racines. et pour concluſion, les brebis ſont grandement profitables pour l'vſage des hommes. auſſi trouuerons-nous en l'eſcriture ſaincte que la plus grande richeſſe d'aucuns roys conſiſtoit en troupeaux à laine, leſquels meſ- me ils daignoient bien garder en leurs propres perſonnes (pour le profit, & excellence de ces beſtes)com- me nous liſons d'abraham, iſaac , iacob , laban, moyſe , dauid, & autres. de prognoſtic des animaux. ch a p. i i. a v a n t a g e les animaux tant terreſtres qu'aquatiques, & volatilles , ont donné aux - hommes ſa cognoiſſance de la mutation du temps : s'il doit faire vents, pluyes, orage, & { \| n % tempeſte, froidure , gelée, greſle , ou beau temps : comme nous voyons les beliers & # aigneaux, lors qu'ils s'entreheurtent , & choquent l'vne contre l'autre ; corne à corne, les pieds en l'air auec le petit ſaut leur corps esbranlant, ſignifient changement de temps. le peril nous eſt demonſtré par le bœuf, quand il ſe leche à contre-poil, & hauſſe le muffle vers le ciel, & mugit, & flaire la terre, & s'efforce de manger auidement. auſſi quand les fourmis plus drues,& en plus grand nombre que de couſtume, s'entrerencontrent l'vne l'autre comme eſtourdies, elles deno- tent la pluye ſoudain aduenir. si les taupes beſongnent en terre plus que de couſtume, & la rompent en pieces bien menues, c'eft figne de pluye. si le chat paſſe ſa patte par deſſus le col , comme s'il ſe pei- gnoit,c'eſt ſigne infallible de pluye. les poiſſons ont auſſi vne merueilleuſe proprieté à ſentir la mutation du temps, quand en temps ſerain ils ſe joüent ſur l'eau , en ſe lançans au defſus, ils ſignifient pluye. quand les dauphins, & marſoüins ſautent,& ſe deſcouurent ſur l'eau , c'eſt ſigne de grand orage, & tempeſte ſur la mer : ce que voyans les mariniers, moüillent l'anchre, & donnent ordre à leurs vaiſſeaux. quand on voit les orties de mer nager ſur l'eau, c'eſt ſigne de tempeſte:elles ſont de couleur de criſtal,reluiſans auec du pers meſlé : de ſubſtance ſi fragille,qu'à peine en peut-on tirer d'entieres de la mer. si on en frotte vn baſton, il reluit de nuict, comme ſi c'eſtoit vne torche allumée, qui eſt choſe admirable. quand auſſi la grenoüille chante, & crie plus haut que de couſtume. les oyſeaux ne ſont fruſtrez de ce priuilege:caron peut autant ou plus parler d'eux à ce propos,que detoutes les autres beſtes. si les grues volent en l'air ſans faire bruit, c'eſt figne de beau temps : ſi elles crient, & vont ſans ordre, c'eſt ſigne contraire. quand les oyſeaux aquatiques ſortent de la mer, & viennent aſſez auant ſur terre, c'eſt ſigne de pluye,& grande tem- peſte. si la cheueche chante beaucoup en temps de pluye,elle denote que le temps ſe veut eſclaircir:& au contraire,ſi elle chante en bcau temps, c'eſt ſigne de pluye. plutarque dit que quand le corbeau chante en voix enroüée,& qu'il ſe bat des ailes, c'eſt ſigne de vent, & de tempeſte. quand les poulles,& autres oyſeaux domeſtiques ſe battent des ailes & ſautent en chantant, c'eſt ſigne de pluye,& de grands vents. quand les oyes , canes, & canars ſe baignent volontiers, & s'épluchent, & dreſſent leurs plumes auec le bec , & enſemble iargognent, c'eſt ſigne de pluye.si les hirondelles volent ſi pres de l'eau , & de la terre qu'elles frappent contre, cela denote que toſtil pleuura : auſſi quand elles volent haut en l'air , en s'ébat- tans cherchans les mouches , cela fignifie beau temps le petit roytelet ſe reſiouyſſant plus que de couſtu- me, ſautelant, & plaiſammentchantant, denoce la pluye aduenir. lors que la pie crie, & ſe tempeſte pres des hayes ou buiſſons:cela denmonſtre qu'elle voidle loup,ou renard, ou quelque ſerpent. si le coq chante incontinent apres le soleil couchant (comme l'on dit entre chien & loup ) outre ſa couſtume , & que ſa voix ſoit enrouée, c'eſt ſigne de pluye. si les mouches , & puces mordent, & picquent, & aiguillonnent plus que de couſtume, c eſt figne de pluye quand le heron vole fort haut, il denote beau temps,& s'il vole pres de l'eau en criant, il preſage de la pluye.lors que les pigeons ſe retirent au ſoir en leurs colom- · biers plus tard que de couſtume, preſage de vent,& de pluye.. les millans fuyent l'air infect, & peſti- lent, & le quittent ; de ſorte qu'il n'y a rien ſi certain qui rhonſtre la ſerenité, & bon air, que les lieux où les milans habitent. pareillement autres oiſeaux laiſſent leurs œufs,& leurs petits,& s'enfuyent.quand les chauue-ſouris volent au veſpre,pluſtoſt que de couſtume,& en plus grand nombre, c'eſt ſigne de chaleur, & de beau temps pour le iour ſuiuant.le crocodile fait ſes œufsiuſtement à la hauteur que la riuiere du nil doit desborder, & couurir la terre,de façon que le paſſant qui premier les treuue de fortune, ſçait & pre- dit à ſes compagnons, iuſques où le fleuue doit monter & déborder l'eſté enſuiuant : meſurant & compaſ- ſant iuſtement ce qui doit eſtrecouuert d'eau,afin que luy ſans eſtre baigné,puiſſe couuer ſes œufs. or ce- la eſt plus vne precognoiſſance de ceſte beſte, procedante de diuination,que de raciocination ; choſe digne d'admiration. nous dirons en paſſant, quand la lune eſt rouge ſignifie vents : palle,ſignifie pluyes : clai- rc, beau temps : et auſſi qu'en la pleine lune ne faut couperle bois pour baſtir, mais en la declinaiſon : & ſi on le fait , il ſe rend vermolu, & pourry. e & de l'excellence de l'homme. i de l'artifice & induſtrie des animaux. c h a p. i i i. e s poiſſons de la mer en general, toutes & quantesfois qu'ils ſentent les flots ou témpeſtes plutarque . venir, ils ſe chargent d'arene, afin qu'ils ſoient plus fermes , & qu'ils ne ſoient ſi facilement artifice des tranſportez,& agitez par la tempeſte ſuruenante. autres ſe muſſent en certaines,cauernes & poiſſons. - trous de rochers. et quant à ce que les poiſſons nagent contre le fil de l'eau, cela aduient afin evéyºyº que les ondes,& vagues ne leur leuent & rebrouſſent leur écaille & ouye, leſquelles remplies ne pourroient aucunement reſpirer : & par ainſi l'eau venant par la partie de deuant,leur ſerre les ouyes,& applanit leur écaille : qui fait que plus facilement ils nagent.le ſemblable eſt des gruës,leſquelles volent contre le vent : afin qu'iceluyne ſouffle leur plume par le derriere, qui ſeroit cauſe eſtant ainſi écartée,de rendre leurs corps nuds & découuerts,ce qui les empeſcheroit de voler. de l'induſtrie & artifice des oyſeaux àfaire leur mids. c h a è. $ /e\ • sºr v iv. 'i n d v s t r e & artifice laquelle tous les oyſeaux ont à faire leurs nids, eſt faicte tant pro- prement, qu'il n'eſt poſſible de mieux : tellement qu'ils ſurpaſſent tous les maçons, charpen- tiers, & edificateurs : car il n'y a homme qui ſceuſt faire edifice plus propre pour luy,& ſes en- fans, que cespetits animaux les font pour eux , tellement que nous en auons vn prouerbe,que les hommes ſçauent tout faire ſinon les nids des oiſeaux. et ont cét artifice qu'ils les garniſſent de plume, laine,ou d'autre matiere molle,comme s'ils leurs preparoient vne coultre,ou vn matelas pour les loger plus à leuraiſe. l'irondelle fait ſon nid en figure ſpherique & ronde, laquelle figure eſt plus ferme, & con- ti ét plus que toute autre nature:elles le baſtiſſent de fange,& petits feſtus,comme s'il eſtoit de ciment & de chaux. les oyſeaux qui font leurs nids ſur les arbres,choiſiſſent les plus fortes,& couuertes branches, afin que leurs nids y puiſſent eſtre, comme ſur vn fondement bien aſſeuré , plus fermes,& mieux couuerts. or pendant que la femelle eſt empeſchée à couuer ſes œufs,& à faire ſes petits , le maſle luy ſert à ſon tour, pour donner loiſir à la femelle d'aller querre ſa vie : & quand les petits ſont éclos, le malle, & la femelle enſemble ne ceſſent iamais à leur porter viandes,& l'oſtans de leur bec,l'eſpargnent pour leur bailler : qui eſt cauſe qu'ils en ſont plus maigres lors qu'ils les nouriſſent,pour le grand ſoin qu'ils en ont, ne les aban- donnans iuſques à ce qu'ils mangent d'eux-meſmes. i'ay en ma maiſon aſſez bonne quantitéde paſſereaux, qui font leurs nids en certains pots de terre& lors que leurs petits ſont grandelets,& couuerts de plumes, i'en fais denicher,& mettre en vne cage pour le plaiſir de mes amis & de moy,a voir que le pere, & la me- re les viennent appaſteler, & quand il y en a vn qui ja a receu ſa becquée,& neantmoins qu'il ſe vienne re- preſenter ouurant le bec, le pere, & la mere le laiſſent, cognoiſſans ceux à qui il en faut bailler : & ainſi font leur diſtribution commeil appartient, ſelon l'ordre, & regle de iuſtice diſtributiue.i'ay fait mettre vn experiente paſſereau eſtranger auec les autres de meſme âge,pour cognoiſtre & ſçauoir ſi le pere,& la mere des autres faiâe par auroient cure de l'appaſteler : mais ie trouuay au contraire qu'ils le laiſſoient mourir de faim,encore qu il l'autheur. ouuriſt le bec comme les autres legitimes.on void auſſi les petits chevreaux,& aignelets,eſtans aux champs en grand nombre, que chacun recognoit ſa mere , combien qu'elles ſont veſtuës toutes d'vne couleur:pa- reillement, la mere ne permettravne autre l'alaicter. le chevreau, l'agneau , le poulain, & ſemblables animaux, ſi toſt qu'ils ſont nez, d'eux-meſmes cherchent, & courrentaux mammelles de leurs meres : ſça- chans naturellement que là eſt leur nourriture , & deuenus grands ils choiſiſſent de mille diuerſes plantes en vn terroir & paſturage, celles qui leur ſont propres pour les alimenter. de l'artifice des araignées : c h a p. v. —º. l 'a r a g n e e fait ſa toille d'vn merueilleux artifice, trauerſant maintenant d'vn coſté, & # maintenant de l'autre, empoignant tout ce qui luy peut ſeruir pour l'eſtendre & attacher.e? " encore qu'on rompe, & défaſſe ſouuent ſon ouurage, & qu'on la dechaſſe d'vn coſté oud'au- tre , ce neantmoins elle n'eſt point tant craintiue, qu'elle deſloge de ſon logis pour cela, mais touſiours retourne à ſa beſongne;de ſorte qu'on ne luy en ſçauroit tant défaire & gaſter qu'el- le n'en reface & racoutre,faiſant touſiours ouurages nouueaux, & ce d'vn merueilleux artifice : tellement que les tiſſerans,& lingeres,tapiſſiers,brodeurs,paſſementiers,peſcheurs,veneurs,& autres viennent à l'eſ- chole pour apprendre d'elles à faire leurs ouurages,& leurs rets, ſoit qu'on regarde à la perfection,& ſub- tilité du fil,ou aux nœuds indiſſolubles de la toile ſans filamens, eſtant comme vne peau déliée & gluante, comme s'il y auoit de la colle. finalement on ne croiroit iamais qu'elles fuſſent tant bien enſeignées à re- la toile d'a- tirer leurs filets, & le gouuernement de leurs ouurages, tellement que s'il y a quelque mouſche ou autre proye prinſe à leurs filets,la ſentent,& tout en vn momêt retirent leur toile, & courent ſus cóme vn chaſ- gluante,pour feur bien experimenté:que ſi ne le voyons tous les iours deuant nos yeux, on penſeroit que ce fuſt fable. des mouches à miel. ch a p. v i. - e ne veux laiſſer en arriere la prudence des mouſches à miel : c'eſt qu'elles font entre elles comme vne petite republique, elles ont vn roy,lequel eſt plus beau, plus gros & feſſu deux fois que les autres mouches : il a les aiſles courtes, & les jambes droictes , vn marcher plus graue que les autres, ayant vne tache au front, qui luy ſert de diademe ou de couronne , qui : eſt le ſignal royal , d'authorité, & de majeſté : il eſt plus poly que les autres mouſches à miel. elles ont vn aiguillon pour leurs armes & defences, toutesfois le roy n'en a point,ou pour le moins il n'en vſe point:lors qu'il marche, il a ſa garde qui l'enuironne, & toute la troupe le ſuit. il ne ſort point de la ruche ſinon quand tout ſon regiment doit ſortir, ce qu'on cognoit par le bruit qu'elles font dedans la ruche,bruyans & bourdonnans, comme trompes, & tambours, pour annoncer qu'il faut debuſquer pour aller aux champs. chacune d'elles deſire eſtre apres le roy,& s'il eſt las,le portent,& en quelque part qu'il s'arreſte tout le jetton s'arreſtera,& ſe campera,s'il meurt,toutes ſont triſtes & mornes, & ne ſortent point dehors pour aller en queſte, mais s'aſſemblent à l'entour de ſon corps , puis le portent dehors, & luy font côpagnie côme és funerailles,& l'enſeueliſſent en terre:cela fait, en eſliſent promptement vn autre;car elles ne peuuent viure ſans roy. il a l'œil par tout cependant que toutes les mouſches trauaillent, leur donnant cœur, voltigeant autour de la beſongne, comme s'il vouloit exhorter les ouuriers.apres qu elles ont trauaillé,ſi elles veulent ſortir dehors,elles éliſentvn temps propre,car veritablemeut elles preuoyent, àmielſentit & ſentent artifice, des oiſeaux. la figure . fonde contièt pltts que tou- tes les autres. ariſtot. de_ anima lib. . c. . la femelle , cr maſle des oiſeaux cou- *ent eour à f f /° raignée eſt mieux pren- dre les mouſ- ches. le picqueron eſt döné aux mouſches à miel pour éº/ f" r eſ & defences. les abeilles ne peuuent viure ſans vn rey. lesmouſ her . le econd llure des an maux, ºººº é & ſentent les pluyes, vents & tempeſtes lors qu'ils doiuent venir. elles ont ceſte iuſtice & equité, que ſur a †º les champs lamais ne font mal aux animaux, tels qu'ils ſoient, & ne picquent aucun de leur aiguillon,ſinon : temps. . pour la defence de leur maiſon, & peut-on dire qu'elles ont quelque portion de l'eſprit diuin. du gouuernement des mouſches à miel. c h a p. v i i. l l e s ſe gouuernent en leur faict comme s'enſuit : de iour elles font faire le guet à la por- te, & repoſent de nuict iuſques à ce qu'vne les reueille auec deux ou trois ſons de leurs | bourdonnemens , comme d'vne trompette qui leur commande ainſi qu'en vn camp : lors s'aſſemblent pour voir s'il fera beau temps, & s'il fait beau , ſortent, & s'en vont en queſte. n \º les vnes apportent leurs fleurs à leurs pieds , & cuiſſes , les autres de l'eau en leur bouche, les autres qui ont encore quelque menu poil, apportent l'eau ſur leurs corps en forme de petite roſée. prouid.nee #t ainſi chargées : emºnt dedans la ruche, où promptement ilyena qui les deſchargent, puis les diſtri- aux mouſ- buent aux leux, & places, à ce ordonnées. or celles qui vont aux champs, ſont les plus ieunes & menuës: ches à miel, ººº fi de fortune eſtans dehors il s'eſleue vent, attendent qu'il ſoit paſſé pour eſtre plus aiſément condui- tes : s'il dure trop, & qu'il leur ſoit contraire, ſe chargent d'vne petite pierre, de peur d'eſtre emportées, & volent bas contre la terre. elles ſont fort vigilantes en leurs affaires, & ont l'œil ſur celles qui ſont '— • fetardes, & ne font rien , & quelquesfois les chaſtient iuſques à la mort. les vnes baſtiſſent, les autres #ºlºº poliſſent, autres apportent viure. elles commencent à baſtir en leurs ruches, en voulte, d'vn artifice mer- # i- ueilleux, depuis le bas iuſques en haut du plancher, laiſſans deux limites, l'vn pour l'entrée, & l'autre pour la ſortie, & viuent toutes enſemble, afin qu'il n'y ait inegalité entre elles, ny en viandes, ny en trauail.elles tiennent leur manoir fort nettement, iettans toutes ordures dehors, & ont vne choſe encore digne d'eſtre bien notée : c'eſt qu'elles chaſſent de leurs ruches les bourdons, & les abeilles baſtardes,qui ne leur ſeruent de rien ſinon à manger leur miel, & à gaſter leur ouurage, & partant elles les chaſſent, & les tuent comme leurs ennemis. celles qui ont perdu leur aiguillon, ſont du tout inutiles , & peu apres leurs entrailles ſor- tent,& meurent. elles font de grand profit à leurs maiſtres,leurs laiſſans cire, & miel. ariſtomachus philo- ſophe dit en auoir nourry cinquante huict ans, auec tres-grande diligence, pour cognoiſtre tout ce qu'elles faiſoient, & dit qu'elles ſont compagnables, & aſſociables enſemble de leur nature. ſens nettes. des fourmis. ch a f. viii. mg e s fourmis ne ſont pas de moindre admiration que les mouſches à miel en leur induſtrie, salomon prudence & diligence : de ſorte que salomon n'a pas eu honte d'enuoyer les pareſſeux à l'eſ- donne pour ， # chole d'iceux. or ce ſeroit choſe incroyable ſi n'en auions l'experience pour teſmoin, que # #)lºèſ# ces beſtioles tant petites puiſſent amaſſer les biens qu'elles amaſſent pour leur prouiſion , mº/ ºts asgx- zºzºso & tenir entre elles vn tel ordre qu'elles tiennent. pline dit qu'il y a entre elles ordre de re- # publique, memoire, ſoing, & cure. n'eſt-ce pas vn paſſe-temps de leur voir mordre les fruicts qu'elles o *" veulent porter ? s'ils ſont trop gros, elles ſe tournent en arriere, & s'appuyent contre leurs eſpaules, & o. les pouſſent de leurs pieds. et à celle fin que les ſemences qu'elles cachent en terre, ne puiſſent germer & reprendre, elles les rongent auant que les mettre en leurs greniers. et fi les grains ſont trop gros, & qu'ils me puiſſent facilement entrer par leurs trous, elles les partiſſent par le milieu : & s'ils ſont moüillez de pluye, elles les mettent dehors, & les font ſeicher. elles labourent de nuict quand la lune eſt pleine, & ceſſent au defaut d icelle, en quoy elles monſtrent quelles entendent quelque choſe en aſtronomie. mais en leurs œuures, quel labeur & quelle diligence y a il ? & pourtant qu'elles amaſſent leur prouiſion de diuers lieux , & que l'vne ne ſcait rien de l'autre, pline teſmoigne qu'elles ont certains iours de foire, pour ſe co- gnoiſtre l'vne l'autre. vn chacun peut penſer quelle courſe, & qu'elle diligence il y a entre elles. mais qui les contempleroit, ne diroit-il pas qu'elles parlent enſemble, & qu'elles interrogent & reſpondent l'vne à foire de l'autre ， ne voyons-nous-pas les pierres & cailloux rongez, & engrauez en leur chemin, de la trace de leurs fourm，. pieds,& le ſentier qui eſt fait par leur œuure ? enquoy nous pouuons bien cognoiſtre combien la diligence, pline. & exercice valent, & peuuent en vne chacune choſe : car ſi les pieds tant petits que ceux des fourmis vſent, & cauent les pierres par force, & par continuation d'aller , & de venir , que peut le continuel labeur des hommes ? mais outre tout cecy, il eſt encore efcrit d'elles , qu'elles s'enſeueliſſent les vnes les autres, com- plutarque me les hommes.plutarque s'accorde en ce que pline en a eſcrit, mais auſſi il monſtre mieux en ſpecial, & ,. opuſcule. par le menu, les grandes vertus qui ſont en celles petites beſtes, deſquelles il parle ainſi : mais comme pline liure eſt-il poſſible de parler aſſez dignement de la diſcipline & induſtrie des fourmis ? ſi ne les faut-il pas paſſer o. chap. o. ſans en parler aucunement nature n'a point de plus grand miroüer des grandes, & excellentes choſes:car en iceluy reluit le ſignal de toute vertu, comme en vne pure goutelette. ceſte communication qu'elles ont entre elles, eſt l'image d'amitié : ceſte force & allegreſſe qu'elles ont aux trauaux, eſt vne image de force, & magnanimité : ſomme, elles ont beaucoup de ſemence, & de teſmoignage de temperence, & de proui- beneuolence dence, : de iuſtice : chacun peut cognoiſtre leur beneuolence lors qu'elles ſe rencontrent quand celles # qui ſont vuides font place aux chargées.afin qu'elles paſſent à leuraiſe, quand auſſi elles partiſſent en beau- coup de pieces vn fardeau trop peſant, ou à porter, ou à trainer : ſemblablement , quand elles mettent les grains au soleil , pour les faire ſeicher, lors qu'ils ſe niellent ou fletriſſent, ou pourriſſent. et encores d'a- bondant que le ſoing qu'elles ont que leurs grains ne germent , ſurpaſſe tout entendement : car elles ron- gent le nombril du grain , qui eſt la partie par laquelle il jette le germe, le chaſtrent long-temps deuant. on dit que la premiere deſcente, & entrée de leurs cauernes n'eſt pas droicte, afin qu'il n'y ait point d'au- tres beſtes qui y puiſſent aller; mais qu'elle eſt tortue, auec des grands retours & circuits, ayans plufieurs ſentiers de trauers, leſquels ſe rendent en trois cauernes : l'vne eſt celle-là où elles font leur aſſemblée, & parlemens : l'autre où elles retirent leurs prouiſions de toute l'année : & la tierce eſt le cimetiere des morts. dauantage , iamais ne font mal les vnes aux autres, & viuront cent mille enſemble en leurs petites cauernes de terre : & deux hommes le plus ſouuent ne peuuent viure en paix dans la republique. voilà ce qu'en eſ- crit plutarque. les mouſches à miel , les fourmis, d'autres animaux,recueillent pour l'hyuer , & ſemblent auoir quelque ombre de raiſon : mais ce qu'elles font, n'eſt ſeulement que par vn inſtinct naturel, & non par prudence. les beſtes appellées inſectes ſont comme fourmis, & autres petites beſtioles : pource qu'el- les ont des inciſions, taillades, ou decoupures par deſſus le dos, ou par § , ou en tous les deux, qui ſont accouplées , & coniointes d'vn petit filet creux, ſelon pline,& ariſtote. dtr & de l'excellence de l'homme. . des vers qui font la ſoye ». c h a p. i x. o v s pouuons auſſi âdiouſter à ces beſtes les vers qui font la ſoye, deſquels les philoſo- phes ont eſcrit merueilles ; à ſçauoir de la maniere de faire leurs nids , & dé leurs laines & toiles , deſquelles elles font braues les roys, reynes , & autres hommes & femmes. mais qui eſt celuy qui ne ſe doiue grandement eſmerueiller de l'induſtrie, entondement qui ſont | - t - en ces petites beſtioles » la prouidence de dieu ſe monſtre en la nature qu'il a donnée aux animaux : elle ſe manifeſte encore mieux en ce que les plus petits d'entr'eux, ſont ceux auſquels il a plus donné d'induſtrie, & de prudence : afin que par icelle ils puiſſent recompenſer la force qui leur defaut. - de l'induſtrie des animaux, & de la conſeruation & amitié qu'ils ont, & principalement de leurs petits. '. c h a p. x. es animaux portent vne ſi extreme amitié enuers leurs faons ou petits, que ſouuent elles ſe pourroient ſauuer & eſchapper,en fuyant le chaſſeur qui les veut prédre. mais s'il faut par ce moyen abandonner leurs petits, elles aiment mieux eſtre miſes en pieces, que les perdre, & laiſſer en arriere. et la ſaiſon qu'elles ſont plus furieuſes,c'eſt alors qu'elles ne nourriſſent. plutarque dit, que toutes les beſtes en general ayment ardemment ce qu'elles engendrent, &ile nourriſſent ſoigneuſement,& ont vne affection & fineſſe ſinguliere en telle matiere. et quant à l'indu- les perdrix ſtrie de conſeruer leurs petits, les perdrix vſent en cela d'vne grande fineſſe, car tandis que leurs petits ne vſent de fi- peuuent encore voler pour leur ieune aage, elle les accouſtument à ſe coucher ſur le dos, & à ſe couurir neſſ-. de mottes de terre comme de quelque couuerture quand les chaſſeurs ſont prés d'elles, elles le menent d'vn autre coſté,& tournoient & volent comme à peine, & font ſemblant qu'elles ne peuuent plus courir, & ſe feignent ainfi iuſques à ce qu'elles ayent retiré les chaſſeurs loing de leurs petits. voila donc vne grande fineſſe,conioincte auecvn amour, & vn grand ſoing enuers ſes petits. - - ce que nous liſons des lievres à ce meſme propos,n'eſt moins digne d'admiration:car les liévres ſe vou- des liévrºs lans retirer à leurs giſtes,menent leurs petits l'vn à vn lieu,& l'autre à vn autre : & quelquesfois ils les ſe- parent l'vn de l'autre bien d'vn arpent de terre,afin que ſi d'auanture il ſuruient vn homme,ou vn chien,ils ne ſoient pas tous en vn meſme danger.et puis apres auoir bien traquaſſé & voltigé,& imprimé force tra- ces de leurs pieds, faiſans vn grand ſaut, ils ſe retirent de là, & vont en leurs giſtes. or fi le liévre eſt fin, & caut pour la garde de ſes petits ; le heriſſon ne l'eſt pas moins, non ſeulement le beriſſºn pour nourir ſes petits,mais auſſi à ſe ſauuer luy-meſme,& pource oyez ce que plutarque en a eſcrit:e]uand eſt caut pour le renard pourſuit le heriſſon,il s'enroulle dans ſes eſpines, ainſi que la chaſtaigne eſt cachée en ſa coquil- la garde de le ou eſcorce, & par ce moyen il ſe tient là caché en embuſcade, ſans pouuoir eſtre nullement bleſſé.mais ſes petits. le foin qu'il a de ſes petits,eſt encore plus digne d'admiration. il s'en va aux vignes,au temps des vendan- ges,& auec ſes pieds il abbat en terre les grains des raiſins : puis il ſe roulle par deſſus,& les picque de ſes eſpines.plutarque qui en a eſcrit ainſi,introduitvn perſonnage auoir veu cela de ſes yeux.et pource il dit : plutaraue, il me ſouuient que quelque iour nous en viſmes vn, que nous eſtimions que ce fuſt vn raiſin qui cheminaſt, tant il eſtoit chargé de grains. quand il eſt entré en ſa cauerne,il en met vne partie pour ſes petits,& re- tient l'autre pour ſoy. il fait le ſemblable des pommes, poires & autres fruicts, & ſçait bien choiſir les meilleures,& les plus meures,ſe roulant deſſus, & en porte tant qu'il peut, & ſi peu qu'il luy plaiſt. il ſe trouue en floride vne ſorte de beſte, laquelle tant pour ſa rareté que deformité, ie n'ay voulu obmettre en ce traicté,en ayant pris le pourtraict de theuet,liu. .chap. .tome .de fa coſmographie.elle eſt nom- mée de ce peuple succarath,& des canibalessu. cette beſte'la pluſpart du temps fait ſa reſidence au riuage des fleuues,& eſt rauiſſante, & d'vne façon fort eſtrange, telle que la voyez figurée. si elle eſt pourſuiuie, deſcripticn elle prend ſes petits ſur ſon dos,leſquels elle couure de ſa queue,qu'elle a aſſez longue & large,& ſe ſauue du su . à la fuite.toutesfois les sauuages pour la prendre,fbnt vne foſſe,dedans laquelle elle tombe, ſans ſe douter rath. de telle ambuſcade. - - pourtraict du succarath. a ss n - s n entre les animaux, la natu- | b， x , re ne peſe autant d'vn coſté $ % ſ % /ſ/ ,/////// - que d'autre, quant au coura- s= % % |) ! ſ/ % / ge, & à la hardieſſe, & ne ce- | -- s é%a/%#ºss，é de point la femelle au maſle, # w/# s. gº ) \ ſoit à ſupporter les trauaux pour le rccouurement des vi- ures, ſoit à combattre pour la defenſe de leurs petits. # v,r- ws| (ſ$ les biches font ordinaire- \$ | -s ment leurs faons pres des s$ # grands chemins , pource que les beſtes rauiſſantes , qui vi- uent de proye,n'y hantent pas coiiliillli cmcnt. •# #• - taatle ſecond liure des animaux, »- --"- -- - » - le temps que les animaux s'accouplent enſemble ». c h a p. x i. c'eſt vn prin- , la prime-vere les animaux ſont épris du deſir de s'accoupler:car alors ils ſont excitez à met- cipe de matu- % tre hors la concupiſcence generatiue,ne plus ne moins que la séue,& les boutons des arbres re, que les ou herbages, à fin de perpetuer leur ſemblable. les layes attirent leurs ſangliers,& les che- #rr ures leurs boucs,& autres femelles leurs maſles,par leurs propres odeurs:les oiſeaux s'entre- :### font l'amour des aiſles & du bec, les autres par leurs chants & voix diuerſes s'entre-appellent # ér leurs chacun en leur jargon, s'entrefaiſans careſſes , ſe reſioniſſans pour l'eſperance qu'elles ont de s'accoupler, corps. monſtrans par cela que nature les incite à ce faire. ce qu'on void aux grenouilles, qui commencençans à puine. entrer en amour, s'entre-appellent auec vn chant de nopces, d'vne voix amoureuſe : puis quand le maſle a faict venir ſa femelle, ils attendent à s'accoupler de nuict,pource que dedans l'eau elles ne peuuent habiter ny auoir compagnie l'vne de l'autre, & ſur la terre elles craignent le iour qu'on ne les trouueliez enſem- ble:mais quand la nuict eſt venue,elles ſortent de l'eau ſeurement où elles s'entre-embraſſent.cela vient de la ſapience diuine,qui a donné aux animaux le ſoin de ſe garder d'eſtre frappez,bleſſez, ou tuez autant qu'il leur eſt poſſible. aelian dit q ue ſi la lionne a eu compagnie d'vn autre lion,ſon maſle le cognoiſt à l'odeur la chaſtie & bat cruellement. aucuns animaux font pluſieurs petits,les autres n'en font iamais qu'vn ſeul vn leur vie,comme l'elephant, lequel neantmoins vit deux ou trois censans. - - - - -- de l'a mour & charité des oiſeaux & chiens. c h a p. x } i. la cicăgne. # a cicongne nourrit ſon pere & ſa mere en leur vieilleſſe, les petits ſçachans bien voler aident auſſi, & ſupportent ceux d'entreux,qui ne peuuent encores bien voler. et par ainſi ils ne ſont pas ſeule- la poulle. ment humains enuers leurs peres & meres,mais auſſi entr'eux, comme freres & ſœurs les vns enuers les autres. la poulle porte vne ſi grande affection à ſes petits pouſſins , qu'elle les congrege & aſſemble, les gardant ſous ſes aiſles, & s'il vient vn chien, ou vn loup , ou vn ours, qui ſont de terribles beſtes au prix d'elle, pour en empoigner vn, elle ſautera contre eux, voire, & fuſt-ce vn homme armé de toutes pieces, our les defendre,ſans auoir eſgard à ſa vie, ny au danger auquel elle ſe met : autant en font toutes les au- tres beſtes. il ſe faut eſmerueiller de la loyauté que le chien tient à ſon maiſtre,& de l'affection qu'il a en- uers luy,& de la memoire & nourriture qu'il en a reçeu:car iamais il ne l'abondonne, & quelque deſplaiſir que ſon maiſtre luy face,encore qu'illuy donnaſt cent coups de baſton, ſi ne le peut-il delaiſſer, qu'il ne retourne touſiours vers luy. il n'y a beſte qui cognoiſſe ſi bien ſon maiſtre,encore qu'il aye eſté long-temps ſansjle voir, il le recognoiſt touſiours. i entend la voix des domeſtiques. le commun de tous chiens eſt de garder la maiſon,& abbayer aux eſtrangers, & eſtre mauuais aux pauures mal veſtus. et s'il eſt queſtion de trouuer des gardes bien ſeures , on n'en pourra pas trouuer de plus certaines que celle des chiens. et pourtant ciceron leur faict cét honneur ; qu'il les appelle garde fidelle par deſſus tous autres animaux. ila vn ſentiment exquis, par lequel il cognoiſt à la trace ſon maiſtre,& la proye. aucuns chiens ont demeuré liu. . aha. long-temps ſur le tombeau de leur maiſtre, touſiours heurlans piteuſement , ſans qu'ils en peuſſent eſtre °.... deſchaſſez, ne voulans manger ny boire. pline recite qu'vn chien ne departit iamais prés du corps de ſon º maiſtre,qui auoit eſté executé par iuſtice jettant des triſtes hurlemens,enuironné d'vn grand cerne de peu- *** ple romain, & quelqu'vn luy ayant jetté de la viande, ce chien la porta à la bouche de ſon maiſtre. puis quand on eut jetté le corps dedans le tibre, le chien ſe mit à nager,eſſayant de le ſauuer & ſouſtenir.dont le peuple romain fut grandement eſmerueillé de la fidelité de ceſte beſte. on lit pluſieurs hiſtoires de la fidelité des chieus, qui ſeroient cy trop long-temps à reciter. ils abayent & clabaudent oyans le bruict des trompettes , & le cry des aſnes & autres grands bruits , & ce clabaudement & abbayement leur eſt vn pleur pour l'impatience de leurire.le cheual ſemblablement cognoiſt ſon maiſtre,ce que plutarque a laiſsé par eſcrit du cheual d'alexandre nommé bucefal:quand il eſtoit nud,il enduroit bien que le palefrenier mö- taſt à poil defſus luy:mais quâd il eſtoit paré de ſes harnois royaux,&de ſes riches couleurs,il n'en ſouffroit pas vn ſeul monter ſur luy qu'alexandre tout ſeul,& ſi autres s'efforçoient d'ymonter,illeur couroit ſus,en ronflât & hanniſſant ſe cabroit ſur eux,& lesfoulloit aux pieds,s'ils ne ſe haſtoient bien toſt de ſe retirerar- riere,& s'enfuir.combien que la colóbe ſoit des beſtes bien fertiles,toutesfois tant le maſle que la femelle gardent vne ſinguliere chaſteté,concorde,amour,& charité l'vn enuers l'autre, & ne commettent point d'a- dultere,& ne violét point la foy en leur mariage:ſi la femelle a vn maſle difficile & faſcheux elle le ſupporte, la tourte- neantmoins en toute patience : apres le courroux ils ſe flattent & baiſent, en faiſant paix , & retournent relle.v l'vn aupres de l'autre. lls ſont d'amour égales enuers leurs petits. les tourterelles en font autant,& dauan- tage,car en ſigne de viduité, iamais ne couchent ſur branche verte, apres qu'elles ont perdu leur party,& demeurent en perpetuelle viduité,ſans prendre autre party. ils ont vn amour mutuel & reciproque. u chien. de l'elephät de la force de l'elephant,deſa religion,docilité,clemëce,bonté,chaſteté,vengeance des maux qu'on luy a faicts, & recognoiſſance des biens. ch a p. xiii. # l ne ſe trouue beſte terreſtre plus gräde,plus puiſſante,ny eſpouuätableque les elephâs.car ilfaut # # qu'ils ſoient merueilleuſement puiſſans & robuſtes,quand ils peuuét porter en bataille de ſi gros # edifices,& de ſi groſſes tours de bois pleines de gens-d'armes,qui combattent en icelles.et qu'ils % *è) ſoient eſpouuantables, quand ils viennent equippez en tel ordre, il appert par la peur & frayeur que l'armée des romains en euſt,lors qu'antiochus roy de syrie commença premierement à les amener en bataille contre eux. car les gens d'armes qui n'auoient iamaisveu tels monſtres,conceurét ſi grande frayenr de voir tels animaux,qu'ils ne ſçeurét faire que ſe mettre en fuite. depuis les indiens auoient de couſtume en la guerre,de lier au bout de la trompe deſdits elephans,vne eſpée longue de deux coudées,auec laquelle eſtans chaſſez tuoient leurs ennemis.ils mettoient pareillement des bas,qu'ils lioyent de chaines de fer ſous le ventre, & deſſus mettoient vn chaſteau de bois, en maniere de tours, où quatorze hommes eſtoient de- bout,& batailloient de toutes ſortes de leurs armes & baſtons. mais depuis ſçachans leurs ennemis,que les - . - elephans craignent le feu,ceſte façon eſt abolie,à cauſe des baſtons à feu qu'ils ont, & auſſi destorchesal- #*** lumées qu'ils preſentent aux elephans, deſquelles ils ſont tant épouuantez, qu'ils font plus de mal à leurs «hap. i. maiſtres en s'enfuyant,qu'ils ne font aux ennemis en bataillant. ce neantmoins tant eſtranges beſtes qu'ils ſoient, c'eſt vne choſe incroyable des vertus que les philoſophes leur attribuent, & lgschoſes qu'ils en - r congent a a & de l'excellence de l'homme. | - - - a racontcnt- pline dict, qu'ils approchent fort des ſens humains , & qu'ils ont quelque intelligence du lan- - gage du pays auquel ils ſont nez : & qu'il y a vne grande obeiſſance en eux, en ce qui leur eſt commandé, ayans mcmoire des ſeruices,& offices qu'ils ont accouftumé de faire : mais qui plus eſt, bonté & clemence e trouuent entr'eux. quand à la religion. plutarque a eſcrit qu'ils font prieres aux dieux immortels : car plutar,ue . de leur bon gré ils ſe purgent, & lauent en la mer, & adorent le soleil leuant,auec vne grande reuerence, leuans leur trompe en haut vers le ciel, au lieu des mains. et pline à ce meſme propos teſmoigne, qu'ils plive . font l'honneur & reuerence non ſeulement au soleil , mais auſſi à la lune , & aux eſtoiles , & apres auoir faict leur adoration, ils s'en retournent au bois,& portent deuant eux leurs petits veaux ou faons, qui ſont : las. les arabes en font bon teſmoignage, qui voyent ordinairement grande quantité d'elephans à la nou- uelle lune deſcendre à grand troupeaux aux riuieres, où ils ſe lauent & baignent,& apres qu'ils ſont pu- rifiez, ils ſe mettent à genoux,& font leur adoration,puis s'en retournent au bois, & le plus ancien conduit la troupe, & celuy d'apres les aſſemble. on dit auſſi qu'on a trouué que de nuict ils penſoient à ce dequoy ils auoient eſté chaſtiez de iour. plutarque teſmoigne qu'il eſt tout certain, que comme aucuns elephans plutarque . euſſent eſté inſtruits à rome longtemps deuant,pour apprendre à faire des tours merueilleux,& difficiles à faire,ou en trouua vn ayant l'entendement plus dur que les autres,& pource il eſtoithay de tous les autres, & battu ſouuent,parce qu'il ne pouuoit retenir tels tours de paſſe-paſſe,lequel toutesfois les repetoit a part ſoy, & s'efforçoit les faire de nuict à la lune. adrianus recite auoir veu vn elephant, lequei ayant deux cymbales § aux oreilles , les touchoit d'accord alternatiuement de ſon muſeau (ou trompe) & dan- ſoit ſelon la meſure de l'accord,& les autres ſe ſuiuoient en danſant comme luy.auger de busbecq aſſeure en l'vne de ſes epiſtres, en auoir veu vn à conſtantinople qui danſoit au ſon des inſtrumens & joüoit à la paulme. les elephans portent leurs petits deux ans en leurs matrice, pour la grande corpulence de leurs b corps, parce qu'vn gros fruict n'eſt ſi toſt meur qu'vn petit. ils ſont de nature tant admirables, & pitoya- - bles,que iamais ne font rien à perſonne,ſi on ne les y prouoque.lamais le maſle,& la femelle ne ſe cognoiſ- fent enſemble qu'en ſecret, à cauſe de la honte qu ils ont. on tient qu'ils ont ſi bon entendement,qu'ils ariſtore- n'entreroiét iamais en vne nauire pour paſſer la mer, & eſtre menez en pays eſtrange,que leur gouuerneur liu .des n'aye promis & iure les ramener en leurs pays.auſſi eſtans irritez,ils chargent les hommes ſur leurs cornes animaux. & les jettent ſi haut, que deuant qu'ils tombent, ils ſont eſtouffez & morts. nous parlerons encores de la nature des elephans cy-apres au liure des monſtres, où la figure de l'elephant defaut. des beſtes qui ſont éseaux. c h a p. x i v. , p r e s auoir parlé des beſtes qui conuerſent ſur la terre, il faut pareillement dire quelque lamproye . # chofe de celles qui ſont és eaux, dont la lamproye emporte le prix, & merite la palme par deſſus tous les poiſſons,en cas d'amour paternel, & de bonté,& douceur enuers leurs petits. # premierement elles font leurs œufs, & puis les petits, mais elles ne mettent pas hors leurs petits comme font les autres poiſſons : ains les nourriſſent en leurs ventres , comme s'ils les " engendroient dcux fois & quand ils ſont grandelets ſont jettez dehors leur ventre,leur enſeignant à nager, & s'eſbatre a l'entour d'eux:puis ſubit elles les reçoiuent derechefen elles-meſmes par leur bouche,& leur baillent leurs corps pour habiter, leur donnant viande & refuge, tant qu'elles cognoiſſent que leur ayde leur eſt certain & aſſeuré. - que les beſtes peuuent eſtre appriuoisées. ch a p. xv. c sy h e v e r en ſa coſmographietome ſecond, chap. . dit que leturc fait nourrir de toutes as $) % ſortes de beſtes, comme lions, tigres, leopards, loups-ceruiers, chameaux, elephans, # $ porcs-eſpics, & autres beſtes eſtranges : & ſouuent les hommes.qui les gouuernent ſont en - a )!# - - - - : - g(s nºé) conſtantinople, ou aucaire. ils les meinent par la ville auec vne groſſe chaine de fer,& - #^r principalement les lions.ayans de petites clochettes,afin que le peuple ſe retire, & que ces , beſtes ne gaſtent quelqu'vn : ce que ſouuentesfois eſt aduenu. et ſi ceux quî les gouuernent, ſont ad- uertis que quelque grand seigneur, ou ambaſſadeur ſoit arriué, ils ne faudront luy amener en ſon logis ceſdicts lions, auec compagnie d'autres beſtes eſtranges, auſquelles ils font faire mille paſſe-temps : leurs maiſtres ſemblablement joüans de pluſieurs ſortes d inſtrumens à la turqueſque,meſme joüent comediés, & luttent, eſperans tous d'auoir quelque preſent du seigneur qui aura receu tel paſſe-temps. p. lc --ond liure des animaux » •-• --" -*e figure comme les lyons ſont conduits par la ville de conſtantinople . e-"t mais ce n'eſt choſe merueilleuſe que les beſtes terreſtres puiſſent eſtre appriuoisées auec les hommes, plutarque. veu quº les aquatiques le peuuent eſtre, entre leſquelles on nomme*les anguilles. pluſieurs autheurs ont eſcrit de la murene:ſemblablement que craſſus a eu vne lamproye,laquelle eſtoit ſi appriuoisée qu'elle luy obeyſſoit , dont il luy auoit donné vn nom comme à vne beſte domeſtique, & l'appellant la faiſoit venir vers luy. icelle eſtant morte, il en pleura ; ce que domitius luy ayant reproché d'auoir pleuré ſa murene, luy reſpondit, qu'il auoit eu trois femmes, & n'en auoit pleuré vne ſeule. , comme les animaux ont appris aux hommes à fourbir, & aiguiſer leurs armeures, & faire embuſcades. c h a p. xv i. la dent de $ e s guerriers ſont fort ſoigneux à contregarder leurs armes, afin qu'elles ne ſe roüillent, & l'elephant - † & pource ils les font ſouuentesfois fourbir : mais il y a pluſieurs beſtes qui ne leur en eſt l'yuoire oiuent rien de retour. et quand à ce poinct, les porcs ſangliers aiguiſent leur dent,auecla- qui ſert à quelle ils foüillent,arrachans les plantes,herbes,& racines dont ils ſe nourriſſent, qui eſt or- pluſieurs ou- ^% dinairement mouſſée, vſée & eſpointée , ils contregardent touſiours l'autre poinctue, & urages , & affilée, pour s'en ſeruir aux combats contre les rhinoceros, & autres ennemis. ledit rhinoceros eſt auſſi *ſº°ºn long que l'elephant, mais plus bas de jambes, & a ſon pelage de couleur de boüys,piccoté en pluſieurs #º endroits; façonné, & armé, comme il ſe verra par ſa figure cy-apres. - º#. les ſangliers aiguiſent pareillement leurs defenſes pour aſſaillir, ou ſe defendre. - tdu ltom. #nt . le lion chemine touſiours les pattes fermées, afin que ſes ongles ſoient enſerrez au dedans comme envne § § " guaine, de peur que la pointe ne le rompe,& auſſi qu'on ne les puiſſe ſuiure à la trace : car à peine la peut- a fi.x. on trouuer, ains ſeulement des petites marques de ſes pieds, & peu apparentes:& ainſi les animaux contre- gardent leurs armes, pour s'en ſeruir au beſoin. les taureaux preſentent le combat auec leur cornes, & s'equippent au combat comme vaillans gens-d'armes,& cheualiers. le rat d inde, comme dit plutarque,ne differe en rien d'vn gend'arme pour batailler,tât bien il ſe ſçait couurir de boue,& de fange, qu'il ſemble pro- prement qu'il ſoit armé d'vn halccret & cuiraſſe , lors qu'il doit batailler contre le crçcodille. et combien que ledit crocodille ſoit vne beſte ſi forte , & cruelle, qu'elle mange les hommes, le rat d'inde neantmoins la fait fuyr , encore qu'il ſoit fort petit. cela ſe fait par vne choſe indicible, que nature met aux cœurs des grands animaux pour les eſpouuanter de peur, & crainte, meſme il n'y a point de danger pour eux : comme l'elephant eſpouuanté par vn pourceau,& le lion par vn coq, veu qu'il eſt eſcrit du lion, qu'il ne ſe retourne point pour quelque choſe que ce ſoit. telles craintes autresfois ſont aduenuës à de bien grandes armées preſtes à combatre, qui ont eſte miſes en routte,& fuitte par vn lievre, qui ſortit d'vn buiſſon : car depuis qu'il y en eut vn, ou dcux effrayez par la ſoudaine ſortie de ce liévre, tous les autres furent ſemblablement effrayez, & eſpouuantez, commme ſi tout enſt eſté perdu, & déconfit, penſans qu'il y euſt quelque grand danger. on trouue à ce propos en l'hiſtoire de philippes de comines,que des chardons qui eſtoient en vn - - - champ armées mi- ſeres en route par vn lié- vre. | - -- a & de l'excellence de r omme. a champ, firent peuraux bourguignons aupres de paris,en la guerre qu'eut le roy louys vnzieſme, auec le chardons fi- comte de charolois. il aduint qu'aucuns de l'armée veirent des chardons en grand nombre, plantez en reut penr vn champ, prés charanton : & pource que letemps eſtoit couuert & obſcur, il leur ſembloit que c'eſtoit aux bºur- l'armée du roy qui eſtoit ſortie de paris, & là arreſtée,faiſant alte : & apres qu'ils en eurent porté les nou-º - - uelles à leur armée, & qu'on en eut enuoyé d'autres pour les recognoiſtre trouuerent que ceſte armée de- ** meuroit touſiours là plantée ſans bouger , dont la peur leur fut encore redoublée, & toute la nuict ſe tien- drent tous en armes:& le lendemain le iour eſtant eſclaircy,ils cogneurent que c'eſtoient chardons:parquoy ce n'eſtoit pas merueille s'ils auoient tenu bon ſans reculer(mais auſſi ils n'auoient point auancé :) & ceux qui en auoient porté les nouuelles , furent bienfort honteux, toutesfois ils furent excuſez pour l'obſcurité du temps. . z)es cocqs. - - les cocqs ſont oiſeaux royaux, auſſi ſont-ils couronnez , & exercent leur regne en quelque lieu qu'ils ſoient de leur hardieſſe & courage, & bataillent du bec, & des argots, comme l experience le monſtre, donnans crainte, & peur aux lyons, qui ſont les plus nobles, & courageux entre les beſtes ſauuages.et de cét effoy du lion tu pourras voir ce que proclus ena eſcrit au liure, de ſacrifi. & magia,où il en rend vne tres curieuſe & docte raiſon, ſelon la doctrine & façon de philoſopher de ſa ſecte. de connins. - les connins ont monſtré aux hommes à faire les mines ſous terre, pour miner, & renuerſer s'en deſſus deſſous les fortereſſes de leurs ennemis. marc varron dit, qu'en eſpagne y eut vn gros bourg ſitué en pais ſablonneux, qui fut tellement foüy, & caué par les connins, qu'il en fut finalement abandonné par les ha- bitans, & puis ruiné. des loups. - - - les loups ont monſtré à faire la guerre aux hommes : ils ſe mettent en troupes, & demeurent en emi- buſcades à l'entrée d'vn village : il y en a vn qui entre dedans pour donner l'alarme aux chiens, puis recourt vers ſes freres & compagnons, & les chiens apres, & lors qu'ils les a paſſez, retournevers les chiens, leur faiſant teſte : cependant l'embuſcade deſcoche, prennent chacun vn chien, luy coupent la gorge, & mangent. du renard. - - le renard eſt le plus caut, & le plus fin de toutes les beſtes en general. lors qu'il eſt chaſſé des chiens, & qu'il les ſent prés de ſa queue,il leur jette ſes excremens au muſeau,& auxyeux:& les ayant ainſi esblouys ' & eſtonnez, il gaigne le deuant, & les laiſſe en arriere. il a auſſi vne aſtuce, que pour faire deſnicher les poulles, il feint de leur jetter ſa queue, & par ceſte peur les deſniche,& à la deſcente en prend vne,& l'em- orte. pareillement s'il veut paſſer vne riuiere, encore qu'elle ſoit gellée & prinſe, marche doucement ſur # glace, & approche ſon oreille, & s'il peut entendre aucunement le bruit de l'eau cachée, il cognoiſt que la glace n'eſt pas eſpeffe, ny aſſez ferme : parquoy il s'arreſte, & ne paſſe outre : & ainſi s'il ne peut enten- dre le bruit, il paſſe de l'autre coſté hardiment. or ne ſçauroit on dire que cela ſoit ſeulementvne viuacité de ſentiment de l'ouye, ſans aucun diſcours de raiſon : car c'eſt vne ratiocination : & conſequence tirée de fens naturel, en ceſte ſorte : qui fait bruit, ſe remue, ce qui ſe remue n'eſt pas gelé : ce qui n'eſt pas gelé, eſt liquide : ce qui eſt liquide ploye ſous le faix, & ne tient pas ferme : ergo, &c. def p urceatix . - - si les pourceaux oyent crier en vne foreſt l'vn d'entr'eux ils s'aſſemblent tous pour le ſecourir,comme ſi vne trompette auoit ſonné pour aſſembler vne compagnie de gens-darmes, afin d'aller au ſecours de leut compagnon, & tous bataillent pour luy. - - - zdu poiſſon scares , & antber, • - - - - - - plutarque dit des poiſſons appellez scares, & anthes, qu'auſſi-toſt qu'ils ont auallé le haim du peſcheur, les autres qui lors ſont preſens, accourent tous pour les ayder, rongent le filet & le petit cordeau, & ainſi eſchappent. les anthes ſe ſecourent pareillement les vns les autres auec pius grande violence : car ils jet- tent ſur leurs eſpaules le filet, & le petit cordeau auquel l'ameçon eſt attaché, & dreſſent leurs eſpines & eſcailles, dont ils le coupent & rompent. zdu poiſſon appellé gouuerneur il y a vne grande admiration de ſocieté, & amitié qui eſt entre le poiſſon appellé gouuerneur, & la ba- leine. quant au gouuerneur, il n'eſt plus grand qu'vn goujon , lequel eſt touſiours auec la baleine, & va deuant elle, luy dreſſant ſon chemin, la conduiſant de peur qu'elle ne ſe jette en quelque deſtroit, ou en la fange : dont elle ne ſe puiſſe retirer. la baleine le ſuit, & ſouffre volontiers eſtre conduite par luy : s'il ſe veut repoſer, il fe met en fa gueule, & y dort, & elle auſſi, me le laiſſant iamais ne iour ne nuict. - des grueſ. - les grues , lors qu'elles departent pour âller en pais loingtain , elles ſe mettent ſi bien en ordonnance, que iamais capitaine de gendarmerie ne ſçauroit tenir meilleur ordre.car auant qu'elles delogent,elles ont leur heraus, & leurs trompettes, qui les aſſemblent : quand elles marchent, elles conſentent toutes enſem- ble , & voient en haut pour regarder de loing : elles eſliſent vn capitaine , lequel elles ſuiuent : ont auſſi leur ſergent de bande, & aucunes diſpoſent au derriere de la bande pour hucher & crier chacune en fon tour, afin d'entretenir touſiours la bande en ordonnance par leurvoix. elles ont leurs veilles bien difpoſées, & leurs guettes qui font leur guet de nuict. plutarque dit qu'elles ſouſtiennent vne petite pierre de leurs pieds,afin que ſi la guette s'endort, la pierre l'eſueille en tombant,& la reprenne de ſa negligence.le ca- pitaine a la teſte leuée,& col eſtendu, regardant au loing,& les admoneſte des dangers auſquelles elles peu- uent eſtre. et quand elles ſont en ordonnance,les plus fortes ſe mettent deuant pour rompre ſ'air,& quand les vnes ſont laſſes,les autres vont en leurs lieux pour les ſoulager,& ſouſtenir la peine à leur tour:& pour mieux trencher l'air,elles ſe mettent en ordonnance de gens de pied, eſtroitte de front , & large par der- riere, en forme de triangle : & ſi ont encore ceſte prudence & ſcience d'aſtronomie, qu elles preuoient les tempeſtes, & ſe iettent en terre ſubit qu'elles les ſentent , & ſe repoſent. z)es oyes. - les oyes de sicile vſent d'vne fort bonne grace,pour fe garder de ſe découurir par leur gazoüillement: car combien qu'illeur ſoit naturel, ſi eſt-ce toutesfois, qu'elles ont bien ſceu trouuer le moyen de corri- ger ce vice, afin qu'il ne les miſt en danger de leurs aduerſaires.plutarque dit,que quand il leur faut paſſer la montagnenommée taurus,craignans les aigles,elles mettent chacune vne pierre aſſez large en leur bec, afin d'empeſcher le gazoüillement & bruit naturel qu'elles feroient iuiques à ce qu'elles ayent paſſé leurs ennemis,leſquelles elles rompent en ceſte ſorte. le cerfſe ſentant preſſé des chiens, ſe couche,& met ! quatre pieds ſous le ventre,& expire ſon haleine contre terre,tellement que les chiens paſſent, & repaſſent contre luy ſans en auoir le vent ny ſentiment.voilà comme nature donne à chacun animal cognoiſſance de ſauuer leur vie. | j'y cocqs. - connins. loupi. renard caut cr fin. •+ o m-av- v v-u l l lululiu ( lv > l xllllllci lix lºy te ſontrepreſentées deux figures de dragons qui tuent les elephani. # - al (! -) #! =º º as «º »ti # :uº $ l gº v | | - \ w- ºzzae， { ^ -'º) a z. ， †n n n，) ) ) # ll # - a % : a. - | | - " # # # # a $ "© - z z \) | %. - | ©ha % - - | - | |# #? : à _#! - - @) a/ º， rz · ! n @ # #a : ! / " o - : $ ， r) % - n $#laz w | # x xxa ， n#©© o zm | #/# zº a <z #a , az tt ;x - cttn ':: ::: - s， *. sx ss º ) - | i e : ... | - w - r . a. v. #& # © | ſ ，: <- «rºf# v t. - - t)es dragons. f n cet endroit les dragons n'auront pas moins de gloire : car par leur fineſſe & malice ils vainquent bien j les elephant,qui ſont les plus fortes beſtes que la terre porte:ce qu'ils ne pourroient faire par leur force;& pourtantils ſe mettent en embuſches,& au guet,& ſe ruent ſur eux par trahiſon;& puis les embraſſent ſou- \ dain & enucloppent,& s'entortillent autour deux,& leur lient les jambes de leurs queues,pour leur empeſ- - cher - & de l'excellence de l'homme. a cher demarcher : & cachent leur teſte dedans leurs narines, leur oſtant l'haleine,les picquent & mordent en la chair qu'ils trouuent la plus tendre,& leur creuent les yeux,& leur ſuccent le ſang,en ſorte qu'il faut ... , que les elephans meurent pline dit,qu'il y a des dragons en ethiopie, de dix coudées de longueur. et en ºline liu. . indie,il s'en eſt trouué de cent pied de lôg,& aucuns voler ſi haut enl'air,qu'ils prenoient les oiſeaux voläs. chap . & iean leon africain eſcrit en ſon liure des nauigations,qu'à calicut on trouuedes ſerpens d'eſtrange façon, * eſtât de la hauteur & groſſeur d'vn gros pourceau,auecvne teſte plus groſſe & plus laide que celle du pour- ceau,ils ont quatre pieds,& ſont longs de quatre braſſées,eſtans fort dommageables aux habitans. il y en a † ſont ſvenimeux que par leur morſure la perſonne tôbe ſubitemét morte.et ſi quelqu'vn auoit tué vne e ces beſtes,le roy le feroit mourir comme s'il auoit tué vn homme.le roy,& habitans de ce pais ont vne folle ſuperſtiti & opiniô de ces beſtes, eſtimâs qu'elles ſoient les eſprits de dieu,disäs que ſi ainſi n'eſtoit, ils n'auroient la puiſſance de mettre vn hôme à mort par leur ſimple morſure,de ſorte que ces animaux ont ce credit de ſe promener par la ville,cognoiſſans bien ceux quine les craignêt pas, auſquels ils ne font mal † combien, dit-il,que de ſon temps il ſoit aduenu, que par vne nuict,l'vn de ces animaux entra hiſtoire. edans vne maiſon, où il mordit neuf perſonnes, que l'on trouua au matin toutes mortes,& enflées, & nonobſtât cela,ils ne laiſſent de les auoir en grande admiration:tellement que ſi enallant en quelque voya- , ge,ils rencontrent vne de ces beſtes,ils les reputent de bon-heur,eſperans de cela que leurs affaires & en- trepriſes ne peuuent venir qu'à bon port.il dit qu'au royaume de senegua,y auoit des serpés longsde deux pas, & plus, qui n'ont aiſles,nypieds mais ils ſont ſi gros, qu'ils engloutiſſent vne chévre entiere,ſans la démembrer. - du roiſſon appellé peſcheur. - b le poiſſon appellé peſcheur,à cauſe qu'il chaſſe aux autres poiſſós,vſe de meſme fineſſe que fait la seiche. ariſtor.de il a vne petite poche qui luy pend au col,laquelle il retire,& laſche comme illuy plaiſt envn moment,ainſi *** que fait le coq d'inde ſa creſte. or ilallonge en forme d'vn haim,& la preſente à maſcher aux petits poiſ- ſons qui nagent aupres de luy,puis la retire à ſoy petit à petit, ſi pres qu'il puiſſe happer les petits poiſ- ſons de ſa bouche. - de la seiche. or combien que les beſtes ayent cent mille telles fineſſes,ruſes,& eſchappatoires,que ie pourrois icy al- leguer pour exemples, toutesfois ce que plutarque eſcrit de la seiche me ſemble meriter de tenir lieu de tous autres, diſant qu'elle a comme vne veſſie pendue au col , toute pleine de liqueur noire comme ancre, laquelle elle iette quand elle ſe ſent prinſe, taſchant par ce moyen à ſe deſrober de la prinſe, & tromper ceux qui la penſe tenir. - - des armes des beſtes. c h a p. xv i i i. e s beſtes ont toutes leurs armeures naturelles,parquoy elles n'ont beſoin d'en faire forger d'au- tres,ou d'emprunter d'ailleurs comme les hommes. il en y a meſme qui ont telles armes, qu'elles ºrennent par icelles ceux qui les veulent prendre.et pour exemple,la torpille ne bleſſe pas ſeu- torpille, - lement ceux qui la touchét à nud,mais auſſi par entre les rets,elle iette vne diſtilation,qui ſtupefie, & engourdit les mains des peſcheurs,en ſorte qu'ils ſont contraints de tout laſcher:& ainſi elle ſe ſauue. c figure d'vn heriſſon de lmer. " $ lllllllllllll | \ ss # l'|||! sil s$ - - - - - liu. . ch. andré theuet,eſcrit que lamer perſique vers l'arabie,nourrit vn poiſſon de la grandeur,& groſſeur dnne o. rem d, . - - | e carpe ſa coſmºrr. o le ſecond liure des animaux. plutarque. torya. . dtu singe. . de l' vſa- ge des par- fjé'j. hiſtoire d vn singe. perſe , le ventre eſt ingenieux cr maiſtre des arts. -, • ' " * - carpe, garny d'aiguillons, & pointe comme noſtre heriſſon , auec leſquels il combat contre tous autres poiſſons. c'eſt choſe toute aſſeurée,que s'il en a donné vne attainte à vn homme,ou beſte,commc auſſi de ſes dents, en vingt quatre heures on ſe peut tenir preſt pour mourir. | des ( ancrer . - - - les cancres & eſcreuiſſes,encores qu'ils ſoient petits animaux,à comparer aux ſuſdits,ſi eſt-ce qu'ils ſe " ſeruent de leurs pieds de deuant qui ſont forchus, non ſeulement à manger , mais auſſi à ſe defendre, ou ! aſſaillir. - - les beſtes ſont dociles. c h a p. xv ii i. s， e s beſtes ſont dociles pour apprendre ce que les hommes veullent enſeigner:en quoyelles nous - # % # baillent quelque teſmoignage, qu'elles ne ſont pas ſans quelque participation de raiſon. on les # voit eſtre enſeignées par les hommes, y prenans leurs ébats & plaiſirs outre leur naturel:comme - %$ %é$ les chiens,singes,cheuaux,paſſent & repaſſent par les cercles des baſteleurs,& s'eſleuent ſur les pieds,ſautans,& dançans,& font pluſieurs autres tours de paſſe paſſe. † recite qu'vn chien ſeruoit à vn baſteleur , lequel joüoit vne fiction de pluſieurs mines, & pluſieurs per onnages,& ce chien y repre- ſentoit pluſieurs choſes côuenables au ſujet que l'on traittoit,& qui s'offroit mais ce qui ſurpaſſoit toute ad- miration, c'eſt que luy jettantd'vne certaine drogue qui auoit le pouuoir d'endormir,ilcótrefaiſoit naifue- ment le mort.il prenoit le pain où la drogue eſtoit meſlée,& peu d'eſpace apres l'auoir aualé,commençoit ce ſembloit, à trembler, comme s'il euſt eſté tout eſtourdy : finalement s'eſtendant & ſe roidiſſant comme b s'il euſt eſté mort, il ſe laiſſoit tirer & trainer d'vn lieu en autre ainſi que portoit le ſubjet de la farce puis quand il cognoiſſoit à ce qui ſe faiſoit & diſoit,qu'il eſtoit téps,alors il commençoit premierement à ſe re- muer tout bellement comme s'il fût reuenu d'vn profond ſommeil,& leuant la teſte regardoit çà & là,dont chacun des aſſiſtans eſtoit fort ébahy:puis ſe leuât du tout,s'en alloit deuers celuv qu'il falloit qu'il receuſt, & le careſſoit : de ſorte que tous les aſſiſtans,& meſme l'empereur veſpaſien,eſtant en perſonne dedan, le theatre de marcellus où cela ſe faiſoit, en demeurerent tous rejouys. - dt sºge. le singe eſt vn animal ridicule, beau toutefois au jugement des enfans, & leur eſt vn paſſetemps pour rire:car s'eſſayant d'imiter tous actes d'homme, il ne le peut faire, & partaut appreſte à rire à ceux qui le re- gardent. on a veu dit galien, vn ſinge s'efforcer à joüer de la fluſte,danſ r,& eſcrire,& faire autres cho- ſes que l'homme peut faire. il me ſouuient auoir veu en la maiſon du duc de some, vngros singe mal fai- ſant, & pour ce on luy coupa les deux mains, ſouffrant eſtre habillé de ſes playes. eſtant guary,ſe voyant ſans mains, deuint doux,affable & docile:on luy bailla vn habit verd,& ceint autour du corps;& à ſa cein- ture eſtoit pendu vn eſtuy de lunettes,auec vne paire de couſteaux,& vn mouchouer,comme l'on baille aux enfans. eſtant ainſi habillé le maiſtre cuiſinier voulut eſtre ſon pedagogue,à cauſe qu'il faiſoit ſa demeure à la cuiſine,à vn coin de la cheminée. il l'inſtruit à faire pluſieurs ſingeries,& où il failloit,les coups de baſt ne luy manquoient non plus que la parole,luy diminuant ſa porti»n,le faiſant ſouuent diſner par cœur:car comme dit perſe, le ventre eſt ingenieux, & maiſtre des arts (& celuy qui baille l'entendement:) & par ce c moyen le cuiſinier enſeigna au singe à joüer de paſſe paſſe,à ſauter & danſer au ſond'vn petit flageol, cou- rir la lance,paſſer & repaſſer entre les jambes : il portoit la viande auec les pages pour la poſer ſur la table auee grande reuerence,& faiſoit pluſieurs autres bons ſeruices,tenant touſiours ſa vaiſſelle nette auec la lä- † façon qu'on l'appelloit frere iean factotum. apres le diſner & ſouper,on le mettoit dans vne chai- re, contrefaiſant le preſcheur,tournant les yeux s'en deſſus deſſous,frappant ſa poictrine de ſes moignons, en diſant ſes patenoſtres , claquetant des dents, & monſtroit ſon cu , qui eſtoit touſiours à deſcouuert, à cauſe que ſon habit eſtoit court, de peur qu'il ne fuſt ſaffrané : bref, faiſoit pluſieurs autres ſingeries, & risées, marchant touſiours debout,à cauſe qu'il ne ſe pouuoit tenir autrement,s'il n'eiioit ſur ſon cu,parce qu'ilauoit perdu ſes mains. \pe, oiſeaux de prºy . - - on voit ſemblablement les fauconniers qui apprennent aux oiſeaux de proye,d'aller combattre en liair les autres oiſeaux,& les abbattre en terre:voire vollent ſi haut au profond des nues qu'on les perd de veue. et le faucon ayant gaigné le deſſus d'vn heron,& ſe voyant eſtre preſque vaincu,met ſon bec long & aigu ſous ſes ailes , la pointe en haut,à fin que le faucon le voulant abbatre,donne contre iuſques à entrer au trauers du corps qui eſt cauſe que tous deux quelquesfois tombent en terre morts. et où le faucon l'aura abbatu ſans eſtre bleſſé, eſtant deſcendu en terre, le fauconnier l'appellant,retourne ſe remettre ſur ſon poing.dauantage,aucuns petits oiſeaux ſont enſeignez à beſongner des pieds,& du bec,deſquels ils vſent en lieu de mains,tirans de petits vaiſeaux pendus à vne corde, (auſquels eſt leur manger,& boire)comme vn homme tireroit des ſeaux d'vn puits auec les main . et quand au chien,chacun ſçait comme il eſt docile, d & comme il va querir vne cane au profond de l'eau,& l'apporte à ſon maiſtre viue ou morte:& fait encore pluſieurs autres choſes, outre celles deuant dictes, qui ſeroient trop longues à deſcrire. • t)e , ( hameaux. le chameau eſt vnanimal fort domeſtique,qui s'appriuoiſe facilement, apprenant à quoy on l'addreſſe - pour s'en ſeruir.il eſt bien vray, qu'il y en a de bien farouches & ſauuages, leſquels pour n'auoir eſté apri- uoiſez ſont faſcheux & mordent,& rüent auſſi bien que pourroit faire le plus vicieux cheual qu'on ſçauroit trouuer. le ſoir qu'on eſt àrepos, on n'a peine que les laiſſer en la campagne pour paiſtre vn peu d'herbe - ou brouter quelque eſpine, chardon ou rameau , & le lendemain les recharger,& fine ferontiamais faute. | on ne leur met point la ſôme ſur le dos,qu'ils n'ayent quatre ans pour le moins.les arabes ont ceſte aſtu- ! ce de les chaſtrer ieunes, afin qu'ils s'en § plus longuement,& ne ſont ſi furieux au printemps, lors qu'ils viennent en amour.ceſte beſte ſouffre huict iours la faim & ſoif elle eſt de douce & amiable nature, veu que les eſclaues,& marchands turcs,la voulans charger ou deſcharger de leur fardeau, ils ne font que - toucher d vnevergette ſur le col,& ſoudain ſe couche par terre,& ne ſe leue qu'elle ne ſe ſente aſſez char- gée, ou qu'on la face releuer.il a quatre genoux,pour ceſte cauſe il flechiſt ſes cuiſſes de derriere,comme ſes jambes de deuant:& partant il demeure à genoüil tant qn'il ſoit chargé.telle # a eſté faicte par vne · l'oiſean de proye fait la guerre aux autres oi- ſcaux, aux l'eures , & ° , cnmin r, temps de porter ſur le dos. pourquoy ils flechiſſent les cuiſſes de derriere comme celles de deuant. grande prouidence de nature, pour ſatisfaire a la commodité de ſa hauteur:car aut :ment il euſt fallu des eſchelles,ou eſcabelles a l homme pour le charger. il y en a qui n'ont qu'vne boſſe ſºir le dos,qui ſont d'a- frique, ou arabie. il y en a d'autres qui en ont deux, qui ſont amenez d'aſie, & tartarie : les vns ſont grands, & bons à porter grande charge : les autres petits,propres à faire iournée,comme nous faiſons ſur nos cheuaux. la viande qu'ils aiment le mieux , ſont les féues, & ne leur en faut que quatre poignées - - - pour < • | d » * - " - - t de l'excellence des ho & de l'excellence des hommes. pour les contenter tout vn iour.c'eſt la plus grande richeſſe ques les arabes ayent,tellement que s'ils vou- loient monſtrer quelqu'vn d'entreux eſtre opulent, & riche;ils ne diſent point, vn tel a tant de mille eſcus vaillant , mais bien diront-ils,il a tant de cent, ou mille de chameaux. le grand turc(comme dit theuet) a vn capitaine,qui a ſous luy nombre d'eſclaues mores,& chreſtiens,qui a le ſoin des chameaux,leſquels ſont penſez,frotez & eſtrillez par leſdits eſclaues. et me ſuis laiſſé dire (ce dit theuet) aux arabes,mores & à quelques marchands iuifs , qui eſtoient du temps que sultan selim , premier du nom, vint en egypte, pour aſſieger, & prendre la ville du caire,qu'il auoit pour le moins ſoixante - mille chameaux,&vn grand nombre de mulets. et l'eſcurie du grand seigneur, qui eſt fort ſuperbe:à cauſe du grand nombre des plus beaux chameaux qui ſoient au monde. le seignenr du haillan, hiſtoriographe,liure . en ſon hiſtoire de france,dit que les chreſtiens donnerent vne bataille contre corbane,lieutenant de l'armée du roy de per. ſe,en laquelle demeurerent morts ſur la place,cent mille des ennemis, quinze mille chameaux, & jumens. les deux hiſtoriographes nous donnent à cognoiſtre , que l'on ſe ſert deſdits chameaux en paix,& en guerre,& qu'il s'en trouue vn nombre infiny en arabie,& afrique. - figure d'vn chameau d'aſie, ayant deux boſſes ſur le dos. les oyſeaux ont monſtré aux hommes à chanter en camuſique ». ch a p. xix. & degoiſent ainſi que peut faire le plus parfait chantre du monde, en ſorte qu'on dit par ex- cellence : il chante,il ſe dégoiſe,il gringotte comme vn roſſignol : & partant,quand les hom- - # mes veulent rendre vne belle harmonie par leur chant, ne ſont-ils pas contraincts de contre- bºzºs faire leurs voix, & d'emprunter celles des beſtes brutes ? et partant les oyſeaux ont bien l'a- uantage par deſſus les hommes : car nature leur apprend à chanter ſans labeur, & ne leur a point fallu tirer les oreilles à l'eſchole de muſique, pour leur apprendre leur chant, comme les chantres les tirent aux en- fans, auſquels leurs font longues, comme celles des aſnes. ils diſcernent & cognoiſſent leur voix par cer- taine cognoiſſance qu'ils ont. il ſemble auſſi qu'aucuns animaux parlent : & auſſi apparence de rire eſt veue en eux, quand en blandiſſant des oreilles,ils retirent les nazeaux,& regardent doucement. combien que l'homme parle autre langage que les beſtes, toutesfois la voix, & le langage qui eſt donné aux beſtes, leur ſert autant en leur endroit,que celuy qui eſt donné aux hommes. car toutes les beſtes d'vne eſpece,de quelque pays qu'elles ſoient, s'entendent l'vne l'autre : ce que nous ne pouuons dire des hommes. car il y a autant de difference de langage entr'eux,non ſeulement qu'il y a diuerſes nations, mais autant qu'il y a de villes,& de villages, tellement qu'à peine l'vn peut entédre l'autre;mais ſemble quand les hómes de pays eſtrange ſe rencontrent l'vn auecl'autre,qu'ils ſont ſourds,& muets:car ils ne peuuent parler le langage,par liu. . ch. . f f/ . i. de ſa coſmogr, # es roſſignols ſont chantresfort excellens,feignans à former la voix humaine : ils gringottent, l'homme eſt lequell'vn entende l'autre.parquoyautant leur profite parler,comme s'ils eſtoient muets,& celuy qui l'oit, fºrt eſperdu n'entend non plus que s'il eſtoit ſourd.or que ce ſoit vray,combien de fois nous trouuons nous fort eſton- nez, quand nous paſſons par des pays eſtranges,à cauſe que nous ne pouuons pas demander ſeulement ce qu'il nous faut, ny entendre ce qui nous eſt dit, non plus que les beſtes nous entendent, ou que nous les entendons,nous ne pouuons nous ſeruir ny des yeux, ny des oreilles, ny de la langue,que le dieu de na- ture nous a donnez ; mais nous faut parler des yeux, de la teſte, des mains, & des pieds ; & par ſignes, mines, & geſtes, comme ſinous eſtions baſteleurs, nous faut contrefaire nos membres à autre vſage que dieu les a creez, pour ſeruir au lieu de la langue , & d'oreilles. les beſtes ne font point tant miſerables, car encore que nous ne les entendions point , ny elles nous , toutesfois vne chacune d'elles s'entend encore mieux en ſon eſpece, ie ne dis pas ſeulement de diuerſes nations,mais auſſi ceux d'vn meſme pº# - e , j d eſtonné ſe trouuant en pays eſtrange.•. # , le lecond liure des animaux, il ſeroit bien neceſſaire que les hommes n'euſſant qu'vn langage,par lequel ils ſe peuſſent bien entendre les vns les autres. car qui orroit vn allemant,vn breton bretonnant, vn baſque, vn anglois,vn poulonnois, vn grec,ſans les voir, il ſeroit fort difficile à iuger s'ils ſont hommes ou beſtes. des oiſeaux qui parlent, ſublent, & ſiflent. c h a p. xx. # e s linottes, cocheuis, pies, corneilles , chucas , corbeaux, eſtourneaux, perroquets, º%l & autres ſemblables, parlent, & chantent , ſifflent, & imitent la voix humaine , & celle des º autres animaux. les papeguaux , & perroquets ſont à loüer ſur tous, pour parler , & pro- noncer les paroles qu'ils oyent, & ſont fort ioyeux & gais, & principalement quand ils ont beu du vin. c'eſt auſſi vn plaiſir comme ils ſe tiennent du bec, quand ils veulent monter ou deſcendre. plutarque raconte, qu'il y auoit vn barbier à rome , lequel auoit en ſa boutique vne pie merueilleuſement babillarde, laquelle ſans contrainte , mais de ſon bon gré parloit, ſi elle oyoit parler | lcs hommes, & contrefaifoit toutes beſtes qu'elle pouuoit ouyr , meſme le ſon du tambour, fuſtes, & trompettes, & autres inſtrumens, & ne delaiſſoit rien qu'elle ne s'eſtudiaſt à contrefaire, & imiter on a veu des corbeaux parler,& chanter des chanſons comme les hommes; voire meſmes les pſeaumes d'vn aſ- ſez long traict. macrobe raconte ceſte hiſtoire plaiſante d'vn corbeau. il dit que quand auguſte ceſarre- uint de la guerre contre marc-antoine, entre ceux qui luy venoient faire feſte,& dire la joye de ſà victoire, il s'en trouue vn qui tenoit vn corbeau, auquel il auoit appris à dire paroles, qui valent autant que ſi nous diſions:dieu te garde ceſar empereur victorieux. auguſte eſtant eſmerueillé de cét oiſeau tant ſeruiable, l'achetta mille pieces d'argent. pline & valere ont eſcrit entre les prodiges, qu'on trouue les bœufs & aſnes auoir parlé. il y a encores beaucoup de choſes à eſcrire de la nature des animaux,qui ſeroient trop longues ariſtote, à raconter : mais il ſuffira d'auoir recité en brefce que ces grands perſonnages , comme ariſtote, platon, platon, plutarque,pline , nous ont laiſſé par eſcrit. et veritablment ie croy que ce ne ſont pas fables, & qu'il en plane , plu- ſoit quelque choſe, & qu'ils en ayent eu quelque experience,ou bon teſmoignage.car puis qu'ils ont eſté tarque , hommes ſçauans, & de grande authorité & renom,il ne nous faut pas eſtimer qu'ils ayent eſcrit a l'auentu- grands phi- loſophes, ont eſcrit de cet- te matiere. re pour ſe faire mocquer d'eux , ſçachans bien que leurs eſcrits ſeroient bien examinez par pluſieurs hom- mes de ſçauoir, qui auront experimenté les choſes deſquelles ils ont eſcrit. parquoy il ne nous faut pas re- jetter comme fables tout ce que n'auons pas veu, & qui nous eſt nouueau. de l'antipathie & sympathi . c h a p. xxi. ml p r e s auoir deſcrit la nature des beſtes, il m'a ſemblé n'eſtre hors de propos mettre icy cer- # taines choſes remarquables, qui ſetrouuent entre icelles, touchant leur ſympathie,& antipa- # thie : c'eſt à dire , qu'elles ont vne certaine amitié , & inimité, non ſeulement eſtans en vie, % mais auſſiapres leur mort, par vne occulte, & ſecrete proprieté: au moyen dequoy levnes ſe - - ** cherchent,les autres ſe fuyent, autres ſe font guerre mortelle, ne demandans que la ruine les | -- vnes des autres. et pour preuue de ce,le lion prince des beſtes, qui eſt le plus fort,& de plus grand cœur | que toutes les autres, & combien qu'il ſoit auſſi fier , & plein de grande animoſité & fureur,rugiſſant & - cruel contre les furieuſes & terribles ; neantmoins il a vne peur merueilleuſe du coq, comme nous l'auons dit cy-deſſus : car non ſeulement il le fuit en le voyant,mais auſſi en le ſentant de loing, ou l'oyant chanter. l'elephât a vne ſemblable peur du pourceau, auſſi ayant vne telle haine aux rats & ſouris,que s'il apperçoit ſa paſture eſtre touchée, ou ſentie d'iceux , il ne la voudra toucher. le rhinoceros,& l'elephant ont vne guerre mortelle , lequel elephant eſtant en furie,la remet, & s'addoucit ayant veu,& apperceu vn mouton. le cheual a telle horreur & inimité,& crainte du chameau,qu'il ne peut ſouſtenir ſa preſence. le chien hait le loup, le liévre le chien : la couleuure craint l'homme nud,& le pourſuit eſtant veſtu. l'aſpic a vne perpetuelle guerre contre le rat d'inde,lequel ſe barboüille,couure & enduit de limon de terre graſſe, puis ſe ſeiche au soleil:& eſtant ainſi armé de pluſieurs cuiraſſes de terre,il marche au combat,eſleuant ſa queue, preſentant toufiours le dos iuſquesâce qu'il aye eſpié la cômodité de ſe jetter de trauersàſa gorge,ce qu'il fait pareillement au crocodille, côme nous auons dit de l'aſpic. le lezard verd eſt ennemy iuré,& capital du serpent,& grand amy de l'hôme,ainſi que par pluſieurs belles hiſtoires & diſcours on le pourra voir & cognoiſtre en liſant vn dialoque eſcrit par eraſme de diuerſes ſympathies, & antipathies de pluſieurs cho- ſes, lequel dialogue ſe trouue imprimé auec l'harmonie du ciel,& de la terre, n'agueres miſe en lumiere antoine. par antoine mizaut , höme de grande recherche & erudition. il y a vne grâde inimitié,& contrarieté entre mizaut. l'homme,& le loup,laquelle ſe declare en ce que ſi le loup void l'homme,premier que l'homme le loup, il luy fait perdre la voix,& l'empeſche de crier. la blette voulant faire guerre à ſon ennemy l'aſpic, qui eſt vne dangereuſe eſpece de ſerpent,ſe premunit & arme deuât toutes choſes de l'herbe appellée rhue.le sin- ge a vne ſinguliere frayeur, crainte & horreur de la tortué, ainſi qu'on le pourra facilemët cognoiſtre d'v- ne plaiſante hiſtoire traictée au dialogue d'eraſme,cy deuant allegué. côme auſſi la mortelle,& iurée ini- mitié qui eſt entre l'araignée,le serpent,& crapaut:choſe pleine de plaiſir,& ſinguliere recreation. il y a pareillement vne mortelle inimitié entre le chat-huan,& les corneilles;de façon qu'il n'oſe ſe monſtrer le iour , & ne volle que de nuict,faiſant ſes prouifions la nuict pour viure le iour.l'oiſeau de riuiere craint ſi fort le faucon que s'il le ſent,& oit ſes ſonnettes,ſe laiſſe ſouuent aſſommer à coups de baſton,& de pier- res , pluſtoſt que s'eſleuer : ce que i'ay veu plufieurs fois. l'aloüette ſemblablement ſe laiſſe prendre à la main de l'homme, de peur qu'elle a de l'emerillon , ou eſpriuiei. l'aigle a pour ennemynortel l'oiſeau de proye. la creſcerelle de ſon naturel eſpouuante les eſpreuiers,de ſorte qu'ils fuyent ſa veue,& ſa voix. lc corbeau,& le milan ont touſiours guerre : car le corbeau luy rauit touſiours ſa meilleure viande. les poullailles haiſſent amerement le renard. le petit poullet n'eſtant à grand peine eſclos, ne craint ny le cheual ny l'elephant , mais il craint le milan : de ſorte que l'ayant apperçeu voire de bien loing , ſoudain court, & ſe cache ſous les aiſles de la poulle. l'aigneau , & le chevreau s'enfuyent vers leurs meres , s'ils ſentent le loup,combien que iamais ils ne l'ayent veu.pareillement il y avne telle antipathie entre le cerf, & le serpent , que le cerfpaſſant par deſſus le trou où ſe retire le serpent,s arreſte tout court, & par ſon haleine l'attire hors, & le tue. or quant à l'amitié qu'ont les beſtes enſemble, cela ne merite eſtre eſcrit, parce qu'on le void ordinairement : le grues auec les grues, les eſtourneaux,auec les eſtourneaux,les pi- geós, auec les pigeós,les moigneaux,auec les moigneaux:& ainſi de toutes les autres beſtes de meſme eſpe- inimitié ce. inimitiez implacables ſont entre les brebis,moutons,aigneaux,& les loups,voire ſi grandes,qu'apres apret la la mort des vns & autres, ſi deux tabourins ſont faicts, l'vn de peau de brebis,& l'autre de loup,eſtans ſon- rf , nez & frappez tous deux enſéblement,bien difficilement ſe pourra ouyr le ſon de celuy de brebis,tant ſont - immortelles a - - |. & de l'excellence de l'homme. a immortelles les inimitiez, & diſcordances de ces animaux,ſoient vifs, ou morts. meſmes aucuns eſtiment; que ſi vn luht, ou autre inſtrument eſtmonté de cordes faites de boyaux de brebis , & de loup,il ſera im- poſſible de l'accorder. pluſieurs diſent auoir eſprouué,que la teſte ou queue du loup, pendue ſur la man- geoire ou creche des brebis, ou bien cachée en leur eſtable,pour la peur & frayeur qu'en côçoiuent leſdites brebis,elles ne pourront manger & ne feront que ſe mouuoir,& petiller iuſques à ce que tout ſoit dehors. il y a vne grande contrarieté, & inimitié entre les rats,& la blette, laquelle inimitié ſe manifeſte en ce, que ſil'on adiouſte quelque peu de la ſubſtance de la ceruelle d'vne blette,auec la preſeure pour faire for- mages, iamais les rats, & ſouris n'approcheront de tels formages,& ne ſe pourront aucunement corrom- pre. la linotte hait tellement le bruant,que l'ontient pour aſſeuré,que leur ſang ne ſe meſle iamais. la j'anthere, & hyene ont vne ſi grande inimitié, que ſi les peaux de toutes deux ſont pendues vis à vis l'vne de l'autre,tout le poil de la panthere cherra,demeurant en ſon entier celuy de la hyene:tout ainſi que l'on dit eſtre des plumes,& plumages des oiſeaux meſlez auec celles de l'aigle : car elle les conſomme, & met à neant , les ſiennes demeurans en leur entier. vn taureau farouche & furieux,attaché à vn figuier,deuient doux, & appriuoiſé. les eſcarbots meurent à l'odeur de roſes.si on tire auec les mains la barbe d'vne ché- vre rangee au troupeau d'autres,tout s'arreſtera,& lairra ſa paſture,& toutes deuiendront eſtonnées, & ne ceſſeront de s'eſmarmeller , inſques à ce qu'on l'aye laiſſée. il ne ſe/trouue ſeulement contrarieté entre les animaux, mais auſſi entre les plantes. exemple du chou, & de la vigne. le chou, & la vigne ſont perni- cieux l'vn à l'autre,& leur combat eſt digne d'eſtre conſideré.car combien que la vigne par † tendrons ou capreoles tortues, ſoit accouſtumée d'embraſſer toutes choſes , neantmoins elle hait le chou, tant grande eſt l'inimitié qu'elle porte à ceſte plante, que ſeulement prés de ſoy, elle ſe retourne en arriere, comme ſi quelqu'vn l'auoit admoneſtée,que ſon ennemy fuſt prés d'elle. au contraire aime les ormeaux, & les peu- pliers, voire ſi heureuſement , qu'elle croiſt, & ſe faict plantureuſe aupres d'eux:car elle eſtant prés d'eux, eſpart ſes tendrons montant en haut, & embraſſe comme liens les branches,& ainſi s'eſgayant apporte foi- ſon de raiſins. il y a vne conbination de maſle,& femelle aux choſes † comme toutes ſortes de plantes,& arbres, ce qu'on void s'ils ſont plantez l'vne pres de l'autre ils font grande demonſtration de leur naturelle amitié:car les branches du maſle ſe jettent hors de leur lieu naturel,pour s'enclinervers ſa femel- le, comme s'il la vouloit embraſſer. ceſte merueilleuſe amitié d'arbres ſe monſtre fort apparente en la pal- me plus qu'en nulle autre:car ſi la palme femelle eſt plantée prés ſon maſle,les branches,& fueilles d'iceux s'entremellent,& ioignent ſi eſtroictement enſemble,qu'à peine on les pourroit diſioindre ſans les rompre. les citroüilles ayment l'eau,en ſorte que ſi on met vn vaiſſeau ſous leur fruict,eſtant pendu à leur tige, il s'allongera cuidant aller à l'eau:ce qu'on void iournellemét à ceux qui ſont curieux de mettre des vaiſſeaux remplis d'eau deſſous le vin , quand la grappe commence à fleurir. il ſemble auſſi fleurir,lors qu'il eſt en vn verre. les aux,ou oignons , & generalement toute plantes ayans teſte ; lors que les autres commencent à germer dedans la terre, meſmes pendus en l'air, germent, & ſentent tres-fort, pourueu qu'elles ne ſoient rances, ſeiches , & pourries. car la vertu naturelle,& ingenerée,qui eſt dedans les vnes & les autres,alors ſuruient. dauantage,le sanglier,& le cerf, lors qu'ils ſont en rut, & qu'on en ait mis au ſalloir longtemps auparauant,les faiſant cuire,s'endurciſſent & enflent,ſi fort dans le pot : qu'iceluy n'eſtant qu'à demy plein, s'enfuit par deſſus,jettant vne eſcume de mauuaiſe odeur,de ſorte qu'à peine on en peut manger. la peau de bouc eſcorchée,ſeichée,& conroyée par les tanneurs ſent le bouquin en la ſaiſon que les boucs ſont efr- rut, conuerſant auec les chévres ; ainſi comme faict le boucviuant. ce qui demonſtre vne grande ſympa- thie,& harmonieaux choſes naturelles. la diſpoſition ſeule de ces beſtes peut faire ceſte ſympathie,& ſimi- litude de ſentir la peau du mort,& en vn autre viuant. parquoy on peut dire,que la premiere,& principa- le cauſe de mal ſentir eſt en icelle habitude,& temperament du corps : mais l'accroiſſement de la cauſe eſt la coition,& compagnie de leurs femelles. l'onguent roſat,& eau roſe perdent leur force & odeur au temps que les roſes ſont en fleur, & vigueur, qu'ils auoient auparauant qu'elles fuſſent fleuries, & paruenues à hyene beſte egypte. la citrouille ayme l'eau. / l'onguent roſat perd ſe perfection : ce qui ſe fait par vne doleancemutuelle de nature,qui eſt entre les choſes qui ſe font par ſym- ſenteur au pathie. il y a pluſieurs autres antipathies, & ſympathies cachées:deſquelles la cójecture,& penſée de l'hu- main entendement ne peut fureter,& declarer les cauſes, ny les comprendre : car elles giſent enſeuelies en l'obſcurité de nature,& en vne majeſté cachée.au moyen dequoy pluſtoſt on les doit admirer,que recher- cher ſa confuſion:car elles ſont ſeulement cognuës de l'incomprehenſible puiſſance de la grandeur de dieu. que diray-je plus ? entre les plantes,& animaux ſont les zoophytes,c'eſt à dire,plantes-beſtes, qui ont ſentiment & mouuement,tirans leurs vies par leurs raines attachées contre les pierres,comme les eſponges. entre les animaux terreſtres , & aquatiques ſont les amphibies : comme ſont les biévres,louſtres,tortués, cancres, eſcreuiſſes,camphur,& crocodile. entre les aquatiques,& les oiſeaux,ſont les poiſſons volans: & entre les autres beſtes, & les hommes,ſont les singes les corails ſont plantes lapidifiées,qui produiſent . racines & branches. comme l'homme eſt plus exelen & parfaict que toutes les beſtes enſemble ». c h a p. xxii. # a n t e n a n t nous viendrons à deduire la grande excellence de l'homme , & que ce grand dieu facteur de l'vniuers eſt grandement à admirer , qui n'a point attribué à l'hom- me certaines commoditez,comme il a faictaux animaux,ſçachant que la ſapiencé luy pouuoit rendre ce que la condition de nature luy auoit denié.car encores qu'il vienne nud ſur terre, - & ſans aucunes armes (ce qui n'aduient aux beſtes qui ont cornes, dents,ongles, griffes,poil, plume, & eſcailles ) il eſt pour ſon grand profit & auantage,armé d'entendement , & veſtu de raiſon, non par dehors, mais par dedans : a mis ſa defenoe, non au corps, mais en l'eſprit : de ſorte qu'il n'y a ny grandeur, ny force des beſ es,ny la fermeté de leurs cornes,ny la grandemaſſe de chair & d'os,dequoy ils ſót compoſez qui puiſſe empeſcher qu'ils ne ſoient domptez,ou prins,& aſſujectis ſous la puiſſance,& authori- té de l'homme. en luy ſe trouue religion iuſtice,prudence,pieté,modeſlie,cleméce,vaillance,hardieſſe,foy, & telles vertus,bien autres & differêtes,qui ne ſont trouuées aux animaux.ce qui ſera declaré preſétement. tout ce que nous auons eſcrit de la nature des beſtes,n'eſt pour donner matiere aux naturaliſtes,epicu- riens & atheiſtes , qui ſont ſans dieu, de conclure par ces raiſons,qu'il n'y a point de difference entre les hommes & les beſtes:mais pour monſtrer à l'homme qu'il n'a matiere de ſe glorifier qu'en dieu. car quel- que choſe que nous ayons dicte des beſtes & de l'hôme,il n'y a point de cóparaiſon de luy à elles.carl'hôme tout ſeul,a en ſoy tout ce qui peut eſtre excellét entre tous les autres animaux,& plus parfait que nul d'eux. - e car temps que les roſes ſont fleuries. lc ºscond liure, des animaux. car puis qu'il a eſté crée àl'image de dieu,il n'eſt poſſible,quelque abolition qu'il ait en luy de ceſteimages a qu'il n'en ſoit demeuré quelque traict & rayon de la puiſſance,ſageſſe,& bonté de dieu ſon createur. et jaçoit qu'il ſoit vne creature fort debile & foible, au prix de certains animaux,toutesfois ils n'ót puiſſance, - ne force digne de comparer à la ſienne,ſi nous en voulons parler a la verité. car dieu a imprimé en luy vn · # tel caractere de ſa puiſſance,qu'il n'y a nul de tous les autres animaux qui ne le craigne,& qui ne luy ſoient - ſujets, & contraints de luy obeir. et nonobſtant qu'il ſemble par les choſes deuant dictes que la raiſon ait : eſté donnée à tous animaux : toutesfois, comme dit lactance , elle a eſté donnée ſeulement pour la con- - - ſº ſeruation de leur vie corporelle, mais à l'homme, pour viure eternellement. et pource que celle raiſon eſt ， parfaicte en l'homme , elle eſt comme ſapience,& ſageſſe,qui le faict excellent en ce,qu'à luy ſeul eſt don- né à entendre les choſes diuines : de laquelle choſe ciceron a eu vrave opinion,diſant,qu'en tous les gen- - res, & eſpeces d'animaux il n'y en a aucun,excepté l'homme,qui ait cognoiſſance de dieu. et luy a donné ! par grande excellence la raiſon,la parole, & les mains , & par ces prerogatiues , l'a ſeparé des autres ani- | | maux, & doüé d'vne nature plus ſinguliere, que pas vne des autres creatures. il a trouué premierement a par raiſon les choſes plus neceſſaires. il a impoſé nom à toutes choſes, inuenté les lettres, dreſſé les arts mecaniques & liberaux, iuſques à meſurer la terre, & la mer , reduire par inſtruction la tres-ample maſſe du ciel , & la varieté,& diſtinction des aſtres, & l'entreſuitte des iours & nuicts,mois & ans,continuelle- ment renaiſſans , & l'obſeruation du cours des eſtoilles,& leur pouuoir qu'elles ont icy bas. il a eſcrit les loix, & generalement forgé tous les inſtrumens des arts, a redigé par eſcrit les memoires, & ſpeculation des philoſophes;tellement que par ce moyen nous pouuons maintenant parler , & diſcourir auec platon, ariſtot e, & autres anciens autheurs. - l'homme a le corps deſarmé. c h a p. x x i i i. -- e $ ps ( r comme l'homme a le corps deſarmé, & deſpourueu d'armes , auſſi a-il l'ame deſtituée vº) d'arts. et en recompenſe de ce qu'il eſt nud & deſarmé, il a la main ; & en lieu que ſon ame, % n a aucun art, il a la raiſon,& parole : & de ces trois eſtant garny, ilarme ſon corps, le cou- a urant , & remparant en toutes choſes, & enrichit ſon ame de tous arts & ſciences. or s'il sns) auoit quelques armes naturelles, il auroit touſiours celles-là ſeules : ſemblablement ſi de na- tt, c .. : a.oit quelque art, il n'apprendroit iamais les autres. pource donc qu'il luy eſtoit trop meilleur s'ayder de toutes armes,de tous arts,nature ne luy a donné ne l'vn ne l'autre : parquoy ariſtote dit de bonne grace,la main eſtre l'inſtrument qui ſurpaſſe tous autres inftrumens. et ſemblablement quelqu'vn à l'imi- tation d ariſtote, pourroit dire la raiſon eſtre vn art, qui ſurmonte tous les arts. car ainſi que la main eſt inſtrument plus noble que tous inſtrumens, pource qu'elle les peut faire , manier, & mettre en beſongne, - combien qu'elle ne ſoit aucun des inſtrumens particuliers : auſſi la raiſon, & la parole n'eſtant aucun art #: particulier , les comprend naturellement tous. a ceſte cauſe , la raiſon eft vn art qui aduance tous les au- l'homme a tres. l'homme donc ſeul entre tous les animaux, ayant en ſoname vn art plus excellent que tous autres, à - laraiſon par ſçauoir la raiſon, à bon droict poſſede vn inſtrument plus noble que tous autres, ſçauoir la main. laquelle il et ainſi l'homme animal ſeul diuin entre tous ceux qui ſont en terre, pour toutes armes defenſiues,a les excede tous mains qui luy ſont inſtrumens à tous arts , & non moins conuenables en guerre qu'en paix. il n'a eu beſoin autres ani- de cornes naturelles, comme le taureau, ny de defences comme le sanglier, ny d'ongles comme le cheual, fwl f , ny d'autresarmes, ainſi qu'ont les beſtes : car il peut prendre auec ſes mains des armes,qui ſont meilleures, . comme vne picque, vne eſpée , vne hallebarde, vne pertuiſane, qui ſont armes plus aduantageuſes, qui - coupent, & percent plus aisément que les cornes, & les dents.il n'a eu auſſi beſoin des ongles comme le cheual : car vn caillou on leuieraſſenent, & froiſſent mieux qu'vn ongle. en outre,on ne ſe peut ayder de la c corne , ou de l'ongle, que de pres : mais les hommes ſe ſeruent de leurs armes de pres, & de loing,comme d'vne arquebuſe, & d'vne fronde, & fleſche, & d vn leuier plus commodément que d'vne corne.voire-mais dira quelqu'vn, le lyon eſt plus viſte, & leger que l'homme.et bien que s'enſuit-il pour cela ? l'homme - auec ſa main & ſa ſageſſe, qui aura dompte le cheual (animal plus viſte que le lyon) maniant le cheual,il · chaſſe & pourſuit le lyon : en reculant,& fuyant il ſe ſauue de deuant luy:eſtant aſſis ſur le dos du cheual, comme en lieu haut & releué, il choiſit & frappe, & tue le lyon d'vn eſpieu, ou d'vne pertuiſane, ou d'vn º- l'homme a piſtolet,ou autre arme qu'il voudra choiſir. et partant,l'homme a tous moyens pour ſe defendre des autres - tous moyens · animaux:il ne ſe rempare point ſeulement d'vn corcelet : mais d'vne maiſon,d'vne tour, ou rempart. il fait - pour ſe e toutes armes auec ſes mains : il ourdit vn habillement, il lance, & tire vn rets, & vn filet à peſcher,& fait fendre. toutes autres choſes plus commodément que les animaux, & par la puiſſance qu'il a eue de dieu ſon crea- teur , il domine ſur les animaux qui ſont en terre. il charge l'Élephant, & le rend en ſon obeiſſance : mais • auſſi ceux qui ſont en la mer, comme cet horrible monſtre & grand la baleine, la tue, & l'ameine au riuage. v, pareillement ceux qui ſont en l'air : car le vol ne ſauue l'aigle du traict de l'homme, combien que de loing $ il iette ſa veue. et pour le dire en vn mot, il ne ſe trouue beſte, tant ſoit-elle armée de forces de corps, ou s ' pſeau. . pourueuë de ſens,que l'homme ne vienneau deſſus. ce qui eſt prouué par le grand poëte diuin,quand il dit, $ régner ie faus ſur les œuures tant belles tu as de vray ſans quelque exception, d de tes deux mains comme seigneur a'icelles : | mis ſous ſes pieds tout en ſubietion. ·s - n, comme dieu s'eſt monſtré admirable en la creation de l'homme_». chap. xxiv. • g) i e v s'eſt monſtré admirable, & excellent en la creation de l'homme, & en ſa prouidence au- # tour d'iceluy. car il ne l'a manifeſtée ſi grande aux beſtes brutes, leſquelles il n'a creées, ſinon # que pour ſeruir l'homme. nous pouuons bien eſtimer combien elle eſt plus grande autour des t, hommes, & quel ſoing il ena dauantage, & de quels dons il les a douez plus que lesbeſtes brutes, s le grand º qu'il les a crées les plus excellensde tous lesanimaux & comme ſon chef d'œuureentre iceux il avou- " . #e lu faire reluire ſon image, comme vne image de ſa majeſté diuine, incomprehenſible à l'eſprit humain. s parvne tres- parquoy il n'a pas eſté ſans bonne cauſe appellé d'aucuns anciens petit monde,à raiſon qu'en iceluy, comme ， grand ad au grand monde, toutes choſes reluiſent, par la puiſſance, bonté,& ſageſſe de dieu. dieu creant l'hom- | . miration , a me , a fait vn chef-d'œuure d'vne plus excellente perfection que tout le reſte, à cauſe des graces qu'il ' , composé ce luy a données. quelques ſages d'egypte, ppellerent l'homme, dieu terreſtre , animaldiuin, & celeſte,meſ. ·s · petit monde ſager des dieux, seigneur des choſes inferieures, familier des ſuperieures, & finalement miracle de $ nature. · v | -， - lſt •. & del'excellence des hommes. la cauſe pourquoy les hommes ne preſagent comme les animaux. c h a f. xxv. a cauſe pourquoy les hômes n'ont telſentiment,pour apperceuoir & preiuger la mutation du temps, & les futures tempeſtes,& orages de l'air, c'eſt parce qu'ils ſont doüez de la prudence naturelle, par laquelle ils peuuent venir à la cognoiſſance des choſes par leur certain iugement. ils ne ſuiuent pas la di- ſpoſition de l'air,& du temps, comme les beſtes : car ils pourront eſtre ioyeux en temps trouble, & tempe- , les beſtei ſtueux,triſtes en beau temps & clair,ſelon leurs apprehenſions,& affections,& l'occurence de leurs affaires. n'ont point mais les beſtes ſont eſmeues à la ioye ou triſteſſe,non pas par iugement qu'elles ayent, comme les hômes; de iugemº mais ſelon que le temps eſt propre ou mal conuenable à leurs corps : & ſelon que maintenant il ſe relaſche ººº ér & ouure en elles, ce qui eſtoit auparauant clos,& ſerré en leurs corps : & par ainſi elles ſuiuent la diſpo- aſſehré, tion de l'air,& du temps,& donnent ſigne de ce qu'elles en ſentent. et quand à ce que les hommes imitent quelquesfois la voix des beſtes, cela ne leur doit eſtre reputé à deshonneur ; mais à leur grande loüange, ayans pouuoir quand il leur plaiſt de contrefaire les voix de toutes ſortes d'animaux : car, ils glapiſſent comme kenards, ils baricquent comme elephans, ils miaullent comme les (bats , ils jargonnent comme les iars , ils grongnent comme pourceaux » - jls raucoulent comme colombes , ils mugiſſent comme taureaux, ils brament comme les (erfs , ils meuglent comme balaines, ils trompettent comme les gruës , ils banniſſent comme (heuaux , ils puputent comme les huppes , ils crouaillent comme corbeaux, ils ga (ouillent comme hirondelies » b ils gringottent comme roſſignols, ils brayent comme les aſnes, ils hurlent comme les loups, - | ils béellent comme les chevres, ils gemiſſent comme les ours , ils ſiſtent comme serpens , ils rugiſſent comme le try des lyons, ils huyent comme milans , ils greſillonnent tomme grillons , ils coacent comme grenoüilles » | ils caquettent comme (icognes, jls clabaudent comme limiers , lls coqutliquent comme les (ocqs , ils claquetent comme cigalles , ils tlouſſent comme. les tpoulles, ils beurdonnent comme les mouſches , ils piollent comme poullets , - ils abbayent comme les (biens » - } ils cageollent comme les geays , jls crocaillent comme les cailles. ils cacahent comme perdrix , " : le seigneur du bºtas au cinquieſme iour de la ſemaine contrefaict le cbant de l'alouette,chantast tire, lire,alire, & tirelirant tire, adieu, adieu, adieu, adieu. - •! et pour le dire en vn mot, les hommes contrefont toutes les voix des animaux. et quand à ce que les thamme oiſeaux chantent, cela n'eſtrien au prix des muſiciens : leſquels reſonnans enſemble,font vne voix fortme- ºº lodieuſe, & plaiſante à ouyr, voire aux oreilles des roys, & princes,& plus harmonieuſe, ſans comparai- les beſtes ſon, que tous les oiſeaux ne ſçauroient faire enſemble. dauantage, l'homme appriuoiſe non ſeulement les # dr beſtes domeſtiques, mais auſſi les ſauuages, & les plus eſtranges de toutes, comme les elephans,lion , " ours, tigres, leopards, pantheres, crocodilles, & autres. la figure d'vn crocodile !'eſt ig repreſenté«-» (wº « nº < : . :é : - nn # $ - º%\#， # > -- # -- plutarque teſmoigne que les crocodiles, qui ſont beſtes inhumaines & tres-cruelles,ne cognoiſſentpas tant ſeulement la voix des hommes qui les appellent, mais auſſi permettent, & endurent qui les manient: & qui plus eſt, ouurent la gueulle,& ſouffrent qu'on leur touche aux dens, & qu'on leur eſſuye de quelque linge ou autre choſe.et combien que nature ait donné aux beſtes quelque cognoiſſance de medecine, tou- tesſois, c'eſt bien peu de choſe de tout ce qu'elles en ſçauent, au prix de ce qu'vn homme ſeul en peut ſça- uoir, pour peu qu'il ait eſtudié en medecine,& pour le peu d'experience qu'il en puiſſe auoir. il eſt vray qu'elles n'apprennent pas leurs medecines des hommes,d'autant qu'elles n'ont l'entendement côme iceux. r quant à ce qui eſt eſcrit touchant la religion des elephans,leſquels à ce que l on en dit,adorent le soleil les beſtei & la lune, ce n'eſt pas pour aucune cognoiſſance qu'ilsayent de la diuine majeſté. car à parler propre- n'ont aucu- ment, elles n'en ont aucune qui procede de lumiere,& raiſon qui leur ſont donnée pour eſtre capables de ne cºgnoiſ. telle cognoiſſance,laquelle a eſté baillée au ſeul homme.et combien † l'elephât ſe tourne vers le soleil; ſance de & qu'il ſemble qu'il l'adore,ſine l'adore-il point par intelligence, ny foy, ny par raiſon qu'il aye que le so- pieu. leil ſoit leur dieu,& qu'ils ſoient tenus de luy porter honneur & reuerence : mais le font par vn inſtinct & mouuement de nature , ſelon qu'ils ſe trouuent diſpoſez naturellement par la conuenance que le soleila ºuec leur nature,& par le bien qu'ils en ſentent, ſans penſer neantmoins à ce qu'ils font,ſinon ainſi que na- e tur€ -- \ e\scond liure des animaux, les ſens ér l'entende- ment ont la vertu de » cognoiſtre , & de inger. p - ture les pouſſe, ſans re\q\o\n qui ſoit en eux. et pourtant , lors que nous leur attribuons religion , nous ne a la prenons pas en ſa wyoyºs ſignification : mais par vne maniere de dire, & par abuſion de langage, & par comparaiſon,à cauſe de la ſimilitude, & façon de faire qu'ont les elephans. l'homme a la dexterité d'apprendre toutes langues. c ha r. xxvi. $ué, o vs voyons l'homme auoir telle dexterité , qu'il ne ſçait ſeulement pas apprendre les di- #% uers langages qui ſont entre ceux de ſon eſpece , mais auſſi apprend ceux des oiſeaux : ce - u'on void par experience d'aucuns bons compagnons , qui contrefönt tous chants des oi- eaux, & la voix de toutes beſtes , comme nous auons dit cy-deſſus, & entendent le jargon de pluſieurs autres animaux.et pour verifier cecy,apollonius philoſophe,qui eſtoit excellent en ceſte ſcience , vn iour eſtant en vne grande compagnie de ſes amis , où il regardoit des paſſereaux, qui eſtoient branchez ſur vn arbre, § il vint vn autre d'ailleurs , qui commença à gazouiller au milieu d'eux, puis s'enva, & tous les autres le ſuiuirent : apollonius ayant veu cela ( & tous ceux qui eſtoient auec luy ) dit,ce paſſereau a annoncé a ſes compagnons qu'vn aſne chargé de froment,eſtoit tom- bé pres la porte de la ville,& que le bled eſtoit versé en terre:& ceux qui ouyrent cela, voulurent experi- menter s'il diſoit vray & allerent ſur les lieux,où trouuerent la choſe comme ilauoit dit, & quant & quant les paſſereaux, qui eſtoient venus pour manger le bled.or quandaux corbeaux,pies,& autres oiſeaux,qui parlent pour deſguiſer leur ramage, & leur gazouillement, & ſifflement, & ſon de voix humaine,ils ont bien toſt dit tout ce qu'ils ſçauent,& qu'ils ont apprins de long-temps. et quoy qu'ils ſçachent gazouiller, ils demeurent touſiours beſtes brutes ſans raiſon.mais à l'homme,la raiſon luy a eſté donnée naturellement ' de monter plus haut que celles des beſtes, deſirant touſiours ſçauoir, & ne ſe contentant point ſeulement . d'auoir la cognoiſſance des choſes qui appartiennent à la vie preſente:mais s'enquiert des choſes plus hau- tes, & des celeſtes, & diuines : qui eſt vn certain argument,que la nature de l'homme, & lame qui luy eſt" donnée, eſt bien differente à celle des autres animaux,laquelle ne peut nullement eſtre cognuë. lhomme a en ſon ame trois principales puiſſances neceſſairement concurrentes à toute loüable & vertueuſe action à ſçauoir l'entendement , la volonté, & la memoire : vne pour comprendre ce qu'il faut faire, l'autre pour l'executer : & la memoire comme fidelle tutrice, qui garde ce qui a eſté conclu & arreſté en l'entendement- aucuns philoſophes l'ont appellée le threſor de ſçience, d'autant qu'elle eſt comme vn cabinet, auquel eſt garde ce que nous apprenons , & voyons. ces puiſſances, & perfections,ſont graces ſingulieres, & dons ſpeciaux,prouenans de la ſageſſe diuine du sainct eſprit, qui ne ſont données aux beſtes,leſquelles puiſſan- ces ſeront cy-apres plus amplement declarées au liure de la generation,parlant des facultez de l'ame. et our concluſion l'homme eſt ingenieux, ſage, ſubtil,memoratif, plein de conſeil, excellent en condition, uia eſté fait du ſouuerain dieu, & luy ſeul entre tous les animaux a eſté orné de raiſon, & d'intelligence, e laquelle tous animaux ont eſté priuez , & en luy reuit vne image de l'eſſence diuine,qui ne ſe trouue en nulle autre creature. sentence d'euripide>. - l'homme a bien peu de force corporelle-, mais ſa prudence cr raiſon naturelle » va iuſqu'au fond de la mer captiuant : sur terre auſſi s'eſtend iuſqu'aux eſpeces, où plus y a de ruſe & de fineſſes. # kºkºkºkºk# # # kºkºkºkºkºkº t a b l e d es c ha p t r es : d v l i v r e i i i. de l'anatomie. iuiſion du corps humain. c h a p. j. | de la ratelle. xx # enumeration des parties contenantes,auec l'in- | de la veine portes&º diſtribution d'icelle. x x j ſtruction pour cºmmencer la diſſeciion anato- ºzbe l'origine de l'artere, & diuiſion du rameau'deſcendant mique. i j aux parties naturelles. . xx ! ) du cuir. i ij | zdes nerfs diſtribuexaux parties naturelles. x x ) du vray cuir. i v | inſtruction pour oſter les inteſtins. x x v zdu panicule charneux . v | origine & diſtribution de la veine caue deſcendente.xx v zde la greſſe. vj , des reins. xxv ! de la tunique commune des muſcles. v i j | zdes vaiſſeaux ſpermatiques. xx v j definition du muſcle,& declaration de ſes differences.viij | des teſticules. xx v j des parties du muſcle. i x j des corps variqueux,qu'on appelle paraſtates:des vaiſſeaux declaration particuliere d'vne chacune partie du muſcle.x eiaculntoires , & corps glanduleux nommex proffates- des muſcles de l'epigaſtre. xj x x i x de la ligne blanche, & du tperitoine. x i j | des vaiſſeaux vteres. x x x de l'omentum dit du vulgaire coëffe,& des arabes zirbus | de la veſſie. xxx ; x i i j tde la verge virile. xxx ! zdu ventricule ou eſtomach. x i v | de la matrice & parties appartenantes à icelle. x x *! ! j des inteſtins. x v | zde la matrice particulierement. , x x x v du meſentere. xvj | z'es tuniques qui contiennent l'enfant au ventre de la zdes glandules en general,& pancreas. x v i j // . xxx v zdu foye. xv l i j | du nombril. x x x v j zde la veſſit du fiel, x i x - - l e l ， : # # # # le troisiesme livre traittant de l'anatomie d e t o v t l e c o r p s h v m a i n, illuſtrée des figures de chacune partie d'iceluy. p a r a m b r o is e par e' de la va l a v m a in e, conſeiller & premier chirurgien du roy. p r e f a c e. vivant l'ancienne couſtume de ceux qui par cy-deuant ont écrit, auant que venir à la declaration des parties du corps humain, qui eſt noſtre fin pretendue,nous declarerons premierement la neceſſité qu'il y a de les cognoiſtre : puis l'vtilité, afin d'inciter le le- cteur à la connoiſſance d'icelles : tiercement, quel ordre il y faut tenir : quartement, nous dirons que c'eſt qu'anatomie, en la definiſſant, & expliquant les parties de ſa de- ) #s finition ; quand au premier il me ſemble (ſauf meilleur iugement telle connoiſſance # ſert la eſtre plus que neceſſaire,meſm ment à ceux qui deſirent paruenir à la fin pretendue de # # - la medecine : qui t ſt de pouuoir conſeruer ( chacun en ſon endroict, c eſt à ſçauoir le §é - medecin, chirurgien, & apoticaire ) la ſante preſente de tout le corps , & de chacune de ſes parties, ou en - chaſſer la maladie.car c ment eſt il poſſible que le medecin,& chirurgié puiſſent conſeruer,& garder par choſes ſemblables , la ſanté, laquelle conſiſte au temperament, commoderation , & vnion naturelle des parties ſimples pour la conformation du corps : ouchaſſer la maladie, laquelle eſt corruption d'iceux, par eſgal # de ſon contraire, s'il ne cognoit le naturel du corps, & par telle cognoiſſance combien il eſt ſiſte la ſanté. eſloigné d'iceluy,& pourtant a tres-bien dit hippocrate au commencement du liure de l'office du medecin vulneraire,que le medecin, & chirurgien appellez pour guarir vn malade, doiuent conſiderer ſi les choſes ſont ſemblables ou diſſemblables; c'eſt à dire, ſi le corps auecques toutes ſes parties & actions,retiennent . - leur naturel en complexion,commoderation & vnion, ou non， afin qu'ils puiſſent conſeruer en ſon eſtat, ºhº ce qui retiét encores ſon naturel,& reduire en iceluy ce qui en eſteſloigné.ce qui eſt confirmé par galien au commencement du liure des os, quand il dit, qu'il faut cognoiſtre le naturel des os, & connexion d'i- ceux , fi on veut entendre quand ils en ſont eſloignez pour les reduire en iceluy. cutre-plus, veu que la guariſon ne confifte point ſeulement en la § de la maladie, ains en la ſcience de bien,& deuè- ſ ſfeguari- ment ordonner, & appliquer remedes propres, tant à tout le corps qu'à ſes parties,leſquelles quaſi toutes ſon à cauſe de leur diuerſe nature, requierent diuers medicamens : teſmoin galien au commencement du pre- ^ pourquoy mier liure des parties malades,& au troiſieſme de la methode,parlant de l'encens. ie te prie,qui eſt celuy diuerſe par- qui pourra bien, & deuëment ordonner ſelon l'exigence,tant du tout,que de ſes parties , ſans auoir la co- ties requie- gnoiſſance d'icelles, qui eſt acquiſe par l'anatomie ? le ſemblable pouuons-nous dire de l'apoticaire, le- rent diuerº quel ignorant la ſituation des parties du corps humain,ne pourra bien & deuement,ſelon l'ordonnance des ººº medecins , & chirurgiens,appliquer emplaſtres,linimens, cataplaſmes, epithemes, fomentations, eſcuſ- ſons , & autres remedes auſdites parties malades,comme aux ſutures du crane,& parties d'iceluy, à la re- gion du cœur , du foye, du ventre , de l'eſtomach,ſuperieur orifice dudit ventre, de la ratte,des reins.ma- trice, veſſie, & generalement de toutes les autres parties qui requierent tels medicamens mais au contraire il commettra de tres grandes erreurs,appliquant ſus vne partie ce qui eſt propre à ſa voiſine,ou indifferem- ment à toutes deux, de peur de faillir : comme pour exemple, poſons le cas que le foye ſoit trop eſchauf- fé : & l'eſtomach ou ventricule trop refroidy(ce qui aduient ordinairement : à cauſe que le foye chaud en- . en quoy een- en quoy con- uoyant beaucoup de fumées au cerueau, cauſe diſtillations froides ſur l'eſtomach ) ſi par l'ordonnance du # medecin ledit apoticaire doit appliquer choſes chaudes à l'eſtomach pour ſa guariſon,& il applique indif- # ,# feremment tant ſur la region du foye que dudit eſtomach (ce qu'il pourra faire ignorant leur diuerſe ſitua- # d tion, qui eſt de l'eſtomach tirant au coſté ſeneſtre, & du foye au coſté dextre) n'augmentera-il pas l'in- # #ſto- temperature dudit foye, ſans apporter aucun profit à la partie malade, fruſtrant par ſon ignorance l'inten- §ch froid. tion du medecin, & diffamant ledit medicament pour l'indeue application? parquoy toutes ces choſes ainſi conſiderées, il eſt plus que manifeſte à vn chacun, combien la cognoiſſance de l'anatomie eſt neceſſaire à tous ceux qui deſirent heureuſement, à l honneur & gloire de dieu,& à l'vtilité de leur prochain , faire la medecine,chirurgie, & pharmacie : à la faueur deſquels nous donnerons en diuers endroits de ce preſent œuure,figures, où ſeront d monſtrées les parties du corps humain, les plus neceſſaires d'eſtre cogneuës. quant à ſon vtilité, il y en a quatre principales : dont la premiere nous meine & conduit à la cognoiſſance - du createur, comme l'effect à la cognoiſſance de ſa cauſe, ainſi que teſmoigne ſainct paul, diſant que les quatre "uft- choſes inuiſibles de di u ſont manifeſtées,& cogneues par l'intelligence des choſes faites & ſenſibles. la #º ſeconde, eſt que par icelle nous auons la cognoiſſance du naturel du corps humain,& de toutes ſes parties. # #. au moyen dequoy nous pouuons iuger de la ſanté ou de la maladie.la tierce,eſt qu'en cognoiſſant le corps §., humain & ſes parties,& par ce moyen leurs affections,nous pouuons predire les choſes à venir , & depen- la premiere, dantes d'icelles. la quatrieſme & derniere, eſt que par icelles nous ſommes rendus capables de bien & l. ſ . deuement ordonner, & appliquer medicamens, ſelon l'exigence d'vne chacune partie. la tierce. puis donc que la cognoiſſance de l'anatomie eſt ſi neceſſaire & profitable,reſte maintenant à declarer par la quatrieſ- quel ordre elle peut eſtre acquiſe.laquelle choſe,afin quvn chacun puiſſe mieux entendre,faut noter qu'il y me . *trois ordres,par leſquels les ſciences ſont trouuées,& demonſtrées : c'eſt à ſçauoir,ordre de compoſition qui - ss \ e troiſieſme liure trois ºrdres qui eſt propre pour enïe\  r,lequel ariſtote a vſurpé en ſa logique, & phyſique, com mençant des parties pour trouiser ou choſes les p\us ſimps aux plus compoſées. l'autre eſt de diuiſion, lequel eſt propre pour trouuer les cºr enſeigner ſciences:& procede des choſes plus compoſées aux plus ſimples : lequel ordre a enſuiuy galien au liure des . * ſºiºº adminiſtrations anatomiques:& de l'vſage des parties.le tiers, eſt l'ordre de definition, lequel demonſtre galien. l'eſſence,& la nature des choſes,côme appert au liure de gal.de arte parua. et pour autant que cét ordre eſt l§ qu', expliqué pardiuiſion à ceſte cauſe il peut eſtre comprins ſous le ſecond,lequel nous enſuiurons en ce pre- doit teni, ſent traicté, en diuiſant le corps humain en ſes parties : toutes leſquelles ie declareray non ſeulement par pour auoir la cognoiſſance,mais auſſi par ſcience:conioignant ce que galien a eſcrit en ſes adminiſtrations anatomiques, cogneiſſance & vſage des parties : eſquels liures,& premierement en celuy deſdites adminiſtrations anatomiques, nous de l'anato-ſont declarées les parties du corps humain par cognoiſſance, c'eſt à dire demonſtrée à l'œil telles qu'elles mie . ſont : & au liure de l'vſage des parties, elle nous ſont declarées par ſcience, c'eſt à dire , pourquoy elles plat on. ſont telles, & en quel vſage elles ſont ainſi faites.ces choſes ainſi briefuement declarées , il conuient de #º.a monſtrer que c'eſt qu'anatomie,afin que ( comme dit platon en ſon dialogue intitulé phxdrus,& apres luy q ue c'eſt - - j- - - § d §. ciceron ) vn chacun ſçache,& entende qu'elle eſt la choſe de laquelle on doit traicter.et pour autant que #. j" telle cognoiſſance eſt acquiſe par la definition(qui eſt vne oraiſon briefue faite de genre & difference,par- ties eſſentielles de la choſe definie,par laquelle eſt briefuement declarée la nature, & eſſence d'icelle) pre- mierement nous la definirons, puis expliquerons vne chacune partie d'icelle. t)efinition anatomie donc, ſelon ſon etymologie , eſt vne entiere & parfaite diuiſion ou reſolution artificielle du a'anatomie. corps humain en ſes parties,tant vniuerſelles,que particulieres,ſimples,que compoſées.et eſt à noter,auant que paſſer plus outre,que ceſte definition eſt bône,& eſtencielle ſelon les medecins,& chirurgiens:leſquels en quoy dif eſtans operateurs ſenſuels,admettent,& reçoiuent les qualitez propres& communes,pourles differences,& b fere la vraye formes eſſentielles,au contraire des philoſophes,leſquels reprouuent toute definition qui n'eſt faite de gen- definition de re, & difference eſſentielle:laquelle pour l'imbecilité de noſtre nature,nous eſtant cachée,ſommes côtraints º ºſºrº au lieu d'icelle,aſſembler pluſieurs qualitez propres,& cômunes pour compoſer noſtre definition,que nous ption. appellons plus proprement deſcription,pource que où elle nous deuroit monſtrer la matiere,& forme,qui conſtituent l'eſſence de la choſe definie,elle ne nous monſtre que la matiere enueloppée de certains accidës. ce qui eſt manifeſte en ceſte dicte definition,en laquelle diuiſion,& raſolution tient le lieu de genre,à cauſe qu'elle conuient à pluſieurs.quant à tout ce qui s'enſuit, il obtient lieu pour la difference,à cauſe qu'elle la diuiſſon ſepare de toutes autres diſſections,qui ſont faictes ſans artifice.car il faut entendre,que diuiſion artificielle artiſîeielle ,. n'eſt autre choſe que ſeparationd'vne partie de l'autre,ſans aucun intereſt d'icelle,fuiuant la circonſcriptió d'vne chacune,en ſorte que toute diuifion autrement faite,ne peut,& ne doit eſtre dite artificielle. et voylà quant aux parties vniuerſelles de ceſte definition. quant à l'explication des dictions,i'ay dit, du corps hu- main,pource que nous procurons tant qu'il nous eſt poſſible,la conſeruation de ſanté,& chaſſons les mala- corps hu- dies d'iceluy,non d'autres.et de ce appert qu'il eſt ſujet de toute la medecine,non comme compoſé de ma- main ſu et tiere & forme,ou comme humain,ains comme ſuject à ſanté,& maladie. par partie n'eſt entendu autre choſe º lº mede- (comme declare galien au . chap. du .liure de 'vſage des parties)qu'vn corps, qui n'eſtpas du tout ſepa- eine ., ré,ny du tout conioint aux autres,compoſant toutesfois(ſelon galié au premier liu. de la methode)le tout #. auec les autres,auſquels il eſt en partie conioint,& en partie ſeparé.outre-plus par partiesvniuerſelles i'é- cº #ſi ni. tends,comme la teſte,thorax,ventre,auec leurs † particulieres,comme les parties d'icel- uerſelles ér les : les ſimples,comme les parties fimilaires,leſ uelles ſont neufen nombresà ſçauoir,cartilage,os,ligamét, §uli， membrane, tendon,nerf veine,artere,chair muſculeuſe. aucuns adiouſtent les fibres, la greſſe,la moüel- - y'é ;. le, les ongles , & le poil : les autres les laiſſent comme excremens. et noteras les ſuſdites parties eſtre plu- parties ſim ſtoſt appellées ſimples au ſens de la veuë,que ſelon la verité:car ſi on veut diligemment examiner la nature fles. d'icelles, on n'en trouuera pas vne ſeule ſimple,attendu que toutes ſe nourriſſent, viuent,& ſentent, mani- feſtement ou occultement,ce qui n'eſt ſans participation de veine,artere,& nerf. et ſi quelqu'vn m'objecte, comment les que horſmis les dents,on ne void point qu'aucun nerf ſe communique aux os:ie reſponds,que quand il ſeroit cs ont ſenti- ainſi,encore ſont ils faicts ſenſibles,par certaines fibres nerueuſes que leur perioſte leur cômunique,ſe lians / e/ f, par icelles à eux : ainſi que nous voyons faire aux membranes,qui enuelopent les viſceres : & pour ce petit ſentiment animal eſt faite deſdits os expulſion ou repulſion des mauuaiſes humeurs entr'eux&le perioſte:le- quel perioſte,comme plus ſenſible,nous aduertit & monſtre,ainſi que ſon office porte,du perileminent auſ- peurquoy dicts os,ſi nous n'y mettons ordre.parquoy nous conclurrons qu'il n'ya nulle partie en noſtre corps,ſimple ſont les par- ſelon la verité,mais ſeulemét au ſens de la veuë : ou bien ſi nous le voulons prendre à la rigueur,nous le di- tiºº ººteº - rons ſimple,ſelon la ſeule propre chair d'vne chacune les compoſées ſont celles qui ſont mediatement ou ſºſº immediatement faites des ſuſdites qu'on appelle parties organiques ou inſtrumentaires : comme le bras, la milaires. jâbe, la main,le pied,&autres ſemblables. où noteras qu'elles ſont appellées ſimples ou ſimilaires,pource .# qu'elles ne ſe peuuent diuiſer qu'en parties ſemblables,ou de ſemblable nature, comme dit galien au pre- # " # mier de la methode mais les compoſées ſont dites diſſimilaires au contraire de ce que nous auons dit elles aigmii ire, ſont auſſi appellées inſtrumentaires & organiques à raiſon que d'elles meſmes peuuét faire vne parfaite ac- d c inſtru- tion,conſpirante à la conſeruation d'elles,& de leur tout. côme pour exêple,l'œil ſans aide d'autre partie, mentaires , void,& en voyant conſerue ſon tout,& conſequemment ſoy meſme:& pourtant eſt-il dit inſtrument, & or- ou organi- gane,& non point ſes parties,leſquelles ne peuuent de ſoy faire l'action,à laquelle elles ſont deſtinées,côme ques. ſes tuniques,& autres parties et de ce nous entendons qu'en chacune partie inſtrumentaire faut confiderer en ºhººº particulierement quatre parties propres à elle:l'vne,par laquelle l'action eſt accomplie,côme l'humeur cry- lº º" ſtalin en l'œil:l'autre,ſans laquelle l'action ne ſe peut faire,comme le nerf,& les autres humeurs : la tierce, º par laquellel'action eſt mieux faite côme les tuniques & muſcles la quarte,par laquelle l'action eſt conſer- ## #. uée,comme les palpebres, l'orbite,ou concauité,en laquelle eſt poſé ledit œil.le ſemblable pouuons-nous #" dire de la main,propre inſtrument de l'apprehenſion : laquelle elle accomplit premierement par le muſcle, , quatr, comme par partie principale:ſecondement,par le ligament comme celuy ſans lequel telle actionne pourroit parties pro- eſtre faite:tiercement,par les os & ongles, côme ceux par leſquels ladite action eſt mieux faite:quartement, #res à icelle .. par les veines,arteres,& cuir,comme ceux par leſquels tous les autres ſont conſeruez,& conſequemmêt l'a- ction. dauantage faut noter,que les parties inſtrumétaires,ſont conſiderées en quatre manieres,& redigées parties in- en quatre ordres:dont celles du premier ordre ſont,qui eſtans compoſées immediatement des ſimples, ſont ſirumentai- dediées à vne ſeule action,cöme les muſcles,& vaiſſeaux:les autres ſont celles qui ſont compoſées des ſuſ- res redigées dites,& autres,comme les doigts les tierces ſont compoſées de ceux-cy & autres,côme la main prinſe vni- en quatre uerſ llementiles dernieres,& plus compoſées ſont tout le corps,organe & inſtrument de l'ame.et faut en- ºrdres, tendre,que quand nous diſons que les muſcles,& vaiſſeaux ſont parties ſimples,nous parlons quant au ſens de la veue,& par comparaiſon aux autres plus côpoſées:mais ſi nous auons égard à leur eſſence & conſtitu- tion,nous trouuerons qu'elles ſont compoſées,comme nous auons dit par cy-deuant. reſte maintenât à entendre & ſçauoir,qu'en chacune partie, ſoit ſimple,ou cópoſée,faut conſiderer neuf choſes : :! c c / \ ilauoiil c. - : choſes c'eſt à ſçauoir,ſa ſubſtance,quantité ou magnitude,figure,compofition,nombre colligence ou cône-neuf choſe xion,(ſous laquelle eſt comprinſe l'origine & inſertion)complexion ou temperamét,action & vtilité,à celle à conſiderer fin qu'en les cognoiſſant,vn chacun puiſſe heureuſement & puremét exercer ſon art,en conſeruant,& gardât º chacune la fanté,guariſſant la maladie,ou prognoſtiquant la fin d'icelle.finalemét il faut entêdre qu'entre les parties pºrtº organiques il y en a trois principales,qui regiſſent & gouuernét toutes les autres,à ſçauoir le foye,le cœur, &le cerueau.et ſont nommées principales,nópour la neceſſité de la vie(car le vétricule,trachée artere,poul- mons,reins,veſſie, & autres ſemblables ſont auſſi neceſſaire) ains pource que de chacun des trois, procede vne vertu ou matiere neceſſaire(ce que ne fait des autres)à tout le corps;côme du foye la matiere nutritiue enuoyée par les veines à toutes les paries du corpspour leur nourriture : du cœur, la vertuvitalle enuovée , par les arteres,pour leur donnerviedu cerueau,la vertu animale enuoyée par les nerfs pour donner ſentimêt & mouuemétaux parties qui en ont beſoin gal au liure de l'art medicinal neufieſme chapitre,adjouſte les . .. , , teſticules entre les parties principales,nô pour la neceſſité de l'indiuidu, & corps particulier,mais bien pour teſtieulº la conſeruation de l'eſpece,pluralité,& multitude:& au premier liure zeſmine,les conferant auec le cœur, # pº* les fait plus nobles qu'iceluy,diſant.que d'autant qu'il eſt meilleur de bien viure,que ſeulement,& ſimplemét #.# i. viure,d'autant leſdits teſticules ſont plus excellens,faiſans bien viure, que le cœur faiſant viure ſeulement, chet * côme on void aux enuques,ou chaſtrez:donc à bon droit d'iceux ſont mis au nombre des parties principales. b or nature deſirât que ſon ouurage fuſt immortel,a excogite telles parties pour le rendre immortel,à l'exem- ple d'vn ſage fondateur d'vne cite,qui ne regarde pas ſeulement pour l'heure qu'il y a baſty,de la peupler,& faire habiter de grand nombre de citoyens,mais côme elle ſe puiſſe conſeruer à iamais ainſi frequentée, ou pour le moins dvn long eſpace de têps.et toutesfois nous n'auons memoire d'aucune cité,de laquelle auec le temps le nom du fondateur ne ſoit pery,& mis en oubly. mais l'ouurage de nature a ja dure par pluſieurs admirabie milliers d'années,& durera pour l'aduenir,parce qu'elle a inuété vn moyen admirable de ſubſtituer vn autre § nouueau animal,au lieu de celuy qui eſt perdu,& mort. et partant nature a donné à tous animaux des mé-§ pour bres pour conceuoir,& auſdits membres certaine vertu,& faculté inſigne,pour cauſer plaiſir,& delectatiö § les et à l'ame qui doit vſer deſdits inſtrumens & membres,vne indicible,& incroyable enuie de ce faire,de la- animaux en quelle eſtans incitez,& eſguillonnez les animaux,encore qu'ils ſoient totalement priuez de raiſon,ou enco- leur eſpesrr. res ieunes,ils preuoyent neantmoins,& s'employent à faire que leur race dure,comme s'ils eſtoient ſages,& en leur bon ſens. car nature ſçachant bien que la § laquelle elle fabrique les animaux,n'admet& reçoit point vne perfection de la ſageſſe du createur,pour la rendre eternelle,au lieud'icelle elle a octroyé, & concedé ce qu'elle a peu,à ſçauoir vne amorce,& vn allechement dedié à la conſeruation,& propagation de leur race,ioignant à l'vſage deſdicts membres vne volupté grandiſſime,& inenarable : ce que tu pourras voir plus amplement au liure de la generation, cyapres.oriuſques à preſent nous auons ſuſſiſamment de- claré la neceſſité,& vtilité de la connoiſſance de l'anatomie,enſemble demontré l'ordre qu'il y faut tenir,& finalement expliqué la definitiond'icelle,& pourſuiuy ſes parties.parquoy reſte que ſuiuât noſtre promeſſe, nous declarions vne chacune partie du corps humain par connoiſſance, & par ſcience,ainſi que s'enſuit. et combien que la vraye cognoiſſance d'icelle ſe face par voir & manier,toutesfois il ne faut refuſer d'expoſer c la conſtruction du corps humain par eſcrit,pour refraichir la memoire de ceux qui ont anatomiſé& decou- pé les corps,& audi pour mettre en chemin ceux quiiamais n'ont pris peine à entendre l'anatomie. diuiſion du corps humain. c h a p. l # a r c e que la diuiſion du corps humain ne peut eſtre duehnent entendue , ſans la cognoiſſance de la diuifion de l'ame raiſonnable, pour l'vtilité & neceſſité de laquelle,& de ſes facultez ledit corps a eſté ainſi organiſé & diuiſé : à ceſte cauſe nous auons trouué bon de l'expoſer en peu de paroles , afin que par icelle plus facilement, & certainement on puiſſe venir à la vraye & eſſentielle diuiſion dudit corps , humain.comme l'ame donc,qui eſt perfection du corps & principe de toutes ſes actions,ſelon lacommune r # fatut opinion de tous,eſt diuiſée en trois facultez premieres & vniuerſelles,c'eſt à ſçauoir;en l animale, vitale,& tez de l' : naturelle:& derechefl'animale en principale,ſenſitiue,& motiue. côme auſſi vne chacune d'icelles en plu- . ſieurs autres,c'eſt à ſçauoir la principale en l'imaginatiue, raiſonnable,& memoratiue:la ſenſitiue, en la fa- culté viſiue,auditiue,odoratiue,guſtatiue,&tactiue:la motiue en progreſſiue ou ambulatiue &apprehenſiue: la vitale audi en faculté dilatatiue,& conſtrictiue du cœur,& des arteres, qui ſont entendues par la faculté pulſatiue:& la naturelle,en la faculté nutritiue, augmentatiue,& generatiue:leſquelles toutes ſont faites & conſeruées par cinq autres facultez,qui sôt attractrice,retentrice,côcoctrice,aſſimilatrice, expultrice. ainſi ſon organe& fujet,qui eſt le corps humain,ſe doit diuiſer tout premierement en trois parties premieres,& vniuerſelles,c'eſt a ſçauoir aux animales,vitales,& naturelles:& d'abondant toutes celles-cyparticuleremét en autres,ſelon la diuifion deſdites facultez,ſubalternes &inferieures,afin qu'vn chacun entéde l'organe de chacune faculté aux vſages & commoditez qui ſe preſentent.car ainſi que les anatomiſtes le diuiſent com- munément en quatre parties vniuerſelles,ils ſemblent ſeparer les extremitez des trois;&nul n'eſt inſtruit,en d laquelle des trois elles doiuent eſtre reduites & compriſes.au moyen dequoy pluſieurs difficultez nous ſôt - propoſées dedas les autheurs:auſquelles pour obuier nous pourſuiurös la noſtre côme nous auôs cômen- les extremi- cé. le corps humain donc eſt diuiſé,ainſi que nous auons ja dit en trois parties vniuerſelles,c'eſt à ſçauoir, teºſentºº- animales,vitales,& naturelles.par les animales ſont entédues n ſeulemët les parties de la teſte,definies de-priſº ſºº † le ſómet iuſques aux clauicules,& premiere vertebre du torax;mais auſſi les extremitez:entant qu'el- pº ami- es ſont organes,& inſtrumens de la faculté motiue:ce que hippocrate eonfirme au fixiéme liure des epide- males. mies,diſant que ceux qui ont groſſe teſte,omt ſemblablement gros os,gros nerfs,& bref gros mébres:& en vn autre lieu. ceux qui ont groſſe teſte,& quâdils la baiſſent,môſtrent vn gros col,tels ont toutes les parties & principalement animales ſemblablement groſſes. non pas qu'il vueille pour cela demonſtrer que la teſte ſoit le principe,ny cauſe de la groſſeur des autres parties;mais il dit cela d'icelle,entédat que nature eſttres- iuſte & infaillible en ſes operations libres. que ſi nature n'a rien oublié à la facture de la teſte à tous mani- feſte,il s'enſuit bien qu'elle a fait la pareille aux autres qui ſont cachées.l'ay adjouſté cecy,parce qu'aucuns ont eſtimé que ledit autheur vouloit inferer par ſes authoritez,que non ſeulment les os, les membranes,li- gamens,cartilages,& toutes autres parties animales, mais auſſi les veines & arteress dependoient de ladite teſte, comme de leur principe, ne prenans poſſible point garde à noſtre diuifion. - par les parties vitales ſont entendues ſeulemét le cœur,arteres,poulmós, trachée artere auec ſes appar- tenances.et pour les naturelles,toutes celles qui ſont contenues dans la circôſcription vniuerſelle du peri- . - toine,& apophyſes erythroides,qui enueloppent en ſecond lieu les tefticules.car quant à toutes les autres diuiſion des pºrties,que nous appellôs contenantes, elles appartiénent aux animales : leſquelles derecheffaut diuiſer en parties ani- principales,ſenſitiues,&motiues:côme auſſi d'abondant vne chacune,ainſi que s'enſuit et premierement la males. principale,en l'imaginatiue,qui eſt la partie anterieure du cerueau,auec ſes deux vétrisules,&autres choſes - cctix lvc li ) llu liilu l lull c à iceux appartenantes. item en la raiſonnable, qui eſt la partie poſterieure du cerueau,comprenant le tiers a ventricule auec ſes parties.finalement en la memoratiue, qui eſt le cerebelle,& ventricule contenu en ice- luy.secondement,la ſenſitiue,en la viſiue,qui eſt l'œil:auditiue,qui eſt l'oreille:odoratiue,qui eſt le nez.gu- ſtatiue,qui eſt la langue & palais:tactile qui eſt generalement tout le cuir du corps,mais principalement de la main.tiercement,la motiue en la progreſſiue,qui eſt les jambes apprehenſiue,qui eſt les mains:& ſimple- ment motiue,qui ſont les parties contenantes,& bornantes les trois-dits ventres, ſelon la plus grâde partie d'icelles.et quit aux vitales l'organe de la faculté dilatatiue du cœur,& des arteres,ſót les fibres droites,& les tranſuerſes de la conſtrictiue,& tous les trois genres des filamens, tant du cœur que deſdites arteres de la pulſatile.ou ſi tu les veux diuiſer autrement,en parties ſeruantes à la reſpiration,côme ſont les poulmons & trachée artere,& aux autres ſeruantes au mouuemét vital,qui ſont le cœur, & lesarteres par le genre des fibres ſuſdites.reſte maintenant la diuiſion des naturelles,qui eſt en nutritiues,augmêtatiues,& generatiues, diſtribuées derechef aux attractrices,vniuerſelles,& particulieres, retentrices, concoctrices,diſtributiues, aſſimilatiues,& expulfiues. les attractrices ſont l'oeſophague,& le ſuperieur orifice du ventricule:la reten- trice eſt le pylorus:la concoctrice,le corps du ventricule:la diſtributiue,les trois inteſtins greſlesil'expultri- à ce, les trois gras,& gros.et autant en peut-on imaginer du foye,lequel attire par ſes veines meſeraiques;& © la veine porte,retient par l'anguſtie de l'orifice d'icelles contenuès dans le foye, cuit par ſa propre chair, diſtribuée par la veine caue,expcllée par la ratte,follicule du fiel,& reins. le ſemblabe voyons-nous aux teſticules,qui attirent par les vaiſſeaux preparans,retiennent par les anfra- ctuoſitezvariqueuſe d'iceux,cuiſent & elabourent en iceux, dits vaiſſeaux par l'arradiation de leur propre chacune chair,diſtribuent par les eiaculatoires aux proſtates,& cornes de la matiere,tenans le lieu d'icelles en leur par,i. .. endroit : & finalement expellent par leſdites proſtates & cornes & autres parties à eux appartenantes. et ſon nourriſſe- quanta la particuliere attraction d'vne chacune partie,retention, concoction,diſtribution,aſſimilation,elle b ment par appartient à la temperature ou proprieté d'icelle, qu'on appelle proprieté occulte d'vne chacune partie vneproprieté ſimilaire,& fimple.et ne different les actions des parties communes à celles des ſimples en autres choſe,fors ſpecifique. que les communes le font par les trois genres des fibres:& les particulieres, par leur proprieté,occulte,re- dondant,& prouenant de leur temperature, qu'on peut appeller proprieté ſpecifique.or en la compoſition du corps humain,nature a eu trois principales fins ou intenti s. la premiere eſt qu'elle a fait des parties leſ- quelles ſont neceſſaires à la vie,comme le cœur,le cerueau,& foye:la ſeconde qu elles ſont faites pour plus commodement viure,comme les yeux,le nez,les oreilles, les bras & ambes:la tierce,afin qu'elles ſoient de- diée pour la propagation,& inſtauration de l'eſpece, cômc les parties honteuſes,les teſticules,& la matrice. autre diui. et voila ce qui me ſemble de la vraye,& effentielle diuiſion du corps humain,fait & ainſi organiſé pour la ſion commu- varieté,& multiplicité de ſes facultez,tant vniuerſelles que particulieres, laquelle tu receuras,s'il te plaiſt: ne des par- ſinô tureuiendras à la cômune & vulgaire,qui eſt faite en trois vétres, ſuperieur,moyen,& inferieur,nómez ties du corps. par ces noms,teſte,torax,& epigaſtre,& les extremitez.où pour la teſte ne ſont entendues toutes les par- ties animales,mais ſeulement celles qui ſont compriſes depuis le ſómet de la teſte iuſques à la premiere ver- tebre du col,ou bien la premiere vertebre du metaphrene,ſi à l'imitation de galien en ſon liure des os,par- lant de l'articulation faite par enarthroſe,& arthrodie,nous referons le col entre les parties d'icelle. par le thorax,dit ventre moyen, tout ce qui eſt cópris depuis les clauicules iuſques à l'extremité des coſtes,tant vrayes que fauſſes,& diaphragme:par l'epigaſtre,le demeurant du tronc du corps,contenuentre le diaphra- gme,& l'os pubis:& par les extremitez,les bras,& les jambes. laquelle diuiſion nous retiendrons,pourau- . tant que ſelonl'ordre anatomique nous ne pouuons pourſuiure les parties du corps humain ſelon noſtre premiere diuiſion:parce que leſdites parties ſont meſlées les vnes parmy lesautres nature n'a voulu faire ce ventre inferieur oiſeux, afin que l'eſtomach, apres le manger,& boire peuſt eſtre dilaté,& auſſi afin que les c enfans puiſſent prendre accroiſſemêt,& que l'on peuſt ſe plier & courber.nous cómencerons à iceluy,pour faire la diſſection:à raiſon qu'il eſt ſujet à corruption plus que nulle autre partie,tant pour la temperature humide,& froide de ſes parties,que pour les excremens feculens,& vicieux contenus en icelles. toutefois raiſonpeur- ºuant que paſſer plus outre, s'il eſt queſtion de faire demonſtration publique,apres auoir deu, ment ſitué le, quoy on cºm ſujet,& pourueu aux inſtrumens,& autres choſes à ce faire requiſes,faut diuiſer ledit ventre enſes parties, mence la qui ſont cötenantes,& contenues:dont les contenantes ſont celles, qui conſtituent toute la capacité definie diſſection de- par le peritoine,deſquelles la partie plus eminente eſt definie ſeló galien,par la ſituatió des muſcles droits, monſtratiue & eſt appellée generalemét de ce nom epigaſtre,lequel eſt diuiſé en trois parties:c'eſt à ſçauoir,en celle qui ºu venrre eſt deſſus le nombril,qui retient le nom de touten l'autre,qui eſt alentour du nombril,nômée vmbilicale ou ºſºrº moyenne & troiſieſme qui eſt deſſous le nombril,nommée hypogaſtre,ou petit ventre.en chacune deſquel- - les faut conſiderer deux parties laterales, à ſçauoir en l'epigaſtre, les hvpocondres dextre, & ſeneſtre, leſ- quelles ſont finies depuis l'extremité des fauſſes coſtes,iuſques à la plus haute montée des cartilages d icel- les,& du diaphragme : en la partie vmbilicale,deux lombales côpriſes depuis l'extremité du torax iuſques aux iles,leſquelles vulgairement on appelle les flancs:eh l'hipogaſtre,les deux iles definis des os des iles,& os barré. combien que je ſçache bien que l, a, que les grecs appellent lagones , ſignifie toutes les parties situation qui ſont vuides entre la derniere coſte,&l'os des iles,leſquelles les grecs ont appellées (eneona c'eſt à dire, de parties vuides, pource qu'ils n'ont point d'os comme teſmoigne galien au deuxieſme cômentaire ſur le prognoſti- de tout le que:toutesfois pour diuiſer plus clairement tout le ventre,il faut appeller les parties laterales du nombril, ventre inſe- lombales,& les parties laterales du ventre inferieur,iles. où faut notter,que les anciens nous ont marqué rietar. ainſi ceſdites parties cötenantes,afin de nous deſigner le plus pres qu'il ſeroit poſſible,les parties côtenues audit ventre,leſquelles ſont ſous diuers lieux, diuerſes:comme ſous l'hypocondre droit, la plus grande par- tie du foye:ſous le ſeneſtre,la plus grande du ventricule,& la rate ſous l'epigaſtre,l'orifice inferieur duven- tricule, & la plus petite partie du foye : au flanc dextre,& partie ſuperieure,le rein dextre:à l'inferieure & commencement des iles,l'inteſtin cxcum : & au milieu,partie de l'inteſtin colon,& l'autre du ieiunum:au ſeneſtre,partie ſuperieure,le rein,& moyenne,l'autre partie du leiunum,& du colon:& ſous la partie vmbi- licale deſcend l' cphyſis,& partie ſuperieure de l'epiploon,& tranſuerſe le colon:aux dextres des iles & ſe- neſtre,la plus grande portion de l'inteſtin ileon,& les cornes de lamatrice aux fémes enceintes & vaiſſeaux ſpermatiques,tant de l homme que de la femme:& ſous l'hypogaſtre partie inferieure,l'inteſtin droit,la veſ- ſie,& l'amarry, & le demeurant de l'epiploon:& ce afin que nous puiſſions mieux diſcerner leſdites parties malades,& y remedier par deue application de medicamens,ſans dommage d'vne partie n'y d autre,ny trö- perie de prendre vne partie pour autre, ny vne maladie pour autre. ceſte diuiſion eſtant par nous trouuée fort bonne,l'auons bien voulu enrichir & illuſtrer par ces deux figures,auſquelles ſont marquée non ſeule- ment les parties ſuſdites,tant contenantes, que contenuës,mais auſſi generalemét toutes les autres du corps vniuerſel,que nous auons cogneu pouuoir apporter quelque vtilité à la cognolſſance des parties ſujettes. leſquelles figures auec leur declaration ſont telles. # fig rt r=" –- de l'anatomie. i figure gmf '/'#eur&_'. \. a t)eclaration de la figure anterieure . a le nœud de la gorge. b b les deux clauicules,ou os furculaires. c la region du cœur. - d la fourchette,ou cartilage xiphoïde. e hypochondre gauche , la où le ventricule , ou eſtomach eſt ſitué. f hypochondre droit, où eſt ſitué le foye. g l'epigaſtre proprement pris,ſous lequel eſt con- tenu l'orifice inferieur du ventricule, comme le - ſuperieur ſur la cinquieſme vertebre du thorax. ^ . h la region vmbilicale, ſous laquelle eſt posée la plus grande reuolution de l'inteſtin ieiunum. . ii les deux flancs, oulumbes,à la partie ſuperieure, eſquels ſont ſituez les reins. et à l'inferieure du coſté droit,le caecum inteſt inum.et du ſeneſtre, , la reuolution du colon, l'hpogaſtre,autrement dit petit ventre, ſous le- quel eſt contenue la plus grande partie de la re- uolution de l'inteſtin ileon, la veſſie, & amarry aux femmes, & le rectum inteſtinum. l l les iles ſous leſquelles ſont contenues le demeu- rant de l'inteſtin ileon, les teſticules, cornes,& vaiſſeaux ſpermatiques de l'amarry eſtant empeſ- chée,& les vertebres. ' , m l'os barré,ou du penil,aux deux coſtez duquel ſont les aiſnes. n la partie anterieure,& moyenne de la cuiſſe, en . - laquelle communement on applique les ventou- ſes pour faire prouoquer les purgations aux femmes. . o monſtre l'endroit deſſous la maleole, où il faut ſaigner la veine saphene. teclaration de la figure poſterieure-. p monſtre le derriere du col, ou communé- - itlcilt on † le seton. - qq_l'aſſiete de l'omoplate, vn petit plus haut de laquelle on applique les ventouſes, marquée . . r la ſituation de la ratte, ſous laquelle t'eſt monſtré l'endroit des reins, par . . s l'endroit de l'inteſtin caecum. - ' t l'os ſacrum, où aux affections de l'inteſtin droit, faut appliquer les remedes pro- pres pour ſa cure. v l'endroit de la jointure de la cuiſſe, auquel il faut appliquer les remedes propres à la curation de la goutte sciatique. x le jarret, & endroit où on ouure la veine oplitique. y letalon. f Énumeration , , - le troi eſme liure - -- *- - ---- a enumeratiº des parties contenantes, auec l'inſtruction pour commººr - : # la diſſection anatomique . .. c h a p. ii. - # e s parties contenantes de l'epigaſtre, ſont l'epiderme, le vray cuir : le panicule charneux # |#% meſlé auecques la greſſe, les huict muſcles de l'epigaſtre, auecques leur tunique commune, r ! n< le peritoine, les cinqvertebres des lqmbes, & tout l'os sacrum, les os des iles, os barré,la - : ligne blanche, & diaphragme : deſquelles les vnes ſont communes à tout le corps, comine - les trois premieres : les autres propres aux parties contenues ſous ledit epigaſtre generale- # ment prins. pour leſquelles voir chacune ſelon ſon ordre, faut tout premierement cerner le nombril tout - - à l'entour , enfonçant ledit cerne, & inciſion † à la ſuperficie exterieure des muſcles, pour iceluy º reſeruer,,iuſques à ce que la commodité ſe preſente de monſtrer les vaiſſeaux vmbilicaux, plongez de- - dans ledit ventre, qui ſont vne veine, deux arteres, & le pore vraque ſi aucun en y a. ce fait, faut prendre ， vne droite ligne du milieu de l'os pectoral, dit sternon, par deſſus le cartilage xiphoïde, dit la fourchette r iuſques à l'os pubis, laquelle diuiſe leſdites parties contenantes,communes iuſques à la ſuperficie des muſ- -- cles,ou ligne blanche,& conſequemment deux autres tranſuerſales de meſme profondeur,conduites des par. , ， ties laterales de la cerneure du nombril iuſques aux lombes:& ce afin que plus facilement on puiſſe ſeparer b - d'vn coſté,& d'autre ledit cuir des parties ſubjacentes,& faire qu'il n'empeſche point de les bien voir,&con- :: templer. tout cecy fait, faut commencer de ſeparer le cuir des autres parties,les angles deſignez en tout ledit , º nombril, & monſtrer comment il eſt double,à ſçauoir vray,& non vray,& commeils ſont appellez de propre ; # nom, rendant raiſon de leur appellation. ce que nous ferons non ſeulement icy, mais en toutes les autres m， parties, tant qu'il ſera poſſible : & pourſuiurons en icelles les neufchoſes par nous declarées au proème de . , c- ce preſent liure, commençant au cuir,comme la partie qni s'offre la premiere au ſens de la veue. du cuir. - ch a p. i i i. / •º - e cuir,premiere & vniuerſelle partie de noſtre corps, eſt double : vn vray,& l'autre non vrav, le vray eft dit zerma èn grec,pource que ſelon ſa plus grande partie,il ſe peut eſcorcher,& ſe- parer des autres ſujèttes : ie dis ſelon ſa plus grande partie, parce qu'és parties de la face, és oreilles,à la paume de lamain,& doigts d'icelle,és parties honteuſes,plante des pieds,& doigts d'iceux,il eſt tellement infiltré,&meſlé auecques les parties ſujettes qu'on ne le ſçauroit ſepa- rer d'icelles.le nom vray(lequel tout premierement nous declarerons,comme celuy qui premier ſe preſen- te au ſens de la veuë ) eſt appellé des grecs epidermis,parce qu'il s'eſtend,& couche ſur le vray : nous l'ap- pellons en noſtre langage cuticule, ou petite peau, duquel la ſubſtance eſt de l'excrement oueffloreſcence reſſeichée du vray cuir.car que ſa ſubſtance ne ſoit de ſa ſemence, il appert en ce que,comme aisément elle * ſe perd, auſſi aisément elle ſe repare(ce qui n'eſt des parties ſpermatiques.)ceſte cuticule,tant par ſoy que ſeparée, & abſtraicte : nous eſt clairement demonſtrée en deux façons, ſçauoir eſt par aduſtion faite par feu, ou bien par vehement ſoleil és perſonnes freſches & delicates,quine l'ont accouſtumé.sa quantité,ou magnitude en profondeur eſt bien petite,mais en largeur elle eſt d'autant plus grande:pource qu'iceluy de- uoit couurir le vray cuir, pour la raiſon qul ſera dite cy-apres. quant à ſa figure,il eſt rond & long, com- * me les parties qu'il couure. sa compoſition eſt obſcure : toutesfois puis qu'il eſt excrement du vray cuir, il eſt compoſé de la ſuperfluité excrementeuſe des nerfs,veines, & arteres, & propre chair d'iceluy. il eſt vni- · que comme le vray cuir , lequel exterieurement il reueſt comme nous auons dit, & ſur lequel il eſt ſitué; afin qu'il fuſt moyen entre l'object du tact, & la faculté tactiue fixe, diſtribuée par tout le vray cuir, auec lequel ſeul il eſt conioinct. quant à ſa complexion & temperament, il eſt moyen entre tous,ſelon la cómu- ne opinion des medecins : pource qu'eſtant moyen entre l'object,'& la faculté, s'il euſt eſté chaud, froid , * ſec,ou humide en exuperance,il euſt repreſenté à la faculté toutes choſes tactiles de ſa meſme qualité:ainſi que nous voyons toutes couleurs eſtre repreſentées de couleur rouge ou verte, par les lunetttes rouges, ou vertes, pour laquelle meſme raiſon il n'a aucun ſentiment. d'action il n'en a point, mais il a vſage, qui eſt de côſerucr,& polir,tant qu'illuy eſt poſſible,le vray cuir,en ſorte qu'il ſemble que nature l'ait ainſi pro- l'epidermis duit,afin qu'il luy fuſt parement, & dernier ornement.en cecy les bons ouuriers l'imitent leſquels pour em- ſ ºu bellir leur ouurage, le rabottent & raclent, & en fin le poliſſent. et par ce tu entendras que toutes parties rendrer. n'ont pas action, mais toutes ont quelque vſage,ſuiuant ce que dit ariſtote, que nature n'a rien fait en vain. - dauantage tu noteras , que ce dit cuir deperdu ſe peut regenerer par tout, fors que ſur la cicatrice : puis • • ! que iamais il n'a faute de matiere, ny faculté formatrice, fors qu'au ſuſdict lieu cicatricé. pourquoy le vray cuir eſt appellé der- , , du vray cuir. - c h a p. i v. d §é e vray cuir,que nous auons appellé dermº,eſtde ſubſtance ſpermatique, & à ceſte cauſe la portion ， d'iceluy deperdue ne ſe peut regenerer telle qu'elle eſtoit. parquoy en lieu d'icelle s'engendre vne autre:qu'on appelle cicatrice,laquelle eſt faite de chair deſſeichée outre ſapropre nature.ll eſt de $ºantité quantité aſſez grande en profondeur , comme vn chacun peut voir par la diſſection , & feparation d'auec la - - chair.en largeur il enueloppe tout le corps, horſmis les yeux,la bouche,les extremitez des doigts,la part où v" les ongles ſöt attachés,les narines,oreilles,membre viril,ſiege,vulue,parties dediées à jetter hors les excre- t mens.sa figure eſt telle que nous auons ditde l'epiderme, à ſçauoir ronde, & oblongue, auecques certaines ' productions deſcendantes aux extremitez.où tunoteras que ladite figure luy a eſté baillée ainſi preſque qu'à - toutes autres parties,comme la plus parfaicte, & moins ſujette aux maux,& incommoditez externes,& plus • capable que nulle autre. il eſt compoſé de nerfs, veines, & arteres, & de ſa propre chair ou ſubſtance,que " qompoſition. † dit eſtre ſpermatique,commevenant de l'apophyſe du chorion,autrement dit #ne# - . le vray cnir le conduit les vaiſſeaux ſpermatiques iuſques au nombril: auquel endroit en laiſſant aller leſdicts vaiſſeaux >- prena#" chacun en ſon lieu ordonné de nature, elle s'eſtend & dilate a le generation dudit cuir, ainſi qu'il appert - origin, du par la diſſection , & ſimilitude de l'vn à l'autre : car ſi le c horion eſt double , inſenſible , enueloppant tout chorion. le fœtus eſtant legerement lié aucc la premiere tunique dicte amnicos:auſſi eſt le cuir double , inſenſible, de ſoy ( autrement en vain luy ſeroient baillez les nerfs des parties ſujettes ) enueloppant tout le corps eſtant legerement lié auec le pannicule charneux produit de l'amnios. que ſi on m'objecte que l'epi- dermis n'eſt partie du cuir produite d'vne des membranes du chorion , veu qu'elle eſt inſenſible & ſe- parable de l'autre interne,& entierement differente d'icelle:ie te reſpons, que ſi eſt,ſion y regarde de pres: - c • - subſtance.' cie iixiiauoiiiic. o , a car que l'interne ſoit eſpeſſe, ſenſible, viuante , charnuë, elle ne l'eſt de ſoy , mais pluſtoſt par le benefice des parties qu'elle reçoit des trois † principales,au contraire de l'exterieure : laquelle, combien qu'el- le reçeuſt pareils benefices des ſuſdites parties,ſi eſt-ce qu'à raiſon des incommoditez exterieures,qui con- tinuellement agiſſent a l'encontre d'elle qui ſont l attouchement des qualitez, tant premieres que ſecon- des) ne luy profiteroient de rien.il eſt vnique pour#e qu'il n'auoit à couººº § † † ſça- 'gir le corps humain, tout à l'entour duquel il s eſt ſitué, excepté és parties § le # pre § § coil- tespp eſt,qu'il ſe lieauec les parties ſubiacentes,par nerfs, veines,&§ † § † l § §s lu'ilyait entre toutes les parties du corps communicatiºn §†§§ ll † § fait entier,mperament propre,ºº eſgard à ſa compoſition,corps &ſub ncc,c § † qu i e ticules des nef des parties ſpermatiques,leſquelles ſont naturellemét telles, combien qu'eu e# § † eſt temperé en toüines,arteres, & filamens charneux quiſe meſlent parmy ſon propre § - § § § & § d'iualitez,comme meſlé d'egales portiös departies froides,ſeiches,chaudes & humides. f vd d§ § #eſtd'enſerrer, & contenir en bonne vnion toutes les parties du corps en lesde- § §§ ſcauſe dequoy principalement il a eſté fait par tout † # § # uertie, par le ſentiment d'iceluy, àleur dignité,& neceſſité,& ce afin §† † † ll § § c qu'il eſt poreux, & tranſpirable, ainſ#gſº à eux contraires ou conuenables. † duit ciltcil § - irer à ſov l'air ambi ourrefrigpº† par les ſueurs afin que par tels pores lºsarteres pui# ſent attirer à ſoy l'air ambient, p c & nourrir la chaleur naturelle fixe, & expeller dehors les excrements fuligineux, leſquels en hyuer par [è& - - - - - - .* ent leſdits pores,ou entre chair & cuir , ou en- tre leſdites peaux , principalement entre les parti# bouchent l pores, - - - - - - •poſées à l'air ambient. iceux excrements eſtans rete- nus font noirceur, & immondicité eſdites §aqº c - - - - - - - eſt chaſſée par chaleur conioincte auec humidité, qui au contraire ouure ceſdits pores,& ſubtiliſe les huméº p - - - - - l'attraction d'air faite par les arteres eſt de- monſtrée aux femmes qui ont ſuffocation de l'amarry, leſque ne demonſtrent auoir autre fuition d'air, que de celuy qui eſt attiré de la ſuperficie du corps par leſdites ą du pannicule charneux. ch - p. v. pr e s le vray cuir , s'enſuit vne membrane,que les anatomiſtes appulent pannicule charneux lequel afin que nous puiſſions mieux expliquer nous declarerons que c'e que membrane, & en combien de ſortes elle eſt prinſe,puis nous rendrons raiſon pourquoy ellë.ſt appellée icy pan- nicule charneux. membrane donc eſt vne partie ſimple, # e » platte, & e-liée, toutesfois forte & denſe, blanche & nerueuſe , & ſans grand danger ſe pouuant eſtendre, & § elle prend quelquesfois le nom de tunique,à ſçauoir lors qu'elle reueſt vne autre partie. en ce lieu cy elle eº appellée pannicule charneux , pource qu'en aucuns endroicts elle prend chair, & ſe rend muſculeuſe , comme à l'homme, depuis les clauicules iuſques à la † du poil de la teſte : & pource eſt appellée audit endroit muſcle large : aux autres endroits du coprs , elle n'eſt que membrane ſimple , meſlée pâr cy par là auec la greſſe aſſez ſubjacente : & pource peut eſtre dite pannicule adipeux. mais aux beſtes (deſquelles elle a pris ſa denomination telle, comme de la partie dominante ) elle eſt manifeſtement charneuſe, & muſculeu- ſe par tout le corps,ainſi que l'on peut voir aux cheuaux,& aux bœufs : & ce afin qu eſtant mobile ils puiſ- ſent chaſſer les mouſches,& autres animaux qui les poignent.ces choſes ainſi conſiderées,nous diſons ledit pannicule charneux eſtre ſon propre corps de ſubſtance nerueuſe, ou membraneuſe , comme venant de la membrane prochaine du fœtus,nomméeamnios,dilatée pour ſa generation ſur la racine du nombril.où il faut noter que tout ainſi que le chorion,amnios membranes liées enſemble par petites fibres nerueuſes,paſ- ſans de l'vn à l'autre,& extremité des vaiſſeaux, enueloppent,& enuironnent le petit fœtus durant le temps qu'il habite en lamatrice:ainſi le cuir,& pannicule charneux vnis:& conioincts par meſmes liens, enuelop- pent,& enuironnent tout le corps durant le temps qu'il habite dans la grande matrice mondaine. et pource elle eſt égale,& ſemblable en quantité & figure au vray cuir,horſmis qu'elle eſt contenue d'iceluy,quelques- fois en aucuns lieux meſlée auec greſſe,aux autres augmentée de chair, aux autres toute ſimple. sa compo- t,tion telle que nous la voyons à l'œil, eſt de veines,arteres,nerfs,& propre chair meſlée auec greſſe,& chair muſculeuſe, ſelon aucunes parties du corps. il eft vnique , pour l'vtilité qui ſera dite cy-apres, eſtant ſitué entre le cuir & greſſe ; ou tunique comme des muſcles : auec leſquelles parties,& autres à luy ſubjacentes; ·l eſt conioinct princicipalement par les veines,arteres, & nerfs, quimontent des parties internes en ſa ſub- ſtance,& par icelles au cuir exterieur.son temperament eſt diuers, ſelon la diuerſité des parties qui le com- poſent.son vtilité eſt d'enforcer,conduire,& conſeruer les vaiſſeaux qui vont aucuir, & ſuperficiellement aux autres parties:aux beſtes dauantage,pour mouuoir le cuir, pour la raiſon ſuſdite. de la greſſe-». c h a p. v i. $ a greſſe eſtant ( ainſi que nous auons dit, parlant des parties ſimilaires ) plus excrement que partie , eſt de ſubſtance oleagineuſe, prouenante de la partie du ſangaerée, & vaporeuſe, la- % quelle reſude par les poroſitez des tuniques,ou bien par l'extremité des veines, & arteres,à l'en- tour des tuniques , & membranes nerueuſes, & froides, au moyen dequoy ladicte vapeur olea- gneuſe eſt conuertie † par la froideur deſdites parties.et de ce l'on peut entendre,que la cauſe effi- ciente d'icelle eſt la froideur, c'eſt à dire chaleur plus tiede,remiſe, & moins efficace : & conſequemment, qu'autant que l animal ſanguin eſt plus froid,d'autant a il plus de greſſe:comme nous voyons par experience, non ſeulement entre animaux de diuerſe eſpece,mais auſſi de meſme eſpece,non ſeulement entre maſle & fe- melle,mais entre deux maſles, ou deux femelles, quandl'vn eſt plus froid que l'autre. do'ù procede que la quantité d'icelle greſſe eſt plus grande ou plus petite,à raiſon du temperament de tout le corps,& de ſes par- thes. quant à ſa compoſition elle eſt faite de la ſubſtance ſuſdite meſlée auecques certaines membranes, ou fibres nerueuſes,veines,& arteres.et eſt ſituée de ſa plus notable,& inſigne quantité entre le pannicule char- neux,& la tunique commune des muſcles. ie dy notamment ſa plus inſigne partie, pource qu'on la trouue preſque par tout le corps,ſelon plus ou moins, toutesfois(ainſi que nous auons dit)toufiours pres des par- ties nerueuſes,auſquelles elle eſt annexée. quelques anatomiſtes ont icy demandé , ſi la greſſe eſtoit ſur le pannicule charneux,ou deſſous : mais ceſte queſtion me ſemble inutile, car on la trouue ſouuent, & deſſous, & deſſus. son temperament eſt mediocre, entre chaude, & froide, comme venant de la partie plus aerée du ſang,combien que ſelon ſa cauſe efficiente qui eſt le froid, elle deuſt eſtre froide,au reſte humide inſigne- ment son vtilité eſt d'humecter les parties,leſquelles par trop grande abſtinence,& vehemens exercices & chaleurs immoderées peuuent eſtre par trop deſſeichées.semblablement d'eſchauffer,mais plus par accident f . que nombre, - • : · • • - -• • , - • º situation. connexion. temperamét, vſage. membrane. diuerſes'ap- pellations de membran°. subſtancº. ) uantité. figure. compoſition. nombre. cennexion, tomperamét vtilité. subſtance. )uantité. compoſiticn. situatio", conexion &:- temperamè: = uf - -ilv-ututitutiiic ictuire- - | •-r < vtilité. que àe la • † , ºº accident, pource qu'eſchauffée, elle eſchauffe leſdictes pa*ties : oubien à cauſ - : " † † § chaleur naturelle ne s'exhale, comme fait le froid en hyuer , dont les ventres ſont = | º aites plus chaººº temps là qu'en eſté. ie ſçay bien que quelques doctes medecin* de noſtre temps ont a hippocra» º debatu, o greſſe eſt chaude de ſon temperament, & que ſa cauſe efficiente eſt chaleur tempo- #º §u rée,& non le froid : mais ie laiſſe ces queſtions plus ſubtiles aux phyſiciens. or eſt à noter,qu'aux iointures gº liure des partie# qui ºnt frºquent mouuement, outrouuevne autre eſpece de greſſe beaucoup plus ſolide,& du % º»que celle de laquelle nous auons parlé, qui eſt ſounent accompagnée d'vn humeur viſqueux & g qi - ſºrt diuerſes eſ comme le blanc d'vn œuf, pour plus longuement les humecter, & lubrifier ſelon leur exigence dºs ! pce pe ces de º mºuuement ſoit plus libre : à limitation dequoy nous voyons qu'on lubrifie des choſes vnºs § s pr greſſe, corps durs , & ſolides agitez par frequent mouuement, comme la roue d'vne charrette, #avr § o §. i : il y a ºº ºº autre eſpece de greſſe, que nous appellons le sein, laquelle ne differ#m § d #l grcfle» [c ſinon qu'elle eſt plus ſeiche,la partie d'icelle plus humide,ſubtile, & molle,eſtant ºaement † # gran- •:: de chaleur du lieu,à raiſon de la multitude des veines, & arteres & ſe trouue p#v§ il § entere, ::: à l'entour des reins , & ſur les lombes,& baſe du cœur.la greſſe ſe conſor'chaleuri † inence, d， par faute de manger, ſe deſſeiche, & endurcit par les exercicesvehem chaleur mmoderée. ainſi •::: - - #ºrön le cœur, eſtre plus fe # ! voyons-nous au dedans de la main, & plante des pieds, ſous l'œil,， - plus terme, " ! - preſque charneuſe en denſité & d§ raiſon que §i molll'. :éfit & chaleur, ſa plus ſubtile, & hu- b | mide portion eſtant comme fondue & diſſipée, reſte la plus ， º & terreſtre. - l de la tunique commune des muſº c h a p. v i i. . | | | zt subſtance. p r e s ceſte greffe l'onvoit vne † eſpandue par deſſus tous les muſcles : à cauſe dequoy # $uantité. # elle eſt dite commune d'iceux. & ſtance eſt nerueuſe comme de toute autre membrane. sa - " , ! # quantite, & largeur eſt defini#ºººº des parties qu elle couure , à ſçauoir des muſcles de - # figure. º" l'epigaſtre, celle qui §éſdits muſcles; & ainſi des autres.sa figure eſt ronde.sa compoſi-, - compoſition tion, de veines, arteres, nerf, & opre chair tiſſue des trois genres de fibres.son origine eſt du perioſte, # origine la part où les os baillent ligarºt à leurs muſcles , ou bien ſelon aucuns, des fibres nerueuſes, & ligamen- º teuſes deſdits muſcles,leſo is ſortant à la ſuperficie de la chair,s'vniſſent pour ſa generation.orvenantla- • r,& dite membrane du perie ce comme fait tout autre, contenue ſous la teſte immediatement ou mediatement) - lu : elle s'aualle ſur leſdi muſcles par leurs tendons. que ſi quelqu'vn m'objecte que la preſente membraneſe- lts : parée du ventre d, muſcle vers le ligament, ſemble finir en iceluy : ie reſpons, que la nature de la partie g ! nombre. nerueuſe eſt de e lier tellement àvne autre à ſoy ſemblable,ique difficilement les peut-on ſeparer teſmoin - or connexion les apo net oſes des muſcles obliques,& tranſuerſaux,& peritoine de l'epigaſtre. celle qui couure les muſ- cen " cles de epigaſtre, eſt vnique, ſi vous n'aimez mieux en faire deux : vne dextre, & l'autre ſeneſtre dîuiſée trr. par la ligne blanche. sa ſituation eſt entre la greſſe & les muſcles,auec leſquelles parties elle eſt conioincte ::::: »- * / - a - par filets plus deliez que filets d'araignée, & par ſes vaiſſeaux auecques les trois principales parties : & eſt |x : vtilité . temperamét froid,& ſec. son vtilité eſt de conſeruer les muſcles en leur naturelle conionction, les preſer- c - gr h º uant tant qu'en elle eſt,du danger de pourriture,qui leur peut aduenir de la ſuppuration qui ſe faitentre les - - --- parties ſimilaires,& ſeparation d'iceux.et pource ſeparant la greſſe de l'epigaſtre,par la diſſection duquel tu # commenceras ton operation anatomique,tu te garderas de la coupper, & premier que toucheraux muſcles, #:: regarderas à la bien ſeparer,afin que plus aiſément tu puiſſes leuer leſdits muſcles, voyant la ſeparation d'vn c . chacun par vne ligne blanche,laquelle eſt faite de la concurrence des tuniques propres à chacun muſcle. #r - - - - - — ! | -- definition du muſcle, & declaration de ces differences. c h a p. v iii - #::: definition #v s c l e eſtl'inſtrument dumouuement volontaire, qui ſe fait en ſixmanieres fimples, c'eſt à ſçauoir, ，.. du muſcle. cn haut , en bas, deuant, derriere, à dextre, & ſeneſtre : & en vne compoſée nommée circulaire ouen it : rond,qui ſe fait par la continuelle ſucceſſion du mouuement des muſcles ſituez à l'entour de la partie qu'ils kr cauſe du meuuent, ainſi qu'on voit au mouuement du bras du fauconnier, quand il leurre, & duit ſes oiſeaux. il y a ses mouuement certaines parties en nous, qui ont mouuement ſans muſcle,& auſſi tel mouuement n'eſt volontaire : comme le - des membres cœur,l'eſtomach,les inteſtins,les deux veſſies, ſçauoir de l'vrine,& du fiel la matrice & pluſieurs autres par- -- en rond. ties de noſtre corps,ont mouuement,leſquels leur ſont naturels, qui ne conſiſtent point en noſtre volonté, -- arbitre,&deliberation,parce qu'ils n'ont point de muſcles:toutesfois font attraction,expulſion,& retention, j. - - qui ſe fait parce qu'ils ont les trois eſpeces de filamens.par les filets droicts il ſe fait attraction,& par les tra- : # uerſiers expulſion,& par les obliques la retention les differences des muſcles,leſquels ſont pluſieurs, ſont s s muſcles. prinſes de leur ſubſtâce,origine,inſertion,de la partielaquelle ils meuuent,de leur forme ou figure,des trous, :- de la magnitude de la couleur,de leur fituation,des genres de fibres,de la coherence,& connexion d'icelles: &l: des teſtes d'iceux,de leurs ventres,des tendons,de l'oppoſition d'iceux en leur actió,& de leur † leur d l - **ſºbſtance ſubſtance:car les vns ſont dicts nerueux,veineux,&arterieux,pource qu'ils ont ſenſiblement nerf veine &ar- - tere,commé le diaphragme,les intercoſtaux,ceux de l'epigaſtre, & pluſieurs autres les autres non, pource t, que ſenſiblement ils ne reçoiuent nerf,veine,ny artere,jaçoit qu'occultement ils en reçoiuent quelque por- - : tion pour eſtre animez,viuifiez & nourris,comme ceux du poignet,& les lumbricaux de la main,& du pied: ·ss combien que par aduenture on puiſſe obſeruer quelques nerfs ſenſibles bien petits, inſerez en ces muſcles, '! mais nous mettons cecy pour exemple. aucuns veulent que les muſcles different en leur ſubſtance, en telle - ſorte que les vris-ſoient plus charnus,les autres plus nerueux,les autres plus membraneux. - | de l'origine : car les vns naiſſent des os, comme ceux qui meuuent bras,& iambes:les autres des cartila- ges , comme ceux du larynx : aucuns des membranes, qui reueſtent les tendons , comme les lumbricaux tant des pieds que des mains : autres des ligamens, comme ceux de la partie ſuperieure du pied,que nous appellons abducteurs des doigts,ou pedieux.les autres du muſcle,comme les deux plus bas de la verge,leſ- quels procedent du sphincter du ſiege,les autres n'ont aucune origine.mais la membrane,que nous auons ap- pellé pannicule charneux,en certains endroits prend chair & ſe faict muſcle,comme aux muſcles ſuſpenſoi- res des teſticules,muſcle large de la face,& ſi tuveux,au diaphragme,lequel eſt faict de deux tuniques(c'eſt t à ſçauoir de la pleuretique,& du peritoine)prend chair pres ſon centre entre icelles.dauantage,les vns ſor- ， l'origine du tent d'vn ſeul os, comme ceux qui flechiſſent, & eftendent le coulde, &c. les autres, de pluſieurs, com- - muſele eſt me les obliques deſcendans, dorſaux, & pluſieurs du col, leſquels ſortent de plufieurs coſtez des spon- ， eſtimée de la dyles.autres, ſelon aucuns ſortent des os , & cartilages de l'os pubis, comme les droits de l'epigaſtre. - , pº, º tº ce qui me ſemble autrement,ſaufleur reuerence, d'autant que l'origine du muſcle,ſelon la commune opi- ， ***"f nion,doit eſtre eſtimée de la part qu'il reçoit le nerfor leſdits muſcles prennent le nerfde ceux qui ſortent : parmy ， - ,. a parmy les coſtes. parquoy à bon droit leur origine doit eſtre aſſignée aux parties laterales du cartila nommé scutiforme , comme il ſera declaré en ſon lieu. de l'inſertion : car les vns s'inſerent à l'os, comme de l'inſer. ceux qui meuuent la teſte,bras,& iambes : les autres au cartilage,comme ceux du larynx,des palpebres,du tien. nez, & obliques aſcendans de l'epigaſtre : aucuns à tous deux, comme les droits de l'epigaſtre, & le dia- phragme : d'autres au cuir, comme ceux des lévres aucuns aux tuniques, comme ceux des yeux : les autres aux ligamens, comme ceux du membre viril. dauantage, de l'inſertion, & origine on peut prendre telles autres differences. auſſi des muſcles,les vns ſortent de pluſieurs parties, & s'inſerent à vne ſeulement, comme ſont pluſieurs qui meuuent le bras, & le parleron : leſquels ſortans de pluſieurs parties,c'eſt à ſçauoir des spondyles,s'implantent ſur l'os du bras,ou paleron. les autres ſortent d'vne partie, & s'attachent à pluſieurs,comme celuy qui ſort de la baſe du pale- ron,lequel s'eſtend & inſere ſur les huict ou neufcoſtes ſuperieures, pour aider à faire la reſpiration : & les flecheurs & eſtendeurs des doigts,tant du pied que de la main. les autres ſortent de pluſieurs os,& s'inſe- rent auſſi à pluſieurs : comme certains ſeruans à la reſpiration,que nous appellons dentelez poſterieurs, & le demy-ſpineux, qui enuoye vn tendon à toutes les coſtes. les autres ſortent de pluſieurs os, & definent aux cartilages de ſept coſtes vrayes, comme les deux cachez ſous le sternon. outre plus, de ces deux diffe- rences enſemble conſiderées,telle difference peut eſtre priſe deſdits muſcles,que les vns ſortent d'vn os,& s'inſerent au plus prochain, pour iceluy mouuoir & affermir auec luy,comme les trois de la feſſe: les autres ſortent d'vn os ſuperieur, ſans s'attacher à ſon prochain, mais à vn autre, comme les muſcles couſturiers, que nous appellerons autrement muſcles longs.de la partie qu'ils meuuét:car lesvns ſont appelleztempo- de la partie raux, pource qu'ils meuuent les temples : les autres ſont dits maſticatoires, pource qu'en forme de meule qu'il, § 'demoulin ils font tourner la maſchoüere enmaſchant lesviandes,& ſont appellez maſcheurs. de la forme,ou uent. - b figure;carles vns ſont ſemblables à rats,& lezardes,auſquelles on a coupé les jambes,pource qu'ils ont ven- de la forme, tre oucorps, & tendon ſemblables à la teſte, ventre & queuë deſdits animaux : au moyen dequoy ont eſté ou figure. , nommez de ce nom muſcle ou lezard. tels & ſemblables ſont ceux qui flechiſſent le carpe, & ceux quiad- , herent à l'os de la iambe,qui eſtendent le pied:comme auſſi le tenar de la main , & autres ſemblables. au- * cuns ſont triangulaires, comme celuy qui leue le bras, dit epomis,autrementdeltoide,& celuy qui le mei- ne vers le thorax,nommé pectoral. les autres ſont quadrangulaires, comme le rhomboïde de l'omopla-dºº poisnete te, & les deuxdentelez poſterieurs ſeruans à la reſpiration:& ceux du poignet qui ſont la main prone. les ººººººº autres ont plusdequatre angles, comme l'oblique deſcendant,& celuy que l'omoplate qui ſe joint auec luy. ** les autres ſont ronds & larges, comme le diaphragme : les autres circulaires,comme les sphincteres du ſie- ge, & de laveſſie. il y en a d'autres de figure pyramidale, comme le ſeptieſme de l'œil,ſitué autour du nerf optique aux beſtes,non àl'homme.les autres ſont faits en forme de demy-cercle ou croiſſant,côme ceſtuy qui ferme l'œil,ſitué autour du petit anglè dudit œil.aucuns ſont de figure de capuchö,ou cahuet de moyne, comme les trapezes de l'omoplate.dauantage aucuns ſont eſtroits en leur origine,& larges en leurfin,côme le dentelé de l'omoplate,& les tranſuerſaux de l'epigaſtreiles autres aucontraire,côme les trois des feſſes. aucuns ſont d'egale largeur, tant à leur connexion qu'à leur fin, comme les intercoſtaux, & ceux du poi- gnet.autres ſont longs & greſles,comme le long de la cuiſſe, qu'auons nommé couſturier : les autres ſont longs & larges, comme les obliques deſcendans de l'epigaſtre. d'autres au contraire, comme les interco- f)es trcus. ftaux qui ſont peu larges.des trous : car les vns ſont troüez, comme le diaphragme,auquely a trois trous, & les obliques,&tranſuerſaux de l'epigaſtre,pour bailler iſſue aux vaiſſeaux ſpermatiques,preparans entrée aux eiaculatoires,reconduits par la tunique erythrois les autres n'ont point de trou. de la magnitude : car de la me les vns ſont tres-grands,comme deux des feſſes : les autres tres-petits, comme les huict petits du col,& les rnitude (c propres du larynx,& les lumbricaux : les autres moyens entre iceux. de la couleur:car les vns ſont blancs | de la cou . & rouges, comme les crotaphytes, qui du milieu de leur ventre produiſent leurs tendons : les autres ſont leur. liuides,comme les trois plus grands du pommeau de la iambe : laquelle couleur eſt donnée par le meſlange de la tunique blanche on aponeuroſe tendineuſe auec leur chair rouge : laquelle tunique par ſon eſpeſſeur retenant la couleur de la chair qu'elle ne reluiſe, facilement repreſente telle couleur. de la ſituation : car de la ſitua- les vns ſont ſuperficiels, comme ceux qui apparoiſſent ſous le cuir & greſſe : les autres ſont profonds, & ca- chez, comme ceux du iarret, & les quatre gemeaux.aucuns ſont ſituez directement ſelon la longitude de - la partie où ils ſont,comme ceux de la cuiſſe mouuans la iambe, excepté le poplitique : les autres oblique- ment,comme les obliques de l'epigaſtre:les autrestranſuerſalement comme les tranſuerſaux dudit epigaſtre. où noteras, que combien que toutes fibres de muſcle ſoient droictes,neantmoins nous les appellons obli- ques,ou tranſuerſales, par comparaiſon aux muſcles droits : pource que par la concurrence de leurs fibres, genres de fi- l'vn fait vn angle aigu,& l'autre droit.des genres de fibres : car les vns n'ont qu'vne ſorte de fibres, com- bres. me preſque tous les autres en ont deux, venans d'enhaut, & en bas, leſquelles aux vns ſe croiſent en forme de x.comme aux pectoraux,& maſticatoires aux autres ne ſe croiſent point commeaux trapezes.les autres de la coha- font tous les trois genres de fibres, comme le muſcle large, couurant la face. de la coherence, & conne- rence & cen- xion,ou texture des fibres neruerſes d'iceux:car les vns ont leurs fibres plus diſtantes en leur origine qu'au-mºion. tre part, comme ceux des feſſes : les autres les ont plus diſtantes au ventre, lequel ils ont fort gros, & leur d teſte & queue petite, comme pluſieurs de la iambe,& du bras : auſquels la grande multitude de chair meſ- - lée parmy les fibres, les rend ainſi diſtantes. les autres les ont plus diſtantes à la fin,comme le grand den- - telé, ſortant de la baſe du paleron, ou omoplate : autres egalement par tout, comme ceux du poignet, & de la te#.. les intercoſtaux. de la teſte : car les vns l'ont charnuë,& des fibres rares, comme ceux des feſſes:les autres l'ont totalement nerueuſe, comme le tres-large commun au bras & à l'omoplate : & les trois de la cuiſſe, ſortans de la tuberofité de l'os iſchion.aucuns l'ont nerueuſe & charnuë, comme le brachial tant interne qu'externe.dauantage les vns n'ont qu'vne teſte:les autres en ont deux comme le flecheur du bras,& l'exter- nom de nerf ne de la jambe. les autres en ont trois, comme le triceps de la cuiſſe. et eſt à noter, que ce nom de nerf eſt icy vſurpé largement pour ligament, nerf, & tendon, ainſi que dit galien en ſon liure des os. outre plns faut entendre,que la teſte du muſcle quelquesfois eſt en haut,autresfois en bas,aucunesfois an milieu, comme au diaphragme : ce qu'on cognoiſt par l'inſertion du nerf,lequel a de couſtume de s'inſerer au muſ- cle par la teſte d'iceluy. du ventre : car les vns ont leur ventie des leur origine, comme ceux des feſſes:les autres l'ont prez de leur inſertion,ou à l'inſertion meſme,comme le diaphragme:aucuns l'ont ſoudain apres leurs teſtes comme ceux du pommeau de la jambe:les autres quelque peu loin, cóme ceux quimeuuent les dºvºnºrº. bras en arriere,& qui flechiſſent les jambes:aucunsl'ont depuis la teſte iuſques à laqueue,côme les interco- ftaux,& ceux du poignet:les autres l'ont loin en leur inſertion, comme le palmaire,& plantire. il enya auſſi qui ont deux ventres,diſtinguez par ſubſtance nerueuſe,côme ceux qui ouurent la bouche,& quimótent de la baſe del'apophyſe carocoide de l'omoplate des tédôs:car les vns n'en ont point,ou moins manifeſtes,côme des tendens ceux des lévres,& les sphyncteres,intercoſtaux,& ceux du poignetiles autres partie en ont,& partie n'en ont - f point - # - ———— —-— • ount,cowne\º\ - - -- †§n\ s •e,il y en a deux. aucuns vrayement en ont, mais d'iceux les vº"ºnt les os a qui ſont aïïez §an\ies» les autres n'en meuuent point, comme ceux des yeux.dauantºgºde ceux cyl§ evº$sme : lequel àl'extremité des fauſſes coſtes n'en à point, mai* à la premiere verte. a l' #. - §arges & new braneux, comme ceux des yeux, & ceux de l'epigaſtre, excepºlº droicts : les # - autres les ont gros & ronds, comme ceux qui flechiſſent les doigts : aucuns moins ronds , & plus larges que : gros & eſpés, comme eſt le tendon fait des gemeaux, & solaire de la iambe. autres les ont cours , com- e me ceux qui font la main prone : les autres longs,comme le palmaire, & plantaire. outre plus,les vns pro- º duiſent leurs tendons du bout de leurs ventres,qui ſont aſſez notoires : les autres dumilieu,comme les cro- tt ! taphytes. dauantage , les vns produiſent de leur ventre pluſieurs tendons : comme ceux qui flechiſſent les ， doigts de la main, & eſtendent le pied : les autres en font vn ſeulement, qui ſe diuiſe quelquesfois en plu- ， ſieurs, comme les flecheurs des tierces articulations du pied,& toutes celles des doigts.autres pluſieurs en- | | ſemble ne font qu'vn tendon, comme les trois du pommeau de laiambe, & ceux qui eſtendent le coude, & l, la iambe.ils ſont tous engendrez,lors que les nerfs,& ligamens eſpandus par la chair du muſcle petit à petit -- ſe raſſemblent, & à la fin deſquels,ores qu'ils ſe lient, & s'attachent auxjoinctures s'eſlargiſſent,afin qu'elles # oppoſition fuſſent mieux flechies, & dreſſées. de l'oppoſition ou contrarieté de leurs actions : car les vns ont en leurs - de leurs actions muſcles contraires, comme les fiechiſſans, & les eſtendans : les autres n'en ont point, comme les | actions. suſpenſoires des tefticules,& les releueurs du boyau droit, & autres. de l'office : car les vns ſont deſtinez à | . faire mouuemens droits,comme ceux qui eſtendent les doigts du pied,& de la main,& ſemblables: les autres - de l'office à les faire obliques,comme ceux qui tournans la main vers le ciel,nómez supinateurs:& ceux qui la tournent b z ; vers la terre,nommez pronateurs.aucuns font l'vn & l'autre,comme le pectoral,lequelmeine obliquement le * bras en haut & en bas,ſelon que les fibres d'enhaut ou d'embas ſe retirent : & droitement, ſi toutes enſemble ;º - _ - operent,comme fait auſſi le deltoïde,& trapeze. i'ay bien voulu monſtrer ces differences pource qu'en les # º#ºº entédant on peut mieux prognoſtiquer,& deiiement appliquerremedes propres à chacune partie,&faire in- v #* ciſion en icelle,en cas de neceſſité,& ſuture:ou n'en faire point, à raiſon de la partie affligée qui eſt nerueuſe. n - (t rence des - muſcles. des parties du muſcle-º. ch a p. ix. # amuſcle a - - » • -- , ,'- parties ſim- \º, p r e s auoir entendu que c'eſt que muſcle,& les differences d'iceluy, faut noter qu'il a par- #: ples & com- # ties compoſées, ou vniuerſelles ſimples ou particulieres. les composées,ſont la teſte, ven- ft poſées. tres, & queuë : les ſimples ſont ligament, nerf, chair, veine,artere,& tunique. or quant aux c é)s'eſtce que - · compoſées,par la teſte, eſt entendu le commencement du muſcle,quelquesfois ligamenteux & c. la teſte d" º nerueux,quelquesfois auec ces deux-là charnu : par le ventre,toute la partie charneuſe par la muſel. queuë , le tendon fait partie du nerf, partie du ligament, qui confusément ſortent du ventre dudit muſcle. l, É\u'eſt ce que quant aux ſimples,qui ſont ſix en nombre, trois ſont dictes propres, & trois communs. les propres, ſone ra # # ligamens venans de l'os, nerfs venant du cerueau, ou de l'eſpine medullaire, & la chair faicte du ſang. les : ! # l communes ſont la veine venant du foye , ou tronc ſortant d'iceluy : l'artere venant du cœur, ou vaiſſeaux - cmé'. - - - - - - -| #pr•- produits par iceluy : & la tunique , laquelle eſt faicte de fibres nerueuſes & ligamenteuſes dudit muſcle § § §ſ abordantes ſur ſa ſuperficie. - - cle. et quant à l'vſage de toutes ces partles ſimples, le nerf comme partie principale d'iceluy, luy taille ſenti- parties com- ment,& mouuement par le moyen de l'eſprit animal:le ligament le rend fort.la chair contient ſes fibres ner- munes du ueuſes & ligamenteuſes, & les renforcit, rempliſſant les eſpaces vagues, qui ſont entre leur diuiſion. da- muſcle. uantage elle conſerue l'humidité ſubſtantifique, & chaleur naturelle allumée en icelles, comme auſſi les de- ºil#*º fend contre toutes les injures externes, s'oppoſant comme ombrage, contre la trop grande chaleur:contre pºſ". la froideur, comme couuerture : contre cheute ou choſes contondantes,comme vn couſſin : contre les vul- # du muſ- nºrante commeyn bouclier & defenſoire. la veine le nourrit, l'artere le viuifie, la tunique conſeruel'har- c', monie de toutes ſes parties:à fin qu'il n'en ſoit faicte aucune ruption, que les grecs nomment rhegma, ou prompte corruption , lors qu'il ſe fait quelque abſcez entre leſdits muſcles, comme nous voyons eſtre faict cn gangrene, lors que ceſte membrane eſt gaignée pour la pourriture de l'abſcez. declaratiou particuliere d'vne chacune partie du muſcle-º. ch a p. x. ! idefiniti q>s$@ e s choſes ainſi conſiderées,reſte que demonſtrions particulierementvne chacune partie,afin #. que rien ne puiſſe eſtre deſiré, ſi faire ſe peut. et pour commencer, ºgament proprement i igament dit,eftvnepartie ſimple du corps humain, la plus terreſtre apres l'os & le cartilage, ſeiche, , fºc m'a aucun dure,froide & blanche; prenant ſa naiſſance des os ou cartilages mediatement , ou immedia- ， ſentime nt. tement : deſquelles parties les muſcles ſortent(au moyen dequoy n'a aucun ſentiment)ſi ce - n'eſt que d'ailleurs il reçoiue quelque nerf: car par ce moyen les ligamens,qui conſtituent la ， verge,& langue,& qui tiennent ferme ladicte verge, ont ſentiment, & s'inſerent à l'os & cartilage pour les | ， lier enſemble, fortifier, & veſtir,qui ſont les trois principaux vſages du ligament, & ſe diſperſent pareille- l-- ment és membranes & muſcles pour les renforcir. - definition le nerf, en parlant proprement,eſt auſſi partie ſimple de noſtre corps, faicte & nourrie d'humeur pitui- · de nerf. teux & cras, comme eſt le cerueau,qui eſt ſon commencement & origine, comme la nucque, ayant ſeule- -': ment ſentiment, ou auec ce mouuement. il y a des parties qui reçoiuent des nerfs, qui n'ont mouuement º trois mem- volontaire, mais tant ſeulement ſentiment, comme les membranes, veines, arteres, inteſtins, & generale- v， ºranes dn ^ ment toutes les entrailles. celuy nerf eſt couuert de deux membranes dudit cerueau, à ſçauoir , dure, & ， nerf. pie mere, & d'vne tierce yſſante des ligaments, qui lient l'occiput és vertebres, ou bien du pericrane & - l perioſte : par les fibres duquel,comme du ligament n'eſt entendue autre choſe que filets & greſles, blancs, , ! ſolides, froids, forts plus ou moins, ſelon leur ſubſtance : laquelle en partie eſt nerueuſe & ſenſible,en par- | il y a troi tie ligamenteuſe & inſenſible. le ſemblable te faut imaginer des fibres de la chair en leur genre. où faut t tºnres e ſi- noter, qu'entre ces filets il y en a de droits pour attirer : des obliques, pour retenir ce qui leur eſt conue- # ºres. nable, des tranſuerſaux, pour expeller ce qui leur eſt contraire. or quand les fibres tranſuerſaux s'eſten- " dent, leur largeur s'appetiſſe : & quand les droits, la longueur s'amoindrit : & quand tous enſemble , tant •: les droits, tranſuerſaux, que les obliques, s'amoncellent en eux-meſmes, tout le membre ſe retire & ride, * comme auſſi ſe deſploye & eſtend, quand ils s'allongiſſent.d'iceux les vns ſont conſacrez aux parties anima- #. les, pour accomplir leur mouuement, & ſont dit animaux : les autres nommez vitaux,aux parties vitales, #; ©. pour l'action du cœur & des arteres : les troiſieſmes aux parties naturelles , tant pour l'attraction, reten- ·: tion, qu'expulſion des alimens, des excremens, & ſont appellez naturels. où faut noter que l'attraction #. d'vne chacune partie ſimilaire n'eſt point faite par auçuns des filamens ſuſdits : mais pluſtoſt par la chaleur #:, - allumée * *. # -" \ iv • a. a - -- ... c \ \ \ " | | | | | | | v •e | | - allumée en icelles, ou vaeuité faite en la chair par icelle, ou familiarité de ſubſtance. la chair eſt pareille- ment partie fimple, & molle, faite de la partie plus pure du ſang , s'infinuant parmy les fibres des parties jà dictes, en les reueſtant pour les vſages ſuſdits. icelle eſt vne defenſe , & rempart contre le chaud, & le froid, contre les cheutes & percuſſions, comme vn feutre, ou balle de laine,qui obeit doucement aux cho- ſes qui l'attouchent. il y en a de trois ſortes , vne plus rouge, comme celles des muſcles des animaux ſan- guins & parfaicts, à cauſe que la chair des veaux encores ieunes, pour la grande humidité du ſang eſt blan- che, & des poiſſons, & autres animaux viuans en l'eau. l'autre plus blanche , meſmes aux ſuſdits animaux, comme celle du cœur, du ventricule, & de l'oeſophague, des inteſtins , de la veſſie, & de l'amarry. la tierce maniere de chaireſt priſe pour la propre ſubſtanced'vn chacun viſcere,comme du foye:ce qui demeu- re apres auoir oſté veines, arteres, tunique, & veſſie du fiel.ainſi du cerueau , des reins, & de la ratte. aucuns adiouſtent vne quatrieſme eſpece fongueuſe, & entrelaſſée, qu'ils attribuent à la ſeule langue. la veine eſt le vaiſſeau ou tuyau du ſang, ou matiere d'iceluy, fait de ſubſtance ſpermatique : lequel en vne ſeu- le tunique a trois genres de filamens ; c'eſt à ſçauoir, droits, tranſuerſaux, & cbliques,à l'vſage des fila- mens jà cy-deuant declarez. l'artere eſt ſemblablement vaiſſeau a ſang,mais plus ſpirituel & fiaue,compo- ſé auſſi de ſubſtance ſpermatique; mais en deux tuniques, comprenans les trois genres de filamens ſuſdits : dont l'externe eſt deliée, & tiſſue de filamens droicts, & aucuns obliques. l'interne, cinq fois plus eſpeſſe que l'autre, eſt tiſſue de filamens tranſuerſaux : & eſt nommée artere : pource qu'elle contient plus large- ment d'eſprit, comme la veſſie de ſang:à ceſte cauſe elle eſt ainſiappellée. icelle ne contient ſeulement du ſang, mais auſſi des ſeroſitez : qu'il ſoit vray, nature a produit deux arteres emulgentes, comme deux vei- nes or la tunique de l'artere eſt beaucoup plus eſpaiſſe que la veine, à raiſon qu'elle contient vn ſang chaud,ſubtil, & ſpirritueux ; † eſtant ſubtil & leger, & qui perpetuellement ſe meut,ſeroit en dan- er qu'il ne s'eſcoulaſt, s'il n'eſtoit enclos, & reſerré dans des tuniques denſes & eſpeſſes. et quant à la † , elle contient en ſoy vn ſang pondereux, & tardif à mouuement ; & fi ſa tunique eſtoit denſe & eſ peſſe, il ne pourroit eſtre diſtribué aux parties circonuoiſines, ainſi ſon vtilité ſeroit abolie preuoyant cela ce grand architecteur,& maiſtre ouurier de noſtre corps,a fabriqué les tuniques des vaiſſeaux contraires à la nature,& conſiſtance de la matiere qu'ils contiennent.or cecy eſt grandement à noter,que ces vaiſſeaux, à ſçauoir veines & arteres, ont vne mutuelle application de leur orifice, qui de l'vne s'ouurent, & desbou chent en l'autre : & ainſi mutuellement ſe communiquent, & prennent l'vne de l'autre , le ſang & l'eſprit par voyes fort eſtroites, & inuiſibles:toutesfois cela ſe peut aſſez manifeſtement voir de la veine, & artere qui ſont au ply du coude : ce que i'ay monſtré aux eſcoles de medecine, faiſant les diſſectons. quant aleur diuiſion, & autres vtilitez, elles te ſeront dictes en leur lieu. - jatiion du muſele, & comme il ſe faitt & accomplit. - l'action du muſcle eſt de mouuoir, ou affermir, & aſſeurer la partie en laquelle il s'inſere, ſelon la de- termination de la volonté : ce qu'il fait quand il ſe retire vers ſon origine, laquelle eſt (comme nous auons dit, & pouuons entendre de ſamode d'operer)à l'endroit par lequel le nerf s'inſere. - c h a p, x i, - yan r iuſques icy declaré † c'eſt que muſcle, & differences d'iceluy, enſembe ſes para ties, tant ſimples que compoſées, & l'vſage d'vne chacune en iceluy, & ſon action, & ma- % niere de l'accomplir & parfaire,il faut maintenant venir àl'explication particuliere d'vn cha• cun, commençant à ceux de l epigaſtre, comme aux premieres en l'ordre de diſſection; leſ- quels ſont huict ; ſçauoir eſt, quatre obliques, deux de chacun coſté, deux droicts, vn de - chacun coſté : & deux tranſuerſaux, vn de chacun coſté, leſquels ſont ſemblables en force, grandeur, & action:i'entens ſion confere l'oppoſite auecl'oppoſite,comme l'oblique deſcendant d'vn coſté a l'oblique, deſcendant de l'autre, & ainſi des autres. nous pouuons outre ceux-cyadiouſter les deux petits, qui des os du penil montent ſur l'inſertion des droits, en forme pyramidale,que monſieur syluius appelle succenturiatos:nous les pouuons appeller triangu- laires du penil, ou acceſſoires. des deux obliques ſituez de chacun coſté, vn monte, & l'autre deſcendau moyen dequoy ſont appellez obliques aſcendans, deſcendans or les premiers d'iceux qui ſe preſentent, premierement ſont les deſcendans : la ſubſtance deſquels eſt en partie ſanguine, & en partie ſpermatique, d'autant qu'ils ſont charneux, nerueux, & ligamenteux, veineux, arterieux, & membraneux : toutesfois plus charneux, ayans eſgard à la partie par deſſus toutes les autres dominantes,où regardant hypocrate, il adit eſtre chair fimple. leur magnitude eſt moyenne entre les plus grands, & plus petits. leur figure eſt triangulaire. leur compoſition eſt de toutes les parties cy-deuant declarées. le nombre eſt de deux,com- me nous auons dit. leur ſituation eſt oblique, prenans leur commencement és ligaments dentelez de la ſixieſme, & ſeptieſme des vrayes coſtes, & de toutes les inferieures, partie anterieure de leurs muſcles plus auant que d'elles:d'où ſans deſcendre aux vertebres des lumbes, les vont inſerercharnues au ſourcil exter- ne, & ſuperieur de l'os ilien, & membraneux au demeurant dudit ſourcil inferieur de l'os pubis, & ligne blanche. voilà la commune deſcription des muſcles obliques deſcendans:toutesfois columbus les deſcrit bien autrement,& eſtime qu'ils ſe terminent en la ligne blanche, non en l'os pubis : car comme il dit:pour- quoy s'inſereroient-ils à l'os pubis quin'a point de mouuement ;mais pource que ce ſeroit vne choſe infinie de declarer tout au longles opinions des Ânatomiſtes,ie me contenterayd'en aduertir le lecteur en paſſant. leur connexion eſt auec les obliques aſcendans , couchez par deſſous eux, & auec les droicts.leur tem- perament eſt double : vn chaud & humide, appartenant au ventre, & partie charneuſe : l'autre froid & ſec, appartenant à ſa partie ligamenteuſe,& tendineuſe. leur action eſt de tirer les parties, eſquelles ils s'atta- chent vers leur origine, ou les affermir enſemble, comme nous auons dit de tout muſcle : mais particulie- rement(ſeparant chacun à par ſoy)tirent la hanche obliquement vers le cartilage scutiforme. s'enſuiuent maintenant les obliques aſcendans, leſquels ſont de meſme ſubſtance, quantité, figure, compoſition, nom- bre, & temperament que les ſuſdits. leur ſituation eſt entre les ſuſdits, & tranſuerſaux, auec leſquels ils ont connexion, principalement par les vaiſſeaux qui leur ſont donnez des parties ſubiacentes. ils montent tout charnus de toute la ligne, autrement dicte eſpine des os des iles,aux extremitez des fauſſes coſtes, leſ- quelles ils ſemblent de receuoir tant par deſſus que par deſſous:eſtans charnus iuſques à la quatrieſme,& de la faits membraneux, s'en vont à la ligne blanche par vne double aponeuroſe, laquelle paſſe tant par deſſus que par deſſous les muſcles droits, ainſi que facilement on peut voir depuis le nombril en bas. ils prennent leur origine & commencement, quant à leur partie charneuſe, ſelon la ligne droicte, ou eſpine des os des iles, vn peu plus bas que les deſcendans ne deſignent ſelon leur meſme partie charneuſe : mais e des muſcles de l'epigaſtre >. ſ, swn\ſ. . chair, - trois ſºrte, de chair. definiricn de veine. definitien de l'nrtere, pourquºy la tunique de l'artere eſt plus eſpaiſſe abouche ment des veines & "fº ' ' , action du muſcle. huiſ/maf- cles de l'ep- gaſtre. muſcles obli- ques deſten- dans. subſtance. au .liure des fraćtu- res,ſont. . )uantité. figure. compoſition nombre. situation. opinion con- traire de co- quant . lumbus. connexion, tempera. fa e f. aćtion obli.es aſ- cendans. situation. connexisn. - -uro- -"- vº• w r. v º r. a. avie a-av-te v.-et-wr- origine ». uant à vne - - - # † des lwo\oes ,wo\º\- en haut obliquement vers la ligne blanche, a laquelle ſe soººº * ros pubis, par deuant & par derriere, des eſpines de l'o §eurºleºs ndonmambraneux(lequel ſemble paſſer tantdeſſous que deſſº le muſcle droict vſage-». a'iion. muſclet droičts. subſtance . situation. origine . '» abonche- ment notable des veines amammillai- res auec les epigaſtri- ques. muſcles ac- ceſſoires ou triangulai- res de l'os pubis. muſcles ºranſuer- ſanx de l'e- pigaſtre. figure. situation. origine. aćtion. l'vtilité commune de tous les muſ. rles de l'e- pigaſtre. belle vtilité du diaphra- gme. •> & plus clairement ſous\nvyn bilic) & ſelon ſa partie charneuſe à l'extremité de toutes les fauſſes coſtes ,le ſ- quelles ſemblent prendre, & receuoir tant deſſus que deſſous. et d'autant que cesmuſcles ſe terminent à la ligne blanche, ils ont auſſi vn autre vſage, commun toutesfois à tous les muſcles de l epigaſtre, qui eſt de comprimer les boyaux. leur action eſt (s'ils operent enſemble ) de tirer la poictrine en bas, & dilater le thorax, & operant chacun à part, le tirer vers la hanche obliquement. apres ceux-cy viennent les droits longitudinaux , ainſi appellez, pource qu'ils deſcendent ſelon la rectitude du coprs, ioint auſſi qu'ils ont leurs fibres droites. quant à leur ſubſtance, & autres choſes,qui ſont ſemblables aux precedens,nous n'en parlerons point,pour éuiter prolixité : ce que nous ferons auſſi en declarant les autres parties. leur ſitua- tion eſt en la partie plus haute du ventre, bornant (ſelon galien , au liure del'vſage des parties ) l'epiga- ſtre generalement pris , dit autrement ventre inferieur. et ſont diuiſez notamment par la ligne blanche,iuſ- ques au deſſous du nombril:auquel endroit apparoiſſent eſtre ioints l'vn auec l'autre iuſques à leur inſer- tion. ils prennent leur origine , non de l'os pubis , comme aucuns veulent, ains comme l'entrée de leurs nerfs monſtre , naiſſent des parties laterales du cartilage scutiforme, comme de l'extremité de la ſixieſme, ſeptieſme, & huictieſme coſte:& ſe finiſſent à l'os pubis, où ils font vn commun tendon aſſez gros, & court. syluius eſtime leur commencement eſtre à l'os pubis, & auſſiveſalius, & columbus,d'autant qu'ils ne peuuent eſtre inſerez à l'os pubis, qui n'a point de mouuement. et ont ceſdits muſcles certaines inter- ceptions nerueuſes & tranſuerſes, le plus ſouuent trois, deſquelles galien n'a point fait mention, combien qu'elles ſoient trouuées aux singes, pour la corroboration d'iceux, comme auſſi en leur partie de deſſous, quatre veines, & quatre arteres : dont les vnes viennent des parties ſuperieures, les autres des inferieures. les ſuperieures nommées mamillaires deſcendent des axillaires par les parties laterales, & inferieures du sternon, baillant tout le long de leurchemin petites portions de ſoy au mediaſtin,& enuiron la quatrieſme, & cinquieſme coſte aux mammelles, d'où elles prennent leur appellation : & le demeurant ſortans par les arties laterales du cartilage scutiforme,s'inſere dedans leſdits muſcles,deſcendans preſque iuſques àl'vm- † : auquel endroit s'vniſſent manifeſtement (i'entends veines auec veines,arteres auecarteres) auec les epigaſtres,qui de la partie ſuperieure des iliaques montent de chacun coſté par deſſous leſdits muſcles, iuſ- ques au rencontre des quatre ſuperieures. et pour trouuer l'vnion deſdites veines,& arteres à l'endroit,ou uelque peu deſſus l'vmbilic, il te faut ſuiure tant les ſuperieures qu'inferieures,bienauant dedans la chair, † couler le ſang de haut en bas, & de bas en haut, à meſure que les deſcouuriras, iuſques à ce que tu ayes trouué leur connexion, laquelle te ſera apertement demonſtrée, ſi le ſang coule de l'vne en l'autre: autrement il ſera impoſſible , ou tres-difficile de l'apperceuoir, pour la tenuité des vaiſſeaux exangues : ce que l'on n'a peu cognoiſtre par cy-deuant.quant à la neceſſité de telle connexion des mammelles auec l'a- marry (combien qu'aucuns s'en mocquent) elle eſt toute manifeſte en la nourriture de l'enfant, les nourri- ces perdans leurs mois lors que le laict leur monte aux mammelles : & au contraire perdans leur laiét, leur mois leur coulent abondamment. car n'eſtoit cela, dequoy ſeruiroit telle connexion de vaiſſeaux, qui eft depuis les mammelles iuſques à l'amarry?aux parties laterales duquel ſont produites veines,&arteres de la racine des epigaſtriques,ainſi que nous verrons par la diſſection. car à la verité les veinesepigaſtriques leſquelles en montant rencontrent les mammillaires, ne vont à l'amarry,mais ſont fort prochaines, & ſor- tent d'vn meſme tronc auec l'hypogaſtrique veine de l'amarry.l'action deſdits muſcles droits,eſtd'appro- cher les parties hypogaſtriques aux precodiales, ou hypochondriales. l'vſage,ſelon columbus,eſt de tirer le thorax en bas , afin qu'il ſoit dilaté. et faut icy noter, que ſur l'extremité de ces muſcles, nature en a produit (commenous auons dit) deux autres petits de la partie ſuperieure des os barrez,qui ſont de figure triangulaire, pour la protection de leur gros, & commun tendon, afin que par iceux il fuſt conſerué & de- fendu de toutes iniures,tant internes qu'externes. aucuns veulent (ie ne ſçay pour quelle raiſon) qu'ils ay- dent à l'erection de la verge. columbus eſtime que ces muſcles ne doiuent eſtre ſeparez des droicts, & que ce ſont ſeulement principes charnus d'iceux : mais fallopius au contraire prouue euidemment que ce ſont muſcles ſeparez, & declare leur vſage. reſte maintenant à pourſuiure les tranſuerſaux, leſquels ſont ainſi appellez à cauſe de leurs fibres, leſquelles auec celles des muſcles droicts, font vn angle droict. leur figu- re eſt quadrangulaire. leur ſituation eſt par deſſus la plus grande partie du peritoine, auec lequel ſont con- ioincts, & fi fort adherans, qu'à grand peine les peut-on ſeparer d'iceluy.ils prennent leur origine des apo- phyſes des lumbes , du ſourcil, ou bord de l'os ilium, des apophyſes tranſuerſes des vertebres des lum- bes,&extremité des fauſſes coſtes, contre l'opinion de pluſieurs, vaincus par l'inſertion du nerf, & finiſ- ſent à la ligne blanche ainſi que tous les autres. leur action eſt de comprimer les inteſtins, principalement à l'expulſion des excremens. et outre ces vſages particuliers d'vn chacun de ces muſcles, il fautentendre,que tous enſemble ſeruent de muniment, & defence aux parties ſubiacentes , & aydent à l'expulſion , ſoit d'ex- cremens ou du fœtus,ou de l'air à l'exhalation de la voix,comme par experience nous voyons en ceux qui ſonnent les trompettes , & autres inſtrumens ſemblables. or leſdits muſcles preſſent le ventre également de toutes parts, & le diaphragme aydé par les muſcles intercoſtaux pouſſe par haut; qui fait que les excre- d mens ſont iettez par le ſiege : & n'euſt eſté le diaphragme, leſdits muſcles euſſent autant preſſé les excre- mens par haut : c'eſt à dire,par la bouche que par bas. et ce n'eſt aſſez que les muſcles de l'epigaſtre, & le diaphragme,& les muſcles intercoſtaux compriment le ventre,mais il faut auſſi que ceux du larynx,ſoient clos : car ſi on auoit la bouche ouuerte,les excremens ne pourroient bien ſortir,raiſon que la bouche eſtant ouuerte, l'haleine ſort, & l'efflation qui fait l'expulſion de la matiere fecale, ſera empeſchée, & retardée. et pource les apoticaires lors qu'ils donnent vn clyſtere,commandent au malade de tenir la bouche ouuerte, · afin que le clyſtere ſoit mieuxietté, & retenu : ce quine ſe pourroit faire eſtant fermée, attendu qu'il n'y a rien en nous de vuide, & que le clyſtere ne pourroit trouuer place, ſinon qu'en entrantil pouſſaſt l'air qui eſt en nous par la bouche, qui eſt cauſe que ne faiſons nulle efflation & expulſion. l s sacrum, & des vertes finiſſent, & terminent c | • # - *- ， # - - · - :: ": - - == uiv , i i xiia{uvjiil q a a za premiere figure du ventre inferieur. teclaration de la premiere figure , du ventre inferieur. aaaa monſtrent la circonſcription du peritoine ſeparé des muſcles de l'e- - pigaſtre. - - b b la ligne blanche continuée depuis le cartilage, nommé scutiforme , iuſ- ques à l'os pubis : en laquelle adhe- rent les membranes des muſcles de º - l'epigaſtre. - | c le nombril reſerué à la diſſection des muſcles pour la demonſtration des vaiſſeaux vmbilicaux. dd les vaiſſeaux spermatiques deſcen- dans par les proceſſus du peritoine pour aller aux teſticules. ee les veines , & arteres epigaſtriques, montans en haut par les muſcles - droits,& peritoine. ff les veines, & arteres mammillaires de- ſcendantes, tant par les muſcles lon- gitudinaux,que par le peritoine, iuſ- † à ce qu'elles ſe joignent par - - aſtomoſe auec les ſuſdits. g vne portion des veines venans au pe- ritoine de la propagation de la veine . - azygos. h le muſcle tranſuerſal ſeparé de la ligne blanche vers l'eſpine. - i l'os des iles denué de chair. kk les muſcles longitudinaux renuersés en bas, eſquels appert la plus grande portion des veines, & arteres epiga- ſtriques, il les deux petits muſcles coadjuteurs aux longitudinaux, leſquels aucuns diſent eſtre pour l'erection de la verge, m le cartilage mucronata. - : *. >a pe la ligne blanche, & du peritoine- . c h a p. xi i. rnºſ aligne blanche n'eſt autre choſe que la termination des muſcles ſuſdits, ſituée au milieu du $ue c'eſt què ' · a ventre; & eſt appellée blanche, tant àraiſon de ſa couleur , que pour autant qu'il n'y apoint la lisme #- de partie charneuſe, ny deſſous, ny deſſus elle. et eſt plus large par deſſus le nombril, & plus blanºº : eſtroite par deſſous, d'autant que les muſcles droits s'vniſſent. s'enſuit maintenant la tunique - ou membrane, nommée peritoine, pource qu'elle eſt tendue tout à l'entour de tout le ventre peritoine, inferieur, & particulierement de chacune partie contenue en iceluy, leur donnant vne tunique commune. sa ſubſtance eſt ſpermatique, comme de toutes membranes. sa quantité en profondeur eſt fort petite : subſtance. car il eſt ſemblable à vn parchemin deſlié, & ſi eſt inégale, tant aux hommes qu'aux femmes, ſelon diuers quantité. endroits : car aux hommes par deſſus le nombril, il eſt plus eſpais, & fort qu'au deſſous d'iceluy, afin qu'il endure, & ſouſtienne la diſtenſion qui ſe fait en cét endroict par le ventricule, quelquesfois trop remply de viandes : le contraire eſt aux femmes, leſquelles par deſſous le nombril ſemblent l'auoir double, & † fort, & denſe qu'aux parties ſuperieures du nombril, auquel lieu elles l'ont ſemblables à celuy des homrnes .._._. pour meſme raiſon,afin qu'il peuſt mieux porter la diſtenſion faite par le fœtus.la largeur, & longueur eſt *** cogneue par la circonſcription du ventre. sa figure eſt ouale,produiſant certaines apophyſes, comme doigts de gand,'tant pour conduire les vaiſſeaux ſpermatiques, & muſcles ſuſpenſoires des teſticules, & ramener les ejaculatoires,que pour donner tant aulºits teſticules,qu'à toutes autres parties naturelles, couuerture,com- - me nous auons dit. sa compoſition eſt de petites fibres membraneuſes, & nerueuſes auec petites ramifica- #f fa d tions des veines,& arteres qu'il prend de ſes parties adherantes pour ſa nourriture & vie quant au nombre, / ré°. il eſt ſeul, & par tout vny : toutesfois ſelon galien au premier liure de ſamine, il eſt percé à l'endroit que les vaiſſeaux ſpermatiques deſcendent aux teſticules : mais à la verité, il ne faut point appeller cela trou, mais apophyſe,& production,comme la voye d'vn gand,ainſi comme nous auons dit. dauantage les recens ana- tomiſtes ont icy obſerué, que le peritoine eſt double ſous le hombril, & qu'entre ceſte reduplication les ar- situation. teres vmbilicales, & l'vrachus montent au nombril.sa ſituation eſt,comme nous auons dit , tout à l'entour es parties naturelles, que nous auons appellées contenues , auec leſquelles il eſt conionct par la tunique qu'illeur baille : tout ainſi que de ſes parties laterales auec les vertebres ou spondyles des lumbes,des liga- origine. / mens deſquels ou pluſtoſt du perioſte illec posé,prend ſa naiſſance,& ſes partiès compoſantes.de ſa partie inferieure il eſt conioinct auec l'os pubis, & de la ſuperieure auec le diaphragme, lequel entierementil re- ueſt ſelon ſa partie inferieure:& de ſa partie anterieure,& exterieure,auec les muſcles trâſuerſaux,deſquels tres-difficilement il ſe ſepare,à cauſe de la complication des fibres d'iceluy uec ceux de la membrane propre deſdits muſcles : laquelle membrane ſelon galien au ſixieſme de lamethčde, eſt de la compoſitiondudit pe- ritoine. parquoy ne ſe faut ébahir,ſi en voulant ſeparer les deux tuniques, facilement on les deſchire, & rompt. quant à ſon temperament,il eſt froid,& ſec, comme toutes autres membranes,ayant pluſieurs vtili- tempera- ºcz. dont la premiere eſt de couurir,& enuelopper toutes les parties du ventre inferieur,& l'omentum,à ce ment. † omentum en grandes compreſſions, & autres grands mouuemens,ne ſe miſt, & inſeraſt entre les vtilité. indions, & ſeparations des muſcles,comme il ſe fait quelquesfois és playes de l'epigaſtre,ſi les labies de ſon - connexioui — ，- iie liute- no:a, - - - - • | \ - - - - - - ſti - ſon v - cie i / vttauoiilie. i a t " du ventricule ». c h a p. xiv. aintenant faut parler du ventricule, qui reçoit les viandes neceſſaires à tout le corps, inſtru- ment de l'appetit, qui nous fait deſirer les viandes par le benefice des nerfs qui ſont en ſon orifice ſuperieur,& en toute ſa ſubſtance , la ſubſtance duquel eſt plus ſpermatique que ſan- subſtance: guine, à cauſe que pour vne membrane charnue il en a deux nerueuſes. sa quantité eſt diuer- ſe pour la varieté des hommes, deſquels les vns boiuent & mangent beaucoup , les autres quantité. • moins:les vns plus grands, les autres plus petits:qui fait qu'on ne t'en peut bailler vraye certitude.sa figure figure, eſt ronde & oblongue,ſemblable à vne muſette ou cornemuſe : & eſt composé de deux tuniques propres,& compoſition, vne commune venant du peritoine, enſemble de nerfs, veines, & arteres, & de ſes propres tuniques. l'in- terne eſt membraneuſe, tiſſue de filaments droicts pour attirer les viandes en temps de neceſſité : & s'en- tend iuſques à la bouche,au moyen dequoy les affections d'vne partie ſont communiquées à l'autre. icelle tunique prend ſon origine des membranes du cerueau, qui accompagnent les nerfs de la . & . coniugai- ſon deſcendant à la bouche, & d'autres apophyſes defcendantes par les autres trous de la teſte. d'où on peut attirer vne autre raiſon, outre celle qu'on allegue ordinairement des nerfs de la fixieſme coniugaiſon, · pourquoy és playes de la teſte le ventricule compatit ſi promptement au cerueau. l'externe plus charnue & eſpaiffe tiſſue de fibres obliques pour retenir & expeller : prend ſon origine du pericrane, lequel en telles parties, depuis le commencementdel'oeſophague,prend certaines fibres charnuès. les nerfs ſont enuoyez audit ventricule de la ſixieſme coniugaiſon, ainſi qu'il te ſera demonſtré en ſon lieu. la veine & artere vien- nent de la gaſtrique,graſtrepiploique,corronaire, & splenique,des diſtributions de la ſecôde,tierce & qua- trieſme de la veine porte,& tierce de l'artere deſcendantes aux parties naturelles,ſitoſt qu'elle eſt ſortie hors veine & ar• du diaphragme,comme auſſi te ſera demonſtré cy apres ſur la diſtribution deſdicts vaiſeaux.quant au nom-ºr*. bre,il eſt ſeul & vnique, ſitué principalement, & ſelon ſa plus grande partie au coſté ſeneſtre, entre la rate, & la partie caue du foye, & les inteſtins,âfin que par la chaleur deſdites parties,comme d'vn feu allumé en- nombre. tour vn pot,il puiſſe mieux cuire les viandes. ie ſçay que galien dit au quatrieſine liure de vſu partium,que ſelon ſa plus grande partie il eſt au coſté droit : mais au ſens de la veue eſtau contraire,& la raiſon:car d'au- tant qu'il reſte plus de place au coſté gauche,pource que la rate eſt plus petite que le foye, il a eſté raiſon- nable que la plus grande partie du ventricule fuſt au coſté gauche.sa connexion particuliere eſt auecl'oeſo- phague, & les inteſtins par ſes deux orifices,deſquels nous parlerons tantoſt: par ſes nerfs auec le cerueau, par † veines auec le foye & la rate,par les arteresauec le cœur, & par ſa membrane commune auec toutes les parties naturelles.son temperament aux hommes bien habituez eſt moderé,à cauſe qu'il eſt fait de par- ties preſque egales, à ſçauoir ſanguines & ſpermatiques:ou(comme veut galien au neufieſme de la metho- tempera- de)froid de ſoy,& de ſa compoſition,& chaud à cauſe des parties voiſines & circumiacentes:aux autres plus ment, chaud ou plus froid,ſelon les diuerſes complexions & habitudes des corps. celuy doit eſtre tenu & eſtimé bien temperé,lequel attire fort bien à ſoy la viande & le breuuage, puis le retient & embraſſe iuſques à ce qu'elles ſoient cuittes & digerées & reduittes en ſuc & créme,que les grecs appellent chylus : & finalement e, de l'e- qui reiette & pouſſehors les excremens & ſuperfiuitez de la premiere concoction,ou cuiſſon faite en iceluy. # # or l'eſtomach,qui eſt trop chaud ſe cognoit,d'autant qu'il cuit mieux les viandes dures & difficiles à cuire, # jº/ comme la chair des bœufs, œufs durs, morue, viandes froides, & autres ſemblables,que les molles,& qui peré. facilement ſe cuiſent:ce qui eſt manifeſte d'vn petit poullet roſty à vn grand feu , qui ſera pluſtoſt deſſèiché origine. connexion. c & brulé,que cuit.auſſi il corrompt & conuertit les viandes qui aisément ſe cuiſent, & les change en crudité: signes de pour ceſte cauſe il prouoque des rots puans de ſenteur,comme ſont les œufs pourris.l'eſtomach qui eſt trop #, froid,appete grandement à manger,& cuit lentement les viandes, principalement celles qui ſont froides, & p - de difficile cuiſon:auſſi facilement s'aigriſſent en iceluy, qui excite des rots aigres à la bouche. l'action du bien temperé eſt double : vne commune,l'autre propre. la commune eſt de mixtionner & cuire les viandes signe de l'.. our la nourriture,tât ſienne que de toutes les autres parties du corps,apres l'elaboration faite du foye,auant ſtºmach trºp § le ventricule ne iouyt du chylus (qui eſt comme orge mondé, lequel eſt enuoyé aux inteſtins)que froid. pour ſe refroidir & humecter àl'encontre des parties circumjacentes,eſchauffantes & deſſeichantes,& à ceſte quelle eſt cauſe eſt dit autheur de la premiere concoction. la propre eſt d'attirer,retenir & aſſimiler ce qui luy eſt con- laäion de uenable, & expeller ce qui luy eſt nuiſible,ou en qualité,ou en quantité,ou de toute ſa ſubſtance,qui eſt fai l eſtomach te tant pour ſa chaleur,que pour euiter vacuité en ſa chair ſpongieuſe,& continuellement eſpeſſe & ſeiche # par la chaleur allumée aux parties ſolides & ſpermatiques outre tout cecy,faut noter que ledit ventricule a ## ##. deux orifices,à ſçauoir vn ſuperieur nommé l eſtomach,& vulgairement coeur ; & l'autre inferieur, nommé # #. pylorus. le ſuperieur eſt ſitué en la partie ſeneſtre,prochaine de l'eſpine du dos : & eſt beaucoup plus am- premiere ple que l'inferieur,à raiſon des viâdes quelquefois mal machées,& autres gros morceaux & durs,que l'hom- oncoction. meaualle & trâſgloutit. dauantage il eſt fort ſenſible,à cauſe que c'eſt l'auteur & lieu de l'appetit,aumoyen doubl. orifi- des nerfs, leſquels principalement tiſſent ledit orifice, ſe croiſans enſemble comme rets, dont il a vn ſenti- ce du ventri- ment , par lequel il cognoit ſon indigence & inanition , réueillant & aiguillonnant l'animal à chercher ſa cnle. nourriture.combien que les autres parties de l'animal ayent quatre facultez ſemblables, nature toutesfois ne leur a baillé ſentiment de ce qu'il leur faut,& eſt neceſſaire,mais ſe nourriſſent, tirans inceſſamment des d vaines leur aliment,comme font les plantes & herbes de la terre.quant à la ſituation de ce ſuperieur ori- fice,nous l'auons mis par cy-deuant ſur la cinquieſine vertebre du thorax mais i'aymerois mieux le mettre ſur la neufieſme,ou pluſtoſt ſur la douzieſme du thorax , & premiere des lombes : car en cet endroict là l oeſophague perce le diaphragme,& conſtitue le ſuperieur orifice de l'eſtomach.l'inferieur eſt , la partie - dextre ſous la cauité du foye pres du cartilage scutiforme, & eſt plus eſtroit que le ſuperieur,afin que rien ne paſſe par iceluy,quine ſoit bien cuit & digeré,& mué en chylus:& ce par le moyen d'vn anneau ſembla- ble au sphincter du ſiege qu'aucuns ont appellé glandule, qui eſt fait de la tranſpoſition de la membrane * charnue interne du vétricule a l'externe des inteſtins.ie ſçay bien que colombus ſe mocque de cet anneau glanduleux mais tout homme qui regardera de pres,trouuera le pylorus glanduleux.ledit ventricule en ſa partie interieure & fonds d'iceluy a pluſieurs rides,qui ſeruent de retenir la viande iuſques à ce qu'elle ſoit digerée. il a auſſi partie caue & gibeuſe:la caue regarde le diaphragme & le foye:la gibeuſe, les inteſtins pºſººººº deſquels nous parlerons lors que nous aurons dict que le ventricule qui eſt laxe & reſout, peut deſcendre " luſques deſſous le nombril pres de la veſſie : ce que veritablement auons veu à aucuns apres leur decez. il y a deux glandules couchées ſous l'oeſophague, à l'endroit de la premiere diuiſion de la trachée ` ºrtere, au commencement du thorax,qui arrouſent de la ſaliue eſpeſſe & glueuſe l'oeſophague,& auſſi la trachée artere,& toutes les parties de la bouche, & les empeſche de deuenir ſeiches.auſſi boiuent & hu- ºnt comme eſponges le phlegme tombant du cerueau, afin qu'il ne decoule aux poulmons & en l'eſto- "ach,qui te ſeront monſtrez par la figure ſuiuante. i m-v- l u v- iii iv- l ui v la troiſiéme figure anterieure du ventre inferieur. a a demonſtre le commencement de l eſophague, continué auec la partie de la bouche, nominée faces - - b b amygdales. cc vn corps glanduleux, lequel ſe trouue ſur la cin- † vertebre du metaphrene ; duquel en- roit ledit oeſophague cede à la grande arte- re , declinant aucunement au coſté droit. an- dré veſal,liu. .chap. .& columbus, chap. der- nier » liu. . dit telle glandule contenir vne cer- taine humidité , par laquelle eſt arrousé ledit oeſophague, afin que la viande puiſſe mieux, & plus facilement couler , ne demeurant à ſec, tout ainſi que les glandules proſtates con- tiennent vn humeur cras & huileux , pour b adoucir le canal de l'vrine, afin qu'icelle coule - plus librement. n # dd les nerfs de la ſixiéme coniugaiſon, qui deſcen- - dent à l'orifice ſuperieur dudit ventricule, & conſequemment à toute ſa ſubſtance, comme tu peux voir par les ramifications. e l'orifice ſupericur du ventricule. |f l'inferieurappellé pylorus. g l'ecphyſis,ou dodecadactylon. * hhhh les veines,&arteres duditventricule. | c a demonſtre le principe de l'oeſo hague. bb les deux corps glanduleux, ſur # ledit oeſophague eſt comme attaché ſur la cin- quiéme vertebre du metaphrene, auquel en- droit il ſe deſtourne pour la raiſon predite. cc# deux nerfs dudit ventricule. d l'orificeſuperieur. e l'orifice inferieur. f l'inteſtin duodenum. " - gg les veines, & arteres dudit ventricule. hh la partie poſterieure dudit ventricule. i l'entrée du pore cholagogue dedans l'niteſtin ecphyſis. k la partie caue duventricule. l la partie gibbeuſe , ou autrement dite le fonds d'iceluy. - d : - des inteſtins. c h a p. x v. subſtanee & e s inſtins, qui ſont nommez inſtrumens de diſtribution, & excretion, ſont de ſubſtance & com- compoſition. poſition ſemblable a celle du ventricule, horſmis que le ventricule a ſes propres tuniques au con- g, traire des inteſtins : car celle qu'il a au dehors, les inteſtins l'ont au dedans : & celle qu'il a au dedans, les $ºntité § l'ont au dehors. quant à leur quantité, il y en a de greſles, & de gros, ſelon,plus ou moins, pour # la varieté des corps.leur figure eſt ronde,fiſtulaire, ou creuſe,ſelon, plus ou moins, pour la diuerſe quan- duodenum. tité d'iceux. ils ſont fix en nombre, à ſçauoir, trois greſles, appellez ecphyſis,ou duodenum, ieiunum, & ileon:& trois gros, nommez cœcum,colum,& rectum ; tous leſquels ont eſté ainſi nommez ; à ſçauoir, le premier, à cauſe qu'il eſt ſans reuolution, reply,ou entourtilleure & quaſi comme vn changement de ven- tricule en inteſtin , ſelon la longitude de douze doigts : laquelle longueur eſt veuë aux grands hommes, comme pouuoient eſtre au temps de galien,pluſtoſt qu'à preſent,car on n'en ſçauroit trouuer de º# de l'anatomie. c par leurs tuniques, pource que depuis l'oeſophage iuſques au fondement il n'y a qu'vne voye : auec les d ge : & quand ceſdits muſcles ſont paralytiques ou foibles, ou bien que ledit ſiege, & inteſtin droit ſont leuateurs dº a pour le plus,que ſept ou huict doigts.la cauſe de ceſte longueur eſt pour donneriſſuë à la veine porte ſor- tant du foye,& paſſage à l'artere, & au nerf, qui vont en iceluy : pource queledit inteſtin montant quelques- fois iuſques à la plus haute partie du foye, ſous le fielduquel il eſt teint, s'il faiſoit illec reuolution,il occupe- roit le lieu,& eſpace par où il faut que leſdits vaiſſeaux paſſent.ou bien ila eſté fait de longueur ainſi droite, afin que rien n'empeſchaſt,que facilement,& promptement la viande cuite ne deſcendiſt aux inteſtins.le ſe- cond eſt nommé ieiunum, non pource qu'il ne contient rien, mais pource qu'il contient bien peu au regard des autres ſuiuans. la cauſe de ceſte inanition eſt triple : la premiere eſt la multitude des veines, & arteres meſaraiques, qui ſont autour d'iceluy, leſquelles plus promptement épuiſent le chylus deſcendant par iceluy, que celles qui eſtoient en plus petit nombre. la ſeconde eſt, la proximité du foye, par lequel le- dit chylus eſt plus promptement tiré & ſuccé, que des autres qui en ſont plus lointains. la tierce eſt, la deſcente de la cholere en iceluy, ſortant du cyſtis fellis, laquelle par ſon acrimonie,mordacité le racle, & le nettoye,& l'irrite continuellement à expulſion des matieres fecales.le troiſieme eſt nommé ileon,pour ileon. ce qu'il eſt ſitué ſur les parties iliaques, ou pour la multitude des reuolutions qu'il fait entre tous les au- tres : lequel ne differe des ſuſdits, ny en ſubſtance, ny en groſſeur, mais à raiſon de la matiere contenue en iceluy en plus grande quantité qu'aux ſuſdits, pource qu'il reçoit plus petit nombre de vaiſſeaux. par- quoy ne te § eſmerueiller, ſi exactement on ne te peut demonſtrer la diſtinction d'iceux.le quatrieſme z'inteſti» eſt nommé cx cum, à cauſe qu'eſtant ample & gros, il n'a qu'vne voye,tant pour le receuoir, que pour ex- caci abou- peller les matieres qu'il a receuës. et a ledit inteſtinvne longue & eſtroite apophyſe, laquelle ſelon aucuns tit, é a vne (contre toute raiſon) tombe quelquefois dedans le scrotum à la rupture ou dilatation du peritoine,veu que petite alonge de ſon naturel eſt eſtendue dedans le petit ventre, & aſſeurément attachée contre le peritoine, qui empeſ- ºſtreitte & che telle deſcente. il ſemble aduis que par l'inteſtin caecum,galien ait entendu ceſte apophyſe longue, & ºrrilléee- eſtroitte, & de faitle commun des anatomiſtes l'entend ainſi: mais veſalius à bon droit auroit en cela re- *º* º prins galien : parquoy syluius l'excuſant,veut que par le caecum nous entendions le commencement º laquets du colon. le cinquieſme eſt appellé colon, à cauſe qu'il eſt plus grand, & capable que nul des autres. # le ſixieſme & dernier eſt nommé rectum, à cauſe de ſa rectitude. et eſt contenu dedans iceluy plus aux § ºéº beſtes qu'à l'homme,certaine greſſe pour lubrifier, & defendre que les excremens durs, ſecs, & acres,ne § viennent exulcerer, & bleſſer en paſſant par ledit inteſtin. la ſituation deſdits inteſtins eſt telle, que l'ec- c,ion. phyſe eſt au coſté droit contre l'eſpine. le ieiunum occupe la plus grande partie ſuperieure de la region reaum, vmbilicale, s'eſtendent par ſes reuolutions, quaſi ſemblables à celles de l'ileon, tant d'vn coſté que d'autre situation. iuſques aux flancs. l'lleon eſt ſitué à la partie inferieure de la region vmbilicale, faiſant par ſus tous les • autres multitude de reuolutions, & s'eſtendant iuſques à la cauité de l'os sacrum , ſur la veſſie, & parties laterales de l'hypogaſtre, nommées iles. le caecum eſt ſitué à la partie dextre , quelque peu deſſous le rein, ou ſur la cinquieſme, & quatrieſme vertebre des lumbes. le colon eſt eſtendu comme en forme d'vn arc turquois bandé, comprenant depuis le caecum par deſſus le rein dextre, iuſques à la partie caue du foye : de la partie gibbeuſe du ventricule, par deſſus les inteſtinsgreſles, s'en va iuſques à la partie caue de la ratte, & d'illec deſcend par le rein ſeneſtre en bas,faiſant quelque reuolution iuſqu'à ce qu'il ſoit ve- nu ſur l'eſpine des lombes, où il finit. de toutes leſquelles reuolutions il eſtaiſé de diſtinguer la douleur nephritique, qui eſt fixe, & arreſtée au rein, d'auec la colique ainſi errante, & vagabonde par leſdites re- uolutions du colon. le rectum eſt ſitué vn peu obliquement vers le coſté ſeneſtre ſur l'eſpine de l'os sa- crum, iuſques à l'extremité du fondement. leur connexion generale eſt, que tous ſont conioints enſemble ieiumum, , trois parties principales, par les veines, arteres, & nerfs. la particuliere, c'eſt que l'ecphyſis de ſa partie ſuperieure eſt annexe auec le pylorus : & de l'nferieure, auec le ieiunum, & parties ſubiacentes, par la tunique du peritoine : le ieiunum auec l'ecphyſis,& l'ileon : l'ileon auec luy, & le caecum auec l'ileon , & colon, & coſté droit de l'eſpine : où il eſt attaché aſſez eſtroittement:le colon auec le cæcum & rectum cauſe des & de ſa partie moyenne auec les reins tant dextre que ſeneſtre , & la partie gibbeuſe du ventricule : au vomiſſemens moyen dequoy en colique paſſion, ledit inteſtin remply & enfié de vent,ſubuertit,& comprime le ventri- en cºiique . cule,dont s'enſuit vomiſſement. le dernier nommé rectum,auec le precedent,& fondement, à l'extrimité muſcle ,. duquel eſt ſitué vn muſcle de figure ronde, & circulaire, nommé sphincter,iſſu du corps des vertebres in- sphincter, & ferieures de l'os sacrum, & cropion, qui eſt comme vne barriere, & ſerrure pour clore & retenir les excre- ſon vtili*. mens iuſques à la volonté de nature : afin qu'à tous propos , en tous lieux indiferemment, & contre no- ſtre volonté,& honneſteté de vie ciuile,il ne ſoit fait expulſion deſdits excremens. ceux auſquels ce muſcle eſt tombé en paralifie, les excremens ſortent hors outre la volonté du malade, qui eſt choſe vile & orde. et outre, en l'extremité dudit boyau eſt ſitué vn corps de moyenne ſubſtance entre chair & peau, comme galliu . ， eſtant mixtionné de l'vn & de l'autre, ſemblable aux bords des léures. son vſage eſt ſemblable que le # · • - - - - part. muſcle sphincter,ſinon qu'il n'a pas ſigrande force en ſon action.dauantage autour d'iceluy ſont certaines chap. . veines nommées hemorrhoides,deſquelles nous parlerons cy-apres. outre plus en l'extremité dudit inte- ſtin deſcendent deux autres muſcles larges,& membraneux, vn de chacun coſté, prenans leurs origines des parties laterales & internes de l'os pubis, & iſchion : leſquels s'inſerans par deſſus le sphincter, retirent & releuent le fondement quamdileſt deuallé,aumoyen dequoy nous les pouuons appeller releuateurs du ſie- muſcles re» , rcmplis, & agrauez de plenitude d'humeurs pituiteux & ſalez, ſereux ou bilieux auec peine, & difficulté on ſiege . remonte ledit boyau, tellement que quelquesfois il faut employer les mains à le remettre au dedans. le temperament deſdits inteſtins eſt ſemblable à celuy du ventricule. leur action & vtilité eſt de diſtri- tempera- buer le chylus par les veines meſaraiques, ce qui appartient aux trois greſles : & de receuoir les excremens § des ſuſdits,& les retenir iuſques au temps commode & opportun,pour les expeller : ce qui appartient prin- § r cipalement aux trois cras.dauantage iceux inteſtins greſles digerét, & parfont le chylus,jaçoit qu'ils n'ayent vtilité, cité faits pour ceſte fin : mais nature abuſe de quelque membre ſouuent pour vne meilleure fin. or il eſt à -* noter ſur la compoſition deſdits inteſtins, qu'iceux n'ont que fibres tranſuerſes pour l'expulſion , hormis au commencement du colon , & à la fin du rectum : auſquels endroits ils en ont aucunes droites pour ren- forcir les tranſuerſes de peur que les matieres dures,& de quantité plus grande que n'eſt la capacitéd'iceux, *ux beſtes plus qu'à l'homme, ne les rompent & deſchirent , quand par la violence de nature elles ſont pouſſées dehors. et fi on demande, veu qu'ils n'on point d obliques, comment la retention eſt faite. lºreſpons, qu'aux rectum elle ſe fait par le sphincter,& au cxcum quelquesfois de la trop grande quantité * dureté de la matiere contenue en iceluy, qui ne peut deſcendre par le colon. a quoy auſſi aydent grandement les circonuolutions , & vireuouſtes preſque infinies deſdits inteſtins. or les boyaux ont eſté ºuts longs ſept fois autant que le corps eſt grand, & auec pluſieurs reuolutions ou entortillemens, afin que l'aliment ne s'écoulait trop toſt,& que n'euſſionsvne inſatiable gloutonnie,&voracité,& que telle choſe g i c qcupation, | | . , -r - lv uioiilciiiic - u - subſtance. ntité. figure. compoſition grand nom- bre de petites glandes ſont rouué es au meſentere. nombre. situation. nicander in alexithar- matis , cr hipp. lib. epide. . . apho. cola · homo habet ſicut casis. conmexicm, tempera- e /. action ér vtilité mains du foye. subſtance. $)uantitéé figure. - - - - - -- # - ne reuoquaſt les hommes de leurs arts, & faciendes.ce qu'on void aux animaux qui n'ont qu'vn boyau tout droît,qui vient de l'eſtomach au ſiege,comme le loup ceruier,& le cormoran : & tels ſont inſatiables a gloutons,demandans inceſſamment nourriture, commº les plantes. et te ſuffiſe des inteſtins. cinquieſme figure du ventre inferieur. a montre le cartilage enſiformis. b b le peritoine renuersé auec les co- ſtes rompues. c le ligament anterieur, & princi- pal du foye. - d d la partie gibbeuſe du foye. di la veine vmbilicale entrante au foye. - f f la partie anterieure du ventri- cule. h hh h monſtrent le colon. i le commencement du rectum. k le cxcum inteſtinum. l l l la face exterieure des deux inte- ſtins greſles , nommez ieiu- num & ileon : dont le ieiu- num eſt le plus haut par deſ- ſus l'vmbilic , & l'ileon par deſſous. m le fonds ou corps de la veſſie. | % | ilº † ) " f# - a f † \ wa\ du meſentere >. c h a p. xv i. #@ pr e s les inteſtins s'enſuit le meſentere, lequel eſt de ſubſtance en partie adipeuſe, en partie (#\ ) membraneuſe. sa quantité eſt aſſez grande, toutesfois aux vns plus qu'aux autres , ſelon leur §a$ \ # grandeur,& habitude de corps. sa figure eſt ronde & plate : & eſt compoſée de double tunique, priſe de l'origine,& racine du peritoine : laquelle aumilieu de ſoy reçoit nerfs du coſtal venans de la ſixieſme coniugaiſon, veines de la porte, arteres de l'artere enuoyée aux parties inferieures , auec grande quantité de greſſe,pluſieurs corps glanduleux pour ſouſtenir,& conſeruer les diuifions des vaiſſeaux c contenus en iceluy,enſemble entretenir leur humidité naturelle, par la communication de certaines roſée ou humeur viſqueux qu'il leur communique. ledit meſentere eſt ſeul, & vnique , ſitue au milieu des inte- ſtins , au moyen dequoy eſt ainſi appellé : par le moyen duquel les inteſtins ſont attachez contre le dos. aucuns toutesfois le diuiſent en deux parties , à ſçauoir, en meſareon , qui eſt la parties dudit meſentere, contenue entre les inteſtins greſles : & en meſocolon, qui «ſt l'autre contenue entre les inteſtins gros. sa connexion eſt , par ſes § auec les parties principales:par toute ſa ſubſtance,auec les inteſtins, & aucunement auec les reins,à l'endroit deſquels il ſemble prendre ſes tuniques.son temperament eſt froid, & humide , ſi on a égard à ſa ſubſtance adipeuſe : mais ſi on regarde ſes autres parties, il eſt froid, & ſec. son action & vtilité eſt de lier, & contenir leſdits inteſtins chacun en ſon ordre, afin qu'ils ne s'entortil- lent les vns auec les autres:& par les veines meſaraiques(dites les mains du foye)côduire le chylus en ice- luy. et faut icy noter,que toutes les veines meſaraiques viennent du foye, ainſi que nous trouuons par la diſſection:côbien qu'aucuns ayent voulu dire y en auoir aucunes nourriſſantes les inteſtins, leſquelles n'ap- partiennent en rien à iceluy,ains deſinent en certains corps glanduleux, ſemez parmy le meſentere:de l'vſa- ge deſquelles ſera parlé bien toſt. des glandules en general, & pancreas. c h a p. xv l i. l a n d v l e eſt vne partie ſimple du corps, de ſubſtance quelque fois ſpongieuſe & molle, dite thymus,le panchreas,teſticules,proſtates , & autres:denſe & dure comme les parotides, & celles qui ſont à la racine de la langue nommées amygdales,au meſentere,& ailleurs. leur quantité,& ſigure eſt differente:car les vnes ſont plus grandes, les autres plus petites, comme compeſtien. tu peux voir en la diſſection. les vnes ſont rondes plus ou moins , les autres plates, comme la phagoué nembre. sitnation. connexion. tempera- f. a étion , cr vſa.gº. nômée thymus,& le pancreas. leur cöpoſition en aucunes eſt de veines;arteres,& nerfs,& propre chair, comme les amygdales , celles des mammelles & teſticules. aux autres n'y a point de nerf,au moins qu'on puiſſe voir,côme aux parotides,axillaires,& autres.leur nombre eſt incertain pour la multitude d'icelles, & varieté de nature. elles ſont ſituées par tout, où ſont faites grandes diuiſions de vaiſſeaux,comme au moyen ventricule du cerueau, à la partie ſuperieure du thorax,au meſentere,& pluſieurs autres lieux. ou bien elles ſont ſituées aux endroits que nature a trouué bon que leſdites glandules engendraſſent humeur vtile à l'animant, comme à la racine de la langue,les tonfilles ou amygdales:les mammillaires, aux mam- melles : & les genitoires au scrotum, ou aux coſtez de l'amarry:où auſſi a pleu à nature euacuer les trois parties principales , comme au deſſous des oreilles, aux aiſſelles , & aux aines. leur connexion eſt, non ſeulement auec les parties ; deſquelles elles trouuent quelques vaiſſeaux de leur compoſition, mais auſſi auec celles deſquelles elles rempliſſent, & conſeruent la diuiſion. elles ſont de temperament froid, & pourtant le ſang eſt dit par galien eſtre fait crud aux mammelles, prenant la forme de laict. au demeu- rant , les vnes ont action, comme les tonſilles ou amygdales,leſquelles font la ſaliue pour humecter toute la bouche : les mammillaires pour faire le laict : & les teſticules pour engendrer la ſemence. les autres qilt - - - _ - $ quelquesfois dure & denſe pongieuſe & molle,côme les amygdales,ousaliuales,la phagoue d - - de l'anatomie. | ont vſage ſeulement,comme celles qui ſont faites pour conſeruer, ſouſtenir,& remplir les diuiſions des vaiſ- ſeaux.outre les choſes dites en general des glandes,il faut ſçauoir que le pancreas eſt vn corps glanduleux, carniforme,lequel eſt ainfi appellé,pource qu'il a partout ſimilitude de chair.il eſt ſitué en la partie caue du foye,ſous l'inteſtin nommé ecphyſe, auquel il a grande connexion:& alentour de la veine porte, pour luy #º eſtre comme couſſinet,& conſeruateur de ſes diuifions,en rempliſſant les vacuitez qui ſont entre icelles,& situation, pour defendre auſſi que par violens mouuemens ou cheutes,telles diuiſions ne ſoyent rompues. l'vtilité. du foye >. c h a p. xv ii i. x$ e s choſes ainſi conſiderées, il conuient maintenant, ſelon l'ordre de diſſection, declarer la diſtribu- $ tion de la veine porte:mais pource que telle diſtribution ne peut eſtre deuëment expliquée, ny bien entendue, ſans la cognoiſſance du foye, duquel elle ſort,à ceſte cauſe differant telle declaration en lieu plns commode, nous pourſuiurons le foye le plus bref que faire ſe pourra. le foye donc (ſelon gal. au liure de la formation de l'enfant)eſtlè premier parfaict des membres princi- , definitian paux. il eſt autheur de la ſangnification,ſource,& origine des veines. la ſubſtance duquel eſt comme gros du foye. ſang coagulé.sa quantité eſt differente,non ſeulement aux corps de diuerſe eſpece,mais auſſi entre ceux d'v- subſtance. ne meſme eſpece : comme entre deux hommes,deſquels l'vn eſt glout, & craintif,& l'autre ſobre & hardy. $ºtité -- celuy qui eſt glout, & craintifa beaucoup plus grand foye que l'autre:à cauſe de la plus grande quantité e, ºº . qu'il a à receuoirde chylus pour côuertir en ſang routesfois autant à l'vn qu'à l'autre le foye eſt touſiours ! # grand à cauſe quel'hôme auoit indigence de beaucoup de ſang,pour reſtaurer la grâde quantité d'eſprits,& *" foye. humidité radicale qui ſe reſoluent en luy,tant par labeurs,que ſolicitude,& contéplation.si vous demandez pourquoy les craintifs ont le foye plus grandion peut reſpondre, que d'autant que la faculté vitale, & ani- moſité, qui eſt au cœur, eſt imbecille, d'autant la naturelle,qui eſt au foye, recompenſe : car nous voyons volontiers le defautd'vne faculté eſtre recompenſé par la vertu d'vne autre. on peut dire auſſi que les hommes craintifs eſtans froids de nature,appetent,& mangent dauantage,à raiſon de la frigidité;comme dit galien en l'ars parue,d'où vient qu'ils font plus de chylus : l'abondance duquel le foye eſtant plus copieu- ſement nourry,ſe fait auſſi plus grand.il eſt diuiſé à aucunes beſtes,en cinq lobes ou plus,côme au chien & au porc : en l'homme ne s'en trouue quelquesfois qu'vn,quelquesfois deux, autrefois trois, & peu ſeparez: leſquels embraſſent la partie ſuperieure, & caue du ventricule, pour l'échauffer, &aider à faire la conco- ction. donc quant aux lobes du foye,volontiers n'y en a qu'vn:il eſt vray qu'il a comme vne fiſſure,& petite diuiſion pour laiſſer paſſer la veine vmbilicale,en ſa racine;auſſi par deſſous on y peut obſeruer vn petit lo- be. sa figure eſt gibbeuſe,& eminente,égale,& polie vers le diaphragme,& caue vers le ventricule,& aucu- figure. nement inégale ponr la diuiſion des lobes, origine de la veine caue ou creuſe, & ſituation de la veſſie du compoſitione fiel. il eſt compoſé deveines , arteres,& nerfs , tunique,& propre ſubſtance, que nous auons appellé gros ſang coagulé,dit des grecs parenchyma.les veines(ſelon galien au lieu preallegué)luy ſont communiquées par lvmbilic,côme auſſi ſont les arteres : combien que mediatement les nerfs,côme dit hipp.luy ſont bail- - lez de ceux qui deſcëdent au ventricule. où tu noteras,qu'iceux ne penetrent point ſenſiblement en la ſub- ſtance d'iceluy,pource qu'il n'auoit beſoin de grâd ſentimêt:mais ſont diſtribuez ſuperficiellement en ſa tu- nrque, à § qu'eſtant fait pour diſtribuer aux autres parties , il ne reſerue aucun humeur acre ou malin, pour le ſentiment duquel il ait eu beſoin que le nerf ait eſté diſtribué par ſa ſubſtance , ſi ce n'eſt par le moyen de la tunique, laquelle plonge certaines fibres nerueuſes de ſoy , dedans la propre chair du foye: comme il appert à la ſeparation de ladite tunique d'vn foye cuit,& ainſi faut eſtimer des autres viſceres.sa tunique luy eſt donnée du peritoine attenué : sa propre chair,de la veine vmbilicale, lors qu'elle ſe duiſe pour faire les deux veines,à ſçauoir porte,& caue,teſmoin galié au liure de la formatiö § au nombre il eſt vnique : ſitué ſelon ſa plus grande partie du coſté droit ; & ſelon la plus petite, du coſté nombre. ſeneſtre, au contraire du ventricule. sa connexion eſt premierement auec le ventricule,& inteſtins par les $ºº. veines,& membranes du peritoine, par l'artere, & veine caue auec le cœur,par le nerfauec le cerueau,& connexion, par le moyen d iceux à toutes les parties du corps. il eſt de temperament chaud & humide. or ceux qui l'ont trop chaud,ont leurs veines groſſes & larges,& le ſang chaud & boüillant:au contraire,ceux qui l'ont tempera- trop froid,ont les veines fort eſtroittes, & la couleur paſle. l'action dudit foye,eſt de tourner le chylus en ment. ſang,qui eſt la ſeconde concoction. car bien que le chylus commence à prendre couleur de ſang,des qu'il eſt tombé dans les veines meſaraiques : toutesfois il n'acquiert point la vraye forme, & haute couleur de la, ſang,tant qu'il ait eſté elabouré au foye.et noteras que ledit foye eſt lié,& attaché par trois ligamens,àſça- aſtiom. uoir,deux collateraux,entre le milieu des fauſſes coſtes,pour ſouſtenir ſes parties laterales : & vn ſuperieur & fort, deſcendant du cartilage scutiforme, pour ſouſtenir la partie ſuperieure d'iceluy, de peur qu'il ne comprime l'orifice inferieur du ventricule,& conſequemment ne face baiſſer la poictrine ou fourchette.et faut noter,que ce que j'ay dit, doit eſtre entendu de ſes ligamens propres. car il en a d'autres communs, comme les veines,arteres,nerfs,& la tunique qu'il a du peritoine,par laquelle il eſt attaché aux lumbes,& aucc les autres parties naturelles. dauantage faut noter, qu'outre ces trois ligamens en quelques vns s'en trouue d'autres , parleſquels il eſt attaché aux fauſſes coſtes, comme obſerue syluius en ſes obſeruations anatomiques, & hollier en ſa pratique,chapitre de pleuritiae. de la veſſie du fiel. | ch ar. xix. l faut maintenant venir à la veſſie du fiel , qui eſt de ſubſtance nerueuſe, & de magnitude, & subſtanc•. ， figure d'vne bien petite poire, vulgairement nommée de certeau, à ſçauoir , ronde , & plus guantité. capable vers ſon ae : & oblongue, & plus eſtroitte vers ſes orifices. elle eſt compoſée de figure, ' double tunique : vne propre , tiſſue de trois genres de fibres : & l'autre du peritoine , de veine, compoſition, & artere, venans de la partie caue du foye à ſçauoir de la veine porte ; quelquesfois eſtant encore cachée - dedans la ſubſtance du foye,quelquesfois apres eſtre ſortie:& l'artere,de celle qui vient en iceluy : & d'v- ne petite portion de nerfvenant du nerf de la ſixieſme coniugaiſon. .. quant au nombre , elle eſt vnique, #. fituée ſous le grand lobe du foye , à la partie dextre, dedans laquelle elle eſt à demy cachée., sa conne- # xion eſt premierement auec le foye,tant par ſon corps,que par ſes orifices,& conduits deſtinez à ſon action, qu'auec l'ecphyſe par vn autre conduit : quelquesfois auec le ventricule par vn conduit. finalement à toutes ſes autres parties par ſes veines, arteres, nerfs , & tunique commune. elle eſt de temperament tempera, froid, comme toute autre partie nerueuſe. son action eſt d'attirer du foye, & ſeparer l'humeur bilieux ment. non naturel , mais excrementitiel d'auec le ſang par ſes fibres droictes , comme aux rongnons , l'vri- aâiom. ne : & iceluy ja attiré retenir par ſes obliques,iuſques à ce que par ſa ººººººſubſtance º# - - - , c le troi elme liure - : subſtance. • .. a. ntité. figure. compoſition. • - • , inſertion euuidente du nerf coſtal dans la chair de la ratte. * . nombre . situation. connexion, action. subſtance, • .. - $uantité. figure. compoſition. nombre . situation. connexion. tempera- º/ rnf. de luy ſoit moleſté, & alors l'expeller par ſes fibres tranuerſes en l'ecphyſe : au moyendequoy la faculté expultrice des inteſtins eſt incité à jetter les excremens dehors,comme nousauons declaré par cy-deuant. ie ſçay bien que fallopius a eſtimé, que la veſſie du fiel n'a pointvarieté de fibres, pour faire ceſte varieté d'actions : mais veſalius luy a ſuffiſamment reſpondu enl'examen qu'il a fait de ſes obſeruations anatomi- ques de fallopius outre toutes ces choſes, il faut entendre que l'attraction,& expulſion ſont faictes pardiuers organes, & conduits.car ladite veſſie eſtant paruenuë par ſon col aſſez eſtroit,iuſques pres l'origine de la veine porte, elle ſe diuiſe en deux conduits ou pluſieurs:dont l'vn eſt le plus ſouuent,ſans aucune diuifion de ſoy,s en va à l'ecphyſe:& quelquefois en aucuns il en enuoye vn autre petit au ventricule,comme eſcrit galien au deu- xieſme liure des temperaments,& ceux-là viuent miſerablement, & ſont contraints auec grandes douleurs de teſte,& d'eſtomach,vomir la bile,ſpecialement quand ils ſont à ieun. et de telles natures parle galien en ſon ars medica ou ars parua,chap. . l'autre apres s'eſtre diuisé hors la ſubſtance du foye,en deux ou plu- ſieurs conduits,derechef entrez dedans le foye , ſe diuiſe ſelon la diuiſion de la veine porte, laquelle ils ac- compagnent tout par tout, s'inſerans par petites portions,& diuers lieux, dedans ladite veine:afin que par ce moyen le ſang fait, & elaboré par la vertu du foye dedans ladite veine porte , fuſt repurgé auant qu'en- trer en la veine caue. ce qui manifeſte par la diſſection du foye., la ſixieſme figure du follicule du fiel. monſtre le fonds dudit follicule. le meat commun , tant à l'attraction de l'humeur cholerique, qu'à l'expulſion, lequel ſe termi- ne à c. le meat propre à l'attraction de l'vmeur cholerique du foye. le meat pour l'expulſion qui ſe fait dans l'ecphyſis, marqué f. le portion de l'ecphyſis. l'orifice inferieur dudit ventricule. veines & arteres d'vn coſté , qui vont de la veine porte, & artere hepatique au cyſtis du fiel, reſpondantes aux deux pareilles de l'autre coſté non marquées. de la ratte ». c h a p. x x. o v r c e que nous ne ſçaurions monſtrer deuëment la diſtribution de la veine porte, ſans % pareillement leuer,& oſter la ratte de ſon lieu,à ceſte cauſe,auant que paſſer plus outre pour ſ euiter confuſion,nous parlerons d'icelle. la ratte donc eſt de ſubſtance molle,rare,& ſpon- gieuſe, pour plus facilement attirer, & receuoir les gros humeurs du foye, plus noire que le · foye,tenant la couleur de ſa chair,de la lie du ſang, dont elle eſtfaicte & produitte. sa quan- tité eſt aſſez grande,toutesfois aux vns plus qu'aux autres,ſelon la diuerſe complexion des perſonnes.sa fi- gure eſt aucunementtriangulaire,& boſſué du coſté qu'elle s'attache aux coſtes,& diaphragme,& caue vers : le coſté qu'elle regarde,& touche le ventricule.sa compoſition eſt de tunique,propre chair,veine,artere,& nerf dont la tunique luy eſt baillée par le peritoine : ſa propre chair, de la lie du ſang,ou pluſtoſt de l'hu- meur melancholique naturel,veu qu'elle ſe nourrit d'iceluy, & non du non naturel. la veine luy eſt baillée par le quatrieſme rameau de la veine porte, l'artere, du premier rameau , produit de la grande artere au deſſous du diaphragme : & le nerf du coſtal de ſon coſté,venant de la ſixieſme conjugaiſon,par la racine des coſtes interieurement:& on voit ce nerficy,non ſeulement ſe diſtribuer par la tunique , mais auſſi en- trer dedans la ſubſtance auecque les vaiſſeaux, ainſi que nous auons obſerué aux poulmons, & au cœur. quant au nombre, elle eſt ſeule ſituée en l'hypochondre ſeneſtre, entre le ventricule,& les fauſſes coſtes, ou pluſtoſt diaphragme,qui deſcend iuſqu'à l'extremité d'icelles : auſquelles elle eſt le plus ſouuent adhe- rante , & conjointe naturellement, de ſa partie gibbeuſe par la tunique du peritoine, comme de ſa partie caue au ventricule , tant par certaines veines qu'elle luy baille , que par l'epiploon. elle a auſſi connexion auec toutes les autres parties du corps mediatement,ou immediatement par ſes vaiſſeaux. elle eſt de nature froide & ſeiche. son action & vtilité eſt d'attirer l'humeur melancholique naturel,en temps & lieu s'elle n'eſt empeſchée. or tel ſang gros, gras & limonneux,eſtant attiré par la ratelle,eſt digeré par les arteres qui ſont en nombre infiny en ſa ſubſtance, & par leur mouuement aſſidu, & la force de la chaleur naturel- le qui vient du cœur,il ſe cuit,& ſubtiliſe,& altere ſa groſſeur,& eſpeſſeur:&eſtant ainſi digeré,& ſubtiliſé, la ratelle s'en nourrit;& celuy qui eſt ſuperflu, eſt enuoyé par les conduits qui luy ont eſté donnez de na- ture pour ce faire:qui ſont vne veine montant d'elle au ventricule, pour luy porter quelque petite portion de l'humeur melancholique, lequel eſt acide ou aigre, pour aucunement irriter la vertuappetitiue:auſſi de ſon adſtriction roborer le ventricule;& vne autre, laquelle deſcend quelquesfois du rameau ſplenique,ou bien de la veine porte ſous l'orifice d'icelle au ſiege, pour faire les hemorroides. de la veine porte, & diſtribution d'icelle ». c h a p. x x i. $:，s a veine porte ainſi que toute autre , eſt ( comme nous auons dit ) de ſubſtance ſpermatique, & # de quantité aſſez grande, de figure ronde & caue, comme vn tuyau. sa compoſition eſt d'vne tunique propre, & vne commune qu'elle reçoit du peritoine. elle eſt ſeule & vnique, ſituée à la partie caue du foye duquel elle ſort ( ou pluſtoſt de l'vmbilicale ) & au milieu de tous les inteltins : auec leſquelles parties elle à connexion : pareillement auec le ventricule , la ratte , le sphincter du ſiege,& le peritoine par ſa tunique.son temperament eſt froid & ſec,& eſt faicte, & conſtituée de nature f : c c ( \ i tuoiil c. a de nature pour receuoir les chylus de l'eſtomach, & des inteſtins & iceluy contenir, tant que le foye l'ait changé en pur ſang,pour par apres l'enuoyer par la veine caue,à tout le corps. or elle ſortant de la partie # caue du foye ſe diaiſe en ſix rameaux:à ſçauoir,quatre ſimples , & deux compoſez,& diuiſibles en pluſieurs diuiſon de autres. le premier des ſimples monte de la partie anterieure de ſon tronc à la veſſie du fiel, ſelon le conduit #º colagogue,auec pareilles arteres, pour apporter en icelle la vie & nourriture : & eſtappellée ceſte diſtri- #. /' - bution cyſtique, ou boutelliere qui eſt double. le ſecond nommé gaſtrique deſcend ſemblablement de la § partie enterieure dudit tronc au pylore,& partie caue,& † duditventricule prochain à iceluy. le §. tiers nommé gaſtrepiploique dextre,ſortant de la partie laterale dextre de la veine, s'en va à la partie gib- rrºiſieſme , beuſe du ventricule,prochaine du pylore,& epiploon dextre. le quatrieſme iſſant quaſi de la partie poſte- g)uatrieſme rieure,& dextre de la veine,ſur la racine du rameau meſenterique,monte iuſques au cómencement de l'in- cinguiſme teſtin ieiunum,tout le long du duodenum:& pource eſt appellé inteſtinal.et voila quant aux quatre ſimples. maintenant des deux compoſez,le premier eſt ſplenique, lequel ſe diuiſe en la maniere qui s'enſuit.premie- rement,de ſon commencement & partie ſuperieure, fait la veine nommée coronale du ventricule,laquelle monte par la partie poſterieured'iceluy,en la partie ſuperieure & caue,où eſtant paruenuë,ſe diuiſe en deux rameaux:deſquels l'vn monte vers l'orifice ſuperieur,& l'autre deſcend vers l'inferieur, produiſant chacun en ſon chemin des rameaux,tant à la partie poſterieure qu'à l'anterieure,leſquels ceignent,& embraſſent le- dit corps du ventricule,comme vne couronne,d'où elle a prins ſon nom. ie l'ay trouuée quelquesfois ſortir du tronc quelque peu deſſus l'orifice de la splenique. apres ceſtuy-là de fa partie inferieure prochaine,elle produit le plus ſouuent leur rameau nommé hemorrhoidal,lequel deſcendant par deſſus le lumbe ſeneſtre au ſiege,communique vne bonne partie de ſoy à l'inteſtin colon ſeneſtre,& rectum:à la fin duquel le plus ſouuent ſe trouue diuiſé en cinq veines hemorrhoidales, quelquesfois plus,quelquesfois moins.siluius eſ veinas h.- crit que le rameau hemorrhoidal deſcend du meſenterique, & de fait, l'auons quelquesfois ainſi obſerué: morrboida- toutesfois il eſt plus raiſonnable qu'il deſcende du splenique,d'autant que par iceluy eſt purgé le ſangme-les. lancholique,& ſouuent l'auons ainſi veu,& noté.tiercement,de ſa partie ſuperieure,& quaſi moyenne,en- uoye vn tiers rameau à la partie gibbeuſe du ventricule,& epiploon , produit dudit endroit : & eſt appellé gaſtrepiploide majeure,moyenne,& ſeneſtre. ql artement,de la partie inferieure pres de la ratte, elle fait la ſimple epiploide,qu'elle d'iſtribue par l'epiploon ſeneſtre.quintement,de ſa partie ſuperieure prochaine au corps de la ratte, où deſia eſtant plongée dedans, elle enuoye vn petit rameau nommé vas venoſum , à l'orifice ſuperieure du ventricule pour exciter l'appetit. souuent & quaſi touſiours auons obſerué ce vaiſ- ſeau,que galien au quatrieſme liure de l'yſage des parties appelle vas breue,ſortir du corps de la ratte,& ſe galin. terminer vers le milieu du ventricule partie ſeneſtre, & n'entrer point à trauers les deux tuniques dudit ventricule,dont on pourroit douter comme par iceluy l'humeur melancholique peut eſtre jetté en la capa-" cité du ventricule. le demeurant dudict rameau ſe perd dedans la chair de la ratte. - s'enſuit l'autre rameau nommé meſenterique,lequel ſe diuiſſe en trois parties dont l'vne, & plus petite sixieſme . s'en va a l'inteſtin cxcum,colon dextre,& moyen,diuiſée par grande multitude d'autres rameaux. laſe- . " conde,& moyenne ſe perdent dedans l'ileon:comme la troiſieſme,& plus groſſe au ieiunum,& eſt appellée de ce nom meſenterique,pource qu'elle eſt diſſeminée preſque par tout le meſentere,tout ainſi que la sple- veine meſa- nique,parce qu'elle s'en va perdre,& terminer en la terre. où noteras que comme laditte veine ſortant du raique ou foye,ſe diuiſe aux parties ſuſdites par rameaux plus grands, puis plus petits tant que ladiuiſion ſoit venue ameſenteri- iuſques aux rameaux capillaires ainſi fait elle,ſe plongeant dedans le foye. et voilà quant à la diuiſion de la ** veine porte,laquelle ſi quelquesfois tu ne trouues ainſi qu'elle eſt deſcrite, ne t'en esbahis point:car à peine - la trouueras-tu jamais ſemblable en deux ſujets,pour la varieté de l'indiuidu,laquelle eſt(comme diſent les anºratiºn. philoſophes) à chacun particuliere & propre. ainſi imagine des autres vaiſſeaux:toutesfois c'eſt ainſi que nous l'auons le plus ſouuent trouuée,& obſeruée en nos diſſections,tant publiques,que priuées. - - de l'origine de l'artere, & diuiſion du rameau deſcendant aux parties naturelles. c h a p. x x ii. p r e s ces choſes ainſi conſiderées il conuiendroit oſter les inteſtins : mais pource qu'en ce faiſant on perd la diuifion de l'artere deſcendante aux parties naturelles,à ceſte cauſe ſemble , eſtre raiſonnable,qu'auant qu'oſter leſdits inteſtins,nous parlions de la diſtributiou d'icelle. origine dci quoy faiſant il faut ſçauoir, que tout ainſi que toutes les veines, ſelon galien, fortent du veines & . foye, ainſi font les arteres du cœur,leſquçlles eſtans en leur commengement diutſées en deux arterºs. rameaux ( comme te ſera demonſtré en leur lieu ) le plus rand deſcend en bas vers les parties naturelles par deſſus l'eſpine du dos, commençant depuis la cinquieſme vertebre d'iceluy,depuis lequel endroit fait telles ramifications qui s'enſuiuent. la premiere appellée intercoſtale,va entre les muſcles intercoſtaux,& ſpinale medulle par les trous par leſquels les nerfs ſortent,tant à dextre qu'à ſeneſtre,qui reſtoient depuis la cinquieſme vraye coſte,iuſques à la derniere fauſſe. où noteras que par icelles nous entendons les ſept animaux diſtribuez,ainſi que nous ve- nons de dire:leſquels ſortent de leur tronc deſcendans ſur l'eſpine à l'endroit de chacun muſcle intercoſtal. la ſeconde eſtant double,va au diaphragme tant d'vn coſté que d'autre,& pource nous la pouuons ap- peller diaphragmatique. - - la tierce aſſez groſſe,ſortant de la partie ſuperieure de l'artere,iſſue hors du diaphragme,ſe diuiſe quel- que peu apres en deux inſignes rameaux : dont l'vn s'en va au ventricule, à la ratte & à leur epiploonsd'a- uantage à la partie caue du foye,& veſſie du fiel:l'autre s'en va au meſentere, & inteſtins, faiſant ramifica- celiaque . tions toutes ſemblables à celles des veines meſaraiques : à cauſe dequoy elle eſt appellée celiaque,ou (s'il faut ainſi parler)ventrale. et faut entendre, que les extremitez tant des vnes que des autres penetrent les inteſtins juſques à la derniere tunique,afin que par leur contact, & attouchement elles puiſſent mieux ſuc- cer, & attirer le (hylus contenu en iceux. - - la quatrieſme va aux reins,& pource eſtappellée renale ou emulgente,parce qu'elle ſucce,& tire le ſang de la maſſe ſanguinaire. - la cinquieſme aux teſticules,auec les veines ſpermatiques preparantes:& eſt pareillement appelléeartere ſpermatique:laquelle du coſté dextre ſortant dutronc de l'artere,pour aller trouuer la veine ſpermatique du meſme coſté, paſſe quelquesfois par deſſus, quelquesfois par deſſous la veine caue. parquoy ſe faut bien meſenteri- donner garde qu'en la deſcouurant on ne la rompe. - que la ſixieſme ſortât de la partie anterieure,& ſuperieure de l'artere,deſcéd auec les vº# hemorrhoidales inferiouris u intercoſta- diaphrag- matique ». renale ou emulgente- . spermati- tique. | lc tfo c iilc l ultc au fondement,enuoyant dés ſon commencement certains rameaux juſques tout le long preſque de l'inteſtin | colon,& s'vniſſent par leurs anaſtomoſes auecques autres rameaux de l'artere cœliaque:en ſorte que ſi on regarde de bien prés, on trouuera ſouuent telles vnions entre les veines & arteres chacune à part, & quel- anaſtamoſe. quesfois entre l'artere & veine.oranaſtomoſe eſt communication de veine auecques artere,afin que ſi elles lumbaire. iliaque. origine des nerfs diſtri- buez aux parties ma- turelles. ont indigence, qu'elles s'aydent:comme ſi la veine a indigence de ce qui eſt contenu en l'artere:qu'elle l'at- tire de l'artere:& pareillement ſi l'artere a beſoin de la veine. la ſeptieſme ſortant du tronc par autant de rameaux qu'il y a de vertebres aux lumbes, s'en va à iceux, & parties à eux appartenantes, comme la medulle de l'eſpine à l'endroit des lumbes:& autres parties enue- loppans leſdites vertebres : & pourtant eſt appellée lumbaire. la huictieſme fait les iliaques,juſques à ce qu'elle ſoit hors du peritoine,où les crurales commencent.et de ladite iliaque ſont faites pluſieursautres diuifions,leſquelles pource qu'elles ſont ſemblables àcelles des veines iliaques, pour euiter prolixité, nous differerons à en traitter juſqu'à ce que nous ſoyons venus auſ- dites veines. la ſeptieſme figure du ventre inferieur. e a monſtre la partie caue, & lobes du foye renuersé ///// en haut. b vn des ligamens lateraux du foye, par leſquels eſt attaché au diaphragme. c la veine vmbilicale entrant au foye. d la veſſie du fiel. b le tronc de la veine porte infuſe auec l'implanta- tion des inteſtins,où ſont demonſtrées les peti- tes veines clyſtiques par o o , & les autres ſans marques, ſont les arteres clyſtiques. g l'artere du foye,autour de laquelle eſt trouué vne ramification de nerfs de la ſixieſme conjugaiſon par . " | | | -- * - h le conduit du pore cholagogue incisé , qui deſ- #^@§# ' # l # @ # $ cend dans l'inteſtin nommé duodenum. - s# | -" # lºl ºl !| ^ # \ \!| i la partie caue de la ratte. #º \ - k le tronc de la veine caue. l le tronc de la grande artere. m l'artere allant au ventricule epiploon, meſentere & à la ratte. n n les veines adipeuſes. o o les reins. - p p les veines & arteres emulgentes. q_q_ les vaiſſeaux vreteres. - r r les veines spermatiques, & leur diſtribution au c - · peritoine. s s les arteres spermatiques. t l'artere qui ſe diſtribue au meſentere du colon & du rectum. v la diuiſion de l'artere vmbilicale aux deux ilia- lics. xx deux rameaux des veines,& arteres qu'on appelle muſculeuſes. y les arteres & veines hypogaſtriques. z le rectum inteſtinum coupe & lié. & la veſſie. a les vaiſſeaux spermatiques deferans, nommez eiaculatoires ou expellens. b b la tunique erytroide deſcendant du peritoine aux teſticules. c c vne petite veine produite duvaiſſeau spermatique, ſur la tunique dartos. des nerfs diſtribuez aux parties naturelles. ch a p. xxiii. - d % e s t e maintenant,auant qu'oſter les inteſtins,à declarer les nerfs diſtribuez aux parties na- # turelles, afin que rien ne ſoit obmis. et pour commencer, faut ſçauoir que leſdits nerfs vien- $ nent de ceux de la ſixieſme conjugaiſon , leſquels deſcendent tant à l'eſtomach tout le long # de l'oeſophague, & parties laterales d'iceluy, que par les racines des coſtes interieurement, q nq tant d'vn coſté que d'autre : leſquels eſtant venues par deſſous le diaphragme, ſe diſtribuent aux partiesnaturelles chacun de ſon coſté, comme les veines & arteres. où noteras que ces nerfs ſui- uent principalement l'artere : & pource ſi tu veux monſtrer la plus grande ramification d'iceux , il la faut chercher à l'endroit que l'artere ſe diuiſe aux inteſtins deſſus les lumbes. or ces nerfs n'onteſté fort gros, attendu que lesmembres nutritifs n'ont eu meſtier que de petits nerfs, pour le troiſieſme vſage, qui eſt de cognoiſtre & diſcerner ce qui les peut facher : car s'ils eſtoient priuez de ceſte cognoiſſance de n'auoir ſen- timens de leurs paſſions, rien n'empeſcheroit qu'en vn moment de temps l'homme ne fut perdu & deſtruit: car ſubit que nous ſentons quelque mordication aux inteſtins,nous nous haſtons d'y remedier. et s'iln'a- uoient aucun ſentiment,ſeroient vlcerez,rongez & pourris des excremens qui journellement yfluent:& par- tant ayans ſentiment ne permettent tant ſoit peu de temps,aux excremens acres & corroſifs y demeurer:ce qui nous monſtre aſſés manifeſtement, que nature ſage ouuriere n'a jamais rien fait ſans cauſe , & ſans vne grande artificieuſe & admirable induſtrie. maintenant faut oſter les inteſtins. - - inſtruction : de l'anatomie. inſtruction pour oſter les inteſtins. c h a p. xx i v. v a n d on veut oſter les inteſtins, il faut commencer au rectum , lequel faut lier quatre , doigts ou enuiron prés de ſon extremité, en deux lieux eſloignez de deux ou trois doigts l'vn de l'autre : puis les faut couper entre les deux ligatures , & en couppant monſtrer leurs tuniques tant propres aucc leurs fibres,que celle qu'ils ont du peritoine. cela fait,faut auſſi - lier le tronc de la veine porte le plus prés qu'il ſera poſſible de ſon origine : afin que par ce vmoen tous ſes rameaux ſoient liez , & par conſequent hemorrhagie euité. le ſemblable feras à l'ar- tere cœliaque, à l'endroit du rein ſeneſtre,& à celle qui deſcend au rectum auec les hemorrhoides : & cela fait ,leueras leſdits inteſtins iuſques au duodenum , lequel doit eſtre pareillement lié en deux lieux par deſſous l implantation du pore cholagogue, afin qu'on voye l'implantation oblique d'iceluy dedans ledit inteſtin : qui eſt cauſe que la cholere coulée par iceluy à la compreſſion dudit inteſtin faite de bas en haut, ne peut regurgiter dedans laditte veſſie du fiel, qui eſt deux ou trois doigts prés le pylore : & ſoit coupe au milieu de deux ligatures comme le rectum, & le tout mis à part hors du corps. o rigine & diſtribution de la veine caue deſcendante ». cha p. xxv. mm ] o v r c e que les autres parties naturelles dependent preſque toutes de la veine caue deſ. cendante, à ceſte cauſe il faut (auant que paſſer outre ) demonſtrer l'origine, & diuiſion d'i- celle. il a eſté declaré par cydeuant, que toutes les veines ſortent du foye, toutesfois de diuers endroicts. car comme nous auons monſtré, la veine porte ſort de la partie caue d'i- celuy : au contraire la veine caue de la partie gibbeuſe en forme d'vn tronc d'arbre, lequel ſortant dudit foye, ſe diuiſe en deux grandes branches, deſquelles la plus petite monte aux parties vita- les , animales, & extremitez d'icelles, comme nous dirons en ſon lieu. la plus grande deſcendant par la partie poſterieure du foye ſur l'eſchine des lumbes, va aux parties contenues ſous iceluy , en la forme, & maniere qui s'enſuit. sa premiere diuiſion eſt tant d'vn coſté que d'autre , à la membrane des reins, venant au peritoine , & parties voiſines, & ſont dictes veines adipeuſes, pour la multitude de greſſe qu'el- veines adi- les engendrent en ces endroicts. leur origine eſt diuerſe : car la dextre vient le plus ſouuent de la renale dextre, à cauſe qu'elle eſt plus haute. la ſeneſtre vient du tronc meſme de la veine caue : à caùſe que la renale de ſon coſté eſt par trop baſſe : rarement on voit autrement. la ſeconde, qui eſt nommée renale, rºmulgente. · ou emulgente, va aux reins, auſquels ſur l'entrée,ou vn petit deuant,elle ſe diuiſe en deux rameaux com- me l'artere : vn ſuperieur, & l'autre inferieur ,& iceux encores conſequemment en pluſieurs autres par de- dans la ſubſtance deſdits reins, comme tu peux mieux voir à l'œil,qu'entendre par le liure.elles ſont groſ- ſes & larges , afin que l'humeuraqueux y puiſſe paſſer plus librement,& ſans y faire long ſeiour. leur ori- gine eſt diuerſe car la veine dextre ſort le plus ſouuent de ladite veine caue, quelque peu plus haut que la ſeneſtre , afin qu'avant la charge de repurger le ſang de l'humeur ſereux,& bilieux, ſi † portion eſ- chappe des laqs de l'vn,elle puiſſe tomber aux laqs de l'autre:ce qui n'euſt eſté fait,s'elles euſſent eſtéſituées vis à vis l'vne de l'autre,à raiſon de leur oppoſition,& contrarieté en leur action.et noteras en cét endroit c que pluſieurs fois en faiſant diſſections , & ouuertures de corps morts, nous auons trouué à des calculeux ruſques à ſeptveines emulgentes ; & autant d'arteres, quatre venans du coſté ſeneſtre , toutes de diuers lieux, dont la derniere ſortoit de l'iliaque:& trois de l'autre coſté,venans auſſi de diuers endroits de ladite veine. la tierce diuiſion nommée spermatique,va aux teſticules, de laquelle l'origine eſt telle, que la dextre vient du tronc de la veine auec partieanterieure,& la ſeneſtre de la veine emulgente le plus ſouuent. quelquefois auſſi on trouue tant d'vn coſté que d'autre eſtre accompagnées,la dextre d'vn autre venant de l'emulgente dextre, & la ſeneſtre d'vn autre venant de la veine caue : en aucuns ſeulement d'vn coſté, aux autres de deux : quelquesfois auſſi i'ay veu l'emulgente ſeneſtre ſortir de la spermatique. on peut auſſi obſeruer pluſieurs autresvarietez, leſquelles ſi on vouloit toutes expliquer, jamais on n'auroit la fin. la quatrieſme aux lumbes , & pource eſt appellée lumbale:laquelle en origine,& diſtribution eſt toute ſem- blable à l'artere lumbale.il faut noter qu'il y a de chacun coſté quatre lumbales,à ſçauoiraux quatreinter- ſtices des cinq vertebres des lumbes. i a cinquieſme fait les iliaques † l'iſſue du peritoine, où elles prennent le nom de crurales:& ſe diuiſent premierement aux muſculeuſes,ainſi nommées,pource qu'elles vont aux muſcles obliques aſcendans,& tranſuerſaux,& au peritoine.leur origine eſt quelquesfois à l'ex- peuſes. renale ou annotation. spermat ique lumbale ou lumbaire . lliaguet. tremité du tronc. secondement font les ſacrées, leſquelles s'en vont à la moüelle de l'os ſacrum, par la saerées. voye des nerfs iſſans d'icelle. tiercement elles produiſent les hypogaſtriques, ainſi nommées , pource qu elles ſont diſtribuées à toutes les parties de l'hypogaſtre, comme à l'inteſtin droit, muſcles d'iceluy,& cuir muſculeux (où quelquesfois elles excitent les hemorrhoides, comme auons predit ) dediez pluſtoſt à vuider le ſang qui peche en quantité, comme celles qui de la veine porte viennent du rameau ſplenique, d a purger celuy qui peche en qualité, & a la veſſie, & col d'icelle, voire iuſqu'àl'extremité de la verge:& à l'amarry de la femme, & col d'iceluy,iuſqu'aux extremitez des parties honteuſes, d'où ſe peut faire qu'à-' pres la conception de la femme,s'il luy ſuruient fluxion menſtruale, elle ſoit faite par les rameaux de ladite veine deſcendans au col de l'amarry. ce que meſme eſt vraye-ſemblable à d'aucunes filles vierges. outre plus ceſte veine jette vne portion de ſoy hors de l'epigaſtre par le trou commun à l'os pubis,& iſchion,la- quelle renforcie d'vne autre de la crurale interne,deſcend (ſe communiquantaux muſcles obturateurs,& autres internes)iuſqu'au jarret ou enuiron. quartement produiſent les epigaſtriques,leſquelles tant d'vn coſté que d'autre, montent tout le long de la partie inferieure des muſcles droits , reſpondans aucuns ra- meaux aux muſcles obliques,& tranſuerſeaux,& peritoine. quintement & finalement,font les honteuſes, ainſi nommées,pour ce qu'elles vont aux parties honteuſes des femmes,& à l'homme au scrotum pour fai- re la tunique charneuſe, laquelle eſt pleine de veine,, & au cuir de la verge. leur origine eſt par deſſous les hipogaſtriques. - des reims. c h a p. x x v i. $çº 'e n s v v e n t maintenant les reins , leſquels pour bien monſtrer, apres auoir bien contemplé # leur ſituation , les faut deſcouurir de leur greſſe , s'ils en ont, & membrane qu'ils ont du peritoi- hypogaſtrl- ques. annetation. epigaſtri- ques. hanteuſes. ne , puis declarer les choſes qu'il faut conſiderer en iceux , commençant à leur ſubſtance , qui eſt de subſtance. o chair o le troiſieſme liure - ------ --- : - --- - j - chair denſe, dure ou eſpaiſſe, de peur qu'ils ne fuſſent facilement bleſſez par l'acrimon º de † a camtoſition. quantité eſt aſſez grande,comme tu le peux voir à l'œil : & ſont de figure ronde & † en forme de croiſſant,comprimée aucunement par deſſus & deſſous,& ayant partie caue & gibbeu c. e regarde la veine caue,& par icelle partie reçoiuent les veines & arteres emulgentes,& produiſent les vºteres & cil cét endroit ſont entaillez comme vne mortaiſe. la gibbeuſe regarde les lumbes. ils ſont compoſez d vnetu- nique venant du peritoine,de leur propre chair,qui eſt faite par effuſion du ſang.comme des autres viſceres autour de leur veines & arteres,que nous auons dit emulgentes,ou ſucçantes,& d'vn petit nerflequel vc- nº nant des coſtaux de la ſixieſme coniugaiſon,chacun de ſon coſté,& diſtribué à la tunique d'iceux,combien sitº f e qu'il ſemble ſuiure la veine &artere. et non ſans cauſe fallopius homme ſubtil & diligent, a obſerué, que ce nerfn'eſt point ſeulement eſpandu par la tunique des reins, mais auſſi qu'il penetre & entre en leur ſub- ſtance.ils ſont deux en nombre, afin que s'il aduenoit nuiſance al'vn,l'autre peuſt ſatisfaire à l'office pour lequel ils ſont ordonnez. et ſont fituez ſur les lumbes au coſté des grands vaiſſeaux,auſquels ils ſont ſuſpen. cannexion dus par leurs veines & arteressainſi qu'ils ſont attachez auſdits lumbes,comme par vne ſeconde tunique,de " peur qu'ils ne ſoyent ébranlez par mouuement violents : en ſorte que nous pouuons dire iceux auoir deux tuniques, ou membranes,vne propre adherante à leur propre ſubſtance,& l'autre comme venant du peri- toine à l'endroit qu'ils adherent audit peritoine. le dextre le plus ſouuent eſt plus haut,& le ſeneſtre plus #" bas, pour les raiſons declarées ſur la diuerſe origine de leurs vaiſſeaux. ie ſçay bien que columbus eſcrit au _action. contraire,mais ie m'en raporte à la veuë. leur connexion eſt par leurs veines,arteres & nerfs,auec les mem- b branes principaux,par leurs tuniques auec les lumbes,& autres parties contenues au ventre inferieur, & ſpecialementauec la veſſie par leurs vreteres ouvrinaires.ils ſont de temperament chaud & humide,comme eſt toute partie charneuſe. leur action eſt de repurger la maſſe ſanguinaire, pour la plus grande partie de l'humeur ſereux & bilieux. ie dy pour la plus grande partie,pource qu'il eſt neceſſaire qu'vne portion d'i- celuy aille auec le ſang iuſqu'aux parties ſolides,pour luy ſeruir de vehicule & chariot, qui eſt de ſoy pour ſa trop grande craſſitude inepte à couler par les veines capillaires,eſquelles il faut qu'il paſſe.outre ces cho- ſes faut entendre, que dedans vn chacun d'iceux y a vne cauité circonſcripte d'vne membrane,enuironnée de la diuifion des veines & arteres emulgentes, dedans laquelle cauité eſt faite tranſcolation de l'vrine, partie par la vertu expultrice des reins,partie par la faculté attractrice des vreteres,plongée deſſous leur cauité par toute leur ſubſtance, comme eſt le pore cholagogue dedans le foye. lanontation. la neufviéme figure, en laqueelle te ſont demonftrex bien appertement les vaiſſeaux, tant spermatiques, que ceux qui appartiennent à la veſſie:auſſi la veſſie auec ſes parties. a demonſtre la veine caue, b artere aorta. cc veines , & arteres emulgentes entrans dans les reins. dd vaiſſeaux vretaires. e e veines spermatiques. f f arteres spermatiques. - g endroit où la grande artere cheuauche la grande vei- ne, pour n'eſtre comprimée de l'os ſacrum. - h h conionction & meſlange de la veine , & artere semi- nales,degenerans en texture variqueuſe , finiſſans à la membrane nommée epydidyme. i i deux teſticules. k x vaiſſeaux expellens, ou ejaculatoires. d l. la partie anterieure du corps de la veſſie. m le propre orifice, & commencement du col de la veſſion n n face anterieure des deux grandes proſtates. o o veines, & arteres qui deſcendent depuis le col iuſ- qu'à l'extremité de la verge. p p deux ligamens ſpongieux, faiſans la verge. q_ canal commun, tantà l'vrine qu'au sperme. r balanus, fin ou extrcmité d'icelle. l · • . : :: l cic l aflatonn e. i -- a la dixiéme figure, qui te demonſtre les parties ſuſdites remuersées. a monſtre la grande artere. b veine caue. d d , vaiſſeaux emulgens aux reins. b e lesvretaires auec leur entrée dedans la veſſie. f f veines spermatiques. g g arteres spermatiques. h h vaiſſeaux variqueux. i i teſticules. k k. les paraſtates variqueux, faiſans les vaiſſeaux elacu- culatoires. l l la conjonction, & concurrence de vaiſſeaux expellens paſſans par dedans les proſtates,pour aller au conduit du col de la veſſie. m m deux glandes, nommées proſtates. n sphincter du col de la veſſie. o o ligamens † » ſeparez de leur origine, qui eſt à la partie inferieure de l'os pubis. p canal commun de l'vrine , & de la matiere spermati- que. des vaiſſeaux spermatiques cha p. xxvi i. l l conuiendroit maintenant parler des pores vreteres,pource que comme nous auons dit ils ſont produits & naiſſent deſdits reins,pour porter l'vrine à la veſſie:mais à cauſe qu'on ne les ſçauroitdeffaire, ny monſtrer ſans gaſter & corrompre la ſituation des vaiſſeauxsperma- tiques, ſous leſquels ils deſcendent en la veſſie, à ceſte cauſe me ſemble bon de paſſer à la declaration d'iceux vaiſſeaux spermatiques, & des parties à eux appartenantes. et premiere- suiſtance ment pour les biens & clairement demonſtrer, tu les ſepareras doucement de la tunique qui prouient du #. peritoine, & graiſſe qui les couure iuſqu'à l'os pubis, contemplant leur naturelle ſituation, auant que les leuer : puis demonſtreras que leſdits vaiſſeaux ſont de ſubſtance ſemblable aux veines & arteres : auſſi ne ſont-ils autres queveines &arteres. leur quantité eſt petite en profondeur,mais en longueur aſſez grande, figure. pour la diſtance de leur origne aux teſticules : toutesfois aux hommes plus qu'aux femmes,à cauſe qu'i- compoſition ceux ont leſdits teſticules hors du ventre,& les femmes au dedans. la veine eſt beaucoup plus groſſe que l'artere.leur figure& compofition eſttoute pareille à celles desveines & arteres,hormis que depuis qu'ils ſortent hors de la grande capacité du peritoine,ils ſe reflechiſſent en pluſieurs replis,faits enforme de vari- ce,iuſqu'auxteſticules:afin qu'en fi longchemin lamatiere de la ſeméce,qui n'eſt encores que ſang,ſoit pre- parée à concoction,& albification, ou pluſtoſt cuite du tout en iceux par l'irradiation des teſticules. ils ſont fix en nombre:quatre preparans,& deux eiaculatoires ou deferens,c'eſt à dire,jettans : deſquels nous parlerons puis apres. des preparans il y en a deux de chacun coſté, à ſçauoir,veine & artere,prenans leur origine de la où nous auons dit,parlans de la diſtribution de la veine caue : & s'inſerent aux teſticules par leur tunique, nommée d'aucuns epididymis,des autres dartos comme nous dirons tantoſt. leur fituation eſt oblique ſur les lumbes & iles,deſcendans entre les extremitez de l'os pubis & ileum.et ſont liez & at- d tachez auec les parties ſubjacentes,tant par certaines ramifications qu'ils leur enuoyent de ſoy-meſme, que tempera- par les membranes du peritoine,qui les reueſt & couure. leur temperament eſt tel que des veines & arte- men . res. leur vtilité eſt de porter le ſang requis pour la generation de la ſemence aux teſticules,deſquels main- l'vtilité. tenant faut parler. nombre. situation. connexion, des teſticules. . c h a p. xxv i i i. e s teſticules ſont de ſubſtance glanduleuſe,blanche,molle,& laxe, pour meſme raiſon que subſtance. la rate, afin de pouuoir mieux receuoir la matiere du sperme. leur quantité & figure , eſt é)uantité. comme vn petit œuf de poulle aucunement comprimé. et ſont compoſez de veines,arteres, figure. : nerfs,tuniques,& propre chair.les veines & arteres leur ſont baillées des vaiſſeaux ſperma- compºſition *s tiques,les nerfs, de ceux de la ſixieſme coniugaiſon , qui deſcendent le long de la racine des eoſtes, & de ceux de l'os sacrum. leurs tuniques ſont quatre en nombre , à ſçauoir deux communes, ©uatre ru- & deux propres. les deux communes, ſont le scrotum venant du vray cuir , & la charnue , qui eſt niques des faicte du pannicule charneux, receuant illec grande multitude de vaiſſeaux, à cauſe deſquels eſt ainſi ap-teſticules. pellée. les deux propres, ſont, l'erytroide, qui vient de l'appophiſe, du peritoine,deſcendant auec les erytrºyde. vaiſſeaux spermatiques , laquelle appert rouge,tant pour ſes vaiſſeaux, que pour les muſcles ſuſpenſoires des teſticules:& l'autre epididymis ou dartos, prenant ſon origine de la membrane des vaiſſeaux ſpermati- epididymie. ques , | jlv l l wjlllu ll llvl ml l ll l w > ques preparans. leur chair eſt effuſion de matiere autour des vaiſſeaux,comme nous auons dit des autres a ! " viſceres. et noteras, que la ſuſdite erytrois eſt ſeulement contiguë au teſticule toutautour d'iceluy,fors : que deuers ſa teſte, auquel endroit elle adhere contre l'epididyme:laquelle eſt continue par tout à la pro- pourpuoy a pre ſubſtance du teſticule. elle a eſté crée,parce que les teſticules eſtoient laxes,rares,cauerneux & mols, eſtº ºrée l'É- & ne pouuoient eſtre à ſeureté,& jointes auecques les vaiſſeaux ſpermatiques, qui ſont denſes & fort durs. pº* a ceſte cauſe,nature a voulu vnir & aſſembler ces deux corps,qui ont en leur ſubſtance ſi contraire,& s'eſt te eſtudiée de faire vn lien moyen entr'eux,qui les accouple en vne bonne vnion. l'epididyme aux femmes ſe :|! void à grande peine,parce qu'il eſt fort petit.les deux autres tuniques communes ſont adherentes parles & muſeles su- vaiſſeaux,non ſeulement entr'eux,mais auecques l'erytroide. dauantage tu entendras que les muſcles ſuſ- :: ſpenſaires. penſoires, ou cremaſteres, ſont de meſme ſubſtance que les autres fort petits & greſles,de figure oblique :: & large , ſortans de la membrane du peritoine : qui ( comme t'a eſté dit) prend chair des iles, qui eſleuent e en haut leſdits teſticules d'vn mouuement obſcur. - la compoſition deſdits muſcles eſt telle que des autres : & ſont deux , de chacun coſté , ſituez depuis ::: les extremitez des lles, iuſquesaux teſticules , ayant connexion auecques l'apophyſe du peritoine leſdits -x a#im. teſticules. leur complexion eſt telle que des autres. r: nombre . leur action eſt ſuſpendre & retirer les teſticules vers le ventre, d'où ils ont eu le nom,suſpenſatoires. g? quant au nombre des teſticules , ils ſont deux le plus ſouuent , vn de chacun coſté , quelquefois trois, # - . _ | - quelquesfois moins, comme auſſi il aduient quelquesfois des reins : car en aucuns il ne s'en trouue qu'vn, b ºé ##. leur fituation eſt dedans le scrotum, ſous l'extremuté inferieure de l'os pubis : & ſont connexez par leurs :/( temypºr - vaiſſeaux, auec les parties principales,& le col de la veſſie,& membre viril parleurs tuniques,auec les par- (! f e/ f. ties deſquelles ils les prennent leur temperament eſt froid & humide,pour eſtre glanduleux,combien que lt. · §, de par accident ils puiſſent eſtre chauds par la multitude des vaiſſeaux qu'ils reçoiuent.ceux † ont les teſti- #º rºſticule, cules trop chauds,ſont prompts & enclins à l'vſage venerien:leurs parties honteuſes,& celles qui ſont voi- # trop chaud. ſines, ſont fort reueſtuës de poil : & leſdits teſticules ſont gros & ſolides.ceux qui ont les teſticules trop :é froids,ne ſont pas beaucoup aptes à l'acte venerien,& n'abondent en lignées:& s'il leur en aduient,engen- x drent pluſtoſt des femelles que des maſles.ils ont peu de poil autour des parties honteuſes:leurs teſticules :: sizºº des ſont petits & mols,aucunement applatis. leur action eſt de faire la ſemence pour la generation,& de ren- k- º, forcer toutes les parties du corps par leur irradiation virile:comme tu peux voir,par experience aux chaº ltº #r# froidi, trez,leſquels priuez deſdits teſticules, n'ont non plus de force que les femmes,& quelquefois moins.com- ·. altion. me demonſtre hippocrate au liure de locis aere, & aqua, parlant des scythes. [: r: - - #- des corps variqueux,qu'on appelle paraſtates : des vaiſſeaux eiaculatoires,& corps tº glanduleux, nomme proſtates. c h a p. x x ix. # subſtance . ſ# e s paraſtates variqueux, ſont corps nerueux & blancs, faits quaſi comme des parties ner- l. situation. $ ueuſes, anulaires, conjointes enſemble eſtroittement : leſquels ſont couchez depuis la teſte c $z des teſticules iuſques au bas , dont ils produiſent les vaiſſeaux eiaculatoires, y prenans leur # ſortie. si nous ne diſtinguons icy diligemment les mots, il y aura confuſion. car ce que º j'appelle paraſtate,qui eſt comme la teſte du teſticule,ayant quaſi forme d'vn autre teſticu- r le, galien au premier liure dejemine, l'appelle epididymis : & moy , ſuiuant pluſieurs anatomiſtes, par | a#ion, ce nom epididymis j'entends la propre tunique des teſticules, dequoy ie t'ay bien voulu aduertir en paſſant. leuraction eſt d'empeſcher par leurs amfractuoſitez, comme vn portier, que la ſemence ne paſſe des vaiſſeaux preparans és eiaculatoires , tant qu'elle ſoit entierement preparée, digerée, cuite, & albi- fiée eſdits vaiſſeaux par lestefticules:car és premieres circonuolutions & entortilleures, le ſang eſt pur,& aux dernieres n'eft plus du tout rouge,mais ja eſt vn ſuc blanchiſſant. et d'attirer d'iceux ce qui eſt parfai- ctement elaboré,ou pour le moins permettre qu'il ſorte. car c'eſt vne maxime,quand nature veut arreſter longuement en quelque lieu aucune matiere, elle prepare & fait ſon paſſage difficile , à ſçauoir eſtroit, ou tortu, ou oblique ainſi qu'on peut voir au rets admirable, & aux boyaux leur entortillement,les rugoſitez du fond de l'eſtomac, comme auſſi le pylorus, & lesveines ſubtiles & deliées au foye, afin que le chylus y demeuraſt iuſques à ce qu'il fût châgé & digeré en ſang.auſſi nature a fait le ſemblable aux vaiſſeaux ſper- )uantité. matiques.leur quantité & figure eſt aſſez notable à l'œil,& eſt aucunement ronde,tendante en pointe.leur figure .. compoſition eſt de nerfs,veines,& arteres,qu'ils ont des vaiſſeaux des teſticules,& de la tunique venant du ººpºſition. peritoine.ou ſitu veux,de l'epididyme,& leur propre ſubſtance. leur temperament eſt froid & ſec.ils ſont º"pºr*- deux en nombre, à ſçauoir vn en chacun reſticule : & ſont appellez paraſtates variqueux,comme aſſiſtans wºe/ ?. ſuperficiellement, entortillez ſur le long du teſticule, comme veines variqueuſes.et d'iceux ſont produits les vaiſſeaux eiaculatoires ou expeliens,ainſi que nous auons dit leſquels ſont de meſme ſubſtance que leurs d nombre , progeniteurs, à ſçauoir ſolide,& blanche,& comme nerueuſe, mais vnie comme au nerf leur quantité eſt subſtance. moyenne,& leur figure ronde & fiſtulaire, à fin que la ſemence puiſſe couler par iceux:toutesfois il ſemble $uantité. qu'ils n'ayent aucune cauité manifeſte,ſi ce n'eſt en ceux qui ont eſté trauaillez d'vne longue gonorrhée,cô- figure. me nous dirons cy-apres en ce chapitre. leur compoſition & temperament eſt pareilaux ſuſdits corps,en- l tre leſquels & les proſtates du col de la veſſie, ils ſont ſituez , ayans colligance immediatementauec iceux , & col de la veſſie, comme par leur tunique, & autres vaiſſeaux,auec leurs parties dont ils les prennent. et c # ºſitiºn faut noter, que leſdits vaiſſeaux eſtans ſortis des paraſtates,ainſi qu'ila eſté dit,montent du bas des teſticu- .#º* les iuſques au plus haut,où rencontrans les preparans,montétpar le proceſſus ou voye du peritoine dedans c§ance. le ventre , ſe lians auec eux par certaines fibres nerueuſes,iuſques à l'interne capacité dudit ventre, ou ſe reflechiſſans laiſſent leſdits preparans pour deſcédreau deſſous de l'os pubis,aumilieu de deux corps glan- duleux nommez proſtates ou aſſiſtans,ſituez au commencement du col de la veſſie, pourillec ſe rencontrer & vnir enſemble, faiſans vn meat & conduit commun, premierement de deux ſiens , puis apres vn autre auec celuy de la veſſie,en ſorte que de ces trois conduits,à ſçauoir deux des eiaculatoires, & vn de la veſſie en eſt fait vn communaux hommes , tant à l vrine, qu'à la matiere ſpermatique. laquelle vnion nous eſt môſtrée par vne petite carunculeeſleuée dedans,à l'entrée du col de la veſſie comme vne fraiſe,laquelle re- ceuant ledit trou aſſez patent, eſt ſouuent prinſe pour caruncule non naturelle par ceux qui ſondent,igno- nombre, rans l'anatomie, meſmement lors qu'elle eſt enflée par quelque occaſion. leur nombre eſt de deux,a ſça- action, uoir vn de chacun coſté. leur action,& vtilité eſt d'apporter la ſemence elaborée des teſticules,aux pro- vtilité. ſtates,& par iceluy au col de la veſſie,pour eſtre de là jettée hors par la voye commune. et premier que la ſemence s'inſere ſe font pluſieurs reuolutions,dans leſquelles eſtautant contenu de ſemence,qu'vn homme jette à chacune fois qu'ilcmbraſſe la femme. en quoy ſi on nous demande, à ſçauoir ſi le conduit commun fait | del'anatomie. v - - • • • s l-i b fituez à la partie inferieure du cômencement du col de la veſſie,ayans colligance particulere auec iceluy,la - fait de la concurrence des deux vaiſſeaux eiaculatoires entre lesdeux corps glanduleux,eſt patant & mani- feſte au ſens de la veue,quand il entre dedans le conduit de l'vrine nous reſpondons que non,combien † y ſoit,à raiſon de la matiere illec portée, laquelle eſt craſſe & viſqueuſe.et la cauſe qui nous empeſche de la voir, c'eft poſſible qu'apres la mort tous petits trous ſont bouchez par la froideur, & les grands bien fort eſtreſſis:ou pour la prouidence des parties deſdits trous l'vne ſur l'autre. toutesfois quoy que ce ſoit,il faut que leſdits trous ſoient bien petits,l'homme eſtât en vie, veu qu'apres ſa mort on n'y ſçauroit mettre la poin- te d'vne petite eſpingle. au moyen dequoy il ne faut craindre quand on ſonde quelqu'vn,que la ſonde eſtant poisa nons- dedans la veſſie penetre dedans le communmeat des vaiſſeauxeiaculatoires, qui deſcend entre la caruncule, ble pour la ſi paraccidentii n'eſt dilaté pargonorrhée,ou autrement par inflammation.j'en ay veu depuis peu de temps ſonde qu'o• en ça de ſi patens,qu'ils receuoient fort aiſement la petite teſte de mon eſpatule:qui nous aduertit de ſonder met en la bien ſagement,de peur d'intereſſer ledit monticule,lequel le plus ſouuent eſtant touché par la ſonde iette vºſſie- du ſang s'il eſt enflammé. dauantage,ſion demade comme par vn ſi petit trou la ſemence,qui eſt viſqueuſe & craſſe, peut eſtre promptement jettée en fi grande abondance au coit : ie reſponds que cela eſt fait par § & rauine de eſprits enuoyez de tout le corps ſur le temps dudit coit,auec l'aide de chacune partie par le commandement de la falculté imaginatiue,chefde telle œuure:leſquels eſprits eſtant paruenus aux proſtates promptuaires & receptaclesdu ſperme,s'infinuans parmy iceluy en le rendant animé,le pouſº - ſent dehors ainſi promptemét.apres ces vaiſſeaux s'enſuyuent les corps glandeuleux nômez proſtates,leſ- proſtates. quels ſont deſubſtance & temperament tel que les autres glandes.leur quantité eſt aſſez grande:leur figu- .ºº re ronde aucunement oblongue , produiſans chacun de ſon coſté vne apophyſe aſſez longue & molle.leur & tempera- compoſition eſt de nerfs, veines , arteres, & tunique,qu'ils ont de leurs parties circonuoifines, comme de // g/ f. leur propre chair, qu'ils ont de leur premiere conformation.ils ſont deux en nombre,joincts enſemble,& # - - - - a • - compoſition. veſſie& vaiſſeaux differents,& parties annexées à iceux. où noteras en general,que toute partie ayant nour- # riſſement vie & ſentiment,connexion mediatemêt ou immediatemêt auec les parties principales par les vaiſ- situation. ſeaux qu'ils en reçoiuent.l vſage deſdits proſtates eſt de receuoir le ſperme produit des reſticules, & iceluy collitance . côſeruer en leurs corps,iuſques à ce qu'il leur nuiſe ou en quantité ou en qualité,ou en tous deux enſemble: annotationn & de contenir vn humeur glaireux ou ſaliueux,& viſqueux,qui eſt engendré au corps glanduleux d'icelles,' vſage- . lequel diſtille ordinairement au canal del'vrine des maſles,& quand ils habitent auec les femelles, eſt jetté aucc la ſemence dans la matrice : & aux femelles degoutte en leur matrice & hors d'icelle. c ét humeura pluſieus vtilitez tant aux maſles qu'aux femelles,ceſt qu'il donne enuie de s'aſſembler,& s'aſséblant il donne vn tres-grand plaiſir:auſſi il arrouſe le canal de l'vrine d'vne moüilleure profitable,afin que ſe deſſeichantil ne ſe retire & replie, empeſchant par ce moyen que ladite vrine & la ſemence n'ayent leur paſſage libre & aiſé:enduiſant en outre tout ce conduit de ſon vnctuoſité, à ce qu'il ne fuſt par fois,& à la longue eſcorché de l'acrimonie de l'vrine. outre-ce,nous auons obſerué des deux coſtez de ces proſtates, autres glandess que rondelet en ſa practique (s'il la faut appeller ſienne) nomme appendice glanduleſas , eſquelles meſ- mes la ſemence eſt gardeé. la dixiéme figure,où t'eſt ſeulement demonſtrée la difference d'icelle à la precedente- . a monſtre le ligament du foye deſcendant entiere- \ ment deſſous le xiphoide. b b la partie gibbeuſe du foye. c c la partie caue du fove. • • ! , d d la membrane adipeuſe des reins renuerſez. e e la bifurcation vnie duvaiſſeau spermatiqueſe- neſtre,qui ſe fait de la veine caue,& de la vei- ne emulgente , laquelle rarement ſe trouue. f f la cônexion ou conjonctiô de la veine & arte- re ſpermatique, en laquelle commence à s'en- tortiller en forme de capreole de vigne. g l'entrée des vaiſſeaux preparás aux teſticules,par laquelle les vaiſſeaux preparans communiquét la matiere ſpermatique aux teſticules. h teſticule enueloppé de ſa tunique nommée dar- tos• i i paraſtates variqueuſes, où commencët les vaiſ- ſeaux spermatiques,expellés, ou eiaculatoires. k le corps de la veſſie. - l les corps granduleux, nommez proſtates, entre leſquels les vaiſſeaux spermatiques s'en vont vnir pour entrer au meat & côduit de la veſſie ui eſt commun à l'vrine, & à ladicte matiere ermatique. - m muſcle sphincter du col de la veſſie. n veines & arteres qui ſe diſtribuent à la verge. o o deux ligamens ſpongieux conſtituans la verge. des vaiſſeaux vreteres. c h a p. x x x. g r ſommes - nous maintenant venus au lieu propre & commode pour parler des vreteress subſtante, veſſie, & parties appartenantes à icelle. donc les vreteres ſont de ſubſtance ſpermatique, quantité. blanche, denſe, & ſolide , de quantité notable,tant en profondeur qu'en longueur. leur figure.. figure eſt ronde, canulaire ou creuſez : & ſont compoſez de deux tuniques : vne propre tiſ- #º - ſue de fibres droictes & tranſuerſes, laquelle vient des veines & arteres renales ou ºmulgen- §. tes,l'autre commune, venant du peritoine. ils ont auſſi veines, arteres , & nerfs , leſquels leur ſºnt grande & donnez des parties voiſines. ils ne ſont que deux , de chacun coſté , & ſont ſituez entre les rºs merueilleuſe (de la partie cauedeſquels ils ſortent) & la veſſie. or la maniere comme les portes vreteres s'inſeren**!º § veſſie, & le conduit qui vuide la cholere dedans l'inteſtin ſurmonte tous autres miracles de nature § ils de ma fhrê v, s implantent : , . le troiſieſme liure s'implantent obliquement pres l'orifice d'icelle, & penetrent iuſques à l'interne ſipº#†. coupant,& ſouſleuant par deſſous vne languette membraneuſe du corps de la partie qº c, & s'ou- § l'entrée,& venue de l'excrement ; c'eſt à dire,de l'vrine & de la colere : & en autreºp*º#eſſerre,& bouche fermement comme vn couuercle,que non ſeulement l'excrement ne peut regorgºº**efluer enar- riere,non pas ſeulement le vent ce que nous experimétons à vne veſſie de porc ou autre animal, remplie de vent:car en icelle nous voyons l'air qui a eſté ſoufflé dedans,y demeurer encores qu'on preſſe bien fort deſ- ſus.cartout ainſi que par l'impetuoſité des humeurs qui accourent,ceſte lâguette eſtrenuerſée,& ſubuertie au dedans : ainſi par ce qui interieurement la comprime, elle ſe plaque,& preſente contre le conduit. telle connexion. choſe nous monſtre, que nature eſt grande ouuriere,& maiſtreſſe.leur propre connexion eſtauec les ſuſ- dictes parties, & muſcles des lumbes, par deſſus leſquels ils deſcendent des reins à ladite veſſie : parquoy rien n'empeſche que la pierre deſcendant par leſdicts vaiſſeauxvreteres,ne puiſſe faire ſtupefaction à la cuiſ- tempera- ſe,auſſi bien que s'il eſtoit aux reins.leur temperament eſt froid & ſec,& l'vſage d'iceux eſt de ſeruir devoye, f enl . & canal à l'vrine paſſant des reins à la veſſie. et voilà quant aux vaiſſeaux vreteres, apres lequel s'enſuit l'explication de la veſſie. a - de la veſſie_ . c h a p. xxx i. b subſtance. #)ſ# a veſſie eſt de meſme ſubſtance que les vreteres, à ſçauoir nerueuſe, afin qu'elle ſe peuſt - )uantité. $ mieux dilater.sa quantité eſt aſſez grande,toutesfois aux vns plus,aux autres moins,tant pour figure . - raiſon de l'aage que plus grande ou plus petite corpulence,& habitude du corps.sa figure eſt compoſition. röde,& quaſi nommée pyramidale,& eſt commpoſée de deux tuniques :vne propre, laquelle: eſt fort eſpeſſe,tiſſue de trois genres de fibres, à ſçauoir, droites en ſa partie interieure,tranſ- uerſes en l'exterieure,& obliques en la moyenne : l'autre commune, qu'elle a du peritoine. elle a auſſi vei- nes , & arteres,vne de chacun coſté des vaiſſeaux hypogaſtriques deſſus l'os sacrum, & nerfs tant d'vn tombre. coſté que d'autre, de ceux de ſixieſme coniugaiſon meſlez auec ceux qui ſortent de l'os sacrum, iuſques à situation. la fin duquelleſdits nerfs deſcendent depuis le cerueau. elle eſt ſeule & vnique:ſituée aux hommes au petit connexion. , ventre deſſus l'inteſtin droit ſous l'os pubis : aux femmees entre l'amarry,& ledit os,auquel elle eſt attachée ººººº par ligamens membraneux,comme auſſi a la verge par ſon col,& à l'inteſtin droit par ſa tunique commune, acti ºº & par ſes vaiſſeaux.sa complexion eſt froide,& ſeiche.son action,&vſage eſt d'attirer par ſes fibres,& rece- vfagev. uoir continuellement l'vrine:la retenir tant qu'il en eſt beſoin,& puis apres l'expeller par ſon col,partie pour la compreſſion,ſoit qu'elle aduienne de ſoy, ou pluſtoſt des muſcles de l'epigaſtre, & diaphragme, attendu - que tel mouuement eſtant volontaire, doit eſtre fait de muſcle, qu'elle n'a point:partie auſſi par la dilatation de ſon muſcle sphincter compoſé de fibres tanſuerſes comme celuy du ſiege, afin de clorre l'orificedeladite veſſie,de peur que l'vrine ne flue,& ſorte outre la volonté. or la veſſie en ſe rempliſſant s'eſtend,& en ſe vui- le sphincter dant ſe reſerre comme vne bourſe qu'on ouure,& ferme.et eſt ce muſcle,ainſi que tu peux voir ordinaire- de la veſſie. ment à la veſſie d'vn pourceau,eſtendu depuis l'orifice de ladite veſſie,& commencement du meat commun c à lvrine, & au ſperme, iuſquaux patties honteuſes, meſinement aux femmes : mais aux hommes il ceſſe au perineum, lors qu'il laiſſe l'inteſtin droit, ou quelque peu apres. or a-il eſté ainſi eſtendu, afin que par ſa compreſſion l'vrine fuſt entierement iettée hors du col de la veſſie,laquelle par ſon acrimonie en ſeiournât là,l'euſt peu bleſſer. voila la commune opinion touchant le sphincter de la veſſie : toutesfois fallopius re- prend ceſte opinion. car(comme il dit)ſi ce muſcle eſtoit deſſous le corps glanduleux, iamais la femence ne pourroit ſortir en coit ſans quelque partie de l'vrine.parquoy il eſtime que ce muſcle eſt par deſſous les pro- " ſtates,& n'eſt autre choſe que le commencement du col de la veſſie plus charnu, & tiſſu de fibres tranſuerſes. le ºol de la quandau col,il ne differe rien en ſubſtance,compoſition,nombre & complexion de la veſſie:mais ſeulement #eſſie : , en quantité,laquelle n'eſt point ſi capable,ny ſa figure ſi ronde,ains oblôgue,repreſentant aux hommes auec #º la verge vne (s) romaine sa ſituation eſt aux hommes ſur l'extremité de l'inteſtin droit, & du perineum. #. l. montant en haut iuſqu'au commencement de la verge, & auec icelle ſe reflechiſſant en bas. aux femmes il veſſie des eſt court,large & droict,ſe finiſſant ſur l'orifice du col de l'amarry,entre les corps nerueux dits nymphes: femmes eſt sa connexion eſtés hommes auec ladite veſſie,vaiſſeaux eiaculatoires,l inteſtin droit,& laverge,& aux fem- §, §it mes auec le col de l'amarry,& parties hôteuſes ſeulement.son actionaux hommes eſt d apporter au dehors é large la ſemence & vrineaux femmes la ſeule vrine. et faut noter, que pour bien voir toutes ces parties en leur connexion. entiere,& naturelle ſituation,faut diuiſer les os barrez ou pubis,par leur commiſſure,& les ſeparer tant qu'il ačtion. eſtpoſſible, toutesfois ſans rien deſchirer ny rompre. outre-plus, faut entendre, que par ce nom de peri- ue c'eſt que neum, n'eſt entendu tant aux hommes qu'aux femmes, que l'eſpace contenu depuis le ſiege iuſqu'aux par- #º ties honteuſes, appellé d'aucuns l'entrefeſſon : la ſuture duquel eſt nommée torus, tout ainſi que celle de /rt . - - raphi. la verge, raphi. d l'on%ieſme figure de la veſſie, & verge_ . a b monſtrent les deux ligamens ſpongieux qui font la verge virile. c c leur commencement. - - d le gland. - e le muſcle sphincter. f le corps de la veſſie. g glandes proſtates. h h pores vreteres. ii vaiſſeaux spermatiques expellens. de la verge_». c h a p. x x x ii. subſtance. # 'e n s v t maintenant la declaration des parties honteuſes tant de l'homme que de la femme, rºantité. ls & premierement de l'homme : le membre duquel eſt de ſubſtance ligamentenſe, d'autant qu'il ſort des os. de quantité aſſez notable,ſelon les trois dimenſions : toutesfois aux vns plus, aux autres moins. sa : - : - s -" ， de l'anatomie, | a sa figure eſt ronde eſtant toutesfois par deſſus & par deſſous aucunement côprimée. sa compoſition eſt de double tunique, de nerfs,veines,& arteres,de deux ligamens,conduit de l'vrine,& quatre muſcles. les tu- niques luy ſont donnée,tant du vray cuir que du pannicule charneux. les veines & arteres auſſi de deſſus l'os ſacrum,que nous auons nommez vaiſſeaux hypogaſtriques,leſquels vaiſſeaux vont audit membre par ſa partie inferieure, comme par les honteuſes en la ſuperieure. quand à ſes ligamens, ils luy ſont baillez des parties laterales & inferieures de la commiſſure dudit os pubis,tant d'vn coſté,que d'autre; au moyen de- quoy nous luy donnons double ligament ſur ſon commencement:mais incontinent apres leur origine ils s'v- niſſent en ſorte qu'ils ne ſont plus qu'vn qui eſt fait ſpongieux. le conduit de l'vrine eſt ſitué par deſſous le- dit membre entre les deux ligamens,lequel vient du col de la vefſie.quant aux muſcles, les deux collateraux, conſtituans & compoſans ainſi vne grande partie de la verge,ſortent de l'interne tuberoſité de l'os iſchion,& apres leur origine eſlargiſſent,& deuiennent fort tenues & minces. les deux autres inferieurs prénent leur origine des muſcles du ſiege,accompagnans le conduit del'vrine le long du perineum,iuſques à ce qu'ils en- trent dedans laverge:& ſont ceſdits muſcles vnis fi eſtroitement qu'ils ſemblent n'eſtre qu'vn fait en trian- gle.tous ces quatre muſcles icy faiſant leurs operation,ouurent & dilatent le conduit commun à l'vrine,& au ſperme au temps du coit,afin que ledit ſperme tout à coup ſans interruption & auec toutes ſes forces ſoit iette au champde nature humaine:ioinct auſſi qu'au coit ils ferment en deue ſituation & erection ledit mem- bre, ſans quil decline ne fiechiſſe, ny d'vn coſté, ny d'autre. il y a deux muſcles à la verge, qui procedent de l'os pubis,attachez à chacun coſté de la verge,qui aydêt à la dreſſer.il y en a deux autres qui procedent de la partie de deuant le muſcle sphincter,qui s'implantent au conduit de l'vrine,paſſent § pubis, & ſe recourbent vers le haut.ces deux muſcles eſlargiſſent le conduit de la verge,de peur qu'ils ne ſe ferme en ceſte recourbeure,lors que la ſemence eſt iettée par ce conduit. ses parties ainſi declarées,faut ſçauoir u'il eſt ſeul vnique, ſitué ſur les parties aucunement inferieures de l'os barré, à fin qu'il fuſt plus ferme à b § erection. sa connexion eſt auec ledit os, & autres parties circonuoiſines par ſes parties le compoſent. son temperament eſt froid & ſec. l'vtilité eſt de porter, ietter la ſemence dedans l'amarry pour la conſer- uation du genre humain. et noteras que là où finiſſent ces tendons, la teſte dudit membre commence : la- quelle à raiſon de la figure qu'elle a,eſt appellée glans,autrement balanus : & le cuir qui couure ladite te- ſte,prepuce.la chair dudit glane eſt moyenne entre la chair de glandule,& la vraye chair. outre plus,faut entendre que leſdits ligamens ſont ſpongieux,preſque ſemblables à la ſubſtance de la ratte,où ſe trouuent pluſieurs ramifications, & entrelaſſeures de petites veines,arteres, filamens nerueux , contre la nature des autrec, contedans gros ſang & noir , lequel aſſiegé de l'eſprit de concupiſcence , & agité par le feu d'a- mour illec enuoyé , enfle & erige ledit membre viril. "- - de la lmatrice,& parties appartenantes à icelle>. c h a p. x x x i i i. $ a n t e n a n t (ſuiuant ce que nous auons dit ) il conuient parler des parties honteuſes de la = femme : mais veu qu'elles dependent du col, & propre corps de l'amarry, nous commencerons à par- ler d icelle, apres toutesfois que nous aurons demontré la difference qui eſt entre les vaiſſeaux ſpermati- † teſticules des femmes auec ceux des hommes. donc pour commencer,il faut entendre que les vaiſ- eaux ſpermatiques des femmes ne ſont en rien differens à ceux des hommes quant à leur ſubſtance,figure, c compoſition,nombre,colligance,complexion,origine,& vtilité,mais ſeulement à raiſon de leur quantité & diſtribution : car elles les ont plus amples & plus courts. plus amples,pource que non ſeulement il falloit † apportaſſent matiere pour la generation & nourriſſement des teſticules,mais auſſi de la matrice & du oetus en temps requis.plus courts,parce qu'ils ſe finiſſent dedans le ventre à leurs teſticules,& matrice. en quoy faut noter,que leſdits vaiſſeaux ſpermatiques preparans quelque peu auât que venir aux teſticules, ſe diuiſent en deux rameaux inegaux:dont le plus petit,ainſi entortillé que nous auons dit de ceux des hômes, s'en va inferer à la tefte des teſticules,par laquelle il enuoye quelque petit rameau de ſoyaux tuniques d'i- ceux pour les viuifier & nourrir:& non ſeulement icelles,mais auſſi les vaiſſeaux ejaculatoires,ainſi qu'ila eſté dit parlant de ceux des hômes.le plus grâdrameau,j'entéds touſiours tant de la veine,que de l'artere de cha- cun coſté deſcëd tant d'vn coſté que d'autre par la partie ſuperieure du corps de lamatrice:& entre la tunique propre & cômune du peritoine,où il ſe diuiſe en plufieurs rameaux.et voila la differéce des vaiſſeaux ſperma- tiques des hommes,& des fémes,de laquelle tu pourras tirer la raiſon,pourquoy les fémes jettent moins de ſemence que les hômes.quant aux teſticules,ils ne different de ceux des hômes preſque en rien,ſinö à raiſon de plus & de moins:car leur ſubſtance,comme tu peux entendre,eſ blanche & glanduleuſe comme celle des hommes.ils ſont auſſi plus petits & de figure plus platte,pour le defaut de chaleur, qui ne les a peu faire le- uer ny croiſtre:& de compoſition plus ſimples,car ils n'ont point de ſcrotû,ny de tunique charneuſe,ny d'e- rytroide, ſelon aucuns,mais en ſon lieu ils en ont vne du peritoine qui couure la propre,nommée epididy- me ou dartos,côme ſi l'erythroide naiſſoit du peritoine. monſieur syluius eſcrirque les teſticules des fem- mes n'ont point d'erytrbide:toutesfois il eſt certain que outre leur propre tunique nommée dartos, ils en d ont vne du peritoine,qui eſt l'eritroide,ou pluſtoſt(comme fallopius la veut appeller) elitroide,c'eſt à dire ſemblable à vne gaine.et penſe que cét erreur ſoit venud'vn lieu de galien mal entéduau quatorzieſme liure zde vſu pertium,où il eſt eſcrit,que les teſticules des femmes n'ôt point d'epididymis:ce qu'il ne faut pas en- tendre d'vne tunique,mais du paraſtate variqueux, comme par cy-deuant i'ay declaré.quant au nombre,ils re different en rien,mais en la ſituation.caraux hömes(côme tu as entendu)ils ſont pendus hors du ventre à l'os pubis,au deſſus du perineû:aux fémes ſont dedans le ventre aux coſtez de l'amarry pres de ſon fonds, toutesfois ſans toucher ſon corps.et ſont leſdites teſticules annexez auec lamarry , tant par la tunique du peritoine,que par les vaiſſeaux eiaculatoires,deſcendans aux cornes d'icelle,& à tout le demeurant du corps par les vaiſſeaux preparans & nerf prenans leur origine de l'os ſacrû & du coſtal.ils ſont auſſi de téperature plus froide que ceux de l'hôme.leur action eſt telle qu'aux hommes.quant à leurs vaiſſeaux eiaculatoires ou expellens,ils different de ceux des hômes pource qu'en leur cômencement ils ſont amples, de ſubſtance figure compoſition. nombre, situation. connexion tempera- fmenf. vrilité. gland , oii bala»us. prepu ce, difference des vaiſ- ſeaux ſper- matiques des hommes. dr des femmes. diuiſ en des vaiſſeaux pref a rans des femmes. le vaiſſeaux jpermatiques ne ſont que veines & ar. ff/'e' , la femme iette ſa ſe- f ' cº a j fond de ſa matrice. difference des teſticuler des hommes, & des fem- º#. nombre. difference des vaiſ- & conſiſtence de veine,en ſorte qu'auec difficulté tu les peux diſcerner d'auec la tunique du peritoine,puis jeau eiacu- deuiennent eſtroits & nerueux mais à l'endroict où ils cômencent eſtre tels,ils ſéblent aux ſpectateurs(fauſ- latoires des ſement toutesfois)caſſez & rompus : & comme ils approchent des cornes de ladite matrice,derechefſe dila- tent & amplifient.leur ſubſtance,nombre, compoſition, temperament, action ou vtilité eſt meſme qu'aux hommes.leur quantité en groſſeur,& longueur moindre. leur figure ronde , mais plus entortillée qu'aux hômes afin ce croy ie,que tel entortillement leur ſeruiſt'de variqueux paraſtates.leur ſituation eſt entre les teſticules,& l'amarry:car ils ſortent de la teſte d iceux,& portez & conduits par la tunique du peritoine,ſe "ont implanter dedans l'amarry par ſes cornes,au moyen de quoy ils ſont conncxez auec ceſdites parties.s h femmes & des hommes le troi eſme liure la douziéme figure de la matrice_ . - - a a a monſtrent les vaiſſeaux ſpermatiques prºpºº , qui ſont deux veines,& deux arteres. - b b rameaux qui vont à la membrane des teſticules deſcendans du peritoine. - c c la connexion de la veine & artere ſpermatique deſcendans aux teſticules. d d portion des ſuſdicts vaiſſeaux, à ſçauoir, veine & artere qui deſcendent au fonds de la matrice. e e monſtrent la texture variqueuſe des vaiſſeaux. f f les corps des teſticules. g g vaiſſeaux ſpermatiques, dicts eiaculatoires ou expellens. h h cômencemens des ſuſdicts vaiſſeaux,leſquels font les paraſta- tes variqueux autour des teſticules iuſqu'à la lettre g g. *. fonds de la matrice, où leſdits vaiſſeaux ſe terminent. k monſtre le propre orifice de la matri- *e l lc col de la matrice. m meat de la veſſie. n les vaiſſeaux qui ſe terminent au col de la ma-_ ºrice. o orifice du col de la matrice. -t de la matrice particulierement. ch a p. x x x i v. p r e s les ſuſdites parties s'enſuit l'amarry, qui eſt vne partie du corps appartenante ſeule- ment à la femme, laquelle nature luy a donnée au lieu du ſcrotum à l'homme , comme auſſi a fait ſon col,& parties d'iceluy, au lieu du membre viril de l'homme : en ſorte que ſi tu con- temples les parties tant de l'homme que de la femme, tu ne les trouueras differentes l'vne de pourquoy vray eſt qu'elles n'ont point de glandes proſtates,ny la membrane erythroide,mais elles ont la leur propre les parties nommée epididyme. car ce que l'homme a au dehors, la femme l'a au dedans, tant par la prouidence generatiºs de nature , que de l'imbecillité d'icelle , qui n'a peu expeller & jetter dehors leſdites parties, comme à ſºnt ºººhº l'homme. l'amarry eſt de ſubſtance nerueuſe, & membraneuſe, afin que plus aiſement ſe peuſt dilater & dedans aux eſtendre plus ou moins , ſelon la neceſſité de nature. sa quantité eſt diuerſe,tant pour raiſon de l'aage, de #. l'acte venerien,& expulſion du ſang menſtrual,que du temps de la conception:car la fille qui eſt vierge,ou e§. n'a encore atta nt l'aage de puberté , ny en fluxion menſtruale, comme pareillement la jeune femme qui n'a - point encore porté d'enfans,l'ont plus petite que les autres qui ne ſont telles.dauantage,celle qui a ſeule- mét exercé l'acte venerien,l'a plus petite que celle qui a deſia eu fluxion menſtruelle,ou a conçeu enfant:& conſe quément celle qui n'a enduré que fluction menſtrualle,l'a plus petite que celle qui a conceu& enfanté, ſi ce n'eſt en ſa vieilleiſſe,en laquelle par la froideur de cét aage(dont l'action eſt de reſſerrer)la matrice luy eſt retrecie & faite preſque auſſi petite que celle d'vne pucelle, ce que quelque froideur accidentelle peut auſſi faire en vn autre aage.au moyé dequoy la quantité,lögueur & capacité de l'vterus ou amarry,ne ſe peut aſſeuremët diffinir,quoy que quelques-vns l'ayent voulu entreprendre.car tout ainſi qu'en chacune region, il y a des hommes plus grands ou plus petits que les autres,& conſequemment leurs parties diſſemblablesſe- lon le plus ou le moins de la proportion de tout leur corps:de meſme eſt-il de l'amarry, que la complexion & les accidéts, ſelon leurs qualitez,& la plus grande ou plus petite ſtature de la féme,peuuent rendre ou re-, tenir en quelque aage que ce ſoit,puberté,jeuneſſe ou vieilleſſe,plus grand,plus lóg,plus petit,ou plus reſſer- ré.sa figure eſt toute telle que de la veſſie,ſi tu la côſidere ſans ſes apophiſes,que herophile a appellé cornes d'icelles,pour la ſimilitude qu'elles ont auec les cornes d'vn petit veau, quâd elles luy ſortentau commence- ment hors de la teſte. cela ſe void aux beſtes, & non à la femme. elle eſt compoſée de parties ſimples,& composées. les ſimples ſont veines, arteres,nerfs, & tuniques : dont les veines & arteres ſont quatre en figure. cornes. compoſition. par quel lieu • - - - # § rence d'iceux auec ceux des hômes.les deux autresmontent des veines & arteres hypogaſtriques en lama- ſtruaifîuë és niere qui s'enſuit premieremët auant que leſdits vaiſſeaux viennét audit corps de l'amarry,tant veines qu'ar- femmes groſ- teres montans de chacun coſté,ils ſe diuiſent en deux rameaux , dont les vns vont à la partie inferieure du jes & filles. corps de l'amarry,les autres au col d'icelle,par le moyé deſquels le ſang menſtruel,s'il redóde apres la con- ception, peut eſtre euacué par ſondit col.les nerfs tant d'vn coſté que d'autre luy ſont enuoyez tant de la ſi- xieſme coniugaiſon deſcendant tout le long de l'eſpine du dos, que de ceux qui ſortent de l'os ſacrum:leſ- quels vnis & meſlez enſemble montent & ſe diſtribuent & inſerent à icelle , comme les veines & arteres quant à ſes tuniques,la ſuperficielle dite commune,luy eſt donnée du peritoine à l'endroit de l'os ſacrum:la° propre,de ſa premiere conformation.et a ceſte tunique trois genres de fibres,à ſçauoir,droites en ſa partie interieure,pour,attirer le ſperme,tant de ſoy que de l'homme:tranſuerſes,en ſa partie exterieure,pour l'ex- peller en temps & lieu:& obliques,au milieu de ſoy pour la retention dudit ſperme iuſques au temps prefix. elle eſt double diuiſée ſeulement à raiſon de la ſituation dextre & ſeneſtre, & de quelque petite & obſcure ſuture, ou ligne,telle que celle que nous voyons au milieu du scrotum,mais non ſi apparente,ſituée au de- · hors par le milieu d'icelle. et ne faut chercher autres cellules & cachots en l'amarry, que les anciens ont imaginé eſtre infinis,que ceſte partie dextre & ſeneſtre:comme ainſi ſoit que naturellement la femme ne peut porter que deux enfans,teſmoin que nature ne la fournie que de deux mammelles : s'il ſuruient d'auantage situation du d'enfans,c'eſt choſe monſtrueuſe, attendu que nature ne l'euſt depourueue de commodité pour les nourrir. *orps de la nature a mis ceſte partie au deſſous du ventre,lequel lieu eſt tres-propre & opportun pour auoir la com- /atri ſe, pagnie de l'hôme,& pour donner eſpace de croiſtre au fruict,& pour l'enfanter.elle eſt ſituée entre la veſ- fie & l inteſtin droit:auſquelles parties elle eſt eſtroictement connexée, & liée & joincte, plus par ſon col, que par ſon corps:côme eſt auſſi par deux forts & inſignes ligamens,qui viennent des parties laterales,& ſu- perieures des os barrez ou pubis,auſquels elle ſemble eſtre ſuſpendue. la matrice a vn muſcle de chacun coſté,par lequel elle eſt tirée vers le flanc.elle eſt auſſi annexée par la tunique du peritoine, fort déſe & eſ- tººpºr*- peſſe en cét endroit à l'os ſacrû,aux iles , & lumbes : au moyen de laquelle connexion la féme conceuante nombre. connexion, # ſent certaine compreſſion & retraction deſdits ligamens, qui luy fait dire qu'elle a conçeu. sa complexion # . la eſt froide & humide,plus par accident,que de ſoy.l'action & vtilite de la matrice eſt de conceuoir & engen- i / - - - v " > - - # drer auec vne extréme deſir:& a auſſi vertu,& puiſſance d'attirer à ſoy l'humeur ſpermatique de toutes les parties du corps,& receuoir en ſoy auec auidité la ſemence virille, & la conſeruer auec la ſienne , & icel- nombre,deux venans des vaiſſeaux ſpermatiques dits preparans,ainſi que nous auons dit parlans de la diffe- . l'autre touchant le nôbre des parties,ains ſeulement en la diuerſe ſituation & vſage d'icelles. b c lcs meſlées enſemble en procréer vn indiuidu , c'eſt à dire , vne petite creature de dieu. a auſſi puiſſance de : º -- : v:: - de l'anatomie. a de receuoir le ſang menſtrual,& le jetter hors pour purger tout le corps. quant aux parties compoſées de l'amairv,ce ſont le propre corps,& col d'icelle. le corps de ladite matrice aux femmes enceintes s'eſtend coryledens iuſqu à l'endroict du † plus haut, voire au deſſous del'eſtomach, principalement i cel- # orifi- les qui ſont preſtes d'enfanter, que quefois plus bas. quant à ſa face interieure, il faut contempler & voir ces des , c. les čotyledons, leſquels ne ſont autre choſe qu'orifices des extremitez des veines & arteres menſtrualle, tremitez de, aboutiſſantes dedans la capacité de la matrice,par leſquels le ſang menſtrual s'eſcoule tous les mois : & veines au aux femmes enceintes eſt porté aliment au petit fœtus ou enfant.elles ſont difficiles à voir aux femmes,s'el- dedans de la les ne ſont nouuellement deliurées de leur fœtus,ou que leurs menſtrues ne coulent,ou ayent recentement matrice. coulé. quant aux brebis,chéures,& vaches,en tout temps on les peut voir , comme grains de froument, fors quand elles ſont pleines:auquel temps ils ſont tumefiez & enflez en forme de noiiettes rondes,les vns plus petits,les autres plus grands, ſelon la † l'animal:comme ſont auſſi aux femmes, mais en for- me d'vne maſſe de chair, eſpeſſe quelquesfois d'vn doigt & demy, quelquesfois plus, quelquefois moins, laquelle de ſa largeur ceint & enuiróne les parties naturelles du fœtus,tandis qu'il eſt côtenu dedans le ven- tre et à ceſte cauſe eſte reduite ceſte maſſe de chair paraucûs entre le nombre des tuniques, qui enuelop- - pent & contiennent l'enfant dedans le corps de l'amarry,l'appellant chorion:pource que comme aux beſtes brutes le chorion eſt tiſſu de veines & arteres,dont ſont faits les vaiſſeaux vmbilicaux : ainſi, à la femme, ladite maſſe de chair eſt tiſſue des veines , & arteres, leſquelles compoſent leſdits vaiſſeaux. mais com- . bien cela eſt dit raiſonnablement,ie le laiſſe au jugement d'vn chacun. vne choſe ſeulement ie te dv que ſe- #- lon mon jugement,tout ainſi que les excreſcences des cotyledons aux beſtes brutes,ne ſont dites chorion, # b ains appëdices d'iceluy:ainſi telle maſſe de chair aux femmes pour meſme raiſon ne doit eſtre appellée cho par fn cv# iut rion, ains cotyledons tumefiez,& appendices d'iceluy. et ſe finit cedit corps à l'emboucheure,qui eſt ſem- blable à la teſte de la verge de l'homme, qui s'ouure & referme par vne ſeule vertu naturelle , & non par la volonté de la femme;en certaine anguſtie qu'on trouue pourſuiuât iceluy vers la partie honteuſe:j'entens aux fémes qui n'ont point enfanté,ou qu il ya long-temps.car aux autres qui ont accouché nouuellement, il n'y appert qu'vne cauité ſans l'anguſtie ſuſdite,que nous appellons propre orifice de l'amarry.lequel de- meure clos & fermé eſtroittement apres que la femme a concçeu,principalement iuſques à ce que les mem- branes du fœtus ſoient procrées & ſuffiſammét ſolidées, pour garder que la ſeméce ne ſorte hors de la ma- trice,& de peur qu'elle ne ſoit eſuentée & alterée de l'air ambiant:& apres veritablemêt s'ouure pour don- ner iſſue au ſperme,& à d'aucunes leurs menſtrues,& certaines aquoſitez qui ſortent pendant leur groſſeſſe. s'enſuit maintenant le col de l'amarry,lequel commençant depuis le propre orifice d'iceluy,s'eſtend iuſqu'à la partie honteuſe. et eſt de ſubſtance muſculeuſe,faite de chair molle mediocrement, parce qu'il failioit qu'il ſe relaſchaſt & retiraſt, s'amoncelaſt & ridaſt,repliaſt & fuſt entors pour l'expulſion de l'enfant,& ſe retiraſt apres. il deuient calleux à celles qui viennent ſur le vieilaage,& apresl'auoirpar le paſsé diligem- ment exercé par l'acte venerien : car en ieuneſſe il eſt fort traictable pour les neceſſitez de nature,tant pour raiſon de la chaleur excité en tel acte(laquelle deſſeiche)que pourl'attrition des deux corps ſolides& durs, conioincts enſemble. sa quantité tant en longueur, largeur, que profondeur,eſtaſſez notable,jaçoit qu'el- le ſoit incertaine pour l'inegalité de la grandeur ou petiteſſe des femmes. il ſe dilate grandement, quand vient l'hcure d'enfanter : puis apres ſe reſſerre, & retourne en ſon eſtre. sa figure eſt ronde,oblongue, & caue. sa compoſition toute telle que celle de l'amarry,hormis qu'elle ne reçoit tant de vaiſſeaux qu'icelle. colcmbus subſtancé. a" __ * . - _ - É)uantité. figure. compoſition. c car il n'a que ceux qui luy ſont enuoyez des hypogaſtriques par les rameaux qui montent enl'amary et no- teras icy , que cedit col en ſa face interieure,eſt ridé quaſi comme la tunique du palais d'vn chien, afin que par ſon inegalité il excite tant à l'homme qu'a la femme quelque chatoüillement,à raiſon duquel le coit ſoit plus haſtif& acceleré: ladite matrice eſt ſituée entre la veſſie & le gros inteſtin droict, & monte quelque situation ds peu plus haut que le fonds de la veſſie:auſquelles parties elle eſt eſtroittement liée,plus par ſon col,que par la matric-, ſon corps,par pluſieurs petites appendices fibreuſes , qui procedent du peritoine, comme elle eſt auſſi par deux forts & inſignes ligamés qui viennét des parties laterales & ſuperieures des os barrez,& aux vertebres des lumbes,auſquels elle ſemble eſtre ſuſpendue. elle eſt auſſi attachée à la grande veine caue , & grande artere,par les veines &arteres ſpermatiques,leſquelles ſont munies d'vne apophyſe du peritoine:afin qu'el- les fuſſent plus fermes & plus fortes pour la ſouſtenir, lors qu'elle eſt pleine d'enfant.elle eſt pareillement annexée & attachée par la tunique peritoine denſe & eſpeſſe en cét endroit, à l'os sacrum , & os barrez, aux flancs & lumbes. au moyen de laquelle connexion la femme conceuante ſent certaine compreſſion & signe que la retraction deſdits ligamens qui luy fait dire qu'elle a conçeu. or d'autant que ces ligamens ſont nerueux & f mm a muſculeux, & qu'eſtans laxes, ils ſe peuuent eſtendre & accourcir, ſelon qu'ils ſont pleins ou vuides d'hu- conce u, meurs,il aduient qu'elle ſe peut promptement mouuoir & changer de place, à ſçauoir,monter, deſcendre, incliner en deuant, en derriere, és coſtez, & tranſmuer en autre place; voire ſortir hors du corps. où no- teras pour concluſion de ladite partie , qu'on ne trouue point dedans la cauité celle tunique(comme quel- ques-vns veulent) que l'on appclle hymen,ou panicule virginal, lequel au premier coit les femmes diſent qu'il ſe rompt & déchire. colombus,fallopius,vierus,& pluſieurs autres doctes gens de noſtre temps ſont d opinion contraire, & diſent qu'vn petit par deſſus le conduit de l'vrine,on void aux parties honteuſes des d vierges vne t unique nerueuſe tranſuerſalement miſe, & percée au milieu pour laiſſer paſſer les mois : mais tout cela giſt en l'experience.ce qui a mis les anciens en ceſte opinion,eſt qu'en aucunes s'enſuit fluxion de ſang,laquelle à mon jugement,eſt pluſtoſt faite par la rupture de certains petits vaiſſeaux, leſquels deſcen* dans par la ſuperficie interne dudit col,ſe rompent ou ouurent,ne pouuans ſouſtenir ſi grande extenſion au premier coit, que fait la partie nerueuſe dudit col. d'où nous conclurons que la fille pucelle & en aage ſuffiſant,eſtant mariée auec vn hôme qui aura ſes parties honteuſes proportiönées en quantité aux ſiennes, n'aura point tel flux de ſang : ce que nous deduirons plus amplement au liure de la generation chapitre . or finit ledit col à la partie honteuſe de la femme, qui fait ſon propre orifice:laquelle conuient maintenant de la partie expliquer,d'autant que ce n'eſt qu'vne apophyſe ou appëdice dudit col. quoy faiſant faut entendre qu'icel- honteuſe de le eſt de ſubſtance moyenne entre chair & nerf. sa quantité eſt aſſez grande. sa figure caue, ronde, mais la femme. oblongue sa compoſition eſt de veines, arteres & nerfs deſcendans au col de l'amarry, & exterieurement sºſtance. de la veine honteuſe,& double tunique,venant tant du vray cuir,que du pannicule charneux.leſquelles ſont $uantité. illec eſtroitemét vnies par l'interpoſition de certaine chair au moyen dequoy eſt dite ceſte partie eſtre faite # - de tunique muſculeuſe.quant a ſon nôbre, il eſt notoire.sa ſituatio et preſque par deſſus tout le perineſ, #iº qui t'a eſté par cy-deuât declaré.sa cônexion eſt auec le ſiege,le col de l'amatry,& de la veſlie par leurs pro- §, prºs orifices.sa côplexion eſt moyêne entre chaude, & humide,& froide & ſeiche.son vſage eſt tel que ce-c§, luy du prepuce de l'hôme;c'eſtaſçauoir,de garder que l'air ambiant n'entre en la matrice dc peur qu'elle ne tempera- fuſt refrigerée.d'abôdant,au cômencement du col de la matrice,eſt l'entrée & fente de la nature de la f me ment. ºº lºslatins appellent p,citm, & les bords qui ſont reueſtus de poil,ſe nöment en grec ºue )gonate, côme vtili:é. q) . fi le troiſieſme liure, - gal. liu. . de vſu pur- tium. hipp. lib. abuſer:ſe donnant le chirurgien garde de n'inciſer trop profondement, de peur d'vn grand flux de ſang,ou de coupper le col de la veſſie. car puis apres ne pourroient tenir leur vrine, mais decouleroitgoutte à de morbis mulierum. introduč#. paal.liure . chap. - aéce lin. . ſermon . chap. o ;. é o - - - - - - ) ſi nous diſions ailes ou léures du couronnement de la femme:& entre icelles ſont deux excroiſſances de chair a muſculeuſe,vne de chacun coſté, qui couurent l'iſſue du conduit de l'vrine, & ſe ſerrent apres que la fem- me a vriné. les grecs les appellent nymphes, qui pendent & ſortent à aucunes femmes hors le col de leur matrice:& s'allongent & accourciſſent, comme fait la creſte d'vn coq d'inde, principalement lors qu'elles deſirent le coït,& que leurs maris les veulent approcher,elles ſe dreſſent auſſi comme la verge virile, telle- ment qu'elles s'en ioüent quelquefois auec les autres femmes.auſſi les rendent fort honteuſes & difformes, eſtans veuës nuës.et à telles femmes on leur doit lier & couper ce qui eſt ſuperflu,parce qu'elles en peuuent goutte. or qu'il y ait des femmes, qui par le moyen de ces caruncules ou nymphes abuſent les vnes des gal. en ſon autres:c'eſt choſe auſſi vraye, comme monſtrueuſe, & difficile à croire, confirmée toutesfois par vn narré memorable,tiré de l'hiſtoire d'afrique,composée par leon l'africain,liure troiſieſme : (voyez l'arreſt de iean papon en ſon recueil,liure . tiltre . arreſt .deux femmes,&c.leſquelles furent bruſlées)aſſeurant en autre lieu,qu'il y a gens en afrique,qui vont par la ville,à la mode de nos chaſtreux, & font meſtier de couper telles caruncules:comme auons dit aux operations de chirurgie. la troiſiéme figure monſtre les parties des femmes differentes de celles des hommes. de'f a a monſtrent les veines spermatiques. · b b arteres spermatiques. - · cc la connexion d'icelles auec les veines sper- ， , matiques,& nouuelle diuiſion des veines & b # arteres spermatiques,allans aux teſticules, - & au fonds de la matrice. # dd les portions des vaiſſeaux spermatiques allans • au corps de la matrice. j.- e e l'autre portion defdicts vaiſſeaux deſcendans . - aux teſticules. ": ! f f lesteſticules. - # g vaiſſeaux eiaculatoires, leſquels ſortant des # teſticules , ſe vont jetter dans la matrice • par ſes cornes. le h le corps de la matrice. (.'. i l'endroit de l'orifice propre de la matrice. · - k le col d'icelle. i . l inteſtin droit lié & couppé. r m veines & arteres hypogaſtriques allans au col #: & corps de la matrice. : n l'orifice du col de la matrice. . ， o corps de la veſſie renuersé. c , ，. : \ p p l'entrée des vaiſſeaux vreteres en la veſſie, : \ • |%- | | | | iii| dont y en a vn coupé. # \ §s-n# /ill/ q_ laveine & artere qui viennent de celles qui : :: $ § # # " | | vont au col de la matrice allant à la veſſie. pº : -- )#$ſ©))#| , j r le col de la veſſie & muſcle d'iceluy, lequel : t'a eſté plus apertement demonſtré aux fi- :: . gures precedentes. : la lmatrice & parties à elles appartenantes, peuuent ſouffrirpluſieurs - maladies : comme- , | playe, conuulſion, : intemperature, precipitation, - apoſteme, deſcente, #: vlcere, obſtruction des cotyledons. , fiſtule, sable, #. chancre, pierre, •. scirrhe, ventuoſitez, • , paralyſie, hydropifie, - :- suffocation, mole, & autre mauuais germe, d · flux menſtrual immoderé, fureurs, - retention dudit flux, mouuemens eſtranges, - fleurs blanches, se pourrir entierement, & eſtre jettée hors:ce que je # gonorrhée, proteſte auoir veu. # - - j: le colde la lmatrice peut ſouffrir,pour eſtre-», t# trop lubrique, ragadies, - ": trop ouuert, condylomes, : trop eſtroit, phymofis, •. endurcy, prurit, *- eſtouppé par vne membrane,oucarnoſité, ou non dilaceré par vn enfantement laborieux, ， cncor ouuert par nature. charbons, ， trop gras, gangrene, - lcs nymphes trop alongées, eſthiomene , & autres qui ſeront cy - aprez decla- verrués, icz, - de l'anatomie, * º ; . -ſ- des tuniques qui contiennent l enfant au ventre de la mere_.. c h a p. x x x v. o v t f s ces choſes ainſi conſiderées, reſte maintenant à parler des membranes, qui durant le temps que la femme eſt groſſe , enueloppent le pêtit enfant dedans leur amarry. leſquel- les ſont de ſubſtance ſpermatique & nerueuſe, venans de la ſemence de la femme, afin que $ plus aisément elles ſe puiſſent dilater, & eſtendre , ſelon l'exigence de la choſe contenuë. leur quantité en largeur & profondeur eſt grande, meſmement ſur le temps que l'enfant eſt preſt à ſortir. leur figure ronde comme l'amarry. leur compoſition eſt de veines, arteres , & propre ſubſtance. les veines donc & arteres leur ſont communiquées de l'amarry ( ſenſiblement ou inſenſible- ment, & plus ou moins ) par ſes cotyledons, leſquels tiennent meſmelieu en l'amarry ( s'il eſt queſtion de nourrir le fœtus ) que les mammelles aux meres nourrices, lors que l'enfant eſt né : en ſorte que com- me nous voyons,lamere nourrice apres la naiſſance de l'enfant,luy preſenter ſon mammelon pour en épui- ſer du laict pour ſa nourriture : ainfil'amarry(mere nourrice de la ſemence à elle commiſe,& curieuſe de ſa conſeruation apres qu'elle l'a receue)preſente & auance ſes cotyledons ouveines en iceux deſinentes par les tuniques au moyen dequoy,nous diſons icelles receuoir autant de veines & arteres,qu'il en deſine auſ- dits cotyledons.leur propre ſubſtance leur eſt conferée de la partie plus humide de la ſemence de la fem- me cöme nous auons dit. quant à leur nombre,elles ſont trois ſelon galien,à ſçauoir l'vne appellée cho- rion, autrement dite secondines arriere faix ou deliurance (combien que les vulgaires appellent ainſi tou- b tes les tuniques enſemble)l'autre eſt appellée allantoide, & la tierce amnios pour mon regard ie trouue bien aux beſtes le nombre de ces tuniques,comme il le deſcrit:mais à la femme non,ſi on n'en met pour vne les cotyledons enfiez& eminens en maſſe de chair,ainſi qu'aucuns tres-expers en l'art anatomique ſemblét faire, laquelle choſe toutesfois nous ne pouuons admettre cöme vraye;car on ne trouue point l'allantoi- de(ou pour le moins nous ne l'auons jamais ſceu trouuer,nonobſtant que nôus l'ayons cherchée par tous les moyens qui nous ont eſté baillez,ou que nous auons peu imaginer de nous meſmes)aux femmes groſſes de ſix,ſept,huict,neufmois,ſans que ſage femme aucune y euſt touché, qui euſt peu rompre quelque tunique. or les moyens que nous auons ſuiuy en ce faiſant,ſont tels,qu'apresauoir fendu en croix le ventre de la fé- me morte,ſur la region de l'amarry,l'auons enmeſme ſorte incisé;puis ayant ſur le ſujet meſme,oſté tout ce quinous pouuoit empeſcher, auons ſeparé le plus ſubtilement qu'auons peu, non ſeulement tout l'arriere faix de la face interne dudit amarry,auquel il eſt attaché par les cotyledons, ainſi que nous auons dit,mais auſſi la premiere tunique,que nous auons appellée chorion, de la ſubjacente,que nous appellons aminos : & ce ſans rien rompre.car nous n'auons eſpanché aucun humeur à la dite ſèparation,dequoy on puiſſe dire que quelque tunique contenant humeur,ait eſté rompuë. ce fait nous auons diligemment regardé en bon- ne compagnie,par pluſieurs fois, ſi nous verrions aucune ſeparation des deux tuniques, c'eſt à ſçauoir al- lantoide & amnios,tant par la ſeparation des humeurs contenues en icelles, qu'autres choſes. dont n'en apperceuant aucune en ſorte que ce ſoit, auons prins l'amnios remplie d'humeur à ſa partie plus haute, & l'ayant ouuerte,deux ſeruiteurs tenans ſuſpendue l'ouuerture,afin qu'aucun humeur n'en ſortiſt à la circon- ference du chorion & amarry,l'auons epuisée entierement par eſponges,encores y eſtant contenu le fœ- tus preſt à ſortir:afin qu'apres auoir puisé ladite tunique,nous peuſſiös voir s'il y auoit autre humeur con- c tenu en autre tunique qu'en icelle:& ce fait,n'auons apperceu autre humeur ny ſeparation de tuniques:en ſorte que quât àmoy,ie n'y en penſe que deux telles que nous auons dit. en outre,non côtent de cela; pour eſtre plus aſſeuré de ladite allantoide,apres auoir paſsé les deux tuniques ſuſdites,& eſtre venu au fœtus: ayant fait vne ſonde à l'endroit de la veſſie d'iceluy, & fait ſouffler icelle, pour voir ſi par ce ſoufflement ie pourrois faire paſſer le vent dedans la tunique dont eſt queſtion,côme aucuns ont eſcritie n'ay iamais ſceu faire paſſer d'icelle aucû vent par l'vmbilic en ladite tunique allantoïde, ainsay trouué le vent ſortir àl'hu- meurcontenu dedans la veſſie,par les parties honteuſes:ce qui me fait croire aſſeurément, qu'il n'y a point d'allantoide en la féme;ioint auſſi que ie n'ayiamais ſceu trouuer,ny aucunement apperceuoir en i'vmbilic, le meat, dit vrachos,qu'on dit eſtre le principe & ſource d'icelle. or quand il n'y en auroit,quel mal & in- conuenient s'en enſuiuroit-il,veu que la ſueur,& l'vrine d'vn petit enfant peuuent eſtre commodement colli- gées,& contenuës dedans vne meſme tunique,pour la petite difference qui peut eſtre entre icelles. et ſi tu m'obiectes,que l'vrine,à cauſe de ſon acrimonie,bleſſeroit le foetus,s'elle le touchoit:ie reſponds,que telle accrimonie,qui ne peut eſtre beaucoup mordante en vn fœtus,peut eſtre moderée par la vapeur halitueuſe & douce,laquelle eſt meſlée parmy la ſueur.et dauantage ſi nous regardons l'vtilité & vſage de telhumeur, qui eſt de ſouſtenir & ſupporter le fœtus,afin que par ſa peſanteur il ne rompe les liens,par leſquels il eſt attaché à l'amarry, nous trouuerös qu'il n'y a humeur plus ſuffiſant à ce faire que le sereux,lequel à rais de ſa terreſtrité,groſſeſſe,& craſſitude,peut ſans comparaiſon, plus facilement ſouſtenir que nul autre ain- ſi que nousvoyons, pour exemple, l'eau de la mer, laquelle, à raiſon de telles qualitez, ſouſtient & porte, ſans comparaiſon,plus facilement que la douce des fieuues,laquelle eſt plus rare & aerée. parquoy ie con- r\ clus ſelon moniugement, qu'il n'eſt point beſoin que l'vrine ſoit reſpandue en vne tunique, & la ſueur en i) l'autre:& ſi les anciens l'ont eſcrit,ç'a eſté pour l'auoir veu aux beſtes,& par ainſi nous n'en ferons que deux ; à ſçuauoir le chorion, & l'amnios.leſquelles eſtans contenuës l'vne dedans l'autre,enuelopét tout alentour le petit enfant. fallopius,homme fort diligent , s'accorde aucunement auec moy , & non du tout : car il eſtime qu'il n'y a que deuxtuniques,à ſçauoir le chorion & l'amnios,& que le fœtus iette só vrine en vne partie du chorion,côme tu pourras lire plus amplement en ſes obſeruations anatomiques.et ſont cônexées enſemble par petites fibres nerueuſes,qui paſſent de l'vne à l'autre,& certains petits vaiſſeaux, qui du cho- rion ſitué exterieurement,deſcendent à l'amnios interieure:& pource ſi on n'y prend garde on le rompra à tous les coups,en le ſeparant. leur temperament eſt tel , que toute autres membranes. leur vtilité eſt dif- ferente:car le chorion eſt fait pour la conſeruation,tant des vaiſſeaux qu'il reçoit de l'amarry pour la gene- ration des veines & arteres vmbilicales que des parties qu'il contient:l amnios, pour la retention des excre- mens ſereux,que l'enfant peut excerner ou ietter pendant le temps qu'il eſt au ventre de la mere,& eſt ceſte tunique deſliée comme toile d'araignée, & douce & mole, de peur que par fon attouchement elle ne bleſ- fiſt ledit fœtus, à cauſe dequoy elle a eſté nommée agnima. - - du nombril. c h a p. x x xv i. # pr e s ces tuniques s'enſuit le nombril de l'enfant, qui n'eſt autre choſe qu'vn corps blanc , fait comme vn cordon de cordelier , fors qu'il n'a pas ſes nœuds f releuez & eminens par dehors ºut à l'entour, ains eſt en diuers lieux boſſu , en forme de nœud eſleué ſeulement d'vn coſté.. h |! subſtancè. quantité. figure. compoſition. prouidence admirable de nature_». nombre. chorions allantoide. amnio , •/ moyens pour trouuer les tuniques. l'allahto#- de ne ſe trouue en# z / . occupati tn. concluſion. situatiow. connexion, temperas ment . vtilité, subſtance. situatisw, o le troiſieſme liure,del'a i º!º*die. _ , • situation il commence & ſort depuis la maſſe de chair,que nous auons appellée cotyledonº ## implan- §r au milieu du ventre inferieur de l'enfant,& de tout le corps,duquel il eſt dit eſtrº § ource que comme l'arbre eſt nourry par ſa racine, ainſi eſt le corps de l enfant au ventre de la mº † mbilic sa guantité. quantité,quant en groſſeur & l'argeur,eſt comme celle du petit doigt bien delié:mais en † il eſt en- uiron d'vn pied & demy;en ſorte qu'on trouue les enfans eſtre ceints ou entortillez quelquºs parle mi- figure. lieu du corps,quelquesfois en tour le col,jambes ou bras.sa figure eſt ronde.sa compoſition eſt de deuxar- compoſition teres,vne veine,& deux tuniques. les artcres & veines ſont ramaſsées en iceluy de toute ceſte grande mul- titude d'arteres & veines quaſi capillaires, ſemées parmy le chorion, comme celle du meſarcon à la veine porte,& artere celiaque ou inteſtinale.donc la veine enſeuelie dedans ledit nombre,s'en va implanter à la partie caue du foye:où ſe diuiſant en deux,elle fait ſelon galien,la veine porte,& caue. et les arteres ſepa- rées tout le long du nombril , ſe vont ietter dedans les iliaques leſquels ils conſtituent comme toutes les autres,ainſi que nous auons dit de la veine , pour porter l'eſprit vital a toutes les parties de l'enfant. les deux tuniques viennent du chorion , & eſtans inſeparablement coniointes,& par tout le nombril aſſez den- ſes & epeſſes,ſemblent côſtituer le cuir exterieur, & pannicule charneux de l'enfant. ie ſçay bien que plu- ſieurs y mettent des veines auſſi bien que desarteres,& l'vrachos,par lequell'vrine coule dans l'allantoide qu ils imaginent:mais d'autant que ceſte tunique ne ſe trouue aux femmes, ains ſeulement aux beſtes brutes, ie m'en tais,comme n'ayant intention de monſtrer autres parties que celle de noftre ſujet.toutesfois s'il y vſage du a quelqu'vn qui puiſſe monſtrer en la femme ce qui eſt dauantage aux beſtes, ie confeſſeray le tenir & auoir ncmbr .. appris de luy. quand au demeurant,qui eſt ſon nombre,ſituation, connexion, temperament, & vſage, ils ſont aſſez notoires par ce que nous auons dit eſtre de nourrir le fœtus , comme la racine fait l'arbre, par la continuation de ſes vaiſſeaux , auec les spermatiques preparans de la mere , ainſi ordonnez de dieu, au liu. de la formation de l'enfant. amen. fin du troiſiéme liure de l'anatomie. # # -t#ºtº-t -g% { # tºº tº t a b l e d es chap tres d v l iv r e i v. " de l'anatomie. # efinition du thorax , diuiſon & explication d'ice- l % des parties contenantes & contenuës du thorax. i j - $ des mammelles. i ij ' des clauicules coſtes. " , iv la maniere de leuer le sternon. | v · de la membrane nommée pleura. v j du mediaſtin. v i j du diaphragme . - vii j : des poulmons. ( ( ix du pericarde . - - x du (œur. . ) xj d des ventricules du cœur. • x i j des orifices & valuules du cœur. xiij diſtribution delaveine arterieuſe, & artere veineuſe_.. xiv diſtribution de la veine caue aſcedente . - x v diſtribution des nerfs de la ſixieſme coniugaiſon. xv j diuiſion des arteres. . x v i j de la phagoué, autrement dite thymus. x v i i j de la trachée artere_,. - xix de l'oſeophague . - - x x le au ſeul nom duquel, pour la concluſion de ce preſent liure , ſoit honneur, & gloire aux ſiecles des ſiçcles. b # luy. chap. j c # $ | # - | qvatriesme livre, traitt ant de l'anatomie, le qvel contient les parties vital es, contenuës dans le thorax, nommé des françois, poictrine. p r e s auoir ſuffiſamment pourſuiuy & declaré les parties naturelles contenuës au ventre inferieur, & en icelles auoir conclu, & finy le premier liure de noſtre œuure : reſte mainte- nant que nous paſſions à la declaration du thorax : afin que les parties ja aucunement de- monſtrées (i'entends veines & arteres) par vn meſme ordre , & fil de doctrine , ſans inter- . ception de matiere, ſoient entierement declarées. .. et dauantage , afin que nous puiſſions plus parfaictement, & clairementdemonſtrer les deux autres parties, ſçauoir eſt, la teſte, & les extremi- tez , cognoiſſant auparauant l'origine,& ſource de leurs vaiſſeaux. - - et pource faire , premierement nous definirons le thorax, puis le diuiſerons en ſes parties : tiercement conſidererons icelles, tant contenantes que contenuës, afin que nous cheminions touſiours par la voye, & - methode ja commencée. - definition du thorax , diviſion & explication d'iceluy. ch a p. i. e thorax donc eſt le ventre moyen ( comme nous auons dit au commenccment ) contenant de- circonſcrip- puis les clauicules iuſqu'à l'extremité des fauſſes coſtes, ayant en ſa partie ſuperieure les claui. § du thg- cules, en l'inferieure le diaphragme, enſa partie enterieure le sternon , en la poſterieure les r . douze vertebres du metaphrene:& és parties lateralles, les coſtes tant vrayes que fauſſes,& muſ- cles intercoſtaux,& intercartilagineux.où entendras,que la cauſe de telle fabricature a eſté,afin qu'en ſer- uant aux partiesvitales,commed'vn rampart , & propugnacle contre toutes iniures externes, il n'endom- raiſon de la mageaſt point la reſpiration:laquelle n'eſt moins neceſſaire pour la conſeruation de la chaleur naturelle eſ-fabricature parſe en l'eſprit vital contenu dedans lecœur,à l'écontre des iniures internes,que les ſuſdites parties à l'en- du thorax. contre des externes. car s'il euſteſté tout oſſeux,il eſt bien vray qu'il euſt eſté plus fort : mais auſſi il euſt empeſché la reſpiration, laquelle eſt faicte par la dilatation, & conſtrictiond'iceluy. parquoy,afin qu'en profitant à l'vn, on n'incommodaſt l'autre,nature l'a fait en partie oſſeux,& cartilagineux,e n partie charnu. aucuns donnent vne autre raiſon,diſans que nature l'a fait ainſi pour l'obſeruation de l'ordre,duquel elle a accouſtumé d'vſer en conioignant deux parties totalement diuerſes,qui ſont le ventre inferieur tout charnu, & la teſte oſſeuſe,par vn moyen participant des deux comme nous voyons auſſi auoir eſté obſerué à la con- nexion, & paſſage du feu à la terre, par lemoyen de l'air, & de l'eau.les parties du thorax ſont trois,vne ſuperieure,l'autre inferieure,la tierce moyenne entr'eux.la ſuperieure eſt faicte des clauicules, inferieure du diaphragme : la moyenne, de l'os sternon, lequel ſelon galiena eſté composé de ſeptos. ce qui pcut , , , - bien auoir eſté aux hommes de ſon temps, & de ſa region , à cauſe de leur inſigne grandeur : maintenant diuiſton du nous le trouuons le plus ſouuent de trois , quatre ou cinq combien que nous ne voulions nier l'auoir veu thorax. pluſieurs fois (& ſpecialement aux jeunes)de ſept , & de huict. et pource a ceux qui en ont moins,nature les a faict plus larges, afin qu'ils puiſſent receuoir les coſtes. .. voilà la commune opinion touchant les os du sternon. le ſçay bien que fallopius a bien autrement deſcrit leditsternon,mais ie renuoyerayle lecteur à ſes obſeruations. et note qu'en l'extremité inferieure de ceſdicts os eſt pendu vn cartilage,nommé vulgai- remét fourchette,parce que quelquesfois on le trouue fourchu,& pource qu'elle a la figure de baluſtre,qui eſt la fleur de la grenade,tºomum granatum,autrement scutiforme,lequel eſt illec mis comme vn ram part de scutiforme, l' orifice de l'eſtomach,& de la partie du diaphragme qui eſt en cétendroit,pour ſouſtcnir le foye,ſitué par vulgaire deſſus l'orifice inferieur du ventricule : & ce parle moyen d'vn ligament deſcendant de la partie inferieure ment , la dudit cartilage en la ſuperieure du foye, comme a eſté dit au premier liure. le commun eſtime que ledit fourchette : cartilage tombe,mais il eſt fi bien attaché à l'os du sternon qu'il n'a garde de cheoir : combien qu'imbu, & & ſon viiii- abreuué de beaucoup d'humidité ſereuſe,qui ſouuent nageenl'orifice ſuperieur du ventricule, tel cartilage *. puiſſe eſtre relaſché & auachy , de ſorte qu'on le diroit eſtre tombé,& ſeparé de ſon os sternon : pouuant meſme eſtre redreſſé, tant par la main que par les choſes aſtringentes,& deſſeichantes, appliquées par de- hors,& priſes par dedans.et eſt ce cartilage en ſon cômencement eſtroit,& vers ſa fin large & mouſſe,& au- cunement ſe paré en forme de pointe d eſpée, à cauſe dequoy eſt appelle enſiforme. où noteras,qu'en au- cuns corps, il y a double poincte,és autres vne ſeule,& aux viels il eſt oſſeux,pource que les cartilages de- uiennent os, à raiſon de l'aage,& temperament plus ſec. or puis que nous parlons du cartilage,nous defis · definition nirons , & expliquerons ſes differences, afin que quand nous en parlerons cy-apres, on entende que c'eſt, de #.. ºuec ſon vſage. cartilage donc eſt vne partie ſimilaire de noſtre corps,apresl'os la plus terreſtre,froide, ſf. ſeiche,dure, maſſiue,& priuée de ſentiment du tact : ne differant auec l'os,qu'à raiſon de la ſeichereſſe,qui eſt plus grande audit os qu'en iceluy : & pource il ne ſe peut r'engendrer eſtant deperdu,ce qu'auſſi ne fait differenres. l'os ſans le callus. ses differences ſont priſes preſque de meſme que de l'os, comme tu verras en ſon lieu: § ºuoir eſt de la conſiſtance, ſubſtance , magnitude, nombre, ſituation , figure, conionction, action, & gº. • h vfage. autre rai- ſon, cartilage. - - -- --" le quatrieſme liure, vſage.toutesfois pour euiter prolixité,ie ne pourſuiuray que celles-là qui ſont prin# † ionction & vſage. et pour commencer,faut enterdre que les cartilages ou tiennent ， ui cloy font vne partie , comme ſont ceux du tarſe des cils, de l'epiglotte , du larinx , & auºº ceux qui tiennent à i'os,ou ils le conioignent,ou ils ſont ſeulement pendus en iceluy. ceux qui les coniºgº ºils les con- ioignent immediatement,comme ceux qui ſont mis entre les os du sternon,& des clauicules,& des os bar- rez,iles & autres : ou par interpoſition de ligament,comme ceux qui ſont ſituez a lextrº des ſept co- ſtes vrayes,leſquelles ſont coniointes au sternon par leſdits cartilages , ligament interpoſé entr eux & ledit os:afin que par tels ligamens plus mols que les cartilages, les mouuemcns du thorax fuſſent plus aiſement, & ſeurement faits ſans dommage ceux qui pendent à l'os, ſortifient non ſeulement iceluy , mais auſſi ſoy- meſme,& les parties par eux contenues,les preſeruant des iniures externes qui briſent,& meurtriſſent.tels vſage des ſont ceux qui ſont poſez à l'extremité des fauſſes coſtes,& de l'os sternon,que nous auons appellé enſifor- cartilages, me, ou pomum cramatum,& autres.et de ce nous pouuons conclure l'vſage des cartilages eſtre en pluſieurs ºſ * ººº manieres,ou pour polir, & vnir les parties, qui de ce auoient beſoin, pour mieux parfaire ce à quoy elles # ſont deſtinées comme ceux qui ſont aux articles , ſeruent d'oindre,& polir les os , afin que le mouucment #º ſoit plus libre : ou, comme nous auons ja touché , à ſçauoir, pour les preſeruer & garder des iniures ex- tie ſolide, ternes,ſinon en tout, au moins en partie, rompant l impetuoſité d'icelles, en obeyſant aucunement, tout §y§,- ainſi que font les ſacs pleins de laine deuant l impetuoſité de l artillerie. celuy qui eſt a la fin de la poictrine tre l'os & les appellé scutiforme,& du vulgaire,la fourchette,ſert ccm me de rampart,& ſauuegarde de l'orifice inferieur ligamen ... de l'eſtomach. le commun populaire eſtime qu'il tombe hors de ſon lieu ce qu'il ne fait, ne peut,a cauſe, fauſſe epi- qu'il eſt ſi fort attaché contre l'os du sternon, qu'il ne peut nullement tomber, auſſi les cartilages du larynx miou du vul-ſeruent à former la voix.ceux qui ſont aux palpebres § yeux,ſeruent a les couurir.ceux qui ont à l'extre- gaire- . , mité du nez pourattirer l'air,& faire ſeparation des nazeaux:les deux oreilles ſeruent à la faculte auditiue. des parties contenantes, & contenuès du thorax. c h a p. i l. e s parties contenantes du thorax ſont le double cuir,rannicule charneux,greſſe, mammel- les , tunique, comme les muſcles , & iceux muſcles la ſituez,& les os par cy deuant nommez, & la tunique dicte pleura, & le diaphragme. les contenues, ſont le mediaſtin, pericarde, co ur, poulmons , & vaiſſeaux d'iceluy. or quant aux contenantes, les vnes ſont communes à tout le corps,ou à pluſieurs de ſes parties, comme le double cuir,pannicule charneux, & greſſe : deſquelles à cauſe qu'elles ont eſté declarées au premier liure , nous n'en parlerons maintenant. les autres ſont propres audict thorax , comme les mufcles , deſquels nous traicterons en leur lieu,les mammelles,os ſuſdits,pleura, & diaphragme : toutes leſquelles nous pourſuiurons particulierement cha- adminiſtra- rion amate- mique. #ra. cune en ſon ordre , fi premierementie t'ay aduerty de la forme de ſeparer ledit cuir, qui eſt telle.tu con- s duiras vne droite ligne auec ton raſoir depuis la où tu as laiſſé l'inciſion du cuir du ventre inferieur,iuſ- u'au méton,enfonçant ton raſoir iuſq'uà l'entiere diuiſion d'iceluy : puis apres à l'endroit des clauicules tu eras vne autre inciſion tranſuersale de coſté & d'autre, iuſqu'à l'omoplate : & ſepareras(quant aux parties inferieures deſdictes clauicules(ſi tu veux euiterprolixité,le double cuir,le panicule charneux,la greſſe,& tunique commune des muſcles tout enſemble:pour autant que ceſdites parties ont eſté demonſtrées auven- tre inferieur,reſeruant toutesfois aux femmes les mammelles.aux ſuperieures parties deſdictes mammelles, tu ſepareras le plus ſubtilement qu'il te ſera poſſible le cuir des parties ſubiacentes, afin que tu puiſſes de- monſtrer le panicule,fait en cét endroit charnu, & muſculeux eſtendu par tout le col,& parties de la face, iuſqu'au poil de la teſte. des cwmammelles. c h a p. i i i. e s mammelles, ccomme nous auons dit parlans des glandules , ſont de ſubſtance glandu- m. leuſe, blanche, rare,& ſpongieuſe : leſquelles aux pucelles, & femmes qui n'ont point de laict, ou qui n'allaictent point, ſont fort dures, & fermes, & plus petites qu'aux autres. et n$ pourtant leur quantité eſt variable, combien qu'elle ſoit en toutes notable , comme tu peux voir. leur figure eſt ronde,& aucunement oblôgue,reuenant preſque à la figure pyramida- dale. leur compoſition eſt de cuir, pannicule charneux, glandes , greſſe , nerfs,veines , & arteres, leſquelles deſcendent des axilaires par deſſous le sternon, auſdictes mammelles , entre la quatrieſme, & cinquieſme,& quelquesfois ſixieſme des vrayes coſtes:ſediuiſent & diſtribuent par ladite greſſe,& glan- i compoſition des par vne infinité de rameaux , afin que par icelle ſoit apporté matiere propre pour faire le laict de cou- leur blanche,& ſaueur douce,pour alimenter& nourrir l'enfant hors de la matrice nous ne te dirons autre choſe des parties ſuſdites,pource qu'elle ont eſté ſuffiſamment declarées par cy-deuantii'adiouſteray ſeule- ment,que des glandules les vnes ont nerf,comme celles-cy,leſquelles le reçoiuent des parties ſubiacentes,à ſçauoir des intercoſtaux,& cauſe dequoy elles ont ſentiment fort exquis les autres n'en ont point,comme celles qui ne ſeruent qu'à remplir la diuiſion des vaiſſeaux , & qui n'ont autre action, mais ſeulement vſage. subſtance . ©uantité. figure_ . * § ſituez aux parties laterales du s§la § - _ _ - trieſme, cinquieſme, & ſixieſme des coſtes vrayes. * - - - # et par ainſi elles ſont connexées auecque les ſudictes parties par leurs corps, par leurs vaiſſeaux à toutes # les autres,& aux femmes,ſpecialement à l'amarry par le reſte des veines,& arteres,mammillaires,qui depuis §m , les rameaux qui viennent aux mammelles par où nousauons dit,deſcendent iuſques aux parties laterales du l'amarry cartilage fnſifo me,auquel endroit s'inſinuans parmy les muſcles,ſe vont joindre(comme a eſté dit)vn peu par les v.i- par deſius l'vmbilic, aucc les aſcendantes epigaſtriques > deſquelles l'origine eſt aucunement opoſite allx fſ, hypogaſtriques,leſquelles enuoyent rameaux audit amarry,ainſi comme ila eſté dit au moyen deſquels tel- le coionction eſt faite pluſtoſt,qu'à autres petits, & quaſi capillaires rameaux , qui quelquesfois ſont trou- uez deſcendre de la racine des epigaſtriques vers ledit amarry.or y a il vne ſympathie des mammelles à la matrice.car chatouillant le tetin,la matrice ſe delecte aucunemét,& ſent vne titillation agreablc,parce que ce petit bout de la mammelle a le ſentiment fort delicat à cauſe des nerfs qui y finiſſent,a celle fin que meſ- mes en cela les tetins euſſent affinité auec les parties qui ſerucnt à la generation,& auſſi à ce que la femelle offrit, & exhibaſt plus volontiers ſes mâmelles à l'enfant qui la chatoüille doucement de la langue,& bou- che.a quoy la femme ſent vne grande delectation,& principalement quard le laict y eſt en abondance.ou- tre plus quand la femme a conçeu,à meſure que l'enfant croiſt,& que la matrice ſe dilate,les mamelles font de meſme:& l'enfanymis dehors ſubit elles reçoiuét le ſang,quileur eſt enuoyé pour eſtre côuerty en laict pour : - [ : de l' anatomie. a our ſa nourriture. et comme les femmes ont perdu leurs fleurs par vieilleſſe,la matrice,& les mammelles ſe retreciſſent peu à peu,& deuiennent ridées,& peauſiues.leur temperament eſt froid & humide,& pour- ce dit-on,que le ſang ſe conuertiſſant en laict,deuient crud,& eſt fait phlegmatique,& blanc par la proprie- tºmperº- te d'icelles, comme nous auons dit des teſticules. leur action, & vſage eſt de preparer le nourriſſement à *** l'enfant nouuellement né,& eſchauffer le cœur,eſtant d'iceluy premierement eſchauffées,ou pour la multi- tude de ſang,& eſprits en icelles contenus,& d'orner la poictrine. et de ce tu entendras que des glandes, aiiion & les vnes ont action,les autres vſage, & les autres tous deux, comme a eſté declaré en partie par cy-deuant. vſage. reſte que tu entendes, qu'à l'extremité & partie plus prominente deſdites mammelles,ya vne petite tube ººº rofité, que vulgairement on appelle mammellon , par lequel le petit enfant tire,& prend ſon nourriſſement # c f d'icelles par certains petits trous enfractueux : leſquels combien qu'ils ſoient patens , & manifeſtes au ſens ， cn , les de la veuë,lors que par expreſſion des mammelles on fait ſortir le laict, toutesfois le laict ſorty on ne les gº # ſçauroit apperceuoir, ny dauantage mettre en iceux vne poinçte d'eſpingle, tant deliée quelle ſoit,à raiſon § les deux des anfractuofitez, leſquelles ont eſté faites de nature, mere de toutes choſes, afin que le laict ja venu à ſa mammellon, perfection,& prés du mammelon, fuſt par telles anfractuoſitez retenu iuſqu'autemps commode de l'expul- ou papille ſion,ainſi que la ſemence par les proſtates. des mamz - — — meºes . des clauicules & coſtes. ch a p. i v. n ſuiuant i'ordre vulgaire, il conuiendroit à preſent declarer les muſcles du thorax, mou- uans le bras, & ceux qui ſeruent à la reſpiration : pource qu'ils s'offrent les premiers au ſens de la veue:mais veu qu'ils ne peuuent eſtre commodément demonſtrez , ſans gaſter ceux de ' l'omoplate,& du col, à ceſte cauſe ie trouue meilleur de differer l'explication deſdits muſ- \ yº cles, iuſqu'à ce qu'ayons demonſtré le demeurant des parties contenantes & contenues, non ſeulement dudit thorax , mais auſſi de la teſte : afin que ce fait , nous puiſſions venir à la declaration de tout le reſte des muſcles, commençant à ceux de la face,qui s'offriront les premiers , & pourſuiuant tous les autres iuſqu'à ceux du pied , ainſi qu'vn chacun s'offrira plus commodément à la diſſection , afin que definition confuſion ſoit, tant qu'il ſera poſſible, par nous euitée. reuenant donc à noſtre propos, apres les ſuſdicts d'ös, muſcles vient les clauicules, le sternon , & les coſtes. pour l'intelligence deſquelles parties faut enten- deuble ſens tendre que c'eſt os , & d'où ſont prinſes ſes differences. l'os donc eſt la partie de noſtre corps, la plus timent dn terreſtre,froide,ſeiche,dure,& exempte de tout ſentiment ſenſible & manifeſte,excepté les dents ie dy ſen-taº. ſible & manifeſte,pour te demonſtrer qu'aux parties y a double ſentiment du tact : vn manifeſte & ſenſible, lequel eſt en la chair,au cuir,membranes, nerfs,dents,& quelques autres parties. l'autre eſt obſcur & non manifeſte,toutesfois ſuffiſant à iuger, & diſcerner les choſes nuiſibles & profitables:& ceſtuy eſt aux viſce- res,& aux os : auſquelles parties ſont diſtribuées fort petites portions de nerf, par le trauers de leur tuni- que ou membrane,en ſorte qu'à peine le peut-on diſcerner (comme dit galien au premier liure des parties malades) ſi ce n'eſt en arrachant les tuniques deſdites parties il ne ſe faut esbahir ſi nature leur a donné des veines,& arteres ſi petites,qu'à peine on les peut voir ſi clairement : au contraire aux poulmon,& aux muſ- cles on en voit de groſſes, & apparentes. nature a fait cela iuſtement, baillant aux parties autant d'ali- ment qu'ils en ont beſoin:car la ſubſtance des os eſtant froide, dure, ſolide, eſt moins eſpuiſée,& conſom- mée,parquoy n'ont eubeſoin de beaucoup de ſangpour leur aliment & nourriture, comme les autres par- ties qui ſont chaudes & molles : toutesfois les petits n'ont os,veines, nyarteres, mais par vne vertu attracti- ue qu'ils ont,attirent leur nourriſſement par leurs porofitez.quand aux differences des os,elles ſont prinſes en pluſieurs manieres,à ſçauoir des apophyſes,des epiphyſes,cartilages,cols,teſtes , soliditez, cauitez, sourcils,moüelle,conſiſtance,magnitude, nombre,figure, ſituation. toutes leſquelles differences ſeront demonſtrées, ainſi qu'elles s'offriront en la declaration des os. et gal. liu.i * pour commencer,reuenant aux claulcules, tu entendras que ce ſont deux os de confiſtence fort dure & chap.,. ſolide,ſans aucune cauité notable,leſquels ſont ſituez vn de chacun coſté entre la partie ſuperieure,& late- difference rale de l'os sternon,& l'acromion de l'omoplatte,pour confirmer ces deux parties enſemble:au moyen de- d'os. quoy ont eſté ainſi appellées. leur figure eſt ſemblable à vn inſtrument de chirurgie nommé eleuatoire, clauicules ainſi que tu peux mieux voir ſur le ſuject,que dedans les liures.où faut noter,que ceſdits os ſemblent eſtre º.ºrºlºi. connexez auecques le sternon,par vn moyen os cartilagineux:& dauantage,que l'eſpace,& cauité cótenues #e des deſſous leſdites clauicules,eſt appellée des latins iugulum,&des françois la fourchette ſuperieure, pource #. que les vaiſſeaux iugulaires y paſſent.ceſte fourchette eſt attachée auec la creſte de l'omoplate par vn car- **" tilage,lequel gal.au liure .chap. . de l'vſage des parties, appelle petit os cartillagineux:toutesfois ce petit os n'eſt autre choſe que l'epiphyſe dudit os iugal. quant à l'os du sternon,que nous auons dit eſtre fait de diuers nombre d'os ſçauoir. . . . . . te ſuffira d'entendre qu'iceux ſont fort ſpongieux, & poreux, & de côfiſtence plus molle que les ſuſdits,& pource plus ſujects à corruption,cójoincts par cartilages.leur vſage eſt de ſeruir comme d'vn bouclier aux parties vitales.quant aux coſtes,leſquelles ſont communément st en nombre de vingt-quatre,douze de chacun coſté,elles ſont diuiſées en ſept vrayes,& cinq fauſſes:dont les #., vrayes ſont ainſi nommées,pource qu'elles paracheuent le cercle, ſe joignans auecques le sternon : & les vrayes & fauſſes ſont ainſi dites, pour autant qu'elles demeurét en la voye du cercle,les vnes plusauancées,les autres fanſſes. moins.et ont leſdites coſtes vrayes double aſſiete:vne anterieure à l'os sternon par le moyen des cartilages & ligamensil'autre poſterieure,ſur les vertebres tranuerſes de l'eſpine du dos,& parties lateralles du corps situation. deſditesvertebres.quant aux fauſſes,elles n'ont que ceſte derniere ſituation, laquelle eſt appellée genera- lement la racine des coſtes.leur extremité eſt cartillagineuſe afin quelles ne fuſſent rompues,& ſe puiſſent eſlargir,& eſleuer lors que l'eſtomach eſt trop plein de viandes. elles ſont de conſiſtance aſſez dure, toutes- fois plus vers la racine,que vers le sternon,où elles ſont plus entretenantes,& pareillement plus difficiles à rompre:entieremét polies au deſſus,& au deſſous,& à leur milieu,ayant veſtige de diploé,pour la reception des veines,& arteres qui leur baillent nourriture. leur figure eſt faite en archet, à ſçauoir interieurement figur，. caue,& exterieurement boſſue. leur vtilité eſt telle que du sternon,& de receuoir, & accommoder les vºiºº muſcles de la reſpiration principalement. - l'os du star. / / . vſàge du conſiſtencé. la maniere de leuer le sternon. c h a p . v # 'e n s v t maintenant la tunique subcoſtale,nommée du vulgaire & des anatomiſtes pleura,la der- niere des parties contenantes du thorax : laquelle pource qu'elle eſt cachée en iceluy,enſorte qu'on ne la ſçauroit bien monſtrer ſans la voir, auant que paſſer plus outre à l'explication d'icelle , nous de- monſtrerons la mode de l'ouurir en ſorte que ny l'origine,ny l'inſertion des muſcles ne ſoit gaſtée. # ilt, - , - | le quatrieſme liure, - - - 'origine ou inſertion des muſcles pe - doininra- faiſant, faut entendre que qui veut garder l'origine - - - © - # deux de l'os hyoide, des deux souſclauiers,& des intercartilagineux,pour les demóſtrcr chacú i] ſon lien, mique. ainſi qu'ils ſont,& les bien diſtinguer les vns des autres,doit premierement leuer tant d'vn # ue d'autre, § deux ſuſdits muſcles pectoraux de l'os sternon,& les cartilages des vrayes coſtes cººit couper • tout contre ledit os ceſdits ligamens depuis la fixieſme vraye coſte, iuſques aux clauicules : puis demon- ſtrant le mediaſtin attaché au milieu dudit sternon, ſelon toute ſa teneur & longueur, il le leuera en haut vers leſdites clauicules,deſquelles il ſe ſeparera en reſeruant diligemment auecques luy les quatre muſ- origine & cles,ſçauoir les maſtroides,& les deux de l'os hyoide, veu qu'ils ſortent ou en tout,ou en partie dudit os. inſertion des finalemët les clauicules aucunemét releuées en haut,renuerſera les cartillages tant d'vn coſté que d'autre, muſeles sous au dehors vers le bras ſelon leur teneur ( ce qui cſt facile à faire) afin que par ce moyen il puiſſe non ſeule- clauiers. ment monſtrer les parties contenues du thorax,ains auſſi reſeruer entierement en leur lieu,& ſituationna- tutelle leſdicts muſcles:iuſqu'à ce qu'il ſoit venu à leur ordre de diſſection. et pource qu'il faut releuer les clauicules bien haut pour mieux demonſtrer les nerfs recurens,& diſtributiô des veines,& arteres,il monſ- trera en paſſantles deux petits muſcles ſouſclauiers , vn de chacun coſté , qui prennent leur origine de la partie interne, & anterieure, des clauicules, & obliquement deſcendent vers le cartilage de la premiere coſte vers le sternon:& ce pour autant qu'on ne peut releuer leſdites clauicules ſans les rompre,& gaſter. cn peut auſſi ſcier le † ſon milieu,pour demonſtrer en leur entier les muſcles pectoraux internes, ayant ſeparé les muſcles qui ſortent de la partie ſuperieure. toutes ces choſes bien & deuement faictes & accomplies, faut venir à la ſuſdite membrane l'leura, & d'icelle au mediaſtin, pource qu'il eſt faict d'elle. —- de la membrane nommée pleura. c h a p. vi. | l e v r a vulgairement dicte,& proprement,& subcoſtale derniere partie contenante du tho- de finition $/ rax,eſt vne membrane large,& ſpacieuſe, reſpondante au peritoine du ventre inferieur en ſon de pleura. # action,& vſage.car tout ainſi que ledit peritoine couure vniuerſellement,& particulierement aétion, cr toutes les parties naturelles,les liant enſemble,& contenant chacune en ſon lieu,ainſi fait ladite vſage. pleura aux parties vitales, couurant vniuerſellement, entant qu'elle eſt eſlendue entierement • , • par tout le circuit interieur du thorax,& particulierement baillant vne tunique à chacune partie d'iceluy. situation. son origine eſt du perioſte,ou ſelon aucuns du pericrane,reueſtant les vertebres du metaphrene ſur les ra- origine. cines des coſtes,au moyen de quoy eſt eſtroittement annexée auec leſdites coſtes, en ſorte qu'auec grande cºººº difficulté la peut-on ſeparer d'icelles:comme eſt auſſi auec toutes les autres parties terminantes immediate- ment le thorax,& contenues en iceluy. veſalius a reprins galien,de ce qu'il diſoit icelle tunique,tant au coſté dextre que ſeneſtre,eſtre double:en quoy toutesfois colombusa defendu galien.et de fait,on la trou- nombre. ue double par dedans le thorax ſous la face interieure des coſtes, & muſcles d'icelles, afin qu'entre deux membranes,les veines,arteres,& nerfs puiſſent paſſer.aucuns l'ont voulu faire double,la diuiſans en interne #s & externe,comme ceux qui ont conſtitué deux eſpeces de pleurefie,vraye,& non vraye , mettans l'externe i . ſur toutes les coſtes, & muſcles interpoſez, & l'interne ſous la face interieure deſdites coſtes, & muſcles d'icelles le diaphragme,& le sternon. quant à nous,euitans toute ambiguité,& obſcurité des paroles,nous nous arreſterôs ſeulement à ce qui ſe verra à l'œil,diſans les coſtes eſtre couuertes de double tunique:l'vne, qui obſtinément,& immediatement eſt attachée de toutes parts à icelle,nommée perioſte, qui leur eſt com- mune,& à tous les autres os : l'autre qui couchée ſur ce perioſte , reueſt interieurement leſdites coſtes : & pource nommée proprement subcoſtale.quant à ſa ſubſtance, temperament, & compoſition, elle eſt toute $uantité telle que nous auons dit au premier liure, de la declarationdes menbranes. sa quantité quant en largeur & figure longueur,auec ſa figure,eſt toute telle que l'interne capacité du thorax mais en profondité,elle eſt fort de- liée.et faut noter,que ceſte membrane a eſté dite pleura, pource qu'elle reueſt toutes les coſtes interieure- ment,comme nous auons dit:leſquelles ſont appellées des grecs wººpa et tout ainſi que ceſte dicte tuni- nique a pris ſon nom des coſtes , ſemblablement la defluxion qui ſe fait entre elle, & le perioſte d'icelles,a eſte nommée pleureſie,vraye ou fauſſe,ainſi qu'il a eſté dit cy-deuant. : du umediaſtin. c h a p. v i i. p r e s auoir iuſques icy declaré les parties contenantes, faut venir aux contenuës : commençant # au mediaſtin,comme à celuy qui à l'ordre de diſſection ſe preſente le premier : lequel eſt ſuſtan- brane qui ， - ce,quantité,compoſition,nombre, temperament, tels que nous auons dit de pleura : car ſa ſub- ſe pare les ſtance eſt membraneuſe comme l'autre. sa quantité en longueur contient tout le thorax, & en parties du profondité eſt deliée quaſi comme toile d'araignée. sa compoſition auſſi eſt pareille à l'autre:car tout ainſi thorax en que la ſuſdite reçoit nerfs,veines,& arteres de toutes les parties,auſquelles elle eſt annexée(qui ſont parti- deux. cipantes deſdicts vaiſſeaux ) ainſi fait le mediaſtin, mais principalement des vaiſſeaux dicts mammillaires, sºbſtance ., deſcendans par deſſous le sternon. quant au nombre,il eſt vnique, fait de deux membranes produictes de $ºité pleura, laquelle eftant montée tant d'vn coſté que d'autre,iuſqu'au plus haut du sternon,ſe reflechit vers le compoſition. corps des vertebres,ou origine de ladite pleura. où noteras, que depuis la reflexion,ſeparation eſt faicte entre les deux membranes telle qu'on pourroit mettre deux doigts entre deux.et la cauſe de telle ſeparatió a eſté , pource qu'il eſtoit beſoin que ceſdites tuniques fuſſent refiechies iuſqu'aux vertebres : & à cauſe qu'elles ne pouuoient penetrer le cœur pour deſcendre en icelles,il a fallu que chacune de ſon coſté ſe re- tiraſt l'vne de l'autre vers les coſtez du pericarde,pour venir au lieu pretendu.q ant éſt de vacuité entre ces deux membranes,il n'en y a aucune:car l'eſpace qui eſt entre deux,eſt tiſſu , & remply de petites fibres ner- ueuſes deliées comme petits filets entrelacez confuſément l'vn parmy l'autre.toutesfois columbus dit,que quelques fois en cét eſpace eſt contenu vn humeur, lequel peut eſtre tiré en perçant le sternon.mais ie luy figure . voudrois volontiers demander,comme nous cognoiſtrons que tel humeur y ſoit contenu. quant à la figure du mediaſtin, ſi nous l'adiouſtôs auec la pleura,ils repreſéteront d'vn chacû coſté la figure d'vn flacon de cuir, ayant pour a partie platte le mediaſtin:& pour la boſſue la lºle ura vers les coſtes : pour le fonds,la portion d'icelle eſtendue ſur le diaphragme:pour l'orifice, l'extremité d'icelle qui eſt deſſous les premieres coſtes. sa ſituation,& c onnexion ont eſté declarées parlant de ſon origine.son vtilité eſt de ſeparer les parties vita- situation. les en deux , à ſçauoir dextre, & ſeneſtre,afin que ſi l'vne eſtoit bleſſée, l'autre demeuraſt en ſon entier : & connexion. auſſi pour ſouſtenir,& entendre le pericarde à l'entour du cœur, de peur qu'il ne tombe ſur iceluy:& con- vtilité, ſequemment qu'iceluy n« decline de coſté ny d'autre par aucuns mouuemens. >º mediaſtin (, •ſt vne mem- # nomb re, qdfs &toraux , des mºſtoïdes,des a : ， c, # ， d de l anatomie. du diaphragme ». c h a p. vi i i. o m e i e n que le diaphragme ſemble pluſtoſt partie contenante que contenue , & pource deuoit eſtre declaré auec les autres : toutesfois ayant plus d'égard à la commodité qu'à l'ordre,nous l'auons differé iuſques en ce lieu-cy. cr donc tu entendras que c'eſt vn muſcle rond, & oblong , terminant la partie inferieure du thorax, de ſubſtance,compoſition,& temperament,tels que les muſcles de l'epigaſtre, eſt fait en la ſorte que nous auons dit,parlans de la difference d'iceux,a ſçauoir des deuxtuniques,vne venit du peritoine, ſçauoir eſt l'inferieure:& l'autre de la membrane plura, ſçauoir eſt la ſuperieure : leſquelles prenans chair, non par tout, ains en leurcirconference par le ſang porté des veines , & arteres diſtribuées entre icelles, font & conſtituent ledit muſcle en ſon milieu,& origine nerueux, & membraneux, & en ſes extremitez , & inſertion, partie charnu , comme à la circonference des fauſſes coſtes : partie tendineux, comme ſur la premiere,& ſeconde vertebre des lumbes,auſquelles il deſine par deux tendons aſſez inſignes. ledit diaphragme eſt ſeul ſitué obliquement entre les parties vitales,& naturelles.et eſt conioint auec 'ex- tremité inferieure,tant du sternom,que de toutes les fauſſescoſtes,& deux premieres vertebres des lumbes. semblablement auſſi par ſes vaiſſeaux,& tuniques auec les parties d'où il les reçoit. sa quantité & largeur eſt telle que la profondité inferieure du thorax:en longueur depuis le cartilage enſiforme, iuſqu'à la pre- miere, & ſeconde vertebre des lumbes. quant à ſa profondeur, elle eſt differente : car en ſon extremité charnue,il eſt beaucoup plus eſpés qu'en ſon origine,& milieu membraneux.son action,& vtilité eſt d'aider l'expulſion (ainſi que nous auons dit au premier liure,parlans de l'action des muſcles de l'epigaſtre) pour faire la reſpiration libre au corps ſain, de laquelle il eſt le principal inſtrument,& eſt comme vne haye ou paliſſade pour faire ſeparation (comme nous auons dit) des parties vitales d'auec les naturellesau moyen dequoy eſt dit diaphragme,ou septum tranſuerſum, comme vn mur metoyen,& des anciens tºhrene,:pource que l'inflammation,& autres affections dºſceluy,pr ptement induiſent tels accidens que celles de la teſte,à cauſe des nerfs inſignes,vn de chacun coſté,qui luy ſont enuoyez de la troiſieſme,quatrieſme,& cinquieſme vertebre du col,ſans eſtre diſtribuez en autre partie. ce dit muſcle eſt different des autres, principalement pour ſa figure.où noteras,qu'il eſt troüé en trois lieux,pour bailler paſſage tant à la veine caue aſcédante, qu'à l'artere nommée aorta,& oeſophague deſcendant aux parties naturelles,à l'eſtomach. des poulmons. c ha p. ix o v t e s ces choſes conſiderées,faut maintenant venir aux poulmons, leſquels ſont de ſub- ſtance, & chair molle, rare,& ſpongieuſe plus que nulle autre partie du corps (pour la com- modité de l'air tranſcolé au cœur par icelle,& expellé dudit cœur par l'expiration de la bou- che ) de couleur changeant,entre rouge,& paſle. leur quantité eſt inſigne, diuiſée le plus #n ſouuent en quatre lobes,à ſçauoir deux de chacun coſté,à fin que plus facilement ils ſe dila- tent & compriment, & qu'auſſi l'air s'inſinue & penetre plus promptement : leſquels ſont le plus ſouuent ſeparez à veue d'œil, autresfois obſcurement. iay dit notamment le plus ſouuent, pource que quelques- fois aux grands hommes ayans le thorax long, on trouue vn cinquieſme petit lobe, faict du ſecond coſté droit,pour ſupporter en forme de couſſinet,laveine caue dés ſon origine ou diaphragme,iuſques au cœur. aux petits hommes, & qui ont lethorax court pour ce que le cœur touche au diaphragme,le ſuſdit lobe ne ſe trouue point , pource qu'il n'en eſt beſoin comme il eſt aux grands. et touſiours aux chiens ce lobe cinquieſme ſe trouue.leur figure eſt ſéblable aux ongles d'vn pied de bœuf,qui eſt eſpés de ſa baſſe , & en ſa circonference plus mince & delié,comme tu peux aiſement voir en les ſoufflant,& rempliſſant d'air par la trachée artere auec vn ſoufflet,ou autremét.ils ſont compoſez d'vne tunique venant du pleura,laquelle re- oit les nerfs de la ſixieſme coniugaiſon en aſſez grand nôbre tant d'vn coſté que d'autre. dauantage,d'vne veine arterieuſe ſortât du dextre ventricule du cœur,& d'vne artere veineuſe ſortant du ſeneſtre,comme il te ſera cy-apres demonſtré en l'anatomie du cœur. semblablement,de la trachée artere venant du goſier, & de ſa propre chair,telle qu'elle eſt deſcrite cy-deſſus, laquelle n'eſt autre choſe que concretion de ſang bilieux,eſpandu comme eſcume,à l'entour de la diuiſion des ſuſdits vaiſſeaux, comme a eſté dit des autres viſceres.ils ſont vniques, ſi tu ne le veux diuiſer en deux,à raiſon de leur double ſituation , à ſçauoir dex- tre & ſeneſtre:auſquels lieux s'eſtendans,reueſtent, & enueloppent preſque tout le cœur , pour luy eſtre defenſe,& propugnacle contre la dureté des os circoniacens. et pour cette cauſe ils occupent toute l'eſpa- ce demeurant entour le pericarde. et ſont connexez principalement auec le cœur en ſa baſe, & aueclara- cine des coſtes, & vertebres d'icelles, par la tunique qu'ils en reçoiuent en cét endroit, & par leurs vaiſ- ſeaux,auec les parties d'où ils les reçoiuent quelquesfois auſſi on les trouue naturellement attachez à la cir- conference des coſtes, par petites apophyſes membraneuſes qui deſcendent des coſtes eſdits poulmons: quelquesfois s'attachent par excez pleuretique. la nutrition du poulmon eſt toute differente des autres parties de noſtre corps : car il ne ſe trouue partie ſi rare, ny ſi legere, ny ſi pleine d'air, & qui ſe nourriſſe d'vn ſang ſi ſubtil,& vaporeux. leur temperament eſt plus chaud que froid,à raiſon de leur chair faicte de matiere chaude, afin que promptement ils puiſſent preparer l'air alteré par iceux à l'vſage du cœur,lequel par ſa froideur,ou autre qualité,euſt peu bleſſer ledit cœur. le poulmon eſt inſtrument de la voix , & reſ- piration par le moyen,& benefice de la trachée artere : car les aneletsd'icelle ſont organe de la voix: & les ligamens qui la joignent, de la reſpiration : mais le larinx ou ſoufflet eſt principal inſtrument de bien for- mer la voix car ladite trachée artere appreſtre premierement la voix aux larynx,& y eſtant ja formée elle eſt augmentée par le palais quiluy ſert, comme au luth ſon ventre, pour la faire reténtir & reſonner : & la luette luy ſert comme d'vne touche, de laquelle on frappe les cordes des inſtrumens muſicaux , comme violons , & autres ſemblables. et eſt à noter, que lors qu'on retient ſon haleine, on ne peut aucunement parler : car de toutes parts nous comprimons les muſcles du larynx , des coſtes,du diaphragme, de l'epi- gaſtre, & lors ſe fait violente action. où faut noter, que nature a ainſi faict les poulmons rares,pour plu- ſieurs cauſes. premierement, afin que n'ayans mouuement d'eux meſmes, par leur rareté,& legereté peuſ- ſent promptement enſuiure le mouuement du thorax,lequel quand il ſe ſerre, les pouſſe & comprime & quand il ſe dilate, toute ſa capacité ſuperieure eſt remplie d'iceux , comme lors que nous inſpirons , l'air entre par la bouche, & d'icelle à la trachée artere,& en toutes ſes ramifications diſperſée aux poulmons, & lors s'enfle grandement : qu'il ſoit vray, lors que l'on ſouffle dans vne trachee artere, le poulmon ſe groſſit & enfle. secondement , afin que telle rareté ſans aucune violence peut admettre l'air,lequel quel- quesfois eſt introduit en grande quantité & violence , comme on voit en ceux qui ont couru † f inalcnncnt subſtanrr. compoſition, c tempera- // e/,r, nombre. situation, º connexiºn. ntité. aétion & vtilité. subſtance, n - -" uaniit é, gal. . liu. chap. c, de l'vſage des part. figure. ccmp ºſition. nombre. situation. cenmexicn. chacune. choſe ſe mcurrit d'vn aliment ſema blable à ſoy. tempera- / e . le poulmen eſt le reſer- uoir ou rabi - met de l'air, qui ſert à la voix ér re- ſpiration. pluſieurs cauſes de la rareté des poulmons. premiere cauſe. ssccnde, gt le quatrielme liure, - tiercl. vſage de re- ſpiration. origine. subſtance. figure. - _ - ºuantité compoſition. nombre. situaticm. connexion. p jé'/ f, vſage. conſiſtence. deſcription du cœur. • , - uantit « figure. com, oſ rivm. nerſ du ſºi'' r. nonbre. situa ticn. finalement,afin que plus facilement és empyemes enſuiuant, pleureſies , ou autr e tumeurinterne du tho rax, en laquelle y a effuſion de matiere,icelle puiſſe eſtre vuidée & attirée, commº # ºpiration ou tranſcolation,par leſdits poulmons, à cauſe des rameaux de la trachée artere dilatºº * comprimez en la reſpiration. or l'vſage de la reſpiration ſe faict,pource que le cœur,qui a beſoin de la ſubſtance de l'air,& bouillant d'vne feruente chaleur,deſire eſtre refraiſchy. or il eſt refraiſchy par l'inſpiratiººººl luy appor- te vne qualité froide : & par l'expiration,qui jette hors ce qui eſt trop chaud,& bouillant , par les vapeurs fuligineuſes,comme vapeurs venans de la ſuye.a ceſte caufe il a double mouuement, compoſé de deux par- ties contraires ; à ſçauoir en attirant l'air quand il s'ouure & s'eſlargit, & s'euacuant quand il ſe reſſerre & comprime;& pource ſi on attire quelque air chaud,eſpés,& cras comme fumee de charbon , ſouuent il fait mourir l'homme,parce que tel air gros,& cras,ne peut eſtre ſubtilisé pour entrer dedans le cœur,qui eſt cauſe qu'il eſt ſuffoqué & eſtouffé:ainſi qu'il ſe faict és ſoufflets des marefchaux , qui en ſe dilatant attirent l'air,& en ſe comprimant le pouſſent.ainſi ſe fait au diaſtolé & syſtolé, qui ſont les mouuemens du cœurs & par ces deux mouuemens il attire le ſang,l'eſprit,& l'air,& expelle ſes excremens fulgineux. du pericarde ». c h a p. x. 'e n s v t maintenant le pericarde, autrement nommé domicile du cœur, lequel naiſſant de la baſe, & fondement du cœur(ſoit des ligamens des vertebres illec ſituées, ou des vaiſ. $ ſeaux dudit cœur )eſt de ſubſtance dure,denſe & eſpeſſe,ſans aucunes fibres,retenant la figu- re dudit cœur,& laiſſant interieurement eſpace, & lieu ſuffiſant pour le mouuemét d'iceluy.sa b à grandeur par ce moyen excede aucunement celle du cœur, & eſt compoſée de double tuni- que:l'vne propre,de laquelle allloils parlé:l'autre commune,venant du pleura:& de veines,arteres, & nerfs, venans en partie des mâmilaires,en partie du diaphragme, principalement en ceux, auſquels le diaphrag- me touche au pericarde:& les nerfs viennét de la ſixieſme coniugaiſon tant d'vn coſté que d'autre-il eſt ſeul & vnique ſitué a l'entour dudit cœur,& annexe par ſes mëbranes auec la baſe d'iceluy,& auec ſes vaiſſeaux & origine des poulmons,& vertebres ſubiacentes,& par ſes vaiſſeaux auec les parties d'où il les reçoit.il eſt de temperament froid & ſec comme toute autre membrane. son vſage eſt de loger le cœur,& le conſeruer en ſon humidité naturelle,par vne certaine humidité ſereuſe qu'il contient:ſi tu ne veux dire que ceſte humi- dité eſt engendrée apres la mort par l'exhalation, & concretion des eſprits.ce qui ne me ſemble vray-ſem- blable,veu que nous voyons aux viuans icelle croiſtre quelquefois en ſi grande abondance,qu'elle empeſche *"ºr*- le mouuement du cœ ur,& luy cauſe vne palpitation,qui le plus ſouuent l'eſtouffe. et peut aduenir ladite palpitation de cœur,à gens qui ont le cœur chaud , & le ſang aqueux , pour l'imbecilité du ventricule ou foye.cét humeur peut eſtre fait des vapeurs,qui à l'ebullition du ſang qui ſe fait dedans le ceur,s'euaporent par les parties laterales hautes,& baſſes d'iceluy dedans le circuit du pericarde,lequel les conuertit en hu- midité teinte de colere,ſoit par ſa froideur ou autrement, pour ne luy bailler iſſue, ainſi que nous voyons eſtre fait en vn alambic.or nature a fait le pericarde de telle conſiſtence,à ſçauoir dure & ferme,afin que le cœur fuſt conſerué en vn eſtat moyen.car ſi nature l'euſt faict oſſeux,ileuſt rendu le cœur ſemblable à ſoy, feroce & cruel,& s'elle l'euſt faict mol comme les poulmons, il euſt renduledit cœur par trop mol & effe- miné.et par ainſi nature le voulant maintenir,comme la plus noble partie du corps, & fontaine de vie,des parties les plus contraires du corps,qui ſont les os,& les poulmons,luya baillé vn conſeruateur moyen en- c tre ces deux contraires,comme elle fait touſiours,afin qu'il ne declinaſt ny à l'vn ny à l'autre comme vicieux. · du cœur. ch a p. x i. *. ſ )ſ e cœur (qui eſt domicile de l'ame,organe de la faculté vitale, principe de vie, fontaine, & $ ſource de l'efprit vital,& de la chaleur naturelle fluante,& pource premier viuant, & dernier :,. # § {) mourant ) à cauſe qu'il deuoit auoir mouuement de ſoy meſme,eſt fait de chair groſſe & du- $ſ re,& plus ſolide qu'autre de tout le corps : laquelle eſt tiſſue de trois genres de fibres,à ſça- & sºnº\ uoir droites en ſa partie interieure,deſcendant de ſa baſe en ſa partie aigue, pour iceluy dila- ter, & conſequemment introduire ſang de la veine caue aſcendante , & eſprit ou air des poulmons par l'artere veineuſe. il a auſſi fibres tranſuerſes en ſa partie exterieure, qui coupent & diuiſent en angles droits les ſuſdits pour reſerrer ledit cœur,& repouſſer l'eſprit vital en la grande arterenommée aorta,& le ſang bilieux aux poulmons pour leur nourriture,par la veine arterieuſe. semblablement il en a d'obliques,miſes & ſituées entre ces deux,pour retenir le ſang & l'air,introduis par les ſuſdits vaiſſeaux,juſqu'à ce queledit cœurait faict só profit & deuoir,& qu'il joüiſſe de ce qu'il a attiré. or toutes ces fibres icy font leur action,ſe retirans vers leur principe, comme les droičtes en ſe retirant de la poincte du cœur vers ſa baſe,au moyen dequoy iceluy eſtaut dilaté par ceſte retraction des fibres eſt fait plus court,mais plus large en ſon milieu & corps:tout ainſi qu'à la retraction des tranſuerfes,il eſt faict plus long & plus greſle en ſon corps,& milieu,& par la retraction des obliques,il eſt aucunemét enfoncé,& com- , , primé du coſté qu'il regarde les vertebres du dehors au dedans,ce qut appert principalement vers ſa poin- d cte. sa quantité eſt aſſez notable,toutesfois aux vns plus grâde,aux autres plus petite,pour la varieté de la complexion,& temperature des hommes plus frofds ou plus chauds,ainſi qu'a eſté dit du foye. sa figure eſt pyramidale,à ſçauoir large en ſa baſe, & eſtroicte en ſa poincte il eſt compoſé de chair fort ſolide, & la plus dure du corps, comme il a eſté dict,laquelle a eſté illec engendrée par effuſion de ſang à ſa propre generation comme des autres viſceres,ſur la diuiſion,& racine de tant de vaiſſeaux. car, comme tu ſçais, le ſang eſtant vn peu plus deſſeiché que celuydufoye,par ceſte deſiccation& elaboration degenere en ſub- ſtance charneuſe, comme tu peux voir aux vlceres caues,tout ainfi que s'il eſt encores deſeiché dauantage, il degenere en ſubſtance ſemblable au cuir.il eſt fait auſſi de veines,& arteres nommées coronales,leſquel- les luy ſont baillées ou de la veine caue du coſté droict,ou du coſté gauche ſur l'iſſue de l'artere aorta tout ſur ſa baſe. quant aux nerfs, il n'appert point au ſens de la veue en auoir d'autres que ceux qui luy peu- uent eſtre baillez auec la tunique venant de la pleura : toutesfois i'en ay trouué aux beftes brutes qui ont grand cœur, meſme à celuy d'vn pourceau, aſſez notables,& apparens deſſous les veſtiges de lagreſle, la- quelle couure tous les vaiſſeaux,& bas du cœur:les accompagnant par tout leur chemin, pour la conſerua . tion de leur humidité ſubſtantifique, qui pourroit eſtre conſumée par la grande chaleur dudit cœur:laquelle chaleur autre qu'elementaire,permet qu'icelle greſſe ſoit engendrée ſur les ſuſditcs parties par froideur na- turelle : choſe digne de grande contemplation.il eſt ſeul & vnique:ſitué ſur la quatrieſme vertebre du me- taphrene, le plus ſouuent, qui eſt le milieu du thorax : toutesfois aucuns cuident qu'il ſoit plus incliné au coſté ſeneſtre, parce qu'on y ſent le battement : mais cela aduient à cauſe de ſon ſeneſtre ventricule,qui eſt ſource $ - de l'anatomie. | a fource des arteres, auquel ſe fait grande pulſation. or nature l'a mis,& placé entel lieu,à raiſon que telle partie eſt la plus aſſeurée,& mieux remparée de toutes les parties du corps. dauantage il eſt enuelopé de connexion toutes parts des poulmons comme d'vne main.sa connexion eſt auec les ſuſdites vertebres,& par ſes p r- - ties côpoſantes auec celles d'où il les a,& auec les poulmons par la veine arterieuſe,& artere veineuſe, & vriuerſellement à toutes les parties du corps par les arteres qu'il leur diſtribue. son téperament eſt chaud tempera- & humide, comme toute autre partie charnue. quant à ſon action, c'eſt premierement de preparer le ſang ment. en ſon dextre ventricule pour la nourriture des poulmons.et pource a dit galien,que ce dextre ventricule , ºtiºn & a eſté fait & ordonné de nature pour la neceſſité,& vſage des poulmons.secondement,de faire l'eſprit vital º enſon ventricule ſeneſtre, pour l'vſage de tout le corps : lequel eſprit n'eſt autre choſe qu'vne ſubſtance moyenne entre ſang & air,propre & consenable à la conſeruation de la chaleur naturelle fluente : à cauſe dequoy eſt appellé vital,c'eſt à dire conſeruateur de l'auteur de vie,enclos en nos cœurs, qui eſt la chaleur naturelle preparée à vn chacun,laquelle nous pouuons côparer à la flamme d'vne lampe, & l'eſprit à l'huil- le.et voyla ce que tu peux conſiderer exterieurement du cœur,quand à l'interieur,il faut outre les choſes ſuſdites contempler les ventricules,& parties contenués en iceux,entre iceux,que ſont les valuules, orifi- Élue c'eſt ces, & vaiſſeaux appartenans à iceux, auec leur diſtribution dans les poulmons,& entre-moyen, ſans ou- º °ſ#rir blier les deux epiphyſes du cœur, nommées oreillesd'iceluy, à raiſon de la ſimilitude qu'elles ont aux #º . oreilles : leſquelles nous pourſuiurons premierement,pource qu'elles appartiennent tant a l'exterieur qu'a º" #. l'interieur. et pour commencer, faut entendre que ceſdites oreilles ſont de ſubſtance molle & nerueuſe, #/ - tiſſue de trois genres de filamens afin que par leurmolleſſe,& ſubſtance nerueuſe plus promptement peuſ- #. ſent enſuiure le mouuement du cœur, & par ce moyen rompre l'impetuoſité des matieres apportées audit #§ de cœur lors qu'il ſe dilate:leſquelles autrement par leur entrée violente euſſent peutellement rêplir le cœur, l'§duc- qu'elles l'euſſent ſuffoqué.et noteras qu'elles ont eſté ainſi ordonnées de nature,& faictes de telle capacité, tion de l'air afin qu'elles peuſſent(comme vne depenſe) receuoir le ſang,ou air,qui durant le temps du diaſtolé , pour- cr du ſang roit eſtre introduit au cœur, afin que par apres ledit cœur en puiſſe iouyr à ſon aiſe , & en telle quantité dans le cœur qu'il luy eſt beſoin,en le prenant deſdites oreilles,ainſique bon luy ſemble.et ſi tu demandes ſi leſditesma- uantité. t .rcs ſont ſeulement introduites dans ledit coeur aù diaſtolé pour euiter vacuité : ie te reſponds que non. car telle introductió ſe fait auſſi par la chaleur dudit cœur,laquelle attire leſdites matieres,côme la flam- me d'vne chädelle attire le ſuif,& l'air ambiët pour ſa nourriture.lors que le cœur ſe dilatte, il attire l'air, & quand il ſe comprime, ill'euacue : & telmouuement ſe fait par ſa vertunaturelle , & le mouuement des poulmons par la faculté animale. aucuns adiouſtent vne troiſieſme cauſe, nommée similitude de toute ſa ſubſtance:mais ſelon mon iugement,elle ſert & appartient pluſtoſt à l'attraction,qui eſt faicte pour la nour- riture du cœur par ſes veines coronales que pour l'introduction des ſuſdites matieres,action commune,& neceſſaire à tout le corps. quant à leur quantité,elle eſt differente:car la dextre eſt beaucoup plus grande, & plus capable que la ſeneſtre, pour la reception de plus grande quantité de matiere. elles ſont deux en nombre, vne de chacun coſté, ſituées à la baſe du cœur : la plus grande, contre l'entrée de la veine caue dans le cœur : la plus petite, contre l'entrée de l'artere veineuſe, & grande artere, auec leſquelles parties ſont annexées.leur vtilité eſt telle que nous auons dit cy-deuant, à ſçauoir pour en receuant les matieres introduites au cœur par le diaſtolé,rompre la vehemence,& impetuoſité d'icelles : auſſi pour ſouſtenir & ſeruir de couſſinet à l'artere veineuſe,& grande artere,qui eſtans de ſubſtance plus delicate, n'euſſent ſceu porter la vehemence d'vn mouuement ſi rapide,qu'eſt celuy du cœur. des ventricules du caeur. c h a p. xi i. l faut maintenant venir aux ventricules du cœur leſquels, ſont deux en nombre, à ſçauoir nombre. l'vn dextre,& l'autre ſeneſtre, ſeparez & diuiſez par vn entre-moyen charnu, & d'eſpeſſeur m aſſez notable,apparante tant de ſon coſté dextre que ſeneſtre, troüé par pluſieurs endroits en ſa ſuperficie : jaçoit que leſdits trous ne penetrent point aux ſens de la veuë d'vn coſté à l'au- tre. or de ces deux ventricules le dextre eſt plus ſpacieux, grand & capable,& enuironné de murme- chair plus greſle, & molle que le ſeneſtre qui eſt au double & triple plus eſpés, & ſa capacité moins am-toyen. ple. et la cauſe a eſté, pource que le dextre ventricule deuoit eſtre receptacle du ſang apporté, & in- troduit par la veine caue,lequel deuoit eſtre diſtribué,tant aux poulmös par la veine arterieuſe pour leur )uantité nourriture,qu'au ventricule ſeneſtre par l'entre-moyen, en forme de reſudation,pour la continuelle genera- - tion de l'eſpritvital. ila donc fallu qu'il y euſt aſſez grande quantité de ſang,& conſequemment,eſpace ſuf p ov le fiſant pour le receuoir.et pource que ce ſangcötenu au dextre ventricule eſtoit encores gros & eſpés,s'il n'a # #•n- eu beſoin d'eſtre enuironné de chair ſi eſpeſſe que celle du ſeneſtre,lequel nature a ainſi ordonné, de peur tricule eſt que l'eſprit vital,fort ſubtil & aeré,auec la chaleur naturelle fluente, ayant d'illec ſon origine & ſource, ne plus grand s'exhalaſt, penetrant ladite chair,ſi elle euſt eſté autant deliée qu'au dextre.dauantage,ce dit ventricule a # pi rare ºſtº fait plus petit,afin que l'eſprit & chaleur fuſſent mieux vnis,& conſequemmét rendus plus forts, ſelon ，ue leſene- le dire du philoſophe,qui eſt,que la vertu bienvnie en ſoy,eſt plus forte que celle qui eſt eſparſe:ou bien ſi ſtre. º veux,pource qu'il n'eſtoit requis ſi grande quantité d'eſprit, que de ſang : veu que l'eſprit au reſpect du ſang,eſt tel qu'en ſa petite quantité il peut autant ou plus que le ſang en la ſienne grande.parquoy coucluât ce propos,ie dy qu'ilya deux ventricules ſeparez par vn septum ou entre-moyen, ou mur-metoyen,vn dex- tre,& l'autre ſeneſtre,dont le dextre eſt deſtiné à la preparation, & elaboration du ſang, pour nourrir les vtilité. poulmons,& engendrer l'eſprit vital,comme les poulmons pour la preparationde l'air : leſquelles elabora- ºons de ſang, & air eſtoient neceſſaires, ſi le dire des medecins eſt vray,qu'vne chacune choſe veut eſtre le cœur,eſt ººrrie & entretenue par ſon ſemblable,comme les poulmons rares,fiaues & ſpongieux,de ſang ſemblable: nourry de & le cœur gros,de ſang ſemblable:aumoyen dequoy ces veines coronales luy ont eſté baillées de la veine ſang elabou. cºe,afin qu'il en peuſt epuiſer comme d'vne deſpenſe,de plus conuenable à ſoy,& ainſi del'eſprit. le ſe-ré en ſes neſtre eft fait pour l'elaboration de l'eſprit vital,& conſeruation de la chaleur naturelle fluente. ventricules des orifces & valuules du carur. c h a p. x il j. @ p r e s ces ventricules faut conſiderer les orifices, & valuules d'iceux leſquels orifices ſont qua- nombre. $ tre en nombre, deux au dextre ventricule, & autant au ſeneſtre. des deux premiers le plus grand baille entrée à la veine caue dedans le cœur, ou au ſang porté par icelle : & le plus petit iſſue à la veinz arterieuſe, ou au ſang bilieux porté par icelle pour la nourriture des poulmons. des autres deux le plus grandbaille iſſue à l'artere aorta, & àl'eſprit vital diſtribué par toutes les parties du corps:& le plus petit, entrée & iſſue tant àl'artere veineuſe, que matiere apportée & chaſſée par icelle. i et le quatrieſme liure, et pource qu'au diaſtolé:c'eſt à dire dilatation du cœur,il eſtoit requis, qu'introductiºº # #c fuſt faite par vn orifice en chacun ventricule,comme au dextre par le plus grand, & au ſeneſtrc pa # ºs petit,tout ainſi qu'au syſtolé,c'eſtà dire conſtriction, expulſion deſdites matieres de chacun vº par ſon autre il y a e,ze orifice.a ceſte cauſe nature a mis aux ſuſdits orifices onze epiphyſes, ſçauoir ſix au # †ºis epiphyſes ou ºn chacun orifice,& cinq au ſeneſtre,trois au grand orifice,& deux au plus petit, pour la rºllon qui te ſera v, uſles au dite cy-apres. et ſont telles epiphyſes diffentes en pluſieurs choſes ; premierement en aétion : car les vns ſ (i't /". apportent matiere au cœur,les autres les empeſchent d'y r'entrer lors qu'elles en ſont ſorties.secondement $ui me vºit en ſituation : car celles qui apportent,viennent du dehors au dedans les autres qui expellent,du dedans au leſdites ºº! dehors.tiercement en figure : car celles qui apportent, ſont quaſi de figure pyramidale, & celles qui em- uules, il e l peſchent l'introduction, ſont faites à la ſimilitude d'vn grand c) romain. quartement en ſubſtance : car # les premieres des ſuſdites ſont en leur plus grande partie charneuſes ou tiſſues de filamens charneux, deſi- tendre , nens en vne petite tuberoſité charneuſe vers la pointe du cœur : les ſecondes ſont totalement membraneu- " ſes. quintement en nombre : car celles qui apportcnt , ne ſont que cinq , trois au dextre ventricule ſur le grand orifice, & deux au ſeneſtre ſur le petit les autres ſont ſix,trois à chacun ventricule ſur l'autre orifice. finalement en motion : car les charneuſes s'ouurent au diaſtolé pour introduire ſang ou air, & au syſtolé ſe ferment pour retenir les matieres introduites du tout,ou en la plus grande partie:& les membraneuſes,au contraire,au syſtolé s'ouurét pour laiſſer ſortir le ſang,&l'eſprit du cœuraux parties exterieures:& au dia- , ſtolé ſe ferment entierement ou peu s'en faut pour defendre que leſdites matieres eſtant chaſſées dehors n'y * r'entrent. où noteras pour la conclufion de ce propos, que nature n'a mis que deux valuules à l'orifice de l'artere veineuſe,pource qu'il eſtoit neceſſaire que cedit orifice fuſt touſiours ouuert,ou du tout,ou pour le la conſtri- moins en vne tierce partie,afin que l'air fuſt continuellement par cét orifice introduit en l'inſpiration,& par § n § ce meſme chaſſé hors auec les excremens fulgineux en l'expiration.et de ce nous pouuons conclure,que de briefu que l'air introduit par cedit orifice tout ouuert,n'en eſt reietté que la tierce partie en l'expiration,veu quena- la dilata- ture ne luy a laiſſé pour ſon iſſue que la tierce partie de l'orifice:parquoy l'expiration,&syſtolé des arteres, tion. & cœur doit eſtre plus briefue que l'inſpiration, en ſorte que nous pouuons dire l'inſpiration eſtre auſſi longue que l'expiration,jointe auec le repos qui eſt entre ces deux mouuemens : & partant nous auons dit, qu'au syſtolé leſdites valuules charneuſes ſe ferment du tout,ou pour la plus grande partie. diſtribution de la veine arterieuſe,& artere veineuſe ». c h a p. xi v. #， y a n t demonſtré par cy deuant l'origine d'vn chacun vaiſſeau, reſte à declarer leur diſtribu- # tion , qui eſt telle qu'il s'enſuit, chacun des deux ſortant de ſon propre ventricule, à ſçauoir # dextre , & ſeneftre, ſe diuiſe en deux inſignes rameaux : l'vn tendant à dextre, & l'autre à ſene- ^ ſtre ,en ſorte que les deux plus inſignes ſe croiſent en forme de la lettre grecque (x ) venant l'vn du dextre au ſeneſtre,& l'autre du ſeneſtre au dextre:la veine par deſſus l'artere,comme tu peux mieux voir à l'œil , qu'entendre par le liure. dauantage , les deux ſuſdits rameaux d'vne chacune ſur l'éntrée des poulmons, ſe diuiſent encore en deux autres inſignes qui s'en vont chacun à ſon lobe des poulmons, iceux encor en pluſieurs autres,& preſque infinis, diſtribuez de trois coſtez par iceluy, ainſi que tu pourras voir, ſi tu veux prendre peine d'y regarder.or eſt à noter que ces vaiſſeaux ſont ainſi appellez pour la tranſmuta- oeuure ad. tion qui eſt faicte de veine en artere, & d'artere en veine,pour la commodité de la vie.nature eſt incompa- mirable de rablement ſage d'auoir changé les tuniques des vaiſſeaux du poulmon, faiſant la veine comme l'artere, & nature . larterecomme la veine.car ſi la veine arterieuſe euſt retenu ſa propre nature de veine,le ſang bilieux ſub- tiliſé dedans le cœur,qui eſt porté par icelle aux poulmons pour leur nourriture,ſe fuſt peû euaporer par la tenuité de ladite veine.dauantage,nature n euſt peu venir à ſon intention, qui eſt de nourrir les poulmons dudit ſang,à raiſon de la continuelle agitation d'iceluy faicte dedans ladite veine par le diaſtolé,& syſtolé des poulmons : comme ainſi ſoit que l'aliment ne ſe puiſſe agglutiner, & aſſimiler à la partie qui en doit eſtre nourrie, s'il n'eſt fixe, ferme & ſtable,& touſiours preſent, & adherant à icelle. ce que nature pre- uoyant a conſtitué ceſte veine auſi ſolide & dure, afin que demeurant immobile au mouuement des poul- mons ( i'entends au regard qu'elle euſt fait,retenant la nature de veine) ils euſſent l'aliment qui les ſuiuiſt paſſge des en toutes leurs motions,ſans qu'au diaſtolé il fuſt attiré par iceux,& au syſtolé chaſſé vers le cœur. quant ºati res du a l'artere, ie dy qu'elle a pris nature de veine,afin que par ſa moleſſe promptement, & facilement elle ſe º º peuſt ſerrer,& dilaterſelon l'exigence de nature,pour apporter l'air au cœur,& en rapporter la vapeur fuli- # * gineuſe d'iceluy, & du ſang,& eſprit neceſſaire pour leur vie.il ſe preſente icy vne difficulté,à ſçauoir par ſnºro. quelle voye le ſang eſt porté du ventricule dextre au ſeneſtre. galien a eſtimé,qu'en la paroyd'entre-deux y a des trous : & certes il y a quelque commencement deſdits trous , mais ils ne paſſent point tout outre. parquoy colombus a inuëté vne nouuelle voye,& a eſtimé que le ſang entre du dextre ventricule au poul- mon par la veine arteiieuſe, non ſeul ment pour nourrir ledit poulmon , mais auſſi pour y eſtre elaboré,& de là porté par l'a tere veineuſe au ventricule ſeneſtre,laquelle ne ſert ſeulement d'introduire l'airà ce ven- tricule,mtais auſſi le ſang.cefte opinion eſt fort probable. botallus en ſon traicté de catharro,atrouué,& pre- a. n•--"- botallus. - b, mierement inuenté vne tierce voye,à ſçauoir vne veine,laquelle il appelle,kena arteriarum nutrix,& ſe trouue d º liu. . vn peu par deſſus la cotonale pres de l'oreille dextre, & s'en va en l'oreille gauche, & entre au cœur. i'ay chap. . grand doute que ceſte veine obſeruée par botallus,ne ſoit le vaiſſeau,lequel fallopius a obſerué, commen- #ºta- çant à parler des arte es,par lequel la veine arteriale eſt joincte à laorta,& par lequel tout le ſangvital eſt - porté pour former,& nourrir les poulmons,cependant que l'enfant eſt au ventre de la mere : duquel auſſi a parle galien,& toutesfois depuis luy n'a eſté obſerué que par fallopius. - diſtribution de la veine caue aſcendante oumontant en haut. ch a p. xv. au liure de # t qg a veine caue ſortant de la partie gibbeuſe du foye, ramaſſée en forme d'vn tronc d'arbre le confort.de ， ) ſ (ainſi que nous pouuons comprendre par le dire de galien)des rameaux diſtribuez par toute enfant. x # # la ſubſtance du foye, de la plus grande partie de la veine vmbilicale, qui entre par la partie º iºs # cane d'iceluy, pour illec faire, & conſtituer de ſa plus petite portion la veine porte, & de & sºsvï \ la plus grande , la caue,ſe diuiſe en deux rameaux inſignes & inegaux , comme nous auons dit au premier liure : dont le plus grand deſcend par la partie poſterieure du foye ſur l'eſpine, comme tu as entendu, receuant quelquesfois en deſcendant,certains rameaux de la ſubſtance du foye, qui n'ont eſté ramaſſez au grand tronc entierement. quelquesfois tu trouueras ce tronc couuert de la ſubſtance du foye plus ou moins iuſques ſur l'eſpine,où il le laiſſe:en ſorte qu'il ne ſemble exterieurement ſortir du cô- mun tronc auec l'aſcendante, jaçoit qu'il le face touſiours. l'autre rameau d'icelle, & plus petit,monte aux "- parties de l'anatomie. | a parties ſuperieures,ſe diuiſant en la maniere qui s'enſuit premierement, montant par le diaphragme vers la teſte,diſtribue en iceluy deux petites veines, vne de chacun coſté,a cauſe dequoy ſont dicies diaphrag- matiques.secondement,eſtant paruenue a la dextre oreille du cœur,elle fait les coronales,ainſi nommées, pource qu'elles enuironnent le cœur en forme de coronne.tiercement eſtapt en ée & enfoncée dedans la- dite oreille par ſa plus grande partie,produict la veine artérieuſe. quartement eſtant montée au deſſus du cœur, elle conftitue,& fait du coſté droict la veine nommée azygos,laqueile deſcendant ſous la quatrieſ- me coſte (contant de haut en bas) nourrit les muſcles intercoſtaux , & membranes tant d'vn coſté que d'autre,des huict coſtes inferieures, diſtribuant entre chacun muſcle de ſa membrane,tout joignant la par- tie inferieure de la coſte , vn rameau ſuffiſant pour la nourriture deſdites parties. quelquefois & le plus ſouuent aux petites gens,ceſte veine nourrit entierement toutes les coſtes,par certains rameaux qu'elle en- uoye dés ſa deſcente aux quatre ſuperieurs. quelquesfois auſſi,mais peu ſouent,elle ſe trouue double,vne de chacun coſté: & alors chacune nourrit ſon coſté. icy faut noter ſingulierement,que ceſte veine azygos ayant nourry toutes les coſtes, ſon reſte deſcend ſous le diaphragme,& du coſté gauche ſe conjoinct auec l'emulgente : & ainſi lavoye par laquelle la matiere de la pleureſie ſe vuide par les vrines,facilement nous eſt demonſtrée. du coſté droit deſcend plus bas , & ſe joinct auec les lumbaires, ſpecialement auec vne qui deſcend à la cuiſſe : & de cela fallopius collige, qu'au commencement d'vne pleureſie il ſeroit vtile de couper la veine du iarret. la cinquieſme diſtribution eſt au deſſus de l'azygos,pour lanourriture des muſ- cles intercoſtaux de quatre coſtes ſuperieures au defaut de l'azygos, & eſt appellée intercoſtale.quelques- fois ceſte-cy eſt trouuée ſortir des axillaires, que syluius appelle souſclauiers. la ſixieſme fait les mam- melles ainſi nommées, pource que leur plus grande pattie deſcend entre la quatrieſme & cinquieſme coſte aux mammelles, pour les vſages ſuſdicts, leſquelles ſortent aux hommes & femmes des souſclauiers, vne de chacun coſté. on les trouue quelquefois iſſantes parvn commun orifice de la veine caue,deuant qu'el- le ſe diuiſe aux souſclauiers,mais c'eſt aux beſtes brutes pluſtoſt qu'aux hommes. ces veines-cy deſcendans parles parties laterales du sternon,baillent nourriture aux deux muſcles pectoraux internes, eſtendus ſous la partie interieure d'iceluy, & à ceux qui ſont entre les cartilages des ſept coſtes vrayes , & audit os sternon , & cartilages , & ligamens d'iceluy : & au mediaſtin , & à la partie ſuperieure des muſcles droits, & parties circoniacentes. la ſeptieſme dicte ceruicale , va tant d'vn coſté que d'autre par les trous des apophyſes tranſuerſes des vertebres du col,iuſques à la teſte (à cauſe dequoy elle eſt ainſi nommée, ſe conſommant en certains petits rameaux diſtribuez en la spinale medule par le trou des nerfs, & aux mem- branes,ligamens,cartilages,os,& leurs prochains muſcles. la huictieſme dicte muſculeuſe,ſortant encore des ſouſclauiers, va nourrir les muſcles poſterieurs du col,& les plus hauts duthorax,à cauſe dequoy elle eſt ainſi nommée. la neufieſme dicte thorachique,ſort auſſi des souſclauiers ſe diuiſant en deux:dont l'vne va par deſſus le thorax iuſqu'auxmammelles,nourriſant les muſcles anterieurs d'iceluy. parquoyaux pleu- reſies nothes ou faulſes, peuuent eſtre heureuſementappliqués ventouſes ſur cét endroict. l'autre rameau deſcend aux muſcles poſterieurs dudit thorax, & principalement au muſcle nommé tres-large. apres toutes ces diuifions eſt faite l'axillaire,de laquelle te ſera parlé en ſon lieu,qui fait la dixieſmedi- ſtribution,ainſi que l'humerale l'onzieſme, de laquelle auſſi ſera parlé en ſon lieu. la douzieſme & dernie- re fait la iugulaire proprement dite : qui eſt double , interne , & externe. l'interne plus petite, monte tant d'vn coſte que d'autre:dés ſon commencement par les parties laterales de la trachée artere,iuſqu'à la bou- che, & au crane, baillant nourriture aux parties, par leſquelles elle paſſe comme aux membranes prochai- nes, & nerfs qui ſe rencontrent en ſon chemin. mais icelle eſtant à la baſe du crane ſe diuiſe en deux ra- meaux:dont le plus grand retournant par la baſe du crane vers la partie poſterieure d'iceluy, apres auoir baillé quelque petit rameau au muſcle long du col couché ſous l'oeſophague , entre dedans ledit crane auec la petite carotide par le trou de la ſixieſme coniugaiſon des nerfs, où elles font vn vaiſſeau commun. le plus petit, apres auoir baillé quelque petit rameau à l'inſtrument de l'oüye par le trou nommé caecum, s'en va dedans le crane, où il ſe perd par la dure-merepres le trou de la troiſieſme & quatrieſme paire de nerfs.l'externe plus grande & inſigne, le plus ſouuent ſimple , & quelquesfois double, ou dés ſon com- mencement,ou tantoſtapres,monte ſuperficiellement tant d'vn coſté que d'autre par les parties laterales du col,entre le muſcle large, dit i annicule, charneux illec manifeſte,& les autres ſituez aux parties laterales dudit colauſquels (comme fait auſſi au cuir) diſtribue certains petits rameaux pour la nourriture d'iceux. mais elle eftant venue à la baſe de la teſte, ſe diuiſe en pluſieurs rameaux:deſquels l'vn s'en va aux muſcles de l'os hyoide, du larinx,de la langue,&en la partie inferieure d'icelle,où elle eſt ouuerte aux synanchies, & autres inflammations de la bouche,pareillement à la tunique du nez. l'autre s'en va à la dure-mere,paſ- ſant tant d'vn coſté que d'autre, par le trou ſitué ſons l'os maſtoide : lequel monte obliquement tant d'vne part que d'autre par l'os cccipital, iuſques à la haute partie de la ſuture lambdoide, auquel endroict lef. dicts rameaux ſe rencontrans s'vniſſent dans le reply de la duré-mere,diuiſans le cerueau anterieur, comme te ſera demonſtré, pour illec vnis enſemble faire le torcular. le tiers montant par deſſus la partie poſte- rieure & baſe de la maſchoire inferieure, ſe diſtribuë aux léures,aux ailes du nez, & de leurs muſcles:ſem- blablement au grand angle des yeux ( i'entends toufiours chacun de ſon coſté au front,& autres parties de la face : faiſant à la parfin ſur la partie anterieure du front, vnis enſemble la veine nommée recta ou fron- tu. le quart montant par les glandes deſſous l'oreille, apres leurauoir baillé plufieurs rameaux, ſe conſom- me encore en deux plusinſignes leſquels paſſans l'vn deuant, & l'autre derriere l'oreille, ſe perdent au cuir de la teſte. le quint & dernier paſſant par toute la baſe de la teſte, & au cuir muſculeux,s'en va à l'occi- put faire la veine pupis, laquelle s'eſtandant le long de la teſte, ſelon la ſuture ſagittale, s'en va vnir auec celle du front , chacune de ſon coſté : laquelle vnion fait que ſi ladite teſte eſt malade exterieurement en ſa partie anterieure ou poſterieure,pour la reuulſion de la matiere faiſant telle maladie,nous inciſons l'vne ou l'autre. et noteras, qu'en aucuns cranes ladite veine pupis enuoye quelquesfois par l'vn ou pluſieurs trous aſſez inſignes,vne portion de ſoy à la teſte interieurement,par laquelle peut eſtre faite euacuation & reuul- fion de la matiere, qui interieurement la moleſte. parquoy concluant ce propos,ie prieray tout homme qu ſe meſlera des diſſections,que ſi d'aduenture il trouue autrement ces diuiſions de veines , pour cela il ne s'en eſmerueille ; car nature en la diſtribution des vaiſſeaux eſt ſi diuerſe, qu'a peine la trouue-on ſemblable en deux ou trois ſujects, ainſi qu'auons dit par cydeuant i z Éigure veines dis- phragmati- ques. coronales. arterieuſes. - zygos,ſans rcmpagne-». choſe dans d'eſtre notés, interceſtale. mammelle ;. ceiuicale ». muſculeuſ,. thorachi- qué . axillaire. humerale. iugulaire. dohble. interniè, jugulairè €aſfºr/ º, - vena reäa, ou fromtis. vena pupi. reuulſion par phleboto- mie en dou- leur de tºſtr, •- . i c o le cinquielme liure, figure des veines. a. s'enſuit la declaration de la veine caue:en laquelle les characteres marquent ſeulement vn coſté. le trone deſcendant eſt marqué au coſté gauche,é l'aſcendant •u coſté droit:duquel tu pourras iuger autant de l'au- tre coſté. - a a monſtrent les veines, leſquelles iſſantes de la partie gibbeuſe du foye,produiſent & font le tronc de la veine caue,ou creuſe. b b veines adipeuſes. cc emulgentes ou renales. d d spermatiques, e e e lumbaires; f la muſculeuſe. g diuiſion du tronc aux deux iliaques. h veine sacrée. i hypogaſtrique. k † l la honteuſe. m. le principe de la veine crurale, laquelle pro- ， , duit ſix notables rameaux. b n la saphene. o la sciatique petite. pp muſculeuſes internes & externes. q poplitique. r la surale. - s reſte de la veine crurale, qui s'en va iuſques aux doigts du pied. t sciatique grande. v maleole externe. y maleole interne. commencement du tronc de la veine caue aſcendante. b les diaphragmatiques. - - c ouuerture de la veine caue au cœur , auquel endroit la veine arterieuſe eſt produite. d la coronale. e la veine azygos. f f e commencement de la souſclauiere, qui au # ſ s] bras eſt appellée axillaire. , % s g a veine mammillaire , qui va au deuant de l'Épigaſtrique. h l'intercoſtale. i la ceruicale. kk les thorachiques. la iugulaire c interne. m la iugulaire externe, les quatre rameaux de laquelle te ſont monſtrez par . . . . n la veine du front. o la veine torculaire. p petite veine de l'humeraire allant exterieurement au col. l'humerale qui quelquesfois prend ſon origine de l'axillaire. r endroit de la muſculeuſe. ss veines de l'humerale allans aux muſcles prochains de l'omoplate. t l'axillaire qui toſt apres ſe di- uiſe en la profonde, & superficiaire : dont la profonde eſt marquée paf . & la superficiaire par . v diuiſion de l' axillaire ſuperficiaire, dont le rameau interne auec l'interne de l'humerale , faict la mediane : l'externe s'en va le long du coude iuſqu'à la main. - x la mediane. y diuiſion de l'humeraire, dont le rameau interne ayde à faire la mediane : l'externe paſſant par deſſus le rayon, va faire la veine salnatelle. - diſtributiºn des nerfs de la ſixieſme coniugaiſon. c h a p. xiv. : o v r c e que la diſtribution de l'artere ne ſe peut commodement monſtrer ſans gaſter & rompre l#$ les nerfs diſtribuez parmy le thorax : à ceſte cauſe auant que proceder en icelle, nous les pourſui- urons le plus bref qu'il nous ſera poſſible. et pour commencer, tu entendras que leſdicts nerfs ſont trois parties en nôbre,prouenans de la ſixieſme coniugaiſon,laquelle apres eftre ſortie du crane,baille en deſcé- dant au thorax, certains petits rameaux,à aucuns muſcles ducol,du larynx, & aux trois môtaus,tant d'vn coſté que d'autre du sternon,& des clauicules en haut puis le demeurant à l'endroit des clauicules deſcen- nerfcoſtal , dant dedans ledit thorax,ſe diuiſe de chacû coſté en trois parties:dont la premiere fait le nerfnommé co- ſtal,la ſeconde,le recurrens ou remontant la tierce,le stomachique.où tu noteras que le premiereſtappel- nerf recur. lé coſtal,pource qu'il deſcend par la racine des coſtes iuſques à l'os sacrum,ſe cômuniquant mutuellemét d 'º / j • auec ceux qui ſortent de chacune vertebre de l'eſpine:& ſe diſtribuent chacû de ſon coſté aux parties natu- relles,comme nous auons dit.l'autre eſt dit recurrens:pource qu'il recourt & remonte duthorax en haut. où tu entendras,que ces deux nerfs recurrens ne recouurât point demeſme lieu,ains le dextre remonte du deſſous l'artere nômée d'aucuns axillaire dextre,des autres souſclauiere:& le ſeneſtre par deſſous le grand rameau de l'artere deſcendante aux parties naturelles:& montans chacun de ſon coſté lateralement le † de la trachée artere iuſqu'au larinx,de là ſe iettent par les aiſles du cartilage scutiforme,autrement nöm thyroide dedans lcs muſcles propres ouurâs,& fermans le larynx. tant plus les nerfs ſont proches de leur origine,à ſçauoir du cerueau,ou de la nucque,& plus ſont mols:au côtraire,tât plus ils en ſont loing,& plus ſont durs & robuſtes:& voila pourquoy nature a fait la reflexion aux nerfs recurrens,afin qu'ils fuſſent plus ' pourquey , forts à faire le mouuement des muſcles du larynx.le tiers ſe nomme stomachique,pource qu'il deſcend à nature ºfait l'eſtomac ou ventricule.cettuy-cy(i'entends de chacun coſté)deſcendât par deſſus les lobes des poulmons * ºf***- par les partieslaterales de l'oeſophague diſtribue pluſieurs rameaux de ſoy aax poulmös interieurement,& ſ'/ / "é' • à leur tuniquc, & auſſi au pericarde,&au cœur:& s'approchât de l'orifice ſuperieur dudit vétricule ou ſto- n•rfi * mach,ſe conſôme en pluſieurs rameaux,leſquels ſe croiſans en pluſieurs & diuerſes manieres,tiſſent princi- chique. palemet ledit orifice de l'eſtomac,pource qu'il eſt le lieu de l'appetit,& faim animale,& eſt fait comme iu- ge des choſes profitables & nuiſibles audit ventricule:& puis apres ſont cſpars par tout le corps duventri- cule:ſauf qu'aucûs de ſes rameaux deſcendent exterieuremêt du ventricule au foye,& à la veſſie du fiel,don- nant, & baillant largement à chacune partie ce qui leur en eſtoit méſtier,côme vn homme liberal, ſoigneux & magnifique.icy faut noter,que le ſtomachal(de chacun coſté)vn deſcend attaché,&adherât àl'oeſopha- gue,& en deſcendant ſe diuiſe en deux rameaux, deſquels l'vn va au coſté oppofite pour ſe joindre auec le | nerf dudit coſté:& faut noter que le dextre môte par deſſus l'oeſophague,& le gauche par deſſous,de faç que de deux ſtomachiques s'é fôt quatre,& de quatre deux côme on verra par la figure cy-apres declarée. *. ,u ， ſi a ziutſion -" f | del'anatomie. i o i diaiſion des arteres. c h a p. xv i i. 'artere ſortant du ſeneſtre ventricule du cœur & de ſa baſe,ou fondement,comme t'a eſté dit # (apres auoir faict les deux autres conorales diſtribuées par le cœur,ainſi que nous auons dit $ des veines coronales)ſe diuiſe tout incontinent en deux rameaux inegaux : dont le plus gros # deſcendant aux parties inferieures de ſon origine,diuisé ainſi que t'a eſté dit au premier liure. - le plus petit tout ſoudain apres montant auſſi aux parties ſuperieures de ſon origne, ſe diuiſe encores en deux rameaux inegaux : dont le plus petit monte du coſté gauche,ſans faire aucune diſtribution de ſoy iuſqu'à la premiere coſte du thorax, auquelendroit prenant le nom d'artere souſclauiere, ſe diuiſe en la maniere que s'enſuit. premierement elle produit l'intercoſtale, par laquelle elle donne vie aux trois muſcles intercoſtaux des quatre coſtes ſuperieures, & à leur appartenance. secondement elle fait la mam- millaire,la diſtribution de laquelle eſt toute ſemblable à celle de la veine mammillaire. tiercement elle fait la ceruicale, laquelle monte par les apophyſes trâſuerſes, tout le long du col iuſqu'à la dure-mere du cer- ueau, faiſant telles & ſemblables diſtributions de ſoy , que la veine ceruicale , auec laquelle elle monte. quartement, iſſante du thorax, produit de ſa partie poſterieure la muſculeuſe, par laquelle elle donne vie aux muſcles poſterieurs du col iuſqu'a l'occiput. quintement, eſtant du tout ſortie dudit thorax,fait l'humerale double : dont vne partie s'enva aux muſcles de la partie caue de l'omoplate : l'autre à l'articu- lation du bras , & muſcles tant illec ſituez, qu'à la partie gibbeuſe de l'omoplate. sextement & finale- ment, fait la torachique, qui eſt double, à ſçauoir, vne qui s'en va aux muſcles anterieurs du thorax, l'autre au muſcle tres-large, ainſi que nous auons dit de la veine : & le demeurant de ce coſté fait l'axillai- re, de laquelle te ſera parlé en ſon lieu. l'autre rameau plus grand, montant du coſté droict ainſi que l'autre,iuſqu'à la premiere coſte fait auſſi de ſon coſté la ſouſclauiere,laquelle outre ce qu'elle fait telles & ſemblables diuiſions de ſon coſté que la precedente, elle eu fait encor vne autre , qui conſtitue les caro- arteres. coronalei. du cœur. artere in- tereoſtale . mammillai- " -v. - ceruicale. muſculesſel humerale. thorachi- que. tides tant dextre que ſeneſtre : leſquelles montans ſans aucune diuiſion auec le nerf de la ſixieſme coniugai- . ſon, & veine iugulaire interne, par les parties laterales de la trachée artere , quand elles ſont paruenuës au pharinx, ſe diuiſent,chacune de ſon coſté,en deux rameaux,l'vn interne,& l'autre externe:dont l'interne plus grâd,&plus gros ſe diſſemine au pharynx, larinx,& à la langue:puis entrât en la teſte par le long trou, & partie poſterieure de la maſchoire ſuperieure, enuoye pluſieurs rameaux au nez,aux yeux , aux muſcles temporaux,parties interieures,& à la dure taye:ledemeurant dudit rameau entrant par les trous lateraux de l'os biſilaire, s'en va aux apophyſes clinoides dudit os, pour illec faire le plexus admirable tel qu'il eſt : & puis apres il ſe conſomme par la baſe du cerueau, ſe diſtribuant plantüreuſement par la pie-mere. la mem- prane choroide, autrement nommée plexus (boroides. l'externe & plus petit rameau s'en va aux ioues, aux temples,derriere les oreilles,& finalement enuoye vn petit rameau au muſcle long du col,lequel ſe va terminer auec la veine iugulaire interne à la dure-mere , paſſant par le trou des nerfs de la ſixieſme con- iugaiſon. figure des arteres. declaration de lafigure des arteres. monſtre l'endroit du cœur, principe des arteres. le tronc au commencement des ttcrcs ſortant hors du cœur. - c mammillaire droicte prenant ſon origine de la ſouſclauiere droicte. v. d diuiſion des arteres en l'axillaire gauche, & vn § iilc lllx , souſclauiere gauche. la ceruicale gauche: mammillaire gauche. intercoſtalle petite. la muſculeuſe. axillaire & principe d'icelle. rameau allant au deltoïde , & quelquesfois ac- compagnant la veine humerale. l'artere interieurement enuoyée à la partie caue du palleron , & muſclesillec ſituez. la thorachique. artere qui accompagne la veine , va le long du muſcle tres-large. pp les rameaux diſtribuez par les muſcles du bras iuſqu'au coude. r l'artere qu'on touche au poignet. s l'artere qui paſſe exterieurement entre le premier os du poulce & l'auant-main. t l'autre grand rameau deſcendant interieurement tout le long du coude iuſqu'à la main,la où il eſt diſtribué aux doigts comme ſon compagnon. - v le tronc droit de l'artere qui ſe diuiſe en deux m # - nvqn carotides qui montent en hauti, & la souſcla- $s - = ($ uiere qui tranſuerſalement va au bras. ſ #% ua a la carotide dextre , en laquelle b te demonſtre . - a - - - le rameau quiva à la langue, larynx, & à la bouche. c le rameau qui va dedans la teſte interieurement, pour faire le plexus choroide. d. le rameau montant exter curcment vers les oreilles, & toute la face. e te demonſtre le rameau allant aux muſcles de la face. f. le rameau des tºp # ' g le ," - º carotides. plexus ad- mirable. tronc droit, quiderechef ſe diuiſe en trois ra- o yle quatrieſme liure, g le rameau º ºsrriere les oreilles. h le troncdeſcendant vers les parties subſtance . )uantité. vtilité. subſtance . )uantité. figure ». compoſition. miraclede nature ». nombre . situatien, cenmexicn. tempera- f e f. vtilité. l'eſpine. l l ! #es arteres intercoſtales, qui ſont huict en nombre. - les diaphragmatiques. l la cœliaque. .. m. la meſenterique ſuperieurº les renales ou emulgentes. o o les lumbaires encloſes entre ces deux charactercº, o o. la ſpermatique droicte. q la meſenterique inferieure. r les muſcles. l'iliaque qui s'en va à la jambe. t l'hypogaſtrique. l'artere qui s'en va aux muſcles de la feſſe. le demeurant de l'epigaſtrique, qui paſſe par le trou de l'os pubis, & ſe finit à la cuiſſe. l'epigaſtrique. z | la crurale. . les muſcles interne & externe de la cuiſſe. la poplitique. . les arteres des genoux. . les arteres diſtribuées au muſcle de la jambe. lamaleole internc deſcendant entre la maleole interne iuſqu'au bout des doitgs. les arteres de l'articulation du pied. . la maleole externe deſcendant comme l'interne. l'artere qui va par deſſous le pied. - la diſtribution des arteres par le pied inferieur à tous les doigts. : nºte qu'il y a beaucoup rlrs de veines que d'arteres , auſſi ſont - elles beaucoup plus inſignes & groſſes : car pour conſeruer parfaictement la chaleur naturelle, les parties n'ont pareil beſoin des inſtruments dediex à cette vſage or ſouuent on trouue des veine ſans arteres, & iamais les arteres ſans veines. nous entendons icy l'artere eſtre ac- compagnée de veines , non pas quand elle ſ'attouche , ou qu'elle eſt conioinčte auec icelle par communes membranes, comme pour la pluſpart elles ſont toutes , mais quand elle eſt conſtruite & ordonnée pour l'vſage d'vne meſme par- tic_» ". - de la phagouë, autrement dičte thymus. c h a p. xv iii. a phagouë eſt vne glande de ſubſtance fort molle, rare & ſpongieuſe : de quantité aſſez no- s\ $ # table ſituée ſur les parties ſuperieures du thorax, entre les diuifions des veines, & arteres \ ) #s# ſouſclauiers ou iugulaires, qui ſont faites d'icelles , encores contenues dedans ledit thorax= )s (és & ce afin qu'elle ſeruiſt de deffenſe, tant à la veine qu'à l'artere , à l'encontre de l'os du tho- rax : & dauantage, afin que telles diſtributions des vaiſſeaux fuſſent confirmez & enforcies- ainſi que nature a ordonné eſtr e fait en toutes autres inſignes diuiſions. on la trouue fort notable, & apparente aux beſtes,& ieunes gens,mais à l'homme qui eſt paruenu à ſonº aage, elle n'appert plus, ou bien peu. ， - de la trachée artere ». c h a p. x i x. $ - ſpiration, eſt de ſubſtance cartilagineuſe, & ligamenteuſe, & de pluſieurs pieces : car ſielle r,n$ euſt eſté toute d'vne piece,& le larynx,ils n'euſſent ſceu ſe dilater, & comprimer,fermer,ny c )as ouurir, ny former la voix qui ſe fait de volonté, principalement par les muſcles du larynx. $ icelle eſt de quantité aſſez grande, & figure ronde & creuſe. sa compoſition eſt de veines procedantes des iugulaires internes, & d'arteres venantes des carotides,& nerfs venans des recurrens,& de double membrane,vne externe & l'autre interne : l'externe venant du perioſte,l'interne plus forte & eſ- peſſe, tiſſuë de fibres droites,de la tunique interne de la bouche,qui eſt commune auecl'interne de l'oeſo- phague,& des cartilages annulaires toutefois incomplettes,rangées en forme de canal,& liées ainſi par or- dre vne auecl'autre,par ligamens ſortans mutuellement taºt de leurs parties laterales, que de leur extre- mité:leſquels ligamens font,& accôpliſſent le reſte du circuit de ladite trachée artere,eſtans couchez ſous l'oeſophague. ce qui a eſté fait, afin que ceſdits ligamens peuſſent obeir, & bailler lieu ſe contraignans vers le dedans de ladite trachée artere, lors principalement qu'on tranſgloutit les viandes ſolides,& mal maſchées. or de ces deux genres de ligamens qui ſont aux cartilages de la trachéeartere,les vns attachent les anneaux enſemble,qui font qu'elles s'allongent les autres qui acheuent leur rondeurfont qu'elles s'eſlar- giſſent. les ſuſdits ligamens ſont par dedans,& les cartilages par dehors, « in qu'ils ne fuſſent bleſſez des §ſes externes,& auſſi qu'ils euſſent à obeir à la tranſglution du manger,& boire.or ſiles annelets euſſent eſté tous cartilagineux, ils euſſent engardé le paſſage des viandes qui paſſent par le mery ou oeſophague, en le comprimant,quand on aualle quelque gros mourceau.et noteras,que par la communion des tuniques internes,tant de la trachée artere,que de l'oeſophague, pour la commodité de leur action,quand l'vn de- ualle & baille, l'autre monte, ainſi qu'vne corde autour dyne poulie : comme quand l oſeophague ſe baiſ- ſe pour aualler quelque choſe,la trachée artere ſe hauſſe & au contraire quand par vn vomiſſement l oeſo- phague monte,ladite trachée artere deſcend,& ſe baiſſe. elle eſt vnique ou ſeule, ſituée entre le larinx (duquel elle prend ſon origine) & les poulmons, auſquels elle deſine , ſe diuiſant premierement en deux grands & inſignes rameaux ? tendans l'vn à dextre, & l'autre à ſeneſtre : & vn chacun d'iceux entrant en la d ſubſtance des poulmons,ſe diuiſe encores en deux autremcnt diſtribuez,particulierement à vn chacun lobe- & iceux encores en autres infinis, partoute la ſubſtance d'icº et ſont trouuez tous ces rameaux cartilagi- neux, iuſqu'à leur extremité, eſtans ſituez entre les rameaux de l'artere veineuſe , & veule arterieuſe,afin que promptement,& facilement ils peuſſent communiquer, & enuoyer l'air au cœur par l'artere veineuſe, ou receuoir les excremens fulgineux,& prendre nourriſſement de la veine arterieuſe. et par ce moyen elle eſt annexée auec les ſuſdictes parties par ſes extremitez , & par ſes autres parties conſtituantes auec celles d'où elles les a. son temperament eſt froid , & ſec. son aétion & vtilité eſt d'apporter l'air aux poulmons, & au cœur , en ſe dilatant & rapporter l'air fulgineux en ſe comprimant , & reſſerant ſes cartilages l'vn coptre l'autrc. - naturelles par defſus a - m i •: : figure l de l'anatomie. io a figure de la trachée artere, ou chiflet. a , demonſtre vn petit corps glanduleux nommé l'epi- - glotte » qui ſe couche par ſur le chefde la trac#e *º : pour prohiber qu'en la deglution rien n'en- trc cn ladicte trachée artere. b le cartilage nommé scutiforme. c la trachée artere annulée comme tu vois. pp les deux glandules fituez aux parties laterales ducom- mencement de la trachée artere. e e les nerfs de la ſixiéme & ſeptiéme coniugaiſon paſſans par le thorax : & allans au ventre inferieur, pour illec ſe reſpandre par toutes les parties. f le nerf dextre recurrant ſous l'artere axillaire le long de la partie laterale de la trachée artere,iuſques aux muſcles propres du larynx. g le nerfſeneſtre recurrant par ſous le tronc deſcen- dant de l'artere. h h les deux nerfs recurrens couchez le long de la trachée ttcic. i i la diuiſion de la trachée artere en deux rameaux , le dextre pour aller au poulmon dextre, ainſi de l'au- tre : leſquels deux rameaux ſe diuiſent en pluſieurs utres , comme tu vo s. /-n$ k l'orifice de la grande artere ſortant du cœur. . //, l les arteres coronales dudit cœur. % m la grande artere deſcendante aux parties inferieures. % n n l'intercoſtale grande allant aux muſcles intercoſtaux. â|m o l'artere ſouſclauiere gauche. # , n p le tronc aſcendant de l'artere, qui ſe diuiſe en trois % % k . rameaux. , % n q l'artere axillaire dextre. z ,hia- r r les arteres carotides, tant dextre que ſeneſtre. - v iwlés > c de l'oeſophague ». c h a p. x x. # )ſ# 'o e s o p h a g v e (voye du mâger,& boire) eſt de ſubſtance moyéne entre chair & nerf, subſtanc. - $ à raiſon qu'il eſt compoſé d'vne membrane nerueuſe, & l'autre charnuë. lanerueuſe eſt ſi- #nw tuée au dedans,& continuée auec la tunique de la bouche iuſqu aux léures (au moyen dequoy #$ les léures tremblent aux maladies, qui ſe doiuent iuger par vomiſſement ) & auec l'interne sc de la trachée artere.et eſt tiſſu de filamens droits, pºu， l'attraction de la viande que nous compoſfties voyös quelquesfois eſtre ſi ſubite augens famileques,qu'à † # † # † # , droit plus craſſe & plus dure qu'en autre lieu. la charnue miſe au dehors,eſt tiſſue de la llci'- - ſſemens, ou vents reiettez de l'eſtomach au de- ſaux, pour accelerer tant le boire & manger,que les vomi º» ſme li 'icelle. il a hors. ces deux tuniques continuées auec celle du † vn inc f † § : u a enco- res parties compoſantes, comme veine de la veine porte,& caue aſcen † # § imc † ſon,& artere de celle qui va au ventricule auec la veine caſtrique, § # † s cc.il § † - caue. et ſur tous ces vaiſſeaux il peut auoirvne tierce tunique venant de la p § # † § † toutesfois aux vns plus,aux autres moins,ſelon la varieté des corps. sa † § # # - † capable à tranſgloutir toutes viandes, & qu'il fuſt moins aisé à eſtre offencé. eſt fitué entre l'eſpine,& la uantité p - - - u'iceluy deſcendant tout le long de ººtité. trachée artere, depuis le larynx iuſques au ventricule. et noteras, # f y le coſté droi figare. l'eſpine, quand il eſt venu à la quatriéme vertebre du metaphrene, il ſe † vers #co 'il † situatisw. donner lieu à la grande artere nommée aorta, deſcendante aux parties in § a il # # c t: d puis apres retourne à la partie ſeneſtre vers l'orifice de l'eſtomach nature § § § # † † aucunes fortes membranes , de peur qu'en s'appuyant ſur l'artere,il n'empeſchaſt les e † c § c. aux parties baſſe.il eſt ſeul & vnique,conioint auec les parties cy-deſſus nommées,tant par § † que par ſes vaiſſeaux. son temperament eſt plus froid que chaud,comme §.parties qui † § - ueuſes que charneuſes. son action & vtilité eſt d'attirer & apporter les viandes, §autres cil *- tempera- ecs & tranſglouties, & les reietter lors qu'elles ſont moleſtes au ventricule , ou en qu # †. # te,ou de toute leur ſubſtance. et eſt à noter, que lors que nous auallons,l oeſophague e § ble : la c # # & la trachée artere contre-mont, qui eſt cauſe que nous pouuons reſpirer & aualer cil § nt queile - laquelle choſe a eſié faicte par lagrande prouidence de dieu,le nom duquel ſoit loüé eternellement. fin du quatrieſme liure . i t a b l e # - # table d es cha p tres ". : d v l iv r e v. de l'anatomie. # es criptio ngenerale de la teſte .. chapj à\ du cuir muſculeux de la teſte, & du pericrane .. i j l% des sutures. ii j ， du crane, ou eftuy du cerueau. iv de la dure & pie-aaere_,. v du cerueau. , v j des ventricules du cerueau, º apophyſes mammilaires. vi j des ſept coniugaiſons, paires, ou couples de nerfs du cerueau : ainſi appellex,, pource qu'ils ſont touſiours deux à deux : scauoir eſt, l'vn d'vn coſté, & l'autre de l'autre_. v ii j du rets admirable, º glandule baſîlaire . - ix des trous de la baſe interne du crane_,. - x , des trous de la baſe externe du crane . - xj de l'eſpinemedullaire ,. xij l e : ( cinqviesme livre, contenant les parties animales sit ve'es en l a t e s t e. deſcription generale de la teſie- . chap. i. y a n t iuſques icy declaré deux parties de noſtre ſujet, c'eſt à ſçauoir, naturelles & vitales, il faut que nous paſſions à la troiſieſme, qui eſt ſituée en la teſte : laquelle. l premierement nous definirons : puis la diuiſerons en ſes parties : tiercement deſcri- rons vne chacune : quartement declarerons ſes parties , tant contenantes , que conte- nues , ainſi qu'elles ſe preſenteront au ſens de la veuë, ſelon l'ordre de diſfection. la teſte donc eſt le ſiege des ſens,& le rempart de raiſon,& de ſapience:de laquelle comme d'vne fontaine, ſortent diuerſes operations , & pluſieurs commoditez , que nous declarerons cy - apres. elle eſt fituée ſur tout le corps, & dieu a voulu qu'elle fuft eſleuée en haut vers le ciel, afin que l'homme cogneuſt que ſa vraye origine & naiſſance venoit plus haut que de la terre, & des autres elemens corruptibles , & que de là tout ainſi que d'vne haute forte- reſſe qui commande à ce qui eſt en bas : l'eſprit animal peut regir , gouuerner & conduire tout le reſte du corps , & diſpoſer de ſes parties, aux actions ordonnées par la nature. comprenant ſous icelle tout ce qui eſt depuis le ſommet nommé synciput,iuſques à lapremiere spondyle,ou vertebre du col. la figure de la teſte eſt bonne, lorsqu'elle eſt ronde,& aucunement comprimée vers les parties laterales, ayant emi- nence vn peuau frond & au derriere : & demonſtre les ſens eſtres bons. au contraire, celle qui eſt du tout ronde,n'eſt pas bonne,ne celle qui eſt aiguë,ou en pointe : & quant à ſes parties, elle eſt diuisée en la face, front,temples,ſynciput,vertex,& occiput. par la face eſt entendu tout ce qui eſt contenu entre les ſourcils &le menton. par le front, ce qui eſt depuis les ſourcils, iuſques à la ſuture coronale. par les temples,ce qui eſt ſitué entre le petit cantus,ou petit angle de l'œil & l'oreille. par le synciput, ce qui eſt depuis l'ex- trcmité ſuperieure du frond iuſques à la ſuture lambdoide de long & de large,iuſques aux ſutures ſquam- meuſes.par le vertex ou sommet,la fontenelle,ou bien ce qui eſt également au milieu de laſuture sagittale. par l occiput,ce qui eſt finy & terminé par la ſuture lambdoide, & partie poſterieure de la premiere verte- breducol. or de toutes ſes parties les vnes ſont ſimples,& les autres composées. dauantage les vnes ſont contenantes,& les autres contenues:mais des contenâtes les vnes ſomt communes à toutes les ſudites parties de la teſte,comme le cuir, pannicule charneux & le pericrane : les autres ſont peculieres à certaines par- ties, comme le pannicule charneux au col, à la face, au front,& au cuir qui couure le crane.la tunique commune aux mufcles,à la greſſe,& à la face. le crane,la dure,& pie-mere,au cerueau. les parties con- tenues ſont,la ſubſtance du cerueau,les quatre ventricules & corps contenues en iceux,les nerfs,& procez mammillaires : le plexus choroide,& admirable,glandule baſilaire,& autres deſquelles nous traicterons cy- apres. maintenant faut pourſuiure les parties contenantes,en commençant au cuir : car l'ordre d'enſeigner eſt de premierement traicter des parties ſimples ; toutesfois, ie parleray premierement du poil couurant le crane,duquel en peu de paroles diray ce qu'il me ſemble. et pourtant tu noteras,qu'iceluy n'eſt autre cho- le qu'vn excrement produit & formé de la partie plus craſſe & terreſtre de la ſuperfluité de la tierce conco- ºon,laquelle ne ſe peut exhaler,ne euaporer par inſenſible tranſpiration. l'vtilité duquel poil eſt,en con- *ºmmant les excremens gros, cras & fuligineux du cerueau,enſemble de feruir de couuerture & ornement #la teſte. et faut entendre,que ce poil eſt fait de la premiere generation,comme eſt auſſi celuy des ſourcils: & l'autre vient à meſure que le corps croiſt & ſe deſſeiche,comme eſt celuy tant de la barbe,que de deſſous les aiſſelles, parties honteuſes, & autres endroits de noſtre corps : ce qui eſt manifeſte à tous. - du cuir muſculeux de la teſte & du pericrane ». ch a p. ii. e cuir qui couure le crane, & quî eſtcouuert de poil,eſt ſans comparaiſon plus charnu,gros, eſpais,dur,& ſec qu'en nulle autre partie où il n'eſt couuert de poil.dauâtage où il ne le cou- ure,il eſt meſlé & infiltré aux parties ſubiacentes,comme au léures,au front,auec le pannicule charneux,& pour ce eſt dit muſculeux:& és autres endroits,auec cartilages,comme aux ailes du nez,& tarſes des yeux,& pourtant eſt dit cartilagineux.il a connexion auec le pericrame,à cauſe qu'il eſt infiltré & meſle auec luy. il reçoit des nerfs qui viennent de la premiere & ſeconde vertebre du col,& de la troiſieſme partie du cerueau, qui ſe diſſeminêt & eſpandent par toute ſa ſubſtance:au moyen dequoy les playes,contuſions & apoſtemes faites en iceluyne ſont à meſprifer. le pericrane eſt vne mem- brane fort deliée,laquelle rcueflant immediatement tous les os de noſtre corps,eſt appellée en la teſte ſpe cialement pericrane, pour l'excellence du crane : & à tous les autres os perioſte. et tout ainſi que ceſte membrane prend ſon origine de la dure-mere,par les ſutures ou commiſſures du crane:ainſi toutes les au- tres de noſtre corps ſont faites & produites ou de ceſte-cy,ou bié de la dure-mere,faiſât apophyſes oupro- duciiôs tant par les trous de la teſte que par ceux de la spinale medulle,iuſqu'à l'extremité de l'os sacrum. ce qui ſe peut prouuer pource que lors qu'vne mébrane en quelque partie du corps que ce ſoit, eſt endom- magée,la mcſme affection eſt communiquée iuſqu'à la dure-mere ce qui eſt fort manifeſte en ceux qui # tcn. deſcription de la teſte. situation dé la teſte. figure. diuiſion dei parties con- tenuës. face. front temples. sihciput. verfex. occiput. parties com- tenantes &， contenuës e# la teſte. autres par- ties conte- nuës en la teſte. vſage da poll. vtilité. deſcription. du cuir muſ- culenx de la teſte. peri craiie #ue c'eſt, c d'où il vient perioſte. le pericraxe prend maiſ- ſance de la d ure-merr. · ob le cinquieſme liure, - » • " - _ - • - , • * uſſe, la do frent douleur en que\que partie,& fuſt-ce en l'extremité du pied : lors qu'on eſternué,ºº. # crame u] vtilité du s'augmente , s'eſtenôant & communiquant iuſques au cerueau. sonvtilité eſt de cou t i' t lltl'e » & pericrane ,. donner cognoiſſance des choſes nuiſibles,par ſon ſentiment,ainſi que fait le perioſte à rºº* les autres os, uantage, il ſouſtient & ſuſpend la dure-mere contre le crane, par les commiſſures, de peur qº icelle par ſa peſa nteur ne tombaſt en bas, & ne bleſſaſt la pie-mere, & conſequemment empeſchaſt la pulſation tant du cerueau que des arteres,leſquelles ſont en grand nombre diſtribuées à la dure, & pie-mºº , ainſi que notº, declarerons en ſon lieu. le pericrane a grande connexion à la dure-mere au moyen qu'il cn prend ſa naiſſance,& par conſequent de toutes les autres membranes de noſtre corps , laquelle choſe ne faut negli- ger pour le preſent traicté. - — - - des sutures. c h a p. ii i. au crane a n t e n a n t faut parler des sutures appellées en grec raphe, qui conioignent enſem- naturel y a ble les os du crane : leſquelles ſont cinq, c'eſt à ſcauoir troisvrayes , & deux mendeuſes ou cinaſuture . fauſſes. les vrayes ſont nommees,l'vne coronale en grec stephanita,qui eſt en la partie an- # c r - terieure,deſcendant du synciput tranſuerſalement vers le milieu des temples.et eſt ainſi dite, suture sa- . , , pource qu'en cét endroit on a accouſtumé d'impoſer les couronnes à ceux qu'il appartient. gittale-'. l'autre eſt dite en grec obelea, sagittale ou droite en françois, qui eſt en la partie ſuperieure : pource que droitement elle diuiſe toute la teſte en deux parties égales, s'eſtendant par deſſus la longitude d'icelle, l depuis la coronale iuſques à la tierce poſterieure, nommée lambdoide : ainſi dite, à cauſe qu'elle repre- # " ſente cette lettre grecque capitale dite lambda,a où tu noteras, que tout cecy ſe doit entendre le plus ' ſouuent , pource qu'on trouue quelquesfois des cranes n'ayans point de ſuture anterieure , les autres de poſterieure,les autres,ny l'vne ny l'autre,fors les mendeuſes.tu trouueras auſſi principalement,que la ſutu- resagittale deſcend iuſques à l'harmonie ou côionction des os dunez.pareillement ontrouue quelquesfois cºlſ liº * trois ou quatre ſutures à l'os occipital,tellement que le nombre n'eſt pas toufiours certain.ce que corne- chap. . lius celſus a noté diſant,qu'hippocrate a iaifsé par eſcrit, qu'ila eſté trompé au nombre deſdites ſutures, eſtimant que l'occiput fuſt diuisé & rompu, pour le rebouchement & aſpreté que la ſeconde ſuture lamb- doide faiſoit à ſon eſprouuette,pendant qu'auec icelle il ſondoit la playe.les autres deux ſutures ſont dites deux ſutu- en grec lepidoyde,en françois mendeuſes:parce qu'elles ont failly à la forme des vrayes ſutures, prenans res mendeu- forme d'application d'os contre vne autre,eſtant chacun de ſa baſe gros & eſpés,& au rencontre l'vn de l'au- ſes. tre attenué,& fait en forme de taillant de couſteau,l'vn ſe couchant ſur l'autre, ainſi qu'eſcailles de poiſſon: - au moyen dequoy ſont dites squameuſes , ainſi que les vrayes ſont dites serratilles, pource qu'ellesſe ioi- pourqººy gnent enſemble en forme de dents de ſi ie, entrans l'vne dedans l'autre en leur rencontre.et ſi on demande nº ºº pourquoy la teſte (qui eſt l'organe le plus noble de tout le corps) n'a eſté fait d'vn ſeulos, afin qu'elle fuſt f# cr# plus † & ſeure:ie reſponds, que c'eſt afin qu'elle fuſt conſeruée,& mieuxdefenduë des iniures tant inter- ne d'vn ſeul § qu'externes : le crane eſtant ennoſtre corps comme vnecheminée ou fourneau de lamaiſon,auqueltou- j. tes les fumées montent, fi nature l'euſt fait tout d'vn os , les fumées n'euſſent peu s'exhaler, & par ainſi gal. de uſu- euſſenteſteint & ſuffoqué tout le corps. - - a - - - - - part lib. . doncques de peur que tel inconuenientneyint a l'homme nature luy a fait le crane de pluſieurs pieces, cap. i. afin que par les commiſſures d'iceluy , telles fumées peuſſent eſtre euaporées : & les ſubtiles au trauers du diuerſité crane, à raiſon qu'il eſt poreux. voylà quant aux iniures internes.aucuns ont leurs commiſſures fort en- c des commiſ trouuertes & apparentes, les autres fort ſerrées. et à ceux principalement qui n'ont point de commiſſure, ſures. nature a preueu à tel accident : c'eſt qu'à deux doigts pres ou enuiron de la commiſſure lambdoide, elle a fait vn , & le plus ſouuent deux trous, par où entre la veine pupis dans le crane, qui ſont ſi amples, qu'on pourroit preſque mettre vn ferd'aiguillette,par leſquels les vapeurs s'exhalent,autrement l'animant mour- roit.pour les iniures externes,a voulu qu'il fuſt fait tel,afin que ſivn os eſtoit fracturé de quelque choſe que ce fuſt , les autres pour raiſon de leur diuiſion, demeuraſſent entiers, & ſans dommage:& conſequemment que la playe fut moindre, & moins † en quoy faut entendre,que ſi l'os eſtant frappé d'vn coſté,ſe rompt de l'autre part,cela aduient à raiſon qu il ya defaut de ſutures,ou bien qu'elles ſont imparfaites.au- trement il eſt impoſſible que telles fractures ſe finiſſent, veu la diuiſion & ſeparation deſdits os. et ſi tu m'objectes qu'on ne trouue gueres de cranes manquer en ſutures : ie te reſponds qu'auſſi peu ſouuent voit on telles fractures aduenir. - raiſon pour- : or pourconcluſion,faut que lechirurgien ſçhache le nombre des ſutures , & ſituation,afin qu'il ſcache quºy le chi- diſcerner les fractures fciffurées d'auec les commiſſures de peur qu'il n'applique ſontrepan ſur icelle(tant #i, §i, qu'il luy ſera poſſible) à raiſon qu'il romproit les veines & arteres,& quelques fibres nerueux,qui commu- ， eir le niquent des parties interieures aux exterieures,dont s'en pourroit enſuiure flux de ſang,quideſcouleroit en- nombre des tre le crane & la dure mere,& pluſieurs pernicieux accidens:ce qui eſt prouué par hippocrate : si in ven- ſutures , ér trem, &c. quand le ſang eſt dehors de ſes vaiſſeaux , neceſſairement il s'altere, & pourrit. pareillement la leur ſitua- dure-mere, ſes filamens coupez,pourroit tomber ſur le cerueau, qui ſeroit cauſe qu'il n'auroit ſon mouue- tion. ment libre, dommage de l'animant. hippo.liu. - aphor. .o. - - phor. .o du crane ou eſtuy du cerueau. c h a p. iv. d le crane eſt $# a i n t e n a n t faut venir au crane que nous appellons le teſt , lequel auſſi eſt nommé composé de $n n#| # des grecs cranium , des latins caluaria , & eſt deſſus la teſte, comme vn heaume.il eſt com- huict. os. posé de huict os, comprenant l'os criſte, dont aucuns ſont plus durs & eſpais que les autres. os occipi- le premier eſt l'os occipital ſitué en la partie poſterieure, lequel eſt plus dur & eſpais que tal. nul des autres. nature l'a crée ainſi dur & eſpais, pour preuenir aux dangers & iniures ex- ternes qui peuuent ſuruenir , comme cheutes & coups, pource qu'en la partie poſterieure, il n'y a point d'yeux pour y preuoir, ny demains pour ſe defendre.et eſt ledit os circonſcript par la ſuture lambdoide, & l'os baſilaire. les eminences de cét os ſont receuës de la premiere vertebre,ſur haquelle la teſte ſe flechit cauiié ſou † deuant & derriere, par le benefice des quatorze muſcles(que declarerons cy-apres)& de bien forts liga- les ſourcil,. mens , qui lient & ioignent les cornes dudit occiput , auec les cauitez d'icelle premiere vertebre du col le d.# #. ſecondos eſt en la pºeºnterieure ººmme l'os coronal, lequel tient le ſecond lieu en force & eſpeſſeur. § í., et eſt limité par la ſuture coronale, & les extremitez de l'os baſilaire ou cuneiforme : auquel eſt ſouuent uitez , qui trouué vne grande cauité ſous les ſourcils,pleine d'vne matiere gluâte,craſſe & viſqueuſe,de couleur blan- ſont ſous les chaſtre, qui aide à elaborer l'air pour fairer,ſentir & diſtinguer les odeurs:laquelle cauité eſt au chirurgié ſourcils. , digne d'eſtre bien notée, pource qu'alors qu'il ſuruient fracture en cét endroict il n'y a quelquesfois que la prem ere os corcmal. sui- a de l'anatomie. i o a premiere table de l'os rompuë. au moyen dequoy le chirurgien ignorant telle cauité, penſe & croit que anatomie, i'os ſoit enfoncé du tout au dedans & qu'il cóprime les membranes, & par conſequent le cerueau.et à ce- mereſſaireau ſte cauſe iceluy(au grand dommage du patient) amplifie la playe,& applique trepans, & autres inſtrumens # pour eſleuer la ſeconde table dudit osice qui n'eſt beſoin parce qu'elle n'a eſté rompue.et ainſi tels chirur- # rur- giens iglares ſouuent ſont cauſe de la mort des pauures patiens:ce que ie puis atteſter auoir veu. dont il eſt #t de # beſoin au chirurgien cognoiſtre telle cauité,ce qu'il fera en rompant pluſieurs teſtes de mort,pour enauoir §.jou- plus ample & parfaicte cognoiſſance. le troiſieſme & quatrieſme des os ſuſdicts ſont deux nommez parie-#. taux ou bregmatis,tenans le tiers lieuen dureté & eſpaiſſeur,combien qu'icelle ſoit inegale & diuerſe en ſes ſe de la § parties, & principalement au lieu appellé sinciput,vulgairement la fontenelle,ou le ſommet de la teſte,la- des patiens. quelle n'a point forme d'os aux jeunesenfans autât qu'ils ayét toutes leurs dents:de ſorte qu'en cét endroict os parie- on ſent vne molleſſe au tact, & vne palpitation,pource que leſdits os n'y ſont encores formez entierement.tºux. cela ſe fait afin que la redondance des excremés humides & vaporeux côtenus au cerueau ſe puiſſe exhaler ººº ººm- par le moyen de ſa dilatation & contraction,qui ſont ſes mouuemens, qui peuuent eſtre nommez syſtolé, prendre ceux & diaſtolé. concluſion,ceſdits os ſont touſiours plus tendres & plus deliez que les autres:tellement qu'on #ºº les voit ſouuent en aucuns endroicts n'auoir non plus d'eſpeſſeur qu'vne ongle. parquoy les remedes qu'on #. applique pour le cerueau,doiuent eſtre appliquez ſur la fontenelle,parce que le lieu eſt le moins eſpés,& # # eſt le plus rare.par ainſi donc eſt bien neceſſaire au chirurgien de cognoiſtre diligemment l'eſpeſſeur des os # du crane,lors qu'il faut trepaner. et ſôt circuits ces deux os quarrez en la partie ſuperieure,de la ſuture sa- le mouue- gittale,& de l'inferieure,de ſutures mendeuſes ou spammeuſes,ou menſongeres:de l'anterieure,de la coro-mens natu- tale de la poſterieure, lambdoide.le cinquieſme & ſixieſme ſont deux autres,nómez os petreux,qui ſuiuët rels du cer- les und ts en eſpeſſeur & force:leſquels ſont limitez de la ſuture médeuſe, & d'vne portió de la läbdoide, ueaa peuuët & de l'os baſilaire.le eptieſme, eſt l'ossphenoide ou baſilaire,ainſi nômmé pource qu'il eſt fondemêt de ſtre*ppelez la teſte portant tous les autres en leur propre & deue ſituation,ſans qu'ils ſepuiſſent desfaireàceſte cauſe a $ſº,& eſtc appellé os cuneiforme, qui eſt comparé à vne pierre qui eſt au milieu d'vn arche ou voute, qui bande diaſtolé. le tcut,& garde de s'enfondrer et eſt ledit os finy & terminé tant d'vn coſté que d'autre,par les os du front, # l ctreux,occipitz l,& du palais:& eſt de figure ſemblable à vne chauue-ſouris,& principalemët ſesapophy- #º ſes , nemmées en grec pterygoides,& ſemblent repreſenter les oreilles d'icelle. dauantage,il y a vn autre #as os ſitué en la baſe de l'os coronal,qui eſt le huicteſme auquel ſe finiſſent les procez mammillaires,lequel à o, s§ eſt nomnie des autheurs grecs ethmoide,des latins spongieux ou cribleux,pource qu'en luy y a pluſieurs de cº baſi- trous,comme aux eſponges, & non pas droits cóme vn crible, & ne ſe rencontrent pas droittement les vns laire . aux autres,mais ils ſont tortilleux & anfractusux,afin que l'air attiré ne paruint tout à coupau cerueau,le- os ethmoi- quel eſtant froid le pourroit endômager,mais qu'il s'y elabouraſt premierement quelque peu.leſquels auſſi de ou ſpon- donnent iſſue aux vapeurs en eſternuant & aux humeurs morueux:tellement que les perſonnes morfonduës gieº*. & enrouées,parce que ces trous ſont eſtouppez,ne ſentent point d'odeur bonne ny mauuaiſe,& ne peuuent ietter par le nez quand ils ſe mouchent. de cétos procede vn cartilage qui ſepare le nez en deux.item ſont ſix : utres petits oſſelets contenus és os petreux, dans le trou des oreilles, à ſçauoir trois de chacun coſté, incus. nommez lncus, malleolus, & stapes pour raiſon de leur figure,qui eſt ſemblable à vne enclume, l'autre â malſºlº vn marteau,& l autre à vn eſtrier de cheual reiſtrel'vſage deſquels te ſera declaré cy apres,lors que parle-º# rons de la faculté auditiue. outre-plus on trouue en aucuns cranes certaines diuiſions d'os,comme pieces # #. rapportées de grandeur d'vn pouce ou enuiron,ayans commiſſures propres à elles, qui ſont choſes dignes # - deſtre bien cogneues au chirurgien, lors qu'il eſt beſoin d'vſer de trepane:& telle choſe pourra eſtre co- #ans greue,lors qu'il ſeparera le pericrane d'auec le crane. car à l'endroit des cômiſſures le pericrane eſt plus eſt fort adhe- difficilement ſeparé qu'és autres endroits, où il n'y a point de commiſſures, à raiſon des vaiſſeaux & fibres rant ducra- nerueux, qui communiquent de la dure-mere par les commiſſures,au pericrane à luy contenu.auſſi les os ne à l'#droia des femmes ſont plus deliez & mols que ceux des hommes,&des ieunes enfans que des femmes.ceux auſſi des commiſ. qui n'ont encores accomply leurs trois dimenſions,les ont moins durs & eſpés,que ceux qui ſont parfaits. ſures. l'areillement les aethiopes ou mores, & tous autres qui habitent és lieux chauds vers le midy & l'equino- )ui ſont xial,ont le crane fort our,& n'ont point ou peu de ſutures.et ce eſt pour colliger,ainſi que dit hippocrate, º qu'en ceux qui ont fracture au crane mol & delié, les accidens ſont plus grands,& la mort ſera plus pro- %º,º les os che,qu'en ccux quil'auront eſpés & ſolide:à raiſon qu'il faut plus de temps pour alterer & pourrir l'os dur, # # qu'il n'eſt requis à vn mol, & delié. # au liu. autre raiſon,c'eſt que l'os tendre & delié ſera pluſtoſt couppé par la trepane,que celuy quieſt dur & eſ- § playes de pés. outre-plus,aucuns ont vne ou pluſieurs prominences ou enleueures en rondeur au crane,outre le na- la teſte. turel : laquelle choſe auſſi eſt bien à noter pour deux raiſons. la premiere pour la conſideration du coup, pource que s'il aduient ſur icelles grande & longue diuiſió, il ne peut eſtre que la playe ne penetre au de- dans:car il eſt certain qu'on ne peut couper & faire grande diuiſion en vne choſe ronde(comme en vne bou- le)qu'on ne pcnetre plus fort au dedâs, qu'en vne ehoſe platte,& non point eſleuée.la ſeconde raiſon c'eſt, qu'icclle prominence fait changer la figure,& la fituation des commiſſures.au contraire laplaye peut eſtre faite grande ſur la figure oblongue, ſans qu'elle penetre au dedans. dauantage,faut que le chirurgien ſça- au crame che qu'au crane ſont deux tables,entre leſquelles eſt le diploé qui eſt vne ſubſtance ſpongieuſe , où s'in- e # # ſerent pluſieurs veines & arteres, & quelque ſimilitude de chair. ce qui a eſté fait par vne prouidence de l . nature,afin que le crane ne fuſt trop peſant,& auſſi pour contenir le ſang pour la nourriture & vie du cra- ne,& pour donner paſſage aux vapeurs contenuës au cerueau. ql ant à la table ſuperieufe du crane,elle eſt pus eſpeſſe,forte & polie que l'inferieure. l'inferieure eſt plus mince,ſubtile, & inegale, pour bailler lieu aux veines & arteres internes(l'impreſſion deſquelles eſt euidente en ladite ſeconde table,partie interieure) deſquelles certains rameaux entrent dedans ledit crane, par certains petits trous auſſi apparens à l'œil:au moyen dcquoy la dure-mere eſt ſuſpendue & attachée au crane tant par les ſutures que par le ſuſdits petits rameaux:choſes digne d'eſtre notées au chirugien. car par vn grand coup orbe (encore qu'il n'y ait fra- cture à l'os)a cauſe de l'ébranlement du cerueau, il ſe fait ſouuentesfois ruption deſdites veines & arte # ſe fair res,dont le ſang decoule cntre l'os & les membranes,& le plus ſouuent la mort s'en enſuit.ce qui ſera de- # - claré cy apres,quand ie parleray de la commotion du cerueau. dauantage faut que le chirurgienait bon- ， , vaiſ- ne cognoiſſance de la ſubſtance ſpongieuſe, qui eſt entreles deux tables,nommée diploé, laquelle eſt fort ſeaux, dent molle au regard deſdictes tables lors qu'il trepane,& qu'auec diſcretion il conduiſe ſa trepane,prenant in- la mort s'en- dication de la tenuité ou eſpeſſeur de la ſeconde table:depeur que tout a coup en appuayant trop fort, il ne ſuit. l'enfonce au dedans,dont ſe pourroit enſuiure conuulſion,& par conſequent la mort. a quoy i'eſpere ob- diploé. uier par le moyen d'vne trepane, que i'ay inuentée , comme on verra au traicté des playes de la teſte. ºftr unº grand coup, dé? no$ le cinquieſme liure, - - —-- de la dure,& pie-mere ». ch a p. v. , y a n t ainſi demonſtré tout le crane,il faut venir à la dure taye, qui eſt vne des pºemieres & principales membranes de tout le corps. .. elle ſort par les sutures , & par º trous d§ nerfs qui ſortent hors du crane,& les trous des os ethmoides ou collatoires : * celle fin que : l'air, & les odeurs puiſſent aller au cerueau , lors qu'il en eſt beſoin, & que les excremens jla dure me- re eſt l'vne des premieres & princip«- $ - - - - - les membra- s** fuſſent purgez par le nez. elle reueſt la tunique interieure du nez. pareillement fort par m:s de moſtre le grand trou, par où deſcend la nucque qui en eſt reueſtue, & generalement chacun nerf & membrane de corps. tout le corps : à cauſe dequoy s'il y en a aucune de bleſsée en quelque partie du corps que ce ſoit , ainſi que nous auons dit par cy-deuant,ſoudain par la connexion ou continuation qu'elle a auec la dure mere,el- gal. au . le communique ſon affection au cerueau:comme parexemple, nous pouuons entendre de celuy, qui ayant des parties vlcere en ſon pied (partie fort membraneuſe) ſentoit monter tout le long de ſon corps certaine matiere, malades. ou vapeur froide, iuſques au cerueau , dont puis apres s'en enſuiuroit epilepſie. et ſi tu m'obiectes que tel ſentiment eſtoit porté par les nerfs : ie reſpons qu'iceux ſont conſeruez,& veſtus de la plus grande par- b tie deſdites membranes du cerueau. la ſubſtance d'icelle dure-mere eſt eſpeſſe & dure plus que nulle # # autre membrane, dont elle a obtenu le nom de dure-mere : à raiſon qu'elle engendre & produit, conſer- mere eſt eſ- ue & entretient toutes les autres son vtilité eſt d'enuelopper entierement tout le cerueau, & de garder peſſe & du-ºl" il ne ſoit bleſſé du crane lors qu'il fait ſon mouuement : qui eſt la couſtume de nature , de mettre cntrc "é_». deux contraires vn moyen.pource entre le crane qui eſt dur,& le cerueau mol,elle a mis ladite membrane, vtilité de la qui eſt de ſubſtance moyenne entre les deux, & laquelle eſt ſuſpenduë & attachée aux sutures par veines, dure-mere , arteres & filamens nerueux , qui entrent au cerueau , & en ſortent , & n'eſt adherante audit crane (ſi ce n'eſt comme a eſté dit ) ny au cerueau : mais ya eſpace, afin que le mouuement d'iceluy ſoit libre. dauantage elle a autre vtilité , c'eſt de ſeruir de conduite aux veines & arteres eſtans entrées au crane, . leſquelles s inſerent en la duplicature d'icelle , faite à la diuiſion du cerebelle & du cerueau : & ſont ainſi ºº conduites tant d'vn coſté que d'autre, par les parties laterales dudit cerebelle,iuſques à la ſommité d'ice- ººººº luy. auquel endroict icelles s'vniſſent,s'infinuent dedans l'autre duplicature d'icelle dure-mere laquelle " "º diuiſe le cerueau en deux parties,à ſçauoir dextre & ſeneſtre.et telle vnion s'eſtend iuſques au front,ſelon la rectitude de la ſuture ſagittale:& a eſté nommée d'aucuns torcular,autrement preſſoir:pource que d'ice- les vaiſ- luy eſt exprime le ſang qui nourrit le cerueau par vn grand nombre de vaiſſeaux qui ſont fort manifeſtes. ſeaux qui finalement le derniervſage de la dure-mere,eſt de diuiſer par ſa duplicature tout le cerueau , principale- entrent au ment en deux parties, anterieure,& poſterieure. puis apres en meſme ſorte elle diuiſe encores le cerueau crane s'v en partie dextre,& ſeneſtre,afin qu'vne partie eſtant bleſsée, l'autre demeuraſt entiere , faiſant ſon action, niſſent au ainſi qu'il nous eſt cogneu aux paralytiques. et te ſuffiſe pour le preſent de la deſcription de la dure-mere: torcular. combien que nous pouuons noter auecques columbus, qu'icelle membrane eſt double , comme eſt decla- weine torc* ré,amplement en ſon anatomie,ce que certes nous auons trouué veritable. " " ?* la ſeconde membrane du cerueau eſt nommée pia mater,ſubtile & fort deſliée,tiſſue de pluſieurs veines ſºſº ººº & arteres pour ſa vie & nourriture,& auſſi du cerueau. elle n'enueloppe ſeulement le cerueau comme la ##. dure-mere,mais auſſi s'inſere dedans les profonditez & anfractuoſitez d'iceluy, pour le lier & tenir enſem- vaiſſeau re- ble de toute part, iuſques à lacapacité des ventricules , auecques pluſieurs petits fibres , par leſquels eſt foit. coiointe auecque le cerueau:& à raiſon de ſa tenuité & adherence ne le peut aiſement ſeparer.parquoy la derniervſa- faut voir & conſiderer en ſa ſituation,& la leuer auecques la ſubſtance dudit cerueau.or icelles membra- ge de la du- nes quand elles ſont affligées, excitent grande douleur,pour la vehemence de laquelle voudrois affermer e /y ere. que leſdites membranes ſont plus cauſe du ſentiment,que n eſt la propre ſubſtance du cerueau.auxmaladies premier,ap- duquel n'apparoiſt que petite douleur, comme on peut voir en la maladie nommée lethargus. pellée des #. ºu la figure premiere de la teſte, apres auoir oſté le crane ». les mem - branes du cerxeau ſont # du " / l a la face exterieure de enf / ºnf. la dure-mere. b la lethargus. - # jºº t veine torcular. c la - * =i - ·s veine iugulaire iuterne, diſtribuée en pluſieurs & diuers rameaux. d d certains petits rameaux de la veine torcular, qui vont au trauers du cra- ne ou diploé , & aucuir exterieur de la teſte. e e certaines fibres produi- tes de la dure-mere,paſ- ſans par la ſuture coro- nale , & conſequemment des autres ſutures pour la production du peri- ct ilc. ºull # \ § "- - - º - -- y- m- du cerueau. c h a p. v i. # n s v r maintenant le cerueau,qui eſt principe des nerfs, & dumouuement volontaire, iuſtru- l † de la premiere & principale faculté de l'ame, c'eſt à ſçauoir, animable & raiſonnable,lequel eſt † † § * nul autre animant, rempliſſant quaſi tout le crane. ie dis quaſi : car s'il i'cii] dlv cill totl - :--- . ºpºº ººººuuementn'euſt peu eſtre accomply. son temperament eſt f§ & § les b # | v | de l'anatomie. o toutes choſes qui luy ſont obiectées pareillement quand il n'eſt point trop endormy,ny veillant,qu'il ratio- cine & diſcourt fort bien n'eſtant point opiniaſtre, ne ſubitement muable en quelque opinion qu'il a con- ceue & apprehendée,mais mue & change ſa ſentence, lors qu'vne meilleure raiſon ou veriſimil de appa- roiſt.lors que le cerueau eſt trop chaud,c'eſt que nos ſens & mouuemens du corps ſont legers, & le dormir bref,& peu profondinous ſommes auſſiinconſtans d'eſprit & d'entendement, & combien qu'apprehendions & apprenions ſubitement & facilement, nonobſtant cela , nous ſommes legers & muables en nos appre . henſions & opinions, & oublions ſubitement ce que nous auons appris , auſſi les choſes cha des oiis offenſent ſubitement, comme le soleil , & eſtre prés du feu. de facilement apprénent les arts & ſciences,auſſi ſoudainement les oublient car comme vne telle ſubſtance molle reçoit aisément les formes, & images des choſes qui luy ſont preſentées par les ſens exterieurs,ainſi facilement & toſt les laiſſe couler ſans les pouuoir retenir longuement,à cauſe de ſon humidité & moleſſe. ce que l'on void en vne terremolle , en laquelle on imprime promptement & aisément telles images que | fon veut mais auſſi bien toſt ſont effacées : pource que les parties de ceſte terre , qui eſtoient diſioinctes pour faire place à ceſte figure & image,ſont bien toſt reünies & r'aſſemblées,àcauſe de ceſte moleſſe vn tel cerueau rend tous les ſens peſans, & les mouuemens du corps tardifs , & le dormir long & profond. son action & vſage , eſt d'elaborer l'eſprit animal neceſſaire à tout le corps, & de ſeruir comme d'organe aux operations de la principale faculté de l'ame, qui eſt la raiſonnable. le cerueau eſt double, anterieur,& poſterieur, diuisé par les replis de la dure - mere , comme nous ºuons parcy-deuant dit doncques le poſterieur eſt nommé cerebelle : à raiſon de ſa petiteſſe, & l'anterieur à raiſon de ſa grandeur, a retenu le nom du tout, ſçauoir de cerueau,lequel eſt encores double,dextre & feneſtre : effant auſſi diuisé par la ſe- conde duplicature de la dure mere.cù noteras, que le nom de diuiſion en ce lieu icy ne doit eſtre prins à la rigueur,pour totale ſeparationl'vn de l'autre, mais pluſtoſt comme choſe ſelon ſa plus grande partie di- uisée, comme nous diſons des lobes,des poulmons,& du foye. car tout ainſi qu'iceux ne ſont point totalé- ment ſeparez & diuiſez l'vn de l'autre, ains contenus en leur baſe : ainſi pouuons-nous dire des parties du cerueau, leſquelles comme lobes,ſont vnies en chacune diuifion ſur leur baſe & fondement : comtne ſante- rieur tant dextre que ſeneſtre auecque le poſterieur, au commencement de la nucque ou medulle fpinale. la ſuperficie exterieure du cerueau eſt molle,& !'interieure dure,calleuſe & fortvnie, au contraire de l' - terieure,laquelle eſt anfractueuſe,& repreſentant vers entortillez les vns auec les autres en diuerſesmanic. res à l'entour de ladite ſubſtance calleuſe, - c seconde figure, demonſtrant le cerueau à deſcouuert. a a a la dure - mere incisée. b b la cauité de la veine torcular , de laquelle eſt arrousée & nourrie tou- te la ſubſtance du cerueau. cc les veines iſſantes du tor- cular , liées & inſerées par la pie-mere, par leſquel- les la nourriture & aliment eſt porté au cerueau. ddd la pie - mere reueſtant tout le cerueau,auecque les veines & arteres d'icelle. et quant à la ſubſtance ſu- perficielle du cerueau , qui eſt comme vers entrela- cez , ou entortillez enſem- ble , elle t'eſt manifeſtée à - l'oeil. a a monſtrent le cerebellum couuert de la pie mere. b b b le vermiformis tant anterieur que pofte- rieur, dont l'anterieur eſt entierement ſeparé. c c l'endroit du cerebellum qui produit l'eſ- - pine medulle. - k drr | a les ſignes pour cognoiſtre quº le cerueau eſt bien téperé c'eſtlors quel'on cognoiſt les fens tant interieurs les ſignes qu'exterieurs, faire fortbien leur deuoir & office,c'eſt à dire quand l'houime cognoiſt & aprehéde fort bié ºu cerºaº ten temte- / j'º. signes du certſeats at - c e /ie ! - - - chaud, exce- ceux qui ont le cerueau froid , ſont §- les plus tardifs de tous à conceuoir en l'entendement , & apprendre les arts & diſciplines , mais en peré. leurs opinions & aduis ils ſont plus feimes & ſtables que tous les autres. ils ont leurs mouuemens lourds signes du • tardifs & pareſſeux : leur dormir peſant & profond ceux qui ont le cerueau ſec,ſont auſſi tardifs a appren ſºia ,x - dre , d'autant (comme nous dirons) quel'on engraue à plus grande peine, ce que l'on veut marquer & im- dans le tem- primerés corps durs, qu'en ceux qui ſont mols. ils ſont vifs en leur entendement ou intelligence : ils ont pºré. d pareillement les mouuemens de leurs corps prompts & habiles. ceux qui ont le cerueau beaucoup humi- º º cerueau ſec excedant le temperé. signes du cerueau hu- mide exce- dant le temperé. action du ce 'l eam. le rerueats eſt double , cerebelle . ccrueau dºxtre &r ſemeſtre . le nom de diuiſion en ce lieu ne doit eſtre prins à la ri- gneur. - la ſuperficie extérieure du cerueau eſt molle, & r ſ'interieure m &.j. - y v c) le cinquieſme liure, - des ventricules du cerueau & apophyſes mammilaires. c º * " v i i. a · l'ordre a- - p r e s ces choſes veuës , & conſiderées, faut voir les ventricules. et pour cº # eſ beſoin de · matomique coupervne bonne partie de la ſubſtance du cerueau, & en la coupant de # † vne reſiida- # requiert la # tion de ſang qui ſort des poroſitez d'icelle. outreplus, faut auſſi conſiderer la ubſtance ſpon- º contempla- º gieuſe,en laquelle ſont contenuës les excremens,qui puis apres ſont expurgez par lacuna,ou co- " tion des ven. latoire. ce fait,trouueras dedans la ſubſtance d'iceluy tantanterieur que poſterieur, quatre ventricules ou v. tricules du concauitez conioinctes enſéble par certaines voyes,par leſquelles les eſprits informez par les eſpeces ſenſi- #- cerf e . bles & intelligibles, peuuent paſſer, & communiquer l'vn à l'autre. doncques les deux premiers, & plus - ººº ºº grands ſont mis & colloquez au cerueau anterieur vn de chacû coſté,le tiers ſous iceux,tout au milieu du # cerueau. le quart & dernier eſt ſur la deſcente de la nucque,lequel on attribue totalement au cerebelle ou ". # " petit cerueau, pource qu'on dit que la nucque ſemble plus prendre dudit cerebelle que du cerueau. or : tricttles. quant aux deux ventricules premiers & anterieurs,ils ſont couchez,& eftendus tout le long du cerueau en - forme de deux croiſſans, les cornes deſquels regardent vers le dehors : iceux ſont fort grands & ſpacieux, "----- * pource qu'il falloit que l eſprit eſtant encore auec tous ſes excremens fuſt là elaboré,& repurgé d'iceux.au | j'entricules moien dequoy telle grandeur leur a eſté baillée plus qu'aux autres ventricules,où l'eſprit eſt deſia receu,& "º en tout elaboré,& quaſi parfaict.leſdits vétricules ſont fort blács,vnis & polis en leur ſuperficie & face in- terieure,horſmis qu'ils ont ſur le milieu du croiſſant vne exuberance tant d'vn coſté que d'autre, couchée - ſur la baſe de la colône du ventricule moyen,tendant vers le nez,ſous le septhum lucidum, lequel diuiſe & septum luci- ſepare les deux premiers ventricules.ledit scptum lucidum n'eſt autre choſe qu'vne partie du cerueaume- dan eſt vne diocremét ſolide,toutesfois traſparâte & lucide:au moyen dequoy les eſprits animaux des ventricules an- # terieures communiquent enſemble & côbien que ledit septſ ſoit aſſez ſubtil & tranſpartant, neantmoins il b ciae & eſt fort denſe,veu que l'eau contenue dans l'vn des vétricules ne peut autrauers d'iceluy paſſer dedans l'au- - tranſparan- º » ainſi que i'ay ſouuent obſerué,& non ſans grande admiration, en l'ouuerture des gens morts de para- | fe. lyſie, auſquels i'ay trouué le ventricule du coſté de la paralyſie , dilaté & eſlargy de la quantité d'eau en : iceluy contenuë, combien qu'en l'autre n'y en euſt point , ou non dauantage pour le moins que l'on trou- | ue à ceux qui ne meurent de paralyſie. toutesfois aucuns ont voulu dire qu'on trouue touſiours certaine (! ia cauſe de aquoſité dans les ventricules,qui ſe fait par la concretion des vaporeux eſprits animaux,faite par la froidu- (! l'eau , qu'on re qui vient quant & quant la mort dauantage il faut entendre que ces deux ventricules ſe terminent en *. trºº * vn cômun conduit,côme deux ſoufflets de forge,par leq uel l eſprit deſdicts ventricules anterieures infor- : •ventricules au cerueau. plexu cho- roides eſt vne epiphyſe de la pie- / erº, deux ſortes d'ex cremens a jº c'é' '/ ' f . ofinion de galien, l'vtilité des ventricules anterieurs tiers ventri. cule , & ſa ſtuation. p'alloide, ott fernix, 'ou- te , ou ber- fed t , conar tun. j. vtilité du c marium. natés ou feffes du cer- ºſ.' /f. vermifor- mis , & de ...ſ. n vtilité. mé des eſpeces, eſt porté au moyen ventricule. outre plus il faut conſiderer eſdicts ventricules vn corps - nommé .exus ci o oidºs : auſſi le conduit ou voye,par laquelle les excrcmens gros, & limonneux ſe purgent - par la glande pituitaire ou colatoire. or le plexu · booiae n'eſt autre choſe qu'vne epiphyſe de la pie-mere illec enuoyee,farcy & tiſſu de veines & arteres differëtes des autres, entortillee en forme de rets enſemble, qu'elle a en toute la circonference du cerueau, ſeulement en quantité, & toutesfois ſuffiſante, tant potir propre nourriture & vie , que pour la generation des eſprits d il il a llx , leſquels prennent de tels vaiſſeaux produits audit plexus choroiae,de lartere poſterieure & veine o culaire , matiere idoine & propre ſoit qu'elle ſoit vaporeuſe ou autre,comme auſſi de l'air par les apophyſes mammillaires, qui ſont voyes corn- munes tant à luy qu'aux odeurs & excremens ſuperfius : vcu que l abondance de matiere trop craſſe , & viſqueuſe empeſche l'air : & les odeurs deparuenir au cerueau, comme l'on void à ceux qui ont catar- reux , & enrhumez : à cauſe dequoy s'enſuiuent douleurs de tcſte,& eſtcrnument,lors que la faculté anima- le expultrice eſt forte, & la matiere n'eſt pas trop craſſe & viſqueuſe et quant aux excremens du cerueau, leſquels luy ſont apportez par les veines & arteres,ou autrement les vns iont rares & aereux,leſquels s'eua- porent inſenſiblement par les ſutures du crane, ainſi qu'auons † des vtilitez d'icelles : les autres ſont cras & viſqueux, leſquels ſont euacuez des ventricules par leſdits procez mammillaires ( ſelon l'opi- nion de gallien ) d'vn coſté & d'autre, enſemble,ou à part. et partant les vns diſent auoir vne narine bou- chée ſeulement,quand la matiere ou excrement morueux deſcend ſeulement par vne de ces apqphyſes : les autres toutes deux , quand elles ne diſtillent ny de l vne ny de l'autre. l'vtilité particuliere , & principale " d'iceux ventricules, eſt de loger la faculté imaginatiue & eſtimatiue, lors qu il eſt queſtion que l'ame par icelle examine toute & chacune piece illec rapportée , ar les ſens exterieurs,les conferant enſemble & met- tant par ordre pour en auoir vray , & iuſte iugement de la faculté raiſonnable,laquelle tient ſon conſiſtoire au ventricule moyen. le tiers ventricule, qui eſt le moyen, eſt ſitué entre l'extremité poſlerieure des deux vétricules anterieuies, & le ventricule poſterieur. mais auant que faire mention du quart,& dernier ventri- cul e,il faut conſider les parties qui s'enſuiuent,à ſ auoir le pſalloide,le conarion,le corps nommé nates,la- pophyſe vermiformis , le peluis, le conduit paſſant , & trauerſant de ce ventricule au dernier. cr quant au premier nommé pfaloide ou fornix, ce n'eſt autre choſe que le tect ou couuerture du ſuſdit moyen ven- tricule,lequel repreſente vne voute ſitué ſur trois pilliers, dont i'vn s'eſteni iuſques pres le nez ſous le se- ptum lucidum : les deux autres vers les parties poſterieures du cerueau,vn de chacun coſté. la cauſe de telle figure qui eſt par dehors boſſue,& par dedans creuſe, a eſté afin qu'il y puiſſe auoir libre eſpace,& aiſee pour le mouuement que fait leans l'eſprit animal,& auſſi qu'il peuſt mieux ſouſtenir,& por- ter la grande quantité du cerueau, qui eſt appuyé,& mis tant d'vn coſté que d'autre : car telle figure ou vou- te ſouſtient plus grand faix que toute autre. quant au ſecond,c'eſt vne petite glandule de la meſine ſubſtä- ce du cerucau, ronde & oblongue en forme d'vne pomme de pin,à cauſe dequoy a eſté nommée conariû: laqu.lle cſt ſituée vis à vis du petit trou qui deſcend au dernier ventricule,eſtant attachée aux parties late- rales diceluy, & partie baſſe par continuatió de ſubſtäce de ladite giandule,& du cerueau. son vtilité eſt de renforcer la diuiſion des vaiſſeaux illec conduits auec vne apophyſe de la i ie-mere, pour la generation de l'efprit animal,& donner vie,& nourriture au cerueau. le tiers,que nous auons appellé gloutia ounatés, «ſt vn corps de ſubſtance fort ſolide, & tresblanche, mis par ſous la ſuſdite glandule, lequel eſt ainſi ap- pellé.à cauſe qu'il reprenſente deux petites feſſes d'enfant,toutesfois mieux des beftes que des hommes, & cncores mieux du mouton, que nul autre animal. et a eſté fait ainſi ſolide, afin qu'il ſupportaſt dauantage le trou que nous ations dit deſcendre de cedit ventricule au poſterieur, par le moyen duquel le cerneau eſt conioint auec le cerebelle. le quatriefme eſt vne apophyſe dudit cerebelle , & portion d'iceluy la plus haute,faicte comme pluſieurs pieces circulaires, ou ruelles jointes enſéble par petites membranes:laquel- le pour la ſimilitude quelle a auec ces gros vers blancs que l on trouue au bois pourry,a eſté appellée ver- miformis,comme qui diroit ver ſemblant. son vtilité eſt de ſeruir audit conduit § de portier,lequel en temps & lieu laiſſe paſſer les eſprits,tant qu'il en eſt beſoin au vcntricule poſterieur:de peur que s'ils v paſſoiét trop ſubits,ils ne fiſſent confuſion des choſes memorables:& partant a eſté ſitué ſur le cómencemét du del'anatomie. i i i b a du cerebelle, pour clorre & ouurir ledit conduit quant au cinquieſine, c'eſt le conduit à euacuer les ex- cremens gros & cras par le palais lequel pour ſa figure eſt appellé choana ou pelius, pource qu'il a ſem- choana, blance d'vn petit baſſin, ou bien d'vn entonnoir,pour ſon vſage : & ainſi pource qu'vn entonnoir de ſa par- pleuis. tie fuperieure eſt large, deſcendant touſiours en appetiſſant,auſſi ce conduit eſt ainſi fait. il'deſcend depuis le ſuſditventricule iuſques à la glandule fituée entre les apophyſes clinoïdes, comme tu pouras veoir à l'œil : conduiſant d'enhaut en bas quelque verge ou quelque ſpatule bien deliée & mince,posée dedans le creux dudit conduit, reſte le ſixieſme & dernier des choſes proposées qui eſt le conduit paſſant de ce ven- tricule au dernier, pour eſtre le canal de l'eſprit, & des concluſions priſes au moyen ventricule, au poſte- rieur, comme en vn liure de regiſtres,ou dedans vn threſor , duquel on les puiſſe repeter & prendre en cas de neceſſité. or cedit conduit deſcend de ſon origine , auec le peluis, puis bien toſtapres le laiſſant, s'en ., . - va pardeſſus natés au dernier ventricule : à ceſte cauſe pour le monſtrer, faut conduire la queue d'vne ſpa-#philºſºphie tule tout au long d'iceluy iuſques au ventricule poſterieur, lequel tu trouueras par ce moyen deſchirant le- º*** dit conduit,& diuiſant parmy natés.l'vtilité & vſage du ventricule moyen,eſt de ſeruir comme de tribunal # atrieſmé & conſiſtoire à la faculté raiſonnable, lors que l'ame par icelle veut faire ſes iugemens, & prendre ſes con- # cluſions des choſes à ſoy preſentées par l'imaginatiue,eſtimatiue,ou fantaiſie. le quart & dernier ventricu- / • le eſt ſitué (comme a eſté dict en la conjonction de cerueau anterieur & poſterieur ) ſur la deſcente de ſa nucque,lequel on attribué totalement au cerebelle,pource que la ſuſdite nucque ſemble plus proceder d'iceluy que du cerueau. il eſt entre tous le plus petit, & auſſi plus ſolide : plus petit, pource qu'il n'auoit à receuoir que l'eſpritparfaictement elaboré : & pource moindre en quantité : plus dur & plus ſolide pour yaiiité de le mieux & plus ſeuremét contenir. l'vſage & vtilité d'iceluy eſt de garder & conſeruer ce qui aura eſtécö- quatrieſme clu & deliberé de l'eſprit, afin que toutes les fois que la perſonne ſe voudra ayder des concluſions priſes ，entriºul . auparauant, ou des choſes notables qu'elle aura voulu tenir, elle puiſſe tirer de là comme d vn threſor, ce la memoire dontilſera beſoin en temps & lieu ce qui ſera declaré cy-apres plus amplement au liure de la genetation. eſt le threſor ie ſçay bien que galien & les medecins grecs n'ont point mis les trois facultez ſuſdites en diuers lieux,mais de ſcience, ont voulu que toutes trois ſoient en toute la ſubſtance du cerueau,comme meſme a diſputé monſieur fernel & gardien- en ſa phyſiologie : mais i'ay ſuiuy la plus commune opinion des arabes, comme la plus facile. ne de ce les inſtrumens & conduits de la faculté odoratiue ( que nous appellons apophyſes mammillaires) ſont º'ºn ºp- certaines productions ou auancemens de la ſubſtance du cerueau, faicte en forme de nerf, leſquelles deſ-pº, , cendans des cornes poſterieures des ventricules anterieures, aux os nommez ethmoïdes, ſpongieux,cri- apophyſas apohyſes. clinoides. - - - - - - • - . / illai- ' bleux,oucolatoires du nez, afin que par icelles la faculté odoratiue portée par l eſprit conuénable à ce fai- mmillai : - - - - - - - - - re ; re,puiſſe prendre & receuoir les eſpeces des odeurs,& d'illec conduire icelles iuſques aux ventricules,ainſi - i- - - - • - - * v iii é des , . qu'il a eſté neceſſaire pour le iugement qu'il faut qu'elles reçoiuent de la faculté raiſonnable, ſçauoir eſt de titité des , - - - - - - apeph : * bonté oumalignité, ou mediocrité des deux. or ne ſont elles point appellées nerfs, jaçoit qu'elles en pephyſes . - mammillais # ayentla forme, pource qu'elles ne ſortent point hors du crane, # *ºs, uatrieſme figure du cerueau. *.. a a a la ſubſtance calleuſe du cerueaui # - - #" , #: b b b b lesanfractuoſitez du certreau. • - º : , c c les cauitez des ventriculesanterieur º ics. · - - *,. d d les plexus choroides. ºr e e la figure exterieure du fournix. f la partie ſuperieure du septum luci- dum, ſeparant les deux ventrieu- les anterieurs, * # -- i i , le cinquieſme liure, | ------ la cinquiéme figure . a a monſtrent le fornix renuersé du deuant au derriere, & couure le tiers ventricule. b b le plexus coroides. c l'endroit de la glandule nommée conarium. d d certains vaiſſeaux produits de la ， partie anterieure du plexus co- - roides. | ! n |. i， c: a a monſtrent les portions ducerueau qui produiſent l'eſpineme- ， dulle. h . b le conduit qui deſcend du tiers ventricule au quatrieſme,pat deſ- c c. ſous les deux corps nommez gloutia ou natez. le quatrieſme ventricule. le conarium. - les corps nommez gloutia ou natez. le commencement de l'eſpine medule. la cauité de l'eſpine medule. le commencement de l'eſpine medulle ſortant hors du crane. ' # pº / pt coniugaiſons, paires ou couples de nerf du cerueau, ainſi appllez pource qu'ils ſont touſiours deux à deux : ſpauoir eſt, l'vn du dextre coſté, & l'autre du coſtéſeneſtre. c h a p. v i i i. % e s nerfs ſont les voyes & inſtrumens ou organes de l'eſprit animal, & des facultez portées d s> par iceux : & ſont faicts d'vne partie ſimple au dedans du cerueau, ou de la spinale medulle, sºft coniu- $ / $ f n # de ) $ mais ſortis hors,tant de l'vn que de l'autre.ils ſont faits & compoſez par la reueſture ou cou- nerf . > ^syé# uerte des membranes du cerueau, & d'vne tierce (ſelon aucuns anatomiſtes)venans des liga- | uantité. f， mens,tant ceux qui lient les vertebres,qu'autres. laquelle choſe,ſauf meilleur iugement,me | figure. ſemble eſtre impertinente,veu qu'icelle membrane eſt totalemement contraire,cóme inſenſible au nerf, qui | ººpºſitiºn eſt de bailler ſentiment & mouuement. leur ſubſlance & portion contenue encores dans le cerueau, n'eſt en rien differente de la ſubſtance d'iceluy quât en côſiſtance & ſolidité;mais leur quantité eſt diuerſe pour la plus grande ou plus petite neceſſité de la partie où ils ſont inſerez. leur figure eſt ronde en forme d'vn canal ou tuyau.leur côpoſition eſt dedans le crane de la ſimple ſubſtance calleuſe du cerueau:& paſſans au trauers des trous du crane,les membranes du cerueau ſe percent,y cauans des trous,non qui les pertuiſent 'tilité. d'outre en outre,mais s'eſlargiſſent en figure d'vne flufte,côme il ſe fait au procés du peritoine, qui va aux teſticules, que nous diſons eſtre cóme la voye d'vn gant,tellemét qu'ils ſont reueſtus de ladure,& pie-mere. ils ſont nourris & viuifiez,ou par les veines& arteres capillaires,qui deſcendent en iceux auec leſdictes mé- branes,ou par autres conduits imperceptibles exterieurement en iceux.ils ſont faits pour donner ſentiment aux mébranes capables de ſentir,mouuemét aux mobiles,& cognoiſsâce de ce qui eſt inuiſible.et outre que · les nerfs donnent ſentiment à toutes les parties du corps , nature a donné vn ſentiment ſpecial à ceux qui doiuent ſeruir à la vertu & faculté d'vn chacun des ſens corporels que les autres n'ont point. exemple:des | nerfs optiques pour ſeruir à la vertu viſuelle : ceux du nez pour odorer , ceux de la langue pour gouſter,& ceux de la main pour le tact , comme nous deduirons cy-apres, le tout par la grande prouidence de dieu. trente ſept et quand au nombre principal , lequel mediatement ou immediatement ſort du cerueau, il eſt de trente- ſcpt paires : dont il y en a ſept , ou huit qui ſortent immediatement du cerueau , & les trente par le pairer de - - - »erf,, moyen de la ſpinale medulle, comme tu entendras , tant en ce liure icy , qu'au liure ſubſequent : - c i - y . - - " . e , , v - - del'anatomie, i i car à ceſte heure nous parlerons ſeulement de ceux qui immediatement viennent du cerueau &, au liure ſubſequent de ceux qui viennent de la spinale medulle. - - - - la premiere paire des nerfs du cerueau eſt plus groſſe que toutes les autres,laquelle va aux yeux,pour il- prònicre c# lec bailler voye & paſſage à l'eſprit viſuel : & toutesfois auant que ſortir hors du crane, ils s'inſerent en- . #. cc. ſemble en forme de fer de moulin, faiſans &conſtituans de leurs cauitez non apparentes à l'œil,vn cômun gatſon. conduit,par lequel l'eſprit apporté par les deux nerfs ſe communique de l'vn à l'autre.et qui ſoit ainſi,telle choſe nous eſt bien demonſtrée , tant par les hacbutiers, qu': baleſtriers , qu'autres ayans perdp !'vn des # yeux, ou bien clos, qui voient plºus ſubtilement & plus loing de l'œil qui demeure ouuert,que non pas des # u - deux enſemble : ce qui ne ſe feroit,ſi l'eſprit qui eſtoit porté à l'œil clos & bouché,ne paſſoit à l'autre.et la jº/ x, cauſe de telle ſubtilité de veue par vn œil, eſt la plus grande vnion de la vertu,viſiue,qui eſt en plus grande quantité de l'eſprit viſuel , ainſi que nous enſeignent les phyloſophes, qui diſent que la vertu vnie, eſt plus grande que la diſpersée.or icelle coniugaiſon eſtant veuë iuſques à l'humeurvitreux de l'œil ſe conſomme an puiſ en la ſtructure & compoſition de la tunique d'iceluy, nommée en grec amphibliſtroide, ou retiforme,la- #. quelle reueſt par derriere,& nourrit cét humeur vitreux,ainſi qu'ilte ſera demonſtré en la diſſection de l'œil. for». or que le nerf optique aye cauité manifeſte, cela ne peut eſtre exactement cogneu : carla ſituation & figure gal. liu, s. des parties ne ſe peuuent cognoiſtre parfaictement lors que l'animal eſt mort, parce que lame en eſthors: chap. s. de & par ce moyen eſt euacuée grande quantité d'eſprits, & vapeurs ioint que la chaleur naturelle eſt eſtein- l'vſage des § les humeurs qui eſtoient en la partie, ſont comme congelez, § froid. la ſeconde coniugaiſon pºrties. ſe diuiſe en portions ſur l'iſſue du crane:& à la racine de l'orbite ſe diſtribué aux ſept muſcles de l'œil pour º ſeconds. faire les mouuemens d'iceluy. la tierce eſt double, & en ſortant pareillement hors du crane, ſe diuiſe la tierse. en pluſieurs rameaux : dont les vns s'en vont aux muſcles temporaux, & maſticatoires,& au cuir de la face, du front, & parties du nez, qui ſont capables de ſentir. les autres rameaux vont à la mandibule ſuperieure, ze, o, d, l, . & parties appartenantes à icelles : comme aux dents, genciues & aux muſcles de ſa levre. les troiſieſmes face ſentr， c branches iettans rameaux, tant d'vn coſté que d'autre, vont à la mantibule inferieure, & partied'icelle,com- tuiſez pour me auſſi aux dents genſiues, & muſcles de ſa levre, & aux ronds: leſquels circonſcriuent interieurement les donnerraſſa- parties laterales de la bouche, comme il te ſera cy-apres dclaré en ſon lieu.les derniers rameaux s'inſe- se aux nerfs rent & perdent en la tunique de la langue,pour la rendre apte à diſcerner des ſaueurs:au moyen dequoy gal- de la troiſieſ. lien les appelle guſtatifs. la quatrieme coniugaiſon & plus petite,ſe perd & conſomme preſque toute en la ººgºi- tunique du palais,iarendit apte auſſi aiugerauecque la languedesfaueurs.la cinquiéme eſt double,& a ſon ſº .. origine dans le crane, & enuoye ſa plus grande portion au trou de l'oreille, pour bailler paſſage à la faculté la quatrieſ- auditiue, faite par la reuerberation de l'air, de laquelle ſont faits les ſons.l'autre portion plus petite va aux # • • muſcles temporaux par le trou prochain, duquel ſort le nerfde la ſeconde coniugaiſon.la ſixiéme apres les § ºuiſ- optiques plus grande, eſtant ſortie hors du crane toute entiere, baille certains petits rameaux à aucuns la ſixieſme muſcles du col, & du larynx : puis deſcend dans le thorax, & fait les nerfs recurrens en reuerſifs, puis netf k . deſcendent en toutes les parties des deux ventres inferieurs iuſques à la veſſie & aux teſticules, ainſi que tu rens. as entendu au premier liure. la ſeptiéme coniugaiſon ſe perd & s'inſere aux muſcles de l'os hyoide & de laſeptiémr. la langue, & en aucuns du larynx,pour faire le mouuement d'iceux, & ſort hors le crane parle trou de l'os occiput pres des eminences d'iceluy: tous leſquels te ſeront demonſtrez par ceſte figure. figure ſeptième, qui eſt des huict coniugaiſons des nerf du cerueai. aaa monſtrent la face exterieure du cerueau qui eſt comme vers entrelacez enſemble. b b la face exterieure du cerebellum. c c les inſtrumens de l'odorat. d le principe ou racinede l'eſpine medulle, contenant en partie , le quatrieſme ventriculé. e là spinale medulle ſortant hors le crane,commençant àdeſcen- - - dre aux vertebres. . - f f les nerfs optiques , qui ſont les , premiers. - g la conionction deſdits nerfs, qui - eſt en forme de fer de moulin. h h les tuniques de l'œil , nommées amphibliſtroïdes, faicte des - nerfs cptiques. i i la ſeconde paire des nerfs mou- uans les yeux. - k k la troiſiéme paire des nerfs qui s'en va au palais. . - ll la quatrieſine paire de rerfs qui ſe diſtribuent, ainſi qu'il ſera monſtré cy-apres. m m la cinquieſme qui s'en va aux oreilles, ou en ſon extremité ſe dilate, & fait membrane du cxcum foramen , laquelle t'eſt monſtré par oo. n la ſixiéme paire, laquelle deſcend comme ii te ſera cy-apresmonſtré. j> a - • »rsur e mnii- oo †§ § les nn.monſtrent la ſeptieſme paire, laquelle sºn ** la langue pour le mou -- uement d'icelle. • • • •- - ppp la huictieſme paire, delaiſſée des anciens anaſtomites- k huičtieſme ii le cinquieſme liure, huičtieſme figure-». a a a monſtrent la face exterieure du cerueau deſnué de ſes membranes. b la face du cerebellum. c vn des inſtrumens de l'odorat, - d l'vn des proces mammillàires. e l'vn des nerfs optiques. f l'vn des nerfs de la ſeconde paire. g vne portion de la tierce coniugaiſon, de la- quelle vn rameauva au front marqué par ( ) d'où vne portion va à la membra- ne du nez, marquée par ( ) & vne au- tre portion va à la mandibule fuperieure marquée par ( ) vne autre portion v au muſcle temporel, marqué par ( ) h monſtre la plus grande portion de la tierce pai- re, dont la premiere ramification, qui t'eſt marquée par ( ) va aux dents & aux genciuies de la mädibule ſuperieure. l'autre qui t'eſt maquée par ( ) s'en va à la mandibule inferieure : duquel vne portion quit'eſt marquée par ( ) s'en va à la levre inferieure. et le reſte qui t'eſt marqué par( )s'en va perdre à la tuni- que de la langue. i monſtre la quatriéme paire des nerfs, laquelle s'en va perdre en la tunique du palais. qui t'eſt marquée par ( ). k monſtre le plus petit nerfdu cerueau, lequel (laiſsé des anciens anatomiſtes) s'en va aux muſcles mouuans lamandibule infe- rieure:ſon † eſt troute prochaine du nerfauditif, laquelle auonsmarquée en la figure des nerfs pour la huictieſme paire. l monſtre la cinquiéme paire des nerfs, laquelle ſe diuiſe en trois portions, dont la plus grande marquée par( o)fait la tunique - - de l'oüye. les deux autres plus petites, quite ſont marquées par(m ) & ( ) vont au muſcle temporal, auecque vne portion de la troiſiéme paire, laquelle eſt faite en maniere de capreoles de vigne, ainſi que tu peux voir en la figure & trait dudit nerf. m m monſtrent les nerfs de la ſixieſme paire, leſquels ſe diſtribuentainſi que s'enſuit : premierement, ils enuoyent leur premier rameau aux muſcles poſterieurs du col, qui t'eſt marquée par ( ). secondement ils enuoyent vne autre portion à aucuns muſcles du larynx, qui t'eſt marquée par ( .) tiercement, ils ſe reduiſent en deux rameaux,dont l'vn deſcend le long de la racine des coſtes interieurement, ſe meſlant auec les nerfs intercoſtaux par certaines petites productions marquée par(yy)qui ſortent de l'eſpine medullai- re pour aller aux muſcles intercoſtaux, qui t'eſt marquée par ( ) : l'autre portion qui t'eſt marquée par - ( ) deſcend à l'eſtomach,& ſe diuiſe ainſi que s'enſuit. premierement, ils renuoyent deux petits rameaux aux muſcles, qui montent du torax, & clauicules vers le larinx, qui te ſont marquées par ( ): puis fait le nerf recurrens, qui t'eſt marqué par ( )du coſté droit : car du coſté gauche il eſt apres la diſtribution que s'enſuit : ſçauoir eſt, aux poulmons,& au pericarde donc ceux des poulmons te ſont marquez par( ), & ceux du pericarde par ( o), & le reſte va à l'orifice ſuperieur du ventricule, & en tout ſon corps. n n monſtrent la ſeptieſme paire des nerfs, laquelle ſe diuiſe comme il s'enſuit : premierement, aux muſcles ſortans de l'os styloïde ou claual, marqué par ( ): secondement aux muſcles de la langue, & à ceux de l'os hyoïde, & en aucuns du larynx, qui te ſont marquez par ( ): le demeurant ſe meſle auec la ſixieſine paire, comme tu vois par ( . o monſtre vne portion de la spinale medulle, iſſuë hors le crane. -s - - b $ § iº * du rets admirable, & glandule baſilaire ». c h a p. i x. v" : r de l'eſprit vital eſt fait l'eſprit animal, enuoyé du cœur par les arteres carotides internes $ au cerueau, pource qu'il eſtoit requis qu'il fuſt mieux cuit & digeré, d'autant que l'action ani- ，] male eſt plus noble que la vitale. et pourtant nature a produit& baſty vne diuiſion d'arteres l é en petits filcts entrelacez enſemble en diuerſe forme, paſſant l'vn par deſſus l'autre, par plu- n nnez^nº ſieurs fois ſe coupant & diuiſant maintenant en vne ſorte, maintenant en autre, auec plu- rets admi- ſieurs circonuolutions, & entortilleures comme vu petit labyrinthe, faiſant vne merueilleuſe texture en rable. maniere d vn filet ou rets. et pour ceſte cauſe a eſté appellé des anciens rets admirable : & a eſté ainſi fait, afin que l'eſprit y fiſt plus longue demeure, pour illec eſtre mieux agité,elaboré, ſubtilisé & mis en extreme perfection:ce qui fait l'animal prompt & idoine à rendre les fonctiös & actions ja declarées de la par oà la pi- faculté animale : laquelle auſſi a obtenu de nature les inſtrumens plus parfaicts, d'autant qu'elle excede la #. vitale. or ledit rets double, ſitué aux parties laterales des apophyſes clinoides,diuisé & ſeparé par ilya ueau ſe pur-lº glandule colatoite,laquelle eſt miſe au milieu deſdictes apophyſes clinoides ſous la dure-mere,auſquels certains petits trous ſpongienx,par leſquels paſſe & tranſcoule la pituite excrementeuſe & ſubtile,qui deſ- tequoy, & où ſe fait l'e. ſtritanimal. : ge. - - - - - - - j eluis. cend du moyen ventricule: par le conduit appellé peluis ou lacuna, pour puis apres eſtre iettée par les lucana. deux trous latereaux de l'os baſillaire du palais, & de là expurgé tant par le nez que par le palais : dont ie penſe que la ſaliue eſt faite en partie : attendu que ceux qui ont le cerueau humide, abondent en icelle, la | iettant quaſi # de l'anatomie. i i a continuellement par la bouche.les apophyſes cliniodes ſont certaines productions d'os faictes intetieure- ment de l'os baſilaite,entre leſquels ladicte glandule colatoire eſt ſituée auec vne portion du rets admirable. quant à ceſte partie, il y a grande diſſention entre les anatomiſtes.veſalius nie qu'elle ſe trouue aux hom- mes: columbus i'admet, mais il ſemble qu'il la confonde auec le plexus chorolde : de ma part, ie l'ay tou- fiours veue au lieu & en la façon que ie l'ay deſcrite, comme syluius a diſputé contre veſalius.toutes ces parties demonſtrées, reſtera ſeulement le crane, duquel ie te conteray les trous, à raiſon qu'ils profitent grandement à entendre où vont les veines, arteres & nerfs. . neufuieſme figure du rets admirable ». - • - - " • - 'aa monſtrent les arteres carotides qui entrent en la teſte par les coſtez des apophyſes clinoides, leſquelles s'entrelacent enſemble, puis ſe reüniſſent toutes à cc. pour aller par toute la ſubſtance du cerueau, & au plexus choroide. - - - • -- - d monſtre la glandule baſilaire receuant le conduit du peluis, par laquelle elle reçoit la pituite du moyen ventricule. - ( : b des trous de la baſe interne du crane ». ch a p. x. - - • - 'es premiers ſont les ethmoïdes. les deuxieſmes, ceux des nerfs optiques. les troſieſmes, des nerfs motifs de l'œil,& d'aucunes portions latierce paire.les quatrieſmes ſont pour vne par- -"ie de la quatrieſme paire des nerfs, qui va aux muſcles crotaphites, ou des temples. les cin- quieſmes ſont pour la tranſcolation de l'humeur aqueux & ſubtil, deſcendant du moyen ventri- cule du cerueau au palais,faiſant l'humidité ſaliuale:& ſont quaſi inſenſibles à l'œil,leſquels ſont ſituez ſous † colatoire, entre les apophyſes clinoides le ſixieſme eſt en l'os sphenoide , cuneiforme, ou baſilaire, pour donner entrée aux arteres carotides internes, faiſant les rets admirables, s'en allant ren- dre dedans la grande creuaſſe ou fente.le ſeptieſme eſt double le plus ſouuent, pour donner entrée à vn rameau de la iugulaire interne. le huictieſme eſt oblong en forme ouale, par lequel ſort vne partie de la troiſieſme paire, & toute la quatrieſme paire des nerfs. le neufieſme fait ceux de l'ouye.les dixieſmes ſont ſont fort petits, & baillent paſſage à vne veine, & artere pour aller au conduit de l'oreille, ſituez au deſſus du trou du caecum. les onzieſmes ſont les deſchirez, qui donnent iſſue à la ſixieſme paire des nerfs à vne partie de la carotide, & vn rameau de la iugulaire interne. le douzieſme, pour donner iſſue à la ſeptieſ- me paire.le trezieſme, eſt le grand trou de l'occiput pour donner iſſuë à la nucque. le quatorzieſme, eſt celuy qui eſt le plus ſouuent derriere ce grand trou, par lequel entrent les arteres,& veines ceruicales. - - des trous de la baſe externe du crane-º. . ch a p. xi. - vx ſourcils y a vn trou de chacun coſté, par lequel paſſe vn petit nerfde la tierce coniugai- ſon, ſortant de la cauité de l'orbite paſſant à trauers de l'os du front, à l'endroit du 'ſourcil, pour donner mouuement aux deux muſcles du ſourcil ſuperieur, & au front mais le plus ſou- uent le trou ne ſe trouue qu'en vn coſté, quelquesfois vne fente, quelquesfois du tout point. * le ſecond, eſt celuy du grand canthus, par lequel deſcend vne portion de la troiſieſme con- iugaiſon des nerfs à la tunique du nez, dans lequel eſt ſituée la glandule lachrymale.le troiſieſme eſt ſitué au deſſous de fœil pour la deſcente d'vne autre portion de la troiſieſme partie,pour alleraux parties de la face,& aux dents de la mendibule ſuperieure,le quatrieſme eſt au commencement du palais,entre les dents inciſiues,par lequel paſſe quelque petite veine & artere, & la tunique du palais. les cinquieſmes ſont con- tenus dans les os du palais, par leſquels deſcendent les nerfs de la quatrieſme coniugaiſon , pour faire le gouſt. les ſixieſmes ſont les grands trous du palais, ſeruans à la reſpiration : & pour vuider le phlegme tombant du cerueau par dedans le nez.reſtevne fendaſſe ſous le zigoma, montant dans l'orbite,par où paſ- ſent tant les nerfs de la troiſieſme paire aux muſcles crotaphites, qu'aucunes veines & arteres. plus vn au- tre ſitué entrel'apophyſe maſtoide, lequel ne paſſe outre ſenſiblement.dauantage, vn autre qui eſt à la ra- cine poſterieure de l'apophyſe maſtoide,appellé d'aucuns procez mammillaire, par lequel vn petit rameau d de la veine iugulaire va dedans le torcular. quant eſt du nombre de ces trous, quelquesfois tu en trouue- ras plus, autresfois moins : leſquels ſeruent de quatre choſes : la premiere, à donneriſſue aux nerfs, la ſe. conde à receuoir les veines & arteres,la troiſieſme à donner entrée à l'obiect prochain de l'oüye & du flai- rer, la quatrieſme à vuider les excremens du cerueau. i de l'eſpine medullaire_ . ch a p. xl i. - - - - - $@ a moüelle spinale eſt comme vn ruiſſeau coulant du cerueau, ainſi que d'vne fontaine, laquelle # enuoye par toutes les parties d'entour d'elle, qui ſont ſous la teſte des nerfs pour leur bailler ſentiment, & mouuement, les ramifiant ainſi qu'vn tronc d'arbre en pluſieurs branches,qui ſont s au nombre de trente de chacun coſté, que deſcrirons cy-apres. icelle eſt enueloppée de deux membranes qui couurent le cerueau ; à ſçauoir, de la dure & pie-mere, & n'y a nulle interuale entre les deux comme il y a au § parce qu'elle n'a mouuement comme le cerueau. elle a vne autre membra- ne par deſſus, qui les enuironne, fort dure & eſpeſſe , qui ſert de garder que ladite mouelle ſpinale ne ſoit rompuë, quand nous mouuons le dos. les maladiesd'icelles ſont ſemblables à celles du cerueau, à ſçauoir que le mouuement & ſentiment de toutes les parties iuferieures ſont interreſſées, quand quelque roüelle de l'eſpine eſt bleſſée: comme quand quelques vnes ſont hors de leur place, & quand elles en ſont eſloi- gnées, lors il ſe fait contorſion de la moüelle : & fi vne ſeule ſe iette hors de ſon aſſiette, la moüelle eſtant flechie en ſi peu d'eſpace & eſtroit, ſera griefuement trauaillée: & la roüelle eſtant ſortie hors de ſon lieu, la comprimera pour le moins, ſi elle ne la rompt & deſchire.les nerfs ſortans des rouelles de l'eſpinº les veines & arteres y entrent par les meſmes trous, pour nourrir la mouelles,& les rouelles ou vertebres. k figure definition des apophyſes clinoides. originedela moiéelle de l'eſpine. vſage maladie dé la moi elle ſpinale. i i le cinquieſme liure, : : *. - mi， a - « # ! #$ figure de la spinale medulle. | - a monſtre le commencement de l'eſpine medulle,lequel ſort de la fin ducerueau. b la moüelle du dos ſortant de la capacité du taiz, commence icy à entrer enla premiere vertebre du col. c l a moüelle du dos commence à n'apparoiſtre plus ſimple en la deſcente, ains reſſemble à pluſieurs cordelettes, leſquelles jointes enſemble, deſcendent droit en bas. . . . . . les racines des nerfs ſont marquées par ces characteres, leſquelles racines ſortent de la moüelle du dos deuant qu'elle ſorte hors la capacité du taiz. d , la partie de lamoüelle du dos contenuë dedans les vertebres du col marquez depuis b. iuſques à d. au coſté droit, & iuſques à . au coſté gauche. f. . la partie de la moüelle du dos, qui remplit les vertebres deslumbes. g o. la partie de la moüelle du dos, contenuë dedans les ſix cs dudit qs ſa- cilliil. - - h l'extremité de la moüelle du dos. . fin du cinquieſme linrc ». # # table des chapitres° dv livre v i. de l'anatomie. ' : es os de la fact. c h a p. j. | zbiſtribution de l'.artere axillaire. · xxiij # des dents. ' i j | des nerfs du coſ, du metaphrene, & du brari xxiv du muſcle large, on peancier, i ij | deſcription de l'os du tras, & des muſcles qui le meuuent. $ des paupieres & sourcils. : v y x v ºs) des meux, • v | z'eſcription des es du coulde,é des muſcles qui le meuuent. des muſcles des meux. · v j x x v j •' zdu ne (. v ij | declaration des os du carpe, metacarpe, dr des doigts.xxvij des mufcles de la fate. v i i j | des muſcles du coulde. xxviij zbes muſcles de la maſiboire inferiturº i x | des muſcles de la main interne. x x ix des ortilles & parotides. x | tdeſcription de le iambe generalement priſe xxxx de l'or hyoide, & de ſes muſtlts . xj diſtrib ution de le veine (rurale. , xx xj de la langue. xij | deſtribution de l'artere crurale. xxxi j de la bouthe. xiij | zºes nerfs des lumbes de l'os saurum,& de lacuiſſexxxiij. pe tvuule, ou luette, ou gargarreum, xiv |zles parties prºpres de la ſuiſ . xxxiv d) du larinx, on maud de la golgº xv | z'es muſcles qui meuuent la cuiſſº, xxxv du col , & de ſes partier. xv , j z'es os de la iambt. x xxv ! bes muſcles du col. | x v | des muſcles de la lambr. xxxv ! ! des muſcles du thorax, dº des lumbes. x v ) | tes ºs du pied. - - xxxvuj zbes muſcles de l'omoplate- x i x | des muſcles mouuans les doitts dh pitd. x x x x deſcription de la main generalement priſº. xx zes muſcles mouuans du pied. - xl diſtribution de la veine du bras, & premiertment de briefue recapitularion de tous les os du corps humain. xl j la (ephalique. x x ) recueil du non de ta connexion des os. , x l i j piſtribution de la veine •axillairt x x i ) | rscapitulation de tons les muſcles du corps humain. xliij } l e e . la partie de la moüelle du dos contenuë dans les vertebres d'iceluy. e # a, $- \ {. : - :': - : $ º( '- l sixiesme livre av qv e l s o nt c o n t e nv s p r in c ip a l e m e n t l e s m v s c l e s & les os de tout le corps, auec deſcription de toutes les autres parties des cxtremitez. p r e f a c e o v r c e que quelqu'vn ſe pourra eſmerueiller de ce que deuant qu'auoir pourſui- | uy & demonſtré toutes les parties de lateſte, ainſi qu'elles ont eſté proposées, i'ay : finy le quatrieſme liure de noſtre œuure auquel elles ſemblent appartenir : à ceſte % cauſe, auant que paſſer plus outre, i'ay proposé rendre la raiſon , laquelle m'a eſ. ,$ meu à ce faire, qui eſt telle ; que i'ay deliberé de pourſuiure tout d'vn traict l'anato- $ mie des muſcles. et pource que des ſuſdictes parties de la teſte , celles deſquelles n'auons encore parlé , ſont conſtituées , & faites ſelon leur plus grande partie des muſcles ; à ces fins ie les ay voulu traicter auec ſes extremitez, commençant à la plus haute partie de la face , qui ſont les yeux , quand i'auray premierement declaré les os di'celle,ſans la cognoiſſance deſquels ie ne te ſcaurois ſuffiſamment ny à ton profit, deſigner l'origine, & inſertion deſdicts muſcles. orauons dit au commencement du liure precedent, faiſant la teſte, que par la face eſtoit entendu tout ce qui eſt contenu entre le ſourcil & le menton : en laquelle eſt vne merueilleuſe fabrication de nature, d'auoir fait qu'en ſi petite eſpace entre dix millions d'hommes il y ait tant de difference , que deux ſeulement ne peuuent eſtre trouuez ſemblables,que ſubit ne ſoient diſtinguez par certaines notes & ſignes, afin qu'on peuſt cognoiſtre l'vn d'auec l'autre. pareillement nature y a produit la barbe pour or- nement, & faire la difference de l'homme auec la femme, & la maturité des corps , aages, & tempera- mens. et y a fait auſſi vne beauté ſi grande, qu'aucuns deſirent mourir de leur bon gré, pour la beauté d'aucunes perſonnes, comme ſont les fols amoureux : & ſont tant agitez, qu'aucunesfois deuiennét inſen- ſez, & perdent du tout leur entendement pour les aiguillons de ceſte belle face, qui penetrent iuſques à la plus viue partie de leur ame: qui fait que les pauures amoureux,& paſſiónez la rendêt martirée, obeyſſan- te & chambriere à leur concupiſence & deſir. dauantage il y a encore vne autre choſe admirable à la face, b combien qu'elle ne ſoit plus grande que de demy pied,toutesfois en la moindre mutation d'icelle nous ap- paroiſſent les differences des hommes & femmes, ſelon qu'ils ſont ioyeux, eſperans, ou amoureux, triſtes, craintifs, honteux , malades ou ſains, vifs ou morts. parquoy comme ainſi ſoit que la face ſoit en nous de telle conſequence & reſpect, nous retournerons à l'anatomie d'icelle:pour laquelle bien aisément declarer , commencerons aux os ſans la cognoiſſance deſ- quels on ne ſçauroit bien deſcrire l'origine & inſertion de ſes muſcles. - des os de la face ». c h a p. i. ra )# e s os de la face ſont en nombre ſeize ou dixſept. et premierement il y en a ſix, à ſçauoir $ trois de chacun coſté, ſituez autour de l'orbite de l'œil, dont il y en a vn grand, & vn autre petit, & l'autre moyen, tant en grandeur qu'en ſituation : tous trois touchent l'os du front j z en leur partie ſuperieure. dauantage, le plus gros eſt conioinct par ſuture, auec vne produ- cºé*y \ ction , & apophyſe de l'os petreux , & conſtitue & fait le zygoma, l'os iugal, ou l'os paris, qui a eſté fait de nature, pour la conſeruation du muſcle temporal , ainſi qu'il ſera declaré cy apres. audit os il ſe trouue vne cauité, où eſt contenuë vne ſubſtance morueuſe pour la nourriture des dents c molaires,& d'vn air implanté pour l'odorat. le plus petit eſt ſitué au grand canthus de l'œil, dedans lequel eſt vn trouallant au nez, ſur lequel eſt vne glande, à laquelle ſe fait l'egilops. le moyen os eſt preſ- que au fond de l'œil, qui eſt fort delié quaſi conime parchemin. a ceſte cauſe ſont dites eſcailleux, pource qu'ils reſſemblent à vne crouſte ou incrutation, parqoy ils ſe briſentaiſement. apres ces trois ſuſdits os, ſuiuent les deux du nez, leſquels ſont conioincts par ſutureauec l'os du front,& enſemble en leur partie anterieure par harmonie, c'eſt à dire,de droitte ligne, & de leur partie laterale ou poſterieure auecque les autres deux os, vn de chacun coſté, qui deſcend depuis l'os du front(auec lequel ils ſont auſſi conioincts par ſuture) viennent receuoir toutes les dents. iceux ſe trouuent peu ſouuent ſeparez , ce dit galien. or ſont ces deux cyles plus gros, & plus eſpés des os de la face, nombrez iuſques icy & ſont connexez & aſ- ſemblez par ſuture, auec le plus grand os de l'orbite de l'œil, & deuers ſa partie poſterieureauec l'os bati- laire , & partie interne auec les deux petits os du palais interieur, leſquels conſtituent interieurement l'ex- tremité d'iceluy:aumoyen dequoy nous les pouuons appeller les os du palais interieurs,& poſterieurs,& ſôt l'onzieſme, & douzieſme os en nombre:& reçoiuent ces deux petits os par leur partie laterale pres les apo- phyſes pterygoides de l'os baſilaire (chacun de ſon coſté ) vn des nerfs de la quatrieſme coniugaiſon , leſ- quels nous auons dit cy-deſſus,ſe perdre en la membrane du palais. il y en a encores deux autres ſelon ga- lien en la mandibule inferieure , qui ſont conioincts au menton : combien qu'aucuns ont voulu dire n'y en auoir qu'vn,pource qu'il n'appert au ſens de la veue aucune diuiſion entre eux. mais ceux qui le nient † - -» - la facs, pierre boy- ſtuau en ſcn liu. du theatre du monde. ioye. eſpoir. am/ f '. six os en l'orbite. zygoma. l'os paris. deux os du l . | | deux os :- ternes du pa- lais. dºux os en la mandibu- le inferieure y \ le ſixieſme liure, 'ils es trotineront . les prie de lesvow\oit chercher en vn ieune enfant, & ie les puis bien aſſeurer qt nombre trcizieſh : la a º preuue en fcra foymais aux parfaits d'aage ne peuuent eſtre apperceus, & ſont en ferieure de * º * · · · > quatorzieſme. ces deux os donc, faiſans la mandibule inferieure,ont en leur partie fºº ſt fait ºx apo- phyſes de chacun coſté,de la part qu'ils regardent la manibule ſuperieure deſquelles 'vne # ºen poin- # te d'eſpée,appellée vulgairemét coroni:& l'autre mouſſe & ronde,laquelle s'inſere # † ſituée v. luxation d, en la racine de l'apophyſe de l'os petreux, qui ayde à faire le zygoma pres le trou de l'oreillº : laquelle ſe #. § peut luxer vers la partie anterieure, en baillant, qui ſe fait par la retraction des muſcles qui naiſſent des | v leinſ .. apophyſes pterigoides,& deſignentaux angles inferieurs,qui ſont en la partie plus large de ladictemandi- ! nota que la bule. or ceſte mandibule cauée comme la ſuperieure, & principalement en ſa partie pofterieure : conte- " mandibule nant en ſa capacité vn humeur blanc, glaireux, propre & familer pour la nourriture & accroiſſement con- inferieure eſt tinuel des dents. lequel eſt illec fait & engendré du ſang, receuant de ſa partie poſterieure & interieure, | cane, & con- ſous la racine de l'apophyſe ronde, les vaiſſeaux ; c'eſt à ſçauoir,veines,& arteres,nerfs,& eſprits apportez rient ºn h"- par leſdits vaiſſeaux auecque le nerf de la tierce coniugaiſon, par vn trou aſſez inſigne.au moyen dequoy º". pº ſes parties ſont nourries & viuifiées, & les dents outre les autres parties,rendues ſenſibles parcertaine por- c fºr tion deſdicts nerfs,illec apportez & diſtribuez auec veines,& arteres ſuffiſantes pour leur nourriture & vie, #. par certains petits trous ſituez viſiblement aux profonditez des racines deſdictes dents : à cauſe dequoy en §- douleur de dents,eſt ſenty douleur pulſatiue,pour lafluxion faicte par les arteres.quil ſoit vray,lors qu'on #.§ les tire,ontrouue en leurs racines quelque petit veſtige de ſubſtance nerueuſe dauantage, il faut conſide- rer, comme ladite mandibule produit de ſa capacité interne deux nerfs aſſez inſignes à coſté du menton, à l'endroit de la dent canine interieure,& de la premiere des plus petites des molaires, pour le mouuement, & ſentiment des parties à ſoy appartenantes:ainſi que ie l'ay deciaré en parlant de la diſtribution de la tier- " ce coniugaiſon des nerfs. ie t'ay bien voulu admoneſter de cecy, afin que tu te donnes garde d'iceux, lors qu'il ſera beſoin de faire inciſion aux ſuſdicts endroicts.or il en reſte encore vn autre ſitué ſur le palais,du- quel vient le septum cartilaginoſum du nez, diuiſant le nez en deux nazeaux, & ſeparant les deux trous du septum ear- palais,lequela eſté obmis de tous anatomiſtes que ie ſçache. or afin que chacun puiſſe plus facilement re- tilaginoſum. tenir,& mettre en memoire le nombre des ſuſdits os,nous ferons vne briefue & generale repetition d'iceux. premierement il y en a ſix;à ſçauoir,trois de chacun coſté que nous pouuons appeller orbitaires,à l'entour des yeux. les ſept & huict ſe peuuent appeller nazeaux. le neufieſme,& dixieſme,maxillaires.les onzieſ- quinze ,s me & douzieſme peuuent eſtre dits os internes du palais. les treizieſme & quatorzieſme,os de la mandi- § fac,. bule inferieure. le quatorzieſme peut eftre dit le mur metoyen,ou septum du nez.ces os ainſi briefuement & ſommairement nommez, nous faut maintenant parler des dents, ſourcils,cuir, pannicule charneux,muſ- cles, & conſequemment des autres parties de la l ace. des dtmf . ch a p. i i. % e s dents ſont du nombre des os, dont le nombre eſt de trente-deux au plus : aux hommes, ſçauoir eſt, ſeize en chacune mandibule, ſituées par ordre, deſquelles en la partie anterieure en y a quatre deſſus, & autant deſſous,tranchantes & larges, nommées inciſiues, pour couper •. viandes : & n'ont chacune qu'vne ſeule racine ; puis y en a deux de chacun coſté, tant deſſus - - que deſſous, nommées canines,pource qu'elles ſont aiguës & fortes comme dents de chien, dents œille- pour rompre , briſer, & caſſer les choſes ſolides : aucuns les appellent dents œilleres, en haut princi- c 'ºf. palement, & n'ont pareillement chacune qu'vne ſeule racine, plus longue toutesfois que nulle des autres. apres s'enſuiuent les maxillaires ou morales, qui ſont dix de chacun coſté , tant en haut qu'en bas : & dents mo- ſont ainſi nommées, pource qu'elles maſchent, briſent,& comminuent les viandes, afin qu'elles ſoient plus laires. facillement digerées dans l'eſtomach : ce qu'on dit volontiers. la viande bien maſchée eſt à demy digerée. - ' celles qui ſont fichées à la mandibule ſuperieure ont le plus ſouuent trois racines, & bien ſouuent quatre | celles de la mandibulle inferieure n'en ont que deux,& quelquesfois trois : pource qu'icelle mandibule eſt plus dure que la ſuperieure , & auſſi à cauſe que ces dents eſtantaſliſez ſur leur racine, & non ſuſpenduës, - comme celles de la mandibule d'en-haut, n'auoient beſoin de tant de racines pour leur ſtabilité & aſſeuran- - trente deux dents. dens tren - shantes. ce. les dents inciſiues, ou tranchantes,mordent & taillent les morceaux,& les œilleres canines, les froiſ- - ſent, & les groſſes maxillaires , ou molaires, qui ſont dures, larges,& aſpres , pilent, briſent, & menui- : ſent ce qui a eſté taillé par les inciſiues,& oeilleres.or ſi leſdites dents maxillaires eſtoient liſſées & polies, - compoſé. elles ne pourroient exercer leur office commodément:pource que plus aiſement toutes choſes ſont briſées - a§ de ce qui eſt aſpre,raboteux,& dure:pour ceſte cauſe on picque à pointe de marteau les meules de moulin, · . quand elles ſont trop applanies,pour les rendre aſpres, & raboteuſes à mieux moudre & faire farine. les - dents ſont coniointes aux mandibules,par vne eſpece de connexion, qui eſt dite gomphoſis;ceſt à dire fichées -- dans les mandibules en certaines cauitez appellées alueoles, comme pau fiché en terre, ou vn gond dans « . difference du bois : carmeſmes en quelques-vns on trouue que leurs dents font coiointes & vnies auec les mandibu- - º dents les ſi fort,qu'alors qu'on les arrache,on emporte portion deſdites alueoles ou mandibules : ce que i'ay veu ºauee les ſouuentesfois auec grande hemorrhagie, laquelle à grande difficulté on pouuoit eſtancher. dauantage en ******- leurs racines ſont attachées par certain ligaments,là où le nerfeſt inſeré,ſemblablement les veines & arteres. or leſdites dents different des autres os,pource quelles ont action, à raiſon qu'elles maſchent : auſſi parce d , qu'elles ſe peuuêt regenerer quâd elles ſont perduës,& ont croiſſement continueliuſques à la mort:âraiſon ) qu'en frayant,& principalement en la maſtication,l'vne contre l'autre, ſecôminuent & s'vſent ce qu'on void manifeſtement à ceux qui en ont perdu quelques vnes : celle qui n'aura plus la rencontre de celle qui eſt / perdue,demeurera plus longue,parce qu'elle ne svſe,ne comminue comme elle faiſoit, lors qu'elles ſe ren- | controient l'vne contre l'autre. dauantage different encore des autres os,à raiſon qu'elles ſont plus ſolides # & dures,& auſſi qu'elles ont ſentiment : lequel leur eſt porté par certains rameaux de nerfs qui ſortent de la : troiſieſme coniugaiſon,leſquels entrent dans leur ſubſtance : & pourras apperceuoir leſdits nerfs en caſſant • quelque dent recentement arrachée de la bouche de quelqu'vn,lequel verras manifeſtemét:donc par le ſen- - ºº timent d'icelles eſt ſenty douleur ineſtimable,lors qu'ils s'y fait quelque defluxion, ou quand quelque grand º º " froid les touche, reiſentiment leur a eſté donné, afin qu'elles euſſent conſentement auec la langue,pour ſentiment. diſcerner & iuger des ſaueurs,comme ont les autres parties de la bouche. on pourra demander comme il ſe peut faire que les dents ayent ſentiment:veu qu'elles ſe peuuent ſcier& limer ſans douleur: mais ence i'ap- prouue fortl'opinion de fallopius , qui eſtime qu'elles ne ſentent point en leur parties exterieures , mais ſeulement par vne mébrane laquelle elles ont au dedans.tu pourras voir ce que cét autheur en cſcrit plus amplement.leſdites dents ont encor vne autre grande vtilité,& principalement celles de deuant,c'eſt aider º - bien proferer la parole. qu il ſoit vray, il eſt cogneu par experience en ceux qui les ont perdues, qu'ils - ilc de l'anatomie. i i a ne peuuent bien proferer la parole,ainſi qu'ils faiſoient auparauaut les auoirperdues,mais au contrairebal. butient. ainſi font ceux qui les ont trop courtes ou trop auancées au deuant, cheuauchans les vnes ſur les autres. dauantage,il eſt cogneu aux petits enfans leſquels ne parlent ny ne proferent bien leur parole,iuſ- ques à ce qu'ils ayent leurs dents de deuant.pareillement les vieillards,apres qu'ils les ont perdues,ſe trou- uent begues, & ne peuuent bien diſtinctement prononcer ce qu'ils veulent dire. et noteras en cét endroit, que les dents ſon ſolides, & ja oſſeuſes aux enfans eſtans encores au ventre de la mere. ce que pourras voir à l'œil comme i'ay fait) en diſſequant vn enfant mort , ſubitement apres l'enfantement. puis tu note- les cauitez ras qu'il y a deux aſſez grandes cauitez ſous les ſourcils remplis d'aucun humeur viſqueux,qui ſeruent à qu'on trouue l'odorat comme a eſté dit cy-deuant. dauantage ſont deux autres cauitez aux apophyſes maſtoide,ou pro és os de la cés mammillaires , eſquels eſt contenu vn air implanté pour l'oüye. ltem deux autres cauitez aux mandibu- face. les, dans leſquelles eſt contenu vn humeur viſqueux , eſpés & gluant, qui eſt pour la nourriture des dents, comme nous auons ja predit. du muſcle large ou peaucier. ch a p. il i. nſp es choſes ainſi conſiderées, il conuiendroit maintenant pourſuiure les parties contenantes f de la face, qui ſont le cuir, pannicule charneux , & la greſſe. mais veu qu'elles ont eſté par cy-deuant ſuffiſamment declarees , auant que venir a la diſſection de l'œil ie te pourſui- - uray ſeulement le pannicule charneux , afin que tu puiſſes entierement & parfaictement en- $# tendre les mouuemens faits par iceluy, tant aux parties de la face qu'au front. et premiere- cºcºs -^ºsº ment pour le bien voir il faut ſubtilement ſeparer la peau, en quelque endroit de la facescar b ſi tu ne te donnes garde tu leueras ce muſcle large auec ledit cuir , auquel immediatement il adhere , & en aucuns endroits,côme aux lévres,aux paupieres des yeux,& tout le front,ſi eſtroictement,qu'on ne les ſçau- roit entierement ſeparer l'vn de l'autre , nature luy ayant donné mouuement volontaire,afin que s'eſtendant & repliant alternatiuement il puiſſe ayder à ouurir & a fermer l'œil.pour monſtrer tout ce que contient le- dit muſcle, & ſes adherences,& mixtions auec le cuir,il le faut ſeparer le plus ſubtilemêt que faire ſe pour- ra. t'uis ledit pannicule eſtant detcouuert de tout le cuir,le faut ſeparer,commencant à l endroit de la claui- cule anterieure & montant ſelon droitte ligne,iuſqu au menton, le conduiſant tant qu'il ſera poſſible, vers inſtruction le derriere. ce faiſant tu monſtreras comment il ſe meſle auec le cuir , & muſcles des levres & quand tu pour le chi* feras paruenu aux yeux , monſtreras que c'eſt celuy qui les ferme & ouure,& non autre, à raiſon des trois rºsiº genres de fibres , deſquelles il eſt composé & fait : combien que ſelon tous les autheurs qui en ont eſciit iuſqu'au iourdhuy, telles actions ſoient attribuées à deux muſcles propres a ce faire:l'vn fitué au grand an- gle partie ſuperieure:& l'autre qui eſt fait en forme de croiſſant,au petit angle,s'eſtendant uſqu'à la moitié du ttrſe,auquel endroit l'anterieure deſine,& de la partie baſſe,comprenant tout le ſourcil, au moyen de- # quoy il eſt renduaucunement mobile. et iaçoit qu aux demonſtrations ordinaires, & publiques on les mar- # paupie- que ainſi que ie t'ay dit , ſi eſt ce que i'ay opinion que ceux qui les monſtrent , en ſont auſſi incertains que " moy-mcſme.et ce qui me le fait dire,c'eſt qu'en leuant ledit pannicule charneux,autrement nommé muſcle large,on ne trouue auſdits endroits autre chair muſculeuſe,que celle dudit pannicule, ſoit qu'on le côduiſe notable diſ- du front en bas,ou de la ioüe en haut. outreplus s'il eſt beſoin de faire inciſion ſur les ſourcils au front,il cou , ſur le eſt deſfendu de la faire tranſuerſalement, de peur que ledit muſcle peaucier tombant vers l'œil, ne rende la muſcle des c paupiere ſuperieure immobile. et ſi d'auanture telle inciſion ſuruient par accident,pour retenir le mouue-paupieres. ment de ladite paupiere , il la faut coudre. laquelle choſe nous eſt encore plus grand argument que le inouuement de la ſuſdite paupiere depend dudit muſcle large.ou peaucier. dauantage s'il y auoit muſcles particuliers,ainſi ſituez comme nous auons dit,veu que quand l vn opere,ſon oppoſite ceſſe:& que l'opera- tion du muſcle(ainſi comme nous auons dit) eſt de retirer la partie qu'il meut, vers ſon principe:il s'enſui- uroit que quand le muſcle ouurant l'œil opereroit, & ſon oppoſite cederoit, tireroit la paupiere aucune- ment vers ſon origine,ainſi que nous voyons eſtre fait aux conuulfions.parquoyveu que nous ne voyons tel mouuement,c'eſt vn certain argument,que tout le mouuement de ceſte paupiere depend dudit muſcle large. l'origine dudit muſcle,eſt de la partie ſuperieure du sternon,de toutes les clauicules de l'eſpine de l'omo- plate, & de toutes les eſpines des vertebres du col de l'occiput, & partie haute de la teſte depilée. a ceſte cauſe diuers mouuemens ſont faits en la face, en laquelle il deſine,la couurant comme vn maſque,par ice- luy ſelon la diuerſité de ſon origine,& diuerſes productions de fibres.ie n'ay pourſuiui en ce muſcle icy les neufchoſes, ainſi que ie fais aux autres parties, pour autant qu'elles on eſté ſuffiſamment declarée parlant des muſcles de l'epigaſtre. parquoy d'oreſnauant ne faut attendre autre choſe de moy touchant les muſcles, que leur origine,inſertion,action & compoſition, quand en iceuxy aura quelque vaiſſeau inſigne, & digne d'obſeruation. des paupieres & ſourcils. c h a p. l v. a i n t e n a n t puis que nous ſommes tombez ſur le propos des paupiers & ſourcils,veu . .. auſſi que c'eſt l'ordre de diſſection,il faut dire que c'eſt,dequoy,& comment,& à quelles fins # telles parties ont eſté faites de nature. donc pour commencer : les ſourcils ne ſont autre # choſe que le poil ordonné en forme de croiſſant,ſur la droite ligne de l'orbite ſuper cure de # - - l'œil, depuis le grand iuſqu'au petit angle d'iceluy : leſquels nature a ainſi ordonnez pour ſourcils. l ornement du corps, comme quelque autre poil, & afin qu'ils ſeruiſſent aux yeux comme de propugnacle, vſage des & defenſe en contre la ſueur acre & mordicante, qui pouuoit couler du front ſur les yeux. quant aux pau- paupieres. pieres, qui ſont deux de chacun coſté, inferieure & ſuperieure, elles ne ſont autre choſe que la porte des compoſition. yeux, pour iceux ouurir,& clorre en temps de neceſſité, & pour chaſſer l'œil au dedans de l'obrite , euitant vſage du poil les choſes exterieures.leur côpoſition eſt de cuir muſculeux,cartilage,& poil,lequel eſt mis ſur l'extremité des paupie- d'icelles,comme vn palais pour ladefenſe desyeux ouuerts,principalement à l'encontre des petits corps ſub- re . til ,leſquels par le moyen de l'air pourroient entrer dedans iceux, & les endommager.ils ſont t°uſiours en vne pareille grandeur,& ont eſté plantez ſur vne partie cartilagineuſe, afin qu'ils demeuraſſent droits, & non baiſſez & repliez : ce qu'ils euflent peu faire,s'ils euſſent creu ſur vne ſubſtance molle. ils n'ont eſte ſituez d'cà com- fort prés les vns des autres : attendu qu ils fuffoqueroient, & obtenebreroient l'œil,s'ils euſſent eſté fort mèt,e prur- prés : & patant par vne grande prouidence de nature ils ont eu vne ſeparation conuenable. º º ant au qu y le ca,- cartilage, ſur lequelledit poil eſt fondé, il eſt enueloppé du pericrane iuſques illec eſtendu auant que fai- tilºge nem- re la coniuncture : et a eſté illec poſe & ſitué,à celle fin que quand vne partie d'icelles ſeroit tiré en haut, mé tarſus a ou en bas, par le muſcle large,ou ſi tu aymes mieux , par les muſcles propres dicelles , toutes les † eſt é faict. - l.ktl llcnt j o le ſixieſme liure, - ſuiuiſſent à raiſon de leur dureté. on appelle tel cartilage,meſmement aux paupieres ſuperieures, tarſe de a * difference l'œil, la difference de la ſuperieure & inferieure n'eſt autre ſinon que la ſuperieure eſt plus appertement - de la pau- mobile , & l'inferieure, obſcurement comme vn chacun peut eſprouuer en ſoy-meſme regardant en vn :，- piere ſupe. miroir : autrement en vain nature auroit mis ſubſtance muſculeuſe à l'entour d'icelle. on peut auſſi dire ， #ºte de que leurs mouuemens ſe font par le benefice du pannicule charneux. • · • l'inferieure. # - des yeux. . c h a p. v. # subſtance , e s t e maintenant à parler des yeux, leſquels eſtans organes & inſtrumens de la faculté ， ºuantité viſiue à eux apportée parl'eſprit viſuel, qui eſt comme vne petite flamme de lumiere,laquelle · situation # le procede de l'ame, conduit par les nerfs optiques, ſont de ſubſtance molle, & quantité · - | notable : toutesfois aux vns plus , aux autres moins, ſelon la grandeur ou petiteſſe des corps · ': où ils ſont. la ſituation deſquels eſt au plus haut de la teſte , pour illuminer & conduire le : . corps, & luy ſeruir de ſentinelle,pour deſcouurir les choſes exterieures qui luy peuuent nuire : car la veuë ， rhomm, opere en vninſtant, & comprend ſoudain par vn moyen indicible, l'image des choſes qui ſe repreſentent à - -" . eſleue ſu elle , & eſt le principal des ſens de l'animal. car par l'œil on conſidere l'architecture admirable des cieux •:: ! veuë au ciel, & des autres corps : on void par l'œil leurs couleurs, & grandeur, leurs formes, le nombre, les propor- . : lieu de ſa tions & meſures, leur aſſiete, leurs mouuemens & repos. , dieu a voulu que l'homme ſeul euſt la face · rº naiſſance. eſleuée en haut au ciel. ce que ouide apres pythagoras a fort bien exprimé, diſant. - b #! et neantmoins que tout autre animal ºct iette touſiours ſon regard principal :: en contre bas , dieu à l'homme a donné ,:nt" la face en haut, & luy a ordonné trrt de regarder l'excellence des cieux, :- et eſleuer aux eſtoiles ſes yeux. :: figure, ' _ ; leur figure eſt pyramidale, ayans leur baſe au dehors, & leur pointe au dedans vers les nerfs optiques, : | # d, ainſi qu'on peut voir par leur orbite, † eſt leur propre domicile lequel nature leur a ainſibaillé, afin que : t" #. §. par iceluy ils fuſſent preſeruez de choſes externes contondantes,& generalement de toutes autres choſes à •e cofr , i. eux nuiſibles par leur dureté. leur compoſition eſt de ſix muſcles,cinq tuniques, trois humeurs,dvneſprit i.é. , l eil. luiſant , qui continuellement leur afflue du cerueau, deux nerfs, double veine, & vneartere : dauantage de :''，. compoſition. beaucoup de greſſe:& finalement d'vne glande ſituée au grand angle d'iceux,ſur le trou aſſez inſigne& eui- , l.º vtilité de la dent,lequel deſcend dedans les marines tant d'vn coſté que d'autre:& ce pour prohiber & defendre, que les ·ié glande ſí- excremens du cerueau,deſcend»ns par leſdites narines,ne regurgitent aux yeux, ainſi que nous voyonsad- , :: tuée ,au , uenir à ceux qui ont la ſuſdicte glandule conſommée, leſquels pleurent continuellement : & telle affaction : ! &#º**ºgº eſt appellée fiſtule lachrimale. apres s'enſuit la greſſe , laquelle eſt illec miſe entre les muſcles en aſſez º # bonne quantité, en partie pour rendre les yeux plus lubriques & faciles à mouuoir, ainſi que font les glan- ' • • # " " des, à raiſon de quelque humidité qu'elles leur communiquent : en partie auſſi pour la conſeruation de # l, t. l'harmonie, & temperature des parties nerueuſes deſdits yeux, leſquelles par leur continuel mouuement # # cſtoient ſubjettes à deſiccation exceſſiue. ©. yeux. figure des nerfs obliques. = à - - > ess ". - - - a s a | ::: És / v d #: •- % ºº! - #. - tº， # ittt *z % ltb # f <% # - :é ， "r ; ":: # des muſcles des yeux. c h a p. v i. | | * # • - - l y a ſix muſcles en l'œil, quatre deſquels font la flexion droite, leſquels ont leur origine,du § origine-'. fonds de l'orbite, & vont deſiner en meſme lieu à l'œil ; à ſçauoir , au milieu, & enuiron- s - nent le nerf optique : & lors qu'ils font leur action tous enſemble, tient l'œil en dedans : ſile «. aétion, ſuperieur, en haut : ſi l'inferieur,en bas : & le dextre, à dextre : & le ſeneſtre, à ſeneſtre. les # deux autres tournent l'œil , deſquels le premier, qui eſt le plus long& greſle,prend ſon ori- s gine preſque du meſme lieu que fait celuy qui tire l'eil à dextre vers le grand cantus, & lors qu'il eſt ·s paruenu à l'exterieure partie de l'angle interieur, ou la glandule lachrymale eſt emitente, finit en vn pe- e tit tendon greſle , qui paſſe au trauers d'vne petite membrane ou anneau : puis ayant paſſé au tra- º uers , faiſant vn angle droit , en ſe retournant,va finir vers la ſuperieure partie de l'œil,entre l'inſertion de # ccs · de l'anatomie. i i a ces deux muſcles, leſquels l'vn tire l'œil en haut, l'autre directementà l'angle exterieur, comme fallope eſcrit,ou plutoſt comme i'ay obſerué,entre le muſcle quitire en haut,& celuy qui tire vers l'angle interieur. ce cinquieſme muſcle, lors qu'il ſe retire en dedans vers ſon principe, par ſon tendon qui eſt circulaire,en- tortille l'œil par ce mouuement,l'attirant augrand canthus.le ſixieſme luy eſt contraire, lequel a ſon ori- gine de l'inferieure partie de l'orbite,presvne petite fiſſure, par laquelle paſſe le nerf de la troiſieſme con- iugaiſon, & eſtant fort delié tranſuerſalement monte à l'angle exterieur, & ayant embraſsé l'œil tranſuer- ſalement, par vn petit tendon s'inſere à iceluy, pres l'inſertion du cinquieſme; tellement que ſouuentesfois le tendon de l'vn,& l'autre ne ſemble eſtre qu'vn ſeul tendon. pour bien obſeruer telle diſſection,il ne faut pas arracher l'œil de l'orbite,mais il faut rópre ladite orbite,afin de voir leur origine plus manifeſte.quant aux cinq tuniques,la premiere,qui en diſſe quant ledit oeil ſe preſente,vient au fericrane,& s'eſtend par deſ- - ſus tout le blanc de l'œil, iuſqu'au cercle nommé iris. son vtilité eſt de firmer, lier, & retenir ledit œil de- der twni- dans ſon orbite, aumoyen dequoy elle eſt appellée conionctiue,- d'autres aanata,en gal.liu. dixieſme de º" l'vſage des parties, en grec epipephyros.la ſeconde eſtnommée cornée pour la ſimilitude qu'elle a encon- .., - fiſtence, & couleur auec vne corne de lanterne bien deliée , & claire, differente en ſoy, pource qu'en ſa #éde la partie anterieure circonſcrite de l'iris elle eſt lucide & tranſparente,& par derriere eſt § à raiſon de #. la diuerſe polliſſure d'icelle. dauantage elle eſt denſe en ſa partie anterieure, afin qu'elle ſoit protection c #" de l'humeur,tant aqueux,que cryſtalin:& auſſi tranſparente & lucide, afin qu'elle peuſt mieux tranſmettre, - & donner paſſage aux couleurs. sonorigine eſt de la dure-mere, produite par les trous interieurs de l'or- bite de l'œil, lequel elle enuironne entiercment. la troiſieſmeappcllée vuée, pour la ſimilitude qu'elle a en couleur auec vn grain de raiſin noir(i'entends quant à la partie exterieure)eſt produite de la pie-mere, tunique & enuironne tout l'œil, hormis la pupille, auquel endroit elle eſt troüée. et eſt adherente à la cornée par vué， les veines & arteres, leſquelles elleluy communique pour ſon nourriſſement & vie.mais quand elle eſt par- uenue iuſqu'à l'iris, laiſſant la cornée, deſcend interieurement, & aucunement ſe refleſchiſſant vers le cer- cle, & circonference plus ample de l'humeur chryſtalin, à laquelle adhere eſtroitement, & par ce moyen circonſcrit lieu àl'humeur aqueux,ainſi qu'il te ſera demonſtré en ſon lieu:& defend que l'humeur albugi- neux n'enſeueliſſe, & couure tout l'humeur chryſtalin. outre-plus ceſte tunique eſt en ſa partie interieurè teinte de plaifirs, & diuerſes couleurs ; c'eſt à ſçauoir,noire, fuſque, cerulée ou ve rde , & autres, comme l'vsée e - - - : -• - - - - - sée eſt l'arc du ciel & ce pour les vtilitez qui s'enſuiuent. premierement,a raiſon que ſi elle euſt eu vne ſeule cou- peinte inte- leur,toutes choſes vifibles euſſent repreſenté ceſte couleur,comme nous voyons en vn verre rouge,ouverd, § ou jaune, ou d'autres couleurs, toutes choſes repreſenter la meſme couleur rouge ou verde. secondement de pluſieurs elle a efté noire pour congreger, & vnir les eſprits diſſipez par la lumiere ainſi qu'on void qu'on plombe rouleurs. par derriere les miroirs. tiercement, fuſque, cerulée ou verde, pour la conſeruation & reſiouiſſance de la veue.car tout ainſi que les extremes couleurs corrompent la veue, ainſi les moyennes la cdfſeruent: com- bien que les vnes plus, les autres moins, ſelon qu'elles approchent plus ou moins de mediocrité. dauanta- ge elle a eſté faite molle & troüée : molle, de peur qu'elle ne § l'humeur chryſtalin, à la circonfe- rence duquel elle deſine : troüée au deuant dudit humeur, craignant que par ſon obſcurité elle n'empeſ- chaſt les couleurs de venir à iceluy, ains par ſa noirceur externe, les eſpeces des couleurs fuſſent plus vnies, recueillies, & congregées comme par leur contraire,ainſi que nous voyons la chaleur cſtre renforcie tuniqueam. par l'oppoſition de froideur. aucuns l'appellent choroide, à raiſon qu'elle eſt tiſſue abondamment de vei-phibliſtroide. nes & arteres, comme l'arriere-faix, ou ſecondine des femmes. s'enſuit la quatrieſme nommée amphibli- ſtroide,c'eſt à dire,retiforme laquelle prenant ſon origine du nerf optique conuerty en tunique, eſt tiſſuë viilirt en forme de rets, des veines, arteres & nerfs qu'elle reçoit de l'vuée, tant pour ſon nourriſſement & vie, + que pour l'humeur vitreux, lequel elle reueſt par derriere. la principale vtilité de ceſte tunique, eſt de ſentir quand l'humeur eſt alteré parl'introduction des eſpeces à luy tranſmiſes & enuoyées,ou de conduire l'eſprit viſuel,aueç la facultéviſiue par le trauers de l'humeur vitreux,iuſqu'à l humeur chryſtalin,princi-" pal inſtrument de la veue.elle eſt auſſi plus molle que nulle autre,de peur d'endommager ledit humeur.en - quoy tu noteras l'ordre de nature auoir eſté tresbien obſerué en la poſition deſdites tuniques.comme auſſi prºººº aux autres parties. car tout ainſi que nature ne paſſe point d'vn contraire à l'autre, ſi ce n'eſt par vn ou º º pluſieurs moyens ainſi icelle voulant adaptervne choſe dure & terreſtre,comme la tunique cornée, à vne #chiieiie molle & aqueuſe,comme les humeurs,a vsé de pluſieursmoyens differensen conſiſtence de deux extremes, º" ſelon qu'ils approchent plus ou moins de l'vn d'iceux, comme tu peux voir. car apres les deux plus terre- ſtres tuniques, c'eſt à ſçauoir,conionctiue,& cornée,elle a fait lvuée en degré plus molle que les pre- cedentes : tout ainſi que la retiforme encores plus molie que ladite vuée , afin que comme par degrez de i'unique dureſſe en moleſſe nature paſſaſt d'vn contraire à l'autre.la cinquieſme, & derniere eſt nommée arach- a § # noide, pour la conſiſtence qu'elle a ſemblable à toile d'araignée : on la peut auſſi comparer à bon droict #. a vne certaine petite tunique lucide,blanche & tres-deliée,laquelle eſt ſituée entre les eſpeces d'vn oigron. jcelle tunique enuironne l'humeur chryſtalin en ſa partieanterieure,parauenture à celle fin quelle le pre- ſerue & defende comme principal inſtrument de laveuë lors que les autres humeurs ſeroient intereſſez : & dauantage à celle fin qu'elle luy ſerue comme de verre à vn miroir,& que par ce mo，à !ès eſpeces des cho- ſes viſibles introduites de la part de l'object,ſoient retenues audičthumeur par telle èonnexion de l'vn auec l'autre : ainſi que nous voyons eſtre en vnmiroir fait de verre,& de plomb,ou autre matiere opaque,denſe & obſcure,qui ait force d'empeſcher que les eſpeces ne paſſent outre le verre,ains ſont retenues en ſa ſu- origihs. perficie bienramaſſées. son origine peut eſtre de la matiere excrementeuſe dudit humeur , ainſi endurcie tout à l'entourd'iceluy par la froideur des parties circonjacentes,ainſi que la petite tunique de l'œuf enui- *onnant le blanc d'iceluy. s'enſuiuentmaintenant les humeurs contenues en l'œil,leſquels nous auons dit humeur & ſitué entre la partie de la cornée tranſparente, & la partie de l'humeur chryſtalin deſcouuerte en la pu- aqueux. pille(en laquelle on void vne image côme en vn miroir,& eſt la feneſtre de l'œil par laquelle nous voyös) & la refiexion de l'vuée,depuis l'iris iuſqu'à la circonference dudit humeur chryſtalin,comme il a eſté dit, afin qu'en rempliſſant tel eſpace vuide,il diſtende la cornée,& par ce moyen defende qu'elle ne tombe ſur lhumeur chryſtalin,qui ſeroit au dommage de la veué.et dauantage,afin que par ſon humidité il defende que ledit humeur chryſtalin ne ſoit par trop deſſeiché.il peut eſtre engédré par la reſudation de la ferofité . apportée par les vaiſſeaux des tuniques,leſquels ſelon leur plus grande partie,produiſent leurs anaſtomoies | hºmººr & extremitez,iuſques à la pupille,& lieu dudit humeur aqueux. le ſecond humeur,& moyen en ſituation, # eſt appellé chryſtalin, pour la couleur claire, & luiſante qu'il a ſemblable au chryſtal,ſi on luy peut attri- # •mºarº buer aucune couleur : car à la verité les troishumeurs,& principalement le chryſtalin , eſtans inſtrumens, # # & organes de la veuë,n'ont deu auoir couleurs aucunes,de peur qu'elles n'empeſchaſſent en leuractiô,qui # #. eſt de repreſenter les couleurs des choſes viſibles , telles qu'elles ſont actuellement,comme vn mir# º § ºui . - l e pccgs pourqnoy - - - - - * - - - - - - - | i , le cinquieſme liure, actiºn des eſpeces de ce que nous regardons. ce qu'ils n'euſſent peu faire, s'ils euſſent eſté teints de quelque particu-a. #º * liere couleur. car tout ainſi que les lunettes teintes de couleur rouge,nous repreſentent toutes les eſpeces l'œil. viſibles de leur couleur,combien qu'elles ne ſoient telles.ainſi euſſent fait les humeurs à la faculté imagina- tiue,ou ſens commun,s'ils euſſent eu aucune certaine couleur,ainſi que nous auons dit par cy-deuant. par- quoy à bon droit le philoſophe a dit eſtre neceſſaire, que le ſujet ou matiere qui deuoit receuoir quelque forme fuſt exempte totalement d'icelle,à cauſe de l'empeſchement qui en pouuoit enſuiure.et poutant na- ture a fait la matiere ſans forme,les humeurs de l'œil ſans couleur,la cire ſans figure,l'entendemét ſans au- figare de %º cognoiſſance particuliere,pource qu'ils deuoient eſtre receptacles deſdictes formes.sa figure eſt ron- l'b§." de,toutesfois aucunement comprimée deuant,& plus par le derriere, afin que les couleurs des choſes viſi- chryſtelin. bles ſoient par telle compreſſion retenues ſans qu'elles eſchappentde coſté ou d'autre,comme elles eu%ent " fait,ſi ladite figure euſt eſté parfaictement ronde, & afin auſſi que par vn coup orbeil ne peuſt eſtre tourné facilement de ſa place,pource que ce qui ſt appuyé ſur la circonference exterieure d'vne rondeur, facile- ment eſchappe & fuit côme ne touchant le plan ſur lequel il eſt fitué,que par vn poinct indiuiſible.dauanta- , , , ge, cét humeur eſt porté à moitié dedans l'humeur vitreux , duquel il eſt nourry quaſi par tranſpoſitionde matiere de l'vn à l'autre, ou pluſtoſt(veu qu'il eſt entierement enuironné de la cinquieſme tunique, à cauſe dequoy ne peut eſtre faicte tranſſomption de matiere) des vaiſſeaux conduits iuſques à luy,tant par la tuni- - que retiforme, que lvuée,& par deuant l'humeur aqueux,& l'eſpace de la pupille(qui eſt encores au de- gal. chap. . uant)eſt pleine d'eſprit aeré,& luiſant:ce qui ſe peut cognoiſtre:attendu que durant la vie nous voyôs l'œil *iº o de v- fort eſtendu,& plein de tous coſtez,ſans qu'aucune partie d'iceluy ſoit laxe ny ridée : mais apres la mort on b ſupart. le trouue ridé , parce que l'eſprit en eſt euaporé. on peut encores prouuer, & apperceuoir telle choſe:car en fermant vn œil , on voit la pupille de l'autre s'aſlargir & remplir,d'autant que l'eſprit eſt communiqué, & renuoyé d'vn œil à autre.dauantage és perſonnes fort aagées la tunique cornée ſe ride & s'amoncelle, & les rides tombent les vnes ſur les autres,& lors la pupille s'eſtrecit.qui fait qu'aucuns ne voyent gueres, raiſon pour- les autres rien du tout,à cauſe que la ſuſdite humidité, & eſprit ſe conſomme, & deſſeiche par l'antiquité quoy la veuë du temps, & partant l'eſprit yafflue moins de ſa ſource, & principe. pareillement la tunique cornée à l'en- je diminué droit qu'elle commence des limites ou parties proche de l'iris,ſemble eſtre fort proche de l'humeur chry- " "ºlit ſtalin,parce qu'en ce lieu là toutes les tuniques,&humeurs ſont coërentes, & d'autant plus qu'elles'aduan- º º ce en dehors,s'en recule toufiours de plus en plus, & eſtant la plus eſloignée qu'elle peut eſire à lendroict perſonnes. de la pupille : ce qu'on peut voir par l'anatomie, & par l'operation qui ſe fait lors qu'on abbat la taye ou - cataracte;car eſtant la tayc au milieu de la tunique cornée,& de l'humeur chryſtalin, l'eguille qu'on pouſſe dedans pour l'abaiſſer, ſe meine deſſus & deſſous , ça & là,& tournoye en rond de tous coſtez par vne fort grande ſpatioſité, ſans toucher l'vne ny l'autre partie,à ſçauoir la cornée, ny l'humeur chryſtalin, parce qu'elles ſont ſéparées d'vne fort grande diſtance,pleine d'eſprit,& d'humidité ſubtile.son vtilité eſt de ſeruir comme de miroir à la faculté viſuelle,illec conduite par l'eſprit viſuel.le tiers, & dernier eſt le vitreux,ou pluſtoſt albugineux,ainſi nommé,à cauſe qu'en conſiſtence,& couleuril eſt ſemblable au verre, ou bien an blanc d'vn œuf sa ſituation eſt en la partie poſterieure du precedent, pour reprimer aucunement l'impe- tuoſité de l'eſprit deſcendant audit humeur chryſtalin:ainſi que nous pouuons pareillement dire l'humeur aqueux auoir eſté mis de nature au deuant dudit humeur chryſtalin , pour refrener l'impetuoſité des cou- leurs qui ſont preſentées à iceluy.cét humeurvitreux eſt nourry de la tunique retiforme.quantaux nerfs, ils ont eſté ja declarez. parquoy reſte que nous parlions des veines , deſquelles les vnes ſont internes illec produictes auec les tuniques des vaiſſeaux du cerueau. les autres ſont externes, eſtendues ſeulement, & apertement aux parties externes d'iceluy,commeaux muſcles,& tunique coionctiue,par leſquelles ſouuen- tesfois ſont faites inflammations,& rougeurs en ladite partie externe:au moyen dequoy faut inciſer la veine puppe, & appliquer cornets, & ventouſes ſur la partie poſterieure de la teſte, du col,& du palleron : ainfi comme és affections internes de l'œil faut ouurir la veine cephalique , pour deriuer , reusler, & euacuer la matiere qui fait la maladie, ſelon que la choſe le requiert. - lieu où ſe faiét la ca- taračte . vtilité. humeur al- bugineux. situation. figure de l'œil. monſtre la partie anterieure de l'œil, circonſcripte par l'iris. nerfoptique ſortant du crane pour entrer en l'œil. •, - quatre muſcles droicts. deux obliques. le ſeptieſme pyramidal ſelon g•- lien , lequel ne ſe trouue qu'aux beſtes. - - du nez. c h a p. v i i. subſtance. e s t e maintenant à parler du nez, que les grecs appellent rbis, à cauſe que par iceluy coulent $tºantité, & fluent les excremens des ventricules anterieurs du cerueau. sa ſubſtance eſt diuerſe , comme tu figure, ér entendras par ſa compoſition. .. sa quantité , figure & ſituation eſt aſſez notoire & manifeſte à vn cha- situation cun.quant à ſa compoſition , il eſt composé de cuir, muſclçs, os, cartilages, membrane ou tunique,nerf, compoſition. veine,& artere. leur cuir , & les os tant contenans, que contenus, ont eſté par cy - deuant ſuffiſamment demonſtrez» | de l'anatomie. i a demonſtrez, comme auſſi les nerfs, veines & arteres. parquoy il nous conuient parler des cartilages, leſ- . - quels ſont ſix en nombre. le premier eſt double,ſeparant les deux narines au bout du nez, s'eſtendans iuſ- six carrila- qu'à l'os ethmoide le ſecond eſt ſitué au deſſous du ſuſdit. le troiſieſme & quatrieſme ſont contenus auec º du nez. i**ºiercar- les deux os externes dudit nez. le cinquiéme & ſixieſme aſſez tenues & deliez,deſcendans par la partie la- riiage double terale, tant dextre que ſeneſtre du nez , conſtituent les ailesd'iceluy, leſquelles ſont priſes pour ſa partie # mobile. l'vtilité deſdicts cartilages eſt, afin que le nez en ſon extremité ſoit mobile , & conſequemment '#.ſms moins ſuiect aux iniures externes,comme deſtre rompu & froiſsé,& plus conuenable à la reſpiration.pour é, quatrieſ- laquelle parfaire, nature luy a baillé quatre muſcles, deux de chacun coſté,vn externe & l'autre interne, §e. l'externe prend ſon origine de la pommette, & d'icelle deſcendant obliquement, & aucunement annexé à cinquieſme celuy qui ouure la lévre ſuperieure,ſe termine a l'aile ou pine du nez,laquelle il ouure.l'interne ſortinte- & ſixieſme. rieurement de l'os maxillaire,& deſine au commencement des cartilages qui conſtituent les ailes,pour icel- viitité des les ſerrer. quant à la tunique, laquelle interieurement reueſt les narines,& conduits du nez, elle proce-ºil-res de de la dure-mere par les os cribleux ou ſpongieux, ainfi que celle du palais, larinxtrachée artere,oe- ** fophague,& l'interne du ventricule : & pource ne ſe faut eſmerueiller,ſi facilement & promptement les af- # muſ- fections deſdites membranes ſont communiquées au cerueau.dauantage ceſte tunique reçoit(ientends tant ## -a. d'vn coſté que d'autre) vne portion de nerf de la tierce coniugaiſon : par letrou qui par le grand angle de § º-'- l'œil deſcend au nez.le temperament du nez eſt froid & ſec ſelon toutes ſes parties sonaclion & vtilité eſt #i, l•. de conduire l'air & auecques luy quelquesfois les odeurs iufques au procez mammillaires,& de la aux ven- rer . tricules anterieurs pour les vtilitez ſuſdites, à raiſon dequoy nature l'a ordonné creux. et pource que les ailes des les ſuſdits procez mammillaires, conduits de l'air & odeurs, ſont doubles comme le cerueau & que l'vn nez ſont me- ſans l'autre pouuoit eſtre bouché:à ceſte cauſe nature a femblablement diuisé le creux du nez en deux par biles. vn moyen cartilagineux, à celle fin que ſi l'vn eſtoit eſtouppé, l'autre demeuraft ouuert, pour porter air au tempera- cerueau, pour la generation & conſeruation de l'eſprit animal. les deux trous du nez montent en haut, ººº ºº puis deſcendent en bas au dedans de la bouche:& vont ainſi anfractueux,de peur que l'air froid & la pouſ- j º .. ſiere n'entre en la canne du poulmon. iceux trous ſont auſſi conſtruicts pour aider à la reſpiration. les au- •t #" ér tres vtilitez du nez ſont,qu'il preſerue & garde des dangers exterieurs l'inſtrument de l'odorat. dauantage # mov # il ſert à embellir la face. quoy - - - nez eſt dou- des muſcles de la face ». ch a p. v l ii.* ble. presauoirainſi demonſtré les ſuſdites parties, faut venir aux muſcles de la face, appartenans . . tant auxlévres qu'à la maſchoire baſſe, pour l'accompliſſemens,de leur mouuemens leſquels piº , hui# font dixhuict en nôbre,neuf de chacun coſté, à ſçauoir quatre des lévres, deux en la ſupereiu ºº cles de la n# re,& autant en l'inferieure:& cinq de la maſchoire inferieure.des ſuperieuresle premier plus º# - º long & plus eſtroit, prend ſon origine de la pommette,ou os iugal,& deſcend par l'angle de ,# la bouche à la lévre inferieure pour icelle amener à la ſuperieure , & conſequemment fermer la bouche. §. ſu- l'autre plus court & plus large, ſort de la cauité de l'os maxillaire tout au deſſous du trou duditos (par le-§. quelvne portion de nerfs de la troiſieſme coniugaiſon deſcend à ces deux muſcles,& autres parties de la fa- muſcle ſe- ce : & deſine à la partie ſuperieure de ladite lévre ſoperieure, laquelle il conſtitue auec le pannicule char-cmod. neux & le cuir, & l'ouure la renuerſant vers le nez par ſes fibres exterieures,& retirant au dedans vers les premier. dents par les interieures. quant à ceux de la léure inferieure,le premier plus long & plus greſle,ſort d'en-muſcle de la tre le trou externe de la maſchoire(par lequel le nerfſort de le partie interne d'icelle auſdits muſcles)& le lºre infº- muſcle maſticatoire , duquel ſera parlé cy-apres : & montant en haut par l'angle de la bouche, deſine à la º, . léure ſuperieure pour icelle amener à l'inferieure. l'autre plus court , a ſon commencement du bord du #º ſº- menton,& partie caue d'iceluy, & ſe termine à la lévre inferieure, laquelle il conſtitue, l'ouurant vers la " - partie interne & externe,par ſes fibres tant internes qu'externes comme ſon oppofite : & pour le dire en vn mot,nature pour le mouuement de la bouche a † genres de muſcles deſquels les vns l'ouurent les autres la ferment, les autres la tournent en diuerſes façons. où faut noter que quand les muſcles d'vn meſme genre font enſemble leur action (comme les deux ſuperieurs que nous auons deſcrits les premiers, ... c'eſt à ſçauoir vn de chacun coſté, qui amenent la léure inferieure à la ſuperieure, & leurs oppoſites ) ils *º font le mouuement droict. mais quand l'vn d'iceux opere ſeulement à part il faict le mouuement oblique, comme quand on tourne la bouche de trauers. or ceſdicts muſcles ſont infiltrez auec le cuir,ſi bien que ce meſlange & commixtion eſt ſi grandement confuſe,qu'on ne peut ſeparer ny muſcle ny cuir, en ſorte qu'on les peut appeller peau muſculeuſe ou muſcles de peau (autant en eſt-il au dedans des mains & des pieds,) leſquels meuuent les ioües,& léures,jaçoit que la mandibule ne bouge,& ceſſe du tout de ſonmouuement. figure qui demonſtre les muſcles principaux de la face-». - | .. ? -- • - - monſtre le muſcletemporai. º . %$ wn %$ - a | $s | " $ b l'os paris, ſous lequel il paſſe. - , , à c muſcle maſticatoire. i# e> | , d le muſcle petit. - - - # # % iff lll'llt \w " e muſcle de la lévre ſuperieure. # |Ü f muſcle de la lévre inferieure. - $: > !#) ! ghikl muſcle de l'os hyoude. s ?g º | m le maſtoide #$ n partie du trapeze. •= %# n o le scanele. -- ". $ - p l aile du ncz. · « > n，> $ % $- wn \nnn> n nsn - \$ - l * dei l . . le ſixieſme liure, -" a j -- - _ * _ - - - • • • - * des muſcles de la maſchoire inferieure , c h a f. i x. mwſcle tem- À i n t e. n a n t faut venir aux muſcles motifs de la machoire inferieure , que nous auons feral dit eſtre cinq ; à ſçauoir, quatre qui la ferment, & vn qui l'ouure, i'entends touſiours de cha- cun coſté. des quatre qui la ferment le premier & plus grand , nommé crotaphite, c'eſt à dire,temporal,prend ſon origine des parties laterales du front & de l'os parietal, bien auant | vers le haut,& deſcend adherant audit os,& au petreux par deſſus l'os iugal:s'inſere à l'apo- phyſe de la maſchoire inferieure, nommée des grecs (orone, pour icelle amener directement vers la ſu- playes mor perieure pour fermer la bouche. et noteras que ce muſcle eſt tendineux iuſqu'au milieu de ſoy, lequel # #" remplit & conſtitue le temple, & eſt ſubject plus que nul autre, à playes mortelles, à raiſon de la multi- croaphite tude des nerfs diſtribuez par ſa ſubſtance : leſquels pour la propinquité de leur origine, promptement ap- " portent danger de mort,à cauſe de la conuulſion,qui ordinairement & le plus ſouuent enſuit les affections dudict muſcle : pareillement fiévre , alienation d'eſprit,& vn dormir profond:et pour ceſte cauſe,afin qu'il ne fuſt ſubiect aux iniures externes,nature luy a baſty vne retraitte creuſe côme vne foſſe en l'os,puis a mis vue leuée & vn bord fait de l'os tourné vers ledit muſcle, afin qu'il fuſt mieux preſerué & gardé des choſes muſcle ma- exterieures le ſecôd preſque auſſi grâd appellé maſticatoire ou maſcheur,faiſant la joue,deſcend de la par- ſticatoire. tie baſſe & droite ligne du plus grand os de l'orbite de l'œil (lequel s'eſtend en arriere pour faire vne por- tion de l'os ſugal,ainſi qu'il t'a eſté dit cy-deuant, & s'inſere à la maſchoire baſſe, depuis l'angle d'icelle iuſ- ques à la fin de la racine de l'apophyſe coroni,pour icelle maſchoire amener en auant & en arriere,comme en forme de meule de moulin:à cauſe dequoy nature l'a conſtitué de doubles fibres,les vnes qui ſortent de la pommette(faite en partie du plus grâd os de l'orbite de l'œil,en partie de l'os maxillaire majeur)& deſ- cendant obliquement & exterieurement vers l'angle,& partie poſterieure de la maſchoire baſſe,pour icelle amener en auant.les autres ſortent de la partie poſterieure dudit os iugal, & deſcendans auſſi obliquement par deſſous les ſuſdites (leſquelles ils croiſent en forme de croix bourguignone) s'implantent à ladite rna- choire pres la racine de la ſuſdicte apophyſe coroni, pour icelle mener en arriere. et à cauſe de ces deux muſcle contraires mouuemens, & quaſi orbiculaires, ce muſcle eſt appellé maſcheur. le troiſieſme nommé rond, vcnd. rend ſon origine de toute la genciue laterale de la maſchoire ſuperieure , & s'inſere à toute la laterale de # inferieure,circonſcriuant les parties laterales de la bouche,de la tunique de laquelle il eſt interieurement reueſtu,& exterieurement couuert de greſſe, plus que nul autre muſcle. son action eſt non ſeulement d'a- aaia , mener la maſchoire inferieure à la ſuperieure, mais auſſi de ſeruir comme de pelle, pour ramener ſous les #., à dents la viande qui eſchappe de deſſous icelles vers le dehors,ainſi que la langue faitdu dedans le quatrieſ- muſcle qe•- mº plus court & plus petit de tous les ſuſdicts, ſort du creux de l'apophyſe de l'os baſilaire nommé pteri- trieſme #e la goide,& s'inſere interieurement à l'angle de lamaſchoire inferieure,pour icelleauſſi menervers la ſuperieu- maſ boire re.et au moyen de ce muſcle eſt faicte luxation de la maſchoire,ainſi que nous auonsdit.quant au cinquieſ- in ferieure. nme & dernier des mulcles de ladicte maſchoire, il monte de l'apophyſe stiloide de l'os petreux à la partie muſele cin- interieure du menton, pres la comiſſure des deux os de ladicte maſchoire , pour icelle ramener de la ſu- ººſºº & perieure en bas en ouurant la bouche. et eſt ledict muſcle greſle & tendineux en ſon milieu pour ſon #º,. renfort, & charneux en ſes extremitez. or tous ceſdicts muſcles ont eſté faicts par vne grande proui- #. # dence & ſageſſe de nature,pour faire diuerſes actions en maſchant, par diuers mouuemens exercez les vns " apres les autres alternatiuement, pour piler, briſer, broyer la viande en tres-petites pieces par les dents, leſquelles ſont ramenées, remuées, tranſportées par la langue, ſans toutesfois qu'elle ſoit aucunement of- fensée , ny priſe entre icelles dents. et voila quant aux parties de la face,tant contenantes que contenuës. - º - figure des muſcles de la maſchoire inferieure_ . a demonſtre le muſcletemporal. b muſcle maſſeter, ou maſcheur. c muſcle rond tiſſu de diuerſes fibres. d muſcſe ouurant la bouche, le- - quel auons dit eſtre tendineux en ſon milieu. e l'os hyoïde ou de la langue. p vn des muſcles de los hyoïde, qui vient de la coſte ſuperieu- - re de l'omoplate , lequel eſt " , tendineux en ſon milieu, ainſi que celuy qui ouure la bouche ， $ a c ſ/($$$ g g deux mſcles du col, qui mon- - # $n$ tent de la partie ſuperieure nmtºm$ •- $ du sternon. - - h muſcle releueur de l'omoplate. des oreilles & parotides. ch a p. x. e s oreilles ſont les organes & inſtruments du ſens auditif,qui diſtingue des voix,des ſons,& )# des tons : composées de cuir & peu de chair,cartilage,veine,artere & nerfs.elles ſont pliées, # & entortillées, ſans que pour cela elles ſouffrent aucun mal : pource qu'eſtans aucunement #s # molles & cartilagineuſes, elles obeiſſent à ce que l'on met deſſus comme vn chappeau, ou /eſ- as bonnet ou morion, ou autre accouſtrement de teſte. et ſi nature les euſt fait oſſeuſes, telles choſes euſſent peu commodement ſe faire, & ſe fuſſent ſouuentesfois rompuës. le mol où on pend volon- tiers les bagues, eſt nommé des anciens fibra & le deſſus pinia. et ont eſté faites par vne prouidence de ompoſition, fignre. nature, de figure anfractueuſe , comme vne coquille de limaçon ou eſcargot , faiſant la voye tortuë, auec fiora. circuits & deſtours obliques, touſiours allans en diminution iuſques à l'extremité du trou dicelle, appellé mprº?na, cecum forma, pour mieux receuoir , retenir l'air, & ramaſſer les eſpeces & differences des ſons, & voix:& generalement toutes choſes que nous comprenons par l'oüye , diſpersées par iceluy cœcum : afin que par - - apres de l'anatomic. a apres elles puiſſent eſtre conduites iufques à la membrane,qui eſt mediocrement dure, faicte des nerfs de la cinquieſme coniugaiſon,appellez auditifs.l'vtilité deſdites oreilles ſert à la beauté de la teſte:ce qui ap- pert euidemment par ceux qui les ont couppées,combien ils ſont difformes & mal-plaiſans à voir.pour ce- ſte cauſe, on les coupe à ceux qu'on veut rendre difformes & infames pour quelque grande meſchanceté. auſſi pour auoir la iouyſſance de la diuerſité des ſons , & principalement de la parole, & le plaiſir des har- caeum fora. //je». f'rilité des inonies & melodies qui ſont en diuers tons & chants, tant de la voix humaine, que des oyſeaux,& autres oreilles. animaux, & des inſtrumens de muſique. - - pareillement par l'oüve nous entendons en bien peu de temps,ce que le maiſtre qui nous enſeigne,a ac- quis & preparé par vn bien long-temps d'autre part, elles nous ſont comme guettes & ſentinelles , pour bºdin en ſs ouyr & entendre les commoditez , ou incommoditez de tout noſtre corps. . republiqiie l'inftrument premier & principal de l'ouye,eſt vn air fort ſubtil, contenu en la cauité dicte maſtoïde ou tabourin,& nay en iceluy dés noſtre premierenaiſsâce,couuerte d'vne petite peau fort deliée,faicte du nerf auditif, & par l'eſprit animal eſt faite la vertu auditiue. semblablement ladite anfractuoſité a eſté faicte, de peur que l'air,& les ſons n'entraſſent trop impetueuſement dans les oreilles,leſquels euſſent peubleſſerou du tout gaſter l'organe auditif & auſſi ſi le trou eſtoit percé droict,les ſons ne s'entonneroient pas ſi bien comme ils'font és lieux recourbez,eſquels ils ont rencontré,pour les faire arreſter,& mieux reſonner.auſſi qu'elles les receueroient trop grands & trop à coup : par ainfi ils en ſeroient plus confus, & ne les pour- roient pas bien diſcerner & entendre. et neantmoins ladite anfractuoſité, on void aduenir que l'air eſtant trop fort agité, romp, eſclate , & diſſipe quelquesfois cét organe auditif, comme il aduient par la trop grande vehemence de l'artillerie, du tonnerre , groſſes cloches, & autres grands bruits ſemblables. da- uantage ladite anfractuoſité a eſté faite de peur que l'air froid n'entraſt trop à coup au cerueau, ny aucun corps eſtrange n'offenſaſt l'organe auditif. plus, nature a enuoyé vn humeur colerique , gros & gluant, . dans le trou dicelles pour purger le cerueau : mais principalement, afin que ſi aucunes petites beſtioles eſtoient entrées dedans, qu'elles y fuſſent priſes comme en de la glue. - j or pour bien entendre comme ſe fait l'ouye, il faut premierement cognoiſtre & conſiderer la ſtructure la maniéré & fabrication de la ſuſdite anfractuoſité,dont ſe fait l'audition aumoyen de la membrane,qui eſt composée de la tunique du nerfauditif, & tenduë interieurement dans le trou de l'oreille, comme la peau d'vn ta- bourin.caricelle eſt enfiée & tendue de l'air implanté dés noſtre premiere naiſſance par l'eſprit auditif,le- quel eſt enclos dans la cauité de l'apophyſe maſtoïde,de laquelle auons parle cy-deſſus au cecumforamen : à · ce qu'eſtant frappée de l'air exterieur,ceſte membrane reçoiuel'object,qui eſt le ſon,& la voix:qui n'eſtau- tre choſe qu'vne qualité permanente du departement,& fraction de l'air,faite par la concluſion & rencontre de deux corps durs,deſquels l'vn a receu le coup,& l'autre l'a donné. or ceſte colliſion & froiſſement s'eſ- pand enl'air, comme d'vne † en l'eau , dont nous voyons par l'agitation d'icelle les cercles & rondeaux ou circonuolutions, s'eſtendre en rond dedansl'eau , non partout, mais en vne certaine eſpace. ou comme l'on voit és fontaines & ruiſſeaux,qui, par vn canal eſtroit & ſinueux,coulent à trauers de quel- ques lieux fort rompus, raboteux & pierreux, l'eau venant à heurter contre les obſtacles & empeſchements qui ſe rencontrent oppoſez au deuant de ſon cours, repouſsé contremont, faire pluſieurs tours,plis & re- cemme ſe fair l'ouyé, plis, qui ſe reiettent,s'eſtandans & s'eſlargiſſans flot,apres flot,les vns ſur les autres,diminuans ſucceſſiue- l'air eſt ment & preſque inſenſiblement tant qu'ils ſoient finis. de meſme ceſte fraction d'air renduë en lieux cou- moyen de couuerts & cauerneux;comme és ciſternes,puits,egliſes,ou és eſpeſſes foreſts rend plufieurs ſons les vns ſur l'ouye. les autres,dont la duplicatió eſt appelléé echo.ainſi eſt faite en ceſte façon l'audition parl'air,qui eſt lemo- .. tabºurin yen de l'ouye:lequel eſt double,à ſçauoir exterieur & interieur.parl'exterieur ſont portées les inondations, dº orvillas. dont eſt fait ledit echo. l'interieur eſt celuy , qui eſt enclos dans ladite cauité maſtoide, appellé tabourin des oreilles, où il ya petites cachettes, deſtours & contours , où ſont elaborez les tons , & ſons diuers; ayans des oppoſitions & rencontres,comme l'onvoit que les choſes creuſes ſont plus propres à receuoirles ſons,que les choſes maſſiues, ainſi que voyons d'vn tabourin,trompette, & aux inſtrumens de muſique, & au cæcum foramen , lequel n'eſt pas pur, mais temperé par l'eſprit auditif , nay auec nous. et qu'il ſoitvray, les operations de tous les ſens ne ſe font que par l'eſprit qui eſt en eux, comme le ſens auditif eſt pour receuoir leſdites inondations, ou circuitions : & iceluy touche ladite membrane, laquelle ainſi que la peau du tabourin, reçoit les ſons de ſon air, qui eſt en iceluy enclos, appellé air implanté.parquoy de la grande afi- vient le tintement d'oreilles,quand au dedans d'elles il y a quelques vapeurs contre le naturel,ce qui trou- #ation. ble leditair temperé, & l'eſprit auditif. or tout cela n'eſt aſſez pour faire l'ouye : car encore pour mieux #º oſſelett diſtinguer les ſons & voix, nature a produict trois petits oſſelets : l'vn appellé uncus, l'autre malleolus, en noſtre langue enclume, & marteau ; le troiſieſme strapes , pource qu'il repreſente vn eſtrier d'vn cheual reiſtre : o deltoide,à raiſon qu'il reſemble à vn delta des grecs, ſituez derriere ladite membrane:leſquels malleolus & incus eſtans meus & agitez des inondations de l'air exterieur frappans ladite membrane, con- ſtituent les differences des ſons & voix, ainſi que fait la corde qui eſt au trauers de la peau poſterieure d'vn tabourin. comme pour exemple, quand ces petits oſſelets ſont legerement meüs & agitez,ils repreſentent à la faculté auditiue & au ſens commun, vn ſon graue & obſcur : mais lors qu'ils ſont fort agitez,ils luy re- preſentent vn ſon eſclatant & violent,comme en la commotion de l'air faicte par le tonnerre ou artilleries cloches,clairons,& ſemblables:& finalement ſelon qu'ils ſont agitez entre ces deux extremes, approchans l d plus ou moins l'vn de l'autre » repreſentent diuers ſons au ſens commun, deſquels ie te donne icy la figure, figure de l'incus, malleolus, & stapes. | . ºg a， ºu malleolus. incus, leſquels ſont adherans enſemble. malleolus, - | incus,ſeparez l'vn d'auecl'autre. - - - -- - stapes ou eſtrier,l'vſage duquel nulanatomiſte n'a encores eſcrit,au moins queie ſrache.eſt-ce point pour ſouſtenir la membrane du cacum foramen eſleué en haut, afin quela faculte auditiue ſoit plus parfaicte. - ; l f f ſeruans à 'ouye. "wtw -- y ). · le ſixieſme liure, des paroti- . des. 'vſage des paroti ſ'es." vſge des glandules. subſtance. f,gure. compoſition sirnation. connexion. tempera- rnent. vſ.ge. des muſcles de l'os hyoi- de. premier. muſcle. second. le tiers. le quart, ' eſtre inſeré au larynx , comme on le trouue aux beſtes. le quatrieſme & dernier deſcend interieurement action. subſtance. fntité. figure. cºmpoſition. dix muſcles de la lan- ſfiº. et te ſuffiſe dt l ºration de la vertu auditiue : maintenant nous faut retourner à p"ler des pºetia a | : - « -- apres les oreilles , ſelon l'ordre anatomique, faut conſiderer & monſtrer lesglandes tant des emun- .. ! ctoires du cerueau , nommées parotides (leſquelles ſont ſituées, & miſes ſous, & aucunemcnt derriere la zº partie baſſe de l'oreille ) que celles qui ſont au deſſous de la mandibule inferieure » & plus vers la partie \ poſterieure,par deſſus les muſcles de l os hyoide, & aucuns de la langue, auſquelles ſe font les eſcroüel- #tº es , & autres abſcez froids : de toutes leſquelles tu noteras ſeulement en ce lieu-cyl'vſage. et premiere- s ment des parotides , leſquelles ont eſté faictes de nature, afin de receuoir la matiere veneneuſe & viru- , t. lente, repouſsée par le cerueau en icelles , par la multitude des veines & arteres illec diſtribuées. quant l，. aux autres , elles peuuent ſeruir à la diuiſion des veines illec diuisées, & humectation de la mandibule,ou v> ligamens , m.mbrares d icelles , qui pouuoient eſtre deſſeichez par le continuel & frequent mouuement f, de ladite maſchoire. les autres conſiderations requiſes en icclies, ont eſté declarées au premier liure. - de l'os hyoide, & de ſes muſcles. ch a p. xi. - : ) | a i n t e n a n t faut pourfuiure & monſtrer les muſcles de l'os hyoide : pour laquelle - a choſe commodement faire, il faut premierement deſcrire ledit os & ſa ſituation et pour com- # mencer, tu noteras que ſa ſubſtance eſt telle que des autres. sa figure eſt telle que la lettre • grecque (y)au moyen dequoy il a eſté ainſi appellé. sa compoſition eſt de pluſieurs os con- \ joints & li z enſemble par cartilages : & auſſi aux beſtes brutes, par ligamens, eſquelles il ſe b ·- trouue beaucoup plus long & en plus grand nombre. et eſt cedit os ſitué ſelon ſa baſe ( en ſa partie an-, terieure boſſue , pour plus grande aſſeurance : & en l'interieure voutée ) pour contenir & receuoir la ra- - cine de la langue , ſur la partie ſuperieure du cartilage du larynx nommé scutiforme ( duquel il ſemble - eſtre ſouſtenu par deux apophyſes, montantes d'iceluy pres de la baſe dudit os ) & de la ſuſdite racine de - la langue. de laquelle baſe aſſez large il dreſſe deux cornes vers les partie laterales de la langue , vne de chacun coſté (i entens aux hommes) leſquelles s'attachent par certains ligamens produits d icelles,à l'apo-- phyſe styloide : au contraire des beſtes,auſquelles par multiplication d'os conjoints (comme nous auons) par ligamens , elles deſ endent iuſques à la racine de ladite apophyſe styloide. sa connexion eſt auec les ſuſdites parties, & autres qui te ſeront cy apres declarées, son temperament eſt tel que des autres. son vſage ei de bailler ligamens à quelques muſcles de la langue,qui ſortent d'iceluy:& de bailler inſertion,tant aux deux anterieurs & ſuperieur du larynx , qu'aux ſiens propres , deſquels nous faut maintenant parler- or ſont les muſcles de l'os hyoide, ſelon aucuns, huict en nombre, quatre de chacun coſté : deſquels il y en a deux que galien refere, l vn entre les communs du larynx, l'autre entre ceux qui meuuent l'omo- plate vers le haut. toutesfois comment que ce ſoit, le premier des quatre prend ſon origine de l'apophyſe styloide , & paſſant par deſſus la partie nerueuſe du muſcle ouurant la maſchoire inferieure, s'inſereaux cornes dudit os hyoide. ce muſcle eſt fort tenue, delié , & aucunement large, & facile à couper, ſi on ne te donne de garde, en ſeparant celuy qui ouure la maſchoire inferieure. le ſecond monte de la partie ſuperieure de l'omoplate pres ſon apophyſe coracoide ou bec de corbin, obliquement au commencement des cornes dudit os. et eſt ceſtuy-cy rond & nerueux au milieu, pour ſon renforcement, comme celuyauſſi qui ouure la ſuſdite machoire. galien , comme nous auons dit , le refere entre ceux qui meuuent l'omo- plate en haut. le tiers a ſon origine de la partie ſuperieure du sternon , & ſon inſertion en la racine, & - baſe dudit os hyoide : toutefois galien le refere entre les communs du larynx : le dire duquel doit auoir pluſtoſt lieu aux beſtes brutes qu'en l'homme, veu qu en iceluy nous ne trouuons ce muſcle ſortir, ou du menton à la racine de l'os hyoide, & meuuent ceſdits muſcles auec leurs compagnons ledit os hyoide vers le haut , comme les premiers : vers le bas comme les ſeconds : vers le derriere, comme les troiſieſ- mes : vers le deuant , comme les quatrieſmes & derniers. ie te declarerois d'où tous les muſcles ont leurs vaiſſeaux, ſi ne l'auois faict parlant de la diſtribution des nerfs , & veines, & arteres. de la langue- . c h a p. x l i. % a langue eſt de ſubſtance charneuſe, rare, laxe, molle, & toute diuerſe de l'autre chair, & ,' ) principalement depuis quelque peu apres l'origine de ces muſcles : qui a eſmeu quelques vns n - à faire vne quatrieſme eſpece de chair propre à la langue, differente de la chair muſculeuſe º, fibreuſe, viſcereuſe. sa quantité eſt telle,qu'elle ſe peut aisément mouuoir & remuer dans la ſ， " bouche:dedans laquelle a fallu qu'elle fuſt encloſe comme dedans vne cauerne, pour les cau- ſes qui te ſeront declarées cy-apres, sa figure eſt triangulaire,plus groſſe,& mieux exprimée en ſa baſe,qui eſt contre la racine de l'os hyoide, qu'en ſa poincte : auquel endroit perdant ſa figure de triangle , eſt fai- cte platte & large. sa compoſition eſt d'vne membrane ( qu'elle a de celle qui reueſt interieurement tou- te la bouche ) de muſcles qui te ſeront expliquez à ceſte heure : de quatre portions de nerfs, deux de chacun coſté, venans, l'vn de la tierce coniugaiſon en la ſuſdite tunique, & l'autre de la ſeptieſme, ſten- d du par la ſubſtáce des muſcles iuſques à ſon extremité,pour icelle mouuoir, tellemét que les nerfs ſenſitifs tiſsét & ourdiſſent la tunique exterieure ſans toucher aux muſcles qui ſont deſſous, auſquels ſe diſtribuent les nerfs motifs de la ſeptieſme coniugaiſon. or les ſenſitifs ſont pour diſcerner des ſaueurs, & les autres pour faire les mouu mens d'icelles. plus elle eſt composée de deux veines, & deux arteres, vne de chacun coſté,qu'elle reçoit des iugulaires externes & carotides:leſquelles s'en vont manifeſtement iuſqu'au bout de la langue par ſa partie inferieure : afin qu'aux affections de la bouche,& parties dicelle,comme auſſi du larynx, puiſſe eſtre faite miſſion de ſang : et ſont telles veines appellées vulgairement renales , ou noires. quant à ſ s muſcles, ils ſont dix en nombre, cinq de chacun coſté : deſquels le premier eſtroit en ſon commencement , & large en ſa fin, deſcend de l'apophyſe styloide au haut coſté de la langue » laquelle il tire en haut auec ſon compagnon. . • le ſecond prend ſon origine interieurement de la baſſe maſchoire à l'endroit de dents molaires,& s'im- plante au coſte bas de ladite langue pour icelle tirer en bas. - le troiſieſme procede de la partie interieure du menton , & s'en va à la racine de la langue , pour icelle chaſſer & pouſſer hors de la bouche. - · l le quatrieſme & le plus grâd & large de tous,& tiſſu de tous genres de fibres,ſort de la baſe de l'os hy- oide, & deſigne tout en la partie baſſe de la langue, laquelle auec ſon compagnon il ramene en † cc d ils ，- f .l. : "- # de l'anatomie. i . - a dedans la bouche. par le benefice de ces muſcles elle ſallonge, ſe retire, ſe hauſſe, ſe baiſſe, ſe recourbe, quand elle veut, & ſert à prendre les viandes. · situatiºn. le cinquieſme & dernier vient le plus ſouuét de la partie ſuperieure des cornes de l'os hyoïde,& s'é va # au coſté de la langue entre les deux premiers, pour icelle amener à la partie laterale & coſté de la bouche. , #. la ſituation,nombre & connexion de ladite langue te ſont aſſez notoires,par ce qui a eſté cy-deuant dit ſur , . p la compoſition, & ſituation d icelle. son temperament eſt chaud & humide, comme de toute autre chair, § , & son action,& vtilité eſt premierement de ſeruir d'organe à la faculté guſtatiue,au moyen dequoy elle a eſté vtilité. faicte rare,& ſpongieuſe,afin que plus facilement elle peuſt admettre, & receuoir par ſa fungoſité, les ſa- peurºucy a ueurs par le moyen de la ſaliue,vehicule d'icelles. sec ºndement,pour la confirmation & articulation de la langie eſil voix:à cauſe dequoy elle a eſté flexile,&mobile par toutes les parties de la bouche.telle action eſt la plus ſiongiºſº excellente qui ſe face par la vertu,& faculté de l'ame,pource qu'elle eſt truchement,& meſſagere des cogi- cr ººi'e tations de l'eſprit , & pour glorifier dieu par deſſus tous les autres membres. tiercement , pour ſeruir à ... maſcher, & briter les viandes, & à les aualler : & pource a eſte faicte comme vne pelie , de laquelle on re- met le bled qui eſchappe ſous la meule : et apres que la viande eſt bien maſchée , elle la ramaſſe en forme de pilules,afin qu'elle ſoit mieuxauallée, , : - . - " or pource que ladite langue,quand elle eſt deſſeichée,deuient plus tardiue & inhabile à faire ſon mou-, uement,comme il eſt manifeſte à ceux qui ont grand ſoiftant par fiévre ardente que par autre cauſe,nature ! " ya merueilleuſement pourueu,quelle ne fuſt moleſtée de tel accident,en ayant mis à la racine d'icelle deux . .. glandules fort ſpongieuſes,nommées tonſilles ou amygdales, vne de chacun coſté : leſquelles comme eſ- # de ponges, ſuccent & reçoiuent perpetuellement tant du cerueau qued'ailleurs, vn humeuraqueux & ſaliual, *** par lequel elles lubrifient , & humectent continuellement , non ſeulement la langue, mais auſſi toutes les . autres parties de la bonche, comme le ſifflet, & l'eſtroit de la gorge , & deux autour du ſifflet, & deux autour de l'oeſophague. _ - - - * de la bouche . c h a p. x i l i. :，sn% v s que nous ſommes tombez ſur le propos des parties contenuës dedans la bouche, il % faut pourſuiure briefuementce qui reſte digne d'obſeruation en icelle. et pourtant noteras, que ce nom de bouche emporte & ſignifie la capacité miſe entre la maſchoire fuperieure & < inferieure : & les dents & lévres, le larynx & oeſophague. l'vſage de la bouche eſt pour contenir la langue , & luy ayder à faire & accomplir ſes vſage de ls - - - - " - - a. - bouche. actions. et combien que iuſqu'à preſent pluſieurs de ſes parties ayent eſté déclarées, comme lévres,dents, § #ai, machoires, langue, tonſilles, & aucunement les trous du palais deſcendans du nez,ſi eſt-ce qu'il reſte en- # palais. cores à declarer que c'eſt qu'on appelle le palais, la luette, & pharynx ou fauce.et pour commencer, le ſi f#,idé, palais n'eſt autre choſe, que la partie ſuperieure de la bouche, circonſcripte des dents , & genciues de la aſpre,inegal, maſchoire ſuperieure, & laquelle reueſtuë de la tunique comme de la bouche,eſt faite ridée, aſpre, & ine- & pourquoy. gale , afin que par telle aſpreté, & inegalité la viande remuée, & agitée entre la langue & le palais, fuſt la maniere mieux brisee, & comminuée, et quantaux nerfs qui deſcendent de la quatrieſine coiugaiſon en ceſte par- de trºuuer tie , ſi tu les veux trouuer, il te faut ſeparer ladite tunique du deuant de la bouche au derriere, & tu les les nerfs ve- trouueras ſur les parties laterales, & poſterieures des os dudit palais, leſquels circonſcriuent & terminent º #º iceluy , ſur le commencement des trous internes de la bouche, qui deſcendent (comme nous auons dit du quatrieſme nez , & de l'endroit des apophyſes clinoides. ) et ceſdits trous ont eſté ainſi ordonnez de nature, afin que # par iceux la reſpiration fuſt faicte en dormant,ou en autre téps,& auſſi afin que le nez eſtant intereſſé & em- vſage § peſché les excremens deſcendans par iceluy, peuſſent eſtre euacuez, & deriuez par la bouche. dauantage, § du p,- elle eſt tiſſue de filamens nerueux, pour diſcerner des ſaueurs comme la langue, leſquels compoſent vne lais. tunique entre dure & molle. car ſi elle euſt eſté trop dure, comme vn os ou cartilage, elle n'euſt peu ſentir: eſtant auſſi par trop molle, les viandes trop dures, acres, & poignantes, la meurtriroient & entameroient. a c h a p. xiv. - v a n t à la luette, par icelle nous entendons vn petit corps charnu & fpongieux, de figure vſage de la i #) à quaſi d'vne pomme de pin , ſuſpendu perpendiculairement à la fin du palais, & baſe de l'os luette. \ $ criſta , qui diuiſe les deux trous dudit palais deſcendans du nez ſur l'entrée du larynx, afin #é qu'iceluy corps illec mis , & ſitué puiſſe rompre l'impetuoſité de l'air, & parce moyen retar- - dant, puiſſe faire qu'il ſoit aucunement moderé de ſa trop grande froideur, par la chaleur de la bouche : & d'auantage : afin qu'il ſerue comme de plectre à la voix, d uiſant l'air expiré , en ſorte qu'il puiſſe eſtre diffus par toute la bouche, pour en icelle reſonant eſtre articulé , & formé de la langue , en la lºette quoy ladite partie n'appert auoir petit vſage, veu qu'on void par experience,que ceux eſquels ceſte partie º * lr eſtincisée,ou par autres accidents corrompue,iceux ont non ſeulement la voix viciée, parlans du ncz,mais º neceſſai- auſſi en la parfin ils ſentent leur inſpiration plus froide dedans les poulmons : au moyen dequoy,s'ilsviuent § de l'wuule ou luette, ou dargareon. - - - - - - - · du pharyne long-temps,ils deuiennent phthiſiques.pareillement elle garde que la pouſſiere n'entre par la cane du poul- § ge # mon en cheminant par la pouſſiere. or par le pharynx ou fauces nous eſt ſignifiée la partie interieure , & pharynx. poſterieure de la bouche,qui eſt miſe deuant l'entrée du larynx, & oeſophague,laquelle eſt ainſiappellée, pource que c'eſt vn lieu anguſte & eſtroit,pour ramaſſer,& adapter l'air reçeu dedans la bouche,ou viande, au trou du larynx , ou de l'oeſophague. du larynx , ou neud de la gorge ». ch a p. x v. # e s t e maintenant que nous pourſuiuions l'anatomie du larynx , en laquelle premierement # - - » - i cel v, • n i rluiure les choſes ac- pº* º *º - /, †º que c'eſt ce qui eſt etendu par iceluy : puis apres pourt l * ' eau # # coll tlliilccs. )u' s à , doncques pour commencer, faut ſcauoir que par ce nom de larinx n'eſt entendu autre #. wi $ ' choſe,que la teſle & extremité de la trachée artere,qu'on appelle vulgairement, le morceau sulfazº . d'adam,lequel eſt plus de ſubſtance cartilagineuſe,qu'autre.sa quantité eſt aſſez notable,toutesfois diuerſe $uantité. ſelon les aages,temperamens, & grandeur ou petiteſſe des corps.sa figure repreſente plus qu'autre choſºlº figure. teſte d'vne huſte d'allemand. sa compoſition eſt de dix-huict muſcles, c eſt à ſçauoir, neuftant d'vn coſté compºſition. que d'autre,pareils en quantité,force,& action:& de trois cartilages joints enſemble par harmonie des vei- #ºº- bes,arteres,& nerfs, ainſi qu'il t'a eſté demonſtré parlant des vaiſſeaux. semblablement de double tunique» lages av l vne v .$ ue ſixieſme liure, m - - - - - /- rt - serºns vne interne,& yautre ºterne ainſi qu'auons dit pourſuiuans la trachée artere. ily*!# #s com- a - le cartiia- joints enſemble par certains ligamens & muſcles. l'anterieur, & le plus grand eſt appº ſ ºs,r . ,e °. roide,& vulgairement scutiforme,pour la ſimilitude qu'il a à vne rondelle,ou vn pauois.le ſecondm 'en - ! sºutiſ : en quantité & poſterieur,eſt celuy qui n'a point de nom, & partât eſt appellé des latins cºtilºgº innomi§ º º le tiers,& dernier,& plus petit de tous, eſt couché ſur les bords lateraux & ſuperieurs, ſur lequel il fai & * º conſtitue vne figure ſemblable à vn biberon de pot à huile ou aiguiere : à cauſe dequoy a eſté appellé des - $ # , , grecs arytenoide, & ſe peut ſeparer en deux. ces cartilages ainſi conjoints, & adaptez enſemble, font la ſe cartilage generation, diſtinction de la voix par le benefice de l'epiglotte, duquel parlerons bien toſt : enſemble de - - ， innemi ta. leurs muſcles,leſquels dilatent , & ouurent, compriment & ſerrent leſdits cartilages, & en ce faiſant font le cartila- les diuerſitez des voix.exemple.lors qu'ils s'ouurent ils font la voix groſſe,comme baſſe-contre.au contrai- c-'. re, quand ils ſont comprimez,ils font la voix grefle,comme vn deſſus : ainſi ſelon qu'ils ſeront aſtreints ou arytenºide ouuertes,plus ou moins,ils feront diuers tös de voix.pource donc qu'il eſtoit beſoin que ces cartilages fuſ- ſemblable à ſent mobiles,au moins l'aritenoide,& thyroide nature a dôné dix-huict muſcles auſdits cartilages, à ſça ºº uoir neuf de chacun coſté : deſquels il y en a trois communs,& ſix propres. le premier des communs, qui ºſ**** eſt caché ſous le troiſieſme des muſcles mouuansl'os hyoide,prend ſon origine de la racine dudit os,& deſ- #a cendant obliquement, s'inſere a la baſe du scutiforme pour le dilater en haut, & en bas le ſecond monte muſcles au obliquement de la partie interieure du sternö,toutle ! ong de latrachée artere(au moyen dequoy il eſt ap- larynx. pelle bronchique)en la partie baſſe,& laterale dndit scutiforme,pour l'ouurir & dilater par ſes ailes & eſt - · troüé cedit muſcle dés ſon origine, iuſqu'à quelque partie de ſon chemin, adherant eſtroittement auec le b tiers des l'os hyoide:ſous leſquels ſe manifeſte vn corps glanduleux tant d'vn coſté que d'autre,tout à l'en- tour de la partie anterieure,& ſuperieure de la trachée artere,àl'endroit qu'elle ſe lie auec le larynx : le- quel corps glanduleux refere pluſtoſt vne ſubſtance charneuſe que nulle autre : jaçoit que ce ſoit vne glan- dule,laquelle pour auoir eſté arrachée par vn empirique és affcctions nommées eſcroüelles,apporta conſe- : † de perdition de voix d'vn coſté pour l'euulſion du nerf recurrens,montant par deſſus ceſte diteglä- - celie,an dule pour aller au larynx,cóme dit galien au liure de locis ºff cti.le troiſieſme muſcle,& dernier vient de - liu . §, la partie anterieure des ſpondyles du col,couché tranſuerſalement ſur les parties laterales de l'oeſophague : affectis. aux ailes & coſtez du scutiforme , pour le ſerrer contre le ſecond cartilage. or iceux muſcles ſont appellez :r cómuns,pource qu'ils prennét leur origine d'autre partie que du larynx, pour s'inſerer en aucune partie : d'iceluv, tout ainſi que les propres , à cauſe qu'ils viennent des parties du larynx meſmes : leſquels nous •, auons dit eſtre ſix de chacun coſté,dont le premier ſort de la partie anterieure du ſecond cartilage,acheuât :: premier le cercle ſous la baſe du scutiforme , & montant obliquement, s'inſere à la baſe dudit scutiforme vers le - muſcle pro- derriere pourla confirmation,& dilation d'iceluy.le ſecond vient pareillement du deuxieſme cartilage de preau ia- l'endroit où il s'attache auec le premier,& s'en va obliquement croiſant le premier en croix bourguignonne rynx. en la partie interieure,& anterieure du cartilage nómé thyroide pres de ſa baſe,pour iceluy ſerrer contre - second. le ſecond. le troiſieſme monte directement de la baſe poſterieure du ſecond cartilage,& à la baſe du tiers , - appellé arytenoide , pour l'ouurir & fermer auec le ſecond muſcle. le quatrieſme monte auſſi du coſté du troiſieſme. ſecond cartilage pres l'origine du ſecond muſcle aux coſtez de l'arytenoide, pour auſſi l'ouurir , & ſerrer c ©uarrieſme. auec le ſecond.le cinquieſme prend ſon origine du milieu interieur du scutiforme,& deſine à la partie an- - cinquieſme. terieure de l'arytenoide,pres la fin,& inſertion du quatrieſme pour ſerrer ledit cartilage.le ſixieſme & der- ! sixieſme .. nier monte de la baſe poſterieure de l'arytenoide, en la baſe anterieure de luy-meſmes pour le ſerrer. et | | | noteras,que tous ces muſcles cy(leſquels ont leur origine de bas en haut) reçoiuent rameaux des nerfs re- · situation currens, mais principalement ceux qui ouurent,& ſerrent l'arytenoide. et te ſuffiſe des muſcles du larynx. - cºnnexion or quant à la ſituation,connexion, temperament, vſage dudit larynx, il te peut eſtre manifeſte & cogneu, - ººº- parce que nous auons traicté d'iceluy iuſqu'à preſent.toutesfois tu noteras,que c'eſt vne choſe tres-difficil- : . " & * le de pourſuiure les choſes accouſtumées aux parties organiques , pour la diuerſité de leur compoſition. ， jºse. parquoy deſormais, quant à la ſubſtance, temperament , & autres , que pour briefueté nous laiſſerons, s tu auras r， cours aux parties fimples & ſimilaires , deſquelles ces organiques ſont compoſées : comme ſi " ' ! pour exemple on demande de quelle ſubſtance & temperament eſt le larynx ; tu reſpondras qu'il • eſt de ſubſtance cartilagineuſe, & charneuſe, & par ainſi de temperament froid & ſec, chaud & humide. # dauantage il faut entendre,que de la racine de la langue eſt dreſſe vn corps cartilagineux,& membraneux, . · - afin qu'iſ ſe puiſſe mieux mouuoir , à ſçauoir eſleuer & baiſſer : car ce qui eſt plus mol que de raiſon, - : - de l'epi- tombe aſſiduellement, & auſſi ce qui eſt trop dur, ne permet eſtre renuerſé : donc il a fallu qu'il ne fut trop # tlette ºu dur , nytrop mol, afin qu'il demeuraſt eſleué quand nous inſpirons, & baiſſaſt quand nous auallons. il eſt • languette. le principal inſtrument de la voix, laquelle ne pouuoit eſtre bien faite, ſi lc paſſage n'eſtoit eſtroit. il ſert t，: a de comprimer le paſſage , & conduit des cartilages du larynx, & principalement l'arytenoide : il eſt tou- d # ſiours humide d'vne humidité naturelle, & lors qu'il eſt deſſeiché par fiévre ou autrement on ne peut par- º ler s'il n'eſt humecté, & toutes les autres parties de la bouche.ll ſe vientlier & attacher d'vn coſté & dau- t- tre , par la commune membrane de la bouche, auec les parties laterales de l'arytenoide iuſqu'à ſa partie -[ . la figure de poſterieure , pour couurir, & deſcouurir l'orifice du larynx , ainſi qu'vn couuercle couure vn pot, afin º .. "#pisºttº, qu'en degloutiſſant, & auallant le boire ou manger, rien ne deſcende par ledit larynx dedans la trachée ) . º ſººº artere : i'entends en ſi grande quantité, qu'il empeſchaſtl'air de ſortir, & entrer à ſon aiſe. car il ne faut -- # penſer qu'il le couure ſi exactement, qu'il ne coule touſiours quelque petite liqueur par les parois interieu- t bois. res du larynx , pour aucunement humecter les poulmons : autrement en vain on ordonneroit le lohoth & ; ga. de l'vſ # affections pectorales. et pource que tel corps eſtoit capable du mouuement volontaire , à ceſte cauſe, $: des parties. elon aucuns, luy ont eſté baillez quatre muſcles, deux qull ouurent, & deux qui le ferment, vn de chacun #: )uatre coſté. ceux qui l'ouurent,deſcendent de la racicine de l'os hyoide,& s'vniſſans en leur inſertion,deſignent ict muſcle, de * la racine poſterieure de l'epligotte. les autres qui le ferment (aux animaux eſquels ils ſe trouuent) si， l'epiglotte, viennent interieurement entre la tunique d'iceluy , & ſon cartilage. deux on- or quant à ces quatre muſcles,ie ne les ay iamais veus ny diſcernez aux hommes, ainſi que i'ay fait aux - # urans & beſtes brutes, jaçoit que iaye mis toute pcine, & diligence à les trouuer. a ceſte cauſe acuns ont voulu ' ; deux fer- dire, que ce petit corps icy, quaſi fait en forme d'vne petite langue, n'eſtoit couché, ny adapté ſur le la- #. ,. # mangeant ºu beuuant, que par la peſanteur des choſes tranſglouties : & qu'en autre temps ,à rai- # #. ſon de la continuelle reipiration, il demeureroit releué, pour deſcouurir ledit larynx. finalement reſte lepiglotte ſeulement ſur ce repos, à conſiderer deux petites ſinuoſitez ou fiſſures leſquelles nature a miſes ſous ledit ne ſe trou- epiglotte dedans le larynx vne de chacun coſté,afin que ſi de fortune quelque choſe eſchappoit du boire •en ºu & manger , dedans ledit larynx,ilfuſt la retenu : & afin que l'air entrant trop impetueuſement, fuſt aucu- hommet. nement rebouché, & refrené par ceſdites ſinuoſitez, ainſi que le ſang, & eſprit entrant au cœur par les oreillesd'iceluy. dt del'anatomie. • • • - - - i q du col & deſes parties. . -# ， a p . xv t - o v t e s ces choſes ainſi declarées, il faut maintenant paſſer au col , lequel nous defini- $ rons premierement, & puis pourſuiurons ſes parties, tant communes, que propres, deſquel- · les iuſques icy n'a eſté rien dit. car de repeter le cuir , le pannicule charneux , les veines, « , . º * arteres , nerfs , oeſophague , trachée, artere, & muſcles qui montent & deſcendent tout d dehnirion ºº le long dudit col aux parties eſquelles ils appartiennent, ce ſeroit trauailler en vain. parquoy " col. ne faut que tu entendes par cy-apres que l'expliquation des vertebres propres parties d'iceluy, & liga- mcns d'icelles tant propres, que communs auec la teſte; & de ſes muſcles tant communs auec ladite fe- ſte, & le thorax, que propres à luy ſeul. pourſuiuant donc noſtre propos, le col n'eſt autre choſe que la partie de la teſte, contenue depuis l'os occipital , iuſques au premier spondyle du metaphrene,auquel nous faut premierement conſiderer ſes vertebres, monſtrans çe qu'elles ont de commun , & different en- ſemble, afin que plus commodément, & auprofit du lecteur nous puiſſions monſtrer l'origine & inſertion des muſcles naiſſans, & finiſſans en icelle. le col eſt faict de ſept vertebres, eſquelles faut confiderer pre- mierement leurs corps ; ſecondement leurs trous, par leſquels deſcend la spinale medulle : tiercement, leurs apophyſes : quartement les trous, par leſquels les nerfs ſortent de la nucque aux parties externes,& ceux des apophyſes tranſuerſes, par leſquels les veines & arteres, que nous auons appellées ceruicales, montent tout le long dudit col, & finalement les connexions des ſuſdites vertebres. or quant au premier, - .. par le corps de la vertebre nous entendons la partie anterieure d'icelle, ſur laquelle l'oeſophague eſt cou- , defnition ché. quant aû trou, il ne faut conſiderer autre choſe, ſinon qu'il n'eſt pas touſiours plus grand aux verte- º ººrpº de bres plus prochaines du cerueau,& eſt circonſcript dudit corps, & des trois genres d'apophyſes par tout, **. fors qu'au premier : c'eſt à ſçauoir, droites, gbliques, & trauerſes : dont par les droites nous enten- dons les eſpines du dos, leſquels eſtans ſituées à l'opoſite du corps deſdites vertebres , deſcendent droi- tement tout le long de l'eſpine, aucunemen, enclinées en bas, ainſi que celles du metaphrene iuſqu'a l'on- zieſme,où ladite eſpine commence à ſe dreſſer en haut,ſur le changement de l'ordre de receception.parles ºyſº apophyſes obliques nous entendons les eminences, par leſquelles leſdites vertebres ſe lient enſemble par # #m ginglyme, en receuant la ſuperieure,& eſtant receue de l'inferieure, ſont ſituées entre les apophyſes droi- # j'é j res faiſans l'eſpine,& les tranſuerſes par leſquelles nous entendons les eminences prochaines du corps,qui " par droite ligne diuiſent la vertebre.et ſont ceſdites eminences troüées, pour donner paſſage aux veines & arteres, qui t'ont eº é nommées par cy deuant leſquelles entrans par le trou des nerfs vont nourrir la spina- le medulle, & leſdites vertebres, & parties appartenantes à icelles. outre-ce , il faut noter,que le trou,par lequel les nerfs ſortent de la ſpinale medulle aux parties externes en l'eſpine du col, eſt misſous l'apophyſe iraoluer ſes,eſtant fait & conſtitué de la vertebretant ſuperieure,qu'inferieure au contraire des autres,qui ſortent des vertebres de toute l'eſpine,leſquels ſont faicts de la vertebre ſuperieure:& pource en cas de luxa- tion des vertebres,celle qui ſe fait au col,peut bleſſer le nerf, & action d'iceluy,au contraire des autres qui ſe font au demeurant de l'eſpine. quant à leur connexion, il faut entendre que toutes les vertebres de l'eſpine ont chacune ſix connexions, à ſçauoir deux en leurs corps , & quatre en leurs apophyſes obliques: par les premiers, le corps d'vne chacune vertebre eſt conioinct auec celuy de la ſuperieure & inferieure par les autres auec les apophyſes obliques inferieures de la vertebre ſuperieure deſquelles elle eſt receuë:ainſi qu'elle reçoit les obliques & ſuperieures de la vertebre inferieure.il en faut excepter la premiere vertebre, - apophyſar. obliques. tranſaerſkri - parce qu'elle n'a que quatre connexions par ſes apophyſes obliques,tant ſuperieures qu'inferieures,par leſ- quelles elle reçoit les apophyſes obliques,tant de l'os occipital que du ſecondspondyle. semblablement faut excepter la ſeconde,pource qu'elle n'a que cinq connexions, à ſçauoir quatre par ſes apophyſes obli- - i ques,& vne par ſon corps par laquelle elle eſt côiointeauec le corps de la tierce vertebre.et faut icy noter, . .. . que nature n'ayant point baillé d'eſpine aupremier spondiyle, la recompensé d'vne petite eminence & tu, beroſité;ſemblablement ne faiſant point vn commun trou auec le ſecond pour l'iſſuë du nerf, il a eſté troüé aux parties laterales de ſon corps,tant d'vn coſté que d'autre.et a eſté faitauſſi en ſa partie anterieure crené & tenu, & quafi ſans corps pour receuoir l'apohyſe anterieure dreſſée au corps ſuperieur du ſecond spon- _ . •º - dyle, qu'hippocrate appelle dent, auquelle principal ligament de la teſte s'attache: lequel deſcendinte- %ºiº rieurement de l'os occipital ſous les apophyſes clinoides : & par telle articulation la teſte s'eſleue & ſe # verº-. baiſſe en deuant & derriere,tout ainſi qu'elle ſe meut lateralement,par l'articulation du premier auec le ſe- # de l'eſ- cond spondyle. ceſte apophyſe eſt attachée par deux ligamens, deſquels le premier eſt exterieur,plus lar- " . »sv ge, & plus grand, comprenant entierement tout à l'entour la ſuſdite articulation montant desspondyles à n . ## la teſte, ou pluſtoſt deſcendant de la teſte aux spondyles, ainſi que fait tout ligament paſſant mutuelle- fait l'eſpine ment d'vn os en l'autre le ſecond eſt plus fort,& enuironne l'articulation,auſſi ſe mettant auec le cartilage, d' vn ſeul os. lequel par ſon interpoſition conioinct toutes les vertebres enſemble,hormis la premiere ainſi que tu peux voir à l'eſchine d'vn pourceau,diuiſant les vertebres l'vne de l'autre.et de tels ligamens eſt coniointe toute l'eſpine, & partie d'icelle, laquelle nature n'a voulu faire d'vn ſeul os, parce que l'homme euſteſté comme embroché ou empallé & immobile, & ſeroit comme vne ſtatue de bois ou de pierre. † à l'os ſacrum, il eſt composé de quatre pieces,ſans l'os appellé cauda. iceluy reçoit,& porte les os de la hanche, & tou- vtilitez 'di tes les autres vertebres comme ſur leur fondement,& vont iuſques a la teſte en diminuant toufiours de bas l'eſpine, en haut : veu que ce qui eſt porté & ſouſtenu,doit eſtre moindre que ce qui porte, & ſouſtient. il y a entre icellesvertebres vne humidité glaireuſe & eſpeſſe, ſemblable à celle qui eſtentre les autres iointures , pour faire que le mouuement ſoit plus facile : lequel lors qu'il ſe fait,leſdites vertebres s'eſloignent, & eſcartent les vnes des autres:les vtilitez de l'eſpine ſont quatre : la premiere, qu'elle eſt comme ſiege, & fondement de tout l'aſſemblage, & liaiſon du corps, comme la racine eſt le fondement de tout le nauire-la ſeconde, qu'elle eſt comme le chemin de la moüelle. la troiſieſme qu'elle eſt le rempart, & aſſeurance dicelle. la quatrieſme, qu'elle eſt comme le bouleuart des entrailles,qui par dedans ſont couchées ſuricelle. . - - - - - ' , ' • - • . - - figuré " - - le ſixieſme liure, À : figure de l'eſpine dº dos. # - l,metaphrene, lumbes, ， l'eſpine eſt diuiſée en cinq parties ſauoir eſt le col,mºpº º i'os sacrum, & la queuer - # le col eſt composé de ſept vertebrº contenues depuis a, iuqº*** # marquées par . . - - - - - e #! le metaphrene de douze , ſignées par c, d, eatre .& - «: les lumbes de cinq, marquées pare fººpº*° iuſqu'à . ， l'os sacrum de fix, figurées par g, h» * depuis. .iuſqu'à o.lequel eſt ， compose de trois os, & eſt le fondement des arºrº # - #tſ la queuë ou le coccyx, marquée entre » & k, depuis . iuſques à - c • - _ - * . - ! - wu ! ll le corps des vertebres depuis la ſeconde iuſqu'à la vingt-quatrieſmeº , ct - - - - dt m la ſeconde vertebre, nommée d'hippocrate la dent » pºº ſonapo b (º | mº \ \ phyſe qui eſt icy cachée par la premiere- ?: #| -， n les apophyſes tranſuerſes. º ， w - - | | # - les eſpines des vertebres. #: v# :: r$ | #: | r ， t: r ttt - tt dofnition de or pource que nous ſommes tombez ſur le propos des ligamens, il me ſemble n'eſtre impertinent que ( ligament. briefuement nous declarions ce qu'il en faut ſçauoir. et pource faire premieren ent nous definirons liga- - q $ po p ga : ment,puis monſtreronsla diuerſe acception d'iceluy,tiercement pourſuiurons ſes differences.quantaupre- : mier ligament ( ainfi qu'auons dit au premier liure) n'eſt autre choſe qu'vne partie ſimple du corps hu- : main,la plus terreſtre apresl'os,& le cartilage,prenant le plus ſouuét ſon origine de l'vn ou del'autre, me c :: diatement ou immediatement,& deſinant auſſi en l'vn d'iceux, ou muſcle,ou autre partie: au moyen dequoy lt il eſt exangue, ſec, dur, & froid,inſenfible comme les parties d'où il ſort , eſtant toutesfois ſemblable à double ae- nerf, pour raiſon de ſa blancheur & confiſtence, laquelle neantmoins il a plus dure queledit nerf quant - l:| «eption de li- au ſecond il faut entendre que ligament eſt vſurpé generalement, & ſpecialement. generalement, pour e gamrnr. toute partie du corps,laquelle conionct vne partie auec l'autre : en laquelle acception le cuir peut eſtre dit t. ligament , pource qu'il contient toutes les parties internes ioinctes enſemble : ſemblablement leperitoine " conioignant enſemble toutes les parties naturelles, & les aſſeurant contre l'eſpine, ainſi que lamembrane pleuretique faict des parties vitales semblablement les tuniques du cerueau , nerfs, veines, & arteres, muſcles, membranes, & autres femblables parties du corps, peuuent eſtre dites ligamens,pource qu'elles lient vne partie auec l'autre : comme les nerfs,tout le corps auec le cerueau,les arteres auec le cœur, & les diffevenees. veines auec le foye. mais ligament ſpecialement pris, ne ſignifie que la partie de noſtre corps,telle que | § nous auons dit cy-deſſus. les differences de ligament ſont pluſieurs , car l'vn eſt large,membraneux,& te- nuë, l'autre eſpés & rond : l'vn dur, l'autre mol : l'vn grand, l'autre petit : l'vn cartilagineux ſimplement, l'autre tenant moyen entre os & cartilage,pour l'exigence du plus ou moins fort & violent mouuement des parties par iceux liées.et voila ce qui m'a ſemblé bon de declarer en general des ligamens,en attendant monſtrer toutes les ſuſdites differences ainſi qu'efle s'offriront ſelon l'ordre de diſſection. | des muſcles du col. c h a p. xv l i. | muſeles ng e t o v r n a n t maintenant au premier propos , faut declarer & demonſtrer les muſcles du # du col, tant communs, † propres : leſquels ſont vingt,ou vingt-deux en nombre,dix ou onze de . col. chacun coſté,deſquels ſept meuuent la teſte ſeule, ouauec elle le premier spondyle,& les autres d trois ou quatre meuuent ledit col. des ſept mouuans la teſte, & auecelle le premier spondyle, les vns l eſtendent & releuent,les autres la flechiſſent & abbaiſſent, les autres la meuuent obliquement, & inſtruäien tous enſéble par leur mouuemét ſucceſſif circulairemêt.etainſi faut eſtimer de ceux du col.mais auant que pour le diſ proceder à la deſcription de l'origine,& inſertion d'iceux, ie te veux aduertir qu'il faut leuer deux muſcles ſecteur. l'omoplate,nommez trapeze,& rhomboide,deſquels afin que tu puiſſes mieuxmonſtrer l'origine & inſer- tion,ou pluſtoſt leuraction,par laquelle nous cherchons ladite origine,& inſertion,illes faut leuerpar leur inſertion, qui eſt l'omoplate (ainſi qu'il te ſera monſtré en ſon lieu) en les renuerſant vers leur origine qui eſt à l'eſpine.outre plus,faut leuer le plus petit rhomboïde poſterieur,& ſuperieur(nômé auſſi petit dente- lé)de ſon origine,qui eſt és trois vertebres inferieurs du col,& premiere metaphrene, & le renuerſer vers " ſ inſertion,qui eſt aux trois eſpaces de quatre coſtes ſuperieures,tout cótre l angle poſterieur,& ſuperieur ºſº ſ* de l'omoplate,ainſi qu'il te ſera demonſtré par cy-apres.ces muſcles ainſideſcouuerts,font commécer àle- nuque. uer les quatre qui leuent la teſte,& conſequemment les deux qui la meuuent obliquement,& a la parfinvn qui la fieſchit & baiſſe:& ce à raiſon que tel eſt l'ordre anatomique.toutesfois ſi tu veux,tu peux leuer tout le premier ſans intereſt des autres , celuy qui eſt nommé maſtoide,qui baiſſe & fieſchit la teſte. quantaux quatre qui la le uent & dreſſent,le premier pour raiſon de ſa figure nommé splenique,môte des cinq ſupe- rieures eſpines du ihorax, & quatre inferieures du col, obliquemét en l'occiput cótrel'apophyſemaſtoide, ov de l'anatomie | r à - a ou mammillaire,duquekendroit tu le renuerſeras vers ſon origine.le ſecond,à raiſon de ſa texture eſt nom- mé entrelacé,ou entortillé,iſſant de la . .& .apophyſes tranſuerſes du metaphrene,& le plus ſouuent de muſele eº- la premiere du col,monte droitement en l'occiput,enuironnant de ſon coſté la partieinferieure & laterale tnelacé. d'iceluy cettuy-cy ſe leue cómodément du coſté de i'eſpine vers leſdites apophyſes tranſuerſes,& procez | mammillaires de l'os occipital.dauantage,on le peut diuiſer en deux ou en trois,combien qu'auec grande difficultépour la complication & entrelaſſeure qui eſt en iceluy.le troiſieſme & quatrieſme,qui ſont deux des huict petits, quatre de chacun coſté,montent quelque peu obliquement : le premier,de toute la partie laterale du ſecond spondyle : le ſecond, de toute la partie laterale de l'apophyſe du premier, qui luy a eſté donnée en lieu d'eſpine,à l'occiput au droit de l'eſpine.ces deux-cy ſont nómez de tous anatomiſtes muſ- cles droicts,mouuans lateſte ſeule,leſquels ne faut que leuer,& lier, ſans les ſeparerny de leur origine, ny de leur inſertion.et voila quant aux quatre qui eſleuent & dreſſent la teſte.s'enſuiuent maintenant deux o- bliques de chacun coſté:deſquels l'vn meut la teſte ſeule,& l'autre le premier spondyle premierement, ſe- condement & par accident lateſte.quand au premier,contre l'opinion d'aucuns,il prend ſon origine de l'a- pophyſe tranſuerſe du premier spondyle,& ſe va inſerer deſſous l'inſertió du premier droit lequel ne faut pareillement que leuer par deſſous ſans le couper.l'autre ſort de l'eſpine du ſecond spondyle,& s'en vain- ſerer à l'apophyſetranſuerſe du premier spondyle,contre l'origine du precedent(combien qu'aucuns veu- lent le contraire)lequel te faut leuer comme les autres afin que les contemplant tous ainſi leuez,tu puiſſes voir comme ils font enſemble vn triangle égal.ce dernier muſcle a ſon action contraire au precedent,cö- b me monſtre tres-bien ſon origine & inſertion. et pource quant le premier oblique meine la teſte oblique- . # - ment vers le deuant, le ſecond la ramene par le premierspondyle. ceſtuy auec ſon compagnon, de l'autre muſcle - coſté,peuuent eſtre dits vrayement muſcles propres du col, pource qu'ils n'appartiennent à autre partie, maſtoide. | au contraire de tous les autres ſuſdits.icy faut noter que la teſte, ſelon galien,à deux mouuemensil'vn droit . en deuant & arriere comme en ceux quiaccordent ou refuſent quelque choſetl'autre quaſi circulaire.le pre- . - mier,ſelon galien,ſe fait la premiere vertebre eſtant remuée ſur la ſeconde:le ſecond,la teſte eſtant remuée | ſur la premiere vertebre.en quoy il a eſté repris par les recens anatomiſtes,remonſtrans que la teſte ne peut | eſtre remuée circulairement ſus la premiere vertebre ſans luxation,quant au dernier qui fieſchit ladictete- ſte,il monte de la partie ſuperieure & latèrale du sternon,& de la prochaine partie de la clauicule,oblique- ment à l'apophyſe maſtoïde de l'os occipital,au moyen dequoy eſt appellé maſtoide.et ſe peut diuiſer plu- gal. lin. * ſtoſt en deux ſur ſa diuerſe origine,qu'en trois. or il euſt eſté meilleur tourner la teſte de tous coſtez au- ººº º º tant en derriere qu'à dextre & ſeneſtre : mais ſi telle choſe euſt eſté,il ſe fuſt ſouuent fait luxation, qui euſt l'vſage des eſtéànoſtre grand deſauantage,& au peril de mort,parce que telle facilité demouuement ne peut eſtre ſans " que la jointe ſoit fort laſche.parquoy nature a mieux aymé octroyer à la teſte peu de mouuemens & aſſeu- | rez,que pluſieurs & dangereux,qui eſt cauſe qu'elle n'a point fait ſa jointe laſche,ains forte & robuſte.a- pres la demonſtration des ſuſdicts muſcles,faut paſſer aux trois ou quatre du col:deſquels deux (qu'aucuns , muſcle reduiſent en vn)l'eſtendent:vn flecſchit,& le dernier le meut lateralement,& tous par leur mouuement ſuc-ºſºſºi- | ceſſif,circulairement, comme nous auons dit des muſcles de# teſte. le premier de ceux qui l'eſtendent * (i'entends touſiours de chacû coſté)prenant ſon origine de ſix apophyſes tranſuerſes, de ſix vertebres ſu- perieurs du metaphrene , ou pluſtoſt de la racine des obliques, monte droictement à l'eſpine du ſecond . ſpondyle ducol, & apophyſe oblique d'iceluyaucuns l'ont appellé tranſuerſaire. si tu le veux leuer, il te faut prendre du coſté de l'eſpine,le renuerſant vers les apophyſes tranſuerſes ou bien,veu que c'eſt le der- ( | nier & plus proche des os,ſi tu veux tu ne feras que le ſeparer vn petit de ſon côpagnon par la diſtinctiö de leur origine:laquelle ſitutrouues difficile,ne t'en eſmerueille:car à la verité il ſe trouue obſcure ſeparation, diſtincte de ceſtuy-cy,auec ſon compagnon nommé eſpineux,lequel ſortant le plus ſouuent des racines des mºſel eſ?i.. c ſept ſuperieures eſpines du metaphrene,& de laderniere du col,s'inſere aux autres eſpines du col:et pour-* ce à bon droit ceſtuy-cy auec le precedent,ſont reduits par galien à vn ſeul.le tiers qui fleſchit,monte in- terieurement du corps des cinq ſuperieurs spondyles du metaphrene (deſquels il ſort aſſez obſcurement, meſmementaux gens extenuez par deſſous l'oeſophague,tout le long dudict coliuſquà l'os occipital,à la partie interieure duquel obſcurement il s'inſere à cauſe dequoyil peut aucunement ayder à fleſchir la teſte. ce muſcle eſt faict de filets obliques venans du corps de la vertebre par tout le long de ſon chemin aux a- maſrle li pophyſes tranſuerſes de l'autre vertebre : & auec ſon compagnon de l'autre coſté ſemble conſtituer ſur le #. # corps des vertebres,vne petite voye aucunement caue à l'oeſophague, & eſt appellé muſcle long. le qua-§ trieſme & dernier,que nous auons dit mouuoir lateralemét ledit col,qu'on appelle scanele,à cauſe de ſa fi- - gure monte de la plus grande partie poſterieure & ſuperieure de la premiere coſte du thorax,à toutes les apophyſestranſuerſes du col,s'inſerant en icelles par ces filaments,leſquels il a proportionnez en longueur & briefueté,pour ſe pouuoir attacher depuis la derniere apophyſe du col,& plus prochaine de ladicte coſte, iuſqu'à la premiere.et fºmble ce muſcle-cy eſtre double,à raiſon de la diſtinction faicte en iceluy par l'iſſuë des nerfs du bras.quant aux veines & arteres appartenans tant au col qu'à ſes parties,elles ont eſté ſuffiſam- ment declarées ſur la diſtribution d'icelle. parquoy reſte que tu entendes que tous les ſuſdicts muſcles re- çoiuent nerfs des spondyles,deſquels ils prennent leur origine. - - muſeles droičts • · à · ， , ** | figure quatrieſme des muſclet. d — - : ad demonſtrent les deux muſcles qui fechiſſent, tant la teſte,que les vertebres du col, leſquels deſsendent iuſques à la qua- trieſme vertebre du metaphrene. - . . . . . .le corps des vertebres du metaphrene, | r "a - ， - . - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - figures # - - ^- l . le ſixieſme liure, | figare cinquieſme dès muſcles. . . ， | - a * | . * - º " : , : - - aaa a monſtrent les deux splenitiques qui eileuent la teſte, comme nous auons dit aux figures pre- cedentes. bb deux ſeconds,nommezentrelacez,ou entortillez. cc deux releueurs de l'omoplate. - b dd deux muſcles sacrolumbus, qui ſeruent àl'inſpi- ration. $ hr e e deux my-eſpineux. -, - \ f partie du sacré, ſi tu n'aymes mieux en faire vn à part » qui pourra eſtre appellé rachitta- $ $ g g muſcles intercoſtaux exterieurs. $ aaaaa le muſcle entortillé, entrelacé, ou com- plexus. muſcle eſpineux le muſcle tranſuerſal appartenant au col. d * my-eſpineux. ee les deux rachites,fi tu n'aymes à les re- duire au sacré, ou à l'eſpineux, que ua as veu marqué par b. f fff hes coſtes. # : figure » : , ， de l'anatomie. . i aa les deux splenitiques b b second muſcle nommé entortillé, ou entrelaeé, releueur de l'omoplate. la clauicule. e portion du muſcle dentelé, poſterieur & ſupe- rieur. - f f muſcles poſterieurs de l'omoplate , nommée rhomboides, la tirant en arriere. g g les deux muſcles tres-larges, abaiſſans le brass # x # ł#hllh) splenitique gauche. - second muſcle nommé entortillé ou compléxus, releueur de l'omoplate. la clauicule. le muſcle de l'os hyoide, tendineux au milieu ui prend ſon origine de la coſte ſuperieure # l'omoplate. le muſcle qui ouure la bouche. deux petits muſcles dentelez poſterieurs & ſu- perieurs du thorax. muſcle sacrolumbus. muſcle à demy eſpineux. portion du muſcle sacré. petit dentelé poſterieur & inferieur, qui dilate les quatre coſtes inferieures. muſcle du bras ſitué en la cauité ſuperieure de l'omoplate, qui ſe peut nommer epomis ou eſpaulier. le ſuſeſpaulier ou muſcle du bras , ſitué en la partie gibbeuſe de l'omoplate. · • - - - m - neufieſme » º i le ſixieſme liure, neufieſme figure des muſcles. . " a a deux muſcles droicts, venans de l'eſpine de la ſecon- de vertebre, & s'inſerent à l'os de l'occiput : ſous leſquels deux autres petits ſont cachez, qui pren- nent leur origine de la premiere vertebre pour s'in- ſerer au meſme os de l'ccciput. b b c c les quatre muſcles obliques. d d l'apophyſe maſtoïde. •e e les releueurs de l'omoplate, coupez par le milieu. . f f deux scahcles. g g deux eſpineux. des muſcles du thorax, & des lumbes. c h a p. xv i i i. en qnºy dif- sép p r e s ces choſes ainſi confiderées, il conuient pourſuiure les muſcles, tant duthorax, qui ferent les /\$ ſeruent à la reſpiration, que ceux des lumbes, afin que plus aisément nous puiſſions par apres vertebres du # # traicter ceux des extremitez.mais auant que ce faire,il faut ſçauoir que la partie poſterieure du # # - vas thorax,nommée metaphrene,eſt faite de douze vertebres, & les lumbes de cinq,leſquelles ne bat. , " different en autre choſe de celles du col,ſinô que toutes ces vertebres ſont plus groſſes en leur corps, que uerſes troüées comme celles du col, pour la conduite des veines, & arteres ceruicales. semblablement chacunes de ces vertebres toute ſeule fait,& conſtitue de ſa partie inferieure tant d'vn coſté que d'autre,le trou pour bailler paſſage au nerfiſſant de la spinalemedulle aux parties circonjacentes au contraire de cel- les du col,leſquelles deux enſe ble font le ſuſdit trou,ainſi que nous auons dit. juant aux apophyſes,ſoient droite s,obliques ou tranſuerſes dudit thorax,elles ne ſont en rien differentes de celles du col(i'entends iuſqu'à la dixieſme) fors que les tranſuerſes n'eſtans troüées,comme a eſté dit,ſouſtiennét en partie les co- ſtes eſtans eſlroictement annexées auec icelles par forts ligamens, tant propres que communs. mais depuis · la dixieſme, les deux qui demeurent du metaphrene,& des lumbes,ſont diuerſes non ſeulement de celles du col, mais auſſi des dix premieres,par leurs apophyſes obliques : pour ce que depuis l'onziefme, qui eſt receue tât de ſa ſuperieure que de ſon inferieure,pour la confirmatiô de ladite eſpine,& plus facile flexion d'icelle,ſans danger de fracture ou ouuerture,les ſuſditesapophyſes des vertebresinferieures,qui ſouloient - receuoir , ſont receues, comme celles qui ſouloient eſtre receues , reçoiuent. elles ſont auſſi differentes de toutes les ſuſdites par leurs apophyſes droites,c'eſt à dire,eſpines,à cauſe que depuis l'onziéme elles com- mencent de les dreſſer peu à peu vers le haut , au contraire des ſuperieures. et ſi on demande comment la dixieſme vertebre du metaphrene peut eſtre dite le milieu de l'eſpine,veu qu'icelle eſt faite de vingt-qua- tre vert b es,te reſpons que cela doit eſtre entendu,quand on reduit les ſix os de l'os sacrum,& les quatre · de l'os catºdae plus ( artilugineux qu'oſſeux , entre les os de l'eſpine. car alors depuis l'articulation de la #. #. teſte iuſqu'à ceſte dixieſme vertebre, il en y a dix-ſept, & de la en bas autres dix-ſept. reuenant donc muſcles ref aux muſcles du thorax ſcruans à la reſpiration , faut noter qu'ils ſont quatre vingt & neuf , quarante- ſerrans le ºlº de chacun coſté , pareils en force, groſſeur, ſituation & action, & vn moyen qui eſt appellé dia- thorax . .. phragme. des quarante-quatre, vingt deux dilatent ledit thorax en l'inſpirations c'eſt à ſçauoir,le souſ- muſele nom- clauier le grand dentelé ſelon aucuns,les deux rhomboïdes,ou dentelez poſterieures, l'oblique aſcendant mé souſcla- de l'epigaftre,les onze intercoſtaux,& ſix intercartilaginaux exterieurs:les autres vingt-deux reſſerrent en suier. l'expiration,c'eſt à ſçauoir le sacrolumbus, l'oblique deſcendant, le longitudinal, & tranſuerſal de l epiga- muſele nom- ſtre:le triangulaire interne,ou reſſerreur des cartilages : les ſix intercartilaginaux,& les onze intercoſtaux ºé grand internes. des vingt-deux dilatans le thorax, le premier nommé souſclauier , à cauſe de ſa ſituation, deſ- º cend de la partie interne, & anterieure de la clauicule, obliquement au cartilage de la premiere coſte iuſ- muſcle nom, qu'au te non, laquelle il eſtend. le ſecond appellé grand dentelé, prenant,ſelon aucuns ton origine in- " pº terieurement de toute la baſe de l'omoplate, s'en va tranſuerſalement inſerer aux neufcoſtes ſuperieures, # c produiſant certaines apophyſes dentelées plus auant ſur les coſtes qu'aux eſpaces moyens d'icelles , ou orrupation muſcles di- #n. muſcles intercoſtaux , à cauſe dcquoy il a eſté ainſi appellé. aucuns ont referé ce muſcle entre ceux de l tei#pºſi.- l'omoplate.le tiers deſcend des trois eſpines inferieures du col,& de la premiere du metaphrene, par vn rieur é, in- ligament membraneux,& fort delié,aux trois ou quatre coſtes ſuperieures, ſe finiſſant plus auant aux trois ferieur. eſpaces ou muſcles intercoſtaux d'icelles,qu'aux coſtes, à cauſe de quoy il eſt appellé dentelé poſterieur & ſuperieur. le quart monte ſemblablement par vn ligament delié, & membraneux de trois ſuperieures eſpi- nes des lumbes, & des deux dernieres du metaphrene, aux trois ou quatre coſtes fauſſes & inferieures,ou dernieres, s'auançant plus auant ſur leſdictes coſtes qu'entre les eſpaces ou muſcles intercoſtaux d'icelles, à raiſon dequoy eſt auſſi appellé dentelé poſterieur,& inferieur.et ont eſté ces deux derniers muſcles nom- mez rhomboides, à raiſon de leur figure qui eſt comme vne lozangue, laquelle pour parler en mathemati- voy euclide cien , ayant les coſtez oppoſez,& les angles opposez égaux, n'eſt pas toutesfois quarrée, ny rectangle. le linre i. cinquiefme , que nous auons dit oblique,aſcendant de l'epigaſtre, a eſté ſuffiſamment declaré en fon lieu. propoſ qt ant aux onze intercoſtaux externes , ils deſcendent obliquement du derriere vers le deuant de la partie xxxi). laterale,& inferieure de la coſte ſuperieure,& en la partie laterale & ſuperieure de la coſte inferieure : au *ºſº º côtraire des ſix intercartilaginaux,leſquels ayans séblable origine,& inſertion entre les cartilages, que les #ſ"* intercoſtaux entre les cones,deſcendet obliquemêt du deuant vers le derriere.etvoila quât à ceux qui dila- thorax. tent,& eſtendent le thorax enl'inſpiration:des autres vingt-deux,qui le reſſerrent à l'expiration:le premier, prenant ſon origine de l'os sacrû,& des apophyſes obliques des lumbes,môte eſtroittement & confuſemét * . adherant h le sacrolumbaire. · celles du col,mais non moindres en leur trou. dauantage, ces vertebres n'ont point leurs apophyſes tranſ- . del'anatomie. a adherant, & annexé auec le muſcle sacté qui,te ſera declaré cy-apres)à la racine des douze coſtes,baillant .. à vne chacune vn petit tendon à meſure qu'il monte, par lequel il reſerre,& retire leſdictes coſtes vers les muſele ſacré apophyſes tranſuerſes : & eſt appellé de nous sacrolumbus,à raiſon de ſon origine.le ſecond, troiſieſme, º ?"# & quatrieſme, que nous auons appellés oblique deſcendant , droit, & tranſuerſal de l'epigaſtre,ont eſté # # e demonſtrez en leur lieu.et faut icy noter,que ces trois derniers muſcles de l'epigaſtre aydent l'expiration § par accident pluſtoſt que d'eux-meſmes,à ſçauoir, en repouſſant le diaphragme vers les poulmons, par les §r- inteſtins qu'ils repouſsét auſſi en haut,pendât qu'ils tirétles partieseſquelles ils ſont inſerez,vers leur origi- ſi i.r. . ne. le cinquieſme,que nous pouuons appeller le reſſerreur des cartilages, ſortant interieurement des co- rheur. - ſtes du sternon,va à tous les cartilages des vrayes coſtes. ceſtuy-cy eſt plus apparent,& manifeſte aux be- muſcle ſtes brutes ſous le brichet, qu'és hommes, combien qu'en iceux ne ſoit point par trop obſcur. quant aux pectoral in- onze intercoſtaux internes,ſelonmon iugement, ils prennent leur origine de la partie laterale,& inferieure terne . . de la coſte ſuperieure,& deſcendans obliquement du deuant au derriere s'inſerent à la partie laterale,& ſu-*ſº * perieure de la coſte inferieure:tellement que ceux-cyenſuiuent la § des fibres des cartilaginaux ºº esternes,ainſi que les ſix cartilaginaux internes enſuiuent la ſituation des intercoſtaux externes,procedans º " du derriere au deuant : en ſorte que tant les intercoſtaux que les intercartilaginaux ſe coupent, & diuiſent " en forme de croix bourguignonne. ie ſçay bien qu'aucuns ont voulu dire , que les muſcles internes ſoient intercoſtaux ou intercartilaginaux,montent de la partie ſuperieure,& laterale de la coſte inferieure vers le deuant, ou vers le derriere. mais ſi cela eſtoit vray , il s'enſuiuroit que tels muſcles receuroient le nerfpar leur queue,& non par leur teſte, veu que le nerf va touſiours par deſſous la coſte,& non par deſſus.quant au quatre-vingt-neufiefme & dernier, qui eſt ſans compagnon , que nous auons appellé diaphragme, il a mnſrles des eſté ſuffiſamment declaré en noſtre tiers liure. parquoy reſte que nous paſſions aux muſcles des lumbes, lumbe,. leſquels ſont ſix en nombre,trois de chacun coſté,pareils en groſſeur,force & ſituation , dont l'vn fleſchit, auſcle & plie les lumbes, les deux autres les dreſſent , & eſtendent. quant au dernier nommé triangulaire, à triangulai- raiſon de ſa figure , il monte de la plus grande partie de la coſte poſterieure des os des iles aux apophyſes re flexeur tranſuerſes des lumbes, & à la derniere metaphrene interieurement, à cauſe dequoy il eſt faict des fibres des lumbes. briefues,longues, & moyennes,correſpondantes à la proximité ou eſlongnement deſdictes apophyſes. des ººſeles autres deux, qui dreſſent & eſtendent les lumbes, le premier(lequel à raiſon qu'il prend iuſqu'à la moitié ſº de ſon corps,origine des eſpines de l'os sacrum,& des lumbes,eſt appellé demy eſpineux) monte par ſes # # fibres obliques de toutes les ſuſdites eſpines, aux apophyſes tranſuerſes, tant des lumbes que du thorax. # es sa- l'autre nommé sacré, à raiſon de l'origine qu'il a de l'os sacrum ou coſtez d'iceluy , monte par ſes fibres " obliques aux eſpines, tant des lumbes, qu'aux onze inferieures du thorax. des muſcles de l'omoplate->. c h a p. xix. mº, pr e s auoir fait demonſtration de tous les ſuſdicts muſcles, il faut paſſer aux muſcles des •: s# extremitez,& pourſuiure ceux de tout le bras, çommençant aux muſcles de l'omoplate:pour b n leſquels plus deuëment demonſtrer, & facilement entendre,il faut premierement obſeruer le # naturel d'icelle,ainſi que des autres os meüs, & agitez par muſcles, afin que rien ne demeure de ce qui nous peut conduire à plus facile cognoiſſance de la choſe pretendué. parquoy il faut entendre,que la nature de l'omoplate eſt d'eſtre aucunement enfoncée de la partie qu'elle eſt appuyée, & couchée ſur les coſtes,& conſequemment en ſa partie oppoſite aucunement gibbeuſe, & prominente: ayant deux coſtes, vne ſuperieure, & l'autre inferieure. par la ſuperieure n'eſt entendu autre choſe que - l'extremité ou ligne droitte, laquelle regardant vers les temples, eſt conduite depuis l'angle ſuperieure de coſte ſupe- l'omoplate par deſſous la clauicule,iuſqu'à l'apophyſe choracoïde,ou bec de corbin,laquelleceſte coſte rieure . ſuperieure produit de ſon extremité. par l'inferieure , nous entendons l'extremité inferieure, laquelle baſe de regarde l'epigaſtre , & fauſſes coſtes. l'omoplate. outre plus, le naturel de l'omoplate eſt d'auoir vne baſe,vne teſte,& vne eſpine. par la baſe eſt enten-teſte de due la partie plus large de l'omoplate, regardant l'eſpine du dos. par la teſte, la partie plus eſtroitte d'i-ºoººpl* celle,& par laquelle elle reçoit le tourtillon,ou teſte du bras, par le moyé d'vne petite boete ſuperficielle, _ .. qu'elle fait tant de ſoy, que certains cartilages qui ſont implantez,fichez, ou annexez tout à l'entour de la- #ſpine de dicte boëte, laquelle eſt appellée glene. icelle eſt jointe auec l'os du bras par vn fort ligament qui enui- l'omoplate, ronne la jointe pour la tenir fermement, lequel eſt commun à toutes les autres jointures .iceluy naiſt des bords de la cauité de l'omoplate,& embraſſe en rond toute la jointure,s'attachant au commencement de la vtilité de teſte du haut du bras. il y a encores outre cettuy d'autres, qui lient pareillement ladite jointe. par l'eſpine l §, eſt entendue l'apophyſe,qui eſt peu à peu dreſſée ſur la partie gibbeuſede ladite omoplate,pres de ſa coſte & du cb - ſuperieure, depuis la baſed'icelle,quelque peu ſous l'angle ſuperieure,iuſqu'à l'acromion,lequel ladite eſ- racoide de pine conſtitue pareillement de ſon extremité. or a nature machiné deux productions d'os, i'entends l'a- l'omoplate. cromion fait de l'eſpine,& le choracoide,ou bcc de corbin,fait de la coſte ſuperieure,pour la côfirmation six muſcles de l'articulation du bras auec ladicte omoplate,& de peur que le bras ne ſe demiſt vers le haut & deuant.ºns dauantage,la clauicule eſt receuë de l'apophyſe & prominence,dite acromion,ainſi qu'on peut mieux voir ºººº à l'œil,qu'entendre par liure. toutes ces choſes ainſi obſeruées de l'omoplate, reſte que nous venions aux quat# muſcles qui le meuuent, leſquels ſont ſix en nombre : quatre propres, & deux communs auec le bras. des # f quatre propres,le premier ſitué en la partie anterieure,monte des os des fix,& le plus ſouuét des cinq coſtes au l ira . ſuperieures au choracoide,lequel il tire à la partie anterieure : & eſt nommé ce muſcle icy, petit dentelé: muſcles pour lequel bien demonſtrer,faut cerner le pectoral de la clauicule,iuſques preſqu'à la moitié du sternon. dent#. le ſecôd oppofite du ſuſdit,eſt ſitué en la partie poſterieure,lequel prenant ſon origine des trois eſpines in- muſcle ferieures du col,& trois ſuperieures du metaphrene,va interieurement à toute la baſe cartilagineuſe de l'o- rhomboide. moplate,laquelle il tire en arriere : & eſt appellé cedit muſcle rhomboïde. le tiers,à cauſe de ſon action, muſcle rele- nommé reſeueur,ſitué en la partie ſuperieure,deſcend de l'apophyſe tranſuerſe des quatre spondyles fu-*eur. perieures, entre l'angle ſuperieur,& eſpine de l'omoplate. le quart appellé trapeze,vulgairement capu. .. ººſºlº chon de moine,eſt ſitué à la partie poſterieure : & prenant ſon origine, comme membraneux, mais bien toſt # à charnu,de la plus grande partie de l'occiput, de toutes les eſpines du col, & des huict vertebres ſuperieu ## res du thorax, s'en va inſerer par aponeuroſe, enuiron le milieude la my-baſe de l'omoplate,s'eſtendant §erſe #ſº par deſſus les muſcles d'icelle,iuſques à la demie eſpine,en toute laquelle il s'implate, tout charnu iuſques - . l'acromion,& partie ſuperieure de la clauicule,& aucunement à la coſte ſuperieure.or à ce muſcle triple actió à cauſe de ſa diuerſe origine:l'vne eſt de tirer l'ompolate vers ſon origine de l'os occipital» & eſpine , du col. l'autre eſt de la tirer de la baſe droittement vers l'eſpine en arriere.la tierce# de la tirer "# • , c deſcription de l'omopla- | \ ,º le ſixieſme liure, vers  dernier auſſi par l' origine qu'il a de la cinquieſme,ſixieſme,ſeptieſme,& # ºbined , ver. tebres âuthorax ºt noteras icy,que telles actiôs diuerſes ne ſont point faites enº mutcie par vn nerf,ains muſi, par pluſieurs qui luy ſót communiquez de la spinale medule, par les trous des verteb#t ºu col que du , t,.ſº.s.. metaphrene,deſquelles il prend ſon cômencement. quant attx deux cômuns à l'omoplate, & au bras,nous muſel pe- les declarerons cy apres quand nous pourſuiurös ceux du bras. parquoy te ſuffira pour le preſent d'entédre āoral. que ces deux-là ſont l'vn nommé treſlarge, montant de l'os sacrum à l'omoplate, & au bras : l'autre ap- pellé pectoral,venant du sternon,& dela clauicule,auſſi à l'omoplate & au bras. l'omoplate eſt auſſi at- taché par les muſcles venäs des vertebres & de la teſte. ceſte attache,& conjonction eſt nômée syſſarcoſe. — deſcription de la main generalement priſe- . c h a p. xx. l conuiendroit maintenant par vn meſme traict pourſuiure les muſcles du bras : mais auant que venir là , il faut entendre que c'eſt que nous appellons bras : laquelle choſe ne pouuans commodément faire ſans auoir l'intelligence de la main , de laquelle le bras fait vne partie, nieres,gene- : s à ceſte cauſe il eſt neceſſaire premier que parler dudit bras , definir que c'eſt que main : puis ralement, é wÖnn la diuiſer en ſes parties. or deuant que venir à la définition , il faut premierement notoſ , ſpecialement que ce nom de main eft prins,& vſurpé en deux manieres ; c'eſt à fçauoir, generalement, & ſpecialement. amain gene- main, generalement priſe, ſignifie tout ce qui eſt contenu depuis l'arthrodie , ou articulation de la te- ralement ſte de l'omoplate, iuſqu'au bout, & extremité des doigts. mais ſpecialement il ne ſignifie que ce qui "#.. ſpe- eſt contenu depuis le bout des os du coulde , ou commencement du poignet, iuſqu'à ladite extremité des le nom de main eſt pris en deux ma- eialement doigts. ces choſes ainſi premiſes & conſiderées , faut venir à la definition , & diuifion pretendues. la priſe. main donc en general eſt l'organe des organes, & l'inſtrument des inſtruments humains,deſtiné pour pren- definition de dre & tenir quelque choſe.elle eſt compoſee de trois grandes parties,à ſçauoir du bras,du coulde,& de la la main. main ſpecialement priſe:laquelle ſe diuiſe derechefen trois autres,à ſçuoir,au carpe,ou poignet, au meta- compoſition carpe ou auantmain, & les doigts.toutes ces parties-cy ( comme anſ ſoit qu'vne chacune ſoit non ſeule- de la main ment partie organique,ains auſſi partie de partie organique)ſont compoſees de toutes, ou de la plus grande part des parties ſimilaires;c'eſt à ſçauoir,cuir double,pânicule charneux,greſſe,veines,arteres,nt rfs mu cles, ou chair,& tuniques,tant communes que propres,d'os cartilages,& ligamés deſquelles les vnes appartien- nent comme communes à toutes les ſuſdictes parties ; les autres ſont propres à chacune partie. quant aux communes,ce ſont le cuir double,le pannicule,la greſſe,veines,arteres, & nerfs. les propres d'vne chacune ſont,les muſcles d'icelles,os,cartilage,& ligamens, qui te ſeront declarez le plus diligemment qu'il nous ſera poſſible,quãd nous ſerons venus à leur lieu,& ordre de diſſection.laquelle choſe,afin que bien toſt ſe face, nous entrerons ſans plus long delay,à declarer ce qui demeure des parties cômunes,ſi premieremêt ie t'ay aduerty des differences de la main priſes ſelon la diuerſe ſituation d'icelle:qui ſont ſix en nombre;c'eſt à ſça- uoir,deuant,derriere,dedans, dehors,haut,bas : par le deuant,eſt entendu la partie d'icelle, qui regarde du poulce droit vers l'omoplate.par le derriere,ſon oppoſite, qui regarde du petit doigt vers la baſe de ladite deſcription cmoplate. l ar le dedans,la partie d icelle qui regarde les parties laterales du corps : i'entends lors que ſa de la main main retient ſa ſituatiô naturelle. par le dehors,ſa partie oppoſite,par le haut,la plus haute & par le bas, la pºrº plus baſſe partie d'icelle. et toutes ces differences prinſes de la ſituation,tu pourras conſiderer particulie- ººº rement en toutes autres parties ſingulieres.deuant que retourner à noſtre propos, ie te declareray la main # º particulieremét priſe.la main eſt diuiſée en cinq doigts,afin qu'elle puiſſe prendre toutes figures àſçauoir, l'vſage de rondes triangles,quarrées,& autres,& recueillir les corps fort petits, auec les extremitez des doigts,côme l'ongle. eſpingles,areſtes,poits,& autres nature a fait deux mains,afin que l'vne ayde à l'autre,& que les deux deça & là ſe rencontrans des parties oppoſites,ſoient auſſi fortes,& accommedées qu'vne ſeule.or pour prendre les petits corps, il failloit que les doigts en leurs extremitez fuſſent mols,& garnis d'ongles : car s'ils euſſent eſte ſeulement de chair,ils euſſent eſté trop mols:& auſſi s'ils euſſét eſté ſeulement d'os ou d'ongles,il euſ- vtilité. ſent eſté trop ſolides:mais dieu par ſa prouidence en a fait vne mediocrité pour parfaire mieux leuraction. - iceluy ongle ſert d'appuy à la chair molle , laquelle en prenant vn corps dur ſe renuerſeroit, n'eſtoit qu'il compºſitiºn. l'appuye par derriere, & partant on ne pourroit prendre vne epingle,ou vn poil,ou autre choſe ſemblable. leur vtilité eſt de grater, racler,eſcorcher,deſchirer quelque choſe, ouattacher & deſtacher, prendre & - tenir, eſcacher , & tuer les petits animaux. lls n'ont eſté faits durs, de peur qu'ils ne fuſſent rompus com- figure. me les os, & partant nature les a fait d'vne dureté mediocre, afin qu'ils obeiſſent à ſe fiechir , & de peur qu'il ne fuſſent rompus : toutesfois nature les a faits aux autres animaux durs, comme aux chats, liévres, lions, pour grimper , & leur ſeruir d'armes : la figure eſt ronde, à raiſon que telle figure eſt fort parfaite, & moins ſujgtte auxiniures exterieures, n'ayans aucun angle eminent, qui puiſſe eſtre froiſsé & brisé : & en recompt nſe qu'ils s'vſent, nature a fait qu'ils ont croiſſance, comme le poil, & les dents. en l'interieu- re partie,& coſtez des doigts nature a voulu mettre de la chair,afin qu'ils ſoiét plus aptes à ſerrer les choſes apprehendées de la main : & aux coſtez, afin qu'en ſerrant les doigts l'vn contre l'autre qu'ils puiſſent tenir quelque liqueur ſans eſtre épanchée : & quantau deſſus des doigts, ſi elle euſt engendré de la chair , il euft eſté nuiſible, pource qu'elle euſt empeſché le mouuement d'iceux,& de toute la main ; pource nature n'en a pointmis. les doigts ſont inégaux en magnitude, afin que lors qu'ils ſont ſeparez & eſtendus les vns des · · autres,ils facent vne figure circulaire : & partant la main peut prendre tout corps, & principalement rond. - parquoy reueuons à noſtre premier propos,nous auons declaré depuis le commencement de noſtre labeur, que c'eſt que cuir , pannicule charneux,greſſe , & tunique, ſoit propre ou commune des muſcles : dauan- ge que c'eſt que veine , artere , & nerfs. donc reſte ſeulement que nous pourſuiuions la diſtribution de ces trois vaiſſeaux communs, qui eſt faite par toutes les parties de la main,generalement, & ſpecialement priſe : à celle fin que mieux, & plus aisément nous puiſſions par apres pourſuiuré les propres partie d'vne chacune partie ſinguliere de la main, generalement priſe, ſans faire aucune repetition des ſuſdits vaiſſeaux- inegalité des doigts. - diſtribution de la veine du bras, & premierement de la cephalique. ch a p. x x ia origine ºr ! r donc afin que ſans plus long propos nous pourſuiuions noſtre intention , il faut ſçauoir · inſertion de .. % que deux veines inſignes, & notables deſcendent de la souſclauiere, l'vne de plus bas,l'autre t veine ce- ， de plus haut, quelquesfois, & le plus ſouuent toutes deux ſortants d'icelle par vn commun phalique. # orifice, comme à petites gens, au bras : dont l'vne eſt nommée axillaire,l'autre humerale ou lº *- cephalique:laquelle ſortât de la ſouſclauiere(côme nous auons dit)deſcëd ſuperficiellement, -& anterieurement entre la diuiſion du muſcle deltoide,& le tendó du muſcle pectoral,entre la º† des - - - - - muſcles b d | riº - zº : é: é: - l: n de l'anatomie. i muſcles, & le pannicule charneux,iuſqu'au ply du coulde : auquel endroit aux charnus & emaeiez, elle ap- pert clairernent aux ſens de la veue,au contraire des bras,auſquels,à raiſon de la greſſe qui la couure & ca- che, a grande difficulté elle ſe peut voir.ceſte veine apresauoir baillé en deſcendant, quelque petites por- tions de ſoy tant au cuir, qu'aux muſcles : par deſſus leſquels elle deſcend quelque peu ſur l'apophyſe externe du bras, elle ſe diuife en deux rameaux : deſquels l'vn deſcendant obliquement vers la partie ante- rieure du coulde,s en va vnir(vn peu deſſous le ply dudit coulde)auec vn autre rameau ſemblable à ſoy,deſ- cendant audit endroit de la veine axillaire,comme te ſera demonſtré cy-apres. or la veine qui eſt faite des deux,eſt appellée vulgairement mediane,à raiſon qu'elle eſt faite de deux rameaux,& ſituée entre iceux. et eſt ladite mediane inciſceaux affections qui requierent miſſion de ſang,tant de la teſte que du foye.et au cas que ladite mediane ne ſoit aſſez apparente, quand tu la voudras ouurir pour la totale euacuation du corps, on pourra inciſer vn des rameaux qui la font, ceſtuy qui ſemblera plus commode. et pource qu'vn chacun rameau tire pluſtoſt de ſes parties prochaines,& ſituées en ſon endroit,que des opoſites,il faut que ſi par vn de ſes rameaux tu veux euacuer auſſi bien de la teſte que du foye,ou au contraire,qu'ayant ouuert(comme pour exemple)le rameau venant de la cephalique , tout ſoudain tu preſſes auec ton poulce tout le rameau d'icelle,iuſques à ce que ſuffiſante euacuation de ſang ſoit faite du foye,par la veine baſilique ou hepatique. laquelle choſe quand tu verras eſtre faite, tu leueras ton doigt,& permettras fluer du ſang de la teſte par ia- dite cephalique,ouuerte iuſques à ce que tu en ayes ce qu'il t'en faut,ouſois paruenu à ton intention. car ſi tu faiſois autremét,tu n'euacuerois que d'vne partie ſeulement,c'eſt à ſçauoir de la teſte,comme tu ne ferois que du foye ouurant le rameau qui vient de la baſilique pour faire la mediane.dauantage s'il aduenoit qu'en voulant ouurir de neceſſité la baſilique,elle ne ſe manifeſtaſt aucunement,ou bien peu, par ſa petiteſſe, & que la cephalique ou mediane s'offreau ſens de la veuë bien apparente,tu peux en lieu de la baſilique, in- ciſer la meduane : ou ſi celle ne s'offre la cephalique,preſſant (ainſi qu'auons dit) du poulce le tronc de la- dite veine, de peur que l'euacuation ne ſe face de la teſte , au lieu qu'elle ſe doit faire du foye. et ainſi tu imagineras falloit faire de la baſilique,s'il aduenoit que voulant ouurir la cephalique,elle ne ſe manifeſtaſt point. pour ce iourd'huy la plus grande partie de ceux qui ſaignent,prennent & ouurent pour la mediane, le rameau de la baſilique,qui monte pour allerfaire ladite mediane auec celuy de la cephalique, ainſi qu'il à eſté dit.apres ces choſes ainſi conſiderées,reuenât à noſtre premier propos,il faut entêdre que ceſte veine mediane deſcend entre les deux os du coulde iuſqu'a leur extremité : duquel endroit elle s'en va perdre, diuiſée en pluſieurs rameaux, en la main exterieurement, derriere le poulce, index & medius, ou meta- carpe d'iceux : & quelquesfois s'en va remettre dans le rameau qui s'enſuit, & alors pres du poignet ſe diuiſe & ſepare d'iceluy, s'en allant finir au lieu ſuſdit. l'autre rameau de la cephalique, que nous pou- uons appeller cephalique anterieure,& exterieure, deſcendant directement ſur l'os nommé radius:iuſqu'à ſon milieu ou enuiron, ſe fouruoye d'iceluy obliquement vers la partie poſterieure du bras;où ſe renforciſ- ſant d'vn rameau venant de la baſilique,s'en va diſtribuer exterieuremét par toute la main,laquelle il nour- rit auec la mediane.et noteras,que ces rameaux ne deſcendent point ſans ſe communiquer aux parties par leſquelles ils paſſent ſelon l'exigence d'vne chacune, ainſi que tu peux voir dedans la figure des veines : à l'imitation dequoy tu vois qu'il faut que les voituriers de marchandiſe payent le paſſage de leur marchan- diſe & voiture, partoutes lesterres qu'ils paſſent, au seigneur d'icelles. diſtribution de la veine axillaire_ . c h a p. xxi i. e s t e maintenant que nous paſſions à la veine axillaire , laquelle commençant à l'endroit de l'inſertion du muſcle pectoral,ou quelque peu plus haut,apres auoir produit les deux thorachi- ques, ſe vient diuiſer vn petit deſſous le ſuſdit tendon en deux inſignes rameaux , nommez l'vn, axillaire profonde, & l'autre axillaire ſuperficielle. la profonde, deſcendant touſiours auec l'artere axillaire,& la tierce paire de nerfs, apres auoir produit le petit muſcle externe du bras, s'en va au milieu du ply du coulde : auquel endroit ſe plongeant,& infinuant auec l'artere,& nerf parmy les muſcles du coulde,ſe diuiſe en trois portions, d'ont l'vne deſcendant auec le rayon,entre par deſſous l'anneau,en la main interieurement, & baille deux petits rameaux au poulce, deux autres à l'indice, & vn au moyen,leſ- quels montent par leurs partie laterales. l'autre portion deſcendant auec l'artere ainſi que la preceden- te ſelon le coulde, entre ainſi que l'aurte dedans la main , ſe diſtribuant aux autres doigts ainſi que la pre- cedente. la troiſieſme va anterieurement entre les deux os, iuſqu'au poignet, & muſcle quaré. et faut icy noter que ceſdites veines font non ſeulement telles diuifions qu'auons maintenant pourſuiuy , mais autres infinies,tant par les lieux où elles paſſent, qu'és muſcles internes de la main, leſquels ſontnourris par icel- les.et voyla quant à l'axillaire interne & profonde.quant à l'externe & ſuperficielle (laquelle ſe manifeſte premierement ſous le cuir,aux maigres principalement quelque peu deſſus l'apophyſe interne du bras(elle ſe diuiſe audit endroit ou enuiron en deux rameaux,dont l'vn deſcendant vers le ply du bras,s'en va mettre, & vnir auec celuy de la cephalique, quelquesfois plus pres du ply, quelquesfois plus loing, pour faire la mediane,ainſi qu'auons declaré par cy-deuant.l'autre rameau, apres auoir employé vn certain nombre de rameaux,les vns plus gräds & plus plus gros,les autres plus courts & que petits,tant au cuir,qu'autres par- tie svoiſines deſcendât ſelon la partie inferieure de l'os,propremét appellé l'os du coulde, s'en va à la parfin jetter dedans le rameau cephalique anterieur,& exterieur,que nous auons dit deſcendre le long du rayon: & ainſi vnies s'en vont à toute la main,en laquelle, ſi c'eſt la dextre,elles vont faire, entre les doigts moyen & incidie,la saluatelle:ſi c'eſt la ſeneſtre,en meſme endroit la splenitique.or pour concluſion de ces diſtri- butions de veines,tu reuoqueras en memoire ce qui a eſté dit vne autresfois,c'eſt à ſçauoir que les diſtribu- tions des vaiſſeaux ſont ſi diuerſes,qu'on ne t'en ſçauroit donner vne regle certaine,& vraye tout par tout. parquoy excuſe nous,ſien aucuns ſujets tu trouues plus de diuifions ou moins,ou autres que nous ne met- tons, te purſuadant que nous ne mettons rien, que n'ayons trouué le plusſouuent en nos diſſections. diſtribution de l'artere axillaire ». c h a p. xx i i i. l conuient maintenant ſelon l'ordre de diſſection , monſtrer la diſtribution de l'artere axillai- re , laquelle depuis ſon commencement , qui eſt tout ſoudain apres les deux thorachi- ques , en deſcendant entre le muſcle à deux teſtes, & le bras auec la veine axillaire pro- - fonde, diſtribué vn rameau aſſez inſigne aux muſcles externes du bras, qui eſtendent le coulde» & s'en va perdre aux muſcles externes d'iceluy, qui prennent leur origine des apophyſes du bras exterieu- rement : & tel rameau eſtappellé muſcle,côme eſt auſſi la veine qui l'accompagne. puis ladite artere eſtant m paruenue veine diey amediane. inſtru#ion pour le chi- rurgien. reigle de ſaignée. chemin que- tient la me- diane. chemin que rient lb ce- thalique. veine dite axillaire interne cr profonde. veine axil- laire externe & ſuperfi- cielle. admonition au lecteur. artere. muſcle. le ſixieſme liure, ocrupation. exhortation au lecteur. du col ſor tent ſept pai- res de nerf . la premiere paire de nerfs ſor- fans du co seconde. trºiſieſme. s)uatrieſme. cinquieſme. sixieſme. septieſme. douze pai- res de nerfs ſortant du paruenuë au ply du coulde,ſe profondant dedans les muſcles qui plient les doigts,cômunique certains pe- a tits rameaux aux parties appartenantes à l'articulation du coulde auec le bras,& autres parties illec ſituées ainſi qu'elle a faict aux parties ſuperieures,par leſquelles elle eſt deſcendue:en ſorte que c'eſt vne regle ge- nerale,que tout vaiſſeau baille certaine portion de ſoy à toute partie par láquelle il paſſe,& en chacune ſe- . lon l'exigence d'icelle, comme auons predit. et pourtant ſi tu me demandes pourquoy ie n'ay pourſuiuy toutes ces productions : ie te reſponds , que noſtre intention ne fut iamais que de marquer les rameaux · grands,& inſignes de quelque vaiſſeau que ce ſoit,deſquels peut aduenir inconuenient de mort,ou quelque grande maladie,par diuiſion,inciſion, ou autrement. car de te pourſuiure entierement les diſtributions des veines.arteres,& nerfs,tant grandes que petites,outre ce que ſeroit labeur infiny, & non ſans confuſion, tel labeur ſeroit inutile & ſans profit : veu les petites diſtributions que nous laiſſons à eſcrire & noter, ſont ſi petites, que ſoit que nous les ſçachions ou ignorions, elles ne nous profitent ny incommodent pas beau- coup. ie t'ay bien voulu aduertir de cecy, afin que fi parauanture en diſſequant tu trouues autres diſtri- butions que celles que ie t'ay noté, tu ne penſes que nous les ayons ignorées,& à ceſte cauſe teues & laiſ- ſées. or pour retourner au premier propos,ceſte artere ainſi que plongée dedâs les ſuſdicts muſcles quand elle eſt paruenuë enuiron le milieu du coulde,tout ſoudain, ou quelque peu apres, elle ſe bifurche en deux inſignes, & notables rameaux, leſquels s'en vont l'vn ſelon le rayon,& l'autre ſelon le coulde, par deſſous l'anneau interieurement en la main : en laquelle tous ces deux rameaux ſe diſtribuent & conſument , ainſi qu'auons dit de rameaux de la veine axillaire interne, c'eſt à ſçauoir apres auoir payé le paſſage tout par tout où ils ont paſſé. a la parfin de leur reſidu, celuy qui deſcend par le rayon, baille deux rameaux au poulce:vn de chacun coſté,deux à l'index pareillement,& vn au medius.l'autre qui deſcend ſelon le coulde, fait le ſemblable au petit ou annullaire,& au moyen,comme tu verras par experience en t'exerçant en l'art de diſſequer lequelie te conſeille vouloir apprendre:autrement tu ne ſçauras iamais rien en cecy de certain. · des nerf du col,du met phren & dabra, ci a xxiv. a n t e n a n t il nous faut pourſuiure les nerfs du bras, leſquels afin que plus facile- ment nous puiſſions entendre , nous promettons quelque choſe de ceux du col, & du meta- phrene, pource que ceux du bras precedent, & ſortent d'iceux. et pour commencer faut en- tendre que du col ſortent ſept paires de nerfs:dont la premiere ſort d'entre l'os occipital,& " à la premiere vertebre du col:tout ainſi que la premiere du metaphrene d'entre la derniere du col , & premiere d'iceluy. or ſont tous les nerfs diuiſez en deux , ou pluſieurs rameaux : dont les deux de la premiere paire (i'entends de chacun coſté ) vont l'vn , au petit muſcle droict,montant de la premiere vertebre du col à l'os occipital, l'autre au muſcle long du col anterieur. ceux de la ſeconde ſe diſtribuent, les vns auec vne portion qu'ils reçoiuent de la tierce, à tout le cuir de la teſte : les deux autres rameaux qu'elle produit,vont tant aux muſcles du ſecond spondile,à l'occiput,& du ſecond au premier,qu'au muſcle l. long ſuſdit.ceux de la troiſieſme ſont cômuniquez,l'vn à la teſte,ainſi qu'il a eſté dit;les autres au muſcles, qui releuent tant la teſte que le col,ſemblablementaux laterauxd'iceluy,& du long.ceux de la quatrieſme s'en vont, l'vn aux muſcles tant ducol que de la teſte, & muſcle l'arge : l'autre, apres auoir baillé quelque portion de ſoy au long, & lateraux mufcles du col, deſcend auec portion de la cinquieſme » & ſixieſme paire au diaphragme, comme nous auons dit. ceux de la cinquieſme ſe communiquent, l'vn aux muſcles poſterieurs du col, & de la teſte : l'autre au muſcle long & diaphragme, ainſi qu'il a eſté dit : le tiers au muſcle releuant le bras , & l'omoplate. ceux de la ſixieſme ſe diſtribuent l'vn aux muſcles poſte- rieurs du col , & de la teſte, l'autre au diaphragme : comme auons dit : le tiers , auec vne portion de la ſeptieſme paire du col , & premiere, & ſeconde du metaphrene , au bras & muſcle releuans l'o- moplate : ceux de la ſeptieſme s'en vont , l'vn au muſcle large, & ſes voifins tant du col que de la teſte : l'autre ſe meſlant auecvne portion de la cinquieſme , & ſixieſme partie du col , & vne autre de la premiere, & ſeconde du metaphrene deſcend au bras iuſqu'à la main. et faut icy noter auant que paſſer plus outre,que les muſcles qui prennent leur origine de pluſieurs vertebres,ſoit de haut en bas ou au côtrai- re de bas en haut,reçoiuent nerfnon ſeulement des vertebres d'où ils ſortent,ains auſſi de celles,par deſſus leſquels ils montent ou deſcendent. quant aux paires des nerfs ſortans du metaphrene,qui ſont douze en nombre : la premiere paire ſortât d'entre la dernierevertebre du col,& premiere dudit metaphrene,ſe di- uiſe (i'entends chacun nerf de ſon coſté) en deux ou pluſieurs portions,ainſi que font toutes les autres. les a ºrºphrene. ramèaux ou portions de ceſte premiere paire s'en vont,les vns aux bras comme il t'a eſté dit,les autres aux premiere paire. ses onde. nerfs du bras premier muſcles,tant du thorax,qu'autres ayans illec leur origine,ou paſſans par ledit endroit.ceux de la ſeconde, ſe diſtribuent de meſme ſorte que les precedents. ceux de toutes les autres paires iuſqu'à la douzieſme,ſe cômuniquent les vns aux muſcles intercoſtaux,s'eſtendans ſous les vrayes coſtes iuſqu'à l'os sternó, & aux médcuſes & faulſes iuſqu'aux muſcles droits,& longitudinaux:& de ces rameaux intercoſtaux,ſont renfor- cez les nerfs coſtaux de la ſixieſme coniugaiſ , à meſure qu'ils deſcendét par la racine des coſtes.les autres portions deſdicts nerfs ſe communiquent aux muſcles, tant duthorax que de l'eſpine ſelon que leſdits muſcles ſortent ou paſſent ſur les vertebres par leſquelles ils ſortent. apres ces choſes ainſi conſiderées,& auoir entendu l'origine des nerfs du bras,reſte maintenant que nous pourſuiuions,& monſtrions le nôbre & diſtribution d'iceux. quant au nôbre,ils ſont cinq,ou ſi tu veux ſix prouenans des vertebres cinquieſme, ſixieſme,& ſeptieſme du col,& premier & deuxieſme du metaphrene:dont le premier ſans ſe meſler aucu- nemét auec les autres,s'en va de la cinquieſme vertebre du col,au muſcle deltoide,&au cuir qui le couure. les autres quatre ou cinq, apres s'eſtre entremeſlez, & entrelacez,non ſeulement dés leur origine & ſource, nerfdu braº ains s eſtât deſentrelacez ſous l'aiſſelle,le diſtribuêt par apres en la maniere qui s'enſuit.le premier d'iceux. second, troiſieſme. & ſecond à celuy qui a eſté cy-deſſus declaré,deſcendant quelquesfois iuſqu'à la main,ſe communique fur ſon chemin premierement au muſcle à deux teſtes:ſecondement,par deſſous iceluy auec le tiers nerftierce- ment au muſcle tres-long du coulde , ſur le ply duquel il ſe diuiſe en deux rameaux , deſcendans ſelon les deux os dudit coulde , conduit par le pannicule charneux : finalement ſe perd au cuir, tant du coulde , que de la main. le troiſieſme deſcendant plus bas que le precedent, premierement s'vnit ſous le muſcle à deux teſtes auec le ſecond : puis le ſepare , & baille vne ſienne portion au muſcle brachial : ſemblablement au cuir du bras anterieurement : finalement eſtant deſcendu iuſqu'au ply du coulde anterieurement ſe iette dedans le cinquiefme, le quatrieſme , & plus grand de tous , deſcendant encor par deſſous le tiers, ſous le muſcle à deux teſtes,auec la veine axillaire interne, & l'artere,ſe reflechit,& retourne vers la partie exte- rieure,& derriere du bras , pour illec ſe communiquer aux muſcles dudict bras qui eſtendent le coulde:ſem- blablemët au cuir interieur du bras,& exterieur du coulde,le demeurant dudit nerf,apres qu'en deſcendant il de l'anatomie. | i il eſt paruenu à l'articulation du coulde,deuallant par deſſus l'oleerane d'iceluy,ſe diuiſe en deux rameaux d'ontl'vn deſcend le long du coulde, ſe deſine & perd au carpe exterieurement, l'autre deuallant par le kngdu rayon,s'en va perdre exterieurement par deuxpetits ſurgeons,au gros doigt:par deuxautres,à l'in- dice : & par vn cinquieſme,au moyen,toutesfois aſſez obſcurement. le cinquieſme deſccndant encore plus . bas que leprecedent, & entre les muſcles du bras,quieſtendét& fleehiſſent le coulde, apres eſtre paruenu ſous l'apophyſe interne du coude (auquel endroit nous auons dit que le tiers ſe venoit ietter dans ceſtuy- cy)ſe communique aux muſcles internes d'iceluy : puis ſe diuiſe en trois portions, dont l'vne s'en va enui- ron la moitié du coulde exterieurement bailler deux petits rameaux au petit doigt, deux au doigt nommé medecin,& vn au moyen.les autres deux s'en vont,l'vn par deſſus,l'autre par deſſous l'āneau dans la main, ou tous deux,apresauoir baillé chacun de ſon coſté aux muſcles de la main de ce qui leur appartient, ſe conſument & perdent en cinq petites portions.dont celles du nerfqui paſſent par deſſus l'anneau vontdeux au petit doigt,deux au doigt medecin ou annulaire,& vn au moyen. et celle de ceſtuy qui paſſe par deſſous vont toutainſiaux autres;c'eſt à ſçauoir deux au gros doigt, deux à l'indice , & vn au moyen. le ſixieſme & dernier eſtant encores par deſſous tous les autres, deſcend entre le cuir & lé pannicule charneux parmy & " • ! , nerf du bras, l'apophyſe interne du bras, & ſe va perdre au cuir du coulde. ， figure des nerfs. * a le commencement de la , moüelle de l'eſpine à l'en- droit où elle entre dedans la premiere vertebre. ***. . . . - . , ... sept vertebres du col , & les paires qui ſortét d'elles . . o. .i .i .i douze vertebres du tho- . . . . rax ou metaphrene. cinq *o. * i. . . . vertebres des lumbes. . . . . . o. six os de l'os sacrum. au , reſte,nous ne t'auons point icy figuré l'os de la queuë ou coccyx,à raiſ qu'il ne contient point de moüelle, & que nul nerfvient de luy © "c s , %( . ºauii - $ na : é . za : s , ss #ns ) du col, qui va à l'occiput ou vertex de la teſte, , c vne partie de la premiere paire. au reſte, ſois aduerty , lecteur que nous te repreſétons ſeulemêt la face anterieure des nerfs , & qu'vne partie de ceux que nous te baillons, va par derriere pour ſe perdre aux muſcles là ſituez. d diſtribution du rameau de la ſeconde pai- re qui vient par deuant. e e le nerf diaphragmatique, qui eſt fait des rameaux anterieurs de la quatrieſme, cinquieſme, & ſixieſme paire ducol. f rameau anterieur de la cinquieſme paire du col , qui ſe diſtribue aux muſcles voyſins du bras & de la clauicule. portion de la ſixieſme paire du col, qui s'en va diſtribuer au bras. - h portion de la ſeptieſme partie du col, de la premiere & ſeconde du thorax. or depuis f, iuſques à h, ſont les ſix nerfs qui ſe vont diſtribuer au bras,qui premierement s'entrelacent - -- & puis s'eſtans déueloppez, vont au bras comme tu orras. ilj premiere paire des nerfs qui va en la peau du bras. k secondnerf caché ſous le muſcle à deux teſtes. portion du meſme nerfà l'endroit où il tient compagnie à la mediane. mm troiſieſme nerf du bras,qui ſe va perdre aux doigts de la main en deux rameaux au poulce : deux à l'index, & vn au moyen, & quelquesfois deux, & alors vn au medecin. *, d nn le quatrieſme nerf du bras,qui s'en va par derriere le bras perdre en ſa plus grande partie aux muſ- cles,qui prennent leur origine de l'apophyſe anterieure : mais vn rameau s'en va perdre à la peau iuſques ſur le poignet. : o o cinquieſme nerfdu bras,qui ſe va perdre à la main pour fournir de rameau aux doigts par dedans, vvv le premier nerf qui va à la cuiſſe pour ſe perdre en la peau d'icelle. qui n'en ont point eu de la troiſieſme paire. ppp sixieſme paire qui s'en va touſiours à la peau du bras iuſques au poignet. qqqq les nerfs intercoſtaux qui ſe diſtribuent aux muſcles prochains. rr rr r partie des nerfs intercoſtaux qui renforciſſent le nerfcoſtal,qui eſt vne partie de la fixieſme paire du cerueau, laquelle ſe diſtribue par tout le ventre inferieur. fſfſ les nerfs des lumbe, qui ſe diſtribuent aux muſcles de l'epigaſtre. tt vn petit nerfvenant des lumbes, qui tient compagnie à l'artere spermatique. , ^ # xxxxx second nerf de la cuiſſe, dont vne partie s'en va auec la saphene iuſqu'au bout du pied. y troiſieſme nerf de la cuiſſe, qui va auec le reſte de l'hypogaſtrique, qui va par le trou de l'os pubis. * quatrieſme nerf de la cuiſſe, lequel ſe diſtribuë par toutes les parties dela cuiſſe, de la jambe & du pied & ſe perd aux doigts d iceluy,de ſorte qu'il baille deux nerfs par deſſous,& deux par deſſus. * partie desnerfs venant de i'os sacrum, quiſe diſtribuent au muſcle voifin de l'os ilium. m deſtription chquieſme, le ſixieſmè dernier b b vne partie des nerfs de la ſeconde paire . ". yao le ſixieſme liure, - deſcription du maurel de l'os du bras. $)u'eſt ce que symphyſe. huict muſ-, cles mou - uans le bras. muſcle pectoral. muſcle del- toi le. ces deux pour vn nommé eſ- #anlier. muſcle nºmmé tre - large. j e n cm de coulde eſt pris en trois manier: r. deſcription de les du bras, & des muſcles quile meuuent. ch a r. xxv. p r e s ces choſes ainſi conſiderées,il conuiendroit parler des muſcles mouuans le bras;mais ſ$ veu que nous ne ſçaurions parfaictement deſigner, & monſtrer leurs origines (au moins des deux brachiaux)ſans auoir premierement monſtré & baillé la deſcriptiô du naturel de l'os du bras : à cette cauſe nous parlerons premierement d'iceluy,puis reuiendrons audicts muſcles. - le naturel doncques de l'os du bras,eſt d'eſtre le plus grâd d'entre tous les autres os,excepeé l'os de la cuiſſe : dauantage d'eftre rond, moüelleux, caue,ayant vne aſſez grande epiphyſe, ou condyle, ou teſte en ſa partie ſuperieure aſſiſe ſur vn moyen col par l eſpece d'articulation,nommée symphyſe,ainſi qu'eſt toute autre epiphyſe.et a en ſa partie inferieure deux apophyſes ou prominences,outubercules : l'vn anterieur,& l'autre poſterieur,& entre les deux comme vne demie orbite de poullie:les deux extremitez de laquelle deſinent,l'vne en vn trou exterieur,& l'autre interieur. quant à la teſte, elle a double connexion, vne auec le col de l'os du bras , par l'eſpece de connexion que nous auons nommée symphyſe,qui n'eſt au- tre choſe à dire,qu'vnion naturelle d'vn os auec l'autre,ſans mouuement aucun. l'autre connexion eſt auec la teſte ou boiiette ſuperficielle de l'omoplatte,que nous auôs appellé glene,par vne eſpece de diarthroſe: nommée arthrodie. or eſt telle connexion ſtable & confirmée, tant par les muſcles deſcendans de l'omo- plate au bras,que par les † propres qui deſcendent de l'orbite & ſourcil de la boette de l'acromion, & coracoide à la teſte dudit os. dauantage , ladicte teſte eſt en ſa partie interieure plus qu'à l'anterieure, comme fiſſurée & caueé,pour bailler deſcente à vn des ligamens du muſcle à deux teſtes venant de l'omo- plate. quant à la partie inferieure (qu'auons dit auoir deux apophyſes,l'vne anterieure,l'autre poſterieure, & entre kes deux, comme vne demie orbite de poulie,terminée par vn trou exterieur, & vn autre interieur, pour la retention de la flexion,ou extention parfaicte du coulde)nous pouuons dire qu'elle eſt côiointe par deux eſpeces d'articulation auec le coulde generalement pris : à ſçauoir, par ginglyme auec l'os du coulde , proprement dit, & par arthrodie,auec le rayon, lequel parvne boette ſuperficielle reçoit l'apophyſe ante- rieure du bras,à l'entour de laquelle il voltige & tourneau mouuement de la main. l'apophyſe poſterieure eſt faite principalement pour la conſeruation des veines,arteres,& nerfs.ces choſes ainſi demonſtrées,reſte ſeulement que nous adiouſtiôs la figure de l'os contenu entre les deux extremités,afin qu'en cas de fracture nous le ſçachions reduire à ſon naturel,côme il appartient.et pource faut entédre, que cedit os eſt aucune- ment caue interieuremét ſous la ſciſſure de la teſte dudit os,& exterieurement & aucunemét anterieuremét boſſu.au contraire de la partie inferieure où anterieurement il eſt caue,poſterieurement & exterieurement aucunemét boſſu.cr cét os icy eſtât mobile,tant deuât & derriere,que haut & bas,nature luya produit pour accomplir ſon mouuement,huict muſcle s:ſix propres, & deux commus auec l'omoplate : de tous leſquels, deux le meuuent à la partie anterieure, deux à la poſterieure , deux à la ſuperieure, & deux à l'inferieure. et faut noter que quand nous diſons que # le meuuent à la partie anterieure,deux à la poſterieure,deux à la ſuperieure,& deux à l'inferieure : il ne faut pas entendre que deux le meuuent droitement en la partie anterieure, ſans decliner en haut, ou en bas,ny les deux qui le meuuent en haut ſans decliner ou en auant, ou en arriere, & ainſi des autres. mais il faut entendre telles commigrations de muſcles, en quelque façon qu'ils meuuent ledit os, que ſi c'eſt le pectoral & ſon compagnon,touſiours ils retirent vers le deuant,ainſi que fait le deltoide auec ſon compagnon, en haut : & ainſi faut eſtimer des autres.or quant à l'origine & inſertion deſdicts muſcles, des deux qui meuuent le bras vers le deuant, l'vn nommé pectoral, à cauſe de ſon origine, ſort plus que du milieu de la clauicule de la plus grande part du sternon,& de la ſixieſme, ſe- ptieſme,& huictieſme coſ e,& s'en valier au bec de corbin par vne membrane aſſez forte au tendon mem- braneux ( à raiſon dequoy il eſt dit commun au b as & à l'omoplate) au bras entre le muſcle deltoide,& celuy à deux teſtes,par vn fort & gros tendon fait de fibres qui ſe croiſét en croix bourguignonne:deſquel- les les vnes deſcendent de la clauicule,& partie ſuperieure du sternon : les autres montent de la partie ou origine inferieure d'iceluy , venant de la ſixieſme , ſeptieſme, & huictieſme coſte. et combien quel'action dudict muſcle ſoit diuerſe, à raiſon de la diuerſité, de ſes fibres, prenans leur origine de diuers endroicts;ſi eſt-ce toutesfois que toufiours il tire le brasanterieurement , ſoit qu'il le tire en haut,ou en bas, ou vers la poictrine. l'autre qui eſt ſon compagnon, deſcend de toute la lévre ou ſourcil de la partie caue de l'omo- plate,laquelle il remplit à la partie anterieure du bras pres ſa teſte.quant aux deux qui leileuent,le premier appllé deltoide,pour la ſimilitude qu'il a auec vne lettre nommée delta a. deſcend preſque de la moitié de la clauicule de l'acromion,& de toute l'eſpine de l'omoplate , à la partie anterieure du bras,enuiron qua- tre doigts ſous l'articulation.et a diuerſes actions ſelon la diuerſité de ſes fibres comme tout autre muſcle: toutesfois en quelque ſorte qu'il ſe retire,ſoit de ſes fibres,clauales ſeules, ou ſpinales de l'omoplate ſeu- les, ou des deux enſemble , touſiours il tire le bras vers le haut. son compagnon deſcend de la partie gib- beuſe de l'omoplate, contenue entre la coſte ſuperieure d'icelle & l'eſpine,entre l'acromion & coracoide, ou col du bras,lequel nous appellerons epomis,ou eſpaulier. maintenant des deux qui le tirent vers le der- rierº,le premier & plus grand prend ſon origine de la plus grande partie de la lévre exterieure de la partie gibbeuſe de l'omoplate,qui eſt ſous l'eſpine d'icelle,& couchéé par deſſus ladite omoplate,s en va à la par- tie poſterieure du bras ſur ſon col. son compagnon plus petit , ſort de la partie ſuperieure & exrerieure de la coſte inferieure de l'omoplate : & s'eſtendant aucunement ſur la partie gibbeuſe , voiſine de ladicte coſte , & s'en va auſſi au bras. ceſtuy-cy ſemble eſtre vn meſme auecque le precedent, & eſt charnu exte- rieurement, meſme iuſques deſſus la teſte du bras. les deux qui le tirent en bas, ſortent, l'vn & plus petit, de la ligne droicte de la coſte inferieure de l'omoplate , & s'en va à la partie inferieure du bras à l'entour de ſon col : l'autre nommé tres - large monte des eſpines de l'os sacrum , des lumbes, & le plus ſouuent des neufinferieures du metaphrene par l'angle inferieure de l'omoplate , auquel il s'inſere par vn tendon membraneux , & à la partie interieure du bras pres du col par vn autre tendon fort & robuſte. et à ceſte cauſe ce muſcle icy eſt dit commun au bras & à l'omoplate. et faut noter, que lors qu'il y a quelque playe en cedit muſcle , on ne peut aiſement leuer le bras. - deſcription des os du coulde,& des muſcles qui le meuuent. ch a p. xxvi. # p r e s ces muſcles icy viennent ceux qui flechiſſent & eſtendent le coulde : mais attendu que ie ne # ſçaurois monſtrer commodément leur inſertion, ſans t'auoir premierement declaré les os d'iceluy,à ceſte cauſe nous les deſcrirons auant que faire autre choſe, & puis apres reuiendrons auſdicts muſcles. or pour cómencer afin que l'âbiguité de ce nom de coulde par ſes diuerſes ſignifications ne puiſſe trou- ºlºr perfôns , il faut ſçauoir que le coulde eſt vſurpé en trois ſignificatiôs carquel quesfois il eſt pris pour - tolllc -- -"º- a ， de l'anatomie. i i a toute la fºrtie de la main, compriſe entre le bras, & le poignet. quelquefois pour l'os inferieurde la ſuſ. dicte partie. quelquesfois pour la partie ſuperieure duditos,laquelle tourne dedans l'orbite du bras,com- prºfºrººe- me vne corde dedans l'orbite d'vne poulie,& eſt appellée olecranon:nous l'vſurpons icy ſelon la premiere # " acception.et pourtant diſons qu'il eſt fait deux os,vn nommé rayon,autrement petit focile du bras : l'au- # - - - - - - econde ac- tre proprement & ſpecialement dit l'os du coulde.ces deux os en leurs extremitez ſont adherås,eſtroitte- # ment liez enſemble par fort sligamés,& entre ces extremitez ſont ſeparez aſſez loing l'vn de l'autre,& plus # . en bas qu'en haut:pour la ſituation & paſſage des muſcles & vaiſſeau de la partie interieure à l'extremité, §. ainſi qu'il ſera demonſtré en ſon lieu.quant au rayon,ſon naturel eſt d'auoir deux epiphyſes ou appédices, ole ,anen. vne à ſon extremité ſuperieure, & l'autre inferieure. la ſuperieure eſt ronde & caue ſuperficiellement en le naturet forme de baſſin,& reçoit l'apophyſe anterieure de l'os du bras laquelle elle eſt attachée par forts ligaméts, du rayon. deſcendât tant de ladite apophyſe de l'os du bras,que de l'olecrane,tout à l'entour de ladite epiphyſe rôde , arethyſº du rayon,& connexion par ſymphyſes auecquesl'os. l'vſage de telle connexion eſt de tourner tout à l'en- **ſt vne tour de ladite apophyſe, & par ce moyen faire la main prone & ſupine. mais l'inferieure epiphyſe dudit º" rayon eſt au dedans caue,pour mieux receuoir les os du carpe : & au dehors gibbeuſe pour l'aſſeurance d'i- # celle.dauantage ledit rayon eſt plus gros & plus mol par bas,& plus petit & plus dur par haut : auquelen- # ft ſ' / - droict vn peu vers le dedans , il a vne petite tuberoſité,par laquelle il reçoit le muſcle à deux teſtes. outre # plus en ſa partie exterieure & moyenne , il eſt quelque peu boſſu & rond pour l'aſſeurance d'iceluy,à l'en- contre des iniures externes : & en l'interieure plat, pour la commodité de l'apprehenſion de la main. mais ... . ſur l'endroit qu'ilregarde l'os du coude proprement dit,il eſt fait en d'os d'aſne,afin que les muſcles euſſent # de plus plantureuſe origine & priſe dudit endroit.sonaſſiette eſt ſur l'os du coulde,vis à vis du poulce quant # # # à ſon compagnon , que ſpecialement nous appellons l'os du coulde, il a pareillement deux epiphyſes,vne º ff ſuperieure & l'autre inferieure. la ſuperieure & plus grande s'adapte auecque l'orbite du bras,dedans la- # #. quelle elle va & vient à l'extenſion & flexion du bras , comme vne corde de dedans l'orbite ou cauité d'vne prement pris, poulie, hormis qu'elle ne fait point le trou entierement à cauſe des deux procez d'icelle en grandeur ine- gaux,leſquels ſont arreſtez par les trous de l'os du bras à la parfaite extenſió:le procez plus grand que nous auons appellé olecrane par le trou exterieur : & en la parfaite flexion,la plus petite, & plus courte, pare trou interieur.or eſt telle articulation faite par ginglyme,côme nous auons dit,& ſe ſtabilie on attache non ſeulement par ligamens communs venans des muſcles qui les meuuent,mais auſſi par ligamens propres,leſ- quels deſcendét des apophyſes du bras,& bords des trous,tout à l'étour de l'epiphyſe dudit coulde.l'autre epiphyſe inferieure,& plus petite eſt au dedâs aucunemét caue,pour mieux receuoir les os du carpe,& au dehors ronde tendant en pointe : à cauſe dequoy eſt appellée en grec, styloide.dauantage,cét os eſt plus gros deuers le bras, & plus petit deuers le carpe tout au contraire du rayon. séblament ſur ſa plus groſſe partie il eſt interieurement plat,& au meſme endroit exterieurement quelque peu boſſu : au reſte, droit & rond,fors que de l'édroit qu'il regarde le rayó,par deſſus lequel il eſt aſſis;auquel lieu il y a vne ligne faite en dos d'aſne,pour la plus ſeure origine & inſertion des muſcles iſſus de telles parties des ſuſdicts os. fi- za ſituatic» nalement il eſt caue & mouelleux, ainfi que ſon compagnon.la ſituation du radius eſt obligue,& celle du § ér cubitus droite, afin que le mouuement du bras fut mieux fait & accomply, pource que le mouuement par cºti . lequelle bras eſt eſtendu & fleſchy,ſe faict de droite ligne:& le mouuement,par lequel ſe fait que l'ontour- ne le bras; à ſçauoir,en figure prone & ſupine,ſe fait lateralement,& à ceſte cauſe le radius eft oblique,& le cubitus droit; car l'os du coulde eſt deputé pour faire l'extenſion & flexion,& le rayon aux mouuemens lateraux & tourmens, & pour cette raiſon la jointure de ces deux os auec le brachium ou haut du bras eſt muſcl differente.et voyla touchant la deſcription des os du coulde,laquelle ie t'ay voulu bailler le mieux qu'il ma » . eſté poſſible, afin qu'en cas de curration des fractures, tu puiſſe prendre du naturel d'vne chacune telles #. indications qu'il appartient à les bien & deuement curer. parquoy reſte que maintenant nous reuenions , lem§nt aux muſcles mouuans le coulde generalement pris : leſquels ſont quatre en nombre, deux qui le plient, & pri . deux qui l'eſtendent. des deux premiers l'vn eſt appellé biceps, a cauſe de ſes deux teſtes, qui deſcen-. muſcle bi- dent l'vne de l'apophyſe coracoide, & l'autre du bord de la boëte de l'omoplate, par la ſciſſure de la te- eeps. ſte de l'os du bras : ſous le col duquel commençans à ſe faire charnues,s'vniſent eſtroittement ſur le ventre a u ele bra- & milieu du'bras puis ainſi vnies s'en vont implanter par vn fort tendon à la tuberoſité interieure du rayon. chial. l'autre nommé brachial, à raiſon de l'adherence,& ferme connexion qu'il a auec l'os du bras,deſcend obli-\ " quement ſous le ſuſdit muſcle, depuis la partie poſterieure & ſuperieure dudit os au bras , iuſqu à l'os du muſcle du coulde, plus que du rayon interieurement. s'enſuiuent maintenant les deux qui l'eſtendent, deſquels le coulde premier nommé long,deſcend de la coſte inferieure de l'omoplat, & adherant à l'os du bras s'en va(meſlé efe deºrs. . auec ſon compagnon fort eſtroittement , & principalement prés du coulde ) là où tu orras par cy - apres. mºſºlº lºngº l'autre ſon compagnon, que nous pouuons appeller le court, deſcend de la partie poſterieure du col de **** l'os du bras, adhere à iceluy, & faiſant vn tendon commun & large auec le ſuſdit, charnu au dehors & nerueux au dedans , s'en va inſerer & embraſſer tout l'olecrane , pour enſemble eſtendre le coulde. declaration des os du carpe, metacarpe,& des doigts. ch a p. | xx v i i. o v t e s ces choſes ainſi deuëment faictes & accomplies , il faut venir à la declaration des speciale os, tant du carpe, metacarpe, que des doigts, parce que nous ne ſçaurions autrement cxpli- ſignification $ # quer bien & deuement l'inſertion des muſcles qui reſtent encores à declarer. et pourtant lans i la mºi . # plus long delay, il te faut reduire en memoire ce que cy-deſſus auons dit parlans de la main: * auquel lieu nous diſions qu'icelle priſe ſpecialement ſignifie ce qui eſt contenu entre les os du coulde,& i'extremité des doigts : que tous les anatomiſtes diuiſent en carpe metacarpe,& doigts quant au carpe, les parties communes appartenantes , tant à luy qu'au metacarpe & doigts, t'ont eſté ſuffiſam- le carpe eſº ment declacrées iuſqu'à preſent : mais que tu ayes entendu que le cuir tant de la main, que du pied, eſt composé de moyen entre pur cuir & pure chair, comme celuy du front, combien qu il ſoit immobile : dauantage fort huit os qui & denſe, plus toutesfois au pied qu'àlamain, de peur d'eſtre ſi facilement bleſsé en marchant deſſus.. ſ# diſ- outre ces ſuſdites parties cômunes,ledit carpe eſt composé de huict petits os liez par rangs,& conioints ſem # auec les deux os du coulde par diarthroſe ; & enſemble par ſynarthroſe auec cartilage & ligamens , tant # #. f f communs venans des muſcles,que propres, deſcendants touſiours des premiers aux autres qui s'enfuiuent # # or ſont ceſdits os les vns plus petits que les autres,dauantage durs & ſans moüelle,exterieurement gibeux, §. pour plus grande ſecurité & beauté de la partie : & interieurement caues, pour le paſſage des tendons qui vont aux doigts. ils ſont † & diſpoſez en deux rangs, dont au premier n'en y a que trois & à l autre cinq les trois du premier ſôt de telle ſorte,quel'vn reçoit l'epiphyſe styloide du coulde,l'autre la cónexion des deux os enſemble,le tiers eſt receu du rayon. des cinq du ſecond rang,trois ſouſtiennent les quatre § ul i . , le ſixieſme liure, l'anneau de la main cr ſon vſage. jle metacar- pe eſt compo sé de quatre ſ. les ºs des doigts ſont quinze en aombre . dequoy ſont faits les on- gles. les os seſa- mcides. i'vſage des os seſamoi- des. du metacarpe,auec leſquels ils ſôt conioints par ſynarthroſe,ainſi qu'ils ſôt auſſi auec ceux du pºëmier räg. a le quart ſouſtient le premier os du poulce,auquel il eſt conjoinct (comme auec ceux du premier rang)par ſynarthroſe.le cinquieſme & dernier eſt aſſis interieurement vis à vis du coulde,principalemêt ſur l'os du premier rang,qui reçoit le styloide du coulde. ceſtuy-cy eſt le plus petit de tous & plus foible,à raiſó de ſa ſubſtance cartilagineuſe,laquelle conſtitue l'âneau auec certains ligamens:paſſans & trauerſans d'vne des extremitez laterales & interieures du carpe à l'autre.lequel anneau a eſté fait,tât pour la conſeruation des nerfs,veines & arteres, qui paſſent par deſſous luy (de peur qu'en nous appuyant ſur la main ou carpe,tel- les parties par ceſte compreſſion ne fuſſent offensées)que pour la commodité de l'action des muſcles plians les doigts,leſquels en faiſant leur action & ſe retirans,euſſét peu difformer la main,ſortans hors de la caui- té du carpe,à raiſon que l'attraction faite par cordes,pourueu qu'elle ne ſoit empeſchée,eſt faite par droi- cte ligne. s'enſuyuent maintenant les os de la ſeconde partie de la main, nommé metacarpe, leſquels ſont quatre en nombre, boſſus exterieurement,& interieurement faicts en archet; à ſçauoir caues au milieu,du- quel eſt faicte la pauhme & creux de la main, ou la plus grande partie.ils ſont diſtans les vns des autres en- tre leurs extremitez, pour illec ſituer les muſcles nomméz entre-oſſeux, & ont epiphyſe en leurs deux ex- tremitez, comme tu peux facilementvoir en vn squelete d'vn petit enfant. et faut icy noter que par le premier os du carpe & metacarpe nous entendons celuy qui eſt en la partie anterieure ; à ſçauoir , qui eſt deſſous le poulce au carpe, ou l'indice au metacarpe,comme ceux qui en leur ordre ſouſtiennent les doigts plus dignes.apres ceux-cy s'enſuiuent les quinze os des doigts,trois d'vn chacun, caues & fiſtuleux, pleins de mouelle ſubtile & liquide, non groſſe & eſpeſſe,comme és os des bras & cuiſſes : auſſi exterieurement boſſus,& interieurement caues & plats, pour l'aſſiette des tendons qui montent interieurement le long des doigts iuſques à la derniere jointure.ou noteras que pour la confirmation & conſeruation de telle aſſiette de tendons,nature a produit des bords des cauitez internes deſdicts os, vn ligament membraneux & fort, lequel allant tranſuerſalement d'vn bord à l'autre, joint ſi bien les tendons contre leſdicts os, qu'ils ne peuuent ſortir de leur place , ny decliner d'vn coſté ny d'autre. ils ont eſté faicts connexes , & courbez par'dehors,pour mieux ſeruir à l'action : car de leur partie interieure les doigts remolliſſent,& broyent & prennent toutes choſes,ce qu'ils feroient mal-aisément s'ils n'eſtoient connexes & courbez. or quant aux cinq premiers os des doigts , quatre ſont conioincts auec les quatre os du metacarpe par ſynartroſe, veu que les os du metacarpe ne ſe meuuent point manifeſtement. le cinquieſme par meſme connexion ſe lie auec le ſecond rang de l'os du carpe.,et ne peut cét os eſtre dit du metacarpe , ainſi qu'aucuns ont voulu dire, veu qu'il a mouuement § eſt conjoint par diarthroſe, au contraire de ceux du metacarpe, leſquels ſont liez par ſynarthroſe ſeulement.quand aux ſeconds & tiers ils ſont conjoincts,les ſeconds aux premiers,& le tiers aux ſeconds,par diarthroſe & arthrodie : pource qu'outre le mouuement qu'ils ont ma- nifeſte, ils reçoiuent par cauité ſuperficielle ; ceſt à ſçauoir, les premiers,ceux du metacarpe : les ſeconds, les premiers des doigts : & les troiſieſmes,les ſeconds. et ſont tous # os des doigts en leur baſe plus grands , & en leur extremité plus petits, & liez enſemble par ligamens, pfincipalement propres, leſquels ( comme nous auons dit cy-deſſus ) deſcendent des premiers os aux ſeconds : en ſorte que les derniers n'ayans à qui communiquer leur ligament,ils en font & produiſent les ongles. parquoy leſdicts ongles font engendrez des fibres,des ligamens,& de l'excrement des tendons qui ſe terminent à l'extremité de la racine des ongles.reſte maintenant que nous pourſuiuions les os seſamoides, leſquels ſont dix-neuf, articulations internes, de chacune main, & autant à chacun pied : c'eſt à ſçauoir, deux à la premiere articulation , & jointures de quatres doigts, & ſeconde du poulce,& vn en chacun des autres. quant aux parties internes deſdites jointures , on en outre le plus ſouuent vn en vne chacune jointure,fors qu'à la ſeconde du poulce, où il y en a deux ſur les deux tendons, leſquels ſont quelquesfois cartilagineux. l'vſage deſdicts os, eſt de ſtabilir & confirmer leſdictes articulations, à celle fin qu'en s'eſtendant ou pliant , les os des doigts ne ſe renuerſent & ſortent de leur place par quelque fort mouuement,ainſi que fait la rotule du genouil. ils ſont appellez seſamoides, pour la ſimilitude qu'ils ont auec la ſemence de seſame, qui eſt l'onguette & platte. troiſieſme figure des os. la face interieure de la main droicte,en laquelle a, b,c,mon- ſtrent le premier rang des os du carpe,lequelimme- diatement eſt articule auec le rayon. d demonſtre le quatrieſme os du meſme ordre, lequel auec ſon oppoſit° marqué par e,ſouſtiennent le liga- ment qui fait l'anneau. efgh marquent les quatres os poſterieurs articulez auec les os du metacarpe & premier du poulce. - iklm monſtrent les quatre os du metacarpe. : * a te monſtre vn os seſamoïde, duquel tu pourras iu- ger des autres qui ſont arrangez deux à deux à la premiere articulation des doigts. . nopqr monſtrent les cinq os du premier rangdes doigts. tvxy les cinq os du ſecond rang des doigts & dupoulce. - . . . . . les os du dernier rang. c | : del'anatomie i - uatrieſme figure de laface exterieure des es de la main droičfc_». en ceſte figure, les lettres que tu vois, marque les meſ- -, mes os du poignet ou carpe. des muſcles du coulde ». c ar. xxviii. l faut venir maintenant aux muſcles qui meuuent les ſuſdictes parties ; & premierement à guatorze ceux du coulde : ſecondement aux internes de la main, & finalement aux muſcles entre- muſcles dn oſſeux. quant aux premiers, à ſçauoir du coulde,ils ſont quatorze en nombre,ſept externes, coulde, & ſept internes. des ſept externes, deux renuerſent le rayon premierement & ſecondement, ſept ºxº- &^a^swn & par accident la main en contre-mont; à ſçauoir, que la paulme regarde vers la face ou le nº, cr ſept ciel, au moyen dequoy ſont appeliées supinateurs, ou mains renuerſeurs : deux eſtendeurs du carpe, & º deux des doigts : & le dernier, abducteur ou obligateur externe. quant aux deux premiers nommez supi- muſcles ex- nateurs, l'vn nommé treſlong , parce qu'il eſt tel, deſcend de la partie externe du bras, enuiron quatre "#u, doigts par deſſus les apophyſes d'iceluy:& s'cn va inſerer par vntendon rond & fort,à l'epiphyſe inferieu- no su. re,plus interieure qu'anterieure du rayô.l'autre d'eſséd obliquement de l'apophyſe externe & ſuperieure pinateurs. du bras,enuiron la tierce partie du rayon,auquel il s'inſere par ligament membraneux & charnu anterieu- rement & interieurement. apres ceux-cy vient les deux eſtendeurs du carpe : deſquels le ſuperieur deſ . cendant de l'externe & ſuperieure apophyſe du bras par deſſus le rayö, s'en va implanter par deux tédons muſclers au premier & ſecond os du metacarpe , qui ſouſtiennent l'indice & le moyen des doigts. l'autre & infe- eſter deºrs rieure deſcendant de meſme lieu que le precedent par deſſus le coulde,s'en va inſerer au quatrieſme os du dº cºf*. metacarpe,qui ſouſtient le petit doigt. ces muſcles operans ſeuls chacun auec ſon oppoſite anterieur, nom- mé flecheur du carpe , meuuent toute la main,ſpecialement priſe obliquement en haut ou en bas. s'enfui- 'uent maintenant les deux eſtendeurs des doigts, deſquels le premier & plus grand prenant ton origine de l'olecrane, ou os du coude , deſcend ſuperficiellement entre les deux os dudit coulde, iuſqu'au carpe,au- muſelet. quel cndroit il ſe diuiſe en quatre tendons, leſquels paſſans par deſſous l'anneau illcc ſitué,deſinent enfer- eſtendouºs mez chacun à part par vn ligament comum deſſus les os du metacarpe ) à la derniere jointure des quatre des doigts. doigts, & adherans toutesfois eſtroittement aux os d'iceux precedents la ſuſdicte jointure. l'autre, & plus petit, prenant ſon origine d'enuiron le milieu du rayon, s'en va obliquement au poulce, auquel il deſine par deux tendons, vn plus gros, qui s'inſere à la racine du poulce, lequel il retire des autres doigts » auec vne partie de ceux qui ſont dedans la main; l'autre plus petit, qui va iuſqu'à la derniere articulation d'ice- luy,lequel il eſtend quand il opere reſtele ſeptieſme & dernier abducteur,ou autrement obliquateur,vers muſeles ab- la partie poſterieure, c'eſt a dire, vers le etit doigt, lequel on trouue le plus ſouuent diuisé en deux nous duäeur en auons trouuéceſte année en trois ou quatre ſubjccts diuisé en trois:dont l'vn alloit au coſté poſterieur du obliquateur. petit doigt & annulaire, par deux tendons : l'autre ſemblablement, au moyen & indice le tiers,au poulce. et combien qu'il ſoit ainſi diuisé,quelques vns ne l'ont côpté que pourvn,à raiſon de ſon ynique origine. & ſemblable action:qui eſt de mener les doigts vers le derriere.aucuns ont encores adjouſté ! eſtendeur du poulce auecque ceſtuy-cy, à raiſon de leur commune origine : & ainſi de quatre en ont conſtitué vn diuisé en ſept tendons,diſtribués ainſi qu'ila eſté dit. or quant l'obliquateur du petit doigt & annullaire defaut, comme il fait le plus ſouuent,l'eſtendeur des doigts ſuplée le defaut d'iceluy par certaines produ#iºns des fibres tendineuſes.il y a auſſi qui ont voulu dire, que ce muſcle ja dit de ſept tendons ， n'eſtoit qu'ºº pº" duction du muſcle profondanterieur, laquelle eſtoit enuoyée par entre la diſtinction des ºs du coul- de : toutesfois i'aymerois mieux dire que ce ſoit vn muſcle à part , veu ſa ferme adherence contre atua. .. l'os tant du coulde que du rayon. et voilà quant aux muſcles externes du coude » leſquelº " pº# § § reduire, s'il te plaiſt , au nombre de ſept, comme nous auons fait,ou de ſix : en faiſant vn de quaºº ºº d° §.. neuf, du precedent en faiſant quatre, comme galien, ou de huict, dudit precedent nºn faiſant que trois muſelenom- car à laverité,le quatrieſme abducteur ou obliquateur du petit doigt & annulaire,nº ſe treue pas ſºuuent mepalmaire auxhommes. maintenant faut venir aux ſept internes, deſquels le premier conſtitué le cuir d° la palme de la main, à cauſe dequoy il eſt appellépalmaire. le ſecond & troiſſieſme compagnons cnofice » • # · . -, annotation. - | l le ſixieſme liure, - - • le ravon, & conſequºment la main, en ſorte que la paulme regarde en bas versº pied& #.ſont a (eº muſeles appellez pronateurs ou couche-mains. le quatrieſme & cinquieſme auſſi compagnonsº. §ºe, plien le 'cr) #. carpe : & pourtant on les a nommez flecheurs ou plieurs du carpe le ſixieſme & ſeptiººe ſe§ r ! # ment deſtinez à plier les premieres, ſecondes , & tierces jointures des doigts, ſont appellez leche§ des » º\ §, tu doigts, quant à leur origine & inſertion,le palmaire le plus petit,& ſuperficiel d'entre † char- ft,! carpe. nu de l'apophyſe poſterieure du bras interieurement,& quelque peu apres deſinant en vn tºººon fort long ve muſcles fle- & greſle,s'en va perdre au cuir de la paulme de la main,iuſques à l'extremité des doigts.car il eſtoit neceſ- - lir chºur des ſaire,que ledit cuir pour la commodité non ſeulement de l'apprehenſion,fuſt cſtroittement attaché auec les - «: doigts. parties ſubjacentes,de peur qu'en ladite apprehenſion ledit cuir ne ſe ridaſt,& eſleuaſt de la paulme de la- º leur origine dite main,& des doits & par ainſi il empeſchaſt l'apprehenſion:mais auſſi afin que la main euſtvn ſentiment ·x & #ſºrtion plus exquis à diſcerner le chaud,froid,ſec,humide,peſant,leger,eſgal,aſpre,mol,dur,grand,petit, & autres yº vºi#é º choſes tangibles.en apres viennent les deux pronateurs, deſquels l'vn nommé rond,viend de la partie inte- : # p* rieure de l'apophyſe poſterieure du bras obliquement enuiron le mv-rayon, auquel il s'attache par vn ten- , &! don membraneux & chainu,iuſqu'à ladite inſertion:l'autre nommé quarré, eſtant large de trois à quatre doigts,aſſez tenue,& ſitué interieurement ſous tous les muſcles qui interieuremét deſcendent ou au carpe, - _ - ou aux doigts, ſur l'extremité des os du coulde , monte tranſuerſalement du plus bas de l'os du couldeau : poing pliant. plus haut rayon, où il deſine par vn tendon membraneux.les flecheurs du carpe prennent tous deux leur - origine de l'apophyſe poſterieure,mais interne,deſcendans obliquement ſelon plus ou moins,l'vn ſelon l'os - du coulde,& l'autre du rayon:& s'inferent,celuy qui deſcend ſelon le coulde, au huičtieſine os du carpe, que nous auons dit faire en partie l'anneau : l'autre qui ſuit le rayon ſelon ſa plus grande partie à l'os du # carpe,& du demeurant s'en vaiuſqu'au premier os du metacarpe,qui ſouſtien i indice reſtent encores les \ me on supe- flecheurs des doigts, leſquels à raiſon qu ils ſont couchez l vn ſur l'autre, le ſuperieur eſt appellé sublime / rieur. ou superieur,& l'inferieur profond. le sublime ou superieur, prenant ſon origine de la partie interieure,& inferieure de l'apophyſe poſterieure du bras, & des parties ſuperieures tant du coulde que du rayon, deſ- \ - cend entre les deux os ſans diuiſion aucune,iuſqu'au carpe ſur l'endroit de l'anneau,auquel lieu apres s'e- l/ ſtre diuisé en quatre tendons,s'en va implanter aux ſecondes jointures de quatre doigts,leſquelles il flechit, - % & plie de ſa propre inſertion,comme il fait la premiere,tant par le ligament commun , que certaines por- | tions qu'en paſſant il leur laiſſe. et ſont ces quatre tendons tout contre leur inſertion fendus en deux pour flerheur bailler paſſage,& plus grande aſſeurance aux tendons du muſcle profond,deſcendans à la tiercc,& derniere lx * .ºgº jointure des doigts. or cedit muſcle profod,prenant ſon origine des parties ſuperieures, & internes tit du # prºfºnd. coulde que du rayó,deſcéd entr'eux deux par deſſous le sublime ou superieur,indiuife iuſqu'au carpe,au- - - quel endroit il ſe diuiſe en cinq tendós, leſquels il produit par deſſous le ligamét cômun,& fiſſure des ten- ， nofº dons du sublime, iuſqu'à la derniere jointure de tous les doigts,leſquelles ils fechiſſent par leur proprein- º - ſertion , & les deux precedentes par le ligament commun, & certaines productions qu'en paſſant ils leur - - communiquent & laiſſent. ll y a vn ligament membraneux, qui enuironne les tendons autour des doigts,- - ， - - • des muſcles internes de la main. ch a p. xx l x. -c : e s muſcles tant externes qu'internes du coulde ainſi declarez, s'enſuiuent ceux de la main # # internes leſquels ſont ſept en nombre,dont le premiereſt appellé tenar,à raiſon qu'il conſti- ， interne tué la plus grande partie de la paulme de la main : le ſecond hypotenar, à raiſon de ſa ſitua- - ， - # tion : le tiers abducteur externe du poulce à l'indice : les quatre autres ſont nommez lum- . a" º bricaux , à raiſon de leur figure, ou abducteurs de quatre doigts vers le poulce. le premier - s nommé cy-deſſus tenar, plus gros , & cras de tous les autres, prend ſon origine de tous les os du meta- • : ti.l ºſººººm carpe,commençant depuis le commencement de celuy qui ſouſtient le petit doigt, & montant ſelon la li- i, mét temar. gne vitale iuſqu'àl'extremité dupremier os du metacarpe, qui ſouſtient l'indice,& ſe va implanter pai ſes - plus longues fibres,iuſqu'à la derniere jointure du poulce & par les moyennes,& plus courtes,preſque par • .. , toute la partie interieure des os des deux jointures precedentes. et à ceſte cauſe ledit poulce eſt amené à - tous les doigts,& ramené d'iceux par ſon origine plus baſſe.aucuns l'ont diuisé en trois pour raiſon de ſes r actions diuerſes,aſſignans l'origine de l'vn à la racine de l'os du metacarpe ſouſtenât le petit : de l'autre du tr milieu de celuy qui ſouſtient le moyen,& du tiers,de l'extremité ſuperieure de celuy qui ſouſtiét l'indice:& : j'inſertion de tous telle que nous auons dict. nous eſtudians à briefueté ſans rien obſcurcir, aymons mieux l， n'en faire qu'vn. le . nômé hypotenar,ſort du . os du metacarpe, & d'iceluy du carpe, qui le ſouſtient,& - tº hypotenar. ſe va implanter par ſes fibres plus longues à la ſeconde jointure du petit doigt,& à la premiere par les plus · ， courtes. et pour ceſte cauſe , & à raiſon auſſi de ſa double action aucuns l'ont fait double:vn qui le retire (º abducteur des autres,& l'autre qui l'amene au poulce le troiſieſme abducteur externe dupoulce,deſcend du premier d #, , #" os du metacarpe, à la premiere, & ſeconde du poulce : & eſt double ſelon aucuns. les quatre qui reſtent k: l'indice, ' nommez lumbricaux,autrement abducteurs internes des quatre doigts,ſortent de la membrane, reueſtans, & l tri- & relians enſêble,& aux autres parties les tendons des flecheurs des doigts,& ſe vont deſiner par vn pe- \ caÏma . , tit tendon lateralement vers le coſté du poulce iuſqu'à la ſecôde articulation des quatre doigts.reſte main- , . tenant à parler des interoſſels du metacarpe,leſquels ſont ſix en nombre,deux en chacune eſpace,l'vn inter- • t, intereſſal, ne,& l'autre externe:dont l'interne deſcend par fibres obliques,de la partie laterale du premier os du meta- # du meta- carpe,tirant auſſi vers la partie laterale des doigts,pour ſerrer leſdits os du metacarpe l'vn côtre l'autre,cô- $ carpe. me quand on chauſſe des gants eſtroits, ou quand on fait la main creuſe. aucuns ont voulu dire,qu'il aide : auſſi à l'adduction des doigts vers le poulce. l'externe monte auſſi par fibres obliques des parties laterales "; ° du ſecond os du metacarpe,vers les premieres articulations des doigts,croiſant le ſuſdit en forme de la let- - tre grecque(x)pour eſtendre la paulme de la main,& ayder l'abduction des doigts du poulce.parquoy con- | . $ cluant la deſcription des muſcles de lamaingeneralement priſe,tu noteras qu'ils ſont trente neufen nôbre, | c'eſt à ſçauoir huict pour le mouuemét du bras,quatre pour le mouuement du coulde generalemët pris,ſept \ : - de la partie externe du coulde,& autant de la partie interne:ſept de la partieinterne de la main, & ſix inte- • roſſels.aucuns en content dauantage,en mettans neufen la partie externe du coulde,& dedâs la main onze. "- deſcription de la lambe generalement priſe-». char. xxx # pr e s la declaration de la main, s'enſuit celle de la iambe, en pourſuyuant laquelle, apres auoir r# oſté toute ambiguité de ce nom de iambe, premierement nous la definirons, puis la diuiſerons en ſes parties plus composées : tiercement diuiſerons encores celles-cy en celles qui ſont moins grandes & - plus ſimplessquartement pourſuyurons les parties communes à toutes les parties de ladite iambe,& fina- " lement , • • "- - | de l'anatomie. : i s - · nous,& non point nons de nous-meſmes.mais afin que ce '», a lement les propres d'vne chacune.ce faict,nous conclurrons & mettrons fin a noſtre petit labeur, remer- double ac- cians le createur , & recognoiſſans que ſi nous auons fait † choſe de bon , c'eſt luy qui l'a fait en ception de la oit en bref il faut entendre,que ce nom de iäbe lºbº.. eſt vſurpé en deux ſortes,à ſçauoir generalement,& ſpecialement;& ſpecialement encores en deux manie-ººº res, à ſçauoir,ſimplement,ou auec † simplement,pour tout ce qui eſt contenu entre le genouil &le de la iambe pied,mais auec addition ſe prend pour le plus grand os d'icelle, qu'on appelle l'os de la lambe. quant à la generale- iambe generalement prife,ce n'eſt autre choſe que l'inſtrument du mouuement progreſſif,comprenaht tout #. ce qui eſt contenu entre l'os iſchion, & l'extremité du pied. elle eſt diuisée en trois grandes parties, c'eſt à . #. ſçauoir, en la cuiſſe, en la iambe ſpecialement priſe, & au pied , par la cuiſſe eſt entendu tout ce qui eſt ， m.rai.- compris depuis l'os iſchion iuſqu'au genoüil. par la lambe ſpecialement dicte ; nous entendons ce qui eſt ment priſ,. contenu depuis le genoüil iuſqu'au pied:& par le pied, ce qui derheure depuis l'extremite de ladºce iambe, qu'eſt ce lequel eſt encore diuisé en trois parties,c'eſt à ſçauoir au tarſe, pedion & doigts : prenant peur le tarſe, que cuiſſe. ce qui eſt contenu par les ſept premiers os , qui reſpond au carpe de la main:par le pedion, ce qui eſt con- definition . tenu par les cinq os enſuiuans, qui reſpond au metacarpe : & le demeurant, pour les doigts. et comme º !º iambe ainfi ſoit que toutes ceſdites parties ayent parties communes & propres,ſuyuant noſtre propos,nous pour- ſpeciale - ſuyurons ſeulement la diſtribution des veines,arteres & nerfs, ayans ſuffiſamment expliqué toutes les au- ment dite. tres, quand nous auons parlé en general des parties contenantes de tout le corps. # # - iº i. - - - - - - - tarſe dn diſtribution de la veine crurale ». c h a p. xxx i. pied pedivrs v o m m e n ; a n r donc à la diſtribution de la veine crurale qui commence depuis qu'elle ſort du peritoine,nous trouuerons qu'eſtât paruenuë par deſſus l'os iſchiô,& parties laterales des os barrez iuſqu'auxaiſnes,elle † diuiſe premierement en deux inſignes rameaux:deſquels l'vn deſcendinterieuremét ſelon les os de toute la iambe auec l'artere & le nerf, ainſi qu'il te - ſera tantoſt demonſtré:l autre deſcend ſuperficiellement, & interieulement tout le † de la cuiſſe entre la greſſe ſubiacente au cuir,& les muſcles iuſqu'au pied,au cuir duquel elle ſe perd:& pourtant qu'elle peut eſtre toufiours apparéte,& eſt appellée des grecs sapheia,& vulgairemét ſäphene:laquelle ſur veiness- ſon chemin ſoudain apres ſon origine , ſe diuiſe premierement en deux rameaux, l'vn interne, & l'autre phene. & externe : dont l'interne demeure parmy les glandes des aifnes, & le cuir du parement, par leſquels ſont diuiſiions faites aux aiſnes les fluxions nommées bubons;l'autre plus ample ſe perd au cuir de la partie anterieure, & d'ieº . exterieure,& plus haute de la cuiſſe. secondement quelque peu apres enuiron trois ou quatre doigts , ſe- *** #º lon la grandeur du ſujet,ſe diuiſe en vn rameau, qui ſe perd au cuir intcrieur , & poſterieur de ladite # ſe font cuiſſe. tiercement, quelque peu plus bas que le milieu de la cuiſſe , dercchc fſe diuiſe en deux autres, l'vn les bub.ni. au cuir anterieur, & l'autre au poſterieur. quartement ſe diſtribue par deux autres raineaux aſlez petits, au cuir de la partie tantanterieure que poſterieure du genoüil,leſquels quelquesfois ne le trouuent point, meſmement lors que la poplitique eſt fort ample, quintement vn peu deſſous le genoüil ſait deux autres rameaux,ſortans l'vn deſſous,l'autre au cuir de la partie anterieure,& poſterieure d'icelle : & faut noter que le rameau qui deſcend au cuir de la partie anterieure,& poſterieure,ſe va jettter par vn ſien rameau dedans vn autre de la poplitique ſortant entre les deux gemeaux,deſquels nous parlerons cy-apres.sextement à l'é- . • . : droit du plus gros de la iambe ſe diuiſe en deux rameaux, leſquels ſemblablemét ſe diſtribuent tant au cuir apert fcn de de la partie anterieure, que † de la iambe. finalement,apres pluſieurs autres ramifications (leſ- la ſa pbene. quellesie tais à cauſe de briefueté)eſtantparuenuë iuſqu'à la partie anterieure de la cheuille interne auquel ... - endroit elle eſt ouuerte aux affections des parties contenues tous le diaphragme, qui requierent midion de tºiuiſion de ſang,elle ſe diuiſe encore en deuxautres rameaux : deſquels le plus petit deſcend vers le talon : l'autre ſe la # conſomme en pluſieurs rameaux au cuir de toute la partie ſuperieure,& inferieure du pied, & des arteils. cure ſa l'autre rameau de la ſuſdite vaine crurale,que nous auons dit deſcendre interieurement auec l'artere,& le #. nerfiuſqu'au pied, fait telles diuiſions que s'enſuit.premierement ſe profondant il fait quatre ramifications: que #. vne interne,deſcendant par deſſous l'origine dela saphene ſur le muſcle obturateur externe, & cn aucuns " § " des internes.les autres trois s'en vont exterieurement, la premiere vers l'os iſchion par laquelle eſt faite la muſ.ulc. outte ſciatique,& les deux autres aux muſcles anterieurs de ladite cuiſſe. et telles ramifications ſortent vne pres de i'autre. secondement il ſe diuiſe tout en deux autres rameaux, vn ſuperieur, vn inferieur ac- compagnez tous deux de l'artere : deſquels l'inferieur ſe perd, & conſomme par pluſieurs muſcles poſte- rieurs de lacuiſſe ſe terminant pres le iarret : le ſuperieur,outre ce qu'il donne pluſieurs rameaux aux muſ- cles interieurs & anterieurs de ladite cuiſſe,deſcendans vers le iarret produit la poplitique, faicte quelques surale. fois de deux rameaux iſſans l'vn de plus haut,l'autre de plus bas, laquelle deſcendant par le ply du iarret ſe ... .. perd maintenant au cuir du gras de la iambe,quelquefois iuſqu'au talon,maintenant enſoicie de rameaux #" de la ſaphene, s'en va au cuir de la partie ſuperieure du pied, & quelquesfois de l'inſerieure de la che-*" uille externe.tiercement quelque peu deſſous l'origine de la poplitique,& ſous le ply du genoiiil ſait la ſu- rale,laquelle ſe perd aux muſcles de ſura,c'eſt à dire du gras de la iambe,& au cuir de la partie interne d'i- celle & du pied,s'aduançant quelquesfois iufqu'à la partie interne du poulce. quartement, ſous la teſte du ſolaire, ou l'epiphyſe poſterieure des os de la iambe , il produit entre ceſdits deux os vne autre veine,la- quelle nourriſſant les muſclesanterieurs de la iâbe,ſe va perdre ſous le pied.quintement,& finalement fait la ſciatique grande,laquelle ſe diuiſe en deux rameaux inegaux,à ſçauoir l'yn grand,& l'autre petit:dont le plus grand deſcendant depuis ſa diuiſion ſelon la partie interieure de l'os de la lambe par deſſous les muſ- les du gras de ladite iambe,s'inſinue entre icelle,& le talon dedans la plante du pied,en laquelle il ſe perd, diuisé en deux petits ſurgeons, à ſçauoir deux au coſté de chacun doigt. l'autre & plus pctit,deſcendant ſelon l'os de l'eſperon ou petit focile de la iambe,ſe perd cn iceluy, & le talon : neantmoins quelquesfois il eſt trouué s'auancer non ſeulement iuſqu'au muſcle abducteur des doitgs(duquel parlerons cy apres) mais auſſi par cinq petits rameaux, iuſqu'au petit doigt annulaire & partie laterale du moyen. - —— - -- •- diſtribution de l'artere crurale . ch a p. xxx ii. | a diſtribution finie de la veine crurale,il conuient paſſer à celle de l'artere auſſi crurale : laquel- ， # $ le commençant de meſme endroit que la ſuſdite veine , & deſcendant ſelon la crurale inter- muſculeuſe. # % ne, ſe diuiſe ainſi que s'enfuit. preumierement en la muſculeuſe de la cuiſſe , laquelle ſe diſſe- $ ni minant par les muſcles d'icelle , rencontre l'extremité de l hypogaſtrique , deſcendante auec la veine par le commun trou de l'os pubis iſchion , & s'adiouſte auec icelle. •ºa ; ſur le º# l pºplitique. ns\ " artere dite - - - - a le ſixieſme liure, a* - -- • du genoùï\ e ſe èºue en deux petits rameaux,qu'elle enuoye à la iointure du geno iiil, shtre les con- a dyl s,ou apophyſes ºº l'os de la cuiſſe. tiercement quelque peu apres fait vn autre raº eau $u'elle enuoye - aux muſcles exterieurs de la iambe. finalement eſtant paruenue enuiron la my-iambe entººs muſcl§ ge- meaux & le ſolaire,elle ſe dit iſe en deux rameaux,vn interieur, & l'autre exterieur. l'intººr, apres auoir communiqué certains petits ſurgeons aux parties par leſquelles il deſcend,& principaleººnt à la iointure de la iambe auec le pied , ſe iette ſous la plante dic luy entre l'extremité inferieure d'icelle,& k talon : & illec paruenu ſe conſomme en cinq ſurgeons,leſquels il cnuoye deux au poulce,deux autres à ſ'indice,& vn au moyen. l'exterieur deſcendant ſemblablement à la plante du pied entre le petit focile,& le talon,outre les autres ramifications qu'il peut faire,il en fait vne à la ioincture de la iambe exterieurement,& vne autre au muſcle abducteur ou rament ur des doigts, & aux parties du tarſe & pedium:& ce qui demeure ſe perd, & conſomme auſh en cinq portions , leſquelles ſont enuoyées deux au petit doigt, deux à l'annulane, & t vn au moyen. - ， · —- des nerfs des lumbes, de l'os sacrum, & de la cuiſſe_º. ch a p. xxxi ii. e s t e maintenant que nous pourſuiuions les nerfs,leſquels comme ainſi ſoit qu'ils deſcen- # dent tant des lumbes que de l'os ſacrum, nous parlerons premierement de ceux des lum- bes, & diſtribution d'iceux,puis reuiendrons à ceux de l'os ſacrum. il ſort donc des lumbes | cinq paires de nerfs diuisées en rameaux interieurs , & exterieurs. les exterieurs ſe diſſemi- | nent aux muſcles de l'eſchine , au demy-eſpine , au ſacré, & au cuir qui les couure. les in- terieurs vont aux muſcles de l'epigaſtre obliques aſcendans & tranſuerſaux, au peritoine, & pareillement aux lumbaux, & thorachiques iſſus dudit lieu, mais differemment , car les vns y vontentierement, com- b me ceux de la premiere paire des lumbes , & le plus ſouuent de la ſeconde, horſmis que quelquesfois ils • enuoyent vne petite branchette aux teſticules , lors que le coſtal de la ſixieſme coniugaiſon n'y en enuoye point. les autres inferieurs en partie s'y diſtribuent, en partie non : car leurs plus grandes portions vnies premierement enſemble, puis apres auec ceux de l'os ſac t m , s'en vont à la cuiſſe,ainſi que tu orras par cy-apres , quand nous aurons parlé des nerfs qui ſortent de l'os ſacrum : & des diſtributions particulieres ' d'iceux. et pour commencer, il faut entendre, que dudit os ſacrum ſortent ſix paires de nerfs, contant pour - la premiere celle qui ſort entre la derniere vertebre des lumbes, & premier os dudit os ſacrum : & pour la - ſixieſme , celle qui ſort entre le dernier ſatré, & premier de la queuë ou coccyx. ceſdites paires de nerfs - ſe diuiſent en rameaux externes,& internes. les externes & plus petits ſortans par les trous externes & po- | . ſterieurs de l'os ſacrum,ſe diſtribuent par les parties appartenantes exterieurement à iceluy,ſoient muſcles - d'iceluy , ſoit le cuir qui le reueſt. car c'eſt vne reigle de nature, que chacun nerf fournit premierement -, de ce qu'il peut aux neceſſitez de ſes parties prochaines, puis apres aux autres, s'il peut, & les voiſines en - * ont affaire. parquoy ſi tu veux ſçauoir d'où vne chacune partie a ſes vaiſſeaux de plus pres, c'eſt à ſçauoir - ::: veines,arteres,& nerfs,il te faut obſeruer le diſcours d'iceux,& tenir par cœur l'aſſiette de chacune partie: #i & entendre , que quant aux veines & arteres , elles ſe jettent & fourrent dedans les parties ſelon leur plus -- grande commodité,maintenant par la teſte, & principe d'vne partie, maintenant par le milieu,& vne au- tre fois par la fin, ainſi qu'il ſe rencontre : mais le nerf, meſmement aux muſcles, ſe jette dedans iceux par leur teſte,ou quelque peu apres,& iamais par la queue.et par ainſi entendant le diſcours deſdicts vaiſſeaux, & autres choſes predites, vn chacun pourra venir facilement a la cognoiſſance de quel rameau de veine,ar- tere,& nerf,chaque partie eſt nourrie,viuifiée,& faite ſenſible.les autres rameaux internes des ſuſdites pai- res des nerfs, s'en vont meſmement les quatre ſupericurs vnis dés leur commencement,auec les trois infe- c rieurs des lumbes, en toute la iambe,ainſi que tu orras cy-apres. mais lcs deux inferieurs ſe perdent aux - ! - muſcles releuateurs du ſiege, & au sphinctcr d'iceluy, plus aux muſcles du membre viril & col de la veſſie , aux hommes, & aux femmes au col de l'amarry & de la veſſie : car leſdites parties en reçoiuent vne autre - nerf de la par leur fonds , du coſtal de la ſixieſme coniugaiſon du cerueau. toutes ces choſes ainſi conſiderées & ob- " , cuiſſe. ſeruées, faut venir aux nerfs de la cuiſſe, leſquels (comme nous auons dit) eſtans ramaſſez & vnis dés leur principe, de la plus grande portion des trois rameaux interres, & inferieurs des lumbes, & quatre ſupe- rieures de l'os ſacrum,ſe diuiſent en la cuiſſe par quatre rameaux. dont le premier,& plus haut deſcendant par deſſus le peritoine vers le petit trochanter,ſe perd aux muſclos internes,& ſuperficiels de la cuiſſe, & - au cuir les couure, deſinant quelque peu deſſus le genoüil. le ſecond deſcendant auec la veine & artere - crurales par l'aiſne ſe diuiſe ainſi que la veine en deux rameaux,vn interne,& l'autre externe : dont l'interne cinq paires de merfs iſſent des lumbes. inſtruction pour le chi- rurgien. - deſcendant auec la veine & artere,ſe depart aux muſcles interieurs & profonds de la cuiſſe,ſe finiſſant auſſi , # par deſſus le genoüil : mais l'externe deſcendant auec la ſaphene ſuperficiellement iuſqu'au pied,baille par • tout ſon chemin certains petits rameaux au cuir qui le reueſt,& couure. le troiſieſme ſitué par deſſous les . • ſuſdicts,deſcendant par le trou du penil commum à i'os pubis & iſchion,baille certains rameaux aux aiſnes | aux muſcles obturateurs, & à ceux des trois teſtes, & quelquesfois à ceux du membre viril : & ſe finit en- · uiron le milieu de la cuiſſe. le quatrieſme & plus gros de tous ceux du corps, plus dur & ferme, ſortant ºa - ºrigine & entierement des productions de l'os ſacrum, & deſcendant exterieurement entre la partie inferieure dudit ， º os ſacrum,& de l'os des iles, par la cuiſſe, baille certains rameaux aux muſcles poſterieurs d'icelle, ſortans # du # de la tuberoſité de l'os de la hanche , & autres ſemblablement au cuir des feſſes , & qui reueſt les ſuſdicts d « | # #" muſcles : puis quelque peu apres ſe diuiſe en deux rameaux, leſquels deſcendans ſans aucune diuiſion iuſ- •- . º . ps. qu'au ply du genoüil,tous deux ſe comuniquent par diuers rameaux aux muſcles de ladicte iambe, en telle -'. - ſorte toutesfois,que le plus petit produict vn ſien petit rameau de ſon reliqua par la partie anterieure de la - iambe ſelon le petit focile,au § du pied: où ſe diuiſant en dix petits ſurgeons quaſi inſenſibles, les en- - | uoye deux à chaſque doigt. l'autre plus grand deſcendant auſſi de ſon reliqua par la partie poſterieure de la iambe,ſe jette à la plante du pied auec les veines & arteres,entre le talon, & l'os de ladicte iambe,où ſe ". diuiſant premierement en deux rameaux, puis vn chacun en cinq , s'en vont deux aux parties laterales de chaſque doigt. et celles ſont les diſtributions deſdicts vaiſſeaux plus inſignes, & qui ſe trouuent le plus ſouuent , & deſquelles on a le plus affaire,laiſſant à conſiderer à vn chacun toutes les autres petites, & preſque infinies diſtributions faites deſdits vaiſſeaux par toutes les parties,par leſquelles ils paſſent, ſoient ii]t cii cs , cxtc rncs , ou moyennes. des º de l'anatonbie. , i \ $ - –- des parties propres de la cuiffe » ch a p. x x x l v, x p q v e e s & declarées toutes les parties communes de la iambe generalement priſe, reſle que deſcendions aux particulieres d'vne chacune, commençans a la cuiſſe : les parties propres & particulieres, de laquelle ſont les muſcles, os, & ligaments. mais attendu que nul ne te ſçauroit pertinemment monſtrer les muſcles , leſquels en ce lieu icy ſe repreſentenr au ſens de la veue, apres les parties communes de tout le corps , ſi premierement tu n'as co- gneu les os deſquels ils ſortent, eſquels ils definent : à ceſte cauſe nous auons propoſé, ſuiuant le chemin que nous auons tenu à la tractation des muſcles du bras, te deſcrire les os & articulations d'iceux, premier que les muſcles , commençant aux os joincts à la partie ſuperieure de l'os ſacrum, qui ſont deux, vn de chacun coſté , leſquels ſont appellez vulgairement les os de la hanche, ou des iles. chacun d'iceux cſt composé de trois os , vn ſuperieur, l'autre inferieur , & anterieur , & le tiers moyen, & aucunement po- # os de la ſterieur. le ſuperieur eſt nomméſpecialement os des iles, & eſt fort ample & grand , ayant vne epiphyſe anche. cartilagineuſe tout à l'entour de ſa circonference , iuſqu'à la connexion qu'il a auec les autres os : la par- l'os des iles. tie ſuperieure de laquelle nous appellons la droite ligne d'iceluy & ſa baſe, qui eſt vnie auecluy par ſym- phyſe,ſe nomme le bord,ou lévre,ou ſourcil, à cauſe qu'elle panche aucunement dehors,& de dans en for- me de ſourcil:mais ce qui eſt entre la baſe,& la droite ligne,s'appelle la coſte.dauâtage cedit os ſuperieur .. à deuxfaces ou ſuperficies caues,yne interne,& l'autre externe.sa connexion par ſymphyſe eſt double:vne iſchicx. auec la partie ſuperieure de l os ſacrum, l'autre auec l'os iſchion , que nous auons appellé moyen, & au- cotyle. cunement poſterieur, lequel commençant dés la partie plus eſtroitte de l'os des iles, fait la boete dedans lequel l'os de la cuiſſe eſt receu, nommée des grecs cotyle, des latins acetabulum : & ſe finit ſelon la par- - - - •. • - - - ， - - - - - ·tie laterale du trou commun à luy , & l'os anteriéiir & inferieur, qu'on appelle en latin os rubis, en fran- çois , l'os du penil , ou l'os barré. et ne contieiſt ledit os iſchion que la ſuſdicte boéte, hormis que de ſa partie poſterieure, & inferieure, il produit vne apophyſe, laquelle ſe va adiouſter auec le ſuſdict os bar- tubercul. f re à l'endroit de la partie plus baſſe du trou comnun, auquel endroit elle appert fort inegale & aſpre, & tuberoſ . eſt nommée tubercule ou tuberoſité de l'os iſchion : tout au dernier de laquelle il produit d'abondant vn l'o, iſ bio . petit tourrillon, fait à la ſimilitudg de l'apophyſe de la maſchoire inferieure, que les grecs appellent (o- l'os du penil ronne. le tiers & dernier , à ſçauoir>los du fenil, ou barré, sauance iuſques à la partie plus haute du ou barré. fenil, où rencontrant ſon compagnon, s vnit auecque luy par ſymphyſe , tout ainſi qu'ils font eux trois enſemble. et ce dernier icy s'ouure és femmes en leur enfantement, ſelon aucuns que ie n'ay peu aper- ceuoir. si tu veux bien voir la diſtribution, & ſeparation d'vn chacun à l'œil , il te faut auoir le ſcelette d'vn petit enfant. car depuis que l'homme eſt deuenu grand, les cartilages , qui ſont entre les connexions •* deſdicts os , degenerent en ſubſtance, & conſiſtçnce d'os, en ſorte que tu ne ſçaurois diſtinguer la ſepara- tion de l'vn à l'autre. s'enſuit maintenant la deſcription de l'os de la cuiſſe , que les latins appellent os femoris , lequel eſt le plus grand , & plus gros de tous, rond, & vouſté en forme d'archet, en ſa partiean- terieure , & exterieure , pour ſa deffenſe à l'encontre de iniures externes : & en ſa poſterieure & interieu- re faict en dos d'aſne, pour plus grande aſſeurance de l'origine, & inſertion des muſcles illec commençans ou finiſſans : lequel dos d'aſne quelque peu deſſous ſon milieu ſe diuiſe en deux lignes,tendantes, l'vne à la tuberoſité interne»l'autre à l'externe de l'epiphyſe inferieure de ladite cuiſſe. et les marqueras en ton ef- deſcription prit diligemment , pource que les fibres obliques des muſcles vaſtes prennent leur origine d'icelles, vn de l'os de la chacun , de celles de ſon coſté , ainſi que nous dirons en ſon lieu. dauantage, cedit osſa deux epi- cuiſſe. phyſes en ſes deux extremitez-,comme tu peux voir aux os d'vn ieune petit enfant : vne en la partie ſupe- rieure , i'autre en l'inferieure. " la ſuperieure fait la teſte ronde dudit os, laquelle aſſiſe ( comme toute autre epiphyſe) ſur vn aſſez grand col, declinant à la partie anterieure, eſt receuë,ainſi que nous auons ja dit, dedâs la boëte de l'os iſchion,auec laquelle elle eſt conioincte par enarthroſe,&auſſi eſt confirmée de- dans icelle par deux genres de ligamens : à ſçauoir,vn commum venant tant des muſcles, qui de la partie ſu- perieure deſcendant à l'entour de ſon col , & partie ſuperieure dudit os : l'autre propre , lequel eſt dou- ble , à ſçauoir vn membraneux & large , deſcendant de tout à l'entour de l'o bite de ladicte boete, à l'en- tour de toute l'aſſictte de toute la teſte ſur le col : l'autre gros, & rond deſcendant de la ſeconde cauité de la boete , laquelle s'eſtcnd iuſqu'au trou commun au plus haut de ladicte teſte , ou enuiron. outre plus, #u, ſous ladicie teſte cedit os a deux apophyſes, vne grande & groſſe, l'autre petite & courte. la grande ſi- # - tuée en la partie poſterieure eſt nommée grand trochanter : la plus petite aſſiſe en la partie interieure , eſt #º appellée petit trochanter. et noteras que de la partie † haute,& poſterieure que le grand trochanter, nnotation, - - - - - - trochanter regarde la teſte dudit os , il fait vne pettie ſinuoſité, en lajuelle les muſcles gemeaux , & autres ( deſquels ſignifie vi- nous parlerons cy-apres) ſe vont inſerer. il faut auſſi conſiderer la multitude des trous qui ſont tout à l'en-gueur. tour du col, entre la teſte & les deux trochanteres : leſquelles baillent entrée aux vaiſſeaux (ſoient vei- la moi elle à nes, arteres , ou nerfs ) à la moiielle dudit os : au moyen dequoy la moiielle eſt engendrée, & faite ſenſi- ſentiment ble en ſa tunique, l'os viuifié & nourry. le ſemblable tu feras en la boëte tant interieurement,quexterieu-**quit, rement, afin que tu ſçaches par quel moyen la ſciatique ſe peut faire. l'autre epiphyſe dudit os, que nous auons dit inferieure, eſt fort grande & groſſe,faiſant comme deux teſtes à l'extremité d'iceluy,diuiſées par deux cauitez, vne plus ſuperficielle & anterieure, par laquelle ladite epiphyſe reçoit la palette du genouil; & l'autre plus creuſe & poſterieure par laquelle elle reçoit le ligament cartilagineux, & quaſi oſſeux, pro- p,. duit de l'eminence d'entre les deux cauitez de l'epiphyſe ſuperieure de l'os de la jambe, qu'hippocrate au diaphyſes . liure des fractures appcllc en ſon langage diaphyſe - - , le ſixieſme liure, * º muſcles wouuant la % . - cuiſſe ſont ·quatorze. muſcles fle- «heurs de la cuiſſe. muſcles eſtendeurs de la cuiſſe. muſcles ge- / .x. la ſixieſme figure des os femoris dextres. l'os femoris, ſelon ſa partie poſt la teſte ou epiphyſe dudit os, de l'os iſchium. - - - -- - b § en lameſme teſte, qui reçoit leligº rond deſcendant de la partie caue de la ſuſditeboº， , ,. la connexion de ladicte teſte ou epiphyſe , c'eſt à dire, ex- croiſſance,ou allonge auec ledit os de la cuiſſe. le col dudit os. la cauité qui eſt entre le col, & le grand trochanter . le grand trochanter , dit tourneur, ou apophyſe dudit os. la racine dudit trochanter. - la ligne poſterieure dudit os,en laquelle les fins,ou queiies du muſcle nommé triceps , ou à trois teſtes , ſont atta- chées. le petit trochanter. - - xx les deux tubercules laterales & inferieures dudit os, leſquelles ſont receuës dans les cotyles de l'os de la jambe. erieure, auquel (a) mºnſtre laquelle entre dedans la boëte c ss dit os. m la cauité d'entre les tubercules, en laquelle s'attache le ligament cartilagineux de la joincture du genouil. l'autre figure dudit os de ſa partie anterieure, en laquelle ſeu- lement faut noter la cauité qui t'eſt monſtrée par n, qui re- çoit la rotule du genoüil : cara, & c, ſignifient les meſmes choſes qu'en l'autre figure. \ n $ $ l e $ $ n - - b-"- xxxv. sº) outes ces choſes ainſi conſiderées, reſte que nous pourſuyuions les muſcles mouuans la cuiſſe, leſquels ſont quatorze en nombre : à ſçauoir , deux qui la plient, & pourtant ſont nommez flecheurs : trois qui l'eſtendent, & pource appellez eſtendeurs : trois qui la meu- \ uent au dedans, reiettans le genoüil vers le dehors, & le talon vers le dedans, comme quand \ # j on croiſe les cuiſſes. aucuns de ces trois n'en font qu'vn, & le nomment muſcle à trois te- ſtes. six, qui la rameinent dehors en la deſployant & ouurant, comme en l'acte venerien : dont quatre ſont appellez gemeaux, à raiſon de leur groſſeur, preſque égale, mefme origine, inſertion & action : les deux autres ſont dicts obturateurs, à raiſon qu'ils bouchent le trou commun aux os, barré & iſchion. quant aux deux flecheurs, l'vn rond deſcendant interieurement par fibres en longueur inegales, de tou- tes les apophyſes tranſuerſes des lumbes par deſſus la commiſſure poſterieure de l'os ileon & pubis, s'en va inſerer au petit trochanter , l'autre large, & ample en ſon origine, ſort de tout le bord ou ſourcilin- terieur de l'os des iles,& rempliſſant la cauité interne d'iceluy, s'en va par deſſus la partie anterieure de la teſte de l'os de la cuiſſe, inſerer au petit trochanter par vn gros tendon qui eſt produit de luy, & ſon com- pagnon,meſme depuis leur partie charneuſe. et pour ce,tu ne trauailleras point de les ſeparer. s'enſuiuent les trois qui l'eſtendent qui font les feſſes : deſquels le premier plus gros, ample & exterieur, prenant ſon origine du cropion, os ſacrum, & de la moitié, ou dauantage du bord ou ſourcil exterieur, & poſterieur de l'os de la hanche ou des iles, ſe va implanter par fibres obliques,depuis le grand trochanter, iuſqu'à quatre doigts, plus ou moins ſelon la grandeur des perſonnes, à la ligne droite que nous auons comparé à vn dos d'aſne. le ſecond moyen en grandeur, & ſituation deſcend du demeurant du ſourcil, & de ſa coſte anterieure,& exterieure de l'os des iles:& couché par deſſus la moitié dudit os,ouenuiron,ſe va inſerer au c plus haut du grand trochanter, faiſant ſon inſertion triangulaire ſur la partie ſuperieure,& exterieure d'i- celuy. le troiſieſme plus petit, court, & menu que les precedens, couché par deſſous iceux, ſort du milieu de la face externe de l'os des iles , & ſe va inſerer à la plus grande partie de la ligne droicte du grand tro- chanter.ces trois muſcles icy ont grande & large origine,& eſtroitte inſertion faicte cóme de fibres obli- ques aux lieux ſuſdicts. apres ceux-cy faut venir à ceux qui ſerrent les cuiſſes ou rameinent l'vne ſur l'autre en croix,en ſorte que le genouil ſort,& tire vers le dehors,& le talon vers le dedans,côme tu pourras enté- dre par leur inſertion & origine,& non au contraire,ainſi qu'aucuns ont voulu dire.or leſdičts muſcles tous trois prennent leur origine en partie charneuſe,en partie ligamenteuſe,de la partie ſuperieure,& anterieure de la circonference de l'os barré ou os pubis : & s'en vont inſerer à la ligne poſterieure de l'os de la cuiſſe, toutesfois l'vn plus auant,les autres moins.car le plus petit, & plus court demeure ſous la racine du petit trochanter:le moyen en grandeur & groſſeur,deſcend quelque peu plus bas,le tiers & dernier plus grand, & plus gros deſcend par les fibres plus longues iuſqu'à la fin de la ligne, beaucoup plus bas que le milieu de la cuiſſe. s'il eſt donc ainſi que ces muſcles venans de la partie anterieure & ſuperieure, s'inſerent à la ligne poſterieure de l'os de la cuiſſe:en faiſant leur action tous ſeuls , en ſerrant les cuiſſes, illes renuer- ſeront vers le dehors , comme quand on croiſe leſdites cuiſſes l'vne ſur l'autre, & non point qu'vn genoüil tire vers l'autre, & le talon dehors. car tel mouuement eſt faict, & accomply par le vaſte interne de la cuiſſe mouuant la iambe. finalement s'enſuiuent les ſix qui font remuer les feſſes:deſquels quatre ſont ap- ellez gemeaux, & deux obturateurs. des gemeaux le premier , & plus haut ſort d'entre la commiſſure de l'os sacrum auec le cropion,ou pluſtoſt de l'extremité inferieure dudit os sacrum:& ſe va inſerer dedâs la cauité du grand trochanter par vn notable & aſſez long tendon. le ſecond venant de la partie caue ou fiſſure qui eſt entre le bord de la boëte & la tuberoſité de l'iſchiö,s'en va auſſi à la cauité du grâd trochâter. le ch a p. b ia connexion faicte par la ſymphyſe de l'apophyſe du- de l'anatomie. ' i · le troiſieſme monte de la partie interieure de la tuberoſité de l'iſchion,& quelque peu plus haut,entre les deux trochanteres,dedans le creux du plus grand.le quatrieſme & dernier,le plus bas & plus large de tous, ſort de toute la tuberoſité exterieure de l'iſchion, & ſe va inſerer au grand trochanter. et ſont ces quatre icy cachez ſous le plus gros de la feſſe : au moyen dequoy pour les bien deſcouurir , il les faut renuerſer vers leur originc. reſte maintenant les deux obturateurs, c'eſt à ſçauoir interme,& externe , leſquels tous deux prennent leur origine de la circonference du trou qu'ils bouchent, à ſçauoir commun à l'os pubis & iſchion : mais l'interieur monte à la racine exterieure du grand trochanter par la fiſſure moyenne entre la partie ſuperieure de la tuberoſité de l'iſchion,& l'eſpine dreſſée en la baſe poſterieure de l'os ilium:& l'ex- muſcles c#- terne de la cauisé exterieure entre le tubercule de l'iſchion, & la partie inferieure de la boëte à la partie turateurs. caue du grand trochanter auec les gemeaux. si tu veux bien voir l'obturateur externe, il te faut ou cou- per l'origine du muſcle a trois teſtes, ou le bien & deuëment ſeparer, & puis les eſtendre & renuerſer, & les verras par deſſous. l'interne ſe void facilement apres auoir oſté la veſſie. •gm- ldes • del. iambe . c h a p. xxxv i. p r e s cesmuſcles cy-deſſus declarez, afin qu'vnchacun puiſſe plus facilement venir à la co- i rotuie ºk . noiſſance de ceux qui s'enſuiuent ; à ſçauoir , qui meuueut la iambe : maintenant nous pour- palette dº uiurons la declaration de ces os, commençant à la rotule , ou palette du genoüil : laquelle &°ºº. - eſt vn os exterieurement cartilagineux , rond en ſa circonference & partie exterieure : & en la - partie interieure aucunement boſſu ſur ſon milieu , deſcendant en applatiſſant vers les parties laterales, afin que commodement ſans aucun vice de commoderation, elles peuſt adapter ſur la jointure du genoüil, dedans la cauité anterieure des deux epiphyſes de la cuiſie, & ſuperieure & anterieure de la iambe. son rºſats . b vtilité eſt de confirmer ladite jointure du genoüil,& contenir la iambe en deuë extéſion,ſans qu'elle ſe plie la palette dà en quelque mouuemét que ce ſoit vers la partie anterieure,ainſi qu'elle fait vers la poſterieure.il faut main-genouil deſ- tenant venir aux os de la iambe, ſpecialement priſe, leſquels ſont deux, vn plus gros, nommé particulie-cription de ment l'os de la lambe : l'autre plus petit,nommé l'os de l'eſperon, ou petit focile. le plus gros aucune- l'os particu- ment caue & moüelleux,eſt ſitué en la partie interieure de la lambe,ayant deux apophyſes,vne plus groſſe, lier mºn . l'autre plus petite. la plus groſſe eſtant aſſiſe ſur le plus haut dudit os,& coniointe auec luy par ſymphyſe, º l'o fait deux cauitez ſuperficielles & laterales, diſtinctes & ſeparées par vne eminence moyenne d'icelle : au de la iambe, moyen dequoy ledit os eſt conioint auec l'os de la cuiſſe par ginglyme:car par ſes cauitez il reçoit les tube- roſitez inferieures de l'epiphyſe de l'os de ladite cuiſſe, & par ſon eminence qui eſt au milieu, eſt receu dé l'os de la cuiſſe entre les deux ſuſdites tuberoſitez. or eſt ceſte articulation confirmée non ſeulement par la deſcente des tendons des muſcles illec deſinans,mais auſſi par trois forts, & robuſtes ligamens:deſquels l'vn vient de toute la partie exterieure de ladite connexion:l'autre de l'interieure:le tiers & dernier,d'entre les deux , que nous auons appellez ſelon hippocrate , diaphyſe. lautre apophyſe de l'os de la iambe proprement dit, que nous auons dit eſtre plus petite, eſtant ſituée en la partie inferieure , fait vne cauite quaſi double par laquele ledit os reçoit l'aſtragale, & de ſa partie interieure fait le maleole interne,autre- ment dit la cheuille,ltout ainſi que l'os de l'eſperon,ou petit faucile(côme tu orras cy apres)fait l'externe: entre leſquelles cheuilles le ſuſdit aſtragale eſt receu ſelon ſes parties laterales;en ſorte qu'il tourne entre elles,& la ſuſdite cauité,côme vne noix dedans l'arbaleſte,lors qu'il eſt beſoin d'eſtendre ou flechir le pied. - outre-plus le ſuſdit os de la iambe fait en triangle a trois eminences faites en d'os d'aſne : la plus aiguë hip. •uti- deſcendât ſelon la partie anterieure,qui eſt nômée des grecs anticnemion : la ſeconde,ſur la partie interieu- ure des fra- re : & l'autre ſur l'exterieure. toutes l'eſquelles, mais principalement l'anterieure,te faut diligemment ob- ciures. ſeruer, pource qu'en cas de fracture de iambe, elle te ſert de guidon pour la bien remettre. s'enſuit main- deſcri, tie tenant le plus petit os que nous auons appellé l'os de l'eſperö:lequel eſtant ſitué vers le dehors,& aucune- º º º ment derriere la iambe, meſmement ſur ſa partie ſuperieure, a deux epiphyſes ainſi que ſon compagnon, l'eſperoº,. caues ſur leur partie interieure,& gibbeuſes ſur l'exterieure : par l'vne deſquelles, à ſçauoir , ſuperieure, ledit os s'infere, & s'appuye ſous l'epiphyfe interne , & aucunement poſterieure de ladite iambe, ne tou- chant en rien l'articulation d'icelle auec la cuiſſe, ahns, luy ſeruant ſeulement d'vn ſous-appuy:& par l'autre, à ſçauoir , inferieure : ce meſme os non ſeulementeſt receu tant du bas de l'os de la iambe, que du meſme cofté, de l'altragale : mais auſſi il reçoit la partie d'iceluy , qui du meſme coſté ſe ioint auec le talon, lors principalement qu'on plie le pied ſeul vers le dhors. et eſt conioint cedit os auec les ſuſdits par ſynartro- ſe,& lié par forts ligamens produits de ces os,& enuoyez mutuellcrnent de l'vn & de lautre,ou ſi tu veux, du ſuperieur à l'inferieur,comme nous auons dit au bras. au demeurant, il eſt triangulaire, ayant ſa ligne plus eſleuée de la partie exterieure:&des autres deux,l'vne à la partie anterieure,& l'autre à la poſterieure. ligameni du genoi il des muſcles de la iambe » c h a p. xxxv ii. e fait, il eſt temps de venir aux muſcles par leſquels ſont faits tous lesmouuemens de la ont, vej: iambe : leſquels ſont onze en nombre , ſix anterieurs & cinq poſterieurs : deſquels les vns ctes de l meuuent la iambe ſeule, comme ceux qui ont leur origine de l'os de la cuiſſe:les autres meu- iambe. uent bien auſſi la iambe , mais auec la cuiſſe, comme ceux qui ſortent plus haut que de la cuiſſe, à fçauoir des trois os ilion, iſchion,& pubis. quant au premier des anterieurs,qu'on - d appelle muſcle long, autrement couſturier, il prend ſon origine de l'extremité inferieure & anterieure mºſººt de l'eſpine, ou epiphyſe de l'os des iles & deſcendant obliquement par deſſus les muſcles , ſe va inſerer º couſi»- par vn large tendon , & membraneux à la partie anterieure, & interieure ſous le genoüil de la iambe. son "# d action eſt de croiſer les iambes l'vne ſur l'autre , pliée premierement des muſcles qui te ſeront declarez # # l a apres. il ayde auſſi au muſcle à trois teſtes à fairé la meſme action que nous auons dit.le ſecond des ſuſ- "** dits anterieures nommé mêbraneux,à raiſon qu'il eſt par tout tel,fors qu'en ſon origine,deſtend charnu de la racine & baſe de la ſuſdite eſpine de l'os des iles,obliquement par ſon tendon mébraneux & large(mcſlé atur le auec la membrane cômune des muſcles)en la partie exterieure de la lambe,laquelle il chaſſe au dehors, & ment, - la cuiſſe auec les gemeaux : & s'ils operent auec le precedent, ils aydent à l'extenſion de ladite iambe.car neux. comme nous auons dit,de deux mouuemcns obliques concurrens enſemble , eſt fait vn mouuement droit:& quaſi tous ceux du corps ſont faits en la meſme ſorte:& les muſcles qui font tels mouuemens ſont ſituez de meſme,à ſçauoirobliquement par oppoſition, comme tuas peu voir aut mouuemens, & ſituation des muſ- cles de la main generalement priſe, & autres. le tiers nommé droit(pource qu'il deſcend par deſſus le crural ſelon la droite ligne anterieure de la cuiſſe,sentre les deux vaſtes)ſort d'étre l'extremité de l'epiphy- muté ſe de l'os des iles & de ſa boëte, parvn ligament fort robuſte, & s'en va inſerer à la partie a sºi de # d# º - - - * - '. - -- * - n iii dc - - y so le ſixieſme liure, - jambe, paſſant pºº ºieu de la palette du genoüil , laquelle iambe il eſtend de ſoy # autres qui s'enſui ºnt » & par accident peut ayder ceux qui plient la cuiſſc. le qººf § cinquieſme ſont appellez vaſtes,à raiſon de leur groſſeur : dont lvn eſt interne, & l'autre extº *les deux ſont faits de fibres droites vers leurs origine & vers leur inſertion d'obliques:au moyen deſquellº tous d§ blent auoiraâion composée de mouuement droit & oblique : le droit ſeruant à eſtendrº* iambe &l'o- blique, à ramener vn genoüil vers l'autre,ou le chaſſer l'vn de l'autre. quant à leur origºº,l'interne vient ſelon ſes fibres droites de la racine du petit trochanter:& ſelon ſes obliques,de la ligne interieure deſcen- dante du dos d'aſne dudit os.l'externe par ſes fibres droites ſort de toute la racine du # trochanter, & par ſes obliques,de la ligne exterieure deſcendante auſſi dudit dos d'aſne : & toutes ceſdites fibres meſlées en aucuns endroits auec le muſcle crural,en ſorte qu'on ne les ſçauroit ſeparer ſans gaſter l'vn ou l'autre, s'en vont en la iambe (chacun de ſon coſté) par deſſus la rotule du genoüil , ſelon les parties laterales du muſcle droit, auec lequel ils font vn petit tendon inſeparable, comme tu orras tantoſt. le ſixieſme & dernier des anterieurs, nommé crural, pour la grande adherence » & connexion qu'il a auec l'os de la cuiſſe,deſcend d'entre les deux trochanteres.par deſſous le muſcle droit, & les deux vaftes, ſur la partie anterieure dudit os, iuſqu'à la palette du genoüil. et noteras , que ces quatre derniers font vn commun tendon gros, & large, par lequel ils couurent ladite palette, & toute l'articulation anterieure du genoüil;' muſcle, to- de ſorte qu il eſt impoſſible de les ſeparer l'vn de l'autre ſans les déchirer & rompre,& en ce lieu il ſert d ſterieurs de ligament au genouil. dauantage,tous ceſdits muſcles operans enſemble eſtendent la iambe. apres ceux- la iambe. cy s'enſuiuent les cinq poſterieurs , deſquels trois naiſſent de la tuberoſité de l'os iſchion , & le quatrieſ- me de la partie moyenne de l'os pubis : & s'en vont trois à la partie interieure, & vn nommé biceps à l'ex- terieure de la ianbe. cù noteras, que l'vn des deux internes ſortant de la ſuſdite tuberoſité, deſcend li- gamenteux, enuiron la moitié de la cuiſſe : & de là fait charnu,ſe va inſerer par vn tendon, ainſi qu'auons dit. l'autre greſle, ſortant auſſi du meſme lieu, s'en va meſler par ſon tendon auec celuy du muſcle long, & deſiner à la partie interieure de la iambe,laquelle auec ſon compagnon il tire au dedans, & ferre contre l'autre : ainſi qu'il fait la cuiſſe, aydé du muſcle à trois teſtes. le troiſieſme interne ou poſterieur, deſ- cend de la partie moyenne de l'os pubis par vn ligament large , & delié , & ſe va inſerer par vn tendon rond à la partie interieure de la jambe, comme les deux ſuſdits. le qnatrieſme eſt nommé biceps , ou muſcle dit muſcle à deux teſtes , leſquelles il prend, l'vne de la ſuſdite tuberoſité, l autre de la ligne exterieure de la §, ºu cuiſſe, deſcendant du dos d'aſne, & s'en va inſerer à la partie exterieure de la jambe, comme nous auons la retier dit. le cinquieſme & dernier, nommé poplitée, deſcend charnu obliquement du condyle externe de la cuiſſe, à la partie interieure, & poſterieure de la jambe , prés de la commiſſure du petit focile auec l'os d'icelle. son action eſt de tourner aucunement la jambe vers le dedans. des os du pied. ch a p. x x x v i i i. < > e s choſes faites,il conuiendroit ſelon l'ordre anatomique, pourſuiure les muſcles de la jam- be qui meuuent le pied : mais veu que pour neant & en vain nous t'aſſigneriös leur inſertion, ſi premierement tu n'entédois l'ordre & le naturel des os du pied,à ceſte cauſe nous les decla- m* rerons premierement,ainſi que nous auons fait des autres parties cy-deuant declarées.et pour vz w) cômencer,tu noteras qu'ils ſont vingt-ſix en nombre,diſtinguez en trois ordres;c'eſt à çauoir, ſept du arſe,cinq du pedion,ou auant-pied,& quatorze des doigts.des ſept du tarſe, quatre ſont nómez aſtragale, & trois n'ont point de nom. le premier des nommez ſuiuant apres ceux de la jâbe, c'eſt l'aſtragale lequel a trois cônexions : vne de ſa partie ſuperieure,& plus large auecque les os de la jäbe, deſquels il eſtreceu, ainſi qu'auôs dit:l'autre de ſa partie inferieure,& poſterieure,par laquelle il reçoit l'apophyſe ſuperieure,& interieure de l os du talon : la tierce, anterieure , par laquelle il eſt receu dedans la cauite du nauiculaire par la premiere connexion , le pied s'eſtend & ſe plie : par la ſeconde , auecque le talon ſe meut vers les coſtez : par la tierce, il conduit quant & ſoy le demeurant du pied vers l'endroit qu'il ſe meut. les deux premieres connexions ſont faites par diarthroſe, la derniere par finarthroſe, & ſont confirmées par forts ligamens & larges,deſcendans & montans d'vn os à l'autre,ainſi qu'ils ſont connexez enſemble tout à l'en- tour de l'articulation,comme tu peux voir en deſpoüillant vn ſujet. elles ſont auſſi confirmées par membra- z'o, calca. nes,muſcles,& aſſiettes de tendons, deſcendans au pied par deſſus ou deſſous telles articulations.au reſte, e/ // . cedit os a trois apophyſes faites comme trois pieds aſſis ſur l'os du talon:dont la premiere & plus petite eſt deſſous la cheuille exterieure:la plus grande(que galien dit faire vne teſte ronde aſſiſe ſur vn col aſſez lôg) eſt au deuant du pied à l'endroit du poulce & de l'indice:la moyenne en groſſeur,eſt derriere la iambe vers le talon.ie tais pluſieurs autres choſes,comme de la poliſſure ou aſperité dudit os,& autres ſemblables.leſ- pourquoy quelles ie deſire que tu aprennes pluſtoſt à l'œil que par le liure. le ſecond os ſitué ſous ceſtuy-cy, eſt la fracture appellé calcaneum,qui eſt le plus gros d'entre les autres, & ſur lequel nous marchons, & ſouſtenons tollt § § eſt le corps. il y a deux apophyſes ſuperieures, vne grande & vne petite : la grande eſt receue de l'apophyſe mortelle. poſterieure & exterieure de l'aſtragale:& la petite eſt receuë interieurement de la tierce dudit os,que nous auons dit faire vne teſte ronde ſur vn aſſez long col. outre plus, en ſa partie poſterieure il eſt rond,& fort reculé de la iambe,& en ſon anterieure,& plus auācée, il eſt conioint par ſynarthroſe auecques l'os cyboi- de,la partie inferieure, & interieure duquel il ſemble receuoir.au demeurant, il a ſa ſuperficie toute iné- gale,ayant,pluſieurs tuberoſitez:& en ſa partie interieure,il fait comme vn canal, pout bailler paſſage tant aux vaiſſeaux qu'aux tendons,qui vont à la plante du pied, & au doigts. finalement , il faut conſiderer les trous des vaiſſeaux,qui entrent dedans ledit os pour ſa nourriture:au moyen deſquels en fracture d'iceluy la curration eſt rendue difficile , à cauſe de l'expreſſion,& contuſion deſdits vaiſſeaux,côme dit hippocra- tes au deuxieſme liure des fractures quant aux ligamens d'iceluy , ils ſont tels que ceux de l'aſtragale, à ſçauoir,tendons,membraneux,& ligamens proprement dits , venans d'vn os à l'autre.le tiers appellé sca- phoide, c'eſt à dire nauiculaire, à raiſon de la ſimilitude qu'il a auec vne petite nacelle, car de l'cndroit l'es sca- qu'il regarde la teſte de l'aſtragale, il eſt caue : & de l'autre qu'il regarde les trois os innominez (leſquels thoide, il ſouſtient, & deſquels il eſt receu,tout ainſi que par ſa cauité il reçoit la teſte dudit aſtragale ) il eſt boſſu comme le dos d'vne nauire. ses connexions ſont faites par ſynarthroſe, & ſont confirmées par les liga- mens ſuſdits. dauantage ledit os ſur ſa partie ſuperieure eſt fait en forme de vouſte, & en l'inferieure au- cunement il s'applatit : & en ſa partie interieure il deſine en pointe comme la proüe d'vne nauire, & en l'exterieure mouſſe & obtus, comme la pouppe d'icelle. le quatrieſme & dernier des nommez, eſt ap- l'es cyboï- pellé cyboide, pour la ſimilitude qu'il a auec vn dé, combien qu'il ne luy reſſemble gueres. cét os de de-, ſa partie anterieure ſouſtient le doigt annulaire, & auriculaire,& de ſa poſterieure eſt ſouſtenu de la par- tie poſterieure du talon.de l'interieure,il eſt joint auec le nauiculaire,& celuy des innominez,qui ſouſtient le muſcles vaſtes. #ee les trois a | | p : - ' : de l'anatomie. | | | | a le doigt moyen de l'exterieur,il dreſſe vne eminence faite en dos d'aſne,laquelle s'eſtend tranſuerſalement tout le long de la partie inferieure dudit os:aux deux coſtez de laquelle il y a deux petites cauitez faites cô- me vn canal.s'enſuiuent maintenant les trois os qui n'ont point de nom,dont le premier & plus grand ſou- ſticnt le poulce,le plus petit & ſecondl'indice:le tiers & moyen en quantité ſouſtient le doigt moyeh.tous ces trois os ſont en leurs parties ſuperieures vouſtez, & inferieures aucunement caues.leur connexion eſt par ſvnarthroſe auec les trois os ſuſdits,deſquels ils ſont receus : & de leur partie poſterieure auec le naui- culaire, lequel ils reçoiuent. il faut maintenant venir aux os du ſecond ordre ; à ſçauoir,de l'auant-pied ou pedion, qui ſont cinq en nombre, ſouſtenans les os de cinq doigts : leſquels en leur partie ſuperieure ſont aucunement boſſus & vouſtez, & en l'inferieure aucunement caues. et ont chacun deux epiphyſes en leurs extremitez : dont par les inferieures & premieres ils reçoiuent les trois os innommez, & le cyboide : & par les ſuperieures faites en teſte ronde, ſon t reçeus des premiers os des doigts. leurs connexions ſont par ſynarthoſe , tant auec les doigts , que les os du tarſe. leurs ligaments tant communs que pro- pres , ſont tels que nous auons dit des autres. reſte maintenant à declarer ceux du dernier ordre , que nous auons dit faire & conſtituer les doigts du pied , leſquels ſont quatorze en nombre , à ſçauoir deux au poulce , & trois à chacun des autres doigts. les premiers ſont aſſez longs, les autres enſuiuant fort courts, excepté celuy du poulce. et tous en leur partie ſuperieure ſont ronds & vouſtez, & en leur partie inferieure aucunement caues & plats ſelon leur longueur, afin que les tendons qui les plient plus ſeu- rement & droitement,ſans decliner ny d'vn coſté,ny d'autre,puiſſent eſtre cöduits iuſqu'aux dernieres arti- culations : jaçoit que telle conduite ſoit grandement aydée par le ligament membraneux & commun, qui ſortant des parties laterales deſdits os enueloppe leſdits tendons, comme nous auons dit des doigts de la main. danantage chacun os , excepté les derniers, à double connexion faite par diarthroſe. et ſont tous de quantité inegale,à ſçauoir gros en leur commencement (par lequel ils reçoiuent la teſte de leurs prece- dents, ſur laquelle ils ſe meuuent comme ſur vn piuot)tendans touſiours en appetiſſant iuſqu'à leur fin,par laquelle ils ſont receus de ceux qui les enſuiuent. finalement en leurs extremitez ils font deux eminences laterales,& entre icelles vne cauité : à caufe dequoy il ſont plus gros en leurs extremitez qu'en-leur partie moyenne.les ligamens,par leſquels leurs connexions ſont confirmées & ftabilées,ſont tels que nous auons dit des precedents. quant aux os seſamoides ils ſont ſemblables à ceux de la main en nombre,& ſituation. parquoy noteras ſeulement,que ceux qui ſont en la premiere articulation,ſont aſſez gros,ronds,& oblongs exterieurement, & interieurment caues & plats : ſituez entre deux cauitez aſſiſes entre trois prominences, deux laterales,& la tierce moyenne de l'extremité du premier os du pedion, qui ſouſtient le poulce princi- palement, & tous les autres. et ſont ainſi appellez, à cauſe qu'ils reſſemblent à la figure de la ſemence de seſane , longuette & platte. leur vſage eſt, qu'ils tiennent fermement les jointures des mains, & pieds par où ils ſe plient, afin qu'ils ne ſe ranuerſent, & ſortent hors de leur place, quand il ſont fort tendus. finalement, auant que venir aux muſcles; il faut noter que le pied a eſté faict pour deux intentions, l'vne eſt, pour affermir & ſtabilir tout le corps, lors qu'il eſt queſtion de ſe tenir debout : à cauſe dequoy na- ture n'a point mis le poulce oppoſite des autres doigts, ainſi qu'à la main , de peur que telle confirmation ne fuſt vicieuſe. l'autre intention eſt,pour l'apprehenſion : & pour ce, nature l'a fait & composé de plu- ſieurs doigts mobiles & articulez comme la main. et dauantage qu'il nous falloit marcher ſur le pied, na- ture l'a fait en ſa partie inferieure, caue & creux en aucuns lieux, aux autres plat : & pareillement de fi- gure triangle, afin qu'il fuſt capable de nous porter par tout pais, ſoit boſſu ou plat égal, ou inegal. la ſeptieſme figure exterieure, ouſuperieure du talon. p |g aa monſtrent le talon. b l'aſtragale. c le nauiforme. - - - • | - , , - d le cubiforme. - - - • ^ e ee .. les trois os ſans nom. fffff les cinq du pedion : apres leſquels demeurent les quatorze os ce , qui n'en a que deux. \. ggggg le premier rang deſdits os. i- des doigts du pied, deſquels chacun en a trois, hormis le poul- les trois bi | ſans norn. | | connexions des trois os ſans ncm. deſcription des os de l'a- mant-pied oti pedion. connexion des os du pedion. deſcription - des os des a doigts du pied. annotation de la proui- dence de naturtl. les os seſa- moides. double vſa- ge du pied. ( t " : . le ſixieſme liure, neuf muſ. $ tles du pied. muſcles anterienrs. muſclee eſp eronnir iambier amterieur. Éſtendeur des doigt*. muſcles poſt erieurs. muſeles gemea/ x. plantaire. za figureinterieure & inferieure du pied | laquellemonſtre priacipalement les os seſamordcs,marquez par lesh hhh, y des muſcles mouuant le pied. ch a p. xxx i x. p r e s ces choſes ainſi conſiderées, reſte à declarer les muſcles de la iambe qui meuuent le pied , leſquels ſont neuf en nombre : trois à la partie anterieure, & ſix à la poſterieure. des trois anterieurs deux flechiſſent le pied, faiſans leur action enſemble,& chacune à part le tire de ſon coſté : le tiers eſtend principalement les doigts : ie dy principalement, à cauſe qu'il ſemble par ſon tendon plus delié & long ( lequel demeure à l'os du pedion qui ſouſtient le petit doigt ) aider la fiexion du pied. les deux premiers ſont nommez, l'vn eſperonnier, à cauſe qu'il deſcend ſelon l'os de l'eſperon, comme cy-deuant petit focile : l'autre iambier anterieur , pource qu'il mmmmm deſcend ſelon l'os dit ſpecialement l'os de la iambe ; le tiers, à raiſon de ſon action, eſt appellé eſtendeur , des doigts. quant à leur origine, l'eſperonnier, qui ſemble auoir deux teſtes , deſcend de l'epiphyſe ſuperieure de l'eſperon par ſa premiere teſte : & par l'autre, enuiron du milieu d'iceluy, de la partie ante- rieure à la poſterieure, ainſi que le montre la ſuperficie d'entre la ligne anterieure & exterieure dudit os; mais eſtant paruenu à l'endroit de l'epiphyſe inferieure & poſterieure dudit os,il produit double tendon par derriere la ch euille exterieure:leſquels eſtans conduits par ligamens tant propres que communs,s'en vont, le plus gros ſous la plante du pied, ſe deſinant à l'os cyboide, & à l'os du pedion ſouſtenant le poulce : le plus petit s'en va exterieurement au cyboide & dernier os,& plus petit du pedion,lequel ſouſtient le petit doigt. quelquesfois vne petite portion d'iceluy s'auance iuſqu'au coſté du petit doigt , lequel il eſtend en retirant des autres. le iambier anterieur ſortant de l'epiphyſe ſuperieure & exterieure de l'os de la iambe † deſſus la ſuperficie dudit os, qui eſt entre la ligne anterieure & exterieure,auſquelles iladhere, comme fait auſſi à la ſuperficie iuſques preſque à leur milieu : duquel endroit il produit vn ſeul tendon, le- quel deſcendant par la partie anterieure,& inferieure, s'en va deſiner interieurennent à deux os innommez, c'eſt à ſçauoir au premier & plus gros,& au moyen,& par vne ſienne petite portion au premier & plusgros os du pedion, par laquelle il eſtend le gros doigt, l'amenant anterieurement vers l'autre pied.or ce muſcle auecque le precedent plient ledit pied,s'ils operent enſemble : mais s'ils operent chacun à part,ils letirent chacun de ſon coſté. le tiers eſtendeur des doigts eſt double,l'vn prend ſon origine du plus haut de l'os de la iambe,& inſere tout le long de l'eſperon,ſe jette par deſſous l'anneau,au pied : auquel il ſe termine par cinq tendons, qui vont à toutes les jointures des doitgs, & par vn ſixieſme à l'os du pedion qui ſouſtient le petit doigt, par lequelilayde la flexion du pied , ainſi que nous auons dit, l'autre defcend enuiron le mi- lieu dudit os de l'eſperon : & inſeré quelque peu en iceluy , s'en va par vn ſeul tendon paſſant par ſon anneau,au poulce. et noteras que tous ces tendons ont leurs fibres nerueuſes,ligamenteuſes,& charneuſes, tellement ſeparées l'vne de l'autre,que chacun peut faire ſon actiö à part,comme ſi c'eſtoit vn muſcle ſepa- ré:& ainſi faut eſtimer des autres,leſquels des leur partie charneuſe ont tendons ſeparez.s'enſuiuentmain- tenât les ſix poſterieurs,deſquels les deux premiers ſont appellez gemeaux,à raisô de leur pareille groſſeur, origine, inſertion, & action : le tiers eſt nommé plantaire, pource qu'il ſe perd à la plante du pied, ainſi que le palmaire à la paulme de la main:le quatrieſme eſt dit solaire,pour la ſimilitude qu'il a auec vn poiſ- ſon nommé sole : le cinquieſme iambier poſterieur, à cauſe qu'il deſcend ſelon la partie poſterieure de l'os de la iambe : le ſixieſme & dernier eſt appellé flecheur, ou plieur des doigts,correſpondât au profond de la main. aucuns de ceſtuy-cy & du iambier poſterieur en font vn ſeul,qui produit trois tendons : les autres en font trois,à ſçauoir vn iambier,l'autre flecheur des quatre doigts,& le tiers flecheur du poulce quant au deux gemeaux, l'vn eſt interne,& l'autre externe. l'interne ſort de la racine du condyle inte- rieur de la cuiſſe, & l'externe de l'exterieur : & ſe faiſans tout incontinent charneux plus en leur partie ex- terieure, qu'interieure s'aſſemblent quelque peu apres par leurs parties charneuſes, & s'en vont faire auec lesolaire vn gros & grand tendon enuiron le milieu de la jâbe , qui ſe va attacher à la partie poſterieure du talon,ſur lequel ſe font les mules tant douloureuſes. son action eſt de faire marcher ſur le bout du pied:en tirant le talô vers ſon origine. le plätaire, qui eſt le plus petit,& plusgreſle de tous,fort charnu du ſort cö- dyle externe de la iambe,& enuiron trois ou quatre doigts apres ſe deſine en vn fort long & grefle tendon, lequel il euuoye entre les gemeaux & le solaire à la plante du pied,pour illccfaire la membrane qui couure - - la |. : de l'anatomie. i a la plante du pied,& muſcle reſpondant au flecheur ſublime ou ſuperieur de la main.le solaire leplus gros de tous, & ſitué par deſſous les gemeaux, deſcend de la commiſſure de l'os de la jambe & de l'eſperon,& ſur le milieu de la jambe, apres auoir meſlé ſon tendon auecque celuy des gemeaux,s'en va au lieu ſuſdit, solaire. pour eſtendre a l'vſage ſuſdict. le jambier poſterieur deſcend de l'epiphyſe ſuperieure de la jambe & de l'eſperon & adherant preſque tout au long d'iceux, ſe va inſerer par vn fort tendon ſur la fin quaſi oſſeux, - à l'os scaphoide,& aux deux premiers innommez, pour ayder l'extenſion oblique du pied le dernier fle- lambier. cheur des doigts eſt double:l'vn prend ſon origine de l'os de la jambe là où le poplitée deſine:& eſtant inſe. # ré audit os s'en va iuſqu'à la cheuille interne,par le derriere de laquelle il s'en va diuisé en quatre tédons, # aux dernieres jointures des quatre doigts.l'autre prend ſon origine enuiron le milieu de l'os de l'eſperon, ſfj. & inſeré quelque peu eniceluy,s'en va par l'os du talon & l'aſtragale au poulce,eſtant meſlée auec le pre- cedent. leur action eſt de plier la premiere articulation des doigts, plus par le ligament commun que par quelque portion de tendon illec deſinante : & la derniere par leur propre inſertion. –- des muſcles mouuans les doigts du pied. c h a p. x l. 'e n s v v s n t maintenant les muſcles du pied mouuans les doigts d'iceluy, leſquels º"ſ- ſont huict en nombre, vn en la partie ſuperieure, & ſept en l'inferieure. le premier ſort de # #, l'aſtragale du talon, & cyboide par deſſous la cheuille exterieure , ou du ligament deſdits # j os auec la jambe : & couché obliquement vers le plus haut du pied, ſe va perdre par cinq pie . à petits tendons aux parties laterales des cinq doigts, pour iceux amener exterieurement vers ſon principe : au moyen de quoy eſt appellé abducteur d'iceux,ou bien pedieux, pource qu'il eſt couché ſur le pedion. quant aux ſept de la partie inferieure, le premier nommé flecheur ſuperieur,prend ſon ori- muſcle ab- gine de l'os du talon , & couché tout le long du pied ſous vne forte membrane (qui dudittalon ſe va atta- duâeur des cher eſtroittement à l'extremité des os du pedion, pour confirmer les parties contenues ſous icelle) ſe va doigts. inſerer par quatre tendons aux ſecondes articulations des quatre doigts leſquels il flechit. où faut noter flecheurs ue tout contre ſon inſertion il ſe fend,ainſi que le ſublime de la main pour bailler paſſage au muſcle pro- ſºperiear. § lequel (comme nous auons dit) deſcend le long des doigts, conduit par vn commun ligament mem- braneux , qui l'enueloppe & ſerre contre l'os tout le l'ong de la partie inferieure des doigts, iuſques à la derniere articulation. le ſecond, qui reſpond au tenar de la main, ſitué en la partie interieure du peid, prend ſon origine de la partie interieure & caue du talon, & aſtragale, & ſe va deſiner à la partie laterale & interieure du poulce, lequel il ramene des autres vers la partie interieure. et ſe peut diuiſer en deux ou trois comme le tenar de la main , pour amener le poulce vers les autres doigts , tant qu'il eſt beſoin, ainſi que nous auons dit de la main. le troiſiéſme reſpondant pareillement à l'hypotenar † la main, ſort de la partie exterieure du talon, & montant par la partie laterale du pied , ſe va inſerer à la partie auſſi la- terale du petit doigt, pour le ramener des autres : à quoy peut ſeruir auſſi certaine chair contenue ſous la plante du pied, laquelle s'auance iuſqu'auſdits : comme auſſi le peut ayder à faire le pied creux. senſuiuent les quatre lumbricaux ou vermiculaires, leſquels ſortans de la membrane du flecheur des doigts profond, muſcles ſe vont inſerer à la partie laterale & interne des doigts, pour iceux tirer vers la partie interieure, au con- lumbricaux traire du pedieux reſte maintenant à declarer les muſcles interoſſels de l'auant-pied ou pedion, leſquels muſcles in- ſont huict en nombre : quatre ſuperieurs, & quatre inferieurs , diffe rens en origine, inſertion, & action. terºſeli. car les ſuperieurs, d'autant qu'ils ameinent le pied auec le pedieux en dehors , prennent leur origine de la partie anterieure & interieure de l'os de l'auant pied, qui ſouſtient le petit doigt, & ainſi des autres chacun en ſon ordre, & ſe vont inſerer à la partie exterieure & anterieure de l'os enſuiuant. les inferieurs au contraire ſortent de la partie anterieure & interieure de l'os du pedion,ſouſtenant le poulce, & ainſi des autres, chacun en ſon ordre : & ſe vont inſerer à la partie interieure & ſuperieure de l'os enſuiuant, pour iceux amener auec les lumbricaux,vers le dedans, ou bien pour faire le pied creux comme les exterieurs, ou le pied plat,ou depoüillé, ainſi que nous auons dit de ceux de la main. - briefue recapitulation de tous les os du corps humain : faut que le chirurgienſ，ache leur ſubſtance, magnitude, nombre, ſituation & aſſemblage->. c h a p. xl i. , p r e s auoir exactement pourſuiuy par le menu toutes les parties du corps humain , la teſte eſt reſte , auant que mettre fin à noſtre labeur , que ſommairement nous declarions le nom- faite de bre des os , les pourſuiuans de partie en partie. parquoy pour commencer, nous auons dit ſoixante, ou que la teſte generalement prinſe (c'eſt à ſçauoir, auecque ſes parties,) eſtoit faicte de ſoi- ſoixante xante os pour lemoins , & de ſoixante & trois pour le plus: ſçauoir eſt, quatorze du crane, troiººº. quatorze ou dix-ſeptde la face, & trente deux dents. de ceux du crane, il y en a huict contenans, & huict os du & ſix contenus. les contenans ſont du front, l'occipital, deux parietaux, deux petreux , le baſilaire, crane. & l'os ethomoide ou cribleux. les contenus ſont ſix qui ſont les ſix qui ſont enclos dans les trous des ## oreilles qu'on appelle incus, malleolus & stapés , c'eſt à dire, enclume , marteau , & eſtrier. quant à )uatorze oº ceux de la face : premierement, il y en a fix dedans ou autour de l'orbite de l'œil, trois de chacun coſté , § - ſept de que nous auons appellez orbitaires des yeux : deux aux nez, nommez auſſi de nous nazeaux : deux maxil- la face. faires mineurs, & deux majeurs, qui touſiours aux beſtes brutes à quatre pieds ſe trouuentainſi ſeparez: . ou. . or mais à l'homme, ſi rarement, que ie n'en ay point encores veu bien appertement , ains ſeulement les deux l, l'os hyoi- ui contiennent toutes les dents ſuperieures : deux appellez os internes du palais:deux en la maſchoire in- de. § aux petits enfans : & le dernier, l'os chriſtx, d'où le mur metoyen ou cartilage moyen du nez .º, à prend ſon origine. outre ceux-cy, il y en a encores trente-deux , qui ſont les dents, à ſçauoir, ſeize en la l'eſºin . maſchoire ſuperieure,& autant en l'inferieure : ſçauoir eſt,huict inciſoires,quatre canines , & vingt molai- .. clauiº- res. plus il y en a vn à la racine de la langue,nommé hyoide, fait de trois ou touſiours, & quelquesfois de # c onze.apres ces os icy,faut venir à ceux de l'eſchine ou rachis,qui ſont trente-quatre : ſept au cºl : douze ". #. authorax, cinq aux lumbes, ſix à l'os sacrum,& quatre a l'os caudz. outre-plus, il y a deux clauicules: # vingt-quatre coſtes,quatorze vrayes, & dix fauſſes & trois à l'os sternon le plus ſouuent,ou ſept au mºins, §" aux qui ſont trouuez quelquesfois aux ieunes.apres venant au bras,nous en trouuons cºmmenºns de l'omo i . plate, ſoixante & deux : à ſçauoir, deux pallerons,deux os du bras : quatre du couldeia ſ，auoiº deux cou!: o seſamoï, des proprement dits, & deux rayons : ſeize du carpe, ou poignet, huict du metacarpe ºu auººº ! & de . trente des doigts.dauantage,on trouue les os seſamoides,qui ſont douze interieurs touſiours & quelques- «a. ou es fois aux iambes• i le ſixieſme liure, • • - e cartilage , que d'os : - up dauantage , deſquels la plus grande partie merite mieux # § § les a fois beaucoup rieurs, ſi nous croyons sylnius. reſtent ceux de la cuiſſe, leſq & ſix, # seſamoi & † † c§ comme ils ſont aux petits enfans) ſont # & ſix, § cs sc aii]o - > - - - /^ os des hanc es pou des iles, deux barrez, deux iſchions, deux des cuiſſes , eux ºoºu es, quatre aux des : à ſçauoir , deux des ile § & de ux os de la iambe : quatorze du tarſe : c'eft à ſçauoir, deux iambes , ſçauoir eſt # § deux cyboides, & ſix ſans nom : dix à l'auant-pied » cinq x afti' cs , c cllx n j - - - "- - talons , deu af # a aux arteils. quant aux seſamoides , ils ſont égaux en nombre a ceux de la main. en chacun, & vingt- § rps humain , ſont deux cens quarante-ſept, yadiouſtant l'os hyoide, & les le nombre donc # # § des § , ſans toutesfois y comprendre les seſamo§ » parce - ils les - - - - ſix † # † aux jeunes , ne ſont que cartilages , & que leur nombre ſe trouue touſiours incertain. que le plus † que les trois cartilages du larinx, ſont pour vray oſſeux aux hommes et § l i t c , tll o » •s » , ila, - § tll § mieux voir à l'œil le tout,nous t'auons baillé les figures ſuiuantes. declaration des lettres de lapremiereſgure des os. a l'os cotonal. b deux os parietaux, vn de chacun coſté. º peux os petreux, vn de chacun coſté. d lc &ygoma. b e lº maſchoire inferieure. f lººlauicule droite, & autant de l'autre coſté. -, g l'apophyſe ſuperieure de l'omoplate,dite ---, acromion. *--, h l'apophyſe anterieure de l'omoplate; -- ººmmée coracoide,ou bec de corbin. lc sternon qui reçoit les ſept coftes vrayes. ** cartilage nommée xiphoide, la § chctte en françois. les vingt-quatre coſtes , douze de chacun coſté deſquelles il yen a ſept vrayes,& cinq fauſſes, qui te ſont marquées par i. - - . . . &c. gé le bras, ou brachiuns, ou hamerus, vulgai- rcment , l'adiutoire - l'os du coulde, vulgairement dit, le gros ' - focile du bras. le rayon , ou radius »vulgairement,le pe- tit focile du bras. c l° pº#ººt » ou carpe, composé de huict $ oſſelets. l'auant-main , ou mctacarpe , contenant quatre os - # les os des doigts, trois en chacun, qui font - quinze cil tollt. l'os , de la cuiſſe, dit femur ou (ſrus. la palette , ou rotule du genoüil. l l'os de la jambe ， l eſpºron , dit pºrone ou, fibula, vulgaire- :: ºººº ºppellé , le petit focile de la jambe. y l'aſtragale. * le nauiforme, ou nauiculaire, : l a les quatre os du tarſe. - ; b les cinq os du pedion. º les quatorzc os des doigts, trois en chacun & deux au poulce, . l jdeclara • · de l'anatomie. a declaration des lettres de la ſeconde figure des os. fait l'endroit de la suture coronale. la suture sagittale. deux sutures mendeuſes. la suture lambdoide. l'os cccipital. . le palleron ou omoplate. le col de l'omoplate. la teſte du bras. l'eminence du coulde, dit des grecs, olecranum. les ſept spondyles du col , & à coſté vn peu plus bas ſont les coftes mar. quées par . . . &c. les douze spondyles ou vertebre s du metaphrene. v. les cinq des lumbes. l'os sacrum. l'os de la queue, dit os cauda , ou coccyx. l'os.amplum, ou ilium; fait aux ieunes enfans de trois os , & vulgairement nommé de trois noms:car la partie ſu- perieure eſt dite ilium:celle qui reçoit la teſte de l'os fémoris , lychion : & la partie anterieure , pubis. c)_ la teſte de la cuiſſe, dite vertebrum: r. s t - le grand trochanter. le petit trochanter. le calx, calcaneum, ou talon. recueil du nom de la connexion des os. c h a p. xl ii. $ # e v qu'il eſt autant neceſſaire au chirurgien de ſçauoir la naturelle reparation des os rom- Ä pus, que la reduction des luxations ou diſlocations : ce qui luy eſt du tout impoſſible ſans la cognoiſſance de la connexion des os : i'ay pensé de beaucoup aider le ieune chirurgien , ſi ' en briefie luy deſcriuois comment, & en combien de ſortes les os ſont conioincts entre eux: ſans obmettre l'explication d'aucuns mots qui ſont vſitez tant en grec qu'en latin. la com- \poſition donc vniuerſelle, ou contexture des os du corps humain s'appelle des grecs sceletos , qui ſignifie anatomie ſeiche. or la maniere,par laquelle tous ces os ſont conioints, eſt de deux genres : les vns ont - - leur conionction par arthroſe, ou article,que les grecs appellent arthron : les autres par ſimphyſe , natu- sceletoi. relle vni d'iceux de l'vn & l'autre gére pluſieurs eſpeces ſe trouuét:car article ou arthró à deux eſpeces, rºº. , à ſçauoir diarthroſe & synarthroſe entre leſquelles il y a telle difference,ſe que diarthroſe eſt vne conion-ººº. ctió d'os,en laquelle le mouuemét eſt manifeſte apperceu à veuë d'œil:& synarthroſe à mouuemét qui n'eſt *** point du toutfi apperceu & manifeſte.derechef ces deux eſpeces ont encore deſſous elles quelques autres ſortes.car diarthroſe a ſous ſoy enarthroſe, arthrodie & ginglime. enarthroſe donc eſt eſpece de diar- throſe,en laquelle vne profonde & creuſe cauité reçoit vne lôgue & groſſe teſte, comme celuy de la cuiſſe en trthroſe auec celuy dela hanche,arthrodie,quand vne cauité legere ſuperficiaire reçoit vne teſte fort petite,& peu auancée,comme il aduient en la connexion du bras auec l'eſpaule, & en la premiere auec la ſeconde verte- bre les grecs ont diſtingué ces deux ſortes de teſtes,& ces deux ſortes de cauitez par certains mots à eux arthro lie . ºuſtumiers,car quand la teſte eſt groſſe & longue,ils i'ont appellée cepha e,les latins ciput : & quand elle #cºurte & aduancée,ils l'ont appellée (orone ou toronon. pareillemét auſſi la cauité,qui eſt creuſe & pro- fonde, aeſté appellée cotyle ou bouette:& la peu creuſe & preſque ſuperficiaire,glené.la troiſieſme efpece *ppellée ginglyme,ſe fait quandles os s'entrereçoiuent,c'eſt à dire quand en vn meſme os, il y a vne caui- º qui reçoit le reſte de l'autre os, comme principalement aduient au coulde,& au genoüil;c'eſt a dire, en # connexion de la cuiſſe auec l'os de la iambe : & te ſuffiſe dediarthroſe,& de ſes trois eſpeces.synarthro- ſe, quieſtl'autre eſpece d'article oudarthroſe, a auſſi trois eſpeces, ſelon galien au liure des os, ſçauoir # suture, gomphoſe,& harmonie. suture eſt vne compoſition d'os,faicte à la ſemblance des chofes cou- º,comme le mot latin l'emporte, auſſi comme tu as entendu en la connexion des os de la teſte. gom- phoſe eſt faite,quand vn os eſt fiché dedans l'autre,en forme d'vn clou,ou d'vn gond comme les dents ſont ºées dedans leurs creux ou alueoles,en l'vne & l'autre maſchoire.hannonie troiſiefme eſpece de synar- st :'avre throſe,eſt faite,quand les os ſont conjoints & vnis tellemêt,qu'il n'ya qu'vne ſimple ligne,comme aux deux §. ， &_'.' os du nez, & en quelque vns de la face. or iuſqu'à preſent auons parlé du premier genre de conionction, ii * de ſes differences reſte maintenant que nous parlions de ſiymphyſe , qui eſt le ſecond genre principal de noſtre premiere diuiſion. symphyſe donc n'eſt rien que naturelle vnion des os, comme nous auons dit, mais ºſefait en deux ſortes : car quelquesfois telle vnion eſt faite par moyen & benefice d'autre matiere,au- ºfois ſans aucun moyen. sans aucun moyen ſe ioignent les os de la maſchoire inferieure, qui aux petits ºns ſe trouuent bien diſtinguez, mais toſt apres s'vniſſent enſemble. les os ſont vnis par moyenne ma- º en trois ſortes,ou par cartilage au milieu : laquelle vnion les grecs ont appellé syntondroſs,comme il *ºient à los pubis & quelques epiphyſes des ieunes enfans : ou par ligament, & ceſte eſp ce les grecs ont appellée | ginºlymo. "-e y le ſixieſme liure, - \ - n - #! appellée syneuroſis,en preºant ce mot de nerf largement car quelquesfois il eſt prº p # ，† º,autres-a º fois pour vn ligament,auºesfois pour vn nerf proprement dit, qui vient du cerueau oº "cque relle #n connexion de yneuroſis peut eſtre trouuée à quelques os du sternon, & des flancº ! ou par "elques muſ- cles ſe conjoignent , & affermiſſent les os, laquelle ſorte d'vnion les grecs nomment syſicorſi, comme la chair des genciues, qui confirme & rendles dents immobiles. or en toutes les iointurº* ui ont mouué- ment manifeſte nature y a produit vn humeur glaireux & viſqueux, à fin que le mouuººº ſoit plus libre: & à l'imitationde ce, les chartiers engreſſcnt les moyeux de leurs charettes,afin qu'en roulant ils tournent plus librement & promptement. et de ce t'ay bien voulu aduertir ſur la fin de mon liure,afin que tu n'euſ- ſes à ydeſirer choſe qui ſemble appartenir à la matiere anatomique,de laquelle tu feras ton profit:loüant ce grand architecteur, facteur de toutes choſes, qui a falct & composé auec vn ſi indicible & incompara- ble artifice toutes les paties de noſtre corps:ce qui nous eſt monſtré par l'vſage d'icelles.or de cognoiſtre ſa vertu & cognoiſſance, par laquelle il parfait toutes ces merueilles , c'eſt choſe qui excede l'intelligen- ce humaine, parce que dieu les faict par puiſſance,vertu, & ſapience ; parquoy nous ne pouuons, ſinon le loiier, remercier & magnifier. p e si t e l l e d f vf si o n n e pla st a v n c h a c v n, pourpluſieurs obſcuritez dont elle pourroit ſemblerenueloppée, ie me ſuis aduisé de celle- - de laquelle m'apremierement ouuert le chemin m. germain courtin, docteur regent en la faculté de medecine,laquelle à celuy qui la conſiderera bien,ſemblera plus intelligible, & b hors de tout hazard de reprehenſion. rvnis enſemble par symphyſe : c'eſt à dire,vnion & connaturation, eſtans quaſi comme entez l'vn auec l'autre,ſçauoir,quant en iceux il n'y a rien d'eſtrange, & diſſemblable qui ſe puiſſe apperce- uoir : telle vnion ſe void és deux os de la maſchoire inferieure par deuant au menton , és os du brichet enſemble, és os des flancs auec les os des hanches, & barrez. de tellevnion d'os il n'y a u'vne eſpece : car à parler à la verité, les os qui auparauant eſtoient diuers , ſont vnis par vn eul moyen;ſçauoir par le cartilage, qui de faict n'eſt plus cartilage, mais eſt degeneré en os- rà laſche, que l'on dit r emboiture,qu'on appelle enarthroſe;ſçauoir,quand tout > muſcle lar- ſe om psºu- uoir s ou - "º | eſt dedans, c'eſt à dire,quand toute la teſte de l'os eſt re- †. † † † ceue,& du tout cachée en la boette d'vn autre os, telle - appelle ar- | jointure § ſerrée eſt † de l'os de la cuiſſe auec l'os de la hanche. ticulation, § ain # afin ue , entonceure, qu'on dit arthrodie, comme ſi on vouloit les os | c'eſt à dire, l les os §uſie§ § dire vne telle quelle jointure : quand toute la teſte de l'os qui jointure : | à § & # §! n'eſt pas logée & plongée dans ſa boëtte ains ſeulement eſt côme | ſçauoir , §di§ § di- placée comme à demy : de ſorte que, ſi nature d'ailleurs, poulx | quand iceux l uers mouuemens.de comme des ligamens des muſcles voiſins : n euſt baſty & ſou- os ſont tel- | telle jointure § | † receptacle à ladite teſte d'os,il euſt eſté ſujet à toutes ſtien- | lement abu- | auons # rois eſpeces ; heures à luxation. teſte eſt lajointure de l'os de l'eſpaule, nent | tez & al- p * | qu'on dit humerus, auec le palleron. - tol t « liez , qu'en- enclaueure , qu'on dit ginglyme, quand les os ſe re- le ba- l tre iceux ſe l§ & logent l'vn l'autre. telle eſt la jointure de l'os ſtimét | void quel- | - du coulde, ou bras, auec l'humerus, #r ## ou à l'eſtroit, que l'on ſ, par fiche, qu'on dit gomphoſe,quand vn os eſt receu hu- nature ; de dit par synarthroſe : dans l'autre, comme vn clou, ou gond dans ſon trou.de main façon qu'on quand la jointure des telle façon eſt la joincture,ou aſſemblage des dents,auec ſont, | peut apper- os eſt ſerrée & adiutée | leur maſchoire dedans les alueoles:car les dents ſont en- oll ceuoir la de prés ce que nature | chaſſées dans les maſchoires, comme vne pierre dans le diuerſité de l* fait, à raiſon que tels | chaton d'vn anneau. l'aſſembla | º_º doiuent auoir ) par coufture, & icelle dentelée, ou crenelée à la façon ge. or tel aucun mouuement , { des dents de ſie, comme eſt la jointure des os du crane aſſemblage ains ſe doiucnt tenir | enſemble ou eſcaillée,comme eſt la couftre des os pier- d'os par abuttez l'vn contre-| reux auec les parietaux. - jointure cſt l autre, de tel aſſem- par allignement,que l'on dit harmonie, quand les os | fait de§ blage d'os nous auons | oppoſez &appariez vis à vis, & teſte à teſte l'vn de l'au- façons ; ſça- trois eſpeces:car les os | tre, ſont joincts par le moyen d'vne ſeule ligne, comme l * !s* l ſont aſſemblez à l'e- \ eſt la jointure des deux os du nez. ſtroit » oll. - recapitulation de tous les muſcles du corps humain,leſquels nous auons osé nommer (au moins ** plºſºart ) vnpeutrophardiment, comme il ſemblera à d'aucuns : mais le plus prºprement qu'il a eſté poſſible,pour noſtre langue françoiſe, afin déuitér les mots grecs & latins qui ſe trouuent en l' anatomie . vivns |xiſ z. rn de syluius ch a p. xl i i i. o v r ainſi comme nous t'auons baillé le nombre de tous les os de noſtre corps, aufſi auons , nous deliberé de faire le meſme de tous les muſcles, la deſcription deſquels tu prendras au chapitre où nous en auons parlé. commençons donc à la face , & pourſuiuons iuſqu'au q# bout des pieds. en la face ſe trouue premierement celuy qui eſt appellé muſcle large ou pe- aucier , venant du pannicule charneux , couurant tout le col, & preſque toute la face. outre º ceſtuy - là ſe " »mwſcles, ! - deux " t, - - - trouuent les quatre qui appartiennent à la paupiere ſuperieure de l'œil. plus dedans l'orbite ou cauité ſe trouuent les quatorze muſcles des yeux , ſept pour chacun , ſçauoir quatre droits, s d de l'anatomie. i a deux obliques, & vn pyramidal. les quatre du nez vont apres, deux par dehors,vn de chacun coſté,&au- tant dedans les nazeaux. les externes ouurent, & les internes ferment le nez. les dix de la maſchoire in- f)satre ferieure tiennent leur rang apres, ſçauoir eſt, deux crotaphites ou temporaux, deux maſſeteres ou maſ- muſcles de cheurs, deux ronds (leſquels me ſemblent pluſtoſt appartenir aux lévres qu'à la maſchoire ) deux cachez la ps«piere dans la bouche qui viennent des apophyſes pterygoides,& deux ouure-bouche tendineux par le milieu.les ſuperieure. huict des lévres ſe monſtrent apres,ſçauoir quatre ſuperieurs & autant inferieurs, qui ouurét & ferment la sºatorze bouche,à eauſe dequoy nous les pouuôs appeller ouure-lévres & ferme lévres.dedans le creux de la bou-"ºſºlº dº che ſe trouue la langue,& les dix inuſcles qui luy appartiennent:parquoy en toute la face nous trouuôs cin- º : quante vn muſcles.a la partie anterieure du col on trouue les muſcles qui appartiennent à l'os hyoide,qui -# cſt l'os de la langue , & du larinx. l'os hyoide eſt attaché par huict muſcles, deux ſuperieurs ve- # ºſ a . nans du menton , deux à coſté venans de l'apophyſe ſtyloide , leſquels ſont percez au milieu , à tra- di， muſclet uers deſquels paſſent les deux ouure-bouche, qui à cét endroit-là ſont tendineux : deux viennent du ſter , la maſ- non, & deux de la coſte ſuperieure de l'omoplate pres du coracoide,qui auſſi ſont tendineux au milieu à, e heir• infe- l'endroit où les deux maſtoïdiens ſont couchez par deſſus eux. le larinx composé des trois cartilages, rieure. comme nous auons dit en ſon lieu , a dixhuict ou vingt muſcles : ſix ou huict communs, & douze propres. hui# muſ- des communs , deux ſont ſuperieurs, deux inferieurs , deux à coſté de la premiere cartilage : auſquels tu cles des lé- peux adioufter les deux qui ſeruent à ouurir l'epiglotte,qui touſioursſe trouuent aux gros animaux à quatre º pieds pour rabbaiſſer interieurement ledit epiglotte : mais auſſi peu apparents aux hommes, comme mani-pº"ſº feſtementils ſe trouuent auſdites beſtes. les propres font douze, leſquels viennent preſque tous de la ſe- pour la lan- conde cartilage,pour s'inſerer à la premiere, & troiſieſme:deſquels les vns ſont pardeuant,& les autres par derriere le tyroide outre ceux-là ſont deux maſtoides, qui dechiſſent la teſte. et à la partie poſterieure § sur l'os du col y en a douze pour la teſte; de ſorte qu'elle à ſon mouuemét par ces quatorze muſcles,deux maſtoï- # diens anterieurs,& les autres poſterieurs, ſçauoir eſt deux ſpleniques, ou ſplenitiques : deux entrelacez ou muſeles du b entortillez, quatre droicts & quatre obliques,qui ſont fort petits,ne paſſant point la premiere & ſeconde larynx. vertebre. le col a huict muſcles, deux longs pardeuant, ſur le corps des vertebres : deux ſcaneles,qui ſont s)uatorze à coſté : deux eſpineux qui ſont le long de l'eſpine des vertebres:deux tranſuerſaux qui vont aux apophyſes muſcles pour tranſuerſes du metaphrene.le thorax ou poictrine a quatre vingts & vn muſcles,dót les vns ſont pardeuât, mºir la les autres par derriere, les autres à coſté, & ſont tous accouplez hormis le diaphragme. ils ſont deux º#.. ſouſ-clauiers:deux grands dentelez,quiviennent de la baſe de l'omoplate:quatre petits rhomboides,deux hui# ſuperieurs, & deux inferieurs, deux ſacrolombaires, deux dans la poictrine reſſerreurs du cartilage.plus #les pour vingt deux entrecoſtaux exterieurs,& autant interieurs, . entre-cartilagineux, ſçauoir douze # º ºº ººº- mº. huict muſ- llts» - - - - - - - ment das & douze interieurs : de ſorte que les entrecoſtaux& entrecartilagineux ſont ſoixante huict : auec les douze # ſuſdicts ſont quatre vingts,& le diaphragme qui eſt ſeul : par ainſi le thorax aura quatre vingts-vn muſcles $uatre- pour ſe dilater & reſſerrer. et ſi tuyveux adiouſter les muſcles de l'epigaſtre,ie n'en debatray point beau- vi vn coup:a raiſon que par accidét ils ſeruental'expiration & inſpiratiô.des huict muſcles de l'epigaſtre dont il y muſcle du en a quatre obliques,deux deſcendâs & deux aſcédans:deux droicts,auſquels tu pourras adiouſter les deux thorax. petits qui viennét de l'os pubis, ſi tu lesveux ſeparer de la teſte des droicts : deux tráſuerſaux.outre ceux- muſcle de la,nous pourrons nombrer ceux des lumbes,qui ſont fix ou huict:deux qui les flechiſſent qui ſont triangu- l'epirºſtre. taires : deux my-eſpineux, deux ſacrez, & deux qui ſont au milieu du dos,que nous pouuons appeller ka-ºſº * chites. or à preſent, afin que nous ayons les extremitez à part, nous conterons les muſcles qui ſont aux lumbes. parties honteuſes. pour les teſticules donc tu trouueras deux cremaſteres ou suſpenſeurs.a la racine de la verge,ou au perineon,tu trouueras quatre muſcles,partie pourle conduit de l'vrine & ſemence,partie pour - - - -* - - crems/fer'et . aucunemét eriger la verge.a la veſſie tu trouueras le sphincter ou fermeur : & au bout de l'inteſtin droit tu # c trouueras trois muſcles , deux pour releuer le ſiege, & vn ſphincter ou fermeur. reſte maintenant, que muſcles à ls nous venions aux extremitez,& premierement au bras:& nous ſemble meilleur d'en eſcrire ſeulement vn, raºine de la afin que tu en puiſſes iuger autant de l'autre. le bras doncques commençant de l'omoplate, a pour le verte. moins quarante-deux muſcles, & peuuent eſtre en beaucoup plus grand nombre ; mais pour cette heure sphinăer de tu te contenteras de cecy. l'omoplate donc a quatre muſcles , le bras ſept, ou huict, le coulde trois,ou la veſſie. quatre, ou cinq. au couldeinterne ſont ſept muſcles,& autant à l'externe : puis en la main, treize pour le tºi "ºſ- moins les quatre muſcles de l'omoplate, ſont vn trepaze, reſſemblant, à vn capuchon de moyne,qui eſ # du ſiege. leue , abbaiſſe,& tire en derrierel'omoplate.le ſecôd eſt le releueur.le troiſieſme eſt le grand rhomboide )uarante ou lozenger, qui eſtau deſſous le trapeze. le quatrieſme eſt le petit dentelé, qui s'inlere au coracoide. # le bras ſe meut en deuant, en derriere, en haut, en bas, & en rond. le pectoral venant de la clauicule du # # sternon & des coſtes prochaines ſe tire au deuant : le baſſet le tire en derriere , venant de la baſſe coſte de § § l'omoplate. le deltoide le tire en haut, & le tres-large le tire en bas,& quelque peu en derriere:les trois tomºplate qui ſont ſituez autour de l'omoplatele meuuent en rond. l'epomis ou eſpaulier,le tire en haut.le sur-eſ- sept muſcles paulier qui ſe peut diuiſer en deux, le tire en derriere & en bas : le souſ-eſpaulier qui eſt en la cauité de du bras. l'omoplate le tire en deuant. ainſi par ſon action faicte l'vne apres l aatre, le bras ſe meut en, ond. le coulde ſe plie par deux muſcles,dont l'vn eſt à deux teſtes,l'autre eſt le brachial.il s'eſtend par vn,ou deux, ou trois muſcles : car ſi tu regardes l'origine, il a deux ou trois teſtes , mais vne ſeule inſertion. au coulde interieur y a ſept muſcles, vn paumier, deux poings-plians, ou carpifiexeurs, deux pronateurs,ou deux muſ- couche-main, l'vn quarré,l'autre aucunement rond : deux doigts plians,l'vn ſuperieur qui va à la ſeconde *** jointure des doigts, l'autre inferieur, auec lequel nous remettrons le poulce-plueur. les muſcles du coulde de. ſléº exterieur sôt deux ſupinateurs,ou réuerſe-main,deux eſtendeurs de poignetou main-eſtendeurs,deux eſten- # dans les doigts-eſtendeurs,& vn abducteur ou obliquateur. les treize de la main ſont ceux cy,l'vn ſitué à ſituez - la ligne vitale, nommé thenar,ou molet, ſeruant au poulce, lequel ſe pourroit diuiſer , non ſeulement en §. deux, mais en fix, tant pour les actions diuerſes, que pour les ſeparations qui ſi trouuent le ſecond eſt l'hypotenar, ou le lezar, qui eſt pour le petit doigt. le troiſieſme eſt l'abducteur du poulce. apres ces muſcles de trois ſe trouuent les quatre lumbricaux, ou lamproyons, & les ſix entre-oſſelets,combien qu'on en puiſſe ! . bien trouuer huict. ét te ſuffiſe de la main. la jambe toute entiere a cinquante muſcles pour le moins car cinquante pour la cuiſſe nous en trouuons quatorze, pour la jambe, onze : & des ſituez en la jambe, neuf: trois par »»ſcles de deuant,ſix par derriere,qui ſeruent pour le pied & pour les doigts : au pied,ſeize. des quatorze qui ſeruent la lambe- à la cuiſſe , deux la plient,l'vn appellé lumbaire, l'autre vient du creux de l'os des flancs. les eſtendeurs , $ºtºrºe ſont les trois feſſus qui conſtituent la feſſe,le muſcle à trois teſtes,que tu pourras diuiſer en trois ſi tu ve ux. muſcles de outre ceux-là, pour tourner la cuiſſe ſont les quatre gemeaux,& les deux obturateurs ou boucheurs l'"n # cuiſſe. interne, l'autre externe. les onze de la jambe ſont, le long, le membraneux,les quatre poſterieurs, dont ## les trois viennent de l'os iſchion, & l'autre de la comiſſure de l'os pubis le droit , les deux vaſtes le cuiſ- ## fier, & le larretier. - q les | le ſixieſme liure, muſcle ſ,- tuez en la iambe. muſeles ſitu º l / pied. les muſcles fituez en la jambe ſeruent partie au pied, partie aux doigts,& ſont trois pardeuant, & ſix par derriere. deux des anterieurs flechiſſent le pied, deſquels l'vn eſt appellé iambier anterieur, l'autre eſperonnier , qui ſe peut diuiſer en deux. le troifieſme eſt le doigt eſtendeur, combien que partie de luy fleſchiſſe le pied,auquel meſme on reduit le poulce-eſtendeur. de ceux qui ſont derriere, l'vn ſert à flechir les doigts, & les autres pour le pied, leſquels ſe trouuent en tel ordre : deux gemeaux,vn plantai- re, vn solaire, vn iambier poſterieur, & le grand doigt-plieur : auquel on remet le poulce-plieur. des ſeize ſituez au pied, l'vn eſt ſuperieur ſitué ſus l'auant-pied, que nous auons appellé abducteur des doigts: · l'autre en la plante du pied, qui eſt le petit doigt-plieur, qui va à la ſeconde jointure des doigts par de- dans le pied. il y en a vn pour le poulce , que nous pouuons appeller chaſſe-poulce. en dehors le pied y en a vn autre pour le petit doigt : auec ceux-cy ſe trouuent les quatre lumbricaux,ou lamproyons plus les huict entreoſſels , ou dix,ſi tu veux. et te ſuffiſe du nombre des muſcles,pour lequel eſtre general, tu les chercheras chacun en ſa partie. - · figure neuffeſme & premiere des muſcles, laquelle te repreſenteau coſté gauche,l'homme auec ſa peau : & au coſté droit,tous les muſcles ſeparez les vns des autres, & encores - en leur lieu : & ce pardeuant. - - - monſtre le muſcle qui ferme l'œil. le crotaphyte, ou temporal. le zygoma. le muſcle maſſeter , ou maſcheur. muſcle ſuperieur deſcendant à la lévre infe- t llrc. le muſcle qui deſcend à la lévre ſuperieure, & aux ailes du nez. le muſcle rond caché de la tunique interne de la bouche. i le muſcle inferieur quimonte à la lévre ſu- perieure. k le muſcle qui fait remuer la lévre inferieure le muſcle qui ouure la maſchoire inferieure. m le muſcle maſtoide. n l'eſleuateur de l'omoplate. o p q : la clauicule. muſcle souſ-clauier. le petit dentelé anterieur, montant des cinq ou ſix coſtes ſuperieures au coracoïde r l'origine du muſcle pectoral, qui prend de - l'os sternon. . s muſcle pectoral. t deltoide. v muſcle biceps ou double teſte,flechecoulde. x brachial flecheur auſſi du coulde. y vn additament ou extenſion du muſcle pre- cedent, ayant à flechir & plier le meſme coulde. z le pronateur de la main, & le treſlong, ou renuerſe-main. aa les plieurs du carpe, ou poing-plians. b le ſuperieur doigt-plieur. c le profond doigt plieur. d le palmaire. ces huict petites lettres qui ſuiuent de la petite figure, te repreſentent la main vn petitplus amplemeat que l'autre . -' d : e fg les muſcles du poulce, qui flechiſſent le premier & ſecond os. | h h les mufcles lunnbricaux. i le muſcle qui retire le petit doigt derriere les autres. .. k l'anneau du carpe. - l la fiſſure des quatre tendons du muſcele doigt-pliant ſuperieur:parlaquelle les tendons du profond montent à la troiſieſme articulation des doigts. º - m les tendons du profond - l , n le grand dentelé ſeparé, qui ſert pour dilater le thorax. - o l oblique deſcendant de l'epigaſtre. p. le tranſuerſal. q le droict. r le nombril auec la ligne blanche. - s vn des petits muſcles qui montent de l'os pubis deſſus la teſte des droicts. ' t l'oblique aſcendant. v le membraneux de la cuiſſe. - x le droit de la cuiſſe. y le treſlong, dit le couſturier. z z les deux vaſtes , ou maſſifs. . . le muſcle triceps deſcendant de l'os pubis à l'os crural interieurement. la palette du genoüil. . l'os de la jambe. ! . vne pºººº ºu muſcle iumeau. vne autre portion du solaire. ! muſcle lamºier , interne ou poſterieur. . o. les flecheurs du pied. · · · i i eſtendeurs des doigts. . . - deux malleoles. - -- pigure-» . celuy qui l'ouure. - b de l'omoplate. c : ( de l'anatomie. i a | - c a l'autre eſtendeur ſon compagnon: - ( . » # a figure quatorzieſme, & ſixieſme des muſcles, demonſtrant l'homme coſté gauche , auec ſa peau, & coſté droit tous les muſcles. monſtre l'os occipital entierement deſ- collll ºtt, b muſcle splenitique renuersé ſur le coſté gauche. c. muſcle entortillé, ou entrelacé. d muſcle eſpineux. - - e muſcles oblique, montant de l'eſpine du ſecond spondyle à l'apophyſe tranſ- uerſe du premier. - f muſcle oblique, qui monte de la ſuſdite , apophyſe tranſuerſe à l'occiput. muſcle droit, ſouz lequel eſt couché ſon compagnon. - h h , deuroit monſtrer le trapeze , mais il eſt i demeuré à figurer. k muſcle rhomboide de l'omoplate. releueur de l'omoplate. le petit muſcle qui eſt couché à la cauité, qui eſt deſſus l'eſpine de l'omoplate. m muſcle deltoide de l'eſpine de l'omoplate. n o le suſ-eſpaulier,lequel par d'aucuns,pour - neant eſt diuisé en deux. p muſcle qui deſprime & tire en derriere le bras venant de l'angle inferieure de l'omoplate. q muſcle treſlarge. . r ſ deux muſcles qui eſtendent le coulde. t vne portion du muſcle brachial qui plie le coulde. - w origine du muſcle treſlongrenuerſeur de la main. ll olecrane ou tuberofité du coulde. x os du coulde. a , a. y y vne portion des deux muſcles qui flechiſ- - ſent le carpe. . muſcle qui eſtend les doigts , & vn des " eſtendeurs du carpe à double teſte, & " double queue ou tendon. - - b b - muſcle abducteur du poulce - • • c | l'eſtendeurdudit poulce. · · · · · · · d . · l'annulus, ou ligament des tendons. - - · · s , • \ # rhomboide, ou dentelé ſuperieur & poſterieur. , · · · · · · · , , , ' , \ f , le sacrolumbus a douze tendons. - - - - - gh demy-eſpineux. - - - - muſcle romboïde ou dentelé poſterieur & inferieur. ' # muſcle lumbal, ou pluſtoſt triangulaire. - - • • • • • • • • • • • # le premier & plus gros muſcle de la feſſe renuersé ſur le coſté gauche , • • • • • • m le ſecond en aſſiette & grandeur. n _ le tiers & plus petit. o o o o quatre gemeaux. - - - p : muſcle obturateur interne. - · · · , muſcle obturateur, ou bouche externe: - - • # le grand trochanter. - - - • - • • • •- sa ...le muſcle vaſte exterieur. ' , t - - # # #ºmiºr des flecheurs de la jambe, lequel ſe peutappeller renforey : . , le ſecond. : le tiers, tous deux internes i ! **pº grande portion du muſcle nommé t. *a muſcles gemeaux. b muſcle ſolaire. muſcle tenar du pied. * le petit doigt plieurdu pied, : , \ n -t- : o &&#ttttttttt#ºtº #º# t a b le des chapitres dv livre vii. des tumeurs en general. y@ ve c'eſt que tumeurcontre nature, quiſe nomme vulgairement s apoſteme, & des differences d'icelle . ch a p. j des cauſes des tumeurs engeneral. i j ſ) des ſignes des tumeurs en general. ii j du prognoſtic engeneraldes apoſtemes. iv b (] cure generale des tumeurs contre mature_ . v des quatre tumeurs, ou apoſtemes engeneral, & d'autresredui- tes ſouz icelles. v j ^ du phlegmon. v i j des cauſes, & ſignes du phlegmon. ', , viij de la cure du #. - ix cure generale du phlegmon , lors qu'il eſt degeneré en abſces. x des eſpeces des fiévres , quiſuruiennent au phlegmon, & curationd'icelle-. xj de l'eryſipelas. x i j la cure d'eryſipela . - x i i j de herpes. x v des fièvres quiſuruiennent aux tumeºrº eryſpelateuſes. x v de l'oedeme », xvj des tumeurs venteuſes, & aqueuſes xv i j pela cure des tumeurs venteuſes, & ºqºeºſº xviij - deatherome,steatome, & meliceride- - ix c des louppes, & autresſemblables. xx . des scrophules, ou eſcroiielles. xxj du ganglion xx i j des verrues, ou pourreaux, dites myrmeſeº , acrochordon, caluus, ou clou,thymus, sar- coma , ou fungu . xx j de la fiévre qui ſuruient aux tumeurs œdemateuſes. xx iv du scirrhe . , xxv de la curation du scirhe- . - xxv j du chancre jafaicf. xx v i j des cauſes, eſpeces,ou differences, & prognočtic du chancre . xxv i i j la cure du chancre,qui commence » & n'eſt encor vlceré. x xix cure du chancre vlceré. x x x cure du chancre par œuure manuelle du chirurgien. - xxx j remedes locaux pourlacuration du chancre , tant vlceré, que non vlceré xxxij des fiévresquiſuruiennent aux tumeurtſcirrheuſes. - x xx i i j de l'aneuriſme-. · · , · xxxiv d se p t i e s m e l iv r e, t r a i c t a n t d es tv me v r s - c o ntr e nat v r e e n g e n e r a l. par ambroise pare de la val av mayne, conſeiller & premier chirurgien du roy. ue c'eſt que tumeur contre nature, quiſe nomme vulgairement apofteme_ , & des differences d'icelle . ca h p. i. mº] p o s t e m e eſt vne diſpoſition contre nature, composée de trois genres de maladies aſſemblées en vne magnitude , & grandeur : c'eſt à ſçauoir , intemperature, mauuaiſe n compoſition , & ſolution de continuité, en laquelle il y a humeui , ou autre matiere diuiſible à humeur, diminuant ou aboliſſant manifeſtement l'action du corp , ou de la partie affectée. - les differences d'icelles apoſtemes ſont priſes de cinq choſes : la premiere, de la quantité : la ſeconde, de la matiere : la troiſieſme des accidens : la quatrieime, des par- ties où elles ſont : la cinquieſme,des cauſes efficientes , qui ſont fluxion, & congeſtion (deſquelles nous traicterons au chapitre ſuiuant. ) qtant à preſent, pour plus facile intelligence, il m'a ſemblé bon de reduire en table, & en ordre , toutes ces differences , ainſi qu'il s'enſuit. table des tumeurs contre nature_ , leſquelles galien,au liure des tunneurs contre nature, & au . à glauc. fgrandes # generalement ſouz le nom des phlegmons, qui viennent és parties charneuſes. rde la quan- tité , dont moyennes , comme furuncles. ſont nom- ii cz | - leſquelles, ſelon auicenne, ſont petites eminences, bothores, ou pu- petites » ) ſtules, comme toute ſorte de gratelle, ou lepre. \. - blanches, rouges, citrines , iaunes, liuides , noiress ſ couleur,dont ſont dites i & autres. - des acci-< dens, com- ) douleur, & autres acci- ^ douloureuſes, me de la | dens , comme dureté, ) non douloureuſes, molleſſe, & autres,dont > dures, molles, uſont nommées. & ſemblables. le chaude , sanguine, dont eſt faict le phlegmon vray. §. ſ naturelle. bilieuſe, dont eſt faict le vray eryfipele. † froide {† , dont eſt engendré le vray oedeme. §# « de la ma- melancholique , qui fait le vray scirrhe. tiere dont n lle,la-ſsanguine. ſ carboncle » gangrene, ſont elles ſont † § {† , sphacele. prinſes engendrées. e ſa propre natu | »: : - - l icelle eſt bilieuſe. ſ plus epeſſe, ſe fait herpes excedant : plus ſub- non vraye, comme tile, herpes miliaris. de la mtiere non - aturelle | -- {† aqueux, & ventreux, ſcrophules, nodofitez, excroiſſances phlegmatiques. | re, faict la tumeur [ | melancho- \lique. le scirrhe exquis, les tumeurs charneuſes. des parties où elles ſont, ſ opthalmie en l'œil; parotide és oreilles;paronichie és doigts & ra- |.coiiliilc - {# des ongles. nota que la cinquieſine cauſe eſt obmiſ_ . - - o tdgy - definition d'aroſtemes differences des apoſte- mes, ſonr c/mq. i · le ſeptieſme liure, s-e --, a - - - - - des cauſes des tumeurs en general. ch a p. l i. #q# e s cauſesgenerales des apoſtemes ſont deux, à ſçauoir fluxion, & congeſtion. la fiuxion $ (qui eſt vn ſoudain débordement d'humeurs,auec plus grande quantité qu'il n'eſt de beſoin à fm/ ef " . | © la partie pour ſa nourriture. ) les cauſes de fluxion procedent de la partie mandante ou re- cauſes de $ i Ém， ceuante : la partie mandante enuoye à cauſe que les humeurs pechent en quantité,ou qualité, fuxion. ayiynn \ ou en tous les deux enſemble , irritent la vertu expulſiue à jetter ce qui luy eſt contraire : la · partie receuante reçoit par chaleur , douleur,& imbecillité naturelle ou accidentelle,laxité des conduits & ſituation baſſe. les cauſes de chaleur en quelque partie que ce ſoit ſont trois; à ſçauoir,mouuemens immo- cauſes de derez(ſouz leſquels ſont comprins les frictions)chaleur du feu,ou du soleil,aliments & medicaments acres. chaleur , les cauſes de douleur ſont quatre. la premiere eſt dyſcraſie ou alteration ſubite, laquelle eſt faite par l'a- ºſº * ction des premieres qualitez actiues, qui ſont chaleur,& froideur. la ſeconde eſt, par ſolution de conti- douleur. nuité , comme playe , diſlocation , fracture, diſtorſion , contuſion , diſtenſion , obſtruction , ventuo- ſité. la tierce eſt , ſenſibi'ité de la partie : car en vne reſolution ou dyſcraſie faite en vn os ou autre par- tie inſenſible,n'y a iamais douleur. la quarte,diſpoſition ouaffection de la faculté animale:ce qui eſt mon- ſtré par l'exemple & conte qu'on fait d'vn amoureux, qui trenchant de la chair en la preſence de ſon amie,ſe couppoit les doigts,& ce neantmoints n'en ſentoit rien,pource que la faculté animale eſtoit diſtraicte à ſes amours. la partie eſt imbecille naturellement, ou par accident : naturellement, comme les glandes des emonctoires,& toutes autres : par accident, comme par intemperature, ou autrement affligée par longues douleurs & fluxions d'humeurs ſupeflus,comme és douleurs arthritiques , dont la fluxion par longue con- cauſes de tinuation a dilaté les conduits,par leſquels s'eſt faite la fluxion.auſſi , comme nous auons dit, la ſituation congeſtion. baſſe eſt cauſe de receuoir. l'autre cauſe eſt congeſtion, c'eſt à dire , la matiere de la nourriture, qui eſt multipliée par l'imbecillité de la partie , & n'eſt autre choſe que ce qui doit eſtre commué & aſſimilé en ſa ſubſtance. ses cauſes ſont deux principales : la premiere eſt la debilité de la vertu digeſtiue ou cauſ,/.. ºººººctrice de la partie, dont iladºient qu'elle ne peut faire aſſimilation de l'humeur & aliment dapraué cial ſe, qui luy eſt enuoyé. la ſ conde,l'imbecillité de la vertu expultrice,laquelle ne peut expeller le ſuperflu : & apeſtemes. lors ſe fait amas d'humeur en la partie,& par conſ quent apoſteme: & tels ſons faicts le plus ſouuent d'hu- meurs froids , lents , gros, & glucux. et ſont leſdits apoſtemes de longue & difficile curation. les cauſes ſpeciales ſont trois,à ſçauoir primitiues & externernes,antecedentes & internes, conioinctes ou côtenantes comme declarerons cy apres. - - cauſes des cauſes de l'imbeciliité de la partie. des ſignes des tumeurs en general. ch a p. l i i. n@ r pour paruenir à la guariſon des apoſtemes, le principal poinct & le premier depend de la \wq cognoiſſance d icelles, & de leur difference, leſquelles nous cognoiſſons par les ſignes qui #) leur ſont propres, comme en toutes autres maladies : mais d'autant que les principaux ſignes ( pour cognoiſtre les tumeurs côtre nature font tirez de l eſſence de la partie où elles ſont, en •è" premier lieu faut cognoiſtre la nature d'icelles parties, & quelle eſt leur eſſence & diſpoſi- tion : ce qui ſe cognoiſt par l'anatomie , & auſſi par la leſion de leur action. et voila quant à celles que nous ne pouuons voir à l'œil. mais celles qui ſont aux parties externes & apparentes ſont aisées à co- gnoiſtre , par la comparaiſon de ce qui eſt naturel , à ce qui eſt contre nature : comme par exemple de la partie tumefiée,à celle qui ne l'eſt point, & en regardant & touchant la partie affligée s'il y a rien d'accreu & augmenté : & alors la veue pourra iuger y eſtre vne tumeur. or d'autant que ce n eſt aſſez au chirur- gien d'auoir la cognoiſſance de tels ſignes vniuerſels (carautrement ce ne ſeroit eſtre aucunement different du vulgaire ) il doit conſiderer les plus proches & particuliers, leſquels nous cognoiſtrons par la differen- signes de la ce de la matiere & humeurs deſquels ils ſont côpoſez, ſelon ce que dit & demonftre galien au , à glau. pituite. .de la meth. que toute la diſtinction,& difference des tumeurs naiſt,& prouient de la condition & nature signe de la de la matiere qui infiue & fait la tumeur , & par les accidens qui y ſuruiennent,comme par la couleur,cha- melancholie. leur, froideur, dureté, molleſſe, douleur, tenſion , retinence & par le temps depuis le commencement $ignº de lº de la fluxion ieſques à la termination & curation d'icelle. la douleur , chaleur, tenſion, rougeur, nous bile , ſignifie l'humeur eſtre ſanguin : la froideur, moleſſe, auec peu de douleur, l'humeur eſtre pituiteux:laten- ſion,dureté,& liuidité de la partie & ponctions par interualle l'humeur eſtre melancholique:ainſi la couleur blafarde & jaunaſtre : mordication ſans dureté de la partie,l'humeur eſtre bilieux:nous parlerons plus am- plement en leur propre lieu de chacun en particulier.dauantage les apoſtemes ont leur periode & paroxyſ- me conforme à l humeur dont elles ſont engendrées : car ſelon le mouuement d'iceux la difference de l'humeur ſera cognue:car le ſang s'eſmeut au matin , tout ainſi qu'au printemps : la cholere iaune ou bile au midy , comme en l'elté : l'humeur melancholique au ſoir ainſi qu'en l'automne. la pituite la nuict,ainſi qu'en hyuer:ce qui nous eſt demonſtré par hippocrate,& galien,qui diſent que les quatre par- ties du iour ont meſme puiſſance & proportion,pour le regard du mouuement des humeurs,que les quatre ſaiſons de l'année. pareillement les apoſtemes curables ont quatre temps, commencement, augment,eſtat, & declination : Ét en iceux temps faut diuerſifier les remedes, pour bien & deuement les curer. le com- mencement eſt cogncu lors que la partie commence à tumefier & enfler : l'accroiſſement,quand la tumeur, douleur, & autres accidents croiſſent ſenſiblement : l'eſtat, quand les accidens n'augmentent plus, mais de- z,, tumeur, meurent en leur eſtre, ſi la matiere qui fait la tumeur,ne degenere & ſe change en autre forme & ſubſtance. oni quatre ** declination eſt, quand la tumeur, douleur, fiévre, inquietude, & tous autres accidents ſe diminuent moyen pour paruenir à la guariſon. -" temſ .. manifeſtement, et par ainſi le chirurgien cognoiſtra comme la tumeur ou apoſteme ſe doit terminer. ce commence- qui ſe fait par quatre manieres , moyennant qu'elles ne ſoientempechées par repercuſſion, ou d'elles-meſ- e//t. mes ſans aucune occaſion manifeſte ne s'en retournent par deliteſcence : car il aduient ſouuent accreiſſe que quelqaes vnes ſe terminent par inſenſible tranſpiration , qu'on appelle reſolution , autres par ſup- me t . puration, quànd lamatiere ſe cuit les autres paſſent en diſpoſition dure ſcirrheuſe, dite vulgairement in- *ſº .. duration, eſtant ſeulement reſoulte la plus ſubtile partie de l'humeur. autres encores beaucoup pires, deſ- declination. qu'elles les parties eſtans vaincues par grandeur de la fluxion,ou parmauuaiſe qualité,ou tous de lx enſem- # ble , deuiennent én ſi grande intemperature, que leur action ſe perd, & fe tournent en gangrene, qui eſt corruption & putrefaction. la meiileure voye des ſuſdictes terminations eſt reſolution : & la pire, corru- ption : les autres deux ſont moyennes : toute fois fuppuration eſt meilleure que ſcirrhoſité,ou dureté. les ſignes par leſquels le chirurgien cognoit que l'apoſteme ſe termine par reſolution, ſont quand la tumeur, les tumeurs signe de re- ſolution, ". \ - _ - que - " • • . - - - -- - - · douleur,pulſation, tenſion,chaleur, & autres accidents ſe diminuent, & par la legereté du membre, & lors - - - - j ss - \ , ^ . " º - • • • - | º t. - iº- des tumeurs engeneral. a que le malade ſe ſent grandement allegé, apperceuant vne demangeaiſon à la partie : ce qui aduient com- munement és apoſtemes chaudes,à raiſon que tel humeur eſt plus ſubtil & tenue. les ſignes que ſuppura- signes de tion ſe fait,ſont grande douleur,chaleur,tumeur,pulſation,fiévre;ainſi que dit l'oracle d'hippocrate.quand ſuppuration, le pus ſe fait,il y a douleur,& fiévre,plus que quand il eſt ja faict.or il faut que le chirurgien ſoit bienat- hip.aphe. tentif a cognoiſtre ledit pus : car ſounent il eſt caché , tellement qu'on ne le peut apperceuoir, à cauſe de lib. . -l'eſpeſſeur du lieu, & du pus:ce qui eſt monſtré par hippocrate.quand la ſuppuration eſtant au corps n'eſt , dºcument cogneue,cela aduient à cauſe de la craſſitude de la matiere,ou du lieu. les ſignes , pour cognoiſtre qu'vne pour le chi- apoſteme ſe termine en ſcirrhe ou dureté ſont diminution de la tumeur, & dureté delaiſſée en la partie par "#º l'imbecillité de nature,& des humeurs cras & gluans, ou par l'ignorance du chirurgien qui aura trop vsé # des medicamés reſolutifs,lefquels reſoluent la matiere la plus ſubtile,& la plus terreſtre ſe deſſeiche & s'en- #" durcit,eſtant ſemblable à ceux qui font pots & tuiles, qui par deſiccatioh au soleil,ou au feu endurciſſent - la terre en dureté de pierre:ainſi le chirurgien ignorant,bien ſouuent par trop grand vſage de repercuſſifs signes de pu- condenſe le cuir,& eſpeſſit la matiere, & eſt ſouuent cauſe de ſcirrhe.les ſignes de putrefaction & corrup- #. tion,ſont quand les accidents ſont plus grands que n'auons dit en la ſuppuration, & lors que la § ction & mortification eſt faicte , la douleur ceſſe, & la couleur de la partie deuient liuide , noire, & bien ſouuent y eſt trouuée grande puanteur ce qui ſera cy-apres declaré , lors que parlerons de gangrene,fpha- cauſe de de- cele, ou mortification. la ſoudaine diminution de la tumeur, eſt ſigne que la fluxion retourne au dedans- liteſtence,dr tellement qu'elle n'apparoit plus:& aduient ladite diminution ou deliteſcéce aucunefois à cauſe d'vne gran- des ſignes. de refrigeration, & ſouuêtesfois pour la venenoſité de la matiere,ſans qu'on yaye rien appliqué par le de- hors , nature ſuccombant, & n'eſtant aſſez forte pour la chaſſer hors, & ſoudain la fiévre ſuit telle dimi- nution d'enfleure, & pluſieurs autres mauuais ſymptomes, comme defaillance de cœur, & quelquesfois conuulſion, ou fiux hepatique, ſelon que le cœur, le cerueau, & le foye en ſeront premierement attaquez. •- du pronoſtic general des apoſtemes. c h a p. i v. - e s tumeurs qui ſont faictes d'vn humeur melancholique ou phlegmatique gros, gluant, ou galien en ſa viſqueux, ſont de plus longue & difficile curation , que celles qui ſont fait s de ſang & de # cholere : auſſi celles qui ſont faites d'humeurs non naturels, ſont plus difficiles à guerir que . & a j . celles qui ſont cauſées d humeurs naturels, à cauſe que les ſuſdicts humeurs pechent plus cond à - en qualité qu'en quantité ; & ainſi ſe conuertiſſent en diuerſes & alienées ſubſtances , qui ne glaus. refſemblent en rien aux humeurs , mais à pluſieurs choſes eſtranges ; comme ſuif, boüillie , miel, fece- d'huile, & lie de vin , & meſmes à des corps ſolides, comme pierre, ſablon , charbon, feſtus : semblable- ment à des animaux,comme vers, ſerpens, & autres choſes eſtranges : principalement quand la matiere demeure long-temps ſans eſtre euacuée. les tumeurs qui viennent aux membres principaux , & plus aux parties internes qu'externes,ſont perilleuſes,& mortelles le plus ſouuent,comme auſſi celles qui ſe font aux jointures,& pres d'icelles ſont difficiles à curcr:pareillement celles qui ſont faites par les grands vaiſſeaux. comme veines,arteres,& nerfs , ſont dangereuſes pour le flux de ſang,reſolution des eſ rits,& conulſion qui y pourroit furuenir. les apoſtemes enormes, c'eſt à dire, exceſſiues en grandeur , ſont ſouuentesfois mortelles, pour la grande reſolution qui ſe fait des eſprits, lors qu'elles ſont ouuertes.toutes apoſtemes qui ſont degenerées en ſcirrhes,ſont long-temps,& difficiles à guarir, comme celles qui ſont faites en corps cacochimes , hydropiques, elephantiques, & autres de mauuaiſe habitude : car tels abſcez dege- nerent ſouuent en vlceres cacoethes, & malignes. - cure generale des tumeurs contre nature » c h a p. v. n la curation des apoſtemes on doit obſeruer trois choſes : premierement l'eſſence de l'apo- hiſp. aph. . $ ſteme : ſecondement, la qualité de l'humeur,faiſant ladite apoſteme : tiercement,la tempera- § . #x ture de la partie où elle eſt faicte. la premiere indication priſe de l'eſſence(c'eſt à dire,de la premiere in- grandeur ou petiteſſe de la tumeur) varie la cure,pource que ſelon la quantité de la tumeur, dication. s\º faut augmenter,diminuer, ou changer les remedes.la ſeconde indication, qui eſt prinſe de la seconde in- nature de l'humeur causât la tumeur,varie auſſi la cure,pource qu'autremêt faut curer le phlegmon,qu'ery- dication. ſipelas, autrement œdema que ſcirrhe, autrement la ſimple que la composée. auſſi la cure de celles qui ſont faites d humeurs naturels,n'eſt ſemblable à celles qui ſont faictes d'humeurs non naturels,comme auſſi celle qui eſt faicte par congeſtion, eſt curée en autre maniere qu'vne autre faicte par defluxion. la tierce indication eſt priſe de la nature de la partie où la tumeur eſt faicte, par laquelle nous entédons leur tempe- rament, formation, ſituation, faculté. car le temperament nous demonſtre qu'il conuient autres remedes troiſieſme aux parties charneuſes comme eſtans plus humides, qu'aux nerueuſes , qui ſont plus ſeiches : autres à l'œil indication. autres à la gorge, & ainſi des autres parties, deſquelles aucunes ſont plus ſuiettes à defluxion que les au- tres pour leur rareté:les autres moins,pource qu'elles ſont plus maſſiues & denſes:par laquelle diuerſité & façon on pourra aisément conjecturer quels medicamens tant en quantité qu'en qualité ſeront côuenables: auſſi la ſituation de la partie eſt grandement à conſiderer,pour la connexiö qu'elle a quelquesfois auec des grands vaiſſeaux,enſemble pour faire l'euacuation plus facile de l'hunieur qui y eſt contenu.semblablement la faculté d'icelle, à laquelle galien reduit l'vſage,& le ſentiment, diuerſifie la curation : car les vnes ſont principales comme le cerueau, le cœur, & le foye, dont leur vertu eſt departie par tout le corps par le moyen des nerfs,arteres & veines:les autres ſont moins principales,toutesfois neceſſaires,d'autant que ſans icelles on ne ſçauroit viure longuement,comme l'eſtomach : & d'autres qui ont vn ſentiment exquis,comme l'œil,les membranes,nerfs,& tendons, qui ne peuuent ſouffrir medicamens acres ne mordicans.ces indica- tions conſiderées,la curation s'accomplira par ces trois intentions qui s'enſuiuent :à ſçauoir,ayant eſgard à lamatiere antecedéte qui decourt,ou qui eſt en voye de fluer : à la matiere coniointe,& à la correction des cº*** accidens, en obſeruant touſiours l'ordre,l'vrgent,& la cauſe. donc au commencement pour la matiere an- # en ge- tecedente faut appliquer repercuſſifs ſorts & debiles,ayant eſgard à la tumeur qui ſe fait encores, excepté #n in- en fix cas,comme nous enſeigne le docteur guidon.le premier,c'eſt quand la matiere ou l'humeur eſt ve- tentien. neneux le ſecond lors qu'elles ſont faites par criſes le tiers,quand elles ſont faites pres des membranes prin- § choſes cipaux : le quatrieſme, quand la matiere eſt groſſe,craſſe gluante,glaireuſe,& mucilagineuſe.le cinquieſme, qu'on doit quand la matiere eſt profonde : le ſixieſme, quand elle ſe fait aux emunctoires, principalement lors qu'elle obſeruer en eſt faite de cauſe antecedente. or s'il y a repletion en tout le corps,faut ordonner la diette,purger,ſaigner, l'application faire frictions & bains. et quant à la cacochymie, elle ſera corrigée par la maniere de viures & par purga- des repercuſ- tions : fi la fluxion eſt cauſee par l'imbecillité de la partie receuante il la faut fortifier : ſi la ſituation d º# ſifs. - o c · i le ſeptieſme liure, eſt baſſe,ſoit le malade fitué en tel artifice que la partie bleſsée(ſi faire ſe peut)tiêne le plus haut lieu.fi c'eſt à cauſe de la douleur,nous l'appaiſerons par medicamens anodins & contraires:& ſi l'humeur eſt trop ſub- . til , il ſera groſſy par medicaments & aliments. quant a la matiere contenuë en la partie, d'autant qu'elle *seconde in- eſt contre nature,demande eſtre euacuée par reſolutifs,parventouſes,cornets,ſcarifications,& autres choſes *# . ſemblables»comme cataplaſmes,emplaſtres,fomentations:ou bien faiſant ouuerture de la tumeur,apres l'a- uoir ſuppurº la troiſieſme intention ſera accomplie en corrigeant les accidents,comme fiévre,douleur,& intention. - - - - - | ll ti'cs : cc qui ſe fera par medicamens anodins,lenitifs & relaxans, comme dirons cy-apres. des quatre tumeurs ou apoſtemes en general, & d'autres reduitesſouz icelles. c h a p. v i. e s principales tumeurs engendrées de fluxions d'humeurs ſont quatre, à ſçauoir, phleg- $uatre prin mon, eryſipele, oedeme, scirrhe , auſquelles on peut reduire, & ſouz icelles comprendre # fſl- innumerables autres tumeurs, qui excedent la meſure de nature, combien qu'elles ayent di- ºf v . uers noms , ſelon la diuerſité des cauſes, & parties où elles ſont les tumeurs reduites ſouz phlegmon ſont , phygetblum , pbyma , furunculu,carbunculus,ou antbrax ophtalmia,ſynanche, bubo & autres , leſquelles tumeurs ſont chaudes & humides. souz eryſipele ſont compris, berpes miliaris , eſt- ' tumeurs re- bromenees exed nt , formica, impeiigo , leſquelles ſont faites d'humeur colerique , comme exanthemata : d'au- §" , " cuns, qui ſont petites puſtules ſemblables à la petite verole. souz cedeme ſont compris atheromata , où phlegmon. la matiere eſt ſemblable à boüllie,ſte atomata,ſemblable à ſuif,& melicerides, ſemblable à miel:teſtudo,qui eſt eryſipelas. vne tumeur molle,talpa,ganglium,nodus,ſcrophula , lupia,b) drocele,aſlites,leucopblegmatia,ou bypoſarca,& toutes oedeme. fatuoſitez & aquoſitez , leſquelles ſont faictes de phlegme. les tumeurs reduictes aux scirrhes, ſont,cancri scirrhe. ' lepra,clephantia#,poreaux ou verrues,m) rmecia,clauus,thymus,varices,morphœa migra & alba:leſquelles tumeurs ſont faictes d'humeur melancholique.maintenant faut traicter d'icelles en ſpecial,& premierement duphleg- illon. du phlegmon. c h a p. v ii. al lib .des | es aac differences. des maladies h e g m o n, ſoit vray uo non eſt nom,general de toutes apoſtemes & inflammations tant ſerches qu'humides particulieres, faites de ſang : le vray eſt celuy qui retient le propre nom de phlegmon , qui eſt fait de ſang bon & loüable, ne pechant qu'en quantité. la tumeur ou * apoſteme phlegmonneuſe prend autre nom , comme charbon , anthrax peſtifereux , cancer, º $ gangrene,mortification,ſouz leſquels ſont contenues pluſieurs puſtules malignes & crouſteu- ſes : comme auſſi quand il ſe fait mixtion d'autres humeurs auec ledit ſang loüable, comme phlegme,cho- lere,ou melanchoiie:car adonc leditapoſteme ne doit eſtre appelle ne traicté comme ſi le fang y eſtoit ſeul, mais prendra denomination de l humeur qui eſt en plus grande quantité. exemple:si l'humeur phlegmatique eſt meſlé auec le ſang,& que le ſang domine,la tumeur ſera nommée pblegmon œdematodes : au contraire,ſi la pituite domine le ſang,elle ſera nommée a dema plegmonodes,& ainſi ſera-il des autres humeurs, en donnant touſiours la denomination à l'humeur qui ſurmonte & domine. or toutes ces diſtinctions viennent de ce que le ſang qui fait tumeur , peche ou en quantité ſeulement, ou en qualité : s'il peche en quantité , il fait tumeur que proprement on appelle phlegmon : s'il peche en quali- té,il fait vne tumeur dite phlegmonneuſe,pource qu'elle retient de la nature du ſang. or le ſangpeche, & eſt vitieux en qualité ou par meſlange de ſubſtance eſtrangere,comme de phlegme,cholere, & melancho- lie, dont ſe fait phlegmon oedemateux, eryſipelateux, & ſcirrheux : ou par corruption de ſa propre ſub- "il ne ſe fait ſtance, dont ſe fait le carbuncle, anthrax , & toute ſorte de gangrene : ou par concretion , nature eſtant apoſtemes. fruſtrée de la ſuppuration a laquelle elle tendoit, & eſperoit,par quelque faute, ou de l'air ou du malade, d'vn ſeul hu- ou du medecin , dont ſe fait atheroma , ſteatoma, & meliceris. - - -- - e r, toutesfois il faut icy noter , que neantmoins que pluſieurs anciens ayant eſcrit qu'il ſe fait apoſtemes vrayes d'vn ſeul humeur pur & loüable,ne pechant qu'en quantité,ſans admixtion d'autre humeur,ſi eſt-ce definitiºn qu'il faut eſtimer qu'il ne ſe fait iamais apoſteme de pur & ſimple humeur:car il y a touſiours mixion d'au- du phleg- tre,pource que les humeurs ſont toufiours meſlez auec le ſang,principalement aux apoſtemes vrayes,c'eſt à ſº} m,, dire, qui ſont faites d'humeurs naturels,leſquels ne pechent qu'en quantité:mais celles qui ſont faites d'hu- meurs non vrays,le plus ſouuent ſont trouuées eſtre cauſes d'vn ſeul humeur.or il faut à preſent retourner gal. liu des º l'apoſteune qui retient le propre nom de phlegmô,qui eſt fait de ſang louable( comme aeſté dit lequel eſt tumeurs, ér definy par galien en ceſte maniere : phlegmon vray eſt tumeur contre nature,faite de ſang pur & loüable, § fluant ſur aucune partie en plus grande quantité qu'il n'eſt beſoin : lequel ſe fait communement, & le plus d§, ſouuent en parties charneuſes,& aucunesfois és autres,& meſmement és os, comme dit hippocrate,& ga- phlegmºn lien. la generation duquel ſe fait en ceſte maniere.lors que le ſang flue en quelque partie plus qu'il ne hip liu de doit, premierement les plus grandes veines & arteres, qui ſont en la partie bleſsée ſe rempliſſent, & conſe- playes de la quemment les moyennes iufques aux plus petites nommées capillaires. d'icelles eſtans ainſi remplies ſort teſte, le ſang par reſudatiou,tant par leurs poroſitez que par leurs orifices en forme de rosée. gal, liu des de ce ſang ſont premierement remplis les lieux & eſpaces vuides, qui font entre les corps ſimilaires,ou º# , ſimples : puis s'imbibent & abbreuent dudit ſang toutes les autres parties circonuoiſines,& premierement ºl li#: * la chair car elle eſt plus capable de eceuoir fluxion, à cauſe qu'elle eſt plus ſanguine& ſpongieuſe:puis les - v # " nerfs,tendons, membranes,ligamenss'imbibent : parquoy neceſſairement s'enſuit tumeur, pource qu'il y a la † §, repletion outre meſure,de laquelle s'enſuit pareillement tenſion,& retinence ou reſiſtance,auſſiya douleur § § tant pour la tenüon que pour la chaleur eſtrange.dauantage eſt ſentie,pullation,& principalement,comme fait le auons dit,quand la ſuppuration ſe fait à cauſe que les veines,arteres & nerfs premierement,& ſur toutes les pblegmºn. autres parties ſoutirent douleur,eſlans interieurement eſchauffées,par la fluxion, & exterieurementnefont la chair ſu. pas ſeulement eſchauffees,mais auſſi preſſées & comprimées des autres parties.comme ainſiſoit donc,que jette à fſu- toutes loient auû douleureuſes , à cauſe qu'elles ſont eſchauffées,imbues,comprimées, & tumefiées dudit xiom. ſang(ce qu'elles ne ſont eſtans en leur habitude uaturelle)leſdites arteres qui ſont en perpetuel mouuemét, cauſe de tº lequel eſtappellé diaſtolé,& syſtolé,qui eſt à dire,eleuation & côpreſſion,en leur eleuation frappant con- mº" é " tre les parois deſdites parties enflammées, & par tel moyen fontladite douleur pulſatile.adiouſte, que les l} ;t }t€, arteres eûans en tel cas remplies du ſang plus abondant & plus feruent, ſe dilatent, & heurtent les parties # º du voiſines,plus que de couſtume,pour chercher rafraiſchiſſemêt, par attraction de l'air ambient,& pour ſoy& §, pour lelûtes parties,qui fait ce ſymptome propre au phlegmon,qu'on appelle pulſus : qui n'eſt autre choſe cqfilii a g , des tumeurs engeneral. a comme dit gal.ſur le comment. .de la ſect. . ſinon vn battement d'artere douloureux, & ſenſible au ma- lade. car autrement tant que le corps en toutes ſes parties ſe porte bien, nous ne ſentons point les arteres battre & mouuoir en nous-meſmes : parquoy ſont bien remarquables ces deux cauſes de pulſation és phlegmons, ſçauoir la ferueur & abondance de ſang contenu és vaiſſeaux qui incite les arteres à ſe debat- cauſe de la tre plus que de couſtume, & la compreſſion , & anguſtie deſdites arteres par la repletion des parties voiſi- douleur pul- nes qui eſt cauſe que heurtées par leſdites arteres elles ſentent douleur. et à ceſte raiſon les vulgaires ve- ſºtine-. xcz † phlegmon diſent ſentir à la partie affectée vn battement comme coups de marteau. et autre la pulſa- tion faite par les arteres,en y a vn autre qui ſe fait és humeurs,lors qu'ils viennent à ſuppuration, & putre- c uſe de faction par le moyen des vapeurs, cauſes de faire vne pulſation pruritiue, & principalement és apoſtemes chaleur en chauds. la cauſe de chaleur au phlegmon,eſt pource que le ſang fluant à la partie plus qu'elle n'a beſoin,eſt phlegmon. conculqué , & amaſſé faiſant obſtruction, dont l'éuacuation eſt prohibée és eſpaces vuides, & parce ledit ſang ſe putrefie, & acquiert vne chaleur cſtrange. finalement il y a rougeur à raiſon du ſang qui eſt rouge. car chacun humeur dominant ſur aucune partic, donne ſa teinture au cuir, & partie où il abonde. des cauſes & ſignes de phlegmon. ch a p. v i i i. e s cauſes de phlegmon ſont trois,à ſçauoir,primitiues, antecedentes, & coniointes. les pri- cauſes pri- mitiues ſont chcutes,contuſions,extenſion,trauail immoderé,frictions, application d'onguent mitiues. acre,ou d'eſtre tenu trop long-temps prés du feu,ou demeuré auſſi par trop au soleil:pareille- ment mauuais regime , multipliant le ſang en trop grande quantité. les cauſes antecedentes cauſes ants- \ ſont abondance de ſang les cauſes coniointes ſont la multitude du ſang amaſſé, & impact à ºedentes. la partie affligée,& autres qui ont eſt édites au chapitre general. les ſignes & indices de phlegmon , ſont cauſes con- tumeur,tenſion,renitence,chaleur febrile,douleur,pulſation (principalemunt quand il vient à ſuppuration) º d couleur rouge,& autres ſignes ſignifians le ſang, que ie delaiſſe à cauſe de briefueté. les petits phlegmons # ſe terminent le plus ſouuent par reſolution,les grands par ſuppuration, & aucunesfois en ſcirrhe ou dure- #i. tez, pareillement en gangrene & autres eſpeces de maladies : lors que la nature & faculté de la partie eſt ， iugement, ſurmontée par la malignité ou abondance de la fluxion, comme eſcrit galien au liure des tumeurs contre nature:& toutes ces choſes doiuent eſtre conſiderées par le docte chirurgien, afin qu'il applique les re- medes idoines ſelon l'eſſence de la maladie,le temps d'icelle, & nature des parties affectées. - •-c-- de la cure de phlegmon vray. ch a p. i x. e chirurgien en la cure du vray phlegmon ſe doit propoſer quatre poincts principaux. le premier conſiſte à la maniere de viure,laquelle(parce que le phlegmon de ſoy eſtant chaud,ex- # cite la fiévre)doit tendre à frigidité & humidité, ce qui s'accomplira par les ſix choſes non na- " # turelles,qui ſont l'air,manger,& boire,mouuement,& repos, dormir & veiller,repaetion &va- les f, cho- ， ſ$ cuation,& les accidens de l'ame. donc il eſlira l'air pur & clair, non trop humide ne rheuma- ſes mcn natu- tique, toutesfois vn peu froid : ſon manger, & boire tendra à frigidité & humidité moderée, ſans vſer de relles, l'air, viures qui engendrent trop grande quantité de ſang parquoy il vſera de bouillons non gras, auſquels mºnger cr auront cuit bourrache,bugloſſe,laictues,eſpinards,ozeille,chichorée. il delaiſſera toutes eſpiceries,ails,oi- boire. gnons,& generalement toutes choſes qui eſchauffent le ſang:euitera toutes choſes graſſes & douces, d'au- tant que ſoudain elles s'enflambent:ſon boire ſera du vin fort delicat,bien trempé,& où il aura ſoupçon de fiévre,vſera de ptiſane, eau boüillie,eau d'amandes,bouchet;toutesfois faudra auoir eſgard à l'aage, force, & couſtume de viure du maladc. car s'il eſt vieil, ou qu'il ne ſe puiſſe paſſer de vin, comme pluſieurs, il en moutuement vſera moderément.il doit tenir le repos,car tous mouuemens eſchauffent,& principalement n'exercera au §, repos. cunement la partie malade,craignant d'y faire nouuelle fiuxion. il tiendra mediocrité en ſon dormir, & s'il .#, . eſt replet,ne doit dormir de iour,principalement toſt apres diſner. le trop boire & manger luy eſt du tout dermir. contraire,mais ſe nourrira peu, tant qu'il luy ſera poſſible, & reglément, non dauantage que ſon naturel le repletion ér peut porter.son ventre ſera touſiours mol,& s'il ne l'eſt de ſoy,le ſera par art,prenant clyſteres,& ſuppoſi- éuacuation. toires par interuales. il euitera toutes affections vehementes de l'ame,noiſe, contention, faſcherie, debats. leº effrétiens or d'autant que la compagnie des femmes luy eſt fort pernicieuſe, ſur toutes choſes s'en abſtiendra sa ma- º º niere de viure ainſi ordonnée, faudra auoir eſgard au ſecond poinct,qui eſt diuertir la fluxion,laquelle ſera de l'ame. deſtournée ſi nous oſtons les cauſes d'icelle,à ſçauoir la cacochymie,ouplethore : ce qui ſe fera par purga- #% # tions,phlebotomie,ſi l'aage & forces le permettent:& fila partie reccuante eſt foible,ſera fortifiée en reſer- ## rant la largeur des conduits,retirât vers les parties contraires l impetuoſité de l'humeur coulant,par appli- fluxion. cations de ventouſes, frictions & ligatures. et ſi la partie eſt vexée de douleur, qui eſt ſouuentesfois cauſe de fluxion,ſera appaiſée par medicament ſedatif de douleur contrariant à icelle. pour obtenir le troifieſme troiſieſme poinct,nous conſidererons le phlegmon en ſon commencement,augment,eſtat,& de clination. et pource eſt poinčt. beſoin vſer des medicamens qui ont diuerſe faculté : car au commencement nous rejettons, & repouſſons rºedes la matiere du phlegmon par medicamens repercuſſifs,comme blanc d'œuf,oxycrat,ius ou eaux de ioubarbe, pº*º- de plantin,de roſes, cataplaſmes faicts de hyoſcyame, eſcorce de grenade,de balauſte, bol armene , terre ## figillée,huile roſat,de coings,de myrtils,de pauot,deſquels ſimples ferez pluſieurs medicamens compoſez. # #-- exemple d'vncataplaſme. /. far,hord. . ij. ſucci ſemperui. plantag.afi. . iii. pul. malicor. balaſtiorum, pla m . & roſar.afi. .ij, olei myrtill. & roſar.añ. .j. fiat cataplaſ.autre cataplaſ. .plantag.ſolan. hyoſcy.añ. m. jj.cauda equinz,tapſ.barbat. centinod.añ. m.j. coquant. perfectè in oxycrato, piſtentur , paſſentur adden- do pulmyrtill.nucis cupreſſ , & roſar.rubra.añ. .iij.far. fabar. .ij. olei roſarum, & cydonior.afi. .j. ß. r.med., miſce,& fiat cataplaſma ad formam pultis ſatis liquidr. semblablement on pourravſer de ce liniment, au- po r. . · quel on trempera des compreſſes qui ſeront appliquées ſur la partie. . olei nymph. & roſar. añ. .iij. aq. ment. ca a- roſar.ſolani, & plantag. añ. . ij. aceti . iij. alb. ouor.nu. iij. fiat linimentum. pareillement on vſera de plaſme re l'onguent roſat, album raſis camphorat. emplaſtre diachalcith. diſſoult en vinaigre & huile roſat, popu-percuſſif & leum. en l'augment nous aurons eſgard à la fluxion , & à la matiere qui eſt impacte à la partie, tellement reſolutif. que les medicaments ſeront compoſez de repercuſſifs & reſolutifs,mais en ſorte que les repercuſſifs ſoient cn† grande quantité que les reſolutifs:comme. /...fol.mal.abſinth.plantag. añ. m. iij. coquant. in oxycr. piſt.paſſ.adde farina fabar.& hord.añ. j. pul. roſ. rub. & abſinth. .ij. olei roſar. & camomil.añ. .j fiat autre cata- cataplaſma ad formam pultis ſatis liquidae.autre. /.. ſar.hord. . iij. far. ſem lini & fœnug, an. .j. co-plaſme. quantur in aqua com.addendo ſub finem pul.myrtil.roſar & camomilañ. . . axung anſer. & oleiroſ afi. rºdº?ººr #j.miſc.& fiat catapl. en l'eſtat faut vſer des medicamens repercuſſifs, & reſolutifs en pareille quantité:& lºſº *il y a douleur,meſler enſemble des mitigatifs,comme. . rad-alth. . iiij. mal.pariet. añ. m ij. coquantur ſub - la premiere intention. |. | , le ſeptieſme liure, catatlaſme ſub cineribus addendofar. fabar & lent.afi. .ij. pulu.cºmcmill. & melilot.afi. #. ſ. olei camomill. & a rºººſſſé roſar.afi. #. j auxung. gall. ij. fat catapl. autre, é. mica panis triticei inaqua calid, macerat. fb.f. pul, ºf & roſar iub & al ſinth an. .vj. clei anet & mel.ccm.añ. .ij. miſce omnia ſimul, & fiat catapl. adformam # pult ſat. liquid. duquel on vſera principalement lors qu'il y douleur et quand la douleur & autres acci- # dens ſeront diminuez, on peut coniecturer que le phlegmon eſt en ſa declination, & partant faut reſoudre din . plus vigoureuſement, en vſant de purs & ſeuls reſolutifs, ccmmençant aux plus benins,craigrant de reſou- #.mede dre ſeulement le plus ſubtil,& que le gros ne demeure,ccmme. mal.biſmal.af.m. iij.coquantur adden- pe # #.. do far.hordei. .ii mcllis ccm. .j. cle cam cmil. & melilotañ. .j ſ. fiat cataplaſ autre.%.rad. bryonie, climatic». & cucumer.agreſt.añ. .ij.camcmill,& melilot.af. iii.iij. coquant.in hydrcmelite, addendo far, ſem.lini, autre cata- & fo nngañ. .ij.olei anet & axurg. anſ. & anat :añ. .j. fiat cataplaſ autrement aide-toy de l'emplaſtre plaſme plus ſuiuant. .emplaft diachil. mag. .ij. cmplaſt de melilot. .j. oleianet.& camomil.añ. .f. liquef.omnia * rcureux. ſmul, & fiat medicament. ad vſim.autre. z. emplaſt de mucag. & oxycro: añ. .ij. emplaſt. diachil. ireat. #ºlºſtres .j. oleililionim aut camcmelini quantum ſatis, vt inde fiat emplaſtrum ſatis molle. le quatrieſme poinct º giſt en la correction des accidens, entre leſquels la douleur tient le principal lieu, & pource faudra que le $uatrieſme chirurgien face diligence de l'appaiſer car outre qu'elle abbat, & affoiblit les vertus, elle empeſche les poinčt. actions & fait nouuelles fuxions,tirant le ſang & eſprits à la partie parquoy il conuient incontinent appli- accidens ºlº remedes qui la mitigent, leſquels ſeront diuerſifiez ſelon qu elle ſera : ccmme. z. micx panis albi in qui ſuiuent lacte tepido macerat. fb. ſ. vitell. ouor. nu.iij. olei roſat. .ij.croci . ſ. fiat cataplaſ. autre. /. for. ca- ia douleur momilla & meliloti, añ.f.iij.far.ſeminis lini, & fœnug.añ. .j.mucag.pſilij & cidonior.añ. . . olei camo- mil. & viol.afi. .j fiat cataplaſma ad formam pultis ſatis liquida autre. zmucag.rad. alth & fenug an, #. iij.oleiroſar.& anet añ. .j.far. ſeminis lini quant.ſatis, vt inde formetur cataplat ſatis molle. or ſi la dou- b eur perſeuere, & ne puiſſe eſtre appaiſée par les ſuſdits medicamens, faut auoir recours aux plus forts, & meſmes iuſques aux narcotiques,ſile cas le requiert,toutesfois vſant d'iceux ſi ſagement, cuel'on ne rende ºº!ºſº la partie mortifiée,en refrigerant plus qu'il ne ſeroit beſoin,comme. l. fol. hyoſch. & papauer, ſub cinerib. º coélañ. .iijadipis ſuil& oleiroſañ. .j. croci .j. fiat catapl. ou %. fol oxalid.mand, & ſemperui.an. iii.ij.piſtentur & paſſentur, addendo olei violar. . ij fiat cataplaſ autre. é. folcicut,& ſolani furioſ.au. .iiij.coquant.ſub cinerib.piflentur,paſſentur,addendo vngucnt.popul. & oleiroſar.añ. .j. fai. fœnug. vt inde formet.catapl.ad formam pultis ſatis liquidæ. curegenerale du phlegmon, lors qu'il eſt degeneré en abſcés. ch a p. x. sé r quelquesfois l'humeur eſt tellement impact à la partie.qu'il ne peut eſtre repercuté nyre- ， ſout:ce qui te ſera notoire pour la grande inflammation,tumeur eminente & rouge,auec dou- leur poignante,fiévre,pulſation & peſanteur, & autres que nous auons dit cy-deſſus. et lors glauc. # que tels ſignes apparoifient, & qu'il ne reſte aucune eſperance de reſoudre, faudra des re- chap. , s> ºº! ſolutifs paſſer aux ſuppuratifs. et pource galien fomente la partie auec eau tiede,ou huile, cataplaſme ou tous les deux enſemble:auſſi applique vn cataplaſme tel qui s'enſuit l.far.trit.velmic.panis. .iiij. olei. / /pºiſ comm. .iij.aqua ccmm.quantum ſufficit, & fiat cataplaſ.tu pourras vſer de ceſtuy cy. z. rad.lilior, alb, º*** alth.aii. .iij.fol.mal.pariet.& enec.afi.ii.j.cc quant.in hydromel. piſt. paſſ. addendofar.ſeminis lini .ij. plaſme . axungia ſuilla & olei lilior. an. .j.fiat cataplaſma. autre. mal.biſmal.viol.an.m.jcaricar.ping.num. o. - paſſul. .ij coquant.in aqua comm.piſ.paſſadde mellis ccn munis. .ij. vnguen.baſilic.& butyri recen.añ. c medicament .j.fiat catapl dauantage,tu pourras vſer de l'emplaſtre de diachylon magnum,ou de vnguentum baſiliconis, ºppºratif ou bien. z. emplaſt.diachyſ mag.fi.iij.vnguent baſilico .j.olei.lilior, . f.miſce cmnia ſimul,& facmedica- signe que le mentum ad eum quem p aſcripſmus vſtm. lors que la chaleur eſ remiſe,enſemble la douleur,fiévre , & #ta eſt fait. autres accidens ceſſent, & que la tumeur s'eſleue en pointe,& que l'on ſent vne inondation ou fiuctuoſité à le moyen la partie a ſgauoir,quand on preſſe les doigts ſur la tumeur, elle obeit facilement,trouuant vne molleſſe, •de cognoiſtre la ſanieva ;a & là, fuyant ſous les doigts,lors tu pourras iuger que le fus eſt fait. et partant deuant que lixe a#om, d'attendre plus longuement,tu viendras à l'appartion,craignant qu'elle ne mine & corrode les parties voiſi- nes,dont puis apres pourroient dcmcurer vlceres ſinueux & fiſtules, & principalement lors que la matiere ze moyen eſt veneneuſe, ou pres des jointures,ou au fondement,& en autres parties chaudes & humides. cartelles apoſtcmcs, comme nous enſeigne hippocrate, doiuent eſtre couuertes deuant la parfaicte ſuppuration, & d'adapter i'anneau ne veut qu'aux autres parties on ouure trop ſubit les apoſte mes, excepte aux parties pudibondes : car le qui s'exſuit. fu, qui eſt ja fait , aide à ſuppurer ce qui n'eſt pas encore cuit. or l'apertion ſera faite ou auec la lancette, ou auec le cautere ou potcntiel. car où le malade ſeroit craintif, & ne voudroit endurer le fer, tu vſeras pluſtoſt d'vn ruptoire, c'eſt à dire,cautere potentiel. il y a des malades qui craignent tant l'ouuerture, qu ils s'euaiioiiiſſent ſeulement voyans la lancette, de la crainte de douleur, auant que l'inciſion ſoit faite: ou ils retireront& deſtourneront la partie, qui fera que l'inciſion ne ſera faite au lieu qu'elle doit,ou moin- dre,ou plus grande qu'elle ne deuroit. parquoy faut que le chirurgien face l'ouuerture,auant que le mala- de aye loiſir d'y penſer en !'abuſant comme faiſant vne fomentation ou autre choſe à la deſrobée,ayant vne pointe de lancette,laquelle ſera attachée au milieu d'vn getton ou autre piece d'argent, laquelle ſera miſe ſur vne emplaſtre ou catapkaſme : & la pointe d'icelle ſi bien couuerte d'onguent ou du cataplaſme, que le d malade ny les aſſiſtans ne pourront apperceuoir : & eſtant ainſi accommodée, ſera appliquée ſur l'endroit où l'on doit faire j'apertion, & lors le chirurgien ſubit preſſera en l'endroit dudit getton ou piece,tant & ſi peu que ladite pointe ſoit entrée en l'apoſtcme. la figure t'eft icy repreſentée, l'vne grande, l'autre peti- te,& j'autre moyenne,deſquelles tu pourras vſer ſelon ta commoditÉ. signes de ſºitpuration galen .ad f ， figure- destumeurs en general. a figure des trois pointes de lancettes inſerées env» getton. a mºnſtre le getton, dans lequel eſt inſerée la pointeda la lancette. figure de l'anneau autre moyen de tromper le malade, c'eſt que le chirurgien aura au doigt index vn anneau, auquel ſera inſeré vne petite lancette , propre à faire ouuerture à l'apoſteme : ou auec vn petit piſtolet, comme tu vois par ces figures. figure du piſtolet qui ſe débande par vn reſſort. a monſtre la groſſe cannulle. b autre cannulle qui entre dedans la groſſe vis, c la pointe du piſtolet qui ſort dehors. d le reſſort qui fait debander le piſtolet. $n or en ces trois manieres d'apertions , ſept choſes ſont à \ confiderer. premierement, que la ſection ſoit faicte à l'endroit \ qui eſt le plus mol , & qui enfonce ſouz les doigts, & fait ſou- #uent vne pointe. le ſecond, qu'elle ſoit faicte au plus bas lieu, //afin que la matiere contenue ne croupiſſe, & ſe puiſſe mieux % écouler. le troiſieſme, qu'elle ſoit faicte ſelon les rides du cuir, & rectitude des muſcles. le quatrieſme, qu'on euite les grands vaiſſeaux, comme nerfs, veines, & arteres. le cin- quieſme, que la matiere ne ſoit point vuidée tout à coup, prin- cipalement aux grands abſcez,afin que ne s'enſuiue debilitation de la vertu , par la tropgrande euacuation qui ſe pourroit faire des eſprits auec la matiere. le ſixieſme, que le lieu ſoit traitté doucement, ſans exciter douleur le moins qu'il ſera poſſible. le ſeptieſme,qu'apres l'ouuerture le lieu ſoit mondifié,incarné, puis conſolidé & cicatrizé. apres telle apertion coſtumiere- ment, reſte encore quelque portion de la tumeur , laquelle n'aura pas du tout eſté ſuppurée : & partant le chirurgien doit auoir égard qu'il y a complication de diſpoſition , a ſçauoir tumeur & vlcere. l'ordre de curation , c'eſt de guarir premie- rement la tumeur de lvlcere : car elle ne peut eſtre guarie, que la partie ne ſoit rendue en ſa nature. doncques tu conti- nueras les medicaments ſuppuratifs cy-deſſus declarez, & l'vl- cere ſera traictée de l'eſpace de deux ou trois iours auec telme- dicament. /.. vitell. vnius oui, terebint.venet. & olei roſat.afi. . ß. fiat medicamentum. puis tu mondifieras auec vn tel me- dicament. z. mellis roſat. .j. firop. roſat. & terebint. venet. afi. .j. ß. far. hord. .ij. fiat medicamentum ad vſum. sembla- , blement le mundificatifde apio eſt ſingulier, duquel la deſcri- | ption eſt telle. %.ſucci apij,abfinth. plantag.beton. añ. .j.mell. comm. . v. tereb. venet. .iiij. farinae hord. & orobi añ. . ii. pul. aloès rad. ireos florentiae, myrrhae, añ. .j. coquatur mel •- cum ſuccis , quibus conſumptis addantur farina & pulueres, & miſceantur omnia ad formam vnguenti : & où tu voudras dauantage mondifier, vſeras de l'apoſtolorum, ou bien de l'vnguentum aureum e «gyptiacum,meſlez enſemble ſelon ta diſcretion:& eſtant mondifiée ſera incar- née & cicatrisée comme les autres vlceres, ainſi qu'il te ſera declaré en leur curation propre. des eſpeces de fiévresquiſuruiennent au phlegmon, & curativn d'icelles. ch a p. x i. - - " . n t r ， les accidens quiplus communément accompagnent les phlegmons, & plus generale- definition # # mentaffligent les malades,ſont les fiévres,c'eſt à dire, intemperatures chaudes & ſeiches,exci- de fié# - $ tées & allumées au cœur, & d'iceluy départies à tout le corps , par les conduits des arteres. e \ º， icelles au phlegmon ſont ou diaires , ou ſynoches non putrides, ou ſynoches putrides. fié- snsns vre eſt vne ebullition de ferueur & d'inflammation , que les grecs appellent feu : car de quel- ue eſpece que ce ſoit, eſt toufiours fondée en chaleur contre nature. de la nature & curation deſquels ie iray icy briefuement ce que i'en ayappris de meſſieurs nos maiſtres les docteurs en medecine, auec leſ- quels i'ay hanté & pratiqué. - - - . . . - fiévre diaire ou ephemere, eſtvne intemperature chaude & ſeiche,allumée és eſprits vitaux,ainſi nom- d, la févr, mée quaſi comme iournaliere du mot latin dies,quifignifie lour,pource que de ſa nature elle fait & parfait diaire. ſon cours en vn accez,qui ne dure pas plus de vingt quatre heures, qui eſt l'eſpace d'vn iour naturel,& ce à cauſe qu'elle eſt allumée en vn ſujet tenue & ſubtil,aiſement,& en peu de temps diſſipable,ſçauoir és eſprits & ne giſt point en pourriture, mais en vn eſprit exhalatif embraſé. · a ar ' , - les cauſes des hévres ephemeres ſont,faim,ebrieté,laſſitude,ire,ou cholere,fureur, triſteſſe, veilles,den- cauſes des fation ou aſtriction de cuir,ſoit par refrigeration ou par aduſtion,bains,mutation de vie declinant à chaleur fiévres ephe- par application ou priſe de medicamens acres, commevenins, & alimens chauds : bref toutes les§ //mere s . - - i)oitlitl ccs - - | · le ſixieſme liure, nommées des medecinººuſes efficientes des fiévres, horſmis la pourriture : c landul ration des fiévres putrides.le bubon meſme qui ſuit l'inflammation ou phlegmon des # d § cs fievre, ſelon l'aphoriſme qui dit, que les fiévres qui ſuruiennent aux tumeurs de* #º di º, ſon toutes malignes, excepté les diaires. lequel aphoriſme doit eſtre bien entendu,& pris a uec la iſtinct§ de ga- lien , diſant cela s'entendre ſeulement des tumeurs qui viennent aux glandules ſans cauſe manifeſte. car autrement les fiévres qui en ſuruiennent, ne ſont touſiours dangereuſes, comme nous voyons les par bu- bons qui ſuruiennent ſouuent aux enfans,& par les bubons veneriens, qui ſont ſans inflammation » o coi- ruption de foye : car tels ſont ordinairement ſans fiévre dangereuſe : aduertiſſement que doit bien noter le ieune chirurgien. les ſignes communs de la fiévre diaire,ſont chaleur douce,& haliteuſe, ſuaue à l'attouchement,le pouls viſte & frequent, quelquesfois grand & fort,comme ſi la diaire eſt causée de courroux.autresfois petite,ſi elle eſt causée de faſcherie, triſteſſe, faim, froid, crudité, aureſte égal & bien reglé. les ſignes tres-certains de la fiévre diaire ſont,ſi la fiévre eſt ſuruenue non lentement, & peu à peu,mais signes de la ſubitement & inopinément de quelque cauſe cxternc & euidente,ſans que le malade ait eſté premierement # #. degouſté ſans auoir ſenty laſſitude ſpontanée, c'eſt à dire venue ſans cauſe manifeſte, ſans oſcitation ou f'e . baaillement : ſi le malade eſt ſans † douleur, iactation de corps ou inquietude,ſans horreur ou friſſon, ſans profond ſommeil : & bref, ſans aucun faſcheux ſymptome. la fievre diaire n'ayant de ſa propre nature qu'vn accezd'vn ſeul iour, comme nous auons dit, neant- moins quelquesfois elle s'eſtend iuſques à deux, trois, voire quatre iours. et alors ſe change aiſément en fiévre putride, ſi quelque erreur ſe commet par le malade ou medecin , ou quelque choſe exterieure. elle putrides. ſc termine ou par inſenſible tranſpiration ou par moiteur,ou par vne ſueur naturelle,& douce&non fetide. signes de la les fiévres synoches non putrides,s'engendrent de ſang non corrompu,mais ſeulement eſchauffé outre fiévre syno- meſure , faiſant grande euaporation par tout le corps. d'où vient que les veines ſe monſtrent enfiées, la #.,, pu face enflambée, les yeux rouges & ardans, l'expiration chaude,toute l'habitude du corps humide le tout à tride. raiſon de l ebullition du ſang, deſdictes vapeurs, qui eſt cauſe que telle fiévre quelquesfois eſt apppellée humorale. les petits enfans y ſont ſubiects, comme auſſi toute perſonne ſanguine ſans cacochymie.la fa- çon de guarir telle fiévre, eſt ſemblable à la cure de la fiévre diaire. parquoy ce que nous dirons de l'vne, ſe pourra accommoder à l'autre : ſinon que la ſaignée eſt icy bien requiſe. doncques la cure de la fiévre diaire conſiſte en l'vſage de ſix choſes non naturelles,contrarians à la cau- ſe originale du mal.les bains d'eau tiede & naturelle ſont tres-vtiles , pourueu que le malade ne ſoit point curatiºn de pletorique,plein d'excrement, ou autrement ſuject à catarrhes, & defiuxions,parce qu'en liquefiant les hu- º ſº meurs, ou relaſchant, il pourroit exciter ou augmenter le catarrhe. parquoy en tel accident on euitera les diaire. frictions , & onctions d'huile tiede:leſquelles toutesfois en la fiévre diaire ſont autrement fort vtiles,prin- cipalement quand elle eſt causée par trauail exceſſif,paraſtriction des pores,& par le bubon.au reſte,que ceſte reigle ſoit generale d'oppoſer à chacune cauſe d'où ceſte fiévre aura eſté excitée , ſon contraire pour remede : comme au trauail le repos, aux veilles le dormir;à la colere & faſcherie choſes plaiſantes,propos ioyeux & recreatifs, au bubon la curation d'iceluy. le vinmediocrement trempé, ſelon la couſtume du malade,eſt vtile à toutes les cauſes de la fiévre diaire, excepté quâdil y aura douleur de teſte, quâd elle ſe- ra excitée de courroux & d'vn bubô:car en ce dernier cas principalemét,faudra du tout retrancher le vin, ſ icelle eſt propt » cxcite ceſte aphor. . liu. . des fiévres synoches nvn à la gene- a b tant que l'inflammation ayant paſſé ſon eſtat,ſoit en ſa declinaiſon. ceſte ſorte de fiévre trauaille aſſez ſou- c pour les fe- uent les petits enfans. lors donc leurs nourrices doiuent eſtre pensées comme ſi elles-meſmes auoient la tits enfant fiévre,afin de rendre leur laict medicamenteux. il ſera auſſi bon de baigner l'enfant : & apres le bain,l'oin- dre d'huile violat le long de l'eſpine du dos,& poictrine. - que ſi le phlegmon eſt en vne partie interne ou fort grand, ou voiſin de quelque partie noble, de ſorte des fiévres qu'il puiſſe enuoyer de ſoy continuellement au cœur quelque portion & vapeur de ſa ſubſtance pourrie, & synºches pu- non par la ſeule qualité de chaleur contre nature, par continuation des parties de l'vne à l'autre,il fera l'eſ- trides. pece de fiévre que nous diſons synoche putride,fi le ſang qui par contagion ſe pourrit dans les grands vaiſ- #ººº ſeaux,eſt composé d'egale meſlange,& permiſſion des quatre humeurs.ceſte fiévre ſe cognoiſt à ce qu'elle ##. n'a aucune remiſſion ou exacerbation,encores moins d'intermiſſion.elle tient le febricitant outre les vingt- p " quatre heures , ne finiſſant point lors à la mode des intermittentes par vomiſſemens,ſueurs, ou moiteurs, ou peu à peu inſenſiblement,mais perſeuerant,dure iuſques à ce qu'elle ſe termine, & quitte du tout le ma- lade. elle ne ſurprend ſinon ceux qui font de bonne nature, en temperament & complexion , abondans en cursion .. beaucoup de ſang,& iceluy iuſtement meſlé des quatre humeurs. ceſte fiévre eſt de peu de durée : d'autans # #, que le ſang par ſa pourriture degenerant en bile ou melancholie,fait incontinent vne autre eſpece de fiévres synº.h, pu ſçauoir tierce ou quarte continues. la curation de ceſte fiévre ( ſelon que i'ay appris des bons medecins) trsde. conſiſte premierement en phlebotomie. car le ſang eſtant tiré , la plenitude eſt oſtée : dont s'enſuit que l'obſtruction ſoit tollue, & par conſequent la pourriture. or comme ainſi ſoit qu'en ceſte fiévreil n'y ait point ſeulement vice de la matiere par la pourriture du ſang, mais auſſi de la temperature par l'excez de chaleur , certes la phlebotomie ne remedie pas ſeulement à la pourriture,comme nous auons dit,mais auſſi à l'intemperie chaude. car le ſang (auquel conſiſte toute la chaleur ) eſtant tiré enſemble auecques luy: d les excrements acres & fuligineux s'exhalent,qui retenus augmentent l'ardeur de la fiévre. et outre,en lieu du ſangeuacué, les veines attirent beaucoup d'air froid pour la fuite de vacuité que nature abhorre, dont s'enſuit rafraichiſſement de toute l'habitude du corps. mieſme à pluſieurs par le benefice de la phlebotomie , le ventre s'ouure,& les ſueurs ſortent abondamment,choſes fort deſirables en ceſte eſpece de fiévre:ce qui a efmeu quelques vns, à dire qu'il falloit icy ſaigner iuſques à l'hypothymie, toutesfois,d'autant que pluſieurs par ce moyen ont auec le ſang rendu l'ame entre les mains des mede- cins, ie ſerois pluſtoſt d'aduis, aduenant le cas que le malade euſt beſoin de grande euacuation de fang, de partir icelle euacuation, oſtant du lang par interualles tant que les forces du malade le pourront porter- la phlebotomie ainſi deuement faicte, il faudra incontinent donner vn clyſtere remollient, & moderément rafreſſchiſſant. car ceux qui rafrechiſſent trop, aſtraignent pluſtoſt le ventre qu'ils ne le laſchent le len- demain faudra par vn leger medicament de caſſe ou de catholicum , faire minoration de la matiere. en apres ordonner ſyrops, qui ayent non ſeulement force de rafreſchir , mais auſſi de reſiſter à la pourriture- tels ſont celuy de limons,de berberis,l'aceteux ae acetoſitate citri,de granatis , oxyſacchar ſimple:auſquels il faudra meſler des eaux de pareille vertu, comme de l'eau d'ozeille, de roſes, & ſemblables. le viure en tout ſoit rafraichiſſant & humectant au reſte ténuë, pour la pluſpat de boüillons de poullets, de chair de #. veau,alterez auec ozeille, l'aictue & pourpié, & ſemences froides.car la chaleur naturelle ayant eſté fort f# #mºindrie par lº gºnde phlebºtomie , ne pourroit cuire beaucoup de viande. le breuuage ſoit eau d'or- / º . ge,ſyrop violat,deſtrempé auec beaucoup d'eau,iulep roſar, dit autrement alexandrin, ſi prinçipalement il ſuruenoit - c tl , - i des tumeurs en general. a ſuruenoit quelque grand flux de ventre.sur tout il faudra obſeruer le quatrieſme iour,car ſil'on apperçoit quelques ſignes de concoction , la criſe ſe fera le ſeptieſme, quelquesfois par vomiſſement, flux de ventre, vrines,ſueurs mais plus ſouuent par hemorrhagie. et lors ne faudra rien remuer dauantage,ains laiſſer na ! ture faire ſon deuoir ſelon le chemin qu'elle aura pris, gal.liu. , de la methode,chap. . ordonne de boire grande quantité d'eau froide au plus fort de la fiévre ardante & des fiévres ſynochestrelle choſe profite,& amollit la chaleur febrile, comme quand on iette force eau aufeu pour l'eſteindre:toutesfois il n'en faudra donner au † premierement on ne voye les ſignes de concoction, meſme ſur la declinaiſon ne ſe- ra hors de propos donner du vin pour eſmouuoir les † de l'eryſipelas. ch a p. xii. p r e s auoir traicté des tumeurs, qui ſont engendrées de ſang naturel , il faut maintenant · que nous parlions de celles qui ſont faictes de cholere, pour lagrande affinité qu'elle a auec- ques iceluy ſang. or les tumeurs qui ſont engendrées de cét humeur cholerique naturel, - ſont nommées des anciens sryſipelata, qui eſt vne inflammation fort ardente, laquelle princi- d • .. n alement occupe le cuir,& quelquefois quelque parti - - - efinition p. up , & quelq quelque partie & portion de la chair ſubiette,eſtant d'eryſipele fait de ſang,qui eſt de tenue ſubſtance ( lequel par ſon ebullition ſe tourne facilement en cholere) ou de gal. chap. . ſang & cholere plus chauds qu'il n'eſt requis : & quelquefois de cholere meſlée parmy quelque ſanie a- liu. . de la queuſe. celuy qui eſt faict de vraye & pure cholere eſtappellé de galien vray & exquis. et quand la cho-metho. é *. lere eſt meſlée auecque les autres humeurs, elle fait trois eſpeces,ou differences d'eryſipele : comme ſi el- à glaue. b le eſt meſlée & en plus grande quantité auecque le ſang, ſera appellé eryſipelas pblegmonodes : ſi auec la pi- #º *. tuites,yſpelas oedematodes : ſi auec la melancholie, eriſipelas # : de ſorte que le premier nom & ſub- à glauc. ſtantifſignifiera toufiours l'humeur ſuperabondant : le ſecond & adiectif, l'humeur qui eſt meſlé en moin- dre quantité. auſſi les humeurs eſtans proportionnez enſemble & en meſme quantité , feront eryſipelas phlegmon, eryſipelas œdeme, eryſipelas ſcirrhe : galien en fait deux differences, vn ſans vlcere, & l'autre auec vlceration.car lors que la cholere eſt ſeparée du ſang,pour ſa ſubtilité venant au cuir,elle faict vlce- re : mais eſtant meſlée auec le ſang,quiluy eſt comme vn frein elle l'engarde de paruenir iuſques à la ſuper- ficie,& fait pluſtoſt tumeur qu'vlcere. de la cholere non naturelle : pareillement ſont engendrées pluſieurs eſpeces de tumeurs, comme herpes exedens,miliari , & bref toutes tumeurs & vlceres,compris depuis herpés iuſqu'au chancre,comme nous auons dit cy-deſſus.les ſignes d'eryfipelas ſont cognus par trois principaux poincts : premierement par la couleur qui eſt rouge, tendante à couleur citrine ou iaunaſtre : laquelle cou- leur s'eſuanoüit ſi toſt qu'on la preſſe du doigt,qui ſe fait à cauſe de la ſubtilité de la matiere, qui conſiſte plus au cuir qu'en autre partie,d'autant que la matiere n'eſt point contenue au profond,& partant eſt apel- iée d'aucuns des anciens,paſſion de cuir : tierçement,pour les accidens:comme chaleur, pulſation & dou-s§ d'e leur.l'eryſipele eſt beaucoup plus chaud que le phlegmon,d'autant que la matiere eſt plus chaude & ſubti-, # :-- le:auſſi la pulſation n'eſt ſi vehemente,pource que les parties ne ſont comprimées comme en phlegmon, & # , qu'il n'y a ſigrande obſtruction pour la matiere,qui n'eſt en ſi grande quantité:auſſi pour ſa ſubtilité ſe re- glaue. - ſoult facilement,& ne demeure cachée. dauantage la douleur n'eſt ſemblable:car celle d'eryſipelas eſt poi- auicenne. gnante, & mordicante ſans aucune tenſion ne peſanteur.les cauſes ſont ſemblables à celles de phlegmon, - à ſçauoir primitiues,antecedentes,& coniointes.ceſte tumeur iaçoit qu'elle puiſſe aduenir à chaſque partie, cauſes e- c toutesfois principalement occupe la face pour la rareté d'icelle,& ſubtilité de la cholere. s'il ſuruient ery- ryſipale.' ſipelas aux playes & vlceres, c'eſt mauuais ſigne. semblablement s'il vient à ſuppuration : car il demonſtre frognoſtie. qu'il y a obſtruction,à cauſe de quelque humeurgros meſlé auec ladite cholere,dont s'enſuit corroſion aux hipp.liu. . parties qui ſont ſous le cuir,l'eryſipelas le plus ſouuent ſe termine par reſolution.quand il retourne du de-ºph° - dans au dehors, c'eſt bon ſigne:mais au contraire, quand il retourne du dehors au dedans, c'eſt mauuais ſi-ººº gne. semblablement s'il ſuruient eryſipelas à la matrice, c'eſt choſe mortelle. il eſt auſſi dangereux , s'il apho. occupe la face en grande quantité, à cauſe qu'il communique auec les membranes du cerueau. ## - • • trois diffe- rences d'e- ryſipele. autre dif - re º. gal. . aſet. de la cure d'eryſºpelas. ch a p. xi i i. & ov x la curation de d'eryſipelas nous deuons auoir deux intentions, à ſçauoir vacuation,&- ga - - * _ _ - > • - - - al, refrigeration. mais d'autant qu'il y a plus de beſoin de refrigerer pour la grande ardeur qu'en phlegmon, noſtre principal but ſera de refrigerer : ce qu'ayant falt, la matiere conte- nuë ſera oſtée par reſolutifs mediocres,& pource nous aurós quatre poincts principaux à cö- ſiderer.le premier c fiſte à la maniere de viurequi ſera froide,humide & incraſſâte:qui ſe fe- ra par les ſix choſes n naturelles,tendantes à frigidité & humidité,plus toutesfois qu'en phlegmon. le fe- cond poinct conſiſte à l'euacuation de la matiere antecedente,ce qui ſe fera par phlebotomie , & par me- dicamens cholagogues : comme ſi l'eryſipelas eſt à la face,& s'il occupe grandement icelle,la phlebotomie ſera faiâe de la veine cephalique. semblablement conuient la phlebotomie s'il y a quelque portion de d ſangmeſéauecques ladicte cholere : mais s'ileſt en autre partie, & qu'il ne ſoit en grande quantité , ou qu'il ſoit fait de pure colere, la phlebotomie n'eſt neceſſaire, veu que le ſang eſt frein de cholere, lequel pourroit eſtre euacué par icelle phlebotomie, dont la malice de l'humeur cholerique ſeroit augmentée. mais s'il ya repletion au corps,ſera fort expedient detirer du ſang,d'autant que ſouuétesfois telle plethore § - ou repletion eſt cauſe d'eryſipele,comme nous monſtre galien. or deuant que ce faire , ſera bon & expe- # du dient donnervn clyſtere remollient & refrigerant. quant aux medicamens cholagogues, comme apozemes r,. iſiejme &potions, ſeront ordonnées par le prudent & docte medecin. le troiſieſme poinct s'accomplira par me- ſ .. dicamens topiques,leſquels ſeront au commencement & augment froids & humides, & non ſecs ne aſtrin- gal.liu. de gens, d'autant que la matiere eſtant acre & boüillante,pourroit pour leur aſtriction eſtre repouſſée au de- compoſ me- dans, qui vlcereroit & corroderoit la partie. galien & auicenne louent grandement ce remede. .l. aquæ dicament. frigid #.vj.aceti opt.j. fiat oxycrat, auquel tremperez des compreſſes, puis ſeront appliquées deſſus & hippatho*. autour la partie, & renouuellées ſouuent : ou bien tu vſeras de ceſtuy. /. ſucc. ſolan. planta. & ſemp. liu. . ana. . ij.aceti. . É. mucag ſemin. pſill. ij. ſucc. hyoſc. .j. miſce or ſi l'eryſipelas eſt à la face, vſerez # de tel remede. /. vng. roſat. . iij. ſucc. plant & ſemper. anna. .j. troſcic.de champh. . acetiparum, # #. es miſceantur ſimul, & äat linimentum. si la douleur & l'inflammation ſont ſi vehementes : qu'elles ne puiſ- ryſipelas. ſent eſtre ſupportées,faudra vſer de medicamens narcotiques : comme, /.. ſucc.hyoſch.ſola cicut anna.# . alb.ouorum j.aceti. . .opij.& champh.giiij.croci f.mucag.ſeminis pfillij& fœnugr.extractin aqua roſar. & plantag.ana. .j. olei de papau. . ij. fiat liniment. addend. vng refiig galeni. aºrºº # .met remiear ſcope. second. gal. .met. & . ad glau. gal.com.ſur i o le ſeptieſme liure, ' gal. .mct. paul. liu. . chap. i. fomentatiö . - ©uatrieſme ſcope. definition de herpes. galie n . à glauc. cure de her- pes. premier poinčt. second. . troiſieſme. remedes pour les her- pes. atteſtation de l'auteur. p ourquoyles jiévres qui ſurttiennent aux iryſºpe- las ſont tier- ſ ^j. cauſes. signes, arciäens. @ne ſigni fie it les vl- ceres de la bouche aux fiévres tier- ſf $, le chirurgien ne doit continuer longtemps tels medicaments,de peur de ſuffoquer la chaleur naturelle & a rendre la partie mortifiée, comme auons touché parlans de phlemon : par ainſi ſeront appliquez auec diſ- cretion,à ſçauoir en temps & lieu, ce que tu cognoiſtras par trois raiſons. la premiere eft quand le malade ne ſent ſi grande douleur,ardeur,inflammation,ne punction. la ſeconde,quand tu cognois tant par laveuë que par l'attouchement, la partie eſtre plus temperée que de couſtume. la tierce lors que la couleur rouge & iaunaſtre commence à changer en liuitidé & noirceur,adonc fubit tu deſiſteras d'appliquer tels medica- mens,vſant de reſolutifs & roboratifs;afin de conforter, & reuoquer la chaleur naturelle.comme z.farin. hord.& orob.ana. . ij. far. ſeminis lini. . j.f. coquant in hydromel. veloxycr.addend. pul.roſar rub. & camomil. ana. . . olei anet. & camomill. ana. . j. fiat capat. ou bien feras vne fomentation qui s'enſuit. %. radalth. . ij. fol. mal. biſmal. pariet. abſint ſal. ana. m. j.for. camomil. melil. & roſar.rub.ana.m. ij coquantur in œquis partib. vini & aquæ, & fiat fotus cum ſpongia. apres laquelle apliquerez vn emplaſtre de diachylon ireatum, ou de diapahma diſſout en huile de camomile & melilot,ou autres ſemblables medi- camens reſolutifs. le quatrieſme poinct,qui eſt la correction des acidens, ſe fera ainſi que nous auons dit du phlegmon , diuerſifiant les remedes ainſi que le chirurgien verra eſtre neceſſaire. •" des herpes. c h a p. x iv. yºs sºz e r p e s eſt vne tumeur faite de la pure & ſincere cholere,!ſeparée & ſequeſtrée des autres # § n! humeurs,laquelle pour ſa tenuité s'eſleue iuſques à l'epiderme,& occupe ſeulemët la ſuperficie ， # n (. d'iceluy. galien en fait trois eſpeces.car ſi la pure cholere mediocre en ſubſtance,c'eſt à dire, $ , $ non groſſe ny craſſe,eſt cauſe d'icelle,lors eſt faict herpes ſimple, retenant lc nom du genre.si ^s l'humeur n'eſt ſi ſubtil,& eſt accôpagné de quelque portion de pituite,fait de petites veſſies au cuir en forme de millet,qui eſt cauſe que les anciens luy ont dôné le nó de herpes milliaris,auſſi ſi auecque la cholere quelque portion de l'humeur melancholique y eſt meſlé, lors eſt engendré herpes exedens,c'eſt à dire rongeant,corrodant,& vlcerant le cuir,& la chair de deſſus. quant a la curation , le chirurgien aura eſgard à trois poincts.le premier eſt,touchant la maniere de viure,qui doit eſtre ſemblable à celle qu'auôs dit au chap. d'eryſipelas.le ſecond euacuer la matiere antecedente qui ſe fera auec medicamens purgatifs, euacuans l'humeur pechant : à quoy faire les clyſteres ſeront quelquesfois ſuffiſans, ſi le ventre de ſoy eſt mol,& ſi les vrines auſſi coulent facilemét,d'autant qu'auec icelles grande quantité de cét humeur ſe purge. le troiſieſme poinct eſt, oſter la matiere conioincte , qui ſe fera par medicamenstopiques, ayât eſgard à la tumeur,& à l'vlcere. dont le chirurgien ſe propoſera double intention,à ſçauoir reſolution de la tumeur & deſiccation de l'vlcere.car tout vlcere requiert eſtre deſſeiché : ce qui ne peut eſtre accomply que la tu- meur ne ſoit oſtée. et pource que le chirurgien doit eſtre attentifà l'intétion principale,ſans laquelle l'au- tre ne peut eſtre oſtée,compoſera & appliquera tel medicamét,lequel ſera reſolutif,& deſiccatif. /.creuſ. & tuth.prxpat.ana. .j. olei.roſar. & adip. carp. ana. .ij. cortic, pini vſti & loti. . É. cera quantum ſatis, & fiat vnguentum. autre. z. far. hord.& lent.ana. .ij. coquant. in decoct. cort.mali. gran, balauſt. plan- tag. addendo pulu. roſat. rub. & abfinht.ana. . ß. olei. myrtil. & mel. communis ana. . vj. fiat. medica- ment.vt artis eſt.remedes pour l'herpés miliaris. z. pul.gall. malic.balauſt.boli.armen.ana. .jaque roſar. . iij. aceti acerim. .j. axung. anſeris. & olei myrtill. ana. . j. ſ.terebent. .j.fiat vnguen. ad vſum. i'ay pluſieurs fois experimenté l'onguent enulatum cû mercurio,où i'ay trouué grâd effect plus qu'à nul autre, parce qu'il mortifie les puſtules, & consôme l'humeur contenujen la partie. et pour arreſter l'humeur qui chemine & corode, tu vſeras à l'vlcere & bordsd'icelle d'vn medicament acre , comme eau forte, ou huile de vitriol,ou autre ſemblable,& trouueras en telle choſe vn merueilleux effect,ce que i'ay pluſieurs fois ex- perimente. - des fievres qui ſuruiennent aux tumeurs eryſipelateuſes. c h a p. xv. # qvt ainſi qu'aux tumeurs phlegmonneuſes, & aux eryſipelateuſes, ſuruiennent fiévres quel- quesfois, qui retiennent & reſſentent de l'humeur duquel elles ſont excitées , ſçauoir de la bile ou cholere. laquelle pource qu'elle a cela de propre d'auoir des mouuemens de trois $ iours : pour cela auſſi aux grands eryſipeles excite ſouuent fiévres tierces, qui ont leurs accés º* de deux iours l'vn. en general, les cauſes primitiues de telles fiévres ſont grands & violens exercices,principalement en temps chaud, long vſage des choſes calefactiues & deſicauites, ſoient medf- camens , ſoient alimens, exceſſiue abſtinence de manger & boire,auec trauail , ſoing, veilles , & faſcheries. les cauſes antecedentes ſont grande abondance d'humeur choleric. la temperature de tout le corps ou du foye ſeulement, tendant à chaud & ſec. les cauſes conioinctes ſontamas & putrefaction d'humeurs cholerique, hors des grands vaiſſeaux, ou en toute l'habitude du corps, communiquée & eſpandue iuſ- § au cœur. les ſignes font horreur, comme quand en hyuer apres auoir vriné on treſſaut. rigueur orte & poignante , comme ſi l'on ſentoit quelque choſe aigue qui poigniſt par tout le corps , à cauſe de 'acrimonie de l'humeur bilieux , pouſſé & porté violemment au cómencement de l'accez par les membra- nes & corps ſenſibles. dés le cômmencement chaleur acre,le feu eſtant allnmé cóme en bois ſec. pouls grandement eſléue,ſubit,egal,ſiccité de la langue,vriner rouge,emflambée, ſouuent ténue ſubtile.les acci- dens ſont veilles,ſoif, delires ou reſueries,promptitude à ire pour legere occaſion , comme pour ouyr par- ler,ou autre petit bruit,eſmotion de tout le corps,& inquietude. ceſte fiévre aſſaut plus couſtumierement les hommes choleriques,jaunes,maigres, & en eſté. elle ſe termine ordinairenment par grandes ſueurs, ou par vomiſſement bilieux, ou deiections jaunes, qui meſme terminent les accés particuliers. elle al'inter- miſſion pure, ſâs aucun ſigne ou reliqua de fiévre iuſques à tant que l'accez ſuiuant reprenne:à cauſe que la matiere bilieuſe qui donne l accez,a eſté par la confuſſion d'iceluy toute diſſipée,à raiſon de ſa tenuité, & ſubtilité. ce qui n'aduient és fiévres quotidiennes : d'autant qu'elles laiſſent touſiours quelque inegalité, moleſlie,& peſanteur de corps à cauſe de la peſanteur & tardiueté de la pituite , qui ne peut eſtre du tout refolue & digerée. l'accez dure. . . . . i. . quelquefois. . & . heures. si ceſte fiéure eſt exqui- ſe,c'eſt à dire vraye tierce,elle finit au ſeptieſme accez comme dit hippocrate en l'aphoriſme .au .liure. au reſte elle eſt ſans danger comme generalement toute fiévre intermittente par l'aphoriſme . du meſme liure : pourueu qu'il ne ſoit commis erreur par le medecin ou malade. la fiévre tierce en eſté eſt courte & en hyuer plus longue. le commencement eſt auec rigueur , l'eſtat & declinaiſon auec ſueur. si en la fiévre tierce ſuruient vlceres au nez , ou à la bouche , ou aux lévres c'eſt ſigne de brief- ue terminaiſon. car par tel accident eſt monſtrée la force de nature,qui peut jetter la matiere febrifique du centre ou interieur du corps, en l'exterieur. et outre,par ce moyen ſe fait euacuatió de quelque portion de la matiere conioincte. telles vlceres toutesfois n'apparoiſſent pas en la declinaiſon de toute fiévre tierce, ill $ ", • b "- $ à \ à r i des tumeurs en general. t a mats ſeulement en celles,deſquelles la bile (cauſe de telle fiévre) eſt contenuë ou pouſſée de quelque autre - partie de la premiere region dans le ventricule. car de la plus tenue & ſereuſe portion d'icelle,portée par # qnel sſh is continuite de la tunique interieure dudit ventricule à la bouche & aux lévres,s'excitent aiſémét vlceres. #. cnſe, la curation conſiſte en la diete,& aux medicamens. le regime ſoit ordôné ſur les ſix choſes non naturelles, # f, fe declinantes à froideur & humidité le plus qu'il ſera poſſible : d'autant que l'humeur bilieux qui faict ceſte § # fiévre,eſt le plus chaud & ſec que toute autre humeur du corps.il faut donc que le malade inſpire air fraits § & humide,mange choſes refrigerantes & humectantes, entant qu'il les pourra cuire,comme laictué,ozeille, vin. courge,côcombre, poirée,orge-mondé,vin bien trempé,petit ténu,& en petite quantité,& ce lors teulemët que i'humeur aura commencé à ſe cuire, mitifier ou addoucir : car au commencement il n'en faut aucune- ment vſer. mais en declinaiſon, il ſera permis d'en vſer plus liberalement pourueu toutesfois qu'il ne ſoit º"f" * ny fort, ny vieil.quant au temps propre pour nourrir le malade,il ſe faut dôner garde le iour de l'accez de # l luy bailler à manger plus tard que trois heures auant ledit accezide peur que la chalcur febrile renconträt " les viâdes encores crues en l'eſtomach,ne les corrôpe,putrefie & tourne en humeur bilieux,augmentant par ce moyen la matiere de la fiévre,prolongeant l'accez, & en outre reuoquant nature de la concoction & ex- pulſion de l'humeur morbifique,pour s'employer à cuire les viandes priſes et toutesfois ceſte regle ſe doit entendre, pourueu que la vertu ſoit forte. car où le malade ſeroit decile, faudroit non ſeulement donner º quelcas nourriture vn peu parauant l'accez, mais auſſi en l'accez mefme,combien qu'en petite quantité. quant aux # eſ permis medicamens , il faut preuoir ſi la vertu du malade eſt ſuffiſante, & ſi les humeurs ſont furieux & mobiles. # alors faut ordonner du diaprunum ſimple,cafle fraiſchement mondée, decoction de violes,myrobolans ci- #- trins,ſirops violat, de grenades, oxyſacchar. autrcment ſi les forces du malade ſont petites, ne faut purger , §ment ne ſaigner que bien petitement : de peur que la diſſipation des eſprits( à laquelle les bilieux ſont ſubjects) $nani # n'indiuiſe ſyncope. semblablement ſoient faicts clyſteres de decoction de prunes,iuiubes,violes, ſon,orge. pºurquoy ne si le malade par reſiccation du ce rueau tôboit en delire,qu'on luy rafraichiſſe la teſte auec huille violat,ro-faut purger ſat, & autres ſlmblables. les pieds & cuiſſes ſoient mis en eau tiede & douce,la plante des pieus ſoit oincte & ſaigner auecques huyle violat,ou ſemblable. en la declinaiſon generale de la fievre,eſt bon faire bain d'eau douce, ºup. auecques fueilles de vigne,laictuës & autres refrigerans,& ce loin d'vn leger repas.meſine l humeur ja cuit clyſtere con, & mitifié, les purgations generales ayans precedé, ſera bon prouoquer les ſueurs parl'vſage de vin blanc, # le delire. bien tenu, & trempé. vrayement les ſueurs en toute fiévre putride ſont bonnes quand elles viennent en # des : temps & lieu : pource qu'elles euacuent les matieres conioinctes de la maladie. mais ſur tout en la fiévre # #º tierce : d'autant que tel hnmeur ſe reſoult aisément en ſueurs pour ſa tenuité. pour ayder à la ſueur, ſera févres ſuds- bon auecques le vin blanc mentionné,prendre decoction de figues, raiſins de damas mondez,chien-dent,& rifiqucs. autres racines aperitiues. par dehors on prend eſponges imbues en la decoction d'herbes chaudes, comme roſmarin,thym,'auande,marjolaine,& autres, eſpreintes & appliquées chaudement au aiſnes,aiſſelles,ontre ... .. les eſpaule. du malade,tenu couuerten ſon lict autres répliſſent à demy des veſſies de porc,de ceſte deco-#" ction, les appliquent aux coſtez & entre les iambes , comme aux pieds, des bouteilles de terre remplies de # de lé mefme. on doit ceſſer de faire ſuer,lors que la ſueur commence à ſe refroidir ſur le malade. les vrines ſe ſai # prouoquerent par decoction de fenouil & d'anet.la ſaignée doit eſtre faite non apres le tiers acccz, mais gnee. des le commencement comme le commande galien. , car comme ainſi ſoit que ceſte fiévre ſe termine en ceſt accez ( ſi elle eſt vne tierce, comme nous auons dit ) qui attendra apres le tiers accez, il † lors que la fievre ſera en ſon eſtat. or hippocrate defend de ne rien mouuoir en l'eſtat, de crainte de desbau- cher nature de la concoction & mitification qu'elle veut faire de l'humeur qui cauſe la fiévre. aph. . . tiu, s. de l'oedeme ». - ch a p. xv i. . a r cy- deuant nous auons traiclé des tumeurs chaudes : reſte maintenant à eſcrire des froi- afh. « l. ; des, qui ſont deux en general, à ſçauoir oedeme, & scirrhe. or le nom d'oedeme eſt pris # ſelon les anciens, comme hippocrate, pour toute tumeurs , occupant le nom de genre. mais d'oedeme. les modernes le prennent plus eſtroittement, à ſçauoir pour eſpece. doncques cedcme eſt gil.de tu.dr * vne tumeur molle,laxe,ſans douleur,procedante d'humeur phlegmatique, tôbant ſur quelque math. & ' partie. les anciens ont faict huict difrerences de tumeurs engendrées de phlegme. la premiere eſt le ! *º glºue. vray oedeme, fait de phlegme naturel. et du non naturel meſſe auecques les autres humeurs, ſe font trois !ºº. autres eſpeces : comme s'il eſt auecques le ſang ſera faict oeaeme phigmondes, & ainſi des autres. dauan-º" tage le phlegme non naturel,eſt ou fiatueux & vaporeux , & engendre la tumeur venteuſe : ou aqueux, & fait l'aqueuſe, ainſi le gros & gypſeux fait les tumeurs noüeuies & phl gmatiques , comme ſont atherom - ta, strom ita & meliceuaes : ſemblablement le phlegme corrompu & pourry , les ſcrophules dictes couſu- mierement eſcroüelles pour comprendre toutes leſquelles eſpeces d'oedeme metho iquement , faut no- terque la pituite,dont ſe fait tumeur,eſt ou naturelle,pechant ſeulemét en quantité,dont ſe fait ce que pro- prement nous appellons oedeme : ou eſt non naturelle, ains corrompue. or elle ſe corrompt ou par me- lange de ſubſtance eſtrange, comme ſang,bile,& melancholie, dont ſe font les trois eſpeces d'oedeme ex- cauſes pliquez; ou par pourriture de ſa propre ſubſtance, dont ſe font les ſtrumes & eſcroüelles : ou par concre- d'oedema. tion,dont ſe font les glandules, & toutes ſortes de loupes,& nodoſitez , ou par reſolution, dont ſe font les signes d'csi tuueurs aqueux & flatueux , comme l'hydocele, pneumatocele, & toute ſorte d'hydropifie, ſcauoir la pi- deme. tuite amaſſée en certain lieu eſtant reſolue,amplifiée, & eſtendue en eaux,ſeroſitez, ou ventoſites. les cau- ſes ſont fluxion d'humeur pituiteux, ou vaporeux , ou vn amas dexcremens phlegmatiques ou venteux, amaſſez en quelque partie, à ratfon de l'imbecilité de cuire l'aliment, & chaſſer les excrements. les ſignes ſont couleur blanchaſtre, ſemblable au cuir ne les changeant beaucoup , à cauſe que l'humeur eſt ſembla- - ble en couleur,tumeur molle,rare, laxe pour la grande humidité, ſans douleur,à ，aiſon que l'eumeur n'eſt pronoſtie, chaud ne feruent, comme en phlegmon, laquelle enfonce ſi elle eſt comprimée du doigt,la partie demeu- rant caue,laiſſant le veſtige dudit doigt,parce que l'humeur eſt gros,cras,& de tard mouuemét. iceux oede- mes viennent pluſtoſt en hyuer qu'en eſté : car lors il s'amaſſe grande quantité de pituite. les parties ner- ueuſes & glanduleuſes ſont plus ſuiette à telles indiſpoſitions, d'autant qu'elles ſont exangues ayans moins de chaleur que les autres : pareillement plus laxes & aptes à recenoir la fluxion, les corps cacochymes, oedens trapuleux & vieils, & qui font peu d'exercice, ſont couſtumierement vexez de telles tumeurs. or l'oede-.ſymptomatie me eſt terminé par reſolution ou induration le plus ſouuent, & rarement par ſuppuration , pour la pe- cure d'oe- tite quantité de chaleur qui y demeure. celuy qui eſt ſymptome, comme d'hydropiſie ou phthiſie, ne re- deme. soit aucune curatió,ſi premierement la maladie,qui eſt la cauſe n'eſt oſtée.la curation generale conſiſte en deux poinct, à ſçauoirà l'euacuation de la matiere antecedéte,& de la côiointe:ce que nous obtiendrös par - - p quatrx : · - nue l - ). le ſeptieſme liure, quatre intentions, la preºere s'accomplira par bonne maniere de viure,& le m remierein- turelles côtrarians à laº adie,qui eſt froide & humide,& pource tédront à cha - onc j eſli- tention. ralair chaud,ſec & ſubtil.son boire ſera de bon vin gracieux & delicat : ſon pain ſe a bicn clll »mangera viandes qui engendreront bon ſuc,& pluſtoſt roſties,que boüillies : il s'abſtiendra de frºicts,po§ & de - toutes choſes faites de laict,leſquelles engendrent mauuaiſes humeurs,il n'vſera de poiſſons ſino§ # tiles : c'eſt à dire ceux qui viuent entre les pierres & grauiers:il mangera peu,& boira le moins qu'il pour- | ra,craignant d'engèdrer cruditez.a l'yſſue de ſes repas,il pourra vſer des poudres digeſtiues, ou de dragée | commune : fon ventre ſera touſiours laſche,:& s'il ne l'eſt naturellement,le ſera par art. il s'exercera mo- derément & principalement deuant le repas,afin de diſſipertouſiours quelque portió de cét humeur &d'ex- º citer la chaleur naturelle.il dormira peu,afin de n'accumuler par le trop long dormir grande quantité d'ex- ſll cremens. il ne prendra aucun chagrin, & fuira la compagnie des femmes, tant que faire ſe pourra,s'il a le : corps imbecille , foible & maladif de nature : car par l'exercice venerien eſtant encores dauantage debilité - - oven de ſix choſ jeur & ſiccité.d non #- a | & morfondu, il amaſſe dauantage de cruditez : comme au contraire s'il eſt fort de corps, de ferme & ro - buſte complexion,tel exercice moderément pris,& en temps & lieu,l'eſchauffera dauantage, & ſeichera ſes humiditez & cruditez : car ainſi faut-il entendre la reigle z. d'hipp. au .des epidemies ſect. . que venus eſt remede & guariſon aux maladies qui viennent de pituite, comme l'explique fort bien galien. la ſecon- de intention aura eſgard à l'habitude de tout le corps, ou de la partie qui ſera la ſource de cét humeur.car seconde ih- s'ilprouient de l'eſtomach, ſera conforté : ainſi des autres parties. si de toute l'habitude du corps,on luy preſcrira medicamens attenuans,inciſifs & aperitifs,& de ce on aura rccours au docte medecin.la troiſieſme b conſiſte à l'euacuation de l'humeur impact à la partie, ce qui ſe fera par medicamens topiques, leſquels ſeront diuerſifiez ſelon les quatre temps.car au commencement & augment galien liu. .à glauc. chap. * troiſieſme . & .meth. commande d'appliquer vn oxycrat auccque vne eſponge trempée en iceluy : & ſi l'oedeme intention. eſt à vn bras, ou a vne jambe, la ligature expulſiue eſt bien neceſſaire,en commençant de la partie inferieu- - re, finiſſant à la ſupe ievre. c u bien on vſera de tels medicamens. %. lixiuij ex cinerib. ſarment. & caul. ań. .iiij. tartar.& alum.añ #. f. aceti .i. miſce omnia ſimul, & fiat decoctio : en laquelle feras tremper eſponges ou compreſ'es,& en ſera fomentée la partie.auſſi pouras vſer de ce cataplaſme. /. farin.hord. ;. iiij. coquant in lixiuio com. addendo pul. nucis cupreſ balauſt. añ. . myr. aloes & alumi. añ. . . oléi myrtill. . ij. fiat catapl. en l'eſtat & declination on vſera des medicanmens qui ſont deſiccatifs & reſolutifs, romanta- comme. . nuc. cupreſ cort gran. fumach. balauſt afi. .j. ſaluia,origa. calament. hyſſop. mileſ.afi.m. j. - tien. abſinth. plantag. caud. equi. tapſi barbat centinod.afi.m. . alum tart. & ſalis communis añ. . coquant. '! - cum lixiuio,fiat fotus cum ſpongia. apres la fomentation on appliquera tel cataplaſme. z. rad.bryonix. #. ij. abſint. plantag. centinod.camomill. melilot. puleg. an.m. É. coquantur in hydromel. piſtent, paſſentur, - addendo pul. roſar. rubra. camomil. & melil. an. . .far. fabar. & hord. n. . olei anet. & camomil.añ. .j. fiat cataplaſma, lequel ſera appliqué apres la fomentation. dauantage tu pourrasvſer d'autres reme- - des reſolutifs, comme emplaſtres, & vnguens ſelon ta diſcretion. toutesfois il faut premierement eſchauf- document fer la partie,ſur laquelle on doit appliquer tels remedes,côme par fomentations frictions,& euaporations- pour l, i.une car autrement leſdites emplaſtres ne pourroient eſtrereduites de puiſſance à effect, pour la grandetintem- chirurgien. perature , & froideur de la partie, laquelle ne peut cuire, aſſimiler le nutriment à elle neceſſaire, & en- } fomentatio core moins chaſſer l'humeur contenu en la partie. les fomentations ſe feront de decoction faicte de ſau- pour confor- ge, rofmarin , thym, lauande,fleurs de camomille, melilot, roſes , racines d'ireos,ſtecas, & autres choſes rer la partie. ſemblables, cuittes en vin blanc,adiouſtant vn peu de vinaigre, en laquelle decoction ſeront eſteintes bri- ques , puis enueloppées auecques linges, & appliquées autour de la partie. car d'icelles ſort vne chaleur & vapeur, laquelle a vertu de ſubtiliſer, attenuer , inciſer, reſoudre , & conforter ladite partie. da- uantage, en lieu d'icelles on vſera de bouteilles ouveſſies de bœuf, ou de porc à demy remplies de la ſuſ- c dicte decoction,leſquelles ſeront appliquées chaudes ſur la partie.les frictions ſe feront auec linges chauds, continuant quelque temps : car elles reuoquent & attirent le ſang & les eſprits, reſoluant quelques hu- meurs fuligineuſes detenues entre le cuir & la chair, dont la partie eſt rendue plus forte & vigoureuſe. tention. i r ， # ， frictions. -t- –- des tumeurs venteuſes & aqueuſes. c h a p. xv ii. generation des ttumeurs venteuſes. v #sn% o v s l'oedeme ſont compriſes les tumeurs flateuſes ou venteuſes,aqueufes & dures,comme # n\ )% ſont athe romata, steatemata,& meliceades.les tumeurs fiateuſes,ou venteuſes ſont faites d'v- $ ne vapeur flateuſe, qui eſt aucunefois encloſe ſous les membranes & le cuir, & ſous celles - là qui couurent les os, comme perioſte & pericrane, qui cauſe vne extreme douleur pour la di- $ ſtenſion : quelquefois les viſceres, comme ventricule & inteſtins, en ſont remplis, comme - - en tympanites. elles different du vray oedeme, d'autant qu'eſtans preſſées auec le doigt, le veſtige n'y ':: demeure, à cauſe qu'elles ſont remplies de vapeurs , & non d'humeurs , leſquels eſtans preſſez reuien- nent, comme il ſe void à vne balle on veſſie remplie de vent. , v. la cauſe de telle tumeur venteuſe, eſt pour l'imbecillité de la chaleur naturelle laquelle ne peut diſſiper ' s cauſes des & conſommer la matiere phlegmatique diſposée à exciter flatuoſitez : ce qui nous eſt facile à cognoiſtre - : fmme mr ; par le soleil ( qui reſpond à noſtre chaleur naturelle ſe leuant au matin) n'ayant ſi grande vertu comme au ， "ºſ*- midy, ne peut auſſi facilement conſommer les humiditez qu'ilattire d'icy bas, comme il fait vers le milieu - du iour : & pource s'eſleuent ſeulement des broüillards & vapeurs.ainſi eſt de la chaleur naturelle,laque - # le taſchant a conſommer la ſuſdite matiere par ſon imbecillité, n'y peut grandement agir, & pource,cau- | ſe & eſleue ſeulement vn eſprit vaporeux,qui eſt la matiere d'inflation. dauantage la denſité,profondité,& | craſſitude de la partie, cauſe auſſi telles tumeurs. car jaçoit que la chaleur naturelle ſoit forte, toutesfois - l'humeur eſtant au profond, ou les pores eſlans reſerrez, cét humeur ne peut s'euaporer, & par ainſi s'ac- cumule petit à petit, & engendre ceſte tumeur. les ſignes ſont, lors qu'on preſſe des doigts ſur la tumeur, on ſent vne retinence eſtans repouſſés : pareillement quand on frappedeſſus,la partie reſonne, comme ſi on frappoit ſur vn tabourin,& principalement s'il y a grande quantité de vents,en la capacité du ventre , ou entre les grands muſcles. dauantage la tumeur n'eſt chaude ne rouge , mais pluſtoſt froide & blaffarde, - comme en l'oedeme. icelles occupent ſouuentesfois les iointures, & principalement les genoüils, & ſont prºgnºſtic de difficille curation, comme dirons cy apres. si laventoſité ſe fait aux inteſtins , icelle cauſe vne colique venteuie, qui fait quelquesfois vne telle diſtenſion pour ſa grande quantité , qu'elle rompt & deſchire les intettins, dont la mort s'enſuit. les ſignes. - • l>es destumeurs engeneral À - - - - - - - de la cure l ————-- = -- -- : * " * " - _ -" :: — - xv l i i. : % a curation ſe fera par trois poincts principaux. le premier eſt touchant la maniere de viure, premiere è qui ne ſera differente à celle de l'oedeme. le malade vſera de borines viandes, faciles à di- ſcope tou- gerer & de bon ſuc,pluſtoſt roſties que boüillies : ſon boire fera bien peu, & principalemsnt chant l* de bon vin : il euitera toutes choſes aqueuſes, comme fruicts, herbes & poiſſons, la feconde mºnier° º - intention eſt de conforter les parties ſeruantes a la concoction, à ſçauoir l'eſtomach & foye: º - ce qui s'accomplira par choſes aromatiques, comme electuaires, conſerues, opiates , poudres , comme #end##º diacuminum , aiacalamenthum , aromaticum garyophyllatum aromaticum , oſtum, & autres, que ie laiſſe au do- # •- cte & prudent medecin. le troiſieſmeſcope ou intention, eft oſter la matiere coniointe : ce qui ſe fera par pe. medicamens chauds,ſecs,& attenuatifs,qu'on nomme catminatifs,afin que la partie ſoit ratifiée,& l'humeur diſſipé:toutesfois ſeront diuerſifiez ſelon la partie. car autres doiuent eſlre appliquez au ventricule & in- teſtins,autres auxioinctures,& parties charneuſes.pour la colique on donne clyfteres carminâtifs,&'on ap- plique ſachets reſolutifs , ſemblablement ventouſes ſus l'vmbilic. si la tumeur eſt à la partie externe, nous vſons de fomentations,linimens & principalement s'il y a quelque douleur, auſſi de cataplaſmes & empla- ſtres. comme. t.flor.camomil. melil rorif. rof. rubranasp.j.abſinth.hiſſop.ana m.ij. coquant cum lixi. ad- dend.aceti parum.pro fotu cum ſpongia.gal.vſe d'vne fomentation de oxyrhodinum,yadiouſtant quelque remede, portió de ſel,& enfomente la partie auec vne efponge,laquelle il laiſſe fusicelle,autre .olei camomanet. p i - , rutx & liliorana. .j. oleilau. . .cera alb. .vj.aqux vitæ $.j. liquefiant othhia ſimul, & ſiat liuin quo meurs ven- liniatur pars premiſſo fotu.%.far.fab.&.orob.ana. . iij coquantin decocto pulegij. orig. cala. ſaluia add. teuſes. pul.camom. & melil. ana. .f. ſulphu.viuiſubtiliter pulut riſ . ij. olei anet. & camo ana. .f. fiat catap. b autre. %,ſterc, carp.bene tritur. .iij.for. camom, metiot ana.m. r. furfur, far fabar & orobana # ij. coquant. cum lixiuio comm.addenditerebent. . iij. olei anet. & rutae ana. .ij fiat emplaſad vſum diäum. l'emplaſtre de vigo eſt fingulier pour tel effect,cum mercurio & fine mercurio. il faut noter que tels medi- camens doiuent touſiours eſtre tenus chauds par le moyen de linges chauffez , ou briques rouges, cu bou-' teilles miſes autour de la partie, comme auons dit en l'oedeme. ' . . . - , ::: . apres auoir reſoult l'humeur contenu à la partie,il reſte à la fortifier,afin de ne plus receuoir tel humeur ! qui ſe fera par le moyen d'vne telle fomentation & cataplaſme. ( nucum cupreſcortic.granat.ſumach.ber- berbalauſtana jjcaud.equi.arnogl.tapfi barbat abfint.ſalu.roriſ.lauand. ana m ß. camomil. meliot. roſar , anthl. anap, j.alum,& ſalis communisana. .j.bul.omnia in œquis partib.aquae.fabror & vini auſturi,& fiant feculi pro fotu,aut decoctio pro fotu cum ſpongia. %. far fab hor. & lup.añ. .ij.tereb. comm. . iij. pul.' rad.ireos.maſt.an. . ſ. mellis comm. . ij. ß. prœdictæ decoctionis quantum fatis,vt inde fiat cataplafmaad . formam pultis ſatis liquida , applic. partib.affect.calid pra miſſo fotu. et continuerez ce medicament tant qu'il ſera beſoin. quant à la tumeur aqueufe, les ſignes ſont ſemblables à ceux de la ventouſe. et d'abon- dant,eſt reluiſante, & autact faict vn bruit comme vne veſfio à demy pleine d'eau, quant à la curration ſrº nous ne pouuons paruenir à la reſolution, on viendra à l'apertion, comme auons traicté au phlegmon,la- -- . quelle eſt icy quelquesfois neceſſaire.non ſeulement à raiſon de la contumace de l'humeur qui n'obeyt tous jours aux reſolutifs : mais auſſi à cauſe que fouuent ſe trouueenfermé en vn kyſt ou membrane , qui luy eſt propre,à raiſon de la denſité de laquelle la force des reſolutifs ne peut penetreriuſques à l'humeur. comme - ces iours paſſez i'ay experimenté en l'ydrocelle d'vne fille aagée de ſix à ſept ans, pour laquelle refoudre, #- aqueu- ayant en vain experimenté par vn long temps tous les reſolutifs que l'art m'auoit enſeigné , ie fus enfin " ". c contraint venir à l'ouuerture pour donner iſſuë à l'eau contenuë, enſemble attacher, & trencher la mem- brane qui contenoit ladite eau,comme peut tefmoigner monſieur hautin docteur en medecine, qui m'auoit fait appeller pour l'execution. - des tumeurs venteuſes & aqueuſes. . c h a p, - - de ls tu- •. º- d'atherome, stetatome, & meliceride . c h a p. xi x. vo y que ces tumeurs ſoient du genre des apoſtemes , toutesfois elles different ; parce que leur matiere eſt contenue en vn kyſt,c'eſt à dire,de dans vne membrane ou petite bourſe, g]n auſſi la difference qu'il y a entre ces trois efpeces, eſt que l'humeur contenu dedans le steato- º# me (ainſi que ſon nom le porte) eſt vne matiere ſemblable à du ſuif,& que quelquesfois on y " trouue des corps durs & pierreux, & autrefois comme petits os, & des ongles de coq. pilo- xene dit y auoir trouué des animaux ſemblables à des mouſches , & autres choſes eſtranges. et dans l at- herome eſt trouué vn humeur ſemblable à boüillie qu'on faict manger aux petits enfans, & dedans le me- liceride , vn humeur ſemblable à du miel commun , en couleur & conſiſtence. ces tumeurs ſe font ſans que nulle inflammation aye precedé. on les cognoiſtra les vnes des autres en ceſte maniere : c'eſt que le steatome eſt plus dure que les deux autres,& n'obeit promptement aux doigts quand on preſſe deſſus,& les *yant oſtez mal-aiſément auſſi retourne,c'eſt à dire ; ſe releue à tard.parce que l'humeur eſt gros.la tumeur eſt de couleur ſemblable à la peau & ſans douleur,la figure de la tumeur eſt longue le meliceride obeit & cede comme vn corps laxe & mol : quand on le touche il ſe diſperſe & dilate promptement, puis ſubit re-melicerid. d tourne, & differe en figure & ſubſtance de l'atherome, parce que la figure eſt plus ronde,& la ſubſtance de l'humeur plus ſubtile,& dauantage eſt tranſparente. auſſi le meliceride eſt plus large que l'atherome,& fi ºn la foule auec les doigts,plus ſoudain elle obeit,& apres les auoir oſtez auſſi ſubit retourne,& ſans dou- leur,& de figure ronde or quand à l'operation manuelle, il n'importe ſi l'humeur contenu eſt ſemblable à miel, boüillie ou ſuif,ou de quelles eſſences elles ſoient. car nous auons vne ſeule intention,qui eſt d'oſter cure. l'humeur contenu en la partie,enſemble la bourſe contenant ledit humeur. toutesfois il faut noter,qu'au- cunes de ces tumeurs ſont eſleuées ſuperficiellement,& quand on les touche,ſont mobiles:les autres au con- teſtude, traire ſont entrées & infiltrées, & profondement aux parties prochaines & fixes , ſans les pouuoir remuer qu'eſt - ce de coſté ne d'autre, & telles requierent grande diligence & dexterite à l'operation manuelle, à cauſe du talparia- danger du flux de ſang,& inciſion des nerfs. il y a pluſieurs autres tumeurs contre nature, comme teſtudo, wata, glandula, nodus, botium, lupia, ( c'eſt loupe) & ſemblables : leſquelles ſont de meſme genre que theroma sretatoma,& meliceri : car elles ſont toutes èngendrées d'humeurs pituiteux,gros,& viſqueux. et comme en ces trois icy il ſe trouue de l'humeur ſemblable à boüillie, ſuif, & miel : ainſi és autres s'en trouue, non ſeulement de pareils, mais auſſi des corps qui ont bien forme plus eſtrange, comme nous di- glandula rons cy-apres. or d'autant que les anciens n'ont fait aucune mention de ces tumeurs , au moins ſous tels noms, nous dirons briefuement ce que les moderaes en ſentent , commençans à teſtudo , qu'ils - p diſent les ſignes de stetaeme. atheroame i le ſeptieſme liure, )uatrieſme maniere. cinquieſme maniere de la guariſon. des loupes choſe nota- ble. hiſtoire d'vne loupe é'/ )rf e. pregnoſtic. hiſtoire. autre hi- ſioire. diſent eſtre vne tumeur contre nature molle & large,de la figure d'vne tortue,dont ellea pris le nom.quel- a quesfois elle vient en la teſte,de la figure d'vne taupe,& lors ſe nôme talpa tº,nana,eſt vne grande excroiſ- ſance charneuſe de la forme d'vn melon, ou comme chair de feſſes dites nates en latin, dont luy peut eſtre eſcheu le nom , fi ce n'eſt qu'elle vienne aux feſſes, pluſtoſt qu'en autre membre. glandula, eſt vne tumeur ainſi dicte,parce qu'elle reſſemble à vn gland ou vne glande : ou parce qu'elle eſt plus ſouusnt engendrée és glandes des emunctoires. quant aux ſcrophules , nous en parleronsau chapitre ſuiuant. noau , eſt tu- meur ronde , dure & immobile , ainſi dite par ſimilitude qu'il a d'vn nœud de corde. guidon dit qu'il ſe trouue volontiers és lieux nerueux. mais nous le prenons auſſi communement,& improprement,pour vne tumeur dure qui vient és os , laquelle eſt aſſez frequenteaux verolez. -' - ' s - des loupes & autres ſemblables. - ch a p. x x. fº@ v p a , ou loupe, eſt tumeur quelquesfois molle, aucunefois dure, touſiours ronde, pre- # nant naiſſance le plus ſouuent és lieux durs,ſecs & nerueux. or de toutes ces tumeurs, cy ex- # pliquées,les vnes ſont grandes,les autres petites : aucunes ſont mobiles & ſeparables d'auec la # partie où elles ſont , parce qu'elles ont vn kyſtis ou ſachet : autres font immobiles , d'autanr qu'elles n'ont point de ſachet , ains ſont infiltrées & attachées en la partie d'où ils naiſſent. couſtumierement les loupes ont vn ſachet,& de la curation d'icelies nous entendons traicter maintenant, parce qu'elles ſont les plus difficiles a guarir , principalement eſtansinueterées. leurs cauſes primitiues b ſont coups orbes, cheutes de haut, deſtorſes, & autres. les antecedentes & conioinctes,ſont celles que nous auons dites au commencement du chapitre precedent. leurs ſignes doiuent eſtre recueillis de leur deſcription. pour la curation de celles qui commencent encores a venir, & ſont petites , il les faut ſou- uent frotterauec la main.car par ce moyen on ſubtiliſe,eſchauffe,& fouuét reſoult-onl'humeur qui eſt cö- tenu.si cela n'y fait rien,faut preſſer deſſus auec la main,ou auecvne petite piece de bois,ſifort que le kyſtis ſoit creué ou rompu. quand il ſera rompu , on appliquera vne lame de plomb,frottée de vifargent, & liée deſſus bien eſtroittement.car elle a vne merueilleuſe vertu de conſommer,reſoudre,& tarir l'humeur con- tenu en quelque partie, comme ie l'ay pluſieurs fois experimenté. mais ſi la loupe eſtoit en lieu où on ne peuſt faire compreſſion,comme au viſage,au thorax,au vétre,à la gorge, on y mettra vn emplaſtre reſolutif, tel qui s'enſuit. /.gummi ammon. bdel. galb.an. .iij.liquef.in.aceto,& paſſent per ſetaceum,addendool. lil, & lauari. an. .j. aq.vitæ parum pulu.ireos,ſalisammo ſulphur.viui,vitrioli rom.an. .ſ incorporentur omnia ſimul, & fiat emp. ſecun. artem. si par tout ces moyens la tumeur ne ſe peut reſoudre, la faut ouurir auec lancette,ou cauteres,faiſant aprestomber l'eſcarre,& conſommer entierement le kyſtis auec egyptiac, poudre de mercure,& ſemblables. puis l'vlcere ſera mundifié,incarné,& cicatrisé.aucunefois elles ſont ſi groſſes qu'elles ne peuuent eſtre guaries par les remedes,ſuſdits, & alors eſt beſoin de venir à l'œuure ma- nuelle, pour en faire entiere expiration, pourueu qu'elles ne fuſſent par trop grandes & enormes , ou fort adherentes & infiltrées aux parties,ou ſituées en lieu dangereux,côme ayant colligance auec groſſes veines arteres,& nerfs.en tel cas il vaudroit mieux les laiſſer:mais ſi on cognoiſt par le contraire,qu'elles ſe puiſſét amputer,il y faut proceder comme s'enſuit.il faut donc faire vne petite inciſió au milieu,peneträte iuſques au kyſtis,& par icelle faut mettre vne ſonde groſſe de demy doigt,röde en sö extremité,caue au milieu,lö- c gue tât qu'il ſera beſoin:& la pouſſer entre le cuir & ledit kyſtis,tuſques à la racine de la loupe,pour couper le cuir tout le longd'icelle s de.derechefconuient faire vne autre inciſion au trauers de la premiere,ſi que ces deux faſſent vne croix.cela fait ſeparer le cuir de côtre le kyſtis,cömençant aux angles,& finiſſansvers la racine de la loupe,& ce auec les doigts enueloppez d'vn linge bien delié,ouauec le raſoir,s'il eſt beſoin. il faut icy noter qu'il y a touſiours quelques vaiſſeaux,leſquels en leur commencement eſtoient petits,mais auec le temps ils ſe ſont agrădis & dilatez pour la nourriture de la loupe,de laquelle ils ſont côme racines. donc ſi d'auenture en ſeparant le cuir,il ſuruiét flux de sâg de quelques veines ou arteres, il ſera arreſté en les liant vers leurs racines : ou ſera faicte vne bonne & forte ligature en la racine de la loupe,auecques me- nue ficelle ou filets en pluſieurs doubles,laiſſant les bouts dehors,& permettât que le nœud tombe de ſoy- meſme. or ne ſera-ce aſſez d'auoir amputé toute l'excroiſſance de la loupe,mais conuiendra auſſi inciſer & couper du cuir qui la couuroit & reueſtoit, afin qu'il n'en demeure non plus qu'il en faut pour couurir la partie. apres on fera des poincts d'aiguille pour reünir les lévres de l'inciſion mettât des tentes aux parties inferieures iuſques à pleine mundification,apres laquelle ſera la cure pourſuiuie iuſques à la cicatriſation. le ſemblable aſté pratiqué par maiſtre laurent collo, chirurgien ordinaire du roy, & moy preſent mon- ſieur de violenes docteur regent en la faculté de medecine a paris,grandemét eſtimé entre les gensdoctes en la perſonne de martial colart,preuoſt de barbonne, demeurant à deux lieues de sedane:lequel en auoit vne derriere le col de groſſeur de la teſte d'vn hôme,peſante huſct liures, luy faiſant telle peine qu'il eſtoit côtraint la ſupporter ſur ſes eſpaules auec vne ſeruiette en maniere de ſac,laquelle amputatiô fut ſi heureu- ſement par nous deux faite & executée que le malade guarit. si leſdites tumeurs ont leur baſe greſle, & le ſommet large , il les conuient lier ou couper par leur pied ou racine:& ſi elles ſont engendrées à la gorge pres les iugulaires,aiſſelles,& aiſnes,& ſous les jarets : ſont tres difficiles à extirper, pour les accidens qui ſouuentaduiennent. au commencement ſont fort petites , puis peu à peu parvn longtemps croiſſent , à ſçauoir,de quatre,cinq,ſix,& ſept ans,quelquesfois moins ou plus.aucunes d'icelles sót fort dures,aucunes molles & obeiſſantes à toucher , & toutes pour la plus part ſont ſans douleur. on peut dire par coniecture ſeulement ce qui eſt contenu en icelles,mais on ne le peut certainement cognoiſtre,ſi ce n'eſt alors qu'on en fait apertion. toutesfois à celles qui ont grande dureté & renitence,le plus ſouuent eſt trouué des matieres · ſemblables à petites pierres,& autres corps eſträges. ie trouuay en vne mammelle d'vn grande dame,apres eſlre decedee,eſtant appellé pour l'ouurir,vne ſubſtance groſſe comme vn œufde poulle, dure & compacte ainſi qu'vne pierre,aſpre & maſſiue,de couleur blanche:& pendant qu'elles viuoit,les medecins & chirur- giens eſtimoient eſtre vn chancre , à cauſe que ceſte dureté luy cauſoit vne grande douleur ſeulement quâd on la comprimoit tant peu que ce fuſt. encores depuis n'agueres i'ay eſté appellé pour vn ſéblable cas ad- uenu à vne honorable & ſage dame,où pluſieurs tant medecins que chirurgiés diſoiét eſtre vn chancre,& tins le contraire, à cauſe que ceſte tumeur n'eſtoit adherante § joinct qu'il n'yauoit point de mauuaiſe couleur à la partie,ny veines tumefiées ny,autres ſignes vrais & demóſtratifs de châcre.car ladite dame eſtoit bien reglée de ſes mois,la couleur du viſage & tout le corps bien habituez,eſtant ſans douleur , ſi on ne preſſoit contre ladite tumeur. dauantage pour demonſtrer que ce n'eſtoit vn chancre, la tumeur n'eſt iamais augmentée , ny aucun accidcnt ſuruenu : au contraire eſt gaillarde & bien diſpoſée, tant de ſºn corps que de l'eſprit. - j , * : | # :" |. , des tumeurs en general —- l- des scrophales ou eſeroüelles. ce t. xxi. e s eſcroiielles ſont tumeurs œdemateuſes, faictes aux parties glanduleuſes , comme aux gal. liu.de nammelles,aiſſelles, & aux aiſnes, & le plus ſouuent a èelles du col. elles ſont vne ou plu- rumeurs ieurs ſelon la quantité de matiere dont elles ſont procrées, & ſont quaſi touſiours enueſop- cºntre natu- pées envn kyſt ou membrane prope à eîfes,comme les atheromes,stetatomes & melicerides. : & * ! *: elles font faites & engendrées de pituite gypsées, groſſe, viſqueuſe, & lors qu'il s'y m ſle de de la metho- l'nume u t rr elancholic, s'eſchauffent & deuiennent malignes , & font vlceres corroſifs, & chancreux, qui de. § a ſubſtance des glandes & des parties voiſines & adone ſont incurables.d'abondant ce meſchant humeur ** urt par le corps,& ſouuét où il s'aſſied, altere & pourrit les os, & rend les pauures eſcroüelleux §brilcs : *** fin meurent miſerablement, languiſſans, tâbides,arides & ſecs, ſans pouuoir trouuerguariſon § medecº & chirurgiens. aucunes ſont fort douloureuſes, principalement quand l'humeur s'eſchauffe & ie pº> urrit, & degenere en vlceres chancreux,& alors il n'y faut aucunement toucher auec ferremens ny | diearnenºººº philippe ingraſſias.docte medecin de sicite en ſon liure qu'il a composé,intitulé pe tu- hiſtoi mo , z é ** rreter naturam, tome , chapitre . liure . recite d'vn certain more , lequel fur pendu pour larcin, d' # du que ! fut faicte anatomie en bône & grande compagnie,où ledit ingraſſias prefidoit,& fut trouué au me- # #. ze nter* ſoixante & dix petites tumeurs & ſerophuleuſes ayans chacune d'icelles ſon kyſtis,leſquelles adhe- p roient cº la membrane externe des inteſtins,les vnes pleines d'vne matiere endurcie & pareille à plaſtre les autres d'vne matiere viſqueuſe & gluante , les autres d vne matiere plus liquide.et eſt a noter,que le more au c>ir le* autres parties du corps fort ſaines & entieres, principalement le foye & rate, comme recite l'au- b tc r preallegº. dequoy il collige, que nature renuoyant tous les excremens de ce corps ſur le mezentere le mezente- &- partic* voiſines , auoit repurgé & nettoyé les autres, & icelle maintenues en ſanté : de ſorte que ledit re eſt , cmne # # - fut tant qu'il a veſcu peu ou pºint malade quieſtl'aduisauſſi de monfieur fernel,liure º. chapitre . vn eſcºus de o ， traicte des maladies,cauſes & fignes du mezentere & pancreas : sçauoir eſt,que tels abſcés & tumeurs corps, contre naturc ſe font par vne deſcharge de nature,laquelle eſtât preſsée de pluſieurs excremens,les réuoye vers le mezentere,& pancreas, comme dedans vn cloaque ou eſgout de tout le corps:car ceux qui ſont in- teroperans & exceſſifs au boire & manger, amaſſent grande quantité de toute ſorte de pituite & cholere, la quelle ſi elle ne ſe purge en temps & lieu,croiſſent au ventricule foye & ratelle.nature forte par apres la §uoye dedans le mezentere & pancreas,par les rameaux,qui de la veine porte s'inſerent & ſe perdent de- dans e pancreas & mezentere.parquoy ce n'eſt ſans cauſe ny ſans grande raiſon & experience(veu que ces parties reçoiuent tant dextremens) que ledit fernel afferme & aſſeure auoir trouué ſouuent la cauſe & ſie- ge des felons , on dyſcenteries, melancholique, hypocondriaques,diarrhées, atrophies,langueurs, fiévres ſentes , & erratiques , en icelles parties. pour retourner à noſtre propos, ledit ingraſſias raconte l'hiſtoire que deſſus , pour confirmation de ce qu il eſcrit auoir leu en iulius pollux, que les eſcrouelles s'engen- drent quelquesfois au mezentere.ce qui eſt côforme à la doctrine de gal.lequel veut les eſcroüelles n'eſtre autre choſe que glandules ſcirrheuſes & endurcies. et pour la confirmation de cecy , i'atteſte auoir trouué atteſtation au corps morts, qui auoient des eſcroüelles aux parties exterieures plufieurs tumeurs glanduleuſes au me- del'autheur zentere,groſſes comme noix, noiſettes, poix,voire auſſi groſſes que le poing, dans leſquelles eſtoit conte- nue vne matiere gypsée, & autre matiere purulente. quant à la cure, elle ſe fera en ordonnant le regime, . c faiſant vne treſgrande diette pour rendre nature famelique,afin qu'elleconſomme & digere les humeurs ſu- per-abondans. dauantage le medcin ordnnera medicines pour vacuer les humeurs ſuperfiues. sembla- cuvé. lement le chirurgien appliquera les remedes ſelon qu'il cognoiſtra eſtre neceſſaire au parties exterieures, #ºmme remollitifs,& reſolutifs, & ſuppuratifs, ainſi. /.mucag. alth, fœnug & ficuum ping.an. ij. olei #. & cammil. an. .j. pingued. an er. & axun. porc.an. . .tercbent.venet. .j. fi. aimoni. & galba. *cero diſt. an. .j. ceræ noux quant ſatis, fiat cerat, ſecundà partem, ad modum diachil.mag le lini- - § -- »- -g. g iiico,& l'emplaſtre de vigo cum mercuri ſont tres excellens en tel cas, voire faire frotter ànt # *ºie dudit liniment, iuſques à la ſaliuation : car par ce moyen nature ſe deſchargera de l'humeur cau- e§ e † que i'ay fait aucc heureuſe iſſue.onverſera ſemblablemét de ces remedes ſuiuans.#. - rtm - ， •dia il.alb. & mag. cerot œfipi deſcriptionis philag.an. . ij. ter.bent carz. . j. olei lilior. pa- emplaſtre. sion- e at empl ſatis molle et ſi leſdites eſcrouelles ne peuuent eſtre ſoultes,& qu elles tendent à ſuppura- - iij ，s me ſouuent il aduient, alors on vſera de remedes ſuppuratifs, comme #. rad & alth.lilios. an. - . - # " sºsi-insqua comm piſtent paſſent addend. capit allºorlub cinerib. coctor. . iij. olei liior. & ping. ºººººſºº le ch i s anat.an. .j .far. ſem. liniquant. ſatis, vt inde formetur cataplaſma, vt ars docet. or il faut que ſuppuratif mattar-e ºrgienſoit aduerty,qu'auparauant qu'il face ouuerture auſdites eſcrouelles, faut laiſſer à perfection difficii * toute la tumeur, & entierement ſuppurer : autrement le reſte demeurera crud, & par conſequent ineurs •s long à guarir. ce qui ſe doit pratiquer non ſeulement és eſcrouelles , mais auſſi en toutes tu- voir -- # v si doiuent ſuppurer, eſquellesil ne faut pas que le chirurgien ſe haſte de faire ouuerture , pour ce c s s petite portion de l'humeur venue à maturité : ( ſi ce n'eſt en la peſte,charbon & parotides.)car au* «scs *ynencement de pus, qui eſt ja cuit, fait que le reſte meurira & ſuppurera pluſtoſt. , ce que l'on void aprss n sinanimez : comme lors qu'vne pomme commence à ſe pourrir , ſi l'on n oſte la pourriture, toſt #es ， s reſte pourrira : & pour le conſeruer de non ſi toſt ſe pourrir , on oſte ce qui eſt ,a gaſté:ainſi eſt-il cauſes **rseurs contenus aux tumeurs contre nature.ily a vne autre raiſon : c eſt que la chaleur naturelle eſt aiſs - sseciente de ſuppuration. lcelle donc par ouuerture precipitée eſtant diſſipee & rendue moindre à n le chn i •qu'à telle ouuerture s'enſuit diſſipationd'eſprits,le reſte demeurera crud & inſuppurable, #t partant # ronge - comparai- ſon. cors srgien aura eſgard à ce precepte qui ſe dºit entendre, ſi la partie où eſt la tumeur, n'eſt ſujette à #º#. desu tion ,comme au fiege : ou ſi la matiere contenue n'eſt veneuſe, ou critique il y a vne autre maniere rer le, eſ- . ficiey l s r les eſcroüelles,qui eſt par l'opperation de la main du chirurgien,lors qu elles ſont au col & ſuper croisell s,pri- hors ss , faiſant vne inciſion, afin de les ſeparer des parties où elles ſont attache es, puis tirººs & coupées ſe ， , yot i # ais enfaiſant tel œuure ſe faut donner garde de toucher la veine lugulaire , ou autre & lartere ca-cb. de, apo- §s se nerfs recurrens : où il y auroit danger de flux de ſangs apres les auoir ſeparées du cuir , les fau- ſi.mes tms § tier en leur baſe, en paſſant vne eſguille enfilée, les liant & ſerrant desdeux coſtez > afin que d'-llcs froids s tombent petit à petit ſans danger. cela fait, , on traittera l'vlcere ainſi qu'il appartiend a. hihoire aigne a'eure bien confiaerée tant des medecins que chirºgºns- - hiſtoire. *fabeau rolant, femme de iean bony, demeurant en rue monceaux pres s geruais ou pend pour enſei- l.,eſ rouel. ºs la roſe rouge, aagée de ſoixante ans, le xxij. octobre fut ouuerte ( eſtant morte ) par l'ordon- les occupeut nance , & en la preſerce de monſieur milot, docteur regent, & lecteur es eſcholes de medecine : & fut le mezente- ºouué § & mezentere d'vne groſſeur merueilleuſe & preſque incroyable, peſant dix liures & de * l' i c • - - -- - -- | le ſeptieſme liure, e mic, tout ſcirrheux par dehors , adheroit ſ mºt aux vcrtcbres des iambes, & pardº # petitoine, a ·! º«. lequel eſtoit pareillement tout ſcirrheux & ſemblable à vn cartilage : duquel fut fait le # "hain diſſe- aui aſſiſte- ºton & dcmonſtration au logis dudit ſieur millot,en preſence de monſieur de varades m - " , " & conſeil- #, § § : ler du roy , & dôyen de la faculté de medecine : monſieur broüet medecin du roy,& de ºnſeigneur e , " cardinal dc bourbon : meſſieurs cappel,marelcot,arragon , baillou, riolant, docteurs fº°gens en la fa- - - culté de mcdecine : pineau,maiſtre chirurgien : i'y aſiſtay auſſi,& plufieurs autres,& fut trouuéen icelles ， vne infinité d abſces , ayans chacun ſon kyſtis, les vns pleins d'vne liqueur pareille a huille doliue, les autres à miel , les autres à ſuiffondu , les autres a la boullie,les autres a l humeur albigineux , les autres à l'humeur aqucux bref autant qu'il y auoit d'abſcés , sautant ſe trouua-il en iceux de diuerſe matiere. . or eſt-il à noter qu'il y auoit huict ans & plus que ladite tumeur auoit commencé, & s'eſtoit accreuë de plus en plus, ſans douleur toutesfois : de fait, le mezentere n'a aucun ſentiment : & auoit ladite roland ſes aétions animales, vitales & nâturelles libres (peu s'en falloit ) comme en pleine ſanté, hormis deux mois auant que mourir , qu'elle s'allita pour cauſe d'vne fiévré continue qui ne l'abandonna iuſques à la mort;. , comme auſſi pour cauſe de la peſanteur de ſon fardeau, lequel elle diſoit auoit ſenti comme ſe deſraciner. de fait, ilſe trouuaadherent ſeulement aux vertebres des lotnbes & peritoine,comme a eſté dit cy-deſſus, & nullement aux boyaux & autres parties,eſquelles il eſt naturellement attache.de facon que tombant ſur " la veſſie , & preſlant icelle luyicaufoit difficulte d'vriner , comme auſſi preſſans les boyaux luy cauſoit dif- ficulté d'aller à la ſelle, de ſorte qu'elle n'y alloit que prenant quelque medicament par la bouche.quant aux clyſteres,ils ne pouuoient entrer : les ſuppoſitoires ne luy profitoient de rien. elie auoit auſſi difficulté b, de reſpirer , pour la compreffion du diaphragme. aucuns des medecins qui la penſoient, auoient opinion que c'eſtoit vne mole , les autres que c'eſtoit hydropiſie : de fait l'hydropiſie s'enſuiuit, & fut tiré vn ſeau . ! . , ... -- d'eau,& plus de fon corps. ce qui aduient principalement pourle foye, qui eſtoit tout ſcirrheux & remply - d'abſcés, tant en dehors qu'en dedans. la rate ſe trouua auſſi toute pourrie, les boyaux & omentum l'iui- . - des & tauelez : brefil ne ſe trouua partie aucune entiere en tout le ventre inferieur. - - - - · · · du ganglion. c h a p. xx i i. º ° - - : - - • me，ie. t * ; supreſſion d'vrin c . " - - • a n e l o n , eſt vne petite tumeur ronde , qui vient ſouuentefois aux poignets des mains (! ou pres les cheuilles des pieds,côbien qu'elle ſe face auſſi aux autres parties du corps, & s'en- - :: gendre à la ſuperficie du cuir, & non au profond. la cauſe eſt, quand le nerf ou tendon, eſtant debilite par contorſion , ou extenſion,ou par coup, ou grand trauail,ou autre accident, nature ne pouuant faire bonne concoction & aſimilation de ſon nourriſſemét,engendre vn ccr- -- tain humeur froid & gros de ſemblable qualité que ſon nourriſſement, lequel peu à peu s'accumule à l'en- - tour des fibres, & meſine,en la propre ſubſtance des tendons, dont ceſte tumeur eſt dure,faite de matiere - pituiteuſe & melancholique. a celles qui ſont pres les tendons, & aux jointures,ne faut toucher par fer- cure du rement ; mais y appliquer ammoniac. & galbanum diſſoult en vinaigre & eau de vie.autre. é gummi iiliil. gºntlie» & ſagab. in aqua vitæ diſſol.añ. .j. coqu. ſub cineri.calid.ad formam empl ſub finem adde ſuſphur viui tº ººº frº ſubtiliter pul. . . fiat empl. ad vſum.auſſi l'emplaſtre de vgo cum mercurio duplicato. et apres l'auoir * º amolli faut frtoter & preſſer deſſus,tant & ſi fort qu'on rompe ſon kyſt : ce que i'ay fait par pluſieurs fois. - t)efinition. - cauſe. la lamine de plomb, frottée de vif-argent, appliquée deſſus auec forte ligature , les conſomme , principa- #. lement quand on a rompu le kyſt il y a des petits glanglions, qui ont leur racine greſle & menue,leſquels j. . ſeront liez, les ſerrant de iour en iour, tant qu'ils ſoyent tombez. le reſte de la curration e fera comme il - appartiendra. c , ，- - • ! des verruès ou pourreaux, dittes myrmecies, _acrochordon, clauue, :: ou clou º§ ,sarcoma, ou fungus. ， ch a p. xxi ii. - s l y a de cinq ſortes de verrues, à ſçauoir, myrmecies, deſquelles l'eminence e# petite,cal- leuſe, ronde, & eſpeſſe, large, & leur baſe n'excede gueres la groſſeur d vn lºpin. elles - naiſſent communement aux mains de petits enfans, & aucunefois viennent ſubitement , auſſi #. s'éuanoüiſſent tout à coup, & peu ſouuent viennent pour vne ſeule, mais ſont pluſieurs el- ": - les ſont curées, v appliquantdeſſus du pourpied pilé, ou fueilles de ſoucv, auccvn peu de i ſel. auſſi les guarit l'huile de fourment,de ſoulphre, ius de chelidoine, le laict de tithymal. ! . - tdes porreaux. - / a » « : | il ya d'autres verrues appellées porreaux.le nom de pourreauleur a eâé donné,à cauſe qu'il a la teſte de - porreaux. il y a des petits filets qui reſemblent aux racines trouuées auſdites verrues porracées. pour leur - cure, il les faut lier ( ſi faire ſe peut) pour les faire tomber : eſtans tombées on mettra deſſus de la poudre . • de sabina, & de l'ocre, faite ainſi. & foliorum ſabina ij. ocrha .j. pulueriſentur ſimul : fiat puluis. en s lieu du fabin on prendra de la poudre de hermc lacte bruſlée.si pour telles choſes ne s'amortifioientºonles } touchera d'huyle de vitriol,ou eau forte, ou vn petit grain de cautere potentiel,pourueu qu'il n'y aitgran- | de douleur & inflammation. d : - - jatrot hordon. ' , acrochordon eſt vne verrué pendante, ayant ſa baſe fort pctite, eſtant calleuſe , ſans douleur,de figure | ronde, n'excedant la groſſeur d'vne febue : quelquesfois elle ſuppure. on la cure par ligature»par ſection, - & par vnſtion, & par les arracher. - : (lauius. - - - · claus, ou clou, nommé des vulgaires cors, eſt vn durillon qui vientaux jointures des arteils, & ſous - la plante des pieds, ayant ſa racine dure,ancrée & fichée profondement,comme s'il naiſſoit du periºte des os. ils cauſent vne douleur piquante, comme ſi on eſtoit picqué d'vne pointe de clou, lors qu oil chemine ou preſſe deſſus.la cauſe vient pour auoir porté des ſouliers trop eſtroits,ou auoir cheminé longuement* t pied. leur cal eſt dur & eſpés, comme la corne de lanterne, c'eſt pourquoy ſont appellez corps pour les curer il les faut coupor iuſques au ſang & pour faire mourir leur racine,ony appliquerºdº ! huile de vitriol ou l'eau forte. on fera eſſay premierement en y appliquant des aulx pillez deſſus, ou de la gomme aººº- niac diſſoulte en eau de vie , ſi elles retournent apres eftre guaries, on fera le remede comme deuant.nota qu'au milieu s'il s'y trouue vne petite dureté noire,il faut plonger vne pointe d'aiguille aſſez profondement» & la leuer en haut, & la couper : car c'eft la racine du dudit cal. thymus des tumeurs en general. thymur. " rhym s eſt vnc petite verruë eminente , moindre beaucoup que l'acrochordon , repreſentant en haut la feur du thx'm : partant a eſté nommée thymus. elle eſt dure & raboteuſe, eſtroitte en ſa baſe, & vient §nér ent aux hommes entre le prepuce & le gland,& aux femmes au col de leur matrice, engendree d'humeur rx elancholic de maligne qualité > & ſouuent de la verolle pour la cure,ſi elle peut eſtre liée,elle le ſera,v ar-p-liquant deſſus de l'huile de vitriol : poudre de ſabina,& ocre,comme auons dit.si elle vient de la ver le- ** patiens ſeront traictez comme il appartient à telle maladie, ou autrement n'en pourront eſtre curez.cºr ſa : tes verrues viénent ſouuent au col de la ii tl cc des femmes a ucunes à la ſu perficie ſeulement, & ſouuen t ** milieu,ou au profond:quelquesfois il n'y en a qu'vne ſeule,& quelquesfois pluſieurs.aucu- §e peu douloureuſes, les autres font tres grand douleur, aucuns guariſſent les liant, & appliquant les reme cies cy-deſſus mentionnez auec la pouldre de ſabina (laquelle opere par vne proprieté occulte) & par vne aecoction faite de ladite ſabina, adiouſtant de l'onguent egyptiac,y laiſſant dedans vn peſſaire trem- pé en a dite decoction. en fin par vne autre iniection d'eau bien aſtringente, & deſiccatiue ſans acrimonie. par ces rnoyens en ay pensé beaucoup qui ont eſté guaris,les autres non,parce qu'elles eſtoient de mauuai- ſe qualité,engºdºº d'humeur melancholiciioinct auſſi qu'elles ſont ſouuent en ſigrande quantité,qu'el- les occvn penº la capacité du col de la matrice,qui cauſe de grands accidens,comme douleur cuiſantes & les pauures patiens diſent y auoir le feu,qui fait qu'ils ne peuuent cheminer,ny ſe tenirdebout,ny aſſis,à raiſon qu'elle s frayent les vnes contre les autres, & qui fait auſſi qu'elles iettent beaucoup de ſang. elles degene- rent ſouuent en chancre, iettans vne ſanie ſereuſe, fort fœtide,& en grande quantité. les patiens ont vne fiévre entesqui ſe tourne en hectique, & meurent miſerablement, perdans toute la ſubſtance de l'humeur §bſtantifique du corps. de sarcoma ou fungus. - sarcoma autrement dit fungus, eſt vne excroiſſance de chair, qui vient de l'aliment propre de la partie ib où e e n'aiſt,& non de la deſcharge & fluxion d'humeur des autres parties.et ſi ceſte chair n'eſt reprimée, elle s'augmente beaucoup,& ſouuent produit en ſoy des tuyaux ayans forme de veines & arteres, par leſ- quelles elle prend nourriture & accroiſſement commel'on voidaux louppes.elle iette vne ſanie fort puante: les vulgaires l'appellent fil ſainct fiacre. il ſe procrée & forme en nos corps, ainſi qu'on voit aux troncs des cheſnes & autres arbres , quand quelque humeur à demy pourry, glueux & viſqueux vient à ſortir par reſudation au trauers de l'eſcorce, & peu à peu ſortant hors prend accroiſſement, & forme le fungus.au reſte il tient de la nature des verrues malignes : vient ſouuent à la fracture du crane ; autour du ſiege, au col de la matrice , & autres parties.pour la cure, où la chair ſeroit fort accreuë,comme ſouuent eſt groſſe · comme vn œuf , plus ou moins, on la liera (s'il ſe peut faire) auec fil de ſoye , le plus pr s de ſa racine qu'on pourra:eſtant tôbée on appliquera deſſus de l'huile de vitriol,& autre choſes cy-deſſus mentionnées. de lafiévre quiſuruient aux tumeurs œdemateuſes. ch a p. x x iv. o v r e s les eſpeces & differences des tumeurs œdemateuſes expliquées, reſte à parler briefuement de la fiévre accidentaire, qui aſſez ſouuent ſuruient en icelle. ceſte fiévre rete- nant du mouuement de l'humeur pituiteux dont elle eſt excitée, eſt ordinairement de l'eſpe- ( es ce de celles que les medecins appellent quotidiennes intermittentes. les fiévres quotidien- §º-^" nes ſont celles quièetournent & font tous les iours leur accés,ſouuét de la longueur de dix- #uict heures, donnant intermiſſion & relaſche manifeſte le reſte du iour. les cauſes primitiues de ceſte )uelles fié- •upºe ſur- uiennent aux œdemes. )ue c'eſt c ſorte de fiévres , ſont froidure,& humidité de l'air ambient, long vſage de choſes froides & humides qui fiévre quo- #ººt ſe corrompent, comme fruicts nouueaux, & chairs de poiſſon, intermiſſion d'exercice accou- # é- les cauſes antecedentes ſont grande repletion d'humeurs #. principalement phlegmatiques.la cau- #ººte eſ le phlegme putrefié hors des grands vaiſſeaux en l'habitude & eſpace de tout le corps, ou tre n# region d'iceluy. les ſignes ſont prinsde trois choſes, ſçauoir naturelles, non naturelles, & con- pe§ ; des choſes naturelles : car le plus ſouuent ceſte fiévre prend ceux qui ſont de nature , & tem- c ph # froid & humide , comme gens vieux, femmes, petits enfans, & eunuques, pour l'abondance au pri †s qui eſt en eux. des choſes non naturelles : car cette fiévre prend le plus ſouuent en hyuer, de via pº , en region froide & humide : à cauſe de la maniere de viure oyſeuſe & ſedentaire , vſage ſi exes # i)on ſeulement froides & humides , mais auſſi chaudes & ſeiches, ſi elles ſont priſes en telle & ture = e> ， e quantité, qu'elles puiſſent debiliter & ſuffoquer la chaleur naturelle. des choſes contre na- tremir #se ºrce que cette fiévre ſuit le froid, entant que toutle corps eſt refrigeré, & principalement les ex- luy, <i - -- s les accidens ſont douleur d'eſtomach,parce que le phlegme s'engendre pour la plus part en icel- fois rºns # ! s'enſuit vomiſſement pituiteux. couleur paſle en la face,la bouche humide & ſans ſoif,quelques- & la s ºne durant l'eſtat ouvigueur de l'accés : à cauſe que l'eſtomacheſtant remply de pituite, la bouche triculs sue s'en reſſentent,pour la continuité de la tunique interieure qui leur eſt commune auec le ven- pouls e -#ues la fiévre quotidienne faite de phlegme doux, commence par froid aux extremitez, par pº rss tit & profond,qui toutesfois en l'eſtat de l'accés ſe monſtre plus fort, plus grand, & plus leger: mais ss , son que la chaleur de ceſte fiévre ſemble au premier attouchement douce, vaporeuſe, & humide, jd ſe m es , ny tenant plus long-temps la main,vous la ſentirez acre:tout ainſi que le feu allumé en bois verd eſtan s re du commencement petit, languide & fumeux , mais enfin ardant & violent , lors que le bois contr $ chauffé & reſeiché, l'action & ardeur du feu n'eſt plus empeſchée par la preſence de ſ'humidité § * #e. l'accés ſe termine par petites ſueurs, leſquelles ne ſe monſtrent point du commencement, mais ucº-arn $ºsnt la criſe ſuruient en plus grande abondance. l'vrine eſt paſle du commencement & eſpeſſe, yſis ，s fois tenue,ſçauoir, lors qu'il y a obſtruction. mais quand la matiere eſt cuitte ( comme elle eſt en veux , la fiévre)l'vrine ſe monſtre rouſſe.si au commencement de la fiévre ſuruient vomiſſement pitui- que p sela ſignifie qu'icelle ſera en peu de temps terminée, tant pour la tenuité de ſa matiere, que pource r telle euacuation eſt faite excretion de la cauſe coniointe de la fiévre. la fiévre quotidienne le plus §ºº eſt longue : parce que l'humeur pituiteux eſtant de ſa nature froid & humide; eſt lourd,peſant,& geern > <a ſe mouuoir, & outre non ſans danger de plus grande maladie , pource que le plus ſouuent ſe chan- ſaueu # ardante, ou en quarte : ainſi ſe fait tranſmutation de maladies , car comme ainſi ſoit que la ſºu§ ſalée ſoit propre entre tous les humeurs à la ſeule pituite, & que telle ſaueur eſt fort proche de la )et ſi ， amere, en laquelle meſme elle ſe change aisément & degenere par aduſtion , il ne ſe faut eſmerueil- due la pituite par telle aduſtion ſe change en bile rouſſe & noire. tous ceux qui releuent de fiévre quoti- §"ºe ont la faculté coctrice debile, & partant ne leur conuient bailler abondance d'aliments,& difficile **ºtre toute ceſte fiévre dure le plus ſouuent ſoixante iours.si dés le commencement de l'acces # voiil c iilcilt tidienne. cauſe. aecidens friſſons. pouls. )ualité ds chaleur. prognoſtie l'vrine. vomiſſement. cauſe de le longueur de ceſte fiévre. accident que laiſſe la quotidienne signes derer minaiſon. •. "- w - z/"t a % a - y le ſeptieſmeliure, vomiſſement , & à la fin d'iceluy grande ſueur, ce ſont ſignes de briefue terminaiſon de *#é rº ºssº a , - que la matiere eſt obeiſſante;& la vertu naturelle forte,qui jette hors la matiere d'icelle idie, aureſte,il " l - diſtin #ion ſe faut bien donner garde d'eſtre trompé, prenant vne fiévre double tierce pour vne quº* difºe, pource de la fºr° qu'elle repete & donne touſiours vn accés comme la quotidienne. or il te ſera aisé de * *ſt# ſitu ººººº conſideiesl'eſpece & forme eſſentielle de l'vne & de l'autre. les cauſes ſont contraires, & pºrei§ # ſimptomes. dauantage les quotidiennes le plus ſouuent reprennent ſur le ſoir, commencººtde, la nuict, # lors que par l'abſence du soleil l'air eſtant refroidy,tout noſtre corps pareillement ſe refroi t:quieſt cauſe q que les humeurs froids ont leur mouuement , qui parauant eſtoit aucunement retenu par la chaleur. les / double tirerce au contraire prennent ordinairement vers le midy. la briefueté & douleur de l'accez en là a curation.. fiévre quotidienne ſont ſignes de la briefueté d'icelle,& de guariſon,ſi cela aduient l'humeur eſtant ja cuit. | idiette la curation conſiſte en deux choſes, ſçauoir en regime, & en medicamens.le viure doit eſtre tenu & inci- - - ſif, c'eſt à dire , ſubtil & penetrant. l'air clair , chaud & ſec moderement. les aliments ſoient pain bien ·| cuit,bouillons faits de poulettes cuites auec racines de perſil , ozeille,& petits chous,quelquesfois viandes chaudes & ſalées, pour ceux principalement qui ont le foye & eſtomach refroidis,& qui vomiſſent le phle- | gme aigre. on peut manger poulets , mouton , perdrix , petis oyſelets, poiſſons d'eau douce roſtis , œufs mollets. le breuuage ſoit petit vin blanc trempé auec eau cuite. les fruicts ſoient raiſins, pruneaux,aman- dres,dattes cuittes. l'exercice moderé conuient, auec frictions de tout le corps. le dormir eſt commode aux heures deués , & proportionné aux veilles, pourueu que ce ne ſoit durant l'accés : car lors il eſt fort nuiſible,par reuocation de la chaleur du dehors au dedans. quant aux affections de l'ame,il faut que le ma - lade ſe reiouiſſe eſperant bien de ſa ſanté. les medicamens ſont ſ, rops digeſtifs & aperitifs, comme ſyrops - d'abſinte, de mente, des deux & cinq racines, oxymel, auec decoction de camomile,calamenthe, melilot, mºdicº- anet, & ſemblables. les medicaments purgatifs ſoient diaphoenicum,diacartami, hiera pirca, pilules au- ©gèn;. rées , agaric, turbit : deſquels on fera potions auec eaux de menté, meliſſe,hyſope,ſauge,fenouil,ſcariole. aucuns ſeront donnez en forme de bol auec ſucre,ſelon que le docte medecin conſiderera eſtre moins mo- leſte au malade. enuiron l'eſtat de la maladie, il faudra auoir eſgard au ventricule, & principalement à l'o- rifice d'iceluy : de tant qu'il eſt le ſiege principal de la pituite , qui fait la fiévre quotidienne. parquoy de vomitcires. deux iours l'vn ſera bon l'oindre d'huile de camomille,& d'abſinthe,auecvn peu de vinbläc.il ſera bon auſſi le deſ harger par vomiſſement , baillant à boire au malade ſuc de raue, auec force oxymel,ou deconction de ſemence & racine de cabaret, ou de camomile auec ſyrop aceteux , & ce ſur le commencement de l'ac- cés , lors que nature ſe commence à eſmouuoir. pour vne quotidienne inueterée, que l'on n'aura peu ga- ri, auec remedes communs , n'y a rien plus propre que demie drachme, ou dragme entiere de theriaque vieille aue ſuccre, en forme de bol, ou bien diſſoute auec vn peu d'eau de vie. du scirrhe ». c h a p. xxv. - - definition #sè% a r cy-deuant nous auons traicté des tumeurs engendrées de ſang, cholere, & pituite,reſte de vray % maintenant à declarer celles qui ſont faites de melancholie. or il y a quatre differences de tu- ſcirrhe. meurs faites de melancholie : la premiere eſt, le scirrhe vray & legitime,qui eſt vne tumeur gal. . à # dure ſans douleur, auec petit ſentiment, fait de melancholie naturelle:la ſeconde,eſt le ſcir- claucon. n rhe non vray,qui eft dur, ſans douleur & ſentiment,lequel eſt fait par trop grande reſolution c *ºirrhe ille- ou refrigeration, & quaſi lapidifié : la tierce eſt le ſcirrhe chancreux fait par aduſtion & corruption : la gitime. quatrieſme eſt faite de la melancholie naturelle meſlée auec les autres humeurs,comme de melancholie & #.. de ſang,& d'icelle eſt faite le ſcirrhe plegmonodes,& ainſi des autres humeurs meſlez auec icelles les cau- - scirrh.#i- ſes de telles tumeurs, eſt vn humeur gros, glueux & eſpés, amaſsé & endurcy en quelque partie : ce qui gmcnoii.s. proºicnt oº d'vn mauuais regime de viure produiſant tel humeur, ou à raiſon des affections du foye ou cauſes de ratelle,comme pour quelque obſtruction ou ſuppreſſion d'hemorroides & menſtrnes. les ſignes, ſont du- ſcirrhe. reté & retinence, couleur noiraſtre, & les veines qui paroiſſent à la partie, ſont fort tuméfiees pour l'hu- à signe s. meur gros qui y eſt contenu, & les eſlargit, le ſcirrhe illegitime qui n'a ny douleur ny ſentiment, & le , chancreux , ne reçoiuent aucune curration : & celuy qui eſt vray & legitime ſe guarit tres-difficilement. t jprognºſtic. ceux qui viennent.a ſuppuration,ſe tournent fouuent en chancres & fiſtules. les ſcirrhcs au commenco- $ ment apparoiſſent petits , mais de iour en utrcdeuiennent fort grands. j dé la curation du scirrhe ». c h a p. xxv i. f - - a curation du scirrhe ſe fera par trois poincts principaux:le premier aura eſgard à la maniere | # $ de viure, laquelle ſera ſobre & moderée , tendante à humidité , & aucunement à chaleur - curation du temperée, comme il ſera monſtré parlant du chancre , & éuitera le courroux, & ſur tout la t ſcirrhe, compagnie des femmes. , le ſecond poinct ſera à l'éuacuation de la matiere antecedente, | premiere- comme par phlebotomie ( où il en fera beſoin) & purgations, prouoquant les hemorroides : seconde. aux hommes, & aux femmes leurs mois. les purgations ſeront de catholicum de hiera, diaſene,polypode, ! epithyme, & autres qui auront eſgard à l'euacuation de l'humeur melancholique:& de ce on aura recours , au docte medecin. le troiſieſme s'accomplira par medicamens topiques emolliens au commencement, - roiſieſms. apres on vſera de reſolutifs, ou pluſtoſt de medicamens qui ſoient meſlez de facultez remolliente & & reſolutiue,ainſi que galien enſeigne : car vſant ſeulement de remolitifs, il y auroit danger de faire pour- gal. .. à riture : & engendrer vn chancre. auſſi ſi les purs reſolutifs eſtoient appliquez , danger ſeroit de reſou- glauc. dre le plus ſubtil, & rendre le reſte lapidifié & endurcy. les remolitifs ſeront tels. /. rad. alth. fb. .ra- medicamens dic, lilior. .iij. coquant. in aqua com.piſt paſſent. per ſeraceum,addendo olei camomill. & lilioran. .ij. | remollitifs œſip.humid. . ſ emplaſt. diachil. alb. cum oleo lilior diſſ. . iij. cerx alb. quant.ſatis, fiat cerotum. au- . ºº ſºirrhe tre. z. gummi ammon. galba. bdellij, ſtyrac. aliquid, inaceto diſſolut. an. #. diachil magn. .j. ſ. olei ' | · lilior. & axung.anſer.an. .j. cerot. œſip. deſcrip. philap ij. liquef omnia ſimul,addend. care quant.ſa- tis,vt inde fiat cerotum ſatis molle.apres que tuanras quelque temps ramolly, tu vſeras de ſuffumigation | faicte de vinaigre , fort, & eau de vie jettée ſurvne pierre nommée pyrites,ou bien ſur vne brique rougie, | & feront receues de la partie malade:laquelle inciſe,attenue,& reſoult l'humeur quiaura eſte ramolly.cela | faict par interualle on recommencera aux remolitifs, afin de preparer d'autre matiere à reſolution , qui ſe | fera en reiterant la ſuſdite ſuffumigation : & continueras ces remedes tant qu'il ſera beſoin. car par ce | moyen gal. a guary vn fcirrhe au fils de cercilius. pareillement l'emplaſtre de vigo, duplicato mercurio, | gal. . à cſt ſinguliere pour amollir,fondre & reſoudre les tumeurs ſcirrheuſes. chriſtofie landré dit auoir cxperi- clºue ºh. mente la fiente de chévre à diſcuter ſes tumeurs ſcirrheuſes : & pour confirmation de ſon dire cite le teſ- ºriº/rºº moignage de galien. - - des tumeurs engeneral. i . a -- - , — - = *-- -- duchancre jafaict cr a t. xxvii - leur cendrée ou liuide, enuironnée de pluſieurs veines pleines de ſangmelancholique,appa- # rentes & tortues (en manière des pieds d'vn poiſſon appcllé chancre ) & plus tendues qu'en # vn phlegmon : leſquelles ne ſe monſtrent rouges, hais de couleur noiraſtre, ou plombine, $ comme l'humeur qui y eſt contenu.au commencement il eſt fort difficille à cognoiſtre,entant - "que la tumeur eſt comme vn pois chiche, ou viſe petite noiſette , laquelle,'croiſt aſſez ſou- dain, ſi on applique remedes qui l'irritent,& commence ſans douleur : mais comme elle aggrandit, tour- g ha n c r e eſt vne tumeur dure, inegale, rabotouſe, de figure ronde,immobile, de cou- definitioh du chansre* $ $ mente fort le malade d'vne douleur intolerable & poignante,auec vne chaleur eſtrange, & aucunefois par, interualle ne la ſent beaucoup. ceſte tumeura pris le nom de chancre, parce qu'elle luy reſſemble beau- coup : & premierement eſt de figure inegale ronde, & les veines qui l'enuironnent, ſont en la maniere de iâbes & pieds tortus de cét animal nommé chancre,leſquelles ſont remplies de gros ſang melancholique qui s'eſchauffe , eſtant eſchauffé tourmente le malade de douleur picquante & poignante , comme ſi on luy donnoit des coups d'aiguille, & en ſort vne ſanie fetide & ſereuſe, & ſouuent le ſang tout pur, s'il eſt vlceré: dauantage cét animal , quand il eſt attaché de ſes pieds contre quelque choſe,adhere a elle ſi fort qu'à peine on le peutarracher,principalement de ſes deux pieds de deuant,qui ſont en maniere de tenailles & pincettes : ainſieſt-il de cét humeur,qui paroiſt en outre de couleur cendrée ou liuide,auecaſperitez, de meſme que cét animal; duquel pour ceſte cauſe ie t'ay voulu donner icy le pourtrait. * - figure du chancre ». | ©e # des tauſes, eſpeces, ou differences,& pronoſtics de chamr . c h a p. xxv ii i, e s cauſes ſont deux, antecedente & coniointe. la cauſe antccédente prouient d'vne maniere de viure,produiſant vn ſang eſpais, melancholique & limonneux:l'aptitude du foye à engen- drer telle ſuperfluité , auſſi l'impuiſſance de la ratelle d'expurger le ſang : la ſuppreſſion des menſtruës,& hemorroides & autres euacuations accouſtumées, ioint la debilité de la partie : toutes leſquelles choſes engendrent ceſte maladie. la cauſe coniointe,eſt l'humeurmelancho- iique arreſté à la partie,apres ſon ebullition. le ſang qui eſt plus doux & moins mauuais,& a acquis,ſeule- ment vne qualité plus chaude,cauſe le chancre non vlceré. lors que cét humeur influë à la partie,s'échauffe & deuient plus acre & malin, fait le chancre vlceré, ainſi que l'humeur qui cauſe les carboucles, quand il y a acquis vne grande inflammation, acrimonie & malignité : rompt, corrode; & vlcere la partie. or le chicre deuient plus chaud & furieux par alimens qui échauffét le ſang,& par courroux:auſſi par les reme- des indeuëment appliquez, qui ſont trop chauds, acres, oleagineux & emplaſtiques. entre les eſpeces & d'ifferences de chancres,il yen a deux principales, à ſçauoir, vn non vlceré, vulgairement appellé apoſte- meux,& quaſi de tous les anciens, chancre occulte ou caché, l'autre eft vlceré & manifeſte. et outre il y a des chancres faitsaux parties interieures , comme aux inteſtins , & mezentere, matrice, ſiege , & autres parties internes.dauantage il y a chanchre recent, inueteré, petit, grand, moins malin, autre plus re- belle & malin. ceux qui ſont de complexion melancholique,& qui vſent d'alimens qui engendrent cét hu- meur,& qui habitent en telle region,ſont ſujets aux chancres.auſſi les femmes en ſont plus entachées que les hommes : pareillement ceux qui ont le foye trop chaud, & principalement ſi auec cela la rate eſt ſi de- bile qu'elle ne puiſſe deuëment attirer de la maſſe ſanguinairé, & expeller cét humeur limonneux , qui eſt comme la lie du ſang. d'abondant quant les hemorrhoide,menſtrues ſont retenues és perſonnes qui ont ac- couſtumé fiuer.tout châcre eſt quaſi incurable,ou tres-difficile à guarir:car c'eſt vne tres mauuaiſe maladie ºn tout ſon genre,ſçauoir eſt ladrerie particuliere.aëce dit,que le châcre ne ceſſe de ronger & de minerau profond de lapartie où il eſt, ne ſe pouuant arreſtes.le chancre vient en pluſieurs parties du corps, mais principalement aux laxes & de rare texture,fungueuſes & glanduleuſes, leſquels ſont promptes à receuoir ceſte groſſe matiere melancholique, comme ſont les mammelles, les emunctoires, & les parties honteuſes suand il eſt à la mammelle , ſouuent engendre infiammation ſous les aiſſelles, & tumeur aux glandes d'i- nature à chan«re. cauſes an . tecedentes cauſes cin- ioinctes. eſpce ou differences. chacre ve- cnlte ». aèc, liu. , chap. . gal liu. des tumeurs & ºlles,qui tourmente grandement les maladies,& diſent ſentir la douleur poignante iuſques au cœur. la . à glauc ouleurmonte auſſi iuſques au paleron,& os furculaire.s il eſt deuenu grand,ne ſe peut guarir ſans l'œuure pr，n . - ºanuelle, comme auſſi s'il eſt proche des parties nobles. toutesfois és corps qui ont peu de force & cou- - ºgº , & meſme ſi les chancres ſont vieux, & procréez de longues années, à iceux ne faut aucunement a. iiu i toucher par inciſion, nv par cautere actuel , ny par remedes fort acres, comme cauteres potentiels ; ains les # les pallier par remedes doux & benins, ſedans la douleur:quoy faiſant , pluſieurs malades de ce mal n'ont ſuiettes à laiſsé d'attaindre leur derniere vieilleſſe ce qui eſt prouué par hippocrate,quidit, que c'eſt pour le mieux chancre. de " à #- o le ſeptieſme liure, · de ne point attenter aucunement la cure du chancre occulte , c'eſt à dire, nonvlceré,entant que ceux qui a, - ſont medecinez meurent pluſtoſt, & ceux qui ne le ſont point viuent plus longuemcnt. parquoy, comme " hip.apher auons dit, faut vſer de cure palliatiue par remedes anodyns, doux & lenitifs. ' - #. liu. %. | v . - - le cure du chancre qui commence, & n'eſt encore vlceré. ch a p. xxix. · • $ # º@e chancre quicommence, quelquesfois eſtempeſché qu'il ne croiſſe , deuant qu'il aye pris | ) {pied, & ſoit enraciné plus auanten la partie malade. car lors qu'il eſt ja accreu, ne ſe peut $ #curer que par amputation : ou demeureraincurable, à cauſe que par ſa malice il repugne à \: $/ # tous remedes. gal. affirme auoir guary vn chancre non vlceré en ſon commencement. or il : nr) ſe guarit ſouuent en ordonnant medicamens qui purgent l'humeur melancholique, & faiſant : la ſaignée, ſi l'âge & les forces le peuuent porter : éuitant auſſi toutes choſes qui engendrent cét humeur ! :: épais & limonneux. pareillement, faut auoir égard à rectifier l'intemperature du foye, & de la ratelle & | # prouoquer les menſtruës, ſi c'eſt vne femme, ou fille qui ſoit en âge : & les hemorrhoides, ſi le malade y eſtoit ſubject , fortifiant la partie affectée. auſſi vſerade bon regime, éuitant toutes choſes qui échauf- : , : fent le ſang, & vſera de celles qui refroidiſſent & humectent. euitera pareillement toutes choſes aigres, ſalées, & qui engendrent ſuc melancholique , comme gros vin noir & plein de lie, vinaigre, pain trop bis, choux, fourmage vieux , vieilles chairs ſalées, comme de beuf, de cerf, de chévre, grands liévres, ails, oignons, eſpices : mouſtardes. s'abſtiendra de trop grande abſtinence, veilles, labeurs exceſſifs,triſteſſe, . ſoucy : & † ſouuent d'orge mondé, & en ſes potages demaulues, eſpinarts, laictues, ozeille, pourpier b chicorée, hobelon , violette de mars , bourrache, des quatre ſemences froides, mouton , veau chevreau, chapons, poulets, ieunes levraux, lapins de garenne, perdrix, & autres ſemblables, qui ſont de bon ſuc: aétius liu. tous oiſeaux, excepté aquatiques : poiſſons de grauier, œufs molets, vin blanc & clairet de mediocrever- *é ººp.»é tu. la partie où eſt le chanchre doit eſtre doucement traittée, & n'eſtre point chargée de beaucoup de cho- ſes dures & peſantes, ny d'emplaſtres trop ſolides , ny oleagineux. au contraire, ne ſeront appliquez li- nimens doux & lenitifs, vſant parinterualle des remedes propresauxvenins, comme theriaque & mithri- dat.le laict d'aſneſſe pareillement addoucit fort l'acrimonie de cét humeur,pris par dedans:& ſi le chancre eſt vlceré, l'vlcere ſera laué ſouuent dudict laict. - a glanc. ſur la fin, - cureduchan reviseré \ ch a r, xxx. · - \$ e •hancre vlceré a aucuns ſignes communs auec celuy qui ne l'eſt pas,comme tumeur ronde, chancre vl- v , inégale, ou raboteuſe , & douleurs. il ſemble à la veue que la tumeur ſoit mollaſſe, mais au seré. $ll)º toucher eſt fort dure. eſtantvlceré eſt fort ſordide , ayant les lévres fort groſſes , dures - le : !\ noüeuſes, renuersées, & eſleuées, horrible à voir, jettant vne ſanie ichoreuſe, ſereuſe, & * tres-puante & cadauereuſe, tantoſt noire, tantoſt rouſſe ou ſanguinolente, & ſouuent en ſoit du ſang en abondance, accompagné de fiévre lente & continué, & le malade tombe ſouuent en ſyn- cope, principalement lors qu'il eſt aux mammelles. on appelle vlcere malin , rebelle, intraictable, le- . • quel ſe rend fort furieux & cruel : & ſi on applique quelque remede acre & corroſif , on l'irrite & empire c • dauantage ; de ſorte que la douleur, fiévre, & autres accidens s'augmentent, dont la vertu eſt proſternée noli me & abbatuë , & le côrps ſe conſomme, dont s'enſuit la mort. et partant, aucuns ont appellé tels chancres, tangere. npli me tangere, c'eſt à dire, ne me touçhe de nulle choſe aſpre & forte , à cauſe qu'on me rend plus malin & furieux - · # signe du - cure du chancre par l'œuure manuelle du chirurgien. ch a p. xxx i. y i le chancre eſt petit , & cn partie qui puiſſe ſouffrir l'amputation, il faut auparauant qu'y j'tilité du < mettre la main, que le malade ſoit bien purgé & ſaigné , ſi la vertu &l'âge y conſentent, # $ ainſi qu'auons dit : & apres l'éuacuation, faut trancher & oſter tout ce qui eſt corrompu, čff jº{, $ º) voire en couper vn peu dauantage, afin qu'il n'y demeure aucune portion de ce qui pour- c #k roit auoir eſté épris de la nature du chancre. auſſi faut laiſſer couler aſſez de ſang , à fin de décharger les veines remplies de ſangmelancholique, eſtenduës de toute parts és lieux voifins , com- me racines : parquoy il les faut exprimer, & preſſer de tous coſtez, puis appliquer vn cautere actuel, le- quel roborera la partie, en conſommant la qualité du venin imprimé en icelle , auſſi arreſtera le flux de ſang. cela fait on appliquera remedes ſedatifs de douleur, faiſant tomber l'eſcarre , puis ſera procedé comme à la cure des autres vlceres. or en la curant, on cognoiftra le chancre auoir eſté du tout ampu- té, & ſa malice eſteinte, quand on verra la ſanie loüable , & vne chair croiſtre en forme de petit grains de grenade, & ſans nulle douleur, ponction & autres mauuais accidens. toutesfois, on peut autrement & plus heureuſement proceder en la curation du chancre qui ſuruient au lévres, ſans appliquer cauteres ny autre choſe ſemlable apres la ſection, ſans meſme qu'il demeure que bien fort peu de deformité en la d partie apres la curation : lequel moyen a eſté par moy heureuſement practiqué en la perſonne d'vn hom- " aiſi,ir. me quinquagenaire, és preſences de monſieur hautin,docteur regenten la faculté de medecine, homms bienversé en la medecine, de iaques guillemeau, & de maiſtre euſtache, chirurgiens du roy, de iean le ieune,chirurgien de monſeigneur de guyſe:la façon eſt telle faut paſſer vne aiguille enfilée au trauers du chancre, à fin que par le moyen du fil tenu de la main gauche, on puiſſe éleuer & tenir tellement ledit chancre enſubjection ſans qu'aucune portiond'iceluy échappe, & on le puiſſe iuſques à la chair viue cou- per auec des ciſeaux de la main droicte : & coupper de telle ſorte, qu'au deſſous il d emeure & reſte quel- : ! † portion de ladite chair viue de la lévre, qui puiſſe ſeruir comme de baſe & fondement à la regeneratió e chair en lieu de la portion amputée, ſuppoſant que le chancre n'aura gaigné & ietté de fond en comble ſes racines. quoy fait, ayant laiſsé couler le ſang en aſſez bonne quantité par dedans & dehors, à dextre & à ſeneſtre de l'amputation, faut faireauec le raſoir des incifions aſſez profondes,afin que par apres, lors que par le moyen d'vne aiguille enfilée, & par ſuture propre aux bec de liévre,nous voudrions approcher & vnir les bordsde la playe & ſection, nous ayons la chair plus obeiſſante à ſuiure l'attraction du fil & de l'aiguille : parfaiſant au ſurplus le reſte de la curation de meſme façon que dirons cy-apres deuoir eſtre faite aux becs de liévre. | rfmtdé;. - des tumeurs en general. i i | acemedes locaux pour la curation du chancre, tant vlceré, que non vlceré, · ch a p. xxxi i *. v commencement on vſera de repercuſſifs, qualcº ſunt ſucci morel.plantag hioſc. l acºuc acetoſ. ſemperui. lenticulæ paluſtris,centinodix,burſæ paſtoris,granatorum, & ſimil um. item oleum • roſarum, omphac. item pul.ſumac. berber. litharg. ceruſ. plumb. vſt. pomph ol. lydrag. & # d'autres ſemblables, deſquels on pourra faire embrocat. liaimsns,onguents , cataplaſm. emp. º le diachalcit.diſſout auec ſuc de morelle & vn peu d'huile roſat,eſt propre aux chancres non vlcerez : s.r ie pompholyx lauéen ſuc de morelle ou plantain profite à ceux qui ſont vlcerez : ou bien ce- ſtuy, - * eharg ceru ań. .j, terantur in mortario plumbeo cum oleo roſace o, donec reducantur ad con- #entſana i iniment.velvng on peut vſer d'vn onguent reſolutif, & repercuſſif comme. a. plumb. vſti #oti, p c>rmphol. thur.an. ij. .abſint. pont. . ſ. olei roſat. .iij. cerx .vj. ſucc. ſolani quantum fuf- ficitad v n = uenti craſſitudinem. emplaſtre de theodoric ſedatifde douleur aux chancres vlcerez. - p.o = i roſat.ceralbañ. .ii.fi.ſucc granat& ſolani añ .ijceruſr lota. .j.plumb.vſti loti, & ruth.prx- parat.añ - - É.thur.maſtañ .ij.fiat emplaſt molle.autre remede que i ay ſouuent approuué. z.theriac.veter- j.ſucc-c a ncr. . ſucc.lact.& olei roſarañ. .j.f.vitel.ouor.coctor.ſub cinerib.ij.camph. .É.piſtent.omnia in mortaric» plumb. & fiat vnguentum. autre. z. ſpumae arg porc. recent. cerx albæ. añ. fb. ſ$. olei boni fb. t f.& .i - v : cellouor.aſſat.vj.fiat vnguentum,ſeruetur vſui.lors que tu en voudras vſer,le faudrameſler auec - - vn peu ci onguent rolat.dauantage,i'ay appaisé de grandes douleurs,appliquant des ſangſues à l'vlcere, aux endroits que le malade ſentoit vne douleur poignante,& par l'éuacuation du ſang la partie eſtoit deſchar- gée de l' inumeur malin, qui la moleſtoit. autre remede. prenez petits chiens, ou chattons nouuellement naiz , ou pigeonneaux » poulets , ou autres animaux ſemblables, & tous viuans , ſoient coupez le long de leurs c<>x ps , & ſoudain appliquez ſur l'vlcere , & rcnouuellez ſubit que le malade ſentira qu'ils ſeront re- froidis - ia chaleur naturelle de tels animaux ſede grandement la douleur,ce que i'ay cogneu pluſieurs fois. ioan-ba pt.theodoſ epiſt. .pour la curation du chancre approuue grandement le cataplaſme fait de l'herbe, dite h : y mum, ou irio, en françois vellar, ou tortelle, laquelle ſera broyée , & appliquée en formc de cata f iaſime ſur la partie.auſſi ſi le chancre eſt vlceré, il faut boüillir ladite herbe en eau, & miel , pour en faire des iniections & lauemens pour le nettoyer, & appaiſer la douleur. encore pour appaiſer la douleur, ce lin in ent eſt excellent. . plumb. vſti lotiinaq ſolani. .f. antimonij pariter loti . ij. pomphol. .iiij, ccru e . ).ſs. cineris cancrorum fluuiatilium . iij. ſucc. ſolani . iij. olei omphacini quantum ſufficit, du- ºn tu r in mortario & piſtillo plumbeo, donec linimenti aquºfuerint conſiſtentiam : iceluy remede ſede la dºule ur en deſſeichant ſans nulle mordication. vn autre remede duquel i'ay veu vn grand allegement pour ſeder la douleur. -- theriacx veteris .j. ſucci cancrorum #. É. ſucci lactucae, plantag, ſolani, & olei roſatiañ,ſ.fugitiui extinct cum tereb. .j.vitellorum ouorum coctorum ſub ciner.num.iiij camph.j. piſtentur omnia in mor- tar <> p l umbeo & fiat vnguentum. - - - - - c a, i § do§ § agitée dans vn mortier de plomb tant qu'elle ſoit épeſſe,& acquiere vne couleur de plomb,adiouſtant vn peu de camphre & poudre d'écreuice bruſlée eſt vn ſingulier remede pour appai- ºr la cio uleur des chancres. autre prenez huile de pauot, de nenuphar, d'amandes douces, tirée ſans feu, de chacun vne once,deux iaunes d'œufs battus long-temps en vn mortier & pilon de plomb, & vn peu d'o- pluna, ſoit fait liniment, duquel en ſera appliqué ſur le mal , auec cotton, & renouuellé ſouuent. et ſi pour ºº rerra edes la douleur n'eſt appaisée,galien commande que pluſtoſt que le chancre gaigne tout le corps, ºl'am ptiter,& cauteriſer par cautere actuel, ou potentiel, ſi le lieu le permet. iceluy meſine loue l'vſage dorge iin ondé, & laict clair, du laict d'aſneſſe, fuyant toutes viandes de haut gouſt , & de toute repletion. llfaut , s'il eſt poſſible, faire fluer les hemorrhoides pour donner iſſue au ſang melancolique : & enco- º po u r<- e-faire, l'vſage des pilules d'aloe non laué, en prenant tous les iours vn ſcrupule, y eſt ſingulier. # pºur deſcharger le lieu où eſt le chancre, on appliquera aux lieux où l'on verra les veines plus enfiees, º ſans ſues : par ainſi on oſtera la tenſion & inflammation qui cauſe la douleur, & vuiderez la ſanie acre #" *rraisie & entretient le mal. la douleur pareillement ſe peut appaiſer , en appliquant ſur le mal des # s= rn trois ou quatre doubles , trempez en ſuc de plantain & morelle. le meſme ſuc reduit en forme | ºliniita ent,par forte agitation dans vn mortier de plomb,eſt fort loüé de paulus aegineta, liu. . on peut *diou ſts auſdits linimens de la poudre d'écreuices bruſlées. si le chancre eſt en la matrice,la malade ſent dººlets r en la partie, aux aines, au deſſus du penil, & aux reins , & ſouuent a difficulté d vrincr:s'il eſt vl- # * ette vne ſanie ſereuſe & noiraſtre,auec vne puanteur cadauereuſe, laquelle ſort en grande quantité, d § **- ent la malade tombe en ſyncope , à cauſe des vapeurs putrides qui montent au cerueau, au cœur, & § * parties : auſquelles ont doit ſoigneuſement prendre garde,& conforter le cœur par remedes cardia- frigi a somme conſerue de roſe , bugloſſe , bourroche, theriaque > mitridat,electuaire de diamarguaritum co€ lir- ºn, ſyrops de limons, & autres ſemblables. pareillement on appliquera epit mes ſur la region du mit h + , faits d eau roſe, de chardon beniſt, vinaigre roſat,trochiſques de camphre : auſſi cataplaſmes faits de chc> t * dat , theriaque & conſerue de roſe. il faut que le regime de viure ſoit ſobre , rafraichiſſant > & de non s # aigres, afin de contrarier à la putrefaction des humeurs. le chancre de la matrice , tant vlceré que fau t l ceré eſtincurable, pource que l'on ne le peut extirpcr, & y appliquer les remedes propres pattant il ſede y ſer de cure palliatiue,pour adoucir la fureur,& ſeder la douleur,afin d'épeſcher les accidens.or pour * la douleur de celuy qui eſt vlceré, on appliquera tels remedes prenez demie once de ceruſe lauee par $"**tre fois en eau roſe,camphre & plomb bruſlé,vne drachme, demie drachme de bol armene,incorporez le s<> , as enſemble auec le ius de ſemperuiue,de morelle,& huile de nenuphar,cire blanche tant qu'il ſuffiſe,& ſoºt fai onguent duqucl on appliquera ſur le mal & parties voiſines. on pourra auſſi faire ceſte fom.nta. - tlo ty . /...mucaginis ſem lini, fœnug.extract.in aqu,roſa. & plantag quantum ſatis , & ex his tepidis fiat fo- º - autre. a rad. althe. fb. f. coquat, in hydr. piſt.paſſetur, & addan. olei roſar parum , fiat cataplaſ. v**sillement, on fera peſſaires, les diuerſifiant ſelon la grandeur de la douleur qui y ſera auſii iniections de {ºs de plantain centinod. lact. pourpier meſlez enſemble : & ſeront broyez en vn mortier de plomb , y èiouſſa peu d'huileroſat : lequel remede eſt recommandé de galien en tout chancre vlcere. sembla- l, v}ement on pourra vſer de l'eau ſuiuante,& en faire des iniections, de laquelle i'ay ſouuétesfois vsc en tous \ cºancres vlcerez , tant internes qu'externes, pource qu'elle refrene l'inflammation , & appaiſe la douleur- | on enlaue l'vlcere, & puis apres on laiſſe des plumaceaux trcmpez en icelle , ſi la partie ie pº# c) -. ſtercor. | -- -- medicamwen : reſolutif cr repercuſſif ramede fort aprouué. remedes anodyn, ap- prouuez par l'autºeur, htè : ' r d'œufs, chancre *** la matrice-» fomenta- tion, cataplaſme. peſſaires. gal .liu. ae, simples. le dixiefme liuré, vifargent eſt antidote contre les vlceres ma- lins. hiſtoirs no- table . houllier, homme ſºs- at e me- decine » cauſes. ségner, %. ſtercor.bubuli.fb.iiij. berb. rober. plantag, ſemperuiui, hyoſc. portulac.endiuiae.lact.afi.m.j.cancros fiuuiatiles xij. piſt. onmnia ſimul,& diſtilentur in alambico plumb. & liquor vſui reſeruetur,de quo fiat inie- a ctio frequens in partem. puis on mettra ceſt inſtrument dans le col de la matrice, afin que la ſanie ſoit plus facilement euacuée, & pour donner tranſpiration aux vapeurs & matieres putredineuſes. inſtrument d'or ou d'argent pour mettre en la matrice, en forme de peſſaire, lequel doit eſtre long de de cinq à ſix doigts , & de la groſſeur d'vn poulce à l'extremité ſuperieure en laquelle y a pluſieurs trous, par où les vapeurs putredineuſes & ſanie , auront entrée dans ladite cannule , pour ſortir par l'extremité inferieure, qui doit eſtrelarge de deux doigts en rondeur, lequel aura vn reſſort pour le tenir ouuert, tant & ſi peu qu'on voudra. en ceſte extremité ſe metrront deux attaches par le moyen deſquelles l'inſtrument ſera lié deuant & derriere, à vne bande que la femme aura ceinte , de peur qu'il ne tombe. c ns - j| # |||||||||||| \è)$ns - * . # " - - # }lilllh ， a monſtre l'extremité ſuperieure où ſont cinq ou ſix trous. b l'extremité inferieure. c vne partie de ladicte extremité qui s'ouure, & y a reſſort par dedans, marqué d. e e les deux attaches. dauantage,les chancres non vlcerez ſont#andement aydezpar lamines de plomb frottées de vif-argent. ce qui eſt confirmé par galien au . des simples, qui dit que le plomb eſt vtile aux vlceres malins, & aux chancres.auſſi le bon vieillard guidon parlant deſdits vlceres,ordonne y appliquer lamines de plöb frot- tées de vif-argent.car veritablement on peut dire qu'il eſt alexipharmaque & antidote contre les vlceres malins,qui ſont rebelles à tous medicamens,de ſorte qu'il conſomme leur malice & virulence: et en cét en- droit pour confirmation de ce, ie reciteray vne hiſtoire d'vne dame d'honneur de la reyne mere, nommée madame de montigny, laquelle auoit vn chancre en la mammelle ſeneſtre,de groſſeur d'vne noix, qui luy cauſoit des douleurs par interualles picquantes,& ſiles habillemens luy preſſoient tant ſoit peu deſſus, ſen- toit vne grande douleur.vn iour ſe côplaignoit à la reyne de ſon mal,& pource luy commâda de ſe mettre c entre mes mains pour la guarir, où ſubit qu'elle me l'eut monſtré, interrogée de la maniere , & du temps que la douleur eſtoit plus grande, ie cogneus que c'eſtoit vne tumeur chancreuſe. ce que ie luy celay, & perſuaday, que i'euſſe auecmoy monſieur houllier,docteur,regent en la faculté de medecine, perſonnage ſignalé & recogueu de tout homme docte,lequel ayant veu, palpé & touché ladicte dame,concludeſtre vne tumeur chancreuſe : & reſolumes enſemble qu'il falloit vſer de cure palliatiue,craignant d'irriter ceſte hy- dre qu'elle ne ſortiſt en ſa fureur hors de ſa taſniere. et pource faict,luy ordonna ſon regime,& certaines purgations, deſquelles elle vſoit par cerains iours interpoſez : & ſur la tumeur fut appliqué vne lamine de plomb,frottée de vif-argét,& quelquesfois des onguents cy-deſſus mentionnez,leſquels furent continuez par l'eſpace de deux mois. a la fin ladite dame ſe commença à faſcher, diſant que ſon mal ne guariſſoit ny empiroit : à cauſe dequoy print nouueau conſeil d'vn medecin, lequel ayant veu ſon mal (& non cogneu, combien qu'il fuſt docte)luy promit la guarir dont elle en fut fort ioyeuſe,& en fit recit à la reyne,laquelle voulut ſçauoir dudit medecin s'il trouuoit le mal incurable:ou promptement luy reſpondit que non,& qu'il la guariroit en bref. alors la reyne luy dit : ie tenois pour certain que ceſtoitvn chancre,duqueliamais ne guariroit; neantmoins il perfiſta en ſa promeſſe,& aſſeura de la bien toſt guarir, ce qu'il fit.et pour cefaire contemna & ietta arriere nos remedes, & y appliqua des medicamens chauds,mollicatifs & attractifs:où tout ſubit la tumeur s'enffa grandement,auec des grandes douleurs & inflammations, de façon que la mam- melle ſe creua ainſi qu'vne pomme de grenade, lors qu'elle eſt en ſa maturité,& luy ſuruint vn flux de ſang ſi grand & vehement, que ledit medecin fut contraint pour l'étancher, appliquer poudres caſtiques , qui augmenterent encores d'auantage la douleur,inflammation, & defaillance de cœur, dont la mort s'enſuiuit. et ainſi voila comme ledit medecin tint ſa promeſſe de bien toſt la guarir, mais ce fut de tous maux i'ay bien voulu reciter ceſte hiſtoire, pour inſtruire le ieune chirurgien, afin qui'l ne tombe en tel accident. —l de la fiévre qui ſuruient aux tumeurs ſcirrheuſes. ch a p. xxxii. # sy)e l e fiévre ordinairement eſt quarte,ou retirant à la nature de quarte : à raiſon de l'humeur # wymelancholic d'où elle eſt excitée,lequel enfermé en certain lieu où il faittumeur par commu- | $ # de vapeurs putrides,eſchauffe le cœur, & altere les humeurs cötenus en iceluy,dont - $ "^ x º º$ ſe fait fiévre. la fiévre quarte donc, eſt celle qui retourne,& a ſon accés le quatrieſme iour, % < -%s ayant deux ieurs d'intermiſſion.les cauſes primitiues ſont celles qui multiplient & engen- drent vn hmeur melancholic, comme le long vſage des legumes,pain bis & bruſlé, chairs ſalées de bœuf, chévre,cerf,vieux liévres,vieux fromages,choux, gros vins » & autres ſemblables. les cauſes antecedentes ſont redondance d'humeur melancholic en toutes les veines. les coniointes ſont les humeurs melancholi- ques putrefiez hors les grands vaiſſeaux en l'habitude du corps. les ſignes de la vraye quarte iont pris de trois choſes : ſçauoir eſt naturelles , non naturelles, & contre nature. deschoſes naturelles,pource que la temperature froide & ſeiche,l'âge vieil,ceux qui ſont froids & graſſets ayans petites veines & occultes, la # . t - i t- des tumeurs engeneral. rate imbecille & enfiée, ſont ſujets à telles fiévres. des choſes non naturelles : pource qu'en temps d'au- º tom,ne cette eſpece de fiévre eſt fort frequemte: non ſeulement pource que l'automne eſt froid & ſec,& par . ,r guent propre a faire amas d'humeur melancholic : mais auſſi à cauſe que par la chaleur & aduſtion de l'eſt -- faſie les humeurs eſtâs bruſlez,ſont aiſément tournez en atre bile (commc qui diroit,bile ou cholere §,re , laquelle couleur procede d'aduſtion)d'où ſe font fiévres quartes, beaucoup plus perilleuſes que §iies -]u ſe font ſimplement de l'humeur melancholic. bref en tout temps froid & ſec, region froide & §iche - les cºrps froids & ſecs, aiſément ſont induits à auoir telles fiévrés : ſi principalement à cela eſt con- §inct = vne façon & condition de vie triſte, penible & faſcheuſe, pleine de crainte & anxieté. des choſes § -- nature : c'eſt qu'au commencement de l'accés, quand la matiere s'eſmeut, ſuruient friſſon labo- §x, comme ſi on auoit les os froiſſez. le pouls au commencement eſt petit, tardif, profond , & comme §ré = n dcdans,ainſi que celuy des vieilles gens. l'vrine eſt blanche au commencement, & aqueuſe,decli- §t a iuidité.en la declinaiſon, eſtant la matiere cuite, l'vrine paroiſt noire : non point par ſuruenue de quel q ** º iilaul s accident , ou exces de la chaleur, (car ainſi ſeroit elle funeſte & mortelle) mais par excre- §on = la matiere conioincte, ſçauoir de l'humeur noir & melancholic. 'accés peut durer ving - quatre §eure - , & alors donne quarante-huict heures d'intermiſſion.souuent telle fiévre prouient par l'obſtruction, doule r & dureté de la ratelle, retention des mois & hemorrhoides. eſdites fievres ſuruiennent au com. men ee ment des accés,rigueurs, horripilation,baaillement,grande froideur, & tremblement, uſques à cla- quet er les dents, qui ſont les precurfeurs ou trompettes qui annoncent la venue de la fiévre. telles choſes ſe fon t,a cauſe de la qualité & mati re fiévreuſe , qui altere & corrompt les humeurs contenus dedans les veines & arteres, les ettent hors d'vne grande ſecouſſe, & reſpandent parmy la chair, nerfs& membranes iuſqu es au pannicule charneux.ceſte qualité febrile eſt ſi cuiſante, & ſe meut ſi rudement, que les parties par où elle paſſe , en ont telle douleur qu'il ſemble qu'on les pique & deſchire. parquoy il ne faut trouuer eſtrange, ſi ceſte matiere fiévreuſe. ſoit froide ou chaude, cauſe friſſon : car l'eau boüillante iettée à l'im- b prou eu ſur vn corps nud, le fait trembler auſſi bien que la froide : toutesfois la fievre, de quelque eſpece que ce ſoit,eſt touſiours fondée en chaleur.ainſi les parties ſenſibles irritées d'humeur feb ile , ſecoüent toute la perſonne, lors que la vertº expulſiue taſche à ietter ce qui luy nuiſt de la vient le tremblement qui dern onſtre l'accés, lequel dure iuſques à ce que la matiere febrile ſoit conſommée & diſſipee ſenſiblement & in ſenſiblement. senſiblement, comme par ſueurs, vomiſſemens flux de ventre,flux de ſang , flux d'vrine, & a tº tres. inſenſiblement, par reſolution, qui ſe fait par inſenſible tranſpiration,par le benefice des forces, & c haleur naturelle de noſtre corps. les fiévres quartes-en eſté ſont briefues, en automne ſont longues, & principalement ſur la fin d'iceluy,ſelon hippocrate. celles qui prouiennent de tumeur de foye,ratelle,ou autre maladie precedente, ſont pires , & ſouuent ſe terminent en hvdropiſie. la quarte qui commence en a tomne, ſouuent ſe termine au printemps ſuiuant. au reſte, ne dure iamais plus haut d'vn an, pourueu qu' l n'y ait faute du malade, ny du medecin : car pour cela, s'en eſt veu quelquesfois durer douze ans celle qui eſt faite par aduſtion du ſang ou phlegme ſalé, eſt de plus facile & briefue curation, que celle qui eſt faite par aduſtion d'humeur melancholic ou bilieux. l'vn eſt plus furieux & penetrant, l'autre eſt p»i s peſant & difficile à diſcuter.fernel, liure quatriefme des fiévres, chapitre neufieſme,dit que les fiévres. ſe guariſſent plus ſouuent par nature, que par les remedes, parce que la cauſe en eſt ignorée. - la cure conſiſte en diete & medicamens. la diete doit eſtre ordonnée ſur les ſix choſes non naturelles, corn trariant a la cauſe. le malade n'vſera de chair de pourceau. ny des choſes flatueuſes,viſqueuſes,gluantes, oi eaux aquatiques, poiſſons ſalez,groſſe venaiſon, ny d'aucune viande de difficile digeſtion. l'vſage de vin b»lanc tenu, & mediocrement chaud. eſt bon pour attenuer & inciſer l'humeur melancholic, prouoquer les vrin es & ſueurs. et meſmes pris au commencement de l'accez, excite vomiſſement, lequel a tant de vertu c pour a guariſon de la quarte,que paricoluy ſeul plufieurs ont eſté guaris.les exercices, frictions deuant le repas , & autres choſes accouſtumées par mediocrité, ſont bonnes. les affections de l'ame contraires à la ca ſe d'où c'eſte fiévre aura eſté excitée, doiuent eſtre permiſes,comme tous ieux (excepté le ieu d'amour) ſon d"inſtrumens de muſique,& autres choſes reſiouiſſantes.du commencement, il faut doucement traitter le malade,& ne faut vſer d'aucun fort ou violent medicament.car au commencement cet humeur opiniaſtre eſt rern du plus rebelle & reueſche,par la chaleur des violens medicamens.si le ſang eſt abondant il en faut ti- rer de la baſilique ou mediane,auec telle caution que s'il ſe monſtre noiraſtre & eſpais,il le faut laiſſer cou- lerº fi = ucontraire-il ſe monſtre tenu & bien coloré, le faudra promptement arreſter. la matiere doit eſtre ºrger-<e,& diminuée par ſyrops d'epithyme, de ſcolopendre,capilli veneris,de eupatorio,auec de houblon, bourr-ache, bugloſſe,& leurs ſemblables. ie proteſte auoir eſté cauſe,par l'ayde de dieu, de la guariſon de p!ºſie urs qui longtemps auoient eſté vexez de ladite fiévre,donnant à boire au commencement de l'accez, ſur la <leclination de la maladie, trois doigts d'eau de vie, auec vn peu de theriaque diſſout en icelle,ou trois #º**ns de muſc,diſſous en maluoiſie. leſquels remedesie baillois ſelon la force du malade,& les indications ºx- ºe ſſus mentionnées : le tout apres auoir vſe de remedes generaux & particuliers, pour la preparation & ºs= *s ſion de l'humeur melancholic. car pour en parler à la verité, la fièvre quarte inueterée ne peut eſtre #s » ſi le corps n'eſt grandement eſchauffé par alimens & medicamens. parquoy en ce cas , ie ne trouue º*s cieraiſon(ce que pluſieurs diſent auoir heureuſement practique)donnerau matin vin blanc à boire,dans # ! par l'eſpace d'vne nuict auront trempé fueilles de ſauge. c'eſt auſſi choſe vtile,vn peu deuant l'accez, re toute l'eſpine du dos, d'huiles propres à eſchauffer les nerfs, comme ſont l'huile de rue,de poivre, d #s vn peu d'eau devie,ou huile de caſtorée,qui aura cuit ſur les charbons dans vne pomme de colocynthe # se de ſes grains,auec poivre, pyrethre, : euphorbe pulueriſez , & ce iuſques a la conſomption de la de #s i é de l'huile , le tout en apres exprimé. telles onctions valent non ſeulement à mitiger la vehemence eſrn horreur & friſſon,mais auſſi à eſmouuoir les ſueurs. car tels medicamens par leur chaleur & humidité larn † & esbranlent cet humeur peſant, & non obeiſſant à la faculté expultrice : n eſtant ! humeur me- #ºn olic autre choſe, que comme la lie de toute la maſſe du ſang.mais ſi au contraire la fiévre quarte eſtoit ***** ée d'aduſtion dhumeur bilieux,il la faudroit traitter par remedes refrigerans & humectans , vſant de † se d'ozeille, laictue, pourpié,concombres,citrouilles, melons,& ſemblables. autrement qui voudroit " * de remedes eſchauffans, il rendroittelhumeur plus rebelle par diſſipation de ce peu qui luy reſteroit ºººrmid§nſ r§r guary pluſieurs qui auoient telles fiévres pour auoir vſé en temps º º\mode, & auparauant l'accez d'epithemes mediocrement refrigerans. quant auxmedicamens purgatifs º\º l faudra vſurper deuant que venir à ces particuliers,le ſené , l'agaric , rhubarbe, diaphœnicum, ſont " sºmmandez par deſſus les autres.auſſi eſt le diacartami , duquel rondelet ſe dit auoir guary pluſieur sv res quartes. q de ', | pregneſtie, - aph. . liu. . i curation. - diete. | vſage du vin vemiſſe- e/ f. medicamens saignée. experience faite par l'autheur. liu. .rh, , le vll. liu. des tum en general. de l'aneuriſme . c h a l'. x xx iv. definition q n e v r s m e eſt vne tumeur molle, qui obeit au toucher , engendrée de ſang& d'eſprit, d'aneuriſme. $ \$ eſpandus ſous la chair par dilatation on relaxation d'vne artere:combié que l'autheur des de- les cauſes. # finitions ſemble vouloir l'aneuriſme aduenir par dilatatiô de quelque vaiſſeauveineux en ge- neral.galié dit,que quand l'artere eſt ouuerte par anaſtomoſe,il ſe fait vne maladie dite aneu- riſme.elle ſe fait auſſi quand l'artere eſt bleſſée d'vne playe,& la peau qui giſt deſſus,ſe cloſt & cicatriſe,& la playe de l'artere demeure ſans eſtre aglutinée,ny bouchée,ou remplie de chair:ſemblablemét pour auoir ouuert vne artere en lieu de la veine,faisât la phlebotomie donc les aneuriſmes ſe font parana- ſtomoſe,& diapedeſe,ruption,eroſion,& playe.lcelles aduiennent en toutes les parties de noſtre corps,mais le plus ſouuent à la gorge des femmes qui ont mauuais accouchemens:car retenant violentement leur halei- ne,cauſe que l'artere ſe dilate & r pt,puis le ſang,& l'eſprit ſortent petit-à-petit,& s'amaſſent ſous le cuir. les ſignes ſont tumeur grande ou petite,aucc pulſation,couleur,comme la peau eſtant en ſon temperament naturel,molle au toucher,qui cede & obeit quand on la preſſe auec les doigts , de façon que ſi la tumeur eſt on oit vn petite,clle ſe perd du tout,à cauſe que le ſang & eſprit entrent au dedans du corps de l'artere,puis ayât oſté ſifflement. les doigts de deſſus , retourne ſubit comme elle eſtoit auparauant. a d'aucuns quand on preſſe des doigts é: aneuriſ- deſſus,on ſent vn bruit ou ſoufflement ; mais auſſi ſans compreſſion qui ſe fait par l'impetuoſité de l air mes . ſpirituel , qui entre & ſort par la petite ouuerture de l'artere. mais és aneuriſmes qui ſe font par vne gran- ººººººiº de ruption de l'artere , on n'entend aucun bruit : car tel ſifflement vient pour l'anguſtie & petite ou- uerture. si les aneuriſmes ſont grandes, eſtans aux aiſſelles , aines & autres parties où il y a grands vaiſ- hº ſeaux,ne reçoiuent curation : parce que les inciſant,en ſort ſubit vne grande abondance de ſang, & d'eſprit vital,qui cauſe ſouuent la mort du malade.ce que i'ay veu quelquesfois,& de recente memoire à vn preſtre | remedes de s.andré des arts,nommé maiſtre iean mallet, demeurant en la maiſon de monſieur de thou , premier #ºpº pººr preſident.ce preſtre auoit vne aneuriſme de groſſeur d'vne noix ſur la iointure de l'eſpaule,& luy conſeillay "ºſ" qu'il ſe donnaſt garde de la faire ouurir ſur ſa vie : mais au contraire qu'il vſaſt de l vnguent de bolo, & de côpreſſes trempées en jus de morelle & ſemperuiue,meſlées auec fromage frais & eſcremé,& autres choſes froides & aſtringentes, meſmes de l'emplaſtre contra rupturam, d'vne lamine de plomb,& que ces chauſſes fuſſent vn peu courtes , afin que ſon pourpoint luy ſeruiſt de ligature pour preſſer deſſus.auſſi qu'il euitaſt toutes choſes qui ſubtiliſent le ſang.meſme qu'il ſe gardaſt de chanter à pleine voix audit s. andré, comme il faiſoit volontiers. ce qu'il fit par l'eſpace d'vn an:toutesfois il ne peut tant faire que la tumeur ne s'aug- mentaſt, & ſe retira vers vn barbier , qui penſoit que ſon aneuriſme fuſt vne autre efpece d'apoſteme : & pource luy fut appliqué au ſoir vn ruptoire pour faire ouuerture. le lendemain au matin l'ouuerture faite ietta vne grande quantité de ſang,dont eſpouuenté,cria à madame la premiere preſidente que l'on m'appel- laſt pour l'eſtancher,en luy diſant,que ie luy auois bien dit qu'il n'y failloit faire ouuerture:& deuant que ie fuſſe vers luy,auoit rendu l'eſprit. partant ie conſeille au ieune chirurgien qu'il ſe garde d'ouurir les aneu- riſmes,ſi elles ne ſont fort petites,& en parties non dangereuſes,coupât le cuir au deſſus,le ſeparant de l'ar- tere,puis on paſſera vne aiguille à ſetó,enfilée d'vn fort fil,par ſous l'artere aux deux coſtez de la playe,laiſ- neuriſmes ſant tomber le filet de ſoy meſme & ce faiſant nature engendre chair, qui ſera cauſe de bouſcher l'artere. par opera- les aneuriſmes qui viennent aux parties interieures,ſont incurables,& aduiennétſouuentà ceux qui ont eu rionmanuel- la verolle,& fué pluſieurs fois, à cauſe que leur ſanga eſté grandement eſchauffé & fubtilisé, qui eſt cauſe le . que celuy qui eſt contenu aux arteres, cherche à ſortir hors, & fait dilatation du corps de l'artere, voire ceux qui quelquesfois à mettre le poing. ce que i'ay veu au corps d'vn mort nommé belanger, maiſtre tailleur d'ha- ºnt eu la ve- bits, demeurant ſur le pont s. michel, pres l'enſeigne du coq ,lequel auoit vne aneuriſme à l'artere vei- ººº ſe»t ſu- neuſe, dont il mourut promptement en ioüant à la paulme, parce que ledit vaiſſeau ſe creua. iel'anatomi. º º ſay , & trouuay vne grande quantité de ſang eſpandu dedans le thorax , & le corps de l'artere dilaté , iuſ- ſºlº ques à y mettre le poing , & ſa tunique interne toute oſſeuſe. ce que ie monſtray peu apres aux eſcoles signes. concluſion. le moyen de guarir les a- #. de medecine a pluſieurs auditeurs, faiſant vne diſſection anatomique, dont les ſpectateurs furent grande- sym , ment eſmerueillez : & pource ie le garde en mon cabinet comme choſe monſtrueuſe. pendant que ledit rai- belanger viuoit , auoit vn tres-grand battement de toutes lesarteres, & diſoit ſentir vne extreme chaleur ne,neuriſ. par tout le corps, & ſouuent tomboit en defaillance de cœur. monſieur syluius lecteur du roy en mede- / .». cine , luy fiſt oſter le vin, & en lieu d'iceluy vſoit d'eaubouillie , & ſouuent toute pure : ſon manger eſtoit fromages frais entierement eſcremez : rneſmement luy en faiſoit appliqu,r ſur la douleur, en forme de ca- taplaſme. au ſoir vſoit d'orge mondé, auquel il y auoit farine d orge, & ſt mence de pauor : par inter- ualle prenoit clyſteres refrigerans,ou caſſe mondée toute ſeule.et me dit ledit belanger,qu'il n'auoit point receu de tous autres medecins ſi grande ayde, que du conſeil dudit syluius. cr la cauſe pour laquelle tel- les aneuri mes deuiennent groſſes , & leur circonſcription oſſeuſe, c'eſt que le ſang de l artere chaud & bouillant fait que ſa tunique premierement ſe dilate & eſlargit : & puis enfin ſe dilacere & rompt, emprun- tât lors des parties voiſines matiere ſemblable à ſoy pour ſe reünir,& fait lors vne tumeur grande ou peti- te, ſelon la capacité de la partie, puis peu à peu la circonſcription de la tumeur ſe deſſeiche & endurcit,en façon de vaiſſeau , ſe faiſant cartilagineux , voire oſſeux par cauſe materielle & efficiente : ainſi que les pierres ſont pi ocrees aux reins & a la veſſie. car la matiere terreſtre du ſang ſe deſſeiche & eſpaiſhſt par la chaleur eſtrange , qui fait que s'adherant contre la tunique de l'artere, & des parties qu'elle occupe, s'endurcit & deuient oſſeuſe : & ce par vne grande prouidence de nature ( chambriere du grand dieu) voulant faire rempart, comme vn bouleuart fort , de peur que le ſang chaud & boüillant, & plein d'eſprit, ne s'eſcoule , & paſſe au trauers de la tunique de l'artere aneuriſmatizee , ou dilatée : ſi ce n'eſt qu'on ne veuille dire telle dureté aduenir à raiſon des medicamens froids & repercuſſions, continuellement appoſez ſur telles tumeurs, qui ont vertu d'endurcir & eſpaiſſir : comme il eſt aisé à colliger de ce que dit galien, chap. dernier du quatriefme liure, de praſagitione ex pulſibus. dauantage à celles qui ſont auec grande tu- meur, ſouuent on n'y ſent aucune pulſation,ny auſſi en preſſant deſſus, on ne peut renuoyer le ſang au de- dans de l'a tere ; parce qu'il y en a trop grande quantité, & auſſi qu'il ſe concrée en thrombus, & apres ſe pourrit, a cauſe qu'il n'eſt plus flabellé, & entretenu de la chaleur naturelle du cœur, dont s'enſuit ex- treme douleur , puis gangrene & mortification de la partie , & en fin la mort. - fin du liure des tumeurs en general. t a b l e - # # ta b l e d e s c h a pit r es d v l i v r e v iii des tumeurs contre nature en particulier. - ºx #qſ% e l'eau qui vient à la teſte des petits enfans , appelée hydrocepha- - sn， le-. cha p. i $ d - - $\!%> u polypus. j - /é) n de la tumeur qui eſt ſous les oreilles, nommée parotide . iij l]a©is % des tumeurs & chairſuperflué des genciues , appelées des grecs epoulides. iv de ranula, ou grenoüillette_ . v )s) des glandules & amygdales , engroſſies & tumeffées, vj snsn\ de la tumeur, inflammation & relaxation de l'vuule , nommée des latins columella. vij de la squinance . ' viij du goiietre, ou bronchocele_v, ix de la pleureſie . | x de l'hydropiſie . - xj de la curation de l'hydropiſie_ . - - | kij de la tumeur & relaxation du nombril, appellée des grecs, exomphalas. , xiij des hargnes, ou greueures , qui ſont tumeurs aux aines,& # des teſticules. xiv de la curation de la hargne- . - - xv du poinc# doré. - vxj lautre maniere defaire le poinct doré. " xvij t-autre maniere defaire le poinč doré. '. xviij de la relaxation du gros boyau culier. - xi x de la tumeur du fondement. - x x du panaris, ou paronchie_,. - xxi de latumeur des gewoiiils - xxij des l)rºgonneaux. - - xxiij q - l e hv i ctie'me liv r e, t r a it ant des tv me v r s contre natvre en par ticv lie r. pa r a m b r o is e par e d e l a va l av ma y ne, conſeiller, & premier chirurgien du roy. p r e f a c e. a v r a n t que la curation doit eſtre diuerſifiée ſelon la variéte de la temperature, non ſeu- $è) lement de tout le corps, mais en ſpecial de chacune partie , & fuiuant la vertu, forme, figu- $ ，:// rc ſituation , & ſenſibilité d'icelle, il m'a ſemblé eſtre tres-neceſſaire de traitter des tumeurs # qui aduiennent à chaſque partie,commençant à celles de la teſte , puis aux autres. or il -" - vient tumeur ou à toute la teſte, ou à quelque partie d'icelle , comme aux yeux , oreilles, nez, genciues , & autres parties. celles qui contiennent toute la teſte , ſont hydrocephale & phyſoce- phale. - de l'eau qui vient à la teſte des enfans , appellée hydrocephale , ch a p i. esa y d r o c e p h a l o s eſt vne hydropiſie de la teſte, ainfi nommée des anciens grecs , par #. #! ſ) ce que l'humeur qui en eſt la cauſe, eſt aqueux. ce mal vient ſouuent aux enfans à l'heure de ceux qui | ieur natiuité quand les matrones leur preſſent la teſte, ou la tirent par violence , ou par côn- ſont ſubiects. } #($ $ tuſion , comme cheute ou compreſſion , qui eſt cauſe de rompre quelque vaiſſeau, comme vei- à hydroce- sn nes ou arteres, leſquelles eſtans rompues, le ſang ſort hors & ſe corrompt, & ſe change en vne ahale. ſubſtance d'humeur aqueux, parce que les petits enfans ont encores le ſang ſereux. ceſte tumeur vient #ºº ºººſes. auſſi de cauſe interne , comme de quelque abondance de ſeroſitez, ou par vne acrimonie & ſubtilité du ºſº º- ſang chaud & boüillant, lequel reſude & coule au trauers des poroſitez des vaiſſeaux, penetrant entre le fernes. cuir muſculeux & le pericrane, & quelquesfois entre le pericrane, & le crane ; ou entre le crane & la dute - mere,ou aux ventricules du cerueau,& ſubſtance d'iceluy, les ſignes pour cognoiſtre quand cét humeur eſt #. ſeulement entre le cuir muſculeux & le pericrane,c'eſt qu'on voit vne tumeur molle fans doule qui obeyt l hºveur eſt facilement quand on preſſe du doigt deſſus, & retourne & releue ſubitement.les fignes quandl'humeur eſt c / ft / f entre le pericrane & le crane,ſont preſque séblables, fors ſeulemét que la tumeur eſt plus dure & s'enfon- ' ce moins ſoudainement, parce qu'on la touche auec plus de diſtance & interpoſition de pluſieurs parties= ioint auſſi que la douleur eſt plus grande.or lors que cet humeur eſt entre le crane,& la dure-mere,ou aux ventricules du cerueau, & en toute ſa ſubſtance, le malade a les ſens hebetez, comme l'oüye,& la veuë : & quand on preſſe ſur la tumeur, elle fie s'enfonce pas aisément, ſi on ne preſſe de force, alors elle obeyt , & principalement aux petits enfans, parce qu'ils ont leur crane mol , & leurs ſutures laſches & entr'ouuertes naturellement,& paraccident encores plus,à cauſe de l'humeur,qui eſt contre mature,qui les relaſche,& di- -- - late dauantage. cet humeur eſleue le crane, & principalement à l'endroit des ſutures : & telle choſe ſe co- #iſºire de gnoit aisément, parce qu'en preſſant deſſus la tumeur , l'humeur s'enfuit au profond de la teſte. et en ceſte veſale. eſpece d'hydrocephale, la douleur,eſt plus grande,& toute la teſte eſt fort groſſe,& le front s'auance & for- a , jette en dehors:& quand le malade aduiſe quelque choſe,il la regarde d'oeil ferme & arreſté, & l'armoye,à # *i- cauſe de la trop grande quantité d'humeurs contenus en la teſte. veſale eſcrit auoir veu vne fille de deux - ans, malade de ceſte affection,quiauoit la teſte plus groſſe que nul homme,& auoit le crane non oſſeux,mais hiſtoire de tout membraneux, ainſi que les enfans qui ne ſont encore à terme : & auoit de l'eau contenue en la teſte iuſ- # " qu'au poids de neufliures. albucraſis dit auoir veu vn enfant, duquel la teſle s'agrandiſſant tous les iours provnoſtic. † l'aquoſité contenue dedans,enfin deuint ſi groſſe,qu'ilne la pouuoit ſouſtenir debout, ny aſſis & mou- - rut quelque temps apres. l'ay veu quatre enfans malades de ceſte affection de la teſte, de l'vn deſquels ie fis ſection apres ſa mort : & proteſte n'auoir trouué de cerueau non plus gros qu'vn eſteuf : & iamais n'en ay veu vn ſeul guarir, lors que l'aquoſité eſt en grande abondance aux parties interieures de la teſte : mais lors qu'elle eſt aux parties exterieures on reçoit guariſon. doncques ſi l'humeur eſt ſeulement entre le cuirmuſ- culeux & le pericrane, ou entre le pericrane & crane,ſi elle eſt petite,faut eſſayerà la reſoudre : & ſi l'on ne peut,il faut faire inciſion,euitant le muſcle temporal & faire ſortir l'humeur qu'on trouue comme vne laueu- re de chair ſanglante:autresfois du ſang noir:& ſi elle eſt causée de contuſion,on trouue auec ledit humeur des trombus de ſang.ayant fait l'ouuerture,& l'humeur eſtant euacué, on remplira la playe de charpy ſec,& ſera mis par deſſus vne compreſſe,faiſätligature propre:& le reſte de la cure ſe parfera côme il ſera neceſſaire. cºré. du pohpu. c h a p. ii. e pourpre ou polypus, eſt vne tumeur contre nature faite au nez, prenant le plus ſouuent ſon origine aux os cribleux. on le nomme ainſi pour la ſimilitude qu'il a auec les pieds du pourpre le pourpre mar n , autrement dit pouſſepied , & auſſi pource qu'il reſſemble de conſiſtance à la chair d'i- marin eſt celuy. ceſte maladie bouſche & empeſche le nez des malades, leur faiſant ennuy & incom- vne ſeiche. modité tant à parler qu'à reſpirer, & jetter les excremens, ayans les narines eſcarquillées , & la face horrible definition de polyptus. b " des tumeurs en particulier. a horrible à voir.cornelius celſus dit que pourpre eſt vne petite chair quelquesfois blanche, & quelque- fois ougeaſtre, adherante à l'os du nez , dit ethmoide ou cribleux, pendante quelquefois iuſques ſur la lévre. eiie croiſt auſſi en derriere , bouchant le trou du palais, par lequell'air & les excremets deſcendent du n .. a ci eſtroit de la gorge, eſtant de telle grandeur qu'on le peut veoir au derriere de l'vuule & eſt ſou- ue e •d eſtrangler le malade, par faute d'auoir ſon inſpiration & expiration. il y en a cinq eſpeces : la premiere - ſt vne membrane molle, longue, mince, ſemblable à la luette relaxée & abaiſsee, attachée au m§ d cartilage du nez, pleine d'vn humeur pituiteux & gluant, qui fait ronfler le malade en dormant, qui ſort fr vnc ch i - ne empe - * aement a la reſpiration,qui ſe fait par le nez. la troiſieſme eſt vne chair emin «>rs du pez en expirant, & r'entre en inſpirant , & parler d vne voix caſſe. la ſeconde eſpece eſt = ureau toucher, engendrée d'vn ſang melancholique non aduſte, qui bouche } ne, & don- r le cartila- § on = - molle au toucher, engendrée d'vn ſang phlegmatique. la quatrieſme, eſt vne tumeur dure, > - - - - - - - - - §mblabie rneantmoins à chair, qui fait bruit quant on la touche,comme ſi c'eſtoit vne pierre, laquelle eſt eng ilt §ndre e= <d'vn ſangmelancholique,fort deſſeiché,& qui ſe peut dire ſcirrhé,confirmé & inſenfible.la cin- §eſme - ont plufieurs petits chancres engendrez de biais en la ſuperficie du cartilage. aucuns d'iceux # vlcer - z, les autres non , & de ceux qui ont vlcerez, ſort vne ſanie puante , infecte, & de mauuaiſe odeur. e faut mettre la main à ceux qui ſont douloureux , durs auec renitence , ayans la couleur tirant ſurle lvvx ci e ou plombe, parce qu'ils tiennent de la nature du chancré, & ſouuent y degenerent totalement. toutesfo s à cauſe de la douleur , on pourra vſer des mcdicamens cy-deuant declarez, où nous auons parlé de la cure du chancre, leſquels ſont pallietifs & anodyns, comme ceſtuy. . olei de vitell ouor. .ij.lithar auri , & t th præpar. an. .j ſucc. plantag. & ſola. añ. .j. ß. lapid. haemat. & camph. añ . ſ. agiten. ſimul ongo tempore in mortario plumbeo, & fiat medicamentum, duquel en ſera appliqué dedans le nez. ceux qui ſont mols , laxes & ſans douleur , ſont curables quelquesfois , les arrachant auec vn inſtrument propre à ce faire, ce que i'ay fait ſouuentesfois, ou conſommant par cauteres actuels, appliquez auec can- nules de peur qu'on ne touche aux parois & parties ſaines : ou bien par cautere potentiel , comme d'egy- ptiac for tifié fait des parties eſgales de ſes ingrediens auec vitriol, lequel conſomme ceſte chair ſuperflue. autant en fait l eau forte, ou huile de vitriol, conſommant du tout ſa racine : car s'il en reſte tant ſoit peu d'icelle , il retourne facilement. et lors qu'on y appliquera le cautere actuel ou potentiel, ou quelques me- dicarn ensacres, il faudra appliquer ſur le nez, & aux parties d'iceluy , medicamens repercuſſifs, froids, & aſtringens, en les renouuellant ſouuent, afin de ſeder la douleur , & empelcher l'inflammation , comme vngucntum de bolo , neutritum, populeum, ou albumen cum oleo roſaceo agitatum, & autres. c ve - - s luy eft du to c h a p. i l l . - —- de la tumeur qui eſt ſous les oreilles, nommée parotide . % qui ſont ſous les oreilles, dictes emunétoires du cerueau : leſquelles , parce qu'elles ſont la- xes & rares, facilement reçoiuent les excremens d'iceluy. les vnes ſe font par criſe, comme il aduient ſouuent apres quelque longue maladie : autres lors que le cerueau ſe ſent op-. primé de beaucoup d humeurs, leſquelles il chaſſe & expelle en ceſte partie,comme choſe qui ut contraine. telles apoſtemes ſont ſouuentesfois auec inflammation , à cauſe que l'humeur qui eſt chaud & mordiquant,peche quelquesfois plus en qualité qu'en quantité.semblablement il ya grande corneliui celſus. cinq eſpece: de poly, u«. hip. plib. . de merbis. premiere eſpece. se conde. troiſieſme. quatrieſme cinquieſme autres dif- ferences. me dicamen ; anodyns. medicamenr pour com/cm- mer le poly- ptus, dºſiniiien dé paritode . differences. pourquoy la douleur eſt ſi extreme aux doul • ur pour la diſtention des parties, & exquis ſentiment à cauſe du nerf de la cinquieſme coniugaiſon, p** lequel eſt diſpersé par toutes les parties voiſines : & par les membranes du cerueau qui ſont proches ; qui º cauſe que le malade ſent vne douleur intolerable à la teſte, & à toutes les parties de la face tumefiées. muffi te ile maladie vient d'vn humeur gros & gluant, qui tombe ſur leſdites glandules. les ieunes gens ºt plvx s tourmentez de telle affection que ne ſont les vieils. souuentefois auſſi aduient fiévre, & inqaie- ºs - telles tumeurs ſont difficiles à guarir, lors qu'elles ſe font par criſe & d'vn humeur froid, lent & - - gluant = & lors qu'elles ſe terminent par ſuppuration, ſort le plus ſouuent grande quantité de matiere. la prºrººfiº a † ººi<> n ſe fera par bon regime de viure, lequel ſi la matiere dont elle eſt engendrée eſt chaude, tendra à #ºi t éauſſi ſi elle eſt groſſe & craſſe,la maniere de viure ſera chaude & de ſubtile ſubſtance:& s'il ya rou- cture. # # la partie qui demonſtre grande inflammation & abondance de ſang,la phlebotomie y eſt grandement . ººraire. quant aux medicamens topiques, comme nous enſeigne galien, ne doiuent eſtre ſemblables gal. . de la co - - †rº s aux autres inflammations, yº ci e= criſe : lor s mo ci or i cu rg e. fari r, olei eſt engendrée la tumeur, à ſçauoir repercuſſifs, & principalement ſi telles tumeurs ſont faites par compoſition d'autant que la où nature taſche à ſe deſcharger faut que le chirurgien tende pareillement, des medica- principalement que la deſcharge ſe fait par lieux propres & conuenables par nature, & non incom- ºº ſºlº que # e>ar accident. le ſemblable feront, ſi lamatiere dont - - - - - • - - - cſga º º cauſeroit vn plus grand mal, la renuoyant aux parties interieure parquoyle c hirurgien doit auoir d fsi d'aider à nature en ce qu'il pourra, en attirant ceſte mauuaiſe humeur par medicamens attractifs. quie la fluxion eſt ſi grande, & accompagnée d'extreme douleur , dont s'en pourroit enſuiure veilles, in- s a des & fiévres qui pourroient proſterner les vertus , galien eſt d'aduis de meſler bien peu de reper- eſt veneneuſe, d'autant !º !ºº z. hip. aph. . liure . gal. . de l compoſition s auec grande quantité de reſolutifs. parquoy au commencement ſera appliqué vn tel cataplame. %. §s * hordei, & ſemin. lini ań. .ij. coquant. cum mulſa, aut decoct. camomil. addend buturi recent & § § *-armomi i.fi laſi ſ de ce lini buturi .ii olei & lili - momil. an. .j.fiat cataplaſmu. on vſera auſſi de ce liniment. .buturi recent. .ij.olei camom.& lilio. les lieux. añ - s r ' vnguent. de alth. . . cera parum,fiat linimentum : duquel ſera frotté toute la partie , & appliquant chap. . de la lºs rf † orts, comme. raſſe. lors que la douleur eſt aucunement appaisée,on vſera de medicamens diſcutiens & reſo- z.rad alth. & bryo.añ. .ij folio.rut. puleg orig.añ,m.j. flor, camomil.& melilot. ， f*-j. coquantur in hydromelite, piſt. paſſent. addend. farin.fœnug. orob.añ #.j.pul.ireos, camomil. & mºdicººnº - ms\il ye - - | q - otan. .ij. olei anethi & rut. an j.ſ. fiat cataplaſm. et encore pour dauantage reſoudre,tu pourras vſer ºſºſº º plaſtre de oxycroceum & de melilot. si la tumeur vient dure, tu auras recours aux medicamens ordon- "§* au chapitre de scirrhe. pareillement ſi elle tend à ſuppuration, tu appliqueras tel remede. /.rad.lilior. ssp.ſub cinerib. coctar. añ. . iij.vitell. ouor.ij. axung.ſuillae & vnguenti baſilic.ana. .j.far.ſem. lini .j. É. - * cataplaſm.v artis eſt et s'il éſt neceſſaire de faire pertion, ſera faite, & l'vlcere traicté comme auons ſº"f ** par cy-deuant. - - - medicament des le huictieme liuré, - - - - - - - •- a . des tumeurs & chairs ſuperfluës de genciues appellées des grecs epulides. : c h a p. iv. - - · definition. §# p v s eſt vne excroiſſance de chair,qui ſe fait aux genciues entre les dents, qui peu à peu # n% $ §) croiſt, quelquesfois de la groſſeur d'vn œufou plus, de façon qu'elle garde de parler & maſ- # / -\s cher,jettant vne humidité ſaliueuſe d'odeur fetide : & ſouuent ſe tourne en chancre. ce que · ::: prognoſtic. - - - - gnoſti cognoiſtra par la douleur, chaleur,& autres accidens : & lors n'y faut toucher par l'œu- - de main. mais à celle qui n'eſt douloureuſe , on la pourra extirper:ce qui ſe fera en la ct re. liant & ſerrant aue c vn fil double, iuſques à ce qu'elle tombe : puis eſtant cheute, faut cauterizer ſa racine . ou autrement reuiendroit, auec vn cautere cannulé deſſus eſcrit : ou auec vn potentiel , comme huile de : hiſtoire. vitriol, ou eau forte, ſi proprement appliqué, qu'il ne face leſion aux parties ſaines. i'en ay amputé, qui, :- eſtoient ſi groſſes , que partie d'icelles ſortoit hors la bouche : qui rendoit le malade fort hideux à voir , & - iamais aucun chirurgien n'en auoit oſé entreprendre la guariſon, à cauſe que ladite excroiſſance eſtoit de - couleur liuide : & ie conſiderois outre ceſte liuidité, qu'elle n'auoit point ou peu de ſentiment : donc ie pris la hardieſſe de la couper, puis cauterizer, & le malade fut entierement guary, non toutesfois à vne ſeule -" fois, mais à pluſieurs, à cauſe qu'elle repulluloit, combien que ie l'euſſe cauteriſée. et qui en eſtoit cauſe, c'eſtoit vne petite portion de l'os de l'alueole où ſont inſerées les dents, qui eſtoit alteré & pourry. i'enay ſouuentesfois trouué, qui par longue eſpace de temps s'eſtoient degenerées en cartilages, voire en os: & ,e partant le pluſtoſt qu'il ſera poſſible on viendra à la curation. car lors qu'elles ſont petites & non enraci- & nées, ſont plus faciles à curer, d'autant qu'on trouue ſeulement vn humeur glaireux dedans, qui petit à petit # - s'endurcit, & les rend tres-difficiles à curer. b à de ranula, ou grenoiiillette . c h a p. v. # l ſe fait ſouuentesfois ſouz la langue, vne apoſteme qui empeſche de bien proferer la parole n， batrachium. s % appellée des grecs pour ceſte cauſe batrachium , & en latin ranula : & en noſtre langue gre- § noüille: pour ce que les patiens difficilement peuuent articuler & interpreter leur langage aº ſinon en grenoüillant. elle eſt faite de matiere pituiteuſe,froide,humide, groſſe & viſqueuſe, - cauſe. tombant du cerueau ſouz ladite langue, en laquelle eſt trouuée vne ſanie groſſe & viſqueuſe, | ainſi que le blanc d'vn œuf, tant en ſubſtance qu'en couleur,& quelquesfois auſſi eſt de couleur citrine. or curation. pour ſeurement parfaire la curation, il faut faire ouuerture de ladite apoſteme auecques cautere actuel, pluſtoſt qu'auecques lancette : autrement le plus ſouuent reiterée, voire par pluſieurs & diuerſesfois.par- • º le moyen de quoy ouuriras ladite apoſteme ainſi que s'enſuit. il te conuient auoir vne piece de fer, de figure cambre - -* faire l'ou- comme vn chauſſepied, & feras ouurir la bouche du patient, puis la poſeras ſous la langue, & au milieu f fff/ /'é'. de ladite piece de fer y aura vn trou,lequel mettras à l'endroit où il ſera beſoin faire l'oumerture, & par iceluy appliqueras le cautere actuel,& par ce moyen ne pourras toucher dudit cautere nulle autre partiede la bouche.semblablement ne faut obmettre,alors qu'applique as le cautere, eſleuer de ton poulce la tumeur · par deſſous le menton:à celle fin de ne faillir à bien faire ton œuure,puis apresl'apertion faicte,feras vacua- c) tion de la matiere. et le malade lauera ſa bouche d'eau d'orge,en laquelle on aura fait vn peu boüillir ſuc- •. cre roſat & miel. ce faiſant l'vlcere ſera guarie toſt apres, & ſans nul accident. -- tch l ; · tºº # [º. t# ] - la figure de la piece de fer, & du cautere actuel eſt telle . \# des glandules, & amygdales, engroſſies & tumeffées. ch a p. v i. l'e n t r e e du deſtroit de la gorge vers la racine de la langue, nature a mis deux glandules · vis-à-vis l'vne de l'autre, de grandeur & figure d'vne amande : pour ceſte cauſe, ceſdites glan- dules ſont dites amygdales.leur office eſt de receuoir l'humeur ſaliueuſe,diſtillantdu cerueau qui reſpond ſur la langue pour l'arrouſer, humecter,& tenir fraiſche par deux conduits mani- feſtes,afin qu'en parlant ne ſe deſſeiche par trop, & n'interrompe la continuation de la parole. qu'il ſoit ainſi,on void les febricitans,par la chaleur eſtrange de la fiévre, qui aura conſommé ceſte humidité ºººſºº ſaliueuſe,ne pouuoir parler,ſi premierement n'ont laué & humecté la bouche.or ces glandules,parce qu'el- les ſont en vn lieu chaud & humide, ſont fort ſubiectes à inflammation , & ſouuent auec le ſangy flue vne grande portion d'humeur pituiteux, cru & viſqueux, dont s'enſuit tumeur, qui vient ſouuentesfois par trop deſcription # des amyg- - dales. n> /$, vſage des amygdales. signes, boire de vin pur & fumeux, manger trop gloutement les viandes, & s'eſtre tenu au ſerein. les malades ont grande peine d'aualler leurs morceaux, & ſentent grande douleur à les tranſgloutir, & ſouuent ont fiévre. quelquesfois ces glandules ſont ſi fort tumefiées, enſemble les muſcles du larinx,& autres du col (ce qu'on cure. void aux squinances(qu'elles occupent la voye de l'air, dont le malade ſuffoque & eſtrangle.pour obuier à tel - - - destumeurs en particulier. · a tel accident, faut purger & ſeigner le malade, & luy appliquer ventouſes derriere le col, & ſur les eſpaules carº & faire friction & ligatures,& vſer de gargariſmes aſtringens:& où elles s'apoſtumeroient,on fera apertion auec la lancette. et posé le cas que l'on euſt fait tout cela, neantmoins la fluxion fuſt augmentée , de façon que le pauure malade fuſt en danger de mort pour ne pouuoir reſpirer, afin d'éuiter tel peril, faut faire in- ciſion à la trachée artere, appellée vulgairement la canne du poulmon au deſſous du nœud de la gorge.or on peut faire hardiment l inciſion en ce lieu, parce que les veines & arteres iugulaires en ſont eſlongnées: joint auſſi qu'il y a peu de chair en ce lieu : & pour bien faire, on commandera au malade auoir lateſte ren- º" l'ezdroit faire ſ'inciſivn uersée en derriere,afin que ladite trachée artere ſoit plus apparente:puis on feral'inciſion tranſuerſalement hée auec vne lancette courbée,appellée biſtorie, prenant iuſtement entre les deux anneaux,ſe donnant garde de # toucher la ſubſtance cartilagineuſe, mais ſeulement la membrane qui les tient jointes enſemble. or les sien de ſignes que l'inciſion eſt bien faite, c'eſt que le vent ſort de la playe, qui ſera tenue ouuerte iuſqu'à ce que le § §rs- peril de ſuffocation ſoit paſsé: puis ſera couſue ſans toucher au cartilage:& ſi les lévres de la playe eſtoient rion. comme calleuſes & endurcies, faudroit les ſcarifier , ou couper, afin de faire la playe recente , pour mieux apres la conſolider, ainſi comme nous dirons aux lévres fendues, qu'on appelle bec de liévre. i'ay pensé quelques-vns, auſquels grande portion de la trachée artere eſtoit couppée,& meſmement aucuns de ſesan- atteſtation neaux cartilagineux , qui ont eſté guaris , comme i'eſcriray en mon liure, des playes de la gorge. - de la tumeur, inflammation, & relaxation de l'wuule, nommée des latins columella. c h a p. v i i. de l'au- theur. •r , v v v e eſt vn petit corps poinctu & ſpongieux, de figure preſque ſemblable à vne pomme de pin, ſuſpendue perpendiculairement à la fin du palais, afin de rompre l'impetuofité de l'air deſcriptios º exterieur attiré & inſpiré des poulmons, comme nous auons dit en l'anatomie. auſſi eſt de l'vuule, n comme vne touche,ouarchet qui touche les cordes d'vne viole pour la faire reſonner souuent vſage. : elle reçoit abondance de rheume du cerueau, qui fait qu'elle croit outre ſa magnitude, ou grandeur, deuenantgroſſe,longue, & greſle en ſa pointe:qui fait qu'elle cauſe pluſieurs accidents,comme la touxpar vne cötinuelle irritation,qui fait perdre le dormir, & garde de bien proferer la parole,& parler du nez bien ſouuent. dauantage le malade eſt contraint de dormir la bouche ouuerte, & luy ſemble toufiours aeci e'e denti auoir vn morceau en la gorge, & ſouuent en vain s'efforce de l'aualler, & quelques fois ſuffoque. il faut purger, ſaigner,ventouſer, clyſteriſer, ordonner le regime, vſer de gargariſmes aſtringens, & autres re- a's medes : & ſi par ces remedes ne peut eſtre guarie, ſera cauterisée auec eau forte : ce que i'ay fait ſouuent auec heureux ſuccez. et ſi le malade ne peut eſtre guary par tels medicamens, faut venir à l'operation ma- nuelle,pluſtoſt que laiſſer ſuffoquer le pauure malade,pourueu que la tumeur ne ſoit de figure ronde.auſſi ſi elle eſt rouge & pleine de ſang, & fort douloureuſe, ou de couleur noiraſtre, comme les chancres,à telle ne faut aucunement toucher par inſtrument, ny par cautere actuel , ny potentiel. au contraire, ſi elle eſt ®tuelle vuula oit eſtre cu- rée par ope- longue & ſubtile, ſe terminant en pointe, trainant ſur la langue, & par le bout eſt laxe & molle, n'eſtant ration m trop rouge ny trop pleine de ſang, mais au contraire, tirant ſur la couleur blanche & ſans douleur, le chi- nuelle ' f• rurgien peut beſongner aſſeurément, & ce faiſant oſtera ce qui excede de ſa longueur naturelle. et pour la couper on fera ſeoir le malade à la clairté, luy commandant d'ouurir fort la bouche, & ſera baaillonné: puis on prendra auec des pincettes l'extremité de ladite vuule,& auec vn ciſeau ſera coupé ce qui eſt con- tre nature : ou bien ſera lie auec vn tel inſtrument, lequela eſté innoué par monſieur caſtellan, homme le moyen de faire l'operas tion. monſieur tres-docte & de bon iugement, medecin ordinaire du roy, & premier de la reyne mere : lequel inſtru- caſteläaſe- d ment peut pareillement ſeruirà lier les polypus, & verrues du col de la matrice. figure d'vn inſtrument pour lier&faire tomber l'wuule trop relaxée, a monſtre vn anneau dont ſa partie ſuperieure eſt vn peu caue, & peut eſtre d'or, ou d'autre matiere. vn filet double & ciré, lequeſ s'inſere dedans la cauité dudit anneau, & ſe ſerre par le moyen d'vn nœud coulant. vn autre fil de fer, dedans lequel ledit fil paſſe pour eſtre ſerré, lors qu'on aura prºs tant de ladi- cte vuulle qu'il en ſera beſoin, pour eſtre couppée ſans aucun flux de ſang. et alors qu'on voudra raſſerrer ledit filet, il ſera repaſsé par la verge de . fer, marquée c : & ſerré tant qu'on voudra : laiſ- ſant ledit filet iuſques au l'endemaln , dont ſon · extremité prendra hors la bouche, puis derechef ſera ſerré comme deuant. or par ceſte aſtriction on fait tomber vne partie de ladite vuule; & par ainſi le patient recouure ſanté. ie t'ay fait figurer trois deſdicts inſtrumens, que tu peux choiſir à t commodité, comme tu vois en ceſte figure, figure- decin tres do#e. o le huičtieſme liure, definition. figure de deux diuers speculum oris, pourretenir la boucbe ouuerte du a malade , à l'heure de l'operation. d'auantage ſi en ladite vuule eſtoit vlcere corroſiue,outre qu'elle fuſt relaxée,accompagnée d'vn flux de b fang, alors la faudroit cauteriſer & conſommer auecvne telle cannule feneſtrée, & cautere actuel, ſidex- trement qu'on ne touchaft aucune autre partie de la bouche. la cannule feneſtrée auecſon cautere actuel. de la squinance. c h a p. viii. q v n a n c e eſt vne inflammation de la gorge,ou du larynx, qui empeſche ſouuent l'air c d'entrer & ſortir par la trachée artere, & la viande d'eſtre auallée en l'eſtomach, leſquelles $ choſes ſont neceſſaires à la vie des animaux. les grecs l'appellent simnancbe. il y en a de trois }s eſpeces & differences. la premiere eſt auecques grande douleur ſans apparence de tumeur au dehors, parce que l'humeur eſt contenu au derriere des deux amygdales, pres les vertebres du col:& partant ne peut eſtre apperceue,ſi on ne preſſe ſur la langue auec vne ſpatule, ou ſpeculum oris,& alors on void vne rougeur & inflammation en ceſte partie. auſſi le malade a difficulté de reſpirer & d'a- ualler les viandes, tire la langue hors de la bouche ( comme fait vn chien qui a grandement couru) & la tient ouuerte pour mieux attirer ſon haleine, & parle du nez, eſtant contraint eſtre couché, ou aſſis pour mieux auoir ſon vent: ſon boire monte, & ſort quelquesfois par les naſeaux, à cauſe que la voye de l'air,du boire & manger ſont eſtouppez.il ales yeux flamboyans & fort enflez, ſe forjettans hors de leur orbite:& à tels ſouuent aduient vne ſubite ſuffocation auec vne eſcume ſortant hors la bouche. la ſeconde eſpece eſt celle en laquelle on void vne tumeur par dedans la gorge , & non ou peu apparente au dehors, la langue aucunement enflée, le amigdales, & quelquesfois les mandibules. la troiſieſme eſpece eſt celle en laquelle on void la tumeur aux parties exterieures, & peu aux interieures , & ceſte eſt la moins perilleuſe. les cauſes ſont externes ou internes , comme quelque coup, ou vne areſte , & autre choſe eſtrange demeurée en la gorge, ou trop grande froideur par bruynes , ou exceſſiue chaleur. les cauſes internes procedent d'vne multitude d'humeurs de tout le corps ou du cerueau, qui cauſe fluxion : quelquefois de matiere ſan- guine, cholerique, ou de pituite, & bien peu ſouuent d'humeur melancholique. les ſignes pour cognoittre d chacun humeur particulier , ou lors qu'ils ſont meſlez enſemble, ont eſté dits cydeſſus parlant des apoſte- mes en general. la ſquinance eſt plus perilleuſe & mortelle, lors que la tumeur n'appert ny dehors ny dedans. celle qui eſt au dehors, & non au dedans, eſt la moins perilleuſe , d'autant qu'elle n'empeſche pas les voyes du manger & boire, ny celles de l'inſpiration & expiration.aucuns meurent de ſquinance en douze heures , autres en deux iours ou en quatre, les autres en ſept : ce qui eſt prouué par hippocrate ; s)ui anginam euaaunt, iu ad pulmonem malum tranſit , & intra ſeptem dies monuntur : ſi verà bos dies euaſe int, ſuppurantur. ainſi telle appoſteme ſe termine quelquefois par deliteſcence , c'eſt à dire par renuoy occulte en autre partie, comme en la poictrine par vn empyeme , oit aux poulmons & autres parties principales, qui eſt cauſe de la mort du malade : auſſi par reſolution ou ſuppuration. la meilleure voye eſt la reſolution, qui ſe fait quand il y a peu de matiere, & qu'elle eſt ſubtile, & mefmement apres la ſaignée, & auoir vsé de certains gargariſmes à ce conuenables. quelquesfois auſſi ſe termine par ſuppuration, & lors qu'elle vient par voye de criſe eſt ſouuent mortelle , pour la grande quantité d humeurs qui tombent ſur ceſte partie, & empeſchent la reſpiration.pour ſon manger il humera potage d'vne poulaille,& de veau cuits auec laictuës , pourpié, ozeille, ſemences froides. sil eſt debile , on luy fera prendre des œufs mollets cuits en eau, ou quelques preſſis & orge mondé, ou vne decoction de pruneaux, raiſins boüillis en eau & ſuccre, & autres alimens ſemblables. il euitera du tout le vin, & en lieu d'iceluy boira hydromel, & eau ſuccrée , en laquelle ſera mis ſyrop roſat, ou violat, aceteux , de limons : il euitera le long dormir. cependant lechi- rurgien aura l'œil tant aux remcdes vniuerſels que particuliers, à cauſe que ceſte maladie ne donne grand les eſpeces & differen- ces. .eſpece. signes. .eſpece. .eſpece. signes. cauſes de ſquinance. cauſes externes . cauſes internes. hip. : liu. des pro- gnoſtiqs. aphe. œ.li. . loiſir destumeurs en particulier. l $tl' - a loiſir.parquoy il faut faigner le malade de labaſilique du coſté de la fluxion: & le iour meſine des veines'de deſſous lalangue,pour vacuer la matiere conioincte.auſſi feront appliquées ventouſes ſur le col,& eſpaules» ſans & auec ſacrification, auec frictions & ligatures douloureuſes aux extremitez. dauantage on luy don- nera clyſteres, ſuppoſitoires, ou noiiets acres & cuiſans, àfin de diuertir & deſtourner l'humeur conioinct à la partie.et ſubit qu'on void la fiuxion ſe faire, il faut vſer de gargariſmes repercuſifs, afin de l'empeſ- cher : car elle pourroit fuffoquer le malade : ce que i'ay veu aduenir , quelque diligence que l'on y peut signes de la faire. et partant, on fera gargariſer ſouuent le malade d'oxycrat, puis de ceſtuy, /.. pomorum ſilueſt.afi. r ſolutiii, . iiij. ſumach. roſar. rubafi iû. .berber. . ij. bulliant omnia cum aq. ſufficienti vſque ad conſumptionem medietatis, addendovini.granat acid. .iiij. diamor. .ij. & iterum bulliant modicum, & fiat gargariſma, vt artis eſt, on en pourra faire d'autres d'eau de plantain , morelle, verjus, auec ſyrop roſat , & autres ſemblables. et ſi la fluxion eſtoit faite de matiere pituiteuſe ou phlegmatique, il fautadiouſter auſdits re- percuſſifs, alum, eſcorce de grenade, noix de cyprés, vn peu de vinaigre, & ne faut vſer aucunement de repercuſifs aux parties exterieures, de peur de faire renuoy de l'humeur audedans de lagorge, mais appli- quer linitifs, afin de relaſcher & rarefier les parties, pour donner paſſage à quelque portion d'humenr qui ſereſoudroit. et ſi on voit que la tumeurvueille tendre à reſolution,qui eſt lors que le malade eſt ſans fié- vre, & auale mieux les viandes, auſſi qu'il reſpire, & parle plus à ſon aiſe, qu'il dort bien , & a peu de douleur, qui ſont ſignes de prompte guariſon , lors on vſera de remedes reſolutifs.au contraire , ſi on cognoit la tumeur ſe terminer à ſuppuration, ſeront appliquoz remedes ſuppuratifs, tant par dedans que que par dehors,comme gargariſmes faits de racines dealthea, figues, juiubes , raiſins de damas , dat- tes boüillies en eau, tant qu'elles ſoient parfaictement cuittes, & d'icelle decoction en ſera gargarisé, & tenu en la bouche. semblablement eſt bon de gargariſer du laict de vache , ou de chévre, auecque ſuccre & huyle d'amandes douces, ou violat vn peu tiede. car tel remede ſuppure , &appaiſe la douleur. aux parties externes de la gorge on appliqueracataplaſmes ſuppuratifs:aùſſi on enueloppera le col de laine noire auec le ſuif, imbue en huyle de lys. et lors que l'on cognoiſtra la tumeur eſtre ſuppurée, la bouche du malade ſera ouuerte auecvn ſpeculum oris cy deſſus eſcrir,& la tumeur ſera percée auec vne longue biſto- ficatifs, comme, %. aquae hord. ib. ſ.mellis roſar. & ſyrop. roſar. ficcar. añ. fiat gargariſma : ou bien de vin & miel meſlez enſemble, deſquels à toutes heures s'en gargariſera : & apres la mondification on ferà cicatrice à l'vlcere, adiouſtant aux ſuſdits gargariſmes vn peu d'alum de roche. - figure des deux biſtories courbées , dont l'vne eſt ouuerte, l'autre enfermée dansſon manche, ou chaſſe - -- '- - - • t • - >.. » de gongrona ( c'eſt à dire goiietre ) Éronchotele . ch a p. ix. * -- o n g r o n a, eſt vn mot duquel vſe hippocrate en la ſentence . de la troiſieſme ſe- ſ§ ctiondu . des epid. & ſignifie ce qu'on dit en françois goiietre, ou, goüetron, en grec, \($ſ\ bronchocele , en latin hernia gutturis : qui eſt vne tumeur en la gorge & au col , & vient du $# $mot grec gongros,qui ſignifie promptement certaine eminence ou appendice ronde,qui croiſt ººaux troncs des arbres, appellée par pline, liu. z.chap. clauus , fungus pataua gongros ſelon theophraſte liu. . de l'hiſtoire des plantes, chap. . eſt vn certainvice d'oliuier, quand il eſt bruſ- r • , | • - - - - " - di rence lé du soleil. telle indiſpoſition vient ſouuent à la gorge des femmes, comme auons dit des aneuriſmes. # gutturis. ' or ce mot de bronchocele eſt commun en general, mais il a pluſieurs eſpeces & differences. car aucunes font melicerides, autres stetatomes, aucunes atheromes, les autres aneuriſmes. en aucunes eſt trouuée vne chair ſtupide , c'eſt à dire auec peu de douleur, & ſouuent ſans douleur : toutes leſquelles ſeront cog- neues par leurs ſignes & celles qui ſont curables ; ou incurables. aucunes ſont petites , aucunes grandes, cure . qui occupent quaſi toutelagorge : aucunes ont vn kiſt,les autres n'en ont point. en icelles qui ſe peuuent curer, on fera ouuerture, ſoit auec le cautere actuel, ou potentiel, ou lancette : puis ſeront oſtez les corps eſtranges tout d'vn coup, s'il eſt poſſible : & où on ne le pourra faire, ſeront oſtez à plufieurs fois auec re- medes propres : puis l'vlcere ſera conſolidé & cicatrisé - - de la pleureſie , , , c h a p. x. " . º ] l e v x e s e eſt vne inflammation de la membrane appellé pleuta , ou bien des muſcles % appellez meſopleurij ou intercoſtaux, causéed'vn ſang ſubtil & bilieux , lequel auec impe- tuoſité monte de lavéine caue aſcendante, à celle qui eſt dite azygos, & d'icelle aux veines * intercoſtales; auquel lieu eſtant paruenu quelquesfois ſe ſuppurè, & le malade ſent vne dou- signes > * leur poignante auec fiévre & difficulté de reſpirer., ſceluy eſtant ſuppuré , quelquesfois - #euacué,par labouche, les poulmons ſucçans le pus qui eſt porté d'iceux à la trachée artere , & d'icel- hipp.lib. de le à la bouche : quelquesfois auſſi eſt euacué par les vrines, & par le ſiege. et lors que nature n'eſt for- morbis in- º pour euacuer ceſte matiere, il ſe fait vn grandamas de ſavie » dont ſe fait empyeme. et pour l'euacuer rºrmir les definition. - - a - a. - - - - - " gargariſme rie ou lancette courbée, ſemblable à celle-cy. apres l'ouuerture faite, on vſera de gargariſmes mondi- mondificatif ' lehuicteſme liure, - - "e le chirurgien eſt'contrainct de faire ouuerture en la troiſieſme & quatrieſme des vrayes coſtes, commen- a ſl çant à compter par en bas : laquelle ouuerture ſe doit faire à la diſtance de ſix ou ſept doigts de l'eſpine l, par le cautere actuel ou potentiel : ou par le raſoir, lequel doit auoir double trenchant comme nos biſtoi- # ries, & faut couper peu à peu, conduiſant la pointe vers la partie inferieure de la coſte, de peur de cou- per la veine , artere & nerfs, qui accompagnent chacune coſte pour la vie & nourriture , ſentiment & ſ# mouuement des muſcles intercoſtaux. figured'vn cautere actuel auec ſa platine-. | ' deſcription ainſi ſera euacuée la ſanie peu à peu faiſant clorre le nez & la bouche du malade , afin que le diaphrag- # § me,& les muſcles qui ſont entre les coſtes, puiſſent expeller la matiere contenuë au thorax.d'abondant oi &, deſapla pourra faire l'ouuerture auec ce cautere actuel, lequel a quatre trous pourmettre vne petite cheuille haut - tine_ . ou bas , ſelon qu'on le voudra faire profonder en bas auec vne platine de fer blanc, au milieu de laquelle - y a vn trou pour paſſer au trauers ledit cauterre, afin qu'il ne touche qu'à l'endroit où on le veut appliquer. | laquelle platine doit eſtre vn peu courbe,à fin de s'accommoder proprement ſur le coſté, & eſtre attachée | par ſes quatre coings auec attaches. et où le malade ſeroit grand ayant les coſtes larges, on pourroit faire | hiſtoire .. l'ouuerture ſur icelles auec vn trepan : laquelle eſtant faite par l'vn des ſuſdits moyens , faudra euacuer le " : pus peu à peu : & puis y ſera fait injections deterſiues,comme. .aq.hord.j .vj.mellis roſat. .ij. fiat in je- ctio : & autres deſquelles nous parlerons cy-apres aux playes,enſemble du reſte de la curation.benedict.de - la valée, natif de la ville de thurin,aagé de vingt-cinq ans,tomba malade d'vne pleureſie, laquelle ſuppu- ra , & ſe fit vn empyéme, jettant la bouë par la bouche, la crachant en grande abondance fort fetide & puante par l'eſpace de ſix ſepmaines, puis elle s'arreſta vingt iours apres : au moyen dequoy , lors qu'il ſe baiſſoit & remuoit,on oyoit vn bruit en ſon corps,comme d'vne bouteille à demye pleine.et pour la guari- ſon de ce, appella pluſieurs medecins , à ſçauoir le grand , le gros, duret, liebaut, violaine, malmedy, leſquels luy ordonnerent pluſieurs remedes : en fin vn iour m'enuoya querir : & ayant conſideré ſon mal, luy conſeillay d'ouurir le coſté pour donner iſſue à la matiere purulente:ce qu'il m'accorda,lors qu'il ſeroit º liuºe vn peu plus fort. quelques iours apres nature fit expulſion de ladite matiere par grands vomiſſemens, en º *- ſorte que toſt apres fut du tout guary par la grace de dieu, & de nature, & ſe porte bien pour le preſent l'fr/g . eſtant en bon poinct, comme s'il n'euſt eu iamais mal. hippocrate dit, que quelquesfois il faut trepaner la coſte quand il faut vuider l'eau qui eſt amaſsée au thorax. les ſignes qu'il y a de l'eau contenue au thorax, c'eſt que le patient a vne toux ſeiche, aſperité à la gorge, friſſon, fiévre, courte haleine, & principalement quand on eſt couché,enfleure des pieds & douleur violente : apres vne grande ſoif,& auoir beaucoup beu, il y a de l'eau dedans le coffre. on cognoiſt de quel coſté eſt l'enfleure au mouuement du fiot, & y a vm ſon comme d'vne bouteille à demy remplie. hippocrate commande de couper la chair ſur la troiſieſme co- ſte depuis la derniere, puis auec le foret, ou vne bien petite trepane qu'on ouure la coſte pour vuider l'eau, ou autre matiere peu à peu, tant qu'elle ſoit du tout vuidée. : de l'hydropiſie . c h a p. x i. y d r o p s e eſt nommée en grec, hydropt, ou hyderos, parce que ſa cauſe materielle eſt eau ou humeur aqueux,que les grecs appellent hydor.pour bien definir ceſte maladie nous di-lº rons que c'eſt vne tumeur contre nature,faite d'abondâce d'eau,de ventoſité,ou de pituite aſ- ſemblée,quelquesfois en toute l'habitude du corps,autresfois en quelque partie,mais le plus diuiſſon. ſouuét dans le vétre inferieur,âſçauoir en la capacité & eſpace qui eſt entre le peritoine& les .eſpece-. inteſtins. de là vient,pour raiſon de la matiere & du lieu , qu'il y a diuerſes matieres & eſpeces d'hydropi- ſie. et premierement celle qui remplit l'eſpace vuide du ventre, eſt ou humide, ou ſeiche. i.'humide eſt • nommée aſcites , pour la ſemblance d'vn vaiſſeau dit en grec aſcos, de la façon de ceux qui ſont faits des + . eſpece ,. peaux de boucs ou chévres pour y mettre de l'eau, du vin, ou de l'huile, parce que l'eau eſt contenuë dans . eſpece. le peritoine,comme dans vn telvaiſſeau. l'hydropiſie ſeiche eſt appellée par les grecs tympanites ou tym- pania s,à raiſon qu'eſtant en icelle le ventre enflé de ventoſité,ſi on le frappe, il rend vn ſon approchant de celuy d'vn tabourin.mais quand toute l'habitude du corps eſt pleine de phlegme bläc,on l'appelle anaſirca, n- hydropiſie ou leucophegmatia. elle commence premierement és parties inferieures,comme eſtans plus promptes à re- particuliere. ceuoir la fluxion,& eſloignées de la chaleur naturelle:ſi on les comprime auec les doigts,le veſtige d'iceux y demeure,& le malade eſt tout bouffi,ayant la couleur du viſage toute blafarde. elle differe des deux au- tres:car en icelle le vétre s'enfle le premier,puis les parties inferieures.voila quât aux hydropiſies genera- les & vrayes:mais il s'en fait auſſi de particulieres, qui prennent leur nom de la partie,en laquelle s'amaſſe l humeur aqueux, comme en la teſte hydrocephalos, à la gorge bronchocele, en la poitrine pleurocele, és - | bourſes hydrocele, & ainſi des autres. neantmoins toutes ont vne meſme cauſe efficiente,qui eſt l'imbecil- lité ou empeſchement alteratrice & concoctrice du foye , prouenante du ſcirrhe & dureté d'iceluy, ou des petites bubes pleines d'eau qui s'engendrent en la membrane qui l'enueloppe , meſme de toute ſorte d'in- temperature definition. - des tumeurs en particulier. i a temperature grande,& principalement de la froide,qui a premierement commencé audit foye,ou a ſuccedé à l'intemperie chaude par diſſipation de la chaleur naturelle,& telle hydropyſie eſt incurable : ou eſt ſurue- nue par communication du vice d'vne autre partie ſuperieure ou inferieure. comme quand vne partie,auec . laquelle le foye a connexion,eſt vexée d'intemperature grandement froide,conſequément le foye en refroi- dit. et ſi c'eſt à cauſe des poulmons,du diaphragme,ou des reins,le mal eſt aiſement apporté & reçeu és par- ties gibbeuſes d'iceluy par les rameaux de la veine caue,quiiſſent & reſpondent à cét endroit. mais ſi cela vient de la ratte,eſtomach,meſentere,ou inteſtins (entre autres du ieiunum & ileon) la communication ſe fait a la partie caue par les veines meſaraïques,& autres rameaux de laveine porte. par ce moyen les aſth- matiques,phtifiques, ſpleniques, icteriques, voire les phrenetiques, tombent en hydropiſie : & pouf le dire en vn mot, tous ceux auſquels ou le ſang pur, menſtrual,ou hemorrhoidal vuidé outre meſure ou ſup- primé eſteint ou amoindrit la chaleur naturelle,ainſi que le feu ſe meurt ou eſteint par trop ou à faute de bois.autant en faut-il eſtimer des excremens du vétre,& de la veſſie, lors qu'ils ſont immoderément vuidez ou retenus : auſſi des viandes prinſes en trop grande ou petite quantité, trop froides, & ſans ordre, ſans beſoin : de peu dormir, de la mauuaiſe condition & eſtat de vie : bref de toutes les choſes externes,eſquel- les ſe peut commettre erreur en ceſte partie. or aſcités eſt diſtinguée de deux autres eſpeces , tant par la grandeur de la cauſe efficiente, qui eſt l'intemperature froide, que vehemence des ſymptomes, com- me de l'appetit perdu, ou corrompu, ſoif inextinguible & tumeur du ventre : dauantage, que ſil'on vient à mouuoir le corps , ou à ſecoüer le ventre, l'on entend l'eau flotter dedans, comme ſi c'eſtoit vn vaiſſeau demy plein. et ſelon que le malade change de ſituation, ou quel'onpreſſe le ventre auec les doigts, l'hu- meur deſcend ou monte, toufiours empreſſant les conduits : de fait s'il monte , il amene difficulté de reſ- piration & toux,& quelquesfois monte & regorge en la capacité du thorax, & cauſe les meſmes accidens qui ſuruiennent en l'empyeme : & ſouuent auſſi les malades par le mouuement deſdites aquoſitez , qui fluent & refluent ſemblent eſtre eſleuez en l'air comme ſi l'on ſe plongeoit en l'eau:ce que i'ay ſçeu par leur recit, & non par aucun autheur. si leſdites aquoſitez deſcendent, elles empeſchent l'iſſuë de l'vrine , & des excrements du ventre par compreſſion des orifices de l'vn & l'autre excrement. dauantage , le ma- lade eſtant couché à la renuerſe , la tumeur eſt moins apparente : parce que l'eau ſe reſpand çà & la. le contraire aduient quand il eſt debout ou en ſon ſeant, d'autant que l'eau tombe tout en vn tas au petit ventre, là où le malade ſent vne peſanteur. les parties hautes du corps amaigriſſent par faute de ſang qui ſoit de qualité & conſiſtence requiſe pour bien nourrir, & les baſſes enflent par defiuxion d'humeur ſereux & pituiteux ſur icelles : le poulx eſt petit, hatif, dur, auec quelque tenſion. ceſte diſpoſition eſt de longue curation, & le plus ſouuent incurable, principalement à ceux qui l'ont apportée du ventre de leur mere , qui ont l'eſtomach dépraué , cachecti- § & de mauuaiſe habitude és vieilles perſonnes : & generalement tous ceuxqui ont la vertu debile & guide. au contraire, les ieunes gens robuſtes qui n'ont point de fiévre, & deuant que la matiere ou eau ſoit pourrie, & que le foye & les autres parties ſoient fort alterées, qui peuuent porter le trauail & exercice requis àla curation d'vn telmal, peuuent receuoir curation. de la curation de l'hydropiſie . c h a p. x i i. acuration ſe doit commencer par les plus aiſez & benins remedes , qui ſont la diete & me- dicamens, auant que venir à la paracenteſe. or nous laiſſerons aux doctes medecins à corri- ger l'intemperie du foye & des autres parties principales,& à ordonner vne diete deſſeichan- te auec les medicamens hydragogues,c'eſt à dire qui vuident l'eau, tant par les ſelles que par les vrines. hippocrate commande leur donner ceſte pouldre /.. cantharid. ablatis capitibus & alis. . É.comburant. in furno,fiat puluis, de laquelle en ſoient donnez deux grains en vin blanc:car on a veu maintesfois nature aidée par tels moyens guarir entierement l'hydropiſie.et pour auancer la cure nous excitons quant-&-quant aucunesfois la partie enflée à faire quelque reſolution d'vne partie de l'humeur, en y appliquant les medicamens fort diſcutiens, comme ſachets,baings liniments & emplaſtres. les ſachets ſeront faits ex macris furfuribus, auena, ſale, ſulphure calidis ; ou a faute de ceux-cy, ex arena ſabulo, cineribus ſxpius calefactis. les bains plus excellens ſont les eaux naturellement ſalées, nitreuſes, & ſul- phurées, ou preparées par artifice,en y mettant du ſel nitre & ſoulphre fondus,ſil'on y veut faire boüillir de l'aneth,rhue,marjolaine, fenoüil, ſtzchas & ſemblables, ils en vaudront mieux. les linimens ſe feront d'huile de rhuë, d'aneth, de laurier & ſcillitic, auſquels l'on aura fait boüillir vn peu d'euphorbe, pyretre ou poivre. on compoſera l'emplaſtre ex thure, myrrha , terebentina , coſto, granis lauri, cypero,melle, ſtercoribus bubulo columbino, caprino equino, & ſimilibus , quae vel per ſe imponi poterunt. si le mal perſeuere, faut paſſer aux ſinapiſmes, aux phœnigmes, c'eſt à dire, medicamens rubricatifs, & phyſeignes; c'eſt à dire, veſicatoires, ou qui excitent des veſſies, leſquelles ſeront couppées & ouuertes pour en laiſſer couler l'eau peu à peu , & ſi longuement que toute l'humilité ſoit conſommée, & le malade guary de l'y- dropifie.quelques practiciens ayans leu en galien liure .de facultatib.naturalibus,les laboureurs d'aſie,lors que des champs ils portent le bled en la ville, ayans enuie d'en dérober quelque portion,ſans que leur lar- cin ſoit deſcouuert, auoir de couſtume de cacher dans les ſacs dudit bled , des boüteilles pleines d'eau : car de la aduient que le bled, attirant par le trauers de la terreſtrité du vaſe l'humidité en ſoy , ſe gonfle, dont il ſe monſtre plus enflé & plus peſant : ayans, dis-ie, leu telle choſe dans galien , ont pensé que le bled a puiſſance d'attirer les eaux, & que qui enſeucliroit vn hydropyque dedans, on verroit leſdites caux en bref conſommées & taries. - si tout cela ne ſert de rien, on viendra à l'operation manuelle, qui eſt le dernier remede, que les chi- rurgiens appellent par vn nom grec,paracenteſe.or deuant que de monſtrer comme il nous ſemble qu'elle ſe doit faire, il ne ſera hors de propos d'amener icy les diuerſes opinions des anciens touchant icelle ope- ration. car les vns l'abhorrent,& les autres l'approuuent : & certes il y a quelques raiſons de part & d'au- tre,leſquelles nous ſoudrons par meſme moyen.ceux döcques qui reprouuent la paracenteſe,diſent qu'el- le eſt dommageable pour trois incommoditez. la premiere eſt qu'en vuidant l'eau, ſe fait grande reſolu- tion & perte d'eſprits, & par conſequent des forces naturelles, vitales, & animales. la ſeconde que le foye n'eſtant plus ſouuent ſur l'eau comme deuant, pend, & par la peſanteur tire à bas quant & ſoy le diaphragme,& les parties thorachiques,dont s'enſuit toux ſeiche,& difficulté de reſpiration.la troiſieſme, que le peritoine qui eſt de ſubſtance nerueuſe ne ſe peut bonnement poindre, ny inciſer ſans grand van- ger, ny aiſément aglutiner, pour eſtre partie exangue & ſpermatique. tels ſont les argumens d'eraſiſtrate. & de ſes ſectateurs,pour prouoquer que la paracenteſe eſt dommageable,mais ils en amenent encores d'au- tres, pour monſtrer qu'à tout le moins elle cſt inutile. c'eſt que l'eau euacuée n'emporte point quant & signes de l'hydropiſie vraye, āiin aſcités. symptomes. aſcités. experience de l'auteur. prognoſtit. carc . ſoy pouldre de hip.liu. de vict.acu. cr liu.de inter. affect. matiere de ſachets. baings. linimens. emplſtare, pour appli- quer ſur le ºuentre. raiſons con- tre la para- centeſe. eraſiſtrate improuue la paracenteſe. le huictieſme liure, • ſoy la cauſe qui eſt l'intemperature, & dureté du foye,& des autres parties internes,deſquelles par apres ne a " c laiſſe de s'engendrer l'hydropifie comme deuant. ioint que la fiévre , ſoif, & intemperature chaude & ſeiche,qui eſtoient temperées par l'attouchement de l'eau,ſont par l'abſence d'icelle augmentées.et c'eſt,ie croy,ce qui a eſmeu auicenne & gourdö d'eſcrire que bien peu ſont eſchappez de la paracenteſe:mais tout . cela eſt fort aisé à refuſer. car pour commencer aux incommoditez qu'ils diſent en prouenir : galien dit *ſº que la premiere aduient faute de bien adminiſtrer la ponction, à ſçauoir quand on laiſſe écouler l'eau tout à la fois. et à la verité il y auroit bien plus de raiſon ſuiuant cela , de reietter la phlebotomie,par laquelle on vuide le ſang , qui contient bien plus grande quantité d'eſprits , & qui ſont bien plus purs que ne fait l'eau des hydropiques.quant à la ſeconde,qui eſt que le foye n'eſtant plus ſupporté par l'eau, attire à bas par ſa peſanteur les viſceres thorachiques:cela ſe peut bien euiter en tenant le malade couché à la renuer- - ſe , car ainſi le foye meſme ne pend point. plus, quelle connexion qu'ait le foye auec leſdites parties,ſi n'y , eſt-il point tellement attaché qu'il les puiſſe tirer, veu meſme qu'il en eſt ſeparé par le diaphragme, lequel ſouſtient leſdits viſceres thorachiques & empeſche qu'ils ne puiſſent tomber plus bas.pour le regard de la " troiſieſme incommodité, c'eſt ſimpleſſe de craindre l'inciſion du peritoine, bien que ce ſoit vne partie ner- ueuſe & membraneuſe.car tous les inconueuiens qui aduiennent aux parties nerueuſes bleffées,c'eſt à rai- ſon de leur ſentiment, lequel n'eſtanticy que bien petit ou du tout nul, à cauſe de l'alteration interieure,il : #sº n'en faut auoir aucune doute. d'abondant, & la raiſon & l'experience ordinaire nous enſeignent que plu- # " * ſieurs parties nerueuſes , voire les membranes meſmes fimples, élongnées & dépourueuës de chair, ſe peu- - plai. uent guarir : par plus forte raiſon le peritoine incisé ſe pourra reprendre,veu qu'il eſtencore adherant aux , muſcles de l'abdomen,& ſi ſerré auec iceux,que les aanatomiſtes ont bien de la peine à l'en pouuoir ſepa- , rºſºº * rer. reſte l'argument de l'inutilité, qui eſt de ſi peu de valeur, que pour y reſpondre , ie ne veux ſeule- b l'inutilité ment qu'vſer des propres termes de celſe. ie ſçay bien (dit-il) que la paracenteſe a dépleu à eraſiſtrate & - aux ſiens , parce qu'ils ont eſtimé que l'hydropiſie fuſt maladie du foye tant ſeulement ; qu'en vain l'on | mettoit peine de vuider l'eau, laquelle n'emportant quant & ſoy l'affection du foye, ne laiſſoit pas dc ſe r'engendrer encores apres l'euacuation. en quoy ils ont lourdement failly. car en premier lieu , ce vice ne vient ſeulement du foye : encore qu'il en fuſt venu, toutesfois ſi on vuide l'eau corrompuë, qui eſt de- dans le ventre contre nature , elle fait grande nuiſance au foye,& à toutes les autres parties interieures, a vtilité de augmentant , ou pour le moins entretenant leur dureté & intemperature. au contraire, eſtant vuidée , fi c l'euacua- elle ne fait autre bien , pour le moins elle fait place aux remedes, qui puis apres pourront guarir le vice c tion. deſdites parties : & tant s'en faut que ceſte eau qui eſt ſalée & corrompue, puiſſe mitiger la fiévre, ſoif,& • ! intemperature chaude & ſeiche, que pluſtoſt elle les augmente. quant à l'intemperature froide elle en ac- i, croiſt , en ſorte que cependant la chaleur naturelle eſt en grand danger d'eſtre eſteinte par l'abondance de l'humidité. ainſi nous pourrons, ſuiuant celſe renuoyer erafiſtrate & ſes ſectateurs par deuers ga- - gal. . de lien,qui les admoneſte d'apprendre l'eſſence & la cauſe de ce mal qu'ils ont ignorée, auant que s'entremet- ſa cul. natur. tre de le curer,ou de diſputer de la curation.pareille & derniere reponſe ferons-nous à auicenne & gour- lib. morbo. don, par la bouche de celiusaurelianus autheur excellent , combien que methodique. ceux (dit il) qui chren. chap. oſent mettre en auant, que tous ceux à qui on a fait la paracenteſe ſont morts,mentent : car nous en auons de hydrºp. veu beaucoup rechaper. et ſi pluſieurs y ſont demeurez, c'eſt faute que l'ouuerture a eſté faicte ou trop nº**iº- tard, ou peu dextrement. ie ne diray que ce mot, pour aſſouppir toutes diſputes & contradictions , c'eſt "º que le malade eſtant reduit à telle extremité, qu'il ne luy reſte plus qu'vn ſeul remede; ce n'eſt pas trop ſa- gement fait de diſputer, s'il eſt bon de le faire ou non. parquoy pour clorreceſte diſpute auec celſe, nous ne voulons pas aſſeurer que tous puiſſent guarir par ces remedes. or maintenant il nous faut declarer la methode de faire la paracenteſe pour vacuer l'eau c - tenuë au ventre. sil'hydropyſie procede du foye, il faut faire ouuerture à la partie ſeneſtre : & ſi elle vient - du vice de la ratte, elle ſera faite à la dextre : parce que ſi le malade repoſoit ſur le coſté inciſé,la douleur de la playe l'affligeroit, & ne la pourroit ſupporter : car l'aquoſité renuerſée ſur l'ouuerture,ſortiroit & di- ſtilleroit continuellement , dont s'enſuiuroit trop grande debilitation de la vertu. ladite inciſion doit eſtre faite trois doigts au deſſous de l'ombilic, à coſté des muſcles longitudinaux ( non ſur la ligne blanche ) | ny en l'extremité nerueuſe des muſcles de l'epigaſtre , pour obuier à la douleur , & difficulté qu'il y auroit à conſolider la playe, à raiſon que telles parties ſont exangues. françois rouſſet medecin bien eſti- , mé entre les gens doctes , dit auoir veu à orleans vn gros porte-faix, ſurnommé va ſi tu peux, hydropi- ' que de longtemps, deſeſperé de pouuoir iamais receuoir guariſon : auquel à ſainct agnan , vn autre ſemblable beliſtre luy perça le ventre d'vn grand coup de couſteau, doù auſſi-toſt ſortit grande quanti- té d'eau pourrie,lequel ſubitement guary, reuint à trauailler comme deuant,ſans retomber en hydropiſie. ra maniere il fut guary par hazard, ſans que l'inciſion fuſt faite par la paracenteſe la maniere de faire la paracenteſe de faire la eſt qu'il faut ſituer le malade ſur le coſté droit, ſi on pretend faire l'inciſion au ſeneſtre : au contraire, ſi on - paracenteſe. la veut faire au dcxtre , ſera couché ſnr le ſeneſtre : puis le chirurgien,auec vn ſeruiteur,pincera le cuir du ventre auec le pannicule charneux , afin de l'eleuer en haut : puis le couper en trauers iuſques aux muſcles: cela fait , tirera la partie ſuperieure de l'inciſion qu'il aura faite, aſſez haut vers l'eſtomach, afin que lors que l'on voudra conſolider la playe,le cuir retourne deſſus pour mieux l'agglutiner:puis fera vne autre pe- tite inciſion, coupant les muſcles & peritoine , ſe donnant bien garde de toucher à l'omentum , ny moins d aux inteſtins : & ſera mis en la playe vne tente d'or ou d'argent cannulée & courbée , de groſſeur d'vn tuyau de plume d'oye, de longueur de demy doigt , ou enuiron, ayant la teſte aſſez large, de peur qu'elle ne tombe en la capacité du ventre : pareillement de peur qu'elle ſorte de la playe, aura en ſa teſte deux petis trous pour paſſer vn petit ruban, lequel ſera attaché au milieu du corps , ſi dextrement qu'elle ne puiſſe ſortir,ſi ce n'eſt à la volonté du chirurgien : & par icelle l'eau ſera vacuée tant,& ſi peu qu'on vou- dra : qui ſe fera par le benefice d'vne eſponge qu'on mettra dedans ladite tente, laquelle eſponge ſera lors oftée qu'on voudra tirer l'eau. l'eau ne doit eſtre tirée tout à coup , pour la reſolution & diſſipation des eſprits, qui ſe feroient auec ſi grande quantité d'eau, dont s'enſuiuroit mort ſoudaine.ce que i'ay veu ad- uenir à vn malade hydropique, qui ſe donna vn coup de poinçon dedans le ventre , pour faire ſortir les eaux,& ſe reſiouyſſoit de les voir couler,& ſon ventre deſenfler : & fut impoſſible d'arreſter leſdites eaux, . dont le pauure malade mourut en peu d'heures, à cauſe que l'inciſion n'eſtoit faite ſelon la methode que nous auons dit. dauantage, ne faut obmettre à oppoſer vne bonne & groſſe compreſſe par deſſus, & vne ligature,afin de mieux tenir ladite cannule de peur que l'eau ne ſorte hors,contre la volonté du chirurgien. et faut icy noter,que ladite cannule ne doit eſtre tirée hors la playe que iuſques à ce qu'ó aye fait toutel'é- uacuation qu'on pretend, attendu que puis apres ne peut eſtre ſi bien remiſe , ny ſans grande violence & douleur,à cauſe que le cuir & pannicule charneux recouurent l'ouuerture.or pendât qu'on fera euacuation de l'eau, faut bien alimenter le malade,& auoir touſiours l'œil à ſes forces:& où il ſeroit º# ceſſera c ll cll t cil |. hiſtoire » destumeurs en particulier. | l'euacuation quelques iours ſans nullement tirer l'eau puis l'ayant ſuffiſamment vacuée, la playe ſera con- ſolidée,euitant qu'il ne s'y face vne fiſtule : laquelle ſelon hipp. liu. .aphor. .eſt incurable. portraič# de la cannule . - © - autres vuident l'eau en ceſte maniere.ceſt que l'ouuerture faite, ils reprennent les deux lévres de l'ouuerture,les percent tranſuerſa- lemé d'vne aiguille,prenans aſſez grande quantité de chair,afin que ladicte aiguille ne ompe ce qui auroit eſté pris,comme il ſe fait és becs de liévre,lors qu'on les veut reünir enſemble cela fait,on paſ- ſe vn filet de coſté & d'autre de l'aiguille par pluſieursfois, afin de mieux tenir les lévres vnies & le trou fermé, de peur que l'eau nc s'euacue ſinô à la volonté du chirurgien quelquesfois apres auoir eſté guaris les malades tombent en ictericie, dicte iauniſſe pour la gueriſon de laquelle i'ay eſprouué tel remede , auec heureuſe iſſue en vingt ou trente iours, & auoient les malades long-temps vſé de pluſieurs remedes ordonnez par mede- cins doctes. /...ſtercor.anſeris .ij.diſſcû. .iijvinialbi. coletur,fiat potio, detur duabus horis ante paſtum, ahrret ma - nieres de vnider l'ens -- de la tumeur & relaxation du nombril, appellé des grecs exomphalos, c h a p. x i i i. *，nºa)f a tumeur du nombril ſe fait quelquesfois, à cauſe que le peritoine eſt relaſché, ou rompu, - $ qui fait que les inteſtins,ou l'omentum, ou les deux enſemble y tombent, & quelquesfois s'y engendre vne carnoſité : quelquesfois auſſi vient par vne effuſion de ſang , comme aux aneu- riſmes, ou par vne ſeule ventoſité ou aquoſité. si l'omentum fait la tumeur , la partie ſera de couleur ſemblable à la peau,molle au toucher,& auec fort peu de douleur,& quand on preſſe deſſus, rentre dedans le ventre, ou de ſoy-mefme quend le malade eſt couché à la renuerſe, & ne fait le- dit omentum aucun bruit r'entrant dedans.si ce ſont les inteſtins,outre les ſignes ſuſdits,la tumeur eſt plus , signes dis inégale : & quand on preſſe deſſus pour le reduire dedans, on ſent vn buit de gargouillement , comme inteſtins aux hernies inteſtinales. si c'eſt vne carnoſité, la tumeur ſera plus dure, & de plus grade reſiſtance, & de- si ne de meurera en vn meſme endroit, ſans rentrer au dedans,encore que le malade ſe couche à la renuerſe, qu'on carneſité preſſe deſſus. si c'eſt ventoſité,la tumeur ſera molle,& ſubit retourne:& jaçoit que le malade ſe mette à la #º * renuerſe,demeure toufiours en meſme figure:auſſi quand on frappe deſſus,fait quelque bruit,tout de meſme " que ſi l'on frappoit auec vne baguette contre vn petit tabourin. si c'eſt aquoſité , la tumeur eſt ſemblable- - - ment molle,mais elle n'obeit pas quand on la preſſe ſans diminuer ou augmenter. si c'eſt effuſion de ſang, signes d' é- elle ſe monſtre liuide : & ſi le ſang eſt arterial,les ſignes ſeront ſemblables à ceux des aneuriſmes. parqt oy tºſº. - uand la tumeur du nombril eſt #§ par le vice des inteſtins,ou de l'omentum,ou des vents ou aquofitez, signes d'ef- ouuent la chirurgie aura lieu , & non des autres. or pour la cure des inteſtins & de l'omentum,le mala- #º de dc ſera couché à la renuerſe,& ſeront reduits les inteſtins & omentum.cela fait,on tiendra la peau ſuſpen- ºg. due où eſtoient contenus leſdits inteſtins & omentum,puis on en prendra vne portion,tant qu'il en ſera be- ſoin,& paſſera-on au trauers de la peau ainſi eſleuée,vne aſſez groſſe aiguille,enfilee d'vne petite ficelle aſ- cure de l'in- ſez forte. puis on fera des inciſions autour aſſez profondes,tant qu'il en ſera beſoin, afin que ladite peau ſe teſtinale cr reagglutine mieux : puis derechef on paſſera ladite aiguille deux ou trois fois,ou plus,ſelon que le cuir au-zºrbale , ra eité eſtendu en groſſeur , longueur & largeur, & ſera ſerrée la ficelle aſſez fort, puis derechef on liera la totalité vers le ventre : & en ce faiſant la peau qui aura eſté diſtendue,tombera auec leſdites ligatures. et pour bien faire, lors que ladite peau auroit eſté fort diſtendue, on la pourra amputer aſſez pres de la liga- ture exterieure, puis l'vlcere ſera traictée & cicatrizée ainſi qu'il appartient. la venteuſe ſera curée ， ar º"* de la remedes cy-deſſus eſcrits aux tumeurs venteuſes. celle qui eſt faite d'humeur aqueux, ſera vuidée, fai-* ſant petite inciſion , la tenant ouuerte tant qu'il ſera beſoin. prognoſtir. des hargnes ou greueures, qui ſont tumeurs aux aines & aux bourſes des teſticules. ch a p. xi v. $ e mot de hargne a eſté donné à ceſte maladie, parce que ceux qui en ſont vexez ( pour la : -- $# douleur qu'ils ſentent)couſtumierement ſont hargneux, c'eſt à dire, mal-plaiſans & criards, #ºlº # # principalement les petits enfans. les anciens en on fait pluſieurs eſpeces,toutesfois il n'y en a de hargne . $# # que trois propres & vrayes ; à ſçauoir, l'inteſtinale, la zirbale, & celle qui eſt composée des \º* deux. les autres ne ſont que ſimilitudinaires, & peuuent venir au scrotum ou és aines , ſans que les inteſtins ou zirbus ſoient hors leur lieu naturel. a icelles les grecs ont baillé vn nom propre, tant ſelon le lieu où ſe fait telle tumeur,que ſelon la choſe & ſubſtance qui la fait :comme quand la tumeur n'eſt qu'aux aines, ils ont nômé telle hargne bubonocele,que nous diſons inguinale,ou hargne incomplet- te,à cauſe quelle ne tombe dedans le ſcrotum ou bourſe des teſticules. car lors qu'elle y deſcend,eſt com- plette : & ſi c'eſt l'inteſtin,ſe nomme entrocele,ou inteſtinale:fi c'eſt le zirbus, epiplocele ou zirbale:ſi les deux y deſcendent enſemble,eterœpiplocele si c'eſt l'eau:hydrocele ou aqueuſe:ſi du vent,l'hyſcocele ou venteuſe : & s'il y a du vent & de l'eau enſemble, comme il ſe fait ordinairement,prendra ſemblablement le nom des deux,& ſe nommera hydrophyſocele, c'eſt à dire,aqueuſe & venteuſe.s'il y a excroiſſance de chair en la ſubſtance du teſticule,ou autour d'iceluy,telle hargne ſe nommera sarcocele ou charneuſe:s'il ya vei- nes groſſes dilatées & entortillées,cirſocele ou variqueuſe. si ce ſont humeurs, la tumeur prendra le nom de l'humeur dominant,& ſera dite phlegmoneuſe,œdemateuſe, & ainſi des autres, comme nous auons dit au chap.des apoſtemes.les cauſes ſont pluſieurs,comme excez violens,coups,cheutes de lieu haut,vomiſſe- - ment,toux,beaucoup cheminer,ſauter dancer,cheuaucher vn cheual allant dur,crier, ſouffler aux trompes, cauſet de & trôpettes,cors,cornets,& autres inſtrumêts où il faut beaucoup de vent leuer peſans fardeaux,eſtre tiré harzºº. ſur la geſne,auſſi l'vſage des viades viſqueuſes & venteuſes,& l'humidité excreméteuſe qui vient a la partie. ' toutes leſquelles choſes peuuent dilater ou rompre la production du peritoine, lequel eſt membraneux & delié, & partant ſe rompt & dilate aiſement. les femmes qui ont porté de gros & peſans enfans, † r - grande differencés de hargnes, & leurs di- méry / m/ f. • - i le huictieſme liure, signet. pregnoſtic. hargne incu rable . hargnce / r / e_,. maniere de reduire l'in teſtin. cataplaſme. . chap. impoſture de, cha- ſtreux. pourquoy ſe gua°it la hargne des petits en. fans. grande diſtenſion du vétre,ou par violens cris & épreintes des cruels enfantemens:la pluſpart ſont affligées a d'vne hargne inteſtinale, enlaquelle leur tombe l'inteſtin en l'aine,à cauſe que le peritoine eſt relaiche, & quelquesfois rompu. pour meſmes cauſes ſont pareillement ſujettes à l'enflure du nombril,parce que l'in- teſtin ou omentum y de cend. pour la curation,faut vſer des remedes cy-deſſus eſcrits, & leur faire porter brayers & ligatures propres à telles diſpoſitions.les fignes de l'inguinale,ſont cogneus par la tumeur fonde trouuée en l'aine, laquelle eſtant preſſée ºtourne facilement au dedans. les ſignes que les inteſtins ſont deſcendus dedans le ſcrotum, c'eſt qu'il y a tumeur dure,& lors qu'on les reduit au dedans,ils font vn bruit gourgouillant auec douleur. au contraire, ſi c'eſt le zirbus, la tumeur eſt mollaſſe,& ſemble qu'on touche de la laine:joint qu'il eſt plus difficilement reduit que l'inte ſtin.a cauſe que les inteſtins eſtans continus en leur ſubſtance,& en quelque mouuement continuel, non ſeulement s'entreſuiuent , mais auſſi s'attirent l'vn l'autre pour éuiter la diſtenſion qui eſt fort douloureuſe en leurs corps membraneux, qui aduient a raiſon de la mutation de leur lieu naturel. de toutes leſquelles choſes on ne peut attribuer aucune a l'omentum,eſtant vn corps ſtupide & preſque inſenſible,groſſier,peſant,& ſans mouuement aucun :combien qu'au eſte il ſoit remis auec moins de douleur, & ſans faire aucun bruit. signes que le peritoine eſt rompu,quand la hargne inteſtinale croiſt ſubitement,auec douleur cuiſante & poignante : car quand il n'eſt qu'eſlargy & dilaté ſeu- lement, elle croiſt lentement,& auec peu de douleur. qui toutesfois continue tant que la tumeur dure,& ſe renouuelle:ce qui n'eſt en la rupture du peritoine car le paſſage eſtant vne fois libre & ouuert,la tumeur ſe fait & renouuelle ſans diſtenſion,& par conſequent ſans douleur. les autres fignes ſeront particulariſez en leur lieu. quelquesfois il aduient que les intcſtins & zirbus adherent contre le proceſſus, de ſorte que nullement on ne les peut reduire:ce qui ſe fait par vne coherence & glutinoſité de matiers viſqueuſe,ou de quelque excoriation qui aura eſté faite,en reduilant les inteſtins , ou pour auoir trop long-tcmps negligé à les reduire,& n'auoir porte vn bon brayer. la hargne complete inueterée, en laquelle le procez eſt rompu & principalement à ceux qui ont ja accomply leurs trois dimenſions , ne guarit lamais, ou bien rarement. auſſi quand ledit proceſſus eſt grandement rompu , les inteſtins peuuent tomber cedans les bourſes à la groſſeur de la teſte d'vn homme, auec peu de douleur, & ſans danger de mort, a raiſon que par la grande amplitude du lieu, la matiere fecale peut entrer & ſortir librement hors les inteſtins. de la curation des hargnes. c h a p. xv. a r c e que les petits enfans fort ſujets à auoir des hargnes,(non toutesfois tant la charneu- le ny variqueuſe, mais plus ſouuent l'aqueuſe & vent ufe, & principalement l'inteſtinale,qui leur vient du grand effort qu'ils font par leur crier & touſſir) pour ceſte cauſe nous parlerons premierement de la curation d'icelles e chirurgien donc eſtant appellé pour reduire l'inte- ' ſtin tombe en la bourſe,ſituera l'enfant au lict,ou ſur vne table,la teſte en bas,les feſſes en haut, & de ſes deux mains peu à peu fera la reduction. apres il fomentera la partie d vne fomentation aſtringen- te, eſcrite en la precipitation de la matrice, puis on appliquera ce rcmede. /...praefcriptæ decocuionis quan. fuff far hord. & fabar.an .j. pul aloës, maſtic. myrtyl. & ſarcoc. . j. bol. atm. . e. incorpor. ſimul, & fiat cataplaſm. ſecundùm artem. ou de l'emplaſtre contra rupt. deſquels emedes le chirurgien vſera à ſa volonte,en bien baneant la partie auec compreſſes&brayers propres à tel affaire,& fera tenir l'enfant dans ſon b rçeau l'eſpace de trente ou quarante iours, les feſſes vn peu eſleuées , & ſur tout on le gardera de crier & touſſir aëce au premier ſermon commande faire tremper du papier en l'eau par l'eſpace de trois iours , puis en faire vne pelotte qu'on appliquera ſur l'aine, ayant premierement reduit l'inteſtin , & ne le faut deſlier de trois ieurs,& de ce verrez grande efficace. en lieu d'eau commune, il faut prendre d'vne aſtringente,comme celle qu'on vſe en la relaxation de la matrice. autre remede ſangu. draconis . ij. maſticis. .j. thuris . É nucis cupreſſi . ii.picis nigra .j.pul- ueriſentur omnia ſubtiliſliimè,albumina ouorum numero duo incorporentur ſimul,& applicentur vt uictum eſt. ll faut laiſſer ce remede ſur la partie cinq ou ſix iours,& continuer vn mois plus ou moins, & ſera ap- pliquée ſur des eſtoupes. autre.%.thuris,maſtic aloës, ſangu.draconis, farcol.boli. armenici, terra ſigillata : gummiammoniaci torrefacti, glutini piſcium,balauſticorum,nucis cupreſſi,gallarum,myrtyllorum,hypocitiidos,ladani, añ. .j miſce & fiat puluis. de ceſte poudre en ſera incorporéauec blanc d'œuf,& applique ur la partie,& laiſſé par cinq ou ſix iours ſans remuer. autre , faeite à faiºe. prenez blanc d'œuf,farine volatile,incorporez ensé ble,&l'appliquez deſſus il faut que l'enfant ait le vé- tre lafche,qui ſe fera mettât en ſa boüillie beurre frais,& vn peu de ſuccre la nourrice ſe gardera de boire eau crue,mais la fera boüillir, auſſi ne doit mange r ſalades,ne fuicts cruds, & pourra boire du vin bié tré- pé. et par ces remedes ie proteſte que pluſieurs ont eſtéguais, & ay garde les c haſtreux de leur amputer les couillons,deſquels ils ſont fort friands,pour le lucre qu ils en reçoiuent, & abuſent ai ſi les peres meres leur faiſant acroire que iamais leurs enfans ne peuuent guarir,depuis que le boyau eſt tôbé en la bou ſe:qui eſt vne choſe fauſſe & menſongere,principalemêt lors que le peritoine n'eſt que relaſché & non rompu.c ar les ayant ainſi accouſtre ,& tenus le temps que nous auons dit, enfant qui n'a encores accôply ſes trois di- menſions,guarit,pourueu qu'on garde cependat la deſcente aux bourſ s,& ce d'autant que la voye du peri- toine,par laquelle l'inteſtin eſtoit deſcendu, s'appetiſſe & reſtrecit, pendant que d'autre part les inteſtins groſſiſſent. il y a vn chirurgien , lequel i'eſtime eſtre homme de bien , qui m'a dit auoir guary pluſieurs enfans en donnant de la poudre d aymant bien ſubtile & meſlée auec leur boiullie, & frottoit de miel l'aine où ſe faiſoit la deſcente de la hargne, puis ſinapiſoit par deſſus de limature de fer bien ſubtile, & continuoit tel remede l'eſpace de dix ou douze iours, & bandoit la partie auec brayer propre. ce qui ſem- ble eſtre fondé ſur ce que l'aymant par dedans, cupide par l'inſtinct qui luy eſt naturel d'attirer le ferap- posé par dehors,attire auec violence à ſoy les corps charneux & adipeux qui ſont entredeux, qui bouchans le paſſage du peritoine, & auec le temps s'incorporans à iceluy , empeſchent que l'inteſtin ou omen- tum paſſe, & tombe hors de ſon lieu. ce qui ne doit ſembler plus eſtrange, que de voir ledit aymant par l'entre-deux , & trauers d'vne table , pour double & eſpaiſſe qu'elle ſoit, tirer apres ſoy le fer, ſelon qu'il eſt promené de çà ou de là. autre remede par luy experimenté ſouuentesfois : faut prendre des li- maçons,rouges,& les faire calciner en vn pot de terre mis au four,& en faire poudre, de laquelle il donne comme deſſus,auec la bouillie, & aux plus grandelets la fait prendre auec leur potage. la cure quelques- fois ſe pourra auſſi faire aux plus âgez, voire à ceux qui ont accomply leurs troi dimenſions, eſtant en l'âge de quarante ans : pour le prouuer ie reciteray ceſte hiſtoire. c'eſt qu'vn preſtre de sainct andré des aarts nommé m.lean moret,epiſtolier,c'eſt à dire,chantant 'epiſtre au dimanche, lequel auoit vne † inteſtinale b des tumeurs en particulier. d | a inteſtinale complete, ſe retira vers moy, me monſtrant ſon mal, demandant ſecours, parce qu'il diſoit ſentir vne tres-grande douleur, principalement en chantant ſon epiſtre. voyant ſa greueure, ie luy dy, que veritablement il deuoit mettre vn autre en ſa place : ce qu'il fit,priant le curé (pour lors nommé monſieur le clerc, doyen de la faculté de theologie ) & les marguilliers, d'en commettre vn autre , leur declarant ſon impuiſſance. ce que luy eſtant accordé , ſe mit entre mes mains, & ie luy ordonnay pluſieurs remedes propres à ſon mal, luy faiſant prendre vn brayer, qu'il porta par l'eſpace de cinq ou ſix ans : & vn iour luy demandant comment ſe portoit ſon mal, me fit reſponce qu'il ne ſçauoit plus que c'eſtoit, & qu'il eſtoit guari. ce que iamais ie n'euffe peu croire,ſi le ne l'euſſe veu. parquoy l'amenay à mon logis, & veis ſes admirable parties genitales ſans aucun veſtige de hargne : émerueillé grandement comme il auoit peû eſtre guary co-prouidence. noiſſant ſon âge : or ſix moys apres que ie l'eus ainſi reuiſité, aduint qu'il mourut d'vne pleureſie : & ayant ſceu ſa mort, ie m'en allay en la maiſon dudit curé, en laquelle ledit moret ſe tenoit,le priant qu'il me per- miſt faire ouuerture du corps mort, afin que i'euſſe cognoiſſance quel baſtiment nature auoit fait en la voye où les inteſtins deſcendoient : ce que volontiers il m'accorda. ie proteſte à mon dieu, que ie trouuay au- tour du trou de la production du peritoine , vne ſubſtance adipeuſe de la groſſeur d'vn petit eſteuf, in- filtrée & attachée ſi fort audit endroit, qu'à bien grande difficulté la pouuois deſtacher ſans dilacerer & rompre les parties adiacentes. et voila la cauſe pourquoy la guariſon s'en eſtoit enſuiuie. semblablement, i'ay cogneu quelques-vns quiauoient porté le brayer par longues années, ſans autre choſe eſtre entierement guaris : eſtans maigres, & puis deuenus gras, les inteſtins accueillent graiſſe qui les groſſit, de ſorte qu'ils ne tomboient nullement aux bourſes,& ont laiſsé de porter le brayer ſans aucune recidiue.ces choſes nous monſtrent, qu'il ne ſe faut haſter d'oſter les couillons aux pauures garçons. choſe admirable , que nature guariſſe des maladies eſtimées incurables, ſi elle eſt tant ſoit peu aydée. le principal ayde conſiſte à empeſ- cher l'inteſtin de deſcendre, pendant qu'elle opere, & faire ce que deſſus. pour ceſt effect, aux enfans vn peu grandelets, & aux hommes & femmes,on fera porter des brayers & eſpauliere,de la façon qui eſt por- tée par ces deux figures. figure d'vn homme qui auroit vne ruptured'vn ſeul coſté, auec vn brayer, duquel l'eſcuſſon doit auoir trois eminences, deux en haut, & l'autre en bas, & au milieu d'icelles vne caui- té, afin qu'il ne preſſe trop ſur l'os pubis, & qu'il n'y face douleur i'ay trouué depuis n'a- gueres ceſte inuention, laquelle me ſemble meilleure que toutes les autres par cy-deuant inuentées,à cauſe qu'elle prohibe merueilleuſement la deſcente des inteſtins, & omentum. a l'eſpauliere, laquelle s'attache au deuant cc me tu vois, & au derriere auſſi à l'endi de d. b le brayer. c la cauité au milieu des trois eminences. erºl $ # ns -- r autrt le huicteſme liure, | iauroit rupthrº des deux coſtez, & comment il doit eftre bandé, a - figure d'vn homme º § inteiiins ou l'omentum ne deſcendentaux l •aº# jlé d'vn brayer ? ourgarder # dudit brayer, & deſaligature- : d' auant gº » la / - bourſes nommeéeſpaulicrc-* a l'eſpauliere fendue & ouuerte par le mi- lieu, pour paſſer la teſtea - b b le brayer à deux coſtez,entre leſquels ya vn trou par où la verge doit paſſer. note que chacun deſdits coſtez doit eſtre de meſme façon que celuy de la figure cependant il ne faut obmettre le regime du malade, luy enjoignant qu'il ſe garde de toutes choſes qui peuuent dilater & rompre le procez ouapophyſe du peritoine , & entretenir ou augmenter le mal, ſoient viandes ou autres choſes, pour leſquelles tu auras recours au chap. . parlant des cauſes. or quelquesfois, & ſpecialement aux plus âgez, les inteſtins ne ſe peuuent reduire, à cauſe qu'il y a trop grande quantité de matiere fecale contenue en iceux.alors ne ſe faut efforcer de le repouſſer par violence, mais le malade de- meurera dedans le lict bien chaudement, la teſte baſſe, & les feſſes hautes, & on luy appliquera vn cataplaſ- cataplaſme me tel qu'il s'enſuit. /.rad. althex & liliorum ań. .ij.ſem. lini & fœnugr. afi. .f. folior, mal. viol. & pa- •mollient. rietaria añ. in.f. coquantur inaqua communi, poſtea piſtentur & paſſentur par ſetaceum, addendo butyri recentis fine ſale, & olei liliorum afi. qu, ſuff.fiat cataplaſma ad formam pultis ſatis liquida : & luy ſeraap- pliqué tout chaud, tant ſur les bourſes que ſur le ventre. parce remede on trouue ſouuent le lendemain les inteſtins reduits de ſoy-meſme, parce que la ventoſité eſt reſoulte, & que la matiere fecale aura fait ſon cir- cuit, & ſera r'entrée en vn autre inteſtin pour eſtre euacuée dehors.et ſi ladite matiere n'eſtoit r'entrée, qui ſe fait à cauſe des vents qui n'auroient eſté reſoults , on donnera vn clyſtere carminatif, & remollitif, clxſteres auquel ſera adiouſté huile de terebentine, d'anis,du genevre,ou de fenouil, extraicte par quinte-eſſence en deff a mer. petite quantité, auſſi eſt vn excellent remede, clyſtere fait de maluoifie, huile de noix, & vn peu d'eau ueilleux. de vie,auec quelque portion deſdites huiles de quinte-eſſence.aucunesfois par tous ces moyens la redu- ction des inteſtins ne peut eſtre faite, à cauſe que le poceſſus n'eſt aſſez dilaté , d'où vient que la matie- re fecale contenuë aux inteſtins tombez dedans le ſcrotum , accompagnée de ventoſité s'endurcit & fait qu'on ne les peut plus reduire. incontinent il s'y fait inflammation & accroiſſement de douleur, & qui pis eſt, vn regorgement de la matiere fecale, que le malade reiette par la bouche, puis gangrene & mortifi- cation : & pour la ſtricture du boyau, la chaleur naturelle eſt eſteinte & ſuffoquée , dont toſt apres la mort mal miſera-s'enſuit. telle maladie eſt nommée communement cmiſtre mei. pour obuier à tel acccident,faut venir à l'ex- ble. treme remede, pluſtoſt que laiſſer mourir le malade ſi vilainement : ce qui ſe fera par l'œuure de la main,en ceſte maniere.ie malade ſera ſitué, comme auons dit cy-deuant , ſur vne table, ou ſur vn baac ; puis luy *ierre fran-ſera faite inciſion en la partie ſuperieure du ſcrotum, ſe donnant bien garde de toucher les inteſtins.apres º en º lºure faut auoir vne cannule d'argent, groſſe comme vne plume d'oye , ronde d'vn coſté , caue de l'autre , ainſi * ººt qu'il t'eſt demonſtre par te figure. precedente. b m icelle des tumeurs en particulier. icelle ſera miſe dedans l'inciſion, & pouſſée le long de la production du peritoine,pour faire inciſion & ou- uerture ſur la cauité d'icelle cannule, de peur de toucher les inteſtins du raſoüer.l'ouuerture ſuffiſamment faicte, on reduira les inteſtins peu à peu dedans le ventre, & ſubit on fera vne couſture,en cueillant & com- prenant dudict proceſſus tant profondement qu'il en ſoit reſtreſſi : ce qui ſera cauſe qu'apres la cicatrie, la deſcente ne ſe pourra plus faire au ſcrotum. d'abondant, s'il y a ſi grande quantité de matiere fecale qui y ſoit endurcie pour ſa trop longue demeure, ou par l'infiammation, que la reduction ne ſe puiſſe faire,il faut par neceſſité inciſer la production du peritoine iuſques à l'inteſtin,& mettant la cannule precedente dedans icelle production la leuer contre mont , & faire inciſion deſſus en montant vers le ventre, & y faire ſi bonne ouuerture que l'inteſtin puiſſe eſtre reduit, puis ſera la couſture gaſtroraphie, en faiſant autant de poincts d'aiguille qu'il en ſera beſoin, & eueillant ledit proceſſus , comme auons dit, afin de rendre la voye plus eſtroitte. cela fait,la playe ſera traictée en la maniere dite cy-deuant.toutesfois , telle operation ne ſe fera autre remé de pour l'ex= tremité. au liu. des que les vertus du malade ne ſoient aſſez fortes pour l'endurer, & qu'on aye fait bon prognoſtic à ſes parens playes. & amis, parauant que d'y mettre la main. du poinct doré. ch a p. xv i. i par tous ces moyens la hargne ne peut eſtre curée, à cauſe de la trop grande dilaceration ou rupture de la production du peritoine , & que neantmoins le malade ou parens d'iceluy, deſiraſſent qu'elle fuſt entierement guarie , on y procedera par le poinct doré. pour le faire, ſera appellé vn expert chirurgien, lequel fera vne inciſionau deſſus de l'os pubis, & en icelle è mettra vne ſonde ſemblable à celle qu'auons cy-deſſus figurée, & la pouſſera tout au deſſus du proceſſus , l'enleuant en haut pour le ſeparer de contre les parois, où il adhere par le moyen de certaines fibres nerueuſes. apres tirera & ſeparera les vaiſſeaux ſpermatiques auec le muſcle ſuſpenſoire du teſticule. cela fait, il enleuera la production ſeule, cueillant & amaſſant tout ce qui eſt de luy trop dilaté, qu'il prendra auec des petites tenailles plattes percées au milieu, le tenant aſſez § & ſera paſſée au trauers vne aiguille enfilée de cinq ou ſix fils,pres & iouxte leſdits vaiſſeaux ſpermatiques,& muſ- cle ſuſpenſoire. dauantage, faudra encores repaſſer vne autre fois l'aiguille au milieu de ce qui reſte de ladicte production, comprenant auſſi les lévres de la playe alors on fera vn nœud fort ſerré, & ſera le filet couppé aſſez long,& laiſſé hors la playe,lequel ſe pourriſſant & coupât peu à peu,tombera de ſoymeſme:& ſe faut bien garder de le tirer deuant que nature n'ayt engendré chair au droit de ladite ligature:car autre- ment on auroit labouré en vain. finalement, ſera la playe mundifiée,incarnée, & menée à cicatrice, de la- † la dureté & calloſité empeſchera que les inteſtins, ny l'omentum ne puiſſent plus tomber dedans le cito[uiii . lautre maniere defaire le poinčt doré. c h a p. xv ii. à l ſe trouue quelques-vns qui font le poinct doré par autre moyen qu'auons deſcrit. ils font vne inciſion au deſſus de l'os du penil, du coſté qu'eſt la hargne,laquelle penetre iuſques au s\# procez du peritoine, lequel eſtant deſcouuert, paſſent par deſſous iceluy par deux fois vn fil s d'or aſſez delié, lequel eſtant paſſé ils ſerrent mediocrement, afin de reſſerrer ledit procez nb trop relaché,ſans toutesfois que les vaiſſeaux ſpermatiques ſoient comprimez. cela fait , ils tortillent leur fil auecque de petites pincettes, deux ou trois tours, puis le coupent aſſez pres, & cachent le bout du fil d'or le rempliant,afin qu'il ne picque la chair qui le couure : puis(laiſſans ledit fil d'or)trait- tent la playe, comme vne ſimple playe, tenant le malade au lict les feſſes hautes,& la teſte vn peu baſſe , & ce l'eſpace de quinze ou vingt iours.par telle operation pluſieurs ont receu guariſon.autres ſont recidiuez, à raiſon que ledit fil n'eſtoit bien accommodé, picquant ordinairement les parties voifines. et pour plus ample cognoiſſance de ce, que ie t'ay bien voulu faire figurer les inſtrumens, par leſquels telle operation eſt accomplie. quelque temps apres nature chaſſe hors le fil d'or, & là ſe fait vne ſonde & cicatrice calleuſe, qui bouche la production du peritoine , par où les inteſtins deſcendoient. les practiciens l'ont appellé poinct doré, à cauſe du fil d'or. r figure maniere de faire le poinci doré. oo le huictieſme liure, aduerºiſ- mèt notable. cruauté de j c %ajlreux. au liure de ſemine. sentence. figure des inſtrumens propres à faire lepointt doré. - a monſtre l'aiguille courbée , la- quelle eſt per- cée pres ſa pointe pour paſſer le fil d'or. b b le fil d'or paſſé par l'aiguille. c ia tenaille qui coupe ledit fil. d le reſſort de late- naille. e la pincette qui tourne & en- tortille ledit fil. : v•- autre maniere de faire le poinči doré c h a p. xviii. v t r e façon laquelle me ſemble la meilleure & la plus ſeure,à cauſe qu'elle ne laiſſe rien eſtrange en la playe; c'eſt qu'au lieu du fil dor, on y met vn de plomb de la groſſeur d vn fer d'aiguillette,lequel n'eſt paſſé à l'entour du procez du peritoine,qu'vne fois, & l'ayant paſſé, - * obuier à la gangrene:non auſſi trop laſche, parce qu'elle ne ſeruiroit de rien, à cauſe que la deſcente ne laiſſeroit à ſe faire. lequel fil ſera laiſſé en la playe, iuſqu'à ce qu'elle ſoit du tout reioincte & conſolidée, reſte la place duditfil. et alors ſera deſtors , puis tiré hors dextrement,puis le reſte de la playe ſera conſolidé & cicatrisé. or que diray-ie plus des hargnes;c'eſt que lors que la production du peritoine, qui eſt la voye par où la deſcente ſe fait aux bourſes,eſt grandement dilatée,apres que le chirurgié aura fait ladite ligature du fil de plomb, il faut qu'il en prenne vn peu au deſſus , vne bonne partie, & qu'il la lie,en paſsât vne aiguille enfilée d'vn filet en double au dedâs dudit proceſſus,le plus pres des vaiſſeaux,à ſçauoir des vaiſſeaux ſpermatiques,& du muſcle ſuſpenſoire , qu'il pourra : puis fera vn noeud, coupera le fil aſſez long,cóme nous auons dit cy-deſſus,& le laiſſera hors la playe & ne le retirera deuant que nature le vueille jetter hors : qui ſera,quand ce qui aura eſté lié ſera pourry. et eſtant hors on traitera le reſte de la playe,la cicatrizant,& par ainſi la cicatrice faite,la calloſité empeſchera que rien plus ne deſcendra au scrotum. or combien que telles manieres de curer les hargnes,ne foient ſans douleur & peril,ſi eſt-il beaucoup plus ſeur d'y proceder ainſi,que d'amputer les teſticules,comme font les chaſtreux,leſquels par leur cruelles & vio- lentes operations,mettent le malade en grand danger de mort.car pour garder qu'apres la curation il n'y demeure vne relation,ils tirent violemment, & de ſtachent le proceſſus des parties où il adhere, enſemble le nerf de la ſixieſme coniugaiſon qui va aux teſticules.plus arrachent,& bien ſouuent rompent les vaiſſeaux ſpermatiques. deſquelles violences s'enſuit douleur extreme,ſpaſme,hemorrhagie,inflâmation,pourriture, & conſequemment la mort. ce que i'atteſte auoir veu au corps de quelques vns que i'ay ouuerts morts,peu de iours apres eſtre ainſi miſerablement chaſtrez.et ſupposé qu'il en reſchappent,ils ſont à iamais priuez du benefice de generation,pour laquelle nature a donné les teſticules à l'homme,comme parties principales & neceſſaires pour la conſeruation de l'eſpece , comme dit galien au liure de l'art medecinal, chapitre . & comme nousauons eſcrit en noſtte anatomie. meſme iceluy galien ne doute point de les faire & nommer parties plus excellentes que le cœur : d'autant que le cœur eſt le principe & autheur de la vie ſimplement; mais les teſticules font la vie meilleure.or eſt-il que c'eſt choſe plus digne de bien viure,que de viure ſeu- lement de là vient, que les eunuques & chaſtrez degenerent en nature feminine,en ſigne dequoy ils n'ont point de barbe,leur voix change,le courage leur defaut,deuiénent timides & honteux, breffont inhabiles à pluſieurs bonnes actions humaines,& n'eſt leur vie que miſerable.la voix apres la caſtration:eſt plus greſle: d'autant que les teſticules n'eſchauffent plus, & ne fortifient les nerfs & muſcles vocaux par le conſentemét on l'eſtreint tant qu'il eſt beſoin,à ſçauoir non trop,de peur de clorre la voye aux eſprits,pour ! | | ， qu'ils » | destumeurs en particulier. o a qu'ils auoient enſembleau moyen de leurs nerfs:au contraire,la voix ſe mue & groſſiſt ſi toſt que le garçon | ſe rue au jeu d'amour.partant iamais ne ſeray d'aduis qu'on couppe les coüillons aux petits enfans,nymeſ- · · , me aux plus grands, fors, à la hargne charneuſe, ou qu'iceux fuſſent gangrenez ou pourris. iacques de iaequee de | foüilloux dit , que le cerf qui aura perdu ſes coüillons au rut, ou autrement,ne mue iamais. et ſi on le foiºillo**** chaſtre auant qu'il porte ſa rameure,il n'en portera iamais.auſſi au contraire ſi on le chaſtre ayant ſa rameu- ſº" liure de - re,iamais ne luy tombera. ne plus ny moins fera-il,s'il eſt chaſtré ayant ſa teſte ou endouillers mols & en ** ſang, fi demeurera touſiours ainſi ſans ſeicher ny brunir. telles choſes demonſtrent que les teſticules ont grande vertu, tant aux hommes qu'aux animaux. - - de la hargne zirbale. - la hargne zirbale,nommée cy-deſſus epiplocele, eſt vne relaxation du zirbus tombant en l'aine ou au ſcrotum. ses cauſes ſont ſemblables que de la hargne inteſtinale. les ſignes ont eſté dits par cy deuant. elle ne produit tant d'accidens que l'inteſtinale. au demeurant toutes deux ont curation ſemblable. - autre maniere de curation plus ſeure & plus ai ée. maiſtre theodoric,& le bon homme guidon de cauliac , ont mis en auant vne autre & t$le façon. si l'inteſtin ſou omentum ſont tombez dans le ſcrotum,il les faut remettre dans le ventre,le malade eſtant tel- lement ſitué, qu il ait les feſſes vn peu eſleuées,& la teſte aucunement baſſe.lors le chirurgien tirera vers : . - la hanche vne bonne portion de la production du peritoine relaſchée,enſemble les vaiſſeaux ſpermatiques - auec le muſcle ſuſpenſoire. puis appliquera vn cautere potentiel ſur le reſte de ladite production,droit au deſſus de l'os pubis : le cautere ſera de la groſſeur qu'il verra eſtre de beſoin , ſçauoir ſelon que la hargné ſera plus ou moins grande,& ſelon l'âge du malade.apres l'eſcarre faite, on fera des ſcarifications iuſques b à la chair viue:puis de rechef ſera mis vn autre cautere,afin de penetrer iuſques à l'os.cn fera apres tomber l'eſcarre(laquelle ſe fait d'vne partie de ladite production du peritoine ) lors la playe traitée & conduite à cicatrice par ſa calloſité,bouſchera & empeſchera que rien plus ne tombe dans le ſcrotum. . • or deuant qu'entreprendre telle operation, le chirurgien ſera aduerty de ſe donner garde des meſmes accidens deſquels nousauons parlé cy-deuant. sçauoir qu'en cas que les inteſtins & omentum fuſſent tant adherans contre la production,en ſorte qu'on ne les peuſt retirer dedans il n'applique en façon quelconque le cautere,de peur de bruſler & percer leſdits inteſtins,dont pourroient aduenir grands inconueniens. en - cas auſſi que ladite production fuſt rompue,ou par trop dilatée,de ſorte que les inteſtins fiſſent vne grande · , & enorme tumeur , le chirurgien n'entreprendra ceſte operation, non plus qu'à ceux auſquels le teſticule , . pendu & arreſté en l'aine,ne ſera encore deſcendu dans le ſcrotum , ny aux enfans qui n'ont encore diſcre- · .. ^ . tion à ſe tenir ſans ſe remuer,ou n'eſtans encores nets. - nicolas godin en ſa chirurgie militaire, ordonne pour la curation des hargnes, à ceux qui ſont en âge d'adoleſcence & virile, l'application du cautere âctuel, apres auoir dextrement couppé la chair iuſques à l'os,afin de faire perdition de ſubſtance : & la cicatrice faite,il ne ſe peut plus fairedeſcente, ny de l'omen- tum,ny de l'inteſtin. ce que veritablement i'approuue,ſi les patiens le veulent ſouffrir. | - - de la hargne aqueuſe nommée hydrocele. f , - - - - hargne aqueuſe eſt vne tumeur au ſcrotum,faite à raiſon de i'eau, laquelle s'y amaſſe peu à peu, le plus . . ſouuent continue entre les membranes,qui couurent les teſticules,& ſpecialement entre le dartos,& l'ery- throide.on la peut nommer hydropiſie particuliere:car elle ſe fait par meſmes cauſes, & meſme par dimi- , , .. nutionde la chaleur naturelle. les infignes ſont que la bourſe des teſticules s'enfie peu à peu & ſans doü- sighes de lé leur,la tumeur eſt pondereuſe,luyſante & tranſparente : ce qui ſe cognoiſtra en mettant vne chandellé allu- hargne c mée d vn coſté de la tumeur.car on voit à l'oppoſité ladite tumeur claire & lucide. dauantage en preſſant aqueuſe. le ſcrotum du haut en bas,& du bas en haut,on fait deſcendre & remonter l eau,pourueu qu'elle ne ſoit en trop grande quantité, & peu ſouuent retourneau dedans du ventre, comme font l'inteſtinale & zirbale, mais demeure prelque touſiours au ſcrotum, pource que le plus ſouuent l'eau eſt contenue en vn kyſt ou - petite veſſie. elle eſt diſcernée d'auec la charneuſe, parce qu'en celle-là eſt la tumeur liſſe & vnie : & en en qu, dif. ceſte-cy,à ſçauoir la charneuſe,eſt aſpre,inegale & rabouteuſe. la curation ſera premierement tentée par # # des remedes reſolutifs,deſiccatifs & diſcutiens,eſcrits au chap des apoſtemes:toutesfois ie t'ay voulu don- gne cha . ner ce remede que i'ay ſouuent experimenté. . vng. comitiſſ & deſic. rub.añ. ij, malaxent ſimul, & ſe & aqueu- fiat medicament advſum. car par iceux eſt l'eau ſouuent reſoulte, ou pour plus promptement parler, ta ſe, curation ie,beue & conſommee,principalement quand il y en a petite quantité. et ſi pour la trop grande quantité, de la kargne tes remedes ne ſont ſuffiſans,faut venir à l'œuure manuelle,en appliquant vn ſeton au trauers du ſcrotum, º ºººſe par & des membranes où eſt contenue l aquoſité & paſſer vne aiguille aſſez groſſe, qui ait la poincte en trian ºsie. gle enfilée de fil de ſoye en s.ou .doubſes la paſſer(dy-je)promptement au trauers des trous des tenailles # # - à ſeton,ſe gardant bien de toucher la ſubſtance des teſticules. cela fait on y laiſſera le fil, lequel ſera re- # # mué deux ou trois fois le iour,afin que l'eau ſoit euacuée peu à peu, & s'il y ſuruenoit'grande douleur & # e inflammation, à cauſe dudit ſeton , ſubit ſera ofté,& la propre cure delaiſsée pour ſubuenir aux accidens. # º # aucuns practiciens n'vſent point de ſeton,mais auec le raſoir ou lancette, font ouuerture au bas du ſcro- rilpoin, l',- | tum,grande de demy-doigt ou enuiron,& profonde iuſques à l'eau, ſoy donnant garde de toucher les te-peratio qu'on ſticules & les vaiſſeaux puis tiennent la playe ouuerte auecques des tentes,iuſques à ce que l'eau ſoit entie- y fait à pre- rement euacuée.apres l'euacuation,ils la conſolident & cicatriſent.et par ce preſque ſeul moyen , ſe peu- ſent , qui eſt | d uent guarir les hydroceles, deſquelles l'eau eſt enfermée en vn kyſt, comme nous auons enſeigné au liure ºe le cau- liu , ch . des tumeurs en general, chap. . - ºre pºte iet, - - - de la hargne venteuſe.' - | - , • #. hargne venteuſe eſt vne tumeur au ſcrotum,faite de ventoſité, dont la cauſe eſt imbecilité de la chaleur #º - - - - - ariec l - | naturelle de la partie.on la cognoiſt parce que la tumeur eſt ronde,legere,retinente,luyſante, & reſplen- °c la lan- diſſante.la cure ſe fera par bon regime , & par application des remedes reſolutifs & carminatifs , comme, #ºa ſemina aniſi,carui,fœnugræci,agni caſti,rutæ,origani, & autres deſcrits par auicenne', au traicté des har- le vrayſigne gnes,& par nous cy-deuant au chap.des apoſtemes venteux l'ay pour tel effect ſouuent appliqué l'empla-quinou ait ſºre de vigo cum mercurio,auſſi l'emplaſtre diachalciteos diſſout en vin genereux,comme maluoiſie , auec diſtinguer vn peu d'huile laurin. la rivneur - de la hargne charneuſe. · - _ ' , ºa uſe de la hargne nommée sarcocele ou charmeuſe,eſt vne tumeur contre nature,qui s'engendre autour des te- le vente - ſticules,faite d'vne chair ſcirrheuſe procréee d'abondance d'humeurs cras & viſqueux,qui n'ont peu eſtre eſt # #. digerez & aſſimilez à la partie,laquelle eſt accrue comme parmaniere d'hyperſarcoſe,ou de verrues. elle # eſt le plus ſouuent accompagnée des veines variqueuſes,&croiſt auec douleur.ses ſignes plus propres ſont #. # tumeur & dureté aſpre,inegale & rabouteuſe.la cure ne ſe peut faire que par l'amputation:& pource auart v ſºus § que ce faire,le chirurgien doit bien aduiſer & regarder que la carnoſité ne ſoit trop haute,ayant ja occupe , sup. & o le huičtieſme liure, : & attaint l'aine. car ſi ainſi eſtoit, ne faudroit entreprendre la cure, d'autant qu'il ne la pourroit couper du a # eperience de l au - theur. sarco- cele curable, comment. au liu. des playes. / cure de cjr- ſe cele par chirurgie . vey le liu. des apeſte- f ' . hiſtoire ». differenee. du maſle auec la fe- melle . relaxation du gros •- boyau. hipp. liure des fiſtule ;.o cauſer. tout ſans grand danger de mort. et où il en laiſſeroit quelque petite portion, il s'engendreroit puis apres vne chair ſuperfiue, comme vn fungus, qui ſeroit erreur pire que le premier. mais ſi la tumeur n'eſt que pe- tite ou mediocre , le chirurgien prendra la tumeurauec le teſticule & le proceſſus, & fera inciſion iuſques à la dite tumeur, & la ſeparera du ſcrotum. cela fait, il paſſera vne aiguille enfilée d'vne fiſcelle forte,au trauers du proceſſus,au deſſus du teſticule charneux : puis ſera retournée paſſer par le milieu meſme par où on l'auoit paſsée. lors le bout du fil qui nºa point paſsé, & l'autre où eſt l'aiguille, ſeront noüez enfemble, en comprenant l'autre moitié du proceſſus. le tout ainſi noüé, faudra couper & entierement amputer le- dit proceſſus auec le tefticule, & laiſſer les bouts de la fiſcelle, dont on aura fait la ligature,aſſez longs,ſor- tans hors la playe. dedans la playe on mettra vn digeſtif fait de jaune d'œuf, terebentine, & huile roſat. apres on y appliquera des repercuſſifs ſur la playe & parties voiſines, auec bandes & compreſſes,& ſera la cure paracheuée ſelon la cure cy-deuant mentionnée. de la hargne variqueuſe. la hargneappellée cirſocele ou variqueuſe,eſt vne tumeur ou apparence deveines dilatées & entortil- lées autour des teſticules & ſcrotum , leſquelles ſont pleines de ſang melancolique. les cauſes ſont celles meſmes de varices. les ſignes ſont euidens. pour la curer faut faire ouuerture au ſcrotum de la grandeur de deux doigts ou enuiron, à l'endroit de la varice. puis faut paſſer par deſſous la variqueuſe vne aiguille en- filée d'vn double fil le plus haut de la varice qu'on pourra, pour la lier en haut vers ſa racine. derechefon paſſera l'aiguille comme deſſous , en l'autre partie baſſe, laiſſant vn doigt d'eſpace plus ou moins,entre les deux ligatures. mais premier qu'eſtreindre le fil de la derniere ligature, faut ouurir la varice en l'eſpace moyen, comme ſi on vouloit ſaigner, afin d'euacuer le ſang contenu au ſcrotum, ainſi que l'auons practi- qué cy-deuant en la cure des varices. puis ſera la playe traitée comme l'art le commande, laiſſant tomber les filets d'eux-meſmes, & procurant qu'il s'y face vne citatrice & calloſité, au lieu où on aura lié la veine variqueuſe : par ce moyen le ſang ne pourra plus couler au trauers. de la hargne humorale. hargne humorale eſt apoſteme engendrée d'vn , ou pluſieurs humeurs aſſemblez au ſcrotum, ou entre les tuniques qui enueloppent les teſticules , & ſouuent en la propre ſubſtance d'iceux.leurs cauſes, ſignes & curations, ſont comme des autres apoſtemes. toutesfois pendant la curation, le malade ſe tiendra en re- pos, & portera brayers & ligatures propres pour ſouſtenir les teſticules.en cét endroit ie veux aduertir le ieune chirurgien, que quelquesfois les teſticules ne ſont encores deſcendus au ſcrotum, eſtans retenus en l'aine, y faiſans vne tumeur auec douleur : & pource il eſtime que ce ſoit vne hargne inteſtinale, qui eſt cau- ſe qu'il y applique emplaſtres aſtringents auec brayers & ligatures, pour les repouſſer au dedans. ce fai- ſant augmente la douleur, & engarde la deſcente du teſticule. ce que n'agueres i'ay veu eſtant appellé pour telle cauſe : & apres auoir cogneu que dedans le ſcrotum il n'y auoit qu'vn ſeul teſticule, le malade n'ayant iamais eſté chaſtré, feis oſter le brayer & emplaſtre qu'il portoit, & commanday au pere qu'il le laiſſaſt courir & ſaulter, afin d'ayder au tefticule à deſcendre en ſon lieu naturel : ce qui aduient petit à petit ſans nul accident. car pour parler à la verité de telle choſe, faut ſçauoir que la difference du maſle d'auec la fe- melle, n'eſt que chaleur, le propre de laquelle eſt de pouſſer dehors, comme du froid de retenir au dedans: de la vient que les teſticules aux maſles pendent dehors , aux femelles ſont reſerrez en l'enclos du bas du ventre. parquoy iladuient qu'en quelques maſles,qui ſont de plus froide nature,leſdits teſticules demeu- rent cachez iuſques à ce que le feu de ieuneſſe vienne à les pouſſer dehors. . de la relaxation du gros boyau culier. c h a p. x l x. an# v a n d le muſcle, nommé sphincter ( qui eſt autour du ſiege ) eſt relaſché, alors ne peut n$ ſouſtenir le gros boyau , ce qui ſe fait ſouuent aux petits enfans, & procede d'vne grande $ humidité de ventre , tombant audit muſcle, laquelle le ramoliſt & relaſche , ou le rend plus peſant que de couſtume, de ſorte que les muſcles leuateurs du ſiege , ne le peuuent plus n. ſouſtenir,puis ſe renuerſe & ſort hors du ſiege,ou pour vn grand fiux de ventre dyſenterique, par trop s'eſpraindre d'aller à la ſelle, ou pour des hcmorrhoides, qui ſupprimées rendent le boyau culier trop peſant, & fluentes le relaſchent : ou pour le froid, à ceux qui en hyuer vont ſans haut de chauſ- ſes,ou ſe tiennent long-temps aſſis ſur vne pierre froide : on pour vn coup, ou cheute ſouz l'os ſacrum: ou paralyſie des nerfs qui de la s'eſpandent aux muſcles leuateurs du ſiege:ou pour vne pierre peſante con- tenue'en la veſſie. pour la cure, il faut garder le malade de trop boire, & manger potages, & fruicts cruds: & pour les remedes particuliers, on vſera d'vne decoction aſtringente,comme corticis granat. gall. myrtil. centinod.burſ. paſtord. ſumac. berber. nucis cupreſ alu. rocha , ſal com. boüillis en eau de mareſchal, ou gros vin noir & auſtere.puis apres la fomentation, on reduira l' nteſtin, l'ayant premierement tout autour oinct d'huile roſat , ou de myrtils,puis on le repouſſera au dedans : & ſi l'enfant ratiocine, luy faut com- mander que l'ors qu'on le mettra, qu'il retire ſon haleine, & que le chirurgien le remette peu à peu,auec vne eſponge,ou vn linge blanc & deſlié : & eſtant reduit, on doit entierement eſſuyer toute l'onctuoſité,de peur que par icelle l'inteſtin ne retombe derechef: puis apres on doit mettre dedans le fondement , le plus profondement qu'on pourra, de la poudre qu'auons preſcrit pour la precipitation de la matrice.puis apres on luy mettra vne bande au trauers du corps,au deſſus des hanches,au milieu de laquelle ſera attachée vne autre bande, qui paſſera entre les feſſes, & à l'endroit du ſiege ſera mis vne eſponge & compreſſe, trempée en la decoction ſuſdite aſtringente, afin de garder que le boyau ne ſorte:& la perſonne eſtant d'âge, on luy commandera , lors qu'il ira à ſes affaires,de mettre le ſiege entre deux ais,ſeparez l'vn de l'autre d'vn poul- ce, plus ou moins : quoy faiſant, on gardera que l'inteſtin ne ſorte lors que le malade va à ſes affaires. au- tant en fera s'il fait ſes affaires debout : car par telle ſituation , l'inteſtin ne tombe point. et ſi l'inteſtin par ces moyens ne pouuoit eſtre reduit , hippocrate commande qu'on pende par les pieds le malade, & le ſe- coüer, & faire tant qu'il ſe remette : & eſtant reduit, le traicter comme auons dit. d'abondant veut hippo- /# •rn » crate,que l'on oigne le ſiege de l'eſcume de limacons rouges, à raiſon que leur onctuoſité & ſiccité reſoult - fort ſans nulle mordication, & partant eſt propre à tel effect. - de la tumeur&apoſteme du fondement. c ha p. xx. # a tumeur du fondement s'engendre , ou delcauſes externes, comme pour auoir eſté long-temps # à cheual , ou pour eſtre tombé à cheuauchons ſur quelque choſe dure qui auroit contus & meutry le fondement & les parties voiſines d'iceluy : ou le plus ſouuent de cauſe interne, comme pour la dou- .• leur c | destumeurs en particulier. o a douleur des hemorrhoides, & à raiſon de quelque matiere chaude & corrompuë qui eſt enuoyée en ceſte partie:& par ainſi telle tumeur eſt pluſtoſt faire par fluxion , que par congeſtion de matiere. qui eſt cauſe prognoſti°. qu'elle vient le plus ſouuent à ſuppuration : joint auſſi que la partie receuante eſt fort ſujette à pourriture: tant à raiſon de ce qu'elle eſt chaude & humide , que pour eſtre voiſine & receptacle des excremens. la curel. curation ſe doit commencer par les choſes vniuerſelles , conſeillant pluſloſt d'vſer de la ſaignée, que pur- - - gation, craignant de faire trop grande fluxion à la partie. et pour les remedes particuliers : au commen- cement il ne faut vſer de remedes trop repercuſſifs, ny trop maturatifs, craignant d'enfermer la matiere en ladite partie, ou engendrer trop grande pourriture, & ſouuent gangrene : ce que i'ay veu pluſieurs fois aduenir. et pource on pourra appliquer linges imbus & trempez in oleo roſar. myrt. cydonio cum ou. al- bum.aut, cydonio cum aceto & aqua cocta, miſcenda cum oleo roſar. in formam cataplaſ. et pour l'aug- ment,eſtat,declination,& accidens qui pourront ſuruenir,comme entr'autres, la douleur, on aura recours ' . . au chap.du phlegmon vray. sila tumeur vient à maturation, le chirurgien ſur tout aura égard de ne laiſſer obſeruatiº meurir, comme les autres apoſtemes,à ſçauoir, à parfaicte ſuppuration : mais ſuiuant le precepte d'hip- pºº cºi- pocrates,il faut venir à l'ouuerture, la tumeur eſtant encore verdelette, c'eſt à dire n'eſtant du tout ſuppu- rºzº. rée, ains ſera ouuerte lors que l'on cognoiſtra qu'il y aura quelque commencement & apparence de boiie: craignant que la matiere retenue au profond, ne vinſt à pourrir le boyau culier, ou le col de la veſſie, d'où ſuruiennent les fiſtules du fondement & perineum:car en peu de temps en icelle partie il s'engendre grande pourriture, pour les raiſons ſuſdites. du panaris, ou paronychie . c h a p. xxi. a n a r s, eſt vne tumeur qui ſe fait à l'extremité des doigts, causée d'vn humeur malin & veneneux, auec grande inflammation, laquelle ſouuent commence à l'os, ſe communi- quant au perioſte, nerfs, & tendons qui ſont en ceſte partie, qui cauſe cruels accidens, com- # me extreme douleur pulſatile, ou battement d'arteres, fiévres,& grande inquietude; de ſorte º> que les malades ne peuuent repoſer, ny ſe tenir en place, & deuiennent preſque inſenſez, per- dans patience , ainſi que ceux qui ſont vexez de carboncles. le bon vieillard guidon, & iean de vigo, diſent que tel mal meine ſouuent le malade à la mort.pour la cure, ie conſeille qu'on appelle vn docte medecin, pour faire purger & ſaigner le malade, & luy ordonner ſa maniere de viure. et pour la cure particuliere, il faut donner iſſue à la matiere virulente & veneneuſe, faiſant promptement vne inciſion en la partie interieure, le long de la premiere iointure profonde iuſques à l'os. et dit de vigo , qu'il n'y a dint de plus grand remede que d'ouurir le lieu ſelon le longdu doigt,& que ce ſoit deuant la parfaite ma- turation : elle garde (dit il)ſouuent le doigt de corruption de l'os, & des nerfs , & appaiſe la douleur. ce que i'ay fait ſouuentan commencement deuant que la virulence fuſt grandement imprimée, auec vne tres- bonne iſſue. et par l'inciſion faut laiſſer ſortir bonne quantité de ſang, & apres faire tremper le doigt en experienc，, fortvinaigre aſſez chaud, auquel on aura diſſout du theriaque : par ce moyen on euacue la matiere viru- #. par lente en luy donnant iſſue;& pour appaiſer la douleur, on doit appliquer ſur la partie,& tout autour de la l'autheºr. main, remedes ſemblables à ceux des carboncles, comme fueilles d'ozeille, juſquiame, ciguë, fueilles de mandragore cuittes ſous les cendres chaudes, & pilées auec vnguent populeum recentement fait, ou huile remedes roſat, & beurre frais, ſans ſel.auſſi tels remedes peuuent grandement ayder à la ſuppuration, d'autant ſuppuratifs qu'ils obtondent par leur froideur la chaleur eſtrange introduite à la partie,& auffi fortifient la chaleur na-par acei- turelle,qui eſt celle qui fait la ſuppuration, & chaſſe ce qui eſt contraire. et voila pourquoy les anciens ont dent. ordonné tels medicamens aux anthrax & carboncles. or s'il aduient que le malade n'euſt voulu (ou par l'imperitie du chirurgien)que ladite inciſionfuſt faite,& qu'il furuint gangrene & mortification à la partie, alors il faudra faire amputation de tout ce qui ſera alteré & pourry , par les tenailles inciſiues , & faire le reſte de la cure, comme on verra eſtre beſoin & neceſſaire. il aduient quelquefois qu'il n'eſt beſoin faire amputation que de l'extremité du doigt, parce qu'vne partie de l'os ſe ſepare, corrode & ronge, & ſe ſera conſommé en boue fetide,& fort puante,& que le reſte du doigt demeure,mais c'eſt ſoutient ſans ongle, & auec difformité, tant pour la perdition de l'os, que des tendons, & nerfs , & autres parties. qpe diray-ie plus : c'eſt qu'en ceſte diſpoſitionil ſe fait vn eſcarre pour la chaleur & tres-grande aduſtion, & ſe concrée liu. .ch. . traicié. . , yne chair ſuperfiue qui a vn grand ſentiment aigu, laquelle conuient couper auec les cizeaux, à fin que le ſang coule, qui allege fort la douleur, pource qu'il deſcharge & euacue l'humeur contenu en la partie. de la tumeur des genoiiils. c h a p. x xil o v v e n t e f o s il vient tumeurs aux genoüils, apres vne longue & faſcheuſe mala- catcemm# - - | die. auſſi les corps cacochymes & replets, apres vn long exercice, ſont ſujets à telles indiſ- de la ſen #. $))ſ poſitions, d'autant que l'humeur decoule facilement à la partie qui eſt eſchauffée & efmué. # # # $ or ſi telles tumeurs ſuiuent les longues maladies, ſont tres-dangereuſes & difficiles à curer epidemio. # - - & pour ce ne ſont à negliger. telles tumeurs ſouuent ſont accompagnées de douleurs in- ga.comment . tolerables, à cauſe de l'humeur,lequel eſtant deflué à la partie,fait diſtenſion des membranes qui les enue- ſur la ſe# # loppent & lient. car tel humeur eft ou grandement chaud, ou extrement froid : & lors la douleur eſt ſi des pregno #. grande, ou accompagnée de quelque matiere virulente, comme il aduient fouuent és gouttes & piqueu- ſtie ſent. . res, & ſpecialement des beſtes veneneuſes. or pour la curation , fi la tumeur eſt causée de ſang, ſon man- cure. . # ger & boire ſera tenu & refrigerant : & pour la reuulſion de la matiere antecedente, la phlebotomie eſt - neceſſaire, & les medicamens topiques ſeront repellens au commencement, auſquels ſeront adiouſtez des · · ， reſoluens, les diuerſifiant ſelon les quatre temps de la tumeur : & s il y a douleur , ſeront anodins , deſ- aptitcaiiea quels auons aſſez amplement parlé en phlegmon. et ſila douleur eſt opiniaſtre, & n'aye peû ceder auſdits de ſangſuës. remedes , ie n'ay trouué meilleur moyen pour l'appaiſer, que d'appliquer quinze ou ſeize ſangſuës tout à l'entour du genoüil. telles tumeurs ſont auſſi ſouuent engendrées d'vne pituite froide & glaireuſe, de vents,&aquoſitez. pour la curation, faut auoir recours aux medicamens phlegmogogues (c'eſt à dire) fai- . ſans éuacuation de l'humeur pituiteux.et quant aux topiques, ils doiuent eſtre inciſifs, attenuatifs, rare- application factifs,diſcutiens,& grandement deſſeichans.la decoction de gaiac eſt propre pour prouoquer la ſueur:& de bouteille. pendant que le malade ſera dedans le lict, on luy appliquera des bouteilles de grez remplies d'eau boüil- - lante,bié bouchée & enuelqppée d'vne ſeruiette posé aux deux coſtez du genoüil.pareillement luy en ſera - appliquée vne à la plâte des pieds,& par ce moyé on eſchauffera,& ſubtiliſera l'humeur contenuau genoüil. carapalſ » # apres ſera appliqué vn cataplaſme faict de limaçons auec leurs coquilles, broyez & pilez º† * v de lima# f» . - dlollii il$ - - .o le huičtieſme liure, adiouſtant quatre onces deterebentine , & vne once d'eau de vie , & ſera reiterée de vingt-quatre henres en vingt-quatre heures. •al trê. prenez crottes de chévre demy liure, fleurs de camomille & melilot, de chacune demy poignée, ſon de froment vne poignée, & ſoit faict cataplaſme auec gros vin noir,auec ſa lie. jautre plus deſiccatif. prenez farine de féve,d'orge, & orobe,de chacune tant qu'il en ſera beſoin , racines d'iris maſtic, noix de cyprés, galles, eſcorce de grenades ſubtilement puluerisées : de ce en ſera faict cataplaſme auec lexiue de chefne, & en ſera vsé comme deſſus. leſdits cataplaſmes tariſſent, ſeichent, & reſoluent à merueille l'humeur pituiteux & ſereux. apres auoir reſout la tumeur, il faudra encores par long-temps roborer & fortifier la partie, par ceſte decoction: prenez eau de forge, en laquelle on fera boüillir alum, ſel commun, noix de cyprés galles de chacun vne once,groſſement puluerisées, fueilles de ſauge, roſmarin, lauande,de chacun demy poignée, le tout boüilly enſemble, & paſsé au trauers d'vne ſeruiette:puis ſeront posées en ceſte decoction, des compreſſes vn peu eſpraintes,& auec vne ligature ſera lié ledit genoüil aſſez fort,ſans vertu de la toutesfois cauſer douleur. ladite ligature a vertu de reioindre les parties diſtendues par l'humeur qui aura ligature. defiué. souuentesfois cét humeur eſt dedans & autour de la iointure , qui ne ſe peut reſoudre , à cauſe que la partie eſt debile, ayant peu de chaleur : & y demeurant longuement , iette ſouuent les os hors hiſtoire. de leur propre place, comme i'ay veu aduenir à pluſieurs. i'ay fouuenance que monſieur greaulme docteur regent en la faculté de medecine à paris, auoit vne tumeur au genoüil, faite d'humeur pitui- teux & venteux,quiluy cauſoit telle douleur qu'il ne ſe pouuoit ſouſtenir, & eſtoit contrainct de garder le lict,& vſa de pluſieurs remedes qui ne luy profitoient comme il euſt bien deſiré. il m'appelle pour ſçauoir s'il le deuoit faire ouurir,l'ayât veu & palpé,& côfideré que ie n'y trouuois nulle matiere ſuppurée,le priay d'auoir encore patience : & que s'il y faiſoit faire ouuerture,qu'il s'en repentiroit, que ie le ſçauois pour l'auoirveu pluſieurs fois. neantmoins ily fit appliquervn cautere potentiel,lequel augmenta grandement la douleur , auec telle defluxion , que les os ſe mirent hors de leur place , & fut plus de deux ans ſans ſe pouuoir ſouſtenir ſur ſa jambe & maudit cent fois l'heure qu'il n'auoit creu mon conſeil. les douleurs auec le temps s'appaiſerent vn peu , & fit faire vne jambe de fer ſur laquelle il marchoit claudicant & à bien souuent le grand peine : en fin il en eſt mort de douleur & de déplaiſir. souuentefois on void comme le chirurgien chirurgien aux ouuertures des genoüils eſt grandement deceu : car il eſtime en telle partie eſtre contenuë matiere ſa- *ſ*º* nieuſe,& quelques aquofitez, & en preſſant des doigts, ſent ſelon ſon iugement, inondation, qui luy cauſe º,. de faire ouuerture : & l'apertion eſtant faite, au lieu de quelque matiere qu'il eſtimoit eſtre contenue en des genouils. § tumeur, n'en ſort que du vent, dont puis apres grands accidens aduiennent pour auoir fait ladite ouuer- ture,comme i'ay monſtré par l'hiſtoire cy-deſſus. parquoy le ieune chirurgien y prendra garde. des dragonneaux. c h a p. xx i ii. e ne puis paſſer outre que ie ne deſcriue encores certaine tumeur contre nature, nommée par • les anciens dragonneaux.la matiere des dragonneauxa eſté en diuers temps par diuers autheurs $) diuerſement traictée : de façon que iuſquesauiourd'huy n'en auons aucune choſe ferme ne aſſeu- ºp rée,a laquelle nous puiſſions nous arreſter auec fondement & tiltre de bonne raiſon. et premie- l'opinion de rement» quant à l'authorité de galien, chapitre . du liure . de locis affeciu : la generation, dit-il, des galien. poils qui ſe vuident euidemment par les vrines, eſt auſſi eſtrange, comme de ce qu'ils appellent dragon- neaux, leſquels naiſſent és jambes des hommes, en quelque endroit d'arabie, comme on dict : & ſont de nature nerueux,de couleur & groſſeur ſemblables aux vers. comme ainſi ſoit doncques que i'aye veu plu- ſieurs gens qui ſe diſent en auoir veu, n'en ayant quant à moy iamais veu aucun, ie ne puis rien coniectu- l'opinion de rer à la verité, ny de leur generation, ny de leur eſſence. voyla ce qu'en dict galien. , paulus aegi- paulus neta, liure quatrieſme, chapitre dernier eſcrit les dragonneaux s'engendrer en l'indie, & és parties hau- aegineta. tes d'aegypte, comme animaux reſſemblans à des vers és parties muſculeuſes, ſçauoir bras, cuiſſes, jam- bes : & outre iceux , aux enfans ſe trainer aux coſtez par deſſous le cuir, auec mouuement manifeſte. au reſte, ſoit que ſoient animaux viuans,ſoit que vrayement ils ne ſoient tels,mais que ſeulement ils ſemblent - tels, à la guariſon d'iceux eſt vtilevſer de fomentation chaude, afin qu'eftant le dragonneau aſſez enflé, il ſorte dehors,& puiſſe eſtre arraché auec les doigts piece apres piece. eſt auſſi vtile l'application des ca- - taplaſmes ſuppuratifs faits d'eau, miel, farine de froment, & d'orge. voila ce qu'en dit paulus aegineta. l'opinion. auicenne chap. i. liu. .fen. .traicté .ne ſçachant à quoy ſe reſoudre vacillant, encline ores en ce party, d'auicenne. ores en ceſtuy-là , parlant des dragonneaux, maintenant comme d'animaux viuans, maintenant comme d'vne ſimple matiere,& humeur arreſtée encertain lieu, ayant au reſte bien compris l'eſſence, & curation l'ºpinion. de ce mal , comme dirons cy-apres. aëce chap. dernier, dit que les dragonneaux ſont ſemblables aux daèce l. vers, & ſe treuuent aucunesfois grands, aucunefois petits , n'eſtant leur generation differente à celle des larges vers du ventre : car, dit-il , ils ſe meuuent ſous le cuir ſans faire aucun mal : auec ſucceſ- ſion de temps le lieu où eſt le dragonneau ſuppure, ou ouure le cuir, puis on tire hors la teſte d'i- celuy,que ſi l'on vient à l'arracher, il fait grande douleur , principalement ſi par tirer trop violemment il vient à rompre : car ce qui demeure fait de tres-griefves douleurs. partant de peur que l'animal ne ſe re- tire, faut lier le bras fort eſtroit,auec vn lien bien fort,& faire cela touſiours,afin que le dragonneau allât peu à peu ſoit retenu par la conftriction , & ne ſe rompe point. il faut arrouſer la partie d'eau miellée, & d'huile,où l'on aura cuit de l abſinthe, ou quelqu'autre de ceux qui ſont ordonnez pour les vers du ventre. que ſi le dragonneau ſortant de luy-meſme , ſe peut tirer aisement , il ne faut rien faire dauantage : mais s'il tourne à ſuppuration , l'on ne doit faillir à y mettre les cataplaſmes, & à l'arrouſer d'eau miellée, & huile. les cataplaſmes oſtez, nous auons accouſtumé d'appliquer vn emplaſtre de bayes de laurier. la ſuppuration paracheuée, le cuir ſoit incisé ſelon la longitude:& eſtant le dragonneau deſcou- uert, ſoit tiré hors, & la peau ſoit emplie de plumaceaux, & ſoit fait le ſurplus de la curation ſuppuratiue: de ſorte qu'ayant cét animal ſuppuré & tiré dehors, ſoit l'vlcere incarnée & menée à fin de cicatrice. voilà f'opinion de ce que nous a laiſſé aèce. rhaſis chap. .du traicté .dit : quand le lieu commence à s'eſleuer en veſſie, & rhaſis. la veine ſe haſte de ſortir,il eſt bon que le malade boiueau premier iour demie drachme d'aloé:au ſecond, vne drachme entiere : au troiſieme , deux drachmes : & que la partie ſoit auſſi epithemée d'aloé, car il l'oſtera du tout : & apres ce qui ſera ſorty, il faudra enuelopper ce qui apparoiſt eſtre dehors, à l'en- tourd'vne canne de plomb,de la peſanteur d'vne drachme, & la lier auec cela,& laiſſer pendre : car par la peſanteur d'icelle,il viendra à deſcendre,à s'allonger,& ſortir dehors:& quand il y aura vne partie dehors, ·ſoit enueloppé,& lié,à l'entour dudit plomb : & ſi ce qui eſt deſia ſorty eſt bien long, il le faut § & enue opper a | # c des tumeurs en particulier. o a enuelopper encores ce qui eſt demeuré, en ſorte que l'on ne coupe iuſqu'au bout : car ſi on le fait ainſi, c il ſe retirera dedans la chair & engendrera vne apoſteme putride & maligne : parquoy il faut ſuruenir à ceſte maladie doucement, & tirer hors la veine peu à peu, tant qu'elle ſorte toute, & qu'il n'en demeure rien au corps.mais ſi de fortune l'on a inciſé rez à rez de l'vlcere,il faut mettre le raſoir dedans le trou,fendre en long, & l'ouurir ſi bien que l'on puiſſe oſter tout ce qu'il y a de reſte : de-là , que l'on y mette du beur- re par quelques iours, iuſqu'à ce qu'il pourriſſe, & que ſa ſubſtance ſoit conſommée , puis ſoit curée auec les medicamens, qui engendrent chair.voyla comment rhaſis en vne meſme ſentence,parlant d'vne meſ- me choſe, l'a baptiſée de diuers noms, & entre armé de fer,& de plomb en la curation d'icelle , tout ainſi que s'il vouloit vaincre quelque furieux animal.soranus, medecin du temps de galien, a eu opinion tou- te contraire,ſelon que cite de luy paul eginete au lieu preallegué,d'autant qu'il conteſte & afferme le dra- gonneau n'eſtre point vn animal,ains vne condenſation & engroſſiſſement de quelque petit nerf ſuperficiel au deſſous de la peau, qui ſemble aux malades & medecins auoir mouuement : en quoy soranus s'eſt quel- que peu approché de la verité,non toutesfois ſi entierement qu'il ait comprins l'eſſence de ce mal , comme dirons cy-apres. manardus epiſt. . de ſon . liu. dit que tels dragonneaux ſont engendrez d'vn fang mau- uais, groſſier, chaud,&melancholique,ou d'vn flegme bruſlé & deuenu à complexion grandement ſeiche. gorreus tres-docte medecin,en ſon liure des definitions, nie aucun medecin de ces quartiers en pouuoir parler, pour eſtre le mal ſi infrequent qu'aucun n'en pourroit auoir eu la veuë. l'autheur du liure intitulé l'introduction,& des definitions,definit ce mal, & dit les dragonneaux eſtre vn mal fort ſemblable aux va- rices, cauſant grande douleur , & lors que peu à peu s'eſleuant vient à ſe mouuoir. parquoy le moyen de le guarir eſt(dit-il)que, comme en la ſection des varices, nous venons à eſleuer la peau de deſſus , & en fin à les trancher. ce quia eſmeu le bon pere guidon au liure des apoſtemes, chap. . de rapporter ce mal aux varices; comme engendrées de ſemblable humeur gros & melancholique:de fait, que pour la guariſon ilvſe de meſmes remedes qu'és varices. ceſte maladie a eſté baptisée par diuers autheurs de diuers noms, & tous luy ont donné le nom de vena : car par auicenne & guidon il a eſté appellé vena meden, pource, dit- l , qu'il eſt fort frequent en la ville de medine : par albucraſis, vena ciuilis : par haliabbas , vena fa- moſa : par les autres, vena cruris. vrayement telle contrarieté d'opinions repugnantes, non ſeulement entr'elles, mais auſſi à ſoy-meſme,monſtre éuidemment le peu d'aſſeurance qu'en auoient ceux qui les ont miſes en auant. et toutesfois le malheur a eſté ſi grand , qu'aucun des recents n'en a rien laiſſé par eſcrit. bien eſt vray que iacques d'alechamps, homme bien entendu en toutes les parties de la medecine,a efcrit de ceſte matiere en la chirurgie françoiſe,que ces années paſſées il nous amis en lumiere:mais par le long diſcours qu'il nous en a fait,ne nous a laiſſé autre teſmoignage de ſon induſtrie,ſinon d'vne diligente &cu- rieuſe recherche de la meilleure part de ce qu'en auoient eſcrit les anciens, ſans autrement auoirvoulu af- ſeoir ſon iugement, & arreſter vne queſtion tant controuerſe & debatue entre tous ceux deſquels les eſ- crits ſont paruenus entre nos mains. - · · · · , ' - . - ! or quant à moy,la modeſtie ne m'a peu tant commander,que ie n'aye mieux aymé me mettre en hazard d'eſtre eſtimé trop entrepreneur,que de permettre , entant qu'il me ſeroit poſſible, que telle queſtion de- meuraſt dauantage en conrrouerſe & litige : parquoy ie me delibere d'en dire preſentement mon aduis, en ſorte qu'ayant refuté l'opinion qu'en ont eu les anciens, ie viendray à confirmer par viues raiſons, tout ce que i'en ay peu cognoiſtre, tant touchantl'eſſence,que touchant la curation. car en premier lieu , que les dragonneaux ne ſoient vers ſemblables aux lumbriques, & qu'ils ne ſoient choſe animée, & que leur generation ne ſoit ſemblable à celle des larges vers du ventre, comme l'a eſtimé aëce, il eſt aisé à con- uaincre, tant de luy-meſme, que de la raiſon. car iceluy, traicté .ſerm. . chapitre o. dit le ver large, qu'il appelle tenia , eſt comme vne metamorphoſe & tranſmutation de la tunique interieure des inteſtins greſles, en vn corps vif animé & mobile. orperſonne n'a dit, ne luy meſme ne confeſſera pas que les dragonneaux s'engendrent de la tunique de la veine, en laquelle ils naiſſent, ny des fibres du corps ner- ueux , lequel ſouuent ils abbreuuent, ny moins du cuir ſous lequel ils font leur reſidence. cutre , la gene- ration des vers, & autres quelconques animaux qui viennent de pourriture, ne peut eſtre que par corru- "ption de quelque matiere , en laquelle nature de ce qui eſt le plus bening,par le moyen de la chaleur viui- fiante, efforme quelque eſpece d'animal , comme monſtre ariſtote au . des meteores. parquoy pour ceſt effect, faut que la matiere ſoit diſposée à pourriture , telle qu'il eſt requis pour former vn tel animal qu'ils imaginent eſtre le dragonneau : que les cauſes adiuuantes concurrent pour ſeruir d'ayde, & comme pre- ſter la main à la cauſe principale agiſſante : & que le lieu ſoit propre à la production de tel effect. or nulle de toutes ces cauſes ne ſe peut remarquer propre pour faire que les dragonneaux,ddnt eſt queſtion , ſoient · animaux & viuans:car la cauſe materielle dont ils ſont engendrez, eſt par le commun accord de tous ceux qui en ont parlé , vn humeur melancholique,terreſtre & groſſier , lequel tant de ces deux qualitez premie- res,ſçauoir frigidité & ſiccité, que de ſa qualité feconde, ſçauoir acidité & aigreur, eſt iugé non ſeule- ment le plus inepte de tous les humeurs à pourriture , mais dauantage y reſiſte , d'autant que la pourritu- re ſe fait de chaleur & humidité ſuperfluë. en outre , ſi la cauſe materielle de ce mal eſtoit vn humeur pourry, & par pourriture changé en quelque animal viuant, il faudroit que tel mal fuſt accompagné de puanteur, qui eſt vn accident & ſymptome inſeparable de pourriture : ce qui eſt manifeſte par la puan- teur des excremens de ceux, és corps & iuteſtins deſquels s'engendrent des vers. parquoy il faudroit par meſme moyen, que ce qui exhale par inſenſible tranfpiration des corps de ceux qui ſont infectez des dra- gonneaux, fuſt puant , comme il aduient à ceux qui font vexez de phthiriaſis , c'eſt à dire, de maladie de poux, accident toutesfois qui en ce mal n'a eſté remarqué par aucun de ceux qui ont parlé des dragon- neaux. quant à la cauſe efficiente, quelle chaleur pourroit eſtre ſi grande entre le cuir & la chair; c'eſt à dire, en la ſupe ficie de noſtre corps, que par l'actiuité en vne matiere melancholique, & du tout inepte à receuoir telle impreſſion, il s'y peut former vn animal ſi grand & enorme , que nous ont depeint ceux, qui feignent noſtre corps abonder en monſtres, & n'ont eu honte d'aſſeurer des dragons eſtre couuez, & eſclos d'iceluy ? conſidere que tel lieu, tant par le moyen des pétites arteres qui ſe ramifient par iceluy, que par le benefice d'inſenſible tranſpiration,eſt continuellement aſpiré & euentillé de la frigidité de l'air l'opinion de soranus. l'opinion de manardus. , l'opinion de gorreus. l'ºpinion d# guidon. : · · · · rº ! premiere » raiſon contre l'opinion des antixº... • seconde. raiſon. troiſieſine , raiſon. qua'rieſ ni raiſo». - - -*, qui nous enuironne. or à ces deux premieres cauſes,materielle & efficiente defaillantes, ou pour le moins cinquiſme fort manques & debiles pour produire tel effect, quelle cauſe adinuante peut donner ſecours » eſt-ce l'hu- ras/oº. midité des viandes ? vrayement les corps qui ſe nourriſſent de viandes tiedes & humides, comme de laict, formage,& fruicts meurs,ſont ſubjects aux vers,& ſemblable vermine, comme nous voyons par experien- ce ès petits enfans. et au contraire:auicenne au lieu cité,dit qu'entre les viandes qui engendrent les dra- gonneaux, ſont celles principalement qui ſont chaudes & ſeiches,& que ce mal ne vient pas tant és corps • • • - ". " humides & accouſtumez aux bains & viâdes humides,& qui vsét de vin par meſure.voie mais la natur de .#º - l'air du pais où eſt frequent ce mal,ne donne-elle point quelque cômodité a la generatio de ces animaux s endorés o le neufieſme liure, - encores moins : car à teleffect eſt propre l'air nebuleux, couuert & humide,quel nous voyons eſtre au com- a mencement du printemps,lors que les grenoüilles,crapaux,& ſemblables petits animaux s'engendrent a foi- ſon. or au contraire, m. iacques d'alechamps(meſme de l'opinion de tous ceux qui en ont eſcrit)dit chap. .de ſa chirurgie,tel mal des dragonneaux eſtre frequent aux indes, arabie, & autres telles regions chau- des & bruſlantes, où la terre de grande aridité ne produit que bien peu de verdure. que ſi encores tel lieu de noſtre corps,ſçauoir, celuy qui eſt immediatement deſſous le cuir,auoit en ſoy quelque commodité n - de produire,ou nourrir tels animaux, vrayement on auroit quelque pretexte de dire & maintenir les diagon- neaux eſtre animaux viuans:mais ſi tel lieu n'eſt apte & capable,comme les inteſtins,eſquels pour la diuerſité de leºr capacité s'engendre diuerſité de vers:ſi tel lieu n'eſt aſpiréd'vne chaleur étouffée,ny abreuué des plus groſſes immondices de tout le corps,comme ſont les inteſtins,ains ſeulement des plus ſubtiles & tenuës,qui le plus aisément ſe digerent par inſenſible tranſpiration, quelle cauſe vallable pourroient ils alleguer d'vn reſponſeà la effect ſi admirable & monſtrueux ? mais nous aurions peu aduancé par nos raiſons, ſi enſemble ne conſide- premiere cº- rions à reſpondre à certaines obiections que l'on nous pourroit faire.car en premier lieu(diront-ils)pour- fection. quoy les anciens euſſent ils exprimé ce mal du nom d'vne choſe animee, ſçauoir,des dragonneaux?pource qu'en la medecine les noms ſouuent ſont impoſez aux maladies, plus par ſimilitude,que par proprieté.pour tout exemple,nous produirons trois maladies,l'vne appellé cancer,l'autre polypus, & la troiſieſme elephas,leſ- quelles ſont dites, non qu'en nous par icelles s'engendre vn vray chancre, ou polype, ou elephantanimé & #à viuant,mais pource que l'vn de ſon eſtendue repreſente les branches d'vn chancre,l'autre de ſa ſubſtance re- preſente la corpulence & ſubſtance d'vn polype; & le troiſieſme d'autant que ceux qui ſont ladres, ſont en reſºnſ à* quelque endroit du corps d'vne crouſte ſemblable à la peau d'vn elephant.ainſi le mal dont eſt queſtion,a b - ſeconde. merité le nom de dragon,parce qu'en toute ſa configuration,couleur,longueur & rondeur,il nous repreſen- te la figure & image d'vn dragon. mais,diront-ils,pourquoy le mouuement de telle matiere eſt-ilapparent, #ºſº.ºſº * ſi elle eſtinanimée , acela nous pouuons reſpondre, que l'humeur cauſant ce mal eſt ſubtil & boüillant,qui *º" et cauſe de faire telmouuement : & qu'ilvient & decoule a la partie malade auec impetuoſité, comme fu- ctuant. or,diſent-ils,toutesfois ſi le dragon vient à ſuppurer,on le void ſortir hors de ſa caſe. nous reſpon- , , dons qu'ils ſont grandement deceus : d'autant que lors que la ſuppuration eſt faite,quelquesfois il demeure reſpºnſe à l* quelque corps nerueux, denué, faiſant de ſon corps mouuement preſque conuulſif, n ſimi'itude d'vn vray tºrrºſ" dragonneau. d'abondant pourront dire,que la douleur ne peut aduenir ſinon aux choſes qui ont ſentiment, & par conſequent vie : doncques quand l'on tire ce dragonneau,il fait extréme douleur,& principalement ſi à force de le tirer on le rompt. nous reſpondons que telle conſequence eſt mal fondée : car telle douleur n'aduient ſinon lors que le chirurgien mal aduiſé tire le nerf imbu de tel humeur enguiſe de vray dragon- opinion d e neau : dont faire ne ſe peut qu'il ne face douleur, briſant la partie qui en nous cauſe & apporte tout ſenti- l'autheur ment. pour donc en brefarreſter quelque choſe de la nature, eſſence & generation des dragonneaux, i'oſe : bien dire,ſauf meilleur iugement , n'ettre autre choſe qu'vne tumeur, & apoſteme faite par vne ebullition . de ſäg qui ſe fait en la maſſe fâguinaire,lequel par la vertu expultrice eſt enuoyé aux parties exterieures par | les veines,& principalement aux bras,cuiſſes,& iambes, faiſant vne tumeur ronde & longue, ſouuent depuis la jointure de l'eſpaule iuſques au carpe, ou depuis l'aine iuſques à l'vne des malleoles,accompagnée d'vne les dragon- tres grande douleur tenſiue, pungitiue & bruſlante, enſemble grande dureté, eſtant touſiours accompagnée neaux ne ſont de fievre. dauantage, quelquesfois ladite tumeur eſt de figure droite, autrefois anfractueuſe comme vne iamais ſans varice : à raiſon dequoy quelques-vns atteints de ceſte maladie , ſe diſent eſtre malades du dragon.voyla c fiévre. en bref ce que i'en ay peu comprendre, ſelon ceſte region. quant à la curation,elle n'eſt point diſſemblable à la fluxion phlegmoneuſe , diuerſifiant les medicamens ſelon les quatre temps, ordonnant le regime, - ſaignée & purgations, comme nous auons dit au chapitre de phlegmon. il y avffe aſſfre maladie appellée ví . cridons, qui prouient aux petits enfans,qui les vexent & tourmentent ainſi que s'ils auoient des eſpines au dos en ſe tournant ça & là, & ſont petits poils gros & aſſez eſpais,de longueur d'vne petite eſpingle ils ſe curent auec l'eau plus chaude que tiede,puis,frottés de miel incorporé auec farine de fourment:cela fait,on. les void ſortir hors du cuir, puis on les tire auecque petites pincettes. ie croy que ceſte maladie n'a eſté cogneuë aux anciens, au moins que i'aye peu encore deſcouurir. fin du huičtieſme liure des tumeurs contre nature en particulier. # g#p$# . ta b l e des chapitr es : d v l i v r e ix. d des playes recentes & ſanglantes, en general. · -, % v'est ce que playe,quelles ſont les differences & i de la douleur qui ſuruient aux playes. viij san eſpeces d'icelle,& d'où elles ſont priſes. chap.j. | duſpaſme,on conuulſion. ix de, cauſes des playes, ij l de la cure de spaſme. x du pro • ## nes & iugemens des playes. iij | cure du spaſme par conſentement & douleur. i de la # # # iv | de la paralyſie. xij des sutur on des playes en general. v | cure de la paralyſie. x ! j # ami vj | de ſyncope. x v" * de ſang qui ſuruient aux playes, vij | du delire alienation d'eſprit. xt l e nev fiesme livre, traic tan t des playes r e c e nte s e t s a n g l an t e s e n g e n e r a l. par ambrois e pare de la va l a v ma y ne, | conſeiller, & premier chirurgien du roy. ºu eſt ce que playes, quelles ſont les eſpeces & differences diale , - & d'où elles ſont priſes. chap. i. la y e eſt ſolution de continuité recente, ſanguinolente, & ſans putrefaction, comple- definition de % te ou purulente, faite principalement és parties molles. icelle eſt dite des latins, vuinus pluye. # qui eſt à dire, ouuerture dilatée d'vn corps, faite par quelque coup, cheute, ou morſure. - é# Ögelquesfois auſſi eſt appellée playe,quelquesfois vlcere recent, ou ſimplement, vlcere. ## • ) $ or ſolution decontinuité aduient en toutes les parties du corps auſſi a elle diuers noms ld# $ $ # & appellations, ſelon les grecs,comme en la chairheſcos : en l'os cat gmaiau nerf ſpaſma: # des #@( $ſ($ au ligament thlaſma : aux vaiſſeaux apoſpaſma : aux muſcles rbegma et s'il ſuruient ſolution § ſº- de continuité par l'apertion des orifices des vaiſſeaux, elle eſtapellée anaſtomoſie : ſi par tranſcolation, dia- § i. ptdsſs : ſi par eroſion, anabroſis. et pour plus facile intelligence, il m'a ſemblé bon de te rcduire ces diffe-continuité, a rences en cette preſente table. table des differences des playet. glandules, molles. chair - . - r # ) ' pe:-: -: } moüelle. t - • † » } dures, os, - - "----- • - qui ont cartilages. fde la natu- re des par- mediocres # #> nerfs ties où le - v§ vei § mal eſt, leſ- §" $ † quelles c§au rteres. .. , , . ſont, ou | * principa * ſaucuns adjouſtent la matrice , & les f les incipa- # teſticules. - i- ( trachée artere, # | miniſträtes | poulmons. ". aux princi- j oeſophague, | ſont pales. { veſſie, - ' les diffe- #. - § # .# non mini- ð, p § ilt ſtrantes aux )nez, priles ,| principales pieds, , v.comme mains, ·, - 'cquand il n'y a aucune cauſe, ſymptome, ne maladie, c'eſt à dire, de leur eſ- simple, n'ayant aucune diſpoſition compliquée. . . ſence, ou oll en laquelle y a complication d'autres diſpoſitions,ſans la remo- composée.v tion deſquelles ne peut eſtre obtenue guariſon, qui eſt vnion longue. j dela quan- grande | la§. tité. moyenne, †. - olli'tcs. - petite, | eſtroitte. | ,v-superficielles, i c dfoite, v.delafigure)oblique, - angulaire. ronde, q. o · le neuf etime lilife, diuiſion des choſes exter- © e . picqueurss. inciſionz. contmſi.ns. sentence. galien . amet chap. . gal. du lieu. • ſus allegué. hipp aph. i .l. m. . hipp afh. .lieu. . iugemët pris pour la figu- j'º, hipp. liure des vlceres. hip.conuulſ. ex vlmere let bal hipp.apho. liure . gai.liu.de arte parua. premuº ere in- tention, seconde in- tention hiºp. liu. . ºpbo. i. - - •e -- a des cauſes des playes. c h a p. i i. # e s cauſes des playes , entant qu'elles ſont recentes & encores ſanglantes , ſont eſtimées eſtre toutes celles qui peuuent aduenir extrinſequement, c'eſt à dire, par choſes externes, leſquel- les ſont animées, ou non animées. les animées, ſont comme morſures , ou picqueures de è//# beſtes, tant veneneuſes,que non veneneuſes. les non animées, ſont comme vn coup d'eſpée, &'Én n( \ de baſton, de piſtolet,de pierre, de dague, & autres choſes ſemblables : & ſelon les choſes dont elles ſont faictes, prennent diuers noms, comme celles qui ſont faictes par choſes poinctuës,aiguës,& poignantes,ſont dites picqueures:& celles qui ſont cauſées par choſes trenchantes,ſont nommées inciſions, ou playes inciſées : & celles faites de choſes lourdes, peſantes, obtuſes, ſont dites contuſions, ou playes contuſes & meurties. ()ſ - •-• les ſignes & iugcmcns des playes, c h a p. iii. #s e s ſignes des playes ſont cogneus par le ſens de la veue, en la conſideration deſquels le chirur- s éº # gien auant toutes choſes, doit cognoiſtre quelles playes ſont curables , & quelles incurables, & - # guariſſent facilement ou difficilement. car premierement vn ſage chirurgien ne promettra iamais - guariſon à celuy qui ne peut eſchapper,ou qui eſt en peril,afin qu'il ne faſſe ſoupçonner qu'il aye tué le malade,lequel ſera mort par la grâdeur de la plave:& lors qu'il y a grand danger,ſans toutesfois que le mal ſoit deſeſperé du tout, il doit aduertir les amis & parens du malade, que la playe eſt ſuſpecte & tres- difficile à guarir, afin que ſi la maladie eſt plus forte que la ſcience, & moyen que l'on y ſçauroit mettre, on n'eſtime qu'il ſoit ignare , ou qu'il les aye abuſées. mais comme telle choſe eſt l'office d'vn bon & pru- dent chirurgien : auſſi c'eſt l'acte d'vn charlatan faire grand vn mal qui eſt petit, afin qu'on eſtime de luy plus qu'il n'a executé : & eſt raiſonnable que le chirurgien en confeſſant la curation eſtre facile, oblige ſon honneur & ſa reputation, afin que plus curieuſement il recherche , & regarde tout ce qui concerne la ſan- té du patient, & que le mal, qui de ſoy-meſme eſt petit, par la negligence de celuy qui le traitte, ne ſe face plus grand. donc le chirurgien doit ſçauoir quelles playes ſont grandes pour les accidens qu'elles ame- nent, ce qu'il cognoiſtra, comme dit galien, par ces trois poincts. le premier pour l'excellence de la par- tie affligée, comme cerueau, cœur, grands vaiſſeaux,jaçoit qu'elle ſoit peu offencée. le ſecond à cauſe de la grandeur ou quantité de la maladie, comme ſont les playes ſpatieuſes,auec grande inciſion, larges & fort profondes,ſans qu'il yaye quelque partie noble offenſée. le troiſieſme pour la malignité, comme ſont celle qui aduiennent es jointures , leſquelles ſont ſouuent accompagnées de cacoethie ou malignité. du prognoſtic des playes. c h a p. iv. . se vſ e s playes ſont fort dangereuſes, quand il y a quelque grand nerf, veine ou artere bleſſez,pour la $ > conuulſion, & flux de ſang tant veinal, qu'arterial qui s'enſuit, lequel l'abbat, & épuiſe la vertu #s du malade. - emblablement ſont tres-mauuaiſes llx aiſſelles, cuiſſes,jointures,& entre les doigts: dauantage ſi le teſt ou extremité du muſcle eſt attaint : les moins dangereuſes ſont aux parties q- charneuſes. pareillement les playes faites à la veſſie, cerueau, cœur, foye, poulmons, eſtomach, inteſtins greſles,ſont mortelle,:& ſi quelque ſi os,cartilage,nerf,portion de la ioüe ou du prepuce eſt coupé,ne peut s'augmenter, reünir , ny agglutiner.auſſi les playes qui ſont contuſes , ſont plus difficiles à curer que celles | « qui n'ont qu'vne ſimple ſolution de continuité, à cauſe que deuant l'vnion faut mener la playe à ſuppura- tion & deterſion , choſes qui ne ſe peuuent faire qu'en long-temps : celles qui ſont rondes, ſont pires que tout s les autres en qualité & conditiö de figure:à raiſon que l'vnion ne ſe fait que parle moyen d'vn angles c eſt à dire, rencontre de deux lignes:ce qui n'a lieu és playes rondes,de tant que la figure ronde,n'eſt faite que d'vne ligne oblique. dauantage les playes ſont eſtimées les plus grandes & dangereuſes, deſquelles les extrcmitez ſont plus eſlongnées les vnes des autres,ce qui ſe fait és playes rôdes:au contraire celles de ligne droite, & faites ſelon les fibres, reçoiuent plus facilement guariſon. semblablement ſi vn corps ieune eſt - navré, ſera pluſtoſt guary qu'vn vieillard, pource que nature eſt plus forte & vigoureuſe au ieune : & que le ſang eſt plus gras & gluant pour faire prompte vnion & regeneration de chair , au contraire plus ſec, & terreſtre, & moins abondant és hommes aagez : auſſi les playes faites au printemps ne ſont ſi faſcheuſes, que celles qui ſont en hyuer ou eſté : car c'eſt ſigne que les parties nerueuſes ſont offenſées, & que le cer- ueau, qui en eſt la ſource, endure & ſouffre. si aux grandes playes il ſuruient tumeur, c'eſt bon ſigne,pour- , ce que nature taſche à ſecourir la partie offensée, & monſtre qu'elle n'eſt du tout abbatuë. les parties or- ganiques eitans du tout coupées, iamais ne ſe peuuent reünir , d'autant que la partie eſtant hors, & ſeparée du corps, ne peut receuoir la vie & mouuement d'iceluy, ſans leſquels elle ne peut aucunement viure. les nerfs, veines & arteres, ſe reprennent quelquesfois, enſemble les os , non toutesfois proprement, c'eſt à dire, ſelon la premiere intention, ains ſelon la ſeconde or la premiere intention eſt, quand les parties diui- d, sées ſe reüniſſent enſemble, comme elles eſtoient auparauant ſans moyen de ſubſtance d'autre genre ou eſ- pece,ains par l'ayde du nourriſſemêt,ſçauoir eſt par tranſmutation de l'aliment du tout ſemblable,& meſme que l'autre comme il aduient aux parties charneuſes.la ſeconde intention eſt,quâd les choſes diuiſées ſont vnies par le moyen de quelque autre ſubſtance que nature machine ſemblable à icelle, mais non meſme:& par tel moyen ſont reünies les parties ſpermatiques, côme ce qui vnit les os enſemble,eſt appellé callus ou poru : laquelle calloſité ſe fait d'vn humeur vn peu plus gros, que n'eſt celuy duquel l'os a eſté fait : lequel humeu ſtant là paruenu , s'eſleue & ioint enſemble les os, qui ne pourroient iamais autrement ſe reunir enſen le, pource qu'ils ſont trop durs.toutesfois ceux des petits enfans ſe reüniſſent plus facilement , & au c moins d'addition : ce qui aduient pour leur molleſſe & delicateſſe. or ie veux bien aduertir le ieune chirurgien, que ſouuent les plaves qui ſont petites & non mortelles d'elle-meſmes , menent quelquesfois le mala 'e à la mort : ce qui aduient pour le vice des choſes externes, & non pour la faute du chirurgien. ce qui eſt eſcrit par hippocrate diſant qu'il n'eſt ſeulement neceſſaire que le medecin ou chirurgien face ſont deuoir , mais auſſi y eſt requis l'ayde des choſes externes. - pé des playes en general. o de la curation des playes en general. ch a p. v. - • - ". º e chirurgien pour la curatien des playes ſe doit propoſer vne commune indication, qui eſt galliu.;. ， vnion des parties diuiſeés,laquelle eſt notoire,meſmes aux idiots. car ce qui eſt ſeparé,mon- met.chºf. . # ſtre facilement qu'il doit eſtre reioint,d'autant qu'vnion eſt contraire à diuifion:mais par quel n# moyen,& comment ladite vnion doit eſtre faite,n'eſt cogneu d'vn chacun. or cefte premiere / º) & generale indication eſt parfaite par nature,comme le principal agent, & par le chirurgien, comme miniſtre de nature:& ſi nature n'eſt forte,le chirurgien ne pourra venir à ſa fin pretédue.or quand il exerce ſon operation,ſe propoſera cinq poincts principaux.le premier eſt,oſter les choſes eſtranges,com- cin intº- me bois,fer,os car autrement la playe ne ſe pourroit iamais reprendre,ains recidiueioit. le ſecond eſt ap- tions pººr * procher les labies enſemble,d'autant que ſi elles n'eſtoient iointes, ne pourroient ſe conglutiner & reünir.º des le troiſieſme eſt conſeruer les labies reiointes. le quatrieſme eſt garder la temparature de la partie : car playes. tant qu'elle ſeroit intemperée,iamais ne ſe feroit vnion. le cinquieſme eſt la correction des accidens leſ- quels peruertiſſent ſouuentesfois l'ordre de curation. or par les choſes eſtranges nous n'entendons ſeule- . . ment ce qui ſera venu exterieurement,comme fleches,dards,balles,bourre,& autres,deſquelles nous parle- gal. methº rons cy-apres,mais auſſi toſt ce qui dependroit du corps,& demanderoit eſtre oſté,comme ſang caillé,chair dilacerée : fragmens,os, eſquilles d'os : leſquelles choſes empeſchent l'action de nature. aduertiſſement auieune chirurgien:c'eſt qu'il n'vſe point de tentes, comme aucuns font ordinairement, ſi ce n'eſt qu'il y euſt dedans la playe quelques corps eſtranges, comme eſquilles ou autres choſes. car vſant de tentes on fait douleur, & ſont eſtrangesà nature, qui cauſe fluxion & apoſteme : & le chirurgien ignorant ne penſe pas que ces tentes en ſoient cauſe,& n'oſe les oſter,eſtimant que ceſte boue qui ſort de la playe, pourroit eſtre arreſtée,laquelle eſtant arreſtée,& retenue en la playe,rongeroit & caueroit. au contraite,c'eſt la ten- te qui entretient la playe à jetter beaucoup de ſanie & boué,& lors qu'on oſte les tentes, on void que toſt apres la playe ne jette plus, & ſe conſolide. cecy eſt bien confirmé par galien au . de la meth. qui dit que tout vlcere(il prend icy vlcere pour playe)ſimple,ou auec cauité, demande qu'il n'y ait rien entre les labies,qui puiſſe empeſcher vnion : tellement que s'il aduient qu'il y ait araignée,poil,huile, & autres cho- ſes eſtranges,elles empeſchent l'agglutination. dieu ſçait l'honneur & le profit que i'ay receu pour n'auoir touſiours vsé de tentes. partant icelles doiuent eſtre oſtées le pluſtoſt qu il ſera poſſible,& principalement ſi elles compriment ou picquent quelque nerf ou tendon , dont s'enſuit grande douleur ou apoſt me à - quelque partie principale, ou ſeruant à icelle. toutesfois ne faut eſtre ſi curieux , que ſi par l'extraction sentence d'iceux s'en peut enſuiure grande douleur, ou flux de ſang , ne ſoit expedient pluſtoſt attendre que natu- dorée. re le chaſſe petit à peiit, comme luy eſtant contraire, ce qu'elle fait ſouuent auec la boue : & où l'atten- te ou delay, ſeroit dommageable, faut que le chirurgien öpere promptement , ſeurement & auec peu de douleur, s'il luy eſtoit poſſible. car és playes indiſcrettement maniées, ſuruient toutesfois flux de ſang, ſyncope, conuulſion , & autres mauuais accidens qui mettent le malade en plus grand danger que la pro- pre playe. telles choſes eſtranges ſont oſtées auec les doigts ou inſtrumens propres à cela : quelquesfois gal meii facilement, autresfois auec difficulté, ſelon que la choſe eſt faſcheuſe à trouuer & tirer : ce qui aduient ou pour la diuerſité & figure d'icelles choſes eſtranges, ou par la nature de la partie qui eſt § , dure , & profonde,à laquelle icelles ſont moins ou plus fort attachées, & pour la crainte qu'on a de faire ruption . de quelque vaiſſeau.or le moyen d'accomplir ceſte premiere intention , enſemble les portraits des inſtru- hipp iiu.dti mens à ce neceſſaires , te ſeront declarez amplement au traicté des coûps d'harquebuſes, fleches & dards. vlétrés: la feconde & troiſieſme intention s'obtiendra rar meſmes moyens,qui ſont deux, à ſçauoir, par ligatures & futures. toutesfois deuant qu'vſer des ligatures & futures auras eſgard s'il ya fiux de ſang , lequel s'il éſt trop grand,ſera arreſté,& s'il n'a aſſez flué,on le laiſſera couler,ſi ce n'eſt en la capacité des ventres,afin que la partie ſoit deſchargée,& moins vexée d'inflammation. donc on approche & couure les lévres des . playes par ſuture ou ligature,ce qui ne conuient pas à toutes playes , mais ſelon la diuerſité des parties & figures faut vſer de l'vne ou de l'autre,ou quelquesfois de tous les deux enſemble. car la ſimple & peti- te ſolution de continuité, a beſoin d'vne ſimple ligature appellée incarnatiue , principalement ſi elle eſt au bras,& iambes : celle ſolution de continuité, qui eſt au trauers des muſcles , a beſoin de ſuture & de liga- ture, afin d'approcher les labies qui ſont par trop eſloignées, parce que chacune partie ſe retire vers ſon commencement & fin. lors qu'il y a quelque portion de chair incisée, laquelle pour la grande ſolution de continuité tombe en bas, a beſoin de ſuture, comme auſſi toutes les parties auſquelles les ligatures ne peuuent eſtre bien accommodées,comme aux oreilles,nez,crane,paupiere,lévres, gorge, & ventre. tous . les anciens ont fait trois manieres de ligatures. la premiere eſt dite glutinatiue ou incarnatiue , la ſecon- troi, manie- - de expulſiue,la tierce retentrice. la glutinatiue ou incarnatiue appartient aux playes recentes fimples, & res de lita- eſt faite auec deux chefs, en commençant à l'oppoſite de la playe , conduiſant & croiſant en ramenant les ºres. lévres ſeparées l'vne contre l'autre, non trop ſerrée; de peur d'induire inflammation & douleur, ny trop #ºiere . ) laſche,craignant qu'ellene profitaſt de rien, & telle ligature ſe fait principalement és bras & iambes. la dite gluti- ſeconde nommée expulſiue, appartient aux vlceres ſanieux & fiſtuleux, pour expeller la ſanie : & ſe fait #. dite avec vne bande à vn ſeul chef, commençant à comprimer au fonds du ſinus, auquel lieu doit eſtre plus § #. e, eſtroittementſerrée la continuant moderément iuſques à l'orifice de l'vlcere,afin,comme i'ay dit, d'expel- #. ler la matiere au dehors. la troiſieſme eſt appellée retentrice, appropriée ſeulement aux parties qui ne § peuuent eſtreeſtreintes,comme au col,ventre,& generalement en toutes parties où il y aura douleur, pour- redemtrice. ce que la partie douloureuſe ne permet eſtre ſerrée. son vtilité eſt de faire ter ir les medicamens : & telle ligature ou bande fe fait quelquesfois auecvn chef,ou auec pluſieurs. toutes leſquelles bandes ſeront de lingenon trop neuf, trop gros,ne delié, ſeront grandes & larges lelon les parties où elles ſeront appli- quees,prenant indication de la quantité,figure,& ſituation des membres : ce que nous denmônſtrerons plus amplement aux traictez des fractures & diſlocations. la quatrieſme intention,qui eſt contre-garder la tem- s)uatrieſms perature de la partie, ſe fera par bonne maniere de viure, & remedes vniuerſels & topiques. quant à ſa #enticº. maniere de viure,ſera tenue,froide,& humide, iuſques à ce qu'il ſoit hors des accidens qui luy pourroient ſuruenir. donc il mangera bien peu,& principalement s'il eſt plethoric,& s'abſtiendra de manger chair a- lée, & eſpicée, & n'vſera de vin, principalement s'il eſt bilieux ou ſanguin , & en lieu d'iceluy vſera d'eau d'orge, ptiſane, bouchet. il ſe tiendra en repos : car le repos(comme dit ceiſe)eſt le meilleu me- dicament. il euitera la compagnie des femmes : auſſi fuira contention, courroux, & les paſlions de l'ame: coreel. & lors qu'il ſera hors des accidens, il vſera de viure plus copieux, & boira vn peu de vin en retournant celſ , petit à petit à ſa couſtume & maniere de viure. les remedes vniuerſels ſont la phlebotomie & purga- remede . * tion,leſquels ont vertu d'empeſcher la fluxion,dont la temperature de la partie ſeroit changee. toutesfois vºiuerjels. s c - · • l i o le neufieſme liliie, ie ne louë les fortes purgations aux playes recentes,d'autant qu'elles ſont chaudes & aperitiues, & émeu- a a uelles uent le ſang , & les humeurs, qui ſont cauſe d'enflamber la playe, & la faire apoſtumer,& autres accidens. playes la . quant à la phlcbotomie , elle n'eſt pas touſiours neceſſaire , comme aux petites playes , & aux corps qui pº# ne ſont cacochymes, ny replets, mais aux grandes, & où il y a danger de fluxion, ou que le corps eſt re- # nºfº- plet, & aux playes des jointures, tendons, nerfs, & où l'on craint douleur , reſuerie, & inquietude. les fºº_º, " " " " · purgations doiuent eſtre douces & benignes,'dautant que les fortes eſmeuuent & eſchauffent, dont ſe peut enſuiure quelque fluxion & inflammation. il pourra vfer d'vn bol de caſſe , ou d'vne infuſion de rheu- barbe, & de ce auras recours au docte & prudent medecin. les medicamens topiques ſont dits collectica, "leſquels doiuent eſtre deſiccatifs & aſtringens , afin de contenir les labies enſemble , & prohiber la - fluxion , ayant toutesfois eſgard à la nature de la partie, à la grandeur de la - maladie. · les ſimples ſont, cinquieſme thus, aloes, ſarcocolla, bolus aime, terra ſigillata, ſanguis draco. terebenthina vulgaiis, veneta, gummi intention elemmi, plantago, cauda equina, ſymphytum maius,farina volatilis molendini, & pluſieurs autres,leſquels nous dirons en noſtre antidotaire. le cinquieſme poinct , eſt la correction des accidens , leſquels ſouuen- tesfois donnent grandes faſcheries & beaucoup d'empeſchemens au chirurgien, eſtant contraint de laiſſer la propre cure, pour ſuruenir à iceux : comme flux de ſang , douleur, inflammation, fiévre conuulſion,pa- .. , ralyſie , ſyncope reſuerie, & ſemblables, deſquels dirons le plus ſuccinctement que nous pourrons. · des sutures ou couſtures. ch a p. v i. \q© o r s que les playes ſont faites au long des bras , cuiſſes & iambes, on ſe peut bien paſſer de bon docu- . º% les coudre , à cauſe que par ligatures & compreſſes ſe peuuent reioindre : mais quand elles ment pour le * ſont au trauers,demandent eſtre couſues, parce que la chair & autres parties eſtans coupées, leune chi- ſe retirent vers les parties ſaines,& y eft fait grande diſtance. a ceſte cauſe pour reioindre & b rutu» tenir les lévres de la playe,les conuient coudre. et ſi la playe eſt profonde,faut prendre beau- coup de chair profondement : car ſi on ne prend que la ſuperficie, la playe ſe rejoint ſeulement ſuperfi- ºº ſº ciellement,& au profond non,& la ſanie eſt retenue, & ſe fait apoſtemes, & vlceres caues. maintenant #ſº#. faut traicter la maniere de les faire. or il y a cinq principales ſortes de ſutures. la premiere eſt faite en #ºº laiſſant la diſtance d'vn doigt entre les poincts : & eſt propre aux playes recentes, faites aux parties char- deſcription neuſes qui ne ſe peuuent joindre auec ligatures:& quand il n'y a rien d'eſtrange en la playe,icelle ſe fait en de i'aiguille. ceſte maniere.il faut auoir vne aiguille enfilée,vnie,ayant la pointe triâgulaire,afin qu'elle entre plus facile- mét en la chair:& faut que l'extremité de ſa teſte ſoit caue,afin que le fil ſe cache:ainſi faiſant,ladite aiguil- le paſſera plus librement. pareillement faut auoir vne cannule feneſtrée,ſur laquelle ſera appuyée vne par- tie de la lévre de la playe, afin qu'elle ne tourne ne ça ne là, en paſſant ladite aiguille,& qu'on puiſſe voir par la feneſtre quand l'aiguille ſera paſsée, poûr la tirer auecques le filet,en appuyant la lévre, de peur que lors qu'on tire le fil,elle ne le ſuiue et ayant ainſi paſsé les lévres de la playe,ſoit fait vn nœud,& ſera coupé * le fil aſſez pres d'iceluy, de peur que le reſte du fil n'adhere contre les emplaſtres, qui en les oſtant pour- roient induire douleur. et faut noter, qu'il fautfaire le premier poinct au milieu de la playe, & le ſecond au moyen eſpace,en faiſant qu'il yaye entre chacun poinct diſtance d'vn doigt:& ne faut ioindre du tout les lévres l'vne contre l'autre, afin que le pus ſe puiſſe vuider , & euiter inflammation & douleur. car ſi on ioinct les lévres enſemble au temps que le pus ſe fait, ſuruient tumeur à la partie, laquelle diſtend les lévres, & eſtant diſtendues le fil les coupe. semblablement ne faut prendre la chair ſuperficiellement, ny trop profondement : car ſi on la prend ſuperficiellement, ne riendra point : ſi on la prend trop profonde- c ment, induit douleur & inflammation, & rend la cicatrice laide. vray eſt, quand les playes ſont profon- des au trauers des gros muſcles,il faut faire la couſture profonde, c'eſt à dire, prendre beaucoup de chair, afin que les poincts ne ſe rompent. or quelquesfois les playes ſe font en tel lieu,qu'il faut auoir canon & aiguille courbe : autrement te ſeroit impoſſible faire ta ſuture comme deſirerois. Ét parce ie t'ay bien vou- lu donner le pourtraict de l'vne & de l'autre, afin de prendre ce qui te ſera plus commode. cannules & aiguilles propres à ſaire les ſutures. - la ſeconde ſuture eft fiae #ºſ . c- a en maniere que les pelletiers couſent leurs peaux, & eſt pro- . pre aux playes des inteſtins, 'craignant que les matieres ne - ſortent & tombent hors par la - playe. la troiſieſme eſt faite,en troiſieſme paſſant vne, ou pluſieurs aiguil- futur . les enfilées au trauers des lévres de la playe , puis remplier & tourner le fil autour d'icelles, ainſi que font les eſcoliers, lors ri qu'ils veulent garder leur aiguil- d le dans leur bonnets : & telle ſuture eſt appropriée aux lévres fendues, ſoit par nature ou par art , comme nous monſtrerons ©uatrieſme ºwºpºs » t'en donnant le pourtraict. la quatrieſme eſt dite gaſtroraphie,qui eſt appropriée ſeulement aux ſuture. grandes playes des muſcles de l'epigaſtre, auec inciſion du peritoine, laquelle ſera declarée en ſon pro- cinquieſme. pre lieu. la cinquieſme eſt la ſuture ſeiche, qui s'accommode ſeulement aux playes de la face, laquelle ſuture. nous deſcrirons en ſon propre lieu. - du flux de ſang qui ſuruient aux playes. c h a p. v i i. le ſang eſt $ v v e n t pour quelque vaiſſeau, à ſçauoir veine ou artere, qui aura eſté coupé ou rompu, le threſor de & dilaceré , ſuruient hemorrhagie aux playes , auquel eſt bien neceſſaire donner prompt ſa vie, ſecours , attendu que le ſang eſt le threſor de la vie , ſans lequel on ne peut viure. s'il vient * de l'artere , ſe cognoiſt parce qu'il eſt ſubtil, & ſort en ſautant, à raiſon de l'eſprit vital contenu*ux artcres : s'il ſort de la veine,iil n'eſt ſi ſubtil, mais gros,noir & ne ſort en ſautelant. or il y a ' - . - pluſieurs • - xtw=- - - - - ; - - - - - 'a-ya f a- . " . - - - . - - -- des playes engeneral. i i a pluſieurs moyens d'arreſter ledit hux de ſang.le premier & le plus commun, eſt d approchcr les lévres de la playe,& appliquer(ſi elle n'eſt profonde medicamens.leſquels auront vertu de reſtraindre, glutiner, re- - · frigerer & deſſeicher. comme. a. terra ſigill. bolarm.añ. .f.thur.maſt.imyr h. aloës, an. . ij. far, vola- ſedicinº · tilis molendini .j. fiat puluis qui albiimine oui excipiatur. a utrc. é. thur. & aloès añ. parres œquales: excipiantur cum albumine oui,& pilis leporis : & d'iceux medicamcns en ſeront chargez de tentes, & plu- maceaux,qui ſeront mis tant au dedans qu'au dehors de la playe : puis par deſſus ſera mis vne compreſſe,& ligature propre,& la partie ſera tenuë en bonne & deuë ſituation , & principalement ſans douleur, s'il eſt poſſible. et là où le ſang ne pourroit eſtre eſtanché par ces remedes,alors on oſtera la compreſſe, & preſ- ſera-on du doigt ſur l'orifice du vaiſſeau,& y ſera tenu îuſques à ce qu'il ſoit fait vn thrombus,c'eſt à dire, que le ſang dedans & autour l'orifice du vaiſſeau ſoit caillé,& par ainſi eſt engardé de fortir. or ſi le ſang autre moyen · ne laiſſoit de fluer,alors faudroit deſcoudre la playe(ſi on y auoit fait ſuture)& prendre je vaiſſeau par deſ- d'eſtancber . fus auec vne aiguille vers ſa racine auec bonne portion de chair, ſelon que la partie le pourra permettre, le ſan#. & le lier.car par ce moyen i'ay arreſté de grands flux de ſang,meſme aux amputations des membres, com- me diray en ſon lieu. quelquesfois faut deſcouurir le cuir par deſſus,puis le lier,comme ſi la veine ou ar- -tere iugulaire auoient efté coupées : ſi elle fe tetire tant en ſa partie ſuperieure qu'inferieure,il faut alors, pour la lier,eſleuer le cuir à l'endroit du vaiſſeau, & le couper ſans toucheraudit vaiſſeau : puis eſtant deſ- couuert, il conuient paſſer vne aiguille enfilée par deſſous, puis la lier : ce que 'ay fait pluſieurs fois. et deuant que d'oſter le filet duquel on aura lié les veines ou arteres, faut que la chair ſoit engendrée deſſus, afin de boucher leurs orifices, de peur que le fang ne deſcoulaſt derechef : parquoy ne ſe faut trop toſt auancer de tirer ledit filét, que premierement la chair ne ſoit regenerée. et là où le vaiſſeau en quelquè b partie que ce fuſt,ne pourroit eſtre lié,faudroit venir aux medicamens eſchorotiques,faiſans crouſte,com- me poudre de vitriol calciné,poudre de mercure auec autant d'alurn calciné,ou cautere potentiel, leſquels - # , font eſcarre:laquelle ne faut faire tomber,iuſques à ce que nature l'aye fait choir d'elle meſme, & que l'o- rifice duvaiſſeau qui en eſtoit bouché,foit couuert de chair ou d'vn thrombus.cr quelquesfois pour eſtan- autre ma- cher le ſang,le chirurgien eſt contraint de couper du tout le vaiſſeau,pource qu'eftant coupé,chaque por- niere pour tion ſe retire vers ſon coſté , & ſe cache dedans la chair,eſtant recouuert des parties circoniacentes qui eſ#ancher vh ſont deſſus & lors auec peu d'ayde ledit flux eſt eſtanché.mais deuant que le couper,ſi on le peut fier,com- ſºus deſant. - me auons dit cy-deſſus,ſera encores plus ſeur. : º , , · ch a p. v i i i. a douleur ſuruenant aux playes doit eſtre diligemment appaisée, parce qu'il n'y a choſe qui pro- cauſe, ain- ſterne & abbatte plus les vertus du malade,& jaçoit que le corps ſoit de bonne habitude & tem-flammation. perature,toutesfois icelle douleur cauſe touſſours fluxion : car à toute partie affligée cſt enuoyée - ºst plus d'humeur qu'il n'eſt de beſoin, d'autant que nature taſche toufiours à la ſecourir : & pour la multitude d'humeur qui y abonde pechant en quantité ou qualité,ou tous les deux enſemble,s'excite à icelle inflammation.or pour empeſcher telle douleur & fluxion, on appliquera autour des la partie des de- medicamén, fenſifs & lenitifs,leſquels auront vertu de repercuter les humeurs qui flueroient à la parti e malade, com- defenſif . me. . olei myrtini& rofar.afi. .ij.cera alb. .j.far.hord. .ſ. bol.arme.& terra ſigañ .vj. liquefacta ce- a cum oleis,incorporentur omnia ſimul, & fiat medicamentum vt artis eſt : lequel ſera appliqué au deſſus " & autour de la partie. autre. . emplaſt diachalcit. .iiij.olei roſat & acetañ. . .liquefiant ſimul, & fiat c l c medicamentum adeum quem præſcripfimus vſum. et pour enir & adoucir la partie, vous pourrez faire embrocation d'huile roſat,& de myrtiles,adiouſtant vn blanc d'œuf : & ſi l'inflammation n'eſt grande,met- tez l'œuf tout entier. semblablement pourrez vſer d'vn oxycrat,auquel tremperez vos compreſſes & ban- ze chirur- des. ortels remedes demandent eſtre renouuellez ſcuuenticar eſtans ſecs augmentent la douleur. et ſi là tien eſ e : partie eſt ſi enflammée,& douloureuſe qu'elle ne cede pour les remedes ſuſdits,vous vſerez de medicamens ，raint de ſtupefactifs,comme oleum papaueris, mandragora , cataplaſme de hyoſquiame, & d'ozeille, yadiouſtant paſſer aux mauues ,& guimauues,deſquels auons parlé en phlegmon,& du moyen d'envſer. bref, le chirurgien aura ſº#ºſtáiſ . égard à la cauſe de la douleur,& à l'humeur qui flue a la partie,& où nature rend:car ſelon içeux les medi- camens doiuent eſtre diuerſifiez : comme ſi la douleur eſt cauſée par chaleur, ſera mitigée par froideur , & ainſi des autres:ſi elle tend à ſuppuration,ſera aydée par remedes propres à tels accidens. - ſ de la douleurquiſuruient auxplayer. , : - - - - d/é spaſme / conuulſion. ch a p. ix. -) pa s m e ou conuulſion,eſt retraction,& mouuement inuolontaire des nerfs, & par conſe- é)ue c'eſt qui quent des muſcles & parties qui autrement ſe meuuent à noſtre volonté vers leur origine, jpaſme, qui eſt le cerueau,ou la nucque, de ſorte qu'il n'eſt en la puiſſance du malade eſtendre ſelon # ſa volonté(pendant l'accés)la partie malade, ou tout le corps , ſi la conuulſion eſtoit vniuer- "^" ſelle : toutesfois l'action n'eſt pas perduë,comme en paralyſie,mais eſt changée & deprauée, d'autant que les muſcles font meſme action,comme quand la faculté animale les meut, lors qu'ils ſe por- d ºnt naturellement : icelle conuulſion ſouuentesfois occupe tout le corps, & quelquesfois vne ſeule par- - tie. or il y en a de trois ſortes & differences : la premiere eſt dite en grec tetanos, qui ſe fait lors que difference tout le corps ſe tient droit, & qu'il ne peut tourner, fieſchir, ne hauſſer. la ſeconde opiſthotones , qui ſe entre ſpatſme fait lorsque tout le corps,teſte & col ſe retient en la partie poſterieure. la troiſieſme emproſthotonos, qui éparalyſe. ſe fait lors que tout le corps, col & teſte ſe retire à la partie anterieure. il ſe fait auſſi couuulſion à quel- differèce de que partie ſeulement,comme à l'œil : à la langue, au bras, ou à la iambe , lors que le nerf qui ſert à telle ºuiſſon. partie,eſt offensé. conuulſion ſe fait ou par repletion,ou par inanition,ou par compaſſion, c'eſt à dire de quelque douleur. cauſe, de ; les cauſes de repletion ſont quantité d'humeurs,dont le corps eſt tour plein, par trop boire & manger,ou conuulſion parintermiſſion d'exercice;ou ſuppreſſion de quelque vacuation ordinaiie,comme flux de ſang,hemorrhoi- faiéie far des,& mois aux femmes,leſquels humeurs rempliſſent,& s'imbibent és nerfs:ce faiſant s'eſlargiſſent,& ſont ºººººiºº. côtraints de s'acccurcir:ce qui eſt manifeſte à voir à vne aiguillette de chevrotin lors qu' l'eſlargit,& eſtât eſlargie s'accourcit,ou aux cordes des inſtrumens muſicaux,leſquelles en temps pluuieux,ou par i'humidité - dont elles ſont imbues,ſe rompent pour la trop grande repletion.les cauſes d'inanition ſont grâds vomiſ- cauſes des - ſemens,flux de ventre,effuſion de ſang: laquelle maniere de conuulſion,ſi elle aduient à cauſe d'vne grande conuulſion - playe,eſt mortelle,pour les eſprits qui ſe ſeront euacuez icelle ſuruiétauſſiipour vne fiévreardâte,laquelle lº.º pour ſa grande chaleureſträge,auroit conſommé & deſſeiché l'humidité ſubſtâtifique des nerfs,quifait que " leſdits nerfs ſe retirent comme on void vn parchemin ſe retirer & grefiller, lors que l'on l'approche dufeu, s ob! , • , l le neufieſme liure, ou comme l'on void ks cordes de luth ſè rompre en eſté,partrop grande ſiccité & icelle conuulſion eſt in- a hipp. liu ... curable.car il eſt meimeur, comme nous enſeigne hippocrate , que la fiévre ſuruienne en conuulſion , que .aph. la conuulſion en fiévre : ce qui ſe doit entendre,ſi la conuulſion eſt causée par repletion : & ſi ladite fiévre eſt proportionnée & reſpondante en force & vertu à la cauſe qui fait telle conuulſion,d'autant que la fiévre cava, d, conſomme cet humeur gros & cras, qui eſt cauſe de tellemaladie !ºs cauſes de conuulſion par compaſ- couuulſion ſion & douleur ſont comme pointure de nerf,ſoit de corps animé ou inanimé,inanimé comme d'vne aiguil- faite »ar l,d'vne eſpine,ou lancette,ou ſemblable choſe aigue : l'animé,comme morſure & piqueure de quelque be- compaſſien. ſt veneneuſe ou non veneneuſe,comme nous auons dit:ou pour auoir enduré vn extreme froid , lequel eſt du tout contraire aux playes nerueuſes, leſquelles choſes excitent extremes douleurs : adonc les nerfs ſe retirent vers leurs origines,qui eſt le cerueau,comme vn enfant fait a ſon pere , luy demandant ayde &ſe- cours,lors qu'il ſent quelque douleur. d'abondant,ſpaſme vient pour quelque putrefaction d'vne vapeur putredineu e,qui s'eſleue au cerueau,& eſt cauſe que reſentant ceſte pourriture , ſe comprime & re'tire en ſoy & par conſequent tous les nerfs & muſcles du corps,comme l'on voit arriuer aux epileptiques,dont il appert que non ſeulement le cerueau,comme ſource compatit aux nerfs,mais auſſi les nerfs au cerueau af- fc té.les ſignes de conuulſion ſont difficiles,laborieux,douloureux, & deprauez mouuemens d'vne partie, # ou de tout le corps,contraction des lévres,comme fi le malade vouloit rire,aſtriction des mandibules,auec- ' ques vne ſueur vniuerſelle,tournement des yeux,& peruerſion de toute la face. en paralyſie la lévre tourne vers la partie malade,& cn ſpaſme vers la partie ſaine. - de la cure de ſpaſme. c h a p. x. cure de , ºséºſ)ſ# a cure de ſpaſme ſe doit diuerſifier ſelon l diuerſité de la cauſe : car celuy qui eſt faict par g$ repletion, eſt autrement curé que celuy qui eſt causé d'inanition : auſſi celuy qui eſt fait par t | |! # compaſſion ou douleur. la curation de ſpaſme faict par repletion , ſera faite par inanition, u $l/!- ordonnant le bon regime de viure , purgeant & ſaignant, & par application de remedes fort & sºnc^ reſolutifs : auſſi par grand exercice, frictions, bains ſulphurez, autres remedes ordonnez ſe- lon l'aduis du docte medecin, afin de conſommer les humeurs ſuperabondans, qui ſont en la ſubſtance des nerfs , & en toute l'habitude du corps. les medicamens topiques ſont , huiles, vnguens , linimens, deſ- quels ſeront frottez le col, & eſpine du dos , & principalement les parties retraictes.les huiles ſont,com- me oleum vulpinum, laurinum , chamarmelinum, lumbricorum, de terebenthina , de coſto, de caſtoreo, les vnguents, comm•'aragon, agrippz, de althxa, martiatum : ou d'vn tel liniment. z. olei camo- mil.& lau. añ. .i. olei. vulp. .j. vnguen. de alth. & mart. afi. . .axung. vulpis .j. aquæ vitæ . j. ſ{. cerx quantum ſuff. fiat liniment. ad vſum.autre. /.. olei lumb. de ſpica , & de caſto. afi. . iij. axungiz huma. .j. ſulphuris.viui #. É. cera quantum ſufficit,fiat liniment.autre. . vnguent. martiat. & agripp. añ. . iij. olei de terebint. .ij. olei ſaluix . É. aquæ vitæ .j. cerx .j, f.fiat linimentum. il faut auſſi que le patient face vne diete, & ſue en ſon lict : ſemblablement qu'il vſe de la decočtion de gaiac : car par tels moyens ſe conſommera vne grande quantité d'excremens,gros eſpais,& viſqueux,qui ſont cauſe de tel mal. cuv, de , le ſpaſme & conuulſion faite par inanition, ſera guarie par ſon contraire, qui eſt repletion, nourriſſant le ſpaſmhe fait malade de viandes ſucculentes, tendantes à humidité, comme de boüillons , & coulis humectans, faits de par inanitiº, chappons, pigeonneaux, veau & mouton gras,adjouſtant futilles de violiers,& maulue:brefvſera de toutes viandes engendrans bon ſuc. il vſera des conſerues,leſquelles ont vertu de conforter les vertus , & hume- cter toute l habitude du corps,comme conſerues de bugloſſe,violettes,fleurs de bourache, & de nenuphar. ce boüillon luy eſt grandement profitable /.. lact.bugloſſ.portulac.afi.m.j. quatuor. ſeminum frigidima- ior.afi. . . ſeminis berberis .j. decoquantur omnia ſimul cum pullogallinaceo, capiat ius ſingulis matuti- nis. s'il eſt alteré,luyſera ordonné vn tel iulep. /.. aquz roſar. .iiij.aqua violat. fb. fi. ſaccar.albi. . vj. fiat inlep.vtatur in ſiti. s'il eſt conſtipé,il vſera de clyſteres emolliens,& humectans , faits de boüillons de tcſtes,de pieds de mouton,auſquels auront cuit mauues,guimauues,paritoire, violettes de mars, & autres herbes ſemblables:ou vn de laict & d'huile. pour les choſes externes, vſera des linimens & bains , comme d'vn tel liniment. . olei violar.& amygdal.dulc.añ. .ij.olei lilior.& lumbric.afi. .j. axun. porc. recentis iij.ceræ noda quantum ſufffiat linim.ex quo v ngatur tota ſpina,& pars affecta. exemple dvn bain remolitent , bumtčtant s & relaſchant. l. fol. mal.biſmal.violar.pariet.an.m.vj.ſem.lini & fenug. an. fb. É. coquant. in aq. communi , adden- do olei lilior. fb.viij. fiat balneum,auquel le malade entrera eſtant tiede,& en ſortant ſera eſſuyé auec lin- ges chauds en ſon lict,& repoſera s'il eſt poſſible,ſans prouoquer la fueur. et ſi le malade pouuoit porter la †º pourroit vſer d'vn bain de laict pur,ou du tout d'huile, ou bien également proportionnez en- cii) d c. ſpaſne fait \à par repletiö. liniment. ". cure du ſpaſmepar conſentement & douleur. c h a p. x i. les pic queu- s e ſpaſme qui vient par conſentement & douleur, eſt curé par remedes contrarians à icelle: re, cr mor. l comme ſi elle procede d'vne piqueure,ou morſure d'vne beſte veneneuſe, il faut dilater l'ou- ſures des be- uerture & tenir la playe ouuerte, & inciſer la peau,afin que l'humidité & matiere veneneuſe ſtes ven°- ' ave plus libre iſſuë : ſemblablement on y appliquera des medicamens de ſubtile eſſence, leſ- meuſes doi- uent eſtre dilutées. - quels ſeront deſiccatifs & liquides,ayans vertu d'attirer ceſte venenoſité, comme theriaque, ou mithridat diſſoult en eau de vie, auecques vn peu de pouldre de mercure, leſquels ſont alexipharma- ques : ault cornets,ventouſes & ſang-ſue. de meſme és autres cauſes de douleur, il faudra vſer de medi- camens contralians à icelle cauſe : comme ſi le ſpaſme eſt fait par douleur prouenante de punction,ou d'vn nerf,ou d'vn tendon,ſeront appliquez medicamés propres,comme huile de terebenthine,d'enphorbe,meſ- lées auccque eau de vie , & autres ſemblables, propres à la picqueure des nerfs , comme nous dirons cy- apres. or quand le ſpaſme ſuruient par trop grand froid ( d'autant qu'il eſt ennemy du cerueau , de la mouelle ſpinale & nerf le malade ſera mis en lieu chaud, comme en eſtuues, ſe donnant de garde de s'ex- poter incontinent au grand feu, ou en bain, tiede : & luy ſeront appliquez les linimens chauds cy-deſſus mentionnez,le long de l'eſpine du dos,& à la partie malade. et le chirurgien doit auoir eſgard,lors que le malade commence a venir en ſpaſme,qu'il luy face tenir vn baſton entre ſes dents , afin que les mandibules & dents ne ſe ſerrent du tout:car par ce moyen quelques-vns ſe lont couppez la langue, qui n'eſt ſans grand preiudice du patient:& ſi les dents eſtoient fort ſerrées,la bouche ſera ouuerte par vn inſtrument qui ſe di- late & ouure par le benefice d'vne viz,tant & ſi peu{qu'on veut, dont,tu as icy le portraict d'vn qui eſt ou- uert,& d'vn autre fermé. ,» - figure des playesengeneral. "- figure d'vn dilatatoire pourouurir la bouche, les dents eitans ſerréeii ch a p. , xi. # ar a l s i e ou reſolution eſt vne relaxation ou mollification des nerfs auec priuation du definition de ſentiment & mouuement, non de tout le corps, mais d'vn coſté dextre ou ſeneſtre, & telle eſt paralyſie. dite proprement paralyfie : oude quelque partie ſeulement,& telle eſt dite moins proprement $# paraplegie, car ſi elle occupoit tout le corps,telle affection ne ſeroit dite paralyſie, mais apo- | | - at ， plexie icelle occupe quelquefois les partiesinferieures,à ſçauoir depuis la ceinture iuſques au bifference bes, autrefois la moitié du corps. Èlle ſuruient auſſi à la langue, oeſophague , veſſie , verge, yeux , bref à entre paraly- , toutes les parties. elle eſt differente à conuulſion : car en icelle il y a retraction du membre, & en paralyſie ſie é apo- relaxation & reſolution : auſſi le ſentiment eſt perdu, ce qui n'eſt en ſpaſme & conuulſion : toutesfois quel-plexie. ques-vns ont vne douleur poignante à la partie, & leur ſemble qu'ils bruſlent quelquesfois.les cauſes ſont difference internes ou externes : les internes ſont humeurs gros, cras, & viſqueux, qui font obſtruction de l'vn º conuut- des ventricules du cerueau, ou de la moüelle ſpinale : & par conſequent des nerfs, dont la faculté ani- ſion &rpara- male, qui fait le ſentiment & mouuement, ne peut eſtre enuoyée par iceux aux parties de noſtre corps. # *e. . fºr- les cauſes externes ſont cheute, qui cauſe quelque luxation & contorſion aux vertebres, ſolution de con- #ſe !ºtºr- tinuité, compreſſion, conſtriction:leſquels accidens empeſchent que l'eſprit animal ne puiſſe reluire & paf- § •uſes x:- ſeren la ſubſtance des nerfs. or ſelon la partie offensée, s'enſuit paralyſie ou reſolution, ce qui ſe void § | | facilement par l'anatomie. car lors que la paralyſie eſt vniuerſelle, c'eſt à dire qu'elle occupe le coſté dex- signes des tre ou ſeneſtre, nous deuons eſtre aſſeurez que le vice vient du cerueau & de la ſpinale medule : & ſile parties of- chef n'eſt offensé, & que les partiesinferieures ſouffrent paralyſie, c'eſt ſigne que l'eſpine eſt mal diſposée, fenſées. & ſi les bras demeurent paralytiques , c'eſt fige que la cinquieſme , fixieſme, ſeptieſme vertebre du col, - ſont offensées. semblablement quand les parties inferieures fouffrent reſolution, les vertebres des lumbes prognoſtic. & os sacrum ſont offensées : ce que le chirurgien doit ſoigneuſement conſiderer, afin qu'il aye recours à l'origine du mal. si la paralyſie vient à cauſe d'vne ſolution de continuité de nerfs, ou d'vne grande con- tuſion, eſt incurable : d'autant que le chemin par lequel eſtoit porté l'eſprit animal eſt coupé. les vieilles gens ne ſont iamais guaris, ou difficilement de telle maladie, à cauſe de leur debilité, eſtans diſtituez de chaleur naturelle, & parce qu'ils abondent en excremens ſuperflus. n'eſt auſſi curable la paralyſie inueterée & qui de longue main s'eſt miſe en poſſeſſion de la partie, non plus que celle qui ſuruient à l'apoplexie si la fiéure ſuruient à la paralyſie,c'eſt bon ſigne d'autant quelle conſomme & diſſipe par ſa chaleur ceſt humeur gros & viſqueux. lors que la partie affligée de paralyſie demeure atrophiée , & que la partie opposée ſe monſtre mieux refaite en tumeur, chaleur & douleur, c'eſt mauuais ſigne, d'autant que le nourriſſement n'y reluit pas : ains au contraire, ſe tranſporte tout vers la partie ſaine & oppoſite : & ſi la couleur naturelle ſe change, cela demonſtre que l'eſprit vitaln'eſt ſuffiſamment porté à icelle. de la parralyſie. cure de paralyſie . c h a p. xiii. è ] o v r la curation, il faut que les choſes vniuerſelles precedent les particulieres, qui con- ., ... du $% ſifient au regime & purgation : ce que ie laiſſe au docte & prudent medecin. la de- #: #$ coction de gaiac eſt fort neceſſaire pour leur donner à boire , d'autant qu'elle prouoque la # a{ • #sº lueur , ſubtiliſe l'humeur gros & viſqueux,& deſſeiche par meſme moyen les humiditez ſuper- ralyti † º* flues qui ſont inbibées aux parties nerueuſes : & lors qu'il ſuera, eſt tres-vtile d'appliquer au yta ! trou de la partie paralysée des bricques rouges de feu,puis eſteintes en vne decoction d'herbes reſolutiues, cuites en vin blanc, & vne portion de vinaigre : puis enueloppées en des linges , & appliquées autour d'icelle : ou on vſera de bouteilles à demy remplies d'eau chaude , ou de veſſie de bœuf, ou de pourceau, a demy remplies de la ſuſdite decoction,parce que telle chaleur actuelle robore & viuifie la chaleur naturelle, qui eſt en telle maladie grandement languide. semblablement fait mettre le malade en vne cuue figurée au chapittre des eſtuues , afin de receuoir vne telle euaporation z. fol. ſaluix, lauan.laur. maicr.abſ. .. pº thymi , ang. rutae,añ fû,ſ .flor. cam. melil.anet.anth,añ.p.ij,baccar. laur. & iunip. conqua.añ. .j. caryoph. # #. ij. aqua fontanae & vini alb. añ.fb. iiij. ponantur omnia in vaſe ſupradicto ad vſum. le malade ſe tien- #. dra dans ladite cuue, ayant eſgard aux forces : puis ayant reçeu ladite eſtuue fera mis dedans le lict bien § qt couuert, & ſuera encores derechef,puis ſera eſſuyé, & repoſera quelque temps, apres ſera froté de cet vn- * - - - - - . • * • * · ait vn p guent, lequel eſt grandement approuué de leonellus fauentinus. /.. oleilautini, & de tereb. an. #. iij. o) ei lºn ſa, nard , cuue. i m - c ilculllclillc llull q. lesnelus nard. & petrolei afi. .ij. vini maluatici iij. aqux vitæ .ij. pyrethri, piper. ſinapis, gr. iunip. gummi a . famentinuº. meſué. de vigo. t«gant. remede bien •xperimenté. autheurs. definition. cauſes signes de ſyncope prognoſtic. cwre. hederx , anacrad. ladani puri añ. . j. f. terantur & miſceantur omnia cum oleis & vino , bulliant in du- plici vaſe vſque ad vini conſumptionem : facta forti expreſſione, adde galbani, bdellij, euphorbij,myrrhae, caſtor . adipis vrſi, anatis, añ. . ij. fiat vnguentum ad formam inimenti, addendo cerœ parum, ſi opus fuerit. autre remede loiié de pluſieurs autheurs. /. myrrh. elect. aloès, ſpica nardi , ſanguin. draco- nis, thur. opop. bdellij, carpobalſ. ammonij, ſarcocol. croci, maſt. gummi arabici, ſtyrac. liquid.la- dani , caſtor. afi. , ij. moſchi . j.aquar. vita .j. terebint. venetæ ad pondus omnium. les choſes naigre : puis le tout ſera mis en vaiſſeaux propres pour les diſtiller in balneo narix : & d'icelle liqueur ſe- ront frottez tout la nucque , & partie malade. autre remede par moy ſouuent experimenté /. rad. angel. ireos florent. gent. cyper. añ. .j. calami aromatici, cinnamo. garyophyl. nuc. moſcat. macis añ. . ij. ſaluiæ maior. vux artrit lauand roiiſ ſatureix , puleg. calament mentaſt. afi. m. f. fior. camomil. melil. hyperic. anth. ſtechad. añ, p. j. le tout ſera conquaſsé & haché , puis infusé en vne pinte d'eau de vie, & autant de maluoyſie, & ſeront diſtillées in balneo maria, comme auons dit cy-deſſus. et de ceſte diſtillation on en frottera toute l'eſpine, & les parties paralytiques : dauantage on en pourra bailler au matin vne cueillerée a boire au malade auec vn peu de ſuccre, à cauſe qu'elle a vertu d'eſchauffer 'eſtomach, & conſommer les humiditez contenues en iceluy, qui ſont cauſe de telle maladie. dauantage, ne faut obmettre à faire exercer la partie malade, auſſi faire frictions longues, & aſpres auec linges chauds, afin de reuoquer la chaleur naturelle, conſommer l'humeur contenu aux parties nerueuſes. cn pourra pa- reillement vſer d'huiles de ſaulge, roſmarin, thym, lauande, cloux de girofie,noix muguettes, & generale- ment de tous aromates,leſquelles ſeront tirées, comme nous dirons cy-apres,où meſme donnerons la figu- re des vaiſſeaux, & le moyen de les diſtiller. pareillement ce liniment eſt fort propre aux paralyſies & nerfs retirez. z. olei hypericonis f . j. terebent fb. É. olei laurini . iij. olei deſpica . j. ſ. baccarum iuniperi pulueriſati fb. . pul. euphorbij . . caryophyllorum & zingiberis, & nucis moſcatx añ. .j. ſ . flor. lauandulx , ſaluix & roriſmarini añ. m. ij. aquæ vitæ . vj. piſtentur & macerentur in balneo ma- rix, poſtea colentur : in colatura adde cerx quantum ſufficiet, fiat linimentum, duquel en ſera oinct toute la nucque & partie affectée, & toute l'eſpine. semblablement la liqueur qui s'enluit eſt tres-ſinguliere par deſſus tous remedes , à la paralyſie : lequel i'ay retiré de meſué, & apres luy de guidon & tagaut, qui eſt tel qu'il s'enſuit. . myrrha , oloes, ſpicx nardi, ſanguinis draconis, olibani, opopanacis, opobalſami, bdellij , carpo balſami, ammoniaci, ſarcocollx, croci, maſtiches, gummi arabici. ſtyracis, liquida, añ. . ij. .ladani, ſucci caſtorei añ. . ij.f. muſchi odorati . É. terebenth. clariſſimx . iij. qua debent pulue- riſari, pulueriſentur, & vnà cum terebent. fiat miſtio, ac in balneo marix, in vafe vitreo lento igne ſecun- dûm artem,fiat diſtillatio qua ſeruetur ſic,ne euaneſcat inſenſibiliter.je loüerois fort, ſi en ceſte diſtillation on adiouſtoit de l'huile de terebenthine & eau de vie bien rectifiée auec vn peu d'huile de ſaulge extraicte par eſſence.meſué des maladies du cœur, guy de cauliac au chapitre de la paralyſie, tagaut au chap.de la paralyſie, andreas à cruce des playes des nerfs, fur la fin, louent tous à merueille ceſte diſtillation,comme choſe diuine à la paralyſie,prouenant de cauſe externe & interne. de la syncope & defaillance du cœur. c h a p. x iv. by y n c o p e eſt vne ſoudaine, & forte defaillance des facultez & vertus, & principalement de la vitale, & demeure le malade ſans aucun mouuement : & pour ceſte cauſe les anciens l'ont appellée petite mort : la cauſe de fyncope ſuruenant aux playes, eſt communément n ， lº pour la grande hamorrhagie ou flux de ſang, auſquels ſont contenus les eſprits , ou que le - ^ malade s'effraye par vne crainte de voir ſon ſang , ou pour quelque peur qui eſt cauſe que les eſprits ſe retirent ſubitement, & en grande abondance au cœur, qui eſt cauſe de ceſſer ſon mouue- ment, dont s'enſuit ceſſation des autres facultez. souuent auſſi aduient pour quelque vapeur putredineuſe & veneuſe, montant par les arteres iuſques au cœur , & par les nerfs au cerueau. donc nous colligeons toute ſyncope aduenir pour trois raiſons, premierement par diſſipation d'eſprits, comme en exceſſiue he- morrhagie, par oppreſſion, obſtruction ou compreſſion d'iceux, comme encrainte, & effroy , à raiſon de la conculcation des eſprits, qui à la foulle delaiſſans tout le reſte du corps , rebrouſſans leur chemin, & cours ordinaire, ſe jettent & rendent au cœur par corruption , comme és corps cacochymes,& playes em- poiſonnées.les ſignes de ſyncope ſont quand le malade palliſt, & qu'il luy vient vne petite ſueur, ceſſation du mouuement des arteres, ou toſt apres le malade tombe en terre, ſans ſentir & mouuoir aucunement,& deuient pareillement froid par tout, tellement qu'il reſſemble plus à vnhomme mort qu'à vn vif. pluſieurs qui tombent en ſyncope, s'ils ne ſont ſecourus, meurent. or le moyen de les ſecourir deuant qu'ils y tom- bent , c'eſt qu'il leur faut ietter de l'eau froide au viſage , ſi la ſyncope vient de diſſipation , les mettre à la renuerſe à terre ou ſur vn lict, & leur donner du pain trempé en vin : & où la ſyncope viendroit a raiſon de quelque vapeur veneneuſe ou putredinenſe, ſera vtile leur donner vne cueillerée d'eau de vie,en laquelle on aura diſſoult vn peu de theriaque & mithridat : ce que i'ay fait pluſieurs fois à ceux qui eſtoient peſtife- rez & affligez de gangrenes, & mortifications en quelque partie.et s'ils ne peuuent reprendre leurs eſprits, à raiſon de † & compreſſion deſdits eſprits au cœur, leur ſeront faites & baillées toutes choſes qui eſpanoüiſſent, & eſpandent les eſprits : parquoy on leur preſentera de bon vin à boire , on leur mettra au nez fleurs & pommes de ſenteurs, on les appellera pres les oreilles hautement par leur nom, & on leur tirera le poil des temples & derriere le col; on leur fera ſentir eau de vie, en laquelle auront trempécloux de girofle, muguette & gingembre, on leur en frottera les temples, & le creux des mains, &les poignets à l'endroit des arteres. ". d · des playes en general. i - -- a -»- - - - de delire & alienation d' eſprit. c h a p. xv. definiticº. uent aux fiévres, causées de playes & inflammation, & perturbation des ſens & enten- les cauſet. dement. iceluy donc ſuruient ſouuentesfois aux playes, par vne vehemente douleur & fiévre, $ lors que les parties nerueuſes , comme les iointures , orifices de l'eſtomach , & princi- * palement diaphragme, lequel les anciens ont appellé pbremes, ſont offenſez, pource qu'eſtant bleſsé, induit phreneſie , c'eſt à dire alienation & perturbation de la faculté animale, pour la communica- tion qu'a iceluy, par le benefice des nerfs de la ſixieſme coniugaiſon, diſtribuez auſſi à l'orifice de l'eſto- mach. delire doncques aduient pour trop grande perte de ſang, le cerueau en eſtant affoibly pour la defaillance des eſprits, d'où vient que les mouuemens de l'ame ſont deprauez, ce qui eſt manifeſte à ceux auſquels on ampute quelque membre, dont s'enſuit grand fiux de ſang. pareillement, delire luruient pour vne picqueure d'vne beſte veneneuſe, ou par la ſemence & menſtrues retenus en la matrice, ou d'vne pour- riture d'vn membregangrené & ſphacelé, à cauſe des vapeurs putredineuſes qui s'eſleuent au cerueau,com- me nous auons dit cy-deſſus au chapitre du ſpaſme.auſſi il aduient par vne ſubite & grande apprehenſion: ce qui eſt manifeſte à ceux qui ont euité le peril de mort,ou pour n'auoir ioüy de ce que l'on d firoit:toutes leſquelles choſes rendent la faculté animale perturbée : & d'en eſcrire toutes les cauſes ſeroit trop pro- lixe.parquoy il ſuffira d'entendre en general que toutes choſes de quelque façon que ſe ſoit , par intem- perature, principalement chaude, par affluence d'humeur, principalement choleric, par diſſipation , op- b preſſion,ou corruption d'eſprits affoibliſſent l'entendement, peuuent cauſer vn delire. or pour la curation, lors qu'il eſt cause par l'inflammation du cerueau & meninges, s'il eſt beſoin qu'il ſoit purgé & ſaigné, on appellera le docte medecin. et pour les remedes topiques, on luy couppera le poil , auec ciſeaux & non auec le raſoir,de peur de donner vne cuiſeur au cuir qui auroit eſté rasé,le plus pres qu'il ſera poſſible, puis on luy appliquera vn oxyrodinum, & par deſſus vn emplaſtre, de diachaliteos diſſout en huile roſat & vi- naigre.auſſi on luy prouoquera le dormir auec orges mondez, auſquels auront trempé nouets de ſemence lors qu'on de pauot : & vſera de potages, dedans leſquels auront cuit ſemences froides , laictués , pourpier , ozeilles, applique vi- & autres. dauantage il ſentira choſes froides, comme vinaigre roſat, eau roſe, auec ſemences de pauot con- naigre ſur la quaſsées : il aura pres de luy compagnie qui luy ſera agreable, afin de le diuertir tant que faire ſe pourra,de ºſte , ne la beaucoup d'opinions qui luy viennent en fantaiſie. si c'eſt de vice d'eſprits, on y remediera à la façon ex-fº # - - - - lt /° º / j z- pliquée au chapitre de syncope. uroit vne ex. - treme cuiſon gal.comm. en l'aph. . du liure . fin du neufeſme liure, desplayes en general • -- - t a b l e i # c t a b l e d e s # # # # # # # chapitr e s d v l iv r e x. des playes en particulier. es eſpeces & differences des fractures du crane . c h a p. j - des cauſes & ſignes ij # des ſignes ſenſuels. iij de ſciſſure qui eſt la pre- miere eſpece de fracture . iv de la contuſion , qui eſt la ſeconde eſpece de » fraéture. v des embarrures , ou enfonçeures , qui eſt la troiſieſme eſpece de fracture . vj de la quatrieſme eſpece de fracture,qui eſt in- ciſion. vij de la cinquieſme eſpece de fračture, qui ſefait du costé oppoſite du coup. viij de la commotion, ou eſbranlement, & concuſ- ſion du cerueau. ix du prognoſtic. x pourquoy leſpaſme vient à l'oppoſite du coup. xj sommaire des ſignes mortels cy-deſſus z '/ - tionnez. xij les ſignes, & preſages de bonne guariſon. x dtt #- vniuerſel qu'ilfaut ordonner aux playes , & fractures du crane, & aux acci- dens d'icelle . xiv de la cure particuliere, & premierement des playes du cuir muſculeux. · xv cure des accidens qui aduiennent au crane . xvj des accidens qui aduiennent à la dure-me- /€ ). xvij pourquoy c'eſt que la dure-mere noircit. xviij pourquoy on trepane aux fractures du - cr /?e. xix deſcription des trepanes. xx des lieux eſquels on doit appliquer la tre- | pane . xxj de l'alteration de l'os de la teſte_ . xxij de la cure de la concuſſion, ou commotion & esbranlement du cerueau. xxiij des playes de laface . xxiv des playes des yeux. xxv des playes des jouès. xxvj des playes du me{. xxvij des playes de la langue . xxviij des playes des oreilles. xxix des playes du col, & de lagorge . xxx hiſtoires memorables. xxxi des playes du thorax, & de la poictrine . xxxij - cure des playes du thorax,& de la poictrine . xxxiij # de la fiévre heétique, cauſe, ſignes, & cure . xxx v. - des playes du ventre inferieur, dit fpigaſtre. xxxv cure des playes du ventre inferieur. xxxvj des playes des aines , verge & teſticules. xxxvij des playes des cuiſſes , & des jambes xxxviij. , des playes des nerfs. ^ xxx ix cure des playes des nerfs. xl hičtoire du roy charles i x. xlj | des playes des joinčtures. xlij de la ſituation des parties bleſſées. xliij des playes des ligamens. xliv l e ix i e s m e l i v r e, t r a ic ta n t des p l a y es r e ce n t e s e t s a n g l a n t e s e n p a r t i c v l i e r. par amb rois e pare de la val av mayne, conſeiller, & premier chirurgien du roy. d - - - –- - - - t)es eſpeces c differences des fractures du crane. ch a p i t r e p r e m i e r. } p r e s auoir en breftraicté des playes en general, à ſçauoir de leurs differences , ſignes, cauſes, prognoſtic & curation. # enſemble des accidens qui y peuuent ſuruenir ; reſte mainte- #s nant à traitter, de celles qui ſont faictes en chaſque partie, #'d'autant qu'elles diuerſifient grandement la curation : & com- mencerons à celles de la teſte, continuans par meſme methode $& à toutes les autres parties. donc pour entrer en matiere , il $ faut ſçauoir que la teſte eſt aucunesfois bleſsée auec petite §y contuſion ſans playe, & quelquesfois auec inciſion du cuir qui couure le crane ſeulement. et auſſi ſouuent on trouue com- - plication des deux ; à ſçauoir playe, & contuſion. dauan- é# tage , l'os eſt aucunesfois fracturé ſuperficiellement , & quel- # # quesfois iuſques au diploé, & ſouuent en toutes les deux aures du tables, auec les membranes, comprenant auſſi la ſuſtance du crane. cerueau. auſſi ſouuentefois aduient vne commotion , ou ºf*** ºbranlement au cerueau : auec ruption d'aucuns vaiſſeaux du dedans, & autres accidens. ce qui ſera #.#º #claré cy-apres par ordre, auec la curation de chacune diſpoſition, où principalement ie ſuiuray le #cce, i, ºui hip. lequel en ſon liure des playes de teſte, a fait cinq eſpeces, & differences de fracture au fraiiures. ta r e. la premiere eſt appellée fente ou sciſſure. la ſeconde, contuſion. la troiſieſine, embarreu- º ºf* º c> la enfonceure. la quatrieſme, inciſion ou marque. la cinquieſme, dite contre-fente, qui ſe fait ferences. $uar c l'os eſt fracturé,fendu, ou eſclatté, autre part qu'à l'endroit où a eſté donné le coup.et de ces ºhq eſpeces ſont encores pluſieurs differences : car aucunes ſont grandes, petites, & tres-petites : au- ºunes ongues, larges, courtes : aucunes ſuperficielles : les autres iuſques au diploé, & quelquesfois \=iz rtoutes les deux tables. les vnes ſont de figure droicte, oblique & ronde : les autres ſimples : les vnxes composées entre elles,comme contuſion : auec fiſſure & ſemblables : les vnes ſont compliquées auecdc>uleur, chaleur, tumeur, flux de ſang, & autres accidens : quelques-vnes ſont auecvne ou plu- | ſieurs eſquilles d'os ſeparez, autres non : toutes leſquelles differences font diuerſifier la cure. ox t table - : pour ſ> i=ger ta mempire, ie t'aybien voulu bailler ces deuxtables pour plus facille intelligence- | -- l le dixieſme liure, table des fractures du crane » p- à la veuë, au tact, à - la ſonde. rdu dextre au ſeneſtre, eu au con- traire, comme d'vn coſt édu co- apparente, gardent leur | º apparéte, r en meſ-& ronal à l'autre coſté d'iceluy. § , & de- côme lors qu'el- | me os. | § ile eſt à l'oppoſi- | de haut en bas,comme de la pre- † § te du coup,c'eſt à umiere table à la ſeconde. # § § | dire guºd la pº- | - - - rcontuſion * | pece de fra | tie frappée de-< ſ du dextre aun ſ qui n ot c'eſt à dire, § cil §- meurant entiere, j ſeneſtre , ou allclli c caſſº » ºu |§i§ l'oppoſite eſt fra- au contraire, | ſutures. froiſſure de § cturée, ce qui ſe | en diuers | comme de - - choſe con- fel - fait os• t† parietal # qu | qui les tondéte,qui #s » qu à l'autre. aduient< ont trop ſera tombée l * moyenne,dicte capillaire, ſdu deuât au | ººººº ſcrrécs» ſur le crane, * laquelle n'apparoiſt plus lar- derriere, ou | - ou pour ge qu'vn poil, & pourtant ne jaº contrai- | qui les eſtre tombé ſe deſcouure quelquesfois | re , comme ont mal ledit crane qu'apres l'application de l du front à diſpo- † †ſur l l'huile, & ancre. l'occiput. j u sccs- cho c odtll- fracture, ou ! ſe » faiſant rentierement, de ſorte embarrure , ou briſure crapparens- ſolution de l que les par- qu'ils tombent ſur la{ en pluſieurs eſquilles,) cººhºº continuité | ties de l'os membrane , dont ſe l ou fragmens, dont au->ſouz l'os cn- és os † fracturé fait | cuns ſont ticr. crane » le fait par - perdent l enf ceure,n ilyavn autre ſorte d'éfö- u # cnt eur ! quâdla pie | ceure qui n'eſtvraye eſpece placc. - ce eſt du | de fracture, laquelle ſe fait tout ſepa-l és os mollets des enfans, rée,tombât ſ ſâs fracture,ny diuiſió,ain- ſur la mem-| ſi que la boſſelure en vaiſ- brane, ſans | ſeaux d'eſtain, on de cui- eſquilles. j ure,ſäs qu'ils ſoientrópus- u. j en partie,comme quand ,-vouſture, quandl'ºs eſt eſleué, & res l'os rompu eſt en partiev hauſsé,laiſſant ſouz ſon reply quel- ſeparé, & tient auſſi par que eſpaces. quelque endroit au ſain,(eſclature,ou briſure en eſclats,non du ldont ſe fait tout ſeparez. inciſion c'eſtà ſ'exciſion , ou entailleure ºn laquelle l'os eſt aucunement eſleué, & renuersé, §, fraaure | tena ººantºoººººººº l'os ſain. . / _ - - faite par cho-} pº perdition, ou enleueure, en laquelle la piece eſt emportée, dont ya perdi- ſe tranchante, tion de ſubſtance. - - qui contient | marque ou ſiege,qui eſt toute inciſion du crane , retenant la figure du baſton, l ſous ſoy ( lequel eſtant tond, quarré, ou triangulaire , rend l'inciſion ſemblable. r simple, comme quand elles ſe trouuent à part. nature | ſentre elles, [ inciſion auec contuſion. + ſ# fentes auec embarrures, & ainſi des autres. composee tumellt. j auec autres diſpoſitions, | douleur. - ,- l§ lllcc chaleur. - flux de ſang. les differen- conuulſion, & autres. § § grandes. parce rlongues. ces eſpeces quantité : dºº - moyennes. -qu'elles # de fra§, | elles ſont dites - ſont | protondes. ſont prinſes petitgs. mediocres. de la | courtes. - | eſtroictes. lsuperficielles. n droictes. n obliques. • figure, dont elles ſont nommées { tranſuerſes. rondes. triangulaires,&c. anterieure, poſterieures dextre, ſeneſtres haute, & baſſe. situation. # - coronal. partie, comme ) occipital. ufracture en º ? parietal. petreux,&c. e# des playes en particulier. i a \- - des cauſes & ſignes. c h a p. i i. )ſ# e s cauſes d'icelles fractures ſont externes, comme cheutes & coups de baſton, de maſſe,de $ lance & halebarde, de pierres,'de harquebuſe, d'eſpée, morſure de beſtes , & autres ſem- blables.il y a doubles ſignes, par leſquels on cognoiſt les os du crane eſtre fracturez , car les vns ſont rationaux, c'eſt à dire, ſe comprennent, & donnent à entendre par raiſon la fracture du crane : les autres ſont ſenſuels, c'eſt à dire, monſtrent au doigt & à l'œil telle choſe.les rationaux concluent tel effect par les accidens, comme ſi le patient eſt tombé du coup en terre, ou de haut en bas ſur vne choſe dure, s'il a demeuré quelque temps ſans parler, ouyr, ne voir : & auſſi par le recit du patient, qui dit ſentirgrande douleur, & porte ſouuent la main à l'endroit du mal. auſſi faut auoir contemplation du baſton, comme s'il eſtoit peſant & obtus, picquant, tranchant, ou autrement :& à la force de celuy qui a frappé,& s'il eſtoit en grande colere l'ors qu'il donna le coup : ſi le coup eſt tombé perpendiculairement & de droit fil.auſſi ſi le patient auoit la teſte nuë, ou bien couuerte, s'il eſt tombé en ſyncope apres le coup ,& s'il y a perdu ſa raciocination apres eſtre retourné dudit ſyncope ſubit apres le coup, & qu'il euſt éblouiſſement des yeux ou vertigine, c'eſt à dire, qu'il luy ſemblaſt que tout tournaſt deſſus deſſous : & s'il a ietté ſang par le hez, bouche, oreilles, où yeux, & s'il a vomy. car hipp. dit,que quand le cerueau eſt vulneré, il eſt neceſſaire que la fiévre & le vomiſſement bilieux ſuruiennent. autant en dit galien au commentaire, & au . de locis affectis, cap. . où il dit, que cela vient quand les fractures paruiennent aux membranes du cerueau. sembiablement ſil'os eſtant dénué on frappe deſſus auec vne ſpa- tule ou ſonde de fer, & qu'il ſonne caſsé, comme ſi on frappoit ſur vn pot de terre rompu, c'eſt ſigne b quº l'os eſt fracturé : ce que paul aegin.a bien ſceu dire. or tous ces ſines ſont grandement coniecturatifs, voire certains que le crane ſoit fracturé, & le cerueau offencé : d'autant qu'il n'aduient point ſans appor- ter conſequence de tel accident, comme dit celſus liu. . chap. . mais auſſi tels accidens peuuent aduenir ſans quil y ait fracture, eſtant ſeulement commeu, ébranlé , & eſtonné. pareillement on a veu au- cunsauoir l'os de la teſte caſsé, à qui tels accidens n'eſtoient ſuruenus, faiſans leurs affaires accouſtu- mées, comme s'ils n'euſſent point eſté bleſſez, durant huict iours, plus ou moins, qui depuis ont eſté ab- batus de pluſieurs accidens iuſques à mourir. parquoy les playes & fractures de la teſte ne ſe doiuent ne- gliger.ie veux icy reciter l'aduertiſſement que donne guidon,qui dit,qu'alors que la fracture eſt incertaine, ſi on veut cognoiſtre à la verité où l'os eſt rompu,il faut mettre entre les dents du patient vne cordelette; & frapper deſſus : car au meſme inſtant, le patient portera la main au lieu de la fracture pour la monſtrer au chirurgien. ce que toutesfois ie n'ay ſçeu trouuer par experience, iaçoit que i'aye pensé pluſieurs pa- tiens qui auoient l'os fracturé, comme ie voyois à l'œil. et ſuiuant le precepte de guidon , ie leur ay fait ſerrerauec les dents vne cordelette , ou bien vn mouchoir : neantmoins ſans laiſſer à tenir ferme, ils ne faiſoient point ſemblant de ſe plaindre, ny de m'enfeigner le lieu où l'os eſtoit rompu : à cauſe de quoy ie ne puis bonnement aſſeurer que ceſte raiſon de guidon ſoit certaine, veu que ie n'en ay rien trouué par experience. non plus que celuy d'hip. qui aux coaques, veut lors qu'on eſt en doute de la fracture du crane, que l'on donne au malade vn tronc ou coſte d'aſphodele ou de ferule à maſcher, l'aduertiſſant de ſe prendre garde, ſi en preſſant cela entre ſes dents & ſous la maſchoire , il ne ſent point quelque os cra- queter : car ſiles os de la teſte ſont rompus, ils ne faudront point lors à faire bruit & craquetis, dit hippo- crate. maintenant nous faut parler des ſignes ſenſueis. d des ſignesſenſuels. ch a p. i i i. # e s ſignes ſenſuels ſont ceux qui ſe voyent à l'œil , principalement quand l'os eſt deſcouuert, #& au doigt par le bout de l'eſpatule, ou du doigt meſme : auſſi quand les cheueux ſont cou- ( pez, & demeurent tous droits , entrans dedans la playe : alors on peut predire vrayement, $ que l'os eſt incisé, pource qu'il eſt bien difficile de couper le poil qui obeit, que l'os ne le * foit auſſi quant-&-quand. c'eſt vn prognoſtic qu'on peut faire deuant que d'habiller le pa- tient, ce que hippocrate a confirmé. auſſi peut eſtre cogneüe la fracture quelques fois au ſens du tact, quand le cuir n'eſt deſcouuert, qui ſe fera en preſſant des doigts ſur la fracture : car alors on ſent l'os eſtre eſleué ou enfoncé outre le naturel : & lors que le cuir eſt diuisé, l'os eſtant deſcouuert, ſi elle n'eſt appa- , rente à la veiie, faut chercher auec la queue de l'eſprouuette, qui ne ſoit trop aiguë ny poinctue, à fin que trouuant quelque naturelle cauité de l'os, elle ne donne imagination abuſiue que l'os ſoit fracturé. elle ne doit eſtre auſſi trop groſſe, à fin qu'elle ne paſſe ſur les petites fentes ſans les ſentir, & lors que l'on touche ' ^. l'os, ſi on le trouue liſsé & gliſſant, nous eſtimons qu'il eſt entier & non rompu: mais au contraire ſi on - . † ſigne qu'il eſt rompu, pourueu que ce ne ſoit à l'endroit des ſutures : toutesfois le chi- ºrgien doit ſoigneuſement conſiderer que les fractures ſe font ſouuent ſur les ſutures, leſquelles n'ont toufiours vme certaine ſituation. or quelquesfois l'os eſtant contus, fendu, ou ſciſſuré,ne peut eſtre cogneu à l'œil, ny par la ſonde : mais quand on aura apperceu par les ſignes coniecturatifs cy-deſſus eſcrits, fant par artifice chercher la fiſſure, par mixtion d'encre & huile, ainſi que ſera cy-apres declaré et ayant cogneu l'os eſtre bleſsé, faut diligemment ſçauoir combien le mal eſt grand, & y remedier promptement. et lors d que le coup eſt ſur les ſutures, le mal eſt difficile à cognoiſtre , ſi l'os n'eſt grandement rompu : pource que , ''les ſutures, ainſi qu'auons dit, repreſentent les fiſſures, à cauſe qu'elles ont aſperitez comme les ſutures. auquel cas hippocrate dit, les medecins eſtre ſouuent trompez & deceus, ainſi qu'il teſmoigne de luy meſ- me au liu . des epidemies, en l'hiſtoire de antonomus in omilo. apres auoir ainſi declaré les eſpeces, diffe- rences,& fignes en general des fractures du crane : maintenant faut traitter de chacune eſpece à part, com- mençant à la fiſſure ou fente, de sciſſure, qui eſt la premiere eſpece de fracture ». c h a p. vi. ile chirurgien cognoiſt par les ſignes predits l'os eſtre fracturé & ſciſſuré,& qu'il n'y ait playe : ſuffiſante pour la traitter,fautlpremierement razer le poil,puis couper le cuir muſculeux & le pericrane auec vn raſoir & faire la ſection triangulaire ou cruciale, de grandeur qu'il ſerabe- #, ſoin (car telle choſe ne ſe peut bien eſcrire) euitant touſiours, tant que poſiible ſera,les com- ^ miſſures & les muſcles temporaux:& ne faut que le chirurgien face difficulté de ce faire:caril eſt plus expedient faire vne inciſion pour deſcouurir l'os,que ne le deſcouurir,& ne cognoiſtre la nature de la farcture : car ayant fait la ſection, & n'ayant rien trouué,facilement la playe e conſolide : meſme comme aph. °. lieu. )elle doit eſtre la ſon- de. cornelius celſus les ſutures trompent ſouuent le chirurgien, t dit o le dixiefme liure, - • y, cornelius cel tts. hippocr. punétien du pericrane dangereuſe. ligature de vaiſſeau. biſtoire dit hippocrate, il eſt meilleur guarir les maladies auecque longitude de temps. dorcques la ſection ſe fe- a ra auecque vn raſoir : & où il y auroit playe du baſton qui auroit donné le coup, icelle ſeruira d'vne deſdt- tes inciſions. raſoirpourfaire inciſion. - aucuns enleuent toute la piece dudit cuir muſculeux & pericrane,ce que i'ay fait pluſieurs fois. é puis apres faut bien ſeparer le pericrane d auec le crane, de peur qu'on ne le touche de la trepane (car tel attouchement ſeroit cauſe d'induire douleurs & infiammations ) en commençant aux an- gles de la playe auecques tel cizeau. ci(eau pourſeparer le pericrane ». ·ſ([ſ i t#| l ! | - | | | et apres faut emplir toute la playe de charpy, afin de tenir les léures eſleuées,& dilatées iuſques au lende main, & par deſſus appliquer remedes repercuſſifs & reſtrainctifs du flux de ſang. et s'il aduenoit qu'il fuſt impetueux & ſi grand qu'il ne peuſt eſtre eſtanché par iceux, alors faudroit lier b / le vaiſſeau, faiſant vn point d'aiguille, commençant à paſſer l'aiguille à la partie exterieure au trauers de tout le cuir muſculeux, puis la repaſſer par la partie interieure, & faire le nœud deſſus, y appli- quant vne petite compreſſe ronde faite de linge, de groſſeur d'vn tuyau de plume d'oye,de peur que le fil ne couppe le cuir,& euiter la douleur : le ſerrant ſi fort que le ſangne puiſſe paſſer outre ledit vaiſſeau.et ainſi faiſant l'on eſtanche le flux de ſang, que les remedes aſtrictifs ne peuuent faire. ce que i'ay fait puis n'ague- res a vn charretier,lequelainſi qu'il eſtoit ſur ſa charrette:tomba la teſte premiere ſur le paué en ceſte ville,& ſe fit vne bien grande contufion ſur l'os parietal, partie poſterieure : au moyen de quoy le conuient inciſer, tant pour faire vacuation du ſang meurtry , que pour auoir égard au vice de l'os : & par ladite inciſion fut couppée vne artere. dont c luy qui le traictoit ne luy fçeut eſtancher le ſang duquel ledit charretier auoit perdu ſi grande quantité, qu'il ne ſe pouuoit pas ſeulement tourner dans ſon lict, & à peine parler, tant eftoit foible & debile, icy i'ay bien voulu reciter telle hiſtoire, afin d'inſtruire le ieune chirurgien , qu'il - ne laiſſe mourir vn homme par faute d'vn petit point d'aiguille, lequel ne doit ſeulement eſtre faict en la teſte , mais auſſi en toutes autres parties du corps en cas ſemblable, s'il eſt poſſible faire ledit point d aiguil- le : puis avant fait cela, faut ſituer la teſte du malade en haut. or pour retourner à noſtre propos, le len- demain ſera regarde quel vice ſera enl'os : & au cas qu'il n'apparuſt aucune fracture au ſens de la veue,ou au tact de l'eſprouuette, neantmoins on conjecture par les ſignes predits, y auoir fracture : alors faut met- tre ſur l'os qu on aura de ſcouuert,de l'encre à eſcrire, meſlée auec vn peu d'huile roſat, afin qu'elle penetre moyen # dedans la fente, s'il y en a & que l'os en ſoit imbu. et au premier appareil d'apres, faut eſſuyer l'os,& voir . #" ſi rencre ſera entrée dedans qui ſe fera en ruginant & raclant l'， auec rugines, iuſques à ce que r§ c fiſſure mon apparente. - cornelius. il faut tre- palement en eſté ; à cauſe qu'il n'y a encores inflammation. toutesfois i'en ay ruginé & trepa paner le #,# dy ces choſes, afin que iamais on ne laiſſe les malades ſans ayde : veu que ( comme dit galientén - thode ) il eſt meilleur d'eſſayer quelque remede , voire douteux, que nul : toutesfois en faiſant auparauant ceuſeliu. chap. . trouue la fin de la noirceur de ladite encre, & qu'on verra l'os eftre blanc,adonc faut ceſſer.autres y met- tent vn cataplaſme ou emplaſtre aſtringente, & le lendemain eſtant eleuee, le lieu qui apparoiſtra eſtre plus ſec, qui ſe fait à cauſe d'vne vapeur chaude, laquelle paſſant au trauers de la diuiſion, deſſeiche le medica- ment, & par-là la ſciſſure eſt demonſtrée. et apres, encores pour eſtre plus aſſeuré , ſi la fiſſure penetre les deux tables, faut faire clorre le nez & la bouche au patient, & le faire reſpirer, & regarder ſi par la fente ſort quelque humidité ſanguinolente, à cauſe que par tel moyen l'air de la reſpiration fait enfler & eſleuer la ſubſtance du ccrueau & les membranes, dont s'enſuit l'expulſion de certaine humidité: ſi telle choſe ap- paroiſt, ſera vray ſigne manifeſte que les deux tables ſont rompuës entierement : & adonc faut coupper l'os par les rugines, ou par autres inſtrumens propres à ce faire, iuſques à la du e-mere, ſoy gardant la toucher aucunement. et ſi la ſciſſure eſtoit fort longue, il ne la faut pas ſuiure , car nature reünira le reſte d'icelle par vne calloſité, qui eſt comme cicatrice # l'os : ſemblablement le chirurgien, comme dit celſe, doit oſter de l'os du crane lemoins qu'il ſera poſſible, pource que la couuerture de l'os eſt meilleure que , toute autre matiere quy pourroit eſtre regenerée, apres qu'on l'auroit tranché & oſté. mais ſuffira don-* ner iſſue & tranſpiration au ſang , & à la matiere ſanieuſe, de peur qu'elle ne corrompe l'os, & ſe face apoſteme au cerueau. et ne faut paſſer à faire ouuerture en l'os le troiſieſme iour, s'il eſt poiſible, & princi- ſeptieſme & dixieſme iour, tant en hyuer qu'en eſté qui en ſont reſchappez, auſſi pluſieurs ſ ñ . bon prognoſtique, pource qu'il en meurt plus ſans eſtre trepanez, que de ceux qu'on trepane. cºr les in- ſtrumens propres à donner ouuerture aux ſciſſures ſont appellez † deſquelles as icy les portraiéts de diuerſes ſortes, afin que tu en puiſſes choiſir ſelon qu'il te ſera beſoin : & les pourras toutes inſererl'vne apres l'autre dans la viz d'vn manche que tu vois icy, laquelle viz tu cognois aſſez par les extremitºt deſdiy/ - inſtrumens. # **. rugints # # ， # des playes en particulier, i à a rugines, ou raſpatoires. on racle l'os , quand il eſt fendu & ſciſſuré, afin de voir iuſques où penetre la fente, & auſſi pour l'applanir lors qu'il eſt raboteux, noir, & vermolu : & aux cartilages alterez & corrompus. or il faut ceſſer de racler l'os quand on en void ſortir vn peu de ſang: apres on y doit mettre deſſus des pou- dres cephaliques, comme racines d'iris de florence, farine d'hiris , thus, ariſtoloche, eſcorce de racines de panax,leſ- quels ſeichent & detergent ſans acrimonie ny piqueure. | | :? $ l - • .. . rugines d'autre façon que les precedentes, pour couper dauantage l'as. i et pour le dire en vn . mot,quand l'os eſt ſeule- & ment fendu ou ſiſſuré, le f, chirurgien ſe contentera | de dilater & ouurir l'os, |! auec les ſuſdites rugines, f| &non par trepanes,encor il que la ſciſſure penetre les deux tables : & ſi elle ne } deſcend que iuſques à la ſl• deuxiéme table,ne la faut )! ruginer que iuſques-là: #, - , , , mais ſi l'os eſt contus & - : caſsé en pluſieurs pieces, faut les oſter auec inſtrumens conuenables : & s'il eſt neceſſaire y appliquer la paui. #gi. # trepane; on le fera commenous dirons tantoſt. meta liu. . :(- c - d # # - - - c — y -- - - - ' cl / / ', - ; - : ， - de la contuſion, qui eſt la ſeconde eſpece é f ' &tl /c_º h a p , lts ar contuſion ſe fait ſouuentesfois vne ecchymoſe ; c'eſtà dire , effuſion de ſang, fous le cuir les choſes lit muſculeux, auec coagulation dudit ſang ſans playe et ſi la contuſion eſt grande, & que le # :: cuir ſoit ſeparé du crane, alors faut faire ſection & ouuerture , afin d'euacuer le ſang, & §rai. v• $ n'appliquer nullement remedes ſuppuratifs (ce qui ſe pourroit faire en vne autre partie char- § # * neuſe ) de peur que l'os ne s'alteraſt & ouurit : cartoutes choſes humides ſont contraires paul.argi , , il aux os. ce qui ſera clairement monſtré cy-apres.on void ſouuent venir telles contuſions, principalement liure . aux ieunes enfans,& le cuir ſe deprimer,& pour leur molleſſe & rarité le ſang decouler entre le cuir & le . · crane, & l'on ſent vne molleſſe & inondation à l'endroit de ladite contuſion : ce que i'ay pluſieurs fois ) ouuert auec vne lancette,& par l'ouuerture faiſois ſouuent ſortir vn ſang ſereux auec thrombus,qui eſt ſang coagulé & fort noir : puis apres auec compreſſion moderée , & remedes deſiccatifs, promptement eſtoient guaris.pareillement par vne grande contuſion le crane des petits enfans ſe peut enfoncer au dedans,comme l'on void aux deliez vaiſſeaux d'airain, de plomb,d'eſtain,ou ſemblables,quand on preſſe du doigt deſſus,il ſe fait vne foſſe ou cauité, & quelquesfois ſe releuent de ſoy-meſme : & telle choſe ſe fait principalement | aux ieunes enfans, leſquels ont encores leurs os tendres , l'anuleux & mols, & à ceux qui ſont de tem- ' perature mollaſſe, comme femmes, & pituiteux : & où ils ne ſe releuent deux-meſmes par le benefice de nature, faut appliquer vne ventouſe auec grande fiamme, afin de retirer l'os enfoncé en ſoñ lieu naturel, #ileſt poſſible, & faire clorre le nez, & la houche au malade pour retenir ſon haleine car parce moyen l) le cerueau & les membranes aydent à la ventouſe de reduire l'os en ſa place. et ſi par la ventouſe ne peut ... . eſtre reduit, adonc faudra faire ſection au cuir, & appliquer vn tirefons comme cettuy : & tirer l'os en tirefon# haut, ainſi que font les tonneliers quand ils veulent retirer vne douue du dedans au dehors.et où tel c s •duiendroit à vn os ſolide & eſpais, & que par tels moyens ne peut eſtre leué : adonc faut appliquer vne petite trepane, & faire ouuerture au crane, au milieu de l'os qui ſera enfoncé, & par l'ouuerture l'on eſle- #era ledit os auec cet eleuatoire à trois pieds, lequelle tirera de la ligne droitte : & a puiſſance telle qu'on Éluatoir, la peut deſirer pour eſleuer les os enfoncez. sa figure a eſté faite triangulaire, afin qu'il peuſt eſtre aſſis en § pieds toutes les parties de la teſte : pource qu'elle eſt de figure ronde , pareillement l'on pourra en ſon extremité inſerer diuerſes poinctes ſelon qu'il en ſera beſoin, ainfi qu'il t'eſt monſtré par ce portraict. t cautre- le dixielme liure, lautre eleuatoire . a a monſtrent la pointe de l'eleuatoire, laquelle doit eſtremouſſe à raiſon qu'elle ſe doit couler douce- ment dedans la fracture du crane, joignant la dure-mere, icelle pointe ſe hauſſe & baiſſe tant & ſi peu qu'il eſt beſoin. - b le corps de l'eleuatoire lequel doit eſtre quarré, à fin que la pointe dudit eleuatoire qui s'y inſere ne varie & tourne : l'extremité d'iceluy corps doit eſtre appuyée ſur l'os ſain, a fin de tenir fer- i cmeilt. * ce qu'il faut l'vſage d'iceluy eleuatoire eſt tel, qu'il faut, eſtant bien mis dedans la fracture, ſouſleuer la main en haut, faire en la à fin d'eſleuer l'os rompu & embarré. fººº é c monſtre la premiere branche du ſecondeleuatoire,l'extremité duquel ſe coule par deſſous l'os em- d depreſſion barré & fracturé. - a'vn ſeul d la ſeconde branche, laquelle doit s'appuyer ſur l'os ſain, afin de tenir coup pour eſleuer ledit os coſté de l'os. embarré & fracturé. l'vſage d'iceluy eſt tel, qu'ilfaut, eſtant bien accommodé, preſſer le manche en bas, car par telle compreſ- ſion la premiere branche ſouſleue l'os fracturé. - - scies des playes en particulier. à scies propres à couper les os de la tefte . a et où il aduiendroit que l'os ſcroit rompu & deprimé d'vn coſté ſeulement , ſans que toute la piece fuſt enfon- cée,il faut pour l'eſleuer & donner iſſue aux choſes eſtran- ges, faire ouuerture auec ſcies ſemblables à celles.cy:car par icelles on peut couper de l'os(ſans comprimer)deſſus tant & ſi peu qu'on voudra, ſans eſtre en danger de com- primer l'os fracturé ſur les membranes,& par conſequent ſur le cerueau. trepane exfoliatiue_ . et ſi l'os n'eſtoit contus que iuſ- ques à la ſeconde table, ou moins:& qu'il n'y euſt ſigne que la fracture ne penetraſt plus outre, il ſuffira de deſ- couurir l'os iuſques à la fin de la con- tuſion, de peur qu'il n'acquiere in- flammation, ou autre mauuaiſe diſ- poſition : laquelle choſe ſe fera auec vne trepane exfoliatiue, par laquelle ſe fera amputation de l'os, tant & ſi peu que l'on voudra. des embarreures, ou enfonceures, qui eſt pour la troiſieſme eſpece defracture . c h a p t r e vi. sè$ a r grands coups orbes, comme de baſton peſant, rond, ou quarré, en ruant ou frappant wa auſſi par cheutes d'en-haut en bas à plomb (comme nous auons dit) ſouuent les os du cra- # ne ſont froiſſez, fendus & enfoncez, plus ou moins, & en diuerſes manieres, ſelon lave- hemence du coup,& la diuerſité des inſtrumens qui bleſſent,& la partie qui eſt endommagée. º ºº n et par ainſi ſelon la diuerſité deſdites fractures, & deſdits accidens qui enſuiuent,faut changer de remedes & inſtrumens. or poſons le fait que l'os ſoit enfoncé auec vne ou pluſieurs pieces d'eſquilles ſeparées,leſquelles ſe peuuent tirer & eſleuer ſans l'application de la trepane : laquelles choſe ſe pourra faire auecques eleuatoires propres à ce faire, comme celles qui te ſont icy portraictes. | eleuatoires. or il faut bien ſe donner caution » garde en eſleuant & tirant eſleuant lè， leſdites eſquilles, ou por- ſquilles. tions d'os , qu'on ne bleſſe les membranes : car aucu- nes ont des aſperitez & poin- tes qui les peuuent bleſſer en les tirant, ſi l'on n'y prend bien garde.auſſi quelquefois on nc les peut extraire ſans accroiſtre l'ouuerture de la fracture : & en tel cas, où il y auroit eſpace & lieu à met- . tre l'extremité de ces tenail- les, facilement on pourra couper auec icelles tant & ſi peu de l'os que l'on voudra pour donner iſſuë auſ- dites eſquilles ſeparées, ſans appliquer la trepane, ce que i'ay fait pluſieurs fois auec bomne iſſuë. l'ope- ration deſdites tenailles eſt plus briefue & plus ſeure que par la trepane : ce que nous deuons touſiours chercher. t tenailles le dixieſme liure, tenailles capitales inciſîuès, dite bec de a perroquet. et d'abondant tu as encores icy diuerſes figures de petits cizeaux, auec le maillet de plomb, pour applanit º les aſperitez des os, enſemble des pincettes, dont les figures ſont telles. figures de diuers cizeaux & pincettes , auec maillet deplomb. - - - - . - - or il faut en cét endroit noter qu'on ne doit appliquer ilnefaut ap- trepane nyeleuatoire ſur l'osentierement fracturé,de peur pliquer tre- qu'en preſſant deſſus, on ne bleſſaſt les membranes , mais pane, ny ele- ſeront appliquez ſur l'os ſain & entier, & le plus pres de la #my° fracture qu'on pourra, afin de n'oſter de l'os, & ne deſ- #. couurir le cerueau que le moins qu'on pourra, pareillement ré, faut encores bien noter , que ſi la fracture eſtoit gran- de, c'eſt à dire , longue, ne la faut du tout oſter : non plus que les longues fiſſures ne doiuent auſſi eſtre ſuiuies(com- d me nous auons dit ) mais ſuffira donner iſfuë à la matiere, & eſleuer l'os s'il comprime les membranes, comme nous auons dit cy-deuant. car nature reünit & glutine le crane parvn callus,comme elle fait auſſi és autres partiesdu corps. ce qui a eſté fait puis n'agueres à l'vn des ſeruiteurs de mö- hiſtoire ， ſieur grolo, lequel eut vn coup de pied de mulet à la teſte, de ſorte que le crampon du fer luy fractura, & fit embar- rure à l'os coronal. et eſtant mandé pour le penſer, ayant cogneu l'os eſtre enfoncé au dedans, ie feis ſection triangu- laire pour appliquer la trepane. et le lendemain le trepa- nay pour eſleuer l'os fracturé, & ayant fait l'ouuerture, voulus extraire l'os fracturé, & le voulant tirer hors,cogneus la grandeur d'icelle fracture, (parce que l'os branloit) laquelle comprenoit depuis le milieu du front iuſques au petit canthus,ou coin de l'œil.adonc ceſſant de tirer cet os, ie commençay à l'eſleuer en haut, de façon qu'il ne preſſoit plus la dure-mere, & par l'ouuerture de la trepane yſſoient les matieres, la dure-mere auoit tranſpiration, neantmoins feis pro- gnoſtique audit grolo (lequel eſtoit fort curieux de faire traiter ſon ſeruiteur) qu'à grand peine , veu la grandeur de ladite fracture, pourroit-il reſchapper : toutesfois, graces à dieu , il eſt guary , reſté l'œil du coſté de la fracture qu'il a perdu. partant ne faut oſter les grandes pieces d'os, ſi clles ne ſont du - des playes en particulier. | | a du tout ſeparées de l'os non fracturé.pource qu'ils ſe reüniſſent parvn callus, ainſi que les os des autres il ne com - uient tou- ſiours tirer os du rout fracturé. parties : ce qui eſt atteſté & commandé par le diuin hippocrate au liure des playes de la teſte, & par cel- ſe,comme nous auons dit cy deſſus. et à cette fin & intention , nature, entre les deux tables du crane, appellé diploé, a fait prouiſion d'vn aliment ſanguin pour preparer la ſubſtance perduë : comme en la ca- uité des autres os,vn aliment qui tient de la nature de mouëlle. de la quatrieſme eſpece de fracture, qui eſt inciſion , appellée d'hippocrate, marque ou ſiege : autrement figure delaiſsée du baſton,duquell'os aura eſté frappé ch a p. v i i. l y a ſemblablement pluſieurs eſpeces d'inciſions faites au crane : aucunes ſuperficielles,autres - moyennes, penetrantes iuſques au diploé , autres penetrantes toutes les deux tables : aucunes diuerſeseſ- ſont auec perdirion de la ſubſtance d'os : aucunes ſont longues, autres courtes : aucunes larges, ººº ººº les autres eſtroictes : aucunes ſont faictes auec vn inſtrument aigu , comme la poincte d'vne da. ſſons. gue,poinçon ou de halebarde, ou autres ſemblables. aucunes ſont compliquées auec contuſion, fiſſures, & embarrures, & autres accidens : & ſelon la diuerſité de ces differences,il faut pareillement diuerſifier la cure. et partant en aucunes d'icelles ſeront appliquez rugines, trepane, & autres inſtrumens , ſelon que la neceſſité le requerra,comme auons dit par cy deuant.or il faut icy noter,que s'il aduient qu'il y ait gran- de playe apres auoir coupé du tout l'os,& que portion du cuir muſculeux fuſt demeurée ſans eſtre entiere- ment coupée : en tel cas ne faut paracheuer de couper ledit cuir, ny ſeparer l'os (qui ſera du tout coupé) d'auec le pericrane, mais reduire leſdits os & cuir enſemble en leur lieu. ce que celſe commande , & feis hiſtoire du au capitaine hydron, lequel puis peu de temps fut bleſsé en ceſte ville d'vn coup d'eſpée au milieu de l'os capitaine coronal. et eſtoit ledit os coupé du tout iuſques à la dure-mere,de grandeur & largeur de trois doigts ou ºyºrº enuiron, tellement qu'il ſe renuerſoit ſur le viſage, & ne tenoit plus qu'au pericrane & cuir muſculeux,en- uiron trois doigts & promptement voyant icelle playe, fus quaſi d'opinion de paracheuer du tout le cou- permais ie conſideray qu'hippocrate & les autres bons praticiens ont touſiours prohibé de ne laiſſer le cerueau deſcouuert, s'il eſt poſſible : puis i'eſſuiay le ſang qui eſtoit tombé ſur la dure-mere , laquelle on voyoit fort mouuoir àl'œil , puis rêuerſay la piece qui eſtoit ſeparée,la poſant en ſon lieu & pour la mieux n, faut retenir,feis trois point d'aiguille aux parties ſuperieures,& mis de petites tentes aux coſtez de la playe,afin laiſſer le cer- de donneriſſue à la ſanie. et le tout fut ſi bien adapté, que par la grace de dieu il en guarit ; jaçoit qu'il ueºu & ſes euſt encor pluſieurs grands coups d'eſpée, tant au trauers d'vne cuiſſe , qu'au viſage, & vn autre au coſté membranes à droit pres la mammelle, paſſant le long des coſtes, penetrant outre de l'autre part en la partie baſſe de deſreuuert. l'omoplate. et pour conclurre, ne faut faire amputation de l'os ny cuir muſculeux qui ouure le crane, & moins encores des os d'iceluy, ſinon le moins qu'il ſera poſſible, de peur que le cerueau ne ſoit deſcouuert. de la cinquieſme eſpece de fracture,qui ſe fait du coſté mpoſite du com. c h a p. v i i i. s>t )g# a fracture ſe fait quelquesfois du coſté opoſite du coup : comme ſi le coup eſt en la partie la contre- \> ( ， dextre,la fracture ou fiſſure ſe fait au coſté ſeneſtre : qui eſt vne choſe bien dangereuſe,à cau- fente ſe peut ſe que rarement on peut cognoiſtre le mal , & n'y a moyen ny artifice vray de le cognoiſtre, faire- . n comme dit hippocrate , liure de vutneribus capitu : parquoy en tel cas quand la mort s'enſuit cytyns/ w le chirurgien eſt excuſable. ce que ie puis vrayement atteſter auoir veu aduenir combien ' que paul aeginete s'en mocque , diſant que nature fait le crane de pluſieurs pieces , & commiſſures qui le ſeparent, afin que s'iladuenoit fracture à vn coſté, qu'elle ne fuſt communiquée à l'autre. et ainſi con . clud qu'icelle fracture ne peut eſtre faite au coſté oppoſite du coup. or ie dy , que telle choſe eſt vraye en ceux qui ont leurs commiſſures faictes : mais en ceux qui n'en ont point, ou ſont imparfaictes, il ſe pourra faire qu'vn coſté eſtant frappé, l'autre oppoſite ſoit bleſsé. ce qui eſt aduenu pluſieurs fois, & meſ- mes puis n'agueres à l'vn des feruiteurs de monſieur du mats, contrerolleur des poſtes , lequel eut vn hiſtoire coup de pierre ſur l'os parietal , partie dextre , auec petite playe, & grande contuſion & tumeur. et d' vn ſerui- luy fut faite inciſion pour agrandir la playe, & faire vacuation du ſang contenu en ladite tumeur. et reºr de mon- fut traitté par defunct maiſtre thierry de hery , duquel ſuis aſſeuré qu'il n'oublia rien à faire lon deuoir, ſieur du pource qu'il auoit dieu deuant les yeux, & qu'il eſtoit bien exercé à la chirurgie. et apres l'inciſion faite, º, cogneut à l'œil que l os eſtoit entier : neantmoins auoit coniecture grande que l'os pouuoit eſtre fracturé, thierry de pource qu'incontinent qu'il fut frappé, tomba en terre, & vomit : & eut autres accidens, qui denotoient º fracture. tant y a que le patient mourut le vingt & vnieſme iour dont ledit thierry m'enuoya querir, par la perſuation dudit du mats, pour ſçauoir la cauſe de ſa mort. et luy ayant ſcié le crane , trouuaſmes à la partie oppoſite du coup, l'os ſciſſuré & fendu, grande quantité de ſanie & apoſteme en la dure-mere , & meſmes en la ſubſtance du cerueau : & ne luy fut trouuée aucune commiſſure , excepté les deux mendeu- ſes. et partant conclus auec l'authorité d'hipocrate, & par raiſon & experience, qu'il ſe peut faire fra- cture du coſté oppoſite du coup, principalement à ceux qui n'auront commiſſures, ou qu'elles ſoient fort fracture ſe iointes enſemble. d'autre coſté il n'eſt pas auſſi impoſſible que la fiſſure ſe face à l'oppoſite du coup aſſis peut faire da au meſme os, & non en l'autre, en ceux qui ont le crane bien conformé & diſtingué par ſutures. et telle eſt coſté oppoſite l'intention d'hipocrate en ce paſſage, parquoy ne doit eſtre ſuiuie l'opinion de celſe en ce li u, eſtimant du cºup ce le coupaſſis en vn os, & la fiſſure en vn autre : ny de paulus aegineta, rejettant la ſentence d'hipocrate, que authori- comme choſe impoſſible. et faut noter que l'oppoſite du coup en meſme os ſe peut entendre en deux ma- té, raiſon & nieres.premierement, quand la fracture eſt en la meſme ſuperficie de l'os frappé : comme ſi la partie d'vn experience os bregmatis, qui eſt vers la ſuture lambdoide eſtant frappé,celle qui eſt vers la ſuture coronale,ſe monſtre demºnſtrent. bleſsee. secondement,quand non la ſuperficie qui a receu le coup eft bleſsée,mais celle ſeulemét qui eſt au deſſous côme lors que la premiere table eſt frappée ſans eſtre fracturée,& que la ſeconde eſt rópue.ce que i'ay veu aduenir à vn gentilhôme de la compagnie de mônſieur d'eſtâpes,lequel fut bleſſé ſur la breche du chaſteau de hedin,d'vn coup d'arquebuſe qu'il receut ſur l'os parietal ayant vn habillemêt de teſte,lequel la balle enfonça ſans eſtre rompu,ny pareillement le cuir,ny le crane exterieuremét,& le ſixieſme iour mourut apoplectique.dôt aduint que pour l'éuie que iauois de cognoiſtre la cauſe de ſa mort,ie luy ouuris le crane, auquel trouuay la ſeconde table rópue,auec eſquilles d'os,qui eſtoient inſerez dans la ſubſtance du cerueau . encore que la premiere table fuſt entiere.ce que pareillemét atteſte auoir veu & monſtré depuis à meſſieurs chapelain,premier medecin du roy,& chaſtelan premier de la reyne,t n vn gentilhomme qui fut bleſse à l'aſſaut de roüé.or hippo.ne baille aucune maniere de traitter icelle cinquieſme eſpece de fracture,pource qu'on ne peut vrayement cognoiſtre le lieu bleſsé, pourtant le plus ſouuent ſont mortelles. toutesfois ſe faut efforcer à les cognoiſtre , en apliquant deſſus ( ayant tout rasé le poil)vne emplaſtre qui ſera faicte "-, de poix liquide,& de poix noire, cire,auec terebenthine, & poudre d'irfs & maſtich:& ſi on void † cndl'oit le d x e ime l urc, endroit eſtre plus humide & plus mol,aucunement tumefié & enfié, on pourra dire par coniecture qu'en a n'eſt plus ai- tel endroit doit eſtre la fracture ſciſſurée ioint auſſi que le patiét met ſouuent la main à l'endroit où eſt la ſé à quatre fracture:& voyant telles choſesauec autres ſignes coniecturatifs par cy-deuant eſcrits,pluſtoſt que laiſſer le de perter vu patient mourir, ie conſeille de trepaner,vſant parauant de bon prognoſtique aux parens & amis du patient. homme º*- auſſi appellant conſeil, tant de docteurs,medecins, que chirurgiens,de peur qu'il ne ſe trouue empeſché, º #** º ſi d'auenture le patient vient à mourir : car ce ſera choſe plus aisée à quatre de le porter en terre, qu'il ne ſeul. ſeroit à vn ſeul.or retournons à noſtre propos,concluans qu'entre les eſpeces des fractures du crane,ſont il y a quatre quatre qui peuuent deceuoir le chirurgien. la premiere, quand l'os eſt contus , & promptement tetourne d - - - - - - * - - # en ſa place. la ſeconde,quand il y a vne petite ſciſſure comme,vn poil. la tierce,quand l'os eſt eſclatté au qui peuuent dedans, & par dehors eſt entier. la quatrieſme , quand l'os eſt fracturé à la partie oppoſite du coup. deceuoir le " - - chirurgien, de la commotion ou esbranlement, & concuſſion ou eſcouſſe du cerueau. dont le pa- tient perit c h a p. i x. gal. . de ld av a n t a g e, faut entendre qu'outre les ſuſdites fractures, il ſe faiſt vne autre diſpoſ- compoſition † tion, appellée commotion , ou esbranlement & concuſſion du cerueau, qui cauſe ſemblables des medica- v. accidens que les fractures du crane : laquelle commotion ſe fait pour auoir tombé de haut / º ，. # en bas ſur choſe ſolide & dure, ou par coups orbes,comme de pierre,ou d'vne maſſe,ou d'vn chap. . & coup de lance, ou l'air d'vn coup d'artillerie, ou du tonnerre tombant pres de la perſonne, ſºr !'atoh. voire de la main ou autres ſemblables. qu'il ſoit vray, hippocrate au . liure des epidemies en eſcrit #ſº , ceſte hiſtoire qui s'enſuit. vne fort belle pucelle fille de nerus, âgée de vingt ans, eſtant frappée par #ºrº * maniere de ieu,ſur l'os du bregma,de lamain eſtendue d'vne fienne amie,fut incontinent ſurpriſe de verti- # * gine ſans reſpirer.auſſi-toſt qu'elle fut de retour en ſa maiſon,vne fievre aigue la ſaiſit,auec douleur de te- epidemies. ſte & rongeur de la face,& au ſeptieſme iour ellevuida par l'oreille dextre vn bon verre de boue puante,& rougeaſtre, & luy ſembla eſtre allegée. mais derechef la fiévre ſuruint,& lors fut aſſoupie ne pouuant par ler , auec conuulſion de la partie dextre de la face, & difficulté d'halener.auſſi la conuulſion & tremble- paul.aegin. ment de tout le corps enſuiuit, la langue liée, l'œil immobile,& au neufieſme iour elle mourut.dauantage cornelius noteras que le patient, iaçoit qu'il ait vn armet ou autre habillement de teſte,lors qu'il ſera frappé , neant- celſus, moins par grand effort & esbranlement de la teſte,ſe peuuent rompre veines,&arteres,non ſeulement celles qai paſſent & entrent par les ſutures , mais auſſi aucunes de celles qui vont par cy & par la entre les deux tables, au lieu dit diploé,tant pour ſuſpendre & attacher la dure-mere,contre le crane,afin que le cerueau ait ſon mouuement plus libre, que pour porter le ſang & aliment au crane, au lieu qu'iceluy n'a moëlle, ains eſt nourry du ſang contenu au diploé , ainſi qu'auons declacré en l'anatomie. dont s'enſuit flux de - ſang, qui découle ou entre l'os & les membranes,ou entre les membranes & le cerueau,& en cét endroit le malade fent grande douleur , & la veuë s'obſcurcit : lequel ſang eſtant hors de ſes propres veiſſeaux ſe cor- hippeerate. †º & putrefie.ce qui eſt approuué par hippocrate en l'aphoriſme,si inventrem ſanguis preter naturam. aphe. o. dontpluſieurs accidens aduiennent, comme esbloüiſſement de veue,vomiſſement,lequel ſe fait par la col- in, . ligance & amitié qu'à l'eſtomach auec le cerueau par les nerfs de la fixieſme coniugaiſon , leſquels deſcen- dent du cerueau, & ſe vont inſerer à ſon orifice ſuperieur, & de la en toute ſa ſubſtance au moyen dequoy par la ſocieté qu'ils ont enſemble,ſe comprime,reſerre en ſoy,& comme ſe renuerſe , & alors jette premie- rement ce qui eſt côtenu en ſa capacité,& d'abondant,ce qui y peut affluer des parties qui luy ſont voiſines, &, alliées, comme du foye, & veſſie du fiel : entre leſquelles choſes la bile,côme la plus mobile,& par le- gereté naturelle prompte à ſuiure ce mouuemét par le haut ſort la premiere,& en plus grande abondance, qui eſt la vraye cauſe du vomiſſement bilieux , tant rechanté par les medecins, és ſolutions de continuité, qui aduiennent tant au crane qu'au cerueau. quelque temps apres ſuruient inflammation aux membra- nes , & au cerueau : à raiſon du ſang qui ſort des veines & arteres rompues pour la violence du coup & eſpandu par la ſubſtance du cerueau, ſe corrompt & pourrit, incontinent telle inflammation eſt com- muniquée à toutes les parties du corps,ſe fait fiévre auſſi-toſt, auſſiaduient refuerie,par alteration du cer- ueau & aſſoupiſſement, par alienation : leſquels accidens és playes de teſte ſont fort dangereux , ſuiuant #ippº l'authorité d'hipocrate en l'aphoriſme , in capiti, i a obſtupeſ entia & defipientia, matum & ſtupeur , qui eſt apho. * diminution de mouuoir & ſentir, faite par l'obſtruction des voyes & conduits de l'eſprit animal : puis liu. . apoſtemes & pourriture au cerueau, auec tres-grande difficulté de reſpirer,quiprouient du cerueau offen- sé, qui fait que le thorax, qui eſt propre inſtrument de la reſpiration, ne peut faire ſon office,pource que les mufcles qui ont mouuement du cerueau & de l'eſpine medullaire , par l'eſprit animal enuoyé par les nerfs , ne peuuent éleuer ledit thorax,parce qu'ils ſont priuez de la faculté de mouuoir,& par tels accidents hiſtoire du la mort s'enſuit.tous leſquels accidents,ou la pluſpart,on a veuaduenir au feu roy henry dernier decedé, feu roy lequel au tournoy receut vn tres-grand coup de lance au corps,qui fut cauſe luy eleuer la viſiere,& vn éclat henry ii. du contre coup luy donna au deſſous du ſourcil dextre, & luy dilacera le cuir muſculeux du front pres l'os tranſuerſalement iuſques au petit coin de l'œil ſeneſtre, & auec ce pluſieurs petits fragmens ou eſquilles de léclat demeurent en la ſubſtance dudit œil , ſans faire aucune fracture aux os. donc à cauſe de telle commotion ou esbranlement du cerueau il deceda l'onziéme iour apres qu'il fut frappé. et apres ſon decez, on luy tronua en la partie oppoſite du coup, comme enuiron le milieu de la commiſſure de l'os occipital, vne quantité de ſang eſpandu entre la dure-mere, & pie - mere : & alteration en la ſubſtan- ce du cerueau , qui eſtoit de couleur flaue ou jaunaſtre , enuiron la grandeur d'vn poulce : auquel lieu fut trouué commencement de putrefaction : qui furent cauſes ſuffiſantes de la mort aduenuë audit sei- gneur & non le vice de l'œil ſeulement. a quoy neantmoins quelques - vns out voulu referer la cauſe de ſa mort : car on a veu pluſieurs qui ont receu de plus grands coups que ceſtuy-là ſur les yeux,quitoutes- fois ne ſont pas morts. .. comme auſſi on a veu de fraiſche memoire, à monſieur de ſainct iean, eſcuier du monſieur de roy, lequel eſtant au tournoy , qui fut fait deuant l'hoſtel de guyſe , eut vn coup d'eſclat de lan- saint iean , º p* dedans ſa viſiere : de longueur & groſſeur d'vn doigt, ſous l'œil dedans l'orbite , penetrant de eſcuyer du ºº doigts ou enuiron dedans la teſte, & le traittay auec bonne compagnie , tant de medecins que de roy. chirurgiens, par le commandement du roy henry defunct : entre leſquels eſtoient meſſieurs valeran me- decin ordinaire du roy,louys duret,rodolphe de l'or,docteurs regens en la faculté de medecine à pa- hiſtoire de ris,& iacques le roy le chirurgié ordinaire du roy:neâtmoins la playe faite par vn ſigrâd coup a eſté gua- monſieur le rie par l'ayde de dieu.et d'abondant en cét endroit ne veux laiſſer en arriere la tres-gråde playe que möſei- due de gneur françois de lorraine, duc de guiſe, receut deuant boulongne , d'vn coup de lance , qui au deſ- guyſ-». ſous de l'œil dextre declinant vers le nez, entra & paſſa outre de l'autre part, entre la nucque & l'oreiller hiſtoire de d'vne des playes en particulier. a d'vne fi grande violence,que le fer de la lance auec vne portion de bois fut rompuë , & demeura dedans,en ſorte qu'il ne peut eſtre tiré hors qu'à grande force, meſmes auec tenailles de mareſchal :'nonobſtant tou- tesfois ceſte grande violence,qui ne fut ſans fracture d'os,nerfs,veines,arteres,& autres parties rompues & brisées par ledit coup de lance,mondit seigneur,graces à dieu,fut guery.donc concluons qu'aucuns meu- rent de bien petites playesl, les autres rechapent de tres-grandes , voire qui ſont entierement deſeſperécs: tant aux medecins qu'aux chirurgiens : mais telles choſes ſe doiuent quelquesfois referer aux temperatu- res,& principalement à dieu,qui tient la vie des hommes en ſa main.et te ſuffiſe de la commotion du cer- ueau,& des eſpcces de fracture du crane. maintenant faut parler du prognoſtique. du prognoſtique . ch a p. x. \$ èg l ne faut negliger les playes de teſte, & n'y euſt-il que le cuir incisé ou contus : mais encores hip. au liu §sn% moins lors qu'il ya fracture au crane,à raiſon que quelquesfois furuiennent grands accidens, § vulner. $ & le plus ſouuent la mort:principalement aux corps cacochymes,comme ſont verolez,ladres, capitis. =s hydropiques,phthifiques,ou hectiques, bouffis, lentigineux, & generalement tous cachecti- ns ques:car à tels,leurs playes ſont difficiles à curer , & bien ſouuent impoſſibles , à raiſon que les playes ne ſe guariſſent que par vnion & conſolidation , leſquelles choſes ne ſe font que par affluence de bon ſang & loüable,& par la force de nature. or l'affluence de ſang defaut aux hectiques, & phthiſiques: le ſang bon & loüable defaut generalement à tous cacochymes & cachectiques:comme la force & vigueur de la faculté naturelle, manque à tous deux. les fractures de teſte faites a ceux qui releuent de maladie, hieau liu. b ſont difficiles à curer, & quelquesfois impoſſibles. les playes de teſte faites par contuſion ſont plus lon- . vult.cap. gues & difficiles à guarir, que celles qui ſont faites par inciſion. l'os ne ſe rompt point, que la chair de deſſus ne ſoit bleſſée, excepté la fracture, qui ſe fait à l'oppoſite du coup. les os des enfans ſont moins durs,plus deliez,& plus arrouſez & imbus de ſang,que ceux des vieux : & partant s'alterent & pourriſſent pluſtoſt. parquoy telles playes ſont plus dangereuſes & mortelles qu'elles ne ſont és vieilles gens , parce que leurs os s'alterent & pourriſſent pluſtoſt à raiſon qu'ils ſont de temperature plus chaude & humide, & par conſequent plus faciles à pourrir:& pour leur tendreté & molleſſe communiquent pluſtoſt leurs pour- ritures aux membranes,& au cerueau,dont la mort s'enſuit pluſtoſt qu'à ceux qui ſont d'âge viril:combien qu'és vieilles gens les playes,tant celles qui ſont à la chair,que celles qui ſont és os de la teſte, ne s'aggluti- nent,& vniſſent pas ſi toſt qu'és enfans,à cauſe que les vieilles gens ont les os plus ſecs & plus durs,& par conſequent moins agglutinables,& ont moins de ſang,& meſme ce peu qu'ils en ont,eſt plus ſereux, & par conſequent moins propre à faire l'agglutination. l'homme vit plus long temps d'vne playe mortelle faite au crane,en hyuer qu'en eſté:à raiſon qu'en hyuer la chaleur naturelle eſt plus forte qu'en eſté : pareille- ment l'humeur ſe pourrit pluſtoſt en eſté qu'en hyuer, au moyen que la chaleur contre natute , eſt plus grande en eſté qu'en hyuer.ce qui eſt approuué par hippocrate en l'aphoriſme quinzieſme du premier li- hippocrat ure ventres byen,&c.où la chaleur naturelle ne peut curer la fracture.nature eſtant plus forte prolonge la #. vie.les playes du cerueau & des membranes ſont mortelles le plus ſouuét,à cauſe que ſouuentesfois s'en- - ſuit ablation de l'action des muſcles du thorax , & des autres ſeruans à la reſpiration : dont de neceſſité la mort s'enſuit.ce que nous auons par cy-deuant declaré.si apres vn coup donné à la teſte il ſuruiét ttimenr, & ſe perd toſt,c'eſt mauuais ſigne:ſi ce n'eſt par cauſe raiſonnable,comme apres vne ſaignée, purgation,ou medicamens reſolutifs:ce qui eſt prouué par hipprocrate.quand la fiévre vient au commencement, c'eſt à hip. aph. c ſçauoir dans le quatrieſme ou ſeptieſme iour (ce qu'elle fait le plus ſouuent) on peut iuger qu'elle vient .liu. . pour la regeneration de la ſanie,ainſi qu'il eſt eſcrit par hippocrate. dum pus conficitur,&c. et telle fiévre hip.aph. n'eſt tant à craindre lors,que quand elle vient apres le ſeptieſme iour,auqueliour a de couſtume de laiſſer lin.*. le patient:mais quand elle vient au dixieſme ou quatorzieſme,& auec froid & tremblement,elle eſt dange- reuſe,pource qu'il y a ſuſpicion qu'elle ſoit causée de quelque putrefaction, qui ſe faict au cerueau, ou a la dure-mere,ou au crane,principalement ſi elle eſt accompagnée d'autres accidens : comme ſi la couleur de la playe n'eſt rouge mais blafarde,comme chair lauée:laquelle choſe ſe fait à raiſon que la chaleur naturelle cſt preſque eſteinte,& le pus deuient viſqueux,pource que la chair eſt liquefiée. puis toſt apres ladite playe deuientaride & ſeiche,comme d'vne chair ſalée , & quelquesfois de couleur plombée & noiraſtre , ne iet- tant quaſi rien,à cauſe que la chaleur naturelle eſt pareillement languide, & quaſi ſuffoquée , qui eſt ſigne de corruption qui ſe fait en l'os,qui alors ſe faict aſpre & éleué ( comme on le trouue lors qu'il eſt carieux & pourry)où auparauant eſtoit liſsé & poly,& en fin deuient de couleur iaunaſtre,puis liuide, quand il eſt corrompu dauantage, & entre les deux tables y a matiere purulente & ſanieuſe, ce que i'ay veu pluſieurs fois:& alors l'on peut prognoſtiquer le patient eſtre en peril,& danger de mort:mais ſi ladite fiévre proce- de d'eryſipelas fait ou à faire,le plus ſouuent n'eſt mortelle. et pour diſcerner & ſçauoir ſi ladite fiévre eſt causée de matiere eryſipelateuſe ou bilieuſe : c'eſt qu'elle ſera tierce, & qu'elle commencera auec grand froid,puis vient la chaleur auec ſueur, & ne laiſſera le patient iuſques à la ſuppuration ou reſolution de la d matiere bilieuſe.auſſi les lévres de la playe,& autres parties à l'enuiron,ſeront tumefiées, enſemble toute signes mor- la face,auec grande inflammation aux yeux,ayant les maſchoires & col,roides & tendues,ne pouuant tour-» tels par les ner la teſte,ny ouurir la bouche.or telle defluxioneryſipelateuſe eſt engendrée & faite de ſang cholerique lévres de la ſubtil,chaud & ſec,lequel occupe communément la face pour deux raiſons : la premiere, pour la ſubtilité pºyº de l'humeur:l'autre,pour la tenuité & rarité du cuir. ainſi les accidens ſont plus grands que d'vne fluxion #º ºy phlegmoneuſe,qui ſont chaleur,& douleur poignante & mordante,auec rougeur tirant ſur le citrin,ou iau- l'eryſipelas maſtre parce que chacun humeur donne ſa teinture au cuir,comme auons dit cy-deſſus et ſubit qu'on preſſe º " du doigt deſſus la couleur s'éuanoüiſt,& toſt retourne.et pour la curation,faut auoir deux intentions l'vne jº . à l'euacuation,l'autre à la refrigeration & humectation. et ſi l'humeur eſt fimplement cholerique, ne faut cat de t ſaigner,mais le purger par remedes qui purgent la cholere,appellez des anciens,cholagogues. toutesfois # # ſi c'eſtoit vn eryſipelas phlegmoneux,faudroit faire ſaignée de la veine cephalique, du coſtéauquel le mal # ſeroit plus grand.et pour ce faire appelleras le medecin,ſi tu es en lieu où on le puiſſe recouurer. et apres § n . les choſes vniuerſellesfaites,il faut appliquer medicamens refrigeratifs & humectatifs,comme succum ſo- §. lani,ſemperuiui,portulacæ, lactucae , vmbilici veneris,lenticula paluſtris,cucurbitæ : deſquel, vſeras ſeſon que les pourras recouurer,pource qu'il n'eſt neceſſaire les prendre toutes, mais ie les ay inſerées, afin que l'on vſe des vnes ou des autres.pareillement pourras vſer de acetoſa,coctain aqua communiad m.ij.poſtca piſtetur & coletur per ſeraceum,addendo vnguenti roſacei, vel populeonis portionem aliquam, & autres ſemblables, leſquels ſeront renouuellez ſouuent, iuſques à ce que la chaleur qui eſt contre nature , ſoit eſteinte. et faut éuiter toutes choſes onctueuſos & oleagine'aºs,à raiſon que promptement s'en † & feroient remedes propres aux eryſipelrs, le dixiefme l ure, hib. aph. & feroient le mal plus grand. puis apres s'il eſt beſoin,l'on vſera de remedes reſolutifs : & icy noteras que a . liu. . , c'eſt vn bon ſigne de guariſon,lors que l'humeur eſt jetté du dcdans au dehors: & au contraire,quand il re- eryſipela ab tourne de dehors au dedans,c'eſt mauuais preſage,ainſi quel'experience le môſtre. ce qu'auſſi hippocrate #terioriºu , a eſcrit.quand l'os eſt purulent,il vient des puſtules à la ligue,pource qu'il tombe de la ſanie par les trous rc. , du palais ſur ladite langue:& quand elie y eſt arreſtée , par ſon acrimonie fait eſleuer leſdites puſtules : & \ · quan i tel accident adaient,peu de gens en réchapent.c'eſt vn mauuais ſigne,quand le malade vient comme · | apopleétique, apres auoir eſté frappé : car tel accident il ( : monſtre ſeulement l'os eſtre bleſſé , mais auſſi le hip. au liu cerueau,le lºel !º peur pourrir & ſphaceler:ce qui eſt prouué par hippocrate,diſant, que quand l'os eſt ja des playes de purulent , il naiſt des puſtules à la langue, & le malade meurt n'ayant les ſens entiers : & aux vns ſuruient teſie. conualſion ou ſpaſine à la partie oppoſite du conp : auſſi l'on void communément par experience,qu'apres tel ſpaſme la mort aduient,& vn ſeul n'en réchappe:ce que i'ay touſiours veu , ouurant la teſte de ceux qui de tels accidens mouroient,où i'ay trouué portion de la ſubſtance du cerueau &des membranes pourrie,& ſphacelee.ie vcux en cét endroit aduertir le ieune chirurgien, qu'à aucuns les poulmons ſont attachez con- - tre les coſt es(comme ſouuent il ſe void par l'ouuerture des corps morts ) qui fait qu'à tels , ſi on fait vne contre-ouuerture au thorax,rien n'en peut ſortir:en ce cas le chirurgien eſt fruſtré de ſon intention : pour cela ne faut pas qu'il delaiſſe vne autrefois faire telles ouuertures quand il en ſera beſoin : car telle adhe- rence ne ſe void pas touſiours,mais rarement. pourquoy leſpaſme vient à l'oppoſite du coup. c h a p. xi. snu r la cauſe pourquoy le ſpaſme vient à l'oppoſite du coup, a eſté iuſques icy par pluſieurs re- . ·. cherchée,mais non aſſez clairement expliquée : pource m'a ſemble bon,de voüer vn chapitre à part à telle queſtion. i'eſtime tel accident prouenir a raiſon de la douleur de la playe,& auſſi que les humeurs & eſprits naturellement courent vers la partie bleſſée:leſquelles deux choſes épuiſent,ſeichent & conſument le coſté de la partie ſaine, dont puis apres tombe en conuul- i . _e qui e peut prouuer par galien au quatrieſme liure de vſ p•tium, qui dit que le ſouuerain con- ducteur a onioint les trois eſprits en mutuelle connexion , & infragile confederation par leurs produ- ctions, qui ſont veines,arteres & nerfs:parquoy ſi vn defaut en vn membre, les autres pareillement le negli- gent & partant la partie d meure languide,& deuient en atrophie,ou elle ſe meurt du tout. et ſi on m'ob- jecte que nature a fait tout noſtre corps double, afin que ſi vne partie eſtoit bleſsée , l'autre demeuraſt en ſon « ntier,ie l'accorde mais ie nie qu'elle ait fait tous les vaiſſeaux doubles : car n'y a qu'vne veine pour le nourriſſement de tout le cerueau, & de ſes membranes , qui eſt le torcular , par laquelle la partie ſeneſtre - bleſ ée peut épuiſer l'aliment de la dextre,& par conſequent cauſer la conuulſion par defaut d'aliment.or granº ºn il eſt vray qu'aux parties où les muſcles congenerez ſont égaux en grandeur,force & nombre,la reſolution msv : ' . d'vne partie cauſe conuulſion accidentaire à l'autre , mais au cerueau ne ſe fait ainſi : car les deux parties, - c'eſt à ſçauoir, dextre & ſent ſtre font chacune leur office à part, & ne s'attendent l'vne à l'autre, comme il ,appert en paralyſie:autrement ils'enſuiuroit qu'icelle lors qu'elle eſt vniuerſelle ( c'eſt à ſçauoir de la moi- tié du corps)apporteroit quant &-ſoy conuulſion à la partie oppoſite.ce qui eſt faux,comme on void iour- opinion de , nellement par experience parquoy ie conclus(ſauf meilleur iugement)que le ſpaſme qui eſt à l'oppoſite du dalechāps. - coup,vient par inanition,& faute d'aliment,& nourriture. toutesfois dalechamps en ſa chirurgie fran- çoiſe eſt en ceſte opinion:pour liquider ce doute(dit-il)faut preſuppoſer ce ſigne de conuulſion en la partie contraire,proposé d'hippocrate aduenir,quand pour la grandeur & vehemence de l'inflammation faite en la partie bleſsée, qui ja eſt tournée en gangrene du cerueau,& de ſes membranes , auec commencement de, ſphacele au teſt,le pafient doit mourir.en telle diſpoſition & ainſi conditionnée, eſt neceſſaire le ſentiment & mouuement effre perdu,comme nous voyons aux autres gangrenes , par l'extinction de la chaleur natu- relle:& dauantage,par la grandeur de l'inflammation eſtre tellement bouchez les conduits de l'eſprit ani- mal,qu'il ne peut deſcendre ou paſſer aux parties inferieures, & prochaines du cerueau de ce coſté là : & quand bien y pourroit deſcendre & paſſer,ſi ſeroit-il inhabile à cômuniquer & porter la vertu du ſentiment & mouuement,eſtant infect & alteré de la putrefaction aduenue en la playe.d'où s'éſuit que la partie bleſ- sée,priuée de ſentimét,n'eſt prouoquée à ſe retirer pour ſecourir & chaſſer de ſoyce qui luy pourroit eſtre moleſte,luy demeurant le ſens:& pour ceſte raiſon les nerfs procedans d'elle, ne ſont auſſi point retirez & - affligez de conuulſion:dauantage que tous les nerfs ayans leur origine de csſte partie, ſont deſtituez de la ' preſence & aſſiſtãce de l'eſprit animal,comme a eſté declaré:& de lâ procede la paralyſis des parties ſituées au coſté de la bleſsée.car paralyſie ſe fait,ou eſtant le nerfcoupé, comme aux grandes playes : ou eſtant le paſſage d'iceluy bouché,comme en l'apoplexie:ou eſtant ſa ſubſtāce abbreuuée & mollifiée de quelque hu- meur ſubtile,ou par quelque grande intemperature tellement offensée, qu'elle ne peut receuoirl'affluéce & vertu de l'eſprit animal.quant à la partie contraire,& ſa conuulſion, nous tenons pour choſe accordée, le ſpaſme eſtre fait ou par repletion, qui en eſtendant la ſubſtance des nerfs l'accourcitou parinanition, quand trois cauſes de paralyſie. eſtant conſommée & diſſipée leur humidité naturelle,la propre ſubſtance d'iceux eſt deſſeichée & retirée, que humidité ſaniguſe , : . causée d'vne ex † du pied monte au cerueau : aux picqueures des nerfs, quand eſtane fermé l'orifice de la playê , la matiere ſanieuſe y eſt retenue : & aux playes des nerfs quand quelque nerfº eſtant ſeulement à demy coupé , excite douleur vehemente. qjr nous trouuons en la partie contraire de · la bleſsée , deux de ces cauſes inſignes : vne matiere fanieuſe reſudante de la gangrene , acre & cuiſante, que hippocrate au denombrement des accidens mortels pour ſignifier ſa malignité, appelle iebora , & comme nous voyons # de luth approchée du feu:ou par ſentiment de quelque vapeur,ou de quel- signification ºº liure des fractures , zbaoyon, & non pyon ; dauantage , vne vapeur exhalante de la gangrene , puan- du met te & infecte , comme d'vne charongne pourrie. ce n'eſt donc merueille ſi la partie contraire , eſtant ſon ichera. ſentiment bon & entier, cſt offensée , tant de la matiere ſanieuſe,que de la vapeur infecte, & pour les de- chaſſer ſe retire, ſecoue , & branle , à quoy s'enſuit la conuulſion des nerfs , qui prennent leur • origine d'icelle, comme en l'epilepſie. a mon iugement, voyla comment ſe doit expliquer le di- opinion de , re d hippocrate & auicenne. hors l'occaſion d'vne playe ainſ mortelle, les praticiens adnotent quel- dalechamps quesfois en la partie bleſsée eſtre paralyſie, en l'oppoſite conuulſion : quelquesſois en la bleſsée conuul- toute eotrai- ſion , en la contraire , paralyſie : quelquesfois en toutes deux conuulſion ou paralyſie : quelquesfois en re à celle de chacune d'icelles ſeparément conuulſion , ou paralyſie, ſans que l'autre ſoit offensée : mais icy n'eſt le j'autheur lieu de rechercher les cauſes de cela. voyla le diſcours de dalechamps. annotation au chirurgien, qu'aux playes du ventre, où il y a plave aux inteſtins, ne faut donner clyftcre aux bleſſez,à raiſon que le clyſtere ſortiroit par la playe des inteſtins , & demeureroit en la capacite du ventre, qui ſe pourrit auec • le c #re，& mordante, ou d'vne douleur exceſſiue, comme il aduient en l'epilepſie d - n des playes en particulier. q a le ſang, & s'eſleuent grandes ventofitez putredineuſes, qui font enfieure,& tenſion au ventre & quand telle choſe aduient, fay prognoſtic que le malade bien-toſt mourra,ce que i'ay veu pluſieurs fois aduenir.et prin* cipalement quand le malade eſt febricitant, & dit ſentir vnc extreme douleur aux teſticules. sommaire desſignes mortels cy deſſus mentionnez. c h a p. xii. #e t pour retourner à noftre propos, & te dire tout en ſommaire : de tous les accidens ſuſdits; $ tu peux faire prognoſtic de la mort du patient,lors qu'il perd ſa ratiocination, & n'ayant plus # de memoire, parle ſans occaſion, & a les yeux tenebreux, n'oyant point, & ſe veut jetter hors ，% du lict, ou ne peut mouuoir, ayant fièvre continué, auec puſtnles à la langue, qui meſme luy à$yee vº deuient ſeiche & noire, & ſ solaye aride,ne jettant aucune choſe, ou bien peu , & de couleur comme chair ſalée : ou s'il luy ſuruient apoplexie,phreneſie,ſpaſme, paralyſie,& le poulx formicant, reten- tion d'vrine, & autres excremens, & s'il tombc ſouuent en ſyncope, alors fay ton prognoftique, quc bien- toſt ton patient mourra. or les fuſdits accidens viennent quelquesfois aux premiers iours, & quelquesfois aſſez long-temps apres le coup donné. et s'ils viennent au commencement,c'eſt quand le cerueau eſt bleſſé. par inciſion,contuſion,compreſſion ou ponctions ou par commotion que nous auons par cy deuant appellé, ebranlement. et quand ils viennent quelc$* temps apres , c'eſt lors qu'il ſuruient inflammation, & que le : ſang ſe putrefie, & que l'os ſe fait purulent, & par conſequent apotteme au cerueau. . playe as d'abondant noterez que ſouuentesfois vne playe faite au crane, cauſe vn apoſteme au foye. ce que ro- c ， ſait bert greaume, regent en la faculté de medecine, & binoſque, chirurgien iuré à paris, & moy, auons veu apopen , as puis n'agueres en trois patiens. , foyeu. et ſi tu m'objectes que telle apoſteme eſtoit ja concreée auparauant le coup donné : ie reſpons que les hiſtoire . b patiens,auparauant eſtre bleſſez, auoient vne viue & naturelle couleur ſans aucun ſigne d'eſtre hepatiques, caaſes des & éſtoient bien habituez, faiſans toutes leurs operations : ce que tu pourras voir par experience y prenant apoſtemes qui garde,comme i'ay fait la cauſe de ce peut eſtre que nature ſe ſentant offenſée par grande vehemence au ſe font ai coup,collige & retire à ſon ſecours,ſes forces & vertus de toutes les parties du corps(qui ſont le ſang & les foy，. eſprits)vers le cœur & le foye : ainſi que voyons en peur & crainte, & adoncques fait inflammation au foye: ainſi qu'il ſe fait en quelque pa tie , lors que le ſang coule en plus grande quantité qu'il n'eſt beſoin pour ſa nourriture:dont le foye ayant reçeu plus de ſang & eſprits, leſquels ne peuuent eſtre deuement euentilez, pour l'exiguité & anguſtie(c'eſt à dire, pour la petiteſſe & eſtroiſſeur de ſes vaiſſeaux) alors ſe fait fiévre & apoſteme phlegmoneuſe en ſa propre ſubſtance, dont la mort s'enſuit. ou ſi tu aimes mieux dire auec mon- ſieur de la corde,que nature ſuccumbant ſous le faix du mal,vient à renuoyer vne partie de cefte matiere pu- rulente auec le moins d'incommodité qu'il ſe peut au foye par les veines : & qu'ainſi ſoit, tous ccux auſquels vne apqſteme ſe fait au foye, le cerueau bleſſé, meurent, la chair aiſément ſe regenere en tous les endroits corn. cetf. de la teſte,fors à la partie du front, qui eſt vn peu au deſſus du milieu des ſourcils : car en ce lieu-là à peyne liu. , ch. , y peut-elle croiſtresde ſorte que toute la vie du malade,l'vlcere y demeure, parce qu'en tel endroit il y a vne intercauité en l'os,pleine d'air,qui ſe rend aux os cribleux du nez,lequel air empeſche la confolidation dudit vlcere, & en outre, l'os eſt ſi épais & denſe, qu'il ne peut ſuintcr aſſez d'aliment pour la regeneration de la chair.adiouſté que du nez, & des yeux eſt enuoyée en l'vlcere grande quantité d'excremens, qui empeſchent que l'vlcere ne ſoit menée à cicatrice,dont aduient que lors qu'on fait ſerrer le nez & la bouche du malade, & qu'il s'efforce à ſouffler, l'air ſort du trou de l'vlcere en ſi grande quantité, qu'il peut eſtein- dre vne bien groſſe chandelle ce que ie protcſte auoir veu en vn quidam que i'auois trepané,parce que l'os hiſtoire, c coronal en cét endroit auoit eſté rompu & enfoncé,vn peu au deſſus deſdites cauitez. - - ---- - _ - - - - - - - - - les ſignes & preſages de bonneguariſon. c h a p. xiii. è# v contraire, les ſignes & preſages de bonne guariſon, ſont lors que le patient n'a point de \ # fiévre,ratiocine, mange & boit de bon appetit, dort,aſſelle bien, & que ſa playe eſt vermeille $# non aride & ſeiche,jettant pus loüable, & l'os gardant ſa couleur naturelle, & que la dure- | #\# mere à ſon mouuement libre, toutesfois tu noteras que les anciens ont eſcrit (ce qu'on void lesfaétitres - ſouucnt par experience)que les fractures du crane ne ſont hors du peril, iuſques à cent iours de la teſte né apres la bleſſure faite partant,fay auec ton patient bon guet,tant en ſon boire, manger,repos, coit,& autres ſont hors de choſes.et auſſi faut qu'il ſe garde du grand froid, pour le peril & danger de mort , qu'on a veu en telles ººº playes ſouuentesfois arriuer pour tels accidens, apres la guariſon faite deſdites fractures. outre-plus, i'ay #º à à te declarer que le callus,ſoulde,ou vni n des os du crane,ſe fait ordinairement en quarante ou cinquante º " iours : toutesfois on n'en peut donner vraye certitude pour la diuerſité des temperamens & âges,non plus que des fractures des autres parties, comme nous dirons cy apres. car aux ieunes ſe fait pluſioſt,aux vieils plus tard. et te ſuffiſe des preſages : maintenant faut parler de la cure generale, puis de la fpeciale : qui ſe fera le plus ſuccinctemeht,& le plus clair qu'il me ſera poſſible.laquelle choſe ſe fera pre . : ement en or- d donnant le regime ſur les ſix choſes non naturelles. xx ſ- du regime vniuerſel qu'ilfaut ordonnerauxplayes & fractures du crane,& aux accidens d'icelles. ch a p. xi v. # t premierement faut tenir le patient en vn air temperé, qui ſe fere par art, s'il n'eſt tel par # d'eſ. #) nature : comme ſi c'eſt en hyuer, faut faire bon feu en la chambre du malade, les feneſtres & er " #é portes bien cloſes,éuitant la fumée, de peur de prouoquer la ſte:nutation & autres accidens: $\| lé# Âya & auſſi alors que tu traiteras & penſeras le malade, te faut auuir vne baſſinoire pleine de brai- a i s ſe,ou vne pelle de fer,laquelle ſera tant eſchauffée q'uelle deuiénne rouge,& qu'vn ſeruiteur latienne ſur la teſte du maladé de telle hauteur que la patient en ſente aucunement la chaleur : afin que par hipp.liure ; la reuerberation d'icelle, l'air ambient, c'eſt à dire, qui eſt à l'entour, ſoit corrigé. car le froid(comme dit aph. . - hippocrate) eſt ennemy du cerueau , des os, & de tous les nerfs, & generalement de toute noſtre nature, galien s. de º que nous auons dit. auſſi eſt-il contraire aux vlceres en ſeichant les excremens, qui puis apres minent l'vſare des l'vlcere, empeſchans la ſupuration : & pource que cette partie n'a accouſtumé d'eſtre deſcouuerte de ſa part. chap. pºu & meſme,comme dit galien,il ſe faut donner garde de refroidir le cerueau quand on trepane,& apres - v eſtre l'air. o le dixieſme liure - - eſtre trepané : car c'eſt le plus grand mal qui peut aduenir au malade qui a la teſte rompue. or ſi l'air eſtoit plus chaud que le cerueau, il ne le refroidiroit pas : & encores que ſoyons en eſté, & que l'air ſoit exceſſi- uement chaud, le cerueau deſcouuert en eſt refroidy, & demande ſubit eſtre efchauffé.voyla ce que galien nous en a laiſſé par eſcrit, & ne ſe faut eſmerueilker ſi pluſieurs meurent de playes faites à la teſte, par faute d'eſtre à couuert.pareillement la trop grande chaleur ſera moderée en rafraiſchiſſant la chambre auec eau froide, ou oxycrat,rameaux de ſaulx,fueilles de vignes, & autres choſes ſemblables.semblablement ne ſera ledit patient expoſé en grande clairté , principalement iuſques à ce que les accidens ſoient paſſez : à cauſe son boire. 'qu'icelle diſſipe & reſoult les eſprits, & augmente la douleur,fiévre, & autres accidens.il faut auſſi du tout hipp au liu. éuiter le vin : ce que hippocrate enſeigne : mais en lieu de vin,pourra boire eau d orge, ou eau cuitte,en la- pºººººº , quelle on mettra mie de pain,que nous appellons eau panée, ou bien hippocras d eau, ou eau bouillie,puis meſlée auec ſyrop roſar,violat,ouaceteux,ou autre breuuage,apr>llé p u us dtuinus,lequel eſtºfait d'eau cuite eſtroite diete ſuccrée,& ius de limon ou citron,deſquels tu pourras bailler ſelon le gouſt du patient, & que ſon eſtomach prºnº pourra bien vſer. et de tels breuuages doit vſer le patient, iuſques à ce que les grands accidens ſoint paſ- "ºſtº ſez, qui ſont communément & le plus ſouuent dans le quatorzieſme iour. son manger ſera panade, orge º ººº mondé, & non amande : pource que les amandes cauſent douleur de teſte,à raiſon qu'elles ſont vaporeuſes: **" auſſi il pourravier de prunes de damas cuittes, paſſuies,raiſins de damas confits auec vn peu de ſuccre&ca- nelle (laquelle eſt ſinguliere,pource qu'elle conforte l'eſtomac , & reſioiiit les eſprits)& par fois d'vn petit poulet, pigeonneau, veau, chévrau, lévraux, petits oyſeaux des champs,comme faiſans, merles, tourtres, |» perdrix,griues,alouettes, & autres bonnes viandes bouillies auec laictues, pourpier,ozeille, bourroche,bu- gloſe,cichorée, endiue,& ſemblables.auſſi par fois pourront leſdites viandes aucunes eſtre roſties, & peut ledit malade vſer auec icelles, de verjus, orenges, citrons , limons, grenades aigres, jus d'ozeille , les di- uerſifiant ſelon le gouſt & la puiſſance de la bourſe du patient. et a celuy qui voudra manger du † b truites,loches,brochets,nourris en eau claire & non limoneuſe, & autres ſemblables : pareillement raiſins & prunes de damas,ceriſes aigres,paſſules : mais qu'il s'abſtienne de choux, & de tous legumages,parce qu'ils pºle fº- cauſent douleur de teſte.et pres le paſt,vſera de dragée commune,ou anis,fenoiul, coriande confits, con- º ºº.º- ſerues de roſes, ou cotignat, afin de garder que les vapeurs & fumées qui montent de l'eſtomach à la teſte, t tgnat. ne bleſſent le cerueau: pareillement le cotignat pris deuant le paſt,aſtraint le ventre à cauſe qu'il eſt ſtyptiqne - & aſtringent, &pertant ſerre l'eſtomach: mais prins apres le paſt, le laſche , à raiſon auſſi qu'il le reſſerre, # aſtraint, & contraint les viandes de ſortir hors. si c'eſt vn enfant, luy conuiendra donner petit & ſouuent " " à manger : pource que les ieunes ne peuuent porter la faim, comme les plus âgez, à raiſon qu'ils ont vne grande chaleur : parquoy ils ont beſoin de grande nourriture, autremeut leurs corps ſe conſomeroit : au - contraire, le vieil a ſa chaleur naturelle plus imbecille, à cauſe dequoy il porte mieux la faim que le ieune. et par ſemblable raiſon en temps d'hyuer , faut en toutes âges donner plus d'alimens , qu'en eſté : pource - que la chaleur naturelle eſt plus grande en hyuer qu'en auties temps, ainſi qu'il eſt prouué par hippocrate. hip.apb. . et apres le . iour(ſçauoir,s'il n'y a rien qui repugne, comme fiévre & autres accidens)on peut donner vn liure i. peu de vin, & augmenter ſon manger peu a peu, lelon qu'il ſera beſoin, prenant toufiours indication de la º *y*- vertu & couſtume du malade.il doit èuiter le dormir de iour, s'il eſt poſſible, ſi n'eſt bien peu, pourueu me,c c. que la dure-mere,ou le cerueau ne ſoit afhigé de phlegmon : car en telle neceſſité,il ſeroit meilleur faire du ºº ººrmir iour la§t, & principalement de la premiere partie du iour a ſçauoir , de ſix heures du matin iuſqu'à dix: pource qu'en ceſte partie du iour,comme auſſi au printemps,le ſang domineau corps,comme dit hippocrate au commencement du .des epidemies. or c'eſt choſe toute notoire,que par les veilles,le ſang eſt eſpandu - au dehors,ſuperficie & extremité du corps,comme au contraire par le dormir, il ſe retire au dedans vers les parties nobles : parquoy ſi auec ce que par le benefice du soleil leuant le ſangſe leue & eſpand en l'habitude c du corps,il venoit encore à s'y eſpandre dauantage par les veilles, l'inflammation & phlegmon ſe redouble- roit en la meninge & cerueau. parquoy il eſt tres expedient par le dormir,brider & retirer le cours du ſang en telle partie du iour,en cas d'inflammation,de l'habitude & parties externes du corps. d veiller. le veiller pareillement doit eſtre moderé, car le trop veiller corrompt la bonne temperature du cerueau & de toute l'habitude du corps : pource qu'auſſi excite cruditez , douleur, peſantur de teſte , & rend les -- playes arides, ſeiches , & malignes. mais ſi le patient ne peut dormir, à cauſe de l'inflammation des men- branes du cerueau, galien commande au treizieſme de la methode, faire des perfuſions, linimens,vnctions dans les narines,& au front,ou és oreilles, de choſes refrigeratiues : à cauſe qu'elles endorment,& rendent ſtupides les membranes, & le cerueau, qui ſont exceſſiuement eſchauffez. pour ceſte raiſon, on appliquera deco étion aux temples, vnguentum populeum, ou roſatum, auec oxyrhodinum , ou oxycrat. auſſi luy faut faire ſen- *ºrmitiue. tir vne eſponge trempée en vne decoction de pauot blanc ou noir, auec eſcorce de mandragore, ſemence de hyoſcyame, laictue,pourpier,plantin, morelle, ou autres. semblablement on luy pourra faire vn potage, vtilité du ou vn orge mondé , auquel l'on mettra vne emulſion de ſemence papaueris albi : ou bien prendre . j.vel dormir. . ). ß. ſyrupi papau. auec . ij. aqux lactucae : faut que ledit patient vſe de telles choſes quatre heu- res apres ſouper, afin de luy prouoquer le dormir. lequel dormir ayde grandement à faire la digeſtion. il reſtaure la ſubſtance du corps & eſprits qui ſont diſſipez par le trop veiller. dauantage, appaiſe les dou- leurs : il fortifie ceux qui ont laſſitude : pareillement fait oublier les courroux & triſteſſes , & corrige le iugement d« ºué : parquoy eſt beſoin au chirurgien prouoquer le dormir au malade lors qu'il luy eſt ne- ceſſaire. pareillement ſi le patient eſt replet, ſoit faite euacuation par ſaignée , ou purgation & garde diet- *ºº te,ſelon l'aduis & conſeil du docte medecin. et en cét endroit noteras, qu'on doit éuiter les medecines ºhºººº /ºr- fortes auſdites playes, principalement au commencement, de peur d'enfiainmer les humeurs, & faire com- *p"*** motion à toutes les facultez : qui ſeroit cauſe d'induire infiammation, douleur, fiévre, & autres accidens:ce que i'ay veu aduenir ſouuentesfois. et quant auſſi à la ſaignée(ſelon galien, au quatrieſme de la methode) ne doit eſtre ſeulement faite pour l'abondance du ſang, mais auſſi pour la grandeur de la maladie pre ſente ou future : afin de diuertir & faire reuulſion pour tirer la fluxion, laquelle commence aux parties contraires: saignée re- & celle qui eſt-ja coniointe, doit eſtre vacuée de la partie meſme, ou la deriuer de la partie proche.exem- uulſiue. ple pour faire la reuulſion : si la partie dextre de la teſte eſt bleſſée , la ſaignée ſe fera de la veine cephali- que du bras droit, s'il n'y auoit grande plenitude:& en defaut de la cephalique,faut ouurir la mediane : & ſi on ne peut trouuer la mediane, ſoit prinſe la baſilique : & ſi la bleſſeure eſt du coſté ſeneſtre, ſera fait le ſemblable du bras ſeneſtre, pluſtoſt qu'à l'oppofite, afin que plus ayſément ºn attire & deſcharge la partie, par la rectitude des filamens : & en tirant, le ſang, faut auoir égard ſur toutes choſes à la vertu du patient, qui ſe fera en touchant ſon pouls ( ſi le medecin n'eſt preſent) pource , comme dit galien au liure de san- »} guiais miſſione,qu'il monſtre infalliblement la vertu & force du patient. parquoy faut auoir égard en ſa mu, nn'eſt»rceſ tation & inégalité : & ſitu le trouues petit & lent auecques vne petite ſueur qui commence avenirau front- ſaire au chi- mal de cœur,comme volonté de vomir,& bien ſouuét d'aſſeeller, auec baaillemens, & mutation de couleur - ayan - : - - a - - des playes en particulier. i ayant les lévres paſles:ſitelles choſes apparoiſſent,ſubit te faut clorre la veine,de peur que tune tires l'ame rurgien de auec le ſang : & alors donneras au malade vn peu de pain trempé en vin , & luy frotteras les temples & le §,. nez de fort vinaigre,& le feras coucher tout plat à la renuerſe.et quât au ſecond poinct,qui eſt de la fluxió pouls au ja faite & arreſtée en la partie,elle doit eſtre vacuée par la partie meſme,ou eſtre deriuée par la proche.la malade, ſi le partie ſera deſchargée de la fluxion coniointe & arreſtée en la partie,faiſant des ſçarifications aux lévres de medecin la playe,ou par application de ſangſuës bien preparées : la matiere ſera deriuée en ouurant les veines pro- n'eſt preſent. ches de la playe,à ſçauoir,de la veine puppe , ou celle du milieu du front, ou des veines & artères les plus saignée va- apparentes des temples, ou celles de deſſous la langue. pareillement ſeront faites fictions & applications cuatiu. de ventouſes ſur les eſpaules,ſoit auec ſcarification,ou ſans ſcarification,ſelon la neceſſité. outre plus,no-$ºisºº de- teras que pendant la curation, ſouuentesfois il conuiendra faire des frictions aſſez longues & fortes , auec º linges vn peuaſpres,vniuerſellement par tout le corps,excepté la teſte:leſquelles ſeruiront, tant pour faire reuulfion des matieres qui pourroient monter en haut(per halitum)c'eſt à dire par exhalation, ou inſenſible tranſpiration de certaines vapeurs côtenuës entre cuir & chair,leſquelles s'augmêtent fort en noſtre corps, & principalement par faute de faire l'exercice accouſtumé. d'abondant ie ne veux outrepaſſer,que ie ne re- cite de la ſaignée ceſte hiſtoire digne au chirurgien,& à tous d'eſtre bien notée. c'eſt que ces iours paſſez, hiſtoireme- ie fus appellé aux fauxbourgs s.germain des prez,à l'image s.michel,au logis du ſire ieâ matiau,pour viſiter morable de & medicamenter vn ieune homme de mon eur douradour, âgé de vingt-huict ans ou enuiron , & de tem- la ſaignº perature ſanguine,l'vn des maiſtres d'hoſtel de madame l'admiralle brion : lequel eftoit tombé la tefte ſur vne pierre,à l'endroit de l'os parietal partie ſeneſtre,& au moyen du coup , s'eſtoit fait vne playe contuſe, ſans toutesfois aucune fracture d'os:par le moyen de laquelle le .iour luy ſuruint vne fiévre continue & reſuerie, auec grande inflammation phlegmoneuſe, causée par la leſion du pericrane accompagnée d'vne tumeur mcrueilleuſe de toute la teſte & le col,ayant le viſage grandement dèfiguré,ne pouuât voir ny par- ler,& moins aualler aucunes choſes,ſi elles n'eſtoient bien liquides. subit , voyant tels accidens, combien que le iour de deuant qui eſtoit le .iour de fa bleſſeure, il euſt eſté ſaigné par germain agace , maiſtre barbier audit s.germain,lequel luy auoit tiré quatre palettes de ſang : & voyant les accidens ſi grands, la force & vertu du patient bonne,reiteray la ſaignée , & luy tirav quatorze palettes pour ceſte fois : puis le iour ſuiuant, voyant que la fiévre ny aucuns des accidens ne s'eſtoient nullement diminuez , mais pluſtoſt eſtoient augmentez,reitere la ſaignée , & luy tire de rechef quatre palettes, qui eſtoient vingt-deux : & le lendemain voyant encores les accidens n'eſtre diminuez,fus encores d'aduis le reſaigner,ce que n'oſay faire ſeul,veu la grande éuacuation qu'on auoit ja faite. et alors priay monſieur violence, docteur regent en la faculté de medecine,homme docte,& de bon iugement, de voir le patient. lequel ſubit luy ayant touché le pouls, le trouuant fort robuſte,& voyant pareillement à l'ceil la grande tumeur, l'impetuoſité & vehe- mence de l'inflammation, fut d'aduis que promptement fuſt reſſaigné : & luy ayant dit que ja on en auoit - • tiré vingt-deux palettes,m'vſa de ces mots : e lo,qu'on luv en euſt tiré dauantage , ſi eſt-ce qu'il luy en faut deux indi- encorestirer : attendu que les deux indications principales qui nous indiquent a faire la ſaignée, ſont pre-ºtiºn de la ſentes : à ſçauoir la grandeur de la maladie,& la force & vertu du parient. adonc fus bien ioyeux , & ſou- ſºsº dainluy en tiray encore trois palettes en ſa preſence & luy en voulois tirer dauantage, ce qu'il remit à l'a-º pº preſdinée,où ie luy en retirayencore deux , qui ſont vingt-ſept palettes, qui furent tirées audit patient en de pari peu- quatre iours ſuiuans. et la nuict ſuiuante le patient repoſa fort bien : & le lendemain le trouuay ſans fiévre, #. la tumeur grandement diminuée, l'inflammation preſque toute eſteinte, horſmis les paupieres ſuperieures & plus des yeux,& le mollet des oreilles, leſquels endroits s'apoſtumerent, & jetterent aſſez grande quantité de - boue. et proteſte qu'il fut entierement guary,graces à dieu, par les remedes : qui ſans la benediction d'ice- luy,ſont du tout inutiles. or t'ay bien voulu reciter telle hiſtoire, afin que le ieune chirurgien ne ſoit ti- mide à tirer du ſangauxgrandes inflammations : pourueu que principalement la force & vertu du patient ſoit grande : ie dy grande, parce qu'il y a des perſonnes que ſi on leur auoit tiré trois palettes de ſang, on , - ſeroit quelquesfois cauſe de leur oſter la vie.et pour retourner à noſtre propos, il faut que le malade éuite # playes l'acte venerien,non ſeulement pendant que ſa playe n'eſt encore conſolidée,mais,long-temps apres,pource # qu'en petite quantité de ſemence, eſt contenué grande quantité d'eſprits : & qu'vne grande portion de la- # & dite ſemence procede du cerueau,qui eſt cauſe de debiliter les vertus , & principalement la faculté anima- - le : dont grands accidens , & ſouuent mort prochaine aduient par tel acte à ceux qui ont playes à la teſte: ce que ie puis atteſter auoir veu ſouuent aduenir en bien petites playes de teſte, encores que la playe fuſt du tout conſolidée. semblablement le chirurgien ne doit meſpriſer les affections de l'ame,pource qu'elles des affectiös cauſent grands mouuemens,& mutations au corps,à cauſe qu'elles dilatent ou compriment le cœur,& en ce de l'amº. faiſant les eſprits ſe reſoluent,ou aſtraignent,& ſuffoquent : ces paſſions ſont ioye , amour, eſperance, ire, triſteſſe,crainte,& autres;toutes leſquelles doiuent eſtre corrigées par leurs contraires, dauantage,faut que le malade ſoit en vn lieu de repos, & hors de grand bruit , s'il eſt poſſible, comme repos. loin de cloches,non pres de mareſchal,tonnelier,maletier,armurier,paſſages de charrettes, & leurs ſembla- bles, pource que le bruit luy augmente la douleur, la fiévre, & autres mauuais accidens. et me ſouuient quand i'eftois dernierement au chaſteau de hedin,qu'à l'heure qu'on faiſoit la batterie,le bruit & retentiſ- hiſtoire de , ſement de l'artillerie cauſoit aux patiens vnc douleur extreme,& principalement à ceux qui eſtoient bleſſez la neceſſité à la teſte:car ils diſoient qu'il leur ſembloit, qu'autant de coups de canon qu'on tiroit,'qu'on leur donnoit d vn lien dé autant de coups de baſton ſur leurs playes:& meſmément leur furuenoit flux de ſang par icelles,& faiſoient rººy. · grands pleurs & lamentations:de ſorte que la douleur:fiévre,& autres,accidens,eſtoient par telle vehemen- ce grandement augmentez,& la mort accelerée.ette ſuffiſe du regime vniuerſel : maintenant faut declarer la cure particuliere ſelon qu'aucuns des anciens ont eſcrit, & auſſi ſelon ce que i'ay experimenté par plu- ſieurs années. de la cure particuliere, & premierement des playes du cuir muſculeux. c h a p. x v. t pour la cure particuliere , nous commencerons à vne playe ſimple, laquelle pour ſa cu- gala. de la $ re n'a qu'vn ſeul & ſimple ſcope , qui eſt vnion : car ſi elle ne penetre iuſques au crane, elle methode. #x eſt pensée & curée comme celles des autres parties de noſtre corps : mais ſi elle eſt com- # posée, autant qu'il y aura de complications , autant faudra-il qu'il y ayt d'indications. et g. v \ ) # en icelles faut garder l'ordre, l'vrgent, & la cauſe. donc ſi la playe eſt ſimple & ſuperficiel- le, faut premierement raſer le poil d'alentour , & appliquer vn medicament, fait cum albumine oui, & bºlo armenico & aloé : & le lendemain appliquer vn emplaſtre de ianna ou gratia dei, & la º† - v z utqu a • -- zar : , le dixieſme liure, iuſqu'à la parfaite vnion de la playe : mais ſi la playe eſt profonde iuſqu'au pericrane, on ne peut faillir au a ſecond appareil,à mettre dâs icelle vn digeſtif,fait cum terebenthina veneta,vitellis ouorum,oleo roſaceo, & tantillo croci:& en ſera côtinué iuſqu'à ce que la playe jettera ſanie & alors ſera adiouſté audit digeſtif mel roſatum , & farina hordei.puis apres ſeront appliquez autres medicamens, auſquels n'entrera aucune medicament huile,ny autre choſe vnctueuſe,comme ceſtuy. /.. tereb. veneta # ij. ſyrupi roſati .j. pul. aloës, myrrha , epºlºti º, & maſtich.añ. . ſ. incorporentur ſimul, & fiat vnguentum : duquel il fandra vſer iuſqu'à la procreation de ººº la chair. puis pour faire cicatrice,ſera appliqué la poudre qui s'enſuit. %. aluminis combuſti,corticis gra- zatif. natorum combuſtorum afi. . j.miſceantur ſimul, & fiat puluis. et ſi la playe eſtoit ſi grande qu'il fuſt be- ſoin faire aucun poinct d'aiguille,ſeront faits en tel nombre qu'il ſera beſoin. comme ie fis à vn ſoldat qui hiſtºireº eſtoit dans le chaſteau de hedin,vn peu deuant le ſiege dernier,qui beſchoit en terre auec pluſieurs autres, º'º ſº pour la porter ſur les remparts,ſur aucuns deſquels tomba vne grande quâtité de ladite terre,qui en eſtouffa qui fut bleſ ja plus grande partie : ledit ſoldat fut tiré de deſſous, & eut tout le cuir muſculeux incisé, & deprimé iuſ- $é f # " ques au pericrane,commençant ſa playe deux doigts au deſſus du ſommet de la teſte, & eſtoit renuersé ſur #. " le viſage : ce qui faiſoit grande horreur à regarder. et l'ayant veu,fis appeller charles lambert,chirurgien € / , de defunct monſieur le mareſchal duc de boiiillon,pour m'ayder à le penſer : dont l'ordre fut tel. ie laua ſa playe de vin vn peu tiede,tant pour oſter le ſang coagulé, que la terre qui y eſtoit : puis fut icelle bien # choſe à ne- ſuyée auec linge mollet & delié. et luy appliquay ſur toute ſadite playe terebentine de veniſe, meſlée auec ter touchant vn peu d'eau de vie, en laquelle auoit eſté diſſoult ſang de dragon, alocs ; & poudre de maſtic : & apres luy les poinčts renuerſay & remis ledit cuir en ſon lieu naturel,& luy fis pluſieurs poincts d'aiguille peu ſerrez,pour éuiter d'aiguille. augmentation de douleur,& inflammation,quife fuit principalement au temps que la ſanie ſe fait, pour te- nir ioinctes les parties qui eſtoient diſtantes & ſeparées,& garder l'alteration de l'air, lequel nuiſt grande- ment à telles playes , comme nous auons dit. auſſi luy furent miſes des tentes aſſez longues & plattes,aux b parties inferieures de la playe,tant d'vn coſté que d'autre, pour donner iſſue à la ſanie. et par deſſus toute la teſte luy fut appliqué vn cataplaſme tel que s'enſuit. é. farinae hordei,& fabar. añ. . vj. olei roſa . iij. aceti quant. ſuff. fiat cataplaſ. ad formam pultis : lequel a vertu de ſiccatiue , refrigeratiue, & repercuſſiue: auſſi de ſe der la douleur,eſtancher le flux de ſang,& éuiter inflammation : & luy eſtoit renouuellé ſouuent, | . de peur qu'eſtant deſſeiché les farines ne vinſſent à clorre les pores,ſe rendans trop emplaſtriques, & par conſequent ne permiſſent qu'il ſe fiſt aucune exhalation,& reſolution des vapeurs contenues en la partie et audit ſoldat ne luy fuſt fait ſaignée,à raiſon qu'il auoit eu grand flux de ſang, principalement par certaines arteres qui ſont aux temples : & eſtant bien aduerty que l'ennemy nous venoit toſt aſſieger , luy conſeillay de ſe retirer à abbeuille,afin qu'il fuſt mieux traitté,ce qu'il fit. et depuis vous puis bien aſſeurer, l'auoir · • veu audit abbeuille du tout guary,lors que ie retournay de priſon d'entre les mains des ennemis. hiſtoire » mais ſi la playe eſtoit faite par morſure de beſte, il la faudroit traiter par autre maniere. ce que ie te *'ºn fille veux bien en cét endroit auſſi demonſtrer par l'hiſtoire qui s'enſuit vn iour eſtans les lyons du deffunct mºrduë d'vn roy henry en ceſte ville aux tournelles,comme pluſieurs les alloient voir, il aduint qu'vn d'iceux ſe deſta- lyon. cha & ietta ſa griffe ſur vne fille âgée de douze ans,ou enuiron,& l'atterra : ce fait, engoula ſa teſte,& auec les dents luy fit pluſieurs playes,ſans toutesfois luy faire aucune fracture aux os.et eſt vray-ſemblable qu'il l'euſt deuorée,n'euſt eſté que le maiſtre deſdits lyons luy oſta ceſte pauure fille d'entre les dents & les grif- fes. en cét endroit ſe trouua vn nommé roland claret,maiſtre barbier chirurgien a paris,qui penſa & me- dicamenta ladite fille. et quelques iours apres fus mande pour la viſiter,laquelle trouuay febricitante, auec grande tumeur & inflammation de toute la teſte : enſemble d'vne eſpaule , & du thorax, principalement aux endroits où les dents & griffes dudit lyon auoient entré:& eſtoient les lévres deſdites playes liuides, & d'icelles ſortoit matiere ſereuſe,virulente,acre,& fort fœtide,& quaſi intolerable à ſentir,ainſi que d'v- c ne charongne, de couleur noire & verdoyante : & diſoit ladite fille ſentir grandes douleurs pongitiues & toutes mor- mordantes. voyant tels accidens, il me vint promptement en memoire que les anciens auoient laiſſé par ſºrº & bie- eſcrit, que toutes picqueures & morſures de beſtes(voire fuſſent-elles faites d'hommes)eſtoient veneneu- # * ſes,les vnes plus, les autres moins:& partant ie conclus qu'il falloit auoir égard a l'impreſſion du venin de- # # laiſsé, tant par les dents que par les griffes dudit lyon, & qu'il conuenoit appliquer choſes qui euſſent fa- º jºh /e , culté & puiſſance d'obtondre tous venins:& partant on luy fit pluſieurs ſcarifications autour de ſes playes, & y furent appliquées des ſangſuës,pour tirer le venin dehors,& deſcharger les parties enflammées : & ſu- bit luy fut faite ablution d'egyptiac,mithridat & theriaque,auec vn petit d'eau de vie, ainſi qu'il s'enſuit , à ſçauoir. . mithridat, .j. theriacœ veter. . ij.aegypt. . ß. diſſoluantur omnia cum aqua vitae , & cardui be- nedicti : & luy en furent lauées & fomentées toutes ſes playes. et aux medicamens qu'on appliquoit tant dedans ſes playes,que dehors,eſtoit mis deſdits theriaque & mithridat : pareillement luy en fut donné par l'eſpace de quelquesiours à bpire auec conſerue de roſes, & bugloſe, diſſoult dans eau de petite ozeille & chardon beniſt,pour la corroboration du cœur,afin qu'il ne fuſt infecté des vapeurs malignes.pareillement / luy fut appliqué ſur la region du cœur tel epitheme. /.aqux roſarum & nenupharis ań. .iiij.aceti ſcilli- tici. .j. corallorum & ſantallorum alborum & rubrorum,roſarum rubrarum : pulſpodij , afi. . j. mith i- dati,theriacae,añ. .ij.florumcordialium pulueriſatorum p. ij. croci. .j. diſſolue omnia ſimul. fiat epithe- ma,quod ſuperponatur cordi,cum panno coccineoaut ſpongia.et eſtoit cedit remede renouuellé ſouuent: & vous puis aſſeurer, que dés la premiere fois que nous euſmes fait tels remedes, la douleur & inflamma- d tion,auec autres mauuais accidens,commencerent à diminuer,& depuis fut guarie : reſte, que plus de deux - ans apres,au lieu qu'elle ſouloit eſtre graſſe & en bon poinct , demeura fort maigre & extenuée de tous ſes membres, mais à preſent elle ſe porte bien. or i'ay bien voulu reciter telle hiſtoire au ieune chirurgien, afin qu'il tienne en memoire, que les playes faites par picqueures & morſures de beſtes , demandent autre cure que les autres faictes par autres cauſes. or maintenant il nous faut retourner aux autres diſpoſitions, comme ſi c'eſt vn coup orbe qui ait causé contuſion ſans playe : alors ayant razé tout le poil(ce qu'il faut toufiours faire, afin de cognoiſtre mieux le mal,& que les remedes puiſſent pareillement mieux profiter ) pour le premier appareil on doit vſer de re- percuſtifs,comme d'oxyrhodinum,ou tel qui s'enſuit, z.olei roſati. . iij. albumina ouorum numero ij. pul- ucris nucis cupreſſi,balauſt.aluminis rochæ,roſarum rubrarum,afi. .j.incorporentur ſimul, fiat medicamen- tum ad vſum dictum.ou au lieu d'iceluy,on peut appliquer le cataplaſme fait de farine d'orge, de féues , & d'ox crat,& huile roſat,cy-deſſus eſcrit,ou autres ſemblables:leſquels remedes ſe doiuent renouueller ſou- ucnt.et apres que la fluxion & douleurs ſont appaisées,faut appliquer des reſolutifs,afin de reſoudre les hu- meurs defluez à la partie.exéple. .emplaſtri de mucilaginibus .ii. emplaſtri de meliloto & oxycrocei añ. - .j.olei camomillar,&anethiañ. .f.malaxentur ſimul,& fiat emplaſtrum ad vſum dictû : duquel ſera appli- qué ſur ladite partie.pareillement en tel cas on peut vſer de fomentation,côme de ceſte-cy. z.vini rubri r . iii, lixiuijcommunis fb.ij.nuces cupreſſi contuſas,numerox.pulueris myrtillorum #. j. roſarum rubrarum, abſinthijs t, : : des playes en particulier. c abſinthi,foliorum ſaluiæ,maioranx,ſtœchados,ſſorum camomillæ,meliloti añ.m.ſaluminis rocha, radicis cyperi,calami aromatici an. .f.bulliant omnia ſimul, & fiat decoctio pro fotu : & d'icelle ſoit fomente le - , de lieu bleſſé auec eſponges,ou feutres. icelle fomentation reſout & ſeiche le ſang meurtry , comme on peut # º cognoiſtre par ſes ingrediens : & lafaut faire longuement, & apres faut eſſuyer & ſeicher tres-bien la teſte # # - auec linges chauds,& appliquer deſſus encores choſes plus reſolutiues, pour touſiours conſumer & reſou- #. dre,comme le cerat,eſcrit par de vigo,appellé ceratum de minio,lequel a vertu d'amollir & reſoudre, & ae eſttel. /. olei camomillae, liliorumañ. .x. olei maſtichis .ij. pinguedinis veruecis fb. j, lithargiri aurei jºie reſout . viij.minij #.ij. vini boni cyathum vnum,bulliant omnia ſimul,baculo agitando, in primis lento igne , & plus qu'elle in fine,ignis augmentetur,donecacquirat colorem nigrum, veltendentem ad nigredinem, addendo in fine n'attire. coctura terebenthinœ fb.É. pul.maſtichis . ij. gummi elemi .j. cerœ quantum ſufficit, & bulliant rurtus cerarum de vna ebullitione,& fiat emplaſtrum molle. et ſi par tels moyens on ne peut reſoudre , & qu'on voye y auoir minio. molleſſe & inondation,alors faut ouurir la tumeur le pluſtoſt qu'il ſera poſſible. car quand la chair eſt en- les cauſes flammée & pourrie,elſe altere l'os,& le rend purulent,tant à cauſe de l'infiammation, qu'à cauſe auſſi de l'a- de rend - crimonie de la ſanie qui tombedeſſus parquoy faut promptement faire apertion,& mundifier la playe auec * purulent. vntel mundificatif l. ſyrupiroſati,& abſinthij,añ. .j. terebenthinx .j.É.pulueris ireos,aloes, maſtichis, myrrhæ,farinz hordei,añ. .ſº.ou egyptiac meſlé auec apoſtolorum, parties eſgales , ou pur , s'il eſt beſoin pour †º vne grande pourriture : & apres la mundification, faut vſer de remedes incarnatifs , puis c c ti zat is. cure des accidens qui aduiennent au crane. ch a p. xv i. mz r apresauoir parlé des remedes propres u cuir muſculeux, ſelon la diuerſité des diſpoſitions u) d'iceluy:maintenant faut declarer ceux du crane & de la dure-mere. doncques ſi l'os eft fra- cturé,& qu'il ſoit beſoin de le trepaner,ou l'eſleuer ou ruginer : apres auoir fait ſection audit cuir muſculeux,faut deprimer le pericrane de contre le crane,ainſi qu'auons dit. ce qui ne ſe ººº peut faire ſans grâde douleur pour la ſenſibilité d'iceluy,& la connexion qu'ila aux mébranes du cerueau par les ſutures:& partant faut bien auoir égard à mitiger la douleur, pour éuiter inflammation, & autresaccidens.doncques apresqu'on aura fait le premier appareil, & eſleué les angles de la playe , au pi eſtif, ſecôd ſera mis vn digeſtif fait de iaune d'œuf & d'huile roſat,auec vn peu de terebenthine,& fur l'os qu'on geſtif, voudra garder ſain,ne faut nullement toucher de choſes humides,enſuiuant galien, qui dit, qu'on ne doit gal .liu.l nullement vſer aux os deſnuez , de choſes vnctueuſes, mais au contraire de toutes choſes qui deſſeichent § | - | toute humidité ſuperfluë. dont faut mettre ſur ledit os charpy ſec, ou pouldres cephaliques (leſquelles - deſcrirons cy-apres)& garder qu'il ne ſoit alteré,tant de l'air que des medicatnens humidés, pareillement | apres qu'on aura trepané,faut auoir grande ſolicitude à bien traiter la dure-mere. car quelquefois il iort - | grande quantité de ſang de quelque vaiſſeau, qui pourroit eſtre attaché contre la ſeconde table:ce que i'ay - ". veu fouuent aduenir.et toutesfois ne le faut ſubit eſtancher, mais le laiſſer fluer ſelon la plenitude, force,& a- - - - - | vertu du malade : car par tel moyen la fiévre & autres accidens font moins grands : ce qui eſt prouué par hippocrate,qui dit,qu'il eſt neceſſaire laiſſer fluer le ſang aux playes recentes,excepté aux ventres : car par tel moyen elles ſeront moins moleſtes de douleur,inflammation,& d'autres accidens.et les vieilles(dit-il) hi,.. liuri | on les doit faire ſouuent ſaigner,à raiſon que par tel moyen on deſcharge la partie des humeurs contenues ## | en icelle. or donc apres en auoir laiſſéfiuer aſſez, ſera arreſté auec ce remede eſcrit de galien. z. pul. ， g§ " | aloes : ij. thur. maſt. añ. .j. ſ. albumina ouorum , numero ij. agitentur ſimul cum pilis leporis minutim iiu. . de la incifis,fiat medicamentum.et apres que le flux ſera eſtanché pour ſeder la douleur,ſera appliqué deſſus là- methode. dite dure-mere,ſang de pigeon,recentemét tiré de deſſous l'aile:puis de ceſte poudre qui s'enſuit. /...aloes, au . de la , thuris,mirrha,ſanguinis draconis afi. .j.miſce,fiat puluis ſubtilis.et pourra-on auſſi faire vne embrocation meth. d'oxyrhodinum,ou autres repercuſſifs,comme le cataplaſme fait de farine,de vinaigre, & huile roſat,pour addoucir & appaiſer la douleur & euiter inflammation iuſques au quatrieſme iour : puis on pourra ſeure- ment vſerdu cerat de vigo, lequel me ſemble eſtre fort propre pour les os du crane fracturez , pource cerat d, pt. qu'il attire la matiere du profond à la ſuperficie, reſoult & deſeiche moderément :& à cauſe de ſon odeur, gº propre reſióuit l'eſprit animal, robore le cerueau & les membranes. ce faiſant, appaiſe la douleur, comme on le aux fractu- , pourra cognoiſtre par les ingrediens,qui entrent en ſa compoſition,qui eſt telle. .olei roſati omphacini, res du cra- reſina pini, gummi elemi afi. .ij. maſtich. .j. É. pinguedinis arietis .ij. É. foliorum bethonicx, matri- * . ſylua,anthos añ. manip.j. ammoniaci .f. granorum tinctorum .x. liquefiat pinguedo , & trituranda tri- turentur,& liquefac ſimul ammoniacum cum aceto ſcillitico : deinde bulliant omnia ſimul in fb.ij. vini bo- ni,lento igne vſque ad conſumptionem vini , deinde exprimantur : cum expreſſione addantur terebenthinae venetx .iiij. cerx alba quantum ſufficit,fiat cerotum molle : deſquels remcdes ſera vſé ſelon la neceſſité: - ce qui eſt enjoint par hippocrate,& en la methode de galien,qui commandent toufiours indications con- hip. de vut. traires.pareillement faudra frotter toute la nucque du col,& l'eſpine malade de ce liniment lequel a gran- cap. - d de faculté d'addoucir les nerfs, pour empeſcher le ſpaſme : comme pourras cognoiſtre auſſi par les ingre- liniment diens qui s'enſuiuent. e.rutae,marrubij,roriſmarini,ebulorum,ſaluix,herba paralyſis,añ ſa.ſ.radicis ireos, ººº le cyperi,baccarum lauriañ. .j.florum chamæmeli,meliloti,hypericonis,añ.m.j piſtentur & macerentur om-ſºſº nia in vino albo per noctem:deinde coquantur in vaſe duplici cum oleo lumbricorum,liliorum, & de tere- '-- » © binthina,axungiæ anſeris & huma.añ. j.ij.vſque ad conſumptionem vini : poſteà colentur , & in golatura - s | adde terebinthinae veneta .iij.aquae vitæ . . cerx quantum ſuſficit , fiat linimentum ſecundàm artem: •- l , mais la douleur eſtant appaiſée faut deſiſter de toutes choſes vnctueuſes, de peur qu'elles ne rendent la playe ſordide & maligne,& que les parties proches ne ſe pourriſſent,& par conſequent la dure-mere , & l'os : pource que les parties ne ſeroient gardées par leurs ſemblables , ce qui ſe doit faire par remedes de- " " ſiccatifs. parquoy ne faut aux playes & fractures de la teſte vſer de remedes oleagineux, humides & luppu- - • ratifs:ſi ce n'eſt pour mitiger la douleur,& fuppurer en cas de neceſſite:(car comme dit galien)il faut ſaiſ- gai. ... . . ſer ſouuentesfois la propre cure,pour ſubuenir aux accidens. dauantage hippocrate ne veut qu aux fractu- ae la aie .. <º res du crane y ſoit faite fomentation de vin,ou bien peu & ce bien peu encores,comme interprete vidas hip -- vº ... • •^ vidius,ſi ce n'eſt quand on craint inflammation:pource que la fomentation de vin a faculté de reprimer,re- cap - :° . froidir,& ſeicher ſupplé que ledit vin ſoit noir & rude.)et combien que leditvin ait faculté & vertu deſic- - -- n catiue,toutesfois actuellement humecte. ce qui eſt grandement contraire aux playes de la teſte , & princi- # _ palement ſi l'os eſt deſcouuert: en ſorte qu'il y auroit danger,par la refrigeration , qu'il feroit au cerueau, w qu'il ne ſuruinſt ſpaſme,ou autre mauuais accident. et partant ne faut vſer de choſes froides & humides,ſi | ce n'eſt,comme auons dit,pour reprimer l'inflammation , & appaiſer la douleur, cauſée par ladite inflam- mation : mais ſeront appliquez ſur les os deſnuez,pouldres catagmatiques, & cephaligues , ainſi appellées » - v des le dixieſme liure, poudre ca des anciens grecs,parce qu'elles ſont propres aux fractures des os de la teſte & autres à cauſe que parleur a ,ah.c, ceph. ſiccité,conſomment l'humeur ſuperfiu,& en ce faiſant, aydent à nature à ſeparer leſdits os, & engendrer la vertu des poudres ce- phaliques. hipp. de "vuln. cap, poudre pro- pre pour la jdure - mere. hip.au liure des playes de la teſte. galien.en ſon liu. de la maniere de » bander. tout ce qu'on applique ſur la teſte doit eſtre leger cr mol. r ſ ) : -' | # . , •e • -" tif propre à a dnre- / ye'pé . ar\ c•--^ -»- »a^'e» paul.aegi. liu. .ch. o. l º-^s°> t -p- (e kev- -- -» %- q > - chair defſus. et ſont leſdites poudres telles.thus,radix ireos plorentia , farina hordei, & erui , pulu, aloès hepaticæ,ſanguis draconis,maſt.myrrha,radix ariſtolochiz,gentianx, erucr, & generalement tous ſimples qui ſont deſiccatifs,abſterſifs ſans eroſion:leſquels ſeront appliquez apres que la douleur, inflammation & apoſteme ſeront paſſez mais alors qu'on voudra mundifier les membranes,& faire ſeparer,incarner,& cou- urir les os,en conuient vſer en les diuerſifiant felon la temperature, & habitude du corps, & des accidens qui ſeront trouuez auſdites fractures,ayant en confideration,que l'os porte plus forts remedes,& veutauſſi plus eſtre deſſeiché que le pericrane,& dure-mere,d'autant qu'il eſt plus ſec,& non ſenſible.et pour ceſte raiſon,lors qu'on appliquera leſdites poudres cephaliques aux membranes,ſeront meſlées auec miel, ou ſy- rop rolat,ou d'abſinthe,ou leurs ſemblables,afin de les rendre moins deſiccatiues & acres. des accidens qui aduiennent à la dure-mere. c h a p. xv ii. y i par fortune la dure-mere eſt incisée ou eſcorchée, pour l'agglutiner, hipp. commande y # appliquer ſuccum nepetar,meſlé auec farine d'orge.en lieu d'iceluy remede,on peut vſer de ceſte poudre,qui a pareille faculté. %. colophonix iij myrrhaloes,maſt. ſang.dra.añ. .j. croci,ſarc.añ. . .miſ & fiat pul.fubtilis. et pour expurger le ſang & la ſanie qui eſt, ou peut eſtre,entre le crane & la dure-mere, faut mettre vne tente de linge delié en quatre ou cinq doubles,trempé en ſyrop roſat & d'abſinthe:auec vn peu d'eau de vie,entre le crane & la dure-mere, afin d'abaiſſer la dure-mere de peur qu'elle ne touche au crane,pour donner iſſue au ſang & à la ſanie,qui peu- uent eſtre tombez entre l'os & ladite dure-mere:& auſſi pour deffendre, que par la pulſation du cerueau, la dure mere ne frappe contre les bords du circuit de l'aſperité de l'os qu'aura coupé la trepane.et à cha- qu'vne fois que le patient ſera habillé,on mettra vne autre tente ſemblable,iuſqu'à ce que la mondification ſoit faite. meſme le chirurgien , chacune fois qu'il habillera le patient,comprimera la dure-mere auec vn tel inſtrument:& luy faut faire clorre le nez & la bouche,& qu'il ſouffle & expire, afin que par tel moyen il expurge la ſanie, qui eſt entre l'os & la dure-mere.ledit inſtrument duquel ſera comprimée ladite dure- mere, doit eſtre rond , large , poly, & vny en ſon extremité, comme ceſtuy cy. - inſtrument propre pour preſſer & baiſſer la dure-mere en bas,afin de donner iſſuë à la ſanie . et par deſſus la ſuſdicte pouldre,ſoit miſe ſur la dure mere vne eſponge trempée & eſprein- te en vne decoction,laquelle ait faculté deſiccatiue,roboratiue , faite de choſes aromatiques, propres à la teſte,comme il s'enſuit. z. foliorum ſaluix,maioranx,betonicar,roſarum rubra- rum,abſinthij & myrtillorum,florum chamxm.meliloti,& ſtœchados vtriuſque afi.m.ß.radicis cyperi,calami aromatici,ireos , caryophyllatz angelicx añ. . É. bulliant omnia ſecundum ar- tem,cum aqua fabrorum, & vino rubro : fiat decoctio ad vſum dictum. et en lieu d'icelle on pourra vſer de vin clairet, auec portion d'eau de vie:afin que ladite eſponge attire & ſeiche la ſanie,& autres humiditez. icelle eſponge ſera plus propre qu'vn linge ou autre choſe, pource chalciteos liquefié auec vinaigre , ou vin , & huile roſat, afin qu'iceluy emplaſtre ſoit rendu moins chaud,& plus mol.car(comme dit hippocrate)on ne doit mettre aucune choſe dure,& fort peſante ſur les playes de la teſte,ny faire ligature fort ſerrée, de peur d'induire douleur & inflammation : ce qui eſt auſſi recité par galien, qu'vn apothicaire auoit bandé & lié ſi fort la teſte à quelqu'vn,qui auoit douleur cauſée d'inflammation , qu'il fut cauſe de luy faire ſortir les yeux hors la teſte, à raiſon que telle ligature comprimoit les ſutures, en ſorte que les va- peurs fuligineuſes qui s'exhalent tant par leſdites ſutures, que par les poroſitez du crane » ne ſe pouuoient exhaler par icelles : & auſſi que par telle compreſſion, les arteres ne pouuoient auoir leur mouuement pulſatif. pour ces cauſes, la douleur & inflammation fut ſi grandement augmentée,que les yeux luy creuerent,& ſortirent hors la teſte. par ainſi, à bon droit hipp. deffend de couurir & lier par trop les playes de la teſte.en quoy tu retiendras en memoire,que les emplaſtres que tu appliqueras ſur la teſte,feront de conſiſtance molle:& les compreſſes pa- reillement ſeront faites de linge mol & ſubtil, ou de cotton , ou de laine,ou d'eſtouppes, & ſera la teſte (comme auons dit)peu ſerrée & preſſée.et apres que le malade aura eſté habillé,ſi la playe iette beaucoup, la faudra faire ſituer ſur la playe s'il eſt poſſible,& qu'il eſtouppe parfois le nez & la bouche, & qu'il expi- re pour faire eſleuer & enfler le cerueau,afin que par tel moyen la ſanie contenue au dedans, ſoit expellée, de peur qu'elle n'acquiere acrimonie,& autre mauuaiſe qualité.autrement il faudra gratifier le malade,de ſe tenir & ſituer en la façon qui luy ſera plus aiſée, & qui luy viendra mieux à plaiſir. on pourra mettre auſſi entre le crane & la dure-mere,huile de terebenthine,& vn peu d'eau de vie auec aloes & ſaffran ſub- tilement pulueriſé,pour mondifier & deſſeicher la ſanie.autre pour meſme effect. /. mell.roſ. .ij.far.hor. pul, aloe maſt. & ireos floren.an. . . aqua vitæ parum:incorporentur ſimul, fiat mundificatiuum ad vſum dictum.tbr quelquesfois ſe fait inflammation apres la trepanation à la dure-mere, laquelle ſe leue & ſort grandement par le trou qu'on aura trepané au deſſus du crane , dont pluſieurs mauuais accidens s'enſui- uent:mais poïr o † faire plus grande ouuerture au crane, auec nos tenailles capitalles inciſiues, afin de donner plus grande tranſpiration & éuacuation aux matieres contenues ſous le crane : & alors ſera reiterée la ſaignée ou purgation:enſemble conuient ordonner vne diete tenue au patient, & tout par le conſeil du docte medecin:& appliquer remedes contrarians à l'inflammation:qui ſe fera auec fomen- tation d'vne decoction faite d'eau,en laquelle on fera boiiillir ſeminis lini,altheae, fœnugrxci,pſillij, roſa- rum rubrarum,añ. .j. ſolani,plantaginis añ. m.j. ou autres remedes propres à tels accidens & inſtiller re- medes anodyns & tepercuſſifs dans les oreilles:& ſi elle eſt grandement eſleuée,pour la baiſſer & reſſerrer on y doit appliquer de la farine de lentille,ou fueilles de vigne broyées auecgraiſſe d'oye , ou autres ſen- blables remedes. et ſi on void qu'icelle tumeur ne ſe reſolue,& que l'on euſt ſoupçon qu'il y euſt de la boue au deſſous,alors on doit faire inciſion à la dure-mere auec vne lancette,ou auec vne biſtorie, tournant ſa poincte vers le ciel,de peur de toucher la ſubſtance du cerueau:& par tel moyen on donnera iſſue à ladite boué.ce que i'ay fait,& autres chirurgiens, dont aucuns ſont rechappez, autres ſont morts. mais il vaut mieux tenter vn remedé grand & extreme, ayant encores quelque eſperance, que de laiſſer mourir le pa- tient ſans eſſayeraucune choſe. rourquey que d'elle-meſme elle attire la ſanie,& auſſi qu'elle obeit par ſa molleſſe,à la pulſation du cer- ueau. et par deſſus toute la playe & parties proches , ſera appliqué vn emplaſtre fait de dia- a : ' . - · des play es en particulier. . " · vois rar ce portraict. ". - pourquoy c'eſt que la dure-mereſe noircit. . ch a r. xviii. l aduient auſſi que la dure-mere eſt noire par la contuſion & vehemence du coup, & ſangreſ- # pandu & coagulé deſſus ou par alteration d'air froid,ou par application des remedes non propres a ſa ſubſtance,& temperament, ou par putrefaction. parquoy il faut bien que le chirurgien ayt ，) égard à corriger tels vices. donc pour oſter la noirceur faite par contuſion , il faut appliquer oleum de vitellis ouorum , auecvn peu d'eau de vie & ſaffran, & racine d'ireos de florence ſubtilement : . puluerissc.auſſi faut faire fomentations de choſes reſolutiues,& aromatiques, leſquelles ſeront boüillies fºmentatiºt en eau & en vin. pareillement ſera appliqué le cerat de vigo que nous auons eſcrit par cy-deuant. et ſi º, c'eſt par ſang congelé & eſpandu deſſus la dure-mere, ſera oſté auec tel remede. z. aqux vitæ . ij. gran. é aromati- · ſiniſſ.ſubtiliter trituratæ .ij.ſº.croci j.mellis roſati .j.f.ſarcocolla .iij. bulliant omnia ſimul parum, & ques. colentur:& ſoit appliqué deſſus,iuſqu'à ce que la noirceur ſoit oſtée. et fi c'eſt par l'alteration de l'air, ſera appliqué tel remede l. terebenthinœ venetx . iij. mellis roſati .ij. vitellum vnius oui , farina hordei . iij.croci ſcrupulum j. ſarcocolla ij.aquæ vitæ . iij. incorporentut ſimul, & bulliant paululum : & en ſoit appliqué ſur la dure-mere,iuſqu'à ce que la noirceur & ſa temperature ſoit rectifiée.si c'eſt par appli- cation de remedes induement appliquez, il y faut mettre d'autres contrarians. comme ſi la noirceur vient par indue application de choſes trop humides ſeront appliquez remedes deſiccatifs, comme ſont les poul- dres catamagtiques & cephaliques. si c'eſt par remedes acres,ſoyent appliquez remedes doux & familiers, or ſi la noirceur vient a putrefaction,vigo loué tel remede. /.. aquæ vitæ .ij. mellis roſati . É. et ſi par tel moyen la putrefaction ne peut eſtre oſtée,ſera appliqué remede plus fort, comme ceſtuy, ſ. aqux vitæ . iij. mellis roſati .j. pulueris mercurij .ij. & vnica ebullitione ad inuicem bulliant , miſce ad vſum di- ctum. autre. %, aquæ vitæ j.ſ. ſyrupiabſinthij,& mellis roſatiañ. .ij. vnguenti akgyptiaci .ij.É.ſarco- colla,mirrhx,aloesañ. .j.vini albi boni & odoriferi .j. bulliant omnia ſimul parum : deinde colenturad : , . vſum dictum. outre plus ſi la putrefaction eſtoit ſi grande qu'elle ne peuſt eſtre oſtée par les remedes que , Âftypriºr nous auons ja dit,ſera appliqué egyptiac pur,fait en eau de plantin en lieu de vinaigre,ou pouldre de mer- ?" ººº cure toute ſeule,ou meſlée auec vn peu d'alum. et ne faut craindre appliquer tels remedes ſur la dure me- putrefaction. re,lors qu'elle eſt putrefiée:à cauſe qu'aux grandes maladies il faut vſer de forts remedes. ioint que com- me monſtre galien à la fin du de la methode, la dure-mere peut de ſa nature porter tels medicamens, fort deſſeichant pour deux raiſons : la premiere, que les corps ſecs & durs, quels ſont les membranes, ne ſont alterez que par medicamens forts. l'autre, que le principal ſoin du medecin doit touſiours eſtre de garder la temperature de la partie par medicamens de ſemblable qualité que ſi le conduit de l'ouye, no- - nobſtant qu'il penetre & touche iuſques à la dure-mere,& reçoiue le nerf qui luy vient du cerueau, porte . & requiert medicamens de telle qualité : à plus forte raiſon les pourra porter, la dure-mere. et ſi partels hip apk. moyens la putrefaction ne ceſſe, & que la tumeur fuſt fi grande que la dure-mere ſortiſt hors du crane, liure # ſans aucunement ſe mouuoir, & qu'elle fuſt noire & aride,& les yeux du patient rouges & enflammez,ſor- -•/ c– tans comme hors de la teſte,ſa veuë non aſſeurée, auec inquietude & phreneſie , ſi tels accidens ne ceſſent qº a• bien toſt , fay prognoſtique que le patient en brefmourra, pource que la dure-mere eſt gangrenée, & la t zºa chaleur naturelle eſteinte.au contraite,ſila dure-mere a ſa chaleur naturelle,& qu'elle ayt ſonmouuement . ,-p• aſſez libre la playe non aride,& la tanie loüable,& que le patient ſoit peu febricitant,ayes bon eſpoir qu'il q -- & }v»º- c guarira : ce qu'auons dit par cy-deuant. - •.yv-» -º «º . . - - -r…y- pourquoy on trepane aux fractures du crane » c h a p. x x. - a" r à preſent conuient au ieune chirurgien ſçauoir la raiſon pourquov on trepane les fractures , .. *- | des os de la teſte,& non des autres parties de noſtre corps : ce qui ſe fait pour quatre cauſes. ºº la premiere,pour eſleuer les os,& oſter les eſclats,fragmens & eſquilles fracturées, qui com- † ()i t r&- priment ou picquent les membranes, & quelquesfois la ſubſtance du cerueau. secondement, pane. * afin qu'on puiſſe vacuer, deterger & ſeicher le ſang,ou la ſanie,qui ſont ja tombez par la fia- cture, pour la ruption des vaiſſeaux, ſemez entre les deux tables ( dit diploé)ou de ceux qui attachent la dure-mere auec le crane,qui pourroit pourrir l'os,& les membranes , & mefme le cerueau. tiercement, pour appliquer remedes conuenables à la playe & fracture,ſelon qu'il eſt neceſtaire.quartement pour ſup- pléer à la ligature repercuſſiue & defenſiue fluxion & inflammation, laquelle ſi elle pouuoit y eſtre accom- modée,comme és autres membres expelleroit & prohiberoit les ſuperfluitez du lieu affecté. or pourquoy les ligatures qui ſont propres aux fractures des autres parties de noſtre corps ne ſont vtiles & commodes à celles du crane, c'eſt à cauſe que la figure de la teſte eſt ronde , laquelle ne ſe peut bien commodément ſerrer & lier, tant pour tenir les os fracturez en leur lieu naturel, que pour exprimer & renuoyer le ſang loing de la partie vulnerée & fracturée, & auſſi pour empeſcher qu'il ne fe face nouuelle fluxion, ce qu'il . eſt impoſſible de faire à la teſte,tant à cauſe de ſa figure, qui ne peut permertre telle ligature , qºc pource que les vaiſſeaux,à ſçauoir veines & arteres,qui ſont au deſſous du crane , ne peuuent eſtre ſerrées , pour exprimcr & renuoyer le ſang,ains ſeulement les exterieures,ce qui cauſeroit douleur & inflammâtion:d'au-. tant que telle ligature empeſcheroit par ſa compreſſion le mouuement des arteres : pareillement arreſteroit l'éuacuation des excremens fuligineux,quis'euaporent par les commiſſures du teſt,à cauſe qu'elles feroient trop terrees : pareillement renuoyèroit le ſang du lieu bleſſé aux membranes & au cerueau ( comme nous auons predit)& ſeroit-on cauſe d'induire douleur,chaleur,fiévre,apoſteme,apoplexie,ſpaſme,paralyſie,& . - par conſequent la mort. et partant pour éuiter tels accidens,nous conuient faire ouuerture au rane, lors º fºº* qu'il eſt fracturé ou contus, ce qu'il n'eſt beſoin aux autres parties. et auparauant que l'on applique la tre- du patient pane,faut bien ſituer le patient,& luy mettre ſous la teſte quelque drap plié en pluſieurs doubles, & preſſer ºº " fur le cheuet ou trauerſin à fin que lors qu'on fera l'operation , que la teſte du patient n'enfonce en la plu-'º" me,mais qu'elle ſoit ſtable, ſans qu'elle tourne d'vn coſté ne d'autre, ny qu'elle enfonce, ſi ce n'eſt par le commande ment du chirurgien qui trepane auec cela, luy faut bien eſtoupper les oreilles de cotton : à fin d'obtondre le bruit de la trepane,ou autres inſtrumens capitaux. et auparauant que d'appliquer la trepa- ne,on doit commencer à percer l'os auec vn inſtrument, lequel aura ſa poincte de figure triangulaire , afin qu'il entre mieux & plus ſubit,& n'aura ſa poincte non plus groſſe que le clou de la trepane , a fin qu'elle ne vacille de coſté ny d'autre. i.a figure eſt preſque ſemblable à vn foret , horſ mis la poincte , comme tu v a fo,ci é * le dixieſme liure, foretpourcommencer à ouuir le crane- . definition des trepanes. trepaner , ſ'eſt à dire percer qui eſt lors qu'on emporte vme piere du mi. lieu de l'os. - v - hip.de val. - rº .. e-º kº -\ #. - •-• • • " nºe • • " - | \• x *^ •- nytt . "s -- • -- . '. - - ", • • • • • , *: \ ·. , n. - grande ax- notation pour le ieune chirurgien • t • $ a te monſtre le manche. - b b les poinctes qui s'inſerent dans le manche par vneviz. deſcription des trepanes. ch a p. xx. # r e p a n e s ſont ſcies rondes, qui coupent l'os circulairement plus ou moins, ſelon qu'el- les peuuent eſtre grandes ou petites : leſquelles doiuent auoir vn clou aigu : ou poincte au # milieu de leur circuit, & qui paſſe vn petit outre les dents de la trepane : à fin qu'en trepa- f. nant ſoit ſtable, & ne vacille de coſté ou d'autre, iuſques à ce qu'elles ayent fait leur circuit, & coupé pour le moins la premiere table, ou enuiron. adonc faut oſter ledit clou, de peur qu'il ne touche ( l'os eſtant coupé ) la dure-mere. puis s'il eſt beſoin, ſoit continuée la perforation en- tiere des deux tables. dauantage faut qu'autour de la trepane y ait vn chaperon, à fin qu'elle ne puiſſe paſſer & couper l'os plus qu'on ne voudra ; de peur auſſi qu'en trepanant, on ne l'enfonce ſur la dure-me- re. pareillement on doit vn peu huiler ladite trepane,à celle fin qu'elle coule mieux & plus doucement. ce qui eſt cogneu par les artiſans qui frottent leurs ſcies de choſes oleagineuſes, à celle fin qu'elles en- trent mieux. semblablement faut ſouuent en trepanant leuer la trepane, & la tremper en eau froide,à cel- le fin qu'elle n'eſchauffe trop l'os : car toutes choſes ſolides quitournent auecvehemence, s'efchauffent & par ainſi la trepane tournant en l'os s'eſchauffe, & l'os ſemblablement auſſi s'eſchauffe & deſſeiche, & par conſequent s'altere : dont s'en pourroit ſeparer dauantage apres la trepanation. et icy ne faut ignorer,que toufiours nature iettevne exfoliation d'os, où la trepane aura fait fon circuit & aura touché, & auſſi vne petite eſcaille de la fuperficie qui aura eſté deſcouuerte, & que l'air aura touché et pour ayder à nature faire ladite exfoliation, on appliquera deſſus pouldre d'eruca, autrement ditte roquette , bryonia, cou- combre ſauuage,ariſtolochia,& autres qui ſeront declarées cy-apres. Ê, lors qu'elles ſeront ſeparées, l'on appliquera † pouldre,laquelle a faculté d'augmenter la chair ſur fbs & l'endurcir. z. pulueris ireos il- lyrica , aloes , manna , thuris, myrrha , ariſtolochix , añ . j. puis apres la generation de chair , ſoit faite cicatrice, auec poudres d'eſcorce de grenades bruſlées,& alum cuit.et ne doit le chirurgien en tirer leſdites eſcailles & os par violence : mais § attendre que nature ayt baſty vne chair deſſous, & qu'elle iette l'os de ſoy-meſme: ou autrement ſe feroit nouuelle alteration,& corruption dudit os. ce qui ſera cy- apres plus amplement declaré aux caries des os.celuy qui trepane doit confiderer que la figure de la teſte eſt ronde, pareillement ſa trepane,& par ainſi ne peut couper l'os également comme ſi c'eſtoit ſur vn lieu plat. auſſi que l'os n'eſt pas tout d'vne meſme eſpeſſeur & partant faut qu'il regarde ſouuents'il coupe l'os plus d'vn coſté que d'autre, qu'il ſe fera en prenant garde ſouuent au cuir qu'aura fait ſa trepane,auec vne eſpingle ou choſe ſemblable.et où il ſera trouué eſtre coupé plus d'vn coſte que dautre, faut decliner & preſſer la trepane ſur celuy qui ſera moins coupé & plus eſpais. cr quand à la trepane, pluſieurs en ont in- noué a leur plaiſir : de ſorte que maintenant on en trouue de pluſieurs & diuerſes façons ; mais ie te puis bien aſſeurer que ceſte-cy, qui eſt par moy inuentée,eſt plus ſeure que nulle autre (au moins que i'ayeco- neu ( pource qu'elle ne peut aucunement enfoncer dedans le crane,& par conſequent bleſſer les membra- nes & le cerueau, à raiſon d'vne piece de fer appellée chapperon,lequel ſe hauſſe & baiſſe du tout à tavo-. lonté , & garde que le trepan ne penetre & paſſe outre ce que ſeulement tu pretens couper de l'os lequel (comme nous auons dit) n'eſt d'vne meſme groſſeur,eſpeſſeur & dureté : & parainſi nulletrepane ne peut eſtre faite de certaine hauteur ou petiteſſe ſans iceluy chapperon, lequel ſe hauſſant & baiſſant, fait telar- reſt à la dite trepane qu'il te plaiſt, voire & fuft de l'eſpeſſeur d'vne ligne. et le danger de penetrer ſon trepan aux membranes & au cerueau, n'emporte ſeulement que la vie du patient : ce que i'ay veu aduenir c pluſieurs fois , non ſeulement par la faute des ieunes chirurgiens , mais auſſi de ceux qui pluſieurs fois d ºuoicnttrepané. auiourdhuy i'eſpere que ieunes & viels , voire apprentifs , pourroient treſpaner ſans ºaºger auec ceſdites trepanes, deſquelles tu as icy le pourtraict. figure_º ， | des playes en particulier . ! lautre ºc - t-autre trepane montée- a figure de la trepane démontée .. figure de la trepanemontée_ | a monſtre le manche entier de la trepane. b le chaperon. c la virolle. dd les viz qui tiennent la trepane & virolle. e la trepane fans la pointe. f la trepane auec ſa pointe. a le manche & la trepane montée. b le lieu où ſe met la trepane. c c c l'extremité de la trepane qui s'inſere dedans le manche. d la trepane auec ſon capichon. e la virolle f la viz qui ſerre la trepane dans le manche, g l'autre viz qui ſerre la virolle contre le trepânº - h la pointe triangulaire. c c ſc | a le , le dixieſme liure, dd le chaperon qui prohibe & garde que la trepane ne paſſe outre la volonté de celuy qui trepane. e la virolle qui ſe hauſſe de telle hauteur qu'il eſt neceſſaire que le chaperon donne entrée à la trepane. f vne autre viz qui tient ferme ladite virolle. g la pointe triangulaire , laquelle doit vn peu paſſer outre les dents de la trepane, afin qu'elle puiſſe eſtre tenue ſtable , ne vacillant de coſté ne d'autre : & doit eſtre paſsée droitement au milieu de la trepane & en ſa partie ſuperieure doit eſtre en viz, comme tu vois en ceſte figure, afin qu'on inſere autour d'icelle ceſte petite virolle, marquée par h, pour l'extraire lors qu'on aura trepané iuſques au diploé. or toutes les pieces de ladite trepane te ſont en l'vne de ces figures posées en leur propre lieu, & par ainſi font la trepane complette. et où l'os eſtant coupé ne ſeroit eſleué auec la preſente trepane, le ſera auec cet inſtrument nommé tire-fons, duquel poſeras la pointe au trou qu'aura fait le clou de la trepane : les branches duquel peuuent auſſi ſeruir d'eleuatoires. tire-fons à trois branches. il fut ap- apres auoir eſleué auec la trepane ceſte piece ronde de planir les l'os, s'il y a quelques aſperitez du reſte en la ſeconde ta- bords de la ble, qui pourroient bleſſer la dure-mere,lors qu'elle fait #º ſon mouuement,il les faut couper, & applanirauec vn in- fé/ x: ſtrument nommé lenticulaire : de peur qu'en applaniſſant - les aſperitez, on ne bleſſe la dure-mere auec vn inſtru- ment lenticulaire : ainſi nommé parce qu'en ſon extremi- té il reſſemble à pois de lentille mouſſe & poly. - maillet de et où ledit lenticulaire ne plomb , &r peut couper l'os qui pourroit ton vſage. eſtre trop eſpais, on vfera de cizeaux, fappant deſſus auec maillet,lequel ſera de plomb, de peur d'eſtonner le cerueau que le moins qu'il ſera poſſible. et ſeront oſtées les eſquilles & petits fragmens auec petites pincettes. bt quand le lieu où ſera la fracture , ne permet faire ſection pour deſcouurir l'os, à fin d'appliquer la trepane comme lors que la fracture eſt pres du muſcle temporal , ou pres des commiſſures : lors au lieu d'vne, en faut appliquer deux ou trois(s'il eſt beſoin ) bien petites , & plus pres l'vne de l'autre qu'il ſera poſſible:de it ne faut façon que le circuit de la ſeconde ou tierce, prendra ſur le circuit de l'autre. et ſi la fracture eſt ſur vne trepaner ſur commiſſure , ne faut appliquer ſur icelle la trepane (comme nous auons dit ) mais ſera apliquée de deux les ſutures. coſtez d'icelle, en laiſſant la commiſſure entiere, de peur de couper & dilacerer les fibres nerueux, veines & arteres, par leſquelles la dure-mere eſt ſuſpendue au crane.pareillement ſi l'on ne faiſoit appertion que d'vn coſté de la commiſſure, le ſang & autres matieres ne pourriont entierement eſtre euacuées, à rai- ſon que la dure-mere eſt entre deux. or au lieu de trepaner,on peut vſer aux cas ſuſdits(pourueu que l'os ſoit ſuffiſamment deſcouuert) de cet inſtrument qui eſt en maniere de compas, lequel ſe dilate & ſerre ainſi qu'on veut, par le moyen d'vne viz. auſſi on pourra changer les poinctes d'iceluy ſelon la neceſſité,leſ- quelles ſeront tenues fermes par vne viz. a c d des playes en particulier. d compar pour couperl'os du crane_ . a le pied du compas qui coupe l'os. b la petite viz qui tient la pointe. c deux pointes differentes, leſquelle ſe peuuent inſerer dans le pied du compas marqué a. ainſi que l'affaire le requiert. d la grande viz qui tient vne piece de fer, mar- quée par e , par laquelle le compas ſe dilate & & ſerre comme il eſt beſoin. or il eſt neceſſaire qu'vne iambe du compas ſoit ap- puyée fermement pour couper de l'autre jambe. au moyen dequoy t'eſt neceſſaire auoir vne piece de fer troüée de petits trous, dans leſquels ſera le pied du compas appuyé , de peur qu'il ne vacille çà ou là, ou- tre la volonté du chirurgien. pareillement faut qu'i- celle piece de fer , ſoit courbée, afin qu'elle puiſſe eſtre appliquée en toutes les parties de la teſte, confiderant la figure ronde d'icelle. - q> o c> o o o o o o o ° , e ° ° ° ° ° ° ° gs$ o ° § ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ， o ° o ° ° o o q r, º ° q o ºs#== s== sll o º * le " autre compas pour meſme vſage, lequel ſe dilate & ſerre par le moyen d'vne vie, ainſi que tupeux voirpar ceſte figure » ayant leué la piece de l'os, on mettra ſur la dure-mere du charpi ratiſsé, lequel boira le ſang & autres humiditez : & le lendemain on y mettra vn digeſtif fait d'huileroſat, jaune d'œuf, & vn peu de terebenthine de veniſe. pluſieurs practiciens y appliquent huile roſat ſeule, ce que le n'appreuue, ii s pluſtoſt ccs tc- medes qui s'enſuiuent. .mellis rolati .ij.olei de vitellis ouorum .j. coquantur ſimul ad vſum. autre. c.mellis roſati .j. terebentinx venetx . . olei roſati .j.incorporentur ſimul ad vſum le quatrieſme iour paſsé, on deſiſterad'appliquer auſdits remedes des huiles, mais bien le miel rolat, & huile de tereben- thine, miſes en egale portion , y adiouſtant poudre de maſtic , aloes laué,iris, & vn peu d eau de vie.ce medicament doit eſtre appliqué chaud : il mondifie, & eſt propre aux membranes du cerueau, & aux fra- ctures du crane, & au cuir muſculeux qui le couure. par deſſus toute la playe, & parties voiſines, on met- tra vn cataplaſme fait de farine d'orge, & de féves cuittes en oxymel & huile roſatou bien l on pourravſer de l'emplaſtre diachalciteos liquefié en huile roſat & vinaigre:ou l'emplaſtre de betonica,ou du gratia dei, fondus en huile roſat. dauantage, on frottera le col d'huile roſat, & de lumbriques , & ſuyura-on la cure comme ie dirav cy-apres. mme e diray cy-ap def o le dixie me liure, : - -"- des lieux eſquels on ne doit appliquer trepanes. g§ a p. x x i. r apres auoir deſcrit les trepanes & autres inſtruments capitaux,faut maintenant declarer les } lieux ou endroits, eſquels nullement ne faut appliquertrepanes. et premierement ſur l'os , fracturé & ſeparé du tout , ou ſur la plus grande part ſeparée d'iceluy qui demeure entier, c'eſt à ſçauoir, qui n'eſt fracturé , de peur qu'en preſſant deſſus, on ne l'enfonçaſt ſur les $- $ membranes. secondement ſur les ſutures. tiercement ſur les ſourcils , pour les raiſons ſuſ- i . dites, auſquelles il faut adiouſter vn poinct bien notable : ſcauoir qu'en cét endroit y a vne grande cauité pleine d'vne humidité blanche & glueuſe > & enſemble de l'air, ordonnée de nature pour preparer l'air » qui monte au cerueau : autrement le chirurgien pourroit s'abuſer, cuidant la ſuſdite cauité cſtre vne en- • fonceure d'os qui requiſt le trepan. quartement aux parties inferieures de la teſte, s'il eſt poſſible, de peur que la ſubſtance du cerueau ne ſorte dehors par l'ouuerture faite en l'os pour ſa peſanteur. quintemét ſur les os bregmatis ou fontenelles des petits enfans , leſquels ne ſont encores aſſez ſolides pour ſouſte- nir la trepane. sextement ſur les temples, à raiſon du muſcle temporal , pour obuier à l'accident que deſcrit hippocrate,que fi on fait ſection au muſcle dextre de la temple,il ſuruiendra ſpaſme de l'autre coſté: . & ſi on la fait au ſeneſtre,le ſemblable accident aduiendra. la raiſon eſt,que le muſcle incisé entrauers perd hier d, ſon action qui eſtoit mouuoir & amener la mandibule inferieure vers la ſuperieure et lors ſon compagnon vuln. capit. oppoſite eſtant en ſon entier & perfection(qui eſt tirer vers ſon principe ) tire à ſoy ladite mandibule infe- rieure : & celuy qui ſera incisé, n'a nulle contrarieté à ſon compagnon : partant la partie ſaine attirera vers elle la maladie : & par ainſi la bouche & autres parties de la face demeureront tortues , principalement plus du coſté non incisé, que l'autre ; parce que toutes & quantes-fois qu'il y a comme vn contrepoids des nerfs & muſcles eſtans en partie incisée , oppoſites, égaux en nombre, magnitude & force,la reſolution & paralyſie d'vne partie , cauſe & fait conuulſion en l'autre partie pareille, comme vn contrepois, ainſi que l'on void en vne balance,le plus peſant emporter le plus leger.or il n'y aura ſeulement ce danger,mais enco- res vn autre plus, pource que ledit muſcle ſe meut en malchant, & en parlant : & partant difficilement eſt conſolidé, & auſſi que ſous iceluy eſt la commiſſure petreuſe.pareillement qu'en fa ſubſtance ſont pluſieurs veines, arteres & nerfs, au moyen dequoy ſouuent beaucoup d'accidents aduiennent, comme douleur, in- flammation, fiéure,ſpaſme,non ſeulement en particulier,mais auſſi vniuerſel,& par conſequent la mort.par- quoy nul ne ſera ſi temeraire de couper leſdits muſcles des temples , pour faire trepanation pour la fra- cture, qui pourroit eſtre en tel endroit : mais pluſtoſt ſera faite apertion au deſſus , eù a coſté, & le plus prés de la fracture que l'on pourra. ce que feis à vn gentilhomme nommé monſieur de la breteſche, le- quel à l'entrée du feu roy henry , fut bleſſé d'vn coup de pierre ſur le pont noſtre dame, en ceſte ville de hiſtoire de paris , laquelle luy fractura l'os petreux, auec grande contuſion du mnfcle temporal , ſans playe. dont #º ie fus le lendemain enuoyé querir pour le penſer en ſon logis, rue de la harpe à la roſe rouge. et ayant ehe » cogneu la fracture, & la nature du lieu bleſsé, voulus appeller conſeil, tant des medecins que chirurgiens: - entre leſquels aucuns furent d'aduis de faire ouuerture deſſus ledit muſcle,à fin d'appliquer la trepane pour extraire les os fracturez. a quoy ie repugnay bien fort, alleguant l'auctorité d'hippocrate au liure des playes de la teſte, lequel defend de ne faire inciſion en tel endroit, pour obuier aux accidens predits : & auſſi par l'experience qu'auions cogneue » que ceux auſquels on auoit fait ſection , & coupé ledit muſcle, tomboient en conuulſion & mouroient : mais ie fus de ceſt aduis, qu'il falloit faire ouuerture à la partie ſu- perieure, & le plus prés de la fracture qu'on pourroit, ſans toutesfois toucher audit muſcle que le moins aduis,iuge- qu'il ſeroit poſſible. or le frere dudit ſieur de la breteſche, qui eſtoit l'vn des protonotaires de monſei- / e/ f . gneur le reuerendiſſime cardinal de chaſtillon,qui eſtoit pour lors viuant comme il eſtoit preſent à la con- ſultation, pour la grande amitié fraternelle qu'il luy portoit, dit que nullement ne permettroit qu'on fiſt in- ciſion ſur ledit muſcle,de peur que ne ſuruint l'accident qu'auions demonſtré.etainſi fut accordé de tous,que la ſection ſeroit faicte au deſſus dudit muſcle : ce qui fut faict par moy toute à l'heure. et le lendemain(qui cſtoit le troiſiéme iour) ie le trepanay, & par l'ouuerture faite à l'os quelques iours apres tiray quatre eſ- quiiles de la fracture , luy mettant vne tante de plomb cannulee de figure platte ( comme tu vois par ceſte figure ſuiuante,toutesfois non ſi longue ) pour extraire la ſanie qui ſortoit d'entre l'os & la dure-mere.et lors que ie l'habillois luy faiſois baiſſer la teſte en bas,& fermer la bouche & le nez, afin d'expulſer la ſanie hors : puis luy faiſois iniection de choſes deterſiues, auec vne petite syringue, dont as icy auſſi le portrait: & âuec autres remedes fut par la grace de dieu bien guary. tente de plomb cannulée, defigure plase , pour donneriſſue à la ſanie retenuë entre le crane & la dure-mere_». syringue . ººº semblable cas preſque aduint au ſiege de mets, en la perſonne de monſieur de pienne,nommé alors bu- #" * gueno, lequel eſtant ſur la breſche fut bleſsé en la temple auec fracture d'os par vn eſclat de pierre de la muraille fait d'vn coup de canon tiré de l'ennemy. et ſubit qu'il fut frappé tomba en terre,& jetta le ſang par le nez, par la bouche & par les oreilles, auec grand vomiſſement : & fut pres de quatorze iours ſans parler ny ratiociner & cognoiſtre perſonne. et luy ſuruint auſſi des treſſaillemens , approchans de ſpaſme, & eut tout le viſage enflé & fort liue. il fut trepané a coſté dudit muſcle ſur l'os coronal, par vn nommé pierre aubert, chirurgien ordinaire du roy. et au vingt-cinquieſme iour il luy ſuruint vne chair molle & fungus. fort ſenſible appellée #ungus qui ſortoit de la dure-mere, à l'endroit où l'on auoit appliqué la trepane:la- quelle chair croiſſoit de iour,en iour,jaçoit qu'ô appliquaſt deſſus choſes corroſiues toutesfois depuis(neât- moins ceſte grande playe & fracture,& autres accidens)fut guary.les anciens ont appellé icelle chair fungus à raiſon qu'elle eſt molle , ayant vne racine comme vn potiron ou champignon & eſt large en ſa partie ſu- perieure, en l'inferieure greſle & menue, & s'augmente ſelon la quantité de ſamatiere , ou ſelon qu'il ſera auſſi traicté par remedes contrariants à ſa cauſe, & auſſi le plus ſouuent eſt fetide : les vulgaires ! appellent le tic ſainct fiacre. or la maniere comme ſe font leſdits fungus, c'eſt qu'ainſi qu'aux troncs des † quelque - :: des playesen particulier. i | quelque humeur à demy pourry, glueux & viſqueux vient à ſortir, quaſi par reſudation de choſe excremen- tielle par l'eſcorce, & peu à peu ſortant hors prend accroiſſement en forme de fungus : ſemblablement des vaiſſeaux de la dure-mere & du crane eſtans rompus, en ſort quelquesfois vn ſang melancholique, lequel nature enuoye pour la regeneration de chair, neceſſaire à telles parties, dont ſe forme vn fungus , lequels comme dit galien, tient de la nature & ſubſtance de la partie où il naiſt, au reſte retient en general de la nature des verrues malignes. or pour la curation d'iceux faut appliquer remedes, qui par proprieté oc- culte ont faculté de conſumertelle chair ſuperfluë : ſçauoir fort deſiccatifs de leur nature & doux cathereti- ques,comme cettuy-cy. /.. sabina .ij. ochrx .j.pulueriſentur ſimul, & fiat puluis. autre.%.hermodact. combuſtorum j. ſ.fiat plu.et où icelle chair fongueuſe ſeroit fort accreuë, comme il s'en void quelquesfois groſſe comme vn œuf,plus ou moins, on la peut lier auec fil de ſoye le plus pres de ſa racine qu'on pour- ra : puis eſtant tombée, appliquer deſſus des ſuſdits remedes, & infailliblement on la curera mieux & plus ieurement que par autres medicamens plus corroſifs. - de l'alteration des os de la teſte. ch a p. xx ii. / pſg v e l q y e s f o i s aux playes de la teſte s'enfuit alteration & corruption de l'os : ce qui cauſe d'al- sn # aduient , ou pource que l'air l'a touché a nud, ou pource que la matiere a crouppi deſſus,ou teration du #jn$ pour l'indeue application des medicamens ſuppuratifs & onctueux : ce que nous monſtrerons teſt. $ ， º plus amplement au traicté des caries, parlans des nodus de la verolle. telle alteration ſe s>ºss cognoiſtra, tant par la veue ( car au lieu d'eſtre blanc, il deuient jaunaſtre, puis liuide & noir) que par la ſonde,d'autant que l'on ſent aſperité & inegalité, & l'eſprouuette y entre facilement:tou- tesfois i'ay veul'os eſtant longuement deſcouuert & alteré, eſtre fort dur,voire que la trepaney entroit auec difficulté. parquoy le ſigne de carie n'eſt aſſeuré : attendu que l'air ſouuent deſſeiche l'os carieux en telle ſorte qu'il ſe monſtre de ferme conſiſtance , apres auoir demeuré long-temps deſcouuert. ce ſigne eſt bien plus certain , ſçauoir que la chair qu s engendre ſur l'os carieux , eſt baueuſe, & de peu, ou nul ſentiment. or icelle alteration ou corruption ſera corrigée par cauteres actuels ou potentiels, comme nous dirons en leur propre liu, ou par poudres catagmatiques cephaliques,faites de rad. ireos, maſt.myrr.aloës,gentianæ, ariſtoloch.centau corti.pini : comme. %.rad.ire.florentariſt. afi, .j. centaurij ij. cortic.pini .fi. miſce, & fiat pul.ſubtiliſf laquelle ſera appliquée ſus l'os, & ſi la corruption eſt grande, on vſera de rugines. la cheute ſe doit attendre & non procurer par force : car autrement l'os qui ſeroit deſſous n'eſtant couuert de chair, s'altereroit , toutesfois petit à petit on les eſbranlera pour ayder à nature à les ſeparer. et icy en paſſant tu noteras que l'exfoliationdu circuit de l'os, qui eſt où la trepane aura paſſé, ſe fait communément - en quarante ou cinquante iours , autresfois pluſtoſt. enſemble l'exfoliation qui eſt cauſée par l'alteration de l'air ambient, qui aura touché l'os nu & deſcouuert ſe fait preſque en meſme eſpace de temps : ce qui ſe fait auſſi apres l'application des cauteres,ou par le benefice des pouldres cephaliques. et la conionction º #. & vnion (appellée callus) ſe fait communément auſſi en l'os fracturé par autant de iours : toutes fois aux # vns pluſtoſt,comme aux ieunes : aux autres plus tard, comme aux vieils : de toutes leſquelles choſes on ne - peut donner reigle certaine & temps prefix, pour la diuerſité des habitudes & temperamens,& ſelon la du- reté & eſpeſſeur de l'os. or fi l'alteration de l'os & conſolidation des playes ſont repugnantes aux remedes ſuſdits, faut ordonner au patient potion vulneraire. ce que i'ay ſouuentesfois fait auec heureuſe iſſue. or quelquesfois,non ſeulement vne portion de l'os eſt alterée & tombée,mais auſſi iceluy tout entier, ce qui hip. au li, eſt prouué par hippocrate quand il dit : l'os du crane eſtant bleſſe, ſe ſepare d'auec le ſain,plus oumoins, de plºyº dº ſelon lavehemence du coup joint auſſi que l'experience le monſtre.et en cet endroitie feravrecit de ce que º#ſº. ray fait eſtant en pied-mont, chirurgien de defunct le mareſchal de montejan ( qui lors eſtoit lieutenant º du roy) ie penſay vn laquais de defunct monſieur de goulaines : qui fut bleſſé d'vn coup d'eſpée ſur l'os parietal, partie ſeneſtre,non penetrant iuſques à la ſeconde table:& quelques iours apres que ſa playe eſtoit preſque conſolidée & guarie, arriua à thurin quelque compagnie de ſoldats de ſon pais de gaſcogne,auec leſquels vn matin mangea des tripes fricaſſées, auec force oignons, & eſpices, & ne fut auſſi ſans boire vin fort & en quantité, & ſans eau dont toſt apres tomba en fiévre continue, & perdit la parole & le ſens, & fatſeheux luyſuruint grande tumeur à toute la teſte & au viſage, les yeux rouges & enflammez iſſans hors dé la teſte. ac§ par ce que voyant i'appelay medecins & chirurgiens, pour aduiſer qu'on feroit pour luy ſauuer la vie. et mauuaiſé fuſmes tous d'aduis de le faigner, & clyſteriſer, & faire application de pluſieurs remedes ſur la teſte, auec diete. frictions & ligatures aux extremitez : neantmoins tout le coſté de la partie affectée, quelques iours apres tamps requiſ \ d s'apoſtuma. et ayant faict ouuerture, jetta grande quantité de ſanie, & trouuay le cuir muſculeux qui. eſtoit deprimé,aupres de l'os auec le pericrane, de largeur enuiron de quatre doigts : & finalement toutes les deux tables del'os furent alterées,pourries, noires & fetides.et pour corriger ceſte corruption y appli- quay par interualles, cauteres actuels:& ce tant pour corriger la pourriture, que pour faire ſeparation de vers eng'éº- ce qui eſtoit alteré. et enuiron vn mois apres le penſant, vis ſortir certaine quantité de vers de deſſous ! . # ledit os pourry, par aucuns trous de la carie : qui fut cauſe de me faire haſter d'extraire & leuer ledit os, § qui branloit long-temps auparauant, & deſſus la dure mere trouuay, où nature auoit engendré chairs trois cauitez,à mettre le poulce,qui eſtoient remplies de vers groulans & mouuans,leſquels eſtoient chacun de groſſeur enuiron d'vn fer d'éguillette,ayans la teſte noire.or eſtoit la portion d'os que nature amöit ſe- paré,de grandeur de la paulme de la main,& plus,tellement qu'à le voir on ne pouuoit comprédre que na- ture euſt peu jetter & ſeparer telle quantité de l'os du crane ſans mort.et toutesfois il en guarit,outre l'eſ- perance de tous ceux qui l'auoient veu : mais apres la conſolidation de ſa playe, la cicatrice luy demeura grandement caue(ce qui eſt eſcrit d'hippocrate)pour raiſon de la perdition de l'os,qui eſt de matiere ſper- ffm matique,laquelle ne ſe peut regenerer ſelon ſa premiere intention.et auſſi pource que la chair ne peut deue- #. qua° ment croiſtre ſur vn callus : à cauſe qu'il eſt comme choſe eſtrange & empruntée à nature, & meſmcment cumque,é c« parce qu'il eſt plus ſolide & compact que l'os naturel,dont le ſang ne peut reſuder,& par conſequent la chair ne peut eſtre r'engendrée.au moyen dequoy lors qu'il y a perdition d'os en quelque partie de noftre corps,la cicatrice demeure touſiours caue : & au crane où il ya perdition de ſubſtance des deux tables,l'on void aux ſens de la veue, & ſent-on à l'attouchement de la main, vne pulſation faite par le mouuement du cerueau, al'endroit de la cicatrice,& le lieu demeure par longue eſpace de temps plus debile & douloureux.et pour ceſte cauſe fis faire audit laquais vn bonnet de cuir boüilly, pour reſiſter aux iniures externes, qu'il porta hip. aph. . iuſques à ce que la cicatrice fuſt bien ſolidée , & la partie fortifiée. or il y a d'aucuns ſoy diſans chirur« impoſturs, giens,mais pluſtoſt ſont de ces abuſeurs, coureurs & larrons,que lors qu'ils ſont appellez pour traicter les playes de teſte, où il y aura quelque portion d'os amputé,font accroire au malade & aux aſſiſtans,qu'au lieu - dudit o° leur faut mettre vne piece d'or.et de fait en la preſence du patient l'ayans receue,l'abattent, & la x | rendent / : . . , le dixieſme liurg - -- • • | | rendent de la figure de la playe, & l'appliquent deſſus,& diſent qu'elle y demeure pour ſeruir au lieu del'os, a & de couuerture au cerueau : mais toſt apres la mettent en leur bourſe, & le lendemain s'en vont laiſſans le patient en ceſte impreſſion. les autres diſent que par leur induſtrie & grand ſçauoir ils font coaleſcer vne nature im- piece de cougourde deſſeichée au lieu de l'os amputé.et ainſi abuſent les ignorans, qui ne cognoiſſent que patiente de tant s'en faut que cela ſe puiſſe faire,que nature ne peut ſouffrir vn petit poil enfermé cn vne playe ou autre corps eſtran- petit corps eſtrange. ce qui eſt prouué par galien au quatrieſme liure de ſa methode. parquoy nul homme *- de bon eſprit me doit croire tels affronteurs. si aucun veut dire qu'vne balotte de plomb tirée par vne har- quebuſe,peut demeurer longues années en quelques parties de noſtre corps,cela ie leur concede:parce que le plomb a quelque familiarité auecque noſtre ſubſtance,comme ie declarerayaux traictcz des playes faictes par harquebuſes : partant n'engendrent ſi toſt corruption. toutesfois nonobſtant icelle familiarité,nature l'expulſe au dehors, ſi l'eſpaiſſeur des muſcles,ligamens pannicules,ouautres parties ſolides ne l'empeſchent a ou la figure de la partie qui ſeroit caue. parquoy leur obiection ne fait rien,ou peu à propos.et conclus que ſi l'on applique vne piece de plomb au crane pour ſeruir de couuerture au cerueau : iamais n'y pourroit reſolution ſeruir, non plus que l'or ny la cougourde, ou autre matiere eſtrange. et te ſuffiſe des alterations, & caries d'vn doute. des os du crane. maintenant il ne reſte plus qu'à declarer la maniere comme l'on doit proceder à la cura- tion de la concuſſion & commotion ducerueau. ce que ie feray , s'il plaiſt à dieu,& le plus bref qu'il me fera poſſible. la cure de la concuſſion ou commotion, & ébranlement du cerueau. :: q, mté ch a p. x x ii i. # ! (# p r e s auoir cy-deuant declaré les cauſes, ſignes & accidens de la concuſſion du cerueau, v:: %\ % ſans playe au cuir muſculeux, ny fracture à l'os : partant à preſent nous faut parier de la (. n cure. donc le patient ayant reçeu grande concuſſion à la teſte , & le chirurgien ayant co- :::: - ſ gnoiſſance que l'os n'eſt fracturé,mais a crainte qu'il yait quelque vaiſſeau rompu au dedans, r- gal. au liu. promptement luy faut tirer du ſang de la veine cephalique du coſté bleſſé. et luy en ſera de sanguin. tiré aſſez bonne quantité , ayant égard à la maladie preſente & future , & principalement à la vertu, & miſſione. autres choſes qu'il faut conſiderer à la ſaignée , ainſi que galien declare. et pour ce faire , appelleras vn docte medecin. puis on luy raſera tout le poil de la teſte, & luy ſera appliqué le cataplaſme cy-deuant sº eſcrit, compoſé de farines, huile roſat, & oxymel, ou autres repercuſſifs froids, & humides, leſquels ſe- ·r ront renouuellez ſouuent. et faut euiter ceux qui ſont ſecs & fortaſtringens, comme vnguentum de bolo, ou ſemblables, pource qu'ils oppilent par trop, & gardent que les matieres fuligineuſes ne ſe peuuent exha- ler, tant par les ſutures, que par les poroſitez du crane & du cuir qui couure la teſte. donc tant s'en faut qu'ils gardaſſent qu'il ne ſuruint inflammation,que pluſtoſt par iceux elle ſeroit augmentée.pareillement luy faut donner clyſteres ſouuent,s'il n'a bon ventre,afin de garder que les vapeurs ne montent au cerueau.qui ſe fera auſſi auec l'ayde des frictions & ligatures faites aux bras,cuiſſes,& iambes & parventouſesappliquées ſur les eſpaules,& le plus pres du col que l'on pourra,leſquelles ſeront aſſez grandes,& auec grande flambe, ouuerture pour ſe faire plus grande reuulſion, & deſtourner le ſang qu'il ne monte par trop grande impetuoſité au cer- de la veine. ueau, lequel cauſeroit inflammation, & autres mauuais accidens.et le lendemain faut ouurir la veine puppe, puppis. qui eſt ſituée au deſſus de la ſuture lambdoide,laquelle a grande communication auec celle du cerueau : & eſtant ouuerte, faut commander au patient qu'il ferme la bouche,& le nez, & qu'il reſpire le plus fort qu'il pourra.car en ce faiſant les membranes s'eſleuét,& par ce moyen le ſang qui ſeroit reſpandu entre le crane go propre fer la teſte, de peur d'induire douleur & inflammation. puis appliqueras le cerat eſcrit par de vigo,lequel aux concuſ a faculté de reſoudre moderément, deſſeicher & attirer par les poroſitez l'humidité qui eſt ſouz le crane: , ſicns de l» & par ſa vertu aromatique conforte le cerueau & l'eſprit animal : lequel cerat eſt en ceſte forme. . fur- teſte. furis bené triturati . iiij. farinæ lentium . ij. roſaràm , myrtillorum, foliorum & granorum eius añ- . j. calami aromatici .j. É. camomillae,meliloti añ.m. ſ$. nuces cupreſſi,numero vj. olei roſacei & camomillae, añ. .iij. cera alba . ij . thuris, maſtiches, añ. .iij. myrrha .ij. pulueriſatis pulueriſandis, & lique faétis oleis cum cera, omnia miſceantur flmul : & fiat mixtura, qua erit inter formam emplaſtri & ceroti.et dit ek auoir vſé à vn gentilhomme du duc d'vrbin,lequel cheut de cheual ſur le pont s. ange à rome,la teſte ſut vne pierre de marbre, & demeura en terre comme mort, & ſaigna par le nez, bouche, & oreilles:& ſubit la teſte luy deuint fort enflée,enſemble tout le viſage, auec couleur liuide, & demeura vingt iours apres eſtre hij: cire. % s & les membranes , eſt euacué, mais non celuy qui eſt entre le cerueau & leſdites membranes. et ou tel : accident aduient , la choſe eſt deſeſperée, s'il en a trop grande quantité, & que nature ne ſoit aſſez forte é - pour le ſuppurer, & ietter hors. l'on peut pareillement ouurir quelques iours apres celles du milieu du :- les accidens front , & les arteres des temples, auſſi les veines de deſſous la langue, afin que par telles ouuertures on :: ſont encores puiſſe faire vacuation de la matiere conioincte. pareillement le patient doit tenir diete tenué; ſans boire $. ,n vi§ nullement vin, principalement iuſques au quatorzieſme iour, qui eſt le terme couſtumier où les accidens - iuſques au ſont encore en vigueur. auſſi les medicamens repercuſſifs doiuent eſtre continuez iuſques au quatrieſme : .iour. iour : & puis apres on doit venir aux reſolutifs , commençant aux doux & amiables, comme ceſte de- # coction. /.. radicis althex .vj. ireos,cyperi, calami aromatici añ. ij.foliorum ſaluia , maioranae,betonicae, : forum camomillae, meliloti, roſarum rubrarum, ſtœchados añ. m.f. ſalis communis . iij. bulliant omnia . - ſimul ſecundùm artem cum vino rubro & aqua fabrorum, fiat decoctio : de laquelle on fera fomentation ， cerat de vi- deux fois le iour auec feutres ou eſponges. et te conuient en cét endroit noter, qu'il ne faut trop eſchauf- i : bleſſé,ſans parler:auſſi fut vingt iours ſans boire ny manger,fors de la gelée fondue & des boüillons de cha- pon,auec ſuccre,& autres ſemblables:neantmoins fut guary:vray eſt qu'il perdit ſa memoire,& luy demeura hipp. aph. vne balbutie, c'eſt à dire, fut begue, ne ſçachant expliquer ce qu'il deſiroit dire. ce qui confirme le dire .liu. . d'hippocrate, lequel affirme que ceux qui pour quelqe cauſe ont concuſſion au cerueau, perdent inconti- quibº cere- nent la parole : voire comme note galien au commentaire, toute action qui vient de volonté.or en tel cas º, ºli- ie n'eſtime de petite efficace non moins que de vigo,la faculté d'vn tel cerat,d'auoir prohibé l'apoſteme qui * cºº ſe pouuoit aiſément faire au cerueau. ce qu'aucuns bijarres hors de raiſon,ne veulent conceder,& maintien- nent ne ſe pouuoir faire apoſteme en la ſubſtance du cerueau.pareillement ne croyent qu'on en puiſſe échap- per,lors qu'il y à portion de la ſubſtance du cerueau déperdue.& donnent des raiſons en l'air, que ne veux icy reciter pour euiter prolixité : mais il me ſuffira le prouuer par l'authorité des anciens,qui ont laiſſé par fh °. a" eſcrit telles choſes eſtre aduenuës : ioint que par experience on le void ſouuent aduenir. et premierement liu. hippoc.dit,que celuy qui a grande douleur de teſte,s'il aduient qu'il jette du pus,des eaux ou du ſang par le nez,& par la bouche, ou par les oreilles,cela guarit le malade.pareillemét galien au liure de inequalitewaperie - & raſis, des playes en particulier. & raſis u troiſieſme liure de ſon continent,chap. .& auicenne au chapitre des exitures,en la troiſieſme partie du quatrieſme liure,chap. o.affirment que nature jette la ſanie faite au cerueau, par le nez,bouche, au liu.ge & oreilles.or par experience,auſſi on a veu aduenir telle choſe.et me ſouuient que maiſtre prothais cou- inequali lon,chirurgien de defunct monſieur de langey, m'a recité & affirmé auoir veu vn ieune garçon en la ville tamperie. du mans,lequel aydoit à ſonner vne groſſe cloche,& ſe pendoit à la corde, parlaquelle fuſt eſleué en haut, hiſtºirº- & tomba la tefte premiere ſur les quarreaux et ſubit perdit la parole,l'oüye,& la veuë, & toute cognoiſſan- # rothais ce & raiſon,auec retention des excremens puistoſt apres luy ſuruint la fiévre,auec delire,& autres mauuais º* accidens.et ne fut le patient trepané,à cauſe qu'on ne trouuoit aucune fracture au crane. et au ſeptieſme iour il luy ſuruint vnegrande ſueur & ſternutation, auec laquelle jetta grande quantité de pus par le nez, oreilles,& bouche.et apres † euacuation les accidens ceſſerent,& guarit. dauantage i'ay fait ouuerture ſouuentefois pour faire rappprt en iuſtice,à cauſe de la mort de pluſieurs qui auoient eſté bleſſez à la teſte: où ie trouuois grande quantité de pus auec pourriture de la propre ſubſtance du cerueau.reſte ſemblable- ment prouuer que les playes auec perdition de ſubſtance du cerueau,ne ſont neceſſairement mortelles. ce liu.s. de , que le bon vieillard guidon recite auoir veu vne playe en la teſte,partie poſterieure, de laquelle eſtoit ſor-lºvſdes pars tie de la ſubſtance du cerueau,& le patient guarit.et quand à moy,ie puis aſſeurer en auoir auſſi veu, dont hiſtoire. icy en raconteray quelques hiſtoires.dés l'an mil cinq cens trente-huict, comme i'eſtois à thurin, chirur- gien de defunct monfieur le mareſchal de montejan,penſay l'vn de ſes pages, qui reçeut vn coup de pierre a la teſte par vn de ſes compagnons, joüant au palet,& le coup fut ſur l'os parietal, partie dextre, auec fra- cture & embarrure dudit os,& ſortoit par ſa playe de la ſubſtance du cerueau,la groſſeur de demieauelai- ne ou enuiron.et ſubit qu'apperçeustelle choſe,diſois la playe eſtre mortelle.et ſur ce faict arriua vn ieune medecin,lequel conteſta fort contre moy,diſant qu'icelle portion du cerueau eſtoit graiſſe, & non du cer- ueau.auquelie dis qu'il lagardaſt iuſques à ce que i'euſſe habillé le patient,& que mon dire ſeroit trouué veritable. et apres auoir pensé ledit page, afin de prouuer par raiſon & experience qu'icelle portion du itae ſe peut cerueau ne pouuoit eſtre graiſſe : ie luy dy premierement qu'au dedans le crane il ne ſe peut faire graiſſe, engendrer encores que les parties ſoient froides:à cauſe qu'il y a grande quantité d'eſprits animaux qui ſont tres-graiſſe ſous chauds & ſubtils, joint la multitude des vapeurs eſleuées de tout le corps à la teſte, leſquelles choſes em- le crane, peſchent la generation de la graiſſe:& quant à l'experience par la diſſection des corps morts,iamais on n'y void aucune graiſſe. et neantmoins vouloit gagner ſon dire par touſiours conteſter. en fin luy dis que l'ex- perience nous mettroit d'accord. ce que pluſieurs gentils-hommes & autres aſſiſtans deſirerent bien voir & entendre:carie tenois que ſi c'eſtoit graiſſe,elle nageroit ſur l'eau : au contraire que ſi c'eſtoit de la ſub- . ſ}ance du cerueau,qu'elle iroit au fonds.dauantage ſi c'eſtoit graiſſe,en la mettant ſur vne peſle chaude,elle signes par fondroit;& ſi c'eſtoit du cerueau,il ſe deſſeicheroit & demeureroit aride comme parchemin,ſans ſe fondre leſquels là ou liquefier, & promptement bruſleroit, pource qu'il eſt gluant,humide,& aqueux. et furent faites telles trºiſſe eſt épreuues,dont fut trouué mon dire eſtre vray:& combien que ledit page eût telle portion de la ſubſtance diſtinguée du cerueau perdue,il guarit,reſte qu'il demeura ſourd. d'auec la - - ſubſtance du des playes de la face. ch a p. xxiv. ſermeaº. r apres auoir ainſi traicté des playes & fractures de la teſte,maintenant faut parler de celles de difrance la pace,leſquelles ſe doiuent ſoigneuſement traicter, afin que les cicatrices ne demeurent lai- des playes des & difformes. les cauſes peuuent eſtre ſemblables à celles du crane, ſçauoir eſt,externes. de la Éacr. mais aux eſpeces & differences on peut adiouſter amputation totale des parties,comme d'vne - oreille,ou d'vn œil creué,ou du tout ſorty hors de la teſte : auſſi le nez du tout coupé,& auec portion de la lévre,ou totalité d'icelle.pareillement la playe peut eſtre faite de choſe fi violente, comme d'vn coup d'harquebuſe,& autre choſe ſemblable, qui aura rompu & emporté portion des os du palais;de façon que le patient iamais puis aprés ne pourra parler que regnaut, c'eſt à dire,parlant du nez,s'il n'eſt ſe- - couru par le benefice de la chirurgie:ce qui te ſera declaré cy-apres.nous commencerons dóc aux playes des playes des sourcils,en continuant toutes les autres parties du corps.aucunefois iladuiét que la playe ſera faite au des ſourcils. trauers des ſourcils,eri ſorte que les muſcles & pannicules charneux, qui les meuuent & eſleuent ſeront du tout dilacerez & coupez.adonc les paupieres ne peuuent eſtre eſleuées,& les yeux demeureront clos; de façon que le patient(s'il veut,voir ſera contraint,voire apres la cóſolidation de la playe)eſleuer de ſa main ladite paupiere,ce que i'ay veu pluſieurs fois : & tel accident le plus ſouuent vient de l'imperitie ou inad- uertance du chirurgien,faute d'auoir deuement couſu la playe,& d'y auoir appliqué compreſſes, & fait li- . gature propre.et où tel accident ſeroit ſuruenu,faudroit couper, & du tout amputer autant du cuir & du faute de ſu- pannicule charneux qu'il en ſera beſoin:afin que la paupiere ſe tienne eſleuée en haut, ſans que le patient tºre & lº ſoit contraint y mettre la main. puis faut coudre deuëment la playe , de couſture de peletier : & par deſſus º #º ſera appliqué de mon baume,& aux parties voifines,telmedicament .oleiroſati# #. albumina ouorum, º numero duo,boli armenici,ſanguinis draconis,maſtiches añ. .j. agitentur ſimul,fiat medicamentum:& ſoit fait bandage & ligature propre pour tel cas.puis apres on vſera de l'emplaſtre gratia dei, vel betonicæ,vel diachalciteos,ou autres ſemblables,iuſques à ce que la playe ſoit conſolidée:& telles playes & autres de la face,ſe curent facilement,ſi elles ne ſont accompagnées d'autres mauuais accidens, ou que les patiens fuſ- - ſent fort cacochymes.il aduient vhautre accident du tout contraire, que la paupiere demeure eſleuée en les playe, haut,en ſorte que les malades dorment les yeux ouuerts,ne les pouuans clorre : les grecs les nomment la- de la face ſe gephthalmar. la cauſe vient de cauſe interne,comme d'vn charbon,ou autre apoſteme:ou exterieure,comme eurent faci-, d'vn coup d'eſpée,ou d'autre baſton.la cure ſe fera en faisât vne inciſion au deſſus de la paupiere,de figure lºmº _ de croiſſant,& que les angles ou pointes ſoient contre-bas,afin de relaſcher & abaiſſer ce qui eſt trop eſle- ué de la paupiere,& ne faut nullement toucher le cartilage , pource qu'apres ne ſe pourroit plus releuer. le reſte de la cure ſe fera ainſi qu'il appartient. des playes des teux. ch a p. xxv. # È s playes des yeux ſont faites de choſes poignantes trenchantes, contondantes, ou autrement. $ et ſelon icelles differences, faut que le chirurgien diuerſifie la cure. or s'ilya aucune choſe moyen dos eſtrange dans l'œil, faut ſubit la tirer hors,renuerſant (s'il eſt beſoin ) la palpebre doucement i . # les auec la queue de l'eſpatule,ou vne piece d'argent. et où ne la pourras apperceuoir & voir, ap- corps eſtran- pliqueras dans l'œil trois ou quatre grains de ſemence d'ormium, ou toute-bonne, laquelle a puiſſance ge, bºr, de purger & nettoyer les ordutes, & petits corps eſtranges des yeux , non toutesfois inſerez, & gran- l'œil. demenr attachez contre les membranes : mais où la choſe eſtrange ſeroit adherante , & inſerée aux - x z membranes - le dixieſme liure membranes,alors vſeras de cét inſtrument, lequel poſeras ſur l'œil, & ouuriras les paupieres, & preſſeras a doucement l'œil:& par iceluy ſera tenu ledit œil ſtable, & auec petites.pincettes ſera tiré la choie eſtran- ge hors. la figure dudit inſtrument eſt telle. figure d'vn speculum oculi,pourdilater & tenir les paupieresſtables ; lequelſe » peut accroiſtre & reſerrer ſelon la grandeur des yeux. or apres auoir extrait les choſes eſtrâges,ſera appliqué dans l'œil tel medicament.prenez germes d'œufs medicament dix ou douze , agitez en vn mortierde plomb , auec vn peu d'eau roſe, & le mettez dans l'œil,& par ſus repercuſifs. ledit œil, & parties voiſines ſera mis repercufiftel que ceſtuy. /.albumina ouor.num.iiij.pulueris aluminis rochx combuſti .ij.ſanguinis draconis .jaquæ roſar & plantag.afi. .ij.agitétur ſimul,fiat repercuſſiuû:du- uel on vſera,& ſera reiteré ſouuent.autre. prenez fromage frais,bien eſcremé,eau roſe & blanc d'œuf,& † de acacie. autre plus excellent & de plus grande force à reprimer la fluxion , & oſter l'inflammation. e. gummi arabici & tragacanthiañ. . iij. pſilij cydoniorum , ſeminis portulaca , plantaginis , ſumach. añ. .ij. fiant mucilag. extrahantur cum aqua plantaginis , ſolani & roſarum , & fiat collyrium : duquel poina nota- on en pourra ſeurement vſer , tant au dehors l'œil , qu'au dedans. et noteras que tous les remedes que ble-. tu appliqueras à l'œil, & autour d'iceluy ſe doiuent appliquer tiedes , tant à fin qu'ils penetrent mieux par le moyen de la chaleur moderée, qu'auſſi à raiſon que les choſes froides actuellement ſont en- remedesſin- nemies des yeux & de la veue , par incraſſation & ſtupefaction des eſprits viſifs : de fait, que i'en ay veu zuliers pour quelques-vns à qui la veue eſt demeurée trouble à faute de ce faire:cöme auſſi i'ay veu aucuns ayans playes ſeder douleur aux yeux faictes par ponction d'aiguille, ou de poinçon, ou choſes ſemblables, en la ſubſtancede l'œil,tou- des yeux tesfois en la pupille, ſortir en bonne quantité de l'humeur aqueux, & guarir, en y appliquant les remedes ſuſdits, & tel mucilages. et par fois faut faire inſtiller ou rayer du tetin laict de femme laictante , parce ". qu'il n'eſt ſi chaud,lequel a faculté d'adoucir & appaiſer ſa douleur, mondifier & nettoyer.semblablement on pourra vſer du ſang de tourterelle,pigeon, ou de poulets,inciſant la veine qui eſt ſous leurs aiſle. iceux auſſi reſoluent, mondifient, & appaiſent la douleur.auſſi ſera appliqué ſur l'œil & parties voiſines ce ca- cataplaſme taplaſme, lequel a grande vertu & anodyne & ſedatiue de douleur, & prohibe la fiuxion & inflammation. fort anodyn . carnis pomorum ſub cinere calido decoctorum # v. vitellos ouorum num. iij. caſſix fiſtulx recenter " éxtracta- .f. mucilaginis pſilijalthex. cydoni. an. .j. farinz hordei parum : incorporentur.omnia ſimul, c fiat catap. auſſi on peut vſer de poulmons de mouton, ou d'autres beſtes, vn peu par-boüillis en laict. & tous chauds les appliquer deſſus , & les renouueller promptement que le patient ſentira qu'ils ſeront froids. et où cedit remede n'auroit puiſſance de ſeder la douleur, à § d'vne extreme chaleur , ſoit fait # tel remede. prenez fueilles de iuſquiamevne poignée, cuites ſous les cendres, puis pillées en vn mortier, j - auec mucilages pſilij & cydoniorum, extraits en eau de morelles & plantain:& en ſoit appliqué entre deux linges ſur les yeux & temples.autre prenez mucilages pſilij, & cydoniorum , extraicts en vne decoction de papauer, & vn peu d'opium auec eau roſe. et où la playe auroit beſoin d'eſtre mondifiée & incarnée, ſera appliqué tel medicament. z. ſyrupi roſati de ficcis . j.aq. fœnic.& ruthx añ. . ij. aloes lotæ,oliba- mundicatif ni an.' .f. miſce ad vſum dictum. semblablement les fiels de raye , de liévre, de perdrix diſſous en eau la conioncti- / lv. aduertiſſe- propre aux d'eufraſe & fenoüil , ſont propres à la mondification d'icelles playes. pareillement ce collyre. /.. aquae pºyes des hord. .j. mellis deſpumati. .iij. aloes ter lotx in plantag. & ſaccari cand.añ. .j. fiat collyrium:& s'il eſt %** .. beſoin engédrer chair,on vſera de ceſtuy z. mucil.gómiolibani,arabici,& tragacâti,ſarcocol.in aqua hor- ºſº deiextractaan. .iij.aloester lotx in aqua roſ .j.ceruvſtx& ablutz,tuthix preparatrañ. .f.fiat coilyrium. or il faut noter que la conionctiue,au moyen de la ſolution de continuité , ou autrement,s'eſleue quel- quesfois en ſi § tumeur pour la defiuxion d'humeur ou ventoſitez qu'elle couure dutout la pupille,& ſort bien fort hors des paupieres, & femble à vne chair ſuperflue, perdant ſa couleur naturelle,& deuient rouge : qui ſe fait au moyen de la douleur & chaleur eſtrange, auec ventoſité & quelque aquoſité,en ſorte que l'œil ne ſe peut ouurir,ny clorre. et me ſuis trouué en compagnie d'vn ieune chirurgien,qui ſans moy vouloit couper & adapter remedes corroſifs pour amputer l'exuberance de ladite conjonctiue:mais ie l'en- collyre ſin- garday, parce qu'il euſt eſté cauſe de rendre aueugle ſon patient, auquel ordonnay vne fomentation d'vne gulier pour decoction de camomile, mellilot, roſes, abſinthe, rhuë, fenoüil & anis, racine d'iris, & de ſouchet, boüil- deſſeicher lis en laict , & auec éponges furent faites fomentations, puis apres auec ceſte-cy plus forte & deſiccatiue. # /.. nucis cupreſſi, gallarum, balauſt. añ. .j. plantag. abſinthij, hippuris, fiorum camomilla, meliloti, º ºagfg e roſarum rubrarum an. m. ß. bulliant ſimul cum aqua fabrorum , fiat decoctio pro fotu. semblablement on peut faire cataplaſme de ladite decoction , auec farine hordei , fabarum , pulueris maſtiches myrrhae, ireos. puis en declinaiſon de la reſolution,faut vſcr de ceſte liqueur dans l'œililaquelle a grandiſſime vertu d'aſtreindre, conſumer,ſeicher, & roborer ladite conionctiue relaxée , qui eſt telle. faites durcir vn oeuf frais, & ſubit le dépoüillez de cocque, oſtez le moyeu : dans le reſte du blanc, mettez vn ſcrupule de vi- triol romain en poudre:puis l'épreindrez dans vn linge blanc & net,& d'icelle liqueur en ſoit mis quelque iours dans l'œil , auec quelque portion d'eau de forge , en laquelle on auroit fait boüillir ſumach,& roſes rouges. et te puis aſſeurer,que tel remede eſt de grand effect. mais où le cas aduiendroit qu'il ſe fiſt chair ſupercroiſſante en la conionctiue, elle pourra eſtre conſommée par ceſte poudre. z.oſſis ſepia & teſtarum ouorum calcinatorum añ. .j. fiat puluis ſubtilis. on peut pareillement vſer de vitriol calciné, ou alum. §- bruſlé,ou autres ſemblables : mais auec grande diſcretion,en vſant toufiours de repercuſifs deſſus-l'œil & à »e chirur- gien. l'entour, pour obuier aux accidens. on il faut entendre, que, la fluxion ſe fait quelquesfois en ſi grande quantité & qualité d'humeur aigu,que la cornée ſe rompt & ſe creue,de ſorte que tous les humeurs ſortent hors.dauâtage icy noteras,que pendant que tu cures les playes & autres diſpoſitionsmauuaiſes des yeux, tu dois ſituer la teſte du patient aſſez haut,& tenir clos l'œil qui eſt ſain : à raiſon que toute partie vulnerée • u - doit les rlayes en particulier. a doit eſtre en repos,& parce qu'vn œil ne ſe peut mouuoir,que l'autre ne ſe meuue : pour ceſte cauſe le ſain doit eſtre tenu bandé & clos , à fin que l'œil malade demeure en repos , pour la connexion & colligance qu'ils ont l'vn auec l'autre par le benefice des nerfs optiques & motifs, du e & pie-mere, pericrans,veines arteres, & autres parties,qui fait que lors que l'vn ſouffre,l'autre quelquesfois ſent la douleur de ſon com- pagnon:de façon que le chirurgien y doit prendre grande ſolicitude:pource que le plus ſouuent l on void vne fluxion s'y faire ſi grande, que par les remedes ſuſdits ne peut eſtre arreſtee ; de ſorte qu'il eſt beſoin d'vn autre plus extreme qui eſt le cautere actuel auec seton appliqué derriere le col,lequel a vne merueilleu- ſe efficace aux fluxions inueterées. qu'il ſoit vray,l'experience quotidiaine monſtre que toſt apres que l'vl- cere fait par ledit cautere , iette boüe , la veüe ſe clarifie, voire à ceux qui ja l'auoient quaſi du tout perdue,ce qui s'eſt veu de faiſche memoire à vn honneſte italien orféure, nommé meſſire paule, demeu- rant en neſle, prés les auguſtins de paris, lequel eut vne fluxion ſur les yeux, où pluſieurs, tant medecins que chirurgiens, & autres, y auoient mis la main, deſquels receut peu d'ayde : & ne ſe pouuant plus con- duire, m'appella,& luy conſeillay d'aller à l'extreme remede,qui eſtoit le seton:ce que volontiers accorda, & l'ayant appliqué, & ſon vlcere eſtant conuertie en matiere ou ſanie,commença à mieux voir,& a meſure que ſon vlcere couloit,toufiours alloit en amendant ; de façon qu'il recouura dutout ſa veüe,& porta ledit seton enuiron vn an, ou plus:puis s'en faſcha penſant qu'il ne luy faiſoit plus aucun profit, dont le voulut oſter, & faire clorre ſa playe : mais ſix mois apres tomba en pareil accident,perdant la veue comme deuant. parquoy me renuoya querir pour luy apphquer derechefledit seton, dont toſt apres recouura pareillement ſa veue , & le porte encore à preſent. or ie ne te puis encores aſſez loüer l'effect dudit seton : car depuis " b peu de iours en ça l'ay appliqué par le conſeil de iacques houlier, docteur regent en la faculté de medecine, homme de grande erudition & de ſinguliere doctrine, à vn ieune homme âgé de vingt ans ou enuiron , lequel tomboit ſouuent d'epilepſie : mais incontinent que ſon vlcere commença à ietter ſa- nie , n'eſt tombé audit accident:& eſt vray-ſemblable que le virus & venenoſité prendyſſue par l'vlcere fait dudit seton. ie diray icy ſommairement que c'eſt qu'epilepſie. c'eſt vn mot grec, qui ſignifie ſurpriſe , ou retention de tous les ſentimens, dont il aduient que le malade chet en terre s'il n'eſt ſouſtenu car il perd tout a coup la veue, l'ouye , & autres ſentimens , comme par vne ſyncope, ou comme par vne apoplexie. mais il y a difference : car en l'apoplexie & ſyncope,il n'y a nul mouuement ny ſentiment : & en l'epilepſie, le corps ſe meut fort roidement, & trauaille de conuulſion ou retirement de nerfs inuolontairement. on le nemme auſſi le mal ſainct iean ; parce que la teſte de ſainct iean cheut en terre lors qu'il fut decapité, puis fut posée dedans vn plat, à l'appetit d'herodias. or maintenant faut décrire au ieune chirurgien la maniere d'appliquer le seton, & luy en bailler la figure. premierement faut que le malade ſoit aſſis ſur vne eſcabelle , luy commandant baiſſer la teſte vn peu en arriere : à fin que le cuir auec le pannicule charneux, ſoit plus laxe. puis faut qu'vn ſeruiteur tire & eſleue en haut ledit cuir, ayant rasé le poil s'il y en a ; & alors le chirurgien pincera le plus profond & prés du poil qu'il pourra ledit cuir, ſans aucunement tou- cher à aucun muſcle du col, pour les accidens qui en pourroient aduenir , comme ſpaſmes, & autres,& ſer- rera les tenailles (alors qu'il mettra le cautere ardent)aſſez fort, & par ce moyen ie patient ne ſentira l'a- ction du feu. car deux douleurs enſemble , faites en meſmes parties & lieu , la plus grande fait que la plus petite ne ſe ſent point ou peu. l'ouuerture ſe doit faire en long, & non en trauers : car par ce moven l eua- c cuation des matieres ſe fera mieux pour la tectitude des fibres. les tenailles ſeront percées au milieu, pour paſſer le cautere au trauers, lequel ſera en ſon extremité aigu,tringle, ou quarré, afin que ſon action ſoit plus prompte. puis ſoudain paſſeras au trauers deſdites tenailles, & cuir que tu auras cauterisé,vne aiguille à seton, enfillée de fil de'cotton en trois ou quatre doubles,lequel ſera imbu & trempé dans albumen oui & oleum roſat. puis appliqueras compreſſes trempées audit medicament, & feras ligature propre à la partie. lesfigures des tenailles, cautere actuel,& aiguille à seton - ſont telles. or le lendemain on fera embrocation d'huile roſat autour du col, & ſera continué le ſuſdit reméde âuec leſdites compreſſes : & le seton ſera imbu de digeſtif, faict de jaune d'œuf & huile roſat, iuſques à ce que l'vlcere iette boüe : & alors on vſera d'vn telmedicament, autour de ladite corde faite de cotton. /...tere- benth.venetx .iiij.ſyrupi roſ & abſinthij. añ. . . pulueris ireos,diacrydij, argaricitrochiſcati, & rheu- barbañ. . É. incorporentur omnia ſimul, fiat medicamentum : duquel on vſera tant que l'on voudra tenir l'vlcere ouuert, pource qu'il a vertu d'attirer les matieres du profond, & les mundifier ſans douleur. 'ay trouué puis n'agueres par experience, que l'ouuerture faite auec vne groſſe aiguille triangulaire bien tren- chante, ſemblable à icelles des emballeurs, eſt moins douloureuſe, qu'auec le cautere actuel cv-deſſus mentionné.partant ie conſeille au ieune chirurgien, de ne plus vſer deſdits cautetes actuels.la figure d° ladite aiguille t'eſticy repreſentée, - - x figure- hiſtcire di- gne d'eſtre bien notée. hiſtoire, seton, reme- de en l epi- lepſie. hitp.ath. , duobtus delo bte , c du liu. . | l / - z+v» --av º v.l. a). v• m.a. m. av• a- m. k-m i uy figure de l'aiguille triangulaire-. saezz zzzzzzr azzzzz ezzzzzzzzzz ，-eeſftlzz $ | - - - - <a saaa s© - e-e == - r - - n - - - - -- - - =- - - >e -- ---- = ine - rs s = -- e r t - : ns$se- #=== =-e.e-re--- - - [t d ) ) nnnnnss ， nnnn rns s xs ssssis \ srrs>=# medicamêts agglutina- tifs, propres aux ſutures ſeiches. : - autre ſorte de ſuture. remedes aux becs de lié- #?é'. des playes des joiies. c h a p t r e xxvi. ain t e n a n t nous faut en brief parler des playes des ioües. si la playe beſoin de % couſture , la faut faire ſeicher, à fin que les cicatrices ne demeurent laides : car il y en a % pluſieurs qui craignent tel accident,& principalement les belles damoiſelles.et pour ce j faire, tu prendras deux pieces de toille neufue,qui ne ſera ny trop groſſe, ny trop deliée, de grandeur qu'il conuiendra,pour la playe,couuertes & emplaſtrées de tel medicament. #\ v(à . /.. pulu. maſt.ſang. drac. thur far. volat. tragacanthi piſti, gypſi, picis, ſarcocollae, afi. # s#sq)\ .ij. picis nigrx .j.É. alb. ouor. qua ſufficiant : fiat medic.le blanc de l'œuf, auec de la ral in. lait le ſemblable. et ſeront appliquées à chacun coſté de la playe, & diſtant l'vne de l'autre d'vn doigt ou enuiron. et ſeront laiſsées ſeicher, puis apres couſues en les approchant l'vne contre l'autre, comme tu vois par ceſte figure. et par ainſi la playe ſera glutinée, tant par ladite ſuture, que par les medi- camens propres, compreſſes & bandages : tous leſquels bandages de la face ſe doiuent attacher à vne coeffe ou bonnet de nuict, que le malade aura ſur la teſte. or quand la playe eſt fort grande & profonde, & les lévres d'icelles fort diſtantes, lors telle ſuture n'y pourroit en rien , ou peu ſeruir. au moyen dequoy faut vſer d'aiguilles quarrées ou triangulaires , afin qu'elles penetrent & paſſent plus aisément ſans grande douleur, enfilées de fil ciré, en trauerſant d'icelles les lévres de la playe; & replier le fil autour cinq ou ſix fois (en la maniere que les femmes font, lors qu'elles veulent garder leurs aiguilles ſur leur manche, ou les couſturiers dans leurs bonnets) & laiſſer ainſi les ai- guilles attachées iuſques à la conſolidation de la playe. telle maniere de couſture ſe fait aux lévres : & ſont auſſi neceſſaires aux becs de liévre ; c'eſt à dire, aux lévres fenduës de natiuité, par defaut de la vertu for- matrice. mais telle couſture n'auroit aucun effect, s'il y auoit du cuir entre les lévres. et partant le faut du tout couper, ou autrement l'vnion ne pourroit eſtre faite. autre maniere de ſutures profite peu en telles playes, à raiſon que les parties ſont mobilles, tant par la maſtication que le parler : partant le fil couperoit la chair : & encores pour ceſte cauſe,on doit par leſdictes aiguilles prendre beaucoup de ſubſtance charneuſe, comme ilappert par ceſte figure. "， : | l -> a ay -° - pa u -u - . - - ^ a la figure des ſutures des lévres : & au deſſous t'eſt monſtré l'aiguille, autour de laquelle eſt entortillé le fil, comme doit eſtrefait au deſſus de la léure . en cét endroit ie reciteray vhe hiſtoire, afin que s'il aduient entre tes mains tel accident, tu faces le ſemblable. comme i'eſtois à la fere en picardie, deux iours apres la iournée ſainct laurent , trouuay grand nombre de ſoldats bleſſez, entre leſ- quels y auoit vn gaſcon , qui eut vn coup d'eſpée au trauers de la mandibule ſuperieure penetrant iuſques à la bouche,auec grande difformité du viſage:& parce qu'il auoit eſté trois iours apres ſa bleſſure ſans eſtre habillé, binoſque chirurgien iuré à paris & moy , trouuaſmes grande quantité de vers en ſadite playe, & grande feteur. promptement luy lauames ſa playe auec vne decoction d'abſinthe & aloës,auecvn peu d'egyptiac, tant pour faire tomber les vers, que pour mundifier la pourri- ture : & pour reſoudre la tumeur des lévres de ſa playe; fiſmes fomentations reſolutiues.pareillement luy furent appliquez ca- taplaſmez reſolutifs.et ſubit la reſolution faite, ledit binoſque luy fit pluſieurs poincts d'aiguille en la maniere cydeſſus eſ- critte : & par deſſus & dedans ſa playe , ne luy fut mis autre remede que ceſtuy. z. terebenthinx venetx .vjgummi elem. .ij.pul. boli armen. ſangu. draconis, maſt. myrrha , aloës añ. . . incorporentur ſimul, fiat medic. & en peu de iours fut la playe dudit gaſcon conſolidée, en ne reſtant qu'vn bien petit trou, pres la conionction de la mandibule inferieure à la ſupe- rieure,non plus grand qu'à mettre la teſte d'vne eſpingle : du- quel luy ſortoit en parlant, ou maſchant grande quantité d'eau fort claire,ce que i'ay ſouuentesfois veu. et pour arreſter ladite aquoſité, luy fut appliquée au profond de ſon vlcere, de l'eau forte, & quelquesfois de la poudre de vitriol bruſlé. et par ces remedes fut la playe guarie. des playes du nez, c h a p, xxv ii. sne s\$, e nez eſt quelquesfois bleſſé par playe, froiſſure & fracture : & alors faut le reduire en ſon | | # lieu naturel (s'il eſt poſſible) auecque la queue d'vne eſpatule, ou d'vn baſton de bois propre, d' enueloppé d'eſtoupes,cotton,ou linge, en eſleuant & reduiſant les os en leur figure naturellei & apres la reduction faicte,ſoient miſes compreſſes aux parties laterales, pour tenir le nez en - - ſa figure : leſquelles ſeront trempées & imbues en vn reſtraintiffait ex albumine oui, maſti- che, bolo armeno, & ſanguine draconis, alumine combuſto. puis ſoit faite ligature propre, en ſorte qu'elle ne preſſe ſur le nez, de peur de rendre puis apres le patient camus, comme aucuns ont fait par leur imperitie. et apres ce fait, faut mettre dans les nazeaux tentes cannulées aucunement plattes, leſquelles c ſeront attachées par vn fil,à la coeffe, ou bonnet du bleſſé, de peur qu'elles ne tombent : leſquelles ſerui- ront de tenir les os fracturez en leur lieu naturel , & donner iſſue à la ſanie s'il en y a, & pareillement à l'inſpiration & expiration. - la figure destentes canulées eſt telle . or ſi le nez ou portion d'iceluy n'eſt du tout tranché & abbatu, & qu'il y ait encore ſuffiſam- ment chair pour donner nourriture, alors le faut coudre, ce qui a lieu en ſon inferieure partie , qui eſt cartilagineuſe,qui ſe peut bien caſſer, enfoncer, tordre & couper, mais non rompre ou fracturer, comme la ſuperieure quia nature & ſubſtance d'os. - - - - - • -- —-- -•-é- —^-------- — des playes de la langue-.. ch a p. xxv ii i. - $# a langue eſt aucunesfois vulneree auecque perdition de ſubſtance, & quelquesfois inciſée $# & fenduë au long,& autresfois en trauers. s'il ya perdition de ſubſtance, iamais la piece ne # peut eſtre repriſe, pource que toute partie ſeparée du corps viuant, auec lequel elle eſtoit conioincte parvie,perd la vie en meſme inſtant. or, comme diſent les philoſophes, à priua- •- * tione aa habitum non fit regreſſus : mais s'elle n'eſt qu'incifée en long,facilement eſt curée, en la reüniſſant auec couſture : & s'elle n'eſt inciſée en trauers, & qu'il y ayt encores quelque portion de fa chair pour bailler ,vie, il ſe faut bien garder de la paracheuer de couper, (pour l'excellence de fon vſage : )mais conuiendra recoudre, en faiſant les poincts d'aiguille deſſus & deſſous : & la faut tenir fermement , pen- dant qu'on la couſt,auec vn linge blanc, net & delié, pource qu'elle gliſſeroit d'entre les doigts , à cauſe de ſa lubricité,ainſi que fait vne anguille, & couperas le fil le plus pres du nœud qu'il te ſera poſſible, de hiſtoire. remede ag- glutinatif. choſe degne # 'eſt re yotée reduhion du nez fras cturé- viilité de feºtes cºnga mulées. ', vne portien. de la langue entieremènt tranch ee ns ſe peut rem- nir à ſ'autre. peur qu'iceluy ne ſoit mis entre les dents,lors que la langue ſe meut en la bouche : qui pourroir eſtre cau- ' ſe que les poincts ſeroient dilacerez & rompus. puis faut commander au malade qu'il mange orge mondé - x lat .ac> m.-v. \ ll x v ll l-lv- ä- i lt s- laict d'amandes,gelées, coulis, preſſifs, œufs mollets,& autres choſes ſemblables:& qu'il tienne ſouuent en fabouche ſuccre roſat,ſyrop de coings,de ceriſes confites,ou autres ſemblables confitures,pource que telles º hiſtoire de choſes alimentent & nourriſſent,& ſeruent de medicamens agglutinatifs. or ie te puis aſſeurer qu'oncques l, tangue n'ayveu en aucun liure, ce que ie t'eſcrits de la langue , ny ouyd'aucun precepteur : mais ie l'ay pratiqué preſque cou deux fois,comme tu orras à preſent vn iour fus appellé en la maiſon de defunct monſieur coüet aduocat pée au fî s de en parlement,pour penſer vn ſien fils, âgé de trois ans : lequel tomba le menton ſur vne pierre,& ſe coupa couet,aduo- de ſes dents bonne portion de l'extremité de ſa langue , & ne tenoit qu'à bien peu de chair : & avant peu ºat en par d'efperance qu'elle ſe peût reünir, cuiday paracheuer la luy couper, mais toutesfois auec vn tres-grand lement. regret, veu que puis apres n'euſt peu parler : qui me fit differer , cognoiſſant que quelquesfois nature fait des choſes admirables : & que la langue eſt d'vne chair fungueuſe, laxe, & ſpongieuſe : auſſi qu'elle n'eſt ſubiecle aux iniures exterieures de l'air. adoncques luy fis deux poincts d'aiguille , l'vn deſſus, & l'autre deſſous, & commanday à la mere dudit enfant qu'elle euſt à le nourrir des alimens predits : & vous puis autre hiſtoi aſſeurer qu'en peu de iours l'enfant fut parfaictement guary,& à preſent parle tresbien. vn cas ſemblabke re du ſilº de arriua vn peu de temps apres au fils de monſieur de marigny preſident aux enqueſtes,qui fut ſemblablement monſieur le guary. te puis narrer vn cas pareil aduenu depuis n'agueres à vn charpentier , homme de bien en ſon eſtat, #º"* § maitre iean piet,demeurant au fauxbourg sainct germain des prez, lequel tomba d'aſſez haut ſur #. vne piece de bois, & ſe coupa auſſi l'extremité de la langue, & ſubit vint vers moy pour la luy paracheuer §. de couper, parce qu'elle ne tenoit qu'a peu de choſe : ce que ne luy voulus accorder, veu l'experience que pentier. 'en auois faite auparauant.doncques la luy recouſis, & peu de iours apres fut pareillementguary auecques les remedes ſuſdits. parquoy ces choſes entendues au chirurgien, faut qu'il traite bien (s'il n'a meilleur moyen)les playes de la langue en la façon dite, & honneur & profit luy en aduiendra. - —. desplayes des oreilles. c h a p. x x i x. a n t e n a n t faut parler des playes des oreilles,leſquelles ſont aucunesfois du tout cou- en quel cas $ # pées, ou vne partie d icelles, & aucunesfois reſte encore quelque portion qui tient. †z ·ſe peut recou- $ dre l'oreille $ faut auoir égard,comme auons dit, s'il y a encores ſuffiſante nourriture,& lors tu y feras ſutu- «oupée # # # re:& de ton aiguille ne toucheras au cartilage , de peur que la partie ne tombe en gangrene, ºnsi no (ce que ſouuentesfois eſt arriué)mais ſeulement prendras le cuir,& ce pen de chair qui eſt au- tour ledit cartilage : & auec compreſſes & bandages, & remedes propres à ce faire , prohiberas l'iufiamma- tion,& autres accidens.auſſi donneras ſi bon ordre, qu'il ne s'engendre chair ſuperfluë au conduit de l'o- re ille, de peur qu'elle ne face obſtruction, qui eſtouperoit la voye de l'ouye. pour ceſte cauſe tu y mettras touſiours vn peu d'éponges, afin de tenir le trou de l'oreille ouuert. auſſi vſeras de medicamens ſecs, attendu que la partie eſt cartilagineuſe : & par conſequent fort ſeiche. et où le cas aduiendroit qu'elle fuſt du tout coupée,apres la guariſon & cicatrization, le malade pourra porter (pour cacher ſon imperfection) vn bonnet appellé calotte, & à l'endroit de la dite oreille , ſera embourré de cotton ou drap, pour cacher le vice de ladite oreille qui aura eſté amputée. desplayes du col, & de la gorge_ . c h a p xx x. # *º,º a qſ， e s playes du col & de la gorge ſont ſimples, c'eſt à dire,auecque ſolution de continuité ſeule p # é# # ſ$ és muſcles : ou compliquees, à ſçauoir auecque playe en la chair & aux os , comme és verte- g crg … $} # bres. souuent auſſi les veines iugulaire,tant internes qu'externes, enſemble les carotides ſont # offenſées. quelques fois la trachée artere & oeſophague ſont navrez,voire du tout coupez,& cº^ $yºw pour les ſuſdites playes, ſouuent s'enſuit la mort. iarquoy le chirurgien deuant que de tou- cher à la playe,doit faire ſon prognoſtic,ſelon qu'il verra les accidens grands ou petits,d'autant que la ſolu- tion de continuité eſt ſouuent cauſe de perdre quelque mouuement, ou de la mort, comme nous auons dit. " signes des car à celle du col, ſouuentesfois il y a quelque grand nerf ou tendon atteint , qui eſt cauſe de la priuation playes de du mouuement : & ſi elles penetrent iuſques à la ſpinale medulle, auec leſion d'icelle, le mal eſt incurable. l'oeſopha- les playes de l'oeſophague & trachée artere ſont tres difficiles à curer pour leur perpetuel mouuemét,& gue. que ladite trachée artere eſt cartilagineuſe & exangue. celles de l'oeſophague ſe cognoiſtront, ſi le pa- *igº ,º, tient crache du ſang par la bouche, & que ſon manger & boire ſortira par la playe:& s'il eſt du tout coupé, # ne pourra iamais aualler parce que chacune partie ſe retire, à ſçauoir l'vne en haut, & l'autre en bas, & ſi fere. la trachée artere eſt bleſſee,le vent ſortira par la playe : ſemblablement crachera le ſang, & n'aura ceſſe de siçmes des touſſer. celles des veines ingulaires & arteres carotides, eſtans grandes ſont mortelles, pource qu'elles ne pl.yes des peuuent eſtre eſtreintes, & comprimées par ligatures, à cauſe que le col ne peut eſtre fort ſerré,que l'on ne veines iuga-ſuffoquaſt le malade : au moyen dequoy s'enſuit vn flux de ſang, qui eſt cauſe demort : & ſile nerf recurrent laires. eſt coupé du coſté dextre ou ſeneſtre , la voix demeure rauque : ſi de tous les deux , le malade ne pourra gal. de vſu iamais parler, pource que l'inſtrument qui eſt cauſe de la voix, eſt tranché. quant à la curation , ſi la playe partium. n'offenſe aucun grand vaiſſeau, ny la trachée artere, ou oeſophague , & ſi elle eſt petite,ſera facilement cure. curée : s'il eſt neceſſaire y faire poincts d'aiguille,ſeront faicts comme auons dit cy-deſſus : puis ſera inſtillé - terebenthine de veniſe auec vn peu de bol fin, ou bien de noſtre baume, qui eſt tel. z. terebenth.venet. #ººººrti- fb. É. gummi elemi, .iiij. olei hyperico. .iij. bol. armen. & ſangu.dracon.afi. .j. aquæ vitx .ij. lique- ſiciel * fiant omnia ſimul lentoigne, & fiat balſam.vt artis eſt : addend. pulu.ireos floren aloès,maſt, myrrha añ. º .j. duquelbaume i'ay fait choſes admirables pour conſolider & agglutiner les playes,auſquelles n'y auoit choſes eſtranges, ou complication des maladies : & par deſſus ſera appliqué l'emplaſtre diachalciteos, diſ- •• , » • ; ſout en huile roſat & vinaigre, laquelle a vertu de reprimer les humeurs, & euiter l'inflammation , ou bien #" ſera appliqué l'emplaſtre de gratia dei,ou de ianua. et ſi la playe eſt auec inciſion des veines iugulaires, & pºyº de la ºrteres carotides , l'effuſion de ſang ſera arreſtée, comme nous auons deſcrit au chapitre du flux de ſang: t, é, & lors que la trachée artere & c eſophague ſeront coupez, le chirurgien y fera ſuture le plus proprement tere & oeſo- ºlº luy ſera poſſible,& le malade n'auallera choſe qui ſoit difficile à tranſgloutir, mais vſera de boüillons phague. reſtaurans,gelée, orge mundé : & s'il eſt beſoin de gargariſmes, ceſtuy ſera fort propre. z.hord. m.j. flor. roſar. p.j.paſſul. mund. iuiubar.añ. .É. liquirit. . j. bulliant omnia ſimul addend. mellis roſat. & ſyrupum roſarum añ. .ij. fiat gargariſm. vt artis eſt : duquel tiede en lauera & gargariſera ſa bouche : il lenit & ad- doucit la partie, fede la douleur,deterge & agglutine,& aide à la reſpiration. or icy rccitcray-ie ccſte hiſtoire , digne d'eſtre laiſſée à la icuneſſe des chirurgiens. l'an mil cinq cens ſeptante pregnoſtic. playes des - des playes en particulier. a ſeptante-quatre,le premier iour de may,françois brege,patiſſier de monſeigneur de guiſe,fut bleſſé à ioin- ... . uille d'vn coup d'eſpée à la gorge, coupant vne partie de la trachée artere, & l'vne des veinesiugulaires, hiſtoireme- dont s'enfuiuit grand flux de ſang,& vn chifflement par ladite trachée artere. la playe fut couſue,& appli- morable . qués remedesaſtringens & toſt apres le vent qui ſortoit de la playe,s'introduifit entre le pannicule char- # # neux,& l'eſpace des muſcles,non ſeulement de la gorge,mais auſſi de tout le corps(come vn mouton qu'on ſier de # a ſouflé pour l'eſcorcher ) ne pouuant aucunement parler. la face eſtoit tellement enfiée qu'on ne voyoit # apparence de nez, ny des yeux.voyant tels accidens, tous les aſſiſtans iugerent que ledit brege auoit plus - beſoin d'vn preſlre que d'vn chirurgien : & partant l'extreme-onction luy fut adminiſtrée. le lendemain monſieur de guiſe commanda à maiſtre iean le ieune, ſon chirurgien ordinaire , aller voir ledit brege, accompagné de monſieur buho , medecin celebre de madame la doüairiere de guiſe, enſemble lacques girardin, maiſtre barbier chirurgien au lieu de ioinuille, leſquels l'ayans veu, ledit medecin fut d'aduis de le laiſſer , n'eſperant aucune guariſon, & ne trouuoit le pouls des arteres aucunement battre pour la grande enfieure du cuir. ledit le ieune ne voulant laiſſer le malade ſans luy faire quelque choſe, & comme hardy operateur, pour la bonne experience qu'il a eu, d'vn vif eſprit, fut d'aduis d'vſer d'vn extremere- mede, qui fut luy faire pluſieurs ſcarifications aſſez profondes, par leſquelles le ſang & ventoſitez furent vacuées. en fin ledit patiſſier recouura la parole , & la veuë, & fut quelque temps apres du tout guary, par la grace de dieu : & eſt encore viuant,faiſant ſeruice à monſieur de guiſe de ſon eſtat de patiſſier. « autre hiſtoire_ . noble homme françois preuoſt,enſeigne de la colonelle de monſieur de l'archan,agé de vingt-cinq ans fut bleſſé d'vn coup d'eſpée au trauers de la gorge , paſſant pres la trachée artere , qui coupa les ra- meaux de laveine & artere iugulaire : dont il ſuruint vn bien grand flux de ſang, qui à grande difficulté fut #. eſtanché. dauantage vn des nerfs vocales fut coupé. semblablement les nerfs qui naiſſent des vertebres du ſit_ paraly- col,qui ſe diſperſent aux bras: dont tout ſubit le bras demeura impotent & paralytique.dauantage la paro- §. quoy la le grandement deprauée : ioinct que le col demeura vn peu tors,ne le pouuant tourner comme auparauant. parole ſion neantmoins eſt rechappé la vie ſauue. il fut mené en la maiſon de maiſtre pierre pelotot, maiſtre barbier deprauée. ' chirurgien demeurant à la place maubert,dont ſubit fus enuoyé querir par le malade, pour le penſer auec pourquoy le ledit pelotot.où eſtant arriué, & l'ayant pensé,i'eus vne grande desfiance de ſa guariſon,pour les accidens col luy de- qui luy ſuruindrent. a ceſte cauſe ie fis appeller meſfieurs cointeret, & pietre , hommes bien entendus ºeºre fºrs en la chirurgie , & fiſmes rapport en iuſtice, qu'à grande difficulté en pourroit-il reſchapper, & que ſa à cauſe des playe eſtoit mortelle. iel'ay penſé iuſques à ſa fin & dieu la guary. toutesfois eſt demeuré impotent # #º du bras, & ſa parole deprauée. ,* # # coupez. pourquoyb bras romba lautres hiſtoires memorables. ch a p. xxxi. r en cét endroitie veux bien reciter ces trois hiſtoires , afin qu'elles ſeruent d'inſtruction premier, bt. } ſignalée pour le ieune chirurgien, ſi telles playes luy tombent entre ſes mains. la premiere ſtoire . fut l'an mil cinq cens cinquante : vn ſeruiteur de monſieur de champagne, gentilhomme du - ſ (pays d'anjou, § navré d'vn coup d'eſpée à la gorge, en ſorte qu'il auoit l'vne des veines iu- - *ºgulaires couppée auec la trachée artere, au moyen dequoy auoit vn bien grand flux de ſang: joint qu'il ne pouuoit aucunement parler, iuſques à ce que ſa playe fuſt couſue & medicamentée. cr * pendant que les medicamens eſtoient liquides, il les attiroit entre les poincts d'aiguille , & les rendoit par la bouche. dont conſiderant la magnitude de la playe , & la nature des parties bleſſées principalement de la trachée artere & veine iugulaire, leſquelles ſont ſpermatiques , froides & ſeiches, par ainſi diffici- les à reünir:auecce auſſi que la trachée artere eſt ſubject au mouuement qui ſe fait en la deglution,à raiſon de la tunique interne laquelle eſt contenue en celle de l'oeſophague,obeiſſant l'vne à l'autre par vn mouue- ment reciproque,comme corde à double chefdedans vne poulie : confiderant auſſi l'vſage deſdites parties, e'eſt que la trachée artere ſert à la reſpiration, laquelle eſt neceſſaire à la ſymmetrie & chaleur vitale du cœur,& que la veine iugulaire eſt fort requiſe à la nutrition des parties ſuperieures.dauâtage ayant eſgard à la tres-grande quantité de ſang,qu'il auoit perdu,& perdoit par ſa playe(qui eſt le threſor de nature,con- - ſeruant la chaleur naturelle & eſprits vitaux)& autres accidens,faiſois mon prognoſtic de mort prochaine: seeonde his toutesfois ie te puis aſſeurer qu'il eſt rechapé.ce que ie croy eſtre pluſtoſtaduenu par la grace de dieu,que ſtoire ». par le moyen & ayde de l'homme, ny des medicamens. la ſeconde hiſtoire eſt, que depuis peu de temps eſtoient deux anglois logez enſemble,pres la porte sºmarcel,en ceſte ville de paris,dont l'vn auoit quelque ſomme d'eſcus,& vne aſſez groſſe chaiſne d'or,auec quelques autres riches bagues qu'il portoit ordinaire- ment ſur ſoy. son compagnon voulant s'emparer de tel ioyauxfit tant qu'il le mena ioüer vers le bois de vincenne : & eſtant dedans les vignes, luy coupa la trachée artere & l'oeſophague,& luy donna certains coups de dague, & penſoit bien l'auoir tué, le laiſſant preſque en chemiſe. ayant fait ceſte trahiſon & meſ- chanceté,incontineneretourna en ceſte ville.puis le navré qui auoit feint eſtre mort,ſe leua,& fit tant qu'il ſe traina à la maiſon d'vn paiſant,lequel par pitié le fit penſer & medicamenter.il fut apporté en ceſte ville,où toſt apres vn de ſes compagnons m'enuoya querir pour le penſer :& trouuay qu'il auoit la trachée artere ºec l'oeſophague,ou mery(qui eſt la voye de boire & du manger)entieremét coupée:& ſubit ie recouſus " -- ſa playe,prenant la trachée artere,& r'approchant plus prés qu'il me fut poſſible ſes deux extremitez l'vne ºotre l'autre:mais de l'oeſophague non,parce qu'il s'eſtoit retiré vers l'eſtomach:puis à ſa playe appliquay ºmedes auec compreſſe & ligature propre : & incontinent qu'il fut ainſi habillé, commença à parler, & ºommer celuy qui luy auoit faict cét excez. le meurtrier toſt apres fut pris aux faux-bourgs s. marcel : & le trouua-on ſaiſy des hardes dudit patient,dont il fut conſtitué priſonnier,& le fait verifié apres la mort du patient,laquelle fut le quatriéme iour de ſa bleſſure.toſt apres le meurtrier fut rompu ſur la roue pres ſain- ºe catherine du val des eſcoliers,& le meurtre verifié,pour auoir recouſu la playe dudit patient,l'ayât fait parler. la troiſieſme hiſtoire preſque ſemblable d'vn allemand,penſionnaire d'vn banquier nommé perot, , rºiſieſºe demeurant à la ruë des noyers en ceſteville de paris, lequel par vne phrenefie, & folle opinion,la nuictſ *º couppa la gorge d'vn couſteau,& ſe donna pluſieurs autres coups,tant au thorax qu'au ventre,dont aucuns penetroient au dedans,& les autres eſtoient ſuperficiels. le lendemain matin aucuns de ſes compagnons le voulans viſiter le trouuant fort mal , auec grande quantité de ſangre ſpandu autour de luy. et voyant tel ſpectacle croyoiét & penſoient que c'euſt eſté ſon ſeruiteur qui luy auoit fait tel excez,parce qu'il couchoit en ſa chambre : lequel fut prins & mené priſonnier au chaſtelet,en luy mettant ſus auoirainſi meurtry ſon maiſtre. or ie fus enuoyé querir pour viſiter & penſer lemalade:& voyant la trachée artere & l'oeſopha- gue o le dixieſme liljre, gue couppé,auec pluſieurs autres playes,n'eus aucune eſperance de ſa vie parquoy fus d'aduis qu'on appel- a cºnfeſſi au laſt eſtienne de la riuiere,chirurgien ordinaire du roy,& germain cheual,čhirurgien iuré a paris,& fut a malade. conclu entre nous,qu'il falloit recoudre la playe de la gorge,comme il a eſté recité cy-deuant próptement la playe couſue & bandée,ledit patient allemand commença à parler:& côfeſſa que luy-meſme s'eſtoit fait tel excez,& deſchargea du tout ſon pauure ſeruiteur en nos preſences,& de pluſieurs autres,& principale- ment de deux notaires,& d'vn commiſſaire du chaſtelet par ce moyen fut mis ledit ſeruiteur hors de pri- ſon, & abſous entierement par la confeſſion que fit ſon maiſtre : & vous puis aſſeurer qu'il veſcut quatre iours,jaçoit que iamais depuis ſa bleſſeure ne ſçeut aualler aucune choſesmais fut aucunement alimenté par clyſteres nutritifs,& choſes odoriferantes nutritiues,comme mie de pain chaud , trempée en vin, & autres choſes ſemblables que ie te laiſſe à dire,à cauſe de briefueté.seulement ie t'aſſeureray,que par le benefice de la chirurgie, fut donné moyen audit allemand, de parler par l'eſpace de trois iours : qui fut cauſe que ſon ſeruiteur,& ſon hoſte furent du tout deſchargez,& la verité du fait entierement cogneuë. des playes du thorax ou peičtrine. ch a p. x x xii. differen ce e s playes du thorax ou poictrine,lesvnes ſont faîtes par deuant,les autres par derriere.aucu- des playes nes penetrent au dedans & profondement, les autres non : auſſi aucunes ſont auec leſion des du thorax. { \l n parties contenuës,comme mediaſtin,poulmons,cœur,diaphragme,veine caue & grande artere aſcendante,& quelquesfois penetrent de part en part tout au trauers du corps, auec fracture d'os pulſez au dedans,par l'entrée de la playe,& à la ſortie chaſſez au dehors : parquoy aucu- nes ſont mortelles,les autres non.les ſignes qu'elles penetrent au dedans ſont cogneus, quand l'air ſort de b la playe auecvn ſifflement. et pour bien cognoiſtre cela, on fera boucher le nez & bouche du malade, afin signes que » que ſon vent ſoit retenu. ce faiſant,ſi la playe penetre,on verra ſortir le vent, approchant vne petite chan- la playe eſt delle allumée pres la playe,& lors on voit la flambe ſe mouuoir,& quelquesfois eſteindre la châdelle:ioint º !º ,ºpº- auſſi que le malade a peine de reſpirer & expirer, & principalement quand il y aura du ſang tombé ſur le # * diaphragme. les ſignes par leſquels on cognoiſt le cœur eſtre bleſſé , c'eſt qu'il ſort grande quantité de thorax. ſang,auec vn tremblement vniuerſel de tout le corps:le pouls eſt fort languide & petit,la couleur fort paſle •-"z.# & ſueur froide,auec ſyncope les extremitez demeurans refroidies,& promptement la mort s'enſuit toutes- ſtrent qu'el- fois ie proteſte auoir veu à thurin vn gentil-homme lequel ſe combatoit auec vn autre, qui luy donna vn le partie eſt coup d'eſpée ſouz la mammelle ſemeſtre penetrant iuſques en la ſubſtance du cœur, & ne laiſſa de tirer en- effiné.. " cores quelques coups d'eſpée contre ſon ennemy qui s'enfuyoit, le pourſuiuant la longueur de deux cens signes du pas,puis tomba en terre mort:& en feis ouuerture,où ie trouuay vne playe en la ſubſtáce du cœur,de gran- cœur bleſſé. deur à mettre le doigt,& grande quātité de ſang tombé ſur le diaphragme.les ſignes qui aduiennent quâd hiſtoire. les poulmons ſont vulnerez,c'eſt qu'il ſort de la playe vn ſang ſpumeux auec viie toux,le malade ſe couche ºitºu des volontiers ſur la playe,& en telle ſituation quelquesfois parle ayſément,&ſe tournant de l'autre coſté perd #º la parole,& agrande difficulté de reſpirer,& douleur aux coſtez qui n'eſtoit auparauant. les fignes qui de- bleſſez. monſtrent le diaphragme eſtre bleſſé, ſont peſanteur au lieu bleſſé,delire, c'eſt à dire perturbation de rai- ſon, qui ſe fait par la communication des nerfs de la ſixieſme coniugaiſon qui s'inſerent au diaphragme: grande difficulté d'halener,toux,de douleurs aiguës : les flancs ſe retirent & reſſerrent contremont : & par ceſte grande & vehemente inſpiration,eſt quelquesfois attiré l'eſtomach & les inteſtins par la playe en la ca- diaphrag- / º, hiſtoir»me- pacité du thorax,ce que i'ay remarqué à deux perſonnes:l'vn eſtoit ayde à maçon,lequel fut bleſſé au mi- c morable. lieu du diaphragme,en ſa partie nerueuſe , dont il mourut le troiſieſme iour : & luy ayant ouuert le ventre inferieur,ne peus trouuer ſon eſtomach:ce qui me fit grandement eſmerueiller,penſant que ce fuſt vne cho- ſe monſtrueuſe d'eſtre ſans eſtomach.mais ayant diligêment conſideré,cognus en fin qu'il eſtoit möté dans le thorax,jaçoit que la playe du diaphragme ne fuſt plus grande qu'à mettre le poulce : & ayant ouuert le autre hi- thorax,trouuay ledit eſtomach enflé & plein de vent,auec peu d'aquoſité.d'abondant ie ne veux obmettre ſtoire. ceſte hiſtoire aduenuë depuis peu de temps,d'vn capitaine nommé françois d'alon natif de xaintonge,le- quel eſtant à la ſuitte de monſieur de biron,grand maiſtre de l'artillerie de france,reçeut deuât la rochelle vn coup d'harquebuſe,dötl'entrée eſtoit à la fin du sternum pres le cartilage ſcutiforme,paſſant au trauers du diaphragme en ſa partie charneuſe, dont la ſortie eſtoit entre la cinq & ſixieſmc des coſtes vrayes du coſté gauche,duquel coup ſa playe fut bien conſolidée par dehors,toutesfois il luy reſtoit touſiours depuis vne debilité d'eſtomach,comme vne eſpece de cholique,à raiſon dequoy il n'oſoit ſouper que bien legere- ment.huict mois apres luy ſuruint vne grande douleur au petit ventre,comme vne colique, & fut ſecouru bien ſoigneuſement par monſieur de malmedy,docteur regét en la faculté de medecine,& lecteur du roy, & monſieur du val pareillement docteur en la faculté de medecine,hommes ſçauâs en la medecine & chi- rurgie:neâtmoins quelques remedes qu'on y peut adminiſtrer,mourut,& fus d'aduis l'anatomiſer,pour ſça- uoir la cauſe de ſa mort,& des grandes douleurs qu'il ſentoit pendant ſa maladie:ce qui fut fait par iacques guillemeau,chirurgien du roy,& iuré à paris,grandement versé en l'anatomie , & és autres parties de la chirurgie:& fut trouué en la capacité du thorax vne grande partie de l'inteſtin colon remply de vët,qui eſtoit entré par le trou du diaphragme fait par la bleſſeure:toutesfois n'eſtoit ledit trou ſuffiſant qu'à met- signes pour tre le bout du petit doigt.maintenant nous retournerons à noſtre propos. on peut cognoiſtre le ſang eſtre *ºgnoiſtre le tombé dedans le thorax par la difficulté de reſpirer,pourueu que le patient ſoit aſſis ou debout:car eſtant ſºr eſtre couché ſur l'eſpine du dos,le ſang contenu en la capacité,s'eſpanche du long de l'eſpine,ne comprimant ny † * les poulmons, nyle diaphragme, qui fait que quelquesfois il y a grande quantité de ſang contenu audit * thorax,au moyen dequoy le chirurgien ne ſituant bien ſon patient, peut eſtre trompé en ſon prognoſtic. pareillement auſſi ſe cognoiſt par là,& par l'accroiſſement de la fiévre ayant l'haleine puante,& crachement de ſang,& autres accidens qui prouiennent,lors que le ſang eſt hors de ſes vaiſſeaux,ſe conuertiſſant en vne ſanie #tide alterant les parties eſquelles elle touche de ſa ſubſtance ou de ſa vapeur.auſſi que le malade ne peut demeurer couché que deſſus le dos,& à volonté de vomir:deſire eſtre ſouuent leué, qui eſt cauſe qu'il - tombe en ſyncope,à cauſe de la faculté vitale qui ſouſtient le corps eſtant grandement debilitée,tât à raiſon #º * de la playe,qu'à raiſon desgrumeaux de ſang,qui en quelque partie qu'ils tombent,acquerans qualité vene- # caue neuſe par corruption du ſang ſailly de ſes vaiſſeaux affoibliſſent & diſſipét grandement les forces du cœur. &'grande les ſignes que la moiielle de l'eſpine eſt bleſſée,c'eſt qu'il ſe fait paralyſie,& ſouuent conuulſion ou ſpaſme: "féº "é . le ſentiment & mouuement des parties inferieures ſubit ſe perd,& les excremens comme matiere fecale & pºu , pºur l'vrine,ſont iettez inuolontairement,& ſouuent du tout retenus.les ſignes que la veine caue &grâde artere la curation ſont vulnerées,c'eſt que le malade meurt promptement,à cauſe de la ſubite & gärde vacuation qui ſe fait du desplayes du ſang & eſprits qui rempliſſent le thorax,faiſant ceſſer l'action des poulmons & du cœur,dót le pauure ma- thorax lade eſt promptement ſuffoqué. de vigo au traité des playes de la poitrine,chap. o.dit qu'il y a diſcord d : : : · ! ' ! | ( cihtre des playes en particulier. i » a entre les chirurgiens,parce que les vns ſont d'aduis de clorre la playe penetrante an dedans le plus ſubit que faire ſe pourra, ſans s'amuſer à la tenir ouuerte auec tentes, de peur que l'air froid n'entre au cœur,& que les eſprits vitaux ſortent & ſe diſſipent. les autres tiennent le contraire, & commandent de tenir la playe ouuerte : voire ſi elle n'eſt grande,qu'il la faut ouurir, afin que le ſang contenu au dedans puiſſe eſtre vacué, craignant qu'il ne ſe pourriſſe & putrefie, dont fiévre, fiſtule,& autres pernicieux accidens aduiendroient. or veritablement ceux qui tiennent que promptement faut clorre la playe ſans y mettre aucune tente , ont grande raiſon, pourueu qu'il n'y ait point de ſang,ou bien petite quantité tombée au dedans, de peur des accidens ſuſdits.auſſi ceux qui tiennent qu'il faut tenir la playe ouuerte , ont ſemblablement raiſon , pour les accidens qui peuuent venir , eſtant le ſang tombé en grande quantité au dedans, & retenu. et en cet en- hiſtcire. droit ie veux reciter ceſte hiſtoire. eſtant à thurin au ſeruice de deffunct monſieur de montejan, ie fus ap- · pellé pour penſer vn ſoldat nommé l'eueſque, natif de paris, qui eſtoit lors ſouz la charge du capitaine renou rt, qui fut bleſsé de trois grands coups d'eſpée, deſquels en auoitvn au coſté dextre ſouz la mamel- le, où la playe eſtoit aſſez grande, penetrant en la capacité du thorax, & eſtoit de coulé grande quantité de ſang ſur le diaphragme, qui empeſchoit la reſpiration , & ne pouuoit qu'à bien grande peine parler, ayant vne fiévre fort vehemente, & auec la toux jettoit le ſang par la bouche, & diſoit fentir vne douleur extréme au coſté bleſſé. or le chirurgien qui premierement l'auoit pensé, auoit conſu du tout ſa playe, de moyen de ſorte que rien n'en pouuoit ſortir : & le lendemain ie fus appellé pour viſiter le malade, où eſtant arriué, faire ſºrtir voyant les accidens & la mort proche,fus d'aduis de deſcoudre la playe, à l'orifice de laquelle ie trouaay * ſºns *- du ſang coagulé, dont ſubit feis eſleuer le malade par les jambes la teſle en bas,laiſſant vne partie du corps #º * deſſus le lict, s'appuyant vne main ſur vne eſcabelle plus baſſe que le lia : & eſtant ainſi ſitué,luy feisfer- *** b mer la bouche & le nez, afin que les poulmons ſe tumefiaſſent, & le diaphragme s'eſleuaſt, & les muſcles intercoſtaux ſe comprimaſſent, enſemble ceux de l'epigaſtre, afin que le ſang decoulé au thorax fuſt jetté hors par la playe : & encores pour mieux faire, mettois le doigt aſſez profondement en la playe pour deſ- boucher ladite playe du ſang coagulé , & en ſortit prés de ſept à huict onces ja fetide & corrompu : puis le feis fituer au lict, luy faiſant des injections en ſa playe d'eau d'orge, en laquelle auois faict bouillir miel roſat & ſuccre candi, le faiſois tourner de coſté & d'autre : & derechefle feis eſleuer par les iambes comme auparauant. lors on voyoit ſortir auec ladite injection des petits thrombus & grumeaux de ſang.cela fait, les accidens diminuerent, & petit à petit ceſſerent. le lendemain luy fis encore injection , en laquelle adiouſtay centaure, abſinthe,aloës, pour encores mieux mundifier : mais le malade toſt apres me dit qu'il ſentoitvne tres-grande amertume en la bouche, & volonté de vomir.alors me vint en memoireauoir veu n ne dºit aduenir vne pareille choſe à l'hoſteldieu de paris à vn quidam quiauoit vne fiſtule authorax : & conſide- fºr*iniº- rant que telles choſes ameres s'imbiboient en la ſubſtance des poulmons, & que par leur rarité & ſpongio-º # ſité facilement ſe communiquoient à la trachée artere & oeſophague, & par conſequent à la bouche,cela * th rax. fux cauſe que n'y appliquay plus ( & ne feray)telles choſes ameres en telles playes, cauſe qu'elles donnent plus de facherie au malade, que de bien. or pour conclurre, ladite playe fut ſi bien traittée, qu'outre mon eſperance le malade guarit. ie reciteray ſur ce propos vne autre hiſtoire. quelque temps y a que fusap- hiſtoire. pellé pour traiter vn gentil - homme allemand, au logis de s. michel , rue s. denys, lequel fut bleſsé d' vn coup d'eſpée penetrant au thorax : & pour le premier appareille penſa vn barbier ſon voiſin, & mit vne aſſez groſſe tente dedans la playe. le lendemain viſitay ledit allemand, & ayant veu ſa playe, & exa- miné s'il y auoit du ſang coulé au dedans, cognoiſſant qu'il n'y en auoit point, pource qu'il n'auoit fiévre, ny peſanteur, & qu'il n'auoit craché du ſang: lors luy oſtay ſa tente, & luy inſtillay de mon baume, & par c deſſusvn emplaſtre de zdiachalciteos,& toſt apres fut guary : ce que ie proteſteauoir fait en cas pareil par plu- ſieursfois.et puis icy atteſter, que pour tenir trop longuement des tentes és playes du thorax, icelles dege- nerent en fiſtules, & ſont rendues incurables le plus ſouuent. / andreas à cruce, medecin tres-fameux à veniſe, en ſon quatrieſme liure, ſection premiere de ſa chirur- gie parlant des playes du thorax, & comment il faut tirer le ſang ou autre humeur de la capacité d'iceluy, recommande entre tous remedes l'emplaſtre qui s'enſuit,duquel voicy les paroles expreſſes. nous trouuons tres-ſeur & expedient vſer de l'emplaſtre qui s'enſuit, aux playes du thorax & ſemblables, appliqué exte- rieurement , ſans mettre aucunement tentes, ny cannules, que ie puis aſſeurer, & prens dieu à teſmoin, qu'il eſt d'vn effect merueilleux : pour raiſon dequoy il eſt appellé sainct, digerant les playes profondes, anguſtes & cauerneuſes, roborant les parties voiſines, attirant par vne merueilleuſe prouidence les matieres eſtranges du profond & centre du corps, & ſi il abſterge, deſſeiche, & conſolide toute playe faicte d'eſtoc ſans nullement trauailler le malade. c'eſtoit des ſecrets de defunct mon pere, qui a long-temps regné en ces quartiers auec vne honneſte reputation. il eſt preparé comme s'enſuit. z. reſinx pini recentis clara & odoratæ . xij. olei laurini. puri,terebenthinæ optimae, afi. . ij. gummi elemni tranſparentis, grauis ac boni odoris .iiij. miſce. il faut tout premierement'mettre la reſine & la gomme en vn poillon, ou petit baſſin d'eſtain ſur le feu,le remuant iuſques à ce qu'ils ſoient meſlez enſemble l'vn auec l'autre : puis faut adiouſter l huile laurin & la terebenthine, & derechefles faire reboüillir, remuant touſiours : & lors que vous verrez que ledit medica- ment viendra eſpais, le faut paſſer au trauers d'vn gros linge, & le mettre dans vn pot de terre plombé,& d bienbouché, & en eſtendre ſur du cuir, & faire vn emplaſtre, qui couurira non ſeulement la playe, mais quatre ou cinq doigts és enuirons,luy donnant iour au milieu,pour donner paſſage aux matieres eſtranges. il faut ſeulement penſer leſdits malades vne fois le iour en hyuer,& deux en eſté. il loüe auſſi grandement, comme eſcrit galien au .liure de locis affectis, & chap. .du . liure de la methode, & dioſcoride liu. . chap. .l'vſage du melicratum, qui eſt faict de deux parties d'eau de riuiere & vne de miel.ll inciſe & at- tenue le ſang caillé,qui autrement ne pourroit paſſer , pour raiſon de l'anguſtie de la playe,pris en potion, ou bien en y faiſant injection dans icelle playe. galien au. .liure des adminiſtrations anatomiques recite ceſte hiſtoire, que le ſeruiteur de marillus mi- hiſtoire me: mographe, receut vn coup ſur le brichet, duquel au commencement il ne fit conte : & en apres ne fut bien morable d'v- conduit ny gouuerné. paſsés quatre mois, il monſtra de la fange en la partie qui auoit eſté frappée : ce- ne cure que luy qui le penſoit, la voulant euacuer, fit inciſion : & comme il cuidoit deuoir eſtre fait, incontinent fit fit galien à venir l'vlcere à cicatrice. par apres ladite partie s'enflamma derechef,& s'apoſtema,& derechef fut inciſée, vn auquet & ne fut de la en auant poſſible la cicatriſer. a ceſte raiſon ſon maiſtre aſſembla pluſieurs medecins, du º º º nombre deſquels ie fus, & les pria conſulter de guariſon. or comme tous cuiderent la maladie eſtre vn " * »ud. ſphacele & corruption du brichet, ſe voyant & apparoiſſant le mouuent du cœur en la partie ſeneſtre,au- cun n'oſa entreprendre de couper l'os gaſté & corrompu : lors ie promis de le couper,au reſte ie n'aſſeurois º point le guarir parfaictemét.apresauoir donc coupé l'os corrompu à l'endroit où luy eſt adherente la pointe de l'eſtuy du cœur, ſe monſtrant le cœur tout nud,par ce que ſon eſtuy ou pericarde eſtoit pourry : en cet - inſtant le cllx elnnc l llfc, belle anno- tation. pourquoy les fiſtules du thorax fant ſouuent in- cnrables. vſage des fe fe ſ' / • mulées,& de l'eſponge. l'vſage de la conrte ou- #erture, inſtât nous conçeuſmes mauuaiſe opinion & eſperance dudit ſeruiteur:ceneantmoins il fut totalement gua- ry en peu de temps : ce que ne fuſt aduenu,ſi on n'euſt pris la hardieſſe de couper l'os gaſté. cecy ſont les paroles de galien dignes de grande admiration, comme vn homme a peu viure, luy ayant veu le cœur à nud, & hors de ſon enneloppe ou tunique, nommée pericarde.et ſi c'eſtoit vn autre que ce grand perſon- nage galien, difficilement on le pourroit croire. a -- cure des playes du thorax ou poičirine. c h a f. xxx i l i. i la playe penetre au dedans du thorax, au premier appareil ne la faut clorre, mais ſera te- nuë ouuerte deux ou trois iours : & ſi on voit le malade eſtre auec peu de douleur, n'ayant peſanteur ſur le diaphragme, & qu'il reſpire bien,lors on oſtera la tente & la playe ſera con- ſolidée le pluſtoſt qu'il ſera poſſible, en mettant vn linge delié beaucoup plus grand que la playe,couuert de baume agglutinatif,ſe gardant y mertre de la charpie, de crainte qu'il ne ſoit attiré au dedans,lors que le malade inſpire. dauantage les tentes que l'on applique à tellesplayes doiuent eſtre attachées ou liées aux compreſſes, & qu'elles ayent ſemblablement la teſte groſſe & large, afin qu'el- les ne puiſſent tomber au dedans : car eſtans tombées cauſeroient putrefaction, & par conſequent la mort: parquoy le ieune chirurgien y prendra garde. on appliquera ſur la playe vn emplaſtre de diachalciteos, ou autre ſemblable. son regime, & les purgations, ſaignées, & autres choſes neceſſaires, luy ſeront ad- miniſtrées, ainſi qu'il ſera requis. auſſi ſi l'on cognoiſt qu'il fuſt tombé beaucoup de ſang au dedans du thorax, il faut tenir l'orifice de la playe ouuert auec groſſes tentes , iuſques à ce que la ſanie cauſée par ledit ſang, ſoitvuidée : & fi le cas aduient (qui ſe fait le plus ſouuent, quelque grande diligence que l'on puiſſe faire ) que la playe degenere en fiſtules, leſquelles peu ſouuent ſe guariſſent, parce que les muſcles à : du thorax,qui ſont entre les coſtes, ſont en perpetuelmouuement, & auſſi que par dedans ne ſont couuerts s que de la membrane pleuretique, qui eſt exangue : joint auſſi que la playe n'a point d'appuy pour eſtre com- - primée, couſue & liée pour ayder à nature à r'approcher les labies, & y faire regeneration & aggluti- b j. nation : tout cela fait que les fiſtules en cét endroict ſont le plus ſouuent incurables. or pour la cure il faut , m apres les choſes vniuerſelles faites, donner au malade de la portion vulneraire, & luy en faire des in- - iections dedans ladite fiſtule : en laquelle on adiouſtera du ſyrop , des roſes ſeiches, & miel roſat, & vn peu d'eau de vie, auec vne syringue : & où il y auroit grande pourriture, i'ay ſouuentefois adiouſté de l'on- guent aegyptiac. et faut auoir eſgard à la quantité de l'injection , à fin de la faire ſortir, & qu'il n'y en † nulle portion, s'il eſt poſſible : car y demeurant, nuiſt à la partie parce qu'elle ſe corrompt eſtant à retenue. pigure d'vne syringuepour faire iniections en quelque parties que ce ſoit, - lors qu'il enfaut ietterengrande quantité. # l'iniection ſortie, on mettra vne tente cannullée faite d'or, d'argent, ou plomb, laquelle ſera pertuisée, j. afin que la ſanie entre en icelle, & qu'elle ſoit vuidée par dedans ladite cannule.dauantage ne faut obmettre qu'elle ſoit bien liée, craignant qu'elle ne tombe au dedans : & à l'orifice d'icelle, on mettra vne grande º, eſponge trempée en vin & eau de vie,puis eſprainte, & toute chaude ſera miſe ſur la partie. ladite eſponge- # ſert à clorre l'orifice de l'vlcere,de peur que l'air exterieur n'entreau dedans : dauantage eſt propre pourau- cunement attirer & contenir la matiere ſortant d'icelle, qui ſe fera par l'ayde du malade, lequel ſouuent tant le iour, que la nuict, bouchera le nez & la bouche, & pouſſera ſon vent, & ſe panchera du coſté ma- lade, à fin d'expurger ladite ſanie. or ladite cannule ſera oſtée, lors que la fiſtule iettera peu : puis ſera ci- · catrisée.et ſi la fiſtule ne pouuoit eſtre curée,à cauſe que l'orifice d'icelle eſt en la partie ſuperieure, alors - faudroit faire controuuerture,ainſi que nous auons dit cy-deſſus de l'empieme. - s figure des tentes cannulées, auec leurs liens & eſponges. # notez que leſdites cannules ne doiuent auoir pluſieurs trous, comme t« vois par ces figures , mais ſeulement deux ou d | | | trois en leurs extremitex , à raiſon que la chair s'imprime & entre dedans lgſdits trous , qui eſt cauſe qu'on ue les peut | | retirer ſans douleur, & nuire à la playe ; ie le ſcay pour l'auoir experimenté. · vne playe faite aux poulmons ſe peut guarir, | pourueu qu'elle ne ſoit trop grande , qu'elle ſoit : $ ſans inflammation , & qu'elle ſoit faite aux extre- ， %# mitez, & non de la partie ſuperieure , & que le : #/ malade ſe tienne en repos ſans touſſir ny parler, & ， ſans grandement halener. car ſi le malade touſſe, · la playe ſe dilatera, & y ſuruiendra inflammation, , puis la vertu expultrice s'efforçant ietter ce qui luy ， nuit par la toux ( car les poulmons ne ſe peuuent : - * purger que par ce moyen ) eſt cauſe que l'vlcere ſe ， •p- * , # #. dilate de plus en plus en touſſant, & ainſi la playe * = =s--- = - y ar) s'aggrandit, & l'inflammmationaccroiſt, & parainſi $ » . -^-=-ſſy \sº xs- ) demeure incurable, & le malade meurt tabide à . # cauſe dudit vlcere aride & ſec. et pour mondifier,agglutiner , & cicatriſer la playe, on fera vſer au malade , ， d'alimens & medicaments emplaſtriques, auſteres & aſtingens , comme terre ſigillée, bol d'armenie, hy- : pociſthis, balauſte, plantin, renoüée, berberis,ſumach, acacia, & leurs ſemblables, deſquels on fera vſer º | au malade en potage » & lors y mettant du miel roſat , qui leur ſera comme vihicule & aydera à deterger , ! & . ( •. / des playes en particulier. a & mondifier la playe.& lors que le malade vſera de lohots ſera couché à l'enuers,& luy ſera commandé te- nir leſdits lohots longuement en la bouche,en relaſchant les muſcles du larynx : ce faiſant le medicament coulera peu à peu le long des parois de la trachée artere. et faut ſe garder qu'il ne defue trop à coup, . de peur d'exciter la toux;mais qu'il deſcende par dedans la trachée artere, ainſi que fait l'cau le long d'vn mur :ce faiſant la toux ne ſera excitée le laict de vacheou d'aſneſſe,ou de chevre, ſont propres, auſquels ſera adiouſté du miel, qui le garde de ſe coaguler en l'eftomach. celuy de femme eſt par deſſus tous. le ſuccre roſat eſt fort ſingulier en ce cas, & recommandé grandement par auicenne:comme ayant vertu en- ſemble de mondifier & aſtraindre, qui ſont les deux choſes ſouhaitables en vn vlcere. mais d autant que, comme nous-auons noté cy-deuant, la fiévré hectique ſuruient ayſement & aſſez ſouuent aux playes & maladies des parties thoraciques, & nommément du poulmon, il ſera bon de dire quelque choſe de la façon de penſer telle ſorte de fiévre : afin que le chirurgien en l'abſence du medecin aye de quoy donner quelque contentement & allegeance au malade, en attendant que la venue du medecin deſiré, & en tel cas bien neceſſaire,puiſſe apporter quelque plus grand ſecours, & guariſon entiere. p r o b l e m e. pourquoy eſt-ce que les playes faites en la ſubſtance des poulmons, cauſent fiſtules, deſquelles ort grande quantité de matiere purulente & fetide : qui fait que les malades b meurent tabides, & hectiques ? s t-c e point que le poulmon vlceré, attire beaucoup de ſang du cœur par la veine arterieu- ſe, comme d'vne pompe, & l'ayant attiré ne le peut aſſimiler, ains ſe corrompt & tourne en ſanie fetide,à raiſon qu'elle eſt retenuë encloſe au thorax ſans pouuoir eſtre euentilée,laquel- le eſt jettée par la playe,& quelquesfois par vomiſſement & par les ſelles & vrines ? or ladi- ' te ſanie eſchauffe les parties qu'elle touche,& croupit,comme le diaphragme & autres parties du thorax, & d'elle s'eſleuent vapeurs putredineuſes , leſquelles ſont communiquées au cœur ou au cer- ueau , dont s'enſuit pluſieurs accidens, & principalement fiévre hectique & choliquatiue, & alteration de l'eſprit de la reſpiration:qui eſt la cauſe pourquoy les anciens ont appellé telle maladie theroma pour la vo- racité de l'vlcere,laquelle s'aggrandit touſiours par le moyen du mouuement du poulmon. qu'il ſoit vray, veritablement i'ay fay pluſieurs ouuertures de corps morts par coups d'arquebuzes, dont le boulet ne pou- uoit eſtre plus gros que le bout du doigt,neantmoins ietrouuois la playe aux poulmons,grande à mettre vn eſteuf.or ceſte vlcere attire à ſoy le ſang,comme vn loup affamé,de la veine arterieuſe du cœur,& le cœur de la veine caue,dont tout le corps en eſt conſommé & rendu ſec,aride,& hectique : dont la mort s'enſuit. et quant aux fiſtules,aucunes,neantmoins que le poulmon ne ſoit point vulneré,ne laiſſent à jetter gran- de quantité de matiere purulente,parce qu'elles ſont voyſines du cœur,qui fontaine du ſang (ſelon l'vſance commune de nature,qui eſt de ſecourir la partie affligée,tant qu'elle peut,de ſang & eſprits,venant des ra- meaux de la veine azygos) en fournit ſans fin & ſans meſure, auſdites parties offenſées, ſans ce que d'elles meſmes, par douleur, ou par chaleur, ou par leurs mouuemens (comme les poulmons & diaphragme) en c peuuent attirer à ſoy. or ce ſang fluant & enuoyé, ne pechant, ny en quantité ny en qualité , imbu de la malignité de la partie vulnerée,ſe fait purulent:d'où vient que touſiours nouuelle ſanie s'engendre & deſ- gorge à la playe ou vlcere,qui enfin conduit le malade en vn maraſme,le rendant ſec,aride,& hectique:dont le plus ſouuent le malade meurt d'vne fiévre hectique. de la fiévre hectique,deſes differences, cauſes,ſignes,& cure . c h a p. xxx iv. a fiévre hectique eſt ainſi appellée, ou pource qu'elle eſt ſtable & difficile à guarir & oſter, comme les choſes qui ont prinsleur habitude : car le mot grec hexu, ſignifie habitude : ou etymolºgi - - - ymologie pource qu'elle occupe les parties ſolides de noſtre corps,leſquelles les grecs appellenthexei : d.#. meſme que le mot latin habitus,ſe prend en l'vne & l'autre ſignification.l'on fait trois ſortes aique. de fiévre hectique, qui pour en parler à la verité,ſont pluſtoſt degrez,qu'eſpeces d'icelle.le diuiſien de premier degré donc eſt, quand la chaleur hectique conſomme l'humidité des parties ſolides. le ſecond, fiévre heéii- quand il deuore la ſubſtance charneuſe d'icelles. le troiſieſme & dernier qui eſt incurable, quand il s'at- que par ſes : tache & rauage par les os & autres parties ſolides : tout ainſi que la flamme d'vne lampe conſume premie- degrez. rement l'huile, en apres la propre humidité du lumignon, en fin le corps du lumignon meſme, & alors qu'il - n'a point de moyen, ny d'eſperance de le pouuoir r'allumer,bien que luy donniez l'huile à regorger. ceſte fiévre ne peut que bien rarement,& à peine,commencer d'elle-meſme, parquoy elle ſuit toufiours quelque autre fiévre.les cauſes donc de la fiévre hectique sôt fiévres aiguës & ardentes mal-penſées, & principale- mentauſquelles on n'a donné refrigeration competente par epithemes ſur le cœur & hypochondres,ny eau d froide àboire en temps & ſaiſon requiſe.elle peut auſſi eſtre cauſée d'vne fiévre diaire, qui aura eu ſon com- mencement de quelque grande,forte,& longue faſcherie ou cholere,la cauſe & impreſſion d'icelle perſeue- rant long-temps en nous:ou de quelque trauail exceſſifenlieu & entéps chaud & ardent, & en corps foüet & de peu de ſang & humidité.elle eſt auſſi ſouuent cauſée d'vn vlcere & inflammation des poulmons, em- pyeme de thorax,d'vn grand & long phlegmon de foye,ventricule,meſentere,amarry, reins, veſſie,inteſtins ieiunum & colon:voire auſſi des autres,s'ils ſont enflammez d'vne vehemente & longue diarrhée,lienterie, ou dyſenterie,dont auſſi s'enſuit inflammation,reſiccation,emaciation de tout le corps,& par conſequent fié- vre hectique:car l'humidité eſtant conſommée,la chaleur ſe fait plus acre & ardente.ceſte fiévre de tant elle eſt plus aysée à cognoiſtre qu'elle eſt difficile à guarir.le pouls dôc en icelle eſt dur à cauſe de la ſiccité de 'artere,qui eſt partie ſolide,& debile pour l'infirmité de la faculté vitale,le cœur eſtant en toute ſa ſubſtâce aſſailly.au reſte petit & frequent,à cauſe de l'intemperature & ardeur du cœur,qui ne pouuant faire grand pouls pour ſe refrigerer à cauſe de ſonimbecillité,taſche à ſe reuâger & rafraiſchir(mais en vain)par frequé- ce d'iceluy.le propre ſigne de telle fiévre pour le reſpect du pouls eſt,qu'vne heure ou deux apres le repas le pouls ſe monſtre grand & leger,& meſme la chaleur lors au corps du malade ſe monſtre plus grand : ce qui dure tant que la diſtribution de l'aliment ſe fait,& que la ſuccité du cœur eſt aucunement corrigé,& ſa ſub- ſtancehumectée par la ſuruenue de l'aliment : qui eſt cauſe que la chaleur s'augmente,ne plus ne moins que la chaux parauât froide àl'attouchemêt,s'eſchauffe iuſques à fumer & boüillir quand elle eſt arrouſée d'eau. au reſte,la chaleur & le pouls demeurent touſiours eſgaux en leur petiteſſe,langueur,obſcurité,dureté,fre- belle compa- quence,ſans aucune exacerbation,ſi bien que le malade meſme ne penſe pas auoir la fiévre,& ne ſent "# raiſon, • •, : '- n ... . " y iil. - - - les canſet. signes auec leurs cauſes rf / f • leu. •. - le dixieſme liure, mal & douleur, qui eſt vn autre ſigne propre de la fiévre hectique. la raiſon vient de ce que la chaleur ne a ſe monſtre point, n'eſtant placée en la ſuperficie des eſprits ou humeurs,comme en la diaire & putride,ains eſt comme cachée & plongée au plus profond de la ſubſtance des parties ſolides , combien que toutesfois ſi vous tenez long temps voſtre main ſur ſon corps, en fin la chaleur ſe monſtre acre & mordicante, le paſ- - ſage luy eſtant ouuert par le cuir rarefié par l'attouchement doux & benin d'vne main bien tremperee.que ſi ſe malade en ceſte fiévre ſent quelque douleur, & que par l'inegalité & excerbation de la chaleur il ſe iu- ge, & ſente luy meſme auoir la fiévre , c'eſt ſigne que telle hectique n'eſt pas ſimple,mais compliquée auec fiévre putride, qui apporte auec ſoy telle inegalité,ſelon que le feu vient a embraſer moins ou plus la ma- tiere ſujette à pourriture : autrement la fiévre hectique de ſoy eſt exempte d'inegalité : ſi ce n'eſt par quel- que accident, comme apres le repas, ainſi qu'ila eſté expliqué cy- deuant. au reſte,ſi la face hipocratique cauſe de la a lieu en quelque maladie , certes elle eſt monſtrée és hectiques , à cauſe de la colliquation de leur ſub- face hippo- ſtance. pour la cure de ceſtc fiévre , il faut curieuſement conſiderer » dllcc quelles affections elle eſt com- cratiquº pliquée , & de quelle cauſe elle aura eſté excitée. premierement faut ſçauoir ſi elle eſt maladie ou ſymp- aduertiſſe - tome:car ſi elle eſt ſymptome,elle ne pourra eſtre guarie,la maladie perſiſtante:comme ſi elle eſt causée d'v- ment ſur la ne fiſtule au thorax,à raiſon d'vne playe receuë en ce lieu,ou d'vne vlcere dyſenterique d'inteſtins, elle ne cure ae pourra guarir, que premierement la fiſtule ou vlcere ne ſoit guarie , d'autant que la maladie entretient le . 'hečtique- . ſymptome comme la cauſe ſon effect : mais ſi elle eſt ſimple de tant que ſon eſſence eſt miſe en intemperie chaude & ſeiche, qui eſt placée non ſeulement aux humeurs,mais és parties ſolides toute l'intention & con- la maladie ſeil du medecin ſe doit rapporter à alterer,& corriger,& noº à purger : car les ſeuls humeurs ſont capa- entretient le bles de purgation , & non les parties ſolides. reſte donc maintenant de rafraichir & humecter les parties ymptome ,. ſolides, ce qui ſe fait par choſes priſes au dedans & apposées par dehors. - , les choſes qui ſe peuuent fort heureuſement prendre au dedans du corps , ſont les aliments medicamen- cbeſes à teux,qui profitent ſans côparaiſon plus que les choſes qui peuuent ſimplemét alterer,c'eſt à dire rafraſchir prendre & humecter ſans döner nourriture:car par le reſpect de la portion alimenteuſe qui eſt en eux,eſtans attirez dans le corps. & appoſez à la partie,& tournez en la ſubſtance d'icelle,ils viennét à l humecter & rafraichir,non ſuperfi- ciellement,comme les choſes qui alterent ſimplement, mais interieurement. de telles choſes auons nous entre les herbes,entre les fruicts,entre les racines,entre les ſemences,entre les choſes que nous prenós or- dinairement pour la nourriture de noſtre corps.entre les herbes eſt fort recômandée pour cét effect la vio- le,pourpié,la bugloſſe, l'endiue & la lentille paluſtre, la maulue auſſi quand principalement il y a aſtrictió de ventre. les fruicts ſont de courge,de concombre,pommes,pruneaux,la paſſerille,amâdes douces & re- centes,les pignons.des ſemences,les quatre ſemences froides grandes & petites,& icelles recentes,à cauſe de l'humidité coniointe,les ſemences de pauot,de berberis,de coings,les fleurs de bugloſſe de violes,de ne- , nuphar:deſquelles choſes l'on fait des condits auec vn poulet pour prédre au matin,la premiere concoctió # eſtant accomplie,ce qu'on continuèra par l'eſpace de neuf iours.quant aux viandes pour le commencemêt, #. #º lors que les facultez ne ſont encores fort debiles,qu'il prenne aliments qui à la verité ſoiét difficiles à cuire, mais qui nour iflent fort & long-temps,comme ſont les extremitez des animaux,côme pieds de veau,pour- ceaux nô ſallez:chair de tortue : qui premier aura eſté nourrie en quelque,a din, pour ſe gourmer & pur- ger de ſes humiditez excremétitielles,la chair de limaçós blacs pris és vignes,les grenoüilles,eſcreuiſſes de riuiere,anguilles,priſes en eau pure & bien aſſaiſonnées,œ ufs durs, mangez auec ius d'ozeille ſans eſpice,le ſtocfich & merlu bien detrempez & deſſalez,des aſnös & pouce-pieds,la ſemoule,& autres ſemblables.car telles choſes ayans vn ſuc viſqueux s'agglutin ét ayſémët aux parties de noſtre corps,& ne peuuêt eſtre diſ- ſipées ſi ayſemêt par l'ardeur de la chaleur:mais lors que la fiévre hectique aura ja longtemps-trainé dás le corps,de ſorte que les facultez ſemblent fort affoibles, il faudra donner viandes ayſées à cuire,& icelles en- core pluſtoſt bouillies que roſties:d'autant que les bouillies humectent dauantage,& que le sroſties ſe tour- nant plus aysément en bile.les viandes ſeront veau,chévreau,chappons,poulets cuits en herbes,& ſemëces ui rafraichiſſent & humcctent : les orges mondez,les amandes leur ſont propres : comme auſſi la panade aite de mie de pain blanc,arrosée,puis cuitte en la decocti des quatre ſeméces froides,auec du ſuccre ro- iat en forme de bouillie:telle panade rafraiſchit le foye & l'habitude de tout le corps,& nourrit grâdemêt côme auſſi les teſticules,les foyes,aillerons de ieunes coqs,les figues & raifins de damas. que ſi toutesfois - le malade eſt degouſté des viandes boüillies,que la chair qu'on luy donnera ne ſoit gueres roſtie, & qu'on chºº ** ne luy donne de la ſupperficie de la chair qui eſt plus ſeiche & bruſlée,mais de l'interieure qui eſt plus hu- #" " mide,& ce qu'on luy en dônera encore ſoit téperé d'eau roſe,de ſuc de citrös,d'oranges,de grenades.qu'il ſfie_ . s'abſtiéne de poiſſons ſallez & durs,& les meilleurs ſont les ſaxatiles,pour l'exercice qu'ils font eſtans côti- nuellement heurtez entre les rochers : ceux auſſi qui ont chair glutineuſe comme ceux que nous auons cy- pourquoy * deuant nommez.le laict d'aneſſe pris chaudement, & corrige auec vn peu de ſel ,de ſuccre , ou miel & fe- oiſſons # noüil,ou anis, de peur qu'il ne ſe corrompe ou aigriſſe en l'eſtomach,ou bien le laict de femme ſuccé de la #- mammelle,ſont fort recommandez en ceſte maladie,le tout pris iuſques à demie liure mais celuy de la fem- mandez me eſt plus vtile,parce qu'il eſt plus doux & nourriſsât,& approchât de plus pres de noſtre naturel,moyé- # de nant qu'il ſoit prins d'vne nourrice bien téperée,& habituée,meſme qu'il eſt ſingulier aux eroſiós de l'eſto- f m. .. mach & vlceres des poulmons dont s'enſuit emaciation & phthiſie.quant au laict d'aneſſe,ille faudra choi- ſir qu'elle ſoit nourrie d'orge & auoine,fueilles de cheſne,afin que par le benefice de telle nourriture il ſoit plus profitable & moins ſuject à corruption. et où le malade auroit le ventre trop laſche, on fera vn peu boüillir le laict & y eſteindre des cailloux tous rouges & ardents.et noteras, que ſi le laict pris,ledit malade auoit rots aigres,difficulté d'haleine,chaleur non accouſtumée,enfleure,& fluctuation de ventre,douleur de vertu d, teite,comme il aduient à pluſieurs,il faudra deſiſter à prendre ledit laict qu'il trempe ſon vin auec quelque l'eau de bu- peu d'eau de laictue,pourpier, ou nenuphar,& beaucoup de celle de bugloſſe,tant pource qu'elle humecte g'oſſe-. grandement, qu'auſſi elle a vertu ſpeciale de reſioiiir & nourrir le cœur, la ſubſtance ſolide duquel eſt fort onctions ſur affligée en ceſte maladie : & telles ſont les choſes qu'il conuient prendre au dedans. celles qui ſe doiuent l'eſjine du appl quer par dehors,ſont les onctions,les bains,les epithemes,les clyſteres.les onctiös ſont diuerſes,ſeló dos. la diuerſité de l'indication priſe des parties ſur leſquelles il les faut appliquer. car ſur le dos,& ſur toute l'eſpine galien y fait des onctions des choſes froides & aſtringentes moderément,c'eſt à dire qui puiſsét ro- borer les parties,empeſcher la colliquation d'icelles,& non bouſcher le paſſage à l'inſenſible tranſpiration, qui rédroit la chaleur encore plus acre par la retention des humeurs fuligineux.tels ſont les linimens qu'on peut faire d'huile roſat,de nenuphar,des coings, mucilages de gomme tragachât & arabic,tirées en eau de oétions pour morelle quelque petite quantite de camphre incorporé auec vn peu de cire, s'il vient a propos les parties #" pectorales au contraire doiuent eſlre oinctes de choſes moyennement rafraichiſſantes & rélaſchantestie dy, p, ºrales. moyennement rafraiſchiſſantes,parce que le froid en tout leur eſt ennemy.ie dy auſſi relaſchantes,pour rai- ton que les aſtringentes apporter jent vne difficulté de reſpirer & de mouuoir librement les muſcle du •° thorax regime de viure . des playes en particulier. - thorax.telles ſont les onctions qui ſe peuuent faire d'huile violat,de ſaules, d'huile de ſemence de laictue, ' de pauot,de nenuphar,y meºant de l'huile d'amandes douces,pour temperer l'aſtriction & frigidité qu'ils pourroient auoir. sur tout que l'on ſe garde que l'apoticaire,par auarice,en lieu de ces huiles recentement º ion tirées,ne vous en ſuppoſe de vieilles rancides, & ſalées : car en lieu de rafraichir vous eſchaufferiez, com- º d me ainſi ſoit que le vin , le miel & huile acquierent par l'aage vne chaleur exceſſiue. a defaut de bon- # •s nes huiles, nous les oindrons de beurre premierement laué diligemment en eau de violes & de ſolanum. #otnsquas- l'vſage de telles onctions eſt de rafraiſchir,humecter & conforter les parties, & ſe doiuent faire matin & " ſoir , quand le malade s'ira coucher, principalement apres le bain. quant aux bains,nous les ordônons ou pour ſimplementhumecter,& lors ſuffira le bain d'eau tiede,dans laquelle on pourra jetter fleurs de violes,de nenuphar,fueilles de ſaules,& orge môdé:ou pour non ſeule- mêt humecter,mais auſſi relaſcher les parties qui ſont tëdues de ſiccité & aridité hectique,& outre leur ap- rter quelque meilleure habitude,à ce qu'elles ſemblét mieux refaites & nourries,& lors on y peut meſler decoction d'vne teſte & tripes de moutö,& enſemble quelque quantité de beurre. or il faut qu'il ait pris ° ° & cuit quelque viande deuant que d'entrer dans ce bain,afin que par la chaleur dudit bain,l'aliment ja cuit - ſoit attiré aux parties & en toute l'habitude du corps : car d'y entrer l'eſtomach vuide & à ieun,il ſe feroit trop grande diſlolution des forces du corps- le regime donc qu'il conuiendra tenir deuant que d'entrer dedans,doit eſtre tel:que le iour de deuant ſur le matin,on luy donne vn clyſtere remollient,afin que les ex- cremens qui ont de couſtume d'eſire retenus dans les inteſtins parl'intemperie ſeiche,ſoiét euacuez qu'on le face diſner par apres ſur les neuf heures,luy donnant viande de ſolide nourriture:qu'il ſoupe ſur les qua- tre heures,mais moins, & de viandes aisées à cuire:vne heure apres minuict qu'il prenne la decoction d'vn poulet,ou vn orge mondé, ou deux œufs mollets,dans leſquels on mettra vn peu d'eau roſe & de ſuccre en lieu de ſel : quatre ou cinq heures apres,qu'il entre dans le bain à la façon que dit eſt : en apres au ſortir du bain,qu'on le nettoye & frote doucement auec linges mols & deliez:apres qu'il ſoit oinct à la mode cy-de- uant deſcrite:puis qu'il repoſe & dorme dans le lict deux ou trois heures ſi poſſible eſt : à ſon reſueil qu'il boiue de la ptiſane,& qu'il prenne des potages de facile digeſtion:à ſon ſouper qu'il boiue du vin,& qu'il ſe nourriſſe des viandes plus ſolides. le matin qu'on luy redonne vn orge mondé,ou autre viande de pareille eſtoffe:en apres qu'il r'entre dans le bain à la mode ſuſdite. ce luy ſera choſe tres-profitable qu'il vſe ainſi artificiellement du bain de dix iours:en dix iours,& ce par l'eſpace de trois iours continus.que ſi le malade cſt ſujet à quelque crudité d'eſtomac,de ſorte qu'l ne puiſſe endurer le bain ſans danger,& de ſyncope & au- tres accidens, il luy conuiédra roborer le ventricule auec linimét d'huile de coings,d'abſinthe,& de maſtic: ou bien luy oppoſer vne crouſte de pain aſpergée de poudre de roſes,de sâdal,de girofle,& de vin odorife- rant ſur la region du ventricule,& par derriere enuiron la treizieſme vertebre du dos,où par l'intelligéce de m'anatomie,nous entendons reſpondre la bouche de l'eſtomach.les epithemes luy doiuent eſtre appoſez ſur me foye & ſur le cœur,afin de téperer l'ardeur acre d'icelles parties, & corriger leur ſiccité par vne humidi- •té raiſonnable:parquoy tels epithemes ſe preparent de choſes froides & humectâtes,mais plus humectantes chºſe mºta- •que froides, dautant que ce qui eſt fort froid, coupe & ferme paſſage à l'humidité.a cela ſont propres les º •eaux de bugloſſe & de violes iuſques à vn carteron, auec quelques goutes de vin blanc. mais celuy qui ſe *º fait d'orge módé,de ſemence de courge,de pompons, ou de concombre iuſques à trois drachmes de chacun en la decoction, en y meſlant par forte agitation,huile de violes oud'amandes douces,eſt plus excellent que tous les autres. le moyen d'appliquer ces epithemes,eſt de plonger des drapeaux dedans,& les appliquer cl ſur le cœur & ſur les hypoch§les cha§d'§ure à autre à meſure qu'ils s'eſchaufferotſurlapa - º tie. quand aux clyſteres,parce que par l'imbecillité de la faculté concoctrice pluſieurs excremens s'amaſsét és corps des hectiques,il ſera vtile d'en vſer ſouuent tout le long de la maladie : on le preparera de la de- coction d'herbes,fleurs & ſemences refrigerantes& humectantes ſans y diſſoudre autre medicament que la §. caſſe auec le ſuccre,huile violat,ou de nenuphar,& autres ſemblables. mais auſſi d'autant qu'à la fiévre he- tr, qui ctique,quand elle eſt fort auancée,ſuruiennent des flux de ventre fort pernicieux, denotans imbecillité de ſuruient aus toutes les facultez & colliquation de la ſubſtance du corps,il y faudra remedier par choſes refrigerantes & fiévres hs- aſtringentes,par aliment de groſſe ſubſtance comme de rys,de pois chiches,appliquant par dehors choſes #iques. qui aſtraignent & roborent, luydonnant en outre à boire eau, en laquelle l'on aura fait cuire auparauant auoine ou orge rofty. quant au reſte il faudra traitter le malade le plus doucement que l'on pourra,lete- nant en perpetuel repos,& le faiſant le plus dormir qu'il ſera poſſible. l'on dit que la liqueur des limaces, blanches , priſes & nourries és vignes, des tortues nourries à la façon parauant expliquée, au reſte pilées & diſtillées en l'alambic de verre, in balneomariz, baillée auec ſyrop de pauot, de nenuphar, ou eau de dccoction de laictues & de poullet, eſt ſingulierement bonne en la fiévre hectique. telle fiévre peut aſ- ſaillir les pettis enfans,ou pour quelque deſpit, ou lôgue crainte en laquelle ils auroient eſté tenus,ou pour auoir vne nourrice cholerique de nature,& de façon de viure, de laquelle partant le laict eſt trop chaud & ardent : ou pour eſtre nourris de vin, ou pour eſtre tenus continuellement au soleil :en ce cas il leur faudra changer de nourrice & façon de viure, en autre toute contraire, les tenant en air chaud & humide tempe- rament:les oindre d'huile violat, & faire à peu pres les choſes cy-deuant expliquées pour les refroidir & humecter. que ſi la fiévrc eſt compliquée d'hectique, & putride, il faudra pareillement compliquer, & accoupler les remedes pour l'vne & l'autre intention par bonne methode. - regime à te- nir deuant que d'entrer dans le bain, remede eone des playes du ventre inferieur dit epigaſtre . " ch a r. xxxv. p r e s auoir ſommairement traicté des playes du thorax , reſte maintenant à parler de celles % du ventre inferieur : dont les vnes ſont faites par deuant, les autres par derriere : aucunes ſont ſuperficielles , les autres penetrent au dedans : d'autres paſſent de par en part au trauers du corps,& quelquesfois l'inſtrument demeure dedans:aucunes ſont auec leſion des parties con- tenues,comme du foye,ratelle, eſtomach,inteſtin , reins : & aucunes d'icelles ſont ſi grandes, que partie de l'omentum ſort dehors autres penetrent iuſques en la ſubſtance du pancreas autres à la veſſie & pores vreteres:autres en la matrice & corps des grands vaiſſeaux,côme de la grande veine ou artere.or signes de les ſignes que le foye eſt bleſſé:c'eſt qu'il ſort grâde quâtité desâgpar la playe,& le bleſſé ſoient vne douleur foye bleſſé. pongitiue,qui s'eſtend iufques au cartilage xiphoide ou scutiforme:auquel eſt attaché le foye:quelquesfois ie bleſſe vomit pure cholere,&ſe trouue mieux d'eſtre couché ſur le vétre qu'en autre maniere.si l'eſtomach eſtomach . ou aucûs des inteſtins greſles ſont offenſez,le mâger & boire ſort par la playe,les flancs ſe tumefient & de- inteſt ni. " uiencent durs,le malade a le hocquet,& vomit ſouuentesfois pure cholere,a grande douleur & contorſion au ventre, luy ſuruiennent petites ſueurs & refroidiſſement des extremitez:& ſi les gros inteſtins ſont vulne- rez,la matiere fecale ſort par la playe.si la ratelle eſt navrée,le ſang ſort qu coſté # gros & º## - l iil à la cl & diuiſion des playes d u ventre infº- rieur. # $- le dixieſme liure, malade eſt alteré,& ales meſmes ſignes que nous auons dit du foye.si les roignons ſont offenſez,le malade a a grºs intº- difficulté d'vriner,& piſſe du ſang : a douleuraux aines,à la verge & teſticules.si la veſſie ou pores vreteres ſt # ſont naurez,le malade ſent douleur aux flancs,les parties du penil ſont tendues,& au lieu d'vrine,fait du säg #. ou l'vrine ſanglante,& quelquesfois meſme ſort par la playe.si la matrice eſt vulnerée il ſort du ſang par les veſſir,é p•- pº honteuſes,& telles bleſſeures ont preſque ſemblables accidés que ceux de la veſſie les playes faites #. au foye ſont mortelles,parce que c'eſt la partie qui ſanguifie, & eſt neceſſaire à la vie adiouſte que la veine pourquoy les caue,ou porte ſont incisées en leurs rameaux,par telles playes,dôt s'enſuit grâde hemorrhagie, ou flux de playes , du ſang,qui coule non ſeulemët aux parties interieures,mais auſſi aux exterieures,au moyen dequoy les eſprits feye ſont s'exhalét,& pour le regard du fang qui eſt coulé aux parties interieures,il s'eſchauffe & pourrit,dont s'éſuit mortelles. , douleur,inflammation,& par conſequent la mort.toutesfois paulus aeginera dit,qu'vne partie & portion du paul #in lobe du foye peut eſtre oſtée ſans mort.auſſi les playes d'eſtomach,inteſtins greſles, & principalement du ºººººººº jeiunum (pour la multitude des vaiſſeaux qui ſont en iceluy, & pour la ſubtilité de ſa ſubſtance nerueuſe, º.ººº auſſi pource qu'il reçoit la cholere du cyſtis fellis)ſont mortelles pareillement celles de la ratelle,roignons, . liu. . vaiſſeaux vreteres,veſſie,matrice,cyſtis fellis ſont pernicieuſes,& ſouuent mortelles : pource que l'vſage de telles parties eſt neceſſaire à la vie,& auſſi qu'aucunes ſont exágues,& nerueuſes,& que paricelles paſsét les humiditez excrementeuſes, & qu'il eſt difficile d'appliquer les remedes, à cauſe qu'elles ſont en profon- dité du corps,& partât ſont dites mortelles,& principalemêt ſi elles ſont grandes.meſmes toutes les playes qui penetrent ſeulement en la profondité des ventres ſans leſion des parties internes,ſont fort dangereuſes, parce que l'air ambient ou exterieur entre dedans,lequel n'eſtant elabouré, nuit grandement aux parties in- terieures : joint que les eſprits s'exhalent,dont les vertus ſont rendues imbecilles:& pource qu'on ne peut \ bien módifier telles playes,qui eſt cauſe qu'elles degenerent en fiſtules, principalement au thorax, comme auons dit il ſe faict collection de matiere,dont en fin la mort s'enſuit.toutesfois i'enay pensé pluſieurs qui auoient des coups d'eſpée,& de piſtolet au trauers du corps,qui ſont guaris.et pour teſmoignage de ce,i'ay hiſtoire pensé en la ville de melun, l'argentier de l'ambaſſadeur du roy de portugal,qui auoit vn coup d'eſpée au trauers du corps, par lequelles inteſtins furent vulnerez, en ſorte que quand on l'habilloit, ſortoit par la playe aſſés grande quantité de matiere fecale ; neantmoins ledit argentier a eſté guary. meſme ces derniers hiſtoire. iours ie fus appellé pour vn gentilhomme, natif de paris,nommé gilles le maiſtre,seigneur de belle iam. be, demeurant à la rue s. andré des arts, auec meſſieurs botal, medecin ordinaire du roy & de la reyne, richard hubert chirurgien ordinaire dudit seigneur,& iaques guillemeau, chirurgien du roy, & furé à paris, hommes ſçauans & bien experimentez en la chirurgie : lequel auoit reçeu vn coup deſpée tout au cornelius. º du corps dont par pluſieurs lours jetta le fang par la bouche & fiege , en aſſez grande quantité, celſus,llu. . # denotoit les inteſtins eſtre offenſez, toutesfois en quinze ou vingt iours fut guary. pareillement les sahp. a . playes des grands vaiſſeaux ſont mortelles , pour la grande effuſion de ſang & eſprit qui s'en enſuit - - - , cure desplayes du ventre inferieur. c h a p. xxxv i. v a n t à la curation , il faut conſiderer ſi la playe penetre en la capacité ou non : & celles v qui ne ſeront iuſqu'au peritoine , ſeront traictées comme playes ſimples , qui demandent le moyen de sº, j | t- ſeule vnion mais celles qui ſont en la capacité , requierent autre curation : car fouuent les remetre l'in- #$é inteſtins ou omentum ou tous deux enſemble, ſortent par la playe. quelquesfois auſſi l'inte- reſtin eſtant ' ^ " ! ſtin eſt bleſſé , lequel doit eſtre couſu de la ſuture du peletier à petits poincts, comme nous ſorty & cou- auons dit cy-deſſus,puis jetter deſſus poudre de maſtic , myrrhe, aloès, bol : & la ſuture eſtant faite, doit ſu. eſtre remis au dedans petit à petit, & non tout à coup, faiſant ſituer le malade au contraire de la playe: comme s'il eſt bleſſé à la partie dextre, il doit repoſer ſur le coſté gauche,& au contraire : & fi la playe eſt aux parties inferieures, le faudra ſouſleuer,ayant les feſſes plus hautes que la teſte:& ſi elle eſt aux parties ſuperieures,faut faire ſituer le malade au contraire,afin que les inteſtins tombent,& preſtent place à remettre ceux qui ſont ſortis.or ſouuentesfois les inteſtins ſe tumefient & enfient à cauſe de quelques ventoſitez qui y ſont contenues,& pour l'air ambient qui les a refroidis & fait enfler,qui eſt cauſe que difficilement ſe peu- uent remettre:& pour ce le chirurgien fera fomentations auſdits inteſtins,de decoctiós reſoluantes & diſ- notable cutientes,auſquelles aura cuit camomille,melilot,ſemence d'anis,fenoüil : ou bien appliquerez deſſus iceux b º ** inteſtins,vne volaille viue tranchée par le milieu, ou bien de petits chiennaux,ouvne veſſie de porc à demy . # du pleine de decoction ſuſdite : car telle chaleur diſcute & reſout merueilleuſement les ventoſitez contenues •malade § inteſtins,& conforte la partie. et ſi par tels remedes les ventoſitez ne peuuent eſtre diſſipées,& que l'orifice de la playe ſoit eſtroit,il ſera expedient de la dilater,afin de donner lieu à les remettre plus facile- ment. et s'ils ſont inciſez, il doiuent eſtre recouſus, principalement les gros, & non les greſſes , s'ils ne ſont du tout alterez & changez de leur couleur & chaleur naturelle. or ils ſe corrompent en peu de temps par l'air exterieur.la maniere de faire la couſture eſt,qu'il faut les recoudre comme font les peletiers leurs peaux : & apres, de peur que la matiere fecale ne ſorte hors, on mettra ſur la playe vn peu de pou- dre de maſtic ſubtilement puluerisée, puis les faut remettre dedans le ventre : & faut que les bouts du fil ſoient paſſez hors de la playe, afin que l'inteſtin repris on les puiſſe retirer.or ſi la playe faite au ventre eſt ſi eſtroitte qu'on ne puiſſe reduire les boyaux au dedans, il faut accroiſtre la playe auec vne biſtorie , ayant vn bouton au bout, & qu'elle ne trenche que d'vn coſté, de peur qu'en faiſant l'inciſion pour aggrandir la playe, on ne bleſſe les boyaux. et ſi les inteſtins ſont ſi enfiez de ventoſitez , qu'on ne les puiſle reduire, lors on les fomentera d'eau chaude, auec huile, puis apres de gros vin noir, tiede & aſtringent, & autres choſes cy-deſſus dites. et s'il y auoit fi grande quantité de vents qu'ils ne peuſſent eſtre reduits , il les faut percer auec vne aiguille pour faire ſortir les vents, ainſi qu'on void vne veſſie de porc remplie de vents lors qu'on la perce d'vne épingle. ce que i'ay fait aux inteſtins auec heureuſe iſſue. cela fait,illes faut redui- re au dedans , commençant aux derniers ſortis, afin que chacun puiſſe eſtre remis en ſa place : & pendant qu'on les pouſſe dedans le ventre, faut que le bleſſé retire ſon haleine. et eſtans reduits, il faut coudre la playe, & y faire tant de poincts qu'il ſera de beſoin. et ſi la playe eſt grande , il faudra faire la couſture t. nommée des anciens gaſtroraphie. c'eſt que le premier poinct prenne la lévre de la playe auec le peritoi- ne, & la lévre de l'autre coſté laiſſe le peritoine, ne prenant que la chair, & de l'autre coſté le peritoine. et faudra faire cela tant de fois,qu'il ſera neceſſaire pour recoudre toute la playe. ortelle couſture a eſté inuentée des anciens à bonne raiſon, parce que ſi on prenoit le peritoine tant d'vn coſté que d'autre,il ban- deroit & ſe dechireroit, & demeureroit vne eſpace vuide à l'endroit de la playe, qui feroit que les inteſtins feroiêt vne tumeur ſemblableaux hargnes inteſtinales.apres auoir reduit les boyaux,& recouſu la playe,le vne tumeur ſemblable aux hargnes inteſtinales. apres auoir reduit les boyaux , & recouſu la playe , le malade doit eſtre vn peu esbranlé & ſecoüé, afin que les boyaux ſe remettent d'eux-meſines en leur place tout cela fait,on appliquera ſur la playe remedes propres aux playes recétes.si l'omentû eſt ſorty,doit eſtre - - iciil s des playes en particulier. a remis le pluſtoſt qu'il ſera poſſible,car il eſt ſujet à ſoy putrefier,eſtant de ſubſtance pinguedineuſe,laquelle eſtant exposée à l'air,ſe congele,& ſa chaleur naturelle s'eſteint & toſt apres tourne à pourriture.ce qui eſt prouué par hippocrate,disât;si le zirbus viét à ſortir hors,il pourrira.ce que le chirurgié cognoiſtra lors qu'il ſera liuide,noiraſtre,& refroidy au tact,& lors ne le remettra ainſi putrefié:car les parties dieeluy cor- rompues pourroient endommager les autres:mais le liera auec vn fil retors au deſſus de la putrefaction, & extirpera ce qui eſt corrópu,& ſera reduit en ſon propre lieu.toutesfois on doit laiſſer prendre le filet,afin d'attirer ce que par le moyen du filet, qui auroit eſté ſerré pourroit choir en la capacité du ventre. aucuns ont voulu laiſſer l'omentum dehors eſtant lié:ce qu'il ſe faut bié garder de faire,à cauſe que ce faiſant,il eſt tenu ſuſpendu,n'eſtant couché ſur les inteſtins,qui eſt ſon propre lieu:dont s'enſuit grande douleur,& tren- chées au ventre:& pour euiter tels accidens,le faut remettre côme nous auons dit qui pourroit faire quel- que pourriture,comme choſe eſtrange à nature. lors que l'inteſtin & cmentum ſont remis,la playe eſtant grande,doit eſtre couſue par le benefice de la ſuture,dit gaſtroraphie,delaiſſant vn petit orifice en la partie plus decliue,pour donner iſſué à la ſanie. grande annotation au ieune chirurgien:c'eſt qu'aux playes faites aux boyaux,ne faut döner clyſteres,à raisó que le clyſtere ſortiroit par la playe des inteſtins,& demeureroit en la capacité du ventre,& ſe pourriroit auec le ſang,dont s'eſleueroient de grandes ventoſitez putradineu- ſes,qui feroient enfieures,& tenſion au ventre.et quand telles choſes aduiennent,& que le malade ſe plaint ſentir grâde douleur aux teſticules,fay prognoſtic,que ton malade bié toſt mourra:ce que i'ay veu pluſieurs fois. en lieu de clyſteres on peut vſer de ſuppoſitoires,ou noüets.et quant aux playes penetrantes en la ſub- ſtance du foye,ratelle,eſtomach,& autres parties contenuës,ne doiuent eſtre delaiſſées : mais le chirurgien fera ſon deuoir en ce qu'il luy ſeroit poſſible : jaçoit que par ce moyen n'aye certaine eſperance de guarir, neantmoins vne eſperâce douteuſe eſt meilleure qu'vn deſeſpoiraſſeuré.si la veſſie,eſt bleſsée, ou la matri- ce,& gros inteſtin,ſerôt faites injectiös par leurs propres conduits.ie n'ay veu aucun autheur qui aye par- lé des playes faites en la greſſe,mais les ont touſiours referées à celles de la chair & des muſcles:paitant en cét endroit m'a ſemblé bon de dire ce mot en paſſant:c'eſt que lors qu'il ſera fait vne playe ſimple ſeulemét en la ſubſtance de la graiſſe:encor qu'elle fuſt bien profonde,il n'y faut mettre aucune tente, mais ſeulement y jetter de noſtre baume dedans,& vn emplaſtre par deſſus de gratia dei,ou autre ſemblable:ce faiſant ladi- te playe ſera toſt apres conſolidée,fermée,& cicatrisée,ce que i'ay fait pluſieurs fois. des playes des aines, verge, & teſticules. c h a p. xxxv ii. # l aduient quelquesfois playes aux aines,& parties voiſines, & alors il faut auoir égard ſi elles penetrent au dedans, & connoiſtre quelles parties ſont vulnerées,comme veſſie,matrice, inteſtin droit,parce qu'elles ont grande con,onction enſemble; de façon que ſouuent ſont bleſſées toutes $ # enſemble d'vn coup:& pour le cognoiſtre,voy les deux ſuſdits chapitres.or quant aux playes des tefficules & parties genitales,parce qu'elles ſont neceſſaires à la generation, & qu'elles mettent la paix en la maiſon , on les conſeruera le § qu'il ſera poſſible:y procedant ainſi que l'on verra eftre neceſſaire, fuiuant la doctrine donnée par cy-deuant, diuerſifiant les remedes ſelon les accidens qui vien- dront , car d'eſcrire telle choſe en particulier, ne ſeroit iamais fait des playes des cuiſſes, & des iambes. c h a p. xx x v i i i. m# e s playes faites au dedans des cuiſſes, ſont ſouuent cauſe de mort ſubite, quand elles pene- # trent en la groſſe veine saphene, ou groſſe artere, & aux nerfs qui les † : ce que # i'ayveu ſouuent aduenir.or lors qu'elles ſont ſimples,il n'y a rien qui peruertiſſe la cure, fors $ qu'il faut que le malade garde le lict, ſuiuant le prouerbe commun des italiens , à ſçauoir, la - mano al pelo,'a gamba al letto, mais quand elles penetrent profondement , ſouuent aduiennent grands accidens, comme inflammation, apoſteme & pourriture aux membranes qui couurent les muſcles, qui cauſent que l'vlcere jette vne tres-grande quantité de matiere , de façon que le malade meurt en atro- phie, & tout deſſeiché. et partant faut que le chirurgien ſoit aduisé à bien traitter telles playes, vlceres & fiſtules,faiſant des inciſions,afin de pouuoir extirper & modifier les membranes pourries, & les calloſi- tez. car vne petite portion peut faire grands accidens, & tenir l'vlcere long-temps ouuert. et quand les tendons dujaret & autres ſont couppez, aucuns chirurgiens ont bien osé les coudre bout à bout, afin de les reünir enſemble : ce que iamais n'ay osé faire, de peur qu'il n'y ſuruint extreme douleur conuulſion, & autres accidens. i'ay bien veu le gros tendon fait de trois muſcles du molet de la iambe, lequel s'inſere au talon ,eſtant couppé d'vn coup d'eſpée,la playe eſtre long temps ſans ſe pouuoir conſolider:& apres eſtre cicatrisé, quand le malade commençoit à cheminer,la playe s'ouuroit comme auparauant;& partant ie con- ſeille,le faict aduenant, que l'on commande au malade de bien long-temps ne cheminer ſur la iambe bleſsée, iuſques à ce que la cicatriſe ſoit endurcie , & bien ferme:à ceſte cauſe il doit cheminer long-temps ſur po- tcilccs. - l des playes des nerfs & parties nerueuſes. cha p. x x xix. l ſe fait ſolution de continuité és parties nerueuſes,par cauſes externes, en diuerſes manieres, à ſçauoir, par choſes qui contondent,meurtriſſent & écachent, comme coups de pierre,de baſton, de marteau, de maſſe, bale d'arquebeuſe, garrot d'arbaleſte , d'vne morſure, piqueure, & ſem- $) blables:par choſes aiguës & piquantes,comme d'vne aiguille , poinçon, lancette, dard , fleſche, eſpine, eſcharde, ou quelque partie de beſte piquante, comme d'vne viue : auſſi par choſes trenchantes, comme d'eſpée & couſteauiou qui eſtendêt ſi fort qu'ils rompent & dilacerent,comme eſtre rompus ſur la geſne. de-là vient que des playes qui en prouiennent , les vnes ſont plus composées que les autres, au- cunes ſont ſuperficielles & petites, autres longues & profondes, & aucunes auſſi ſont faites ſelon la lon- eur du nerf, tendon, & membrane : les autres ſelon la largeur, auec inciſion totale,ou d'vne portion eulement. il y a d'autres differences , leſquellesie delaiſſe pour cauſe de briefueté. les accidens qui en aduiennent, ſont douleur vehemente , fluxion, inflammation , fiévre,delire, ſyncope, apoſteme, gangre- ne, & totale mortification de la partie, ſpaſme, & ſouuent la mort, & ce pour la communication & colli- gance qu'ils ont aucerueau, & autres parties nobles. entre toutes les bleſſeures des parties nerueuſes, la piqueure eſt celle qui plus amene de pernicieux accidens , parce que la playe eſt petite & eſtroite au mo- yen dequoy nyle medicament n'y peut eſtre,ny la ſanie ſortir , laquelle par ſa demeure acquiert vne viru- lence , dont elle imbibe la ſubſtance des nerfs, tendons & membranes, & fait qu'en eſtans engroſſis, s'ac-. courciſſent, & par telle replction eſt cauſée douleur,inflammation,ſpaſme,& les autres accidens deſſuſdits. - y apres - l'omextum doit eſtre ſoudain re- mis. hipp. apb. . liu. . signes que l'ome»tum eſt corrompu. obſeruation pour le chi: rurgien. nota que lei fºrties de noſtre corps n'eſlans en le wr pro- pre lieu, apportent grandes doa- leurs. gal. liu. . met. chap. . annotation. sentente de corn. cel- ſu«. des playes de la graiſſe. playes des aimes. •- - playes des teſtitules, playes des cuiſſes, mor- , telles. prouerbe. . italien. hečior fut traiſné par ce tendon au lsng des murs de tr el'. les aecident qui aduien- / º/ f agfſ : nerf vulne- pe l , • - - ' le d x e me l ure, apres celles-cy,les plus dangereuſes ſont les playes,où les nerfs, tendons, &membranes ne ſont coup- a pºsºſº pées qu'à demy, ou ſuperficielſement, parce que la portion qui n'eſt couppée, ſe retire vers ſon principe, . plºyes des qui cauſe grande douleur & ſpaſme par communication.cecy eſtmanifeſte aux playes de la teſte, lors que merjs. le pericrane n'eſt qu'à demy-couppé,& meſme quâd on l'inciſe pour appliquer le trepan.car n'eſtant que demy incisé,la douleur & accidens y demeurent bien plus grands, que s'il l'eſt du tout.parquoy la plus ſeu- a •. • - - - - re playe des nerfs, eſt celle où ils ſont du tout couppez, d'autant qu'ils ne communiquent rien aux autres parties ſuperieures , & que s'en retirant ils ne trouuent point de contrarieté. bien eſt vray que la partie demeure debile, & priuée de ſon action, & le plus ſouuent de mouuement. - cure des playes des nerfs. c h a p. xl. indication es playes des nerfs , ſelon la cömune pratique des anciens medecins & chirurgiens ne doi- curatiue au- uent eſtre promptement agglutinées,ſuiuant la generale indication de ſolution de côtinuité: tre qu'és mais pluſtoſt ſi elles ſont trop eſtroites,comme les piqueures,ils commandent qu'elles ſoient playes « om- aggrädies parinciſion de ce qui eſt deſſus,& qu'on les tienne long-temps ouuertes,afin de don- z f / éºſ, ner iſſue à la ſanie, & entrée aux medicamens. quant à moy, 'ay pluſieursfios traitté tel- hiſtoire-º. : les playes tout autrement, & de freſche memoire en vn nommé monfieur le cocq, procureur en cour d'e- gliſe, demeurât en la rue de noſtre dame,lequel en ſerrât certains papiers qui eſtoient ſur ſon côtoir,trou- ua entre iceux vn trenche-plume, qui luy paſſa tout au trauers de la main.auſſi en vn mien voiſin, qui vou- - lant embrocher vn aloyau de bœuf qui eſtoit gelé,ſe perça auec la broche le milieu de la main de par en part.ie leur ay agglutiné incontinent leurs playes, y mettant dés le premir appareil de mon baume aſſez chaud,sâs nulle tente,& autour vn defenſif,& furent bien toſt guaris,ſans leur adueniraucûs accidens.tou- #ºººº tesfois ie ne côſeille pas au ieune chirurgien de ſe hazarder à ſuiure telle façó de pratiquer,que premiere- # * mêt il ne ſoit bien exercé à diſcerner les diuerſes cöplexions & habitudes des corps : car cela ne pourroit # bien ſucceder,ſi le corps eſtoit plethorique,cacochime,ou de ſentiment fort aigu:en tel cas ſeroit plus ſeur # d'y beſongner,côme nous dirons cy-apres. or non ſeulement les playes des nerfs different en curation d'a- agglutiner. º les autres playes,mais auſſi ſont differentes entr'elles car côbien que tous medicamens ſoient propres aux nerfs bleſſez,leſquels attirent du profond,& tariſsêt les humiditez & ſanies,ſieſt-ce que ceux qu'on ap- plique aux piqueures,& où les nerfs ne ſont pas dénuez,requierét & endurent bié remedes plus forts,ſub- tils,& deficcatifs(toutesfois ſans mordicatiô) afin qu'ils puiſſent penetrer au profond, en attirer & ſeicher l'humeur & ſanie qui eſt au tour,ou en la ſubſtance d'iceux nerfs.au cótraire,quand ils ſont deſcouuerts, il n'eſt beſoin que de medicamens doux,& qui ſeichent ſans aucune mordication. exemple pour la piqueure de nerfs. . terebenthinx venetx, olei veteris añ. .j. aquæ vitæ parum. autre. z olei terebenthinae our la pi- #.j. aqua vitx .j. euphorbij . .autre.%. radices dragonthex,brionix,valeriana & gentiana exſiccatas, queure des # in puluerem redactas,miſce cum decocto centaurei,& oleo,aut axungiaveteri tu en mettras chaudement nerfs, dedans la playe. autre : prenez galbanum, poix graſſe, opopanax, liquefiez en eau de vie & fort vinaigre puis y meſlez axunge de porc,d'oye,de poule,de chapon,d'ours,huile vielle, huile de lis,& ſemblables.au- tre. z. olei hyper. ſambuci & de euphorbio añ. . j. ſulphuris viui ſubtiliter pulue. . ſº. gummi ammon. bdellijañ. .ij. aceti.boni . ij. vermium terreſtrium præparatorum .j. bulliant omnia ſimul ad corium- ptionem acceti. on inſtillera en la playe de ce medicament,puis ſera appliqué tel cerat,lequel attire la ma- tiere du profond. . olei ſuprà ſcript. .j. terebenth. venetx. .f. diachylonis albi cum gummis .x. ammoniaci,bdellij in aceto diſſolutorum afi- .ij.reſinx pini.gummi elemi, picis naualis, an. . v. cera quod ſufficit,fiat ceratum ſatis molle. tu vſeras prudemment aux piqueures des nerfs de tels & ſemblables reme- des,les diuerfifiât ſelon la qualité & profondeur d'icelles,& auſſi ſelon la téperature & habitude des cc : ps, ·& ayant égard aux autres choſes conſiderables. et où par tels moyens la douleur ne ſeroit appaisee , mais huile f.r- pluſtoſt augmentée,& qu'on veiſt la partie enflamée,& les lévres de la playe eſleuées,jettants vne ſanie ſe- uezte pour reuſe,ſubtile,& virulente,nômée ichor(hanc curandi rationem ptaleſ «s de taranta il. .csp.de cöuuifioac,aºao- ſeder vne tauit,vt & nerai inciſionem)on y doit appliquer de l'huile toute feruente,auec vn peu de linge attaché autour extreme dou- d'vne eſpatule,& en toucher le fons & les parois de la playe trois ou quatre fois. ceſte caute izat on fera leur, toſt apres appaiſer la douleur,à cauſe qu'en bruſlant le nerf, tendon ou membrane, on oſte le ſentiment:& par conſequent la douleur : ainſi qu'il appert aux grandes & extremes douleurs des dents pertuistes , lors qu'on peut toucher au profond de leurs racines d'vn ferardant,ou d'huile de vitriol reétifice,ou eau de vie, car cela fait promptement ceſſer la douleur:en brulant le nerf qui s inſere eſdites racines nous voyons auſſi aux vlceres corroſiues & ambulatiues(toufiours accompagnées de douleur extreme)qu'apres yauoir appli- qué vn medicament eſcarotique,côme poudre d'alum,de mercure,egvptiac fortifie,icelle douleur ceſſe in- continent.or ſuppoſons encores que la douleur perſeuere,& qu'il y ait ja commencement de retraction des nerfs & ſpaſme,& que le malade ſoit en dâger de mort,en tel cas il eſt expediêt de couper du tout le nerfoû tendó du trauers.par ce moyé chaſque partie d'iceluy ſe retirant vers ſon coſté,n'y aura plus de contractió, vray eſt que l'action ſera perdue,mais il vaut mieux la perdre que la vie,ce que les anciens ont commandé. remedes ;hiiioire du feu roy charles neufiéme . x l i. hiſtoire du r pour inſtruire le ieune chirurgien , & le dreſſer mieux à la pratique deſſuſdite, ie recite- *- x roy char- ray ceſte hiſtoire, qui n'eſt hors de propos, pour la curation des piqueures de nerfs. le roy les. ayant la fiévre,monſieur chappelain ſon premier medecin, & monſieur caſtellan,auſſi mede- # cin de ſa majeſté,& premier de la reyne ſa mere, luy ordonnerent la ſeignée : & pour la fai- - ſ/cn) re on appella vn qui auoit le bruit de bien ſaigner,lequel cuidant faire ouuerture à la veine, piqua le nerf : & qui fit promptement eſcrier le roy, diſant auoir ſenty vne tres-grande douleur. parquoy aſſez hautement ie d'y qu'on deſſerraſt la ligature , autrement que le bras s'enfleroit bien fort : ce qui aduint ſubit auec vne contraction du bras , de maniere qu'il ne le pouuoit fiechir ny eſtendre librement , & yº eſtoit la douleur extreme,tât à l'endroit de la piqueure,que de tout le bras. pour le premier & plus prompt raiſon de remede i'appliquay vn petit emplaſtre de baſilicon,de peur que la playe ne s'agglutinaſt,& par deſſus tout le l'autheur bras des compreſſes imbués en oxycrat,auec vne ligature expulſiue, commençant au carpe, & finiſſant pres rouºbant les l'eſpaule,pour faire renuoy du ſang & eſprits au centre du corps,de peur que les muſcles ne receuſsét trop ººns grande fluxion,inflammation,& autres accidens.cela fait nous nous retiraſmes à part, pour aduiſer & con- #º clure quels medicamens on y deuoit appliquer pour ſeder la douleur, & obuier aux accidens qui viennent # * ordinairemëtaux piqueures des nerfs. ie mis ſur le bureau,qu'on deuoit mettre en la piqueure de l'huile de • *y. terebétine aſſez chaude,auec vn peu d'eau de vie rectifiée,& ſur tout le bras vn emplaſtre de º# diſſout c, des playes en particulier. a b ſucci plantag. .É.ſeminis hypericonis aliquantulum contritim.f. tuthix præparata . iij. calcis decies lotx viui,colentur,rurlûſque igni admoueantur,addendo thuthiam,& fiat linimentum cum cera alba,& .#.cro- diſſout auec vinaigre & huile roſat,en continuant la ſuſdite ligature expulfiue.mes raiſons eſtoient que ladi- te huile & eau de vie ont puiſſance de penctrer iuſques au fonds de la piqueure,& ſeicher l humidité qui ſor- toit de la ſubſtance du nerf,& par leur chaleur,tant actuelle que potentielle,feder la dculeur : & ledit em- plaſtre de diachalcitcos a pareillement vertu de reſoudre l'humeur ja couru au bras,& prohibe la deſcente d'autre humeur.q; ant à la ligature,elle ſert de roborer & aſtreindre les muſcles,exprimer & renuoyer aux parties ſuperieures l'humeur ja deſcendu,& empeſcher nouuelle fluxion.ce que leſdits medecins accorde- rent,& conclurent tels remedes y eſtre vtiles & neceſſaires.par ainſi la douleur ceſſa.et pour dauantage re- ſoudre,& tarir l'humeur contenu en la partie,on vſa puis apres des remedes reſolutifs & deficcatifs, com- me de ceſtuy. /.farina hordei & orobian. .ij.fior.camom.& melilotian.p.ij.butyri recent.ſine ſale . É.li- xiuij barbitonſoris,q ſuff.fiat cataplad formam pultis.le roy demeura trois mois & plus,ſans pouuoir bien flechir ny eſtendre ſon bras:neantmoins(graces à dieu)il fut parfaictement guary,lans que l'action fuſt de- meurée aucunement vitiée.or auions-nous conclu, où les ſuſdits medicamens n'euſſent eſté ſuffiſans pour obtenir la curation, d'vſer d'huile feruente, afin de cauteriſer le nerf ou meſme de le couper totalement: parce qu'il eſtoit plus expedient qu'il perdiſt l'action du bras,que de le laiſſer mourir miſerablement a fau- te de ce faire. comme il eſtoit aduenu de recente memoire à mademoiſelle la bailliue courtin , demeurant rue ſaincte croix,prés la bretonncrie à paris,à laquelle pour auoir eſté ainſi mal ſaignée,le bras luy tomba en gangreue & totale mortification,dont elle mourut par faute d'auoir eſté ainſi ſecourue.et ce ſuffira pour la curation des piqueures. mais où les nerfs ſeront deſcouuerts, n'y faudra appliquer medicamens ſi forts : car ils induiroient plus grande douleur, & ameneroient plus grands accidens : partant on en appliquera de doux,qui ſeichent ſans aucune acrimonie ou mordication.exemple. .tereb.venet.lotx in aqua roſar. . ij. boli arm.ſubtil.pulueriſati,& ireos florent añ. .ij.incorp.ſimul.pareillement noſtre baur,e eſt en tel cas ex- cellent auſſi eſt bien ceſtuy fort recommandé de vigo. /. olei roſ omphacini .b. olei de terebent. . iij. autre hiſtoia re de made- meyſelle cºurtin. cum aqua plantag. .ij.antimoni). .j. ſcpi hircini & vitul. afi. . v. vermium terreſtrium lotorum cum vino .j. ß. bulliant omnia ſimul dempta tuthia, in cyatho decoctionis hordei vſque ad compoſitionem aqua & ci. ce liniment mitige la douleur , & incarnatif, & engendre chair deſſus les nerfs découuerts.tu accom- moderas proportionnellement la predite curation aux tendons & membranes,n'oubliant auſſi à conforter iceux † (en quelle ſorte qu'ils ſoient bleſſez) à l'endroit de leurs origines & paſſages plus inſignes,com- me la teſte , l'eſpine,le col,les aiſſelles,& aines : & ce auec huiles chaudes,comme huile laurin, de lis, de vers,de ſauge, & ſemblables. ie ne puis & ne dois icy obmettre vn accident que i'ay veu aduenir au gros tendon du talon. c'eſt qu'iceluy pour bien legere occaſion, comme pour quelque petit ſaut , pour vne mal-marcheure, pour auoir failly de pied en montant à cheual, ou pour y eſtre monté trop alaigrement, & bruſquement,ſe rompt & dilacere, ſans qu'il y ait aucune apparence de ſolution de continuité à la veue,ou autre leſion au cuir. les ſignes de tel accident ſont , que lors que tel exces ſe fait, on oit vn bruit en ceſte partie,comme d'vn coup de foüet,& ce lors que la ſolution ſe fait:puis au tact,on ſent vne cauité au deſſus du talon,marcher à l'endroit que ledit tendon eſt r pu. la douleur eſt grande en la partie,auec impuiſſance «de marcher droit à ſon aiſe.la cure ſe fera en gardant le lict par vn long-téps,appliquant du commécement •des remedes repercuſſifs ſur la partie, pour euiter la fluxion, & autres mauuais accidens : puis on vſera de 'emplaſirum nigrum, ou diachalciteos, autres, ſelon qu'on iugera le cas requerir. et toutesfois pour cela ne faut eſperer receuoir entiere guariſon du mal, ains au contraire dés le commencement faut prognoſti- quer , & predire qu'il reſtera touſiours quelque depreſſion en la partie, auecdeprauation de l'action de clajambe:c'eſt à dire,que le malade clopinera touſiours quelque peu, à raiſon que les exºremitez du tendon rompu,ou relaſché,ne ſe peuuentiamais parfaictement rejoindre. desplayes des jointures. c h a p. x l l i. a r c b que les playes des joinctures ont quelque choſe de particulier outre ce qui a eſté dit des nerfs au chap.precedent,pour ceſte cauſe nous en traicterons à part en ce chap. or icelles * ſont dangereuſes,& le plus ſouuent mortelles, à cauſe des aponeuroſe, ou tendons membra- º neux qui les licnt, auſquels s'inſerent des nerfs, & partant ont grand ſentiment, qui cauſe les , - - ' ſuſdits accidens, & encores pluſtoſt ſi la playe eſt en la partie interieure des jointures comme ſous les aiſſelles, au ply du bras,au dedans du carpe de la main, & ſous le jarret,pour les grandes veines, artcres, & nerfs qui ſont en ces parties , eſquelles la ſolution de continuité fait hemorrhagie & grande douleur,& autres accidens:auſquels faut obuier ſelon la narure & qualité de chacun:comme s'il y a fux de ſang !'eſtancher:& s'il y a douleur,la ſeder tant qu'il ſera poſſible.si la playe eſt fort gran le, on la recou. dra pour reünir les parties ſeparées, delaiſſant vn orifice en la partie decliue,pour donner iſſue à la ſaniet & lors que la plave ſera couſue on appliquera de ccſte poudre ordonnée par de vigo,par l't ſpaee de deux iours. é thuris, ſang drac boli arm.ter.ſigill añ. .ij,aloes, maſtañ- .j. fiat puluis ſubtilis,laquelle ſoit aſ- p geeºur la couſture. puis on appliquera vn defenſifautour de la jointure, fait de blancs d'œufs, peu d huile roſat,bol,maſtic,& farine d'orge:& ſi on y met vne tente, elle ſera courte : & de groſſeur qu'il ſera beſoin,afin qu'clle n'induiſe douleur:& ſera oinct d'vn digeſtiffait de jaune d'œuf,huile rolat,terebenthine lauée,& vn peu de ſaffran.et ſi ladite playe eſtoit petite & eſtroite,on l'aggrâdira s'il eſt b ſoin afin que les humeurs, qui par le moyen de la douleur ſeroient fiuez à la partie , puiſſent auoir lib e iſſue dauantage faut tenir la partie en repos,& ſe garder du froid & d'application de medicamens relaxans , « molliens, & humectans : mais au contraire faut qu'ils aſtreignent & ſeichent. exemple d'vn cataplaſme #.furfuris ma- cri,far.hord.& fab.añ. .iiij.flor.cam melil.añ.m.É.tereb. .iiij mellis communis j.oxym. ſimp.vel oxycra- ti,vel lixiuij comm.q ſuff. fiat catap.ad formam pultis. autre. prenez lie de vin , ſon de froment , du tan, noix de cyprés, de galles , tereben.ſoit fait caplaſme. on en peut faire pluſieurs autres qui ont ſemblable vertu d'aſtraindre,ſeicher & roborer les jointures & en ce faiſant ſed nt la douleur,& gardent que les hu-z., edica- meurs ne courent à la partie. au dedans de la playe, & autourd'icelle,on ſe gardera d appliquer medica-§tui- | mens huileux,ſi n'eſtoit pour ſeder vne grande douleur, d'autant qu'ils relaſchent la ſubſtance des muſcles, i iuen, nerfs, & membranes, & les rendent plus faciles à receuoir fiuxion : joint que par leſdites huiles la playe eſir.ſ.i , en eſt rendue plus ſordide & humide, & partant plus difficile à conſolider:parquoy vferas de medicamens fleye, ae, deſſeichans & aſtringens. exemple d'vn remede aſtringent & agglutinatif. . tereb. venet. .ij. aqua jointures. vitæ parum, pul.maſt aloës,myrrhae, boli aim. an. .ij. noſtre baume y eſt bon auſſi, en y adiouſtart de la poudre deſiccatiue ſans acrimonie , ſelon qu'on verra eſtre beſoin. et s'il ſuruient quelques accidens,on y " . y remed -ra . o le dixieſme liu ire, aphor. o. ſect. . chaqite par- tie à ſon bau, //jº-', hiſtoire de , l'autheur. choſe digne d'eſtre notée. remediera par remedes contrarians à iceux, sur tout on doit éuiter le froid,parce qu'il eſt totalement con- a traire aux playes & vlceres, & principalement des parties nerueuſes. qu'il ſoit vray, beaucoup d'hommes bleſſez meurent en hyuer,meſmes de petites playes , qui ne mourroient de plus grandes en eſté. et cela s'accorde bien au dire d'hip, à ſçauoir, qu'aux parties vlcerées le froid eſt mordicant, il endurcit le cuir, fait douleur, rend les playes inſuppurables ( d'autant qu'il diminue ou eſteint la chaleur naturelle qui fait la ſup, uration ) engendre liuidité, friſſons, fiévres, conuulſions & tenſions. et faut icy noter, que de tel- les playes ſortent diuers excremens,& principalement vne humidité glaireuſe,mucilagineuſe, & quelques- fois liquide,qui eſt l'humeur dont les jointures ſont entretenues & alimentées, ainſi que chaeune partie eſt nourrie de propre humeur. car chacune partie a ſon baume naturel,propre à fa nutrition & entretien, le- quel lors que la partie eſt vulnerée,ſe decoule ainſi que l'on voit lors qu'on taille la vigne decouler vne hu- · midité,qu'on appelle ſeue : c'eſt ce donc eſt fait le callus és fractures. telle humidité des arties nerueu- ſes eſtant glaireuſe, & comme congelée, monſtre bien qu'elle eſt acccmpagnée d'vne grande froideur, qui cauſe vne douleur extreme & repugnante à tous remedes potentiellement chauds.cela monſtre auſſi qu'en toute douleur des jointures,s'il y a matiere,elle eſt pluſtoſt froide que chaude.et pour appaiſer ceſte dou- leur, & corriger l'intemperature froide,on doit appliquer choſes calefactiues, non ſeulement potentielle- ment mais auſſi actuellement,cqmme veſſies de bœufou de porc, demy-pleines d'vne decoction reſolutiue, ou des briques fort eſchauffées,puis eſteintes cn vin, & posées tout autour de la jointure , les réchauffant ainſi qu'il ſera beſoin. ce ſte chaleur ainſi actuelle ayde nature à cuire,digerer & reſoudre l'humeur conte- nu en la partie & la fortifie:ce qui eſt grandement neceſſaire, d'autant que la chaleur des joinctures eſt pe- tite,& pource ne peut reduire les medicamens de puiſſance a effect , ſi elle n'eſt aydée par le benefice des remedes actuellerent chauds. pour confirmation de ce, ie te reciteray ce qui m'aduint vn iour eſtant en hyucr en mon eſtude. vn vent coulis me donna tellement contre vne hanche, que me voulant leuer il me fut du tout impoſſible,pour le froid qui auoit refroidy les parties nerueuſes,& ſentoisvne extreme douleur, b laquelle ne pût eſtre appaisée que par application de bricques fort chaudes, auſſi de veſſies de bœufde- my-pleines d vne decociion d'herbes chaudes, par fois de bouteilles remplies d'eau boüillante, autrefois de mil & auoine fricaſſez en vne poiſle auec vn peu de vin blanc. ceſte chaleur actuelle me fit perdre la douleur : ce que n'euſſent iamais fait les remedes potentiellement chauds. de la ſituation des parties bleſsées c h a p. - x l l i i. , o v r retourner à noſtre propos,le chirurgien methodique pouruoirarau ſurplus de la cura- tion de telles playes,prenant indication des choſes naturelles,non naturelles, & contre natu- re. sur tout il regardera à bien ſituer la partie dont la jointure eſt vulnerée : parce que par la mauuaiſe ſituation,les accidens mauuais accroiſſent, & ſouuent apres la curation de la playe - le m mbre demeure roide,retrait, & tortu. parquoy il notera ce que nous en dirons preſen- nent pour le bien obſeruer en temps & lieu. si la playe eſt en la partie anterieure de l'eſpaule,on doit met- tre ſous l'aiſſelle vne aſſez groſſe compreſſe, & mettre le bras en eſcharpe, ſupportant le coulde,à fin d'eſ- lcuer & tenir la teſte de l'os du haut du bras contremont,& par ce moyen l'agglutination & conſolidation ſ ra mieux & pluſtoſt faite. si la playe eſt en la partie inferieure,lors que la nature commencera à produi- re chair , & joindre les labies de la playe, on fera leuer,hauſſer,& mouuoir diuerſement & par interual- les le bras malade c ar ſi on manque de ce faire , le malade ne pourra iamais bien mouuoir le bras, apres que la cicatrice ſera faite & auſſi qu'en ceſte jointure il ſe fait le plus ſouuent vne indiſpoſition, di- c te des grecs ancyla u. si la playe eſt en la jointure du coulde, faut ſituer le bras en figure moyenne,c'eſt à dire non du tout droit ny plié. par ainſi apres la conſolidation , on s'aydera trop mieux du bras, que s'il demeuroit droit ou trop courbé. lors qu'il y a playe au carpe ou aux jointures des doigts exterieures ou interieures, les doigts & la main ſe doiuent tenir demy fieſchis, en mettant dedans la main vne pelotte ou compreſſe. car ſi on les tient droicts ou courbez,ils demeureront quaſi impuiſſans en leur action qui eſt de prendre. et aduenant que la main demeuraſt demy-flechie apres la curation, le malade s'en pourrra enco- res ayder à prendre diuers inſtrumens,comme vne eſpée,picque, hallebarde, la bride d'vn cheual', & faire autres actions de la main. s'il y a playe en la jointure de la hanche,on la doit tellement ſituer, que la teſte de l'os femoris ne ſorte hors de ſa place qui ſe fera par bonnes compreſſes & ligatures. le malade ſe tien- dra couché ſur le dos. quand la playe commencera à ſe conſolider , on fera mouuoir l'os femoris dedans ſa boëtte,à fin qu'il ne ſe face vne conionction de la teſte dudit os contre la cauité de l'os iſchion, comme nous auons dit qu'il falloit faire du bras. si la playe eſt faite en la jointure du genoüil, on fera tenir la jambe du malade toute droite : car il ne pourroit bien cheminer apres, parce qu'il demeureroit boiteux. les jointures du pied & des arteils vulnerez, ſeront tenuës droictes , & non courbées & flechies : autre- ment l'on ne marcheroit pas bien. et pour le dire en vn mot, la fituation de la jambe & du pied eſt toute differente à celle du bras & de la main. -- des playes des ligamews. ch a p. xl i v. & o v r le ſurplus de la curation des parties nerueuſes, i'ay encores à aduertir touchant les liga- mens vulnerez,qu'ils n'ont rien de particulier, ſinon qu'il les conuiendra agglutiner, deſſeicher, & conſolider plus ſeurement, & auec medicamens plus forts : parce qu'ils ſont fort durs & ſecs, & n'ont point de ſentiment. leur curation a eſté compriſe cy-deſſus, & ſpecialement ſous les playes des jointures. guant aux accidens que nous auons dit au commencement ſuiure les playesdes nerfs, aucuns appartiennent au medecin , ceux qui touchent le chirurgien, ont eſté traictez ailleurs : partan# nous ne nous y arreſterons dauantage,& ferons en cét endroit finir ce preſent liure, duquel dieu ſoir loüé & remercié. fin du dixieſme liure, des playes en particulier, pr e - : | -- ; - s v r l onzie s m e l iv r e | des play es faict es par | | a r q v e b v s e s. b par ambroise pare de la val av mayne, conſeiller, & premier chirurgien du roy. : e v a n t qu'entrer à bon eſcient en la deſcription des playes faites par intention ds arquebuſes & curation d'icelles , il m'a ſemblé bon pour mcttre le le l'autbear. cteur en gouſt , deuant que le preſenter à vne table diuerſifiée de tant de mets , & fricaſsées de poudre à canon , ie toucheray en bref, qui fut l'in- uenteur d'vne ſi pernicieuſe machine de guerre , en combien d'eſpeces elle a eſté tournée & variée , ayant chacune ſon nom ſelon ſon vſage, & com- - bien elle eſt dommageable au genre humain. polydore virgile , chapitre fe- cond , du liure deuxiéme des inuenteurs des choſes , dit l'artillerie auoir eſté inuentée par vn allemand de baſſe condition , & ce par vne telle rencontre & occaſion. cét homme né pour la , , , . ruyne & deſtruction de l'humain lignage , gardoit vn iour pour quelque certaine intention inuention de dans vn mortier, de la poudre , qui depuis pour ſon principal vſage, a eſté appellée poudre à la poudre- . canon , & l'auoit couuerte d'vne pierre. aduint qu'en battant ſon fuſil, vne petite eſtincelle c tomba dans ce mortier, & ſoudain la poudre ayant pris feu , fit ſauter ceſte pierre en haut, ce qui l'eſtonn?, & enſemble luy aprit la force de ceſte matiere non cogneuë auparauant, de ſorte *,. ue faiſant vn petit canon de fer , & compoſant la poudre , il eſſaya ceſte machine : & voyant † fait reüſſir à ſon ſouhait il enſeigna premierement aux venitiens l'vſage de ceſte diablerie, en la guerre,qu'ils eurent contre les genois , l'an de noſtre ſalut, mil trois cens octante,en vn lieu jadis nommé foſſe clodiane, à preſent chioggia. combien que ſelon le iugement de pierre meſſie, chapitre huictième, en la premiere partie de ſes diuerſes leçons, ceſte inuention doit eſtre , les veni- plus ancienne : à cauſe qu'en la chronique d'alphonſe xi. roy de caſtille, quiconquit les iſles ººnºprº- argezires , il ſe trouue qu'eſtant au ſiege de la ville, en l'an mil trois cens quarante trois, les #, mores aſſiegez tiroient certains mortiers de fer, dont les coups rendoient vn ſon eſclattant & " # horrible, à l'égal de celuy du tonnerre. le seigneur dom petre eueſque de leon , en la chroni- opinions tou- que du roy alphonſe, celuy qui conquit tolede, eſcrit qu'en vne bataille naualle , qui fut entre ºnt º , le roy de tunes, & le roy more de seuille (il y a quatre cens ans & plus) auquel le roy alphonſe ## fauoriſoit ; les tuningeois auoient certains tonneaux de fer ou bombardes , & qu'auec ce ils # º,'ſ tiroient force tonnerres de feu : ce qui deuoit eſtre artillerie, bien qu'elle ne fuſt à la perfection de maintenant. l'inuenteur de ceſte machine a eu pour recompenſe, que ſon nom & ſa profeſſion d ont eſté incogneus de tout le monde, comme indignes d'aucune memoire, pour vne ſi malheureuſe & damnable inuention. combien qu'andré theuet en ſa coſmographie, parlant des suéuians, peuples d'allemagne § de l'authorité d'vn certain vieil liure † à la main, tcl homme auoir eſté moine & philoſophe, ou alchimiſte de profeſſion , du pays de fribourg , nommé conſtantin anclzen. quoy qu'il en ſoit, ceſte machine a eſté premierement appellée bombarde, à cauſe du bruit qu'elle fait, que les latins conformement au naturel du ſon, appellent bombus. i'autheur de depuis à ceſte premiere inuention de ſoy rude & imparfaite, le temps, l'art , & ſur tout la #º § hommes a beaucoup adjouſté. car premierement quant à la matiere, au fer ont ſuccedé ° ſon nom. le bronze , & le cuyure , metaux plus § & fuſiles , moins auſſi ſubjects à la roüille. comm,, secondement ceſte premiere, ſimple & lourde maſſe de canon a eſté diuerſifiée en cent façons, adi # : • iuſques à les monter † des roües, à fin que non ſeulement de plus haut, mais auſſi de plus graiide l'artillerie . viteſſe, elles peuſſent courir à la ruine des hommes, les premiers mortiers ne ſemblans aſſez ma- niables , ny aſſez cruels par vn ſimple vomiſſement de fer & de feu. de là ſont venus ces horri- bles monſtres de canons, doubles canons, baſtardes , mouſquets , paſſe-volans, & pieces de campagne, ces furieuſes beſtes de coulevrines, serpentines , baſiliqs, sacres, faucons , faucon- neaux,verſes, fleutes, orgues , & autres infinies eſpeces, toutes de diuers noms , non ſeulement tirez & pris de leur figure & qualité, mais bien dauantage de leurs effects & cruauté. en quoy diuer, nºm, certes ſe ſont monſtrez ſages & bien entendus en la choſe, ceux qui premierement leur ont imposé de ſ'artidºris tels noms, qui ſont pris non ſeulement des animaux les plus rauiſſans, comme des sacres & # rcù il faucons; mais auſſi des plus pernicieux & ennemis du genre humain, comme des sºr , cou- jº prº. - cu lll cs . i. diſcours ſur le liure, leuures, & baſiliqs , pour monſtrer que telles machines guerrieres n'ont autre vſage , & n'ont eſté a - inuentées à autre fin & intentention, que pour rauir promptement & cruellement la vie aux hommes, & que les oyans ſeulement nommer, nous les euſſions en horreur & deteſtation. ie laiſſe pluſieurs autres pieces moindres en corps , mais de force & cruauté plus pernicieuſes, d'autant qu'elles i[ - quent noſtre vie de plus prcs , & qu'elles nous peuuent ſurprendre à l'improuiſte & trahiſon, ſans qu'il y ayt moyen de s'en donner garde, comme ſont les piſtoles, piſtolets, petits bidets, & autres ſcmblables , petits lezards & ſcorpions, que l'on peut aisement cacher dedans les chauſſes. entre ces deux cſpeces tiennent le moyen les arquebuſes à croq , que l'on ne peut bien tirer , fi elles ne ſont liées & accrochées ſur du bois, les mouſquets , poitrinails , que l'on ne couche en ioüe, à cauſe de leur calibre gros & court , mais qui ſe tirent de la poictrine , & les arquebuſes communes : le tout inuenté pour la commodité des gens de pied, & pour deſſerrer balles & dragées. le mot ge- neral imposè par les latins, eſt sclopus, àl'imitation du ſon, & des italiens qui diſent sclopetere: par les françois arquebuſe : mot pareillement tiré des italiens, à cauſe du trou, par lequel le feu du baſſinet entre auant dans le canon : car les italiens nomment vn trou ba{º, & ſe nomme arc, à cauſe qu'on en vſe maintenant, comme iadis on faiſoit des arcs à la guerre , veu que les archers auoient le temps paſsé la premiere pointe comme à preſent ont les arquebuſiers aux combats & batailles. de ce te niſerable boutique & magazin de cruauté,ſont ſortis les mines, contre-mines, les ſapes, les pots à feu, les traicts, les lances & arbaleſtes à feu , les tonneaux meurtriers, les ſa- chets, les trainées, les fuzées, les fagots bruſlans, les cercles, les oranges, les grenades,les pelottes, les paux & carreaux à feu, tres-miſerable inuention , par laquelle nous voyons ſouuent vne mil- liaiſe de pauures hommes fricaſſez ſouz vne mine , ou cazematte : les autres en l'ardeur du combat atteins , voire legerement de quelqu'vn de ces engins , bruſler cruellement dans leurs harnois, ſans meſine que les eaux puiſſent refrener & eſteindre la furie d'vn tel feu. ce n'eſtoit doncques aſſez d'auoir armé le fer, & le feu contre nous, ſi meſme pour haſter le coup on n'euſt quaſi comme em- , penné telles armes, les faiſant voler aux deſpens de noſtre vie, appropriant des ailes à la mort, pour #. accabler l'homme plus ſoudainement pour la conſeruation duquel toutesfois telles choſes auoient # d " eſté premierement crcées. vrayement quand i'oy parler des machines deſquelles les anciens vſoient anciens aux fuſt pour aſſaillir les hommes en combat & rencontre, comme ſont les arcs, dards, arbaleſtes, fon- moſtres. des, fuſt pour forcer les villes, comme ſont beliers,cheuaux,vignes,tortues, baliſtes, & autres ſembla- -#.# bles, il me ſemble que i'oy parler de petits ioiiets d'enfans au regard de celles cy,qui pour parler à la # verité,ſurpaſſent en figure & cruauté les choſes que l'on ſçauroit penſer les plus cruelles.que ſçau- tillerie. roit-on imaginer en ce monde de plus eſpouuentable & furieux que la foudre & le tonnerre ? et côme l'hom- toutesfois le tonnerre ordinaire & naturel,n'eſt (par maniere de dire) rien, au regard de ces machi- ºſº#rºſºr nes infernales : ce qui ſe pourra aisément comprendre par la comparaiſon des effects de l'vn & de # */* l'autre. nature a bien voulu honorer & priuilegier l'homme, inferieur, en force corporelle aux §n.liar ... beſtes, de cecy : c'eſt que le ſeul homme ne meurt touſiours eſtant frappé de foudre, & au contrai- chap. . re pour peu que les autres animaux, † ſont ſubjects à la foudre, en ſoient touchez, ils meurent plin.l.*c. ſoudain. car tous animaux frappez du foudre, tombent de l'autre coſté, le ſeul hommme n'en meurt point, s'il ne tombe ſur la partie frappée du foudre, ou s'il n'eſt tourné par force du coſté doù la foudre vient. mais l'artillerie n'eſpargne non plus les hommes que les beſtes, & ſans diſcretion de uelquc coſté qu'elle vienne, de quelque coſté qu'elle frappe, en quelque façon qu'elle les renuer- e, leur emporte la vie. il y a pluſieurs remedes pour ſe garder contre le tonnerre. car outre les $ºelles che- charmes, par leſquels les anciens romains croyoient la foudre pouuoir eſtre coniurée & diuertie» ſ# # ou excitée, on ne veit iamais la foudre deſcendre plus auant que cinq pieds en terre. de là vient, ſeruées de la . - f fond - - ſ: - foudre. que ceux qui la craignent, font caues profondes en terre, pour s'y retirer comme en ſauueté. on suet. i• tib. dit que le laurier § iamais frappé de la foudre, c'eſt pourquoy le temps paſsé & encores aujour- d'huy , il eſt pris pour vn ſignal de victoire. parquoy l'empereur tibere craignant ſur toutes cho- ſes le tonnerre, ſe faiſoit promptement couronner de laurier, au moindre bruit qu'il euſt ouy en l'air. on lit quelqucs vns auoir § faire des tentes de peaux de veaux marins pource que cet ani- mal a cela de particulier, que iamais il n'eſt atteint de la foudre. l'aigle auſſi eſt dite auoir ce pri- uilege entre les oyſcaux de n'eſtre frappée de la foudre : c'eſt pourquoy on l'apelle couſteliere de- iupiter, dit pline, liu. .ch. . & . mais contre l'artillerie, rien ne ſeruent les paroles & incan- tations, rien le laurier victorieux, rien le veau marin , rien choſe quelconque, non pas meſme vne l # muraille opposée, eſpeſſe de dix pieds. bref cecy monſtre la fureur inuincible de l'artillerie, au re- §.# " gard du tonnerre : c'eſt que le tonnerre ſe peut diſſiper par ſon de cloches, baſſins d'airain , & meſ- ' me par le bruit de l'artillerie, les nuées du heurt & combat deſquelles ſe fait le tonnerre, eſtans par te lc agitation de l'air ou diſſipées, ou chaſsées en autre pays bien loin : mais la fureur & orgueil tºpº , ex de l'a lletie ne s'appaiſe pour choſe quelconque. il y a quelques temps & quelques regions exem- #. * º pres de foudre : car on ne voit gueres tomber la foudre au cœur de l'hyuer, non plus qu'au gros j'é'. de l'lite. ce qui aduient de deux raiſons contraires : car cn hyuer l'air eſt fort eſpais, auſſi ſont les nuées, de ſoite qu'aisément eſteignent tout le feu,que pourroient auoir chargé les exhalations de la terie , qui ncantmoins ſont fort froides & glaciales. de là vient que la scythie & les regions liu.*. c. so fo les qui ſont à l'enuiron, c'eſt à dire, la tartarie, liuonie, moſcouie, ruſſie, & autres pays voi fin sºnt cxcmpts de foudre, comme au contraire les grandes chaleurs en preſeruent l'egypte.car les ， lations & v pcuis dc la terre, qui ſont chaudes & ſeiches, ſe conuertiſſent par la chaleur vcheneite en petites nuées, qui n'ont point de force,comme dit pline. mais comme l'inuention. , , aºi la tempeſte & dommage de l'artillerie , s'eſt eſpandué comme vne pcſtc par toutes les u# prouinces de la terre, & en tout temps le ciel retentit ſouz la plaintiue voix de ceux qui en ſen- ,ier . " º les furieux effects. le tonncrre ordinairement n'a qu'vn coup, qu vne foudre , & ne frappe qu'vn homme à la fois : mais l'artillerie d'vn ſeul coup peut accablcr vue centaine d'hommes. la - foudr c d'»à #ſt tiré le mot d'ar- queºuje. di uers art #. fices de feu. d a preface. i foudre le plus ſouuent, comme eſtant choſe naturelle, tombe fortuitement, tanteſt ſur vn chefne, tantoſt ſur vne montagne, tantoſt ſur vne tour, & rarement ſur l'honme : mais l'artillerie con- duite par la maligne dexterité de l'homme, n'a autre but que l'homme, le mire ſeul, & choiſit ſeul, entre vne milliaſſe de choſes. la foudre par le bruit de ſon tonnerre auant-coureur quelque bon- ne cſpace de temps deuant, nous aduertit de la tempeſte future : mais l'artillerie , qui eſt le coin . ble de tout mal, en grondant frappe, & en frappant gronde, enuoyant auſſi-toſt la balle mortelle dans l'eſtomach » que le ſon & bruit dedans l'oreille. c'eſt donc à bon droit que nous deteſtons ce qui in ri l'autheur d'vne ſi dommageable & pernicieuſe inuention : comme au contraire deuons eſtimer # ceux dignes de grandes loüanges , qui ou par paroles taſchent à reuoquer les princes & rois de la à eſcrire , practique d'vne ſi miſerable & funeſte machine, ou par effects & eſcrits, s'eſtudient à donner quel-#º ques remcdes à ceux qui en auroient eſté attaints. ce qui m'a eſmeu preſque le premier entre les d'harquebu- † :à eſcrire de ceſte matiere. mais deuant que faire courir ma plume en ceſte carriere, il º'j. m'a ſemblé bon pour plus facile intelligence du traicté principal que ie pretens mettre en lumic- re , des playes faites par herquebuſes, faire marcher deuant deux diſcours , pour arracher quelques opinions de la fantaſie de pluſieurs, qui me ſemblent du tout faulſes : la falſité deſquelles, ſi elle n'eſt conuaincuë : il n'eſt pas poſſible de rien entendre en l'eſſence de ce mal , ny rien faire à profit & bonneur en la cure d'iceluy... le premier diſcours addreſsé au lecteur , condamne par viues rai- somm.i,. ſons la façon de vigo , qui bruſloit les playes faites par harquebuſes , & les cauteriſoit, penſant du premier qu'elles participaſſent de quelque venenoſité. au contraire, celle qui guarit telles playes par les ºſº ſuppuratifs, eſt autant douce & ſalubre, comme celle dudit de vigo eſt cruelle & pernicieuſe. lc ſe- # cond diſcours addreſsé au roy , monſtre leſdites playes ne participer d'aucune venenoſité, ains la # diſ- cacocthie & male morigeration d'icelles, déprendre entierement du vice de l'air, & de la cacochy- - mie des corps offenſez. ſ#ððððððððč#sé#) d i s cov r s p r e m i e r , vr l e f a / c t des harquebuſades, & autres baſtons à feu. )aq 'a n mil cinq cens trente ſix,le grand roy françois enuoya vne grande ) $ à armée en piedmont, pour enuitailler thurin, & reprendre les villes & " chaſteaux, qu'auoit pris le marquis du guaſt , lieutenant general de l'armée,& monſieur de montejan, capitaine general des gens de pied, ,- duquel alors i'eſtois chirurgien.vnegrande partie de l'armée arriuée au pa, d,sac, § de suze, trouuaſmes les ennemis qui tenoient le paſſage, & auoient ait certains forts & tranchées, de façon que pour les faire debuſquer & quitter la place,il conuint combattre,où il y eut pluſieurs tuez & bleſſez >zzy : n， tant d'vne part,que d'autre mais ce fut àeux de tout quitter & gaigner le - º chaſteau:où bien toſt furent ſommez de ſe rendre : ce qu'ils firent, & ſortirent ſeulement la vie ſauue en chemiſe:& le baſton blanc au poing, dont la plus grand part s'en alletent gaigner le chaſteau devillanne, où il y auoit enuiron deux cens eſpagnols. monſeigneur le conneſtable ne le voulut laiſſer en arriere, à fin de rendre le chemin libre. ce chaſteau eſt aſſis ſur vne petite montagne,qui donnoit grande aſſeurance à ceux de dedans, qu'on ne pourroit aſſeoir l'ar- tillerie pour le battre:& furent ſommez de ſe rendre, ou qu'on les mettroit en pieces : ce qu'ils refu- ſerent, reſpondans qu'ils eſtoient autant bons & fideles § de l'empereur, que pouuoit eſtre monſieur le conneſtable du royſon maiſtre. leur reſponſe entendue, on fit de nuict monter deux gros canons à force de bras auecques cordages,par les suiſſes & lanſquenets;où le malheur voulut z, ct.ſteau qu'eſtans les deux canons aſſis, vn canonier mit par inaduertance le feu dedans vn ſac plein de pou- § § dre à canon, dont il fut bruſlé, enſemble dix ou douze ſoldats. et en outre la flamme de la poudre aſſieté & fut cauſe de deſcouurir l'artillerie, qui fit que toute la nuict ceux du chaſteau tirerent pluſieurs prº, coups d'arquebuſes, à l'endroit où ils auoient peu deſcouurir les deux canons, dont ils tuerent & bleſſerent quelque nombre de nos gens. le lendemain de grand matin on commença la batterie, qui en peu d'heure fit breche. eſtant faite, ceux de dedans demanderent à parlementer, mais ce fut trop tard : car cependant nos gens de pied françois, les voyant eſtonnez, monterent à la breche, & entrerent dedans,& les mirent tous en pieces, excepté vne fort belle & ieune piedmontoiſe , qu'vn grand seigneur voulut auoir pour luy tenir compagnie la nuict, de peur du † le capi- taine & enſeigne furent pris en vie , mais bien toſt apres pendus & eſtranglez ſur les creneaux de la orte de la ville, afin de donner exemple & crainte auſdits ſoldats imperiaux, n'eſtre ſi temeraires & ſifols de vouloir tenir telles places contre vne ſi grande armée. or tous les ſuſdits ſoldats du chaſteau, voyans venir nos gens d'vne tres-grande furie, firent tout deuoir de ſe deffendre , tuerent & bleſſerent vn grand nombre de nos ſoldats à coups de picques & d'harquebuſes , où les chirur- giens eurent beaucoup de beſongnetaillée. i'eſtois ence temps-là bien doux de ſel, parce que ie n'auois encores veu traicter les playes faites par harquebuſestil eſt vray que i'auois leu en iean de vigo,liu. . des playes en general » chap. . que z'aubou. les playes faictes par baſtons à feu, participent de venenoſité,à cauſe de la poudre, & pour leur cu- .nr . ration commande les cauterizer, auecl'huile de ſambuc, en laquelle ſoit meſlé vn peu de theriaque. tiere- et pour ne faillir, parauant qu'vſer de ladite huyle feruente, ſçachant que telle choſe pourroit ap- porter l. l)iſcours ſur le liure, - remede trouué par accident. oleum ca . tcllcrum. - la fºudre à par harquebuſes, & autres qu'on pretendoit ſuppurer, & me pria de ne diuulguer ſon ſecret. de porter au malade extreme douleur, ie voulus ſçauoir, premierement que d'en appliquer, comme les a , à autres chirurgiens faiſoient pour le premier appareil , qui eſtoit d'appliquer ladite huile la plus boiiillaete qui leur eſtoit poſſible dedans les playes, auec tentes & ſetons, dont ie prins hardieſſe & faire comme eux : en fin mon huile me manqua, & fus contraint d'appliquer en ſon lieu vn digeſtif fait de laune d'œuf, huile roſat, & tcrebentine. la nuict ie ne peus bien dormir à monaiſe, penſant que par faute d'auoir cauterisé , ie trouuaſſe les bleſſez (où j'auois failly à mettre de ladite huile ) morts empoiſonnez, qui me fit leuer de grand matin pour les viſiter. où outre mon eſperance trou- uay ceux auſqiiels i'auois mis le medicament digeſtif, ſentir peu de douleur à leurs playes ſans in- flammation & tumeur, ayans aſſez bien reposé la nuict : les autres où l'on auoit appliqué ladite huile, les trouuay febricitans, auec grande douleur , tuneur & inflammation aux enuirons de leurs playcs : adonc ie me deliberay de ne iamais plus bruſler ainſi cruellement les pauures bleſſez d'ar- quebuſades. lors que nous entraſmes à thurin , il ſe trouua vn chirurgien , qui auoit le bruit par deſſus tous de bicn mcdicamenter les harquebuſades, en la grace duquel ie trouuay moyen de m'inſinuér,& luy fis la cour prés de deux ans & demy , auparauant qu'il me vouluſt declarer ſon remede, qu'il appelloit ſon baume. ccpcndant monſieur le mareſchal de montejan, qui eſtoit demeuré lieute- nant general du roy en piedmont mourutadonc ie remonſtray au chirurgien que ie m'en voulois retourner à paris, & luy ſuppliay qu'il me tinſt promeſle de me donner la recepte de ſon baume : ce que volontaircment il fit, attcndu que ie luy quittois le pays.il m'enuoya querir deux petits chiens, b vne liure de vers de terre, deux liures d'huile de lys , ſix onces de terebenthine de veniſe , & vne once d'eau de vie:& en ma prcſence il fit boüillir les chiens tous viuans en ladite huile, iuſqu'à ce que la chair laiſſaſties os : & apres mit les vers qu'il auoit auparauant fait mourir en vin blanc, à fin qu'ils iettaſſent la terre qui eſt touſiours contenué en leurs ventres. eſtant ainſi vuidée, les fit cuire en ladite huile, iuſqu'a ce qu'ils deuindrent tous arides & ſecs : alors fit le tout paſſer par vne ſeruiette, ſans grandement en faire expreſſion : cela fait , y adiouſta la terebenthine, & à la fin de l'eau de vie : & appclla dieu à teſmoing que c'eſtoit ſon baume , duquel il vſoit aux playes faites # l # ， : : ººº ººº là ie m'en vins à paris,où quelque temps apres monſieur syluius, lecteur du roy en medecine, "º homme grandement eſtiné entre les gens doctes, me pria d'aller diſner auec luy : ce que ie fis vo- - loutieis : où il n'intcrrogea comme on traictoit les coups d'arquebuſes & les combuſtions faites par la poudi e à canon : où tout ſubit ie luy prouuay que la poudre à canon n'eſtoit aucunement vene- ncule, parcc que nul ſimple qui entre en icelle n'eſt trouué veneneux , & moins ſa compoſition , & auſſi que l'experience en failoit foy : parce qu'aucuns ſoldats eſtans bleſſez en prenoient auec du ( vin, diſans qu'icclle prinſe par dedans gardoit les accidens d'aduenir ( ce que ie n'approuue) joinct | auſſi qu'aucuns ayans quelques vlceres ſur leurs corps , pour les deſſeicher y mettoient deſſus de laditc poudre,ſans qu'il leur en ſuruinſt aucun mal. et quant aux balles , ne pouuoient con- : les playe, ceuoir ſi grande chaleur, qu'elles euſſent vertu de bruſler : car vne balle eſtant tirée contre vnemu- c | d'arquebu raille,on la pouuoit promptement tenir en la main nue : combien que pour la colliſion faite con- ſº ſº fans tie la pierre elle deuroit encores eſtre plus échauffee : & quant aux combuſtions faites pat la pou- | º dre a canon, ie n'auois rien trouué de particulier, pour diuerſifier la cure des autres combuſtions: & luy racontay ceſte hiſtoire , qu'vn garçon de cuiſine de monſieur le mareſchal de montejan | fon.i. tomba en vne chaudiere pleine d'huile quaſi boiiillante , pour lequel penſer eſtant enuoyé querir, rreuué par promprcment in'en allay demander à vn apothicaire des medicamens refrigerans , qu'on auoit , #, de couſtume d'appliquer aux bruſleures. là ſe trouua vne bonne vieille villageoiſe, qui entendant &' c'//, º ſ " eſt approuué de celſe liu. . ch ºp. . hijloire. ' n que ie parlois de ceſte bruſleure, me conſeilla y appliquer pour le premier appareil (de peur qu'il n'y ſutuinſt des puſtules ou empoulles) des oignons crus pilez auec vn peu de ſel. le demanday à ladite vieille,ſi autres fois l'auoit experimentée : elle meiura en ſon iargon,si meſsé, à la fé de dé; qui m'incita à en vouloir bien faire l'experience ſur le ſoüillon de cuiſine, où veritablement trou- uay le lendemain les endroits où auoient touché les oignons, n'auoir aucunes veſſies , ou empoul- les : & où ils n'auoient touché, tout eſtre veſſié.quelque temps apres vn allemand de la garde du- dit ſeigneur de montejan auoit fort beu : le feu print en ſon flaſque qui luy feit grand deſaſtre aux mains & au viſage, & fus appellé pour le penſer.i'appliquay des oignons à la moitié du viſage, & de l'autre coſté les remedes communs : au ſecond appareil trouuay le coſté où i'auois appliqué les oi- gnons,ſans nulles veſſies ny excoration, l'autre tout empoullé : & lors propoſay d'eſcrire l'effect cºmment il deſdits oignons. d'auatange ie dy audit silujus , que pour bien extraire les balles demeurées de- faut ſituer prur extrai- re les balles. dans quelque partie du corps , il falloit ſituer le bleſsé en telle ſituation, qu'il eſtoit lors qu'il fut frappé, & outre ie luy diſcourus beaucoup d'autres choſes contenues en ce liure. mon diſcours pa- d racheuc, il me pria de grande affection de le mettre par eſcrit, à fin que ceſte faulſe † de vigo - fût enuoyce à val l'eau : ce que volontairement luy voulus accorder, & feis tailler pluſieurs inſtru- nºens pour extraire les balles, & autres choſes eſtranges, ce qu'on n'auoit encores fait , & fut pre- mierement imprimé l'an . & bien receu : qui a eſté cauſe de me le faire reuoir , & encore le faire reimprer l'an . & pour la derniere fois l'an . où ie l'enrichis de beaucoup d'autres choſes, pour auoir ſuiuy depuis les guerres, & auoir eſté aux batailles, & enfermé és villes,comme à mets & hedin. pareillement pour auoir eſté au ſeruice de cinq roys, où i'ay touſiours par tout vou- lu communiquer auec les medecins & chirurgiens ſçauans, lors que i'auois quelque doute,pour deſ- couurir s'il y auoit autre moyen de traiter leſdites playes faites par harquebuſes, dont la plus grand pait, au moins ceux qui ont luiuy les guerres, & y ont peu cognoiſtre quelque choſe par raiſon & cxperience, ſont de mon aduis, de les medicamenter, en vſant de ſuppuratifs au commencement, & non d'huile boii llante. et proteſtay en outre audit syluius , auoir trouué telles playes autant aiſées à traiter, eſtans aux parties charneuſes , que les autres faites par grandes contuſions : mais - ok i des playes d'arquebuſes. a où le boulet rencontre les os & parties nerueuſes, il les briſe,dilacere, rompt & fend par éclats, non ſeulement où il touche , mais beaucoup plus loing , ſans aucune miſericorde, cauſant grands acc- ce qui rend dents , qui ſuruiennent principalement aux jointures & aux corps cacochymes : & en temps ſujet à les playes . corruption , à ſçauoir, quand l'air eſt chaud & humide , adonc la cure eſt tres difficile, & ſouuent #ºººººſ* impoſſible , non ſeulement des playes faictes par baſtons à feu, mais auſſi de celles qui ſont faictes difficiles à par autres inſtruments, voire encores qu'elles fuſſent aux parties charneuſes. partant les ſuſdicts aſm rir- accidents ne prouiennent de la venenoſité qui eſt en la poudre à canon, ou par la combuſtion faicte par le boulet. pour preuue dequoy , ie puis alleguer ce que i'ay n'agueres experimenté en la perſon- ne du comte de courdon, feigneur d'achindon eſcoſſois, que i'ay pensé par le commandement de la reyne mere du roy , lequel fut bleſsé d'vn coup de piſtolet au trauers des deux cuiſſes , ſans fracture d'os, luy eſtant donné de ſi pres que le feu flamboit en ſes chauſſes : & fut entierement hiſtºir*. guary en e. iours , ſans qu'il luy ſuruinſt fiévre, ny autre mauuais accident : & le medicamentay à ſainct lean de latran, au logis de monſieur l'ambaſſadeur d'eſcoſſe, archeueſque de glaſco , le- quel tous les iours aſſiſtoit à le voir penſer. ce que peuuent teſmoigner eſtre vray monſieur bri- gar, docteur regent en la faculté de medecine, qui l'aſſiſta auec moy, enſemble iacques guille- meau, chirurgien du roy & iuré à paris, iuſqu'à la parfaicte guariſon. le meſme peut teſmoigner monſieur hautin, docteur regent en la faculté de medecine, qui le vint voir par iours interpo- poſez : & gilles buzet eſcoſſois, chirurgien , tous leſquels s'eſmerueilloient comme il auoit eſté ſi toſt guary , ſans application de medicaments forts & acres. or l'intention pourquoy i'ay fait ce tit diſcours, eſt pour demonſtrer qu'il y a plus de trente ans que i'ay trouué le moyen de traitter † playes faites par arquebuſades, ſans vſer d'huyle boüillante , n'y d'autres medicaments forts & cuiſants : ſi ce n'eſt que l'on y ſoit contraint, pour les accidentsqui aduiennent aux corps cacochy- mes , & pour la mauuaiſe diſpoſition & malignité de l'air, comme ie demonſtre plus amplement en ce ſuyuant diſcours, que ie fis au roy defunct, apres la priſe de roüen. a v t r e d i s c o v r s , s v r c e g vº t l p l e v r vn iourau roy deffunct charles i x. me demander touchant lefaict des arquebuſades, & autres baſtons à feu, à ſon retour du -'- ſiege & priſe de la ville de roiien. - ze t pource qu'il pleut vn iour à voſtre majeſté(s r e ) à celle de la reyne vo- $n n ſtre mere, à monſieur le prince de la roche-ſur-yon , à pluſieurs autres prin- #\n ces & grands seigneurs , me demander comme il aduenoit qu'en ces dernieres $ guerres, la pluſpart des gentils-hommes & ſoldats bleſſez de coups d'arque- à buſes , & autres inſtruments , mouroient ſans y pouuoir aucunement reme- dier, ou à bien grand peine releuoient de leur maladie , ores que les playes par eux receües, fuſſent de bien petite apparence : & que les chirurgiens ap- pellez pour leur guariſon , y employaſſent tout leur deuoir & ſçauoir : i'ay bien osé mettre ce diſcours en auant, ſatisfaiſant en partie au deuoir de mon art , & ne derogeant à l'honneur - premier de ma profeſſion , que voſtre majeſté m'a pleinement continué iuſqu'à ce iour , pour vous faire entendre les raiſons qui peuuent auoir causé la mort à tant de vaillans hommes : la pluſpart deſquels i'ay veu , à mon grand regret finir piteuſement leurs iours , ſans qu'il me fuſt poſſible , ny à autre encore plus eſprouué que moy , y donner aucun remede. le ſçay que le ſuyuant diſcours eſtonnera quelques - vns , qui ſe repoſans ſur leurs opinions parti- culieres, & nc recherchans les matieres iuſqu'au fond du ſac, trouueront le premier front de ma inſinuation diſpute aſſez eſtrange : pource que contrariant à ce que de long-temps ils ont imprimé en leur en la bonne eſprit, ie ne leur accorde la cauſe de la malignité des harquebuſ des, proceder du venin ou em-# # poiſonnement, que leur cerueau ſonge eſtre porté par la poudre à canon, ou par les balles trem- # #. pées, & friquaſsées en quelque matiere veneneuſe. toutcsfois ſi leur debonnaireté & patien nion contrais cc auſſi ſe peuuent eſtendre iuſques là , que la premiere vueille peſer le zele qui m'a meu de pro- re. fiter à la rebublique, enuers laquelle ſi par le paſsé me ſuis efforcé faire valoir le talent , que la ſinguliere prouidence de dieu m'a voulu departir, encore maintenant ie m'y employe dauantage: & i'autre auec entier iugement examiner les raiſons , deſquelles i'vſe en ce preſent traicté : ie ſuis ſeur qu'ils auront mon labeur agreable, & l'exempteront de toute calomnie : ou bien qu'is ſeront tant mal affectez en mon endroit , que ſi ie m'addreſſois à eux , enrichy de tous les threſors des an- ciens philoſophes , encor me voudroient ils mettre au rang de plus appauuris & ignorans hom- mes de tout le monde. pour donc obuier aux argumens que les fauteurs du venin & empoiſonne- ment cy deſſus mentionné pourroient mettre en jeu, ie feray voir à voſtre majeſté ( s r e ) que l'offenſe des arquebuſades ne prouient du venin que la poudre ou la balle porte quant - &ſoy , & moins encore de la combuſtion ou cauterization , que ladite balle § par le feu mis en la l'autheus poudre, face és parties qu'elle rompt par ſa violence : ce que toutesfois quelques-vns s'efforcent propoſe les ſouſtenir, alle guans pour toutes raiſons qu'autres-fois on a veu vne tour pleine de poudre, ruinée º ººº #, n occaſions de ce dijtours : en vn inſtant par vn ſeul coup de canon: semblablement vne maiſon couuerte de chaume s'embra- # # zer au ſeul coup d'vne arquebuſe. auec ce, qu'en la pratique des playes que font les inſtrumens # l, à feu, nous voyons ordinairement les orifices & parties circonuoiſines auſdites playes , ſi noires peiſon de la u'on diroit vn cautere attuel y auoir paſsé : joint auſſi que l'on voit ſortir & tomber l'eſcarre , com- ººº , & me ils diſent. tous leſquels argumens ſont ſi mal appuyez, que leur fondement ne merite # * qu'on s'y arreſte, & moins encore que la reſolution de voſtre demande ſoit priſe deux , ainſi " z que i i. diſcours ſur le liure. - * la diſpu- te preſente priſe des pbiloſophes, medecins,& chirurgiens. compoſition de la poudre - c / / . salpeſtre eſt ſel de pierre. exemple pris des reiſtres, que i'eſpere vous faire entendre par la diſpute qui s'enſuit , laquelle (apres anoir veu grand nom- a bre de tclles playes , icelles obſerué diligemmcnt, & medicanenté par grand methode)i'ay recueil- lie des anciens philoſophes, & chirurgiens , pour eu faire preſent à voſtre majeſté , & enſemble la retirer de l'admiration qu'elle auoit de la mort eſpouuantable de tant de gentils hommes & bon ſoldats. - s or pour entrer en matiere , & reſpondre aux argumens cy-deſſus alleguez , il me ſemble bon de diſcourir premierement s'il y a quelque vcnin enclos en la poudre à canon : & encore qu'il y en cuſt, ſi elle pourroit infecter par ſon pretendu venin. pour lequcl poinct parfaictement dedui- rc , force m'eſt de rechercher la compoſition d'icelle poudre , conſideré qu'elle n'eſt de ſubſtance ſimple, mais composec : puis pour ſuiure la nature des ſimples qui entrent en ſa compoſition, leurs qualitez, effects, & o erations. quant aux ſimples , c'eſt choſe toute aſſeurée, qu'il n'y en a que trois qui faſſent la con poſition : à ſçauoir , le charbon de ſaule, ou de cheneuottes, le ſoulphre, & le ſalpeſtrc , quclquesfois auſſi l'eau de vie : leſquels ingrediens conſiderez à part, ſont exempts de tout vcnin. qu'il ſoit ainſi, le charbon n'a choſe conſiderable en ſoy , ſinon vne ſeichereſſe en vne ſubſtance ſubtile, moyennant laquelle reçoit auſſi facilement le feu, qu'vn l'inge bruſlé reçoit les eſtincelles d'vn fuzil. le ſoulphre chaud & ſec en dregré , non toutesfois exceſſif,& de ſubſtan- ce plus oléeuſe & viſqueuſe, non toutesfois tant aisé à enflammcr que le charbon : combien qu'il rcticnne fort viuement le feu quand il en eſt ſaiſy , & ne s'eſteint qu'à grande peine. le ſalpeſtre eſt tel que pluſieurs s'en ſcruent en lieu de ſel. ainſi découurons-nous n'y auoir aucune venenoſité en la nature de ces ſimples, nommément en celle du ſoulphre, qui eſt le plus ſuſpect : veu meſme que dioſcoride liu. i. chap. . cn donne à boire & humer dans vn œuf, aux aſthmatiques, touſ- ſeurs , & à ceux qui crachent du pus, & qui ont la jauniſſee : & galien liure. . des ſimples chap. . l'ordonne pour remede topique à ceux qui ſont mordus de bcſtes venimeuſes , & aux gratelles ma- lignes. or quant à l'eau de vie, c'eſt vne choſe ſi ſubtile, qu'elle s'éuapore & conſume ſi on la jet- te en l'air : outre ce que les chirurgiens l'ordonnent ſouuentesfois en breuuages & friction, pour vn remede grandement ſingulier. qui me fait dire que toute la compoſition de la poudre eſt exem- pte de venin, puis que ſes ingrediens ſont ſi entiers chacun en ſon endroit. auſſi les allemands, reiſtres, offenſez de quelque arquebuſade , ne font difficulté de diſſoudre en vin deux charges de allemand, poudre à canon, & les aualler, eſperans par ce moyen recouurer leur ſanté , & obuier aux acci- #º dens qui ſuruiennent à leurs navreures : ce que pourtant ie n'approuue , parce que telle choſe ne #. leur peut ſeruir dauantage, les vlcetes faits par ladite poudre ne ſe trouuent d'autre nature, que § ceux qui ſont faits de feu ou d'eau boüillante. mais que me ſert d'alleguer vn exemple eſtranger, probation. puis que i'ay veu pluſieurs ſoldats françois par ie ne ſçay quelle gayeté de cœur , & ſe voulans monſtrer bons compagnons , en aualler aſſez bonne quantité , ſans toutesfois en receuoir deſplai- ſir aucun : & quelques autres bleſſez en vn endroit de leur corps , en appliquer ſur leurs vlceres pour les deſſeicher, & s'en trouuer fort bien : quant à ceux qui diſent que ce n'eſt la poudre-mais refuta- le boulet , qui ſubtilement pertuisé en pluſieurs lieux, remply de venin, ou trempé , fricaſsé , & tion de ceux qui diſent le boulet eſtre empeiſonné: - - - - - a - | re # ſ, mon opinion eſtre veritable, ſçauoir eft que telles playes ſont exemptes de venenoſité , il ne faut monſtrera ty ſculement que ſe reſſouuenir : qu'il n'y a aucun de tous ceux , qui eſtoient en voſtre camp de # pº roüen, qui ne ſçeuſt aſſeurement les boulets tirez par luy contre ceux de la ville , auoir eſté ſans amplement refutation de ceux qui diſent la bate faire combuſtion. mixtionné en quelque poiſon, cauſe cét excez dangereux : le leur puis † , ſans beaucoup me trauailler, que le feu mis en la poudre purifieroit le venin de la balle , ſi aucun y en auoit : ce qui ne ſe peut faire aux eſpieux, eſpées , & fleches, attendu que le feu n'y paſſe.brefpour confirmer aucun poiſon , & toutesfois les aſſiegez auoient opinion que toutes telles balles eſtoient empoi- ſonnées : les ſoldats de voſtre camp auoient meſme creance des boulets qui leur eſtoient tirez par ceux de la ville, leſquels ils diſoient auoir eſté empoiſonncz par eux : croyans pluſtoſt & iugeans la qualité des playes par l'iſſuë mal heureuſe d'icelles, que par les cauſes dont elles eſtoient faites. vrayement comme en medecine ſelon la ſentence d'hipp. aux epidimies , ainſi que note galien ſur la ſentence o. & . de la ſect. . du liu. . toutes maladies ſont appellées peſtilentes & vcne- ncuſes , leſquelles excitées des cauſes communes & generales, quelles qu'elles ſoient,tuent pluſieurs erſonnes : ainſi peut eſtre à parler improprement , pourrons nous appeller les playes des arque- § , vent neuſes, qui ſont plus difficiles à penſer que les autres , non qu'elles participent d'au- cune venenoſité, mais pour quelque cauſe geneiale dcpendante,où de la cacochymie des corps,cor- ruption de l'air ou du vice des viurcs, dont les vlceres ſont rendus plus malins , cacoëthes , & rebelles aux medicamens. de dire que ce ſoit la combuſtion du boulet auſſi qui face le danger, ie ne le puis enten dre, vcu que les balles faites ordinairement de plomb, ne pourroient endurer ſi extre- me chaleur , ſans ſe fondre & diſſoudre du tout , leſquelles nonobſtant nous voyons paſſer au ttauers d'vn harnois , & penetrer les corps d'outre en outre , & demeurer encores entiers. dauan- tage , nous obſeruons lois qu'on les tire contre vne pierre , ou quelque autre matiere ſolide, pou- uoir au meſme inſtant eſtre maniées de nous, & tenue en la main , ſans qu'elles rendent notable ou ardante chaleur : combien que l'attouchement & colliſion d'icelles aucc la pierre deuſt accroi- ſtre leur chaleur, ſi aucune y en auoit. qui plus eſt,ſi on tire quelque balle dans vn ſac plein de pou- dre à canon, le feu n'y prendra aucunement par ce 'oſe hardiment dire & aſſeurer que quand le feu ſe met en vnc poudre reſeruée en quelque tour, ou en autre lieu,cela ſe peut faire non par le feu que la balle porte quant-&- ſoy, mais par l'attrition d'icelle , frappant contre la picri e de ladite tour, & en faiſant ſortir quelques eſtincelles de feu qui tombent en la poudre : ne plus ne moins qu'en la meche du fuzil nous voyons cheoir quelques eſtincelles par la colliſion du fer & du caillou, le ſomblable deuons-nous iuger des couuertures de chaume , qui ne s'embraſent par la chaleur compagne du boulet, mais pluſtoſt par quelque linge, bourre, ou autre telle matiere attachée à la balle. ce qui me rend encore plus ferme eſt l'aſſeurance de mon dire , eſt que ſi nous voulons tirer d'vne balle - de º des playes d'arquebuſes. : a de cire, ne portant aucun feu quant-&-ſoy ( car autrement elle ſe fondroit) encore percera-elle vn bois de l'eſpeſſeur de demy doigt : argument aſſez valable pour monſtrer que les balles ne peu- uent eſtie eichauffées en ſorte qu'elles cauter,ſent & bruſlent ainſi que quelques-vns ont eſtimé. et pour reſpondre à la noirceur qui ſe trouue ordinairement en l'orifice des playes & des parties pro- ches,le dy cét accident ne prouenir à raiſon de quelque feu accompagnant la balle, mais à cauſe de la grande contuſion qu'elle fait : & pource auſſi qu'elle ne peut entrer au corps, ſinon par vne forcc & violence incroyable à cauſe de ſa figure ronde. surquoy ſi on vouloit interroger les meſmes navrez, ie croy qu'ils ſeroient ſuffiſans teſmoins de men dire , pource qu'ils ne ſont ſi toſt frapez, qu'au meſme inſtant ne leur ſoit aduis qu'vne poutre, ou autre ſemblable fardeau leur" ſoit tombé ſur la partie offenſee , en laquelle auſſi lentent vne douleur aggrauante, vne ſtupeur & endormiſſe- ment, qui diſſipe, & quelquesfois eſteint la chaleur naturelle auec les eſprits qui y ſont contenus: dont le plus ſouuent s'enſuyuent gangrene & mortification de la partie, voire quelquesfois du corps vniuerſel.et quant à l'eſcarre qu'ils diſent y eſtre,& en ſortir,ils s'abuſent : attendu que ce ſont cer- taines portions des membranes & chair contuſes dilacerées par la balle, qui ſe ſont corrompuës, & ſe ſeparent des paities ſaires : ce qui aduient ſouuent à toutes les parties grandement contuſes, & autres. combien que ces raiſons montrent aſſez euidemment n'yauoir aucun venin en la poudre à canon, ny aucun feu porté par le boulet : ſi eſt-ce que pluſieurs ſe ruans ſur la philoſophie natu- relle,ſouſtiennent tout le contraire:s& pour me preualoir en ceſte opinion, diſent les coups de canon eſtre du tout ſemblables aux coups de tonnerres & foud es, que les nuées rompuës en la moyenne re- gion de l'air precipitent en terre. de laquelle ſimilitude inferent & concluent qu'il y a du feu & du venin au boulet ſortant de la bouche du canon. ie ſçay,dieu mercy, que la foudre engendrée d'vne cxhalation craſſe & viſqueuſe,au moyen de la vapeur qui luy eſt conjointe , n'eſclatte iamais la nué pour ſe lancer çà bas, qu'elle ne traine quant & ſoy quelque feu , tanroſt plus ſubtil, tantoſt plus eſpez, ſelon la diuerſité de la matiere dont l'exhalation eſt composée : car seneque eſcrit au . liu. de ſes queſtions naturelles, chap. . qu'il y a ſeulement trois genres de foudres tous differens l' vn de l'autre , ſelon la quantité & ſorte de leur inflammation : l'vn,qui à cauſe de ſa matiere plus ſubti- le & tenue , perce ſeulemcnt & penetre comme en pertuiſant, les objets qu'il atteint : l'autre , qui par ſa violence rompt & diſſipe les meſmes choſes pource que ſa matiere eſt plus compacte,& tempeſtâ- tiue,comme vn oraget& le tiers,qui compoſé d'vne matiere plus terreſtre,bruſle auec indices mani- feſtes de ſon ardeur. ie ſçay dauantage que la foudre eſt de nature peſtilente & fetide , à raiſon de ſa matiere craſſe & viſqueuſe,laquelle bruſlée rend vne odeur ſi puante que les animaux accouſtumez de giſter en leurs cauernes & tanieres, ſont contraints les abandonner, ſi d'aduenture la foudre y eſt tombée , ne pouuans endurer la puanteur infecte de ce poiſon. meſme que olaus magnus en ſon hiſtoire septentrionale a remarque qu'en quelques lieux où la foudre eſt tombée , incontinent apres la cheute,la campagne ſe trouue toute couuerte & ſurſemée de ſoulphre , inutile toutesfois, & quaſi comme eſteint. s eſt ce que pour ces raiſons ne me faudra confeſſer que les coups de canon ſoient accompagnez de poiſon & de feu, comme ſont les coups de foudre : car ores qu'ils conuien- nent les vns auec les autres en quelque ſimilitude , ce n'eſt pourtant en leur ſubſtance & matiere, mais pluſtoſt en la maniere qu'ils ont de caſſer briſer,& diſſiper les objets qu'ils rencontrent, à ſça- uoir les coups de foudre par leur feu, & par la pierre aucunesfois engendrée en iceluy : & les coups de canon, par l'air impetueuſement pouſſé, qui conduiſant vne balle fait vn pareil deſaſtre. que ſi i'eſtois conuaincu par argumens plus forts, iuſqu'à auerer les foudres & canons eſtre de ſemblable ſubſtance, encor ne ſerois ie forcé de dire les canonnades & arquebuſade porter feu quant &- ſoy : conſideré que parmy les foudres s'en trouuent quelques vns ( ainſi que dit pline, au ſecond liure de ſon hiſtoire, chap. cinquante & vnieſme) qui compoſez de matiere merueilleuſement ſei- che, diſſipent tout ce qu'ils rencontrent , ſans toutesfois le bruſler aucunement : les autres de na- ture plus humide, qui pareillement ne bruſlent, mais noirciſſent à l'auantage : & quelques-vns d'v- ne matiere beaucoup plus claire & diaphane , le naturel deſquels eſt tant émerueillables qu'on ne peut douter ( comme a bien dit seneque) qu'il n'y ait en eux quelque vertu diuine en ce qu'ils fon- dent ſubtilement l'or & l'argent,ſans que les bougettes & bourſes en ſoient aucunement intereſſècs: fondent vne eſpée , le fourreau demeurant en ſon entier : font diſtiller le fer d'vne picque, ſans que le bois conçoiue aucune ardeur : eſpandent le vin des tonneaux ſans y faire ouuerture, ne les bruſler. suiuant le quel teſmoignage,ie pourrois aſſeurer, & ſans preiudice aucun, les foudres qui ſeulement rompent & diſſipent ſans bruſler aucunement, & qui la ſſent quelques effects pleins de grande ad- miration, n'eſtre ſemblablee en ſubſtance aux canonnades, mais ceux là qui quant-&-ſoy portent & hamme & feu. pour approuuer mon dire, ie ſeray content de l'exemple d'vn ſoldat, de la cuiſſe duquel me ſouuient auoir tiré vne balle, laquelle enueloppée du taffetas de ſes chauſſes, luy auoit fait vne profonde playe : toutesfois ie l'en retiray auec le meſme taffetas, ſans qu'il fuſt en façon aucune intereſſé ny bruſlé. qui plus eſt,i'ay veu pluſieurs hommes , leſquels ſans eſtre frappez , ny aucunemenr touchez, meſmes en leurs habillemens , ont receu tel eſtonnement des canonnades paſſans pres'd'eux, que leurs membres en ſont deuenus noirs & liuides au poſſible, puis toſt apres ie ſont gangrenez & mortifiez, dont finalement ſont morts. ces effects ſont ſemblables à ceux de la foudre, toutesfois il n'y a en eux aucun feu ou venin , qui me fait hardiment conclurre n'y auoir poiſon aucun en l'artifice ordinaire de la poudre. puis donc que le deſaſtre a eſté commun à tous , ceux qui ont eſté bleſſez en ces dernieres guerres, & que ce n'eſt par feu , ne par venin que tant de vaillans hommes ſont morts, à quelle caule pourrons-nous imputer ce malheur ? ie ſuis à l'endroit, sire, où i'eſpere preſentement la faire entendre à voſtre majeſté , afin qu'elle en ſoit pleinement ſa- tisfaite. ccux qui ont conſumé leur âge & eſtude aux ſe rets de la philoſophie naturelle, nous en ont laiſſé vn entre autres pour authentique,& approuué de tout temps : c'eſt que les elemens ſymbo- liſent tellement les vns auec les autres, qu'ils ſe tranſmuent l'vn en l'autre : de ſorte que non ſeule- l- z iilcilt l'exemple , d'vne balle de cire. d' où vienr ue les pla- jes des ar- quebuſes ſont ordi- i natre// enf noires. : raiſons de ceux qui söt de contraire opinion. seneque. trois genret de foudres. . reſponſes aux raiſons contraires. effect mer- . »-illeux di foudres. exemplr. en qucy les elemºs ſym- boliſent les vns auec les m^/'.',. i i. diſcours ſur le liure. . | effect du ca- mon ſembla- ble à celuy du fondre. exemple de l'arſenal de paris, megare & egine, vil- les de grece, peries par tremblement de terre. diuers bruits iſſans des veines de la terre. poinct prin- cipal , º vraye ex- plication de la queſtion. ment leurs qualitez premieres , qui ſont chaleur, froideur, ſeichereſſe & humidité ; mais auſſi leurs a ſubſtances ſe changent par rarefaction, ou condenſation de ſoy-meſme : ainſi le feu ſeconuertit or- dinairement en air, l'air en eau : l'eau en terre : & à l'oppoſite, la terre en eau, l'eau en air, & l'air en feu. ce que nous pouuons voir à l'œil, & éprouuer és ſoufflets de cuiure que les allemands nous apportent , compoſez en forme de boule : laquelle remplie d'eau, & n'ayant qu'vn petit trou au milieu de ſa forme ſpherique, reçoit la tranſmutation de ſon eau en air , par l'action du feu, pres lequel la boule ſera poſée, & pouſſéc auec violence ledit air dehors,le faiſant bruire impetueuſement, iuſqu'à ce qu'il ſoit du tout ſorty. le ſemblable ſe peut cognoiſtre és chaſtaignes & marrons lors qu'on les jette au feu ſans les auoir entamées : car alors l'humidité aqueuſe qui y eſt contenue, ſe change en air par l'action du feu, & l'air voulant ſortir,creue le marron,pource qu'occupant plus de place, a forme d'air cn laquelle il eſt changé par rarefaction cauſée par le feu, qu'il ne faiſoit ſous la forme d'aquoſité,& ne trouuant ouuerture, eſt contraint en faire vne par violence : ſelon la verité de la propoſition tenuë pour toute aſſeurée entre les phyſiciens;ſçauoir,que d'vne partie de terre il s'en fait dix d'eau,& d'vne d'eau,dix d'air,comme d'vne d'air, dix de feu. i'en oſe autant dire & affermer des matieres contenuës en la poudre à canon , qui par le moyen du feu, ſe conuertiſſent en vne tres- grande quantité d'air, lequel ne pouuant eſtre contenu au lieu où la matiere eſtoit auparauant ſa tranſmutation,eſt forcé ſortir hors auec vne incroyable violence,moyennant laquelle le boulet pouſ- ſé rompt,caſſe & briſe tout ce qu'il rencontre,ſans toutesfois l'accompagner. qu'il ſoit vray, vn arc, vne fonde,ou arc à jallet,jettent loin vne pierre:fleche ou jallet,ſans aucun air. mais la balle chaſſe bien deuant ſoy vn vent ſi ſubtil,& ſi roidement agité,que les corps en ſont premierement ſaiſis que du boulet,ores que la choſe ne ſoit deſcouuerte à la veuë : car bien ſouuent l'action ſe fait par ce ſeul vent, ſans que la balle donne ſon coup , voire iuſques à rompre les os ſans manifeſte diuiſion de la chair : ce que nous auons deſia dit eſtre commun au foudre. le pareil éprouuons-nous en ladite poudre, lors qu'eſtant encloſe dans les mines,& conuertie en vent par le feu qu'on y met,bouleuer- ſe les monceaux de terre auſſi gros que montagnes.on a veu ceſte année en voſtre ville de paris vne certaine quantité de poudre fraiſchemcnt faite en l'arſenal, cauſer vne ſi grande tempeſte , que tou- te la ville en trembla d'vne ſi horrible furie, rua par terre toutes les maiſons prochaines, découurit & defeneſtra celles qui eſtoient plus à l'écart. et bref( comme vn foudre éclattant ) renuerſa çà & là pluſieurs hommes demy-morts : aux vns oſta la veuë,aux autres l'ouye, & en laiſſa d'autres non moins deſchirez en leurs pauures membres, que ſi quatre cheuaux les euſſent écartelez. et ce par la ſeule agitation de l'air,en la ſubſtance duquel la poudre eſtoit conuertie : qui ſelon la quantité & qualité de ſa matiere, ſelon auſſi ſon mouuement plus ou moins fort, a cauſé des euenemens émer- ueillables en nos prouinces, & du tout ſemblables à ceux que font les vents enclos ſous vne terre non proſpirable, leſquels voulans ſortir, ſoufflent auec vne ſi forte agitation, qu'ils font trembler toute la terre aux enuirons, la hauſſant & baiſſant, tantoſt cy,tantoſt là, demoliſſant les baſtimens, & les tranſportant d'vn lieu en autre:comme les villes de megare & d egine,anciennemest fort ce- lebres au pays de grece.peries par tremblemens de terre,nous peuuent teſmoigner.ie laiſſe à diſcou- c rir(comme peu ſeruant à noſtre propos) que le vent enclos aux entrailles de la terre, rend vn bruit de diuers ſons, & fort eſtranges, ſelon la diuerſe forme des conduits , & l'emboucheure des ſouſpi- raux par leſquels il ſort,ne plus ny moins que des inſtrumens de muſique,leſquels eſtans larges,ren- dent le ſon plus gros & bas : eſtans eſtroits,le rendent haut & aigu : & s'ils ſont courbes & repliez, le rendent diuers : ainſi qu'on void en vn cornet de chaſſeur,& aux trompettes, comme auſſi eſtans moittes & moüillez, grondent & jettent vne voix enroüée. semblablement ces bruits, murmures & bourdonnemens, ſelon la forme des lieux, d'où ils partent, ſe trouuent diuers & meſlez. telle- ment qu'on a quelquesfois oüy des ſifflemens, qui § repreſenter aſſauts de villes, cris & mugiſſemens de taureaux, ou henniſſemens de cheuaux, rugiſſemens de lions, ou de trompet- tes, & coups d'artillerie , & beaucoup d'autres choſes eſpouuentables, meſmes voix humaines. ce qui fut raconté d'vn qui auoit oüy vne voix, comme d'vne femme que l'on battoit, & qui ſe plai- gnoit,dont il eut vne ſi grande frayeur, qu'à peine l'haleine luy eſtoit demeurée pour le pouuoir ra- conter. mais on luy dit la cauſe de ceſte voix plaintiue :& apres l'auoir entenduë fut deliuré de ceſte grande pcur, qui autrement eſtoit ſuffiſante pour le faire mourir. mais quelqu'vn dira ces choſes auoir eſté de tout temps,& non moins ordinaires au temps paſſé qu'elles ſont à preſent, & que c'eſt folie à moy de les alleguer pour cauſes efficientes de la mort de tant d'hommes : ce que librement ie confeſſerois, s'il eſtoit ainſi que ie les preſentaſſe pour telles, mais veu que par icelles ie veux ſeulement parangonner l'impctuoſité des canons, auecque celle des foudres & des mouuemens de terre, il ſe trouuera que cela ne fait rien contre mon intention, ce que i'eſpere monſtrer clairement, & que ſans raiſon ie ſuis calomnié,ſi l'on veut preſter l'oreille à la deduction en laquelle i'entre pre- ſentement pour arreſter la cauſe principale de ceſte mort.au nombre des choſes neceſſaires à noſtre vie,n'y a rien qui nous puiſſe plus alterer que l'air, lequel continuellement bon-gré & mal-gré nous, inſpirons par les conduits que narure a deleguez à ce faire, comme ſont la bouche, le nez , & ge- neralement les ouuertures du cuir, & des arteres qui luy ſont adherantes : ce que nous faiſons ' beuuans , mangeans, veillans , dormans, & faiſans toute autre action naturelle, vitale & animale- de-là vient que l'air inſpiré dans les poulmons,le cœur, & le cerueau , & vniuerſellement en toutes les parties du corps pour les rafraiſchir, & aucunesfois nourrir , fait que l'homme ne peut # º # viure vne ſeule minute ſans ſon inſpiration. suiuant lequel benefice le medecin hippocrate preface du progno. & gal.aucöm. a veritablement prononcé, que l'air a ie ne ſçay quoy de diuin en ſoy, pource que ſoufflant par le monde vniuerſel , circuit toutes les choſes contenués en iceluy, les nourrit miraculeuſement, les ſouſtient fermement, & les entretient en amiable vnion, & le tout ſymboliſant auec les aſtres» eſquels la prouidence diuine eſt infuſe, qui change l'air à ſon plaiſir, & luy donne puiſſance , tant ſur la mutation du temps, quc des corps naturels. pource que les philoſophes & medecins ont ex- preſſement | #. # u， - des playes d'arquebuſes. preſſement commandé d'auoir égard aux aſſiettes des lieux, & aux conſtitutions de l'air , lors qu'il eſt queſtion de garder la ſanté , ou de guarir les maladies : à l'endroit deſquelles la ſuitte & la mu- tation dudit air a fort grande puiſſance , ainſi qu'aiſément nous pounons cognoiſtre par les quatre faiſons de l'année. car l'air eſtant chaud & ſec en eſté, nos corps pareillement s'eſchauffemt & deſſeichent, comme en hyuer l'humidité de l'air & froidure nous remplit de meſmes qualitez; en tel ordre toutesfois, & ſi bonne diſpoſition de nature , qu'ores que noſtre temperament ſemble changer ſelon les quatre ſaiſons, ſi eſt-ce que nous n'encourons aucun mal , pourueu que les temps ardent leurs ſaiſons & qualitez exemptes de tout excés. au contraire, ſi les ſaiſons ſont peruer- ties, de façon que l'eſté ſoit froid, l'hyuer chaud, & les autres en pareille intemperance , ce diſ- cord ameine grande perturbation , tant en nos corps , qu'en nos eſprits, contraints toutesfois d'en receuoir le danger, pource que les cauſes ſont externes,& nous enuironnent de tous coſtez iuſques à nous contraindre les heberger en nos organes & conduits deleguez par nature, partie à mettre hors les excremens ſuperflus de noſtre nourriture, partie à receuoir leſdites cauſes venantes de dehors, qui ſont les vents produiſans diuers effects en nous, ſelon les parties du monde dont ils proce- dent. or comme ainfi ſoit que le vent auſtral ſoit chaud & humide, celuy de septentrion froid & ſec,l'oriental nct & pur,celuy d'aual nubileux & tout moitte de pluye, c'eſt choſe toute aſſurée, e l'air lequel aſſiduellement nous inſpirons, tient en tout & par tout la qualité du vents, qui par on ſouffler domine ſur les autres : pource nous faut neceſſairement conſiderer en toutes maladies, & és inconueniens qui ſuruiennent en icelles, la qualité des vents,& la puiſſance qu'ils ont ſur nos perſonnes, ainſi que doctement hippocrate nous a laiſſé par eſcrit au . liure de ſes aphoriſines, diſant nos corps receuoir grande alteration par les viciſſitudes des temps & ſaiſons de l'annéc, com- me par le vent auſtral, qui nous aſſujettit à toutes maladies , reconnoiſſantes l'humidité pour leur cauſe premiere & affoiblit noſtre chaleur naturelle, laquelle en cas oppoſite ſe fortifie & rend plus vigoureuſe par vn vent froid & ſec, qui pareillement rend nos eſprits plus ſubtils & agiles. la ve- rite de laquelle ſentence experimentent trop à leur dam les habitans du territoire de narbonne, qui autrement aſſis entre les peuples les plus gaillards & diſpos de toute la france , ſont toutcsfois ordinairement mal ſains,comme leurs corps deſcharnez, leurs viſages triſtcs , leurs faces baſanées, & de couleur d'oliue, le monſtrcnt euidemment. auſſi entre autres maux ils ſont preſque ſujets à la lepre blanche, & les moindres vlceres, deſquelles on ne feroit cas à poitiers, ou à paris, y durent vm an ordinaire : non pour autre raiſon, comme eux meſmes confeſſent, & comme recognoiſlent tous les eſtrangers, qui ont demeuré en leurs païs, ſinon qu'ils ſont ſoufflcz & halenez ſouuent d'vne ſorte de vent meridional # appellent aultan, qui leur fait l'air groſſier & ncbuleux, & qui cauſe en leurs corps tous les effects attribuez aux vents de midy par hippocrate aph. . liu. . ſçauoir quand il regne , les fait oüir dur, leur esbloüit la veuë, leur enfle & aggraue le chef,leur ap- peſantit & abbat toutes les forces du corps. auſſi quand ledit hippocrate compare les temperatu- res les vnes auec les autres, il laiſſe ce poinct pour reſolu. que les ſeichereſſes ſont ſans comparaiſon plus ſaines, que les humiditez continuées par longue ſucceſſion de temps : pource ( à ſon aduis du teut conforme à la raiſon) que l'exceſſiue humidité eſt la vraye matiere de pourriture , ainſi que l'experience nous fait voir és lieux où le vent marin exerce ſa tyrannie,eſquels vne viande, tant ſoit- elle fraiſche, ſe corrompt & pourrit en moins d'vne bonne heure. ces choſes conſiderées, & qu'il eſt neceſſaire pour conſeruer nos corps en leur entier, que les ſaiſons ſe ſuiuent pas à pas en leur temperature naturelle, ſans aucun excez ou contrarieté, il n'y a doute aucune que les corps ne tom- bent en affection contre nature, lors que les ſaiſons peruertiſſent leur qualitez par la mauuaiſe di- ſpoſition de l'air, & du vent qui domine en iceluy. comme donc ainſi ſoit que depuis trois ans en ça, les ſaiſons de chaſque année n'ayent gardé leurs qualitez ordinaires, & que l'eſté ait eu peu de chaleur,l'hyuer peu ou point de froideur : auſſi qu'en toutes les ſaiſons ſe ſoient desbordées des hu- miditez continuelles auec vn vent auſtral, du naturel cy-deſſus declaré, & ce par toute la france : ie ne ſçache homme ſi peu versé en la philoſophie naturelle, ny en l'aſtrologie, qui ne recherche en l'air la cauſe efficiente de tant de maux qui depuis l'eſpace deſdits trois ans ſont ſuruenus au royau- me de france. car d'où procederoient tant de peſtes contagieuſes indifferemment aduenuës aux vieux, aux ieunes, aux pauures & aux riches, & entant de diuers lieux : ſinon de l'air qui n'a eſté chiche de ſon poiſon, mais nous en a infectez à ſon plaiſir ? d'où ſeroient venuës tant de coque- luches, de pleureſies, d'apoſtemes, catharres,fluxions, petites verolles & galles : tant de beſtes vene- neuſes, comme grenoüilles, crapaux, ſauterelles, chenilles,araignées,mouſches,hannetons,limaçons, ſerpens,viperes, couleuures,lezards,ſcorpions,& aſpics,ſinon d'vne trop grande pourriture, que l'ex- cedante humidité de l'air,accompagnée d'vne chaleur languide, a engendrée, tant en nous,qu'en la terre vniuerſelle de noſtre prouince ? voila comme noſtre chaleur naturelle a eſté affoiblie , com- me noſtre ſang & nos humeurs ont eſté corrompus par la malignité de l'air , que le vent auſtral a causé par ſon humidité chaleureuſe. qu'il ſoit ainſi , on a tiré ceſte année bien peu de ſang à quelque perſonne qui en ait eu bcſoin, ſoit ieune ou vieille , bleſsée ou non bleſsée , de bon tem- perature ou de maunaiſe, qui n'ait eſté vicié & veu de couleur blanche & verdoyante : ce que i'ay touſiours obſerué en ces dernieresguerres, & és autres licux, auſquels on m'appelloit pour guarir les bleſſez, ou phlebotomer ceux qui tant pour precaution , que pour quelque guariſon de mala- die , ſe faiſoient tirer du ſang par l'ordonnance des medecins , en tous leſquels indifferemment ie trouuois le ſang putrefié & corrompu.ce poinct arreſté, c'eſt choſe plus que veritable quela char- neure de nos corps ne peut auoir eſté que mal diſposée, & tous nos corps cacochymes , puis que leur nourriture, qui eſt le ſang, eſtoit putrefiée : & l'air tout corrompu : dont s'enſuit que les corps navrez en leur ſubſtance charneuſe, eſtoient difficiles à guarir, conſideré qu'il y auoit en iceux per- dition de ſubſtance, laquelle ayant beſoin de regeneration de chair, n'en pouuoit venir à bout, fuſt par medicamens, ou par artifice de chirurgien,tant grande eſtoit ſa cacochymie. tout ainſi qu'en vet ， hipp. au ſ p/ / "/, ſ'é- ment an lin. de aere lo- cà,& aquis. l'alienaticn des ſaiſons cauſe malx- dies. hipp au lic. des aphor. ch. . é : . liu ;. ath, i . l'air intem- peré a pro- duit les ma- ladies paſ- - jé'ºj. o le x. liu. des playes darqueb. c -- :-, - - - - #º qu'en vne elephantiquc la chair & les autres parties du corps demeurent en leur putrefaction , à #ydroºiques cauſe du ſang corrompu dont elles ſont nourries : pareillement és playes des corps cacochymes ne & des le ſe peut faire aquiſition nouuclle , ny regeneration de bonne ſubſtance : pour ce que pour rendre # !viéx . vne chair loüablc à la partie naurée, il eſt neceſſaire que le ſang ne peche en quantité ne qualité: meſine que la partie offensée ſoit cn ſa tempctature naturelle. toutes leſquelles choſes defaillantes au temps des dernieres guerres, il ne ſe faut esbahir ſi les navreures, tant fuſſent-elles petites & de peu de conſequence,meſmes és parties non nobles & principales, ont amené quant-&-ſoy tant d'ac- cidens faſcheux, & en fin la mort : conſideré que l'air qui nous enuironne , rend par ſon inſpira- tion & tranſpiration les playcs pourries & puantes , lors qu'il eſt alteré & pourry : ce que font auſſi lcs humcuts prcparez à cét inconuenient par leur cacochymie. nous en ſommes deuenus ſa- , pººr ges par l'experience de tant de playes, leſquelles lors que ie m'efforçois à les guarir, rendoient vne # telle & ſi grande puanteur , indice & témoignage tres certain de pourriture & infection, que les §. aſliſtans ne la pouuoient ſentir qu'à contre cœur, & auec bien grande difficulté. il ne faut alle- · playe, veni guer que cc fuſt par faute de les tenir ncttement, de les penſer ſouuent, ny de leur adminiſtrer tou- •newſes. tes choſes neceſſaires : car telle pourriture eſtoit comme aux princes , aux grands seigneurs, & aux pauures ſoldats : aux playes deſquels ( ſi d'auenture on laiſſoit couler vn iour ſans les penſer , tant eſtoit grandc la multitude des navrez) on t, ouuoit le lendemain vne grande quantité de vers, auec vne puanteur merueilleuſe. qui plus eſt, leur ſuruenoient à tous pluſieurs apoſtentes en diuers lieux de lcurs corps és parties oppoſites à leurs navreures : car s'ils eſtoient bleſſez en l'eſpaule dextre l'apoſtenc ſc faiſoit au genoüil ſeneſtre , & ſi la playe eſtoit en la iambe dextrc , l'apoſteme · ſe faiioit au bras ſeneſtre : comme il aduint au feu roy de nauarre, à monſieur de neuers , & à tontieur de rendan, & preſque à tous les autres. ainſi nature ſembloit tant chargée d'humeurs vicieux, qu'elle n'eſtoit contente ſe purger par leurs ſeules playes, ains enuoyoit vne portion de ſoa vice en autre lieu apparent ou caché : car ſi les apoſtemes ne ſe manifeſtoient par dehors, on les trouuoit és parties internes , comme au foye aux poulmons , ou en la ratte. des meſmes putrefa- ct ons s'eſleuoient quelques vapeurs, qui par leur communication aucc le cœur cauſoient fiévres continués , auec le foye empeſchoient la pure generation du ſang , & aucc le cerueau cauſoient ce qui peut alicnation d'eſprit, reſuerie , conuulſion, & conſequemment la mort a cauſe deſquels accidens exeuſer les n'a eſté poſſible à aucun chirurgien (tant expert fuſt-il ) de dompter la malignité deſdites playcs: ººº dcquoy toutesfois nc doiuent cſtic repris ceux qui s'y ſont employez , pource qu'il n'eſt poſſible #, #. de combatre contre dieu, n'y contre l'air, auquel ſouuentesfois ſont cachez les verges de ſa diui- § ne iuſtice. si donc , ſuiuant la ſentence de l'ancicn hippocrate, qui dit toute playe contuſe dc- nombre de uoir eſtre conduite à ſuppuration pour eſtre parfaictement guarrie , nous nous ſommes efforcez de- bi ſſez. cc faire , & toutesfois n'en ſommes venus à bout , à cauſe des pourritures , gangrenes & mortifi- cations, qui s'y ſont † moyen de l'air vicié : qui cſt-ce qui iuſtement nous en accuſera? c conſideré auſſi que la neceſſité nous a contraints changer noſtre façon de faire, & au lieu de medi- camcns ſuppuratifs , vſer d'autres remedes pour entiercment combatre les accidens ſuruenus, non ſeulementaux coups d'arquebuſes, mais auſſi d'eſpées, & autres baſtons à main , leſquels nouueaux remedcs ſe pourront voir en la lccture de ce preſent traicté. outre les cauſes humaines , l'homme cſt mal inſtruit en la cognoiſſance des choſes celeſtes , qui ne tient pour tout certain l'ire de dieûr ſe débander ſur nous pour punir les fautes qu'ordinairement nous commettons contre ſa majeſté. ses fleaux ont cſté prets, ſes verges & ſes armes ont leurs miniſtres touſiours appareillez pour executer les commandemens de ſa diuine iuſtice, aux ſecrets de laquelle ne pouuant entrer plus auant, i'ayme mieux me contenir en vne ſimplicité, que paſſer plus outre , & conclure auec les mieux adui- sés ?'occaſion principale des morts proceder de la pure & ſimple volonté de dieu, qui par la tempe- rature , que ſon bon plaiſir a donné à l'air, & aux vcnts, heraux de ſa diuine iuſtice, nous a rendus aptes à receuoir les inconuenicns, que nous auons encouru par noſtre iniquité: - · f i x. - t a b l e vn hydropique la chair ne ſe peut engendrer , pource que le ſang y eſt trop froid & aqueux : & a # , | | - r # - : # # . > - d -t- - - - - - - - #º # e s c ha pitr es dv l iv r e x [. # des playes faictes par arqve bv ses & baſtons à feu, fleches & dards. l t a b l e d # i v i s o n des playes ſelon la diuerſité des parties offencées, & des balei dont elles ſont faictes. - c h a p j. des ſignes des playes faictes pararquebuſes. ij : lemoyen depenſer leſdites playes au premier appareil. iij deſcription des inſtrumens propres pour tirer les bales , & autres choſes eftranges. - iv lmaniere de traitter les playes au premier appareil , apres que les choſes eſtranges en ſont hors v comment il faut traicter les playes apres le premier appareil. vj moyens de tirer les choſes eſtranges quiſeroient demeurées à extraire » vij indications qu'il faut obſeruerauſdites playes. - | viij comme les maladies ſont compliquées. - - ix comme le chirurgien pourra pourſuiure le traictement deſdictes playes. x des bales qui demeurent en quelques parties, longtemps apres la guariſon des playes xj des grandes contuſions & dilacerations faictes parles boulets d'artillerie . xij des moyens qu'ilfaut tenir pourrectifier l'airc pourcorroborerles parties nobles , & forti- fer tout le corps. xiij hiſtoires memorables, - xiv apologie touchant les playes faites par arquebuſes, - xv e autre diſcours ſur la queſtion de la venoſité des playes d'arquebuſade . xvj les differences des playes faictes parfleches, & de celles qui ſontfaictes par arquebuſes. xvij de la difference desfleches & dards. xviij de la difference des parties bleſsées. xix de l'extraction desfleſches. xx comment il faut proceder pour tirer les fleſches rompuës xxj ce qu'il faut faire,ſilafleſche eſt inſerée en l'es. - xxij des bleſſeures emuenimées. xxiij z l'on - ·: rºº © #g %- $ * gºr$ $s # -<s |' 'on zte ne i v re : t r a i tant des p la y es ! fai ct e s p a r a r q v e b v s e s, e t | autres baſtons à feu , fleſches, dards, : & des accidents d'icelles. º - b # " - - - tt, -, par a m b r o i s e pa r e de l'aual au maine, conſeiller, &- ， •. premier chirurgien du roy. - -- - - - - at diuiſion des playes ſelon la diuerſité tant des parties offensées, que # - des bales dont elles ſont faictes. # - - - ch a p t r e i. i: - : ! diui o v t e s les playes que les baſtons à feu cauſent au corps de l'homme , tant ſim- -- iuiſion. - - - - - * l ples que compliquées, auec contuſion , dilaceration, intemperature , & tumeur , ſe - - font les vnes és parties nobles , les autres és ignobles : quelques - vnes és parties char- º difference $ neuſes, quelques-autres és nerueuſes & oſſeuſes : aucunesfois auec ruption & dilace- - des parties $ ration des grands vaiffeaux , comme des veines & arteres, & quelquesfois ſans la rup- c bleſsées. % è tiond'iceux telles playes auſſi ſont aucunesfois ſuperficielles, & ſouuent profondes, # iuſqu'à penetrer outre le corps , & les membres, auſquels on les reçoit. vne autre di- uerſité ſe cognoiſt en elles, ſelon la difference des bales , entre leſquelles s'en trouue lº de groſſes, de moyennes, & de petites comme dragees, dont la matiere ( qui n'eſt ordinairement que de ſ plomb) ſe laiſſe aucunefois conuertir en acier, en fer , ou en eftain, rarement en argent , & moins enco- | res en or. suiuant leſquelles differences , le chirurgien doit prendre diuerſes indications pour operer, à & ſelon icelles diuerſifier les remedes. or nous ne deuons iuger les grands accidens de ces playes proue- * , nir par aduftion de la bale, ny par la venenoſité , ou autre mauuaiſe qualité de la poudre à canon, pour les raiſons qu'auons deduites aux diſcours precedens : mais à cauſe de la contuſion , dilaceration, & fraction, que fait la violence de la bale és parties nerueuſes, & oſſeuſes. car quand il aduient que la bale ne touche d'où depend º les parties charneuſes, & en corps de bonne tempeiature , i'ay trouué autresfois telles playes autant ta mal#. peu rebelles à curation , & auſſi faciles à traiter, que celles qui ſont faites par autres baſtons faiſans vul- té des playes neres ronds, contus, & de telle figure que fait le boullet. pour ce eſt-il neceſſaire auoir plus d'égard aux | des arque- ſymptomes ou accidens de la contuſion, dilaceration, fracture d'os & violence de l'air enuironnant , , buſes. qu'à la combuſtion qu'on eſtimeroit prouenir du boulet, & venenofité de la poudre a canon, pour les rai- - ſons predites. ce que mettant en lumiere pour ayder aux ieunes & nouueaux practiciens en chirurgie, i'ay voulu traicter briefuement, toutesfois ainſi que i'ay peu experimenter à la ſuite des guerres que i'ay continué par l'eſpace de quarante ans. en quoy ie proteſte auoir ſuiuy le conſeil des medecins , & gens de ma profeſſion plus renommez, & approuuez, tant par leur doctrine, que longue experience leſquels ie m'aſſeure ſçauoir choſes trop plus grandes que ne pourroient contenir mes eſcrits. par ainſi ie n'eſcris pas pour eux, ains pour les nouueaux apprentifs en cét art, & pour ceux qui n'auront meilleur ayde pour ſuruenir aux cas vrgens : prouenans deſdites bleſſeures, leſquelles ſurprennent quelquesfois le conſeil du chirurgien, ſi la raiſon & experience ne conduiſent ſon œuure. des ſignes des playes faites par ambuſade . ch a p. ii. v commencement de la curation , il faut cognoiſtre ſila playe eſt faite par coup d'arquebu- ſe : ce quiſera aisé à voir ſi la figure de la playe eſt ronde & liuide en couleur, & la couleur cognoiſt les % naturelle de la partie eſt changée,à ſçauoir iaune,violette, liuide ou noire. semblablement ſi playes faires ! % à l'inſtant que le patient a receu le coup, il dit auoir ſenty vne douleur aggrauante, comme par arque- * s'ileuſt eſté frappé d'vn grand coup de pierre, ou qu'vne poutre, ou quelque autre grand buſes. fardeau luy fuſt tombé ſur la partie vulnerée. pareillement ſi le coup n'attaint quelque gros vaiſſeau,s'il en ſort peu de ſang des parties blesſées,d'autant qu'elles ſont contuſes & grandement meurrties,qui eſt cauſe qu'elles s'enflent bien toſt apres le coup,de façon qu'elles bouſchent quelquesfois le paſſage, tant que l'on n'y peut mettre tente ne ſeton : & cela peut aduenir, que le ſang eſt ſupprimé, lequel autrement couleroie par les orifices. auſſi le malade y ſent grande chaleur, à cauſe de l'impetuoſité du mouuement violent , & de la vehemête impulſion de l'air,auec la ruptiö de la chair & des parties nerueuſes:quelquesfois auſſi pour les os fracturez qui picquens & preſſent leſdites parties , dont s'enſuit fluxion & inflammation : auſſi pour - la ies ſignes leſquels on - des playes d'arquebuſes. a la grande contuſion que fait la bale, qui ne peut entrer en aucune partie de noſtre corps, que par grande force, pour ſa figure ronde, dont le lieu en eſt rendu noir, & les parties voiſines liuides : parquoy s'en- ſuiuent pluſieurs grands accidents, comme douleur,fluxion, inflammation , apoſteme, ſpaſme, alienation, paralyſie, gangrene,mortification,& apres la mort. elles iettent ſouuent vne ſanie virulente & fort fetide, qui prouient de la trop grande abondance des humeurs qui fluent à la partie bleſsée,à cauſe de la vehemen- te meurtriſſeure,contuſion & dilaceration des parties, & pardéfaut de la chaleur naturelle qui ne la peut regir & gouuerner : pareillement auſſi à cauſe de la cacochymie du corps & des parties nerueuſes, comme les jointures.auſſi tels coups ſont trouuez touſiours plus grands que la bleſſure des cornes d'vn cerf, ou d'vn coup de pierre ietté d'vne fonde, ou autres contuſions ſemblables , parce que la choſe eſtant ronde, il faut que l'effort ſoit tres-violent & impetueux, pour la faire penetrer au dedans, comme elle fait à l'egal d'vn coup de foudre. le moyen de penſerleſdites playes au premier appareil. c h a p. i i i. o v r ces cauſes,il faut que promptement le chirurgien amplifie la playe, ſi la partie le per- met , tant pour donneriſſuë à la ſanie, que pour donner libre paſſage aux choſes eſtranges,& ， les oſter ( ſi aucunes y a) comme portion d'habits, bourre,drapeau,papier,pieces de harnois, > slº， mailles , balles, dragées , eſquilles d'os, chair dilacerée, & autres choſes qui s'y peuuent " - js trouuer : & dés le premier appareil, ſi poſſible eſt. car les accidens de douleur & ſenſibilité . - ne ſont fi grands au commencement, comme és autres temps de la maladie. or pour mieux les extraire, il # ºº de faut faire mettre le patient en la meſme ſituation qu'il eſtoit lors qu'il aura eſté bleſsé,pource que les muſ- # le ma- cles & autres parties autrement ſituées peuuent eſtouper & empeſcher la voye. et pour regarder à bien per # # - - - p- - ºj c/ - b trouuer leſdites bales & autres choſes eſtranges, il les faut chercher auec le doit ( s'il eſt poſſible ) pluſtoſt ſes eſtranges qu'auec autre inſtrument, parce que le ſens du tact eſt plus certain que nulle ſonde on autre choſe inſenſi- 'ſ ble. que fila bale a profondé bien auant, lors il la conuient chercher auec vne ſonde, ronde en ſon ex- tremité,de peur de faire douleur : toutesfois il aduient ſouuent que par la ſonde on ne peut trouuer ladite bale:comme il eſcheut au camp de parpignan,à monſieur le mareſchal de briſſac,offensé d'vn coup d'arque- hiſtoire de buſe pres l'omoplate droite, où pluſieurs chirurgiens ne pouuans trouuer ladite bale , diſoient qu'elle monſieur de eſtoit entrée dedans le corps, attendu qu'il n'y apparoiſſoit iſſue aucune. mais n'avant ceſte opinion , ie brſſiac, vins à chercher ladite bale,& n'y voulus aucunement mettre la ſonde,mais luy fis faire telle geſte du corps qu'il faiſoit lors qu'il fut bleſsé. puis comprimer doucement les parties circonuoiſines de la playe:ce fai- ſant trouuay vne tumeur & dureté en la chair, auec ſentiment de douleur & liuidité au lieu où eſtoit la ba- le, qui eſtoit entre la partie inferieure de l'omoplate, enuiron la . & . vertebre du dos : auquel lieu fut faite inciſion pour tirer la bale, dont puis apres fuſt toſt guary. parquoy eſt fort bon chercher la bale, non ſeulement auec la ſonde, mais (comme i'ay predit) auec les doigts , en maniant & traittant le lieu & les enuirons d'iceluy, où l'on coniecture la bale auoir peu penetrer. ideſcription des inſtrumens propres pour tirer les bales, & autres choſes eſtranges. c h a p - i v. \ v a n t aux choſes eſtranges, elles peuuent eſtre tirées pàr les inſtrumens cy-apres dépeints, # qui ſont de diuerſe figure & grandeur, ſelon la neceſſité : les vns ſont dentelez, les autres non: # & faut que le chirurgien en ait de pluſieurs & diuerſes façons, les vns plus grands, les autres sre plus petits en chacune de ſes formes , afin de les accommoder aux corps & aux playes , & non les corps, ny les playes a ſes inſtrumens. , inſtrumens requis à tirerles choſes eſtranges. ber de gruë coudé bec de corbin. ceſtuy eſt nommé bec de grue, pour ſimilitude : lequel pareillement doit eſtre dentelé , & eſt propr# à extraire du profond, dragées , mailles, eſquilles d'os fracturez & autreschoſes - bec lonzieſme liure, rec de gruè, droit. bec de cane_ . ſf o | eautrefaçon de tire-bale , a monſtre ſa cannule. b la verge qui fait ouurir & fermer c la charniere. autre inſtrument nommé bec de perro des membres, meſmes dedans les os. ceſtuy qui eſt nommé bec de cane, ayant vne cauité en ſon extremité, large & ronde, dentelée, pour mieux prendre la bale, eſt propre, principalement lors que la bale eſt aux parties charneuſes. autre figure de tire-bale,nommé bec de lezard, pour tirer la bale, lors qu'elleſera applatie : cottée de meſme lettres que l'autre . la charniere. quet » pour tirer quelques pieces de harnois inſerées au profond bék : des playes d'arquebuſe. a bec de perroquet. a monſtre la queuë de la viz. b l'eſcrouë. dd la couliſſe. c le coulant, lequel au moyen d'vne viz ſe hauſſe & baiſ- ſe, d º inſtrument nommé bec de cigne, lequel s'ouure à viz, accom † #ous auons nommé bec de gruë droit : & ſert à tirer quelque c pº°.ºec ledict bec de cygne, - pagnéd'vne pincette, que par cy- hoſe eſtrange,. apres auoir dilaté la b - bec de cygne ». uatoires. -- cannule de tire fond. si les corps eſtranges, ſpecialement les bales &.dragées, ſont profondes, on les pourra tirer auec ele- autre inſtrument , nommé tire fond, lequel tourne à viz dedans vne cannule,& eſt fort conuenable à tirer leſdites ba- les , lors qu'elles ont penetré iuſques dedans les os : car ſa pointe entre dedans ladite d balotte, pourueu qu'elle ſoit de plomb, ou eſtain : (car el- le ne pourroit entrer en vn corps plus dur ) & par ce moycn peut eſtre aisément oſtcc. | tire-fond. dilatatoire . ceſtuy eſt nommé dilatatoire,duquel on peut vſer à ouurir & dilater les playes, afin de nmieux trouuer leſdites choſes eſtranges. car en comprimant enſem- ble deux de ſes extremitez , les autres s'ouurent : & peut auſſi ſeruir en plufieurs lieux comme aux nari- nes , au ſiege, & autres parties. les inſtrumens qui s'enſuiuent, ſont nommez ai- guilles à seton,leſquelles ſont conuenables l'ors qu' peut paſſer vn seton pour tenir la playe, & la º# c l'onzieſme liv ire, - | de la tale ouuerte,iuſques à ce que l'on ait tiré hors les choſes eſtranges qui ypeuuét encores eſtre.outre a cc , peuuent ſeruir à fonder les playes profondes, pour trouuer la baïe , & ne cauſent point de · douleur pource qu'elles ſont rondes & polies en leur extremité. haut donc entendre que les ſondes , deſquelles groſſeur ér on cherche la bale , doiuent eſtre moyennement grcfles, polies & rondes en leur extremité : pource que longueur les parºis de la playe » & les voyes par où la bale a paſsé,incontinent ſe rapprochent, & retouc§ doiuente ſtre º l'autre , de ſorte que ladite playe ou voye appert au ſens de la veue beaucoup plus petite qu'elle les ſondes. º eſt. et pour ceſte caule les ſondes greſles & aigues ſont moins commodes : car elles s'arreſten a l§ r approchée & continue, & ne peuuent ſi facilement aller au lieu de la bale,comme celles qui ſont medio- crement groſſes : joint auſſi qu'elles picquent la chair de la playe, & ce faiſant moleſtent fort le patient: qui eſt fouuent cauſe » que les bales ne peuuent eſtre trouuées. on en doit auſſi auoir de plus grandes pour paſſer au trauers dvne cuiſſe, lors que le cas le requiert. par ainſi la longueur d'icelles ſe doit chan- ger ſelon la groſſeur du membre bleſsé: & ne ſuis d'aduis qu'on s'efforce beaucoup à les faire touſiours paſſer au trauers des parties bleſsées, de peur d'induire douleur, & autres accidents. car le malade laiſſera pas à guarir pour le ſeton, qui ne ſera paſsé tout au trauers, comme l'experience en fait foy, lors qu'vne bale paſſe au trauers du corps, on ne paſſe point de ſeton, & neantmoins guariſſent. - de quelle - sondes qui peuuent ſeruirde ſetons. la ananycre detraitter les playes aupremierappareil, apres,que les choſes eſtrangesſomttirées. c c h a f. v. la principa- # p r e s auoir tiré les choſes eſtranges par les moyens ſuſdits, la principale intention ſera de le intetion du nºſ batailler contre la contuſion & alteration del'air, s'il eſt chaud & humide & diſposé à pour- riture : ce qui ſe fera tant par remedes pris par dedans, que par autres appliquez par dehors, & auſſi mis dedans les playes. ceux qui doiuent eſtre adminiſtrez par dedans , ſe prendront - " par le conſeil & ordonnance du prudent medecin : à la doctrine duquel ie laiſſe tout ce qui $ºº#. peut appartenir à la maniere de viure, & à la purgation du malade. et quant aux medicamens topiques, tion en doit le chirurgien ſuiuant les choſes ſuſdites, doit conſiderer la conſtitution du temps & de l'air : car s'il n'y #. a danger que la partie tombe en gangrene, il vſera de ſuppuratifs comme aux playes contuſes , quels ſont tifs. l'oleum catellorum, ou d'vn digeſtif, ayant eſgard à la nature de la partie : attendu que les parties nerueu #rquºyit ſes demandent medicamens plus ſecs que les charneuſes, comme nous auons amplement dict au traicté § fºu ºſer des playes des ioinctures. donc auſdites ioinctures & parties nerueuſes, on vſera de terebenthine de d'eſcaroti veniſe , ou d'huile de cire , de maſtic , de iaunes d'œufs , & autres ſemblables, y adiouſtant vn peu d'eau de vie rectifiée.telles choſes ont puiſſance de deſſeicher & conſommer l'humidité ſereuſe,yſſant des parties nerueuſes, & ſeder la douleur. monſieur ioubert medecin ordinaire du roy, & chancelier en ſon vniuerſité de montpellier, qui a tres-doctement eſcrit des arquebuſades pour auoir veu pluſieurs bleſſez à la ſuite des guerres,au traicté qu'il en a fait,dict que aux ſimples coups d'arquebuſe l'on ne doit vſer de medicamens eſcharotiques , tant actuels que potentiels,parce qu'ils induiſent douleur, inflammation,gan- grene, fiévre, & autres pernicieux accidens. auſſi que l'eſcarre ou crouſte, garde la ſuppuration qu'on doit faire promptement, pour ſeparer la chair meurtrie d'auec la ſaine, de peur que tout ne ſe pourriſſe: comme il ſe fait aisément, quand l'humeur ſuperflu croupit longuement en lieu n'ayant iſſue libre,& mef- me pour ſes vapeurs, qui ne ſe peuuent exhaler, à cauſe qu'elles ſont encloſes & couuertes de l'eſcarre, multipliant touſiours où elles ſont encloſes, requerant vn plus grand lieu qu'il ne leur eſt permis , paſ- ſant & entrant des petits vaiſfeaux aux plus grâds,& de là aux parties nobles,dont s'enſuit le plus ſouuent la mort. toutesfois s'il y a ſoubçon de pourriture, lors il faudra paſſer des ſuppuratifs aux remedes con- trarians à la putrefaction, delaiſſant la propre cure pour ſuruenir aux accidens. parquoy au premier appa- .. reil , dans les playes, en cas de putrefaction, ſera appliqué tel onguent qui s'enſuit. . puluer aluminis *#º rochr, viridis xris, vitrioli romani, mellis roſatian . ij. aceti boni quantum ſufficit : bulliant omnia #. ſimul ſecundum artem, & fiat medicamentum ad formam mellis. les vertus de cét onguent ſont , que §iiiei par ſa chaleur & tenuité il inciſe & attenue les humeurs , reuoque la chaleurnaturelle , laquelle a eſté re- playes. pouſsée par la veheméteimpulſion du coup,& violente agitation de l'air,conduite par la bale. dauantage il corrige la putrefaction de l'humeur virulent, qui promptement abbreuue la chair conterée & meurtrie, ſi fort qu'il fait eſcarre cét onguent toutes & quantesfois qu'il en ſera beſoin,ſe pourra appliquer auec ten- tes ou ſetons, eſtant diſſoult auec vin, ou eau de vie : leſquelles tentes ſeront aſſez groſſes & longues - pour chirurgien. ques. · des playes d'arquebuſes. a pour le premier appareil, afin d'eſlargir & dilater la playe, pour mieux y ietter les medicamens puis apres ne ſeront appliquées ſi longues & groſſes. auſſi pour mieux couler au profond des playes, ſe pourra ietter auecvne ſyringue. qui plus eſt, ſa vertu & ſa force ſera diminuée ſelon la temperature des corps,& ſenſi- bilité des parties bleſsées : comme ſi la playe eſt és lieux nerueux, ſera meſlé auec huiles de terebenthine & d'hippericon, en telle quantité que le chirurgien expert cognoiſtra eſtre neceſſaire : l'on ſe peut meſme & doit-on paſſer de l'egyptiac & n'en vſer aucunement, quand l'on n'a point à combatre vn temps peſtilent & pernicieux pour leſdites bleſſeures, tel qu'on a veu les annees paſsées. apres l'vſage de l egyptiac on fera tomber & ſeparer l'eſcarre, auec choſes remollitiues & linitiues, comme eſt l'huile qui s'enſuit, la faiſant chauffervn peu plus chaude que tiede. z. olei violati fb.iiij. in quibus coquantur catelli duo nuper nati,vſ- que ad diſſolutionem oſſium, addendovermium terreſtrium præparatorum vt decet fb.j. coquantur ſimul lentoigne, deinde fiat expreſſio, quæ ſeruetur in vſum prædictum , addendo terebent.venetx . iij. aqux vitæ. .j.ladite huile eſt de grande & merueilleuſe efficace,tant pour appaiſer la douleur, que pour ſuppurer la playe,& faire töber l'eſcarre.en defaut d'icelle,faut appliquer celle qui s'enſuit,qui eſt plus facile à trouuer. z. olei ſeminis lini, & liliorum añ. .iij.vnguenti baſilici. . j.liquefiant ſimul, & ex eis vulneri indatur quant ſuff. i'ay bien cogneu que leſdites huiles appliquées au commencement de la bleſſeure mediocrement chaudes appaiſent la douleur, lubrefient, relaſchent & humectent les parois de la playe, la diſpoſans à la fuppuration, qui eſt la vraye maniere de guarir telles playes. ce que galien recite d'hippocrate diſant, ſi la chair eſt contuſe, meurtrie, ou battuë de quelque dard, ou en autre maniere, qu'il la faut medicamenter en telle ſorte qu'elle ſuppure le pluſtoſt que faire ſe pourra. car par ce moyen elle ſera moins moleſtée de flegmon : auſſi eſt neceſſaire que la chair contuſe & batuë ſoit putrefiée, liquefiée,& conuertie en pus, puis $uand il c , niendra vſer dudit esy - ftiac. oleum catel- lerum. poinci ſouue- rain cr apres nouuelle chair engendrée. monſieur ioubert approuue fort tel remede, lequel toutesfois n'ay en-#º cores experimenté ; il eſt tel. prenez poudre de mercure deux fois calcinée .j. graiſſe de porc recente ou beurre frais . viij. camphre diſſoult en eau de vie . ij.meſlez le tout , adiouſtant vn peu d'huile de lis, ou de lin. l'experience monſtre que ce remede eſt excellent, & la raiſon le confirme auſſi. car la poudre de mercure accompagnée de matiere craſſe & humectante, fait que la chair meurtrie ſuppure facilement, & en peu de temps, ſans qu'il y aduienne fort grande douleur. et quant au camphre, ſoit chaud ou froid, il y ſert grandement, pour l'excellente tenuite de ſes parties, à raiſon de laquelle tout medicament de quel- que qualité qu'il ſoit, penetre mieux & pouſſe plus auant ſa vertu : dauantage ledit camphre rcſiſte à toute putrefaction.aucuns inſtillent en la playe eau de vie, en laquelle on diſſoult vitriol calciné. tel remede n'eſt ſuppuratif, mais reſiſte à la pourriture, duquel on peut vſer en temps chaud & humide.autre. z. olei tereb. .iij. aquz vitx . f.miſce. or ſi le coup eſt donné de fort pres, veritablement la playe ſera bruſlée par la poudre enflammée, & lors on appliquera remedes propres à la combuſtion, ſans toutesfois la cure des playe s des arquebuſes. vertus du camphre. combuſtions ioinftes és delaiſſer la contufion. et quant aux parties de deſſus la playe, l'on n'appliquera medicaments refrigeratifs & playes des ar- aſtringens, ains remolliens & ſuppuratifs : ſi ce n'eſt peut eſtre au premier appareil : pource qu'ils refroi- diſſent & affoibliſſent la partie, & empeſchent la ſuppuration : auſſi conſtipent le cuir, qui eſt cauſe de ne donner tranſpiration aux vapeurs fuligineuſes, dont s'enſuit gangrene & mortification par l'indue applica- tion de tels remedes. et où la contuſion ſeroit grande, on pourra faire des ſcarifications pour deſcharger la partie du ſangmeurtry qui eſt ſubjet à ſe pourrir. mais aux parties circonuoiſines , qui ſont au deſſus de * c la contuſion, & eſloignées de la playe, faut appliquer remedes refroidiſſans & corroborans, pour repouſ- ſer & empeſcher la fiuxion des humeurs, comme eſt ceſtuy-cy. z. pul. boli armenij, ſanguinis draconis, pulmyrrh.añ. .j. ſucci ſolani, ſemperuiui , portulacz añ. .j. album. iiij.ouor oxyrrh. quant. ſufficit : fiat iinim. vt decet, ou autres ſemblables, deſquels il conuient vſer iuſques à ce que l'on ſoit aſſeuré des acci- dens.pareillement il ne faut faillir à bien bander le membre, le ſituant en figure propre & ſans do leur, s'il eſt poſſible. au commencement il ne faut penſer le malade iuſques à ce que la playe commence à ſuppu- rer, que de xxiv. heures en xxiv. heures. et quand la ſuppuration commence, & par conſequent la dou- leur, fiéure, & inquietude s'augmentent, il faut penſer le bleſsé de douze heures en douze heures. et alors qu'il y a grande quantité de matiere qui moleſte le malade,on le penſera de huict heures en huict heures.et qnand le pus commencera à ſe diminuer naturellement, il ſuffit de douze heures en douze heures. fina- blement quant l'vlcere ſe remplit de chair , & partant ne rend gueres de matiere, c'eſt aſſez le penſer vue fois le iour, ainſi que du commencement. comment ilfaut traitter leſdites playes apres le premier appareil. c h a p. vi. v ſecond appareil, & autres ſuiuans s'il n'y auoit ſoupconde pourriture & gangrene,faut ſeu- | lement vſer dvne deſdites huiles, y adiouſtant des moyeux d'œufs auec vn peu de ſaſfrant: # ce que l'on continuera iuſques à ce que l'excrement de la playe ſoit dige é & tourné a ſuppu- ration. en quoy chacun doit bien noter; que le pus eſt plus long-temps a s'y faire , qu'és autres playes faites par autres inſtrumens, pource que la balle & l'air qu'elle pouſſe deuant d ſoy, diſſipe (à cauſe de ſa grande contuſion) la chaleur naturelle & les eſprits de la partie , qui eſt cauſe | que la coction n'eſt pas ſi toſt,ne ſi bien faite au defaut de la chaleur naturelle, dont ſuruient vne tre-grande puanteur en la ſanie, & autres accidens fort dangereux.toutesfois elle ſe fait le plus fouuent en trºis ºu quatre iours, quelquefois auſſi plus toſt, ou plus tard ſelon le temperament du corps & de la partie, & l'air ambient chaud ou froid.ces choſes faites,il ſera beſoin de cömencer à mundifier peu à peu la playe:enadioº- ſtant au medicament ſuſdit de la terebenthine lauée en eau de roſes ou d'orge,ou ſeinblables, pºur luy di- minuer ſa chaleur & mordacité. si la diſpoſition du temps eſtoit fort froide, on v pourroit adiouſter de l'eau de vie, ſuiuant le conſeil de galien qui enſeigne qu'en hyuer il faut appliquer medicamens plus chauds,& & en Éſtémoins. en apres nous faut vſer de ce mundificatif. .aqux decoctio. hord. quantum !ufficit,ſucci plantaginis, apij, agrimoniæ, centaurij minoris añ. .j.bulliant omnia ſimul : in fine decoctionis adde tcrc- benthinx venetx. .iij mellisroſati .ij.farina hordei iij.croci .j. miſceantur ſimur omniabenè agitando, fiat mundificat mediocris conſiſtentix autre. z.ſucc.clymeni, plantaginis abſinthij,apij,añ. ij: tºebºnth. venetx. iiij. ſyrupi abſinth.& mellis roſa. an. .j. bulliant omnia ſecundùm artem, poſtea colentur,& iº: colatura adde pul. aloe; maſtich.ireos flor.far. hordana. .j.fiat mundifad vſum dicium. ou ceſtuy-cy% tereb.vene. lotx. in aq. roſ. . v. ol. roſa. .j. mell. roſa. . iij. myrr. aloes , maſtic. ariſtolo-roº- dx ana, .j.ſ. far. hor. . iij. miſce, fiat mundif. lequel ſera appliqué dedans la playe a # tenºººº ſetons,ne troplongs,ne tropgros,pource qu'ils pourroient empeſcher l'euacuation de la ſanie & des vapeurs - efleuées des playes, eſquelles ſi leſdites vapeurs ſont retenues ;c'eſt choſe certaine qu'elles s'º ſchauffent & acquierent vne acrimonie qui puis apres erode les parois & coſtez de la playe » # s'enſuit # quebuſes. bandage. ter»t : de penſer le ma- lade. le ptu eſt vn temps à ſe faire é pla- yes d'arque- buſen medicament miidificatif. gal.au . de la methode ch. . l'onzieſme liure, fiuxion, inflammation, flux de ſang, apoſteme, & pourriture, qui ſont communiquez aux parties nobles, a aduertiſſe- & cauſent puis apres pluſieurs pernicieux accidens. pource il ne faut que le chirurgien craigne aucune- ment au chi- ment, que leldites playes ſe puiſſent glutiner & clorre, parce que la chair ſi grandement contuſe & lacerée ,ºzien. ne ſe peut conſolider , que premier ment la contuſion & meurtriſſeure ne ſoit ſuppurée & mundifiée : à cauſe dequoy ie luy conſeille de n'vſer de fetons & tentes, ſi elles ne ſont greſles & menues , afin qu'elles ºſºcº ººº n'empeſchent l'iſſue des matieres, & que le patient ne les ſouffre aisément, afin d'euiter les accideos pre- # & /e- dits. l'vſage des tentes & ſetons eſt pour porter les remedes iuſqu'au profond des playes, & les tenir ou- --- nertes, principalement en l'orifice, iuſques à ce que les choſes eſtranges ſoient miſes hors. et ſi la playe eſt ſinueuſe & profonde, en ſorte que les medicamens ne puiſſent atteindre toutes les parties offensées, lors il faudra faire injection auec la decoction qui s'enſuit. iniečtions. z. aqua hordei ib. iiij. folior. agrimonia , centaurijminoris, pinpinella abſinthij, plantag. ana m. f. radic.ariſtol. rotundx . É. fiat decoct. ad fb.j. in colatura expreſſa diſſoltte aloès hepaticœ .iiij.mellis ro- ſati. . ij. bulliant modicum. puis ſoit faite iniection dedans la playe trois ou quatre fois à chacune heure - que le patient ſera penſé. et ſi ce remede n'eſt ſuffiſant pour nettoyer la ſanie,& conſommer la chair ſpon- gieuſe , morte ou pourrie, il faut adiouſter en la decoction de l'egyptiac liquefié en telle quantité que la neceſſité commandera : comme pour vne liure de ladite decoction, enuiron vne once dudit egyptiac, plus ou moins, lequel eſt de tres-grande efficace pour corriger la chair ſpongieuſe & maunaiſe au profond deſ- poudre ca- dites playes:ce que fait auſſi ledit egyptiac appliqué ſeul fur la croiſſance de la chair mauuaiſe. i'ay ſembla- therique. blement cxperimenté la poudre de mercure & alum bruſlé , meflez en egale portion , auoir en tel cas ver- tu toute pareille a celle du ſublimé, ou de l'arſenic(combien qu'elle ne ſoit tant douleureuſe)& qu'elle fait b tres-grande eſcarre, dont ſouuentesfois me ſuis eſmerueillé. quelques practiciens laiſſent le plus ſouuent grande quantité de decoction au profond des playes fineuſes, ce que ie n'approuue.car outre ce qu'elle ac- quiert pourriture & ſe corrompt, elle tient les parties tendues ) qui leur eſt choſe eſtrange) & les hume- cte,qui fait que nature ne peut faire ſon deuoir à regenerer la chair : confideré que pour la curation de tout vlcere, entant qu'il eſt vlcere , comme dit hippocrate, le but doit tendre à deſſeicher & non à humecter. pluſieurs errent auſſi en l'vſage trop frequent & aſſidu de ſetons, en ce que ne s'accommodans a la raiſon,les renouuellent toufiours, & les font frayer aux parois des playes , par lequel vray ement cauſent douleur auſdites playes,& leur renouuellét autres mauuais accidens. pourtant i'approuue dauantage les tentes can- nulées faictes d'or, d'argent, ou de plomb, comme celles qui ſont deſcrites aux playes du thorax i'entends où elles auront lieu, & où yauroit grande quantité de ſanie.auſſi faut-ilappliquer des compreſſes à l endoit cºmprºſº du fonds du ſinus, afin de comprimer les parties eſloignées de l'orifice, & chaſſer la ſanie : meſme eſt bien conuenable, que la compreſſe ſoit pertuisée à l'endroit de l'orifice de l'vlcere ſinueux, & iur les tentes can- nulées,& qu'il y ſoit mis vne eſponge pour receuoir la ſanie,pource que par tel moyen l'expulſion,euacua- tion, & abſumption d'icelle ſe fera beaucoup mieux, en commençant la ligature au fond du ſinus, & la comprimant mediocrement,afin que la matiere ne ſoit retenue au dedans. les bandes & compreſſes propres ligature. à ceſte operation ſeront mouillées en oxicrat, en vin auſtere, ou en quelque autre liqueur attringente pour roborer la partie,& empefcherla fluxion:mais il ſe faut garder de n'aſtraindre par trop la partie,pource que par icelle aſtriction ſe cauſeroit vne douleur, au moyen de l'exhalation des excremens fuligineux,qui feroit empeſchée : pareillement ſe pourroit faire atrophie au membre, par trop long temps continuer leſdites c - bandes. des moyens de tirer les choſes eſtranges qui ſeroient demeurées à extraire . c h a p. v i i. t là où il y auroit quelques eſquilles d'os, qui du commencement n'auroient eſté tirées par les predits inſtrumens, lors il faudroit appliquer ce remede, ayant grande puiſſance de les attirer, & autres choſes eſtranges. radicis ireos florentiæ, panacis & capparum afa .ij. ariſtoloc. rotundz, mannx , thuris ana .j. pulueriſentur ſubtiliter, & incorporentur ſimul - cum mellis roſati & terebenthinæ veneta añ .ij. autre remede pour oſter leſdictes eſquilles & corruption des os. /.. reſina pini ſicca . iij. punic. combuſti & extincti in vino albo, rad. ireos,ariſto- lochix añ. . É. thuris .j. ſquammae aeris . ij. pulueriſentur omnia diligenter, incorporentur cum melle roſato, fiat medicamentum. outre ces remedes qui ont en eux & de leur nature telle puiſſance d'attirer les choſes eſtranges, il y en a d'autres qui l'ont acquiſe par putrefaction, comme eſt toute fiente d'animaux, & le leuain, ainſi qu'eſcrit galien. attirer choſes eſtranges. ". des indications qu'ilfaut obſeruerauſdites playes. c h a p. v i i i. g%)ſ# amundification & extraction deſdites choſes eſtranges faite, fant ayder nature à regenerer d $ la chair, & cicatriſer, tant par choſes priſes par dedans, que par medicamens à ce conuena- bles, & proceder par certaines indications qui ſont priſes, premierement de l'eſſence de la maladie, & de la cauſe d'icelle , ſi elle eſt preſente : jaçoit que de la cauſe primitiue (ſelon - galien au troiſieſme de la methode ) ne ſe doit prendre indication non plus que du temps:ce indication. , qu'il entend de la cauſe abſente, & du temps paſsé. pareillement faut prendre indication des temps vniuer- ſels de la maladie curable, c'eſt à ſçauoir du commencement, accroiſſement, eſtat, & declination, ſelon indication leſquels faut diuerſifier les remedes.autre indication eſt priſe de la temperature du patient, laquelle auſſi priſe de la change la curation : comme tout chirurgien rationel & methodique entend bien qu'il faut d'autres reme- º des à vn cholerique qu'à vn phlegmatique, & ainſi des autres temperatures, tant ſimples que composées: du cºrps. ſous laquelle indication de temperament ſera compriſe celle de l'âge, qui ne reçoit indifferemment tous couſtume. remedes, mais en veut d'autres pour les ieunes perſonnes, & d'autres pour les vieilles. dauantage ſe doit prendre indication de la couſtume de viure du patient : comme s'il auoit accouſtumé de manger & boire beaucoup, & à toutes heures, lors ne luy faudra ordonner diete ſi exquiſe, qu'à celuy qui eſt accouſtumé de peu manger & boire & à certaines heures pour ce les dietes de panades ne ſont ſi propres aux françois dietet. qu'aux italiens:pource qu'il faut relacher & remettre quelque choſe a la couſtume qui eſt vne autre nature. sous ceſte maniere accouſtumée de viure , ſe peuuent entendre la condition de vie , & l'exercice du pa- tient d'autant qu'il faut vſer de remedes plus forts à l'endroit des ruſtiques , des gens de trauail, & qui ont la chair dure , qu'il ne faut à l'endroit des delicats qui peu trauailent, & font peu d'exetcice. quel- q'ues-vns toutesfois ont mieux aimé comprendre celle indication ſous le temperament : de ma part, ie nen diſputeray, en laiſſant la reſolution plus entiere aux docteurs. l'indication priſe de la vertu du - patient | , des playes darquebuſes a patient ſur toutes autres eſt à reſpecter, pource qu'icelle defaillant, ou eſtant fort debile, il faut neceſſai- rement de laiſſer toutes autres choſes pour luy ſubuenir : comme quand la neceſſité nous force de couper vn l'indicatios membre, ou faire quelques grandes inciſions ou autres choſes ſemblables ; ſi le patient n'a vertu ſuffiſante priſe de la de tolerer la douleur, l eſt neceſſaire de differer telles operations (s'il eft poſſible ) tant que nature ſoit vertu du pa- reſtaurée , & ait recouuré ſes vertus par bons alimens & repos, autre indication ſe peut prendre de l'air * ienr. qui nous enuironne, ſous lequel ſont compris la ſaiſon de l'année, la region, le lieu de noſtre demeure, & la conſtiturion du temps. car ſelon la chaleur, froideur,ſeichereſſe & humidité ; ſelon auſſi la continuation sentence de de ces qualitez , il faut adapter les remedes. pource diſoit guidon , les playes de la teſte eſtre plus diffici- guidºm. les à guarir à paris qu'en auignon ; & les playes des jambes, plus faſcheuſes en auignon qu'à paris : pour raiſon qu'à paris l'air eſt froid & humide, qui eſt choſe contraire, principalement aux vlceres de la teſte. pemonſtra- au contraire, en auignon la chaleur de l'air enuironnant, eſt cauſe de liquefier & ſubtiliſer les humeurs. ººº ainſi plus facilement & en plus grande abondance les humeurs decoulent aux jambes, d'où vient que la yentence, guariſon des jambes eſt plus difficile en auignon qu'à paris. que fi aucuns alleguent l'experience au con- traires & que les playes de la teſte ſont plus ſouuent lethales ou mortelles és regions chaudes : ic luy reſ- pondray , cela ne prouenir à raiſon de l'air , d'antant qu'il eſt plus chaud & ſec , mais à raiſon de quelque humidite ſuperflue, ou mauuaiſe vapeur communiquée à l'air, comme és lieux de prouence & d'i- : talies prochains de la mer mediterranée. l'indication de guarir ſe peut auſſi prendre de la temperature des -- pavties bleſſées : car les charneuſes demandent autre remede quc les os,ny que les parties nerueuſes, & indicatio» ainſi des autres- ce qu'en pareil cas fait la ſenſibilité deſdites parties, laquelle change la curation : comme de la partie. ainſi ſoit qu'il ne conuienne appliquer medicamens ſi acres & violens aux nerfs & tendons, qu'aux liga- progueſtie mens, & autres parties inſenſibles la dignité & action des parties n'a moins de priuilege au fait de la º !º guariſon : car ſi la plave eſt au cerucau, ou en aucunes des parties vitales & naturelles, il faut ſelon leur bleſſées. dignité & action changer & appliquer les remedes veu meſines que pour la cótemplation d'icelles eſt ſou- #º** uentesfois faict certain prognoſtic de l'euenement.pource que les playes qui penetrent au vétricule du cer- iu. . ueau, au cœur, aux grands vaiſſeaux, du thorax,en la partie nerueuſe du diaphragme, au foye, au ventri- cule » aux inteſtins grcſles, & à la veſſie, ſi elles ſont grandes, ſont neceſſairement mortelles : auſſi celles qui ſont es jointures ou pres d'icelles, & és corps cacochymes, ſont plus ſouuent mortelles, ce qu'auons dit cy-deuant. pareillement il ne faut oublier les indications priſes de la poſition & colligance de la partie affectee, ne meſme de ſa figure , comme galien a aſſez expliqué au . de ſa meth.& au ſecond à glaucus. - - comme les maladiesſontcomliquées - | c h a p. i x. . a v a n t a o e, en prenant leſdites indications, faut conſiderer s'il y a complication de maladie, ou non. car ainſi que la maladie ſimple propoſe indication ſimple, auſſi la compli- cation des diſpoſitions contre nature propoſe indications compliquées. or les complications · ſe font en trois manieres ; c'eſt à ſçauoir, maladie auec maladie; comme playe auec apoſtemé ou fracture d'os : maladie a auec cauſe, comme vlcere auec fluxion : & maladie auec ſympto- me, comme playe auec douleur ou flux de ſang : ou toutes choſes contre nature enſemble, comme mala- die, cauſe & ſymptome. or pour ſçauoir traitter artificiellement toutes ces complications, on doit ſuiure la doctiine de gal. au. .de ſa meth. laeluelle nous exhorte à conſiderer les affections compliquées, la plus vrgente, la cauſe, & celle ſans laquelle la maladie ne peut eſtre oſtée, qui ſont choſes de grande importance en toute curation. et en cecy l'empirique demeure vague , incertain, & ſans conſeil ny reſolution , ne ſça- chant à quelle des affections il doit premierement s'arreſter pour la cure : mais le medecin rationel au con- traire eſt dirigé par ces trois petits mots dorez , deſquels depend l'ordre & methode de proceder en telles diſpoſitions & affections compliquées. les ſymptomes ,entant qu'ils ſont ſymptomes, ne donnent aucune † & ne changent l'ordre de curation : pource qu'en oſtant la maladie qui eſt cauſe du ſymptome, iceluy eſt oſté : car il depend'd'icelle, comme l'ombre du corps : combien que ſouuent nous ſoyons con- traints de laiſſer la maladie en cure irreguliere, pour ſubuenir aux accidens de la maladie,leſquels s'ils ſont r'vſage & vrgens, & tiennent le lieu de la cauſe, & non proprement des ſymptomes. pour conclufion, toutes leſdites fin des indi- indications ne ſont que pour venir à deux fins, c'eſt à ſçauoir, rendre la partie en ſa temperature naturelle, eatiens. & que le ſangne peche ny en quantité, ny en qualité. cela fait, comme dit galien, rien n'empeſchera que º ººº ſº la generation de la chair, & vnion de l'vlcere ne ſe faſſe. mais aucunes fois il n'eſ poſſible mettre leſdites mºtººº indications en execution, à cauſe de la grandeur de la playe,ou par excez & inobeyſſance du patient,ou a rai- ſon de quelques autres indiſpoſitions ſuruenuës par l'ignorance du chirurgien,oumauuaiſe & indeue appli- cation des medicamens:pource qu'au moyen de ces choſes ſuruiennent grandes douleurs,fiévres,apoſtemes, gangrenes(vulgairement &abuſiuement dittes eſliomenes)mortification, & ſouuentesfois la mort dauanta- ge ceux qui reçoiuent coups d'arquebuſes,ſouuent meurent,ou bien demeurent eſtropiez oumutilez à iamais» - comment le chirurgien pourra pourſuiure le traittement deſdites playes. , ch a f. x. v commencement donc faut bien auoir eſgard à mitiger la douleur en repercutant les flu- % xions, en ordonnant regime ſur les ſix choſes non naturelles, & leurs annexes, en euitant . , choſes calefactiues & acres, & en oſtant ou diminuant le vin, de peur qu'il n'eſchauffe, ſub- É tiliſe, & face fiuer les humeurs sa maniere de viure au commencement doit eſtre aſſez te- - * nue, afin de faire reuulſion. car quand l'eſtomach n'eſt aſſez plein, il attire de tous coſtez à ſoy,au moyen dequoy les parties externes s'en reſſentans,demeurent vuides.voyla pourquoy on doit nourrir moins le malade aux premiers iours de ſa bleſſeure.le coît luy eſt fort contraire,d'autant qu'il enflamme les humeurs & eſprits,plus que tout autre mouuemët,& pour ceſte cauſe,rend la playe fort enflammée,& ſubjet- te à defluxion.et ne ſera que bon au commencement (s'il y a flux de ſang) en laiſſer mediocrement couler la tbl.tote- afin de deſcharger les corps & la partie. et où il n'auroit ſuffiſamment coulé, faudrale iour ſuiuant vſer de mie ſinceſ. phlebotomie reuuſilue, & en tirer ſelon la plenitude & vertu du patient. il ne faut auſſi craindre faire auer- ſaire aux ſion du ſang vers les parties nobles car(comme nous auons dit)il n'ya aucune qualité veneneuſe. toutes- playes d'ar- fois nous noterons que telles playes à l'inſtant ne jettent gueres de ſang, à raiſon que la grande contuſion quºbuſes. faite par la balle,& la vehemence de l'air agité,ſont cauſe de repouſſer les eſprits au dedans, & aux parties voiſines de la playe, comme auons dit cy-deuant : ce qui eſt ordinairement cogneu en ceu. à qui vn gros pourºu y en boulet aura emporté vn membre. car à l'heure de leur bleſſeure ne ſort que bien peu de ſang de la playe, telles playes. combien qu'il y ait de grandes veines, & arteres rompues & dilacereés-mais quelque temps apres, comme - a a ll faron de ré, uulſion par diete tenuë. . o l'onzieſme liure, s'adaient au quatrieſme,cinquieſme,& ſixieſme iour,& quelquesfois plus tard, le ſang coulera en grande abondance, a. touſîour he à cauſe que la chaleur naturelle & les eſprits y retournent. quant aux medecines purgatiues, ie les laiſſe à "ºrrººgie. meſſieurs les docteurs:toutesfois en l'abſence d'icenx,il eſt neceſſaire de laſcher & mouuoir le ventre du pa- tient, pour le moins vne fois le iour, ſoit par art, ou par nature : ce qui ſe fera pluſtoſt par clyſteres que purgations , principalement és premiers iours, parce que l'agitation des humeurs en tel cas eſt ſuſpecte, pour la crainte qu'il ne ſe face plus grande fluxion à la partie bleſſée. toutesfois galien liure quatrieſme de la methode, chapitre . parlant des indications de la ſaignée & purgation, dit,que pour la grandeur du mal, ſont neceſſaires la ſaignée & purgation, combien que le malade ſoit ſans repletion ou cacochymie. la douleur ſe doit appaiſer ſelon l'intention & remiſſion d'icelle : & pour y remedier,ſi d'aduenture ya inflam- mation , on appliquera pour medicament local, vnguentum nutritum , compoſé auec le ius de plantain, onguer pour jourbarbe, morelle, & leurs ſemblables. l'onguent diachalciteos deſcrit par galien en ſon premier liure ſeder la dou- de la compoſition des medicamens ſelon les genres, chapitre ſixieſme, & liquefié auec huile de pauot,de leur. roſes & vinaigre, n'eſt de moindre efficace, ne l'onguent de bolo, ne pluſieurs autres de telle faculté, ores qu'ils ne ſoient promptement anodyns(car tous anodyns ſont chauds au premier degré, ou pour le moins faculté des pareils en chaleur à noſtre corps, galien liure cinquieſme, chapitre dix-neufieſme des simples) & les ſuſ- ºdiºns dits medicamens ſont froids, non pas tant toutesfois qu'ils ſoient narcotiques, leſquels ſont froids au qua- ººº trieſme degré. mais quoy les ſuſdits mentionnez au cas predit, appaiſent la douleur tres-commodément, pource qu'ils contrarient aux intemperatures chaudes , & fluxions d'humeurs ſouuent acres & bilieuſes, les humeurs leſquelles coulent pluſtoſt que les froides, & cauſſent plus grande douleur. apres l'vſage des repercuſſifs, chaudes ſont 'approuue merueilleuſement ce cataplaſme. /. micx panis infuſx in lacte vaccin. fb.j. ſ. bulliant parum pluſtoſt flu- addendo olei violacei, & roſ añ. .iij. vitellos onorum numero quatuor, pul. roſarum rubrarum , forum xien que les camomill. & melil. añ. ij. farin.fabar. & hord.añ. . j. miſce: fiat cataplaſma ſecundùm artem. or pour re- froides. mede plus preparable, tu pourras prendre de la mfie de pain,laquelle feras vn peu boüillir auec oxycrat & aph* r huile roſat. - #. pour la curation des apoſtemes, il conuient auſſi diuerſifier les medicamens ſelon le temps d'iceux. car #u. autres medicamens ſont propres au commencement, autres à l'accroiſſement,& autres aux autres temps, nature. comme aſſez eſt declaré par galien au liu. troiſieſme, chapitre neufieſme, de la faculté des medicamens:& par geidon,en la curation des apoſtemes,& par ceux qui en ont eſcrit. et où nature tendroit à ſuppuration, il la conuiendroit ſuiure, comme dit hippocrate : car le medecin & chirurgien ne ſont que miniſtres, & aydes de nature, pour l'ayder en ce où elle tend commodément. des balles qui demeurent en quelques parties long-temps apres laguariſon des playes. c h a p t r e x i. - } v c v n e s f o s les balles de plomb demeurent long-temps dedans les membres, comme aduertiſſe- par l'eſpace de ſept ou huict ans, & plus, ainſi que i'ay obſerué moy. meſme , ſans neantmoins #wem f, , ſuruenir aucuns mauuais accidens, ny empeſchement de conſolider la playe, & demeurent là #iuſques à ce qu'elles ſoient pouſſées hors par la vertu expultrice , deſcendant pour leur gra- uité & peſanteur és parties inferieures, eſquelles elles ſe manifeſtent, puis doiuent eſtre ti- rées hors par l'operation du chirurgien. or ceſte demeure ſi longue aux corps ſans pourriture aucune, ny mauuais accidens(comme i'eſtime)ne prouient que de la matiere du plomb,dont ladite balle eſt compoſée, comme ainſi ſoit que le plomb a certaine familiarité & accointance auec la nature, principalement des faculté du parties charneuſes, ainſi que nous voyons par experience ordinaire, qui nous apprend que le plomb appli- plomb. qué par dehors, a vertu de clorre & cicatriſer les vieux vlceres mais ſi la balle eſtoit de pierre, de fer, ou d'autre metal, c'eſt choſe toute aſſeurée, qu'elle ne pourroit demeurer long-temps au corps, pource que le fer s'enroüille, & à cauſe de ce, corrode la partie; ce quiamene quant-&-ſoy de pernicieux accidens : mais ſi le boulet eſtoit en parties nerueuſes ou nobles, & fuſt-il de plomb, il ne pourroit gueres y demeurer ſans cauſer de bien grands inconueniens. parquoys'iladuient qu'il demeure long-temps, ce ſera és parties char- neuſes, & és corps qui ſeront de bonne temperature & habitude : autrement il n'y peut demeurer ſans in- duire douleur, & pluſieurs autres griefs maux, comme ila eſté dit. - des grandes contuſions & dilacerations faictes parles boulets d'artillerie, & autres gros canons. c h a p. xii. g v t re-plus, ſila balle d'vne groſſe piece d'artillerie frappe contre quelquc membre, ſou- ] uent l'emporte,ou du tout le briſe & eſcache,de telle façon que par ſa grande vehemence elle caſſe & rompt les os, non ſeulement ceux qu'elle touche, mais auſſi ceux qui en ſont loing. # pource que l'os qui eſt dur, fait reſiſtance, & par ce moyen la balle le force dauantage.qu'il xrn sr ſoit vray,nous voyons ordinairement ladite artillerie auoir bienplus d'action, & effectuer da- uantage contre vne murraille, qu'elle ne faict contre vn gabion remply de terre, ou vne balle de laine , & autres choſes molles, comme nous auons dit cy-deuant. pourtant ne ſe faut esbahir , ſi eſdites playes faictes par arquebuſes;ſuruiennent douleur,inflammation,fiévre,ſpaſme,apoſteme,gangrene, mortification» cauſes des & le plus ſouuent la mort. car les grandes contuſions des parties nerueuſes, fractures ol concuſſions vc- grand, acci- hementes des os, faictes par les boulets, cauſent griefs accidens, non la combuſtion ou venenoſité de la dens des pla- pouldre, ainſi qu'eſtiment pluſieurs, ne conſiderans la matiere de ladite pouldre, laquelle (comme i'ay dit) yes d'arque. n'eſt veneneuſe. car ſi la playe eſt faicte en vne partie charneuſe ſans toucher les parties nerueuſes, elle re- buſes. quiert ſeulement pour ſa curation remedes ſemblables à ceux que font les autres playes contuſes,hors-mis (comme i'ay dit cy-deſſus)la pourriture cauſée de l'air enuironnant,laquelle nous a rendu ces années paſſées les playes alterées,& grande putrefaction tant à la chair,qu'aux os,de laquelle ſont(comme i'ay dit)eſleuées pluſieurs vapeurs au cerueau, au cœur, & au foye, dont ſont enſuiuis de tres-mauuais accidens,& la mort à la plus-part. - d e des playes d'arquebuſes. i a - des moyens qu il faut tenirpour rectiffer l'air,& pour roborer les parties nobles, & fortifiertout le corps. c h a p. x l l i. $ a r t a n t faut que le chirurgien ait eſgard à adminiſtrer toutes les choſes qui ont puiſ- ſancn'de rectifier l'air ambient,& de roborer les parties nobles, audi de fortifier tout le corps: & qui ſe fera par les choſes qui s'enſuiuent, adminiſtrees tant par dedans que par dehors. le patient prendra par dedans au matin trois heures deuant le paſt, des tablettes de diarrhodon abbatis, ou de aroma.roſ de triaſant.diamoſchi,de latificans galeni , & autres ſemblables. l ai dehors ſeront faits epithemes ſur le cœur & foye, vn peu tiedes, appliquez auec vne piece d'eſcarlate ou eſponge, feutre ou linge bien deliez. ceſtuy-cy pourra ſeruir de formulaire à tout chirurgien. /.. aquar roſx iiij. aquae buglo.aceti boniañ. .ij, coriand. praepar. . iiij. garyophyl. corticum citri añ. . j ſan- tali rub. . . coral. vtriuſque .j. camph. .j. croc. . ſ$. pul.diarrho. abbatis ij. theria. & mithrida. añ. .É. pulu.forum camomillx, melilo. aû. .j.miſce,& fiat epithema. dauantage on doit donncr ſouuent à fentir au patient choſes odoriferantes & refrigerantes, pour roborer la faculté animale, comme celle qu s'enſuit. l. aquæ roſacear,aceti boniañ. .iij.garyophyl.nucis moſca.cinamomi conquaſſatorum, theriac. galeni an. .j. ſoit en icelle liqueur trempé vn mouchoir ou eſponge,& que le patient le mette ſouuent au nez. il vſera auſſi de quelque pomme aromatique pour meſme intention,comme eſt ceſte-cy, /. roſar.rub. violar.añ. .iij.baccarum myrti, & iuniperi, ſantali rubrañ. .ij. ß. benioin. .j. camph. .ij. fiat puluis. poſteà %. olei roſ & nenuph.añ. . ß. ſtyracis calamitæ .ii. aquæ roſarum quantum ſatis eſt, liquefiant ſimul cum cera alba quantum ſuffic. fiat ccratum ad comprehendendos ſupradictos pulueres cum piſtillo calido,& fiat pomum. autre. %. radic. ireos florent.maioranx,calamiaromatici,ladani, benioin. rad.cyp. garyopañ. .ij.moſ g. iiij. fiat pulu.& cum gummitragachanquant.ſufficit, fiat pomum.autre. z. ladani puri . j. benioin. .f.ſtyrac.calam .vj.ireos florentia . b. garyophyl. .iij.maiora. roſarum rubrarum, calami aromat añ. . . puluer ſentur omnia,& bulliant cum aqua roſarum quantum ſufficit, & colentur, & colata liquefiant cum cer.alb.quantum ſufficit,ſtyracis liquida .j. fiat ad modum cerati,comprehendantur per piſtillum,addendo moſch. .j. fiat pomum. pareillement on peut appliquer des fronteaux, pour robo- rer la faculté animale, & prouoquer le dormir, & mitiger la douleur de la teſte, comme ceſtuv. /.. aquae roſaceæ .j olei roſ.& papauer.an. .j b. aceti boni .j. trochiſcorum de camphora . . fiat frontale. on doit plier vn linge en cinq ou ſix doubles, & le tremper en ceſte mixtion vn peu tiede , & le renouueller quand il ſera ſec. et ne faut pas beaucoup ſerrer la teſte,de pcur de garder que la pulſation des arteres des temples ne ſoit libre : autrement on augmenteroit la douleur de la teſte. il ya pluſieurs autres remedes ex- terieurs,par leſquels on peut corriger l air ambient, comme faira bon feu en la chambre du malade auec du bois de geneure,de laurier,de ſarment de vigne,de roſmarin,de racine d'ireos. auſſi les choſes eſpanduës par la chambre, comme l'eau & le vinaigre , & ſi le patient eſt iche, l'eau de damas y eſt bien propre , ou celle qui s'enſuit. maioranae,menthx,radicis cyperi,calami aromatici,ſaluix,lauendulae, fœniculi,thymi, ſtœchados,forum camom.melil.ſatureix,baccarum lauri & iuniperiañ. m.iij. pulu. garyoph. & nucis mof- cata añ. .j.aqua roſ.& vitæ fb.ij.vini albi boni & odoriferi fb.x. bulliant omnia in balneo mariæ ad vſum dictum. dauantage on peut faire parfums pour parfumer ladite chambre, comme ces oyſelets de cy- pre. . carbonis ſalicis viiij. labdani puri . ij. thuris maſculi, lini, & baccarum iuniperi añ. .j. xyla- ioes, benjoin. ſtyracis,calamita añ. . ß. nucis moſcatæ , ſantali, lutei añ. .iij. garyoph. ſtyracis liquidae añ. .ij. zedoarix , calami aromatici, ana .j. gummitragach. aqua roſac ſoluti,quod ſit ſatis : fiant auicu- la cyprina , ſeu ſuffitus, qua forma libebit. quant aux caries & corruption des os,nous en parlerons cy- apres amplement. hiſtoires memorables. c h a p. xiv. o v v e n t telles playes ſont accompagnées de pluſieurs indiſpoſitions , comme tumeur oedemateuſe,& fracture aux os.or en faueur du ieune chirurgien,pour exemple raconteray ceſte hiſtoire de la bleſſeure de monſieur le comte de mansfelt, gouuerneur de la duché de luxembourg,cheualier de l'o dre du royd'eſpagne,lequel fut bleſsé à la bataille de mon- - contour d'vn coup de piſtolet à la jointure du coulde,au bras dextre, qui luy fractura les os, dont il y en auoit qui eſtoient comminuez,comme ſi on les euſt rompus fur vne enclume,parce que le coup luy fut donné de fort pres. et par violence & force de coup,luy ſuruindrent pluſieurs accidens , à ſçauoir, douleurs extremes,inflammation,fiévre,tumeur œdemateuſe, flateuſe de tout le bras, voire iuſques à l'ex- tremité des doigts,& ja grande preparation de gangrene. et pour obuier à icelle, & à la totale mortifica- tion,maiſtre nicole lambert,& maiſtre richard hubert,chirurgiens ordinaires du roy, auoient faict plu- ſieurs & profondes ſcarifications. or par le commandement du roy, ie fus enuoyé vers luy pour le penſer: & eſtant arriué,voyant ces accidens accompagnez d'vne grande feteur & pourriture,fuſmes d'aduis luy fai- re des lauemens faits d'egyptiac fortifié,& diſſoult en vinaigre & eau de vie, & autres remedes eſcrits au chapitre des gangrenes.et outre ces accidens,leditseigneur eut vn flux de ventre, par lequel il jettoit de la bouë qui venoit des vlceres de ſon bras:ce que pluſieurs ne peurent croire,attédu(diſoient-ils)que pour deſcendre parle ventre,il faudroit par neceſſité que ladite boue fuſt meſlée auec le ſang,& auſſi qu'en paſ- ſant pres le cœur,& par dedans le foye,elle feroit pluſieurs accidens,voire cauſeroit la mort. toutesfois il me ſemble que i'ay aſſez amplement demonſtré en mon liure de la suppreſſion d'vrine, comme telle choſe ſe fait.partant ſi quelqu'vn deſire en ſçauoir la raiſon , on aura recours audit liure. meſmes ledit seigneur tomboit quelquesfois en ſyncope,à cauſe des vapeurs putrides, qui ſe leuoient des vlceres : leſquelles va- peurs par les arteres,veines & nerfs,eſtoient communiquées à l'eſtomach,&aux parties nobles. et pour y remedier,ie luy donnois parfois à aualler vne petite cuillerée d'eau de vie , en laquelle i'auois fait diſſou- dre vn peu de theriaque.monſieur bellanger,medecin ordinaire du roy, & monſieur le bon, medecin de monſieur le cardinal de guiſe, ſçauans & experts en la medecine & chirurgie, le ſecoururent pareille- ment de tout ce qui leur eſtoit poſſible à contrarier contre la fiévre & autres accidens.or quant à la tumeur oedemateuſe & fatulente,qui occupoit entierement tout le bras, i'y appliquois des compreſſes imbues en oxvcrat,auec du ſel & vn peu d'eau de vie,& autres remedes que ie diray bien toſt:puis auec des linges en double,ie les couſois le plus fort & dextremét qu'il m'eſtoit poſſible,c'eſt à dire,tât que ledit seigneur les pouuoit endurer.telle compreſſion ſeruoit de côtenir les os fracturez en leur lieu,& à expeller la ſanie des vlccres,& renuoycr les humeurs vers le cétre du corps.et où l on deſiſtoit à ſerrer & lier le bras,la tumeur aa ; s'augmentoit remède ; ayans vertu de conforter la faculté tit•le. remedes pour faire ſentir au malade. - tumeur aedemateuſe és playes d'arquebu- ſes. hiſtoire. vtilité des compreſſes & ligature :; - l'cnzieſme liure. . onz elme l uife, s'augmentoit fi fort,que i'auois peur que la chaleur naturelle de ſon bras ne fuſt ſuffoquée & eſteinte. or de faire autre maniere de ligature,il eſtoit du tout impoſſible pour l'extreme douleur qu'il ſentoit lors qu' luy remuoit tât ſoit peu ſon bras.il luy ſuruint auſſi pluſieurs apoſtemes autour de la jointure du coulde,& en autres endroits de ſon bras.et pour donner iſſue à la ſanie,ie luy feis pluſieurs inciſions, le quelles ledit seigneur enduroit volontiers,me diſant s'il n'y en auoit aſſez de deux,qu'on en fit trois,voire quatre, pour le deſir qu'il auoit d'eſtre hors de ſes douleurs, & guary.et lors en ſouſriant ie luy dis, qu'il meritoit eſtre bleſsé,& non ces delicats,qui pluſtoſt ſe veulent laiſſer pourrir,voire endurer la mort,que de ſouffrir quel- que inciſion neceſſaire pour leur guariſon.et pour abbreger la cure,il vſa de la potió vulneraire,& par fois on jettoit auec la ſyringue dedans ſes vlceres,de l'egyptiac diſſout en vin,ou auec ladite potion,ouvlumiel roſat au lieu de l'egyptiac,pour les mondifier,& corriger la pourriture,auec d'autres remedes qui ſeroient trop lôgs à reciter & entre les autres,la poudre d'alum pour deſſeicher les chairs ſpôgieuſes laxes & mol- es.auſſiapres la mundification deſdits vlceres,i'vſay long-temps de charpie ſeiche,& neluy en falloit pour chacune fois qu'ó l'habilloit gueres moins gros que le poing.et vn iour voyant qu'il eſtoit ſans douleur, & que la chair ſe regeneroit,ie luy dis qu'il s'en allojt guarir:alors il me dit en riant,qu'il le cognoiſſoit bien, pource qu'il ne falloit plus de charpie à ſa playe qu'auſſi gros qu'vn œufor pendant ladite curation, ie te puis atteſter luy auoir oſté plus de ſoixante pieces d'os, entre leſquels y en auoit de grandes comme vn - - - doigt,rôpues en eſtrange figure:ce nonobſtât ledit seigneur(graces à dieu)a eſté guary.reſte qu'il ne peut, hiſtoire de , & § pourra iamais plier ny eſtendre le bras.monſieur de baſſompierre, colonnel de douze cens cheuaux, ºſº * le iour de ladite bataille fut bleſsé d'vn pareil coup, & eut grande partie des accidens ſuſdits : lequel auſſi *ºſºpierre i'ay pense iuſques à guariſon,graces à dieu : vray eſt qu'il eſt demeuré impotent comme l'autre seigneur. autre hi- apres auoir pensé leſdits seigneurs,comte de mansfelt, & baſſompierre, i'eus commandement du roy ſoire de mg. d'aller trouuer en diligence challes philippes de croy,seigneur de havret , frere de monſeigneur le duc b ſieur de , d'aſcot, pres mons en haynaut : lequel y auoit ja ſept mois & plus qu'il eſtoit detenu au lict, à cauſe d'vn mavret. coup d'arquebuſe qu'il auoit reçeu trois doigts au deſſus du genoüil,lequel ie trouuay auec les accidés qui s'enſuiuent.sçauoir eſt,douleurs extremes,fiévre continue,ſueurs froides,grandes inquietudes, le cropion - vlceré de la grandeur de la palme de la main(pour auoir eſté trop longuement couché deſſus)ne pouuant morueilleux repoſer ny iour ny de nuict,ſans appetit de manger,mais de boire aſſez.il reſſentoit par fois dedans ſon lict •ccidens. des accez epileptiques,& auoit ſouuent volonté de vomir,auec vn continuel tremblement,ne pouuât por- • ter la main à ſa bouche ſans ayde d'autruy:il tóboit ſouuent auſſi en ſyncope ou defaillāce de cœur,a cauſe des vapeurs putrides qui eſtoiét communiquées à l'eſtomach,& aux parties nobles par les veines,arteres & nerfs,qui eſtoient eſleuées de ſes vlceres,& de la corruption des os. car l'os de la cuiſſe eſtoit fracturé & éclatté en long & en trauers,auec eſquilles,dont les vnes eſtoient ja ſeparées,les autres non.il auoit vn vl- cere caue pres l'aine,finiſſant au milieu de la cuiſſe:dauantage il en auoit d'autres ſinueux & cuniculeux au- dien & na- tour du genoüil.tous les muſcles,tant de la cuiſſe, que de la iambe.eſtoient extrememét tumefiez & imbus ture font d'vn humeur pituiteux,froid,humide,& fiatueux,de façô que la chaleur naturelle eſtoit preſque ſuffoquée& ººſº "er- eſteinte.voyant donc tous ces accidens,& les vertus proſternées & grãdement abbatuës,i'eus vn tres-grâd neilleuſet. regret d'auoir eſté enuoyé vers ledit seigneur,pource qu'il y auoit bië peu d'apparéce qu il en peuſt échap- per,& craignois qu'il ne mouruſt entre mes mains.toutesfois conſiderant ſa ieuneſſe, i'eus encor quelque eſperance:car dieu & nature font quelquesfois des choles qui ſemblent au chirurgië eſtre impoſſibles.et partantie demanday audit seigneur s'il auoit bon courage,& luy dis s'il vouloit bié endurer luy faire quel- ques inciſions,leſquelles pour ſa guariſon eſtoient plus que neceſſaires que par ce moyen bien toſt ſes don- leurs & autres accidens ceſſeroient. alors il me fit reſponſe qu'il endureroit tout, voire à luy amputer la iambe s'il en eſtoit beſoin.adonc ie fus bien ioyeux:& toſt apres luy feis deux ouuertures pour döner iſſue à la matiere qui eſtoit autour de l'os,& en la ſubſtance des muſcles,par leſquelles en ſortit grâde quantité. z'egyptiae et apres fut ſyringué aucc du vin & vn peu d'eau de vie,où il y auoit bonne quatité d'egyptiac, pour corri- eſt excellent ger la pourriture,& deſſeicher la chair ſpongieuſe,laxe & molle,& pour reſoudre & conſommer la tumeur à corriger , œdemateuſe & fatulente,& ſeder la douleur,refociller & fortifier la chaleur naturelle,qui ja eſtoit grande- vae pºurri- ment preparée à eſtre ſuffoquée,parce que les parties ne pouuoiét cuire ny aſſimiler le nutrimét à elles ne- ºº ** ceſſaire,pour la trop grande quantité de matiere.son chirurgien,nommé me.aotoine maucler, homme de chair. bien,& grandement experimenté en la chirurgie,demeurât à mons en haynaut,& moy,fuſmes d'aduis luy faire des fomentations d'vne decoction faicte de ſaulge,romarin,thym,lauâde,fleurs de camomile, mel lot, roſes rouges,cuites en vin blanc,& en lexiue faire de bois de cheſne,& quelque portion de vinaigre,& vne poignée de ſel.ceſte decoction ainſi faite auoit vertu & puiſſance de ſubtiliſer,attenuer,inciſer,reſoudre,& ſeicher l'humeur gros,froid,& pituiteux,& roborer les parties bleſsées.leſdites fomcntations ſe faiſoient longuement,afin que la reſolution fuſt plus grande:car eſtant ainſi faite longuement, reſoluoit plus qu'elle ne pouuoit attirer,en liquefiât l'humeur qui eſtoit au profód,& rarefioit le cuir,voire la chair des muſcles. gal. au .de et pour ceſte intention nous luy faiſions des frictions, auec couure-chefs chauds, en toutes manieres : à la # ſçauoir,de haut en bas,& de bas en haut,à dextre,à ſeneſtre,& en rond,& fort longuement:car les briefues, #ºfri c'eſt à dire,faites en peu de temps,font attraction ſans aucunement reſoudre. semblablement par iours in- étions. terpoſez luy fut appliqué tout autour de la cuiſſe & de la iâbe,& à la plâte du pied,des bricques échauffées & arrousées de vinaigre & vin blanc,auec vne portion d'eau de vie:&par ceſte euaporatió on voyoit ſortir des poroſitez du cuir pluſieurs aquofitez,par ſueur,l'éfleure ſe diminuer,& la chaleur naturelle eſtre reuo- quée.apres on luy appliquoit des compreſſes trempées en vne lexiue faicte de cédre de cheſne,en laquelle d on auoit fait boüillir ſaulge,roſmarin,lauande,ſel, eau de vie,cloux de girofle : & faiſoit-on les ligatures ſi dextrement,que le malade les pouuoit bien endurer:au reſte auec tel profit que où on les laiſſoit vn iour,la tumeur accroiſſoit.auſſi on appliquoit des groſſes compreſſes au fonds des ſinus des vlceres,pour chaſſer & expurger la ſanie:& encor pour mieux ce faire les orifices des vlceres eſtoiét tenus ouuerts,par le benefice des tentes cannulées. parfois auſſi pour reſoudre la tumeur, on luy appliquoit vn cataplaſme faict ainſi- .far hord.fabar.& orobi añ. vj.mellis comm.& terebenthina añ. . ij.pulu.florum camomil. meliloti , & roſarum rubrarum añ. .ſ pul.radicum ireos florentix,cyperi,maſt añ. iij.oxymellis ſimplic.quantum ſuf- ººº de ficiat,fiat cataplaſad formam pultis ſatis liquidx. pareillement il luy fut appliqué des emplaſtres de vigo la methode. ſine mercurio,qui luy donnerent grâde aide à ſeder ſes douleurs,& à reſoudre ladite tumeur;toutesfois c'e- # ſtoit apres auoir échauffé les parties ſurleſquelles elle eſtoit appliquée par les fométations frictiös,& eua- reſolu#u. poration#cº autremêt ladite emplaſtren'euſt peu eſtre rcduite de puiſſance en effect,pour la grande inté- " perature froide des parties. or pour la mundification des vlceres, on appliquoit remedes propres , en les changeant,comme nous voyons qu'il en eſtoit beſoin.{auſſi les poudres catagmatiques, pour faire ſe parer les os,& corriger leur pourriture,ne luy furét eſpargnées.il vſa auſſi par l eſpace de quinzciiours de la por- tió vulneraire.ie ne veux encore laiſſer cn arriere les fiictiôs que ie luy faiſois faire au matin vniuerſelles de - # - l des playes darquebuſes de tont le corps, qui eſtoit grandement extenué & amaigry, pour les douleurs & autres accidens qu'auons , dit, & auſſi par faute d'exercice. leſdites frictions reuoquoient & attiroient le ſang & les eſprits , & re- vtiiité dès , ſoluoient quelques humeurs fuligineuſes, detenues entre cuir & chair : & partant les parties eſtoient puis frictions vni apres mieux nourries,ſucculentes & refaictes : joint auſſi qu'apres ces douleurs paſ ées & la fiévre,il com- uerſelles. mença à bien dormir, & auoir bon appetit, & partant luy faiſois vſer de bonnes viandes, & boire de bon vin & de bonne biere : & defieunions luy & moy tous les matins de potage de ſoupe-chaudiere, & par ainſi deuint gras, refaict, potelé & guary, reſte qu'il ne peut bien ployer le genoüil. or i'ay bien voulu reciter # bon- ces hiſtoires, pour toufiours conduire le ieune chirurgien a la practique,& non pour m'en preualoir & at-##"a tribuer gloire, mais la rendre à dieu, cognoiſſant que toute, bonnes choſes procedent de luy comme d'vne #" fontaine qui ne ſe peut épuiſer, & rien de nous comme de nous. par ainſi luy faut rendre graces de toutes nos bonnes œuures, leſquelles ie luy ſupplie vouloir continuer, & de plus en plus augmenter en nous par ſa bonté infinie. - - capologie touchant les playes faictes par arquebuſes. c h a p. xv. l m'eſt tombé ces iours paſſez entre les mains vn certain liure faict par vn medecin, auquel iuſte occaſion aſſez ouuertement il blaſonne & denigre ce qu'ay eſcrit par cy-deuant des playes faictes de l' auteur par coups d'arquebuſes, & de leurs cures. ie proteſte que quand il n'y auroit autre mal , & ſur l'avance- ， que ie ne verrois autre intereſt en cecy, que le meſpris de moy, & de mon liure, ie laiſſerois ºº cºſte è couler les choſes doucement, & les paſſerois ſous ſilence,ſsachant bien que les reſponſes & ººº repliques, dont nous nous voulons aider à clorre la bouche des meſdiſans, bien ſouuent ſeruent pluſtoſt à les faire parler dauantage qu'autrement , & qu'il n'y a meilleur moyen d'aſſoupir telles noiſes , que de ne dire mot : comme nous voyons que le feu s'eſteint, ceſſant ſa matiere combuſtile, & luy oſtant le bois. mais quand i'ay bien conſideré le danger euident, auquel pluſieurs ſe fourreront s'ils viennent à ſuiure les reigles & enſeignemens que donne ledit medecin pour la cure deſdites playes : i'ay pensé que mon deuoir eſtoit d'aller au deuant de ce mal, & l'empeſcher autant que le pourrois, eu égard à ma profeſſion, laquelle outre l'affection commune que tous doiuent au bien public , m'oblige particuli rement à cecy ; tellement que ie ne pourrois en bonne conſcience faire le ſourd & le muet, où le deuoir general & particulier m'o- bligent,& côtraignent de parler.c'eſt cela qui me ſollicite à faire cette apologie,pluſtoſt qu'vn deſir boüil- - lant & paſſionné d'auoir ma reuange de celuy, qui à la verité m'a aſſailly à tort. or en ce liure il pretend le baſilicen contemner , & meſpriſer l'application des medicamens ſuppuratifs, comme du baſilicon, & d'autres ſem- liqueféeº blables : pareillement de ceux qui ſont acres, comme l'fgyptiac, & autres. et dit, tels remcdes ont eſté cau- huile eſt ſe de la mort d'vne infinité de perſonnes , auſquels on les a appliquez, voire encore que leurs playes fuſ- pºſ*** d ſent ſuperficielles, & en parties charneuſes : & qu'en ce l'on ne doit ſuiure le conſeil d'hippocrate, qui playes quan , dit que toutes playes contuſes doiuent eſtre ſuppurées. parce, dit-il, que c'eſt vne maladie nouuelle, & ja # les veut cogneuë aux anciens,qui deſire auſſi nouueaux remedes. dauantage, il dit que pour l'intemperature de l air #u. n'eſt beſoin changer de remedes auſdites playes.auſſi qu'on ne doit comparer le tonnerre & la foudre aux # coups d'artillerie. en quoy le voyant du tout contrarier à ce que i'en auois eſcrit en mon liure des playes faites par arquebuſes,fleſches & dards, ie ſuis contraint pour ma defenſe repeter aucunement ce que i'en ay par cy-deuant & ailleurs exposé, pour reprouuer tous ſes poincts, comme i'eſpere faire l'vn apresl'autre, premierement que les medicamens ſuppuratifs ne ſoient propres à telles playes, c'eſt combatre la raiſon. ſanſ d l'authorité & l'experience. car chacun ſçait que les bales eſtans rondes & maſſiues, ne peuuent bleſſer ſans peſenſ de} faire grande contuſion & meurtriſſeure, laquelle ne peut eſtre curée ſans eſtre ſuppurée, ſuiuant l'authorité ſuppiiratifs. non ſeulement d'hppocrate, mais auſſi de galien , & d'autres autheurs, tant anciens que modernes. et que luy ſert de nommer telles playes nouuelles, pour deroger au dire d'hippocrate, lequel nous tenons comme pere, autheur, & vray fondement des loix de la ſacrée medecine, ſur toutes dignes de grande loüange,par- * ce qu'elles ne ſont ſujettes à changement, comme celles des rois, princes, grands seigneurs, n'y à la pre- ſcription des temps,& couſtumes des regions. donc ſi i'ay en cecy ſuiuy la doctrine hippocratique,qui tou- ſiours ſe trouue vraye & ſtable, ie croy auoir bien fait, & n'ay eſté, ſeul. car monſieur botal , medecin or- dinaire du roy, & monſieur ioubert auſſi medecin du roy,& ſon lecteur ordinaire en l'vniuerſité de mont- pellier, hommes bien experimentés, tant en la medecine qu'en la chirurgie,qui ont eſcrit recentement de ceſte matiere, loüent & commandent appliquer au commencement en telles playes du baſilicon & autres medicaments ſuppuratifs.ceux-cy(pour auoir ſuiuy les guerres)ont plus veu de bleſſez par baſtons à feu en vn iour, que noſtre medecin n'a fait en toute ſa vie. quant à l'experience , il y a vne infinité d'autres bons chirurgiens , & grandement experimentez, qui ont vsé, & vſent de ces remedes au commencement pour conduire telles playes à ſuppuration , s'il n'y a indication contraire. ie diray dauantage, qu'vn chirurgien , , , , , empirique ſon voiſin, nommé doublet, a fait maintesfois des curesmerueilleuſes,appliquant à telles playes pºlº ºinº vn medicament ſuppuratif, composé de lard fondu ; iaune d'œuf, & terebenthine,auec vn peu de ſafran : & pº * tenoit ce remede pour vn tres-grand ſecret. il y en auoit vn autre à thurin l'an . (moy eſtant lors au ſeruice de defunct monſieur le mareſchal de monte jan, lieutenant general du roy en tiedmont) leque auoit le bruit par ſus tous les chirurgiens de ce pais-là, de bien guarir telles playesauecques oleum catel. lorum, la deſcription duquel i'eus de luy par grandes prieres. ceſte huile a puiſſance de lenir & apaiſer la douleur, & faire ſuppurer les playes : & l'appliquoit vn peu plus chaude que tiede, & non pas boüillante, comme aucuns veulent. ce qu'vne infinité de chirurgiens ont fait, apres que ie leur ay deſcrit ladite huile - enmon liure des playes faites par arquebuſes, auec bonne & heureuſe iſſue. quant au meſpris qu'il fait de #º l'onguent egyptiac , ie croy veritablement qu'il demeurera ſeul en ceſte opinion & hereſie , veu qu'on n'a # •e encores ſceu trouuer de plus ſingulier remede pour prenenir & corriger la pourriture, qui ſuruient le plus egyttiae. ſouuent en telles playes, leſquelles degenerent ſouuent en vlceres virulens, corroſifs, & ambulatifs, & ma- lins, iettant vne ſanie puante, dont la partie tombe en gangrene fi on n'y remedie par l'egyptiac , & autres medicamens acres, qui ont eſté pour ceſte raiſon fort approuuez deſdits botal & ioubert , & de tous bons ? chirurgiens. et † noſtre medecin ſouſtient qu'ils ſont venimeux : attendu (dit-til)qu'en les appli- quant aux playes faites par baſtons à feu , ont eſté cauſe de la mort de pluſieurs perfonnes : qui eſt choſe ſi bſurde & contre raiſon,que i'en quitte la reſponſe aux barbiers de village,quiauront trop dequoy luy ſa- tisfaire ſur ce poinct,& luy prouuer plus manifeſtement qu'il ne le ſçauroit nier hardiment,par la confidera- tion d'vn chacun des ingrediens dudit egyptiac, iceluy non feulement n'eſtre veneneux , mais meſme reſiſt: r & contrarier directement à toutes lortes de venins & pourritures qui peuuent ſuruenir aux parties charneuſes, à raiſon de quelque playe & vlcere. il dit dauantage, que la diſpoſition de l'air ne peut eſtre cauſe d'infecter & rendre les-playes dangereuies cn vn temps plus qu'en autre. en cela il demeurera encore a a tout oleum catel- lorum. l'onzieſme liuire, tout ſeul de ceſte opinion.mais s'il euſt bien leu & entendu hippocrate, iln'euſt ſilegerement contemné a la conſtitution des ſaiſons, & l'infection prouenante de l'air, non pas ſimple & elementaire:(car eſtant ſim- ple,iamais n'acquiert de pourriture)mais par addition & meſlange des vapeurs corrompues eſparſes en luy, ' comme i'ay eſcrit en mon traicté de la peſte. car d'autant que l'air qui nous enuironne & eſt contigu, eſt exemple de la corruption de l'air à raiſon des corps morts. au traicté •aes vlceres. playes ve- mineuſes.. perpetuellement neceſſaire à noſtre vie, il faut que ſelon ſa diſpoſition noſtre corps ſoit auſſi alteré en plu- ſieurs & diuerſes manieres,à cauſe que nous l'attirons continuellement parle moyen des poulmons & autres parties dediées à la reſpiration,& meſme par les pores & petits pertuits nuiſibles de tout le corps,& parles arteres eſpanduës au cuir:ce qui ſe fait tant pour la generation de l'efprit devie, que pour rafreſchir & fo- menter noſtre chaleur naturelle. a ceſte cauſe s'il eſt immodérement chaud, froid , humide ou ſec, ou au- trement vicié, il altere & change la temperature des corps en ſemblable contitution que la ſienne. cela ſe void clairement, lors qu'il eſt infecté par des vapeurs putredineuſes, & charogneuſes, produites par vne grande multitude de corps morts, non aſſez toſt enſeuelis en la terre, comme d'hommes, de cheuaux , & d'autres beſtes : comme il aduient apres quelque bataille, ou quand pluſieurs hommes peris par naufrage ont eſté iettez au riuage par les flots de la mer. pour exemple : on a recogneu recentement la corruption de l'air prouenante des corps morts au chaſteau de pene ſur la riuiere de lot , auquel lieu l'an .au mois de septembre, pendant les troubles premiers aduenus à cauſe de la religion, fut ietté grand nombre de corps morts dedans vn puits profond de cent braſ,ée ou enuiron, duquel deux mois apres s'eſleua vne vapeur puante & venimeuſe, qui s'eſpandit par tout les pais d'agenois, & lieux circonuoiſins, iuſques à dix lieues à la ronde, dont pluſieurs furent infectez de peſte. dequoy ne ſe faut émerueiller : car les vents ſoufflans & ' pouſſans les exhalations & vapeurs pourries d'vn pais en autre, font pulluler la peſte. par ainſi la maligne conſtitution de l'air, ſoit que la cauſe en ſoit manifeſte ou occulte, peut rendre les playes putrides, altere les eſprits & les humeurs,& cauſer la mort.ce que l'on ne doit point attribuer aux playes,attédu que ceux qui ſont bleſſez,& ceux qui ne le ſont aucunement,en ſont également infectez,& tombent en meſmes incon- ueniens.monſieur d'alechamps en ſa chirurgie françoiſe,parlant des choſes qui empeſchent la curation des vlceres, n'a point oublié que quand en aucune prouince regne quelque peſtilence, ou maladie epidemiale, par le vice de l'air , cela fait vlceres incurables, ou tres difficiles à guar r. le bon vieilliard guidon a pa- reillement eſcrit que les playes de la teſte eſtoient plus difficiles à guarir à paris qu'en auignon : & les vlce- res des iambes plus § en auignon qu'à paris : d'autant qu'à paris l'air eſt plus froid & humide, qui eſt choſe contraire, principalement aux playes de la teſte : au contraire, en auignon la chaleur de l airam- bient eſt cauſe de liquefier & ſubtiliter les humeurs.ainſi plus facilement, & en plus grande abondance,les fluxions decoulent aux iambes, d'où vient que la guariſon des vlceres d'icelles,eſt plus difficile en auignon qu'à paris.que ſi quelqu'vn alleguant l'experience,ditau contraire que les playes de teſte ſont le plus ſouént mortelles és regions chaudes, ie luy reſpondray cela ne prouenir a raiſon de l'air, qui eſt plus chaud & ſec: mais pluſloſt à cauſe de quelque humidité ſuperfiue, & mauuaiſe vapeur communiquée à l'air, comme il ſe fait es lieux de prouence & d'italie,prochains de la mer mediterranée.de fait qu'il n'y a ſi petit chirurgien qui ne ſçache qu'eſtant l'air chaud & humide , facilement les playes degenerent en gangrene & pourriture. et quant à l'experience , ie luy bailleray bien familiere : c'eſt qu'en tcmps chaud & humide, & lors que le vent auſtral ſouffle,les viandes pourriſſent en moins de deux heures,tant ſoient-elles fraiſches,de façon que les bouchers en ce temps-là ne tuent leurs beſtes qu'à meſure qu'ils les vendent.auſſi n'y a-il doute aucune que les corps humains ne tombent en affection contre nature,quand les ſaiſons peruertiſſent leurs qualitez par la mauuaiſe diſpoſition de l'air, dont on a veu certaines années que les navrez eſtoient tres difficiles à guarir, & ſouuent mouroient de fort petites playes, quelque diligence que les medecins & chirurgiens y peuſſent faire. ce que i'ay bien remarque au ſiege qui fut mis deuant roüen. car le viee de l'airalteroit & corrópoit tellement le ſang & les humeurs, par l'inſpiration & tranſpiration, que les playes en eſtoient rendues ſi pourries & puantes, qu'il en ſortoit vne feteur cadauereuſe et ſi d'aduanture on paſſoit vn iour ſans les penſer , on y trouuoit le lendemain grande quantité de vers, auec vne puanteur merueilleuſe,dont ſe leuoient vapeurs putrides, qui par leur communication auec le cœur, cauſoient fiévre continué, auec le foye empeſchoient la bonne generation de ſang , & auec le cerueau produiſoientalienation d'eſprit,reſue- . cecy ſe void bien aux goigieux principale- / /e/ /, aphor. o. . premiere ſimilitude. seconde ſimilitude. rie, conuulſions , vomiſſemens, & par conſequent la mort. et lors qu'on les ouuroit, on trouuoit pluſieus apoſtemes en diuerſes parties de leurs corps pleines d'vn peus verdoyant & fetide. de ſorte que ceux qui eſtoient dedans la ville voyans telles choſes, & que leurs bleſſez ne ſe pouuoient guarir, diſoient que ceux de dehors auoient empoiſonné leurs bales, & ceux de dehors en diſoient autant de ceux de dedans. et de fait apperceuant que les playes ſe tournoient pluſtoſt à pourriture, qu'a quelque bonne ſuppuration,ie fus contraint, & auec moy la plus grande part des chirurgiens, laiſſer les ſuppuratifs, & en lieu d'iceux vſer de l'onguent egyptiac, & autres remedes ſemblables, pour obuier à la dite pourriture & grangrene,& au- tres accidens ſuſdits-dauantage ſi le diuers cours du ciel a la puiſſance & la force d'imprimer vne peſtilence en nous par ſes influences, pourquoy ne luy ſera-il poſſible de faire le ſemblable en vne playe, & l'infecter en pluſieurs manieres ? l'experience nous en rend bon & ſuffiſant teſmoignage, non ſeulement en temps chauds , mais auſſi en hyuer. car meſmes nous voyons que les malades, tant vulnerez qu'autrement diſpo- ſez contre nature,ſont plus tourmentez ſans comparaiſon de leurs douleurs,quand il veut pleuuoir,que lors qu'il fait beau temps , à raiſon de l'air vaporeux & tenebreux, & vent auſtral, qui meut & agite interieure- ment les humeurs , qui puis apres ſe deſchargent ſur les parties affligées, & yaugmentent les douleurs. noſtre medecin a auſſi eſcrit qu'aux batailles de dreux & sainct denys , qui † données en temps d'hyuer, mourut vn grand nombre d'hommes : ce que ie confeſſe bien : mais ie luy nie que ce fuſt par l'ap- plication des medicamens ſupuratifs, ou des corroſifs, ains par la vehemence de leurs bleſſeures, & pour le deſordre que le boulet faiſoit en leurs membres : à quoy aydoit grandement la nature des parties bleſsées, & la temperature des malades, & ſur tout le froid. car le froid rend les playes difficiles à guarir,voire cau- ſe ſouuent gangrene & totale mortification : comme teſmoigne hippocrate.et s'il eut eſté auec moy au ſie- ge de mets, il euſt veu beaucoup de ſoldats, ayans les jambes eſliomenées par le froid, & vne infinité qui moururent par la violence du froid,encore qu'ils ne fuſſent vulnerez. s'il ne le veut croire, ie le renuoyeray ſur le mont-senis en temps d'hyuer, où pluſieurs laiſſent la vie, & ſont tranſis tout en vn moment:teſmoin la chapelle des tranſis, qui en a pris le nom. il m'a pareillement calomnié , d'auoir fait ſimilitude du ton- nerre à l'artillerie.veritablement on peut dire qu'ils ont ſemblables effects. car la diabolique poudre à ca- non faict des choies ſi merueilleuſes, qu'ils eſt facile à prouuer qu'ils ont grande ſimilitude entr'eux et pre- mierement on peut comparer le feu ſortant par la lumiere du canon à l'éclair, en ce qu'il eſt veu parauant que le tonnerre ſoit oüy. car le ſemblable ſe fait en l'autre : ce quiaduient,parce que l'oreille n'eſt ſi prom- pte que l'œil, à receuoir les obiects de ſon ſens.on peut auſſi comparer l'eſpouuentable bruit que font les gros canons à celuy de la foudre. tellement que lors qu'il ſe fait quelque grande batterie auec des groſſes picccs » •! - v. b · des playes d'arquebuſes. a pieces, on en oit le bruit quelquesfois loing de vingt lieuës, plus ou moins,ainſi que le vent rapporte le retentiſſement du ſon. les premiers coups ne ſont pas entendus, comme les autres ſuiuans. c'eſt que par la multiplication des ſons s'entreſuiuans , & ſuccedans, le plus proche pouſſe ſon voiſin, qui puis apres - pouſſe l'autre, & l'autre vient à nos oreilles. semblablement les balles jettées par la poudre, d'vne viſteſ- .trºiſieſme ſe ineſtimable, rompent & briſent tout ce qu'elles rencontrent, voire ont plus de force contre les choſes ſimilitude. dures,que contre les molles,en ce reſſemblantes au tonnerre,qui comminué l'eſpée dedans le fourreau qui demeure entier, fond l'argent en vne bourſe ſans la rompre.ainſi(comme i'ay par cy-deuant eſcrit ) ôn a veu pluſieurs que les bales n'ont aucunement touchez,aufquels neantmoins l'impetuoſité de l'air fait par la pouldre ſortant du canon,a rompu & brisé les os ſans aucune apparence manifeſte de ſolution de côtinui- té en la chair,voire les a meurtris & tuez promptement,comme ſi c'euſt eſté la fcudre.la poudre à canon a É)uatrieſne auſſi vne odeur puante,qui ſent le ſoulphre,imität l'odeur qui demeure au lieu où ſera tombée la pierre de ſimilitude. la foudre,laquelle non ſeulement les hommes ne peuuent ſentir, mais les animaux auſſi ſont contraintsd'a- bandonner leurs cauernes & taſnieres,lors qu'elle y eſt tombée,ne pouuans endurer la puanteur ſulphurée delaiſsée par le tonnerre.mais encore leur fimilitude eſt plus manifeſtée par les effects de ladite poudre, la- cinquiſme quelle eſtantencloſe dedanslesmines, & conuertie en vent par le feu qu'on y met, bouleuerſe les mon-ſimiiiiººº ceaux de terre ſi gros que montagnes,rompt & demolit les fortes tours,renuerſe les montagnes s'en-deſſus deſſous. ce que i'ay aſſez donné à cognoiſtre par l'hiſtoire que i'ay ailleurs eſcrite, à ſçauoir qu'on a veu ºiºlº puis n'agueres à paris le feu s'eſtant mis en la poudre de l'arſenal cauſer vne ſi grande tempeſte, qu'elle fit effects de la trembler preſque toute la ville,& tomber par terre toutes les maiſons prochaines, deſcouurit & defeneſtra poudre à celles qui eſtoient plus à l'écart de la furie.bref comme la foudre en s'eclattant,réuerſant çà & là quelques " hommes demy-morts,aux vns oſta la veue,aux autres l'ouye, & en laiſſa pluſieurs non moins deſchirez en leurs pauures membres,que ſi quatre cheuaux les euſſent écartelez,& tout ce par l'agitation de l'air, en la ſubſtance duquel ladite poudre eſtoit conuertie.semblable fait arriua en la ville de malines l'an . par ia cheute du tonnerre dedans vne groſſe & forte tour, où y auoit grande quantité de poudre à canon, qui demolit preſque la moitié de la ville,& tua vn grand nombre de perſonnes, dont i'ay veu depuis vh peu de - temps les veſtiges encores bien apparens. ces exemples ſont à mon aduis ſuffiſans pour contenter noſtre concluſion. medecin , & luy monſtrer qu'il y a grande ſimilitude entre les effects de la poudre à canon & du tonnerre. combien que ie ne veux pour cela côfeſſer que les coups d'arquebuſes ſoiét accompagnez de poiſon & de feu,comme les coups de la foudre.car encore qu'ils conuiennent les vns auec les autres par les ſimilitudes en quoy la predites, ce n'eſt pourtant en ſubſtance & matiere,mais pluſtoſt en la maniere de caſſer, briſer, & diſſiper foudre c- ies obiects qu'ils rencontrent à ſçauoir les coups de foudre par le moyen du feu & de la pierre engendrée !#º en iceluy,& les coups de canon par l'air impetueuſement pouſsé,qui conduiſant la balle,fait vn appareil & ºf" auſſi tempeſtatif deſaſtre que le tonnerre. ces choſes conſiderées,ne faut-il pas confeſſer que ceux qui ont eſcrit que les coups de canon & le tonnerre ont grande ſimilitude enſemble,ne l'ont dit ſans raiſon?au de- . - - meurant ce medecin n'a pas eu grande peine à prouuer comme la poudre à canon n'eſt venimeuſe, & que les balles ne peuuent bruſler , non plus qu'à inuenter & nommer les inſtrumens propres à extraire les cho- ſes eſtranges,parce qu'il les a trouuez tous maſchez en mon liure, auec pluſieurs autres choſes qu'il a eſ- crites,comme «hacun le pourra cognoiſtre,par la conference de ſon liure & du mien. il a auſſi enrichy ſon liure de pluſieurs ſentences, & raiſons qu'il a recueillies d'vn autheur italien, nommé bartholomzus ma- gius medecin de boulogne, qui en a eſcrit aſſez bien en vn traicté intitulé , de vulnerum sclopetorum cura- tione:combien qu'il nel'a pas recogneu pour guide,ains l'ayant traduit preſque mot pour mot, ena neant- moins fait ſon propre,& pour traducteur s'eſt nomméautheur.venons maintenant à ſa belle practique, & nouuelle methode nouuelle de guarir les playes faites par baſtons à feu:premierement, il veut qu'on y applique des ſorte deſº- medicamens ſuppuratifs,leſquels toutesfois il n'entend eſtre chauds & humides, ny de ſubſtance emplaſtri-" atift. que : mais tout au contraire,il les ordonne chauds & fecs.parce(dit il)que ce n'eſt pas comme aux abſcez, où il ne faut auoir autre cure que de ſuppurer:mais icy,où les playes ſont auec contuſion, pluſieurs diuer- ſes indications en ſourdent,d'autant que la contuſiö veut eſtre cuitte & meurie,& la playe deſſeichée.pour reſpondre à cela,ie le renuoyeray apprendre la nature & qualité des ſuppuratifs en galien,au .des simples, & tout d'vn chemin au o.de ſa methode,qui luy enſeignera,qu'aux maladies compliquées il faut conſide- rer la cauſe,l'ordre & l'vrgent.puis ie luy demanderay volontiers s'il ſçaura guarir la playe faite par coup de boulet,que la contuſion ne ſoit premierement bien ſuppurée. il me ſemble que non, & de ce ie m'en rapporteau iugement de tous bons practiciens.par ainſi noſtre baſilicum,& noſtreoleum catellorum,& au- tres tels medicamens ſuppuratifs,ſeront propres à ſuppurer les playes faites par arquebuſes.secondement, il veut qu'on mette dedans la playe de l'oxycrat,pour eſtancher le flux de ſang. et s'il ne peut eſtre arreſté par ce moyen, qu'on y applique vn medicament fait de blanc d'œuf,bol armene,vinaigre roſat,& du ſel. ie - jaiſſe à penſer ſi tels remedes ont puiſſance d'arreſter le flux de ſang,eſtans appliquez dedans la playe. cer- le vinaigre tes ils le feroient pluſtoſt fluer dauantage, à cauſe que le vinaigre eſt de qualité tenuë & mordante, cau-º le flux ſant douleur,fluxion,inflammation, & autres mauuais accidens , comme ie l'ay cogneu par experience : & de ſang. ne ſçay aucun chirurgien,qui ayant exercé l'art,vouluſt ſuiure telle façon de practiquer,qu'il ne s'en trou- - uaſt trompé.a ce propos me ſouuient auoir pensé vn more, qui eſtoit à monſieur le comte de roſſy, le- a quel fut bleſsé deuant boulongne par vn anglois,qui luy donnavn coup de lance au trauers du bras.donc pour cuidereſtancher le ſang,ie mis dedans ſa playe vn reſtraintif, où il y auoit du vinaigre à faute d'au- tre. mais toſt apres ilme reuint trouuer,diſant qu'il luy ſembloit auoir le feu au bras, & fus contraint le penſer de nouueau,& changer de remede en ſa playe, appliquant ledit reſtraintifpar deſſus. ie croy que erreur con. ce medecin n'a cognºu telle choſe : autrement l'eſtime-ie fi homme de bien , qu'il ne l'euſt mis dedans ſon uert d'ien . liure pour vn bon reſtraintif. dauantage il loue ſur tous autres remedes ſon baume fait d'huile de cire & rance, myrrhe,battus auec vn iaune d'œuf, ou bien le baume naturel qu'on apporte de perou : & dit, qu'ils con- ſomment l'humidité ſuperflue des playes,& confortent tellement les parties , qu'il n'y ſuruientaucun acci- dent perilleux : & ncantmoins dit, qu'ils ne conſolident, ne font reprendre ces playes icy, comme ils fe- roient celles qui ont eſté faites de taille. veritablement c'eſt choſe bien eſtrange,de vouloir penſer & gua- - - rir les playes contuſes, comme les ſimples quine demandent que ſeule vnion. outre plus ces baumes ne # de peuuent eſtre propres aux playes faites par arquebuſes, d'autant que par leur ſiccité ils empeſcheroient la ## ſuppuration,ſans laquelle ne peuuent eſtre guaries.et s'ils y conuiennent en aucune maniere, ce ſera ſeule- p # a f- ment apres la contuſion ſuppurée,& la playemondifiee.mais encore ne ſçay-ie où l'on pourroit trouuer tant # # d'extracteurs de quinte-eſſence,pour preparer & fournir tant de baumes qu'il faudroit pour penſer les ſol- #e dr dats qui ſeroient bleſſez en vne rencontre,ou bataille,ou en quelqueaſſaut de ville : ne où ils prendroient à pro?of. l'argent pour ſatisfaire aux frais. venons au reſte.il ordonne que ces baumes ſoient inſtillez dedans les playes ſans tentes & ſe reprenant puis . l'onzieſme liure, - puis apres dit,qu'il ſeroit bon y en mettre vne petite & courte ſeulement pour empeſcher que les bords de neceſſité des la plaºe ne ſe rejoignent.comment ſeroit-il poſſible que ces baumes & autres onguents peuſſent eſtre por- rente & ſe- tez au fond de la playe,ſans tentes ou ſetons,deſquels l'vſage eſt principalement de porter les medicamens # • contradi- iuſques au profond des playes,& les tenir ouuertes,pour donner iſſuë aux choſes eſtranges?tous les bons practiciens ne luy accorderont iamais ce poinct,ne ceux qui ſçauent que c'eſt de penſer telles playes. or il étion d**- y a encore icy vne choſe digne d'eſtre bien notée : c'eſt qu'apres auoir reprouué l'onguent egyptiac, il ne decin. l'esyptiac »'eſt ſuppu- ratif. contradi- diion tot - chant le » laiſſe pourtant de commander qu'on l'applique,depuis le commencement iuſques à ce que la contuſion ſoit du tout ſuppurée:& veut qu'on en vſe ainſi. prenez,dit-il,de l egyptiac diſſout en vne decoction faite de la ſommité d'aluyne & de mille pertuis & de petite centaure & plantain,& en ſyringuez la playe.il en deſcrit , puis apres vn autre,fait d'eau de plantain & miel roſat,boüillis enſemble à l'eſpeſſeur & conſiſtance de miel, en l'eſcumant bien : puis meſle autant de cecy que d'egyptiac enſemble;& dit que cet onguent ſuppure les arquebuſades. ie laiſſe à penſeraux lecteurs chirurgiens experimentez, ſi tels remedes ſont ſuppuratifs. quant à moy ie les eſtime plus propres à deterger & mondifier,qu'à ſuppurer. il a finalement eſcrit qu'il ne faut penſer la playe que de quatre en quatre iours. et s'il ya fracture d'os,qu'on n'y touche, ou qu'on ne leue l'appareil iuſqu'au huictieſme iour.puis il dit en vne autre endroit,qu'il eſt côuenable inſtiller tous a | les iours dix ou douze gouttes de ſon baume dedans la playe, veritablement telle doctrine eſt pour bien ! eſtonner le ieune chirurgien, pour ſçauoir quelle maniere de practiquer il deura ſuiure. et qui ſuiura la tºpº ºka- ſienne, je luy puis aſſeurer qu'il fera ſouuent ouurir le ciel & la terre:le ciel,pour receuoir les ames,& la biller les · playes d'ar- quebuſe. les mauuais practiciens terre pour les corps.mais c'eſt aſſez parlé de ceſte matiere pour le preſent , puis que nous ſommes aſſeurez que toutes ces petites cauillations ne pourront en rien diminuer la reputation de noſtre liure : duquel les eſtrangers ont tant fait de cas, qu'ils l'ont traduit en leurs langues maternelles pour en auoir communica- tion. partant nous dirons adieu à noſtre medecin,apres l'auoir prié de reuoir & corriger ſon liure le plu- font ouurir ſtoſt qu'il pourra, pour ne retenir plus longuement les ieunes chirurgiens en l'erreur dont ils pourroient le ciel & la auoir eſté imbus par la lecture d'iceluy : car les plus courtes folies ſont les meilleures. ferré', premiere_, raiſon. reſponce. seronde , raiſon. reſponſe. - · cautre diſcours ſur la queſtion de la venemoſité des playes des arquebuſes. - -|. c h a p. xvi. - e me ſuis trouué depuis quelques mois en la compagnie de quelques doctes medecins , & bien experts chirurgiens,leſquels par maniere de deuis, remettans enjeu la queſtion de ve- - $. nenoſité des playes d'arquebuſes,s'efforçoient principalement par cinq raiſons de prouuer la # # # venenoſité eſtre conjoincte auec icelles playes, non à raiſon de la pouldre à canon, laquelle # ils confeſſoient auec moy eſtre exempte de tout venin,& en ſa compoſition & en ſon eſſence: mais à raiſon de la balie,dedans laquelle le venin pouuoit eſtre tranſmis, mixtionné & incorporé. la pre- miere raiſon eſt, que le plomb eſtant fort rare & ſpongieux , comme la facilité de ſa fuſion & molleſſe le monſtrent, eſt par conſequent fort propre à s'imbiber de quelconque liqueur. mais telle conſequence me " ſemble peu ſſeurée:car en toute mixtion artificielle,quelle eſt celle dont nous parlons,il,y a deux choſes à conſiderer:la matiere des corps qui entrent en la mixtion,& la forme ſelon la matiere. tels corps doiuent eſtre liqnides,ou mols,ou friables,& aiſez à mettre en petites portions, afin que facilement de toutes parts eiles ſe puiſſent rencontrer,joindre, & vnir.selon la forme,elles doiuent eſtre alliables & compatibles les vnes auec les autres:ce qui fe cognoiſt euidemment en l'eau,combien que leurs matieres ſoient liquides,& aisées à meſler auec infinies autres choſes, ne pouuans toutesfois eſtre meſlées enſemble à raiſon de l'anti- pathie de leurs formes. ainſi l'or & l'argent ſont tant amoureux du plomb, que quand il eſt queſtion de les fondre,on les met peſle-meſle auec le plomb : mais l'airain fuit autant le plomb, que l'or & argent fuyent l'eſtain(ou plomb blanc. ) si donc le plomb & l'airain liquefiez ne ſe peuuent omeſler enſemble, bien qu'ils ſoient contenus ſous vn meſme genre & eſpece metallique, comme ſe pourroit incorporer le plomb auec autre choſe veneneuſe,d'eſpece & forme toute differente ? venons à la ſeconde raiſon. le fer(diſent-ils) qui eſt plus denſe,ſolide,& moins poreux , peut receuoir quelque qualité veneneuſe, comme le monſtrent les fleches enuenimées,dont les anciens vſoient : parquoy le plomb pourra a plus forte raiſon receuoir tel venin. pour reſponſe,ie dy que le venin peut bien eſtre reçeu en la ſuperficie du fer , mais non pas en ſa ſubſtance interieure par meſlange. or eſt-il icy queſtion d'incorporation, & non de ſimple enduiſement # | |}s troiſieſme , & inonction.voyons la troiſieſme raiſon. nonobſtant(diſent-ils ) que le plomb rejette ſa craſſe & ordare raiſen. reſponſe. à la fonte, toutesfois il ne lairra de receuoir & s'abbreuuer de quelque ſubſtance eſtrangere : ainſi que l'acier(metal entre tous le plus ſolide) reçoit vne trempe qui l'endurcit,de toute contraire ſubſtance. pour reſponſe,ie dy que quand la trempe eſt donnée à l'acier, icelle n'eſt receuë dedans la ſubſtance interieure d'iceluy : car ſi telle choſe eſtoit neceſſaire pour l'endurciſſement,cela ſe feroit plus aisément lors que l'on fond,& liquefie ledit acier,meſlant la trempe parmy pour l'incorporer, pluſtoſt que d'attendre qu'il ſoit f)uatrieſme pris & conſolidé en barre. ceſte reſponſe ſeruira meſme de refutation'pour la quatrieſme raiſon , par la- raiſoa. reſponſe. cinquieſme raiſ m. reſponſe. quelle ils diſent que de jus de napellus & rhododendron, d'apium riſus, & autres, qui de toute leur ſub- ſtance bleſſent & corrompent la noſtre,meſlées auec le plomb,on peut faire des mixtions ſi veneneuſes,que les playes en ſeront neceſſairement veneneuſes. ie dy au contraire,que la mixtion eſt ſeulement des choſes · qui ſe peuuent non ſeulement appliquer, mais auſſi attacher & adherer; bref incorporer & vnir lesvnes auec les autres. or comme pourra ſeulement adherer l'eau ou autre ius quelconque liquide auec le piomb, qui eſt dur & ſolide , tant s'en faut qu'il ſe puiſſe vnir ? la varieté de cela ſe iugera mieux par experience» que par raiſon. faites fondre le plomb dedans les ius recité cy-deſſus,ou autres que voudrez choiſir. ce- la faict,poſez l'vn & l'autre, vous trouuerez reſter l'égale meſure deſdits ius , & l'égal poids du plomb qui eſtoit par deuant : ſigne tres-euident, que ny le plomb ne s'eſt rien incorporé deſdits ius, ny les ius rien perdu de leur ſubſtance. la cinquieſme raiſon eſt telle. la balle laſchée d'vne arquebuſe contre quel- que pierre,ou autre corps de pareille dureté, ne s'eſchauffe pas tant, qu'elle ne ſe laiſſe bien manier auec la main , ſi on la prend incontinent apres le coup. parquoy cela eſt faux, que le venin empraint dedans la balle puiſſe eſtre conſommé par le feu de la poudre enflammée. pour reſponſe faut noter , que quand nous diſons, qu'encores qu'on peuſt empoigner la balle, toutesfois le feu conſommeroit le venin , nous entendons cela non du feu de la poudre eniiammée, lors qu'on deſſerre l'arquebuſe : mais du feu , par le- queil'on incorpore le plomb fondu auec ledit poiſon:lequel agiſſant immediatement ſur le venin non en- cores enueloppé ny embrouillé d'aucun corps eſtrange,& agiſſant auec temps & loiſir , non en vn inſta ,t & tout à coup, peut , ſi non conſommer, à tout le moins rabattre grandement les forces du venin. ceux qui ne ſe voudront contenter de ces raiſons,qu'ils liſent matheole ſur la preface du liure ſixieſme º†ſ- coi cl c b j (ºi # # # : n (! ， l ) - des playes d'arquebuſes. coride. il y a, dit-il , des modernes ſi fols & ignorans, qu'ils ont fait ietter dedans l'or ou l'argent fondu, grandean- deſquels on vouloit faire des vaſes, de la theriaque, du mithridat, & d'autres antidotes,afin que ces m§ §iºn - ayans acquis à la fonte les vertus deſdits antidotes puiſſent reſiſter aux venins. mais combien ceſte opinion l'autheur eſt ſotte & ridicule, ceux meſmes le peuuent iuger qui n'ont que mediocre cognoiſſance des choſ§ ſe deſent relles. & principalement des metaux , tant s'en faut qu'elle ait beſoin de plus euitente rehtation.v§ les tant qu'il raiſons, voila l'authorité, qui me retiennent en ma premiere opinion des playes faites par ·rquebuſes, non pº , ººntrº conjointes auec venenoſité. - ſes enteieux & ennemis - -- - de ſon liure des differences des playes faites parfleches,& de celles qui ſont faites pararque ſe, c h a p. x v i i. - e s playes qui ſont faites par fieches, traicts d'arbaleſte, ou autres baſtons ſemblables diffe- les playes de à rent en deux choſes de celles qui ſont faites par arquebuſes, & autres baſtons à feu : car§ trai#ſ . % nesfois elles ſont trouuées ſans contuſion,ce que iamais n'aduient aux playes faites par baſ§ uent ſan, cs- - s feu : ſouuent auſſi ſont veneneuſes. et ſelon ces deux differences faut diuerſifier la curatio§ tuſion, é ſöt confiderer les differences des fieches & des dards, pource qu'elles ſeruent beaucoup à la cognoiſſanc# ſouuent ve- curation deſdites playes. * neneuſes. de la différence des fleches & dards. ch a p. xv i i i. ," g e s fleches & dards different en matiere, en forme ou figure, en magnitude, en nombre , en diff # maniere & faculté, ou vertu. la difference en matiere eſt que quelques-vnes font de bois, & #; s， les autres de cannes ou roſeaux : les vnes ſont en leur extremite garnies de fer , de plomb, dard,& #. $ d'eſtain, d'airain, de corne, de verre, ou d'os; les autres non. la difference de la forme eſt , , #ru- ^s telle, que les vnes ſont rondes, les autres angulaires , les autres barbelées en forme d'eſpy: mens, les vnes ont la pointe tirant en arriere, les autres en bas : & aucunes ont pointe vers les deux parties, ſça- uoir en auant & arriere , aucunes de coſté & d'autre : aucunes ſont larges deuant & trenchantes en forme de cizeau. quant à la grandeur, aucunes ſont longues de trois doigts, & les autres moyennes. le nombre les fait differentes en ce, que les vnes ſont ſimples, n'ayans qu'vne ſeule pointe : les autres ſont compo- sées en ayans deux,ou pluſieurs.auſſi en icelles la maniere eſt diuerſe. car les vnes ont le ferinſeré dedans le fuſt : les autres ont le fuſt inſeré dedans le fer : les vnes ont le fer attaché & cloiié : les autres non,& tiennent ſi peu , qu'en les tirant, le fer demeure, qui font les playes beaucoup plus dangereuſes. la faculté les fait differer, ºn ce qu'aucunes ſont(comme a eſté dit ) enuenimées, les autres non. telles ſont les differences ! peciales & propres des fleches & dards, ſelon leſquelles les diſpoſitions qu'elles delaiſſent, diuerfifient la curation, tu peux voir en ceſte figure les differences ſuſdites. spl- | i ' la diffreme des parties bleſsées. c h a p. xix. e s differences exposées, il nous faut conſequemment parler de la diuerſité des parties af-ze différence fectées, qui ſont ou charneuſes, ou oſſeuſes : quelques-vnes pres les jºiº les autres de- des piºyes.ſ- |% dans icelles : aucunes auec grand flux de ſang & fracture d'os, les aººººººº ſont lon leurs és membres principaux, les autres ſuperficielles. et ſi en aucunes de telles playes apparoiſ- lieux. - ſent ſignes manifeſtes de mort, il en faudra faire bon prognoſtic deuant qu'y toucher, afin prºgnoſtic de ne donner occaſion aux ignorans de médire de noſtre art. or laiſſer le traict au corps, cauſeroit la mort # ineuitable, & feroit eſtimer le chirurgien inhumain & impitoyable, & l arrachant le malade parauenture # en rechapera : car comme nous auons dit , il vaut mieux tenter vn remede douteux » que laiſſer le malade ſans ſccours- "-- $ z # º q. de l'extraction desfleches. c h a p. xx. o v c h a n t l'extraction des fleches,il faut éuiter d'inciſer,dilacerer & rompre les veines,arte- peu moyens res, nerfs, & tendons, s'il eſt poſſible : car ce ſeroit choſe ignomineuſe, & contre l'art, fi on of # #º les fenſoit nature plus que la fleche. la manierede les tirer eſt double lynº ſe fait par ex raction,& fºº. l'a§ar pouſſer outre. pattant dés le commencement & premier appareil, il conuient oſter # l'onzieſme liure, eſtranges (ſi aucunes y'en a) comme les fers deſdites fleches, leur fuſt, ou bois, & antres choſes ſemblables, a - ainſi qu'il a eſté dit des playes faites pararquebus, & par les moyens. et pour mieux les extraire, conuien- dra ſituer le patienrcn la figure qu'il eſtoit lors qu'il aura eſté bleſsé, pour les raiſons ſuſdites,s'il eſt poſſi- ble, & vſer d'inſtrumens propres a cet effect, principalemnt, comme eſt ceſtuy, qui a vne canule fenduë #dentelée par delors, en laquelle s'inſere vneverge ſemblable à celle du tire-fonds de l'arquebuſe, qui a paul. egin. eſté figurée cy dºº horſmis qu'elle n'eſt faite a viz en ſon extremité.auſſi eſt-elle plus groſſe,afin de di- hipocr. later la cannule º remplir la cauité du fer, & l'extraire hors , tant des parties charneuſes qu'oſſeuſes, pourueu qu'ilº ſoit demeuré du bois de la fleche en la cauité du fer cet inſtrument auſſi y eſt propre,qui ſe dilate en omprimans les deux extremitez de derriere, dentelé auſſi par le dehors, ainſi que tu peux voir les ſignes , º § fi re. les ſignes pour cognoiſtre où eſt le fer, ſont, que ſi l'on couche la partie où il eſt, l'on ſen- i. tira aſperº & inegalité: auſſi la chair apparoiſtra contuſe , liuide & noire, & le patient ſentira peſantur & # # douleur qntinuelle en la partie vulnerée. rº fer. inſtrumens propres à tirerlesfers des fleches, dont le fuſt eſt dehors. ceſtuy s'ouure par vne viz qui s'inſere dans ſa can- nule. ceſtuy ſe dilate en comprimant la poignée. tenailles à vi{ auec le bec de corbin. inſtrument fermant & ouurant à viz, commode à tirer les fers des fieches,auecvn bec de corbin pro- pre à tirer les mailles, & autres petits corps eſtran- scs- - autre petit crochet pour tirer les mailles & au- c tres choſes eſtranges,qui ſe pourront accrocher:du- quel auſſi te pourras ſeruir à ce meſme effect aux bleſſeures des arquebuſes. que ſi par cas fortuit le fer babelé, ſoit de fleche, picque,dard,ou lance, demeure en quelque partie du corps , comme ( pour exemple ) en la cuiſſe ou jambe, encores auec portion de bois qui fuſt rompu par éclats alors faudra que le chirurgien coupe le bois au deſſus des éclats, auec tenailles inciſiues : puis qu'il tirclcdit fer auec tenailles dentelées, comme tu peux cognoiſtre par cettc figure, d hippocrate au cinquieſme des epidemies,dit auoir oſté le fer d'vne ſagette,ſix ans apres,eſtant pres l'aine, com »m des playes d'arquebuſes. lk & # commeilfaut proceder pour tirer lesfleſches rompuës. c h a p. xxi. a s ſi le fer eſt d'auenture rompu de telle ſorte, qu'on ne lc puiſſe prendre auec les ſuſdiies danrereuſe tenailles,ſoit tiré,ſi poſſible eſt,auec le bec de grue ou de corbin, ou autres inſtrumens pro-playe. pres, qui ont eſté dépeints cy-deuant. et ſi le fuſt eſt rompu ſi pres du fer, qu'on ne puiſſe # auoir priſe audit fer, ny au fuſt auec le bec de grue, alors faudra l'extraire auec le tirefond sº de l'arquebuſe. car s'il s'inſere dedans le plomb , à plus forte raiſon il entrera bien dedans le bois. pareillement,ſi le fer eſtoit barbelé, ainſi que ſouuent eſt le fer des fleſches angloiſes; lors s'il eſt poſſible, le conuient pouſſer outre la partie auec vn inſtrument propre : car par ce moyen l'on euitera plus grand danger pource qu'en le tirant,les barbillons pourroient rompre,tant les nerfs que les veines,arteres )uelques- & autres parties.ce que ſoigneuſement on doit éuiter. pource eſt-il meilleur de faire vne contre-ouuer- fois on doit ture de i'autre part à l'endroit du fer,& le mettre hors en pouſſant outre, ſupposé qu'il y euſt petite épeſ-fair vº, ſeur à inciſer : car par ce moyen & en moindre danger la playe qui aura double iſſue, l'vne par deuant, & contr'ouuer- 'autre par derriere, ſe guarira pluſtoſt , à raiſon qu'on y peut appliquer remedes d'vne part & d'autre : & ture. auſſi qu'elle ſe mondifiera mieux.au contraire,ſi le fer ayant barbillons,eſtoit à l'endroit d'vn os,ou inſeré dedans,ce que ſouuent aduient au profond des muſcles de la cuiſſe, des bras,des jambes, ou d'autres par- ties,eſquelles y auroit grande diſtance,lors ne le conuient pouſſer,mais pluſtoſt dilater la playe, en éuitant les nerfs & grandsvaiſſeaux,ainſi que fait le bon & expert chirurgien anatomique.auſſi faut deuëment § pliquer vn dilatatoire caue en ſa partie interne, & faire en ſorte que l'on puiſſe prendre les deux aiſles du ter,puis auec le bec de orué le tenir ferme,& tirer les trois enſemble,comme ceſtuy te monſtre. t)ilatatoire, qui à certaine cauité au dedans,auec vn bec de gruè, tenant vn fer barbelé. =ert mmmmy & t zº *** , , , ... , lulu.m v § ce qui fautfaire quandla fleſche eſt inſerée en l'os. c h a r, xxii. r ſi le traict ou la fleſche eſt inſerée dedans l'os,de façon qu'il ne puiſſe eſtre oſté en pouſſant \) outre,mais bien en le tirant par le lieu où il eſt entré, il le conuient ébranler & mouuoir ſä- gement, ſi d'auenture il tient fort : ſe donnant ſi bien garde, qu'il ne ſe rompe, & que por- < tion d'iceluy ne demeure dedans l'os, ce que pourras faire par l'inſtrument nommé bec de ɺnº corbin, ou autres propres à ce, cy-deuant figurez. quant & quand ne faudras à exprimer il faut laiſ- * le ſang,le laiſſantaſſez couler,prenant indication de la vertu, afin que la partie ſoit deſchargée, & moins ſer coulerº moleſtée d'inflammation,de pourriture,& d'autres mauuais accidens.l'extraction faite, & le premier appa-ſºs- reil,ſi la playe eſt ſimple,tu la traitteras comme ſimple : mais s'il y a complication , tu la cureras ſelon que les diſpoſitions ſeront compliquées. pour appaiſer la douleur, tu pourras appliquer auec grand profit, oleum catellorum de noſtre deſcription cy-deuant.et pour ſuruenir aux autres accidens,auras recours aux playes en general,& à celles des arquebuſades. - • des bleſſeures enuenimées. . c h a p. xx ii i. % e s t e maintenant entendre & conſiderer,que ces playes ſont quelquesfois enuenimées(com- signes des % me nous auons dit)& que cela prouient de la cauſe primitiue des fleſches ainſi preparées par playes ensº° l'ennemy. ce quel'on peut cognoiſtre,tant par le recit du navré, diſant ſentir grande & poi-miméº q. ， r) gnante douleur, comme s'il euſt eſté mordus de mouſches à miel (principalement és venins tvnn chauds, deſquels on vſe plus ſouuent en tel cas)que par la chair du vulneré, qui deuient paſ- le & aucunement liuide,auec quelque apparence de mortification. a quoy pluſieurs autres griefs & plus grands accidens ſuruiennent,qui n'ont couſtume d'aduenir aux autres playes, où n'y a point de venenoſité. parquoy du commencement(apres auoir tiré les choſes eſtranges, fi aucunes y en a)faut faire des ſcarifica- tions aſſez profondes autour de la playe,y appliquant ventouſesauec grande flambe,afin de faire attraction & vacuation de la matiere virulente. pareillement ladite attraction ſe fera en faiſant ſuccer la playe par † homme qui tiendra cependant vn peu d'huyle en ſa bouche, & qui n'aye aucune vlcere en icelle, e peur que le venin ſuccé & attiré ne s'y attache.se fera auſſi attraction par application d'onguents, cata- †º autres choſes qui ſeront declarées cy-apres, par- t des morſures & picqueures des beſtes veneneuſes. fin de l'onxieſme liure des playes des arquebuſit,fleſhti & dards. - b b ta bl b o - | . " • # q# # #r**. rs : t a b l e d e s c h a p itr e s - d v l i v r e xii. des contuſions, combuſtions, & gangrenes. g e la difference des contuſions & meurtriſſeures. chapitre ! $n de la curation vniuerſelle des grandes & enormes contuſions. # chap. ij - : nſ) de la maniere de traitter les contuſions auec playe .. chap. iij · des contuſions ſansplaye » , chap. iiij des moyens d' obuier aux menaces des gangrenes, qui peuuentſui- ure les contuſions. chap. v ks cm erueilleux accidens qui viennent aux contuſions faicfes.ſurles #w & ésses $n\ co#es. chap. vj diſcours de l'autheur, touchant l'vſage de la mumie, contenant dix chapitres. des combuitions, bruſleures, & differences d'icelles. | . chap.xvij des medicamens chauds & attractifs, qui oitent la douleur& inflammation. chap. xviij qu'vne profonde combustion n'eſt tant douloureuſe qu'une ſuperficie e-. chap. xix des gangrenes & mortifications chap. xx des cauſes generales de gangrene_ . chap. xxj des cauſes particulieres de gangrene_f. chap.xxii des cauſes antecedentes de gangrene . | chap. xxiij des ſignes de gangrene . · - chap. xxiiij duprognojtic des gangrenes. · chap. xxv de la cure generale de gangrene . · chap. xxvj de la cureparticuliere de gangrene . chap. xxvij des ſignes des mortifications parfaictes. chap. xxviijº du lieu où ilfaut commencer l'amputation du membre . chap. xxix du moyen de procederà laſečtion du membre_». chap. xxºx des moyens p ourarreſter le flux deſang, quand le membre gſtcoupé. chap. xxxj comment il faut proceder au traictement da membre amputé , le flux de ſang arreité chap. xxxij • l, º# fautfaire , s'ilſuruenoit flux de ſang, à cauſe d'vw deſdits vaiſſeaux deliez. hap. xxxiij des medicaments emplaitiques. chap. xxxiv digreſſion de l'autheur,fort neceſſaire à bien conſiderertvuchant les cauteres aſtuels, deſquels on a vsé iuſques icy, apres l'amputation. -- chap. xxxv la maniere de pourſuiure la curation du membre amputé. chap. xxxvj hiffoire memorable d'vne mortification aduenuë à vw ſoldat, auquel le brº fut coupé, à la jointure du coude , - chap. xxxvij l e l， ' - - traictant des contvsions, c o m b vstions, et gan gre ne s. par ambrois e pare de la val av ma y ne, conſeiller, & premier chirurgien du roy. des différences des contuſions& meurtriſſeures. ch a p. i. a n t e n a n r nous traicterons des contuſions & meurtriſſeures , com- $ mençans par la definition de contuſion:qui eſt ſelon galien(liure te conſti- f, tutions artis)ſolution de continuité en chair,ou os,faite par bâſton,ou ferre- ti / ment gros & peſant,ou parcheute de haut.le ſymptome qui enſuit tellema- y ladie,eſt meurtriſſeure,dite d'hippocrates en la ſection ſeconde du liure des .. , . w fractures,palioſis,ou melaſna,c'eſt à dire,noirceur ou liueur. ce qui ſe fait diferenses % en diuerſes manieres, ſelon le ſang qui tantoſt s'épand aux parties ſolides, ºs e tantoſt aux cauitez† du corps,& quelquesfois ſeulement auparties fº - ] exterieures.or le ſang s'épand dedans le corps,quand,pour exemple,quel- | | a qu'vn chet du haut en bas d'vne breche:ou quand il a eſté preſsé ſous quel- - « quegrand & peſant fardeau,comme il aduientés mines,auſquelles bien ſou- * uent grande quantité de terre, ou de pierre tombent ſur les ſoldats & mi- neux ou parvne extreme tenſion,comme eſt celle de la geſne:ou par trop deſordonnément crier, au moyen duquel excés quelque vaiſſeau des poulmons ſe peut rompre.pareillement, pourvne harquebuſade receuë au trauers du corps,le ſang peut ſortir des vaiſſeaux vne partie duquel ſe jette par les ſelles & yrines, ainſi , , ue?ay veu aduenir à pluſieurs, meſmement à defunct monfieur de martigues, qui au dernier ſiege de he-hiſtoire de# § voir par deſſus le rempart de la muraille, les ennemis qui la ſapoient au pied, fut fra pé d'vn monſieur dé coup de harquebuſe au trauers du corps dont toſt apres jetta le ſang par labouche,par le ſiege , & laver- ºisº# ge,qui fut cauſe de ſa mort. dauantage,le ſang ſe peut eſpandre dans le corps, pour eſtre frappé de coups bleſsé au ſie- §mme ſont ceux de baſton,de maſſe depierre,& pour dire en vn mot, de toutes choſes qui peuuent t**** contundre,meurtrir,& faire ſortir le ſang hors des veines & arteres:qui à cauſe de ce ſont preſsées,expri- , mées, rompuës,'& dilacerées : meſmes le plus ſouuent les parties exterieures en ſont auſſi grandement contuſes & bleſſées auec playe,& quelquesfois ſans playe,de façon que le cuir demeure tout entier, mais le ſang eſt eſpandu par les muſcles,& entre cuir & thair ſeulement : laquelle diſpoſitien a eſté nommée des - anciens ecchymoſis : & particulierement d'hippocrates nauſioſis, .ſect.du liu. des fract. pour autant que les xschymºſii veines ſemblentvouloir comme vomir. donc contuſion ſe fait, quand quelque groſſe choſe lourde & pe- ſante tombe ſur vne † rompt la chair, & où le ſang prend ſon cours, qui ſe nomme effuſion, & la chair demeure entiere:mais il eſt certain que les petites veines ſont rompuës,quand ce mal aduient.la ru- ption ſe fait,quand les fibres des muſcles ſont fort eſtendues,& ſouuent quelques vnes ſe rompent,& de la - s'enſuit inflammation & apoſteme.suiuant la difference de ces contuſions, il nous faudra diuerſifier la cu- ration d'icelles,ainſi que preſentement nous declarerons. de laturation vniuerſelle des grandes & enormes contuſions. ch a p. i i. @ſg e ſang qui eſt découlé dedans le corps, ſe doit éuacuer ſenſiblement ouinſenſiblement. l'é- " uacuation ſenſible ſe fera,tant par ſaignées,ventouſes,cornets,auec ſcarifications,& ſangſues, - que par medecines propres & dediées à telle choſe,comme ſont les ſolutifs, moyennant que y': le malade n'aye fiévre forte & continue.on l'éuacuera inſenſiblement parpotions reſolutiues s prouoquantes la ſueur,ou par bains,& par la maniere de diete tenuiſſime de la ſaignée. nous auons texte expres dans gallien,où il dit.si quelqu'vn eſt tombé de haut,encore qu'il n'euſt aſſez de ſang, sur à ſºn ſieſt-ce qu'il luy en faut tirer,pour obuier qu'il ne ſe coagule & pourriſſe au dedans,eſtât hors de ſes pro- § . de la , pres vaiſſeaux.pourquoy ne faut que le chirurgien obmette à tirer du ſang, ſelon la grande vehemence du ja, au li， mal,& la plenitude & force du malade.ce qu'ayant fait luy doit donner à boire telle potion. .rad. gent. de artieui .iij.bulin oxycrat.in colat diſſrhei elect. .j fiat potio.tels remedes reſoluent, diſſoluent, & iettent hors indication, par le cracher le ſang caillé,s'il eſt és poulmons.puis l'enuelopper en vne peau de mouton recentementeſ-principale, corché,ſur laquelle ſera eſpandu de la poudre de myrte,de naſturce, & du ſel ſubtilement puluerisé. on le pºur rirer · poſera puis apres en ſon lict,où eſtant bien couuert,ſuera tout à ſon aiſe.le lendemain faudra oſter la peau, ºſºt. & l'oindre du liniment qui s'enſuit,lequel appaiſe la douleur & reſout le ſang meurtry. # vnguenti de al-ºº, thza .vj.olei lumbric.camo.anethi ań. .ij.tereb.venet. .iiij.farina fœnugraeci.roſar. rubr. pulueriſ. pulu. :#º myrtaſi .j.fiat litus ad vſum dictum pareillement on luy donnera à boire de la potion ſubſequéte,laquelle " b b roaoque - douzieſme liure des contuſions. - remedes pour les pau- ©j'ºſ, auſſi l'oxy- erat donné à boire,eſt vne choſe ſingu- liere, comme »ous dirons cy-apres, fouldre. ytilité des bains. ^ - | remede fort bon c tre les contnſions. cemment il fant coudre les playes contuſes. que c'eſt qu'ecchy- meſis. - : prouoque la ſueur,& diſſoult le ſang coagulé dedans le eorps, &. ligni gajaci . viij. rad enulx campanx, a conſolidx maioris,ireos florentiae,polypodij quercini añ, .É.ſem.corian.aniſiañ. . .glycyrrhizae .ij.ne- peta,centaurex,caryoph.cardui bened.verbenæ añ.in.ſ.aqua fontanae fb.xij.omnia concaſſata infundantur per ſpatium duodecim horarum,qua omnia lento igne ſecuudûm artem coquanturad conſumptionem me- dietatis. quand le malade aura pris le matin demy-ſeptier de cette potion vn peu tiede,ſe laiſſera ſuer vne heure dedans le lict plus ou moins pour chacune fois, & continuera ſix ou ſept iours , ſelon qu'il en ſera beſoin.si c'eſtoit quelque pauure ſoldat qui ne peuſt auoir telles commoditez,ille conuiendra mettre dans du fien, l'enueloppant premierement en vn drap, & luy mettant vn peu du foing » ou de la paille blanche auant que l'enſeuelir dans ledit fien iuſqu'à la gorge, & luy tenir tant qu'on verra qu'il aura aſſez ſué : ce que i'ay fait pluſieurs fois. on donnera pareillement aux malades quelques ſyrops à boire, qui ſont pro- pres pour empeſcher la coagulation & pourriture du ſang,comme ſyrops aceteux,de limons, ou de aceto- ſitate citri,la quantité d'vne once diſſoult en eau de ſcabieuſe, ou de chardon beniſt, pour chacune fois. auſſi doit-on donner promptement ce potus,qui eſt propre pour garder que le ſang ne ſecoagule, & qui ſemblablement conforte les parties internes. .theu.electi pulueriſ. .j.aqua rubiz maioris & plant.afi.j.j. theriaca . .ſyrupi de roſis ſiccis .ſ.fiat potus.lequel ſera donné tout auſſi toſt que le malade ſera tombé; & reiteré par quatre ou cinq matins. ou en ſon lieu on luy fera boire vne drachme de nature de baleine diſſoulte auec eau de bugloſſe ou des eaux cy-deſſus eſcrites, auec vne once ou demye de ſyrop de capill. ven.apres l'vſage de ladite potion,il conuiendra faire prendre au malade par l'eſpace de neufiours au ma- tin,deux heures ou trois deuant le paſt de la poudre qui s'enſuit,s'il eſt neceſſaire. /.rub.tortefrad,rub.ma- ioris,centaurij,gentianx,ariſtoloch.rotundx añ. .É.de laqnelle en ſera baillé pour chacune fois vne drach- b me auec ſyrop aceteux,& de l'eau de chardon beniſt.d'auantage l'eau de noix vertes, tirée en l'alambic & beüe,a grande vertu de diſſoudre le ſang amaſsé & coagulé.on peut vſer pareillement des bains faits auec decoction de racine d'ireos,enulx campanae,oxalidis,fœniculi,althex,oſmonda regalis,conſolida maioris, ſeminis fœnugræci,foliorum ſaluiae,maioranae,forum camomillz,melil.& de leurs ſemblables. aufſi les ſes mences trouuécs ſous le foing ont grande efficace à cette meſme fin. le bain en chaleur temperée a cette vtilité,qu'il laſche & rarefie le cuir,fond & diſſout le ſang grommelé,inciſe les humeurs viſqueuſes,addou- ciſt les acres,& les tire du profond du corps iuſqu'à la ſuperficie du cuir, de façon qu'vne partie d'eux eſt vuidée par ſueur vniuerſelle,vne autre par cracher & moucher, ſi d'auenture l'affection eſt aux parties ſu- perieures.par le ſiege & vrine,ſi elle eſt aux inferieures. les bains ſont auſſi profitables aux inflammations des poulmons,& aux pleuretiques ſelon hippocrates,au .de viéiu acuto,um,& .liures de mo bis:mais c'eſt lors que la fiévre eſt mitigée & addoucie : car lors ils appaiſent la douleur , & aydent à ſuppurer & ietter par les crachats les ſuperfluitez contenues auſdites parties. ils peuuent pareillement ſuruenir à pluſieurs autres diſpoſitions,moyennant qu'ils foient faits deuement apres les choſes vniuerſelles. car s'ils eſtoient adminiſtrez deuant la ſaignée & purgation,ils nuiroient grandement,à raiſon qu'ils pourroient cauſer nou- uelle fiuxion aux parties malades. parquoy ie te conſeille d'vſer touſiours du conſeil du docte, & expert medecin, s'il t'eſt poſſible. •- de la maniere de traitter les contuſions auec playes. · c h a p. ii i. c $ # n toute grande contuſion faut premierement ſaigner, ou purger, ou faire tous les deux en- # $ $) ſemble,tant pour l'euacuation,que pour la reuulſion.ce qui eſt prouué par hipp, en la .ſe- | e$ % £ ction de fracturis , où en la contuſion du talon , il donne purgation vomitoire dés le meſme saj tº%\º iour,ou le lendemain pour le plus tard.puis ſi la contuſion eſt auec playe,il faut au commen- rsnns cement empeſcher la defluxion auec onguent de bolo,blancs d'œufs,de l'huile roſat,de myr- te, de la poudre de roſes rouges, d'alum , & maſtic. et au ſecond appareil on vſera d'vn digeſtif de iaune d'œuf,& huyle violat,auec vn peu de terebenthine.on pourra auſſi mettre ſur les parties voiſines,pour ay- der à ſuppurer,le cataplaſme qui s'enſuit. # radalth.& lilior.añ. .iiij.folio.malu.viola.ſenecionisafi.m.ſº. coquant completè in aqua communi & paſſentur per ſetaceum,addendo butyri recent.& olei violafi. .iij. farinx volatilis quantum ſufficit,fiat cataplaſad formam pultis ſatis liquidx : ou autres ſemblables, en ap- plication deſquels auras égard , pource que s'ils ſont induément appliquez, rendent les playes phlegmo- neuſes,lordides & putrides.donc apres la ſuppuration faite,la playe ſera mundifiée , & la chair regenerée, puis conduite à cicatrice.toutesfois ſi la chair contuſe eſt grandement dilacerée,& deſtituée de la chaleur naturelle, il en conuiendra faire amputation. mais s'il y a encores eſperance qu'elle ſe puiſſe agglutiner ſans couper,elle ſera couſue comme la choſe le requiert:& ne ſeront les poincts d'aiguille tant ſerrez,com- me fi c'eſtoit vne playe ſimple ſans contuſion : pource que telles playes s'enflamment & enflent : qui ſeroit cauſe de dilacerer tout le cuir auec la chair,& rompre les poincts, des contuſions ſans playe. ch a p. iv. d g r s'il n'y a playe qui apparoiſſe,& que le cuir demeure entier , les parties de deſſous demeu-• ) rans contuſes , & qu'il y ait effuſion de ſang ſous le cuir, telle diſpoſition, comme nous auons , dit,eſt nommée des anciens ecchymoſi.pour la curation de laqnelle faut tenir bon regime, iuſ- & ques à ce que les accidens ſoient paſſez. au commencement ſera tiré du ſang de la partie op- - º $ ) poſite, s'il en eſt beſoin, tant pour l'euacuation, que pour la reuulſion. pareillement ſeront faites des ſcarifications égales ſur la contuſion : & puis ſeront appliquées des ventouſes ou cornets, tant pour vuider le ſang qui fait tumeur & tenſion à la partie, que pour donner inflammation, de peur qu'il ne ſe face gangrene,& autres mauuais accidens.auſfi faut laſcher le ventre , comme'on verra eſtre neceſſaire. et pour les topiques & particuliers remedes , au commencement faut vſer de remedes forts & aſtringens, principalement vn peu au deſſus du lieu ſigillé. hipp. commande que l'on commence à bander ſur la partie contuſe,afin de reſerrer les veines & arteres,pour roborer la partie, & empeſcher la defiuxion , & chaſſer le ſang hors de la partie bleſsée;& appliquer vn medicament,comme peut eſtre ceſtuy-cy que i'ay en vſage ordinairement. z album.ouor num.tria,olei myrti,& roſañ. .j.boliarm ſang.drac. añ. . . nuc. cupreſſi, gallarum,pul.alum.vſti añ- ij.incorporentur omnia,addendo aceti parum , & fiat medicam. puis apres on vſera de fomentations,cataplaſmes & emplaſtres reſolutifs. ces deux deſcriptions d'emplaſtre ont eſté dés · leng-temps ordonnées,pour les roys,princes, & autres grands seigneurs ſuiuans la cour, leſquelles ont eſté confirmées par les premiers medecins de roy en roy,en ſorte que quand quelqu'vn eſt contus en no- ſtre cour,ona recours à l'apothicaire du roy,a demander les emplaſtres de la contuſion, ordonnez pour le roy. - .ad combuſtions & gangrenes. ， i jad mouas contuſioner. - /.boli arm. # ij terre ſigillatz .j. .roſar.rubr.myrtillañ. .vj.nucis cupreſſi .ij. omnium ſandalorum añ. .j.nucis moſcatz .fi.maſt.ftyracis,calam.afi. .j.ſº.cerx noux .vj.picis naualis .iij. tereb. quant. ſuff. fiat emplaſtrum. - ad contuſiones antiquar. - /.ſtyracis calamitz,labdani.benioin,añ. .vj.maſt.iridis fior baccarum lauri,cinamomi, garyoph. calami arom.añ. j.fi.ligni aloes,flor.cham lauendulae,nucis moſcata añ. .ſ.moſchi .j,cerae nouæ .vj.reſina ij. tereb.& olei roſ.quantum ſufficit, fiat emplaſtrum. des moyens d'obuier aux - des gangrenes qui peuuent ſuiure les contuſions. h a p. v. e s grandes contuſions ſont dangereuſes : car par icelles ſuruiennent aucunefoîs gangrenes & toutes gr#- mortifications : ce qu'hipp. declare aduenir quand la partie eſt dure & liuide, au ſecond te de con - # fraſturis. or quand la partie eſt fort noire & liuide, iuſques à ſembler qu'elle ſoit morte, & ſa ſiens ſont % %é$ chaleur preſque eſteinte,pour la grande concretion du ſangdefiué en icelle, qui empeſche que perilleuſes. l'eſpritvital ne puiſſe paruenir à la partie pour l'entretenir en ſon eſtre, & meſme eſteint la chaleur na turelle de ladite partie, on doit, pour vuider & deſcharger la partie,appliquer ventouſes ou cornets,ayant- premierement ſcarifié la partie auec vn raſoir,lancettes,ou flammettes,ou bien de l'inſtrument appellé ſca- rificateur,que tu vois icy figuré,dedans † ſont inſerées dixhuict roües tranchantes comme vn raſoir, marquées fff, qu'on bande auec vn reſſort marqué c,& ſont desbandées par vn autre marqué d, du- quellors que voudra faire pluſieurs ſcarifications pourvacuer le ſang eſpandu ſous le cuir, tu t'en pour- ras aider plus promptement & à moindre douleursà raiſon que dixhuict incifions ſont auſſitoſt faites qu'v- ne ſeule. a monſtre le couuerole, b la boite. / puis on doit fomenter ladite partie de fort vinaigre,auquel on aura fait boüillir radices raphani, ou de ramsde pºur ſerpentaria major,arom,ou sigillum salomonis, auripigmentum , & autres ſemblables : car telles choſes diſſiper le acres échauffent fort, diſcutent,reſoluent, & attirent du profond à la ſuperficie le ſang meuttry : deſquels ſºnt eaille neantmoins tuvſeras par diſcretion, de peur d'attirer non ſeulement le ſang, qui eſt hors des veines, mais drºſpº auſſi celuy qui eſt contenu en icelles.pareillement n'en vſeras qu'alors que la fluxion ſera du tout arreſtée. # # aux petites meurtriſſeures,que nous cognoiſſons quand la partie liuide eſt molle,ſelon galien, ſur le . " " " )e fačiuris, on appliquera ſeulement de la cire vierge fonduë auec de la poudre de cumin, & du clou de girofle,& vn peu de racine de ſigillum-mariæ,qui en tel cas a grande puiſſance de degaſter,& de prompte- ment reſoudre toutes ecchymoſes & meurtriſſures. auſſi on peut appliquer de l'abſinthe vn peu piſtée & chauffée ſur vne pelle de fer chaude,& l'arrouſer d'vn peu de vin blanc,ou la faire fricaſſer dedâs vne poëſ- le auec du vin,de l'huile de camomille, vn peu de ſon de froment, & de poudre de clou de girofle & mu- † adiouſtant ſur la fin vn peu d'eau de vie:puis la mettre entre deux linges deliez, & l'appliqueraſ- z chaude ſur la partie.pareillement l'emplaſtre qui s'enſuit,eſt fort reſolutif du ſang meurtry. . picis.ni- emplaſtra gra ij gummielemi .j.ſtyracisliquida,& tereb.comm.afi. .f. pulueris ſulphuris viui .j. liquefiant ſi- fort reſoln- mul,fiat emplaſt.extendatur ſuper alutam. - f ! merueilleux accidens qui viennent aux contuſionsfaites ſur les coſtes. ch a p. v i. v e l o y e s f o s par vne grande contuſion la chair contuſe deuient mucqueuſe & bour- hipp au liu, ſouflée, comme ſi l'on l'auoit enflée de vent, la peau demeurant entiere : ce qui ſe voit prin- des artic.ſer. cipalement ſur les coſtes, & lors qu'on comprime deſſus auec la main, on ſent l'air qui ſe ſºnt . depart auec vn petit ſiflement, & y demeure l'impreſſion des doigts, comme aux oedemes. #º#: que ſi on n'y donne bonne ordre , à raiſon que la chair n'eſt attachée contre leſdites coſtes, # # il s'y amaſſe du pus,qui vient à occuper l'eſpace vuide,& fe fait alteration des os,comme l'on voit aduenir # le plus ſouuent. # - pour la curation de cette tumeur mucqueuſe, il faut comprimer & lier la partie le plus fort que lepa- tient pourra endurer : toutesfois en luy laiſſant ſa reſpiration libre le plus qu'il ſera poſſible, ſi c'eſt au thorax. puis ſera appliqué ſur la partie vn emplaſtre d'oxycroceum, ou diachylon ireatum, meſlé auec cauſe d l'emplaſtre de melilotn, & fomentations reſolutiues. or la cauſe de telle tumeur eſt vne pituité glaireuſe, #. qui ſe fait par faute de bonne concoction en la partie, & d'vn aliment à demy-cuit, ainſi que l'on voit ment en le ſouuentesfois la conioinctiue de l'œil, parvne contuſion s'enfler ſi fort, qu'elle ſort hors la cauité de partie sonº l'œil,à cauſe que lavertu concoctrice de la partie eſt debile, pour raiſon de l'intemperature immoderée, tºſº, b b oll inſtrument appellé scarificateur. | | - : # douzieſme liure des contuſions, ou pour l'humeur qui y affluë comme l'on void aux tumeurs œdematiques. car de l'humeur aqueux & pi- a tuiteux,par le moyen d'vne chaleur imbecille s'excitent aiſement des flatuoſitez,qui meſlées parmy le reſte de l'humeur,font monſtrer & paroiſtre la tumeur plus grande & ondoyante,comme explique galien,liu. . de sympt.cauſis. diſcours ſurla mumie. . c h a p. v l i. chirurgiés,parce qu'elle ne vaut rien,ce que ie prouueray par ce preſent diſcours. la mumie a pris ſon nom & origine des anciens iuifs,arabes, & chaldées, & principalement des egy- ptiens, meſmes long temps auparauant moyſe, & depuis eux les grecs & latins : tous leſ- quels ont eu en ſi grand honneur,reuerence,& recommandation,les corps des treſpaſſez, pour l'efperance de la reſurrection, qu'ils ont fort recherché les moyens , non ſeulement de les enſeuelir , mais auſſi de les conſeruer à iamais,s'ils l'euſſent peu faire par certaines drogues precieuſes, & choſes odoriferantes, leſ- atºmie eſt quels corps ainſi embaumez ſe gardoient longuement entier ſans ſe pourrir. et par leſdits arabes ont eſté vn mot ars. appellez mumie,qui vaut autant à dire, qu'vn corps mort,accouſtré de choſes odoriferantes & conſerua- be. trices de pourriture.or pour le premier, herodote tres-ancien hiſtorien grec, & apres luy diodore sici- herodote. lien,parlant de la ſepulture & conduitte des corps des treſpaſſez, & des pleurs & gemiſſemens qui ſe fai- diodore ſoient ſur iceux par les anciens egyptiens, racontent que lors qu'il decedoit quelqu'vn des domeſtiques d'vne maiſon qui eſtoit de reſpect & apparence,comme vn grand seigneur ou dame,alors ſe tranſportoient tout d'vn coſté toutes les femmes de la famille & parentage au lieu où le defunct eſtoit decedé, habillées les femmes º de dueil pleurantes & lamentantes. puis ayans laiſsé le corps mort en ſon lieu, s'en alloient par la § ville comme vagabondes, courans çà & là, eſtant ceintes & trouſſées par le milieu du corps, deplorantes §mmelles leurs vies & miferes,auec leurs mammelles & parties plus proches,toutes nues & deſcouuertes. de l'autre deſcouuertes. coſté alloient les hommes, ayant pareillement la poitrine toute deſcouuerte, & ſe frappoient & battoient lº, hommes en deteſtation du defunct.cela eſtant fait, ils ſe tranſportoient par deuers ceux qui eſtoient deputez pour ſe battoient. embaumer les corps morts,qu'on appelloitsalleurs ou embaumeurs,leſquels leur monſtroient trois figures salleurs ou de corps morts tmbaumez peintes en vn beau linceul,de diuerſe valeur & eſtimation : l'vne comme la plus •mbau- riche,exquiſe,& élabourée,vallant vn talent;l'autre,vn demy;& la tierce de vil prix, & à bon marché, qui j/ ºhv , eſtoit pour le commun populaire , qui leur donnoit ſelon leur puiſſance. ayans marchandé l'vne des trois effigies ou figures pour les embaumer & enſeuelir,ils laiſſoient le corps mort entre leurs mains.et lors les embaumeurs tiroient tout auſſi toſt,auecvn fer courbé,par les narines, toute la ſubſtance du cerueau, puis inciſoient auec vne pierre aigue & bien tranchante le ventre, & en oſtoient les entrailles, & puis lauoient tout le corps de vin,auquel auoit bouilly pluſieurs choſes aromatiques. cela fait,rempliſſoient le corps de myrrhe aloes,de cinamome,ſaffran,& autres choſes odoriferantes,& precieuſes : puis apres le ſalloient & chºſ.arpre-º† ſaloir par l'eſpace de o iours.lequel temps expiré, le retiroient pour faire ſeicher, & # apres l'enueloppoient en vn beau drap precieux,& derechefl'ognoient de certaines gommes aſſez commu- ſepulchre, ººº apres tºº ces choſes luy faiſoient faire vne effigie ſur ſa tombe & ſepulchre où ilsvouloient qu'il #,pitaphes fuſt posé pour la memoire eternelle,& le laiſſoient-là pour dormir & repoſer, iuſques ( diſoient-ils) au §ue'l'on fait grand iour de la reſurrection.les deux autres façons d'embaumer ſe faiſoient d'autres drogues non fi pre- encor au- cieuſes,ny ſi cheres;& ſelon l'argent on eſtoit ſeruy. iourd'huy. c h a p. v il i. t r a n o dit,que les iuifs pour la confiture de leurs corps ſouloient vſer de bitume, qui eſt strabs. * • • • - - - • • • > -" • vne poix liquide,qui ſe prend en lamer rouge,pres sodome. or bien à peine s'eſt-il trouué nation tant barbare fuſt-elle, qui n'ayent embaumé les corps morts non pas meſme les scy- la maniere thes,qui ſemblent en barbarie auoir ſurpaſſé le reſte des hommes. car iceux, comme dit he- des scythes º^ rodote,liure .de ſon hiſtoire,n'enterrent point le corps de leur roy, que premierement ils d'embaumer ne l'ayent mis en cire,apres auoir curé le ventre,& nettoyé,puis remply de cypre concaſſé, d'encens , de les corps. graine de percil,& d'anis,& en apres recouſu. de cette meſme choſe les ethiopiens ſe ſont monſtrez cu- herodote. rieux,faiſans leurs ſepultures de verre en cette ſorte:c'eſt qu'apres qu'ils auoient vuidé & deſcharné iuſ- # ques aux os,commevne anatomie ſeiche,les corps de leurs amis defuncts, ils les accouſtroient & liſſoient # ** de plaſtre,ſur lequel ils iettoient apres vne peinture qui approchoit du vif,autant qu'il leur eſtoit poſſible- " // d ' . pource qu il et ce fait ils l'enfermoient dans vne colomne de verre creux.le corps ainſi enchaſſe apparoiſſoit au trauers n'y auoit le verre,ſans rendre mauuaiſe odeur,& ſans deſagreer aucunement. les plus proches parens le gardoient que les es. chez eux l eſpace d vn an,enluy faiſant offrandes & ſacrifices, & au bout de l'an le tranſportoient hors la # dote - ville au lieu deſtiné,ainſi que nous faiſons aux cimetieres comme eſcrit le meſme herodote. - liu. . - c h a p. i x. '- - - - - la maniere # a s le ſoing & curioſité eſt encore entrée plus auant dedans le cœur des egyptiens que de d'embaumer tº$ # nulle autre nation,dont ils ont merité grande loüange, s'eſtans monſtrez tant affectionnez à les corps par % la memoire de leurs parens,que pour la conſeruation d'icelle ils eſtoient couſtumiers d'em- les egyptiés # baumer les corps tous entiers d'iceux en vaiſſeaux de verre diaphane, & tranſparent, & les r, mettoient en lieu plus honorable de leurs maiſons pour en auoir touſiours la memoire deuät les yeux,& leur ſeruird'aiguillon pour les ſtimuler de les enſuyure,& imiter leurs vertus , afin de ne dege- les egyptit, ººº & forligner de leur naturel & inclination. et dauantage ſeruoient iceux corps ainſi embaumez , de § ſouuerains gages, & aſſeurance de leur foy : ſi bien que s'il eſtoit aduenu qu'aucun deſdits egyptiens euſt § , plu, affaire de quelquegroſſe ſomme d'argent,il ne failloit point de la trouuer à emprunter chez ſes voiſins ſur precieux ga- le gage d'vn corps de ſes parens,ſe tenans tous aſſeurez les crediteurs,que moyennant telgage,le debiteur ges que les manqueroit pluſtoſt de vie que de foy,tant ils auoient à cœur de retirer tel gage.et ſi la fortune faiſoit, & eºrps de leur le malheur fuſt ſi grand,qu'aucun s'oubliaſt de tant en ſes neceſſitez, que de ne vouloir ou ſçauoir trouuer ayeuls. moyen de retirer ſongage, il tomboit en tel deshonneur & infamie, qu'il n'euſt pas eſté bon à donner à -- manger b c d :: combuſtions & gangrenes. manger aux chiens,& ne ſe fuſt osé môſtrer en public.car on luy faiſoit la huée,comme l'on fait à vn loup, ou vn chien enragés& de liberté,tomboit en vne ignominieuſe ſeruitude,comme ayant deſauoiié & renon- cé ſa race,& origine.ce qui eſt teſmoigné par claude paradin,en la preface du liure qu'il a fait des allian- ces & genealogies des roys & princes de la gaule. pierre meſſie en ſes diuerſes leçons, chapitre .eſcrit, que les anciens romains auoient vne couſtume de bruſler les corps morts,& que le premier des senateurs qui fut bruſlé apres ſa mort,fut sylla,& apres luy pluſieurs autreshommes notables & illuſtres : & lescen- dres deſquels on gardoit dedans des vrnes ou vaiſſeaux de terre , puis on les poſoit dedans les ſepulchres ou tombeaux ſouz terre , faits en voulte.les grecs auoient auſſi cette maniere de bruſler les corps morts. stobées eſcrit , que les colches n'enterroient point leurs morts, mais les pendoient aux arbres. les scy- thes d'aſie ſe ſeruoient pourboire, de l'os du crane de leurs parens & amis, enchaſsé en or, pour en auoir touſiours memoire : & entre tous les threſors & choſes precieuſes eſtimoient leſdites taſſes. ch a p. x. a v a n t a g e les egyptiens reconnoiſſans cette vie eſtre de peu de durée au regard de celle que nous auons à viure apres la ſeparation du corps d'auec l'ame , eſtoient fort negli- gens à baſtir maiſons pour eux loger, mais au reſte ſi magnifiques a edifier pyramides , deſ- $ quelles ils ſe vouloient ſeruir pour leurs ſepulchres, que pour le baſtiment d'vne qui fut en- $ trepriſe par cheopes l'vn de leurs roys , cent mille hommes y furent employez, chacun trois mois , l'eſpace de vingt ans : laquelle eſtan» de forme quarrée , auoit de profondeur cinq ſtades, & en cha- cun front huict cens pieds de large , & autant de haut, chaque pierre ayant le plus ordinairement trente pieds,-fort bien ouurée, comme raconte herodote. or deuant qu'enfermer les corps dedans ces ſuper- bes ſepulchres, ils les portoient auec pompes magnifiquesvers les salleurs ou embaumeurs ( office § ſalarié du peuple ) qui les embaumoient de choſes aromatiques & exquiſes, ſelon la volonté & puiſſance des parens & amis comme nous auons dit cy-deſſus:leſquels reſous ils retournoient prendre,& eſtans biens lauez & netoyez les lioient de bandes faites d'vn drap de ſoye collé auec certaines gommes. et lors les claude pu. radin pierre meſ- ſie. les rcmainr bruſloient les corps f rº ; les grecs bruſlsient leurs corps m ºrf . les scytbe beuuvient dans le cra- ne de leurs pere ér au - rres parent. cheopes rcy d'egypte. herodote li- mº'º : . parens & amis reprenoient le corps, & luy faiſoieut faire vn eſtuy de bois moulé & effigié d'homme, de- . dans lequel ils le poſoient.voila comme les egyptiens enterroient leurs roys & princes.autresmettoyene dedans les corps ainſi preparez,vne idole faite de cuyure,ou marbre,& quelquesfois d'or & d argent,qu'ils adoroient : & auoient cette opinion , que le corps eſtoit gardé & conſerué de putrefaction , ayans leurs dieux repoſans auec leurs corps dedans leurs monumens, & que telle ſuperſtition donnoit ſoulagement à l'ame. i'ay veu au cabinet, de theuet, vne petite idole de marbre blanc, marquetée d'vn certain verd, qu'il affirme auoir apporté de ce pays là, & qu'elle auoit eſté trouuée en vn corps mumié. ainſi voit-on comme les egyptiens eſtoient fort ceremonieux & grands idolatres. louys de paradis,chirurgien,natifde vitry en partois,m'a dit qu'eſtant au grand caire il veit .ou o.pyramides faites de bricques.entre autres il en veit vne de merueilleuſe grandeur,de figure quarrée,ayant en chaque face trois cens pas.celle-là eſtoit la plus grande, appellée la pyramide de pharaon , où ſont pluſieurs corps mumiez. en outre, qu'il entra dedans vne deſdites pyramydes, où il veit plus de deux cens corps encores tous entiers,qui auoient les on- gles rouges : parce que c'eſtoit la couſtume de pays-là que pour auoir de belles mains,il failloit auoir les ongles rouges. les gens du pays ne veulent ſouffrir qu'on tranſporte aucun deſdits corps, diſans que les chreſtiens ſont indignes de manger leurs corps morts.que ſi on les tire hors du pays,c'eſt par le moyen de quelques iuifs,qui les deſrobent & emballent auec leur marchandiſe,afin qu'on ne les puiſſe cognoiſtre.le seigneur de la popeliniere,en ſon liure des trois mondes,dit que quand les indiens de canarie meurent, c'eſt pitié des hurlemens & plaintes que font les femmes, leſquelles racontent leurs loüanges d'auoir bien tué & mangé les hommes eſtans leurs ennemis : et qu'apres leur auoir lié les bras & pieds, elles les enue loppent de leur lict de cotton,& les enterrent en vne foſſe ronde & profonde , preſque tout debout, auec quelques colliers & plumaſſerie qu'ils auront plus aymé:comme les indiens du perou font de leurs roys & caciques,auec quantité d'or & pierre precieuſes : & les celtes anciennement,qui eſtoient enterrez auec le plus beau de leurs meubles : & la femme qu'ils auoient la plus aymée. c h a p. x i. É cette meſme curioſité nos françois eſmeus & incitez font la plus grande part embaumer les corps des roys & grands seigneurs, & dreſſent des figures enleuées en boſſes,ou en plates # ， z peintures, approchans de la grandeur & figure au plus pres qu'ils peuuent du treſpaſsé. on # en trouue vn teſmoignage en l'egliſe de s. denys en france & en beaucoup d'autres lieux, la où l'on voit pluſieurs effigies des roys & reynes , & autres grands seigneurs : ce que chre- ſtiennement ils ont euidemment tiré tant du nouueau teſtament que du vieil, & façon de faire ancienne des iuifs. car il eſt dict au nouueau teſtament, que ioſeph achepta vn linceul , & que nicodeme appor- ta vne mixtion de myrrhe & d'aloës, iuſqu'au poids d'enuiron cent liures, de laquelle auec autres odeurs aromatiques ils embaumerent & enſeuelirent le corps de ieſus-chriſt, comme la couſtume des iuifs eſtoit d'enſeuelir leurs corps embaumez, en ſigne de cette incorruption qu'ils eſperoient en la reſurrection des morts,comme nous auons dit. ce que meſmes depuis eux voulurent faire les maries : ce qu'ils auoient ap. º d pris de leurs peres anciens. car ioſeph, au viel teſtament,commanda à ſes medecins d'embaumer ſon pere. or qui eſt cauſe qu'à preſent nos roys , princes, & grands seigneurs , encore qu'ils ſoient vuidez & lauez d'eau de vie & de vinaigre,& ſalpoudrez de choſes grandcment aromatiques,n'y eſpargnans aucunes choſes pour les embaumer, neantmoins auectout cela,en cinq ou ſix iours,ou moins,ſentent ſi mal,qu'on ne peut endurer eſtreaux lieux où ils ſont, & eſt-oncontraint les enfermer en leur cercueil de plomb:car nonob- ſtant tel appareil, parce qu'ils ne söt plongez en ſaumeures auec leſdites choſes aromatiques,cóme ancien- nement on faiſoit,& auſſi pour la grande multitude de gens qui y entrent pour les voir,& le grand nombre detorches& lumieres y eſtans iour & nuict,l'air s'eſchauffe ſi fort,que le corps n'ayant eſté imbu aſſez long- temps de choſes qui gardent la pourriture,il aduient qu'en peu de iours s'eſleue vne vapeur puâte & cada- uereuſe,qui offenſe grandement ceux qui la ſentent.icy ie veux aduertir le lecteurs ſur ce qu'on m'a voulu donner quelquesfois blaſme de n'auoir ſçeu bien ambaumer les roys attendu la pourriture qui toſt apres s'eſleuoit de îeurs corps.car ma reſponſe eſtoit facile à faire,c'eſt qu'ils n'auoiét eſté trempez & ſalez ſoi xante & di, iours,comme les anciens faiſoient,dedans le vinaigre & choſes aromatiques , & que la faute ne b b procedoit lonys de pa» f' , pyramide de pharaon. grande bap- ba rie ». - s. iean à o. . geneſe . pºurquoy les roys embau- mez à la mode qui court, ne ſe peuuent gar- der. decte reſpen- ſe de l'au- thear. | douzieſme liure des contuſions. procedoit que de là,comme il ſe peut prouuer,que le vinaigre garde de pourriture, d'autant qu'il eſt froid a & ſec,qui ſont deux choſes repugnantes à putrefaction,ee que l'experience monſtre : attendu qu'en iceluy ' on gai de les herbes,fleurs,fruicts,voire ſi fort humides,comme concombre,pourpié, & autres choſes , ſans #. qu'elles ſe pourriſſent. ie puis dire auoir vn corps en ma maiſon, lequel me fut donné par le lieutenant garde vn criminel,nommé,seguier,seigneur de la verriere,apres auoir eſté executé par iuſtice,il y a vingt-ſept ans § a - paſſez,que i'anatomiſav,& leuay preſque tous les muſcles du corps de la partie dextre(afin que lors que ie misé. veux faire quelques inciſions à quelque malade,voyant les parties de recente memoire,ie ſois plus aſſeuré en mes œuures ) la partie ſeneſtre laiſſée en ſon entier : pour lequel mieux conſeruer ie le picquay d'vn poinçon en pluſieurs endroits, afin que la liqueur penetraſt au profond des muſcles, & autres parties, & voit-on encore à preſent les poulmons entiers,cœur,diaphragme,mediaſtin,eſtomach,ratelle,reins;ſembla- blement le poil de la barbe,& d autres parties,voire les ongles,leſquels i'ay apperceu éuidemment recroi- ſtre,apres les auoir par diuerſes fois couppez. - | • c h a p. xii. | * ' ] a r ce recueil on peut voir, que les anciens eſtoient fort curieux d'embaumer leurs corps° % mais non pas à l'intention qu'ils ſeruiſſent à manger & à boire aux viuans, comme on les a \- pourquoy les : #" fait ſeruir iuſqu'à preſent.car iamais ne penſerent à telle vanité & abomination,mais bien ou fai * pour l'opinion qu'ils auoient de la reſurrection vniuerſelle, ou pour vne memoire de leurs embanmer. - - - º - "a * - | • a.theuet * parens & amis decedez. cela eſt confirmé par andré theuet, en ſa cofmographie, où il dit b auoir eſté en egypte en des cauernes longues d'va traict d'arc,& de largeur aſſez grande , dans leſquels il y a des tombeaux,où anciennement eſtoient poſez les corps morts embaumez , où il faut porter du feu à raiſon de l'obſcurité,& des beſtes veneneuſes qui y habitent. il y a(dit-il)descorps paſſé deux mil ans en- clos en des tombeaux de pierre, fermez & cimentez. ie laiſſe à penſer quelle bonne viande on feroit d'en vn medecin boire ou mangvr* preſent.on dit que la mumie,dont on a vsé iuſques auiourd'huy, eſt venuë de là : à rai- iuifa ,ſté ſon d'vn maſtin medecin iuif, qui par vne brutalité auoit eſcrit que cette chair ainſi confite & embaumée ,auſe que ſeruoit grandement à la curation de pluſieurs maladies, & principalement aux cheutes & coups orbes, & l'on a mangé meurtriſſeures,pour garder que le ſang ne ſe caillebotaſt & congelaſt dedans le corps: qui a eſté cauſe que les corps des l'on les tiroit furtiuement,ou par argent,hors de tombeaux.ce qui ſemble choſe fabuleuſe, parce que les etyptiens. nobles,riches, & anciennes maiſons n'euſſent iamais enduré pour rien du monde, que les ſepulchres de leurs parens & amis,deſquels ils eſtoient tant curieux,fuſſent ouuerts, & les cofps emportez hors de leur. pays,pour eſtre mangez des chieſliens,& diſent qu'ils ne ſont dignes demanger de leurs corps. et s'il eſt aduenu que l'on en ait tranſporté,ç'a eſté de la populace, qui ont eſté embaumez de la ſeule poix aſphal- autre ma- ººº §phalte,dequoy onpoiſſe les nauires. autres diſent, que mumie n'eſt autre choſe qu'vne ſimple , § , chair humaine priſe des corps morts trouuez dans les ſables & arenes qui ſont és deſerts d'arabie,où l'on amumie. dit que leſdites arenes s'eſleuent ſi haut par la violence des vents,que ſouuent elles couurent & eſtouffent les paſſans:d'où vient que les corps morts reſſeichez, tant par la chaleur & aridité des arenes, que par le ſoufflement des vents, ſe donnent & ſeruent en vſage medicinale pour mumie. matheole ſuiuant la plus commune opinion,dit que mumie n'eſt autre choſe qu'vne liqueur reſſeichée , ſortant des corps humains aromatiſez & embaumez. - c autrel. serapion & auicenne n'ont cogneu autre mumie que piſſaſphalte, qui eſt vne ſorte d'eſcume qui pro- uient de la mer.ladite eſcume,pendant qu'elle nage & flotte ſur l'eau eſt molle,& comme liuide:mais peu apres eſtât portée par l'impetuoſité des vagues aux riuages,& arreſtée entre les rochers & cailloux, fe deſ- ſeiche & affermit plus dure que la poix reſſeichée,comme il eſt diſcouru par dioſcoride,liu.r.chap. . - autre . autres tiennent qus la mumie ſe fait & façonne en noſtre france:& que l'on deſrobe de nuict les corps aux gibets,puis on les cure oſtant le cerueau & les entrailles,& les fait-on ſeicher au four,puis on les trem- pe en poix noire,apres on les vend pour vraye & bonne mumie,& dit-on les auoir acheptez des marchands portugais,& auoir eſté apportez d'egypte.mais qui voudra rechercher, comme i'ay fait chez les apoticai- res,on trouuera des membres & portions des corps morts,voire de tous entiers, eſtre embaumez de poix les rerps noire,leſquels ſentent vne odeur cadauereuſe.neantmoins ie croy qu'ils ſont auſſi bons que ceux qu'on ap- mumiez en porte d'egypte : parce que tout n'en vaut rien. france ſont - auſſi bons c h a p t r e xiii. que fé?m.x' d esyruscar # e p v s que n'agueres deuiſant auec guide de la fontaine, medecin celebre du roy de na- tout » en v# uarre, ſçachant qu'il auoit voyagé en egypte & en la barbarie, ie le priay me faire partici- "u mf , - pant de ce qu'il auoit appris de la licorne & de la mumie. ilme dit que c'eſtoient toutes ba- ſ， yes ce qu'on bruyoit par deçà de la licorne, & que iamais n'en auoit rien ſçeu deſcouurir. - et quant à la mumie , qu'eſtant l'an . en la ville d'alexandrie d'egypte, il ouyt dire qu'il y auoit vn iuif qui en ſaiſoit grand trafic : en la maiſon duquel allant, le ſupplia de luy vouloir monſtrer les corps mumiez : ce qu'il fit volontiers, & luy ouurit vn magaſin, où il y auoit pluſieurs corps entaſſez d les vns ſur les autres. iceluy priant derechefle iuifde luy vouloir dire ou ilauoit recouuré ces corps , & s'ils ſe trouuoient comme en auoient eſcrit les anciens, és ſepulchres du pays : ledit iuif en ſe mocquant de cette impoſture, ſe print à rire, l'aſſeurant & affermant qu'il n'y auoit point quatre ans que tous leſ- dits corps qu'il voyoit là en nombre de trente ou quarante, il les preparoit luy-meſme, que c'eſtoient · corps d'eſclaues , ou autres perſonnes. ledit de la fontaine luy demandant encore , de quelle nation, & s'ils n'eſtoient point morts de mauuaiſe maladie, comme de lepre, verole, ou peſte : il luy reſpondit, le juifſe qu'il ne ſe ſoucioit point d'où ils fuſſent, ny de quelle mort ils eſtoient morts, ou s'ils eſtoient vieils ou mocque des ieunes, maſles ou femelles, pourueu qu'il en euſt, & qu'on ne les pouuoit cognoiſtre quand ils eſtoient cºrºſº embaumez. encore luy dit-il qu'il s'eſmerueilloitgrandement comme les chreſtiens eſtoient tant friands ## de manger les corps des morts- ledit de la fontaine l'importunant de luy declarer la façon qu'il tenoit à r ! / f manger de les embaumer, dit qu'il vuidoit le cerueau & les entrailles, & friſoit de grandes inciſions au profond des #. ,., muſcles, & apres les rempliſſoit de poix indée,appellée aſphalte, & prenoit des vieux linges trem- corps morts. p * º ladite liqueur, & les poſoit dans leſdites inciſions, apres bandoit chacune partie ſeparément : & r#onſe du cftans ainſi bandez, enueloppoit tout le corps d'vn drap trempé ſemblablement en ladite liqueur : leſ- iu#, dis quels ainſi accouſtrez , les mettoit en certains lieux, où il les laiſſoit pour confire deux ou trois mois. d'eſtre bien finalement ledit de la fontaine jdiſant que les chreſtiens eſtoient doncques bien trompez, de croire ndfée. que les corps mumiez fuſſent tirez des ſepulchres anciens des iuifs : le iuif luy fit reſponſe,qu'il eſtoit im- poſſible combuſtions & gangrenes. a poſſible que l'egypte euſt peu fournir de tant de milliers de corps,qui ont eſté enleuez depuis que cette ce- - remonie a eſté, car de dire auiourd'huy qu'elle s'obſerue,cela eſt faux:d'autant que cette region eſt ſeule- ment habitée des turcs,des iuifs,& des chreſtiens,qui ne ſont couſtumiers d'vſer de telle ceremonie d'em- baumement , comme du temps que les roys d'egypte y commandoient. c h a p. x iv. •° z r par ce diſcours du iuif, on voit comme on nous fait aualler indifcrettement & brutalement n§ la charongne puante & infecte des pendus ; ou de la plus vile canaille de la populace d'egypte, ， ou de verolez,ou peſtiferez,ou ladres,comme s'il n'y auoit moyen de ſauuer vn homme tombé é$ de haut,contus,& meurtry,ſinon en luy inſerant; & comme entant vn autre homme dedans le ºs corps,& s'il n'y auoit autre moyen de recouurer ſanté, finon que par vne plus que brutale in- humanité. et ſi en ce remede yauoit quelque efficace,veritablement il y auroit quelque pretexte d'excuſe. mais le fait eſt tel de cettemeſchante drogue,que non ſeulement elle ne profite de rien aux malades, com- me i'ay plufieurs fois veu par experience à ceux auſquels on en auoit fait prendre , ains leur cauſe grande . douleur à l'eſtomach, auec puanteur de bouche,grand vomiſſement , qui eſt pluſtoſt cauſe d'eſmouuoir le nota. ſang,& le faire dauantage ſortir hors de ſes vaiſſeaux,que de l'arreſter : les peſcheurs vſent d'appaſts puans - pour allicher les poiſſons;à cette cauſe ils vſent de mumie,parce qu'elle eſt fort puante.theuet dit l'auoir experienct experimenté en ſoy-meſme,enayant quelquesfois pris en egypte,à la ſuſcitation d'vn nommé idere,iuif.a par theuet. cette cauſe ie proteſte de iamais n'en ordonner ny permettre à aucun en prendre s'il m'eſt poſſible. quoy? obiection. dira quelqu'vn , que fera-on donc pour garder que le ſangne ſe coagule dedans le corps de ceux qui ſeront tombez de haut en bas,ou auront receu coups orbes comme de pierre , ou de baſton, ou de quelque autré choſe lourde & peſante.ou ſe ſeront violentement heurté contre quelque choſe dure, ou par vne grande extenſion,comme ceux leſquels on tire ſur la gehenne,ou pour extremement crier , dont quelque vaiſſeau du poulmon ſe peut rompre,ou pour vn coup d'harquebuſe,ou d'eſpée, ou autre inſtrument ſemblable, & pour le dire en vn mot,toutes choſes qui peuuent inciſer,contundre,& meurtrir , caſſer eſcacher, & rom- pre,non ſeulement les parties molles,mais auſſi les os,& faire ſortir le ſang hors des veines & arteres, qui à cauſe de ce ſont preſſées,exprimées,rompuës,& dilacerées,dont le ſang tombe dedans les parties interieu- res du corps,& ſouuent eſt ietté non ſeulement par les playes,mais par la verge,ſiege, & par la bouche ce que i'ay veu plufieurs fois:meſme les parties exterieures en ſont pareillement contuſes & bleſsées auec playes,& ſouuent ſans playes,de ſorte que le cuir demeure tout entier,mais le ſang eſtreſpandu par la chair des muſcles,& entre cuir & chair ſeulement:dont la partie eſt rendue liuide & noire, laquelle diſpoſition eſt nommée des anciens grecs,ecchymoſis. en quoy l'on obſerue entre autres choſes, que ſi quelqu'vn eſt tombé de haut,ou frappé de coup orbe,& qu'il ſaigne par le nez,bouche & oreilles,cela veritablement de- monſtre qu'ily a quelque veine ou artere rompue & ouuerte dedans la teſte,& ſouuent aduient que le ma- ... s :, lade meurt.les ſignes de mort ſont vomiſſemens,defaillance de cœur,perdition de parole,delire,ou reſue- signes de rie,ſueur freide,vrine retenue, & les eiections ſortent hors,ou ſont retenues inuolontairement. , , º ... en tout cecy faut ſuiure la doctrine des anciens,comme hipp.en la ſection des fractures,qui dit, qu'en #" toutes grandes contuſiós il faut ſaigner,ou purger,ou faire les deux enſemble,afin de tetirer le ſang,qu'ilne # fluë aux parties interieures,& pour l'euacuer quand il y a plenitude.pareillement galien ſur la fentence . " de la .ſection du liure des articles,que ſi quelqu'vn eſt tombé de haut,encore qu'il n'euſt aſſez de ſang, ſi eſt-ce qu'il luy en faut tirer.pourquoy le chirurgien ne faudra à tirer du ſang ſelon la grandeur du mal, & plenitude,& force du malade.ce qu'ayant fait,on luy donnera à boire de l'oxycrat,par le commâdement du meſme galien,liure .de la methode,chap. .quia faculté de refrigerer & reſtraindre & inciſer les thröbus, & caillots de ſang,& garde qu'il ne ſe coagule dedans les parties tant interieures qu'exterieures:toutesfois il ne faut donner à boire à ceux qui ont vlceres aux poulmons, & qui ont l'eſtomach plein de viandes. au lieu de l'oxycrat,on fera prendre au malade de la rheubarbe,qui eſt ainſi ordónée par raſis,& meſué,com- r•ſi & me s'enſuit. .rhcubarbari electi .j.aquae rubiae maioris & plantaginis añ. .j.theriacae . ſº. ſyrupi de roſis meſué. ſiccis .É.fiat potus:lequel ſera dôné tout auſſi toſt que le malade ſera tombé,& ſera retierée par trois ma- tins,s'il eſt neceſſaire. autres l'ordonnent en cette façon. /.. radicum gentiana .iij. bulliant in oxycratd, in quo diſſolutio rheubarbarielecti .j.fiat potio.dauantage l'eau de noix vertes tirées par l'alébic eſt auſſi l'eau de fort loiiée,donnée à boire la quantité d'vne ou deux onces,qui a grâdiſſime vertu de diſſoudre le ſang cail- noix vertes lé,tombe dedans le corps,ce que i'ay dit cy-deſſus.qu'à la mienne volonté, les apothicaires fuſſent autant ſingulier . curieux d'en eſtre fournis,comme ils ont eſté,& ſont encore d'auoir de la mumie, & qu'ils la vendiſſent au donnée - quadruple,ce ſeroit le mieux pour les malades. et i'eſpere qu'apres auoir entendu par cét eſcrit la bonne ºº drogue que c'eſt que la mumie.ils n'envoudrºt tenir en leurs boutiques,ny la plus vendre qu'aux peſcheurs #º # pour prendre les poiſſons.mais pour retourner à noſtre propos, apres auoir baillé aux malades les potions # ſuſdites,il le faut enuelopper dedans la peau d'vn mouton,ou d'vn veau freſchement eſcorché , ſur laquelle # §ºi ſera aſpergé & eſpandu de la poudre de myrte puis le poſer dedans vn lict chaudement,où il ſera bien cou- § # uert,& ſuera tout à ſon aiſe,ſans toutesfois dormir de quatre ou cinq heures,afin que le ſangne ſe retire au dedans du corps,& le lendemain on luy oſtera la peau,& ſera oingt de ce liniment, lequel a puiſſance de ſei- der la douleur,& reſoudre le ſang meurtry. .vnguenti de alt. .vjolei lumbricorum, camomilla & aneth. añ. .ij.terebenthinae venetœ iij.farinx fœnugrxci,& roſarum rubrarum,myrtillorum pulueriſatorum añ. .j.fiat linimentum et ſi c'eſt quelque homme qui ne puiſſe auoir telles commoditez,il le faut mettre dedans du fien:mais premierement deſſus vn peu de foin,ou paille blanche,puis l'enuelopper en vn drap,& le cou- urir dudit fien iuſqu'à la gorge,& l'y faire tenir tant qu'il ait bien ſué.dauâtage faut que les malades tien- nent bon regime de viure,& ne boire vin de ſept iours,ains ſeulement de l'hydromel,ou oxymel, ou hippo- crasd'eau.et ſi le mal eſt grand,de ſorte que le malade fuſt tant meurtry, qu'il ne peuſt remuer les membres on luy donnera vne potion ſudorifique,& le baignera-on en eau,où on aura fait bouillir herbes neruales,& principalement les ſemences que l'on trouue ſous le foing,qui ont grande vertu de diſſoudre le ſang meur- try,tant des parties interieures,qu'exverieures. toutesfois,s'il y auoit fiévre,ne le faudroit mettre au bain, & ſerois d'aduis qu'on appcllaſtvn docte medecin. or apres auoir diſcouru ſommairement des remedes pour garder que le ſang ne ſe congele,caillebotte,& pourriſſe dedans les parties interieures du corps:nous traitterons à preſent des cötuſions & meurtriſſeures,qui ſe font aux parties exterieures,quelquesfois auec playe,autresfois ſans playe,en ſorte que ſe cuir demeure tout entier,mais le ſang eſt reſpandu par les muſ- eles,& entre cuir & chair ſeulement : laquelle indiſpoſition a eſté nommée des anciens ecchymoſe. • - c h a p ' - - - - douzieſme liure des contuſions, faut diuer. ſifier les re. medes ſelon # les parties bleſſées. ue# vemedes ſont eſcrits pag. - scarifica- tions ſuper- fieielles. remede pour fe talon ron- h f. hippstº au liure des articles. miſtoires - c h a r t r e xv. l faut diuerſifier les remedes ſelon ſes parties bleſsées.au commencement on doit vſer de remedes froids & aſtringens,afin que le ſang ne tombe ſur les parties offensées, & reſſerrer les veines &arteres , pour empeſcher la fluxion,cemme-ceſtuy cy : prenez onguent de bolo, blanc d'œuf, huile roſat, & de myrte, poudre de maſtic,alum cuit. autre,que i'ay en vſage * ordinairement. /. albumina ouor.num.tria,olei myrtill & roſarum afi. .j.nucum cupreſſi,& gallarum pulueriſatarum,aluminis vſti añ.#.ij-incorporentur ſimul,addendo aceti parum , fiat vnguentum. apres auoir vsé ſuffiſamment de repercuſſifs,onvſera de fomentation,emplaſtres,& cataplaſmes reſolutifs. exemple.prenez de la bouë de vache,lie de vin,ſon de fourment,terebenthine commune, beurre frais, & ſoit fait cataplaſme,yadiouſtant de l'eau devie,& vn peu de vinaigre.ce cataplaſme eſt propre à reſoudre quelque grande meurtriſſeure ſur les bras & iambes des pauures gens. aux riches on vſera de ces emplaſtres, qui ont eſté de long-temps ordonnez pour les roys, princes & grands seigneurs allans à la chaſſe.lors qu'ils tomboient de cheual,ou ſe heurtoient, les c hirurgiens ap- pliquoient cét emplaſtre au commencemét.% boliarmeni,terrœ ſigillata afi- -j-É.roſarum rubrarum,myr- tillorum afi. .vj.nucis cupreſſi .ij.omnium ſandalorum afi- .j.nucis moſcatar . .maſtichis, ſtyracis, cala- mitr,afi. .j. cerz nouz #. † naualis ij.terebenthina venetz, quantum ſufficit : fiat emplaſtrum. et quand il eſtoit beſoin de reſoudre dauantage,on vſoit de ceſtuy-cy.#.ſtyracis calamitx,labdanibenjoin. añ. .iij.maſtichis,ireos florentiz,baccarum lauri,cinamomi,caryophili,calami aromatici,añ. .j.ligni aloes, florum camomillz,lauandulz,nucis moſcata añ. É.moſchi -j.cerae noux .vj. reſinz . ij.terebenthinz venetz .iij. olei roſarum quantum ſufficit : fiat emplaſtrum. s'il aduient qu'on ſoit bleſſé au viſage, & que l'on ait les yeux(comme l'on dit)pochez au beurre noir, faut ſubit prendre vn mouſchoir trempé en eau froide,& vinaigre,& en baſſiner la partie. cependant on aura blancs-d'œufs battus en eau roſe, pour les appliquer dedans & autour des yeux,& parties proches et ſubit que tel remede ſera ſec,on y remettra d'autre:et apres du ſang de pigeon ouautre volaille,qui ont faculté de ſeder la douleur,& reſoudre le ſang meurtry des yeux. auſſi on fera vne fomentation de ſauge,thym,romarin,marjolaine boüillies en eau & vin. dauantage on peut prendre de l'aluyne hachée,& posee ſur vne pelle chaude, & l'appliquer deſſus entre deux linges. la farine de féves cuite en oxymel y eſt auſſi bien propre.quant aux emplaſtres de diachylon ireatum, deme- liloto oxycroceum,elles ſont pareillement reſolutiues : mais ſurtous autres remedes, pourueu qu'il n'y ait ny douleur ny chaleur.la racine de ſigillum beatæ marix appliquée par roüelles,ou ratiſsée,diſcute & re- ſout le ſang meurtry comme choſe miraculeuſe.que ſil'on s'eſtoit heurté des doigts contre quelque choſe dure,ou reçeu quelque coup,ou preſſé,ou eſcaché les ongles qui ſont en danger de tomber,oumarqué de noirceur,à raiſon du ſang qui eſt flué deſſous:cela aduenant, tout ſubit on prendra vn linge trempé en vi- naigre froid,& eſtreindra le doigt bleſſé de l'autre main,le plus fort que l'on le pourra endurer,afin de re- primer la fluxion : & pour ſeder la douleur,on mettra deſſus vn cataplaſme fait de fueilles d'ozeille,cuites ſous les cendres chaudes,puis pilées auec onguent roſat,ou beurre frais.etpour reſoudre le ſang ja deflué, on yappliquera cataplaſmes faits de crotes de chévres,incorporées auec poudre de ſouphre,&vn peu d'eau de vie.la cure ſera paracheuée ſelon que l'on verra eſtre de beſoin.dauantage ſi par vne grande contuſion & meurtriſſeure ſuruient quelquefois gangrene,& mortification, qui ſe cognoiſt quâd la partie deuiét fort liuide & noire,iuſques à ſembler que ſa chaleur eſt preſque ſuffoquée & eſteinte pour la grande cöcretion de ſang deflué en la partie,qui empeſche que les eſprits ne peuuent paruenir pour l'entretenir en ſon eſtret alors il faut vſer de ſcarifications ſuperficielles,ou profondes,& appliquer des ventouſes,pour faire attra- ction & vacuation du ſang eſpandu hors des veines : & s'il y auoit totale mortification, conuiendroit faire amputation de ce qui ſeroit mort.si quelqu'vn a ſauté & tombé ſur le talon de haut à plomb, ſur quelque choſe dure,& par la contuſion le ſang ſort hors de ſes veines,dont il ſuruient grande douleur,puis tumeur, & apres il ſe noircit & ſe fige;puis ſe pourrit.la douleur vient pour la contuſion qui s'eſt faicte à l'aponeu- roſe du gros tendon composé de trois muſcles de pommeau de la iambe, qui s'implante ſous le talon , & fur toute la ſolle du pied, & des nerfs qui ſont en ces parties là : à quelques-vns leur ſuruient fiévre, ſpaſ- me,& autres cruels accidens : ce que ie certifie auoir veu aduenir. partant il y faut obuier tant que poſſible ſera, en faiſant la ſaignée au bras du coſté malade : puis faire vacuation du ſang meurtry,à ſçauoir en cou- pant la peau deſſous # talon,pour luy döner tranſpiratió,de peur qu'il ne ſe pourriſſe,& qu'il ne face apo- ſteme ou gangrene. et ſi la peau eſtoit dure,comme elle eſt ordinairement, il eſt beſoin auparauant que la eouper,faire des fomentations d'eau chaude,& huile aſſez longuement:puis y appliquer deſſus du cerat, & autres remedes : la muſcoſité des limaçons auec poudre d'encens,aloës,& myrrhe, ſeichent à merueille le ſang meurtry:faiſant le bandagecomme l'on a accouſtumé aux fractures, commençant ſur le talon , afin de chaſſer le ſangloin de la contuſion,& ſituant le pied plus haut que le reſte du corps,&les guariſſent en ſoi- xante iours,s'ils ſe tiennent en repos ſans nullement marcher. hippocrate dit que ſi l'os du talon vient ca- rieux,la maladie dure vn fiecle,c'eſt à dire, de la vie de l'homme,& que le malade ne doit boire de vin,ains en lieu d'iceluy,de l'hydromel, & non oxymel:car alors que les nerfs ſont offenſez, le vinaigre leur eſt du tout contraire.pareillement pour quelque coup orbe,ou s'entorſer,pour quelque meſmarcheure,ou entor- ſure que les os peuuent ſortir de leurs places,& ſe rompre,fendre,& eſclatter, & enfoncent † iuſques à la moüelle:& ſelon les differences,faut diuerſifier la cure et ſommairement pour ce faire,faut te- nir,pouſſer,eſleuer,ſituer,bafider & lier la partie,& la tenir en repos:toutes leſquelles choſes tu trouueras amplement en l'onzieſme,quatorzieſme,& quinzieſme liures de mes œuures. le douzieſme iour de mars .vn gentil-homme de la ſuitte de monſieur le mareſchal de biron, nom- mé bernaut de l'eſtelle,seigneur dudit lieu,ioüant àl'eſcrime au logis dudit mareſchal,eut vne playe cótuſe dans l'œil ſeneſtre,trauerſant de l'autre part pres la quatrieſme vertebre du col,icelle faite d'vne eſpée rab- batuë,au bout de laquelle yauoit vn bouton rond & plat, de groſſeur d'vn bon poulce, qui fut donné par vn gentil-homme du païs de quercy,nommé le baron de bouluet.toutesfois ledit coup,n'auoit paſſe tout outre de l'autre part,ne rompu entieretnent le cuir,mais y eſtoit demeuré vne petite tumeur liuide & noire de la groſſeur d'vne aueline.d'abondant toute la teſte & le col luy enflerent, né la pouuant tourner pour le ſang qui eſtoit reſpandu entre les muſcles du col.auſſi ledit seigneur jetta le ſang par le nez, & par la bouche & fut fort eſtonné dudit coup.et ne veux oublier que ledit seigneur baron,homme fort & puiſſant, ayant bleſſé ledit bernaut,auſſi toſt qu'il eut donné le coup voulant retirer l'eſpée, ne le peut qu'a grande difficulté,& s'efforça par deux diuerſes fois auparauant que de la r'auoir , à cauſe que les os de rºº # cº a combuſtions & gangrenes a>- À l'œil auoient eſté rompus & enfoncez au dedans parla grande violence dù coup. mondit seigneur le ma- reſchal m'enuoya prier d'aller en ſa maiſon pour penſer ledit bleſſé : où eſtant arriué , le me recommanda d'autant bonne affection, que ſi c'euſt eſté vn de ſes propres enfans.adonc ie iuy feis promeſſe,que ie le ſol- liciterois comme ſi c'eſtoit ſa perſonne.l'ayantveu,ie fus dedans auec paradis , chirurgien de mondit sei- gneur le mareſchal,& solin crinel, chirurgien des bandes françoiſes(hommes bien entendus en la chi- choſe adñi- rurgie,pour leurs grandes & longues experiences, qui le ſolliciterent auec moy iuſques à ce qu'il fuſt du rabie é, tout guary)qu'il fuſt ſaigné de la veine cephalique, du côſté de la bleſſeure. et en l'œil fut appliqué du fort ra . ſang de pigeon(qui eſt vn vray baume des yeux)&aux parties voiſines blancs-d'œufs battus en eau roſe & plantain, & ſur toute la teſte luy fut faite vne en brocation d'oxyrhodinum : puis luy fut appliqu & vn em- plaſtre diachalciteos(apres luy auoir oſtée le poil)diſſout en huile roſat & vinaigre, pour euiter l'infiam- mation des parties interieures du cerueau. il luy fut ſemblablement fait ouuerture, à l'endroit où le bout de l'eſpée n'auoit paſſé outre, de laquelle en ſortit bonne quantité de ſang noir & caillebotte & fut tenuë ouuerte tant que nous veiſmes la teſte & le col tout deſenflez : & les accidens pafſez ; nous luy fiſmes plu- ſieurs autres choſes,que ie laiſſe à cauſe de brieueté. ie ne veux paſſer ſous ſilence , que meſſieurs pigray, cointret,le fort,dioniau,viard,& nicolas marc,& pluſieurs autres, tant medecins que chirurgiens , vin- drent voir penſer cette bleſſeure, ſans perdre la veue, qui eſt vqitablement choſe admirable. il fut gua- ry,graces à dieu,en vingt-quatre iours, & ce ſans que nulle portion d'os en fuſt ſortie, qui eſt encore plus eſmerueillable. que ſi quelqu'vn demande comment cela s'eſt peu faire : ie luy reſpondray que peut eſtre les os de l'orbite qui auoienteſté pouſſez au dedàns,'peurent aûſſi eſtre reduits eu leur lieu, retirant l'eſ- pée au dehors. - c h a p t r e xvi. e ſeptieſme iour de iuin , mil cinq cens quatre † & deux ; le fils de mathurin le beau, s\ marchand bonnetier, demeurant ruë s.denys,à l'enſeigne de la couronne d'argent, aagé de # vingt ſix mois, eſtant au milieu de la ruë, vne coche chargée de cinq gentils-hommes, la #/ # roie de deuant paſſa au trauers du corps dudit enfant.le peuple, criant au cocher qu'il ar- ts\snc n reſtaſt ſes cheuaux, les fit reculer en arriere,& la roüe repaſſa encore vne fois par deſſus le corps de l'enfant. il fut porté en la maiſon de ſon pere & penſoit-on qu'il fuſt mort,& tout euentré, subit ie fus enuoyé querir pour penſer ledit enfant : lequel ie rcuiſitay bien exactement, & ne trouuay aucune fracture, ny luxation en aucun endroit de ſon corps. tout à l'heure i'enuoye querir à la porte de paris vn mouton que ie feis eſcorcher: & apres auoir frotté le corps dudit enfant d'huile roſat & de myrtile,ie l'en- ueloppay nud en la peau dudit mouton tout chaudement, puis luy feis boire de l oxycrat en lieu de mu- : . » mie,pour garder que le ſang ne ſe caillebotaſt,& figeaſt dedans le corps. dauantage ie dy à la rnere qu'elle # ººº- le gardaſt de dormir le plus qu'elle pourroit,pour le moins quatre ou cinq heures,afin que le ſang ne cou- tiſſement. ruſt pas tant aux parties interieures du corps (ce qu'elle fit. ) en outre ie luy appliquay des fomentations d'herbes reſolutiues & emplaſtres,propres aux contuſions,pour reſoudre le ſang meurtry. trois ou quatre iours apres, apperceuant que ledit enfant ne ſe pouuoit tenirdebout, & moins cheminer , ie ſeis appeller monſieur pierre,docteur regent en la faculté de medecine, homme d'excellent ſçauoir , qui luy ordcnna quelque petite medecine,parce qu'il auoit le ventre fort conſtipé: & craignant que la retention des excre- mens ne procedaſt pour la leſion de l'eſpine & les nerfs qui laſchent & aſtraignent les excremens : comme ainſi ſoit que les malades qui ont fracture ou luxation aux vertebres, ſouuent laiſſent aller leurs excremens inuolontairement,autresfois ſont retenus ſans les pouuoir jetter dehors,ce que i'ay veu pluſieurs fois.joint auſſi que par vne grande contuſion les coſtes ſe peuuent ſeparer des vertebres,où elles ſont joinctes.pareil- lement le defaut de ſe ſouſtenir & marcher,me faiſant craindre que ie n'euſſe trouué le vice par la veuë & au toucher,ſçachant que deux yeux voyent plus qu'vn,ie feis ſemblablement appeller iean cointret,& iac- ques guillemeau,chirurgiens du roy,autant bien entendus en la chirurgie qu'il y en ait à paris.où eſtans arriuez viſiterent ledit enfant,ſur lequel ne trouuerent aucune fracture ne luxation.ainſi pourſuiuant la cu- re iufques à la fin,il eſt du tout guary, graces à dieu, & chemine comme il faiſoit auparauant qu'il fuſt bleſſé.et ſi l'on demande comment la roüe de la coche chargée de cinq hommes puiſſe auoir paſſé au tra- uers du corps de l'enfant,ſans auoir rompu les coſtes & vertebres:ie reſpondray, que les coſtes , & princi- palement les fauſſes ſont cartilagineuſes,& mollaſſes,nommément aux ieunes enfans,& partant ſe peuuent grandement ployer,ſans eſtre rompuës. cette preſente hiſtoire pourra encore ſeruir au ieune chirurgien, pour faire le ſemblable,ou mieux s'il peut,à l'endroit de telles bleſſeures, - voila comme les anciens medecins commandent de traicter ceux qui ſont tombez de haut, ou ont eſté frappez,contus & meurtris,pour obuier que le ſangne ſe coagule, ou caillebote, ou ſe pourriſſe, tant aux parties interieures, qu'exterieures, leſquels n'ont iamais parlé , ny ordonné à manger ny à boire de la mu- mie,& chair des corps morts.partant nous la renuoyerons en egypte,comme nous ferons de la licorne aux deſerts inacceſſiblcs. - \. hiâoirl. y des combuſtions, bruſleures, & differences d'icelles. c h a p. xvii. e feu eſt plus chaud ſelon les matieres où il eſt imprimé , comme celuy qui eſt au bois de pifº # chefne, eſt plus chaud que celuy qui eſt auſaule, ou en la paille:celuy qui eſt au fer,eſt plus de bruſlen- # chaud que celuy qui eſt en l'or : celuy qui eſt en l'huile, plus que celuy qui git en l'eau, & # &t; d # ainſi des autres matieres. mais le plus chaud & plus ſubtil & mortel , eſl celuy du ciel, qui # # #s vient par les foudres & tonnerres, & eſt le feu des feux. les bruſleures faites par poudre à - canon , ou metaux,huile,éau,& generalement toutes autres matieres qui bruflent,nc different qu'en la ſeu- le quantité de la combuſtion. leſquelles tout ſubit impriment à la partie vne douleur & chaleur eſtrange, - † retient la qualité du feu(que les grecs appellent empyreuma)plus ou moins ſeló la nature & qualité de a choſe qui bruile,& le témps qu'elle aura demeuré ſur la partie.si la bruſleure eſt ſuperficielle,il s'eſleue bies puſtules ou veſſies ſi on n'y preuoit:& ſi la bruſleure eſt profonde,il s'y fait eſcarre ou crouſte , qui eſt ... .. ,: , la chair bruſlée.l'action du feu faiſant combuſtion, laiſſe à la partie intemperature chaude qui condenſe, # aciicv dti reſtrecit,& eſpeſſit le cuir,le rédant dur & reſſerré,cauſant grande douleur,comme auons dit:qui eſt cauſe # ſi - d'attiier les humeurs des parties prochaines & lointaines , qui ſe conuertiſſent en aquoſitez ſereuſes, qui # # cherchans iſſue,qui leui eſt deniée à raiſon du cuir eſpeſſi par lc feu,eſleuentainſi que nous voyons la peau ſies par #. - excitans veſſies.et de ces differences ſoat priſes indications,dont on tire les remedes,entre leſquels #vns • " ' . - oſtent oo douzieſme liure des contuſions, # # | | - oſtent l'empyreume,qui eſt la chaleur eſtrange imprimée en la partie bruſlée,& appaiſent la douleur qu'el- a medicamens le excitoit.les autres empeſchent qu'il ne s'eſleue veſſies.autres preuoyent à la cure des vlceres,en faiſant refrigera- premierement tomber l'eſcarre,mondifient,incarnent,& cicatriſent.les remedes qui oſtent l'ardeur, dou- rif . leur,& inflammation,ſont de deux ſortes.les vns le font par leur vertu refrigerante , par laquelle ils eſtei- gnent & amortiſſent la chaleur eſtrange, & repouſſent le ſang,& les autres humeurs qui afflueroient à la partie,à cauſe de la douleur & inflammation.les autres ſont de nature du tout contraire, à ſçauoir chauds & attractifs,qui relaſchent le cuir,& ouurent les pores, reſoluent & conſomment l'humidité ſereuſe, qui cauſe les veſſies:& par ce moyen appaiſent la douleur & inflammation.exemple des refrigeratifs,l'eau froi- de,eau de plantain,de morelle,de iuſquiame de ciguë,& jus d'herbes refrigerantes, comme de pourpié, lai- ctuès,plantain,ioubarde,pauot,mandragore, & autres ſemblables. on en pourra ſemblablement faire de compoſez.exemple blancs d'œufs battus,auſſi eaux ou ſucs , la fange de chemin dilayée en fort vinaigre, l'alum de roche fondu en eau,en laquelle ſeront battus blancs-d'œufs , l'encre qu'on eſcrit meſlée en oxy- crat auec vn peu de camphre,vnguentum nutritum,populeum,recentement faits,ou autres ſemblables,leſ- quels ſeront renouuellez ſouuent au commencement tant que l'empyreume & la douleur ſoient appaisées. annotation dauantage ne faut oublier d'appliquer leſdits remedes vn peu chauds,parce que s'ils eſtoient froids actuel- pour le ieune lement,ils inciteroient douleur,& par conſequent fluxion:joint auſſi que leur vertu ne pourroit penetrer ſi chirºtien facilement,& cſtre reduits de puiſſance en effect,& eſtans ainſi appliquez ſedent la douleur,prohibent l'in- flammation,& les veſſies. des medicamens chauds & attractifs , qui oſtent la douleur & inflammation. ch a p i t r e x v i i i. | : ſ)ſ# e feu tient le premier lieu aux petites bruſleures.quand onapproche le lieu bruſlé contre vne n$ chandelle ou charbon ardant, & le tient-on aſſez longuement, on void par experience, que # cette chaleur attire à ſoyce que le feu auoit delaiſsé de ſa qualité,dont procedoit la douleur: les onguens - & eſt par ce moyenle vray alexitere & contrepoiſon du mal qu'il auoit fait. autre remede. ſont propres dysnsn *º c'eſt d'appliquer ſubit des oignons cruds pilez auecvn peu de ſel. et eſt à noter, qu'il ne lcs aux combs- faut appliquer s'il y auoit vlcere, parce qu'ils cauſetoient douleur,& feroient augmentation d'infiamma- aions. tion : ce qui ne ſe fait où le cuir eſt demeuré entier,ſans eſtre eſcorché, mais prohibent qu'il ne ſe procrée bubes ouveſſies:& à cette occaſion hippocrate s'en ſert pour faire tomber les eſcarres.et quant aux parties • circonuoiſines,eſt vtile y appliquer remedes refrigerans.ie ſçay que pluſieurs n'ayans encores experimenté ce remede des oignons,conſiderée leur qualité chaude,contemneront l'application d'iceux,voulant diſpu- ter les maladies eſtre curées par leurs contraires,& que combuſtion eſt faite par chaleur : parquoypour ſa cure demande remedes fioids.toutesfois s'ils veulent oüir la raiſon ils comprendront. l'apparente probation de l'vtilité des oignons au premier appareil des ccmbuſtions. raiſºn, d., , les oignons, comme dit galien , ſont chauds au quatrieſme degré : dont tant s'en faut qu'ils contra- l' ilité ， rient aux combuſtions, que pluſtoſt doiuent eſtre cauſe de l'augmenter : parquoy n'y peuuent commodé- eignons é, ment eſtre appliquez. or nonobſtant que telle raiſon ait quelque apparence de probabilité, toutefois l'ex- combuſtions. perience, raiſon, & authorité nous en demonſtrent le contraire, ce que i'ay veu pluſieurs fois par expe- rience. et par raiſon ſe peut prouuer, que les oignons ſont chauds potentiellement,& actuellement humi- des : ainſi par leur temperature chaude rarifient,& par leur humidité actuelle relaxent le cuir : par ce mo- c yen attirent, conſomment, tariſſent, & ſeichent l'humeur ja fiué : ce faiſant prohibent les veſſies : qui eſt auſſi la raiſon pourquoy il eſt bon promptement qu'on eſt bruſlé, n'approcher la partie du feu. par au- ctorité,galien me perſuade au cinquieſme liure des ſimples, comme les maladies ne ſont touſiours guaries par contraires qualitez : mais aucunesfois par ſemblables : combien que toute curation ſoit faite par con- - trarieté , prenant contrarieté largement. ce que manifeſtement appert aux phlegmons, qui ſont ſouuen- pluſieurs re- tesfois curez par medicament reſolutifs, leſquels en euacuant la matiere les curent. parquoy i'oſe conclu- me，es cenvre re l'application des oignons eſtre commode au commencement des bruſleures, non toutesfois eſcorchées les bruſleu- ou vlcerées.autre.prenez fiente de cheual toute recente, & ſoit fricaſſée en huile de noix ou huile roſat, ' ºj, & ſoit appliqué ſur le lieu bruſlé. il faut renouueller ces remedes trois ou quatre fois leiour & la nuict» s'il y a grande douleur. medicamens attractifs. • jautre remede. \ la° prenez huile de noix,fueilles de ſureau,ou d'hiebles, cuite en ladite huile, & ſoient pilées,yadiouſtant - vn peu de ſel,& appliquées comme deſſus. • a ?rº, - · - prenez chaux eſteinte, & lauée par ſix fois puluerisée, & incorporée auee vnguent roſat. : -aa e º. - *- prenez fueilles de jarus, autrement vit de chien, fueilles de ſaulge, pilées auec vn peu de ſel. • •a lºtrº. prenez colle des menuiſiers,fondue en eau chaude,en double vaiſſeau,& en appliquezauec vne plume ſur la partie bruſlée.et ſi par ces remedes on ne peut tât faire qu'il ne s'y faſſe quelques vefſies,les faudra cou- per auſſi toſt qu'elles ſeront eſleuées:pource que l'humeur retenu ſous icelles acquiert vne acrimonie , qui d corrode la chair , qui cauſe vlceres caues.ainſi par la multiplication de cauſe, & accroiſſement de matiere s'augmente l'inflammation,non ſeulement neufiours(ſelon le vulgaire)mais quelquesfois plus long-temps, & aucunefois moins.ſelon la diuerfité des corps,& auſſi tant que la douleur ſoit ſedée,& la fluxiö arreſtée. remede ren- si la brufleure eſtoit ſi grande,qu'elle euſt fait eſcarre,on la fera tomber par remedes remolliens, & hume- tre l'eſeart. ctans,comme axunges,huiles,beurre,auec vn peu d'onguent baſilicum,ou cét onguent. l mucilag-pſilij &: cydoniorum afi. .iiij.gummi tragacanthi .ij.extrahantur cum aqua parietariae,olei lilior. .ij.f.cerae nouae remede con- quantum ſuff,vnguentü molle.et ſur les eſcorcheures ou vlceres ſeront appliquez remedés propres à telles º º ºſeer-vlceres,leſquelles n'auront nulle acrimonie,comme vnguentialbi raſis camphorati, deſiccatiuum rubeum, cheures. .. onguent roſat,auquel n'y entre point de vinaigre,ou nutritum,fait comme ceſtuy. /...lithargyri aurei .iiij- ºgºnt bië ol roſati .iij.olei de papauere .ij.aqua ſolani vel ſucci & planta.añ. .ij.vnguéti popul. .iiij.canmph approuué. - - - - -- # jºnguet popul# ] pnurae .j.fiat vnguent.in mortario plumbeo ſecundum artem.autre. prenez huile d'œufs battue en vn mortier de plomb : auſſi chaux viue,lauée par neuffois,puis incorporée auec onguent roſat ou beurre frais ſans ſel, e quelque nombre de moyeufs d'œufs durcis:ou /.butyri recëtis ſine ſale vſtulati & colati .vj. vite orum ouorum iiij.ceruſe lota in aqua plantag,vel roſarum #.É.tuthix ſimiliter lota .iij.plumbi vſti & loti -ij- miſceantur omnia ſimul,fiat linimentumvt decet.et faudra augmêter ou diminuer la deſiccation de l'vlcere ſelon t \ | - º # - # ft (! combuſtions & gangrenes. o a ſelon qu'on verra eſtre beſoin.autre z.corticis ſambuci viridis & olei roſati an. fb.j. bulliant ſimul lento igne, poſtea colentur & adde olei ouorum .iiii,pul.ceruſae & tuthia praeparatæ an, .j, cerx alba quantum ſufficit, fiat vnguentum molle ſecundùm artem. . - # tre pour le viſage. il faut prendre de la pommade .ij.mucilage de pſyllion tyré en eau roſe .j.camphre .j.ſperme de ba- leine. . ij. & ſoit fait onguent. s'il y auoit vne grande chaleur & douleur, on prendra ſuc de iuſquiame, iombarbe,ciguë,feüille de nenuphar, de chacun tant qu'il ſera beſoin,beurre frais,ou huyle roſat puis in- corporez le tout dans vne écuelle ſurvn rechaud:& ſoit appliqué deſſus la bruſleure,& renouuellé ſouuét. vnguent pour les taches des grains de poudre à canon. z. vaguenti citrini recenter diſpenſati .ij.oleiroſati .incorporentur,& fiat linimentum. - autre qui a vertu d'appaiſer la douleur. prenez moyeux d'eufs cinq ou ſix, & ſoient incorporez auec mucilages de ſemence de lin, de pſyllium & de coings & renouuellez ſouuent.autre. /. mucilagin.ſem. lini,pſylij & cydonfo. extract. in aqua roſa, vel communi,addendo camph.parum.et à fin que ce remede ne ſe deſſeiche trop ſubitement,faut adiouſter vn peu d'huyle roſat. -autre dent les bames de l'hoftel-zºitu de paris vſent aux bruſleures. - /.. lardi conſciſſi per fruſtra fb.j.liquefiatin aqua roſar.deinde coletur perrarum linteum,& frigidum la- uetur quater cum aqua iuſquiam.vel alteriusgeneris eiuſdem,deinde cum eoincorporentur vitelli ouorum recent.num.viij. fiat vnguentum. lors qu'il y agrande douleur,comme aduient toufiours à telles vlceres, on doit mettre deſſus de la toi- le de creſpe, afin que lors qu'on les eſſuye,on ne les touche à nud & au trauers de ladite toile de creſpe la ſanie ſort librement, & les remedes y entrent pareillement : ce faiſant le malade eſt grandement ſoulagé de la douleur, à cauſe qu'en eſſuyant la ſanie on ne touche à nud l'vlcere.dauantage faut bien garder, que ſi les bruſleures ſont faites aux palpebres, ou aux léures, ou entre les doigts, ou à la gorge,ou ſous les ai- ſeilles, ou aux jarrets, ou au ply des bras, qu'icelles parties ne ſe ioignent les vnes contre les autres : pat- tant on y pouruoira en bien ſituant les parties bruſlées , & mettant touſiours quelques linges entre deux. ie ne veux icy mettre en arriere, que la poudre à canon enflammée penetre en la chair , ſans quelquesfoi vlcerer le cuir:ce qui aduient pour ſa tenuité & ſubtilité. elle demeure de telle façon au profond d'icelle chair, qu'elle n'en peut aucunement eſtre oſtée : en ſorte qu'ayant eſſayé à l'en tirer par tous moyens qu'il m'a eſté poſſible, comme auec veſiccatoires, ſcarifications & cornets appliquez deſſus, ce neantmoins la teinture & marque d'icelle y eſt demeurée , tout ainſi que l'on void les characteres ou lettres qu'on a fait aux eſclaues y demeurer à lamais, quelque choſe qu'on y puiſſe faire. vne profonde bruſleure n'eſt tant douloureuſe qu'vne ſuperficielle c h a p. xix. a v a n t a g e vne profonde bruſleure ayant fait eſcarre dure, n'eſt tant douloureuſe com- me vne qui eſt ſuperficielle; ce que l'experience quotidienne m ſtre en ceux qui ſont cauteri- ſez : car toſt apres la cauteriſation ne ſentent que bien petite douleur, à raiſon qu'icelle gran- à de combuſtion oſte le ſentiment, en bruſlant & mortifiant les parties ſenſibles, comme nous auons dit cy deſſus;parlans des playes des parties nerueuſes, & de la douleur des dents. et à telles eſcarres fait des ſcarifications, tant & ſi profondes , qu'on alle à la chair viue, afin de donner tranſ- piration aux humeurs, & places aux medicamens remollitifs pour pluftoſt faire tomber l'eſcarre, & apres on appliquera remedes deterſifs,& generatifs de chair, adiouſtant aux ſuſdits onguents qu'auons parlé cy- deſſus, des poudres minerales. et quant à la quantité ie ne la puis deſcrire ſans eſtre taxé auec ceux que galien dit, chauſſer toutes perſonnes à vne forme : dont ie laiſſe la quantité d'icelles poudres à la pruden- te coniecture du chirurgien, cognoiſſant bien, que la quantité des medicamens ne ſe peut rattonnellement deſcrire ( non plus qu'vn peintre la meſlange de ſes couleurs ) tant pour la diuerſité des diſpoſitions, que des corps, & des parties d'iceux, & auſſi ſelon la varieté des accidens,& autres choſes qu'auons cy-deuamt dit, parlans des indications. et apres que la nature aura remply de chair l'vlcere , on vſera de medicamens cicatrizatifs qui ont vertu de faire le cuir. or la cicatrice des bruſleures demeure ſouuent laide & rabo- teuſe : parquoy ſera applanie (& principalement aux mains & à la face ) par les remedes eſcrits au traicté de la peſte , chapitre trentehuictieſme. la bruſleure faite par le tonnerre doit eſtre traictée comme celles qui ſont faictes pour la poudre à canon. des gangrenes & mortifications. c h a p. x x. n \ ºſ n toutes les playes & ſolutions de continuité ( deſquelles i'ay perlé cy - deſſus ) ſuruiennent ， le plus ſouuent grands & griefs accidens , tant pour l'inaduertence du chirurgien, que par les fautes qui viennent auſſi bien du patient , que des autres chofes exterieures : ou pour la grandeur de la maladie : & principalement en autres accidens aduiennent gangrene & morti- ' fication , qui ſont de tres-grande importance & peril de vie , fi diligemment on n'y remedie. parrant m'a ſemblé bon eſcrire deſdites gangrenes & mortifications, & ce pour deux raiſons : lvne eſt, que leſdites gangrenes & mortifications donnent plus de mal, tant aux chirurgiens qu'aux patiens, que les maladies auſquelles ſuruiennent, au moyen dequoy faut delaiſſer la propre cure, pour obuier à leur fureur & malignité.l'autre raiſon eſt,que i'ay deſia declaré par cy-deuant, vne partie des cauſes deſdites gangre- nes & mortifications : toutesfois de toutes i'en ay voulu eſcrire amplement & de leur curation, afin qu'vn chacun puiſſe auoir entiere cognoiſſance de les curer ainſi qu'il appartient. ie commenceray donc a la de- finition, puis te declareray les cauſes, leurs ſignes, prognoſtic, & conſequemment la curation, que iedon- neray à entendre par exemple & demonſtration familiere. gangrene eft vne diſpoſition,qui tend à mortifi- cation de la partie bleſſée, qui n'eſt encores morte ny priuée du tout de ſentiment,mais elles ſe meurt peuà peu, en ſorte que ſi bien toſt on n'y donne ordre,elle ſe mortifiera du tout , voire iuſques aux os:qui alors eſt appellée des grecs sphacºlos, ou neereſis, des latins syderatia, & efihiomenos ſelon les modernes , & des vulgaires le feu ſainct antoine,ou ſanct marcel. - c-c - dts bon doca- ºent au ies. me chirur- gien. on ne peut aſſigner. par livre la qnantité des medicas / ;a, il faut laiſ- ſer la propre cure pour ſuruenir aux accidens, definition de gangrº- / , o douziéme liure des contuſions, –- - –- a des cauſes generales de gangrene_r c h a p. xxi. la cauſe ge- y@ a cauſe premiere & generale de gangrene eſt, quand par la diſſolution de l'harmonie ou merale de # temperature des quatre qualitez,vne partie ne peut receuoir les vertus ou eſprits,qui la main- gangrene & # tiennent & conſeruent en ſon eſtre, à ſçauoir l'eſprit naturel procedant du foye,porté parles mortificatiö. # veines pour luy döner nourriture.séblablement l'eſpritvital eſt enuoyé du cœur par les arte- - res pour la viuifier.auſſi l'eſprit animal enuoyé du cerueau par les nerfs pour bailler ſentimét & mouuement leſquels eſprits receus en la partie, conſeruent & reſtaurent l'eſtre & temperature de la par- tie en ſon entier. et au contraire, ſi par quelque empeſchement ne ſont communiquez à icelle partie, faut qu'elle ſoit corrompuë & gaſtée & ſon mouuement depraué qui eſt la cauſe principale deſdites gangrenes & mortification:laquelle auſſi prouient d'autres cauſes ſpeciales & particulieres cy-apres declarées. des cauſes particulieres de gangrene-. ch a p. xxii. combuſtion. e s cauſes ſpeciales ſont primitiues, ou antecedentes. les primitiues & externes ſont combu- ſtions (par le moyen deſquelles ſuruiennent grandes inflammations) faictes actuellement, ou potentiellement : actuellement, comme bruſleures cauſées par feu, huyle, eau, poudre à canon, ou ſemblables : potentiellement,par application de medicamens acres, comme ſublimé, vitrioi frigeration. cauteres potentiels, ou autres : par frigerations ou grandes morfondures faites par l'air qui nous enuiron- ne, ou par indeue application des remedes froids & ſtupefactifs,fractures,luxations,grandes contuſions du meurtriſſeures, fortes ligatures, morſures de beſtes veneneuſes, ou autres non veneneuſes, picqueures de nerf ou tendons, playes faites es parties nerueuſes, comme és iointures ou pres d'icelles : ou faites és corps plethoriques & cacochymes. autres playes eſquelles les vaiſſeaux qui apportent la vie, ſont du tout - *iſºº tranchez ou en partie, dont à aucuns s'enſuit ce que les grecs appellent aneuriſme : & autres cauſes,leſ- • • quelles ie laiſſe pour briefueté. -- -"- | des cauſes antecedentes de gangrene . c h a p. xxiii. · ' : fluxiº cau- $ r# e s cauſes antecedentes ou internes ſont grandes fluxions d'humeurs chaudes ou froides, qui º ſe de gan- : tombent ſur vne partie en plus grande quantité qu'elle ne peut alterer, digerer & regir par les -, #rene. - facultez, en ſorte que telles fluxions ſuffoquent & eſteignent la chaleur naturelle & les eſprits, •: - par faute de tranſpiration. car ponr la petite & eſtroite eſpace du lieu, les arteres ne peuuent # gat au lin # leur mouuemens naturels outre plus galien dit qu'aucunesfois l'inflammation commence aux os | de t§, ºººººº eſt auiourd'huy bien manifeſte. ce que meſme dit hippocrate en la ſentence .des epidemies. : contr, n ººººº ſeulement inflammation ſimple, mais carie & corruption deſdits os, principalement aux verolez, # fmre . & elephantiques ou mezeaux : deſquels la chair & cuir ſe monſtre ſain en aucuns endroits & non corrom- c , pu, & au deſſous on trouue les os tous pourris, corrodez, pertuiſez & vermolus, & meſme le plus ſou- hiſtoire uent perdition de leur propre ſubſtance, voire en grande quantité. ce qui ſe fait d'vne matiere vene- #, menſe, dont la qualité ne ſe peut exprimer. l'hiſtoire ſuiuante en fera foy : hiſtoire, dy-ie, fort remarqua- la teſte,de la ble & digne de grande admiration , d vn receueur de madame la conneſtable , demeurant en la ville de treſ § senlis » nommé du freſnoy, lequel m enuoya prier de l'aller voir,à cauſe qu'il auoit en la teſte vne tumeur ºeuf entre de la groſſeur d'vn œuf entre l'os occipital & parietal, pour ſçauoir de moy s'il y falloit faire ouuerture, . l'os oecipitat eſtimât qu'il y euſt de la boue.i'y trouuay deux medecins & deux chirurgiens demeurans audit senlis,gens cr parietal. d'honneur & de bon ſçauoir : nous conſultâmes ſur le fait de l'ouuerture. ayant conſideré la tumeur, & entendu comme elle eſtoit venue peu à peu, & de longue main, & apres auoir ſenty & remarqué vne pul- ſation ( qui eſtoit le mouuement du cerueau) penſant que ce fut vn altere, parce que lors que i'appuyois ma main deſſus, la tumeur s'abbaiſoit & diminuoit, veritablement i'eus opinion que c'eſtoit vn aneuriſme: & des lors ie dy,qu'il ſe falloit bien garder de faire ouuerture de ladite tumeur,de peur d'vne hemorragie, & par conſequent de mort ſubite. or il y auoit vn des medecins,& vn des chirurgiens, qui tenoient qu'il n'y auoit aucun danger de l'ouurir, eſtimans qu'il n'y euſt que de la boue. le procez eſtantainſi party en - deux , ie fus d'aduis qu'on enuoyaſt querir monſieur fabry, medecin ordinaire du roy, & de madame la - conneſtable, qui eſtoit lors à chantilly, pour s'aduiſer s'il y falloit faire ouuerture ou non : lequel donna promptement ſon aduis , eſtimant comme les autres, qu'il y auoit du pus, & qu'on pouuoit ſans nul dan- ger faire euacuation d'iceluy. toutesfois lors que ie luy dy que i'auois opinion que ce fuſt vn aneuriſme, par les ſignes qui y apparoiſſoient,il changea de propos, & conclud qu'on n'y touchaſt nullement, & qu'il falloit penſer ladite tumeur comme vnaneuriſme, qui auoit touſiours eſté mon aduis. la reſolution faite ie men reuins à paris : mais ledit receueur trois iours apres enuoya querir vn barbier à vn village pres de senlis, lequel ſi toſt qu'il fut arriué, & qu'il euſt veule patient, dit qu'il y auoit du pus contenu en ladite d tumeur, & qu'il n'y auoit point de danger de l'ouurir : ce qu'il fit, & en lieu de boue, en ſortit de la pro- #ºſºſtºneº pre ſubſtance du cerueau, & deux iours, apres ledit receueur mourut. apres ſon decez, la teſte luy fut dº eerueau ouuerte par adam hannequain , hamard cheron, maiſtres barbiers & chirurgiens demeurans audit sen- ſortit de la lis : leſquels m'ont atteſté que la tumeur eſtoit faite de la propre ſubſtance du cerueau, auec deperdition - # #. de deux tables du crane , de la grandeur d'vn noble à la roſe. i'ay bien voulu reciter cette hiſtoire, afin | pretenduë d'aduertir le ieune chirurgien de ne faire ouuerture à lateſte en ſemblables tumeurs. et pour retourner à · noſtre propos, gal. dit au commentaire ſur le .aphor. du . liure, que meſme nature ſorte peut ietter | • la boue au trauers la ſubſtance des os. souuentesfois auſſi quand la chair de quelque partie eſt vlcerée, il º s'engendre vne mauuaiſe ſanie,acre & fetide,de laquelle ſi les os ſuiets ſont imbus ſe corrompent & cariét. ， ce qu'on voit ſouuent aduenir aux vlceres cacoëthes & malins, ou autres, qui de long-temps ont demeu- - aphor. . ré ſur aucune partie.auſſi hippoc. le teſmoigne,diſant qu'en tous vlceres d'vn an ou de plus long-temps, # . il eſt neceſſaire que l'os ſe ſepare & tombe,& qu'il y demeure cicatrices profondes & caues semblablement nameuſe. leſdites gangrenes & mortification aduiennent par qualité veneneuſe, chaude ou froide : chaude, comme on voit aux charbons & anthrax peſtiferez,qu'en moins de vingt-quatre heures ſe fera eſcarre & mortifica- tion en la partie affectée : froide, comme on voit ſubit aduenir en vne partie ſans douleur precedente, ny tumeur, ny liuidité , ou autres fignes de gangrena. ( e que de vigo certific auoir veu aduenir à vne noble femme - combuſtions & gangrenes. o a femme de la cité de gennes il me ſouuient auſſi auoir veu ſemblable faict en cette ville de paris à vn hom- re e»ſ . • " me, lequel faiſoit bonne chere le ſoir, ne ſe plaignant de nulle douleur : toutesfois la nuict luy ſuruint gangrene & mortification aux deux iambes, ſans tumeur ny inflammation : mais il y auoit vne couleur en certains endroits tendante à liuidité, noirceur, verdeur : en aucuns autres endroits eſtoit la couleur quaſi naturelle : & toutesfois il n'y auoit aucun ſentiment, & lors qu'on le piquoit auecques la pointe de la lan- cette, ou bien auec vne épingle, il n'en ſortoit aucunement point de ſang, & de chaleur au ſens du tact il n'y en auoit aucune , mais au contraire on ſentoit pluſtoſt vne froideur. ce voyant, appellay conſeil , par lequel fut deliberé & ordonné qu'on luy feroit pluſieurs & profondes inciſions pour tenter la cure:ce que ie fis, mais d'icelles inciſions n'en ſortoit qu'vn peu de ſang fort noir , gras & quaſi congelé. pluſieurs autres remedes furent tentez : ce neantmoins en bref rendit ſon eſprit à dieu auecques grandes reſteries, gangreneia- ayant le viſage & tout le corps liuide. ie laiſſe à penſer ſi la cauſe n'eſtoit point veneneuſe. pareil cas ad- ºurable-. uint à vn quidam à turin, l'an mil cinq cens trente ſix, ainſi que i'ay entendu par le recit que me fit fran- çois voſte, chirurgien tres-docte, citoyen dudit turin. en ce lieu ne ſera impertinent de declarer & ex- poſer comme ſont faites gangrenes & mortifications par le froid ſans qualité veneneuſe : ce que i'ay ſeule- ment touché en vn mot aux cauſes externes. donques pour plus grande clarté ie te l'expliqueray. le froid extreme, ſoit par l'air ambiens, ou par application de remedes repercuſſifs, froids , & ſtupefactifs, fait vne intemperie froide, ſi grande que les eſprits ſont ſuffoquez & eſteints. et lors que nature ou la pro- uidence de tout le corps renuoye autres eſprits pour ſubuenir à ladite partie, leſdits eſprits ne trouuans l'harmonie bien diſposée pour eſtre receus, ſe retirent ſubit vers leur origine, comme s'ils eſtoient repouſ- ſez par le grand froid de ladite partie,ennemye, & du tout contraire à nature:& pourtant ladite partie ainſi deſtituée deſdits eſprits , promptement ſe mortifie. cecy ſe cognoiſt manifeſtement en ceux qui marchent par les neiges & glaces : car par l'extreme froid perdent aucuns de leurs membres, & bien ſouuent la vie b cóme preſentemêt declarerons.i'ay bonne memoire auoir medicamété en piedmond pluſieurs ſoldats ayans hiſtoire, paſsé les montagnes en hyuer : deſquels les vns par l'extreme froid auoient perdu les oreilles,les autres la moitié d'vn bras, les autres le membre viril , autres les orteils des pieds, aucuns y perdirent la vie,teſmoin la chappelle des tranſis, ſituée ſur le mont senis. auſſi me ſouuient qu'en temps d'hyuer, vn pauure bre- chappelle des ton, ſeruiteur d'eſtable, demeurant à paris , s'en alla coucher ſus vn lict apresauoir bien beu, pres lequel tranſi . yauoit vne feneſtre à demy ouuerte, par laquelle le froid entra, & tellement luy altera l'vne de ſes iam- hiſtoire. bes,qu'à ſon réueil penſant ſe leuer ne ſe peuſt ſouſtenir. et pourtant fut posé pres le feu , duquel il appro- cha ſa iambe, cuidant qu'elle fuſt ſeulement endormie : mais ſe bruſla la plante du pied d'épaiſſeur d'vn doigt ſans rien ſentir : parce qu'elle eſtoitja mortifiée par le froid plus qu'à la moitié. le lendemain ledit breton fut apporté à l'hoſtel-dieu, où il fut viſité par le chirurgien, & autres, leſquels conclurent qu'il eſtoit neceſſaire couper & # iambe ainſi mortifiée, ce qui fut fait : mais ce neantmoins ladite commé it le froid , au e gangr.ne,. mortification gaignales parties ſuperieures,en ſorte que dedans trois iours apres, ledit breton mourut auec ſueur froide,reſueries,grands tourmens & ſyncopes.dauantage auditmeſme temps d'hyuer faiſoit ſi grand froid qu'à aucuns malades couchez audit hoſtel-dieu l'extremité du nez ſe mortifia ſans y auoir aucune pourriture : à quatre d'iceux ie fis amputation de ladite partie, deſquels les deux guarirent,les autres mou- rurent. cependant faut noter, qu'en ce cas de froidure les parties extremes, & entre celles-cy les plus cſloignées du cœur,comme les pieds & iambes:ou les plus froides de leur temperament, comme le nez ou oreilles,& autres cartillagineuſes,ſont touſiours ſaiſies de gangrenes les premieres.puis que i'ay declaré am- plement toutes les cauſes de gangrene & mortification,faut proceder à la declaration des ſignes deſdites gangrenes & mortification, leſquelles ie diſtingueray ſelon leurs cauſes, à fin de bailler aux ieunes chirur- giens,non encores exercez,l'entiere cognoiſſance deſdites gangrenes & mortification,& de leurs cauſes. - - - des ſignes de gangrene ». cha p. xxl v. e s ſignes de gangrenes faites par inflammation, ſont quand la grande douleur & pulſation qui .. auoient precedé leſdites inflammations, ſont grandement diminuées, & la couleur rubiconde #º de ouvermeille, qui eſtoit auparauant en ladite partie, eſt changée en couleur paſle, fuſque & au-º# & s cunement tendante à liuidité, comme fort amplement deſcrit hippocrate, en la ſeconde ſection # du liure de fračiuris , où fl parle de la gangrene du talon. i'entens icy douleur pulſatiue, non celle qui eſt # - faicte par le mouuement des arteres, mais vne pulſation iectigatiue, ou poignante qui ſe fait, quand par le combat d'entre les deux chaleurs ( ſçauoir eſt naturelle & non naturelle ) s'eſleuent pluſieurs vapeurs des humeurs & matieres qui tendent à pourriture és parties enflammées. si le froid eſt cauſe deſdites gangrenes & mortification, ſera aisé à cognoiſtre : car (comme vn chacun ſçait ) le grand froid prom- ptement fait à la partie grande douleur poignante & cuiſante, & rougeur eſteincelante, & toſt apres la rendliuide, & fort froide, & quaſi ſans mouuement & ſentiment , auec horreur ou tremblement , comme ſi on auoit vn commencement de fieure quarte. si le froid continue plus long-temps que la chaleur de la- gangrene par d dite partie ne puiſſe reſiſter, ſuruiendra gangrene, & par conſequent mortification ( ſi on n'y donne ordre) #. & à la parfin la mort : car ( comme dit hippocrate) le froid eſt contraire & ennemy aux os,dents, nerfs, au aphor. . cerueau, & la moelle du dos, generalement à noſtre vie, laquelle conſiſte en chaleur & humidité, à cauſe liu. . qu'il fait ſpaſmes ou conuulſions , & autres mouuemens contre noſtre vouloir, agitation deſordonnée de tout le corps, que nous appellons friſſons, & conſequemment par ſa grande violence eſt ſouuentesfois cauſe de noſtre mort. quant eſt des gangrenes & mortifications faites par ligatures fortes és fractures, . - luxations, grandes contuſions, tu les cognoiſtras facilement a la dureté, qui eſt pour la defluxion , pareil-#º de lement des veſſies qui ſeront eſleuées au cuir, leſquelles viennent à raiſon de la grande inflammation #. º qui eſt en la partie : ce qui ſe void manifeſtement aux bruſleures : auſſi par la peſanteur, & impotence de # # la patie, qui ſe fait à raiſon que les eſprits manquent, & lors qu'on preſſe deſſus, la foſſe demeure ſans § ſe releuer, comme aux œdemes, & le cuir le plus ſouuent ſe ſepare de la chair. les ſignes declarez §. aux gangrenes engendrées par inflammation, te pourront donner cognoiſſance des gangrenes faites par morſeures,picqueures,aneuriſmes,playes faites és corps plethoriques & cacochymes : car par ces cauſes eſt faite fuxion, & attraction d'humeurs en trop grande quantité, qui empeſchent ( comme i'ay dit ) l'air & cuentilation de la partie. mais ie veux encore aduertir qu'ayant cogneu par les ſignes les mortifications, ſe faut differer à faire amputation du membre,iaçoit que les extremitez ſe remuent car la teſte des muſcles ſe remuant tire la queue , ou leurs tendons. dauantage encore qu'il y euſt quelque peu de ſentiment , ne faut differer l'amputation, iuſques à ce qu'il n'y en aye plus, attendu qu'elle pouriroit les parties voiſines. c uand aux ſignes de gangrene & mortification prouenant s de venins , icy n'eſt beſoin de reciter la façon - - - g g cqiiliilc signes de o douziéme liure,des contuſions, ， " - · kº pronoſtic de gangreme . - anant-cow reurs de mort en gä. grenes. cure gene- rale de gan- grene . ldu tempera- ment du corps. de l natu- re des par ties. . aſaniere de viure. remede con- fre t tt u'e- nins pourro- borerile aeºér. inciſions. hipp. aph. extremis morbis. seariſica- ions. ablutions ou lauemens egyptiac qui eſt fort eow- uenable aux po urritures. comme l'on peut cognoiſtre & diſtinguer les accidens qui aduiennent, tant des venins chauds que froids : car nous en pourrons parler plus amplement cy-apres. - a - -- •- - du pronoſtic des gangrenes. c h a p. xxv. t s n n - p r e s donc que l'on a cogneu la gangrene & mortification par les ſignes & cauſes, faut # n$ auant que tenter quelque choſe de la cure, regarder quel effect pourra auoir ladite diſpoſi- #/n % tion , & le predire & ſignifier aux parents ou amis des malades (ce que nous diſons pro- $ % % gnoſtiquer) comme ie te diray. gangrene & mortification ſont defi grande ferocité & ma- lignité , que ſi on n'y remedie promptement, la partie facilement , & du tout mourra , & corrompra les parties proches : ce qui eſt cauſe que quelques-vns ont appellé la gangrene chylomenos, pource que telle corruption chemine par toute la partie comme venin , & la corrode comme fait le feu épris au bois ſec, tant que finalement fera mourir les patiens. et auparauant qu'ils meurent,ont tous vne ſueur vniuerſelle froide , auec delires ou reſueries, ſyncopes ou eſuanouiſſemens, rouctemens & hocquets : à cauſe que ks vapeurs eſleuées de la putrefaction & pourriture, ſont communiquées & por- tées par les veines, arteres,& nerfs aux parties nobles. ton pronoſtic fait, faut mettre la main à l'œuure, ainſi que ie declareray maintenant. de la cure generale de gangrene . c h a p. xxvi. n la curation de gangrene, faut prendre les indications d'icelle. car il faut diuerſifier la $ cure ſelon l'eſſence ou grandeur du mal: parce qu'aucunes gangrenes & mortifications occu- { pent toute vne partie, les autres ſeulement vne portion : les vnes ſont profondes, les autres ſuperficielles. les cauſes auſſi diuerſes font diuerſifier la cure.a toutes cauſes ne conuient ap- $ pliquer vn meſme remede. samblablement faut auoir égard au temperament du corps & de la partie. car aucuns (comme auons par cy-deuant dit ) ſont de temperature molle & delicate, comme femmes,ieunes enfans gens oiſif & viuans delicatemét,chaſtrez & autres,leſquels demandent remedes plus doux & moins violens,que ceux qui ſont d'habitude ou ſubſtance dure & robuſte,comme laboureurs,mari- niers,batteliers,chaſſeurs,porte-faix, & autres gens de trauail non ſeulemét faut auoir cette côſideration du corps,mais auſſi des parties bleſſées.car il y a difference des parties muſculeuſes & charneuſes,comme bras ou iabe,ou parties nerueuſes,dures & ſolides, côme ſpondyles,iointures,& autres,auſſi des parties chaudes & humides,comme ſont les parties honteuſes,la bouche,la matrice,l'anus,eſquelles plus promptement ad- uiét corruption & pourriture,par cauſe interne,& fluxion d'humeurs,qu'aux autres parties de noſtre corps. parquoy ſelon l'eſſence, temperature & diſpoſition naturelle de ces parties & du corps,faut adminiſtrer re- medes,& proceder à la cure et entre les autres remedes,faut ordonner bon regime & maniere de viure,ſur les ſix choſes non naturelles,pour obuier & côtrarier(tant qu'il nous ſera poſſible)à la maladie,& à ſa cauſe, ſi elle eſt encore presête.si l'habitude du corps eſt plethorique ou cacochyme,faut ſaigner ou purger ſelô le cöſeil du medecin.et pour autant que les vapeurs qui s'eſleuét de la partie gangrenée,font cômuniquées par les arteres au cœur, & cöſecutiuement aux autres parties nobles:faut roborer le cœur, afin qu'il n'infecte de ces vapeurs malignes,en donnant à boire theriaque diſſoute en eau de petite ozeille ou chardon benit-mi- thridat a manger,& conſerue de roſes ou bugloſes,opiates,& autres choſes cordiales,qui ont eſté declareés cy-deſſus.on pourra auſſi appliquer cét epitheme par dehors ſur la region du cœur pour toûjours roborer. .aq.roſ.nenuphan. .iiij aceti ſcyllitici #j.corall.& ſantal alb & rubr.roſ puluer & ſpodijan. .j. mithri- datij, ther. an. .ij.É.trochiſc. de camp. ij.for.cordial.pulu.p.ij.croci j diſſoluâtur oilli] ſimul,fiat epi- thema,quod ſuperponatur cordi cü pannococcineo , aut ſpongia.voilà briefuement le ſommaire des choſes vniuerſelles:il nous faut venir maintenant à la curation propre & particuliere deſdites gangrenes. c h a p. xxv ii. z@ e a cure de gangrene faite par fluxion de ſang, & autres humeurs qui ſuffoquent la partie,ainſi ns que l'on void ſouuét aduenir auxgrandes inflammations, ſe doit faire en euacuant,& ſeichant promptement le ſang & humeurs corrompus, qui ſont arreſtez en la partie dolente, auecques # pluſieurs ſcarifications & inciſions grandes, moyennes, petites, profondes , & ſuperficielles, "n ſelon qu'il ſera beſoin & neceſſaire : afin que ladite partie ſe puiſſe euentiler & fiabeler,& les vapeurs corrompues exhaler. l'on fait les inciſions quand le mal eſt grand,& profond,& prochain a pourri- ture,& les ſcarifications quand il commence à putrefier.car d'autant que le mal eſt grand, il a beſoin de re- medes grands & violens. parquoy ſi ledit mal va iuſques aux os, faut diuiſer le cuir & la chair de pluſieurs & profondes inciſions, que pourras faire auec raiſon à ce propre & conuenable. toutesfois ſe faut donner garde de toucher les nerfs & vaiſſeaux notables, s'ils ne ſont du tout pourris & corrompus. car en ce cas faut faire inciſion,ſans auoir eſgardauſdits vaiſſeaux mais s'ils ſont entiers,les inciſions ſoient faites entre leſdits vaiſſeaux ſans les toucher, s'il eſt poſſible. si la gangrene eſt moindre, n'eſt beſoin que de ſcarifica- tions ſeulement.apres les ſcarifications & inciſions faites, faut laiſſer couler beaucoup de ſang afin de va- cuer la matiere coniointe,deſcharger & ſeicher la partie. puis appliquer remedes qui ont faculté d'oſter la pourriture par leur vertu calfactiue, deſiccatiue, reſolutiue, deterſiue,& aperitiue,& penetrer au profonde afin de conſumer la matiere virulente & corrópue, laquelle eſt arreſtée & fixée en la partie gangrenée.et à cette intention , feras ablution auec lexiue faite de cendres de figuier ou de cheſne , en laquelle on aura fait boüillir lupins, tant qu'ils ſoient parfaictement cuits. ou pour auoir remedes plus parables,faut pren- dre de l'eau ſalée, en laquelle on aura fait boüillir aloes & egyptiac » y adiouſtant à la fin de l'eau de vie. l'eau de vie & vitriol calciné eſt ſingulier remede. - - • - - - - - autre. z. aceti optimi fb.j. mellis roſati .iiij. ſyrupi acetoſi. iij. ſalis comm.j.v. bulliant ſimul,adde aquae vitæ fb.ſº.d'icelles ablutions faut lauer par pluſieurs fois la partie:car elles ſont de grande efficace aux gangrenes.ceſdites ablutions faites,appliqueras egyptiac ſur plumaceaux car c'eſt le plus excellent & pre- mier en dignité entre les remedes côuenables aux pourritures, pource qu'il fait ſeparer la chair pourried'a- uec la ſaine faiſant eſcarre:deſquelles en tel cas ne faut attendre la cheute, mais pluſtoſt les couper, & oſter ce qui ſera corrompu auec raſoir ou cizeaux : puis y remettre dudit egyptfac tant de fois qu'il ſera beſoin. ©-c de la cure particuliere de gangrene ». b i combuſtions & gangrenes o a ce que cognoiſtras à la couleur de la chair, à la feteur & ſenſibilité des parties ſubiacentes.la deſcription dudit egyptiac(duquel i'ay touſiours cogneu grands effects en telcas)eſttelle. l.floris xris,aluminis rochae, mcllis comm.an. .iij.aceti acerrimi .v. ſalis communis #.j. vitrioli romani # .ſublimati pulueriſati .ij. bulliant omnia ſimul ad ignem,fiat vnguentum:s'il eſt beſoin on le fera moins fort.auec l'application dudit egyptiac, faut mettre ſur toute la partie affectée ceſtuy cataplaſme lequel empeſche & prohibe la putrefa- cataplaſns ction,reſout,deterge,deſſeiche & ſede la douleur. /.far.fabar.hord.orobi,lent.lupinoran.fb.ſº.ſal comm & mel.roſan. ,iiij.ſucci abſinth.marrub.an. .ij É.aloës, maſt.myrrha & aquae vitæ an. .ij.oximelitis ſimplicis quant.ſufficit, fiat cataplaſma molle ſecundum artem. gal.l. .de la compoſition des medicamens,ordonne faire cataplaſme pour prohiber la pourriture des gangrenes , fait de farines d'orge & lexiue:auſſi le capital des cauteres eſt fort propre. leſdits remedes conſomment, reſoluent & detergent la ſanie virulente & ma- tiere pourrie : & pour leur grande ſiccité & tenuité d'eſſence penetrent au profond, empeſchent la putrefa- ction,ſedent la douleur,& roborent la partie : ce qui eſt plus neceſſaire en tel cas. on doit auſſi appliquêr au deſſus du mal vn tel ou ſemblable defenſif, pour obuier & reprimer la deſcente des humeurs, & gar- der que les vapeurs pourries eſleuées de la putrefaction , ne montent au cœur, ou aux parties fuperieures & nobles. z.olei roſati,myrt.an. .iiij. ſucci plantaginis, ſolani, ſemperuiui an. .ij. albumina ouor.numero quinque,boli armenici,terræ figillatæ ſubtiliter pulueriſatx,an .j.oxycrati quantum ſufficit,miſce ad vſum dictum. l'on en pourra faire auſſi d'autres ayans pareille vertu:mais faut noter que ceſdits remedes ſe doi- l d uent renouueller ſouuent. car lors qu'ils ſont froids, refroidiſſent la partie,qui eſt languide, à cauſe que ſa # chaleur eſt preſque ſuffoquée:& partant il y faut ſouuent appliquer linges chauds,ou briques,ou bouteilles # remplies d'eau boüillante, afin de roborer la chaleur naturelle qui eſt preſque du tout eſteinte. et ne faut § prendre indication,ſi la gangrene a eſté faite par inflammatior,mais de la diſpoſition qu'elle aura laiſsée en * la partie. or ſi le mal eſt ſi grand qu'il ne vueille ceder aux ſuſdits remedes, faut venir à d'autres plus vehe- mens & violens, qui font les cauteres actuels.apresl'application deſquels galien au ſecond à glauc.com- mande que ius de porreaux, auec ſel pilé & diſſoult ſoit mis deſſus,à cauſe que tel remede penetre & ſeiche fort,& par ce moyen empeſche la pourriture.dauantage, ſi leſdits cauteres ne profitent, il eſt beſoin venir à l'extreme, qui eſt faire amputation de la partie ſuiuant le dire d'hippocrate : aux maladies extremes con- - uiennent extremes & derniers remedes.toutesfois on ne doit ce faire, que premierement l'on n'ait certai- apk. lia . taine cognoiſſance ſi la partie eſt totalement morte.car ce n'eſt petit cas de couper vn membre,s'il neſt plus que neceſſaire. parquoy ie te donneray entiere & infaillible cognoiſſance des parfaites mortifications & ſphaceles par les ſignes cy-apres declarez. ouide : - le membre infect d'vne playe incurable se doit coupper qut le ſain il n'accable. des ſignes des mortifications parfaictes. ch a p. xxv iii. # i on cognoiſt en la partie affectée noirceur & froideur, prouenant de l'extinction de la cha- yº leur naturelle, non de l'air enuironnant : grande molleſſe, laquelle ſi on comprime ne ſe peut releuer, ains y demeure cauité ou foſſe : ſeparation du cuir d'auec la chair ſubiacente , & ne ſent-on nul battement des arteres : grande puanteur comme de charongne (principalement ſi *" ledit ſphacele eſt vlceré) dont la ſenteur eſt tant acre & forte,qu'elle eſt intolerable & abomi- nable à toutes perſonnes, & en ſort vne liqueur viqueuſe de couleur noire & verdoiante, totale priuation du ſentiment & mouuement,ſoit qu'on tire, frappe,preſſe, bruſle, coupe, touche, ou picque : certainement pourras conclurre vne mortification parfaicte ou ſphacele : toutesfois faut auec bon iugement explorer iadite priuation du ſentiment. car ie ſçay que pluſieurs ont eſté deceus,ſe fians à vn ſentiment que les poinč# m ta - patiens diſent auoir, ſi on picque, preſſe, ou autrement attouche, lequel eſt totalement faux & deceptible. ble ſurle ſens car il ne vient que d'vne grande apprehenſion de la douleur extreme, qui auparauant eſtoit en la partie : & timent en principalement par la continuité & conſentement qu'ont encore les parties mortes auec les viues comme gangrene. pour exemple familier, nous voyons que ſil'on tire vne chemiſe ou autre veſtement adherant à noſtre corps nous diſons le ſentir,jaçoit que ledit veſtement eſt inſenſible & ſeulementcontigu à noſtre corps de ce faux accide ad. ſentiment auras argument manifeſte apres l'amputation des parties mortifiées. car les patiens long-temps mirable. apres l'amputation faite, diſent encore ſentir douleur és parties mortes & amputées, & de ce ſe plaignººº fort choſe digne d'admiration,& quaſi incredible à gens qui de ce n'ont experience.parquoy ſe faut donner garde que tel ſentiment ne nous retarde à faire le deuoir de la parfaite curation : comme quelques-foisi ay veu coupervn membre à deux ou à trois fois, pour s'eſtre arreſté à vn ſentiment faux & incertain ponº amputatiºn apres auoir cogneu que la partie eſt vrayement morte, là faut promptement & ſans delay, tant petit ſoit il de la partie couper & amputer : car la contagion & corruption rauit & gaigne ſans ceſſe les parties prochaines ſaines & mette ſe dºit viuess & pource hippocrate en la ſeptieſme ſection du ſixieſme liure des epidemies, dit que les ſections, #"- vſtions & trepans, ſe doiuent promptement executer. ce remede eſt miſerable & digne de compaſſion,tant pt - au patient qu'au chirurgien : mais c'eſt le ſeul & dernier refuge que l'on doit touſiours preferer à la mort, laquelle s'enſuiura, fi l'on cherche autres moyens queſection de la partie mortifiée. \ du lieu où il faut commencer l'amputation. ch a p. xxi x. º l ne ſuffit toutesfois de recognoiſtre qu'il eſt neceſſaire d'amputer la partie mortifiée,mais faut $ſ# ſçauoirle lieu où l'ondoit faire & commencerl'amputation & en cela giſt le iugement & pru- # dence du chirurgien.l'art commande que l'on commence à la partie ſaine, mais ie declareray )uel iugc- ceay facilemét.poſons pour exemple,qu'aucun ait vn eſthiomene au piediuſqu'aux malleoles ou ment eſt #: à cheuilles.en tel cas faut bien conſiderer là où tu dois faire l'amputation:car ſelonl'art faut gar- §a ſr- der le corps humain entier,tant quil ſera poſſible.parquoy tu dois oſter le moins que tu pourras de la partie # d'vn ſaine.ce neantmoins faut auoir confideration de l'action & ornementde la partie,leſquels te donneront con-membre. ſeilde couper ladite iambe,à cinq doigts ou enuironprés le genoüil.pource que l'āputation faicte en celieu, la partie pourra apres mieux faire ſonaction,qui ſeramarcher auecvne iambe de bois.car s'il eſtoit ainſi que l'on couppaſt vn peu au deſſus du mal,le patient ſeroit en peine de porter trois iambes,là où il n'en portera que deuxie ſçay que le capitaine frâçois le clerc,eſtât ſur vmnauire eutvn coup de canó,qui luy emporta le pied vn peu au deſſous de la cheuille,de laquelle playe fut guery:mais quelque téps apres voyat que ſaiam- beluy nuiſoit,lafit coupper iuſqu'àcinq doigts prés du genouil:& maintenât ſe trouue mieux àmarcher qu'il c c dc. -- • u o douzieſme liure des contuſions autre conſ- ne faiſoit auparauant.au bras faut faire au contraire,qui eſt oſter le moins que l'on pourra de la partie ſai- a | é deration pour ne,pour la diuerſité des actions du bras & de la iambe. et principalement pource que le corps ne ſe repoſe # laſectiö d'vn ſur le bras, comme ſur les pieds & iambes. i'ay declaré cy-deuant comme l'on pourra cognoiſtre la neceſ- # bras. ſisé de la ſection,& le lieu d'icelle : faut à preſent monſtrer le moyen de proceder & exercer la ſection. du moyen de proceder à la ſection du membre . c h a p. xxx. s(# n premier lieu roboreras la force & vertu du patient s'il eſt beſoin,par alimens propres,de facile $ digeſtion & pleins d'eſprits:comme œufs mollets,roſtie trempée en bô vin,ouautres ſemblables. à$ſé puis ſitue le patient ainſi qu'il appartient,& tire les muſcles en haut vers les parties ſaines, & fais s nn vne ligature extreme vn peu au deſſus du lieu que l'on voudra amputer, auec vn fortlien delié,& de figure platte comme ceux deſquels les femmes lient leurs cheueux.icelle ligature ſert de trois choſes.la premiere eſt,qu'elle tient auec l'aide du ſeruiteur,le cuir & muſcles efleuez en haut : à fin qu'apres l'œuure ils recouurent l'extremité des os qui auront eſté coupez,& apres la conſolidation de la cicatrice faite,leſdits #! cuirs & muſcles ſeruent comme d'vn couſſinet auſdites extremitez des os. par ainſi la partie pourra demeu• # rer plus forte,& moins douloureuſe ſi l'on comprime deſſus. ioint auſſi que la curation eſt plus briefue:car xd d'autant qu'on laiſſe plus de chair ſur leſdits os, pluſtoſt ils ſont couuerts. la ſeconde eſt qu'elle prohibe int l'hemorragie ou flux de ſang, à cauſe qu'elle preſſe les veines & arteres.la troiſieſme eſt qu'elle rendobtus, tut : & oſte grandement le ſentiment de la partie : pource qu'elle empeſche par ſa grande compreſſion l'eſprit ilſl$ ! ' ttº animal,qui donne ſentiment par les nerfs à la partie. donc apres la ligature forte ainſi faite, faut prompte- ment couper tous les muſcles & autres parties iuſqu'aux os,auec vn raſoir bien trenchant,ou coupamt cour- b bé,comme ceſtuy ſuiuant:apres auoir deueſti & deſcouuert l'os de ſon perioſte,à fin que la ſoie paſſe mieux ' & plus promptement , & à moindre douleur. nota que lors qu'on veut faire amputation d'vne iambe, faut qu'elle ſoit vn peu ployée,& qu'apres la ſe- ction on l'eſtende, afin que les vaiſſeaux qu'on pretend lier pour arreſter le ſang, ſe manifeſtent mieux pour plus facilement le pincer,tirer & lier.ceux qui auront mis la main à tel œuure,facilement entendront cette methodc,& crois que nul patient ne l'a encore dicte ny eſcrite, au moins que ie ſçache. coufteau courbé pour couper les membres. il te faut notericy,qu'il y a entre les os portion d'aucſis muſ- cles,que ne pourras bien couper auec ledit raſoir ou couſteau. pourtant le couperas auec vn inſtrument fait en maniere de lancette courbée. ie t'aduertis de ce : car ſi tu laiſſes autre choſe que l'os à couper à la ſcie , certainement tu feras en la *- - - - ſciant grande douleur au patient, à cauſe que la ſcie ne peut qu'à grande peine couper les choſes molles,comme chair, tendons, & membrane, ainſi qu'elle fait les os durs & polides. - apres auoir entierement coupé toutes les parties iuſques aux os, les faut ſcier promptement auec telle c ſcie, de grandeur d'vn pied,trois poulces ou enuiron- dauantage,tu mettras vn linge en double au deſſus de l'os qu'on veut ſcier,de peur que les dents de la ſcie ne touchent à la chair, & ne la deſchirent. - -" scie_v. ， - -t- #ha - (! | = :)sa= mh， w\)%， ( ! *- - - • - "- - - : - - - --- --- - . a. ， des moyens pour arreſter le flux de ſang quand le membre eſt coupé. $ c h a p. xxx i. : neceſſité de a o r s que l'amputation du membre eſt faite, il eſt neceſſaire qºqº# † †# ， laiſſer eſcou- coule, afin que la partie deſchargée y ſuruiennent moins d accidens, & ce . § des forces : ler le ſant. force du malade.ie ſang eſcoulé en quantité ſuffiſante (prº touſiours n lles ne fiuentplu - # de du malade) il faut promptement lier les groſſes veines & aº ſi ferme, § s neiiuentplus- aiſſeaux. ce qui: ſe fera en prenant leſdits vaiſſeaux auec tels inſtrumens, nomº becs de corbin- bec de corbinpropre àtirer les vaiſſeauxpour les lier. - | . • combuſtions & gangrenes, o ceſiuy eſt le plus propre, parce que l'on s'en peut ſeruir par ſes deux extremitez , ſelon que le vaiſſeau ſera grand & delié.a, monſtre vn petit reſſort, qui le tient aucunement ouuert, iuſques à ce que l'on le comprime. - de ces inſtrumens faut pinſer leſdits vaiſſeaux(qui n'eſtmal-aisé à faire,parce qu'on voit le ſangiallir par il n'y a dam- iceux)les tirant &amenant hors de la chair, dans laquelle ils ſont retirez & cachez ſoudain apresl'extirpa- rer de lier tion du membre,ainſi que font toutes autres parties coupées, touſiours vers leur origine.ce faiſant,ilne te faut eſtre trop curieux de ne pinſer ſeulement que leſdits vaiſſeaux,pource qu'il n'ya danger de prendre auec eux quelque portion de la chair des muſcles, ou autres parties : car de ce ne peut aduenir aucun accident ains auec ce l'vnion des vaiſſeaux ſe fera mieux & plus ſeurement, que s'il n'y auoit ſeulement que le corps deſdits vaiſſeaux compris en la ligature.ainſi tirez,on les doit bien lier auec bon fil qui ſoit en double. - comment ilfaut procederau traictement d'vn membre amputé, leflux de ſang arreſté. c h a p t r e x x x ii. e faict, tu deſlieras la premiere ligature que tuauois faite au deſſus du lieu de la coupeure : puis à promptement feras quatre poincts d'aiguille en croix aux lévres de la playe, profondant leſdits poincts vn doigt dedans la chair,afin qu'ils tiennent plus ferme : par ce moyen tu rameneras les parties des muſcles coupées ſur les os,afin qu'il ſoit mieux & pluſtoſt couuerts, & moins touché de l'air exterieur,afin que ladite chair luy ſerue apres la conſolidation,comme d'vn couſſin.or tu dois noter, quelque por- tion de chaiv auec leſdits vaiſſeaux. les vaiſ- ſeaux liez,il faut prendre & approcher la playe aues quatre qu'il ne faut ſerrer leſdicts poincts ſi pres que tu t'efforces d'approcher enſemble les léures de la playe, ce peinä, d'ai- qu'auſſi tu ne pourrois faire : car pluſtoſt le tout viendroit à ſe rompre,& les parties à ſe relaſcher. ains tuiue. te ſuffira de les ſerrermediocrement,pour ramener la peau & chair ſubjacente en l'eſtat & pareille longueur qu'ils eſtoient auant la retraction, qui s'eſt faite depuis, & durant l'amputation. . cequ'ilfautfaire s'ilſuruenoitflux deſang, à cauſe d'vn deſdicts vaiſſeaux deſlié. c h a p i t r e xxxi i i. e e s choſes ainſi faites,s'il aduenoit puis apres qu'aucun deſdits vaiſſeaux ſe deſliaſt,il te faut relier le membre de ta premiere ligature comme a eſté dit cy-deuant, ou au lieu de ce faire (ce que ie -> louë dauantage,& qui eſt trop plus aisé & moins douloureux)qu'vn ſeruiteur prenne le membre à deux mains, preſſant fort de ſes doicts ſur l'endroit du chemin deſdicts vaiſſeaux : car en ce fai- ſant,il empeſchera le flux de ſang.cependant tu prendres vne aiguille longue de quatre poulces ou enuiron, quarrée & bien tranchante,enfilée de bon-filen trois ou quatre doubles, de laquelle tu relieras les vaiſſeaux a la façon qui s'enfuit : car alors le bec de corbin ne te pourroit ſeruir. tu paſſeras ladite aiguille par le dehors de la playe à demy-doigt ou plus,à coſté dudit vaiſſeau,iuſques au trauers de la playe,pres l'orifice du vaiſſeau : puis la repaſſeras ſous ledit vaiſſeau,le comprenant de ton fil,& feras ſortir ton aiguille en la- dite partie exterieure de l'autre coſté dudit vaiſſeau, laiſſant entre les deux chemins de ladite aiguille,ſeu- lement l'eſpace d'vn doigt,puis tu lieras ton fil aſſez ſerré ſur vne petite compreſſe de linge en deux ou trois doubles de la groſſeur , d'vn doigt, qui engardera que le nœud n'entre dedans la chair , & l'arreſteras ſeurement.ladicte ligature retirée entierement dedans la bouche & l'orifice de la veine ou artere,auec leſ- quelles auſſi cachées & couuertes des parties charneuſes adiacentes, ſe répand aisément ledit orifice. ie te puis aſſeurer que iamais apres telle operation on ne voit ſortir vne goutte de ſong des vaiſſeaux ainſi liez. et ne ſe faut trauailler d'vſer des ſuſdits moyens d'arreſter le ſang aux petits vaiſſeaux : pource qu'aisément il ſera ſuprimé par les aſtringens que nous t'ordonnerons cy apres. tu pourras trouuer cette maniere de practiquer aſſez obſcure & mal intelligible : mais tu dois conſiderer que c'eſt choſe tres difficile de mettre clairement & entierement par eſcrit la chirurgie manuelle. car elle ſe doit puſtoſt apprendre par imagi- naticn, & en voyant beſongner de bons & experimentez maiſtres,ſi tu en as le moyen, ou bien l'eſſayer ſur des corps morts,comme i'ay pluſieurs fois fait. - des medicamens emplaſtiques. ch a p. xxxiv. membre,qui ſont les emplaſtiques grandement propres aux vulneres recents, comme ſont ceux- $ cy. /...boli armenij .iiij.farinæ volatilis .iij.picis reſinx. .ij.pulueriſentur omnia ſubtiliſſimè,& mixtis ſimul fiat puluis, de laqûelie ſera la playe toute poudrée,puis garnie par deſſus de charpy ſec : apres on appliquera par deſſus ce repercuſſif /.. albumina ouorum num vj,boli armenij , ſanguinºs draconis,gypſi,terrx ſigillatz,loès,maſtiches,gallarum combuſtarum, an. . ij. pulueriſentur ſubtiliſſime & >enè agitentur,addendo oleiroſati & myrt.an. .j.fiat defenſiuum ad formam mellis.cét onguent doit eſtre appliqué auec eſtoupes trempées en oxycrat ſur la partie, & plus haut vn petit : comme ſi tu as coupe la jambe, faut appliquer ton onguent quatre doigts ou plus au deſſus du genoüil. ce remede n'eſt pas ſeule- ment repercuſſif,mais auſſi robore la partie:empeſche la fluxion, appaiſe le flux de ſang, ſede la douleur,& prohibe la chaleur eſtrange. il faut tremper en oxycrat les compreſſes & bandes, puis ſituer le membre en figure moyenne ſur des couſſins & oreillers,pleins de paille d'auoine,poil de cerfs, ou de ſon de fromen# l'appareil ſuſdit ne ſe doit renouueller ſans neceſſité grande, à ſçauoir quatre iours apres en hyuº ** noins en eſté, ſelon que tu verras eſtre beſoin. - - - - # a n t e n a n t nous dirons les remedes deſquels il nous conuient vſer apres l'amputation du $aw #n c c tigreſſio moyen de re- lier les zai- mes cr art• • res ſans bec de corbin. l'hemorras- gie des petits vaiſſeaux s'ar reſte ad sément par- les ſeuls aſtrixgens. - poudre em- plaſtique. repercuſſiſ . vtilité des repercuſſiſ . temps pour renouueller l'afpareil. - o douzieſme liure, des contuſions, - digreſſion de l'autheurfort neceſſaire à bien conſiderer touchant les cauteres aéiuels, deſquels on a vsé iuſques icy apres l'amputation. ch a p t r e. xxxv. e confeſſe librement, & auec grand regret, que i'ay par cy-deuant practiqué tout autrement que ie n'eſcris à cette heure,apres que l'amputation des bras & iambes eſtoit faite; mais quoy? i'auois veu ainſi faire à ceux que l'on appelloit pour telles pratiques , leſquels incontinent apres le membre extirpé , vſoient de pluſieurs cauteres, tant actuels que potentiels, pour - empeſcher le flux de ſang; choſe tres-horrible & cruelle ſeulement à raconter : car cela cau- ſoit vne extreme douleur aux patiens, attendu que telles playes recentement faites ſont fort ſenſibles, & au moyen de cette ſenſibilité, ſi on y applique choſes cauſtiques deſſus, & contre les parties nerueuſes, ſoudain leur action & impreſſion eſt communiquée aux parties internes , dont ſuruiennent de tres-grands & pernicieux accidens, & le plus ſouuent la mort. qu'il ſoit vray, on ne veit oncques de ſix ainſi cruel- lement traictez, eſchapper deux , encore eſtoient-ils long-temps malades, & mal-aisément eſtoient les playes ainſi bruſlées, menées à conſolidation, pource qu'vne telle vſtion faiſoit des douleurs ſi vehementes, que les malades tomboient en fiévre, en ſpaſme,& autres mortels accidens,auec ce que le plus ſouuent l'eſ- accidës per. micieux des c fºfº "º$ - a flux de carre cheute ſuruenoit nouueau flux de ſang, qu'il falloit encore eſtancher auec les cauteres actuels ou po- b ſºs ſuruº- tentiels,leſquels repetez conſommoient vne grande quantité de chair, & autres parties nerueuſes. pour la- # * quelle deperdition,les os demeuroient puis apres nuds & deſcouuerts.ce qui a rendu à pluſieurs la cicatri- # zation impoſſible,ayans tout le reſte de leur vie gardé vn vlcere au lieu du membre coupé,qui leur oſtoit le " moyen de ſe pouuoir ſeruir d'vne jambe ou bras, faits artificiellement. parce ie conſeille au ieune chirur- gien de laiſſer telle cruauté & inhumanité,pour pluſtoſt ſuiure cette mienne façon de practiquer;de laquelle ila pleu à dieu m'aduiſer,ſans que iamais l'euſſe veu faire à aucun,oüy dire,ny leu,ſinon en galien au .liure de ſa methode,où il efcrit qu'il faut lier les vaiſſeaux vers leurs racines , qui ſont le foye & le cœur, pour eſtancher ce grand flux de ſang.or ayant pluſieurs fois vsé de cette maniere de coudre les veines & arteres aux playes recentes, auſquelles ſe faiſoit vne hemorrhagie,i'ay pensé qu'il s'en pouuoit bien autant faire en l'extirpation d'vn membre.dequoy ayant conferé auec eſtienne de la riuiere,chirurgien ordinaire du roy, & autres chirurgiens iurez à paris, & ſur ce, leur ayant declaré mon opinion, furent d'aduis que nous en fiſſions l'eſpreuue au premier malade qui s'offriroit,combien que nous euſſions les cauteres tous preſts pour en vſer au defaut de la ligature.ce que i'ay practiqué à l'endroit de pluſieurs,auectres-bonne iſſue, encore depuis peu de iours en çà en la perſonne d'vn poſtillon, ſeruiteur de bruſquet nommé pirou garbier, au- quel fut coupée la jambe dextre,quatre doigts au deſſus du genouil,pour vne eſthiomene qui luy eſtoit ſur- grädecruau- uenuë à cauſe d'vne fracture. partant ie conſeille au ieune chirurgien de laiſſer cette miſerable maniere de té de bruſler bruſler & carnacer, ſi quelque reliqua de gangrene ne le contraignoit de ce faire, l'admoneſtant de ne plus jºur arreſter dire, ie l'ay leu au liure des anciens practiciens;ie l'ay veu faire à mes vieux peres & maiſtres,ſuiuant la pra- ºf** ctique deſquels ie ne puis aucunement faillir. ce que ie t'accorde, ſi tu veux entendre ton bon maiſtre ga- # º" lien au liure cy deſſus allegué, & ſes ſemblables : mais ſi tu te veux arreſter à ton pere & à tes maiſtres,pour #" auoir preſcription de temps, & licence de mal-faire, y voulant touſiours perſeuererainſi meſmes quel'on º" fait quaſi ordinairement en toute choſes,tu en rendras compte deuant dieu, & non deuant ton pere outes bons maiſtres practiciens, qui traictent les hommes de ſi cruelle façon. la maniere depourſuiure la curation du membre amputé. ch a p. xxxvi. r pour reprendre noſtre premier poinct, & paracheuer la cure encommencée par le moyen des remedes propres & conuenables à nos vlceres,il faut premierement noter,qu'auparauant $ que d'oſter les liens deſquels on aura lié les vaiſſeaux, il conuient que l'agglutination d'iceux ſoit faite; & de peur qu'il ne vienne nouueau flux de ſang, qu'ils ſoient couuerts de chair msk ) qui ſe fera en appliquant deſſus quelque remedes froids, aſtringens & emplaſtiques, comme je,udre •- la poudre qui s'enſuit : %. pulu.boli arm.farinae hordei,picis reſinae,gypſian. .iiij.a ioes, nucum cupreſſi, cortic. granat.an. .j.incorporentur omnia ſimul, fias pul. ſubtilis, de laquelle en ſera aſpergée & ſaulpou- ſtringente emplaſtique. - ſeaux qui auront eſté liez, & en ſera encore continué par l'eſpace de huict ou dix iours,afin qu'on ſoit bien · aſſeuré que les vaiſſeaux ſoient eſtoupez & couuerts de chair : mais ſur le reſte de l'vlcere ſera appliqué vn digeſtif ... digeſtif, & continué iuſques à ce qu'elle ſoit tournée à ſuppuration. car lors on quittera le digeſtifpour miidificatif prendre les medicamens mundicatifs, comme ſont ceux qui s'enſuiuent. &. terebenthinae venetx, lotx in aqu.vita .vj.mellis roſati colati .iij.ſucci plantaginis, apij & centaurij minoris an. : ij. bulliant omnia ſimul vſque ad consüptionem ſuccorum,auferantur ab igne, addendo farinx hordei & fabar.an. .j.theriac. d gal. .ſ.aloës, myrrhæ, ariſtolochiæ , an. .iij.croci .j. fiat mundificatiuum. or il eſt ainſi que longtemps apres l'amputation, les patiens penſent encore auoir en ſon entier le membre qui leur a eſté amputé,com- me i'ay dit:ce qui leur aduient, comme il me ſemble,pource que les nerfs ſe retirent vers leur origine;car, comme eſcrit galien au liure de motu muſculorum , contraction eſt la vraye & propre aétion du nerf & muſ- cle : & quant à l'extenſion,ce n'eſt tant action que mouuement. or les nerfs en ſe retirant font grande dou- linimºt pro leur, & preſque ſemblable aux retractions qui ſe font au ſpaſme pour à quoy remedier,faut leur frotter la § # mºcqu# & toute la partie affectée auec le liniment qui s'enſuit, & qui eſt de grande efficace contre ſpaſme, affections paralyſie,ſtupeur,contorſions, diſtenſions,& autres affections,principalement des parties nerueuſes proue- des nerf. nºs des cauſes froides. %.ſaluir,chamapyt.maioranz, roriſmarini, mentha ,ruthz.lauan.an ſû.j. #orum camom.melil.ſummitatum anethi & hyperici an.p.ij. baccharum lauri & iuniperi an. .ij. radic. pyrcth. .ij. maſt.aſſa odoratæ an. .j,ſ.terebenthina venetae fb.j.olei lumbricorum,anethi, & catellorum an. .vj. olei terebenthinx .iij.axungiœ humanx .ij.croci .j.vini albiodoriferifb.j,ceræ quantum ſufficit:contundenda contundantur, pulueriſanda pulueriſentur, deinde macerentur omnia in vino per noctem,poſteà coquantur cum oleis & axungia prædictis in vaſe duplici : fiat linimentum ſecundum artem : in fine adde aqux vitz iij.dauantage en traictant cette playe,il eſt conuenable de procurer la cheute des extremitez des os,que la ſcie & l'air auront touchez : ce que le chirurgien fera par l'application des cauteres actuels ſur leſdits os, en l'application deſquels ſe doit bien garder de toucher aucunement les parties ſeoſibles, mais en vſer dif- ctcttc drée toute l'vlcere par l'eſpace de trois ou quatre iours : puis apres l'on n'en vſera qu'a l'endroit des vaiſ- > combuſtions & gangrenes. o a diſcrettement,comme i'ay deſcrit par cv-deuant.sur quoy tu noteras que les os ne ſe doiuent tirer par vio- - lence,ains en les esbranlant peu à peutdeſquels nonobſtant tu ne dois eſperer la cheute de trente iouts,ou ,º**ſº plus , ou moins, apres l'amputation. ce faict, tu vſeras des remedes propres pour conſommer les chairs # ſpongieuſes & ſupercroiſſantes , comme ſont vitriol bruslé, poudre de mercure, & autres, entre leſquels par violence. . l'alum cuit & puluerisé,en ce cas eſt fort commode, ſi on l'applique ſeul, ou auec autres mundificatifs.de alum cuir ces remedes tu pourras vſer iuſqu'à l'entiere guariſon de l'vlcere,& les diuei fifior, comme tu verras qu'il propre aux en ſera beſoin. chairs ſpon- - - gieuſes. hiſtoire memorable d'vnemortification aduenuë à vn ſoldat, auquel le bras fut coupé à la ioinčture du coulde . c h a p. xx xvi i. hiſtoire. 'e s t m e auoir aſſez amplement traicté les moyens de curer la gangrene & ſphacele:tou- tesfois afin que tu puiſſe mieux entendre ce que i'ay dit, ie re feray recit (comme pour exem- - ple) d'vne cure que ie feis eſtant à thurin an ſeruice de monſieur le mareſchal de montjan. ..ºſºſ- vn pauure ſoldat receut au bras ſeneſtre pres la carpe & ioincture de la main, vn coup d'ar- # à^ºns quebuſe : au moyen duquel la balle auoit dilaceré & rompu pluſieurs os,tendons, & autres #º parties nerueuſes, dont ſuruint gangrene, puis eſthiomene : iuſques a la iointure du coulde & iuſques à § l'eſpaule y auoit gangrene, & en la moitié duthorax grande infiammation , & ja notable à la preparation mºrtiſ# de gangrene, dont auoit le patient grands rouctemens, ſyncopes & inquietudes, & autres mauuais acci- dens,denonçans la mort.parquoy ledit ſoldat fut delaiſfé de pluſieurs chirurgiens & alors fus ftimule d au- cuns de ſes amis de le viſiter,ce que ie feis : & apres auoir cogneu ladite mortification , prins la hardieſſe, ſuiuant le commandement de noſtre art,luy coupper le bras par la oincture du coulde, & en premier lieu iuy liay eſtroictement le bras au deſſus du coulde pour les raiſons ſuſditas : ce fait,luy couppav le bras ſans ſcie,pource que la mortification n'eſtoit outre la ioincture du coulde : & là commençay l'amputation, inci- ſant les ligamens qui ioignent les os. et ne ſe faut esbahir de telle amputation de la ioincture : car hippo- crates en la quatrieſme ſection de ſon liure des articles,la recommande,& dit qu'elle « ſt fo t facile a gue- rir, & n'y voit rien à craindre qûe la ſyncope, à cauſe de la douleur en l'inciſion des tendons & ligamens communs.mon inciſion faicte (nonobſtant la ligature) ſuruint grand flux de ſang , à cauſe des vaiſſeaux qui ſont en icelle partie , lequel laiſſay ſuffiſamment couler pour deſcharger, alieger, & euentiler la partie, & auſſi pour empeſcher la gangrene qui eſtoit au bras,ja tendant a mortification.puis arreſtay ledit ſang auec cauteres actuels, n'ayant en ce temps-là autre methode ny façon de faire : ce fait, deſliay douccment la li- gature,& apres feis ſur la grangrene pluſieurs grandes & profondes inciſions , euitant la partie interne du bras,à cauſe des groſſes veines, arteres, & multitude de nerfs qui y ſont. et derechef caute iſav quelques document vnes des inciſions,tant pour arrefter le ſang,que pour deſſeicher & conſumer aucune matiere virulente im- pour le ieuni bue en la partie : puis appliquay les remedes cy-deuant eſcrits, ſur celle & ſur l'inflammation du thorax, chirºtun grande quantité de refrenatifs & repercuſſifs : pareillement epithemes ſur le cœur , & autres choſes cor- diales que ie luy donnay : leſquels remedes ie continuay, iuſques à tant que les rouctemens & autres acci- dents aduenus par le moyen des vapeurs eſleuées de la pourriture,& communiquées au cœur par les arte- - teres,furent ſedez & appaiſez.or ie ne puis obmettre à raconter(pour s'en donner garde)que quinze ours apres ſuruint au pauure ſoldat vn ſpaſme:lequel 'auois parauant pronoſtiqué,à cauſe du froid,& qu'il eftoit mal couché en vn grenier, là où non ſeulement auoit peu de couuerture , mais auſſi eſtoit expoſé à tous vents,ſans feu,& autres choſes neceſſaires a la vie humaine.et le voyant en tel ſpaſme & retraction de mem- bres,les dents ſerrées,les lévres & toute la face tortue & retirée, comme s'il euſt voulu rire du ris sardo- signes dudit nic,qui ſont ſignes manifeſtes de conuulſion:émeu de pitié,& deſirant faire le deu de mon art,ne pouuant ſiaſme. autre choſe luy faire pour lors , le fis mettre en vne eſtable , en laquelle eſtoit grand nombre de beftail,& grande quantité de fumier,puis trouuay moyen d'auoir du feu en deux rechauds, pres leſquels luy frottay la nucque,bras & jambes,euitant les parties pectorales,auec linimens cy-deuant efcrits pour les retractions & ſpaſmes.apres enueloppay ledit patient en vn drap chaud,le ſituant audit fumier, l'ayant premierement m de t, garny & couuert de paille blanche : puis fut dudit fumier tres-bien couuert, où il demeura trois iours & # # trois nuicts ſans ſe leuer : dedans lequel luy ſuruint vn petit flux de ventre & vne groſſe ſueur : cependant # il commença vn petit à ouurir la bouche dont peu à peu luy aiday auec tel inſtrument , lequelie mettois pafme. entre ſes dents, dilatoire à ouurir la bouche, lequel tourne à vix - apres auoir ouuert la bouche par cedit inſtrument,luy mettois vn petit baſton de ſaux, afin que la bºº- che demeuraſt ouuerte, ayant retiré ledit inſtrument : & cependant qu'il ne pouuoit maſcher , ie luy fai- ſois donner dn laict de vache & œufs mollets : par ces moyens fut guary dudit ſpaſme. conſequemmcnt - oxii.liu.des contuſions, combuſt&c. \ - - ie ſuiuy la cure du bras, en reiterant l'application des cauteres aétuels ſur l'extremité de l'os adiutoire, a pour touſiours conſumer & ſeicher les humiditez eſtranges : & te faut noter que le patient auoit grande delectation,lors qu'on luy appliquoit leſdits cauteres,pource qu'il diſoit ſentir vn prurit tout au long dudit os adiutoire,qui eftoit pour la chaleur communiquée par le moyen deſdicts cauteres le long de l'os.ce que ſouuentesfois auoit veu aduenir à l'hoſtel-dieu de paris en cas ſemblables. ainſi tomberent grandes prurit plai- ſquammes ou efcailles de l'extremité dudit os,tant pour l'air exterieur,que pour l'application deſdits cau- ſant par le teres. pareillement, iefomentois ſouuent la partie affectée, pour toufiours la deſſeicher & roborer:leſquel- émºfº f. les fomentations eſtoient faites auec vn vin auſtere,gros & aſtringent,auquel faiſoit boüillir roſes rouges, abſinthe, ſaulge,laurier,fleurs de camemille & melilot, anet, & autres medicamens predicts : par ainſi fut guary le pauure ſoldat. parquoy faut que le chirurgien ait touſiours deuant les yeux, que dieu & na- ture luy commandent ne laiſſer les patiens ſans faire touſiours ſon deuoir , combien qu'il preuoye tous aduertiſſe- ſignes mortels. car nature fait ſouuent ce qu'il ſemble au chirurgien eſtre impoſſible : comme tres-ſage- /j / f, ment nous demonſtre l'vn de nos docteurs anciens, diſant, contingunt in morbis mºnºia ſitut & in natura. fin du douxiéme liure des contuſions, combuſtions, & gangrenes. t a b le des chapitre s d v l i v r e x ii i. des vlceres, fiſtules, & hemorrhoïdes, | e la definition & cauſes des vlceres. · chapitre j les ſignes des vlceres. - chap. ij du prognoſtic des vlceres. chap. iij | de la curation des vlceres. chap. iiij de l'vlcere intemperée . ' chap. v de l'vlcere douloureuſe . chap. vj c de l'vlcere compliquée auecſupercroiſſance de chair. chap. vij de l'vlcere vermineuſe, & putredineuſe . chap. viij de l'vlrere ſordide . chap. ix - des vlceres virulentes, corrodantes, cacoèthes,& chironiques, ou phegedeniques. chap. x aduertiſſement au ieune chirurgien,touchant la diſtance du temps qu'il faut penſer les vlce- res cacoëthes. chap. xj du bandage des vlceres. chap. xij des vlceres en particulier, & premierement des yeux. chap. xiij des vlceres du nez, enſemble de la punaiſie ou mauuaiſe ſenteur d'iceluy, dicte des grecs & latins ,o{oena. - chap. xiiij des vlceres de la bouche_.. n chap. xv des vlceres des oreilles. - chap. xvj des vlceres de la trachée artere, eſophague,eomach, inte#ins, chap. xvij d des vlceres des reins, & de la veſſie . chap. xviij des vlceres de la matrice_ . chap. xix des varices , & moyens de les couper. chap. xx des fiſtules. - chap. xxi cure des fîstules. chap. xxij des fiſtules du fondement ou ſiege-. - chap. xxiij des hemorrhoides. chap. xxiv l e - · l e t r e zie sme livre, t r aict ant des vl ce res, f ist vl e s, e t hemo r r hq id es. par amb r o is e par e d e l a v a l a v m a y ne, conſeiller, & premier chirurgien du roy, t)e la definition & cauſes des vlceres. - c h a p i t r e p r e m i e r. ovs auons par cy deuant traitté de la nature , difference, cauſes, ſi- difnition, gnes, & curation des playes ſanglantes : il faut maintenant parler des vlceres,qui eſt vne ſolution de continuité aux parties molles,non ſan- glante, ainsinueterée,de laquelle ſort pus ou ſanie, quelquesfois eſtant accompagnée d'vne ou pluſieurs indiſpoſitions , qui empeſchent , & retardent l'vnion & conſolidation d'icelle : ou pour dire plus briefue- ment ſelon galien,chap. . du liure, de conſtitutione artis, ſolution de continuité faite par eroſion les cauſes ſont jnternes, ou externes. canſit * les cauſes internes, ſont humeurs pechans , plus en qualité qu'en cauſes immº ºz/ $n s quantité; & quelquesfois entous les deux,leſquels pour leur maligni-* té font eroſion au cuir & parties molles.ce qui prouient par vn mauuais regime de viure. oul quel- que vice qui eſt en quelque partie principale, comme au foye, à la ratelle, ou par toute habitude c du corps.'les cauſes externes ſont, comme extreme froideur, qui occupera quelque partie : & prin- # exe cipalement les extremitez , à ſçauoir, bras & jambes, dent ſenſuit douleur , qui cauſe d'attirer le - ſang & eſprits à icelle, qui ſe corrompent par le defaut de la chaleur naturelle & extreme froideur, dont s'enſuit vlceration de la partie. semblablement vlcere vient à raiſon d'vn coup , ou froiſſe- ment, ou pour application de medicamens acres ou pour quelque combuſtion. auſſi contagion & attouchement peut eſtre cauſe d'vlcere : ce qui eſt manifeſte à voir en ceux qui ont vlceres aux par ties honteuſes,ou qui auront couché auccquelqu'vn qui auroit la maladie venerienne. # - -- *"- | -- ) " " - '- vlcere ) È i treiziéme liure des vlceres, - • " * ! . | | : | | - | | | | | | | | | • * | | | - | | | ! , l ! | | | | | | | | | | -- - | | | | - | º | l . * · · : | | | | · , l i · l | | | - - , ! - - · | · · · - | | - | | | | - ! . | | | , - - * | - - | - | | - | | , , & : ' |. • a ' , | | | | | : t, | - | , - · · · - - | *- • • \ - ſrsimple , ſeul & | trois cho- rfigure, dant crond , tortu, 'r propres de ſes, à ſga- longueur. ſ long. ſans adionction | d'autre diſpoſi-iuoir de la conrf. | tion , duquel | large- - ſont priſes les j# differences » dimenſion en# lºgº. e_zmediocre . « | superficiel. | | profond. t profondeur le mºyen . inegalité , vl- en vn endroit qu'à l'autre-º. | ucere . #negal au contraire-». rtemps, $ recent , i nueteré. vlcere_l } de briefue, ou longº durée_ . egalité , vu # egal, auſſi long !#º profond, & ce tant- prleere eſt ſo- lution de con- tinuité en par- tie mal- le, d'où ſort matie- re & ſanie : c eſt dou- ble-º. cºpesé en plu- ſieurs manie- res, qui ne ſont diffe. rentef «eres , mais addi- tions | d'i- . ceux , uauec comme du { • •apparence, euident. ) du tººf. $ vlcerele caché. en partie- . deſchiré, l ncisé. e maniere de tº # t'artie deſchiré, & partie- vlcere » incisé. e_ moins ',-generale , rvanterie" , poſterieur. p• propres ou vlcere » interieur, exterieºr. accinden- | superieur , inferieur. | taires de_ t)extre,ſemeſtre-º- «au milieu. eſt dit l'vlce- crochu , º f v• triangle_». •l d'vlce- ! - | | rature . compºſée- | cauſe & maladie_ » # en la fin muſcle-'» l# choſes , | situation- | . au commencement • t, eciale-», - rsimilaire, lou autr* partie- . - - vlcere au rſacochy- | tartie • cuir, en la cauſe, | me_ | chair, drc. - - vic，re, rheumº- torganique, vlcere, aº nº" toreille, en lait , |tique , | autres ac rthelephien-, - - uenuenimé. | cidens, cä- ) [: telephu en a eſtè malade_». - - •me vlcere_ chironien , < que chirºn fº* #º le premier. parce_ | qu'il reſſemble à tel animal. uchancreux, v. ſ intempe. simple , haud, froid, ſec : humide_ » -# & ſec,chaud & humide-, - #roid & ſec,froid & humide-º- calleux, fiſtuleux, cauerne* » | | l « maladieen- incommoderation- # luxation, aſpre-º, vlcere '. g/ / x . ſ plegmoneux. . - eryſepelateux. #ntemp. & incomp. oedematenx. lenſemble,vlcere- lscirrheux. symptome-º, phagedenique , doudoureux, vlcere » sordide, virulent, &'c- pour exemple accommode icy lº cauſe & symptome- , appellations deſſuſdittes és trois e_zmaladie & symptome-. lcauſe, maladie, & symptome-º. * . complications particulierer. - la v t r e fiſtules & hemorrhoïdes. r r de la nature des parties meſmes,leſ- quelles ſont | la differen- de la ma- § §ſtran- | de la diuer- ge qui ſort ſité des hu- des vlceres, mºurs.com- fiſtules , & | mcº apoſtemes , eſt prinſe | de la diuer- [- | | de la matie- re qui repre- l.me tr similaires ( coiiliil c organiques | coiilii c < , v - | des os & cartilages ſ noir, pourris. | des nerfs,veinesar- - teres , tendons &- subtil , | membranes, qui cou- urent les muſcles. rdu thorax, tresioinctures. eav，tr e t a b l e d es chos es estrangey | qui ſortent des fiſtules, vlceres & apoſtemes. # rdes parties char- | eſgal. neuſes ſort vn excre-} liſſe. i ciat» blanc. - - futide, & non fetide, appellé des anciens à cauſe lde ſon eſpeſſeur, pus. ſ & s'appelle par les | grecs elaeodes,d'au- r celſe li- verdoyant, tant qu'il # -cha- huileux & \-à l'huile. pitre . mais ſi par ſon acrimonie la veine eſt erodée, il en ſort vn ſang gros,& de l'artere , ſubtil, chaud & boiiillant auec pulſa- glueux, tion & ſautellement. fetide. c et ſort en touſſant , & eſt quel- # -{ quesfois ietté , non ſeulement santeux, cadauereux. ) par l'vlcere , mais auſſi par la aucunefois | bouche, par le fiege & par les verdoyant. \ vrines. de diuerſe couleur , & de mauuaiſe odeur, fort vnctueux, de la bouche vlce- rée, & des parties pudibundes , & des genoüils & au- glaireur. fdu ſang au phleg- ( blanc, | iiloila eſgal ， lliſſe. | de la bile en eryſi-j iaunaſtre , pele, subtil. | de la bilé noire au ſ noiraſtre, chancre. liuide. | de la pituite en ſ aqueux, \ l'oedeme. viſqueux- n ( de la teigne des eſ. bons peſtiferez, des >fetide, | crotielles, des char- ! bubons veneneux , des contuſions #] " : ſité des º- baſtons à feu. meuu.com- ! mortifications. rnoire , fetide » - | des gangrenes & k verdoyante » sentant vne odeur ſi puaate & cadauereuſe, que difficilement en peut enduret. en l'abſcés nommé ( miel , conſiſtance à steatome, ſente, com- atherome. \. ge comme melicetide,eſt ſcm- blable en couleur & suif à | boiiillie, upierre » croye , sablon, " en autres abſcés,au. | charbon , tres corps qui ont ! forme plus eſtran. | eſpics, oquilles de limaçons, « chair » cartilages, - corne dure & ſpongieuſe , os , t ， poil {# » - certains animaux, tant vifs que mortº dd | que n | | | | | l iéme liure d | | le treziéme liure des vlceres, - - - ! a. - r - -- - - a ' , ' , | ue c'eſt qu'il faut entendre par ces mots, pus, ichor, sanies, sordes, ros, | | | | • cambium & gluten. c h a p. i. . " | sanies. c h o r & sanies ne ſont en rien differens, ſinon que ichor eſt vn mot grec , & sanier eſt la- | | tin.l'vn & l'autre eſt pris maintenant pour toute humidité ſubtile & aqueuſe, qui eſt conte- · · · | liur. des nue parmy les humeurs dedans les veines : maintenant auſſi pour tout excrement ſanieux, - - | elemens. ſubtil,& humide, lequel ſort des vlceres,ou bien qui exude des corps morts. galien l'accom- | | | liu. . chap. xwºn pare au laict clair, nommé en latin serum : lequel eſt tiré du laict caillé quand on fait le • ! | . formage : & eſt tel excrement (comme eſcrit celſe ) trouué aux vlceres malins, & principalement à ceux - • ; serdes. des nerfs, quand vne inflammation a precedé.sordes eſt vn mot latin tiré d'vn mot grec, dit kypos, lequel, - | vient de ripao, ou ripee, qui eſtautant àdire,qu'eſtre ord, ſale & craſſeux. tellement que rypo ou soraes, | | | ſignifie proprement le plus gros excrement, lequel apres la troiſiéme concoction, ſort & exude deſſus la | | | - peau & epiderme, où eſtant amaſſé il eſt appellé craſſe, & ceux qui abondent en tel excrement, ſont nom- · · ! #- dº lº mez craſſeux. il ſe prend auſſi pour l'excrement ou plus groſſe ordure qui s'amaſſe aux vlceres, & qui s'ap- , i , meth. paroiſt deſſus la langue des frebricitans. pour cette cauſe galien dit que rypos ou sordes , n'eſt autre choſe , , ' r qu'vn excrement gros, qui rend l'vlcere ord & ſale, & icbor,ou ſanies, vn autre excre mentaqueux & ſubtil , * qui le rend humide. - - - - , · ' jpttſ ce mot qui en françois appellé bouë, en latinpus, & en grec pyon, ſignifie vn humeur putride, qui - ' : - reſſemble à peu pres à la ſubſtance des parties ſpermatiques. les anciens l'ont ainſi appellé, à cauſe de ſon - » eſpeſſeur & blancheur, comme témoignc l'autheur du liure appellé onomaſius. | - liu. . chap. cambion , roº » & gluten, ce ſont trois mots qui oilt eſté inuentez par les recents, pour exprimer la natu- b | | . de la re de l'humeur alimentaire, lequel humeur galien eſcrit deuoir eftre dit proprement alimentum » parce · · , | meth. que actuellement il nourrit. toutesfois pour ſçauoir la diſtinction de ces mots, il faut entendre que l'hu- · meur qui exude & ſort dehors par les emboucheures des veines capillaires, pour eſtre diffus & appoſé - · aux parties qui doiuent eſtre nourries, eſt appellé ros, pourautant qu'en maniere & façon de roſée , il eſt ' , eſpandu par les places vuides des parties ſimilaires, pour leur nourriture. iceluy s'eſtant par l'aſſimilation | | | . vn peu eſpeſſi, & comme congelé, s'agglutine & attache aux fibres ſolides des parties, dont il eſt appellé • · gluten, ou carniforme : apres qu'il eſt tranſmué & parfaittement aſſimilé à la propre ſubſtancê deſdites par- | ties , eſt appellé (ambium, qui eſt vn mot barbare. - - | | | / - • * les ſignes des vlceres. c h a p. i i. - * - elon la diuerſité & difference des vlceres, il y a auſſi diuers ſignes. car lors qu'il y a pour- - | - riture,& que d'icellc ſort vapeur fetide & cadauereuſe, accompagnée de ſorditie, c'eſt ſigne | * , · · · · · diuers ſi. d'vne vlcere putride.ainſi vlcere corroſiue,eſt celle qui par la malignité de ſa matiere ronge • * ! gnes des vl- & conſomme les parties qui luy ſont voiſines. l vlcere ſordide eſt pleine de gros excremens | | cº ' 'ſ. - viſqueux,auec vne chair molle,ſuperfiue & crouſteuſe.vlcere cauerneuſe,a l'orifice petit & · " ! º pº eſtroit auec profondité non apparente, & pluſieurs anfructuoſitez de coſté & d'autre, ſans toutesfois qu'il - #… y aye calloſité ny dureté. l'vlcere fiſtuleuſe eſt ſemblable à la ſuſdite,ſinon qu'il y a calloſité & duteté des c - : | #" labies & parois de la profondeur & cauernoſité. l'vlcere chancreuſe eſt horrible à voir, ayant les lévres - - dauernewſ . dures & renuerſées, de laquelle ſort vn virus puant & fetide , & quelquesfois du ſang, & autour d'icelle • fiſtule»ſ. ſont les veines tumefiées, comme nous auons monſtré au ch.du chancre vlcere diſcraſiée, eſt celle qui eſt : ! chancreuſe. accompagnée de quelque intemperature froide,chaude,humide,ou ſeiche,ou compliquée d'icelles. vlcere : º ! cacoëthe,eſt celle qui ne ſe peut guarir par remedes deuement appliquez,à cauſe qu'il y a au corps ou à la , - pºſerafée partie vlcerée, quelque cauſe occulte, de laquelle n'eſt poſſible donner raiſon, qui empeſche la guariſon. | cac,eibe i'vlcere rheumatique, eſt lors qu'en la partie fiue quantité d'humeur qui l'entretient, comme l'on void en | §- l'vlcere variqueuſe,lors qu'elle eſt accompagnée de varices , c'eſt à dire,groſſes veines eminentes,tortuës, - - que. & infractueuſe, remplies de gros ſang lvlcere apoſtemateux, eſt celuy auquel y a tumeur contre nature, - · · . variqueuſe. comme phlegmon,eryſipelas,œdema,ſcirrhe. vlcere chironique,eſt celuy duquel chiron centaure,hom- , apoſiema- me bien verse en la cognoiſſance des ſimples a guary pluſieurs par le moyen de l'herbe appellée de ſon • teux. . nom,centaurium minus : ainſi que ſemble monſtrer dioſcoride,chap. .liu. . ou bien pource chiron en a chironique. eſté guary. certes galien ſur l'aphor. de la s.ſect eſtime tels vlceres malins , & ne faire iamais ſuppura- | - telephie. tion louable : comme l'vlcere telephie, duquel a eſté affligé telephus. i - - ( du prognoſtic des vlceres. ch a p. iii. | s vlcores malins, qui durent vn an,ou dauantage,jaçoit qu'ils ſoient penſez & medicamentez ſe- # lon raiſon,il eſt neceſſaire que l'os qui eſt le fondement de la chairvlcerée ſoit alteré & corrom- # } ſº, pu, à cauſe de la mauuaiſe dipoſition de la partie, qu'elle a acquiſe par vn long-temps , pour la nºn defluxion des humeurs malins dont elle a eſté abbreuuée,ou pour la mauuaiſe difpoſition de l'os. et par ainſi il eſt neceſſaire que dudit os alteré ſe faſſe exfoliation & en ſortent eſquilles, comune choſe qui eſt contre nature : & faut que l'vlcere eſtant cicatrizé,demeure autant caue, que ſera grande la portion de hin.trºen !*?" l'on aura oſtée.les vlceres quiaduiennent auparauant quelque maladie,ou durant icelle,lors que # les vlceres viennent paſles,liuides,noiraſtres,c'eſt ſigne que le patient eſt proche de mort, d'autant que les #. " ' facultez qui nourriſſent le corps, ſont debiles & languides, qui ne peuuent ſecourir de ſuc nourriſſant la partie malade. et ſelon l'humeur qui ſera à la partie,l'vlcere en aura la couleur : comme s'il y a quelque portion debile, era iaunaſtre de melancholie,liuide ou noiraſtre, & de pituite blanchaſtre. ceux qui ont vlceres accompagnez de tumeur ne tombent ſouuent en conuulſion, & ne deuiennent pas fols ne inſenſez, " • d'autant que tels humeurs malins contenus en la tumeur, ne ſont communiquez aux parties nerueuſes, · ny au ce rueau, dont s'enſuiuent les ſuſdits accidens. mais ſi telle tumeur vient à s'eſuanoüir ſans aucune cauſe manifeſte, comme pour application de quelque medicament reſolutifs ou par quelque flux de ſang, hipp. apho. . liu. . | | - - · à ceux qui auront vlceres au dos,aduiendra conuulſion, pource que la ſuſdite matiere ſera retournée aux i parties nerueuſes,& aux muſcles du thorax,leſquels imbus de cette matiere par repletion,feront ſpaſme & : conuulſion. et ceux qui auront vlceres à la partie anterieure, deuiendront fols, inſenſez, & phrenetiques, ' *- » k pº« | - - | • - | - iiiiiiiiiiiiiiii - - s, | fiſtules & hemorroïdes. i c grande alteration,deſgoutement, & voir les viandes à contre-eœur,eſtre febricitant,& de l'vlcere ſortir pus a pour la multitude des veines & arteres qui ſont en icelle , par leſquelles telle humeur eſt porté au cerueau dont s'enſuit freneſie & manie. auſſi fi elles occupent le thorax, ſuruiendra pleurefie, ou empyeme, ſi la matiere decoule en la capacité du thorax.les vlceres qui ſont accompagnez de tumeur laxe,ſignifient con- coction des humeurs qui ſont à la partie:& ſont plus faciles à guarir que ceux qui ſont accompagnez de tu- hippº liu. meur dure, d'autant que la nature & partie du membre affecté n'en a fait encore concoction,laquelle natu-*tº º»- rellement en nous ſe fait par elixation, & non par aſſation , comme dit ariſtote au - des meteor. qui eſt cauſe qu'aux tumeurs, la molleſſe eſt ſigne de concoction & mitification de la matiere.les vlceres qui ſont aux parties pileuſes,quâd le poil qui eſt autour chet,ou bien quâd le cuir qui eſt autour ſedefleure,ſont re- belles, malins & difficiles à cicatriſer, pource qu'ils demonſtrent qu'il y a au profond de la partie quelque mauuais humeur,qui ronge & corrode,tant le cuir que la racine des cheueux qui naiſſent & s'entretiennent en nous de l'exallationd'vn ſuc loüable & nourriſſant,d'où vient que par les longues fiévres,& par la verole hipp.liu. . & lardrerie,le poil tombe. es vlceres où il y a carie d'os,ſi la chair eſt liuide,côme plombée,ou de couleur aphe. . citrine,c'eſt mauuais ſigne:car cela denote que la chaleur naturelle eſt eſteinte,& que l'os ſubjet eſt grande-hip.aphºca. ment alteré & corrompu. le,vlceres qui ſuruiennent à cauſe de quelque maladie,comme pour hydropifie, º ; ſont tres-difficiles à guarir : ſemblablement ceux qui ſont accompagnez de varices,de quelque intemperatu-# des vle. re, ou qui ont les bords durs,& qui ſont de figure ronde.tout vlcere remply de chair & cicatrisé,s'il ſe re- gal. # nouuelle,eſt en danger de tomber en fiſtule:ſemblablement s'il occupe quelque tendó,eſt difficile à guarir, #i # é: & tres-douloureux. es vlceies qui n'ont eſté mondifiez comme il appartient, s'engendre touſiours ſuper- mé'fa , croiſſance de chair:s'ils occupent quelque bras ou jambe,excitent ſouuent phlegmon,ou autre tumeur aux anicenne. hipp.ſe#. j. aph°. . b aines & parties glanduleuſes,&principalement ſi le corps eſt cacochyme car telles parties ſont ſubjettes à fluxion,pour leur imbecillité & rarité.albucraſis dit,que pour neuf cauſes les vlceres ſont difficiles à gluti- ner,incarner, & cicatriſer. la premiere quand le corps a faute de ſang.la ſeconde quand il peche en quali- cauſe les vl- té. la tierce,par l'indue application des medicamens qui ne luy ſont conucnables. la quatrieſme,lors que cer#, ſont l'vlcere eſt ſordide. la cinquieſme, quand l'vlcere eſt putride ou pourry. la ſixieſme,quand en vne pro- difficiles à uince il regne quelque peſtilence,ou maladie epidemique,qui fait les vlceres difficiles à guarir.la ſeptié- curer & ci- me,quand il y a calloſité.la huictiéme,quand la nature du pays eſt telle,que les vlceres y ſont de longue du- catriſer. rée,comme en saragoce d'aragon,où les apoſtemes durent vn an. la neufiéme , quand les os ſont carieux cºrn. cedſ & corrompus cornelius celſus dit qu'il y a aucuns ſignes,par leſquels on peut cognoiſtre combien il faut ºº * ºh ° eſperer ou craindre,touchant la curation:car les ſignes qui nous denotent quelque choſe de bon,ſont dor- mir & repos,librement reſpirer,n'eſtre point altere, n'auoir en horreur & deſdain les viandes,eſtre exépt de fiévre;& ſi le malade l'auoit eué,ne l'auoir point :'auſſi que l'vlcere rende vn pus blanc,poly, & égal,& non de mauuaiſe odeur.nous diſons le pus eſtre poly, quand toutes ſes parties ſont cuites,& ne ſe trouue aucune alperite à l'attouchement, qui puiſſe monſtrer qu'il y ait encore quelque portion d'humeur crue & non meurie. nous l'appellons egal,quand il n'eſt point de parties de nature diſſemblables. nous le diſons blanc,quand il eſt non de couleur blanche parfaictement,mais de couleur de cendre:d'autant que telles cho- ſes ſignifient que la chaleur naturelle concurrant en la generation,ſurmonte celle qui eſt contre nature, & que la matiere obeyt à l'operation de la chaleur, dont la mauuaiſe complexion dumembre eſt rectifiée, & par conſequent, nature pourra mieux faire curation de l'vlcere. or les ſignes qui nous denotent quelque choſe de mauuais, ſont veille,inquietude,difficulté d'expirer,& pour neuf signes de - - - - - - - - - mauuaiſe noir,limonneux & de mauuaiſe odeur:dauantage,quand la curation eſt bien auancée,& s'il ſuruient flux de guariſon. ſang.car côme dit hippocrate, )uand l'hemorragie & ſoudaine effluxion de ſang ſuruient aux vlceres, qui " hippºlis pour l'inflammation qu'ils ont,font grande pulſation,c'eſt mauuais ſigne,pource que telle effluxion ſortant . apho. . de l'artere s'y arreſte aſſez difficilement:& auſſi pource que la partie eſt lors moleſte d'inflammation & dou- leur,par laquelle le ſang attenué & boüillonnant,ſe desbonde tout à coup,rompant de violence ſes canaux &arteres:à quoy s'enſuit vn autre inconuenient, ſçauoir mortificatiô de la chaleur naturelle,par la deperdi- tion de ſang,& par conſequent faute de ſuppuration,& en fin gangrene.il reſte encore à parler du progno- ſtic des excremens qui ſortent des vlcrces,à ſçauoir vn nommé en grec bor,& en latin sanies, lequel eſt double : l'vn ſubtil & virulent,comme on void ſortir aux piqueures des nerfs & malins vlceres : l'autre eſt - gras & glutineux, qu'on void ordinairement ſortir des playes des iointures.il y en a vn autre nommé sor- des,qui eſt encore plus gras (dont l'vlcere eſt dite ſordide ) de couleur noiraſtre,autrefois rougeaſtre,cen- drée,inegale , comme lie de vin & d'odeur fetide la tenuité de la ſanie iſſant des vlceres qui eſt rougea- ſtre, ſemblable à laueure de chair, monſtre que la matiere eſt chaude, & ſi elle eſt blanchaſtre, monſtre signes que qu'elle eſt froide.et celle qui eſt blanche,polie,c'eſt à dire douce au toucher, egale,& en petite quantité, le pus eſt auec vne viſquoſité ſans nulle mauuaiſe odeur, ſignifie eſtre bonne, & que nature fait generation de chair. bon -\ - - de la curation des vlceres. c h a p. iv. # n la curation des vlceres deux choſes nous ſont proposées : ſºauoir l'vlcere ſim nºk - v . » x %| : \，a , j ſ) - -" & - f _ » - > / • r ple , lequel deuxpoinäs n'eſt accompagné d'aucun accident , & l'vlcere composé ou compliqué auec ſa cauſe , ma-§ ſons ladie ou ſymptome.or l'vlcere ſimple,entant qu'il eſt vlcere, a vne commune indication de propoſez à [ curation , à ſçauoir exſiccation. car tout vlcere,entant qu'vlcere, a beſoin de ſiccation, & la curation - d'autant qu'il eſt plus humide que la playe,il requiert auſſi plus grande deſiccation. or lors des vlceres. qu'ily a pluſieurs complications qui accompagnent l'vlcere,pour l'ordre de leur curation , galien veut gal. & . ue le chirurgien methodic ſe propoſe trois principaux poincts, qui ſont l'vrgent, la cauſe, & la cho-metho.gui- ſe ſans laquelle la maladie ne ſçauroit eſtre oſtée. et pour facile intelligence de ce, ie te donneray cét º .., exemple, poſons le cas qu'il y aitvn vlcere à la iambe, ſituée à la partie interieure, vn peu au deſſus du traicté des malleole,eſtant fort douloureux, caue,putride,auec carie en l'os,de figure ronde,ayans les bordscalleux & #ua durs,auec tumeur & infiâmation des parties voiſines,& accômpagné d'vne varice.l'ordre de curationde tel " " ylcere ſe doit cômencer aux choſes vniuerſelles,ayant eſgardà l'habitude de tout le corps qui eſt plethoric & cacochyme:leſquelles indiſpoſitions pourront eſtre amendées parles ſix choſes non naturelles ordônées par le docte medecin:ce qu'eſtant deuëment fait oſtera la cauſe duditvlcere. car tel eſt le commandemêt de salien,chap. du .liure des medicamens ſelon les genres.si(dit-il)le corps a beſoin de quelque preparatió la cauſe. il faut qu'elle ſoit faite deuant que toucher à l'vlcere. car ſouuent pour la guariſon de quelques vlceres,ſa ſeule purgatió ſuffit,à autres la ſeule ſaignée,à autres tous les deux, ſelon que la cauſe de l'vlcere eſt caco- l'vrgent. chyme ou plethore,ou tous les deux.et quât à la cure particuliere,nous aurós eſgard à ce qui eſt le plus vr- gent,qui ſera premieremét de ſeder la douleur par remedes contrarias à icelle côme ſi c eſt à raiſon d'vne d d intemperaturé** - treiziéme liure des vlceres. - : intemperature phlegmoneuſe qui dés long-temps a occupé, diſtendu, & endurcy la partie, elle ſera oſtée a par euacuation, faiſant premierement fomentation d'eau chaude, afin d'amollir & relaſcher le cuir,& que i'euacuation des humeurs contenus ſe faſſe plus aiſément : puis on fera des ſcarifications pour euacuer le ſang, ſelon que l'on verra eſtre neceſſaire. si le malade eſtoit delicat,ne voulant tollerer icelles ſcarifica- tions,on appliquera des ſangſuës:puis ſera mis ſur la partie vn emplaſtre de cerat refrigerât de galicn,ou autre séblable:& pour paracheuer à vacuer l'humeur arreſté,on vſera de remedes conuenables,ſelon la do- carie. ctrine eſcrite és tumeurs contre nature. cela fait, on aura eſgard à la choſe, ſans laquelle la maladie ne figure reº- pourra eſtre oſtée, qui ſe fera en gardant l'ordre des ſuſdites diſpoſitions compliquées : comme la carie, #us , laquelle ſera oſtée par cauteres actuels, & en l'aplication d'iceux on fera de ſorte, que l'on rendra l'vlcere ll /jtë. d'autre figure que ronde; à ſçauoir,longue ou triangulaire,& par ce moyen on conſommera la calloſité, & la pourriture de l'vlcereſera corrigée:puis on procedera à faire choir l'eſcarre:& apres on ſera ſoigneux à j'expoliation de l'os,côme nous auons traicté cy-deſſus,& on procedera au reſte de la curation de l'vlcere, lequel apres auoir eſté mondifié,ſera remply de chair:pour la generation de laquelle deux choſes ſont ne- ceſſaires.la premiere eſt la cauſe efficiente:la ſeconde eſt la matiere dont eſt engendrée la chair.or la cau- ſe efficiente eſt la bonne temperature,non ſeulement de tout le corps,mais auſſi de la partie affligée,par le gal. .met. moyen de laquelle fe fait attraction, concoction , appoſition , & aſſimilation : telle temperature doit eſtre chap. . conſeruée & maintenue par bonne maniere de viure, qui engendre vn bon ſang,non chaud,acre, bruſlé,ny cauſe effi- aqueux:car tel ſang pourroit rendre non ſeulemeut tout le corps mal-diſposé,mais principalement la partie ºº ººº vlcerée. quant à la matiere dont eſt procrée la chair, c'eſt le ſang pur & ſyncere, ne pechant ny en quan- chair. tité, ny en qualité. or en telle generation il s'engendre double excrement : vn,qui eſt humide,appellé de nous ſanie : l'autre plus eſpés,ſordicie. tous deux,d'autant qu'ils ſont contre nature,empeſchent la ſuſdite regeneration, & pour ce doiuent eſ}re oſtez par leur contraire. ce qui ſe fera par medicamens,leſquels ſe- b chap. . ront deſiccatifs au premier degré, & mondifientmediocrement :deſquels les vns ſont plus forts, les autres plus debiles:& pource le diſcret chirurgien en vſera auec methode,conſiderant le naturel de tout le corps & de la partie vlcerée, l'aſſiette , formation , & vertu d'icelle partie,enſemble l'abondance de l'humidité | & ſordicie. car les femmes, d'autant qu'elles ſont plus humides, demandent medicamens qui ſeichent moins, & les parties charneuſes requierent medicamens plus forts que les tendineuſes, pour le ſentiment exquis : car, dit galien , chap. . du liure . de la methcde, toute partie fort ſenſible ſe doit traitter ſans douleur autant qu'on peut. ainſi l'vlcere, tant plus qu'il eſt humide , a beſoin de medicamens qui ſeichent dauantage : car la partie demande eſtre conſeruée par choſes ſemblables, & l'vlcere requiert choſes con- traire à luy. lors que l'vlcere ſera remply de chair, par le benefice de nature & ayde du chirurgien , il faut induire cicatrice ( qui eſt vne chair calleuſe enduite en lieu de peau ) en appliquant remedes qui deſ- $u'eſt ce ſeichent ſansacrimonie ny mordication, ſi ce n'eſt en petite quantité. car l'alum bruſlé, & le vitriolcom- que cicatri- mun bruſlé & laué, mis en petite quantité, cicatrizent. on vſera doncques de radix ariſtoloch. aloes, cº, plumbum vſtum,cortic. granat.combuſt, litarg. pomphol. ayant eſgard aux choſes vniuerſelles eſcrites en la generation de chair, ou de la lamine de plomb frottée de vifargent, de laquelle ay veu grand effect,voi- re plus que d'aucun remede. pourriture, , de l'vlcere intemperé. c h a p. v. m, p r e s auoir eſcrit engeneral la definition, les cauſes, ſignes, differences, & prognoſtic des # vlceres,reſte en ſpecial enſeigner la guariſon de ceux qui ſont compliquez auec quelque acci- sſ dent, commençant à l'vlcere intemperé. or toute intemperature eſt chaude, froide, ſeiche, $ $ \# ou humide : & pource afin que le chirurgien ne prenne l'vn pour l'autre, il eſt bon de les di- c º ſtinguer. l'intemperature ſeiche ſe cognoiſtra par la veuë,l'vlcere eſtant comme ridé,ne ren- · sienes de dant aucune ou peu d'humidité, comme auſſi par le toucher, la ſentant rude & dure. telle intemperaturc l'intempera- ſe guerira par remedes humectans, faiſant vne fomentation d'eau tiede, ſuiuant l'opinion de galien, au li-- ture ſeiche. ure . de la methode, ou bien hydrelaeo ; c'eſt à dire, huyle & eau,ayant eſgard comme nous enſeigne ga- curation. lien,que ſi le corps eſt plethoric ou cacochyme, il le fandroit premierement purger & ſaigner, craignant d'attirer dauantage à la partie.telle fomentation ſera continuée iuſques à ce que la chair viéne rougeaftrc, nmollaſſe, & humide,& que la partie s'enfle vn peu : car ſi on continuoit dauantage, on reſoudroit l'humi- dité qu'on auroit attiré. la fomentation faite, ſera miſe ſur l'vlcere tel ou ſemblable remede. z. crcmor. hordei .ij. fol. mal.in aqua coct. .j. pingued. porc. .j.É.mellis commun. . f. miſce in mortar & fiat vn- guent. admoueatur parti, præmiſ. fotu. l'intemperature humide ſe cognoit par la quantité des excremens sirnes de que iette l'vlcere par la chair baueuſe & ſupercroiſſante.parquoy faudra vſer de remedes plus ſecs,tels que ººrº- ſont les sarcotiques,ayant eſgard à la quantité de la matiere,& à la nature de la partie,& autres indications # * eſcrites cy-deſſus. entre autres remedes,galien liure .zºe ſimpl.med.fºcult. chap. .louë fort l'eau alumineu- c ai - ſe : car elle deſſeiche, mondifie, & fortifie la partie. on peut auſſi fomenter la partie vlcerée , d'vne telle decoction. /.. roſar. rub. abſinth. betonica , tapſi barbat.an. m.j. gallar.nucum. cupreſſ. an. . ij.aluminis roch. .j. fiat decoct. in vino auſtero, de quo fiat fotus. la fomentation faite, ſera appliqué ſus l'vlcere de l'emplaſtre de ceruſa de minio , & autres. ie louë fort la poudre d'alum calcinée, miſe en petite quantité pour l'experience que i'en ay fait.quant à l'intemperature chaude elle ſera cogneue par la couleur rouge, signes pºur ou jaunaſtre, par l'attouchement du chirurgien, & par la douleur que ſentira le malade, ainſi que mon- d #º ſtre galien.liure . de la methode. lors nous aurons recours aux remedes refrigerans, comme l'onguent # roſat de meſme , refrigerans galeni populeum : auſſi les compreſſes & bandages ſeront trempées en eau de §" plantain,morelle,oxycrat.i'ay ſouuent pratiqué les ſcarifications & profité plus que tous remedes, ou bien les ſangſues : car par tel moyen le ſang eſchauffé & preparé à corruption, eſt oſté de la partie, & de tel far- deaugrandement deſchargée. l'intemperature froide ſe cognoiſtra par la couleur blanche, par l'attouche- signes de ment du chirurgien, & ſentiment du malade, lequel dit ſentir froid à la partie. pour laquelle guarir, tout l'intempera- autour de la partie refroidie ſeront appoſez bouteilles pleines d'eau chaude ou veſſies de porcà demy rem- ture froide. plies d'vne telle decoction. /.. origa.puleg. camomill.melilo.an.m. .abſinth.ſal. maior. roriſ. an. m. ſs. de- curation. coct. invinogeneroſo , addendo aquæ vitæ q ſatis l'vlcere pourra meſme eſtre fomenté, auec eſponges trempées en cette dite decoction. pareillemeut on vſera de l'emplaſtre de meliloto, oxycroceum de vigo, cum & ſine mercurio. or ſi l'vlcere eſt compliqué, auec deux ſortes d'intemperatures , les remedes pareil- lement ſeront diuerſifiez ſelon icelles, & touchant le reſte de la guariſon, elle ſera paracheuée, comme a eſté dit cy-deſſus , en mondifiant l'vlcere, puis l'incarnant, afin de le rendre à cicatrice. é fiſtules & hemorrhoidès > | de l'vlcere douloureux. | c h a p. v i. ". v v e n t à raiſon deſdites temperatures l'vlcere eſt fort douloureux,pour à quoy reme- dier , on aura recours aux remedes ſuſdits, & où la douleur perſeuereroit , & ne voudroit º" " obeir à iceux,on paſſeroit aux narcotiques. tels ſont les cataplaſmes faits ex foliis mandra- # # goræ , ſymph. hyoſcyami, ſolani , cicutæ , & oleis eiuſdem, auſquels on adiouſte oleum pa- # ( /j # - " paueris , mandragorae , opium , vnguentum populeum , & autres ſemblables, deſcrits au li- #º "u,- ure des tumeurs, parlant de la douleur. mais ſi telle douleur ſuruient pour quelque malice & virulence - d'humeur , lequel ſouuent corrode & ronge la chair és bords de l'vlcere , ne pourra eſtre appaisée » par remedes anodyns ny narcotiques, ains au contraire augmentera de plus en plus , eſtant dauantage irritée par remedes doux & gracieux , que s'ils eſtoient plus forts. pourquoy pour appaiſer telle dou- leur, faut auoir recours aux remedes forts & catheretiques : car aux maladies fortes,faut vſer de forts re- medes. parquoy il ſera appliqué ſus l'vlcere,vn plumaceau, chargé & couuert de noſtre aegyptiac fortifié # tout pur , ou bien vn peu d'huyle de vitriol , ou d'vn mondicatif, auquel on aura adiouſté poudre de mer- maladies, cure. tels remedes ont vertu d'obtundre & abbatre la virulence,& malice del'humeur qui entretenoit la # p"º/ - douleur : cependant tout autour d'icelle, ſeront mis remedes refrigerans, craignant que la douleur causée " par le remede acre ne faſſe fluxion à la partie. - de l'vlcere compliqué auec ſuperroiſſance de chair. c h a p. v i i. #s# n l'vlcere , tant pour la negligence du chirurgien , que pour la faute du malade , ſuruient vne hai n# chair ſuperfiue plus qu'il n'eſt de beſoin, eſtant quelquesfois enuironnée de bords oulévres du-#º# ſº $ſ% res & calleuſes. si telle chair eſt mollaſſe & baueuſe, ſe pourra oſter par remedes deſiccatifs, # - comme ſont galla, thuris cortex , aloès , tuthia, antimonium , pompholyx calcitis , plumbum # vſtum,bruſlez & lauez s'il en eſt beſoin, deſquels ſeront faits poudres & medicamens, auec vn peu d'huyle §. j c' /e- & cire. et où tels remedes ne ſeront ſuffiſans, la chair eſtant dure & ferme,faudra d'iceux paſſer aux cau- ' ſtiques,ou bien la couper. car comme dit galien liure . de la meth. chap. .d'oſter la chair ſuccroiſſante n'eſt œuure de nature, comme l'vnion & generation d'icelle,mais c'eſt l'œuure du medicament fort deſſei- chant ou la main du chirurgien.entre autres remedes,ie loüe fort la poudre de mercure,auec portiond'a- lum calciné,ou le vitriol ſeul calciné. et quant aux lévres de l'vlcere dures & calleuſes, ſeront amollies par remedes émolliens,comme ſont,pinguedines vituli,anſeris, gallina , anatis, olea liliorum,amygdalarum dulcium, lumbricorum, catellorum, œſipus, mucagines althex, lini, fœnugraeci, gummi ammoniac. gal- bani, bdellij : deſquels ſimples ſeront faits emplaſtres, onguent & liniment : ou bien on vſera de l'empla- ſtre diachylum, de mucaginibus, ou de vigo cum mercurio. apres auoir vſé quelque temps de ces reme- des,ſera appliquée vne lamine de plomb,frottée de vif-argent,laquelle a grande vertu d'applanir l'vlcere,& abbaiſſer les bords d'iceluy;& où tels remedes ne ſeroient ſuffiſans,faudroit appliquer remedes cauſtiques. que ſi la calloſité eſtoit ſi dure, que les remedes ne peuſſent faire leur operation, faudroit premierement les ſcarifier, ou bien les couper du tout, afin de donner priſe au medicament, & ce iuſques au vif, comme dit galien liu. .de la meth. chap. .ayant eſgard au precepte d'hippocrate, liure des vlceres. que ſi l'vl- cere eſt rond,luy faudra donner autrc figure, à ſçauoir oblongue ou triangulaire. de l'vlcerevermineux & putredineux, c h a p. v iii. v e l q y e s f o s és vlceres il s'engendre des vers : dont ils ſont dits vermineux. la cauſe - vde ce, eſt la trop grande humidité excrementeuſe preparé à pourriture par la chaleur immo* derée, & contre nature. ce qui aduient, ou parce que l'vlcere eſt negligé, ou pour l'intempe- rature & cacochymîe de tout le corps, ou de la partie , ou parce que telle humidité ex- crementeuſe ne ſe peut égouter n'ayant libre iſſue : ce que l'on void aduenir en l'oreille , nez, ſiege,col de la matrice,& és vlceres cuniculeux. pour guarir tels vlceres; faut premierement que le mede- cin aye égard à toute l'habitude du corps,ordonnant la purgation & ſaignée, ſans omettre la bonne ma- niere de viure. secondement faudra oſter les vers, puis deſſeicher cette trop grande humidité parquoy \ l'vlcere ſera fomenté d'vne telle decoction,laquelle a vertu de les faire mourir:car les voulans oſter viuans, remeds on feroit douleur, à cauſe que ſouuent ils tiennent à la partie vlcerée z. abſinth. centaur.maior.marrub. # - an.mrj.fiat decoctioad fb.É.in qua diſſol.aloes .É.vnguent.xgyptiaci .j. de ce remede ſera laué l'vlcere, # es & les plumaceaux trempez en icelle y ſeront laiſſez. or ſi l'vlcere eſt ſinueux & cuniculeux, on fera inie- ction d'icelle decoction. archigenes louë fort ce remede. z.ceruſae,polijmontani an. .f. picis naualis li- quida q. ſ.miſce in mortario pro linimento.souuent la pourriture eſt ſi grande, qu'elle ne ſe peut corriger par tels remedes : & lors faut paſſer aux plus forts,meſme aux cauteres actuels, ou bien à la ſection : tou- resfois ſuiuant le precepte d'hippocrate, nous commencerons aux plus legers, ſi la maladie le permet, cenni comme de ce remede eſcrit par galien,liu. .de la compoſition des medicamens. t.cera fb.j. ceruſae .viij. # e ſe olei roſati fb.j. ſalis ammon. .iiij. ſqammae.aeris .ij.thuris,alum.aerugmalicor.calcis viux an. j.fiat em- # #º . plaſt. ou bien de cettuy. z. terebinth lotæ . ij. ceræ albx . . liquef. ſimul. addeneo ſublimati . .ſalis. # # torrefact. & vitrioli calcinat.an. .j. fiat mundif ou bien nous vſerons de noſtre egyptiac pur , auquel il § du ſublimé. cependant les enuirons de l'vlcere ſeront munis de defenſifs craignant la trop grande ouleur. d. piereſordide . c h a p. i x. # v c e r e ſordide (apres les choſes vniuerſelles) ſeraguary par medicamens deterſifs,en con- fiderant que ſouuent y a vn excrement gros & eſpais, accompagné de certaine humidité & ſanie le ſuperfiue,quiſont côme rempars & bouleuars ſur les parties vlcerées,aſſoupiſſant louuét la for- $ ce & vertu des medicamés,pour forts qu'ils ſoient.il faut pour cette cauſe premieremét lauer l'vl- cre auec telle decoction. /...lixiuij communis fb.j.abſinth.marrub.apij,cent.vtriuſque,hypericonisan.m.ſ . d d coquant, treziéme liure des vlceres, coquant. in colat. quod ſufficit. adde mellis roſa. .j. vnguent. aegypt. . É. fiat decoctio:puis ſera mis vn tel À " ! mondicatif. ſucciapij & plantag. an. . ij. mellis comm. .j. tereb. .j. . pulu. ireos florent, & aloes an. .f. fiat mundificat. auſſi le vin doux auquel on aura fait boüillir herbes deter fiues, comme panax, ariſtoloche , abſinthe , & autres ſemblables : puis y adiouſter miel roſat & eau de vie, cettuy lauement deterge & deſſeiche les vlceres caues & cuniculeux. le chirurgien doit conſiderer diligemment en com- bien d'appareils il pourra auoir deſcouuert l'excremét ſordide & deſſeiché l'humeur ſuperfiuicar quelques- fois on peut oſter tels excrements à vn ſeul appareil:& quelquesfois auſſi on ne le peut faire qu'à pluſieurs · fois , à raiſon que la partie eſt fort ſenſible, ou que le corps eſt delicat. et lors qu'on aura detergé l'vlcere peu dre, in. faut euiter les remedes forts & acres de peur d'inciter douleur, fiuxion , inflammation & eroſion,qui ſeroit carnatiues. cauſe de rendre l'vlcere encore plus caue, parquoy on appliquera remedes qui deſſeichent ſans acrimonie, afin d'ayder à nature à engendrer & produire la chair. tels remedes ſont poudre d'aloës,maſtic,myrrhe, ireos, litharge, antimoine, racine de gentiane, farine d'orge, & leurs ſemblables : puis appoſer deſſus charpy fait de linge vieil & delié,& par deſſus vne lamine de plomb,frottée de vif-argent:& ſeront leſdits deterſifs & deſiccatifs, plus ou moins forts,ſelon qu'on verra eſtre neceſſaire. leur quantité ne ſe peut bien deſcrire : mais la faut cognoiſtre par conjecture artificielle, qui ſera quand on verra l'vlcere eſtre trop hu- mide , ſec, ou aride. s'il eſt trop humide, il ſe cognoiſtra par la quantité de la ſanie , & par la chair ba- ueuſe , laxe & molaſſe. s'il eſt trop deſſeiche, il ſe cognoiſtra à raiſon qu'il ſera ſec, jettant peu d'excre- mens, enſemble par la mutation de la couleur de la ſanie. - - or quelquesfois par l'indeuë application des medicamens fort deterſifs & deſiccatifs, les vlceres ſe ca- uent, & iettent grande quantité de matiere : ce quitrompe & deçoit ſouuent les chirurgiens : car voyans les vlceres ietter tant de ſanie, ils y appliquent derechef encore de plus forts & acres remedes, ce qui b nous eſt confirmé par l'hiſtoire d'vne empirique recité par galien , lequel traittoit vne vlcere ſordide, appliquant vn medicament verd qui eſtoitmordant & corroſif ce medicament conſommoit la chair ſubje- cte,cauſant douleur & chaleur à la partie,& par ce moyen de iour en iour la rendoit plus caue:mais voyant que ledit vlcere iettoit beaucoup dexcremens,penſant que ſon medicament ne fuſt aſſez deterſif, y adiouſta de plus forts deterſifs;& ce faiſant l'vlcere ietta encore dauantage:dont eſtant fort eſtonné,il yadiouſta de- grand, ax- rechef des remedes encore plus forts, pour cuider tarir l'excrement d'iceluy:mais de plus en plus l'vlcere ſe | §ien ur cauoit : tellement que par ſon ignorance il ne le peut guarir or la cauſe pour laquelle l'vlcere iettoit telle | le irune chi. quantité de ſanie , eſtoit que la chair ſe colliquoit & fondoit en pus & ſanie par la violence de ſon medica- | ment trop abſterſif,& la douleur qui cauſoit fluxion.parquoy il faut bien auoir eſgard,ſi l'vlcere eſt deuenu | ſordide par eroſion,& colliquation de la chair ſubjecte;côme auſſi prendre garde,ſi le medicament que l'on | | hiſtoire . rurgien. y aura appliqué,l'aura aſſez nettoyé.ce qui ſe cognoiſtra par la douleur & par les lévres qui ſont plus rou- indication ges,& plus chaudes qu'auparauant. et pour ſes raiſons faut diuerſifier les medicamens,ſelô que l'on verra des tempera- l'vlcere eſtre trop humide ou ſec,& que les corps ſeront plus forts ou robuſtes.or on appelle les corps forts, ceux qui ſont de temperature ſeiche, comme laboureurs,crocheteurs , mariniers, chaſſeurs,& autres de grand trauail , & qui demeurent en region chaude. tels ont leurs corps ferme & ſec,eſtant de couleur noi- raſtre. les foibles ſont ceux qui ſont de temperature humide , comme femmes, enfans,enuques, gens oi- #º ººº ſifs & ſedentaires, & qui demeurent en pays froid , tefs ont leur corps humide & phlegmatique & par con- # # ſequent mol,blanc,& fort ſenſible. et pource eſt il impoſſible qu'vnmedicament puiſſe ſeruir à tous corps: c # à cette cauſe il le conuient diuerfifier ſelon la temperature,tant du corps que de la partie vlcerée,de la ſai- fºrts, # ſon de l'année, region, âge, ſexe, & autres choſes priſes des choſes naturelles,hon naturelles, & contre la quantité nature, comme i'ay deſcrit plus amplement en l'introduction : combien que la quantité , qualité, & mix- é qualité tion de tels medicamens, ne ſe puiſſe au vray deſcrire, non plus que le meſlange des couleurs aux pein- & mixtion tres. toutesfois le chirurgien prudent par vne coniecture artificielle prendra indication, que les corps - - - - - - des medica- robuſtes, endurcis à la peine, de grand labeur, demandent remedes forts : car des doux & benins n'en peu. mens ne ſe uent auoir aucun amendement. au contraire ceux qui ſont de temperature molle & delicate,requierent re- peuuent bien medes doux ſans aucune eroſion : autrement au lieu de vouloir produire chair en leurs vlceres , les reme- deſcrire. des forts la conſommeroient & caueroient dauantage : comme les remedes doux & ſans eroſion appliquez és vlceres des corps robuſtes , les rendoient ſordides & ſanieuſes , & en fin putrides. - - - n des vlceres virulens, corrodans, cacoèthes, chironiques,ou phagedeniques. - | t'lceres ſer- c h a p. x. pans, c'eſt à dire,qui am- n bulent ér e s vlceres virulens & corrodans ne ſont differens les vns des autres, ſinon par les plus, ou le moins. car l'vlcere virulent eſt celuy duquel ſort vn excrement , dit vulgairement virus: corrodent & n} / lequel lors qu'il eſt rendu plus malin & corrodant , mine & ronge les parties ſubiacen- couent la a tes & voiſines de l'vlcere, dont il eſt dit pour lors corroſif : ils viennent d'vn humeur me- partie. artysº lancholic, erugineux & malin, & ſuiuent les chancres de bien pres. tels vlceres ſont nommez de galien , liure quatrieſme , de la compoſition des medicamens , dyſepulotiques , c'eſt à d dire de difficile cicatrization. i'appelle tels vlceres cacoethes (dit-il ) quand la partie ſouffrante eſt tant ca kectique & intemperee, qu'elle altere & corrompt le ſang qui afflué pour la nourrir , ores que de ſoy fut bon & aisé à digerer : dyſepulotiques, quand le ſang eſt fi mauuais & ſi cacochyme, qu'il ronge la par- tie qui de ſoy eſt temperée : puis il dit vlcere chironien, c'eſt à dire, vlcere qui eſt bien fort cacoethe. pour la guariſon, conſidere qu'entre iceux il ya grande latitude & difference, entant que les vns ſont plus dyſepulotiques & plus cacoëthes, les autres moins,il eſt neceſſaire qu'il y ait autant de nombre de medica- mens qui les guariront,que de differences d'vlceres. parquoy ce n'eſt de merueille,ſi ceux ſont ſouuent de- - # ceus de leur intention, leſquels n'ont qu'vn medicament pour guarir tous vlceres cacoethes.gal.l. . de la #ſclepia- compoſition des medicamcns,chap. . recommande ce medicament d'a fclepiades. .æris ſquammae , aerug. §rex berbe raſ an j. cera ib. . reſinx. caricis #.j. . ea quz liquari poſſunt , aridis affundantur.telle emplaſtre ſera §i - appliºe ſeulement ſur l'vlcere, & à l'enuiron, pour engarder ! inflammation,ou autre medicament froid. #§, § pareillement galien au liure ſus-allegué,loue fort ce remede : epulotique (dit-il) de primion aux deſeſ- galien. perez , c'eſt à dire aux vlceres, que maints medecins ſe ſont efforcez de guarir, mais ils n'en ſont venu à bout,& les ont delaiſſez comme incurables : il conuient auoir fiance en ce medicament , tant pour autres choſes , que pource qu'il eſt approuué par experience, - . aduertiſſemenr fiſtules & hemorrhoïdes. t . jalºnſ , # ieune chirurgien • aji . àu § ，ifi - penſer les vlceres cacoëther, c h a p. x i. - - nºſ o v r monſtrer l'vſage de l'emplaſtre cy-deſſus eſcrite d'aſclepiades, & pour là faute qui ſe # commet aujourd'huy entre la pluſpart des chirurgiens, de penſer deux ou trois fois le iour les vlceres malins , cacoethes,& de difficile guariſon, eſtimans par ce moyen plûſtoſt les gua- - i ' rir : i'ay bien voulu icy leur mettre l'authorité de gal. ( qui eſt du tout contraire à leur pra- gal. liur. . ºè$r> tique)laquelle eſt pareillement appuyée ſur la raiſon.aſclepiades(dit-il)a bien fait d'adjouſter de la # à la fin de la recepte du medicament ſuſdit ce qui s'enſuit.oſte ta bande & l'éplaſtre ſous les trois iours,& #. (? fomente § lors que tu auras nettoyé ton petit emplaſtre, & malaxé, remets-le deſſus,eſtant ºº mens, ſelon tain que fi vn medicament ne ſejourne long-temps ſur le corps,il ne profite aucunement choſe qu'aucuns § #r . medecins ont tant ignoré, qu'ils penſent trop mieux beſongner, quand ils abſtergent la ſanie de l'vlcere grandean- trois fois le iour, que ceux qui ne les nettoient que deux fois. et eſt cette mauuaiſe couſtume tant in- notation. ueterée , que les malades meſmes accuſent ſouuent les chirurgiens de negligence, qui ne les habillent qu'vne fois le iour : mais ils ſont bien deceus : car comme auez entenda & leu en pluſieurs lieux de mes oeuures les qualitez de tous corps qui s'entretouchent , agiſſent l'vn contre l'autre, & tous deux patiſſent quelque choſe, & fuſt l'vne d'icelles beaucoup plus forte que l'autre : au moyen dequoy leſdites qualitez s'vniſſent & fermentent auec le temps, combien qu'elles ſoient de beaucoup differentes ; de maniere que la qualité du medicament s'vnit, & quelquesfois deuient ſemblable à celle du corps, qui eſt choſe fort vtile. parquoy deuez loüer celuy qui premier a inuenté d'vſer encore, & de remettre le premier emplaſtre, & l'imiter d'autant qu'auez plus cogneu par experience ſon inuention eſtre bonne. a iuſte raiſon il a encore commandé,qu'on fomente l'vlcere tous les trois iours,c'eſt à dire toutes les fois qu'on l'habillera:car eſtant - le medicament fort,ce n'eſt de merueilles s'il a beſoin de quelque mitigation.telle authorite de calien peut . .. , - eſtre confirmée par raiſons.c'eſt choſe tout notoire,que les medicamés ne peuuét agir,finon par le benefice raiſon ſui- de la chaleur naturelle,laquelle doit exciter la faculté du medicament a faire ſon operation.or eſt-il ainſi, uast l'au-" qu'en tels vlceres malins & rebelles , là chaleur de la partie eſt foible , languide , & quaſi comme cachée thorité, & enſeuelie par la chaleur eſtrange & contre naturesde ſorte qu'elle ne peut ſi toſt ſe mettre en euidence & effort, pour exciter & eſueiller le remede àfaire ſon operation , & pour ce a beſoin d'eſpace de temps : de ſorte que lors qu'il ſeroit excité à ſon œuure, & comme au milieu de ſon operation , la chaletur eſtant at- tirée, & s'eſtant fortifiée, ſi vous debandez la partie & oſtez l'emplaſtre, l'vlcere ſera exposé a l'air, qui rendra la chaleur plus foible & petite, la repouſſant au dedans : & le remede qui ſera ja excité & éguilon- né à agir & operer, perdra cette premiere force acquiſe, de ſorte que le remettant en vn autre, il faudra toufiours recommencer nouuelle beſongne,n'ayant permis qu'il euſt fait toute ſon operation en imprimant ſa faculté a la partie vlcerée.pareille faute font ceux,qui en habillant ſi ſouuent les vlceres,les eſſuyenc bien fort;car ils oſtent non ſeulement l'excrement inutile,qui eſt la boiie & ſanie de l'vlcere, mais auſſi le natu- - rel, qui ſont ros, cambium & gluten, dont eſt engendrée la chair bonne & loüable en l'vlcere paï quoy aatre f.ui, pour les raiſons ſuſdites, il n'eſt beſoin de ſiſouuent penſer les vlceres : s'il n'y a accident qui y ſuruienne, touchant ny de les eſſuyer ſi ſoigneuſement. - - - - -- reux qui eſſuyent les –s - –- — — vlceres. des bandages des vlceres. c h a p. x i i e ne veux oublier à demonſtrer la maniere de bander & lier les parties vlcerées : c'eſt que la | bande commencera ſus l'vlcere,& ſoit tant large, qu'elle comprendra non ſeulement l'vlcere, - mais auſſi quelque portion des parties ſuperieures & inferieures,& quelle comprime medio- . - crement ſur l'vlcere, afin qu'elle expurge les humeurs hors dudit vlcere. ce faiſant , on la hhperrâte à - rendra plus ſeiche,qui eſt la voye de guariſon, comme dit hippocrate au commencement du eſté tremier . iure des vlceres. et ne faut que la bande ſoit ſerrée trop fort ny trop laſche:car la forte feroit douleur & inuenteur le fluxion,& la foible ne feruiroit de rien:& partant il faut en toutes choſes mediocrité. cn peut tremper les retre maºie- compreſſes & bandes en oxycrat, ou en gros vin auſtere,& principalement en eſté. le bandage fait,la par-rººººººº tie doit eſtre tenuë en repos : comme ſi l vlcere eſt aux jambes, le malade ſuiuant la doctrine d hyppocrate . - ne ſe tiendroit debout , ny aſſis , mais couché au lict , faiſant exercice de ſes bras en les maniant, leuant & baiſſant, ayant de groſſes bales peſantes,comme de plomb ou d'autre matiere. au contraire, ſi l'vlcere eſt au bras, il exercera les jambes en cheminant : où il ne pourroit cheminer, on les luy frottera,enſemble les cuiſſes en deualant en bas:afin de faire reuulſion & deriuation des eſprits & humeurs,qui fiuent à la partie vlcerée, en trop grande abondance. ) anv， des vlceres en particulier,& premierement des reux. c h a p; xi i i. aé o v s auons par-cy deuant exposé les differéces des vlceres,cauſes & ſignes d'iceux,& com- # bien il y en a,& quelle eſt l'indication d'vn chacun,enſemble leur curation:maintenant reſte à * # ſpecifier ceux qui occupent quelques parties:car ſelon galien,liure quatrieſme de la methode, %n# diuerſe indicatiô doit eſtre priſe de la ſituation,forme & figure,de l'vtilité & vlage,& du ſen- | . rsſ sº} timentaigu ou hebeté de la partie.et pour ce commencerons aux vlceres des yeux. telles vl- ceres aduiennent ſouuent côme dit celſe liure .chap. à raiſon de quelque puluſte,ot pour quelque flu- ... , xion d'humeurs acres,qui corrodent les membranes,ou pour quelque coup. paulus aegineta liure . en re- # # marque telles differences. si l'vlcere eſt ſitué en la membrane cornée,& qu'il ſoit caue(dit-il)eſtroit & ner, #º é# les grecs l'appellent botryon:que s'il eſt plus large,moins caue & profend,& eſt nommé ( œloma:& lors que #ente, l'vlcere eſt au cercle de la pupille, eſt dit argemon. s'il eſt crouteux & ſordide , eſt appellé epitaum .iceux . " en general requierent vne ſemblable guariſon comme les autres , à ſçauoir eſtre mondifiez , incarnez, deſſeichez, & cicatrizez : mais particulierement la partie demande remedes plus doux & moins doulou- reux. en premier lieu , le malade ſera purgé, baigné, ſaigné, tant du bras que des veines,& arte res tem- porales, & pour les remedes topiques, afin de deſtourner la fiuxion , luy ſeront appliquées ventouſes derniere les eſpaules auec ſcarifications, s'il en eſt beſoin : ou bien vn gros pain bis chaud , arrousé d'eau ºe vie , & bon vin ſus la nucque du col, & ſus le front & temples enforme de frontal , & vne emplaſtre d d aſtringente, cure. s o treiziéme liure des vlceres. - e, . de c'clſc-. aduertiſſe- en ent chirurgien. º'ire des ci- catrices qui vien, neht aux yeux cicatrice «auſe de ce- rité. pourquoy les ct ca fr"ic& des yeux ſont de di- uerſes cou- leurs. liu. .ch. . cure . remede d'archige- f « jl faut laiſ ſer cheoir les os de ſoy- meſme . differences. ctire. fatit t'ſer de reme des qui operent a prom temèt. $ remede d' aëce. gargxriſme. aſtringente , comme celle contra rupturam, ou l'onguent comitiſſe, & deficatiuum rubrum meſlez enſem- a º & edans l'œil ſera mis tel collyre,deſcrit par celſe au lieu ſus-allegué, approuué par hollier.%aris. vſti , cadmia vſtx & lotæ an. .j.myrrh.opij,an. .ij.acac-gum.arab.an. .iij. cum aqua fingitur collyrium, quodliquore oui diſſolnitur. le chirurgien doit prendre garde à la douleur,& pource par interualle ſera bon d'vſer de quelque collyre anodin:afin d'accouſtumer l'œil au ſuſdit. auſſi on pourra faire collyres de decoction de plantain , abſinthe, fenugrec , y diſſoluant ſuccre candi, tuthie , diatragacanthi » myrrhe, & vn peu de vitriol. l'vlcere eſtant mondifié ſera incarné d'vn tel remede. /.. ſarcocolla nutrit in lact. mu- lieb. .iij. pul. diaereos ſimpl. gummi arabici, tragacanti, an. .ſ. mucag fœnug quan. ſuff vt inde fiat collyrium. il faut noter qu'aux vlceres qui ſont fort humides, les poudres ſont plus conueñables que les collyres. l'vlcere remply, la cicatrice ſera faite par vn tel collyre. z. tuthix,cadmiæ præparatx vt dece» cerula , antim.olibani an. . É. myrrhx, ſarc.fanc draco. aloes,opij an. ſ$. cum aqua plantag. fiat colly- rium. ou bien la poudre ſera miſe ſeule. celſe liu. . chap. .remarque deux vices d'icelles cicatrices : car ou elles ſont groſſes comme enleuées, ou bien caues. si elles ſont caues, elles démandent deſtre remplies par vn tel remede. . papauer.lacrym. .f. ſagapeni, opopop. an. .j.ſ.aerug. .j-cumini iiij. piperis .ij. cadmix lotx,ceruſan. .j.É.cum aqua pluuiali,fiat collyrium.si la cicatrice eſt groſſe & efleuée, il recom- · mande tel collyre. .cinamo.acacix an. . .cadmiæ lotae,croci,myrrhx,papaueris lachrymae, gummi arab. an. .j piperis albi,thuris an. .j.É.æris combuſti .iij. cum aqua pluuiali fiat collyrium. or ſi la cicatrice eſt ſus la cornée, & quelle couure la pupille,le malade ne pourra veoir de cét œil, à raiſon que l'eſprit viſuel ne peut reluire au trauers, n'eſtant tranſparente & lucide comme auparauant. et eſt à noter, que les cica- trices qui ſont à la cornée,ſont blanches, & celles de la conionctiue ſont rouges,d'autant que la conioncti- ue eſt plus garnie de veines que la cornée, leſquelles remplies de ſang, qui y eſt coulé & ſorty dehors,fait que cette partie demeure rouge.or la cornée eſtant du tout ſpermatique & exangue,ne peut receuoir cette fluxion de ſang: meſme la matiere qui la doit nourrir enuoyée à icelle pour s'aſſimiler, eſt de couleur lu- cide & tranſparente, laquelle matiere endurcie par la chaleur, deuient blanche, comme il appert au blanc d'vn œuf, qui deuient blanc eſtant durcy par le feu. des vlceres du nez, enſemble de la punaiſie oumauuaiſeſenteur d'iceluy, dite des grecs & latins ozena. · ch a p. x iv. vn a s i e ou oxæna , n'eſt autre choſe qu'vn vlcere profond & puant, qui eſt au dedans du nez,duquel ſortent pluſieurs crouſtes demauuaiſe odeur. celſe les appelle vlceres puants de mauuaiſe odeur, & de difficile guariſon.la cauſe deſquels, comme eſcrit galien liure. .de la compoſition des medicamens ſelon les lieux, chap. . prouient d'humeurs acres & pourris, qui tombent de la teſte dedans les nazeaux , vers les apophyſes mammillaires. pour la gueriſon, il eſt ncceſſaire d'vſerd'vn bon regimespuis apres preparer l'humeur pechant , & eſtant prepa- ré, le purger par medecines conuenables , & meſme par la ſaignée, ſi beſoin eſt. apres faut deſeicher & roborer la teſte, afin qu'elle ne reçoiue , & qu'elle ne renuoye aticnn excrement en bas. puis faut ve- nir à la partie vlcerée, & taſcher à reſeicher l'vlcere par medicamens qui ayent vertu de repouſſer l'hu- meur & le reſoudre : comme ſont le vin de grenade , cuit à la moitié en vn vaiſſeau d'airain , poudre de coral, ſandaux, poudre de calamite, de naſturtium, d'hellebore blanc, ſuc de ranunculus , auquel on adjouſtera de l'alum, & autres que l'on peut lire en celſe. galienau lieu allegué, de l'authoritéd'archige- nes , conſeille que l'on tire le ius de calament par le nez , & qu'on ſeiche ledit calament, & eſtant mis en poudre bien ſubtile, qu'on le ſouffle auec vn petit canal, comme par vn tuyau de plume dedans le nez. autres vſent de cette poudre. .roſarum rubrarû,myrtil.calam aromat radic.ang.gent macis,caryophyl.an. .ſº.camph.amb.g.iiij.moſcig.vj.fiat pul.ſubtilis.manardus en ſes epiſtres,liu. o epiſtre . loué ſur tout le caput pargium , fait , ex virina aſiai. et là où le mal ſeroit tant enraciné qu'il ne ſe pourroit appaiſer par les ſuſdits remedes, il faudroit auoir recours au vitriol,verd de gris,tel ammoniac,& alum auec vinaigre.sou- uent les os ethmoides s'alterent par telles vlceres. que ſi cela aduenoit, ne les faudroit tirer par violence, mais les laiſſer ſeparer par nature, faiſant petites injections, auec eau de vie, en laquelle on auroit infusé les poudres cephaliques pour deſſeicher l'alteration d'iceux. - des vlceres de la bouche . ch a p. xv. $º% e s vlceres de la bouche, des grecs ſont dites aphtx , maladie familiere aux petits enfans, - $ $ comme il eſt noté au troiſieſme liure des aphoriſmes. telles vlceres ſouuent commencent - # par les genciues, & cheminent iuſqu'au palais:& enfin gaignent iuſques à la luette & gauion, -# comme monſtre celſe liure ſixieſme,chapitre . galien comment. du troiſieſme des epide- mies, en fait de deux eſpcces , dont les vnes ſont aſſez traictables, les autres malignes & re- belles la cauſe pour les petits enfans vient à raiſon de la delicateſſe de leur bouche,eſtant molaſſe,tendre, & facile à exulcerer,enſemble auſſi les excremens acres,dont s'enſuit vlceres malins. pour la guariſon,faut euiter toutes viandes qui échauffent : & ſi c'eſt vn nourriſſon, faut que le laict de la nourrice ſoit rectifié par viandes rafraichiſſantes, bains, & fomentations a ſes mammelles d'eau tiede , comme commande celſe liure ſixieſme chap. . et quant aux remedes topiques,ayant égard à l'âge,faut vier des remedes qui ope- rent promptement, attendu qu'ils ne peuuent demeurer longuement ſur la partie vlcerée : & pource ont beſoin de ſubite operation , afin qu'ils faſſent en vn inſtant telle action,côme s'ils eſtoient foibles,ils pour- roient faire en vingt-quatre heures , demeurans touſiours ſur la partie. donc ſi l'vlcere eſt maligne, ſera touchée d'eau forte eſteinte dite eau de separction)ou auec la commune qui n'a ſeruy,à laquelle on adjou- ſtera pour vne goutte d'icelle cinq ou ſix d'eau de fontaine ou de puits, plus ou moins ſelon la malignité. auſſi on pourra vſer d huyle de vitriol, de ſoulphre,d'antimoine, d'eau ſublimé, & autres ſemblables.aëce veut que telles vlceres putrides ſoient corrigées auecques huyle boüillante , trempant en icelle vn floc de laine attachée au bout d'vne eſprouuette, puis l'appliquer ſur la partie vlcerée, iuſques à ce que de toute part elle apparoiſſe blanche, & que l'vlcere ſoit applanie. par ce moyen on arreſte la corroſion de l'vlcere, & fait-on que la chair ſanne s'auance, pour remplir & couurir ce qui eſt rongé & conſommé.apres telle cauteriſation , on vſera d'vn tel gargariſme, lequel profitera aux vlceres non malignes. %. hord inte. p.j. plan. ceterac piloſel agrim. an. m. - fiat decoct. ad. fb j.in aqua diſſ, mel. roſ. .ij.diamor. .ſ. fiat garga. semblables gargariſmes peuuent eſtre faits d'écorce de grenade , balauſte, ſumac,berberis,roſes rouges,y - diſſoluant b $ fiſtules & hemorrhoïdes. " | a diſſoluant du diamorum & dianucum auec vn peu d'alum gal. chap. o.liu. de la methode,dit que les v - ceres de la bouche ſimples , doiuent eſtre gueris par medicamens, qui deſſeichent mediocrement , comme diamorum & dianucum, & que ſi elles ſont autres, faut vſer de plus forts remedes. lors que tels vlceres ſont au palais faut les traitter plus ſoigneuſement, craignant que par la chaleur & humidité de telle partie, l'os eſtant rare & ſpongieux, il ne s'altere & corrompe , qui feroit qu'eſtant tombé, le malade parleroit re- gnaut comme nous monſtrerons au liure, d'adiouſter ce qui defaut. que fi l'vlcere eſt verolique,faut auoir recours à ſon alexitere,qui eſt le vif-argent, laiſſant tous remedes communs. or ſouuent il y a des vlceres fiſtuleuſes aux genciues, dont s'enſuit carie à la racine de la dent, & en fin l'vlcere penetre par dehors, comme ſous le menton , ce qu'aucuns eſtiment eſtre eſcroüelles, eſtimans eſtre § , ne ſe pouuant guarir par aucun remede ſuſdit.en telles vlceres faut ſuiure le conſeil d'aece,& de celſe,liu. .chap, .qui eſt arracher la dent offenc«e : car par ce moyen on extirpera la fiſtule,la genciue s'abbaiſſera, & ce qui reſte de la curation,ſera plus facile,pource qu'il n'y auoit que la pourriture de la dent qui l'entretenoit.et quant eſtdes vlceres de la langue , elles ne requierent autres remedes que celles de la bouche : vray eſt, comme dit celſe liu. .chap. .que celles qui ſont aux coſtez ſont plus difficiles à guarir,& qu'il faut prendre garde s'il n'y a point quelque dent aigue qui luy touche , laquelle, s'il eſtoit ainſi, la faudroit limer. c h a p. xv i. l aduient vlcere au conduit de l'oreille, ou par cauſe externe, comme coup , cheute,ou pour vne apoſteme.de telles vlceres ſouuent ſort grande quantité de matiere qui aduient non de la propre vlcere, eſtant petite & en partie ſpermatique,mais de la deſcharge de tout le cerueau. pour la guariſon , faut auoir égard à la cauſe antecedente,qui peut entretenir l'vlcere,laquelfe (nb pourra eſtre diuertie par purgations maſticatoires & errhines : comme z.maſt. .j.ſtaphiſag. & pyrethri an. . j.cinam. & caryophill. an. : ſ. fiant maſticat. quibus manè ante paſtum vtatur errhine. /. ſucci beton.mercur.meliſſ. an. .ſ vini albi. .j, miſce,'frequenter naribus attrahantur. quant aux remedes topiques, faut euiter toutes choſes onctueuſes & huileuſes, comme a noté gal. liu. . de la me- thode, diſputant contre vn theſſalien, lequel vſant de tetrapharmacum à vne vlcere d'oreille , de iour en autre la rendoit plus purulente & fetide,& en fin galien la guarit auec les trochiſques d'andronius diſſout en vinaigre,deſquels la compoſition eſt telle. z balauſt. .ij.aluminis .j.atramenti ſutorij. .ij.myrrhz .j. thuris, ariſtoloch.gall.an. .ij. ſal. ammo. .j.excipiantur omniamelicrato,& fiant trochiſci. galien au meſ- me lieu, dit auoir guary telles vlceres inueterées de deux ans,auec ſcoria ferri miſe en poudre tres-ſubtile, & en apres cuite auec vinaigre bien fort, iuſques à ce qu'elle ſoit deuenuë eſpeſſe comme miel.pour corri- # la pourriture qui ſort des oreilles, le fort vinaigre , & fiel de beuf incorporez enſemble, inſtillez de- ans, vn peu tiedes, la merde de fer ſubtillement puluerisée en vinaigre tres-fort, puis boüillie, ſeichée, & appliquée auſdites vlceres , les deſſeiche à grande merueille : ce qu'on void par experience. que ſi la boüe & ſanie ne pouuoit eſtre euacuée , il faudroit la tirer par vne ſeringue propre, dite pyaulcos , comme tu vois par cette figure. l —l- des vlceres des oreilles. nna |$ pyoulcos. des vlceres de la trachée artere, oſeophague, eſtomach, & tnteſtins. c h a p t r e. xvi i. ，º)sna g) t e l l e s parties peuuent venir vlceres de cauſe externe , comme pour quelque medica- # ment qu'on aura pris, lequel ſera corroſif, ou pour quelque poiſon : auſſi de cauſe interne \n# comme pour quelque humeuracre & poignant,qui aura vlceré telles parties. les ſignes ſont douleur en la partie, & principalement lors qu'on aualle quelque choſe aigre , chaleur à * l'endroit. si l'vlcere eſt à l'orifice de l'eſtomach, les accidens ſont plus grands , comme de- faillance de cœur, douleur preſque intolerable , & refroidiſſement des extremitez. si l'vlcere eſt aux inteſtins, le malade iette ſouuentesfois de la bouë par le ſiege, enſemble du ſang , ayant de grandes dou- leurs & eſpreintes , à raiſon que tel humeur croupiſſant aiguillonne nature à chaſſer ſi peu † qu'il y a.si l'vlcere eſt à la trachée artere, le malade ſouuentesfois , & la pluſpart du temps a difficulté de reſpirer. pour lacure tels vlceres doiuent eſtre guaries,comme eſcrit galien liu. .& . de la methode, par ce qu'on mange & boit, ſe donnant de garde † de toutes choſes acres & corroſiues, ny de tuthie,litar- ge,cereuſe,verdegris,& ſemblables,ainſi que l'on fait aux vlceres externes:mais au contraire douces & gra- cieuſes,ayant eſgard à la partie.comme ſi elles ſont à l'oeſophague,& trachée artere, & poulmons ſeront fiſtules des genciues. vlceres àe " la langue ! cure. errhiwe. hiſtoire d# galian. trochiſques d'andronink cauſe de telles vices- pe . signes. cºre curation baillées à pluſieurs fois : autrement ils ſeruiroient peu, parce qu'ils ne font que paſſer.pareillement tels re-ººº medes, ne doiuent eſtre fort liquides, mais viſqueux & glutineux : car eſtans les voyes du boire & manger remede;. & de l'air, ont beſoin de remedes qui puiſſent adherer & glutiner, & non qui coulemt promptement. et miel cru. s'illes conuient mundifier onvſera de miel cru, lequel ſur toutes choſes eſt vtile à telles vlceres : & lors qu'on les voudra aglutiner,on y meſlera de la gomme diatragacanth, diſſoute auec decoctien aucunement aſtringente. les remedes propres aux vlceres de l'eſtomach doiuent eſtre medicamenteux , & alimenteux, non acres, de peur d'induire douleur, inflammation & vomiſſement : auſſi ils engarderoient de digerer les allimens. partant on vſera d'orge mondé bien ſuccré, de gelee , en laquelle on aura diſſoult de la gom . me diatragacanth, bol armene vraye decoction de pruneaux , dattes, figues, raiſins de damas , miel ; le laict de vache boüilly auec moyeux d'œufs, & vn peu de miel commun , eſt ſingulier. et ſi on veut ag- glutiner tels vlceres on vſera de remedes auſteres , aſtringens , & glutineux , leſquels n'ayent aucune éroſion a wel vlce- res les choſes acres ſont éuiter, : - treziéme liure des vlceres. situation du malade tou- chant l'vſa- ge des medi- c mew ;. vſage de miel. vſage de l'e- gyptiac. signes. pourquey la bouë eſt feti- de aux vlce res de la veſ- ſie érnom des reins. cure . trochiques de gourdou. vlceres de la veſſie. s gnes. l'vrine. cauſes. signes. eroſion ny mauuais gouſt, comme hypociſtis, fleurs de grenadier,eſcorce de grenade,terre ſeelée,ſumac, a acacia, roſes rouges, & autres ſemblables, leſquels ne font nulle eroſion aux parties interieures. on vſera auſſi de decoction aſtringentes, comme de coings, de lentiſque, ou de l'extremité de vigne, de rubus, de myrte auec vin auſtere,s'il n'y auoit crainte d'inflammation.lors qu'on vſe de tels,ou autres remedes,l'vl- cere eſtant à la trachée artere & poulmons,galien veut que le malade ſoit couché à l'enuers,& qu'il tiéne le medicament(dit lohot)en la bouche,en relaſchant les muſcles du larynx:car en ce faiſant le medicamët coulera peu à peu le long des parois de la trachée artere,comme l'eau fait le long d'vn mur,ſe gardant que le medicament n'entre tout à coup,de peur d'induire la toux,laquelle eſt du tout contraire à telles vlceres, à cauſe qu'elle fait dilater l'vlcere. le ſemblable eſt pour les vlceres de l'oeſophague. leur breuuage ſera hydromel, hydroſaccarum, ſyrop de violes, & de juiubes. en toutes vlceres interieures le miel eſt fort re- commandé pour eſtre meſlé auec les medicamens : car vſant ſeulement de choſes aſtringentes , elles de- meureroient ſouuent en l'eſtomach,ſans eſtre digerées,ny diſtribuées, mais le miel outre qu'il ayde à la di- geſtion & diſtribution,il eſt auſſi fort propre à telles vlceres. pareillement le laict daneſſe eſt fort recom- mandé, & en lieu d'iceluy, de chévre ou de vache. la portion vulnerée eſt fort vtile,pourueu qu'elle ſoit composée de ſimples, qui ayent égard aux parties vlcerees. la guariſon des vlceres qui ſont aux inteſtins, differe en ce des ſuſdites parties : comme ſi elles ſont aux gros, on y remedie par iniections & clyſteres, vſant meſme de regedes acres afin de corriger la pourriture, comme egyptiac diſſoult en decoction d'orge ou de vin : mais ſi l'vlcere eſt aux greſles qui ſont prés l'eſtomach , les remedes ſeront pris par le boire & manger. pource, comme dit galien, liure . de la methode, ce qui eſt jetté par le ſiege, ne peut paruenir iuſques aux inteſtins greſles, & ce qu'on prend par la bouche, quand il paruient aux inteſtins gros,ne peut auoir ſa vertu entiere. •- - des vlceres des reins, & de la veſie . c h a p. xv i i i. j \l vient vlcere aux reins, ou pour quelque humeur acre & mordicant qui y coule , ou pour # quelque veine qui ſe rompt, ou pour quelque apoſteme, qui degenere en vlcere. elles ſont cogneués par la douleur & peſanteur qu'on ſent aux lumbes à l'endroit du rein , & par la # boüe qui ſe meſle auec l'vrine , laquelle ſe cognoiſt venir d'iceux & non de la veſſie : d'au- *iº tant qu'elle n'eſt ſi fetide que celle qui vient de la veſſie : car eſtant froide & exangue , ne la p>uu nt cuire comme les reins qui ſont chauds & charnus, eſt renduë fetide & de mauuaiſe odeur. d'a- bondant la boue qui ſort des reins , ſe meſle premierement auec l'vrine : puis reſide au fond du vaiſſeau, & ne ſort qu'auec l'vrine : mais celle qui ſort de la veſſie , ſort quelquesfois ſans l'vrine toute ſeule : d'a- bondant les reins eſtans vlcerez , on apperçoit ſouuent de petis filamens ſortir auec l'vrine. hippocrate au . liure , aphoriſne . dit , que ceux auſquels auec leur vrine epeſſe , ſortent furfures ou petites eſ- cailles blanches, leur veſſie eſt ſcabieuſe. pour la guariſon, il eſt tres-expedient d'auoir le ventre mol, qui ſe fera par clyſteres conuenables , & viandes humides. le vomiſſement eſt recommandé, afin de faire reuulſion des httmeurs qui pourroient fluer ſur iceux. les grandes purgations ſont contraires,craignant de faire commotion des humeurs en icelle partie.pour mondifier telles vlceres,cette decoction a grand effect. z.hordei intergri mi glycyrrhizx. .É.rad.acetoſx & peti oſelini an. .vj.fiat decoctad ib. j. in colatura diſſol. mellis deſpum. . j.capiat ſing. matut.ad. .iiij. le laict de chévre ou d'aſneſſe auec vn peu de ſuccre eſt fort profitable. gourdon loue fort tels trochiques.%.quatuor lem.frigidor. maior. mund.ſem. papaue. albi, femin. mal. ſemin.port ſemin. cy donior. baccar myrti, tragocanti, gummi arabici , nucum, pin. mund. piſtac. penid. glvcyrrhizae mund. muc. pſilij , amygdal. dul. hord. mund. an. . il. boli arm, ſang. drac. ſpodi), roſ myrrh. an. . .excipiantur hydrom.& fingantur trochiſ qui ſint ſinguli ponderis .ij.ga- lien liure quatrieſme de la methode recommande fort le miel, & les diuretiques pour eſtre meſlez,auec les remedes qui ſont propres à telles vlceres , d'autant qu'ils prouoquent & eſmeuuent les vrines,& ſont com- me vehicules aux autres remedes.les vlceres de la veſſie ſont ou au fond d'icelle,ou au col pres le conduit de l'vrine. s'ils ſont au fond, l'on ſent douleur preſque continuelle : & s'ils ſont au col , on les apperçoit le plus ſouuent lors qu'on piſſe apres auoir piſsé. s'ils ſont au fond, il ſort quelquesfois de petites peaux comme eſcailles : lors que l'vlcere gaigne iuſques au conduit de l'vrine, la verge ſouuent ſe dreſſe. ceux qui ſont au profond , pour la plus part ſont incurables, tant pour la compoſition de la partie,qui eſt exan- gue & nerueuſe, que pour l'vrine qui demeure perpetuellement : car encore qu'on aye piſſé,ſi eſt ce qu'il demeure quelque portion d'vrine,laquelle touche de toute parts la veſſie,attendu qu'elle s'affaiſſe,& reſſer- re ſelon que l'vrine ſort.pour la guariſon,les meſmes remedes deſcrits aux vlceres des reins luy ſeront pro- fitables, tant pris par dedans, que ſeringuez par la verge : & entre autres les trochiſques de gourdon diſ- ſouts deſcrits cy-deuant. reſte ſeulement que telle vlceres eſtans plus douloureuſes, le chirurgien doit auoir egard à appaiſer la douleur.i'ay approuué : & ſouuent experimenté vne iniection d'huyle de iuſquia- me extraicte par expreſſion.on pourra vſer de cataplaſmes , linimens ſus le petit ventre,& entrefeſſon,en- ſemble de clyſteres,deſquels remedes anodyns nous auons aſſez fait mention. si les vlceres eſtoient feti- des, ie ne ferois difficulté d'vſer d'vn peu d'egyptiac diſſout en vin & eau de plantain ou de roſe, que i'ay fayſouuent auec bonne iſſue- - des vlceres de la matrice . ch a p. x l x. #nºz # s vlceres de lamatrice viennent ou à raiſon de quelque humeur acre & mordicant, qui ron- $è $ ge les parois d'icelle, ou pour quelque apoſteme qui y eſt ſuruenue, ou apres les fleurs blan- # ches , ou apres vn grand prurit, ou apres la contagion de la verole, par la violente deflora- é / # tion de la fille pucelle , trop ieune , ou d'vn accouchement difficille, ou pour eſtre tombée è ſur quelque choſe aiguë, ou en auoir eſté frappée. or telles vlceres ſituez au col de la matri- ce, ou cauité d'icelle, ſont ſimples ou compoſez.ils ſe cognoiſſent par la douleur que les femmes ſentent au , deſſus du penil,& par la ſanie & boue qui ſort par leurs parties hôteuſes.auincenne liu .fen. .traicté.ie. chap. .en fait telles differences:où ils ſont putrides,lors que la matiere qui en ſort,eſt fort puante, reſſem- blant à la laueure de chair:ou ils ſont ſordides, lors qu'il en ſort grande quantité d'humeur virulente & in- digeſte. que s'ils ſont corroſifs, l'humeur qui en ſortira ſera noiraſtre auec grande douleur & eſlancemens. ils ſont au col de la matrice, ou au fond d'icelle. celles qui ſont au col,ſont cogneuës par la veue,ymet- tant le ſpeculum , & ceux qui ſont au profond par les excremens qui en ſortent, & le lieu de la douleur. - d lc fiſtules & hemorrhoïdes. a les remedes ſeront ſemblables à ceux qui ſont deſcrits aux vlceres de la bouche, comme eau fort, huyle car* de vitriol,d'antimoine, & autres, eſtans corrigés, deſquels on touchera l'endroit vlceré : car il faut que le remede beſongne à l'inſtant, ne pouuant long-temps non plus qu'à la bouche y demeurer. or il ſe fait en la matrice telle corruption que l'inteſtin droit en eſt rongé & corrodé, & de l'inteſtin , le col de la matrice en eſt erodé,& la ſanie ſort tant par l'inteſtin,que par le col de la matrice,voire par le ſiege.le prognoſtic, pregnoſtie. c'eſt que les vlceres de la matrice ſont difficiles,& ſouuent impoſſibles à guarir,pource qu'elle eſt chaude, & humide,& qu'elle reçoit toutes les ſuperfluitez du corps.les vlceres qui ſe peuuent veoir & toucher en cette partie , ſont plus faciles à guarir que ceux qui ſont au profond. ceux qui ietrent vn pus loüable, & aux ieunes femmes, ſont plus aiſez à guarir que ceux qui jettent vne ſanie non loüable, & ſont aux corps des vieilles femmes. galien commande les remedes fort diſiccatifs:afin d'euiter la pourriture,à laquelle cette partie pour ſa chaleur & humidité eſt ſubiecte,& comme ſentine de tous les excremens du corps. si l'vlcere eſt au pro- fond,on fera telle infection. /.hordei integri p.ij.gaiaci .j.rad.ireos . .abſinth.plantag.centaur.vtriuſque an.m.j.fiat decoct.in aqua fabror.an.fb.ij.in quibus diſſ. mellis roſati & ſyrup. de abſinth. an. .iij. fiat inie- ctio.si la feteur ne ceſſoit, entre autres remedes i'ay ſouuent eſprouué cetuy. /...vini rubri f .j. vngu-nt. zgyptiaci .ij.bulliant parum.tel remede corrige la pourriture & malice de l'humeur,laquelle ſouuent eſt cauſe de la douleur. puis on pourra faire des parfums tels qui s'enſuiuent. prenez ecorce d'eucens, ma- ſtic,graine de genévre, labdanum, de chacun demy once, orpigment rouge, ou citrin, . ij cinabre demie once, & ſeront formez trochiſque auecterebenthine, pour ietter ſur le feu,& en faire receuoir la fumée. et s'il y auoit grande ardeur & inflammation, on feroit iniection auec ius de plantain, & de morelle, ou eau de forge, en laquelle on fera boüillir teſtes de pauot concaſſées , trochiſques de camphre, & autres ſemblables. les vlceres mundifiées ſeront cicatriſées par eaux propres, comme eau alumineuſe, eau de plantain,en laquelle on aura diſſoult vn peu de vitriol ou alum. si telles vlceres degenerent en chancre,on aura recours aux remedes anodyns & propres à telle affection, leſquels ſont amplement deſcrits aux cha- pitres du chancre. touchant les vlceres du fondement, nous en parlerons au chap.des fiſtules, comme de celles de la verge au liure de la verolle. - - des varices, & le moyen de les couper. c h a p. xx. $ a r i c e eſt vne dilatation de veine, quelquefois d'vn ſimple rameau, quelquesfois de plu- ſ$ ſieurs. aucunesfois elles ſont courbées & repliées en pluſieurs circonuolutions emmonce- lées : & peuuent venir en pluſieurs parties de noſtre corps , comme aux temples , aux deſſous (º • la matiere pour la plus part eſt vn ſang melancholic. les varices s'engendrent aux perſon- nes qui ſont melancholiques, & qui ſe nourriſſent de viandes melancholiques. les fetnmes groſſes en ont communément eſpriſes, à cauſe du ſangmelancholique, qui retenu pendant leur groſſeſſe , fait que les veines ſe dilatent, & deuiennent variqueuſes pour la grande multitude du ſang : auſſi elles viennent à caufed'vn grand & vehement mouuement, comme de courir, ſaulter, & danſer, voyager à pied,& porter grands fardeaux, tomber de haufen bas, ou eſtre tiré ſur la geſne. quant aux ſignes, ils ſont manifeſtes pour l'amplitude & groſſeur des veines.il eſt meilleur de ne toucher aux inueterées, parce qu'elles preſer- uent de plufieurs maladies, à cauſe que le ſangregorge aux parties nobles, dont s'enſuitvlceres, chancres & ſuffocations.lors qu'elles ſont pluſieurs & iointes enſemble aux iambes,quelquesfoi deuant icelles on trouue des thrombus de ſang deſſeiché & dur, cauſant grande douleur au malade lors qu il chemine, ou † on preſſe deſſus. a telles on fera ouuerture au corps de la veine,afin d'euacuer la trop grande abon- lance contenuë en icelle,enſemble les thrombus, comprimant tant en haut qu'en bas,afin de le faire ſor- tir:ce que i'ay fait auec bonne & heureuſe iſſue, faiſant tenir quelque temps le malade en repos,& y appli- quant medicaments propres.l'on coupe ſouuentesfois la varice au dedans de la cuiſſe, vn peu au deſſus du genoüil, où à la plus part ſe trouue l'origine & production de la veine variqueuſe.car communément plus bas elle ſe diuiſe en pluſieurs rameaux , a raiſon dequoy l'operation eſt plus mal-aisee. or la cauſe pour- quoy l'on inciſe,eſt à celle fin de couper le chemin,& faire rampart au ſang & autres humeurs côtenus auec luy, qui abbreuuent quelques vlceres eſtans aux iambes:ou pour defendre les humeurs qui fiuent a icelles, qui ſont cauſe que le malade ne peut cheminer:ou pour la crainte qu'on peut auoir, que par quelque acci- dent, la veine ainſi grandement eſt endue & dilatée, ne s'y face ouuerture, laquelle ſeroit cauſe d vn tres- grand flux de ſang, & cauſeroit la mort du malade, s'il n'eſtoit promptement ſecouru. a cette cauſe les anciens commandent de les couper ; & pour ſe faire faut ſituer le malade à la renuerſe, ayant les iambes eſtenduës, non du tout,mais vn peu flechies. cela fait, on fera vne ligature à la cuiſſe vn peu au deſſus de l'ouuerture qu'on y fera,& quatre doigts au deſſous vne autre, afin de tumefier la veine : & deſſus le cuir, à l'endroit de la veine,on fera vne marque d'ancre,pour ne faillir à faire l'inciſion , laquelle ſe fera en cette maniere:c'eſt que l'on eſleuera le cuir en haut des deux coſtez, & on fera l'inciſion au cuir ſur le corps de la veine ſans toucher à icelle,où l'on auoit marqué d'ancre l'inciſion faite,la veine ſera manifeſte à la veue, les vlcerei de la matri, ce ſouuent degenerent ºfa cbancre. , é)ue c'eſt que vari ce, du nombril, & teſticules, à l'amarry, & ſiege, mais le plus ſouuent aux cuiſſes & iambes. . les cauſes des varices, signes, ctºre. le lieu c à l'on coute la varice . l'oarqaoy l'on coupe la varice . paul. af« in" eh. . l.ui. ° le moyen de & par deſſous icelles on paſſera vne aiguile à ſeton, enfilée à double fil, non ayant pointe aigºe , mais vn jaire l'cpe- peu ronde , de peur d'inciſer la veine , & on ſeparera les membranes de la veine tant en haut qu'en bas, puis on desfait les bandages de la cuiſſe, & apres on liera fermement la veine a la partie ſuperieure,puis le corps de la veine au deſſous de la ligature ſera incisé,ainſi que ſi l'on vouloit faire vne ſaignée: & par cette ouuerture ſera éuacué le ſang de la partie inferieure, tant qu'ilſera neceſſaire:& lors on liera la partie in- ferieure de la veine, comme on a fait la ſuperieure , & apres on occupera entierement le corps de la vei- ne entre les deux ligatures,laquelle eſtant occupée, ſes deux extremitez ſe retirent & cachent tant d'vn co- ſté que d'autre. et faut noter, que la ligature de la veine doit eſtre laiſſée, iuſqu'à ce qu'elle tombe de ſoy- meſme- et pour les remedes particuliers, on appliquera vn reſtreinctif,tant ſus la playe, comme és parties voifines, & de trois iours ne ſera touché à la playe. le reſte de la cure fe fera comme les autres. autre maniere de couper la varice : c'eſt d'appliquer vn cautere potentiel , qui ronge & coupe la veine , puis ſe retire en haut & en bas : & parce moyen il y demeure vne eſpace vuide, où apres s'engend. e de la chair & puis la cicatrice,qui ſera dure & eſpeſſe, empeſchera la fluxion , en bouſchant le paſſage de ladite veine. et par ce moyen la veine variqueuſe ſera guarie. - de ; r tion, , , " : · t · · · · · ' , | | | | treziéme liure,desv | | | | | | | | . reziéme liure,des vlceres, | | ' , ! - - | | | | | | a lº | | | | , - # | | | | | des fiſtules. c h a p. xx i. •º # · | - i | ' # | | | | | - . - i s t v l e eſt vne ſinuoſité profonde, eſtroitte,calleuſe, & quelquesfois inſenfible, ainſi dite . : | | | | | | # des anciens, pour la ſimilitude & figure qu'elle a à l'inſtrument nommé fleute, parce que les # | | | | | | | | | # #. - fiſtules ſont ſemblablement caues & vuides. elle ſe fait en pluſieurs & differentes parties de : | , ! · · · · # # ! k /n) noſtre corps, & ſouuent apres quelques apoſtemes ou vlceres mal traictées & penſées. quel- | # , ' ' | + ðatien quesfois auſſi elles ſont critiques de pluſieurs autres maladies,ſelon le texte d'hipp.ſent.**. de la .ſection [: i . | · i d #ſiuie. du liu. de humoribu,où il dit que les fiſtules guariſſent d autres maladies, voire celles qui ſont aiguës:com- :: · | me aduient quand la fiſtule de la iambe eſt indicatoire de la peripneumonie , comme eſcrit hipp. au pro- # · · · · , | ! )ue c'eſt que gnoſtic. .de la .ſect, & à telle fiſtule ne conuientſ toſt toucher i a calloſité eſt vne chair blanche , ſoli- | :: | | | | | | | caliſé de, ſeiche, & ſans douleur , laquelle eſt engendrée parcongeſtion d'vn excremcnt pituiteux deſſeiché, ou - ſll | | | | melancolique aduſte, qui enduit la circonference de l'vlcere, & occupe le lieu ſur lequel ſe deuroit engen- - : | | | drer la bonne chair. la ſinuofité quelquefois eſt du tout ſeiche, quelquesfois humide : & eſtant humide, º, · · · | | pleure & iette inceſſamment,auſſi quelquesfois elle ceſſe de couler, & l'orifice d'icelle ſe ferme du tout, de #. l i | , ſorte qu'elle deçoit le malade , & le chirurgien eſtimant la gueriſon d'icelle : puis quelque temps apres - | | | | differenees s'ouure & fiue comme auparauant. les fiſtules quelquesfois prouiennent du vice des os, quelquesfois des ·- | | | | " nerfs,ou membranes,ou d'autres parties. les vnes font droictes, autres tortues : les vnes ont vn ſeul orifice b • | | ou ſinuoſité,les autres plufieurs : quelques-vnes ſont aux ioinctures, autres penetrent en quelque capacité | | | | | | | du corps, comme dans le thorax ventre,boyaux,matrice,veſſie, & autres : les vnesſe guariſſent facilement, ê | | | | | | . autres difficilement, & s'en trouue quelques vnes incurables. aux fiſtules ſe trouuent diuers ſignes, ſelon \ | - sienes des la partie où elles finiſſent. celles qui ſe rendent & terminent aux os,ſe cognoiſſent par la reſiſtance,quand l • | ， ' . fiſtules ſelon on y met l'eſprouuette : car lors on rencontre la ſubſtance d'iceluy dure, qui ſonne caſſe,& ſi l'eſprouuette # - les parties. eſtant ſur l'os gliſſe, comme ſur quelque choſe brunie, & polie, on peut coniecturer l'os eſtre ſain & en- | | | | | - tier : & ſi elle s'arreſte deſſus en quelque lieu que ce ſoit , c'eſt ſigne que l'os eſt aſpre, raboteux, carieux, : ! : ! & corrompu. quelquesfois l'os nous eſt manifeſte à la veué,& pource n'auons beſoin de ſondeny eſprou- à - : , , , ! - uette, & la matiere qui en ſort eſt huyleuſe ou viſqueuſe, rapportant a l'aliment & humeur contenu en la :: · · · cauité de l'os,ſçauoir la moëlle, comme ainſi ſoit que tout excrement retient la condition de l'aliment de - la partie dont il vient. en celle qui ſe rend à quelque nerf, le malade ſentiravne douleur poignante, prin- - cipalement ſi la matiere eſt acre, ou vne ſtupeur , ſi elle froide : de ſorte que le mouuement de la partie :- · · · ſera vicié,& lors que l'on voudra ſonder la fiſtule, on cauſera douleur, & la matiere qui en ſortira ſera ſa- º， | - ， ， signes des nieuſe, ſubtile, aqueuſe, glueuſe, & non huyleuſe, comme celle qui ſort des os, repreſente en tout la ma- i ! | | | | - fiſtules en la tiere dont eſt nourry le nerf pour la raiſon ſuſdite. ces meſmes accidens aduiennent, quand les fiſtules pe- •: | | | | chair. netrent aux membranes qui enueloppent les muſcles, & aux tendons d'iceux. si elles finiſſent en la chair, #. | | , ! la matiere plus eſpeſſe & moins liquide, égale, liſſe, blanche, & en grande quantité. si la fiſtule finit aux - l'! | | | | , . veines,les accidens ſont ſemblables à ceux qui ſe trouuent en la fiſtule des nerfs , mais moindres , comme c ºl · · | | | | prºgnoſtic. és pointures & douleurs, & n'ya aucun mouuement empeſché. si elles ſe finiſſent en l'artere, les meſmes ， | " ' ' à accidens ſe trouuent qu'en celles de la veine. mais ſi la matiere de l'vlcere eſt ſi acre , qu'elle corrode les - ! - ' | ſuſdits vaiſſeaux,il ſortira du ſanggros en abondance de la veine,& de l'artere du ſang ſubtil auec vn bruit, | | · • , : comme nous dirons cy-apres de l'aneuriſme. les vieilles fiſtules qui ont par longues années coulé, lors - ! | : | # qu'elles ſe referment,cauſent ſouuent la mort,& principalement aux vieilles gens à raiſon que les humeurs, # : , ' l' qui auoient couſtume couler,regorgent en la maſſe ſanguinaire, & ſe pourriſſent engendrans fievres & au- '. - : | | | tres accidens, & par conſequent la mort. | - - -- ' - | | | i cure des fiſtales. c h a p. x x ii. #s * | · : . &è( ) o v r la curation on commencera par la ſonde,qui ſera d'vne chandelle de cire,oudeplomb, | $% d'or, ou d'argent : & par icelles on cognoiſtra la profondeur & anfractuoſitez. et ſi la fiſtule · a deux orifices ou pluſieurs , ayant des cauitez cuniculeuſes , de façon que l'on les puiſſe bien | º ſonder, & ſuiure les cauitez, alors on doit etter vne iniection par l'vn des orifices, & obſer- - • ' uer l'iſſue de ladite iniection par les autres ouuertures, & par ce moyen on cognoiſtra s'il y a - | | - vn- ſeule ou pluſieurs cauitez profondes ou ſuperficielles. cela fait on fera des inciſions pour deſcouurir · & amputer les calloſitez qui ſe feront auec le raſoir , ou par medicamens cauſtiques, ou par cautere | | signes que actuel. car iamais on ne pourroit guarrir l'vlcere fiſtuleuſe, que premierement on n'euſt oſté la calloſité, · · · l'operation a à raiſon que nature ne peut produire & agglutiner les parties diſtantes,lors qu il y a chair calleuſe : d'au- r° • | ,ſi， §. tant que deux corps durs ne ſe peuuent vnir que par le moyen de quelque humidité gluante , qu'elle eſt d · | | | čorn. celſ. le bon ſang. or les calloſitez occupantes de toutes parts la ſuperficie de la chair vlcerée,empeſchent qu'i- ( · l, celuy puiſſe ſortir des veines capillaires pour l'vnion deſdites parties. semblablement on vſera d'inie- ctions cauſtiques, & apres on bouſchera le pertuis , afin qu'elles faſſent leur operation : laquelle ſera co- gnuë eſtre bonne lors que la partie demeure enfiée, & la matiere qui eſtoit en abondance, ſort digeſte & en petite quantité. apres faut accelerer la cheute de l'eſcarre,puis traitter l'vlcere comme auecdeperdition de ſubſtance. souuent la calloſité qui eſt autour de la ſinuoſite ou cauité de la fiſtule , vaincue des medica- -- - - - camensacres & eſcarotiques, ayans fait eſcarre,ſe ſepare & fort entiere, & lors au deſſous on trouue la fi- - hiſtoire. ſtule nette & vermeille. ce que i'ay veu à vn gentil-homme, lequel ayant fiſtule àvne cuiſſe,pour vn coup d'arquebuſe, & ayant vſé de medicamens acres, comme aegyptiac fortifié, quelques iours apres l'eſcarre , · ſortit d'autour de la circonſcription de la fiſtule ſemblable à vne membrane. ce que voyant ledit gentil- | homme, eſtimoit eſtre quelque linge,que le chirurgien, qui premierement l'auoit penſé, n'auoit cogneu, le taxant de ſon imperitie. toutesfois, çachant que c'eſtoit la crouſte de ladite eſcarre,luy dis que c'eſtoit la chair calleuſe & dure que i'auois fait ſeparer par le moyen des remedes forts & cuiſans qu'il auoit bien ſen- ty:& que telle choſe eſtoit ſigne qu'il feroit bien toſt guary. ce qu'il fut,parce que i'inſtilay de mon baume dedans toute la cauité.les fiſtules qui ſont pres des grands vaiſſeaux, comme veines, arteres, & nerfs , ou · · · | paul.aegin. de quelque partie noble, ne ſe doiuent toucher, ſi ce n'eſt auec grande prudence & artifice. or quand la | # # fiſtule vient à cauſe de l'os alteré & pourry, on doit conſiderer ſi le vice eſt en ſa ſuperficie, ou profondité, , f ' jiºui - ou s'il eſt du tout corrompu : & s'il n'eſt qu'en la ſuperficie, il ſera raclé & ruginé ſeulement : & fi la carie " - nat à raiſon eſt profonde, on la doit oſter auec vn trepan exfoliatif : & ſi la corruption eſt communiquée iuſques à la * • • de l'os carié. moüelle,elle ſera oſtée auec vne tenaille inciſiue,pour y faire plus ample ouuerture,y appliquant premie- rement, fi ittules ,-- - - - .. ! • • d • • & hemorrhoïdes. a rement,ſi beſoin eſt,vn petit trepan pour donner paſſage à ladite tenaille,& s'il eſt du tout corrompu,il ſera pareillement du tout coupé,côme en l'os d'vne iointure du doigt,du rayon, du coulde,de l'os de la greue, ou tibia.mais aduenant ce mal à la boiſte de la hanche, ou en la teſte de l'os de la cuiſſe,ou à vne vertebre, ne faut entreprendre la cure non plus qu'a autre quelconque fiſtule, qui de ſoy eſt incurable, quelles ſont celles qui penetrentiuſques aux membres principaux, où ſe rencontrent aux parties veineuſes,arterieuſes, ou nerueuſes : ou qui aduiennent à perſonnes delicates ; qui choiſiroient pluſloſt de mourir auec leur mal, qu'endurer le tourment de l'operation:ou bien quand de l'inciſion doit ſuruenir autre plus faſcheuſe indi- ſpoſition comme conuulſion en fiſtule de partie nerueuſe:en tel cas le chirurgien ne doit chercher l'entie- re cure & parfaicte, ains ſe doit contenter de la palliatiue, qui ſe fera en preuoyant qu'il ne tombe ſur là ! partie autre nouuelle fluxion, faiſant par bon regime,que trop d excremens ne s'amaſſent dans le corps. et en cas qu'ils s'yamaſſent,les purgeant par interualle,& diuertiſſant ſur vne parties moins noble,ſi mieux on ne peut : mundifiant la chair vicieuſe qui croiſt en l'vlcere, & la ſanie auec medicamens qui n'irritent & ne cauſent putrefaction. le ieune chirurgien ſera aduerti, que lors qu'on verra aux fiſtules que la ſonde ou tente demeurera noire,ou qu'il y aura quelque fetidité, on ne doit pourtant acertener qu'il y ait carie aux os. car ſouuentesfois cela aduient à cauſe qu'il eſt demeuré dedans quelque morceau d'eſponge ou de lin- ge, qui ſe pourrit, comme i'ay veu par experience. des fiſtules dufondement ou ſiege . c h a p. x x i i i. , e s fiſtules du fondement ſont faites comme les precedentes, à ſçauoir d'vn abſcés ou d'vne differences. | playe mal curée,ou d'vne hemorrhoide apoſtumée. les vnes ſont cachées, ies autres manife-ºignes des 'ſtes. celles qui ſeront cachées, ſe cognoiſtront, d'autant que par le ſiege ſortira vne humidité Éſºº ºº- ſanieuſe & purulente,& que le malade ſentira douleur à la partie.celles † ſont manif ſtes, º , , *º * ſe cognoiſtront en les ſondant : & pour ce faire le chirurgien mettra ſon doigt dedans le ſie- # # des ge, & par l'orifice de la fiſtule mettra ſa ſonde de plomb : laquelle ſi elle touche le doigt à nud , fans au- #- cune interpoſition, c'eſt vn ſigne infaillible qu'elle penetre dedans la cauité du boyau : ioint auſſi que non p - ſeulement par le fiege ſort vne matiere ſanieuſe, & ſouuentesfois des vers, mais en outre par le trou que . , , . . lamatiere par ſon acrimonie ſe ſera ouuert à coſté. les fiſtules cuniculeuſes & tortueuſes comme vn laby- ***sº rinthe, fe iugent à ce que la ſonde ne penetre gueres auant, & neantmoins il en fluë plus grande quantité de matiere qu'il n'eſt requis pourvne petite vlcere : or en l'orifice de toutes ſe voit preſque touſiours quel- accidès qui / • - - - - - qus que calloſité eminente,que les chirurgiens appellent vulgairement cul de poulle.aux fiſtules du fondemét ſuruiennent il aduient ſouuét pluſieurs accidens comme teneſme,que nous appellôns eſpreintes paracrimonie de la ma- # telles fiſtu- tiere : ſtrangurie,qui eſt vn découlement d'vrine : procidence ou relaxation du fondement : découlement de l . matiere ſanieuſe & puante,le tout par communication de matiere eſtrange, & ſympathie par voiſinage des curation parties, comne note hippocrate au liuredes fiſtules. lors que nous voudrons curer la fiſtule par œuure . manuelle,faut faire ſituer le malade à la renuerſe,en ſorte qu'il tienne les jambes eſleuées en haut,de façon c qu'ilaye les cuiſſes jointes vers ſon ventre : puis le chirurgien mettra le doigt dans le ſiege,oinct de quel- que medicament onctueux, ayant rongné ſon ongle : puis par l'orifice de l'vlcere mettra vne groſſe aiguille de plomb enfilée,partie de fil & de queue de cheual, laquelle aiguille eſtant rencontrée par le doit a nud, qui eſt au fondement, ſera courbée & ramenée dehors par le ſiege pour paſſer ledit fil : lequel eſtant pafſé, ſera lié & ſerré à nœud coulant,afin que de iour en autre on le puiſſe ſerrer dauantage:& auparauant de le reſſerrer, on le tirera vers ſoy, comme ſi on le vouloit ſcier : car par ce moyen ledit fil coupera la fiſtule, ſans auoir aucun flux de ſang. or quelquesfois telles fiſtules ne penetrent iuſqu'à la cauité du boyau, telle- ment que le doigt ne touche immediatement la ſonde,à cauſe de quelque calloſité qui ſera interposée en- tre la ſonde & le doigt.et pour la curation faudra mettre vne ſonde de fer ou d'argent laquelle ſera creuſe; & par dedans ſa cauité on jettera vne aiguille picquante & trâchante,afin de rompre ladite calloſite:ce que l'on ne pourroit faire par le benefice d'vne de plomb,ou d'vne autre qui fut rôde,ſans vne grande douleur sonde d'argent creuſe, auec l'aiguille de plomb. a monſtrel'aiguille. b la ſonde creuſe. - c l'aiguille & ſonde. d l'aiguille de plomb enfilée. puis eſtant rompuë, ſera liée comme la ſuſdicte. celle qui eſt ſuperficielle , n'a beſoin d'eſtre liée, ains ſeulement ſera coupée auec vne biſtorie courbe , ou ciſeaux propres à ce faire , & apres ſera oſtée la cal- lofité, & traictée comme auons dit cy-deſſus des autres fiſtules. cependant il faut noter en ce lieu, qu'a- pres auoir coupé la fiſtule,s'il demeure quelque calloſité,& cuir cicatrizé,qui nrait eſté emporté & trenché par le fer ou medicament, la fiſtule a couſtume de retourner. - p - - # e ef treziéme liure des viceres, a des hemorrhoides. c h a p. xxiv. e s hemorrhoïdes, ſelon que le mot eſt pris vulgairement , ſont tumeurs aux extremitez des vei- ， , É)ue c'eſt # nes qui ſont autour du ſiege,faites par vne fluxion d humeurs melancholiques pour la pluſpart,& | | | que hemor- ſont ſelon les anciens, eſpeces de varices. les vnes ſont ouuertes,& par ſucceſſion de tempsl'ou- : | #… - uerture deuient calleuſe : les autres fermées,eſtant ſeulement enflées ſans rien ietter : & autres - ſont grandes, petites, groſſes : & autres apparente, autres cachées,iettans pour la pluſpart ſang, auec vne ſeroſité jaunaſtre, qui eſt celle qui de ſa tenuité a fait courir le ſang en tellieu, & de ſonacrimonie a ou- hemorrboï- uert leſdites veines. d'icelles, lors qu'elles ſont fermées,aucunes ſont ſemblables à vne ampoulle faicte de a veſi... bruſleure,à raiſon dequoy les patiens les nommentveſicales,& ſont engendrées par affluxion d'humeur pi- , # : · · : les. tuiteux & ſereux : autres à vn grain de raiſin, qu'ils nomment vuales,& ſont engendrées par affluxion de - . - ſang loüable en qualité, redondant en quantité.aucunes ſont ſemblables à vne meure, & ſont dites mora- : puales. les,causées par affluxion de ſang melancholique : autres ſont dites verrucales,pour la ſimilitude d'vne ver- m orales. rué, & ſont engendrées de pareille cauſe. cette diſpoſition eſt cauſe de pluſieurs accidents aux hommes, ve rrucales. parce qu'elle oſte la naturelle beauté , à raiſon que pour la grande éuacuation de ſang, la couleur de tout | #º ººº le corps eſt changée & corrompue,& les conduit àvne miſerable vie; & pour la foibleſſe de tout le corps, º #"- elles mettent ſouuent le malade en danger de mort : à cauſe que l'euacuation immoderée qui s'en enſuit, rboides fait hydropiſie. elles fluent volontiers de mois en mois, ou de trois en trois mois : ce qui ne ſe fait ſou- fluent. uent qu'auec grande douleur , qui excite quelquesfois inflammation, abſcés, & fiſtules, ſi promptement on y remedie. or ſi elles iettent moderément , & le malade ſouſtienne bien l'éuacuation ſans ennuy, on b ne ſes doit arreſter du tout, parce qu'elles preſeruent de melancholie, manie, lepre, ſtrangurie, & au- tres affections, comme pleureſie , peripneumonie , & malins vlceres, ſelon la ſent. . de la . ſect. du . | des epidemies : & ores qu'on les vouluſt curer, il eſt bon , ſelon l'aph. . du liu. . en laiſſer vne : mais ſi le flux de ſang eſt demeſuré on l'arreſtera : car autrement il cauſe hydropiſie, pour la refrigeration du foye, auec vne conſomption & extenuation de tout le corps.pareillement,eſtant induement retenu,il regor- ge aux poulmons, rompant quelque vaiſſeau, qui cauſe la mort du malade:ou au foye,cauſant la meſme hy- # · · · dropyſie,refrigerant ledit foye pau ſuffocation de ſa chaleur naturelle.pour la curation, lors qu'elles fluent | | | | cure. trop,on y appliquera vne tente faite de poil de liévre, couuerte d'vn tel medicament. z. pul. turis,balauſt. # - | | | | ſang.drac.an. .ſº.incorp.omnia cum alb.oui,fiat medicam ad vsû.autre.prenez du drappeau bruſlé, comme - - | | | ſi o§ le vouloit mettre en vn fuſil, & le mettez deſſus. et lors qu'elles ſont fort tumefiées ſans eſtre ouuer- · - tes, on doit faire cuire vn oignon ſous la cendre, & piler enſemble vn fiel de bœuf,& de tout ce en faire | | medicament qui ſera appliqué & renouuellé de cinq en cinq heure.tel remede eſt propre lors qu'elles ſont internes & cachées, & lors qu'elles ſont apparentes on y appliquera des ſangſuës,ou bien on fera apertion auec la lancette. le ſuc & marc de l'herbe nommée galiopſis, autrement vertica labeonis posé ſur les he- , , | morrhoïdes, les ouure & fait ſaigner;auſſi cure les fungus & thumus qui ſont autour du ſiege.s'il y a gran- : , de ardeur,cuiſon & douleur, on fera aſſeoir le malade en vn demy bain : & s'il y a quelques vlceres, on y · · · · · remede pour appliquera tel medicament. olei roſ. .iiij. ceruſ .j. litharg. .f. cera noux vj.opij .j. fiat vnguent. , ſeder les ſecund.art.autre pour ſeder les grandes douleurs & eſpreintes. .thur myrrh crocian.an. .j. opij. .j. fiat , • | grandes dou- vnguent. cum oleo roſa.& mucag.ſem.pſillij, addend.vitel. vnius oui. autre. prenez fueilles de ſaulge , de · ! ºr é co§ſolida media,de millefolium, & de lierre terreſtre, de chacun demy poignée, pilée en vn mortierauec eſpreintes. jaune d'œuf : & de tel remede en appliquer ſur le mal.autre.%. vnguenti populeonis # ij. vitel. ouor.nu- . mero duo : agitent ſimul in mortario plumbeo : ou prenez de la moelle de bœuf auec beurre frais, du tout - , | - laué en eau roſe, ſoit fait onguent. le reſte de la cure ſe paracheuera ainſi qu'il ſera neceſſaire. · fin du treiziéme liure, des vlceres, fiſtules, & hemorrhoides. · table des chapitres - i - du quatorziéme liure, des | bandages. | iffer e n c e des bandes. chapitre j - - indications & preceptes generaux pour les bandes & ligatures. chap.ij | trois bandes requiſes aux fractures. chap. iij * l\% des bandes des fractures auec playes. chap. iiij d | # preceptes & obſeruations communes pour lesfractures & luxations.chap.v ·, %%* $"fº vtilité des bandes. , chap. vj · · vſage des compreſſes. chap. vij : . mſage des ferules, aſtelles, torches, & queſſes. - chap. viij | | des lacqs & liens. chap. ix | | · des accidens de trop ſerrer les parties du corps. chap. x ' ! l e # à - - l e - qvatorzies m e l i v r e, traictant des bandages, pa r a m b r o is e - pa r e d e l a v a l a v m a y ne, conſeiller, & premier chirurgien du roy. pifferences des bandes. c h a p. i. #. e s bandes, deſquelles on fait ligature, ſont differentes entre-elles. en icelles nous con- défférence | ſidererons , ſelon galien au liure des bandages, ſix choſes ; la matiere,la figure, la lon- deſ bandes gueur,la largeur,la ſtructure ou façon,& les parties. la matiere eſt triple,membraneuſe, priſes de la , ou faite de cuir, laquelle eſt propre aux cartilages du nez fracturé : celle de l'aine,com- matiere. me aux parties enflammées, où ne faut preſſer : de linge, comme où il faut preſſer. et de ceſte-cyles vnes ſont de lin, les autres de chanvre fort,comme note hipp.en la .ſect.de v º l'officine du chirurgien. et pour eſtre bonnes, elles doiuent eftre de toile qui aura deſia conditiows ſerui, afin qu'elies ſoient plus molles & traictables. aufli faut qu'elles ſoient fortes, de peur qu'elles ne ſe requiſes eº rompent, & qu'elles puiſſent fermement tenir & expeller l'humeur pour prohiber les fluxions. et faut vne bonne qu'elles n'ayent aucun ourlet,bord, liziere,uy couſture : parce que l'ourlet, & couſture bleſſent : d'autaut bandes que l'ourlet qui eſt dur comprime la chair, & la liziere , ne permet bien lier, & la bande comprime trop d l'endroit de la liziere, & ne ſerre aſſez au milieu, parce qu'elle n'obeit, mais tient ferme. dauantage, elles doiuent eſtre nettes,afin que ſi on fait quelque infuſion, eiles puiſſent eſtre imbuës de liqueur neceſſaire, & icelles paſſer au trauers. auſſi elles doiuent eſtre coupées de droict fil,& non de biais, parce qu'elles tien- dront plus ferme,& ſeront égales,c'eſt à dire,non plus larges,ny plus eſtroittes en vn endroit qu'en l'autre. pour la difference de la figure, aucunes ſont ourlées, auſquelles ne faut rien coudre, les autres tranchées par leurs extremitez ( comme aux mammelles ) ou par le milieu : les autres ont pluſieurs bandes couſuès za figure enſemble,pour faire diuers chefs,repreſentans vne diuerſe figure, comme en la teſte aucunes ſont longues, des bandes les autres courtes:aucunes fort larges,les autres fort eſtroittes,ſelon qu'il eſt requis. or la longueur & lar- & des difº- † d'icelles ne ſe peut particulierement eſcrire:mºis elles ſeront diuerſifi: es ſelon la diuerſité des corps, rencº la longueur,largeur,& groſſeur des parties bleſſées : & pour le dire en vn mot, il faut bander la teſte en autre maniere que la gorge.ainſi eſt-il des clauicules,des bras,tetins,aines,teſticules, ſiege,cuiſſes, jambes, pieds,& doigts,ſelon leur ſtructures.les vnes ſont pour ſuſpendre ou eſleuer,comme aux mammelles,teſti- cules,hargnes,auſſi ſeruent à tenir les medicamens ſur les parties pour curer les inflammations,ou faire ſup- puration.galien commande que le jeune chirurgien s'exerce & apprenne à faire les bandages ſur vn hom- ' me ſain,& lier les malades bien dextrement quand il en ſera beſoin. les parties ſont les corps de la bande, & les chefs.le corps eſt cette longueur & largeur:les chefs ſont les extremitez,tant ſelon le jong que ſelon le trauers,comme eſcrit galien,ſur la .ſent.de l'officine du chirurgien. d•- - —* - - - —- - indications & preceptes generiuxpour les bandes & ligatures. c h a p. i l @e a bande ou ligature doit auoir deux indications, l'vne à la partie, l'autre à la maladie, com- $ me dit hippocrate en la premiere & ſeconde ſection du liure des fractures quand on ban- #! de vne jambe,il la faut bander eſtant droite:car ſi on la bande eſtant ployée le bandage ſe º" dem le fa- # fera lors qu'elle ſera eſtendue, à cauſe que les muſcles ſe mettent en autre figure.au contrai- pon ºoute - re, lors que nous voulons bander les bras , il faut qu'il ſoit ployé : car s'il eſt eftendu , & contraire. qu'on le plove apres, la ligature ſe laſchera,à cauſe ( comme nous aitons dit) que les muſcles ſerontper- zes partie, uertis en autre figure. sur quoy nous obſeruerons, qu'il faut bander & lier les parties en la figure qu'on doiuent ſºvr veut qu'elles demeurent. il faut que les compreſſes & aſſelles embraſſent toute la partie fracturée : routes- baué« com- fois aux os triangulaires , & aux coſtes, & aux vertebres, cela ne ſe peut faire, parce que telles parties ne ** º veut peuuent eſtre enuironnées. qu'elles de- quant à l'indication de la maladie, s'il y a vn vlcere caue, ſinueux, cuniculeux, iettantgrande quantité # de ſanie, il faut commencer à lier & comprimer au fond du ſinus, & finir à l'orifice de l'rlcere : ſoit que le # #- ſinus ſoit en haut,ou en bas, ou aux coſtez afin que par ce moyen ou expurge la ſanie,& qu'on faſſe appro- # cher les parties ſeparées & diſtantes. car ſi la ſanie demeure ſans eſtre euacuée, elle ronge & corro- # de les parties, & fait croiſtre l'vlcere, & le rend incurable, & ſoutient fait carie aux os : parce qu'ils | s'alterent & pourriſſent, à cauſe que les humeurs acres s'imbibent en leur ſubſtance or entre les banda- ges les vns ſont par eux meſmes remedes, comme ceux qui conjoignent les choſes des joinctes & teparées. les autres ſeruentaux remedes , comme ceux qui ſeruent pour tenir les medicamens appropriez aux mala- . - dies. tel bandage dit hippocrate au commencement de la ſeconde ſection de l'officine du medecin, ou hiº ſent . il ſe fait, qu'il appelle diligatio operant, ou il fait, qu'il appelle diligatio operata. quant au premicr, de la ſect. pour bien bander, il faut que la bande ſoit roulée eſtroittement, afin qu'elle ſoit mieux entortillée au- de /'offcive tour de la partie qu'on veut bander, & que le chirurgien la tienne fermement en ſa main. d'atlantage # #t… en bandant faut prendre garde que les bouts des bandes, & la couſture, ne ſoient finis ſur le lieu doulou- . teux, mais au deſſus, ouau deſſous, ou à cofté. outre plns il ſe faut bien garderde mettre quelque nœud - e e z fl;r la iamie & bras ſe ban- le quatorziéme liure, ， # | ſur ledit lieu, ou bien à l'endroit du dos, ou des feſſes, ou au coſtez ny à l'endroit des jointures, ou au der- a riere de la teſte,ou au coſtez des temp les,ny ſous les aiſſelles,aines,& plantes des pieds : & pour dire en vn mot,à l'endroit où le malade a accouſtumé ſe coucher,& s'appuver.i uis il faut plier les bandes à l'endroit qu'on veut qu'elles foient attachées & couſues, afin qu'elles tiennent plus f rme : car quand les bouts ſont , larges, encore qu'elles ſoient liées t ſtroittement, toutesfois elle ne tiennent pas fidellement. parquoy i'ay touſiours de couſtume de les replier en long en leur extremité , lors que ie les veux coudre & arreſter. quand au ſecond, le chirurgien qui aura fait les ligatures,doit prendre garde aux intentions pourquoyel- les ont eſté faites,& s'il a bandé bien proprement,& faſſe qu'elles ſoient belles à veoir, & qu'elles ne rident point, afin de contenter les malades & les aſſiſtans : car chacun ouurier doit polir & embellir ſon ouurage tant que poſſible luy ſera. les bandages trop laſches aux fractures & luxations ſont ſouuent cauſe de rendre les parties tortuës, boſſues, & contrefaictes. -** ptilité du aux fractures,luxations, & ſeparations des os, auſſi aux playes & contuſions, faut commencer le banda- t dag, ſur ge,& y faire les premieres reuolutions,ou tortillemens,qui ſeront deux ou trois,& les ſerrer (s'il eſt poſſi- la partie, é ble) plus en tels endroits qu'és autres, afin de tenir fermement les os en leur lieu, & exprimer & expulſer en quel cas le ſang & autres humeurs qui peuuent eſtre ja fiuez, & auſſi pour garder qu'il n'en fluë plus qu'il ne ſera il ſe fait. beſoin. car par vne fracture (laquelle ne ſe fait iamais ſans contuſion ) le ſang ſort des vaiſſeaux, à raſſon qu'ils ſont violentement foulez, preſſez, & exprimez : qui cauſe meurtriſſeure en la chair,de couleur pre- mierement rouge, puis liuide ou noire, parce que le ſang eſtant hors de ſes propres vaiſſeaux, s'eſt eſpan- du en la chair & ſous le cuir, & en la ſubſtance des parties ſubjacentes. partant faut conduire la bande galien ſur le plus loing de la partie fracturée, ou luxée, que l'on pourra. car qui feroit autrement, il renuoyeroit le la ſent. .. de ſang au lieu bleſsé, & pourroit cauſer apoſtemes, & autres mauuais accidens. or le ſang qui flue, tend en lº !: ſºº.ººº bas ſeulement par vn chemin:celuy qui eſt exprimé, va par deux,à ſçauoir de haut en bas, & de bas en haut. jº - toutesfois il faut auoir egard de le repouſſer pluſtoſt vers les extremitez, parce qu'elles ne ſort aſſez ca- pables, ny forte pour receuoir ſans accident telle abondance de ſang : car il s'y pourroit faire vne inflam- mation ou apoſteme : & lors qu'on le repouſſe vers le corps , il eft regi & gouuerné par les vertus & fa- cultez naturelles. trois bandes neceſſaires aux fractures. c h a p. i i i. # t pour bien & deuëment tenir les os luxez & fracturez , il eſt neceſſaire au chirurgien s'ay- ， der ſelon hippocrate, ſentence . de la ſeconde ſection de l'officine du medecin, de deux eſpeces de bandes : les vnes ſont appellées de luy hypodeſmides, c'eſt à dire, ſous-bandes, les autres epideſmi, c'eſt à dire, ſus-bandes. les ſous-bandes ſont deux, quelquesfois trois, dont la premiere commencera ſur la fracture , y faiſant trois ou quatre reuolutions , & qu'il ait égard à la figure de la fracture, pource que ſelon icelle faut faire & diuerſifier le bandage. car il faut mener la bande vers le coſté contraire à celuy vers lequel la luxation ou fratture eſt enclinée, afin c que l'os eminent ſoit repouſſé, & tenu ferme en ſon lieu naturel, auquel on l'aura reſtitué. telle choſe ſe fera bien en cette maniere : à ſçauoir, quand la partie dextre eſt plus eminente, la bande alors commen- le chirur- cera à la meſme partie , & ſera menée vers la ſeneſtre : au contraire, ſi la ſeneſtre eſt excedante , faut que ' - | gien deit la bande commence à icelle , & ſoit conduite vers la dextre. partant il faut que le chirurgien vſe de la eſtre ambi main dextre & ſeneſtre, pour bien faire icelles ligatures & conduire ſa premiere en haut, c'eſt à dire vers dextre, s'il le corps pour les raiſons predites. eſt pºſſible cette maniere de comprimer ſur les fractures n'eſt ſeulement propre & particuliere à icelles ; mais auſſi - aux luxations. car quand il ſe fait luxation en vne partie, & qu'elle eſt reduite , il faut comprimer & ban- der plus doucement du coſté d'où l'os eſt party, & ſerrer plus fort celuy auquel il eſt tombé.dont le ban- dage doit eſtre amené du lieu ſur lequel l os eſt tombé, & que celuy duquel il eſt tombé ſoit laſche & non preſſé de la bande & compreſſe, afin qu'on la pouſſe & face tendre & tirer vers la partie contraire, où s'eſt faite la luxation. car ſi on bandoit autrement, le bandage cederoit, au mal , pource que la partie a eſté relaſchée & des-jointe de ſon lieu naturel : & partant on pourroit eſtre cauſe de la repouſſer, ou renuo- yer derechefl'os hors de ſon lieu, où il auroit eſté reduit. mais tant s'en faut qu'il le faille bander vers la partie où s'eſt faite la luxation, qu'hippocrate veut qu'on la rameine vn peu plus que ſon naturel. seconde ban or pour ſuiure nos ſous-bandes, ayant fait la premiere, on en prendra vne ſeconde, jaquelle commen- de. cera pareillement ſur la fracture , & n'y fera qu'vn tour ou deux : parce qu'il ne faut tant enuoyer de ſang vers les extremitez, comme aux parties ſuperieures (ainſi que nous auons des-ja demonſtré ) & ſera con- tr,iſieſ , duite vers le bas ou extremité de la partie, la ſerrant doucement, à fin auſſi d'exprimer le ſang de la par- bande. tie bleſſée : & la ramenerons en haut : ce que fi nous ne voulons faire, prendrons vne troiſieſme ſous-ban- )•el moyen de, qui commencera où la ſeconde aura finy , & ſera conduite en haut, qui ſert à reduire les muſcles, doit eſtre qui ont eſté deſtors & tournez de leur ſituation naturelle par les deux premieres bandes. or il faut ſerrer gardé en les bandes moderément, meſurans la mediocrité par noſtre iugement, & le ſentiment du malade, qui dit ſºrrº leº eſtre aſſez ſerré, & que s'il l'eſtoit plus, il ne le pourroit endurer : conſiderans auſſi la tumeur ou enfieure bandes. qui doit eſtre ſans inflammation , & l'habitude du corps. car les corps mols ne peuuent tant endurer eſtre ſerrez & preſſez que les durs. or pour auoir trop lié & bandé vne fracture on luxation , on jette & expelle les humeurs aux extremitez, dont ſouuentesfois ſuruiennent de grandes tumeurs œdemateuſes. et pour y remedier il faut deſlier le lieu fracturé ou luxé, puis on commencera à bander & comprimer les parties enflées, & conduire la bande vers les parties ſuperieures, afin de deſcharger la partie enflée : & où on ne deſlieroit la partie fracturée, ou luxée, l'humeur ne pourroit eſtre renuoyé és parties ſuperieu- methode ex. res. cette methode eſt laiſſer la propre cure pour ſubuenir aux accidens. ce que le chirurgien rationel raordinai- fera touſiours, quand il cognoiſtra eſtre neceſſaire. et pour cette cauſe hippocrate commande qu'on deſ- re , lie la ligature de trois en trois iours, & à chacune fois qu'on fomente la partie d'eau chaude , afin que les humeurs contenus en la fracture,leſquels y ſont fluez par le moyen de la douleur,ſoient reſous & euacuez, pour prohiber vn prurit,& autres accidens : & apres qu'ils ſeront paſſez on deſliera la ligature plus tard, & la fera on plus laſche, afin que le ſang & la matiere qui doit faire le callus, ne ſoit empeſché, mais qu'il y flue plus librement. de des bandages. | : - # des bandages des fractures auec playe . ch a p. iv. v cv n e s fractures ſont auec playe,& lors qu'ilya playe,encore les faut-il bander :au- n, ceſſité de # trement elles enferoient, receuans les humeurs des autres parties, dont pluſieursacci- §.n ( % dens ſuruiendroient.mais il ne faut pas que le bandage ſoit auec des circonuolutions,com- fraéture » #) # me nous auons dit,parce qu'il faut tous les iours traitter la playe,pour la mondifier & mc- auec playe . # dicamenter:& s'il y auoit des circonuolutions, il faudroit tous les iours remuer la partie, bandages - " qui ſeroit cauſe de faire douleur au malade,qui engarderoit l'vnió de l'os,laquelle deman-ſans c ircon de repos. partant iceluy bandage ſe fera (en paſſant ſeulement vne fois autour d'icelle playe ) auecques ºlutions. vne bande qui ſera en deux ou trois doubles,en façon d'vne compreſſe, laquelle ſera dextrement couſuë:& , ſera detelle largeur, qu'elle comprime entierement toute la playe, pour les raiſons que dirons cy-apresau liure des fractures.et ſi la playe eſt de figure ſelon la longitude du corps,les compreſſes & aſtelles doiuent tiuerſité de eſtre appliquées aux coſtez,afin de rejoindre la playe, & expeller les excremens mais ſi elle eſt au trauers, bandages ſe- ne faut appliquer telle maniere de c preſſes & aſtelles:car on dilateroit la playe & jetteroit-on # excre- lon la diuer- mens dans icelle,côme eſcrit galien ſur la douzieſme ſentence de la ſeconde ſection du liure des'fractures. # é de la aye-', h- preceptes & obſeruations communes pour les fractures & luxations. c h a p t r e v. a v a n t a g e en toute fracture & luxation les parties caues & extenuées, comme celles ， # quifontvers les iointures,doiuent eſtre remplies de compreſſes,ou bandes appliquées autour, # pour faire la partie égale,afin que les aſtelles la compriment également, pour mieux tenir les % à os en leur lieu naturel : comme quand on bande le genoüil, il faut emplir la cauité ; c'eſt à *s dire, la partie poſterieure, qui eſt le jarret, à fin que le bandage ſoit mieux & plus prompte- ment fait. il faut faire le ſemblable ſous les aiſſelles, & au deſſous du talon, & au bras pres le carpe, & en toutes les autres parties, où il y a cauité & inegalité. - - apres auoir bandé & lié, faut interroger le malade s'il ſent la partie eſtre trop ſerrée, & s'il dit ouy, incommodi- & qu'il ne la peut endurer, la faut deſſerrer. car ſi le bandage eſt trop ſerré,il excite douleur,chaleur flu-tez de la xion, gangrene, & par conſequent mortification : celuy qui n'eſt pas aſſez ſerré,ne profite rien , princi- bande, trop, palement aux fractures & luxations. or ſi la partie eſt bien bandée ; c'eſt à dire,ſi elle n'eſt trop laſche ny º º? ?** trop ſerrée, on la trouuera le lendemain enfléed'vne tumeur molle œdemateuſe à cauſe que la ligature a # exprimé le ſangdulieu fracturé.au côtraire,fi elle eſt trop ſerrée la tumeur ſera dure.et fi on ne trouueau- ## - cune tumeur le lendemain ; ç'eſt ſigne que laligature n'eſt aſſez ſerrée, & qu'elle n'a aucunement chaſſé & # ' . exprirſº le ſang de la partie fracturée ou luxée. si doncques on cognoiſt que pour la ligature trop ſerrée, f au . il ſoit ſuruenu vne tumeur grande & dure, il la conuient promptement caſſer , pour empeſcher les acci- pour corri- dens : & faut fomenter la partie d'eau chaude auechuyle, puis la rebander mediocrement, ne ſerrant fort ter la dure- les bandes pendant qu'il y aura douleur & inflammation. durant lequel temps ne faut auſſi mettre choſes té qui eſt en peſantes,de peur d'augmenter les accidens ſuſdits. et lors que le malade ſe porte bien, faut laiſſer le bandage la partie , trois ou quatre iours ſans le deſlier, pluſtoſtaux delicats, & plus tard aux robuſtes.toutesfois il fauticy fracturée . noter, que le troiſieſme iour, & de là enauantiufques au ſeptieſme, on trouue les bandes laſches, & la par- - tie plus greſle, qui eſt bon ſigne , à cauſe que la tumeur s'eſuanoüit & reſout, parce que par la ligature on hippº. ſen. . ' a exprimé le ſang qui auoit couru à la partie : joint que par la compreſſion on a defendu vne portion du ?- º r. nourriſſement,qui la fait monſtrer plus greſle & amaigrie. et ainſi les os rompus , en les ſerrant , ſe dreſ- de la ſeci. , ſeront & toucheront mieux : & lors on doit aſſez ſerrer ſur la fracture, & ailleurs moins : & à l'endroit des fract, où la fracture fait eminence, faut comprimer & ſerrer dauantage auec compreſſes & aſtelles. et pour le dire en vn mot, le ſeptiefme iour paſſé , il faut plus eſtroittement bander qu'auparauant, pource qu'en tel temps l'inflammation, douleur, & autres accidens, ſont communément paſſez. or ce que nous auons cy- deſſus declaré des trois bandes ne peut eſtre deuement fait en toutes parties , comme aux fractures de la mandibule à l'os furculaire, à la teſte, au nez, & aux coſtes : parce qu'à raiſon qu'elles ne ſont longues & rondes, on ne peut faire la ligature tout autour d'icelles parties, comme l'on fait aux bras , aux cuiſſes & jambes : mais elle ſe fait par dehors. ptilité des bandages. c h a p. v i. #) a r les choſes precedentes nous cognoiſſons, que l'vtilité des bandages eſt, que par iceux les n% choſes des-jointes & ſeparées,ſont pouſſées en leur lieu naturel,& les entr'ouuertes sót con- jointes,côme és fractures, fentes,contuſions, vlceres ſinueux:eſquelles choſes l'vtilité eſt per- $ duë ; & pour la conjonction deſquelles les bandes ſont neceſſaires : outre-plus, par icelles les - choſes leſquelles ſeroient ſerrées & conjointes, tenuës ſeparées comme on void, qu és com- buſtions les doigts ſe joignent enſemble, & les jarrets,& auſſi les aiſſelles contre la poictrine,& le menton contre le ſternon : & par bien bander icelles choſes n'aduiennent point. les bandes & ligatures ſeruent pareillement à refaire les parties emaciées & amaigries.exemple.si laiambe dextre eſt en atrophie, il faut iier la ſeneſtre, commençant au pied, & finiſſant en laine. si c'eſt le bras dextre on liera le ſeneſtre, com- ºº ºanda- mençant à la main, & finiſſant ſous l'aiſſelle : car en ce faiſant, on renuoye vne grande portion du ſang *ºſº ' de ces parties ainſi liées en la veine caue : laquelle eſtant plus pleine, en ſera enuoyé à la partie emaciée, † en laquelle les vaiſſeaux ne ſont remplis, mais aucunement vuides. or il en conuient enuoyer beau- attrophi ées . coup, d'autant que la partie eſt vuide , & pareillement pour l'alimenter. dauantage, faut que la partie ſaine ſoit en repos, & qu'elle ſoit bandée & liée ſans douleur , afin que le ſang & eſprits y fluent moins: ce qu'ils feroient dauantage, ſi elle eſtoit liée auec douleur. plus les ligatures & compreſſes ſeruent à l., ligatu- cſtancher le flux de ſang des playes , dequoy l'experience iournelle nous fait foy , en ce qu'apres vne ſai- res ſe,ue»e gnée, y mettant vne compreſſe & ligature deſſus , le ſang eſt eſtanché. d'abondant les ligatures ſeruent à eſtancher aux femmes nouuellement accouchées,& lors qu'on bande leur ventre,on exprime le ſang de leur matrice, le ſang des qui en eſt grandement arrousée & imbué , & par ce moyen on ayde à la vertu expultrice à le jetter hor，: pºº - bi c . , auſſi o le quatorziéme liure, premie»e vtilité. seconde. troiſieſme. hip. ſert . de la . ſect. de l'officine, & ſen. de la . ſe ét.des fractures. matieres des tſ ferules , on aſfelles. vſage des fcrules. vſage des terches cr fenen . vſage des quºſſes. gloſſoeomes. auſſi cette ligature prohibe que les vents n'entrent en icelle matrice.la ligature ſert auſſi aux femmes groſ- a ſes à ſupporter le fardeau de leur groſſeſſe, en celles principalement qui portent leurs enfans ſi bas qu'ils leur pendent entre leur iambes,leur empeſchant la liberté de marcher:car par la ligature appellée des fem- mes nombrillere,outre qu'elles ſont ſoulagées de la peſanteur,le faix eſtant retrouſſé,l'enfant eſt contraint remonter plus haut, dont leur eſt le marcher plus aisé. outre ces choſes, les ligatures ſeruent à faire re- uulſion, & deriuation de pluſieurs parties du corps, & auſſi à tenir les medicamens appropriez au mala- dies , comme au col , au thorax & au ventre. galien au troiſieſme commentaire de l'officine du medecin commande de commencer le bandage ſur les fractures & luxations, & ſur les playes & contufions,afin de deſcharger la partie du ſang & humeurs, qui ont deflué ſur icelle, & garder qu'il ne fiuent. toutesfois s'il y a ſinu auſdits vlceres, il faut commencer ſur iceluy : afin d'euacuer le pus ou ſanie par l'ouuerture de l'vlcere.que diray-ie plus ? la ligature a trois vtilitez en l'amputation des membres,comme le bras & iam- bes. la premiere, c'eſt qu'elle tient le cuir & les muſcles eſleuez en haut, afin qu'apres l'œuure ils recou- urent l'extremité des os,qui auront eſté coupez.car apres la conſolidation & la cicatrice faicte les muſcles ſeruent comme d'vn couſſinet aux extremitez des os. et par ainſi la partie pourra demeurer plus forte, & moins douloureſe, quand on preſſera deſſus, ioinct auſſi que la curation eſt plus briefue : car d'autant que que la partie eſt plus couuerte de chair, pluſtoft auſſi les os ſont couuerts.la ſeconde eſt, qu'elle prohibe l'hemorragie, ou flux de ſang , à cauſe qu'elle preſſe les veines & arteres : de ſorte qu'il n'en peut ſortir bien peu. la troiſieme eſt, qu'elle rend obtus & hebeté, c'eſt à dire, qu'elle oſte grandement le ſentiment de la partie, parce qu'elle empeſche par ſa grande aſtriction, que l'eſprit animal, lequel donne ſentiment par les nerfs , ne peut reluire à la partie pendant qu'on la coupe. vſage des compreſſes. c h a f t r e vii. , v s a c e des compreſſes eſt double, à ſçauoir, pour emplir les parties caues, & celles qui ne ſont ſi groſſes vers leurs extremitez,comme vers le milieu. exemple des parties caues qu'il faut remplir, comme ſous les aiſſelles, ſous les jarrets, aux clauicules & aux aines. quant à celles qui ne ſont ſi groſſes vers leurs extremitez , comme vers le milieu,ce ſont les bras pres le carpe , & les iambes pres le pied, & la cuiſſe au deſſus du genoüil : auſquels lieux il faut mettre des compreſſes & bandes tout autour, tant que l'on verra la partie eſtre égale. le ſe- cond vſage eſt d'entretenir les premieres deux bandes, appliquées ſur la partie fracturée : & different en ce, qu'au premier vſage on les met de trauers,& au ſecond de long.on peut auſſi vſer de compreſſes,quand on veut eſtendre vn membre luxé pour le reduire, de peur que les liens ne compriment & faſſent douleur. pource faut garnir de compreſſes la partie qui doit eſtre eſtendue, afin que les liens ne compriment par trop, & par ce moyen on engardera qu'ils ne bleſſent, tant qu'il eſt poſſible. les compreſſes doiuent eſtre eſpeſſes de trois ou quatre doubles, plus ou moins, & longues & larges, plus ou moins, ſelon qu'on verra eſtre beſoin,& doiuent eſtre trempées en oxycrat, ou en vin, ou en huyle, ou cerat, s'il yauoit douleur, afin qu'elles ſoient plus molletes, & qu'elles tiennent plus ferme. ` a ) vſage des ferules, sſtelles, torches, & queſſes. c h a p t r e. v iii. enſemble, ou de bois mince & delié,ou de cuir dequoy on fait des ſemelles aux ſouliers,ou # d'eſcorce d'arbre, ou lames de fer blanc, ou de plomb, ou d'autre matiere ſemblable, qu'on pourra commodément recouurer : bref, comme dit auicenne, de matiere qui en ſa dureté ſoit douce, & ſe puiſſe ployer. vray eſt, que ie conſeille qu'on prenne vne matiere la plus legere qu'il ſe- ra poſſible de trouuer, de peur que par ſa peſanteur elle ne bleſſe la partie, comme l'eſcorce de ferule qui eſt fort propre, ou papier colé, enueloppé de laine ou de cotton , ou de l'inge mollet, de peur qu'on ne faſſe douleur. pareillement faut qu'elles ſoient de longueur & largeur & en nombre tel qu'il ſera neceſ- ſaire : auſſi qu'elles ſoient courbées , ou droictes , ſelon que la partie le requerra : & qu'elles ne por- tent ſur les cminences des os , comme ſur les cheuilles des pieds, des genoüils, des couldes , & autres parties eminentes, de peur qu'elles ne les bleſſent , & qu'elles ſoient plus minces vers leurs extremitez, & plus eſpeſſes vers la fracture. leur vſage eſt de tenir ferme les os fracturez, ou luxez, afin qu'ils ne vacilent d'vn coſté n'y d'autre. † ce faire, ne faut qu'il yait beaucoup de compreſſes , & de reuo- lutions des bandes, parce qu'elles ſeroient tenues trop laſchement, ſous le nombre des reuolutions,oueſ- peſſeur des compreſſes.les torches ou fenons, ſont faictes de badons de groſſeur d'vn doigt : leſquelles on enueloppe de paille, puis d'vn demy linceul : & ſont appropriez principalement aux iambes & cuiſſes rom- pues.les queſſes ſont faites de fer blanc, ou de bois.leur vſage eſt de tenir les os en bonne figure, & meſ- mement quant le malade ſe fait leuer du lict, pour ſe faire porter envn autre, ou quand il va à ſes affaires: & pour le dire en vn mot, quant il faut appuyer & ſituer les parties fracturées & luxées fermement, de façon qu'elle ne ſe puiſſent mouuoir à dextre ou à ſeneſtre, en haut ny en bas, ſoit en veillant ou en dor- mant : auſſi qu'elles ne pendent en bas, & qu'elles ne ſoient trop liées & ſerrées, de peur que les humeurs ne courent à la partie bleſſée, & qu'il n'y ſuruienne douleur, inflammation , apoſteme, gangrene, & mor- tification. on peut appeller , ſelon hippocrates , les caſſoles torches , & tous autres inſtrumens qu'on ac- commode aux fractures, pour tenir le membre en figure droicte & indouloureuſe ; gloſſocomes, c'eſt à dire , engins, ou machines, leſquels on applique pour tenir les membres en vn eſtat, ſans que le malade les puiſſe remuer aucunement à dextre ou à ſeneſtre, haut ou bas, ſoit en veillant ou en dormant : & pour le dire en vn mot , gloſſocomes ſignifient tous inſtrumens, qui ſeruent à reduire les fractures, ou luxations. hippocrate appelle les plumaceaux, les linges dequoy on fait les compreſſes, & ce qu'il appelle fulcimens, c'eſt à dire , appuis, qui affermiſſent, comme font les bandes, compreſſes, caneaux, aſtelles, & autres cho- e- qui appuyent. c eux qui ne ſont encore exercez en la pratique de chirurgie , ne peuuent bonnement entendre - choſes : car il eſt tres-difficile de mettre par etcrit la diuerſité des bandes,compreſſes,aſtelles, ferules, & antres choſes qu'on fait par la main. mais il faut imaginer ce qui en eſt icy cſcrit, & auſſi auoir veu beſongner les bons maiſtres , auparauant que d'y pouuoir bien mettre la main. et m'aſſeure, que ceux qui auront practique & vcu practiquer prendront grand plaiſir en cette lecture , parce que ce qu'on void rar le ſens, eſt plus croyable que ce qu'on comprend par raiſon. toutesfois i'ay mis peine,non ſeulement - - cu - : des bandages. i #l, # ，， eucét endroit, mais par tous mes eſcrits, d'enſeigner & expoſer aux ieunes chirurgiens , le plus claire- ment qu'il m'a eſté poſſible, leur mettant quaſi l'image des choſes deuant les yeux. des laqs & liens. , ch a p. ix. m l reſte encore à parler des lacqs ou liens, deſquels il y à pluſieurs differences. les vns ſont # $n% grands & larges , comme ceux qu'on vſe à reduire la hanche, ou les vertebres : autres petits, %$ pour lier les aſtelles aux fractures & luxations : autres à tenir ceux que l'on taille de la pierre, - à s & aux femmes lors qu'on les deliure de leurs enfans : autres à lier la production du peritoi- #ns ne, en l'amputation des hargnes & teſticules : autres à lier les veines & arteres : autres à lier les bras & iambes pour faire les † : autres à lier l'vmbilic de l'enfant nouuellement né : autres à lier les bras, cuiſſes & iambes, pour faire reuulſion à ceux qui ſaignent trop : autres à lier les excroiſ- ſances des parties honteuſes des femmes : autre au polypus » ou verrues, aux louppes, & autres excroiſ- ſances de chair : autre à lier les fiſtules du fondement, ou les fungus qui naiſſent entre les dents, & en au- tres parties. - - i les accidents qui aduiennent pourtrop lier & ſerrerles parties du corps. c h À p t r e x. à& o v r trop ſerrer la teſte aux inflammations des yeux , on les fait ſouuent ſortir hors leur orbi- te : ce que i'ay veu, comme i'ay eſcrit cy-deſſus aux playes de teſte,chapitre xvij.aux playes fai- # ctes au nez, par le trop ſerrer & preſſer on rend les malades camus. * pareillement, aux playes de ioües & lévres, on rend la bouche tortue. - par trop ſerrer & comprimer les vertebres du dos, on les iette hors de leur place : qui fait que les fil- les ſont boſſuës, & grandement emaciées par faute d'aliment, ce qu'on void ſouuent. car i'ayſouuenance hiſtoire. auoir ouuert le corps mort d'vne dame de noſtre cour, qui pour vouloir monſtrer auoir le corps beau & greſle,ſe faiſoit ſerrer, de ſorte que ie trouuay les fauſſes coſtes cheuauchans les vnes par deſſus les autres: qui faiſoit que ſon eſtomach eſtant preſſé, ne pouuoit s'eſtendre pour contenir la viande » & apres auoir mangé & beu, eſtoit contrainte de la reietter, & le corps n'eſtant nourry deuint maigre , n'ayant preſque que le cuir ſur ſes os, qui fut cauſe de ſa mort. - pour trop lier vne partie on eſt cauſe de gangrene, & de totale mortification. - par trop lier & ſerrervn enfant en maillot, on l'eſtouffe faute de reſpiration. • . d'auantage, par trop lier & compreſſer vne iointure, on cauſe ſouuent vne luxation ou diſtorſion,& de- prauation de l'action. - - - pour trop ſerrer le ventre aux femmes groſſes, ont fait que les enfans ſont boſſus & contrefaicts, & la mere auortant ſouuent, meurt auec l'enfant. - - par trop ſerrer l'eftomach, & les parties dediées à la reſpiration, on eſt cauſe d'vne ſuffocation & mort _. . ſubite : ce que de recente memoire on a veu aduenir l'an . en l'egliſe ſainct nicolas des champs, où hiſtoirà, c v ieune eſpouſee de iean de la foreſt, maiſtre barbier chirurgien à paris, fille de defunct iacques oche- de marchand paſſemêtier, & de claude boufaut;laquelle pour eftre trop ſerrée & preſsée en ſes habits nu- ptiaux, ſortant de l'autel, apres auoir pris du pain & du vin à la façon accouftumée, penſant retourner en ſa place, tomba roide morte, faute de reſpiration, & le iour mefme fut enterrée en ladite egliſe. et quel- ques iours apres,ledit de la foreſt eſpouſa à s. germain en laye ladite boufaut mere de ladite fille defun- # : parce que ſon curé auoit refusé faire ledit mariage, diſant qu'aucuns ne pouuoit eſpouſer la fille & iilctc, - ! - par trop comprimer la production du peritoine par vn brayer, on garde la deſcente des teſticules au scrotum. - - · · · pour porter des ſouliers trop courts & eſtroits, on fait que les ongles entrent en la chaif, & les orteil} cheuauchent l'vn par deſſus l'autre,& s'y font des cors, qui cauſent de grandes douleurs. par trop longuement lier & ſerrer les parties, on les atrophie,& en fin on leur oſte la vie. - que diray-ie plus ? c'eſt que par trop ſerrer la gorge à quelque perſonne que ce ſoit on l'eſtrangle, & luy fait-on perdre la vie. - . a fin du quatorziéme liure des bandages. | ^ "a - - e e t a b l e # # # # # # # # # # # # table des chapitres d v l i v r e x v. - des fractures des os. \ $ # é$ # e s fractures des os. chapitre j # des ſignes des fractures. chap. ij w prognoſtic des fractures. - chap. iij m cure vniuerſelle des fractures & diſlocations. . chap. iiij # intention de corriger les accidensauxfractures. chap. v - ^ de la fracture du nez. chap. vj de la fracture de la mandibule inferieure . chap. vij de la fracture de l'os clauiculaire . chap. viij de la fracture de l'omoplate . - chap. ix de la fracture ou depreſſion du sternon. chap. x de la fracture des coſtes. chap. xj laccidens qui viennent des coſtes rompuës. chap. xij de la fracture des vertebres. - , chap. xiij de la fracture de l'os ſacrum. chap. xiiij de la fracture da croupion. chap. xv de la fracture de l'os de la hanche_ . chap. .. xvi de la fracture de l'os du haut du bras. chap. ^ xvij de la fracture de l'os du coulde. chap. xviij de la fracture de la main. chap. xix | de la fracture de l'es de la cuiſſe » - chap. xx de la fracture faictepres la jointure de la hanche. chap. xxj de la fracture du genoiiil. chap. xxij de la fracture de la jambe . - chap. xxiij ce qu'il faut obſerueraux bandager, quandilya playe&fracture_. chap. xxiv hiftoire de l'autheur ayant la jambe rompue, - chap. xxv de la cauſe de. traſſaillemens aux membresfracturez. chap. xxvj laduertiſſement touchant les parties ſur leſquelles le corps eſt appuyé eitant couché /au ličf. chap. xxvij par quel ſigne on cognoiftra le callus ſe faire . chap. xxviij des choſes qui empeſchent lafomentation du callus. chap. xxix des fomentations qu'on fait aux fractures des os. chap. xxx de la fracture de l'os du pied. - chap. xxxj le | ovinzies - l e me livr e, ' t r a i c t a n t d e s fra ctvres de s o s ; pa r a m b r o is e par e d e l a v a l a v m a y ne, conſeiller, & premier chirurgien du roy. que c'eſt que fracture,& de ſes differ . - c h a p. i. ra c t v r e , ſelon galien au . liu. de la methode, eſt ſolution de continuité faicte en l'os,nommée en grec catagma. qr toute offenſe d'os a pluſieurs eſpeces & differen- ces, à ſçauoir, ſeparation, luxation, vnion ou conionction , exciſion ou diuiſion, con- tuſion, apoſteme, carie, pourriture, deuement auecque perdition de ſa couuerture, fra- cture (de laquelle voulons traitter maintenant & complette , incomplette, quelques- \ fois faite en long, & autresfois au trauers, ou obliquement & de biais ; & les pieces ou $ eſquilles rompues, quelquesfois ont leur bout mouſſe, & autresfois aigu & pointu, qui picque la chair ou les nerfs , & fouuent les veines & arteres. quelquesfois la fracture les eſpeces ér differen- ces des os of- fenſez. fra#ure °ſt faite en raifort : c'eſt lors que l'os n'eſt point éclatté en eſquilles, mais eſt rompu vniment : les grecs ſºii***- l'ont nommée tkaphanidon. en noix : c'eſt en pluſieurs petites pieces(comme vne noix caſſée ſur vne enclu- me auecque vn marteau) ſeparées l'vne de l'autre,comme nous voyons ordinairement eſtre fait aux coups de piſtolets,& autres baſtons à feu,en grec alpbitidon.en fente apparente,ou capillaire; c'eſt à dire, petite comme vn poil, de façon qu'on ne la peut apperceuoir au ſens de la veuë:partant on eſt contraint d'y met- tre de l'encre qui deſcend en dedans , & la racle pour la cognoiſtre:les grecs l'appellent apochema.enfon- ceure : voulture, rehauſſant l'os en haut. briſeure, c'eſt à dire,diuiſion de l'os en pluſieurs éclats.aucunes de ceſdites fractures ſont faictes en large,en long, en trauers:les vnes auecque pieces égales,les autres den- telees & inegales, & eſquilleuſes. aucunes ſont faites en la fuperficie ſeulement de l'os, auec perdition de quelque portion d'iceluy, comme vne eſcaille ſeparée:les autres, fans que les os ſoient ſeparez les vns des autres , mais ſeulement fendus en long : les autres deſcendantes iuſques à la moelle de l os. aucunesfois les os ſe courbent ſans eſtre rompus, comme l'on void aux coſtes & aux cartilagus , & auſſi aux bras & iambes , principalement aux ieunes qui ont les os encore mols & tendres. aucunesfois auſſi les os ſe ca- uent & boſſelent comme l'on void aux pots d'eſtain & de cuiure, on void ſouuent aduenir au crane par contufion de ceux qui ont les os tendres.ie dy dauantage que quelquesfois les eſquilles des os ne bougent de leur place : alors le mal eſt difficile à eſtre cogneu, parce que rien ne pique, ne recroche contre-mont, au toucher tout eſt égal & vny, la partie garde ſa forme entiere. toutesfois on peut prendre coniectu- re de ce que la partie ſe deult quand l'on preſſe deſſus, & qu'elle ne peut faire ſon office, & qu'elle s'en- fle & deuient chaude & enflammée : ioint qu'il y a eu cauſe manifefte qui aura precedé, comme cheute ou coup orbe.aucuns ſont ſimples, c'eſt à dire, ſans eſtre accompagnées d'aucune indiſpoſition ny accident: comme playe , flux de ſang, inflammation , gangrenes & autres compilations. toutes leſquelles differen- ces demandent indications propres à chacun genre d'icelles.. pareillement faut confiderer la partie en la- quelle la fracture eſt faite, pource que bien ſouuent elle aduient à la teſte, aux coſtes, aux bras , aux iam- bes, aux iointures, & autres parties du corps. auſſi aux corps vieux, ieunes, & bien temperez, & auſſi aux intemperez, & mal-habituez, & ſelon icelles differences faut diuerſifier la cure. or les cauſes des fractures ſont toutes choſes externes, qui peuuent couper, froiſſer, briſer , & caſſer les os : & auſſi pour tomber de haut en bas, voire en tant de façons qu'il ſeroit difficile de tenir le nombre deſdites cauſes. des ſignes des fractures. c h a p. ii. e s ſignes des fractures ſont aſſez euidens & manifeſtes : deſquels le premier & plus certain eſt, quand en maniant la partie fracturée, on trouue les parties des os ſeparées , & ſent- on vne crepitation & attrition, ou croquement : c'eſt à dire vn bruit qui vient du frayement des os qui touchent les vns contre les autres. on cognoiſt auſſi la fracture par l'impuiſſance de - ° la partie, ſur tout ſi ladite fracture eſt aux adiutoires, & au gros os de la iambe. car n'eſtant ſeulement qu'à vn des petits fociles du bras, ou de la iambe, pour cela le malade ne laiſſera de manier au- cunement le bras , ou de cheminer ſur le pied, pource que ce petit focile ne ſert qu'à ſouſtenir les muſcles & non le corps, comme fait le grand os. dauantage la fracture peut eſtre cogneue par la figure de la par- tie changée:qui eſt caue au lieu d'où eſt party l'os, & boſſué au lieu où il s'eſt arreſtée, accompagnée d'vne tres-grande deuleur, qui vient à cauſe de la bleſſure de la membrane dite perioſte, & de celle qui couure la moüelle , & des autres parties qui ſont preſſées ou piquées , & les nerfs qui ſont peruertis de leur lieu. º, prognoſtie yt, fračiuré faite en noix. fra#ure faite é fen- fé'. a fračiure en foncée. fračture : ſ ! rajee. signe certain de fračture en l'os. le petit fo- cile de la iambe ne ſert qu'à ſouſte- nir les mwſ- cles. le quatorziéme liuredes vlceres, : prognoſtic des fractures. c h a p i t r e. ii i. $ m e chirurgien doit prognoſliquer, qui eſt predire les inconueniens & iſſues qui peuuent aduenir # #. #, aux fractures à ſçauoir fi elles ſont mortelles,ou curables:ou ſi leur curatiô ſera longue, ou brief- t - - - - • " / - # « ue : & quels accidens les peuuent accompagner, afin qu'il declare la verité aux parens & amis du malade, pour euiter la calomnie des hommes, ce qu'il fera ayant la cognoiſſance non ſeulement de l'anatomie des os,mais auſſi de la compoſition & habitude de tout le corps : & en bien prognoſtiquant peut acquerir honneur & profit & où il verra la fracture douteuſe,il doit pluſloſt declineraa pºriculum , quàm ad ſ curitatem.car ſi le malade réchappe,celuy ſera plus grand honneur,que s'il auoit dit qu'il deuſt eſtre gua- ry, puis il en mourut.deuât que paſſer plus outre,ie diray qu'en hyuer lors qu'il gele,à la moindre cheu- le, • ſera º les os ſe rompent plus facilement qu'en autre temps. car par la ſiccité de l'air les os deuiennét plus fra- pent tius fa. gilºº & frangibles,où en temps humides il deuiennent plus ployables & obeiſſans.ce que nous pouuôs co- § * §n gnoiſtre aux chandelles de ſuif & de cire.pour entrer doncques en matiere touchant le prognoſtic des fra- hyuer qu'en ctures,il faut entendre que les os(a cauſe de leur ſeichereſſe)ne ſe peuuent aisément glutiner,comme fait la eſt é, chair (ſinon aux petits enfans, comme eſcrit galien in arte parua, auſquels à cauſe qu'ils ont beaucoup de ſubſtance humide, l'os ſe reprend ſelon la premiere intention) mais à l'entour de leurs fractures s'engen- dre vne ſubſtance dure, appellée callus ( qui ſe fait de ce qui abonde de l'aliment de l'os rompu) laquelle le tient & l'agglutine , & auec le temps s'endurcit ſi fort, que l'endroit de telle glutination ſe trouue plus ferme & plus dur que l'autre partie non rompue. car comme la colle ſert au bois pour le ioindre,ſembla- blement le callus ſert aux os rompus pour les ioindre & agglutiner enſemble. ce n'eſt donc ſans grande raiſon,que les os fracturez,pour eſtre vnis,demandent le repos.car ſion remue la partie,auant que l'agglu- tination ſoit deuement parfaite, le callus ſe rompt & difſout, & l'os ne ſe pourraiamais reünir. la matiere d'iceluy ne doit pecher en qualité ny en quantité, non plus que le fang en la generation de la chair deper- due ; & partant pour le bien faire , il faut que la partie ſoit en ſon temperament naturel : autrement ne ſe pourra faire , ou pour le moins ſera grandement retardé. les fraétures aux ieunes ſont trop plus faciles à - guarir qu'aux vieux pource que les ieunes ſont encore pleins de ſuc glaireux & viſqueux , & abondent en *ºſº p" humidite naturelle,radicale & ſubſtantifique:combien qu'on puiſſe alleguer les vieux auoir plus d'humidité # que les ieunes : à quoy ie penſe auoir reſpondu en vſant de ce mot,humidité ſubſtantifique & naturelle,à la § pluſtoſt difference de celle des vieux qui n'eſ telle, mais ſuperfiuë & excrementeuſe, dont s'enſuit qu'elle eſt moins agglutinez *pº & propre a faire la generation du callus. et par cecy l'on void qu'il n'eſt poſſible de donner reigle que ceux des cºrºº du temps de la generation du callus:parce qu'aucuns os s'vniſſent pluſtoſt, & les autres plus tard: vieux. qui ſe fait auſſi par la conſtitution de l'année, de la region,du temperament du malade,& de ſa maniere de viure , & pour la façon de la ligature. auſſi quand le malade eſt debile, & que l'humeur eſt trop aqueux & cloſe, r,- ſubtil lors il n'eſt propre pour faire le callus. au contraire quand les forces & vertus ſont entieres, lors quiſ pour º font leur deuoir à ioindre les os enſemble : & principalement fi la matiere eſt groſſe & epeſſe, elle eſt la generatiö facilement conuertie en la ſubſtance du callus. pource ii conuient ordonner au malade alimens,& medica- du call-u. mens propres pour aider nature à ce faire : ce que nous dirous cy-apres. lors qu'il ſe faict fracture pres les fractures ioinctures,le mouuement eſt apres difficile,& principalement quand le callus demeure gros:& auſſi du tout faſcheuſes. perdu,ſi la iointure eſt attrite & froiſſée:& encore en tel accident y a grand danger, que la partie ne tombe en grande inflammation, à cauſe que les tendons excitent douleur,& que la mort n'enſuiuent.les fractures faites au deux os du bras,& des iambes ſont plus difficiles à guarir,que celles qui ſont ſeulement à l'vn des fociles des bras & des lambes,parce qu'elles ſont plus mal-aisées à tenir, que lors qu'il n'y a qu'vn ſeul fo- cile rompu: pource que celuy qui demeure entier,ſouſtient & appuye celuy qui eſt rompusemblablemét il faur plus de temps à faire le callus en vn gros os, qu'à vn petit.auſſi les os qui ſont rares & ſpongieux, ſont pluſtoſt glutinez par le callus,que ceux qui ne ſont de telle nature. dauantage les os fracturez és corps de hipp.ſen. s. temperature ſanguine,ſont pluſtoſt vnis qu'aux choleriques.en quelque corps que ce ſoit, les os rompus ne c ,. de la peuuent iamais ſi bien eſtre vnis,qu'il n'y demeure quelque inegalité & eminence, à raiſon de l'vnion des os ſect.des fr. faite par le callus. et partant le chirurgien doit deuement faire la ligature,autremêt le callus demeureroit la ligature plus gros , ou plus menu qu'il n'eſt beſoin. la fracture la moins faſcheuſe eſt la ſimple : & celle qui eſt en •yde ºººº- éclats, eſt pire : & la plus difficile de toutes,c'eſt celle où il y a des fragmens qui picquent à cauſe que par #ºº º fºr* poincture de nerf ou perioſte ſe faict conuulfion. or quelquesfois les pieces de l'os rompu demeurent en #º leur place : auſſi le plus ſouuent ſont hors de leur lieu, où l'vne cheuauche ſur l'autre : ſi les pieces ſont d §r. hors de leur lieu, il yaura cauité, au toucher inegalité,& les eſquilles picquent & preſſent. audi ſi les ex- fraauré º de l'os ne ſont iointes bout à bout,le membre eſt plus court que le ſain : & ſes muſcles ſont plus tumefiez & enfiez, d'autant qu'ils ſe retirent vers leur origine : c'eſt pourquoy ſi on trouue l'os enfoncé, ſubit il faut eſtendre le membre : car les muſcles & nerfs tendus par l'os,& retirez vers leur chef, ou leur fin, ne permettront que les pieces de l'os, retournent en leur place,ſi on ne les eſtend de force & violence. et ſi cela n'eſt fait dés les premiers iours, il y ſuruient inflammation : durant laquelle il eſt tres-dangereux de forcer les nerfs & tendons, parce qu'il en aduient ſouuent apoſteme, ſpaſme, gangrene, & mortifica- tion : & pource hippocrate conſeille en la ſentence trente - ſixieſme de la troiſiéme ſection des fractures, en quel ca, que nous nous gardions de faire extenſion le trois & quatriéme iour,pour crainte d'inflammation les fra- f.# , & ctures ſont perilleuſes, quand les éclats ſont grands, & ſortent hors, & encore principalement aux os, qui luxation ſont pleins de moüelle. lors que les os rompus, ou luxez , ne peuuent eſtre reduits en leur ſituation natu- ameinent relle, la partie tombe en atrophie,à cauſe que les veines,arteres,& nerfs ſont peruertis de leur propre lieu» atrophie ? & que la partie ne ſe meut point ou à grande difficulté.parquoy les eſprits n'y peuuent reluire,& ralimene n'y vient pas en telle quantité qu'il deuroit pour nourrir la partie, dont l'atrophie s'enſuit : lequel meſme en quel ca accident peut venir par trop longuement & eſtroittement tenir la partie liée : dequoy nous traicterons plus il ſºº ſº amplement cy-apres. lors que le membre rompu, ou luxé, eſt grandement enflammé, il y a danger, en jº#.**- voulant reduire la fracture, que le malade ne tombe en ſpaſme : partant faut differer la reduction (s'il eſt duction. poſſible ) iuſques à ce que les humeurs ſoient reſouts,& la partie deſenflée, & la grande douleur ceſſée. cura des fractures cure vaiuerſelle des fractures & luxations. c h a p. iv. ſººº longue-main. et en la cure de telles diſpoſitions, on doit auoir trois intentions. la pre- .. , , , miere eſt remettre l'os en ſon lieu. la ſeconde, l'y faire tenir. la tierce, empeſcher qu'il n'y ſuruienne #!º aucuns mauuais accidens : & s'ils y eſtoient ſuruenus , les corriger : qui ſont comme douleur, inflamma- # tion, fiévre, apoſteme, gangrene, mortification , & autres. donc pour reduire aisément vne fracture ou # º/...º- luxation, il le faut faire tout chaudement, ou du premier iour, s'il eſt poſſible,pource qu'alors le malade eſt § la pre- moins moleſté de douleur & inflammation, & que les muſcles ne ſont encore fort refroidis.et pour y pro miere en, ceder , faut que le malade, & la partie luxée, & le chirurgien ſoient en bonne veuë, & ayent bons ſerui- tion. teurs,bonnes ligatures & bonnes machines, ſi le cas le requiert:auſſi que les aſſiſtans ſe taiſent,& écoutent le reducteur,& ne crient,ne diſent,ne faſſent aucune choſe,qui empeſche le chirurgien de faire ſon œuure. en apres faut lier & tenir la partie pres de la fracture, ou luxation, tant d'vn coſté que d'autre, c'eſt à dire, ne c'eſt que tant vers la partie ſuperieure(par laquelle i'entés celle qui eſt vers le centre du corps)qu'inferieure,de peur pºrtiº ſºpº- qu'en faiſant l'extenſion par trop loing d'icelles,l'on ne bleſſe les parties ſaines:& auſſi que l'extenſion ne ſe rº peuſt deuëment faire : pareillement, de peur que le malade en tirant ne ſuiue le chirurgien, s'il n'eſtoit lié qu'en la partie inferieure,& non vers le corps. ces choſes eſtans ainſi ordonnées, faut que le chirurgien eſtende,& tire bien droit la partie offensée;d'autant que les os eſtans rompus, ou luxez,les muſcles ſe reti- rent vers leurs origine:& par meſme moyen tout l'os ſe retire,comme eſcrit gal.ſur la i.ſent.de la .ſection des fractures.pource il eſt impoſſible de les reduire ſans eſtendre les muſcles. la partie ainſi tirée,les osſe- hip.ſent. o. ront plus aisément reduits en leur lieu,preſſant auec les mains deſſus,s'ils font quelque eminence.et les re- de lº*.ſeéf. duiſant, il ſe faut donner garde que les bouts des os fracturez ne s'entrechoquent, de peur qu'ils s'esbre-* fract. chent & rompent:car les eſquilles ſeroient cauſe de faire apoſteme,pour puis apres eſtre iettez hors.si vn os rompu ſurpaſſe la peau, & qu'il ſoit nud & deſcouuert, & ne puiſſe eſtre reduit, alors le faut ſcier ou couper,qui eſt l'aduis d'hippocrate : & du iour meſme,s'il eſt poſſible.puis ſeront bandez,& liez auecques compreſſes & aſtelles. et ſi c'eſt vne luxation, apres l'extenſion faite faut pouſſer, tourner & virer la partie luxée, ſelon qu'il ſera neceſſaire. quelquesfois le chirurgien eſècontraint d'vſer de machines, comme aux luxations inuetcrées, & aux fractures & luxations des grands os, & aux corps robuſtes,& aux grandes )uand le jointures : pource que la force qui y eſt requiſe, ne peut eſtre ſouuentesfois faite par la ſeule main du chi-gaen rurgien.car d'autantplus que les muſcles ſont forts & robuſtes,d'autant ils ont plus de force & vertu pour d§ vj r de ſe tirer vers leur origine.partant à ceux-là nous ſommes contraints d'vſer de machines,parce que les mains machines. du chirurgien ne ſont pas ſuffiſantes pour tirer & reduire telles fractures ou luxations. toutesfois il ſe faut bien donner garde de tirer trop fort, de peur d'encourir és accidens ſuſdits : qui font rompre les muſ- cles & nerfs,& cauſer douleur,gangrene,conuulſion,paralyſie,& autres accidens,leſquels viennent pluſtoſt aux robuſtes & vieux qu'aux ieunes gens, pource qu'ils ſont moins bleſſez que les vieux, lors qu'ils ſont fort tirez à cauſe qu'ils ont le corps plus humide & mol. car tout ainſi qu'on tire fort les cuirs ſans les de- chirer & rompre, lors qu'il ſont moüillez & mols, mais quand ils ſont durs & ſecs, ils ſe rompent pluſtoſt, ainſi eſt-il des muſcles, nerfs, & ligamens. car quand ils ſont humides & mols,ils obeyſſent,& ne rompent les vieux facilement : mais quand ils ſont ſecs & durs,ils ne ſe peuuent eſtendre ſans grande force,non ſeulement s'ils ſºnt pluſtoſt ſont tirez plus qu'il ne faut,mais auſſi s'ils ne ſont que moyennement eſtendus,pource qu'en ce cas les fibres ºſſº de nerueuſes,& corps des muſcles,ſe rompentice qui n'aduient aux ieunes,qui ſont humides & mols,& gene-º:ſºº ralement à tous ceux qui ont la chair mollaſſe & humide, comme enfans, femmes, & eunuques. parquoy !º** (comme nous auons dit)le chirurgien y aura égard,afin de faire la reduction ainſi qu'ii appartient:laquelle #.. de l on cognoiſtra eſtre bien faite, quand la douleur eſt appaisée, à raiſon que les fibres des muſcles, & autres # parties ſont remiſes en leur ſituation naturelle, & que les os ne preſſent plus auec ce qu'au toucher on ne § faite ſentaucune eminence,mais vne egalité.et ſi les fractures,ou luxations ſont aux cuiſſes,ou aux iambes, pour - cognoiſtre ſi les os ſont bien reduits, il faut faire conference de la partie ſaine auec la malade, approchant les pieds & genoux l'vn pres de l'autre, pour voir s'ils ſont bien égaux en longueur. laquelle choſe on pourquoy il doit obſeruer toutes les fois qu'on traittera le malade , pource que l'os reduit peut ſortir hors de ſon lieu, vient des le malade ſe tournant de coſté & d'autre en ſon lict, ou par certains treſaillemens , qui viennent lors qu'il treſſaillemêt dort : ce qui ſe fait par la force des muſcles ſe retirans vers leurs origines, & ce faiſant esbranlent & mou- º º frº- uent l'os fracturé, qui à raiſon de ce ne garde la ſituation que le chirurgien luy a baillée, ains cheuauche cturez. l'vn ſur l'autre, dont le malade ſent vne extreme douleur, iuſques à ce que les os ſoient derechef remis en leurs places,à quoy le chirurgien doit eſtre fort attentif: car le callus ſe faiſant, ſi les os cheuauchent les vns ſur les autres, l'os demeurera d'autant plus court, & par confequent le membre : qui fera toufiours clocher le malade à ſon grand regret, & deſ-honneur du chirurgien. parquoy faut que le malade y donne bon ordre de ſon coſté, ſe gardant bien de remuër la partie rompue, le plus qu'il luy ſera poſſible,iuſques à ce que le callus ſoit affermy & endurcy : mais la luxation eſtant reduite & bien bandée , ne ſe de fait pas fi facilement comme la fracture.or ayant fait la reduction ainſi qu'il a eſté declaré,faut venir à la ſecôde in- tention par la curation des fractures&luxations;c'eſt que la partie qui eſtoit rompue ou luxée,& eſt remiſe, tienne ferme en ſon lieu : qui ſe fera par bädage, compreſſes, & autres choſes que nous declarerons parti- culierement cy-apres,ſelon chacune partie,& auſſi par les medicamés propres:à quoy ſert pareillemêt tenir la partie en repos, & en ſa figure & ſituation naturelle & accouſtumée,afin qu'elle y puiſſe longuement de- meurer,& la penſer quâd il ſera beſoin,euitât la douleur,tant qu'il ſera poſſible.et partât apres la reductiö, faite,il eſt bon d'appliquer tout autour du cerat,& autres repercuſifs,puis des reſolutifs,ſeló qu'il ſerabe- ſoin:& faut que les bandes & compreſſes en ſoient imbués:autrement ils beuroient ledit cerat par leur ſei- chereſſe,& partant profiteroit peu.ceſte doctrine eſt priſe d'hippocrates,du .liu.de l'offi ine du medecin aſedicamens et fi c'eſt fracture ſimple faut que les bandes & compreſſes ſoient trempées & baignées en oxycrat ou oxyr-prepre, à la rhodinû, ou en grosvin auſtere,& autres liqueurs ſemblables,vn peu tiedes,ſi la fracture eſt auec playe, cô- partie, apres me écrit gal ſur la .ſent.de la .ſect.des fractures,leſquelles faudra ſouuentesfois humecter, principale- la reductiºº- ment en eſté : car par ce moyen on rebore la partie, en repouſſant la defluxion , & par conſequent on em- peſche l'inflammation & la douleur. et quand les accidens ſeront paſſez, il faut deſiſter d humecter les nbades, de peur de retarder le callus, à la generation duquel il faut proceder par les choſes qui *y# º | - la ſeconde intention. le quinziéme liure, temps de délier les bandages aux fractu. res & luxa- tions. ia troiſiéme intentiom. il faut tenir regime iuſ- ques au di- xiéme iour. cauſe du prwrit- remedes e - tre le prurit. hip.ſent. - ſect. . de fract. hip.ſent. . de la . ſeti. des art. la maniere de reduire le mez en ſa fi- gure natu- relle. l'vſage pro- pre des ten- t'es c ºnté- lées. hip. ſect. . du liure des art. ſent. - & gal. au c m menf, à le faire , comme nous declarerons cy-apres. or quant à la figure que l'on doit obſeruerel,le fera conue- nable,ſi les muſcles ſont en leur ſituatiou naturelle : ce qui ſe fera ſi la partie eſt tenue en figure moyenne, en laquelle ſi elle eſt ſans douleur,le malade pourra longuement demeurer. ces choſes faites,il luy faudra demander s'il eſt point trop ſerré : & s'il dit que non, ſi ce n'eſt vn peu ſur la fracture ou luxation, adonc faudra conclurre qu'il eſt bien : & ſi c'eſt vne fracture , il la conuient laiſſer trois ou quatre iours, plus ou moins, ſans la délier, s'il ne ſent grande douleur. mais aux luxations on la pourra bien laiſſer ſept ou huict iours,s'il n'y ſuruient aucun § et faut que le chirurgien entende, qu'en traittant les os fracturez ou luxez, il doit par tout moyens prendre garde d'empeſcher les accidens , qui pourroient ſuruenir : qui eſt la troiſiéme intention que traitterons à preſent. -" la troiſiéme intention eſt corriger les accidens. c h a p. , v. o v r ce faire faut traitter la partie le plus doucement, & auecques moins de douleur que faire § ſe pourra (ainſi qu'il a eſtécy - deuant declaré ) prenant garde d'empeſcher la fluxion ſur la par- # tie : & ce par medicamens qui ont vertu de corroborer, & repouſſer les humeurs : & par bonne - maniere de viure , auſſi par purgation & phlebotomie s'il en eſt beſoin. que fi les accidens ſont deſ-jaſuruenus, il y faut remedier ſelon la diuerſité d'iceux:car il y en a de pluſieurs & diuerſes ſortes:en- tre leſquels ſe fait communément vn prurit ou demangeaiſon au commencement.or le prurit eſt engendré des vapeurs de ce qui reſte du ſang,& des autres humeurs contenus en la partie, qui font vne mordication moderée,d'où vient prurit ſimple,ou mordication grande,d'où vient prurit douloureux.gal.ſur la ſent.de la .ſect.des fractures.parquoy lors que telle matiere eſt vuidée,la eauſe de prurit eſt ceſſée.or leſdites va- peurs ne ſe peuuent bien exhaler, pource que la partie eſt preſſee & couuerte d'emplaſtres,de compreſſes, & de bandes.joint auſſi qu'elle demeure ſans ſon exercice accouſtumé, & pource y a moins de chaledr na- turelle. partant conuient délier les bandes de trois iours en trois iours , pour donner air & tranſpiration aux excremens, fuligineux,& matieres ſanieuſes,contenuës ſous le cuir,de peur qu'elles ne rompent & vl- cerent : ce qui eſt ſuruenu à pluſieurs par faute de ce faire. pareillement faut fomenter la partie auec eau chaude,& ce aſſez longuement:car comme il eſt eſcrit au .del'officine du chirurgien,longue fomentation d'eau chaude, attenue & euacue, la moindre remplit & amollit:auſſi vſer de legeres frictions auec la main ou linges chauds,deſquels on la frottera en toute figure : à ſçauoir, en haut,en bas, à dextre,à ſeneſtre, & en rond.pareillement on peut vſer de fomentation † d'vne decoction de ſauge,camomille melilot,roſes, & ſemblables,bouillis en eau & en vin. et par ces moyens petit à petit on oſtera le prurit. et où il y auroit deſ-ja veſſies,il les conuient couper,pour donner prompte iſſue à l'humeur,lequel retenu pourroit corro- der & faire vlcere : & apres faudra appliquer quelque medicament refrigeratif,comme eſt l'onguent album raſi camphoratum,ou deſiccatiuum rubrum,ou vnguétum roſatum,où il n'entre point de vinaigre, auquel on y adiouſtera poudre de bois pourry,ou de la tuthie preparée, ou autres ſemblables. mais il aduient auſſi quelquefois des accidens beaucoup plus grands & dangereux , que nous declarerons cy-apres. or s'ily auoit quelques pieces ou eſquilles d'os qui fuſſent du tout ſeparées,il les faut promptemêt oſter,principa- lement s'ils piquent les muſcles:& auſſi ſi l'os eſtoit éclaté & ſorti hors la chair, en ſorte qu'on ne le peuſt reduire, il le conuient couper auec tenailles inciſiues, ou par le bec de perroquet : deſquels t'ayderas ſe- lon que verras eſtre vtile. le chirurgien doit pareillement prendre garde que la partie bleſſée ait ſouuent vne fiabellation,afin qu'elle n'acquiere inflammation : auſſi garder qu'elle ne ſoit trop couuerte ny breſſee. la fiabellation ſe fera en la changeant de place,& la ſouſleuant par fois. tel precepte n'eſt ſeulement à no- ter pour les fractures,mais auſſi pour toutes parties bleſſées & vlcerées. ayant donc ainſi diſcouru des fra- ctures & luxations en general,maintenantie traicteray des particulieres, commençant au nez. de la fracture du nez. ch a p. v i. - # l faut entendre que le nez eſt cartilagineux en ſa partie inferieure, & oſſeux en ſa ſuperieu- y% re. et en ſa partie cartilagineuſe il n'aduient point fracture, ſi ce n'eſt marque ou ſiege ains % ſeulement enfonceure ou entorſeure, contuſion ou meurtriſſeure : mais en la partie oſſeuſe, ſouuent aduient fracture & enfonceure au dedans : & où ilne ſera bien reduit, le malade de* r . kºss meurera camus, ou aura le nez tortu, & par conſequent difficulté de reſpirer. cr pour redui- "e cette fracture faut abaiſſer l'os qui eſt trop eminent,& celuy qui eſt trop baiſſé, le faut releuer auecvne eſpatule, ou vn petit baſton approprié à ce faire, garny & enueloppé de cotton ou de linge, afin de faire moins de douleur au malade : & faut tenir ladite eſprouuette d'vne main, & de l'autre faire la reduction. puis l'os eſtant ſuſſiſamment eſleué & reduit en ſon lieu, on mettra des tentes longues & groſſes dans les nazeux faites d'éponges ou d'étoupes:parce que telles choſes ſont molles,& tiennêt le nez haut eſleué. pa- reillement ſeront appliquées compreſſes de deux coſtez,pour mieux tenir l'os en ſa figure naturelle,iuſques à ce que l'agglutination ſoit faite.souuentesfois i'y ay mis des tentes cannulées, faites d'or ou d'argent,ou de plöb,leſquelles eſtoient attachées par vn filet à la coeffe,ou bonnet de nuit du malade,qui ſeruoient àte- nir les os, & donner iſſue à la ſanie, & autres excremens ſortans du nez : & ſeruoient auſſi à l'inſpiration& expiration. dauantage, s'il n'eſt neceſſaire,on ſe gardera de preſſer le nez par le bandage,de peur de le ren- dre large enfoncé ou tortu : & où il y aura playe,tu y procederas ainſi que i'ay declaré en mon liure des pla- yes de la teſte humaine.apres l'auoir reduit,tu vſeras de ce medicament,& à toutes autres parties ſeichess lequel a puiſſance de repercuter & reprimer la luxation,aſtreindre,tarir & deſſeicher l'humeur ja defiué,& aider à tenir les os en leur lieu. .thuris,maſtiches,boli,armenix,ſanguinis draconisan .ſi.aluminis rocha, reſinar pini ſiccae an. .pulneriſentur ſubtiliſſimè : item farinx volatilis . É. albuminum ouorum quantum ſufficit : incorporentur omnia ſimul, & fiat medicamentum. si la partie cartilagineuſe eſt pareillement fra- cturée,on y procedera comme en la ſubſtance oſſeuſe. or il faut entendre que la ſolution de continuité fai- te aux cartilages,eſt nommée d'hippocrate,fraéture, comme en l'os,pource qu'il ne peut trouuer autre vo- cable plus propre , attendu que c'eſt la partie la plus dure apres l'os. le cºllus en la fracture du nez eſt communement faite en douze , ou quinze iours s'il n'y ſuruient accident. | df a d tr # ，. t, ，- des fraaures · a —- de la fracture de la mandibule inferieure , ch a f. vii. aynºay a mandibule inferieure ſe termine en deux manieres de cornes, dontl'vneſ e finit en pointe, # & reçoit vn tendon du muſcle temporel, l'autre en tubercule rond , qui eſt allié à l'os ſous § atomique # l'addition nommée mammillaire, & illec s'implante en vne petite cauité , elle eſt ioincte au §. # milieu du menton par coaleſcence, & eſt moiielleuſe au dedans, lors qu'elle eſt fracturée, tui inſºri- r) elle ſera reduite en ſon lieu en mettant les doigts en la bouche du malade, preſſant les emi- enre. nences tant par dedans que par déhors, à fin d'vnir & appoſer les os l'vn contre l'autre. et ſi elle eſt du § fracturée en trauers, & que les bouts fuſſent l'vn ſur l'autre, il faut faire extenſion & contr'extenſion; c'eſt à dire, tirant en deux parts contraires, pour mieux adiouſter les bouts de l'os au droict l'vn de l'autre. et ſi les dents ſont diuisées,esbranlées,ou ſeparées hors de leurs alueoles ou petites cauitez, elles doiuent , eſtre reduictes en leursplaces:& ſeront liées & attachées côtre celles qui ſont fermes,auecques vn fil d'or, ligature dºs ou d'argent, ou de lin.et les y faut tenir † à ce qu'elles ſoient bien affermies, & le calus ſoit refait & dents esbrnna rendu ſolide.et y ſera appliquée vne ferule faite de cuir,dequoy on fait lesſemelles aux ſouliers,fenduë par lées, le milieu à l'endroit du menton, de longueur & largeur de la mâdibule:& y fera-on vne ligature auec vne | bande large de deux doigts, & longue tant qu'il ſera beſoin,coupée par les deux bouts, laiſſant d'entier vn pouce, & à l'endroit du menton ſera pareillement fendue, à fin qu'elle empoigne & comprime mieux le , menton : & des quatre bouts, les deux inferieurs ſeront couſus ſur le ſommet de la teſte, à vn bonnet de !º rempref. nuict ou callote, & les deux autres bouts ſuperieurs ſeront conduits de trauers, & ſeront couſus au derrie- ſºººº re dudit bonnet, le tout ſi dextrement qu'il ſera poſſible, pour bien tenir la fracture. le ſigne qu'elle eſt # # bien reduicte, c'eſt quand les dents plantées en icelle ſont en pareille aſſiete de leur rang. le malade ne ſe # ues couchera point ſur la partie fracturée, de peur que les os ne ſe demettent, & que la fiuxion ne s'y faſſe da- § # uantage. s'il n'y ſuruient inflammation, ou autre accident, le callus ſe fait en vingt iours,parce qu'elle eſt - vr -- ſpongieuſe,creuſe,& pleine de ſubſtance,moelleuſe,& principalement en ſon milieu,quelquesfois plus tard, §. ſelon la temperature & aage du malade, comme il ſe fait en tous les autres os. on vſera du medicament ag- temps aege. glutinatif& repercuſſif cy-deſſus eſcrit,& d'autres qu'on verra eſtre neceſſaires.le malade doit eſtre nourry neratiºn du de choſes qu'ilne faille maſcher,iuſques à ce que le callus foit fait & bien affermy,pource qu'il ne les pour- callu . roit maſcher, & auſſi que la maſtication luy ſeroit contraire. parquoyvſera de boüillie,panade,coulis,preſ- ſis, orges mondez, gelée, potages, œufs molets, jus de confitures, reſtaurans & autres ſemblables. deſcription de lafracture de l'os clauiculaire , ou furculaire . c h a p. v i i i. º>g ()ſ# a fracture de cét os ſera reduite, ſelon qu'il ſera hors de ſa place. or ſoit cette fracture faite & $ en quelque ſorte que ce ſoit, touſiours le bout qui eſt attaché contre l'eſpaule,eſt plus abaiſſé * contre-bas que l'autre bout, qui eſt attaché contre le ſternon, parce que le bras le tire con- .. - ， tre-bas. si la fracture eſt faite en trauers, elle eſt plus facile à eſtre reduite, & auſſi plus aisée # # arf\snſºn à guerir que celle quiſe fait en long. car tout os rompu de trauers,plus facilement retourne # • i. ſ fj en ſon lieu naturel, en ſe ſouſtenant d'vn coſté ou d'autre auec les doîgts, & plus facilement ſe remet, que § #aaur. celuy qui eſt rompu en raifort , qui eſt plus mal-aisé à eſtre reduit , & auſſi les bouts des os à ſe tenir l'vn faite de tra- contre l'autre, & plus difficilement ſe collent enſemble.car remuant les bras tant ſoit peu, l'vne partie de uers eſt plus l'os s'eſcarte & ſe ſepare de l'autre; & la piece qui eſt proche de l'eſpaule, deſcend a l'inferieure partie de fasile à eſtre la poictrine : à raiſon que l'os clauiculaire n'a de ſoy aucun mouuement, mais ſuit le mouuement du bras & reduite que de l'eſpaule, qui tire contre-bas la portion qui luy eſt contigue. or pour reduire cette fracture faite en nulle ºutre. raifort, ou autre façon que les bouts de l'os ne ſoient l'vn ſur l'autre, ou eſcartez, faut qu'vn ſeruiteur tire pºſºf" le bras en arriere, & vn autre au contraire tireral'eſpaule vers ſoy à l'oppoſite, & ainſi ſe fera la contr'ex- fº, de re- tenſion : cependant le chirurgien r'habillera auec ſes doigts la fracture,pouſſant contre-bas ce qui eſt emi- uction. nent & releué, & retirant contre-mont en dehors ce qui eſt enfoncé en bas. aucuns pour mieux reduire cette fracture, mettent vne groſſe compreſſe ronde ſous l'eſſelle du malade : puis preſſent le coulde contre les coſtes, & le chirurgien reduit la fracture. si d'aduenture les bouts de l'os eſtoient tant enfoncez contre-bas, & que par les moyens ſuſdits n'euſſent peu eſtre releuez, alors il faut faire coucher le malade à la renuerſe,& luy mettre entre les deux eſpaules vn oreiller,ou vn quarreau aſſez dur, ou le cul d'vne jatte ouchaudron, ayant mis premierement deſſus quelque couuerture. puis vn ſeruiteur preſſera contre-bas es eſpaules du malade,afin que les bouts de l'os cachez& deſcendus contre-bas retournent contre-mont.et par ce moyen le chirurgien reduira facilement la fracture. et ſi d'aduenture l'os eftoit en telle façon rompu & accident eſclatté,qu'il n'euſt peu eſtre reduit en ſa place,& qu'aucun de ſes eſclats picquaſt & entraſt dedans la chair, mort.l. & qu'il cauſaſt difficulté de reſpirer,alors on ſeroit contraint de faire inciſion,& le releuer auec vn crochet, & couper les poinctes pour obuier aux accidents de la mort : & puis traicter la playe ainſi qu'il eſt beſoin. medicament et ſi ledit os eſtoit rompu en pluſieurs pieces , apres les auoir reduites en leurs places, il faut appliquer glutixatif. deſſus vnmedicament colletic,comme farine de froment,thus,bol-armene,ſang-dragon, reſine de pin,pulue- riſez, & incorporez en blancs-d'œufs , & mettre par deſſus des ferules autour de l'os enueloppées de linge vsé, oinctes dudit medicament : & pareillement trois compreſſes, à ſçauoir deux aux coſtez, mais la troiſié- me ſera plus groſſe, & posée ſur l'endroit de l'os eminent , qui la repouſſera , & l'engardera de ſe releuer, oinctes pareillement du medicament ſuſdit, à fin queſtant deſſeiché il ne puiſſe bouger de deſſus,& que les extremitez de l'os ne declinent à dextre, ny à ſeneſtre, & ne s'cflcuent en haut. et faut pareillement que leſdites compreſſes ſoient de groſſeur & largeur qu'il ſera beſoin peur remplir les cauitez qui ſont au deſ eaz de tour " ſous & deſſus dudit os. puis on bandera commodément auec vne bande à double chef, & la mettra-on en la claui . croix s. andré,& ſera de la largeur d'vne palme, & longue d'vne toiſe & demie, plus ou moins ſelon le cule. corſage dumalade : & fera-on qu'elle tire le bras en derriere. auſſi ne faut oublier à mettre des compreſſes fous les aiſſelles, & principalement ſous celle de la fracture, pour remplir les cauitez d'icelle, afin que le malade comporte & endure mieux la ligature. semblablement ne faut oublier à commander au malade de ! # tenir les bras en arriere, poſant ſa main ſur la hanche, ainſi que les villageois la mettent quand ils danſent' # faiſans la ie reniegoy, afin que l'os ſoit mieux tenu en ſa place. toutesfois quelque diligence qu'on puiſſe # re dućtatn faire, il y demeure quaſi touſiours deformité, pource qu'on ne peut bien faire la ligature qui puiſſe enuiron de la claui- mer l'os tout autour, comme l'on fait au bras & à la jambe. le callus en cét os eſt fait le plus ſouuent en cule. vingt iours, à cauſe qu'il eſt rare & ſpongieux . f f dc_» signe de bon-. e"r -* . | - le quinziéme liure des vlceres, de lafrutture de l'omoplate_ . c h a p. i x. a deſcription : m o p l a t e, eſt vn mot grec qui ſignifie eſpaulette, ou paleron de l'eſpaule. elle n'eſt \ anatomiqne point enioinctée, mais plaquée ſeulement au derriere des coſtes de la poictrine, & attachée ， de l'omopla- $ auec l'os occipital, & auec les ſpondyles du dos par le moyen des muſcles, & au deuant par €. l'acromium (qui eſt vne apophyſe, ou vn auancement de l'extremité de ſa creſte, ou eſpine ) $ º où l'os clauiculaire eſt appuyé & joinct. aucuns anotomiſtes appellent cette meſme conjon- ction, acromium. elle a vne autre production & apophyſe, appellée le col de l'omoplate, & au bout il y a gal. au liu. vne cauité qui reçoit la teſte de l'os du haut du bras. dauantage elle a vne petite apophyſe appellée cora- des os. coide en grec, à cauſe qu'elle repreſente vn bec de corbeau, pource qu'en ſon extremité eſt crochuë. or l'omoplate a elle peut eſtre fracturée en toutes ſes parties. quelquesfois en ſa teſte, qui eſt au milieu d'elle, que nature deux produ luy a donnée pour ſa tuition & defenſe, comme ont les vertebres du dos. quelquesfois auſſi que la partre #iºn !'vne large eſt enfoncée au dedans, & quelquesfois en la joincture, où l'os du haut du bras eſt posé en ſa cauité. ºpº *- et ſelon ces differences, les accidens ſont plus grands ou moindre. - #º é on cognoiſt la fracture eſtre en ſa creſte , quand en touchant deſſus on trouue vne inegalité qui cauſe e # ** douleur. l'enfonceure de ſa partie large ſe connoiſt pareillement au toucher, parce qu'on y trouue vne - cauité & vne ſtupeur, ou endormiſſement, au bras du coſté bleſsé , & le malade ſent vne douleur poi- si d • a - - - - - # gnante quand on y touche : telle choſe ſe fait à cauſe des nerfs, qui ſe diſtribuent au muſcle de l'eſpaule. c io , si les pieces de l'os ne ſont du tout ſeparées, & ne picquent point, il les faut redreſſer en leur ſituation naturelle, & les y faire tenir auec remedes agglutinatifs, qui engendrent le callus, & auec compreſſes & bandages propres à cette partie. et ſi les pieces bougent, ou remuent, & picquent la chair, il ſera fait inci- ſont du tout ſion pour les oſter, & ſeront tirées auec vn inſtrument nommé bec de corbin. et en cét endroit faut no- ſeparez de º* ſi les eſclats, ou quelques portions fracturez ne ſont du tout ſeparez, & qu'ils tiennent encore au pe- tºur periºſi, rioſte & ligamens, s'ils ne picquent la chair, ne les faut oſter : pource que i'ay veu pluſieurs fois, qu'ils ſe ſe peuuent prenoient & vniſſoient enſemble, non-ſeulement à l'omoplate, mais auſſi aux autres parties , comme i'ay renhir. monſtré par cy-deuant aux playes de la teſte. mais alors qu'ils ſont du tout ſeparez, & n'adherans plus au perioſte, neceſſairement les faut tirer dehors, ou autrement nature auec le temps les chaſſera hors,parce qu'ils n'ont plus de vie auec leur tout, & faut, comme dit hippocrate au liure des fractures de teſte. que le vif chaſſe le mort.ce qui eſt aduenu à monſieur le marquis de villars,lequel receut en cette partie vn coup de piſtolet à la bataille de dreux, & dés lors on luy tira quelque eſquille de l'os, & quelque piece de ſon harnois, & de la balle, & ſi la playe quelque temps apres fut conſolidée, & du tout cloſe : toutesfois apres la bataille de mont-contour, pour auoir longuement porté le harnois ſur ſon dos, il ſe fit vne nouuelle fluxion & inflammation ſur la ſicatrice, en ſorte qu'elle ſe r'ouurit, & en ſortit derechef pluſieurs eſquilles d'os, & portion de la balle. si la fracture eſt faite au col du paleron, ou à la joincture de l'eſpaule, rarement on en eſchappe , quelque grande diligence qu'on puiſſe faire. ce qu'on a veu n'agueres aduenir au de- funct roy de nauarre, & à monſieur de guiſe, & au comte ringraue philibert, & pluſieurs autres, en ces dernieres batailles, à cauſe qu'autour de cette joincture il y a pluſieurs & gros vaiſſeaux, à ſçauoir,la veine & artereaxillaire, & les nerfs naiſſans des vertebres du col, qui ſe diſtribuent à tous les muſcles du bras. dauantage, lors qu'il s'y fait inflammation & pourriture facilement ſont communiquez au cœur, & autres parties nobles : dont pluſieurs accidensaduiennent, & ſouuent la mort. les os qui ne de la fracture ou depreſſion du sternum ou brechet. c h a p. x. e sternum quelquesfois eſt fracturé, & quelquesfois il n'ya qu'vne depreſſion & enfonceure signe de fra. , au dedans ſans fracture. le ſigne qu'il eſt fracturé , c'eſt qu'au lieu de la fracture on trouue cture du vne inegalité , & quand on trouche deſſus , il obeyt au doigt, & ſent-on vne crepitation & sternum. bruit. et lors qu'il eſt enfoncé,ou voit vne inegalité & cauité,& adonc le malade ſent grande " douleur & a difficulté de reſpirer, à cauſe que l'os preſſe les membranes,& les poulmons qui ſont au deſſus de ces parties-là : pareillement à la tous, & ſouuent crache du ſang. or pour reduire cét la toux vise os, il faut ſituor le malade comme nous auons dit en la reduction de l'os clauiculaire, à fçauoir le mettant à cauſe que à la renuesſe : & luy mettra-on vn quarreau ſous ſon dos , puis ſera foulé ſur ſes eſpaules contre-bas, & les poulmons auec les mains on reduira l'os, preſſant les coſtes d'vn coſté & d'autre : & fera-on en ſorte que la reduction ſont preſſez. ſoit bien faite. puis apres on appliquera les remedes cy-deſſus mentionnez, pour prohiber l'inflammation, & ſeder la douleur. et y ſeront adaptées promptement des compreſſes : auſſi la ligature ſera croyſée par deſſus les eſpaules, laquelle ne doit eſtre trop ſerrée, de peur qu'elle n'engarde la reſpiration du malade. s'il eſt beſoin on tirera du ſang,& fera-on toutes autres choſes neceſſaires & requiſes à cét effect.l'an . ie fus enuoyé par le commnadement du defunct roy de nauarre , lieutenant general du roy, pour penſer antoine benand, seigneur de ville-neufve, cheualier de l'ordre du roy, & gentil-homme de ſa chambre, capitaine de trois cens hommes, lequel fut bleſſé pres la porte de la ville de melum, d'vn coup de mouſ- quet, au milieu du sternum , dont ſa cuirace enfonça les os dudit sternum : qui fut cauſe qu'il tomba par terre comme mort, iettant grande quantité de ſang par la bouche , & en cracha par l'eſpace de trois mois # et pour reduire les os, i'y procedaycomme i ay dit, & receut parfaite guariſon, eſtant encore à pre- cilt vlllant. hiſtoire. de la fracture des coſtes. c h a p. x i. )uelles co, # e s coſtes vrayes ſont oſſeuſes, & reçoiuent fracture en toute partie : mais les coſtes faul ſes ne ſe ſi , & en ， peuuent fracturer que pres l'eſpine du dos, auquel endroit ſont oſſeuſes : car en la partie anterieu- quelle partie z # re elles ſont cartillagineuſes, & partant en cét endroit ſe peuuent plier, & non fracturer. cr elles peuuent en- . ſe peuuent toutes rompre en dedans & en dehors.auſſi elles ne ſont quelquesfois du tout rom- rourir fra- pués, mais ſeulement eſclattées & fendues, & quelquesfois par dedans, & non par dehors : & la ſciſſure ćture. ou fente pene tre aucunesfois iuſques au milieu de leur ſubſtance , qui eſt rare & ſpongieuſe : & quelquesfois auſſi ſont du tout rompuës , & eſclattées , donc les eſclats preſſent & picquent la membranc pleurctique, qui les couure par dedans. adonc le danger eſt grand : mais lors qu il ny a - que des fractures. - a que ſimple fracture, ſans que ladite membrane ſoit rompuë ou grandement preſſée, ou autre complication de diſpoſition, le mal eſt petit, pource hippocrate conſeille qu'ils mangent aſſez liberalement, parce que le ventre moderément plein redreſſe la coſte,ce qui eſt vray.ceux qui ont fracture aux fauſſes coſtes,ſe trou- prognoſtié uent plus mal auant manger qu'apres, à raiſon qu'auant le paſt ils ſentent les coſtes ſuſpendues, ſans qu'el- i, #. # les ſoient aucunement ſouſtenues par les alimens contenus en l'eſtomach. pareillement la fracture , qui # # csſtsst eſt au dehors, eſt trop plus aisée à guarir, que celle du dedans, à cauſe qu'elle picque la pelure, excite inflammation, & ſouuent empyeme. car celle de dehors ſe reduit facilement, à cauſe qu'on la peut tou- cher, mais celle de dedans ne ſe peut toucher. celle qui eſt faite au dehors ſe peut guarir en vingt iours, s'il n'y ſuruient quelque mauuais accident. les ſignes des coſtes rompues, ne ſont pas difficiles à eſtre cognus. car touchant des doigts à l'endroit de la douleur, on trouue la fracture en ſentant vne inegalité . & crepitation, principalement ſi elles ſont du tout rompuës. et ſi la coſte rompuë eſt tournée vers le de-*it* dans,le malade ſent vne vehemente douleur punctiue, & encore plus violente & facheuſe qu'en la plureſie, parce que la membrane qui couure les coſtes, eſt picquée & preſſée par les eſclats de la fracture. au moyen dequoy le malade a vne tres-grande difficulté de reſpirer, touſſe, & ſouuent crache du ſang, parce que les poulmons le ſuccent & attirent : qui à cauſe de la dilaceration, eſt hors de ſes vaiſſeaux,& d'iceux entre en latrachée artere, & de là eſt ietté par la bouche. on peut bien redreſſer auec les doigts les fractu- res des coſtes,faites au dehors : mais ſi elles ſont tournées au dedans, il eſt impoſſible, parce qu'on ne peut de la fra- faire ce qu'il appartient, qui eſt tirer & contre tirer, & preſſer ſur les eminences de la fracture. aucuns aure en pour retirer l'os fracturé en dehors, commandent appliquer vne ventouſe , mais ils font mal : car par la dehors. contraction & compreſſion des parties circonjacentes, ou voiſines, faite par la ventouſe, feroient attra- ction des humeurs, & augmentation de douleur à la partie malade : & partant ne la faut nullement appli- quer : ce qu'auſſi hippocrate defend. mais pour la reduire, on fera coucher le malade ſur le coſté ſain.puis on mettra ſur la fracture vne emplaſtre couuerne ſur de la toile neuue & forte, faite de terebentine, reſine, hip an liu. & poix noire, farine de fourment, maſtic, aloès : & l'ayant laiſſé quelque eſpace de temps , ſera eſleuée & des art ſect, tirée de force contre-mont, & par ce moyen la coſte ſera tirée en haut : & fera-on cela non ſeulement vne ;.ſent. .ér fois,mais par pluſieurs,tant que le malade ſe ſente allegé,& auoir ſon alaine plus libre. pourquoy faire plus paul lin. . aiſément, le malade peut grandement aider au chirurgien, en touſſant & retenant ſon haleine, lors qu'on chap. - tirera l'emplaſtre. mais auſſi ſi nous ſommes contraints par vne grande neceſſité, à cauſe que la membrane ºº ººſºº qui couure les coſtes, & les nerfs qui accompagnent les veines,& arteres qui ſont ſous chaeune coſte, ſont ! grandement preſſez & picquez, en ſorte que le malade ſent vne extreme douleur, & ne peut qu'auec bien # grande peine reſpirer, & auſſi qu'il crache du ſang & touſſe & eſt febricitant : alors pour obuier à la mort, # il faut faire inciſion, & deſcouurir vne portion de la coſte fracturée:puis auec vn crochet eſleuer les eſclats puè en haut de l'os qui picquent, & les faire ſortir dehors en les coupant, ou autrement. et ſi la playe eſt grande , illa faut coudre, & la traitter comme il appartient. et ſera ordonné regime au malade, & la ſeignée & purga- tion,ainſi que verra le docte medecin eſtre beſoin:car comme eſcrit hippocrate, en la ſimple fracture il n'eſt grand beſoin de tel regime, parce qu'il n'y a fiévre ny aucun malin accident : mais en la composée, qui eſt auec conuulſion ou playe des muſcles,il eſt de neceſſité pour la fiévre & empyeme. et ſur la partie ſera ap- pliqué vn cerat & autres remedes, ſelon les accidents qui ſuruiendront. les bandages qu'on fait à cette bandes re- partie,ne peuuent ſeruir qu'à tenir les remedes.et quand à la ſituation du malade, il ſe doit mettre en telle tentines. aſſiette qu'il pourra endurer, & ſe trouuer mieux. accidens qui viennent des coſtes rompuës. c h a p. xii. l nous reſte à preſent traitter en bref des accidens qui aduiennent à cauſe de la contuſion fai- te ſur les coſtes. c'eſt que la chair contuſe deuient bourſoufflée, pituiteuſe, muqueuſe, & glutineuſe, à raiſon que la partie ne peut cuire & digerer l'aliment qui luy eſt enuoyé : partant il demeure à demy-cuict, à cauſe de l'imbecilité de la partie,& de la trop grande multitude de l'humeur quiinfluë : d'où vient que de telle crudité & humeur indigeſte, s'eſleuent pluſieurs flatuofitez, pource que la vertu concoctrice eſt debile, à raiſon de l'imbecilité & intemperie de la partie. hippocrate .des art. dont on trouue la chair en cét endroit tumefiée, comme ſi on l'auoit ſoufflée : & lors qu'on comprime deſſus auec la main on ſentl'air qui ſe départ, & le lieu qu'on a comprimé demeure caue, comme on voit aux fluxions œdemateuſes. et ſi on ny donne ordre, il s'y fait inflammation, fiévre, apoſte- me, difficulté de reſpirer : & quelquesfois les coſtes ſe pourriſſent, à cauſe que la chair eſt eſleuée de con- tre l'os : lequel demeurant nud ſans ſa couuerture naturelle, il s'introduit, & eſt frappé d'vn air qui quel- quesfois eſt cauſe d'alterer i'os & le pourrir. et lors que cela ſe fait, les malades iettent la boue par la bou- che, puis deuiennent tabides dont la mort s'enſuit. or pour obuier à tels accidens, faut promptement faire la eanſe de la reduction,comme nous auons dit.et pour reſoudre cette tumeur muqueuſe,faut appliquer remedes pro- l'alteration pres,bander & comprimer auec compreſſes,afin que la chair touche à l'os,& qu'il ne demeure nud.et quand & pºurritu- à la maniere de la compreſſion,onappliquera le bandage aſſez ſerré,toutesfois non tant que les coſtes ne ſe rº dºs cºſtes puiſſent mouuoir , & que la reſpiration ſoit empeſchée. puis on vſera des remedes reſolutifs & calefactifs pour diſſiper l'humeur.et faudra diuerſifier les remedes ſelon que les accidens ſe preſenteront. s'il ſuruient apoſteme, elle ſera ouuerte ſans trop tarder, de peur que l'os ne ſe pourriſſe, & apres l'ouuerture faite, on # de tel euacuera la matiere : & pource faire on mettra vne tente cannullée dans l'vlcere, ſi bien attachée " qu'elle ne puiſſe tomber en la capacité du thorax. et ſeront faites toutes autres choſes neceſſaires & requi- ſes à telles diſpoſitions. •- •- de la fracture des venebres ou roi les de l'eſpine & de ſes apophyſes,ou ſaillies. c h a p i t r e x iii. a rondeur , ou circonference des vertebres, eſt quelquesfois rompuë , contuſe & enfoncée au accident im dedans , qui fait que les membranes qui couurent la moüelle ſpinale, où elle meſme eſtant ainſi currable. - preſſée, cauſent pluſieurs mauuais accidens, & peut-on preſager eſtre incurable , ſelon qu'ils ſeront grands : à ſçauoir , quand on voit que les bras & les mains du malade ſont ſtupides & paralytique, ſans les pouuoir remuer : & auſſi qu'en les picquant ou ſerrant , le malade ne ſent rien : ſemblablement quand les accidens ſuſdits ſe trouuent aux jambes & aux pieds : & que le malade laiſſe ſortir ſes excremens ſans les fentir, & les pouuoir tenir, ou auſſi qu'il ne peut vriner : car - ſelon hippoc. ſect. . du prorrhet. de quelque cauſe , que la moitié de l'eſpine ſoit bleſſée , ces accidents caration. a f f ſuruiennent ---- | o le quinziéme liure, ſuruiennent, on peut alors preſager la mort prochaine : & apres l'auoir predit aux parens & amis, & aux aſſiſtans, il ſe faut enhardir ( s'il eſt poſſible ) de faire inciſion pour oſter les eſquilles ou eſclats,qui ſe ſont enfoncez, & compriment la moüelle & les nerfs : & s'il eſt poſſible, faut appliquer remedes qui ſedent la douleur, & qui prohibent l'inflammation, & reduire les parties fracturées en leur lieu, les y faiſant tenir par les moyens que dirons en la luxation de l'eſpine. que ſi ſeulement les appophyſes des vertebres ſont ſeules apo- rompus (qui ſe connoiſtra,parce que les accidens ſuſdits n'y ſuruiennent,& qu'en pouſſant du doigt deſſus, phyſes rom- on ſent la piece ou eſclat de l'os ſe remuer, & changer de place , joint auſſi qu'au lieu de la fracture oi pués. trouue vne cauité & enfonceure,auec quelque bruit d'vne petite crepitation ou craquement : d'abondant ſi le malade veut plier l'eſchine, il ſent douleur,parce que la peau qui eſtoit à l'endroit de la fracture,s'eſtend & preſſe des eſclats de l'os,principalement s'ils ſont pointus & eſpineux,picquants la chair & s'il ſe dreſſe, il ſe trouue mieux à cauſe que ladite peau eſt laſche : partant les eſquilles de l'os picquent moins ;alors on les pourra reduire,s'ils ne ſont du tout ſeparez de leur perioſt : mais auſſi s'ils en ſont entierement ſeparez, · adonc faut faire inciſion & les oſter, puis traitter la playe comme il appartient. - les fractures des apophyſes des vertebres ſe guariſſent aisément, pourueu qu'elles ne ſoient accompa- gnées d'autres indiſpoſitions, comme quelque grande contufion,ou autres parce que tous os rares & ſpon- gieux,en peu de temps ſe conſolident, comme nous auons dit. ', signes des prognoſtic. de la fracture de l'os sacrum. ch a p. xiv. | # v s s l'os sacrum peut eſtre fracturé en certaine partie, où le patient peut recouurer ſanté: ce )nelle fra- # ， que i'ay veu pluſieurs fois s'eſtre fait par coups de boulets , ou autre choſe briſante : mais où la c#ure de l'os #m$ fracture ſera faite à l'endroit de l'eſpine,& ſi elle eſt bleſſée,à peine le malade peut euiter la mort, ſacrum eſt pour les raiſons qu'auons declaré cy-deſſus. mortelle. de la fracture des os du croupion, ou de la queuë. c h a p. x v. - · · e croupion, nommé os coccys , eſt composé de quatre petits oſſelets, dont le premier à vne deſcriptio» $ cauité où s'inſere la fin de l'os sacrum : les trois autres ſont joints enſemble par ſymphyſes à anatomi ſue l'extremité deſquels il y a vn perit cartilage. # os coc- or la fracture de ces os ſera reduite, en mettant le doigt dedans le ſiege du malade, tant # ai - qu'il ſoit apposé à l'endroit du lieu de la fracture duquel il repouſſera l'os, & l'égalera auec l'autre main "expoſant exterieurement ſur la fracture.et afin qu'il ſoit mieux & pluſtoſt glutiné, faut que le malade ſe tienne au lict pendant la curation : & où il ſe leuera, faut qu'il ſe mette en vne chaire percée, afin qu'il n'y ait rien qui preſſe ſur la fracture. et ſeront appliquez les remedes conuenables aux fractures, les diuerſifiant ſelon qu'on verra eſtre neceſſaire. de la fracture de l'os de la hanche . c h a p. xv i. | zºº de la $f，éz%)ſ#'o s de chacune hanche eſt composé de trois os, le premier eſt nommé os ilion, le ſecond hanche eſt n ſ$ $ schion, le tiers os pubis. ces trois os ſont bien conjoints enſemble (aux hommes quiont ac- coraposé de /) #) comply leurs trois dimenſions) qu'on ne les peut nullement ſeparer mais aux petits enfans,ils trois autres. & n w ſe peuuent aisément ſeparer l'vn d'auec l'autre. et pour le bien entendre, ie te renuoyeray à c & nsnč w mon anatomie, où i'en ayamplement eſcrit : & dirons que cedit os peut eſtre rompu en toutes ſes parties, pour eſtre tombé de haut en bas ſur quelque choſe dure, ou par coup de quelque certain inſtru- | ment, comme de piſtolet, arbaleſte, ou autre façon. . cette fracture ſe connoiſt comme les autres, à ſçauoir, par le ſentiment de douleur pungitiue & pulſati- signes. ue, & ſtupeur en la jambe du coſté meſme , quand le milieu eſt enfoncé : elle ſe connoiſt auſſi au ſens de la veuë & du toucher, & veut eſtre habillée ſelon qu'on verra eſtre neceſſaire. faut tirer les pieces d'os, ſi elles ſont du tout ſeparées,du premier appareil,s'il eſt poſſible, faiſant inciſion,s'il en eſt fieſoin,euitât de couper le chef des muſcles, ou quelque vaiſſeau,principalement le grand & gros nerf qui ſe diſtribue entre les muſ- cles de la cuiſſe & de toute la jambe. et les eſclats ou fragmens, qui ne ſont entierement ſeparez de leur pe- rioſte, ſeront reſſamblez & reduits auec les doigts & conſequemment on procedera à la reſte de la curation, comme on verra eſtre neceſſaire. de lafructure de l'os du bras, ou adjutoire ». c h a p. xvi i. 'os du haut du bras eſt rond, caue, & plein de moüelle, ayant vne aſſez grande teſte en ſa curation. partie ſuperieure, aſſiſe ſur vn moyen col. il a en ſa partie inferieure deux apophyſes, ou deſcription prominence, l'vne anterieure : l'autre poſterieure : & a entre les deux comme vne demie # orbite, ou cauité d'vne poulie ; les deux extremitez de laquelle ſe deſinent, l'vne en l'vne cauité exterieure, & l'autre interieure,pour l'arreſt de la fluxion & extenſion, c'eſt à bras. dire, de peur que l'os du coulde ne tournaſt tout autour de ſa cauité : qui eſt ſemblable àvne poulie. et ſi telle choſe aduenoit, l'action du bras euſt eſté imparfaicte, parce qu'il ſe fuſt plié autant au dehors comme au dedans.cecy eſt neceſſaire ſçauoirauchirurgien,pour la reduction des fractures & luxations de cette partie. et ne faut ſeulement l'apprendre par ce liure,mais qu'il aille aux cimetieres l'apprendre ſur les os des morts, comme i'ay faict, & autres anatomiſtes.si les exrremitez de cét os fraéturé cheuauchent beaucoup les vnes ſur les autres, & que ce ſoit vn homme fort robuſte : alors pour le reduire, il faudra faire grande extenſion au bras, ayant premierement fait ſeoir le malade aſſez bas, afin qu'il ne ſe puiſſe le- ce qu'endoi, ºr lors qu'on reduira la fracture, & auſſi que le chirurgien face ſon operation plus à ſon aiſe, bien que obſeruer en hippocrat emeu d'autres conſiderations vueille que le malade ſoit ſitué haut.semblablemêt ne faut faillir en la redaaion faiſant l'extenſion, de la faire en tirant ledit os en bas vers la terre en ligne droicte, & que le coulde ſoit de la fractu-ſemblablement plié auſſi lors qu'on le veut ſituer pour eſtre tenu en eſcharpe.car ſi on vouloit faire la re- re de l'os du duction , le bras eſtant hauſſé & eſtendu ou en quelque autre figure, il le faudroit touſiours tenir en cette ºººººra. meſme ſituation en laquelle on l'auroit reduit : ou autrement, le voulant mettre en eſcharpe,la fracture ſe - pourroit | --t" l)es fračtures. i il a pourroit aisément defaire.ce qui eſt tres neceſſaire au chirurgien d'obſeruer en remettant leditos rompu, | tenant le bras couché,preſque contre le corps vers la ceinture. en quoy le chirurgien prendra auſſi garde en le bandant,& y appoſant les aſtelles,qu'elles ne preſſent ſur les jointures:car comme eſcrit hippocrates, ſection ;. de l'officine du chirurgien , & ſection . des fractures, il ne faut que les aſtelles preſſent les parties deſcharnées, nerueuſes & ſenſibles de peur de douleur & denudation , tant du nerf que de l'os : & principalement à l'interieure partie, vers laquelle ſe faict la flection , de peur qu'elle ne face douleur poſition du & inflammation : & partant il faut en cét endroit qu'elles ſoient plus courtes. et apres auoir ainſi r'habillé bras apre, la le bras,il ſera posé contre la poictrine,en figure d'angle droict,& y ſera lié, afin que le malade ſe remuant, reduction. - il ne peruertiſſe la figure de l'os,qu'on aura reduit en ſon lieu. en telles fractures il faut que le bras demeu- | re à repos, iuſques à ce que le callus ſoit fait, qui ſe fait en quarante iours, & quelquesfois plus tard:dont | on ne peut donner reigle certaine , non ſeulement de la fracture du bras , mais de toutes les autres, com- l me nous auons dit. i ® ch a p t r e. xv iii. - de la fracture de l'os du coulde, & du rayon , c'eſt à dire, de deuxfociles du bras. y veloves fois l'os du coulde & du rayon ſont rompus enſemble d'vne meſme fracture, & $ quelquesfois vn d'eux ſeulement.auſſi il aduient que la fracture eſt faicte ou au milieu d'iceux, $ ou en l'extremité prochaine du coulde,ou du poignet.la pire fracture eſt quand tous les deux l'os du coul. os ſont rompus enſemble. car le bras demeure du tout impotent : & la curation en ſera plus de. - - - s* difficile,parce qu'ils ſont plus malaiſez à tenir,que lors qu'il n'y en aura qu'vn ſeul:pource que |. celuy qui demeure entier ſouſtient encore le bras, & garde que lesmuſcles ne ſe retirent, comme ils font ，- | lors qu'ils ſont du tout rompus enſemble. et la pire d'apres, c'eſt quand l'os du coulde eſt rompu & la plus reduction | facile à guarir, c'eſt quand l'os du rayon ſeul eſt fracturé, parce qu'il eſt ſupporté & ſouſtenu ſur l'os du | coulde : & ſi ces deux os ſont rompus, il faut faire la contr'extenſion plus forte, parce que les muſcles ſont plus retirez que s'il n'y en auoit qu'vn ſeul, & l'vn demeurant entier ſert plus que les bandes & aſtelles à ſouſtenir l'autre. auſſi s'il n'y a qu'vn d'iceux rompu pour reduire, il faudra faire moindre extenſion que ſi blé tous les deux l'eſtoient, parce que les muſcles ſont moins retirez, demeurant entier l'vn deſdits os qui les bras,notablº. # ! tient droicts : & eſtans reduits, bandez, & aſtelez,ainſi qu'il appartient le bras ſeras pendu en eſcharpe; de ſorte que la main ne ſoit gueres plus haute que le coulde,afin que le ſang & autres humeurs ne tombent ſur la main : laquelle pareillement ſera ſituée & tenüe en figure,qu'il ſoit moyenne entre la prone & ſupine,ſe- lon laquelle figure,l'os du rayon eſt droictemêt ſitué ſur le coulde,comme il eſt en hyppocrate ſentence . ſection .du liure des fractions. la raiſon eſt, qu'il y a peruerſion tant en l'os qu'aux muſcles par la figure ſupine:car premierement pour l'os,l'apophyſe ſtyloide & l'olecrane du coulde doiuent eſtre au niueau, & ,b ' vis à vis l'vn de l'autre:ce qui ne ſe fait en la figure ſupine, par laquelle l'apophyſe ſtyloide du coulde eſt vis à vis de l'os de l'apophyſe interne de l'os du coulde. pour lesmuſcles, parce que quelle eſt l'inſertion & la teſte du muſcle,telle eſt la ſituation de fon ventre,& l'inſertion de ſa queue.or par la figure ſupine des muſ- - ccles qui viennent de l'apophyſe interne de l'os du bras, & flechiſſent le coulde, ont leur queue ſuperieure & exterieure d'abondant tu n'oublieras pareillement à flechir & eſtendre par fois le bras du malade,toutes- fois ſans douleur le moins qu'il ſera poſſible pour obuier que par la fluxion(qui ſe fait à la iointure du coul- differentes fractures de situatiou du :::: | de & parties voiſines)& la longue demeure,les os d'icelle iointure ne s'agglutinent enſemble,dont s'enſuit r， apres immobilité de la iointure,comme s'il y auoit vn callus formé : & de là vient que puis apres le bras me . .. n# ſe peut plierny eſtendre : ce que i'ay veu aduenir à pluſieurs : auſſi galien le nous a laiſſé par eſcrit : & tel galiººu . 'il ! . vice eſt nommé ancyle ou ancyloſis.or ſi la fracture eſt accompagnée d'vne playe,tu prendras garde de ſou- fºº/º le # ſtenir le bras auec lames de fer blanc,courbées,ou gros papier de carte,ou autre choſe propre à ce faire(ce liure des art. # qui ſeruent de contenir les pieces de l'os en telle ſituation,qu'on les a reduits)& de fituer le bras ſur vn pe- d'aypp. " ! tit oreiller comme tu vois par cette figure. - # . / # la fgure de la ſituation d'vn bras rompu, auecplaye . i# ! - - nux cº ' . # º # r( º - re , c ' — - - - r )- º de la fracture de la main. c h a p. xix. t! ! # g £ s os du carpe,metacarpe,& les doigts de la main, ſont quelquesfois rompus & caſſez : mais : comme eſcrit hippocrate ſect. . des fractures, le plus ſouuent ils ont l'eſpece de fracture, qui # ! $ s'appelle marque ou ſiege. toutesfois ils ſont rompus ou caſſez:le moyen de les reduire, c'eſt que (! le malade eſtende ſa main ſur vne table égale. ce faict,vn ſeruiteur tirera les os fracturez, & le l# chirurgien les redreſſera , & poſera en leur ſituation naturelle. puis appliquera les remedes propres, & # aſtelles & les doigts ſeront liez enſemble auec leurs voiſins qui les coſtoyent : car en cette façon ils demeu- # . rent mieux. il faut que le chirurgien conſidere,que ces os ſont de ſubftance rare & ſpongieuſe, & partant # ! le callus ſe fait aisément. d'auantage, il faut appliquer vne compreſſe ronde au dedans de la main, pour ·:] mieux tenir les os rompus en leurs places,& les doigts en figure moyenne,à ſçauoir,n'eſtans du tout ployez # ny dreſſez pource que s'ils demeuroient autrement , le callus qui ſe feroit,depraueroit l'action de la main, ſ: qui eſt de prendre , ou bien l'aboliroit du tout. au contraire les outils des pieds fracturez ſeront tenus : ºroicts,& non ployez,afin que le cheminer ne ſoit empeſché. # f f ibts # neta. le v ju nz enne llure , pourquoy les os de la cuiſſe des fractures de la cuiſſe faicfes en la main de l'os, ch a p. x x. - - ". - n trouue communément les extremitez de l'os de la cuiſſe eſtant rompué, cheuaucher l'vn ſur l'autre, à cauſe des gros & forts muſcles qui ſont en icelle, leſquels ſe retirent tous vers leur origine, comme nous auons dit cy-deuant. parquoy lors qu'on reduira cettre facture , faut rompus ſe ſur- - / - - • .. * - # que le malade ſoitcouché ſur le dos, & ait la iambe eſtendue : & que le chirurgien tire bien l'autre. " fort la cuiſſe : & où il ne le pourra faire ſeul , il aura deux ſeruiteurs forts & puiſſants, pour ramener les extremitez des os rompus l'vne contre l'autre. et à ces fins les anciens auoient l'inſtruinent nommé gloſſocomium, lors que la main n'eſtoit aſſez forte. figure d'vn inſtrument nommé gloſocomium. - - en lieu d'iceluy on peut pareillement s'avder de no- figure del'os ſtre mouffle : car hypocrate permet la tenſion ſi gran- de, que meſme il bande ſans auoir rejoint les os, parce que où le muſcle eſt plus puiſſant que le bandage, aisé- ment les os ſe remettent par la contraétion du muſcle. d'abondant, le chirurgien conſiderera , en reduiſant cette fracture. que cet os eſt courbé en la partie inte-* rieure , & gibbeux en l'exterieure : partant il ſe faut remettre en ſa figure naturelle , & auoir memoire, qu'il b n'eſt de figure droite : & où l'on y commettra faute , le malade demeurera claudicant à iamais. a cette cauſe faut appliquer vne compreſſe au dedas de la cuiſſe, qui rempliſſe le plat & cauité d'icelle , de peur que l'os ne ſe demette de ſa place : laquelle ſera couuerte d'on- guent roſat, ou de quelque autre medicament gluti- neux, de peur qu'elle ne ſe deplace. semblabletuent, on mettra d'autres compreſſes ſur la partie , qui eſt plus greſle, laquelle eſt prés du genouil, afin que les ligatu- res ſoient égales, leſquelles e font pour trois intentiös dites cy-deſſus. la premiere eſt, pour contenir l'os en la figure où il aura eité reduit iuſques à ce que les pieces ſoient conglutinee par le callus qui les ſoude. la deu- xiéme, pour empeſch r la fluxion, qui aiſement y vient, tant pour la douleur , que pour la debilite de la partie. la troiſiéme, pour contenir les comprcſſes & aſtelles,& les remedes qu'on v applique. ' inflammation eſt em- peſchee en reprimant, & rechaſſant le lang & les autres c humeurs, qui autrement v fiueroient, & en exprimant le ſang contenu en la partie fracturée vers les parties pro- chaines, tant ſuperieures qu'inferieures. et partant leſ- dites bandes ſe doiuêr faire de bonne toile forte,& non - rude. leur largeur & longeur gift en la coniecture ar. tificielle du chirurgien, qui les meſure ſelon que la fracture eſt grâde, ou petite, & la groſſeur ou longueur de la partic: & doiuent touſiours couurir toute la partie fracture e, & grande portion de la ſaine. or parce qu'au liure des bandages, i'ay expoſé principalement le bandage d'hipocrate le te veux icy expoſer celuy de noſtre practique ordinaire , qui eſt que nos practiciens veulent auoir trois bandes pour telles fractures. la premiere ſe doit commencer ſur la fracture (comme nous auons dit au liure des bandes ) y faiſant deux ou trois trous, & plus ſerrées que les autres, qui ſeront menées contremont, où elle doit eſtre termi- néc: & ſes reuolutions doiuent eſtre fort jointes l'vne contre l'autre: ainſi conduite, fait qu'elle tient les os & exprime & reprime le ſang loing de la fracture. la deuxiéme ſera auſſi deux iours ſur la fracture, puis ſera menée contre-bas auec reuolutions plus eſcartées l'vne de l'autre que la premiere, & de bas oº la fera retourner contre mont , où ainſi ſe finira. son effet eſt femblablement d'exprimer & reprimer : & ſes re- uolutions deſcendent contre-bas , & ſont moins jointes , afin qu'il ſe faſſe moindre expreſſion de ſang aux extremitez, qui ne peuuent ſans inflamation en receuoir beaucoup, à cauſe qu'elles ſont loing de la chaleur naturelle, qui eſt plus grande au centre qu'elle n'eſt aux extremitez la troiſieſme doit commencer en bas à l'extremité du membre, & eſtre conduite doucement contre mont, & faire ſes reuolutons au contraire des deux premieres, , n de reduire les muſcles qui peuuent auoir eſté deſlors de leur d°ue ſituation naturelle d apres auoir §º dages , il faut appliquer trois aſtelles faites de gros papier de carte, ou autre matic- re, comme nous auons dit. la premiere ſera poſée au deſſous de la fracture aſſez large, & longue, tant qu'il ſera beſoin: & deux autres,vne de chacun coſté, diſtantes l'vne de l'autre d'vn doigt, afin de tenir l'os qu'il ne vire çà ou là, enueloppé d'eſtouppes ou de cotton, & auec des liens les ſerrer tant qu'l ſera conuenable. et apres il faut faire ſituation de la partie: laquelle doit auoir trois intentions, à içauoir mol, égal,& haut. mol, parce que la dure comprimant la partie malade, cauſe douleur & inflammation. d'auantage le malade ne la pouuant ſouffrir, eſt contraint pour la changer & ſe ſoulager, remuer la partie fracturée, la quelle doit demeurer en repos ſans cftre remuée.egal,parce que le côtraire fait douleur & diſtorſion de la partie, quâd vne partie d'icelle eſt appuyée , & l'autre ſuſpenduë ſans appuy : & pource ſe faut garder, dit ilippocrate fect. . des fractnres , que le talon & pied ne demeure ſuſpendu ſans appuy, parce qu'incontinent ſe f - roit douleur & fluxion faſcheuſe. haut , pour empeſcher la fluxion . qui eſt irritée par la ſituation bade & penchante: & partant la cuiſſe & la iambe ſeront tenues plus hant que le reſte du corps , ſur certains ot c l- lers ou quelque matelats , gardant toutesfois en cette hauteur telle mediocrité, que la partie ne toit trop hi, au liure tendue , comme aduertit hippocrate ſent. . ſect. des fiact. et ſera auſſi tenue la cuiſſe en pareille lon- de fractures gueur que la ſaine : & pour ce faire la faut appuyer de cofté & d autre auec des torches de paille, com - ſenr. o. nous dirons bien toſt dvne iambe rompue or quand le bandage eſt conduit ainſi que nous auons dir,la nuict .ſrcf. i. & le lendemain le malade ſe ſent plus ſerré que lors qu'on l'a mis du commencement : & au genoüil ſe fait de la cuiſſe. - .| | | situation de la partie. } - vi c l tttt" | des frachures. | a d , par faute de tranſpiration & reſolution de l'humeur ja arreſté: & auſſi de celuy qui ffuè, à raiſon de la cha- molle parl'expulſion de l'humeur qui eſtoit en la partie fracturée, & le deuxieſme iour la ligature ſe laſche pour ce qu'vne partie de l'humeur ſe reſout : & le troiſieſme iour on la trouue encore plus laſche, pource que la matiere c'eſt d'auantage reſolue. adoncques faut débander la ligature, de peur qu'elle ne faſche le malade pour la ſituation où il demeure ſi longuement contraint lans aucunement ſe remuer : & auſſi eſtant la partie couuerte & enuelopée ſi longtemps ſans eſtre débandée, qu'il n'y ſuruienne vn prurit, qui vient le malade doit eſtre ba- billé le troi- ſiéme iour. leur & douleur & des excremens & ſuperfiuittez du nourriſſement de la partie, qui abondent pour raiſon de ſon imbecillité. car par la retention d'iceux non ſeulement aucuns ſentent vne demangeaiſon, mais auſſi ſouuent ſe font des vlcere a la peau , à raiſon des humeurs ſanieux & acres qui croupiſſent là. et quand tel accident aduient, il faut fomenter la partie d'eau tiede auec huyle, autant d'eſpace de temps qu'il ſera be- ſoin, pource qu'elle appaiſe la douleur, relaſche ce qui eſt trop tendu par la compreſſion du bandage, eſ- chauffe la partie refroidie par la repercuſſion & expreſſion du ſang, & des eſprits qu'ont fait les bandes. s'il y a tumeur auec grande meurtriſſeure, il faut longuement faire ladite fomentation pour reſoudre ce qui eſt eſtrange en la partie, & y appliquer autres remedes plus reſolutifs.toutesfois faut auoir égard de non les trop continuer, pource qu ils empeſcheroient la generation du callus : pourquoy nous aurons touſiours égard en ce fait à la regle miſe par hippocrate, ſentence . ſect. de l'officine du chirurgicn, touchant le temps, & durée de la fomentations qui eſt pt tite fomentation, qui attire & ne reſout rien. d'auantage faut conſiderer le temperament & habitude du malade:car s'il cſtoit plethotique,ils attireroient les humeurs ſu- perflus en la partie. les anciens veulent iuſques au ſeptiéme iour qu'on remue le bandage ne trois iours en trois iours : & paſſé le ſ pt me, de ſept iours en ſept iours. mais à cela on n'en peut donner reigle certain: intention des vtiltré de l'eau tiede, # b car ſelon les accidens il faut habiller le malade, plus toſt ou plus tard, ſelon la douleur & autres accidens. ancien.. il eſt vray que s'il n'y auoit aucun accident,ie ſerois bien d'auis que cé fuſt le plus tard qu'il e cºit potlible: car ſi les bords de l'os fracturé font ébranlez & remuez, cela empefche l'agglutination du callus : car ainſi que l'on ioint les pieces de bois auec de la colle, ou les potiers d'eſtain leurs pots : ainſi nature vimente les os rompus auec le callus; de façon qu'ils ont grand beſoin (pendant que le callus ſe fait ) de dem，eurer à repos : ou autrement la matiere du callus ſe fend, & ne s'agglutine point, pour aider a l'agglutinatio ou callus ( qui commence à ſe faire aj res le treizieme iour , ou bien le quinziéme, plt foſt ot plus tard, ſelen que la partie ſera en ſon tempt rament ) on y appliquera vn emplaflre fait de blanc d'o uf, l ait at,s c pou- dre de roſes rouges & farine de froment , & autres emplaſtres catagmatiques, qt i leront cy-apres eſcrite à la fracture d'vne lambe rompue. - - de la fracture faite pres la jointure dudit os. x x i. ſ， v e l o v e s f o i s il ſe fait fracture pres la jointure de la hanche au col de l'os femoris: hiſtoire.. , ce que ie proteſte auoir veu en vne honneſte dame, ayant eſté appellé pour la p nſ r.voyant - . $ ^ que ſa iambe eſtoit plus courte que l'autre: auec vne eminence que le trochant r faioit exte- #é rieurement au deſſus de la jointe de l'iſchion; i'eſtimois de prime face qu ce fuſt la t ſte de *^ l'os, & yauoit luxatiô & non fracture. alors ie titay & pouſſay l'os ce me ſembloit en taboete, attendu que les deux iambes eſtoient égales en longueur & figure: & la penſay & accouſtrav comme d'vne luxation.deux ioursapres ie la fus reuoir , qui ſe plaignoit ſentir vne extreme douleur, & trouuav ſa labe courte, & ſon pied tourné au dedans. alors ie defis toutes les bandes, & trouuay l'eminence comme aupa rauant.adonc ie m'efforçay derechef à reduire l'os en ſa boete. cependant 'apperceu que l'os c, epito t, & eu eſgard qu'il n'y auoit nulle cauité en la iointe, lors ie cogneu qu'il y auoit fr cture , & non luxation. pareillement l'epiphyſie de la teſte de cet os quelquesfois ſe ſepare & deſioint; de ſorte que le ( hirurg en eſt deceu, eſtimant qu'il y ait luxation , & non diſionction de l'epiphyſie dudit os.adorc e r duis l'os, ap- pliquant des aſt,lles ſur les comprcſſes, & fai la ligature à deux chefs, la croiſant par deſſus la lointure, & autour du corps en croix s. andré : & le reſte de la curation ſe fait, ainſi qu'auons dit par cy deu,nt : & poſay vn arc de cerceau par deſſus le pied, de peur que la couuerture ne preſſaſt ſur les ortcils. ſ'abondant feis attacher vne corde au plancher au milieu de ſon lict, comme on doit touſiours faire aux fractu es & luxations de la cuiſſe & de la iambe , à laquelles les malades ſe ſouſtiennent des bras, pour le ſ ufl uer lors qu'ils vont a leurs affaires, & auſſi pour quelquesfois vn bien peu ſe tourner & eſlºuer le dos & le crou- pion , afin de donner vne tranſpiration aux parties preſſées , qui par trop long temps leur eſt nt d nice cauſe vne douleur,& chaleur eſtrange: dont s'eniuit vlcere le plus ouuent au croupion,le q el u : lit dou- leur, fiévre , & vne ſi grande inquietude, que la mort s'enſuit, ſi on n'y donne bon ordis. au :i que d'au- pourquoy la tantque la fracture eſt faite pres des iointures d'autant eſt plus difficile à trait er, & plus malaiſement gua- facture pres rie : pource qu'à cauſe des nerfs, tendons & ligamens communs elle apporte de plus grands accidens , & l iointure eſt que ce lieu eſt exangue. celle qui eſt faite au milieu de l'os , eſt plus aiſee a traitter & pluſtoſt curée. plus , aſcheu- que diray je plus ? c'eſt qu'il faut que le chirurgien prenne ſouuent garde, que l'os ne ſe demette com-* me on l'aura reduit. ce qu'il faut aiſément, parce qu'il eſt ſeul, & que par la moindre faute du malade, fe ,. de la ſouſleuant en allant à ſes affaires, ou autrement, l'os de la cuiſſe ſe déplace, & les extremit-z cheuaucºent cuiſſe ſe de- l'vne ſur l'autre : & partant faut à toutes les fois qu'on l'habille, auoir égard à la figure de l'os, & conf rer § la longueur de la iambe ſaine à la malade: & auparauant que le callus ioit faict, la tirer & reduire, en ſorte - que le malade ne demeure boiteux , & qu'il ſe remue auſſi le moins qu'il pourra auicéne dit que peu fou- liu. .. ſent. " uent on guarit ſi heureuſement la facture de la cuiſſe, que le malade ne demeure boiteux.autre anciens traicié . auſſi nous ont laiſſé par eſcrit que l'os de la cuiſſe eſt conſolidé en cinquante ours: mais à cela il n'y a point hap. . de reigle certalne, comme i'ay dit cy-deſſus. d'auantage, ſoit que le callus ſoit fait en cinquante ou lo , ſite c iours, ſi eſt-ce pourtant que le malade ne ſe pourra pas encores de long temps fouſtenir & ch miner d ſius, à cauſe que la partie demeure bien long temps debile, & partant les malades cheminent quelque temps ſur des croiſes.ainſi faut-il entendre en toutes les autres parties fracturées & luxées , du temps prefix, qu ils leur ont baillé pour eſtre le callus fait , & les iointes affermies. icy le ieune chirurgien notera, cue les e- piphyſies des os ſouuent ſe déioignent & ſeparent qui eſt vne eſpece de luxation, laquelle colon bus au chapitre ſecond de ſon anatomie dit, que malaiſement ſe reünit, à raiſon que telle conionction & alliance d'os ne ſe fait pas par vne ſeule teſte entrant en vne ſeule cauité, mais par le moyen de pluſieurs tubercu- les receuès dedans pluſieurs ſinuoſitez, laquelle rencontre eſt mal-aisée à reduire : qui ſe fait de cauſe ,n- terne ou externe: externe quelquesfois par la faute du chirurgien, qui manie trop rudement les os tend es des petits enfans, ou par cheutes , ou autres cauſes qu'auons dit cy deſſus : interne, a cauſe de ce taines humeurs qui ont coulé & croupy en quelque iointure, ainſi que nous voyons # arriuer en la p#º f t " c h a p. i - * '«x signes de fractare. curaticm. le quinzieme llure, hiſtoire. & groſſe verole,ou d'autre humeur non verolique,ainſi que de recente memoire eſt aduenu à defunct mr. a marchand, aduocat au chaſtelet de paris, homme d'honneur & de bonne doctrine & experience, lequel eut vne defluxion à la iointure du genoüil, qui le tourmenta par l'eſpace de huict mois,& appella pluſieurs gens doctes, tant medecins que chirurgiens pour cuider le ſoulager: ce qu'on ne peut faire par aucun mo- yen , à cauſe que ſon mal commença à l'os. vn iour ſe tournant en ſon lict, l'os de la cuiſſe ſe rompit pres le genoüil, dont il mourut bien toſt apres. la cuiſſe fut ouuerte,& luy fut trouuée fracture & ſeparation de l'apophyſe dudit os , lequel pareillement eſtoit tout carieux & pourry, ſans toutesfois qu'il euſt iamais eu la verole. a bonne cauſe a eſté dit par nos anciens, que les os peuuent ſouffrir les trois genres de ma- ladies , à ſçauoir ſolution de continuité, incommoderation, ou mauuaiſe compoſition, & intemperie. de la rotule du genoiiil. c h a p. xx ii. y a rotule du genoüil ſouuent eſt contuſe, & moins ſouuent ſe rompt : toutesfois elle ſe ſepare # en deux ou trois pieces , quelquesfois en long , quelquesfois en trauers : & quelquesfois eſt # ſeulement fendue, voire de toute ſon eſpeſſeur, & quelquesfois briſée en petites pieces.et tel- les choſes aduiennent ſans playe, ou auec playe. les ſignes ſont manifeſtes pour l'impotence de la iambe : & auſſi qu'en la maniant on trouue cauité & ſeparation des pieces rompues : & les maniant & faiſant toucher l'vne contre l'autre, on ſent vn bruit faiſant crepitation ou craquement. on les reduit en eſtendant la iambe, & approchant les pieces les vnes contre les autres, & appliquant propres remedes, & ignes. operation. vne groſſe compreſſe ſous le iarret pour remplir la cauité, afin que le malade ne puiſſe plier la iambe, pen- b dans que le callus ſe fera : car la pliant , on feroit derechef ſeparer les pieces qu'on auroit reduites enſem- ble. auſſi ſeront pareillement faites les ligatures, & appoſées les torches de paille , comme nous auons dit ceux qui ont à la fracture de l'os femoris. et faut ſituer & tenir la iambe comme ſi elle eſtoit rompue , iuſques à ce que la rotule rö- le callus ſoit fait & endurcy. pour le prognoſtic, ie dy que iamais ie n'ay veu que ceux qui ont eu cette par- pué clochent tie rompue, ne ſoient demeurez claudicans : parceque la conionction faite par le callus, empeſche lege- *rºſtº de noüil ſe pouuoir flechir, & les malades trauaillent beaucoup en montant : mais en cheminant en lieu ap- leur vis. plany, cette peine ne ſe manifeſte point. cette fracture demande vne longue demeure dans le lict, pour le moins quarante iours ou plus. / - de la fracture de la jambe . c h a p. xx iii. liu des fra- . $ n r'habille cette fracture comme l'os du petit bras, quand les deux os ſont rompus enſemble. #ures ſect. . ! # hippocrate pronoſtique, que la fracture de l'os de la gréue eſt plus dangereuſe, difficile, & tar- - s, diue à guarir,que celle du petit os : parce qu'il eſt plus gros , & auſſi ſouſtient tout le corps, & le petit n'eſt que pour appuy & ſouſtien des muſcles qui ſont à la iambe, pour mouuoir le pied. l os signes pour de la gréue ſeulement rompu ſe trouue au dedans de la iambe, parce que le petit eſtant entier, ne laiſſe jet- ºſºrner la ter en dehors : & auſſi le petit ſeulement rompu ſe trouue en dehors, parce que l'os de la gréue eſtant en- fraäure *, tier, ne laiſſe ietter en dedans mais auſſi l'vn & l'autre eſtans rompus ſe peuuent auſſi bien tourner en de- # # uant qu'en derriere,& en derriere qu'en deuant, auſſi quand il n'y en a qu'vn rompu,la fracture eſt beau- , coup plus aiſée à guarir, que lors qu'il le ſont tous deux: pource que (comme nous auons dit en la fracture ſent. . du petit os. . - - - - - petit ºs. ' du petit bras ) celuy qui demeure entier, ſert a ſon compagnon, voire plus que les aſtelles. or pour touſ- c iours mieux inſtruire le ieune chirurgien ie veux reciter vne hiſtoire laquelle me fut bien chere. le mal- heur me vint en la preſence de defunct nector,docteur regent en la faculté de medecine,& de richard hu- hiſtoire de bert chirurgien ordinaire du roy (duquelle renom eſt aſſez cognu) qui eſtoient mandez & moy auec eux, ºaºheur pour viſiter quelque malade au vilage des bons-hommes pres paris. or voulant paſſer l'eau, & taſcher à faire entrer mon cheual en vn batteau, ie luy donnay d'vne houſſine ſur la croupe, dont la befte irritée me rua vn tel coup de pied, qu'elle me briſa entierement les deux os de la iambe feneſtre , à quatre doigts au xračiure deſſus de laiointure du pied. ayant receu le coup & craignant que le cheual ne me ruaſt derechef, ie de- - marchay vn pas : mais ſoudain tombant en terre, les os ia fracturez ſortirent hors, & rompirent la chair, # la chauſſe, & la botte, dont ie ſenty telle douleur qu'il eſt poſſible à l'homme d'endurer. mes os ainſi rom- ' pus & le pied contre-mont, ie craignois grandement qu'il me falluſt coupper la iambe: pource iettant ma veuë & mon eſprit au ciel, i'inuoquay mon dieu, & le priay qu'il luy pleuft par ſa benigne grace me vou- loir aſſiſter en mon extreme neceſſité. soudain fus porté dans le battean, pour paſſer de l'autre part , pour me faire penſer : mais le branſlement d'iceluy me cuida faire mourir, pource que l'extremité des os rom- pus frayoit contre la chair, & ceux qui me portoient n'y pouuoient donner ordre. eſtant hors , fus porté en vne maiſon du village, auec plus grande douleur que ie n'auois enduré au batteau : car l'vn me tenoit le corps, l'autre la iambe, l'autre le pied : & en cheminant l'vn hauſſoit à ſeneſtre, l autre baiſſoit à dex- tre. enfin toutesfois on me poſa ſur vn lict pour reprendre vn peu mon haleine, où pendant que mon ap. pareil ſe faiſoit, ie me fis eſſuyer tout le corps, pource que i'sſtois en ſueur vniuerſelle: & ſi on m'euſt iet- té en l'eau , ie n'euſſe eſté plus mouillé. ce fait on me penſa auec vn medicament , tel que nous peuſmes bon medica- practiquer audit lieu , lequel nous compoſaſmes de blancs d'œufs , & de farine de froment , de fuye de ment de vil- four, auec du beure frais fondu. sur tout ie priay maiſtre richard hubert, ne m'eſpargner non plus que lage prompte- ſi i'euſſe eſté le plus eſtrange du monde en ſon endroit : & qu'en reduiſant la fracture il miſt en oubly l'a- mº, appa- mitié qu'il me portoit. d'auantage l'admoneſtay (ores qu'il ſceuſt bien ſon art ) de tirer fort le pied en fi- reillé. gure droite, & que ſi la playe n'eftoit ſuffiſante, qu'il la creuſt auec vn raſoir, pour mettre plus aiſement les os en leur poſition naturelle, & qu'il recherchaſt diligemment la playe auec les doigts, pluſtoſt qu'auec autre inſtrument ( car le ſentiment du tact eſt plus cettain que nul autre inſtrument ) pour oſter les frag- z. taa du mens & pieces des os , qui pouuoient eſtre du tout ſeparées : meſmes qu il exprimaſt, & feiſt ſortir le ſang, doigt eſt plus qui eſtoit en grande abondance aux enui ons de la playe : & qu'il me bandaſt & ſituaſt la iambe ainſi qu'il ſeur que nul ſçauoit, & ce faiſant qu'il euſt trois bandes, comme nous auons dit cy deſſus, & qu'il commençaſt à ban- rº. der ladite playe : puis fuſſent miſes des aſtelles, les vnes de largeur de trois doigts, les autres de deux, & longues de demy pied , & cambrées , pour mieux ſe coucher autour de la iambe : leſquelles aufii eſtoient - moins larges par les bouts, & loing l'vne de l'autre d'vn doigt. puis furent liées auec petits rubans de filet, -* ſemblables à ceux dont les femmes entortillent & lient leurs cheueux: & tout ce, afin qu'elles comprimaſ- ſent mieux, & fuſſent vn peu plus ſerrées à l'endroit de la fracture qu'en autre lieu. apres la iambe ainſi bandée , ie luy feis remplir la cauité du iarret & celle qui eſt entre le pommeau de la iambe & du talon, de | n compreſſes d ':: - | des fractures. # - #: l， # | tn- :- a compreſſes faites d'eſtoupes, enueloppées de linge. puis y furent appoſez deux fenons ou torches de paiile, dans leſquelles on mit vn petit baſton a chacune, pour tenir la paille ferme & roide, & enueloppée d'vn demy linceul , puis apposé au coſté de la jambe : & comprenoit en longueur depuis le talon iuſques pres de l'aine , & furent apres liées en quatre endroicts : & par ce moyen la jambe ne pût eſtre peruertie ny tournée d'vn coſté ou d autre : & apres fut fituée en figure droitte, & non courbée, & eſleuée en mediocre hauteur,mollement,& vniement, afin d'euiter douleur, fluxion & inflammation, & autres accidens. or il faut icy noter, que ſi on fait faute à bien ſituer la jambe, on rendra le malade boiteux : pour autant - que fielle demeure trop haute, la fracture demeurera concaue en ſa partie anterieure : au contraire, ſi elle tifaut # demeure trop baſſe, el ſera connexe & gibbeuſe en la partie anterieure. dauantage tu obſerueras, que ſ † # mp* on faut a bien remplir & vnir le lieu caue, qui eſt entre le pommeau de la jambe & les cheuilles du picd, le # # talon louffrira beaucoup, à cauſe qu'il demeure longuement preſſe qui fait vne extreme douleur ( ce que # ie ſçay pour l'auoir ſenty en moy-meſme ) à cauſe que les eſprits n'y peuuent deüement reuire, & ſouuent pour les ren- il s'y fait vne chaleur eſtrange. parquoy ſçachant la cauſe de telle douleur, ſouuentesfois me faifois vn peu dre égales. leuer le talon, afin de donner air, & que les eſprits peuſſent reluire, & quelque vapeur tranſpirer. et pour le declarer en vn mot, ma jambe fut posée ſur vn couſine t, bandée & liée auec torches de paille, comme tu vois par cette figure. y figure d'vne jambe rompuë auec playe. ſſºſ# ce qu'ilfaut neceſſairement obſeruer aux bandages, quandilyaplayeauecfracture ». c h a p t r e x xi v. } l n'y a doute aucune, ſelon la doctrine des anciens, qu'il ne faille bander ſur la playe,autre- ment elle s'enfleroit, receuant les humeurs des autres parties, dont pluſieurs accidents faut bander ſuruiendroient : ainſi que l'on peut voir par experience en quelque partie charneuie, & bien ſº !º plºyº. # ſaine, ſi clle n'eſt bandée qu'en haut & en bas , ſans y comprendre le milieu , la partie non º comprimée deuiendra fort enfiée, & changera ſa couleur, deuenant liuide, à cauſe de la trop hip.ſa. ;. grande multitude d'humeurs,qui ſont enuoyez des parties circonuoiſines preſſées par plus forte raiſon telle des fract. choſe ſe fera, ſi la partie eſt viceree,veu que ſans vlcere ou playe telle humeur ou liuidité ſe fait.pour ces cauſes l'vlcere demeure inſuppurable & lacrymeux, c'eſt a dire, que d'iceluy diſtille vne ſanie crue & clai- re,comme ſont les larmes qui degouttent des yeux.lors qu'ils ſont offencez d'inflammation. or ſi cette hu- meur crue coule & demeure long temps ſur la ſubſtance des os,il les altere,& pourrit encores pluſtoſt s'ils ſont rares & mols,que s'ils ſont plus ſolides & durs.laquelle corruption& alteration ſe connoitt,parce que s, * l'vlcere iette plus de boue claire & plus fetide,qu'il ne feroit en vn fimple vlcere : auſſi pour voir les levres #º de l'vlcere renuerſées, & la chairbaueuſe & mollaſſe, & le malade dit ſentir quelquesfois vne douleur pul- # ſatiue au profond de l'vlcere : pareillement en ſondant on trouue l'os du tout deſnué de ſon perioſte, & #am- lºuuente fois aſpre & rabboteux : où qu'en preſſant deſſus auec ſa ſonde, elle entre dedans la ſubſtance de p l'os mais icy ie laiſſeray ce propos,veu quei'ay eſcrit(ce me ſemble)aſſez ſuffiſammêt de l'alteration des os. or cette alteration & pourriture n'aduiendra iamais, ſi le malade eſt bien bandé & pensé. pource i'aduerty le chirurgien à ne faillir de bander la playe. s'il eſt impoſſible, c'eſt dire, s'il n'y a vne ſi grande douleur en quel ca & indammation,qu'elle pût engarder de ce faire : car lors on ſeroit contraint de laiſſer la propre cure pour º faut ban- furuenir à l'accident : pour l'égard duquei ſera priſe vne piece de toile non trop vſée, qu'on ployera en der ſur la deux ou trois doubles,& ſera de telle largeur qu'elle couurira & comprimera entierement la playe, & les playe. parties proches,& ne fera qu'vne ſeule reuolution,& ſera conſue au coſté de la playe,afin que lors qu'on la voudra penſer on ne face que la decoudre ſans aucunement (s'il eſt poſſible ) remuer n'y esbranſler les os, facturez,pource que la fracture ne demande à eſtre remuée ſouuent, comme fait la playe, pour eſtre trai- tée ainſi qu'il eſt requis. il ſe faut garder de trop eſtraindre & preſſer ſur la playe pour prohiber douleur, infammation, & autres mauuais, accidens.et pour le dire envn mot ſi la playe eſt liée, preſſee & bandée comme il appartient, elle empeſche la deſcente des humeurs : mais auſſi ſi elle n'eſt bien faite, il ſi fera apo- ſteme, principalement quand elle ſera trop laſche ou trop ſerrée. or cette admonition eſt pour les appren- tifs , qui n'ont encore leur iugement entier en cette pratique : joint que pluſieurs ſuiuent la pratique de paulus, & font circonuolutions deça & delà, ſelon le lieu ſuperieur & inferieur de la playe, puis ramenent la bande & circonuolntions, en croix ſainct andré. mais tel bandage ſeneſtre ne vaut rien, & faut faire ce- luy que ie t'ay declaré ſuiuant hippocrate. ie veux à preſent declarer comme ie fus traicté de ma fraéture apres le premier appareil. $ſ *-- | comme l'autheurfut traiété ayant eſtéporté en ſonlogis apres le premier appareil. c h a p t r e xxv. # o v r retourner à mon malheur : ma jambe traictée de poinct en poinct en la maniere pre- saigné , $ dicte, ie fus apres diſner porté en mon logis, où ie me feis tirer trois palettes de ſang de la baſili- $ que ſeneſtre. et au ſecond appareil, & autres ſuiuans, ie fus ſollicité de mes compagnons & amis, on#uent un iurgiens iurez de paris. et autour de la playe & de ſes parties voiſines, ie feis appliquer de l'onguent reſat. roſat: - - le quinziéme liure, roſat : lequel eſt fort loüé des accidens au commencement des fractures,parce qu'il ſede la douleur,& pro- hibe l'inflammation, repouſſant les humeurs loing de la partie bleſſée, à cauſe qu'il eſt froid, aſtringent & repercuſſif : lequel eſtoit fait d'huyle omphacin, eau roſe, & vn peu de vinaigre & de cire blanche : conti- nuéiuſqu'au ſixiéme iour. les compreſſes & bandes eſtoient trempées en oxycrat , & quelquesfois en vin gros & aſtringent,pour roborer la partie. ce qui eſt principalement recommandé d'hippocrate aux fractu- res auec playe, pour aſtreindre & repercuter les humeurs : & quand elles eſtoient ſeiches, ie les faiſoisar- rouſer dudit oxycrat , & autresfois d'oxyrhodinum. car quand elles ſont trop ſeiches, douleur & infiam- mation ſuruiennent à la partie, à cauſe qu'elles la ſerre dauantage qu'elles ne faiſoient quand elles eſtoient #. *. moüillées. il y a pluſieurs chirurgiens, qui en tel cas depuis le commencement iuſques à la fin n'vſent que f/ f# de medicamens aſtringens & emplaſtiques,contre la methode d'hippocrate & de galien:conſideré que par emplaſtiques leuraſtriction & emplaſtration ils eſtoupent les pores du cuir de la partie : ce faiſant augmente la chaleur & aſtringës. eſtrange, auec vn grand prurit ou demangeaiſon. au moyen dequoys engendre ſous le cuir vne certaine humidité ſereuſe, acre & mordicante, qui fait vlcere:qui donne bien à cognoiſtre, que tels medicamens ne peuuent eſtre continuez que cinq ou ſix iours:donc au lieu d'iceux on vſera des emplaſtres cy-apres decla- rés. et pour retourner à mon propos, ie gardayau commencement de ma maladie vne ſi extreme diete,que par l'eſpace de neufiours ne mangeoy par chacun iour que douze pruneaux de damas, auec ſix morceaux de pain : & beuuois vne chopine d'hippocrats, d'eau composée en cette maniere. .ſaccharalbiſſimi .vij. bauches aqux fontanx ib.xij.cinua. .iij.bulliant ſimul ſecundùm artem.autresfois du ſyrop capil.vener. auec eau potu diui- cuite. autresfois du potus diuinus fait ainfi. /.. aqua coctae fb.vj.ſacchari albiſſ. .iiij.ſucci limonum .j. (jféſ• le tout ſoit battu enſemble dans deux eſguieres de verre, ou autres vaiſſeaux pour boire. par fois auſſi i'v- ſois d'vn bol de caſſe auec vn peu de rheubarbe autresfois de ſupoſitoires de ſauon pour prouoquer mon ventre : choſe que ie craignois beaucoup, à cauſe qu il me falloit remuer pour mettre vn drap deſſous moy; la fé auec ce que, quand i'eſtois quelque temps ſans yaller, ie ſentois grande chaleur aux reins.il n'y eut toutes- #. fois ſi exquis regime,ny autres choſes, qui peuſſent garder que la fiévre ne me ſaifit en l'onziéme iour auec «iéme iour. defluxion,qui cauſa vne apoſteme, laquelle ſuppura long-temps : tout ce que ie croy m'eſtre aduenu,tant à cauſe de quelque humeur retenu en la partie,que pour n'auoir ſçeu endurer que la playe fut aſſez bandée, meſmes pour quelques eſquilles comminuées & ſeparées des extremitez des os, faites tant par la fracture, n'en la feduction d'icelle : car le bout de l'vne & de l'autre n'eſtoit égal, & lors qu'il y a quelques petits § , du tout ſeparez, ils ne peuuent plus eſtre vnis ny glutinez , & par ainſi s'alterent & pourriſſent: les figures qui eſt ſouuent cauſe de faire apoſteme & autres grands accidens. or les ſignes qui me faiſoient cognoiſtre pour connoi- qu'il y auoit des os ſeparés , eſtoient que de la playe ſortoit vne ſanie claire & crue : pareillement les le- j#re ºi! !* vres d'icelles eſtoient fort enflées, & la chair laxe & molle comme eſponge. outre leſquelles cauſes il me º *ſº ſemble que la principale occaſion de la fiévre, & de l'apoſteme, prouint de ce qu'vne nuict en dormant les ſº muſcles ſe retirerent par vne violence fi grande, que ie leuayma jambe en l'air, voire de telle ſorte,que les , os ſortirent hors de leur fituation, & preſſerent les levres de la playe, tellement qu'il falut derecheftirer & pouſſer les os pour les reduire. en quoy faiſant i'enduray encores plus de douleur, que n'auois fait la premiere fois que fus pensé.cette fiévre me continua ſept iours, au bout deſquels fut terminée partie par l'apoſteme, & partue par tres grandes ſueurs. - - de la cauſe des treſſaillemens aux membres fracture{ c h a p. xxvi. e ne veux oublier de dire en cét endroit, ce qu'il me ſemble de la contraction , & treſſaille- ment des muſcles, qui en dormant ſuruient ordinairement aux fractures. la cauſe eſt (à mon aduis ) qu'en dormant la chaleur naturelle ſe retirant au centre de noſtre corps, fait que les extremutez deuiennent refroidies : dont aduient que nature voulant par ſonaccouſtumée pru- wnb dence enuoyer quelques eſprits pour ſecourir la partie bleſſée, & ne la trouuant diſposée à les receuoir, permet que ſubit ils ſe retirent au dedans, dont ils ſont enuoyez. les muſcles ſemblablement tirent les os, auſquels ils ſont attachez : & faiſant cette retraction vers leurs origine, comme nous auons dit cy deuant, tirent les os fracturez, qui eſt cauſe de les deſioindre & ſeparer de nouueau, auec vne tres- grande douleur. aduertiſſement touchant les parties, ſur leſquelles eſt appuyé le malade # couché au licf. c h a p t r e xxvi i. r pource qu'en demeurant long-temps au lict à la renuerſe ſans ſe pouuoir aucunement remuer, qu'auec vne extreme douleur, que l'on ſent au lieu fraéturé, & auſſi pource que les parties, leſquelles ſont appuyées (qui ſont le talon, le dos, & l'os sacrum) & que les muſ- é# cles de la cuiſſe & de la jambe fracturée demeurent tendus , & ſans faire aucunement leurs mqs) mouuemens accouſtumez, ces parties deuiennent premierement endormies & ſtupides, puis apres s'eſchauffent d'vne chaleur non naturelle : dont aduient fluxion, apoſteme, & vlcere, & principa- lement à l'endroit de l'os sacrum, ou croupion, pource qu'en cette partie il y a peu de chair : & le talon hip.ſent. . ſemblablement, qui eſt fort ſenſible & ſujet à pareils inconueniens. et les vlceres faits en icelles parties ºº fraº, difficilement ſe guariſſent, & ſouuent s'y fait carie, corruption & mortification : dont on a veu enſuiure fiévre continue, delire, ſpaſme & ſanglot : qui vient à cauſe de la ſympathie qui ſe fait par ſimilitude de ſubſtance des nerfs de la ſixiéme coniugaiſon, qui ſont diſtribuez à l'eſtomach, & du gros tendon du talon qui vient des treis muſcles. tous leſquels accidens aduenus font mourir le malade en peu de iours, tant pour l'inflammatin , que des vapeurs pourries qui ſont communiquées aux parties nobles par les veines, nerfs, & arteres : & apres l'expiration & inſpiration defaillante, par conſequent lamort s'enſuit. conſiderant toutes ces choſes,qu'autresfois auois veu aduenir,ie me faiſois ſouuent eſleuer le talon: auſſi auec vne corde qui eſtoit au plancher de mon lict , me ſouſleuois par fois vn peu, pour donner tranſpi- doiuent vſer ration aux partie preſſées. pareillement me faiſois mettre vn bourrelet ſous mes feſſes de figure ronde, d'vn ou remplv de duuet, afin que le croupion fuſt porté en l'air , & qu'il ne touchaſt à rien : ſemblablement let ſous leurs en faifois mettre vn autre petit ſous le talon , & faiſois ſouuent appliquer emplaſtres d'onguent roſat, feſſes. pour remedier à la douleur & chaleur deſdites parties. or depuis ma guariſon, eſtant appellé pour ſem- j'remiere blables fractures , ayant memoire de la douleur & inflammation que ie ſentois au dos, & principale- vtilité ment ſous le talons & que les malades ſe plaignoient de ſemblables accidens : i'ay inuenté vne caſſole ceux qui ont fractures aux iambes, º # , e, lit lut ::: des fractures a de fer blanc,en laquelle on poſe la jambe fracturée apresl'auoir pensée)qui fert de la tenir en la figurena- turelle,ſans qu'elle puiſſe tourner çà & là, ſi ce n'eſt à la volonté du malade,plus aisément que ne font les fenons ou torches de paille.ainſi on empeſche que le talon ne porte à plöb,ains eſt ſouſtenu en l'air:ce qui seconde vti ſe faiten posâtvne groſſe côpreffe vers le mollet de la jambe ſous icelle caſſole,qui eſt cauſe que le talon eſt # e uff. ſouſleué en l'air,à raiſon qu'icelle caſſole,eſt eſchancrée en ce lieu. pareillement elle ſert de tenir la plante, z du pied droite & appuyée, & que la couuerture ne touche deſſus les doigts dudit pied,par le moyen d'vne c ſemelle de ferblanc accommodée à icelle,laquelle eſt enuironnée d'vn archet de ſemblable fer , comme ru .., peux veoir par ces figures qui te ſont icy preſentées,dont l'vne eſt entiere,& l'autre ouuerte & deſmontée. #!f/ & ! figure des caſſoles. e $ - c i §"ſ ; imrrn ttwï # # # [ dv§. -- * r *e -"-" #-. - le fond de la caſſole. - * les aiſlerons qui s'ouurent & ferment comme l'on veut. la fin des aiſlerons où ſe met la femelle. d d d l'archet de fer blanc, la ſemelle. f f l'eſchancreure où paſſe le talon. maintenant nous faut retourner à la reſte de la cure. - - quels remedes furent appliquex à l'vlcere accompagné d'apoſteme. , - quandie cogneus l'apoſteme ſe faire,ie fis appliquer vn ſuppuratif fait de jaunes d'œufs, d'huyle com- mune,& terebenthine,auec vn peu de farine de froment,tant que la ſuppuration fut faicte. quelque temps apres pour mondifier l'vlcere,i'vſay de tel medicament. .ſyrupi roſati, terebenthinx venetae, an. .ij.pul. radicis ireos florentinae,aloès,maſtiches,far.hord.an. ſi. incorporentur omnia fimul, fiat mundificatiuum. et à l'endroit où i'auois coniecturé les os deuoir ſortir, i'y faiſois mettre tentes d'éponges, d'étoupes de lin, pour tenir l'vlcere ouuert : & dedans le profond de l'vlcere, des poudres catagmatiques auec vn peu d'alum cuit,pour faire ſortir les fragmens des os ſeparez,leſquels mis hors, l'vlcere fut guary, & cicatrizé auec alum cuit:lequel ayant vertu deficatiue & aſt ingente,que fait la chair (qui eſt molle & ſpongieuſe,& arrousée d'humidité ſuperfluë) eſt rendue ferme & dure:& en fin aide nature a faire le cuir & la cicatrice. or les pieces de l'os , à cauſe de leur ſiccité,ne ſe peuuent reioindre immediatement : mais ont beſoin de emplºſtre ! calloſité, qui ſe caille & eſpeſſit a l'entour de leurs bords, qui les attache enſemble, comme vne ſouldure pº jºr** ou ciment,qui ſe fait de la propre ſubſtance de l'os & de ſa moüelle,& par l'aide des medicamens qui ſont # d emplaſtiques,& eſchauffant moderément.au contraire ceux qui ont puiſſance de reſouldre & ſubtiliſer,di- # j a{r ſ{º# minuent le callus. partant on vſera de ces emplaſtres ſuiuans, deſquels i'ay cogneu de grands effects pour " aider à nature,à la generation du callus .ol myrtil & roſ omphac.an fb.É.rad.alth.tb. ij.radicis fraxini & folior. eiuſdeni, rad conſol.maioris,& fol.eiuſdem,fol.ſalicis an m j. fiat decoctio n ſufficienti quantitate vini nigri & aqux fabrorum ad mediam cônſumptionem. adde in colatura pul. myrrhr & tur an. . .adiº pis hirci fb.É.terebenth.lotœ :iiij maſtich. .ii. litharg, auri & argenti an .ij.boli armenix,& terra ſigil. an. .j.ſ minij .vj.cerae albx.quan.ſuff.fiat empl.vt ars docet. en lieu d'iceluy on peut vſer emplaſtrum ni- grum,fait en cette maniere. /.. litharg auri fb.j.olei & aceti fb.ij. coquantur ſimul lento igne , donec ni- frmtl.aſ? grum & ſplendens reddatur emplaſtrum, & non adhæreat digitis. autre, ?é. olei roſa. myrt.an. #. ij nue. § # rrſr e cupreſſi,boli armenix,ſang drac pulueriſan. . ſ emplaſt, diachalciteos .iiij. liquefiant ſimul, & fiat em-"º" plaſt.ſecundum artem.et en defaut d'iceux,faut vſer de spara 'rap, dont voicv la compoſition. l.pul.thuris, # vertu de la pondre d'. - lum cuit. - -- - - - - - - - - : : c-• • • • • • • • • • • scarad-ap far.volatilis,maſtic.boli armenix reſinx pini,nucum cupreſ, rubex tinctorum an. ij.ſeui arietini, cera al- , tot le ga»- bx.an.fb.ſ.fiat emplaſtrum.auquel on doit plonger pendant qu'il eſt chau l)quelque toile aſſez vſée pour , s'en ſeruir comme deſſus. l'emplaſtre de diachaleitos eſt fort loüée des anciens pour les fractures, mais il la faut accommoder lelon le temps:comme en efté fera liquefiée en ſuc de p antain & de morelle, de peur qu'elle n'échauffe par trop.auſſi faudra touſiours auoir égard à la temperato e du corps.car nul ne dou- te,s'il n'eſt bien dépourueu de raiſon,qu'il faille tant deſſeicher à vn ieune enfant , comme il faut a vn vieil: parce que ſion vſoit de medicamens,autant deſiccatifs a vn enfant,qu'on feroit a vn vieil,on conſummeroit l'humeur dont ſe fait le callus. pource il eſt neceſſaire au chirurgien de bien regarder a telles choſes.kar combien que les remedes ſoient bons & loüables, neantmoins peut eſtre indiſcrettement appliquez, tou- uent aduiennent de tres-pernicieux accidens,dont on peut accuſer le chirurgien, q i na conduit ſon œu- ure par methode raiſonnable, comme il appent quand le callus eſt fait trop mol, trop gros, trop pºº tortu, ou trop retardé à faire, - - - t r le quinziéme liure, il faut peu •ſſuyer l' vl- eere quand le calus ſe » fait. hipp.ſeºt. . des fractnr. cent. . alimens propres pour la generatiö du callus, gal.liu. . de la meth. chap. . dequoy eſt engendrée » la mouelle . comme ſe fait le callus. en combien de temps s'engendre le callus à la iambe. le callus en- gendré pour- quoy la iam- be n'aiſon f uuement libre . conſentemët & amitié des parties. les reſelu- tifs empeſ- chent la ge- neratlon du callus. en quel cas les relaxan ent lieu en la geuerati du callus- liniment fort remolli- tif. emplaſtre grandement remollitiue. parquels ſignes on cognoiſtra le calus ſe faire . c h a p. xxv iii. r ie cogneu que le callus ſe commençoit à faire en ma fracture, lors que l'vlcere commença à v jetter moins la ſanie que de couſtume : auſſi que les douleurs ceſſerent, pareillement les treſ- ſaillemens : quifut cauſe que ie ne voulus faire penſer ma jambe ſi ſouuent, que ie faiſois au- # parauant.car en eſſuyant la playe quand le callus ſe fait, on deſſeiche les matieres du callus, mos) c'eſt à ſçauoir, ros, cambium, & gluten, qui ſont les propres alimens de la ſubſtance, tant de l'os que de la chair. ie le cogneu auſſi, pource qu'à l'entour de la playe on voyoit ſortir par les pores vne petite ſueur ſanguinolente, qui teignoit les bandes & compreſſes, comme les anciens ont laiſſé par eſcrit. ce qui aduient pource que la matiere du callus amaſsée en ce lieu , nature pouſſe hors par les poroſitez du cuir quelque rosée ſanguinolente, on maniere de reſudation. puis auſſi ie ſentois vne vapeur ou exha- lation,auec vne chaleur temperée, qui procedoit des parties ſuperieures iuſques à la playe, auec vn ſenti- ment qui m'eſtoit fort agreable. alors ie ne voulus plus tenir la partie tant ſerrée, de peur d'empeſcher la deſcente de la matiere du callus:d'autant que l'os ne ſe reünit point par le callus, ſi ce n'eſt par le moyen du ſang qui y vient,ne pechant en quantité ny,en qualité. et commençay à vſer d'alimens propre pour engen- drervn ſang gros & viſqueux:& qui facilement ſe mue en la ſubſtance du callus:comme ſont les extremitez tendineuſes & cartilagineuſes, à ſçauoir, tremeaux, gigoteaux, pieds de bœuf,groins & oreilles de porc, teſte de cheureau,de mouton,d'aigneau : leſquels eſtoicnt cuits le plus ſouuent auec ris,ou orge mondé:en les diuerfifiant auiourd'huy de l'vne,& demain de lautre forme. l'vſois auſſi de fourmentée, ou panade de pain de pur froment,cuit en boüillon de chapon & moyeux d œufs. ie beuuois du vin clairet aſſez gros & aſtringent,mediocrement trempé,& au deſſert chaſtaignes & neffes. or ce n'eſt ſans raiſon que ie t'ay ſpe- cifié ces alimens:car il y a autant de danger d'vſer des viandes trop dures,comme de chair de bœuf, comme de trop legeres, car les dures font vn callus trop ſec, & les trop legeres le font trop deſlié. or doit-il eſtre viſqueux, comme eſcrit gal. au . de la meth.chap. .leſquels alimens reçeus premierement en l'eſtomach . (auquel ils ſont preparez)ſont depuis enuoyez aux inteſtins,leſquels ſont attirez aux veines meſaraiques,& d'icelles à la veine-porte,& d'elle au foye, fuis a la grande veine caue,& de là és veines qui ſont diſtribuées par tout le corps : dont aucunes portent meſmement le ſang dans les os, auſquels eſt faite la mouelle, qui eſt la propre nourriture d'iceux : & pour cette raiſon elle eſt contenue en la cauité des grands os, & aux petites cauitez & poroſitez des petits,dans leſquels il y a humeur qui eſt leur propre nourriture, en lieu de la moüelle. or la moüelle eſt engendrée de la plus eſpeſſe partie du ſang : qui eſt portée aux cauitez des grands os par grandes veines & arteres,& aux petits,par petites qui finiſſent aux poroſitez d'iceux. car au grands os on trouue cauitez manifeſtes,par où entrent leſdites veines & arteres,pour les cauſes que deſſus. semblablement auſſiy entrent des nerfs, deſquels eſt faite vne membrane, qui enueloppe & couure ladite moüelle : au moyen dequoy ladite membrane a ſentiment exquis, ainſi que l'experience le monſtre:non que ie vueille dire,que ladite mouelle ait de ſoy ſentiment, ains ſeulement de ſa membrane. or d'icelle medul- le,& de la propre ſubſtance de l'os,ſe fait vne reſudation craſſe & terreſtre, dont s'engendre & fait le cal- lus,par le vertu nutritfue,tenant lieu de formatrice : dutemps duquel callus,ne ſe peut donnerreigle(com- c me nous auons dit cy-deſſus)pource que les choſes qui empeſchent la generation d'iceluy, ſont oſtées aux vns pluſtoſt,& aux autres plus tard. et pour retourner à noſtre propos , les ſimples fractures ſans playe de la jambe,le plus ſouuent ſont glutinées en cinquante iours par le callus : mais à cauſe de la playe † les ſeparées,& autres accidens qui eſtoient à ma jambe,ie fus trois mois & plus,deuant que le callus fut fait; pendât leſquels ie demeuray touſiours couché à la renuerſe,qui eſt vne eſpece de geſne à vn pauure mala- de. encore fus-je vn autre mois auant que ie peuſſe bien appuyer le pied en terre ſans potence : ce que ie commençay auec douleur,à raiſon que le callus tenoit la place des muſcles.car auparauant que le mouue- ment puiſſe eſtre libre, il eſt neceſſaire que peu à peu les tendons & membranes ſoient désjointes, ou dé- priſes contre la cicatrice.que diray-je plus ma jâbe ſaine aidoit à la malade,comme fait la main à ſa ſœur, & le bras à ſon compagnon qui ſeroit rompu, aidant à la ſouſleuer, tourner & virer d'vn coſté & d'autre, la couurant & découurant lors qu'il eſtoit neceſſaire,d'vne prouidence admirable : ainſi que nous voyons que (nature voulant defendre la vie ) ſouuent l'homme jette au deuant de ce qui nous peut offenſer les mains ſeules,& prend l'eſpée nue, penſant eſtre mieux qu'elles ſoient bleſsées, meurtries , voire entiere- ment amputées,que le cerueau ou le cœur ſoient offenſez;pource que ce ſont parties principales & ſource de noſtre vie:ce qu'on void ordinairement,ſans que premierement on y aye pensé : & telles choſes ſont offices de l'ame à nous incomprehenſibles.or i'ay bien voulu icy alleguer cette hiſtoire de ma jambe, afin qu'elle ſerue de methode à toutes autres fractures accompagnées de playes. des choſes qui empeſchent la formation du calus & de la maniere de le corriger s'il eſt vitié. ch a p t r e. xxix. n d qºn pres auoir ainſi declaré les ſignes, dont on cognoiſtra le commencement du callus, ſa ge- \ y neration, & la maniere par laquelle il ſe fait maintenant il conuient dire ce qui empeſche la # generation d'iceluy,& ce qui aide nature a le former & endurcir. or les choſes qui empeſ- #n \# chent que le callus ne ſe faſſe,ou qui le retardét, ſont toutes choſes qui ont grande puiſſan- - ， ce de reſoudre & ſubtiliſer,& qui ſont onctueuſes,oleagineuſe,& humides. car par icelles s'amollit,relaxe,ſubtiliſe,liquefie,& conſomme l humeur,dont il ſe doit faire:lequel à l'op- poſite on doit deſeicher, engroſſir,eſpeſſir & endurcir auec medicament emplaſtiques, moderement chauds & aſtringens.toutesfois ie ne veux nier,que les medicamens humides & relaxans ne doiuent auoir lieu où le callus ſeroit trop gros & tortu,ou d'autre mauuaiſe figure,afin de le diminuer & rompre de nouueau.ce qui ſe fait lors que la partie eſt grandemét difforme,& ſon action deprauée,pourueu qu'il ſoit encore recét, ce que l'on doit faire auec fomentation faite de decoction de tripes ou de teſte de mouton,eſquelles on fera cuire des racines de guimauue,couleurée,ſemence de lin,fenugrec,fiente de pigeon,graine de laurier,&au- tres ſemblables.auſſi faudra vſer de ce liniment & emplaſtre. .vnguenti dealthæa . iiij.ol.lilij. & axung. anſerisan. .j.aquæ vita parum : liquefiant ſimul,fiat linimentum : duquel faut frotter la partie,puis mettre deſſus cét emplaſtre. .emplaſtri de vigo cum mercurio,cerati œſypati deſcriptione philagrij, an. .iijol aneth & liliorum an i j liquefiant omnia ſimul, fiat emplaſtrum, extendatur ſuper alutam ad vſum dictum. le : # s des fractures. | a le callus eſtant aſſez amolly,faut le rompre, & redreſſer les os en leur figure naturelle,& pratiquer toutes les choſes de nouueau neceſſaires à la fracture pour parfaire la curation.si le callus eſtoit trop endurcy & vieil,il vaut meiux ne s'efforcer à le rôpre,ains le laiſſer,de peur de faire pis au malade.car il peut aduenir, le voulant rompre, que l'os ſe rompra pluſtoſt en vn autre endroit, qu'au lieu du callus. parquoy le mala- de ſera plus ſage de ſe contenter de viure eſtant boiteux,que de ſe mettre en hazard demourir.si le cailus eſtoit trop gros, on le diminuera (au moins s'il eſt recent) par medicamens mollificatifs & reſolutifs, & fortaſtringens, qui ont vertu de liquefier, conſommer, & deſſeicher. pareillement ſera bon de le frotter ſouuentefois longuement auec huyle laurin, auquel on difſoudra du ſalpeſtre, ou d'autre ſel. et la tumeur ſera bandée, y appliquant vne lame de plomb aſſez eſtroittement ſerrée, qui empeſchera que le nourriſſe- ment ne pourra penetrer à la partie,& par ainſi le callus fera diminué.si le callus eſt quelquesfois troppe- pour amo#: tit & retardé à faire,à cauſe que les bandes ont eſté trop ſerrées,& auſſi parce que la partie a eſté longue- drir le cal- ment en repos ſans aucun exercice (qui eſt vne des occaſions principales qui la rendent emaciée, conſide- lu. ré que le mouuement eſchauffe la partie, dont elle eſt mieux nourrie, & par conſequent plus forte ) ou fi pººr uºy la ladite retardation vient par faute des alimens pechans en qualité ou en quantité, ou en tous les deux en- pº,ºſº , ſemble auſſi pour auoir trop ſouuent deſlié la partie,ou s'eſtre trophaſté de la mouuoir : on obuiera à ces # p" vices, adminiſtrant au malade le boire & manger par cy - deuant eſcrit, parlant de la generation du callus. eiſiueté. si c'eſt pour auoir trop ſerré la partie, il la faudra deſerrer,& oſter du tout la bande de deſſus la fracture : au lieu de laquelle ſera faite vne autre maniere de ligature, qui commencera à la racine des vaiſſeaux,à ſça- • uoir pres l'aine & au bras pres laiſſelle, la conduiſant iuſques pres la fracture.car par ce moyen on expri-sºirºt me le ſang, & le fait-on couler à la partie offenſée, ainſi que par cy-deuant en auons eſcrit. au contraire, # * pour chaſſer le ſang de la partie. pareillement on peut vſer des frictions molles, & fomentations auec eau ons d} b chaude temperément qu'il faudra delaiſſer, lors qu'on verra quelque chaleur & tumeur en la partie.car ſi # on pourſuiuoit d'auantage,on reſoudroit ce qu'ony auroit attiré.partant tu noteras que les frictions & fo- mentations ont contraire effect, ſelon qu'elles ſeront longues ou briefues.d'auantage pour faire attraction del'aliment, on appliquera emplaſtres de poix,&fomentations neceſſaires aux atrophies. des fomentations qu'onfait aux fractures des os. c h a p. xxx. n fait les fomentations pour pluſieurs & diuerſes intentions, & en diuerſe maniere. la fo- facultez de mentation d'eau chaude doit eſtre temperée, ( c'eſt à dire moyenne,entre bouillante & froi- l'eau chande $ de) & cette temperature ſe cognoiſt, partie au ſentiment de noſtremain, partie au ſens du ſºº ººº # malade,qui eſtant interrogé, la dit eſtre trop chaude,ou trop froide, ou moderée. icelle eau ſent i.ſºſf. ºcns ainſi moderément chaude,appliquée par peu de temps par fomentation, eſchauffe & ſubtiliſe ! # # l'humeur qui eſt à la ſuperficie du cuir,& ſe prepare à reſolution auſſi fait attraction du ſang & del'aliment #." c neceffaire à vne partie qui en aura beſoin.pareillement appaiſe les douleurs:relaſche ce qui eſt trop tendu: rurgtem, ' eſchauffe moderémentvne partie trop refroidie parl'expulſion & expreſſion du ſang & des eſprits,qui au- roitpû eſtre faite par les bandes & ligatures : & s'ilya intemperature chaude, elle la rafroidit accidentel- lement, qui ſe fait en reſoluant l'humeur chaud contenu en la partie : que ſielle eſt extenuée & amaigrie, la rend charnuë & mieux nourrie,& ſucculente,laiſſant vne humidité gracieuſe,comme ſont les bains # catl . - - douce. nous iugeons la fomentation auoir eſté appliquée peu de temps, quand en la partie il commence y signes de la apparoiſtre vn peu de rougeur & tumeur:moderément, quand la rougeur # tumeur ſont apparentes & mà- fomºntation nifeſtes : longuement, quand la rougeur qui apparoiſſoit eſt perduë , & la tumeur abbaiſſée. il faut auoir ºs auſſi vne conſideration de l'habitude du corps qu'on fomente.car s'il eſt plethorique, la mediocre fomen- jº tation remplira la partie d'humeurs ſuperflus:mais auſſi s'il eſt maigre & extenué,rendra la partie qu'on fo. mente charnue, mieux nourrie,ſucculente,& refaite.reſte à parler des fractures des os du pied. e- - de la fracture des os du pied. c h a p. x xx l g m. es os de l'auant-pied & ceux des orteils peuuent eſtre fracturez, comme ceux de la main , par- §é quoy ils pourront eſtre traittez comme nous auons dit par cy - deuant. toutesfois ſpecialement et les orteils ne ſeront tenus courbez comme les doigts de la main, afin que leur action ne ſoit em- peſché,qui eſt de tenir l'homme droit & debout,comme les iambes pour le faire marcher:& auſſi † que le malade ſe tienne au lict & en repos, ſans cheminer, iuſques à ce que le callus ſoit bieº iii) c, - d - - - fin du quinziéme liure des fractures. $. g g t a b l e o - ºkºkºekºkºkºkºkºcºkºtº # c ha p itr e s t a b le des d v l i v r e xv i. des luxations. difference des luxations, cauſes des luxations. %) signes vniuerſels pour reconnoiſtre les deſloiieures. pronoſtic des luxations. cure vniuerſelle des luxations. de la luxation de la mandibule. re des deux coffez. t)e la luxation de l'os clauiculaire,ou intuluire. t)e l'eſpine luxée. de la luxation de la teſte, auec la premiere vertebre du col. de la luxation des vertebres du col. de la luxation des vertebres du dos. la maniere de reduire l # luxée en la partie exterieure. de la luxation des vertebres faite de cauſe interne. prognoſtic de la luxation des vertebres. - de la luxation de l'or coccyx , cuda, ou queue. de la luxation des coffer. " - de la luxation de l'efpaule. jla maniere de reduire l'eſpaule auec le poing,ou les doigts ioincts enſemblè. ' la maniere de reduire l'efpaule auec le talon. sautre maniere de reduire l'eſpaule. la maniere de reduire l'eſpaule auec vne eſcuelle, & autrement eautre maniere de reduire l'，paule. - - la maniere de reduire l'eſpaule, quand la luxation eſt faitie en la partie anterieure, t)e la luxation de l'eſpaule faite en la partie exterieure. jde la luxation de l'eſpaule faite en la partie interieure. de la deſloiieure du coulde. la maniere de reduire la luxation du couldefaite en la partie exterieure. de la luxation faite en la partie interieure. te la deſloüeure del'extremitè de l'os du coulde, appellé ſtyloide proche du carpe. de la luxation du poignet. de la luxation des os du carpe. de la luxation des os du metacarpe. de la luxation des doigts. de la luxation de la hanche. pronoſtic de la luxation de la hanche. de la luxation de la hanche faite en dehors. les ſignes que la luxation de la hanche eſt faicte en dehors. de la luxation de la hanche faicte en deuant. de la luxation de la hanche faicte en derriere. la maniere de reduire la luxation de la cuiſſe »faite en dedanr. autre maniere de reduire ladite luxation par machines, & c. la maniere de reduire la luxation de la cuiſſe, faite en dehors. lamaniere de reduire la luxation de la cuiſſe,faite en dedanº. la maniere de reduire la luxation de la cuiſſe, faite en derriere. de la luxation de la rouelle du genouil. ". t)e la deſloueure dugenouil. de la luxation du genouil, faite en deuant. de la luxation & diſionction du petit focile de bras. de la luxation du grand focile auec l'aftragale. de la luxation dn talon. des accidents qui viennent pour la contuſion faite au talon. de la luxation de l'os astragale. - de la luxation des os du tarſe & du pedium. de la luxation des os de la plante dupied & de orteilr. des complications ou accidens qui peuuent aduenir à lapartie fracturée ºu luxſa. #=rqſ ſ% es cript i o n & enumeration des luxations, chapitre j deſcriptions de quelques inſtrumens ſeruans aux luxations.chap. vij maniere de reduire la mandibule lors qu'elle eſt luxée en la partie anterieu- " mara red reduire le mardibn luxée ſeulament d'vn coſté. chap. x chap. ij chap. iij chap. iv chap. vº chap. vj chap. viij chap. ix chap. xj chap. xij chap. xiij chap. xiv chap. xv chap. xvj chap. xvij chap. xviij chap. xix chap. xx chap. xxj chap. xxij chap. xxiij chap. xxiv chap. xxv chap. xxvj chap. xxvij chap. xxviij chap. xxix chap. xxx chap. xxxj chap. xxxij - chap. xxxiij chap. xxxiv chap. xxxv chap. xxxvj chap. xxxvij chap. xxxviij chap. xxxix chap. xl chap. xlj chap. xlſ] chap. xliij chap. xliv chap. xlv chap. xlvj chap. xlvij chap. xlviij chap. xlix chap. chap. lj chap. lij chap. liij chap. liv chap. lv chap. lvj chap. lvij chap. lviij chap. lix l e | | ij tit ! #! | | | : s e i z i e s m e livre, d e s v$ ons t'ar a m b ro s e par e de laual au maine, conſeiller, & * premier chirurgien du roy. - -- deſcription & enumeration des luxations ; c'eſt à dire, déloiieres & déboètures d'os. ch a p t r e p r e m i e r. v x a t i o n eſt la ſortie de la teſte de l'os hors de ſa cauité en vn lieu inac- deſcription couſtumé, qui empeſche le mouuement volontaire.il y a vne autre eſpece de luxation, qui ſe fait par elongation ou élargiſſement des ligamens qui lient les jointures; laquelle n'eſt pas vraye diſlocation,mais eſt vn chemºn a ce fai- re, & telle choſe ſe fait par vne tres-granue diſtenſion & relaxation des li- gamens, comme de celuy qui eſt au dedans de la ointure de la hanche, à , ceux qu'on aura tiré ſur la geſne : ou de ceux qui enuironnent la iointe, com- a me l'épaule, pour auoir eu l'eſtrapade, ou le pied a ceux qui font quelque s faux pas, & le tordent, ou renuerſent il y a auſſi vne autre eſpece de luxa- tion,qui ſe fait quand les os s'élochent, s'entr'ouurent, & entrebaillent, ſans - toutesfois eſtre luxez : & principalement cela ſe void és petites fociles du c bras & de la jambe : & quand cela ſe fait, les ligamens ſont auſſi dilatez , & quelquesfois rompus & dila- cerez. nous auons vne autre ſorte de luxation, qui ſe fait (principalement és os des ieunes) par vne ſepa- ation des epiphyſes, comme de la teſte, de l'o diutoire & femoris, & autres iointures : & cela ſe con- noiſt en ce qu'on void ſeparation des os auec crepitation & impotence de la partie. d'auantage, par vne de luxationt - - - - les os aux violence les os des ieunes enfans ſe courbent & cambrent, ce que i'ay veu pluſieurs fois : mais ceux des ieunes ſe vieux ſe rompent plutoſt que de ſe ployer , à cauſe de leur durete. courbent é° - —---- ·---- — | : .. , ployent quel- - - - quesfois ſans différences des luxations. c h a p. ii. eſtre rompus- r， vcv n e s luxations ſont ſimples, les autres compoſées. nous diſons eſtre fimples, auec leſ- # quelles il n'y a aucune diſpoſition adjointe.les compoſées ſont celles, où il y a complication \n# de diſpoſition, comme fracture, plave, apoſteme, inflammation, douleur tres-grande, & au- $ tres : pour leſquelles nous ſommes quelquesfois contrains de laiſſer la luxation ſans eſtre re- ** duite.autres differences ſont priſes de ce qu'aucunes ſont complettes,comme lors que l'os eſt du tout ſorty de ſa boëte. les autres incomplettes, quand il n'eſt du tout forty de ſa cauité, & eſt appellé contorſion ou élongation & entr'ouuerture. cette déloüeure imparfaite n'a point de difference , ſinon en tant que les os naturellement contigus ſont plus ou moins eparez les vns des autres.auſſi ſelon la diuerſité differences du lieu, la luxion eſt diuerſe, pource qu'aucunes ſont faites en la partie anterieure, poſterieu e, ſupe-principal, rieure & inferieure : aucunes en toutes ces parties ; c'eſt a dire, en toutes les manieres ſuſdites, & les au- du lieu. tres en aucunes d'icelles ſeulement. parquoy ſelon icelles differences, faut diuerſifier l'operation manuelle, comme nous dirons cy-apres. outre leſquelles differences l y en a d autres priſes des iointures, comme grandes ou petites, profondes ou peu caues. on peut encore adjouſter autres differences priſes du temps, la differen- en ce que la luxation eſt recente ou vieille. en toutes ces differences ſuiurons par ordre en chaſque partie ee priſ de, d du corps humain, traittans d'icelle particulierement. - ieintures cº du temps. simples lu- xations cr compoſées. —- - - - - - cauſe des luxations. c h a p. iii. ^ - t>. # e s cauſes des luxations ſont trois en general, à fçauoir internes, & externes, & fa troiſieſme eſt # hereditaire.internes,comme quand il y a certaines humeurs & ventoſitez qui tombent aux ioin- t ;tures en ſi grande abondance, qu'elles lubrifient & relaſchent les ligamens qui lient les os en- ſemble, & les iettent hors de leurs boëte, ou bien rempliſſent leſdits ligamens, de telle ſorte qu'iceux engroſſis, & par conſequent accourcis, venans à ſe retirer enſemble, retirent ou les apophyſes des os dont ils ont leur origine, ou bien les os meſmes hors leurs finus & cauite : ce qu on voit ſouuent aduenir à la hanche par vne ſciatique;& aux vertebres, qui rendent les patiens boſſus & contrefaits, à rai- . ſon qu'elles ſont déplacées de leur propre lieu. externes comme tomber de haut en bas, ou receuoir quel ºſ** que coup orbe, ou eſtre tiré ſur vne geſne, ou endurer l'eſtrapade, ou s'entorſer violentement par vne mé. " marcheure.auſſi par vne induë fituation,comme l'on voit és ieunes garçons qui belutent la farine, & ton- deurs, leſquels par vne longue continuation,iettent les genoüils au dedans pareillement les enfans qui ap- prennent a écrire,par vne indue ſituation ſe tournans de coſté,hauſſant l'épaule deuiennent boſſus.auſſi les ºutres manouuriers,par vne couſtume à exercer leur art,(ce que l'onvoit aux laboureurs) ſe pliant le dos, deuiennent courbes & contrefaits, & les ieunes filles par leur trop ſerrer le corps ſont rendues boſſues. g g a toutes cauſes in-s é?'/ ºf, le seziéme liure, toutes leſquelles choſes font que les os ſortent de leur place & lieu naturel : ce qui aduient auſſi ſouuen- tesfois aux enfantemens difficiles, quand les ſages-femmes tirans les bras des enfans, diſloquent les iointu- ls cauſe he- res de l'épaule ou de la cuiſſe. la cauſe hereditaire eſt celle qui vient de pere & mere aux enfans, comme "ºtºrº quand les boſſus engendrent des enfans boſſus & contrefaits, & les boiteux engendrent des boiteux : dont l'experience fait foy, non pas toûjours, mais le plus ſouuent. d'abondant hipocrate liu. des art. ſect. . ſent. . & . & ſect. . ſent. . & . dit que les enfans au ventre de la mere ſe peuuent luxer les bras & les enfans iambes par cheutes,coups,ou pour auoir eſté preſſez:ce que nous voyons en ceux qui ont les pieds bots,ou • § pour auoir les aticles trop humides & laxes.et de ce, ne ſe faut non plus ébahir , que de ce que gal. eſcrit §. au commentaire ſur le liure des articles, à ſçauoir que l'enfant eſtant au ventre de ſa mere, peut auoir des peuuët auoir apoſtumes, qui ſe peuuent ouurir & cicatrizer. il aduient auſſi qu'aucuns ont les cauitez de leurs iointures apoſtemes, & peu profondes, & que les levres,ou bords de leurs pixides ou cauitez, ſont fort rabatues : dont les teſtes des ſouffrir lu- os n'entrent aſſez profondement en icelles : & que les ligamens qui tiennent les os en leurs iointures, ne xations. ſont fermes : mais fort deliez & menus de leur conformation : ou font humides d'eux meſmes, & fort lu- briques, ou humectez par vne fluxion d'humeurs pituiteux & muqueux, qui relaſchent & amolliſſent, les ligamens, qui doiuent tenir ferme la liaiſon des os,comme nous auons declaré : & à ceux-là les os ſe dé- joignent facilement de leurs iointures, & auſſi facilement y ſont reduits : de façon que les malades le plus ſouuent les remettent d'eux-meſmes ſans ayde du chirurgien : ce que i'ay veu pluſieurs fois.auſſi quand les a marges ou bords des cauitez ſont rompus, & la cauité d'iceux eſt aplanie, s'enſuit pareillement facile b luxation. - - - signes vniuerſels pour connoiſtre les deſloiieures. c h a p. iv. signes de lu- es ſignes les vns ſont communs à toutes déloüeures , les autres propre à chacune les ſignes xation com- communs ſont, tumeurs ou gibboſitez , où l'os eſt forjetté, & cauité au lieu dont il eſt ſorty. plette. • , , les particuliers ſeront recitez en traittant particulierement de chacuns. les ſignes de la lu- cauſe de # xation complette, ſont que l'action de la partie eſt perdue, c'eſt à dire : qu'elle ne ſe meut douleur aux -\s>a n point. on connoiſt auſſi la diſlocation par le ſentiment de douleur, laquelle prouient a cauſe diſlocations que tos n'eſt en ſon lieu naturel & qu'il preſſe la chair, & fait diſtenſion aux nerfs , qui ſont pareillement peruertis de leur ſituation naturelle. a ce ſert auſſi la comparaiſon de la pareille iointure de la partie ſaine à celle qui eſt malade , pourueu que ladite partie ſaine ne ſoit point vitiee contre nature, comme tortue ou extenuée, ou trop groſſe, ou qu'elle ait quelque autre vice qui peut empeſcher de connoiſtre l'os de- placé de ſa boëte. et partant il faut attendre qu'elle ſoit en ſon temperament & figure naturelle. le ſigne de la luxation incomplette eſt, que le mouuement de la partie n'eſt du tout perdu, mais il eſt grandement signes de lu- depraué. le ſigne que les ligamens qui lient les iointures, ſont allongez, eſt que quand on preſſe des xation incö- doigts vn coſté de l'os, on le chaſſe de l'autre, & ſubit il retourne en ſon lieu : d'auantage quand on preſſe plette. du doigt ſur la iointure, il y entre facilement : ioint auſſi que l'action de la partie eſt grandementdeprauée, & ſouuent du tout perdue. c » t- v. - prognoſtic des luxations. c h a p. v. ovtes jointures ſe peuuent déloüer, mais toutes ne ſe peuuent pas remettre, comme la teſte: parce que tout promptemét tuë le malade,pour compreſſion qui ſe fait à la moüelle de l'épine: # pareillement les vertebres de l'épine, & la maſchoire tombée des deux coſtez, ſi auparauant # que les remettre il y a deſ-ja grande tumeur & inflâmation. aux autres iointes, pource que les * os ne ſont tous luxez d'vne meſme ſorte, ains quelquesfois plus, autrefois moins : ſelon cette - diuerſité,la reduction ſera plus ou moins difficile. car d'autant que les os ſeront moins éloignez de leur ca- uité,d'autant auſſi ſeront-ils plus aiſez à eſtre reduits : & d'autant qu'ils en ſeront plus éloignez,d'autant en ſeront-ils plus difficiles : auſſi pour la figure,comme celle du coulde. d'auantage,d'autant que la luxation ſe fait plus aiſément en quelque partie,d'autant auſſi la reduction en eſt pareillement plus aiſée,que où l'os ne ſe déboète qu'à grande difficulté. les os de ceux qui ſont charnus & gras ne ſe déboète pas ſiaiſément,que de ceux qui ſont maigres : & auſſi lors qu'ils ſont hors de leur lieu, plus difficilement ſe remettent : & ceux aux gras,le, qui ſont plus maigres que de couſtume,leurs os ſe luxent & reduiſent plus facilement. or la cauſe pourquoy e, ſont plus aux gras les os ne tombent facilement,eſt que leur iointure eſt entierement comprimée de toute part par les difficilement muſcles & greſſe. au contraire ceux qui eſtoient gras, puis ſont deuenus maigres, leurs iointures en ſont luxez. plus laſches : parquoy plus facilement ſe déboëtent : ioint que les iointures aux hommes qui deuiennent maigres ſe rempliſſent de muccofitez par defaut de bonne nourriture,& de chaleur de la partie,qui rend le lieu plus gliſſant, comme dit hipocrate en la ſent. . de la ſect. premiere du liure des articles. mais en vn corps maigre & ſec de ſa nature,les muſcles ſont plus robuſtes,& les ligamés plus forts & ſecs & pour cette cauſe les os ſe diſloquent à tard:auſſi à plus grande force ſont-ils reduits lors qu'ils ſont déloüez.aucuns os eſtans ioints, s'entr'ouurent & ſeparent l'vn de l'autre,comme l'omoplate de la clauiculaire,au lieu que les celſus, grecs nomment acromium: l'os du coulde & du rayon : l'os de l'éperon,ou petite focile de contre l'os de la gréue ou grand focile:l'os calcaneum de contre l'aſtragale ou l'oſſelet.tous leſquels ne ſe rejoignëtiamais comme ils eſtoient auparauant qu'ils fuſſent écartez & déjoints.auſſi la partie en demeure le plus ſonuent , difforme, & ne recouure point ſi bien ſon action & vſage, à raiſon que le plus ſouuent les ligamens qui ſer- uent à lier, attacher,renforcir,& reueſtir les parties de noſtre corps les vnes auec les autres ſont rompus & la luxation trop relaſchez. ceux qui ont luxation de cauſe interne,icelle eſtant reduite, peut reuenir derechef & ſou- de cauſe in : uent,parce que les ligamens eſtans imbus & arrouſez de l'humeur ſuperflu,qui eſt decoulé,ne peuuent faire rerne,recidi- tenir les os : ce qui aduient auſſi quand les ligamens ſont rompus : & lors qu'on eſtime que le malade ſoit ue ſouuent. guary, les os ſortent de leur place,& puis les ayans derechef reduits,n'y peuuent demeurer. quelquesfois l# lés ligamens ne ſont du tout rompus , mais portion d'iceux : dont l'action de la partie ſelon la diſpoſition ſ/ ' f. ſera plus ou moins deprauée ou perdue. il y a auſſi vne autre luxation incurable, qui aduient à raiſon des meſmes ligamens : à ſçauoir lors qu'iceux font tellement remplis & abreuuez d'humidité ſupeifluë,que vc- nans à ſe racourcir & retirer enſemble, auec ſoy retirent & font deſtraction des appendices d'auec leurs os° car à raiſon de la multitude des cauitez & tubercules par l'inſertion deſquels l'appendice eſt iointe auec # ſon os, il eſt preſque impoſſible que la rencontre s'en faſſe de meſme qu'auparauant. pareillement ſi les lu . tenir en leur º ſontinueterées, & qu'il y ait quelque humeur accrue aux cauitez des iointures, les os ne pourron， jointure. º auſſi lors que les teſtes de l'os adiutoire, ou femoris,ont ja fait par diuturnité de temps vn lieu broyé - & battu luxation de la reſte incu- rable. d f f, $ rº - #. | - ººit. º, tºmne ºitcut # º# #; : ksºu & # :gil# ºtiuºitis lislomus º teſtºs lſltllft ,!: & fortli. liſſent,ls : le dé- il.skplus # lik # id: | l' · les # leſt ſorti, tsdelilº | n : mer tntact pºt nº pititº )mmº ' : iºrtl : lle.it # gimlitº ºn ptſ # injon# ntdtpºlº melitº ! ledel':# 'apiiiº [[ct queº ， ſelonccº ! d: leuré l'autantº luxatiºſº eoùlºi ſeme#l cnt &(º, # piſtº jres cliº deuieº qui fcº § pourº aucº lieu# [t tºº ºntº - - rº #lº :fs gºº tºº #º #º a · des luxations. & battu, auquel elles ſont deſcenduës ou montées, iamais les os ne pourront demeurer dans leurs jointu- res, encore qu'on les ait bien reduits : pource que la cauité de la joincture s'eſt remplie de cét humeur glaireux, lequel s'endurcit & augmente, qui fait que l'os ne peut entrer ny demeurer en ſa jointure, & que la teſte deſdits os a fait autre lieu ou cauité tenant la place deſdits os,laquelle eſt broyée & calleuſe. outre plus ceux qui ont le haut du bras luxé, peuuent faire quelque œuure de leur main,auſſi bien que de l'autre bras qui n'eſt luxé. car les mains ne portent pas le corps, comme font les jambes. et d'autant qu'on fait exercice de la main : d'autant auſſi le mieux nourry. mais au contraire, quand il ya luxations à l'os femoris, la cauſe de principalement en la partie interieure, il ſe fait vne grande atrophie à la jambe, pource qu'on n'en peut faire l'atrophie. nul mouuement. car les parties qui ont moins de mouuement, ſont auſſi moins nourries. dont dit hippo- crate, l'vſage & exercice des parties les robore & entretient bien habituées : au contraire la pareſſe & ceſſa- tion du mouuement les extenue & debilite. finalement lors qu'il y a vne luxation accompagnée d'vne gran- ziu « epi de playe & fracture, la voulant reduire, & faiſant extenſion, il y a danger qu'on ne face trop grande exten- ſ§ . ſion aux nerfs, & ruption aux ligamens, veines, & arteres : qui ſont cauſe de conuulſion & ſpaſme, ou in- , oc ſea.,. flammation, & autres accidens. parquoy en tel cas hippocrate conſeille ne reduire telle luxation, & d'au- de art. jent. tant qu'il vaut micux laiſſer deuenir le malade impotent, que de luy ofter la vie. car toute deſloiieure ſe . doit remettre auant que l'inflammation y foit venue : & ſi ja elle y eftoit, il faut laiſſer le malade en repos, & oſter l'inflammation, & n'irriter point le mal, de peur d'y cauſer vne extreme douleur,gangrene,ſpaſme, & par conſequent la mort : ce que i'ay veu aduenir quelquesfois. et quand l'inflammation » tumeur, & autres accidens ſeront ceſſez, il faut eſſayer à reduire l'os aux membres qui le peuuent ſouuent ſouffrir : & à cela ayde beaucoup l'habitude du corps : car ſi le corps eſt delicat & mollace , on fera la reduction plus promptement & facilement : au contraire non. et ſuffiſe du prognoſtic : maintenant il nous faut venir à la cure vniuerſelle, - 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" * curé vaiuerſelle des luxations. c h a p. v i. ， ; j -, º - : -- • -- > - - - - - *- - • - - - - vtre ce que nous auons declaré cy-deuant de la cure generale des fractures & luxations,il ſera cinq intez : bon d'eſcrire encore maintenant ce qui appartient plus ſpecialement auſdites luxations, t'aduer- tions en la sº^º & ſucceſſiuement. la premiere, tenir : la ſedonde, tirer : la troiſiéme,pouſſer : la quatriéme,faire xations. deuse ſituation : la cinquiéme, corriger les accidens. la premiere intention, qui eſt tenir, ſe doit entendre de tout le corps, ou ſeulement d'vne partie. tout le corps ſe doit tenir , lors que l'eſpaule eſt hors de ſa place, ou les vertebres, ou l'os de la cuiſſe. il ne faut tenir que la partie, quand la luxation eſt à l'os furcu- laire,ou au coulde,ou en la main,ou au genoüil,ou aux pieds : & la raiſon pourquoy on tient,c'eſt de peur tu'en tirant, le corps ne ſuiue la partie que l'on tire, & où il ne ſeroit tenu ferme, on ne pourroit bien re- duire la luxation. la ſeconde intention, qui eſt de tirer, c'eſt afin qu'il y ait interualle libre & ſpacieux en- seconde in- tre les os desjoincts : ſurquoy il faut noter, qu'on doit mettre touſiours la partie, en laquelle l'os eſt tombé, tentien. audeſſus, & celle dont il eſt tombé, au deſſous, ou à cofté. or les façons de tirer, c'eſt à dire , eſtendre, ſont diuerſes, ſelon que les muſcles & ligamens ſont puiſſans, & les os ſont tranſportez en ça ou en là : & pour ce faire on s'ayde ſeulement des mains que ſi les mains ne ſont ſuffiſantes,on vſe d'inſtrumens & ma- chines propres à ce faire , comme tu verras par les figures cy-apres depeintes. mais pour euiter l'inconue- nient qui pourroit venir de trop eſtendre, l'extenſion ſera faite ſeulement tant que l'os ſoit vis à vis de ſa canité. la troiſiéme intention eſt, qu'apres que la partie ſera ſuffiſamment eſtendue , faut pouſſer, tourner, trciſéme in: & virer l'os déplacé, ſelon qu'il ſera beſoin. en quoy faut bien prendre gade de ne pouſſer en autre lieu § "^ qu'en ſa boëte : parce qu'on pourroit faire paſſer l'os d'vne partie en l'autre , comme ſi l'os adiutoire ou fe- • ! moris ſont luxez en la partie anterieure, en les trop pouſſant, on les jette & fait-on paſſer en la partie po- ſterieure,ſans les faire entrer en leur jointure.pour à quoy pouruoir,les os ſerót pouſſez par la meſme voye qu'ils ſont ſortis : laquelle choſe ſe fait facilement aux luxations recentes, à cauſe des muſcles qui ſ. reti- rent vers leur origine, lors qu'ils ſont aidez par la main du chirurgien. on connoiſt l'os y eſtre mis, quand a entrant dans ſa boëte, il fait vn bruit ſonnant clocq : & la partie qui eſtoit deſloüée, ºu toucher & a la veué eſt ſemblable à la ſaine de figure, conformation & grandeur, & la douleur eſt appaiſée, & que la partie fait ſes mouuemens naturels; à ſçauoir, flexion, extenſion, prone & ſupine , la hauſſant & baiſſant & tournant, •, » * comme elle faiſoit auparauant eſtre luxée. la quatriéme intention, qui eſt de faire deue ſituation, c'eſt afin . ?ººtºiémé que l'os qui aura eſtéreduit, ſe puiſſe contenir , & derechef ne ſorte de ſa boëte en la luxation du bras on inteº. le tiendra en eſcharpe : & en celle de la hanche, du genoüil, & du pied, au lict : ainſi des autres parties qui ſont declarées chacune à part-ſoy. en quoy faut obſeruer, qu'apres la reduction faite, l'on doit appliquer eſtoupades & compreſſes baignées en oxycrat, & couuertes de medicamens conuenables : auſſi qu'elles foient proprement ſerrees & liées ſelon la partie luxée, n'oubliant à tourner les bandes à l'oppoſite du lieu où l'os aura eſté luxé. semblablement leſdites compreſſes ſeront miſes plus groſſes au lieu d où ſera ſorty l'os, qu'en vne autre part. car ſi on fait le contraire, il y aura danger de le repouſſer & ietter hors de ſa pla- ce.cela fait on n'y doit toucher de quatre ou cinq iours, s'il n'y ſuruient douleur,ou quelque autre accident. la cinquiéme intention eſt, de remedier aux accidens & affections compliqueés , s'il y en a : comme dou- leur, inflammation, playe, fracture, & autres qu'auons dit au liure des l ractures. que ſi la luxation eſtoit vieille, c'eſt à dire, qu'elle eut demeuré long temps ſans eſtre reduicte, & † fuſſent endurcis & deſſeichez, auant qu'on eſſaye de la remettre , il la faut addoucir & amollir auec fomentations, cataplaſmes, emplaſtres, linimens, & autres choſes neceſſaires : puis mouuoir & broyer, c'eſt à dire, agiter deça & delà (non par violence ) la jointure qu'on veut remettre, afin d'eſchauffer, diſſouldre, attenuer , lobrifier, & fubtiliſer ; l'humeur defiue ſur icelle, pour mieux eftendre les fibres des muſcles, llgamens, & aponeuroſes qui la lient. mais ſi on voit qu'il y ait grande douleur , inflammation, & tumeur, il n'y faut toucher que premierement tels accidens ne ſoient paſſez, comme auons dit. les os qui ſont entr'ouuerts, entrebaillez, & aucunement ſeparez, ſeront rejoints par bien bander, lier, & ſituer la partie , commençant le bandage ſur l'entr'ouuerture du talon , comme inflammation, douleur, conuulſions, & quelquesfois la mort : par- quoy ne doiuent eſtre negligez. - " • » • cinquiéme intention. atºfre inten. tion pour les luxations in: f / / 'j• " g g ; pſirpiiv» tiſſant premierement d'obſeruer cinq intentions, ou reſpects, leſquels conuient faire par ordre cure des lu- le seziéme liure, - - "------- deſcription de quelques inſtramens ſeruans aux luxations. c h a p. v i i. :) r - - - - . .. ' ( # # v p a r a v a n t que d'entrer en matiere , j'ay voulu te faire peindre ces trois ligatures : pour $ )tenir & tirer les parties luxées. la premiere marquée a, ſert à tenir. la ſeconde marquée par t, gÉ& a， eſt pour tirer, qui eſt fait d'vn ſeul nœud la troiſiéme marquée par c, eſt auec deux nœuds,pour mieux tenir fermement, comme tu vois fort bien par des figures. plus vn inſtrument pour tirer d'vne vehemente force, lors que la main n'eſt ſuffiſante, qui eſt fait en ma- niere d'vne petite moufle, marquée d. d. dedans laquelle y a trois petites roues, dans leſquelles ſe mer vne corde marquée h. & aux extremitez il y a deux crochets, dont l'vn ſert pour tenir ladite moufle contre quelque pillier, & l'autre qui eſt pour tirer le lien qu'on attache à icelle. b.b. les boëtes qui couurent la- dite moufle. a. a. les couuercles deſdites boetes. c. vn piton fait à viz, qu'on poſe dans vn pillier de bois pour attacher l'vn des crochets de la moufle. f. vn foret duquel on perce le pillier pour inſerer ledit piton, comme tu vois par cette figure. figure de la moufle. en lieu de la mouffe, aucuns practiciens vſent de cét inſtrument nommé maniuelle, dont la poincte eſt d faite en maniere de foret, ou d'vne tairiere qu'on attache contre vn pillier ou ſolliue de bois, dans laquelle maniuelle y a vne viz, qui en ſon extremité a vn crochet, là où l'on attache vn lien, & par le moyen de la clef, ladite viz tourne dans vne eſcroüe : & par icelle eſt tiré le lien tant & fi peu qu'il eſt requis pour rs- duire l'os en ſa boëtc. figure.j ( : - • ) à des luxations. s ， * a figure de la maniuelle. . - - a preſent nous pourſuiurons les deſloüeures particulierement, commençans à la mandibule inferieure, & finirons parl'extremité des doigts des pieds. - * - - cureparticuliere des luxations, & premierement de la mandibule inferieure . c h a p i t r e v i i i. c n la mandibule inferieure ſe fait luxation : ce qui aduient ſouuent en baillant & ouurant - - - - • -- - - - lieu de la lu- j$ re, à cauſe des deux additamens mammillaires, qui l'engardent eſtre reculée en arriere. Èlle mandibule qu'elle n'eſt deſloüée que d'vn coſté, c'eſt qu'elle eſt tournée de trauers, & le coſté dont elle signe qn'elle eſt luxée , ſe monſtre plus plat & caue, & celuy de la partie ſaine, plus eſleué & auancé : & la bouche du eji luxée ſeu- malade demeure ouuerte, ne la pouuant fermer, ny maſcher les viandes, & les dents ſont plus auancées en lement d'vn deuant que celles de la mandibule ſuperieure : & auſſi ne ſont à l'endroit de leurs pareilles : au contraire coſté. . | . à $ grandement la bouche. et icelle ſe fait en la partie anterieure, & peu ſouuent en la poſterieu- canſe & • ) - - a - - - - xaticn de la , $ ſe fait en deux manieres, à ſçauoir, ſeulement d'vn coſté, & quelquesfois des deux. le ſigne - a les canines ſe rencontrent ſous les inciſiues, & la partie deſloüée, & le menton,ſont tournez & inclinez vers $igº º c le coſté qu'elle n'eſt deſloüée. les ſignes qu'elle eſt deſloüée des deux coſtez, ſont, qu'elle pend ſur la elle eſt luxée poictrine, & tout le menton s'auance en deuant, & par deſſus la maſchoire on void les muſcles temporels des deux co- tendus, & la ſaliue coule de la bouche du malade , ne la pouuant retenir : & ne peut fermer la bouche, n ſtez. remuer la langue pour parler, mais balbutie. lors qu'elle eſt luxée des deux coſtez , elle eſt plus difficile - - que quand elle ne l'eſt que d'vn coſté : & pareillement les accidens ſont plus grands.parquoy elle doit eſtre pregnoſticº ſoudainement remiſe, ou autrement le malade tombe en extreme douleut, fiévre , & inflammation autour de la gorge, eſt en danger de mort, & le plus ſouuent en dix iours, plus ou moins, ſelon l'habitude du corps : à raiſon ( comme dit monſieur d'alechamps) des cinq rameaux de nerfs,qui viennent de la ſeconde & cinquiéme conjugaiſon du cerueau : qui ſe diſtribuent aux muſcles, qui la font mouuoir : au moyen de- quoy lors qu'ils ſont violentement eſtendus, cauſent les accidens ſuſdits. les practiciens tiennent, qu'en ce qu'il faué douze iours, apres eſtre reduite, elle eſt aſſeurée de non plus retomber. et où elle aura eſté quelque temps faire deuané ſans eſtre reduite, faut vfer de remedes remollitifs, & relaſchans, comme fonmentations, linimens, cataplaſ que remettré mes, & ſemblables choſes qui ont vertu de ce faire, & apres la reduction faite, on y appliquera vn medica- lº mandibº- ment fait de blanc d'œufs,& huile rofat,pour ſeder la douieur,& les compreſſes ſeront trempées en oxycrat: le luxée de & au ſecond appareil on y mettra vn autre, qui aura puiſſance d'agglutiner & reſerrer les ligamens, & au. *** res parties qui auront eſté relaſcbées, afin auſſi que la partie remiſe ſoit tenue immobile , & ſoit aſtrainte. #xemple. /.. pul.boli armen.ſang.drac.farina volatil.maſtich.picis reſinæ an. .ſ$. album ouor. q.ſ. fiat me- §ica. et apres on pourra vſer de l'emplaſtre diachalciteos fondue en huile roſat, & vn peu de viuaigre, &. ,utres qu'on verra eſtre neceſſaires. - - - - - - - - maniere de reduire la mandibule, lors qu'elle eſt luxée en la partie anterieure de deux coſtez. c h a p t r e i x. · • a* - - - - l l faut faire coucher le malade en terre,ou,ſur vne petite ſalle baſſe,& luy tenir fermement la premieré n@ teſte,& que le chirurgien mette ſes deux pouices dans la bouche du malade, enueloppez d'v- methode de # ne petite bandelette, afin qu'il ne ſe bleſſe contre les dents, & qu'ils n'eſchappent & gliſſent, reduire la # preſſant ſur les groſſes deuts de la mandibule inferieure,& quant & quant tenant les doigts par ººibºle º deſſous le menton en eſſeuant toute la mandibule. et ſi par ce moyen on ne peut faire la redu-*** • ction, à cauſe peut-eſtre que la bouche ſera ſi fermée, qu'on ne pourra mettre les poulces dedans, faudra *** *nettre des coings de bois, qui ne ſoit pas dur ny aſpre, mais mol, & qui cede, comme le bois de coudrier, ºu ſapin (& ſeront de figure quarrée de groſſeur d'vn doigt ou plus ) & les appliquera-on deſſus les dents #nolaires aux deux coſtez, qui ſeruiront de conduire la maſchoire en ſon lieu quand on la tirera : & les y aut tenir fort : puis on mettra vne bande ſous le menton, & vn ſeruiteur mettra ſes deux genoux ſur les eſ- paules du malade, & tirera en haut les deux bouts de la bande, & alors le chirurgien doit preſſer vers le - - as les deux coings de bois, & dreſſer en leur lieu les os de la mandibule. et apres la reduction faut bander º# & medicamenter le malade ainfi qu'il eſt neceſſaire, & apres luy commander qu'il n'ouure la bouche, & ºº#" qu'il ne mange rien difficile à maſcher, iuſques à ce que la douleur ſoit paſſée : & qu'il vſe de choſes liqui- le reſtiguée. ºes, comme orge monde, panade, gelée. preſſis, coulis, & autres ſemblables. g g · juaniercº : le seziéme liure, obſeruation en toutes lm- xations. •a ſ#auoir s'il ſe fait luxation de la mandibu. le en la par- tie poſterieu- 'º. va fourchst- te ſe peut lu. xer par ſes deux extre- mitez. les differen- ces de la lu- xation de d'os furcu- laire. riſtoire de , gal. des art. ſect. . comm.ſur la ſent. • poin# conſi- derable. compoſîtion de l'eſpine. la mbtéelle - ! -t- - "-- mamiere de reduire la mandibule luxée ſeulement d'vn coſté ch a p. , x. l faut faire aſſeoir le malade beaucoup plus bas que le chirurgien, & luy fera-on tenir la teſte $ en derriere par vn ſeruiteur, afin qu'en la reduiſant & tirant il ne ſuiue le chirurgien : ce qu'il # faut touſiours obſeruer en toutes luxations, comme nous auons dit. puis mettra le poulce dans § la bouche du malade ſur les dents maxillaires, du coſté luxé, & abbaiſſera la mandibule, en la nwns tirant à coſté, & la pouſſera en ſa place. et pendant qu'il fait tel œuure, faut que le malade s'aide de ſon coſté, n'ouurant la bouche que le moins qu'il pourra , afin que les muſcles ne tendent point: mais pluſtoſt on luy commandera de la laiſſer aller ſans la fermer : car en ce faiſant les muſcſes crotaphites ſe retirent en leur propre lieu, & aydent à la reduction. aucuns afferment qu'il ſe fait luxation de ladite mandibule en la partie poſterieure, & qu'alors la bouche demeure fermée, & le malade ne la peut ouurir : auſſi que les dents d'icelles ne ſont point tant auancées que celles de la mandibule ſuperieure,mais ſont reculées en arriere : & pour la reduction diſent, qu'il faut tenir la teſte du malade fermement par derriere, & que le chirurgien mette ſes poulces dans la bouche, & les doigts ſous le menton , & qu'il la tire vers ſoy en l'esbranlant , & maniant d'vn coſté & d'autre. quand à moy, iamais ie n'av veu telle luxation aduenir, & penſe qu'a grande peine ſe peut-elle faire, pour la raiſon predicte. si elle ſe faiſoit, ce ſeroit vne luxation incomplette, eſtant vn peu reculée en arriere contre leſdits additamens mammillaires, & facilement ſe pourroit reduire cn cſleuant en haut ladite mandibule donnant vn coup de poing par deſſous. x i. $ $é 'o s jugulaire ſe peut ployer, deſloüer, & rompre. il ſe deſioint en dèux manieres : l'vne contre é à le sternum, & lautre contre l'omoplate; à ſçauoir, 'acromium : qui eſt partie & aboutiſſement # de ſon eſpine, contre lequel eſt appuyc & jointe la furcule. toutesfois tant d'vn coſté que d'au- · tre la luxation de cét os eſt rare & difficile , pour la ferme adherence & connexion qu'il a auec les parties ſuſdites :& à grande difficulté l'extremité, qui adhere au sternum, ſe peut baiſſer en bas, a cauſ« qu'elle eſt ſouſtenue de la premiere coſte. ladite luxation peut aduenir au dedans,au dehors, & aux coſtez: & ſelon icelles differences il faut que le chirurgien faſle la reduction , qui ſe fera en pouſſant & eſtendant le bras. et s'il eſt beſoin, on fera coucher le patient à la renuerſc, ayant l'eſpaule ſur le cul d'vne jatte, ou'au- tre choſe ſemblable, afin que l'eſpaule & le thorax ſe courbent en dehors, pour puis apres réduire mieux la luxation ou fracture, ce qui ſe fera en hauſſant, ou baiſſant, ou tirant le bras du patient en auant, ou en arriere, ſelon le coſté auquel ſera faite la diſlocation. puis en pouſſant ſur l'emincnce dudit os , ſera reduit en ſon lieu. et conuient lier, & mettre compreſſes, & le tenir en repos, ainſi que s'il eſtoit rompu. gal, ſur le liu. des deſloüeures d'hipp. dit que luy eſtant en l'aage de . ans, en s'exerçant dedans l'eſchole publi- que, luy auoit efté diſioint l'os de l'acromium d'auec l'os furculaire,ſ grandement qu'entre l'acromium & l'os furculaire eſtoit interu lle de trois doigts : & recite cette de floueure auoir eſte guarie par vne ſi vio- lente ligature, qu'il ſentoit au deſſous de l'os furculaire le batt nent des arteres. laquelle il porta par l'eſ- pace de quarante iours : & dit, que peu de malades veulent ſouffrir vne ſi grande compreſſion,& ſi longue- ment comme il eſt neceſſaire. or veritablement cette luxation eſt difficile a connoiſtre,& encore plus à eſtre curée : ie ſçay qu'aucuns chirurgiens s'y ſont trompez , eitiinant que la teſte de l'auant-bras eſtoit luxée. 'car lors la ſommité de l'eſpaule, appellée des grecs epomu, ſe voit plus enfée , & le lieu d'où eſtoit ſorty l'os furculaire, caue & enfoncé, auec douleur vehemente & grande tumeur,& le malade ne pouuant hauſſer le bras, & ne faire autres mouuemens neccſſaires de l'eſpaule : & où l'os ne ſera reduit , le malade demeu- rera impotent, & ne pourra lamais porter la main ſur la teſte ny à la bouche. de la luxation de l'os clauiculaire ou jugulaire . ch a p. de l'eſpine luxée . x | [. 'e s p i n e eſt compoſée de pluſieurs os, qui ſont comme petites rouelles rapportées en- ſemble par enjointures, qui aydent chacun en ſon endroit vn peu à faire ſon mouuement, pour fleſchir le dos ſur le deuant, & non ſur en arriere, ſelon leur rondeur & circonference de leurs cercles, pour plier & dreſſer. car ſi elle euſt eſté faite d'vn ſeul os, l'homme eut eſté immobile, eſtant comme embroché ou empalé. auſſi leſdites roüelles ſont creuſes pour don- ner vn chemin ſeul à la mouelle de l'eſpine : laquelle comme vn ruiſſeau coulant du cerueau , a eſté faite pour la generation & diſtribution des nerfs, qui deuoient donner ſentiment & mouuement a toutes les parties ſituées au deſſous de la teſte : deſquels ſort par les trous de chaque rouelle vnc coniugaiſon. autii ch a p. •ſt cºme vne il y a des veines & arteres qui y entrent dedans pour les nourrir & viuitier. pauantage faut entendre, que prolongation la face poſterieure de l'eſpine dorſale eſt diuiſée en quatre parties , appellées apophyſes , & epiphyſes: du cerueau. dont les vnes montent en haut, les autres deſcendent en bas, & d'autres qui ſont à trauers, & les autres - au milieu, comme creſtes & eſpines, à cauſe dequoy a eſté appellé elpine , pour ſes forjettures qui ſont l'os ſacrum aigues comme eſpines, à l'extremité deſquelles il y a des cartillages. et notteras icy, que la premiere ver- eſt le fonde- tebre n'a point de creſte , pource que les muſcles qui meuuent la teſte, occupent le lieu où elle deuoit ººº des ver- naiſtre. ôr l'vtilité de l'eſpine auec ſes apophyſes ſert comme de bouleuart & fortification à la mouelle # , ſpinale, la couurant & enueloppant de toute part contre les iniures externes. auſſi elle eſt comme la carine i # #º & fondement du corps , & principalement l'os ſacrum , lequel eſt le plus grand de toutes les vertebres, p *e ºſu & eſt au plus bas d'icelles comme leur fondement : ſemblablement ſouſtient l'os de la hanche.toutes les / /", vertebres vont touſiours en diminuant , & eſtoit (comme dit galien) raiſonnable, que celles qui ſont ſur les autres, foient moindres que ce，les qui ſont deſſous : veu que ce qui eſt porté & ſouſtenu, doit eſtre moindre , que ce qui porte & ſouſtient. voyla pourquoy elles ſont baſties comme vn clocher. les apo- phyſes laterales des vertebres du metaphrenum ont d'abondant vne autre vtilité , qui eſt d'appuyer & enjointer les os des coſtes entre les vertebres y a des cartilages, & vn huineur glaireux , qui les abbreue & humecte ( ſemblable à celuy de qui preſque toutes jointures de noſtre corps ſont lubrifiées & rendués gliſſantes ) pour les rendre plus obeyſſantes à leur mouuement, qui ſe fait en deuant & non en derriere , comme nous auons dit, afin que les actions de l'homme ſe faſſent mieux : & pareille- - lºcllt d des luxations. #. º ! *# ºu #. ººit º l:; #: ' que cnir # :; fd #ion # #: lºl ! ! # «* ment pource que la grande veine caue & grande artere, qui ſont couchées ſur icelles, euſſeenteſtétrop ten- dues, & ſe fuſſent pû rompre ſi elles ſe fuſſent ployées en arriere.a cette cauſe les enjointures des verte pourquoy le bres ſont en la partie poſterieure, & non à l'interieure , & ſont liées enſemble par certains ligamens bien mounement forts l'vne auecl'autre.or maintenant ie laiſſeray pluſieurs autres diſcours que fait galien au liure treizié des vertebres me de l'vſage des parties parlant de l'eſpine ;& diray auec luy qu'en noſtre corps rien n'y eſt fait temeraire- ſe fait en de, ment, mais auec grande induſtrie & artifice, par la ſageſſe admirable du diuin & grand architecte, le dieu nant. viuant, ſans qu'aucune choſe y ſoit ſuperfluë ou manque. —- de la luxation de la teſte, auec lapremiere vertebre du col. c h a p t r e. x ii i. srg$ grand trou par lequel paſſe la moüelle ſpinale, leſquelles ſont receués par deux cauitez qui § † en la § vertebre du col : & icelles aucunesfois ſe desjoignent & ſeparent § # # czp ( cauitez , & font luxation en la partie poſterieure : à raiſon dequoy l'eſpine medullaire eſt vertebre. événnzºw foulée, preſsée & eſtenduë : & lors le menton du malade touche à la poictrine, & ne peut rienaualler, ny parler, & meurt ſubitement, non par la faute du chirurgien , mais par la grandeur du mal luxation in. qui eſt du tout iucnrable. curable. ()ſ# a teſte eſt aſſiſe ſur le col , & en la baſſe d'icelle il y a deux apophyſes ou eminences pres le cônexion de de la luxation des vertebres du col. c h a p. x iv. l ſe peut ſemblablement faire luxation complette ou incomplette aux autres vertebres du luxation cö- col. si elle eſt complette, ſubitement la mort s'enſuit, ſi elle n'eſt promptement reduite, à # c cauſe que la nucque, & les nerfs (principalement ceux qui ſeruent à la reſpiration ) ſont # in» comprimez & ſerrez : dont l'eſprit animal n'y peut reluire & ſubit y ſuruient inflammation, §ble " nb ſquinance, & difficulté de reſpirer. quelquesfois auſſi ladite luxation eſt incomplette : ce qui ne peut aduenir à toutes vertebres ; à ſçauoir, quand elles ſont peruerties en la partie enterieure ou poſterieure. le ſigne qu'elle eſt incomplette, eſt que le col demeure tors, & le malade a le viſage liuide, & signe de la difficulté de parler & reſpirer. le moyen de reduire icelle luxation, ſoit complette ou incomplette, c'eſt luxatien in- qu'il faut faire aſſeoir le malade en vne chaire baſſe, & qu'vn ſeruiteur luy preſſe ſur les eſpaules, & le chi- complette. rurgien prendra ſa teſte aux coſtez des oreilles auec les deux mains , & l'eſleuera en haut, en tournant & virant de coſté & d'autre, iuſques à ce qu'elle ſoit reduite. le ſigne qu'elle ſera reduite, eſt que le malade ſentira promptement allegement de douleur, & pourra tourner la teſte de coſté & d'autre. apres la redu- · ction faite, faut faire pancher la teſte du coſté oppoſite à la luxation, & lier le col autour de la jointure de l'eſpaule, & en ce faiſant ſe faut garderde trop lier & ſerrer la gorge, de peur d'empeſcher la reſpiration & tranſglutition. ligature a° pres la redu- àticn. / de la luxation des vertebres du dos. c h a p t r e xv. e s vertebres du dos ſe peuuent luxer en quatre manieres : à ſçauoir, anterieure, poſterieu- )uatr , re, à coſté dextre, & ſeneſtre. le ſigne qu'elles ſont luxées en la partie anterieure, eſt qu'on # # # vofd qu'elles ſont enfoncées en dedans. lors qu'elles ſont luxées en la partie poſterieure, §. g# elles ſont trouuées gibbeuſes, c'eſt à dire, plus haut eſleuées par dehors qu'elles ne doiuent: § ) quand elles ſont luxées aux coſtez, on y void vne eminence contre nature. les vertebres de- dos. uiennent gibbeuſes de cauſe interne ou externe : ce qui eſt commun à toutes luxations. la cauſe interne eſt vne fluxion d'humeurs, enuoyez ſur les roüelles de l'eſpine, & ſur leurs ligamens, ou de tout le corps, ou les cauſes de quelque partie : ou l'imbecilité méſme des roüelles & ligamens qui amaſſent telles ſuperfiuitez, ou dou - des luxations leur qui les y attire. la cauſe externe eſt pour tomber de haut ſur choſes dures ou par coups orbes, & de des verte- ſe pancher & courber ſur le deuant : ce qu'on void aux vignerons, paueurs, & autres manieres de gens qui brº . gaignent leur vie en ſe fort ployant, comme nous auons dit cy-deuant.auſſi à ceux qui ont vne luxation ex- terieure de l'os femoris, qui n'a pû eſtre reduit, pource qu'en cheminant le malade ſe panche, & appuye ſa main ſur la cuiſſe, il ſe fait que par vne accouſtumance les vertebres ſe courbent. telle diſpoſition ſe fait # - º , vº aux vieux qui ſe panchent ſur le deuant. or les vertebres ne ſont gueres pouſsées de la partie poſterieure à ſe fait que les l'anterieure, ſi ce n'eſt à grande violence, & encores les ligamens peuuent pluſtoſt ſe rompre que de ſe tant § ſe eſtendre : & telles luxations ſont mortelles, à cauſe que la moüelle ſpinale eſt offensée par la compreſſion,& §b . eſtant ainſi preſsée, les parties ſont renduës ſtupides & inſenſibles. donc ſi les vertebres ſont luxées par de-signe, de lu. dans, la reduction ne ſe peut iamais faire, pource qu'on ne peut les repouſſer par le ventre pour les reduire xation inte- en leur lieu. il ſuruient aux malades difficulté d'vriner, & jetter les autres excremens du ventre : auſſi leur rieure des aduient aux cuiſſes vn refroidiſſement , & aboliſſement de ſentir & mouuoir : & à aucuns l'vrine & autres vertebres. excremens ſorte inuolontairement : & auſſi quelquesſois ſont retenus du tout : combien que non-ſeulement tels accidensaduiennent aux luxations , mais auſſi par playe & fracture. or quand l'eſpine eſt luxée en la galien ſur partie interieure, elle induit les accidens deſſuſdits, parce que les nerfs qui procedent de la moüelle , vont la ſect !.de & ſe diſſeminent plus aux parties interieures qu'exterieures : parquoy ils ſont plus preſſez, & pareillement lº /º#º la moüelle ſpinale, enſemble toutes les parties qui ont connexion & conſentement auec elle, s'enflamment º*** dont la veſſie ne peut plus jetter l'vrine. la ſtupeur prouient à cauſe que la faculté animale ( pour la com- preſſion des nerfs, enſemble de la dure & pie-mere ) ne peut reluire par iceux , dont s'enſuit neceſſaire- ment difficulté de ſentir. alors la veſſie & les inteſtins ne font plus leur action naturelle, qui eſt d'ouurir & aſtreindre, dont la mort s'enſuit. quand l'eſpine eſt luxée en la partie exterieure, elle ne cauſe point ces accidens ſuſdits, pource qu'elle ne fait point compreſſion à la medule ſpinale, ny aux nerfs. pourquoy il aduient ſtn- - le seziéme liure, * - »-- la maniere de reduire l'eſpine luxée en la partie exterieure .. ch a p. xv i. pourquoy il faut tirer en aut & en bus les ſpon- dyles luxées. # re$ys. o v r reduire les vertebres gibbeuſes, c'eſt à dire luxées en la partie exterieure,faut ſituer le malade ſur vne table, le mettant ſur le ventre, & le faut eſtendre au long d'icelle, & le lier commodément par deſſous les eſſailles, & au deſſus des hanches, auec la tierce partie d'vne nappe. pareillement luy faudra lier les cuiſſes & les pieds : puis ſera tiré en haut & en bas, & eſtendu le plus qu'on pourra, ſans toutesfois grande violence : car où telle extenſion ne ſe fe- roit, il ſeroit impoſſible de reduire & remettre la vertebre luxée, à cauſe des appophyſes, qui ſont receuës & reçoiuent pour s'entretenir les vnes les autres. apres l'extenſion deuëment faite, le chirurgien pouſſera de ſes mains en dedans la vertebre qui ſera eminente. et ſi on ne la peut reduire en cette maniere, il faut enuelopper auec du linge deux baſtons de groſſeur d'vn doigt, & de longueur de quatre plus ou moins, & les appliquer aux coſtez des vertebres luxées, & preſſer ſeulement ſur icelles, pour les jetter dedans leur apophyſe articulatoire, ainſi qu'il t'eſt demonſtré par cette figure. le ſigne que et ne faut toucher nypreſſer ſur les apophyſes qui ſont au milieu, de peur qu'on ne les rompe. on con- l'eſpine ſera noiſtra la vertebre eſtre reduite, quand elle ſera eſgale aux autres qui luy ſont proches.apres la reduction bi§. faut lier & preſſer la partie, & y mettre des aſtelles ou plaſtines de plomb accommodées à ce faire : leſquel- les ſeront ſi bien appropriées qu'elles ne preſſent nullement ſur l'arreſt des ſpondyles , mais ſeulement aux coſtez. auſſi faut faire ſituer le malade ſur le dos , & y tenir longuement les aſtelles, de peur qu'il ne ſe faſſe reiteration de luxation. de la luxation des vertebres faites de cauſe interne ». ch a p. xvii. e s vertebres ſe luxent pareillement de cauſe antecedente, qui ſe fait par l'imbecilité naturelle des parties, principalement du ligament nerueux, par lequel toutes les vertebres ſont liées en- ſemble. or cedit ligament eſt plein d'vn humeur glaireux, & glutineux que nature a engendré autour deſdites vertebres ainſi qu'és autres articles, afin que leur mouuement ſoit plus libre. ceſtuy ligament ne va juſques à la moüelle de l'eſpine, & lie ſeulement les vertebres par dehors : mais il y en a vn autre, dont la moüelle de l'eſpine eſt toute enuironnée, outre la pie, & dure mere afin qu'elle ne ſoit offencée par les vertebres, quand elles ſe meuuent, laquelle naiſt du pericrane à l'endroit qu'il eſt con- raiſon pour. joint anec la premiere vertebre du col. or quelquesfois il ſe fait mixtion de grande fluxion d'vn autre hu- quoy la lu- meur contre nature, froid, crud, gros, viſqueux & glutineux, dont s'engendre vne tumeur qui fait diſten- *atiº ſe fait ſion des nerfs qui ſortent des vertebres, & principalement des ligamens qui les lient. ie dy principalement ººnº, , des ligamens car il ne faut pas eſtimer que les nerfs,qui ſortent de la moüelle,puiſſent tirer auec eux les ver- # # tebres, & les luxer, parce qu'ils ſont ſi petits & mols, qu'ils ne le peuuent faire or les ligamens eſtans fort aeſtre, ſe- diſtendus & tirez vers la turberoſité & tumeur noüeuſes, tirent a ſoy les vertebres, à ſçauoir, au dedans ou dehors, à dextre ou ſeneſtre, & par conſequent les luxent. s'il y a des tumeurs ou nodoſitez au dedans, & au dehors, l'eſpine ſera tournée des deux coſtez ; à ſçauoir, au dedans & au dehors, & aux coſtez : & voit- on alors l'eſpine eſtre tournée en figure d'arc ou s. ou d'autre figure qui ſera faite ſelon que les vertebres €auſes qui ſeront deplacées de leur lieu naturel. les grecs ont donné certains noms à telles deſloüeures , à ſçauoir, font deſi.in- cyphºſi,lºrdºſis,scalieſis qui nous ont eſté interpretez par monſieur d aleſchamps en ſa chirurgie françoiſe, dre les ver- qyphoſis, eſt la boſſe releuée en dehors : lordoſi , eſt enfonceure baiſsée en dedans, scolioſis, eſt entorſeure tebres. ou boſſe non droite : mais tournée & entorsée, c'eſt à dire,jettée à dextre ou à ſeneſtre. les cauſes qui font - ainſi diſioindre les vertebres ſont cheutes, contuſions, l'habitude de tout le corps trop humide,qui enuoye poiirguoy ſur icelles des humeurs glaireux & viſqueux, qui les amoliſſent, lubrifient, & relaſchent. on void cecy ad- # uenir aux ieunesenfans, à cauſe de leur trop grande humidité & tendreſſe : comme ( pour exemple ) on . § vºid qu'on plie facilement vne verge humide & verde.auſſi il aduient par la faute de leurs nourrices, qui me ſe §neſtreignent aux filles la poitrine & les coſtes, à l'intention de leur faire à l'aduenir le corps greſle, & les en deuant. hanches eſleuées : car par telle faute les os de la poitrine ſont contraints de ſe jetter trop en deuant, ou en arrière, dont s'enſuit gibboſité & boſſe : & quelquesfois vne eſpaule ne croiſt pas, & demeure amaigrie, & l'autre croiſt & s'aggroſſit par trop. dauantage, la nourrice peut encore faire faute au coucher de l'en- fant, qui le couche pluſtoſt ſur les coſtes que ſur le dos auſſi au leuer, car fi venansàleuer leurs enfans elles les prennent ſeulement par les pieds fans ſouſtenir le dos de l'autre main,à la longueviendra luxation aux vertebres, à raiſon de la peſanteur des parties ſuperieures au regard des inferieures. ce qui a principa- lement lieu aux petits enfans, à raiſon qu'ils croiſſent plus en teſte, qu'en tout le reſte du corps. progno ir. , vº des luxations. '': #. é: ; ,ſ . # l# $ kr - - | prognoſtic. ch a r r r e xviii. - # i en l'aage d'enfance les vertebres du metaphrene ſont voutées, les coſtes ne croiſſent point, de la luxa- ou peu, en large, mais ſe forjettent en deuant : & partant la poitrine ou le sternum perd ſa tion des ver- $ largeur conuenable & s'aiguiſe en poincte. parce auſſi que les coſtes ſont peruerties de léur º #res #é )$ ſituation naturelle, les malades deuiennent aſthmatiques , ne pouuans auoir librement leur # c'! - - inſpiration & expiration naturelle,à cauſe que les poulmons ſont preſſez, & les muſcles qui enfance. ſeruent à l'inſpiration : & partant ſont contraincts, pour mieux auoir leur haleine, de tenir le colfleſchy en arriere : ce qu'il leur faict monſtrer la gorge groſſe en deuant : auſſi pour ſ'anguſtie & ſtricture de la trachée artere, par laquelle l'air ſort és poulmons, ils reſpirent auec bruit, & en dormant ſoufflent. ils ſont auſſi ſujets à defluxions ſur les poulmons ; & dit hippocrate, qu'ils ne viuent pas longues années. si hipp.ſecf. . les vertebres des lumbes ſont fort-jettées en la partie interieure,les malades ſont ſujets à maladie de reins, du liure des & de la veſſie : auſſi leurs jambes leur deuiennent greſles : la barbe & le poiſ du penil ſort plus tard, & ºi * en moindre quantité: & ſont pareillement moins fertiles à procreér lignée , que ſi le vice eſtoit à celle du j** metaprene. les gibboſitez qui viennent des cauſes exterieures, ſont aucunesfois curables : mais celles qui ſont faites des cauſes interieures,ſont incurables, ſi on n'y pouruoit au commencement par grande metho- # here- de. parquoy ceux qui viennent boſſus de cauſe hereditaire,c'eſt à dire, de pere & mere boſſus, ne peuuent #. - eſtre guaris. auſſi quand l'eſpine eſt gibbeuſe en enfance, & auant que le corps ſoit parfaictement creu ou " agrandy, elle ne croiſt plus, mais le bras & les jambes ſe parfont. et ne faut s'eſmerueiller de cela : car a cauſe que les veines,& arteres & nerfs ſont peruertis de leur propre lieu, auſſi qu'à grande difficulté les cſ- prits y peuuent reluire,neceſſairement l'aliment n'y paruient pas en telle quantité qu'il deuroit:dont il s'en- ſuitemaciation, ceſt à dire, amaigriſſement : mais ſi le corps a acquis ſes trois dimenſions, c'eſt à dire qu'il ne croiſſe plus,les parties de l'eſpine deuiennent ſeulement emaciées : mais des parties lointaines, comme les bras & les jambes,ſont du tout ſans mal.car les vertebres ainſi viciées negaſtent pas tout le corps,mais cauſe de ſeulement les parties qui luy ſont prochaines. il nous reſte à parler maintenant de la moüelle de l'eſpine, !'atrophic. laquelle ſe peut par vn grand mouuement esbranler, ſans que les vertebres ſoient luxées. ce mal ſe peut . appeller commotion ou concuſſion : lequel ſe fait quand elle ſe deprime de ſon lieu où elle adhere.les cau-cºncuſſion ſes ſont pour tomber de quelque lieu haut en bas, ou par quelque grand coup orbe, ou pour auoir eu l'e-º lºººººº ſtrapade.peu reſchappent à qui tel accident aduient,pour pluſieurs raiſons, que le chirurgien dogmetique ſº peut bien excogiter & ſçauoir;i'ay differé iuſques icy vn poinct fort conſiderable pour le prognoſtic de la luxation des vertcbres. c'eſt que plus il y a de vertebres luxées, moins eſt dangereuſe la luxation : la rai- ſon eſt qu'en tel cas la moüelle ſpinale n'eſt pas ſi preſſée que quand il n'y a luxation que d'vne vertebre, à raiſon que la luxation de pluſieurs vertebres fait en la moiielle vn angle obtus, & celle qui n'eſt que d'vne, y fait vn angleaigu. c'eſt ce que tant de fois repete hippocrate en la ſect. .du liure des art. que la luxation orbiculaire de l'eſpine eſt moins dangereuſe que l'angulaire. , t $) ". rs - de la luxation de l'os coccyx,caude,ou queuë. c h a p. xix. #s 'os caudae ſe luxe en dedans, pour tomber violentement ſur le croupion, ou par quelque coup , # orbe. le ſigne qui eſt luxé, eſt, quand le malade ne peut mettre le talon vers la feſſe , nymeſ-# ſigne qne mesployer le genouil qu'à grande peine & difficulté : & va à ſes affaires auec douleur : & ne ſe #" peut tenir aſſis, ſi ce n'eſt ſur vne chaire percée. pour le reduire, il faut mettre le doigt dans le # #. la ſiege, tant qu'il ſoit apposé à l'endroit du lieu affecté, ainſi qu'auons dit en ſa fracture : puis on cſleuera § § ledit os vers les parties ſuperieures auec force, & de l'autre main on l'egalera en ſon lieu exterieurement : § le puis ſera traitté par remedes cy - deſſus mentionnez. il eſt affermy en vingt iours , durant leſquels queuë. ſile malade ſe leue du lict , qu'il ſoit aſſis en vne chaire percée , de peur de faire reiteration de la lu- x t oil. - de la luxation des coſtes. c h a p. xx. es coſtes par vne grande contuſion ſe peuuent deſioindre & luxer aux coſtez des vertebres où elles ſont jointes,& eſtre pouſsées au dedans : dequoy les anciens n'ont point parlé,toutesfois ils con- feſſent que tous les os en general ſe peuuent peruertir de leurs jointures. le ſigne qu'elles ſont luxées aux coſtez, eſt, qu'auec les doigts on trouue vne inegalité, à ſçauoir, cauité d'vn coſté, & † exuberance de l'autre:& lors qu'elles ſeront pouſſées au dedans, on trouue vne cauité au lieu où elles ad- #-# herent aux vertebres.telles luxations cauſent pluſieurs & diuers accidens, à ſçauoir difficulté de reſpirer,à mifeſfement cauſe que leur mouuement eſt empeſché, joint auſſi que le malade ne ſe peut ployer & dreſſer. et pour la appºrc . contuſion faites ſur icelles, la chair contuſe deuient bourſoufflée,pituiteuſe, muqueuſe,& glutineuſe, pour de la luxe- les raiſons qu'auons declarées en la fracture d'icelles.doncques pour obuier à tels accidens,faut prompte-rien faite de ment faire la reduction, puis on remediera à cette bourſouffleure. si la luxation eſt faite au coſté ſuperieur coſté inſe- des vertebres,on fera tenir le malade debout,ayant les bras ſuſpendus à quelque porte ou feneſtre,puis on rieur. comprimera ſur l'eminence de la coſte luxée, tant qu'elle ſoit reduite en ſon lieu. au contraire, ſi la luxa- tion eſt faite du coſté inferieur,faut que le malade ſe ploye ayant les mains ſur les genoux,puis le chirur- gien pouſſera ſur l'eminence tant qu'elle ſoit reduite.et ſi la luxation eſt faite en la partie interieure, il n'eſt poſſible qu'elle ſoit reduite par la main du chirurgien, non plus que la luxation des vertebres faites en de- dans, pour les raiſons ſuſdites. les coſtes cns de la luxation de l'eſpaule ». c h a p. xxi. $ l ſe fait facilement luxation en l'eſpaule,parce qu'en celle jointure les ligamens ſont laſches,& la # cauité de l'omoplate peu caue,& de toutes parts égale & liſſce,c'eſt à dire,polie,& pareillement # la teſte de l'auant-bras : ce qui ſe fait par le moyen des cartilages, & de certain humeur claireux, qui la lubrifient & humectent : joint auſſi qu'il n'y a poiat de ligament en cette iointure d'os en os coiiliilc » o le seziéme liu ire, comme il y a en la hanche, & au genoüil. et telle choſe a eſté faite par la prouidence de nature , à cauſe a gal. ſur la qu'icelle ne fait ſeulement extenſion & flexion , comme le coulde , mais fait danantage : c'eſt qu'elle con- ſent.i. dr . tourne le bras circulairement en figure ſupine & prone,& en toutes parts. l'os adjutoire, qu'hippocrate du liure des appelle l'auant-bras,ſe peut luxer en quatre manieres, c'eſt à ſçauoir, en la partie ſuperieure,inferieure,an- art. terieure,& exterieure : iamais en la poſterieure : à raiſon de la cauité du palleron qui reçoit la teſte de l'a- uant-bras : iamais auſſi en l'interieure partie de la jointure , tant pour le grand & fort muſcle deltoïde qu'elle a par deſſus, que la creſte du palleron & de l'acromium qu'elle a tirant vers le col, & l'apophyſe le vray ancyroide qu'elle a tirant en dedans. communement & le plus ſouuent elle ſe fait en la partie interieure: #j éº # , partant nous la deſcrirons premierement. doncques le ſigne qne la luxation eſt faite en la partie inferieu- # re, eſt, qu'on trouuevne cauité ſur l'eſpaule : & l'extremité de l'omoplate nommée acromium, ſetrouue inferieure. eſtre aiguë & auancée en dehors,parce que la teſte du haut du bras eſt deſcenduë ſous l'aiſſelle,qui fait vne eminence. le coulde ſe jette en dehors & s'eſcarte des coſtes : toutesfois l'approchant de force on le fait joindre & toucher à icelles. auſſi il eſt plus difficile au malade de l'auancer en deuant, que le retirer en derriere,dauantage le bras eſt plus long. pareillement le malade ne peut leuer le bras ſur l'autre eſpaule, ny porter ſa main à la bouche , & ſent douleur quand il manie ſon bras en quelque maniere que ce ſoit, pource que les muſcles ſont preſſez & tendus,& aucunes de leurs fibres rompues. et ce ſigne n'eſt particu- îier pour la parte inferieure,mais pour les luxations faites en toute autre partie de l'eſpaule.il faut icy en- tendre,que le ſigne de ne pouuoir leuer le bras n'y l'eſtendre, n'eſt certain pour conclurre la luxation. car cela peut auſſi venir de contuſion, fracture, inflammation, playe, apoſteme ou ſcirrhe, ou fluxion faite ſur belle anne- les nerfs, qui naiſſent des vertebres du col, pour eſtre diſtribuez au bras. or il y a ſix manieres de reduire b tation. la luxation, quand elle eſt faicte en la partie inferieure. la premiere auec le poing ou les doigts. la ſe- six manie- conde auec l'eſpaule miſe ſous les aiſſelles : leſquelles deux conuiennent à la deſloüeure recente,& facile,à res pour re- reduire, comme aux ieunes enfans, & ceux qui ſont peu charnus , & generalement qui ont vne habitude duire la lu- mollaſſe & pituiteuſe. la troiſieſme , auec le peloton de fil pouſsée par le talon. la quatrieſme, auec vne *ation qui pelate, jettant le bras ſur vne barre de bois, ou ſur vne courge, ou autre choſe ſemblable, ſouſtenuë par ſº fºit ºſ deux ſeruiteurs, ou entre deux colomnes, ou ſur vne porte la cinquieſme,auec l'eſchelle.la ſixieſme,auec ſº.ºrº l'amby. toutes leſquelles nous deſcrirons maintenant : en quelque maniere qu'elles ſoient luxées, faut caiſ . pour les reduire tirer le bras en bas vers la terre. -" la premiere maniere de reduire l'eſpaule auec le poing, ou les doigts ioints enſemble . c h a p t r e x x i i. \g l faut premierement tenir fermement le malade au deſſus de jointure de l'eſpaule, par vn n% homme aſſez fort: ſecondement luy faire tirer le bras par vn autre au deſſus du coulde contre $ bas, tellement que la teſte de l'auant bras ſoit posée vis à vis de ſa boëte.ayant tiré ſuffiſam- poin# nota° ble, ©- n et icy noteras,qu'aux luxations recentes,& aux ieunes,& aux peu charnus, & à ceux qui ſont de temperament mollaſſe, lors qu'on fait ſuffiſante extenſion la teſte de l'os eſtant deſueloppée d'entre les muſcles, & autres parties qui la compriment, leſdits muſcles de cette partie ſoudain laſchez,aydent à re- duire l'os : ce que i'ay cogneu quelquefois : car ne faiſant ſeulement qu'vne preparation en tirant & hauſ- ſant vn peu le bras , la reduction ſe faiſoit ſans y pcnſer : ce qui ſe faiſoit par le moyen des muſcles qui ſe guelques- retiroientvers leur principe, & ce faiſant tiroient i'os enſa boëte. et ſi par ce moyen la main n'eſt ſuffiſan- fois la redu- te,tu attacheras l'eſpaule du malade par le lieu qu'auons cy-deſſus figuré contre vn pilier, ou ſera tenu par ction ſe fait derriere par vn fort homme : puis le bras du malade ſera lié au deſſus du coulde auec vn eſcheueau de fil, outre l'eſpoir lequel ſera attaché auec vne corde,& tiré par la moufle qu'auons pareillement deſcrite cy-deſſus,& vn ſer- ºſ de ſºy- uiteur tirera la corde, tant & ſi peu qu'on voudra. puis le chirurgien aura vne ſeruiete,ou autre lien, qui meſme. ſera paſsé ſous le bras du malade, aſſez prés de la deſloüeure , lequel ſera paſsé ſur le col du chirurgien, afin qu'il eſleue le bras en haut : & de ſes deux mains reduira l'os en ſon lieu , en tournant vers la poictrine du malade comme tu vois par cette figure. - esaaai sns - \ a apres la reduction faut appliquer ſur toutes les parties voiſines de l'eſpaule vn medicament fait de folle farine, bole armene, myrtille, encens,poix reſine, alum, ſubtilememt pulueriſez, & incorporez auec blancs d'œufs et faut mettre ſous l'aiſſelle vn peloton de laine ou de cotton,ou vne compreſſe de drappeau trem- pée en huyle roſat,ou de myrtille,auec vn peu devinaigre,& vn peu d'onguent roſat refrigerant de galien, de peur qu'elle ne tienne aupoil, s'il y en auoit. apres on fera la ligature large de cinq doigts ou plus, ou moins,ſelon la groſſeur dumalade,& longue de dcux braſsées ou plus,laquelle ſera à deux chefs,commen- sant le bandage par le milieu d'icelle,iettée ſous l'aiſſelle, & menée par deſſus l'eſpaule malade, puis par • deſſous l'autre aifſelle ; de ſorte que ſes reuolutions ſe croiſent en forme de croix ſainct andré, & faire ment, le chirurgien hauſſera & pouſſera de ſes mains ou de ſon poingl'os dedans ſa cauité. c t ilt - d es luxations. i tant de tours qu'il ſera beſoin. apres on attachera le bras contre les coſtes, & ſera ſitué en eſcharpe aſſez haut en figure d'vn angle droit, tenant la main pres l'épaule ſaine, afin que l'os recentement remis ne tombe derechef hors de ſa boëte , & ne faudra remuer l'appareil de quatre ou de cinq iours, s'il n'y ſur- uient quelque accident. uaatre maniere de reduire l' épaule auec le talon, lors que le malade me ſe pourroit tenir droit ny aſſis. c h a p. xxiii. · · , -- • . ". " av t faire coucher le malade contre terre ſur quelque couuerture ou matelats : puis on luy v #mettra ſous l'aiſſelle vn peloton de fil, ou vne pelotte de cuir remplie de bourre ou de coton, n ºnt '= de groſſeur porportionnée à la capacité de l'aiſſelle, afin que du talon on puiſſe mieux pouſſer . nsi'os en ſa place. car lors qu'on tire le bras, il ſe fait plus grande cauité en l'aiſſelle, à cauſe #n nr des tendons & des muſcles qui ſont de deux coſtez. puis le chirurgien s'aſſiera vis à vis du malade au deuant du bras deſloüé. et ſi c'eſt l'épaule droitte, il accomodera le talon de ſon pied droit ſur la pelotte : & ſi c'eſt l'épaule gauche, il accomodera le talon du pied gauche. puis apres il empoignera le § du malade, & le tirera vers les pieds , & auec le talon il pouſſera fort contre l'aiſſelle. et pendant que § ſe fait,il y aura vn ſeruiteur par derriere la teſte du malade lequel hauſſera le bras auec quelque ſer- §tedeliée, ou quelque lien, ou courroye propre à ce faire, & poſera la plante de ſon pied ſur l'épaule du malade, & la pouſſera en bas. et d'auantage,pour bien faire,il y aura vn autre ſeruiteur aſſis de l'autre coſté qui tiendra le corps & le bras ſain dumalade, afin qu'il n'obeyſſe, & ne ſoit eſleué ny tourné çà & lâ, lors qu'on fera la reduction. il faut mettre l'aiſſelle du malade ſur le bout aigu de l'épaule d'vn homme aſſez fort, & plus grand que le malade, ou qu'il aye quelque choſe ſous ſes pieds pour le hauſſer, & luy tirera le bras vers ſa poictrine, en ſorte que le corps du malade demeurera ſuſpendu.et ſi le maa lade eſt fort leger, il faut que quelqu'vn peſant ſuffi- ſamment pour luy donner contrepoids , ſe pende & partie contraire, faiſant cela auec l'aide du chirurgien, ui preſſera l'épaule du malade contre-bas, la reduction § faite , comme tu vois par cette figure. hh cautr«- branſle ſur iceluy : & par ce moyen le bras eſtant ainſi ! tiré contre bas, & ébranlé en tournant & virant en la - " - - le seiziéme liure, | - - - eaatre maniere de reduire l'épaule . c h a p. x xiv. g n prend vn baſton aſſez plat, comme vne courge (dont les chambrieres de paris portent \) deux ſeaux d'eau ſur leurs épaules ) de largeur de deux poulces, & long ensiron d'vne toiſe: pi au milieu duquel ſera attaché vn peloton de fil, ou vn eſteuf de groſſeur conuenable à l'aiſ- ſelle : & à chacun coſté y aura vne cheuille éleuée, qui engardera que l'épaule ne vacille en n) çà ou en là. puis y aura deux hommes plus grands que le malade (ou peur le moins auront quelque choſe ſous leurs pieds qui les hauſſera tant que beſoin ſera ) & tiendront le baſton ſur leurs épau- les, puis le malade poſera ſon aiſſelle ſur le peloton, & le chirurgien tirera fort le bras contre-bas, de façon que le malade demeurera ſuſpendu ſur le baſton.adonc la reduction ſe fera comme tu vois par cette figure ſuiuante : en laquelle tu vois auſſi le baſton auec le peloton & les cheuilles. on peut nommer ce baſton courge. : la cinquieſme maniere de reduire l'épaule auec vne eſchelle . c h a p t r e xxv. ' n la reduit pareihement auec le degré d'vne eſchelle, comme il s'enſuit. il faut attacher ſur ' l'eſchelon quelque choſe ronde, comme vn peloton de fil, de groſſeur qu'il puiſſe entrer deſſous l'aiſſelle du malade, comme auons dit : puis on le fera monter ſur vne petite eſcabelle, & luy liera-on les deux jambes enſemble , & le bras ſain derriere le dos, afin qu'il ne prenne '& ſe remette ſur l'eſchelle quand on fera la reduction : puis faut poſer l'aiſſelle du malade droittement ſur le peloton, & luy commander d'approcher ſon corps tant qu'il luy ſera poſſible contre l'eſchelon : autrement il y auroit danger de rompre l'os du haut du bras, ſans reduire la luxation. auſſine faut que le malade poſe ſa teſte entre les eſchellons puis on liera le bras luxé au deſſus du coulde auecvn eſcheueau de fil, ou autre lien propre à ce faire, & vn ſeruiteur le tirera fort contre-bas, & tout à l'heure d vn autre ſeruiteur luy tirera l'eſchelle. ainſi l'os ſera reduit ou de ſoy-meſme , ou auec l'aide du chirur- gien, qui pouſſera l'épaule contre-bas, en branſlant le bras d'vn coſté & d'autre. l'os reduit, tout à l'in- ſtant on remettra vne autre eſcabelle ſous les pieds du malade, afin qu'il puiſſe retirer ſon bras de deſſus l'eſchelle plus aiſément : car s'il le releuoit trop contre-mont,il y auroit danger que l'os recentement remis ſortiſt derechef de ſa place.tu peux connoiſtre l'induſtrie de eduire l'épaule par cette figure de l'eſchelle: | laquelle doit eſtre toute droitte, & non en autre figure. s | ,n v s, \ le des luxations. $#= -- -- *， - #=\. | $ | # ) # # | - n$ # figure pour reduire l'eſpaule ſur l'eſchelle. -- - ie ne veux en cét endroit laiſſer en arriere l'aſtuce & inuention du chirurgien de monſeigneur le duc de lo- raine, nommé nicolas picart, lequel fut appellé en vn village pres nancy, pour reduire vne luxation de l'eſ- paule d'vn paiſan : en la maiſon duquel il n'y auoit que luy & ſa femme. il mit & attacha ledit paiſan ſur vne eſchelle, comme cy-deſſus auons dit, & print vn baſton entre ſes jambes, & le poſa ſous l'vn des eſchellons, & attacha vn lien au deſſus du coulde du bras luxé : puis de toute ſa peſanteur & force preſſa ſur le baſton , & ' commanda à la femme de tirer la ſelle de deſſous les pieds : & tout à l'inſtant remit l'os en ſon lieu , comme tu vois parcette figure. et par faute d'vne eſchelle, on ſe peut ayder d'vne perche poſée en trauers de deux colomnes, ou d'vne porte, comme tu vois par cette figure : en laquelle t'eſt monſtré vn bois auec liens , qui te ſera declaré tout maintenant. - ---. - autrefgure pourreduire l'eſpaule • ſur vne porte. hippoer a» c / / r/ e- ment du liu. des fraétures fait mention de ces deux moyens de re, |. ' duire u eſ- # paule usée, le seziéme liure, | ， | liu. des art. dit ces pro- — a uautre maniere de reduire l'eſpaule . ch a p. xxv i. - hipp. au . $ aag ippocrate loué ſurtºutes les manieres de reduire l'eſpaule luxée, n，n% # . s ceſte-cy. il faut prendre dit-il, vn bois large de quatre ou cinq doigts,& eſpais de deux, ou moins, & de longueur % de deux couldées,ou plus court. il faut que l'vn des bouts ſoit fort eſtroit, & fort tenue : & ( % qu'il y ait vne petite teſte ronde, & vn peu caue, & qui ſoit vn peu eminente, non vers les & \ºs coſtes , ains vers la teſte de l'os du hant du bras, afin qu'eſtant mis ſous ladite teſte de l'os deſcription du haut du bras,il ſoit approprié à l'aiſſelle pres les coſtes. l'on colera quelque piece de drap au bout de l'inſtru. dudit bois, ou quelques compreſſes de cotton, ou de linge , afin qu'il bleſſe moins les parties où il touche. §i apres il faut mettre le plus auant qu'on peut la teſte dudit bois en l'aiſſelle,entre la teſte de l'os du haut du bras & les coſtes. pareillement tout le bras ſera eſtendu ſur ledit bois, & lié au deſſous de l'aiſſelle, & vn peu au deſſus du coulde & de la main, afin qu'il ſoit immobile. or c'eſt choſe qui importe, & qu'il faut fai- re, que le bout de ce bois paſſe la teſte de l'os du haut du bras, de façon qu'il entre fort auant ſous l'aiſſelle. en apres il faut mettre vne grande piece de bois en trauers, de groſſeur du manche d'vne houe, au milieu de deux colomnes, auſquelles ladite piece ſoit bien attachée : ſur laquelle auec le bois il faut mettre telle- mét le bras,qu'il ſoit d'vn coſté,& le reſte du corps ſoit de l'autre.et doit ladite piece eſtre ſous l'aiſſelle;& pres paroles. jenf. . apres ilfaut tirer d'vn coſté le bras au tour de la piece de bois, & de l'autre coſté il faut tirer le corps. or . - il faut lier la piece de bois ſi haut, que le malade ſoit pendu de tout le reſte du corps, de ſorte qu'il ne tou- che en terre. auſfi qu'on le balance contre bas.ce moyen de reduire la luxation de l'eſpaule eſt le meilleur de tous les autres. au lieu de deux colomnes, on s'aydera d'vne eſchelle, ou d'vne porte, ou de deux pieds preuue de de lict. maiſtre henry aruet chirurgien demeurant a orleans, homme de bien, & grandement experimen- l'inſtrument té en la chirurgie, m'a affermé que iamais n'auoit fait faute à reduire cette luxation par cette maniere, fi par ambipar e*- ſucceſſion de temps ( comme dit hippocrate) la chair n'eſtoit accreuë en la cauité de la jointure ; & auſſi perience. la teſte de l'os n'auoit fait vn lieu tout battu, auquel elle fuſt deſcendue. car alors l'os ne pourroit eſtrere- ., mis, ny demeurer en ſon lieu , mais retomberoit au lieu battu & ja calleux, qui tient lieu d'vne jointure. dexterit * dauantage, ne veux encore oublier de bien inſtruire le jeune chirurgien, que ſi d'aduenture la teſte & l'os # # du haut du bras faut à entrer tout à l'heure en ſa cauité, il faut que le chirurgien branfle çà & là le bras # " diſloqué, & par ce moyen la teſte de l'os r'entrera en la boëte, & y eſtant rentrée, on r'abillera, & appli- v• quera-on les compreſſes & les ligatures, comme nous auons dit par cy-deuant. outre & par deſſus les figu- res cy-deſſus depeintes : j'en ay voulu encore donner vne autre pour reduire ladite luxationauec la piecede bois qu'eſcrit hippocrate, qui ſera attachée d'vne cheuille de fèr dans vn treteau , laquelle ſe pourra hauſſer & baiſſer tant & ſi peu qu'on voudra, comme tu vois par ces figures. a denote le bois. b le trcteau- gloſſocome d'hip- pocrate nommé ambi. : · des luxations. · a a b b c c d d or le malade doit eſtre aſſis ſur vne petite ſelle,vn peu plus bas que n'eſt la hauteur du treteau, ayanu les pieds liez enſemble, de peur qu'il ne s'éleue lors que le chirurgien reduira la luxation : ce qu'il fera ayant poſé & lié le bras luxé ſur la piece de bois, & icelle appli- # ſous la teſte du haut du bras, comme a eſté dit cy- eſſus : & apres ce fait, baiſſera le bout de ladite piece de bois oppoſite à la teſte caue & ronde contre-bas. ce faiſant, l'os ſe reduira en ſa boëte. d'auantage, ie t'ay encores fait depeindre en particulier la pieee de bois, nommé ambi:laquelle en ſa teſte a vne cauité marquée par b,& ſa totalité marquée par a, auec trois liens pour lier le bras ferme, de peur qu'il nevacille çà ou là, com- me tu vois par cette figure. depuis la premiere impreſſion de mon liure, eſtant à nancy en lorraine par le commandement du roy, llmr \s*: $- - $ $º $ pour la maladie de madame la ducheſſe : maiſtre nico- las picard , chirurgien de monſeigneur le duc, me | monſtra vn ambi, auquel il auoit adiouſté quelques choſes par deſſus celuy que i'auois tiré d'hippocrate " duquel ie t'ay bien voulu donner le pourtraict, enſem- ' ble l'explication d'iceluy. - · - ， * n \n $nn à | $ %!$ $ n #$é : - sa ) q a# monſtre deux aiſlerons ou oreilles qui ſont audit ambi, afin de retenir fe haut du bras, qu'il ne vacille çà ny là. le pilier ſur lequel eſt attaché ledit ambi. la petite cheuille qui tient ledit ambi joinct dans le pilier. - - les viroles qui tiennent ferme la patte du pilier, afin qu'il ne ſe hauſſe, ou vacille en la reduction / e e les trous de la patte où eſt inſeré le pilier,joint au plancher. h h la/ c'eſt vnt choſe birn decente aux chirurgiens demeurans aux viller, d'auoir tel inſtrument pour reduira les luxationt de l'épanlºi - | le seiziéme liure, hipp.ſect. , liu. des art. ſent. . - - - • • . : , * gal. com.ſur la ſect. i. des liu des art. ſenº . signes. sect. . ſent, . comme l'on doit ſituer le malade en la duxation faite en la partie poſte- riewre, ". :é . ce que l'au- theur appelle juperieure partie. hipp. /endern, ſeét, .des fractu- res , l'appelle anterieure@ poſterieure. auſſi fait celſe, chap. . liu, . la maniere de reduire l'épaule, quand la luxation eſt faite en la partie anterieure-. c h a p t r e xxv ii. ， l n'auient pas ſouuent que l'épaule ſe luxe en la partie anterieure.toutesfois il n'y a rien qui # par vne ſoudaine violence ne ſe faſſe:tellement que les os ſe luxent,combien que leurs articles # ſoient bien munis pour empeſcher la luxation : comme en cét article il y a vn grand obſtacle ， ou empeſchement, à ſçauoir, l'acromium, & l'extremité de l'os ſurculaire, qui eſt appuyé de - n º contre, & auſſi le gros muſcle & fort, nommé epomis, & celuy à deux teſtes, & autres. donc lors qu'elle ſe fait, il y a vne grande violence : ce qu'hippocrate dit n'auoir iamais veu : neantmoins gal. dit l'auoir veu cinq fois, vne fois en aſie en la ville de smyrne, & quatre en la ville de rome : laquelle, dit-il, eſtoit alors ſi peuplée, qu'on pouuoit dire que c'eſtoit l'epitome de toute la terre habitée : & aux villes où hippocrate habitoit, n'y pouuoit auoir tant de gens qu'en vne ſeule rue de la ville de rome. par- quoy galien dit, qu'il ne ſe faut eſmerueiller s'il n'auoit veu telles luxations. car où il y a beaucoup de gens,on void pareillement pluſieurs & diuers accidens.de ma part, ie proteſte n'en auoir iamais veu qu'vne ſeule en vne nonnain, qui ſe voulant ſauuer de ſon monaſtere, ſe ietta d'vne feneſtre en terre, & tomba ſur le coulde : dont elle ſe fit luxation en la partie anterieure de l'épaule. on peut connoiſtre telle luxation par la figure de la partie vitiée, & en touchant de la main deſſus l'article, on trouue la teſte de l'auant-bras vers la poictrine. pareillement, le malade ne peut flechir le coulde. telle luxation eſt reduite comme les autres, à ſçauoir, en tirant & pouſſant.et pour ce faire, faut faire coucher le malade à la renuerſe, & faire l'extenſion du bras à la partie contraire.mais premierement que ce faire, il faut mettre vn lien propre pour tenir la iointure fermement (comme celuy qui eſt appellé de galien ſur le liure des articles, carcheſien) & remplir la cauité de l'aiſſelle d'vn peloton de fil, ou autre choſe ſemblable, & tirer le bras par deſſus le coulde. et faut noter, que lors que la teſte dudit os eſt aſtreinte des muſcles, il faut tourner vers la partie poſterieure , qui eſt oppoſite à l'enterieure. auſſi faut ſe donner garde qu'il ne tombe en bas ſous l'aiſſelles ce qu'on éuitera en l'eſtendant & tirant vers diuerſes parties : à quoy auſſi ſert de munir & garnir la cauité de l'aiſſelle du peloton deſſuſdit. puis faut pouſſer la teſte de l'os qui eſt ſerrée entre les muſcles : & apres en laſchant l'extenſion, faut laiſſer remettre l'os en ſon lieu auec les muſcles,qui s'en retourneront d'eux- meſmes à leur origine. - -- de la luxation de l'épaule faite en la partie exterieure . c h a p. xxviii. luxation eſt, qu'on ne peut eſtendre le bras, & fe meut plus difficilement en l'eſtendant vers la partie exterieure, que vers l'anterieure : joint auſſi qu'on trouue vne eminence de la teſte de l'os ' vers la partie exterieure de l'épaule, & vne cauité à celle qui eſt contraire. pour reduire telle lu- xation, faut ſituer le malade ſur le ventre, & luy tirer fort le coulde vers les parties contraires à la luxation, & pouſſer l'éminence en ſa cauité : & par ainſi l'os ſe remettra en ſa place. eu quelque maniere que la luxa- tion de l'épaule ſoit faite pour la reduire,il faut eſtédre le bras vers la partie inferieure,le tenant toûjours droit. le ſigne que la reduction eſt faite en toutes ces manieres de luxations,c'eſt qu'on oyt vn bruit faiſant clocq , lors § l'os entre en ſa boete. pareillement le malade peut pliers eſtendre & hauſſer le bras : ioint auſſi que la douleur ceſſe. outre-plus on le connoiſt en conferant le bras malade auec l'autre ſain, comme auons dit cy-deſſus.apres la reduction faite, on appliquera medicamens propres, & mettra-on ſous l'aiſ- ſelle vne pelotte , qui ſera accomodée ſelon la cauité, & pareillement des compreſſes aux coſtez où ſera faite la luxation. puis ſeront liez auec vne bonne & large bande à deux chefs, qui ſera tournée ſur l'épaule en forme de croix ſainct andré, & ſera menée par deſſus l'autre aiſſelle,& fera-on tant de reuolutions qu'il fera beſoin. puis le bras ſera tenu en eſcharpe,faiſant vn angle droit. laquelle figure non ſeulement en cette luxation, mais auſſi au coulde, & à la main luxée ou fracturée eſt propre, parce qu'elle eſt la moins dou- teuſe, joint que ladite partie peut long temps demeurer immobile en cette figure. # l ſe peut faire luxation en l'épaule vers la partie exterieure : mais auſſi rarement le ſigne de cette -) de la luxation faite en la partie ſuperieure de l'épaule . ch a p. xxix. #a l ſe fait auſſi quelquesfois luxation a la ſuperieure partie de l'épaule.le figne de cette déloüeu- (t # re eſt, que l'on trouue la teſte de l'os du haut du bras ioignant le deſſous de la furcule, & cauité #j# ſous l'aiſſelle : & le coulde plus fort éloigné des coſtes, que lors que la luxation eſt faite en la *º partie inferieure, & ſemblablement impotence du bras. pour reduire telle luxation, faut que le chirurgien mette ſon épaule ſous le coulde du malade, & qu'il la hauſſe contre-mont, & a l'inſtant qu'il preſſe ou face preſſer & pouſſer par vn ſeruiteur la teſte de l'os dans ſa cauité autre maniere. il faut faire coucher le malade à la renuerſe ſur vne table, ou à terre, & qu'vn ſeruiteur tire le bras, & le chirurgien de ſes mains pouſſera l'os en ſa place. apres la reduction faite, on y procedera comme nous auons dit és autres luxations; ſçauoir qu'on mettra les compreſſes où l'os eſtoit forjetté, conduilant la ligature,comme auons cy-deuant enſeigné. de la déloiieure du coulde_ . c h a p. xxx. §é e coulde ſe peut pareillement luxer en quatre manieres,à ſçauoir en la partie interieure,exterieu- $# º re, ſuperieure & inferieure. par la partic interieure, i'entends celle qui regarde le centre du corps, # le bras eſtant en ſa ſituation naturelle, ſçauoir eſt,en figure entré prone & ſupine : par l'exterieure, celle qui luy eſt oppoſite : & par la partie ſuperieure, celle qui regarde le ciel : & par l'inferieure, celle qui regarde la terre.et d'autant que la iointure du coulde a plus grandes diuerſitez d'eminences & cauitez,que celle de l'épaule,d'autant auſſi la luxation d'icelle eſt plus faſcheuſe.auſſi l'os ſe déplace plus difficilement, & pareillement ſe reduit plus malaiſément. or le coulde eſt ioint auec l'os du haut du bras, & entrent mu- tuellement l'vn dedans l autre,comme vne fiche en vn gond qu'on attache à vne feneſtre pour l'ouurir &fer- mer. autre comparaiſon. l'os du coulde tourne autour du haut du bras,comme autour d'vne demie poulie, pour fiechir & eſtendre le bras. le dis demie poulie, pource que ſi nature l'euſt fait tourner d'auantage, l'aôtion a i j # des luxations. a l'action du bras n'euſt pû ſe faire commodément : parce que le bras ſe fût plié au dehors comme au dedans gal. liu. : ce que l'on peut connoiſtre par l'anatomie. donc nous dirons que le coulde ſe luxe, à cauſe que ſes deux de l'vſ. des apophyſes ne trauerſent par tout autour de l'os de l'auant-bras, qui le reçoiuent. parquoy lors qu'on fait pºrt. plus grande flexion, que là où ſon apophyſe interieure rencontre le fonds de ſa cauité, & l'apophyſe po. ºſº ſterieure ſe deplace en derriere:& auſſi quand on fait vne extenſion violente,l'apophyſe anterieure touche ! ce ſigne eſt le fonds de ſa cauité, & alors ladite apophyſe ſe iette hors de ſon lieu : & cette luxation eſt plus difficile à # reduire que la premiere : ioint auſſi que l'extremité du coulde, nommée olecrane, eſt fort haute, & ſon in ， #. # terieure fort abbaiſſée. parquoy il nous eſt plus facile à le flechir qu'à l'eſtendre : à cauſe dequoy telle dé- faite # #. loüeure ſe fait par plus violente force , que celle qui ſe fait en la partie interieure. le ſigne de cette luxa- ， i, ºnt tion eſt,que le bras demeure eſtendu,& ne ſe peut plier, pource que l'apophyſe interne du coulde demeure rieure. en la cauité externe, qui eſt en la partie inferieure de l'os du haut du bras, de laquelle eſtoit auparauant a ce ſigne eſt occupée de la partie interne de l'olecrane, qui eſt l'extremité du coulde : dont alors la reduction eſt tres attribué par difficile, pource que ladite apophyſe demeure accrochée dans icelle cauité.* le ſigne que la luxation eſt celſe à la faite en la partie interieure, c'eſt que le bras ne ſe peut eſtendre,& demeure plié.* le ſigne qu'elle eſt faite ººº . aux parties laterales eſt, que la figure de la iointure du coulde demeure viciée entre la flexion & l'exten- la partie po- ſion. en toutes ces luxations l'action du coulde ne ſe peut faire iuſques à ce que la reduction ſoit faite. pa- º# l reillement on trouue vne eminence du coſté où la luxation eſt faite, & vne cauité à la partie contraire : ce # b qui eſt commun à toutes luxations. outre-plus la luxation du coulde ſe fait complette, ou incomplette. # . qu'il celle qui eſt incomplette, eſt facile à ce faire, & auſſi à ſe reduire. mais celle qui eſt complette, tout ainſi § partie qu'elle eſt difficile à ſe faire, auſſi eſt elle fort difficile à reduire, ſi on ny procede promptement, & auant ſuperieure & que l'inflammation y ſoit ſuruenuë : car ſi elle y eſt-ja, la curation eſt tres-difficile, & ſouuemt du tout im- inferieure. poſſible, principalement &elle qui eſt faite en dehors. ce ſigne eſt - · attribué par - - celſe à la la maniere de reduire la luxation da coulde, faite en la partie exterieure- . luxation en - la partie in- c h a p t r e xxxi. rerieure ° # t lors qu'on void que le bras du malade demeure preſque en figure droite, ſans le pouuoir º#. §) aucunement flechir, faut conclure la luxation eſtre faite en la partie exterieure. parquoy la lą , . faut reduire próptement,'à cauſe qu'il s'y fait fluxion & inflammation, pour l'extreme douleur quiert pröpt qui interuient. pour faire donc la reduction, en quelque partie que la luxation ſoit faite, faut ſecours. s qu'vn ſeruiteur tienne fermement le bras du malade au deſſous de la iointure de l'épaule, & le chirurgien tirera le bras par la main, & pouſſera l'os de l'auant-bras en dehors,& l'éminence du coulde en dedans, & tirera le bras petit à petit en le tournant d'vn coſté & d'autre, afin de ietter l'os en ſa cauité. ie veux icy aduertir le ieune chirurgien,que pour reduire cette déloüeure ne faut fiechir le bras, pource c que iamais par ce moyen l'os ne pourroit eſtre reduit à cauſe que l'apophyſe interieure de l'os du coulde poin# mota- eſt en la place de l'apophyſe exterieure de la cauité de l'os du haut du bras: & partant en pliant le bras on ble de grădi ne fait ſeulement que hauſſer le coulde,& ne le tire-on pas en ſa cauité. et où telle choſe ne ſe pourra faire " par la main, à donc faut faire que le bras luxé embraſſe vne colomne, ou le pied d'vn lict, & qu'il ſoit vn · · • · peu plié : puis on empoignera d'vne forte liſiere l'extremité du coulde , dite olecrane , la tirant vers ſa ca- . ': uité auec vn baſton entortillé dans ladite liſiere, comme tu vois par cette figure. la figure qui monſtre à faire la reduction du la figure qui monſtre à faire la reduction - coulde autour d'vn pilier auec vn baſton. du coulde par vn lien. - - mtttttltliºli ! gt aa $nnn v ^ ºſſº \n - \ ºº #u # $ % \ > \ y$ $ $ ,^ ， $. '(º, le ſigne que l'os ſera reduit, c'eſt que le malade eſtend & flechit le bras,& la douleur eſt ceſſée, & la figure viciée remiſe en ſon eſtat naturel. # \ iiil # « ssuasall " autre maniere encore plus facile : c'eſt que le bras eſtant autour du pilier , on mettra vn bien fort lien de la largeur d'vn poulce ſur l'extremité du coulde, puis ſera tiré tant que l'os tombe en ſa place, com- me tsvois par cette figure. signes de reduétion. - - le seiziéme liure, de la luxation du coulde, faite en la partie interieure . ch a p t r e xxxi i. # la luxation eſt faite en la partie interieure, pour la reduire il faut eſtendre fort le bras, & s = - le flechir ſoudainement & impetueuſement , de façon que la main touche droit ſur l'épaule du & bras luxé. aucuns mettent quelque choſe ronde & dure au ply du coulde , puis flechiſſent fort le bras , comme nous auons dit. de la luxation incomplete du conlde, faite en la partie ſuperieure ou inferieure . ºiºiºn ér si l'os du coulde eſt ſeulement quelque peu ſorty de ſa place en la partie ſuperieure ou inferieure, en le # º tirant & pouſſant vers ſa cauité, on le reduit facilement en cette façon. deux ſeruiteurs tiendront le bras " " eſtendu (l'vn par l'auant-bras,& l'autre par le braſſal) & le tireront chacun vers ſoy en parties contraires,& le chirurgien auec ſa main repouſſera l'os en ſon lieu. apres ces reductions faites,faut poſer le bras en figure d'angle droit, & le bander, & y appliquer remedes cy-deſſus mentionnez, puis le pendre au col auec vne eſcharpe , ainſi qu'auons dit en la luxation de l'épaule. hippocrate veut qu'apres la reduction de cette partie, le malade remue ſouuent ſon bras en figure prone & ſupine, & auſſi qu'il l'eſtende & flechiſſe: pareillement que quelquesfois il ſoufleue de ſa main quelque choſe peſante, afin d'adoucir & aſſoupir les ligamens qui lient cette iointure, de peur que les os ne s'yniſſent & coaleſcent enſemble par vne maniere de callus, nommé des grecs , ancyleſ : qui ſeroit cauſe que le malade ne pourroit iamais apres fiechir d'antyloſis. ny eſtendre le bras. ce que i'ay veu ſouuent aduenir, pour auoir eſté trop long-temps ſans auoir re- mué ladite jointure : parce que l'humeur viſqueux , qui eſt naturellement aux jointures , & autres ſuper- canſes b fluitez qui interuiennent à cauſe de la douleur, s'y endurciſſent, & font coller les os enſemble. parquoy pour obuier à tel accident, il faut remuer l'appareil de trois iours en trois iours, & commander au malade de remuer ſon bras en toutes manieres, toutesfois ſans nulle violence.icelle luxation eſt aſſeurée en vingt, ou vingt-cinq iours ou moins, ſelon les accidens qui ſeront interuenus. il faut d'auantage que le chirur- gien contemple, que lors que le coulde eſt hors de ſon lieu entierement, l'autre os nommé rayon, ſe dé- boete pareillement. partant en reduifant le coulde, il prendra garde de reduire le rayon en ſon lieu : & notera qu'en ſa partie ſuperieure il y a vne apophyſe qui eſt caue & ronde, qui reçoit l'os du haut du bras, & vne petite eminence où s'inſere le muſcle biceps. de la déloueure de l'extremité de l'os du coulde, appellée ſtyloide, qui eſt proche du carpe. c h a p t r e xxx i l i. # de la luxa- tiou du ray pres du cout- v e l o v e s f o s l'extremité ou apophyſe de l'os du coulde, appellée ſtyloïde, eſt ſeparée du rayon, quelquesfois en dedans, & quelquesfois en dehors, pour eſtre tombé de haut ſur les , mains. la maniere de la reduire ſera de le repouſſer en ſa place, & y faire bonne & ſeure ligature, ds. $ & y appliquer medicamens grandement aſtringens & deſiccatifs. mais encore qu'on faſſe toute sen. . ſea. choſes neceſſaires, ledit os ne ſe peut iamais bien reioindre & tenir à la place dont il eſt iſſu. ce qui eſt c . é ſen. confirmé par hippocrate au liure des articles, qui dit : quand le rayon eſt ſeparé de l'os du coulde, telle derniere ſect. ſeparation eſt incurable, comme toute autre diſtraction des os joints par ſymphyſe, c'eſt à dire, vnion: • des fract. pource que l'os ne peut bien demeurer en ſa place, à raiſon des ligamens qui ont eſté trop eſtendus & re- laſchés : ce que i'ay veu ſouuentesfois, quelque diligence qu'on y pût faire. de la luxation dn poignet. ch a p. xxxiv. il y a icypa- $ e poignet eſt la conjonâion du radius auec les huict os du carpe.en iceluy il y a double jointu- reille diſcor- # $ re, afin que l'vne ſupplée au defaut de l'autre. exemple, le mouuement circulaire, c'eſt à dire, dance en la $ tourner la main, en deſſus, en deſſous, ſe fait par le benefice du rayon, & la fluxion & extenſion nominatien º par le moyen de l'os du coulde. il ſe fait en iceluy luxation interieurement, exterieurement, & º,ºſpeces aux coſtez. le ſigne qu'elle eſt faite interieurement, c'eſt que la main demeure renuerſée : & lors qu'elle º l'eſt exterieurement , la main demeure flechie. et ſi elle eſt aux coſtez, la main eſt tournée au contraire,à # ſçauoirvers le poulce ou le petit doigt.auſſi quelquesfois il n'y a que l'vn des os luxez : qui ſe cºnnoiſtra § facilement par la figure viciée, & par l'action bleſſée. le moyen de reduire leſdits os, eſt, qu'il faut tenir entre l' § l'auant-bras , & titer aſſez fort la main , la ſituant ſur vne table, ou ſur quelque autre choſe ferme ,&fai, § §. ſant que la partie d'où l'os eſt luxé,ſoit au coſté inferieur d'où il eſt ſorty, & celle où il eſt luxé, au coſté ſe, & hipp. ſuperieur. puis faut pouſſer ſur les eminences des os,tant que la reduction ſoit bien faite. d ſent. .. ſect. . des art. que par auät ch. o. . de la luxation des os du carpe . ch a p. xxxv. signes. v carpe il y a huict oſſelets, leſquels par vne grande force peuuent ſortir de leur ſituation & conjonction naturelle. les ſignes ſont, qu'on trouue qu'ils font tumeur & cauité, ainſi que les # autres os luxez. le moyen de les reduire, eſt, qu'il faut faire ſituer la main du malade ſur vne table : & s'ils ſont luxez au dedans, on couchera la main ſur la table à la renuerſe : & lors le chi- rurgien preſſera de ſa main ſur les os eminens, & les reduira en leur lieu : & s'ils ſont luxez en dehors, le dedans de lamain ſera poſé ſur la table,& ſera preſſée comme deſſus :& ſi la luxation eſt vers vn des coſtez, on les repouſſera en la partie contraire & oppoſite : & la reduction faite, on y appliquera les remedes nc- ceſſaires : & ſera la main liée & bandée, & le bras poſé en eſcharpe. operation. \ % - t - |# # : des luxations. | de la luxatiow des os du metacarpe_ . c h a p. x x xv i. §v metacarpe il y a quatre os, deſquels les deux du milieu ne ſe peuuent luxer à coſté, à cauſe de comment ſe )leurs pareils ou compagnons.auſſi celuy qui ſouſtient l'index,& l'autre qui ſouſtient le petit doigt, peuuét luxer jne ſe peuuent luxer du coſté auquel ils ſont oppoſez à ceux du milieu, mais ſeulement de l'autre les os du me. §ousſe peuuent luxer en dedans & en dehors. la maniere de les reduire eſt ſemblable à celle du tacar?e. ， coſté : carpe. de la luxation des doigts. - c h a p. xxx vii. xyg e s doigts ſe luxent en quatre manieres; à ſçauoir,en la partie interieure,exterieure,& aux coſtez. la reduaion #, pour les reduire, il faut tirer & pouſſer de figure droicte, & parce moyen on les remettra en leur des doigts # lieu. ils ſont reduits facilement, parce que leurs jointures ſont peu caues, & auſſi qu'elles ſont ſu- luxez eſt fa. perficielles, & leurs ligamens laſches & foibles. cette luxation eſt communément affermie en eile. douze iours, ainſi que celle du carpe & metacarpe. de la luxation de la hanche_ . c h a p. xxx viii. a hanche ſe deſlouë en quatre façons ; à ſçauoir, en dedans, en dehors, en deuant, & en der- galien ſur la riere : mais le plus ſouuent en dehors & en dedans, en deuant & en derniere rarement. en ſent. , du cette jointure ne ſe peut faire luxation incomplette , principalement des cauſes exterieures, liu. des artº $ ainſi qu'il ſe fait au coulde, à la main,au genoüil, & à la cheuille des pieds, à cauſe que la teſte : de l'os de la cuiſſe eſt ronde, & que la cauité où il ſe loge à des bords tout autour : joint que les muſcles en cette partie ſont forts : & partant il ne ſe peut faire qu'vne partie ou portion de la teſte ſoit dedans ſa cauité, & l'autre dehors, pource qu'en tournant & mouuant elle retourneroit dans ſa boëte par , . la force des muſcles:mais és luxations faites de cauſe interne,elle peut eſtre incomplette,parce que les muf- cles & ligamens ſont relaſchez,& n'ont la force de ramener ledit os en ſa jointure ou cauité.le ſigne qu'el-signe, & le eſt desboettée en dedans , eſt que la jambe malade comparée à la ſaine ſe monſtre plus longue,& le ge- cauſe d'#. noüil plus abbaiſſé & tourné en dehors, & le malade ne peut plier la iambe : & auſſi qu'à l'endroit de l'ai- ceux. - ne on trouue manifeſtement la teſte de l'os femoris,qui y eſt arreſtée & retenuë.elle ſe monſtre plus longue, pource que la teſte dudit os n'eſt plus en ſa boëte, & eſt deſcenduë plus bas, partant la iambe s'alonge : auſſi le genoüil ſe tourne en dehors,parce que de neceſſité le bout inferieur de l'os femoris ſe tourne au contrai- re de ſa boete, qui eſtvne choſe commune à tous les os luxez; que quand il y a luxation d'vn coſté, l'autre extremité du meſme os eſt touſiours tournée vers la partie oppoſite à celle qui eſt luxée. partant quand la teſte de l'os de la cuiſſe eſt deſloüée en la partie interieure, l'autre extremité qui eſt au genoüil eſt neceſſai- rement tournée vers le dehors : & ainſi des autes parties. pareillement on ne peu plier la cuiſſe vers l'ai- gal. au lia. ne, à cauſe que l'os deſplacé tient les muſcles, qui font extenſion, ſi tendus,qu'ils ne peuuent obcyr à ceux du meuue- qui la doiuent plier : car la fluxion doit preceder l'extenſion, & l'extenſion la flexion. mët des muſ- cles. prognoſtic de la luxation de la hanche_>. c h a p. xx x i x. %$s vx luxations de la cuiſſe il y a danger, ou que l'os ſoit reduit mal aiſément, ou qu'eſtant re- n$ | n - - - \#duit ne tombe derechef car ſi les muſcles, tendons & ligamens de cette partie ſont forts & \% durs, à peine laiſſent ils reduire l'os en ſa place. pareillement s'ils ſont trop foibles, laxes & % mols, ils ne le peuuent tenir quand il eſt reduit : ſemblablement quand le ligament court & rond, qui ioint eſtroittement la teſte dudit os au fond de ſa cauité, eſt rompu ou relaſché. or ledit ligament ſe rompt par quelque violente forcé: & ſe relaſche par humidité glaireuſe pourquoy le & fuperfluë, amaſſée és parties voiſines de cette iointure qui l'abbreuuent & mollifient. et ſi ledit ligament ligament de eſt rompu, encore que l'os ſoit reduit, ne tient iamais , & retombé toufiours, quelque diligence qu'on y la manche ſe puiſſe faire : ce que i'ayveu pluſieurs fois s'il eſt ſeulement humecté & relaſche, apres l'auoir reduit, ſi on rompe, ou ſe peut conſummer & ſeicher l'humeur par medicamens, & par cauteres potentiels, ou actuels, appliquez au relaſche. tour de la iointure, l'os y demeure ferme, & ne retombe plus. donc pour le dire en vn mot, quand ce liga- ment eſt rompu ou trop relaſché, l'os ne peut tenir ferme en ſa boëte lors qu'il y eſt remis, principalement voyez gal. en ceux qui ſont maigres ; pource qu'icelle iointure n'eſt liée de ligamens par dehors, comme eſt la ſur laſen. . iointure du genoüil, & qu'il n'y a point d'aponeroſe, c'eſt à dire, tendons larges, comme nous auons dit. de la ſe#. . dauantage,les parties qui ſont pres d'vne luxation,quin'a eſté reduite,deuiennent en atrophie, c'eſt à dire, du liu. des qu'ils amaigriſſent, en ſorte que la chair des muſcles eſt extenuée & conſummée, à raiſon que l'os n'eſt en artic, ſon lieu : & partantladite partie ne peut faire ſon action : & auſſi que les veines, arteres, & nerfs, ne ſont pareillement en leur ſituation naturelle, qui garde que la nourriture, & les eſprits n'y peuuent ſuffiſamment reluire : & eſtant imbecile ne peut attirer & retenir, cuire, n'aſſimiler le nutriment. exemple. ceux qui ont pourquoy l'os femoris luxé,& n'a eſté reduit, ledit os ne croit plus comme les autres os du corps,& auſſi deuient plus l'os femoris court que celuy qui eſt en ſa boëte,pource qu'il eſt pres du lieu ou eſt le mal.toutesfois les os de la iâbe & ne croiſt du pied ne ſont empeſchez à croiſtre, d'autant qu'ils demeurent en leur ſituation naturelle. neantmoins la quand il eſt iambe leur deuient plus greſle, ceſt à dire, les muſcles atrophiez. autant s'en fait-il à l'os du haut du bras hors de ſa (ce qui eſt commun à toutes luxations non reduites ) lequel auſſi deuient plus court, & les muſcles plus ººº emaciez & conſummez que ceux du bas du bras, & de la main. et pour le dire en vn mot, les os qui font plus pres de la iointure luxée, deuiennent plus courts, & leurs muſcles plus atrophiez, parce que les eſprits & alimens ne peuuent eſtre portez en icelles parties:qui eſt cauſe qu'elles tombent en atrophie.or quand hip.dit plus courts, il faut entendre en ceux qui n'ont pas accomply leur croiſſance. car à ceux qui ſont belle annota- paruenus à leurs trois dimenſions , les os ne ſe peuuent accourcir, mais bien diminuer en groſſeur il faut tion. auſſi entendre que l'exercice de la main ſert grandement à ce que la chair de tout le bras demeure plus nour- rie, & principalement depuis le coulde iuſques aux doigts : mais quand l'os femoris eſt luxé, & principale- ment en la partie interieure, & que les enfans ſont encore au ventre de leurmere, ou qu'ils ſont en leur en- fance, les muſcles ſeront plus emaciez qu'aux bras, à raiſon qu'il ne ſe peuuent aider de la lambe,ny dupied, ºnla luxation de l'os femoris, comme ils font de la main, en la luxation de l'os du haut du bras. z) - o le seziéme liure, )uelle luxa- tion de la cuiſſe eſt plus tolerable. pourquoy les malades che- minent cöme les bœufs, - ace idens qu'amaine la deſloi'eure externe de l'os ſemoris. signe de la ! deſloüeure de f^ l'os femoris ou deuant. aecidens de telle deſloi . ſ f ' , pourquoy l'os femoris ra- rement ſe deſlouë en derriere. t- - de la luxation de la hanche, faite en dehors. ch a p. x l. v a n d la luxation de la cuiſſe eſt faite en dehors, & qu'elle demeure ſans eſtre remiſe, la , douleur auec le temps s'appaiſe, & la chair d'entour deuient calleuſe & dure, comme la main - des laboureurs & artiſans;& la teſte de l'os ſe forme, & fait vne cauité en laquelle elle ſe met; #$é de façon qu'auec le temps le malade peut cheminer ſans potence ou baſton. adonc la cuiſſe & - la jambe ne font tant atrophiées ou amaigries. mais ſi la luxation eſt faite au dedans, l'atro- phie ſera plus grande, d'autant que les vaiſſeaux qui de leur naturel vont & tirent touſiours plus vers le de- ans, comme note galien ſur la ſentence de la . ſection du liure des articles, ſont plus preſſez, & que la partie ne peut ſe mouuoir ny tourner c ötre l'os pubis,ou du penil.dauantage cette luxation n'eſtât point reduite, quelque temps apres les malades cheminent comme les bœufs; à ſçauoir, en tournoyant la jambe vers la partie du dehors. pareillement le malade eſtant ſouſtenu ſur la jambe luxée, ne peut demeurer en fi- gure droicte, mais oblique.auſſi la jambe ſaine fait peu d'eſpace quand elle ſe meut, à comparaiſon de cel- ie qui eſt luxée,parce que celle qui eſt luxée, fait ſon mouuement en tournoyant,& l'autre le fait ſans tour- noyer. pour cette cauſe les malades portent vne potence ou vn baſton, afin qu'ils ſoient appuyez ſur la partie malade, de peur qu'ils ne tombent en terre. dauantage ceux qui ont cét os luxé en dehors, ou en derriere, qui n'a pû eſtre reduit, par ſucceſſion de temps, la teſte dudit os rend la partie calleuſe, quiper- met que le jarret ſe plie ſans grande douleur, mais les malades ſe ſouſtiennent & marchent ſeulement ſur la racine des orteils. toutes fois ils ſont contraints de ſe courber en deuant,lors qu'ils cheminent bien fort, pource que la jambe eſt plus courte, & tiennent à chacun pas la main ſur la cuiſſe malade, à cauſe que # la teſte de l'os n'eſt pas droittement ſous le corps portant à plomb : neantmoins à la longue les malades b peuuent cheminer ſans potence ny baſton, lors qu'ils y ſont accouſtumez. pareillement la jambe ſaine par vne couſtume & vſage deuient difforme, pource qu'elle aide à la malade en s'appuyant en terre.en quoy fai- ſant, il eſt neceſſaire que la cuiſſe & le jarret ſoient courbez. au contraire, quand la luxation eſt faite en deuant, & n'a eſté reduite, & que le malade ( comme auons dit ) eſt paruenu à ſes trois dimenſions, l'os ayant accouſtumé de tourner au lieu auquel il eſt tombé, & que la partie eſt deuenue calleuſe & dure, alors il chemine ſans baſton , potence , ou croce, & marche du tout droit : pource que la jambe luxée ne ſe peut facilement plier, ny en l'aine, ny au jarret, & que les malades s'appuyent plus volontiers ſur le talon,qu'ils ne font ſur la racine des doigts des pieds. ie ne veux encores laiſſer en arriere de memorer que ſi cette luxa- tion, comme toutes les autres, eſt inueterée, iamais ne ſe peut reduire. or voila les ſignes & accidens qui viennent quand la luxation eſt faite en dedans, & que le ligament qui attache l'os en la cauité de la jointe, eſt rompu ou trop relaſché. les ſignes que la luxation eſt faite en dehors. cha , xli. m% o r s que la luxation eſt faite en dehors, les ſignes ſont contraires à la luxation faite en de- # dans. car la jambe malade eſt plus courte, d'autant que la teſte de l'os de la cuiſſe eſt au deſ- ſus eſleuée de ſa boëte, & que les muſcles là ſituez ſe retirent vers leur origine, & eux ſe re- # tirans, tirent encore pareillement l'os contre-mont : qui fait que la jambe eſt plus courte. | -- r> pareillement le genoüil & le pied ſe tournent en dedans : & ſi on veut faire marcher le mala- de, le talon ne peut toucher contre terre, mais ſeulement ſur le mol du pied, qui eſt en la racine des doigts. auſſi peut bien plier la jambe : ce qu'il ne ſçauroit faire, quand la luxation eſt faite au dedans. dauantage, la jambe malade porte mieux le corps, que quand la luxation eſt faite au dedans : parce la teſte de l'os eſt plus de ligne droite ſous le corps, qu'il n'eſt quand la luxation eſt faite au dedans : & auec le temps, ſi la luxation ne peut eſtre reduite, le malade chemine ſans baton, pource qu'il ne ſent plus de douleur, à raiſon que la teſte de l'os a broyé & rendu calleux & dur le lieu où il fait ſa demeure, n'eſtant plus en ſa propre place. alors auſſi la jambe s'extenuë & amaigrit moins que quand la luxation eſt faite au dedans , pource que l'os ne preſſe tant les vaiſſeaux, & auſſi qu'on la trauaille plus commodément. bref, quand la cuiſſe eſt luxée en la partie poſterieure, la jambe ſe flechit & ne ſe peut eſtendre : & quand elle eſt luxée en la partis anterieure , elle s'eſtend, mais elle ne ſe peut flechir. de la luxation faite en deuant. ch a p. xl ii. $ſ# a luxation en deuant ſe fait bien rarement. les ſignes ſont, qu'on trouue la teſte de l'os de la $ cuiſſe tombée ſurl'os du penil : dont on voit l'aine tumefiée,& la feſſe apparoiſt ridée & deſ- # charnée, à cauſe de la contraction des muſcles : auſſi que le malade peut eſtendre la jambe # ſans douleur, mais il ne la peut ployer versl'aine, à cauſe que le muſcle anterieur, qui naiſt de é é\s\ſ^ l'os ilion, eſt preſsé de la teſte de 'os qui ne ſe peut eſtendres & ſile malade eſt contraint de flechir le jarret, il ſent grande douleur : & lors qu'on fait comparaiſon de la jambe malade auec la ſaine, on les trouue égales en longueur. neantmoins le malade ne ſe peut ſouſtenir ſur la racine des orteils : & ſi on veut i'efforcer de le faire marcher, il ne ſe peut appuyer que deſſus le talon. dauantage le bout du pied ne ſe peut tourner vers la partie anterieure. souuentesfois en cette luxation l'vrine eſt ſupprimée, à cauſe que la teſte de l'os preſſe les grands nerfs, deſquels naiſſent ceux qui vont à la veſſie : laquelle ſe reſſentant de la douleur, tombe en inflammation, qui afflige le muſcle sphincter de la veſſie : qui fait que pendant icel- le inflammation, l'vrine ne peut paſſer qu'à grande difficulté, parce que les parties enflammées & tumefiées- ferment le paſſage de l'vrine. - de la luxation faite en derriere_ . c h a p. x l iii. # areillement la luxation faite en derriere vient rarement, parce que la partie poſterieure de la #$ boëte de la hanche eſt fort profonde, comme l'anterieur l'eſt beaucoup moins : au moyen dequoy $n* la luxation faite au dedans eſt plus frequente que nulle des autres. les ſignes ſont, que le mala- de ne peut eſtendre la iambe, & auſſi il ne la peut plier, à cauſe que les muſcles qui ſont autour de la teſte - de l des luxations. q a de l'os ſont grandement preſſez & tendus : & la douleur s'augmente quând il veut ployer le iarret, à raiſon b c qu'on tire les muſcles d'auantage. pareillement la jambe malade eſt plus courte que la ſaine : & quand on preſſe ſur la f ſſe, on trouue la teſte de l'os prominente entre les muſcles feſſieres : & trouue on cauité en l'aine,dont eſt trouuée laſche & molle quand on la touche : & le talon ne peut toucher en terre, parce que la teſte de l'os eſt cachée entre les muſcles de la feſſe,qui la retirent contre-mont,& principalement le gros muſcle feſſier,qui fait le couſſinet de la feſſe,lequel en cette luxation eſt plus preſsé que nul des autres qui fait que le malade ne peut flechir le genoüil, à cauſe que le flechiſſant on fait grande extenfion de l'apone- roſe,ou tendon large,qui couure le genoüil.et ſi le malade s'efforce de ſe retenir ſur le pied de la cuiſſe lu- xée ſans quelque appuy, il tombe en derriere, parce que le corps panche en cette partie,à cauſe que la teſte de l'os n'eſt pas droittement au deſſous du corps pour l'étançonner : & pour cette raiſon il faut qu'il s'ap- puye ſur vne potence poſée ſeus l'aiſſelle du coſté luxé.apres auoir ſuffiſamment deſcrit les ſignes,accidens, prognoſtic,& diuerſité des luxations faites en la hanche,maintenant il reſte à eſcrire & monſtrer la maniere de reduire l'os,ſelon la diuerſité des lieux où il tóbe, auec la meilleure methode, & la plus briefue qu'il me ſera poſſible.premierement il faut ſituer le malade ſur vn banc, ou ſur vne table (mettant deſſous luy quel-. que matelas ou ouuerture de lict, de peur qu'il ne ſoit preſsé) ou à la renuerſe, ou ſur le vcntre, ou ſur le coſté : de façon que la partie où l'os eſt forjetté,ſoit toûjours la plus haute, & celle d'où il eſt ſorty,la plus baſſe.exemple. si la luxation eſt faite en dehors ou en derriere,faut ſituer le malade ſur le ventre.si elle eſt faite en dedans, le faut ſituer à la renuerſe ſur le dos. si elle eſt faite en deuant, il faut le ſituer ſur le coſté ſain. et l'os ſera toûjours tiré & pouſſé vers la jointe, pour le chaſſer dedans. si la luxation eſt recente, ou que ce ſoit vn ieune enfant, ou femme, ou autres qui ont naturellement les jointures laxes, il ne ſera beſoin comme il faut ſituer le malade ayât l'os de la bä- che luxé en deuant ou ens derriere. pour reduire l'os de faire grande extenſion par liens:mais la ſeulemain du chirurgien ſuffira : ou bien on ſe . contentera d'vne forte liziere, ou d'vne portion d'vne nappe ou ſeruiette:& auec ccrtaines compreſſes mi- ſes entre les jambes, à ſçauoir,autour de lajointure de la hanche, ſera tenu fermement. puis le chirurgien tirera la cuiſſe de droitte ligne au deſſus du genoüil, vis à vis de la boëte d'où l'os eſt iſſu : & par ce moyen ſera reduit, pourueu qu'on tire vn peu plus haut la teſte de l'os, de peur que les bors de ſa cau,:é n'engar- dent eſtre remis, ſi elle n'eſtoit tirée & leuée vn peu plus haut que ſa cauité. où l'os ne ſera aſſez tiré, on doit eſtre aſſeuré qu'il ne pourra eſtre reduit. partant il faut plutoſt pecher à tirer vn peu plus que trop peu, toutesfois il ſe faut bien garder de trop tirer, de peur de rompre quelque muſcle ou tendon, ou autre partie nerueuſe:& où on ne pourra reduire l'os par la ſeule main,à lors faudra vſer de machine,comme no- ſtre moufle attachée à deux poteaux, & la corde tirée tant qu'il en ſoit beſoin, or cependant qu'on fera ces reductions violentes par machines, ne faut que les parens & amis du malade ſoient preſens, s'il eſt poſſi- ble, comme eſtant vn ſpectacle odieux à voir, & ouyr crier le malade : & auſſi que le chrirurgien ſoit aſ- ſeuré, non piteux, ne craintif, lors qu'il fera la reduction, & ne ſoit tellement eſmeu par la clameur du ma- lade , ny moins des aſſiſtans : & que pour cela il ne ſe haſte point plus qu'il ne doit, pource que celuy ſe- roit grand deſ-honneur n'auoir pû reduire l'os, & auſſi grand dommage au malade. apres auoir ainſi diſ- couru des luxations de la hanche, il faut pour l'inſtruction du ieune chirurgien (auquel cét eſcrit s'a- dreſſe ) les deduire particulierement,-pour plus grande intelligence, commençant à celle qui eſt faite en dedans de la cuiſſe. - t la maniere de reduire la luxation de la cuiſſe faite en dedans. -" . ch a p t r e xl iv. l faut eſtendre le malade ſur vne table, ou ſur vn banc, comme nous auons dit. au milieu d'i- celuy ſera poſée vne cheuille droit entre les cuiſſes, longue d'vn pied, & groſſe comme le manche - s d'vne houé, garnie de quelque choſe molle, de peur qu'elle ne bleſſe le malade. cette cheuille ſert, à fin que le corps eſtant arreſté contre icelle, ne ſuiue & n'obeyſſe point quand on tirera,& auſſi que lors qu'on fera l'extenſion, elle ſe rencontre entre la teſte de l'os & le perinæum, que d'alechamps en ſa chirurgie françoiſe appelle l'entrefeſſon. ce faiſant, il n'eſt grand beſoing faire autre contr'extenſion aux ' parties ſuperieures. d'abondant quand on tire le malade, cette cheuille aide à rechaſſer & pouſſer l'os auecques vn peu d'aide de la main du chirurgien, qui en virant & donnant le tour ça & là, aide à remettre l'os en ſon lieu. or quand il faut tirer & contre-tirer, il faut auoir des liens qu'auons par cy-deuant écrits en la reduction de l'épaule, ou tiſſu, ou quelque liſiere forte, conduits par deſſus l'épaule : l'vn deſquels ſera poſé au deſſus de la jointure de la hanche, & au defaut de la cheuille, on mettra vn lien au tour de la jointure de hanche, tenu par vn homme fort : & l'autre lien ſera poſé au deſſus du genoüil, lequel ſera pareillement tiré contre bas par vn autre homme, tant & fi fort qu'on verra eſtre beſoin.auſſi ſe faut don- ner garde, que le lien qui tient la partie luxée, ſoit ſur la teſte de l'os qu'on veut reduire, parce qu'il em- peſcheroit qu'il ne pourroit r'entrer en ſa place. cette maniere d'extenſion eſt commune aux quatre eſpe- ces de la luxation de la cuiſſe, mais en chacune d'icelles particulierement il faut changer la maniere de re- pouſſer l'os en ſa boëte, ſelon les parties où elle decline, à ſçauoir le pouſſant & tournant en dehors,quand la luxation eſt au dedans : & au dedans,quand elle eſt au dehors : ce que nous deduirons particulierement, & chacune eſpece à par-ſoy. or aucuns r'habilleurs & renoüeurs de village, lors qu'ils veulent reduire cette luxation, font la ligature au pied, & par ce moyen la jointure du pied & du genoüil ſont plus eſten- dues que celle de la hanche luxée, pource qu'elles ſont plus pres du lien qui eſt attaché au pied: & partant ſans nulle occaſion ils font extenſion à la jointure du pied, & à celle du genoiiil , dont pluſieurs accidens aduiennent. parquoy icy noteras, qu'on ne doit attacher les liens au pied, mais au deſſus de la jointure du genoüil, & en la luxation de l'épaule, nullement la faire à la main,mais au deſſus du coulde ſeulement. wr，r - la maniere de reduire la luxation de la cuiſſe, faite au dedans, par machines, lors que la "，- main du chirurgien n'eſt aſſez ſuffiſante . c h a p. , xlv. # i la luxation eſt faite au dedans, apres auoir ſitué deuëment le corps, & tenu la partie malade, il n$ # faut mettre deſſus l'aine quelque choſe ronde, & ſoudain par deſſus icelle on tire le genoüil du # malade, en pliant fort & preſſant ſur la teſte de l'os vers ſa boëte, & tirant le genoüil & la jambe º^ à l'endroit de l'aine, & la menant au dedans vers l'autre jambe le plus qu'il ſera poſſible : & par ce - moyen on reduit l'os en ſa place, comme tu vois par cette figure. auſſi · obſeruation digne d'eſtre bien notés. operation pour la re- dučtion. obſeruation digne d'eſire notée au chirurgien. operation. le seiziéme licire, - choſe digne .. auſſi noteras en cette luxation, & autres, apres auoir tiré l'os ſuffiſamment d'entre les muſcles, & auoir b d'eſtre notée. signes. bandage. situation de ia iambe. : facilité de reduction en la déloueure de l'os femo- ris en dekors. fait extenſion des ligamens, afin qu'ils cedent, faut laſcher la corde & ne plus tirer : ou autrement la re- duction ne ſe pourra faire pour la trop grande extenſion qu'on feroit aux muſcles, tendons & ligamens, qui ne pourroient obeyr à la main du chirurgien. les ſignes que la luxation eſt reduite, ſont que les iam- bes ſont de pareille longueur : auſſi que le malade plie & eſtend ſa iambe ſans douleur ny peine.apres qu'on ſera aſſeüréºl'os eſtre reduit, on appliquera les remedes qui ont eſté par cy-deuant eſcrits , puis on com- mencera toûjours le bandage ſur le lieu où eſtoit l'eminence de l'os deplacé, & ſera mené & conduit vers la partie oppoſite & ſaine, paſſant ſur les reins par derriere, & ſur le ventre par deuant et ne faut oublier de mettre vne groſſe compreſſe dedans l'aine, qui tiendra l'os ferme en ſa cauité : auſſi les torches de pail- le longue iuſques au talon, comme nous auons monſtré en la fracture de la cuiſſe. d'auantage faut lier les deux cuiſſes enſemble, afin que la partie luxée demeure encore plus ſtable ſans ſe mouuoir.et ne faut oſter ce premier appareil de quatre ou cinq iours, s'il eſt poſſible, ſçauoir eſt, qu'il n'y euſt quelque accident qui contraigniſt de ce faire. faut auſſi faire tenir le malade trente iours dans le lict, afin que les muſcles, nerfs, & ligamens, qui ont eſté relaſchez, ſe fortifient : de peur qu'en cheminant trop toſt, l'os me ſe de- miſt derechef. quand à la ſituation de la iambe, elle doit eſtre tenuë en figure moyenne ; c'eſt à dire, entre droite & courbée : autrement ne pourroit longuement demeurer en figure droite ſans cauſer douleur, à cauſe des muſcles qui ſeroient trop long-temps tenus tendus. la maniere de reduire la luxation à la cuiſſe faite en dehors. - c h a p t r e xlv i. va n d la luxation eſt faite en dehors, il faut ſituer le malade ſur vne table , ou ſur vn banc, garny comme nous auons dit par cy-deuant : ayant le ventre deſſus la table, & faire les ligatures a$ à la hanche luxée, & au deſſus du genoüil. cela fait, faut tirer contre-bas, & contre-tirer con- #s tre-mont : & le chirurgien pouſſera du dehors en dedans l'os en ſa place : & fi la main n'eſt aſſez forte, on s'aydera de noſtre moufle, comme tu vois par cette figure. cette luxation eſt la plus facile à eſtre reduite de toutes les autres de la cuiſſe : tellement que i'ay veu quelquesfois ayant fait l'extenſion, qu'en laſchant les muſcles,ils iettoient la teſte de l'os en ſa cauité, ſans aucunement pouſſer : à cauſe que naturellement ils ſe retirent vers leur origine : & l'os rentrant dedans ſa boëte ne fait quelquesfois aucun bruit, & quelquesfois fait bruit, faiſant cloq : qui eſt vn ſigne cer*ain que l'os eſt r'entré dans ſa cauité. apres cette reduction faite, on appliquera les remedes cy-deſſus mention- nez. et pareillement ne ſera oublié de mettre vne compreſſe ſur la iointure, & la ligature, & les torches de paille, afoſi qu'auqns enſeigné par cy-deuant. - des luxations. la maniere de reduire la luxation de la cuiſſefaite en deuant , cha p. xl v i ſ - n( ila luxation eſt faite en deuant, faut ſituer le malade ſur le coſté ſain, & le lier atnſi qu'auons dit. la force du # puis le chirurgien , mettra vne compreſſe deſſus la teſte de l'os qui fait éminence, laquelle ſera geneiºil peut tenue fermement par vn ſeruiteur. puis ayant fait l'extenſion ſuffiſante , le chirurgien auec la trandement - main pouſſera la teſte de l'os en ſa boëte & ſi la main n'eſt aſſez forte, la pouſſera auec le genoüil, º*** tant qu'elle ſoit reduite : & eſtant reduite ſera traittée & bandée ainſi qu'auons enſeigné cy-deſſus. luxatione la maniere de reduire la luxation de la cuiſſe faite en derriere , cha p. xlviii. $y e malade ſera pareillement couché ſur le vétre deſſus vn banc,ou vne table,& tiré ainſi qu'il a eſté #- dit des autres luxations de cette partie : le chirurgien pouſſera de ſes mains l'eminence de l'os en ſa jointure,en prenant le genoüil du malade, & le tirant en dehors, le reculant, ou ſeparant de la jambe ſaine & bien qu'il ſoit reduit en ſon lieu,ſieſt-ce qu'il ne peut demeurer, ſi le malade n'eſt il faut con- couché & bien bandé,à cauſe que la cauité de la boete de l'iſchion va en baiſſant,& que la charge de toute # #: la cuiſſe,qui y eſt pendue, eſt peſante,& partât töberoit derechef de ſon lieu,ſile malade vouloit cheminer. peration. operation. de la luxation de la roiielle du genoiiil. c h a p. xl i x. # a rouëlle du genoüil ſe peut deſloüer en dedans, en dehors, en deſſus, en deſſous,& non iamais ſ# en derriere,parce que les os qu'elle couure ne le permettêt.pour la reduire,il faut que le malade # s'appuye ſur le pied de la partie luxée,en terre vnie,ou ſur vne table:puis le chirurgien la pouſſe- $ $ ra de ſes mains du coſté où elle encline:& l'ayant reduite faut réplir la cauité du jarret de cópreſſes - - de telle groſſeur que le malade ne puiſſe plier la jambe:car la ployant, on la fait derechefſortir de ſon lieu. # il faut pareillement on mettra vne aſtelle vn peu caue & ronde, comme eſt la figure de la roüelle,posée du coſté # - - - - - / , vers lequel elle eſtoit deplacée:& les remedes propres ſont appliquez, & auec le bâdage ſera tenuë ſi ferme qu'elle ne puiſſe tourner çà ou là. apres auoir tenu le genoüil aſſez en repos,faut que le malade commen- ce peu à peu à fieſchir le genoüil,iuſques à ce qu'il connoiſſe que le mouuement de cette partie luy ſoit aisé. reduâion, --* de la deſlouèure du genoiiil. c h a p. , l. % e genoüil ſe peut luxer en trois manieres, à ſçauoir, en dedans, en dehors, & derriere : en de- $ uant rarement,n'eſtoit par vne extreme violence, pource que la roüelle l'empeſche,laquelle pourquºy le \ ) $ tient les os de cette partie fermes. les autres manieres ſe font aisément » à raiſon que la co- #enoºil ſe >(és che, ou cauité du bout de l'os de la cuiſſe, eſt caue comme vne goutierre , & auſſi eſt fort * # /%je f e) ſſe. ns,dehers derriere. liſſe & gliſſante, & pareillement que ſa fracture eſt moins ſerrée que la iointure dit coulde,& partant il ſe luxe & reduit plus aisément les cauſes de cette luxation ſont pour tomber de haut, ou ſauter, dr ou courir trop viſte. les ſignes ſont,que le malade ne peut plier la jambe contre la cuiſſe, c'eſt à dire , mett e le talon contre la feſſe. les luxations qui ſe font au genoüil, en dedans & en dehors , pour les reduire faut faire vne mediocre signes. extenſion, & pouſſer l'os du coſté où il ſera fortjetté, tant qu'il ſoit en place. la maniere il faut faire aſſeoir le malade ſur vne eſcabelle, ou ſur vn banc de moyenne hauteur, le dos tourné con- de reduire le tre le viſage du chirurgien, lequel luy mettra ſa jambe entre les deux ſiennes,& de ſes deux mains la pliera tºººº contre ja feſſe esſipar ce moyen ne ſe peut reduire, faut auoir vne plotte faitte d'vne bande roulée,& l'at-ºº cr tacher au milieu d'vn baſton:& icelle ſera poſsée par vn ſeruiteur au ply du iarret ſur l'os eminent,& pouſsé # en deuant & vn autre ſeruiteur mettra ſur le genoüil vne bande ou quelque liziere large de trois doigts # mon au ge- puis deſes deux mains la tirera contre mont:& tous enſemble tout à coup plieront la iambe & le talon con-§i faite -tre la cuiſſe ou la feſſe. toutes ces choſes ſeruent à reduire telle luxation faite en derriere. en derriere de la luxation du genoiiilfaite en deuant ch a p. li. # i la luxation eſt faite en deuant, il faut ſituer le malade ſur vne table, & faire deuë ligature au deſ- # ſus de la jointure du genoüil, & au d}ſſus du pied. puis le chirurgien pouſſera de ſes deux mains ſur l'os tant qu'il ſoit reduit. et ſi les mains ne ſont aſſez ſuffiſantes pour tirer & contre tirer, l'on vſc- ra de noſtre machine, comme tu vois par cette figure. a le seziéme liure, le ſigne qu'il eſt reduit, eſt que le malade fleſchit & eſtend ſa jambe ſans douleur. apres la reduction, on appliquera les remedes & compreſſes, & fera on les ligatures ainſi qu'il eſt re- duis & deffendra on au malade de cheminer ſur ſa jambe, iuſques à ce qu'on verra eſtre beſoin. de l'os pero- mé entr'ou- uert érluxé. de la luxation & diſionction de l'os peroné, autrement dit petit focile de la jambe . c h a p t r e l i i. e petit focile de la jambe eſt aposé ſans cauité contre le gros focile, à ſçauoir en la partie ſupe- ， rieure pres le genoüil , & en bas pres l'aſtragale, & ſe p eut luxer, deſioindre, & entr'ouurir deſ- ſites parties en trois manieres,à ſçauoir en la partie anterieure,& aux deux coſtez.cela ſe fait com- munément lors qu'en cheminant on ſe meſmarche,& que le pied faut,& ſe tourne en dedans,ou en dehors, & le corps s'appuyant au deſſus,fait qu'il entr'ouue, deprime & luxe. auſſi telle choſe ſe peut faire pour ' n w cauſes. - - - - tomber de haut,ou pour quelque grand coup orbre. pareillement quelquecfois ſes epiphyſes ſe deſioignent & ſe rompent. or pour les faire tenir & ioindre enſemble, elles ſeront reduites par la main du chirurgien operation. en les pouſſant en leur fituation naturelle : & les faut puis apres bien bander & mettre des compreſſes au coſté auquel le petit focile a eſté peruerty,commençant la ligature deſſus la luxation,pour les raiſons pre- dites:& le malade gardera le lict quarante iours, & tant qu'on cognoiſtra les ligamens eſtre bien affermis, de la luxation du grand focile auec l'aſtragale . ch a f. l iii. b l l ſe fait auſſi luxation du grand focile d'auec l'aſtragale, tant au dedans du pied, qu'au de- hors. on la cognoiſt par l'eminence trouuée au coſté où la luxation eſt faite. s'il n'y a que signes. ^ = luxation incomplette, & que l'os ne ſoit qu'vn peu ſeparé, adonc la reduction ſera facile, en - pouſſant ſeulement l'os en ſon lieu : & apres la reduction, faut appliquer des compreſſes & operation. >^ſéss ligatures comme il eſt beſoin , à ſçauoir, en appoſant & tournant la bande au coſté oppoſite à la luxation , comme nous auons declaré cy-deuant , afin qu'on repouſſe l'os en ſon lieu d'ou il eſt ſorty & ſe faut garder de trop comprimer le gros tendon qui eſt au tallon.ladite luxation eſt affermie en quaran- te iours communément , s'il n'yaduient aucun mauuais accident. cauſ de la luxation du talon. c h a p. l iv. / / .j, pourquoy le v a n d on ſaute de bien haut lieu,& qu'on tombe ſur le talon,adonc l'os du talon ſe luxe,& talon ſe luxe ! #è) , s'eſloigne de l'os nommé aſtragale. telle luxation ſe fait plus communément vers la partiein- plus en de- t $ terieure qu'exterieure,à cauſe que le petit focile paſſe & embraſſe l'aſtragale,qui eſt cauſe qui ºnt . #é le tient plus fort que de l'autre coſté,où il n'y a telle apodiation oueſtanceure.la reduction ſe operations. fera en tirant & pouſſant les os en leur lieu naturel : laquelle eſt aſſez facile,pourueu qu'il n'y ait grande fluxion & inflammation.quant au bandage qu'on y fera,il faut plus preſſer ſur le mal qu'en autre c part,afin d'expehler le ſang du lieu bleſsé aux parties voiſines,toutesfois ſans cauſer douleur que le moins qu'on pourra,ſe donnant garde de trop preſſer les nerfs,& le gros tendon qui eſt au talon,côme nous auons dit. il faut que le malade ſoit à repos par l'eſpace de quarante iours pour le moins,encore qu'il n'y ſuruien- ne nuls accidensice qui ſe fait ſouuét par la contuſion faite en cette partie,parquoy eft bon en faire chapitre. - - - - —- des accidens qui viennent par la contuſion faite au talon. ch a p. l v. s( @ r pour cette grande contuſion les veines & arteres jettent du ſangau trauers de leurs tuniques,& s()º par leurs petits orifices.au moyé dequoy ſe fait vné ecchymoſe,c'eſt à dire,meurtriſſeure au lieu cauſe d'in- # de la jointure,& au talon & alors ſuruient grande douleur& tumeur,parquoy il eſt expedient d'y flammation ^snsns remedier qui ſe fera en ordônant bon regime,ſaignée,& purgations s'il en eſt beſoin,y appliquât ., la # auſſi des remedes propres,& principalement en attenuant le cuir qui eſt ſous le talon,s'il eſt trop dur(côme loueure du naturellement il eſt)par fomentation d'eau chaude & huyle:meſme le faut couper,s'il eſt trop calleux,aſſez falon. profondement auec vn raſoir,éuitant la chairviue.telles choſes ſe font afin que le cuir ſoit plus tranſpira- pourquoy il faut couper le cuir qui eſt ſous le t - talon la carie du talon cauſe de grands accidents. signes. ble, & que la reſolution de la meurtriſſeure ſe puiſſe mieux faire. et faut qu'au talon ces choſes ſoient faites deuant que l'inflammation y ſoit ſuruenue,de peur qu'il n'y ſuruiennent ſpaſme : car le ſangiſſu hors de fes vaiſſeaux ſe pourrit, pource que la partie pour ſa denſité ne permet qu'il ſe puiſſe bien exhaler & reſoudre, & auſſi que le gros tendon,qui eſt attaché ſous le talon,eſt fort ſenſible.joint qu'il y a des nerfs qui paſſent en ſes parties laterales.ce que i'ay monſtré en l'anatomie vniuerſelle.l'inflammation vient pareillement en cette partie pour trop longuement demeurer à la renuerſe,& eſtre appuyé & couché deſſus, & principale- ment ſur vne choſe dure, ainſi qu'auons declaré en la fracture de la jambe, parlans de la ſituation du talon. parquoy le chirurgien y procedera comme il eſt dit,de peur qu'il n'y ſuruienne apoſteme,& par conſequent carie. car par icelle il ſuruient pluſieurs accidens,comme fiévre continue,aigue,& d'icelle s'enſuit tremble- ment,ſanglot,& delire. car par la carie de cét os les parties proches qui l'enuironnent communiquent leur mal aux parties nobles,pource que le gros tendon,fait des trois muſcles du pommeau de la jambe,eſtant en- flammé , communique l'infammation auſdits muſcles,& aux nerfs qui ſont diſtribuez par iceux.auſſi lesar- teres qui ſont ſemblablement preſsés & eſchauffés , communiquent leur chaleur au cœur : dont s'enſuit fiévre, & par les nerfs diſtenſion , ſpaſme & ſanglot , à cauſe des nerfs qui ſont diſtribuez à l'eſtomach, lequel eſt auſſi nerueux, & pareillement aux nerfs qui ſont diſtribuez aux muſcles de la reſpiration. pour le dire en vn mot, lors qu'il y a carie, c'eſt à dire, pourriture en l'os du talon, ce mal eſt incurable. de la luxation de l'os aſtragale, ceſt à dire de l'oſſelet. cha p. l v i. # 'os aſtragale ſe peut luxer en toutes parts : & quand il fe place en dedans, le deſſous du pied ſe re- tourne en dehors : & quand il ſe deplace au contraire , le figne eſt auſſi contraire, et s'il eſt luxé en deuant , le gros tendon qui s'implante au talon, eft dur & tendu. et s'il eſt luxé en derriere , l'os du talon eſt preſque caché au dedans du pied : & telle luxation eſt faite par vne extreme violence. -- --- - --- - -- • on • • • ! : , - t - - - des luxations. on le reduit auec les mains, en tirant & pouſſant par grande force le pied aux parties oppoſites d'où il ſera - - deplacé. aprcs la reduction, on appliquera remedes & ligatures propres. il faudra que le malade garde ce qu il ſaur longuement le lict, parce que cét oſſelet ſouſtient tont le corps:& n'eſtans point encores les ligamens qui faire apres le tiennent retournez en leur premiere force, & cedans au faix qu'ils portent, il y auroit danger que de re- la reduéiiom. chef ne ſortiſt hors de ſon lieu. de la luxation des os du tarſe, & du pedium. c h a p. lvii. e s os du tarſe & du pedium ſe peuuent pareillement luxer, & la luxation ſe fait quelquesfois ſous le pied, autresfois deſſus,& aucuns d'iceux aux coſtez.si on les void eſtre eminens & eſleuez \% ſur le pied, faut que le malade appuye ſon pied ſur quelque ais : puis que le chirurgien preſſe %sÉs ſur l'os eminent tant qu'il ſoit remis en ſon lieu.au contraire , ſi l'eminence eſt trouuée ſous le pied, il faut faire le ſemblable, c'eſt à ſçauoir,preſſer l'os par deſſous tant qu'il ſoit reduit. et s'ils ſont aux coſtez, on les preſſera, de ſorte qu'on les reduira en leur lieu naturel. - comment ſe luxèt le tar ſe & pedià - , - a de la luxation des os de la plante du pied, & des orteils. c h a p. lvii i. mtz e s doigts du pied ſe luxent en quatre manieres, comme les doigts de la main : & la maniere r,duäien. ))# de les reduire eſt auſſi ſemblable, qui eſt de les tirer de ligne droitte, & les pouſſer en leur # iointure, & les bander commodément. et pour le preſage, ils ſont reduits facilement, à cauſe proneſiic. - # que la ſortie de leur lieu eſt petite. toute la curation eſt pareille à celle des doigts de la main, #. º^ horsmis qu'il faut garder le lict pour le pied,& pour la main mettre le bras en eſcharpe.il faut ce qu'il faut commander au malade de ſe repoſer par l'eſpace de vingt iours, plus ou moins , à ſçauoir, iuſques à ce faire apres qu'il ſe puiſſe aisément ſoutenir deſſus. - l'eperation. —- -* des complications & accidens qui peuuentſuruenir à la partiefracturée ou luxée. c h a p i t r e. l i x. - º cn n r il ya pluſieurs complications de maladies & accidens, qui ſouuent accompagnent les fra- $ ctures & luxations : comme contuſion, douleur extreme,inflammation,fiévre,apoſteme, gan- , grene, eſthiomene, vlcere, fiſtule, alteration,& carie aux os, attrophie,ou amaigriſſement de % la partie, deprauation de l'action des parties,& autres : leſquelles requierent pour leur cu- ^ ration grande methode & diligence. quant à la contuſion,elle eſt faite lors que quelque cho- ſe groſſe & peſante tombe ſur vne partie, ou par tomber dehaut en bas, dont ſe fait effufion de ſang:lequel, s'il eſt en grande quantité, ſera ſubit euacué par fcarifications, afin de deſcharger la partie,de peur qu'elle ne tombe en gangrene & pourriture : & d'autant qu'on cognoiſtra le ſang eſtre plus gros,& le cuir eſpais, cauſe de la les ſcarifications ſeront faites plus profondes : & y peut-on ſemblablement mettre des ſanſguës. or nous douleur. auons parlé cy-deuant de la douleur, ſçauoir eſt, qu'elle ſe fait au moyen que les os ne ſont en leur lieu | naturel, faiſans ponction & compreſſion aux muſcles & parties nerueuſes, dont l'inflammation ſuruient, & - par confequent la fiévre, & ſouuent apoſteme, pour la defluxion & inflammation : & de l'inflammation gangrene, de gangrene eſthiomene, puis vlcere & fiſtule : de fiſtule,carie & pourriture aux os. l'atrophie, ou amaigriſſement vient d'auoir trop long-temps tenu la partie en repos & auſſi pour l'auoit tenu liée:car cauſe d'a- telles choſes priuent la partie d'aliment, parce que le ſang & eſprit ſont comprimez & empeſchez de tom- trophie. ber en la partie. - - pour la cure de l'atrophie,ſ la partie eſt trop liée,on la deſliera : & ſi elle peut eftre exercée, on le fera, º**- en l'eſtendant, flechiſſant,hauſſant & baiſſant, & tournant : car par ces moyens la chaleur naturelle ſera ex- phie. citée , & par conſequent les eſprits reluyront plus abondamment en icelle. et où la partie ne pourra eſtre exercée, faut faire des frictions,& fomentations d'eau chaude. les frictions ſeront moderées , ſçauoir eſt, # d ü entre dures & molles, auſſi entre celles qui ſe font trop briefuement, & trop long temps.quant à la qua- # i， # lité de l'eau pour les fomentations, il faut pareillement qu'elle ſoit moyenne entre la fort chaude, & celle § qui eſt tiede.auſſi ne faut faire la fomentation trop longuement, ny trop peu : pource que ſi on la faiſoit & friction :, trop longuement, on pourroit reſoudre ce qu'on auroit attiré : & ſi on la fait peu de temps, on attire peu, pour reparer ou rien. apres la fomentation on appliquera medicamens chauds & emplaſtiques, faits de poix, de tere- vne partie bentine, euphorbe, pyrethre, ſouphre, & leur ſemblables, tel que ceſtuy-cy : leſquels faudra remuer tous atrºphiée. lesiours, plus ou moins, ſelon qu'on verra eſtre neceſſaire. - . %. picis nigra, ammoniaci, bdel. gummi electi in aqua vitæ diſſol.an. .ij. olei laurini .j. pul. piperis, drapax. zingiberis,granorum paradiſi, baccaruni lauri, & iuniperi an. .ij.fiat emplaſt.ſecund.artem, extendatur ſu- peralutam.dauantage faut bander & lier l'autre partie ſaine,toutesfois ſans douleur.exemple:si le bras dex- ligature. tre eſt atrophié,on bandera le ſeneſtre commençant à la main,& finiſſant à l'aiſſelle:& ſi c'eſt la iâbe dextre, on liera la ſeneſtre,commençant au pied,& finiſſant à l'aine,car en ce faiſant on renuoye vne portion du ſang & eſprits en la veine caue:& d'elle eſtât pleine,il en ſera renuoyée enla partie atrophiée,en laquelle les vait- ſeaux ne ſont rempſis,mais aucunement vuides. pareillement faut que la partie ſaine foit en repos,afin que l'aliment y fluë moins.or il conuient en faire aller beaucoup de la partie emaciée, d'autant qu'elle eſt vui- ( de,& auſſi pour l'aliméter.dauantage vne partie atrophiée peut eſtre reſtaurée en la liât & ſerrât mediocre- mét:car ainſi on attirera le ſang,comme quand nous voulons faire vne faignée,nous lions les bras,ou iam- bes, pour attirer le ſang aux veines. plus, on peut faire ſouuent tremper la partie atrophiée dans de l'eau, vn peu plus chaude que tiede, & l'y tenir iuſques à ce qu'elle ſe tumefie, & rougiſſe : & par ce moyen on cauſe ae centuſio». methode de - , attire le ſang aux veines : ce qui ſe void quand nous voulons ouurir les veines des mains & des pieds. or lors que par les remedes cy-deſſus mentionnez, les parties atrophiées s'efchauffent , rougiſſent, & en- fient, c'eſt ſigne de guariſon, au contraire non : & partant les faut laiſſer, & n'y perdre temps ny argent. prognoſtic de d'auantage s'il demeure dureté aux jointures apres les fractures & luxations, il les conuient amollir , & l'atrophie reſoudre l'humeur contenu en icelles par fomentations, linimens, cataplatmes, emplaſtres, faits de curºlº º racines de guimauues, bryone, oignons de lis, ſemence de lin,fenugrec,& autres ſemblables : pareillement ** curable. i i de le seiziéme liure, de gommes fondues en fort vinaigres, comme ammoniac, bdellium,opapanax,ladanum,ſagaperum,ſtyrax a liquida auſſi de graiſſe d'oye,de geline,humaine,hnyle de lis,& autres sêblables:& commander expreſſèmét au malade qu'il remue la partie le plus qu'il luy ſera poſſible ſans douleur,afin qu'il eſchauffe, & ſubltiliſe, & conſomme l'humeur contenu en icelle,& par tel moyen ſera la partie reſtituée en ſon naturel,ſi poſſible eſt. ie dis,ſi poſſible eſt:car ſi l'impuiſſance vient à cauſe que la fracture eſt pres de la iointure(comme nous auons dit)le mouuement apres eſt difficile,& ſouuent du tout impoſſible:principalement ſi le callus eſt trop de la depra- gros, ou ſi la iointure meſmes a eſté atrite,froiſſée,& fracturée, comme on void ordinairement aux coups tuation de l'action de la partie . apoſpaſma. rhegma. d'arquebuſes : que diray.je plus ? c'eſt qu'il ſe fait quelquesfois dilatation des membranes & fibres, tant nerueuſes que muſculeuſes , appellée des grecs apoſpaſma : & dilaceration des meſmes parties, nommé- ſemblablement rhegma, qui ſe fait par vne grande & violente extenſion, comme ceux que l'on tire ſur le gefne,ou par tomber de haut en bas,ou par vne meſmarcheure,ou vouloir tirer vn coup de raquetteàvn jeu de paulme,ou jetter vne pierre ou barre,ou faireautre violente extenſion : leſquelles cauſent grande dou- leur, & deprauation de l'action de la partie, ſans rien apparoitre au dehors,dont ſouuent me ſuis trouuée bien empeſché. et pour ſecourir à tel accident, faut au commencement appliquer ſur la partie de l'oxyro: dinum, qui eſt huyle roſat & vinaigre,puis apres l'emplaſtre diachalciteos fondue auec dudit oxyrodinum puis deux ou trois iours apres oindre toute la partie d'huyle de terebentine,& eaude vie,laquelle confor- teras les parties bleſſées, en reſoluant la meurtriſſeure des parties nerueuſes. fin du sexiéme liure, des luxations. - b # # table des chapitres du dixſeptiéme liure, traictant de - pluſieurs operations appartenantes au chirurgien. ) e l'alopocie. chapitrej $ § de la teigne. chap. ij % de scotomie ouvertige. chap. iij % de la migraine. - chap. iij du moyen de rehauſſe rla paupiere ſuperieure. chap.v de l'agophthalmie, ou œil de liévre. chap.vj de lagraiſſe des paupieres. chap. vij c d'vne ſubſtance graſſe qui ſe couche ſou la paupiere,nom- mée hydatü. chap. viij t)es paupieres prinſes & jointes enſemble. · chap. ix tbu prurit des palpebres. · chap. x de lippitude ou chaſſie desyeux. chap.xj de ophtalmia. (.'.) chap. xij de l'œil qui chet dehors, dié#proptoſis. chap. xiij t>e vngula. chap. xiv des fiſtules lacrymales. chap.xv deſtaphylome. chap. xvj de l'œil plein de matierepurulente, dit hypopyon. chap.xvij de la dilatation de la paupiere, appellée des anciens mydriaſis. chap. xviij d des cataractes. chap. xix cure des cataractes. chap. xx signes pour cognoiſtre les cataractes. chap. xxj cure des cataractes par l'œuure de main. chap. xxij du conduit de l'oreille bouchée. chap. xxiij la maniere de tirer les areſtes & autres choſes eſtranges en la gorge. chap.xxiv de la dou leur des dents. chap.xxv t)e pluſieurs diſpoſitions qui aduiennent aux dents. chap.xxvj les inſtrumens propres pour arracher c rompre les dents. chap.xxvij de la limoſîté, ou rouillement des dents. chap.xxviij - dg : | · des luxations. t)e l'empeſchement & retraction de la langue . chap. xxix t>es doigts ſuperflus, & de ceux qui ſont joincts enſemble. chap. xxx la maniere d'habiller le prepuce. chap. xxxj du prepuceſ ſerré que l'on nepeut deſcouurir le glan,dit phymoſi,ou paraphymoſ . chap. xxxij de ceux qui n'ont point de trou au bout duglan. chap. xxxiij t)e la cauſe des pierres. chap. xxxiiij des ſignes des pierres és reins & en la veſſie. chap. xxxv · des prognoſtiques des pierres. chap. xxxvj de la cure preſeruatiue. chap. xxxvij tes moyens de ſecourir celuy qui auroit vne pierre deſcenduë du rognon dans l'vn des vreteres. chap. xxxviij comment il faut proceder à la gueriſon de la pierre eftant deſcenduè en la veſſie. chap. xxxix | de la pierre eftant au conduit de la verge, ou au col de la veſſie. chap. xl tes moyens qu'ilfaut vſer pour tirer par inciſion vme pierre arreſtée au conduit de l'vrine, quel'on n'aura peû extraire par les voyesſuſdites. chap. xlj comment il faut traitter la playe faite par inciſion. chap. xlij de la manire de tirer parinciſion les pierres qui ſont en la veſſie dvn petit enfant chap. xliij - de lamaniere d'extraire la pierre aux hommes,appellé le haut appareil. chap.xliv comment il faut penſer la playe apres l'extraction de la pierre. chap. xlv de laſituation qu'on doit donner au malade l'operation faite. chap. xlvj comment il faut traitter la playe faite parinciſion. chap. xlvij des moyens deguarir les vlceres par leſquels longtemps aprº l'extraction du calcul l'vrine paſſe. chap. xlviij de la maniere de tirer les pierres aux femmes. chap. xlix des cauſes de la retention d' vrine. chap. l digreſſion de l'autheur contenant aucunes notables hiftoiret. chap. lj des cauſes exterieures de la retentiov de l' vrine. - chap. lij du pronoſtic de la retention de l' orine. chap. liij de l'vrineſanglante. - chap. liv desſignes des vlceres aux reins. - chap. lv des vlceres en la veſſie, & desſignes d'icelles. chap. lvj du prognoſtic des vlceres en la veſie. chap. lvij de la curation de la retention de l' vrine. chap. lviij de diabete c ſtrangurie. - chap. lix des cauſes de diabete. - - chap. lx des cauſes de ſtrangurie. chap. lxj des ſignes de diabete. - (.'. ) chap. lxij de la cure de diabete. chap. lxiij de la cure deſtrangurie. chap. † de la colique. t chap. lx de la ſaignée. - chap. lxvj le moyen de faire la ſaignée. - chap. lvij des ventouſes. - - chap. lxviij des ſang-ſuès. • - - - c hap. lxix ii > l e n d ix - s e p tie s m e l iv r e, tr aic tant de plvsievrs in dis positio n s , et operations particulieres, appartenantes au chirurgien, p a r a m b r o i s e p a r e' d e l a v a l a v m a i n e, conſeiller, & premier chirurgien du roy. de l'alopecie . c h a p t r e i.  c'eſt 'a l o p e c i e eſt cheute du poil de la teſte, & quelquesfois des ſourcils, barbe, & au- qu'alopecie. t tcs parties , dicte vulgairement la pelade. elle eſt ainſi appellée des medecins, comme mala- die des renards, parce qu'ils ſont ſujets à telle indiſpoſition, pour certaine galle qur leur ſur- + l uient en leur vieilleſſe. icelle ſe fait par le defaut de matiere dont les poils doiuent eſtre cy{ \rn nourris, ou pour la corruption d'icelle matiere, comme apres fiévres longues : ou par vieil- leſſe, faute d'humidité radicale : ou par application des onguents trop chauds, comme ceux qui ſe vcu- l. reil n, lent faire noircir les cheueux : auſſi par l'indeue application des depilatoires, ou par vne bruſleure on de- croiſt iamais perdition de ſubſtance de cuir , qui apres la guariſon fait que la cicatrice demeure dure : & generalement ſu, les cica pour tout vice de la ſubſtance d'iceluy en trop grande rarité, qui fait que l'excrement fuligineux n'eſt trices. point arreſté : ou denſité, qui fait qu'iceluy retenu deſſous le cuir n'a point iſſuë pour donner eſſence aux prognoſtic cheueux. or pour la corruption des humeurs qui alterent la vapeur & matiere dont les cheueux ſont cn- gendrez , vient alopecie : ce qui procede du vice de tout le corps, comme l'on voit en la maladie neapº- litaine,autrement groſſe verole, ou à ceux qui ſont preparez à lepre,ou qui en ſont du tout infectez.celle qui vient par vieilleſſe,ou par fiéure hectique,ou bruſleure,aux chauues,lepreux,teigneux, eſt incurable & cure d'ale- partant le chirurgien n'y doit mettre la main. celle qui ſe peut curer,le ſera oſtant la cauſe:comme ſi c'eſt perie. par corruption d'humeurs,le medecin ſera appellé,lequel ordonnera la maniere de viure,purgation & ſai- gnée,ainſi qu'il cognoiſtra eſtre neceſſaire:puis le chirurgien raſera le poil,& vſera de fomentations attra- ctiues, & reſolutiues : appliquera des cornets & ſang-ſues, afin d'attirer la malice de l'humeur au dehors. cela fait,on lauera la teſte du malade de lexiue,en laquelle on aura fait boüillir miel,racine d'ireos, aloes, afin de bien mondifier les lieux affectez. or ſi l'alopecie vient par faute d'aliment,on frotera la partie aucc vne piece de toile neufue,ou auec fueilles de figuier,tant que l'on voye vne rougeur,ou d'oignon crud. pa- pºr.fºtº reillement on picquera en pluſieurs endroits la partie auec auec vne aiguille : puis ſeront appliquez on- #. guents faits de ladanum,fiente de pigeon, ſtaphyſagria,huyle laurin, terebinthy mettant tant de cyre qu'il pecie faite eſt beſoin pour en faire onguent, pour attirer le ſang & la matiere du poil. si l'alopecie vient de la groſſe par la groſſe verole,le malade doit eſtre bien frotté iuſque à ce qu'il entre au royaume de pauiere : & par ce moyenre- verole. couurira ſon poil,& parfaite ſanté. si elle eſt causée par quelque vice de cuir,ille corrigera par ſon con- traire, le rarefiant ou condenſant,ſelon que les cas le requerra. cauſes d'a lopecie- cure d'alº- pecie faite - de la teigne_ . c h a p t r e ii. gu, e.ſt » # e i g n # eſt vne galle eſpeſſe, qui ſe produit en la teſte auecque eſcailles & crouſtes de couleur que teigne. $ # cédrée,& quelquesfois iaune, hideuſe à voir,auec vne ſenteur puante & cadauereuſe.elle eſt ainfi $ r appellée du vulgaire,parce que le cuir de la teſte apparoit troüé & rongé, comme mangé de tei- premiere ef gnes,qui ſont vers qui rongent les habillemés.il y en a trois differences.la premiere eſt appellée squamoſa, pece diſte à cauſe que lors que le malade la gratte,fait ſortir grande quantité de petites eſcailles blancheaſtres, ſem- squamoſa blables à du ſon:d'aucuns practiciens eſt dite teigne ſeiche,pour la grande aduſtion de l'humeur. la ſecóde lº ſeconde eſpece eſt nommée fic ſa,à raiſon que lors qu'on oſte la crouſte,qui eſt iaunaſtre,ontrouue deſſous des pe- eſpece dicte tits grains de chair rouge,séblables aux grains d'vne figue,& jette vne matiere ſanguinolente. la troiſiéme #ºſº..._. eſt dite (orroſiua,à raisô que l'on y trouue pluſieurs vlceres,auſquelles il ya pluſieurs petits trous deſquels # ſort vne ſanie liquide séblable à la leueure de chair ſanglanteauec portiô de poil icelle eſt fort puante & ſina. cadauereuſeſde couleur plombine ou iaunaſtre,par fois faite d humeur pituiteux, nitreux,& aucunefois de remedes cholere aduſte,& de melancholie.toutes les ſuſdites eſpeces ſe font d'humeurs corr pus ſelon la diuerſité § le, pe. d'iccelles,plus ou moins comme la furfureuſe, moins que la fiqueuſe & la fiqueuſe moins que l'vlcereuſe. rits enfant. quelquesfois elle vient des la natiuité de l'enfant,& lors eſt de tres-difficile curatiô:on d'vne nourrice tei- gneuſe,& alors ne faut attéter la cure iuſques à ce que l'enfant ſoit paruenu en aage ſuffiſant pour tolerer les remedes:toutesfois on pourra appliquer de feüilles de choux, ou de pourée, ointes d'vn peu de beurre frais,ou autre remede doux,qui aye puiſſance d'amollir & donner iſſue à la matiere qui fait la teigne.ceux qui ſont en aage ſuffiſant,ſeront ſaignez,purgez,& baignez,ainſi qu'il ſera neceſſaire. il y a encore vn autre eſpece moins maligne,familiere aux enfans,qui leur couure par fois toute la teſte, & le viſage, qui vient de cure de la l'impureté du ſang,dont ils eſtoient nourris au ventre de leur mere. et pour les medicamenstopicques, oi furfureuſe fera vne fomentation remoliiente & diſcutiente,faicte auec racine d'althea,de lis,lapath. aciti,leſquelles ſe- remedes te ront boüillies en lexiue,adiouſtant vn peu de vinaigre. apres la fomentation faite, qui ſera continuée par pieques. cinq ou ſix iours (deux fois chaque iour) on fera raire le malade : & ſeront faictes pluſieurs ſcarifications, -， -- : - • applications - ) operations de chirurgie. applications de ſanſguès,cornets:puis on frottera la teſte d'huyle de ſtaphyſagre,auec vn peu de ſauon noir, afin d'attirer & obtondre l'humeur conjoinct à la partie.auſſi on pourra vſer de ce medicament, tant que l'on † parfaite,lequel eſt grandement loüé de vigo,guordon & # # # # ſou. albi & nigri,âf#ï îiripigmenti litharg auri,calc.viu.vitrioli,alum.gaïlar.fulig cin，tºſaïſe # # : ºai ºa / a - - - • • • • • - - - - - - - - - l teigne arg. viui extincti .iij.aerug.aeris .ij.fiat pul.qui incorp.cum fucco borraginis, ſcabioſœ, fumaria ,oxylapa- #u # à thi,acetian.quart.jolei antiqui fb.j.bull.vſquead conſumpt.ſuccorum.tunc in fine decoct ponantur pulue-# # vigv. ueres,addendo picis liquid. ſ.ceræ quant ſuff.fiat vng.quant au vif argent il le faut eſteindre auec vn peu § § · de terebenthine & axunge, puis l'incorporer auec les autres ingrediens. les ſuſdits autheurs afferment cét # ſuſdit onguent guarir de toute eſpece de teigne.et quant à moy veritablement ie l'approuue grandement,conſide- ongueur. rant la promeſſe des ſuſdits aurheurs, & les ingrediens qui entrent en la compoſition. la crouſteuſe,nommée ficoſa,ſera auſſi fomentée tant que les grouſtes ſoient tombées:& pour prompte- cure d, le ment les faire tomber, on y appliquera du creſſon pilé & fricaſſé auec graiſſe de porc, & le lendemain les #, crouſtes tomberont ſans nulle doute:& meſmement ſi on en continué long-temps ledit creſſon la guarit du di# ficoſa. tout:ce que i'ay experimenté : & ſera appliqué deſſus du ſuſdit onguent. i'en ay traitté qui ont eſté guaris par application d'huyle de vitriol , & parfois de l'aegyptiac fortifié. et ſi l'on void la racine du poil eſtre pourrie,on les doit arracher auec pincettes : & ſi telle corruption comprenoit tout ou grande partie de la teſte,pour plus promptement les arracher,faut prendre des pieces de futaine,&eſpandre ſus l'endroit velu vn tel remede. .picis nigrx .vjpicis refina .ij.pulvirid, œris & vitrioli roman. .j.ver. .ſº.coquanom- nia ſimul in aceto acerrimo quan.ſuff.fiat medic.ad vſum:qui ſera appliqué ſus la teſte, & laiſſé par l'eſpace de trois iours,puis ſeront leſdits emplaſtres tirez à contre-poil aſſez violentement,afin d'arracher auec ſes racines iceluy poil:& tel remede ſera continué,tät que l'on verra eſtre neceſſaire.et quant à la troiſiéme eſ- pece,nômée teigne corroſiue,il faut mondifier les vlceres,yappliquant vn tel onguent. .vng. enulat. cum b mercur.duplic.aegyptiac.an. .iij vitrioli albi puluer. .j.incorp.omnia ſimul,fiat vnguent.ad vſum. ou bien cure de la on vſera du ſuſdit. et s'il aduenoit quelque douleur ou autre accident, on y remediera comme le prudent teigne cor- chirurgien cognoiſtra eſtre neceſſaire.sur tous autres remedes i'ay bien approuué ceux-cy. z. caphur. .ſ. roſiue. alumin.roch.vitr virid.aeris,ſulphur.viui,fulig.forna.an. .vj.olei amygd.dulc.&axung.porci an. -ij.incorpo- rentur ſimulin mortario,fiat vnguentum.autres prennent de ius de fumier de brebis,& en frottét les lieux où eſt la teigne,& y laiſſent vn linge trépé par deſſus. or ſi le malade ne peut eſtre guary par ces remedes, & qu'il euſt en ſon corps vlceres crouſteux,ſemblables à ceux qui ſont a la teſte,ie cöſeille qu'on luy frotte la teſte d'vn liniment fait d'axunge & vif-argent,auec vn peu de ſoulphre:puis qu'il luy ſoit appliqué ſus la teſte l'emplaſtre de vigo cum mercurio,en façon de bonnet:ſemblablement ſur les eſpaules,cuiſſes & jam- bes,& que l'on le tienne en vne chambre chaudement, eſtant traicté comme ceux qui ont la groſſe verole : car par ce moyen pluſieurs en ont eſté guaris.et celuy qui la premierement experimenté de ma cognoiſſan- · ce,ce fut maiſtre simon le blanc, chirurgien ordinaire du roy,homme grandement experimêté en la chi- prognoſtic. rurgie,qui appliqua l'emplaſtre de vigo cum mercurio,ſus vn ieune homme qui auoit la teigne,ayant aupa- - rauât eſſayé tous moyens de le guarir:ce qu'il ne peut obtenir,ſinon par par les ſuſdits emplaſtres,le trait- tant comme s'il euſt eu la verole, & fut parfaittement guary.la teigne eſt horrible à voir, & lette ſouuent z. .ien. vne ſanie fort puante,& cadauereuſe : la recente eſt difficile à curer, & la vieille encore plus faſcheuſe : & laiſſe # lors que l'on eſtime le malade eſtre guary,quelque temps apres reuient & repullule, a cauſe de la mauuaiſe § §e c impreſſion de l'hnmeur qui aura renduë la partie intemperée.la teigne eſt contagieuſe,& ſouuent vient de alopecie, cauſe hereditaire:auſſi pour vſer de viande qui corrompent le ſang.ladite teigne eſt fort difficile à curer, à raiſon que le cuir de la teſte eſt fort eſpés & ſerré:& partant l'humeur difficile d'eſtre deiiaciné delà. elle delaiſſe ſouuent apres eſtre curée, vne depilation, & reproche au chirurgien,de ſorte que pluſieurs en ont laiſſe la cure aux empiriques,& aux femmes. - onguent bië eſprouué. de scotomie, & vertigo. c h a p. i ii. # a maladie nommée vertigo, eſt vn esblouiſſement & offuſcation de la veuë, causée d'vn eſprit que c'eſt %)|[ |# vaporeux & chaud, qui monte par les arteres carotides à la teſte, & rempli le cerueau, faiſant que pertigo. nij )ºs)n º mouuement des humeurs & eſprits contenus en iceluy, lequel eſt inegal, confus, & turbu-cauſe de re a$l) lent, comme quand noſtre corps tournoye, ou quand on a beu trop de vin fort, puiſſant, & ºrº sº ſans eau. cét eſprit boüillant le plus ſouuent eſt enuoyé du cœur au cerueau par les arteres pºº carotides internes, & d'elles à celles du rets admirable:quelquesfois eſt engendré dedans le cerueau, meſ- # effºrt f uaf-. mes eſtant intemperée en chaleur. pareillement peut venir d'autre part,comme de l'eſtomach, foye,ratelle, #. & autres vlceres les ſignes ſont,que les malades ont la veue perturbée, ſi tant peu ils tournent le corps,ou gºles. gardent quelque choſe qui tourne , comme vne rouë, ou l'eau courante, & autre chofe ayant vn mouue- d ment ſubit. si la cauſe vient du cerueau, les malades ont douleur & grande peſanteur de teſte, bruit aux oreilles,& ne ſentent le plus ſouuent rien par le nez. pour la cure, paulus aegineta commande faire l'inci- ºtiºn- ſion des arteres derriere les oreilles, combien qu'il ſembleroit meilleur faire l'inciſion des arteres qui ſont paulus aux temples:mais ſi elle vient d'autre partie,peu profite:& partant le docte medecin y pouruoyra. #;# # chap. . de la migraine . c h a f. iv. a igraine, eff proprement quand la douleur ne tient que la moitié de la teſte,dextre,ou ſene- ©ue c'eſt ſtre. ainſi la douleur quelquesfois ne monte point plus haut que les muſcles temporaux,auſſi que migrai. quelquesfois monte iuſques au ſommet de la teſte. la cauſe de cette douleur peut venir des ne, - # veines ou arteres,tant internes qu'externes,ou des meninges,oumeſme de la ſubſtance du cer- cauſe. ，nsiºn , ueau, ou ſeulement du pericrane, ou cuir muſculeux qui couure le crane. auſſi peut venir de certaines vapeurs putrides qui montent de l'eſtomach,ou de la matrice, ou de quelques viſcere , à la teſte. la cauſe eſt interne, ou externe. l'externe, comme chaud, froid,ou trop boire ou manger viandes chaudes & vapoureuſes, ou quelque vapeur & exhalation, comme celle d'antimoine, vifargent, ou autre:ce qui eſt cauſe ex- cauſe que les orfevres & doreurs en ſont ſouuent eſpr s.l'interne, comme intemperature ſimple ou com- ºrºº . posée, auec inflammation & tenſion la peſantur de teſte monſtre l'abondance d'humeur:& quand la dou- cauſe inter- leur eſt poignante, pulſatile, & tenſiue , les humeurs & vapeurs enſemble en ſont cauſe. si la douleur eſt # faite par l'abondance d'vne vapeur ſubtile auec pulſation, cela vient à cauſe de l'inflammation des membra- es ſignes. nes du cerueau.la fiévrey ſuruient a cauſe de la grande inflammation,principalement quand l humeut # - i i c j c pºs• o le dix-ſeptiéme liure,&c. cauſe la douleur putrefie.quand la douleur eſt ſuperficielle, la cauſe d'icelle eſt au pericrane:& quand elle # eſt profonde , & que le malade ſent la douleur iuſqu'à la racine des yeux, cela monſtre la cauſe eſtre aux membranes du cerueau, & ſouuent eſt ſi cruelle que le malade ne peut endurer que l'on luy touche a late- " , signes que ſte.or ces dºuleure ſent quelquesfois continuës,quelquesfois ont des paroxy me qui viennent lans ordre, * 'la douleur & ſouuent tourmentent tant le malade, qu'il ne peut ſouffrir qu'on face bruit en la chambre, ny parler º *** : eſt au piri- haut, & ne peut voir la clarté, ny ſentir aucune choſe odorante, ne faire mouuement de ſon corps,& eſti- crane. me que l'on luy rompe & briſe la teſte auecvn maillet, & ne peut boire vin.lors que la cauſe eſt d'vn ſang la curari . boüillant, ſubtil & vaporeux, & que tous les autres remedes n'auront ſeruy, l'inciſion des arteres és tem- a*º, alºu, ples eſt vn tres-grand remede,ſoit que la cauſe vienne des vaiſſeaux interieurs,ou exterieurs à cauſe qu'il ſe ºſ#. .. fait toufiours euacuation de ſang & eſprits, leſquels doiuent eſtre euacuez ſelon la force du malade chri- paul.liu. . ſtophle landré dit auoir guary vne infinité de gens de la migraine, appliquant vn cataplaime fait de fiente ## a%º de palombes ou pigeös,broyé auec huyle de noyaux de peſche or ne ſera icy hors de propos reciter cette # # hiſtoire de monſeigneur le prince de la roche-yon, lequel eſtoit extremement tourmenté d'vne dou- manſei- leur de teſte, tant de iour que de nuict, auec peu d'intermiſſion : & pour le guarir appella meſſieurs cha- rneur le pºlain premier medecin du roy, & chaſtellan, aufl medecin dudit seigneur,& premier de la royne mere, §, d, la & monſieur duret, lecteur & medecin ordinaire du roy, hommes fort ſçauans beaucoup eſtimez entre roche ſur les gens doctes , leſquels luy ordonnerent pluſieurs remedes, tant par dedans que par dehors, ſemblable- to». ment ſaignées, ventouſes, bains, frictions, diete : bref, tout ce qui ſe pouuoit excogiter : tous leſquels re- b | medes ne luy peurent iamais appaiſer la douleur.adonc m'enuoya querir, pour entendre de moy ſi i'auois aucun moyen à luy ſeder la douleur, où promptement luy conſeillay ſe faire ouurir l'artere de la temple,du coſté, où il ſentoit ſa plus grande douleur : & luy dis que i'auois grande coniecture que la cauſe de ſa dou- leur eſtoit contenue aux arteres, & non aux veines, & qu'auois fait ſouuent telle ouuerture, dont les mala- des eſtoient guaris,& que les anciens le conſeilloient , meſme que ie me l'auois fait ouurir pour ſemblable gal. .met. douleur, & que depuis n'avous ſenty aucun mal. subit enuoya querir les ſuſdits medecins, leſquels fuient •k.dernier. de mon aduis , & en leur preſence ie fis ouuerture de l'artere, choiſiſſant la plus apparente à la temple, & qui auoit plus grand battement, auec vne ſimple inciſion,comme pour faire vne phlebotomie,& fut tiré du ſang deux palettes & plus,lequel ſortoit par vne grande impetucſité de ladite artere, ſautelant loing à rai- ſon du diaſtolé & ſyſtolé d'icelle : & proteſte que par le moyen de cette ouuerture il perditinccntinent la douleur, ſans plus luy retourner : dont ledict seigneur me fit vn honorable preſent. aucens ont ſupe- * cte cette incifion des arteres, pource qu'il eft difficile d'arreſter le fiux de ſang: & que ce faiſant la cicatri- ce autour de l'artere cauſe aneuriſme, maladie faſcheuſe & dangereuſe, & que l'attere eſtant en perpetuel mouuement ne ſe peut aisément conſolider : & pource conſeillent de couper premierement le cuir , puis l'eſcorcher & ſe parer , & la lier de deux coſtez,puis la couper,ccmme nous auons dit de la varice. mais ie * te puis aſſeurer l'apertion auec la lancette, comme on fait la ſaignée, n'eſtre dangereuſe, comme i'ay expe- rimenté ſouuentesfois,& que la conſolidation ſe fait auſſi bien que de la veine, non ſi toſt toutesfois,& qu'il ne ſuruient aucun flux de ſang : pourueu que la ligature ſoit bien faite, & qu'elle demeure trois ou quatre - iours, en y mettant vne conuenable compreſſe. ". voy le chap. des varices des maladies ou indiſpoſitions qui aduiennent aux yeux. c ces iours paſſez eſtant en conſultation auec monſieur cappel,docteur regent en la facuhté de medecine à paris,homme tres-docte & de grande recherche, pour vn quidam qui auoit vne grande infiammation aux yeux , dont il ne voyoit rien : deuiſant auec luy, ie luy dis que i'auois tres-grand deſir de trouuer quelque docte medecin en la langue grecque, pour faire vn recueil de toutes les maladies des yeux , & en bailler l'interpretation en langue françoiſe, afin que les ieunes chirurgiens les peuſſent diſcerner & cognoiſtre ,les vnes des autres, pour pouuoir plus facilement paruenir à la curation. alors il me dit qu'il le feroit vo- lontiers pour l'amour de moy,& du public : ce que depuis il a fait, en ayant recueilly la plus grande part, leſquelles par apres pour plus grande facilité, i'ay redigées en cette table. - m et ho 'fl'œil les mala- dies ou af. fettions des yeux, com- me eſcrit al. chap. j. de l'in- troduition, ſont en nö- ére de cent treize, deſ , quelles an- c/ / a cc/ - pent. l entier, ( / • ſuruiennent aux yeux. rexeph- prominentia oculi,en latin, oeil de bœuf, gros œil qui ſe fait quand thalmia. l'œil ſort hors l'orbite par nature pluſtoſt que par accidens. imminutie oculi, l.extenuation : qui eſt vn emmaigriſſement de toutes atrophia. { les parties de l'œil, apportant vneprofondité & cauité d'iceluy. gal. in udefinit. medic. ecpieſnos { exitu,expreſſio,exertio,.cheute de l'œil : quand il eſt du tout hors de ſa sauité, & principalementparfluxion ou coup.aèce liure . strabiſmus { straboſitau, l.eſtre louche,ou bigle. c'eſt vne diſtorſion contrainte auec inégalité de la veuë. paul.liu. .chap. . | catopſis & ſpropinqua ºiſe.i. quand naturellement l'en ne peut voir les choſes que | myopiaſis { de pres,& difficilement de loin,& ſemble que l'on voye des mouches.ae- tce liure . hyperoſia ,ſ remota viſio,l.quand l'on ne peut voir& diſtinguer les choſes que de ·{# dilatant fort les yeuxcceſte affection eſt contraire à la precedente. '# anopſia # on ne peut diſcerner les obietis s'ils ne ſont vn peu eſleuez. hallucinatio,ou caligatio,l. abuſemët de veue ou d'œil quandonpréd ·! paroraſis vne choſepour vne autre,& eſt l'auät-coureur d'aueuglem#.sauonarola. hebetudo,l.eſblouiſſement continuel & diminution de la veiie,ſans au- ambylopia ººl'pº exterieure, mais ſeulement par alteration mediocre des ºº | humeu#, eſprits, ou tuniques. monſieur fernell'a dit venir quand la # deuient top dure. paul.liu. .chap. .aëce liure . epiph {# curſu,l.tauxpleurans,moites ou mouſſes quand * iles humeurs coulent aux yeux, & pleurent perpetuellement.celſe liu. . r ruptura ab ittu,l.rupture : quandles membranes,& principalement rexis l'vuée ou la cornéeſont toutes rompuës parquelque coup, de ſorte que ul'œil eſt du tout creué,tous les humeurs ſortans.aece liure . ſconfuſio,l quand tou les humeurs ſont meſlez & confus enſemble par synchiſis { grande playe ou inflammation,la prunelle apparoiſ de diuerſes couleurs lgal.in iſag. patalyſis , reſolutionl.quandl'œil ne ſepeut mouuoir eſtant perclu deſes muſcles gal.en l'introduction.aece,ibidem. ſequu, l.c'eſt vn branſlement perpetuel de l'œil, venant de la natiuité hippos + de la perſonne:ancuns l'attribuent aux paupieres,& le nomment en la- nittario 	in, nitiatio,clignement d'œil,aild'hypocrite, d'aatant que l'on remuë {touſiours les paupieres,eu l'œil meſme. oedema quand l'œil eſt tout bourſouffléperdantſa naïfue couleur,ſe remuant dif- ficilement.gal.in medico. sepedon { putredo, l. quand l'œil ſe vient du tout à pourrir, & quelquesfoisſe gangrena ºgangrene. gal.en l'introduct. anthra- ſcarbunculatio,l.oeil rºſty.c'eſt vne eſpece de charbon à l'œil.galien en choſis l'introduction. j nyctalopia rnocturna ou veſpertina cecitas ou nuſcioſa affeftio,l. quand de nuict #n#t，g#. | methodiqve division & denombrement des maladies qui v, hemeralo | on ne void rien, & ce par accident, le contraire eſt, acies nocturna : pia quand on void mieux de nuitt que de iour,& ſe peut dire hemeralopia acies ſola- en grec,oeil de chat, en françois : comme acies ſolaris,ou solana vi- rts ſio, quand l'on ne peut voir qu'aux rayons du soleil, & tenebroſa affe- tenebroſa ! čtio, ſe dit de ceux qnivoyent malaisément lalumieregrande.paul.liare laffeftie c .chap. .& gal.in iſagog. les pºr - les º ties de aupie- * res qus sot | remphyſema ſ?aſiatiopruriginoſa, l quand la paupiere deuient enflée eſtant pleine eneſmodes de pituite qui fait vne demangeaiſon auec fluxion. cela aduient volon- utiers aux vieillards,& en eſté.aece liu. .celſ.liu. . tſorophthal-ſlippitudo pruriginoſa, l. chaſſie baueuſe & poignante : quand vne mia pitute ſalée cauſe vne demangeaiſon, auec fluxion d'vne matiere acre, udont s'enſuit quelquesfois inflammation.acce.ibidem. xerophthal- ſ lippitudo arida,l. chaſſie ſeiche : quand il ne decoule rien, ou bien mia { peu des paupieres,y ſentant cuiſſon & aſpreté principalement en laſu- perieure aèce liu. .elle ſe rapporte à tout l'œil auſſi. sclero- { lippitudo dura,l. c'eſt vn difficile mouuement des paupieres & yeux, phthalmia l accompagnex de dureté ſans fluxion. hippocr.aece,de locis & aquis. ſ inuerſio, eu hiatus, l quand l'vne & l'autre paupiere eſt retournée chemoſis { par vne grande inflammation, & que le blanc de l'œil eſt plus hauteſ- uleué que le noir.gal.in medic. paul.lin. . ptiloſis, ou fcraffities calloſa palpebrarum,l. deplumation,e#eſſeur des paupieres, poroſis {# pelade quand les paupieres ſont dures & groſſes auec chaleur & rougeur,& le poil ne # ficher pour en ſortir.aece liu, .chap. . e ſ mutilatio,l.c'eſt vne deperdition de quelque partie de la paupiere. il coloboma { ſe prend auſſi pour deperdition de quelquepartie que ce ſoit. gal.liu. . umethod. scleroſis ſ durities, l.c'eſt vne tumeur des paupieres auec chaleur & douleur, scirreſis | continuant pla, que l'inflammation. galin med.et ſi leſdites paupie- scirrophthal- res deuiennent , auec la dureté, enflées & luuides par vne chair ſour- // f croiſſante,ſe fait & ſuruient scirroſis, comme par vne longue continuité \-d'inflammation.gal.ibid. ectropion inuerſatio,l.oeileraillé : quand la paupiere inferieure par cicatrice, ou autre occaſion, ſe remuerſe & ne peut couurirſon blanc. paul.liu. . eancyloble- ſ inuiſcatio,l. quand les paupieres ſe tiennent les vnes les autres, ou pharon. < bien ſont adherantes à la coniointtiue ou cornée,pour quelque vlcere symphyſis umal pensé.gal.in #ſag.aére liu. .chap. . - pro#phyſis ſ leporina palpebra,l.oeil de lievre quand l'on dort les paupieres ou- lagophthal- nertes comme les lievres,il vientſounent de nature:auſſi par conuulſion mia ù la paupiere ſuperieure ne couure le blanc.e arnaud. • aſperitudo,l.?negalité de l'vne & l'autre paupiere, auec dureté ra- trachomº l boteuſe,& ſemble qu'il y aye des grains de milet.aëce lin. .chap. . (ficoſitas,ouficoſapalpebra,l quand les paupieres ſont ſi inegales & sycoſis { rudes que l'ony appercoit comme petits grains de figue. gal.in #ſag. tet qnand il neſort duſangſouuent s'appelle morum,ou celſum. teloſis , on # calloſa palpebra, l. quand leſ paupieres viennent dures comme vn epanaſfemº & cal,on comme vn cor.aùcuns le nomment panaſtema ochothodes. ochthodes talpebrarum aquoſitas,ouveſica, l. quand la paupiere inſerieure eſt hydatis pleine d'vne graiſſe mollaſſe & aqueuſe.paul liu. chap. . am'ydeſis tºutredo,l.tumeur auec putrefdont il en coule matiere.gal. in #ſag. crithe, ( f/ # l.orgueil, ("eſt vne petite tumeur fixe, jui poſt vient à l'extremité de la paupiere, où s'engendrent les cils.paul.l. . chalazion grando, l. greſle c'eſt vne petite tumeur mobile, ronde & lucide comme vn graih de greſle, laquelle vient aux paupieres gal. en l'intr. - # , l. quand le poil des paupieres eſt moleſtépar le moyen tpthiriaſis des petits pouls qui |y croiſſent. aèce liu. .chap. . - - - ſ quand il croiſt d'autres poils aux paupieres que les naturels,leſquels thrichiaſis & piquent l 'œil & le font pleurer : le contraire eſt madaroſis,& mil- «_zmadaroſis ) phoſis en grec,glabrities palpebrarnm en l. quand le poil des paupie- amilphoſis ºres tombee aece liu. .chap. . | quand il vient à la paupiere deux ou trois rangs de poil,ou bien quand thalangeſis ils ſe recoquillent en dedans & piquent l'œil.paul.liu. .c quand il diſtichiºſº un'en vient qu'vn rang,eſt dit diſtychiaſis.gal.en l'introduc#. lithiaſis lapideſcentia,l ſont petites tumeurs dures comme pierrotes qui croiſ . (ſent aux paupieres,& ſe peut dire grauelle des yeux.aece liu. .c. . pladarotis { ceſont petits corps mols & decolorez venas au dedans des paupieres. # imbecilité ſimple des paupieres ſans autre cauſe externe que l'on voye: « atonia - mais cependant l on ne les pent leuer, eſºans contrains de les tenir fer- paralyſis mes,comme paralytiques ſi on ne les hauffe de la main.e auic. croiſſance de chair qui vient en leur partie interieure,eſlans quelquer- sarcoſîs fois deux ou trois comme petits pois. gal.in med. il ſtruient auſſi ét atheromata ' paupieres atheromata,ganglia, melicerides & varices. enſemble utombe en l'œil choſes eſtranges:aeceliure . - hypºſphagma f º - liº ºt, #-, º,! º, #ltr, #. r ſu, # tc , #, l {ft!, t : ſºl # # - | | ſrt! f - # ! · #: # # mem- branes, à ſça- #oir,ou | < en parti- | culier, lcomme sanguinis effuſio, l. meurtriſſeure, ſont petites marques rouges, ou gros rhypoſphagma $ſang noir quiſuruiennent aux membranes,& principalemët à la conioinfti- ae & cornée, par rupture, qui eſt venu aux veines qut ſont auſdites mem- ra tou- ! epanaſtema ſbranes, &- principalement par vn coup.auicen. liu. . le nomme altarfati §, & { ochthodes ficus , l. qui eſt vne tumeur & comme inflation & bourſouflement de tou- ſe faiti tes les membranes qui ſont à l'œil : & lors que le mal eſt plus grand, il ſe hymenon , -{ nomme hymenon epanaſtaſis, rebelliones en latin,cöme ſileſdites mëbra- lepanaſtaſis l# j'enorgueilliffoient,& vouloient ſortir hors de leur place & lieu natu- rel. cornarius le nomme membranarum eminentias. ilſuruient auſſi aux membranes vne molleſſe, dite par earnaud, mollities membranarum. perturbatio, l.chaleur & rongeur de l'œil, auec moueur, proue- ſtaraxir nant de cauſe externe, comme de la fumée, pouſſiere, huile, ou aus ſtre choſe qui aura entréen l'œil...aéce liure . chap. . lippitudo , l. inflammation de l'œil, quand le blanc d'iceluy eſt fort rouge, & ſouuentesfois pleurant. nonus ch. . en nomme vne ophthalmia * ophthalmia sphacelizouſa : en latin, #nflammatio ocularis in ophthalmia sphacelum degeneransiguandpar trop frequente & indiſcrete apº •ſphacelizou- plication de remedes rafraichiſans la partieperd ſon temperament. ſa. vngula , l.vngle. c'eſt vne excroiſſance de chair fibreuſe, laquel- lepetit à petit couure la conionttiue , & quelquesfois la prunelle - pterygion venant dvnangle de l'œil : & pource eſt dite comme ongle. celſe. | radna- liure . aécec hap. .arnaud. - ta,con- j aigl albicans cicatrix , l. sont humeurs blanchaſtres en forme de ci- § * º-º # catrice ſur le blanc de l'ail. hippocrateprorrh. .. ', tophus, durities •adnate, l. c'eſt vne tumeur quiſe concrée,ſur c'. poroſis la membrane •adnata, comme vndurillon gal. in def med. # foſſula, l. c'eſt vn vlcere petit & profond comme vne pointure botyron. en la cornée.aéce liure . chap. . - cauitas, l. c'eſt vne vlcere ſemblable auſuſdit , mais plus larges cœloma cr moins profond. anicenne_ . c'eſt vne vlcere rond occupant l'iris, de ſorte qu'elle s'apparoiſt rou- argema {ge en la conionttiue, & blanche en la cornée. elcoſis j vlceratio, l. c'eſt vne ruption de la cornée par vn coup,ºugrande - # gal. in def med. . epicauma vlcus ſordidum, l. sont vlceres ſordides & crouſteux , deſquels § ſort de la boué orde & vilaine. aèce liure . - - phlyctena tuſtule , l. c'eſt vnepetite tumeur auec inflammation , qni occu- pſydracia pe la coºnée , & ſont comme veſſies. aëce ibid. chap. . | y caligo, l. c'eſt vne vlcere ſuperficiel de couleur cerulee ou obſcu-, cornée { achlys re, ou obſcure cicatrice , qui commence à brouiller l'œil. « aece. gorreur - - - - nepheleon nubecula, l. nuage.c'eſt vn vlcere ſuperficiel comme le prece- (? lvuée (. dent, mais plus obſcur & profond, la veue commençant à eitre baſſe. # nonus chap. . . hypopion sanies, l. teile maladie aduient lors qu'il coule du ſang meurtry, tºyoſis {# qu'il s'engendre de la boue entre la cornée & vuée , eſtant nom- onyx mée onyx, ſi ladite boue, comme deſſeichée, repreſente la forme & couleur de l'ongle.'paul. liure . chap. . - cancer cornee, l. quantd les veinés quiſont en la cornée ſont plei- carcinoma ;nes de ſang noir, accompagné de douleur poignante. gal, #fag. ci- oule catrix , l. sont cicatrices blanches & eſleuées qui vienneni en la paralampſis cornée, à cauſe d'vn vlcere profond. gal. en ſ'introd. * • .. • ° • . eaºgir. cicatrix reſplendens,l. c'eſt vne dureté & cicatrice au noir de l'œil, plus groſſe & eſleuée que l'•aigis. elle ſepeut dire oeil blanc. ga- proptoſis lien enſon lexicon. procidentia vnea, l. cheute de l'vuée : ce qui aduient quand la cornée eſt rompue, & l'vuée cheute. celſe linre . e_wmuſca caput , ou formicalis ruptnra, l. quand l'vuée ſe repre- ſente par la cornée en groſſeur & figure d'vne teſte demouſche paul. e_wmelon liure . gal. in def. med. malum , l. tommete. quand l'vie eſt fellement groſſe & ſºr- # tite, qu'elle repreſente ſuſpenduë, vne pommette, staphyloma helos ,t durcir, repreſentant la teſte d'vn clon.auicenne, mydriaſis clauus, l. clou.ce qui aduient quand la ſuſdite vuée vient a ſ'en- • * • - •. , - prunelle ſ mydriaſir # dilatatio, l.eſlargiſſemët de la prunelle,quiſe fait quand la mèbrane vuée s'eſlargit à l'endroit du trou, & repreſente l'obieci plus grand,imparfaict, & confus. aece liu. .ch. .quelquesfois laprunelleſemble n'eſire pas droittement aumilieu, mais changée deſa place,& ſe dit par e arnaud,pupille è locº remotio,pag. . { taberpupilla,l.quand la prunelle deuient plus petite & obſeure que la nature, - platycoria pupille è loco remotio | phthiſis # les objets ſemblent plu grands.aece ibid. | suffuſio,l. cataracte ou couliſſe. c'eſt vne concretion d'humeur entre la cornée & < l'humeur cryſtalin,qui eſt le ſigne de la diſtiniiion des couleurſ.et quandelle cou- | ure la prunelle , ou vient à s'endurcir en l'vuée,quieſt lefondement de laprunelle, hypochyma | elle eſt appellée tunica ocularis en latin,en françois, maille, taye, bourgeon, gutta kala lpaul. liu, . elle s'appelle par auicenne gutta zala , & obſcura. glaucedo, l. ce qui aduient quand l'humeur cryſtallin ſe vient rglaucome # à deſſºicher & blanchir, on l'appelle œil blafard,& telle affiitiion vrent aux gens vieux. l et quand la ſuſdite affection n'aduient qu'à vn des yeux, & ſe heteroglaucis ſpeut nommer œil veron , ou bigarré. se font auſſi quand les yeux ſont blafards,ou laprunelle eſt noire.gal. o.de vſu part. l- blanchy,qui ne vient point par vlcere,ny auxpetits enfans parforce de crier.gal.in defmed. | albedo in cryhalloide, l. quand il ſe fait vne marque blanche agyria. ) ſur l'humeur cryftallin.aece liure .ch. . quand l'humeur cryſtallin eſt ſi imbecille, ue par vne grandelu- acataſtaſia l miere eſt tourné d bouleuersé,comme s'il eſtoit diſloqué. l cryſtalloidou f raui oculi.l. oeil de loup, ou de mauuais garçon; quand les hu- aithemoma {# eursſe noirciſſent du tout,l'œil deuenant du tout noir ou vbſcur. ſ# suggillatum, l. oeil poché, quand il y a confuſion d'hnmeurs l'œil « hypochºſis # eſtant noir.il s'appelle auſſi hypochyſis. ou de touen-) leoninus oculus,loeil d'airain.quand l'œil eſt roux,fier eſtincelant comme à vn ſ ſont rcryſtalin , & albugo, l. oeil de chéure : quand l'humeur cryſtallin eſt dutout lehcom { lſemble,comme ulion:ainſi les ont les ladres,l. fernel,chap.de elephant. eabſceſſus ocularis, l. c'eſt vne collection d'humeur ſemblableà dumiel, entrele i r.anchilops rand coing de l'œil & le nez, & eſt enueloppé d'vne taye ſans faire douleur. gal. ". < coings, on an- glºr. nerf •ptique in iſag.paul.liu. .chap. . «aegilops fiſtula lacrymalis,l. c'eſt vne fiſtule qui maiſtan grandcoing de l'œil perle ſuſ- dit abſ#és, faiſant carieſouuent à l'os.celſe. quelque fois en ſort du ſang , & ſe nemme aiſſi , pruritus lacrymalium. •arcul. encanthis {# vne tumeur ºu addition de la chair à celle qui eſt contenne aux angles,ouque | peribroſis. # erºſie, l. c'eſt vn vlcere qui eſt au petit coing, vers le temple, & la glande lacrymale ſe vient à enfler. rhaas, ſce-q-c'eſt vne diminution de chair à celle qui eſt contenue aux angles, ouſou lespau- // /jj. # c - # desyeux,c à icelle ſe rapporte scemoſis en grec, en latin immi- mutio.gal.in def med. epinyttis {# # vlcere qui decoule perpetuellement du coingdes yeux. pline liure o. ( ap. - - tiner : il ſe prent anſſi pour l'agglutination des paupieres auec l'œil.galien en l'in- i"trodnttion. (amauroſis ſobfuſcatio, ou guttaſerena, l. aueuglement : qui vient quand le nerf optique eſt | bouché par quelque humeur.gal. prorrh,hipp. •aporrhexis y abruptio,l.quand le nerf optique eſt rompupar quelque coup; deſorte que l'eſprit viſuel n'y peut paſſer.gal.in iſag. - parempºſis # l. ce qui ſe fait quand le nerfoptique eſt remplyde quelque humeur qui y decoule.gal.ibid. l- - - - - - | rproºphyſis # agglutinatio, l. uand les coings ou angles ſe viennent à prendre & agglu- *symptoſis ſ(ſoincidentia, l. ce qui aduient quand le nerfoptique ſe reſtreſſit ou deuientfiaſc- - {#par imbecillité ou ſeichereſſe . - - - explication : : : operations de chirurgie. l, | • : explication de quelques maladies particulieres contenuès eº laſuſdite table. et pre- . mierement du moyen de rehauſſer la paupiere ſuperieure- . ch a p t r e v. m 'a v o s propoſé d'eſcrire en particulier toutes les ſuſdites maladies : mais comme i'ay eſté n% deuancé par l'impreſſion de mon liure qui eſtoit ſur la preſſe , & ſçachant qu'il y auoit quel- qu'vn qui y trauailloit pour les eſcrire toutes en particulier, ie me ſuis arreſté a mettre ſeule- * ment celles qui s'enſuiuent.a quelques-vns la paupiere ſuperieure eſt relaſchée ºº ſonna- ms turel, & plus qu'iln'eſt neceſſaire à couurir l'œil, qui eſt cauſe d'amener double accident : l'vn eſt, que le malade ne peut bien ouurir l'œil : l'autre, que les poils du cil entrent dedans l'œil, & le pic- ub - quent, donnant au malade grande douleur. cette relaxation vient à raiſon d'vne paralyſie particuliere, qui # le #. ſe fait aux vieilles gens, ou d'vne defluxion rheumatique ſans acrimonie, cuiſon, ilc mordication : ce qui º # nous eſt manifeſte,parce que ceux qui ſont vexez de telle affectiós,ont quelquesfois vn ou deux râgs de poils ##º aux paupieres outre le naturel, qui croiſſent pour la quantité de cette matiere : comme voyons qu'ºn º #.ſchée, humide il croiſt beaucoup d'herbes. or ſi c'eſtoit vne humidité acre & cuiſante, le malade le pourroit fa . cauſes. cilement apperceuoir pour la douleur qu'il auroit aux yeux : joint que tel humeur corromprºit le poil,qui naturellement y eſt produit, & par plus forte raiſon engarderoit qu'il en ſuruint de ſuperfiu. et pour la cure. curation deuant que faire l'operation, faut marquer d'encre ce qu'il ſera expedient d'en couper, craignant qu'en oſtant trop, la paupiere ne demeuraſt renuerſée, ce que les anciens nomment eſtrºpion : puis il faut eäropion. pincer & ſouſleuer la paupiere ſuperieure, laiſſant le cartilage qui eſt au deſſous : & apres couper en tra- uers la peau tant qu'il en ſera beſoin, ſans offencer ledit cartilage : puis l'on fera deux ou trois petits poincts d'aiguille : pour reünir la playe & la conduire à cicatrice : laquelle eſtant faite empeſche que la paupiere ne tombe plus bas qu'elle ne doit, à cauſe qu'elle aura eſté accourcie. il ne faut oſter que ce qu'il en faut, ou autrement il aduiendroit deux dangers : l'vn, que ſi on coupe trop, l'œil demeurera éraillé, parce que la paupiere ne pourra couurir l'œil. auſſi ſi on coupe moins qu'il ne faut ce ſera temps perdu,& moyen d'ar- faire endurer le malade ſans profit et où il y auroit pluſieurs cils ou poils , les faut tirer & arracher par racher les petites & propres pincettes : puis cauteriſer la racine auec vn petit cautere ſans offencer l'œil , où apres ſe cils & em- forme vne cicatrice qui defend qu'ils n'y renaiſſent. le cautere t'eſt icy repreſenté. - peſcher leur generation. cautere. # de lºgºphthalmie , oa aeil de liévre . c h a p. v i. sc r ceux qui ont la paupiere trop eſleuée en haut, dorment les yeux ouuerts, ne les pouuans v clorre : les grecs nomment cette maladie lagophthalmos. la cauſe vient interieurement, com- me d'vn charbon, ou autre apoſteme, & vlcere : exterieurement comme d'vn coup d'eſpée ou d'autre baſton, ou bruſleure, par cheute, ou autrement. quand cette maladie eſt venue par prognºſtic. vne cicatrice, on la peut guarir, pourueu que la paupiere ſoit d'eſpeſſeur ſuffiſante , mais quand ce vient de nature, ou qu'il y a vne grande deperdition de ſubſtance, comme il aduient par vne bruſ- leure, ou par vn charbon, le malade ne peut guerir. pour la curation, il faut vſer des fomentations rela- xantes & remolientes : puis on fera vne inciſion ſur la paupiere en forme de croiſſant , tirée deſſus toute la cicatrice ; de maniere que toute la circonference d'icelle ſoit en haut en forme de voute, & ſes poinctes en bas pres du cil : apres on ſeparera les lévres de l'inciſion que l'on aura faite, & ſera mis deſſus de la charpie ſeiche, & par deſſus vne petite emplaſtre : puis ſera la partie liée comme il appartient, en rabaiſſant la paupiere, afin qu'elle ne retourne en la figure premiere & non naturelle. or faiſant l'inciſion, il ſe faut donner garde detoucher le cartilage : car eſtant inciſé,la paupiere ne ſe pourroit plus releuer. la paupiere inferieure eſt ſubjecte à pluſieurs indiſpoſitions, & meſme à cette ſuſdite , & lors telle maladie eſt nommée etiropion : laquelle ſera traictée comme la ſuſdite. curation. de la greſle des paupieres nommée chalazion en grec, & d'vn autre vice- nommé hordeolum. c h a p. v ii. h a la z i o n eſt vne petite eminence ronde, tranſparante, qui ſe concrée en la palpebre ſuperieure, & ſe remue çà & là, les latins l'ont nommée grande , greſle en françois , à cauſe qu'elle reſſemble à vn grain degreſle. il ſe fait vn autre tubercule ou eminence au bord des $ paupicres » qui ſe nomme hordeolum, à cauſe qu'elle a quelque ſimilitude à vngrain d'orge. * leur matiere eſt contenue dedans vne tunique & tres-difficilement ſe ſuppure : au commence- ment on la peut reſoudre, & lors qu'elle eſt inueterée, & que l'humeur eſt dur comme plaſtre, ou comme vne pierre de tuf, elle eſt tres-difficile à guarir. quand à la curation, il les faut oſter par œuure manuelle, cur,. y faiſant apertion , afin de faire euacuation de l'humeur contenu : mais quand ladite tumeur n'eſt non plus groſſe qu'vn grain d'orge, on doit paſſer au trauers vne aiguille enfilée, & y laiſſer le fil de longueur ſuffi- ſante, lequel ſera attaché au front (ſi c'eſt à la paupiere ſuperieure ) ou à la joüe(ſi c'eſt à l'inferieur)auec vne petite emplaſtre de gratia dei, & ſera remué de deux en deux iours, comme l'on fait àvn ſeton, car par ce moyen ladite tumeur ſera ſuppurée, & en fin guarie. - greſle. horgeole. prognoſtic. \ k k d' vne le dixſeptiéme liure, de pluſieurs a | - - - - - | - d'vne ſubſtance graſſe quiſecouche ſoulapaupiere, nommée hydatis. l - - c h a p t r e v iii. : paul. ch. , y d a t s eſt vne ſubſtance graſſe comme vn petit morceau de greſſe, laquelle eſt couchée # liné.hyda- #% au deſſous de la peau de la paupiere ſuperieure,qui ſuruient principalement aux petits enfans : is eſt vue tu. $ § % qui ſont fort humides, & par ainſi la tumeur eſt molle & laxe , qui rend la paupiere œdema- # meur melle, n# # # teuſe, eſtant cauſe qu'elle ne ſe peut releuer. ceux qui ſont vexez de telle indiſpofition ne :: blºnrs peuuent regarder la clarté du soleil, ayans les yeux rouges & pleurans couſtumierement. | -- cmre pour la curation, il faut inciſer & ampurer dextrement cette ſupercroiſſance , ſans toucher à l'œil : apres - l'amputation on doit maſcher vn peu de ſel, & l'appliquer deſſus ( ſi la douleur n'eſtoit trop grande ) afin -" de deſſeicher le lieu, qu'elle ne reuienne plus : & par deſſus tout l'œil on appliquera vu blanc d'œuf auec eau roſe , ou autre medicament repercuſſif. des paupieres priſes & jointes enſemble . c h a p. ix. cure d $# a paupiere ſuperieure ſe joint auec le cil de l'inferieure, quelquerfois auec la tunique con-b pan #. * $ ) $ jonctiue, & quelquesfois auec la cornée. telle agglutination ſe fait quelquesfois par nature, --- # #… # c'eſt à dire, par le vice de la vertu formatrice dans le ventre de la mere (comme quelquesfois | ble. - l'on voit les doigts s'entretenir enfemble : les extremitez du ſiege & l'orifice du col de la ma- trice ) combien que les yeux ſoient bien formez ; ce qu'on peut voir à la groſſeur de l'œil , • dans l'orbite & mouuement d'iceluy, aucunefois telle choſe aduient par playe ou par aduſtion , ou parapo- - ſteme, meſme par la petite verole, & autres cauſes. pour la cure faut la ſeparer ſoigneuſement auec vn in- cure des ſtrument propre, ſe gardant bien de toucher la cornée : à cauſe qu'elle ſe forjetteroit en dehors : ce qui ſe | - pºpºrººi fera mettant la queue d'vne eſpatule entre les palpebres, laquelle on leuera en haut (de peur de toucher à | . ſº"ſº la ſubſtance de l'œil) faiſant l'inciſion auec vne lancette courbée l'inciſion & ſeparation ainſi executée, on mettra dedans l'œil du blanc d'œuf, battu auec eau roſe, & tiendra on la paupiere ouuerte, commandant au malade l'ouurir & fermer : & la nuict on mettra vn petit lingedelié, trempé en eau,en laquelle on aura doiſſoult vn bien peu de vitriol : ou bien on vſera de ladite eau ſimple : car tel remede empeſchera qu'elle ne ſe reaglutine. le troiſiéme iour ony appliquera eaux deſicatiues ſans acrimonie, afin de produire cica- trice. or ſi la paupiere eſt adherante à la cornée , à l'endroit de la pupille , le malade demeurera borgne de cét œil, ou bien n'en verra que bien peu, à cauſe de ladite cicatrice , par laquelle la vertu viſuelle ne pourra penetrer en dehors iuſques aux objects, ou bien ne pourra donner paſſage à leurs images iuſques a l'humeur de criſtallin. pour le prognoſtic, tu apprendras de celſe que ce mal recidiue touſiours, encore ， qu'on aye mis toute diligence à la guarir, - : - - - — — - - m- -' du prurit des palpebres des yeux, c h a p. x. c # sà l ſe fait ſouuent vn grand prurit ou demangeaiſon aux palpebres des yeux, cauſée de pituite w., o phlegme ſalé, qui quelquesfois engendre les vlceres , deſquels ſort vne ſanie qui fait que ， )ſ les palpebres ſe glutinent de nuict enſemble, & les rend chaſſieuſes : laquelle choſe donne | cure du pru s grande faſcherie au patient. et pour la curation, les choſes vniuerſelles premiſes s'il y a vl- c- # # - ceres, ſeront lauées & corrigées auec ce collyre. prenez eau de miel diſtillée in balneo ma- -- pieres. " rix .iij. ſacch cand. .j. aloes lotx ſubtiliter pulueriſatx f.miſce, fiat collyrium. et ſi tel regime ne · · t §nten, ſuffit, vſeras de cettuy plus fort. é. vnguenti aegyptiaci j. diſſol.in aqua plantaginis quantum ſufficit, | .. ue l'egip- & auec vn peu de linge delié & imbu, ſeront touchées les palpebres, ſoy donnant bien garde qu'il n'en ，. #iae ， be tombe en l'œil : & au ſoir lors que le patient voudra dormir , ſe fera appliquer de cét onguent qui en tel | # l'œil, comme cas eſt de grand effect. z. axungia porci & butyri receutis an. ſ. tuthix præparatæ . #. antimo.prx- # uelques- para, in aqua euphaſ. ſcrupulos ij. camphorx. g. iiij. miſce, & immortario plumbi ducantur per tres horas, ſk ºmº , l'ont lequel ſera gardé en vne boete de plomb. autres eaux propres auſſi à deterger, ſeicher & roborer, eſtain- : º dirº dre, & entierement guarir le prurit & rougeur deſdites palpebres. #. aqux euphraſix, fœniculi , cheli- : ( º# doniz, an. .f. ſarcocollx nutritz ſcrupulos ij. vitriol. romani .j. miſceantur ſimul, & bulliant vnica # trand effect, ebullitione : poſtea coletur, & ſeruetur ad vſum dictum. autre. .aqua roſata & vini boni an. .iiij.tu- thiæ præparatæ, aloès , an. .j. floris aeris ſcrupulis ij. camphora g. ij. bulliant omnia ſecundum artum, & # feruentur in vaſe vitreo : & d'icelles en ſoient lauées les palpebres.autre prenez vin blanc demie liure, de • ſel commun .j. & les mettez en vn baſſin de barbier bien net & couuert, & le laiſſez par l'eſpace de cinq #ſ ou ſix iours, en remuant vne fois le iour le vin, & d'iceluy en ſoient frottées les palpebres iuſques à la par* s faicte curation. autre. prenez de l'vrine du patient, & la mettez en vn baſſin de barbier, par l'e ſpace d'vne d # nuict, & d'icelle le malade laueraſes yeux : ne faut faire difficulté d'vſer deſdits remedes, auſquels entrent l . hiſtoire choſes acres. car ie proteſte à dieu auoir veu vne femme aagée de cinquante ans, ou enuiron, laquelle - pour vne prurite ſe l'auoit les yeux de vinaigre le plus fort qu'elle pouuoit trouuer, dont en fus fort emer- *. ueillé : & me dit iamais n'auoir trouué rcmede plus fingulier. de vigo ordonne vne eau, qu'il dit eſtre | liu. ch . . precieuſe & d'admirable operation deſſus toutes ſortes de medecines en ce cas,&dit qu'elle doit eſtre plus traicté ;. eſtimée que l'or & l argent, laquelle eſt telle. # aquæ roſatæ, vini albi odoriferi, mediocris vinoſitatis an, \ . iiij. mirabolani citrini triturati . j. ſ. thur. . ij bulliant omnia ſimul, vſque ad conſumptionem tertix n part. deinde immediatè addantur fioris aeris ſcripul. ij. camphorae g ij. deinde reſeruetur invaſe vitreo be• # ne obturato ad vſum - , d - - -•-s-• de la lippitude & chaſſi-, c h a p. x i. (. cauſe de lip \ v l y en a quelques-vns qui ont touſiours les yeux moüillez d'vn humeur ſubtil, âcre, & chaud, t pitude " # \z qui leur cauſe vne perpetuelle aſperité e pour peu de choſe il ſuruient inflammation, & quel- ( prirnoſtic. $ ques fois lippitude ou chaſſie , & en fin éraillement des yeux. or lippitude n'eſt autre choſe | qu'vnc ordure blanche qui ſort des yeux , & quelquesfois tient les paupieres joinctes enſemble, | , - | operations de chirurgie. r- a - - • v .'. . - - & tourmente le malade toute ſa vie toutesfois à d'aucuns ce mal eſt curable, & quelquesfois du tout irc ii - rable. premierement la curation eſt inutile à ceux qui ont ce mal d'enfance:car neceſſairement il leur dare cure. iuſques a la mort.semblablement ceux qui ont groſſes teſtes pleine d'humeurs,en gueriſſent difficilement: quelquesfois la fiuxion ſe fait par les veines exterieures, & autresfois par les interieures, & quelquesfois par toutes deux. et ſi la fluxion ſe fait par les vaiſſeaux interieurs, eſt incurable,ou difficile à guarir.si par les exterieurs,il ya eſperance de guariſon,en faiſant les choſes vniuerſelles : puis raſer toute la teſte,& ap- pliquer medicamens aſtringens,afin de reſſerrer les veines,comme l'emplaſtre contra rupturam : ſeront auſſi appliquées ventouſes,en faiſant frictions par derriere:l'on pourra appliquer vn ſeton s'il eſt beſoin et pour les remedes topiques, on vſera du collyre d'eau roſe & de vitriol en petite quantité:aucuns appliquent vn cautere actuel au ſommet de la teſte, afin d'arreſter la fluxion : ce que ie loüe grandement. -- * -- d'ophthalmie . xi i. c h a p. # d'antecedente,comme par vnedefiuxion d'humeurs ſus la membrane. les ſignes ſuiuent l'hu- coulement de larmes , & ſemble au malade qu'il aye du ſable aux yeux : bref tous les ſignes qui ſuiuent le ſang, & ainſi des autres humeurs, comme nous auons dit cy-deſſus.si elle prouient de toute la teſte on ſent grande peſanteur en icelle : & s'il y a grande douleur ou inflammation vers le front,c'eſt ſigne qu'elle pro- uient de quelque intemperature qui vient de la dure-mere ou pericrane. lors que le malade a volonté de vomir, c'eſt ſigne qu'elle prend ſon origine de l'eſtomach. entre toutes les inflammations celles des yeux ſont les plus douloureuſes, & pource pluſieurs deſirent ſouuentesfois la mort, pour la grande & extreme douleur qu'ils ſentent, dont ſouuent les yeux ſortent hors de leur propre lieu & ſe creuent, comme nous dirons cy-apres. - pour la curation, le chirurgien ſe propoſera trois poincts.le premier eſt le regime de viure.le ſecond, euacuation de la matiere antecedente. le troiſieſme eſt application de medicamens topiques. le regime de viure ſera moderé, euitant toutes viandes vapoureuſes, & vſera de celles qui empeſchent les fumées de monter en haut. il s'abſtiendra de vin, ſi ce n'eſt que la douleur ſoit cauſée d'vn humeur gros & viſqueux, conn. celſ. p h t h a l m e eſt vne inflammation de la membrane appellée conionctiue, & par conſe- @ue c'eſt ſ quent de tout l'œil , accompagnée ſouuent de douleur, rougeur , & chaleur. icelle eſt faite qu'ophtal- % de cauſe primitiue, comme cheute, coup, poudre, ou ſable , qui peut jallir au yeux : ou miº ns meur dont elles ſont composées. si c'eſt le ſang, il y aura douleur, rougeur , chaleur & de-sighes. pregnoſtic: gal de loch aſſeétis. cure. comme dit galien. le ſecond poinct, qui eſt l'euacuation de la matiere antecedente, & de la conioincte, #. ſe fera par purgations & phlebotomie : ſemblablemeut les ventouſes appliquées ſur les eſpaules auec fca- la ſ # ，. rification, & ſans ſcarification ſont neceſſaires, enſemble les frictions.et ſi la fluxion augmentoit, il ſeroit tres expedient d'appliquer vn ſeton , afin de faire euacuation & deriuation de la matiere antecedente. ia- reillement apres les choſes vniuerſelles, galien recommande fort l'apertion des veines & arteres au front & temples:à cauſe que ſouuentesfois le ſang chaud & vapoureux remplit les vaiſſeaux,qui cauſe telle dou- leur. le troiſieſme, qui eſt application de medicamens topiques, ſeront diuerſifiez ſelon les quatre temps: car au commencement lors que la matiere eſt chaude, les repercuſifs ſeront grandement profitables, & en l'augment les repercuſifs & aucunement reſolutifs, comme /.. aqu. roſar. & plantaginis, an. .É. alb. vnius oui, mucaginis, gummi tragachanti, .ſ.fiat collyrium, lequel tiede ſera mis en l'œil, & par deſſus on ap- pliquera vne petite compreſſe trempée en ce collyre. · autre z. mucag.ſem.pſyllij & cydon.extract. in aqua plantan. .ſ.aquæ ſolani,& lact. mul.an. .É. tro- chiſc.albi raſis .j.fiat collyrium, duquel vſerez comme du precedent, & on appliquera ſur le fi ont & aux temples vn tel defenſif . bol.arm. & ſang.drac.maſtic an. .j.ſ alb. vnius oui, aquæ roſar. & aceti an. .j. reme de pcur les vieillet ophthal- mies, gal. ; math. cº; dcrnicº. . terebinth.lota & olei cydonior. an. .j.É.fiat defenſ.ou bien en lieu d'iceluy on viera de l ongucrt de bolo, ou l'emplaſtre de diachalcit. ou contra ruptur. diſſoult en hu; le de myrtils , & vn peu de vinaigre.et ſi la douleur eſt grande, on appliquera tel cataplaſme. z medull.pomor ſub cinerib. coctor. iij. lact mul. É. fiat cataplaſ.lequel ſera appliqué ſur l'œil,ayant mis du collyre,& renouuellé ſouuent : ou z. mucag.ſem. pſyllij& cydonior. an . micæ panisalbi in lacte infuſ.# ij.aquae roſar. .ſ.fiat catapl. dauantage p u ras vſer des cataplaſmes cy-deſſus eſcrits à la douleur du phlegmon.auſſi le ſang de tourterelle,pigeon ou vo- laille appaiſent grandement la douleur.semblablement les bains appaiſent la douleur, & § la fluxion à cauſe que parfueur ſe fait euacuation de tout le corps. en l'eſtat lors que les douleurs ſeront ceſſées, on vſera de tel remedes. - - - %. ſarcoc nutr in lact.mul. .jaloès lotx in aqua roſat. .trochiſc.alb.raſ. .ſ ſacc.cand. .ij aqua ro- far iij fiat collyrium, lequel ſeraapqliqué tiede en l'œil. autre z. ſeminis fœnic & fœnugræci an. . ij. forum camomil. meliloti an.m. . coquantur in aqua communi ad #. iij. collatura adde tuthix preparat*, & ſarcocolla nutritæ lact mul. an. .j. fi. ſi ſacchar. cand. . fiat collyrium vt artis eſt. en la declina- tion on fomentera la partie d'vne decoction carminatiue , puis fera appliqué ce collyre %. ſarco- † . ij. aloes lota & myrtill. an. .j. aqua roſar. & euphraſan. .ij.fiat collyrium vt artis eſt : vtatur vt dixi. - - c h a p. x i i i. l y a vne indiſpoſition nommée en grec propreſîs , exitus en latin , ingroſſation ou promi- nence en françois,qui eſt quand l'œil ſort hors de fa cauité par trop grande replètion de ma. # tiere tombant ſur les yeux , qui ſe fait par vn grand & vehement vomiſſement, & par trop crier, & aux femmes par labeur d'enfanter , ou par trop grande reſolution des muſcles, ou a\n par vne douleur extreme de teſte. et quelquefois par cette promience ou procidence , la veuë ſe perd du tout, & l'œîl ſe creue, & les humeurs ſortent dehors. ce que iay veu aduenir à la ſœur hiſtoirs. de louys de billy , marchand drapier demeurant pres le pont sainct michel à paris , laquelle eut vne ſi ex- treme douleur, inflammation & fluxion, que les yeux luy ſortirent de la teſte en ma pretence. la cure ſera diuerfifiée ſelon les cauſes. et apres les choſes vniuerſelles, on appliqnera ventouſes ſur la nuque du col & ſur les eſpaules : auſſi vn ſeton ou cautere. et pour les particuliers, l œil ſera comprime auec compreſ- fes imbués en decoction aſtringente, cum ſuccoacaciæ , roſarum rubrar. fueilles de pauot eſcorce de gre- nades, fueilles de roſes,de iuſquiame. et auſſi deſdites choſes on pourra faire cataplaſme aucc farine d'orge, & autres remedes ſemblables. de l'œil qui chet dehors, dit proptoſis. | ; les cauſes, compreſſes aſtringenté:° k k : p'utrºp bie le dix-ſeptiéme liure de pluſieurs d'atrophie de l'oeil. cure. il y a vn autre maladie contraire à la prominence de l'œil , nommée atrophie, qui eſt la priuation de nourriſſement ; de façon que toute la ſubſtance de l'œil eſt aucunement fetrie & conſommée auec grande anguſtie de la pupille. l'atrophie ſera curée par ſon contraire. et pour le particulier, on fera des fomen- tations chaudes & attractiues, & frictions aux parties proches , & autres applications de choſes qui reuo- quent le nourriſſement, & les eſprits à la partie. de chemoſis. fuchſius en chemoſis eſt vnmot grec, c'eſt quand l'vne & l'autre palpebre ſont renuerſées par vne grande infam- ſa méthod, mation qu'à grande peine peuuent couurir les yeux : joint auſſi que la conionctiue eſt beaucoup plus emi- nente que la cornée, eſt rouge & non blanche. les cauſes ſont antecedentes & primitiues : antecedantes, comme multitude d'humeurs : primitiues, comme playe, contuſion,& autres.la cure ſe fera ſelon la diſpo- ſition qu'on verra eſtre delaiſſée en la partie. de l'agglutination qui ſe fait de palpebres l'vne contre l'autre. l'agglutination des palpebres ſe fait quelquesfois par nature; c'eſt à dire, par le defaut de la vertu for- matrice au ventre de la mere (comme l'on voit les doigts ſe tenir enſemble, ou le ſiege, ou l'orifice du col de la matrice ) combien que les yeux ſoient bien formez : ce qu'on peut voir à la groſſeur de l'œil dedans l'orbite, & au mouuement de l'œil. aucunesfois telle choſe aduient par playe, ou par aduſtion , ou par apoſteme, anthrax, & ſouuent par la petite verole, ou autres cauſes. cure, la cure, c'eſt de mettre la queuë d'vne eſpatule entre les palpebres, la leuant en haut (de peur de tou- cher la ſubſtance de l'œil ) puis faire inciſion auecvne lancette courbée, & ſeparera-on les paupieres l'vne d'auec l'autre : et ſera playe traittée ainſi qu'il appartient. et ſe faut donner garde que derechef elles ne s'agglutinent, qui ſe fera y appliquant vn peu de linge delié, & medicamens propres entre-deux, iuſques à ce que la cicatrice ſoit faite. - de vngula. c h a p. xiv. vt r e indiſpoſition vient aux yeux, appellée vngula, qui eſt vne excroiſſance de chair membraneuſe, qui peu à peu croiſt ſur la conionctiue, prenant ſon origine le plus ſouuent du grandangle de l'œil, & quelquesfois du petit : aucunesfois couure entierement la con- ionctiue, & autresfois portion de la cornée, aucunesfois la pupille, qui fait que le malade ne voit goutte. autres ne ſont en leur milieu nullement adherantes contre la conionctiues de façon qu'on peut mettre vne petite ſonde entre-deux.aucunes ſont de couleur rouge,ci- trine, brune, les autres blanches. leurs cauſes ſont primitiues, comme coups, cheures, & autres : auſſi cauſes. peuuent venir des antecedentes,comme fiuxions qui ſe font ſur les yeux.les ſignes ſeront cogneus de cho- prernoſtie. ſes predites : l'ongle qui eſt groſſe, large, & fort attachée à la conionctiue,eſt difficile à guarir : fi elle cou- ure entierement la pupille, le chirurgien n'y doit toucher : car la cicatrice qui demeureroit apres ne peº- mettroit la faculté animale viſuelle reluire au trauers. icelles ſont ſouuent accompagnées d'ophthalmie, cºratiºn demangeaiſon ou cuiſon, auec douleur larmoyante, & tumeur des paupieres. or quant à la curation, au commencement faut vſer de bon regime de viure, eſtre purgé,ſaigné,principalement s'il y a grande inflam- mation.et pour les medicamens topiques, afin de conſommer icelle excroiſſance, & prohiber l'augmenta- tion, on mettra ſouuent d'ans l'œil de noſtre collyre de vitriol deſcrit au chapitre des playes des yeux : & fi pour tel remede ne laiſſe à prendre croiſſance, ou qu'on n'euſt eſté appellé au commencement; de ſorte qu'elle fut confirmée,la cure ſera faicte par operation manuelle, comme s'enſuit. - extirpation ayººº fitué le patient ſur vn banc à la renuerſe, à demy couché, & tenu ferme par vn ſeruiteur, luy faut de l'vngula. ouurir les paupieres, & les tenir ſtables par les inſtruments,dit speculum oculi, eſcrit au chapitre des playes de yeux. lors le chirurgien eſleuera & ſuſpendra en haut l'vngula par ſon milieu,auec certains petitscro- chets : & l'ayant eſleué, faut prſſer vn aiguille enfilée de fil vny entre la coionctiue & l'vngula : puis ſera oſté le crochet, & eſleué l'vngula en haut par le fil, puis commencera à la ſeparer doucement,commençant vers ſon origine, auecvne petite biſtorie iuſques à ſon extremité, en ſe donnant bien garder de toucher la ſubſtance de la conionctiue ou cornée. les figures des crochets, aiguille, & biſtorie ſont telles. crochets. •aiguille- . biſtorie . puis operations de chirurgie. a puis ſera coupée auec ciſeaux,& ſera appliqué dans l'œil albumen oui cum aqua roſarum,& ſera fouuét renouuellé cettuy remede.auſſi il faut que le patient ouure & remuë ſouuent ſon œil, de peur que la pal- pourquoy pebre ne ſe coaleſce contre la partie, d'où on aura tiré l'vngula.aucuns practiciens font qu'en lieu de ſe- faut que le parer l'vngula auec le biſtorie,prennent le tuyau d'vne plume d'oye bien accouſtrée,tranchante & polie:les malade ou- autres la ſeparent auec vn poil de queue de cheual:& quád elle ſera ſeparée, la faut couper auec la pointe ure é ferme de ciſeaux deliez & bien tranchans, en ſe gardant expreſſément de toucher à la glandule qui eſt au grand ſouuét l'œil. canthus pource que ſi elle eſtoit coupée,ſon vſage ſeroit perdu , & le patient ietteroit larme touºe ſa vie. or luy ayant coupée, faut maſticher ſel commun & du cumin,& le mettre dans l'œil , de peur que la pau- piere ne ſe reprenne à l'endroit d'où on aura amputé l'vngula. on pourra mettre par deſſus l'œil des re- percuſſifs eſcrits aux playes des yeux, pour l'inflammation, & autres accidens. des fistules lacrymales, appellées de grec •aegilops. c h a p. x v. $ſ v grand coin de l'œil il y a vne glande faite de nature, pour receuoir & contenir vne humi- vſage de la # dité, pour lubrifier & humecter l'œil, afin qu'il ne fut par ſes mouuemens deſſeiché : ce que slºnº !º- nous auons aſſez remonſtré cy-deſſus en l'anatomie de cette partie. or cette glande par fiu-º/"* xions phlegmoneuſes, ou par matiere catharreuſe & pituiteuſe tombant du cerueau , s'apo- - * ſteme & vlcere,& quelquesfois degenere en fiſtule, & par quelque temps ſe fait carie en l'os. aucunes deſdites fiſtules ſont ouuertes par dehors,principalement la phlegmoneuſe : les autres par dedans, qui ſe fait de matiere catharreuſe, de ſorte qu'il n'appert aucune ouuerture par dehors, fors vne tumeur de groſſeur d'vn poids : & lors qu'on preſſe deſſus, on fait ſortir vne ſanie ſereuſe & rouſſe , autresfois blan- che & viſqueuſe par le coin de l'œil, ou par dedans le nez : aucuns iettent ladite ſanie continuellement: les autres ſont vn mois ou plus ſans rien ietter, qui eſt le propre d'aucunes fiſtules. les vieilles fiſtules la- chrymales ſont cauſe de rendre l'œil atrophié, & puante haleine, & quelquesfois de faire perdre du tout l'action de l'œil:parquoy eſt beſoin que le patient appelle conſeil,tant du medecin que du chirurgien,pour obuier à tels accidens pour la curation, il faut que les choſes vniuerſelles precedent les particuliers. cure. donc ſil'vlcere n'eſt aſſez ample, faudra appliquer des tentes d'eſponge : & pour corriger & conſommer huyle devi. la chair ſuperfluë de ladite glande, on appliquera dextrement au profond , medicamens catheretiques, triol eſt ſie- comme poudre de vitriol calciné, ou de mercure, eau forte, huyle de vitriol, ou vn petit cautere potentiel. eatiue , & et ſi tels remedes ne profitent, & qu'il y eut carie en l'os & que le patient voulut endurer, on doit vſer de fºrt ºſtrin- cautere actuel , lequel e loue plus que le potentiel , pource que ſon operation eſt plus prompte & plus º ſeure, & puis bien aſſeurer qu'a pluſieurs ie l'ay appliqué auec heureuſe iſſuë. en tel cas aucuns practiciens veulent que ledit cautere ſoit d'argent, les autres d'or, pource (diſent-ils) que tels metaux ſont plus ex- cellens que le fer : mais quant à moy, ie n'y trouue aucune raiſon : parce que c'eſt touſiours le feu qui opere, & non la matiere des cauteres;que s'il eſt queſtion d'eſtre ſi ceremonieux pour le choix deſdits me- taux, ie trouue par raiſon le fer plus propre à telle operation qu'aucun autre, d'autant qu'il eſt plus aſtrin- gent & deſiccatif que ny l'or, ny l'argent , pource qu'il eſt plus terreſtre, comme l'effect le monſtre és eaux qui paſsét par les mines de fer.la figure du cautere doit eſtre de figure triangulaire,vn peu aigu en ſon extremité,afin que plus próptement il faſſe ſon effect.et alors qu'on l'appliquera on doit bander l'œil ſain, de peur que le malade ne voye le feu. et luy ſera tenu la teſte ferme, de peur qu'il ne la tourne de coſté ny d'autre et ſur l'œil fiſtulé, ſera appliqué vne piece de fer,laquelle ſe cambre ſelon la cauité du grand can- thus de l'œil, en laquelle y aura vn trou qui ſera poſé à l'endroit de la fiſtule, par lequel on appliquera le cautere:ce faiſant on ne touchera nulle autre partie que l'endroit qu'on veut cauteriſer.et d'abondant,ſert pareillement de clorre entierement l'œil, de peur que le patient n'apperçoiue ledit cautere : la figure du- quel eſt telle auec la piece de fer. - difference. la figure du cautere actuel, & la piece de fer troiiée. dauantage, le chi- aux gran- rurgien auſſi aura égard d§r is, que lors qu'il applique- dechirurgie ra le cautere ou fera les paren, quelque autre grande du malade oeuure de chirurgie , ne doiuent comme couper vn bras, ºſººr. ou autre partie du corps, ou faire quelque ouuerture, & generale- ment toute operation cruelle, iamais ne doit, s'il eſt poſſible, permet- tre y aſſiſter aucuns des parens & amis du malade, fors eulement les ſeruiteurs, ou ceux qui puiſſent bien . ? ratiociner & entendre, que tels actes ſe font ſelon l'art, afin de luy donner ayde & ſecours pour la guari- ſon de ſa maladie. car ceux qui portent folle amitié au patient & qui peu ratiocinenr, tant s en faut qu'ils - v. - - - - - * la ſcience donnent loüange à ton œuure, qu'au contraire la vitupereront, & t'appelleront non chirurgien, mais n'eſt iamais bourreau : pource que la ſcience n'eſt iamais contemnee, ſi ce n'eſt par gens ignares, empiriques , & lans mſpriſte raiſon. orapres auoir deuement appliqué ledit cautere, mettras dans l'ouuerture & ſur l'œil & parties que par les voifines, blancs d'œufs agitez en eau roſe, plantain, & morelle : & fera le patient poſé au lict, ou en vne gens ignaret. chaire la teſte vn peu haute , & ſera renouuellé ledit remede, ſubit qu'il commencera à ſe deſſeicher. - puis ſera procuré la cheute de l'eſcarre, auec vn peu de beurre frais : laquelle eſtant tombée, ſera l vlcere mondifié,puis incarné, & cicatriſé ſelon l'art : & où l'osſera trouué eſtre carie, ſeront appliquez remedes propres aux caries des os, leſquels declarerons cy-apres. k x f o dix-ſeptiéme liure,de pluſieurs — des staphylomes. c h a p. xv i. cauſe de #sn ſa s - $ ! a p h y l o m e , eſt vne tumeur de la cornée de l'œil auec l'vuée, qui vient à cauſe d'vne : $ )% defluxion ou vlcere faite en l'œil, la cornée eſtant relaſchée ou pouſſee en dehors, par vne staphilome. \ ( -, $ : $ puſtule engendrée au deſſous. cette tumeur *eſſemble à vn grain de raiſin , en ſa figure & ( \ # \ rondeur,au reſte quelquesfois eſtant de couleur noire quelquesfois blanche. or ſi la cornée º >ºs * eſt vlcerée & corrodée, de forte que la tunique vuée ſorte par l'vlcere, la couleur du sta- phylome ſera noire, ſemblable à vn grain de raiſin noir ( pource que la membrane vuée eſt en ſon exte- asce.paul, rieure partie noire ) qui s'apparoiſt quand la cornée eſt rompue. et lors que la cornée n'eſt que relaſchée & non rompue , le staphylome eft blancheattre comme vn raiſin qui n'eſt encor meur- les anciens en ont fait pluſieurs differences. premierement s'il y a petite ouuerture à la cornée, là où l'vuée apparoiſtra , eſt lors appellé teſte de mouſche : & quand elle eſt plus ouuerte, & enſemble dure calleuſe, ſera appellé teſte de clou : & ſi elle eſt dauantage ouuerte,ſera dit grain de raiſin. et en quelque ſorte que ce mal aduienne, il apporte deux inconueniens & danger, l'vn de perdre & deſtruire la veue : l'autre, de gaſter & defigurer prognoſtic. le viſage. le chirurgien y ſert , non pour reſtituer la veue:car elle « ſt ja perdue , mais ſeulement pour em- bellir l'œil, ce qui ſe fera en coupant ce qui eſt trop eminent : toutesfois le faut donner garde de faire trop grande ouuerture, que les humeurs ne tombent dehors. de l'œil plein de matiere purulente,dit hypopyon. c h a p. xv l i. cauſe de $ l ſe fait ſouuentesfois du pus entre la cornée & l'vuée; ce qui aduient ou de cauſe interne, ou hypºpºycn. externe:de cauſe interne, comme quelque fluxion, & ſouuent apres vne gra de inflammation: le cauſ externe, cóme de quelque coup,de façon que quelque vaiſſeau ſe rompt#uis le ſang cure s$ etant hors de ſe vaiſſeaux,ſe pourrit pour la caration on doit les choſes vniuerflles premi- - ſes)appliquer ventoutes & faire ſcarifications, ent mble de fric ions de haut en bas,afin que - l'autre ceil par conſentement ne ſouffre, & appliquer collyres ſedatifs de doul ur & reſolutif . galien dit ººº t** auoir fait vacua ion ie cette matiere purulente en inciſant la cor , ée quelque peu au deſſus de l'iris qui eſt # #. le lieu où toutes les tun ques ſe ioignent enſemble. ce que i'ay fait en la preſence de iacques guillemeau chirurgien iuré à paris , auec heureuſe iſſue. et avant fait cette ouuerture, & vuidé la matiere , on mondi- difia l'vlcere auec eau mieillée, ou autre choſe ſemblable. de la dilatation de la pupille, appellée des anciens mydriiſi. c h a p. xvi i i. - .. .. $ ne y d r a s s ſelon les anciens, eſt dilatation de la pupille de l'œil, laquelle ſe fait naturel- * diſferencei n$ #a # lement , ou par accident. celle qui eſt naturelle, vient de la natiuité , & ne ſe peut repa- de mydria- $ \. • - # # rer : celle qui ſe fait par accident, eſt doub'e, a ſçauoir qui vient de cauſe antecedente, & - | - - - - - ſis- $ # % l'autre de primitiue. celle de cauſe ante edente vient par vne defluxion du cerueau : la cu- c *x$ $ re de laquelle ſe fera par le docte & prudent medecin. a celle qui vient de cauſe primitiue, t "é°. comme pour vn coup, cheute ou contuſion faite a l'œil, y conuient ſoudain appliquer deſſus choſes reper- c cuil mes, & appaiſer la douleur,& prohiber la fluxion par bon regime de viure,phlebotomie,ventouſes,fri- ctions , & autres choſes que l'on verra eſtre vtiles : puis apres on vſera des r medes reſolutif, comme du ſang de tourterelle, pigeon, ou de quelque volaille, que l on appliquera tout chaud, tant dedans l'œil que d hors, & ſus l'o il & aux parties voiſines tel cataplaſme. z. far. fab. hord. an .iiij. olei roſar. & myr- tºile fomer- tvl.aa.à.i,f. pul. ireos florent. ij. cum ſapa, fiat catapl. dauantage on vſera de cette fomentation. z. roſ, tatio a ve - rub, myrtill an m.j flor. melil & camom. an. p.jeucum cupreſſ . . vin auºeri tb. r. aquae roſar & plan- tu de redu - tag. an. .iij. fiat omnium de coct. pro fotu, cum ſpongia. aegine ta lib. de re medica, loue pour cette af re lº fºº fection l eau marine, & en defaut, la ſaumure ; aetius apres luy , en dit le me ne : actuarius auſſi,gour- piere. don, & devigo l'approuuevt. - des cataračies. c h a p. x i x. # #. r quelquesfois auſſi par coup, ou cheute, & autres cauſes, ſont faictes cataraêtes,deſquelles # ie traitteray icy le plus briefuement qu'il me ſera poſſible. cataracte , eſt autrement ap elº le des grecs hypochyma, des latins suffuſio , & du vulgaire maille. or il ne faut icv diſpu- ( ter des noms, mais de la choſe afin qu'elle ſoit entendue. parquoy diſons que cataracte n'eſt autre choſe qu'vne taye ou petite peau, qui naiſt ſous la tunique cornée , a l'endroit de la pupille ou prunelle de l'œil , nageant ſur l'humeur aqueux : à la difference des taches, macules, & cicatri- cauſes, ces qui ſont deſſus ladite cornée. aucunesfois la pupille en eſt du tout couu rte, & aucunesfois ſeule- ment à moitié & quelquesfois n'y a que bien petite portion d'icelle. ft ſelon icelles differences, l'action d de l'œil eſt de prauée & empeſchée , ou du tout perdue & abolie, à raiſon que l'eſprit l'animal viſuel ne peut reluire au trauers d'icelle taye.les cauſes ſont exte rieures,ou interieures,les exterieures,côme coups lºº ººº ou cheutes,ou auoir eu trop grande chaleur ou froideur àla tefte,qui auroiêt cauſé quelque douleur & fiu- º #ſ" xion aux yeux.les inierieures ſont groſſes vapeur & fumees eſleuées de l'eſtomach par faute de bonne di- # -- geſtion)au moyen d'auoir vsé indu ment de groſſes viâdes,vins forts : generalemet toute choſes vapou- tan x reuſes,dont ſont faites groſſes vapeurs & fumees corrompues qui montent de l'eſtomach au cerueau : puis yeux, cau ët deſcendent aux yeux par quelque eſpace de temps, leſquelles ſe liquefient & fondent en humeur vilqueux: §. - puis le condenſent & congelent par la froideur des mêbranes,ainſi que voyons en la generation de la glace. #e,é ſelºn les ſigne peuuent eſlre pris de la deſcriptiô predite parce qu'on void,principalement lors quelle eſt côfir- leur, quali- mée,vne tave,membrane,ou petite p au lur pupille, laquelle eſt quelquesfois blanche, non e,celeſte, cen- tex c ſub- dvée ou liuide , citrine , verde, & quelquesfois reſſemblanta argent vif, ſe monſtrant fort mouuante entre ſtance ſºnt toutes les autres. toutes leſquelles ſont ainſicolorées ſelon la diuerſité de l'humeur dont elles ſont faites, diuerſ mºt du commencement que la cataracte ſe forme, il ſemble au patient veoir en l'air petites mouſches, poils, cºlorées rets & autres diuerſes choſes qui montent & deſcendét,& qu'vne choſe ſoit double:auſſi que la lumiere,& characteres | operations de chirurgie. i : ) | a chara teres ou images, luy ſemblent plus petits qu'ils n'auoient accouſtumé, à cauſe que la faculté anima- le viſuelle ne peut deuement rcluire , pour l'obſcurité que fait la taye : ainſi que font les nuées leſquelles empeſchent la lumiere du soleil & de la lune reluire ſur la terre. pareillement lors que la cataracte ſt en ſon accroiſſement, le patient voit moins en plein iour, que vers le ſoir, parce que le iour eſtant en ſa gran- de lumiere, reſout & diſſipe l'eſprit viſuel. et pour cette cauſe,les ſimulacres , images, & characteres, ſem- blent plus petits en plein iour,que vers le ſoir : à raiſon que l'eſprit animal viſuel le fortifie lors que le lour n'eſt en ſi grande clarté. dauantage, ſi la cataracte n'occupe qu'vne portion de la pupille, alors le patient voit choſes obſcures & diuerſes formes,comme des croiſſants ou feneſtres oblongues, & autres corps fan- taſtiques. car ſi la taye occupe le centre de la pupille , tous objects qui ſe preſenteront à luy, luy ſemble- ront eſtre feneſtres,eſtimant ce qu'il ne void point du milieu des objects eſtre comme ouuertures en iceux. au contraire, ſi elle occupe la moitié de la pupille, il ne verra & diſcernera que la moitié des obiects, n'a- yantl'vſage libre que de la moitie de l humeur criſtalin : comme auſſi quand elle couure du tout la pupille, & qu'elle eft confirmée, ne peut plus rien diſcerner de ſa veue, fors quelque lueur du iour, de la lune , & des eſtoilles, ou de la chapdelle : toutesfois ſans en rien pouuoir diſcerner. cures des cataračtes. c h a p. xx. a cure des cataractes qui commencent à ſe former, ſe fera en ordonnant au patient ſon re- ' : # gime, euitant vins forts, & viandes qui engendrent ſuc phlegmatique & groſſes vapeurs, & , # generalement toutes choſes aigues, comme ſaleures, eſpiceries , als , oignons , mouſtarde, pois,feves,nauets,chaſtaignes, & leurs ſemblables : & principalement le coit immoderé, qui en tel cas eſt fort contraire. son pain ſera fait auec fenouil, pource qu'il a vertu de clarifier la veue, & prohiber les vapeurs de monter en haut, les diſſipant en l'eſtomach deuant qu'elle puiſſent gai - gner le cerueau par ſa vertu carminatiue. et pour cette cauſe apres le pait , le patient doit vler de cot - gnac, conſerue de roſes, ou dragee , composee de choſes carminºtiues. semblablement ſera purgé & ai- gné ( s'il en eſt beſoin. ) pareillement ſeront faites frictions diuerſes , applications de ventoues derriere le col. auſſi le matin vſera de maſticatoirc , pour faire deriuation des matieres pituiteuſes par la bouche. quelque ancien practicien nous a laiſsé par eſcrit , que la friction faite des doigts ſur la palpebre , & re- garder ſouuent les eſtoilles du ciel ( & quelquesfois la lune en ſon plein ) conſument & diſlipet t la taye, toutesfois non encores confirmée : auſſi fait le regard du miroir d'acier & des pierres precieuſes , & ge- neralement de toutes choſes vertes & luiſantes, a raiſon , peut eſtre , que par la vertu de leurs rayon , & ſplendeur,elles peuuent diſſiper çà & la,& tarir tel humeur pareillement l'efflation ou ſoufflemeut fait par quelque perſonne (apres la friction faicte ſur la palpebre) qui aye l'haleine douce, ayant malche fenouil, anis,coriande,noix de muguette,clou de girofle,canelle & leurs ſemblables,ſi ainſi eſt que les ayan encore en ſa bouche, luy faſſe efiiation dans l'œil, & le plus pres que faire ſe pourra,& faut continuer tel#e choſe par pluſieurs & diuerſes fois car par ce moyé on eſchauffe, ſubtiliſe, reſoult,rompt,& diſſipe la ca'taract-. -, outreplus on doit vſer de ce collyre qu elcrit de vigo , lequel a auſſi grande vertu de clarifier la veuë , & c prohiber que les cataractes ne ſe confirment : & meſmement les diſſipe,& ſouuentesfois les cure.%.hepa- tis hircini ſani & recentis fb.ij. calami aromatici mellis,an. . ß. ſucci rutha .iij. aqua chelidonuæ, fo n - culi herbent & eufraſix an. .ii. pipe is longi, nucis muſcata , garyophylloruman. . ij. croci ſcrupulum j. floris roriſmarini aliquantulum contriti m. s.ſarcocollae aloes hepatica an. .iij. fellis raya , leporis & per- dicis an. .j. ces choſes ſoient pilées,& puis ſoit odjouſté lacchari albi . j. mellis roſati .vj. & le tout en- ſemble ſoit mis en l'alambic de verre,& diſtillee in balneo mariæ & de cette diitillation en ſoit ſouuent mis aux yeux. et ſi par tous ces remedes ladite taye n'eſt curée , mais au contraire, ſe forme & engroſſit plus fort alors la faut laiſſer endurcir & confirmer,afin qu'on la puifle guarir par operation manuelle, qui ſe fera en l'abatant auecque l aiguille comme nous dirons bien-toſt ) car ſi elle eſt trop tendre lors qu'on la vou- droit abatre, l'aiguille paſleroit au trauers,& ne la pourroit-on abatre. au contraire ſi elle eſt trop dure, difficilement eftabatue. donc eſt beſoin au chirurgien cognoiſtrc celles qui ſont confirmées ou non con- firmées.semblablement celles qui ſont curables, & celles qui ſont incurables : leſquelles choſes ſe peuuent cognoiſtre par les ſignes qui s'enſuiuent. signes pour cognoiſtre les cataračtes curables, ou non. c h a p. xx i. r e m i e r e m e n t , celle qui eſt confirmée l'œil ſain eſtant fermé , lors que du poulce on vient doucement à frotter celuy où eſt la cataracte , & que ſubit on l'ouure, on void que la pupille ſe dilate, & toſt retourne en ſon lieu, en meſme eſtat & couleur qu'elle eſtoit aupara- uant : ſans demeurer elparfe & dilatée.secondement,ſi le patient ne peut voir & diſcernerau- * cune choſe par le ſens de la veue, c'eſt ſigne infaillible que la cataracte eſt entierement con- firrrs •ée, au contraire,ſi le patient void encore , & peut diſcerner aucune choſe par la veue : & auſſi que la pº f> i ile demeure dilatée & eſpa ſe apres la friction de l'œil, c'eſt ſigne qu'elle n'eſt encore confirmée. or a #ºv a oir, pourquoy le chirurgien oculiſte pour cognoiſtre ſi les cataractes ſont incurables & confirm « s, cl- ſt l'œil ſain du patient,& frotte l autre ; eſt ce point afin que l'eſprit animal viſuel de l'œil iain aille en pl vins grande abondance à celuy que l'on frotte,& que l'on fait ouurir promptement ſans l autre,qui fait que la p» v-apille ſe dilate, & la cataracte ſe manifeſte oculairement : or les cararactes qui ſont incurables , font cs= l l es qui s'enſuiuent : c'eſt à ſçauoir celle qui eſt auecques grande dilatation de pupille, & qu'on ne void #*s unement branſler lors qu'on aura frotté la palpebre de deſſus l'œil, ayant clos premierement l'œil ſain &< si ue la pupille de l'œil où eſt la cataracte ne s'eſlargiſt : car telle choſe monſtre qu'il y a obſtruction au n e - f optique : au moyen dequoyl'eſprit animal viſuel n'y reluit plus.parquoy encore qu'on l'euſt abbatue, s>un r,e profiteroit rien. dauantage s'il y a emaciation on amaigriſſement a l'œil , n'y aura aucune vtilite à *ºs tre la cataracte. auſſi ſi elle eſt causée par coup ou cheute, & apres grande & extreme douleur de te- *s - dareillement celles qui ſont de couleur gypeuſe, verte,noire, plombée, citrine, ou de couleur d'argent *f s le plns ſouuent ſont incurables au contraire celles qui ſont de couleur celeſte, ou blanche, ou de cou- s u r dc chaſtaigne,ſont curables : & entre toutes,les celeſte,lors qu'elle eſt accompagnée de quelque blan- sºeur : & principalement quand elle branſle en la pupille ſubit qu'on aura frotté l œ l où ra ladite catc- *acte.il ne faut toucher aux vueilles gens, parce qu'elles viennent par faute d'eſprits viſuels, ny auſſi à ceux ºui ont l'œil fort petit & cnfoncé: - k & bure pourquoy cn voit iuº claur en lieu vbſcur qn'en plein iour. fr# # #ons ér vent oºſes. ccllyre de de vig°. cataracfe ; incurables. pierre frai- cc en ſon li- re des h.r. miss. le dix-ſeptiéme liure,de pluſieurs aecidens qu'il faut ap. paiſer deuât qne venir à l'œuure. en qu'elle ſi. twation doit eſtre le -pa- º/ f, preparation de l'aiguille. operation manuelle. gal. au cö- ment. ſur hip. de l'off. du medecin. ce qu'il ob- ſerne apres l'eperation. remedes ſur les accidens qui ſuruien- ment en l'e- peratioh. -\ - - - - cure des cataračtes parl'œuure de main. c h a p t r e. xxi i. $ſ )én)ne ya n t ainſi cogneu par ces ſignes la cataracte eſtre confirmée & curable , ſera procedé \ # par operation manuelle. toutesfois, ſi le patient a douleur de teſte, toux, vomiſſement, ne % luy faut toucher,iuſques à ce que tels accidens ſoient remis:car en vain tu labourerois. et % lors que tu voudras ouurer,te faut eſlire vntemps propre pour telle choſe,c'eſt à ſçauoir,en decours de la lune,& qui ne ſoit au temps de foudres & tonnerres, & au temps que le so- leil eſt au ſigne d'aries qui regarde ta teſte.adonc le chirurgien prendra conſeil du docte medecin, afin que ſi le patient a beſoin d'eſtre purgé & ſaigné, il le ſoit : de peur qu'il ne ſuruienne aucun ºauuais accident, qui par faute de ce pourroit aduenir.puis deux iours apres auoir fait les choſes vniuer- ſelles, faut eſlire vn lieu mediocrement clair:& à jeun faire aſſeoir le patient ſur vn banc aſſez eſtroit,le vi- ſage tourné non viz à viz de la lumiere, c'eſt à dire, du iour ou de la chandelle , mais à coſté: & dois de- rechefbien noter que la lumiere ne doit eſtre grande, ce qui eſt commandé par #§ au liure de l'officine du medecin, & luy bander l'œil ſain auec cotton, ou choſe ſemblable, afin qu'il ne ſe meuue pendant l'œuure. puis le chirurgien s'aſſeira ſur le banc viz à viz de luy ( comme deux fourbiſſeurs ) toutesfois le chirurgien vn peu plus haut que le malade, luy faiſant poſer les mains à ſa ceinture, & doit embraſſer de ſes iambes les genoux du patient , & qn'il y ait vn ſeruiteur qui tienne la teſte du malade par derriere, afin qu'il ne la tourne ny çà ny là, ains qu'elle demeure ferme & ſtable. et ayant preparé l'aiguille , qui ſera paſſée pluſieurs fois au trauers de ſon bonnet ou autre accouſtrement, afin de la rendre plus polie & aucunement eſchauffée, pour accomplir l'œuure auec moins de douleur. ladite aiguille doit eſtre de fer ou d'acier, pluſtoſt que d'or ou d'argent : & la poincte vn peu platte, afin qu'elle entre plus aiément & ab- bate ladite cataracte : & ſera inſerée dedans vn manche de peur qu'elle ne vacille, comme tu peux voir par ce pourtraict. eaiguille pour abbatre les cataractes, auec ſon manche . ayant ainſi ſitué le malade,& preparé l'aiguille, luy commanderas qu'il regarde vers ſon neziadonc po- ſeras ladite aiguille tout droit(iuſques en la cauité de l'œil ſans aucune crainte) dedans la conjonctiue,en- tre le petit canthus & la tunique cornée, droittement au milieu des deux, euitant les veines qui ſont en la- dite conionctiue, & alors pouſſeras la poincte de l'éguille iuſques à ce qu'elle ſoit au milieu de la pupille. puis eſtant là paruenuë, faut abbatre la cataracte , en commençant à la partie ſuperieure, la tournant tout doucement par le milieu, & l'abbaiſſer tout au bas de l'œil , & toute entiere s'il eſt poſſible. et eſtant ainſi abbaiſſée la luy faut laiſſer, la tenant ſuiecte de l'aiguille par l'eſpace de dire vne patenoſtre ou enuiron, de peur qu'elle ne remonte , & pendant faire mouuoir vers le ciel l'œil au malade. puis faut retirer l'ai- guille en haut,peu à peu en la tournant, & encores ne la tirant du tout hors de l'œil, à cauſe que fila cata- racte remontoit, faudroit derechef la rabbatre vers le petit canthus, tant de fois qu'elle y demeure. et icy noteras qu'en faiſant telle choſe, ſe faut bien donner garde de toucher à l'humeur cryſtalin ( pource que, comme nous auons dit, il eſt le principal inſtrument de laveue) ny pareillement à la pupille, de peur de la dilater : puis ſera l'aiguille tirée hors de l'œil doucement, en la tournant ainſi qu'elle y auoit eſté mi- ſe,pour crainte que l'on ne retiraſt la cataracte ſur la pupille. quelques-vns apres l'operation faite preſen- tent quelque choſe au malade pour cognoiſtre s'ii peut diſcerner & voir diſtinctement ou non : ce que tou- tesfois defend paulus aegineta liu. .ch. .parce,dit-il, que quand le malade vient à s'efforcer pour regarder attentiuemt, la cataracte derechef remonte promptement : pourquoy le plus ſeur ſera d'appliquer ſubit vn reſtrinétif ſur l'œil & parties voiſines,fait de albumine ouorum & aqua roſarum,enſemble agitez auec alum de roche crud.et ne faut remuer ce remede que iuſques au lendemain : auſſi ne faut omettre à bander l'œil ſain,comme nous auons dit:car s'il n'eſtoit bâdé,ſe mouueroit,& ce faiſant l'œil malade ſe remueroit auſſi, pour la grande colligance qu'ils ont enſemble comme nous auons dit : & partant la cataracte pourroit re- monter.le malade eſtant ainſi bandé, doit eſtre posé dans vn lict la teſte aſſez haute. et ne doit parler que le moins & le plus bas qu'il pourra, & doit eſtre hors du grand bruit, & ne doit maſcher choſes ſolides:car en maſticant pourroit faire remonter la cataracte : mais vſera de panade, orge-mondé ou amandé, coulis, preſſis,gelée,œufs mollets,& leurs ſemblables.etayant ainſi demeuré par l'eſpace de huict iours,le faut deſ- bander & luy lauer l'œil d'eau roſe, & luy commander non regarder promptement grande clarté, luy fai- ſant porter deuant l'œil taffetas vert ou lunettes, iuſques à ce qu'il puiſſe bien tolerer la clairté ſans dou- leur.et s'il aduenoit quelques iours apres que la cataracte remontaſt ſur la pupille,alors la faut rabbatre de- rechef comme deſſus : mais il ne faut paſſer l'aiguille au lieu où elle aura eſté posée auparauant, à raiſon qu'il eſt plus douloureux. or quelquesfois la cataracte n'eſt abbatue entiere, mais ſe rompt par pieces: adonc faut abbatre toutes les pieces i'vne apres l'autre : & encore qu'il en demeuraſ quelque petite por- tion, ne faut douter qu'elle ne ſe conſomme par le benefice de la chaleur naturelle : pareillement aucunes cataractes en les voulant abbatre, deuiennent comme laict ou eau trouble, à raiſon qu'elles ne ſont enco- res aſſez dures : & combien que telle choſe aduienne , ſi eſt-ce qu'il y a eſperance de guanſon, pource que puis apres elle ne ſe peut r'aſſembler, & apres quelque temps l'o il ſe clarifie, principalementaux ieunes. s'il ſuruenoit quelque accident, on prendra nouueau conſeil , diuerſifiant les remedes ſelon qu'il en ſera beſoin. ·! | operations de chirurgie a du conduit de l'oreille bouché naturellement, ou paraccident, & des choſes eitranges qui tombent dedans. c h a p. xxi i i. :s$ ve l q v e s f o s aux petits enfans nouuellement nez , on trouue les conduits des oreilles cauſe. # bouchez, à raiſon de quelque chair, ou membrane procrée au fond, en la ſuperficie des oreil- ， les. elle eſt bouchée auſſi par accident depuis noſtre natiuité, à cauſe de quelque apoſteme, sè playe ou vlcere : au moyen dequoy y ſuruient quelque chair ſuperflue. lors que l'obſtruction ſe cure. faict au profond, la cure eſt plus difficile, que quand elle eſt à la ſuperficie. et pour la curation la faut in- ciſer & couper, ou la conſommer & corroder auec medicamens acres & corroſifs. or il faut traitter ce mal senſibilité bien curieuſement,de peur de faire tomber le malade en conuulſion, & le faire mourir pour la grande ſen- de la partie. ſibilité de cette partie, & auſſi pource qu'elle eſt proche du cerueau. quelquesfois auſſi le conduit de l'o- autres cau- reille eſt bouché par choſes eſtranges qui ſont tombées dedans : comme petites pierres, verre , balotte de ſes. plomb, d'or au † , de fer, & ſemblable matiere, perles, noyaux de ceriſes, pois, graines, & autres choſes. les corps ſolides demeurent touſiours és oreilles en leur propre grandeur : mais les pois & grai- nes,& noyaux de ceriſes, s'imbibent & enflent de l'humidité qui naturellement eſt aux oreilles : & partant cauſent de tres grandes douleurs. parquoy le pluſtoſt que l'on les pourra tirer, c'eſt le meilleur, qui ſe fe- ra auec petites pincettes & inſtrumens courbez en maniere de cure-oreille : & ſi ces choſes eſtoient ſi fort enflées que l'on n'y peuſt remedier par ce moyen, on les tirera auec vn petit tire-fond, dequoy on tire les bales de plomb. les pierres & autres corps durs ſeront tirez auec inſtrumens propres : & ſi on ne le peut le moyen faire par ce moyen, on mettra vn peu d'huyle d'amendes douces dans les oreilles,& autres ſemblable:puis d'extraire on fera touſſer le malade , le prouoquant à eſternuer par ſternatutoires , & fermera la bouche ſerrant les les pierres & narrines auec les doigts quand il eſternuera afin de faire ſortir hors de l'oreille ce qui eſt contre nature par ºpº ºrº i'impetuoſité de l'air agité, cherchant iſſuë par vne violente commotion & esbranſſement de tout le corps. ** et ſi tels remedes ne profitent , faut faire vne petite inciſion au profond de l'oreille , afin de donner lieu aux inſtrumens pour extraire les choſes eſtranges. d'abondant quelquesfois il entre en l'oreille de petites . beſtioles comme puces, punaiſes, fourmis, mouſcherons, perce-oreilles, & autres ſemblables : toutes leſ- #.# quelles peuuent eſtre tuées, inſtillant de l'huyle ou vinaigre. et quant à la petite beſtiole de perce-oreille, petites be- on la pourra attirer, appliquant la moitié d'vne pomme douce joignant l'oreille:car cette petite beſtiole la ſtieles des voulant grignotter , ſera ſoudainement tirée, comme nous auons dit cy-deuant en l'introduction. oreilles. la maniere detirerles areſtes,& autres choſes eſtranges qui s'attachent à la gorge . c h a p t r e xxiv. o v v e n t en mangeant on aualle des areſtes, ou quelques petits os,ou autre choſe eſtran-ºººººº · ge. si en ouurant la bouche on les peut voir, ſeront oſtées auec pincettes longues & eſtroit-º oſter tes, courbées comme vn bec de grue : & fi on ne les peut apperceuoir, il faut que le malade #º * aualle vn morceau de pain mollet, ou vne figue ſeiche bien peu maſchée , cru autre choſe : ou # à #sº bien le faire vomir : car par ce moyen la choſe eſtrange eſt ſouuent pouſſée dehors : ou bien a forge. ºn prendra vn pourreau courbé de groſſeur que l'on cognoiſtra eſtre neceſſaire, luy ayant coupé le bout e la teſte, laquelle ſera huylee:& ayant fait ouurir la bouche du malade, ſera mis dans le goſier aſſez pro- la toux pre, fondement, tant de fois que la choſe eſtrange ſoit iettee en bas, ou retirée en haut. et où porreau defau ſite à ceux droit, on prendra vn plomb approprié à ce faire, de figure de porreau. or s'il y a quelque choſe eſtrange qui ont quel- qui ſoit entrée en la trachée artere, il faut prouoquer la toux auec quelques choſe aigres, & ietter de- que choſe at- dans le nez vn ſternuatoire : car en faiſant cette grande agitation par l'expiration violente, ſouuent ces !ººº à la choſes eſtranges ſont iettées hors. irachée ar- / 'é'• de la douleurdes dents. c h a p. xxv. # a douleur des dents eſt la plus grande & cruelle qui ſoit entre toutes les douleurs , ſans mort: hiſtoire tou- & pour la preuue,ie la laiſſe à ceux qui en ont eſté vexez. i'ay memoire qu'vn valet de chambre #. #. ſ/"mam! €' s de defunct monſeigneur le conneſtable eſtant à chantilly, me dit , que pour vne extreme dou-#, leur de dent qu'il auoit, s'il n'euſt eu peur d'eſtre damné , il ſe fuſt jetté par vne feneſtre dans les foſſez, & ſe fuſt noyé, pour eſtre exempt de ſa douleur : dauantage me dit, qu'en vingt - quatre heures il ſe fit vne apoſteme ſur la genciue , qui ſe ſuppura à l'endroit de ſa douleur , & peu de iours apres ſa dent tomba en pieces, qui monſtre que les dents peuuentapoſtumer, & pourrir comme les autres os : ce qu'on void, parce qu'elles ſe pertuiſent, & corrodent , & par cette pourriture les vers s'y engendrent. c e qui eſt prouué par hippocrate au liure . des epidemies, en l'hiſtoire de hegeſiſtratius, diſant que les dents peuuent endurer tumeur contre nature en leurs propres corps : ce qu'il recite comme vn grand miracle de nature,attendu que les tumeurs ne viennent ſinon aux lieux où il ſe peut faire extenſion.dauantage ga- lien liu. .chap. .de la compoſition des medicamens ſelon les lieux, dit auoir eſprouué en ſoy-meſme, lors qu'il fut trauaillé d'vne forte douleur de dent, que non ſeulement le nerf & la membrane qui lie la dent, eſtoit trauaillée de douleur, mais auſſi la propre ſubſtance de ſa dent eſtoit douloureuſe & agitée de phleg- mon;& de la meſme pulſation que les parties charneuſes : & dit qu'il tient cela pour choſe efmerueillable, pour la grande dureté de la dent, comme la pulſation ſe peut faire pour la difficulté de l'extenſion.la cau-ºſ* ** ſe de la douleur des dents vient de cauſe antecedente, ou de primitiuc : d'antecedente, comme rheume & douleur des fluxion chaude ou froide,tombant ſur icelles,qui remplit l'alueole;de façon qu'elle pouſſe la dent hors,qui dents. fait qu'elles ſont ſouuent auancées en dehors , tellement que le malade n'oſe, & ne peut aucunement maſ- cher deſſus pour l'extreme douleur qu'il ſent, la fluxion fait qu'elles ſont relaſchées, qui cauſe les faire branſler, & ſi elles ſont corrodées , creuſes, & pertuiſées iuſques à la racine, lors que le malade boit , ſur les # tout quelque liqueur froide, l luy ſemble qu'on luy donne vn coup de poinçon dedans. # # - les ſignes que la cauſe eſt chaude, c'eſt que la douleur eſt aigue & poignante, comme ſi on mettoit des §i , ſt aiguilles dedans on ſent auſſi vne grande pulſation en ſa racine, & aux temples, pareillement ſera cogneue faite de ma- quand on applique remedes froids qui appaiſent la douleur.les ſignes que la cauſe de la douleur eſt froide, tiere chaude c'eſt que le malade a grande peſanteur de teſte, & iette beaucoup de ſaliue & d'humiditez par la bouche, & ou froide. la s le dix-ſeptiéme liure de pluſieurs a^ - rhrſier cure. remedes ſe- datif de douleur en mat iere chaude. remede ſou- f ! eſbrou- »ié. tel remede ſe de toſt la douleur. - ". • - " la doulear de cauſe freide. exterience faicte ſur l'autheur. remede pour matiere «haude. la douleur s'appaiſe par remedes chauds : & en ces douleurs, ne faut que les barbiers & denateurs ( c'eſt à dire arracheurs de dents ) ſe haſtent trop ſubit les arracher ſans le conſeil des plus aduiſez qu'ils ne ſont quelquesfois. pour la cure il y a trois intentions : la premiere eſt, ordonner le regime : la ſeconde purger la matiere antecedente : la troiſieſme application des remedes particuliers propres à ſeder cette extreme douleur. la premiere intention eſt,ordonner le regime ſur les ſix choſes non naturelles.la deuxieſme eſt,vacuer la ma- tiere antecedente, comme s'il eſt beſoin qu'il ſoit ſaigné & purgé : auſſi pour diuertir la fluxion, on appli- quera des ventouſes derrier le col,& ſur les eſpaules : & ſi la matiere eſt chaude, on appliquera ſur la gen- ciue à l'endroit de la douleur , des ſang-ſues pour vacuer la matiere conicnctiue, & ouurira on les veines de deſſous la langue : ce que i'ay veu par pluſieurs fois,& ſedé des douleurs extremes:mais auparauant que les appliquer,ie faiſois petite ſcarifications aucc vn déchauſſoir de dents.la tierce intention ſera accomplie en appliquant pluſieurs remedes contrarians à la cauſe de la douleur : comme ſi la matiere eſt chaude, il faut tenir en la bouche vin de grenade, auec eau de plantain, & vn peu de vinaigre boüilli auec roſes & ſu- mach, & fleurs de grenades. il faut icy noter que les ſedatifs de la douleur des dents, doiuent eſtre de te- nue ſubſtance à cauſe qu'elles ſont fort dures : & partant les anciens ont touſiours voulu mettre du vinat- gre, parce qu'il eſt incif & penetratif. autre. - prenez roſes rouges, ſumach,orge, de chacun vne demie poignée, ſemence de iuſquiame concaſſée deux dragmes , de tous les ſandauls de chacun vne dragme, laictuë , ſommité de ronces, morelle , plantain, de chacun demie poignée.le tout ſera boüilly en quatre liures d'eaux commune,& vn peu de vinaigre,iuſque, à ce que l'orge ſe creue , & d'icelle decoction en ſera tenuë en la bouche vn peu tiede. autre. prenez ſe- mence de iuſquiame , ſandaracha , coriandre, opium de chacun demie dragme , le tout pilé & incorporé auec vinaigre, & en ſoient formez trochiſques,puis en ſoit appoſé ſur la dent douloureuſe.autre trochiſ- que. prenez ſemence de pourpié, de iuſquiame,coriandre, lentilles, eſcorce de ſandal citrin , roſes rouges, pyrethre, camphre , de chacun demie dragme, & ſoient pilées enſemble auec fort vinaigre, & ſoient for- mez trochiſques : lors qu'on en voudra vſer, on en prendra vn ou deux auec eau roſe , & en ſera frottee la genciue,& tenu en la bouche.autre remede. si les genciues ſont relaxées, faut que le malade ſe gargariſe de choſes froides & aſtringentes , comme oxycrat, auquel on aura fait boüillir noix de cyprés, myrtilles, & vn peu d'alum : & ſi la douleur ne ceſſoit , faut vſer de narquotiques, pour ſtupefier le nerf. exemple. z. ſeminis iuſquia.alb. opij, comph. papau.alb. an. q.ſ. coquantur cum ſapa , & ſoit appliqué ſur la dent. pareillement ſera mis dedans l'oreille ce qui s'enſuit. z. opij, & caſtor. an. . j.miſceantur cum oleo ro- ſat. l'ouuerture de la veine qui eſt au derriere de l'oreille, ſede la douleur ( choſe par moy ſouuent expe- rimentée ) autres la font au milieu de l'oreille par dedans, au deſſus du troup de l'oüye : auſſi vn petit em- pla?re de poix & de maſtic, poſé ſur l'artere de la temple, du coſté de la douleur. pour ſeder la douleur de cauſe froide, prenez aux de vie meſlée auec vne decoction faite de vin & vinaigre, roſmarin, ſaulge, pyre- thre,& vn peu de theriaque,& ſoit posé ſur la dent. autre.prenez amoniac diſſoult en eau de vie,& vn peu de ſandaracha, de myrrhe,& ſoit appliqué ſur la dent: choſe louée & approuuce de vigo. autre. meſué dit que pour ſeder la douleur,faut tenir des ails pilez en la main du coſté de la douleur. autre pour vne extreme douleur de dents que i'auois,vne petite bonne femme me conſeilla y mettre deſ- c ſus vne goſſe d'ail vn peu cuitte ſous les cendres & la mettre la plus chaude que ie pourrois endurer:ce que iè feis, & toſt apres ma douleur fut ceſſée, tellement que depuis ie l'ay practiqué en pluſieurs, où l'on a veu vn effect merueilleux : auſſi on en mettra dedans l'oreille.autre. z. rad.pyret. .b. ment. & rut.an.p. bulliant in aceto, & d'icelle en ſera tenu chaud en la bouche. autre. faites fumigation de graines de colo- quintcs, & de mouſtarde, & d'ails, receue par entonnoir à la dent, du coſté de la douleur : auſſi on mettra en l'oreille huyle de caſtor, ou de girofle,ou autre tirée par quinte eſſence. autre. soit fait parfum ou ſuf- fumigation ainſi que s'enſuit. . rad pyreth.gingib. cinamo.alum. roch, ſalis communis, nuc.moſcat,nuc. cupreſ. aniſ ſem. ſinap. euphorb. de ces choſes en ſera pris & faite decoction en oxycrat , & à la fin ſera adiouſté vn peu d'eau de vie, & cn ſera receue la vapeur, ou fumée par vn entonnoir : auſſi en fera fait gar- gariſines : dauantage en ſera mis vne goutte ou deux dedans les oreilles auec vn peu de cotton. autre. soit appliqué vn veſicatoire au deſſous des oreilles , à ſçauoir, en la cauité où l'on conioint la mandibule infe- rieure la douleur ceſſe d'autât qu'en cette partie il y a veine,artere & nerf, leſquels ſe diſtribuent aux raci- nes des dents,& par la veſiccation on fait vacuation de l'humeur ja flué,& de celuy qui de coule, & partant la douleur s'appaiſe : ce que i ay fait pluſieurs fois. on fera tenir en la bouch : du malade du vin , auquel on aura fait boüillir ſemence de iuſquiame , ou mandragore. dauantage prenez , racines de tithymal, boüillies en vin & vinaigre , & d'icelles qu'il en ſoit tenu en la bouche, ce remede eſt bien approuué, ſi la dent eſt pertuiſée, & que le malade ne vueille per- mettre l'arracher pour appaiſer vne extreme douleur:il n'y a rien plus aſſeuré, que d'y appliquer choſes cauſtiques, comme huyle de vitriol,ou eau fort ou le cautere actuel:car par cette cauteriſation,on bruſle le nerf, lequel eſtant bruſlé n'a plus de ſentiment, & n'en ayant plus, ne peut faire douleur. lors que les gen- d ciues & les ioues s'enflent au dehors c'eſt bon ſigne : car la douleur ceſſe , à cauſe que la nature a pouſſé l'humeur du dedans,au dehors:& ſi on veut faire tomber la dent par pieces, faut prendre laict tithymal , & poudre d'encens incorporez auec vn peu de fieur d'amidon, en faire paſte , & cn ſoit cnucloppee la dent ſans toucher aux autres. ,! - - - de pluſieurs indiſpoſitions qui ddtiennent aux dents. c h a p. xxvi. $y à l y a autres vices & accidens qni aduiennent aux dents , à ſçauoir quand elies ſont relaxées, ſ$ qu'ellcs branfient,pourriture,corruption,pertuiſement,& des vers engendrez en icelles, con- gelation , & autres. les dents branſlent pour la relaxation des genciues, qui fe fait de cauſe # primitiue, comme cheute ou coup : & auſſi par cauſe antecedente , conme fluxion qui deſ- : s cend du ceruean:ou pour certaines vapeurs eſlcuées de l' ftomach, & quelquesfois par faute des nourriſſement, ce qu'on void aux vieilles gens : pareillement par corroſion de certain humeuracre qui r,ann »en tombe aux geºeºes cr le branflement qui vient par ſeichereſſe & defaut d aiiment, eſt pernicieux,com- incurable , me teſmoigne hippocrate en l'aphor. , aux coaques, & iamais ne ſe cure : mais les autres ſeront aidez nanº par par choſes contraires. et premierement le malade euitera de maſcher choſes dures, & de trop parler. ſºichereſſ . # # ir•. si le branſlement vient par coups ou cheures , & ſi elles ſont aucunement hors de leur place, le chirur- gien les reduira , & les liera aux autres proches qui ſont fermes & entieres, & ne les doit - on acheuer d'arracher : car clles ſe peuuent r'affermir & tenir fermement en leurs alueoles. ce que i'ay encores de puis operations de chirurgie. s a depuis n'agueres fait à vn mien voiſin & amy, nommé antoine de la ruë, maiſtre tailleur d'habits, demeu- rant au bout du pont sainct michel, lequel receut vn coup de poumeau de dague ſus la mandibule inferieu- re, tellemement qu'elle fut entierement fracturée, & trois dents miſes & renuerſées à la bouche, & preſ- que du tout hors de leurs alueoles : toutesfois la fracture de la mandibule fut reduite , & les dents remiſes en leurs places, liées & attachées auec vn fil en double, ciré,auec les prochaines. ie luy ordonnayviandes qu'il ne falloit maſcher,comme preſſis,coulis,orge-mondé,panade,gelée,ius d'éclange de mouton,& autres ſemblables : auſſi lauemens & gargariſmes aſtringens, & autres choſes neceſſaires à la fracture, & ainſi fut guary, de façon qu'auiourd'huy il maſche autant bien deſſus leſdites dents qu'il fit iamais ( partant le ieune chirurgien fera le ſemblable lors qu'il ſe trouuera en tels accidens. or poſont le faict qu'il y euſt vne dent aduertiſſe- miſe du tout hors de ſa place par quelque coup, ou par l'imperitie de l'arracheur de dents, ou du malade meut au chi- qui luy en auroit fait tirer vne bonne peur vne mauuaiſe, on la doit promptement remettre droitement en rurzein. ſa place, & la bien lier auec les autres proches, & par ce moyen elle peut reprendre vn homme digne hiſtoire. d'eſtre creu, m'a affirmé qu'vne princeſſe ayant fait arracher vne dent, s'en fit remettre ſubit vn autre d'vne ſienne damoyſelle, laquelle ſe reprint : & quelque temps apres maſchoit deſſus comme ſur celle qu'elle auoit fait arracher au parauant : cela ay-je oüy dire,mais ie ne l'ay pas veu : & s'il eſt vray,il peut bien eſtre. si le branſlement vient par rheume diſtillant du cerueau, ou par vapeurs eſleuées de l'eſtomach, on y reme- diera par leurs contraires; & auſſi par gargariſmes & opiates fait de choſesaſtringentes,comme berberis,ſu- . mach,nuc.cupreſſi, alum. rochae, centinod.equiſeti, ſucciaeaciar,& leurs ſemblables. dauantage le malade . · tiendra ſouuent en ſa bouche vn peu d'alun de roche, le tournant tantoſt d'vn coſté, tantoſt de l'autre . l'eroſion ſe fait par vn humeur aigu & acre, qui les corrode & pertuiſe, voire ſouuent iuſques en leurs de ln pºurri racines. pour corriger cette pourriture (apres auoir fait les choſes vniuerſelles ) on appliquera dedans le tures éroſion trou huile de vitriol, ou eau forte , ou vn petit cautere actuel , ſelon qu'il ſera neceſſaire : & s'il eſt beſoin é pertuiſe- (de peur qu'on touche à autre partie qu'au lieu qu'on veut cauteriſer) on mettra leſdits cauteresauec vne mºt dº # cannule, afin de corriger la pourriture & eroſion. or ſi le pertuis eſtoit entre les dents, comme ſouuent & º º aduient, de ſorte qu'on ne peut appliquer nulle des choſes ſuſdites,on limera entre la dent ſeine & celle qui ººº eſt pertuiſée tant qu'il ſera beſoin. on lime pareillement les dents quand elles pouſſent outre les autres,& # di- font deſplaiſir à maſcher, & à la perſonne, comme l'on voit aux ſourdents. or cela eſt eſmerueillable que eau. les dents ne ſentent pas quand on les lime ou bruſle, & pour occaſion plus legere ſentent douleur, ainſi. / qu'on voit quelques-vns auoir douleuraux dents,ſi ſubit qu'ils entendent le ſon & bruit d'vne lime raclans ſur quelque feraſſez rudement. areté dit, que dieu ſeul en ſçait la cauſe. · · · - figure des limes à limer les dents. et pour returner à noſtre propos, ſera faite ouuerture telle qu'il ſera neceſſaire pour appliquer les cho- ſes ſuſdites, & prendra-on plus ſur celle qui eſt erodée, que ſur la ſaine. et pour faire mourir les vers, faut appliquer choſes cauſtiques, auſſi pyrethre deſtrempé en vinaigre, ou theriaque diſſout en meſme li- queur : feront auſſi appliquez ails, ou oignons, ou vn peu d'aloes. a congelation vient pour trop vſer de viandes aigres, ou par aucunes vapeurs mauuaiſes qui montent de l'eſtomach en haut, ou pour quelque defluxion froide tombante du cerueau deſſus les dents, ou pour auoir tenu en la bouche choſes trop froides, & narquotiques. pour la cure, les choſes vniuerſelles faites, il faut ien § tenir eau de vie ou de bon vin, auquel on aura fait boüillir ſauge, roſmarin , & autres ſemblables,herbes, dormiſſemens cloux de girofle, & noix muguettes : de laquelle decoction en ſera tenu en la bouche. les dents s'arrachent des dents. pour l'extreme rage, & douleur qu'on y ſent, ou pource qu'elles ſont creuſes & pourries, qui fait que l'ha- leine eſt renduë de mauuaiſe odeur, & auſſi qu'icelle pourriture gafte & altere les autres dents qui ſont ſai- mes & entieres. dauantage on les arrache quand elles ſont forjettées hors de leur rang , & les appelle-on ſourdents, qui viennent aux enfans deuant que la premiere ſoit tombée.alors il faudra déchauſſer eelle qui deuoit tomber, puis l'arracher, & tous les iours pouſſer la fourdent auec les doigts en la place de celle qui aura eſté arrachée, iuſques à ce qu'elle ſoit en fon lieu naturel. on les rompt aufh à cauſe qu'elles tiennent par trop, afin d'inſtiller quelque choſe en leurs racines, ou les racines, ou les cauteriſer plus aisément,afin d'oſter le ſentiment au nerf qui s'inſere en leurs racines.les dents ne doiuent eſtre arrachées par grande vio- lence,de peur de luxer & démettre la mandibule inferieure,ioint que par l'extraction violente on fait gran- de concuſſion au cerueau,& aux yeux.auſſi ſe faut donner garde de tirer vne bonne pour vne mauuaiſe : car ſouuent meſme le malade ne la ſçait,à cauſe qu'il ſent vne ſi extreme douleur en toute la mandibule, qu'il ne peut connoiſtre celle qui eſt viciée d'entre les autres. on ne les doit arracher tout à coup, de peur de rom- pre & emporter vne partie de la mandibule(ce que i'ay veu par plufieurs fois)dont peuuent furuenir de bien grands accidens,comme fiévre,apoſteme,flux de ſang,& par conſequent la mort : & auſſi quelque-vn,en ont eu à iamais la bouche torfe, ne la pouuans que bien peu ouurir : & partant on ſe doit garder de les arracher par violence, principalement lors qu'elles ne braflent aucunement : & dauantage , ſi elles font creuſes, on doit remplir le pertuis de liege ou de plomd bien accommodé, de peur qu'en les ſerrant elles ne ſe ſoient froiſſées & rompues,& que # racines demeurent dedans la mandibule; qui cauſeroit de grands & mauuais accidens, parce que la dent ou racine d'icelle, eſtant encore conioincte & attachée au nerf ſubjet à la flu- xion, la douleur ſeroit pluſtoſt irritée & augmentée que ſedée : à laquelle il ſeroit bien plus mal-aiſé de re- medier, tant par l'arrachement & extirpation de ce qui reſte de la dent, que par le cautere & autres reme- des, eſtant cedit reſte enfoncé & couuert de la genciue, ainſi que i'ay veu arriuer quelquesfois. | alºg pour faire ºhourir les "uer' . de la ſfu- peur conge . | | -- le dixſeptiéme liure, de pluſieurs les inſtrumens pour arracher& rompre les dents. - c h a p. x x v ii. # * m * f r e m e n t deuant qu'arracher les dents il faut que le malade ſoit aſſi bas , ayant la teſte entre les iambes du dentateu§ puis qu'il les deſchauſſe prof § ment d'alentour de leurs aueoles, auec deſchauſſ§ que tu as icy § † § *pres les auoir deſchauſſées, ſi on voit qu'elles tie§ peu , ſeront § & i tées hors auec vn pouſſoir, duquel tu as icy la figure marquée par b. auſſi § polican re- connoiſt que la dent ne puiſſe eſtre arrachée parle pouſſoir , on prendra vn dauier qui quiert vn † pº p » lequel eſt propre à rompre la dent qu'on veut caſſer § † ***r- exercé à tirer des d s ay ſera des policans marquez par c c, & ºuy par e , ſelon que le dentateur ſe ſera ºnts : car veritablement il faut eſtre bien induſtrieux à l'vſage des policans, à cauſe que l'vſage du eité. ſion ne s' ſca - - - - - - - gaſtée §" ºn ayder, on ne peut faillir a ietter trois dents § b§ » & laiſſer la mauuaiſe & - - - ſ - - - - figure d' vn pouſſoir, c déchauſſoir. figure d' vn dauier & polican. hiſtoire. qu'il ſoit vray, ie veux icy reciter vne hiſtoire d'vn maiſtre barbier, de- meurant à orleans, nom- mé maiſtre françois louys, lequel auoit par deſſus tous , l'honneur de bien arracher vne dent ; de façon que tous les sa- medys pluſieurs payſans ayans mal aux dents ve- noient vers luy pour les faiſoit fort dextrementauec vn polican, & lors qu'il auoit fait, le iettoit ſur vn ais en ſa boutique. or auoit-il vn ſeruiteur nouueau, picard, grand & fort, qui deſiroit tirer les dents à la mode de ſon maiſtre. arriua cependant que ledit françois louys difnoit, vn villageois requerant qu'on luy arrachaſt vne dent, ce picard print l'inſtrument de ſon maiſtre, & s'eſſaya faire comme luy : mais en lieu d'oſter la mauuaiſe dent au pauure villageois, luy en pouſſa & arracha trois bonnes. et ſentant vne douleur extreme, & voyant trois dents hors de ſa bou- che, commença à crier contre le picard : lequel pour le faire taire luy dit qu'il ne dit mot, & qu'il ne criaſt ſi haut, attendu que ſi le maiſtre venoit , illuy feroit payer les trois dents pour vne. dont le maiſtre oyant tel bruit, ſortit hors de table pour ſçauoir la cauſe & raiſon de leur noiſe & conteſtation : mais le pauure payſan redoutant les menaces du picard , & encore apres auoir enduré telle douleur, qu'on ne luy fiſt payer triplement la peine dudit picard , ſe teut n'oſant declarer audit maiſtre ce beau chef-d'œuure : & ainſi le pauure badaut de village s'en alla quitte; & pour vne dent qu'il penſoit faire arracher, en remporta trois en ſa bourſe, & celle qui luy cauſoit le mal, en ſa bouche. partant ie conſeille ceux qui voudront faire arracher les dents » qu'ils aillent aux vieux dentateurs , & non aux ieunes, qui n'auront encore iccoililcl faire arracher , ce qu'il ' | operations de chirurgie c *. n a recogneu leurs fautes. or apres qu'on aura arraché les dents, il faut aſſez laiſſer ſaigner le malade,afin que par ce moyen la partie en ſoit deſchargée : puis le dentateur de ſes doigts comprimera à l'endroit de la ce qu'il faut genciue, le lieu duquel l'on aura arraché la dent, tant d'vn coſté que d'autre, afin de reduire & r'aſſembler faire apres l'alueole qui aura eſté eſlargy,& quelquesfois rompu en tirant la dent : & apres on fera lauer la bouche au aºoir arra- malade auec oxycrat ; & ſi c'eſt en temps froid, gardera de s'expoſer au vent, de peur qu'il ne ſe faſſe vne ché la dent- nouuelle fluxion ſur les autres dents. de la limoſité ou roiiillure des dents, & la maniere de les conſeruer. c h a p t r e xxv iii. • l faut apres le repas lauer la bouche d'eau & vin, ou eau auec vn peu de vinaigre : ſembla- s\% blement les nettoyer, afin qu'il ne demeure quelque petit reſte de viande, laquelle ſe cor- yº romptentre les dents, qui fait qu'apres elles s'alterent & pourriſſent, & font que l'haleine eſt $i de mauuaiſe odeur. auſſi il ſe concrée vne matiere terreſtre, comme vne roüille ſur icel- - $ les , de couleur jaunaſtre, qui les corrode comme la roüille le fer, ce qui aduient par faute cauſes. de les nettoier & de ne maſcher deſſus : il faut oſter & racler telle matiere auec petits inſtruments propre à ce faire , puis apres ſeront les dents frottées d'vn peu d'eau forte, & eau de vie meſlée enſemble , afin d'oſter le reſte que les inſtruments n'auroient peu faire. pour les conſeruer ne faut maſcher choſes par d trop dures, ny rompre noyaux, ny os , & autres ſemblables : auſſi qu'on ne les cure ordinairement auec # ## choſe qui les déchauſſe, & qu'on les frotte auec dentifrices faits de racines de guimauues boüillies en vin # # les blanc & alum de roche,& ſoient ſouuent frottées les dents:auſſi la poudre faite d'os de ſeiche,pourcelaine, #. pierre ponce , alum cuit, corne de cerf, & vn peu de canelle y eſt ſouuerainement bonne : aucuns ne prennent que de la crouſte de pain bruſlé miſe en poudre. eau pour blanchir les dents fort excellente. z. ſal. amm. & gemm. an. .j. alum. roch. . fi-addendo aquae roſarum quod ſufficit, & fiat diſtillatio , de laquelle vſerez, & en frotterez vos dents. de l'empeſchement & retraiion de la langue . c h a p t r e xxix. nº© e m p e s c h e m e n t & retraction de la langue aucunesfois eſt naturelle , eſtant la )# langue retenuë par les muſcles & membranes, qui dés le premier iour de leur natiuité, ſont cauſe . nºs# ou trops durs, ou trop courts. quelquesfois auſſi vient par accident, à cauſe de quelqueci- # catrice dure , apres vn vlcere fait ſous icelle. on cognoiſt ce vice eſtre naturel , quand le ., - malade du commencement eſt fort tardifà parler, & quand la parole luy eſt venuë, il parle ** haſtiuement en bredoüillant : ſemblablement le ligament qui eſt ſous la langue, eſt raccourcy plus qu'il ne doit , tellement que le malade ne peut bien pouſſer la langue hors de la bouche. quand ce vice vient par accident, faut trencher & couper au trauers, l'attache nerueuſe (dite vulgairement le filet ) qui la cure . retient, & en ce faiſant, ſe faut donner garde d'inciſer les veines & arteres qui ſont ſous icelle, de peur du flux de ſang , qui apres ſeroit difficile à eſtancher. l'operation faite , faut faire lauer la bouche du malade d'oxycrat, puis mettre vn drapeau en double, trempé en ſyrop de roſes ſeiches, ou de miel roſat, pour emfeſ- dedans la playe, & principalement de nuict, de peur qu'elle ne ſe reprenne : pource qu'en dormant le ma-ºrºssº lade ne parle point , & ne remuë point la langue.auſſi paſſera ſouuentesfois ſon doigt au deſſous,& tirera º * la langue par interualle hors la bouche.or quand il y a danger de flux de ſang, à cauſe de l'inciſion,on cou- moyen de pera ce ligament,en paſſant vne aiguille enfillée au deſſous, la ſerrant ſi fort de iour en autre qu'il le coupe. faire inci- quelquesfois ce ligament eſt ſi large & court, tenant la langue ſi ſujecte, que le chirurgien n'y a lieu ſans ## grandfiux de ſang, & peril du malade. - a re n-r. d ' doigtsſuperflus, & de ceux quiſont joints enſemble . | c h a p. xxx. e nombre naturel des doigts de la main eſt de cinq, & s'ily en a plus ou moins, c'eſt choſe diuiſion des ſuperflue, & contre nature. ce qui defaut ne peut eſtre reſtitué par chirurgie : au con- doigts ſuper- traire, ce qui eſt ſuperflu ſe peut oſter, quelquesfois non. ceux qui ſont ſuperflus naiſſent flu . pres le poulce, ou presle petit doigt, & rarement le voit-on naiſtre aux autres doigts. iceux ſont ou du tout charneux, ou bien ont des os en leur compoſition, & ſouuentesfois des on- gles. ceux qui ont des os, naiſſent ou de la jointure, ayant l'aſſemblage d'icelle comme le doigt naturel, ou naiſſent de l'eſcadron des os des doigts , & ceux n'ont aucun mouuement. les autres qui naiſſent des jointures, quelquesfois ſe remuent, & ont mouuement, & le plus communément ſont plus courts , & §, enſem- quelquesfois d'égale grandeur au naturel. quelquesfois auſſi les doigts ſont vnis enſemble, & autresfois ble, bien peu ſeparez l'vn de l'autre : ce qui aduient naturellement,ou par accident : naturellement dés le ventre de la mere,par levice de la vertu formatrice : par accident,comme à cauſe d'vne playe, & le plus ſouuent d'vne bruſleure, par l'ignorance du chirurgien; qui n'a eu égard pendant la cure, mettre du linge & autre choſe entre iceux : car le cuir eſtant vlceré tant d'vn que d'autre coſté des doigts,eſt cauſe qu'ils ſe joignent cor, o, enſemble. en ces deux accidents, ſi le chirurgien cognoiſt qu'il y aye peu d'eſpaiſſeur , n'ayant que le doigts ioints cuir & bien peu de chair qui les tiennent liez & attachez l'vn contre l'autre, aisément ſeront ſeparez auec & i ,n- vn raſoir bien trenchant. au contraire s'ils eſtoient grandement joints, & les tendons & nerfs vnis enſem- ſemble. ble, en tel cas le chirurgien ny touchera. on ampute aisément ceux qui ſont charneux, coupant auec le cure des raſoir ce qui eſt ſuperflu : & s'il y a des os, ſeront trenchez auec tenailles inciſiues , comme tu vois par ces doigtsſuper- figures. et le reſte de la cure ſe paracheuera ainſi qu'il appartient. - flus. des doigts l figure le dix-ſeptiéme liure,de pluſieurs figures des tenailles inciſiues. autre tenaille pour couper les doigts ſuperflus. a ie diray encore qu'il y en a pluſieurs auſquels les ongles entrent en la chair des orteils,qui leur donnent douleurs extremes, & ſouuentesfois on n'auance rien à couper l'ongle : car recroiſſant, il fait le ſemblable mal. et partant, pour la cure il conuient couper entierement la chair, où la portion de l'ongle ſe cache,ce que i'ay fait ſouuent auec bonne iſſuë. pareillement, aucuns ont des cors aux orteils , qui font grandes douleurs. on les guarit, coupant toute la calloſité, ou corne, puis on applique deſſus aulx pilez : mais pour le plus expedient, les faut cauteriſer auec caufort, ou huile de vitriol. - la maniere d'habiller le prepuce trop court, & des retaille{ c h a p. xxxi. º l ſe void à aucuns le prepuce eſtre trop court,& ne couurir le glan ou extremité de la verge. # or cela aduient,ou naturellement,ou par tailleure dés l'enfance,& ce par commandement de religion, à ſçauoir, circonciſion, comme aux iuifs,turcs, & autres , pour la curation, faut renuerſer le prepuce, puis couper la peau interieure en toute ſa circonſcription , euitant la veine ou artere qui ſont droittement ſur la verge, entre les deux peaux dudit prepuce : puis ſera tiré contre-bas tant que le glan ſoit couuert & caché , mettant premierement entre le glan & le pre- puce, vne petite emplaſtre deſiccatiue , de peur qu'ils ne ſe ioignent enſemble : cela fait, il faudra lier le prepuce (que l'on aura tiré) à ſon extremité, iuſques à ce que la cicatrice ſoit faite, & ne faut obmettre laiſſer vne petite cannulle ou conduit de la verge, afin que le malade ne puiſſe vriner à ſa volonté. il eſt c icy à notter, que ceux qui ont eſté taillez & circoncis par commandement de la loy en leur enfance : puis quittent icelle auec toutes ſes ceremonies ( à fin de n'eſtre recogneus pour iuifs circoncis ) ſont guaris en cette ſorte. on coupe la peau de la verge contre ſa racine tout autour, & quand elle aura ainſi perduſa continuité , on la tire peu à peu en bas, iuſques à ce que le glan ſoit couuert, puis on procedera à la cure pour y faire cicatrice. tels ſont appellez des latins t{écutiti, & des françois, retaillez. ， \ aºa cauſes, cure . retaillez. du prepuce ſi ſerré qu'on ne peut deſcouurir le glan , dit phymoſis & paraphymoſis. - c h a p t r e xxx ii. #) a conſtruction du prepuce a deux eſpeces : la premiere, quand le glan eſt couuert d'iceluy, $ # & qu'on ne le peut retirer contre mont & deſcouurir. la ſeconde, quand le prepuce eſt re- na # tiré contre mont, qui fait le glan deſcouuert, & on ne le peut renuerſer , & reduire ſus le - # glan. la premiere eſpece eſt nommée phymoſis, la ſeconde paraphymoſis. la cauſe de la pre- phymoſis. dys º miere eſpece, qui eſt quand le glan ne peut eſtre deſcouuert, vient naturellement , ou pour paraphymo- quelque cicatrice & excroiſſance de prepuce : comme il aduient ſouuent pour des verrues. la ſeconde cº /is. pece vient pour quelque inflammation de la verge, comme pour auoir attouché femmes ordes, dont s'eſt cauſe . fait des vlceres entre le prepuce & balanus,auec tumeur & inflammation ; de ſorte que l'on ne le peut ren- uerſer : au moyen dequoy on ne ſçauroit traitter leſdits vlceres, dont s'enſuit le plus ſouuent gangrene & mortification de toute la verge , à cauſe dequoy eſt neceſſaire faire amputation d'icelle,pour euiter la mort. pour la cure du prepuce ſerré, ayant mis le malade en bonne ſituation , on tire le prepuce en deuant, l'c- d cure diuerſe elon la di- -* - - - - - a - - - - # § ſtendant & ouurant autant qu'il ſera poſſible:& ſi la conſtriction eſt faite à raiſon d'vne cicatrice,on le cou- sauſes. pera en trois ou quatre endroits en ſon interieure partie,ce qui ſe fera commodément auecvne biſtorie cour- be : & ne faut que leſdites inciſions penetrent iuſques à l'exterieure partie d'iceluy,leſquelles ſeront diſian- tes l'vne de l'autre également. si l'aſtriction vient pour quelque chair ſuperflue ou verruës, conuiendra la conſommer, comme les verruës du col de la matrice, & de la verge. et là où il ſeroit tout en ſa circonfº- rence adherant contre le glan , ne reçoit curat on - de ceux qui m'ont point de trou au bout du glan, ou qui l'ont au deſſous & qui ont le liga- ment de la verge trop court. c h a p. xx xi ii. s # l v s e v r s de leur naiſſance n'ont point le bout du glan percé, mais bien au deſſous pres le filet,à ſymptomes ** cauſe dequoy ils ne peuuent vriner droit, s'il ne renuerſent la verge contre le ventre ; ils ne peuuent auſſi engendrer , parce que cette imperfection les empeſche de ietter droit la ſemence dans la matri- trice. en telle diſpoſition on vſe de la chirurgie. c'eſt que l'on tirele prepuce de la main ſeneſtre,& de la du glan non percé. | & , operations de chirurgie. : a sº ，$ fºtº :[ llt u r ontºº j aſſº a la dextre on coupe le bout du prepuce, & l'extremité du glan, ioignant le trou qui eſt deſſous.aucuns ont le ligament de la verge fort court ; de façon qu'en l'erection d'icelle elle n'eſt droitte , ains tortue,en ſorte que cela empeſche la generation,la ſemence ne pouuant eſtre iettée en lamatrice de ligne droite:& pource faut couper le filet le plus dextrement qu'il ſera poſſible, traitter la playe comme les autres, ayant égard à la partie. il y a des enfans quinaiſſent ayans le ſiege clos d'vne membrane qui garde les excremens de ſor- tir : auſquels pour le deuoir de noſtre art , il con uient faire ouuerture,& l'ayant faite on void ſortir quel- ques excrements : mais nonobſtant cette ouuerture,i'ay remarqué que tels enfans ne viuent pas long-iours, ains meurent en peu de temps. de la cauſe des pierres. chap. xxxi v. e s pierres qui ſe font en la veſſie, prennent le plus ſouuent leur origine des reins,& deſcen- #, dent en la veſſie par les vaiſſeaux vrinaires. la cauſe d'icelles eſt double, à ſçauoir materielle # & efficiente. la cauſe materielle, pour la pluſpart ſont gros humeurs gluans, eſpés & viſ- # queux , faits de cruditez causées par intemperature, & exercices immoderez , principalement - s ſoudain apres le paſt : & pour cette cauſe les enfans ſont plus fujets à cette maladie que les plus aagez, ainſi que l'on void par experience, à raiſon de leur inſatiable voracité. lacauſe efficiente, eſt la chaleur exceſſiue, qui conſume la ſeroſité ſubtile, & la plus terreſtre demeure & ſe ſeiche ainſi que voyons eſtre fait és tuilles & briques, deſquelles le feu conſumant l'humidité, le reſte ſe tourne en pierre. ce qui ayde beaucoup, ce ſont les conduits & voyes vrinaires trop eſtroits, en ſorte que les excremens gros & viſqueux ne peuuent paſſer , & eſtre iettez hors par iceux, ains demeurent dans la ſubſtance des reins ou de la veſſie , puis s'amaſſent les vns ſur les autres : ainſi par adition eſt faite vne pierre comme par eſcaille , crouſte ou eſcorce. et tout ainſi que le chandelier trempant ſa meſche par pluſieurs fois dans le ſuif, en fait vne groſſe chandelle : ſemblablement la partie de l'vrine plus craſſe & gluante en paſſant ſur vne petite arene ou pierre , adherant contre, & s'incruſtant, & apres par eſpace de temps ſe groſſiſ- ſant, fait en fin vne groſſe pierre. l'vrine contenuë en la veſſie, depuis qu'elle eſt eſchauffée, rend gran- de chaleur au corps : partant il eſt bon de piſſer ſouuent. - - - - -* - des ſignes des pierres és reins, & en la veſſic-». c h a f. xxxv. rºqſ%e s ſignes de la pierre engendrée es reins ſont, que le patient iette auec l'vrine des arenes n $ rouges où iaunaſtres , & ſent vn prurit obtus aux reins, auec grauité & peſanteur des lumbes: º v$ \ ) $ & quand il ſe meut il ſouffre vne douleur poignante & ſtupeur ou formiement aux lumbes, ºk # hanches & cuiſſes, à cauſe que la pierre eſtant encloſe dedans le rein ou dans le pore vretere preſſe les nerfs procedans des vertebrès des lumbes. on pourra facilement cognoiſtre que la pierre eſt dans la veſſie par les ſignes ſuiuans : c'eſt que le malade ſent vne peſanteur (ſçauoir eſt ſi elle eſt groſſe) au ſiege & perineum , auec douleur iectigatiue & poignante, qui s'eſtend iuſques à l'extremité de la verge, tellement qu'il la tire & frotte touſiours , dont elle vient allongée & relaxée outre meſure : & le plus ſouuent l'a roide, pour la douleur qu'il ſouffre, auec grande enuie de piſſer , mais ne peut bien li- bremeht, & quelquesfois ne piſſe que goute à goute : & en vrinant ſent vne extreme douleur, croiſant les iambes, & ſeant contre terre auec cris & gemiſſemens, auec tres-grandes eſpreintes, à cauſe que la pier- re eſt choſe eſtrange à nature parquoy la vertu expultrice s'efforce à la ietter hors,qui cauſe les eſprintes: & par icelles ſouuent le muſcle du ſiege,nommé sphincter,eſt relaſchée:lors portion de l'inteſtin droit ſort dehors , & à d'aucuns, par les eſpreintes leur viennent les hemorrhoides auec extreme douleur. en outre, au fond de leur vrine eſt trouué vn humeur gros † & gluant, quelquesfois auſſi gros comme de petites huiſtre,ou comme du blanc d'œuf & telle choſe demonſtre que la pierre eſt faite par diminution de chaleur naturelle. d'auantage le malade a vne couleur paſle , iaunaſtre, ou liuide, & les yeux battus , ne pouuant repoſer ny dormir qu'à grand peine,à cauſe qu'il eſt preſque en continuelle douleur. d'abondant, on recognoiſtra par la ſonde, en ſituant le patient debout vn peu courbé deuant, les iambes diſtantes l'v- ne de l'autre d'vn pied ou enuiron, & faut qu'il ſoit appuyé par derriere : alors on apliquera vne de ces ſondes (telle qu'il ſera beſoin) premierement oincte d'huile ou beurre, la paſſent dexrement iuſques de- dans la capacité de la veſſie s'il eſt poſſible. et où par telle ſituation on ne pourroit mettre la ſonde en la veſſie, il conuiendra ſituer le malade ſur le bord de ſon lict vn peu à la renuerſe,les genoux pliez, & les ta- ions pres des feſſes,comme tu pourras voir en la figure depeinte cy-apres de ces deux à qui on tire la pierre par inciſion. ce faiſant on mettra la ſonde plus facillement dedans la veſſie,& par icelle on ſentira la pierre par vne reſiſtance & dureté d'vn corps dur,auec vn ſon ſourdeau au bout de la ſonde, qui fera iuger verita- blement y auoirvne pierre. et noteras icy pour vn precepte,qu'entre tous les ſignes ſuſdits, celuv de la ſe- conde eſt le plus certain peur connoiſtre s'il y a pierre ou non. il aduient neantmoins quelquesfois qu'on ne la peut trouuer auſens du tact, à cauſe qu'elle ſera peut-eſtre contenue en vne apoſteme,ou enueloppée d'vn humeur gluant ou viſqueux, ou couuerte d'vne membrane. quelquesfois auſſi que la pierre eſt petite errante en la veſſie, qui fait qu'on ne la peut pas touſiours trouuer, & quelques iouts apres on la trouue. or les ſondes doiuent eſtre proportionnées ſelon le ſexe & les aages. partant, il en faut auoir des petites, longues, moyennes , groſſes, menués, courbées , & droites. dauantage , lors qu'on les met en ja veſſie pour les faire vriner, il faut mettre dedans vn filet d'argent, pour empeſcher que quelque humeur ou ſang ne s'engorge au bout, qui ſeroit cauſe que l'vrine ne pourroit paſſer au trauers , & quand elle ſera dans l# veſſie, on doit retirer le fil d'argent, afin que l'vrine paſſe librement au trauers d'iceile. • cure du li- gament trop c / ff. º cauſe des pierres, les enfans ſont plus ſuiets à la pierre que les plus aagez. . cauſe ad- iuuante. hippoc. aux epidemies. signes des pierres en la veſſie. cauſe des eſpreintes. situation de celuy qu'on veut ſonder "autre ſitua- tion. la pierre ſe tognoiſt par- faictement par la ſonde. oo le dixſeptiéme liure, de pluſieurs la figure àes sondes, es du fild'argent eſt telle. du prognoſtic des pierres cha p. xxx vi. a pierre eſtant ſortie hors de l'vn des reins, & arreſtée dans ſon vretere , en ſorte qu'elle en quel cas le bouche du tout , le patient neantmoins ne laiſſera d'vriner : parce que nature ayant fait ſ###ët noſtre corps double,l'vrine regurgitera & ſera vacuée par l'autre vretere. et ſi tel accident au calcul : aduient aux deux, l'vrine ſera du tout ſupprimée, qui ſera cauſe de la mort du patient, & desreins. *s en mourant fera ſemblables aſpirations que ceux qui ſe noyent en vne grande eau , à raiſons que l'vrine regorge dedans la grande veine caue, & par conſequent és autres & meurent , pource que la chaleur naturelle eſt ſuffoquée & eſteinte par la trop grande multitude d'vrine , & auſſi aucuns la vomiſ- ſent, ce que i'atteſte auoir veu ſouuentesfois. - quelquesfois nature jette quelque petite pierre des reins, & s'arreſteaux vaiſſeaux vreteres, dont aucu- signes # nes font vne extreme douleur, iuſques à ce qu'elles ſoient deſcendues dans la veſſie, & cauſent pluſieurs ##. accidens, comme eſpreintes, & volonté d'aller à la ſelle & vriners & neantmoins les malades ne peuuent, reins pource qu'ils ſont le plus ſouuent conſtipez de ventoſité,qu'il ſoit vray, ils rottent quaſi continuellement - et ſi le patient eſternue,ou qu'il touſſe, ou qu'il faſſe quelquegrande commotion de corps, il ſent vne dou-. leur poignante(principalement ſi elle eſt cornuë, & fi elle eſt auec aſperitez)à l'endroit où eſt la pierre ar- reſtée. semblablement la douleur eſt communiquée à la hanche & à la cuiſſe,& à d'aucuns leur ſemble qu'ô lapierre ſe- leur tire en haut les teſticules par vne grande violence. d'auantage ſont vexez de la coliqne, auec vomiſe- lon l'aage eſt mens bilieux, & ſueurs vniuerſelles. la pierre s'engendre plus ſouuent aux vieilles gens és reins,qu'elle ne § fait aux ieunes,à raiſon que leur faculté expultrice eſt plus debile.au contraire,elle s'engendre en la veſſie reins,où à la des ieunes plus ſouuent qu'aux vieux, d'autant que leur chaleur naturelle eſt plus forte,& par conſequent veſſie. . leur faculté expultrice eſt plus vigoureuſe, & auſſi pource qu'ils ſont plus exceſſifs à la crapule , comme auons dit cy deuant. et quand elle eſt en la veſſie, & que le patient iette du ſang auec l'vrine,c'eſt ſigne que la pierre n'eſt groſſe ny vnie,mais au contraire eſt petite & cornue, ou eſpineuſe ; c'eſt à dire, auec aſperi- ' tez : car d'autant plus qu'elle eſt petite, plus facilement entre dedans le col & orifice de la veſſie, & parce moyen a plus de peine à en eſtre reculée,& à r'entrer dedans ſa violence,pource qu'elle eſgratigne & vlcere signes de les parties où telles aſperitez touchent, qui eſt cauſe de ietter le ſang par la verge. auſſi quand l'vrine eſt pierre vnie blanche & laicteuſe, c'eſt ſigne que la pierre eſt vnie:pareillement le patient ne ſent telle douleur que lors qu'elle a des aſperitez.et ſi la pierre eſtant aux reins eſt epineuſe,il ſentira douleur picquante,côme d'aigil- lons,ne ſe pouuât plier ny remuer qu'auec peine:s'iltrauaille iliette vne vrine ſanguinolête,voire quelques fois le ſang tout pur à cauſe de la violéce qu'elle fait contre les parois de colatoires où elle a eſté procreée. les pierres , or les pierres qui naiſſent aux reins ſeront groſſes ou petites,& de diuerſes formes & figures,à raiſon des ſont de di- interceptions ou petits ventricules qui ſont au profond des cauitez des colatoires. veritablement i'enay *ſes figu- trouué en aucuns eſtans decedez, de grandes comme le doigt,& de figure d'vn lévrier,autresfois d'vn porc, 'fj, autresfois rondes & vnies, autresfois quarrées, & auec pluſieurs aſperitez, comme pomme de pin : autres- c fois vne ſeule, autresfois pluſieurs & de diuerſes couleurs, comme noires, jaunaſtres, blancheaſtres,rou- d geaſtres,cendrées,& autres de diuerſes formes & couleurs,ſelon la temperature des patiens.des choleri- ques & maigres,les pierres ſont cômunément faites par chaleur & ſiccité eſtrange:& des phlegmatiques & . gras,par froideur & congelation,& par obſtruction des conduits. la pierre qui eſt en la veſſie eſt quelques- fois errante, autresfois attachée en haut, ou en bas au fond. si elle eſt attachée au fond, le patient pour piſſer à ſon aiſe ſe couche ſur les reins : & ſi elle eſt en haut,il ſe courbe pour vriner : ſi elle eſt en bas,il ſe tient debout, & ſi elle eſt errante, qui eſt lors qu'elle eſt petite,il ſe met en diuerſes figures. quelquesfois la pierre tombe du fond de la veſſie au conduit de l'vrine, & du tout le bouche, dont aduient entiere ſup- mºyen dere- preſſion d'vrine.alors il faut ſituer le patient ſur le dos, & eſleuer les iambes en l'air, l'agitant & ſecoüant, culer la pier- comme ſi on vouloit enſacher quelque choſe dans vn ſac,à fin de la repouſſer hors du conduit de lv'rine : & re du conduit ſemblablement ſe peut repouſſer auec vne ſonde. ceux qui ont la pierre és reins ou en la veſſie ſont preſ- del'vrine. que en continuelle douleur, toutesfois à d'aucuns leur douleur vient par paroxyſmes, & ſeront quelques- · fois vn mois ou deux, plus ou moins, voire vn an entier,ſans ſentir douleur qui eſt lors que les pierres ſont liſsées & polies:mais ſi elles ſont raboteuſes auec aſperité cauſent de tres-grandes douleurs, principalement apres auoir piſsé:à cauſe que le corps de la veſſie ſe comprime & reſerre contre la pierre pour ietter l'vrine, & la pierre qui luv eſt contre nature, la vertu expulſiue s'efforce autant qu'elle peut la vouloir ietter hors. or ces pauures lapidaires , pour l'extreme douleur qu'ils endurent , deſirent plus mourir que viure, - qui operations de chirurgie. c i a qui fait qu'ils s'expoſent entre les mains du tailleur , mais le plus ſouuent c'eſt trop tard. car iamais ils ne s'y mettent, ſi ce n'eſt lors que leurs vertus ſont proſternées & abbatuës, & la veſſie eſcorchée & vlcerée, qui eſt cauſe qu'ils meurent. partant n'en faut donner aucun blaſme au chirurgien. ceux qui ont pierres aux reins, le plus ſouuent font viines claires, & quelquesfois laicteuſes & ſanieuſes auec du poil. les fem- les femmes mes ne ſont ſi ſubjectes d'engendrer pierres comme les hommes, à cauſe qu'elles ont le col de la veſſie plus ». # ſi ſub- court & plus large, laxe & ample : parquoy lors qu'il y a commencement de pierre, elle ſort deuant qu'elle ieiie, au cal. ſoit fort groſſe : neantmoins à aucunes ſe forment & groſſiſſent autant qu'aux hommes, dont les conuient cul que les inciſer,& leur ayder par ſemblables remedes qu'on fait aux hommes. lors que la pierre excede la groſſeur bommes. d'vn œufés hommes, le plus ſouuent en la tirant on dilacere le corps de la veſſie. et ſi telle choſe eſt faite, l di l'vrine fluera inuolontairement à iamais, à cauſe que la veſſie eſt nerueuſe & exanguë : parquoy ne ſe peut # -- conſolider ny reünir, & d'auautage le plus ſouuent y ſuruient inflammation & gangrene, & par conſequent #. la mort. les pierres mediocrement groſſes ſe tirent plus ſeurement, & le malade en eſchappe pluſtoſt que § ſi elles eſtoient petites, à raiſon que le malade eſt accouſtumé de longue main à patience, en tolerant ordi- l' ºri . nairement inflammation, douleur, & autres accidens : ce qui n'eſt de meſme aux autres. si la pierre adhe- re fort contre la veſſie, & eſt couuerte d'vne membrane, la voulant tirer on dilacere ladite veſſie, & par tel #iºrºº ººº- moyen s'enſuit conuulſion, gangrene,& par conſequent la mort tu dois icy noter, que la pierre eſtant ainſi º** couuerte d'vne membrane, mal-aisément ſe peut trouuer par la ſonde. en outre ſi la pierre eſt de figure membranea longue, & que l'on la prenne en trauers, on dilacerera, & rompta-t'on la veſſie, dont s'enſuiuront les acci- . dents predits. si le chirurgien, par cas-fortuit, pince le corps de la veſſie auec ſes inſtrumens, & qu'il la dilacere & ſepare des parties où elle eſt jointe, s'enſuiura conuulſion , & autres accidents predits. or parce qu'elle ſera ſeparée des parties où elle adhere, ſe fera grande inflammation , a cauſe du ſang qui coulera entre icelles parties, laquelle ſe putrefiera, ſuiuant l'aphoriſme d'hipp. qui dit, • i iº ventrem ſan- guis preter naturam effunditur, neceſſariô putreſcit. parquoy s'enfuiura auſſi gangrene, mortification, & con- ſequemment la mort. apres auoir ainſi eſcrit les cauſes des parties qui ſont trouuées au corps, la maniere comme elles ſont procreées, les ſignes des lieux où elles ſont, les ſymptomes & accidens, & le prognoſtic: à preſent faut eſcrire la curation à ſçauoir, preferuatiue, & curatiue, & comme il faut diuerſifier les reme- des & inſtrumens ſelon les corps & parties où elles ſont trouuées. - l . -- de la cure preſeruatiue_ . ch a r. x x x v i. a cure preſeruatiue ſera faite en ordonnant le regime ſur les ſix choſes non naturelles, en eui- regime. tant les cauſes qui engendrent humeurs gros & viſqueux. donc pour t'en inſtruire ſommai # rement, faut éuiter la demeure en vn air gros & vaporeux. quant aux alimens, faut s'abſtenir $uel, ali- # de poiſſon, chair de bœuf, de porc, oyſeaux de riuiere, legumes, formages, laictages, œufs mens peuuent º > frais & durs , ris, patiſſeries, pain ſans leuain, & generalement tous autres alimens qui font cauſer la obſtruction.auſſi ſe garder de manger ails, oignons, poireaux, mouſtarde, eſpiceries,& generalement tou- pºrrº. tes choſes qui eſchauffent le ſang,& principalement ceux eſquels on aura conjecturé que la cauſe de la pier- re vient par exceſſiue chaleur. et quand èleur boire, faut s'abſtenir de mauuaiſes eaux , mareſcageuſes & bourbeuſes,& de gros vins troubles,bieres,& autres breuuages ſemblables. en outre ne faut trop manger, ne gloutement, de crainte qu'il ne s'engendre des cruditez, & par con.equent obſtructions. le dormir toſt apres le repas eſt fort nuiſible , à cauſe qu'il engendrecruditez. le trop veiller, trauailler, & ieuner, ſont # eſt diſpo auſſi incommodes, pource qu'ils enfiamment le ſang,& fi ſont cauſe auſſi d'indigeſtion,& de chaleur eſtran- # ºu ir'ia ge. s'il y a replection,faut vacuer tant par medicamens & phlebotomie, que par vomiſſement, lequel eft vn pierre. ſingulier remede pour precaution de la pierre. il ne faut auſſi meſpriſer les paſſions de l'eſprit. et pour l'é- uacuation des humeurs cras & viſqueux,tu pourras auoir le conſeil du docte medecin:toutesfois conſiderant qu'on ne peut toufiours le recouurer,ie t'ay bicn icy voulu deſcrire aucuns remedes bons & approuuez, deſ quels pourras vſer ſelon que verras eſtre beſoin : & icy noteras pour vn precepte de galien , qui a com- ºº ** mandé qu'il faut éuiter les choſes diuretiques, & fortes purgations, au commencement de l inflammation * , des reins ou de la veſſie, parce qu'elles l'augmenteroient, y faiſant fluer les humeurs en plus grande abon- dance, qui ſeroit cauſe d'augmenter la douleur & autres accidens. parquoy faudra vſer en tel cas de cho- ſes refrigerentes & lenientes : tant par dedans que par dehors, comme de ſyrop. /.. ſummitatum malua, s. biſmal. & violarix,an.m.ſſ.radic altheae . † raſx iij fiiij.ſeminum figid.maiorum an. j.fiat ** decoctio. accipe predictae decoctionis ib. . & in colatura diſſolue ſacch. albiſſ. . ij. mellis albi .j. ß. fiat ſyrupus ſecundum artem, duquel le patient pourra vſer ſouuent. auſſi vſera par fois d'vne demie once de caſſe fraichement mundée, auec vne dragme ou dragme & demie, ou deux dragmes de rheubarbe en poudre, ſelon qu'il en ſera beſoin, deux heures deuant le paſt. tu pourras auſſi vſer de cét apozeme auec grand effect. z. rad.afparagi. graminis polypod jquercini , paſſularum mundatarum an, ß. betonicæ, hernioſæ,agrimonie,omnium capill.& pimpinellae an m. .quatuor ſemin.frigid. maiorem, ſeminis fœniculi an. .j. folior.ſenx vj.fiat decoctio. ad ib. ſ.in colatura diſſoluatur ſyrupi de alth. & de hernioſa an. .j. É. fiat apozema clarif & aromatiſ. cum tantillo cinnamomi pro duabus docibus : capiat primam doſin mane duabus horis ante cibum, & alteram quarta promeridiana. l'vſage des choſes diuretiques eſt bon à ceux qui ſont ſubjects à jetter de la grauelle, d'autant qu'elles prouoquent à vriner , & ne demeurent gueres à paſſer par les reins & pores vreteres. les matieres qui cauſent la pierre,n'ont pas loiſir de s'aſſembler pour s'endurcir & lapidifier. parquoy on vſera par fois du boüillon qui s'enſuit, lequel eſt de me rueilleux cſſ-ct, bouillon & bien experimenté prenez vn coq, & vn jarret de veau, qu'on fera cuire en eau auec vne poig ce d'orge, racinesde perſil, ozeille, fenoüil, chicorée, bruſci, de chacun vne once : des quatre femences froides con- caſſées, de chacune demi once : à la fin on adjouſtera fueilles d'ozeille, pourpié, laictue, ſommitez de mau- lue, violettes de mars, de chacune demie poignée : puis ſera gardé le boüillon duquel le patient en prendra par quatre matins, deux heures deuant manger, la quantité de demy ſeptier, anec vn doigt de ius de citron, le faiſant boüillir vn bouillon auant chaſque priſe : en bref on verra vne operation merueilleuſe. car par l'vrine on verra arenes, & grande quantité de matiere craſſe & viſqueuſe. parquoy demonſtre par ſon effect qu'il nettoye & expelle les matieres des parties dediées à l'vrine, & ne fait aucune nuiſance à l'eſto- mach, ny aux autres parties par où il paſſe : ie puis dire que c'eſt vn aliment medicamenteux. tu pour- ras auſſivſer de la poudre ſuiuante auec grand profit. z. nucleorum meſpil. .j. pul elect. diatrag frigidi poudre ſin- .ij. quatuor ſeminum frigidor. maiorum mundatorum, glycyrrhizae raſa an .j. ſem. ſaxi. ſeminum guliere carre milij ſolis, geniſtx , pimpinellx, bruſci, & aſparagian. .j. ſemin.althea j. b. ſacc.abliſſimi . vj. fiat ia pierre. fuluis. il faut vſer de cette poudre le premier iour de la lune nouuelle, du pº# quartier de la † - k l llnc, que ri. |! : \ | )tuels breu- uage doir fuir celuy · o le dixſeptiéme liure, de pluſieurs clyſtare. autre clyſte. re pour ap- paiſer la douleur. breuuage jfort conuena- ble contre la pierre. ap zem poudre fort propre à diſ- ſiper la ma tiere du cal- cul. slyſtere. signes de la pierre de- meurée dans les vreteres. breuuage. fričtions. vemiſſement. b in, combien il ſe faut tenir au bain. lune, & du dernier quartier, & tous les mois enſuiuans,& en prendre la quantité d'vne cuillerée au matin, à trois heures deuant manger. auſſi lexiue faite des cendres de troncs de febuës , eſt ſinguliere pour tel effect. outre plus pourra le patient vſer d'vn clyſtere tel que ceſtuy-cy. z. lactucae, ſcariolae, fol.ſali.por- tulacæ, an.m.j.flor.viol. & nenuph.an.p.ſ.fiat decoct.ad tb.j.ln colatura diſſolue caſſix fiſtulae .j. mel.viol. & ſacc. ruban. .j. olei viol. .iiij. fiat clyſter. autre pour ſeder pareillement la douleur. %. fior. camom. melli. ſummit. aneth.berul. an.p. ij. fiat decoct.in lacte vaccino, & in colatura diſſolue caſſ. fiſt. & ſacc. albi. .j.vitell. ouor. num. iij. olei aneth. & cam.an. . ij. fiat clyſt. par dehors ſur les reins & au long on appliquera de l'onguent roſat, nutrit. ou popul. ſeuls ou meſlez enſemble : puis par deſſus vne ſeruiette trempée en oxycrat. or ſi la generation de la pierre prouient par frigidité , il y faut ſubuenir par choſes contraires, dont faudra vſer ſouuent du remede ſuiuant. z. tereb. veter. .j. cortic. citri. .ij.aqua coctx .j. .miſce, fiat potus. autre potion. . caſſ. recent. extract. . v). benedict. .iiij. aqua fœnic. .ij. aqua aſpar. .j. ſ$. fiat pot. capiat tribus hor. ante prandium. pourra ſemblablement vſer d'vn telapozeme. . rad. cyper.barda. gramin. an. . iij. biſmal. cum toto, beton.an. m. ſem.mil. ſolis, bard. vrti, an. . ij. ſem, melo. glycyrrhizae raſx an. .ij. É. fic. iiij. num. fiat decoct. ad quart. iij. colato & expreſſo, diſ- ſolue ſyr.de raph. & oxymelitis ſquillitician. .j-ſi. ſacc.albi. .iij. fiat apozema pro tribus dofibus clarific. & aromatiſ.cum .j. cinnam. & .f. ſant. citrini : capiat . iiij. trib. hor. ante prandium. d'auantage on pent vſer de cette poudre qui a grande efficace pour diffiper la matiere du calcul. ſem. petroſelini & ra- dicis eiuſdem mundatæ an. . iij. ſem. card. quem calcitra. vocant. j.deſiccentur in furno lentoigni, po- ſtea piſtentur, ſeparatim, quibus fiat. pul. de quo capiat. xger .j. ß. vel . ij. cum vino albo, velcum iure gallinacei pulli, de quo bibat xger tribus diebus ieiuno ſtomacho. autre remede. z. rad. petroſ fœnic. an. .j. ſaxifrag.pimpinel.granoral xexengi & bardanz, an.m.É.iiij.ſem.frigid.maior.mund. ſem. milij ſolis an. .ij.miſce, fiat decoct. cape de cola.fb.ſ.in qua diſſ. ſacchar.rub.& ſyrup. capill.veneris an. .j. .capiat in tribus doſibus, duabus horis ante cibum. autre poudre. . coriand. præp. .iiij. aniſi, marathri, gra- nor.alxekengi, milij ſolis an. .ij.zinzib. cinnam.an. .ij. turbit. elect. .j. carui .ij. galang. nucis molcat. & lapid. indaici an. .j. folio ſenx mund. ad duplum omnium, diagredij . ij. fi. miſce, & fiat pulu. doſis erit ad .j. cum vino albo : capiat ager tribus horis ante prandium. - le patient pourra auſſi vſer de tels clyſteres contre les ventoſitez. z. malux, biſanalux, pariet. origani, calamenthi, fior. camomillae, ſummitatum anethi,an m.j.anifi,carui cumini,fœniculi an. . .bacc.lauri .iij. fem. rutz ij. fiat decoctio : incolatura diſſolue benedictx vel diaphœnici . É. confectionis bac.laur. .iij. ſacchari rubei . j.oleorum anethi, camom. ruta an .j. fiat clyſter. . autre facile à faire pour meſme intention. z. olei nucum, vinimaluat. an. fb. É. aquz vitæ . É. on les doit tenir le plus longuement que l'on pourra, parce qu'ils feront meilleure operation, & appaiſeront mieux les douleurs : & par les moyens ſuſdits on peut empeſcher la generation des pierres, & ſubuenis auſſi à la douleur de la colique,tant venteufe que nephritique. des moyens de ſecourir celuy qui auroit vne pierre dans l'vn des vreteres deſcenduë du rein. c h a p t r e xxxvi i i. $\ºg y a n t aſſez parlé de la cure preſeruatiue de la pierre, il nous reſte de pourſuiure les - # moyens pour ſoulager ceux qui en ſont affligez, tant aux reins, vi eteres, qu'en la veſſie : & $% en premier lieu nous parlerons d'vn patient qui auroit vne pierre ſortie de l'vn des reins, eſtant demeurée dedans l'vn des vreteres. & que l'vrine eſt ſupprimée en partie : lors le pa- tient ſent grande douleur à l'endroit où elle eſt demeurée, & par conſentement & voiſina- ge à la hanche, veſſie, teſticules, & a laverge, auec vne volonté d'vriner, & aller à la ſelle. pour la faire deſcendre , ( faut s'il eſt poſſible au patient ) qu'il monte ſur vn trottier courant, & qu'il le cheuauche vne lieue, plus ou moins : car par cette équitation & mouuement, la pierre ſouuent deſcend en la veſſie : & où il n'aura le moyen d'aller à cheual, faut qu'il monte & deſcende vn eſcalier pluſieurs fois, iuſques à ce qu'il ſoit las & en ſueur. et luy faut alors donner à boire choſe qui leniſſent, adouciſſent, & relaxent, comme huyles d'amandes douces, recentement tirée, auec eau de parietaire, & vin blanc : auſſi on doit faire des frictions auec linges chauds en deualant en bas, & appliquer des ventouſes auecques grandes flammes : & doiuent eſtre appliquées tantoſt ſur les lumbes, tantoſt ſur le ventre, tirant vers les aines vn peu au deſſous de la douleur , pour touſiours attirer à la veſſie. si le patient ne vomiſt il le faut prouoquer à ce faire, en luy donnant à boire eau & huyle tiede, en quantité ſuffiſante : car le vomiſſement aide beaucoup à chaſſer la pierre contre-bas,à cauſe de la compreſſion des parties qui ſe fait en telle action. et ſi par tels remedes le patient n'eſt allegé,le faut mettre en vn demy bain,fait de la decoction qui s'enſuit. . malux, biſm cum toto an.m.ij.bethon.naſtur.& burulx,ſaxifr.parietariae,violarix an.m.iij.ſem.melonis. milij ſolis,alkekengian. .vj.cicerum rubr. fb.rad. apij, gram.fœnic.& ering.an. .iij.coquant. omnia in ſuff. quan aq. pro inceſſu. toutes ces choſes ſeront miſes dans vn ſac, ſur lequel ſera aſſis le patient, & qu'il ſe trempe iuſques au nombril. et ne faut qu'il y demeure iuſques à extreme foibleſſe : car par les bains eſt faite grande reſolution des eſprits & defaillance des vertus. tels bains ſedent la douleur, relaxent toutes les parties , ouurent & dilatent les voyes de l'vrine. en quoy faiſant ſouuentesfois la pierre deſcend en la veſſie. et où la pierre par tel moyen ne deplaçaſt, & qu'il y eut entiere ſuppreſſion d'vrine, & auſſi qu'au- parauant le bain on n'eut ſçeu faire paſſer la ſonde en la veſſie, le faut derechef ſonder à la ſortie du bain: pource que lors la ſonde entrera plus facilement qu'auparauant, & pareillement ſeringuer auec huyle d'a- mendes douces. d'auantage il faut que le malade ſe garde bien du froid. tu pourras par cette figure con- noiſtre la façon d'vnç chaire pour faire le demy-bain. v $g - % figure b :: # * # n. t | operations de chirurgie. o figure de la chaire à demy-bain. —* deſcription de la chaire à h= =i demy-bain. a la chaire. b le trou d'icelle, là où le patient eſt aſſis. c la cuuette où on met l'eau. d la fontaine pour vacuer l'eau quand elle eſt trop froide. e l'entonnoir par lequel on met de l'eau chaude• autre decoction pour faire vn demy-bain. .rad.raphalthan i ijrad bruſci, petroſel.& aſparagian aut, dees- fb.j.cumini, fœnic. dulcis.ameos an. .iiij.ſem.lini & fœnugan. .vj flor.camom.melil.aneth.folior.marrub. § pour - parietan m.ij.bul.omnia ſimul ſecundùmartem,cum aqua ſufficienti, & parum vinialbi odoriferi,vſque ad § de- conſomptionem tertiœ partis, & fiat ſemicupiam. d'auantage eſt vtile de cette decoction en faire clyſtere my bain. . auec huyle de lys quatre onces, & deux iaunes d'œufs : & lors qu'on le voudra donner au patient,eſtant en la decoäion la chauſſe ou canon à clyſtere on y adiouſtera vne dragme d'huyle de geneure : vous aſſeurant qu'elle ſede ſuſdite eſt promptement la douleur causée par ventoſitez. et icy faut noter qu'aux grandes douleurs nephritiques ne fºrt bºnne à faut bailler trop grande quantité de decoction, de peur que les inteſtins trop remplis ne compriment les ſºir*ººſtº reins & pores vreteres qui ſont ja commencez à enfiammer : pource que par cela la douleur s'augmenteroit, ºº meſ- & ſeroient prouoquez autres accidens. outre plus on peut appliquer vn tel cataplaſme ſur l'endroit de la me fin. douleur, & au petit ventre, & ſur les parties genitales, lequel a grande puiſſance d'appaiſer la douleur, & ayder à faire deſcendre la pierre des vreteres en la veſſie. . rad. alth.raph.an. .iiij. pariet. fœnicu, ſene- . cionis, naſturtij, berula an. m. j. herniarix m.ſº. omnibus in aqua ſufficienter decoctis, deinde piſtatis, adde # † , camomil. pinguedinis euniculi an. . ij. farinx crcerum quantum ſufficit : fiat cataplaſma ad vſum dictum. a- comment il faut proceder à la guariſon de la pierre eſtant deſcendue en la veſie ». c h a p t r e xxxix. - t eſtant la pierre tombée en la veſſie, s'il n'y en a qu'vne (car ſouuentesfois il y en a pluſieurs poudr, pro- #$ qui deſcendent auec multitude d'arene ou ſable)lors la douleur ceſſe,& ſentira le patient,prurit, pre pour com . , auec vn petit aiguillonnement à l'extremité de la verge, & au ſiege. et alors s'il n'eſt debile minuer le ſa. faut qu'il trauaille à pied ou à cheual, & qu'il vſe d'vne telle poudre. %. pul. electuarijlithon- lle. tribon . iiij. ſumatur .j. tribus horis tam ante prandium quàm ante cœnam cum vino albo , vel cum iure cicerum rubrorum. et faut auſſi qu'il boiue de bon vin blanc en aſſez bonne quantité , & qu'il retienne longuement fon vrine s'il peut, à fin que le grand amas d'icelle chaſſe & pouſſe plus aisément la pierre hors la veſſie. pareillement luy faut faire telle injonction /. ſyrupi capill. veneris .j.aquae alke kengi .iij.olei de ſcorpionibus . ſ$. & d'icelle luy en ſera jetté en la veſſie auec vne ſyringue. la pierre en la veſſie fait vlcere par ſon aſperité & aſtriction, & la ſanie qui en ſort mordique, & ronge les parties où elle demeure, qui fait.toufiours augmentation de douleur, & autres accidens. de la pierre ejtant au conduit de la verge,ou au col de la veſſie ». c h a p. x l. $ a pierre eſtant ſortie hors du corps de la veſſie, & demeurée au col d'icelle, ou à la verge, il faut moyës •. ti alors que le chirurgien ſe garde bien de la repouſſer au dedans : mais la menera tant que faire ſe , pier . pourra auec les doigts à l'extremité de la verge, en y iettant huyle d'amendres douces, ou autres bor, du cet choſes lubrifiantes. et ſi elle deſcend iuſques à l'extremité de la verge , & qu'elle y demeure, la de la veſſie.' faut tirer auec petits crochets ; et ſi on ne peut par tels crochets l'extraire , on mettra cét inſtrument nom- mé tire-fond auec ſa cannule, en la verge iuſques aupres de la pierre : puis on le tournera doucement, à fin qu'il comminuë la pierre & la mette en petites portions ; ce qui ſe fera aisement, parce que ledit tirefond a ſon extremité en maniere de foret : ce que i'ay fait pluſieurs fois. - l l f. *- - o le dixſeptiéme liure, de pluſieurs *, #º - ...- * -' à figure d' vn tirefondpropre à comminuer la pierre eftantdans la verge. et faut noter qu'ilne doit eſtre gros non plus qu'vne groſſe ſonde, afin qu'il ne faſſe violence à le mettrs . dedans la verge. - - des moyens qu'il faut vſerpour tirer par inciſion vne pierre arreitée au conduit de l'vrine, , que l'on aura pû extraire par les voyes ſuſdites. · ch a f t r e xl i. # a b o n d a n t poſant le cas qu'elle fuſt ſi groſſe & dure, ou ayant des aſperitez & loing de l'extremité de la verge, de façen qu'elle ne peuſt eſtre tirée, & l'vrine fuſt ſupprimée : adonc faut faire inciſion ( ce que i'ay pluſieurs fois fait) à coſté de la verge, & non äu deſſus, ny au deſſous.au deſſus, à raiſon d'vne groſſe veine & artere,qui pourroit eſtre cauſe du flux de ſang. • au deſſous n'eſt conuenable, parce que la partie eſt exanguë, & pource difficile à eſtre conſo- c aduertiſſe- lidée, & auſſi que l'vrine ne permettroit l'vnion eſtre faite, parce qu'elle paſſeroit parlylcere & tomberoit mi au chi- º les deux lévres de la playe. et pour ces cauſes l'inciſion ſera faite ſur la pierre à coſté,qui eſt vne par- rnrgien. tie plus charneuſe. mais tu doisicy noter, qu'auant que faire l'inciſion, il te faut lier la verge au deſſus, & bien pres de la pierre,pour la tenir côtraincte & ſubjette,& plier la verge en cercle pour mieux faire ſortir ſa pierre,puis tirer aſſez fort vers toy le prepuce, afin qu'apres l'inciſion, le cuir eſtant relaſché, retourne & couure ladite inciſion, dont plus aisément & briefuement l'vnion & conſolation de la playe ſe fera puis apres. lors tu tireras la pierre auec tel inſtrument. en quel lien ， faut inciſer ?© la verge. -， %s - inſtrument propres à extraire la pierre, apres l'inciſion de la verge. —<sn e-- - comment il faut traicter la playe, l'inciſion faite_. · c h a p. xl ii v s s'il eſt beſoin, faudra faire vn poinct d'aiguille pour reünir la playe, & ſur icelle on ap- pliquera vn tel glutinatif /.. terebentinæ veneta .iij. gummi elemi .j. fang drac. & maſti- ches an. . É. fiat medicamentum ad vſum dictum. et autour de toute la verge faudra mettre vn ſuſdite. # # tel repercuſſif /.. albumina ouoruni cum puluer.boli armenialees,farina volatilis,oleiroſat. º$ puis faut ſuiure ſe reſte de la cure comme des autres playes faites és parties charneuſes.auſſi on mettra dedans la verge vne chandelle de cire, ou vne verge de plomb oincte de terebentine de veniſe. chandelle de d - \ l - | & - l c il ] vil & - l dil - - d - d u'il - pour ayder nature a glutiner la playe, & tenir le al vny & egalement dilate en cét endroit,de peur q csrf. ne fiſt quelque chair ſuperfluë, dont puis apresſe pourroit engendrer vne carnoſité. on pem vſer ， de ſuiure en x l'inciſion - . operations de chirurgie o b puis apres il ne vinſt inflammation & autres accidens pluſtoſt que par l'inciſion. cette compreſſion ſe fait à de la maniere de tirerparinciſion les pierres qui ſont en la veſſie d'vn petit enfant maſſe-. - c h a p t r e xl i i i. kon p r e s auoir ainſi eſcrit les moyens comme les petites pierres ſont extraites, maintenant ' # faut monſtrer par methode comme les groſſes ſe peuuent & doiuent tirer hors le corps de \n# la veſſie, & par quels inſtruments. et commencerons aux petits enfans, puis aux hommes, & conſequemment aux femmes. ayant donc ſupposé que nous ayons vn ieune enfant à inciſer, sitºtion de il faut premierement que le chirurgien le faſſe ſauter cinq ou ſix fois,afin de faire deſcendre ºfºtº la pierre au fond de la veſſie. puis le poſeras ſur les genoüils d'vn homme aſſis ſur vne eſcabelle, ſur leſ- quels y aura vn drap en pluſieurs doubles, l'enfant ayant les feſſes eſleuées en haut : auſſi ſera vn peu ren- uersé , à fin qu'il ait ſon inſpiration & expiration libre,& auſſi que les parties nerueuſes ne tendent; mais qu'elle ſoient laxes pour mieux donner paſſage à la pierre lors qu'on la tirera hors. il faut d'auantage te- nir les mains dudit enfant par deſſus ſa cuiſſe, au deſſus du genoüil , eſlargiſſant leſdites cuiſſes, à fin que l'œuure ſoit plus ſeurement & mieux fait. et eſtant ainſi ſitué le chirurgien mettra ſes deux doits de la main ſeneſtre dedans le fondement,le plus auant qu'il pourra,& preſſera de l'autre main ſur le petit ventre, | yayant premierement mis vn linge,à fin de moins offenſer & meurtrir les parties ainſi preſsées,de peur que | ponr quelle pa fin de faire deſcendre la pierre du fond de la veſſie par ſous l'os pubis, vers le col d'icelle, & l'ayant con- f# duite la faut tenir ſujette, de peur qu'elle ne retourne en ſa capacité. cela fait le chirurgien fera vne in-ſion ſur le ciſion au perineum, à deux doigts pres le ſiege, à coſté de la ſuture , auec vn raſoir trenchant des deux penil. coſtez. et d'iceluy ſera couppée doucement toute la chair , iuſques à ce que l'on ſoit paruenu à la pierre: & en faiſant telle inciſion , faut donner fi bon ordre que l'on ne coupe l'inteſtin cullier : pource que quel- quesfois ſi on n'y prend bien garde, en attirant la pierre au col de la veſſie, l'inteſtin ſe replique & redou-bºn aduer- ble : & lors qu'il eſt coupé , la matiere fecale ſort vne partie par la playe & l'vrine par le fiege , qui puis tiſſement au apres empeſëhe la conſolidation d'icelle , ce qui eſt aduenu à d'aucuns : mais auſſi pluſieurs n'ont laiſsé chirurgien, d'eſtre bien guaris, pource que la ieuneſſe fait choſes qui ſemblent eſtre impoſſibles. ayant fait ladite ins ciſion, faut tirer & mettre hors la pierre par tel inſtrument. crochets propres pour extraire la pierre auxpetits enfans. ayant tiré la pierre, faut appliquer vne petite canule dans la playe, & l'y tenir quelque temps pour les raiſons que nous dirons cy-apres:& la traitter ſelon qu'il ſera beſoin, obuiant aux accidens,ayant eſgard à l'habitude & tendreſſe du corps. pareillement ne faut oublier à lier les genoüils enſemble, afin que la con- ſolidation ſoit mieux & plus ſubtilement faite : & le reſte de la cure ſe fera comme il appartient:toutesfois diuerſifiant les remedes ſelon la temperature du corps tendre & ieune, & plus ſenſible que les vieils. de la maniered'extraire les pierres aux hommes, qu'on appelle legrand & haut appareil. ch a p. xl l iii. - - - - , - - - - • • il ne faut , v p a r a v a n t l'extraction de la pierre,le patient doit eſtre bien purgé & ſaigné, s'il en faire l'opera- eſt beſoin, & ne faire l'operation le lendemain qu'il aura pris medecine : pource que tout le §. # corps en eſt encore eſmeu. dauantage on pourra fomenterles parties pudibundes de choſes main d.lº qui humectent & relaxent, afin que la pierre ſoit mieux tirée. il faut ſituer le patient ſur vne medecins * table ferme, les reins ſur vn couſſin, & ſous les feſſes vn drap en plufieurs doubles, & qu'il priſe. ſoit à demy renuerſé,& les cuiſſes pliées,& les talons vers les feſſes:& luyfaut lier les pieds pres les che- situa 'on. uilles auecvne bande forte & large de trois doigts, la paſſant par derriere le col deux ou troisfois,& d'i- comment il celle ſeront liées les mains contre ſes genoüils , ainſi que tu vois par cette figure. # lier le - tfº/ f• la o le dixſeptiéme liure, de pluſieurs il faut que le malade ſoit ſitué les feſſes plus pres du bout º extremité de la table. la figure d'vn homme ſitué comme il faut quand on luy veut ex- a traire la pierre de la veſſie . eſtant le patientainſi lié, faut auoir quatre hommes forts , non craintifs, ny timides , à ſçauoir deux our luy tenir les bras, & les deux autres qui luy tiendront d'vne main vn genoüil & de l'autre le pied,ſi † & dextrement qu'il ne pourra remuer les iambes ny hauſſer les feſſes : mais demeurera ſtable & immº- bile,afin que l'œuure ſoit mieux faite. eſtant le patientainſi ſitué, faut auoir vne ſonde d'argent ou de fer, ouuerte au dehors & aſſez large , afin que le trenchant du raſoir puiſſe entrer librement en ſa cauité pour guider la main de l'inciſeur. la figure cſt telle. - sondes ouuertes en leur partie exterieure . i le chirurgien la paſſera oincte d'huyle en la verge iuſqnes à la veſſie,puis la tournera vn peu vers le co- ſté ſeneſtre,& le ſeruiteur ſitué à la main dextre, alors eſleuera de ſa main ſeneſtre les teſticules en haut vers le coſté dextre : cela fait, le chirurgien fera l'inciſion ſur la ſonde, à coſté ſeneſtre, euitant la couſture du perineum, & pareillement ne la fera trop pres du ſiege. or l'incommodité qui pourroit venir pour la fai- re ſur la couſture, ce ſeroit que la playe ne pourroit eſtre apres ſi bien reünie ny conſolidée pour la calloſi- té d'icelle couſture, & quelle eſt exangue, & que l'vrine paſſe par deſſus, qui puis apres flueroit perpetuel- #º º * lement par la playe. l'autre incommodité qui pourroit auſſi venir faiſant l'inciſion trop pres du ſiege, ſeroit faut inciſer ſur la ligne duperineum. l que l'on pourroit en tirant la pierre rompre quelque rameau des veines hemorroïdes, qui cauſeroit vn flux de ſang,qui mal-aiſement en cette partie eſt eſtanchée : dont aucuns par telle faute ont perdu la vie.pareil- ement , y auroit encore danger en tirant la pierre, qu'on dilaceraſt grandement le muſcle sphincter, & le d corps de la veſſie. parquoy l'inciſion ſe fera deux doigts pres le ſiege , & ſelon le long des filamens , afin #º#º! lieu que puis apres elle ſe reprenne mieux & pluſtoſt. ladite inciſion faite du raſoir doit eſtre ſeulement de la il faut faire l'inciſion. ce qui eſt dilaceré ſe grandeur d'vn poulce : pource qu'on l'augmente puis apres par vn bec de corbin, & par le dilatoire , & meſmement par la pierre lors qu'on la tire. la raiſon pourquoy on fait la playe au commencement ſi petite, c'eſt pource que ce qui eſt coupé ne ſe reüniſt ſi bien , ny en brief temps que ce qui eſt dilaceré & deſchi- ré. car la dilaceration ſe fait ſelon la rectitude & longitude de fibres nerueux. donc , apres auoir fait l'inciſion ſur la ſonde auec le raſoir trenchant des deux coſtez, tu mettras dans la playe l'vne de ces ver- ges d'argent,appellées conducteurs (pource qu'ils ſeruent de guide aux autres inſtrumens que l'on veut in- troduire en la veſſie ) laquelle en ſon extremité a vne petite eminence & rondeur,qui s'inſere & entre dans la cauité de la ſonde § cy-deuant. ladite verge eſt marqué aa. puis en faut couler vne autre par deſſus icelle,qui aura en ſon extremité vne cauité & petite oche comme vn fourchon qui embraſſera & cou- lera iuſques à l'extremité de la premiere. ledit ſecond conducteur eſt marqué b b. reunit mieux que ce qui eſt coupé. lés | operations de chirurgie. o | a les figures des conducºeurs ſont telles , c y en a de deux façons. | ! ' b l a{ . puis on tirera hors la ſonde , & ſeront leſdits conducteurs pouſſez dedans le corps de la veſſie, les tour- nant c'en-deſſus-deſſous : & lors on doit mettre les cheuilles aux pertuis d'icelles. les autres où ne ſont icelles cheuilles ſont plus aisées, & ſont nommées eſpées par ceux qui font telles operations. puis ſeront § | fortſerrées entre les doigts de l'operateur, lequel puis apres doit entre ſes deux conducteurs pouſſer #- auec violence dedans la cauité de la veſſievn autre inſtrument nommé bec de cane : puis l'ouurir des deux :#, mains, le tournant à dextre & à ſeneſtre, ça & là , auec force , pour dilacerer & aggrandir la playe tant pº | qu'il ſera beſoin pour faire paſſage & entrée aux autres inſtrumens qu'il faut encor y mettre. toutesfois s'il eſt poſſible de dilater aſſez la playe, & extraire la pierre par ce meſme inſtrument pendant qu'il eſt dedans | la veſſie, ce ſeroit bien fait. la figure du bec de cane, caue en ſa partie exterieure, eſt telle. preſſant enſemble : par cela on dilatera la playe tant qu'on voudra. la figure d'vn dilatoire clor. - \( c · | - | ， a ! v. t# ! tt l | - - - - - # ! # ºuſſiſionne peut, & qu'il faille dilater la playe dauantage, la pierre eſtant trop groſſe , adonc faut • vſer de cét inſtrument nommé dilatoire, lequel ayant mis dedans la veſſie, ſera pris par les deux bouts, les o le lixleptieme liure,de pluſieurs la figure d'vn dilatoire ouuert. a e-r-e-r- apres la dilaceration & dilatation tu te ſeruiras du bec de cane cy-deſſus eſcrit, ou de ceſtuy qui eſt | courbé. - - - tenailles en forme de bec de cane courbé par icelles tenailles ſera cherchée la pierre dilatant la playe pour l'empoigner, & lors que l'operateur cognoiſtra la pierre eſtre entre ces tenailles, promptement faut lier les branches d'icelles , & la tenir fermement, puis la tirer non tout à coup; mais la faut tourner d vn coſté & d'autre , l'amenant dehors peu à peu auec la plus grande dexterité que l'on pourra et ce faiſant ſe faut garder de trop comprimer & c eſtreindre la pierre par leſdits inſtrumens, de peur de la comminuer & rompre en pieces. aucuns , afin qu'elle n'eſchappe d'entre les inſtruments, mettent deux doigts dedans le fiege, & gaignent le deſſus de la pierre : choſe qui ayde grandement à la tirer, & que i'approuue. les autres ſe ſeruent de ces deux pieces appellées aiſlerons, & les mettent à coſté des tenailles : l'vne deſſus, & l'autre deſſous : puis les joignent enſemble , de ſorte que la pierre ne peut aucunement eſchapper, comme tu vois par cette figure. figure des aiſlerons, & de la pierre priſe en iceux auec le bec de cane. - operations de chirurgie. - o a la figure où à l'extremité des aiſlerons y a vnevixpour les mieux tenir, auec vne piece de ferpliée pourlesſerrer encore dauantage.ladite piece ºſt marquée,aa. - . ' m, 't'nºu.u $#♂ -- en lieu des aillerons, on peut vſer d'vn bec de cane, & lextraction en ſera plus ſubite, & auec moins de douleur. - la pierre qrée par les moyens cy-deſſus, il lafaut diligemment regarder pour voir ſi elle eſt en quel- que endroit vsée & polie : ce qui ſe fait par la colliſion , confriction, & atrition d'vne ou de pluſieurs au- tres pierres. toutesfois, le ſigne le plus certain (comme nous auons dit par cy-deuant) c'eſt la ſonde qui signes que ſe peut faire à preſent auec vn des bouts de l'inſtrument deſcrit cy-deſſous : duquel tu te ſeruiras , tant de #: ſonde que de curette. veſſie apres figure d'vn inſtrument d'argent,nommé curette propre pour l'extraction d'vne pier-rºraai• re, ſonder s'il y en a d'autres, c auſſipour recueillir& amaſſer leſable, ` · ſang coagulé, & autres choſes eftranges qui ſeroient en la veſſie,la pierre tirée. si pariceluy on cognoiſt en la veſſie y auoir autres pierres, il les faut tirer comme deuant : les ayant einfitirées,faut mettre en la veſſie l'autre bout qui eſt caue en façon de cueillier, & le tourner d'vn coſté & amoyen de ti d'autre, pour prendre & attirer les choſes eſtranges qui peuuent reſter en la veſſie, comme ſang coagulé & # # arenes, qui plus apres ſeroient cauſe de generation d'autres pierres. rembert de doüay, medecin de l'em- pierres apres pereur ceſar, en ſes obſeruations medecinales, au liure premier , chapitre quarante - quatre, dit s'eſtre l'extraction trouué douze pierres en la veſſie d'vn homme , dont la plus groſſe eſtoit d'vne noix. pour retourner à no- de la pre- d ſtre propos,où la pierre ſeroit trouuée trop groſſe,& qu'il y eut danger de rompre & dilacerer le corps de miere-» la veſſie,la voulant tirer, il la faut rompre auec becs de corbin tels que ceux - cy. la figure d'vn bec de corbin dentelé, pourrompre les pierres en la veſſie, lequel ferme à vix vawtrº o le ljix-leptieme liure de plu eurs , c autre bec de corbin. a. : / zzzzzz°/ ' - %v%%%f// mm)t *. comment il faut penſer la playe, la pierre eitant tirée. ch a p. xlv. b f r e s auoir ainſi tiré la pierre & autres choſes eſtranges, ſi onvoid qu'il ſoit neceſſaire fai- m - - #a %\ re vn poinct d'aiguille ou deux à la playe ( laiſſant ſeulement l'eſpace à mettrevne cannulle) d'aiguille il les faut faire, & faut que le fil ſoit de ſoye cramoiſie aſſez groſſe & forte, & vn peu cirée, ſur l'inciſion. de peur que ſi elle eſtoit trop deliée, ne trenchaſt la chair , & auſſi qu'elle ne ſe pourriſt pour - l'humidité de l'vrine,& pour les excremens de la playe. faiſant icelle couſture,ſera pris aſſez . bonne portion de chair, de peur qu'elle ne ſe rompe & dilacere : afin que la douleur faite au patient par ladite couſture, n'ait eſté faite envain, & ſans aucun profit tout cela fait, faut mettre dedans la playe iuſques à la veſſie, vne tente d'argent cannulée, de laquelle tu as icy pluſieurs figures. cannules d'argent pourſeruir en la playe, l'extraction de la pierre faite, dont tu en as icy de pluſieurs ſortes, afin de les accommoder aux playes, & non pas les playes aux cannules. ces trois - # / º par le moyen d'iselles le ſang iſſu de la playe # # eiiré & coagulé à la veſſie , ſe pourra ietter & purger, # 'u• & auſſi tout autre excrement retenu en icelle : & # ne l'y faut tenir longue eſpace de temps, de peur pour les rai- que nature ne s'acheminaſt à ietter perpetuelle- c ſons dictes ment l'vrine par la playe, & qu'il ne ſe fiſt vne cy-deuanr. fiſtule. et aux parties d'autour, faut mettre vn ilfaut tenir repercuſſif tel que celuy qui s'enſuit, pour repri- la cannule mer le ſang & la fiuxion qui pourroit eſtre faite en la playe, en icelle , à cauſe de la douleur. l. alb. ouor. iuſq es à ce - num. iij. pulu. boli armen. ſanguinis draconis, #. an. .ij.olei roſati .j. pil. lepor. quantum ſufficit, # #- fiat medicamentum ad formam mellis. celle- . de la ſituation que l'on doit donner au patient , l' operationfaite ». ch a p. | xlv i. moyen d'a- sè! ſ# e patient ſera posé en ſon lict, mettant deſſous luy vn ſac plein de ſon, ou paille d'auoine, à uiſer au ſang À， < $ fin que l'vrine & autres excremens s'y imbibent : & en faut auoir pluſieurs pour les changer, qui deſeend (j|}#ſ%nz lors qu'il en ſera beſoin. quelquesfois apres l'extraction,il deſcend du ſang en grande quan-. ' dans les tité dedans le ſcrotum, que ſi on n'y donne bon ordre & prompt, auec remedes diſcutiens, bourſes. &é\sn(?\ conſumans & deſſeichans,la partie ſe tourne en gangrene,ce qui ſe cognoiſtra en traittant la playe. et auſſi quelques iours apres faut faire iniection par la playe en la veſſie, faite des liqueurs qui s'en- ſuiuent.prenez eau de plantain,morelle & eau roſe,auec vn peu de ſyroproſat. telle iniection ſeruira pour retentiou modererl'intemperature qui peut eſtre en la veſſie,tant pour la playe que pour la contuſion des inſtrumens. §re, l'iniection s'y doit ietter vn peu tiede, & non actuellementfroide. et d'auantage aduient apres l'inciſion, 'operatiºn quº le ſang coagulé, ou autres excremens,font telle obſtruction au conduit de la verge,que l'vrine ne peut paſſer,ou bien à grande difficulté. parquoy il leur conuient mettre & laiſſer dedans la verge auſſivne ſon- de pour quelque temps, afin que l'vrine & autres excremens puiſſent auoir iſſue par icelle. je»g # fa- comment il faut traicter laplaye faicte par inciſion, c h a p. xlvii. pom t af f - "- - - - que le pa- # a n t à la playe, elle ſe doit traitter comme les autres playes recentes, à ſçauoir en la digerant, tient demeu. # mundifiant & glutinant, & la conduire à cicatrice. auſſi que le patient tiennent les iambes croisées rººhé , l'vne ſur l'autre, afin que l'vnion ſoit pluſtoſt faite. qu'il tienne diette iuſqu'au ſeptieſme ou neufieſme . iour • --* -operations de lnirurgie. | ， b - - iour. surtout qu'il euite le vin,s'il n'eſt fort debile,en lieu d'iceluy vſera d'eau d'orge, ptiſane » hippocras d'eau,bouchet,eauboüillie auec ſyrop de roſes ſeiches, ou de capill. vener, & leurs ſemblables. pour ſon manger vſera de panade , raiſins , pruneaux, poulets cuits auec ſemences froides, laictue,pourpié,ozeille, bourrache,eſpinars,& autres ſemblables. et s'il n'a bon ventre,vſera de caſſe recentement mondée, clyſte- res,& autres choſes quiluy ſeront neceſſaires, touſiours ſelon l'aduis du docte medecin , s'il eſt poſſible le iccolllltci. rrgiue apres l'sx- sračtion. - des moyens deguarir les vlceres,parleſquels long-temps apres l'extra#ion de lapierre, l'vrine paſſe encore . c h a p. xl v i i i. t d'abon lant il te faut icy noter,qu'à d'aucuns hommes,apres leurauoir tiré la pierre,l'vlce- $) re par où la pierre a paſſé,ne ſe peut conſolider, & par icelle continuellement lyrine ſort in- É uoiontairement,dont demeurent tout le reſte de leur vie en grande douleur & faſcherie,ſi ce # n'eſt par l'ayde du chirurgien expert,lequel doit couper la calloſité des lººs de la playe,& - #rs faire comme ſi c'eſtoit vne playe toute nouuelle:puis ioindra les lévres de l'vlcere, leſquelles faſcheux ſeront pincées & ſerrées auec cét inſtrument nommé tenon,auquel ſont trois trous,pº! leſquels on mettra ſymptome. des aiguilles au trauers,en comprenant aſſez bonne portion de chair : puis tu lieras les aiguilles autour du- dit inſtrument,& appliqueras vn medicament glutinatif comme terebenthinº venºgº elemi,ſangui- nis draconis,boli armenici,& au bout de cinq ou ſix iours faut oſter les aiguilles,& ledit inſtrument,& trou- ueras l'vlcere preſque glutiné,puis paracheueras de la cicatriſer. la figure des tenons eſt telle. a. monſtre le grandtenon. b. le petit, leſquels tu choiſiras à ta commodité. cicatriſati de l' vlcere, =s iii，ſ ) et ſi tu n'auois tel inſtrument,tu pourras en leur lieu vſer d'autre maniere,que i'approuue beaucoup, & qui eſt auſſi plus aisée,comme s'enſuit:il faut prendre deux petits tuyaux de plume de la longueur & vn peu plus que ne ſera l'vlcere,&les mettre au coſté d'iceluy,& paſſer les poincts au trauers d'iceux auec la chair, & fairele nœud du fil ſur iceux,faiſant tant de poincts d'aiguille qu'il ſera beſoin. par ces moyens l'vlcere ſe reioindra ſans que la chair ſe rompe, qui ſe feroit à cauſe des poincts d'aiguille. ahtre mºy# la maniere de tirer les pierres aux femmes. c h a r. xlix. / r apres auoir ainſi eſcrit tout par le menu de la curation de la pierre aux hommes par l'opera- les ſigné; a tion man uelle, maintenant ie declareray auſſi la maniere comme il faut ſecourir les femmes. et des pierres premierement les ſignes pour cognoiſtre les pierres és femmes ſont tels qu'aux hommes , mais é femmes $ plus aiſez à eſtre cogneus par la ſonde,à raiſon(comme nous auons dit cy-deuant ) qu'elles ont ſº º#. le col de la veſſie plus court & plus large & plus droit que les hommes. et partant on peut facilement co- qu'aux hom- gnoiſtre s'il y a pierre,mettant la ſonde en leur veſſie,oules doigts dedans le col de lamatrice , les eſleuant " vers l'interieure partie de l'os pubis ou le penil:& ce faiſant on trouuera facilement s'il y a pierre ou non, & doiuent eſtre en meſme ſituation que les hommes.il fauticy noter,que les filles ne peuuent eſtre ſondées par le col de leur matrice,ſi ce n'eſt qu'elles ſoient aagées de fix à ſept ans, ſans grande violence. partant came il fai pour leur tirer la pierre,il y faut proceder comme aux enfans maſles, en mettant les doigts dedans le fiege: # # & ayant trouué la pierre,on la doit amener en preſſant ſur le petit ventre auec les doigts : & l'amener vers #"# le col de la veſſie,puis l'extraire comme nous auons dit aux maſles. et où la fille ſeroit aſſez aagée pour de bas aage! permettre(ſans violence)mettre les doigts dedans le col de ſa matrice,comme on fait aux femmes,l'œuure - ſe feroit plus commodément que de les mettre dedans le ſiege, à raiſon que la veſſie eſt bien plus pres de n 'amarry,que du boyau cullier,comme ainſi ſoit que ledit amarry ſoit ſitué au milieu entre l'vn & l'autre.Ét apres on mettra vne ſonde dedans le col de la veſſie, laquelle doit eſtre ſemblablement caue en ſa partie -exterieure,comme celles qui ont eſté par cy-deuant figurées:mais ne ſeront courbées,ains toutes droictes; comme tu vois par cette figure. sonde pour faire inciſion au col de la veſſie,pour extraire les pierres aux femmes. nefaut tant - e ſur i - - - - " _ - / \ - - - - - . ° - -- -- - dilater la t ſur icelle ſera faite inciſion & procedé à extraire la pierre, comme nous auons dit par cy-deuant playe aux aux maſles. puis faut dilater la playe auec le dilatatoire, plus ou moins, ſelon qu'il en ſera beſoin » avant femmes. m m . efgard - - ja-v- l* x v pu v - m- *-ll w- v-lv- hºº - • -- > eſgard que le col de leur veſſie eſt court:partant ne faut tant dilater,de peur de lacerer le corps de la veſſe, - car apres ne pourroient tenir leur vrine.et ayant dilaté auec dilaceration,le chirurgien mettravn ou deux doigts par dedans le col de la matrice, & preſſera le fond de la veſſie, puis y mettra par la playe des cro- chets ou tenailles,& d'icelles prendra la pierre : & de ſes deux doigts qui ſeront dans le col de la matrice, tiendra fermement la pierre contrainte & arreſtée par derriere,de peur qu'elle ne recule. et ainſi ſera plus facilement tirée & miſe hors. - autre fafon , autres practiciens operent en autre façon à l'extraction des pierres aux femelles, comme i'ay veu plu- d extraire ſieurs fois faire à maiſtre laurent collo, chirurgien ordinaire du roy,& meſmement à ſes deux enfans, les º pºr* plus excellents & parfaits ouuriers en leur vacation, qu'il eſt poſſible de trouuer de noſtre temps, & croy que par cy-deuant y en a eu peu de rels:c'eſt que nullement ne mettent les doigts dedans'e ſiege ny dedans le col de la matrice:mais ſe contentent de mettre les conducteurs deſſus mentionnez dans le conduit de l'v- rine:puis apres font vne petite inciſion tout au deſſus,& en ligne droicte,de l'orifice du col de la veſſie, & non à coſté,comme on fait aux hommes,afin que puis apresl'vn on ſe faſſe mieux. puis font couler les te- nailles caues en leur partie exterieure,figurées au chapitre .entre les deux conducteurs, dilatans & dila- cerans tant qu'il eſt neceſſaire,pour donner paſſage à la pierre , laquelle par meſmes moyens eſt tirée hors la veſſie.le reſte de la cure ſe fera comme nous auons cy-deſſus monſtré a celle des hommes. et s'il ſurue- noit quelque vlcere au col de la matrice,par la dilaceration faite en l'extraction de la pierre,on pourra vſer. du speculum matricis, pour dilater le col d'icelle matrice , afin de mieux appliquer les remedes qui ſont neceſſaires. de la ſuppreſſion ou retention d'vrine par cauſes interieures. ch a p. l. v t r e les cauſes declarées cy-deuant de la difficulté d'vriner, il y en a encores beaucoup ! d'autres qui ſont bien neceſſaires eſtre cogneues au chirurgien : & partant il me ſemble bon en eſcrire de ce que i'en ay veu & cogneu par experience & raiſon. parce que la pluſpart des chirurgiens & autres, lors qu'ils voyent vne difficulté d'vriner, ils penſent promptement la * ºº cauſe venir des pierres,à quoy le plus ſouuent ils ſe trompent:& partant vont incontinent & ſans diſcretion ordonner choſes diuretiques,leſquelles ſont cauſe de grands accidens,& le plus ſouuent de la mort des pauures malades, comme nous monſtrerons preſentement. les cauſes de la retention d'vrine, ſont pluſieurs,à ſçauoir,interieure & exterieure:interieure,comme quelque ſang coagulé, verrues, petites eminences de chair procreées és voyes de l'vrine, ou (comme nous auons dit)pierres & arenes, ou pour quelque ventoſité ou inflammation,& apoſteme faites aux parties dediées à l'vrine, ou aux parties proches l'inflam- & voiſines,comme à l'inteſtin rectum,auquel ſe peut faire vne infiammation, à cauſe de laquelle ledit inte- *natiº" * ſtin tumefié & douloureux fera vne retention d'vrine, au moyen que la veſſie eſt preſſée de l'inflammation #º, º & tumeur,auſſi pour la connexion & voiſinage que la veſſie & l'inteſtin ont enſemble:ſemblablement pour #" le vice du foye, ce qu'on void auxhydropiques qui ne peuuent vriner : ou vice de faculté ſeg egatrice du ſuppreſſion ſerum abolie,par quelque intemperie des reins : auſſi par le vice de faculté animale, com : l'on void aux " maniaques,lethargiques,apoplectiques, paralytiques, & aux ſpaſmes. semblablement la pituite & autres humeurs froids,gros,viſqueux,ſe peuuent purger de tout le corps par la veſſie:& iceluy humeur paſſant par les voyes de l'vrine,fait quelquesfois telle obſtruction,qu'il empeſche que l'vrine ne peut paſſer auſſi pour auoir retenu trop longuement l'vrine,au moyen de quoy la veſſie eſtant extremement pleine,l'vrine ne peut ſortir,à cauſe que le conduit eſt eſtrecy,& rendu plus anguſte : joinct que la vertu expultrice ne peut com- uent expur- primer la veſſie pour jetter ce qui eſt contenu,à raiſon de la grande dilatation d'icelle, & de la douleur qui rer part debilite & abbat incontinent toutes les vertus de la partie aſliegee : & partant il ſe fait entiere ſuppreſſion veſſie . d'vrine. ce qu'on a veu aduenir à pluſieurs : & encores n'agueres à vn ieune ſeruiteur qui reuenoit des hiſtoireme- champs,menant en croupe vne honneſte damoiſelle ſa maiſtreſſe bien accompagnée & eſtant à cheual luy morable-. print vouloir de piſſer:toutesfois n'oſoit deſcendre,& moins encore faire ſon vrine à cheual. eſtant arriué en cette ville,il voulut piſſer, mais il ne peut nullement : & auoit de tres-grandes douleurs & eſpreintes: auec vne ſueur vniuerſelle, & tomba preſque en ſyncope. et alors l'on m'enuoya querir : & diſoit-on que c'eſtoit vne pierre qui l'engardoit de piſſer & eſtant arriué luy mis vne ſonde dedans la veſſie, & preſſay le ventre:& par ce moyen piſſa enuiron vne pinte d'eau:& n'y trouhay aucune pierre,& depuis ne s'en eſt len- ty. dauantage les vieils ont grande difficulté de jetter les vrines, parce que les parties dediées à l'vrine, ſont fieſtries,deſſeichées,& ont la vertu expultrice foible & debile,& quelquesfois auſſi ne la peuuent retc- nir,parce qu'elle eſt acre & mordante. erreur des chirurgiès. ºi / cauſes, )uels hu- meurs ſepeu- diſcours de l'autheur, du ſang& pus qui peuuent eſtre euacue(par les vrines. c h a p t r e l i. e l a eſt accordé entre les medecins & chirurgiens tant anciens que modernesiqu'il peut ſor tir par la verge du ſang & du pus ſeparément,& auſſi meſlez enſemble:lequel viét ou de laver- # % ge,de la veſſie,des vreteres,de reins,du foye,ratelle,mezentere,pancreas,inteſtins,& de la ma- ( # trice:ou des parties plus hautes qui ſont ſur le diaphragme, comme du poulmon & poictrine, % sºsr du cœur,ou des bras,ou de quelque autre partie,voire de toute l'habitude du corps. pour co- #. gnoiſtre de quelle partie il vient,il faut conſiderer le lieu de la douleur, la couleur & odeur de ce qui ſort, lieu d'où ſort & les accidens qui ont precedé,ou ſont encore preſens, comme douleur , fiévre & autres, & du temps que le pus , ºu l, cette deſcharge s'eſt faite:auſſi le fera la quantité & qualité du pus.telles choſes demonſtreront le lieu d'où ( "e signes pour ſang eſtant s'écoule le pus.car s'il vient des poulmons,ou d'vne empyéme, ou du foye, ou de la ratelle, & en grande. purgé par abondance, ſera cogneu ne proceder des reins : parce que telle quantité ne peut eſtre contenue en iceux. vrine-. ioinct que lors qu'il vient du foye , ou d'autres parties ſituées ſur le diaphragme, le pus eſt bien plus exa-º ctentent meſlé auec l'vrine,qu'alors qu'il vient des reins ou de la veſſie s'il vient ſeulement de la verge , le pus ſtra jetté pur ſans l'vrine. or il vient de la verge pour quelque apoſtcme qui y ſera faite, ou de quel- que carnoſité,ou d'vne chaude-piſſe.s'il vient de la veſſie vlcerée,il ſera meſlé & ietté auec l'vrine, mais a la fin apres auoir piſſé,il eſt jetté ſans l'vrine, & ſi ſera fetide : d'autant qu'il ſort d'vne partie membraneuſe & ſi on y trouue de petites eſcailles furfureuſes , la veſſie ſera rongneuſe pareillement quand on void vn ſediment ou lie eſpeſſe & viſqueuſe, comme mucilage & blanc d'œ uf m ſlé auec l'vrine & que prompte- ment il aille au fond , cela monſtre qu'il a ſa generation en la veſſie : & telle choſe ſe fait ordinairement pour - a d . vperations de v ilirurgie. i a pour vne pierre qui ſera en la veſſie. hippocrate dit , que ſi quelqu'vn piſſe pus ou ſang, ou eſcaille auec mauuaiſe odeur,cela monſtre la veſſie eſtre vlcerée. si les vertebes ou reins ſont vlcerez,le pus ou ſang ſort par la verge. galien eſcrit que le pus de l'apoſteme du poulmon receu par l'artere veineuſe au ſeneſtre ven- tricule du cœur,de là en la grande artere,& d'icelle en l'emulgente du rein, peut paſſer par les vrines.mon- ſieur houlier ſur le commentaire de l'aphor. , liure dit qu'vne notable femme par l'eſpace de quatre mois entiers piſſoit de la boue, & quelquesfois du ſang auec,à cauſe de l'acrimonie qui corrodoit quelque veine. les medecins la traicterent comme ſi les reins euſſent eſté vlcerez : parce que par interualle elle y ſentoit grandes douleurs : & mourut le quatrieſme mois. eſtant ouuerte, on trouua les reins & la veſſie en leur entier:mais il fut trouué deux pierres en ſon cœur,& pluſieurs apoſtemes,leſquelles ſe purgeoient par les vrines, & en paſſant par les reins cauſoient douleur. galien dit, que les menſtrues retenués ſont iettées par l'vrine laquelle ſe trouue ſanguinolente & quelquesfois efpeſſe & noire comme encre : ce que i'ay veu. la piture & autres humeurs froids & viſqueux ſe peuuent ſemblablement purger par les vrines, & par les hemorrhoides. - " - - or maintenant il nous faut parler du ſang qui eſt ietté en la veſſie, & de là en la verge. telle choſe ſe fait pource que les hemorrhoides ou menſtrues ſont ſupprimées,ou pour quelque grande plenitude de ſang contenu aux veines, pechant en quantité ou qualité,ou les deux enſemble, leſquelles ſe rcpurgent par les veines emulgentes aux reins, & de là par les pores & vreteres à la veſſie : ou à cauſe d'vne imbecillité du foye, ou des veines mezaraiques,ou d'autres parties : ou pour vne imbecillité des reins,leſquels ne peuuent aſſimiler le ſang enuoyé pour leur nourriture:ou par attrition & fray d'vne pierre contenue auſdits reins. ce que ie ſçay veritablement pour l'auoir veu à pluſieurs.aurelianus docte medecin dit que l'on piſſe le ſang tout pur,pour auoir vſé intempeſtiuement de venus. et tout ainſi que par certaintemps les mois aduiennent promptement aux femmes,& aux hommes les hemorrhoides,ainſi il ſe fait vn amas de ſang au corps,lequel ſe purge quelquesfois par les reins, & d'iceux à la veſſie,ſans qu'il y ait rupture d'aucun vaiſſeau;au moyen de quoy les vrines ſont cruentes & ſanglantes.pour auoir pris auſſi du poiſon,comme cantharides,ou autres choſes ſemblables. il y en a qui pour auoir eſté trop long-temps à cheual, ont piſſé le ſang : ie le ſçay par moy-meſme , allant en poſte au camp de parpignan, eſtant pres de lyon ie piſſois le ſang tout pur , toutes- fois à la verité on ne doit dire piſſer le ſang,quãd il ſort de la verge pur,mais ſe doit dire emiſſion de ſang. le ſang ſort pareillement auec les vrines par diapedeſe ou anaſtomoſe des vaiſſeaux , & alors il ne ſortira pur, mais les vrines ſeront ſeulement teintes. dauantage le ſang ſort par inciſion des veines promptement & en abondance en vrinant : comme i'ay eſcrit cy-deuant de defunct monſieur de martiques, qui fut bleſſé d'vn coup d'harquebuſe à la priſe du chaſteau de hedin , au milieu du thorax,dont tout ſubit jetta le ſang , par la playe , par la bouche , & par ſes vrines & ſelles, & mourut bien-toſt apres. monſieur selecque ale- ' mand , colonel des reiſtres , eut en cette ville vn coup d'eſpée au trauers le ventre,dont incontinent ietta le ſang pur par la verge, le ſiege,& par ſes playes, & non ſeulement le ſang, mais auſſi la matiere fecale.il fut penié par monſieur de la corde medecin celebre, & docteur à paris, & monſieur pigray chirurgien ordinaire du roy,& moy,& diéu le guarit. i'ay veu pluſieurs qui ont eu ſemblables playes qui ont reſchap- pé , & d'auttes de bien petites qui en ſont morts. or quant au pus qui eſt ietté des bras par les vrines,cela ſera demonſtré par ces deux hiſtoires. i'ay veu monſieur sarret secretaire du roy,auoir vn coup de piſtolet au bras dextreà ſa, playe ſuruindrent pluſieurs accidens & apoſtemes, deſquelles ſortoit bien grande quantité de bouë,& par quelques iours n'en ſortit que bien peu & alors la iettoit par le ſiege & par ſes vrines ; & quand ſes vlceresiettoient beaucoup,on ne voyoit ny par les felles, ny par les vrines aucune apparence de bouë, & fut guarygraces à dieu, & eſt en- core à preſent viuant. - monſieur houlier,docteur regent en la faculté de medecine à paris,germain cheual, & maiſtre raſſe, chirurgiens furez,hommes excellens en la medecine, & moy,auons penſé vn gentil-homme nommé mon- ſieur de la croix, qui fut bleſſé d'vn coup d'eſpée au bras ſeneſtre,auquel aduint pareille choſe : toutesfois il mourut. or maiſtre raſſe diſoit, qu'il eſtoit impoſſible que la boue peuſt prendre vn ſi longchemin pour eſtre vacuée:ioint qu'elle ne pouuoit paſſer par les vrines , ſans qu'elle fuſt meſlee auec le ſang, & partant qu'elle pouuoit pluſtoſt venir du mezentere, ou des inteſtins, & non du bras ou de quelque autre part. le diſois au contraire,qu'elle venoit du bras,à raiſon que lors que ſes vlceres iettoient vne grande quantité de ſanie , il n'en ſortoit nullement par en bas. monſieur houlier eſtoit de mon party, diſant que les anciens auoient laiſſé par eſcrit telle choſe ſe pouuoir faire:& ce qui nous mettoit d'accord,ſeroit que lors que le- dit de la croix ſeroit mort,qu'on regardaſt en ſon corps,s'il y auoit quelque apoſteme ou vlcere.il mourut & fis ouuerture de ſon corps en la preſence des ſuſdits,& ayant regardé & examiné toutes les parties inter- athe. r. au . ch. du . liºre de loc. affect. hiſtoire de menſieur h oulier. pierres trou- uées au c e/ /". aurelianus. hiſtoire, premier hi- ſtcire de m. sarret. seconde hi- ſtoire de m. de la croix. nes,ne fut trouué aucun lieu,d'où la boüe peuſt ſortir:dont fut conclu de tous,que ladite boüe procedoit du . bras,eſtant vacuée par les ſelles & vrines : adjeuſtant que telle choſe n'eſtoit pas impoſſible,parce que no- ſtre corps eſt confluxible & tranſpirable.dauantage, nous voyons par experience de deux vaiſſeaux de ver- re appellez monte-vins , que l'vn ſoit remply d'eau,& l'autre de vin clairet,& ſoient poſez l'vn ſur l'autre,à ſçauoir celuy qui ſera remply d'eau ſur l'autre remply de vin,on void à l'œil le vin monter en haut du vaiſ- ſeau au trauers de l'eau,& l'eau deſcendre dedans le vin,ſans meſlange des deux, ce que nous auons dit par cy-deuant. et ſitelle choſe ſe fait ainſi exterieurement & apertement au ſens de noſtre veué par choſes in- animées:il faut croire en noſtre entendement,que nature peut faire paſſer la boüe par les veines,ſans qu'el- le ſoit meſlée auec le ſang. parquoy faut conclure auec galien, que la boue faite aux parties interi ures, & leing des reins & de la veſſie,peut-eſtre vacuée par les vrines:ce qui ſe peut encore prouuer. car aux excre- mens de noſtre corps qui s'expurgent par les reins,inteſtins,ratelle kyſtis fellis,nature par ſa vertu ſcque- =ſtrice y reſerue quelque portion du ſang & ſuc benin,& propre pour leur nourriture, que chacune d'icel- me partie attire & ſepare d'auec les excremens.dauantage le ſang pur & le meilleur qui ſoit au corps enuoyé •de toutes les parties,pour eſtre jetté par la verge,afin de generation,paſſe par dedans les vaiſſeaux perma- mtiques, qui touſiours ſont remplis de ſang : neantmoins la ſemence coule au trauers ſans ſe meſler aucune- ment. d'abondant ne void-on pas que les femmes nouuellement accouchées, jettent le laict pur contenu aux mammelles par leur matrice:lequel auſſi faut qu'il paſſe au trauers des veines & arteres mammillaires? tout le ſemblable ſe fait aux veines mezaraiques , par leſquelles le chyle ſe porte au foye, pour eſtre fait ſang, & fait ſang aux boyaux , pour leur nourriture , ſans meſlange de l'vn auec l'autre. " belle compa- raiſon. gal. au . de loc. aff. le pus peut le pus peut auſſi paſſer au trauers des os,ce qui eſt prouué par galien au commentaire ſur le s .apho"iſ-paſſer au tra- me du . liure, & pareillement par autres parties, par conduits imperſpirables. exemple , comme nous uers des os. voyons ſortir le laictd'vne nourrice par le bout de ſon tetin,& la ſueur par les pcres de noſtre cuir à groſ- ſes gouttes comme perles,neantmoins on ne peut trouuer aucun conduit, pour y mettre aucune choſe tant deliee ſoit-elle.dauantage ne voit-on pas aux pauures verolez,qui ietteront par chacun iour & nuict,cinq & m m , ſix exemple de la ' eſpira- tion. ' m-s- l x- tpuc v l lul v \ lv. p u cu s matieres qui ºm cf e/ f par les par- tier ſupe- rieures. comme le pus ſe peut purger ſans ſe meſler parmy le ſang- prognoſtic. "x grandes baffinées debaue semblablement aux flux de ventre, vn malade iettera par le ſiege des ma- ºieres de diuerſes ſubſtances & couleurs, la quantité qu'on ne peut eſtimer pouuoir eſtre contenue aux #nteſtins. pareillement par le vomiſſement on iette grande quantité d'humeurs qui y abordent de toutes les parties du corps, comme torrens, par conduit imperſpirables & inconnus. il faut auſſi remarquer qu'il apparoiſt aux vrines quatre ſubſtances, à ſçauoir la ſemence, le pus, la pituite & le ſang : la ſemence nage deſſus, parce qu'elle eſt plus legere & ſubtile : le pus & la pituite vont au fond, la pituite eſt vnie, au con- traire le pus ſe diſſoult lors quel'vrine eſt agitée : & quand au ſang, il apparoiſt aucunesfois ſeul, & quel- quesfois meſlé auec l'vrine, comme nous auons dit cy-deſſus. il faut de neceſſité conclure, que toutes ceſ- . dites matieres ne viennent ſeulement des lieux d'où ils ſortent, parce qu'il eſt impoſſible qu'ils puiſſent contenir vne ſi grande abondance de matieres qui en ſortent. - apres auoir diſcouru des matieres qui s'euacuent par les parties inferieures, faut eſcrire de celles qui s'euacuent par les ſuperieures. exemple. les menſtrues ſe peuuent purger par vomiſſemens, par le nez, & par les mammelles, voire en grandé quantité tous les mois (comme i'ay eſcrit cy-deuant ) ou par vne apo- ſteme fait au thorax : comme d'vne pleureſie,le pus ſort partie par la bouche en crachant, ou par vomiſſe- ment, & partie par les vrines, comme i'ay deſ-ja dit. semblablement l'vrine eſt iettée par vomiſſement (ce que i'ay veu pluſieurs fois) quand les poresvreteres ſont bouchez, ou la veſſie & verge gangrenez.verita- blement i'ay veu à vn corps mort vn des pores vreteres de groſſeur d'vn doigt,plein d'vne matiere gypeuſe, & en l'autre y auoir vne pierre qui eſtoit deſcendue dans les reins, en ſorte que l'vrine ne pouuoit couler en la veſſie, & regorgeoit en haut. le patient deux iours deuant que mourir, vomiſſoit & iettoit ſon vrine par la bouche. pareillemeut quand les inteſtins ſont eſtoupez, comme lors que nous les voyons eſtre deſ- cendus aux bourſes, & aux femmes entre les muſcles de l'epigaſtre, ou pour eſtre entortillez par les vers: & qu'ils n'ont peu eſtre reduits, lors la matiere fecale remonte en l'eſtomach, & eſt vomie par la bouche, tel accident eſt appellé miſrere. - il reſte encore vne difficulté à laquelle il faut reſpondre, ſçauoir eſt comme le pus ſe peut purger par la veſſie,ſans ſe meſler parmy le ſang. a cela faut reſpondre que noſtre corps eſt gouuerné de faculté ſecretri- ce, qui peut trier & faire choix des matieres entierement confuſes & meſlées de bon & de mauuais. exem- ple. la veſſie du fiel attire à ſoy la colere d'auec le ſang, & la ratte la melancholie, qui n'aparoiſſoient au ſens de la veue eſtre dedans le ſang. auſſi les rongnons tirent la ſeroſité du ſang,& la mettent a part,laquelle eſt iettée par l'vrine. d'auantage, pluſieurs bien toſt apres auoir pris leur refection , vomiront grande quantité de pituite & colere, ſans ietter vn ſeul morceau de leur viande , ce que ie ſçay pour l'auoir ex- perimenté en moy-meſme. et icy notera le ieune chirurgien, que lors que nous diſons qu'il y a certaines vertus & facultez naturelles : comme, animale. augmentatrices auditiue. memoratrice. vitale. expultrice. odoratiue. concupiſcible. naturelle. senſitiue. guſtatiue. chylifique. attractrice. motiue. tactile. sanguifique. retentrice. generatrice. ratiocinatrice. ? colorofique. concoctrice. regeneratrice. animoſitiue. lactificatrice. aſſimilatrice. agglutinatrice. riſifique. sequeſtrice, & autres. formatrice. viſible. imaginatrice. - il ne faut pourtant imaginer que telles facultez ayent entendement & raiſon pour faire leurs effets : car elles ne ſont qu'inſtrumens de noſtre ame, laquelle a eſté crée par l'eternelle prouidence de dieu épandue en toutes les parties du corps, & entiere en ſoy, qui n'occupe point de lieu par extenſion corporelle, la- quelle eſt incomprehenſible à l'eſprit humain. \ des cauſes exterieures de la retention de l'vrine . ch a p. l ii. e s cauſes exterieures ſont pareillement pluſieurs, comme s'eſtre baigné en eau froide, ou auoir eſté longuement au froid, ou auoir par trop appliqué des choſes narcotiques ſur la re- gion des reins, & vſé de viandes trop froides & autres choſes ſemblables. pareillement pour vne luxation interieure faite aux vertebres, des lumbes, à cauſe de la compreſſion des nerfs, qui ſortent d'entre leſdites vertebres, y eſt faite ſtupeur, dont la faculté expultrice eſt affoi- blie, & partant le muſcle qui tient la veſſie ſerrée , ne permet que l'vrine ſorte. du prognoſtic de la retention de l'vrine. . ch a p. l iii. i l'vrine n'eſt euacuée ſelon que nature le deſire, & qu'on ſoit quelques iours ſans vriner, le )z patient mourra s'il ne luy vient fiévre ou flux de ventre, ou les deux enſemble, par leſquels $ i'vrine puiſſe eftre conſommée & euacuée par autres voyes que par la veſſie. car retenue en º) la veſſie par pluſieurs iours plus qu'elle ne doit, acquiert vne qualité acre & veneneuſe, dont aduient que par la repletion de la veſſie, venant à regorger en haut, ſe meſle parmy toute la maſſe du ſang.meſme ſe tranſporte aiſément au cerueau, à raiſon de la ſympathie qu'ont lesineninges auec la veſſie, par ſimilitude de matiere membraneuſe. or en tel cas nature ſi elle eſt forte, ſouuenr ſe décharge manifeſtement par le ventre, autrefois par le moyen d'vne fiévre : ſenſiblement, ſi à icelle ſuruient vne grande ſueur, ou par vomiſſement, comme ainſi ſoit que la matiere de la ſueur & de l'vrine eſt meſme: inſenſiblement, l'vrine eſtant reſolue en tenuës & ſubtiles exhalation par l'ardeur de la chaleur fiévreuſe. par vne refrigeration du sphincter de la vcſſie, ou d'vn humeur froid qui y ſera decoulé, il ſe fait paralifie, dont l'vrine ne peut eſtre iettée,auſſi par la leſion de l'eſpine comme d'vne playe ou contuſion : par meſme moyen auſſi coule inuolontairement auec les autres excremens pour la leſion de ladite eſpine. zºe vperations de v nirurgie. i a - - - de l'vrine ſanglante & purulente . ch a p. l iv. v c v n s piſſent le ſang tout pur, autresfois meſléauec l'vrine, comme vne eau en laquel- cauſes du le on aura laué quelque piece de chair ſanglante,& quelquesfois auec de la boue meſlée auec flux de ſang $ % l'vrine. les cauſes ſont pluſieurs, comme de trop grande repletion de ſang lequel s'euacuë par la verge % par periode & paroxyſme, ainſi que fait le flux menſtrual ou hemorrhoidal,& s'en trouuent : plufieurs, à qui tels flux ſont ceſſez, s'éuacuant par les reins.auſſi par vne cauſe de maladie faite de : epletion,ou par exefion de veine,ou par quelque humeur acre & mordant:ou pour auoir leué trop peſant fardeau,ou ſauté,ou tombé de haut en bas,ou auoir eſte frappé de quelque coup or- be,ou qu'il fut tombé quelque choſe peſante ſur les reins, ou couru la poſte : & fait autres exercices grands & violents,& ( comme nous auons dit cy-deſſus) pour vne pierre aux reins,aſperitez & pointes ou cornet, ou pour l'imbecillité de la faculté retentrice d'iceux,ou pour auoir vſé immoderémentde l'acte venerique, & autres ſemblables, ou pour auoir receu quelque playe aux parties ſeruantes à l'vrine. pareillement pour auoir vſé de quelques potions,alimens & medicamés trop chauds,acres & diuretiques,& contraires detou- te lçur ſubſtance aux † dediées à l'vrine,comme cantharides, & autres que ie ne veux icy nommer.et pour ces cauſes,il ſe fait aux reins & à la veſſie vne ſi gtande inflammation,qu'elle ſe termine le plus ſouuent en apoſteme & ſuppuration,& par conſequent en vlcere:duquel la ſanie eſt iettée par voyes des vrines. en telle & ſi grande varieté des cauſes d'vrine ſanglante,nous diſcernerons d'où procede tel ſymptome par l'a- b ction de telle ou telle partie offenſée, par la qualité du ſang qui ſort,ou pur oumeſlé : aaec l'vrine ſeule, ou auec du pus. exemple : si la ſanie vient des poulmons,du foye,des reins,ou des vertebres luxez,ou du vice ºº de l'inteſtin droit , ou d'autre partie, ſera cogneu par la ſituation des parties affectées, & par les accidens, qui ſont,fiévre,douleur,& autres qui ont precedé,ou ſont encore preſens,& demonſtreront infailliblement le lieu d'où procede & coule la ſanie, auſſi fera la quantité & qualité du pus. car ſi c'eſt vn vlcere ſitué au bras,comme nous auons dit,lors que de l'vlcere ſortira quantité de ſanie,ne s'en fera emiſſion par les vrines. au contraire,lors que l'vlcere demeure ſec,on la void ſortir par lesvrines ou ſelles,voire en grande quanti- té.semblablement ſi elle vient des poulmons,comme d'vn empyeme,ou du foye,& en abondance, ſera co- gneu , pource que telle quantité de ſanie ne peut eſtre contenuë au reins : ioint que comme ſortant du con- duit de l'vrine,tel ſang eſt pur:auſſi venant du foye ou autre partie de deſſus le diaphragme,eſt bië plus exa- · ctement meſlé auec l'vrine que lors qu'il vient des reins, ou de la veſſie. quant à la curation,nous ſortirons des bornes de noſtre profeſſion, ſi † voulons pourſuiure ſpecialement : il ſuffira de dire en vn mot, qu'il ne faut eſperer guarir vn tel ſymptome, que la cauſe, c'eſt à dire le vice de telle ou telle partie, ne ſoit guary premierement. au reſte, ſi tel flux d'vrine ſanglante vient par ſimple ouuerture de vaiſſeaux, il ſera guary par choſes aſtringentes : ſi de rupture, par agglutinantes : ſi d'eroſion, par ſarcotiques. des ſignes des vlceres aux reins. c h a p. l v. $o mb e n que ie n'euſſe deliberé de pourſuiure ſpecialement les cauſes d'vrine ſanglante ,º,ſsº toutesfois parce que ce qui depend des vlceres des reins & de la veſſie, tombe fort ſouuent en # vlceres #y pratique, il m'a ſemblé bon d'en dire vn mot en paſſant les ſignes des vlceres des reins, ſont ** veſſie. douleur aux jambes. d'auantage , la ſanie qui ſort de leur ſubſtance eſt meſlée auec l'vrine, & - - " trouue on les ſedimens ſanieux & rouges, & iamais ne ſort qu'auec ladite vrine , & touſiours c reſide au fond d'icelle. dauantage, les vlceres des reins ſortent quelques fois de petites pelliculles, & portions de chair , & filamens rougeaſtres. outre-plus n'eſt de ſi mauuaiſe odeur, comme celle qui vient de l'vlcere de la veſſie, d'autant qu'elle eſt de ſubſtance nerueuſe, à cauſe de quoy la matiere ne peut eſtre bien ſuppurée , comme és reins qui ſont charneux. des vlceres en veſſie, & des ſignes d'iceux. c h a p. lv i. $y# v l c e r e de la veſſie peut eſtre fait au profond & capacité d'icelle, pareillement en ſon l'vlcere des $ col. les ſignes que l'vlcere eſt en la veſſie, c'eſt que le patient ſent perpetuelle douleur au rºººſ*p!- s# profond du penil et ſi l'vlcere eſt au col, le patient ne ſent que peu de douleur, ſi ce n'eſt toſt # # alors qu'il piſſe, & vn peu apres auoir piſſé, comme nous dirons és chaudes-piſſes. la ſanie # ſ'é'il ſſéº qui ſort de l'vlcere de la veſſie eſt fort fetide, & auſſi qu'en la iettant, la verge le plus ſouuent " veſſie. e roidit, à cauſe de la douleur qu'elle fait paſſant par la voye de l'vrine.outre plus on void dedans l'vrine de petites peaux blanches & deliées, & non rouges ou peu ſouuent. et void-on icelle ſanie eſtre à la fin jettée apres l'vrine, & non tant meſlée auec l'vrine, comme lors qu'elle vient des parties ſuperieures. d du prognoſtic des vlceres des reins , & de la veſſie . c h a p. lv ii. e s vlceres des reins ſont plutoſt guaries que celles de la veſſie, d'autant qu'ils ſont charnus, & la veſſie exanguë, membraneuſe, nerueuſe & plus ſenſible. l'vlcere qui eſt au fond de la veſſie eſt incurable où fort difficile à curer, à cauſe qu'elle eſt nerueuſe, & que l'vrine qui deſcend & y demeure, poingt & mordique,dont augmente toûjours l'vlcere, tellement qu'elle ne peut eſtre glutinée qu'à grande peine : car iamais l'vrine ne peut eſtre du tout euacuée : & le reſte qui eſt laiſſé, eſt eſchauffé par l'intemperature de la veſſie,& parce auſſi qu'elle ſe dilate & ſe reſſer- re ſelon l'vrine qu'elle contient. qu'il ſoit vray,nous voyons aux ſuppreſſions qu'icelle jette vne pinte d'v- rine à vn coup. quand les vlceres ſont en la veſſie & que les cuiſſes du malade maigriſſent & tombent en nºtez- atrophie, c'eſt ſigne de mort prochaine. si les vlceres ne ſont toſt guaries tant d'vne partie que d'autre, ºsº de demeurent incurrables. si la ſanie vient des parties ſuperieures, comme des bras ainſi qu'auons dit, ou des "º poulmons, du foye ou ratelle, ſera connu à cauſe que telles parties ont eſté premierement bleſſées. $ m m d : indication. aduertiſſe- mêt notable. )uand il faut vſer des diureti- ques. eau diſtillée propre pour prouoquer l'vrine, vtilité des bains. vtilité du laiét d'aſ r. w. f -- j v-* ----" •--•- t - - • •- m.-, a. w.- m. v ^- v• h - • • -- • • de la curation de la retention d'vrine . c h a p. lv i i i. :- $ #) o v r la curation des choſes qui prohibent vriner , il faut prendre indication de la maladie $ |?) $ % & de ſa cauſe, ſi elle eſt encore preſente. pareillement ſelon les parties bleſſées faut diuerſi- - fier les remedes, appcllant le medecin s'il t'eſt poſſible : lequel ordonnera les choſes vniuer- ſelles au malade, & ce qu'il appartiendra à la chirurgie, auec ſon conſeil, les mettras en exe- cution.et ſubit voyant vne difficulté d'vriner , ne courras au remede des pierres ou ſables, comme ſouuent font ceux qui ne ſont conduits par methode, qui ordonnent choſes diuretiques, leſquel- les ſont cauſes de pernicieux accidents. si c'eſtoit humeur acre, ou quelque ſang cauſé d'vne contuſion, ou par trop auoir exercé l'acte venerique , ou autre grand & violent exercice, ou auoir vsé de quelques potions chaudes , auſquelles y euſt cantharides, ou apoſtemes & vlceres qui fuſſent és parties dediées à l'vrine , ou pour auoir tenu trop longuement ſon vrine, & autres ſemblables. car ſi en telles choſes on donnoit les diuretiques , on accroiſtroit la douleur & inflammation, gangrene, & par conſequent on ſe- roit cauſe de la mort du patient. mais telles choſes diurctiques pourroient auoir lieu , lors qu'il y auroit quelque petite pierre ou ſable, ou vn humeur gros & viſqueux, demeuré aux voyes de l'vrine.et ſembla- blement pour s'eſtre baigné en eau froide, ou par le froid interieur, ou indue application des choſes nar- cotiques ſur les reins ou à la veſſie, ou d'vn empyeme, ou de pituite,& humeurs froids,eſpés & viſqueux, qui fuſſent cauſe de faire obſtruction aux voyes de l'vrine, & autres ſemblables,les diuretiques pourroient alors auoir lieu , pourueu encor que les choſes vniuerſelles fuſlent faites, & non autrement. or les diu- retiques peuuent eſtre adminiſtrez en diuerſes façons comme s'enſuit. pour prouoquer l'vrine. z. agrim. vrticæ,& parietarix, ſurcul. rubros habentis an. m.). radicum aſparagi mundatar. . iiij. g.alxenxengi nu. xx. ſem. malua . ſº.radicacori .j. bulliant omnia ſimul in ſex. libris aqua dulcis ad tertias, deinde cole- tur , de qua capiat aeger. . iiij. cum. . j.ſacchari.cand. & calidum bibat ieiunio ſtomacho tribus horis an- te cibum. pour mefme effect. prenez trente ou quarante, voire plus, bayes de lierre, & les broyez en vin blanc , & en baillez à boire au patient deux heures deuant manger. autre pour meſme cauſe. l. ſem. vrt pulueriſata .j. diſſoluatur cum decoctione pulli. et faut que le patient l'aualle le plus ſubit qu'il pourra, de peur qu'il n'adhere contre la gorge : pource qu'il y cauſeroit ardeur.autre. z. decoctionis milij ſolis, pimpinella , parietaria : ſaxifrag rad. petroſelini, aſparagi, acori, bruſci,& ireos , & en ſoit donné à boire au patient la quantité de trois ou quatre onces tiedes.et entre tous cette eau eſt excellente pour prouoquer l'vrine, & deſtouper les voyes d'icelle, de quelque cauſe que ce ſoit. z. rad. oſmondæ regalis, cyperi, biſmal.graminis petroſelini, fœniculi an. . ij.raphani craſſioris in taleolas ſecti iiij.ma- cerentur per noctem in aceto albo acerrimo, bulliant poſteà in aqux fluuialis fb. x. ſaxifra. criſta marinx, rubix tinctorum, milij ſolis , ſummitatum malux, biſmal. an.p. ij folio. viol.p. iij. berula , cicerum rub. an p. j. ſeminis melonum , cituli,an. .ij. .alxexengi granaxx. glicyrrhiza .j. bulliant omnia ſimulad tertias : in colatura infunde per noctem foliculorum ſena oriental. fb.f. fiat iterum parua ebullitio, in ex- preſſ. colata infunde cinamomi electi . vj. colentur, iterum colatura iniiciatur inalembicum vitreum, po° ſtea adde terebenthina venetæ lucida fb.ij. aqua vita . vj. agitentur omnia ſimul digentiſſimè, lutetur alembicum luto ſapientia , fiat diſtillatio lento igne in baleno marix,deſquels tu as les figures cy-apres.#. aquæ diſtillatitiæ præſcriptœ .ij.aut iij. ſecundum operationem quam præſtabit, quatuor horis ante pa- ſtuni.auſſi au lieu d'icelle, on peut donner eau de raues, diſtillée pareillement in balneo marix : & donnée à boire la quantité de trois ou quatre onces auec ſuccre, deux heures deuant manger , tres-propre pour deſtouper les voyes de l'vrine , ſoit de cauſe pituiteuſe,ſable ou autre obſtruction. les bains & demy-bains faits commodément relaxent, dilatent, ouurent & amoliſſent tout le corps : & à la ſortie d'iceux , lors qu'on veur fort deſtouper, on donnera les choſes diuretiques , comme encore pour exemple, demie drag- me de theriaque diſſout en eau de raues,ou autres choſes ſemblables. maintenant nous de ſcrirons quelques rcmedes pour la mundification des vlceres de reins, & de la veſſie et premierement les ſyrops de capil. veneris , de roſes,beuz auec hydromel,ou eau d'orge,la quantité pour chacune fois d'vne once, ſont bons pour leſdits vlceres : auſſi le laict d'aſneſſe ou de chevre y eſt propre , à cauſe que de la ſubſtance ſereu- ſe les deterge, & les glutine pour ſa ſubſtance formageuſe, il nourrit pour ſa ſubſtance butireuſe : & doit eſtre pris, s'il eſt poſſible , tout recentement tiré de la beſte. le malade en prendra pour chacune fois vn meſſe , é le poſſon , auec vn peu de miel roſat, & vn peu de ſel, de peur qu'il ne ſe corrompe & tourne en l'eſtomach. moyen d'en vſer. trochiſques. iniečtion- ptiſanne ar- tificielle. hiſtoire. dauantage , apres l'auoir pris, on ne doit boire ne manger que iuſques à ce qu'il ſoit digeré, & paſſé hors l'eſtomach. les trochiſques qui s'enſuiuent,ſont pareillement propres pour mondifier les vlceres des reins & de la veſſie. /.. quatuor ſeminum frigidiorum maiorum ſemin. papaueris albi , portulacæ , plantaginis cydoniorum , mittillorum , gummi tragacanthi & arabici, pinearum,glycyrrhizx mundatae,& hordeimun- dati, mucilag pſilij,amygdal. dulcium,ana .j.boli armen.ſang. draco ſpodij, roſ maſtich. terræ ſigillatæ, myrthae an. .ij.ſecundum artem conficiantur cum oxymel.ſimpli.& fiant trochiſci et le patient en doit pren- dre demie dragme,diſſoute en laict clair, ou ptiſane, ou eau d'orge, & autres ſemblables. pareillement tu en peux diſſoudre en eau de plantain , & ietter auſſi auec la ſyringue dedans la vedie. le malade en lieu de vin , boira eau d'orge , ou hydromel, ou ptiſane faite auec vne once de raiſins de damas , auſquels on aura oſté les pepins du dedans, & ſeront faits boüillir en cinq chopines d'eau de riuiere , en vn pot verniſſé,ou en vne fiolle de verre,iuſqu'à la conſomption d'vne quarte;puis y ſoit adiouſté ſur la fin vne once de regliſ- ſe mondée, & deux dragmes de ſemences froides concaſſées, & les faire derechef vn peu boüillir,puis les paſſer par la chauſſe d'hippocrats , auec vn quarteron de ſuccre fin, & deux treſeaux de canelle tirée, & d'icelle en ſera vſé en lieu de vin. le reſte de la cure s'accomplira ſelon l'art. de diabetes & strangurie_>. c h a p. l ix. pr e s auoir deſcrit les cauſes de la retention d'vrine,& des vlceres des reins,& de la veſſie # id ne puis encores paſſer, que ie ne declare aucunement les cauſes de ietter l'vrine inuolon- la tairement goutte à goutte, on tout à l'inſtant que le malade aura beu : qui vient par le de- faut de la vertu retentrice, & d'vne deprauation de la vertu expultrice.si l'vrine eſt jettée en grande quantité,les anciens l'appellent diabete :& ſi elle eſt jettée ſeulement goutte a goutte, telle diſpoſition eſt nommée ſtrangurie : quieft vne inuolontaire emiſſion d'vrine frequente en petite quan- tité : aucunesfois auec douleur, & autresfois ſans douleur. i'ay ſouuenance auoir traicté auec † houlicr a a n.-a h - $-à u. m.v_a'j a> \- lv - n-a.m. .. a. . -** -- •r • r houlier,medecin tres-docte,defunct monſieur goyer,aduocat du roy au chaſtelet de paris , lequel auoit vne difficulté de retenir ſon vrine,dicte ſtrangurie,& piſſotoit ordinairement tant le iour que la nuict,auec tres-grandes douleurs,ſe plaignant ſentir grande chaleur & cuiſon à la veſſie, & à l'extremité de la verge, & jettant ſes vrines laicteuſes,& à la fin de l'vrine,du pus. on luy fit beaucoup de remedes:& pour luy appaiſer la douleur,ie luy faiſois par l'aduis dudit houlier , des iniections auec eau de plantain, centino- dium,auſquelles eſtoit diſſoult de la craye & terre ſigillée. autresfois ie luy faiſois des iniections faites de mucilages de coins,& de pſyllium auec eau de plantain , & de roſe, leſquels remedes tendoient à fin de ra- fraiſchir l'intemperie de la veſſie,& deſſeicher les vlceres. deuiſant auec ledit houlier, pour ſçauoir la cauſe des ſuſdits accidens.il me dit que goyer auoit la veſſie rongneuſe & teigneuſe, auec petits vlceres & lors que l'vrine tomboit à la veſſie,elle mordiquoit les vlceres : qui faiſoit que la faculté expultrice la vou- loit promptement jetter,& que le pus qu'il jettoit apres l'vrine, venoit de la rongne qui eſtoit à la veſſie, pour la compreſſion qu'elle faiſoit à ietter icelle vrine. ledit goyer eſtant decedé,ie fis ouuerture de ſon corps à la preſence dudit houlier : & trouuaſmes laveſſie toute calleuſe & pleine de puſtules, de groſſeur d'vn petit pois, & lors que ie les comprimois, en ſortoit du pus tout blanc, tel que celuy qui eſtoit jetté auec les vrines pendant ſa vie. - - des cauſes de diabetes. ch a p. l x. e s cauſes de diabetes ſont doubles, à ſçauoir internes & externes. les externes c'eſt d'âuoir vsé in- tempeſtiuement de choſes trop chaudes & diuretiques , ou trop grand trauail immoderé, & autres ſemblables. les cauſes internes ſont pluſieurs, comme inflammation de foye, poulmons, ratelle, reins, veſſie, ou du vice de tout le corps, comme par vne criſe de quelque maladie, laquelle ſe termine par flux d'vrines. les cauſes de strangurie . c h a b. lxi. e s cauſes de strangurie ſont auſſi primitiues, & antecedentes. les primitiues d'auoir beu trop gran- de quantité d'eau § auoir enduré trop grand froid.les antecedentes,ſont humeurs froids de- fluez ſur les parties dediés à l'vrine,qui les rend paralytiques au moyen dequoy le muſcle qui ſerre la veſ- fie,eſt aucunement relaxé & amolly : parquoy ne peut tenir la veſſie ſerrée, ou bien bouſehent en partie le conduit de l'vrine : dont s'enſuit cours d'vrine goutte-à goutte,contre noſtre volonté. des ſignes & prognoſtic de diabete . c h a p. l xi i. # n pourra cognoiſtre la cauſe d'intemperature chaude par ces ſignes : à ſçauoir que le patient #ºurquºy, § ſent vne douleur poignante & mordante, auec vne grande alteration & ſoif extreme, joinct l'vrine n'eſt a n È) auſſi qu'il ſe trouue bien d'vſer des choſes refrigerantes, & non diuretiques : au contraire il ſe *** # trouue mal de choſes chaudes.et ſi la cauſe prouient d'intemperature froide, au contraire la douleur ſera petite & quaſi inſenſible : & ſe trouuera le malade mal,à l'vſage des choſes froi- c des or neantmoins que la cauſe de diabetes ſoit chaude,ſi eſt-ce que l'vrine n'eſt trouuée teinte ou rouge, ny trouble ny eſpeſſe:mais crue & blanche:claire & ſubtile,à raiſon qu'elle demeure peu au foye , & en la grande veine caue:mais eſt attirée par la chaleur intemperée des reins & de la veſſie, ſans aucune ou peu de concoction. et quant au prognoſtic,ſitels flux d'vrines durent longuement, donneront grande faſcherie au malade , & tombera en atrophie & emaciation , ou amaigriſſement de tout le gorps , & par conſequent iilollii' • d de la cure de diabetes. ch a p. lxiii. a cure ſe fera ſelon la diuerſité de la cauſe. exemplc. si c'eſt par vne intemperature chaude, z., tt tre le patient ſera purgé & ſaigné. et fauticy noter,que les quatre ſemences froides,neantmoins # #. qu'elles ſoient froides,ſont diuretiques,prouoquans l'vrine : partant en telle indiſpoſitionne d § conuient en donner au patient. et vſera d'alimens froids & aſtringens, qui engendrent retiques. . ! gros ſuc, comme riz, orge-mondé, & leurs ſemblables : boira eau froide, ou gros vin aſtringent, auec bonne quantité d'eau. et ſur les reins & parties dediées à l'vrine , ſeront appliquée cho- il faut vſer ſes fort froides & narcotiques, prenant indication de la ſituation des reins, qui ſont ſous les muſcles lum- d, choſes ex- baires. parquoy tu dois appliquer les remedes plus froids, que s'ils eſtoient ſuperficiels. donc tu vſe- trememene ras d'huyle papaueris albi,iuſquiami,opij,ſeminis portulacae, lactucœ,aceti, corticis mandragoræ, & leurs froides par ſemblables, ſoit en linimens, cataplaſmes, & onguents, pour eſteindre la chaleur eſtrange,& roborer les dehors pour parties affectées. au contraire, ſi la cauſe vient du froid , faut changer du tout les remedes froids, tant les reins. par dedans que par dehors : & vſera de viandes pluſtoſt roſties que boüillies. ce remcde eſt ſingulier: faut faire boire de la ceruelle de lievre,cuite & deſlayée en vin clairet,& en donner à boire, quand le ma- lade s'ira coucher. ce remede a ſouuent eſté approuué eſtre excellent pour ceux qui jettent l'vrine inuo- lontairement. « - de la cure de strangurie_ . c h a p. lxi v. & are ille indication doit eſtre ſuiuie pour les remedes de la strangurie:à ſçauoir tirant iceux de la varieté des cauſes dont elle eſt faite. car comme ainfi ſoit que toute intemperie peut cauſer ſtrangurie,comme eſcrit galien ſur l'aphor. .de la ſect. . certes ſelon que ſera le vice d'intépe- - rature,ſelon cela nous vſerons de fomentations contraires:côme ſi elle eſt froide,nous eſtuuerós les parties honteuſes de decoction de mauues,roſes,origan,calament,& ſemblables puis les oindrös d'huile laurin,de caſtoreum,& d'autres de pareil effect. commanderons au malade de boire de bon vin, & iceluy pur : comme auſſi quand la ſtrangurie ſera excitée par obſtruction de quelque humeur, & ſans froid, ſans plethore: - - - auiceñ: li, " paul. aegin. liu. .ch. . cauſe de la colique ven- teuſe. . colique ne- phritique par v%mpathie. pourquoy vient le vo- miſſement. colique de cauſe chau. de . colique par replieure ér entorſeure. cºlique par les vers. par troplan- gue demeure des matieres fe, ales. hiſtoire . signes de la coli que ne- phritique. signe de la venteuſe. pourquoy le vomiſſement vient à la colique ven- teuſe signes des extre/ / retenf . signes qu'el le eſt faicte par inflam- mation. plethore:mais ſi elle vient de quelque inflammation auec plethore,nous la guarirons par la ſaignée,comme note galien ſur l'aphoriſme .de la ſect. .au reſte,ſi tel mal vient d'obſtruction de quelque choſe, nous y}remedierons par diuretiques chauds,ou froids,ſelon la qualité du corps,qui fera telle obſtruction.quand à la dyſurie,c'eſt à dire,difficulté d'vrine,nous n'en parlerons point dauantage,pourautant que les cauſes & remedes d'icelle ſont meſmes auec l'iſcurie,c'eſt à dire , ſuppreſſion d'vrine, dont nous auons parlé cy-de- uant,differant ſeulement ſelon le plus ou moins. l xi. , i l aduient quelque obſtruction ou autre accident, que les matieres contenuës aux boyaux ne puiſſent eſtre vacuées par la décharge ordinaire, qui ſe fait par le ſiege : ſi le vice eſt aux $ greſles,il s'appelle voluulus, ou ileos(vulgairement miſerere mei ) mais s'il eſt aux gros, c'eſt ($ * ce que nous nommons proprement colique, qui a pris ſon nom de la partie malade, qui eſt > <* colon,c'eſt à dire,la continuité des gros boyaux:mais principalement en celuy que nous nom- mons colon. pour cette cauſe la colique eſt diffinie par auicenne , douleur inteſtinale, en laquelle mal-ai- sément on rend ſes excremens par le ſiege. paulus aegineta reduit la cauſe en quatre eſpeces : à ſçauoir craſſitude d'humeurs,contenu entre les tuniques des boyaux,& eſprits flatueux,qui ne peuuent ſortir, in- flammations des inteſtins , & humeurs acres & mordans. mais pour miéux inſtruire le ieune chirurgien, nous en parlerons plus particulierement, & dirons les cauſes & differences eſtre pluſieurs. et premiere- ment pour auoir trop vsé de viandes pituiteuſes,venteuſes,& gluantes. la colique venteuſe eſt procurée, ou pour auoir mangé de pluſieurs & diuerſes ſortes de viandes, ou en trop grande quantité ( neantmoins qu'elles fuſſent de bon ſuc ) dont ſe ſeroient engendrées cruditez & obſtruction, puis ventofitez, cauſant vne douleur tenſiue : ou pour auoir beaucoup mangé de fruicts cruds , & beu par trop froid apres s'eſtre trop eſchauffe : car par cette froideur l'eſtomach & les boyaux ſont refroidis, & les humeurs aucunement congelez. il y a vne colique appellée nephritique qui eſt aux reins, ainſi appellée , parce qu'en grec ſe rognon eſt dit nephros. cette colique procede communément de quelque pierre ou grauier engendrée aux reins, ou eſtant deſcendue aux pores vrinaires:alors le malade ſent douleur à la hanche & aux lumbes, à cauſe qu'el- les preſſent les nerfs qui naiſſent des vertebres des lumbes , leſquelles ſe ramifient autour de la jointure de la hanche,& aux muſcles des lumbes & de la cuiſſe. semblablement , les pores vreteres(qui ſont nerfs ca- ues)& les muſcles ſuſpenſoires patiſſent:& eſt aduis aux malades qu'on leur tire en haut les teſticules d'v- ne grande violence,auec douleurs extremes accompagnées de grands vomiſſemens pituiteux & bilieux', & ſueurs vniuerſelles qui durent iuſques à ce que la pierre ou ſable ſoient deſcendus en la veſſie.or le vomiſ- ſement vient à cauſe que l'eſtomach,pour la continuité & voiſinage qu'il a auec les inteſtins,ſouffre pareil- le peine & douleur, que font les boyaux : meſmes que l'eſtomach eſt de ſemblable ſubſtance que les bo- yaux, n'eſtans leſdicts boyaux qu'vne production de l'eſtomach : parquoy quand nature veut jetter ce qui eſt contenu contre nature aux reins,ou aux pores vrinaires, ou entre les tuniques des inteſtins , où au me- zentere,ou au pancreas & † la douleur coliqueuſe , auec grandes douleurs & vomiſſc- mens.dauantage,la colique ſe fait par intemperature chaude & ſeiche,;qui fait douleur poignante & mor- dante,deſſeichants les excremens contenus aux boyaux,enſemble les humiditez qui doiuent rendre les bo- yaux gliſſans & coulans:auſſi ſe fait par vne pituite groſſe & viſqueuſe,acre, & glutineuſe. pareillement la côlique ſe fait par vne contorſion,c'eſt à dire que les boyaux s'entortillent, & tournoyent, de ſorte que la matiere fecale ne peut paſſer pour eſtre iettée hors, comme nous voyons euidemment en la deſcente des boyaux en la bourſe des teſticules,qu'on appelle hargne inteſtinale. semblablement par les vers qui s'en- tortillent dedans le boyau colon,qu'ils occupent enſemble,retortillent & replient le boyau. hippocrate li- ure .des maladies, traictant du voluulus, dit vulgairement miſerere mei,conſeille(apres auoir vsé de plu° ſieurs remedes ) d'introduire duvent dedans le ventre auec vn ſoufflet qui ſera mis au ſiege , afin de faire diſtendre ledict ventre,& deſtourner le boyau entortillé.auſſi par trop longue demeure des matieres feca- les contenues aux inteſtins,qui ſe fait par l'intemperature du malade,chaude & ſeiehe,ou pour auoir voya- gé en temps de grandes chaleurs, ou pour auoir long-temps vsé de viandes trop ſeiches. veritablement, ie cognois des perſonnes qui ſeront huict ou dix iours ſans pouuoir aller à leurs affaires, & quand ils y vont,leurs excremens ſont ſecs & durs,comme crottes de chévre:& tels ſont fort ſujets à la colique,& mal de teſte,pour les vapeurs qui s'eſleuent au cerueau,voire que telle choſe eſt cauſe de la mort des malades. i'ay ſouuenance auoir ouuert le corps mort d'vn ieune garçon aage de douze ans, qui auoit entierement tous les inteſtins remplis de matiere fecale,fort dure & ſeiche,& auparauant ſa mort la jettoit par la bou- che,qui fut cauſe le faire mourir faute de l'auoir ſecouru en temps conuenable.or voila les cauſes & diffe- rences de la colique,ce que i'ay peu apprendre des anciens & modernes medecins. a preſent il nous faut parler des ſignes de chacune eſpece en particulier.les ſignes de la colique nephriitique, ou pierreuſe : c'eſt que la douleur eſt fixe, c'eſt à dire,arreſtée en vn lieu,à l'endroit des reins, joint que ſouuent auparauant, le malade aura ietté quelque petite pierre ou ſable par ſes vrines, & ſent vne douleur à la hanche & aux teſticules, pour les raiſons cy-deſſus alleguées : joint auſſi que le malade a vne extreme enuie d'aſſeller & vriner, à cauſe que nature s'efforce mettre & ietter hors ce qui luy nuit. les ſignes de la venteuſe, c'eſt que le malade ſent vne grande douleur tenſiue,côme qui luy tireroit & deſchireroit les boyaux,auec bruit dedans le ventre,qu'hippocrate a couſtume de nommer borborygmes. par telle ventofité quelquesfois les boyaux ſe rompent, ainſi qu'on void à vne veſſie de porc, lors qu'on la rempliſt trop de vent, on voit les fibres de ſes tuniques ſe rompre:& quand cela aduient,le malade meurt,auec grands vomiſſemens, ne pou- uant tenir aucune choſe du boire ou manger : qui ſe fait à cauſe que les boyaux eſtans remplis de vents, preſſent l'eſtomach,de façon que les alimens n'y peuuent demeurer pour eſtre cuits & digerez. la colique qui ſe fait par les excremens retenus,le patient ſent vne extreme douleur & peſanteur au ventre, & tenſion aux boyaux, & lors qu'on preſſe ſur le ventre , on ſent vne grande dureté , & auſſi que le malade n'a de de long-temps eſté à ſes affaires. la colique qui eſt faicte par inflammation bilieuſe , le malade ſent vne grande chaleur & pulſation au milieu du ventre, à cauſe des veines & arteres qui ſont au pancreas & me- zentere, & de celles qui ſont diſſeminées entre les tuniques des inteſtins, & autres ſignes des inflamma- tions qu'on trouue aux apoſtemes causées par inflammation.auſſi l'inflammation ſe fait à cauſe d'vne pitui- te ſalée,acre,groſſe,& glutineuſe, qui ne peut eſtre iettée hors, combien que nature s'efforce de ce faire, tant par les vomiſſemens,que par grandes eſpreintes,auec difficulté d'vriner, parce que la veſſie eſt preſſée par l'inflammation de l'inteſtin droit pour l'affinité & conionction qu'ils ont enſemble. la colique ſe fait, parce de la colique . c h a p. operations de chirurgie. a parce que les boyaux ſont entors & repliez,que le malade ſent vne extreme douleur,à cauſe que l'inteſtin n'eſt en ſon lieu,& ſituation naturelle, & auſſi que la matiere pour ſa trop longue demeure, acquiert vne chaleur eſtrange.et faut icy noter en paſſant, que toutes les fois qu'vne partie n'eſt en ſon lieu naturel » oil ſentira touſiours douleur iuſques à ce qu'elle y ſoit reduite. et voilà que pluſieurs meurent les inteſtins eſtans tombez ployez au ſcrotum par vne hargne,la matiere fecale y eſtant endurcie, accompagnée deven- tofitez & inflammation,ne pouuant eſtre remis dedans le ventre,la matiere regorge par la bouche,& fait la maladie nommée miſerere mei. et quant aux ſignes des hargnes, il n'eſt point icy beſoin les eſcrire, parce qu'il en a eſté ſuffiſamment parlé cy deuant,eſcriuant des hargnes. les prognoſtics de la colique. les prognoſtics de la colique ſont de deux ſortes,les vns bons,& les autres mauuais. les mauuais ſe di- uiſent en deux,à ſçauoir,en ceux qui ſont dangereux,& en ceux qui ſont mortels : les bons ſont, ſelon aui- cenne,quand la douleur n'eſt pas fixe,c'eſt à dire , arreſtée en vn lieu, & auſſi que les matieres ne ſont du tout retenuës. les ſignes mauuais auec danger de mort ſont extremes douleurs, vomiſſemens continuels, ſueur froide, & les extremitez, qui ſe font,parce que le ſang & les eſprits ſe retirent au dedans du corps: hocquet continuel,qui ſe fait par la ſympathie,& continuité des inteſtins à l'eſtomach : alienation d'eſprit par communication de l'eſtomach au cerueau, & par conſequent conuulſion par tranſport aux nerfs. hip- pocrate dit que les trenchées & douleur du nombril,qui ne s'appaiſent ny par ſaignée, ny par purgation, ſe terminent en hydropiſie ſeiche , c'eſt à dire en tympanite. cure. la cure ſera diuerfifiée ſelon les eſpeces & differences : car celle qui prouient de la pierre ou ſable, ſe doit curer par les remedes propres aux nephritiques:auſſi celle qui eſt faite par la hargne,par la repoſition de l'inteſtin : & celle qui eſt faicte parlevice des vers, par medicamens propres à iceux, à ſçauoir par po- tions ameres pour les faire mourir, & principalement s'ils ſont au deſſus du nombril , faites de rheubarbe infuſe en eau d'abſinthe, & autres choſes propres à tuer les vers : & s'ils ſont au deſſous du nombril, par clyſteres faits de choſes douces,afin de les faire deſcendre & ſortir par le ſiege. si elle eſt causée par debi- litation & refrigeration des inteſtins & de l'eſtomach,ils ſeront roborez tant par bons alimens,que parap- plication des choſes chaudes ſur l'eſtomach & ſur le ventre,& par iniections de clyſteres. la colique qui eſt faite de pituite viſqueuſe & de ventoſitez,ſe commencera premierement à ſeder la douleur, parce qu'il n'y a choſe qui proſterne & abbatte plus les vertus que fait la douleur.et les trenchées ſont causées de gros phlegmes viſqueux,& de ventoſitez,leſquelles enfient & font tenſion aux inteſtins.auſſi que tels phlegmes ne peuuent entrer des orifices des veines mezaraiques dedans les boyaux,ſans donner des trenchées & ex- torſions exemple:nous voyons des phlegmes fort eſpais iettez par les ſelles des coliqueux, qui ne peuuent venir de l'eſtomach,ny du dedans des boyaux,attendu que pluſieurs vomiſſemens & aſſellations ont prece- dé,& n'euſſent peu tant ſejourner là.il faut donc conclurre qu'ils viennent d'ailleurs, leſquels faut qu'ils paſſent par les orifices desveines mezaraiques,non ſans faire grande douleur:neantmoins qu'ils n'y paſſent auſſi gros que nous les voyons par les ſelles car ils filent delié au ſortir,& depuis ſe ramaſſent &eſpeſſiſſent comme glaire d'œufs. et partant il faut faire des bains & demy-bains,fomentations, où il y entre mauues, guimauues,violiers,pouliot.fenoüil,origan,ſemences de lin,fœnugrec,fieurs de camomille,melilot, & au- tres ſemblables,qui ayent faculté d'eſchauffer,ſeicher,attenuer & rarefier le cuir, à fin que les vents ſoient diſſipez:& doiuent touſiours eſtre actuellement tenus chauds ſur le ventre. et pour les remedes topiques & particuliers,on frottera tout le ventre d'huyle de camomille, d'anet, beurre frais,de chacun vne once, , ſemence d'apion,& petroſelinum,galanga,de chacun demie dragme,& vn peu d'eau de vie, & huyle de ſau- i ge,& de thym,extraictes par quinte-eſſence : ces remedes fondent ces groſſes humeurs, & les font couler plus facilement. autre de houlier , qui afferme ce liniment eſtre fort excellent & bien approuué. %. olei rutae & nardi an. .vj.galbani cum aqua vitæ diſſoluti .ij.liquefiant ſimul : adde zibet. g. iiij. croci g.vj. fiat linimentum. semblablement ſeront appliquez ſachets,où il y aura du mil,ou de l'auoine,duſel,fricaſſez en vne poiſle,auec vn peu de vin blanc,puis appliquez tous chauds ſur le ventre, & ſur les hanches, & re- nouuellez lors qu'ils ſe refroidiront:en lieu de ſachets,on pourra mettre des veſſies de bœuf, demies plei- nes d'vne decoction d'herbes reſolutiues,comme ſaulge,roſmarin,thym,lauande,bayes de laurier, & autres ſemblables.cela fait,en baillera clyſtere tel que s'enſuit. /. quatuor remollitiuorum an.m.j.origani,pule- gij,calami,an.m.ſi.aniſi,carui,an. .j.forum anethi p.j.fiat decoctio in hydrome.ad fb.j. in qua diſſolue be- nedict laxat.mellis anthoſ ſacchari rubrian. .joleianethi & camomillan. . . de ce ſoient faicts clyſteres pour deuxiniections, à raiſon que les boyaux eſtans remplis, ne peuuent receuoir grande quantité de de- coction, autre excellent,& bien approuué. /.vini maluatici,& olei nucis,an. iiij aqua vitæ .j. olei iuni- peri,velolei ruthz .iij.fiat clyſter,& ſera baillé le plus chaud qu'il ſera poſſible, toutesfois ſans bruſler le malade,& faut que l'huyle de genéure ou de rue,ſoient extraictes par quinte-eſſence. ie proteſte en auoir ſouuent vsé moy-meſme auec heureuſe iſſue, quaſi comme choſe miraculeuſe à ſeder promptement vne vehemente douleur causée de ventoſitez,& de matieres crues & viſqueuſes. auicenne ordonne clyſtere carminatif,composé d'hyſope,origan,achor,ſemence d'anis,cyperi,calam.aro- mat & autres ſemblables choſes chaudes. le malade doit vſer de bonnes viandes, & faciles à digerer , & boüillons,auſquels ſeront mis moyeux d'œufs,ſaffran,fines herbes,& bonnes eſpices de muguette, & cloux de girofle,& boire de bon vin genereux,ou maluoiſie,ou hippocrats faict de bon vin, à fin d'eſchauffer l'e- ſtomach & les inteſtins:parce que toute fiatuoſité prouient de chaleur debile,comme eſcrit galien, partant il faut vſer de toutes choſès chaudes. dauantage ſi la douleur perfiſte , il faut appliquer vne aſſez grande wentouſe ſur le nombril:car elle diſſipe les vents. galien dit que la ventouſe eſt ſi admirable contre les fia- signes de » celle qui eſt faite par re- plieure. prognoſtic. liu. . aph v.du . liu. manieresder bains & fo- mentations. houlier. nota, clyſtcres ee- cellent. anieenne. alimens. •rueuſes douleurs, qu'elle ſemble eſtre vn enchantement, parce qu'elle les appaiſe promptement, à cauſe de ſympt». •qu'elle diſſipe & conſomme les vents.auſſi il ne faut oublier à bien fort ſerrer le ventre,auec fortes & lar- =ges bandes, à fin de pouſſer les ventoſitez hors,& roborer les boyaux : ce que les malades meſmes nous monſtrent,parce qu'ils ſe preſſent le ventre auec leurs mains, & mettent la teſte entre les genoux : & ſi la douleur perſiſte,nous vſerons de remedes qui operent par la proprieté occulte, comme inteſtinum lupi re- ſiccatum,duquel puluerisé on donnera à boire vne dragme,auec du vin blanc. de la colique bilieuſe. la colique bilieuſe eſt celle qui prouiét d'inflammation, laquelle demande remedes côtraires à celle qui eſt faicte de ventoſitez & de cruditez. le premier eſt la ſaignee, regime de viure refrigerant : potions de catholicum,caſſe,diſſoults en eau d'orge:clyſteres refrigerans,auſquels ſeront caſſe, catholicum , diſſoults en eau d'orge. en la grande douleur, auicenne ordonne des narcotiques, pource qu'ils ſont froids : ils contrarient à la cauſe de la maladie qui eſt chaude & ſeiche, comme ſont les pillules de philonium , ou de bicre picre, la quantité de . iiij. opij& croci an. g.j. fiant pillula cum vino. auſſi les bains faicts d'eau douce, cauſis. au dernier chap de la methode. - o lc lix-leptieme llure de p ul eurs. douce,auſquels ſeront miſes mauues,guimauues,violiers,fieurs denenupha,laictues,pourpié,& autres ſem- a blables refrigerans à fin de corriger l'acrimonie des humeurs chaudes,cauſans la maladie celle qui eſt fai- te d'vne pituite ſalé e,acre,groſſe,& glutineuſe, il faut premierement attenuer l'humeur , puis le fondre & i'attirer,qui ſe fera par remedes chauds,pris tant par la bouche,que par clyſteres , & applications exterieu- res qui ſeront ordon nées par le docte medecin. - cure de la colique faičie par retention des excremens , & des replis des boyaux. en icelle a uicenne recommande les alimens qui ont vertu d'amollir le ventre, comme toutes eſpeces de boüillons humides, & entre autres celuy qui eſt faict d'vn vieil coq,qu'on aura fait courir long-temps, puis battu , & lc faire cuire auec anet & polypode, & quelque peu de ſel,iuſques à ce que telle ſubſtance ſe re- ſoude en eau.faudra pareillement vſer de clyſteres deterſifs,à quoy le meſme autheur ſe ſert de ceſtuy cy. .betæ m.j furfuris p.j.ficuum numero x.althex m.j.fiat decoct. ad ib. j. in qua diſſolue nitri & murix an. .ij.ſacchari rub. .j.olei ſeſam. .ij.et ſi l'obſtruction eſt trop contumace,il en faut vſer de plus forts, auſ- marianus quels on mettra du clyclamen & de la centaure,& de la hiere,diacolocin.ad ij. et ſi encore pour toutes sančius ces choſes le malade n'eſt allegé, & qu'il iette ſa matiere fecale par la bouche, marianus sanctus, homme lib. de caſu fort experimenté en la medecine & chirurgie, dit auoir veu pluſieurs qui eſtoient eſchappez de liliaque & fenſi§ paſſion(maladie mortelle)en prenant trois liures d'argent vifauec de l'eau ſimplement ce qui aduient,d'au- tant que par ſa ponderoſité il détourne l'inteſtin qui eſtoit entors & replié , & pouſſe la matiere fecale en bas & faict mourir les vers qui pourroient auoir cause ladite contorſion. maiſtre iean de sainct germain, apothicaire à paris,homme bien accomply en ſon art;m'a affermé auoir pensé vn gentil-homme ayant la hiſtoirs. colique accompagnée d'extremes douleurs, & pour s'en deffaire , auoit pris plufieurs clyſteres , & autres choſes ordonnées par doctes medecins:neantmoins pour tout cela,ſa douleur ne ceſſoit point.il ſuruint vn allemand,ſon amy,qui luy conſeilla boire trois onces d'huyle d'amédes douces,tirées ſans feu,mixtionnées auec du vin blanc,& eau de parietaire, ce qu'il fit,puis toſt apres luy fit aualler vne balle d'arquebeuſe faite de plomb, frottée & blanchie de vif-argent (à fin qu'elle coulaſt mieux) & bien toſt apres les ietta par le ſiege,& quant & quant ſa douleur fut du tout ceſſée.telle choſe peut aider grandement la colique venteu- ſe.en la colique l'eſtomach ſouffre,& partant aucuns diſent auoir la coliquc d'eſtomach. hiſtoire . ? s'eſt-ce que saignée . c h a r. l xv i. . premier ſeo- h l e e o t o m e , eſt inciſion de veine euacuant le ſang auec les autres humeurs, comme pe de la phle- l'inciſion de l'artere eſt dicte arteriotomie. le premier ſcope de la phlebotomie, eſt euacuer le botomie. r ſang pechant en quantité : combien auſſi que ſouuent on ſe propoſe de tirer le ſang qui peche en deux ſortes qualité, ou tous les deux enſemble. la quantité ou repletion s'entend en deux manieres : l'vne de replerion. quant , la vertu,iaçoit que les veines ne ſe monſtrent trop pleines , qui rend ſoudain les hommes foibles & lº premiere debiles,nature ne pouuant porter vn tel faix ou peſanteur : l'autre maniere de repletion ſe prend quant aux ºº vires vaiſſeaux qui contiennent le ſang , & ſe rapporte à l'abondance d'iceluy, encore que la vertu le comporte ** ſººººdº ſans aucun ennuy.en cette repletion les veines ſouuent ſe rompent,& le malade crache le ſang, ou bien il # de ſort par quelque autre partie du corps, comme par le nez,par la bouche en vomiſſant, parla matrice aux la repletion femmes,par les rognons,de façon que l'on piſſe le ſang tout pur,ou parles hemorroides , ou quelques vei- ad vaſa. º variqueuſes,ou ſans eſtre variqueuſes.la repletion qui ſe fait quant à lavertu,ſe cognoiſt par la peſan- · teur & laſſitude de tout le corps. la repletion quant aux vaiſſeaux, ſe cognoiſt par l'extenſion d'iceux, & qu'ils apparoiſſent fort pleins:& l'vne & l'autre repletion a beſoin d'euacuation. dauantage, pour cinqin- la phlebote- tentions on fait la phlebotomie-la premiere eſt pour euacuer l'abondance du ſang,des humeurs, comme és mie ſe fait plethoriques,&a ceux qui ſont vexez de quelque paſſion ſans plethore,comme pour quelque inflammation. pour cin iu- la ſeconde eſt pour deſtourner & diuertir,ce que l'onappelle reuulfion, comme lors qu'il ſuruient vn flux jº/ f / .. de ſang par la narille ſeneſtre,on doit faire la ſaignée au coſté dextre,& ainſi au contraire. la troiſieſme eſt pour attirer , comme lors que nous voulons prouoquer les mois des femmes, nous ouurons les veines ſa- phenes aux malleoles.la quatrieſme eſt,pour alterer,comme nous ſaignons és fiévres aigues,à fin d'euacuer ce qu'il faut le ſang boüillant,& refroidir ce qui reſte.la cinquieſme eſ,pour preſeruer,comme nous phlebotomons au cºnſidrºr printemps,& automne ceux qui ſont diſpoſez à cracher le ſang,ou ſujets à ſquinance, pleureſie, epilepſie, auant que apoplexie,gouttes & à d'autres indiſpoſitions,auſſi és playes nous ſaignons pour éuiter le phlegmon.auant aſaigner. que ſaigner,on doit conſiderer ſi les excremens du ventre ont eſté retenus long-temps dans les boyaux : & les vieil, ny ſi ainſi eſt,les faut premierement vuider auec clyſteres gracieux,ou ſuppoſitoires , ou noüets : à fin que les ieunes ne veines meſaraiques ne tirent des boyaux quelque ſubſtance putride. on ne doit ſaigner les vieils(ſi ce n'eſt doinent eſtre en vne neceſſité)pour crainte de la diminution de leur chaleur naturelle, & deſiccation de leur ſubſtance, ſºisnº pareillement ny les ieunes enfans,pour crainte de trop grâde reſolution de leur habitude,faicte par l'abon- dance de leur chaleur naturelle:à raiſon de la rarité de l'habitude de leurs corps,auſſi de la molleſſe &deli- cateſſe de leur ſubſtance.la quantité du ſang que l'on tire, ſe meſure a la force de la vertu & à la grandeur " de la maladie.si le malade eſt debile,& que la maladie demande grâde euacuation, on fera la ſaignée à deux ou à trois fois,& quelques iours interpoſez,pour vnegrande douleur de teſte qui eſt en la partie poſterieu- re nous inciſons les veines du front,& premierement nous fométons la partie auec eau chaude pour amol- lir le cuir,& attirer dauantage de ſang dans les vaiſſeaux.aux ſquinances,on ouurira les veines au trauers, qui ſont ſous la langue,ſans aucunement lier le col,de peur de ſuffoquer le malade. a toutes affections ou : maladies, qui oſtent l'haleine,& nous eſtranglent,& à celles qui ſoudain font perdre la parole,la phleboto- mie eſt neceſſaire:à toutes grandes contuſions des parties internes,ou externes,comme eſt tomber de haut, l'on ne doit ou auoir receu quelque coup orbe,encore que la vertu fuſt debile,& que le ſang ne pechaſt ny en quantité ſaigner en la ny en qualité,il faut faire la ſaignée:pareillement en apoplexie,ſquinance,pleureſie,fiévres ardantes. auſſi ºisºr * ſi le malade apres s'eſtre precipité, vomiſt le ſang , ſoudain luy faut ouurir la veine : autrement le ſang ſe la fiévre. - pourroit cailler, ſi on le laiſſe repoſer & refroidir. il ne faut ſaigner le malade en la vigueur de la fiévre: or ſi la fiévre ne croiſt plus, & auſſi ne decroiſt point, & n'eſperons aucune declination d'icelle, en tel cas il ne faut perdre cette occaſion de la ſaignée , encore qu'elle ſoit pire qu'en la declination de l'accez. quelques-vns debattent que le ſang doit eſtre tiré au plus loing qu'il eſt poſſible du lieu où il fait le mal & y cauſe inflammation , & que par ce moyen le cours des humeurs eſt deſtourné: le faiſant autrement, - que l'on attire à la partiemalade ce qui la charge & offenſe. cette opinion eſt fauſſe : car la ſaignée vui- de & euacué premierement le lieu le plus prochain. car 'ay ſouuentesfois ouuert les veines & arteres du meſme lieu , comme à la chiragre, & podagre, les veines du pied ou de la main & à la migraine lesar- te es & veines des temples : & par cette euacuation de ſang qui eſtoit due auec le virus arthritique, - b d lit b ii | , a | - operations de chirurgie · i - a b d & les eſprits boüillants qui eſtoient euacuez, la douleur ſoudain s'appaiſoit : ee que i'ay fait pluſieurs fois auec bonne & heureuſe iſſuë ainſi galien commande inciſer les arteres des temples pour la fluxion des gal. ,. yeux, & pour vne douleur de teſte inueterée,ou pour vne migraine : ce que i'ay fait par pluſieurs fois auec math. chap bon ſuccez. denr . le moyen de bien faire ia ſaignée . c h a p. - l xv ii. g# a n r e n a n t ie te veux donner le moyen de bien faire la ſaignée. premierement faut situation du % bien fituer le malade, à ſçauoir , s'il eſt foible, ſera ſaigné dedans le lict : & ſi les vertus ſon malade. |# fortes ; ſera aſſis dans vne chaire, ſituée de maniere que le iour donne droict au lieu où l'on É voudra inciſer le vaiſſeau. cela fait, le chirurgien frottera la partie auec ſa main ou linge º qu'il faut * chaud,afin d'attirer le ſangauvaiſſeau : puis fera vne ligature vn peu au deſſus dudit vaiſſ§ fºire deuant qu'il voudra ouurir, & renuoyera le ſang des parties inferieures vers la ligature, & empoignera le b§ º * du malade auec ſa main ſeneſtre, ſi c'eſt le bras droict : & ſi c'eſt du bras ſeneſtre, le prendra de la dex , " mettant le poulce vn peu plus bas que le vaiſſeau, afin qu'il le tienne & ne vacille ga & là, le faire eſleuer à cauſe du ſang qui aura eſté enuoyé. cela fait de ſon ongle marquera le cuir qui ſera ſur la veine, à l'endroit où il la voudroit inciſer, puis ſubit prendra vne petite goute d'huile ou de beurre frais,& frottera le lieu marqué par l'ongle, afin de rendre le cuir plus liſſe, & l'amollir,& par ce moyen ſera plus facile à fafon de te- couper, & fera moindre douleur au malade, à raiſon que la lancette entrera plus doucement. ' or le chi- § § i . rurgien tiendra ſa lancette du poulce & de l'index, non trop loing ny trop pres de la poincte,& de ſes trois cette. autres doigts s'appuyera contre la partie : & d'abondant mettra les deux doigts ſuſdits deſquels il tient la lancette,ſur le poulce, pour auoir d'auantage ſa main ferme & non tremblante : alors fera inciſion vn peu obliquement au corps duvaiſſeau , qui ſoit moyenne, non trop grande ny trop petite , ſelon le corps du danger de vaiſſeau , & le ſang gros & ſubtil que l'on aura coniecturé y eſtre contenu. et ſe faut garder de toucher §r . l'artere qui eſt ſouuent couchée ſous la baſilique, & ſous la mediane vn nerf, ou le tendon du biceps : & nerf ou l'ar- quant à la veine cephalique, il n'y a aucun danger. il ſera tiré du ſang ſelon qu'ilſera beſoin : puis défera la tere en inci- ligature, & en fera vn autre ſur le corps de la veine,pour arreſter le ſang auec vne petite compreſſe : la li- /ºnt la vei- gature ne ſera trop laſche,n'y trop ſerrée,de façon que le malade pourra plier le bras à ſon aife : & pour la *-'. faire comme il appartient, faudra à l'heure que l'on la voudra faire,commander au malade de plier le bras: car ſi on le bandoit eſtant droit , il ne le pourroit apres plier, ainfi qu'il a eſté dit cy-deſſus : ce qui ſe fera auec vne telle lancette. - pourramol- lir le cuir. lancette pour faire les ſaignées. \! l er e # # # | - i , [| n†\ p -- # de venteuſe . c h a p. lxv ii i. e n t o v s e eſt vn vaiſſeau ventru qu'on applique ſur le corps pour attirer violente- | ment il y en a de cuiure, de corne, de verre, de bois, de terre, d'or & d'argent : les vnes ſont grandes, autres petites (appellées petits cornets ) les autres moyennes. et s'iladuient , qu'on ne trouuaſt des ventouſes,on ſe peut ayder d'vn verre ou gobelet, ou d'vn petit pot de - terre. elles ſont grandes ou petites,ſelon la diuerſité des parties où elles ſeront appliquées. or celles qui ont l'emboucheure eſtroitte, & qui ſont longuettes , tirent de plus loin. on met dedans des eſtoupes ou chandelles de cire allumées au cul d'icelles les petits cornets ſont appliquez les ayant trempez en eau chaude , & apres qu'on les a vn peu eſchauffez à la flamme d'vne chandelle , ou de lampe *yant grande fiamme ou par ſuccer auec la bouche. on applique les ventouſes lors que l'on veut faire va- ºſº ºuation de quelquematiere coniointe en vne partie, principalement quand elles ſont aucc ſacrification, & ºut # princi- ºuffiappliquées pour faire reuulſion & deriuation en quelque partie,côme pour la defiuxion qui ſe fait # aux yeux. on les applique ſur les eſpaules auec grande flammes : car par ce moyen font plus grande attra- toſitez. - dion.pareillement auſſi ſous les mammelles des femmes pour faire reuulſion de leur mois quand ils fluent trop , & ſont pareillement appliquées aux plats des cuiſſes, quand ils ne coulent aſſez : auſſi aux morſures des beſtes venimeuſes, & bubons & charbons peſtiferez, pour attirer le venin du dedans au dehors.corn. celfus veut qu'on applique la ventouſe ſur la partie dolente que nous pretendons guarir, en faiſant euacua- tion du ſang & eſprit flatueux imprimez en quelque partie. les ventouſes s'appliquent ſur le nombrilpour reſoudre vne groſſe ventoſité enfermée en nos boyaux,ou en quelque autre ſpacioſité,comme entre quelque ºembrane des muſcles de l'epigaſtre,qui cauſent colique.au font appliquées ſur le flanc dextre ou ſene- ſtre,quand au foye, ou en la ratelle il ya tenſion douleureuſe faire des ventoſitez, ou qu'il ya hemorrhagie par le nez.on lºsapplique auſſi ſur les reins & ſur le ventre à l'endroit où ſont ſituez les vreteres , pour faire deſcendre la pierre à la veſſie,& ſont appliquées plus grandes ou plus petites, ſelon la neceſſité.da- uantage, tu vſeras des cornets comme des ſuſdites ventouſes,és lieux eſquels les ventouſes ne peuuent vſage des eſtre. pour leur grandeur , appliquées : deſquels t'ay voulu donner le pourtrait. rhéff vſages des ventpuſes. n n ventouſes · · | # le dix-ſeptiéme liure de pluſieurs ſ · · - ventouſes de diuerſe grandeur, ayans de petits cornets de pluſieurs ſortes, a trou,leſquels ſeront bouſchex de cire,lors qu'elles auec les flammettes,& lancet- ſeront appliquées c quandonles voudra ofter, te propre pour faire les ſtarif- on leur donnera vent par iceux. c / j. - - - - cornets qui attirent ſans feu, mais par le benefice de la bouche, en retirant ſon haleine . des sangſuès, & lemoyen d'en tſer. c h a p t r e lxi x. - , a sanſuë eſt vn ver aquatique , de figure d'vn ver de terre. au bout où eſt la teſte, elle a vn § zº%à trou rond , comme celuy d'vn lamproyon, & trois petites dents ou aiguillons auec leſquels sangſuës * elle perce la peau, non ſeulement de l'homme, mais auſſi d'vn cheualou d'vn bœuf, & s'yat- venimeuſes. tache & ſucce, & ſe remplit de ſang. il y en a qui ſont venimeuſes , & ſont celles qui ont - $ groſſe teſte, de couleur verdoyante, & reluiſent comme vers ardans, & ſont rayées de bleu ſur le dos, ou toutes noires. auſſi ſont venimeuſes celles qui viennent és mareſts, & aux eaux bourbeu- ſes, & engendrent inflammation, apoſteme, fievre, & malings vlceres, voire ſouuent incurables. les bonnes ſont celles qui ſont de couleur de foye,menues, rondes,ayans petite teſte,le ventre rougeaſtre, & le dos verd, & rayé de couleur d'or par deſſus , & qui habitent és eaux claires & coulantes. apres les auoir priſes, il les faut garder enuiron vn mois & plus, afin qu'elles ſe dégorgent de leur baue & ordure, & leur changer d'eau ſouuent : parce qu'aucunesfois elles ſe ſeront iettées ſur quelque beſte morte & † gneule bonne ; ſangſuës. | , - toperations de chirurgie. a gneuſe, & qui les appliqueroit ſans eſtre dégorgées, elles pourroient imprimer quelque venin à la partie. | partant il les conuient faire dégorger,& vomir leur ordure auparauant que les appliquer. or on les appli- le lich eà que aux endroits du corps, où les ventouſes & cornes ne peuuent tenir, comme au fondement, pour rom- l'on applique pre la tunique des veines hemorrhoidales, à l'entrée de la vulue, aux genciues, levres , nez , & ſur les les ſamgſuës. doigts. si on veut faire grande euacuation de ſang apres que la ſangſuë eſt tombée ſi'le lieu le permet, on appliquera des ventouſes ou cornets,ou bien on en remettra d'autres. il faut noter que ſi la ſangſuë eſt ma- niée à main nue, elle ſe rend deſdaigneuſe & depiteuſe, & ne veut pas mordre : parquoy quand on la veut § appli- appliquer, on la prendra auec vn linge blanc, & net, faiſant auparauant ſur la partie petits ſcarifications, quer les ou mouchetures, ou bien ſera mis ſur quelque peu de ſang tiré quelque beſte : car par ce moyen elle pren- ſangſuès ne dra plus facilement. et pour la faire tomber, on iette ſur la teſte de la poudre d'aloès, du ſel, ou de la cen- les faut tenir dre : & eſtant tombée, ſi l'on veut ſçauoir combien de ſang elle aura tiré, on la mettra dans vn vaiſſeau, & à nud. ſera couuerte de ſel broyé bien menu, & ſoudain elle vomiſt tout ce qu'elle a ſuccé : & qui la voudra faire le mºyº de tirer dauantage, auant qu'elle laſche priſe, & démorde, illa faut couperd'vn cizeau par en bas vers la troi-ºſº fiéme partie de ſon corps : en cette façon elle tire touſiours; & le ſang qu'elle attire découle par ſon corps. # la or la ſangſue par ſon ſuccement attire du profond, & des parties voiſines : & non ſeulement de celle qui ſangſui aura eſt malade ſur laquelle elle eſt appliquée. ce qui eſt manifeſte à voir, à raiſon qu'eſtant tombée, il ſort "·é de ſang. bonne quantité de ſang, & par longue eſpace de temps, par la morſure, encore qu'elle ſoit petite, joint que difficilement on l'eſtanche : ce quine ſe fait par les ſcarifications, & application des cornets & ventouſes. si on ne pouuoit eſtancher le ſang apres la morſure,il faut appliquer la moitié d'vne féve : la tenant & preſ- le moyen b ſant deſſus, iuſquesà ce qu'elle y demeure attachée, & adherante, infailliblement cela retient le ſang : ou d'eſtancher j bien appliquer du linge bruſlé auec compreſſe & ligature propre. ie ne veux laiſſer e n arriere vne autre le ſanr. operation qui ſe fait par poincture ou piqueure auec vne eſpingle,ou aiguille,ou par la pointe de la lancet- te,ou par la piqueure des ſangſuës. on picque les petits apoſtemes és membranes de l'œil,pour abbatre les cataractes, ou pour euacuer le pus, appellé hydropopyon, contenu entre les membranes de l'œil, ou appli- quer vn ſeton, ou faire ſuture à coudre les playes, & autres. lors que l'ou fin du t)ix-ſeptiéme liare de pluſieurs operations de chirurgie. . § t a b l e d e s c h a p i t r e s d v. ·. · dix - huictiéme liure , traictant de la maladie · articulaire, vulgairement appellée goute. # $ # e s c r i p t i o n de la maladie articulaire, dite vulgairement goute . ſ chapitre j $ tes cauſes occultes desgoutes. chap. ij huftoires memorables. - chap. iij des cauſes manifestes des goutes. chap. iv # de l'origine de la defluxion des goutes. chap. v | signes que la defluxion vient du cerueau. - chap. vj. signes que la fluxien vient du fºye . | chap. vij signes pour connoiſtre que l'humeur accompagne le virus arthritique . chap. viij signes de la fluxion cholerique-. chap. ix signes de la fluxionpituiteuſe . chap. x signes de l'humeur melancholique . " . chap. xj "prognoſtic de la goute. chap. xij cure preſeruatiue & curatiue des goutes. - - chap. xiij d du vomiſſement. . - chap. xiv diuers # lesgoutes. chap. xv de la maniere de viure des gouteux. chap. xvj zdu boire des gouteux. - chap. xvij pourroborer les jointures. - - chap. xviij zde la cure palliatique des gouter. chap. xix zoes remedes topiques pour la goute de matierefroide ». - chap. xx remedes locauxpour la goute de matiere chaude, principalement faite du ſang. chap. xxj remedes topiques pour la goute de l'humeur colerique-. chap. xxij aeemes de la douleur arthritique, faite d'intemperatureſans matiere-º. chap. xxiij ce qu'il faut faire, la douleur des goutes ceſſée- . chap. xxiv des tophes ou nœuds des goutes. chap. xxº des ventoſitez, & leurs remedes. chap. xxvj zde la ſciatique-. chap. xxvij cure de la ſciatique_ . chap. xxviij ide lagoute grampe- . • chap. xxix m m le • i . - - | |. · ' ! | : - • • , · · · · | | | | ' | i | : . : | | | | | | | · · · | - # ' + - - | | |' * • | | | - - - - - - | | | . | - | • * , · · · - | | | | | | - | | " - l - - | | | º - · - | l . - | | • • - * · · | | - ' ! º | - - - | ' | : - | - i ' | - - - | | - - - ! # | * • , ! . - , º - · - | · - | , - | | : ! • . - - - - - - | - : : - | - , ! - - | | • # | • | | - - - | - . - - - - ! | - ! - : | - | )ue c'eſt que goute, diuers nbms dr ſortes de goutes, ſelon la diuerſité des lointu- 'º ;. - l e dix-hvicties me livr e, traictant de la maladie a rth r it iq v e, v v l g air e me nt a p p e l l e e g o v t e. - t'ar a m b r o is e pa r e de laual au maine, conſeiller, & ° premier chirurgien du roy. deſcription de la maladie articulaire, dite vulgairement goute . ch a p t r e p r e m i e r. ſ} r t hr t s, ou goute, eſt vne maladie qui afflige & gaſte principalement la ſub- ſtance des articles d'vne matiere virulante, accompagnée de quatre humeurs : & pour $ cette cauſe eſt nommée des grecs-artbritu, & des latins, morvus articul u. et ce nºrº $ eſt general pour toutes les jointures : mais le vocable de goute , qui eſt françois, luy \ peut auoir eſté attribué, parce que les humeurs diſtillent goute à gouve ſur les jointures : $ ou pource que quelquesfois vne ſeule goute de cét humeur fait douleur tres-grande» & # peut venir à toutes les jointures du corps, & ſelon les lieux où la fluxion ſe fait , prend diuers noms. parquoy nous dirons qu'elle a autant d'eſpeces & differences qu'ilya de jointures. comme ſi la fluxion ſe fait ſur la jointure des mandibules, elle pourra eſtre nommée siagonagra» parce que les grecs appellent la mandibule siagon. si elle vient au col, ſe peut appeller tracbelagra, pource que les grecs nomment le col tracheloi. si elle vient ſur l'eſpine du dos, oa pourra nommer rachiſagrº» parce que les grecs nomment l'eſpine, rachis. aux eſpaules,omagra, a cauſe que la jointure de l'eſpaule & du bras eſt dite des grecs,omos. aux jointures des clauicules, claiſigra, parce que la clauicule eſt appel- lée en grec (lei. au coulde, ſe peut nommer ptchyagra, du nom grec pichys, qui ſignifie le coulde. si elle vient aux mains, elle eſt nommément appellée (birºgra , à cauſe du nom grec cbeir, qui ſignifie la main. et à la hanche tſchias, pource qu'elle eſt appellée en grec, iſhton. augenoüil, gonagra .. du nom grec, goni qui ſignifie la genoüil. aux pieds, poaagra, du grec po, c'eſt à dire, le pied. lors qu'il y a trop #. grande quantité d'humeur, & que le malade vit en oiſiueté, quelquesfois le mal occupe toutes les jointu- merſelle. res vniuerſellement. aucuns l'appellent deſcente, rheume, ou catharre, parce que le nom de goute eſt odieux, principalement aux jeunes gens.autres le nomment goute naturelle, à la difference des goutes de la groſſe verole. - des cauſes occultesdes goutes. c h a r. i i. ' h v m e v r qui cauſe les goutes , ne ſe peut bien expliquer, non-plus que celuy qui fait la , peſte,ou qui eſt cauſe de la verole,ou de l'epilepſis:& eſt totalement d'autre nature que celuy # qui fait vn phlegmon, ou vn œdeme, ou eryſipele, ou ſchirre : & iamais ne ſe ſuppure, coni- # me dit aece chap. . du . liure, comme font le: autres humeurs : joint auſſi que les jointu- | res qui en ſont affligées, ſont denuées de chair, & de temperature froide & ſeiche, & lors que leſdits humeurs defiuent en quelque partie juſques à s'accoſiu ner,ne cauſent telles douleurs,que celuy e'humeur qui fait la goute, nymeſme vn chancre apoſtemeux. outre plus, leſdits humeurs ne font des noeuds aux ººſ# jointures comme fait celuy qui cauſe la goute, lequel laiſſe vne mattiere gypſée incurable, ainſi que nous # º declarerons cy-apres. sur ce faut noter que cét humeur fluant ne fait pas nuiſance par la voye où il paſſe # • au- ( non-plus que celuy qui cauſe l'epilepſie, montant des parties inferieures juſqu'au cerueau, ſans leur faire #umeur aucune nuiſance ) mais ſubit qu'il eſt tombé aux jointures, cauſe extremes douleurs , & autres diuers ac- qui-cauſe la cidens, en eſchauffant ou refroidiſſant. car on void aucuns malades qui ſe diſent buſler, & n leur peut- #oute,.fti. on appliquer remedes aſſez froids ;autres diſent ſentir vne froideur glacée , leſquels on ne peut aſiez auſſi #e que la eſchauffer : & meſmement en vn meſme corps ſe void que la partie dextre eſt intemperée de chaleur,& la jointure. eſeneſire de froidure. auſſi on void des gouteux, leſquels ont la goute chaude au genoüil, & au meſme diuers acci- fied, froide : ou aux pieds, chaude, & au genoüil, froide. ie diray plus : on void ſouuent vne tres-grande ºººº & ſ}m- chaleur eſtre vn iour en vne partie,& l'autre vne froideur : & partant en vn meſme mambre faut vſer de re- #º * medes contraires. e quelquesfois cette matiere virulente eſt ſi peruerſe & maligne, qu'elle reougne, & ne l'humeur ar- ... ; :mcdes : & di - - *i - _ - cede à nuls remcdes : & ditent les malades tentir plus de mal y appliquant quelque choie , que lors qu'ils thritique. - goutes here- ditaires in- «urables, n'y font rien. et bon-gré mal-gré, de toutes choſes faites par raiſon & methode, cette matiere a ſon pe- riode & paroxyſine : qui demonſtre apertement la meſconnoiſſance & malice de la cauſe. pareillement on void que les goutes ne ſe peuuent iamais parfaictement guarir ( principalement celles qui ſont heredi- taires) j a_a v- x n-m v. w w- l•w- >e *+ - ) a taires (quelque diligence qu'on ypuiſſe faire : dont cela eſt venu en prouerbe,meſmes aux poëtes latins, entre les quels horace dit. qui cupit, aut metuit, iuuat illum ſic demus , autres » vi lippum piéie tabule, fomenta podagram. voulant dire, que les medicamens & fomentations donnentautant d'allegemens aux podagres, que font les richeſſes à celuy qui eſt vexé d'auarice inſatiable, deſirant touſiours d'amaſſer : ou comme les peintures & tableaux donnent recreation à vn homme qui a mal aux yeux. surquoy auſſi ouide dit, soluere nodoſam neſcit medicina podagram. - - - qui fignifie que la medecine ne peut guarir la goutte des pieds eſtant noüeuſe. donc en ce on ne doitac- cuſer les medecins & chirurgiens,ny auſſi les apothicaires & leurs drogues.car i'oſe affermer qu'aux gou- tes,il y a va certain virus incognu & indicible : ce qu'auicenne ſemble confeſſer,liure troiſiéme,fen. .trai- cte .chap. .& . quand il dit, qu'il ya vne eſpece de goute,qui eſt d'vne matiere ſi aiguë & maligne,que ſi elle vient à s'emoutoir par quelque courroux d'eſprit, elle cauſe vne mort ſubite. aſſi galien au liure de theriaca ad piſonem, chap. .dit, que la theriaque profite aux podagres,& à toutes maladies articulaires, parce qu'il obtond, conſomme, & ſeiche la matiere virulente des goutes. dauantage, gourdon au chapi- tre des goutes,ſemble auſſi auoir entendu qu'en icelles y a quelque venenoſité,quand iſ dit qu'en telle ma- ladie l'vſage du theriaque eſt fort à loüer : & principalement en apres que le corps eſt mondifié & purgé. or pour le dire en vn mot,les goutes participent de certaine matiere virulente, tres-ſubtile & veneneuſe, non toutesfois contagieuſe,laquelle peche plus en qualité qu'en quantité: qui cauſent vne douleur extreme en la partie où elle tombe,& eſt cauſe d'y faire fiuerles humeurs,principalement ceux qui ſont aptes & pre- parez à deſcendre & non ſeulement les humeurs mais auſſi les eſprits flatueux ainſi qu'on void es mortures & piqueures de beſtes venimeuſes, comme des mouches à miel, freſlons, & autres, qui par leur vci] il c ll- ſent douleur aiguë,auec chaleur,enfieure & veſſie,qui ſe fait pour l'ebullition des humeurs cauſée par le ve- nin.le virus arthritique fait pareils accidens, leſquels ne ceſſent iuſques à ce qu'il ſoit reſout & conſommé, ſoit par nature ou parmedicamens, ou par les deux enſemble. or il faut icy entendre,que les accidens des morſures & piqueures des beſtes venimeuſes ne viennent pas ſeulement pour la ſolution de continuité:car on void ſouuent les couſturiers, & autres artiſans, ſe piquer profondement de leurs aiguilles aux extremi- mitez des doigts, meſmes entre l'ongle & la chair : neantmoins ne ſentent pareille douleur, & n'y void-on ſuruenir le plus ſouuent aucun mauuais accident. parquoy ie conclus,que les accidens prouenans à cauſe de la morſure d'vne vipere, ou piqueure d'vn ſcorpion, iettant vne bien petite quantité de venin, & qui eſt cauſe en peu de temps de faire vne intemperature à la partie,& grande mutation au corps,ſe doiuent attri- buer non à la playe,mais à la qualité du venin principalement.auſſi la cauſe de la douleur,& des autres ac- cidens qui aduiennent aux goutes,eſt vne virulence & venenoſité,laquelle(comme nousauons dit)peche plus en qualité qu'en quantité:ce qu'on cognoiſt en ce qu'aucuns ont des douleurs aux jointures ſans aucune ap- arence de defluxion d'humeurs, mais par vne ſeule intemperature indicible, laquelle choſe peut eſtre en- core illuſtrée & entenduë par cette hiſtoire. hiſtoires memorables. c h a p. i ii. mg e roy eſtant à bordeaux, ie fus appellé auec meſſieurs chapelain conſeiller & premier me- decin du roy, caſtellan conſeiller & medecin du roy, & premier de la reyne, auec mon- ſieur de la taſte, medecin demeurant à bordeaux, maiſtre nicole lambert, chirurgien ordi- # naire du roy, pour viſiter & donner conſeil à vne damoiſelle, aagée de quarante ans ou en- $ uiron, malade d'vne tumeur de la groſſeur d'vn petit pois, ſituée au deſſous de la jointure de la hanche ſeneſtre,partie externé : & ſur ladite tumeur & parties voiſines, ſentoit par inter- ualle de temps vne extreme douleur, côme ie declareray cy-apres:& pour l'appaiſer,on auoit cherché tous moyens, appellant pour ce faire pluſieurs medecins & chirurgiens, voire meſme des ſorciers, & ſorcieres: tous leſquels ne luy ſceurent donner aucun allegement de ſa douleur. or ayans tous entendu cette hiſtoire, ie deſiray fort ſçauoir quels accidés ſuiuoient en l'accez de ſa douleur: dont ie m'en allay au logis de ladite damoiſelle,accompagné dudit de la taſte, où bien toſt apres eſtans arriuez,ſa douleur luy print,& alors elle commença à crier ſe iettant ça & là, faiſant des mouuemens incroyables. car elle mettoit ſa teſte entre ſes iambes,& les pieds ſur ſes eſpaules,auec pluſieurs autres mouuemens merueilleux. cét accez luy dura pres d'vn quart d'heure:pendant lequel ie m'efforça à prendre garde s'il ſuruenoit tumeur,ou quelque inflamma» tion au lieu de la douleur:mais ie puis acertener qu'il n'y enauoit aucune, nyau ſens du tact, ny de la veuë. vray eſt que lors que i'y touchoiselle crioit dauantage. l'accez paſſé,elle demeuroit en vne grande chaleur & ſueur vniuerſelle & laſſitude de tous fes membres,ne ſe pouuant aucunement remuer. or apresauoir veu telle choſe,ie demeuray grandement eſmerueillé,comme auſſi fit ledit de la taſte;anquelie demanday ce qui luy en ſembloit:il me fit reſponſe,qu'il eſtimoit que c'eſtoit vn demon qui tourmentoit cette pauure creatu- re.en quoy ie ne voulus cötredire pour l'heure,attendu que iamais n'auois veu ny ouy parler lny de tel acci- dent. car ſi c'euſt eſté vne maladie epileptique,il ſe fuſt enſuiuy perdition de tous les ſens,auecconuulſion: mais cette damoiſelle ratiocinoit bien,& parloit encore mieux.apres qu'euſmes fait rapport de ce ſpecta- cle à meſſieurs chapelain & caſtellan, ils furent grandement eſtonnés : & fut conclu de nous tous(atten- du qu'on auoit procedé auparauant par pluſieurs moyens, leſquels ne luy auoient aucunement oſté ſa douleur ) qu'on luy appliqueroie ſur la tumeur vn cautere potentiel,lequel i'appliquay: & l'eſcare cheute, tomba vne ſanie virulente de couleur fort noire : & fut veue depuis n'auoir aucune douleur. parquoy ie veux conclure par ceſte hiſtoire, que la cauſe de ſa douleur eſtoit vn virus venimeux, lequel pechoit plus en qualité qu'en quantité : qui eut iſſuë par le moyen de l'ouuerture faite par le cautere. vn ſemblable faict eſt aduenu à la femme du cocher de la reyne, demeurant à amboiſe, au milieu du bras droit,ayās par certains iours ſemblables douleurs que la ſuſdite damoiſelle:laquelle nous vint trouuer, meſſieurs chapelain,chaſtellan, & moy à orleans, nous ſuppliant que nous euſſions à luy vouloir donner ſecours à ſa douleur,qui eſtoit ſi vehemente qu'elle ſe vouloit ietter par les feneſtres,ayant pour cette occa- ſion gardes auec elle. nous conclûmes qu'on luy appliqueroit vn cautere potentiel ſur la partie meſme,ainſi qu'auions faict à la ſuſdite damoiſelle,ce que ie fis: & l'ouuerture faite ſa douleur ceſſa,& l'a depuis du tout perdue. or pour retourner à noſtre propos,levice des humeurs n'eſt pas ſeulement cauſe des goutes,parce que le mal ne ſeroit pas ſeulement aux jointures, mais auſſi aux parties muſculeuſes & ne cauſeroit telles douleurs, comme i'ay dit auſſi on peut dire à la verité que le mal ne vient pas de l'imbecilité des jointu- res ( comme pluſieurs eſtiment) laquelle ſeule auſſi ne peut cauſer telles douleurs. car s'il eſtoit ainſi, les n n douleurs les goutes parti tpent de quelque mariere vi- rulente indi- cible. conditions de l'humeur arthritique. cauſes des accidens des morſures ér piqueures veneneuſes . hiſtoired'vne damoiſelle, qui fut gua- rie d' vne ex - treme dou- leur par vn cautere po- tentiel . autre hioi pº. f u lv. ja a iat li v- t v- l iv- a.-a. ll i v douleurs ne ceſſeroient iamais pendant que l'homme vit,d'autant que l'imbecilité eſt touſiours aux articles: À paul.aegin. ains les deux enſemble, c'eſt à ſçauoir, la redondance vicieuſe de l'humeur, & l'imbecilité des articles cauſes de la que ie diray-je plus pour demonſtrer l'incertitude de la cauſe des goutes?c'eſt qu'elles ſont commevneren- ºuleur ar- te conſtituée, pource qu'elles reuiennent tous les ans à certains termes principalement en automne & au thritique. printemps, quelque diligence que l'on y fçache faire : dequoy l'experience ſait foy. et qui plus eſt, celles #.# meſmement qui viennent de naiſſance, c'eſt à dire par heritage du pere & de la mere, ne peuuent iamais liure . guarir vraiment, comme i'ay dit : ains ſeulement reçoiuent cure palliatiue, & pour y proceder, les me- la goute qui decins & chirurgiens doiuent auoir bon pied, bon œil, & qu ils ſoient munis de bon iugement, & de plu- vient depere ſieurs & diuers remedes : afin qu on en puiſſe choiſir, ſelon qu on verra les accidens aduenir, pour ſeder en fil, eſt in les douleurs tant chaudes que froides, ou miſtionnées enſemble, tant qu'il fera poſſible. curable. des cauſes acquiſes & manifeſtes des goutes. ' ca p. iv. o m e e n que nous ayons demonſtré la cauſe des goutes eſtre incongnue, toutesfois com- munément on luy aſſigne les cauſes, dont le medecin peut donner quelques raiſons. or tout ainſi qu'il y a trois cauſes aux autres maladies, à ſçauoir, primitiue, antecedente, & conioincte, auſſi ya-il aux goutes. quand à la primitiue, elle eſt double : l'vne vient de la pre- miere generation, comme celuy qui aura eſté procrée de pere & mere gouteux, principale- ment quand la matiere virulente eſt en reut, c'eſt à dire en mouuement, & que l'homme ſe catsſes des goutes here- ditaires. ioinct auec ſa compagne, & qu'il engendre, il eſt bien difficile que les enfans ne ſoient gouteux, à cauſe b que cette matiere virulente ſe meſle auec la ſemence : d'autant que la matiere de ſemence vient de tout je corps, comme monſtre ariſtote au liure de generatione animalium : pareillement hipocrate au liure de au . liure i'air des regions, & des eaux. l'autre prouient par intemperature, tant de la maniere de viure, que de trop chap. . frequent exercice de l'acte venerien, & autres choſes que declarerons cy-apres. celle qui prouient des pa- rens gouteux, peut eſtre appellée maladie hereditaire, parce qu'clle vient de pere en fils: ce que toutesfois pourquoy les n'aduient pas touſiours, comme l'experience le monſtre. car on void pluſieurs eſtre vexez de goutes, deſ- maladies des quels les pere & mere iamais n'en ont eſté malades : & d'autres n'en eſtre aucunement affligez, & tou- pºre & º*- tesfois leur pere & mereen eſtoient grandement tourmentez laquelle choſe ſe fait par la bonté de la ſemen- * ººpaſſent ce de la femme, & par la bonne temperature de la matrice d'icelle,corrigeant l'intemperature de la ſemence ºſº* virile : tout ainſi que celle de l'homme peut corriger celle de la femme : comme on void ſouuent par expe- enfans. rience des enfans n'eſtre point gouteux, lepreux, teigneux, epileptiques, encore que leur pere ou mere fuſ- ſent ſubjects à telle maladie. laquelle correction ſi elle defaut au pere ou à la mere, les enfans ne peuuent échaper qu'ils ne ſoient ſubiects auſdites maladiestleſquelles ne ſe peuuent parfaitement curer,quelque dili- la ſemence gence qu'on y puiſſe faire. parquoy on ne doit (comme nousauons dit) calomnier la medecine ny la chi- ſºººººº rurgie, my moins les droges de fapothicaire : parce que la ſemence ſuit la complexion & temperament de ºment de celuy qui engendre,en ſorte qu'vn homme & vne femme bien temperez produiront vne ſemence bien com- #º " plexionnée.au contraire,s'ils ſont intemperez,produiront vne ſemence mal-complexionnée, & non propre #endre. pour engendrer,vn enfant mal-complexionné,comme deduit auicenne. parquoy celuy qui ſera gouteux,s'il autcenne. - - - - ,* - - - - liu. .ſen. fait vn enfant, à grand peine pourra-il euader qu'il ne ſoit gouteux, ſi ce n'eſt par la rectification de la ſe- | tratété . mence de la mere ou du pere,ainſi qu'auons declaré.la ſeconde cauſe vient des ſuperfuitez de noſtre corps, c chap. . qui s'alterent & ſe conuertiſſent en cét humeur virulente. or ſes ſuperfiuitez produite parvne grande plenis tude,ou obſtruction des vaiſſeaux(qui ſe fait principalemét par la mauuaiſe maniere de viure.& & pour auoir crapule & beu de vins forts)font eſleuer au cerueau pluſieurs vapeurs,qui rempliſſent la teſte:puis les mem- branes,nerfs, & tendons,en ſont rendus laxes & imbecilles,& par conſequent lcs jointures.auſſi cela aduiét pour auoir mangé pluſieurs & diuerſes viandes à chacun repas, en trop grande quantité:leſquelles engen- drent vne cacochymie.auſſi dormir trop apres le repas,& longuement,& prendre peud'exercice,telles cho- crudité.me- ſes corrompent la faculté digeſtiue. car lors qu'elle defaut, s'enſuiuent cruditez, obſtructions & ſeroſitez, re des goutes. qui tombent ſur les jointures : leſquelles ſur toutes autres parties, ſont debiles naturellement,ou par acci- dent:naturellement,comme en ceux qui les ont des leur premiere generation laxes & foibles: par accident, comme en ceux qui ont beaucoup cheminé à pied,ou ſe ſont tenu debout,ou ont enduré le froid: pource que par la longue inréperature,lesiointures ſont rendues imbeciles auſſi cela peut aduenir par cheute,ou coups i., loin .. ººpººººººº eſte eſtendu ſur la geſue,ou pour auoir enduré l'eſtrapade: pareillement a ceux qui ſont exceſ- gal. au . cifs au coit, & principalement toſt apres le repas, d'autant que tout le corps eſt refrigeré,parce que la cha- liure deſemi. leur naturelle s'amoindrit,pour la grande quantité d'eſprits qui ſont iettez au coit,& que la faculté digeſtiue '- · en eſt affoiblie:& partant s'engendrent cruditez ſereuſes, qui defluent ſur les jointures,à cauſe deſquelles,& auſſi de ladite refrigeration, leſdites jointures ſont debilité , qui eſt cauſe des goutes. or veu que ladite faculté digcſtiue de faut aux vieilles gens, il ne ſe faut émerueiller s'ils ſont gouteux. outre-plus, les eua- cuations accouſtumces retenues, comme le vomiſſement, flux menſtruel, hemoroidal , flux de ventre, & autres, ſouucnt font cauſe de la goute: partant les femmes ne ſont ſuiettes aux gouttes,pendant qu'elles ont ** leurs flux, mais bien apres l'auoir perdu. ce que dit hippocrate : parce que les ſuperfluitez ſont retenues, leſquelles auoient accouſtumé de ſe purger. dauantage, ceux à qui quelques vieux vlceres ou fiſtules au- ront coulé par longues années,& puis ſont cloſes & conſolidées,s'ils ne tiennent apres bon regime,& ne ſe purgent parfois, ſont en danger d'eſtre gouteux:comme au contraire,les varices des cuiſſes & iambes, & les hemorrhoides,flux dyfenterique,& vieux vlceres, empeſchent ja generation des goutes. plus, ceux qui releuent de quelque grande maladie, leſquels n'ont point eſté bien purgez par medecine, ou par nature, | ſouuent deuicnnent geuteux:ceux qui ont le cerueau fort froid & humide, ſont pareillement ſujets aux cauſº pri goutes. or pour conclurre en peu de paroles;les cauſes manifeſtes de cette maladie ſont,mauuaiſe maniere zwiºiues des ie viure, qui engendre cruditez & ſeroſitez,le coit ſuperflu, cheminer trop haſtiuement,ou plus longuement ** • que nature ne le peut porter, demeurer trop longuement debout, equitations de trop longue durée,euacua- tions accouſtumées retenues,le vice de parens,lequel les enfans ſont contraints de ſentir, quaſi par droit he- cauſes in- reditaire.quand aux cauſes internes entre les principales ſont redondance des humeurs crus,& l'amplitude ººrºº- .. des vaifſeaux, la force des principales parties mandantes, & 'imbecilité des receuantes, auec laxe capacité º º des conduits & inanitez d'icelles,& la ſituation inferieure de la partie affligée. or le ieune chirurgien doit ºº * ſranoir qu'il y a quatre facultez naturelles, parleſquelles les plantes & animaux ſegouuernent.la premie- ft/ef. re eſt celle qui attire l'aliment : ſeconde, qui le retient : la tierce qui le change & digere : la quatre , qui reiette le ſuperflu, parce qu'il peche en quantité ou en qualité, ou en tous les deux enſemble: auſſi le virus & les humeurs ſont iettez par la vertu expultrice aux jointures. quand à ce que ledit humeur s'arreſte pluſtoſt cauſes de l'imbecil'lité aphor. liure é. - #t : pº #. d, # l: d, (( it p. ſl, # | des c_ioutes. ". pluſtoſt aux iointures qu'aux parties muſculeuſes; cela ſe fait, pource que les iointures ſont exengues & #ºurrºy froides, c'eſt à dire, auec vn peu de ſang, & de ſubſtance denſe & ſerrée, & que les parties qui ſont entre ººº icelles ſont charneuſes, laxes & molles, & la grande aſtriction du cuir ( qui eſt ordinairement aux vieux * arr«ſle pl» pour la ſiccité) fait que la tranſpiration eſt empeſchée, les ſuperfiuitez retenues : dont ſouuent s'enſuit la ſt oſt auxoin. goute, ou quelque grand prurit par tout le corps, ou grattelles, ou rongnes , & leurs vrines acres. or la # qu aux douleur qui ſe fait en cette maladie, vient par lacrimonie de la qualité virulente, quelquesfois toute ſeule ties es par- ſans nulle autre humeur: & auſſi le plus ſouuent la douleur faite du virus, eſt cauſe d'attirer des eſprits fia- " tueux, & humeurs ia preparez à fiuer, comme le ſang : alors la fluxion ſera phlegmoneuſe : ſi c'eſt la cho- lere, eryſipelateuſe : ſi c'eſt le phlegme, œdemateuſe : ſi c'eſt l'humeur melencholic, ſcirrheuſe. et s'il y a deux humeurs meſlez enſembles, la denomination ſe prendra de celuy qui ſera en plus grande quantité, comme ſi le ſang domine la cholere, on pourra dire phlemon eryſipelateux : au contraire, ſi c'eſt la chole- re, ſera nommé eryſipelas phlegmoneux : & ainſi les autres humeurs. et cette matiere virulente accom- pagnée des humeurs & eſprits flateux, eſtans aux jointures, les remplit & fait diſtention aux parties,com- me membranes, appeneuroſes, tendons, & autres parties qui lient les jointures. de l'origine de la defluxion des goutes. c h a p. v. 'o r g n e de la defluxion & matiere des goutes vient du cerueau, ou du foye. lors qu'elle vient du cerueau, on peut dire que c'eſt la pituite ſereuſe, claire & ſubtile,telle qu'on void le plus ſouuent diſtiller & couler par le nez & par la bouche, accompagnee de virus in- dicible, laquelle difflué par les tuniques des nerfs & tendons par deſſous le cuir muſculeux, qui couure le crane, & par dedans le grand trou, par lequel la nuque paſſe, & telle fluxion eſt touſiours froide. lors qu'elle vient du foye, elle court & fluë par les veines, & arteres chargées d'abon- dance d'humeurs , qu'elles ne peuuent pour la quantité, ou pour la qualité vicieuſe. et peut on lors dire quece ſont les quatre humeurs contenus en la maſſe ſanguinaire, ſimples ou compoſez, accompagnez pa- reillement du virus arthritique : & ſont pluftoſt chauds que froids, au contraire de ce qui aduient lors que la fluxion ſe fait du cerueau. or cette matiere, de laquelle ſont faites les goutes que nous auons mainte- nant declarées, eft la fluxion qui ſe fait des autres parties : outre laquelle il y a vne autre cauſe appellée d congeſtion : à ſçauoir, quand quelque partie ne peut faire concoction de ce qui luy eſt baillé par nature # pour ſa nourriture. et quant à moy il me ſemble ( ſauf meilleur iugement que le mien ) que la matiere arthritique virulente des goutes eſt en la maſſe ſanguinaire, voire en toute l'habitude du corps : & que cette ſeroſité § * virulente ſe meut par certaines cauſes, qu'auons cy-deſſus mentionnées. encore outre ces raiſons naturel- diſtinction les, il y a quelque choſe qu'on ne peut expliquer, ainſi qu'à l'epylepſie, fiévre quarte,& à vne infinité d'au- de lo ſource tres maladies : ce qu'hiopocrate a dit au liure premier des prognoſtiques , qu'aux maladies il y a quelque arthriti- choſe de diuin. - - mê . n, q — —— r les ſignes que lafluxion vient du cerueau. ch a p. v i. e s malades, lors que la fiuxion ſe veut faire, ſe ſentent appeſantis , endormis & hebetez, auec auant.emu- grand ſentimêt de douleurs aux parties externes de la teſte,& principalemét quand on leur ren-reurs de flu- uerſe leurs cheueux ſouuétesfois on leur trouue vne tumeur œdemateuſe au cuir qui couure le xion arthri- - à crane:& leur femble qu'ils ayent changé leur nature à vne autre preſque toute eſtrange,de ſorte que du cer- qu'il leur eſt aduis qu'ils ne ſont plus eux-meſmes, pource que la virulence de la matiere a renuerſé & ueau. changé les fonctions, & toute l'œconomie du corps. auſſi ils ſentent grandes cruditez en l'eſtomach, & routemens aigres. et meſme l'humeur qui cauſe la migraine , a ſimilitude pour ſa malice & virulences à diſtinction celuy qui cauſe les goutes : laquelle, pource qu'alors elle communique ſa douleur à toute la moitié de la # # §- teſte, a eſté appellée des anciens hemicrania. a aucuns la fluxion deſcend du cerueau entre cuir & chair # # #. aux jointures, voire iuſques à celle des doigts des pieds, & telle defluxion procede lentement,au contraire meurartbri- de l'humeur qui eſt chaud, duquel la fiuxion ſe fait promptement, & auec ſentiment de douleur. tique. les ſignes que lafluxion vient du foye,& de la maſſe ſanguinaire ... ch a p. vii. # e s malades ſentent chaleur au foye, & aux parties interieures de leurs corps, & ſont commu- # nément de temperature ſanguine & cholerique, ayans les veines larges & groſſes : joint que la fluxion ſe fait promptement : dont ſe fait fluxion de ſang , & de la cholere auec les autres hu- meurs. mais quelquesfois le ſang peut degenerer de ſa qualité chaude, & deuenir pituiteux & ſereux par multiplication des cruditez, & autres choſes qui cauſent & engendrent la pituite : & alors peut ºº aduenir, que la maſſe ſanguinaire, comme du cerueau, tombe & découle ſur les jointures, vn humeur pi- ſang de gene tuiteux auecque le virus : tout ainſi que ſi l'humeur melancholique eſt en grande abondance, il y peut auſſi # aquoſi- découler : ce que toutesfois eſt rare, comme nous demonſtrerons en ſon lieu : partant pour mieux diſtin- " guer la difference deſdits humeurs, nous les deſcrirons particulierement. ， les ſignes pourconnoiſtre quel humeur accompagne le virus arthritique .. c h a p. viii. r e m e r e m e n t, pour connoiſtre ſi le ſang domine, faut conſiderer l'aage, comme la ieuneſſe du malade, ſa temperature ſanguine, le temps de l'année, qui eſt le printemps, la re- gion temperée : auſſi s'il a vſé de maniere de viure, chaude & humide, & multipliant le ſang: & qu'au matin la douleur eſt plus grande & plus pulſatiue & tenſiue, auec vne peſanteur, & signes dº * la couleur de la partie rouge & vermeille : joint qu'il y a grande tumeur, non-ſeulement des ſang abon- veines, mais de toute la partie malade : & yagrande diſtention en la partie, tellement qu'il ſemble qu'elle " ſe rompt. les vrines ſont rouges & eſpaiſſes · dauantage , ils ne peuuent endurer application des reme- , des chauds, ains par l'application d'iceux, la douleur s'aigrit dauantage. plus, les exacerbations ou l n n cccz, le lvix-nuiciieiile liuie, leſang a ſes accés, ſelfont & repetent tous les iours, & principalement au matin. de toutes ces choſes tu peux con- a paroxiſmes clure que le ſang domine. le matin. - les ſgwes de la cholere . c h a p. i x. vrg v s s les ſignes de la cholere ſont, que la couleur de la partie ſera trouuée blaffarde,auec # d'e. ſ # grande chaleur ignée, & peu de tumeur, douleur poignante, & extremement aiguë : & le rj ſtpetas. º malade ſent pluſtoſt chaleur, que diſtenſion & peſanteur : & combien que la partie appa- roiſſe rouge, toutesfois elle tend plus à citrinité, c'eſt à dire couleur jaunaſtre, qu'à la # couleur ſanguine : & ſi elle eſt preſſée du doigt, le ſang cholerique (à cauſe qu'il eſtfort ^ ſubtil ) fuit facilement, puis ſubit retourne, & reuient plus rougeaſtie qu'auparauant. car deuant qu'on comprimaſt la partie, l'humeur plus vicieux & flaue occupoit la ſuperficie du cuir, & par la compreſſion du doigt, le ſang qui eſtoit caché ſous le cuir , fait monſtre & parade de ſoy,juſques à ce que l'effect de la compreſſion ceſſe, l'humeur bilieux retourne en ſon premier lieu, dont iceluy apparoiſt plus blaffard, qu'en vn phlegmon fait de ſang pur, comme nous auons dit joint que la partie eſt plus aidée par º ººº medicamens refrigerans & humectatifs,que par ceux qui eſchauffent & ſeichent.le patient a le pouls fort, ment de l hu. viſte & frequent, & eſt de temperament cholerique.auſſi la douleur ſera trouuée plus grande ſur le midy, ºº juſques à quatre heure du iour, qu'à autres heures,parce que la cholere ſe meut en tel temps'dauantage, que. les patiens ont des exacerbations, c'eſt à dire , renouuellement de douleur de trois iours en trois iours, comme on void aux fiévres tierces.auſſi la chaleur du temps donne indice, comme l'eſté. outre plus la qualité des viandes eſt à conſiderer, comme ſi le malade a vſé de viandes, qui multiplient & engendrent la b cholere, ſes vrines ſeront trouuées fort ſubtilles, & de couleur citrine, & quelquesfois tellement acres, qu'elles offenſent le conduit vrinal. - —- —- — signe de l'humeur pituiteux c h a p. x. )uelle eſpere |)ſ# 'h v m e v r pituiteux, qui cauſe les goutes, eſt ſereux, & quaſi touſiours ſemblable à celuy de pituite $ qu'on void diſtiller du cerueau en temps froid, par le nez, comme auons dit. lors qu'il de- fait la gouts # flue ſur quelque jointure, il faut qu'elle apparoiſſe enfiée, & de la couleur du cuir : & ne pituiteuſe. ( differe grandement en couleur de la partie faine,c'eſt à dire,qu'ellen'eſtny rouge ny chaude, mais on ſent froideur au ſens du tact : & l'application des choſes froides nuit grandement au patient, mais les chaudes luy ſont profitables. or pour engendrer tel humeur la vieilleſſe y fait beaucoup, & auſſi le temperament froid & humide, & l'air ambiens de meſme ; pareillement le temps d'hyuer, l'oy- - - ... - ſiueté, les viandes froides & humides, fruicts, legumes, & generalement toutes choſes qui engendrent la #º piº º pituite : & la douleur eſt en temps d'hyuer, plus grande la nuict que le iour, pource que la pituite a ſes ſºº exacerbations ou mouuemnens,tous les iours & principalement la nuict.la tumeur ſera trouuee molle, en #" laquelle apres auoir preſſé du doigt deſſus, le foſſe y demeure quelque temps apres, comme on voidaux - œdemes. les vrines ſeront trouuées crues & eſpeſſes, & de couleur blancheaſtre, comme toutes les auttes - . ſuperfiuitez phlegmatiques,mucqueuſes,& glaireuſes.si la pituite eſt ſalée,le patient ſentira vn grand pru- ºg*º pº rit, & mordacité en la partie. le pouls au toucher ſera trouué mol, lent, & diuers.auſſi on prend garde "ſ* que le malade n'a fait exercice.et cet humeur cauſe le plus ſouuent les goutes, principalement quand ileſt cru : & pour abreger, d'autant que les ſuſdits humeurs ſeront eſloignez de leurs temperamens, & auront acquis vne qualité acre & vitulente, d'autant auſſi en ſeront les douleurs & accidents plus grands. —- signes de l'humeur melancholique , ch a p. xi. # n la partie y aura peu de tumeur & douleur, & ſera comme endormie en ſentiment de peſan- cauſes qui # teur. la couleur ſera aucunement liuide & plombine , le plus ſouuent on ſent la partie froide, amaſſent - i'humeur me. % quand on la touche. auſſi peut eſtre que le malade eſt de temperature melancholique , & atte- lancholique. nué : pareillement qu'il aura vſé de viandes qui multiplient l'humeur melancholique. la cauſe auſſi de tel humeur eſt la region froide & ſeiche, & les alimens qui engendrent ſuc melancholique : auſſi la triſteſſe, le temps d'automne, ou d'hyuer, & l'aage qui eſt vers la vieilleſſe. le pouls ſera trouué dur, le temps du tenſif, & petit. le patient aura peu d'appetit de boire & manger. les vrines le plus ſouuent au commence- , ouu en ment ſont tenues & aqueuſes, à cauſe des abſtructions, & apres plus noires qu'elles ne doiuent eſtre ſelon de l'humeur nature & moyennement craſſes. la reſidence eſt quelquesfois meſlée de matiere cruente & fuſque. les melancholi- exacerbations ſeront de quatre iours en quatre iours, & la douleur ſera trouuée plus grande apres midy, d que, vers le ſoir, qu'à autre heure du iour, à cauſe que le mouuement de l'humeur melancholique eſt tel, ce qu'on void aux fiévres quartes,qui ſont faites de tel humeur.or pluſieurs eſtiment que les goutes ne s'en- gendrent d'humeur melancholique , à cauſe de ſa ſubſtance groſſe & terreſtre, qui à peine peutfiuer aux jointures:ce que ie concede, s'il eſtoit ſeul : mais eſtant accompagné du virus predict, peut fiuer aux jointures. pregnoſtic. ch a p. x ii. la goute eſt $ , e s anciens medecins nous ont laiſſé par eſerit, que les maladies des jointures ſont trou- acc，pagnée \ l uées entre les plus griefs maux, & tourmens preſque inſuportables, tellement que quel- de dculeur quesfois les malades perdent le ſens & entendement , & deſirent plus la mort que la vie. inſupporta- n les goutes tiennent leur periode & paroxiſme du virus, & des humeurs dont elles ſont ble. s faites ; elles viennent volontiers au printemps & en automne, comme nous auons par cy- hipp.liu.é. deuant declaré. et ceux qui ſont vexez de goutes naturelles, c'eſt à dire, qui les ont hereditaires, ne aphor. . gueriſſent iamais parfaictement, ou bien rarement. lors auſſi que les nœuds, ou nodoſitez ſont aux join- ººº ºº- tures, ils ne ſe peuuent parfaictement curer, principalement ſi la matiere eſt gypſée, parce qu'elle ne ſe rables. peut reſoudre , & encores moins ſuppurer. les goutes faites de matiere pituiteuſe & froide, ne ſont pas tant douloureuſes, que celles qui ſont faites de matiere chaude, comme de ſaog ou de º# lllll » ,º l_wcs \ ioulucs. | auſſi elles ne ſont ſi toſt curées parce que les chaudes ſont pluſtoſt digerées & reſoluës,à cauſe de leurcha- leur & ſubſtilité. car les froides durent le plus ſouuent quarante iours ou plus, à cauſe que la matie.e t gal. au groſſe & eſpeſſe : quelquesfois pluſtoſt, & quelquesfois plus tard, ſelon que le malade tiendra bon regime, con - ſa & qu'il ſera bien pcnsé du medeciu & chirurgien. auſſi d'autant plus que la partie, où s'eſt faite la fluxion, . ap». de eſt eſpeſſe,comme la jointure du genoüil,ou fous le talon,ou en lieu profond,comme à la hanche,& qu'elle la «.jcct. a la vertu expultrice imbecille, le mal eſt plus long à guarir, que quand le contraire ſe fait. celles qui font chaudes, durent quatorze iours, & bien ſouuent vingt, ou plus,quelque diligence qu'on y ſçache faire. les goutes qui ſont cauſées d'humeurs gros & viſqueux, ne font pareillement grande douleur, & ne ſont auſſi toft guaries. celles qui ſont faites d'humeurs chauds & choleriques, ſont tres-douloureuſes, & mettent quelquesfois le patient en deſeſpoir, & cauſent à aucuns paralyſie, & difficulté de reſpirer, perturbation d'eſprit, gangrene & mortification en la partie,& par conſequent la mort.entre toutes les douleurs arthri- tiques, la ſciatique emporte le prix, pour eſtre plus douloureuſe, & cauſer plus grands accidens, comme fiévre, inquietude, luxation, & claudication perpetuelle, emaciation, ou amaigriſſement de toute la cuiſſe & de la jambe,& quelquesfois de tout le corps. la cauſe de la claudication & de l'emaciation eſt,que l'hu- cauſe de l meur aura jetté l'os femoris hors de ſa boëtte & lieu naturel : lequel eſtant hors,preſſe les muſcles,veines, § arteres, & le gros nerfqui deſcend le long de la cuiſſe, juſqu'à l'extremité des orteils, pour ſe diſtribuer aux goutes aux muſcles : au moyen dequoy les eſprits ne peuuent reluire aux parties iuferieures , & par conſequent ſe ſciatiques. tabefient,& deuiennént conſommées & amaigries : dont le pauure gouteux demeure apres claudicant tout le long de ſavie.or pluſieurs demeurent claudicans, combien qu'ils n'ayent luxation : qui ſe fait à cauſe de l'humeur glaireux, propre tant pour la nourriture des jointures, que pour les lubrifier & les rendres plus , faciles à mouuoir, qui s'endurcit par la chaleur eſtrange : & pareillement parce qu'il n'eſt ſubtilié par le autre cauſe mouuement quiauoit accouſtuméd'eſtre fait; & les autres humeurs,qui ſont defiuez en plus grande quan #" tite,que la partie n'a peu digerer,& aſſimiler en ſa ſubſtance, par congeſtion ſont demeurez impactes & en- f / .. durcies,qui fait que le mouuement ne peut eſtre fait & accomply.dauantage, la goute cauſée de matiere groſſe & viſqueuſe,defluant ſur vne partie,ſouuent rend les membres courbez & tortus, juſques à jetter les os hors de leurs propres jointures : ce que l'on void,non-ſeulement és grandes jointures,mais és doigts des mains & des pieds, leſquels par vne goute noüée ſont quelquesfois jettez aux jointures, au moyen dequoy ils deuiennent tout crochus : & principalement,quand l'humeur tombe en grande abondance,rend la partie languide & atrophiée,c'eſt à dire,conſumée,aride & ſeiche,& ſon action deprauée,& ſouuent du tout per- due.car toute intemperature qui demeure longuement ſur vne partie, diminue la force & vertu d'icelle,& aecid.as par conſequent ſon action,comme nous auons dit cy-deſſus. lors que le virus cauſant les goutes,n'eſt ſelon §i du ſon cours ordinaire,& paroxiſme accouſtumé,jetté aux jointures(par l'imbecilité de la vertu expulſiue) il cours d hu- cauſe maladies cruelles,grandes & mortelles. car quand il arriue en la ſubſiſtance du foye,il excite inflam- meur arthri- mation d'iceluy:s'il demeure aux grandes veines,il engendre vne fiévre continue : & s'il tombe ſur la mam- tique ſuppri. brane qui couure les coſtes,il cauſera vne pleureſie:s'il demeure & s'attache aux inteſtins,ſera cauſe de faire mé. vne colique,ou iliaque paſſion,auec tres-grande douleur:& ainſi ſur les autres parties fait accidens diuers. ce qu'on void, en ce qu'aucuns gouteux deuiennent paralytiques,à cauſe que la matiere des goutes bouche les poroſitez des nerfs; de ſorte que l'eſpritanimal n'y peut reluire : parquoy la partie demeure ummobile, & reſolue. les vieillards ne peuuent iamais eſtre deliurez de leurs goutes,parce que leur ſang,& toute leur les vieil- maſſe ſanguinaire eſt alterée, & ne peut eſtre rectifiée, non-plus qu'vn vin bas,& deuenu aigre. les goutes lards ne fº* qui viennent promptement, procedent d'intemperature chaude, & ſouuent ſans matiere : qui ſe connoiſt, **ſº parce qu'il n'y a aucune tumeur apparente a la partie, ny au dehors,ny au dedans des jointures : & ſent-on º * apertement par le toucher la partie fort chaude, & le patient ſe ſent allegé par remedes froids, ainſi que ** nous auons dit. au contraire la fluxion faite de matiere froide découle lentement quelquesfois au fort de l'hyuer, pour la grande froidure, qui bleſſe les parties nerueuſes, & comprime les humeurs, les chaſſant aux jointures. pareillement aucuns en ſont vexez au fort de l'eſté, pour la grande chaleur, qui liquefie & fond les humeurs,dilate les conduits,& parties nerueuſes & membrrneuſes. or elles peuuent venir en tout temps de l'année, pource que les gouteux ſe dcbauchent , & ne tiennent reigle en leur maniere de viure: toutesfois elles reuiennent pluſtoſt au printemps, & en automne, comme nous demonſtrerons cy-apres. dauantage, les gouteux prognoſtiquent ordinairement le changement de temps, comme pluye,neige ou quelque autre temps nubileux : tellement qu'ils portent auec eux vn almanach qui leur ſert toute leur vie,à prognoſtiquäé cauſe de l'air gros & vaporeux que le vent auſtral,ou de midy ameine & códuit,qui remplit les corps d'hu-'le b# miditez, & eſmeut interieurement les humeurs, & les agite : & lors qu'ils ſont ainſi eſmeus, ſe fait nouuelle de temp,. fluxion ſur les parties imbeciles,& principalement ſur les jointures, qui ſont peu charneufes,& exangues,ou priuées de ſang,& par conſequent de chaleur naturelle : & parce auſſi qu'elles ont eſté malades,affligées & debilitées de long-téps,non-ſeulemét en leur propre harmonie,mais auſſi en leur propre ſubſtâce:& partât les pauures gouteux au changement du temps,& lors qu'il veut pleuuoir, leurs douleurs leur viennent, & les tourmentent plus aigrement. il y a aucun gouteux qui deſirent grandement le coit pendant leurs douleurs, parce qu'il ſentent vne grande chaleur eſtrange au dedans du corps,laquelle ne ſe reſout & diſſipe point en deſirent le exhalations,comme l'ardeur febrile : mais font fondre l'humidité ſeminale, qui courant aual vers les parties §. genitales,les fait enfler & én orgueillir. ce que nous voyons meſme tous les iours aducnir aux mulets deſ- -- chargez,& aux cheuaux de poſte rendus en l'eſtable,apres auoir couru vn long chemin. toutesfois tel acte - aux gouteux eſt bien contrairc,à cauſe que par le coit(comme nous auons dit)les eſprits, & chaleur natu- s relle ſe reſoluent, dont la chaleur eſtrange s'augmente, & quant & quant leurs douleurs. parquoy je leur - conſeille qu'ils s'en gardent s'ils le peuuent faire,& s'ils ſont ſages, & principalement ceux qui rc ſont pas mariez.les anciens medecins,& ceux de noſtre temps,ont tenu que cette maladie eſtoit incurable:toutesfois - on en a veu guarir,principalement celle qui n'eſt pas hereditaire, ou inueterée, ſi le malade veut tenir bon regime,&n'eſtre ſujet à ſes plaiſirs.les riches ſont plus ſouuenttourmentez degoute,que les pauºs parce z, cont. qu'ils ne trauaillent pas,& qu'ils mangent beaucoup,& de diuerſes viandes en tous leurs repas, & boiuent vient pluſtoſ# d'autant & immoderément,& trop ſouuent joüent aux dames rabatues.auſſi on a veu des riches(leurs biens aux riches confiſquez ) retourner à la table des pauures, & faiſans exercice, auoir eſté guaris d'icelles, qui auparauant qu'aux pau- les vexoient beaucoup. et de fait,on void raremement les pauures laboureurs & artiſans auoir les goutes. ures. parquoy ceux qui ſe veulent deliurer des goutes, faut qu'ils mangent peu , & vfent de viandes qui engen- drent le bon ſuc : qu'ils s'exercent moderément,& laiſſent l'vſage du vin & des femmes, ou pour le moins qu'ils en vſent moderément, & auſſi qu'ils vomiſſent & ſe purgent par l'ordonnance du docte vie decin. hippocrate dit que les enfans ne ſont gouteux auant qu'ils vſent du coit:toutesfois on void aucuns chaſtrez eſtregouteux,principalemét ceux qui viuent en oyſiueté,& ne trauaillent point, comme les ſedentaires, & crapuleux:qui cauſe qu'ils amaſſent cruditez cn leurs corps,& humeurs malins & ſuperflus, qui cauſent les - goutes. les gouteiix les gouteax hitp. ath ;. linr é. o lc lv x-ilullci cii c llulic, aphºr. - goutes. semblablement les femmes ne ſont point gouteuſes pendant qu'elles ont leurs mois : car par iceux a ſeä. . trois cauſes tenerales des . gontes. pluſieurs ont eſté guaris pour auoir laiſſé le vin ér les fem- ºf. rečtitude, des filamens. $aignée par- ticuliere. pourquoy il ne faut ſai- gner ſouuent cr temerai- fe/ enf, aphor. • liure . pourquoy les goutes ont leur paroxiſ. me en au- f w n '. pourquoy au printemps. ze vomiſſ- ment eſt ap- pouué des anciens aux g mteux. grande anº nºtatiºns, tout leur corps ſe purge : au contraire lors qu'ils ſont trop toſt retenus, beaucoup de matiere & humeurs s'amaſſent en leurs corps, qui le plus ſouuent leur cauſent les gouttes. •- - — cure preſeruatiue & curatiue des goutes. c h a p. xi i i. e v a n t toutes choſes, il faut derechef diſtinguer toutes les cauſes & la diuerſité de leur origine, afin de diuerſifier les medicamens ſelon la nature de l'humeur pechant en quantité, ou en qualité, afin de les guarir par leur contraire. or il y a trois cauſes en general, comme nous auons dit, qui font les goutes. la premiere qui vient par heritage, de pere en fils. la ſeconde, par le vice & alteration des humeurs. la tierce , de la foibleſſe & imbecilité des iointures. et pour contrarier à telles choſes, il faut auoir double indication, à ſçauoir euacuation & alte- ration des humeurs ſuperabondans, & la fortification & roboration des iointures debiles. or telles choſes ſe feront par bon regime, purgation, ſaignée, & en prouoquant les hemorroïdes, vomiſſemens, ſueurs & vrines, & autres ſelon qu'on verra eſtre neceſſaire, & par application des remedes locaux. les remedes qui ſeruent à la preſeruation des gouttes, ſeruent auſſi à la curation, tant curatique, que palliatique. il eſt donc neceſſaire de contrarier aux cauſes qui font les goutes, comme à l'vſage iummoderé duvin, & de l'acte venerien, & l'oiſiueté, au dormir toſt apres le repas, & autres choſes qu'auons eſcrit aux cauſes. lors que le malade connoiſtra le temps approcher, auquel les goutes le doiuent prendre, il tiendra bonregime, & ſe purgera : & ſi la douleur prouient du ſang, il ſe fera ſaigner ( s'il n'y a choſe qui l'empeſche ) de la partie contraire, pour faire euacuation & reuulſion. exemple : si les parties ſuperieures ſont enflammées, on ti- rera du ſang des parties inferieures : au contraire ſi les parties inferieures ſont enflammées, on ſaignera les ſuperieures, en gardant la rectitude des filamens : comme ſi c'eſt le bras droit, on ouurira la veine de la iambe droite : & fi c'eſt le bras ſeneſtre, on ſaignera la iambe ſeneſtre : & ſera tiré du ſangen telle quantité qu'il ſera beſoin. et apres auoir ainſi fait la ſaignée vniuerſelle , & que pour cela la douleur & inflamma- tion continuaſſent, alors on fera apertion de la veine la plus proche de la douleur : ce que i'ay par plufieurs fois fait, auec bonne & heureuſſe iſſue. ce que commande hippocrate en la ſentence . de la . ſection,ſur le . liure des epidemies , qui dit, qu'aux douleurs il faut euacuer & tirer de la partie prochaine & malade par ſection & vſtion, qui eſt vn ſouuerain remede. or ie ſeray touſiours d'aduis, que pour ſaigner & pur- ger, on prenne le conſeil du docte medecin , parce qui ne faut pas touſiours tirer du ſang tous les ans aux gouteux, s'il n'eſt bien neceſſaire. car auecques le ſang, l'eſprit vital ſe perd, les forces s'affoibliſſent, & le corps ſe refroidit : par ainſi on abbregeroit la vie du pauure gouteux. dauantage la ſaignée ne profite à ceux qui ſont continuellement affligez des goutes, & qui ont le corps imbecile & froid, & à qui la pituite ſeule domine. auſſi les purgations ſont quelquesfois neceſſaires, mais où elles ſeroient frequentes ſont dangereuſes. parquoy il vautmieux corriger le vice des humeurs par bon regime de viure que d'vſer tant ſouuent de ſaignée & purgations. dauantage ceux qui ſont § nerien, & qui ont beaucoup de cruditez, trouue peu d'aide de la ſaignée & pargation, pource que les hu- meurs crus n'obeiſſent aux medecines. et pour cette cauſe le plus ſouuent pluſieurs gouteux ne peuuent guarir, ny eſtre aydez paraucun remede, pour la grande intemperature, & crudité qu'ils ont en toute l'ha- bitude de leurs corps, & de l'alteration de la ſubſtance des parties affligées. or pour retourner à noſtre propos, le malade vſera de choſes refrigerantes, & euiter le vin, principale- ment s'il a les goutes chaudes,ou pour le moins y mettra beaucoup d'eau ſelon que ſon eſtomach le pourra ſouffrir. le temps principal auquel on ſe doit purger eſt le commencement du printemps, & d'automne, parce que les goutes ſont communément eſmeuës en ce temps-là, ſelon l'authorité d'hippocrate, & l'ex- perience car en automne elles ſont excitées, parce qu'en eſté la faculté concoctrice a eſté fort debilitée,à cauſe de l'air ambiens quiattire hors noſtre chaleur naturelle : ioint qu'en temps d'eſté, nous vſons volon- tiers de fruicts crus, qui engendrent grade quantité de cruditez, & corruption en la maſſe ſanguinaire, leſ- quels en automne (à cauſe de la froidure exterieure ) s'aſſemblent au dedans , puis montent à la teſte, & apres par leur grauité & peſanteur tombent aux iointures, leſquelles alors reçoiuent plus facilement la fiu- xion, pource que par la chaleur de l'eſté, s'eſt fait dilatation des conduits, & par l'intemperature inegale d'automne, les articles ſont fort debilitez. au printemps les humeurs s'eſmeuuent,pource que par la froi- dure d'hyuer, ils ont eſté ſerrez & comprimez au dedans du corps : & eſtans ſubtiliez & eſchauffez, au printemps il ſortent hors du centre, & courent aux iointures. parquoy il eſt beſoin en ce temps-là,purger & ſaigner les gouteux, ſi on void qu'il ſoit neceſſaire, comme nous auons dit, afin de vacuer les humeurs qui cauſent les goutes. car en ce temps les humeurs s'eſpandent, & ſont eſmeus & preparez à euacuation, par laquelle ſi on ne cure & garde de venir les douleurs arthritiques, pour le moins elles en ſeront beau- coup moindres. | d# romiſſement. c h a p. xiv. ，s o vs les anciens ont fort approuué le vomiſſement ſur toutes autres purgations, lors que ) % principalement la cauſe des goutes prouient du cerueau & de l'eſtomach. car par iceluy ! # ſe fait euacuation & diuerſion des humeurs pituiteux , ſereux, & choleriques, qui defluent hº() plus communément que les autes humeurs aux jointures. pareillement le vomiſſement *- ^ attenuë le phlegme gros & viſqueux contenu en l'eſtomach, & partant il eſt loüé, tant au commencement qu'à l'accroiſſement, eſtat & declinaiſon, & auſſi tant à la preſeruation, qu'à la curation des goutes, & deliure de pluſieurs autres maladies, & purge l'humeur virulent, comme nous monſtrerons au traicté de la peſte. tu prendras toutesfois garde , que le patient n'ait le thorax & cerueau debile : car en ce cas le vomiſſement ſeroit ſuſpect. et pour le regard de l'ordre & temps qu'il conuient vomir, ceux- là doiuent vomir auant le paſt, auſquels pour quelque exercice que ce ſoit , ou autre mouuement, les excremens fluent en l'eſtomach : au contraire doiuent vomir apres le paſt , ceux qui ont amaſſé grande quantité d'humeurs pituiteuſes. ie louë plus le vomiſſement apres la priſe des viandes, qu'à ieun : parce qu'il faut plus grand effort à ietter la pituite qui eſt contre les parois de l'eſtomach eſtant vuide, que lors qu'il eſt plein de viande : & par le vomiſſement qui eſt fait par force, y a danger qu'il ne ſe rompe quelque veine ou artere de la poictrine, ou des pulmons. dauantage, à ceux qui ont la poictrine eſtroite & le col long, en temps d'hyuer de vomiſſement eſt contraire, s'ils ne l'ont accouſtumé, & que nº† tcilc b s au manger, & boire , & l'exercice vc- . des goutes. . i a tendiſt à ſe deſcharger par telle voye,& faut que le patient vomiſſe de quinze iours en quinze iours,plus ou b moins,ſelon la repetition & vexation de la goute. or il me ſouuient auoir pensé en cette ville vn gentil- homme geneuois,lequel auoit vne extreme douleurà la iointure de l'eſpaule ſeneſtre, auec impotence de tout le bras,& auoit ja eſté traicté par pluſieurs medecins & chirurgiens, tant de lyon,que de cette ville: & me recita que pour luy oſter ſa douleur,il auoit eſté purgé,ſaigné, & auoir fait diette,tant par le gajac, que par l'eſpine & qu'on luy auoit fait pluſieurs applications ſur le lieu de ſa douleur, neantmoins e luv auoient toutes choſes rien ou peu profité.sur quoy luy demanday s'il n'auoit point eu la groſſe verole, à cauſe de ſa douleur qui eſtoit plus grande la nuict que le iour : parce que la cauſe eſtoit vne pituite & ma- tiere froide:il m'afferma que non : & ayant entendu tous les remedes qui luy auoient eſté faits , & ce par gens doctes,ne luy ſçauois qu'ordonner, fors que le vomiſſement. et m'ayant dit qu'il eſtoit difficile à vo- mir,ie luy conſeillay qu'il crapulaſt,& mangeaſt pluſieurs & diuerſes viandes au ſouper,auec oignons,por- reaux & ſemblables,& puis qu'il beuſtd'autant, & de diuers vins, à ſçauoir doux & aigre : pource que la grande quantité & diuerſité de viandes & de breuuage,eſt cauſe du vomiſſement, à raiſon qu'aucune, ſont cuites & pourries les vnes deuant les autres , & la grande quantité ne permet icelles eſtre digerées en l'e- ſtomach : dont s'enſuit qu'on vomit plus aisément. auſſi luy ordonnay qu'apres cela il ſe couchaſt aſſez toſt,& qu'à ſon premier reſueil il ſe prouoquaſt à vomir,mettant vne plume ou le doigt en la gorge, à fin que plus aisément il iettaſt auec ſa viande le phlegme gros, viſqueux , & ſereux , & qu'il fiſt cét exces par deux ou trois iours luiuans:pource qu'en ce faiſant(comme dit hippocrates)le ſecond & le tiers iour peu- uent pouſſer ce qui reſte du premier. et luy dis qu'il continuaſt ce vomiſſement vne fois ou deux le mois, & qu'il pri · ſt en ſa bouche & maſchaſt par fois du maſtic à ieun , a fin qu'il fiſt par ce moyen euacuation & diuerhon de l'humeur qu'il ſentoit,diſoit il, couler de la teſte ſur ſon eſpaule. semblablemeut qu'il frotaſt ſa nucque & ſon eſpaule d'eau de vie,en laquelle on auroit infusé roſmarin,lauande,clou de girofle,vn peu § zipareillement qu'il fiſt excercice mediocre de ſon bras.quelque temps apres ie le trouuay, & me dit qu'il auoit fait ce que ie luy auois conſeillé , & n'auoit lamais trouué meilleur moyen pour appaiſer ſa douleur & la perdre:& par ainſi fut du tout guary, s'aydant autant bien de ſon bras que iamais auoit fait. ceux qui ne veulent crapuler pour leur prouoquer le vomir, boiront bonne quantité d'eau en laquelle au- ront boüilly des raues,auecques demye once d'oxymel : toutesfois ne faut en faire couſtume : mais ſuſſira deux ou trois fois le mois , & quand le malade ſentira ſon eſtomach chargé, & que nature le ſtimule à ce faire. or maintenant il nous faut pourſuiure noſtre propos de la curation preſeruatiue. - --- c h a p. x v. , " e malade gouteux,pour garder que les humeurs ſereux & pituiteux ne courent aux jointures, vſera quelquesfois de choſes diuretiques pour les faire vuider par les vrines, comme ſont ra- cines d'ozeille,perſil,fenoüil,bruchus,aſperges,gramen,(autrement dit dent de chien)& leurs ſemblables leſquels fera boüillir au potage,& ſeront donné au malade. surquoy faut ſçauoir que quand le patient a grand flux d'vrines,& qu'elles ſont eſpeſſes, ſes douleurs ceſſent.auſſi aucuns des anciens commandent(ce que i'ay fait pluſieurs fois)faire des vlceres auec cauteres potentiels, & les tenir ouuerts, à fin de donner iſſue à euacuer le virus qui fait les goutes : pource que par telles ou- uertures le virus s'eſcoule. ainſi que voyons aux verolez, lors qu'ils ont vlceres qui coulent , ils ne ſen- tent,ſans comparaiſon,tant de douleur que lors qu'ils n'en ont point : ou auront eſté conſolidez ſans auoir oſté ledit virus par ſon alexitere,qui eſt le vif-argent, parce que par icelles ouuertures decoule & s'euacue portion duvirus verolique.tout ainſi aduient aux goutes lors qu'on leur aura fait des ouuertures : leſquel- les ſeront diuerſifiées ſelon la diuerſité des lieux par où ſe fait la fluxion. exemple. si la fluxion ſe fait du cerueau tombant ſur les os clauiculaires,l'ouuerture ſe fera par derriere le col:& ſi elle tombe ſur les ioin- tures des eſpaules,& aux couldes, ou ſur les mains , on appliquera les cauteres au deſſus des muſcles epo- mis:& ſi elle tombe à la hanche,ou aux genoüils , & aux pieds,ils ſeront appliquez trois doigts au deſſous des genoüils , partie interieure, pourueu que le patient n'euſt pas à faire grand exercice : pource qu'eſtant faite l'ouuerture en ce lieu, il ſe fera plus grande euacuation , à cauſe de la veine ſaphene qui eſt en telle partie. au contraire ſi c'eſt vn ieune homme auquel il ſoit neceſſaire de beaucoup trauailler & aller à che- ual,l'ouuerture ſe fera en la partie exterieure entre les deux fociles, à fin que l'eftriuiere & la ſelle du che- ual ne luy ſoit trop moleſte & douloureuſe. or telles ouuertures ſe feront par cauteres actuels ou poten- tiels,ſelon qu'on verra eſtre neceſſaire,& la volonté du malade. si on veut vſer de l'actuel , il ſera de figure d'vn triangle,trenchant & aigu,à fin que plus promptement il faſſe ſon operation , & à moins de douleur. dauantage,il ſe peut mettre vne piece de fer troüée ſur l'endroit où l'on veut appliquer le cautere,laquel- le ſeruira qu'il ne touche ſinon qu'au lieu eù l'on veut qu'il ſoit appliqué, comme nous auons dictau cha- pitre de l'aegilops.et ſera tenuë l'vlcere ouuerte,y mettant dedans vne petite balotte faite d'or ou d'argent, ou de racine d'iris,ou d'hermodactes,ou de linge ou de gentiane, ou de cire, auec laquelle on incorporera poudre de vitriol mercure,ou alum,de penr que l'vlcere ne ſe conſolide iuſques à la volonté du malade, & conſeil du medecin & chirurgien. dauantage il faut purger le cerueau(qui eſt le plus ſouuent la fontai- ne de ce mal)vne fois le mois,auec pillules cochées,& d'aſſajert en hyuer : & en eſté , de pillules ſine qui- bus,ou imperiales, deſquelles la doſe ſera vne dragme deuant la pleine lune, & le lendemain on prendra vn boüillon de pois ciches , auec racines aperitiues & diuretiques. l'vſage des diuretiques eſt bon, pour- ce qu'ils purgent les ſuperfluitez ſereuſes de la ſeconde & tierce digeſtion. on peut ſemblablement vſer d'autres pillules, qui ont vertu de purger l'humeur pituiteux & ſereux,comme celle-cy. # pillularum fœ- tidarum & de hormodact. an. . ß. miſce, & cum ſucco vel ſyrupo roſarum ſolutiuo formentur pillulz. z. aloes .iij agarici trochiſ. rhabarb. an. .j. maſſœ pillularum arthriticarum , & de hermo. an. .ij. dia- gredij. .j.cum melle roſato,fiat maſſa. deſquelles en ſera donné au malade vne dragme plus ou moins, ſelon ſa force & vertu. les remedes des purgatifs ſeront changez ſelon que le docte medecin verra eſtre beſoin à purger les humeurs ſuperflus qui cauſent les goutes : comme ſi la cholere en eſt cauſe, on vſe- ra de remedes cholagogues : & entre tous le catholicum eſt loüé , & les pillules communes. et apres pour roborer les parties interieures,on donnera demie dragme de theriaque, trois heures deuant le paſt. or il faut icy entendre, que pour purger le cerueau , les pillules ont eſté plus loüées des anciens, que les autres medecines liquides , a cauſe qu'elles demeurent plus longuement en l'eſtomach à faire leur opera- tion & par ce moyed elles attirent mieux du cerueau, & des parties lointaines , l'humeur qui doit eſtre deriué &euacuée par le ſiege.l'ay cogneu aucuns qui ont vsé de pillules auſquelles y entroit bonne quanti- - té - diuers remedes pour les gouteux. hifîoire , d'vn gene- ucis qui fer- dit vne dou- leur de gou- te far le vc- miſſement. meyen de fa- ciliter le vo- miſſement. hitp.au li. de ratione vict. vcmitoire. choſe digne d'eſtre notée en quel l'es il y aut faire ſ/jle'r / ffre pour lesgo#- fé . pillules prº- pres. l'vſage des diuretiques- pourquoy ;öt ordon nées les p llu les pour l e coru eau. i ; - le l)ix-huict éme l ure, té de ſcammonée,à ſçauoir , ſept ou huict grains pour vne priſe, leſquels apres iettoient grande quantité a_ # d'eau,& ſeroſitez:& pareillement auſdites pillules y entroit du gingembre » de peur qu'elles ne fiſient mal - à l' eſtomach or en tel cas,apres la priſe & operation , on baillera a manger au malade vn peu d'orge mun- dé, pource qu'il addouciſt & leniſt les parois de l'eſtomach , qui pourroit auoir eſté bleſſé deſdites pillu- les.et le lendemain on pourra pareillement bailler du theriaque la groſſeur d'vne féve ; lequel i]c conforte pas ſeulement la debilité de l'eſtomach,procedante des purgations , mais auſſi corrige le virus arthritique. il ne faut pareillement omettre,qu'apres le paſt faut vſer de dragées,de fenoüil,anis , & coriande , ou coti- gnac, ou conſerue de roſes , à fin de rabatre les fumées qui montent de l'eſtomach au cerueau. sembla- *ºfº ，lement on vſerà de parfums en temps humide,leſquels ſesont ainſi # thuris,vernicis & maſt.an. .j. · granor.iunip.bacc .lauri an. .ligni aloes .ijaſſa odoratæ .j É. conquaſſentur groſſo modo : & en ſoient parfumées eſtouppes de chanvre,ou cotton cardé , & ſoient posées chaudement ſur la teſte. dauantage, on pourra frotter la teſte du patient de cette poudre par l'eſpace de quinze iours, plus ou moins, à fin de toufiours deſſeicher les humiditez ſuperflués. .roſarum rubr.folior. ſenx ; ſtechados vtriuſque an.m. ſ$. milij. iiij.furfuris loti in vino albo iij.flor.camom melil.an.p.j.ſem. aniſi . j. ſalis comm. . ij ſoit faite poudre qu'on mettra en petits ſachets de toile, & les fera on eſchauffer dedans vne poëfle, & d'iceux on # # u: ( : | apo pkl eg- frottera la teſte au matin. on peut auſſi vſer des † qui † pulu.hierx ſimplicis .jagarici # matique. recenter trochiſcati & rhabarbari electi an. .ijmyrabo anorum,chelubarum f. tamarindorum .ij. cum - #º infuſione ſena fiat maſſa,& ex ea formentur pillulae vj. pro dragma , c piat duas ante cœnam octauo quo- #. que die. on peut dauantage prendre au matin,au temps de la fluxion, vne pilule de la compoſition ſuiuan b , # ， l'vſage du te,la tenant vn quart d'heure en la bouche,la maſchant & crachant continuellement ce qui aura eſté attiré l #ce theriaque eſt & deriué en la bouche. .cubebarum,nucis moſcatz,glycyrrhizx,anifi an. .j.pyrethri . ij. maſtiches, ra- * #t d · vtile contre dicis ſtaphiſagrix,eryngjan ij. toutes ces choſes ſoient puluerisées & meſlées enſemble, & en ſoit fait - #rn e virus der des petits nouets entre deux linges ou taffetas, & ſoient formées petites pillules de la groſſeur d'vne aue- - :::b goutes. leine.et pour obtundre la virulence de l'humeur qui cauſe les goutes,on doit prendre quelque peu de the- # riaque par interualle,auec de la conſerue de roſes,ou de fleurs de roſmarin,parce qu'il confomme vne par- #. tie des humeurs ſuperfius, & rectifie & obtund l'intemperature du virus arthritique , comme nous auons :: dit cy-deſſus. - sac - | it ! - z.li de la maniere de viure des gouteux. c h a p. xv i. - :ef axiome en l ne faut manger viandes ſur viandes,c'eſt à dire, que la digeſtion ne ſoit faite en l'eſtomach, # afedecine. de peur que le foye n'attire les cruditez par les veines meſaraiques, dont le nourriſſement -- - du corps demeure cru & inſalubre. et faut icy noter , que la ſeconde digeſtion ne corrige '- º ， # point la premiere,ny la tierce,la ſeconde. les viandes doiuent eſtre de bon ſuc & de facile di- les sº* % $ ， geſtion, & doiuent eſtre roſties pour les pituiteux : mais pour les ſanguins, choleriques, & #º#º" melancholiques,pluſtoſt boüillies que roſties. il faut euiter la varieté des viandes en vn repas : auſſi tous • | #. # les legumes,le laict & le fromage & toutes choſes acides,comme verjus,vin aigre,orenges,citrons,& leurs c # . à vn repas. ſemblables,ſi ce n'eſt en petite quantité.le malade ne doit manger s'iln'a appetit auſſi il ne mangera iuſques • a à ſatieté,mais ſe leuera de table auec appetit. il euitera de manger grands oiſeaux, comme cignes, grues, # | paons,& leurs ſemblables:car ils ſont de difficile digeſtion, & engendrent mauuais ſuc. les anciens defen- $. * les gouteux dent l'vſage ordinaire de chapons,& autres poulailles,parce qu'elles ſont ſouuent vexées de podagre, de- - doiº ºſºr quoy l'experience fait foy. les poiſſons ne leur ſont bons, parce qu'ils engendrent beaucoup de ſuperflui- | z pº * pºiſ* tez,& auſſi ſe corrompent facilement,& engendrent phlegmes, & § & relaxent l'eſtomach. les rº | ſons- moins nuiſibles , ſont ceux que declarerons au chap. de regime de la peſte. or entre les beſtes à quatre · : : pieds,le veau eſt recommandé,parce qu'il engendre bon ſuc & vnſang bien temperé,ioinct qu'il eſt de fa- , -- - cile digeſtion.le mouton pareillement bon.or il faut icy noter, que les gouteux doiuent tenir grand regi- - : # le ieuſner me, tant au manger qu'au boire:toutesfois il faut auoir eſgard au temperament d'vn chacun, diuerſifiant les · · eſt t entraire alimens:tant en quantité qu'en qualité. car les † & ſanguins(pource qu'ils ont la chaleur forte, · ' aux chole- & qu'ils conſomment beaucoup)ont beſoin de manger d'auantage,parce que le ieuſner rend la cholere plus " . riquet, acre,& par conſequent augmente les douleurs. d'autre-part,il ne faut pas qu'ils vfent de viandes trop hu- : : mides:car leur humidité agrandit la fluxion,& pourrit les humeurs,& lesfait couler aux jointures. on doit -, lº ?hlºs- eſpeſſir la cholere,tant par medicamens pris par dedans,que par dehors,de peur que par ſa tenuité, elle ne l ººº coule plus facilement aux jointures.les phlegmatiques,qui ont la chaleur debile,portent preſque leur ali- , #"#º" ment auec eux, & endurent mieux le ieuſne auſſi le regime humide leur nuit beaucoup, d'autant qu'il au- */" gmente les de#uvions neantmoins aux vns & autres on aura eſgard, qu'on ne leur baiile rien qui ſoit de , | difficile concoction & de fasile corruption.car à raiſon de la douleur,ils ont le plus ſouuent vne ſiévre len- : | te,laquelle diminuë leur chaleur naturelle, & eſt cauſe de conuertir leurs alimens à pourriture. d'abon- d » ! : dant,il ſe faut bien garder de leur donner trop d'alimens, où la chaleur naturelle eſtant occupée à la dige- r i ſtion d'iceux,fait moindre concoction des humeurs qui cauſent les goutes , & ne les peut ſurmonter. par- - quoy les choleriques & ſanguins vſeront des viandes de bon ſuc, & de facile digeſtion, leſquelles ſeront - froides d'elles-meſmes,c'eſt à dire,de leur faculté,ou ſeront alterées par herbes froides & humides,comme - laictué,pourpier,ozeille,& leurs ſemblables:auſſi les ſemences froides concaſſées,ſeront miſes en leurs po- ceùx qùi söt tages.ils pourront vſer d'orge mundé,dans lequel on mettra pareillement ſemences froides. ceux qui ont · $: - mùtilez de perdu vne partie de leur corps,commevn bras ou vne iambe,ou ſi elle eſt atrophiée, ne doiuent tant man- • , \ # mº-ger ny boire qu'ils faiſoient lors que leur corps eſtoit entier:car la nourriture, qui auoit accouſtumée d'al- ( vê it/º/ f ler à telle partie,coule ſouuent ſur les jointures,& cauſe la goute:& pour abreger,ceux qui ſont de bonne # habitude,& qui viuent ſobrement,tenant bon regime, ſont peu vexez de goute: mais ceux qui ſont fort re- # plets,& bien nourris ſans exercice,& exceſſifs en bonnes & diuerſes viandes,ou qui ſe nourriſſent de mau- - uaiſes,ſont volontiers gouteux. du boire des gouteux. c h a p. xv i i. incommodi gra e vx qui ſont ſubiects aux goutes, ſe doiuent bien garder de boire trop, non ſeulement de vin, tez de trºp # mais auſſi de tout breuuage : car cela fait nager la viande en l'eſtomach, & empeſche & eſteint heire. la chaleur naturelle, à cauſe dequoy la concoction eſt plus difficile : de là s'enſuiuent grandes cru- - ditez, dont ſont engendrez beaucoup d'humeurs ſereux & ſubtils , leſquels facilement coulent aux | jointures. aucuns medecins ordonnent de boire du vin blanc,pource qu'il excite lesvrines , ce qui n'eſt à ' - rejetter, + # *r, des goutes. . a reietter,moyennant que le corps ſoit pur & net mais s'ilya pluſieurs excremens & cruditez(& que ce ſoit d en vn corps de temperature chaude)par tel vin ſeront portées aux jointures,& exciteront les goutes. par- quoy en tel cas il le faut du tout éuiter,s'il n'eſtoit clairet,petit,debile, & aſtringent, afin qu'il bouche les orifices des veines & arteres, de peur que les humeurs choleriques & ſereux ne diffluent facilement aux ilfaut oſter jointures.et ſi le patient veut du tout s'en abſtenir ce ſera le meilleur:& en lieu d'iceluy, il vſera d'hydro- le vin aux mel fait ainſi. /.aquae fb.iv.mellis optimiq. ſ bulliant ad conſumptionem libræ vnius, bene deſpumando, ººº adde ſaluiz p.É.et où le patient ſeroit de temperature phlegmatique, on y adiouſtera de la canelle, & vn * peu de muguette, & clou de giroffe. et pour les choleriques, on fera hyppocras d'eau en cette maniere. .aqux fontis f .iv.ſacchari fb. ſſ.colentur per manicam hippocratis ſine ebullitione , addendo in fine cin- namomi .ij & luy ſeruira auſſi grandement à roborer l'eſtomach.on peut leur faire vſer de ptiſane, en la- quelle en la fin de la cuiſſon,on mettra vn peu de roſes ſeiches,ou de ſyrop de grenades,de peur qu'elle ne ſoit rendue bilieuſe au ventricule, & ſubit qu'elle ſera tirée hors du feu, la faut laiſſer repoſer, & puis la couler par vne manche de drap, ou ſeruiette blanche. les phlegmatiques doiuent pareillement vſer de viandes de bon ſuc : & de bonne digeſtion : mais faut qu'elles ſoient chaudes de leur nature, ou alterées de choſes chaudes,pourueu qu'ils n'ayent fiévre,ou grande chaleur:à raiſon de la grande douleur:car alors il ſe faut garder d'alimens chauds.et pour ces cauſes, la maniere de viure fera diuerſifiée ſelon l'aduis du do- cte medecin,& laiſſera-on la propre curation pour ſubuenir à l'accident. et auſſi il faudra par coniecture artificielle,changer tous les remedes,tant ceux qui ſont pris par dedans,qu'appliquez par dehors,ſelon que la diſpoſition,le temperament,& les accidens le requerront:& à la fin de table, vſeront de chair de coings, parce qu'elle a puiſſance de defendre que les vapeurs ne montent de l'eſtomach au cerueau. et combien que de ſa nature elle eſtreigne, toutesfois eſtant priſe apres le paſt , elle laſche le ventre, pource qu'en re. .. ſerrant l'eſtomach par haut,elle ayde à faire bonne digeſtion,& fait aller à la ſelle. l'exercice eſt fort pro- lºxereire fitable contre les goutes, & l'oifiueté eſt mere d'icelles. car comme le fer qui eſt laiſſé ſans eſtre manié, eſt fort bon bien toſt ſe roüille.auſſi noſtre corps eſtant ſans s'exercer, ſe rempliſt d'humeurs ſuperflus, qui eſt fouuent º ** cauſe des goutes. ce qu'on void par experience,qu'entre mille laboureurs, & autres hommes de grand tra-" uail de corps,s'en trouue peu de gouteux.et partant il faut faire exercice au matin, apres qu'on aura rendu ſes excremens et ceux qui ſont ſujets à auoir la goute aux pieds,exerceront les bras. car par ce moyen ne vſat, de ſe fait ſeulement reſolution & conſomption des excremens qui ſont aux parties du corps, mais auſſi ſe fait van . reuulſion d'iceux.il faut auſſi éuiter les paſſions de l'ame,comme cholere,triſteſſe,& autres. l'acte venerien doit eſtre du tout delaiſſé,pour les cauſes qu'auons exposées par cy-deuant : mais ceux qui à cauſe du ma- riage ne s'en peuueut exempter,en vferontapres que la digeſtion ſera faicte en l'eſtomach,& s'y gouuerne- ront ſi bien,qu'il ne leur fera qu'vn peu de mal. eſpece de ptiſane- pour roborer les jointures. c h a r, xvi ii. l reſte pour la cure preſeruatrice parler de la roboration des jointures, afin qu'elles puiſſent friſtin. reſiſter aux humeurs qui tombent ſur icelles.et pour ce faire,il eſt bon les frotter ſoir & ma- tin d'huyles d'oliues,non meures,appellée oleum omphacinum , ou d'huyle roſat, auſquelles on incorporera ſel commun broyé ſubtilement:on le pourra auſſi meſler auec huyle commu- - ne,&y adiouſter de lalimature de corne de cerf, parce qu'elle deſſeiche & aſtreint. auſſi eſt fomëtation, bon de lauer les jointures de lexiue,faite en cette maniere. .corticum granatorum. nucum cupreſſi,gal- | larum,ſumach,corticis quercini,an. .ij.ſalis communis,aluminis rochae,an. .j.ſaluiz, roriſmarini, lauandu- li, lauri,iuz arthriticx an.m.j.roſarum rubrarum m.ſ. toutes ces choſes ſoient boüillies enſemble, en ſix liures de gros vin aſtringent,& lexiue faite d'eau ferrée,auec cendres de cheſne:& de cette decoction, on fera fomentation auec feutres ou eſponges.et icelle faite , faut bien eſſuyer les parties auec linges chauds, pour matie- & ſe garder du froid.le ſuc de ſenelles vertes deſlayées en oxycrat,eſt vn remede ſingulier. auſſi pour ro- refroide. borer vne partie debilitée de cauſe froide,on prendra de l'eau de vie,&vin vermeil fort aſtringent,auſquels on fera infuſer & tremper,ou faire boüillir in balneo mariae,ſauge,romarin,thim,lauande,laurier,abſinthe. an.m.j.cloux de girofle,gingembre,poyure tout concaſſé an. .j. & ſeront les jointures fomentées de cette miſture chaude,ſoir & matin,afin d'eſchauffer & rectifier l'intemperature delaiſſée par le froid. on trouue auſſi par experience,que fouler la vendange conforte fort les jointures:& qui ne le peut faire , on fomen- tera les pieds devin recent pris en la cuue.on peut ſemblablement faire des petits ſachets,dans leſquels on mettra ce qui s'enſuit. /.salis communis,aluminis rochae,corticum granatorum,ſumach. berb. nucum cup. an. .iv.fol.ſaluiz,roriſm.roſar.rubraan m.fi.bulliant omnia ſimul cum lixiuio,fiat decoctio,pro fotu.et d'i- celle on fomentera les jointures auec eſponges,ou feutre aſſez longuement.voilà ce qu'il me ſemble pour la roboration des jointures,afin qu'elles ſoient fortifiées contre les fluxions. de la caration palliatiue des goutes. c h a p. xi x. - o v r bien proceder à la curation de cette maladie, il faut conſiderer la diuerſité des cauſes d'icelle, & les temperamens du corps, & autres choſes, leſquelles ne ſont touſiours ſembla- # bles, & partant ne peuuent eſtre curées, par vn ſeul remede, comme eſtiment les vulgaires & | ſ^ empiriques,qui veulent d'vn ſeul remede guarir toutes eſpeces de goutes : ne conſiderans pas, que celles qui ſont faites de matiere froide, accompagnant le virus, demandent autre maniere de curer, que celles qui viennent de matiere chaude : auſſi celles qui ſont faites d'vn ſeul humeur ſimple, que cel- les qui ſont faites de composé. car celles qui ſont faites de cholere pure, cauſent douleurs grandes & les remedes extremes : mais lors qu'elle eſt mixtionnée auec phlegme, elle n'eſt tant douloureuſe. puis il faut au- des routes tre remede au commencement, qu'à l'accroiſſement, & ainſi des autres temps. semblablement, ſi lon ºſº les parties où ſont les goutes. car en la ſciatique n'eſt beſoin d'vſer de medicamens repercuſſifs. s'il n'y # auoit grande inflammation : ce qu'on peut bien faire aux autres parties : finalement ſi la goute vient du #. º # cerueau,il faut vſer d'autres remedes,que lors qu'elle vient du foye,& de la maſſe du fang. ces choſes ainſi # # premiſes,nous commencerons la cure,non promptement curatiue , mais pluſtoſt palliatiue(principalement tiös requiſes de celle qui vient par heritage, laquelle conſiſte en quatre choſes : la premiere, à ordonner le regime ſur ， la § les ſix choſes naturelles, ſelon la diuerſité des cauſes : la ſeconde, à éuacuer & diuertir la matiere ante- palliatiue cedente, tant par medecines; laxatiues, que par ſaignées , s'il eſt beſoin : la tierce, par deuement ap- des goutes. o o pliquer contre les empiriques. : le dix-huičtiéme liure, pliquer les remedes locaux&particuliers,les diuerſifiant ſelon l'humeur qui cauſe les goutes,à ſçauoir par remedes chauds aux humeurs froids,& par remedes froids aux humeurs chauds, en les changeant auſſiſe- a lon les quatre temps:à ſçauoir,commencement,accroiſſement,eſtat & declinaiſon,comme a eſté dit. et s'il y a vne intemperature ſimple ſans matiere,on appliquera remedes alteratifs,ſans qu'ils ſoient vacuatifs.la quarte,eſt corriger les accidens, & principalement la douleur , qui en telle affection tourmente extreme- ment les pauures gouteux,voire leur cauſe quelquesfois vne mort ſubite,ſi le virus eſt grand, comme nous auons dit cy deſſus. en quoy l'in- or il faut icy noter, que ſouuent le chirurgien eſt deceu à cognoiſtre la cauſe de la douleur: carenap- dice pris des pliquant remedes froids & narcotiques aux goutes froides,ſi la douleur s'appaiſe,on eſtime que tel humeur ºſº º ſoit chaud,ce qui aduient toutesfois à cauſe que tels remedes ſtupefient,endorment, & oſtent le ſentiment *yºt " , de la partie, encore que la cauſe de la goute ſoit froide. au contraire quelquesfois nous eſtimons que la # » ºº matiere ſoit chaude,combien qu'elle ſoit froide : pource que quand nous appliquons medicamens chauds, fallacieux. § appaiſent la douleur,en rarefiant,attenuant, reſoluant, & diſſipant portion de la matiere, par inſenſible tranſpiration : & partant a cauſe de l'ayde qui s'enſuit de ces remedes chauds, on pourroit penſer que la autre oeea- matiere ſeroit froide, à cauſe de ce qu'on dit communement, contraria contrarus curantur : & au contraire, ſion d'eſtre similia ſimilibus conſtruantu. donc pour le dire en vn mot,l indice pris des choſes qui aydent ou nuiſent,eſt deceu. ſouuent fallacieux:d'abondant il decoule quelquesfois vne grande quantité de matiere froide,laquelle cau- ſe grande douleur, mais c'eſt à cauſe du virus & de quelque humeur cholerique, qui ſubtilie & conduit l'humeur froid,& viſqueux aux jointures : lequel humeur virulent & cholerique induit la douleur, & non a la pituite & à cauſe de la douleur,la partie chaude & enflammee,bien ſouuent cauſe fiévre,& grande alte- ration:& alors nous croyons que la cauſe principale ſoit chaude,& toutesfois elle eſt froide:partant nous ſommes ſouuentesfois deceus, & ce qui en eſt cauſe, eſt que la fiuxion deſcend par les nerfs & tendons,ce qui nous apert par dehors.dauantage quand les humeurs ſont meſlezenſemble, quelquesfois la couleur de la partie nous deçoit : car combien qu'elle nous apparoiſſe citrine, ou blaffarde(ce qui veritablement ad- uient de l'humeur cholerique,lequelaisément,à cauſe qu'il eſt de ſubtile & tenue ſubſtance,eſt ietté du pro- fond du corps à la ſuperficie du cuir)toutesfois il ſe peut faire que le phlegme ſereux decoule aux jointu- res,& ſoit la principale cauſe de la goute,à raiſon qu'il induit vne grande & extreme douleur , principale- ment la nuict , & communément lors qu'il eſt accompagné d'vne portion de l'humeur cholerique; dont le ſang & les eiprits s'émouueront,& ſe monſtreront à la ſuperficie du cuir de la partie affectée, qui la feront troiſiéme apparoiſtre rouge & chaude.d'auantage,au moyen de la douleur il ſuruiendra au malade, par le defaut du occaſion d'e- repos,& pour la grande inquietude,vne fiévre,laquelle liquefie & ſubtilie l'humeur,& l'eſchauffe,& le fait ſtre deceu. fiuer dauantage aux jointures:ioint auſſi que l'vrine ſera teincte, & le pouls fort eſmeu:& toutesfois la cau- ſe du mal ſera froide. et partant en tout cas ce ſeroit grand erreur de vouloir proceder à la cure comme ſi sonun, l, la cauſe de la goute eſtoit chaude.vray eſt qu'il faut ſouuent laiſſer la propre cure pour ſubuenir aux acci- c§i denºu contraire il ſe peut faire que lacholere ſoit cauſe du mal ſans toutesfois que la couleur de la partie laiſſe la pro- affectée demonſtre apertement icelle:mais pluſtoſt la couleur ſera blanche ou plombine,& la partie froide, pre cure pour à cauſe du froid de l'air ambiens ou de quelque application de remede froid,qui aura fait qu'elle repreſen- ſuruenir aux te pluſtoſt la qualité du phlegme,que de la cholere.dont nous concluons,qu'il ne ſe faut arreſter touſiours accidens. à la couleur & froidure de la partie,pource que les humeurs,qui ſont profonds au dedans d'icelle,ne chan- gent pas touſiours en couleur le dehors,ſi ce n'eſtoit qu'ils perſeueraſſent long-temps. outre-plus, il ad- uient ſouuentesfois que le corps eſt tant remply d'humeur gros, eſpés,& viſqueux,que nature en iette vne partie aux jointures, & en laiſſe vne portion au profond du corps, à cauſe de l'imbecillité de la vertu ex- pultrice,laquelle portion eſtant arreſtée en quelque partie interieure, fait obſtruction & pourriture , dont eſt engendrée vne fiévre intermittente,c'eſt à dire,qui a relaſche quelque eſpace de temps entre les accez, fiévre in- ſçauoir eſt,ſi elle ſe fait aux petites veines:mais elle ſera continue,ſi cela aduient aux grandes veines. et tel- termittente le shoſe aduenant, le medecin & chirurgien ne doiuent pas ſeulement conſiderer la maladie articulaire, º'ºſº-re. mais beaucoup plus la fiévre:laquelle ſi elle eſt continuë, apporte touſiours danger au malade , & deshon- neur au medecin : ſi elle eſt intermittente, elle paſſe facilement en continue, ſi on n'y d nne medicamens cm.il faut propres car il faut alors doucement purger le ventre, & ouurir la veine, ſi le medecin cognoiſt qu'il en purger ies ſoit beſoin:puis apres auoir preparé & cuit les humeurs, on donnera au patient vne bonne & forte purga- goutesx. tion,ſi on void qu'il en ſoit beſoin. ie dis bonne, de peur que la maladie articulaire ne s'augmente : ce qui aduient ſouuent quand on ne fait qu'émouuoir les humeurs ſans les purger:car eſtans émeus, ils ſe iettent signes pour touſiours ſur la partie affligée partant, tout cecygift en la contemplation du medecin & chirurgien , leſ- cognoiſtre la quels par coniecture artificielle cognoiſtront la matiere des goutes,à ſçauoir par la couleur,par le toucher, # # parl'ayde ou nuiſance des remedes, par le regime que le patient aura auparauant tenu : par ſon tempera- goutes. ment,aage,region, par laconſideration du temps de l'année,la maniere de la douleur, & auquel temps du iour elle s'émeut,& eſt plus grande,& quel eſt ſon periode & paroxyſme;auſſi par le iugement des vrines, & autres ſuperfiuitez qui ſortent du corps du malade : ce que nous auons par cy-deuant declaré plus parti- culierement.or aucuns diſent,qu'il ne faut purger ny ſaigner les gouteux pendant leurs grandes douleurs, )u'on peut toutesfois il eſt aisé de prouuer le contraire.carveu que la loy de medecine giſt en addition & detraction, #ne, ， & que la goute vient d'addition & d'augmentation d'humeurs ſuperfius,qui accompagnent le virus arthri- pu§ r § tique ; ioint que les douleurs ne ſe peuuent appaiſer, ſinon quand la cauſe eſt hors : il s'enſuit neceſſaire- l'accez ar- ment,que la ſaignée & purgation ſont grandement vtiles.metritmen ſon traicté de la goute,dit, qu'il faut thritique. .. toufiours vſer de purgations,pourvuider & éuacuer l'humeur ſuperflu, & non ſeulement en la declination: mais auſſi en la force & vigueur de la maladie, ce que nous auons trouué par experience eſtre grandement profitable,& pris d'hipp.diſant. quand il y a douleur,il faut donner medecine par bas.auſſi cela ſe peut prouuer par authorité d'hipp.au liure zºe.affectionibus, parlant de arthritide. et ſemblablement par galien, au comment ſur le .aphoriſ.de la ſect. . qui commande qu'on ſaigne aux grar des infiammations & bé- vres ardantes,& grandiſſimes douleurs,diſant qu'il n'y a point de meilleur remede : & s'ils ne peuuent eſtre )uelles gens aydez par la ſaignée & purgation deuement faite,cela aduient (comme dit galien au liure, te curatione p r ne ſont ſe- ſanguinis miſſionem)que les intemperans,gourmands, & yvrongnes , ne ſont guaris par purgations , ny par couru, par ſaignées pource que l'intemperance aſſemble abondance d'humeurs crus, lefquels ne cedent aux remedes. ſaigné & partant les gouteux goulus & intemperans, ne peuuent eſtre aydez par aucuns remedes » combien qu'ils purgations. ſoient adminiſtrez par vraye & bonne methode. •" - - - vo€ d #:| ". # | : º, ! ſ, | l)es goutes. - " des remedes topiques, ou particuliers, poar matiere froide_ : c h a p. xx. a n t e n a n t il nous faut deſcrire les remedes locaux ou particuliers, pour contra-re, rem,i, rier à chaque humeur. et premierement noteras, que les remedes topiques apportent peu e de profit, ſi le corps du gouteux n'eſt pur & net des excremens : joinct qu'il ya danger de n'aydent, ſi renuoyer la fluxion & le virus aux parties nobles par les forts repercuſſifs, dont s'enſuit mort les generaux , v x nur ſubite, comme on l'a veu aduenir pluſieurs fois. parquoy il faut que les choſes vniuerſelles n'ºt precedé. precedent les patticulieres. or nous traicterons premierement de la douleut cauſée de pituite , ou phlegme : parce qu'elle aduient plus ſouuent que de matiere chaude. au commencement faut vſer de remedes repercuſſifs domeſtiques, ayans faculté d'aſtreindre & ſeicher, non toutefois en la ſciatique. - - z. foliorum ſabinx m. . nucis cupreſſi .iij. aluminis rocha .j. gummitragacanthi . iiij. mucilagi- nis pſyllij, & cydoniorum quantum ſufficit, fit cataplaſma. • - - autre. /...stercoris bubuli recentis fb.j. mellis roſati .iiij. olei roſati & aceti an. .ij. bulliant ſimul pa- cataplaſme rum, fiat cataplaſ. /.. oleiroſati & myrtini an. .ij. pulueris myrrhæ , aloès an. .j.acacia #. ij. . incor-rºpereºſſif porentur cum aqua gallarum coctarum & fiat vnguentum.autre remede. /...aceti quantum ſufficit, in quo coques ſaluiam, fiores camomillz, meliloti, abſinthij, ebuli an. m.j. faut tremper la partie en icelle deco- ction chaude, & l'y laiſſer aſſez longuement : ce que i'ay experimenté pluſieurs fois auec bonne iſſuë. ce remede repouſſe l'humeur, & le conſomme, & ſi fortifie la partie : & le faut faire pluſieurs fois, encore qu'il y euſt chaleur. le marc des oliues recent, appliqué deſſus, ſede la douleur : auſſi font les orenges ſeiches, & boüillies en vinaigre, & puis broyées.autre /.. medijcorticis vlmi fb. É. caudx equinae, ſtœch. conſolida maioris an. m. . aluminis rochae, thu.an. . iij. far. hor. . v. lixiuij. comm. quantum ſufficit, fiat cataplaſ ad formam pultis ſatis liquidae ſecundum artem. lors que la partie eſt enflée, la douleur ceſſe ** douleur le plus ſouuent, à cauſe que la vertu expulſiue a ietté l'humeur du centre à la circonference , c'eſt à dire, #i du dedans au dehors : ce qui nous appert en ceux qui ont vne extreme douleur aux dents : lors que le viſa- # ge s'enfle, on void ſubit la douleur ceſſer. apres auoir ainſi vſé de repercuſſifs, il faut venir aux reſolutifs # - & éuacuatifs : car toute fluxion arreſtée ſur vne partie, demande vacuation. et ne ſe faut émerueiller ſi on difficile à ne reſoult toſt la matiere contenuë aux ligamens, membranes, & parties nerueuſes, parce qu'elles ſont faire aux ſolides, & non aiſées à reſolution , comme ſont les parties charneuſes. f e /'• z. radicis bryoniae, ſigilli beatæ maria an. . iij. bulliant in lixiuio , poſtea terantur & colentur perſe- # raceum, addendo far. hord. & fabaruman. .j. olei camomill. . iij. fiat cataplaſ. autre /.. farinæ hor. & reſolutiſi, lupinorum an. .iv. ſulphu.viui & ſalis commu.an . j. mellis communis . v. pulu. aloës & myrrhae an. . f.aquz vitæ .& cum lixiuio fiat cataplaſ autre. z. succi caulium rubrorum, acetiboni an. .iv. far. hor. .j. ß. pulueris hermodactylorum . ß. vitellos ouorum numero iij. olei camomill. . iij. croci . ij. autra- /. radices & caules braſſicae, vre, & miſce cinerem cum axungia ſuilla & puluere ireos, & fiat medica- mentum. autre. /.. lactis vaccini fb. ij. micæ panis albi quantum ſufficit, bulliant ſimul addendo pulueris ſubtilis flor. camomil. meliloti. an.m. ſ. croci .j. vitellos ouorum numero iv.olei roſarum . iij. butyri re- centis .j.terebenthinx .ij.fiat cataplaſ ad formam pultis ſatis liquidae. or il faut noter que ce cataplaſme eſt propre à toutes douleurs de goutes, ſoit au commencement, à l'accroiſſement, eſtat, ou en la fin : & en toutes temperatures : & doit eſtre renouuellé deux ou trois fois le iour. le theriaque diſſoult en vin, & ap- pliqué, ſede grandement la douleur. on peut auſſi vſer d'emplaſtres, onguents , cerots, & liniments._ .gummi ammoniaci, bdellij, ſtyracis an. . ij. cum aceto & aqua vitæ diſſolue, & adde far. fœnug . empl aſ ts É. olei camomil. & anethi an. . ij. cerx quantum ſuffic fiat emplaſt. molle. autre /.. radicis bryoniæ & ſigilli beatx maria an. . v. bulliant in lixiuio completè, & colentur per ſetaceû, addendo olei camomilla . iij- ſeui hircini . iv. cerae noua quantum ſufficit, fiat emplaſtrum molle. autre z. gummi ammoniaci, opo- panacis, galbani an. . ij. diſſoluantur in aceto, poſtea colentur: & adde olei liliorum , terebent. venet. an. .j. picis naualis & cera nouae quantum ſuffi. fiat emplaſt. molle. /.. succorum radicum enula campanae & ebuli an. . iij. radicis althex ib. . coquantur & colentur per autre pour ſetaceum, addendo flor. camomil.melilo. ſambuci, roriſmarini,& hyperician.p. ij. nucis cupreſſi numero reſoudre ér iv. olei chamameli, aneti, hyperici, liliorum, & de ſpica an. .ij pinguedinis anatis, gallina & anſeris an. ºppºſer !º .É. ranas virides viuas numero vi, catellos duos nuper natos : bulliant omnia ſimul in fb.ij. É. vini odori-º. º feri & vnaaquz vitæ ad conſumptionem ſuccorum & vini, ac oſſium catellorum diſſolutionem , & fortiter rºborer les exprimantur : expreſſioni adde terebenth. . iij. cerx quant. ſuffi. fiat emplaſtrummolle. on peut vſer pour " meſme effect à reſoudre, des emplaſtres de vigo , oxycroceum, de mucilaginibus, de meliloto, & autres ſemblables, les meſlant enſemble , & les liquefiant auec huyles & axunges reſolutiues, diminuant ou aug- mentant leurs foxces, comme on verra eſtre neceſſaire, & que le mal le requerra. - z. anſerem pinguem, & imple catelis ij. de quibus deme cutem, viſcera, caput & pedes. item accipe ºººº ranas numero x. colubros detracta cute in fruſtula diſſectos numeroiv. mithridatij. & theriaca an. . . fo- liorum ſaluix, roriſmarini, thymi, ruthae, an. m. ſº. baccarum lauri, & iuniperi concaſſatarum an. .j. pul- ueris nucis moſcatae, zinziberis, caryophyllorum, piperis an. .j. et du dégouſt ſoit fait onguent ou lini- ment , auec cire, ou terebantine de veniſe, y adiouſtant vn peu d'eau de vie. tel onguent appaiſe à mer- ueilles la douleur faite de cauſe froide. autre /. gummi pini & ladani, an .iv. gummi elemi & picis na- ualis an. .j. É. terebenthinae venetae clara . vj. olei chamaemeli & de lilio an . iy. vini rubri f .j. aquae vitae & ſaluiz an . vj. omnia ſimul diſſoluantur lentoigne, baculo ſemper agitando. deinde adde pulueris ireos florentiae, baccarum lauri & hermodactylorum an .ij. ſem. maſtiches, myrræ & olibani. an. . ij. fa- rina fabarum .iv. omnia ſimul incorporentur, & fiat vnguentum molle. autre. . mucaginis feminis fœnugrxciin aceto extracta quantum volueris, cui miſce mellis quantum ſufficit: coquantur fimul, donec ſpiſſitudinem vnguenti acquirant. ces choſes ſoient appliquées à la partie mala- de, & remuées ſi ſouuent qu'on verra eſtre beſoin. et pour meſme effect, à ſçauoir, à appaiſer la douleur & reſoudre, on fera des fomentations. exemple. z. fol. rutae, ſaluix, roriſmarini an. m.j. flor. camomil. melilot. an. m. ß. vidi albi & lixiuij ſarment. an fb. iv bulliant omnia ſimul : fiat decoctio pro fotu. autre. /.. origani, ſatureix , calaminthx , ſaluiae, roriſmar. flor. camomil. melilot. lauand hyperici, roſar. rub.abſinth.an. m. j. bulliant cumaceto & vino : fiat decoct. pro fotu. cette decoction eſt propre non ſeu- lement à la goute froide, mais auſſi à celle qui eſt chaude, pource qu'elle reſout, aſtreint, & robore la partie, & garde la defluxion. topiques o o - o le lix-nulciiciiie liuic, ehangement il faut bien prendre garde que les medicamens des goutes ſoient ſouuent changez, car l'vn profite a de medica- à vne heure, & nuit à l'autre. que ſi la douleur & l'humeur eſtoient fi opiniaſtres ; que par les remedes º . ſuſdits ils ne vouluſſent debuſquer , alors faudra venir aux plus forts, ſuiuant la doctrine d'hippocrate, hipp. apho. qui dit qu'aux extremes & rebelles maladies, il faut vſer de forts & violens remedes, comme ceux qui l iure i. s'enſuiuent. - - - - - - . axun. gallinae, olei laurini, & euphorbij, an .j. olei maſtiches . j. pulu. euphorb. & pyrethrian. .j. ou plus ou moins , ſelon l'intemperature qu'on cognoiſtra eſtre en la partie. ces choſes ſoient meſlées enſemble & ſoit fait medicament, duquel on frottera la partie tous les iours. ce remede eſt bon : car l'eu- phorbe & pyrethre eſchauffent & ſubtilient , diſſoluent & font reſolution : l'huyle & axunge amolliſſent, & l'huyle de maſtic par ſon aſtriction empeſche la fluxion nouuelle. autre. prenez huyle de regnard, en la- · huyle de re- quelle on aura fait boüillir des vers de terre, & de la racine d'enule & bryonia, & auec vn peu de tere- gnard. benthine & cire ſoit fait onguent, lequel amolliſt, attenué, & reſoult l'humeur froid qui eſt aux jointures. - z. ſem. ſinapi pulueriſati & acerrimo aceto diſſoluti # iij. mellis anacardini . ij aqua vitæ .j. ſalis anºdin. com. .ij. le tout ſoit meſlé, & en ſoit appliqué ſur la douleur. autre. /.. picis nigrx . iij. terebenthinae venetx . ij. ſulphu. viui ſubtiliter pulueriſati #. j. euphorbij & pyrethrian . É. empla. oxycrocei . iij. olei quant ſuf.liquefiant ſimul, & fiat emplaſtrum, extendatur ſuper aluiam : & ſoit laiſſees l'eſpace de deux ou trois iours , ſi le malade ſent allegement de ſa douleur: ſinon ſoit oſté , comme deſſus eſt dit. • pour cette meſme intention, on peut appliquer ſur la douleur des orties grieſches, puis lauer le lieu d'eau ſalée : pareillement la fiente de pigeons boüillie aſſez longuemêt en vinaigre, duquel en ſoit fomen- tée la partie.auſſi le veſicatoire fait de leuain bien aigre , cantharides, ſtaphiſagre, & vn peu d'eau de vie, eſt ſouuerain remede pour vacuer la matiere conjoincte : car par tel viſicatoire ſort vne certaine ceroſité & remed virulence, laquelle eſtant hors s'enſuit allegeance des douleurs. or il ne ſe faut émerueiller ſi ces remedes ede ſin- - - - - - rulier aux acres , corroſifs , & veſicatifs, donnent allegeance & appaiſent les douleurs cauſées de matiere ftoide & #oulºur , pituiteuſe, non plus que les bains froids & humides à bonne & iufte raiſon profitent aux douleurs com- poſées d'humeurs chauds & acres, pource qu'ils humectent & refroidiſſent. car il y a des douleurs arthri- tiques qui ne peuuent iamais eſtre appaiſées que par remedes plus grands que n'eſt l'intemperature : par- tant leſditsviſicatoires ne doiuent eſtre déjettez, veu que les anciens ont commandé le fer chaud & ardant, comme nous dirons cy-apres. chriſtofle l'andré , en ſon oecoiatrie, recommandc la fiente de bœuf ou de vache, enueloppée de fueilles de choux, ou de vigne , poſée ſur les cendres , & puis chaude appliqué- ſur la douleur. d{ mtºf, remedes locaux pour matiere chaude , principalement faite de ſaag. c h a p i t r e xx i. remedes re- $ l faut vſer de repercuſſifs au commencement qui ſont froids, ſecs, & aſtringens, afin de contrarier fercuſſif . $é aux qualitez du ſang qui eſt chaud & humide , & ce apres les choſes vniuerſelles. É. albumina ouor. numero iiij. ſucci lactucae & ſolani an. .j. aqux roſarum .ij. incorporentur ſimul, fiat li- nimentum : lequel ſera renouuellé ſouuent. autre. prenez de la farine d'orge, de lentilles , acacia, huyle roſat & de mirtilles, vn peu de vinaigre, & de ce ſoit fait cataplaſme. autre. autre de prenez ſumach, myrtilles, bol armeniac, de chacun demye dragme, acacia, eſcorce de grenades, ba- ſemblable lauſtes , de chacun vne drachme : eau de plantain & de roſes , de chacun trois onces, huile roſat once & demie, vinaigre vne once, farine d'orge & de lentilles, de chacun tant qu'il en faudra, & ſoit fait cata- plaſme, lequel eſt fort excellent pour arreſter les fluxions phlegmoneuſes & eryſepelateuſes.autre. prenez mucilage de coings extraict en eau roſe, caſſe mundée, huyle roſat, & vinaigre, & de ce ſoit fait cata- plaſme. prenez deux ou trois poignées de fueilles de vignes pilées verdes, leſquelles ſeront faites bouillir en oxycrat d'eau de mareſchal, puis on y adiouſtera vne once de ſumach concaſſé, huyle roſat deux onces, farine d'orge, tant qu'il en faudra : & ſoit fait cataplaſme, & ſoit appliqué ſur la partie. autre. z. succi ſemperuiui , hyoſcyami & portulacæ an. iiij. corticum mali granati .j. ß. farinae hordei . v. vini auſteri quantum ſufficit, fiat cataplaſma. tel cataplaſme eſt fort à loüer, pource que le vin & l'eſcorce de grenade aſtreingent, & les ius refroidiſſent, & la farine auſſi dauantage efpefſit & forme le cataplaſme.autre. c - foliorum hyoſcyami, acetoſx an. m.j. leſquelles ſeront enueloppées dans du papier, & cuites entre deux cendres, & puis piſtées auec deux onces d'vnguentum populeum, ou roſat, & ſoient appliquées tiedes ſur la partie. autre. z. florum iuſquiami fb. ij. ponantur in phiala vitreata, & raconde in fimo equine donec putruerint: accipe ex putredine . ij. in aqua diſſolue olei de iunipero . É. fiat linimentum & advſum. autre. prenez des citroüilles piſtées, & ſoient appliquées deſſus. autre z. mucaginis pſyllij, cydoniorum, extractae in aqua roſarum & ſolani an. . iiij. olei roſati omphacini . iij. vini granatorum .j. vitellos ouorum cum albumine numer. iij. camphora . iij incorporentur ſimul fiat linimentum. autre. &. olei roſati omphacini iiij. albumina ouorum cum vitellis numero vj. ſucci plantaginis, la- ctucx , & ſolani an. .j. farina hordei . ij. incorporentur ſimul, fiat cataplaſma. autre. z. farinae hordei & fabaruman. .iij. olei roſati . ij. oxycratiquantum ſufficit, coquantur ſimul, fiat cataplaſma.autre. c. telles goutes mucaginis ſeminis phyllij . iiij. olei roſati . ij aceti .j. vitellos ouorum numeroiij. croci ſcrupulurn e#oien§- vnum miſce: fiat medicamentum.. des. pline au vingt-deuxieſme liure eſcrit, qu'vn iuriſconſulte eſtant à veoir vanner ſon bledayant les gontes experience aux pieds , il ſe mit dans ſon bled par deſſus les genoux, & s'y tint quelque temps, & par ce moyen ſa dou- faite par leur ceſſa. d'authesur or il faut icy noter que quelquesfois la douleur ne ſe peut ceder, à cauſe de la multitude du ſang qui eſt ººººººº deflué ſur la partie, & partant le faut euacuer : ce que veritablement l'ay practiqué faiſamt ouuerture de la iſſue tºuchº veine plus apparente & proche de la douleur, & ſubit elle eſtoit ceſſée. il faut auſſi noter, qu'il ne faut vſer º ſºsºº trop de remedes repercuſſifs, de peur d'endurcir la matiere, qui puis apres à grande difficulté pourroit eftre jº.* # reſolue, & y auroit danger qu'elle ne fuſt conuertie en nœuds & pierres gypſées, & partant on y prendra #º * garde.et apres l'vſage des repercuſſifs , il faut appliquer des reſolutifs, qui ſeront cy apres dtclarez, à fin - de reſoudre l'humeur qui pourroit eſtre demeuré en la jointure, - a- remeder "vert#. b : | des goutes. ) : : remedes topiques pour l'humeur cholerique_». c h a p. xx ii. es remedes locaux doiuent eſtre froids & humides, afin de contrarier aux deux qualitez de remede re- la cholere, qui eſt chaude & ſeiche. comme fueilles de ſolanum, portulaca, ſemperuiuum, percuſſifpour hyoſcyamus, papauer, acetoſa plantago, aqua frigida, & autres ſemblables, deſquels on ** fait pluſieurs compoſitions. exemple. /.. succi hyoſciami, ſemperuiui, lactucx an. .ijfari- næ hordei .j. olei roſati ij.agitando ſimul fiat medicamentum : & ſoit renouuellé ſouuent: tel remede ſede grandement l'inflammation.autre. le ſerueau de porc, broyé auec amy- don,ou farine d'orge,& huyle roſat,eſt vn remede ſingulier:pareillement les mauues cuites en eau broyées & pilées, & appliquées deſſus, ſedent grandement la douleur.autre. . mucaginis pfyllij extractx in aqua ſolani vel roſarum .ij. farin. hord. .j.aceti quantum ſufficittfiat linimentum.autre. . vnguentiro- ſati meſuæ & popul. an. .iij.ſucci melonum .ij.albumina ouorum numeroiij.miſceantur ſimul: & ſoit fait comme deſſus. pareillement vne eſponge imbuë en oxycrat, & peu eſpreinte, fait le ſemblable. autre. prenez fueilles de choux rouges deux poignées, cuites en eau & vinaigre, puis broyées,y adiouſtant trois moyeufs d'œufs, huyle roſat, trois onces, farine d'orge : tant qu'il ſuffira : & ſoit fait cataplaſme. on peut auſſi prendre le ſuc cru des choux & des hiebles, roſes piſtées, huyle roſat, & farine d'orge, tant qu'il ſuf- fiſt : & ſoit fait cataplame. en hyuer qu'on ne peut trouuer des herbes recentes, en lieu d'icelles on pren- dra le l'onguent de galien refrigerant, auec du populeum. - /. ceræ alba .j.croci .j. opij. .iiij. olei roſati quant. ſufficit : macerentur opium & crocus in aceto, ººº ºº deinde terantur & in corporentur cum cera & oleo,fiat ſeratum: lequel ſera eſtendu ſur du linge,& appli- percuſſiffort qué deſſus le lieu dolent, & aux parties voiſines, & renouuellé ſouuent. or veritablement ce remede eſt à excellent. loüer, à cauſe qu'il y entre du vinaigre,lequel reſoult & ſeiche grandement, & ouure les poroſitez de la partie, & fait penetrer la vertu des autres ingrediens, qui diſſipent l'acrimonie du virus arthritique,& par- tant ſede les douleurs:ce qu'on a veu à pluſieurs.autres prennent grenoüilles toutes viues, & les fendent par le ventre,& les appliquent ſur le lieu douloureux.autres ont trouué que l'eau muſqueuſe des limaçons rouges, ſedent grandement la douleur & inflammation. il faut prendre cinquante ou ſoixante limaçons marºn eſt ſ,. rouges, & les mettre dans vn pot de cuyure, & les ſaupoudrer de ſel commun , & les laiſſer par l'eſpace daiiue de : d'vn iour entier : puis on les coulera par vne eſtamine, & d'icelle coulature on en trempera des linges, douleur cau- l'eau de li- leſqueles ſerótappliquez ſur le mal, & renouuellez ſouuent;& faut icy noter que s'il yauoit grande inflam- ſée de mase . mation, on fera boüillir les limaçons en vinaigre & eau roſe, cedit remede eſt fort excellent,ainſi que i'ay * chauda. pluſieurs fois experimenté. et meſme m'a confirmé monſieur le longuemeau, gentil-homme d'honneur " & digne de foy, lequel ayant eſté malade & tourmenté d'vne ſciatique l'eſpace de ſix mois, pour la guari- ſon de laquelle il auoit fait pluſieurs remedes, tant vniuerſels que particuliers, ſans luy rien profiter : en fin receut par ce dit moyen guariſon en vſant par l'eſpace de ſept ou huict iours. pareillement les pom- mes de citrons ou oranges cuittes en vinaigre, puis piſtrées auec vn peu de farine d'orge ou de féves,&ap- pliquées deſſus. - - - autre. z. pomorum coctorum in lacte fb.j.butiri .j. vitellosij. ouorum, aceti .j.fiat cataplaſma. au- cuns prennent vn formage frais eſcremé, battu auec huyle roſat, & farine d'orge. il reprime l'inflamma- tion, & ſede la douleur. autres prennent de la caſſe recentement mondée , & la meſlent auec ius de cou- courde ou melon. autres prennent des fueilles de choux,& d'hiebles, ou d'ache, ou les trois enſemble broyées auec vn peu de vinaigre, & les appliquent ſur le lieu dolent. les autres prennent de la ſemence de lin vne once,& en tirent mucilage auec biere : puis y adiouſtent huyle roſat,& farine d'orge, & en font cataplaſmes.autres prennent huyle de pauot auec de la chair de citrouille pilez enſemble, & l'appliquent ſur la partie dolente. •autre remede, par lequel a eſté guary vn homme en gaſcogne, en la ville de baſas, qui auoit eſté affligé de la goutefort long-temps, auec les plus eſtranges douleurs qu'on ſauroit excogiter, & n'a ſenty depuis aucune douleur. º prens vne tuile feſtiere grande,forte & eſpeſſe, & la fais chauffer iuſques à ce qu'elle ſoit deuenuë rou- ge, laquelle tu mettras dans vne autre tuile pareille en grandeur, toute froide, de crainte que le linge du lict ou ſera le malade ne ſe bruſle. puis tu rempliras la ſuſdite tuile chaude de fueilles d'hiebles, en telle quantité que la partie malade y ppiſſe eſtre poſée, & demeurer dedans ſans ſe bruſler. le malade en en- durera la chaleur & ſueur † d'vne heure ou plus s'il peut, r'adiouſtant derechef des hiebles apres que les premieres ſeront deſſeichées, changeant auſſi de tuile rechauffée, ſi la premiere ne te ſemble aſſez chaude. ces choſes faites, la partie ſera eſſuyée auec vn linge, & continuera leſdites eſtuues douze ou quinze † le matin,l'eſtomach eſtant à jeun: & apres la partie ſera oincte du liniment ſuiuant : eſtantvn . peu chauffé. /. ſucci ebuli f .j.ſ. olei communis fb.j. miſeantur fimul & ponantur in vaſe fictili, cuius orificium ſit ºrtu de - ſtrictum amodum, & cum luto bene obturatum : poſtea bulliant in duplicivaſe cum vino ad medias di #ºº d'hie luto, perſpatium decemvel duodecim horarum : refrigerentur & ſeruentur vſui, addendo vnctionis tem- bles. pore guttas aliquot aqua vitae. inungi poterit bisaut ter in die longè à paſtu. pareillement les racines & fueilles d'hieble cuites en eau,piſtées & appliquées ſur la douleur, la ſedent. semblablement, l'huyle d'hie- bles extraicte en quinte eſſence, eſt ſinguliere pour ſeder les douleurs. or ſi la douleur eſtoit ſi rebelle qu'elle ne peut eſtre ſedée par les remedes ſuſdits, & qu'elle fuſt intolerable auec vne tres-grande chaleur & ferueur en la partie, tellement que les eſprits fuſſent reſouts, & les forces abbatues, & que le malade tóbaſt en ſyncope il faut alors vſer de remedesinarcotiques& ſtupefactifs,cöbié que par iceux la téperature ze temps arz de la partie ſoit diſſoluë, & la chaleur naturelle diminuée, voire eſteinte, ſi on en vſoit trop longuement quel il faut neantmoins ils doiuent pluſtoſt eſtre appliquez, que de permettre que tout le corps periſſe de douleur in- oſer de nar- tolerable.leur vertu eſt de grandement refrigerer, & ſeicher, & d'hebeter le ſentiment de la partie : & cotiques. qui plus eſt, ils eſpeſſiſſent & incraſſent les humeurs ſubtils, acres & mordicans, comme eſt l'humeur cho- verru des lerique. si la matiere eſtoit craſſe & impacte en la partie, alors les faut éuiter, ou pour le moins en vſer medieamºnº auec grande diſcretion, de peur d'induire ſtupeur. narcotiques. . mica panis ſecalini parum cocti in lacte .ijvitellos.ouor. numij.opij. .j. ſuccorum ſolani, hyoſ- cyamy, madragoræ, portulacr, ſemper viui,an. .j. le tout ſoit meſlé enſemble, & en ſoit appliqué deſ- ſus,& renouuellé fouuent.autre.prenez fueilles deiuquiame, ciguë, ozeille, de chacune vne poignée , leſ- c o quelles amedicamenr marcotique. le l)ix-huičtiéme liure, quelles ſeront boüillies en oxycrat, puis pilées & broyées, auec moyeux d'œufs cruds, huyle roſat, deux a onces,farine d'orge tant qu'il ſuffira:& ſoit fait cataplaſme,lequel ſera appliqué ſur la douleur,& ſera con- tinué iuſques à ce que l'inflammation ſoit ceſſée. ce remede eſt fort approuué, & duquel i'ay vſé ſouuent aucc bonne iſſue. autre. /...opij iij. camphorx .É. oleinenupharis .j.lactis # ij.vnguenti roſati deſcri- ptione galeni .iiij.incorporentur fimul in mortario. et de ce en ſoit appliqué ſur la partie. vertu de outre plus, l'eau froide appliquée & iettée goute à goute ſur la partie, eſt narcotique & ſtupefactiue, l'eau froide. comme dit hippocrate,aphoriſm. . de la ſect. . adiouſtant icelle pour vne autre raiſon, eſtre fort propre en toute eſpece de goute; ſçauoir,empeſchant par ſa vertu repercuſſiue que les humeurs n'affluent d'auan- annotation tage ſur la partie. autre. prenez pommes de mandragore cuittes en laict, puis pilées & appliquées deſſus. aux ieunes autre. prenez fueilles de iuſquiaſme,ciguë pourpié, laictues cuittes en laict, & ſoient pilées & appliquées chirurgiens deſſus. et qui voudra que ces remedes ſoient plus froids, il ne les faudra cuire , mais les appliquer tous digne d'eſtre cruds. or ſubit que la douleur & ferueur ſera eſteinte & ceſſée, il faut deſiſter de tels remedes, & roborer obſeruée. & fortifier la partie auec remedes chauds & reſolutifs.car autrement y auroit danger qu'ellene fuſt renduë debile, & intemperée , ou que puis apres elle fuſt ſujette à toutes fluxions. parquoy pour la fortifier,il faut vſer de decoctions faites d'herbes reſolutiues,& autres choſes deſcrites cy-deuant,ou autres qui s'enſuiuent. z. gummi ammoniaci, bdellijan. .j. diſſoluanturin aceto, & paſſentur per ſetaceum, addendo ſtyracis li- quidar,farinæ fœnugraecian. .É. pulueris ireos .iij. olei camomilla .ij. pulueris pyrethri .ij. cum cera, fiat emplaſtrum mollx.autre. /. radicum enula, ebuli,althex an.fb.f. ſeminis lini, fœnugræci an. ij. ficuum pinguium num.xxij. coquantur completè,& paſſentur per ſetaceum,addendo pulueris euphorbij .ij.oleica- ° trºp vſer momill. anet.rutha, an. .iij. medullx cerui # iiij. fiat cataplaſma. nous auons par cy-deuant fait mention **ſºif de pluſieurs autres reſolutifs,deſquelles le chirurgien ſe pourra ayder,ſelon qu'il cognoiſtra eſtre beſoin & fº /º ſe gardera de trop reſoudre, & ſeicher,de peur de conſumer l'humeur ſubtil,delaiſſant le gros endurcy & putrefié,dont ſe pourroient faire des tophes & nœuds, ainſi qu'il ſe peut faire auſſi par l'indeuë application bain apres le des repercuſſifs. ie ne veux encore laiſſer en arriere, que les anciens ont fort loiié les bains faits d'eau dou- pºſº pour les ce,en laquelle on fera boüillir herbes refrigerantes, & ſont profitables eſtans adminiſtrez principalement bilieux. trois heures apres vn leger paſt : carapres la viande, le bain a plus grand pouuoir de corriger les intem- peratures bilieuſes, & principalement à ceux qui ſont greſles & de rare texture , parce qu'ils humectent pººr º ºº l'habitude du corps, & euacuent l'humeur chole rique par inſenſible tranſpiration : d'autant que les con- "ºº duits ſont ouuerts & dilatez par le bain, & les humeurs liquefiez. apres le bain, il faut oindre tout le ºº corps d'eau & d'huyle d'oliue afin d'humecter & garder que la chaleur naturelle ne s'exhale : & les faut ##" continuer iuſques à ce que le chirurgien verra eſtre neceſſaire.auſſi faut noter que les viandes de gros "º" ſuc, comme bœuf, pieds de mouton, riz, & leurs ſemblables,leur ſont meilleures que lesdelicates (pour- ueu que le malade les digere bien ) pource qu'ils incraſſent le ſang bilieux, dont il n'eſt ſi facile à defluer aux jointures. - - - - - - - - - . des aydes de la doulearfaite d'intemperature ſans matiere , ch a p. xxiii. l y a des douleurs aux jointures qui ſe font de l'intemperature ſans matiere, ce qui n'ad- uient pas ſouuent:toutesfois ie l'ay experimenté ſur moy.meſme il y a enuiron de dix à dou- ze ans. eſtant en hyuer en mon eſtude vn vent coulis me donna ſur la hanche ſeneſtre, le- quel ie ne ſentois alors, à cauſe que la vertu imginatiue eſtoit occupée à l'eſtude : puis me voulant leuer, il me fut impoſſible de me pouuoir ſouſtenir debout : & auois vn ſentiment de douleur ſi extreme & intolerable, qu'il me ſeroit impoſſible la d'eſcrire, ſans aucune ap- parence d'intemperature, ny de tumeur au ſens de la veue lors force fut me faire mettre dcdans le lict : & conſiderant que ſi le froid ( qui eſt du tout ennemy des parties nerueuſes) eſtoit cauſe de ma douleur, me feis appliquer pluſieurs linges chauds deſſus: & neantmoins qu'ils fuſſent fort chauds,ie ne ſentois qu'à peine la chaleur ſur l'endroit de ma douleur,tant eſtoit l'intemperature grande:& és autres parties voiſines, ie la moyens d'ap. ſentois ſi bien qu'elleme bruſloit, iuſques à me faire leuer des veſſies. dauantage ie feis appliquer des ſa- paiſer vne chets remplis d'auoine & de miel fricaſſez enſemble, imbus de vin vermeil : pareillement autresfois y fai- douleur de ſois appliquer veſſies de bœuf, dans leſquelles y auoit de la decoction d'herbes, reſolutiues, & n'eſtoient cauſe froide. qu'à demy pleines,afin qu'elles adheraſſent mieux ſur le lieu de la douleur.autresfois y faiſois appliquer vne eſcuelle de bois creuſe, preſque remplie de cendres chaudes, & par deſſus de la ſaulge, roſmarin & ruë vn peu piſtez:puis ladite eſcuelle eſtoit couuerte & enueloppée d'vn linge,ſur lequel on iettoit eau de vie,dela- ) quelle ſortoit vne vapeur humide qui donnoit grand allegement à ma douleur.autresfois y faiſoit appliquer la mie d'vn gros pain tout recentement tiré du four,arrouſée d'eau de vie, & enueloppée dans vne ſeruiette: ſemblablement me faiſois appliquer aux pieds des bouteilles de terre remplies d'eau boüillante, afin que 'intemperature fuſt plus amplement corrigée, d'autant que la chaleur de ce remede peut ſe communiquer au cerueau, pour la rectitude des nerfs. cette extreme douleur me dura enuiron vingt-quatre heures,& fut ceſſée par les remedes ſuſdits.il y a encore vne autre eſpece d'humeur excrementieux,lequel pour eſtre de ſubſtance fort deliée & ſubtile, ne ſe peut voir à l'œil, qui s'appelle fulgineux, à cauſe qu'il eſt ſembla- ble au noir qui s'engendre de la fumée d'vne lampe, lequel eſtant accompagné de ſeroſité virulente, paſſe par tout, faiſant des extremes douleurs, tantoſt à vne partie, tantoſt à l'autre , ne demandant qu'à ſortir : partant luy faut ouurir la porte en quelque ſorte que ce ſoit, ou par application des ventouſes & cornets, & ſcarifications, ou par veſicatoires & cauteres. hip. aph. .linre . ce qu'il faut faire, la douleur ceſsée des goutes. - c h a p. x x iv. a douleur eſtant appaiſée, il faut roborer, & fortifier les jointures. or ce mot de roborer, ſe ， doit non ſeulement entendre à vſer des aſtringens,& deficcatifs,mais auſſi contrarier à l'indiſ- # poſition delaiſſée à la partie.comme s'il y a quelque humeur ſuperflu,il faut reſoudre & s'il y # a quelque ſeichereſſe, il faut humecter & relaſcher : & au contraire, ſi les jointures eſtoient les podagres -- , trop lubriques & relaxées(comme ſouuent aduient aux podagres,leſquels la goute a eſté faite ne peuu de matiere pituiteuſe)alors faut vſer de remedes deſiccatifs,& fortaſtringens & ainſi des autres imtemperatu- cbeminer, la res,comme nous auons dit cy-deſſus.outre plus,faut entendre,que les podagres,apres auoir perdu leur dou- douleur ceſ- leur (laquelle commence tantoſt ſous le talon, & quelquesfois ſous la cauité du pied) neantmoins demeu- ſée. tent long-temps ſans pouuoir marcher qu'à grande peine: à cauſe que les nerfs & tendons qui ſont en grand - nombre moyens de roborer vne partie. des goutes. c nombre aux pieds,ſont imbus & arrouſez d'vn humeur pitueux, & par ce moyen ont eſté relaxez, de ſorte qu'ils ſont demeurez amollis comme vn parchemin moüillé, qui fait que le pauure podagre ne peut che- miner, & luy ſemble qu'il marche ſur des eſpines. et pour le faire cheminer, il faut neceffairement con- ſommer l'humeur conjoinct, & delaiſſé aux parties nerueuſes : qui ſe fera auec fomentations, cataplaſmes, & emplaſtres aſtringens & deſiccatifs , comme ceux qui s'enſuiuent. - - pour la fomentation , on vſera de celle qui eſt eſcrit cy-deſſus, au chapitre de la roboration des join- emplaſtre. tures : pour la preſeruation , augmentant la quantité de l'alum & du ſel , adjouſtant du ſoulphre vif en - pareille quantité : puis on vſera de cette emplaſtre. /.. maſſœ emplaſtri contra rupturam .iiij. terebent. .ij. pulu. roſarum rubr. nucum cupreſſgallarum, granorum myrti & foliorum eiuſdem, thu. maſtic. caryophilan. .j. malaxentur omnia ſimul manibus in- unctis oleo mirtyno & maſtichino, fiat emplaſtrum extenſum ſupra alutam debitae magnitudinis & latitu- dinis : & ſoit oppoſé ſur les pieds tant deſſus que deſſous, puis faut auoir vne chauſſe de cuir de chien cor- chauſſe de royée, laquelle ſoit laçée bien proprement ſur toute la jambe. or cette emplaſtre eſt fort vtile, d'autant cuir de ckii. qu'elle fortifie les nerfs, & conſume l'humeur imbu en iceux, & empeſche la fluxion : & la chauſſe de cuir de chien conſerue la chaleur naturelle : & parce qu'elle comprime & ſerre, elle empeſche auſſi la fluxion de ſe faire ſur les pieds. f -- des tophes ou nœuds qui viennent aux jointures des goutes. c h a p. x x v. # n aucuns gouteux s'engendrent des nœuds aux jointures, appellez des anciens tophi, # s ) ou nodi , ou tuberoſitez : leſques ſont faits par congeſtion d'vne pituite craſſe,viſqueuſe, & tophes. # creué, & indigeſte, accompagnée d'vn humeur bilieux, acre & chaud : leſquels conioints * phe & delaiſſez en la partie ( pour l'imbecilité d'icelle ) ne peuuent eſtre reſoults : & auſſi pour la douleur du virus artrithique , il ſe fait vne autre augmentation de chaleur eſtrange & · aduſte, qui conſomme & reſoult la partie la plus ſubtile de l'humeur, & le gros & terreftre demeure & s'endurcit, & ſe conuertit en matiere gypſeuſe & pierreuſe, comme craye : & par conſequent ſont en- - gendrez des nœuds & pierres, ainſi qu'on void ſe faire en la veſſie. pareillement les nœuds ſe font quel- comme l'in- quesfois pour indue application des medicamens repercuſſifs & reſolutifs, d'autant que par les repercuſſifs # •n# les humeurs s'eſpaiſſiſſent & congelent, & par les reſolutifs le plus ſubtil ſe reſoult, & le reſte ſe tourne #" en pierre. parquoy le chirurgien, qui ſera appellé pour curer les defiuxions, ſe doit bien garder de trop # reſolu# longuement vſer de remedes repercuſſifs, reſolutifs & deſiccatifs. · cauſe les les medicamens qui doiuentamollir, ont vne chaleur moderée, & doiuent mediocrement humecter, nœuds. pour liquefier l'humeur conioint & attaché en la partie, comme l'eau tiede. auſſi on pourra faire boüillir remedes qui des herbes emolientes, ou en lieu d'icelles la decoction de tripes, pieds, & teſtes de veau: ou de mouton amolliſſent & autres ſemblables.et apres auoir duement fomenté, on vſera de ce medicament. z. axungix humanæ, & rompent . anſeris & gallinz, medullae ceruina an. . ij. terebenthinæ venetx .j. aquz vita parum, cxrx quantum le cºir. ſufficit, fiat vnguentum molle. vapres auoir quelque temps vié de ce medicament, on vſera de ctſtuy-cy. l.rad. altea , lilio. bryonix, lapatiacuti an. .iiij. coquant. completè & paſſentur per ſetaceum : adde gum.ammon.bdellij, galba, opopana in aceto diſſac. .j. medulla ceruinaean. .j.ſº. incorporentur ſimul, & applicentur parti affectae.autre. %. olei lilio. & amygda. dulcium, medul. cruris ceruian. .ij.ſº.mucaginis, ſeminis lini,altheae, & fœnugr. an. .j cerx quant. ſuff.fiat ceratum. autre. /.. emplaſt.de vigo cum merc. & cerati de œzipo humida deſcriptione philagrij ana . ij. malaxentur ſimul cum oleo lilio.fiat maſſa. autre. z. gum. ammon. opopa. galb. bdellij, diſſolutorum in acetoan. .ij. panno lineo colatis adde pul- ueris ſulphu.nitri, finapi.pyrethri an. .É.ſtyraci, liquidae,;axungiœ,hum.an. .j.reſina pini.tereb. vene.ana _ .É.cer.quantum ſufficit.fiat creatum molle.et entre tous autres ceſtuy-cy eſt fort approuué des anciens,pour ººllºme. rompre le cuir,& faire fondre les nodofitez putrefiées & nommément de gal. liu. o. des ſimples .& d'a- dicamèt ſur uicenne fen. .liu. .traicté . ch. . /.. pedes porcello.bene ſalſos num. iij. & veterem pernam cum illis # pour les coque, addendo ſub finem rad. alth. bryonix, lapath. acuti an. . iij. axung. taur. & medullae ceruîna ana # #. .j & cum caſeo putrefacto fiat empla.ſatis mollaead vſum.autre bien excellent. z. caſei acris & putrefa- # iambon cti. .iiij. pulſulph. viui, euphorbij & pyrethri ana .iij. communis veteris pernx & pedum porcello.ſa- & il ſ, . litorum quod ſuffad incorporandum ducantur in mortario , fiat empla. ad vſum. autre. . ſpuma nitri mage. .vj.tereb. .vij.olei veteris .viij.lixiuij quolana pileorum lauantur, & cera quantum ſufficit. fiat ceratum ſatismollae. et apres l'vſage des remollitifs,on fera vne euaporation,auec la pierre byrite,ou de moulin,ou d'vne brique bien chaude, & ſur icelle ſera ietté de bon vinaigre & eau de vie:car telle vapeur diſſoult, ſubtilie, inciſe, & rompt la matiere grumeuſe, gypſeuſe, & endurcie, & fait ſouuent ouuerture au cuir. et ne ſe faut eſmerueiller ſi tels remedes rompent le cuir, attendu que le plus ſouuent en tel cas la peau s'ou- ure'd'elle-meſme ſans nulle inciſion : & pour le dire en vn mot, les remedes qui ſont propres à curer les ſchirres, ſont bons pour amollir les nodus , mais il faut entendre que lors qu'il y a matiere coniointe & ja les nœud. conuertie en pierre par vne autre fluxion,quelquesfois ſe ſuppure,& eſt neceſſaire de faire ouuerture pour quelquesfois vacuer l'humeur ſuperflu contenu en la partie : lequel humeur eſt laicteux, puis la ſubſtance gypſeuſe qui jutpurent. fait les nodoſitez, fort dure comme plaſtre : &apres eſtre ſortie, il faut curer l'vlcere, & mettre l'empaſtre de gratia dei, & autres que le chirurgien verra eſtre neceſſaires. v des venteſitez qui le plus ſouuent ſont trouuées auec les goutes, & de leurs remedes. ch a p t r e xxv i. army les humeurs accompagnez du virus qui fait la goute, ſouuentesfois eſt trouuée gran- signes de de quantité de ventoſitez, principalement és grandes jointures, comme à la hanche & aux §ſi z # genoüils, qui font quelquesfois ſortir les os de leur propre lieu : & ſont cogneus eſtre en la aux iointu- $ partie, en ce que le malade ſent grande douleur tenſiue, ſans peſanteur : & lors qu'on preſſe res. ， º n deſſus du doigt, il n'y demeure point de cauité, comme aux œdemes : mais l'eſprit fiatueux repouſſe & ſe releue en haut, comme qui preſſeroit vne balle remplie de vent : ioint auſſi que la partie ne - - o o peut o lc l) x-hultcticinc l ulre, document pour le ieune chirurgien. prognoſtic, ctgrº, remede bien carminatif. autre , bon ér bien ap- prouué. goute sciati- que plus dou loureuſe que les autres. iuſques du s'eſtend la douleurscia- tique. la sciatique eſt ſans tu- meur cr rougeur. la partie maigrit quand l'os n'eſt en ſa plaee matu- relle, )uand il faut ſaigner en la scia- que. choix de la veine sciati, que, ou ſa- pbenr. peut faire ſon action, à cauſe que les vents rempliſſent les eſpaces vuides, & empeſchent le mouuement de a ſe pouuoir faire. or aucuns ieunes chirurgiens mettans leurs doigts deſſus,en eſleuant l'vn & preſſant l'au- tre, ſentent la ventoſité s'eſleuer entre leurs doigts, comme vne inondation de pusja fait en vne apoſte- me, & y ayant fait ouuerture, icelle faitte n'ont apperceu ſortir aucune matiere : & partant ont eſté deceu, à cauſe de grands accidens, comme augmentation de douleur, & fluxion d'humeurs, qui ont faict deſ- boëtter les os hors de leurs iointures, & les malades ſont demeurez à iamais claudicans. et pour ces cauſes ie conſeille aux gouteux, en tel cas, d'appeller pour leur ayde des chirurgiens experimentez. on void peu ſouuent telles ventoſitez ſans qu'elles ſoient accompagnées de quelque humeur pituiteux,lequel n'eſt trop crud ny viſqueux. dauantage,ces ventoſitez demeurent longuement ſans pouuoir eſtre reſoluès, à cauſe de l'intemperature froide que fait la matiereventeuſe,& des membranes & ligamens qui lient les jointures,leſ- quelles ſont denſes & dures, & par conſequent leurs pores ſont ſerrez, de façon qu'à grande difficulté les matieres ne ſe peuuent euaporer ny ſortir hors. or pour la curation il conuient pour conſumer les ventoſi- tez, vſer de fomentations reſolutiues, carminatiues, diſcuſſiues, & deſiccatiues : auſquelles auront boüil- ly fenoüil, anis, rue,cammomille, melilot, ſauge,roſmarin,origan, calamente, marrubium, &leurs ſembla- bles, cuittes auec vin & lexiue, & vn peu de vinaigre roſat, & du ſel commun. et apres la fomentation on appliquera ce liniment qui s'enſuit. z. olei camomillæ,anethi,rutx, laurini, an. .ij. & cum cera alba fiat linimentum, addendo aqua vitæ parum. dauantage, apres ce liniment on appliquera cataplaſme. . flo- rum camomillae,meliloti,anethi,roſarum rubrarum pulueriſ. an.m.j.foliorum maluarû & abſiynthij.an.m. ſ . furfuris m.j.bulliant omnia ſimul cum lixiuio & vino rubro : deinde piſtentur cum medulla panis & farina fabarum quantum ſufficit : fiat cataplaſma, addendo olei roſati & mirtini an. .ij. aucuns ont loüé pour telle diſpoſition, ce remede pour tarir la ventoſité. z. axung. ſuillz .iiij. calcis viux .j.É. ces choſes ſoient fort battues en vn mortier,& appliquées deſſus.autre z. stercoris caprini cocti cum vino & aceto an. fb. ß. terebenthina venetae,& mellis communis an. .ij.aquae vitae É.pulueris rad.ireos florentix,ſabi- næ an. .iij.olei ruta & anethian. .j.farinz fabarum quantum ſufficit : fiat cataplaſma ad formam pultis. il faut appliquer des compreſſes trempées(& eſpreintes en oxycrat, auquel on aura fait boüillir abſinthe, origan,camomillæ, melilot, rue,ſel commun, y adiouſtant eau de vie : & ſera la partie liée & ſerrée le plus qu'il ſera poſſible,& que le malade le pourra endurer. et ſur la fin , pour roborer la partie, on appliquera deſſus de la lexiue faite de cendre de cheſnes & de ſarment,en laquelle on aura fait boüillir ſel,ſoulfre,alumx de roche , en ſerrant & liant la partie, comme deſſus, auec compreſſe trempées en icelle lexiue. or s'il y auoit grande douleur, alors faudroit laiſſer la propre cure pour ſuruenir aux accidens, en frottant la par- tie de quelque huyle carminatiue, auec laine à tout le ſuif, & autres remedes qu'on verra eſtre neceſſaires de la sciatique . c h a p. xxvii. aintenant il nous reſte à traicter de la goute sciatique, laquelle ſur toutes ( comme 'ay dit au prognoſtic) emporte le prix pour eſtre la plus douloureuſe, & cauſe grands & extremes accidents, à raiſon de la jointure qui eſt plus profonde que les autres, & que le plus ſouuent l'humeur eſtant en grande abondance & pituiteux, froid, gros & viſqueux, difficilement le peut on faire debuſquer de la partie:& vient le plus ſouuent apres vne longue maladie d'vn humeur malin, lequel deliurant les parties d'où il eſt venu, cauſe vne extreme douleur : non ſeulement à la jointure de la hanche, mais encore plus profondement dedans les muſcles de la feſſe, aux baines, genoüils, & iuſques à l'extremité des orteils & quelquesfois aux vertebres des lum- bes, qui donnent grand tourment au malade : lequel penſe( & auſſi les medecins & chirurgiens) eſtre vne colique venteuſe ou pierreuſe, ce qui n'eſt pas. mais la cauſe pourquoy on ſent ſi extremes douleurs, eſt à raiſon des nerfs qui viennent des vertebres des lumbes,& de ceux de l'os ſacrum, qui deſcendent & ſe diſſe- minent aux muſcles de la cuiſſe & de la jambe iuſques à l'extremité des orteils : ce que i'ay amplementmon- ſtré en l'anatomie. le plus ſouuent on n'y apperçoit aucune tumeur ny rougeur, ny autre intemperature à la veue : parce qu'au cuir de cette partie y a peu de veines ſuperficielles,& que l'humeur eſt fiché fort pro- fondement, & ne ſe monſtre à la ſuperficie. auſſi au contraire, nous voyons quelquesfois, qu'à raiſon de l'extreme douleur, il ſe fait ſi grand amas d'humeurs & ventoſitez, qui empliſſent la cauité de la boëte , & relaxent ſi fort le ligament interieur & les exterieurs, qu'ils chaſſent l'os du tout hors de ſa cauité:& s'il y demeure long-temps,il ne faut eſperer qu'il puiſſe eſtre iamais reduit,& qu'il ſe tienne enſa place,à cauſe que l'humeur a occupé le lieu & cauité de la teſte de l'os femoris, & auſſi que les bords de la boëte ( qui ſont cartilagineux) ſe ſont eſtrecis,& les ligamens relaxez & allongez : dont s'enſuiuent pluſieurs accidens per- nicieux , comme claudication perpetuelle, amaigriſſement de toute la cuiſſe & la jambe : parce que l'os n'eſtant en ſon lieu naturel, preſſe les muſcles, veines, arteres, & nerfs, & y manque le mouuement : au moyen dequoy les eſprits eſtans ainſi comprimez & arreſtez ne peuuent reluire aux parties inferieures, & par conſequent ſe tabefient & deuiennent en emaciation; c'eſt à dire, amaigriſſement, non ſeulement de toute la cuiſſe & de la jambe, mais quelquesfois auſſi de tout le corps, auec vne fiévre hectique, qui meine le malade à la mort. parquoy faut que les medecins & chirurgiens, qui ſeront appellez en telle diſpoſi- tion » ayent grand eſgard à ne laiſſer aduenir tels accidens, & qu'ils vſent de remedes forts, & vigoureux, lors qu'il en ſera beſoin, comme nous dirons cy-apres. cure de la sciatique_ . c h a p. xxviii. # n la goute sciatique, combien que communément elle ſoit faite de pituite craſſe, toutes- $ fois ſi le corps du malade abonde en ſang, & qu'il ſoit fort & de temperature ſanguine, il $v) } faut faire la ſaignée : car par icelle il ſe fait égale vacuation des humeurs : & partant la fu- r xion ne ſera ſi prompte à courir ſur la partie. ie vous puis aſſeurer que n'ay iamais trouué plus preſent remede à ſeder la douleur cauſée d'inflammation phlegmoneuſe , que la ſei- gnée, premierement faite de la veine baſilique au bras qui eſt du coſté malade, comme i'ay dit cy de- uant ( à fin de faire reuulſion) : & apres (pour deſcharger & vacuer la matiere coniointe ) de ſaigner la veine ſciatique,qui eſt ſur le malleole exterieur du pied,ſçauoir eſt, ſi la douleur occupe plus cette partie: & ſi elle eſt plus grande au dedans,faut ouurir la veine ſaphene,qui eſt ſur le malleole interne: & faut tirer du ſang ſelon qu'on verra eſtre neceſſaire. et à ce faire ie conſeille au ieune chirurgien qu'il appelle le mede- cin,afin qu'il ſoit preſent lors qu'on tirera le ſang & où le cas aduiendroit qu'il ne s'y peuſt º# † qtqloilil *- - l- - l)ès ( ioultes. | i / b - c , d ordonnaſt tirer trois palettes, plus ou moins, de ſang des veines ſciatique & ſaphene, il pourroit faillir à la quantité du ſang, à cauſe que pour ſaigner telles veines aux pieds, il les faut mettre en eau chaude, & le ſang ſe meflant en l'eau, on peut bien obſeruer la quantité,ſi ce n'eſt qu'en faiſant mettre le pied du patient dedans le vaiſſeau auquel ſera l'eau,il fera vne marque à la hauteur de l'eau,puis il adiouſtera deux ou trois - palettes d'autre eau, plus ou moins, ſelon qu'aura ordonné le medecin, & fera derechef vne autre marque subtile ob- audit vaiſſeau : puis retirera la quantité de l'eau proportionnée du ſang qu'il faudra tirer, & ainſi il ne ſºrºatien de pourra faillir à tirer plus ou moins la quantité du ſang qu'aura ordonné le medecin. pareillement les cly- l'autºur. ſteres forts & aigus ſont vtiles, pourueu qu'il n'yait rien qui les empeſchaſt, comme ſeroient vlceres aux inteſtins & hemorroides. z. rad.accori . ij. centaurij, rutz, ſaluiæ, roriſmarini, calamenti, origanl, pulegij, an. m. ſ.ſtoechados arabicx,florum chamæmeli,meliloti,anethi an.p.j.ſeminis aniſi, fœniculian. . .fiat décoctio ad fb.j. in co- latura diſſolue hierae, diaphoenici an. .É. mellis anthoſati, & saccari rubrian. .j.oliliorum .iij.fiat clvſter. lequel il faudra accommoder au temperament, aage & au temps, ſelon la prudence du medecin. auſſi les purgations vigoureuſes, comme les pillules d'hermodactes, fetides, arthritiques, aſſajeret pour les pitui- teux,& autres cy-deſſus mentionnées.l'electuaire de dtacartamy purg: l humeur cholerique & pituiteux. les vomiſſemens frequens.(ſi le malade le peut faire commodément) font euacuation non ſeulement des humeurs, mais auſſi reuulſion d'iceux , comme nous auons dit par cy-deuant. les bains & ſueurs ſont ſem- les bains blablement bons.auſſi la decoction de gaiac, ou de la ſalſepareille:& envſer tant & ſi peu qu'on verra eſtre hypocaſtet neceſſaire et ſi on connoiſt qu'il y ait chaleur, on frottera la partie d'oxyrhodinum , qui eſt mixtion ſºnt prºfº- d'huyle roſat & de vinaigre, principalement quand la douleur eſt profonde. car le vinaigre, à cauſe de ſa *** cholerº- tenuité, penetrant iuſques au profond, fait voye à l'huyle, laquelle de ſon naturel appaiſe lès douleurs. ** auſſi on pourra vſer d'autres repercuſſifs, ſi on connoiſt eſtre beſoin : & apres on appliquera remedes qui attirent & reſoluent, leſquels ne ſeront nullement appliquez,que premierement on n'ait fait vacuation vni- ucrſelle, de peur qu'on n'attiraſt trop d'humeurs à la partie, & qu'il ne fuſt rendu viſqueux, & eſpais. dont apres les choſes vniuerſelles,pour attirer l'humeur du profond à la ſuperficie,on vſera de l'emplaſtre fait de ) poix & d'euphorbe & de ſoulphre, faite ainſi. .picis naualis fb.j. ſulphuris viui ſubtiliter pulueriſati .ij. euphorbij pulueriſati ij lardi#.ſ.fiat emplaſtrum ſecundum artem,& extendatur ſuperalutam(dont il faut vſer auec prudence,de peur qu'il n'y ſuruienne inflammation)ou vn emplaſtre d'ammoniac,euphorbe,tere- benthine,propolis,galb.bdel.opop.& ſemblablcment d'huyle de ſaulge,roſmarin,de pyrethre,& autres fem- blables,extraictes par quinte-eſſence,leſquelles ſont bien plus à louer que les autres,d'autant que d'iceiles les vertus ſont plus pures, & leur action plus prompte ſans comparaiſon, que celles qui ne ſont tirées par quinte eſſence,parce qu'elles ſont de tenuë & ſubtille ſubſtance, & penetrent fort profondement, & reſol- verté de, uent & roborent les parties nerueuſes. semblablement on fera des fomentations d'herbes diſcutientes & buyi., . reſolutiues , comme racines & fueilles d'hiebles, ireos, graine de laurier, genevre, & ſemence de fœnü- quinte-eſſºn- grec, anis, fenoüil, ſaulge, roſmarin, camomille, melilot, fueilles du ſureau, & leurs ſemblables : & les ce. faut faire cuire en vin & en huyle, & de ce ſoit faite fomentation. auſſi cette emplatire eſt fort loüee des anciens pour reſoudre, & ſeder la douleur, auec ce qu'elle attire les eſpines & os pourris z. seminis v,- auicenne ticæ mundatae, ſpumz boracis, ſalis ammoniaci , radicis ariſtolochiae rotundae, colocynthidos, terebenth. loué cette venetx an. .x. fœnugr. piperis longi, xylobalſami , thuris, myrrhae, adipis caprilli, gummi pini an. . v. emplaſtres cerœ fb. . lactis ficus ſilueſtris . iij. ß. il faut liquefier les choſes ſeiches auec quantité ſuffiſante d'huy le de lis & bon vin , & le tout incorporé enfemble toit fait emplaſtre , & en ſoit appliqué deſſus l'os iſchion. autre .sinapiaceto acerrimo diſſoluti ij.fermenti acris . .pulueris hermodactillorum . ij. mellis com- munis .iij terebent. .iiij.oleilaur & de ſpica an. ij.far. fen. .j.É. terræ formi.cum ouis fb.j. foliorum lau- ri, ſaluiæ, rutx, roriſmarini, an. m. . verm. terreſt.praep.fb. . la rerre de fourmis & leurs œufs, & les vers cuiront à part, auec les herbes hachées auec vin blanc, puis coulécs, & en icelle colature on adrouſtera les autres choſes ſelon l'art : & de ce ſoit appliqué ſous l'os iſchion, comme deſſus. autre. /.. radicis enulae campanz,ſigillisalomonis,bryoniæ,biſmalux an .ij.coquantur complexè & piſtentur, & paſſentur per ie- taceum, addend.farinx fœnugreci & hordei an. .j. olei liliorum & camomilla an. .iij.terebenth. iiij. ce- ræ quantum ſufficit, fiat cataplaſma. il reſoût & appaiſe la douleur , & attire la natiere du profond à la ſuperficie. autre. .radicis ſigilli beatx mariœ .vj.emplaſtri diachylonis albi .iiij.croci diſſoluti in aqua vitæ .ij.terebenthinae .j.olei de ſpica nardi quantum ſufficit : fiat emplaſtrum, applicetur ſuper alutam ca- lidè.i'ay appliqué pluſieurs fois de la ſeule racine de ſigillnm beatæ mariæ en roüelles ſur toute la hanche, † a ſedé toſt la douleur cauſée de matiere froide. autre. /.. ceræ citrinx & terebenthinx abieti. an. . j. , undantur ſimul invaſe duplici : & vbi refrixerint, adde pulueris hermodactillorum j. ſ.florum camomillæ, Éxtérienes iridis florentix an. . iij. fpicr nardi, florum thymi an. .i. interioris cinamomi electi & ſeminis naſtuitij ſºiº par an, .ij. croci .iiij malaxentur ſimul manibus axungia porci vetere non ſalita vnctis, & fiat maſſa empla *** ſtri. et ſi par ces remedes on ne peut ſeder la douleur, alors faut venir aux plus forts, comme appliquer deſſus grandes ventouſes auec grande flamme pour attirer l'humeur du profond à la ſuperficie, puis appli- quer veſicatoires, à fin que l'on faſſe vacuation manifeſte de l'humeur contenu à la partie. • /.. cantharidum, quibus detracta ſunt alae ij.aſtaphidis agriz .iij. ſinap. .j.ſ. fermenti accerrimi . ſ. veſîcatoire ces choſes ſoient incorporées enſemble, & ſoit fait veſicatoire. | autre. prenez l'interieur de l'eſcorce de viorne,le poids de deux eſcus,& appliquez au deſſous de la dou- leur. les vlceres faits par les veſſies ſeront tenus longuement ouuerts, à fin de vacuer & tirer l'humeur con- ioint en la partie. si la cuiſſe tombe en arrophie, on y procedera en la maniere que nous auons cy-deuant declaré,traittant des accidens des fractures & luxations. et ſi pour tous ces remedes le pauure gouteux ne trouue allegement de ſon mal, il faut venir à l'extreme remede par le commandement d'hyppocrate , qui aphor. éos dit, que ceux qui ſont affligez de douleur diuturne en l'iſchion , la cuiſſe ſe luxe, & deuiennent tabides, li": º . & clochent à perpetuité, ſi on ne les cauteriſe. auſſi celſe commande qu'on vlcere la peau aux vieilles cº º ºº º douleurs ſciatiques en trois ou quatre lieux, auec cauteres : car toutes telles douleurs,quand elles ſomt en- uieillies, à grande peine peuuent eſtre guaries ſans bruſleures : & on a veu pluſieurs qui ont ecouuert ſanté apres l'application des cauteres. parquoy pour ſeder l'extreme douleur, & prohiber les accidens , predits, on appliquera trois ou quatre cauteres actuels ou potentiels, au tour de la jointure de l'iſchion, les faiſant profonder en la chair l'eſpeſſeur d'vn doigt (plus ou moins, ſelon que le malade ſera gras ou maigre ) ſe donnant garde de toucher les nerfs. et pour bien faire , le chirurgien doit tenir les vlceres longuement ouuerts, à fin de donner iſſue à la matiere conjointe, qui a eſté de long-temps retenue en la partie affectée. qui ſe fera par le moyen de petites boulettes faites d'or au d'argent, gentiane, ou de cire fondue, aucc pou- autre vtil;. dre de vitriol ou de mercure, ou d'autre matiere catheretique. té des cante- or les cauteres profitent pareillement, à cauſe qu'eſchauffans la partie, auſſi ils eſchauffent, & diſſoluent res. les •+ + • -m-ºv- m-" *- » l v.-s. av-ºw av- a x hv- e-ca -• • • v-uv- -* -av-vv-lu-v- je es huemeurs froids, & ſubtilient les gros & viſqueux, & les attirent dehors pour eſtre euacuez par les ex- a cremens que iettent les vlceres : & auſſi que les ligamens ſe reſerrent par les cicatrices,& la partie affectée demeure puis apres fortifiée. annotation au ieune chirurgien : c'eſt qu'il faut faire flechir & eſtendre la cuiſſe malade de celuy qui aura vne ſciatique, de quelque cauſe que ce ſoit, de peur que le ligament car- tilagineux, qui lie les os enſemble, ne s'enfle au dedans la jointure, & que les os ne ſe conioiguent enſemble, & ſe faſſe vne enchyloſis. -, | de la goute grampe . c h a p. xxix. deſcription. a goute grampe eſt vne eſpece de conuulſion, faite d'vne matiere fiatulente, par le moyen de laquelle ſouuentesfois le col, les bras, & iambes, ſont par vne grande force retirées, ou cauſe pour- eſtenduës : cauſant vne extreme douleur, non toutesfois de longue durée. la cauſe d'vn tel quoy elle $ maleſt vne vapeur craſſe & lente, qui eſt entre les membranes des muſcles. qui vient plu- vient pluſtoſt - ſtoſt de nuict que de iour, à raiſon que la chaleur naturelle & eſprits ſe retirent au centre du de nuičt. corps, qui fait que la matiere ſlatulente s'eſleue, & fait tenſion aux parties, où s'introduit la goute grampe. prognoſtic. c ure. auſſi quelquesfois vient à ceux qui nagent en eau froide, qui les fait noyer, pour l'impuiſſance qu'ils ont, ne pouuans nager, demeurans immobiles, parce que par la frigidité de l'eau, le cuir eſt eſpefſi & retrait, & les pores ſont clos; de ſorte qu'il ne ſe peut faire euaporation de ladite matiere flatulente, mais au con- traire elle s'augmente par l'eau froide.ceux qui ſont addonnez à yvrongnerie, oiſiueté, & pareſſe pour b les cruditez qu'ils amaſſent, ſont le plus ſouuent éprits de cette maladie. pour la cure, faut tenir bon re- gime & trauailler moderément, & roborer les parties où tel mal aduient,qui ſe fera par frictions longues, auec linges chauds, eau de vie, en laquelle ou aura infusé fueilles de ſauge, romarin, thym, ſariette, la- uande, cloux de girofles, gingembre, ou autres ſemblables diſcutiens & reſolutifs. et pour ceder la dou- leur, lors que la goute grampe occupe quelque partie, promptement elle ſera appaisée par friction, ou par extenſion, ou flexion, ou par cheminer. fin du dix-huičtieſme liure des goutes. ## t a b l e des chapitres du dix-neufiéme liure, de la groſſe verole. c e s cript l o n de la verole chapitrej des cauſes de la verole. chap. ij | en quel humeur le virus verolique eſt enraciné. chap. iij # signes de la verole. chap. iiij zgv e* ºns du prognoſtic. chap. v uelles choſes il faut ſauoir c entendre pour entrer en la cure de la verole. chap. vj les moyens de curer la verole. chap. vij lamaniere de preparer le bois de gajac. chap. viij la ſeconde maniere de curer la verole parfrictions. chap. ix de l'eſlection.preparation & mixtion de l'argent-vif. - chap. x la forme d'executer ladite friction. chap. xj d le temps de la friction. chap. xij - - / • - - - - - t)e la troiſieſme curation par ceroines ou emplaſtres , visaires de la friftion. chap. xiij - - la quatrieſme maniere de curer la verole. chap. xiv cure des vlceres de la verge. chap. xv en quoy differe la gonorrhée de la chaude-piſſe. chap. xvi de l'erection & tenſion continuè du membre genital. chap. xvij des chaudes-piſſes, & differences d'icelle . chap. xviij du prognoſtic des chaudes-piſſés. chap. xix sommaire de la cure de la gonorrhée. chap. xx n curation | curation generale de la chaude-piſſe. - chap. xxj. curation particuliere de la chaude-piſſe. | | chap. xxij des carnoſitex qui s'engendrent au conduit de l'vrine. · · chap. xxiij des ſignes des carnoſitex a" | | chap. xxiiij duprognoſtic des carnºſitex, & de la cured'icelles. chap xxv cure particuliere des carnoſſtex , , , , ， , , , chap. xxvj de quels remedesilfaut vſer,ſîleſditescarmofitextiennent de la verole , enſemlbe de leur curation. | | | chap. xxvij des remedes couuenables pour cicatriſer les vlceres apres l'ablation des carnoſitex chap. xxviij · - t'es bubons, ou poulains veneriens. - chap. xxix des tophes ou nodus venans du virus verolique. | chap. xxx des cauſes pourquoyl'os s'altere & pourrit, c> des ſignes pour le bien cºgnoiſtre. chap. xxxj des moyens de proceder à la ſeparatian des os carieux. chap. xxxij · des cauteres actuels & potentiels. chap. xxxiij . du mal qui aduient des cauterres actuels induèment appliquek, c quels remedes il faut appliquer apres l'vſage d'iceux. chap. xxxiv t)e la potion vulneraire. - - chap. xxxv t'es dartes ou ſciſſures ſerpigineuſes. · chap. xxxvj de la maladie venerienne, ou groſſe verole , qui ſuruient aux petits enfans. chap. xxxvij. - | t'eſcription de l'eau theriacle. - . chap. xxxviij de la puanteurd'haleine, des aiſſelles , & des pieds, & de la ſueur vniuerſelle. . chap. xxxix de la ſurdité des oreilles. | chap. xl · # z ' - # •a v l e c t e v r. ; - - º - - • - - e n'ay voulu laiſſer en arriere à parler de la groſſe verole $ et pour ce faire, i'ay pris la plus grande part de ce qu'en pource ie n'ay voulu changer ſa methode & maniere de practiquer, à raiſon que ie n'euſſe ſceu mieux faire : & l'ay inſeré en ce preſent liure pour deux raiſons : la premiere, afin que le ieune chrirugien ne deſiraſt la methode de guarir cette maladie en ce preſent œuure : la ſeconde,pour - le faire renaiſtre, ſi poſſible m'eſtoit, pour la preud'hommie du perſonna- • ge, & bonne amitié que nous auions enſemble dés nos ieunes ans. " - i! à$ auoit eſcrit deffunct thierry de hery, chirurgien demeu- . # $ rant à paris : lequel en a autant bien traicté qu'aucun de " ceux que i'ay peu lire, † en auoient parlé deuant luy. et , - - - -- º ... , º · • · • · . " " | ， l e dix-nevf iesme livre, · traictant de la grosse # verole, dite maladie v e nerie n n e, & des accidents qui aduiennent à icelle. . - - - . - , - · par a m b r oise par e d e la va l av ma ine, conſeiller, & premier chirurgien du roy. t . deſcription de la verole ». ch a p t r e i. diuers noms e s fr a n ç o s momment cette maladie, la maladie de naples , & les neapoli- de la mala- $º) tains, le mal di franceſe : le geneuois, lemal dit bronſuſe : les eſpagnols, la bouez: die vene- w les allemans, françouſe : les latins , pudendagra. tous leſquels noms ont eſté ainſi 'j / -v- # impoſez ſelon le plaiſir des nations : mais pour ne faillir , ie ſuis d'aduis que ſi le françois en eſt vexé, que l'on l'appelle la maladie du.françois : & ſi c'eſt le neapo- litain, la maladie du neapolitain : & ainſi des autres nations. et ne faut eſtre cu- - n>ºiſt rieux des noms, pourueu que l'on entende la choſe par eux ſignifiee, verole eſt vne verole eſt maladie causée par attouchement, & principalement de compagnie charnelle, auec qualité occulte , com- § #.. mensant le plus ſouuent par vlceres des parties honteuſes, puſtules en la teſte , & en autres parties ex- ſ§ i. ii. terieures, infectant auſſi les parties internes, auee douleurs nocturnes extremes à la teſte , eſpaules, ·uers aeei- jointures , & autres parties. et par ſucceſſion de temps fait des nodofitez, alteration, & caries aux os» dens con- les liquefiant , comme ſi c'eſtoit metal fondu, laiſſant les parties charneuſes d'autour ſouuent en leur en- ioints en- tier : enſemble cauſe pluſieurs autres & diuers accidens, comme corruption totale des parties, ſelon l'in- ſemble-. temperature & cachexie des corps, & la diuturnité du temps que le malade en ſera épris. car aucuns, perdent vn œil, & ſouuent les deux, ou vne bonne portion des paupieres , & les malades demeurent accidens de apres eſtre curez, hideux à regarder, ayant les yeux éraillez : autres perdent l'ouie, autres le nez : autres la verole , ont le palais troüé, auec deperdition d'os, qui eſt cauſe de les faire parler renaud : autres ont la bouche torſe, comme renieurs de dieu : autres perdent le cultiueur du champ de nature humaine, de façon qu'ils demeurent apres ſteriles : & les femmes y laiſſent la moytié, & quelquesfois dauantage, de leurs parties genitales , qui fait qu'elles ſont laiſsées,comme inhabiles d'auoir la compagnie des hommes & à d'aucuns par vn reliqua d'vne chaude-piſſe,ſe procrée des carnofitez en la verge,qui fait que iamais ne peuuent piſſer que par le benefice d'vne ſonde,& ſouuent meurent par vne ſupreſſion d'vrine,oud'vne gangrene à la ver- ge. autres demeurent impotens des bras ou jambes,cheminans tout le cours de leur vie à potences. autres demeurent envne contraction de tous leurs membres,de maniere qu'il ne leur reſte que la parole,qui eſt le plus ſouuent en criant & lamentant,maudiſſans l'heure qu'ils ont eſté engendrez.autres demeurent aſthma- tiques & hectiques,auecvne fiévre lente,& meurent tabides & deſſeichez : aucuns deuiennent lepreux : au- trés ont des vlceres putrides chancreuſes & corroſiues à la gorge, & autres, parties du corps aucuns ont vne cheute de poil,dicte alopecie,ou pellade:autres des dartres ſquameuſes aux pieds & mains:il ſe concrée à d'aucuns des boutons & puſtules dans le conduit de l'vrine, qui s'exulcerent & enfiamment, & ſe tume- fient,de façon que les malades ne peuuent vriner,puis la gangrene & mortification ſuruiennent qui fait,que vifargent, pour leur ſauuer la vie,leur conuient entierement couper la verge ſi on n'y remedie.aucuns ſont vexez d'e- antidote pilepſie,autres des fiux de ventre,iettans les matieres ſanguinolentes & corrompuës. et pour le dire en vn d'humeur mot, on peut voir la verole compliquée de toutes eſpeces & differences de maladies, leſquelles ne ſe peu- vervlique-. uent guarir ſans ablation du virus verolique, auec ſon alexipharmaque, qui eſt le vif argent , que l'on peut comparer à vn furet, faiſant ſortir le connin hors de ſon terrier. - - º · des cauſes de la verole . c h a p. : i i. deux cauſes tasse - de la verole. ， n # l ya deux cauſes de laverole. la premiere vient par vne faculté ſpecifique & occulte ,. la- quelle n'eſt ſuiette à aucune demonſtration : on la peut toutesfois attribuer à l'ire de dieu. ## - lequel a permis que cette maladie tombaſt ſus le genre humain, pour refrener leur laſciueté ſeraii d #ll# & desbordée concupiſcence. la ſeconde, eſt pour auoir eu compagnie d'homme ou de paillards. º femme ayant ladite maladie, laquelle ſe prend à cauſe que l'homme aura à la verge quelques comment la vlceres de verole ou chaude-piſſe, ou la femme à ſa matrice : ou qu'elle aura vne chaude-piſſe (qu'el- verole ſe les appellent fleurs blanches ) ou de la ſemence recentement receuë de quelque verolé : & par le contact ſº prend par de la verge, la mucoſité & ſanie virulente retenuë aux rugoſitez du col de ſa matrice, s'imprime aux le coit. poroſitez de la verge, cauſant vlceres malins, ou chaude-piſſe. puis le virus pullulera cheminera par les veines, arteres & nerfs aux parties nobles ; ainſi que l'on void le feu épris à vne corde d'arquebuze* & le foye ſe reſſentant de tel vice , ſouuent par ſa faculté expultrice , chaſſe ledit virus aux aines » & fait apoſtemes , appellées bubons ( vulgairement poulains ) leſquels s'ils ne iettent leur gourme & retournent au dedans par deliteſcence, ce venin infecte la maſſe du ſang , dont s'enſuit la # toutcsfo s | , de la groſſe verole. s c toutesfois elle peut aduenir par autre cauſe, comme par la reception de l'haleine infectée d'vn verolé, ou verolée, baiſant pluſieurs fois vn enfant : ce qui n'eſt hors de raiſon. car par la reception des vapeurs cor- rompuës, le virus ſe peut imprimer au corps de l'enfant , attendu ſa delicateſſe & rarité puerile pareille- ment pour auoir extrait & receu vn enfant d'vne femme verolée, les matrones en peuuent eſtre enrachée, d'autant que par les poroſitez de leurs mains, le virus ſe communique aux veines & arteres, & d'icelle par tout le corps ; comme monſieur le coq, docteur medecin à paris, teſmoigne auoir veu au traicté qu'il a fait, de ligno ſancto non permiſcendo. auſſi par experience on void , que gens de toutes complexions, ſexe, ſoient enfans, adoleſcens, hommes en aages, conſiſtans, ſolides, & robuſtes,couchans auec autres infectez de cette maladie,ſans aucune compagnie charnelle s'en treuuent attaints & épris. il ne faut pas en attendre moins de celuy qui couchera au lict d'vn verolé, ſi la ſueur ou ſanie ſortant de quelque vlcere, infecte les draps & couuerture, eſtans imbus de ce venin : à cauſe que nos veines & arteres attirent l'air, mettant en nos corps la qualité maligne des excremens imprimez aux linceuls. autant en ſera-il de manger & boire aux vaiſſeaux où ils auront beu & mangé : car de leur bouche il y laiſſent vne ſaliue ſanieuſe, contenue en- tre leurs dents,laquelle eſt veneneuſe en ſon eſpece, ainſi qu'aux lepreux,ou que la baue d'vn chien enragé en la ſienne. semblablament les enfans alaictant nourrices verolées en ſont infectez:attendu que le laict n'eſt que ſang blanchy, lequel eſtant infecté du virus,& l'enfant en eſtant nourry, en prend les meſmes qualitez. d'autant que nous retenons de la nature dequoy nous ſommes nourris. souuent auſſi l'enfant ayant la ve- role,la donne à ſa mere nourrice : car par la grande chaleur & vlcere qu'il a en ſa bouche,& par les vapeurs qui s'eſleuent de ſon corps, il imprime au mammellon , qui eſt poreux , laxe, & rare, le virus qui ſubit ſe communique par tout le corps, qui premierement & le plus ſouuent ſe monſtre au mammellou. en cét endroit ie veux bien reciter cette hiſtoire. vne honneſte & riche femme pria ſon mary qu'il luy permiſt d'eſtre nourrice d'vn ſien enfant : ce qu'il luy accorda,pourueu qu'elle print vn autre nourrice pour la ſoulager a nourrir l'enfant. icelle nourrice auoit la verole, & la bailla a l'enfant, & l'enfant à la mere,& la mere au mary, & le mary à deux autres petits enfans, qu'il faiſoit ordinairement boire & manger, & ſou- uent coucher auec luy, non ayant connoiſſance qu'il fuſt entaché de cette maladie. or la mere conſiderant que le petit enfant ne profitoit aucunement, & qu'il eſtoit en cry perpetuel, m'enuoya querir pour connoi ſtre ſa maladie, qui ne fut difficile à iuger : d'autant qu'il eſtoit tout couuert de boutons & pnſtules,& que les tetins de la nourrice eſtoient tous vlcerez : pareillement ceux de la mere, ayant ſur ſon corps pluſieurs boutons : ſemblablement le pere, & les deux petits enfans, dont l'vn eſtoit aagé de trois, & l'autre de qua- tre ans. lors declaray au pere & à la mere qu'ils eſtoient tous entachez de la verole,ce qui eſtoit prouenu par la nourrice : leſquels i'ay traicté, & furent tous guaris, reſte le petit enfant qui mourut , & la nourrice eut le foüet ſous la cuſtode, & l'eut eu par les § n'euſt eſté de crainte de des-honnorer la maiſon. c h a p. ii i. o m b e n que ſelon aucuns, la cauſe antecedante de cette maladie ſe fait indifferemment des quatre humeurs : toutesfois il me ſemble que le fondement, & la cauſe materielle , premiere & principale d'icelle, eſt vne matiere pituiteuſe, groſſe & viſqueuſe , alterée & viciée par ce virus. lequel conſequemment altere & corrompt les autres humeurs, ſelon la preparation qu'ils auront à la receuoir. et pour probation que cevirus eſt fondé en l'humeur pituiteux, c'eſt que par l'éuacuation qui ſe fait de cét humeur, ſoit par le flux de bouche, ou de ventre, ou par l'vrine, ſueurs, & en toutes tem- peratures, ſoit coleriques, ſanguines, ou melancholiques , ladite verole eſt guarie : ce que l'on void par experience. auſſi que les paroxyſmes & mouuemens des douleurs ſe font la nuict plus que le iour,parce que lors la matiere eſt en ſon rut ou mouuement, faiſant diſtenſion au perioſte, membranes , & autres parties nerueuſes, & retourne tous les iours en meſme maniere que fait vne fiévre quotidienne, cauſée d'humcur pituiteux.auſſi l'on void que les choleriques, ſanguins,& melancholiques ne peuuent eſtre guaris que par l'éuacuation de l'humeur pituiteux, & ſont tous, ou la pluſpart, des accidens ſuiuans cette maladie, cauiez d'humeurs froids. pareillement les malades ſe ſentent bleſſez auec choſes froides, & aidez & guaris par choſes chaudes, ſoit par decoctions, onguens, emplaſtres, parfums, & autres remedes,pris tant par dedans que par dehors. d'abondant en toutes puſtules ou vlceres,on trouue vne dureté en la racine,encore qu'el les apparoiſſent exterieurement billieuſes ou ſanguines : car les ayant ouuertes, on les trouuera farcies d'v. ne matiere gypſeuſe & blanche, ou vne pituite craſſe, ou vn pus viſqueux : auſſi les parties froides & ſper- matiques en ſont plus affectées que les chaudes. les exoſtoſes ou nodus, ne ſont procreés que d vne pi- tuite craſſe & viſqueuſe. aufſi les vlceres ne peuuent eſtre curez, que le corps ne ſoit vacué, & principa- lement par ſueur : parquoy ſi la matiere eſtoit chaude, & ſeiche, ſeroit pluſtoſt entretenuë par tels remedes, que guarie. pareillement on void que ladite verole eſt guarie par remedes chauds & ſecs,comme par la de- en quel humeur le virus verolique eſt enraciné. d coction de gajac, d eſquine, ſalſe-pareille,& vif-argent,& autres choſes prouoquans la ſueur. 'de la pelade. la pelade ſe fait d'humeur ſereuſe introduite ſous le cuir, qui corrode la racine des cheueux. on con- noiſt ladite pelade quand on veid deperdition de poil à la teſte , barbe, & ſourcils. elle eſt pluſtoſt curée par l'onction, que par la diette. rondelet eſcrit que pour faire renaiſtre le poil, faut prendre vne taupe, & la faire boüillir, & en frotter la partie. d'auantage cette maladie ſe cache au corps vn an, ſans demonftrer quelquesfois ſignes apparens, ce que ne font les maladies cauſées d'intemperature ehaude. parquoy ces choſes conſiderées, on peut conclurre que la baſſe & fondement du virus verolique eſt l'humeur pitui- teux : toutesfois elle peut eſtre compliquée auec autres humeurs , comme il appert aux tumeurs contre nature , leſquelles ſe treuuent peu ou point , qui purement & ſimplement ſoient faires d'vn ſeul humeur, mais celuy qui domine en la tumeur, prend la denomination , comme nous auons dit au tricté des tumeurs coiltic i] [llrc. "- signes de la verole . c h a p. iv. o r s que la verole eſt recente, il s'apparoiſt vlcere à la verge, ou à la vulue,tumeurs aux aines, chaude-piſſe,iettant quelquesfois ſan e puante & fort fetide, laquelle prouient des paraſtates, ou des vlceres qui ſont au conduit de la verge : ils ont auſſi douleurs aux jointures, teſte, eſpaules,& sºs autres parties, auec vne laſſitude des bras & jambes , de façon que les malades diſent qu'illeur ſemble auoir eſté battus de baſtons, ne pouuans cheminer , ny porter leurs mains ſur la teſte, ſinon auec p p grande si le poulais m e iette ſa gourme , eſt cauſe de ve . role. autre cauſe de verole. eſpece de cauſe de ve- role admira- ble. l'enfant peut döner la ve- role à ſa me- réº, hiſtoire me- morable. ceux qui ſont enta- chez de ve-, role ne peu- uent prºfiter. le fbndemêt de cette ma- ladie eſt à ſa pituite viſ- queuſe cr froide. premiere raiſon, sc«onde. troiſieſme. ) uatrieſm e & cinquieſ- . la pelade. sixieſme, source des chaudes-piſ- c ' . o le lix-neufieme l ure, - chapellet de bouttons. signes cer- tains de la vervle. signes deve- rple inuete- rée, pourquoy les verolez ſont plus tourmé- tez la nuict que le iour. - signes deve- role curable. signes incu- vables. les iennes ſont fort ſu- iets à rece- tueir la vero- le. hazard ſur ceux qui ha- bitent auee femmes ve- rolées. . differences des goutes veroliques cr vulgai- "éºj. nota. grande difficulté. il leur ſuruient inflammation à la bouche, & tumeur aux amygdales , qui les garde de bien parler,& aualler leurs viandes,& meſme leur ſaliue : auſſi ils ont puſtules & boutons à la teſte, & par tout le corps & ſouuent vn chappellet autour du front,cheute de poil(dite a)opecie, ou pelade ) à la teſte, ſourcils & à la barbe, auec amaigriſſement de tout le corps , & grandes inquietudes. - il faut icy noter, que tous ces ſignes ne ſuruiennent pas à chacun malade, mais à aucuns d'iceux. les plus certains ſont, quand le malade a quelque vlcere malin aux parties honteuſes, calleux, dur , & difficile: & encore que les vlceres ſoient conſolidez, & qu'il y reſte certaine dureté, principalement à la verge, cela denonce la verole à curer, & apparoiſſent tumeurs aux aines, qui s'en retournent dedans le corps ſans ſe ſuppurer. et lors qu'il ſuruient aucun des ſignes ſuſdits, il faut uger qu'ils ont la verole : toutesfois il faut bien noter que pluſieurs ont ſignes euidens de la verole, ſans qu'ils ayent vlceres à la verge, ny bubons aux aines, ne chaude-piſſes , neantmoins qu'en telles parties le plus ſouuent s'apparoiſſent les premiers ſi- gnes : mais ont quelques vlceres ou puſtules en autres parties, leſquelles ne peuuent eſtre curées,quelque diligence qu'on y puiſſe faire, ſi ce n'eſt par le benefice du vif-argent. lors qu'elle eſt inueterée, les dou- leurs ſont fixes & arreſtées, auec tophes ou nodus, carie & pourriture aux os de la teſte, ou aux bras, & au deuant des iambes : auſſi ils ont des tumeur« noüeuſes,remplies de matiere dure,en maniere de chaſtaignes, ou comme vn nerf ou tendon pourry, qui ſont fort enracinées : & apres eſtre ouuertes, degenerent en di- uerſes eſpeces d'vlceres ; à ſçauoir, putrides & corroſiues, & autres ſelon la diuerſité des corps. les dou- leurs vexent plus les malades la nuict que le iour : ce qui aduient, pource qu'eſtans tenu chaudement, icel- le chaleur eſmeut l'humeur : ioint que le virus verolique s'attache le plus ſouuent à l'humeur pituiteux,le- quel la nuict a ſon mouuement : partant il s'eſleue & diſtend le perioſte, & autres parties nerueuſes, qui eſt cauſe auec l'acrimonie du virus, faire de grandes douleurs. qu'il ſoit vray, les pauures verolez au matin, b apres auoir crié toute la nuict, commencent à ſe repoſer : parce que ledit humeur pituiteux commence à s'abbaiſſer, & quitter place au ſang, qui a ſa domination au matin. on peut icy adiouſter autre raiſon, c'eſt que le malade ne trouuant occaſion de parler la nuict à aucuns, & voir choſes diuerſes, ſon eſprit eſt atten- tif du tout à ſa douleur. du prognoſtic. c h a p. v. i cette maladie eſt reſcente auec peu d'accidens,comme puſtules,&quelques petites douleurs mo- biles,& que le corps ſoit ieune & de bône habitude, & que le temps ſoit commode:côme le prin- temps,la cure ſe fera facilement. mais à l'oppoſite celle qui eſt inueterée auec grand nombre d'ac- cidens, comme douleurs de teſte, nodus, & carie au os, pareillement vlceres cacoëthes en corps fort extenuez, debiles, & qui auront eſté par diuerſes fois penſez par empiriques, ou bien par perſonnes methodiques,qui n'auront rien oublié ſelon l'art à executer : à quoy toutesfois la maladie n'aura voulu ce- der par ſa grande malice, de façon que le virus ſera plus fort que les remedes, & auſſi lors que le malade eſt fort emacié , ſec & hectique ( pour la conſommation de l'humidité radicale ) lors ſera du tout incurable. parquoy à tels faut ordonner cure paliátiue, toutesfois faut vſer de grande prudence en prognoſtiquant, pour n'encourir mauuaiſe reputation : parce que l'on en a veu pluſieurs que l'on eftimoit ne deuoir iamais · recouurer ſanté,auoir eſté guaris,car dieu & nature font ſouuent choſes admirables. les ieunes qui ſont de texture mollaſſe, rare,& delicate, ſont plus diſpoſez à receuoir tels virus, que ceux qui ſont de contrai- res temperatures & non preparsz à receuoir tel venin. comme nous voyons en temps de peſte, que tous ceux d'vne maiſon en ſeront morts,& qu'aucuns conuerſeront auec eux iour & nuict, voire à ieun ou faouls, c quine prendront aucun mal : ce qui appert ſouuent en aucuns qui abiteront auec femmes infectées, & ne prendront la verole,là où les autres qui n'en auront tiré qu'vne ſeule pauure dragme la prendront. et quant aux douleurs dites goutes, elles different de celles qui ſont vulgaires, car les vulgaires ont certaines perio- des & paroxyſmes, & celle de la verole ſont preſque continuelles. en outre, les gouttes vulgaires demeu- rent quelquesfois, non ſeulement cinq ou ſix ans ou plus, cachées en vn corps : mais auſſi toute la vie d'vn homme, viuant de bon regime, ſans qu'il s'en rèſſente, & toutesfois les enfans yſſans de luy en ſeront affli- gez : ce qui n'eſt pas ainſi de celles de la verole. car on les void ordinairement ou ſouuent guarir auec tou- tes leurs racines, ſans iamais recidiuer de pere en fils. dauantage, les goutes qu'on appelle naturelles, oc- cupent les iointures, & y cauſent des nodus, dedans leſquels on trouue vne matiere pierreufe & gypſeuſe, & celles de la verole occupent pluſtoſt le milieu des os, les rendans carieux & pourris : s'il y a vlceres à la verge, ſont difficiles à guarir, & apres les auoir cicatriſez , s'il demeure dureté au lieu, telle choſe infailli- blement monſtre le malade auoir la verole. quant au reſte du prognoſtic, la verole du temps preſent eſt beaucoup moins cruelle & plus aiſée à guarir,qu'elle n'eſtoit du temps paſſé de ſon premier commencement: car elle s'adoucit de iour en iour cuidemment.les aſtrologues eſtiment la cauſe de cecy prouenir de ce que les influences du c el,qui ſemblent auoir premieremét caufé telle maladie ſemblent auſſi par laps de temps, & contraires reuolutions eſtre affoiblies:tellement qu'il y a apparence,qu'auec le temps elle ſe perdra,com- me fit la mentagre,qui luy reſſcmble en pluſieurs accidens & qui affligea beaucoup les romains ſous le re- gne de l'empereur tibere & la lichene,qui ſous claude ſon fucceſſeur moleſta,non ſeulement l'italie,mais auſſi toute l'europe. mais les medecins ayment mieux attribuer la cauſe de tel adouciſſement, à l'inuention d d'vne infinité d'excellens remedes,que pluſieurs gens de bon eſprit ont cherché diligemment pour oppoſer à vn mal ſi cruel. quc puis-je dire dauantage du prognoſtic ? c'eſt que pluſieurs ayant gaigné la verole, ſu- bit l'appetit venerien eſt quaſi comme eſteint,& la verge ſe rend mollaſſe, & tombent en vne triſteſſe : puis peu à peu le mal accroiſt, accompagné de pluſieurs & diuers accidens, comme nous auons dit. a ceux qui ont les humeurs ſubtils, ſuruient la pelade, & autres vlceres malins & cacoethes. a quelques-vns ſuruien- nent des dertres & fentes aux mains & anx pieds, qui procedent d'vne pituite ſalée. lors que la verole eſt inueterée, les douleurs ſont fixes, & ont des nodoſitez, & le plus ſouuent dertres aux mains ou aux pieds, & ont vne couleur pkombine, & peſanteur de tout le corps, & ſont chagrins & melancholiques. . quelles choſes il fautſçauoir& entendre pour entrer en la cure de la verole . " c h a p t r e v i. a l i e n afferme que toute curation de maladie ſe fait par vne de ces trois parties de medecine # curatoire ; à ſçauoir, par diette, chirurgie, ou pharmatie, ou la pluſpart d'icelles enſem- \ ble. or en cette peruerſe & maligne maladie , toutes les trois ſont neceſſaires : car comme la pharmatie a beſoin de diette & de chirurgie , auſſi la chirurgie a beſoin de diette & de phar- trois manit- res pour gua. rir totºtes a l adies. macie. de la groſſe verole. macie. et partant il faut que le chirurgien rationelaye la connoiſſance de trois choſes, en l'ignorance deſ- quelles giſt le defaut de curation de toute maladie , c'eſt à ſçauoir, l'eſſence, cauſe,& accidens de la maladie. . auſſi la diuerſité des temperatures, tant generales que particulieres, auec les remedes & medicamens pro- pres pour la curation d'icelle eſt neceſſaire.car ſans la connoiſſance & methodique adminiſtration d'iceux, ne ſe peut faire curation ſice n'eſt par cas d'auanture. donc pour bien curer cette maladie, il faut connoi- ſtre les choſes naturelles, & les dependances d'icelles, pour la varieté des corps & parties bleſſées : car il faut que le chirurgien methodique ſçache que les hommes d'habitude dure & robuſte, comme laboureurs, nautonniers, forgerons, chaſſeurs, crocheteurs, poſtillons, & autres telles gens de grand trauail, endure- ront medicamens violents & euacuations plus fortes,que les autres qui ſont d'habitude & complexion mol- le & delicate, comme femmes, eunuques,ou chaſtrez, & ieunes enfans & ſedentaires.auſſi ſelon la tempe- faut diner- rature de chacun malade, faut diuerſifier les remedes, comme les perſonnes qui ſont de complexion chole-ſºfº lº *- rique, ſanguine, demandent autre forme de curer que les pituiteux & melancholiques. car encore que le # # fondement de la verole (comme nous auons dit ) ſoit vne alteration de l'humeur pituiteux : ſi eſt-ce qu'il # # s'enſuit vice & corruption des autres, pour la temperature des corps, & abondance des humeurs. mais il y #º c'- a vn tas de coquins, impoſteurs & maquerelles, qui taictent tous malades d'vn ſeul onguent, ou d'vne de- - coction de gajac auec vin,ou ſans iceluy;adiouſtant quelquesfois medicamens purgatifs,& font vne infinité de fautes, dont les pauures verolez demeurent eſtropiez & languiſſans toute leur vie. a ſçauoir, fi au com- mencement de la verole, comme il aduient, quelqu'vn aura vlcere à la verge , ou à la vulue, pour auoir eu compagnie d vn verolé, ou verolée, s'il faut promptement purger & ſaigner ? monſieur rondelet defendde non purger & ſaigner, de peur de retarder le venin verolique à ſortir hors, & oſter la connoiſſance pour quelques temps : mais il faut attirer le venin dehors, par fomentations & lauemens, bains, & eſtuues, em- plaſtres de vigo cum mercurio,onguent vif-argentez appliquez aux aines & entre-feſſon,decoction de ga- jac donnée en portion,afin de chaſſer le venin verolique hors,& luy obtundre ſa malice:telles choſes le plus ſouuent gardent la verole de venir.auſſi qu'il nous eſt commandé des anciens, de non purger ny ſaigner au commencement des piqueures & morſures des chiens enragez,& autres beſtes venimeuſes,de peur d'attirer le venin du dehors au dedans.parquoy c'eſt mal fait de purger & ſaigner au commencement de la verole. - • le moyen de curer la verole, enſemble du bois de gajac. ch a p. vii. l v s e v r s ont cherché & experimenté diuers remedes pour la curation de cette mala- ) uatre ma- die, mais auiourd'huy de tous elle ſe pratique en quatre manieres. la premiere, par decoction nieres pour de gajac. la ſeconde, par onctions. la troiſiéme, par emplaſtres, auſquels entre le furet, que tuarir la vs- *i'appelle argent-vif. la quatriéme, par parfums. la premiere qui ſe fait par decoction de ga-rºlº. jac, n'eſt pas ſeure, ce qui eſt manifeſte par l'experience : car il n'eſt ſuffiſant pour eſteindre ce virus, mais ſeulement pour pallier : parce qu'il eſchauffe, attenue, prouoque les ſueurs & vrines, deſſeiche & conſomme les humiditez ſuperfluës : & ſemble qu'il guariſſe, veu que pour quelque temps appaiſe les douleurs, & autres accidens. mais tous ſes effects ſont imbeciles , & ne fait vacuation que du plus ſubtil effects du par les ſueurs : mais l'argent-vifa toutes les actions du gajat, & ſans comparaiſon plus grande puiſſance º rºjº. & vertu : car outre ce que l'on voit par experience qu'il eſchauffe, attenue, inciſe, diſſoult, reſoult & deſ- ſeiche, il prouoque ſueurs, vrine flux de bouche, & ventre,par leſquelsnon ſeulement les humeurs ſubtils, mais auſſi les gros ( ſiege principal de cette maladie)ſont euoquez & tirez dehors. or apres l'vſage de la decoction du gajac, on voit quelquesfois retourner les nodus & pluſieurs douleurs, leſquelles ſont cauſées - par les reliques des humeurs plus lents, eſpés & viſqueux , delaiſſez au profond des parties , leſquelles le vif-argent chaſſe & tarit entierement. - - quant à l'eſlection du bois de gajac, celuy eſt le meilleur qui a le troncaſſez gros, auec vne couleur tan- eleaion du née, tendante à noirceur, & qui eſt recent & gommeux, & de bonne odeur, fort peſant, auec ſaueur acre, galac. & quelque mordication, ayant l'eſcorce fort adherante au bois : ſa faculté eſt d'eſchauffer,rarefier,attenuer, faculté du attirer & prouoquer ſueurs & vrines, & outre à quelque choſe de propre contre le virus verolic. et faut gajac. icy noter qu'en iceluy bois y a trois facultez : la premiere eſt en l'eſcorce : la ſeconde eſt en la partie d'a- trois ſuk- pres, qui eſt exterieure & blanchaſtre : la troiſiéme eſt le dedans, ce que l'on appelle le cœur, qui eſt le ſtance ſont noir,toutes leſquelles doiuent eſtre conſiderées.car la premiere ſubſtance, qui eſt l'eſcorce, eſt plus ſeiche, ºes au au moyen dequoy, quand il eſt beſoin de fort deſſeicher, on vſera d'icelle : la ſeconde eſt moins ſeiche, par-º dega- ce qu'elle eſt aucunement plus gommeuſe, non toutesfois comme la troifiéme, qui eſt le dedans : pource qu'elle a plus d'humidité gommeuſe, au moyen dequoy peut moins deſſeicher. et pource és corps delicats ſubſtance d humides, & de rare texture,où il eſt beſoin, pour la conſeruation des choſes qui leur ſont naturelles, moins gajac} a deſſeicher.l'vſage de la deuxiéme ou troiſiéme ſera plus propre,& à ceux qui de leur nature ſont robuſtes, s§l. il faudra d'autant plus deſſeicher, & partant l'vſage de l'eſcorce leur ſera propre auec les autres ſuſdits troiſiéme, meflez ſelon qu'il ſera beſoin. or quand ie parle icy de l'eſcorce dudit bois, il faut entendre qu'elle ne ſoit trop vieillc, noire vermouluë ou pourrie : qui ſe fait, à cauſe que ſouuent le bois eſt demeuré en chanteir au bord de la mer, dont l'eſcorce ſe ſera alterée & pourrie, auſſi que les mariniers mettent le bois au fond º # la de leur nauire, ou ſouuent reſide vne eau puante & infecte : joint que d'autres eaux ſales & ordes tombent # ef ?"º d'enhant deſſus, & ce leplus ſouuent par la longue eſpace de temps. or eſtans les nauires arriuez au port, "*" le diſtribuent, & le vendent à la liure. les apothicaires voulant conſeruer leur poids, le mettent en leur caue où il demeure bien fort long-temps : qui fait que ladite eſcorce encore qu'elle fut toute recente, ſe chanſit & pourrit , voire ſous icelle deux ou trois doigts dudit bois. et partantie conſeille n'ordonner l'eſ- corce, ny du bois qui eſt trois doigts proche d'elle. la premiere la maniere de preparer la decočtion de gajac. ch a p. v ii i. t premierement il le faut raper, & pour liure d'iceluy,adiouſter huict,dix ou douze liure d'eau c l' de riuiere , plus ou moins, ſelon que l'on verra eſtre neceſſaire, ſuiuant les indications predi- #. ºtes & le faut laiſſer infuſer par l'eſpace de vingt-quatre heure,& l'eau ſera quelque peu chaude # dus & ſpecialement l'hyuer,afin qu'il s'amolliſſent mieux,& penetre en ſa ſubſtance ſolide.cela fait la gajac. decoction doit eſtre faite pour le mieux in balneo mariæ,afin d'cuitervn empyreume,ceſt à dire impre ſpreſ- ſion ignée : qui s'acquiert par boüillir fimplement deuant le feu. autres le font en vn pot de terre plom- bé deuant le feu : & faut garder que rien ne s'enfuye par deſſus, pour l'euaporation & la deperition qui ſe p p ſeroic le dix-neufiéme liure, fl me faut rien meſler auec le ga- j c. la ſeconde decoction du ſajac. doſe de la decočtion. moyens de prouoquer la ſueur. le moyen" d'eſſuyer le malade. combien il faut vſer de la decoction de ga as, eroit de ſa vertu.cela fait,ſoit conſommé à la moitié,tierce,ou quarte partie,ſelon qu'il ſera requis.aucuns a y meſlent en le cuiſant certains ſimples pour cuider rendre ſon action meilleure:comme lors que l'on doute qu'il y aye quelque partie affectée, y meſlent ſimples, qui ſpecialement ont eſgard à icelle, leſquels operent comme en leur propre ſubiect,& ſeruent comme de vehicule,pour y conduire la faculté de ladite decoction. autres mettent medicamens purgatifs:mais quant à moy ie ſerois d'aduis(ſauf meilleur iugcmčt) n'y meſler aucun ſimple,parce qu'il n'eſt bon faire deux vacuations enſemble, comme prouoquer la ſueur,& purger le ventre:car ſi le mala de ſué beaucoup,le ventre ne peut fiuer:auſſi s'il a flux de vétre,ne peut ſuer, parce que ces deux mouucmens ſont contraires:parquoy ne doiuent eſtre faits enſemble, d'autant que le medicament purgatif tire de la circonference vers le centre, & la ſueur tout au contraire. et tel eſt l'aduis de pluſieurs grands perſonnages,& doctes medecins.la premiere decoction faite, coulée & paſſée,l'on remettra auec le marc du bois ja cuit autant d'eau ſans le laiſſer plus tremper, parce qu'il eſt aſſés maceré, puis on le fera boüillir comme la premiere, en laquelle on peut adiouſter à la fin vn peu de cannelle pour l'aromatiſer, & roborer l'eſtomach,car en ce faiſant, on ne luy peut oſter ſa vertu : & d'icelle decoction le malade en vſera à ſes repas,& entre iceux s'il a ſoif. ie laiſſe icy à d'eſcrire qu'auparauant que le malade prenne de ladite deco- ction, doit eſtre purgé & ſaigné,ſelon l'aduis du docte medecin, & s'il en eſt beſoin : pareillement qu'il ſoit en vne chambre bien chaude en hyuer,& qu'il ne ſorte nullement dehors:& ſi c'eſt en eſté, ne laiſſera d'al- ler quelquesfois à ſes affaires. la doſe ou quantité de ladite decoction eſt de cinq à ſix onces,plus ou moins bien peu tiede, afin qu'elle ſoit pluſtoſt reduite de puiſſance à effect, & que par ſa froideur actuelle l'eſto- mach n'en fut bleſſé:& apres que le malade ſera couuert mediocrement, afin qu'il ſue : & où a grande diffi- culté ſuer oit, la ſueur luy ſera prouoquée par le moyen de bouteilles de terre remplies d'eau chaude,miſes à la plante des pieds:& autour des parties douloureuſes,on luy appliquera veſſies à demy remplies de ladite decoction chaude : d'abondant deuant de le mettre au lict,on luy frottera tout le corps auec linges chauds, afin d'ouurir les pores,attirer & ſubtilier les humeurs. quand il aura ſué par deux heures ou enuiron,ſelon ! que les forces le permettront, on luy eſſuyera premierement les parties oppoſites des douleurs,ſi aucunes y en a:puis doucement les dolentes,pour crainte d'attirer dauantage d'humeurs. cela fait, ſe rafraiſchira en ſon lict,euitant le froid, & deux heures apres il pourra diſner de bonnes viandes, & en petite quantite ſelon ſa nature & couſtume,& la puiſſance de ſa bourſe.puis enuiron cinq ou ſix heures apres diſner, prendra de la decoction, & ſera mis au lict comme deſſus. et où le malade auroit à deſdain ſe mettre deux fois le iour dedans le liét,ou qu'il fuſtaucunement foible,il ſe pourra tenir chaudement ſans ſecoucher.car encore qu'il ne ſue (les pores eſtans ouuerts) ne laiſſe pourtant à ſe faire grande exhalation des vapeurs & eſprits veni- meux & corrumpus, comme il eſt bien à croire : veu que ceux qui couchent auec gens infectez de telle ma- ladie gaignent bien la verole par la reception des vapeurs venimeuſes. il faudra qu'il continue les choſes ſuſdites,tant que l'on verra eſtre vtile pour la curation de cette maudite & deteſtable maladie.par interualle il ſera tres-expedient qu'il vſe de quelques purgations,lpendant qu'il prend ladite decoction,ou des clyſte- res de quatre cinq ou ſix iours pour nettoyer les inteſtins & premieres veines des excremens recuits & deſſeichez par la chaleur. la diette de gajac eſt fort propre, principalement pour la cure des nodus, d'au- tant qu'elle conſomme l'humidite ſuperflue, & matiere viſqueuſe imbue aux os. or il faut icy noter qu'au- cuns empiriques donnent la decoction laxatiue, & font ſuer tout enſemble,ce qui eſt contre le precepte des anciens.car à celuy qui ſue beaucoup,le vétre ne peut fluer:& s'il a le flux de vétre,ne pourra ſuer.parquoy on ne doit enſemble purger, & faire ſuer, d'autant que ce ſont deux mouuemens contraires, comme i'ay dit cy-deſſus. car la purgation attire de la ci conference vers le centre, & la ſueur tout au contraire. l'vſage de ladite decoction durera ſix ſepmaines, plus ou moins, ſelon la grandeur de la maladie, & temperament du malade, & le temps de l'année. il faut bien auoir égard à bailler de ladite decoction diſcrettement,& à quelques-vns moins, comme à ceux qui ont grande chaleur au corps, & qui ſont emaciez, & qui ont des ſquammes & defedations du cuir eſtant ſec & aride, qui demonſtre vne grande aduſtion, & quaſi incinera- tion de toute l'habitude du corps, de peur qu'ils ne ſoient rendus ladres. mais au contraire, il les faut plu- ſtoſt humecter & rafraichir, tant par dedans que par dehors, auec bains, onguens, ſans que le furet y entre, , & autres choſes pour temperer la trop grande chaleur & ſiccité. apres l'auoir ainſi temperée, faut venir à regime de ceux qui vſent de la decočtion du gajac. la chairper- miſe à ceux qui font la diette. temps de ſuer. la friction, & non à la decoction : toutesfois on luy en peut donner vn peu qui ſoit aqueuſe deuant la fri- ction, pour touſiours d'auantage l'humecter, lors que le malade prend de la decoction, vſera de viandes de bon ſuc en quantité mediocre : confiderant que la trop grande diette aux maladies longues eſt perilleuſe. or il eſt ainſi que cette maladie eſt des plus longues, & leur faiſant vſer d'vne trop eſtroite diette, ils de- uiennent emaciez & hectiques : & s'ils ont vlceres,ſe rendent quelquesfois rebelles & incurables. parquoy le chirurgien ne doit chauſſer tous malades à vne forme, comme leur donner ſeulement trois ou quatre onces de pain (encore biſcuit) dix ou douze pruneanx : mais vſeront pluſtoſt de chair roſtie, ou bouillie, ſelon qu'il ſera neceſſaire, comme ieunes moutons, veaux, chevreaux, connins de garenne,poulettes faiſan- dées, alloüettes graſſes, merles, & leurs ſemblables : parce que le ſuc de telles viandes eſt meilleur, pour la ſimilitude qu'il a auec nous, que cettuy de pruneaux. leur pain doit eftre de froment bien leué & bien cuit, ny trop tendre, ny trop dur. leur boire ſera de la ſeconde decoction de gajac : & ſi le malade eſtoit trop debile, on luy donnera du vin non trop fort ny fumeux, mais petit & delicat, principalement apres le pre- mier traict de ladite decoction.et quant au dormir,ill'éuitera promptement apres le diſner, & ſouper,par- ce que tel dormir rempliſt le cerueau de vapeurs,augmentant les douleurs. faut euiter toutes paſſions d'eſ- prit, à cauſe qu'elles enflamment les eſprits : à quoy luy ſeruira beaucoup paſſer le temps à quelque choſe joyeuſe, comme deuiſer,joüer des inſtrumens muſicaux , auſſi lire choſes facecieuſes. il faut extremement fuir venus, pour la debilitation des parties nerueuſes. pluſieurs au lieu de gajac vſent de l'eſquine, qui eſt vne racine d'vn certain jonc , croiſſant aux indes, fort noüeuſe, rare, peſante lors qu'elle eſt recente , & fort legere quand elle eſt vieille, laquelle legereté demonſtre n'eſtre bonne : ayant perdu ſa vertu, elle eſt ſans odeur, dont quelques-vns tiennent qu'elle eſt ſans qualité. preparation de l'eſtuine. - il faut la diuiſer en petites pieces rondes, & la faire cuire en eau de fontaine, ou de riuiere, & d'icelle en boiuent les malades, le matin & ſoir. elle doit eſtre cuite trois fois. la ſeconde & troiſiéme decoction ſe doit faire auec moindre quantité d'eau que la premiere, ou doit boüillir plus long-temps que la premiere, l'ayant fait pluſtoſt tremper l'eſpace de douze heures. - l'ordonnance eft telle. /.. radic.china in taleos diuiſr ij.aquæ fontis fb xij.infundantur per xij.horas, & decoquantur ad con- ſumptionem tertix partis : & de cette decoction en faut prendre le matin, la quantité de ſix onces a chaque prinſe vn peu tiede, & ſuer dedans le lict. la ſeconde decoction ſoit faite de la meſme racine, qui aura eſté bouillie : | a lvc l grolie v cioic, . boüillie : le patient en peut boire en ſes repas, & entre ſes repas. aucuns la font encore rebouillir,pour en faire vne tierce decoction qui ne peut auoir grande vertu. de la ſalſe-pareille ſe fait meſme decoction que de l'eſquine. le gajac, l'eſquine, & la ſalſe-pareille, & autres prouoquans la ſueur , ne le font ſeulement par leur chaleur,mais par leur qualité & tenuite de ſubſtance fondant, pouſſée par vn peu d'aſtriction. la ſeconde maniere de curer la verole parfriction. c h a p. ix. a ſeconde maniere, qui eſt l'onction ou friction eſt la plus certaine & ncceſſaire à la cure de cette maladie, non toutesfois en toutes les eſpeces & diſpoſition d'icelle, n'y en tout temps. car où la maladie ſeroit inueterée, faite d'vn humeur lent, gros, viſqueux , & adherant aux parties ſolides, comme nodoſitez aux os , lors tant s'en faut que la friction immediatement en c s\snc n tel cas ſoit commode, que meſme on pourroit tuer le malade, ſi auparauant on n'auoit amolly, digeré & preparé l'humeur, auec les emplaſtres de vigo : mais quand elle eſt recente auec douleurs mo- biles, & pluſieurs puſtules & vlceres à la gorge,& parties honteuſes,on ſe paſſera de telles choſes,principa- lement ſi on connoiſt la matiere eſtre preparée. et ſe faut garder de mettre le malade plethorique a la la friéiien certain re- mede. quelle pre- . paraticn doit preceder las friction, deuant que le corps ſoit bien purgé des excremens, afin qu'il ne ſoit fait plus grande attraction, friction. que ne peut eſtre euacuée par la ſueur. qu'il ſoit vray, on a veu pluſieurs, qui apres les onctions ont eu grandes douleurs, & leur ſont ſuruenus des nodus, n'en ayant iamais ſenty auparauant , parce que la ma- tiere la plus ſubtile auoit eſté reſoluë, & la craſſe eſtoit demeurée,& auoit eſté attirée aux parties exterieu- res, & non éuacuée. dont apres les choſes vniuerſelles, faut venir à la friction , laquelle ſera continuée tant qu'il ſuruienne flux de ventre, & auec ce l'haleine du malade ſera fetide, & les genciues enflées, & la langue. telle choſe monſtre que la pituite eſt enflammée. parquoy faut ceſſer la friction , & changer des linceuls, & de chemiſe de peur que le malade n'ait trop grand flux de bouche. , • - de l'éleétiou, preparation, & mixtion de l'argent-vif ch a p. x. º$$ e meilleur eſt clair, ſubtil, blanc & fiuide : & celuy qui eſt terne, non fluide, eſt meſlé auec du $ # plomb, & falſifié. or pour le bien nettoyer, on le fera paſſer au traners d'vne peau de mou- s© ton, & en preſſant penetrera au trauers de ladite peau par ſa ſubtilité, & y laiſſera ſa ſubſtan- ^>by ce groſſe & plombine : puis on le fera boüillir en vinaigre auec ſaulge, roſmarin, thym,camo- tº mille, melilot : ap es ſera derechefcoulé : & eſtant ainſi preparé,on le pourra meſler auec les onguons & emplaſtres. et pour le bien eſtendre,le faut † agiter & battre en vn mortier,afin de le ſeparer en parties tenuiſſimes, § luy oſter le moyen de ſe reünir en ſon premier corps:& pour mieux ce faire, on adiouſtera vn peu de ſoulphre & ſublimé,comme dirons cy-apres. le plus ſouuent on le meſle aux » axunges de porc, auſquelles on peut adiouſter oleum terebenthinae, nucis moſcatae, cariophyllorum, ſal- uiz. si auec icelle maladie il y auoit leucophlegmatie, il faut adiouſter remedes chauds, attenuans, inciſifs, & deſiccatifs au medicament,dont la friction ſera faite, & lors qu'il faudra penetrer iuſques en la ſubſtance des os. au contraire ſi c'eſt à vne temperature bilieuſe, & que l'on voit les humeurs chauds & tenus preſts à s'enflamber, nous y adiouſterons medicamens moins chauds, attraétifs & reſolutifs.auſſi quand l'on ver- ra des nodoſitez, ſcirrhes, ou reſiccation generale de tout le corps , on y meſlera des remolitifs & hume- ctatifs. or pour donner conſiſtance à tels linimens, i'ay accouſtumé y adiouſter pour liure, quatre, cinq, ou ſix moyeufs d'œufs durcis, & par tel moyen le medicament acquiert vne bonne conſiſtance. exemple du medicament de vigo. .axungia porcitb.j. olci camom. anet. mafi. & lauri an j. ſtyracis liquidae .x. radicum enulz campanx parum contritæ,radicum ebuli an. .iij.pulu.euphoribij .f.vini odoriferi fb.j.bul- liant omnia fimul vſque ad conſumpt.vini,deinde colentur,cui colaturz adde litharg auri .vj.thuris maſti- ches an. .vj.reſinz pini .j. f.terebenthinz venetae .j.argentiviui . iv. ceræ albz .j. ſ,. liquefactis oleis cum cera incorporentur omnia fimul, fiat linimenturº ad vſum.autre. /.. argenti viui preparati .vj.ſubli- mat. . .ſulphur.viui . .axungiae porcifal. expertis.fb.j. vitellos ouorum ſubcinerib. coctor. iij. olei tere- benth. & laurini an. .ij. fiat linimentum vt artis eſt. le moyen de le faire ſera en cette maniere : premiere- ment vous pulucriſerez ſubtilement le ſublimé & le ſoulphre : puis mettez vne portion de vif-argent, enſem- ble vn peu d'axunge, puis vn morceau de moyeux d'œuf, en remuant le tout fort diligemment , & le tout eſtant bien incorpore, adiouſterez encore autant de vif-argent, d'axunge & d'œuf, juſques à ce que tout ſoit bien incorporé, & ſur la fin adiouſterez vos huyles en agitant le tout enſemble l'eſpace d'vn iour : par ainſi aurez vn onguent de bonne conſiſtance,duquel i'ay pluſieurs fois vſé auec bonne & heureuſe iſſue : la- dite axunge doit cuire auparauant auec les herbes neruales, comme ſaulge, romarin, thim , marjolaine,la- uande , & autres aromatiques, ſelon qu'on pourra recouurer, l'axunge par telle cuiſon , eſt rendue plus ſubtile & confortatiue des parties que la verole offenſe. les onguens ſe font pour attirer la matiere viru- lente du dedans au dehors par les pores du cuir, par ſueur & par inſenfible tranſpiration : parquoy ils doi- uent eſtre relaſchans, rarefactifs, & attractifs. l'axunge de porc y eſt fort propre, parce qu'elle relaſche, amollit, & reſoult facilement le vif-argent. l'huyle laurin, d'aſpic, & rue, y ſont pareillement bonnes, à cauſe qu'elles rarefient, digerent, & ſedent les douleurs. la terebentine y eſt auſſi fort commode, à rai- ſon qu'elle ſuffoque & eſteint le vif-argent, eſchauffe moderement, digere, euacue, & robore les parties nerueuſes. le vif-argent eſt le vray antidote de cette maladie, parce qu'il la cure en quelque ſorte qu'il ſoit appliqué : il émeut les ſueurs, deſſeiche à cauſe de la tenuité de ſes parties. c'eſt le furet & le vray ale- xitere de ce cette maladie & accidens , pourueu que le chirurgien en ſçache vſer methodiquement.s'enſuit vn onguent pris de la practique de rondelet, au traicté de la verole, propre pour feder les douleurs de te- ſte & des jointures. or il ſede les douleurs en eſchauffant la matiere verolique, en la fondant & euacuant par ſueurs » par flux de bouche, & fiux de ventre. /.. quatuor vnguentorum calid. an. q. ſaxungiz porci, oleilaurini, anethi, irini an. . ij. olei de ſpica .j. argenti viui . vj.terebentina lotæ in aqua vitæ .iij.fiat vnguentum. s'il y a des nodus, on appliquera deſſus cét emplaſtre. /.. emplaſtri de vigo cum mercurio duplicato .iv. pul.euphorbij, & iris an.j.j. le tout malaxé auec terebentine lauee en eau de vie , & ſoit appliquée ſur les nodus. p p - l - signés du b vif argent. le moyen pour bien eſtendre le vif-argent. le medica- ment de vigo, les onguems chauds ſont amartia e um, aragan. arippa, dialtkea- ) -' lv lvlx"llulll c i u l lul c » les lfeux propres pour la friction. le lieu plus ſenr pour frotter les tverolez. amtre lieu pour faire frichion, les parties auſquelles on doit faire la friction. la forme d'executer ladite friction. c h a p. x i. | m( s r a n t donc le corps & les humeurs preparez auecmedicamens doux & benings, tant ſy- # ， rops concoctifs, que medecines purgatiues & ſection de veines, s'il y auoit plenitude, inflam- $ mation generale ou particuliere, ou autres indications,pour leſquelles auras recours au mede- #s) $ cin ;le patient ſera mis en vn lieu chaud naturellement, ou par artifice, exempt de tout vent #ºsnsnr froid, lequel (penetrant par les portes, feneſtres, ou ſemblables ouuertures) eſt en ce cas fort pernicieux & nuiſible, pource qu'il peut penetrer, & faire leſion aux parties nerueuſes, & auſſi diminuer & deprauer l'action des medicamens. et en cecy pluſieurs faillent grandement, leſquels autant l'hyuer comme l'eſté, frottent les patiens en vne grande chambre commune où tous vents peuuent tranſpîrer. et pource, quand ladite friction ſe fera, ſera bon auoir linceuls & couuertures eſtendues à l'enuiron dn feu en forme de demy-pauillon, pour en toutes ſortes ſe garder de l'air froid.mais ie n'ay trouué choſe meilleure ny plus propre à cecy, que de faire en la chambre vne petite chambrette, où deux perſonnes puiſſent de- meurer, & au deſſous faire quelque petit poiſle , ou enfermer vne partie d'vne grande chambre , & icelle eſchauffée mediocrement, y frotter le patient, ſans qu'il puiſſe ſortir aucun vent : & là demeurera aſſis (ſi bon luy ſemble ) trop plus long-temps, & auec moindre faſcherie qu'il n'euſt fait deuant le feu : & ſi aura la chaleur vniuerſellement & eſgalement par tout le corps : où s'il euſt eſté deuant le feu, il ſe fut bruſlé , d'vn coſté, & morfondu de l'autre, qui ſont mouuemens & choſes contraires à ceux que demandons.auſſi, ou le patient ſeroit debile, ne pouuant endurer la chaleur du feu, ou eſtre debout, ou ne voudroit s'expo- ſer nud deuant ceux qui le traitteroient (comme entre autres font les femmes honneſtes & honteuſes ence cas ) eſtant couché dedans le lict, on pourra luy frotter les parties les vnes apres les autres. comme ayant preſenté vn bras hors le lict, & luy auoir frotté les articles d'iceluy auec l'onguent preparé, au deſſus, ou aupres d'vn petit feu de charbon, mis dans vn rechaud, ou paele rougie,pour rectifier l'air, & pour donner entrée aux medicamens, on luy enueloppera d'eſtoupes, ou de cotton cardé, de compreſſes de linges, d'v- ne fueille de papier noir, ou autre ſemblable : puis on le bandera & remettra dedans le lict , en faiſant au- tant a l'autre bras : pareillement des articles des jambes, & des autres parties. le temps de la friction. c h a p. x i i. $# a friction ſe fera le matin lors que la concoction & digeſtion ſera parfaite, & l'eſtomach & # \ ) x $#, inteſtins deſchargez, afin qu'il ne ſe faſſe ſubuerſion d'icelle, & diſtraction des operations de # nature. mais où nature ſeroit debile, le patient pourroit vne heure deuant ſa friction, pren- # dre quelque gelée, moyeufd'vn œuf, ou ſix raiſins de damas, les pepins eſtans oſtez, ou quel- - ws que conſommé, & autre choſe ſemblable de facile digeſtion, & en petite quantité, pour n'em- peſcher nature à la concoction d'iceux, puis faudra commencer ladite friction aux articles ſeulement, com- me des mains, couldes, eſpaules, pieds, & genoux. mais où le patient ſera fort, & où ſera beſoin eſmou- uoir, on en pourra appliquer aux emonctoires des parties nobles, & le long de l'eſpine dorſale, auec pro- uidence & diſcretion , euitant ſur toute choſes les parties nobles (comme nous auons predict en nos indi- cations ) afin de ne faire comme ces mal-heureux, leſquels frottent indifferemment tout le corps, depuis la plante des pieds iuſques à la ſommité de la teſte.et en ces frictions faut côſiderer la ſituation des ſympto- mes : comme pour exemple ; si les parties ſuperieures ſont plus affectées, la friction ſera plus copieuſe en icelles, & ainſi des inferieures : mais il faudra premierement frotter les parties moins dolentes, pour ne remplir d'auantage les parties plus affectées. pareillement faut noter que tout ainſi comme les trop douces frictions ne font ſuffiſante ouuerture des pores : auſſi les trop fortes ſont cauſe de les ſerrer, faiſant douleur, commotion, & attraction en la partie : parquoy fera meilleur les faire mediocres, & nous arre- ſter principalemét ſur la vertu & force du patient,eſtant cette indication la premiere & principale entre les autres. il y a encore vne autre choſe, à laquelle il fant ſur toutes autres auoir eſgard,qui eſt cauſe de tous les maux & recidiues,qui ſuruiennent aux affligez de cette maladie:c'eſt la quantite des remedes,& nombre des frictions : laquelle ( auec la parfaite connoiſſance & gradation des temps de la maladie, & de la tem- perature des corps, & parties ) fait la medecine coniecturale & deuinereſſe, & y ſont tous methodiques & rationels bien empeſchez. ie vous laiſſe donc à preſuppoſer, comme vn tas de vieilles, & autres empiri- ques pourront limiter la quantité d'iceux ? et ne m'eſmerueille plus ſi l'on void, par experience, vn nombre infiny de gens perdus à iamais. suiuant donc nos indications tant de fois repetées, il faut auec methode & raiſon en approcher le plus que nous pourrons, & ſçauoir quand nous ceſſerons leſdites frictions. ioint qu'il n'eſt poſſible exactement d'eſcrire le nombre d'icelles, ou quantité des medicamens. il ne faut donc comme nos empiriques en donner ( ſelon leur recepte )aux vns quatre, aux autres cinq , aux autres fix, ny plus, ny moins, à l'vn comme à l'autre, pource qu'ils n'ont qu'vne forme pour chauſſer vn chacun : mais faut pour la grandeur & qualité de la maladie, & la nature des corps, les appliquer en continuant iuſques à ce que l'on connoiſſe ſuffiſante eduction des humeurs veneneux, ſoit par flux de bouche,de ventre,ſueurs, vrines, ou reſolutions inſenſibles : qui ſe connoiſtra par la deſiccation des puſtules , & vlceres , ſedation des douleurs, & autres accidens communs à telle malidie. et où nous verrions qu'és corps ſolides & ro- buſtes nature ne voudroit par la maniere des frictions ſuſdites s'eſmouuoir, i'ay practiqué en aucuns, qu'il eſtoit bon les frotter ſur la fin deux fois le iour, vne aumatin, & l'autre au ſoir, enuiron cinq ou ſix heures apres le diſner ( parce que lors la digeſtion ſera acheuée ) & ay trouué qu'elles faiſoient trop plus d'a- ction,que ne feroient trois par trois diuers iours : comme au contraire és corps delicats, & de temperatures rares, i'ay laiſſé maintesfois ( par meſme prouidence ) vn iour entre deux frictions, voire deux, ou trois,de crainte que par les frequentes ne ſe fiſt trop grande reſolution des eſprits, & fut par conſequent nature ren- dué ſi imbecille (laquelle eſt principale agente en cecy ) qu'elle ne peut nous ayder à expugner & chaſſer hors ce qui luy eſt eſtrange & nuiſible. et faut noter qu'és dernieres frictions, ſpecialement quand ils com- mencent à cracher, les corps ſont tellement preparez à cauſe des precedentes, qu'vne fera plus que deux au commencement. pour cette cauſe ayant touſiours les indications deuant les yeux, faut conſiderer la nature & la force des corps, & s'il eſt poſſible ne point donner plusd'vne friction, lors qu'on verra nature eſmeuë, ſoit par flux de bouche, de ventre, ou autre des ſuſdits, & ſeroit trop plus ſeur les faire à diuerſes fois, ſui- la quantité »les remedes ne ſe peut eſcrire. signes pour connoiſtre la ſuffiſance des friciions. fntermiſſion des friâions. uant gal. en ſon liurete vene ſeéiione, où il dit, que ſi la maladie eſt grande, & la vertu foible, il faut tirer hiſtoire. du ſang , non à vne fois, mais à pluſieurs, auſſi maſſe raconte vne hiſtoire d'vn qui eſtoit tout maraſiné & c l)e la groſle verole. i & deſſeiché auec extremes douleurs, lequel il penſa, eſtant quaſi deploré d'vn chacun : & dit qu'apres l'auoir fait frotter par quelques fois, il le laiſſoit refociler & reprendre ſes forces par aucuns iours : & ainfi continua par ſi long temps, qu'il fut frotté trente-ſept fois , & fut guary. l'en ay veu traitter à aucuns de mes compagnons,& fait frotter pluſieurs,quinze,ſeize ou dix-ſept fois(laiſſant quelques interualles)& par apres eſtre guaris.autant s'en doit faire és corps reſoults & debiles : prenant toutesfois garde que les fri- ctions ne ſoient par trop imbecilles,& en ſi petit nombre que la cauſe ne fuſt fuffiſamment touchée:car par art & ayde des medicamens,ſe procure vne criſe, par le moyen de laquelle nature aydée &domtnatrice,ex- pelle & chaſſe le venin par les euacuations ſuſdites; de ſorte qu'eſtant la criſe parfaicte,il s'enſuit vraye & entiere curation. les ſignes de ladite criſe ſont inquietudes telles, que debout ny couché,les patiens ne ſe peuuent contenir boire ny manger:& ſont auec perpetuelles laſſitudes,quaſi iuſques à ſyncope:toutesfois le pouls bon,fort&eſgal:il leur furuient des eſpreintes,iettans par leurs ſelles quelque matiere ſanguinolente & viſqueuſe:puis au bout d'vn iour ou deux,que nature commencera à expeller,& ſe deſchargeant euacuer la cauſe du mal,autant ſe diminuent tels accidens,& ſentent allegement de toutes douleurs. mais pour n'e- ſise les remedes ſuffiſans, la criſe demeure imparfaicte, & laiſſe touſiours quelques reſtes de ferment, qui pourra corrompre toute la maſſe,& engendrer recidiues de la maladie, dont s'enſuiuront accidens pire que les premiers:&eſt cauſe qu'aucunesfois demeure caché ce leuain en vn corps,ſix mois,vn an,deux ans,&pius. auſſi pareillement il faut bien ſe donner de garde que les medicamens ne ſoient trop violents, ou indiſcret- tement appliqnez, pour les grands accidens qui ont de couſtume d'en aduenir:comme i'ay veu en pluſieurs, qui par telles fautes eſtoient tourmentez & affligez en pluſieurs & diuerſes ſortes : les vns ( pour la trop grande violence des medicamens qui auoient colliqué,& conſumé l'humeur radical)eſtoient deuenus rabi- des : aux autres ſuruenoient vlceres ſordides,& putrides en la bouche, qui mangeoient & rongeoient vne bonne partie d'icelle & de la langue : quelquesfois ſe degeneroient iuſques en gangrene & mortificarion, dont aucuns ſont morts miſerablement : a aucuns la langue s'eſt tellement enflée, qu'elle rempliſſoit tou- te la bouche, ne pouuant manger, qui eſtoit cauſe de leur mort.es autres la colliquation eſtoit telle, qu'vn mois apres leur fluoit la bouche, & jettorent continuellement humidité par icelle. s'enſuit auſſi aucunesfois vne deperdition &deprauation grande de l'action des muſcles,qui font le mouuement de la mendibule infe- rieure, en ſorte qu'aucuns ſont demeurez ſans iamais ouurir la bouche que bien peu. autres ont perdu les dents auec deperdition de la maſchoire : qui eſt choſe admirable, que par l'ignorance & afnerie de tels co- quins, tant de perſonnes ſans occaſion languiſſent,ou miſerablement periſſent : attendumeſme que pour la cognoiſſance qu'ont auiourd'huy gens rationels(plus que iamais) tant de la maladie que des remedes,il eſt poſſible de les curer plus ſeurement, & auec moindre violence. lors qu'on craint le flux de bouche tro grand apres deux ou trois frictions, faut purger le malade, ſelon l'aduis de rondelet. semblablement il ne faut touſiours continuer les frictions,iuſques à ce qu'il ſe faſſe flux de bouche,ou de ventre,parce qu'il y en a pluſieurs à qui iamais il n'aduient, encore qu'on les frottaſt infiniment(à quoy ayde beaucoup la prepara- tion precedente des humeurs:)& à beaucoup d'iceux(traictez methodiquement)ayde nature par les reſolu- tions inſenſibles,ou flux d'vrine,auec quelque petit flux de ventre incitéde nature,ou par art:& me ſuis fort bien trouué en tel cas de leur faire vſer apres par quelques iours d'vne decoction de gajac le matin,aucune- ment laxatiue pour la nature de l'humeur. et ſi le corps eſt plein ou abondant en humeur cras, lent & viſ- queux, i'y adiouſte du vin blanc parmy. meſme ie l'ay veu auſſi preparé auec vin ſeul, profiter à des gens» voire bilieux & maraſmez. s'il furuient dyſenterie apres les frictons, il faut bailler clyſtere, auſquels yen- tre bonne quantité d'axunge de porc, afin de tenir & adoucir l'acrimonie du medicament qui a cauſé la dy- ſenterie. aufſi le laict en tel cas eſt ſouuerain, delayé auec theriaque recente. #- ide la lroiſieſme curationpar ceroines , ou emplaſtres, vicaire de la friction. c h a p t r e x i ii. ', o v r c e que pluſieurs abhorrent le nom, & l'vſage de la friction faite auec leſdis onguents° n on a practiqué l'admotion des ceroines , ou emplaſtres, leſquelles ſont vicaires, & tiennent les lieux des frictions : excepté ſeulement qu'elles ſont plus tardiues:& non ſeulement doiuent $ eſtre pratiquées & viſitées en ce faict, celles qui ſont deſcrites par de vigo, mais auſſi (com- me auons dit des frictions)celles qui ſont compoſée,de choſes plus ou moins anodines, emol- liente,inciſiues, reſolutiues, ou deficcatiues, pour la nature des ſymptoines ou accidens, auſſi des humeurs qui doiuent eſtre vacuez, & autres indications ſuſdictes, ſans oublier l'argent vif pour alexipharmac con- tre le venin, cauſe de la maladie, par vne tranſpiration inſenſible par ſueurs & flux de bouche : elles miti- gent les douleurs & reſoluent les nodus & autres duretez.au lieu de l'emplaſtre de vigo on peut vſer de cette-cy. /. maſſa emplaſtri de meliloto & oxycrocei an. ib. .argenti viui extincte . vj. oleo laurino & de ſpica, reducatur ad forman empl. leſdites emplaſtres,ſont de grand effect pource que demeurans con- tinuellement ſur les parties, leur action eſt auſſi continuelle : & doiuent eſtre appliquées, ſpecialementaux recidiues, & où les humeurs ſont gros, viſqueux & adherans aux parties profondes & difficiles à eradi- quer, parce qu'elles beſongnent & font leur action plus lentement, & auec moindre violence, que ne font les frictions : de ſorte que nous ſommes maintesfois contrains ſur la fin de l'vſage deſdites emplaſtres don- ner quelques frictions, pour inciter nature à plus prompte euacuation. nous les auons auſſi quelquesfois appliqué à des matures, où les humeurs eſtoient tellement preparez qu'au bout de deux ou trois iours clles auoieut faict action ſuffiſante, pour la conſomption de la cauſe de la maladie:& falloit les oſter, autrement euſſent fait colliquation, & les meſmes accidens que nous auons dit de la friction violente, & trop copieu- ſe : pource faut auoir meſme iugement à les oſter comme nous auons dit en la fraction. les emplaſtres ſe doiuent eſtendre ſur du cuir vniment, & les appliquer à l'enuiron des articles,& meſmes lieux des frictions. les autres couurent tout le bras depuis la main iuſqu'à l'eſpaule & les jambes depuis le deſſus du genoüil iuſqu'à l'extremité des doigts : mais à l'endroit des articles ie vondrois eſtendrel'emplaſtre vn petit plus eſ- pés. et faudra les y laiſſer iuſques à ce que nature aydée par le moyen de la criſe ſuſdite, faſſe eduction ou euacuation des humeurs corrompus de ce venin, comme nousauons deduit parlant des frictions. et faut auſſi augmenter ou diminuer ſuiuant les intentious fuſdites. et où en l'vſage d'icelles ſuruiendra prurit ou demangeaiſon, lors faudra leuer les emplaſtres, & fomenter les yeux auec vin chaud , yadiouſtant flores chamaem.melitoti, roſarum, & ſemblables pour reſoudre ce qui eſt cauſe dudit purit : lequel ceſſé, fau- dra les y remettre.auſſi pour euiter ledit prurit pourrez couurir les emplaſtres de quelque taffetas, ou lin- ge delié, appellé creſpe, afin de garder qu'ils ne s'attachent, ou adherent au cuir pour empeſcher la tranſ. piration, les effeôts d'iceux emplaſtres ſont tels que des frictions, & font criſe quelquesfois par reſolution signes de la criſe. criſe impar- fai e. il me faut tcuſivurs at- tendre flux de bouche ots de ventre apres la ſri- čtion. vicaires des frictions. - pp inſen- l'vtilité des emplaſtres. voy le chap. . de la cemp. des me- dicamens. )tuamd il faudra leuer les empla- ſtres. s ! lc lv x-i clll ciilc luuic, inſenſib'e, flux d'vrine, flux de ventre : mais le plus ſouuent par flux de bouche, qui eſt bien plus certain. - donc au moyen de l'operation faite par l'application des emplaſtres,& auſſi de la friction ( incitant le flux de bouche ſuſdit ) ſont procreez vlceres virulens & fordides par l'acrimonie des humeurs malins & cor- rompus de ce venin adherant aux parois de la bouche, qui fait eroſien, & s'augmente autant, comme l'hu- meur acre continuellement paſſant les abbreuue. Ét pour empeſcher leur augmentation. & le grand fiux de bouche, faudroit vſer ſouuent de clyſteres remollitifs ſeulement pour empeſcher les humeurs des parties inferieures de ne monter aux ſuperieures: qui ſeroit cauſe d'augmenter le flux ſans vtilité , ſpecialementau commencement d'iceluy, & lors que les humeurs ſe commencent à eſmouuoir & ſe fondre.aucuns pour la meſme intention donnent au malade medicamens purgatifs à l'heure du mouuement des humeurs, afin de les cuacuer par les ſelles, & euiter leſdits vlceres de la bouche, qui n'eſt toutesfois la voye plus certaine. la curation de tels vlceres eſt differente des autres, parce que nullement doiuent eſtre reprimez, ou reper- cure des vl- cutez, encore que ſoient enflammez : mais peuuent eſtre temperez auec gargariſmes anodyns, pour leur di. ceres de bou° mînuer l'ardeur & defendre par ce frequent lauement, que les humeurs gros & viſqueux (adherans aux che. parties internes de la bouche ) n'augment les vlceres : à quoy eſt bon l'vſage de la decoction d'orge, laict diºerº far- de vache tiede tenu dedans la bouche, auſſi mucilages ſem. malua , alth. pſyllij, lactuca , lini, extractz in gariſmes aqua hordei, maluz vel parietarix , leſquels tenus en la bouche, adouciſſent les vlceres & cmpeſchent les ºº humeurs d'y adherer. pour le commencement il ſe faut garder d'y appliquer choſes fort deterfiues, parce # de la que la pluſpart des medicamens deterſifs ont quelque acrimonie qui pourroit cauſer douleur : & ſi les vl- mchºé'. ceres eſtoient nets & detergez, pourroient par cette acrimonie de tels remedes eſtre irritez dauantage. et pource faudra au commencement & pendant le flux ſe contenter de l'vſage des choſes ſuſdites : empeſchant que la ſordicie & corruption n'augmente : pourueu toutesfois que leſdits vlceres ne fuſſent trop violens car où par la vehemence des medicamens : ou deprauation de nature, le flux ſeroit extreme, & rendroit la bouche & les ioues ſi tumefiées, que par trop grande replexion les eſprits ne peuſſent reluire,il ſe pourroit enſuiure vne gangrene, comme aucunesfois aduient. en ce cas nous ſommes contraints de laiſſer la propre curetpour ſuruenir aux accidens : & pource faire nous vſons de medicamens refrenans, comme eſt de co- ctum hordei, plantag ſolani, polygoni, burſæ paſt. &c. cum ſyr. roſ. violar.nymphaeae,cydoniorum,berbe- ris, granatorum, &c. auſſi comme ſont mucilag & decocta ſem. lactucae, pſyllij, cydoniorum, plantag. cu- cumerimelonum papaueris albi, hyoſciami albi, & c. in aquis hor. roſ.plantag ſolani, nympharœ,caprifoli), &c. faut pareillement faire eſtuues ſeiches, auec choſes chaudes, deſiccatiues & roborantes,afin qu'eſtans les ſueurs prouoquées par l'ouuerture des pores, le trop grand mouuement de nature ſoit retiré.lors donc qu'on verra le flux diminuer, l'on pourra adiouſter auec les gargariſmes ſuſdits quelque peu de ſyr. ex roſ- ſiccis,mel. roſ. diamorun, dianucum,& ſemblables pour doucement deterger.et ou on voudroit deſſeicher, les vlceres, on pourra les toucher auec eau alumineuſes, ou eau alkemides corrigée & adoucie, & comme celle qui aura ja operé ( qui eſt bleue ) eau de ſublimé, ou autre faite auec choſes deſiccatiues, leſquelles en peu de temps les deſſeicheront : joint que lors on pourra vſer de gargariſmes deficcatifs auec quelque fºrtº dºſie- aſtriction:adiouſtez auec les eaux predites, ex roſ. plantagine, ſolano, polygono, burſa & virga paſt. cyno- catifs é vl- gloſſo, les ſimples qui s'enſuiuent, balauſt. roſa rub. myrtilli, ſumach, alumen, acacia, berberisrgalla ma- º** licorum, & ſemblables.il faut noter que le flux de bouche ne ceſſera iamais iuſques à ce que les viceres des che. genciues & de la langue ſoient coſolidées,& cicatriſées.partant elles ſeront touchées de l'eau de ſublime, ou de celle qui aura ſeruiauxorfévres,qui ont puiſſance d'arreſter la putrefaction & corroſion.pendant le flux, il faut reſtaurer & nourrir les patiens auec viandes propre, leſquelles ſeront liquides, & de bon ſuc,& de facile concoction : attendu lors qui ne leur eſt poſſible de maſcher : & que nature eſt debile, & diuertie alimens pr•. ailleurs à l'expulſion de ce qui eſt eſtrange: ioint auſſi la grande teſolution qui s'eſt faite des vertus, tant pres pour par les grandes douleurs precedentes, inquietudes nocturnes, comme pendant le flux de bouche, entre au- ceux qui ont tres ils pourront vſer d'œufs molelets, potages faits auec moyeux d'œufs, orges mondez,conſommez(faits fux de bou- auec extremitez de veau, & quelque volaille ſans ſel ) gelée, eſpreinte, coulis, & ſemblables : deſquels ils ºº , vſeront peu, & ſouuent, ayans à chacune fois laué & néttoyé la bouche. pareillement vſeront de decoction de gajac, aromatiſé cum cinamomo, ou de vin vieil bien meur, clairet & ſubtil, auec eau d'orge : ſi on veut leur d§ vn boire plus nourriſſant, pour autant qu'ils ne mengent rien de ſolide, on pourra leur faire tremper de la mie de pain blanc bien leué auec du vin predit,puis l'exprimer pour meſler de la !ubſtance du pain auec le vin qui le rendra plus nourriſſant, & luy diminuera ſon acrimonie : autrement faire treniper du breuuage de pain chaud auec du vin par l'eſpace d'vne nuict, puis les faire diſtiller in balneo marix : le commencement ºin diſtillé de la liqueur qui ſortira ſera quelque peu forte ; mais l'autre ſera douce : & dicelle pourras meſler parmy ſon vins qui le reforcilléra, & nourrira.auſſi ou pour les grandes euacuations le patient ſeroit fort debile, ou ſyncopiſeroit, on luy pourroit donner à ſentir bon vin baſtard, maluoiſie, hipocras, eau roſe, vinaigre roſat, & autres telles choſes, pour reſtaurer les eſprits : toutesfois faut obſeruer la nature du patient, & s'enquerir diligemment ſi en ſanté il les a appetez ou non,pource qu'autrement telles choſes luy pourroient pluſtoſt nuire qu'ayder les ayant en horreur. sur toutes choſes ne faut negliger ſon ventre, & où il s'en durciroit, doit vſer de clyſteres,leſquels ſeront doux & lenitifs : parquoy eſt bon auoir l'aduis du medecin. - " la quatrieſme maniere de curer la veroleparparfums. ch a r. xiv. reprobation l faut à preſent parler de l'vſage des parfums, qu'aucuns on dit eſtre la troiſieſme ou qua- des parfums. n% trieſme voye generale de curer ladite maladie venerienne, laquelle e n'approuue beau- \ coup pour les accidens qui en aduiennent, parce qu'ils bleſſent le cerueau, poulmon, ss & demeurent les malades parfumez auec vne haleine puante toute leur vie : auſſi que plu- ſieurs en les traictant iont tombez en ſpaſme , tremblement de teſte & iambes, en po- plexie, ſurditez , & ſont morts pour la mauuaiſe vapeur & qualite du ſoulphre & vif argent, dont ledit cinabre eſt compoſé , qui bleſſe le cerueau & autres parties nobles. parquoy ie conſeille n'en #º #º vſer vniuerſellement, ny par le nez, ny par la bouche : mais bien particulierement pour deſſeicher quel- #. que vicere cacoethe, ou quelque nodus & douleur fixe, qui n'auroient peu eſtre curez par les autres ## es par- moyens : car veritablement leſdits parfums ont puiſſance par le moyen du vif argent d'attenuer, inciſer & reſoudre ce qui pourroit auoir reſté particulierement en quelque partie. ceux qui en vſent vniuerſelle- ment, font poſer les pauures malades ſous vn pauillon couuert & clos de toutes parts, auquel y a vn vaiſ- ſeau plein de braiſe, ſous laquelle iettent leur cinabre, & les fricaſſent & parfument comme font les ma- reſchaux à quelque cheual morueux : & continuent par tant de iours leſdits parfums, qu'ilvoyent º# le l x a b c $ - de la groſſe verole. a flux de bouche. or la matiere principale & fondement des parfums, eſt le cinabre, qui eſt compoſé de ſoul- phre & argent vif : on adiouſte auec luy rad. ireos flor. thus, olib. mirrh. iunc odorat. aſſam odoratam, maſt. terebenthin. & theriac. leſquels ont puiſſance d'empeſcher la trop grande diſſolution de nature, & de corriger la feteur , & mauuaiſe qualité du vif-argent. on peut faire auttes parfums apres auotr vſé le vif-argent, qui ſe fera ainſi. il faut faire fondre du plomb,puis lors qu'il ſera preſque refroidy il faut meſler l'argent-vifenſemble, puis ſera redigé en poudre, adiouſtant antimonium, aloes, maſtic, vitriol, auripig. benjoin en pouldre & auec terebenthine, ou en forme de trochiſques.autre. z. cinnabaris . j. ſtyracis rubri & calamitæ, nuc. moſcata an .iij. benjoin .ſº. excipe terebenthinâ, fiant trochiſci pondere . ij. ad vſum dictum. la terebenthine y eſt miſe pour lier les autres choſes qui ſont ſeiches : pour auſſi faire fu- mée, on y adiouſte ſemblablement des gommes. on parfume les vlceres cacoethes cauſées de la verole, apres qu'elles ſont mondifiées,& non auparauant. exemple d'vn parfum pour les vlceres. /.. cinnabaris j. benjoin. mirrhae, ſtyracis, olibani, opopanicis an. .É. maſtic. macis, thuris an. .ij. excipiantur tereben- thinâ, & fiat fumigium. autre pour deſſeicher les vlceres humides. a. cinnabaris .j. benjoin, ſtyracis, olibani, opopanacis an. . ß. maſti. thuris an. . # nucis cupreſſi & corticis granatorum an. . ſ. tereben- c thinz communis quantum ſufficiat : fiant trochiſci pro fumigio. et ſeront leſdits parfums continuez tant qu'il ſera beſoin. - caration des ſymptomes, ou accidens de la maladie venerienne, ou verole », » & premierement des vlceres de la verge_ . c h a p t r e xv. à l ſe fait à la verge vlceres calleuſes & malignes,& celles qui naiſſent ſur le glan le ſont moins nn que celles qui naiſſent ſur le prepuce, & ſont rebelles aux medicamens communs aux vlceres | nàſ faites par autre cauſe, & ſouuent ſe terminent en gangrene, en ſorte que pluſieurs y perdent =s la teſte de la verge , voire tout le corps, comme auons dit cy-deſſus, faute de recourir à l'alexipharmaque,qui eſt le vif-argent. toutesfois ie ſuis d'aduis que l'on commence premie- rement aux remedes communs & propres à la curation des vlceres : car toutes vlceres qui viennent à la verge par le coit, ne ſont pas veroliques. mais apresauoir vſé de pluſieurs remedes, & que l'on voye l'vl- cere cheminer, & ne voulant ceder à nul medicament, alors on doit venir à ceux auſquels entre le furet, pour obuier que le venin n'occupe toute l'habitude du corps. les remedes que l'on doit appliquer, faut qu'ils ayent faculté d'obtondre l'acrimonie de ce virus, comme ce collyre de lanfranc. &. vini albi fb.j. aqua roſar. & plant. an. p.j. auripig. . ij. virid. aeris .j. aloès, myrrh. an. .j. terantur ſubtiliſ, & fiat collyrium.auſſi on les pourra toucher d'eau de ſublimé, ou d'eau fort qui aura ſeruy aux orfevres, dite eau bleue : ou bien on appliquera vn peu de poudre de mercure , ou de noſtre egyptiac : & pour prouoquer la cheute de l'eſcarre, on vſera de baſilicon & beure frais. tels medicamens acres ſeront appliquez auec diſ. cretion, de peur de gangrene & mortification, qui ſouuent vient à cette partie. et qù la pertinacité & re- bellion de ladite vlcere viendroient de la vehemence du virus verolique, en ſorte § ne vouluſſent ceder aux remedes ſuſdits, alors faut faire friction aux aines, perineum, & auſdites vlceres, auec les onguents preſcrits pour la friction. anſſi on pourra faire parfums, comme nous auons dit cy-deſſus : ce faiſant, on vera la malice & acrimonie de l'humeur eſtre abbatué,les duretez amollies,& les vlceres quaſi ſe deſſeicher & mondifier & conſolider. or quelquesfois apres la curation & cicatriſation deſdites vlceres, en aucuns s'enſuiuent ſignes apparens de la verole, comme douleurs nocturnes, puſtules, leſquelles ne ſont apparuës auparauant la curation deſdites vlceres, parce que le virus auoit iſſue par icelles, & eſtans cloſes, le virus ſe manifeſte"par les autres voyes : à telles faut vſer de la friction vniuerſelle. icy ie veux aduertir le ieune chirurgien, que s'il aduient qu'apres auoir renuerſé & découuert le gland pour penſer les vlceres qui naiſ- ſent entre le prepuce & le balanus, le prepuce ne peut plus retourner en ſon lieu. ce qui aduient auſſi ſou- uent à quelque folaſtre ieune marié, trouuant la partie genitale vn peu anguſte & fort eſtroitte, voulant entrer au champ de bataille, comme par force, découure le gland, & renuerſe en haut le prepuce, de façon que ſouuent ne ſe peut rabattre pour couurir le gland. il ſe fait vne inflammation & gangrene. donc pour ſauuer la vie dudit combattant, il conuient entierement couper le cultiueur du champ de nature humaine. librement ie confeſſe y auoir eſté autresfois bien empeſché, mettant fomentation, cataplaſmes, & em- plaſtres reſolutifs & relaxatifs, pour tout cela ie n'auançois rien, au contraire la tumeur & douleur s'aug- mentoit. eſtant à milan deuiſant auec vn vieil chirurgien , il me dit qu'il falloit baſſiner le petit ventre & parties genitales d'eau fort froide, & eſpreindre toute la verge auec la main, aſſez fort : par ces choſes les parties ſe retirent au dedans, & fleſtriſſent, puis faut tirer le prepuce en ſon lieu, ce que i'ay fait pluſieurs fois auec heureuſe iſſuë. et ſi la tumeur du prepuce eſt ſi grande que ces remedes n'y euſſent point de lieu, alors faudroit faire des ſcarifications tout autour. car par icelles les vents fe reſoluent, & le prepuce ſe relaſche , qui fait qu'apres on le peut plus facilement reduire. en quey differre la gonorrhée de la chaude-piſſe . c h a p. x v i. #é ， e， v,º #a， ènm /nwn - º % $ nn- v c v n s ont iuſques icy penſé, que la chaude-piſſe euſt quelque choſe de commun auec la gonorrhée des anciens : mais elles ſont fort differentes l'vne de l'autre,comme tu pourras voir par ce traicté. car la gonorrhée eſt vn flux de ſemence inuolontaire, decoulant de toutes les parties de noſtre corps aux parties genitales, cauſé par la reſolution & paralyſie de la faculté retentiue d'icelles parties, comme dit galien à la fin du liure . zºe locis affeéii , ou bien de trop grande abondance de ſang & matiere ſeminale dedans le corps, qui ne ſe tournant point en graiſſe & habitude du corps, prend ſon cours vers les parties genitales. au contraire , la chaude piſſe ou ar- deur d'vrine, eſt vne ſanie qui ſort par la verge, de couleur iaunaſtre, quelquesfois verdeyante, autres- fois ſanguinolente, approchant de la qualité d'vn pus non bien cuit & de mauuaiſe odeur, auec vne acri- monie qui le plus ſouuent ronge & vlcere le canal de l'vrine, faiſant erection de la verge & des parties genitales auec douleur : pource qu'en ladite erection ſe fait vne contraction comme par vn ſpaſme parti- culier, teſmoins les patiens qui diſent ſentir comme vne corde qui leur tire la verge contre-bas : & telle choſe ſe fait au moyen d'vn eſprit flatueux qui remplit le canal ou le nerf cauerneux, & toute la ſubſtance du membre viril.a cauſe de laquelle repletion ſe fait vne diſtenſion de la verge. outre leſquels - accidens vlcere dit prepuce plns dangereux que de la verge. collyre de lanfräe ſin- gulier pour telles vlceres, le moyen d'appliquer tels medica- f enf, choſe digne d'eſtre notée, d t eſt faits la ſemence. gal. au liu. de loc. aljecf. le dix-neufiéme liure, accidens, lors que le conduit eſt vlceré, le patient vrinant ſent vne griefue douleur : pource que l'vrine a la cbaude paſſant par les vlceres, les mordique & poingt. or le flux de ladite ſanie continue quelquesfois deux ou piſſe conti- trois ans & plus : qui nous fait croire que la chaude piſſe n'a rien de commun auec la gonorrhée, comme nue long. nous monſtrerons cy-apres, deſcriuant les parties qui principalement ſont affectées. aucc ce qu'il eſt im- temps, poſſible que la ſemence pût ſortir hors du corps par vn ſi long-temps, qu'elle ne fut cauſe que le corps de- uint languide, debile, &affoibly (attendu que la ſemence eſt faite d'vn ſang bening , prouenant de toutes les parties du corps ) dont la mort s'enſuiuroit, comme dit l'autheur des definitions. ce qui eſt auſſi aisé à connoiſtre en ceux qui ont eu cinq ou ſix fois la compagnie d'vne femme, voire moins, le corps deſquels ſe trouue fort debile & abbatu, & à quelques-vns tout aſſoupy. parquoy faut conclurre que la ſanie que l'on jette aux chaude-piſſes, ne procede du ſuc bon & dedié à la generation de la ſemence humaine ; mais pluſtoſt que c'eſt vn humeur virulant, acre, viſqueux, & corrumpu. - de l'erection & tenſion continuë du membre genital. c h a p. xvii. @ e s accidens s'appellent en latin priapiſnus, & satyriaſis : & ſont deux noms fignifians deux choſes de diuerſes eſpeces. car le premier aduient ſeulement aux hommes, & eſt vne ten- - fion du membre viril ſans aucun appetit charnel : le ſecond aduient aux hommes, & femmes s ) accompagné d'vn deſir furieux. outre cela, le premier eſt ſans effuſion de ſemence, le ſe- cond auec effuſion, d'où vient que ſi toſt que l'habitation a eſté auec la femme, incontinent il ceſſe. mais au premier rien moins, qui eſt cauſe qu'il s'augmente de telle façon que fil'on n'y prenoiſt bien toft, ſuruient vne mort cruelle , ou conuulſion inſupportable. l'vne & l'autre procede d'vne exceſſiue chaleur, & dilatation des arteres , d'abondance de vents qui rempliſſent le nerf caue du membre genital, pour auoir mangé trop de viandes venteuſes, & autres cauſes. si cela aduient à vne fem- me, au lieu de la tenſion elle ſent en ſes parties genitales vn prurit, ardeur, & douleur, accompagné d'vn deſir intollerable de venus, & eſt contrainte de porter ſouuent la main pour ſe frotter. , pour curer l'erection, ſoit appliqué ſur les reins vn cataplaſme fait de morelle, jombarbe, pourpié lai- ctues, iuſquiame,nenuphar, ciguë, pilez enſemble, & appliquez ſur leſdits reins, & ſur l'entrefeſſon. faut boire de l'eau froide, & vfer de viandes ſemblables. maintenant nous retournerons à parler des cauſes & differences de la chaude-piſſe. des cauſes de la chaude piſſe, & difference d'ice/e_. c h a p. xviii. # a chaude-piſſe vient de trois cauſes : à ſçauoir, de trop grande replection, de trop grande inanition,& de contagion. celle qui ſe fait par replection,eſt cauſée d'vne trop grande abon- dance de ang, ou pour auoir eſté à cheual, ayant le soleil à dos, ou pour auoir vsé de vian- des chaudes, acres, diuretiques, & fiatueuſes, qui cauſent tenſion & chaleur, dont s'enſuit inflammation des parties genitales : qui eſt cauſe de faire fluer non ſeulement la ſemence, situation des mais auſſi les humeurs ſur leſdites parties, principalement ſur les glandes proſtates ſituées au commence- glandes pro- ment du col de la veſſie, là où finiſſent & deſinent les vaiſſeaux ſpermatiques : ou pour s'eſtre trop long- ſtates. temps abſtenu de la compagnie des femmes en ceux qui ont de couſtume d'en vſer : & deſquels l'excretrice de telles parties eſt debile, ne s'en pouuant desfaire de ſoy-meſme : de tant que telle matiere ſupprimée ſe corrompt,& venant à ſortir fait ardeur & douleur par acrimonie de chaleur eſtrange. or ces proſtates puis apres s'apoſtement, & leur ſanie qui decoule auec vne certaine corroſion, le long du canal de la verge, y fait quelque vlceres, au moyen deſquels l'vrine qui eſt acre, paſſant par deſſus, les mordique & corrode d'auantage : choſe qui cauſent aux patients vne grande douleur, qui meſme continue quelque temps apres auoir vriné : auſſi en l'erection de la verge ſe fait vne contraction (comme deſſus a eſté dit ) qui prouient de l'inflammation & de l'eſprit flatueux, qui remplit le nerfcauerneux , par laquelle replection la verge ſe chaude-piſſe groſſit & allongit. celle qui ſe fait par inanition, aduient peur auoir trop & intempeſtiuement vſé de l'ac- # #* colade amoureuſe : car tels excez & autres ſemblables tariſſent l'humidité huyleuſe & naturelle de cette §mi .. glandule, laquelle conſommée, l'vrine de ſon acrimonie bleſſe & offence la verge, cauſant vne cuiſon & chaude-piſ chaleur contre nature en cette partie, qui ſe ſent principalement en vrinant,dont eſt appellée piſſe-chaude. ſe faite par celle qui vient de contagion, ſe fait pour auoir eu la compagnie de ceux qui en ſont infectez, ſoit homme contagion. ou femme,pour auoir habité auec celle qui peu auparauant auroit receu la ſemence de l'homme contaminé , • dudit mal, ou qui auroit ſes purgations blanches, quelque vlcere dans les parties honteuſes, quelque ma- tiere procedante de la verole, ou quelque eſprit veneneux & virulent, qui s'inſinuant és parties genitales, les infecte, & quelquesfois tout le corps. car (comme galien monſtre au troſiéme liure, de lecis affectis) chap. . qui eſt-ce, qui ſans le voir, croiroit que par la piqueure d'vn ſcorpion, le corps peut eſtre ſi fort bleſſé, at- tendu la petite quantité de venin qu'il introduit dedans le corps, & qui neantmoins a ſi grande puiſſance, qu'il fait mourir celuy qui en eſt picqué. d'auantage,void-on pas que par vne petite picqueure de mouſche à miel, ou d'vne gueſpe, ou d'vn frelon, aduiennent douleurs, tumeurs, & inflammations tres-grandes ? et combien que telles picqueures ne ſoient que ſuperficielles,leur venin toutesfois peut communiquer ſa ma- lice iuſques aux parties nobles. en cas ſemblables ſe peut faire que la vapeur du virus de la ſemence, ou d'autres humeurs corrompues , ſoient communiquez aux parties genitales, principalement aux proſtates, la chaude- leſquels reçoiuent non-ſeulement la ſemence, mais les autres humeurs, qui ſe putrefians cauſent apoſtemes piſſe ſouuent & vlceres, deſquelles ſort vn fetide & virulent, que les hommes jettent par la verge, & les femmes par le ameine la col de la matrice. quelquesfois auſſi vne partie de ladite fluxion tombe ſur les teſticules & ſur le perineum, verolº, & ſe meſme ſur la verge, qui cauſe en icelles parties le plus ſouuent des gangrenes, & des vlceres caues & fiſtu- pºtºr** leux. d'abondan ſe peuuent eſleuer d'iceluy virus, quelques vapeurs corrompuës & veneneuſes, qui ſont #ºtº portées aux parties nobles par les veines, arteres, & nerfs, dont bien ſouuent procede la verole. - • : . ' r ! chaude piſſe de repletion. - - # - d d " de la groſſe verole. - - - - - du prognoſtic des chaude-piſſes. c h a p. x ix. a chaude-piſſe ne ſe doit negliger, pource que pluſieurs pernicieux accidens en aduiennent § (comme nous auons dit)& en quelques-vns eſt incurable, qui iette perpetuellement vne ſa- # nie virulente, laquelle fait § vne entiere ſuppreſſion d'vrine, à cauſe que les pro- # ſtates & tout le col de la veſſie s'enflent & enflamment tant par le coit, que par l'vſage des a º s viandes chaudes & vaporeuſes,ou par trop grand exercice, comme eſt celuy de la poſte : auſſi par le changement des lunes : de laquelle ſuppreſſion la mort s'enſuit aucunesfois : ainſi que n'agueres i'ay veu aduenir à vn quidam, qui ayant porté vne chaude-piſſe dix ans & plus, la garda iuſques à la mort, cét homme apres auoir fait quelques excez violents, ne failloit incontinent d'eſtre pris d'vne ſuppreſſion d'v. rine, au moyen de laquelle ne pouuoit vriner ſans le benefice d'vne ſonde qu'il portoit toûjours auee luy. or ne pouuant vn iour la mettre iuſques dans la veſſie, m'enuoya querir pour le faire piſſer : ce que ie ne peux faire, ores que i'employaſſe tous les remedes à moy poſſibles, qui fut cauſe de ſa mort : laquelle ad- uenuë, ie priay ſa femme me permettre l'ouurir: ce que volontiers elle m'acorda. ie trouuay ſa veſſie toute pleine d'vrine, & fort eſtendue, les proſtates groſſes, enflées, vlcerées, & toutes pleines de pus ſemblable à celuy qu'il iettoit pendant ſa maladie. parquoyi'oſe conclure, que ce pus qui vient des chaude-piſſes, eſt fait dedans la ſubſtance des glandes proſtates, & non des reins, ce qu'aucuns ont eſtimé,& voulu affirmer. ie ne veux neantmoins icy nier que les reins ne s'apoſtement & ſe conſument entierement, iettans ſembla- blement grande quantité de pus, toutesfois les accidens ne ſont pareils à ceux des chaude-piſſes. les vieil- les chaude-piſſes eſt vne verole particuliere : partant pour ſa cure faut le furet. or l'vlcere qui eſt au col de la veſſie & à la verge, eſt facile à diſcerner d'auec celuy qui eſt au corps d'icelle, parce que s'il eſt en la veifie, la ſanie ſera meſlée auec l'vrine, & y aura de petites membranes ou filamens, l'odeur en ſera fetide & acre , & n'aura le patient ſi grande douleur : & notez, que ie dy ſi grande, pource que lors qu'il y aura vn vlcere aux proſtates ou conduit vrinal, toûjours on ſent douleur à l'extremité de la verge, pource qu'en toutes extremitez le ſentiment eſt toûjours plus aigu & exquis, & principalement à la verge, & ſi aucc ce, le pus ſort deuart l'vrine ſelon galien,liure ſixieſme, chapitre ſixieſme te locis affeétis. or ayant amplement diſcouru des ſignes & differences, tant de la gonorrhée, que de la chaude-piſſe, il conuient, maintenant traiter des remedes concernans la guariſon de l'vn & l'autre mal,& commencer à la gonorrhée - ſi - - - l sommaire de la cure de la gomorrhée , c h a p. xx. # l faut appeller vn docte medecin qui purge & ſeigne le malade, s'il en eſt beſoin, & qui luy @ ordonne ſon regime, luy defendant (ſi telle gonorrhée vient d'abondance exceſſiue de ſang ſ & matiere ſeminale ) toutes choſes qui engendrent grande quantité de ſang , augmentent la # ſemence, & prouoquent à coit : ſemblablement l'vſage du vin, s'il n'eſt petit & auſtere,l'ad- º uertiſſant de fuir la frequentation des femmes, meſmement de les voir en peinture, ou autre- ment repreſentées , nommément celles à qui le malade porte quelque affection. l'exercice mediocre leur eſt bon , baigner en eau froide, dormir peu, & appliquer ſur les lumbes, & autour des parties genitales, vnguentum roſatum refrigerans & nutritum : puis par deſſus vn grand linge trempé en oxycrat, & ſouuent les renouueller, comme il eſt dit cy-apres. car ſi elle eſt cauſée par debilitation de la faculté retentrice des parties genitales, fingulierement pour auoir trop vſé de l'acte venerien, il faut vſer des choſes robora- tiues & aſtringentes : & ſur tout éuiter les femmes, voire les mettant du tout en oubly, iuſques à ce que les malades ſoient reſtaurez & entierement guaris. il te ſuffira de ces remedes generaux pour la curation de la gonorrhée, attendu qu'amplement la guariſon d'icelle eſt traitée dans les doctes commentaires des mede- cins & chirurgiens, tant anciens que modernes : & auſſi que ma principale intention eſt, de te donner ſeu- lement les remedes de chaude-piſſe : la curation de laquelle, tant generale que particuliere, ſera cy-apres deduite. . - •-• -- - -- " -- • •-- »-- –-e curation generale de la chaude-piſſe . c h a p. xxi. a cure ſera changée ſelon la diuerſité des cauſes & accidens. pour les choſes vniuerſelles, faut que le patient tienne bonne maniere de viure, & qu'il éuite toutes choſes qui échauffent le ſang, principalement tous alimens flatueux , diuretiques, violens exercices : qu'il ſoit pur- gé & ſaigné, principalement ſi le mal procede de repletion. il doit fuir l'habitation des femi- mes, ſi ladite chaude-piſſe n'eſtoit venuë de defaut de coit : il ne ſe doit coucher ſur vn hct de plume, mais ſur vn matelats, ou vne molle paillaſſe, ſur leſquels on mettra vn drap en pluſieurs dou- bles à l'endroit de la region des reins, & s'il luy eſt poſſible, ne doit dormir ne coucher aucunement ſur le dos. il mangera ſes viandes plutoſt boüillies que roſties, cuites auec ozeille,laictuë, pourpié, & quelque quantité d'orge mondé, & des quatre ſemences concaſſées. pour ſauce, fe doit contenter de jus de citron, d'oranges, grenades, ou de verjus. il s'abſtiendra de vin, en lieu duquel vſera d'eau d'orge, tifane, de bouchet, potus diuinus, ou bien de l'hipocras d'eau auec vn bien peu de canelle. au matin prendra quatre heures auant que manger, vn orge mondé, auec lequel aura cuit vn petit noüet plein des quatre ſemences froides concaſſées, vn peu de graine de pauot blanc, pource qu'il rafraiſchit, adoucit, & deterce. pareil- lement vſera quelquesfois du ſyrop de guimauues, ou de capilli veneris : par fois d'vne demie once de caſ- ſe ſeule, a laquelle auſſi de fois à autre on pourra adiouſter vne dragme de rheubarbe, ou demie dragme en poudre, ſelon l'exigence du cas, ou bien de ſes pillules. /.. maſſae pillul. ſine quib. .j. rhei electi . ß. camph. g. iiij. cum terebenth, formentur pillulx ſeptem deuorandz poſt primum fomnum.semblab'ement ia terebenthine de veniſe ſeule, ou auec rheubarbe en poudre, ou auec huyle d'amendes douces recente- ment tirée & ſans feu, ou auec dudit ſyrop de capilli veneris, eſt vn remede ſouuerain & ſigulier : parce qu'elle a vne tres-grande vertu d'adoucir & mondifier : & qu'elle ayde grandement la vertu expultrice à pouſſer hors la matiere virulente & infectée contenue aux proſtates : conſideré auſſi, qu'à caute de ſon amertume, elle eft fort contraire à pourriture : outre leſquelles vertus elle a eſgardauſli par vne proprieté ecculte ſur les reins, & les autres parties dediées à l'vrine : ce qui ſe connoiſt tant par ſon effect, que par j'odeur qu'elle delaiſſe en l'vrine apres que l'on en a vſé. la chaude- piſſe eſt incu. rable à an . cmm j , bel exemple d'vne reten- tien dºvrine venºit d' vme, chaude-piſſrz , . - " , # la ſanie vi- rulente des chaude-piſſet viêt des pro- ſtates , nos des reins. l'autheur appelle le vif- argent, furet , parce qu'il eſträge &rfait ſortir la verole hors de ſa taniere. ! - - - -- - " cure de ge- norrhée. - autre cure. Ét cure de la chaude piſſe de repleviow ; º | » •s #t - º :'ia rereben- . thine de ve- miſe excellèt remede à la chaude piſſe, icelle par proprieté oc- culte ayde à la chaude- piſſe. . le dix-neufiéme liure, le moyen dé rebenthine potable. sedatif de doulou &r ardeur. remedes pro. pres pour mettre par dehors aux chaudes-piſ- ſer, deco#ion mondificati- #vº, jniečtion de- ſicatiue. d'où proce- dent les car- . noſitez. carnoſitez calleuſes. et s'il y auoit quelque patient, comme il s'en trouue, qui ne peut aucunement prendre en bolus ladite *endre la te- terebenthine (en la façon que l'on la baille ordinairement ) il eſt aisé de la rendre potable en la detrem- pant dans vn mortier auec vn peu de jaune d'œuf, & de vin blanc, l'ayant premierement lauée auec ptiſane: ce que i'ay ſçeu d'yn apothicaire, qui cachoit ce moyen de la rendre potable comme vn grand ſecret que ie n'ay voulu oublier à eſcrire : parce que ie ſçay que peu de perſonnes penſent que l'on la puiſſe faire aisée à boire, attendu ſa glutinoſité & eſpeſſeur. semblablement la lexiue faite de paille de feve, eſt excellente pour mondifier les reins & vaiſſeaux ſpermatiques & vreteres. la quantité ſera de deux ou trois onces, auec vne dragme de miel roſat,ou autre ſemblable,pris deux heures au matin deuât mâger.la lexiue de ſar- ment fait le ſemblable,donnée auec ſuccre roſat. celle qui vient d'inanition, ſe guarira par iniections graſ- ſes, huyleuſes & remolientes : & par breuuages & applications de choſes de meſme effect, ſuiuant les cau- ſes qui ont engendré le mal. de celle qui vient de contagion , nous en allons traicter amplement : te pouuant aſſeurer que l'on a veu par les remedes ſuſdits grand nombre de malades de chaude-piſſe re- couurer guariſon : neantmoins, afin que nous n'oublions rien de ce que nous auons delibcré de traicter. ayans fait les choſes vniuerſelles , nous viendrons aux particulieres. curation particuliere de la chaude-piſſe . c h a p. xxli. n \a $qn t premierement nous faut commencer à ſeder la douleur, & diminuer l'inflammation tant que # # nous pourrons, en faiſant vne injection dans la verge, de la decoctioa qui s'enſuit /. ſem. # pſyllij, lactucar, papaueris albi , plant. cydoniorum, lini, hyoſcyami albian. . ij. detrahantur s $ mucores in aquis ſolan. plant. & roſarum quantum ſufficit, trochiſcorum , albi de rafis cam- , - phoratorum pulueriſatorum .j. miſce ſimul, ſeruetur pro iniectione. cette ordonnance cy- deſſus eſcrite, te ſeruira pour vn formulaire que tu pourras diuerſifier, l'augmentant ou diminuant ſelon la neceſſité, & te conduiſant toufiours auec raiſon. ladite iniection a puiſſance d'appaiſer la douleur,pource qu'elle eſt refrigerante, & par ſa viſcoſité lenit & adoucit le canal de l'vrine,le defendant de l'acrimonie & mordacité des humeurs & des matieres virulentes. on doit vſer de ladite iniection tiede:en lieu de laquel- le on pourra auſſi vſer de laict venant de la vache,ou bien peu tiedimeſmement de laict-clair,ou petit laict. le laict eſt fort propre à faire iniection, ou à boireaux chaudes-piſſes & ardeurs d'vrine,pour la vertu qu'il a de rafraiſchir & deterger :& auſſi pource qu'il paſſe aisément eſtant fort ſubtil & d'eſſence tenuë. parde- hors ſera fort bon de faire onction de caratum galeni efrigerans, addita camphora, ou de ceratum ſantali- num, ou comitiſſ. ou de nutritum, ſus la region des reins, des lumbes,& du perineum ; meſmes en frotter le ſcrotum, & toute la verge. mais auant que d'vſer deſdits onguens, ou ſemblables, les faut faire fondre ſur le feu, & prendre garde de ne les faire beaucoup chauffer, afin qu'ils ne perdent leur faculté de refri- gerer, qui eſt noſtre principale intention. ladite onction faite conuient appliquer par deſſus quelques lin- ges trempez en oxycrat,compoſé ex aquis plantaginis, ſolani, ſemperuiui , roſarum, & ſeniblables. en ce, s'il aduenoit que le patient euſt vne grande douleur en vrinant, & apres auoir vriné (ce qui eſt preſque or- dinaire ) il ſera bon que le malade piſſe en vn vaiſſeau plein de laiét tiede, y trempant ſa verge pendant le temps qu'il rendra ſon vrine : & au defaut de laict, faudra prendre de l'eau tiede : par ce remede tu appai- ſeras vne grande partie de la cuiſeur. la douleur mitigée par ces moyens , tu commenceras à mondifier les vlceres de la verge par vne iniection telle. z. hydromelit. ſimp . #. iiij. ſyrupi roſati de ſiccis, & de ab- ſinth. an . ß. fiat iniectio, ſeruetur ad vſum. et où il ſera beſoin de plus grande deterſion, tu adiouſteras à l'iniection vn peu d'egyptiacum, ce que i'ay fait pluſieurs fois : dont , graces à dieu, l'iſſue a eſté bonne. i'ay veu auſſi grandement profiter en cette intention, la decoction qui s'enſuit. z. vini aldi odoriferi fb.É. aquarum plantag. & roſarum an. . ijauripigmenti .j. ß. viridis œris .j. aloës ſuccotrini . .pulueriſen- tur pulueriſanda, & bulliant ſimul, ſeruetur decoctum pro iniectione. il te faudra diminuer & augmenter la force des ingrediens, ſelon que verras eſtre neceſſaire. les vlceres mondifiez, il conuient vſer de deſicca- tion pour les mener à cicatrice, deſſeichant l'humeur, & corroborant les parties qui ont eſté imbues & re- laxées par la longue & grande fluxion : pour à quoy remedier , la decoction ſuiuante eſt bien conuenable. %. aqua fabrorum fb.j. pſidiarum & balauſtiarum, nucum cupreſſi conquaſſat. an. .ij. ſyrupi roſati, & de abſinth.an. .j fiat decoétio, ſeruetur pro iniectione. de cette decoction en faut jetter fouuent dedans la verge auec vne ſyringue, & continuer iuſques à ce qu'il ne ſorte pius de ſanie, lors tu pourras eſperer le patient eſtre guary. reſte maintenant à parler des accidens qui prouiennent d'aucunes chaudes-piſſes, qui ' ſont des carnoſitez procreées au canal de l'vrine,dont pluſieurs ſont tourmentez : & à cauſe de ce tombent fouuent en vne retention d'vrine, & meurent. ſ- nn n des carnoſitez qui s'engendrent au conduit de l'vrine apres aucunes chaude piſſes. c h a p t r e xxl i l. #'h v m e v r virulent qui ſort des glandes proſtates, & paſſe continuellement par le canal de $ la verge, erode par ſon acrimonie & vlcere en quelques endroits le conduit de la verge des hommes, & aux femmes le col de la matrice. quelquesfois en ces vlceres s'engendre vne - chair ſuperflue, ainſi que nous voyons aduenir aux vlceres exterieurs, laquelle empeſche c^snéº quelquesfois que la ſemence & l'vrine ne paſſent aisément par leur voye ordinaire, dont aduiennent grands accidens. parquoy faut diligemment prendre garde auſdits vlceres, mettant en tout de- uoir de les guarir. et pour ce faire, conuient ſçauoir en premier lieu s'ils ſont recents ou inueterez ; a rai- ſon qu'ils ſont de tant plus faſcheux à guarir, que plus durs & calleux, meſme que la pluſpart deſdites car- noſitez a ja pris cicatrice. - - - des ſignes des carnoſitez, ch a p. xx iv. $f# e s carnofitez ſont conneuës par la ſonde, qui ne peut paſſer librement par le conduit de l'vrine, $#º ains trouue autant de fois reſiſtance qu'il y a de carnoſitez : pareillement par la difficulté que le #$ patient a en vrinant. l'vrine ſort grandement deliée , fourchue , ou de trauers : quelques- fois ne vient que goute à goute, auec grandes eſprcintes : de façon que le plus ſouuent le patient vrination jourchuë. voulant b, a •. | • • • de la groſſe verole | | a voulant vrin er,eſt contraint d'aller à la ſelle, comme ceux qui ont vne pierre en la veſſie : d'auantage,apres aueir piſsé, demeure vne portion de l'vrine derriere les carnoſitez : auſſi fait la ſemence apres le co t, en ſorte que le patient en tel cas eſt contraint de comprimer le haut de ſa verge pour faire ſortir leſdites ma- tieres. aucunesfois eſt aduenu à quelques-vns vne entiere ſuppreſſion d'vrine, qui leur a causé en vne telle iſchºrie extenſion de la veſſie, qu'il en enſuiuoit vne grande inflammation , & quelques apoſtemes en diuers lieux, causée de dont l'vrine regorgeant en haut, puis apres ſortoit par pluſieurs endroits, ſçauoir , à l'enuiron du ſiege, carnoſité par le perineum, les bourſes, le penil, & les aines , ainſi que i'ay veu à pluſieurs, qui çſt vn mal du tout incurable. du prognoſtic des carnoſitez, & de la cure d'icelles. c h a p. xxv. o r s qu'il yaura commencement de carnoſité, le pluſtoſt qu'il ſera poſſible la conuiendra ce qui rend curer : car elle croiſtreit de iour en iour , & ne ſeroit aucunement guariſſable par natu-ººº !º re, la ſuppreſſion entiere de l'vrine & les accidens cy-deſſus eſcrits, monſtrent aſſez la diffi-# culté de ſa guariſon : joint auſſi que les remedes ſont mal-aiſez à y appliquer : neantmoins te ifficile, gouuernant tant en general qu'en particulier, ainſi que nous t'enſeignerons,tu pourras parue- nir à la fin par toy pretenduë. flippocrate dit , que ceux qui ont tubercule ou carnoſité en la cauité de la b verge , ſont guaris par la ſuppuration & eruption du pus. d r le temps plus propre pour les curer,eſt le printemps, & puis l'hyuer : toutesfois ſi la maladie preſſe li aph. on aura égard au temps.en faiſant la curation , le patient ſe doit garder de l'acte venerien , car par ice- # ion - luy les reins, les vaiſſeaux ſpermatiques, glandes proſtrates, & toute la verge s'enflent, eſchauffent,& par f f .# conſequent attirent de toutes les parties ſuperieures , dont aduient que ſont enuoyées pluſieurs ſuperfiui. § '- tez aux parties bleſsées, qui empeſchent la guariſon. pourſuiuant la curation deſdites carnoſitez il te con-, ſi . uient garder de trop vſer en la voye de l'vrine de remedes acres & corroſifs : pource que la ſenſibilité de ce ii'.ſt bºn de conduit eſtant par iceux offencée pourroit eſtre causé de grands accidens. il ne faut auoir peur ſi de fois faire ſouuent à autre vient quelque flux de ſang deſdites carnoſitez : car c'eſt vne choſe fort conuenable ( s'euacuant vne ſaigner les portion de la matiere coniointe) qui meſme ſoulage la partie, & empeſche le mal de grandir , attendu carnoſitez, que le ſang eſt cauſe de la carnoſité. pource n'aduenant de ſoy-meſme ledit flux de ſang , ce ſera fort bien fait de le prouoquer diſcretement par la ſonde. ^ cure particuliere des carnoſite{. ch a p. xxvi. iles carnofitez ſontvieilles & calleuſes, il les faut amollir par fomentations , cataplaſmes, mortifica- )z# linimens, emplaſtres, & ſuffumigations. cette fomentation te ſeruira de forme. /.. rad. tion des car- $ altheae, & lilior. albor. an- . iv.rad. bryonix,& fœniculi an. .j. É. fol.mal.viol.par. & mer-noſitez cal- $ cur. an.m. ſ. ſem. lin. fœnug. am. . ß. caricas ping. num. vij.flor. camom. melil. an.p.j.con-lºuſet. >< $ tundantur contundenda , incidenda incidantur, bulliant omnia in aqua com. & fiat fortus cum ſpongiis fœmellis & mollibus. du marc de la fomentation, tu pourras faire vn cataplaſme ainſi qu'il s'enſuit. prædicta materialia colentur, piſtentur, & paſſentur,adde axung.porci, vng. baſilic, an. .ij. fiat cataplaſ. tu vſeras de ce cataplaſme apres la fomentation. entre ladite fomentation & application du cataplaſme, tu pourras te ſeruir du liniment ſubſequent, ou d'autre à pareille fin. . vng. dialthez agrip. an. .j. É. œſipi humidi, & auxung. humanæ an. .j, butyri recentis , olei lil. & tamom. . vj. li- quefiant ſimul, addendo aquae vitae , .j. fiat linimen. duquel tu frotteras par dehors l'endroit où tu penſes eſtre les carnoſitez. tu y pourras auſſi appliquer emplaſtres tendans à ce meſme but , que tu ordonneras ainſi que tu verras eſtre bon de faire : mais ſi tu te veux contenter de l'emplaſtre de de vigo cum mercurio, tu le pourras faire : car ie t'aſſeure qu'il emporte l'honneur ſur tous autres, pour remollir & dégaſter telles // *rcl - duretez, pourueu qu'il ſoit fidellement diſpensé. # propre a cette meſme intention, tu pourras vſer de la ſuffumigation,& euaporation qui s'enſuit.il te faut pren- # amvllir dre vn morcéau d'vne meule de moulin (car nous vſons de cette pierre au lieu de celle que les anciens ont suffumiga- - nommé pyrités) ou groſſes briques , & les ayant bien eſchauffées dans le feu, ſes mettras dans vn baſſin de ti pºur ra- cuiure, ou vn petit chauderon ſous vne chaire percée : puis le malade eſtant aſſis ſur icelle, comme s'il vou-meliir & re- loit aller à ſes affaires, tu verſeras ſur leſdites pierres de bon vinaigre, & de l'eau de vie meſlée enſemblé- ſoudre. ment par parties égales , & garniras ladite chaire ſi bien à l'entour,que la vapeur ne ſe perde , ains qu'elle ſoit portée droit contre le mal. pour encore mieux faire, tu pourras vſer de ce tonneau, dedans lequel le patient ſera nud, & aſſis au milieu ſur vn ais pertuisé à l'endroit des parties genitales. puis y aura vn chau- deron entre ſes iambes, où l'on poſera les pierres eſchauffées:& par la petite feneſtre marquee b. tu arrou- ſeras leſdites pierres de la liqueur ſuſdite, la fumée de laquelle le patient receura commodement ſur la par- d tie affectée : mais il faut que ledit patient ſoit bien clos, & couuert dedans le tonneau , marqué a , de peur que la vapeur ne ſe perde, & que la petite feneſtre ſoit pareillement bien cloſes. l'emplaſtre e de vigo -- . qq tonneau le l)ix-neufieme liure, tonneau propre pourreceuoir vnefumigation. au . liu. telle euaporation penetre , inciſe , diſcute , liquefie, à glauc. mollit & reſout grandement toutes durctez ſcirrheuſes, traitant de teſmoin galien z. à glaucon. la curation des ſcirrhes, •h. . de quels remedes il faut vſerſi leſdites carnoſitez tiennent de la verole, enſemble- de leur cure_ . cha p. xxv i i. · a s s'il y a ſoupçon que leſdites duretez & carnofitez ſoient causées de quelque humeur tenant de la verole, il faut que le malade faſſe diette, & vſer de decoction de gajac, luy frot- tant les aines , tout le perineum , & la verge, d'vn onguent propre à la verole : car autre- # ment on perdoit ſa peine & ſoh temps. pendant qu'il ſera en ſueur, on luy fera tenir entre nb ſes iambes vne bouteille remplie d'eau boüillante, ou vne brique chaude, & bien enueloppée de linges, arrouſez en vinaigre, & eau de vie : pource qu'au moyen de ces pierres s'eſleuera vne vapeur & chaleur, qui auec l'onguent de verole, amollira & fondra l'humeur cauſant leſdites carnoſitez : ce que i'ay pratiqué en pluſieurs,auec tres-bonne iſſuë:apres auoir par ces moyens ainſi amolly leſdites carnoſitez, il les faut conſumer,auec remedes qui ont puiſſance de ce faire.et ſi on cognoiſt qu'elles ſoient calleuſes,& ayét pris cicatrice(qui ſera aisé à voir,parce que d'elles ne ſortira aucune humidité ſuperfiuë)alors les con- uient eſchorcher & rompre auec vne söde ouverge de plomb,ayât vn doigt pres de ſon extremité,pluſieurs aſperités,comme vne lime ronde,& l'ayant paſsée dans la verge outre les carnoſitez,le patient ou le chirur- gien la tirera,repouſſera & retournera de coſté & d'autre tant de fois qu'il verra à ſon aduis eſtre neceſſaire pour comminuer leſdites carnoſitez, laiſſant fluer apres aſſez bonne-quantité de ſang,afin de deſcharger la signes de partie on pourra auſſi vſer de quelques ſondes propres pour tel effect,dedans leſquelles yaura vn fil d'argët carnoſité & à l'extremité d'iceluy vne petite rondeur qui ſera trenchante & caue vers le bout de la ſonde,afin qu'elle calleuſe. ſe ioigne contre,pour la mettre ſans violence dedans la verge,à l'endroit des carnoſitez: & lors on pouſſera lº ºyº ladite verge de contre la ſonde, tant & ſi peu que l'on voudra : car l'ayant ainſi pouſsée,on la retire tant de ºvºrºrº fois qu'on veut. ce faiſant on pince & comminué de ladite carnoſité, tant qu'il ſemble eſtre bon pour vne ºſº fois.je te puis aſſeurer que i'en ay fait de belles cures.la cannule marquée a, eſt ſemblablement vtille pour #" tel effect.son vſage eſt tel:il faut mettre en la verge,& fes ouuertures marquées b,b,ſeruent pour couper & " comminuer les carnoſitez,lors qu'elles ſont poſsées dedans,parce qu'elles ſont trenchantes : & alors on doit tourner la cannulle, & comprimer des doigts l'endroit de la verge où ſont les carnoſitez. sondes & cannules propres à couper c comminuer les carnoſitex poudre ſin- guliere # apres faudravſer de la poudre ſuiuante, laquelle eſt prompte à conſumer leſdites carnoſitez & excroiſ- les carnoſ- ſances de chair és parties honteuſes,tant à l'homme qu'à la femme, ſans notable douleur. /.herbz ſabinz f l , - - - in c • •* ". de la groſſe verole. a , \. in vmbra exſiccatx .ij.ochrx,antimonij,tuthiæ præparatæ an. .É. fiat † ſubtilis,vt alchol. il faut ap- pliquer ladite poudre auec la ſuſdite cannule, & auec vne petite verge d rgent ( qui ſera de la proportion de la cauité de ladite cannule)au bout de laquelle tu auras lié vne petite piece de linge delié de ladite can- nule,eſtant mis la feneſtre contre mont,à fin que ladite poudre ne tombe au conduit de l'vrine. tu addreſ- ſeras ladite feneſtre ſur la carnafité : car en pouſſant adec ladite verge, tu pouſſeras hors de ladite cannule la poudre : puis apres tu retireras ladite cannule, ayant retourné la feneſtre de l'autre part de la carnoſité, afin de ne rapporter en ladite feneſtre la poudre, ains qu'elle demeure ſur la carnoſité.le plus long-temps qu'il ſera poſſible : & s'il † douleur,il conuient vſer de l'iniection ſuiuante, pour adoucir la douleur,& fuir l'inflammation. vſage de la cannule fe- meſtrée. .ſuccor.portul.plantag.ſolani & ſemperuiui an. .É.albumina ouor.num.vj. agitentur diu inmortario plumbeo : & tiede ſera jetté en la verge par vne ſeringue. tu pourras au lieu de cette-cy vſer de l'iniection que nous auons cy deuât eſcrite au chapitre de la cure particuliere de la chau- de-piſſe.il ſera beſoin auſſi mettre par dehors au long des parties genitales, quelques remedes repercuſſifs pour empeſcher la douleur & inflammation. on peut pareillement vſer des remedes qui ont faculté de di- minuer & conſumer les carnoſitez,entre leſquels les ſuiuans ſont fort excellens. z.viridis aeris,auripigmen- ti,vitrioli romani,aluminis rochz,an. .ij. toutes ces choſes ſoient infuſes en tres-ſort vinaigre, & entre deux pierres de marbre ſoient diligemment menées,& reduites en poudre tres-ſubtile, & puis ſoient miſes au soleil d'eſté.derechefces choſes ainſi ſeichées,ſoient encore infuſes de vinaigre,&menées côme deuant, iuſques à ce qu'il n'y ait aucune aſperité,& derechef les mettre au soleil, iuſques à ce qu'elles viennent en ſubtile poudre, & que toute l'acrimonie de ces medicamens ſoit eſteinte : ce qui ſe pourra faire en huict iours.cela fait. z.olei roſacei. .iiij.litharg. .ij.ſoient cuittes au feu,iuſques à ce que l'emplaſtre acquiere conſiſtance de corps ferme:puis oſté du feu,adjouſtez de la poudre predite . ij. & ſoit meſlé aucc l'eſpatu- onguentfort le,& mis ſur le feu,iuſquesà ce que le medicament acquiere dureté,tant qu'vne chandelle de cire,ou verge # de plomb y tienne & s'y puiſſe bien adherer,& que meſme ne tombe eſtant maniée des doigts:& de ce re- # carneſi- mede vſent les chirurgiens de montpellier.apres la ſupputation de la carnoſité,on vſera de i'onguent ſui- tez. uant,qui a puiſſance de les mundifier,& conſumer la chair excroiſſante. - onguent pour les carnoſtex. prenez ceruſede veniſe .iij.camphre .j.tuthie preparée auec eau roſe . .litharge d'or lauée .vj.an- | timoine crud ſubtilement puluerisé, § par le cicotrin . j. trochiſques blancs de rhaſis .ij. maſtic, oliban,aloes hepatic,ſubtilement pulueriſez an. .ij.huyle roſat tant qu'il ſuffiſe pour faire onguent. il faut broyer tout en vn mortier de plomb,auec vn pilon auſſi de plomb,& qu'il ſoit long-temps broyé : ſe don- nant garde de le faire en vn mortier de bronze,ou autre metail,de peur qu'il n'acquiere vne acrimonie, & ne cauſe inflammarion , ou autres accidens qui pourroient arriuer, comme on a veu. de cét onguent en oindrez la candelette enuiron deux trauers de doigrs, & le reſte ſera oingt de l'onguent ſuiuant. prenez onguent roſat de galien,laué en eau roſe,onguent blanc de rhaſis,camphre, & pomade fimple an. .in- corporez enſemble dans le ſuſdit mortier de plomb,& en vſez par interualle pour oſter la cuiſeur : pareille- ment on fera iniection de laict faut noter qu'en l'application dudit onguent, l ne faut vſer de bougies or- dinairement,comme aucuns,leſquels apres auoir piſsé, promptement en remettent d'autres , penſans bien faire:parce que le plus ſouuent il s'en enſuit tumeur en la verge, & infiammation , qui contraint le chirur- gien de differer l'vſage:& partant ie me contente d'en vſer vne fois en vingt-quatre heures,ſpecialement la nuict. et pour mieuxfaire,& abreger la cure, il eſt beſoin de faire ſortir du ſang de la carnoſité auec vne ſonde, à fin de deſcharger la partie, & auſſi que le medicament puiſſe plus librement faire ſon operation, on peut auſſi vſer d'autres chandelles de cire, dont la meſche ſera faite exprés de fil bien fort & delié, de nota. peur qu'elles ne ſe rompent,mais il faut qu'àl'endroit qu'elles toucheront leſdites carnoſitez, elles ſoient formées & embouties de la compoſition qui s'enſuit. /...emplaſtri nigri vel diachylonis ireati .ij.pul. ſab. ochrz,vitrioli romani calcina.pul.mercur.an. .É.omnia liqueſcant ſimul ad vſum dictum.ledit remede ſe- ra augmenté de ſes forces, ou diminué, ſelon que le chirurgien cognoiſtra eſtre neceſſaire. pendant que l'on vſera des ſuſdits remedes,faut ſoigner que le malade ſecoüe bien ſa verge,& qu'il s'efforce qu'il ne de- meure pas vne goute d'vrine au conduit apres qu'il aura piſsé : car il n'en ſçauroit demeurer ſi peu , qu'il - n'empeſchel'action des ſuſdits remedes. · .. • des remedes conuenables pour cicatriſer les vlceres apres l'ablation des carnoſitez. c h a p t r e xxviii. tt ' à pr e s que par remedes la carnoſité ſera conſommée,ce qu'on peut cognoiſtre quand le pa- signº.ºº tient piſſera librement & à l'aiſe, & auſſi gros qu'il auoit accouſtumé auant qu'il fuſt malade: carnºſité . ſemblablement lors qu'en mettant la ſonde dans le conduit, on ne ſent aucun empeſchement, conſommée. - # il faut adonc deſſeicher & cicatriſer l'vlcere : ce que l'on pourra faire auec telle & ſemblable " iniection, qui a grande vertu de deſſeicher & cicatriſer ſans grande mordication. z. aquæ fabror. fb.É.nucis compreſſi,gallarum,cort granat.an. . j.aluminis rochz . É. bulliant omnia ſimul ſecun- dùm artem, fiat decoctio proiniectione. - de laquelle on vſera iuſques à ce que l'on n'apperçoiue aucune humidité ſanieuſe ſortir hors de la verge. pareillement pour deſſeicher dauantage, & auancer la cicatriſa- tion , ſera bon d'vſer de cette poudre, laquelle deſſeiche ſans nullê douleur & mordication. prenez pierre calaminaire lauée,coquilles d'œuf bruſlées,corail rouge,eſcorce de grenade, le tout mis en poudre ſubti- lement,puis ſoit appliqué ſur les vlceres auec chandelles de cire,ointes d'onguent deſiccatif, rouge, ou au- .. , . tre ſemblable. pour meſme effect, on vſera de verges ou ſondes de plomb,les plus groſſes que le patient sintºli", pourra endurer, & icelles mettre dedans la verge iuſques ſur leſdits vlceres, les ayant premierement frot- rem ede des tées,de vif-argent,& les y tenir iour & nuict,le plus long-temps que le patient pourra. elles ont vertu de # de deſſeicher,cicatriſer,& dilater le conduit de l'vrine,ſans aucune douleur : & gardent que les parois des vl- # assu- ceres ne ſe touchent. ie te pourrois encore eſcrire vn grand libelle de remedes tendans à pareil but que §. ceux-cy deſſus eſcrits : mais ſçachant bien que le chirurgien expert les peut changer & varier par raiſon, «omme le mal le requiert,ceux cy te ſeruiront d'exemple. q q der | o le dix-neufiéme liure, •' r " : . - - - des bubons ou poulains veneriens. c h a p. xxix. · # · - es v e l q v e s f o s le virus verolique ſe communique au foye , & ſi la vertu expultrice eſt la generatien #à plus forte,le reiette aux aines,q i ſont ſes emonctoires, d'où s'enfuiuent apoſtemes , appellées # # #)$ poulains la pluſpart deſquels ſont engendrez d'humturs froids,lents & viſqueux comme il ap- ºſ - cu poulains. $# pert par la tumeur dure,blanche,& de petite douleur, eſtant tres-difficile à curer qui eſt vne au- §on,outre celles que nous auons alleguées au chapitre troiſieſme qui monſtre que le virus de la ve o- le eſt principalement fondé en l'humeur pituiteux. quelquesfois auſſi il y en a d'autres faits d'humeur chaud,bilieux,& acre,aucc grande inflammation & douleur,qui ſouuent degenerent en vlceres virulens & corroſifs:& aucuns d'iceux ſont accidens precedans la verole : comme ceux qui ſe tournent & cachent par deliteſcence aux parties internes. il y en a d'autres qui ne ſont accidens de la verole : mais ſont maladies à part, qui ſe peuuent curer ſans les remedes propres à la curation de la verole, comme iournellement ap- pert : & pource eſtans comparez aux autres bubons veneriques, ils ſe peuuent appeller ſimples, & non compliquez. - - - - - caratis des pour la curation,il ne faut vſer de reſolutifs,craignant qu vne partie ſeulement ſe reſolue » & l'autre de- § v - meure au dedans auſſi ne faut iamais vſer en tel cas de repercuſſifs : donc on appliquera medicamens atta- neriques. ctifs & ſuppuratifs, propres à la nature de l'humeur » à ſçauoir, plus chauds aux tumeurs œdemateuſes & ſcirrheuſes,qu'aux ſanguines & bilieuſes.auſſi ſeront diuerſifiez ſelon les corps rares & delicats. l'appli- cation des ventouſes agrande efficace:car elles ont puiſſance d'attirer l'humeur du dedans au dehors auſſi faut ſubit y appliquer vn medicament emplaſtique : ſomme,il faut conduire la cure par ſuppuratifs:& apres quels peu- la fuppuration faite,l'apoſteme ſera ouuerte par cautere potentiel,ſi elle eſt causée d'humeur froide,car par lain il faut leur chaleur & douleur,ils aideront à cuire le reſte de l'humeur : joint que par l'ouuerture la matiere ſera # mieux euacuée,& ne faudray mettre aucune tente,mais ſeulement des plumaceaux. on traitera l'apoſteme actuel. par remedes emolliens & ſuppuratifs,en mundifiant l'vicere & apres le malade ſera ſaigné & purgé,s'il eſt beſoin,& non auparauant que la ſuppuration ſoit faite. si on fait l'ouuerture auecques la lancette, on la fera en trauers,ſelon le ply de l'aine, parce qu'en pliant la cuiſſe contre le ventre, les lévres de l'vlcere ſe couchent l'vne ſur l'autre,& l'agglutination eſt mieux faite,& nydemeure tant de difformite quand la cica- trice eſt faite. des exoſtoſes, tophes ou nodus venans du virus verolique .. c h a p. xxx. es tumeurs dures, & exoſtoſes ou nodus ſont engendrées de pituite & melancholie craſſe, froide, & viſqueuſe , laquelle ne ſe peut diſſoudre que par remedes chauds, qui ont faculté d'amollir & fondre ledit humeur:& outre les indications communes des ſcirrhes , faut y ap- pliquer le vifargent auec les remedes propres. exemple. /.. emplaſtri filij zachariæ,& cero- nei,an. .iij.euphorbij . .emplaſtri de vigo .ij. ceroti hyſopi deſcriptione philagrij . j.ar- genti viui extincti .iiij.vt dictum eſt,& fiat emplaſtrum : extendatur ſuper alutam ad vſum. cependant le - malade doit tenir bon regime,& par tels moyens ſera guary,pourueu que les os ne ſoient point intereſſez: º car s'ils eſtoient carieux & pourris, les ſuſdits remedes n'auroient plus de lieu. et faudra faire neceſſaire- - ment apertion en deſcouurant l'os,ſoit auec raſoir,cautere potentiel ou actuel lequel eſt en ce cas meilleur & plus certain , à cauſe qu'il conſomme vne certaine virulence imbue en l'os, & ayde à la cheute de l'os choſe digne corrompu. il ſera de figure du tophe que l'on veut cauteriſer,ſoit rond,quarré,ou long i'ay de couſtume d'«ſtre notée. auparauant l'application deſdits cauteres actuels, couper la chair de deſſus auec vn raſoir , a fin de fa re moindre douleur par le cautere:parce qu'auparauant que la chair fuſt bruſlée,la douleur ſeroit trop grande, pour la longitude du temps que l'on ſeroit à la bruſler deuant que deſcouurir l'os. or ne ſera icy hors de propos traitter de la carie des os. matiere des nodus- la cauſe pourquoy l'os s'altere & pourrit , des ſignes pour le cognoiſtre . c h a p t r e xxx l. a ſolutiou de contiuuité faite aux os,eſt nommée au ſixieſme de la methode par galien ca- tagma.la carie ſe fait en eux,pource qu'ils ſont froiſſez,fendus,percez,fracturez, luxez , apo- ſtemez, & deſcouuerts de leur chair. quand donc il ya deperdition de ſubſtance de la chair qui les couuroit,ils s'alterent alors, & le ſang & leur propre nourriture ſe deſſeiche par l'air exterieur qui les touche , que les os nuds ne peuuent longuement endurer ſans qu'il s'alte- rent.auſſi quand vne playe eſt de longue durée, la ſanie croupiſſant deſſus s'imbibe en leur ſubſtance , & les pourrit.pareillement par l'application des choſes onctneuſes & oleagineuſes,& autres medicamens hu- mides,& ſuppuratifs,à cauſe qu'ils rendent la playe ſordide & maligne : puis la chair des parties voiſines s'eſchauffe & ſuppure,& la boüe defluante ſur l'os l'enflamme auec ſon perioſte:à cauſe dequoy ils tombent ſouuent en fiévre. pour dire en bref,les os peuuent ſouffrir tous les inconueniens dont la chair eſt vexée: partant ſe peuuent carier & pourrir.daifantage,galien nous a laiſſé par eſcrit , que ſouuentesfois l'inflam- mation commence aux os.sur ce quelques vns pourront obiecter, que les os ne peuuent auoir pulſation, des vlºres attendu qu'ils n'ont ſentiment aucun.car les anciens ont eſcrit, que le pouls fignifie mouuement des arte- é ſº res auec douleur. ce que ie confeſſe:mais ie reſpons auſſi,que la membrane qui les couure, & les arteres au liu des & nerfs qui entrent en leurs cauitez, ont vn exquis ſentiment : & que quand leſdites arteres ſe meuuent, † eſtans eſchauffées de l'os malade,elles cauſent douleur à la membrane qui l'enueloppe : tellement que les " " patiens diſent ſentir vne douleur pulſatiue au profond des os, ce que l'on cognoiſt manifeſtement à la douleur des dents. l'alteration & pourriture des os eſt aucunesfois cogneue a l'œil : ſçauoir eft quand moyen * l'os eſt deſcouuert : car lors on void qu'il y a mutation en ſa couleur naturelle,quand au lieu d'eſtre blanc» #. il ſe trouue liuide,iaunaſtre,ou noir:pareillement on la cognoiſt au toucher de la ſonde, quand on y trou- ' ue aſperité & inegalité,& en la pouſſant on entre en ſa ſubſtance,comme en vn bois pourry : car l'os ſain doit eſtre ſolide:& non mol. neantmoins de ce ſigne n'en faut faire vne regle certaine, pource que quel- º ſºiººt quesfois i'ay veu l'os ayant eſté longuement deſcouuert, deuenir alteré, & tellement dur, que la trepa- º ſº ne, ou autre inſtrument, ne pouuoit entrer dedans qu'auec peine. auſſiladite alteratiou & pourriture ſe ſolution de eontinuité en l'os. hip. au liu. · de la groſſe verole. i a ſe peut cogn oiſtre par la ſanie , qui ſort de l'vlcere, laquelle eſt plus ſubtile & claire, que celle qui coule - d'vn autre vlcere eſtant en la chair. meſme eſt moins viſqueuſe, & plus puante, que celle qui ſort de la chair,des nerfs,des tendons,& des membranes dauantage , en l'vlcere ſe trouuera touſiours qu elque chair molle , baueuſe, & ſpongieuſe : pareillement l'vlcere ſera mal traittable, & rebelle à clorre & cicatriſer: l combien toutesfois que par la longue continuation des medicamens deſiccatifs,& aſtringens, on y induiſe | uelquesfois cicatrice:mais toſt apres l'vlcere s'ouure & renouuelle, à raiſon que nature ne peut faire bon l, § engendrer vne chair loüable ſur l'alteration & carie de l'os,car c'eſt choſe contre nature, & . r• partant elle doit eſtre oſtée le pluſtoſt qu'il ſera poſſible. des moyens de proceder à la ſeparation des os carieux. c h a p. xxxii. r il ne ſuffit au chirurgien cognoiſtre que l'os ſoit alteré & corrompu : mais il'conuient auſſi { qu'il ſçache fil'alteration eſt ſuperficielle,ouprofonde, afin de diuerſifier les medicamens & les # #!) inſtrumens pour donner iſſuë à la ſanie, qui peut eſtre en la ſubſtance de l'os : & pour ce faire, cn faut ſeparer l'os alteré & pourry. le moyen de ce faire, eſt de corriger leur corruption en mun- moyens dé | difiant l'vlcere, afin que la ſanie ne tombe ſur l'os,& qu'elle le rende humide. pareillement le deſſeichant cºrriger la bien fort,tant par medicamens,que par caateres potentiels,ou actuels : car par ce moyen on le rend exan- º#pºiºn gue,ſans nourriture & vie. celſe liure .chap. .veut qu'on perfore les os vermolus & alterez , en quelque ô , endroit que ce ſoit,iuſques à la partie ſaine & entiere, qui eſt quand il en ſort vn peu de ſang : puis appli- quez dedans les trous,cauteres actuels faicts en maniere de poinçons,afin que l'os deuienne tout ſec:toutes- sq s / # c, # b fois il ſe faut garder de trop profonder les poinçons,de peur qu'ils ne touchent ſur l'os vif,& par cette ma- :: : niere on fait ſeparer l'os alteré,pourry & vermolu, & par ce moyen on le rend exangue & ſans nourriture. ， ce qui ſe peut monſtrer par l'exemple des arbres,eſquels les fueilles tombent,à cauſe que le ſuc:par lequel #l elles ſont adherantes aux branches, eſt deſſeiché, dont aduient que les fueilles n'ayans plus d'humité & : vie,ſe ſeparent de l'arbre verd & vif, qui eſt la cauſe pourquoy elles tombent : ainſi conſumant l'humidité t# des os,on leur oſte la vie,qui eſt cauſe de les faire ſeparer. a cauſe dequoy les poudres appellées catag- poudret pro- matiques ſont propres pour aider à ſeparer l'os qui ſera alteré ſuperficiellement. /.. pulaloes, cretz com- prº pourfai- buſt.pompholygos an. .ij.ireos florentiae,ariſtol.rotund.myrrh.ceruſ.an. .j. pul. oſtreorum combuſtorum re ſeparer . .terantur ſubtiliſſimè,fiat puluis. icelle peut eſtre appliquée ſeule,ou auec miel roſat, & vn peu d'eau de les os, appel- vie auſſi on peut appliquer de cét emplaſtre, qui a faculté d'aider nature à extraire les os fracturez, & de # #c nettoyer la ſanie groſſe & viſqueuſe des vlceres. .cerx nouz,reſinx pini, gummi ammoniaci & elemi an. # a .vj.terebenthina .iiij.pul.maſt.myrrhz an. . ariſtolochix rotundx,ireos florentiae, aloës, opopanacis, #. - euphorbij,an. .j.olei roſati quantum ſufficit,fiat emplaſtrum ſecundùm artem. l'euphorbe fait tomber les eſquilles des os , comme dit dioſcoride liure . chapitre . auſſfl'emplaſtre de betonica a pareille vertu. autre. l. olei cariophill. .ſº.camph- .ij.miſceantur ſimul in mortario , & vtere. et ſi l'alteration ne peut eſtre oſtée par les remedes ſuſdits,on peut vſer de trepanes exfoliatiues,& autres, rugines deſcrites aux pla- yes de teſte , lors que la carie eſt en vn grand os, & fort ſolide. meſmes tu te pourras ſeruir de la trepane c perforatiue,dont tu as le pourtraict cy-deſſous, en pertuiſant l'os carieux en pluſieurs endroits de ſa carie, & en profondant iuſques à ce qu'il en ſorte comme vne humidité ſanglante:& ce pour donner air & tranſ- piration:afin auſſi que la vertu des remedes puiſſe mieuxconfumer l'humidité ſuperfluë. les os ſe trôüents raclent , liment, ſcienti, coupent, & bruſlent. trºpane perforatiue auec deux poinčtes en triangle, & la petite cheuille, ' : . pour luy ſeruir à l'emmancher. · / autre trepane à cette intention:mais faiſant plus grande ouuerture, propre pour les gros os grandement carieux , de laquelle les poinctes ſont quadrangulaires ou ſexangulaires, comme tu peux voir par cette figure ſubſequente. - trepane dont les poinčtes ſont quadrangulaires & ſexangulaires. dauantage, ſi la carie eſt fo t profonde, & l'os ſolide(comme ſe fait ſouuent par alteration de l'air ex- terieur)alors il faut couper les os corrompusauecques les inſtrumens deſcrits aux playes de teſte, deſquels tu oſteras la corruption,frappant d'vn maillet deſſus,lequel doit eſtre de plomb, afin de moins eſtonner la partie : puis tu oſteras les fragmens & eſquilles auec petites pincettes. le figne pour cognoiſtre que l'on aura oſté la carie,eſt quand au deſſusd'icelle l'os ſera trouue plus ſolide, & quand auſſi on verra ſortir du ſang. q q des commenf cognoiſtra la carie oſtée, le dix-neufiéme liure, pourquoy les cauteres ačfuels ſont à propoſer aux poten- tiels, - - - caureres po- arntiel,. : des cauteres actuels ou potentiels. cha p. x x x i i i. t ſi ces inſtruments predits n'auoient lieu : à cauſe de la trop grande corruption , il conuien- $ droit vſer des cauteres actuels ou potentiels, entre leſquels ie priſe plus les actuels : parce s que leur action eſt plus ſoudaine , & plus ſeure , & ne bruſlent qu'où ils touchent , ſans a， offenſer les parties proches. ioint qu'ils ſont ennemis de toute pourriture, parce qu'ils con- js ſomment, & deſſeichent l humidité eſtrange, imbuë en la ſubſtance des os : & corrigent l'in- temperature froide & humide, ce que ne peuuent faire les potentiels. toutesfois nous ſommes ſouuent contrains d'vſer d'iceux , pource que les malades abhorrent le fer ardent, pour leur delicateſſe effeminée, & auſſi pour la coüardiſe & timidité des chirurgiens. or l'action des potentiels eſt tardiue, & ne bruſle pas ſeulement 'endroit où ils ſont appliquez : mais auſſi pendant qu'ils ſont eſchauffez par la chaleur nati- relle de la partie , ils agiſſent & impriment leur qualité ignée tout doucement, & plus loin : & aux corps cacochymes, quelquesfois cauſent inflammation, gangrene , & mortification, ce que i'ay veu, à mon grand regret : toutesfois nous ſommes ſouuent contrains d'en vſer, pource que les patiens abhorrent ſou- lientesfois le fer ardent. les potentiels ſont comme eau forte, eau de vitriol, huyle feruente , ſoulphre fondu & boüillant, & autres ſemblables. en l'application deſquels eſt requiſe au chirurgien grande diſ- cretion & habilité. car il y a danger que par faute d'induſtrie & dexterité, il touche d'iceux quelque par- tie de la chair ſaine : qui ſeroit cauſe d'exciter grandes douleurs & inflammation » choſe grandement à . craindre. quant aux actuels ils ſont faits en tant de ſortes, que le recit en ſeroit trop long pour la diuerſ- té des formes, qui ne peut eſtre limitée, & encores moins eſcrite, à cauſe qu'il les faut diuerſifier ſelon la grandeur du mal, & figure des os carieux, toutesfois ie propoſeray icy quelques pourtraits de ceux qui ſont maintenant plus vſitez pour leſdites caries : deſquels aucuns ſont cultelaires, les autres punctuels,les autres oliuaires , & d'autre figure. diuerſitex des cauteres actuels, deſquels pourras vſer à ta commodité. f$ anu ， a autrei -------- -- de la groſſe verole. a - autres cauterês. ceſtuy fuyuant eſt propre auxnodus de la verole, qui ſont au crane, lors qu'on veut emporter la chair qui couure l'os : pour cette cauſe eſt fait caue & trenchant, de figure triangulaire, & quadrangulaire, & ſeparé en trois, pour en vſer à ta commodité ceux qui s'enſuiuent, auront lieu ſi l'os carieux eſt profond , en ſorte qu'on puiſſe toucher ſans bruſler les bords & lévres de l'vlcere, qui ne ſe fait ſans grande douleur : pource eſt-il plus ſeur & doux d'vfer de , cannule de fer , par laquelle l'on fera paſſer le cauterre actuel iuſques ſur la carie, en la façon qui s'enſuit, ſans que la chaiy ſente notable action du feu. - cauteres actuels auec cannules. - dumal qui aduient des cauteres actuels induëment applique{,quels remedes il faut mettre_ apres l'vſage d'iceux. ch a p. xxx i v. . mg l te faut icy noter, que ſi leſdits cauteres ſont mal appliquez , c'eſt à dire, trop ſouuent, g|$ ºº qu'ils ſoient laiſſez trop long-temps ſur l'os, il s'enſuit grand inconuenient, c'eſt que des ca res à( par leur exceſſiue chaleur & ſeichereſſe, non ſeulement eſt conſommée l'humidité ſuper- actuels in- s fiuë de l'os carieux ; mais auſſi l'humeur ſubtantifique , qui doit faire ſeparation de la ca- deuëment. s rie, & induire chair , & ouuerture entre l'os carié & le ſain, qui demeure deſſus. par- *pºli ue* quoy l'application deſdits cauteres ſe fera tant que le chirurgien verra eſtre neceſſaire , & ſelon que la carie ſera grande & profonde , les tenans deſſus , iuſques à ce que l'on verra ſortir quelque ſanie aucunement ſpumeuſe , par les poroſitez de l'os carieux. ce faiſant , on aydera à na- ture à exfolier, ſeparer , & jetter hors l'os corrompu: ie te veux bien icy aduertir de ce que tu dois obſer- q. q. lci le danger choſe digwe d'eſtre notée. le dix-neufiéme liure, uer ſoigneuſement en cauteriſant les caries des os, nommément ſi elles ſont profondes, comme en la cuiſ- ſe , & autres parties fort charnues. c'eſt qu'auant l'appoſition d'iceux, il te faut bien coutirir les parties d'entour de la playe ou vlcere : pource que le ſang ou humeur contenu en la playe , auquel on donne che- min,eſtant eſchauffe par le feu ſortant hors,fait autant d'impreſſion de bruſleure ſur la chair, que feroit de l'huyle boüiliante.apres la cauteriſation,on doit pour ſeparer les os,& faire cheoir les ſquammes, y appli- les medica- quer deux ou trois fois de noſtre huyle,cy-deuant nommé oleum catellorum, feruente. et combien qu'el- "ºnº le y ſoit fort propre, ie n'approuue qu'on en applique ſouuent : pource que de ſa ſubſtance oleagineuſe, º ſubtille,& humide,elle pourroit derechefoffenſer os ſain,qui eſt ſous l'os carieux.or l'os eſt plus ſec que a nul autre partie de noſtre corps : parquoy les medicamens cras, onctueux & humides, luy ſont contraires. dauantage,par meſme raiſon la chair qui eſt prochaine des os,d'autant qu'elle eſt de nature plus feiche, & approchante de la temperature deſdits os,requiert auſſi medicamens plus ſecs:au contraire d'autant qu'el- le en eſt loin, deſire medicamens deſiccatifs. parce il conuient vſer de ladite huyle auec diſcretion : mais obſervation quelquesfois auſſi faudra esbranler doucement les os pour ayder nature à les ſeparer ſans les tirer & arra- neceſſaire au cher par violence,ſi on ne les void eſleuez en haut,& ne tenir quafi point. et fi le chirurgien eſt indiſcret chirurgien. iuſques à tirer l'os carié,deuant que nature ait fait couuerture ſur celuy qui eſt fain,il ſera cauſe qu'il ſe fe- la chair ra nouuelle alteration. pource que le chirurgien doit bien noter ce paſſage,'lequel n'eſt de petite conſe- nºuuellemº quence. outre-plus,quand nature aura jetté & exfolié l'os carieux,il ſe faut bien garder d'appliquer deſſus - engendrée_ eſt molle comme for- mage_ . en quel cas la potion vulneraire a lieu. quelques medicamens corroſifs, de peur de conſumer la chair que nature aura produite deſſus : laquelle eſtant nouuellement engendrée,eſt molle comme formage nouuellement coagulé,à cauſe qu'il n'ya gueres que le ſang y eſt concret & pris:pourtant ſe faut donner garde de la conſumer par medicamens acres. car auec le temps elle s'endurcit,& ſe forme en maniere de petits grains de grenade,en laquelle on void la ſa- nie rougeaſtre,polie,égale,glutineuſe,non fetide,& puis blanche.ce fait ſeront deſſus appliquées des pou- dres capitales de faculté deſiccatiue,ſans aucune mordication, comme celle de racine d'ireos de florence, d'aloes laué,& maſtic,myrrhe,farine d'orge,& ſemblables : & conduire la playe à cicatrice, diuerſifiant les remedes,comme le mal le requiert. les eſquilles des os vallent mieux qu'elles tombent par nature,que par medicamens,ou par inſtrumens qui les ſeparent:car les choſes qui ſont tirées par vne force ſubite,laiſſent des ſinuofitez ſemblables aux fiſtules.or les osſe ſeparent par le moyen d'vne carnoſité qui croiſt deſſous, puis on doit mettre vn medicament deſiccatif,& aſtringent ſans eroſion, de peur de conſumer la chair nou- uellement engendrée,laquelle eſt molle:à cauſe qu'il n'y a gueres que le ſang eſt concrée, pource qu'il eſt fait comme le formage nouuellement figé,& coagulé.. pareillement les membranes ſuppurées & pourries ne doiuent eſtre tirées par force, d'autant qu'elles ſont attachées aux parties ſaines, & les tirant & arra- chant par force,ou qu'on y applique des medicamens acres & corroſifs,on induit douleur & inflammation, & quelquesfois conuulſion,& autres pernicieux accidens parquoy faut laiſſer faire à nature, qui les jettera & les ſeparera auec le temps.car le vif chaſſe le mort. de la potion vulneraire . c h a p. xxx v. ' r ſi l'alteration de l'os & conſolidation des playes ſont repugnans aux remedes ſuſdits, faut c ordonner au patient potion vulneraire. ce que i'ay ſouuentesfois fait auec heureuſe iſſuë, pource que nature fait choſes admirables, aydée par telle potion. car nous voyons ſouuent aduenir que les playes,& vlceres, qui de leurs premiers commencemens ſembloient eſtre des plus legeres,deuiennent auec le temps ſi rebelles, qu'il n'eſt poſſible, quelque diligence & in- duſtrie qu'on y employe,les amener à raiſon & coſolidation par les remedes ordinaires:ſoit à cauſe de leur malignité & cacoethie,ſoit à raiſon qu'iceux remedes communs & ordinaires ſont repugnans à l'alteration, & conſolidation deſdites playes,vlceres , & fiſtules. parquoy les anciens en tel cas ont inuenté & ordonné certaines potions,qui à cette occaſion ont eſté appellées vulneraires, à raiſon de leurs merueilleux effects, pour la guariſon des playes,vlceres,& fiſtules deſeſperées. car telles potions, bien qu'elles ne vuident les humeurs par le bas,fi ſont-elles conuenables à nettoyer les playes & vlceres de toutes les humeurs ſuper- fluës,à purifier le ſang de toutes les impuritez à recoler les os briſez,& guarir les nerfs.bref, à ayder natu- re en telle façon,qu'en peu de temps les playes ſont incarnées & cicatrisées , meſme quelquesfois ſans ap- pliquer autre remede. ce confideré,il m'a ſemble bon d'en dire quelque choſe, d'autant principalement que leur vſage ayant eſté approuué anciennement, eſt pour le iourd'huy preſque du tout aneanty & negli- gé par les medecins & chirurgiens,choſe grandement dommageable au public.car ſi la guariſon de telles playes & vlceres inueterées,eſt la deterſion & regeneration de la ſubſtance perdue,quelles choſes les pour- roient mieux faire que celles par la vertu miraculeuſe deſquelles le ſanghumain eſt tellementmundifié,que d'iceluy comme de matiere competente & bien diſposée,la chair & ſubſtance perdue eſt promptement re- parée & la partie rendue en ſa premiere vnionrque ſi les vlceres fiſtuleux,les chancresvlcerez,les paſſions d arthritiques & autres ſemblables maladies,par vſage de viaudes ſalées,eſpicées,acres, & ſubtiles, comme d'aulx,d'oignons,mouſtarde,bref,par quelques excés en boire & manger, s'aigriſſent & enfiamment, pour- quoy par viandes & medicamens contraires ne ſe pourront-ils amener à quelque raiſon ? or à fin que les ieunes chirurgiens ſe puiſſent aider de tel remede, ie me delibere preſentement d'en deſcouurir & déplo- yer le threſor : dont les ſimples ingrediens de telles compoſitions ſont. la ſccbieuſe. la ſerpentaire- l'aigremoine. le chou rouge. le ſenicle. l'armoyſ . les capillaires. le ſcordion. le bugle. la preu enthe. l'herbe robert. l'herbe à chat. la piloteile. la centaurée. le pied du coulon. le pantapbylon. la pimpinelle. l'herbe dicte langue de ſerpent. le plantain. le mille pertuis. la betoine. le petum ou necotiane. la garence. la tenaiſie. les ſºmmitex de chanvre. zylmaria. la carpentaire. le ſoucy. les ſ mmitex des ronces. tuſſilago. l'oſmonde reyale. fenouil. le cyclamen. dens leonir. la toute-bonne. le macif. les conſoldes grande & petite. l'ariſtolochie. la vémucine. la veronique. l'herbe dite langue de chien, le (hardon beniſt. la caryophillate. la gentiane. l'berbe au turc. les trois fleurs sordiales. de tous cesfimples,le chirurgié choiſira ceux que bon luy ſemblera eſtre propres aux parties vlcerées, cqiiliilc - de la groſſe verole. | comme auons dit au traicté des vlceres particulieres , & ſelon la ſaiſon & le tem du patient,& ſelon l'eſpece & proprieté de la maladie. ie puis aſſeurer les potio ou de decoctions d'icelles,ſoit en vin blanc ſimple ou en vin miellé, eſtre par l'experience que i'en ay par pluſieurs fois faite,tres-vtiles à purifier & mondifier le ſang,& nettoyer les vlceres ſanieux & v§ , & dyſenteriques à prohiber la pourriture, & diſſiper les humeurs ſuperflus, à exfolier les os, à di§ ſang des meurtriſſeures & contuſions, chaſſer tous corps eſtranges, & faire autre merueilleux § ll corps humain. parquoy de crainte que le ieune chirurgien ne ſe perde en ſi grand jardin d'herbes deſſuſ- dites, i'en preſenteray deux exemples,à l'imitation deſquels il pourra dreſſer toutes ſes autres potions vul- neraires.prenez bugle,petum,ou necotiane,tuſſilago,vlmaria,dicte royne des prez,ſenicle, aigremoine,de trois ſortes de plantain,des conſoldes,prunella,verueine,armoyſe,dent de lyon, caryophylata fommitez de ronces de chacun demy poignée, herbe robert, aluine blanche ou romaine , fenoüil verd, chou rouge,de chacun vne poignée:le tout ſera mondé & laué,puis mis cn vn pot neuf & plombé,en huict liures de vin blanc,& demie liure de miel crud,puis le tout boüillira in balneo marix:& ne doiuent leſdites herbes y eſtre plus d'vne heure & demie, de peur que leur vertu ne ſe diſſipe, & ſoit renduë de mauuais gouſt:puis ſera paſsée,coulée,& miſe en petite bouteille bien bouſchée:de laquelle potion le malade pren- dra trois onces pour chaſque priſe au matin, trois heures auant le repas. les ſuſdites decoctions peuuent eſtte aromatisées de cannelle,pour donner meilleur gouſt au malade autre. z. sanicula ,buglar,ſcabioſæ, betonicx,ſcordij& nepitae an-m.f.vuarum.mundatar.ſem.hyperici,& carduibenedicti an. .j. trium florum cordialium.an.p.ij.coquantur completè in fb.viij.aqua communis,poſtea in fine adde viniaibi fb. ij mellis narbonenſis fb.j.fiat decoctio lento igne,vel in balneo mariæ:paſſentur per manicam hippocratis, adden- do cinnamomi .f.detur manè tribus horisante prandium ad # iij. meſme de celle liqueur on peut vſerès iniections,fiſtules,& en lauer les vlceres,& mettre des ſuſdites herbes dans les potages des malades,de tant que le ſuc d'icelles peut eſtre dit medicament alimenteux.et puis aſſeurer auoir faict choſes merueilleuſes par longvſage deſdites potions,és fiſtules de la poictrine & ventre inferieur,& autres parties,où les autres remedes ordinaires n'auoient ſçeu obtenir la parfaicte guariſon : ayant touſiours eu eſgard, ſuiuant le bon veillard guidon,de n'en vſer au commencement és playes recentes, à cauſe que telles herbes ſont chaudes & aperitiues,& partant eſchauffent & ſubtilient le ſang,le faiſant fiuer en la partie bleſſée.parquoy apres que la ſuppuration ſera faite,& qu'il ne reſte plus qu'à deterger & incarner, & l'inflammation paſſée, ſera tres-vtile & expedient d'en vſer. ps , ſelon le temperament ns qui ſeront faictes de jus » racines ou des dartres ou ſciſſures ſerpigineuſes. c h a p. xxxv i. né e s t e maintenant à traicter des ſciſſures ou creuaſſes,leſquelles ſuzuiennent le plus ſouuent )uel lieu n% apres la curation de la verole. le lieu qu'elles occupent le plus,ſont les palmes des mains,& ocsupent le ) -, plantes des pieds. elles ſont causées d'humeur pituiteux ſalé, ou de cholere, rendue aduſte plus ſouuent \ # par l'intemperie chaude de la maſſe ſanguinaire,ou de quelque reliquat & portion du ferment les dartres. - de ce virus,lequel eſt enuoyé auſdites parties.or quant à leur curation,elle eſt difficile,prin- prºgnoſtic. cipalement quant elles ſont inueterées,à cauſe que les parties ſe ſont habituées à receuoir tel humeur ſiel- les ſont recentes,elles ſeront moins difficiles à guarir. les recentes ſont cognues par vne rougeur accom- cure de, pagnée d'vn grand prurit,& le cuir eſt plus gros,eſpais , & aride que de couſtume : celles qui lontinuete- dartres. rées,outre les ſignes predits,il y a des duretez ſquameuſes,& furfureuſes,de ſorte qu'en les frottant rude- ment,on en voit ſortir des eſcailles en maniere de farine de ſon. quant à la curation, pour les choſes vni- uerſelles,il faut auoir eſgard au vice du foye,ordonnant le regime,purgations,bains,ventouſes, cornets. et remede pour quantaux topiques,ſi elles ſont recentes,on vſera d eau deſiccatiue,& de tenue ſubſtance,comme cette-cy. icelles, .aquæ roſar.pariet.an. .jaqua alum. .ij.chalcit. .ij.alum. .iij. pul ſublim. . iiij fiat lenta & minima ebullitio in balneo maria. on augmentera la force de cette eau par le ſublimé,ou ſera diminuée ſelon qu'il ſera neceſſaire. /. olei de tartar. ij.ſapo communis #. iiij.milce , & fiat vnguentum ad vſum. autre de merueilleux effect. /.. sublimati pulueriſati .ij. aluminis rocha .j. albumina ouorum fortiter agitato- rum quantum ſufficiat,applicetur ſuper partem affectam : interim vtatur decoctogajaci. si elles ſont inue- terées,il les faut ramollir par decoctions emollientes, attenuatiues & inciſiues , & par linimens » onguens, emplaſtres de meſme faculté puis y proceder auec parfums , comme de ceſtuy qui s'enſuit. É. pul. cinab. .ij.ladani,aſſx odorat.ſtirac,calamitæ an .ſ.olibani,maſtan iij.olei tart & theriacx quant ſuffifiant cio- chiſci : deſquels on pourra vſer,la doſe de demie once par chacune fois ou enuiron : & faut que l'on faſſe receuoir le parfum ſeulement à la partie,ſans que la fumée ſoit communiquée à la bouche, nez, yeux , ou oreilles. pareillement ce remede eſt fort propre pour frotter les mains. prenez cendre de grauelée, & en faites capitel dâs vne chauſſe d'hippocrats,& en iceluy faut diſſoudre de la preſſure,& battre aſſez longue- ment en vn mortier,& de ce en faut frotter les mains. autre. . vnguentienulati. iij fugitiui # ij. reſinae pini .j. ceruſx ſ argentiviui. .iiij ſucci'citri & lapathiacut an # # incorporentur ſimulifiat linimentum quoilliniatur pars.si on y adiouſte demie dragme de ſublimé,laué & preparé comme celuy des farsil ſera de grande efficace.autre. prenez alum bruſlé,& ſubtilement puluerise , & incorporé auec blanc d'œuf & de ſuc de citron,& vn peu d'aloés deſtrempé en oxymel ſcillitic. - de la maladie venerienne, ougroſſe verole qui ſuruient aux petits enfans. c h a p i t r e xxxv ii. §\# ovvent on voit ſortir les petits enfans hors le ventre de leur mere,ayans cette maladie, & les petits - $n')# toſt apres auoir pluſieurs puſtules fur leur corps ; leſquels eſtans ainſi infectez, baillent la # wa - $ verole à autant de nourrices qui les allaictent : aucuns prennent la verole de leur nourrice, # # ve- &$ ， parce qu'icelle maladie, comme auons dit, eſt contagieuſe. or on voit peu ſouuent les #- ** enfans naiz auec cette maladie, receuoir guariſon : mais ceux qui l'acquierent par tetter poiuent gua- où autrement eſtans ja grandelets, ſont quelquesfois guaris. le moyen de paruenir à la curation riſon. eſt de faire vſer à la nourrice de l'eau theriacale que deſcrirons cy-apres, l'eſpace de vingt iours, ou plus, tant pour s'exempter de cette maladie, que de rendre ſon laict alimenteux & menicamenteux : & lors qu'elle donnera à tetter àl'enfant, n'oublera lauer & eſſuyer le bout de ſon tetin , afin que le virus | ſortant · le dix-neufiéme liure, ſortant par la vapeur de la bouche du petit enfant ne s'imprime en ſonmammelon par les trous où paſſe le laict. et quand aux petits enfans,on leur frottera ſeulement les puſtules d'vn onguent bien peu vif argen- tin,comme vnguentum enulatum cum mercurio,ou autres ſemblables & ſera puis apres enueloppé en vne couche ou linge, lequel ſera premierement parfumé des parfums cy-deſſus mentionnez, & ſera tenu foit chaudement. or telles choſes ſe doiuent faire par eſpauletées, c'eſt à dire petit à petit, & non par conti- nuation,de peur qu'il ne leur vienne mal à la bouche.auſſi s'il yauoit quelques vlceres en la bouche, on les touchera des eaux cy-deſſus mentionnées,les corrigeant, ayant eſgard à la delicateſſe de l'enfant. aucuns ont eſté guaris par ces moyens : autres auſſi ſont morts non par le vice du medicament, mais pour la gran- deur de la maladie. dauantage ſi l'enfant a pris la verole de ſa nourrice,la faut changer, & luy en bailler vne autre qui ſoit ſaine,autrement ne pourroit iamais eſtre guary , pource qu'il ſeroit touſiours nourry du ſang infecté du virus verolique. - deſcription de l'eau theriacale_. c h a p. xxxv ii i. e c p e raſuræ interioris ligni ſancti gummoſ.fb.j.polypodij quercini .iiij.vini albi dulcedi- nis expertis fb.aquz fontanx puriffimz fb.viiij. aquarum cichorij & fumariæ an. .iiij.ſeminis iu- # niperi,hederz & baccar laur.an. .ij.caryophii & macisan.fi.corticis citri ſaccharo cond. conſer- $ s ux roſarum,anthos,cichor bugloſ.borrag.an. .É. conſerux enulx campanae, theriacz veteris & mithridan. .ij.fiat omnium deſtillatio in balneo mariæ , modo ſequenti. ean the- riacale. le moyen de faire la diſlillation. vous infuſerez le gajac en la moitié de voſtre vin & eaux,l'eſpace de douze heures : & le reſte de vos in- grediens en l'autre moitié dudit vin & eaux, en concaſſant ceux qui peuuent eſtre concaſſez, ſeront mis à part en infuſion l'eſpace de ſix heures puis mettez tout enſemble, afin qu'ils ſe puiſſent fermenter : laquelle fermentation ſe fera en vne ou deux groſſes bouteilles de verre,les laiſſant boüillir(eſtans bien eſtoupées) en vn grand chauderon plein d'eau chaude,l'eſpace de cinq ou fix heures. le tout eſtant bien fermenté & confit enſemble,ſera mis en vn alambic de verre, & en ſera fait diſtillation , de laquelle eau en donnerez iiij. pour chaſque priſe,laquelle ſera aromatisée d'vne . de cannelle, & d'vn . de diamargariton,ad- jouſtant . . de ſuccre pour la rendre plus agreable. la nourrice en pourra vſer ſans ſe mettre au lict : car elle a vertu,par vne proprieté,d'obtundre ce virus & fortifier les parties nobles.auſſi la nourrice en läuera ſon mammelon apres que l'enfant l'aura allaicté. jautre eau theridcale. eau theriacale composée par rondelet,qui prouoque les ſueurs en la verole inueterée, & cure les dou- leurs,baillée auec les autres ſuiuantes,&dit en auoir fait vſer auec heureux ſuccez. /.theriaca veteris fb,ij. acetoſæ m. iij. radicum graminis iij. pulegij, cardui benedictian.m.ij. flor. chamxmeli. p.ij.temperentur omnia invino albo & dittillenturin vaſe vitreo,& aqua ſeruetur vſui,de laquelle on baille deux onces auec trois onces d'eau de vinette & bugloſe,& cecy ſe doit faire lors que le malade s'en va au lict.cette eau cure les douleurs,baillée ſeule ou auec decoctiond'eſquine ou de bardane : ſi c'eſt vn pituiteux, en lieu de l'eſ- quine on prendra la decoction de gajac:car à cauſe de ſa ſubſtance ſubtille elle penetre bien toſt,& expel- le les matieres cauſant les douleurs. - - de la puanteur d'haleine, des aiſelles, des pieds, & de la ſueur vniuerſelle ». c h a p i t r e xxxix. a puanteur d'haleine vient de pluſieurs cauſes,comme à ceux qui ont eſté frottez,emplaſtrez, & principalement parfumez de vif-argent:ou pour la pourriture des dents & genciues,ou vl- cere des poulmons , ou par vne indigeſtion d'eſtomach, ou pour l'obſtruction & corruption : des os colatoires,ou pour auoir mangé,ails,ognons, choux,vieil fromage, & autre choſe de - mauuais odeur. les boſſus ont volontiers l'haleine puante, à raiſon que l'air qu'ils inſpirent, eſt trop long temps retenu dedans leur thorax courbé,qui fait que leur haleine eſt puante. ' , la puanteur des aiſelles vient parce que le lieu eſt concaue, non perſpirable, qui fait que les ſueurs ne s'exhalent & ne perſpirent : & partant acquierent pourriture & mauuaiſe odeur , comme la ſenteur d'vn bouc : c'eſt pourquoy l'on dit qu'ils ſentent le boucquin,ou l'eſpaule de mouton. ordinairement la plante des pieds eſt de mauuaiſe odeur, parce qu'il en ſort vne ſueur, laquelle n'eſt tranſpirée, à cauſe de la grande eſpaiſſeur du cuir qui eſt calleux & dur. la puanteur de la ſueur ſortant de tout le corps,vient de la corruption d'humeurs, & principalement aux rouſſeaux tauelez. il y en a pluſieurs qui ſe ſont abuſez,voulans perdre cette mauuaiſe ſenteur leſquels ſe frottans les aiſſelles & plantes des pieds de choſes odoriferantes,ſe ſont rendus plus puants. car d'au- tant que les choſes odoriferantes ſont chaudes, d'autant plus elle fondent les vapeurs, eſquelles la feteur d'vn qui ſe conſiſte,qui eſt cauſe qu'elle apparoiſt d'auantage:ce qu'on void par experience. ray ſouuenance que ie frotto# la penſois vn prince de quelque maladie, & le ſeruiteur de l'apothicaire auoit les pieds puants, de façon plante de, ººº le ſentoit lors qu'il entroit en la chambre.il s'apperceut qu'on le fuyoit pour cette puanteur,& pour pieds de v remedier,il ſe frotta le deſſous des pieds de quantité de muſc:dont au lieu de cacher & eſteindre cette fe- muſc. teur,il l'augmenta de telle façon,qu'il parfumoit toute vne chambre où il entroit, d'vne odeur ſi forte & ſi puante,qu'on ne la pouuoit endurer:qui fut cauſe qu'il fut chaſſé & banny entierement de la maiſon dudit seigneur.or pour la cure,elle ſera diuerſifiée ſelon la diuerſité des cauſes. la cure palliatiue ſe fera en ſe frottant les aiſſelles & les pieds d'eau alumineuſe, ou autre decoction aſtringente, qui aura vertu de con- denſer & reprimer cette exhalation puante. hiſtoire , de a - d tſſt,ºlº # ººº ##mº #ºtº « | gitºººº # #oui ! · tutuuº #miſ . ily puit miiui, jlºl titºt fttrtigut #intment tifold,qui énnges tentlestou epeicht lºtt， # #guiº : ) • krººst.; # jºeles #rt ºu ºttº n à tttêt ， a éy ; de la groſſe verole. \ " dt la ſurdité des oreilles. ch a p. xl. queſtion problematique. ea ſauoir qui eſt la cauſe de ſurdité. : s a - s t-ce point que la membrane qui eſt au cxcum foramen,faite du nerf de la cinquieſme con- e# $ iugaiſon,eſt rompue,ou empeſchée de quelque humeur tombé deſſus:ou diſlocation des pe- , , ,/ / $， - # tits oſſelets,appellez incus,malleolus & stapes : & que les cauſes peuuent eſtreinternes , ou externes internes comme quelque fluxion tombée aux oreilles, qui fait apoſteme , dont s'en- \@ gendre vlcere hyperſarcoſe,ou chair ſupercroiſſante:ou de l'excrement ou ſorditie, qui con- tinuellement ſe fait en nos oreilles,faute d'eſtre nettoyées , & s'accumule & deſſeiche en forme de petites pierres, qui eſtouppent le conduit auditif ou d'yngrain prouenant de la petite verole, ainſi qu'ºn vºi， ſouuent les verolez vexez de la groſſe verole,perdre l'oüye pour vne grande douleur de teſte.ou auſſi vient de la premiere conformation,& hereditairement, ainſi qu'a remarqué fernel au liure .chap. . lequel fait mention d'vn senateur, qui ayant vne femme bien ſaine, engendra tous ſes enfans ſourds & muets : de la- quelle choſe on ne peut donner raiſon. de cauſe externe : eſt-ce point d'vn grand bruit de tonnerre , de groſſe cloches,ou d'artilleries, ainſi qu'on veoit ſouuent les canoniers perdre l'oüye tiransles groſſes pie- ces,pour la grande agitation de l'air qui rompt ladite membrane, & déplace & renuerſe leſdits oſſelets du lieu naturel de façon que l'air implanté aux reſſorts anfractuoſitez,ou petits labyrinthes contenus en la ca- uite maſtoïde(nommée d'aucuns tabourin)le malade oit vn bruit & tintamarre aux oreilles, duquel bruit il y a pluſieurs & diuerſes differences a ſçauoir,sibilus ou ſifflement,qui eſt fait d'vne vapeur ſubtile : tin- nitus,ou tintement, fait d'vn cours & abondance d'humeur pituiteux : sonitus bombus, ou bourdonnement, causé d'vn humeur cras,& viſqueux:& s'ilya vn bruit comme d'vn eau coulante d'vn moulin en bas , mon- ſtre vne agitation d'humeur meſlé parmy la vapeur:stºepitus,ou eſtonnement,fait d'vne grande commotion; esbranlement,ou eſcouſſe du cerueau:ou pour eſtre tombé & auoir receu quelque coup ſur la teſte:ou d'vn air froid,qui auroit entré aux oreilles & refroidyle cerueautou quelques noyaux de ceriſes,ou autre corps eſtranges. or la ſurdité cauſe de grandes faſcheries aux malades pour la diuerſité des ſons qui perpetuel- lement les tourmentent : qui ſe fait à cauſe que l'air naturel implanté aux anfractuoſitez du tabourin eſt empeſché. seconde queſtion problematique. •a ſçauoir, pourquoy les ſourds parlent d'vne autre façon qu'auparauant qu'ils fuſſent ſourds. - · eſtrce point parce que les nerfs de la cinquieſme coniugaiſon ont communication auec ceux de la ſixié- me,qu i ſont les nerfs reeurrents(appellez nerfs de la voix)leſquels deſcendans en baillent de petites rami- fications au poulmon,magazin de l'air,qui eſt matiere de la voix, qui fait deprauation de la parole, & ſem- ble que les malades parlent ayant la teſte dedans vn potºtous leſquels accidents ſeront guaris par leur con- traire,tant que poſſible ſera : toutesfois,celle qui vient hereditairement eſt incurable, comme celle qui eſt faicte parla diſlocation des trois petits oſſelets, ou par la ruption de la membrane, qui eſt tenduë ſur l'en- trée de la cauité dicte tabourin : ſemblablement,celle qui ſuruient par vne ſupercroiſſance de chair, ſi elle eſt profonde, ne ſe peut guarir. fin du dix-neufieſme liure, de la groſſe verole & de ſes accidens. é$ $ $ $ $é$c#sé#sic#sc#té#a t a b l e d e s c h a p i t r e s d v vingtieſme liure, traictant de la petite verole, & de la lepre. e s cauſes de la petite verole & rougeollé. chapitre jº de la cure de la petite verole & rougeolle. chap. ij. u© quelle partie fant preſeruer de la verole, - chap. iij. # %der vers. chap. iv. cure des vers. chap. v. despoulx, morpions, & cirons. chap. - vj. briefue deſcription de la lepre ouladrerie. chap. vij. des cauſes de lepre. (.. :) - chap. viij. des ſignes qui monſtrent la preparation de lepré. chap. ix. signes qui monſtrent la lepre eſtre confirmée. chap. x. du prºgnoſtic de la lepre. chap. | xj- de faire ſeparer les ladres d'auec les ſains. chap. xij. de la cure de ceux qui ſont preparez à la lepre. chap. xiij. de la lepre des grees , di#ie du vulgaire , mal s. main, qui eſt vne rvngne. chap. xiv. l e - hiſtoireà. occaſion de ce traitté. deſcription de la petite verole & ° rougeolle. differexces de la verole & rougeolle. signes que la vercle &r rougeolle doiuent ſor- tir. hiſtoire de . la petite verole. autre hi- ſtoire. v i n gt i e s m e l i v r e, traictant de la petite v e r o l e, r ov g e olle, et v e rs des petits enfans, & de la lepre. par amb roise par e de laval av maine conſeiller, & premier chirurgien du roy. des cauſes de la petite verole, & rougeolle . c h a p. l o v r c e que la petite verole & rougeolle ſont comme les poſtes,herauts, & meſſagers de la peſte prouenans auſſi du vice de l'air, & de la corruption m'a ſemblé bon d'en eſcrire icy quelque choſe, afin que par ce traicté le ieune chirurgien ſoit plus amplement & parfaictement inſtruit en cette maladie peſtilente. - donc pour commencer à la deſcription de la petite verole, & rougeolle: ce ſont petites puſtules & taches qui apparoiſſent à la ſuperficie du cuir, faites de ſang impur & autres humeurs vicieux,iettez par la force de la ver- tu expulſiue.les anciens tiennent qu'elles ſont engendrées de quelque reſte vzºrza du ſang menſtruel , duquel l'enfant ayant eſté nourry au ventre de la mere, en retient encore apres,quelque portion & malignité , laquelle en grand chaud ou ſaiſon auſtrale venant à s'exciter & bouillonner auec tout le reſte de la maſſe ſanguinaire, s'eſpand, & ſe monſtre par l'habitude de tout le corps. qu'il ſoit vray , on voit peu de perſonnes qui ne l'ayent vne fois en leur vie : & meſmes elles peuuent venir aux grands ainſi qu'aux petits enfans, d vne grande ferueur & ebullition de ſang , & autres humeurs vitieux , & auſſi par contagion de l'air peſtiferé : dequoy l'experience iournelie nous faict foy. or la verole differe de la rougeolla, ainſi que la boſſe du charbon : d'autant que la verole eſt faicte de mariere plus craſſe & viſqueuſe , ſçauoir ſanguine & pituiteuſe, que la rougeolle, qui ſe fait d'vne matiere plus chaude & plus ſubtile, ſçauoir bilieuſe : parquoy la rougeolle ne laiſſe pour marque de ſoy, ſinon taches comme de pulces, par tout le corps, autresfois rouges, autresfois verdes ou noires : mais la verole s'eſleue en puſtule poinctue & blanchiſſante, argument de meſlange de pituite auec ſang. da- b des humeurs : outre plus qu'en la peſte s'engendrent des vers à pluſieurs, il uantage, la verole eſt plus eſleuée en poincte s au contraire la rougeolle ne ſort gueres hors du cuir, mais eſt plus large : toutesfois au commencement que l'vne & l'autre ſortent , comme du premier, ſecond , & tiers iour, il eſt difficile de les diſtinguer l'vne de l'autre, parce qu'elles ſont en leur commencement preſque ſemblables : & depuis le ſecond ou tiers, ou quart iour la verole croiſt & ſe blanchit auant qu'el- le vienne en crouſte : au contraire, la rougeolle demeure rouge a la ſuperficie du cuir, & ne croiſt point en tumeur. d'auantage la verole pique & fait demangeaiſon, & la rougeolle ne pique & ne demange point : parce que l'humeur n'eſt pas ſi acre ny mordicant , ou parce qu'eſtant plus ſubtil il s'exhale plus ai- sément. les malades ont vnegrande ſternutation lors qu'elles veulent ſortir, à cauſe que les vapeurs pu- trides montent des parties inferieures au cerueau. outre plus ils ont fiévre continuë, auec douleur tres- grande au dos, prurit & demangeaiſon au nez, auſſi douleur & peſanteur de teſte auec vertigine, comme ſi tout tournoit, defaillance de cœur, nausée & vomiſſemens, mal de gorge , la voix en roüée, douleur de poictrine , courte haleine, auec grand battement de cœur. dauantage, ils ont les yeux flamboyans» laſſitude de tout le corps, vrines rouges & troubles, reſveries : toutes leſquelles choſes, ou la plus grande part d'icelles , aduiennent au commencement de la verole & rougeolle. quant au preſage que l'on peut faire de ces deux maladies ſi ſemblables d'origine, on peut aſſeurément dire, qu'en icelles il y avne qua- lité tellement veneneuſe & contagieuſe,que meſmes auec les humeurs & parties charneuſes, elles rongent . & gaſtent les os,comme fait la groſſe verole : ce que ie n'ay pas veu ſeulement en l'année . mais plu- ſieurs autresfois par le cours de l'aage,qu'il a pleu à dieu me donner iuſques à preſent. et pour vous en # -onner vn notable exemple , i'ay bien voulu deſcrire ceſtuy cy(qui eſt l'vn des plus eſmerueillables que l'on ſçauroit voir)d'vne petite fille aagée de quatre à cinq ans, fille de claude pique, relieur de liures du roy,demeurant rue s iacques à paris,laquelle ayant eſte malade de la petite verole enuiron vn mois sº nature n'ayant pû ſurmonter le poiſon,luy ſuruindrent apoſtemes ſur le ſternon, & aux jointures des eſ- paules,dont la matiere virulente rongea & ſepara entierement tous les os du ſternon, & les epiphyles des os adiutoires auec bonne portion de la teſte de l'omoplate : ce que n'ay-eu ſeul, ains auec moy monſieur myron,à preſent conſeiller,& premier medecin du roy, docteur regent en la faculté de medecine à pa- ris,& iean doreau chirurgien de monſieur le comte de brvane : en la preſence deſquels i'ay veu & anator misé ladite fille,en laquelle ay trouué ce que i'ay dit cy-deſſus roulin marie, marchand lunetier demeur rant pres le palais,me fit apporter ſa fille aagé de quatre ans deux mois,qui auoit eu tout le corps couuºº de puſtules de la petite verole, ayant les os des bras & jambes apoſtumez, pourris & fracturez, accºmº pagnée de fiévre ardente ie ne luy voulu aucunement toucher, le lendemain elle deceda on voit auſſi pluſieurs grande portion des genciues carieuſes & pourries, auec grande feteur : telle corruption ſe fait de vapeurs putredineuſes qui s'eſleuent des parties interieures a la bouche, & meurent preſque tous,quel- que diligence qu'on leur ſçache faire. on voit dauantage par la diſſection des corps qui en ſont morts, - que de la petite verole & lepre. i a que leſdites maladies laiſſent le plus ſouuent vne merueilleuſe intemperature aux parties du dedans,comme au foye,à la rate, & aux inteſtins, dont s'enſuit à pluſieurs hydropiſie, phtiſie, enroüeure de voix , courte grandt haleine, flux de ventre, auec vlceres aux inteſtins , & par conſequent la mort » ſelon que ces puſtules ont cidens . rauagé par ces parties interieures, de meſme furie que l'on les voit aſſeoir ſur la peau. et quant aux parties ite verols. externe , elles laiſſent non ſeulement deformité, principalement au viſage, à cauſe des puſtules & vlceres, a et qui paſſans la ſuperficie du cuir ººt profondé en la chair, deſquelles ſont demeurées des laides cicatricest §ais auſſi quelquesfois elles gaſtent & font perdre le mouuement des jointures : & principalement des couldes, poignets, genoux, & du pied.aucuns enont du tout perdu la veuë, ainſi qu'a fait le seigneur de guymenay, & vne infinité d'autres : auſſi quelquesvns ont perdu roiiye, autres le fleurer, par excroiſſance §irfuruenuë aux conduits, tant des oreilles que dunez, apres les puſtules ſorties, comme elles font §n tous les endroits du corps, tant par dehors que par dedans( ainſi que nous auons demonſtré par cy-deuant ) leſquelles empeſchent les conduits des oreilles & du nez. bref ie puis dire que toutes les apoireme- qui aduiennent aux petits enfans ayans eu la verole ou rougeole, deſquelles ils n'auront pas eſté purgez à ſuffiſance pour la deſcharge de nature, tiennent de la malignité & veneroſité de l'humeur | que fait leſdites maladies, & partant ſont fort malaiſées à guarir.et pour le dire ºnvn mot,la petite vero- le & rougeole n'eſtans pas bien purgée, cauſentd'auſſi diuers & faſcheux accidens, que fait la groſſe verole. de la cure de lapetite verole & rougeole ». c h a r. ii. a cure d'icelles ſera diuerſifiée ſelon que l'humeur participera de la peſte, on n'aura aucune de l communication auec icelles ; car ſielles ſont peſtilentes, & aux enfans qui encore tetent, on # * fera vſer à la nourrice de choſes qui contrarient au venin, comme nous dirons en la cure de #t eſti- l'enfant peſtiferé, afin d'empeſcher que le venin n'aille ſaiſir le cœur. et faut tenir l'enfant en " chambre chaude, où le vent n'entre point , & l'enueloper de drap d'eſcarlate, ou d'autre drap rouge, c'eſt à dire, en faire les cuſtodes & couuerture de ſon lict , auquel on le fera tenir , le couurant * mediocrement iufques à ce que la verole ou rougeole ſoit ſortie du tout.auſſi faut que la nourrice mange en ſes potages, pourpier, laictuë, vinette, chicorée, bourrache : & qu'on mette vn noüet d'orge-mundé. elle euitera du tout les viandes chaudes, comme ſaleures, paſtiſſeries , eſpeceries , & le vin , s'il n'eſtoit bien trempé d'eau, de peur de rendre ſon ſang trop chaud, qui eſchaufferoit dauantage celuy de l'enfant parquoy en lieu d'iceluy, elle boira ptiſane cuitte auec raifins & racine devinette. et faut qu'elle prenne les medicamens en lieu de l'enfant, comme ſi elle-meſme auoit cette maladie : & partant on luy ordonne- ra ſon regime & maniere de viure, & medecines qui ſoient en quantité conuenables & proportionnées à " . elle, & en qualité propres à l'enfant, afin de rendre le laiét medicamenteux : car il prend neceſſairement la - c # & nature de ce que la nourrice a pris,ainſi que nous auons prouué parcy-deuant : & partant le laict diette peur la nourriréa : d'icelle ſupplée au defaut des remedes qu'il deuroit prendre luy-meſme par dedans : & pour le dire en vu |! mot, elle tiendra le regime qu'on a accouſtmé de tenir aux fiévres peſtilentes. il ne faut donner boüillie & à l'enfant, ou on luy en donnera en bien petite † et s'il eſt ſevré & ja grandelet, il n'vſera pareille- d ment de chair, iuſques à ce que la fiévre ſoit paſſée & grandement diminuée, & que la verole ſoit du tout pu mangeº t: " ſortie : mais il mangera orge-mondé fort liquide, ou laict d'amandes, ou potage de poulets cuits auec les # l'enfant cº • herbes ſuſdites, panades, gelée, coulis, pruneaux & raiſins de damas. pour ſon boire, vſera de ptiſane, ſevré. f, - faite auec orge-mondé, racines de dent de chien , & de vinette , vn nouet des quatre ſemences froides, s pruneaux & raiſins de damas, auec pouldre d'yuoire & de corne de cerf : & auec icelle entre les repas on • pourra meſler du ſyrop violat, & non roſat, ny autre aſtringent, depeur d'arreſter l'humeur, & l'empeſ- du boire. cher de ſortir hors. le dormir de l'enfant doit eſtre moderé, & non trop profond, de peur de retirer les du dormir matieres au centre du corps, & augmenter la chaleur de la fiévre il ne faut ny purger ny ſaigner ( sil n'y # : auoit grande plenitude,ou quelque complication de maladie, comme vne pleureſie, ou ophtalmie,ſquinan- § # cie,&autres ſemblables>ſi ce n'eſt en la declinaiſon , ou bien le premier ou ſecondiour au plus tard de la §é, maladie, de peur d'interrompre le cours de nature : mais on ſe contentera de donner quelqueclyſtere, ou : , boüillon de mauues,violettes de mars,bourrache ou ius de pruneaux, & raiſins au matin.et aux enfans plus - grandelets, quelque bolus de caſſe, pour amollir le ventre, & aider nature à jetterhors les humeurs pour- ris & corrompus, qui cauſent la verole ou rougeole,ce qui ſe fait volontiers au troiſieſme ou quatrieſme iour, plus ou moins, ſelon la diſpoſition du corps & l'humeur preparé à ſortir hors,ou ſelon l'air ambiens; : . & alors faut prouoquer la ſueur par remedes qui ouurent les porres,& ſubtilient les humeurs, & les faſ- : ! ſent ſortir par ſueur, de peur que la matierevirulente ne demeure au dedans du corps, & ſoit cauſe de la hiſtoira , mort des malades. ce que i'ay veu depuis peu de temps en ça auec maiſtre richard humbert, chirugien d iuré à paris,endeux filles, lvne aagée de quatre ans, l'autre de dix-ſept : auſquellesapres leur mort auons | trouué les parties interieures toutes couuertesde boutons crouſteux, & tous ſemblables à ceux qui ſont au dehors. or s'il aduenoit que le ſangſortiſt par le nez, ne faut penſer que la matiere de la petite verole ſe du flux du puiſſe touſlours parfaitement euacuer par iceluy : car i'ay veu ſouueotesfois qu'au quatrieſme & cinquieſ-ſant par le me iour ſuruenoit grand flux de ſang par le nez aux malades, & toatesfois pour cette vacuation la verole ne nez. laiſſoit à ſortir en grande abondance, tellement que le corps en eſtoit tout couuert. et pource ne faut ar- reſter ledit flux s'il n'eſtoit trop impetueux,& qu'on cogneuſt les forcc& abbatuës,à quoy alors on procede- ra, comme nous dirons.et pºur retourner à la ſueur : pour la prouoquer ſera vtile la potion faite de dece- ction de figues ſeiches,lentilles eſcorcées, ſemence de citron, de fenoüil, d'ache, perſil, & les racines de re- . - liſſe, & leurs ſemblables auec raiſins de damas & dactes or quetelles choſes ſoient bien propresa faire rºti » ſade. † la verole & rougeole,il apert,parce que la decoction ſeule des figues prouoque grandement la ſueur, rifique. auſſi elle adoucit & abſterge doucement. les ſemences de fenoiiil & autres mentionnées,euurent les pores pour donner iſſue aux humeurs : les lentilles empeſchent que la gorge & autres parties internes ne ſoient eſpriſes de boutons de la verole, pource qu'elles ont vne aſtriction benigne, & ſeruent auſſi pour engarder le flux de ventre:on les y met eſcorcées,parce que l'eſcorce eſt trop aſtringente:les dactes y ſont miſes pour roborer l'eſtomachila ſemence de citron,pour defendre le cœur, & la regliſſe pour adoucir la gorge & em- peſcher l'enroüeure,joint auſſi quelle ayde à prouoquer la ſueur.et de ces ſimples on fait des doſes grâdes ou petites, ſelon la qualité & force des malades,&la vehemence de la maladie,& ſes accidens.la ſueur ſera pro- uoquée loing du repas, tant par choſes interieures qu'exterieures. et faut enueloper l'enfant en vn linceul temps de mouillé en la ſuſdite decoction chaudement, & exprimé bien fort : ce qui ſe peut bien faire, non ſeulement ſueur. aux enfans, mais auſſi aux grands.dauantage la decoction de millet,figues & raiſins auec ſuccre prouoque la , r t fueur. . a o le vingtiéme liure, 'eux. le mez. la gorge. poulmcms. on doit cou- per le, bout ös de la petite e rclc cſt ans jº, j tir ez. pourccrriger , les accident. des yeux ve polez. des cicatri- ſ€ tg ar. qnes qui de ºmetirem,t au cuir. pour effacer leseicatrices. ſueur. outre-plus on peut appliquer aux parties exterieures veſſies, ou eſponges, ou cailloux chauds.auſſi , eſt bon eſuentiller le viſage, pendant que le malade ſue, auec vn eſuentoir,afin de corroborer la chaleur na- turelle, & engarder que le malade ne tombe en defaillance de cœur par la chaleur & ſueur:ce faiſant la ver- tu eſt mieux conſeruée, & par conſequent les ſuperfiuitez ſortent mieux par les pores du cuir,& par le cra- cher & moucher. pareillement on fera ſentir au malade vinaigre & eau roſe auec vn peu de camphre & au . tres ſenteurs qui ont vertu de rafraiſchir : ce qui ſert encor pour defendre le dedans du nez de la verole. — guelles partiesfautpreſeruer de verole . ch a p. iii. n t r e les parties du corps qui ſont fort ſubiettes à eſtre gaſtées & perdue de ladite verole, $ les yeux,le nez,la gorge,les poulmons & inteftins y ſont fort enclins,dont quelquesfois la mort $ s'enſuit ; parquoy il y faut remedier tant que poſſible ſera. et premierement pour ſuruenir aux yeux qu'ils ne ſoient gaſtez, au commencement on doit mettre autour des paupieres eau roſe, - verjus,auec vn peu de camphre,ou faire vne decoction de ſumach,berberis,eſcorce de grenade aloé auec vn peu de ſaffran.le jus de grenades aigres eſt bon à cette intention.auſſi on peut mettre touuent dedans les yeux,des blancs d'œufs & eau roſe battus enſemble. pareillement du laict de femme& eau roſe, autant d vn que d'autre,& les renouueller ſouuent. et pour le dire en vn mot,les choſes froides & qui re- pouſſent ſont bonnes:neantmoins ſi on voit les yeux fort tumefiez & rouges,il ne faut vſer de ſimples reper- cuſſifs,mais ils ſeront meſlez auec choſes abſterſiues,& qui ayent faculte de corrober la veue, comme l'eau, d'euphraſe,fenouil,&autres ſemblables.et lors qu'il y a infiammatió&rougeur,il ne faut que le maladevoye grâde clarté,ny choſes rouges,de peur d'augmêter la douleu &inflammatiô.etquâd laverole eſt en ſon eſtat, qui ef ſon plus grand mal,& qu'il y a grande chaleur & rougeur auxyeux,adonc on doit vſer de remedes deſiccatifs&rcſolutifs,doux & benings,& ayans vertu de roborer la veue,comme ſont aloé,tuthie,antimoine lauez,eau de fenoüil,d'euphraſe,ºr de roſes. pour defendre le nez,on doit faire ſentir au malade vinaigre, & eau roſe auecvn peu de camphre,ou verjus & vinaigre,& en moüiller ſouuent le nez auecvn moucboir :& aux parties ſupcrieures on doit appliquer des remedes repercuſſifs cy-deſſus mentionnez.pour defendre la gorge, & que la reſpiration ne ſoit empeſchée, on fera des gargar mes d'oxycrat,ou duvin de grenades ai- gres,& en conuient maſcher, & tenir des grains ſouuent en la bouche : ou des nouets faits de pſylli m, de coing&autres choſes froides& aſtringentes.quant eſt des poulmös,pour les defendre& empeſcher a courte haleine,le malade vſera ſouuêt de ſyrop de iuiubes,ou violat,ouroſat,ou de pauotbläc,oude grenades,oude nenuphar,&autres ſemblables et quâd la verole ou rougeole ſont du tout ſorties dehors,il ne faut tât tenir la chambre cloſe ny ſi chaude comme on faiſoit:ains alors quandala verole,la faut ſuppurer puis l'ouurir,la deſſeicher, & faire tomber les crouſtes. mais la rougeole ne ſe ſuppure point, on la fait reſoudre & ſeicher ſeulement. on ſuppure la ve róle auec beurre frais,ou auec vne fomentation faite de figues,racines de gui- mauues,oignons de lys,ſemence de lin,& leurs ſemblables.et quant les grains de verole ſont meurs, on les doit couper avec ciſeaux,ou autrement ouurir auec vne a guille d'or ou d'argent,de peur que labone & ſa- nie ne face eroſion a la chair de defous, & que puis apres n'y demeurent des petites foſſettes & cicatrices caucz qui eſt choſe laide, principalement en la faſſe. or apres qu'elles ſont ouuertes,il les conuient deſſei- chcr, puis les faire tomber,qui ſe fera auec onguent roſat, auquel on adiouſtera ceruſe,litharge, aloes ſub- tilement pulueriſé auec vn peu de ſaffran : ce qui non ſeulement deſſeiche,mais auſſi aide nature à engendrer chair. et pource,on peut diſſoudre de la farine d'orge,& de lupins deſlayez auec eau roſe, & auec vn linge bicn delit on en oingt les parties malades. aucuns les greſſent de coine de lard vn peu boüillie auec eau & v n puis reſpandent deſſus de la farine d'orge,ou de lupins, ou toutes les deux enfembles : les autres pren- nent du miel venant de la ruche, auecfarine d'orge,& oignent les boutôs pour les ſeiche r& faire tomber,& quand ils ſont du tout ſcichez,pour les auancer de ſe preparer.ils mettent de l'huyle roſat,on violat,ou d'a- médes douces,tie de,ou de la creſme.apres que la verole eſt ſortie,il ſuruient vn grand prurit&demangeai- ſon & par ſe trgp gratter quelqut sfois aduièt grandes eſcorcheures & vlceres parce que le grattereſt cauſe de faire attraction à la partie,&y cauſervlceres,dont les cicatrices ſont puis apres laides, & la face difforme: parquoy ſi c'eſt vn enfant qui ſoit malade il luy faudra lier les mains, & fomenter les lieux du prurit, de la decoction de guimauue,orge,lupin,&ſel.et quâd le cuir eſt eſcorché il y faut appliquer del'onguêt dit albû raſis camphré;y adiouftant vn peu d'aloes en poudre &de cinabre,ou de deſiccatif rouge,ouaurtes ſembla- bles remedes.que ſi la verole s'eſt iettée aux yeux,nonobſtant quelque deffence qu'on ait peu faire,premie- rement il faut defendre la trop grande clarte, & la veue des choſes rouges, & y appliquer des collyres,les diuerſifiant ſelon la diuerſité des accidens.et faut bien auoir eſgard à la grande tumeur & inflammation qui y ſuruient quelquesfois : comme l'on voit à pluſieurs enfans le mal eſtre ſi grand qu'ils perdent la veuë, & meſmes à aucuns les yeux ſe creuent & ſortent du tout hors de la teſte, à quoy le chirurgien pouruoira,& y remediera tant qu'il luy ſera poſſible. tareillement s'il ſuruient des grains de verole dedans le nez, qui deuiennent en crouſtes & vlceres, on y applique a remedes propres,les y adaptant autc des tentes de linges ou de coton. auſſi le plus ſouuent en la bouche & au gauſier y viennent eſcorcheures, auec enroüeure de voix , & grande difficulté d'aualler viandes : & poury remedier,il la conuiemt gargariſer auec eau d'orge & de plantain, ou de cerfueil, auſquelles on diſſoudra du ſyrop roſat & diamorum : auſſi le malade tiendra ſouuent en la bouche ſucre roſat, ou diatragacantha froid, ou pillules blanches, ſucre candy, alphenic, & diaireos. et quant aux cicatrices ou marques qui demeurent au cuir, pour le oſter il faut auoir eſgard en quelle partie elles ſont : car fi c'eſt au viſage, & qu'il y ait grande tuberoſité, il les conuient couper auec ciſeaux, ce que i'ay ſouuentes fois fait : auſſi on y appliquera de l'onguent cit in recentement faite,ou de la pommade, ou ce liniment. . amyli tricicei & amygdalarum exorticatarum an. .j. . gummi tragacanthi . . ſeminis, melonum, fabarum ſiccarum excorticatarum,far. hord.an. iij. pulueriſentur omnia ſubtili- ter, deinde incorporentur cum aqua roſacea,& fiat linimentum : duquel en faut oindre la face auec vne plu- me, & le laiſſer toute la nuict, & le lendemain la lauer auec eau de ſon de fourment le laict virginal y eft pareillement propre. la graiſſe d'oye ou de canard,ou de poulaille, eſt porpre pour lenir & adoucir l'aſpe- ité du cuir, comme l'huyle de lys le ſang de liéure tout chaud, appliqué ſouuent,eſt ſouue rair pour rem- plir les cauitez & faire le « uir eſgal, & corrige la noirceur qui de meure és cicatrices : pour cét effect auſſi * , ssne · vre coine de la d chaude eft propre,frottant c'icelle la partie.pareillement l'eau diſtillée de fleurs de féves & de acines de lys, eſ ſinguliere pour effacer & polir les cicatrices.auſſi l'eau diſtilée de racines de canne & de coqucs dœufs, & meſme l'huyle d'œuf& pluſieurs autres rcmcdcsſcmblables. n. - • '- t * À ( de la petite verole,& lèpre. de certains animaux monſtrueux qui naiſſent contre nature aux corps des hommer, - femmes , & petits enfans. - % o v t ainſi qu'au grand monde il y a deux grandes lumieres, ſçauoir le soleil & la lune,auſſi au corps humain il y a deux yeux qui l'illuminent, lequel eſt appellé microcoſme, ou petit pourtrait du grand monde accourcy , qui eſt composé des quatre elemens comme le grand s \ ( \ monde,auquel ſe font des vents,tonnerres,tremblemens de terre,pluye,rosée,vapeurs, exha- $ º^ ^" lations,greſles,eclipſes,inondations d'eaux,ſterilité,fertilité,pierres,montagnes,fruicts,&plu- ſieurs & diuerſes eſpeces d'animaux. auſſi ſe fait-ille ſemblable au petit monde, qui eſt le corps humain. exemple des vents.ils ſe voyent eſtre enclos és apoſtemes venteuſes,& aux boyaux de ceux qui ont la cho- lique venteuſe,& pareillement en aucunes femmes, auſquelles on oyt le ventre bruire de telle ſorte , qu'il ſembley auoir vne grenoüillere , leſquels ſortans par le ſiege rendent bruits comme coups de canonades. et encore que la piece ſoit braquée vers la terre,neantmoins touſiours la fumée du canon donne contre le play,. nez du canonnier,& de ceux qui ſont proches de luy.exemple des pluyes & inondations d'eaux:cela ſevoit #unn aux apoſtemes aqueuſes,& au ventre des hydropiques.exemple du tremblement de terre:telle choſe ſe voit d, terre. au commencement des accez des fiévres , où les pauures febricitans ont vn tremblement vniuerſel de tout eclipſes. le corps.exemple de l'eclipſe:cela ſe voit aux ſyncopes ou defaillance de cœur,& aux ſuffocations de la ma- pierres. trice.exemple des pierres:on les voit à ceux auſquels on en extrait de la veſſie , & autres parties du corps fr« icºn exemples des fruicts:combien en voit-on qui au viſage ou autres parties exterieures du corps, ont la figure. d'vne ceriſe,d'vne prune,d'vne corme,d'vne figue,d'vne meure ? la cauſe dequoy a eſté touſiours referée à b la forte imagination de la femme conceuante ou enceinte,eſmeuë de l'appetit vehement,ou de l'aſpect, ou d'vn attouchement d'iceluy à l'improuiſte : comme meſme de ce qu'on en voit naiſtre d'aucuns ayans en quelque endroict du corps la figure & ſubſtance d'vne coine de lard,d'autres d'vne ſouris,d'autres d'vne eſ- creuiſſe,d'autres d'vne ſolle,& d'autres ſemblables.ce qui n'eſt point hors de raiſon,ehtendu la force de l'i- magination ſe joignant auec la vertu conformatrice,la molleſſe de l'embryon prompte , & comme vne cire molle à receuoir toute forme,&que quand on voudta eſplucher tous ceux qui ſont ainſi marquez,il ſe trou- uera que leur meres auront eſté eſmeues durant leur groſſeſſe de quelque tel appetit ou accident. où nous - - remarquerons en paſſant,combien eſt dangereux d'offenſer vne femme groſſe, de luy monſtrer & ramente- ， t . uoir quelque viande,de laquelle elle ne puiſſe auoir la ioüiſſance promptement,voire & de leur faire voire , des animaux ou pourtraits d'iceux difformes & monſtrueux.en quoy i'attens que quelqu'vn m'obiecte que ie ne deuois donc rien inſerer de ſemblable en mon liure de la generation. mais ie luy reſpons en vn mot que ie n'eſcris point pour les femmes.retournons à noſtre propos.exemple des montagnes:on les voit aux boſſus,& a ceux qui ont des loupes groſſes & enormes exemple de ſterilité & ſeichereſſe : on le voit aux mºntent . hectiques,qui ont la chair de leur corps preſque toute conſommée. exemple de fertilité : oh la cognoit à serili#. ceux qui ſont fort gras,feſſus,& ventrus,tant qu'ils creuent en leur peau, force leur eſt de demeurer touſ- ferlilité jours couchez ou aſſis pour ne pouuoir porter la groſſe maſſe de leur corps. exemple des animaux qui ſe procréent en nos corps,à ſçauoir,pouls,punaiſes,& morpions,& autres que deſcrirons à preſent. monſieur - houlier eſcrit en ſa practique, qu'il traittoit vn italien tourmenté d'vne extreme douleur de teſte, dont il ºiºº mourut.et l'ayant fait ouurir,luy fut trouué en la ſubſtance du cerueau vn animal ſemblable à vn scorpion, *iſº comme tu vois par cette figure. p's f . - #ºquelcomme penſe ledit houlier,s'eſtoitengendré pourauoir continuellement ſenty du baſilic.ce qui º fort vray-ſemblable veu que chryſippus,diºphanes & pline ont eſcrit, que ſi le baſilic eſt broyé entrº . dºux pierres, & exposé au soleil, d'iceluy maiſtravn ſcorpion. monſieur fernel eſcrit d'vn ſoldat , lequel # eſtoit fort camus,tellement qu'il ne ſe pouuoit moucher aucunement, ſi bien que de l'excrement retenu & " le. pºurry s'engendrerent deux vers velus & cornus de la groſſeur d'vn demy doigt,leſquelles le rendirent fu- ºux parl'eſpace de vingt iours,& furent cauſe de ſa mort.tu en vois la figure. depuis n'agueres vn ieune homme auoit vne apoſteme au milieu de la cuiſſe,partie externe, de laquelle ſortis cét animal,lequel me fut apporté par iacques guillemeau chirurgien ordinaire du roy , qui diſoit l'auoir tiré:& l'ay mis dans vne phiole de verre, & a demeuré vif plus d'vn mois ſans aucun aliment. la ſigure t'eſt icy repreſentée. - hiſtoire, #s §s$^ - | - f r z monſieur ; . · le vingtiéme liure, h : ſfeire. mönſieur duret m'a affirmé auoirietté par la verge apres vne longue maladie , vne beſte viuante ſembla- a ble à vn clouporte,que les italiens appelient porceleti,qui eſtoit de couleur rouge : comme tu vois par ce pourtraict. - - - _ - monſieur le comte charles de mansfeld,n'agueres eſtant malade d'vne grande fiévre continuë à l'hoſtel º d§ ietté par la vergevne certaine matiere ſemblable àvn animal dont la figurc t'eſt icyrepreſentée · e - -, - n ſe fait pareillement en la matrice des femmes,beaucoup de formes d'animaux(qui ſouuent ſe treuuent auec les moles & enfans bien formez)comme grenoüilles,crapaux,ſerpens,lezars,harpies.nicole florentin les compare à chat-huans,& dit deuoir eſtre appellées beſtes ſauuages. les harpyes ont eſté appellées des anciens, freres lombars, parce que telles choſes aduenoient aux femmes de lombardie, & qu'elles naiſ- ſoient en vne meſme matrice comme les enfans bien formez, qui a donné occaſion de les nommer freres g urd n vterins,par vne meſdiſance d'vne perſonne que l'on hayt. or les femmes du royaume de naple y ſont fort §h. s. ſujettes, à cauſe de la mauuaiſe nourriture qu'elles prennent, leſquelles de tous temps ont mieux aymé auoir le ventre de bureau que de velours:c'eſt à dire,manger fruits,herbages, & autres choſes de mauuais ſuc,qui engendrent tels animaux par putrefaction, que mangerviandes de bonne nourriture , pour eſpar- gner pour eſtre braues & bien accouſtrées. monſieur ioubert eſcrit de deux italiennes, l'vne femme d'vn au liure des frippier,& l'autre damoyſelle,qui dans vn meſme mois accoucherent chacune d'vn part monſtrueux:celuy errº p°- de la frippiere eſtoit petit reſſemblant à vn rat ſans queue, l'autre de la damoyſelle eſtoit gros comme vn fº chatils eſtoient de couleur noire:& au partir de leurs matrices,tels monſtres grimperent en haut contre la paroy de la rouelle du lict,& s'y attacherent fermement. lycoſthenes eſcrit,que l'an vne femme de cracouie,en vne place nommée sainct eſprit, enfanta vn lyºººººº enfant mort,qui auoitvn ſerpent vifattaché à ſon dos,quirongeoit cette petite creature morte : comme tu º ſº prº- vois par cette figure. diges. nieole flo- rentim. hiſt liui.de leuinius en raconte vne merueilleuſe hiſtoire en cette façon. ces années paſſées vne femme vintvers § moy pour me demander conſeil:laquelle ayant conceu d'vn marinier, le ventre luy commença à enfler de tur.ch.s. telle ſorte,qu'on penſoit qu'elle ne deuſt iamais porter à terme.le neufiéme mois paſsé, elle enuoye que- rir la sage femme:& auec grands efforts,premierement accoucha d'vne maſſe de chair ſans forme, ayant à chacun coſté deux anſes longues d'vn bras,qui remuoit & auoit vie comme les eſponges.apres luy ſortit de la matrice vn monſtre ayant le nez crochu,le col long, les yeux eſtincelans, vne queuë aiguë, les pieds fort agiles. ie t'en repreſente la figure, j s) | # = % z zzzz z , ſ v> - f/ (! 'ſ . #ſ º ºw \ $it | | l ·! ,º # § %a (" > - \ ºl uhhh # # º ， t" \ \ i si toſt que ledit monſtre fut ſorty,il commença de bruire,& remplir toute la chambre de ſifflemens,cou- rant çà & là pour ſe cacher. sur lequel les femmes ſe jetterent,& le ſuffoquerent auec des oreillers. a la fin la pauure femme toute laſſe & rompuë,accoucha § enfant maſle, tant bourelé & tourmenté par ce monſtre, qu'il mourut ſi toſt qu'il eut receu bapteſme. hiſtºire. .. cornelius gemma,medecin de louuain, en vn liure qu'il a fait depuis peu de temps, intitulé de nature diuiniº charatieiiſmis , raconte vne hiſtoire admirable d'vne ieune fille de ladite ville, aagée de quinze ans, | de la petite verole, & lepre. a du corps de laquelle apres douleurs infinies,ſortirent pluſieurs choſes eſtranges par haut & par bas. entre leſquelles elle rendit par le ſiege auec les excremens, vn animal vif,long d'vn pied & demy , plus gros que le poulce,repreſenrant ſi bien vne vraye & naturelle anguille,qu'il n'y auoit rien à redire, fors qu'il auoit la queue fort peluë:comme tu peux voir par le pourtraict cy-deſſous,ſemblable à celuy que ledit gemma à mis en ſon liure. maiſtre pierre barque,chirurgien des bandes françoiſes,& claude le grand, chirurgiens demeurans à hiſtoire, verdun,n'agueres m'ont affirmé auoir pensé la femme d'vn nommé gras-bonnet,demeurant audit verdun, laquelle auoit vne apoſteme au ventre:de laquelle ouuerte ſortit auec le pus grand nombre de vers , gros comme les doigts,ayans la teſte aigué, leſquels luy auoient rongé les inteſtins , en forte qu'elle fut long- temps qu'elle iettoit ſes excremens fecaux par l'vlcere,& à preſent eſl du tout guarie. antonius benenius,medecin de florence,eſcrit qu'vn quidam, nommé iean menuſier , aagé de quarante hiſtoire. ans,auoit preſque vne aſſiduelle douleur de cœur, pour laquelle auoit eſté en danger de mort. et pour y obuier,t ut l'opinion de plûfieurs medecins de ſon temps,ſans toutesfois en auoir receu aucun allegement. | b quelque temps apres s'addreſſa vers luy ayant conſideré ſa douleur, luy donna vn vomitoire, par lequel is tta grande quantité de matiere pourrie & corrompue,ſans toutesfois appaiſer ſa douleur. derechefluy ordonna vn autre vomitoire , au moyen duquel li vomit grande quantité de matiere : enſemble vn ver de grandeur de quatre doigts,la teſte rouge,ronde & de groſſeur d'vn gros poids,ayant le corps plein de poil follet,la queue fourchue en forme de croiſſant,enſemble quatre pieds,deux au deuant,& deux au derriere: comme tu vois par cette figure. figure d'vu ver ietté par vomiſſement. : ie dis encore qu'aux apoſtemes il ſe trouue des corps fort eſtranges , comme pierre, croye,ſablon, char- bon,coquilles de limaçon,eſpices,foin,cornes,poil,& autres choſes,enſemble pluſieurs & diuers animaux, tant morts que viuans.deſquelles choſes la generation(faite par corruption & diuerſe alteration)ne nous doit eſtonner beaucoup,ſi nous conſiderons que comme nature feconde a mis proportionnément en l'ex- cellent microcoſme toute ſorte de matiere,pourfe faire reſſembler & eſtre comme image viue de ce grand monde : auſſi elle s'ésbat à y repreſenter toutes ſes actions & mouuemens, n'eſtant iamais oiſiue quand la matiere ne luy defaut point. - - c "-- des vers qui s'engendrent és boyaux. ch a p. iv. - e s vers ſe font d'vne matiere groſſe, viſqueuſe cx cruë , laquelle ſe corrompt en l'eſtomach, generation - n， $ puis deſcend és inteſtins : & veu qu'elle n'eſt pas bien chylifiée , c'eſt a dire façonnée par la des vers. $ premiere concoction qui ſe fait en l'eſtomach,elle ſe pourrit du tout : & pour ſa vilcoſité, qui ia fait adherer à iceux , ne la peuuent ietter hors le ventre,dont y eſtant retenue, ſe putrefie c éyčnnº dauantage : dequoy ſont produits & engendrez des vers par l'action de la chaleur, qui puis auſe effi- apres viuent d'icelle:laquelle eſtant conſumée,ſi on ne leur baille promptement vne autre matiere pour les nourrir & ſaouler, ils ſe promenent par les inteſtins, cauſans grandes douleurs aux malades , & montent quelquesfois iuſques en l'eſtomach,& les iette t'on par la bouche, & aucunesfois paſſent par les trous du palais,& ſortent par le nez. ce que i'ay veu pluſieurs fois. il ya trois eſpeces & differences des vers, à ſçauoir de ronds & longs : larges & longs, & de petits & it y a trois greſles.les premiers ſont nommez des anciens teretes, c'eſt à dire ronds en longueur.les ſeconds ſont dits differences tæniæ,parce qu'ils ſont longs & larges en forme d'vne bande.les tiers ſont appellez aſcarides,pource que de vers. tels communement ſont ſautelans.il y a d'autres differences des vers, priſes des couleurs , comme rouges, differèce de . blancs,noirs,gris,citrins,& quelques-vns trouuez cornus & velus,ayans la teſte d'vn chabot.en aucuns ma- vers ſelon les lades s'en procrée grand nombre,qu'ils iettent tous les iours par le ſiege, & ſont menus comme filets ou couleurs. d poils & tels ſont volontiers de couleur blanche:ce ſont ceux que nous auons appellez aſcarides. la diuer- ſité des couleurs ſe fait ſelon la cauſe des humeurs pourris non pas que des vers les vns ſoient engendrez de cholere,autres de melancholie,autres de pituite,comme lesmedecins grecs ont eſtimé car la melancho grand, un. lie & cholere ſont humeurs pour le regard de leurs qualitez du tout ineptes à la generation des vers. mais gueur des parce que parmy la ſubſtance chyleuſe ou pituiteuſe,dont ils font engendrez , il y a quelque meſlange des ,, humeurs,de là vient la diuerſité des couleurs és vers. or les longs, & larges,ou plats,tiennent quelques-hiſtoire . fois tout le long des inteſtins, & tels ſont comme vne ſubſtance mucqueuſe & glaireuſe : & veritablement i'en ay veu vn qui ſortit hors d'vne femme,& eftoit ſemblable à vn ſerpent, de longueur de plus d'vne toi- ſe.dequoy ne ſe faut émerueiller,veu que les anciens eſcriuent en auoir veu de toute la longueur des inte- ſtins, qui eſt ſept fois la longueur de noſtre corps, parce que les boyaux de chacun homme ont telle lon- hiſtoire " gueur:& le ſçay pour l'auoir veu,& monſtré quelquesfois aux eſcholes de medecine de cette ville, faiſant diſſections anatomiques publiques dauantage iean vuier,medecin tres-docte du duc de cleues, eſcrit en ſon liure de l'impoſture des diables,qu'vn villageois ietta vn ver de huict pieds & vn doigt de long, lequel auoit la gueule preſque ſemblable à vn bec de cane,comme tu vois par cette figure. ciemre. r r figure - - le vingtieſme liure, figure d'vn ver ayant la teſte comme vne cane. a#/ % | | " nn\nnnn ". $nn \. nnnn\ $ n monſieur valeriola,medecin d'arles,au liure de ſes obſeruations , diſcourant doctement ſur les cauſes b de la generation des vers,dit en auoir veu en la ville d'arles ayant neuf pieds & plus de long et tout ainſi que les vers ſont differens les vns des autres,auſſi il y a diuerſité des lieux où ils ſe procréent:car les ronds | & longs s'engendrent volontiers és inteſtins greſles, les autres aux gros , & principalement les petits vers l animal capillaires,& iamais en l'eſtomach car nul animal ne fe fait en la concoction de la viande : mais ſeulement en la diſtribution és boyaux, apres qu'elle a commencé à eſtre corrompue en l'eſtomach, eſquels boyaux elle ſe corrompt & pourrit dauantage , & de là naiſſent des vers. quelquesfois ils s'engendrent dés que l'enfant eſt au ventre de la mere,à cauſe de la mauuaiſe nourriture qu'il prend d'elle, & auſſi à cauſe qu'ils " ne vuident lors rien par le fondement : dont aduient que de la retention de tels excremens s'engendrent vers,comme qnelques vns ont noté de la ſentence d'hippocrate, au liure quatrieſme de morbis, ſur la fin. et pour le dire en vn mot,ils s'engendrent en tous aages,& principalementaux crapuleux,goulus,& à ceux qui viuent de mauuaiſe nourriture,comme de fruicts cruds,formage & laictage. signes des or pour cognoiſtre en quels endroits du corps ſont les vers, il faut entendre que lors qu'ils ſont aux in- #n- teſtins ſuperieurs,les malades ont vne douleur d'eſtomach auec appetit canin & depraué, c'eſt à dire,qu'ils ,eſtin, treſ deſirent à manger diuerſes viandes,& grande quantité : parce que leur nourriture eſt conſumée & mangée les- par les vers,& tombent ſouuent en defaillance de cœur,à raiſon du conſentement & ſympathie de l'orifice du ventricule & eſtomach,qui a ſentiment tres-exquis auec le cœur dauantage,ils ſentent vn prurit & de- mangeaiſon au nez,& ont l haleine puante,à cauſe de la corruption des viandes en l'eſtomach, dont les ex- halations montent en haut , qui fait pareillement qu'ils ſont fort aſſommeillez, & treſſaillent en dormant. outre-plus,ils ont quaſi touſiours vne petite fiévre lente,auec toux ſeiche,les yeux conhillans, & ſouuent signes des changement de couleur au viſage.on cognoiſt les longs & larges , quand on void aux ſelles des excremens longs & ſemblables à ſemences de melons ou coucourdes : les autres,à ſçauoir les aſcarides, ſe cognoiſſent par le nu ne ſe fait en l'eſtomach. larges. prurit & demangeaiſon qu'ils font au ſiege:ainſi que morſure de fourmis , par vn teneſme, & deſcente du sisºº * gros boyau.la raiſon de tous cesſymptomes eſt telle le ſommeil de ceux qui sôt inquietez des vers eſt tur- carides. bulent, iuſques à crier en dormant,quand les vapeurs excitées par le remuement des vers, & enuoyées au raiſon des cerueau, ſont chaudes ſubtiles,& acres : comme au contraire le ſommeil eſt profond lors que telles vapeurs ſ "fº" ſont froides & groſſieres ils ſongent en dormant manger & aualler,ou bien grincent les dents, à cauſe que les vers lors deuorans le chylus enuoyé du ventre aux inteſtins excitent ſemblable ſentimët & imagination en eux lors qu'ils dorment : ils ont vne toux ſeiche par le conſentement des parties qui ſont dediées á la reſpiration,auec celles qu'on appelle naturelles,deſquels vapeurs putrides ſont eſleuées,qui venans à heur- ter contre le diaphragme,l'irritent à excretion comme pour ietter quelque choſe nuiſible:leſquellesvenans à monter a l'orifice de l'eſtomach,partie fort ſenſible de noſtre corps,excitent vn ſanglot,ou ſyncope, ſelon qu'elles ſont ſubtiles,groſſieres ou acres & venans à s'eſleuer vers la teſte, excitent vne demangeaiſon des narines,& esbloüiſſement à la veuë.ceux qui ſont grands ſont pires que les petits,les rouges plus mauuais que les blancs,les vifs que les morts,& les bigarrez que ceux qui ſont d'vne ſeule couleur,de tant qu'ils de- monſtrent plus grande pourriture.et lors qu'il y en a grand nombre,ils demonſtrent d'autant grâde quan- tité de pourriture. ceux qui ſortent auec le ſang,ſignifient mal, parce qu'ils demonſtrent que les inteſtins ſont offencez d'eroſion:car quelquesfois ils les rongent,de façon qu'ils ſortent hors des inteſtins, & ſe diſ- perſent en pluſieurs endroits du ventre,& ſont cauſe de lamort des pauures malades. ainſi eſcrit iacques houlier,& manard en ſes epiſtres,liure troiſieſme,chapitre cinquante-quatre,des maladies internes, qu'on a veu quelquesfois des vers ſortir par les aines,s'eſtans eux-meſmes fait le chemin par eroſion. quand les enfans ont des vers,& ne peuuent auoir haleine qu'à peine,& ſont moites , c'eſt ſigne que la mort eſt à la porte.dauantage,au commencement des fiévres aigues, ſi les verds ronds & longs ſortent en vie, c'eſt ſigne que la fiévre eft peſtilente,demonſtrant qu'ils ne peuuent endurer tel venin : & encore s'ils ſont morts, ils donnent à cognoiſtre dauantage qu'il y a plus grande corruption & venenoſité. - de la cure des vers ch a p. v. viax des qu'il faut euiter. de la beiéil- lie. o v t e l'intention de la cure eſt, faire ſortir les vers vifs ou morts hors du corps d'autant qu'ils ſont de ce genre de choſes qu'on dit eſtre du tout contre nature. il faut euiter toutes viandes qui engendrent corruption,comme fruicts cruds, formages, laictages, & le poiſſon, & generalement toutes choſes de difficile digeſtion , & de facile corruption. la boüillie %$) eſt bonne aux enfans, à cauſe qu'ils ont beſoin d'vne nourriture humide, de groſſeur con- •- - · laict, non de trop difficile digeſtion : leſquelles conditions ſont trouuées en la boüillie, pourueu que la farine de froment ne ſoit ciüe, mais cuite auparauant au four, afin qu'elle ne ſoit tant viſ- queuſe & groſſiere , & auſſi afin que le laict ne cuiſe pas ſi longuement , parce qu'il faut que pour donner cuiſſon : de la petite verole,& lepre. a cuiſſon à la farine,le laict cuiſe ſemblablement long-temps, en quoy il perd ſa bonté, parce que le cuiſant beaucoup,ſa ſubſtance aqueuſe ſe conſume par le feu,& engendre gros ſang, comme il ſe fait par la boüil- lie,lors que la farine n'eſt cuitte auparauant:car il perd en cette façon la ſubſtance de maigue & de beur- re,y reſtant ſeulement la formageuſe,groſſe,viſqueuſe,& de difficile digeſtion, & par conſequent peſante, & faiſant obſtruction aux premieres veines & au foye : qui ſouuentesfois cauſe qu'il s'engendre des vers à l'enfant,& des pierres,& autres mauuais accidens,pour n'eſtre ladite farine cuitte,& le laict trop cuit : par- quoy ceux qui ont des enfans,y prendront garde,ſi bon leur ſemble. et ne ſert de rien alleguer que par eelle anne- experience quotidienne , on voit pluſieurs enfans qui mangent boüillie ſans que la farine ſoit cuitte , ſe ration. porter bien : car ie dy que cela ſe fait pluſtoſt d'aduenture,ou de bonne nature, que de la bonté de cette nourriture. on doit donner ſouuent à mangeraux malades de bonne viandes,de peur que les vers ne piquent & ron- gent les inteſtins:& veu que tels animaux ſont ſouuent engendrez de pourriture, il faut purger le malade, & corriger icelles par remedes eſcrits cy-apres en la peſte, et pour les faire mourir & fortir promptement, le ſyrop de chicorée,ou de limons,auec rheubarbe, & vn peu de ſuccre, & theriaque ou mithridat, eſt vn ſingulier remede pourueu qu'il n'euſt fiévre coniointe,ou en lieu de ce, on pourra vſer de la medecine qui s'enſuit. z cornu cerui.puluer.raſ.eboran. .j.ſº.ſeminis tanac.contra vermes an. .j.fiat decoctio pro parua doſitin colatura infunde rhubar.optimi .j.cinnam. .j.diſſolue ſyrupi de abſinth. . . fiat doſ detur manè trib.hor.ante paſtum. - outre-plus,l'huyle d'oliue priſe par la bouche fait mourir les vers, comme auſſi l'eau de corrigiole don- corrigi née à boire auec du laict:toutes choſes ameres les tuent. mais deuant que d'vſer d'icelles , il faut donner # vn clyſtere de laict auec miel & ſuccre, auquel on ne doit mettre huyle ou graiſſe, ny choſes ameres, de # f-'º- peur de les renuoyer contre-mont:parce que les choſes douces les attirent,& les ameres les repouſſent.d'a- - uantage, tu noteras qu'il faut touſiours donner & meſler choſes douces auec les ameres, à fin que par la douceur, les vers attirent ce qui les pourra faire mourir. et partant faut donner l'eſpace de deux ou trois iours du laict ſuccré au malade , puis apres y meſler choſes ameres, comme ſemences de centaure, aloes, rue,abſinte,& leurs ſemblables.auſſi la corne de cerfa grande vertu contre les vers,& en doit-on bailler la carne de tant à boire qu'à manger,à ſçauoir la mettant en poudre,& la faiſant boüillir en eau , laquelle on donnera cerfeſº prº- a boire au malade:auſſi on en mettra cuire vn petit noüet auec la viande. pareillement le theriaque donné º ººº aboire en boüillon,tué les vers.le pourpié eſt ſemblablement bonen potage, ou en decoction & breuua-"" ge,& le faut faire boüillir en eau , & en faire boire aux petits enfans, & aux grands, on le pourra donner auec du vin.le ſemblable eſt de la chicorée & de la menthe.auſſi aïzoon minus , & les ſebeſtes ſont pro- pres,en faiſant vne decoction d'iceux,& en donnant à boire deuant le repas auec vn peu de ſuccre.on don- nera aux enfans à manger de la poudre de la ſemence contre les vers dedans leur boüillie, ou auecvne pomme bien cuitte.dauantage on pourra faire ſuppoſitoires,comme cettuy. prenez du corail qui tire ſur le blanc , des racleures d'yuoire, de la corne de cerf bruſlée, & d'iris, de chacun deux ſcrupules,du miel blanc,deux onces & demie, & de l'eau de corrigiole, autant qu'il en faut pour incorporer le tout enſem- ble,& faites ſuppoſitoires : dont on en appliquera tous les iours vn qui ſoit du poids de deux dragmes aux enfans,& plus peſant aux grands.de tels ſuppoſitoires faut principalement vſer , lors que ceux deſquels le malade eſt tourmenté,ſont du genre de ceux que l'on appelle aſcarides, parce qu'eſtans attachez & logez dans le boyau appellé droit,ils peuuent par tèl remede eſtre promptement tirez. quant aux petits enfans cataplaſme qui ne peuuent rien prendre par la bouche, il leur faut appliquer ſur le nombril cataplaſmes faits de pou- º les dre de cumin,incorporée auec fiel de bœuf,& farine de lupins,abſinthe,auroſne, & tenaſie, fueilles d'arti- * chaud,ruë,poudre de colocinthe,ſemence de citron,aloës,perſicaria,mentaſtrum,fueilles de perſiquier,co- ftamer,zedoaire,ſauon mol.on applique telles choſes non ſeulement,ſur le nombril, mais ſur tout le ven- tre,& fur l'eſtomach : toutesfois on y doit meſler des aſtringens, de peur de le trop relaſcher,comme ſont huyle de myrtilles,de coings,maſtic,& autres ſemblables. outre-plus, on leur peut appliquer ſur le nom- - bril vn gros oignon, lequel on creuſera , & ſcta rem ply d'aloès & theriaque, puis on le fera cuire ſous la braiſe:& le tout chaud,piſté auec amendes ameres,& fiel de bœuf.dauantage, on leur pourra faire empla- # ſtres de choſes ameres,comme ceſtuy. prenez du ſuc d'abſinthe, & du fiel de bœuf, de chacun deux onces. # "# adiouſtant de la colocynthe huict dragmes : le tout ſoit broyé & meſlé enſemble, & incorporé auec farine #. de lupins,& de ce ſoit fait emplaſtre qui ſera appliqué ſur le nombril de l'enfant. ou on pourra faire on- guents & linimens de ſemblables matieres pour leur frotter le ventre. les pillules communes ſont pareil- lement fort bonnes à en faire emplaſtres pour appliquer ſur le nombril. et pour les faire encore pluſtoſt debuſquer & ſortir hors,faut oindre le ſiege du malade de miel & de ſuccre, parce qu'ils fuyent l'amertu- me, & courent à la douceur : & partant ſortent pluſtoſt du ventre. pareillement faut prendre des meſmes les ver, vcrs,& les faire ſeicher ſur vn« peſle de fer fort chaude, puis les pulueriſer, & en donner à boire auec vin, mort, pri, en ou autre breuuage, & promptement mourront. auſſi le jus de citron en petite quantité donné à boire breuuages dans vne cuillier auec huyle d'amendes ameres, ou huyle d'oliue. d'abondant, on pourra faire bains con- chaſſent les tre les vers,comme le ſuiuant prenez de l'abſinthe & noix de galle autant qu'il en faudra, faites boüillir le viſ . remede con- tre les vers suppºſitoire. , , tout en eau , & mettez l'enfant dans icelle, & le lauez chaudement. finalement on peut baigner l'enfant dans l'eau,en laquelle on aura fait boüillir des fueilles de peſcher & d'abſynthe.ce qui eſt principalement propre contre les vers qui ſont appellez aſcarides.or en toute cette curation, faut auoir égard que le mal des vers eſt ſouuent compliqué auec maladie plus grande & principale,comme auec fiévre aigue & arden- te,aucc fux de ventre,& ſemblables accidens,eſquels cas,ſi pour exemple,vous donniez incontinent femen les choſes contra,ou theriaque vieille,myrrhe,ou aloës , vous augmenteriez l'ardeur de la fiévre , & flux de ventre, ameres au- d'autant que les choſes ameres ſont contraires à la guariſon de ces deux accidens : comme au cas pareil » ſi gmentent la ayant égard au fiux de ventre,par lequelles vers ſont reiettez,vous ordonnez du corail,pourpié, farine de ºº lentilles,vous rendez la fiévre plus difficile à guarir,de tant que toutes choſes aſtringentes & ſeiches ren- dent la matiere de la fiévre plus contumace. parquoy il faut eſtre diligent à conſiderer ſi la fiévre eſt de- pendante des vers,ou bien ſi elle eſt çauſe propre,comme eſtant fiévre premiere,propre, eſſentielle , & non ſymptomatique : & touſiours ordonner medicamens qui combattent la maladie principale : autrement on peut choiſir medicamens qui combattent l'vn & l'autre:comme laxatifs , & quelque peu amers cn la fiévre & vers amers, & quelque peu aſtringens en vers joints auec flux de ventre. le vingtième liure, "- - des ponx. prºgnoſtic. pline. curation, vif-argent, ennemy mor- tel des poux, mºrpions, cr «irons . petras de argillata li. . traicté . «hap. . paul argin. liure .ch. i. auiceuue. galien. chap. . la lepre c - tient trci ; genres de ' maladies. des poux, morpions, & cirons. c h a p. v i. e s trois ſortes d'animaux ſont engendrez de grande multitude d'humeurs & humiditez cor- $é rompuës, faite d'vne portion craſſe & viſqueuſe de la ſueur, laquelle s'amaſſe & s'arreſte aux % meats des pores du vray cuir. les poux ſont appellez en latin pediculi , pour la multitude de $ leurs pieds , & excitent vne maladie, que les latins appellent morbus pedicularis. ils naiſſent * par tout le corps,principalement és lieux chauds & humides,comme ſont les aiſſelles, aux ai- nes,à la teſte,pour la multitude du poil:& voit-on communément qu'ils s'engendrent à l'entour du col.par- ce qu'il y a vne emunctoire accompagnée de pluſieurs grands vaiſſeaux, par leſquels ſortent pluſieurs hu- miditez ſuperflues, pour l'abondance des ſueurs. les petits enfans y ſont forts ſujets, à raiſon qu'ils cra- pulent & engendrent beaucoup d'excremens.il ne faut negliger cette maladie : car pluſieurs perſonnes en ont eſté trauaillées,& en ont perdu la vie,comme herode roy de iudée,sylla dictateur de rome, le poëte aleman,acaſtus fils de pelias,pherecydes theologien,calliſthenes olynthien,mutius iuriſconſulte,eunus, qui fut le premier qui ſuſcita la guerre des cerfs en la sicile , & antiochus. ils ſe peuuent engendrer par toutes les patties de noſtre corps,meſme dans la maſſe du ſang, comme teſmoigne pline en pluſieurs lieux, au liu. .chap. .liu.t .chap. . - la curation de ce mal conſiſte en trois poincts. le premier eſt d'ordonner le regime de viure deſiccatif, & euiter les viandes qui engendrent mauuais ſuc,& principalemenr les figues & chaſtaignes,& faut vſer de viandes ameres.le ſecond de purger l'humeur que le medecin verra eſtre de beſoin. le troiſieſme eſt, ra- refier le corps par bains,auſquels encrera de la ſtaphiſagre,gentiane,aluine,rué,marrubium,& autres herbes ameres. apres le bain,ou frottera le corps d'vn onguent faict d'axunge de porc en laquelle l'on fera boüil- lir les herbes ſuſdites:puis il ſera meſlé ſoulphre vif ſubtilement puluerisé,ſtaphiſagre,orpiment, aloës , & vif argent,lequel eſt propre contre les poux,morpions,& cirons : puis on reiterera le bain & leſdits reme- des, tant qu'il ſera beſoin. des morpions. les morpions ſont fort adherans à la peau,ſibien qu'on ne les peut qu'à peine arracher. par leurs morſu- res ils penetrent le cuir iuſques dedans la chair, & meſmes aux paupieres des yeux , qui cauſe vn extreme prurit & dema ngaiſon,& comme eſcrit celſe,liu. . par la grande friction s'y fait defluxion , qui vient à ga- ſter & corrompre la veue:tant eſt inſupportable ledit prurit, comme i'ay veu d'vne femme qui ſe lauoit les yeux de bien fort vinaigre.or ils ſont engendrez d'vne matiere plus ſeiche que les poux,qui fait qu'ils ſont auſſi plus plats,& moins nourris. la cure ſera ſemblable à celle des poux. des cirons. - les cirons ſont petits animaux,touſiours cachez ſous le cuir, ſous lequel ils ſe trainent, rampent, & le rongent petit à petit,excitans vne faſcheuſe demangeaiſon & gratelle.ils ſont faits d'vne matiere ſeiche,la- quelle par defaut de viſcoſité, eſt diuisée & ſeparée, comme petits atomes viuans. - cure. les cirons ſe doiuent tirer auec eſpingles ou aiguilles:toutesfois il vaut mieux les tuer auec onguens & decoctions faites des choſes ameres & ſalées. le remede prompt eſt le vinaigre , dans lequel on aura fait boüillir du ſtaphiſagre, & ſel commun. - jautre. prenez axunge & vif-argent, auec vn peu de ſublimé & aloès,& ſoit fait onguent, lequel eſt excellent entre tous les remedes pour tuer les poux, cirons & morpions. - autre liniment. z. ſtaphiſagrix tritx .aloes .ij aceti ſcillitici,& olei amygdalarum amararum an. .ij.oleifraxini, & ſucci geniſtx an. .cum ſucco athanaſix,fiat inſtar mellis pro litu partium affectarum.l'eau marine auec le ſoulphre,& du fiel de bœuf meſlez enſemble,y ſont auſſi fort ſinguliers.le bon-homme de guidon, trai- cté .doct. . chapitre .promet qu'vne ceinture de laine portée ſur la chair , frottée d'onguent vif argen- tin, tue entierement & fait mourir les poux , de quelque eſpece qu'ils ſoient,& en quelque partie que l'on - applique. briefue deſcription de la lepre ou ladrerie . c h a p. vii. e s t e maladie eſt appellée des grecs elephantiaſis , parce que les malades ont leur peau aſ- pre,ſcabre,ridée & inegale,ainſi que les elephans : ce qui eſt dit à cauſe de la grandeur de la maladie. quelq'ies chirurgiens ſuyuans l'opinion des arabes,luy ont attribué ce nom de le- \>mg)ſ pre(mais improprement,d'autant qu'il ſignifie vne eſpece de ſcabie , ou galle, & vice du cuir, à>># v) appellé du commun peuple,le mal s.main)duquel nous vſerons auſſi & le retiendrons pour le pret.nt comme eſtant fort commun & vſité. donc nous dirons premierement, que lepre ou ladrerie(ſelon paulus aegineta)eſt vn chancre vniuerſel de tout le corps auicenne l'appelle maladie vniuerſelle, laquelle corrompt la complexion,forme ou figure des membres. galien dit,que c'eſt vne maladie tres-grande, pro- uenant de l'erreur de la vertu digeſtiue & ſanguificatiue du foye, par lequel erreur & defaut, la vertu aſſi- milatiue de la chair eſt grandement deprauée & changée. le meſme galien,liure deuxieime,à glaucon,de- finie cette maladie,effuſion de ſang trouble & groſſier,contenu és veines par tout le corps, & habitude d'i- celuy. outre,lepre eſt dicte maladie tres-grande,à cauſe qu'elle participe d'vn virus veneneux corrompant les membres & la beauté du corps car qu'elle participe de venin,il eſt aise à cognoiſtre, c'eſt qu'il n'eſt pas neceſſaire que tout ceux qui en tout leur corps ſont melancholiques ſoient ladres. elle contient les trois genres de maladies,& premierement elle eſt de mauuaiſe complexion, à fçauoir , chaude & ſeiche au com- mencement,& en fin l'ebullition & ardeur paſsée & eſuanoüie,froide,& ſeiche : qui eſt la cauſe immediate de lepre confirmée.elle eſt de mauuaiſe compoſition,pource qu'elle corrompt la forme & figure des mem- bres : auſſi elle fait ſolution de continuité,qui eſt maladie commune- | º a)fſ --" d | de la petite verole & lepre. a f b c des cauſes de lepre . c h a p. v i ii. $ e s cauſes de la lepre ſont trois,à ſçauoir,primitiue,antecedente,& coniointe. la cauſe pri- cauſe pri- mitiue eſt doublesà ſçauoirl, celle qui eſt introduite au ventre de la mere, comme lors que §, # ， quelqu'vn eſt engendré au temps des menſtrues,ou qu'il a eſté faict de la ſemence d'vn pere lepr.. ou mere lepreux , & partant on la peut aſſeurément dire eſtre vne maladie hereditaire : car vn ladre engendre vn ladre, veu que la ſemence ou geniture prouient de toutes les parties du corps : partant les parties principales eſtans viciées,& la maſſe du ſangalterée,corrompuë & infectée, pource il eſt neceſſaire que la ſemence le ſoit auſſi,dont celuy qui eſt engendré, eſt infecté. pareillement cette maladie peut venir d'autres cauſes,à ſçauoir,pour faire ſa demeure en lieux maritimes , où l'air eſtant couſtumierement eſpais & nebuleux , rend par ſucceſſion de temps telle toute l'habitude de noſtre corps, et pocrate ſelon le dire d'hippocrate. que quel eſt l'air,tels ſont les eſprits,tels ſont nos humeurs:ou pour l'habitude p - des lieux & pays trop chauds,dont noſtre ſang deuient aduſte & bruſlé:ou lieux trop froids,dont il deuient eſpais,tardif & congelé:ainſi voyons-nous en quelque partie d'allemagne beaucoup de ladres, & en afri- que & eſpagne,plus qu'au reſte du monde,& en noſtre languedoc,prouence,& guyenne, plus qu'au reſte de la france : ou pour communiquer & frequenter auec les ladres, & coucher auec eux, pource que leur ſueur & exhalation des vapeurs qui ſortent hors de leurs corps,ſont veneneuſes. ainſi eſt de leur halaine, & de boire aux verres,& autres vaiſſeaux auſquels ils auront beu : car de leur bouche ils y laiſſent vne ſa- liue ſanieuſe contenue entre leurs genciues,& contre les dents,laquelle eſt veneneuſe en ſon eſpece, ainſi que la baue du chien enragé eſt en la ſienne.pour cette cauſe les magiſtrats leur enioignent ne boire qu'en leur baril:& à la mienne volonté que tous les ladres le fiſſent,à celle fin qu'ils n'euſſent occaſion d'infecter perſonne par ce moyen.or icy ſe peuſt eſmouuoir vne queſtion, à ſçauoir, ſi vne femme peut auoir com- aſrauoir ſi pagnié d'homme lepreux,ſans qu'elle ſoit infectée:ce qui eſt poſſible , ſi bien toſt aptes ſes mois coulent, * le ceit a d'autant que nature fe purge & nettoye par tels fiux mais au contraire, l'homme à tard & difficilement ſe º ſºº peut ſauuer qu'il ne ſoit lepreux, s'il a compagnie d'vne femme lepreuſe, ou qui recentement ait habité º auec vnlepreux,& qu'elle ait encor quelque portion de la matiere ſpermatique,demeurée aux rugoſitez du º" col de ſa matrice,pource que l'homme eſt apte & prompt à receuoir le virus ou venin lepreux,à cauſe que laverge virile eſt fort ſpongieuſe & rare , au moyen dequoy reçoit facilement le virus, eſleué des vapeurs de la matiere ſpermatique,qui eſt communiquée aux eſprits par les veines & arteres,& aux membres prin- cipaux & de là en toute l'habitude du corps,ainſi qu'on voit communément que la groſſe verole ſe prend par tel acte. or les lepreux defirent grandement le coit principalement lors que leur maladie eſt en ſon commencement & en eſtat, à cauſe qu'ils ſentent grande chaleur eſtrange aux parties internes de leurs ºº corps,& partant bruſlent du deſir de dame venus:mais tel deduit leur eſt fort contraire, d'autant que par # iceluy les eſprits & chaleur naturelle ſe reſoluent,dont la chaleur eſtrange eſt fort augmentée,& les bruſle eſtre # dauantage.auſſi cette maladie peut aduenir pour auoir vsé de viandes trop ſalées,eſpicées & acres,groſſes & craſſes,comme chair de porc,d'aſne,d'ours:auſſi de pois,feves,& autres legumes, laictages , poiſſons, & ſemblables,tant alimens que medicamens qui generalement engendrent ſang cacochyme & melancholique, aduſte, & bruſlé:auſſi par trop crapuler , & boire de vins trop forts : pareillement grand trauail aſſiduel, ſoing & ſollicitude,vie miſerable,& en perpetuelle crainte:leſquelles choſes font vne intemperature chau- de & ſeiche,qui engendre vn ſangmelancholique,feculent,aduſte, & bruſlé par vne chaleur immoderée, lequel de la maſſe ſanguinaire venant à s'eſpandre aux parties exterieures, change toute l'habitude du corps, & depraue ſa forme ou figure. autre cauſe de lepre peut éſtre aſſignée ſur la retention des ſuper- fluitez & excremens melancholiques, comme des hemorrhoides, flux menſtruel, groſſe & petite verole, rougeolle,vieilles vlceres,fiévres quartes,oppilation de ratelle, exceſſiue chaleur du foye. or il faut icy entendre, que la cauſe de la lepre par la retention des ſuperfluitez , ſe fait à cauſe que le ſang corrompu n'eſt naturellement euacué,dont il regorge par tout le corps,& corrompt le ſang qui doit nourrir tous les membres:parquoy la vertu aſſimilatiue ne peut bien aſſimiler,pour la corruption & vice du ſuc, dont la le- pre eſt causée.les choſes antecedentes ſont les humeurs preparez à ſe bruſler & corrompre, & conuertir cauſe ante- en melancholie,par vne chaleur aduſte & du tout eſtrange à nature:car és corps poſſedez de telle chaleur, ºre-. les humeurs par aduſtion ſont aisément tournez en atra bilis:laquelle par long-temps venant à s'enuenimer & corrompre,donne commencement & eſſence à la ladrerie.les coniointes, ſont les humeurs ja pourris & veneneux,ja eſpandus par l'habitude,qui alterent & corrompent tout le corps par vne intemperature froi- cauſe con- de & ſeiche,contraire au principe de vie,dont la mort s'enſuit:car noſtrevie conſiſte en chaleur & humidité ioin#. naturelle. - - par un maag-. la melan- cholie ſup- primée engë - dre la lepre. - - desſignes qui monſtrent la preparation de lepre- . | ch a p. ix. #ette maladie eſt cogneuë par les ſignes,& accidens qui s'enſuiuent : pource que chacune ma- ， ladie a ſes propres accidens qui la ſuiuent,comme l'ombre fait le corps. et entre les ſignes,au- | cuns ſignifient : la preparation , les autres l'effect,lequel a quatre temps , à ſçauoir commence- #ment,accroiſſement,eſtat,& declinaiſon.le commencement eſt,quand le virus touche les mem- - bres interieurs,dont leurs actions ſont diminuées & affoiblies l'accroiſſement , lors que le vi- commence- rus apparoiſt au dehors,& les ſignes & accidens ſe multiplient & accroiſſent. l'eſtat eſt,quand les membres met de lepr•. commencent à s'vlcerer. la declinaiſon eſt,que la face eſt hideuſe à regarder, & que les extremitez des accroiſſe- doigts tombent,& alors les ſignes ſont populaires,& cogneus à vn chacun.or les ſignes qui demonſtrent la ment. ,preparation ou diſpoſition à la lepre,ſont mutation de couleur naturelle en la face, comme goutteroſe,ſa-#ſtºf- - phyrs,cheute de poil,grande alteration,tant de iour que de nuict,l'haleine forte & puante , & vlceration à #ſº la bouche,mutation de voix,& vngrand deſir de l'acte venerien. #» à la leprº signes qui monſtrent la lepre eſtre ja confirmée . c h a p. x. # v v a n t la doctrine des anciens, il faut examiner toute la teſte, & principalement la face du malade en laquelle apparoiſſent les propres ſignes & les plus veritables,pource que la face eſt mol- le & rare,& en icelle le cuir de tenue ſubſtance : au moven dequoy l'humeur melancholique & aduſte y eſt facilement cogneu,faiſant leſion à icelle pluſtoſt qu'aux autres parties exterieures. premierement † - aut le vingtieſme liure, i premier ſi. gne de la lepre pre- ſente. , des ſourcils cr du der- riere des oreilles. des oreilles. du front. du regard. des marines. faut regarder la teſte,& ſçauoir ſiles malades ont vne alopecie,c'eſt à dire, cheute de poil, aſſez ſemblable a à celle,à laquelle ſont ſubiects naturellemét les renards, & regeneration de cheueux greſles,courts & ſub- tils: qui ſe fait,pource que l'action de nature en l'habitude des poils,eſt corrompue par le defaut d'alimens propres,& partant il eſt neceſſaire qu'ils tombent. adiouſte que les humeurs & vapeurs enuoyées & ſuſ- citées des parties naturelles & inferieures d'vn ladre,en haut,ſont ſi aduſtes, que de leuracrimonie ils ron- gent la racine des poils,& aliment qui pourroit eſtre enuironicelle, de ſorte qu'iceux ne peuuent aucune- ment ſubfifter. et à cauſe de l'imbecilité de la partie , ils reuiennent plus deſliez & greſles : pareillement on leur arrachera des cheueux & de la barbe,& des ſourcils , & verra-on ſi auecques leur racine on arra- chera quelquc portion de chair : car telle choſe ne ſe fait que par pourriture & corruption du ſuc alimen- taire.pour le ſecond ſigne,faut taſter du doigt les ſourcils, & derriere les oreilles, ſçauoir s'ils ont des tu- bercules granuleux;c'eſt à dire,grains ronds, & durs,à cauſe qu'en la lepre la vertu aſſimilatiue defaillant fait que le nourriſſement venant aux parties ne ſe peut aſſimiler entierement & parfaictement:parquoy ar- reſté & comme conglobé en lieu eſtroit,comme derriere les oreilles,de ſa propre craſſitie & terreſtrité, il demeure granuleux : laquelle choſe appert,& ſe monſtre principalement au viſage, & aux parties deſnuées de chair,& tel ſigne eſt fort certain.dauantage,ils ont les oreilles rondes,pour la conſomption de leurs lo- bes & parties charmeuſes par defaut d'aliment ſuffiſant,groſſes,eſpeſſes,& tuberculeuſes,à cauſe de la craſ- ſité & terreſtrité de l'aliment:qui affluë à la partie,ce que nous mettrons pour le troiſieſme ſigne. pour le quatrieſme,ils ont le front ridé comme vn lion,dont aucuns ont appellé cette maladie,morbus leoninus.et telle ſiccitéviét de toute l'habitude du corps:auſſi voyons nous l'eſcorce d'vn vieux cheſne,&la face de nos vieilles gés,eſtre toute pleine de rides le cinquieſme,ils ont leregard fixe & immobile,à cauſe que les muſ- cles faiſans le mouuemét de l'œil,deſſeichez par faute d'humidité,qui les rédgliſsäs &lubriques,sôt moins prompts à ſe mouuoir.et les yeux ronds:car les yeux de ſoy,& de leur propre ſubſtance,ſont preſque r ds. or ce qui fait qu'ils apparoiſſent plats par deuant,& tendans en poincte par derriere, vient de la concur- rence & figure des muſcles & graiſſe qui les enuironne. parquoy iceux conſommez par faute de nourritu- re,ou par l'acrimonie de l'humeur qui leur eſt enuoyé,ce n'eſt de merueille, ſi comme deſnuez de leur ve- ſtement,ils ſe monſtrent ronds.pareillement ils ont les yeux rouges, enflammez, & luiſans comme ceux des chats,à cauſe de l'ardeur des eſprits,& humeurs acres & aduftes : & vrayement le temperament des ladres eſt fort ſemblable à celuy du chat,ſçauoir ſec & melancholique,côme auſſi les mœurs,ence qu'ils ſont ma- licieux comme eux.le ſixieſme,ils ont les narines larges par dehors,& eſtroites par dedans,à cauſe de l'ali- ment terreſtre,groſſier &melancholique,lequel pouſsé du dedâs en l'extremité des narines,les eſleue en tu- meur par dehors:dôt s'enſuit que pour l'eſpeſſeur dudict humeur,leur cauité interieure ſe môſtre moindre, & comme bouchée.icelles narines ſont pareillemêt corrodées,croufteuſes & vlcerées,dont ſouuent en ſort du ſang,& le ſeptum cartilaginoſum corrodé & conſumé,& ſont veus eſtre camus,d'autant que toute lafa- ce eſt tumefiée,imbue & enflée de mauuais ſuc : ce qui auſſi peut proceder de l'acrimonie de l'humeur qui , corrode les os qui font l'eminence du nez,ou font contraction d'iceux ou dedans, dont pour la cauité ap- parente ils deuiennent camus.le ſeptieſme, ils ont les lévres fort groſſes, eſleuées, & les genciues ordes, puantes & corrodées,à cauſe des vapeurs acres, dont les dents ſont deſcharnées. le huictieſme,ils ont la langue enflée & noire.pour meſme cauſe que leurs narines : car comme l'air extremement chaud de l'afri- c que par reſolution de la portion plus ſubtile,eſpeſſit les humeurs attirez en l'extremité des lévres des hom-\ mes de ce pays : ainſi la chaleur interieure des ladres fait le ſemblable des humeurs pouſſez au dehors vers cette partie,laquelle outre ſe monſtre renuersée à faute d'appuy,pour ſouſtenir vn tel faix d'humeurs. ont - deſſus & deſſous des tubercules,ou petites.glandulettes,ou grains,comme on voit aux pourceaux ladres,& les veines de deſſous apparoiſſent groſſes & variqueuſes.la cauſe eſt,que la langue eſt vn corps ſpongieux parquoy il eſt aisément imbu des humeurs qui regnent par tout ie corps. et pour le dire en vn mot,ils ont toute la face tumefiée & couperosée de couleur rouge,obſcure,lucide,& les yeux flamboyans,hideux,& eſ- pouuantable à regarder,comme satyres:laquelle choſe procede de la cachexie & mauuaiſe habitude de tout le corps.or la couleur du cuir eſt vn ſigne tres-certain des humeurs qui abondent & dominuent au corps: partant veu que l'humeur melancholique qui cauſe la lepre,eſt gros & aduſte, il s'enſuit que la couleur du cuir & principalement de la face,ſoit liuide & plombine. ce qu'il faut entendre de ce qui apparoiſt le plus ſouuent:car autrement la couleur à quelques ladres tend ſur le iaune,à autres ſur le blanc,ſelon qu'eſt l'hu- meur qui en iceux regne.car ainſi la pluſpart des medecins font trois eſpeces de ladrerie : rouge ou noira- ſtre,faicte de ſang,ou melancholie naturelle:iaunaſtre faicte de colere:blancheaſtre faicte de pituite,le tout bruſlé & recuit par la chaleur non naturelle le .leur haleine eſt fort puante, & generalement tous les ex- cremens qui ſortent de leurs corps,ſentans la ſauuagine qui commence ja à ſe pourrir , pour le venin con- ceu en leurs humeurs. le dixieſme ils ont la voix enroüée,& outre qu'ils parlent du nez : ce qui aduient à cauſe que leurs poulmons,nerfs recurrens,& muſcles du larynx,ſont offenſez & imbus de la matiere viru- lente,& qu'ils ont la cauité du nez bouchée:la trachée artere,comme toutes les parties du corps, fort reſ- ſeichée trop aſpre & inegale,ainſi que l'on voit aduenir à ceux qui ont largemét beu des vins trop chauds, forts,& puiſſans pour laquelle meſme cauſe ils ont grande difficulté de reſpirer,ſur la ſeichereſſe des muſ- des le vres cr gen iues. de la lägue. eſpeees de la drerie. de l'halei- é*. o de la voix. cles ſeruans à la reſpiration, l'onziéme eſt,qu'ils ont morphea,& defedation vniue ſelle de leur peau , & i i de la defe. dation du cuir,dartres c giãdules. * ' i de l'ardeur du corps & des pü #ions. l des m uſcles conſumez. l'ont pareillement creſpie comme vn oye maigre deſplumee,à ſçauoir aſpre aride, & inegale:icelle ſe ridât & grillant par l'aduſtion & ſiccité interieure des humeurs , de meſme façon qu'vn cuir au feu ou au soleil. auſſi ont pluſieurs dartres & vilaines galles,deſquelles ſouuentesfois ſortent des crouſtes,comme eſcailles de carpe,ou autres poiſſons,& ont auſſi pluſieurs glandules : leſquelles choſes procedent à cauſe des hu- meurs alterez & corrompus & principalement de la malice du gros ſang melancholique & aduſte, pour n'eſtre bien élaboré par l'œuure de nature,& regy par la faculté nutritiue & partât il ſe procrée vne chair craſſe,ſcyrrheuſe,dure,aſpre,& inégale.dóc veu qu'en cette maladie il y a grand erreur en la faculté nutri- tiue,& par côſe quent en l'aſſimilatiue:de là s'enſuit que l'alimét n'eſtant bié élabouré,ne peut eſtre changé ny aſſimilé.et par tel defaut il eſt neceſſaire que ces tubercules ſe faſſent en la chair,& qu'elle ſoit dure, & toute la peau aride inegale,& de mauuaiſe couleur,& vlcerée en pluſieurs endroits,tât a cauſe de la craſſitie & terreſtrite:que pour j acrimonie d'iceux:& ceſtuy-cy doit eſtre bien noté entre tous les ſignes. le . ils ſentent par fois grande ardeur & punctions par tout le corps,comme ſi on les piquoit d'aiguilles qui ſe fait à cauſe d'vne vapeur maligne qui s'eſleue des parties interieures,& eſt retenuë ſous la peau, & ne peut li- brement ſortir,pource que le cuir eſt fait gros,denſe,& eſpés,par l'aduſtion des humeurs pourris partant la vertu expulſiue eſt continuellement ſtimulee à ietter hors les vapeurs acres & rnordicantes.le .eſt,qu'ils ont vne emaciation ou amaigriſſement,& conſomption des muſcles qui ſont entre le poulce & le doigt in- dex:non point ſeulemét,pource que la faculté nut, itiue a defaut d'alimés pour nourrir leſdits muſcles(car tel defaut eſt general par tous les muſcles du corps)mais pource qu'iceux,comme le tenat, ayans vne emi- nence manifeſte,la depreſſion & emaciation,cóme choſe eſtrange & inaccouſtumée, eſt pluſtoſt remarquée - i ci / | - - - © - ( - - | - - .• • - - · de la petite verole, & lepre. en iceux & pour cette raiſon ils ont les eſpaules protuberentes en forme d'aiſles,à cauſe de la conſomption & emaciation de la partie interieure du muſcle trapeze. le quatorziéme ils ont vne ſtupeur ou diminution de la faculté ſenſitiue, à cauſe que les nerfs ſont remplis d'humeurs melancholiques, gros & terreſtres : qui fait que l'eſprit animal ne peut reluire & eſtre porté par iceux aux parties qui en ont beſoin, dont s'enſuit ftupeur.veritablement ie me ſuis ſouuent trouué à l'eſpreuue des ladres, & entre tous les ſignes digne d'e- ſtre bien notez, cettuy-cy m'eftoit commun, c'eſt que les ayant picquez d'vne aſſez groſſe & longue épingle au gros tendon qui s'attache au talon qui eſt ſenſible par deſſus les autres, & voyans qu'ils n'en ſentoient rien, bien que i'euſſe pouſſe l'aiguille fort auant, ie conclus que veritablement ils ſont ladres. or pourquoy ils perdentainſi le ſentiment, le mouuement leur demeurant entier, la cauſe eſt que les ne fs qui ſont diſſe- minez au cuir, ſont plus affectez, & ceux qui ſont aux muſcles , ne le ſont tant, & pource quand on les pi- que profondement, ils ſentent la picqueure, ce qu'ils ne font à la ſuperficie du cuir.le quinziéme, auec ce qu'ils n'ont point ou peu de ſentiment en leurs extremitez, & icelles tombent principalement en la decli- naiſon,à cauſe que la faculté expultrice iette les humeurs pourris qui la † loing qu'elle peut des parties nobles, dont vient que l humeur melancholique eſtant de ſubſtance groſſe accompagnée du vi- rus lepreux, opîle les nerfs , de façon que l'eſprit ſenſitif ne peut peut penetrer & reluire iuſqu'aux extre- mitez, leſquelles ſont loing de la chaleur naturelle:joint que depuis que l'vne des principales facultez man- que en vne partie, les autres la deſdaignent, & n'y reluiſent aſſez ſuffiſamment pour la ſympathie qu'elles ont les vnes auec les autres, & par ainſi la partie tombe en totale mortification. le ſeiziéme, ils ont ſonges & idées en dormantfort épouuantables : car quelquesfois il leur eſt aduis qu'ils voyent des diables,ſerpens, & manoirs obſcurs, ſepulchres, corps morts, & autres choſes ſemblables, leſquelles impreſſions ſont fai- tes au ſens commun, à cauſe des vapeurs fuligineuſes de l'humeur melancholique, qui montent au cerueau, ainſi que nous voyons auſſi aduenir à ceux dui eſtans mordus de chiens enragez , tombent en hydrophobie. pour le dixſeptiéme, nous mettrons, qu'ils ſont quaſi tous cauteleux, trompeur#, & furieux ſur le commen- cement, & increment de leur maladie,à raiſon de l'aduſtion des humeurs,à laquelle dauantage la ſiccité fert d'aiguillon : mais en l'eſtat & declinaiſon de la maladie,ils deuiennent cauteleux,trompeurs & ſoupçonneux, à cauſe qu'ils ſont deffians deux-meſmes, à raiſon de la melancholie, qui froide & ſeiche, les rend ineptes à executer toutes choſes,ſoit du corps ou d'eſprit : d'où vient que craignans toutes choſes voire les plus aſſeu- rées, ils taſchent touſiours à preuenir & ſuppléer par malice, ce qu'ils ſçauent,leur defaillir d'eſprit & d'ad- dreſſe : qui eſt la meſme cauſe pourquoy les vieilles gens, les malades,& femmes ſont ſur tous ſubiets à tels vices. ils deſirent aufſi grandement la compagnie des femmes,& principalement au temps de l'accroiſſement & eſtat de leur maladie , à raiſon de la chaleur eſtrange qui les bruſle au dedan : mais en la declinaiſon ils abhorrent tel deduit, parce que leur chaleur naturelle eſt preſque exhalée & eſteinte cela peut auſſi pro- uenir de la craſſitie de leurs humeurs, leſqueis outre qu'ils ſont terreſtres, ſont dauantage embroüillez d'vn eſprit flatulent, excité & promené dedans la maſſe ſanguinaire par la chaleur non naturelle. le dixhuictié- me,leur vrine eſt eſpaiſſe comme celles des iumens,& quelquesfois ſubtile,pour languſtie des vaiſſeaux par où paſſe l'vrine,par leſquels le plus ſubtil s'euacue : icelle eſt auſſi quelquesfois blafarde,& de couleur cen- drée, & fetide, comme tous les autres excremens. le dixneufiéme, ils ont le ſang fort gros, aduſte , & de couleur noiraftre & plombine, & fi on le laue, on le trouuera arentileux en ſa profondité pour la grande aduſtion. le vingtiéme eſt,qu'il ont le pouls debile & lâguide,à raiſon que le cœur & faculté pulſatiue re- fidente en iceluy, eſt tellement opprimée des vapeurs fulgineuſes qui s'eſleuent de leurs humeurs groſſiers & melancholiques,qu'elle ne peut librement battre. or nous auons pluſieurs autres ſignes de ladrerie, cofn- me dureté de ventre, à raiſon de l'ardeur du foye : rots frequents, à cauſe de la fragilité de l'eſtomach, caü- ſée de l'humeur melancholique qui regorge en iceluy : frequente ſternuation,pour la plenitude du cerueaui mais entre tous,cettuy leur eſt fort frequent, c'eſt que pour leur viſage & tout leur cuir apparoiſt touſiours onctueux , à raiſon de l'ardeur & chaleur non naturelle, qui diſſoult & liquefie toute la graiſſe qui eſt ſous la peau, dont elle ſemble toute arrouſee. ce qui ſe connoiſtra, ſi on leur iette de l'eau nette ſur la peau : car l'on verra icelle ne s'arreſter en aucun lieu par faute de priſe. or des ſignes ſuſdits, les vns ſont vniuoques ; c'eſt à dire, qui demol ſtrent veiitablement la lep e:les autres ſont equiuoques ou communs, & ſuruenans à d'autres maladies qu'à icelle lepre, toutesfois ſeruent glandement a la connoiſtre. et pour concluſion , ſi toutes ces choies-la, ou la pluſ part, ſont trouuc es, elles demonſtrent veritablement la ladrerie parfaicte. - - - - * - c h a p. xi. bºzſ)ſ # a lepre eſt vne maladie hereditaire & contagieuſe, quaſi comme la peſte, & du teut incura- #-sn， ble, comme auſſi ſouuent eſt la peſte. cette contagion eſt fi grande qu'elle vient aux enfans # rnz des enfans, & encore plus loing, dequoy l'experience fait foy. or elle eſt incurable,parce que p ( ( comme nous auons dit ) c'eſt vn chancre vniuerſel de tout le corps, car ſi vn chancre qui eſt en vne ſeule partie d'iceluy, ne reçoit aucune curation, comment ſe pourra guarir celuy qui du prognoſtic de lºpre- n#n occupe vniuerſellement tout le corps ? auſſi elle ne ſe peut guarir, parce que le mal eſt plus grand que re- mede aucun qu'on ait iuſques à preſent pû trouuer & inuenter. outre-plus, il faut eſtimer que lors que les ſignes apparoiſſent au dehors, le commencement eſt long temps auparauant au dedans , à raiſon qu'elle ſe fait touſiours pluſtoſt aux parties interieures qu'exterieures : toutesfois aucuns ont la face belle , & le cuir poly & liſſé, ne donnant aucun indice de lepre par dehors; comme ſont les ladres blancs,appellez cacots, cagots,& capots, que l'on trouue en baſſe bretagne, & en guyenne vers bordeaux, où il les appellent ga- bets : és viſages deſquels, bien que peu ot point des ſignes ſus alleguez apparoiſſent, fi eſt-ce que telle ar- deur & chaleur eſtrange leur ſort du corps,ce que par experience i'ay veu : quelquesfois l'vn d'iceux tenant en ſa maiſon l'eſpace d'vne heure vne pomme freſche, icelle apres apparoſſoit auſliaride & ridée,que ſi elle euſt eſté l'eſpace de huict iours au soleil. or tels ladres ſont blancs & beaux , quaſi comme le reſte des hommes, à cauſe que leur ladrerie conſiſte en matiere pituiteuſe, laquelle reſſeichée par aduftion, eſt faite attabilaire, ſi que retenant touſiours ſa couleur blancheaſtre , apporte toutesfois tels inconueniens, aux actions de ceux qu'elle poſſede, leſquels nôus auons cy-deſſus mentionnez des vrais ladres & defcouuerts. dauantage on voit qu'en cette maladie les trois vertus & facultez du corps ſont corrompuës & viciées : car premierement l'animale precedente du cerueau, eſt alteree & changée, ce qui eſt conneu par les imagina- tions & ſonges terribles, & eſpouuantables, & par la difficulté du ſentiment & mouuement qu'ont les ma- la des : la corruption de la vitale eſt auſſi conneuë par la voix & la difficulté d'halaine & puanteur d'icelle, & par le pouls tardif& depraué : le vice de la naturelle ſe connoiſt, parce que le foye ne fait ſangnification, & par les excremens de tout le corps procedans du foye, parquoy nous pouuons conclurre que les trois membres principaux patiſſent en la lepre. - de ! ... « de la ſtufeur cu diminatiº de la faculté ſenſitiae. - , . .. du ſentim# des extremi . tez. i . des ſonges . cºr imagina- tiens eſp cu- uantables. de la caute- le , furie deſir du coit. du deſir du coit. . de l'vrine. i . . de la quali- té du ang. o. dw pouls. - la peau des ladres appa- reiſt oniiueu- ſe, lepre hert- ditaire. la lepre eſt premiere- ment au de- dans qu'au dehors. des iadres blancs. les trois fa- cultez ſont deprauées aux ladrºu. o le xx.liu. de la pet.ver. & lepre. de faire ſeparer les ladres de la conuerſation & compagnie des ſains c h a p t r e xi i. r ayant conneu par les ſignes ſuſdits, que quelqu'vn ſera eſpris de lepre ja confirmée, & cou- q) ſiderant le danger qu'il y a de conſeruer auec telle gens, les magiſtrats les doiuent faire ſepa- a rer & enuoyer hors de la compagnie des ſains,d'autant que ce mal eſt centagieux quaſi com- pour uoy me la peſte, & que l'air ambiant ou enuironnant , lequel nous inſpirons & attirons en nos l'halaine corps, peut eſtre infecté de leur haleine, & de l'exhalation des excremens quiſortent de leurs des ladres vlceres: & l'homme ſain conuerſant auec eux,l'attire;ce qu'avant fait il luy altere & infecte les eſprits,& par •ſº dange- conſequêt les humeurs,dont apres les parties nobles ſont ſaiſies, qui cauſent la lepre.et pour cette occaſion, reuſe. il eſt bon & neceſſaire de les faire ſeparer,comme i'ay dit : ce qui ne repugne point aux ſainctes eſcritures. º - car il eſt efctit que le seigneur fit ſeparer les lepreux hors de l'oſt des enfans d'iſrael. auſſi au leuit eſt *** commandé le ſemblable, & eſt ordonné pour les connoiſtre, qu'ils ayent les veſtemens deſchirez,& la teſte nue,& ſoient couuerts d'vne barbute,& appellez ſales & ords : mais auiourd'huy on leur baille des cliquet- tes & baril, afin qu'ils ſoient conneus du peuple.neantmoins je conſeille que lors qu'onles voudra ſeparer, ataub. «. on le faſſe le plus doucement & amiablement qu'il ſera poſſible,ayant memoire qu'ils ſont ſemblables ànous: luc. ;. où il plairoit à dieu,nous ſeriös touchez de ſemblable maladie,voire encore plus griefue.et les faut admo- mare. i. neſter que combien qu'ils ſoient ſeparez du möde,toutesfois ils ſont aymez de dieu en portant patiamment luc. . leur croix. qu'il ſoit vray,ieſus-chriſt en ce monde a bien voulu communiquer & verſer auec les lepreux b leur donnant ſanté corporelle & ſpirituelle : car il eſt eſcrit qu'vn lepreux s'enclina deuant ieſus-chriſt, diſant, seigneur ſi tu veux tu me peux nettoyer, & ieſus eſtendant ſa main le toucha, & luy dit. ie le veux, ſois net:& incontinent ſa lepre fut nettoyée.outre-plus eſt eſcrit que ieſus vne autre fois guarit dix ladres. # jn de la cure pour ceux qui ſontpreparez à la lepre . c h a p. xiii. leprs en ſon s)º l nous faut maintenant parler de la cure, toutesfois ſeulement pour ceux qui ſont preparez eommence- n$ mº tomber en tel deſaſtre & diſpoſition, c'eſt qu'il leur conuient euiter toutes choſes qui eſchauf- ment eſt cu- % fent & bruſlent le ſang , & generalement contrarier à toutes celles que nous auons dictes cy- rable, deſſus pouuoir procéer la lepre, & qu'ils vſent de viandes qui engendrent bon ſuc & aliment, leſquelles deſcrirons cy-apres au regime de la peſte : & ſeront purgez,faignez,baignez,& cor- nettez ſelon l'aduis d'vn docte medecin, afin de refrener l'intemperature du foye, & par confequent de tout : le corps. valeſien de tarente, conſeille qu'on leur oſte les teſticules, dequoy ie ſuis auſſi d'aduis : car par d'oſter les te # ! j. - • - - - - - - - l'inciſion & amputation d'iceux, l'homme eſt mué en temperature feminine, & par ainfi en complexion fficules aux ."! - - - - - -- i§." froide & humide, laquelle eſt contraire à la chaleur & feichereſſe de la lepre : partant le foye eſt refroidi, & par conſequent ne bruſle les humeurs qui ſont cauſe premiere d'icelle maiadie. or quant à la cure de la lepre confirmée, il n'y en a point, comme nous auons dit, encor qu'on donne des ſerpens à boire & à man- ger, & qu'on ſaigne, ventouſe,cornette & baigne les malades, ou qu'on vſe de pluſieurs & diuers autres re- medes. il eſt vray que par ce moyen on peut pallier & repouſſer l'humeur au dedans, afin qu'ils ne ſoient c conneus : ce que ie ne voudrois conſeiller de faire, de peur qu'ils n'abuſaſſent les femmes, & euſſent con- uerſation auec les ſains : mais pour les faire viure plus longuement, ie leur conſeilleray toufiours qu'ils ſe faſſent chaſtrer pour les raiſons ſuſdites, & auſſi afin qu'on en puiſſe perdre plus facilement la progenitu° re. maintenant nous parlerons ſommairement de la lepre des grecs. de la lepre eonfirmée. - de la lepre des grecs, dičte du vulgaire mal sainct main, qui eſt vne rongne- . ch a p i t r e xi v. o n g n e eſt vne aſperité du cuir, ou vne vlceration legere conjointe auecvn rurit, cauſée # d'vne pituite nitreuſe & ſalée, & de melancholie qui ſe pourrit ſous le cuir, & eft tres-difficile $ à guarir. pour la curation il faut eſtre purgé & ſaigné, euiter toutes viandes de haut gouſt qui enflamment le ſang. on baignera le malade par diuerſes fois,& l'on mettra dedans le bain cho- ſes romolliantes : au partir du bain tout le corps du malade ſera frotté de beurre frais afin de les crouſtes & amollir l'aſperité du cuir. en apres on retournera au bain,& dans iceluy feront appliquez pluſieurs cornets auec ſcarifications, pour euacuer le ſang contenu entre cuir & chair. et quel- ques iours apres ſera frotté le corps de l'onguent quis'enſuit. . oleiiuniperi . ij. oleinucum. .j. olei tartari albi. .j.vitrioli romani, ſalis communis, ſulphurisviui an. .iij.terebenthina lota in ſucco limonum .ij lithargyri .É.cerz modicum : fiat vnguentum. or ce medicament ſera de plus grande efficace, ſi on y adiouſte deux onces de vif-argent, & deux dragmes de ſublimé, & aura grande vertu, appliqué apresle bain. car le bain amollit & ouure les pores, & par conſequent le fait penetrer plus fort. d - •autre- prenez racines d'enula campana .iv. cuites en fortvinaigre, puis pilées & paſſées par l'eſtamine, adiou- ftez ſoulphre vif . ſi ius delimon .ij. beurre frais .iv. & de ce ſoit fait onguent. si la rongne eſt rebelle àguarir,les parties malades ſeront frottées de l'vnguent enulatum cummercurio, - •a tyê. prenez axunge de porc . iv. ſouphre vif .j. ſel ſubtilement puluerisé, terebenthine lauée vne once & demie, & de ce ſoitfait onguent. dt dartref, les dartres ſont aſperitez du cuir, comme petites enleueures auecgrande demangeaiſon, quijettent vne matiere ſereuſe. pour les remedes topiques, hippocrate au liure te morbis mulierum, recommande le vinai- gre où l'on aura fait tremper de la pierre ponce, ou ſouphre vif pareillement l'huyle de fourment extraite ſur vne enciume auec vne paëſle toute rouge, & en frotter la dartre tant de fois que l'on connoiſtra eſtr; guarie : l'eau de ſublimé aura pareille vertu, ou l'eau forte quiaura ſeruy aux orfevres. fin du vingtiéme liure , de la petite verole, rougeole, & lepre- . - - - ta bl e ". - - | # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # #º#º table des chapitr e s du vingt-vniéme liure, des venins. snèſº>sq() ovr vor l'autheuraeſcrit des veninº chapitre j - $ſ queſtion. chap. ij qn $ % lautre queſtion. . - chap. iij snnſ. \ n) z la ſauoirſi les animaux viuans de beſtes venimeuſesſont veni- sn #ss()% , meux,& ſîen enpeut manger ſans danger. chap. iv $n% | |)n< -s\ des ſignes des veni ms engenera/ chap. v $n % & l'opinion d'aucuns reprouuée . chap. vj > q)n) pourſe donnergarded'eſtre empoiſonné chap. vij | -- · t remedes prompts contre les poiſons. chap. viij des diuerſions. chap. ix dès venins en parttculier. - chap x de la corruption de l'air. (#':) chap. xj pronoſtic des venins engeneral. chap. xij pronoſtic du venin des beſtes. chap. xiij des beites venimeuſes. chap. xiv chap. xv de la cure vniuerſelle ». - - la cauſe pourquoy les chiens deuiennent pluſtoſt enraget, que les autres beſtes. chap xvj signes pour cognoiſtre le chien enragé. - chap. xvij signes pour cognoiſtre vn homme auoireſté mordu d'vn chien enragé chap.xviij des accidens qui viennent à ceux auſquels le venim du chien enragé a commencéd'eſtre impri- mé aux parties nobles. chap. xix pronoſtic. i chap. xx cure de la morſure du chien enragé. - chap. xxj de la cure de ceux qui ſont tombe{ en hydrophobie ».. chap. xxij | de la morſure & piqueure de la vipere . chap. xxiij du ſerpent appelé coule ſang. chap. xxiv duſerpent nommépourriſſeur chap. xxv du baſilic. - chap. xxvj (.'.) chap. xxvij de certains ſerpenseſtranges de la ſalemandre_x chap. xxviij chap. xxix de latorpille , de la morſure d'aſpics. chap. xxx de la morſure de couleuure . chap. xxxj de lamorſure du crapaut. chap. xxxij de lapiqueure du ſcorpion. . | r chap. xxxiij de la morſure & piqueure des mouches & chenillés chap. xxxiv de la morſmre des araignées. - chap. xxxv des mouches cantharides. . chap. xxxvj de la mouſche nommée bupreſte » chap. xxxvij de la ſang-ſuè ou ſucce-ſang. - / chap. xxxviij de la murenc . - (. ) chap. xxxix de la piqueure d'vne viue_ . - | chap. xl de la piqueure de la tareronde ou paſtenaque » chap. xlj de la venenoſité du liévre marin. chap. xlij du venin du chat. . chap. xliij de la venenoſitéde certaines plantes. chap. xliv du bezahar. chap. xlv des metaux & mineraux venimeux. l chap. xlvj de la proprietédel'argent vif chap. xlvij diſcours de la licorne, contenant les chapitres. xlviijiuſques à lxv ss le | v i n gt-vniesme l ivr e, ' traictant des venins et morsvr e de chiens e n r a ge z, | e t a v t r e s m o r s v r e s e t p q v e v r e s de beſtes veneneuſes. | par a m br oise par e d e la v a l av ma ine, • conſeiller, & premier chirurgien du roy. b pourquoy l'autheur a eſcrit des venins. cha p. i. i n q_ choſes m'ont incité de colliger des anciens ce petit traitté des venins: | dont la premiere eſt,afin d'inſtruire le ieune chirurgien des remedes qu'il doit vſer pour promptement ſuruenir aux affligez , attendant le ſecours du docte medecin. la ſeconde , afin qu'il puiſſe auoir vraye & exacte cognoiſ- ſance de ceux qui pourroient eſtre empoiſonnez , pour fidellement faire º, rapport à iuſtice, lors qu'il en ſera requis. la troiſiéme, auſſi afin que ceux l qui ſont reſidensaux champs, comme les nobles & peres de familles, ayans vs ) \ . , mes œuures puiſſent ſecourir leurs pauures ſubjets,où ils ſeroient piquez ou //n x % mordus des beſtes venimeuſes, ou des chiens enragez,& autres beſtes.la. - ss ſè># s afin que chacun ſe puiſſe preſeruer d'eſtre empoiſonné , & ſuruenir aux ac- ( (j- q s s é#ſº \n cidens. la . eſt le deſir que iay touſiours eu & auray toute ma vie,de ſe rir bonne affe- - - #º.,* à mal faire,comme aucuns mal-veillans me pourroient taxer : ains ie deſirerois que les inuenteurs des poi- * ſons fuſſent auortez au ventre de leurs mer pour §onc entrer n matiere , nous commencerons ". par la diuiſion des venins en general , puis nous pourſuiurons vne chacune eſpece en particulier. et dirons premierement,que venin ou poiſon eſt vne choſe laquelle eſtant entrée ou appliquée au corps humain, ala vertu de le combatre & vaincre : tout ainſi que le corps eſt victorieux de la nourriture qu'il prend iournel- lement , qui ſe fait par qualitez manifeſtes, ou par proprietez occultes & ſecretes. le conciliateur au liure que c'eſt que qu'ii a fait des venins dit,que tout venin pris dedans le corps,de toutes ſes proprietez eſt du tout contraire venim. à la viande , de laquelle nous ſommes nourris. car comme la viande ſe conuertit en ſang , & rend toutes les parties ſemblables aux membres, leſquels principalement elle nourrit, ſe mettant au lieu de ce qui con- tinuellement s'écoule de noſtre corps,ſe reſout & conſemme : auſſi le venin tout au contraire tranſmue le corps & les membres qu'il touche, en vn autre particuliere & venimeuſe. donc ne plus ne moins que tous animaux, & tous fruicts que la terre produit, ſe pouuant conuertir en aliment, ſi nous les mangeons ſe tournent en nourriture : auſſi à l'oppoſite les choſes venimeuſes priſes dedans le corps, rendent tous les membres de noſtre corpsvenimeux : car comme tout agent eſt plus fort que le patient , auſſi le venin par ſa plus grande force ſurmonte noſtre ſubſtance, & la conuertit en ſa nature venimeuſe : par meſme raifon que le feu par ſa tres-grande chaleur conuertit ſoudainement la paille à ſoy & la conſomme. et pource les an- ciens grands inquiſiteurs des choſes naturelles, on dit que le venin tuë les hommes, d'autant qu'il corompt la temperature & complexion de leurs corps. à dieu & au public, auec proteſtation deuant dieu de ne vouloir enſeigner c or tous venins & poiſons procedent de l'air corrompu, ou des foudres & tonnerres,& leurs eſclairs.ou d d'où procede du naturel des beſtes, plantes & mineraux : ou par artifice, & ſublimations des meſchans, traiſtres , em- dent les ve-poiſonneurs,& parfumeurs:deſquelles choſes ſe prennent les differences. car tous venins ne font pas leurs mins. effects d'vne meſme ſorte, & ne procedent leſdits effects d'vne meſme cauſe:car aucuns operent par l'excez des qualitez elementaires, deſquels ils ſont compoſez : autres operent par leur proprieté ſpecifique ou ſc- crette : dont aucuns tuent pluſtoſt, les autres plus tard. auſſi tous venins ne cherchent premieremçntle cœur pour luy nuire, mais nuiſent à certains membres : comme l'on voit les cantharides qui offenſent la veſſie , la cigue le cerueau, le liévre marin les poulmons, la torpille qui engourdit & ſtupefie les mains de ceux qui touchent ſeulement les rets où elle eſt priſe. autres bleſſent autres parties , puis apres le coeur- comme l'on voit les medecines qui confortent le cœur, comme le ſaffran, autres le cerueau,comme ſtecas, autres l'eſtomach, comme la cannelle , & autres parties. il y auſſi des venins qui operent par qualitez manifeſtes, & par qualitez ſpecifiques tout enſemblc,comme l'euphorbe,lequel jaçoit que par ſa force ve- nimeuſe qu'il a de l'excés de ſa chaleur, il infecte toutesfois auſſi par ſon autre force, qui procede de ſa z.u, co - vertu ſpecifique : ce qui ſe cognoiſt par le theriaque,la propre vertu duquel eſt de ſurmontertoutes poiſons §l§, qui°pºrent de leur vertu occulte,lequel eſt de tres-grande efficace contre l'euphorbe.que ſi ledit euphor- du c§. be nuiſoit de ſa ſeule exceſſiue qualité, tant s'en faut que le theriaque qui eſt de ſoy fort chaud , luy fuſt gien contraire , que pluſtoſt il entretiendroit ſa force & nuiſance , ce qui ne fait. les venins qui operent par leur vertuſpecifique, ne le font pas, parce qu'ils ſont chauds, froids, ſecs,ou d'humidité exceſſiue : mais c'eſt parce qu'ils ont ce naturel particulier des influences celeſtes, contraires à la nature humaine. pource tels venins pris en bien petite quantité, ſont neantmoins d'vne force ſi maligne & tant cruelle, que # • • - questo s - .. des venins. | , -→ - - . a quesfois en vne heure ou moins ils tuent.les venins ne tuent pas ſeulement pris par la bouche, mais auſſi appliquez exterieurement.semblablement les beſtes ne tuent pas ſeulement par leurs morſures, piqueures oueſgratigneures:mais auſſi par leur baue,regard,ou par le ſeul attouchement,ou par leur haleine , ou par manger & boire de leur ſang,ou parleur cry & ſifflements,ou par leurs excremens. • - ! - • : ſ - - -- ueſtion. .. , * | c h a p. ii. - o m m e ſe peut faire que le poiſon baillé en petite quantité, ou la piqueure d'vne beſte veni- meuſe,monſtre ſes effects en ſi peu d'heure par toutes les actions du corps,tant animales, que vi- $ tales & naturelles,fait enfier tout le corps, comme vne beſte que l'on veut eſcorcher qu'on aura ſoufflée ? et comment auſſi ſe peut faire que la contre-poiſon puiſſe rabattre vne telle vertu at- tendu qu'il eſt impoſſible qu'vne petite portion de liqueur ſe tranſporte à tant de parties.galien dit,que la ſubſtance du poiſon & contre-poiſon n'eſt point diſtribuée par le corps,mais ſeulement la qualité d'iceluy. toutesfois les philofophes tiennent que nulle qualité ne peut eſtre ſans corps. nous dirons que ces qua- litez ſont tellement diſtribuées par tout le corps, qu'il n'cſt pas neceſſaire que la petite portion du poiſon ſoit partie en tant & tant de parts(car il ſeroit impoſſible ) mais il faut entendre que quant & quant que ce peu de poiſon eſt entré dedans le corps,le venin gaigne & conuertit en ſa propre ſubſtance, ce qui de prime face luy vient au deuant,ſoit le ſang qui eſt és veines & arteres, ſoit du phlegme dedans l'eſtomach & au- b ºs humeurs,oués boyaux,dont puis apres s'aide à gaigner le reſte du corps : ainſi qu'vn capitaine vou- lant liurer vne ville entre les mains d'vn ennemy,tache d'attirer le plus d'hommes qu'il peut, pour ſe ſeruir au iourdonné.le poiſon donc par ce moyen que i'ay dit,commence à s'eſpandre par les veines , arteres, & nerfs,& ainſi ſe communique au foye,au cœur & au cerueau,meſme conuertit en ſa nature tout le corps et quant eſt du contre-poiſon,pour autant qu'il eſt pris en aſſez grande quantité, eſtant entré dedans l'eſto- mach,où il s'eſchauffe,il efleue des vapeurs,leſquelles eſparſes par tout le corps,combattent par leur vertu la force du venin.c'eſt pourquoy le contre-poiſon pris en trop petite quantiténe peut vaincre le poiſon, à tauſe que les vapeurs ne ſont ſuffiſantes pour eſtre enuoyées en tant d'endroits, & partant il faut que le contre-poiſon ſoit plus fort que le poiſon,afin de ſurmonter & vaincre le venin du poiſon. exemple. •t , - º - il faut que le contrepoi- ſon ſoit plus •- , fort que le eautre queſtion. ch a p. i i i. à s ç a v o r s'il eſt poſſible de donner des poiſons qui faſſent mourir les hommes à certain temps prefix,comme d'vn mois,plus ou moins ? theophraſte dit que neantmoins qu'il y a des venins qui tuent pluſtoſt,autres plus tard,toutesfois qu'il eſt impoſſible de pouuoir donner vn terme prefix,comme aucuns penſent. car ce que les venins tuent, ou pluſtoſt ou plus tard, 'il ne procede,ſelon les medecins,de leur propre naturel & force, mais de ce que la nature de celuy qui l'aura pris reſiſte plus ou moins aufdits venins : ce que l'experience monſtre, car il eſt certain qu'vn meſme venin d'vn meſme poids & meſme quantité baillé à diuerſes perſonnes de diuerſes natures, tuera les vns dedans vne heure,les autres dedans quatre, autres dedans vn iour", & à d'aucuns ne portera grande nuiſance : ce qu'on experimcnte tous les iours aux medecines laxatiues : car ſi diuerſes perſonnes prennent vne meſme medecine,de meſme poids,quantité,& qualité, en aucuns elle monſtrera ſubit ſon ef- fect,en aucuns tard,en aucuns fera bien petite operation,en d'autres grande,és autres point du tout,en au- - cuns purgera ſans faſcherie,en autres auec grand trauail & douleur : ce qui ne procede d'autre cauſe que de la diuerſe & diſſemblable temperature des malades,laquelle ne ſe peut ſi parfaictement cognoiſtre,qu'on puiſſe ſçauoir iuſques à quand la chaleur naturelle ait puiſſance de reſiſter au venin. il procede auſſi de ce qu'aucuns ont les arteres larges ou fort ſerrées. car le venin ayant trouué les chemins & conduits larges, non ſeulement il penétre legerement, mais auſſi aisément il paſſe auec l'air, qui continuellement entre en noſtre corps pour flabeller & refrigerer le cœur. - la ſcauoirſ les animaux viuans de beites venimeuſes, ſont venimeux, & ſi on en peut manger ſans danger c h a t. iv. d § , e s canards,les cicoignes,les herons,les paons,les cocqs d'inde, & autres poulailles man- - : -^ -- . ,- _ - - , gent & viuent de crapaux,viperes,aſpics,couleuures,ſcorpions,araignes, chenilles, & autres beſtes venimeuſes. sçauoir,ſi tels animaux ayans mangé tellesbeſtes, puis mangez des hom- mes,les peuuent infecter & empoiſonnertmatthiole dit, que tous les modernes qui ont eſcrit des venins , tiennent aſſeurément que tels animaux mangez ne peuuent aucunement nuire, au contraire nourriſſent le corps ne plus'ne moins que les autres qui n'auront mangé telles viandes veni- meuſes, parce que les animaux conuertiſſent en leur nature les viandes venimeuſes. laquelle raiſon & opinion,encore qu'elle aye grande apparence que ce venin ſe digere & ſe conuertiſſe en la ſubſtance de ces animaux qui en viuent ordinairement: toutesfois ie croy qu'il ne s'enfuit pas que la chair faicte de tel ali- ment venimeux,mangée des hommes,ne porte quelque nuiſance;& croy que ſi on en mangeoit ſouuent el- le pourroit cauſer pluſieurs maladies,& en fin la mort.i'ay pour teſmoins diofcoride & galien , qui aſſeu- rent le laict,qui n'eſt autre choſe que le ſang deux fois cuit,tiré des beſtes qui paiſſent la ſcamonée , l'elle- bore,ou le tithymal , eſtre merueilleuſement laxatif,ſi on en boit. pareillement on voit quaud les mede- cins veulent purger vn enfant eſtant encore à la mammelle , donner des medecines laxatiues aux nourrices, pour rendre leur laict medicamenteux, & purgatif ce que i'ay veu de recente memoire, qu'vne nour- rice malade, les medecins luy ayant ordonné vne medecine laxatiue, & l'enfant l'ayant apres tettée auoir le cours de ventre,& eſtoit-on bien empeſché de l'arreſter, & fut on contraint luy bailler vne autre nour- rice, attendant le temps que la medecine euſt-du tout fait ſon operation. dauantage on voit les griues ayans mangé de la graine de genéure,que leur chair s'en reſſent.auſſi les poulailles ayans mangé de l'aluy- ne,leur chair eſt amere,& s'ils ont mangé des ails,le ſentent ſemblablement.les moulues &autres poiſſons, ayans eſté prins auec les ails,ils ſentent ſi fort que pluſieurs n'en peuuent manger : neantmoins qu'on les ſalle,fricaſſe,ou qu'on les faſſe boüillir, retiennent toufiours l'odeur & ſaueur des ails. auſſi les connins ayans eſté nourris de pouliot & de genéure leur chair s'en reſſent , retenant l'odeur & gouſt plaiſant. au . contraire, s'ils ſont nourris de choux, & de ſang de bœuf ( comme on fait à paris ) difficilement on en s s z peut | | ----- . - poiſon. pourquoy lé venin tué pluſtoſt, ºu plus taºd. )ueſtion. matthiole. credence de l'autheur. galien. hiſtoire me- morable. le vingt-vniéme liure, liu. . des ſimples. peut manger,à cauſe qu'ils retiennét le gouſt de choux.ie diray encore dauantage, que les medecins comr mandent de nourrir les chévres, vaches & aſneſſes d'herbes propres, quand ils veulent faire boire leur laict aux hectiques,ou à d'autres malades ce que gal. dit qu'il n'ignore point » que les chairs des animaux ſont alterées & fumées par la viande & nourriturc qu'ils prennent. or pour le dire en vn mot,ie ſuis d'ad- uis qu'on ne mange de tels animaux qui auront deuoré les beſtes venimeuſes, ſi ce n'eſtoit long-temps apres,& que premierement le venin n'euſt eſté elabouré & digeré , & tranſmué en autre qualité par le be- nefice de la chaleur naturelle des animaux qui lesauroient mangés : car on voit des morts ſubites aduenir, dont la cauſe eſt incogneue aux hommes,qui peut eſtre pour auoir mangé de telles beſtes, dont l'vn peut eſchapper,& l'autre mourir. cela ſe fait pour la preparation & diſpoſition des corps qui reçoiuent & re- pugnent au venin. - - - les ſignes des venins engeneral. c h a p. v. $# o v s dirons les ſignes des venins en general, puis nous pourſuiurons vne chacune en parti. $! % culier. nous cognoiſſons vn homme eſtre empoiſonné par quelque façon que ce ſoit, quand (|# il ſe plaint d'vne grande peſanteur de tout le corps, qui fait qu'il ſe deſplaiſt en ſoy-meſme: quand de l'eſtomach l luy monte quelque gouſt horrible à la bouche,tout autre que les vian- des communes ne font, quelques mauuaiſes qu'elles ſoient : quand la couleur de la face ſe · change,maintenant liuide,tantoſt citride,& de toute autre couleur eſtrange & difforme:quand il ſent nau- venin par froprieté oc- culte. sée & volonté de vomir : quand il a inquietude de tout le corps, & qu'il luy ſemble que tout tourne c'en- b deſſus-deſſous. nous cognoiſſons ledit venin prins,agir de toute ſa ſubſtance & proprieté occulte,quand ſans apparence de grande & inſigne chaleur,ou froideur,le malade tombe ſouuent en defaillance de cœur, auec vne ſueur froide,à raiſon que tel venin n'a point pour obiect aucune certaine partie, contre laquelle de certaine affection & quaſi comme par chois il agiſſe, comme font les cantharides contre la veſſie, & le liévre contre les poulmons. mais comme ce venin agit de toute ſa ſubſtance & forme ſecrette : ainſi à guerre ouuerte il oppugne la forme & eſſence de la vie,qui giſt en la faculté vitale,qui eſt au cœur.a pre- , ſent nous faut declarer particulierement les ſignes des veninstqui operent par leurs qualitez premieres & venins qui •perent par qualitez manifeſtes. venins froid . gilb. angl. hiſtoire . jpremier liu. des tempera. º ſ. manifeſtes. les venins ou poiſons qui operent par leurs qualitez manifeſtes,cauſent leurs propres accidens,deſquels ils monſtrent leurs ſignes apparens.car ceux qui ont vne chaleur exceſſiue , ſubit ils enflamment la langue & le goſier,l'eſtomach,les inteſtins,& generalement toutes les parties interieures, auec grande alteration & inquietude,& ſueur continuelle.et fi auec leur chaleur exceſſiue ils ont vne force corroſiue, & putrefactiue, comme l'arſenic,le ſublimé,reagal,verd de gris,l'orpiment,& autres ſemblables,ils cauſent en l'eſtomach, & aux boyaux,des ponctions intolerables,& grandes ventoſitez,leſquelles on oyt ſouuent bruire dedans le , ventre,& ont vne ſoif intolerable.apres ces accidens ſuruiennent ſouuent vomiſſemens auscſueurs,tantoſt ' chaudes,tantoſt froides,& defaillance de vertus,puis la mort. - signes des venins froids. - - les venins qui ſont d'vne exceſſiue froideur,cauſent aux malades vn ſommeil profond,que ſouuent on ne les peut eſueiller qu'à bien grande peine:aucunesfois ils eſtourdiſſent tellement le cerueau,que les malades ſont contraints faire pluſieurs mouuemens deſordonnez,tant de la bouche que des yeux,& des bras &iam- bes,comme s'ils fuſſent yures,ou inſenſez,d'abondant il leur ſuruient vne grande ſueur froide,&ont la cou- leur du viſage liuide,& jaunaſtre,& fort hideuſe à voir,& ont tout le corps ſtupide & endormy,& s'ils ne ſont bien toſt ſecourus,ils meurentileſquels venins ſont comme cigue,pauot,morelle,iuſquiame, mandra- . c gore, & autres ſcmblables. signes des venins ſecs. les venins ſecs ont preſque touſiours la chaleur pour compagne,auec vne certaine humidité : car neant- moins que l'on die que le ſoulphre ſoit chaud & ſec, toutesfois il ya vne humidité pour congreger ſa for- me,comme toutes autres choſes composees requierent:mais on donne aux choſes la qualité qui domine en elles.les venins ſecs rendent la langue aride,& la gorge ſeiche,auec vne ſoif non extinguible ; c'eſt à dire, qui ne ſe peut appaiſer. le ventre ſe reſſerre,& les autres parties interieures, ainſi que le parchemin fait deuant le feu.a cette cauſe l'vrine ne ſort qu'à grande difficulté : tous les membres deuiennent ſecs & re- tirez,& les malades ne peuuent dormir:leſquels venins ſont comme litharge,ceruſe,plaſtre,eſcaille d'airin, limeure de plomb, antimoine preparé, & autres ſemblables. signes des jenins bumides. - les venins humides cauſent vn perpetuel ſommeil,flux de ventre,auec relaſchement de tous les nerfs & jointures : tellenient que quelquesfois les yeux ſortent hors de la teſte. il s'enſuit auſſi ſouuent vne pourri- ture des mains,pieds,nez,oreilles,& vne ſoif extreme , pour la chaleur qui prouient de la grande pourri- ture,puis la mort s'enſuit.aucuns tiennent qu'il ne ſe trouue point de poiſon humide,parce qu'il eſt impoſ- ſible de trouuer d'humiditez iuſques au quatrieſme degré.toutesfois le contraire ſe verifie par l'exemple de celuy qui dornant de nuict fut mordu d'vn ſerpent,ainſi que gilbertus anglicus recite , & mourut:ſon | valet au matin le tirant par le bras le penſant reſueiller,toute la chair dudit bras pourrie tomba, les os deſ- | nuez de chair : ce qui ne peut eſtre aduenu que par l'exceſſiue humidité du venin qui eſtoit aux dents & baue du ſerpent.auſi hippocrate a bien dit,que la diſpoſition de l'année eſtant pluuieuſe & humide,ſujette au vent de midy,il eſt aduenu par cette humidité veneneuſe & corrompue,qu'en aucuns la chair des bras & des jambes pourrietomboit en pieces,& les os demeuroient nuds & deſnuez d'icelle:non ſeulemët à d'au-, cuns la chair ſe trouuoit pourrie,mais auſſi la propre ſubſtance des os:d'où on peut conclurre qu'il y a des, , venins d'vne humidité ſi exceſſiue, qu'ils peuuent faire mourir les perſonnes par l'entiere putrefaction des membres:ce qu'on voit aduenir à la verole,tant groſſe que petite , & aux charbons & anthrax peſtiferez. et quand tels & pareils ſignes apparoiſſent, il ſera facile les combattre par leurs contraires : encore que l'on ne cognoiſſe le venin particulierement.il n'y a point de ſignes certains des venins qui operent par p o- prieté ſpecifique ou occulte, parce qu'ils ont cette nature de l'influence du ciel, qui ne s'émeut iamais à faire ſa propre action,ſans que l'obiect de ſon contraire ſe preſente : & partant on ne les cognoiſt que par experience , ſans en pouuoir donner aucune raiſon , comme la torpille qui ſtupefie le bras de celuy qui la touche,le liévre marin qui gaſte les poulmons,les cantharides qui bleſſent la veſſie,la piqueure de la viue qui cauſe gangrene & autres accidens. ce que nous dirons cy-apres. - l'opinion. - | des venins. | l'opinion d'aucuns, reprouuée v. c h a t. v i. : e v x errent grandement qui diſent que le venin des beſtes venimeuſes eſt froid, parce que ceux | qui en ſont mordus,ou piquez , ſubit deuiennent froids,& que les ſerpens (comme craignans le # froid quand l'hyuer s'approche)ſe cachent és cauerues ſous terre ou ſous les pierres, qui eſt le naturel des viperes,où quelquesfois on les trouue ſi ſurpriſes de froid , qu'elles demeurent tou- tes amorties & immobiles, comme ſi elles eſtoient gelées. or veritablement la froidure de ceux qui en ſont mordus ou piquez, ne procede pas de la froidure du venin : mais de ce que leur chaleur naturelle ſe retire des parties exterieures aux interieures,pour ſecourir le cœur,& auſſi qu'elle eſt ſurmontée & eſiein- te parle venin : & ne faut conclurre que tous ſerpens ſoient froids, parce qu'on les trouue en hyuer en leurs trous tous comme immobiles & comme morts. cela ne procede ſinon que leur chaleur naturelle eſt retirée en leur centre,pour reſiſter à l'air ambiens qui eſt froid. pour ſe donner garde d'eſtre empoiſonné. · ch a p. v i i. a maniere de ſe donner garde d'eſtre empoifonné eſt fort difficile : car les meſchans empoiſon- neurs & parfumeurs,qui ſecrettement baillent les poiſons,conduiſent leur trahiſon & leur meſ- ! % chanceté ſi finement, qu'ils trompent les gens les plus experts , & de meilleur iugement qu'on ºs ſçauroit trouuer. car ils oſtent l'amertume des v-nins, & les meflent auec choſes douces : ainſi ils leur font perdre leur mauuaiſe odeur par la mixtion des choſes odorantes & parfums. auſſi la poiſon doºnée auec faulſes appetiſantes eſt fort dangereuſe,d'autant qu'elle eſt auallée auidement,& plus diffici- lement vomie. et partant ceux qui craignent d'eſtre empoiſonnez , comme ſouuent aduient aux prelats & beneficiers pour auoir leur deſpoüille ſe doiuent garder de toutes viandes appa eillées ( par gens ſuſpects) auec ſaulſes, qui ſont fort douces, ou fort ſalées, ou aigres, & generalement toutes celles qui ſont de haut gouſt. pareillement eſtans bien alterez ne doiuent boire à grands traicts , ne manger goulument: mais bien conſiderer le gouſt de ce qu'ils mangent & boiuent dauantage ils doiuent manger des choſes qui rompent toute la force du venin deuant toutes viandes : & principalement vn boüillon gras faict de bonnes viandes. semblablement doiuent prendre au matin vn peu de mithridat, ou theriaque, auec vn peu de bon vin ou maluoiſie , ou des fueilles de ruë, auec vne noix & figues ſeiches , qui eſt vn ſingulier remede. et où quelqu'vn auroit ſoupçon d'auoir pris quelque poiſon par la bouche, ne faut dormir en tel cas : car la force du venin eſt quelquesfois ſi grande & ſi forte ennemie de nature, qu'elle execute ſon pou- uoir , que ſouuent elle monſtre tel effect en nos corps que faict le feu allumé en la paille ſeiche. car ſou- uent aduient, que ceux qui ſont empoiſonnez, deuant que pouuoir auoir ſecours des medecins & chis rurgiens,meurent. donc ſubit il ſe doit faire vomir en prenant de l'huyle & eau chaude:en lieu de l'huy- le on fera fondre du beurre,& le prendre auec eau chaude,ou decoction de graine de lin,ou fenugrec, ou , remedes , quelque boüillon gras. car telles choſes font ietter le venin hors par le vomiſſement : joinct qu'elles laſ- º eºn- chent le ventre,& par telles euacuations le venin eſt vuidé hors, & ſon acrimonie amortie. ce qu'on voit º " pºi- par experience,que lors que nous voulons appliquer des cauteres potentiels,ou veſiccatoires,ſi la partie eſt " oincte de choſes huyleuſes,tels remedes acres ne pourront vlcerer la partie. dauantage , le vomiſſement profite,non ſeulement parce qu'il euacue le venin:mais auſſi,que ſouuent il manifeſte, ou par l'odeur, ou pat ſa couleur,ce qui aura eſté prins.et auſſi par tels moyens on pourra auoir recours aux remedes contra- i ils ll vcf) n. - apres auoirvomy,ſi on a coniecture que la poiſon ſoit deſcendue au boyaux,on pourra vſer de clyſteres acres,pour euacuer ce qui pourroit eſtre demeuré & attaché contre les inteſtins. et où le malade ne pour- roit vomir, il luy faut faire prendre des purgºtions propres, qui reſiſtent aux venius : comme eſt l'agaric, l'aloes,la petite centaure, la rheubarbe, & autres choſes ordonnées par le docte medecin. l'on doit vſer puis apres de clyſteres compoſez de caſſe, de boüillon gras , auec ſuif de mouton, ou beurre , ou laict de vache, & mucilages de lin,& pſylij,ou de coings, afin que la poiſon n'adhere contre les boyaux , comme on a accouſtumé de donner aux dyſenteries. par leur onctuoſité & viſcoſité,ils amortiſſent l'acrimonie du venin qui peut adherer contre les boyaux, & defendent les parties ſaines , qu'elles ne ſentent la force du venin. ils ſont bon pareillement quand le venin a vlceré les parties interieures. pour cette cauſe le laict beu en grande quantité , apres le vomiſſement, & baillé par clyſteres, eſt vn remede tres-ſingulier, parce qu'il rompt la force du venin , & ſouuent le guarit. il faut icy noter, qu'on deit touſiours commencer à tirer le venin par la voye où il aura entré. comme s'il a eſté baillé par odeur, pour faire eſternuer : ſi par le boire ou manger,par vomiſſement : ſi par le ſiege,par clyſteres : ſi par le col de la matrice,par ſyringuer: choſe digne ſi par morſures,ou piqueures,ou eſgratigneures, par remedes qui l'attirent au dehors, comme nous dirons deſtre n - cy-apres. - tée . des diuerſions. · c h a p. v iii. mºº e s diuerſions ſont bonnes & neceſſaires,à cauſe que non ſeulement empeſchent que levenin # n'aille au cœur,mais au contraire, elles l'attirent du dedans au dehors, & partant les ligatu- # res fortes faites au bras,cuiſſes &jambes,ſont bonnes.auſſi les grandes ventouſes auec gran- - # de flambe,appliquées ſur pluſieurs parties du corps.pareillement le bain d'eau chaude, auec #rk，s des herbes contraires aux venins,comme l'auroſne,le calament,rue,bethoine, moulaine blan- che,marrubin,poulliot,laurier,le ſcordium,l'ache,ſcabieuſe,menthe,valerienne, & autres ſemblables.ainſi les eſtuues ſeiches,& y faire ſuer longuement le malade, prenant touſiours indication de ſa force & vertu- or ſi le patient eſt grand seigneur,en lieu de bains & eſtuues , il ſera mis dedans le ventre d'vn bœuf, ou d'vne vache ou d'vn cheual,ou mulet, afin de le faire ſuer, & attirer par ce moyen le venin au dehors : & quand ils ſeront refroidis,il ſera mis dedans vn autre,& fera-on toutes choſes neceſſaires & requiſes en tel cas,& tout par le conſeil du docte medecin,s'il ſe peut trouuer. s s des o o le v gl-vilieiiic l u c, matthiole. hiſtoire de deux char- lafans. - des venins en particulier. c h a p. ix. p r e s auoir diſcouru ſommairement des choſes vniuerſelles des venins , maintenant il nous faut venir aux particulieres,commençans à l'air,puis aux morſures,& piqueures, & eſgratigneures des # beſtes venimeuſes,puis aux plantes & mineraux. les beſtes venimeuſes ſont aſpics, crapaux, vipe- res,dragons,ſcorpions,liévres marins,paſtenaques,viues,torpedes,araignées,cantharides, bupreſtes,chenil- les de pin, ſangſues, & infinité d'autres. or leſdites beſtes ne tuent pas ſeulement par leurs piqueures & morſures,ou eſgratigneures, mais auſſi par leur baue,haleine,eſcume,regard,cry,& ſifflement,veue,& par leurs autres excremens. auſſi celles qui ſont mortes d'elles-meſmes,ou pour peſte,ou fouldre,ou rage.il y a auſſi des venins artificiels,& ſi cruels, que ſi on en met ſur vne ſelle de cheual,font mourir celuy qui aura eſté quelque temps deſſus:& autres,que ſi on en frotte les eſtriers,percent les bottes de ceux qui ont les pieds dedans : deſquels venins les turcs & autres barbares vſent ſouuent en leurs fleches & dards,pour faire mourir leurs ennemis, & les cerfs & au- tres beſtes ſauuages qui en ſont frappées:qui eſt vne choſe difficile à croire,veu que le venin appliqué à la ſelle & aux eſtriers,n'a touché à la chair nuë:toutesfois cela ſe peut faire:car pour toucher les rets où ſera prins le poiſſon nommé torpede,les mains demeurent ſtupides,& fait mourir l'homme, comme auons dit cy-deſſus.ainſi le baſilic pour ſon ſeul regard , & par ſon cry fait mourir les hommes, & tuë toutes autres beſtes venimeuſes,qui ſont pres où il fait ſa demeure. ie diray dauantage, que le meilleur vin eſt poiſon, parce qu'il oſte le ſens & entendement,& ſuffoque, & ſemblablement toutes autres bonnes viandes , lors qu'on en prend en trop grande quantité. - | de la corruption de l'air c h a p. x. $$ 'a r eſt venimeux & corrompu par certaines vapeurs meſlées auec luy , comme par vne - % grande multitude de corps morts , non aſſez toſt enſeuelis en la terre, comme d'hommes & « cheuaux,& autre faiſans vne vapeur putredineuſe. ce qui aduient ſouuent apres vne grande bataille, ou apres vn grand tremblement de terre, lequel ſort dehors, qui auoit eſté retenu s par long-temps aux entrailles de la terre , & par faute d'auoir eſté eſuenté , il a acquis vne pourriture,laquelle eſt diſpersée en l'air,& la tirant en nos corps,il nous empoiſonne:comme par vne ſeu- le inſpiration d'vn peſtiferé,on prend la peſte. il y a encore d'autres cauſes de la corruption de l'air, que nous dirons cy-apres au liure de la peſte. il y a pareillement du venin en l'air,qui accompagne les tonner- res,fouldres,& eſclairs,lequel tuë ceux qui en ſont frappez,ou à grand peine en peuuent-ils eſchapper, qui ſe fait par vne certaine venenoſité ſulphurée,ce qu'on cognoiſt aux corps qui en ſont touchez. et ſi les be- ſtes mangent celles qu'il aura tuée,elles meurent & enragent. et quant au feu du fouldre , il eſt plus chaud que nul autre feu:parquoy à bon droict il eſt appellé le feu des feux:à cauſe qu'il a vne chaleur tres-vehe- mente,& plus ſubtile que l'air:ce qui ſe void , qu'il fond le fer d'vne pique ſans bruſler le bois, ainſi fond l'or & l'argent dedans vne bourſe ſans l'endommager.et partant il ne ſe faut eſmerueiller s'il fricaſſe,briſe, & comminue les os à ceux qu'il touche. auſſi l'eſclair eſteint & ſuffoque la veue à ceux qui le regardent. le tonnerre par ſon grand bruit & tintamarre tue les enfans au ventre de leurs meres.ce qui ſe prouue par herodian en la vie des empereurs. sur martia noble dame romaine tomba du ciel de la foudre ſoudaine : sans que ſon corps fuſt bleſ é & atteint , son enfant fut dedans é， corps efteint. pareillement rend les hommes ſourds,& fait pluſieurs autres choſes grandes & admirables, qu'il eſt im- poſſible aux hommes d'en donner raiſon : & partant nous pouuons dire, qu'aux fouldres & tonnerres il y a quelque diuinité. ce qui ſe peut prouuer par dauid,pſeaume cent quatriéme,qui dit : et foudre & feu font prompt à ton ſeruice , - sont les sergents de ta haute iuſtice. l'air pareillement eſt enuenimé par parfums & odeurs, & par l'artifice des traiſtres empoiſonneurs & parfumeurs,lequel nous conuient attirer,pour la conſeruation de noſtre vie:car ſans luy ne pouuons viure. or nous l'attirons par l'attriction qui ſe fait des poulmös & des parties pectorales dediées à la reſpiration, & par le nez,és ventricules du cerueau.pareillement par la tranſpiration qui ſe fait és petits pores,ou per- tuis inſenſibles de tout le corps,& auſſi des arteres eſpandues au cuir.ce qui ſe fait tant pour la generation de l'eſprit de vie,que pour rafraiſchir & fermenter noſtre chaleur naturelle. a cette cauſe s'il eſt enuenimé, il altere nos eſprits, & corrompt auſſi les humeurs, & les conuertit en ſa qualité venimeuſe, & infecte toutes les parties nobles,& principalement le cœur : & alors il ſe fait vn combat entre le venin & nature, laquelle ſi elle eſt plus forte, par ſa vertu expulſiue, les chaſſe dehors par ſternutations & vomiſſemens, ſueurs,& flux de ventre,ou par autres manieres , comme par fiux de ſang,ou par les vrines, au contraire, ſi le venin eſt plus fort, nature demeure vaincue, & par conſequent la mort s'enſuit, auec griefs & di- uers accidens, ſelon la nature & qualité du venin. or le venin prins par l'odeur eſt merueilleuſement ſu- bit,parce qu'il n'a que faire d'aucun humeur qui luy ſerue de conduite pour entrer en noſtre corps, & agir en iceluy. car la vapeur eſtant ſubtile eſt facilement portée auec l'air,que nous attirons & expirons. et ſi quelqu'vn me vouloit objecter,que par vne torche ou caſſole on ne peut empoiſonner , attendu que le feu purifie & conſomme le venin,ſi aucun y en auoit : reſponſe , neantmoins que le feu ſoit eſpris en vne allu- mette ſulphrée,la flamme eſt tres-puante , ſentant le ſoulphre. semblablement le feu eſtant eſpris au bois d'aloès, ou genévre, ou en autre bonne ſenteur, ne laiſſe à ſentir vne odeur plaiſante & bonne. or ſi on veut voir l'experience,ie mettray ſur le bureau le pape clement, oncle de la reyne mere du roy, qui fut empoiſonné de la vapeur d'vne torche enuenimée. matthiole ſur ce propos parlant des venins , dit, qu'en la place de senes il y auoit deux charlatans theriacleurs : l'vn des deux auoit empoiſonné vn œillet, le- quelil bailla à fleurer à ſon compagnon,& l'ayant ſenty,ſubit tomba en terre roide mort. dauantage, vn quidam de recente memoire,ayant odoré vne pomme de ſenteurs enuenimée, ſubit le viſage luy enfla , & eut vne grande vertigine,de façon qu'il luy ſembloit que tout tournaſt c'en deſſus deſſous , & perdit pour quelque temps la parole & toute cognoiſſance, & n'euſt eſté qu'il fut promptement ſecouru par ſternuta- soires & autres choſes,il fut allé auec le pape clement. le vray alexitere de ces parfnms enuenimez, e# c b - es venins. j - - d a de non iamais les odorer,& fuirtels parfumeurs comme la peſte,& les chaſſer hors du royaume de france, & les enuoyer auec les turcs & infideles. prognoſtic des renins en general. ch a p. x i. l y a pluſieurs ſortes de venins , auſſi ils ont diuerſité d'accidens : car il eſt impoſſible que tous accidens qui ſuruiennent aux poiſons;ſuiuent à vn certain poiſon. car autrement c'euſt eſté choſe ſuperflue aux autheurs de traitter chacun poiſon à part, & des remedes particu- liers de chacun. donc on ne treuuera point qu'vn ſeul & meſme venin cauſe vne exceſſiue chaleur d'eſtomach,de ventre,de foye,veſſie,reins,qu'il faſſe venir le hocquet,qu'il faſſe trem- bler & fi ,ſſonner tout le corps,qu'il oſte la parole,qu'il faſſe conuulſion,qu'il rende le pouls languide,qui empeſche la reſpiration,qui rende la perſonne toute endomie & aſſoupie, qui cauſe vertigine ou tourne- ment de teſte,qui esbloüiſſe la veue,qui eſtrangle,qui altere, qui faſſe fiux de ſang, qui cauſe la fiévre, qui retienne l'vrine,qui prouoque continuel vomiſſement,qui # rougir le malade,qui le rende liuide, paſle, inſensé,qui le faſſe ronfier & peter,perdre toute force,& pluſieurs autres accidens, que les venins particu- lierement font. et quand ces accidens ſuruiennent aux empoiſonnez, il eſt difficile de bien cognoiſtre quel eſt le venin qu'on aura pris il eſt vray que les venins chauds tuent pluſtoſt que les froids, parce que la cha- leur naturelle les reduit plus promptement de puiſſance à leur effect, qu'elle ne fait les froids. galien dit qu'il ſe peut engendrer en nos corps vne ſubſtance approchante du venin ie dis que tel venin eſt bien diffi- cile d'eſtre cogneu. prognoſtic du venin des beftes. c h a p. xi i. ornel vs celſus,& tous les anciens medecins,tiennent que toutes morſures & eſgratigneu- res, piqueures & baue des animaux participent de quelque mauuaiſe qualité, toutesfois les vnes plus,& les autres moins.les plus ſont celles qui ſont faictes de beſtes venimeuſes,comme d'aſpics,viperes,couleuures,& autres ſerpens,baſilic,dragon,crapaux, chien enragé, ſcorpion, araignes,mouſches à miel,gueſpes, & vne infinité d'autres. les moins venimeuſes ſont celles qui ſont faites d'autres animaux moins venimeux,comme le cheual,le ſinge,le chat,le chien non enragé, & pluſieurs autres:leſquels,encore qu'ils ne ſoient venimeux,leurs morſures ſont toutesfois plus douloureuſes & difficiles à guarir,que les playes ordinaires faites d'autres cauſestce que aduient, parce qu'ils ont en leur ſaliue ou baue,quelque choſe contraire à noſtre nature,laquelle induit vne mauuaiſe qualité enl'vlcere, la rendant plus douloureuſe,& rebelle aux remedes:ce que non ſeulement nous apperceuons en telles mor- ſures,mais auſſi aux eſgratigneures des beſtes qui ont des ongles,comme les lions,les chats,& autres.aucûs ne veulent excepter de cette condition de morſure,celle des hommes,affermás icelle participer de quelque venenoſité,principalement des rouſſeaux piquotez de marques tannées,noires, & autre couleur, qu'ils ont par tout le corps,& encore plus s'ils ſont cholerez. quant à ceux qui ne ſont de tel temperament,on peut tenir leur morſure n'eſtre participante d'aucune venenoſité,à raiſon de leur ſaliue, laquelle on voit par ex- perience eſtant appliquée és petits vlceres » les guarir, parquoy la difficulté qui vient de guarir la morſure qu'aura fait vn homme non roux,vient à raiſon de la meurtriſſeure qui ſe fait au moyen dès dents, qui ſont mouſſes & non tranchantes,leſquelles ne peuuent entrer dedans la chair, ſinon en eſcachant & contuſant, comme ſe font les coups orbes,& les playes faictes auec des pierres ou baſt s,ou autres ſemblables,leſquel- les on voit eſtre plus difficiles à guarir,que celles qui ſont faictes auec glaiues tranchans.et pour retourner à noſtre propos,nous dirons qu'entre les beſtes que nous auons dit eſtre les plus venimeuſes, il s'en trouue peu qui ſoient de tardiue operation : mais elle font communément mourir ſoudainement ceux qui en ſont mords ou piquez. surquoy faut obſeruer que les venins iettez par les animaux vifs, ſont plus forts & vio- lens que de ceux qui ſont morts,d'autant qu'ils ont vne chaleur naturelle,qui leur ſert de vehicule pour les conduire au corps.auſſi outre ce,la tenuité de la ſubſtance fait que le venin en eſt plus haſtif. dauantage,il y a des beſtes qui ont le venin ſi dangereux:qu'il fait mourir vne perſonne en moins d'vne heure,comme ſont les aſpics,baſilics,& crapaux.les autres n'ont leur venin ſi furieux,dönans induces deuz ou trois iours,& quelquesfois plus,deuant que faire mourir la perſonne,comme la couleuure & autres.ou- tre leſquelles il y en a qui donnent encore plus long eſpace de vie,comme le ſcorpion & araignes. bref,il y a certains venins, leſquels eſtans entrez au corps de l'homme , voire en petite quantité, y operentd'vne ſi grande violence & promptitude,que fait le feu en la paille ſeiche,tellement que l'on n'y peut remedier par aucune maniere,à eauſe que la vertu du venin eſt plus grâde que le remede n'eſt fort:& partât alors ils ren- uerſe,conuertit & tranſmue promptement les eſprits & humeurs en ſon naturel.car tout ainſi que lesvian- des que nous mangeons,ſe conuertiſſent en noſtre nature:auſſi au contraire,telsvenins eſtans dedans noſtre corps,rendent tous les membres infectez,non moins que l'air peſtilent eſtât receu par vne ſeule inſpiration d'vn homme peſtiferé.de cette malignité aduient qu'aucuns ont vne grande inquietude, & meurent furieux & enragez.au contraire,on en voit d'autres qui ſont fort aſſoupis & endormis, & deuiennent enfiez com- me hydropiques.outre ces choſes,faut entendre, que le lieu & le temps auquel les beſtes venimeuſes ſont nourries,donnent plus ou moins de vigueur à leur poiſon. car celles qui ſont nourries aux montagnes & ieux ſecs,ſont plus dangereuſes que celles qui ſont nourries és lieux froids & mareſcageux. auſſi toutes morſures de beſtes venimeuſes, apportent plus de danger en eſté qu'en hyuer.dauantag celles qui ſont affamées,ou ont eſté irritées,ſont plus dangereuſes que les autres,& leur venin eſt plus pernicieux a jeun, qu'apres qu'elles ont mâgé.pareillemêt les ieunes,& qui ſont amoureuſes,c'eſt à dire,en rut,ſont plus mali- gnes que les vieilles,& que celles qui ne ſont en rut.auſſi on tient que le venin des femelles eſt plus dange- reux que celuy des maſles.plus les piqueures & morſures des beſtes venimeuſes qui mangent les a tres be- ſtes veneneuſes(côme les couleuures qui mangêt les crapaux,& les viperes qui mangét les ſcorpiós & arai- gnes,& les cantharides & bupreſtes) ſont beaucoup plus pernicieuſes que les autres qui n'en mangét point. «orl'impreſſion ſubite,ou la reſiſtence au venin,aduient le plus ſouuent ſelon que le venin eſt de ſubtile , ou de groſſe ſubſtance,ou que la complexion & temperature de ceux qui ſont mords ou piquez,eſt chaude ou froide,forte ou debile.car ceux qui ſont de temperature chaude,ont leurs veines & arteres plus groſſes & dilatées,comme nous auons dit par cy-deuant, & par conſequent tous les conduits du corps plus ouucrts, qui fait que le venin paſſe & entre promptement iuſques au cœur : ce qui ne ſe fait ſi ſubitement à ceux qui ſont de téperature froide,& qui ont les veines & arteres plus ſerrées,& par côſequent le venin ne penetrº s fi - ^ ] • - -- - - li. des lieºx affectez rhap. . des morſures & piqneures qui , ont fort venimeuſes pourquoy venin de l'. nimal vif eſt plus dange- reux que lors qu'il eſt f ort. a aucuns venins eſf impoſſible d'y remedſer. selon le lieu auquel les beſtes veni- «weuſe. maiſ- ſent leur ve- min eſt plus g / fort cr violent. pourquoy ceux qui , t mords cà ?i- quez,meurèt plu iſt ou plus tard les vns que le º l ré • | le v ngt-vn eme liure, deux indi- cations pour curer la mor- jure & pi- queure des beſtes veni- meuſes. premiere in. dication. remedes pour le com- y e ſe )é / f des morſu- res é pi- queures. anthorité pour l'apºli- cation du theriaque . experience. remedes pour les ve- mims. on peut ſuc- rervne playe venimeuſe ſans danger, pourueu qu'on faſſe ce qu'il fant faire- . ſi toſt, qui fait qu'ils meurent plus tard : non plus ne moins que nous voyons aduenir ſouuentesfois par les medecines laxatiues, qu'on donne aux malades, que deux dragmes de rheubarbe feront plus à vn, que qua- tre à vn autre, pour la diuerſité des complexions de ceux qui la prennent. dauantage , les venins ne peu- uent tant nuire à ceux qui ont mangé & beu, qu'à ceux qui ſont à jeun,à cauſe que par les alimens, les vei- nes & arteres,& les conduits du corps eſtans remplis,& les eſprits fortifiez, cela garde que le venin n'agit ſi fort & promptement,qu'il feroit ſi le malade n'auoit mangé ny beu. et voilà les raiſons pourquoy ceux qui ſont mords ou piquez,meurent pluſtoſt ou plus tard les vns que les autres , ayans eſté empoiſonnez de beſtes venimeuſes.or ſi le venin opere par qualité occulte,le prognoſtic & la cure en ſont fort difficiles:& alors faut auoir recours aux alexiteres,qui ont auſſi vne proprieté incogneue, & principalementau theria- que,pource qu'en ſa compoſition il y entre des venins chauds,froids,ſecs,& humides , & pourtant il reſiſte à tous venins,& principalement aux naturels,comme des beſtes,plantes & mineraux, & non aux artificiels, deſquels à la mienne volonté que iamais homme n'euſt mis la main à la plume pour en eſcrire, & n'euſſent iamais eſté inuentez, afin que nous n'euſſions à combattre que les naturels des beſtes , pource qu'on s'en peut mieux garder,que de ceux qui ſont faits par la malice des traiſtres , meſchans, bourreaux , empoiſon- neurs & parfumeurs. cure de la morſure & piqueure des beſtes venimeuſes. c h a p. xi l i. # meules par tous moyens, qui conſument le venin,afin qu'il n'entre dedans le corps,& ne corrom- # pe les parties nobles ; deſquelles tout venin de ſon naturel ne demande que la mort & deſtru- --* ?) ction. et ſi par nonchalance,ou ignorance,les remedes propres ſont delaiſſez & intermis au com- mencement certainement en vain ſeront appliquez en autre temps,principalement ſi la matiere venimeuſe a deſia ſaiſi les parties nobles. donc pour commencer cette cure, les anciens nous propoſent deux indica- tions,à ſçauoir,vacuation de l'humeur virulent & venimeux,& alteration d'iceluy. or comme ainſi ſoit qu'il y ait deux manieres de vacuation,à ſçauoir,par voye vniuerſelle ou interieure, & par particuliere ou exte- rieure,nous commencerons à la particuliere,declarans les remedes topiques, propres pour attirer & abbat- tre le venin,combien que la commune opinion d'aucuns eſt qu'il faut commencer aux choſes vniuerſelles: ce qui me ſemble ne deuoir eſtre aucunement obſerué és maladies externes,comme playes,fractures, luxa- tions,& aux morſures & piqueures des beſtes venimeuſes, eſquelles la premiere choſe que l'on doit faire, eſt de prcceder incontinent aux topiques,puis auoir egard aux choſes vniuerſelles, comme regime , purga- tion,breuuages,ſaignée,& autres telles choſes,ſelon qu'il en ſera beſoin. parquoy en cette maladie,la pre- miere choſe que l'on fera ſera d'appliquer promptement medicamens conuenables ſur la morſure ou pi- queure:& ſur tout eſt fort conuenable dc lauer incontinent la playe d'vrine,ou d'eau ſalée,ou d'eau de vie, ou en lieu d'icelles,de bon vin,ou vinaigre,& y diſſoudre du theriaque le plus vieil qu'on pourra trouuer, frottant aſſez rudement la partie : & faut que le lauement ſoit le plus chaud que le malade le pourra endu- rer:puis le laiſſer deſſus:& alentour de la playe du charpy trempe en icelle mixtion. or aucuns tiennent, qu'il ne faut appliquer ledit theriaque ſur la morfure , pource (diſent-ils qu'il repouſſe le venin au dedans mais(ſaufleur reuerence)leur opinion eſt renuersée par authorite,raiſon, & experience, comme ie diray en mon liure de la peſte.par authorité: galien au liure des commoditez du theriaque. aa piſonem , commande en donner par dedans & par dehors,pour les morſures & piqueures venimeuſes, leſquelles(dit-il)il guarit, ſi on en vſe deuant que le venin ait ſaiſi les parties noble,. par raiſon, pource qu'en ſa compoſition il y en- tre de la chair de vipere,qui eſt vn crpcnt venimeux, qui par ſa ſimilitude attire le venin , ainſi que le ma- gnés attire le fer,& l'ambre le feſtu : & l ayant attiré,les autres medicamens qui entrent en ſa compoſition, reſoluent & conſument ſavirulence & venenoſité: & eſtant pris par dedans, il defend le cœur, & autres parties nobles,& fortifie les eſprits. quant à l'experience,ie puis aſſeurer auoir pensé pluſieurs,ayans eſté mords & piquez de beſtes venimeuſes,qui par le benefice du theriaque ont tous receu guariſon, pourucu que(comme i'ay aduerty cy-deſſus ) on les ait traittez auparauant que le venin euſt ſaiſi les parties nobles. partant on pourra aſſeurément vier de theriaque,ou en lieu d'iceluy on prendra du mithridat, lequel a pa- reillement grande vertu pour cét effect. dauantage, pour faire la vacuation deſſuſdite, les remedes doiuent eſtre de tenuë ſubſtance, tant ceux qu'on applique dehors , que ceux qu'on prend par dedans, à cauſc qu'ils penetrent le corps promptement, pour dompter & abbatre la malice du venin. et partant les ails, oignons, porreaux ſont vtiles, pource qu'ils ſont vapoureux,fumeux & de tenue ſubſtance : pareillement la rue, le ſcordion, le dictamnus, cen- taurea minor,praſſium,roquette, laict de figues non meures, & autres ſemblables : auſſi la bugloſſe ſauua- ge entre toutes les herbes , a vertu contre les morſures de tous ſerpens, & a eſté nommée viperine, & ce pour deux raiſons:l'vne,pource qu'elle porte la graine ſemblable à la teſte d'vne vipere : & l'autre à cauſe qu'elle guarit la morſure d'icelle,pillée & appliquée par dehors,& par dedans priſe auec du vin , le ſerpo- # l faut promptement & ſans delay remedier à la morſure & piqueure des beſtes enragées & veni- •) a let a la meſme vertu. et neantmoins que le venin ſoit chaud,ſi eſt-ce que les remedes ſuſdits ſont conuena d bles,parce qu'ils reſoluent la ſubſtance dn venin, & le conſument & euaporent. toutesfois on aura égard à la qualité de l'humeur,pour l'alterer s'il eſt beſoin,comme nous aduertirons cy-apres, outre-plus,l'ap- plication des ventouſes,& cornets,auec grande flambe, & profondes ſcarifications eſt profitable, ſi le lieu ) permet de ce faire.auſſi eſt bon de fomenter & lauer promptement la partie de fort vinaigre,le plus chaud que l'on pourra endurer : ou on prendra de l'eau & du ſel, & de ce on en frottera la playe aſſez rudement ou meſme de l'vrine du patient,comme nous auons dit. pareillement la mouſtarde delayée en vrine ou vi- naigre eſt propre.dauantage ſera bon faire ſuccer le lieu par quelque perſonne de baſſe condition,moyen- nant qu'il ait laué ſa bouche de vin auquel on aura diſſout du theriaque ou mithridat, & apres auec huyle commune.auſſi faut prendre garde qu'il n'ait vlcere en la bouche , de peur que le venin ne s'y imprime fa- cilement. les ſangſues ſont pareillement propres pour cét effect. on pourra auſſi mettre ſur la playe le cul des poulailles,& entre autres, des poules qui pondes, parce qu'elles ont le cul plus grand & plus ou- uert : ou en lieu d'icelles,prendre des coqs ou poules d'inde , parce qu'elles ont plus de vigueur d'attirer que les communes, & leur faut mettre vn grain de ſel dedans le cul,& leur clorre le bec, & l'ouurir par in- terualles,& ſi elles meurent en remettre d'autres. si on veut , on pourra fendre leſdite volailles toutes vi- ues, leſquelles d'vn diſcord naturel reſiſtent au venin, parce que les poulailles ſont de nature fort chaude. qu'il ſoit vray,elles mangent & digerent les beſtes venimeuſes,comme crapaux,viperes , aſpics , ſcorpions, & autres : & conſomment pareillement les plus ſeiches graincs qui ſoient, meſmes des petites pierres & - ſablon. * - ,- des venins. . - ſablon.parquoy appliquez deſſus ont grande force d'attirer le venin : ou en lieu d'icelles, on prendra des petits chiens ou chatonst quels eûansfendus, ſeront appliquez tous chauds ſur la playe & ſur les ſcarifi- cations,les y laiſſant iufques à ce qu'ils ſoient refroidis, puis on en remettra d'autres, tant qu'il en ſera be- ſoin. outre toutes ces choſes, l'application des cauteres eſt grandement à loüer pour abbatre & conſom- mer la malignité du venin:mais en ce cas,l'actuel eſt plus excellent que le potentiel, d'autant que l'action du feu conſomme le venin plus promptement,& fait que la playe demeure plus longuement ouuerte. mais ils doiuent eſtre appliquez deuant que le venin ait ſaiſi les parties nobles:car autrement ils ne pourroient en rien profiter,ains donneroient faſcherie en vain au pauure malade:& s'il craint le feu, on vſera du poten- tiel.et apres l'application d'iceux faut promptement faire cheoir l'eſcarre , afin de donner plus ſubite iſſuë au venin.partant l'eſcarre eſtant faite,on fera des ſcarifications deſſus , penetrantes iuſques à la chair viue: - - - : • - - - promptement puis on y appliquera des choſes onctueuſes,comme beurre & axunge.et deſſus la playe & parties voiſines, #ſ» on vſera d'emplaſtres attractiues faictes de gommes,comme galbanum, de terebenthine, poix noire, poix §. graſſe meſlée auec jus de porreaux & oignons, & autres ſemblables. et lors que l'eſcarre ſera tombée on appliquera de l'onguent baſilicum,auquel on adiouſtera poudre de mercure , qui en ce cas a grande effica- ce,d autant qu'elle attire la ſanie & viruléce du profond de la playe & ne la permet reclorre:ce qui eſt bien neceſſaire,car on la doit tenir longtemps ouuerte,afind'euacuer la matiere venimeuſe. et pour ce faire,on on doit re- appliquera de l'eſponge,ou racines de gentiane,ou d'hermodactes,ou quelques medicamens aeres, comme §r l'§ egyptiac,ou poudre de mercure meſlée auecalum cuit,ou vn peu de poudre faite de cautere potentiel. et lenguement ne faut oublier à meſler touſiours auec les onguents vn peu de theriaque ou mithridat,ou jus d'hypericon, ouuert. ou de nepeta,& autres ſemblables, qui ont vertu d'attirer & reſoudre le venin , & d'abſterger & nettoyer l'vlcere.toutesfois ſi on voyoit qu'il y euſt trop grande chaleur,douleur,& acuité, laquelle contraint 'hu- midité de faire ebullition qui ſe tourne quelquesfois en virulence & pourriture , gangrene, mortification, alors faut laiſſer la propre cure pour ſuruenir aux accidens.et voilà quant à l'euacuation particuliere, qui ſe doit faire es morſures & piqueuresvenimeuſes. - faut faire - - — de la cure vniuerſelle . c h a p. x i v. v a n t à l'euacuation vniuerſelle, il faut obſeruer que l'on ne faſſe ſaignée, & que l'on ne donne medecine laxatiue,ny clyſtere,ny vomitoire,ny bains, ou autres fudatoirs, qu'il n'y ait pour le moins trois iours paſſez apres la morſure faite:auſſi que le patiét euite le coit,de peur # de faire commotion & perturbationaux humeurs,& eſprits,& que le venin fuſt par ces moyês ^ ^ plus promptement porté au cœur : mais quand la matiere venimeuſe ſera eſparſe, & l'acuité diminuée,alors telles euacuations pourront eſtre faites,& non autrement.mais pour tous medicamens inte- rieures, ſuffira vſer de contre-poiſons au commencement,comme de toutes ſortes de theriaque, mithridat, · & autres ſemblables choſes:leſquelles eſtans contraires aux venins,changent & alterent tout le corps : non - pas qu'il faille entendre que leur ſubſtance penetre & paſſe tout le corps, (car il eſt impoſſible qu en ſi peu , de temps vne ſi petite quantité de matiere,qu'on donne pour côtre-poiſon,puiſſe paſſer vne ſi groſſe maſ- ſe dc noſtre corps)mais elle s'eſ pand,& enuoye ſes vertus & qualitez:comme iournellement nous voyons que quand nous auons pris des pillules,neantm ins que leur ſubſtance,ou matiere demeure en l'eſtomach, leur vertu eſt eſpandue iuſques au cerueau,& par tout le corps. on en peut autant dire d'vn clyſtere, qui eſtant dans les inteſtins,a puiſſance d'attirer les humeurs du cerueau.on yoit auſſi cét effect és medecines, qui attirent par leur vertu iuſques au dedans des jointures,& de toutes les parties du corps.et pour le dire reſpandent en vn mot,les contre-poiſons operent en nos corps,pour combattre le venin, & le chaſſer & vaincre ſavi- # tout le rulence,ainſi que le venin fait pour exercer ſa tyrannie,& ſaiſir le cœur touterfois il faut bien noter,que la , p . contre-poiſon doit eſtre plus fort que la poiſon,afin qu'elle domine : & partant en faut vſer en plus grande quantité que n'eſt le venin,à ce qu'elle ſoit plus forte à le vaincre & chaſſer et en faut donner deux fois fe iour,continuant tant que l'on verra le venin eſtre amorty,& les accidens ceſſez. et cecy eſt non ſeulement profitable pour l'euacuation de la poiſon,mais auſſi pour fortifier les parties nobles. or outre les choſes ſuſdites,faut auoir égarda alterer l'humeur:ce que nous auons dit eſtre la ſeconde indication qu'on ſe doit propoſer en la cure preſente. ce qui ſe fera en changeant vne qualité contraire par vne autre contraire. exemple,ſi le patient ſent vne vehemente chaleur au lieu où eſt la morſure,ou en tout le corps, alors il fau- dra appliquer remedes refrigerans : au contraire s'il ſent froidure , remedes calefactifs & ainſi des autres qualitez.cecy te ſuffiſe pour le regard des venins,& de leur cure en general:il en faut traitter maintenant en particulier. et premierement nous commencerons aux morſures des chiens enragez. temps poàr donner les remedes ga- / a • comme les remedes ſe alteration de l'humeur venimeux. la cauſe pourquoy les chiens deuiennent pluſtoſt enrage(que les autres beſtes. , c h a p t r e x v. - - e l a aduient,parce que de leur nature ils ſont preparez & enclins à telle diſpoſition:& pour-º ºſes ce auſſi qu'ils mangent quelquesfois corps morts, charongneux, & autres choſes pourries & ºº,º % pleines de vers,& boiuent des eaux de ſemblable nature:auſſi par vne trop grande melancho- chiens de- # lie d'auoir perdu leur maiſtre , dont courent çà & la pour le trouuer, delaiſſans le manger & # c'/ - * boire,dequoy s'enſuit ebullition de leur ſang,qui puis apres ſe tourne en melancholie, & puis # ºh ºo. -en rage.dauantage,pour deux autres cauſes contraires.la premiere,par la trop grande chaleur la ſeconde, # ,. ſimpl. par l'extreme froidure comme l'on voit que le plus ſouuent ils enragent és iours caniculaires , & en hy- & c.ii ii ',. uer durant les grandes gelées.ce qui aduient parce que les chiens ſont de leur nature froids & ſecs,& par ſimpl.ſmble conſequent ils ont beaucoup d'humeurs melancholiques,leſquels en telles ſaiſons chaleureuſes ſe tournét ſtre d'opi- aisément en humeurs atrabilaires paraduſtion, comme en hyuer par conſtipation de cuir, & ſuppreſſion uion centrai d'excremens fuligineux,qui leur cauſent vne fiévre continuë grandementardente,& vne phreneſie & rage. * ººººº le grand froid de l'air augmente ſemblablement leur chaleur du dedans, laquelle eſtat epouſſées augmen le #- -te & allume les humeurs preparez à telle rage & pourriture:leſquels ſont d'autant plus dangereux , que ne # #ſt pouuant ſortir & euaporer par les pores & pertuis du cuir(qui pour lors ſont du tout fermez) ils demeu- # à §i" rent dedans,& font alors les meſmes accidens que fait la grande chaleur de l'eſté auſſi deuiennent enragez eſt # cr pour vſer de viandes tropchaudes,qui leur eſchauffent leur ſang, & leur cauſent fievre, puis la rage : lem #.. blablementauſſi pourauoir eſté mords d'autres chiens,ou loup,ouautres animaux enragez. si · - - - - - - - - - gnes c> le vingt-vnieme liure, - - - • • - - -- –- - - a - - h - - - #. « - . ' l - x i. - a signes pour cognoiſtre le c inſtre enrage ch a r. xv - - - , n • - - - - mg o r s qu'il voit de l'eau,il tremble,& la craint,& a vne horripilation;c'eſt à dire,que le poil | ， luy dreſſe.il a les yeux rouges & fort flamboyans,& renuerſez,auec vn regard vehement,fixe cºl & horrible,regardant de trauers. il porte ſa teſte fort bas, & la tourne de coſté. il ouure ſa gueule,& tire ſa langue qu'on voit liuide & noire,halette, & jette grande quantité de bane eſcumeuſe,& pluſieurs autres humiditez decoulent de fon nez. il chemine en crainte,tantoſt à dextre,tantoſt à ſeneſtre,comme s'il eſtoit yvre,& tombe ſouuent en terre.lors qu'il voit quelque forme, | | teſt il court à l'encontre pour l'aſſaillir,ſoit que ce ſoit vne muraille ou vn arbre, ou quelque animal qu'il ren- vliu$ les tbiens contre.les autres chiens le fuyent,& le ſentent de loing:& s'il s'en trouue quelqu'vn pres de luy,ille flatte, iné: enragez ſont & luy obeyt,& taſche à ſe defrober & fuyr de luy, encore qu'il ſoit plus grand & plus fort. il ne boit ny fttà fuis de ceux mange:il eſt du tout muet,c'eſt à dire,qu'il n'aboye point, a les oreilles fort pendantes, & la queue retirée ( . qui ne le söt entre les cuiſſes.il regarde de trauers,& plus triſtement que de couſtume:il mord également beſtes & gens, #º peint. tant domeſtiques & familiers qu'eſtrangers, & ne cognoiſt aucunement ſon maiſtre , ny la maiſon où il a i，, " eſté nourry:parce que l'humeur melancholique luy trouble tous les ſens.ce qui aduient pareillement aux ! l tt hommes qui ſont vexez de tel humeur melancholique:carils tuent quelquesfois leurs peres,meres,femmes, | u ou enfans, & ſouuentesfois eux-meſmes. - · - - " ! - - - - - - - a. - les ſignes pour cognoiſtre vn homme anoireſfémordu d'vn chien enragé. . , - c h a p t r e x v i i. l eſt fort difficile de cognoiſtre du commencement quád quelqu'vn a eſté mords d'vn chien en- b # # ragé ou non:parce que la playe faite par la morſure,n'afflige au commencement le malade , non $ # ) plus qu'vne autre playe,au contraire de celles qui ſont faictes par morſures ou piqueures des au- | | è) tres beſtes venimeuſes car ſubitement on y ſent vne extreme douleur, & la partie s'enfiamme & enfle,& ſuruiennent grands & diuers accidens,ſelon la diuerſité de la malignité du venin,comme nous di- leveninfait rons cy-apres.donc nous conclurons,que le venin fait par la age ne ſe monſtre pas au commencement, & par la rage qu'il n'ait premierement ſaiſi & alteré les parties nobles. parquoy ſi on doute au commencement que la j ne ſe monſtre morſure ne fuſt faite d'vn chien enragé , on le pourra veritablement cognoiſtre en moüillant du pain au · pºº ºº ººº- ſang, ou en la ſanie de la playe,que l'on donnera à vn chien affamé : & s'il le refuſe à manger,meſme qu'il • "º deſdaigne le fairer,cela demonſtre que la playe eſt faite d'vn chien enragé:au contraire,s'il le mange il n'e- ſtoit point enragé.dauantage pluſieurs ont eſcrit, que ſi on donne le pain ainſi trempé à vne poulaille, & experience qu'elle le mange,elle mourra dans vil olli oll enuiron,ſi le chien eſtoit enragé. mais pour certain,i'ay fait faicte par telle experience , & ſçauois veritablement que le chien eſtoit enragé par les ſignes predits , toutesfois les | # authºur. poulailles ne mouroient point apres auoir mangé dudit pain. parquoy l'eſpreuue du pain donné aux chiens | eſt plus certain , pource qu'ils ont vn ſentiment exquis de flairer naturellement, qui fait qu'ils ſentent l'o- ， - deur du ſang ou ſanie de la playe faite d'vn chien enragée,& pource aucunement n'y touchent. - - ( des accidens qui viennent à ceux auſquels le venin du chien enragé eſt commencé d'eſtre # impriméaux parties nobles. c h a p. xv i i i. r # - v commencement le malade deuient fort penſif, & murmure entre ſes dents : il reſpond ſans pro- \: pos, & deuient cholere plus que de couſtume : il penſe voir en doimant vne infinité de choſes fantaſtiques, & finalement tombe en vne maladie nommée des grecs, hydrophobia , c'eſt à dire, crainte d'eau. - les ſignes que la rage eſt du tout confirmée aux parties nobles. puis apres que le venin s'eſt dauantage augmenté,& ja du tout châgé l'œconomie'ou harmonie des par- ties nobles,alors la vertu imaginatiue,& toute raiſon & memoire, & autres ſens ſe perdent : & par conſe- quent le malade deuient fol & inſensé,& ne cognoiſt aucunement ſes familiers amis, & domeſtiques, & ſe deſchire,& eſgratigne,& mord ſoy-meſme,& les premiers venus qu'il peut attraper : qui ſe fait à cauſe des vapeurs & fumées melancholiques qui montent au cerueau,& alterent & corrompent le téperament d'ice- luy:parquoy la raiſon eſt perdue,enſemble tous les autres ſens,dont le pauure malade eſt incité à courroux, & à mordre.semblablement il a ſouuent des mouuemens & treſſaille mens inuolontaires,& contractionsde vn homme nerfs:qui ſe fait à cauſe de la ſiccité vehemente,prouenant du venin chaud & ſec,qui bleſſe le temperament º º des nerfs qui ſont diſſeminez és muſcles , & auſſi qui leur conſomme l'humidité ſubſtantifique. pareille- # "# ment le patient a vne grande ſeichereſſe en la bouche, & la langue aride & ſeiche, auec vne ſoifintolera- #º ble,toutesfois ſans appetit de boire,pourtant que deſia ſon corps a pris vne affection contraire à ſes actions d aueun appe- naturelles,dont il aduient qu'il ne deſire les choſes qui naturellement appaiſe la ſoif plus il a la face & les § #. yeux rouges,& grandement enflambez,& pareillement tout le corps,à cauſe de l'extreme chaleur & ſiccité prouenant du virus veneneux & malin.il s'imagine qu'il voit & oit des chiens, & veut pareillement japper & mordre.qui ſe fait parce que le venin du chien enragé change & altere toute la temperature del'homme en toute ſa complexion & ſimilitude:en ſorte que tous ſes fens,pensées,paroles & viſions,& geºlement, toutes ſes actions ſont deprauées par l'humeur melancholique & veneneux,eſpandu és ventricules ducer- ueau,lequel leur change l'eſprit;tellement que le malade penſe voir & ouir des chiês,voire croit luymeſ- me eſtre chien,duquel auſſi il enſuit la voix enroiiée,parce qu'il jappe,abboye,crie & hurie comme chiens, ſans honte & reſpect de ſon honneur,au grand eſpouuantement de ceux qui ſont preſer % qui l'oyêt.l'en- roiieure vient par la grande ſeichereſſe, qui a deſſeiché la trachée artere , & les inſtrt .,ens de la voix. il p t y t, fuit grandement la lumiere,à cauſe que l'humeur melancholique, qui eſt obſcur & tenebreux, eſt contrai- º * § § § § d § ſ »ir r ſl, à vnir l'ea , ^ » craint les :qui fait que le malade deſire les tenebres qui luy ſont ſemblables. il craint auſſi à voir l'eau(en- choſes luy-cºrºººººº ſoit vn remede fort vtile pour rafraiſchir ſon extreme chaleur & ſiccité)ou quand il regarde en jantes, vn miroir,il luy eſt aduis & s'imagine qu'il voit des chiens, & que ce ſouuenir luy fait auoir cette crainte. pour cette cauſe il craint l'eau & toutes choſes tranſparentes & luyſantes,ayans quelque reuerberation : & quand il les voit,il crie & tremble,de peur d'eſtre encore mords:dont vient qu'il tombe,& ſe veautre en ter- _ -- tre, pour ſe cuider couurir d'icelle. et telle choſe ſe fait, à cauſe que les vapeurs alterées & corrompuës penetrent | - des venins. i a enetrent par les yeux,& eſtans paruenus à l'eau ou miroir,ou autres corps ſèmblables, par leur reuerbe- p p y p » p ration luy repreſentent des choſes.or ils diſent que celuy qui eſt mord d'vn chien enragé,s'imagine touſ- jours voir le chien duquel il a eſté mordu,la crainte duquel luy fait ainſi fuir & craindre l'eau. Àutres di- ſent cela aduenir,à cauſe que par la rage,le corps tombe en vne extreme ſiccité, qui le fait fuir l'humidité, comme ſon contraire.rufus dit que la rage eſt vne eſpece de maladie melancholique or nous ſçauons eſtre choſe propre à tous melancholiques, d'auoir quelque choſe particulierement en crainte : par l'aphoriſme vingt-cinquiéme de la section ſixiéme.mais principalement ils craignent toutes choſes luyſantes , comme l'eau,les miroirs à cauſe qu'ils cherchent les tenebres,pource qu'à icelles les inuite leur humeur noir, ob- ſcur & tenebreux.il a vne ſueur froide,& ſort de l'vlcere vn virus eſcumeux,fetide, virulent, & erugineux, c'eſt à dire,de couleur de roüilleure d'airain:qui aduient par l'extreme chaleur & acuité de l'acrimonie du virus qui adhere en la partie, laquelle fait ebullition& pourriture. auſſi on trouue l'vlcere quelquesfois aride & ſec.l'vrine eſt le plus ſouuent claire & ſubtile,à cauſe que les colatoires des reins ſont fort reſſer- rez & eſtreſſis,pour la chaleur & ſiccité du venin : auſſi quelquesfois eſt fort eſpeſſe & noire, qui ſe fait, à cauſe que la vertu expultrice chaſſe tant qu'elle peut par les vrines l'humeur melancholique,qui a eſté cor- rompu par le venin.pareillement elle eſt aucunesfois totalement ſupprimée & retenue par la ſiccité du vi- , rus,& des matieres craſſes,viſqueuſes & gluantes,dont ſe fait totale obſtruction des parties dediées à l'vri- ne.bref,le pauure malade eſt tellement tourmenté par ces accidens,qu'en la fin vaincu de douleur & de tra- uail à faute de manger & boire,il meurt furieux & enragé. mais lors que du commencement & deuant que le venin ait entré au corps,& gaigné les parties nobles)on adminiſtre les remedes propres, les malades ne b faillent à guarir,& peu de perſonnes ſont morts,auſquels on ait diligemment pourueu. c fait long ſejour;mais ſi elle eſt eſſuyée,& le lieu promptement laué d eau ſalée ou d'vrine, prognoſtic. c h a p. x ix. néz n ne ſe peut bien garder de la morſure des chiens enragez,attendu qu'ils ſont touſiours par- ) my les hommes,au moyen dequoy on eſt en plus grand danger d'eux,que de toutes autres be- ſtes venimeuſes en leurs morſures.et d autant que le chien eſt domeſtique & familier à l'hom- # me pendant qu'il eſt ſain, d'autant luy eſt-il ennemy depuis qu'il eſt ſorty de ſa nature ac- - couſtumée,qui ſe fait parvne rage.or le virus qui eſt en ſa baue,eſt chaud & ſec,malin,vene- le venin du neux & contagieux,tellement qu'il communique la meſme affection à celuy qu'il mord ( ſi on n'y pouruoit chien enragé de bonne heure)ſoit vn homme,ou vne autre beſte:& ſon venin eſt tant ſubtil, que facilement penetre par eſt chaud & les pores du cuit:& eſtant attiré par les arteres,par le continuel mouuement d'icelles, il eſt conduit au de- ſ*. meurant du corps.parquoy on peut conclure,que le venin de ſa rage a la vertu,non ſeulement de faire en- "a rager ceux qu'il mord,mais auſſi ceux auſquels il aura jette ſon eſcume, ou baue contre leur peau, ſi elle y la baue fait elle n'y fera au- enrager. cun mal. Ét faut icy entendre que toute morſure de chien enrage ne nuit pas également, & ne tuë pas en meſme temps,ainſi qu'auons cy-deſſus demonſtré du venin des beſtes venimeuſes. car ſelon la diſpoſition de l'air chaud ou froid,& la vehemence duvenin , & le lieu & profondeur de la morſure & la diuerſite des forces de ceux qui ſont mordus,& la cacochymie & mauuaiſe habitude,c'eſt à dire,ſeló que leurs humeurs ſont ja preparez à eſtre pourris,ou qu'ils ont leurs conduits eſtroits,ou plus larges, de là vient que les ac- cidens apparoiſſent pluſtoſt ou plus tard. car aucuns viennent quarante iours apres la morſure, autresfois ſix mois,voire vnan,& aux autres plus tard ou pluſtoſt,comme nous auons dit cy deuant. pluſieurs apres auoir eſté mords deuiennent epileptiques,puis demoniaques & enragez. ceux qui ſont tombez en hydro- phobie,iamais ne guariſſent:toutesfois auicenne dit,qu'encores y a eſperance , pourueu qu'ils ſe cognoiſ- ſent en vn miroir : car on voit par cela que le venin n'a encore du tout occupé les facultez animales : & ceux-là ont beſoin d'eſtre violentement purgez,comme nous dirons cy-apres.aece raconte d'vn philoſophe hiſtoire » mordu d'vn chien enragé,lequel voulant d'vn grand courage reſiſter à ce mal d'hydrophobie, vint au bain, / - où l'apparence d'vn chien ſe preſentant deuant luy(car il auoit cette viſion, comme les autres frappez de ſemblable maladie)& ayant longuement pensé en ſoy-meſme : qu'y a-il,entre vn chien & vn bain ! apres ces paroles il entra dedans le bain,& en beut ſans auoir peur,dont il ſurmonta le mal , & guarit. quand le signes de malade ſe veautre contre la terre , comme les chiens,c'eſt ſigne de mort prochaine, parce que telle choſe mºrt pre- demonſtre que l'humeur melancholique,virulent & veneneux,eſt en grande abondance,& eſt commnniqué chaine . ' par tous les membres.auſſi quand le patient a la voix enroüée,c'eſt vn tres-mauuais ſigne,pource que telle les hommes choſe demonſtre qu'en latrachée artere il y a quelque aſperité par ſiccité de virus venimeux. en ſomme, peuuent ſtre quand les parties nobles ſont ſaiſies du venin,il n'ya plus eſperance de guariſon les hommes peuuent eſtre ſºrpr# de la ſurpris de la age ſans eſtre mords de chiens enragez car tout ainſi que les humeurs ſe bruſlent, cauſans vn º /º#. chancre ou ladrerie,pareillement la rage peut aduenir,& principalement aux melancholiques. dauantage, #. %. les morſures des beſtes comme viperes,& autres animaux venimeux , ne cauſent tels accidens comme cel # beſte les des chiens enragez,parce qu'elles font mourir,deuant que les accidens ſuſdits puiſſent venir.joint anſſi enragée . que la qualité d'iceux venins eſt diuerſe.plus,les grandes playes faictes par morſures de chiens enragez, ne ſont fi dangereuſes que les petites, pource que par vne grande playe ſort beaucoup de ſang & de ſanie qui enacue le venin. cure de la morſure du chien enragé. ch a p. x x. ſe o v s auons dit par cy-deuant, qu'aux picqueures & morſures des beſtes venimeuſes, il fal- loit vſer de prompts & ſubtils remedes, afin que le venin n'entre dedaus le corps, & ne cor- rompe les parties nobles. et s'ils ſont obmis au commencement , en vain ſeront appliquez en autre temps. ainſi qu'arriua à balde,grand iuriſconſulte,ſe ioüant auec vn ſien petit chien , qui hiſtoire de eſtoit enragé, duquel eſtant tant ſoit peu mordu en la léve , ne ſçachant qu'il fuſt enragé, negligea ſa bºlº iuriſ- morſure, & quatre mois apres mourut furieux & enragé, & n'y eut nul remede qui le peuſt ſauuer, pour º/º- ne l'auoir pris d'heure. donc pour preuoir à tel accident,tout ce que nous auons declaré cy-deſſus en la cure generale des beſtes venimeuſes,tant pour l'euacuation de l'humeur virulent,que pour l'alteration d'i- celuy,doit eſtre pareillement obſeiué en la morſure des chiens enragez. et partant,ſi quelqu'vn cognoiſt qu'il eſt mords d'vn chien enragé, il s'efforcera d'attirer le venin par tous nioyens, comme par ventouſes, cornets,ſcarifications,ſangſuës, applications de volailles, & autres animaux, & par medicamens propres à ce faire,qui preſentement ſeront declarez. et ſi la playe eſt grande , il la faut laiſſer ſaigner le plus † - ci - le vingt-vniéme liure, faut tenir telles playes long temps . º tºerfef. / les remedes poig»ans & attractifs ſont fort loisez pour attirer le venin. autre reme- de approuué d'aëtius. remede ex- cellent. hiſtoire . aätres re- medes qu'on peut prendre par dedans. se plonger en la mer n'eſt remede cer- tain contre la rage . l'ſage de l'antimoint. moyen de faire boire l'eau au | malade . ſera poſſible,afin que le venin ſorte auec le ſang. et là où elle ne ſtra aſſez grande , on y pourra faire des ſcarifications,ou y appliquer cauteres actuels : & ſera tenue ouuerte pour le moins iuſques à ce que qua- rante iours ſoient paſſez i'ozeille pilée & appliquée ſur la morſure, & le boüillon d'icelle pris par la bou- che,eſt de grande vertu. ce qu'aëce nous a laiſſé par eſcrit,diſant auoir cogneu vn vieillard chirurgien,le- quel n'vſoit d'autre remede pour curer telles morſures. de ma part, ie conſeille de prendre promptement de l'vrine,& en frotter aſſez rudement la playe,& y laiſſer vn linge trempé deſſus. auſſi la mouſtarde bien delayée en vrine,ou vinaigre,eſt propre à cét effect.pareillement tous remedesacres,poignans,& fort atti- rans.autre.prenez roquette boulue & pilée auec beurre & ſel , & l'appliquez ſur la morſure. autre. pre- nez farine d'orobe,miel,ſel , & vinaigre, & ce ſoit tout chaud appliqué deſſus.autre. la fiente de chévre bouluë en fort vinaigre,& appliquée.autre. prenez ſoulphre ſubtilement puluerisé, & incorporé auec ſa- iiue d'homme , & l'appliquez deſſus.autre. prenez poix noire fondue auec ſel , & vn peu d'euphorbe, & l'appliquez deſſus.autre.le poil du chien enragé, appliqué deſſus la playe tout ſeul, avertu d'attirer le ve- nin par quelque ſimilitude:ce qu'on a pluſieurs fois experimenté ,ainſi que fait le scorpion, eſtant eſcaché & mis ſur la picqueure d'iceluy.aucuns autheurs ont laiſsé par eſcrit,que ledit poil de chien,bruſlé & pul- uerisé,& donné à boire auec du vin,preſerue de la rage-autre. prenez froment maſché cru, & l'appliquez ſur la morſure. autre. prenez des febues, & les mettez vn peu ſous les cendres chaudes, puis les pelez & fendez, & les appliquez deſſus. - il fautfaire boüillir du lapathum acutum,& de la decoction en lauer & fomenter la playe, puis y laiſſer l'herbe pilée deſſus auſſi en faut donner à boire de la decoction au patient. il afferme auoir fait de grandes cures auec ce ſeul remede : & dit que cette decoction fait beaucoup piſſer : qui eſt vne choſe excellente à cette maladie.autre.prenez betoine,fueilles d'ortie,& ſel commun,broyez-les, & appliquez deſſus. autre. prenez vn oignon commun,fueilles de rüe,& ſel,broyez-les enſemble, & appliquez deſſus. or entre tous les remedes,le theriaque eſt ſingulier, comme il a eſté dit, le faiſant diſſoudre en eau de vie, ou en vin, & en frottant aſſez rudement la playe,tant qu'elle ſaigne. puis y faut laiſſer dedans du charpy imbu en icelle mixtion:& par deſſus la playe, y appliquer des ails ou oignons , pilez auec miel commun & terebenthine: & tel remede eſt excellent par deſſus tous ceux que i'ay veu par experience. et pour la probation de mon dire, i'allegueray icy vn hiſtoire de l'vne des filles de madamoiſelle de gronc, natiue de cette ville de pa- ris, laquelle fut mordue d'vn chien enragé, au milieu de la jambe dextre , où le chien imprima ſes dents bien profondement en la chair : laquelle fut guarie par le moyen du theriaque, ſans que iamais luy ſuruint aucun mauuais accident : lequel theriaque ie meſlois dans les medicamens deterſifs, & autres, iuſques à la fin de ſa guariſon. or de vouloir icy declarer tous les autres que i'ay pensé de telles morſures , ce ſeroit vne choſe trop prolixe:& partant cette hiſtoire ſuffira pour le preſent , pour inſtruire chacun à remedier à tel accident. il faut promptement manger vn ail,auec vn peu de pain puis boire vn peudevin : & c'eſt vn ſouuerain re- mede,à cauſe que l'odeur,& la grande chaleur ſpiritueuſe qui eſt aux ails, prohibe que le venin de la mor- ſure n'offenſe les parties nobles.autres commandent de manger du foye roſty du chien qui a mordu, ou du foye de bouc:ce que ie n'ay eſprouué.autre remede. prenez vne dragme de ſemence d'agnus caſtus, auec vin & beurre,& en ſoit donné à boire.autre.prenez pouldre d'eſcreuiſſes bruſlées, & la delayez en vin , & en donnez à boire.autre.prenez racine de gentiane deux dragmes,eſcreuiſſes de riuiere bruſlées au four,& puluerisées trois dragmes,terre ſigillée quatre dragmes. la doſe ſera vne dragme auec eau, en laquelle on aura fait boüillir quantité d'eſcreuiſſes,& en ſoit donné à boire comme deſſus. aucuns ſe ſont plongez en la mer apres eſtre mords de chiens enragez, qui n'ont laiſsé d'eſtre ſurpris de la rage, ainſi que teſmoigne ferrand pouzet,cardinal,en ſon liure des venins:partant ne s'y faut fier:mais pluſtoſt aux remedes approu- uez des anciens & modernes medecins & chirurgiens. il eſt vray que la confidence que peut auoir le ma- lade aux remedes, & au chirurgien, ſert beaucoup en cette cure : au contraire, l'effroy & la crainte nuiſt beaucoup,& accelere la rage.partant il faut touſiours bien aſſeurer le patient de ſa parfaicte guariſon. or il faut entendre,que le venin du chien enragé,ou la ſaliue d'vne vipere,ou la baue d'vn crapaut, & d'autres beſtes venimeuſes,n'enueniment pas en touchant ſeulement,mais faut que le venin entre dedans, tellement que ſi à l'heure on l'eſſuye, ne pourra faire aucunmal. de la cure de ceux qui ſont ja tombez en hydrophobie, & neantmoins ſe- recognoiſſent encore en vn miroir. c h a p t r e xxi. É vx auſquels levenin n'a encore occupé les facultez animales, il les conuient grandement pur- ger par medecines bien fortes. et en cela il me ſemble que l'antimoine ſeroit profitable, d'autant $ qu'il prouoque la ſueur,flux de ventre,& vomiſſement. car ce ſeroit grande folie bailler en tel $ cas medicamens legers,quand le venin eſt fort malin,& ja imprimé aux parties interieures. sem- blablement les bains leur ſont bons,pour leur prouoquer la ſueur : la ſaignée ne doit eſtre faicte, de peur d'attirer le venin du dehors au dedans. auſſi il faut qu'ils vſent ſouuent de theriaque ou mithridat. en ce temps-là pareillement leur faut faire boire de l'eau,& la bailler aux malades dedans quelque vaiſſeau cou- uert,de peur qu'ils ne lavoyent, pour les raiſons ſuſdites. · - du regime de ceux qui ont eſté empoiſonnex & mords des chiens enragex, & des picqueures c morfures des beſles venimeuſes. le malade doit demeurer en lieu chaud,& en air bien clair,de peur que le venin ne ſoit chaſſé au dedans par le froid,& auſſi afin que les eſprits ſoient recreez, & eſmeus du centre à la circonference par le moyen de la clarté:auſſi on doit parfumer la chambre de choſes odoriferantes. semblablement il doit manger au commencement viandes acres & ſalées,côme ails,oignons,porreaux,eſpiceries,jâbons de majence,& leurs ſemblables,& boire b vin,& ſans eau,à raiſon que telles choſes ſont fort vapoureuſes & pleines d'eſprits, qui reſiſtent au venin,& ne permettent que ſa vertu ſoit eſpanduë au corps, & ne ſe ſaiſiſſe des parties no- bles.pareillement on doit vſer de viandes craſſes & viſqueuſes,parce qu'elles font obſtruction,& eſtoupent les conduits , & parties vuides: auſſi en faut pluſloſt manger que trop peu, à cauſe que l'inanition accroiſt la malignité des humeurs qui eſt choſe côtraire aux playes venimeuſes toutesfois il y faut tenir mºiºs . - e • i - " , t)es venins. · a et cinq ou ſix iours apres onïſſera\ôites viandes, & en lieu d'icelles, on vſera de temperées, & plu- ſtoſt humides que ſeiches leſquelles ſeront eſleues ſelon qu'on les ordonne aux melancholiques & mettra- on en leurs potages racines aperitiuesſquelles ont vertu de faire vriner. on leur tiendra le ventre aſſez laſche & s'il y a repletion de ſang leur en ſera tiré,non au commencement, mais cinq ou ſix iours apres la morſure faicte,pour les raiſons qu'auons deuant dictes. pour le boire au repas , on vſera de vin mediocre- §nt trempé,à ſçauoir cinq ou ſix iours apres la morſure,ou d'oxymel,ou de fyrop de acetºſitate eiori,auec eauboüllie:& entre le repas,de julep faict en cette maniere. prenez demie once de jus de limons, & au- tant de citrons,vin de grenades aigres deux onces,eau de petite ozeille, & eau roſe,de chacune vne once, §u de fontaine boüillie tant qu'il ſera beſoin,& ſoit fait julep.il faut que le malade éuite le dormir , iuſ- ques à ce que la force duvenin ſoit amortie & conſommée:car par le dormir , le ſang & les eſprits ſe ict - rent au centre du corps,& par ce moyen le venin eſt porté aux parties nobles. auſſi on luy doit faire vſer de choſes qui reſiſtent aux venins,comme limons,oranges citrons,racines de gentiane, angelique, tormen- tille,pimpinelle,verbene,chardon beniſt, bourrache,bugloſe,& autres ſemblables : & generalement toutes viandes qui engend.ent bon ſuc,comme veau,chévreau,mouton,perdrix,poulailles,& autres ſemblables. de la morſure & picqueure de la vipere, & deſes accidens. t =èsy o v s les remedes qui ont eſté cy-deuanteſcrits des morſures des chiens enragez,peuuent pa- reillement aider à toutes morſures & picqueures des autres animaux venimeux. toutesfois on trouue des particuliers remedes pour chacune morſure & picqueure. ce que dirons le plus ſuccinctement qu'il ſera poſſible. c h a p. xxi i. -#%n) les viperes ont entre leurs genciues, certaines petites veſſies pleines de venin, qui s'im- primét incontinent au lieuoù elles font ouuerture.les patiens ſentent douleur grandement poignante en la partie,laquelle promptement s enfle bien forr,voire tout le corps,ſi on n'y donne ſubit remede. il ſort de la playe yne ſanie craſſe & ſanguinolente & autour d'icelle,il ſe faict des veſſies,comme celles des bruſleures & évlcere corrode & mange la chair.auſſi les malades ſentent inflammation au foye, & aux genciues : & tout le corps deuient fort aride & ſec de couleur paſle & blafarde,& ontvne ſoif inextinguible. ils ſentent parfois grandes tranchées au ventre,& vomiſſement pluſieurs humeurs choleriques & tombent ſouuent en ſyncope,& ont hocquets,comme vne conuulſion d eſtomach,auecvne ſueur froide,& la mort s'enſuit, s'ils ne ſont ſecourus deuant que le venin ait ſaiſi les parties nobles. matthiole dit auoir veu vn paiſan,qui fau- chant vn pré,auoit par fortune coupé vne vipere par le milieu:& iceluy print le tronçon de la teſte, l'eſti- mant morte. aduint que la teſte ſe courbant contre ſa main , le mordit aſprement au doigt : & ſucçant la playe,pour cuider attirer le ſang qui ja auoit eſté enuenimé)il mourut ſur le champ.or ie veux icy reciter vne autre hiſtoire,afin de touſiours inſtruire le ieune chirurgien. le roy charles eſtant à mont-pelier, ie fusmords d'vne vipere au bout du doigt index, entre l'ongle & la chair, en la maiſon d'vn apothicaire, nommé de farges,lequel diſpenſoit alors le theriaque, auquel ie demanday à voir les viperes qu'il deuoit mettre en la compoſition. il m'en fit monſtrer aſſez bon nombre,qu'il gardoit en vn vaiſſeau de verre , où i'en prins vne,& fus mords d'icelle voulant voir ſes dents,qu'ils ont enla mandibule ſuperieure de ſa gueu- le,couuerte d'vne petite membrane,en laquelle elle garde ſon venin, lequel s'imprime (comme i'ay dit en la partie,incontinent qu'elle ya faict ouuerture. et ayant receu cette morſure, ie ſentis ſubit vne extreme douleur,tant pour la ſenſibilité de la partie,qu'à cauſe du venin:alors ie me ſerray bien fort le doigt au def- ſus de la playe,afin de faire ſortir le ſang,& vacuer le venin,& garder qu'il ne gaignaſt au deſſus pus de- manday du vieil theriaque , lequel delauay auec d'eau de vie, en la main de l'vn des ſeruiteurs dudit de farges,& trempay du cotton en la miſture,& l'appliquay ſur la morſure : & apres peu de iours ie fus guary ſans aucun accident,auec ce remede ſeul. en lieu de theriaque,on peut aſſeurément vſer de mithridat. on peut pareillement vſer de tous remedes poignans,& fort attirans,pour obtundre la malice du venin.com- me la ſquille,cuitte ſous la cendre,ou des ails & pourreaux pilez,& appliquez deſſus. autre. prenez farine d'orge delayée auec vinaigre,miel,ciottes de chevre, & appliquez deſſus en forme de cataplaſme. autre. . tout promptement on doit lauer & fomenter laplaye auec vinaigre,& ſel,& vn peu de miel. galien dit au liure de la theriaque à piſon, que l'on attire le venin d'vne morſure de vipere, yappliquant vne teſte de vipere ſur la playe : autres y mettent la vipere entiere bien pilée. du serpent appellé coule-ſang. ch a p. xxi i i. · e coule-ſang a eſté ainſi appellé, pour autant que le ſang coule par tous les conduits du corps, qui en a eſté mordu. c'eſt vn petit ſerpent comme vne vipere, ayant les yeux fort ardans, & ſa peau fort luiſante. auicenne dit qu'il a le dos marqueté de taches noires & blanches, & le col fort eſtroit, & la queue foºt menue. lesaccidens qui ſuiuent ſa morſure, c'eſt que la partie de- uient noire,à cauſe que la chaleur naturelle eſt eſteinte par la malice du venin,lequel luy eſt ennemy mor- tel, puis vn mal de l'eſtomach & du cœur, qui facilement ſe reſſentent du venin, ennemy capital deſdites parties,& principalement en maladie veneneuſe,ainſi que nous voyons aduenir en la peſte, laquelle eſt ſui- uie incontinent par les vomiſſemens,qui ne ſe font pour autre cauſe,que pour la mauuaiſe diſpoſition qu'ils ſentent. il s'enſuit auſſi grand flux de ventre,qui ſe faict,tant à cauſe de l'eſtomach debile, qui ne peut faire ſon deuoir,que pour autant que les veines eſparſes par les inteſtins laiſſent couler le ſang, l> lequel meſlé par les viandes non digerées,eſt cauſe de ce flux de ventre. et dauantage,le ſang ſort par le nez. par la bouche, oreilles,ſiege,par la verge,vulue,& par les coings des yeux,& des genciues,leſquelles ſe pourriſſent, & les dents tombent. d'abondant,vne difficultéd'vriner & # vniuerſelle,puis la mort. les re- ie,ou dutout la couper,s'il eſt poſſible, puis vfer de medes ſont de ſcarifier promptement & bruſler la part remedes attractifs propres aux venins. \ t'c figure l'ina ni tie accroiſt la ma ignité du venin. il me fau# ſaigner ad r / j/ jº/ ſº- ment. choſes qui reſiſtent aux veuius. remedes ge- / e/' x. actidºs qui viennent à ceux qui ont eſté mords des viperes, hiſtoire x autre hi- ſtoire de l'autheur, autre hi. ſtoire de l'autheur. tigature vn peu au deſſus de la mors ſure. auicennn - / | lc lv x-ilculi ciilc l ulſc, - figure du serpent nommé coule-ſang. a c c c º \ c # - \ lullti, , vu ! à [| #ſſ,$kyſa ! aas $ $ # # º sssnnnnnn n e$ n$ \ du serpent nommé pourriſeur. ch a p. x x iv. ſºg e pourriſſeur a eſté ainſi nommé, pour autant que la partie de ceux qu'ila mordus, eſt ſu- bitement ponrrie pour la malignité de ſon venin. il eſt ſemblable au coule-ſang, reſte qu'il eſleue ſa queue en haut, & l'entortille comme vn pourceau fait la ſienne. - pauſanias eſcrit que le roy d'arcadie fut bleſsé par vn pourriſſeur, & dit que ce ſerpent # eºr) eſt de couleur cendrée,ayant la teſte large,le col eſtroit, le ventre gros, & la queue cour- bée, & chemine obliquement en la maniere des cancres, ayant des taches ſeparées les vnes des autres, riolées, piolées, c'eſt à dire, de diuerſes couleurs, comme vn tapis velu. les accidens que cauſe ſa mor- b ſure, ſont grande douleur, qui eſt faicte à cauſe de ſon venin bruſlant & pourriſſant , entre tous autres aete. venins, puis vne cheute vniuerſelle du poil. aëce adiouſte dauantage encores pluſieurs autres : comme flux de ſang par la playe, & peu apres vne ſanie puante, & grande enfleure en la partie. voila comme par la malignité de ce venin pourriſlant, non ſeulement les eſprits ſont vaincus, mais auſſi tout le corps, comme ſi le feu yauoit paſsé. ainſi que nous voyons aduenir en temps de peſte, chaud & humide, où il appert apoſteme peſtiferé & charbons , & au- tres pourritures. et quant aux remedes, ils doiuent eſtre ſemblables, comme ceux que nous auons eſcrit de la vipere. nisandre, figure du serpent nommé pourriſſeur. % | % º| $ %) # à $ (， k $ | - (ſ/ % . # ſ | [! § % du baſilic. c h a p. xxv. nicandre. @ n t r e tous les serpens, le baſilic eſt le plus venimeux, comme eſtant meſme le venin des gal.li autres. nicandre dit : que lors qu'il ſe traiſne, tous les autres le fuyent , & luy quittent la # # place eſtans comme aduertis par ſon ſifflet, tant de l'heure de ſon arriuée que de ſon deput. # galien dit, que le baſilic eſt vn ſerpent jaunaſtre, ayant la teſte munie de trois petites emi- - - $ nences , ou enleueures, marquetée de taches blanchaſtres , en forme de couronne, & pour cette cauſe a eſté nommé roy des serpens. par ſa morſure & ſon ſifflet , & toucher, fait mourir tous au- solin tres animaux. dauantage, ſon venin eſt ſi cruel , que ſi on le regarde trop attentiuement, tue ceux qui - le regardent. solin eſcrit que le corps mort du baſilica encores de grandes vertus : pource ceux de perga- me l'ont achepté à grand prix, pour empeſcher les araignes de faire leurs toiles dedans le temple d'apol- lon , & les oiſeaux d'y faire leurs nids, eſtant pendu audit temple. eſtant mort, nulles beſtes ſentants l'o- deur de ſa charongne, n'oſent le toucher pour le manger : & ſi par fortune ils en mangent, ils meurentſu- lucain. bitement, non ſeulement pour auoir mangé de ſon corps, mais pour auoir mangé des beſtes mortes par d ſa morſure. pour ces raiſons lucain eſcrit. le baſilic tout ſeul regnant par le ſable, où ſifflant il ſe rend à tout autres effroyable : tºlus qu'vn autre venin le ſien eſt dangereux, · pline liu. - ui chacun va chaſſant du regard de ſes yeux. - # * , n fait mourir les herbes & arbriſſeaux par où il paſſe, non ſeulement par ſon toucher, mais auſſi par ſon haleine. pline dit qu'en egypte y a vne fontaine nommé nigris , pres de laquelle y a vn animal petit , & mal-aisé de ſes membres, qui eſt la mort du genre humain. il eſt de longueur de douze doigts, & eſt or- né par la teſte, comme vn diademe, d'vne tache blanche : ſon corps eſt jaunaſtre, lors qu'il rampe , il leue la partie de deuant de ſon corps, & la porte droite, ne s'aydant à cheminer que de celle de derriere l, telette , la region cyrenaique le produit. pline dit que la belette eſt ſon ennemie mortelle,& qu'elle le fait mou- ennemie mer. rir de ſa ſeule haleine : qui eſt que la bonne nature n'a iamais voulu laiſſer vne telle peſte, ſans vn contra : relle du ba- re, qui eſt la belette, laquelle a autant de force contre le baſilic,que luy meſme a contre les hommes.auſſi ſi kic. que le lion, combien qu'il ſoit hardy & furieux entre tousles animaux, craint toutesfois le coq , qui eſt - vi c - ae « - #- des venins, t，: a vne beſte ſans force & reſiſtance à comparaiſon. eraſiſtrate dit , que le lieu de la morſure du baſilic tout ſoudain deuient jaune comme or, & le corps tout enflé, & que la chair des muſcles tombe par morceaux erafſtrate. toute pourrie : & baille contre ſon venin vne dragme de caſtorée à boire, auecduvin ou du ſuc de pauot. les accidens aëce dit eſtre vne choſe ſuperſluë, que d'eſcrire aucun remede contre ſa morſure , d'autant que la ſubite qui prouien- diſſolution des eſprits eſtant faite, il eſt impoſſible de donner remede à temps. #ſe la figure du baſilic eſt telle. descenainsſerpens eſtranges. chap. xxvi. #a n lºon afriquain eſcrit en ſon liure d'afrique, qu'à callicut on trouue des ſerpens d'e- ſtrange façon, eſtans de la hauteur d'vn gros pourceau, ayans la teſte plus groſſe & plus hi- ſ deuſe, & quatre pieds,eſtans fort dommageables aux habitans. il y en a qui ſont ſi venimeux, # quº par leur morſure la perſonne tombe ſubitemét morte et ſi quelqu'vn auoit tué vne de ces • « º beſtes,le roy le feroit mourir,comme s'ilauoit tué vn homme. le roy & les habitans du pais ..ºº ont vne folle opinion de ces beſtes, eſtimans qu'ils ſont les eſprits de dieu, diſant que ſi ainſi n'eſtoit , ils auſſe. n'auroient la puiſſance de mettre vn homme à mort par leur ſimple morſure : de ſorte que ces animaux c ont ce credit de ſe promener parmy la ville, cognoiſſantbien ceux qui ne les craignent pas, auſquels ne font aucun mal. combien (dit-il) que de ſon temps il ſoit aduenu que par vne nuict l'vn de ces animaux hiſtoire entra dedans vne maiſon , où il mordit neuf perſonnes, que l'on trouua au matin roides mortes , & fort enflées. et nonobſtant cela,ils ne lajſſent les auoir en grande admiration;tellement que ſi en allant en quel- que voyage ils rencontrent vne de ces beſtesils les reputent de bon-heur,eſperans de cela que leurs affaires & entrepriſes ne peuuent venir qu'à bonport. il dit plus, qu'au royaume de senegua , y a des ſerpens longs de deux pas & plus, & n'ont aiſles ne pieds : mais ils ſont ſi gros , qu'ils engloutiſſent vne chévre entiere ſans la deſmembrer : croyez-le ſi vous voulez. ' - •----- -- *- de la salemandre . | . · chap. xxv i i. , » - a salemandre ne fait ſeulement mourir les perſonnes par le venin de ſa morſure, comme les autres ſerpens venimeux mais auſſi infecte de ſa baue les fruicts & les herbes paroù elle paſ- ſe, & d'vne certaine humeur eſpeſſe,qui luy ſort de tout le corps,comme vne ſueur,au grand danger de ceux qui mangent deſdites herbes,côme on a veu par experience en pluſieurs, qui en ſont morts. parquoy ne faut trouuer eſtrange, ſi aucuns modernes on dit , qu'aucunes maiſons eſtoient entierement peries pour auoir beu de l'eau des puits,dedans leſquels vne salemädre eſtoit par fortune tombée ſans y penſer : car ſi elle grimpe ſur vn arbre, elle infecte tout le fruict , & fait mourir tous ceux qui en mangent, de la qualité froide & humide de ſon venin, n'eſtant enrien differente de l'aco- aëce liu. nit. aëce dit, que ceux qui auront auallé du venin de la salemandre,il ſort de leurs corps taches blanches, puis noires, leſquelles ſe pourriſſans, font tomber le poil de tout le corps. on remedie à leur venin par vomiſſemens & clyſteres, en donnant auſſi du theriaque & mitridat. auicenne ordonne meſmes remedes d qu'on donne contre l'opion, parce qu'ils ſont tous deux de nature froide : & pour l'alexitaire propre à tel venin, c'eſt la terebenthine, le ftorax,la graine d'ortie, & les fueilles de cypres. dioſcoride dit la saleman liº o. dre eſt vne eſpece de lezart de diuerſes couleurs:& eſt folie de dire qu'eile ne ſe bruſle point au feu. pline *** * dit qu'elle eſt ſi froide, qu'elle eſteint le feu au toucher ſeulement comme la glace : ce qu'elle fait miſe ſur les charbons, comme on feroitvne carbonnade qu'on y voudroit roſtir. toutesfois matthiole dit qu'eſtant iettée au milieu d'vne grande flamme, ſubit eſt conſommée : c'eſt, dit il, grande folie vouloir croire que le feune la peut conſommer, & qu'elle en vit comme le cameleon de l'air. la salemandre eſt noire , ſe, mée de grandes taches jaunes : en figure d'eſtoiles le vingt-vniéme liure, la figure de la salemandre. a - «ax#z// # $ d . \ §n n * $ )s $ | w | | elle a vne vertu chaude , corrofiue & vlceratiue : on en vſe aux medicamens, comme des cantharides, à faire veſſies, pour nettoyer & conſommer les matieres coniointes en quelque partie exterieure du temps aux lepreux. - - de la torpille . ^- - ch a p. xxv i i i. % a torpille eſt ainſi nommée , à cauſe qu'elle rend les membres endormis. elle vit aux riua- ges fangeux, de chair des autres poiſſons qu'elle prend par fineſſe : car eſtant cachée dans le limon, elle rend les poiſſons qui s'approchent d'elle, tellement endormis, eſtourdis & immo- biles, quelle les prend, & en joüit à ſon plaiſir : non ſeulement a cette vertu contre les poiſſons, mais auſſi contre les hommes. car ſi vn homme luy touche auec vne verge , elle luy endormira le bras : auſſi fait-elle aux peſcheurs qui l'ont priſe en leurs rets. ce que teſmoigne pline, liure xxxij. chap. j. ce qui eſt confirmé par le docte seigneur du bartas au cinquieſme liure de la sep- maine, par ſes vers. la torpille, juiſfait qu'elle porte en ſon flanc, vn hyuer inſenſible, vn peſtifere ſang, s #aq $ n)' \ j，s º . vn incogneu panot, vne haleine cruelle, · · · # roidit tous les corps qui s'auoiſinent d'elle : erſe traiftreuſement ſur les prochespoiſſons, ie neſgay quels venins, ie ne ſçay quels glaçons. dont l'eitrange vertu s'eſpande parlerondes. n'arrefteſeulement leurs troupes vagabondes : •ains meſine endort leurſens, puisſe paiſ de leurs corps ; dont les membres gelez ſont & morts & non morts. la figure de la torpillet'eſt icy repreſentée figure de la torpille. | fi des venins. de la morſure d'aſpic. ch a r. x x ix. a playe de l'aſpic eſt petite comme la picqueure d'vne aiguille, & ne fait aucune enfleure. #x les accidens qui aduiennent apres la morſure,ſont, que les malades ſe ſentent toſt apres la # veue troublée, & pluſieurs douleurs par le corps aſſez legeres , & ſentent douleur a l'eſto- # mach : & la peau du front ſe ride, & le malade clinotte touſiours les yeux , comme s'il auoit vouloir de dormir & toſt apres,& le plus ſouuent dedans trois iours, autres en huict heures, meurent en conuulfion , ſi on n'y donne ºrdre. le maſle fait deux piqueures & la femelle quatre , comme font les viperes. or le venin de l'aſpic fait congeler le ſang és veines & arteres : & partant faut donner, pour contrarier à iceluy,choſes calefactiues, & de tenue ſubſtance, comme eau de vie,en laquelle on aura diſſout theriaque ou mitridat & autres ſemblables auſſi on en appliquera dedans la playe, & fera-t'on eſ. chauffer le patient par bains,frictions,& ambulations, & autres ſemblables. lors que la partie morſe de- uient purpurée,noire ou verdoyante,telle choſe demonſtre que la chaleur naturelle eſt ſuffoquée & eſtein- te par la malignité du venin alors la faut amputer s'il eſt poſſible, & que les forces le permettent, de vigo en ſa practique de chirurgie,dit auoir veu a florence vn charlattan triacleur , lequel pour mieux vendre ſon theriaque, ſe fit mordre à vn aſpic,de laquelle morſure il mourut en quatre heures matthiole ſembla- blement le recite,& dit,qu'ils eſtoient deux charlattans,dont l'vn habloit & harangoit mieux que l'autre, pour mieux faire valoir ſes denrées : lequel conceut vne enuie mortelle contre ſon compagnon : parquoy trouua moyen de luy changer ſon aſpic, qui auoit ja perdu ſa virulence par la longue nourriture, & l'ayant oſté de ſa caſſole,y en mit vn autre recentement pris & tout affamé.dont aduint que ce habladour penſant que ce fuſt le ſien,ſe fit mordre au tetin,ainſi qu'il auoit de couſtume.& print apres de ſon theriaque,lequel ne luy ſeruoit qu'à donner couleur pour abuſer & tromper le peuple,qui voyant cette beſte le mordre ſans en reſſentir aucune offenſe,couroit apres luy,eſtimant ſon theriaque fouuerain. mais le pauure charlattan trompé par ſon compagnon,qui luy auoit changé ſa beſte priuée & alterée de ſon venin, en moins de qua- tre heures laiſſa la vie:& les accidens qui luy ſuruindrent,furent qu'il perdit la veuë,& tous ſes autres ſensi ſa face deuint liuide,& la langue fort noire,& eut grand tremblementde rous ſes membres,auec ſueur froi- de,& defaillance de cœur,puis la mort, & cc en la preſence des aſſiſtans, & ſubit le meurtrier gaigna au pſed.matthiolus dit,que ces charlattans triacleurs,pour tromper le peuple à mieux vendre leur theriaque, prennent aſpics & viperes, long temps apres le printemps , lors qu'ils ont jetté le plus dangereux de ieur venin:puis les apriuoiſent par viandes non accouſtumées,& leur font changer en partie la nature venimeu- ſe:& apres ce les font mordre dedans de gros morceaux de chair, afin de tirer leur venin enclos envne pe- tite membrane qui eſt entre leur dents & genciues:puis il leur font remordre ſur l'heure quelque compoſi- tion, qui leur eſtoupe les conduits par lequel le venin a de couſtume de ſortir : tellement qu'apres qu'elles mordent, leur morſure n'apporte aucun danger. et par ce moyen ces larrons & pipeurs de charlattans ſe font admirer au ſimple peuple,auquel ils vendent leur theriaque falſifié,bien & cherement.chriſtofle l'an- dré en ſon liure intitulé. oecoiatrie, dit qu'aux iſles d'eſpagne ya grande multitude de ſerpens,aſpics & autres beſtiaux veneneux,contre la morſure deſquels iamais le theriaque ne peut ſeruir : & par experience on a trouué ce remede tres-excellent.prenez des fueilles de thapſus barbatus,caryophyllata , giroflier rou- ge,autant d'vn que d'autre:faites-les boüillir en fort vinaigre, & vrine d'homme bien ſain, & en fomentez la partie. et ſile venin a eſté ja long-temps gardé,faut que le malade boiue quatre doigts de ladite deco- ction à jeun,deux heures deuant manger.ledit autheur iure dieu,que tel remede eſt bien experimenté, & qu'il s'oſeroit bien faire mordre au plus dangereux aſpic,ſans en receuoir aucun mal. de la morſure de couleuure . c h a p. xxx. va n t eſt de la morſure de la couleuure,ie produiray icy vne hiſtoire : le roy eſtant à mou- s) ſ] lins,monſieur ie févre medecin ordinaire du § iacques le roy , chirurgien ordinaire %ufa) dudit seigneur, & moy, fuſmes appellez pour medicamenter le cuiſinier de madame de caſtel- s é pers,lequel en cueillant en vne baye de houblon,pour faire vne ſalade, fut mords d'vne couleu- ure ſur la main, & ſucça le ſang de la playe, dont toſt apres la langue s'enfla ſi fort, qu'il ne pouuoit qu'à bien grande peine parler,ny eſtre entendu. dauantage tout le bras iuſques à l'eſpaule, s'enfla & bourſouf- fla grandement,de façon qu'on euſt dit qu'on l'auoit ſoufflé : & diſoit le patient y ſentir vne extreme dou- leur,& tomba en nos preſences deux fois en defaillance de cœur : comme eſtant mort, & auoit la couleur du viſage & de tout le corps jaunaſtre & plombine. nous voyans tels accidens diſions la mort eſtre pro- chaine : neantmoins il ne fut laiſsé ſans ſecours:qui fut,luy lauer la bouche de theriaque deſtrempé en vin blanc,puis luy en fut donné à boire auec eau de vie. et ſur ſon bras bourſoufflé, ie luy feis pluſieurs ſca- rifications aſſez profondes, & meſmement ſur la morſure, & laiſſa ſuffiſamment fiuer le ſang ( qui n'eſtoit qu'vne ſeroſité)puis apres furent lauez d'eau de vie, en laquelle i'auois fait diſſoudre du theriaque & mi- thridat. et apres le patient fut posé dans vn lict bien chaudement,& le fait-on ſuer, le gardant de dormir, de peur que le venin ne ſe retiraſt auec la chaleur.naturelle au cœur. et veritablement le lendemain tous les accidens furent ceſſez,& fuſt toſtapres guary deſdites ſcarifications. toutesfois l'vlcere de la morſure fut tenue longuement ouuerte,y appliquant touſiours du theriaque auec les autres medicamens.ainſi ledit † receut entiere & parfaicte guariſon. et te ſuffiſe de cette hiſtoire pour preuoir à la morſure de la couleuure. | - de la morſure du crapaut. c h a p. xxx i. a• # ncore que les crapaux n'ayent des dents neantmoins ne laiſſent d'empoiſonner la partie,qu'ils # mordent de leurs babines,& genciues, qui ſont aſpres & rudes, faiſans paſſer leur venin par les #% conduits de la partie qu'ils mordent.auſſi iettent leur venin par leur vrine,baue, & vomiſſement n ſur les herbes,& principalement ſur les fraiſes,dont ils ſont fort frians.et ne ſe faut eſmerueiller, ſi apres auoir pris tel venin , les perſonnes meurent de mort ſubite, dont en cét endroit ne veux laiſſer en derriete vne hiſtoire, que depuis peu de iours vn homme d'honneur m'a recité : deux marchands eſtans à vne diſnée pres de toulouſe,s'en allerent au jardin de leur hoſte cueillir des fueilles de ſauge, leſquelles t t iil tcrlt accident. le vemin de l'aſpic eſt roid. hiſtoire. . hiſtoire re. cente ºr me- mcrab e d'v- me morſure de couleu- # "º. cure d'icelle morſure. : cemment les crapas x impriment leur venin- hiſtoire. accident. le vingt-vnieſme liure, moyen de faire ſortir les crapaux hors deterre. les accidens outre les pre. cedens qui aduiennent du venin des crapa m.x'. le vemin du crapaut eſt froid & hu- mide , pour- riſſant les humeur . hiſtoire de rondelet. pline dit que leur rate crcœur reſi- ſtent contre leur venin. deſcription du scorpion. en la queuë giſt levenin. scorpions aiſlez. pline liu. . chap. . difference des ſcorpiös. les accidens qui aduien- / ey t cºff ' qui ſont pic- quez des ſcorpions. mirent en leur vin ſans eſtre lauée:& deuant qu'ils euſſent acheué de diſner, perdirent la veuë, ayans pre- a mierement vne vertigine,tellement qu'il leur ſembloit que la maiſon tournaſt s'en deſſus deſſous, & tom- berent en ſpaſme & defaillance de cœur,ayans les lévres & la langue noire, & balbutioient , & auoient le regard hideux & de trauers,ayans vne ſueur froide auec grands vomiſſemens,& enferent bien fort,& peu apres moururent, dont l'hoſte & generalement tous ceux de la maiſon furent bien fort eſtonnez. et toſt apres la iuſtice les ſaiſit,& les mit en priſon,leur mettant ſus auoir empoiſonné les deux marchands. et les ayans tous interrogé ſur le crime qu'on leur impoſoit de les auoir empoiſonnez, dirêt qu'ils auoient man- gé & beu des meſmes viandes,reſte qu'ils n'auoient mis de la ſaulge en leur vin. adonc le iuge fait appel- ler vn medecin,pour ſçauoir ſi on pouuoit empoiſonner la ſaulge:& dit que oüy,& qu'il falloit alleraujar- din,pour ſçauoir ſi on pourroit apperceuoir quelque beſte venimeuſe:qui peut auoirietté ſon venin deſſus. ce que veritablement on trouua,qui eſtoit grand nombre de crapaux gros & petits,leſquels eſtoient logez en vn trou ſous la ſauge, aſſez profondement en terre, & les feit-on ſortir en foüillant & iettant de l'eau chaude autour de leur demeure. et là fut conclu que la ſauge eſtoit empoiſonnée, tant par la baue que de l'vrine des crapaux,& par leur vapeur venimeuſe,& l'hoſte auec ſa famille abſout.et partant nous recueil- lerons par cette hiſtoire, qu'on ne doit manger aucunes herbes, ny des fraiſes , que premierement elles n'ayent eſté bien lauées:& auſſi que l'exhalation,morſure , baue & vrine des crapaux ſont fort venimeuſes pareillement il ſe faut bien garder de dormir aux champs, ayant la bouche pres de quelque trou, où les" crapaux,& autres beſtes venimeuſes font leur demeure,de peur d'attirer leur venin en reſpirant, qui pour- roit eſtre cauſe de la mort du dormant.auſſi faut éuiter de manger des grenoüilles au mois de may, à cauſe que les crapaux frayent auec elles.ce qu'on voit à l'œil au mois de may aux mareſts & autres lieux où elles habitent. il y en a de petits,qui ſont quelquesfois auallez des bœufs & vaches auec les herbes qu'ils paiſ- ſent:& toſt apres il leur ſuruient vne telle enfleure de tout le corps,qu'ils en creuent le plus ſouuent.or ce venin n'eſt ſeulement dangereux pris par dedans,mais auſſi eſtant attaché au cuir par dehors,ainſi qu'il ad- uient lors qu'ils jettent leur venin quand on les tue ou autrement. parquoy il faut promptement eſſuyer & lauer le lieu d'vrine , ou d'eau ſalée,ou autres choſes qui ont eſté cy-deſſus declarées aux morſures des chiens enragez. les accidens qui aduiennent de leur venin,iont que le malade deuient iaune, & tout le corps luy enfle,en ſorte qu'il ne peut auoir ſon haleine,& halette comme vn chien qui a grandement cou- . ru:parce que le diaphragme(principal inftrument de la reſpiration)ne pouuant auoir ſon mouuement natu- rel:redouble incontinent,& fait haſter le cours de la reſpiration & expiration.puis luy viennentd'abondant vertigines,ſpaſme,defaillance de cœur, & apres,la mort, s'il n'eſt promptement ſecouru. ce qui aduient non à raiſon de la qualité de leur venin,lequel eſt froid & humide, mais de ſa malignité particuliere, la- quelle pourrit les humeurs. or d'autant que ce venin eſt ennemy mortel de toute ſa ſubſtance, il le faut combattre tant par qualitez manifeſtes, que par antidotes ou contrepoiſons : qui ſe fera par vomiſſemens (principalement ſi le venin eſt donné par boire ou manger ) par clyſteres, & toutes choſes chaudes & de ſubtilles parties,comme bon vin,auquel on aura diſſout theriaque ou mithridat, & autres choſes qu'auons par cy-deuant declarées aux morſures des chiens enragez.auſſi les bains,eſtuues,& grand exercice ſont à loüer,afin de diſſoudre,ſubtilier,& vacuer l'humeur venimeux. rondelet en l'hiſtoire des poiſons dit, que le crapaut eſt veſtu d'vne groſſe peau dure & mal aisée à percer & rompre,parce qu'il ſe gonfle & enfie,ſe rempliſſant d'air,au moyen dequoy il reſiſte aux coups:peu ſouuent mord, mais il iette vne vrine & haleine venimeuſe à ceux qui le fentent,demeurans enflez par tout le corps,& bien-toſt meurent. il dit auoir veu vne femme,qui mourut pour auoir mangé des herbes ſur leſquels vn crapaut auoit halené & jetté ſon ve- nin.les meſchans bourreaux empoiſonneurs en font pluſieurs venins,leſquels il faut pluſtoſt taire que dire. iceluy a la veſſie fort grande,où il garde quantité d'vrine,qu'il jette contre ceux qui l'aſſaillent.les alexi- taires & contrepoiſons ſont,boire du jus de betoine,de plantain,& armoiſe : pareillement le ſang de tor- tué,auec farine , & reduit en pillules, puis deſtrempé auec du vin.pline dit, que leur rate & cœur reſiſtent contre leur venin.l'opinion du vulgaire eſt fauſſe,penſant qu'on trouue dedans leur teſte vne pierre nom- mée crapaudine,bonne contre le venin. - | a vn aiguillon , & aucuns en ont deux, leſquels ſont creux remplis de venin froid , par leſquels ils iettent leur venin dedans la playe qu'ils picquent. il a de chaque coſté cinq jambes forchues en maniere de tenailles : les deux de deuant ſont beaucoup plus grandes que les au- tres, faictes en maniere de celles d'vne eſcreuiſſe. il eſt de couleur noiraſtre, comme de couleur de ſuye : il chemine de biais : il s'attache ſi fort auec le bec & pieds contre les perſonnes, que bien difficile- ment on le peut arracher. aucuns ont des aiſles ſemblables à celles des ſauterelles qui mangent les bleds, qui ne ſont trouuez en france:& iceux volent de region en autre,ainſi qu'on void des fourmis volans. ce qui eſt vray-ſemblable,parce que les payſans de caſtille (ainſi qu'eſcrit matthiolus)en labourant la terre, trouuent ſouuent en lieu de fourmiliers, vne bien grande quantité de ſcorpions, qui s'y retirent l'hyuer- pline eſcrit qu'en ethiopie y a vn grand pays deſert pour raiſon des ſcorpions , qui n'y ont laiſſé ny gens ny beſtes. les anciens font pluſieurs eſpeces & differences de ſcorpions, leſquels ſont diſtinguez ſelon les diuerſitez de couleurs , comme iaunes, roux, cendrez , verds , blancs, noirs : lesvns ayans des aiſles, les autres point. ils ſont plus oumoins mortels,ſelon les regions où ils habitent, comme en la toſcane & en scythie ſont fort venimeux : en autre regions comme en l'iſle de pharo & à trente, leur picqueure n'eſt venimeuſe, & n'en aduient aucun mauuais accident. il furuient inflammation en la partie offensée, auec grande rougeur,dureté,tumeur,& douleur, laquelle ſe change , à ſçauoir, tantoſt chaude, & tantoſt froide : auſſi accroiſt intempettiuement,& par interualle ceſſe , puis toſt apres accroiſt : pareillement le ma- lade a vne ſueur & friſſonnement,comme ceux qui ont la fiévre,& a vne horripilation,c'eſt à dire, que les cheueux luy dreſſent. il ſent auſſi des punctions parmy le corps,comme ſi on le picquoit auec aiguilles,& grande quantité de vents par le ſiege : il a volonté de vomir & aller à ſes affaires, & n'y peut toutesfois al- ler,& tombe en defaillance de cœur, fiévre continuë , & deuient enflé, & ſi on ne luy donne ſecours, la mort s'enſuit.antonius beniuenius , au liure .chap. . dit auoir eu vn ſeruiteur, lequel fut picqué d'vn ſcorpion,& tout ſubit luy ſuruint vne ſueur froide comme glace : fnt preſerué de la mort en beuuant du theriaque diſſout en vin. digicoride liure .chap. o.dit que le ſcorpion terreſtre crud, eſcaché ou broyé, - - & • * - .. ' t : de la picqueure du scorpion terreſtre . c h a p. xxxi i. s e scorpion eſt vne petite beſte , ayant le corps en ovalle, & a pluſieurs pieds, & la queuë longue, faite en maniere de patenoſtre s, attachées bout à bout, l vne contre l'autre,la derniere plus groſſe que les autres, & vn peu plus longue, à l'extremité de laquelle il y d des venins. a & mis ſur la picqueure,oul'huyle d'iceluy,eſt ſon vray alexitaire.on le mange auſſi roſty & bruſlé pour ce meſme effect,dequoy l'experience fait foy. autre remede. prenez laict de figuier,& inſtillez en la playe,tel remede guarit promptement.autre.prenez calament broyé,& appliquez deſſus:auſſi la farine d'orge incor- porée en decoction de rue,& appliquée deſſus.et pour remede excellent, il ſe faut ietter dedans vn bain & ſe faire tres-bien ſuer.pour ſeder la douleur promptement,il faut piler des eſcargots auec leur coquille,& les appliquer deſſus la picqueure.auſſile ſoulphre vifpuluerisé,& incorporé auec terebenthine:eſt ſouue- rain remede. la ruë pillée, & appliquée deſſus, eſt bonne. auſſi pour vn ſingulier remede on y applique l'herbe nommée ſcorpioides,dont on a pris le nom. autre remede. racine de couleurée boulue, & pilée auec vn peu de foulphre.autre les aulx pilez,ſoulphre & huyle vieille meſlez enſemble, & appliquezdeſ- ſus.autre. l'agaric puluerisé ou en decoction,cure leur picqueure. - pour les chaſſer il faut faire ſuffumigation de ſoulphre,& galbanum.l'huyle auſſi faite d'iceux appliquée remede qui aux troux où ils habitent,garde qu'ils n'en peuuent ſortir.autant en fait le jus de raifort. et pour les gar- chaſſent le, der qu'ils n'approchent & picquent perſonne,il ſe faut frotter de jus de raifort,ou d'aulx:car par ce moyen ſcorpionr. iamais n'approchent de celuy qui s'en ſera frotté. pluſieurs autres remedes ont eſcrit les anciens, mais ie n'ay pris que ceux qu'on peut aisément recouurer,& ſont grandement loüez par deſſus tous autres. cure ». antidote. de la morſure & picqueure des mouſches & chenilles. c h a p. xxx i ii. $ºg es abeilles ou autres les gueſpes,les freſlons,les bourdons,les taons, apres auoir fait ouuer- la picqueure # ture au cuir,les vnes par leur morſure,les autres par leur picqueure,cauſent vne grande dou- # # # leur, pour la malignité du venin qu'elles jettent èn la playe, laquelle toutesfois n'eſt pas n'eſt touſ- $ # touſiours mortelletvray eſt que ſe jettans icelles beſtes en grand nombre ſur vn homme,elles iours mor- %a ewes le peuuent tuer : car on en a meſme veu mourir les cheuaux. ceux qui en ſont inopinément telle . offenſez,pour la grande douleur qu'ils ſentent,eſtiment que ce ſoit quelque autre beſte venimeuſe. et pour cette cauſe il eſt bon de ſçauoir les ſignes & accidens de leur pointure. c'eſt qu'ils cauſent grande dou- leur,laquelle demeure iuſques à ce que leurs dents ou picquerons ſoient oſtez,& le lieu deuient prompte- ment rouge,& enflé à l'entour,& s'y forme vne veſſie, pour cauſe de la virulence qu'elles jettent,ayans fait ouuerture du cuir.pour la curation, il faut promptement ſuccer le lieu le plus fort que l'on pourra , pour cure . oſter leurs dents & aiguillonst& fi par ce moyen ne peuuent eſtre extraites, faut inciſer le lieu(ſi la partie le permet)ou prendre cendres,& leuain,& huyle,incorporez enſemble,& l'appliquer deſſus. autre reme- de.. il faut mettre la partie en eau chaude,& la baſſiner par † de demie heure ou plus,& apres lauer la playe d'eau ſalée.autre. le creſſon pilé,& appliqué deſſus ſede la douleur, & reſout l'humeur contenu en la tumeur.autant en fait la fiante de bœufdetrempée en huyle & vinaigre , & appliquée aſſez chaude deſſus. autre, féves machées & appliquées deſſus,ſedent pareillement la douleur. auſſi fait la perle pilée auec oxycrat. aucuns commandent prendre leſdites mouſches, & les eſcacher & en frotter le lieu , & les les mouſ- laiſſer deſſus,ainſiqu'on fait aux picqueures de ſcorpions.autre. faut prendre vinaigre , miel, & ſel,& le ches reme- plus chaud qu'on pourra en frotter le lieu,& y laiſſer vn linge en double deſſus.autre. prenez ſoulphre vif dient à lenr puluerisé,& incorporé en ſaliue d'homme,& appliquez deſſus. autre.laict de figues non meures,incorpo- venim. ré auec du miel,eſt auſſi vn ſouuerain remede.on peut eſtre aſſeuré ſur tous remedes,du theraique(que ga- lien approuueau liure te theriaca ad?iſonem) le diſant eſtre le plus ſalubre remede dont on puiſſe vſer aux h picqueures & morſures des beſtesvenimeuſes,comme i'ay dit cy-deſſus. pour garder que leſdites mouſches # ſ #f° ne mordent & picquent,il ſe faut oindre le corps de jus de mauue incorporé auec huyle, & pour les chaſſer # d'! bien-toſt,il faut faire parfum de ſoulphre & d'aulx. galien dit que la gueſpe a cette malice, que voyant # vne vipere morte,elle s'en vatremper ſon aiguillon au venin d'icelle,& de là(dit-il) les hommes ont appris à empoiſonner les fieſches.les chenilles rouſſes & velues,appellées en latin,multipedes, engendrent gran- de demangeaiſon,rougeur & tumeur au lieu qu'elles mordent,où ſeront attachées,ou eſcachées : & celles qui ſeront nourries és pins encores plus. les oignons pilez auec vinaigre eſt vn ſingulier remede pour appliquer au lieu, & pareillement les autres remedes qu'auons eſcrit aux morſures & picqueures des cº* mouſches. " . - | de la morſure des araignes. c h a p i t r e xxxiv. #rs e s araignes ourdiſſent leur toile de diuerſes façons, & yfont vn petit trou, dans lequel font difrancet. à touſiours en embuſcade ,'pous attraper & prendre les mouſches & mouſcherons, deſquels el- : les ſe nourriſſent. il y en a de pluſieurs eſpeces.l'vne eſt appellée rhagion, laquelle eſt ronde» & de couleur noire,comme vn grain de raiſin , dont elle porte le nomielle a la bouche au mi- lieu du ventre, & les jambes courtes,& faict meſme douleur,que le ſcorpion. il y en a vne au- tre eſpece nommée loup,pource qu'elle ne chaſſe ſeulement aux mouſches communes,mais auſſiaux abeil- les & aux taons,& generalement à toutes petites beſtioles qu'elle peut attraper en ſa toile. la troiſieſme eſpece eſt appellée formillon,pource qu'elle reſſemble à vne grande formis,& eſt noire, & a le corpsmº- ueté de certaines petites eſtoiles luiſantes,& principalement vers le dos.la quatrieſme eſpece eſtappellée # matthiolus dyſderis,& eſt ſemblable aux mouſches gueſpes,reſte qu'elle n'a nulles aiſles, & eſt de cou leur aucunement rouge,laquelle ne vit que d'herbes. or les anciens tiennent que leur morſure eſt fort ve- acciden«. nimeuſe, & que le venin eſt froid, parce que les accidens qui en prouiennent font grandes ventoſitez au ventre,& froideur des extremitez,& au lieu de leur morſure,le malade ſent vne ſtupeur,& grande refrige- cura . ration,& avne grande horripilation.il faut lauer la playe promptement de vinaigre le plus chaudqu'onle pourra endurer pareillement faut piler des aulx & oignons,& les appliquer deſſus, ou bien de la fiente de chévre fricaſſée. en vinaigre.semblablement eſt bon qu'on prouoque la ſueur ſoit par bains,eſtuues » ouau- trement.et ſur tout le theriaque eſt excellent,tant donné par dedans,qu'appliqué par dehors. t t d f ( o le vingt-vniéme liure, hiſtoire d'v- %. ne femme picquée d'v- s ne viue. remede de dioſcoride. liure. . liu. .ch. . oppian.** rendelet au liure des poiſſons, de lapicqueure d'vne viue . c h a p. x xx ix. - v s n'agueres,la femme de monſieur fromager greffier aux requeſtes du palais fut picquée % d'vne viue au doigt medicus : & peu de temps apres il s'enfia bien fort auec grande rougeur. $ & peu de douleur. elle voyât que la tumeur s'augmentoit iuſqu'à la main,craignoit qu'il ne luy # ſuruint vn tel accidët,qui de n'agueres pour vn cas ſemblable eſtoit aduenu à vne ſienne voiſi- * ne,vefue de monſieur bragelonne,lieutenant particulier au chaſtelet de paris,pourauoir eſté ainſi picquée:dont luy eſtoit ſuruenu(pour ſa negligence)vne gangrene & mortificatiô totale du bras,& en fin mourut miſerablement.or eſtant arriué vers madame fromager, & ayant entendu la cauſe de ſon mal, promptement ie luy appliquay ſur le doit,& ſemblablemét ſur la main, vn cataplaſme fait d'vn gros oignon cuit ſous la braiſe,& du lenain, auec vn peu de theriaque. et le lendemain matin ie luy fis tremper toute ſa main en de l'eau aſſez chaude, afin d'attirer le venin au dehors,& apres ie luy fis pluſieurs ſcarifications ſu- perficielles autour du doigt : puis luy appliquay des ſan-ſues ſur leſdites ſcarifications, leſquelles tirerent ſuffiſamment du ſang : & apres i'appliquay du theriaque diſſout en eau de vie, & le lendemain trouuay ſon doigt & ſa main preſque toute deſenfiée,& ſans nulle douleur:& quelques iours apres fut entieremêt gua- rie. autant en auois-ie fait n'agueres au cuiſinier de monſieur de souſſy,treſorier de l'eſpargne, lequel ſe picqua ſemblablement d'vne viue, dont tout le bras eſtoit enflé & enfiammé iuſqu'à l'eſpaule, & en bref fut pareillement guary. ces hiſtoires ſeruiront aux jeunes chirurgiens, quand ils ſe trouueront à l'en- b droit de pareilles picuqueres.dioſcoride eſcrit que pour remedier à la picqueure faut appliquer la viue fen- due par la moitié,ou de l'aluyne, ou de la ſauge,ou du ſoulphre incorporé auec du vinaigre. l'on a trouué depuis quelque temps, que le foye de la viue appliqué promptement ſur la playe eſt vn tres-prompt & in- faillible remede contre ſon venin, il faut,ſi toſt qu'on ſe ſent piqué,ouurir la playe par vne petite inciſion, pour donner iſſuë au ſang, & apres la frotter aſſez fort auec ledit foye & l'appliquer deſſus : ce remede eſt ſi certain contre cette piqueure qu'il n'en arriue aucun accident, non plus qu'à vne autre ſimple piqueure d eſpingle , d'eſguille ou d'eſpine, & s'eſprouue iournellement par ceux qui manient ce poiſſon. piqueure de la tareronde ou paſtenaque_ . cha p. x l. m( e c e eſcrit, qu'apres la piqueure de la tareronde,s'enſuit vne douleur continuelle,& vnen- # dormiſſement de tout le corps,& aucuns en meurent promptement auec conuulſion.pline dit w. qu'il n'y a rié plus execrable,que l'aiguillô lenleué ſur la queue de la paſtenaque,lequel eſt de grandeur de cinq poulces.il fait mourir les arbres qui en ſont picquez par la racine.il dit da- ** uantage,que l'aiguillon eſt bon pour la douleur des dents,quandl'on en ſcarifie les genciues: & reduit en pouldre auec hellebore blanc les fait tomber ſans douleur.ce poiſſon eſt bon à manger,hors- mis la teſte & la queuë.aucuns de ces poiſſons ont deux aiguillös,autres vn ſeul,leſquels ſont pointus,garnis de dents des deux coſtez,comme dents de ſcie ſe tournant vers la teſte.oppian eſcrit,que l'aiguillon eſt plus venimeux que les fleſches des perſes enuenimées, lequel garde ſon venin, encore que le poiſſon ſoit mort, c & n'eſt,dit-il,ſeulement venimeux aux animaux,mais auſſi aux arbres & plantes. les dents & aiguillons de ce poiſſon , ont efté renuersées par nature vers la teſte, afin qu'elles entrent & percent plus aisément, & mal-aisément ſortent, pource qu'en les tirant on les tire à contre-poil. et s'il en picque quelque poiſſon, il le tient enferré comme d'vn hameçon. rondelet dit, que ſes aiguillens ſont au milieu de la queue. il faut qu'il en y ait pluſieurs ſortes : car i'ay eu & gardé en mon cabinet vne queuë d'vne paſtenaque, qu'vn gentil-homme de bretagne m'a donnée, longue de cinq pieds & plus, au commencement de laquelle naiſ- ſent & ſont attachez deux aiguillons,& eſt toute ſemée de petites boucles ſemblables à eſtoilles fort aiguës. les peſcheurs ſubit qu'ils ont pris ce poiſſon , luy oſtent les aiguillons de peur qu'il ne les bleſſe deſonve- nin,& lors qu'ils en ſont picquez, ils l'ouurént & prennent le foye, & l'appliquent ſur la playe; auſſi eſtant bruſlé & mis en cendre,& posé ſur la playe, eſt la vraye contre poiſon de ſon venin.elle vit en lieu fangeux pres des riuages de la mer,& vit des poiſſons qu'elle prend de ſon aiguillon.la figure cſt comme vne raye, ainſi que tu vois par cette figure. figure dupoiſſon, nommé paſtenaque . | df ) _)es venins. , o a - -- - | de la venenoſité du liévre marin. c h a p. x l i e liévre marin eſt appellé de pline, maſſe, ou piece de chair ſans forme : aelian le compare à vn limaçon hors ſa coquille.il eſt fort veuimeux par le teſmoignage de tous les anciens, & partant il eſt bon de le cognoiſtre,pour ſe garder d'en vſer en viandes,& auſſi le ſentir,ou le regarder par trop, & pour en vſer contre ſon venin meſme. il n'aiſt en la mer, & aux, eſtangs de la mer, principalement fangeux. il eſt de couleur de poil de liévre de terre.a la teſte il a vn trou par lequel il jette hors vne chair mucqueuſe,laquelle il retire quant il veut. il vit dans l'eau limoneuſe d'ordure & vi- îenie. paulus aegineta, acce, pline, galien, nicandre, diſent qu'il eſt ſi venimeux, que ſi vne femme groſ- ſe le regarde, elle vomira, puis auortera. les hommes qui ont beu de ſon poiſon, comme dit dioſcoride, ont douleur de ventre, & retention d'vrine, & s'il aduient qu'ils vrinent, leur vrine ſera rouge & ſangui- nolente. ils ont vne ſueur puante ſentant le poiſſon. ils vomiſſent de la cholere meſlée auec du ſang.aë- ce dit qu'ils deuiennent jaunes par tout le corps. la face s'enfle, & les pieds ; & principalement le mem- bre genital, qui eſt cauſe que l'vrine ne peut couler. galien dit que le liévre marin bleſſe & vlcere le poul- mon. son alexitere & contre-poiſon eſt le laict d'aſneſſe, & du vin cuit, ou de la decoction de fueilles de mauues. ce liévre marin eſt bon à faire tomber le poil. la figure t'eſt icy repreſentée, prinſe au liure des poiſſons de rondelet. auſone en ſes epigrammes luy fait prendre vn chien, mais il falloit que ce chien fuſt bié pres ou qu'il ne couruſt gueres viſte:car ce laidanimal ne ſe remue gueres plus prôptement qu'vn lima- çon ce que le docte scaliger,en ſon hypercritique, diſcourtaſſez amplement,au iugement qu'il fait d'au- ſone, à quoy ie renuoye le lecteur curieux or ie ne me veux pas conſtituer iuge entre l'vn & l'autre, leur differend n'eſtant pas de ma profeſſion : mais ie puis dire qu'vn ſerpent, vne couleuure, & pluſieurs autres animaux mal faiſans ont les mouuemens preſque auſſi tardifs, & toutesfois ils ne laiſſent de mordre, pic- quer & tuer les hommes , les chiens & les cheuaux en les ſuprenant : & lors on peut dire, ce me ſemble, & principalement vn poëte, à qui il eſt permis d'abuſer des ſens & des paroles, que le ſerpent ſans ſe res muer a pris vn homme , vn cheual, ou vn chien : encore qu'ils couruſſent bien fort, & en ces figures,anti. thetes, & contrarietez bien accordantes, conſiſte vne des grandes graces de la poeſie. - " figure du liérvre marin. du venin du chat. cha p. xl ii. e s chats n'infectent ſeulement par leur ceruelle, mais auſſi par leurpoil, haleine,& regard: # car jaçoit que tout poil aualé ſans y penſer,puiſſe ſuffoquer la perſonne en eſtoupant les con- duits de la reſpiration,toutesfois le poil du chat eſt dangereux par ſus tous autres.leur halei- $ ne eſt infecte d'vne poiſon tabifique. et dit matthiole auoir cogneu aucuns, prenans plaiſir " aux chats,qui n'euſſent iamais dormy ſans en auoir quelques-vns couchez aupres d'eux, de l'haleine deſquels longuement attiré auecl'air, ils deuindrent pthiſiques, & enfin miſerablement mouru- rent. les chats auſſi offenſent de leur regard, tellement qu'aucuns voyant ou oyans vn chat tremblent, & ont vne peur grande, qui ſe fait par vne antipathie venant de l'infiuence du ciel. matthiole eſcrit qu'eſtant en alemagne,ſoupant en bóne compagnie en vn poiſle,en temps d'hyuer,l'hoſteſſe cognoiſſant le naturel de l'vn des conuiez enferma vn petit chat (qu'elle nourriſſoit) dedans vn coftre audit poiſle , de peur que ce perſonnage le voyant ne ſe courouçaſt : mais encore qu'il ne viſt ny oüiſt le chat,peu de temps apres auoir attiré l'air infect de l'haleine du chat,ſa temperature ennemie des chats en eſtant irritée,commença à ſuer & pallir,& en tremblant crier (non ſans grande admiration de tous)qu'il y auoit vn chat en quelque coing dudit poiſle,alors on mit le chat hors de la maiſon. or le chat infecte auſſi ceux qui mangent de ſa ceruelle, & ſont tourmentez de grande deuleurs de teſte,& quelquesfois en deuiennent inſenſez. pour les guarir, il les faut faire vomir, & le vray alexitere eſt le muſc donné à boire demy ſcrupule auec de bon vin , & reite- rer ce remede tant qu'on verra eſtre beſoin.ie diray dauantage,que le chat eſt vne beſte pernicieuſe aux en- fans du berçeau,parce qu'il ſe couche ſur leur viſages, & les eſtouffe, parquoy il s'en faut bien donner garde. — de la venenoſité de certaines plantes. cha p. xl ii i. - | sy g p r e s auoir diſcouru de la venenoſité des animaux, à preſent il nous conuient eſcrire de - $ %\s- # celles d'aucunes plantes, les accidens qui aduiennent à ceux qui en auront pris , & com- #a\n， mencerons à l'apium riſus. l'apium riſus,autrement appellé sardonia,eſpece de ranunculus, %\ # rend les hommes inſenſez, induiſant vne concluſion & diſtenſion des nerfs, telle que les lé- - * vres ſe retirent,en ſorte qu'il ſemble que le malade rie,dont eſt venu en prouerbe, ris sardo- nien,pour vn ris mal-heureux & mortel : fon bezahar,ou contrepoiſon eſt le ſuc de meliſſe. le ſuc,fruict ou ſubſtance de napellus tuë ſon homme en vn - en trois au plus tard,meſmes fi parantidote & contre- poiſons paul. aegien. aece. pline galien. nicandre. liure de la theriaque à poiſom, marthiele». hiſtoire. } apium riſº napellu eſt chaud au ° degré. c le vingt-vnieme llure, tels vrnins ſont premie- rement deſ- crits par matthiole, ſur le . li- ure de dioſ- coride,&rpar leuimius au liure des ve- mins. - solanum m a- micum, froid au degré. dioſcoride. iuſquiame » froide au degré. auicenne-. châpig , cns° moyen de manger en ſaureté les chãpignoms. • \ ephemerum. mädragore. pauot noir. poiſons exhibez en temps & lieu on en reſchappe,le malade tombe en fiévre hectique,ou en chartre,ou en a mal caduc,comme dit auicenne:c'eſt dequoy les barbares empoiſonnent leurs fieſches. les accidents qu'il induit ſont tels:incontinent les lévres s'enflamment,& la langue s'enfle en ſorte qu'elle ne peut demeurer en la bouche,ains ſort dehors auec grande hideur, les yeux auſſi s'enflamment & ſortent hors la teſte : les malades tombent en vertiginoſitez & defaillance de cœur, ils ne peuuent mouuoir ny bouger les jambes, tant ont les cuiſſes foibles & debilitées:d'ailleurs ils ont le corps enflé & terny, tant eſt grande la maligni- té de ce poiſon.son bezahar eſt vn petit animal comme vne ſouris, qui s'engendre pres la racine dudit na- pellus, ſeiché & pris en breuuage du poids de deux dragmes : ou à faute de ce , la graine de raue ou de na- ueaux miſe em breuuage,oignant le corps d'huyle de scorpions. matthiole liure quatrieſme de dioſcoride, dit, que toute la plante du napellus eſt tres-pernicieuſe & veneneuſe mais la racine eſt plus cruelle que toutes les autres parties tellement que tenue quelque eſpace de temps dedans la main,iuſques à ce qu'elle s'y eſchauffe,fait mourir celuy qui la tient. ie ſçay,dit-il,des bergers eſtre morts pour auoir pris imprudemment vne tige de napellus,pour leur ſeruir de broche à ro- ſtir des petits oyſeaux. le dorycinium & solanum manicum,oumortale,ont accidens aſſez ſemblables. le dorycnium baillé en breuuage,donne vn gouſt comme du laict à celuy qui en a beu, induit ſanglots continuels, charge la lan- gue d'humiditez, fait ietter le ſang par la bouche, & par en bas vne certaine matiere baueuſe, tout ainſi qu'on voit és dyſenteries & caqueſangues. son bezahar, ſont toutes ſortes de poiſſons à coquille, ſoient cruds ou roſtis : les langouſtes auſſi & eſcreuiſſes de mer y ſont bonnes , & le boüillon où elles ont cuit. quant à la racine de solanum manicum priſe en breuuage auec vin au poids d'vne dragme, il cauſe des vi- ſions aſſez plaiſantes:mais ſi on redouble le poids,ou qu'on en prenne trois dragmes, elle rend la perſonne inſensée : & qui en prendroit quatre,elle feroit mourir,comme eſcrit dioſcoride. le bezahar eſt ſembla- ble à celuy du dorycinium la iuſquiame induit vne alienation d'eſprit telle que ſi on eſtoit yure, vn tour- nement de corps tel que les malades ſe diſtordent les membres,auec tremblement. sur tout ce ſymptome en ce venin eſt inſigne , c'eſt que les malades ſortent tellement hors du ſens, que l'imagination en eux troublée, ils penſent qu'on les foüette par tout le corps, begayant de voix, & bramans comme aſne, puis henniſſans ainſi que cheuaux, comme eſcrit auicenne. son bezahar ſont les piſtaches mangées en bonne quantité. auicenne loüe le theriaque & le mithridat, & boire du vin pur, auſſi de l'aluyne & de la ruë, & du laict. - des champignons,les vns ſont veneneux de leur nature ; ſçauoir ceux qui rompus changent incontinent de couleur,& le corrompent ſubit(à cette cauſe auicenne diſoit que les champignös pers & verds eſtoient venimeux :)les autres,bien que de leur nature ne ſont tels, ſieſt-ce que pris en trop grande quantité, en- gendrent en nous accidens mortels.vrayementie ne puis qu'eſmeu de compaſſion de la pluſpart des hom- mes,qui pouſſez d'vne tropgrande friandiſe,ne ſe peuuent ſaouler de cette ſemence mortelle : ie ne puis, d'y-je, que ie n'enſeigne le moyen comment on pourra appreſter les champignons ſans qu'ils faſſent mal, ſçauoir,les faiſant cuire auec poires ſauuages : au defaut deſquelles on pourra vſer de poires domeſtiques, pourueu qu'on prenne de celles qui ſont plus aſpres, ſans regarder ſi elles ſont freſches ou ſeichées au so- leil:& non ſeulement les poires,mais auſſi les fueilles & eſcorces du poirier, tant ſauuage que domeſtique, y ſont bonnes : ainſi accouſtrez les faut jetter au priuez, & partant ne feront nul mal. car la vraye contre- poiſon du champion, c'eſt le poirier. tous les champignons en general eſtranglent & eſtouffent ceux qui en mangent : mais ceux qui ſont veneneux en outre rongent les boyavx, gonflent & enflent l'eſtomach, donnent pointures,ſanglots,tremblemens,oppreſſion d'arteres,defaillance de cœur,ſueurs froides, & fina- lement la mort. la raiſon de tous ces accidens eſt,que tous champignons ſont naturellement fort froids & humides,& meſmes fort viſqueux & gluans:c ir pour parler à la verité de leur eſſence,ils ne ſont autre cho- ſe ſinon vne pituite excrementitielle de la terre, ou des arbres ſur leſquels ils naiſſent : de là vient que ſi on en prend en quantité , ils ſurmontent & ſuffoquent la chaleur du corps,& eſtouffent la perſonne. leur bezahar eſt l'ail mangé tout crud, comme dit le conciliateur de albano : ou bien auſſi le vinaigre, d'au- tant que par la tenuite de ſa ſubſtance, il a vertu d'attenuer & inciſer les humeurs gluans & viſqueux, qui engendrez en nous par l'vſage des champignons, cauſent ſuffocation, comme dit galien ſur la ſect. . des epidemies. ceux qui ont pris de l'ephemerum,que quelques-vns nomment cholchicon,ou bulbe ſauuage, ſentent vne demangeaiſon generalement par tout le corps, tout ainſi que qui ſe ſeroit frotté d'ortie ou d'eſquille ſentent vn rongement d'inteſtins, auec grande peſanteur & ardeur d'eſtomach : mais quand le mal s'aug- mente,on vuide par le bas des racleures de boyaux meſlées auec du ſang. le bezahar eſt le laict de femme: d'aſneſſe,ou de vache,pris tiede. la mandragore priſe en quantité exceſſiue eſt venimeuſe, & de ſa racine, & de ſon fruict:elle aſſoupit les ſens,elle rend les hommes laſches, triſtes & eſlancez, mornes, & ſans au- cune force, & fait que les patiens apres auoir bien crié, & s'eſtre bien tourmentez, s'endorment en toute, telle ſorte & habitude de corps que la force du venin les aura rencontrez & ſurpris:de façon que les me- decins en vſoient anciennement lors qu'on vouloit bruſler ou couper vn membre, pour oſter le ſentiment de douleur, quant aux pommes d'icelles, elle peuuent eſtre mangées eſtans meures, & deſnuées de leurs pepins de dedans ſans danger:mais les mangeant verdes,& auec leurs grains, elles ſont mortelles , & cau- ſent des accidens mortels. car en premier lieu, elles engendrent vn feu, & vne ardeur qui bruſle toute la partie ſuperficielle du corps : le malade a la bouche ſi ſeiche, qu'il eſt contraint de demeurer touſiours à gueule-bée pour attirer l'air froid , & qui n'y donne prompt remede mourra en ſpaſme. son bezahar eſt manger trois iours durant du refort auec du pain & du ſel, comme eſcrit le conciliateur. il faut faire eſternuer le malade : ce mal ſe cure en baillant à boire de la graine de coriandre, ou de pouliot auec eau chaude. l'odeur faſcheuſe du ſuc de pauot noir, qu'on appelle opium , fait qu'il eſt mal aisé à meſler parmy le boire ſans qu'on s'enapperçoiue, tout ainſi qu'on fait de la mandragore : entendu principalement qu'il ne fait mourir la perſonne, ſi l'on n'en prend grande quantité : mais de tant qu'il y a danger pour l'ignorance des medecins ou apothicaires qui en peuuent ordonner plus qu'il ne faut,l'on le cognoiſtra,pource que par ſa frigidité inſigne,il induit vn ſommeil tres-profond, auec vn prurit & demangeaiſon & friſſon ſi grand, que ſouuent le malade en eſt excité de ſon profond ſommeil:au reſte,ils tiennent touſiours les yeux fermez ſans mouuoir. ce trauail cauſe vne ſueur puante qui diſtille goutte à goutte : tout leur corps eſt paſle & tranſy, & ont les lévrcs enflammées, & leur void-on relaſcher la mandibule d'en-bas : il iettent vn ſouffle froid & lent, & lors qu'on leur verra les ongles ternis,le nez tors, & que les yeux leur enfonceront, c'eſt ſigne qu'ils ſont prochains de mort. le bezahar eſt le caſtoreum donné à boire en poudre iuſques à deux dragmes auec du vin. dt des venins. . # c - - - de la ciguë. la ciguë priſe en bre uuage cauſe vertigines,troublant l'entendement,tellement qu'on diroit les malades eſtre enragez:offuſque la veué,elle prouoque hoquets,rend les extremitez toutes gelées, cauſe , onuulfion: la trachée artere ſerrée & eſtoupée, ils meurent comme ſi on les eſtrangloit. parquoy il faut faire vomir promptement le malade,& luy bailler clyfteres.cela fait,il luy faut faire boire de bon vin tout pur, ou mal- uoiſie,ou hippocras,à fin d'eſchauffer les parties interieures,& meſmes trois ou quatre doigts d'eau de vie. matthiole ſur le liure ſixieſme de dioſcoride, dit auoir cogneu leſdits accidens par experience à vn vigne- ron,cultiuant ſesvignes auec ſa boüe, qui par fortune arracha des racines de cigue, cuidant que ce fuſſent racines de paſtenades, leſquelles il fit cuire en ſa maiſon,& les mangea à ſouper auec ſa femme ; apres ſou- per ils s'en allerent coucher.a la minuict eſtans réueillez,couroient çà & là par la maiſon , ne voyant gou- te,comme fols &enragez,ſe heurtans la teſte contre les parois,tellement qu'au matin ils eſtoient tous meur- tris,& les paupieres des yeux groſſes,monſtrans vne hideuſe face.les voiſins m'appcllerent pour les guarir, & m'eſtant enquis des domeſtiques de ce qu'ils auoient mangé à leur ſouper,ie trouuay qu'ils auoient man- gé des racines de ciguë en lieu de paſtenades.car ie me tranfportay en la vigne , où on me monſtra le lieu d'où le vigneron auoit tiré leſdites racines:on en trouua d'autres,qui commençoient à produire des fueil- les.ce qu'ayant confideré,ie reuins ſubit vers les malades,auſquels moyennant l'aide de dieu,ie fis retour- ner en peu de temps leur premiere ſanté,& entendetnent. petrus aponenfis eſtime fort en ce cas vn breu- uage fait de deux dragunes de theriaque auec de decoction de dictam,ou de racine de gentiane aucc duvini & affirme que c'eſt le vray antidote contre la cigue. - de i'aconit. * l'aconit eſt vne herbe,qu'aucuns appellent luparia , parce qu'elle tue les loups. elle croiſt en acones, dont elle a pris le nom,qui eſt vn village des peryandis. matthiole dit, qu'on en trouue en abondance aux montagnes de trente:les payſans d'alentour,l'appellent vu paria,parce qu'outre qu'elle tue les loups,elle tuë auſſi les renards. semblablement les chiens,chats, & tous autres animaux qui en mangent : elle tue les rats & ſouris de ſa ſeule odeur.auicenne l'appellesirangulator leoparai,parce qu'elle eſtrangle les leopars. dioſcoride dit,que les scorpions touchez de ſa racine,demeurent tous eftourdis,& meurent:& meſlée par- my la chair,tue les sangliers,loups,& pantheres, & generalement toutes autres beſtes ſauuages. les fieſ- ches trempées dedans ſon jus,leurs bleſſeures ſont mortelles. les perſonnes qui auront pris de l'aconit, en beuuant ou mangeant,ſentent vn gouſt aſlringent,& aucunement doux,mais apres cette aſpreté & dou- ceur,ils ſentent vne certaine amertume ce qu'eſcrit aëtius.il cauſe vertigine,& perturbation de l'eſprit. il fait venir les larmes aux yeux.il cauſe grande pefanteur d'eſtomach, & au ventre , & fait peter ſouuent. i induit tremblement de tout le corps auec grande enfleure, comme ſi on eſtoit hydropique. pline eſcrit au liure . chapitre . que ſon venin eſt vne poiſon fi fubite, que ſi on touche les parties honteuſes des ani- maux femelles,il les fait mourir le mefme iour.son principal antidote eſt de promptement vomir. le con- ciliateur,& petrus de abano,ordonnent de la saraſine,ou de l'ariſtoloche longue. matthiole dit,que s'il y a du venin dedans le corps il ſe combat contre luy,ayant fait rencontre de pareil:& donne ſeulement ce com- bat quand il trouue le venin dedans les parties nobles. c'eſt miracle que deux venins mortels eſtans de- dans vn corps,l'vn amortit i'autre,tellement que la perſonne demeure ſauue. or cette herbe eſt figurée en matthiole,lequel dit auoir ſes fueilles ſemblables au concombre,& n'en a que quatre pour le plus,& aucu- nement velues,& heriſsées,& pleines d'aiguillons,ſemblablement les queuës. sa racine eſt reluiſante com- me albaſtre quand elle eſt recente,& de groſſeur d'vn doigt,large au commencement, puis peu à peu finiſ- ſant en pointe courbée noüeuſe,reſſemblant à la queüe d'vn scorpion. sa tige eſt longue d'vn empau. au ſommet ayn heaume ſemblable à celuy d'vn homme d'armes (pour monſtrer qu'il eſt armé enuers tous & contre tous animaux)où eſt encloſe ſa ſemence,contenant vn cruel venin,mortel,& diabolique.par vnc oc- culte & indicible cauſe. la figure duquel eſt telle. de l'n'f. il y a ſemblablement des arbres venimeux, # l'yf,& le noyer : les cheuaux, bœufs & vaches qui mangent des fueilles de l'yf,& les hommes qui dorment deſſous le plus ſouuent meurent.les accidens qu'il cauſe,ſont flux de ventre,vn froid par tout le corps, & vn eſtouffement à l'endroit de la gorge. )ce quiad- uient non ſeulement à cauſe de la froideur,mais auſſi par vne particuliere nature, & malignité, cachée en luy:laquelle auſſi particulierement pourrit les humeurs,& eſcorche le dedans des boyaux. sa contie-poi- ſon eſt ſemblable à celle de la ciguë. nicandre ordonne à boire de bon vin pur. - - v v d hiſtoire de la ciguë re • citée de matthiole . petrus apo- menſis. auicenne . dioſcoride-» •athil- o e levingt-vniéme liure, dt "noytr, en ſen liure " le noyer eſt ſemblablement venimeux comme §º# que greuin dit auoir experimenté ſans y des venins. penſer. car ayant dormy longtemps ſous vn noyer en plein eſté, il ſentit tout le corps refroidy, auec vngrand mal de teſte,qui luy dura cinq ou fixiours. on peut vſer contre ſon poiſon de choſe ſemblable que contre l'yf. du bezahar. . c h a p. xliv. 'a v t a n t qu'en parlant des ſignes de chacun venin à part, nous auous nommé ſonantido- te bezahar, il faut ſçauoir que veut dire ce mot. vrayement venin n'eſt autre choſe que ce qui deſtruit la vie : parquoy les antidotes & contre-poiſons ont eſté appellez par les ara- bes en leur langue bezahar, c'eſt à dire en leur barragoüin, conſeruateur de vie. de là eſt venu que tous antidotes & contre-poiſons, par excellence ont eſté appellez bezardica, d'vn que c'eſt que bezahar. nom emprunté des arabes : parce que telle contre-poiſon eſtant venue d'arabie, & de perſe, a eſté cogneuë & celebrée par leurs eſcrits,ſans que les grecs en ayent fait aucune mention.mais entre tous ceux de oſtre téps,en a fort diſtinctement entédu parlé vn medecin du vice-roy des indes pour le roy de por- tugal,nommé garcia du iardin, en l'hiſtoire qu'il a composée des aromates & simples naiſſans és indes. garcia de au pais de perſe(die-il)& en quelque region des indes,ſe void vne eſpece de bouc,appellé en langue per- horto. ſique,pazain,(dont la pierre,à proprement parler,doit eſtre appellée pazar du mot pazain,qui ſignifie bouc: où ſe trou mais nous d'vn mot corrompu l'appellons bezar)pour la pluſpart en couleur,de hauteur moyenne,au ven- ue le beza-tricule duquel ſe concrée cette pierre appellée bezar,en forme de preſure,toufiours augmentant & groſſiſ- har. fant entour vne paille, en forme de tuniques d'oignon couchées l'vne ſur l'autre, de ſorte que la premiere lame leuée, celles de deſſous ſe monſtrent touſiours claires & reſplandiſſantes de plus en plus, qui eſt vn ſigne entreautres de bonne & legitime pierre bezahar. cette pierre ſe void de piuſieurs formes & figures, mais ordinairement elle ſe rencontre de figure de gland,ou de noyau de datte, de couleur de ſang, tantoſt .. de miel,tantoſt de jaune paillesmais † la pluſpart de verd-brun , comme nous voyons és pommes qu'on deſcription. appelle mala inſana,ou leschats qui font la ciuctte.cette pierre n'a point de cœur,ou noyau au milieu,mais eſt caue en iceluy,pleine d'vne poudre,qui a meſme vertu & ſubſtance que la pierre : au reſte elle eſt liſſe & douce,& telle qu'on la peut aiſement rapper comme l'albaſtre, meſme qu'elle ſe fond eſtant long-temps en l'eau.du commencement elle eſtoit aſſez commune & de vil prix , parce que les marchands de ces pais de deça trafiquans en perſe,& és indes, en pouuoient recouureraisément : mais depuis ſa force eſtant co- gneue,elle a eſté plus rare & chere,de tant que par edict des roys du pais, il a eſte defendu devendreau- le moyen de cun bouc aux marchands de dehors, que premier il n'euſt eſte tué , & ſa pierre portée au roy. l'vn des le cºgneiſlre. moyens d'eſprouuer cette pierre ſi elle eſt legitime ou non (car on en apporte par deça pluſieurs adulte- vſage . " rées & fauſſes, qui fait que l'on n'adiouſte foy à la vertu du bezahar tant ſinguliere ) a eſté dit cy-deſſus. l'autre eſt qu'on la comprime auec les doigts,apres on la fait boufer de vent comme le cuir de buffle : car ſi on s'apperçoit que l'air & vent paſſe ollttc » elle eſt tenue pour fauſſe & adulterée. ils en vſent à noſtre exemple,non ſeulement contre les poiſons & venins,mais auſſi contre les morſures des beſtes veneneuſes. les plus riches du pais ſe purgent deux fois l'an, auoir en mars & en septembre:cinq iours continus apres, ils prennent pour chaſque iours dix grains de cette pierre macerez en eau de roſe : & par tel remede ils diſent la ieuneſſe & force des membres leur eſtre conſeruce : quelques-vns en prennent iuſques à trente grains, mais les plus ſages n'approuuent point ſi grande doſe. ledit autheur garcia, dit auoir couſtume d'cn vſer heureuſement aux maladies melancholiques inueterées,comme en la galle, lepre, demangeaiſon, impetigine:& par meſme raiſon penſe qu'elle ſeroit fort propre contre la fiévre quarte,& dit ſçauoir pour vray que la poudre de cette pierre : eſtant miſe ſur les morſures des beſtes venimeuſes, deliure prompte- ment de danger , & auoir mcſmc force ſur les charbons de la peſte, iceux eſtans ouuerts, ſçauoir qu'elle chaſſe entierement le venin peſtilent. et d'autant(dit-il)qu'és indes la verole & rougeole, & herbes ſont fort frequents, & tres-dangereux & mortels , nous en donnons fort heureuſement par chacun iour vn ou deux grains dans l'eau roſe. - - - - - voila ce que garcia du iardin eſcrit de la generation & effects de la pierre bezahar, non point pour l'auoir leu ou ouy dire , mais(comme il aſſeure ) pour l'auoir veu & experimenté. matthiole chap. . du commentaire ſur le .liure de dioſcoride,dit auoir ſouuentesfois éprouué,que cette pierre eſt plus exqui- ſe contre tous venins , que tous autres ſimples medicamens, voire que le theriaque meſme, & tous autres contrepoiſons. abdalanarach en eſcrit ainſi : i'ay vcu la pierre appellée bezahar , entre les mains des fils d'almixama,gardien de la loy de dieu, pour laquelle il bailla en échange vne magnifique maiſon, & preſ- que vn palais qu'il auoit à cordube. toutes leſquelles choſes ainſi expliquées , il ſera aisé au chirurgien iuger de tel & tel venin, par les ſignes d'vn chacun d'iceux mentionnez , & en faire rapport en iuſtice lors qu'il ſera appellé. - - - - le roy dernierement decedé,eſtant en ſa ville de clermont en auuergne,vn seigneur luy apporta d'eſ- #. pagne vne pierre de bezahar , qu'il luy affermoit eſtre bonne contre tous venins » & l'eſtimoit grandement. du'bezahar " eſtant lors en la chambre dudit seigneur roy,il m'appella » & me demanda s'il fe pouuoit trouuer quel- faire par le quº certaine & ſimple drogue,qui fuſt bonne contre toute poiſon,où tout ſubit luy reſpons,que non,diſant §- qu'ilyauoit pluſieurs ſortes & manieres de venins,dont les vns pouuoient eſtre prins pardedans,les autºs ment du roy par dehors.ie luy remonſtre que les venins ne font leurs effects d vne meſme ſorte, & ne procedent leſdits charles ix. effects d'vne meſme cauſe:car aucuns operét par l'excez des qualitez clementaires, deſquelles ils ſont cont- matthiole poſez.autres operent par leur propre qualitéſpecifique,occulte & ſecrette,non ſubiecte à aucune raiſon,& narre vne ſelon la diuerſité d'iceux falloit contrarier:comme s'ils eſtoient chauds, eſtoient guaris par remedes froids, ſemblable & les froids par remedes chauds,& ainſi des autres qualitez. ledit seigneur qui apporta la pierre, voulut # #. outre mes raiſons ſouſtenir qu'elle eſtoit propre contre tous venins. adonc ie dy au roy, qu'on auoit # # bien moyen d'en faire certaine experience ſur quelque coquin qui auroit gaigné le pendre : lors prompte- vºulu faire ment enuºyº qº monſieur de la trouſſe,preuoſ de ſon hoſte , & luy demanda s'il auoit quelqu'vn qui eſpreuue pour euſt merité la corde. il luy dit qu'il auoit en ſes priſons vn cuiſinier,lequel auoit deſrobé deux plats d'ar- le big public gent en la maiſon de ſon maiſtre, où il eſtoit domeſtique, & que le lendemain deuoit eſtre pendu & d'vn antid,- eſtranglé. le roy luy diſt qu'il vouloit faire experience d'vne pierre qu'on diſoit eſtre bonne contre tous re, ch. . venins , & qu'il ſceuſt dudit cuiſinier, apres ſa condemnation, s'il vouloit prendre quelque certaine poi- liu. ſur ſon, & qu'à l'inſtant on luy bailleroit vne contre-poiſon, & que où il eſchapperoit, il s'en iroit la vie . piºſºriºº fauue : ce que ledit cuiſinier tres - volontiers accorda , diſant qu'il aimoit mieux encore mourir de c ues venins. - o a de ladite poiſon en la priſon , que d'eſtre eſtranglé à la veuë du peuple. et toſt apres vn apothicaire ſer- uant,luy donna certaine poiſon en potion,& ſubit de ladite pierre de bezahar. ayant ces deux bonnes dro- gues en l'eſtomach,il ſe print à vomir,& bien toſt aller à la ſelle, auecques grandes épreintes, diſant qu'il auoit le feu au corps,demandant de l'eau à boire,ce qui ne luy fut refusé. vne heure apres, eſtans aduerty que ledit cuiſinier auoit prins cette bonne drogue,ie priay ledit seigneur de la trouſſe me vouloir permet- tre l'aller voir , ce qu'il m'accorda, accompagné de trois de ſes archers : & trouuay le pauure cuiſinier à quatre pieds,cheminant comme vne beſte,la langue hors la bouche, les yeux & toute la face flamboyante, deſirant touſiours vomir,auec grandes ſueurs froides:& iettoit le ſang par les oreilles, nez, bouche,par le ſiege, & par la verge. ie luy feis boire enuiron demy ſextier d'huyle , penſant luy aider & ſauuer la vie, mais elle ne luy ſeruit de rien,parce qu'elle fut baillée trop tard,& mourut miſerablement,criant qu'il luy euſt mieux vallu eſtre mort à la potence.il veſcut ſept heures ou enuiron. et eſtant decedé,ie feisouuertu- re de ſon corps en la preſence dudit seigneur de la trouſſe,& quatre de ſes archers,où ie trouuay le fonds de ſon eſtomach noir,aride, & ſec, comme ſi vn cautere y euſt paſsé, qui me donna cognoiſſance qu'il auoit auallé du ſublimé,& par les accidens qu'il auoit pendant ſa vie. et ainſi la pierre d'eſpagne,comme #º le monſtre,n'eut aucune vertn.a cette cauſe,le roy commanda qu'on la jettaſt au feu : ce qui t fait. \ des metaux & mineraux venimeux. c h a p. x l v. ſ a @ . e s metaux & mineraux viennent de la terre & des fournaiſes:aucuns ſont veneneux, comme - $ arſenic,ſublimé,plaſtre,ceruze,litharge, verd de gris, orpigment, limeure de fer & d'airain, #ſ，/ aymant,reagal,chaux,& autres.ceux qui ont pris du ſublimé, ſubit la langue & le goſier leur $u i ez deuiennent ſi aſpres,que s'ils auoient pris du jus de cormes vertes, laquelle aſpreté ne ſe peut e s\snc n oſter par nuls gargariſmes lenitifs,ſinon qu'auec grande difficulté & longueur de temps. car ſubit qu'il eſt deſcendu enl'eftomach,il s'attache contre;pour cette cauſe,il le ronge & vlcere peu de temps apres. il cauſe vne ſoif inſatiable,& des angoiſſes indicibles. il ſuruient enfleure à la langue,defaillance de cœur,ſuppreſſion d'vrine difficulté de reſpirer,trenchées au ventre & enl'eſtomach intolerables,auec vne contorſion des membres ſi grande,que ſi on n'y remedie promptement , les pauures empoiſonnez meurent, les inteſtins & eſtomach rongez & percez,& de couleur noire;comme ſi vn fer ardant y euſt paſsé. les pa- tiens jettent le ſang par les oreilles,nez,bouche,par la verge,& le ſiege:& i'atteſte auoir veu au pauure lar- ron cuiſinier,cy-deſſus mentionné,tous les accidens ſuſdits.on guar t ceux qui en ont aualé,& tous autres venins corroſifs,par meſmes remedes,qui ont eſté cy-deſſus baillez à ceux qui ont pris des cantharides. le verd de gris eſtoupe ſi fort les conduits de la reſpiration, qu'il eſtouffe ceux qui en aurontaualé. on verd de gris les guariſt comme ceux qui auront pris de l'arſenic : le bain pareillement leur eſt profitable. la litharge beue,cauſe vne peſanteur d'eſtomach & du ventre,empeſche d'vriner, & rend le corps enflé & liuide:on y remedie faiſant vomir le malade , puis ſubit luy donnant de la fiente ſeiche de pigeon, dela- yée en bon vin. petrus aponenſis commande de boire de l'huyle d'amandes douces, & manger des figues ſeiches. il eſt pareillement bon leur bailler clyſteres relaſchans & humectans, & leur frotter le ventre de beurre frais, ou huyle de lys. - - l'eſcaille d'airainieſtant beuë,cauſe flux de ventre,& grand vomiſſement, qui prouient des pointures & z'eſcaille douleurs de l'eſtomachiſon contre-poiſon eſt de faire vomir promptement le malade,puis apres le faire bai- d'airain. c gner dans vn bain où l'on aura mis grande quantité d'eſcargots, & luy frotter le thorax & le ventre de beurre & huye de lys,& luy donner clyſteres relaxans & humectans. - l'aymant rend fols ceux qui en ont pris : ſon contre poiſon eſt l'or ſubtilement puluerisé, & la pierre l'*ymanr- d'eſmeraude beuz auec bon vin,& clyſteres de laict & huyle d'amandes douces. la limeure de plomb & merde de fer font grands tourmens pareillement à ceux qui en auront pris par limeur, d, dedans:leur contrepoiſon eſt boire grande quantité de laict,& beurre frais fondu,ou huyle d'amandes dou- plomb &r ces tirée ſans feu,& leur donner clyſteres relaſchans & humectans, & continuer ces remedes iuſques à ce merde de que les douleurs & tranchées ſoient paſſées. fer. le reagal pour eſtre de nature fort chaude & ſeiche, induit ſoif & eſchaufaiſon , & ardeur par tout le reagal. corps,auec telle conſommation de toutes les humiditez, qu'encores que l'on ſauue la vie aux patiens par prompts & ſouuerains remedes,ſi demeurent-ils toutesfois perclus de leurs membres par vehemente reſic- cation, & contraction de toutes les jointures : ſon alexitere eſt l'huyle de pignolat, donné promptement iuſques à demie liure,& puis vomir.apres donner à boire du laict,& en faire clyſteres, & nourrir le malade de boüillons gras. la chaux viue & orpigment,que les grecs appellent.arſenicum,pris en breuuage rongent l'eſtomach, & chaux vihe les inteſtins,auec grandes douleurs ils cauſent vne ſoifintolerable,auec vne aſperité de gorge,difficulté de & orpigmët reſpirer, ſuppreſſion d'vrine & dyſenterie, il faut remedier auec toutes choſes, qui ont vertu d'eſteindre , leur acrimonie,& qui ſoient relaxans & humectans:comme le ſuc de guimauue,mauue,violiers de mars,de- coction de graine de lin,beüillons gras,& generalement toutes choſes cy-deſſus mentionnées auxremcdes d des cantharides. il eſt fort difficile pouuoir remedier àl'eau forte,de laquelle les orfevrés ſeparent l'or de l'argent, parce ºf** que tout ſubit elle bruſle la gorge & l'eſtomach. il faut remedier comme à la chaux & erpigment. - la ceruze cauſe hocquets & la toux,& rend la langue ſeiche, & les extremitez du corps froides & ſtupi- ***** des , & les yeux clinottent toufiours : & ſouuent en plein iour il ſemble au malade qu'il voit quelque fan- toſme:leur vrine eſt noire,& ſouuent ſanglante,s'ils ne ſont promptement ſecourus,ils ſuffoquent & meu- rent. les remedes,ſelon aëce & auicenne,eſt de leur faire boire de la ſcammonée,auec eau miellée, & au- tres choſes qui ont vertu de les faire beaucoup vriner. il ne faut oublier à les faire fouuent vomir, & leur donner clyſteres humectans & relaſchans. / le plaſtre s'endurcit comme pierre en l'eſtomach,& ceux quien ont aualé eſtranglent,parce qu'il reſſerre plaſtrº-. les conduits de la reſpiration. on les guariſt comme ceux qui ont mangé des champignons. auicenne dit • qu'il y faut remedier comme à ceux qui ont pris de la ceruze. et ſi le ventre eſt conſtipé , on leur baillera clyſteres compoſez d'huyle,& de graiſſe de canard,& leur oindrc le ventre d'huyle de lys & de beurre. de l'arſenlc & ſubiimé. l litharte. petrus apo- menſis. | v v de - o le vingt-vniéme liure, - - de la proprieté de l'argent-vif c h a p. xlv i. ceux qui 'argent-vifa eſté ainſi nommé parce qu'il repreſente l'argét en couleur,& auſſi pource qu'il tiennent le $ eſt quaſi en vn perpetuel mouuement,& ſemble qu'il ſoit vif. il y a grande contrarieté entre #. #" - les anciens qui ont eſcrit du vif-argent.les vns tiennent qu'il eſt chaud,comme galien liu. . ch f . des simples, haliabas en ſa ſeconde practique,chapitre cent quarante huict. rhaſes au .ad « almenſor ariſtote .meteor.conſtantin,iſaac, platearius, nicolas maſſa. or veritablement ils ont tous raiſon ſur ce qui eſt dit,que l'on prend indication,des remedes qui aydent & qui nuiſent. da- uantage,il eſt d'vne ſubſtance ſi tenue,qu'il penetre les corps metalliques fort durs , & les diſſoult, & fait autres actions de chaleur,comme d'attenuer,inciſer,penetrer,ſubtilier,reſoudre,ſeicher,prouoquer ſueurs, flux de ventre,vrines,flux de bouche:& non ſeulement vacue les humeurs ſubtils,mais auſſi le gros, cras & viſqueux,ce qu'on voit à l'œil aux verolez,qui en vſent par les fictions,ou par emplaſtres.leſquelles choſes ueñº tien- § peuuent faire que par medicamens chauds,& de ſubtile ſubſtance,ce que fait l'argent-vif autres di- # ſent qu'il eſt extremement froid,& humide,d'autant qu'il ſtupefie &appaiſe toutes douleurs eſtant appliqué mide . aux onguens & emplaſtres refrenant les ardentespuſtules,phlegmoneuſes,& choleriques dauantage pour ſa grande humidité il amollit les tumeurs dures, & diſſout celles qui font faites par concretion : ce qu'on voit aux tophes & nodus des os. auſſi ceux qui en ont eſté frottez, ou pris par parfums, ont leur haleine puante,qui eſt vn ſigne qu'il pourrit par ſon exceſſiue humidité,les humeurs qu'il trouue en l'eſtomach , & parties voiſines. . - j- - - auie.nn. d'abondant, auicenne ameine vn exemple d'vn finge,lequel ayant beu de l'argent-vifmourut, & l'avaat matthiol .. ouuert,on trouua du ſang coagulé autour du cœur.semblablement matthiole ſur le commentaire de dio- ſcoride , chapitre vingt-huictieſme , dit que le vifargent fait mourir les perſonnes qui en prendroient en - trop grande quantité,par ſon exceſſiue froideur & humidité,parce,dit-il,qu'il congele le ſang, & les cſprits #ºi* º - vitaux de toute la ſubſtance du cœur. ce qui a eſté cogneu de petrus aponenſis par cette hiſtoire, qu'vn #" ** apothicaire ſurpris d'vne fiévre tres ardente,tourmenté d'vne ſoifintolerable, & troublé de ſon entende- menſis. ment,allant çà & là,vint en ſa boutique cherchant quelque breuuage pour ſe deſalterer:par fortune il prit la boite du vif-argent,& en beut grande quantité,en lieu d'eau:cela fait, il s'en retourna coucher, où peu d'heure apres il mourut.ses ſeruiteurs ayans trouué grande quantité de vif-argent ſorty par le fondement, appellerent les medecins, pour ſçauoir la cauſe de la mort, qu'ils eſtimoient vn grand miracle. leſquels commanderent d'apporter la boite du vif argent, laquelle trouuant vuide, ils cogneurent la cauſe de la mort aduenue à l'apothicaire. dauantage,le corps mort & ouuert,trouuerent encore dedans l'eſtomach & inteſtins, enuiron vne liure d'argent-vif, & du ſang congelé autour du cœur. qui eſt cauſe pour prouuer le vif-argent eſtre extreme- ment froid,pour raiſon de ladite coagulation.autres le diſent froid, pource qu'il eſt fait de plomb, & autre matiere froide,ce qui ne s'enſuit pas:car la chaux viue eſt faite de cailloux,& pierres froides,neantmoins eſt shaude & cauſtique. , paracelſe,liure quatrieſme de la nature des choſes,dit le vifargent eſtre chaud au dedans, & froid aude- hors:c'eſt à ſçauoir qu'eſtant tel comme il vient de la mine,qu'il eſt froid, mais quand il eſt preparé par art, que ſa frigidité eſt oſtée,& que ſa chaleur,qui eſt au dedans,ſe manifeſte en ſorte qu'il ſert de teinture à la tranſmutation des metaux.c'eſt vne regle generale des alxemiſtes,que tous metaux ſont froids en leur de- hors,à cauſe de la partie aqueuſe,laquelle y predomine:mais au dedans ils ont vne grande chaleur,laquelle apparoiſt lors que la froideur ſe ſepare auec l'humidité, par le moyen du meſme ſujet qu'elles ont, à ſca- uoir l'humidité,deuiennent cauſtiques par la calcination. - autres tien. aucuns ont opinion qu'il eſtveneneux,neantmoins l'experience monſtre le contraire:ce que pluſieurs do- nent qu'il eſt ctes perſonnages teſmoignent marianus santus baralitanus,homme fort experimenté en la chirurgie,trai- veneneux ctant zºe caſa & offenſione , dit auoir veu pluſieurs qui en ont auallé ſans aucune incommodité ou leſion. et marianus pour confirmation de ſon dire , raconte vne hiſtoire d'vne femme, à laquelle il afferme auoir veu prendre samrus. pour quelque intention,à pluſieurs & diuerſes fois,vne liure & demie de vif-argent,qu'elle rejettoit par le paracelſe. #. ſiege ſans aucun dommage meſmes il dit,qu'en l'iliaque paſſion(dicte miſerere mei, maladie mortelle)plu- m'appreuue ſieurs eſtoient eſchappez prenant trois onces d'argent vif auec de l'eau ſimplement. ce qui aduient,d'au. eette quai, ººº » dit-il, que par ſa ponderofité il deſtournel'inteſtin,& pouſſe lamatiere fecale endurcie en bas : ainſi # d qu'auons eſcrit cy-deuant parlans de la colique. dauantage,il afferme autres auoir eſté guaris de la colique, gent-vif en prenant trois onces de vif-argent. - antonius antonius muſa dit,qu'il a de couſtume en donner à boire aux petits enfans eſtans deniy morts , àl'occa- muſa , au ſion des vers.ce qui eſt encore approuué par auicenne, où il dit que pluſieurs en boiuent ſans en eſtreau- traicté des cunement endommagez. auſſi ledit auicenne l'ordonne pour la teigne des petits enfans : & meſme en ſes metaux onguents pour la rongne.semblablement on voit ordinairement les bonnes femmes de village en frotter la º , teſte de leurs petits enfans,eſtant mixtionné auec beurre,ou graiſſe de porc, pour faire mourir leurs poux. ºº ºhºp.de matthiole dit,qu'aucuns en donnent pour le dernier remede aux femmes qui ne peuuent accoucherie pro- # #. teſte que i'en ay fait aualler vne liure à vn petit & ieune chien,qui le rejetta par le ſiege, ſans reſſentir au- *attºiºſº , . toutes leſquelles choſes me font juger iceluy n'eſtre venimeux. - voilà ce que i'ay peû recueillir des autheurs, tant anciens que modernes. et ne nous faut arreſter aux diſputes, mais à l'action & faculté d'iceluy, choſe plus neceſſaire que toutes diſputes qu'on en peut faire. et quant à ſes actions & facultez,nous le voyons eſtre le vray alexitere & contrepoiſon de la groſſe facultez du verole, & propre aux vlceres malings de quelques genres qu'ils puiſſent eſtre ; de façon qu'il conſom- ºf-ºtº me la virulence & malignité qui eſt en eux , plus que nuls autres remedes operans par leurs qualitez premieres. specialement ſi on en frotte vne lamine de plomb, comme l'enſeigne le bon vieillard guidon, & qu'on l'applique ſur l'vlcere en le bandant proprement, ramollit les bords deſdits vlceres, eſtant continuée ameine l'vlcere à cicatrice , ce que i'ay cogneu par diuerſes fois. ce qui eſt auſſi confirmé par galien , lequel l'appreuue pour les vlceres malings, & pour les chancres. meſmes nous voyons par experience, que le plomb ( lequel aucuns diſent venenenx, parce que l'argent-vif eſt fait de luy) peut demeurer long temps en noſtre corps ſans faire aucune corruption : comme l'on peut cognoiſtre en ceux qui ont eu des coups d'arquebuſe , la balle demeurer aux parties charneuſes par l'eſpace de trois, quatre , voire dix ans, & deſcendre du haut en bas ſans faire aucune putrefaction ou nuiſance à natu- oal. .cata- re , qui demonſtre n'auoir nulle venenoſité, mais pluſtoſt quelque choſe de familier auec noſtre natu- top. re. galien ne dit pas que le plomb ſoit veneneux,mais diºgº l'eau contenuë long temps és canaux , de ' : plomb guidon. - - ， - des venins. o a plomb,pour le limon qui s'y attache, cauſ« dyſenteries & fiux de ventre , ce que feroit bien l'airain ou le a cuyure. thierry de hery recite cette hiſtoire. ces iours paſſez ie fus enuoyé querir pour viſiter vn enfant en la # de maiſon d'vn docteur en medecine,lequel auoitvne parotide, (qui eſt vne apoſteme aux enuirons des oreil- # # les)auec grande tumeur & inflammation,douleur,pulſation, & tels ſignes ſignifient generation de º verole, bien au moyen dequoy nous aduiſaſmes qu'il ſeroit bon y appliquer vn medicament anodyn, ce qui fut fait & experimenté au premier remuement de l'emplaſtre,ſe trouua grande diminution de la tumeur, & de tous les autres acci- en la chi- dens,dont nous fuſmes esbahis,parce que nous auions deliberé ce iour,ou le lendemain,y faire ouuerture. rurgie-. a la ſeconde fois ſe trouua ſans inflammation,pulſation,ny douleur,& apparente diminution de la tumeur, & ſentoit l'enfant la partie eſtre quaſi toute deſchargée.au troiſieſme appareil, i'apperceu dedans le cata- plaſme du vif-argent,parquoy nous enquerans d'où pouuoit proceder cela,trouuaſmes qu'vn ſeruiteur,au- quel on auoit commandé faire ce medicament ( faute de curioſité) l'auoitmeſlé auec vn onguent eſtant au mortier, auquel y auoit de l'argent vif toutesfois cét enfant fut guary quatre ou cinq iours apres, ſans ſuppuration, ny aucun accident. - - - autre hiſtoire dudit de hery. quelque temps apres vne damoiſelle fut affligée d'vne femblable maladie, autre hi-. laquelle non ſeulement luy comprenoit le derriere des oreilles,mais auſſi vne partie de la gorge, & quaſi ſtoire dudit toute la ioué.nonobſtant quelque diligence, nous ne ſçeuſme tant faire que nature vouluſt tendre à aucune de hery, euacuation,& auoit vne telle douleur,que iour ny nuict ne pouuoit repoſer : quoy voyant, ie raconte aux - medecins l'hiſtoire precedente,leſquels furent d'aduis qu'onadiouſteroit du vif argent aux emplaſtres, ce qui fut fait,& la damoiſelle ſentit amelioration de ſa douleur,& peu de iours apres la tumeur fut entier - ment reſolue.voilà deux hiſtoires que ie croy eſtre vrayes.l'onguent où entre le vif argent guariſt la ron- gne,appellée duvulgaire,mal ſainct main ( ſuppléeapres auoir fait les choſes vniuerſelles , comme purga- tions,ſaignées,bains)ce que les autres medicamens ne peuuent faire.ie tiens que l argent-vifeſt l'antidote de la verole(auſſi fait rondelet)& de ſes accidens,& la guar ſt en quelque ſorte qu'elle ſoit : parce qu'il eſ- meut les ſueurs,& deſſeiche la cauſe de ſa ſubſtance:ce que ne font point les autres medicamens, au moins que i'aye pû cognoiſtre. - or quelques-vns tiennent qu'il reſout & diſſipe la vertu des nerfs, comme l'on voit quelques-vns qui en ont eſté frottez pour la verole,auoir vn tremblement des membres:il eſt vray quand on en vſe indiſcrette- - - ment & ſans raiſon,qu'il en pourra eſtre cauſe. autant en aduiendra-il aux doreurs & fondeurs de plomb, & à ceux qui ſont aux miniers:car par l'indue & aſſiduelle reception des vapeurs , il ſe fera non ſeulement vacuation des humeurs malings & corrompus, mais auſſi reſolution & conſomption des eſprits & humidi- tez radicales,leſquelles reſoluës ſpecialement des parties nerueuſes , il s'enſuit vn tremblement quelques- - g fois perpetuel,non par la malice du vif argent,mais par l'indue application & mauuais vſage. eſtant eſteint # r auec axunge de porc, qu'on en oigne vne liſiere de drap , puis qu'on l'applique à nud en ceintureau milieu # # du corps,il chaſſe les poux,puces,punaiſes,& morpions : & tue les vers contenus au ventre, & principa- ſes § lement ſi on en frotte le creux du nombril.si on en frotte le lieu où habitent les punaiſes & morpions , il §, & les fait mourir,& empeſche que plus n'y retournent. or il y a deux eſpeces d'argent-vif naturelle & arti- autres - ficielle:de la naturelle il s'en treuue coulant par les veines & cauitez de la terre, comme on voit en diucrs mines. lieux:& auſſi il ſe treuue entre les metaux,& aux vouſtes des fodines d'argent.de l'artificielle,il s'en fait de deux eſpeces minion,auſſi de ratiſſeures de marbre,comme eſcrit vitruue. il eſt vray-ſemblable qu'il s'en pourroit tirer d'argentvif. de tous metaux par artifice, & principalement du plomb,& du cinabre. telles eſpeces & differences ſe viº,º peuuent cognoiſtre par leur couleur fufque & noiraſtre,par leur ſubſtance lente & eſpeſſe, qui en coulant # # laiſſe veſtige gras, comme excrement de plomb. le meilleur de tous eſt celuy qui eſt pur,clair, ſubtil, & º blanc.et pour le purifier de ſon plomb,& autres excremens, & le rendre bon & tres-ſubtil, il le faut faire boüillir,en vinaigre,auec ſaulge,roſmarin,thym,lauande , ou le faire aualler à vn chien vne liure à la fois: puis l'ayant rejetté par le ſiege,le cueillir,& derechef le faire vn peu boüillir audit vinaigre. cela fait, on peut dire eſtre vn maiſtre iean,qui fait choſes grandes,& quaſi miraculeuſes, pourueu qu'on le ſçache bien . manier à luy faire ſauter le baſton.car à peine ſe trouue-il homme,qui ſe puiſſe vanterd'entendre ſa natu-ºf**gº re & vertu en tot.t & par tout.les alchemiſtes ont ſi grande opinion de ce maiſtre iean,que la pluſpart d'i- # par ceux l'ont couru à force d'or & d'argent, pour cuider l'arreſter, & toutesfois n'en ont encore ſçeu venir à # # bout.les riches en ſont deuenus pauures,pour l'auoir ſoufflé,& les pauures,idiots,inſenſez,& tous deſchi- vé mºaj/ e rez.il n'a plus grand ennemy que le feu, lequelle fait monter en haut, encore qu'il ſoit fort peſant , & auſſi luy fait quitter l'or ſon plus grand amy qu'il ait point. - diſcours de la licorne ». ch a p. x lv ii. a r c e que pluſieurs s'eſtiment bien aſſeurez,& munis contre la peſte, & toutes ſortes de poi- ſons & venins,par le moyen de la corne de licorne ou monoceros priſe en pouldre, ou en infu- l'autheur. ſion:i'ay pensé faire choſe agreable & profitable au public,ſi par ce diſcours i'examine cette opi- deſcription nion tant inueterée,& toutesfois fort incertaine. premierement on entend par ce mot de licor- de la licor- ſte naiſſante en fort loingtain pays,ayant vne ſeule corne au front, qui eſt priſe comme choſe mi-ºc-. raculeuſe contre tous venins,& fort eſtimée des roys,princes, & grands seigneurs, & meſme du vulgaire. les grecs l'appellent monocero,& les latins vnicornis. et de pouuoir dire & aſſeurer à la verité quelle eſt cette beſte, il eſt fort difficile, meſme qu'aucuns doutent que ce ſoit vne choſe fauſſe & controuuée par le vulgaire,laquelle auec le temps ſoit venuë en opinion , & que quelqu'vn en peut auoir eſcrit, ſoit par ſim- plicité ou delectation,voulant emplir ſes liures de choſes merueilleuſes & extrauagantes, ſe ſouciant bien peu ſi elles eſtoient vrayes,ou fauſſes de fait la deſcription de ladite licorne porte auec ſoy vne doute ma- nifeſte,veu que les vns diſent que c'eſt vne beſte incogneuë & eſtrange,& qu'elle naiſt aux indes, les autres pinions tou- en ethiopie,d'autres és terres neufues, les autres és deſerts : dont on peut coniecturer(comme dit andré ºhºt !**- marin medecin tres-docte de veniſe,au liure qu'il a fait de la fauſſe opinion de la licorne) que ce peu de ſº * cognoiſſance que l'on en a eu iuſques à preſent en noſtre europe,comme d'vne choſe eſtrange, a eſté don- la licorne>. née par gens barbares,leſquels,comme il appert, n'ont pû dire autre choſe, ſinon qu'elle naiſt és deſerts, & qu'elle eſt folitaire, & hante les lieux inacceſſibles, & partant que c'eſt vne choſe qui ſe voit fort rare- ment. qui demonſtre aſſez, que ccs gens là n'en ſçauent rien au vray , & qu'ils n'en parlent que par opi-, nion, & par oüy dire. intention de z tnn nc,vne bc • " varieté d'o- - - - v v ; c h a f. -- -" - i o levingt-vniéme liure, les premiers autheurs qui ont eſcrit de la licor- me , pru re- / / ezl, cteſias. | aelian parle douteuſemëe de la licor- .'• differenoº de la figure. varieté des autheurs en la deſcripti de la corne de licorne . confuſion en l'experience. ce qui fait douter des vertus de la corne de li- d' ' j. choſe diffi- sile à croire. philoſtrate «h. .liure . promeſſes bmpºſſibles. -- ce que l'on ſoit en la de dicace de l'amphi- theatre de diocletian. dens de ro- hart priſe pour corne de licornel. la licorme me peut eſtre priſe vine . impoſture de vendre tant de corne de licorne . aeneas silnius, - -- -- ch a p t r e xl v i i i. y# mez,& n'en faiſoit-on pas grand cas. car le premier qui en a eſcrit (comme on peut voir en # pline,au liure .chapitre .)fut cteſias,duquel ariſtote en ſon liure .de ſon hiſtoire des ani- $ maux,chap. parle comme d'vn autheur peu croyable. or touchant aelian , il ſemble qu'il en $ doit auoir parlé à la verité, comme ne faiſant profeſſion que de parler des animaux : & toutes- fois l'on voit qu'il eſt en doute,en parlant touſiours en ces termes,on dit,ils difent,on entend. et parce que tous les autheurs qui en ont eſcrit iufques à preſent, en ont tous parlé diuerſement. et de fait, comme ils ſont differens en la deſcription des lieux,où naiſt ladite licorne,ainſi ſont-ils en la forme d'icelle. les vns diſent qu'elle reſſemble àvn cheual,les autres à vn aſne,les autres à vn cerf les autres à vn elephant,autres à vn rhinoceros', autres à vn léurier d'attache ; bref, chacun en dit ce qu'il en a oüy dire , ou ce qu'il luy plaiſt de controuuer. les vns en font deux eſpeces, d'autres trois. il y en a qui diſent qu'elle a la corne du pied entiere comme celle d'vn cheual,autres fendue comme celle d'vne chéure, autres comme d'vn ele- phant,comme pline,& aelian. or leſdits autheurs ne diſcordent pas ſeulement pour le regard des lieux de la naiſſance,ny de la forme de ladite licorne,mais auſſi en la deſcription de la corne d'icelle. car les vns la figurent noire,les autres de bay obſcur,& qu'elle eſt blanche en bas,& noire en haut.vn autre dit que vers le haut elle tire ſur le pourpre,vn autre qu'elle eſt polie , & d'autres que depuis le haut iuſques en bas elle eſt rayée tout à l'entour comme vne coquille de limaçon,par vn artifice tres-beau.plus les vns la deſcriuent moins large,les autres plus longue. concluſion, tous different, tant les anciens que les modernes : mefmes ils ſe ſont trouuez confus en l'experience de pluſieurs cornes pretendues de licornes, qui ſe trouuent és threſors des rois & princes chreſtiens, en ce que leſdites cornes ne ſe ſont trouuées toutes propres à vn meſme vſage:mais en certaines choſes ils ont trouué vray ce qu'en on dit les anciens, & en beancoup d'au- tres,non. et ce qui en fait douter dauantage,ce ſont les promeſſes exceſſiues,& incroyables,que quelques- vns mettent en auant des vertus de cette corne contre la peſte,le ſpaſme,mal caduc, contre la fiévre quar- te,la morſure des chiens enragez,viperes,& picqueures de ſcorpions,& contre tous venins. et pour le fai- re croire aux princes : ils diſent qu'il n'eſt beſoin en prendre par la bouche , comme l'on fait de la theria- que,& autres alexiteres preſeruatifs , mais qu'il ſuffit que cette corne ſoit tenuë ſeulement à l'oppoſité du lieu où ſera le venin & que ſubit le venin ſe deſcouure.et pour faire croire ces miracles, ils ſe veulent pre- ualoir de quelques teſmoignages des anciens,que les rois d'indie faiſoient faire des taſſes de certaines cor- nes,où perſonne qu'eux ne beuuoit,& par ce moyen ils s'aſſeuroient d'eſtre exempts de toutes maladies in- curables, & que le iour qu'ils auoient beu dans ces taſſes,ils ne deuoient craindre aucun venin , ny autres aduerfitez. bref, vne infinité d'autres promeſſes impoſſibles , leſquelles d'autant qu'elles excedent toute creance humaine,d'autant donnent ellss occaſion à ceux qui ont quelque peu d'eſprit, de tenir pour faux, tout le reſte qui en a eſté dit & eſcrit, ch a p t r e xl i x. - "- g v e l o v e s-vns pourroient penſer, veu la conformité de ces deux noms, rhinoceros, & , monoceros,c'eſt à dire licorne,que ce fuſt tout vn. mais ſi cela eſtoit vray, il n'y auroit deſia # plus de douts qu'il ne fuſt des licornes, d'autant qu'il eſt tout certain, que le rhinoceros a ， eſté veu pluſieurs fois aux ſpectacles publiques des romains. que ſi c'eſt vn autre animal bytn different comme il eſt à preſuppoſer, il ſourd vne autre difficulté plus grande. car parm tant d'animaux que l'on menoit de toutes les parties du monde és merueilleux ſpectacles de rome, il ne ſe trouue point que l'on y ait iamaisveu vne ſeule licorne. et quand l'amphitheatre de diocletian fut dedié, l'on y mena pareillement de tous coſtez vn bien grand nombre d'animaux fort eſtranges, & ne lit-on point u'il ſe ſoit fait iamais vne plus grande recherche,qu'au temps de gordian.car voulant triompher des per- § celebrer la feſte ſeculiere pour cette année glorieuſe qui eſtoit mil ans apres l'edification de rome, que philippe premier empereur chreſtien ſon ſucceſſeur a depuis encore celebré,il y fit conduire des ours, des lions,des grands cerfs,des rhinoceros,taureaux lauuages,sangliers,chameaux,elephans, tigres, el- lens,porcs-épics,ciuettes,crocodiles,cheuaux ſauuages & marins,appellez hippopotames,& autres innu- merables animaux cruels & farouches,dont la plus part ſe trouue és deſerts d'Égypte : & és iſles loingtai- nes:entre leſquels fut grand merueille que la licorne ne fut point amenée auec les autres animaux. quand gordian voulut triompher de : perſes,la licorne n'y eſtoit,& ne precedoit tous les autres animaux à cauſe de ſa rareté,ſi elle ſe trouue comme l'on dit,en ces coſtez-là. qui me fait croire que la licorne ſe trouue bien rarement.et ſemble, à voir cette varieté d'opinions entre les autheurs qui en ont eſcrit,attendu auſſi les promeſſes exceſſiues & incroyables(comme a eſté dit)d'aelian,& autres, que ce ſoit vne choſe fabuleu- ſe.cétargument auſſi pris des triomphes des empereurs ſeroit par moy mal conduit, & ne conclurroit pas s'il n'eſtoit approuué,comme ie fais apres au .chap.de ce traicté par l'authorité de pauſanias,que monoce- ros & rhinoceros ſont diuers animaux. parquoy ce ſeroit alleguer faux contre moy qu'il y euſt des licor- nes en ces triomphes,pource qu'on y veit des rhinoceros,qui ſont autres animaux que la licorne.veu que le rhinoceros a deux cornes,l'vne au nez, & l'autre ſur le dos , au dire de pauſanias : & la licorne n'en a qu'vne, comme monſtre le nom monoceros. / c h a p t r e l. v c vn s ſont d'opinion, que la corne que l'on monſtre pour corne de licorne,eſt vne dent de rohart, qui eſt vn poiſſon de mer. autres diſent que l'on ne peut iamais prendre viue # la licorne. d'autres diſent en auoir veu vne troupe comme l'on void icy les moutons.par- tant ces choſes conſiderées, le lecteur en croira ce qu'il voudra. et quant à moy, ie croy - que la licorne n'a encores eſté deſcouuerte, ou pour le moins bien rarement, & que ce n'eſt qu'vne impoſture de vendre tant de cornes de licorne, que l'on fait à croire, comme l'on en peut tirer de grandes soniectures de ce que ie diray cy-apres. aeneas siluius picolomini, quia eſté depuis pape pie ſecond,en ſoaliure de l'aſie,chapitre dixieſme,eſcrit de l'authorité d'vn nicolas venetien , que vers la # d'aſie b \des venins. ii : a d'afie, en vne prouince nommée marcino entre les montagnes de l'indie, & de catay, il ſe trouue vn ani- mal , qui a la teſte comme vn porc , la queuë comme vn beuf, de couleur & grandeur d'vn elephant, auec lequel il a vne perpetuelle inimitié , portant vne ſeule corne au front, d'vne coudée de long, laquelle eſt fort prisée en ces regions là , pour eſtre ( comme ils diſent ) bonne contre tous venins. marc paul veni- tien en teſmoigne de meſme, lequel a demeuré long-temps au ſeruice du grand cham de tartarie, où il a faict pluſieurs voyages loingtains en indie : & entre les autres choſes dignes de memoire , il a eſcrit qu'au royaume de baſine, où les gens ſont du tout barbares & brutaux, la licorne ſe trouue , qui eſt vne beſte ſans proportion, peu moindre qu'vn elephant , ayant la teſte ſemblable à vn pourceau, & fi peſante que touſiours la tient baſſe , & courbée. elle ayme à demeurer à la † , ayant vne ſeule corne au milieu du front, de couleur noire , & longue de deux coudées. aloyſius cadamuſtus en ſa nauigation chap. . dit qu'en vne certaine region des terres neufues l'on trouue des licornes, que l'on prend viues. louys de berthame , eſpagnol, en ſon voyage d'aethiopie, & mer rouge , eſcrit auoir veu en la mecque, cité prin- cipale de l'arabie, dedans le serrail du roy, deux licornes, l'vne ſemblable à vn cheual de trente mois, & l'autre à vn poulain d'vn an, ayant chacune vne corne au front, l'vne de trois braſsées de long,& l'autre de deux ayant, la couleur d'vn cheual bay, la teſte de cerf, le col court, peu de crins, les jambes menues, l'ongle fenduë comme vne chévre. pline dit que la corne de licorne eſt noire, ſolide, & non creuſe par le dedans. solinus & certains autres autheurs la deſcriuent de couleur de pourpre, & non noire. or pour le deſir que i'ay toufiours eu de ſçauoir la verité touchant ce que l'on pourroit ſouhaitter de la licorne, ſçachant que louys paradis chirurgien natif de vitri en partois, à preſent demeurant en cette ville de pa- ris, auoit long temps voyagé, ie le priay me dire s'il n'auoit point veu de licornes. il me dit qu'il en auoit veu vne en alexandrie d'egypte, & vn elephant au logis du gouuerneur de la ville, que le preſtre- iean enuoyoit au grand seigneur, de grandeur d'vn grand lévrier d'attache, non ſi greſle par le corps. son poil eſtoit de couleur de caſtor, fort lisé, le col greſle, petites oreilles, vne corne entre les deux oreilles fort liſsée, de couleur obſcure bazanée, de longueur d'vn pied de roy ſeulement, la teſte courte & ſeiche, le muffle rond, qu'aſi ſemblable à celuy d'vn veau , les yeux aſſez grands, ayant vn regard fort farouche, les jambes ſeiches , les pieds fendus comme vne biche , la queue ronde & courte comme celle d'vn cerf. elle eſtoit toute d'vne meſme couleur, fors vn pied de deuant, qui eſtoit de couleur jaune. son manger eſtoit de lentilles, pois , féves, mais principalement de cannes de ſuccre. ce fut au mois d'auril mil cinq- cens ſoixante & treize. il s'enquit par vn truchement de ceux qui auoient amené ladite licorne, s'il y auoit beaucoup de pareils animaux en cette prouince. on luy fit reſponſe qu'oüy, & que c'eſtoit vn ani- mal fort furieux , & tres difficile à prendre, principalement lors qu'il eſt en rut , & que les habitans du pais le craignent plus que nul autre animal feroce. ledit paradis affirme, qu'ils luy monſtrerent vn frag- ment de corne de licorne, qui eſtoit comme de couleur du dedans d'vne piece de rheubarbe fraiſchement rompuë. albert eſcrit auoir veu vne corne de licorne, & meſme maniée de ſa main propre, large en ſa baſe d'vne palme & demie , & en diametre large de dix pieds ſans aucune raye, & au demeurant ſemblable à vne corne de cerf et par la proportion de cette longueur & groſſeur ſi nous conſiderons la grandeur de la teſte qui doit produire & ſouſtenir vne ſi demeſurée corne,& venans par là à coniecturer quel doit eſtre tout le corps, nous ſerons contrains de confeſſer, que cét animal doit eſtre auſſi grand qu'vngrand nauire, & non comme vn elephant. quant à moy ie croy que cette corne doit eſtre quelque corne, os, ou areſte de quelque monſtre marin merueilleuſement grand. munſter, lequel (comme dit matthiole ) n'a iamais veu de licornes qu'en peinture, dit, icelles eſtre ſemblables à vn cheual, mais à vn poulain de trois mois, ayant les pieds non ſemblables à ceux d'vn elephant mais fendus comme ceux d'vne chévre : au reſte por- tant vne corne eſleuée au front, noire & longue de deux ou trois coudées. quant à la beſte, elle eſt de couleur d'vne belette, ayant la teſte comme vn cerf, le col non pas fort long , & garny de peu de crins, pendant ſeulement d'vn coſté , les jambes greſles & minces, les cuiſſes heronnieres , fort couuertes de poil. toutesfois cardan , contrediſant à tous deux , dit, cette beſte porter au milieu du front vne corne longue non de deux ou trois coudées, mais de deux ou trôis doigts ſeulement. andré theuet en ſa coſ- mographie, de l'authorité & recit d'vn sangiac , seigneur turc, fait mention d'vne licorne veuë par ledit seigneur, grande comme vn taureau de cinq ou ſix mois, portant vne ſeule corne droit au ſommet de la teſte, & non au front, ainſi que l'on dit des autres , ayant les pieds & jambes peu differentes des aſnes de noſtre europe, mais le poil long, & les oreilles ſemblables à celles d'vn rangifere. garcias ab horto, medecin fort celebre du viceroy d'indie, dit qu'au promontoire du cap de bonne eſperance , l'on a veu vn animal terreſtre , lequelauſſi ſe plaiſoit d'eſtre dedans la mer , ayant la teſte & la perruque d'vn cheual, & vne corne longue de deux palmes , qui eſt mobile, laquelle il tourne à ſon plaiſir, tantoſtà dextre tantoſt à ſeneſtre, en haut & en bas. cét animal , dit-il , combat entre les elephans tres cruellement. la corne d'iceluy eſt fort recommandée contre les venins. andré theuet en ſa coſmographie, dit qu'il s'en trouue vne autre en ethiopie , preſque ſemblable, nommée camphur, en l'iſle moluque, qui eſt amphibie,c'eſt à dire viuant en l'eeu & en la terre, comme le grocodile. ceſte beſte eſt de grandeur d'vne biche, ayant vne corne au front, mobile de longueur de trois pieds & demy, de groſſeur comme le bras d'vn homme, plein de poil autour du col, tirant à la couleur griſaſtre. elle a deux pattes comme celles d'vne oye, qui luy ſerûent à nager, & ſes autres deux pieds de deuant comme ceux d'vn cerf ou biche : & vit de poiſſon. il y en a quelques-vns qui ſe ſont perſuadez que c'eſtoit vne eſpece de licorne, & que ſa corne eſt fort ri- che , & excellente contre les venins, la figure de laquelle te ſera icy repreſentée. vv figure. marc paul venitien. licorne ayit la teſte ſem- blable à vn pourceau. . lisornes pri- ſes viues. deux licora mes veaès en la mecque dedans le serrail du roy. opinion de pline_, louys paraà dis chirur- gien. corne de li- . rorne veue par albert. opinion de l'autheur. opinion de . munſter. opinion de cardan. andré the- f f. garcias ab herto, camphar. crocodile. jdeſcription du cams phur. i . le vingt-vniéme liure, - º - • · : . idatz ga, orateur de soliman. philoſtrate, liu. .chºp.l- apolloniut. tyan effm. reſponcefort ſubtile-. • t)iſcord des autheurs. louys de , barthame . figure du camphur, animal amphibie. e- a vnn -$ # t \ º♂ \ \ww\ - wr,- º \w \ \ \n vw \ º « à$\nn\n n à$n or il y a pluſieurs autres animaux'marins qui n'ont qu'vne ſeule corne, & beaucoup d'autres animaux terreſtres : car on a veu des cheuaux, chévres, & daims, pareillement des taureaux, vaches & aſnes,auoir vneſeu le corne. parquoy monoceros ou vnicorne, eſt vn nom qui conuient à tout animal qui n'a qu'v- ne ſeule corne or conſiderant la varieté des eſcriuains , & des cornes qui ſont toutes differentes les vnes des autres , l'ont peut croire veritablement qu'elles ſont de diuerſes beſtes engendrées en la mer, & en di- uei ſes contrées de la terre. et pour la renommée des vertus qu'on attribne à la licorne, chacune nation ſe plaiſt a luy donner le nom de licorne. c h a p t r e l i. d a t z a g a, orateur de soliman, atteſte auoir veu en l'arrabie deſerte, des licornes # courantes ça & là à grands troupeaux quant à moy,ie croy que c'eſtoient pluſtoſt des daims, sn (| $ # oll chévres de ce pais là, & non des licornes. philoſtrate en la vie d'apollonius tyaneus, ,© . # chap. .liu. . dit, qu'aux mareſts voiſins du fleuue phaſis ſe trouuent des aſnes ſauuages, º px ^ º portant vne corne ati front, auec laquelle ils combattent furieuſement comme taureaux: de laquelle corne les indiens font des taſſes qui guarentiſſent l'homme de toutes ſortes de maladies le iour qu'il y a beu , & s'il eſt bleſsé ce iour là, il ne ſent aucune douleur. dauantage, il peut paſſer par le tra- uers d'vn feu ſans ſe bruſler nullement meſme il n'y a venin ny poiſon beu, ou autrement pris , qui luy ·puiſſe nuire : & que pour cette cauſe il n'y a que les rois qui boiuent dans leſdites taſſes : de faict que la chaſſe deſdits aſnes n'eſt permiſe qu'aux roys du pais : de ſorte que l'on dit, qu'appollonius philoſophe graue, regarda curieuſement ceſte beſte ſauuage , & auec grande admiration conſidera ſa nature. quoy voyant damis, luy demanda s'il croyoit ce qu'on diſoit de la vertu deſdites taſſes : ie le croiray , dit il, quand i'entenderay que le roy de ce pais ſera immortel reſponſe que ie delibere d'oreſnauant faire à tous ceux qui me demanderont, ſi ie croy ce que l'on dit des vertus de la corne de licorne. - - c h a p t r e l i i. o n d r e n'eſt la contrarieté des autheurstouchant le naturel de ladite licorne. car pline au lieu cy-deſſus allegué,la dit eſtre la plus furieuſe de toutes les beſtes : meſmes qu'elle hur- # le fort hideuſement, & que iamais on ne la prend viue. cardan la dit pareillement eſtre fort cruelle,comme naiſſant és lieux deſerts d'ethiopie en terre orde,& entre les crapaux & beſtes º venimeuſes geſnerus dit, que le roy d'ethiopie en l'epiſtre hebraïque qu'ila eſcrite au pon- tife de rome dit , que le lion craint infiniment la licorne , & que quand il la void, il ſe retire vers quelque gros arbre , & ſe cache derriere ledit arbre. lors la licorne le voulant frapper , fiche ſa corne bien auant dans l'arbre & demeure là priſe, & lors le lion la tué : toutesfois il aduient aucunesfois autre- ment. autres au contraire la diſent fort douce, benigne, & d'vne mignotiſe la plus grande du monde,pour- ueu que l'on ne l'offenſe point. louys de barthame en ſes nauigations cy-deſſus alleguées, eſt de cette opt- i] » c d des venins. i # - des elephants ſe peuuent amollir & cſtendre comme les cornes debœuf. a nion, niant les licornes eſtre cruelles, comme en ayant veu deux enuoyées d'ethiopieau soudan,qui les fai- ſoit nourrir en la mecque, ville de l'arrabie heureuſe (où eſt le ſepulchre de mahomet) enfermées en cer- tains treillis, qui n'eſtoient nullement farouches. thenet dit auoir voyagé en ces regions là, & s'eſtre en- quis diligemment des habitans, n'auoir toutesfois iamais ſceu rencontrer homme qui cn euſt veu, ou qui cuſt peu rapporter quelque certitude de la figure & nature de cette beſte. thodit auoir veu & manié à rome, au magaſin du threſordes papes, vne corne de licorne, qui eſtoit luiſante & polie comme ynoire, & qu'il fut fort eſmerueillé de la voir ſi petite : ſe prenant à rire , d'autant qu'elle n'auoit à grand peine que deux palmes de longueur, on luy dit que par le trop grand & frequent vſage de l'auºir maniée elle eſtoit deuenue ainſi petite. il y en a auſſi vne qui eſt gardëe par grande ſin- gularité dans le chœur dugrand temple de straſbourg laquelle eſt de longueur de ſept pieds & demy,enco- re qu'on en a coupé furtiuement le bout de la pointe, laquelle ſans cela, §roit encore plus longue. elle eſt par le bas de la groſſeur d'vn bras,& va entortillant comme vn cierge qui eſt tords,&s'eſtend §rs la poin- teen forme de pyramyde , eſtant de couleur noiraſtre par dehors, comme vn blanc ſaly pour auoir eſté ma- nié, & par dedans elle eſt blanche comme yuoire , ayant vn trou au milieu comme pour mettre le petit doigt, qui va toyt au long les cornes qui ſe monſtrent aux feſtes ſolemnelles publiquement à veniſe au temple de ſainct marc, different de cette là en grandeur,couleur & figure,tellement qu'il n'ya nulle con- formité entre-elles pareillement en l'eglife de sainct denys en france il y a, à ce qu'ondit, vne corne de licorne qui en groſſeur , longueur & figure, ſe rapporte aucunement à ceile de strasbourg. or ſi leſdites cornes ne ſont de vrayes licornes , de quelles beſtes ſont-elles dira quelqu'vn. theuet a opinion , que telles cornes ne ſont que dents d'elephants, ainſi crenelées & miſes en œuure : car ainſi dit-il,les deſniai- ſeurs qui ſe trouuent en leuant,vendent les roüelles des dents de rohart,pour cornes de licornes,les creu- ſent & alongent à leur aife. et à la verité cette corne de licorne eſtant bruſlée, rend & reſpire ſemblable odeur que l'yuoire. et afin que cette façon de contrefaire ne ſemble impoſſible ; cardan dit que les dents ". % # % % | // % % | louys paradis, chirurgien natif de vitry en partois, duquel i'ay faict mention cy deuant, dit auoir veu otho. la corne de licorne gar- dée à straſ- bourg. les cornes de licorne que l'on monſtre à veniſe. demande. reſponſe dent de ro- h art. les dents des elephans ſe peuuent a- molir ér eſtendre. en alexandrie d'egypte deux aiguilles.appellées les aiguilles de ceſar,hautes &grandes à merueilles,neant- # de moins chacune toute d'vne piece : & tient-on pour vray qu'elles ſont de pierres fondnës. hors ladite ville "?* | enuiron huict-cens pas, il y a vne colomne, qui s'appelle la colomne de pompée de merueilleuſe groſſeur - - : -- - les ti & hauteur, tellement que c'eſt tout ce que peut faire le plus fort homme, de ietter vne pierre ſur le ſom- # met d'icelle.la groſſeur eſt telle,que cinq hommes ayans les bras eſtendus ne la pouroient entourer:neant- - - - - - - - - - /'º, moins on dit qu'elle eſt d'vne piece, & de diuerſes couleurs de pierres, comme noire,griſe,blanche, incar- nate,& dit-on qu'elle eſt auſſi de pierres fonduës, que fi ainfi eſt, que de telle matiere on ait peu conſtruire leſdites aiguilles, & colomne, qui empeſchera que l'on ne puiſſe contrefaire les cornes de licornes ? ch a r t r e l iii. a v s a n a s eſcrit, que le rhinoceros a deux cornes, & non vne ſeule : l'vne ſur le nez,aſ- #? petite, mais fortaiguë. parcela apparoit que ce ne peut eſtre la licorne, laquelle n'en doit ros. * auoir qu'vne,comme teſtifie ſon nom monoceros. on dit qu'il reſſemble à l'elephant & quaſi ſtature , ſinon qu'il a les jambes plus courtes , & les ongles des pieds fendues , la teſte comme vn pourceau,le corps armé d'vn cuir eſcaillé & tres-dur, comme celuy du crocodille, reſſemblant aux bºr- fºur des d'vn cheual guerrier. feſtus dit, que quelques-vns penſent que ce ſoit vn bœuf ſauuage d # - / / / ſez grande,de couleur noire & de groſſeur & longueur decelle d'vn buffle,non toutesfois creu. deſcription ſe dedans,ny tortuë,mais toute ſolide,& fort peſante:l'autre luy ſort en haut de l'eſpaule,aſſez du rhinere- le vingt-vniéme liure, figure du rhinoceros armé de toutes pieces. du bartas en la sep- maine . $ $ to ! q#$ # x# # s$ $? #>$# ! # $ # c h a p t r e l i i i i. n d r e" baccy dit, qu'il y a des medecins portugais,qui ont demeuré long-temps és terres neufues pour rechercher les choſes rares & precieuſes, leſquels afferment qu'ils n'ont iamais peu deſcouurir de la licorne,ſinon que les gens du pais diſent que c'eſt ſeulemét vne corne de rhinoceros,& qu'elle eſt tenuë au lieu de licorne,& côme preſeruatif côtre tous venins.tou- - tesfois pline eſcrit particulieremét en ſon l. .ch. o.que le rhinoceros eſt vne eſpece d'animal cruel, different de la licorne, & dit que du temps de pompée le grand il fut veu vn rhinoceros,qui auoit vne corne ſur le nez.or le rhinoceros eſtant merueilleuſement ennemy de l'elephât,il aiguiſe ſa corne con- tre vn rocher,& ſe met en bataille contre luy valeureuſement,comme vn taureau,& demeure vainqueur, & tué l'elephant : duquel combat saluſte du bartas en ſon . iour de la sepmaine faict mention par ces vers: mais cét eſprit ſubtil , ny cét enorme corps de ſon armé muſeau le dangereux eſtoc : ne le peut guarentir des cauteleux efforts puis venant au combat, ne tire à l'aduanture, du fin rhinoceros, qui n'entre one en bataille, a rsideur de ſes coups ſur ſa curaſſe dure : conduit d'aueugle rage,ains pluſîoſt qu'il aſſaille jainr choiſit,prouident,ſous le ventre vne peau, l'aduerſaire elepbant , aſſile contre vn roc sgi ſeule craint le fil de l'eſguisé couſteau. figure du combat du rhinoceros contre l'elephant. - - --— ===%e% - s$ nn % , - ' l % / l ſtſº (# \ l | † | ll !, # " | ssn nn al / $ n " % / } \ ! | l' | | '! # s$ \$ ,/ ºº # # # % § a | † #% #)$ # "- \ # # $ | $ - n ) \! § | º n§ i| + %e | $ à a)es venins, i t- - -- - - c h a p t r e l v. l ſe trouue és indes pluſieurs ſortes d'animaux, ayans vne ſeule corne , comme vaches & tau- reaux , cheuaux, aſnes, chévres, daims, monoceros : autres ayans deux cornes , & plus. et il y a plu- pour la renommée des vertus que l'on attribuë à la licorne , il eſt vray ſemblable, que chacu-ſieurs beſtes l ne nation ſe plaiſt à luy donner le non de licorne, comme auons dit cy deſſus. theuet tome. . és indes qui liu. . chap. . dit, qu'en la floride ſe trouue des grands taureaux, que les sauuages appellent butrol, º'º *'vne qui ont les cornes longues ſeulement d'vn pied , ayant ſur le dos vne tumeur, ou boſſe comme d'vn cha- ſººººrnº meau le poil long par deſſus le dos, de couleur fauue, la queue comme celle d'vn lion.cét animal eſt des butrol. plus farouches qu'on ſçache trouuer, à cauſe dequoy iamais ne ſe laiſſe appriuoiſer, s'il n'eſt deſrobé & rauy petit à ſa mere. les sauuages ſe ſeruent de leur peau contre le froid : & ſont ſes cornes fort eſtimées, cornes d'i. . pour la proprieté qu'elles ont contre le venin : & partant les barbares en gardent à fin d'obuier aux poiſons celuy contr* & vermines qu'ils rencontrent allans par pays. les poiſons. - ---- · figure du taureau de la floride_.. - : c h a p t r e lvi - . — - sn # n l'arabie pres la mer rouge, il ſe trouue vne autre beſte, que les ſauuages appellent ; pi- deſcription sn º#, raſſoipi, grande comme vn mulet , & ſa teſte quaſi ſemblable, tout ſon corps velu en forme du piraſſoipi p$)， dvn ours ,vn peu plus coloré, tirant ſur le fauueau,ayant les pieds fendus comme vn ceyf, , À cétanimaladeux cornes à la teſte fort longues, ſans rameures , haut eſleuées, qhi appro* les cornes - $º chent des licornes, deſquelles fe ſeruent les ſauuages, lors qui ſont bleſſez ou mo§ des # # beſtes portant venin,les mettans dedans l'eau par l'eſpace de ſix ou ſept heures, puis apres font boire la- ſeruant # dite eau au patient. et voicy le pourtraict tiré du cinquiéme liure de la coſmographie d'andré theuet. tre les ve- les ſauuages l'aſſomment , quand ils la peuuent attrapper , puis l'eſcorchent & la mangent. | nins, - ' ! " - - -- - - - j = - j- v-• v gt-v l eiiie l alulic lnfin# maj• purel mer. ueilleux. induſtrie des mari- niers. dents de l'elephant de mer. •. figure du piraſſoipi, eſpece de licorne . - m ， - - c h a p t r e l v i i. e c t o r boetius au liure qu'ila eſcrit de la deſcription d'eſcoſſe, dit que l'animal, duquel c cy-apres ſuit l'effigie, ſe nomme elephant de mer,& eſt plus gros qu'vn elephant,lequelha- bite en l'eau & en la terre, ayant deux dents ſemblables à celle d'vn elephant, par leſquelles lors qu'il veut prendre ſon ſommeil,il s'attache & pend aux rochers,& dort ſi profondement • t v , t. que les mariniers l'apperceuans, ont le loiſir de prendre terre, & de le lier auec des groſſes coides en pluſieurs endroits. puis meinent vn grand bruit, & luy iettent des pierres pour le reſueiller : & lors taſche à ſe ietter comme de couſtume auec grande impetuoſité en la mer. mais ſe voyant pris ſe rend tellement paiſible, que l'on n'en peut failement ioüyr : ils l'aſſomment & en tirent la graiſſe , puis l'eſcor- chent pour en faire des corroyes : leſquelles, parce qu'elles ſont fortes, & ne pourriſſent, ſont fort eſti- mées, encores plus ſes dents, que par artifice ils dreſſent & creuſent, & les vendent pour corne de licor° ne , comme on fait celles du rohart & de l elephant. - figure d'vn elephant de mer. ch a p. m. jes venins. - -- * " - | l a --.-v-"" —i - c h a p t r e lv i i i. - , , - - § l ſe voit au goulfre d'arabie vn poiſſon nommé caſpilly, armé d'aiguillons, dont il en a vn n $) ſ$% au milieu du front comme vne corne,long de quatre pieds, fort aigu. iceluyvoyant venir la !ºſ#º baleine, ſe cache ſous les ondes, & choiſit l'endroit plus aisé à bleſſer, qui eſt le nombril; # # y. & la frappant il la met en telle neceſſité, que le plus ſouuent elle meurt de telle bleſſeure #*** & ſe ſentant touchée au vif, commence à faire vn grand bruit, ſe tourmentant , & battant les ondes, eſcumant comme vn verrat, & va d'vne ſi tres-grande fureur & roideur, ſe lentant pres des abois de lamort, qu'elle culbute & renuerſe les nauires qu'elle rencontre , & fait tel naufrage, qu'elle les enſeuelit au profond de la mer. ledit poiſſon eſt merueilleuſement grand & fort, & lors que les arabes le veulent prendre, ils font comme au crocodile, ſçauoir eſt auec vne longue & forte corde , au bout il eſt pris d, de laquelle ils attachent vne piece de chair de chameau, ou autre beſte : lors que ce poiſſon aperçoit la tel artifiee proye, il ne faut à ſe ietter deſſus, & l'engloutir., or eſtant l'hameçon auallé, & ſe ſentant picqué, il y a º.º crº- plaiſir àluy voir faire des ſaults en l'air & dedans l'eau : puis eſtans las, les arabes le tirent à coups de º fieſches, & luy donnent tant de coups de leuier,qu'ils l'aſſomment : puis le mangent, & gardent ſa plus giande corne, pour en vſer contre les venins , ainſi que les autres font des çornes de licornes. figure du poiſſon nommé caſpily - -- - c h a p t r e l ix & n d r e"theuet en ſa coſmographie, dit, que courant fortune en l'occean és coſtes d'a-deſcription # frique,viſitant la guinée & l'anopie,il a veule poiſſon cy-apres repreſenté ayant vne corne du #ºiſſº , % ſur le front en maniere d'vne ſcie, longue de trois pieds & demy, & large de quatre doigts, ººº ºº ayant ſes pointes de deux coſtez fort aiguës. il ſe combat furieuſement de cette corne. tif n# ceux de la guinée l'appellent en leur iargon vletif defunct monſieur le coq, auditeur en curioſité de la chambre des comptes à paris,me donna vne corne dudit poiſſon,qu'il gardoit en ſon ca- l' ur. binet bien cherement : lequel ſçachant que i'eſtois curieux de rechercher les choſes rares & monſtrueuſes, deſcription defira qu'elle fuſt miſe en mon cabinet, auec mes autres raretez. laqite corne eſt longue de trois pieds & de la corne demy, peſant cinq liures ou enuironr,ayant cinquante & vne dent, aiguës & trenchantes, longues du tra- dudit vletif. uers d'vn poulce & demy, eſtans icelles dents vingt cinq d'vn coſté, & vingt fix de l'autre. cette corne en ſon commencement eſt large d'vn demy-pied, ou enuiron, allant touſiours en diminuant iuſqu'à ſon extre ririfeſti- mité, où elle eſt obtuſe, ou mouſſeuſe, eſtant platte & non ronde, comme les autres cornes, le deſſus eſt # . de couleur comme d'vne sole & le deſſous aucunement blanc & fort poreux. il s'en trouue d'autre moin- § dres & plus petites, ſelon l'aage du poiſſon. pluſieurs eſtiment ledit animal eſtre vne licorne marine, & marine er- s'en ſeruent contre les morſures & picqueures de beſtes venimeuſes, comme l'on fait de la corne de licor- rearpopulai«. ne. le populaire l'eſtime eſtre vne langue de serpent , qui eſt choſe fauce. - - | re-'. q> x x · figure • - - i le v ingl-v ueiiue liure , poiſſon reſ- ſemblant par la teſte au porc ſan- glier. erreurpopu- laire . d'où vient la repata- rion de ls licorne . auariee, figure du poiſſon nommévletif, eſpece de licorve de mer c h a p t r e , l x. # e s n e r v s dit, qu'en la mer oceane naiſt vn poiſſon, ayant la teſte d'vn porc ſanglier, lequel eſt - de merueilleuſe grandeur, couuert d'eſcailles, miſes par grand ordre de nature , ayant les dents ca- nines fort longues , trenchantes & aiguës, ſemblables à cellesd'vn grand porc ſanglier » leſquelles on eſtime eſtre bonnes contre les venins, comme la licorne. / figure dupoiſſon ayant la teſte d'vn porcſanglier ainſi voit-on comme chacune nationpenſe auoir la licorne, luy donnant pluſieurs vertus, propriº ººº excellentes mais ie crois qu'il y a plus de menſonge que de verité.or qui a eſté cauſe de la:epº . #ºº de la licorne, ç'a eſté ceſte proprieté oculte,que l'on luy a atribué de preſeruer de peſte & de tºº ſortes de venins.tellement que quelques-vns voyans que l'on en faiſoit ſi grand cas,pouſſez d'auariº ont ººººnt certains fragmens de quelques cornes, diſans, & aſſeurans que c'eſtoit de la vraye licorne ; cºuſe de l'im tºutesfois le plus ſouuent ee n'eſt autre choſe que quelque pieces d'yuoire, corne, ou dent de quelqº be- pºſture des ſte marine , ou pierre fondue, parl . auiourd'huy à tous lesapothicaires de la france il n'y a celuy ºº § - - voll c. d $ a_a \ \> v w.-jl ll l ©. - ) a vous die & affeure auow àe  licorne, & de la vraye, & quelquesfois en aſſez bonne quantité. or com- b ment ſe pourroit-il faire veu que pluſpart des eſcriuains diſent , que le naturel de la licorne eſt de de-marchaxd, meurer aux deſerts,& és lieux inacceſſibles, & s'eſloigner ſi fort des lieux frequentez, que c'eſt quaſi vne de licornl, choſe miraculeuſe d'en trouuer quelquesfois vne corne , qui peut auoir eſté apportée par les inondations difficultf des eaux, iuſqu'aux riuages de la mer , & ce quand l'animal eſt mort ? qui eſt toutesfois vne choſe encore rrande de douteuſe : car la peſanteur de la corne la feroit pluſtoſt aller au fond. mais c'eſt tout vn, poſons qu'il s'en ºº trouue quelquesfois vne,comment ſeroit-il poſſible que ces trompeurs en fuſſent tous fi bien fournis ace- # de la cognoiſt-on qu'il y a bien de l'impoſture. et certes n'eſtoit l'authorité de l eſcriture saincte, à laquelle #- nous ſommes tenus d'adiouſter foy, ie ne croyrois pas qu'il fuſt des licornes , mais quand i'oy dauid au § i - pfalme .verſet .qui dit,deliure-moy seigneur,de la gueule du lyon , & deliure mon humilité des cor- ſter foy à nes des licornes:lors ie ſuis contraint de le croire. pareillement eſaye chap. parlant de l'ire de dieu l'eſcriture contie ſes ennemis,& perſecuteur de ſon peuple,dit.et les licornes deſcendront auec eux, & les taureaux sainae . auec les puiſſans.i'alleguerois à ce propos vne infinité de paſſages de l'eſcriture saincte, comme le chapi- tre vingt-huictieſme du deuteronome,le trente-neufiéme chapitre verſ. .& .de iob,les pſalmes de da- uid, . . o.& pluſieurs autres,fi ie ne craignois d'attedier le lecteur. il faut donc croire qu'il eſt des li- cornes,mais elles n'ont pas les vertus qu'on leur attribuë. -/ - c h a p t r e l xi. e l a donc ſupposé , ſçauoir eſt qu'il ſe trouue quantité de cornes de licornes, & que chacun queſtià toa- en ait, ſçauoir ſi elles ont telles vertus & efficaces contre les venins & poiſons qu'on leur attri- chant les bue ? ie dis que non. ce que ie prouueray par experience, authorité & raiſon. et pour com- vertus pre- mencer à l'experience, ie puis aſſeurer, apres l'auoir eſprouué pluſieurs fois, n'auoir iamais co-tenduès de gneu aucun effect en la corne pretendue de licorne. pluſieurs tiennent, que ſi on la fait tremper en l'eau, la licorne-. & que de cette eau on face vn cercle ſur vne table,puis que l'on mette dedans ledit cercle vn ſcorpion,ou reſponſe . araignée,ou vn crapaut, que ces beſtes meurent, & qu'elles ne paſſent aucunement par deſſus le cercle, voyre que le crapaut ſe creue. ie l'ay experimenté,& trouuay cela eſtre faux & menſonger:car leſdits ani- iil llx paſſoient & repaſſoient hors du circuit du cercle,& ne mouroient point. meſmement ne me conten- experiencé tant pas d'auoir mis vn crapaut dedans le circuit de l'eau, où la licorne auoit trempé, par deſſus lequel il trouuée * paſſoit & repaſſoit : ie le mis tremper en vn vaiſſeau plein d'eau,où la corne de licorne auoit trempe, & le fauge . laiſſay en ladite eau par l'eſpace de trois iours,au bout deſquels le crapaut eſtoit auſſi gaillard que lors que ie l'y mis. quelqu'vn me dira,que poſſible la corne n'eſtoit pas de vraye licorne.a quoy ie reſpons que obieäie». celle de ſainct denys en france, celle du roy, que l'on tient en grand eſtime, & celles des marchands de reſponſe . paris,qu'ils vendent à grand prix,ne ſont donc pas vrayes cornes de licornes : car ;'a eſté de celles-là que i'ay fait eſpreuue.et ſi on me veut croire, que l'on vienne à l'eſſay comme moy, & on cognoiſtra la verité contre le menſonge. autres tiennent que la vraye licorne eſtant miſe en l'eau ſe prend à boüillonner, fai- autre expe- ſant eſleuer petites bulles d'eau comme perles. ie dis que cela ſe fait auſſi bieh auec cornes de bœuf, de rience. chévres,de mouton,ou autres animaux,auec dents d'elephant,teſtes de pots,tuilles,bois,bol armene, & ter- re ſigillée:& pour le dire en vn mot,auec tous autres corps poreux car l'air qui eſt enclos en iceux, ſort par les poroſitez,pour donner place à l'eau : qui cauſe le boüillonnement ; & les petites bubes qu'on void eſleuer en l'eau. autres diſent que ſi on en faiſoit aualler à vn pigeon ou poulet , qui euſt pris de l'arſenic, ſublimé,ou autre venin,qu'il n'en ſentiroit aucun mal. cela eſt pareillement faux, comme l'experience en fera foy. autres diſent,que l'eau,en laquelle aura trempé ladite corne,eſteint le feu volage, appellé herpes - miliaris. ie dis que ce n'eſt pas la vertu de la corne , mais la ſeule vertu de l'eau, qui eſt froide & humide, - contraire au mal,qui eſt chaud & ſec. ce qui ſe trouuera par effect, en y appliquant de la ſeule eau froide - ſans autre choſe. et pour prouuer mon dire, il y a vne honneſte dame, marchande de cornes de licornes hiſtoiregen- en cette ville,demeurant ſur le pont au change,qui en a bonne quantité de groſſes & de menue, de ieunes tille & bien & de vieilles. elle en tient touſiours vn aſſez gros morceau,attaché à vne chaiſne d'argent, qui t, empe or- a propos» dinairement dans vne aiguiere pleine d'eau, de laquelle elle donne aſſez volontiers à tous ceux qui luy en demandent. or n'agueres vne pauure femme luy demanda de ſon eau de licorne : aduint qu'elle l'auoit toute diſtribuée,& ne voulant renuoyer cette pauure femme, laquelle à iointes mains la prioit de luy en donner pour eſteindre le feuvolage qu'auoit vn ſien petit enfant , qui occupoit tout ſon viſage : en lieu de . l'eau de licorne,elle luy donna de l'eau de riuiere en laquelle nullement n'auoit trempé la corne de licor- * ne. et neantmoins ladite eau de riuiere ne laiſſa pas de guarir l'enfant. quoy voyant cette pauure femme, , -- dix ou douze iours apres vient remercier madame la marchande de ſon eau de licorne , luy diſant que ſon eau # # enfant eſtoit du tout guary. ainſi voilà comme l'eau de riuiere fut auſſi bonne que l'eau de ſa licorne : & uitre # toutesfois elle vend ladite corne pretenduède licorne,beaucoup plus chere que l'or , comme on peut voir #" par la ſupputation.car à vendre le grain d'or fin onze deniers pite, la liure ne vaut que ſept vingts huict §bien eſcus ſol : & la liure de corne de licorne contenant ſeize onces,contient neufmille deux cens ſeize grain : la licorne ſe & la liure à dix ſols le grain,la ſomme ſe monte à quatre vingts douze mille cent ſoixante ſols , qui ſont vend plus quatre mil ſix cens huict liures,& en eſcus,mil cinq cens trente ſix eſcus ſol. et me ſemble, qu'à ce prix la cher que l'or. autre. antre. d bonne femme ne vend pas moins ſa licorne, que fit vn certain marchand tudeſque , lequel en vendit vne hiſtoired'vn piece au pape iules troiſiéme,douze mille eſcus,comme recite andré baccy, medecin de florence , en ſon tudeſque liure de la nature de la licorne mais laiſſons ces bons marchands , reuenons à l'experience. on dit da- %" vendit uantage que la corne de licorne ſué en preſence du venin. mais cela eſt impoſſible, parce que c'eſt vn effect de la #- procedant de la vertu expultrice. or ladite corne eſt priuée de telle vertu. et ſi on l'a veue ſuer, cela a eſté # pape , par accident,veu que toutes choſes polies,comme le verre,les miroirs,le marbre, pour quelque peu d'hu- #.. •- midité qu'ils reçoiuent,meſme de l'air exceſſiuement froid & humide, ou chaud & humide, apparoiſſent rience. p ſuer:mais ce n'eſt vraye ſueur. car la ſueur eſt vn effect d'vne choſe viuante. or la corne de licorne n'eſt point vne choſe viuante,mais pour eſtre polie & freſche,elle reçoit vn terniſſement de l'air froid & humi- de,qui la fait ſuer autres diſent,que la mettant pres le feu, elle rend vne odeur de muſc : auſſi que l'eau où autre expe- # lli †rs deuiendra laictueuſe & blancheaſtre.telles choſes ne ſe voyent point,comme l'experien-riºnº . cc c liloil tic- xx chapitre | --j-.- -r-jw * v -- v * - * - a-» m. v.-m. v prerue faire par autho- rité. hippocrate. galien. ariſtote_x oryx. chriſtofle l'andré en ſon liure de l'oecotatrie. corne de cerf. rondelet. la corne de licorne m'a mon plus de vertu que la corne de cerf, eu de l'tuoire. dºnt d'ele- phant pour les pauures. reſponſe de monſieur duret tou- chant la li- ' v/?e_'. opinion de monſieur chappelaiw touchant la licorne. couſtumie- ' ent on laiſſait trem- per vn mor- ceau de li- rcrne dans la coupe du roy. x reſpöſe d'v» homme bien aduisé. belle ſimi- litude. hardieſſe de l'autheur, accöpagnée de bonne ^u - lonté. pourquey les medecins or- donnent de à la licorne. ^ c h a p t r e l x l i. va n t à l'authorité,il ſe trouuera la pluſpart des doctes gens & bien experimentez medecins, qui aſſeureront cette corne n'auoir aucune des vertus que l'on luy attribué. s'il faut commencer aux anciens,il eſt certain qu'hippocrate, ny galien, qui toutesfois ſe ſont ſeruis de la corne de - cerf,& de l'yuoire,n'ont iamais parlé de cette corne de licorne,ny meſme ariſtote, lequel ne- antmoins au chap. .du liure .des parties des animaux , parlant de ceux qui n'ont qu'vne corne, fait bien mention de l'aſne indien,& d'vn autre nommé oryx,ſans faire aucune mention de licorne, combisn qu'il parlc en ce lieu des choſes de moindre conſequence. or s'il faut venir aux modernes , chriſtofie l'andré, docteur en medecine, en ſon opuſcule de l'oecoiatrie eſcrit ce que s'enſuit. aucuns medecins font vn grand cas de la corne d'vne beſte,nommée monoceros,que nous appellons vulgairement la licorne, & di- ſent qu'elle guarantit de venin,tant priſe par dedans,qu'appliquée par dehors.ils l'ordonnent contre le poi- ſon,contre la peſte,voire deſia creée au corps de l'homme,& pour le dire en vn mot,ils en font vn alexite- re contre tous venins.toutesfois eſtant curieux de ſi grandes proprietez qu'ils attribuent à ladite corne,ie l'ay bien voulu experimenter en plus de dix,au temps de peſtilence:mais ie n'en trouuay aucun effect loüa- ble,& me repoſerois auſſi toſt ſur la corne de cerfou de chévre,que ſur celle de la licorne. car elles ont. vne vertu d'abſterger & mondifier:partant elles ſont bonnes à reſſerrer les genciues fleſtries & molles.da- uantage,leſdites cornes eſtans bruſlées & données en breuuage, apportent merueilleux confort à ceux qui ſont tourmentez de flux dyſenteriques. les anciens ont laiſsé par eſcrit que la corne de cerfredigée en cendre,eſt vne plus que credible medecine à ceux qui crachent le ſang,& à ceux qui ont coliques,iliaques paſſions,nommée miſerere mei, & comme choſe de grande vertu, la meſlant aux collyres pour faire ſeicher les larmes des yeux. voilà ce que ledit l'andré a eſcrit de la corne de licorne. rondelet dit,que toutes cornes en general n'ont ny ſaueur , ny odeur,ſi on ne les bruſle. parquoy ne peuuent auoir aucune efficace en medecine,ſi ce n'eſt pour deſſeicher. et ne ſuis point ignorant, dit-il,que ceux qui tiennent telles cornes pour leur profit,ne donnent à entendre au peuple , qu'elles ont grandes & ineſtimables vertus,parantipathie de chaſſer les ſerpens & les vers,& de reſiſter aux venins. mais le croy, dit-il,touchant cela,que la corne de licorne n'a point plus grande efficace, ny force plus aſſeurée , que la corne de cerf,ou que l'yuoire : qui eſt cauſe que fort volontiers en mefmes maladies, i'ordonne la dent d'elephant aux pauures,& aux riches celle de licorne,parce qu'ils la deſirent,s'en propoſans heureux ſuc- cez.voilà l'aduis de rondelet, lequel indifferemment en practiquant pour meſmes effects en lieu de la li- corne ordonnoit non ſeulement la corne de cerf ou dent d'elephant,mais auſſi d'autres os. ie me ſuis enquis de monſieur duret, pour la grande aſſeurance que i'auois de ſon haut & tant celebre ſçauoir,quelle opinion il auoit de la corne de licorne: il me reſpondit qu'il ne penſoit icelleauoir aucune vertu contre les venins ce qu'il me confirma par bonne,ample & vallable raiſon, & meſme me dit, qu'il ne doutoit de le publier en ſon auditoire, qui eſt vntheatre d'vne infinité de gens doctes , qui s'y aſſemblent ordinairement pour l'ouyr. - ie veux bien encore aduertir le lecteur, quelle opinion auoit de cette corne de licorne feu monſieur chappelain,premier medecin du roy charles ix.lequel en ſon viuant eſtoit grandement eſtimé entre les c gens doctes.vn iour luy parlant du grand abus qui ſe commettoit en vſant de la corne de licorne,le priay (veu l'authorité qu'il auoit à l'endroit du roy noſtre maiſtre , pour ſon grand ſçauoir & experience) d'en vouloir oſter l'vſage,& principalement d'abolir cette couſtume qu'on auoit de laiſſer tremper vn morceau de licorne dedans la coupe où le roy beuuoit,craignant le poiſon. il me fit reſponſe que quant à luy,ve- ritablement il ne cognoiſſoit aucune vertu en la corne de licorne : mais qu'il voyoit l'opinion qu'on auoit d'icelle eſtre tant inueterée & enracinée au cerueau des princes , & dupeuple , qu'ores qu'il l'euſt volon- tiers oſtée, ilcroyoit bien que par raifon n'en pourroit eſtre maiſtre. ioint,diſoit-il, que ſi cette ſuperſti- tion ne profite , pour le moins elle ne nuit point, ſinon à la bourſe de ceux qui l'achetent beaucoup plus qu'au poids de l'or,comme a eſté monſtré cy-deuant. lors ie luy repliquay , que pour le moins il en vou- luſt donc eſcrire,afin d'effacer la fauſſe opinion de la vertu, que l'on croyoit eſtre en icelle. a quoy il reſ- pondit, que tout homme qui entreprend d'eſcrire choſe d'importance, & notamment de refuter quelque opinion receuë de long-temps, reſſemble au hibou, ou chat-huant : lequel ſe monſtrant en quelque lieu eminent,ſe met en bute à tous les autres oyſeaux qui le viennent becqueter,&luy courent ſus à toute reſte» mais quand ledit hibou eſt mort,ils ne s'en ſoucient aucunement.ainſi rapportant cette ſimilitude à luy, il me dit que de ſon viuant il ne ſe mettroit iamais en bute,pour ſe faire becqueter des enuieux & meſdiſans, qui entretenoient le monde en opinions ſi fauſſes & menſongeres,mais il eſperoit qu'apres ſa mort on trou- ueroit ce qu'il en auroit laiſsé par eſcrit.conſiderant donc cette reſponſe qu'il me fit lors, joint auſſi qu'on n'a rien apperceu de ſes eſcrits depuis ſa mort , qui fut il y a enuiron onze ans,ou plus, ie m'expoſe main- tenant à la butte qu'il refuſa pour lors.que s'il y a quelqu'vn qui puiſſe m'aſſaillir de quelque bon traict de raiſon ou d'experience, tant s'en faut que ie m'en tienne offensé, qu'au contraire ie luy ſçauray fort bon gré, de m'auoir monſtré ce qu'oncques ie n'ay peu apprendre des plus doctes & fignalez perſonnages qui furent & ſont encore en eſtime,pour leur doctrine ſinguliere , ny meſme d'aucun effect de noſtre licorne. vous me direz;puis que les medecins ſçauent bien & publient eux-meſmes,que ce n'eſt qu'vn abus de cet- te poudre de licorne, pourquoy en ordonnent-ils* c'eſt que le monde veut eſtre trompé, & ſont con- traints leſdits medecins bien ſouuent d'en ordonner, ou pour mieux dire, permettre aux patients d'en vſer , parce qu'ils en veulent. que s'il aduenoit que les patients , qui en demandent, mouruſſent ſans en auoir pris, les parens donneroicnt tous la chaſſe auſdits medecins, & les deſcrieroient comme vieille monnoye. chapitre des venins. i # e n o n s maintenant à la raiſon.tout ce qui reſiſte aux venins,eſt cardiaque,& propre à corro- c h a p i t r e $ borer le cœur. rien n'eſt propre à corroborer le cœur, ſinon le bon air & le bon ſang : pour au- tant que ces deux choſes ſeulement ſont familieres au cœur,comme eſtant l'officine du ſang arte- riel,& des eſprits vitaux.or eſt il que la corne de licorne n'a aucun air en ſoy,ny aucune odeur, ou bien peu, eſtant toute terreftre,& toute ſeiche. dauantage , elle ne peut eſtre tournée en ſang, parce qu'elle n'a ny chair,ny ſuc en ſoy:qui eſt cauſe qu'elle n'eſt chylifiée,ny par conſequent ſanguifiée. il s'en- ſuit donc qu'elle n'a aucune vertu pour fortifier & defendre le cœur contre les vemins. voire , mais, dira quelqu'vn,en tant d'opiates, electuaires, & epithemes que l'on fait pour le cœur, qu'ya-il de tel quicon- tienne en ſoy vn bon air»si à ſçauoir eſt,les conſerues de bourache,bugloſſe,violiers de mars, de roſes, de fleurs de roſmarin,la confection d'alxermes,le mithridat,le theriaque,l'ambre,le muſc,la ciuette, le ſaffran, le camphre,& ſemblables,leſquels meſme l'on delaye en bon vin & fort vinaigre,ou en eau de vie,pour ap- pliquer ſur le cœur,ou pour donner en breuuage. toutes leſquelles choſes ont en ſoy, & rendent de ſoy vne odeur,c'eſt à dire vn air ou exhalation fort ſoüefue, benigne, & familiere à la nature & ſubſtance du cœur,en tant qu'elles peuuent engendrer,multiplier,eſclaircir,& ſubtilier les eſprits vitaux, par ſimilitude de leur ſubſtance aërée,ſpirituelle & odorante. ouy,mais au bol d'armenie,en la terre ſigillée,en la corne de cerf,en la raclure d'yuoire & de corail,n'ya-il rien de ſpiritueux & aèré ? non certes * pourquoy donc b ſont-ils mis entre les remedes cardiaques ? pource que de leur faculté & vertu aſtringente fondée en la terreſtrité de leur fabſtance,ils ferment les conduits des veines & arteres,par leſquelles le venin & air pe- ftilent pourroit eſtre porté au cœur.car ainſi ſont ils ordonnez profitablement au flux de ſang, & vuidan- ges immoderées.ils ſont donc appellez cardiaques, non pas que de ſoy & par ſoyils fortifient la ſubſtance du cœur par aucune familiarité ou ſimilitude,mais par accident, parce qu'ils bouchent le paſſage à l'enne- my,l'arreſtant en chemin à ce qu'il ne ſe iette dedans la citadelle de la vie. ch a p t r e l xi v. v a n d aux perles & autres pierres precieuſes, ie ſuis de l'aduis de monſieur ioubert me- decin ordinaire du roy,lequel au chap. .d'vn traicté qu'il a eſcrit de la peſte,dit ainſi. ie ne ſçay que ie dois dire touchant les pierres precieuſes, que la plus grand part des hommes eſti- # ment tant,veu que cela ſemble ſuperſtitieux, & menſonger d'aſſeurer qu'il y a vne vertu in- z s* croyable & ſecrette en elles,ſoit qu'on les portes entieres ſur ſoy,ou que l'on vſe de la poul- ^dre d'icelles. or icy ne veux je encore oublier à mettre en meſme rang l'or potable, & les chaiſnes d'or, & doubles ducats,qu'aucuns ordonnent mettre aux reſtaurans pour les pauures malades : attendu qu'il y a auſſi peu d'aſſeurance qu'en la licorne,voire moins car ce qui n'eſt point nourry, ne peut bailler nourri- ture à autruy.or il eſt ainſi que l'or n'eſt point nourry-parquoy il ſemble que ce ſoit vne piperie de luyat- tribuer la vertu nutritiue,ſoit qu'il ſoit reduit en forme potable,qu'ils appellent, ou qu'il ſoit boüilly auec des reſtaurans. or on me dira qu'apres auoir fait boüillir des eſcus,ou autres pieces d'or aux reſtaurans,ils ne ſeront de meſme poids qu'ils eſloient auparauant : ie le confeſſe mais ce ne ſera que l'or ſoit en rien di- minué par l'ebullition,ains quel'excrement qu'auront accueilly les pieces d'or,pour auoir eſté long-temps maniées ou portées du peuple,voire desverolez, ladres, & vieilles harangeres,pourra eſtre demeuré dans les reſtaurans.d'abondant il y a encore vne grande piperie,que les bons maiſtres quinteſſentieux font pour faire leur or potable,qu'ils diſent mettre aux reſtaurans,c'eſt que d'vne chaiſne de trois ou quatre cens eſ- cus paſſée par l'eau forte,en deſroberont quinze ou vingt eſcus, qui fera diminution d'autant de poids, & font accroire aux niais,que ledit or eſt diminué par l'ebullition. qui pourra ſe garder de ces bailleurs de baliuernes, affronteurs & larrons , ce ſera bien faict. - c h a p t r e l xv. )ſ# e c y me fait ſouuenir du pied d'hellend,duquel pluſieurs font fi grand cas,ſpecialement luyat- #(# | tribuans la vertu de guarir de l'epilepſie. et m'eſtonne d'où ils prennent cette aſſeurance,veu que $ tous ceux qui en ont eſcrit , ne font que dire, on dit, on dit : ie m'en rapporte à geſnerus, & à apollonius menabenus. et quand ce ne ſeroit que la miſere de l'animal, qui tombe ſi ſouuent en epilepſie (dont les allemandsl'appellent hellend, qui fignifie miſere)& neantmoins ne s'en peut guarantir, encore qu'il ait toufiours ſon ongle quant & quant ſoy : il me ſemble que cela eſt ſuffiſant pour reuoquer en doute les vertus qu'on luy attribuè. voilà ce quime ſemble de la corne de licorne , & ſi quelqu'vn en peut deſ- couurirdauantage,ie le prie en faire part au public,& prendre mon eſcrit en bonne intention. | | | xx re p l iqve preuue faite par raiſon. la licorne n'a point d'odeur my de ſuc. obiection. reſponſº. demande, reſponſe . É)ueſtion. reſponſe . a quoy ſer- uent le bcl d'armenie & terre ſf. gilléel. des perleséº pierres pre- cieuſes, ſui- · uant l'opini de ioubert. l'or potable, & l'or mis de dans les reſtaurans abus. È' or ne ſe diminuë paº ebullition du piéd d'hellend. pourquoy cét animal eſt appellé hel- lend. doute de la vertu du pied d'helº lend. r# d ambroise pare, premier chir v rg ien d v r o y , ea l a r e w p o n w e fa / c t e c o n t r e ſon diſcours de la licorne . soùhait de s\%è>s\! Éga$ \ſ)'av o i s ſouhaitté diſcourant de la licorne, que s'il y auoit quelqu'vn qui l'autheur. s$n/%> n)/<s en euſt autre opinion que moy,il luy pleuſt mettre ſes raiſons en auant, pen- #elle eom- n % nn s ſant que par le debat à des raiſons contraires , comme par le heurt de deux paraiſon. $ \ \w z| | - s> pierres, les viues eſtincelles de la verité viendroient à paroiſtre, qui pour- %->niÉ \y%/)ac'roient exciter vne lumiere ſi grande de tout ce fait en nos eſprits, qu'on ss n/ j n\ $ n'auroit plus occaſion d'en douter. ce mien ſouhait m'eſt en partie aduenu. $ns - n%#>$y car il s'eſt trouué quelqu'vn qui controllant mes eſcrits, m'a voulu deſdire # - % q a , en ce pointduquel toutesfois les raiſons ne me ſemblent ſi fortes, que pour %/\s\ ſ, v"a av" cela ie doiue quitter mon party pour prendre le fien, ainſi que i'eſperemon- n->- n)t)/ ſtrer repliquant ſur vne chacune d'icelles : laiſſant à part ſes animoſitez, leſ- #/nn+ (nns quellcs i'eſtime luy eſtre eſchappées, plus pour zele qu'il porte à ce qu'il penſe eſtre la verite,que pour opinion qu'il puiſſe auoir de moy,autre que d'homme de bien,& ſtudieux du profit pi blic. - - premiere sa premiere raiſon eſt,qu'il faut bien que la licorne ait de grandes vertus,veu que tous les sages demeurent en- raiſºn du tre-eux d'accord, des admirables proprietexd'icelle. et que partant il faut acquieſcer à leur authorité : attendu qu'il *ſpºnt vaut mieux faillir aucc les sages,que bien opiner contre leur opinion. ie nie la premiere partie de cette raiſon,at- º,ºiſºr tendu que comme i'ay monſtré en mon precedent diſcours, meſſieurs rondelet, chappelain, & le docte ** licºr-duret ne foºt point plus grand cas de la corne de licorne,que d'autre corne quelconque : & toutesfois ces #. i, trois là ſont fages & clair-voyans en medecine. . • - - - - - - - - rondelet, quant à la ſeconde partie,ie dis tout au contraire,que i'aymeroismieux faire bientout ſeul que de faillir c§ non ſeulementauec les ſages,mais meſme auec tout le reſte du môde car l'excelléce de la verité eſt ſi gran- é puret,tou. de,qu'elle ſurpaſſe toute la ſapience humaine,qui bien ſouuent n'eſt armée que de brauade n'eſt enfiée que chant la li. de vent,n'eſt parée que d'apparence & vanité:parquoy la ſeule verité doit eſtre cherchée, ſuiuie & cherie. c r º_». la ſeconde raiſon eſt, que le long temps qu'il y a que la licorne eſt vn vſ ge, monſtre bien icelle eſtre bonne. ie excellente replique que le long temps n'eſt pas ſuffiſant pour prouuer la corne de licoine auoir les vertus qu'on luy de la verité attribuë. car telle vogue n'eſt fondée qu'en opinion, & la verité(comme il dit luy-meſme)depend de la º ºſº choſe,& non des opinions.parquoy rien ne ſert de m'alleguer les papes,empereurs,roys, & éotentats, qui "ºº" ont mis la corne de licorne en leurs threſors car ils ne ſont d'eux-meſmes iuges competans,de la proprie- # l . té des choſes naturelles & ceux par les yeux deſquels ils ont veu, ont eſté ou louches, ou conniuens, de andré ma- leur auoir monſtré ou laiſsé voir le noir pour le blanc. parquoy à bon droict,andré marin,medecin exccl- , - lent de florence,au diſcours qu'il a fait de la fauſſe opinion de la licorne, s'eſmerueille comment iuſques de aºedecin. icy il ne s'eſt trouué encore medecin,ou autre tant amateur de ſon prince, qui l'ait retiré de cét erreur, la banniſſant de ſes cabinets,comme vn abus & tromperie manifeſte:concluant que ce precieux ioyau n'eſtoit propre qu'aux baſteleurs & impoſteurs,& malſeant aux medecins,qui ont des remedes plus aſſeurez, & ap- prouuez pour combattre les maladies malignes , veneneuſes, & peſtilentes. quant à ce qu'il dit , qu'il y a des licornes,& que la ſaintie eſcriture le teſmoigne. ie reſponds que quicon- que penſe alleguer cela contre moy,monſtre qu'il a grande enuie de quereller.car qui eſt-ce qui croit cela mieux que moy*qui eſt ce qui le monſtre mieux ?l'en cite cinq paſſages de la ſaincte eſcriture dedans mon diſcours de la licorne. ie croy donc qu'il ya touſiours eu,& qu'il y a encore des licornes, non ſeulement en la terre , mais auſſi en la mer : mais que leurs cornes ayent les vertus qu'on leur attribué contre les vc- nins & peſtilences,c'eſt le poinct que i'attendois.lequel toutesfois n'a eſté touché que par vne ſimple aſſer- tion,ſans aucune demonſtration,raiſon,ou authorité ancienne. car de dire qu'elle profite contre la peſte, pource qu'elle refroidit,cela cſt fuir & quitter le combat de la proprieté occulte,de laquelle toutesfois eſt noſtre principale queſtion.or quand ainſi feroit qu'elle agiroit par qualité manifeſte, il la faudroit ordon- ner en quantité raiſonnable,& principalement à la vehemence de l'ardeur furieuſe & peſtilente,c'eſt à di" bonne com- re par onces ou quarterons-car trois ou quatres grains qu'on ordonne communément, n'ont non plus de paraiſºn. vertu(ce que dit monſieur duret , de bonne grace parlant de la licorne) que qui ietteroit quatre grains d° mil dans la gueule d'vn aſne bien affamé. c'eſt pourquoy ie voudrois bien empeſcher les apothicaires de l* vendre ſi cher afin que les medecins euſſent commodité de l'ordonner en plus grande doſe , & que les ma- lades euſſent moyen de la porter auec plus de profit en leurs corps, & moins de domma§ de leur bourſe. cela, n'eſt-ce me rompre l'eſprit de ce que ie n'ay que faire comme l'on me reproche ? ðar dieu a recotn- mandé à vn chacun le ſalut & profit de ſon prochain : & certes les apothicaires meſmes ( i'entens les plus anciens & experimentez , interrogez par moy)m'ont confeſsé auoir honte de la vendre ſi § veu qu'ils n'ont iamais apperceu plus grand effect en elle qu'és autres cornes communes des vulgaires § tou- tesfois qu'ils ſont contraint la vendre ainſichere,parce qu'ils l'achetent chcrcme t, or l'achetent-ils che- rcmcnt, à raiſon du bruit qu'on luy a donné à tort & ſans cauſe. b c d venons -, =-=- " © des venins. venons maintenant aux raiſons par leſquelles il penſe deſtruire ma principale demonſtration, laquelle a par mocquerie il appelle mon achis. mon achilles donc eſtoit tel : rien n'eſt bon à corroborer le ca ur, ſinºn le bon air & le bon ſang : la corne de licorne n'a air ny odeur en ſoy, eſtant toute terreſtre & toute ſeiche. dauanta- ge elle ne peut eſtre tournée en ſang , a'autant qu'elle n'a en ſoy , ny cbaiºny ſu，. parquoy elle »'a vertu à corroborer le cœur.la premiere propoſition,dit-il,eſt fauſſe & ridicule : ſa raiſon eſt, car tels remedes atteratifs fortifient le cœur par qualité manifeſte & elementaire, ou occulte & formelle , & toutesfois n'ont ny bon air , ny habilité à eſtre retli ou en ſang ie replique & dis au contraire, prenant le meſme exemple qu'il a pris, pour le battre de # # ſes armes meſmes,que la faculté des herbes & ſimples qui entrent és apozemes, n'eſt point communiquée # à l'eau par laquelle eſt faicte la decoction,finon par diſtraction du ſuc,ou humeur & vapeur deſdits ſimples: #- autrement s'il n'y auoit que la qualité muée qui ſe communique à l'eau ſans ſubſtance,c'eſt à dire,ſans hu- ſition. meur ou vapeur,comme cognoiſtrons-nous la decoction de pourpié à ſa noirceur,la decoction de pſyllium à ſa viſcoſité,la decoction de chicorée à ſa ſaueur & amertume, l'infuſion de rheubarbe à ſon odeur, la ſa- ueur y eſt,& s'y remarque manifeſtement : l'odeur donc auſſi y eſt. car tout ce qui a ſaueur & odeur, la s , ſaueur y eſt, le ſuc donc ou humeury eſt : l'odeur y eſt,la vapeur donc y eſt. car qu'eſt-ce autre choſe ºu eſt-ce odeur, qu'vne vapeur, ou pluſtoſt fumée ? - qu'odeur. quant au corail,corne de cerf & ſemblables,ie confeſſe qu'ils n'ont non plus d'air & de ſuc, que la cor- ne de licorne,mais auſſi ie ne les tiens pas pour vrais cardiaques:d'autant qu'ils ne fortifient point le cœur en combattant contre les venins, ains ſeulement ou en reſſerrant les conduits qui vont au cœur par leur vertu aſtringente:ou en beuuant & tariſſant la ſeroſité veneneuſe,qui affadit le cœur & l'eſtomach par leur b ſeiche terreſtrité, faiſant l'vn & l'autre,non par ſimple infuſion en quelque eau, mais par aſſomption de leur propre corps en pouldre. - , mais c'eſt aſſez repliqué ſur la refutation pretenduë de la premiere propoſition de mon achilles venons replique ſur à la ſeconde. ie difois que la corne de licorne n'a air ny odeur en ſoy. cela, dit-il,eſt contraire aux principes la refutation de phyſique. car cbaſque corps elementaire eſt mixte,ºeſt à dire , meſlé des quatre elemens ; parquoy à la corne il y a de la ſeconde de l'air. - - - - - - propoſition. - pour repliquer ie dis,que les choſes en medecine ne ſe meſurent & confiderent que par les ſens & effects. ººº bien donc que par diſcours de raiſon nous comprenions que le poyure, gingembre, & graine de paradis choſes ſe me- | ſont compoſez des quatre elemens(c'eſt à dire)de chaud,froid,ſec, & humide : toutesfois les medecins n'y # en - recognoiſſent que du chaud & du ſec,pource qu'ils ne font en nous principalement que des effects de cha- medecine. leur & ſeichereſſe:ainſi nous nions la corne de licorne eſtre aërée, parce qu'elle ne produit les effects des corps aerez,c'eſt à dire,de vapeur,fumée,& odeur. quiconque trouuera de l'air en la corne de licorne , il tirera de l'huyle d'vn mur. ces deux poincts de mon achilles vuidez , le reſte des raiſons contraires n'eſt pas difficile à refuter. car pour prouuer que la corne de licorne ſe peut tourner en ſang,;il allegue, ue cºtºº.ººº les cbiens viuent a'os. ie dis au contraire que les chiens ne viuent pas d'os, mais bien de la moüelle ou ſub- paraiſon eſt ſtance medulleuſe,qui eſt cachée dedans les cauitez inſignes,ou poroſitez de l'os oraux cornes de licor-" foible. . nes,que nous voyons rapper tous les iours,ya-il rien de moüelleux ? non plus , & encore moins qu'en la p erre ponce. - v . n'eſt pas auſſi plus pertinent ce qu'il adiouſte : s)ue comme les chiens viuent d'os, auſſi les auftruches de fer. c l'on ſçait auiourd'huy aſſez par experience & inſpection iournaliere,que cette opinion de la vieille hiſtoire naturelle,eſt choſe fabuleuſe.car bien que l'auſtruche deuore le fer,ſi ne le digere-elle pas : le lendemain, on le trouuera parmy ſes excremens telle qu'elle l'a pris. ie puis dire en verité , auoir donné des clefs & | . cloux de fer à des auſtruches à aualler,que le lendemain on les trouuoit auec leurs excremens,ſans eſtre en rien diminuez. pour voir donc touſiours les petits enfans aualler les noyaux de ceriſes, & pepins de raiſin, dirons nous qu'ils les digerent & s'en nourriſſent ? - il dit , que le roy a refusé cent mille eſcus de la corne de licorne qui eſt à ſainſi denys. il eſt bien poſſible que pour ſa grandeur & magnificence il en ait autant refusé, mais ſi crois-je que ſi le roy l'auoit en tel eſtime, qu'elle ſeroit miſe en plus ſeure garde que d'vn ſimple clerc, qui la fait voir indifferemment à vn chacun pour vn grand blanc.que ſi elle auoit telle vertu qu'on luy attribue,elle ne fuſt pas entiere,& croy qu'elle euſt eſté limée & rappée, pour ſuruenir à la neceſſité des maladies de tant de roys qui ont tenu le ſceptre de france.ces raiſons ont induit andré marin au lieu ſus-allegué,à penſer que telle corne ne fuſt pas natu- relle,ains artificielle,fabriquée par la main de quelque ingenieux maiſtre,qui par certaine mixtiö l'a contre- faicte aupres du naturel. ce qui eſt prouué par diofcoride,liu. .chap .fueillet .qui dit que faiſant cui- commentºº re la racine de mandragore auec yuoire l'eſpace de ſix heures, elle le mollifie tellement qu'on en peut ai-pº ſºſºf" sément faire ce qu'on voudra. pareillement cardan dit, que les dents des elephans ſe peuuent amollir & *** eſtendre,comme les cornes de boeuf & de telles piperies ſe trouuent à mets & à strasbourg,& en pluſieurs autres lieux. parquoy ie trouue bon ce que dit l'aduerſaire ; ge les medecins deuroient admoneſter le magi- ſtrat de l'abus qui ſeroit en la licorne , & non pas moy. i'euſſe deſire qu'ils m'euſſent deliuré de cette peine, & d m'eſmerueille comment ils ont tant attendu. ie ſçay toutesfois que monſieur cappel,docteur regent en la faculté de medecine,tres-ſçauant & homme de bien, auoit ja commencé à en faire vn diſcours, pour oſter 'abus qui y eſtoit : mais voyant le mien ja imprimé, il ſe deſiſta du ſien. i'ay auſſi entendu ſouuent , que tres-ſtauant monſieur l'affilé docteur en medecine(aſſez cogneu pour ſa vertu & doctrine)autrefois auoit maintenu en érvertueux. pleines eſcoles, que la licorne n'auoit rien des proprietez cachées qu'on luy attribue, ſeulement qu'elle opiniºn de- auoit vertu de deſſeicher au premier degré,comme toute autre eſpece de corne. pluſieurs autres medecins, mºſºr voire la plus part d'entr'eux ont meſme opinion,& ce que i'en ſçay , ie ne l'ay appris que d'eux principale- lafilé me- ment, & premierement du docte duret. - decin , tºu- parquoy cette mienne opinion accordante auec celle de tant de gens de bien & de ſçauoir, ne doit eſtre chant la li- tenue pour monſtrueuſe,puis qu'elle n'eſt ny nouuelle,ny extraordinaire,ny erronée , ny pour cela ne doit t ' -a- point eſtre reputée & peinte côme monſtre,ainſi que gabbe l'aduerſaire,voulât tirer en risée la deſcription des monſtres que i'ay inſeré en mes œuures. monſieur rondelet premier medecin de noſtre temps , n'a-il pas fait pourtraire pluſieurs môſtres?& toutesfois persöne n'a dit qu'il l'euſt fait pour amuſer les petits en- fait peindre fans,mais bien pour repreſenter à l'œil ce que l'on ne pourroit ſi bien eſcrire,& comprendre ſans le pour- des menſtres. traict. geſnerus & belon ont fait le ſemblable, & toutesfois perſonne ne leur a mis cela à blafme. ie croy geſnerus cr que l'aduerſaire n'a pas voulu ſeulement taxer les figures des môftres, mais auſſi toutes les autres qui ſont bººº. .. , en mes œuures, en nombre de plus de trois cens ſoixante & quinze : pour leſquelles effigier & tailler en º planche, i'ay deboursé liberalement du mien plus de mille eſcus, & penſe que ceux qui s'en mocquent : ne l'autheur: voudroient auoir ſoulagé le public d'vn ſeul eſcu de leur bourſe. comment que ce ſoit, ces figures-la ſont telles,qu'elles profitent beaucoup à pluſieurs chirurgiens, pour le maniement & vſage de pluſieurs inſtru- mens neceſſaires à la guariſon des maladies. qui me fait croire que telle mocquerie eſt partie de meſme x x animoſité | prºpoſiti de l'autheur, l autre cöpa- raiſon moins valable e, cappel me- decin , höme rondelet a º -- le xxi. liure, des venins. modeſtie de l'autheur. intention de l'autheur. animoſité que celle qui eſt à la fin du liure de l'aduerſaire,par laquelle il dit que ie me ſuis fait traduire le a liure fait par iordanus, de peſie. i'appelle dieu à teſmoin ſi iamais i'y penſay, & ne l'ayveu en latin , ny en françois. et quand ie l'aurois fait, ie n'euſſe oublié à le nommer honorablement, comme i'ay fait tous les hauteurs deſquels i'ay peu apprendre & tirer quelque profit, ainſi que i'ay demonſtié euidemment par la table que i'ay dreſsée de leurs noms au commencement de mes œuures. voilà ce que i'ay voulu repliquer ſur les raiſons contraires. ce que ie prie mon aduerſaire prendre en bonne part, & eſtimer que ce que i'en fais, eſt plus pour maintenir la vcrité, que pour le deſdire. carie penſe que de ſa part ce qu'il en fait, n'a eſté que pour m'inſtruire & le public : & de ma partie me repute tres-heureux d'apprendre de tout le monde, & de vieillir touſiours en apprenant seulement ie le prie, s'il a enuie d'oppoſer quelque contredits à ma replique , qu'il quitte les animoſitez , & qu'il traicte plus douce- ment le bon'vieillard il eſt bien ſeant aux ieunes gens, pour faire preuue de leur eſprit , eloquence & do- ctrine, de diſcourir des poincts problematiques librement : & aux gens de mon aage , de s'arreſter telle- ment à la verité, que l'on ne s'en departe aucunement, pourueu que l'vn & l'autre ſe faſſe ſans pique, riote bl aſme, & offenſe de ſon prochain. * • fin du vingt-vniéme liure, des venins. # % &# - % - - • : # t a b l e d e s chapitr e s du vingt-deuxiéme liure, de la peſte. # es cription de la peſte. chapitre j (. cauſes diuines de la peſte. chap. ij % cauſes humaines, ou naturelles, & ſemences generales de la peſte, # # priſes de la corruption de l'air. chap. iijc ^ de l'alteration des humeurs, quiſe fait principalement par la ma- miere de viure. chap. iv signes ou preſages de la peſte,aduenir pris de la corruption de l'air chap. v signes de peſte, pris de la corruption qui eſt en la terre. chap. vj la cure preſeruatiue, & premierement de l'air, du viure, & de la maiſon. chap. vij deſcription d'eaux cordiales, electuaires, opiates, pilules, & autres remedes à prendre par la bouche,preſeruatifs & curatifs de la peſle. chap. viij remedes particuliers, ou choſes qu'on applique par dehors. chap. ix choſe que l'on doit obſeruer outre les precedentes pour la preſeruation.chap. x l'office des magiſtrats & officiers publics,qui ont la charge de la police.chap. xj comment on doit proceder à l'eſlection des medecins, chirurgiens & apothicaire, pour medicamenter les peſtiferex chap. xij ce que doiuent faire ceux qui ſeront eſleuxà preſent a medicamenter les peſtiferex, d chap. xiij signes de la peſte preſente. chap. xiv signes mortels de la peſte. chap. xv signes par leſquels on peut cognoiſtre que le malade eſt infecté de la peſte venant du vice de l'air c mon des humeurs. · chap. xvj signes que le malade eſt infecté de la peſte prouenant de la corruption des humeurs, chap. xvij du prognoſtic ou augure. chap. xviij comment ſe fait la fiévre peſtilentielle. chap. xix comment -, m=-=-- | comment le malade ſe doit retirer du lieu infect,ſabit qu'il ſe ſent frappé de peſle. chap. xx - t)e laſituation cs habitation de la maiſon du malade de t'eſte,& moyen d'y recti- fier l'air. chap. xxj tu manger du malade. chap. xxij du boire du malade. chap. xxiij medicamens alexiteres. - chap. xxiiij epithemes ou fomentations pour corroborer les parties nobles. chap. xxv si la ſaignée & purgation ſont neceſſaires au commencement de la maladie peſti- lente. chap. xxvj medicamens purgatif . * chap. xxvij . des accidens & complications des maladies qui aduiennent aux peftiferek, & pre- mierement de la douleur de teſte. chap. xxviij de la chaleur de reins. chap. xxix accidens de pe fte. chap. xxx t>es eruptions & puſtulles, appellée pourpre. chap. xxxj de la cure des eruptions. chap. xxxij del'apoſteme peſtiferée, appellée bubon, ou boſſe. " chap. xxxiij de la cure de l'apoſteme peſtiferé, - chap. xxxiv deſcription du charbon peſtiferé,& de ſes cauſes ſignes & marques.chap. xxxv prognoſtict des apoſtemes & charbons peſtiferex , chap. xxxvi de la cure du charbon peſtiferé. / | chap. xxxvij du prurit & demangeaiſon qui vient autour de l'vlcere, & de la maniere de pro- duire la cicatrice. chap. xxxviij t)e pluſieurs euacuations qºiſe font outre les precedentes, c premierement de la ſueur. chap. xxxix tu vomiſſeuent. chap. xl du cracher es bauer. chap. xlj de l'eſternuer & moucher. chap. xlij de l'eructation ou roučtement, c du ſanglot. chap. xliij tde l'vrine. , chap. xliv du flux menſtruel. chap. xlv tdes hemorrhoides. chap. xlvj pour prouoquer le flux de ventre. chap. xlvij pourarreſter le flux de ventre. chap. xlviij de l'euacuation faicte par inſenſible tranſpiration. chap. xlix de la curation des enfans eſpris de la peſte. chap. diſcours des incommoditexde la peſte, & duſouuerain remede. chap. lj epilogue, ou concluſion de ce diſcours. chap. lij l e | vingt-devxie m e livre, tra ic tant d e l a p e s t e. par a m b r o i s e pa r e' de la va l av maine, conſeiller, & premier chirurgien du roy. deſcription de la peſte . cha p. i. b e s t e eſt vne maladie venant de l'ire de dieu, furieuſe, tempeſtatiue,ha- ſtiue,monſtrueuſe,& eſpouuantable,contagieuſe,terrible,appellée de galien beſte ſauuage,farouche & fort cruelle,ennemie mortelle de la vie des hônes & de pluſieurs beſtes,plantes,& arbres les anciens l'ont appellée epidemie, quand la corruption venoit de l'air,qui promptement faitmourir pluſieurs en vn inſtant, & en meſme region : auſſi ont-ihs appellez endemie vne maladie qui eſt propre & familiere en certains pays, comme les eſcroüelles en eſpa- gne,le goüetron en sauoye,la lepre en guyenne vers bordeaux les malades de laquelle on appelle gabets,& en la baſſe bretaigne cacots,& ſont nómez ladres blancs, & ainſi d'autres maladies qui regnent és autres prouinces. or la peſte eſt ſouuent accompagnée de tres - cruels & pernicieux accidens qui - ſourdentiournellemét auec elle:comme fiévres,bubons,c harbons,pourpre, cacots la- flux de ventre,delire,freneſie,& douleur mordicatiue d'eſtomach,palpitation de cœur,peſanteur,& laſſitu- dres blancs. de de tous les membres,sómeil profond,& les ſens tout hebetez. aucuns ont vne chaleur interne bruflante, accidens. & ſont froids au dehors auec inquietude,difficulté de reſpirer,vomiſſemens frequens,flux de ventre,flux de ſang par le nez,& par autres parties du corps,appetit perdu,grande alteration,la langue ſeiche,noire & ari- de,le regard haue & hideux,la face paſle & plöbine,& quelquesfois rouge & enfläbée,tremblement vniuer- ſel,crachemét de ſang,puanteur des excremés,& pluſieurs autres accidens qui ſe font ſelon la pourriture & alteration de l'air peſtiferé,& de la cacochimie de ceux qui en ſont frappez. neantmoins tous ces accidens ne ſe trouuent pas touſiours à vne fois, ny entoutes perſonnes,mais en aucuns s'en apperçoiuent pluſieurs, aux autres peu:voire à grand peine voit-on deux malades infectez de ceſte peſte les auoir ſemblables,mais c , , diuers les vns des autres,ſelon les effects qu'elle produit. ce qui prouient de la diuerſité du venin de la ca- ººº cochymie,& complexion des malades,des années & ſaiſons, & des parties qu'elle aura ſaiſies. auſſi qu'elle # n'eſt pas touſiours d'vne meſme ſorte,mais diuerſe l'vne del'autre : qui a eſté cauſe quel'on luya donné di- me ſorte. uers noms,à fçauoir fiévre peſtilente,caqueſangue coqueluche,ſuette,trouſſe-galant boſſe,carbon,pourpre, & autres , que deduirons cy-apres. or l'eſſence de ce venin peſtiferé eſt incogneu & inexpliquable, dont nous pouuons dire la peſte eſtre vn quatriéme genre de maladie. car ſi elle eſtoit vne intemperature ſimple, elle ſeroit chaude ou froide,ou humide,ou ſeiche, ou composée d'icelles : lors auec medicamens contra- diffººººº rians, par leur ſeule qualité chaude,froide,ſeiche,humide,oumixionnées enſemble,feroit guarie. si c'eſtoit * ſº incommoderation, c'eſt à dire de mauuaiſe compoſition,elle ſeroit enindeue conformation,ou figure,ou en ºººº nombre,ou en magnitude,ou en ſituation. si c'eftoit auſſi ſolution de continuité,ce ſeroit eroſion,cótuſion, #º, inciſion,perforation,morſure,picqueure,& ruption, toutes leſquelles choſes ſeroient guaries par les reme- des eſcrits des anciens : mais elle vient non ſeulement d'vne ſimple corruption , mais auſſi d'vne contagion d'air peſtiferé indicible & incogneuë,qui imprime ſur vn corps ja preparé le carractere de ſon venin. or,me dira quelqu'vn:côment ſera-il poſſible à vn chirurgien pouuoirguarir cette contagion par vraye methode, attendu que ſa cauſe ne peut eſtre cogneue » a quoy faut reſpondre, qu'il faut ſuiure le mouuement dena- ture, lequel ayant en horreur la qualité venimeuſe,qui premierement ſaiſit le cœur , taſche & s'efforce de d chaſſer & pouſſer dehors les matieres que le venin a corrompu, leſquelles entretiennent le mal , & dont s'engendrent fiévres peſtilentitlles, carboncles, bubons, pourpre,&autres accidens, au grand ſoulagement des parties nobles : tellement que ſi le tout ( ou la plus grande partie ) peut eſtre ainſi pouſsée dehors ſans rentrer au dedans , le patient peut eſchapper du danger. parquoy le medecin & chirurgien, qui ſont mi- niſtres & coadiuteurs de nature,n'ont autre choſe à faire que pourſuiure tels mouuemens : comme en pro- uoquant les ſueurs & vomiſſement dés le commencement , & par choſes qui fortifient le cœur, vſant de tous remedes eſprouuez contre la putrefaction & venenoſité. en ſomme il faut munir le cœur par antido- tes, & attirer au dehors la matiere conioinčte , & pouruoiraux accidens, & diuerſifiant les remedes ſelon la nature d'iceux. voila ce qu'il me ſemble de la deſcription de la peſte, laquelle n'eſt iamais vniuerſelle,ny d'vne meſme ſorte, comme nous auons dit cy-deſſus. - - -- - des cauſes diuines de la peſte . ch a p. i i. # 'e s t vne choſe reſoluë entre les vrais chreſtiens,auſquels l'eterncl a reuelé les ſecrets de ſa sapien- amôs . -- ce,que la peſte & autres maladies,qui aduiennent ordinairement aux hommes, procedent de la main a ies . de dieu ainſi que le prophete nous enſeigne : quelle aduerfité ſera en la cité, que le seigneur n'aye fait? ce que nous deuons en tout temps ſoigneuſement mediter pour deux raiſons : la premiere eſt, pour re- cognoiſtre que ce que nous auoirs de vie, ſanté , mouuement & eſtre, procede directement de la purº - bonté | | | de la peſte. a bonté de dieu,qui eſt le pere des\urnieres, afin que par ce moyen nous luy rendions graces de ſes benefi- ces.l'autre eſt,que la cognoiſſance des afflictions, qui nous ſont enuoyées de dieu, nous achemine à vne droite intelligence de ſa iuſtice ſur nos pechez, afin qu'à l'exemple dédauid nous nous humilions ſous ſa º º * main puiſſante,pour garder que noſtre ame ne peche par impatience : auſſi qu'eſtans releuez de deſeſpoir, # nous inuoquions ſa majeſté pour nous deliurer de tous maux par ſa miſericorde. voiſà comme nous ap- . . prendrons de chercher & en dieu & en nous,au ciel & en la terre,la droicte cognoiſſance des cauſes de la peſte,de laquelle nous ſommes viſitez; & comment par la philoſophie diuine nous ſommes inſtruicts, que idieu eſt le principe & cauſe des cauſes moyennes,ſans laquelle les ſecödes cauſes & inferieures ne peuuét produire aucun effect,ains ſont conduites & addreſsées par la volonté ſecrette & conſeil priué d'iceluy,qui s'en ſert comme d'inſtrumens,pour accomplir ſon œuure,ſelon ſon decret & ordonnance immuable. pour- tant il ne faut attribuer ſimplement la cauſe de la peſteaux choſes prochaines, à l'exemple des lucianiſtes, naturaliſtes,& autres infidelles:mais il nous faut conſiderer, que tout ainſi que dieu par ſa toute-puiſſan- ce a crée toutes choſes,hautes,moyennes & baſſes,auſſi que par ſa ſageſſe il les conſerue,modere, encline - où bon luy ſemble:meſme ſouuent change le cours naturel d'icelles,ſelon ſon bon plaiſir.voilà pourquoy reromie d. le prophete nous exhorte:n'apprenez point les voyes des gentils, & ne craignez point les fignes du ciel, les cººſºº comme les gentils les craignent.et ne faut que nul ſoit ſi hardy & plein de rage,de vouloir attacherdieu, ºfºriº qui eſt la ſouueraine cauſe de toutes choſes,aux cauſes ſecondes & inferieures, & à ſes creatures, ou à la º # premiere diſpoſition que luy-meſme a baillée,& ſeroit rauir à dieu ce tiltre de tout-puiſſant, & luy oſter #irſans # la liberté de plus rien changer & diſpoſer autrement qu'il n'a fait du commencemét,comme ſi l'ordre qu'il # a eſtably le tenoit ſubiect & lié ſans qu'il peuſt rien innover. car quelque ordre ou diſpoſition que dieu #. . aye mis en nature,en la reuolution des ſaiſons,au mouuement des aſtres & planettes, il eſt plus que tres- certain, qu'il n'eſt point lié ny ſubjet à creature quelconque : ains beſongne & fait ſes œuures en toute li- berté,& n'eſt aucunement ſubjet de ſuiure l'ordre qu'il a eſtably en nature:mais s'il veut punir les hommes · à cauſe de leurs pechez,afin de leur monſtrer ſa iuſtice , ou les combler de biens , pour leur faire ſentir ſa bonté paternelle,il change ſans difficulté cét ordre quand bon luy ſemble,& le fait ſeruir à ſa volóté,ſelon qu'il voit eſtre bon & iuſte.car tout ainſi qu'au commencement de la creation du monde, par le comman- dement de dieu,la terre produit verdure,arbres fruictiers, la mer ſes poiſſons : la lumiere auſſi eſclairoit auant que ces deux grands luminaires, le soleil & la lune,fuſſent creez, pour nous apprendre que c'eſt le tout-puiſſant,qui par ſoy-meſme a fait toutes choſes:auſſi depuis que le gouuernemêt des creatures a eſté aſſigné au soleil,& aux planettes,deſquels la terre,& ce qu'elle contient reçoit aliment & nourriture, nous ſçauons comme ce grand dieu a changé le cours naturel d'iceux,pour le bien & profit de ſon egliſe. c'eſt - ce que nous liſons,que le seigneur alloit deuant les iſraëlites par iour en colomne de nuée, pour les con- exod . duire par la voye,& de nuict en colomne de feu pour les eſclairer.en cette meſme façon le soleil & la luz ne furent arreſtez,& changerent leur cours à la priere de ionſué.aſſi par la priere d'helie,il ne pieut point ioſué o. l'eſpace de trois ans & ſix mois.par ces exemples donc il appert clairement, que dieu diſpoſe de ſes crea- # # * tures ſelen ſon bon plaiſir,tant pour ſa gloire que pour le ſalut de ceux qui l'inuoquent en eſprit & veri- #. s. té.or comme le seigneur ſe ſert de ces choſes inferieures pour eſtre miniſtres de ſa volonté,& teſmoigna- # §" ges de ſa grace à ceux quile craignent, auſſi elles luy ſeruent de herauts & executeurs de ſa iuſtice, pour - punir les iniquitez & offences des pecheurs,& contempteurs de ſa majeſté. et partant,pour le dire en vn r,, ê mot,c'eſt la main de dieu , qui par ſon iuſte iugement, darde du ciel cette peſte & contagion , pour nous #ieu enuoy chaſtier de nos offenſes,& iuiquitez,ſelon la menace qui eſt contenue en l'eſcriture.le seigneur dit ainſi: #. ie ferayvenir ſur vous le glaiue executeur,pour la vengeance de mon alliance,& quand vous ſerez raſſem- - - wº- blez en vos villes, ie vous enuoyeray la peſtilence au milieu de vous, & ſerez liurez en la main de l'eniſe- ..... . my.qu'on liſe auſſi ce qu'eſt eſcrit en habacuc,chapitre .le seigneur des armées dit : voicy, i'enuoye ſur # , eux l'eſpée,la famine,& la peſte. semblablement dieu commanda à moyſe ietter en l'air certaine poudre " . en la preſence de pharaon,afin qu'en toute la terre d'egypte,les hommes & autres animaux fuſſent affligez - d'apoſtemes peſtilentielles,ylceres,& plufieurs autres maladies.ce que dauid a confirmé, diſant que dieu ºſº * ennoya en egypte des mouſches, qui deuorerent le pays, & des grenoüilles quiles deſtruirent, & donna leurs fruicts aux chenilles , & leur labeur aux sauterelles : & gaſta leur vigne par greſle, & leurs figuiers ſauuages par la tempeſte & liura leurs iumens à la greſle,& leurs troupeaux à la foudre.puis adiouſte qu'il dreſſa voye à ſon ire,& n'eſpargna de les mettre à mort,& liura leur vie à la peſte. pareillement au deute- ronome,moyſe menace les tranſgreſſeurs de la loy de dieude pluſieurs maledictions,& entre autres de pe- . ſte,apoſtemes,enfleures,& maladies ardentes.or le ſeul exemple de dauid nous monſtre l'execution de ces soixante & menaces terribles,quand dieu pour ſon peché,fit mourir de peſte ſeptante mille hommes,ainſi que l'eſcri- dix mille ture teſmoigne au .liure des roys,chapitre .le prophete gad fut enuoyé à dauidauec commandement º º de dieu : ie t'offre trois choſes,eſly l'vne d'icelles,& iele feray.lequel veux-tu ? ou que ſept ans de famine de peſte. viennent ſur la terre ou que par l'eſpace de trois mois tu fuyes deuant tes ennemis,& qu'ils te pourſuiuent *** ou que par trois iours la peſte ſoit ſur la terre : là deſſus dauid prie de cheoir pluſtoſt entre les mains de dieu,qu'entre celles des hommes:d'autant,dit-il,qu'il eſt miſericordieux.et quelqu'vn pourra dire que ce peuple n'auoit pas merité la mort pour l'offenſe de ſon roy. on peut reſpondre qu'il eſloit encore plus meſchant que luy.car il le reſerua pour la gloire de ſon ſainct nom. nous liſons pareillement,que le sei- gneur punit l'idolatrie & profanation de ſon! ſeruice par le fleau de la peſte. car voicy comme il parle: deut. . " pource que tu as violé mon ſainct lieu en tes infametez & abominations, ie le briſeray auſſi, mon œil ne l'eſpargnera point , & n'en auray point de pitié:car la troiſieſme partie mourra de peſte. concluons donc hip.chap. que la peſte,& autres maladies dangereuſes, ſont teſmoignages de la fureur diuine ſur les pechez, idola- § tries & ſuperſtitions qui regnent en la terre, comme meſme vn autheur profane eſt contraint de confeſſer prºgnoſtic.. qu'ily a quelque choſe de diuin aux maladies. et pourtant lors qu'il plaiſt au seigneur des seigneurs, & createur de toutes choſes,vſer de ſes iuſtes iugemens,nulle de ſes creatures ne peut euiter ſa fureur eſpou- uantable,voire meſme ciel & terre en tremblent,ainſi que dauid nous enſeigne : pſeau, . \ les cieux fondirent en ſueur : - la terre trembla de la peur zde ta face terrible. que ſera-ce donc de nous pauures humains, qui nous eſcoulons comme la neige ? comment pourrons- nous ſubſiſter deuant le feu de l'ire de dieu,veu que nous sômes foin & paille,& que nos iours s'éuanoüiſ. ſent comme vapeur de fumée?apprenons,apprenons de nous conuertir de nos voyes mauuaifes a la pureté du ſeruice de dieu:& ne ſuyuons point l'exemple des fols malades,qui ſe plaignent de la chaleur & altera- tion de la fiévre,& cependant reiettent la medecine,qui leur eſt preſentée pour les guarir de la cauſe de la maladie. sçachons que c'eſt icy le principal antidote contre la peſte,#que la conuerſion & amendement de f) s - principal mtidote cj- re la peſte, - le vingt-deuxieme liure, pſean. . dieu me veut que negli- #ion : les re- medes natu- rels. eccleſ . cauſes. l'air corrö- pu prepare nos corps à corruption. les poiſſons peuuent eſtre infectez de peſte- . hiſtoire de padoue. la peſte des plantes eſt appellée si- deration. hiſtoire. ' autre hi- ſtoire d'em- pedoeleu. nos vies.et tout ainſi que les apothicaires font du theriaque de la chair du serpent,pour la morſure veni- meuſe:auſſi de la cauſe de nos maladies, c'eſt à ſçauoir de nos pechez,tirons le remede & guariſon, en re- gardant vers le fils de dieu ieſus-chriſt noftre seigneur:lequel ne guarit pas ſeulement le corps de ſes in- firmitez & maladies,mais nettoye l'ame de tout peché & ordure;& à l'exemple de dauid, gemiſſons & re- cognoiſſons nos pechez : prians ce bon dieu de cœur & de bouche,comme il s'enſuit : nº vueille pas , sire » me reprendre en ton ire moy qui t'ay irrité , & c. voilà la premiere & principale conſideration que tous chreſtiens doiuent cognoiſtre en recherchant les cauſes diuines de la peſte,& le preparatifqu'il faut prendre pour la guariſon de telle maladie. et outre ce, ie conſeille au chirurgien de ne vouloir auſſi negliger les remedes approuuez par les medecins anciens & modernes:car combien que par la volonté de dieu telle maladie ſoit enuoyée aux hommes,ſi eſt-ce que par ſa ſaincte volonté les moyens & ſecours nous ſont donnez pareillement de luy , pour en vſer comme d'in- ſtrumens à ſa gloire,cherchans remedes en nos maux meſmes en ſes creatures, auſquelles il adonné certai- nes proprietez & vertus pour le ſoulagement des pauures malades. et veut que nous vſions des cauſes ſe- condes & naturelles,comme d'inſtrumens de ſa benediction ;autrement nous ſerions bien ingrats, & meſ- priſerions ſa beneficence.car il eſt eſcrit,que le seigneur a donné aux hommes la ſcience de l'art de mede- cine,pour eſtre glorifié en ſes merueilles.et partant nefaut negliger tous autres moyens,que deſcrirons cy- apres. il reſte maintenant rechercher les cauſes & à raiſons naturelles}de cette peſte. des cauſes humaines, ou naturelles, & ſemences generales de la peſte priſes de la corruption de l'air. c h a t. i l i. es cauſes generales & naturelles de la peſte ſont deux,à ſçauoir l'air infecté & corrompu, & l'alteration des humeurs viciez,en noſtre corps:& preparez à prendre la peſte & air peſtilent. ce qui eſt prouué par galien,qui dit que les humeurs de noſtre corps ſe peuuent pourrir, & % acquerir venenoſité.or l'air ſe corrompt lors qu'il y a excez és ſaiſons de l'année, letquelles - - º© ne tiennent leur conſtitution naturelle, qui ſe fait parce que preſque toute l'année auta eſté humide,à cauſe des pluyes & groſſes nuées.l'hyuer pour la plus grande partie n'aura eſté froid : ny pareil- lement le printemps tiede ou temperé, comme il a de couſtume:auſſi qu'en automne on void en l'air fiam- bes ardentes,eſtoilles courantes,& comettes de diuerſes figures,leſquelles choſes ſont produites des exha- lations ſeiches.de meſme ſi l'eſté eſt chaud,& que les vents n'ayent ſoufflé ſinon du midy, & encore ſidou- cement,qu'à peine on les aura peu ſentir : & quelquesfois auſſi on a veu que les nuées eſtoient pouſſées du midy au septentrion.telles conſtitutions de ſaiſons ſont eſcrites par hippocrate,au liure des epidemies,li- ure premier,& au troiſiéme liure des aphor.leſquelles ſans doute rendent l'air du tout peſtiferé : car alors par ſon intemperature il diſpoſe à pourriture les humeurs ſereux de noſtre corps,& par ſa chaleur non na- turelle les bruſle & enflamme : toutesfois toutes conſtitutions non naturèlles n'engendrent pas touſiours la peſte,mais pluſtoſt autres maladies epidemiales.quelquesfois l'air peſtilent, qui eſt attiré au corps par vne ſeule inſpiration d'vn peſtiferé,rend tous les membres infectez. dauantage, l'air ſe corrompt par certaines vapeurs meſlées auec luy, comme nous auons dit cy-deuant comme par grande multitude de corps morts, non aſſez toſt enſeuelis en la terre,comme d'hommes,cheuaux & autres choſes faiſans vne vapeur putride& charongneuſe,qui infecte l'air;ce qui ſouuent aduient apres vne bataille,ou de pluſieurs hommes peris par naufrage,puis iettez par les flots de la mer au riuage:ou quâd la mer a ietté pluſieurs poiſſons & beſtes,lors que les riuieres font grandes inondations ſur la terre,& les rauiſſent en la mer,dont ils meurent, n'eſtâs pas accouſtumez de viure en l'eau ſalée.or la mer laiſſe quelquesfois grande quantité de poiſſons à ſec, quand les gouffres ou ouuertures de la terre,faictes par le mouuemêt d'icelle,s'empliſſent d'eau,ou quâd le flot de la mer laiſſe les grands poiſſons eſtans ſortis du profond d'icelle:ainſi que de noſtre têps vne baleine fut pu- trefiée en la coſte de la toſcane,qui amena la peſte par tout le pays.or lespoiſſons,bien que raremét coin- me dit ariſtote au .de l'hiſtoire des animaux,peuuent eſtre infectez par les mauuaiſes exhalations eſſeuées de la terre,qui eſt au deſſous l'eau,& paſſans par dedans icelle:auſſi peuuent ſentir la contagion de l'airam- biens,lors qu'ils ſe mettent ſur l'eau.et pour ces deux cauſes, il ſe fait que la peſte eſtant en quelque pays, les poiſſons ſont trouuez morts en grand nombre,principalement és eſtangs,lacs , & riuieres, qui ſont peu agitées,que l'on appelle eaux dormates:ce qui ne ſe fait en la mer;car par ſon grand mouuemêt impetucux, & par ſa ſelſitude,n'eſt ſuiette à peurriture:& partant les poiſſons qui ſont en icelle,ne reçoiuêr l'infection peſtilente,comme ceux des eaux dormantes. outre-plus l'air eſt infecté des meſchantes vapeurs de quel- ques lacs,eſtangs bourbeux & mareſcageux,eaux croupies és maiſons où il y a des égouts & conduits ſous la terre,qui ne s'eſcoulent point,& ſe corrompent en eſté,eſleuans certaines vapeurs par vne exceſſiue cha- leur du soleil.comme l'on trouue par eſcrit qu'à padoue il y auoit vn puits que l'on auoit longuement tc- nu couuert:puis ayans eſté deſcouuert,qui fut en eſté,il en ſortit vne grande exhalation putride , tellement que l'air circonuoiſin fut du tout corrompu,dont proceda vne peſte merueilleuſe,qui dura fort l g-temps, & de laquelle bien grand nombre de peuple mourut.pareillement l'air exterieur eſt corrompu par certaines exhalations,fumées,& ſouſpirs des vapeurs pourries & infectées,enfermées és entrailles de la terre, ayans eſté long-temps retenuës, croupies & eſtouffées és lieux tenebreux & profond d'icelle, qui viennent puis apres à § par vn tremblement de terre.par le tremblement de la terre,les eaux ſentent le ſoulphre , ou autre matiere metallique & ſont chaudes & troublées:cela ſe fait des exhalations de la terre par le fecoue- ment ou esbranlement d'icelle.es temps deſquelles l'on oyt ſouuent diuerſes voix, comme gemiſſemens de ceux qui meurent aux batailles, & auſſi diuers cris d'animaux. semblablement on voit ſortir de terre plu- ſieurs animaux,comme crapaux,couleuures,aſpics, viperes , & autres vermines. et par leſdites exhalations ainſi ſorties, l'air eſtant infectéi, infecte pareillement non ſeulement les hommes & autres animaux , mais auſſi les plantes, fruicts & grains , & generalement toute leur nourriture : d'autant que comme l'eau trou- blée & puante ne laiſſe viure le poiſſon qui eft dedans, auſſi l'air malin & peſtiferé ne laiſſe viure les hom- mes : mais altere les eſprits, & corrompt les humeurs, & finalement les faict mourir, & meſmement les beſtes & plantes,comme nous auons dit. dauantage on a veu quelques-vns creuſans la terre pour fai- re des puits,ſentirvne vapeur fi puante & infecte , qu'ils mouroient promptement et encore n'agueres és faux-bourgs sainct honoré de cette ville de paris,moururent cinq hommes, ieunes & forts, en curant vne foſſe,où l'eſgout du fiens des pourceaux eſtoit de long temps croupy,& retenu ſans aucune exhalation , & fut-on contraintemplir de terre ladite foſſe,pour l'eſtouper promptement,&obuier à plus grands accidens. semblable | -- yde : - a - . n - la peſte, ſemblable choſe a eſté dés long-temps obſeruée par empedocles philoſopbe : lequel voyant qu'il y auoit vne ouuerture de terre entre les môtagnes,laquelle cauſoit la peſte pour les mauuaiſes vapeurs qui en ſor- toient,la fit boucher,& par ainſi chaûa la peſte du pais de sicile. on a cognu combien cecy eſtoit vray par la corruption aduenue des corps morts au chaſteau de pene,ſur la riuiere de lorauquel lieu l'an au mois de septembre,pendant les troubles premiers aduenus à cauſe de la religion, fut jetté grand nôbre de corps morts dedans vn puits profond de cent braſſées ou enuiron,duquel deux mois apres s'eſleua vne va- peur puante & cadauereuſe,qui s'eſpandit par tout le pais d'agenois,& lieux circonuoiſins, iuſques à dix îieues à la ronde,dont pluſieurs furent infectez de la peſte. dequoy ne ſe faut eſmerueiller veu meſmes que les vents ſoufflans,pouſſent les exhalations & fumées pourries d'vn païs en autre:dont auſſi on y voit pro- uenir la peſte,comme auons dit cy deuant en la .apologie.or ſi quelqu'vn vouloit obiecter : diſant que ſi la putrefaction de l'air eſt cauſe de la peſte,il s'enſuiuroit par neceſſité qu'en tous lieux où il ya charon- gnes,eſtangs,mareſcages,ou autres lieux putrides,la peſte y ſeroit touſiours, à cauſe que l'air reçoit facile- ment putrefaction,auſſi que toute putrefaction,quand elle eſt entrée au corps par inſpiration, engendreroit la peſte : laquelle choſe neantmoins eſt contre l'experience , comme l'on voit en ceux qui habitent & fre- quentent és lieux putrides,comme és poiſſonneries,eſcorcheries,cimetieres,hoſpitaux,cloaques, & tanne- ries,auſſi és laboureurs'qui manient & meuuent les fiens pourris & corrompus par putrefaction,&ceux qui curent les latrines,& pluſieurs autres choſes ſemblables.a cela faut reſpondre,que la putrefaction de la pe- ſte eſt bien differente de toutes autres putrefactions,pource qu'il y a vne malignité cachée & indicible , de laquelle on ne peut donner raiſon,non plus que de l'aymant qui tire leifer,& pluſieurs autres medicamens, qui attirent & purgent certaines humeurs de noſtre corps.pareillement la malignité occulte qui eſt en cette b putrefaction peſtiferée,n'eſt point aux autres choſes corrompues de corruption ordinaire, leſquelles tou- tesfois en temps de peſte ſe tournent facilement en ſemblable malignité:tellemét que toutes les apoſtemes & fiévres putrides, & autres maladies procedantes de putrefaction , en temps de peſte ſe tournent facile- ment en telle corruption extraordinaire,& du tout eſtrange. et partant en telle conſtitution de temps , il fait bon éuiter les lieux infects,& la frequentation des peſtiferez,de peur que par la vapeur &exhalation de l'air corrompu nous ne ſoyons infectez, combien qu'auſſi il n'eſt pas neceſſaire que tous céux qui attirent l'air peſtiferé prennent la peſte,car on ne la peut prendre qu'il n'y ait quelque preparation & diſpoſition:ce que l'experience iournaliere demonſtre.auſſi galien le declare au liure des differences des fiévres, dilant que nulle cauſe ne peut produire ſon effect, ſans que le corps y ſoit apte & preparé, autrement tous ſe- roient infectez de meſme cauſe;neantmoins par continue frequentation des lieux & perſonnes enuenimées hiſloi-e, obieſiio", reſponſe, galirn. de tel venin, on peut acquerir vne diſpoſition & preparation à receuoir icelle peſte : car combien que le bois verd ne ſoit diſposé à bruſler,ſi eſt-ce que pour eſtre long-temps au feu,il bruſle. partant ie conſeille de ſe preſeruer touſiours, & euiter les lieux & perſonnes peſtiferées : car le venin pris par l'odeur des va- peurs venimeuſes eſt merueilleuſement ſoudain , & n'a affaire d'aucun humeur qui luy ſerue de conduite pour entrer en noſtre corps,& agir en iceluy, comme nous auons dit par cy-deuant. car leſdites vapeurs eſtans ſubtiles,ſont facilement attirées auec l'air dedans les poulmons,& d'iceux dedans le cœur (domici- le de la vie)puis paſſent par les arteres, & d'icelles ſe communiquent par tout le corps : gaſtans premiere- ment les eſprits,puis les humeurs, & en la fin la ſubſtance meſme des parties. or quand nous parlons de l'air peſtilent,nous ne voulons pas qu'il ſoit eſtimé ſimple & élementaire : car eſtant ſimple, iamais il n'ac- quiert de pourriture,mais par addition & meſlange des vapeurs pourries eſparſes en luy. parquoy veu que l'air qui nous enuironne,& eſt contigu,eſt perpetuellement neceſſaire à noſtre vie, & que ſans luy nous ne pouuons viure,il faut que ſelon ſa diſpoſition, noſtre corps ſoit en pluſieurs & diuerſes manieres alteré, à cauſe que continuellement nous l'attirons par l'attraction qui ſe faict des poulmons és parties pectorales dediées à la tranſpiration, & pareillement par la tranſpiration qui ſe faict par les pores & petits pertuits inſenſible de tout le corps,& des arteres eſpandues au cuir ce qui ſe fait tant pour la generation de l'eſprit de vie,que pour rafraiſchir noſtre chaleur naturelle.a cette cauſe, s'il eſt immoderément chaud, froid,hu- mide,ou ſec,il altere & change la temperature du corps en ſemblable conſtitution que la ſienne. mais entre toutes les conſtitutions de l'air,celle qui eſt chaude & humide eſt fort dangereuſe : car telles qualitez ſont cauſe de putrefaction,ainſi que l'experience nous fait voir és lieux où le vent marin en eſté exerce la tyran- . nie,eſquels vne viande,tant ſoit-elle fraiſche,ſe corrompt & pourrit en moins de demie heure. semblable- ment nous voyons que l'abondance des pluyes engendre beaucoup de vapeurs,leſquelles lors que le soleil ne les peut reſoudre & conſumer, alterent & corrompent l air,& le rendent idoine a la peſte. mais il faut icy ncter que la pourriture qui vient des corps morts des hommes,.eſt plus pernicieuſe aux hommes, que celle des autres animaux auſſi celle des bœufs aux bœnfs,des cheuaux aux cheuaux,des porceaux aux por- ceaux,ainſi des moutons & autres animaux:ce qui prouient pour la ſympathie &concordance qu'ils ont les vns aux autres,comme on voit qu'en vne famille & perſonnes qui ſont de ſemblable temperament, ſi i'vn eſt épris de peſte, elle ſe communique ordinairement à tous. toutesfois on a veu auſſi pour eſcorcher des bœufs,& autres beſtes mortes de peſte,l'eſcorcheur mourir ſubitement , & le corps d'iceluy deuenir tout enflé. le tonnerre & eſclairs par ſon grand bruit & tintamarre eſmeut ſi vehementement l'air, qu'il fait renforcer la pefte. or pour conclurre des effects diuers de l'air,nous dirons, que ſelon qu'il eſt diuers & diſſemblable,auſſi il rend diſſimilitude d'affections & differens effects, meſmes és eſprits , leſqucls il rend gros & hebetez,ou ſubtils & aigus:& pour le dire en vn mot,l'air a cmpire ſur tous les hommes,& autres animaux, plantes, arbres, & arbriſſeaux. de l'alteration des humeurs , qui ſe fait principalement par la maniere de viure. c h a p t r e i v. à pr È s auoir ſuffiſamment declaré les cauſes de l'alteration de l'air qui nous enuironne,& que $, nous inſpirons par neceſſité,vueillons ou non : maintenant il nous faut declarer la cauſe de la % corruption des humeurs de noſtre corps.or nos humeurs ſe corrompent & tournent en pour- # riture par vne trop grande plenitude ou obſtruction,ou intemperature:ou malignité de matie- • "re , qui ſe fait principalement par la mauuaiſe maniere de viure:& de là procedent les cauſes principales de corruption,par leſquelles tels corps ſont ſoudainement frappez de peſte:car apres auoir beu des vins pouſſez & corrompus,& des eaux mauuaiſes & putrides,comme celles qui ſont bourbeuſes & ma- reſcageuſes,dans leſquelles ſe dégorgent les égouts puants & corrompus,ſans qu'iceux ayent aucun cours: eſquelles auſſi on aura jetté quelque ordure, & laué le linge, & jetté les excremens des peftiferez,com- me eſt vn égout de l'hoſtel-dieu de paris : où apres auoir mangé meſchantes viandes, comme grains - - y y pourris l'air ſimple iamais n'ac- quiert pour- ritture. double at- traétion de l'.air. chaleur cº humidité, la peſte sommunique plus aisémée és animaux de meſme eſpece, cr . complexion, cauſes de la corruptio de mes humeurs. o le vingt-deuxiéme liure, º · - les mauuai- ſes viandes cauſent ma- ladies. rondelet en ſa practique. cauſe de la malarnitéć- pourriture des playes. autre vent : meridional pere de pu- " trefaction. la coquelu- che. la suette- aurre di 'e trouſſe-ga- la md. pourris,herbes,fruicts ſauuages,& autres alimens alterez, & non accouſtumez, comme on fait par vne gran- de famine, & aux villes & places aſſiegées ( ce que ie ſçay pour y auoir eſté ) tellement que par neceſſité les hommes ſont contraints de manger la viande des porceaux, comme on a veu en l'an , à cauſe de la cherté, faire du pain d'auoine, féves, pois, lentilles, veſſe, glan, racine de feugere , & dent de chien : auſſi manger troncs de choux, & autres choſes ſemblables : apres, dy-je, telle maniere de viure, ſuruient ordi- nairement vne peſte. car telle nourriture engendre obſtructions & pourriture d'humeurs, dont s'enſuiuent galles, apoſtemes, vlceres & fiévres putrides, qui ſont preparatifs à la peſte : à quoy auſſi aide grandement la perturbation des eſprits & humeurs, comme de crainte, frayeur, faſcherie, ou autre cauſe : car telles cho. ſes changent l'œconomie de toute l'habitude du corps. et comme és iours caniculaires on veoit, que par la grande chaleur & ebullition, la lie eſt leuée en haut, & meſlée parmy le vin : ainſi la melancholie, & autres humeurs, eſtans meſlez & partroublez,infectent le ſang,& le diſpoſent à pourriture & venenoſité, doat la peſte eſt ſouuent procrée, & autres pourritures : ce que n'agueres nous a eſté manifeſte en pluſieurs de ceux qui furent bleſſez à la bataille pres s.denys, les playes deſquels degeneroient en grandes pourritures, accompagnees de fiévre putrides, & autres grands accidens : & preſque tous mouroienttant d'vne part que d'autre, voire encore que leurs playes fuſſent petites, & en lieux du corps non dangereux : & auſſi qu'ils fuſſent traictez de toutes choſes neceſſaires, tant à leur maniere de viure, qu'autres choſes. dont pluſieurs affirmoient, & philoſophoient, que c'eſtoit à raiſon de la poudre à canon, & des boulets empoiſonnez. ce qui me ſemble n'eſtre vray, ainſi que i'ay amplement diſcouru au traicté des playes faites par arquebuzes,& autres baſtons à feu, tant parauctorité, raiſon,qu'experience. dauantage les pourritures & autres accidens ne venoient ſeulement aux playes faites par baſtons à feu , mais auſſi à celles qui eſtoient faites par autres armes, comme d eſpées, de piques, de lances, & autres. partant il me ſemble ſous correction) que les ac- cidens ne venoient par la malignité de la poudre a canon, & moins des boulets qu'on diſoit eſtre enueni- mez, mais pluſtoſt à cauſe de l'ebullition du ſang & des autres humeurs ſe broüillans & meſlans enſemble, tant pour l'extreme cholere & effroy de l'apprehenſion de la mort, qu'on void ſi proche, & principalement auſſi pour la conſtitution & pourriture de l'air. et qu'il ſoit vray, vn iour ou deux qu'on tiroit du ſang aux malades pour ſuruenir aux accidens, il ſe trouuoit de couleur non rouge, mais du tout changé de ſa nature; à ſçauoir, blanc, ou verdoyant comme ſanie des apoſtemes, qui demonſtroit eſtre du tout corrompu. ioint auſſi que lors qu'on faiſoit ouuerture des corps morts, on trouuoit preſque à tous des apoſtemes aux par- ties interieures, cornme au foye & aux poulmons , qui ſe faiſoit pour la pourriture acquiſ par le brouille- ment du ſang, & principalement de l'air ambiens altere & corrompu, & non par la poudre a canon, ny les boulets, que aucuns tenoient eſtre empoiſonnez. maintenant nous deſcrirons les ſignes & preſages de la peſte à aduenir, pris de la corruption de l'air. les ſignes ou preſages del. peſte à aduenir,pris de la corruption de l'air ch a p. v. #s v a n d les ſaiſons de l'année ne gardent leu qualitez & temperatures naturelles, & ſont fort j' # immoderées, a ſçauoir quand on void le temps fort pluuieux & auſtral, & l'eſté fort chaud & que le vent auſtral dure long-temps ſans pluye, & que i'on void au c -l cometes & eſtoilles ardentes, qui voltigent & partent de leurs places, tant qu'il ſemble qu'elle tombent auec abon- dance de tonnerres, & autres choſes que nous auons par cy-deuant dit auſſi , ſi on void gran- de quantité de chenilles,& autres vermines,qui broutent & rongent les fueilles & gettons des arbres,& les fruicts eſtre venimeux,& les oiſeaux laiſſer leurs nids,voire leurs œuf, & leurs petits, & pluſieurs femmes enceintes auorter (qui ſe fait pour la vapeur venimeuſe de l'air peſtilent, lequel eſtant inſpiré par la mere, eſtouffe l'enfant par ſa malignité ennemie de nature :) si ces choſes,dy-je,ſont véue,on peut veritablement preſager & dire que les cauſes & ſigne de corruption ſont preſens,& qu'ils nous menacent de la peſte.tou- tesfois il faut icv entendre que telles choſes apparentes en l'air ne ſont point propres cauſes de la peſte,mais que telles impreſſions aerientes ſont engédrées des exhalations & vapeurs de la terre,leſquelles en fin infe- ctent l'air,dont la peſte procede : car l'air ſe corrompt par les vapeurs putrides, eſleuées des entrailles de la terre,pour les corruptions qui ſont en icelle,comme de corps morts,égouts,eaux croupies,& autres cauſes u'auons declarées cy-deuant,deſquelles le soleil par ſa vertu attire en la moyenne region de l'air en temps § chaleurs.et pour ce il ne ſe peut faire,qu'à cauſe de l'air eſtant ainſi cerrompu, ne s'enſuiuêt di- ucrs effects ſelon la diuerſité de la corruption. et de la s'engendrent pluſieurs maladies epidemiales,c'eſt à dire,populaires,ou vulgaires,ainſi que l'an o.ſuruint vne maladie par tout le royaume de france,tant és villes qu'és villages,nommée par le commun coqueluche:parce que quant aucuns eſtoient eſprits de cette maladie,ils ſentoient grande douleur en la teſte,enſemble en l'eſtomach,és reins,& és jambes,& auoient fic- vre continuë,auec delire & freneſie:& lors qu'on les purgeoit ou ſaignoit,on abbregeoit leurs iours.et d'- celle mourut vn bien grand nombre d'hommes,tant riches que pauures.auſſi l'an .ſuruint vne autrema d ladie en angleterre,& aux baſſes allemagnes,qui fut nommée du peuple, la suette, pource que les patiens auoient vne bien grande ſueur par tout le corps,auec grand friſſon, tremblement, & palpitation de cœur, accompagnée de fiévre continue, & mouroient en peu de iours, & cette maladie tua auſſi vn bien grand nombre de perſonnes. pareillement l'an . regna en la ville du puy en auuergne, vne autre maladie nommée du peuple,trouſſe-galand,pource que peu de ceux qui en eſtoient eſprits,eſchappoient,ains mou- roient en deux ou trois iours ou moins,& pluſtoſt les robuſtes que les debiles,& les riches que les pauures. au commencement les patiens auoient grande peſanteur de tout le corps, auec vne extreme douleurde te- ſte, & fiévre continué,& perdoient toute cognoiſſance, & faiſoient tous leurs excremens inuolontairement ſous eux, & auoient grand delire, de ſorte qu'il les falloit lier & attacher. que ſi aucuns eſchappoient, leurs cheueux tomboient, & ladicte maladie eſtoit fort contagieuſe. l'année ſuiuante vint en ladite ville vne autre plus grande peſte,accompagnée de bubons & charbons, qui fit auſſi mourir vn grand nombre de peuple, ce que i'ay bien voulu icy annoter, afin que le chirurgien prenne garde à la grande diuetſité & malignité de cette maladie peſtilente pour y obuier, l'aduertiſſant davantage, qu'en certains temps aduien- nent pluſieurs autres maladies populaires, comme fiévres putrides,flux de venrre,rheumes,toux, freneſies, ſquinancie, plureſies, peripneumonies,optalmies, apoplexies, lethargies, pourpre, rougeole, petite ve ole, galles anthrax ou charbons, & autres puſtulles malignes, leſquelles prennent en meſme temps. partant la peſte n'eſt pas touſiours,ny en tout temps d'vne meſme ſorte,mais diuerſe l'vne de l'autre : qui a eſté cauſe qu'on luy a donné diuers noms, ſelon les effects & accidens qu'elle produict : ce qui pronient princi- palement pour la diuerſité du venin qui eſt en l'air. car ainſi qu'il § de la vie aux animaux, auſſi eſt-il cauſe des maladies, & de la mort d'iceux, pource que ſans iceluy l'animal ne peut eſtre, ne # inc iilcs a de la peſte. i # ' : | < #. a meſmes vn bien peu de temps : d'autant qu'il eſt du tout neceſſaire qu'il ſoit attiré par la reſpiration des poulmons,lequel eſtant pourry & attiré en la ſubſtance du co ur,abat toutes les forces du corps,& fait mou- rir pluſieurs animaux pour la neceſſité qu'ils ont de reſpirer.parquoy lors que l'air pourry & peſtifere exerce ſa tyrannie,il tue non ſeulement le genre humain : mais auſſi les beſtes de la terre,& les oyſeaux du ciel. et pour le dire en vn mot,tel air peſtilent eſt ſi furieux,qu'il renuerſe,diſſipe,altere,briſe, & corrompt l'harmo- nie naturelle & temperature de tous animaux ; ainſi qu'vn certain foudre & tonnerte liquefie & con ume l'argent d'vne bourſe ſans la gaſter. pareillement fait ſortir le vin des tonneaux,ſans qu'on puiſſe apperce- uoir aucune ouuerture : auſſi fond le fer d'vne pique ſans toucher au bois : comminue & briſe les os du corps ſans aucune apparence en la chair : qui ſe fait par vne vertu indicible, de laquelle on ne peut donner raiſon. combien qu'ariſtote, liure . des meteores,chap. i. ayant pour reſolution de ces queſtions fait di- uiſion des foudres en ceux qui ſont plus participans de terreſtrité, & en ceux qui retiennent plus de la na- ture & ſubſtance de la flamme, & qui ſont plus ſubtils : dit cela aduenir, parce que tels foudres de leur ſubtilité penetrent aisément au trauers des corps rares & poreux, comme ſont le bois, le cuir , la chair, & peau,ſans les offenſer : mais qu'au trauers des denſes & ſolids,ils ne peuuent paſſer ſans effort & violen- ce, dont vient que pour la reſiſtence qui leur eſt faite au paſſage ils les rompent & fracaſſent. ce que meſ- me apres ariſtote a confirmé pline , liure - chap. i. & seneque liure . de ſes queſtions naturelles : ainſi eſt-il de la peſte,qui deſtruit & corrompt toute l'œconomie de nature. - desſignes de la peſte à venir, pris de la corruption qui eſt en la terre. c h a p. v i. - e s ſignes de la peſte à aduenir, pris de la corruption de la terre,ſont que l'on void ſortir d'icelle s abondance de champignons ou potirons,& le froment produire yuraye,& autre choſe contre leur * naturel.auſſi que ſur icelle apparoiſſent grandes trouppes de petits animaux,comme araignes,che- nilles,papillons,cigales,hannetons,mou ches,& mouſcherons,ſcorpions,eſcargots,limaçons,ſau- terelles,grenoüillettes,vers,& autres ſemblables,qui ſe procréent de pourriture:parcillement les beſtes ſau- uages laiſſent leurs cauernes & cachots : auſſi en ſortent pluſieurs autres,comme taulpes,crapaux, viperes, couleuures,lezards,aſpics,crocodilles,& autres de pluſieurs & diuerſes eſpeces:toutes leſquelles beſtes ſor- tent pour la faſcherie de la vapeur putride & veneneuſe qui eſt contenue és entrailles d'icelle, de laquelle meſme la pluſpart de telle vermine ſe fait:ioinct auſſi qu'on les trouue quelquesfois mortes en grand nom- bre, ce que ne trouuera faſcheux à croire celuy qui conſiderera que dieua diſtribué aux animaux quelque choſe particuliere,pour demonſtrer & predire non ſeulement la peſte à aduenir mais auſſi le changement du temps,comme pluye,vcnt,greſle,tempeſte,le printemps,l'eſté,automne,& hyuer, & autres choſes ſembla- bles:& ce tant par geſtes,chanſons,cris,que par trouppes & arriuées,ſorties de la terre,laiſſans leurs petits, & fuyans en autre region,comme nous auons dit : leſquelles choſes viennent de leurs ſens exterieurs & oc- culte conuenauce de leurs corps auecl'air. et ſi quelqu'vn demande autre cauſe, ie le renuoyeray au grand architecteur , duquel les threſors de ſcience & ſageſſe ſont cachez, & nous les manifeſtera quand bon luy ſemblera. or ces vapeurs pourries,leſquelles nous auons dit chaſſer les beſtes de leurs cauernes, s'eſleuent en l'air,& cauſent groſſes nuées,& tombent quelquesfois ſur les fruicts,& les corrompent,dont ceux qui en mangent ſont eſpris de la peſte.elles n'infectent ſeulement les fruicts,mais auſſi font mourir les arbres,& les beſtes,comme boeufs,vaches,cheuaux,pourceaux,moutons,poulailles,& autres volatilles,côme nous auons dit.sur quoy tu dois obſeruer, que les beſtes à quatre pieds ſont pluſ oſt ſaiſies & frappées de cette peſte, que les hommes,parce qu'elles paiſſent les herbes imbues des exhalations putrides de la terre,& partant on ne les doit faire paiſtre que le soleil n'ait premierement conſommé la rose e,s'il eſt poſſible.qu'il ſoit vray, on a veu vn payſan de la beauſſe auoir eſté accusé en iuſtice d'eſtre ſorcier,parce que ſes brebis ne mouroiét point,& toutes celles de ſes voiſins periſſoient.sur quoy eſtant interrogé deuant les iuges il fit reſponſe,que iamais il ne permettoit que ſon beſtail ſortiſt hors,que premierement le soleil n'euſt conſommé la roſée,& que pluſieurs petites beſtioles qui eſteient ſur ies herbes ne fuſſent retirées dedans la terre.& dit que quel- quesfois il l'auoit declaré à aucuns de ſes voiſins:ce qui fut trouué vray,& fut abſout pour les raiſons,ſuſdi- tes.or pource qu'il eſt fait icy mention des beſtioles qui nuiſent aux trouppeaux qui paiſſent,nous declare- rons icy en paſſant,qu'il ya vne petite beſtiole ſemblable à la cantharide,trouuée aux herbages, qui enfle ſi fortvn bœuf quand il l'a mangée,qu il creue & pour cette cauſe eſt nommée de pline,bupreſtis. du moyen deſepreſeruer en temps de peſte,& premierement de l'air,du viure,& de la maiſon. c h a p t r e v i i. n>@ p r e s auoir deſcrit la peſte,& declaré les cauſes,ſignes & preſages par leſquels on peut conie- $\ cturer qu'elle doit aduenir : maintenant nous faut dire comment on s'en doit preſeruer, d'autant # que la precaution doit preceder la curation d'icelle. or veritablement le plus ſouuerain cmcde que ie puiſſe enſeigner auec tous les anciens,eſt s'enfuir toſt & loing du lieu infect,& ſe retirer en air ſain,& retourner bien tard, ſi on le peut faire. et où il ne ſera poſſible, faut obſeruer deux choſes en general : la premiere, eſt rendre le corps fort pour reſiſter à l'infection de l'air : la ſeconde, moyenner que j'air infect ne ſoit aſſez fort pour imprimer en nous ſon venin : qui ſe fera en le corrigeant par qualité con- traire, comme s'il eſt trop chaud, par choſes froides, & ainſi des autres qualitez. le corps reſiſtera venin, s'il eſt net & fortifié, par remedes propres, comme par bon regime, purgation, & ſaignée s'il en eſt beſoin. auſſi faut euiter la grande varieté des viandes : & celles qui ſont fort chaudes & humides , & principalement celles qui ſe corrompent aisément, & ne faut manger patiſſeries, n'yurogner , ou ſe trop ſaouler, mais on ſe leuera de table auec appetit. pareillement faut que les viandes ſoient de bon ſuc , & faciles à digerer : car les bons alimens pris auec vne mediocrité en temps & lieu ; engendrent bonnes hu- meurs, qui ſont cauſe de ſanté, & par conſequent preſeruatifde peſte. auſſi il faut prendre moyen exer- cice aumatin, & au veſpre auant le repas, & en lieu non ſuſpect d'air peſtiferé: pareillement auoir bon ventre,ſoit par art, ou par nature : auſſi faut fortifier le cœur & autres parties nobles par choſes cordiales, comme epithemes, linimens,emplaſtres,eaux,pillules pouldres, tablettes,opiates , parfums , & autres que dirons cy-apres. dauantage faut eſlire vn bon air & loing des lieux fetides : car le bon air ayde beaucºupà la conſeruation de la ſanté d'vn chacun, & recrée les eſprits & toutes les vertus au contraire l'air obſcur & de mauuaiſe odeur nuit merueilleuſement, parce qu'il engendre pluſieurs maladies fait perdre l'appºº rend le corps languide & mal coloré, & eſtouffe le cœur,& pour le dire # vn mot, il abrege la º# v , v \ " \ l *<= l'air eſº cauſe prin- cipale de ſanté,ou ma- ladie. raiſon de l'action des foudres- les beſtes ſentent dr monſtrent le changement des temps- hiſtoire d'vn pay- ſan, accusé d'eſfre ſor- cier. plin.liu. •. chap. . cirò,longè, tardè. maniere de viure. de l'exerci- ſº, - de l'air. le vingt-deuxiéme liure, vent de bize, qui vient du septentrion eſt bon , pource qu'il eſt froid & ſec : au contraire le vent auſtrai, qui vient du midy eſt tres dangereux,parce qu'il eſt chaud & humide,qui debilite le corps,& ouure les con- duits; qui fait que le venin penetre plus facilement au cœur. et celuy d'occident eſt ſemblablement in- ſalubre, à cauſe qu'il tient beaucoup du meridional. et pour cette cauſe, on fermera les feneſtres de la maiſon du coſté qu'ils frappent,& on ouurira au matin celles qui qnt regard vers le septentrion & orient, ſi d'auenture la peſten'eſtoit de ce coſté-là : & ſe faut donner garde que nulle mauuaiſe vapeur n'ente de- il faut faire dans. puis apres on fera du feu par toutes les chambres, & on les parfumera de choſes aromatiques,com- du feu, & me d'encens,myrrhe benjoin,ladanum,ſtyrax,rofes,fueilles de myrte,lauande,roſmarin, ſaulge,baſilic, far- parfumer la riette ſerpolet, marjolaine, genets, pomme de pin, petites pieces de bois de pin, de genévre,& ſa graine, maiſon. cloux de girofle, cyſelets de cypre, & autres ſemblables choſes odoriferantes. et de cette meſme fumée faut parfumer les habillemens. on dit auſſi, qu'il eſt bon en temps de peſte de nourrir vn bouc en la mai- ſon où on habite, & le tient-on pour vn ſingulier remede contre la contagion du mauuais air : pour ce que la vapeur du bouc avant remply le lieu où il habite, empeſche que l'air peſtiferé n'y trouue place : laquel- le raiſon peut auſſi ſeruir au conſeil de parfumer les habits de bonnes ſuffumigations. et me ſemble (ſauf meilleur iugement) qu'elle peut auſſi eſtre employée à ce qu'on dit,qu'vn homme à ieun eſt plus apte à eſtre pris de la peſte, qu'vn qui aura mangé, non pas à ſatieté, mais mediocrement. car auec ce que par le manger nature fortifiée , chaſſe plus aisément d'elle la poiſon & venenofité : auſſi du manger & boire ſe peuuent porter par toutes les poroſitez du corps des vapeurs , qui les empliſſans occuperont les vacuitez que l'air peſtilent prendroit. toutesfois quand eſt du bouc, le vulgaire dict vne autre raiſon, c'eſt qu'vne hiſtoire d'a. mauuaiſe odeur chaſſe l'autre. cette raiſon eſt ſemblable à celle que alexandre benedictus recite, à ſça- lexandre be uoir qu'vn medecin de scythie fit ceſſer la peſte, laquelle prouenoit de l'air, faiſant tuer tous les chiens medictu,en & chats,qui eſtans eſpars par les rues emplirent l'air de leur vapeur putride:& par ce moyen promptement ſon liure de la peſte ceſſa. pource(dit-il)que telle pourriture changea la nature de l'air,lequelauparauant eſtoit perni- vent de se- ;tentrivn cö- traire à la peſte. a leun on prèd pluſtoſt la peſte. la poſte. cieux aux hômes:ce qui ſe fait pour la diſſimilitude des choſes,& qu'vn venin chaſſe l'autre onne doit ſortir #º pour de la chambre en temps de peſte,que deux heures apres le soleil leué,afin qu'ilait purifié l'air par la clairté ſortir. & chaleur,& principalement quand l'air eſt trouble & nebuleux & en païs de fondrieres, & enuironné de montagnes. et faut auſſi ſe garder des grandes aſſemblées de peuple, & principalement des danſes, d'au- tant que le corps eſtât eſchauffé & laſsé,& que les conduits ſont ouuerts,alors faut qu'on tire grande quan- tité d'air pour la refrigeration du cœur,& partant s'il eſt infecté nous donne la peſte par l'haleine & ſueur. que ſi quelqu'vn voyage audit temps de peſte causée du vice de l'air, & que la ſaiſon de l'année ſoit fort chaude,il doit pluſtoſt cheminer la nuict que le iour, parce que la peſte aſſaut & prend plus facilementdu- rant la chaleur & ſplendeur du soleil, qui ſubtilie, eſchauffe,& rarefie l'air, & qui outre ouurant le cuir i) ſe faut rend noſtre corps plus acceſſible à receuoir l'air peſtiferé. partant la nuict eſt plus ſalubre,àcauſe que l'air #arder de la eſt plus froid & eſpés;toutesfois il ſe faut garder de la plaine lune, pource qu'en ce temps-là, la nuiét eſt pleine lune plus tiede & dangereuſe , ainſi que l'experience le monſtre : confideré meſme que les bois coupez en icelle ºn temps de ſont plus ſubiects à pourriture,comme experimentent à leur dam ceux qui en font baſtir.la raiſon de ce eſt, peſte. que la lune eſtant humide,remplit (lors principalement qu'elle eſt pleine ) les corps d'humidité ſuperflue, dont ſuruient pourriture or pour retourner à noſtre propos:le plus leur remede de preſeruation,pour ceux qui ne bougent du lieu peſtilent, eſt qu'auant que ſortir de la chambre & apres quelques promenades, ils ne ſortent ſans auoir defieuné : pour autant que les parties nobles du corps (auſquelles le venin s'attache principalement ) n'eſtans encores ſouſtenuës par les viandes, ne peuuent pas ſe deffendre comme ſi elles eſtoient fortifiées : ioinct auſſi que les veines & arteres non encores remplies de nouueau aliment,attirent & laiſſent plus facilement entrer le venin,lequel trouuant place vuide,ſe rempare des parties nobles,& prin- cipalement du cœur. parquoy ceux qui auront accouſtumé de deſieuner au matin , mangeront du pain, & #ºſi - beurre frais ſalé,& quelque carbonnade,& autres bons alimens : & boiront du meilleur vin qu'il leur ſera a qui les poſſible recouurer.les ruſtiques & gens de trauail pourront manger quelque gauſſe d aulx oueſchallottes, aulx ſont º du pain & du beurre,& de bon vin,s'ils en peuuent fournir afin de charmer la broüée, puis s'en iront à éons. leur œuure,en laquelle dieu les auraappellez.les aulx ſont ſouuerains aux ruſtiques & villageois,& à ceux qui ont accouſtumé d'en vſer : auſſi à ceux auſquels ils n'engendrent point de douleur de teſi , & ne leseſ- chauffent par trop,à raiſon que le temperament de ceux-là eſt plus robuſte, & leur ſang mo .,s aisé à s'en- flammer : au contraire ils nuiſent aux delicats,comme femmes,enfans,& choleriques,& à ceux qui viuenten oiſiueté,& qui ont le ſang aisé à s'enflammer:partant à iceux les aulx ſeroient poiſon au lieu qu'ils ſont me- decine aux ruſtiques, auſquels tels remedes ainſi forts ſont propres, & ont eſté inuentez par bonne raiſon, pource qu'ils contrarient du tout au venin,a cauſe qu'ils ſont remplis d'vne tres grande vapeur ſpiritueuſe, de l'eau qu'ô laquelle ſuffoque altere,corromp,& chaſſe le venin hors du corps quant à l'eau,de laquelle on doitvſer en doit vſer e» ºp* peſtilent.il faut auoir eſgard ſi la peſte prouient du vice de l'air car alors ne faut vſer d'eau de pluye, teps de teſte. pººº que l'air dont elle prouient eſt infecté, partant alors ſera meilleur de boire de l'eau des puits fort profonds : au contraire,ſi le vice vient de la terre,on vſera de l'eau de ciſterne,& de fontaine:& faut attendre à en boire iuſques à ce que le solcil l'ait purifié par ſes rayons : & ſi on craint qu'elle ſoit vitiée, on la cor- rigera,la faiſant vn peu boüillir,ou la ferrer auec acier,ou or,ou argent chaud, ou par mie de pain roſtie ou preuue de la non roſtie.or à fin que tu la puiſſes mieux eſlire,tu la pourras eſprouuer en trois manieres, à ſçauoir, par la bonne eau. veuë,le gouſt,& l'odeur : quant à la veue,elle ſe doit monſtrer claire & nette,& à la bouche de nulle ſaueur, ny qualité aucune : auſſi ne doit point auoird'odeur.outre plus,celle qui ſera toſt eſchauffée & toit refroi- die,eſt plus legere,& par conſequent meilleure : & pour la faire encore plus excellente, la faut faire vn peu boiiillir : ie dy vn peu car l'eſtant trop elle deuientamere & lalée. deſcription d'eaux cordiawes,elečtuaires,opiates, pilules, & autres remedes à prendre » par la bouche, preſeruatifs & curatifs de la peſte . c h a p i t r e v i i i. e v x qui n'ont accouſtumés & abhorrent à manger au matin , prendront quelque medica- * ment contrariant au venin, & entre tous l'eau theriacale eſt tres-excellente, de laquelle, - apres s'eſtre habillé,& ayant rendu ſes excremens , & fait quelque exercice il conuient boire c， vn doigt la meſlant auec bon vin,& d icelle auſſi on s'en lauera les mains & la face, & pareil- $ee# lement la bouche & les oreilles,& on en tirera auſſi vn peu par le nez.carelle côforte le cœur, xsz &n) chaſſe le venin loin d'iceluy,& n'eſt ſeulement vtile pour precautiô,mais auſſi eſt propre pour la curatió,à prendre prôptement qu'on ſe ſent frappé,parce qu'clle prouoque grâdement la ſueur,& partât chaſſe y'ertu de l'eau thcria- *ale. À c d -,-- de la peſte. : : · | - - - - | a chaſſe le venin des parties internes aux externes : & la doit-on faire au mois de iuin, attendu que les her- bes en iceluy temps lont en leur grande vigueur & force. .. la compoſition eſt telle. /.. radicum gentia- deſcriptien nar,cyper,tormentillx,dictamni , enula campanx an. .j. foliorum tapſi barbati, cardui benedicti, morſus d'icelle. diaboli , pimpinellæ,ſcabiofr,oxalidis agreſſis minoris an m.f. ſummitatum rutae p j. baccarum myrti .j. roſarum purpurcarum,florum bugloſſi,boraginis & hypericonis an. . j.mundentur omnia,piſtentur & ma- cerentur xxiiij.horarum ſpatio in vini albi aut maluatici,aqua roſarum & oxalidis an.lib.j.deinde reponan- t urin vaſe vitreo,& addatur theriaca & mithridatij an. . . fiat diſtillatio in balneo mariæ. et l'eau eſtant diſtillée on la mettra en vne phiole de verre,&derechef on yadiouſtera croci .j.terra ſigillatx,boli arme- nix,ſantali citrini,raſuræ eboris,limaturæ cornu ceruiiunioris prope caput aſſumpti an. .ſ. puis on eſtou- pera la phiole,& la laiſſera-on fermenter au soleil par l'eſpace de huict ou dix iours, & ſera gardée:& lors qu'on en voudra vſer,on en prendra deux doigts en vn verre, plus ou moins, ſelon la force & vigueur des tt #. : : | - - perſonnes.on en peut bailler aux petis enfans qui encores tettent,& à ceux qui ſont ja ſevrez, & aux fem- mes groſſes:& afin qu'elle ſoit plus gracieuſe & facile à boire,on la peut faire paſſer par la chauſſe d'hippo- cras,lors qu'on la voudra prendre,yadiouſtant vn peu de ſuccre,& canelle concaſsée. autres prennent au raeinº?re- matin pour precaution,de la racine d'enule campane,ou zedoar,ou angelique , en les maſchant & tenant en ſºrº. la bouche. les autres prennent de la racine de gentiane pilée,le poids d'vn eſcu, & trempée la nuict en vin blanc , & en boiuent deux doigts au matin à jeun:les autres prennent du vin d'aluyne : autres vſent de con- ſerue de roſes,de bugloſe,de chicorée,violettes de mars,fenoüil doux : autres prennent de la terre ſigillée, ou de la corne de cerf ratiſsée le poids d'vn eſcu,dedans vn œufmolletauecvn peu de ſafran,puis boiuent b deux doigts de vin:aucuns prennent de l'eau de vie,& y meſlent de bon vin blanc,du bol d'armenie , racine de gentiane,tormentille dicte ſemence de genévre,cloux de girofle,macis, canelle,ſafran, & autres fembla- bles,les faiſant diſtiller in balneo arix.on pourra auſſi vſer de cette eau cordiale, qui a tres-grande ver- tu° /...radicis ariſtolochix longa & rotundae,tormentillar,dictamni an. .iij,zedoarix .ij. ligni aleës,ſantali eau cordia- citrini an. .j.foliorum ſcordij,hypericonis,acetoſx,rutæ,ſaluiæ,an. .f.ſeminis iuniperi,baccarum lauri an. le de grande .iij.ſeminis citri .j.caryophillorum,macis,nucis moſcata an. .ij.maſtiches,olibani,boli armeniæ,terræ ſi- efficace. gillatx,raſurx eboris,cornu cerui an. .j.croci .j.conſerux roſarum,forum bugloſſi & nenupharis, theria- cæ veteris an. .j.camphura ſ .aquae vitæ fb.ſ .vini albifb ij.ſ.fiat diſtillatio in balneo marix.cette eau ſe- ra reſeruée en vne phiole de verre bien bouſchée,pour en vſer au matin,comme de l'eau cy-deſſus nommée . theriacalc,la quantité de deux dcigts en vn verre:elle eſt auſſi de merueilleux effect. pareillement cét ele- ctuaire eſt profitable pour preſeruer. - z.theriacx optimar iij.radicis tormentillæ,ſeminis iuniperi & cardui benedictian. .j- .boli armenicx eleâuaire prxparatx . ſ. pulueris § de gemmis & diamarg.frigidi,raſuræ cornu cerui, coralli rubrian. .j. fort profita- - cum ſyrupo de corticibus & acetoſitate citri.miſce,& fiat electuarium liquidum in forma opiatae.de cette ble pour compoſition en faut prendre tous les matins la groſſeur d'vneaueline, auec vn peu d'eau de rofes, ou d'en- prºſºrner. diue,chardon benit,ou ſcabieuſe,ou de ceriſes,ou autre eau cordiale:ou en lieu d'icelle vn peu de bon vin. h ** **- auſſi l'opiate ſuiuante eſt bonne & excellente,de laquelle on peut faire tablettes. & radicis gentianx & º # angelicz,zedoariz,enulx campanx an. .ij.ſeminis citri & acetoſx an. .É.corticis citrificci, cinamomi,bac-" la peſte. , c º lauri & iuniperi,crocian. .j.conſeruae roſarum & bugloſſi an .j.ſacchari optimi quantû ſufficit:for- mentur tabella ponderis .É.velfiat opiata cü xquis partibus conſerux bugloſſi & mellis anthoſati,illa om- nia arida excipiendo.si vous les laiſſez en tablettes,on en prendra vne au matin,& les petits enfans & fem- mes groſſes demie; & conuient demeurer deux heures apres ſans manger ny boire,ſi on ne vouloit aualler vn peu de vin incontinent apres les auoir priſes.si vous en faictes opiate,la doſe ſera comme des ſuiuantes. böne opiate. /...radicum valerianz,tormentillae,dictamni,foliorum rutae an ſ croci, macis, nucis moſcatx an. .É. boli armenix præparatæ .iiij.conſerux roſarum & ſyrupide limonibus an. quantum ſufficit, fiat opiata ſatis li- - quida.autre. .radicum ariſtolochia vtriuſque,gentianæ,tormentillæ,dictamni an. .j.É.zinziberis .iij fo- #º epi - lior.rutae,ſaluix,mentæ,pulegij,an. .ij.baccarû lauri & iuniperi,ſem citri ad. .iiij.macis,nucis moſcatae,ca- " ryophyllorum,cinnamomi an. .ij xyloaloes,& ſantali citrini an. .j.thuris maſculi,maſtiches,raſuræ eboris, cornu cerui an. .ij.croci . .boli armeniae,terrae ſigillatae,coralli rubri,margaritarum elvctarû an. .j.con- ſerua roſarum,bugloſſi & nymphaez,theriacæ optimae &veteris an. .j.ſacchari albiſſimi fb.j.adde ſub finem confectionis alkermes .ij.caphuræ in aqua roſarum diſloluta .j.fiat opiata ſecundùm aitem.la doſe ſera cºnſº ai- demie dragme ou vn ſcrupule,ou dix grains ſelon les perſonnes. et apres l'auoir priſe, on peut boire vn *** fºr* doigt ou deux de bon vin,ou quelque eau cordiale.le theriaque & mithridat fidelement compoſez ſont les principaux de tous les remedes,& les plus approuuez, en yadiouſtant pour vne demie once de chacun ou enuiron, vne once & demie de bonne conſerue de roſes, ou de bugloſe,ou viole,& la peſanteur de trois eſcus de bon bol armene preparé, puis le tout bien battu & incorporé,en faire conſerue, de laquelle on vſera aumatin deux heures deuant le repas,la groſſeur d'vne auelaine.et faut entendre que le bon theriaque choix de ne doit eſtre recent que de quatre ans,ne plus vieil que de douze ans, & qu'il laiſſe ſa ſaueur longuement ºº º d en la bouche:eſtant nouueau il eſt propre aux choleriques , & eſtant vieil il conuient aux vieux , & à ceux ſelon le qui ſont de temperature froide,comme les pituiteux & melancholiques:à cauſe de la vertu refrigeratiue de "º l'opium, qui entrant en la compoſition du theriaque, retient ſa pleine force pour quelques premieres an- nées : en fin par la fermentation eſtant rabatue, faict que toute la compofition demeure plus chaude. la confection d'alxermes eſt ſemblablement bonne,tant pour preſeruer,que donnerà ceux qui ſont ja frappez de venin. auſſi la rheubarbe tenue en la bouche,& maſchée au matin, la groſſeur d'vne auelaine , auec vn clou de girofle,eſt preſeruatiue. pareillement cette compoſition eſt profitable pour preſeruer quand on va cºmpºſitiºn en vn lieu ſuſpect. z.corticum citri & mali aurei ſaccharo conditorum an. .j conſerux roſarum & radicis prºſºrºri- bugloſſi an. .iij.ſem.citri .iij.ſemaniſi&fœniculian. . radicis angelicx iiij.ſacchariroſati quantû ſuf "# a ficit fiat conditum coopertum foliis aureis,quo vtatur ex cochleari,vt dixi,in exitu domus ou % granorum #_* pini mundatorum & piſtatorum,infuſarum in aqua roſarum & ſcabioſx per ſex horas an. .ij.amygdalarum poſition. excorticatarum in aquis prxdictis fb.ſº.corticum citri & mali aurei ſaccharo conditorum an. .j. ß. radicis angelicx .iiij.miſce ſecundùmartem ad formam panis marſici vel confectionis alterius , & teneat fruſtu- lum frequenter in ore.pareillement en ce cas ces tablettes ſont profitables. /.radicis dictamni,tormétillar, tablettes valerianæ,enulx campanx,eryngijan. . .boli armenicx,terrx ſigillatx an. .j.caphurx,cinnamomi,ſemi- prºſº nis oxalidis agreſtis,zedoarix an. .j.pulueris electuarijdiamargarit.frigidi .ij.conſeruae roſarum,bugloſſi, º corticis citri conditi,mithridatij,theriacx an. .j.ſacchari optimi diſſoluti in aqua ſcabioſœ & cardui bene- pilules de dicti quantum ſufficit:fiant tabellz ponderis, .j,vel .ſ. on prendra de ces tablettes tous les iours à jeun, † #a, deux heures deuant le repas, comme deſſus eſt dit. outre plus, les pillules de la compoſition de rufus # ſont fort approuuées des doctes medecins,pource qu'on les a trouuées de grand º, & dit ledit º† medecins. ' y y q le vingt-deuxiéme liure, l'eau d'o- zeille reſiſte à la peſte,. - le matin propre aux •uaruations. remede ſin- gulier durºy mithridates. la rué en- memie aux femmes groſſes, remedes manuels. l'eſponge eſt propre pour contenir les ckoſes aro- matiques. pommes de ſenteurs pour l'eſté. pommes de ſenteurs pour l'hyuer- poudres aro- matiques. autrefoudre aromatique. que iamais ne ve d perſonne en auoir vsé, qui n'ait eſté preſerué de peſte, pourueu que les parties nobles a n'euſſent eſté ja grandement infectées. la compoſition deſdites pillules eſt telle. . aloes hepaticx .É. ammoniaci electi .iij myrrha .ij.É.maſtiches ij.crocig.vij.contundantur omnia , & incorporentur cum ſucco mali citrijaut ſyrupo de limonibus , & fiat maſſa. laquelle on gardera bien enueloppée dedans vn cuir : & lors qu'on en voudra vſer,on en formera vne pillule ou deux, qu'on prendra au matin deux heures ou trois deuant le repas,ou bien le poids de demy eſcu ou d'vn eſcu,ſelon la volonté d'vn chacun. et apres les auoir priſes,on peut prendre deux doigts de bon vin ou d'eau d'ozeille, laquelle a pareillement grande vertu contre le venin peſtiferé,à cauſe qu'elle eſt de tenuëſubſtance, & garde de putrefaction par ſon ace- tofité:meſmes on a trouué par experience,qu'à celuy qui en auroit mangé deuant qu'vn ſcorpion le morde, il n'aduiendroit aucun mal.et quant à la faculté des choſes qui entrent en la compoſition deſdites pillules, l'aloes nettoye & purge,la myrrhe reſiſte à pourriture,le maſtic robore & fortifie, & le ſafran reſiouit les fa- cultez : partant nous conclurrons qu'elles ſont de merueilleux effeét, comme la raiſon & experience lede- monſtre. on les peut donner en potion,comme le meſme autheur faiſoit. jautres pitiules pour meſme effrét , bien experimentées. /. aloés .j,myrrhz .ſº.croci orientalis .j.agarici trochiſcati .j.rhabarbari electi pulueriſati j.cin- namomi electi .ij.maſtiches .j. ſeminis citri g.xij. pulueriſentur omnia vt decet,& cum ſyrupo capillo- rum veneris fiat maſſa.laquelle on gardera bien enueloppée dedans du cuir , & en prendras comme deſſus, plus ou moins,ſelon qu'il ſera neceſſaire. et ſi leſdites pillules eſtoient trop dures, on les amolira auec du -- ſyrop de limons,ou autres ſemblables à cét effect. ces pillules qui s'enſuiuent ſont pareillement de grande operatió. .aloès lotæ ij.croci .j,myrrha .É.ammon.diſſin vino albo .j,mell.rof.zedoarix,ſantal.rubr. an. .j.boli armen.prxp. .ij.coralli rubri .f.caphurx ſcr.ſ.fiant pillula ſecundùm artem. la doſe pour ſe preſeruer eſt en prendre tous les matins vne,& ſi on ſe veut purger,on en prendravne dragme au matin,qui eſt le temps le plus propre à faire les euacuations,à raiſon que le ſang domine,& eſt en ſa force & vigueur, auſſi que les vertus ſont reparées par le repos de la nuict,& que la digeſtion eſt faite. ceux qui ont le flux des hemorrhoides exceſſif,ne doiuent vſerd'aucunes pillules où il entre de l'aloës, de peur d'augmenter le flux,& le faire trop grand & impetueux.d'abondant,les anciens eſcriuent, qu'apres la mort du roy mithri- dates on trouua par eſcrit de ſa propre main, en ſon cabinet entre ſes choſes plus precieuſes, que ſi quel- qu'vn prend deux noix de noyer ſeiches nô moiſies,deux figues,vingt fueilles de rue,& déux ou trois grains de ſel,pilez & broyez enſemble,& en mange la groſſeur d'vne aueline,puis ſoudain auale vn peu deyin,& ce deux heures auant que prendre le repas , ceſtuy iour celuy qui en aura pris, ne peut eſtre en danger de prendre aucun venin.outre-plus ce remede eſt ſingulier à ceux qui ont eſté mords ou picquez de quelque beſte veneneuſe,à cauſe de la rue principalement : toutesfois les femmes groſſes n'en doiuent yſer aucune- ment,de peur de nuire à leur fruict,principalement pour le reſpect de la ruë, qui eſtant chaude & ſeiche au troiſieſme degré purge violemment l'amary,& fait couler les mois promptement : dont eſtant ſubſtraite la nourriture à l'enfant,il eſt neceſſaire qu'ilmeure. on eſlira les remedes cy-deſſus mentionnez au gouſt de chacun , & les changera on par fois, de peur que nature n'en faſſe habitude , & auſſi pour la diuerſité des temperamens,& fi on n'en trouue de l'vn,on prendra de l'autre. - des remedes particuliers , ou choſes qu'on appliqueparle dehors. c h a p. ix. r # v t r e les choſes cy-deuant eſcrites à prendre par le dedans ne faut encor negliger de tenir en la main quelques choſes aromatiques , aſtringentes, & pleines de vapeurs, leſquelles ayent pro- # prieté de chaſſer cét air peſtiferé, & empeſcher qu'il ne trouue place en aucune partie de noſtre corps : auſſi qu'elles ayent vertu de roborer le cerueau , & autres membres principaux, leſquels eſtans fortifiez,confortent pareillement toute l'habitude du corps:comme font la rue,la meliſſe, roſmarin, ſcordium,ſauge,abſinte,cloux de girofle,muguette,ſafran , racine d'angelique, racine de liueſche, qui apa- reille vertu,& autres ſemblables, leſquelles on fera tremper vne nuict en fort vinaigre & eau de vie, & en prendra-on de toutes enſemble la groſſeur d'vn œuf,enueloppée en vn mouchoir,ou en vne eſponge trem- pée & imbuë en ladite eau car il n'y a rien qui contienne plus les vertus & eſprits des choſes aromatiques & odorantes que fait l'eſponge, & partant on en doit pluſtoſt vfer que d'autre matiere, ſoit pour flairer au nez,ou pour appliquer ſur le cœur,pour faire epithemes & fomentations. or telle choſe odoriferaotes ſe" ront diuerſifiées ſelon que l'air ſera chaud ou froid : comme pour exemple, en eſté vous prendrez vne cſ- ponge trempée en bon vinaigre roſat autant d'vn que d'autre , canelle & cloux de girofle concaſſez, y ad- iouſtant vn peu de ſafran,& la tenez enuelopée en ſa main dedans vn mouchoir,& ſentez ſouuent,ou faites ainſi. .abſinthijm . caryophill.numero x.radicis gentianx & angelicx an. .ijaceti & aqux roſarani.ij. theriacx & mithridatij.an. .j. le tout ſoit pilé enſemble, pnis enueloppé en vn mouchoirauecvne petite eſponge:laquelle gardera que la liqueur ne tombe. on peut auſſi enfermer telles choſes en des boettes de bois odoriferant,comme de genévre,cedre, cyprés, leſquelles ſeront troüées en pluſieurs endroits, &te- nuës pres la bouche en les flairant ſouuent. auſſi en pareil cas ſera bon de faire des pommes de ſenteurs, comme cette-cy. / santali citrini,macis,corticum citri,roſarum,foliorum myrtian. .ij benioin,ladani,ſty- racis an. .É.cinnamomi,croci an. .ijcaphurx & ambrx an .j.algalix,moſci an. gr. iij. cumaqua roſarum infuſionis tragacanthi,formetur pomum. autre. /.. roſarum rubrarum,florum nympharx,violar. an. .j.ſan- talorum omnium,coriandri,corticis citrian. . .caphurx .j. pulueriſentur omnia, & cum aqua roſarum & tragacantho fiat pomum. en hyuer vous pourrez vſer d'vne telle pomme. /.. ſtyracis, calamitr, benioin an. .jmoſci,algalix an. .j.caryophillorum,lauandulr,cyperian. .ij.radicis ireos florentix & calamiaro- matici an. .ij.ſ,.ambrae griſex .iij. gummi tragacanthi diſſoluti in aqua vitæ & roſarum quantum ſufficit: fiat pomum. on peut pareillement porter ſur ſoy des poudres aromatiques , comme d'ambre, ſtyrax , iris de florence,noix muguette,canelle,macis,cloux de girofle,ſafran,benjoin,muſc , camphre, roſes , violet- tes de mars, ſquinant, marjolaine, & autres ſemblables, & les ſentir au nez. et de ces ſimples , on en pourra faire des composées,comme cette-cy. z. radicis ireos florentiæ .ij.cyperi, calami aromatici ro- ſarum rubrarum an. . .caryophyllorum .É.ſtyracis calamitx .jmoſci gr viij. miſce,& fiat puluis in ſac- culo. . radicis ireos florentix .ij.roſarum rubrar.ſantali albi,ſtyracis calamita an. .j. cyperi. j. cala- mi aromatici .j. maioranae .ſ .caryophyllorum . iij. lauandulae . . coriandri ij. moſci boni , É. la- dani,benioini an. .j.nucis moſcatæ , cinnamomi an. .ij. fiat puluis ſubtilis, concludatur ſacculo. dauan- tage on portera ſur la region du cœur ſantal citrin,macis, clouxde girofle, canelle, ſafran,& theriaque* le b des venins. # l. k, - : *. le tout concaſsé,incorporé,& arrouse de vinaigre bon & fort,& eau roſe en eſté, en hyuer de bon vin oti maluoiſie.tous ces remedes ainſi forts,& qui ont vne grande vertu aromatique & vaporeuſe , pleins d'eſ- prits ſubtils, font au corps de merueilleux effects , fortifient les parties principales, ſtimulans la vertu ex- pulſiue à chaſſer le veuin hors,& prohiber qu'il n'entre dedans:ae contraire l'odeur puante cauſe vne nau- sée ou volonté de vomir,& defaillance de cœur. parquoy ceux qui conſeillent en temps de peſte de pren- dre l'odeur des retraicts & autres lieux infects,font mal,& contre l'opinion d'hippocrate,comme nous de- monſtrerons cy-apres.or il ne ſuffit pas ſeulement porter preſeruatifs ſur ſoy, mais on ſe pourra lauer tout le corps de vinaigre , auquel on aura fait boüillir graine de genévre,laurier , racine de gentiane, ſouchet, hypericon,& autres ſemblables,& y deſtremper du theriaque ou mithridat.or le vinaigre eſt contraire aux venins tant chauds que froids , & garde de pourriture, d'autant qu'il eſt froid & ſec, qui ſont deux choſes contraires & repugnantes à la putrefaction : ce que l'experience monſtre : car en iceluy on garde corps morts, chairs,herbes,fruits,&autres choſes,ſans qu'elles ſe pourriſſent.et ſi quelqu'vn veut obiecter que ie vinaigre n'eſt vtile à ſe lauer le corps,à cauſe qu'il feroit obſtructions des pores & empeſcheroit la perſpi- ration ce qui eſt fort conuenable à pourriture)il doit auſſi conſiderer qu'on ne le met ſeul,& que ſes qua- litez froides & ſeiches ſont corrigées par les autres choſes meſlées auec luy. et partant eſt bon d'en vſer, comme nous auons dit,& qui ne ſe voudra lauer tout le corps, pour le moins on ſe frottera les aiſſelles & la region du cœur, les temples, les aines, & parties genitales, parce qu'elles ont grand conſentement au cœur, & à toutes les parties nobles : parquoy ſeront frottées & lauées de ce lauement, ou d'autre fait de bonnes ſenteurs,ou de cét onguent. z.olei roſati .iiij.olei de ſpica .ij.pulueris cinnamomi, caryophillo- rum an. .j.É. aſſœ odorat . .moſci gr.vj.theriacœ .ſº.terebenthinae veneta .j. . ceræ quantum ſufficit, fiat vnguentum molle.on peut pareillement mettre és oreilles vn peu d'huyle de maſtic,ou de ſauge,ou de cloux de girofle, ou autres ſemblables, y delayant vn peu de muſc ou deciuette. - d'aucunes choſes que l'on doit obſeruer outre les precedentes pour la preſeruation. • c h a p t r. e x. qmag n cét endroict ie veux bien encore declarer aucunes choſes, leſquelles pourroient nuire à n$ vn chacun, & le rendre plus idoine à prendre la peſte : partant auſſi eſt bon pour la preſerua- r$ tion de les obſeruer. et ſur toutes autres choſes faut euiter la frequentation des femmes, # $ # d'autant que paricelles les forces & vertus ſont diminuées, & les eſprits ſe reſoluent & af- #rs$ foibliſſent, principalement toſt apres le repas, pource qu'on debilité l'eſtomach, & par ce moyen te fait crudité,de laquelle procede corruption,& autres infinis accidens:parquoy on peut conclur- re que dame venus eſt la vraye peſte,fi on n'en vſe auec diſcretion.auſſi ſe faut garder de viure en oiſiueté, & manger & boire ſans diſcretion:car telles choſes engendrent auſſi obſtructions & des humeurs vicieux, dont ceux qui font tels excez,ſont plus ſujets à prendre la peſte. si les femmes ſont reglées de leurs fleurs, cela les preſerue beaucoup:auſſi ſi elles ſont retenuës,cela leur peut grandement nuire, parce qu'en temps de peſte elles ſe corrompent facilement parquoy elles doiuent prendre garde à les prouoquer,comme nous declarerons cy-apres.pareillement ceux qui auront viels vlceres, fiſtules & galles , ne les feront cicatriſer en temps de peſte,mais pluſtoſt en feront de nouuelles,afin que par icelles,comme par vn eſgout de tout le corps,le venin,fi aucun y en auoit en nous,ſe puiſſe euacuer ſans s'y accroupir aucunement.auſſi ceux qui ont flux de ſang par le nez,ou par hemorroïdes,le laiſſeront fluer,ne l'eſtancheront s'il n'eſtoit exceſſif bref en temps de peſte ne faut retenir aucun humeur vicieux dedans le corps, ny pareillement faire trop grande euacuation. outre-plus on ſe doit garder audit temps d'achepter choſes , eſquelles l'air peſtilent ſe peut couuer aisément & garder,comme en chamvre,lin,licts où auront couché les peſtiferez,fourrures,habille- mens de draps,de laine,tapiſſeries,& autres ſemblables. d'auantage,il ne faut faire ſa demeure pres les ci- metieres(& principalement pres de ceux eſquels les corps morts ne ſont enterrez profondement , comme ordinairement on faict à s innocent,de façon que quelquesfois les chiens les deterrent & mangent)ny pres des voiries,eſcorcheries,poiſſonneries,tanneries,teinturiers,chandeliers,frippiers, reuendeurs, peauſſiers, couroyeurs,& tous lieux où on fond les metaux : ny ſouffrir fiens pres ſa maiſon , & principalement celuy des porceaux,my cloaques,eaux croupies & charogneuſes,& ſemblables choſes infectes & puantes d'auan- tage,ne faut aller aucunement à la ſelle és retraits où on iette les excremens peſtiferez, auſſi faut éuiter la frequentation de ceux qui hantent les malades de peſte,comme les medecins, chirurgiens , apothicaires, barbiers,preſtres,gardes, ſeruiteurs , & foſſoyeurs qui enterrent les corps morts de peſte:car iaçoit qu'vn homme n'ait la peſte,neantmoins venant de l'air peſtiferé,la peut porter auec ſoy en ſes habillemens. ce qui eſt cogneu par experience:que ſi on demeure quelque temps en la boutique d'vn parfumeur,ſortant de là on ſent le parfum,bon ou mauuais,à raiſon que l'exhalation & vapeur du parfum s'eſtend parmy l'air qui eſt alentour,lequel entre en nos habillemens, & par ce moyen baille l'odeur qu'il a receu des drogues du parfumeur:auſſi.l'air peſtiferé fait le ſemblable, partant faut euiter telles § finalement il faut auoir égard aux choſes appellées non naturelles,deſquelles nous auons ja parauant touché aucunes, & adionſte- rons encores,qu'il fauteuiter de ſe courroucer grâdement:car par la cholere il ſe fait grande ebullition du ſang & des eſprits,& dilatation des ouuertures & conduits,& par ce moyen l'air peſtillent en tel cas engen- dre promptement la fiévre peſtilente,ce qu'on a veu aduenir ſouuent. au contraire, il ſe faut tenir ioyeux en bonne & petite compagnie,& par fois oüir chantres & inſtrumens de muſique, & aucunesfois lire , ou oüir lire quelque lecture plaiſante,& principalement de la ſaincte eſcriture.dauantage,il fauteuiter le trop veiller la nuict,les grands & exceſſifs mouuemens,l'ardeur du soleil,la faim & ſoif parce que telles choſes eſchauffent les eſprits,& cauſent la fiévre ephemere,de laquelle prouient ſouuent la peſtilentielle. que di- ray-je plus c'eſt que ſi quelqu'vn eſt contraint de faire ſa reſidence en vne maiſon ou chambre d'vn peſti- feré, il la faut auparauant parfumer & tout reblanchir auec de la chaux. car le venin peſtiferé & conta- gieux s'attache longuement aux parois, º- - y y dé ablution '- de tout vr corps. vertu du vinaigre. ablution particuliere. onguêt pour frotter les parties ge- nitales. purgation des femmes. des vlceres, fiſtules , & galles. habitations à fuir. il faut eui- ter ceux qui hantem t le malader- : levingt-deuxiéme liure, de l'offce des magiſtrats & officiers publics, qui ont la charge de la police- . c h a r r r e x i. e s magiſtrats doiuent faire tenir les maiſons & ruës nettes,& n'y ſouffrir fiens, ny autres or- dures,& faire porter les beſtes mortes,& autres immondices loing de la ville, & les enterrer profondement : auſſi faire tenir les riuieres, puits & fontaines nettes de toute impureté: pa- reillement defendre expres de ne vendre bleds corrompus,& chair infecte aux boucheries,ny poiſſons alterez & corrompus. ils doiuent defendre les eſtuues & bains,à raiſon qu'apres faut fuyr qu'on en eſt ſorty,la chair & toute l'habitude du corps en eſt ramollie,& les pores ouuerts , & partant la les eſluue,. vapeur peſtiferée peut entrer promptement dedans le corps, & faire mourir ſubitement : ce qu'on a veu aduenir pluſieurs fois. ils doiuent chaſſer & tuer les chiens & chats,de peur qu'ils n'apportent la peſte des de, chin, maiſons aux autres,pource qu'ils peuuent manger le reſte des malades peſtiferez,ou leurs excremens,& par é chats. ce moyen peuuent prendre la peſte,& la porter ailleurs : toutesfois rarement en ſont malades, pource que leur temperament n'y eſt point diſposé. ils feront viſiter les malades par medecins, chirurgiens,& apo- thicaires gens de bien,experimentez,& fçauront ceux qui ſeront peſtiferez,& les feront ſequeſtrer les en- uoyans aux lieux eſtablis pour les faire traicter, ou bien les feront enfermer en leurs maiſons(ce que tou- tesfois ie n'approuue pas,mais pluſtoſt leur defendre la conuerſation des ſains) & les enuoyeront penſer & alimenter à leurs deſpens,s'ils ont dequoy;& s'ils ſont pauures aux deſpens des deniers communs de la vil- b le, auſſi ne doiuent permettre que les citoyens mettent en vente aucuns meubles de ceux qui ſont morts § § de peſte. ils doiuent fermer les portes de leurs villes non encor entachées du venin, pour obuier que les bles des pe- voyageurs venans de quelque lieu infect ne leur apportent la peſte : car ainſi qu'vne brebis galleuſe peut ſtiferez. infecter tout vn troupeau,auſſi vn peſtiferé peut infecter toute vne ville. d'auantage,ils doiuent faire pen- dre vne nappe ou autre ſignal aux feneſtres des maiſons où aucuns ſeront morts de peſte. il faut auſſi que les chirurgiens,& ceux qui conuerſent auec les peſtiferez,portent vne verge blanche en la main lors qu'ils iront par la ville,à fin qu'ils faſſent retirer le peuple arriere d'eux. pareillement ils ferontenterrer prom- ptement les corps morts , parce qu'ils ſe corrompent & pourriſſent plus en vne heure, que ne feront en trois iours ceux qui ne ſont morts de peſte,& d'iceux s'eſleuent certaines vapeurs putrides par exhalation fort fetide,voire plus fans comparaiſon, que lors qu'ils viuent , pour l'abſence de la chaleur naturelle qui tenoit en bride,& temperoit la pourriture : & de faict , on void que les corps morts de peſte ne ſont man- gez d'aucun animal,meſme les corbeaux ny touchent point,& s'ils en mangeoient, ils mourroient ſubite- ment. car combien que vrayement les eſprits des corps morts ne ſe communiquent pas ſi aisément com- me des viuans,à cauſe de l'exſpiration & tranſpiration perdue,ſi ſont-ils plus pernicieux. dauantage,pour de tenir f f fe choſes mºtte , de m'achs- signe de cognoiſtre qu'vn homme eſt mort de peſte, c'eſt que toute la charnure de ſon corps eſt fort mollaſtre, ce #º qui eſt cauſe de la putrefaction : car bien que cette molleſſe fuſt auſſi le malade eſtant vif, toutesfois à cauſe de la pourriture augmentée,elle eſt auſſi augmentée, principalement apres que la vie & chaleur naturelle eſt eſteinte. dont cognoiſſant tant par les fignes deſſus dits, que par ceux qui auront precedé en la mala- die,qu'vn homme ſera mort de peſte,on le doit enterrer en vn lieu à ce deſtiné le pluſtoſt que faire ſe pour- zefu puri- ra, comme nous aºons dit or pource qu'entre toutes les choſes qui peuuent rectifier l'air, le feu eſt le fie l'air. plus requis & ſingulier,on imitera en cecy hippocrate,lequel(ainſi que les anciens nous ont laiſsépar eſ- crit)fit ceſſer vne grande & merueilleuſe peſte en la ville d'athenes en faiſant faire grands feux la nulct par les maiſons,& auſſi parmy les ruës de la ville,& autour d'icelle,& ietter ſur la braiſe choſes odoriferantes, comme genévre,terebenthine , geneſt, & ſemblables choſes rendans grande fumée aromatique, & par ce moyen la peſte ceſſa : parquoy les citoyens luy firent eriger vne ſtatue d'or au milieu de la place, & par hiſtoire de eux fut adoré comme vn dieu & conſeruateur du pays , ce que iamais n'auoit eſté fait à aucun. outre * "º plus leuinus lemnius au liure z. zoe occultis nature miraculis,chap. o. dit que la peſte eſtant à tournay , les de purifier ſoldats pour y preuoir,mettoyent de la poudre à canon ſans boulet dedans les pieces d'artillerie, qu'ils de- #. #.. laſchoient la nuict,& ſur le poinct du iour : ainſi par ce ſon violent & odeur fumeuſe, la contagion de l'air rillerie. fut corrigée & chaſsée, & la ville deliurée de la peſte. partant les magiſtrats pour bien s'acquiter de leur charge enuers la republique feront auſſi toutes choſes neceſſaires pour preſeruer leur ville : que diray-ie plus c'eſt qu'ils doiuent auoir l'œil ſur certains larrons,meurtriers & empoiſonneurs,plus qu'inhumains, qui graiſſent & barboüillent les parois & portes des bonnes maiſons,de la ſanie des charbons & boſſes,& autres excremens des peſtiferez:à fin de les infecter,pour puis apres auoir moyen d'entrer dedans, piller & deſrober,voire eſtrangler les pauures malades en leur ličt:ce qui a eſté fait à lyon l'an .o dieu que tels galands meritent grande punition exemplaire. ce que ie laiſſe à la diſcretion deſdits magiſtrats, qui ont charge de la police. - comment on doit proceder à l'eſlection des medecins, chirurgiens,& apothicaires pour medicamenter les peſtiferez. ch a p. xi i. digreſſion #$ v a n t aux medecins,chirurgiens, & apothicaires, leſdits magiſtrats eſliront gens de bien & ſur la faute # # experimentez pour ſecourir le pauure peuple, non par le ſon de trompette, faiſans proclamer c / / mmf # (pour auoir bon marché d'vne mauuaiſe marchandiſe)que s'il ya aucuns compagnons barbicrs des magi- $ & apothicaires, qui veulent penſer les peſtiferez, qu'ils ſeront pour cela receus maiſtres. o ſtrats- dieu ? quels bons maiſtres : en lieu de guarir,ils font le plus ſouuent par leur imperitie ouurir le ciel&la terre, parce(peut eſtre)qu'ils n'auront iamais veu ny cogneu vn ſeul malade de cette maladie : parquoy ils ſeront cent fois plus à craindre que les brigans & meurtriers guettans par les bois & chemins; parce qu'on les peut éuiter & chercher vn autre chemin:mais le chirurgien eſt cherché du pauure peſtiferé, qui tend la gorge, eſperantauoir ſecours de celuy qui luy oſte la vie. que s'ils prennent quelques medecins & chirurgiens experimentez , ce ſera par fauſſes promeſſes ou par violence, menaçant de les chaſſer à iamais de leurs villes. ie vous laiſſe à penſer,meſſieurs,comme les pauures malades peuuent eſtre bien traittez,ſi on fuit ceux ceux qui ſont ordonnez pour les medicamenter y ſont employez par cette force & violence puisl'accident qui ont aſſi pºſsé » ſont caſſez de leurs gages : & voila les pauures medecins,chirurgiens, apothicaires, & barbiers à ſi， au §e- blanc, leſquels ayans cette marque d'auoir eſté conſtituez à penſer les peſtiferez,ſont fuis apres de tout le ſtifar ez monde comme la peſte meſme,& ne ſont plus appellez à l'exercice de leur art : puis leurs compagnons les voyans •rº . . . - - - > de la peſte. \ • a gnent cent mille fois plus que la peſte , ny veulent aller : car c'eſt vne grande peſte a l'homme de n'auoir -- d voyans apres quaſi mendier leur vie,doutans de tomber puis apres en tel deſaſtre de pauureté - qu'ils crai- - - - - - - - - moyens d'a• point d'argent pour ſecourir la pauure vie. partant ie ſupplie meſſieurs les magiſtrats qu'ils eſliſent(com- # de me i'ay dit ) gens bien experimentez pour ſecourir les malades peſtiferez , & leur donnent vne pen-ſcauoir pcwr ſion honneſte : non ſeulement pendant la neceſſité, mais toute leur vie. adonc ne faudra nulle trompette: penſer les mais au contraire les plus experimentez ſe preſenteront volontairement au ſeruice d'eux, & de leurs feſtiferex. citovens. ce que doiuentfaire ceux quiſeront eſleu{ àpenſer & medicamenterles peſtiferez, - c h a p. xiii. remierement il faut qu'ils conſiderent qu'ils ſont appellez de dieu à cette vocation pour exercer la chirurgie : partant ils doiuent aller d'vn grand courage ſans aucune crainte, ayant ferme foy que dieu nous conſerue & oſte la vie ainſi & quand il luy plaiſt : toutesfois (com- me i'ay dit cy-deuant)ne faut negliger ny meſpriſer les remedes preſeruatifs , ou autrement nous ſerions accuſez d'ingratitude, veu que dieu nous les a donnez, ayant tout faict pour le - mme. doncques les chirurgiens qui ſeront appellez pour medicamenter les malades de pe- ſte , ſe feront purger & ſaigner s ils en ont beſoin , afin de rendre leurs corps nets, & non diſpoſez à pren- dre ce venin : puis apres ſe feront deux ouuertures ( s'ils n'auoyent quelque vlcere qui coulaſt)auec cau- requiſes à teres potentiels : l'vne au bras droit vn peu au deſſous du muſcle epomis, l'autre trois doigts au deſſous ceux qui b du genouil ſeneſtre partie externe : car veritablement on a cogneu par experience que ceux qui auoyent te l. p. telles ouuertures,n'ont eſté ſujets à prendre la peſte,& n'ont receu aucun mal,combien qu'ils fuſſent iour-ſtiferez. nellement auec les pcſtiferez. pareillement ils le laueront bien fouuent tout le corps auec cctte eau , la- . quelle a grande vertu aromatique,& eſt fortpleine d'eſprits vapoureux & ſubtils,& du tout contraire à tel venin. /...aqua rolarum,aceti rofati aut ſambucini,vini albi aut maluatician.fb. vj.rad enu a campana , an- gelicx gentianz,biſtortz,zedoaria an. .iij.baccarum iuniperi & hederae an. .ij.ſaluix, roriſmarini, abſyn- thij,rutz an.m.j.corticis citri . .theriacar,mithridatijan. .j.conquaſſanda conquaſſentur, & bulliant lento de igni,& ſeruentur ad v um. \- - - . on ſe lauera tout le corps de cette eau auec vne eſponge,la faiſant vn peu tiedir. et meſme conuient en lauer la bouche , & en tirer vn peu par le nez , auſſi en mettre quelque petite quantité dedans les oreilles. ils doiuent pareillement porter &poſer ſur la region du cœur vn ſachet ou epitheme,ſemblable à ceux que nous auons deſcrit cy-deuant.a ce propos lean baptiſtetheodoſe en la ſeconde de ſes epiſtres medecina- les,eſcrites à athanale medecin florentin,dit eſtre vtile qu'on porte de l'arſenic ou autre poiſon ſur la re- gion du cœur,afin qu'il accouſtume le cœur,au venin,& que par ainſi il en ſoit moins offensé,d'autant que tous venins cherchent le cœur. toutesfois tu noteras ſur ce propos ce que nous en auons dit auparauant leurs habillemens ſeront de camelot,ſarge d'arras,ſatin,taffetas,ou ſemblables.et s'ils n'ont la puiſſance,il* cauti - auront du marroquin,ou treilly d'alemagne,ou autre belle toile noire, & non de drap, hy de frife, ou de #. # fourrure,de peur que le venin n'y ſoit referué,& qu'ils puiſſent porter la mort aux ſains.ils changeröt ſou- peſtiferé. uent d'habits,chemiſes,& de linceux,ſi leur commodité le porte,& les parfumerót en fumée de choſes aro- - matiques:& lors qu'ils approcheront des malades,ſe garderont de prendre leur haleine,& l'odeur de leurs excremens,& pareillement de le couurir de leurs habillemens ou couuerture,ny manger & boire auecques eux,ou la reſte qu'ils auront touché de la bouche.puis,il leur conuient deſieuner de bon matin:& s'ils ab- horrent le manger,comme font aucuns, en lieu d'alimens ils pourront prendre quelques medicamens pre- eruatifs,deſquels nous auons cy deuant rait mention:& lors qu'ilsapprocheront du malade, ils tiendront en leur bouche vn clou de girofle,ou vn peu de canelle,ou de racine d'angelique, ou graine de génevre,ou autres choſes alexiteres,pour occuper,& emplir les ſpatiofitez vuides,& ainſi la vapeur peſtiferée ne pour- trouuer place pour s'y loger.i'allegueray cy pour exemple,du danger qu'il ya de hanter les infectez , ce qui m'aduint vne fois allant penſer vn peſtifere qui auoit vn bubon peſtiferé en l'aine dextre,& deux grâds charbons au ventre:pres duquel eſtant arriué,ie leuay de deſſus luy le drap & la couuerture,dont apres me vint ſaiſir vne odeur tres-fetide,prouenant tant de la ſueur de ſon corps,que de l'exhalation putride du cou- lement de la boüe de ſon apoſteme & de ſes charbons:& lors ayant eſte englouty de cette vapeur , ie tom- . bay ſubitement a terre comme mort, ainſi que font ceux qui ſyncopiſent, c'eſt à dire,à qui le cœur defaut, hiſtoire aa. mais ſans aucune douleur,ny mal de coeur,fignc manifeſte que la ſeule faculté animale eſtoit offensée puis uenueà l'au- toſt apres m'eſtant releué,il me ſembloit que la maiſon tournaſt s'en deſſus deſſous , & fut contraint d'em-theur viſität braſſer vn des pilliers du lict où eſtoit couché le malade,autrement ie fuſſe tombé derechef et ayant quel- vn feſtiferé. que peu de temps repris mes eſprits,i'eſternuay dix ou douze fois auec telle violence, que le ſang me ſortit par le nez : qui fut cauſe,à mon opinion(ſaufmeilleur iugement)que la vapeur peſtiferée ne me fit aucune impreſſion orie laiſſe au lecteur a philoſopher ſi la mort ne s'en fuſt pas enſuiuie, n'euſt eſté la force de la vertu expultrice de mon cerueau , veu que tous mes ſens & principalement la faculté animale, me de- faillirent en vn moment, qui ſont les inſtrumens de l'ame. pour ces choſes ie conſeille tant aux medecins qu'aux chirurgiens meſmes à tous ceux qui frequentent ceux qui ſont infectez de cette pernicieuſe mala- die, qu'ils ſe gardent, tant qu'il leur ſera poſſible,de receuoir leur haleine & vapeur de leurs excremens, ' tant gros que liquides & vapoureux auſſi qu'ils deſieunent les matins,ou prennent quelque contrepoiſon, auparauant que de les aller voir,afin de mieux ſe munir contre le venin peſtiferé. et pour concluſion , on obſeruera toutes choſes que l'on cognoiſtra eſtre profitables ou nuiſibles en cette maladie peſtilente, afin de les ſuiure ou euiter ſelon qu'il en ſera beſoin, recognoiſſant toutesfois que la preſeruation giſt plus en la prouidence diuine, qu'au conſeil du medecin ou chirurgien. quelles ºf - cuations ſont eau.preſer- uatiue. ſachers pourla regii du cœur. conſeil de l'autheur. des ſignes de lapette preſente-. c h a p. x i v. lvs evrs deſirent ſçauoir les ſignes de la peſte preſente,afin d'y pouruoir de bône heure,pource $, qu'ordinairement on y eſt deceu,& le cómun peuple ne le cognoit iamais,iuſques à ce ºu il ſente - quelque douleur & apoſtemes aux emunctoires,ou quelques taches ſur le corps ou † . trop tard,parce que pluſieurs meurent deuant que telles choſes apparoiſſent:parquoy ne faut touſiourº §cide mais faut prendre indication,qu'en la peſte,le coeur auquel giºla vi° ! eſt † t- - -- le vingt-deuxiéme liure, signe de p•ſte presête. .. signe. · . sig oe. - signe. .signe. . signe. . signe. pourquoy és fiévres peſti- lentielles le dedās bruſle, le dehors eſt froid. . signe. . signe. pourquoy les feſtiferez s t quelquesfois endormis. •. signe. l'vrine des peſtiferez ſemble lciaa- bio. .signe. .. signe- en la pefe on voit grä- de m ltiºude d'accidens. lement aſſailly, & endure plus que tous les autres membres, dont les ſignes pris de luy ſont plus certains que de nulle autre partie principale. parquoy les malades frappez de peſte ont ſouuent defaillance de cœ ur,& tombent comme eſuanouys. le pouls eſt quelquesfois remis,& par fois trop frequent, & princi- palement la nuict ils ſentent des punctions & demangeaiſons par tout le corps, & principalementaux na- rines, comme piqueures d'eſpingles, qui procedent de la vapeur maligne , montant des parties inferieu- res à la ſuperficie du corps , & à la tefle. ils ont ſemblablement la poictrine chaude & ardente, auec gran- de palpitation & battement de cœur , diſans ſentir grande douleur ſous le mammelon du tetin ſeneſtre, auec courte haleine,& grande d fſ culté de reſpirer : & halettent comme vn chien qui a grandement eou- ru, à cauſe que le diaphragme, principal inſtrument de la reſpiration , ne pouuant auoir ſon mouuement naturel , redouble incontinent , & auance le cours de la reſpiration & expiration. pareillement, ils ont toux & douleur d'eſtomach, enfieure des flancs ou coſtez : pource qu'à cauſe de la debilité de la chaleur naturelle, ſe multiplient beaucoup de ventoſitez, qui ſont cauſe de ladite extenſion : voire que le ventre en eſt quelquesfois ſi fort enflé, qu'on diroit eſtre vne eſpece d hydropiſie,nommée tympani.e. dauanta- ge, ils ont nausée, ou appetit de vomir , c'eſt a dire, que l'eſtomach leur bondit, qui vient à raiſon qu'il a connexion auec les parties nobles, & ſe reſſent du venin mortel de tout le corps : autres ont grands vo- miſſemens & frequents, iettans vne cholere jaune & auchnesfois verde ou noire, correſpondante aux ſelles en varieté de matiere & couleur : & à aucuns ſort le ſang tout pur en grande abondance, non ſeule- ment par le vomiſſement : mais auſſi quelquesfois par le nez par le ſiege , & par la verge, & aux femmes par leur matrice : & ceux-là ne paſſent gueres le troiſieſme iour, tant eſt grande l'acrimonie du venin. au- cuns ont grande froidure aux parties exterieurts,mais neantmoins fentent vne extreme chaleur & ardeur merueilleuſe au dedans.or la cauſe pour laquelle nous voyons qu'es fievres peſtilentielles le dedans bruſ- le, & le dehors eſt froid, c'eſt pource qu'il y a inflammation en quelque partie profonde du corps, en ſor- te que toute la chaleur auec le ſang & les eſprits eſt attirée comme d'vne ventouſe , par les parties inte- rieures enfiammées,dont les parties exterieures apparoiſſent froides,& alors la face ſe monſtre hideuſe,& eſt veuë de couleur plombine & liuide;les yeux ardens, eſtincellans , rouges, & comme pleins de ſang,ou d'autre couleur,& larmoyans. le tour des paupieres eſt liuide & noir, comme ſi elles auoient eſté battues & meurdries,& ont la face hideuſe à voir,& tout le corps jaunaſtre, tellement qu'ils ne reſſemblent point à eux-metmes,de façon qu'on les decognoiſt,& telle chole ſignifie la mort proche. aucuns ont la fiévre ſi tres-ardente,qu'elle cauſe vlceres au profond de la gorge, & autres parties de la bouche, auec vne ſeiche- reſſe qui rend la langue aride & ſeiche,liuide & noire, accompagnée d'vne alteration & chaleur ſi grande qu'ils ſe diſent bruſler comme s'ils eſtoient dedans vn feu, auec vne extreme douleur de teſte, qui le plus ſouuent les fait reſuer;de ſorte qu'ils ne peuuent iamais repoſer ny dormir & tombent en vne fureur cruell le,comme frenetiques,s'enfuyans tous nuds,ſe lettants és puits,riuieres : & par les feneſtres, ſe precipitans de haut en bas. au contrair ,ils ſont quelquesfois en vne ſi grande reſolution de tous les membres, qu'ils ne ſe ſçauroient ſouſtenir,& auſſi ſont au commencement tant endormis,qu'on ne les peut eſueiller,pource que la chaleur de la fiévre fait eſleuer à la teſte des vapeurs groſſes,creues , & froides, leſquelles abondent au corps : ce qui aduient communément lors que la matiere de la boſſe,ou le charbon ſe fait,ou petites ta- a b «hes & eruptions eſparſes au cuir,qui ſouuent s'apparoiſſent à leur reſueil, accompagnées d'vne ſueur fort c puante. or leſdites exhalations & fumées acquierent ſouuent acrimonies, & ſont quelquesfois ſi mordan- tes,qu'elles gardent les malades de dormir,& leur incitent grande douleur de teſte, qui les fait tomber en - reſuerie,puis freneſie, manie & rage :parquoy la varieté de ces derniers ſignes & accidens ne procede que de la diuerſité du venin peſtiferé,& des temperatures des malades. qu'il ſoit vray, nous voyons en certai- nes ſaiſons ce venin exercer diuerſement ſa tyrannie, voire en toutes temperatures, & extraordinairement & également à pluſieurs & de tous aages & temperamens , comme nous auons cy-deuant monftré de la ſuette,trouſſe-galland,coqueluche,& autres maladies epidemiales. quant eſt de la diuerſité de temperatu- res, ceux qui ſont de complexion chaude, comme les ſanguins & choleriques, ſont vexez bien ſouuent de fiévres bien ardantes,& tombent ſouuent en furie : au contraire, les melancholiques & pituiteux ſont tant aſſoupis & endormis,qu'à peine on les peut reſueiller. les vrines ne ſont pas toufiours,ny en tous, trou- uées d'vne meſme couleur & conſiſtence : car quelquesfois elles ſont trouuées ſemblables à celles des ſains,à ſçauoir belles en couleur,& bonnes en leur ſubſtance,à raifon que la fiévre faict plus ſon effort de- dans les arteres,qu'és veines contenantes le ſang, duquel procede l'vrine , veu que le foye le plus ſouuene ne ſouffre ſi fort en vne fiévre peſtilente, que les autres parties,& ſur toutes le cœur , meſmement quand il n'y a point de tumeur apparente aux aines,où cela ſe fait:pource que les humeurs contenus aux vaiſſeaux, jaçoit qu'ils ſoient en chemin,& comme in fieri d'eſtre viciez & entachez de ce venin , ce neantmoins ils ne ſont point pourris ne corrompus:cette corruption eſtant vrayement ja parfaicte en la ſubſtance des eſprits (ſupposée que telle peſte eſt de celles qui ont leur cauſe & origine de la malignité de l'air ) & d'iceux n'a- yant encores paſsé & coulé dans les humeurs : car ſi la pourriture eſtoit ja imbue en iceux, ils en donne- roient certain teſmoignage par les vrines, qui ſont certains & propres ſignes des affections des humeurs contenus aux veines.et partant ne deuons point eſtimer que cela aduienne ( comme aucuns ont pensé ) à raiſon que nature comme eſpouuantée,& fuyant la malignité de ce venin,n'oſe aſſaillir la maladie. aucuns ont les vrines fort diſſemblables des ſains , deſquels nous parlerons cy-apres. pareillement aucuns iettent par le ſiege vne matiere fort fetide,liquide,ſubtile gluante,& de diuerſes couleurs:ce que declarerons auſſi. il y en a d'autres qui ont l'appetit depraué, ou du tout perdu, tellement qu'on en a veu qui ont demeuré trois ou quatre iours ſans manger,ce qui procede d'vne douleur mordante & poignante, qui eſt en l'eſto- mach,laquelle prouient des vapeurs veneneuſes enuoyées à iceluy. et pour le dire en vn mot, on veit en cette pernicieuſe pefte vne grande bande & multitude de pluſieurs eſpeces de ſymptomes & accidens con- fus,ſoudre iournellement,qui ſe font ſelon la pourriture & alteration de l'air, & la cacochymie & mauuai- ſe temperature de ceux qui en ſont frappez, parquoy faut bien icy noter, que tous ces ſignes & accidens ne ſe trouuent pas touſiours en vne fois ny en toutes perſonnes mais à aucuns, s'en apperçoiuent pluſieurs, à autres peu,voire à grande peine voit-on deux hommesinfectez de cette contagion, auoir ſemblables acci- dens:& qui plus eſt,il y en a aucuns à qui ils apparoiſſent ſubit,& dés le commencement, & les autres plus tard. et de tous ces ſignes , il y en a qui ſont totalement mortels, autres moins mauuais, & d'autres am- bigus. " ! . sigmes d - de la peſte | -, •- "- - - va signes mortels de la peſte . c h a p. x v. - $º e s ſignes mortels , & qui demonſtrent le cœur eſtre ſaiſi, ſont fiévres tres-ardentes & conti- difficulté # nues, la langue aride & ſeiche, de couleur noire, & quand les malades ont grande difficulté a'inſpiration # d'inſpirer, tellement qu'ils ont plus de peine à attirer l'air qu'à le rendre : qui ſe fait pour la # vehemente chaleur qu'ils ont au corps, & ont vne ſoif ſi grande, qu'on ne la peut eſteindre. %i /s) autres ont veilles continuelles, dont s'enſuit reſuerie & alienation d'eſprit , & ſouuent meu- rent comme furieux & enragez. aucuns ont vne contraction & conuulſion de tous les mem- bres, defaillances frequentes de cœur,accompagnées de hocquets, & tombent ſouuent en ſyncope. autres ont vne palpitation ou tremblement de cœur, qui eſt vn mouuement manifeſte de la vertu expultrice, qui d s'efforce de repouſſer le venin qui luy eſt du tout contraire & mortel. le pouls pareillement ſe meut haſti- cauſe de uement & exceſſiuement ſans meſure, qui monſtre que la faculté vitale eſtgrandement enflammée, & alors # * les malades ſont en grandeagitation & inquietude,c'eſt à dire ſe remuent çà & là,ſans qu'ils ſe puiſſent tenir peſtifere à requoy & en repos,& ont appetit centiouel de vomir, qui prouient de la venenoſité de la matiere,laquel- le ſe communique au cœur , & a l'orifice de l'eſtomach : & le vomiſſement eſt puant, & de matiere verde comme jus de pourreaux, & quelquesfois de couleur noire ou rouge:auſſi aucunesfois eſt de ſang tout pur, comme nous auons dit , & ont ſueur froide, la face liuide, hideuſe & noire, & le regard eſgaré. ils ont ſemblablement grand treſſaillement , fremiſſement, & aiguillonnement entre cuir & chair, baaillement & eſtendue de membres, tournans les yeux en la teſte, parlent enroiié & begaye, voire quelquesfois dés les premiers iours,& ne ratiocinent pas, & quand on parle à eux,ils ne reſpondent à propos. ils ont la langue fort aride & ſeiche:liuide ou noire, qui ſe fait des exhalations putrides qui l'eſchauffent & deſſeichent,leur cauſant des eſcorcheures en la bouche. outres plus, aucuns ont les vrines liuides ou noire, & troublées, vrines mºr - comme groſſe lexiue,& yvoit-ondes nuées liuides,& de diuerſes couleurs,comme verdoyante,plombée ou § peſti- noire,qui eſt vn vray ſigne mortel.auſſi quand on voit vn cercle par deſſus, comme greſſe ou toiles d'arai- §. gnées iettées les vnes ſur les autres.si les malades ont charbons,& la chair d'iceux eſt noire & ſeiche,com- me vne chaleur bruſlée& les parties prochaines liuides,les boſſes,charbons & taches retournans au dedans & n'apparoiſſans plus au dehors,flux de ventre cholerique, qui ne donne aucun allegement au malade, fort fetide,liquide,ſubtil,gluant,& de diuerſe couleur,comme noire,verdoyante,reſſemblante à verd de gris &de tres mauuaiſe odeur , auec grande quantité de vers, qui denote grande corruption & pourriture aux hu- meurs : s'ils ontvn eſblouyſſement qui vient par l'imbecillité & defaut des eſprits, & de toute l'œconomie cauſe duri de nature qui ja commence à chanceler : ſi la chaleur naturelle ſe retirant au dehors, fuyant ce venin, ſardonis- eſmeut vne ſueur fort puante , & les yeux du malade s'enfoncent pour l'abſence de ladite chaleur, accompagnée du ſang, & eſprits : ſi le bout du nez eſt retors auec vn ris ſardonic ; c'eſt à dire , vn ris forcé, qui ſe fait pour la retraction des fibres diſſeminez aux muſcles de la face , deſſeichez par l'abſence du ſang & de l'eſprit animal : ſi auſſi les ongles noirciſſent , comme approchant d'vne mortifica- tion : puis ſuruiennent ſanglots & conuulſion vniuerſelle pour la reſolution des nerfs , ſi qu'en fin la pauure chaleur naturelle demeurant ſuffoquée & eſteinte, indubitablement la mort s'enſuit. en tous ces ne faut abâ° fignes ne faut ſaigner, mais bailler choſes cordiales aux malades, & les recommander à dieu. neantmoins § § ie prie les chirurgiens de ne laiſſer & abandonner les pauures malades, encore qu'ils euſſent tous ces peſtiferez, fignes mortels, mais touſiours s'efforcer à faire ce que l'art commande : car nature fait quelquesfois meſme en ſi- choſes merueilleuſes contre l'opinion des medecins & chirugiens, ainſi que i'ay demonſtré cy-deſſus en gnesmortels. mon liure des playes d'arquebuſes. or pour conclufion , la diuerſité de ces accidens vient pour la diuerſi- . té du venin, & des temperamens, & de l'air ambiens : & tant plus on trouuera des ſignes & accidens ſuſdits, tant plus les pauures peſtiferez ſont proches de la mort : mais ſivn ou deux apparoiſſent ſeulement, il n'eſt pas ncceſſaire qu'ils meurent : joinct auſſi que pluſieurs de ces ſignes ſont communs à d'autres malades - - r - - - des ſignes par leſquels on peut cognoiſtre que lemalade eſt infecté de la peſte- venant du vice de l'air, & non des humeurs. c h a p t r e x v i. @) n c o r e que nous ayons amplementdeclaré les fignes de la peſte preſente, ſi eſt-ce que deux ſortes # conſiderans qu'il y a deux ſortes de peſte, pour la diuerſité des cauſes : l'vne prouenante de peſte. # du vice del'air, l'autre de la corruption des humeurs, nous auons bien voulu ſpecifier r) les ſignes qui ſont propres à l'vne & à l'autre, commençans par celle qui vient du vice de f，n l'air dont les ſignes par leſquels on pourra connoiftre, ſont tels à ſçauoir, qu'elle eſt en la peſte \n plus maligne & contagieuſe; & les hommes meurent en plus grand nombre & plus ſu- faite de l'air bitement:car pluſieurs faiſans leurs actions accouſtumées ſe promenans par les temples les kommes & ruës ſans aucune contagion apparente meurent en peu d'heures, voire promptement ſans ſentir aupara- meurent ſu- uantaucune douleur : parce que l'air corrompu par ſa virulence gaſte promptement les eſprits, & ſuffoque bit, & en le cœur d'vn feu caché. dauantage , les malades ne ſont ſi tourmentez d'inquietudes , & ne ſe jettent grand nºº- point cà & là, pource que la force naturelle eſt du tout proſternée & abbatuë : & partant ils ont con- *. tinuelle defaillance de cœur, & à pluſieurs ne ſuruiennent bubons, ou autres puſtulles, ny aucun flux de ventre, à cauſe que le venin peſtiferé abbat tellement les forces & le cœur qu'ils ne peuuent chaſſer d'eux signes pris aucune choſe nuiſible, qui eſt cauſe de la mort ainſi ſubite. leur vrine eſt ſemblable à la naturelle, parce des vrinº. qu'il n'y a point de vice aux humeurs, d'autant que les vrines demonſtrent certainement le vice qui eſtaux humeurs, comme ila eſté declaré cy-deuant. - | kºrº - i •a · - figner s o levingt-deuxième liure, -, - - - —— a signes que le malade eſt infecté de la peſte, prouenant de la corruption des humeurs, h a p t r e xv i i. # o v s auons par cy-deuant declaré les cauſes de la corruption des humeurs de noſtre corps, la- quelle ſe fait comme d'vne trop grande plenitude, ou par obſtruction des vaiſſeaux des viſceres ou entrailles,causée par humeurs eſpais & viſqueux, ou par intemperature , ou malignité de ma- tiere,toutes leſquelles choſes ſe font par mauuaiſe maniere de viure:il faut maintenant declarer les ſignes , par leſquelles on peut cognoiſtre vn chacun humeur dominant eſtre infecte & corrompu, afin de contrarier à iceluy. quand donc on verra la couleur de tout le corps eſtre plus jaune que de couſtu- me,cela demonſtre que le corps abonde en cholere : ſi elle eſt plus liuide & noire , en melancholie : ſi elle eſt plus blanche,en pituite, ou phlegme : & ſi elle eſt plus rouge , & que les veines ſoient fort enflées, il abonde en ſang : auſſi les apoſtemes & puſtules tiennent ſemblablement la couleur de l'humeur qui cauſe | icelles pareillement les excremens,comme voumiſſemens,les ſelles & vrines auſſi le malade eſt fort aſſoupy & endormy,cela demonſtre la pituite:au contraire , s'il a veilles, demonſtre la cholere. semblablement la nature de la fiévre demonſtre l'humeur qui abonde : car la fiévre tierce demonftre la cholere , la quarte la melancholie,la quotidienne la pituite, la continue , le ſang. le temps le demonſtre pareillement : car au printemps le corps accumule plus de ſang,en eſté plus de cholere, en automne de melancholie, en hyuer - de pituite qui domine en cette ſaiſon.apres s'enſuit le païs,lequel s'il eſt temperé,le ſang abonde : s'il eſt chaud & ſec,la cholere : s'il eſt froid & humide la pituite. dauantage, l'aage le demonſtre : car les ieunes b en quels abondent plus en fang,& les vieux en phlegme. finalement l'art & maniere de viure : car ceux qui cuiſent ºeſtiers on les metaux,& fabriquent ouurages metalliques,comme mareſchaux,serruriers,orfévres, affineurs, fon- •ºguiertplus deurs de lettres,abondent plus en cholere:lesſedentaires,eſtudians & peſcheurs en pituite voilà les obſer- ºr uations qu'on doit auoir pour cognoiſtre vn chacun humeur dominant en noſtre corps, afin de le purger bilieux. quand il en ſera beſoin. or pour desboucher les orifices des vaiſſeaux , tant du foye , que de la rate & des reins,les medicamens doiuent auoir faculté & puiſſance d'inciſer,penetrer,attenuer,& deterger : ce que ie laiſſe à faire à meſſieurs les medecins. et faut icy noter,que communément les humeurs ſe pourriſſent en temps de peſte,dont ſe font non ſeulement des fiévres continués,mais auſſi des intermittentes,c'eſt à dire, qui laiſſent le malade vn iour ou deux,plus ou moins ſans fiévre,puis l'aſſaillent dere chef, comme font les fiévres tierces & quartes:ce qui ſe fait ſelon la diuerſité de la pourriture de l'humeur dôt elles ſont faites, signes de comme nous auons dit par cy-deuant. pareillement on les peut cognoiſtre par les accidens : comme ſila ſ'humeur peſte eſt en l'humeur cholerique,elle occit la plus grand part des hommes,& meurent promptement:&ont *hºerique vomiſſemens aſſiduels de couleur jaunaſtre,& flux de vétre,auec extremes donleurs & deſirs perpetuel d'al- lcr à la ſelle , parce que la cholere pique & vlcere les boyaux : auſſi ont vne inappetence , & tout ce qu'ils boiucnt & mangent,leur ſemble amer. s'ils ont quelques eruptions ou tumeurs contre nature , elles ſont trouuées auec peu d'enfieure,& de couleur citrine.quand elle eſt aux groſſes humeurs, & au ſangaduſte, clle occit plus tard,& les malades ont grandes ſueurs,flux de ventre de diuerſes couleurs,& principalemét ſanguinolentes,& jettent fouuent le ſang pur:ils ont communément bubons & charbons, ou eruptions par tout le corps,auec grandes tumeurs enflammées,fiévres continues,delires,& l'haleine puante. lors qu'elle eſt à l'humeur pituiteux,ils ont laſſitudes de tous les membres,& tout le corps bien fort appeſanti, & ſont c grandement endormis & aſſoupis,& à leur reſueil ont vn tremblement vniuerſel de tout le corps,qui ſe fait pour l'obſtruction des conduits clos aux eſprits:& s'il y a quelques bubons,charbons, ou eruptions, elles ſont laxes & de couleur blanchaſtre, & difficiles à ſuppurer. et quand l'humeur melancholique en eſt vi- tié,les malades ſont fort attriſtez,ayans grande peſanteur & douleur de teſte , & ont le poulx petit & pro- fond & la couleur de leur apoſteme,voire de tout le corps, plombée & noire : car chacun humeur donne ſa couleur au cuir. or qui demonſtre encor les humeurs eſtre corrompus, c'eſt que les vrines des malades ſont troublées,& ſemblables à celles des jumens : auſſi quelquesfois ſont veucs noires auec vn ce cle ver- doyant, qui ſignifie grande pourriture eſtre aux humeurs : car il eſt impoſſible que les humeurs puiſſent eſtre corrompus,que les vrines ne le ſoient. aucuns ont grande ſoif, les autres nulle,parce que la pituite putride abonde a l'orifice de l'eſtomach,& luy change ſon temperament, & le rend languide auec inappc- tence.semblablement aucuns ont fiévre grandement ardente, & ſe diſent brufler au dedans : ce neantmoins les parties exterieures ſont trouuées quelquesſois fort froides. que ſi la peſte prouient du vice de l air & des humeurs compliquez,comme ils tont le plus ſouuent , on ne les peut bien diſtinguer , & les ſignes ſont tort confondus enſemble. cauſe de la ſ$ corruption 'des bumeur . $ $ a hip liure des ºunacurs. du prognoſtic. c h a p i t r e xv i i i. $ ! r o c n o s t q v e r eſt predire les choſes à aduenir, qui ſe ſait par la cognoiſſance de la n maladie , & de ſes accidens, & principalement de la temperature & dignité de la partie d $% malade, & action d'icelle : parquoy pour ce faire , ſera bien ne ceſſaire uue le chirurgien sn aye cognoiſſance de l'anatomie, & aye veu pluſieurs malades : car ainſi faiſant prognoſtic, ' ſa s & deduiſant bien au parens & amis du maladc, les accidens qui peuuent aduenir cn la ma- ladie , acqucrra honnenr & profit. toutesfois quant a la peſte nous diſons qu'il n'y a point de iuge- ment certain de la vie , ou de la mort : car cette deteſtable , abcminable & traiſtreſſe maladie a ſes mou- # uemens pº interualles inegaux &incertains, & eſt quelquesfois tant haſliue & fallace, qu'elle tue l'hom- # # me,ſans qu'on y puiſſe prendre garde,ce qu aduient à aucuns en dix, quinze,ou heures,ou beaucoup feſte. moins.et tel venin eſt quelquesfois ſi violent, qu'incontinent qu'on reçoit le ſoufflement ou haleine du - peſtiferé,on voit ſubit s'eſleuer puſtules & ampoulles au cuir,auec douleur acre, comme ſi on eſtoit mords d'vne mouſche à miel. et par la violence de ce venin ſi prompt & ſubit, ceux qui ſont frappez, ſont plu- ſtoſt morts qu'ils n'ont penſé à mourir,& meſmes en beuuant mangeant,& vacquant à leurs affaires , tom- bent morts en cheminant par les rues & temples,ce qu'auons veu n'agueres,le roy eſtant à lyon.quel- hiſtoire. quesfois auſſi les accidens ſe relaſchent,& ſemble que le malade ſe doiue bien porter, faiſant bonne che- re : ce qui aduint à vne des damoiſelles de la royne,nommée la mare, le roy eſtant au chaſteau de rouſ- ſillon,laquelle fut frappée de cette peſte,ayant vn bubon en l'aine,qui s'en retourna au dedâs,& le troiſié- ne iour diſoit ne ſentir aucun mal,fors qu'vne difficulté d'vrine(à cauſe de l'inflammation qui occupoitles parties moyens de bien progno. ſtiquer. il n'y a foint _ m=- a mde la peſte. s i partiesdediées à l'vrine)ſe pourmenant par la chambre,auec bonne ratiocination:toutesfois ce iour meſme rendit l'eſprit à dieu qui fut cauſe de nous faire promptement debuſquer dudit lieu.et partât les medecins & chirurgiens ſont le plus ſouuët deceus en telle maladie:car aucuns meurét pluſtoſt,les autres plus tard, perſonne - ſelon que le venin eſt violêt & fort,& pour le dire en vu mot,en cette maladie il n'y a point d'heure,de iour, " eſt exempt ny de temps prefix.outre-plus on voit par experiéce que gés de toute nature,ſexe,& diuerſes cóplexions, de peſte. ſoient enfans,adoleſcens,ou hommes en aage confiſtant,foibles ou robuſtes,ieunes ou vieux,yurögnes,cra- puleux,& ceux qui font abſtinence en leur viure, tant oiſeux que ceux qui trauaillent , riches ou pauures, iroys,roynes,princes,princeſſes,papes & cardinaux, ſont tous ſujects à eſtre pris de la peſte : neantmoins le par, p.- on voit que les ieunes choleriques & ſanguins , qui ſont de temperament chaud & humide, y ſont plus fu- lagiu, mou. jets que les vieux , qui ſont de temperature froide & ſeiche, pource que le ſang ne s'enflamme pas ſi toſt: rut de peſte, auſſi que l'humidité d'iceux,dont s'engendre la corruption,eſt exhalée,& aucunement conſumée. mais les de quelle , humeurs des ieunes ſe corrompent pour legere occaſion,& par conſequent reçoiuent la vapeur veneneuſe, ºpºrature laquelle facilement eſt attirée & penetre au centre du corps, qui eſt de telle temperature chaude & humi- & aage les de,& partant diſposée à receuoir inflammation & pourriture, à cauſe qu'ils oilt les veines & arteres plus # de larges,& par conſequent tous les conduits du corps : dont il aduient que l'air peſtilent trouuant les pores #u ouuerts, entre dedans plus facilement auecques l'air attiré par le continuel mouucment des arteres. da- # uantage la peſte venant de l'air,prend pluſtoſt les ieunes que les vieux, parce qu'ils ont les pores plus ou- uerts que n'ont les vieux. pareillement ceux qui ſont hors des maiſons, ſont alors pluſtoſt eſpris que ceux qui demeurent dedans.et quand la peſte vient de la corruption des humeurs,elle n'eſt pas tant contagieuſe que celle qui vient du vice de l'air.mais les pituiteux,melancholiques,& gens aagez ſont en plus grâd dan- ger de mort,lors qu'ils ſont frappez d'iceluy venin,venant de cauſe corporelle, parce qu'il ne ſe peut bien exhaler & ſortir hors à cauſe de la cloſture,ou condenſation de leurs conduits & pores du cuir.auſſi ceux qui ſont cacochymes & remplis d'humeurs vicieux,ſont plus prompts & diſpoſez à en eſtre infectez, & en plus grand danger que ceux qui ſont de bonne temperature:tout ainſi qu'vn fagot ſec eſt pluſtoſt allumé du feu,& bruſlé qu'vn verd,ainſi ſont ils preparez,de meſme façon que le ſoulphre eſt preparé à prédre le feu. et par ainſi voit-on communément,qu'en temps de peſte,nulles ou peu d'autres maladies apparoiſſent,d'au- tant qu'elles ſe tournent facilement en icelle,& lors qu'elles commencent à regner, la peſte auſſi commen- ce à ceſſer. donc comme vn homme cacochyme eſt plus diſposé à eſtre frappé de peſte : auſſi au contraire ſte ne courèt vn homme bien temperé difficilement en peut eſtre frappé.car combien que le feu ſoit violent,neantmoins gueres autres il demeure amorty & vaincu,quand il ne trouue contre quoyagir. semblablement vn homme bien ſain & maladie . nettoyé de mauuaiſes humeurs,bien tard & a grand peine eſt malade de cette peſte:& où il en ſeroit eſpris, ceux qui vs clle ne pourroit luy faire telle nuiſance,comme aux autres qui ſont remplis de mauuaiſes humeurs : toutes-ſont gueres fois on obſerue que ceux qui ont fiévre quarte,&chancres vlcerez,auſſi les punais,ladres,verolez,eſcroüel-ſubjets à leux,teigneux,& ceux qui ont fiſtules,& vlceres carieuſes coulantes, ne ſont fort ſubjets à prendre la peſte: auºir la parce qu'ils ne ſont ſeulement cacochymes,mais demy pourris, & leur cacochymie ne permet ſouuent en- peſte- . trer la peſte en leurs corps, quaſi comme ſi elle leur eſtoit vn alexitere contre le venin peſtiferé. les fem- mes enceintes ſont fort ſubjectes à eſtre priſes de la peſte,à cauſe de la grande abondance d'humeurs ſuper- pourquey en temps de pe- c fus & corruptibles qui abondent en elles pour le defaut de leurs purgations, joinct auſſi qu'elles ont tous leurs conduits fort ouuerts:& quand elles ſont frappées de cette maladie & font leurs enfans,elles meurent preſque toutes;dequoy l'experience fait foy. auſſi les filles auſquelles le flux menſtruel commence à fluer, des filles ſont fort ſubjectes à prendre ce venin,comme auſſi les petits enfans,parce qu'ils ſont lanuleux, c'eſt à dire, petits ena mols & tendres,& de rare texture,joinct qu'ils viuent deſreiglément.le menu peuple ſouffreteux , & ceux fans. qui habitent és maiſons ordes,& qui en tout temps viuent ordement,& qui ne change point d'habits,d'au- tant qu'ils approchent plus prés de la putrefaction, s'acquierent vne diſpoſition & conformité gande à la peſte,& partant ſont pluſtoſt aſſaillis que ceux qui viuent au contraire.outre-plus ceux qui en cette mala- die ont ſommeil profond,meurent quaſi tous , à cauſe de la craſſitude des vapeurs qui montent au cerueau, leſquelles nature ne peut vaincre.auſſi ceux qui ont la reſpiration fort puante outre leur couſtume meurent tous:pource que la pourriture eſt du tout confirmée en la ſubſtance du cœur,& aux poulmons.or pluſieurs meurent ſubitement de la peſte,à cauſe que le venin ſaiſit le cœur, & inſtrumens qui ſeruent à l'inſpiration & expiration, leſquels eſtans ſerrez & comprimez à cauſe de l'inflammation qui eſt aux poulmons , au dia- phragme , & aux muſcles du larinx, laquelle fait que le pauure malade eſt ſubit eſtranglé & ſuffoqué par faute de reſpiration.auſſi ſi les boſſes,charbons,puſtules & eruptions,qu'on appelle pourpre, qui viennent couleur des à la ſuperficie du cuir,ſont de couleur noire,ou verte,ou violette,ou liuide,peu en reſchappent,parce qu'ils tumeurs. demonſtrent mortification de la chaleur naturelle. quand le bubon apparoiſt premier que la fiévre, c'eſt il eſt bon que bon ſigne,caril demonſtre que le venin eſt moins furieux,& que nature a eſté maiſtreſſe, & qu'elle a eu vi- lº bºn º?- ctoire,l'ayant jetté & chaſſé hors:au contraire,s'il apparoiſt apres la fiévre, cela vient de l'impetuoſité du paroiſſe de- venin,lequel domine : partant eſt vn ſigne pernicieux, & le plus ſouuentmortel,qui demonſtre nature eſtre º *** gaignée & abbatuë.d'abondant au decours de la lune,les malades meurent pluſtoſt, ou pour le moins leur " mal & accidens s'augmententiparce que les vertus ſont plus debiles,joinct auſſi que les humiditez de noſtre corps abondent dauantage.or que les vertus de noſtre corps ſoient plus debiles au decours de la lune, la ºº º/ cauſe eſt,que la vigueur des facultez cöſiſte en chaleur.or eſt-il qu'au decours de lalune,les corps sôt plus º ſ# froids & humides pour la defectuoſité de la lune,qui eſt la cauſe pourquoy ſur la fin du mois les femmes # foibles ont reglément leur flux:car lors le ſang eſtant plus humide,eſt plus prompt à couler,& noſtre chaleur eſtât #. moindre ne peut retenir vn tel cours,comme elle ſouloit, eſtant fortifiée & guidée de la vertu de la lune, # a plus de lumiere,& par conſequent de chaleur,eſtant pleine, qu'en decours : comme tres-bien dit ari- ote au liu. . de biſtoria animal.chap. .auſſi faut noter que ſil'air peſtiferé eſt ſubtil comme bize,il eſt plus •dangereux & contagieux,& tue pluſtoſt que lors qu'il eſt gros & nebuleux qu'il ſoit vray,lors que la peſte eſt en cette ville de paris, elle n'eſt ſi dangereuſe que lors qu'elle eſt en prouence & en gaſcogne : qui ſe fait à cauſe que l'air de cette ville eſt plus gros & nebuleux:& eſt tel,tant à raiſon de la ſituation, que de la egrande multitude du peuple,& excremens des beſtes,boucheries,cuiſines,latrines,& autres cauſes, qui font sſleuer pluſieurs groſſes vapeurs, leſquelles eſtans attirées des poulmons ne permettent que l'air peſtiferé sntre ſi legerement au profond de noſtre corps.outre les cauſes de mort cy deſſus alleguées, nous voyons lsluſieurs perſonnes mourir par faute d'eſtre promprement ſecourus, parce qu'il y en a bien peu qui vueil- ent prendre conſeil de bonne heure, & parauant que le venin ait ſaiſi le cœur, & que pluſieurs accidens *he leur ſoient deſia ſuruenus " or le cœur eſtant ainſi il y a peu d'eſperance de ſanté , ce que toutesfois l | sn attend ordinairement : d'autant qu'il eſt tres difficile de cognoiſtre la peſte dés le commencement, # -sarce que les accidens ne ſont pas touſiours ſemblables , comme nous auons deſia dit : parquoy pluſieurs - cdecins & chirurgiens y ſont abuſez,tant experts puiſſent-ils eſtre dont ne ſe faut eſmerueiller ſi le pro- z z gnoſtic . , - - - -- ! - pourquoy levingt-deuxiéme liure, la crainte , pent donner la peſte . ce venin pe - , ſtilent con- uertit les humeurs en ſa qualité •oeneneuſe. signes de , nature mai- ſtreſſe . signes pour cognoiſtre la fiévre , peſtilente, rondelet en japractique. la faculté vitale ſe monſtre foi- ble en toute peſte . fiévres pe- ſtilentes , tierces , quartes &r quotidiènes. il faut ſur tout prcndre quelque ale- xitere pour defendre que le venin ne ſaiſiſſe le ſ Œtir, gnoſtic de cette maladie ne peut eſtre certain.qui plus eſt,elle eſt fi deteſtable & eſpouuantable qu'aucuns a de la ſeule apprehenſion meurent,parce que la vertu imaginatiue ou fantafie a ſi grande ſeigneurie en nous (ainſi que i'ay eſcrit en mon liure de l'anatomie du corps humain ) que le corps naturellement luy obeit en pluſieurs & diuerſes ſortes, lors qu'elle eſt fermement arreſtée en quelque imagination.donc en crainte & peur,beaucoup de ſang ſe retire au cœur,qui eſtouffe & ſuffoque du tout la chaleur naturelle, & les eſ- prits,la rendant plus foible pour reſiſter au venin dont la mort s'enſuit : au contraire, il aduient quelques- fois que ceux qui frequentent ordinairement les peſtiferez,n'en reçoiuent aucun mal, parce qu'ils n'appre- hendent rien.pour concluſion:on voit communément que tous ceux qui en ſont frappez, ne meurent pas, combien qu'ils n'ayent receu grand ſecours,& ceux qui vſent de bons antidotes, ou choſes contrariantes à tel venin,ne laiſſent ſouuent à eſtre pris & mourir. bref quand on en reſchappe,on peut bien dire que c'eſt vne choſe plus diuine que humaine,veu qu'on eſt ſouuent incertain de la cauſe. partant nous deuons eſti. mer que telle choſe ſe faict par la volonté de dieu,auquel,quant illuy plaiſt faire ſonner ſa trompette pour nous appeller,on ne peut reſiſter,ny euiter le partement par aucun artifice humain. c h a p, xix. e v a n t que venir à la curation de cette maladie peſtilentielle, il nous conuient premiere- ment declarer comment ſe faict la fiévre en icelle:c'eſt que quand la perſonne a attiré cétair peſtilent par inſpiration faite par le nez & la bouche : au moyen de ſ'attraction que font les poulmons,& autres parties dediées à ce faire, & auſſi vniuerſellement par les pores & petits - trous du cuir,& cauitez des arteres & veines,qui ſont diſſeminées par iceluy,lequel aireſtant attiré & conduit en toute la maſſe ſanguinaire,& aux humeurs,qui ſont plus apres à receuoir tel venin,les conuertit en ſa qualité veneneuſe,& comme ſi c'eftoit chaux viue, ſur laquelle on jettaſt de l'eau, s'eſleue vne vapeur putride, qui eſt communiquée aux parties nobles, & principalement au cœur,lang& eſprits, lequel boüillonne dedans ſes ventricules, dont ſe fait vne ebullition appellée fiévre, qui eſt con muniquée par tout le corps par le moyen des arteres; voire iuſques en la ſubſtance des parties les plus ſolides, qui ſont les os,les eſchauffant ſi fort comme s'ils bruſloient,faiſans diuerſes alterations ſelon la diuerſe tempe- rature des corps,& nature de l'humeur où la dite fiévre eſt fondée:& lors ſe fait vn combat entre le venin, & nature , laquelle ſi elle eſt plus forte,par ſa vertu expultrice le chaſſe loing des parties nobles, & cauſe par dehors ſueurs,vomiſſemens,fiux de ſang,apoſtemes aux emunctoires, charbons, ou autres puſtules & eruptions par tout le corps:auſſi flux de ventre,flux d'vrine,euacuations par inſenſible tranſpiration, & au- tres que declarerons cy-apres.au contraire,ſi le venin eſt plus fort que la vertu expultrice,nature demeure vaincue,& par conſequent la mort s'enſuit. or pour cognoiſtre que la fiévre eſt peſtilentielle,c'eſt que dés le premier iour qu'elle commence,les forces ſont proſternées & abbatues ſans aucune cauſe qui ait prece- dé auparauant:car ſans grande euacuation faicte , les panures malades ſont tant debiles & affoiblis, qu'on eſtimeroit qu'ils auroienteſté vexez de quelque grande maladie,& pluſieurs ſentent mordication à l'orifice de l'eſtomach,&grande palpitation de cœur,& ont ſommeil profond, & les ſens de l'entendement hebt- tez. ils ſentent auſſi grande chaleur au dedans de leurs corps, & les parties exterieures ſont trouuées froi- des,de façon que ceux qui ne ſont experimentez en telle maladie ſont facilement deceus,eſtimans qu'il n'y a nulle fiévre,pource que les pouls & vrine des malades ne ſont gueres changez; & toutesfois ils ont gran- de inquietude & difficulté de reſpirer,& ont leurs excremens fort fetides, & autres griefs accidens, & le plus ſouuent le troiſieſme iour ont reſuerie & grand flux de ventre & vomiſſemens,auec vne extreme ſoif, & n'ont point d'appetit.partant il faut prendre garde qu'aucuns de ces ſignes ſont touſiours preſens, & les autres viennent lors qu'il y a quelque partie offensée : comme s'il y a difficulté de reſpirer, cela demonftre que les parties pectorales ſont offensées,& quant le delire vient,cela ſignifie qu'il y a vice au diaphragme, & au cerueau, qui ſe fait quand la matiere du charbon ſe putrefie prés d'icelles parties, ou en icellesmeſ- mes. or en toutes ces choſes l'imbecilité des forces eſt commune, & les affections du cœur pareillement, veu que ce venin peſtiferé eſt contraire à noſtre nature, & qu'il infecte principalement le cœur, fontaine de vie.et combien que cette fiévre ſurpaſſe en malignité les autres quine participent point du venin peſti- feré,ſi eſt-ce qu'elle eſt auſſi diuerſe comme icelles:car quelquesfois elle a ſes exhalations comme la tierce, autresfois quarte,autresfois quotidienne , ſelon la diuerſité de l'humeur qui eſt principalement affectée:ce qu'on cognoiſt par les interualles,c'eſt à dire,l'eſpace interposé entre les accez. pareillement elle eſt dite ſimple, quand la quantité veneneuſe conſiſte ſeulement à l'eſprit vital, & que les humeurs ne ſont encores corrompus elle eſt dite composée, ou compliquée, quand ladite qualité eſt fourrée és eſprits & aux hu- mcurs en toute la ſubſtance du corps,auec charbons,boſſes & pourpre. auſſi il y a d'autres differences & diuerſitez d'icelles,qui ſe cognoiſſent par les vrines,excremens,habitude vniuerſelle du corps, temperature d'iceluy:auſſi par les accez,la chaleur,le pouls,& autres.donc ſelon que la fiévre tiendra la nature de tier- ce,quarte,quotidienne,ou continue,faudra diuerfifier les remedes pour la curationd'icelle : ce que ie laiſſe à meſſieurs les medecins. commentſe faict la févre peitilentielle . comment le malade ſe doit retirer du lieu infect, ſubit qu'ilſe ſent frappé depeſte . c h a p t r e xx. y a n t amplement deſcrit la peſte & tous ſes ſignes & accidens, & la maniere de s'en pre- # ſeruer,il faut maintenant traicter de la cutatió,en laquelle il faut auoir eſgard ſur toutes cho- ſes,de prendre incontinent quelque alexitaire pour contrarier au venin:mais pour l'ordre de demonſtration,& enſeignement,nous declarerons premierement la cure vniuerſelle,commeſ- - çant par le lieu auquel celuy qui ſe ſent frappé,doit habiter.et partant il eſt bon, que le mala- de ſe retire iubit en quelque lieu prochain,où l'air ſoit bien ſain,& faut auoir cela en ſinguliere recôman- dation:car en ce gift vne grande partie de la cure,parce que l'air eſt vne des choſes premieres & plus neceſ- ſaires pour la conſeruation de noſtre vie:veu que vueillons ou non,& en quelque lieu que ce ſoit, il nous conuient l'attirer au dedans du corps, & le jetter au dehors par le moyen des poulmons,& imperceptibles ouuertures des petites arteres,qui ſont diſſeminées en noſtre cuir, & de là ſe communiquent aux grandes arteres, leſquelles l'enuoyent au cœur fontaine de vie, & derecheficeluy le diſtribue par tout le corps, quaſi de mcſme façon que cette portion d'air qui entre par les nariiles, laquelle eſt promptement elaborcº en la ſubſtance du cerueau et pour cette cauſe il eſt tres-neceſſairc d'eſlire vn bon air au malade, contr - riant à la cauſe de la peſte,afin que pluſtoſt & plus ſeurément il ſoit guaranty. - d! - de la peſte. \ a # | ! | #: | "i - - -""- de la ſituation & habitation de la maiſon du malade de peſte, & moyen dy rectifier l'air. ch a p t r'e x xx i. $ va n d la peſte vient de l'intemperature de l'air, on ne ſe doit tenir en lieu haut eſleué : mais $ # en lieu bas enuironné d'air froid,eſpés & mareſcageux,& ſe tenir caché dans les maiſons:& par- w kx# $ tant ceux qui ſont priſonniers, & les moynes & nonnains enfermez en leurs cachots & con- É s é uents,ſont plus ſeurement,& hors de la portée du canon peſtiferé, que ceux qui habitent en au- tre lieu:toutesfois il ne ſe faut tenir tant enfermé qu'on n'ouure quelquesfois les portes & feneſt res au vêt contraire à celuy d'où vient l'air peſtilent,afin que l'air frais & bon y entre le matin & le ſoir,pour purifier - la maiſon des exhalations & vapeurs qui y ſont tenuës,& le corrompent dauantage,s'il n'eſt eſuenté & fia- bellé:& ſur le midy ſeront cloſes & fermées.outre-plus lors qu'il ne fait vent,comme on void aux grandes chaleurs,il faut eſmouuoir l'air autour du malade auec vn eſuentoir,ou auec vn grand ſac de toile,dans le- ºº d. quel on porte la farine au moulin.et faut qu'il ſoit trempé en eau & vinaigre, & posé ſur vn gros & long rafraijchir baſton,puis l'agiter fort : car par cette agitation on rend vne tres-grande refrigeration par toute la cham- l'air. bre, ainſi que l'experience le monſtre. or fi la peſte vient du vice des vapeurs de la terre, on ſe logera és lieux mediocrement hauts & bien aërez:& pour le dire en vn mot,on fera toutes choſes qui peuuent con- trarier à l'intemperature de l'air peſtilent, de quelque cauſe que la peſte ſoit procrée. auſſi conuient faire - changer tous les iours de chambre & linceux aux malades,s'ils le peuuent commodément faire:principale- ment quand ils ont ſué,de peur que les ordures que nature a jettées, ne ſoient attirées par les pores & ar- teres,qui ſontdiſſeminées au cuir,qui ſuccent & attirent l'air indifferemment,ſoit bon,ou mauuais : ſembla- - blement faire du feu en la chambre,principalement la nuict,afin de rendre l'air plus purifié des vapeurs no- ... . - cturnes,& de l'exhalation & expiration du malade,& de ſes excremens. parquoy il couchera vne nuict en !jºur faire vne chambre,& l'autre nuict en vne autre.en quoy on doit auoir égard à la diſpoſition du temps : car aux du feu en la grandes & extremes chaleurs,il n'y faut faire grand feu,de peur d'augmenter la chaleur de l'air,ny pareille- chambre du ment vſer de parfums forts & odoriferans, parce que telles choſes augmentent la fiévre & la douleur de "#. teſte , d'autant qu'en tel temps noſtre chaleur naturelle eſt languide, & les eſprits & humeurs boüillent & et a # bruſlent parquoy il faut pluſtoſt vſer de choſes qui rafraichiſſent,que de celles qui eſchauffent. partant en #, . eſté il faut arrouſer la chambre d'eau froide meſlée en vinaigre, & eſpandre fueilles de vigne, qui auront ſ,, qui eſ- trempé en eau froide,canes,ou roſeaux,aubeſpine,ioncs,fueilles & fleurs de nenuphar , peuplier , rameaux chauffent. de cheſne,& leurs ſemblables:leſquels ſeront renouuellez ſouuent, comme auſſi l'agitation de l'air auec le ſac cy-deuant dict doit eſtre reiterée quand il en ſera beſoin. pareillement ont attachera autour du lict du ornement malade des linceux gros & neufs & non fort blancs(pource que la blamcheur diſſipe la veüe,& augméte la du lici. douleur de teſte)leſquels ſeruiront de cuſtodes,& les faut arrouſer ſouuêtesfois d'eau & de vinaigre,ou eau roſe,ſi le malade eſt riche. on pourra tendre en la chambre pluſieurs linceux de toile neuue, trempez en oxycrat,qui luy ſeruiront de tapiſſerie. et faut que le iour il ſoit en peu de clarté , & au contraire la nuict auec grande lumiere, pource que par la grande clarté du iour les eſprits ſe diffipent & affoibliſſent , & par conſequent tout le corps:& par la lumiere de la nuict ils ſont reuoquez au dehors.auſſi on fera bruſler par parfum con- fois bois de geneſt,de genévre,freſne,& tamarix,mis en petites pieces,eſcorces d'orenges,citrons , limons, tre le venin- pclures de pommes de court-pendu,cloux de girofle,benioin,gomme arabique,racine d'iris,myrrhe prenât de chacun tant qu'on voudra et ſeront concaſſez groſſement,& mixtionnez enſemble, & jettez ſur vn reſ- chaud plein de braize,& ce ſoit reiteré tant qu'il ſera beſoin : mais entre tous,le bois & graine de genévre ont grande vertu contre le venin, ainſi que les anciens ont laiſſé par eſcrit, ce qu'on cognoiſt auſſi par ef- fect carafors qu'on en bruſle,ils chaſſent tous ſerpens veneneux qui ſont autour.le freſne a ſemblablement vertus de grande vertu : car nulle beſte veneneuſe n'oſe approcher ſeulement de ſon ombre, tellement qu'vn animal bois de veneneux ſe mettra pluſtoſt dedans le feu, que d'approcher ou paſſer par deſſus le bois de freſne, comme freſne. monſtre pline,& dit le ſçauoir par experience,liu. .chap. .pareillemêt le parfum ſuiuant eſt doux &amia- ble il faut faire fort chauffer des pierres de graiz,& les mettre dedans des chauderons,puis on verſera deſ- ſus du vinaigre,auquel on aura faict boüillir de la ruë,ſauge,roſmarin,graine de laurier , genévre, noix de cipres,& leurs ſemblables,ce faiſant il s'eſleuera vne groſſe vapeur & fumée qui rectifiera l'air , & donnera bonne odeur par toute la chambre.on pourra auſſi vſer d'autres en autre façon,dôt la matiere pourra eſtre parfums de plus craſſe & viſqueuſe afin qu'en bruſlant elle puiſſe rendre plus grande fumee,comme ſont ladanum.mir-mariere rhe,maſtich,reſine,terebenthine,ſtyrax calamite,oliban,benjoin, ſemences de laurier, genévre,pommes de creſſe & pin,cloux de girofle:& peut-on piler auec iceux de la ſauge,roſmarin,marjolaine, & leurs ſemblables: afin viſiºnſ . qu'auec les gommes la fumée & vapeur dure plus long-temps. òn pourra pareillement faire aux riches, cºººº chandelles,torches & flambeaux , meſlant auec la cire des pouldres de ſenteurs composées des choſes de ſ- odorantes. ſuſdites.on fera auſſi ſentir aux malades choſes douces aromatiques, afin de corroborer l'eſprit animal:car la bonne odeur recreeé & conforte les parties nobles : au contraire la mauuaiſe prouoque le vomir, & fait venir defaillance de cœur:tellement qu'ils pourront tenir en leurs mains vne eſponge trempée en eau roſe, vinaigre roſat cloux de girofle,& vn bien peu de camphre concaſſez & l'odorer ſouuent ou faut vſer de l'eau eanſingu- ſuiuante,laquelle eſt bien odoriferante & fort finguliere pour tel effect. /. ireos fior. .iiij. zedoariæ,ſpi liere pºur ca nardi an. .vj.ſtyracis calamitæ,benjoin,cinnamomi,nucis moſcatæ,cariophyllorum an. j.ſº.theriaca ve- odorer. teris . . ces choſes ſeront groſſement puluerisées & trempées en quatre liures de bon vin blanc pa r l'eſ- pace de douze heures,deſſus des cendres chaudes,puis les ferez diſtiller en alambic de verre. en cette eau autre eau: faudra tremper ſouuent vne eſponge, laquelle ſera miſe en vn mouchoir, ou en vne boëtte , & flairer ſouuent. autre. %.aqua roſar. & aceti roſati ana .iv.camph.g.vj.theriac . ß. faites diſſouldre le tout enſemble , & le mettez en vne phiole de verre, & le faictes ſentir ſouuent au malade ou vne eſponge ou mouchoir imbus en cette mixtion. auſſi on pourra à cette intention vſer de ce noiiet, lequel eſt de bonne odeur & bien experimenté. %. roſar.p.ij.ireos florentie . .calamiaromatici, cinnamomi, cariophyllor. an. ij.ſtyracis calamitæ,benjoin.an. .j.É.cyperi .f.reducantur in puluerem craſſiorem,& fiat nodulus in- ter duas ſyndones ledit noüet doit eſtre de la groſſeur d'vn eſteuf , & le faut laiſſer touſiours tremper en · huict onces de bonne eau roſe,& deux onces de vinaigre roſat, & le baillerez ſouuent à odorer au malade. nous deuons bien obſeruer, que ſelon la diuerſité de temps il faut diuerſifier les parfums : car en eſté ne faut vſer de muſc,ciuette,ſtyrax, calamite, benjoin,iris,ny pareilles odeurs fortes, pour les cauſes que faut diuer- nous allons dictes cy-deſſus : mais en hyuer l'air eſtant froid & humide, gros & nebuleux, on en ſſier les par- peut vſer. d'auantage il faut noter,que les femmes ſujettes à ſuffocation de la matrice, & les febricitans, jims. & ceux qui ont grande douleur de teſte , ne doiuent vſer de parfums & odeurs fortes, mais de dº# z z nouët. le vingt-deuxiéme liure, & benings, afin qu'ils ne leur puiſſent aucunement nuire : partant ils pourront vſer d'eau roſe & vinaigre, a & bien peu de camphre, & cloux de girofie concaſſez. du regime, & maniere de viure du malade, & premierement du manger c h a p t r e xx ii. la diete té- n cette maladie peſtilente la maniere de viure doit eſtre refrigerante & deſſeichâte & ne fiº muë & ſub- $ tenir vne diete fort tenue mais au contraire eſt neceſſaire que les malades ſe nourriſſent aſſez tile eſt per- - copieuſement de bons alimens:ce que pluſieurs doctesmedecins approuuent & tiennent que micieuſe aux la maniere de viure tenue eſt dommageable aux peſtiferez,à cauſe de la grande reſolutiô d'eſ- feſtiferez. prits & debilitation des forces naturelles, qui eſt faicte par icelle maladie, & fait communé- ment troubler le cerueau, rendant les malades frenetiques ; joinct auſſi qu'ils ſyncopiſent ſouuent : pour à quoy obuier,faut vfer de grande & ſubite reparation par alimens de bonne ſubſtance : ce que lexperience .. nous a enſeigné:car ceux qui en cette maladie ont vsé d'vne maniere de viure aſſez ample, ſont pluſtoſteſ- )uelles º chappez que les autres auſquelson a fait tenir diete ténué:& partant on y prendra garde. d'auantage faut # f** éuiter les viandes douces.h umides craſſes & viſqueuſes,& celles qui ſont fort tenues.parce que les douces - s'enflamment promptement,les humides ſe pourriſſent,les craſſes & viſqueuſes font obſtruction, & prouo- quent les humeurs à pourriture : celles qui ſont de ténue ſubſtance ſubtilient trop les humeurs & leseſ- chauffent & enflamment,& font eſleuer vapeurs chaudes & acres au cerueau, dont la fiévre & autres acci- b dens s'accroiſſent.parquoy les viandes ſalées & eſpicées,mouſtarde,ails,oignons & ſemblables, & genera- lement toutes choſes qui engendrent mauuais nourriſſement, ne ſont propres. d'auantage les legumesſe- ront pareillement euitez,parce qu'ils ſont venteux, & cauſent obſtruction : toutesfois leur boüillon n'eſt à du pain que rºjetter,parce qu'il eſt aperitif & diuretique.on vfera doncques de la maniere de viure qui s'enſuit et pre- doit manger mierement le pain ſera bien leué & bien cuit,& vn peu ſalé,& de bon fourment,ou de meteil,& qu'il ne ſoit le malade trop raſſis ne trop tendre,mais moyen entre deux. on vſera de chair qui engendre bon aliment & facile à de peſte, digerer,& laiſſe peu d'excremens:comme ſont ieunes moutons,veaux,chévreaux,lapreaux,poulets,hetour- deaux,perdreaux,pigeonneaux,griues,aloüettes,cailles,merles,tourterelles, francolins, faiſans, & genera- lement tous oiſeaux ſauuages qu'on a accouſtumé de manger, excepté ceux qui viuent és eaux : tous leſ- quels ſeront diuerfifiez ſelon le gouſt, & la puiſſance de la bourſe du malade. et faut que le malade maſ- che fort ſes viandes : pource que lors qu'elles ſont bien maſchées, elles ſont à demy cuites & preparées,& vilité d, par ainſi les vapeurs montent moins au cerueau. la ſaulce d'icelle ſera verjus , vinaigre,jus de limons, choſes ace- orenges,citrons,grenades aigres,eſpinevinette,groſelles rouges,& verdes, jus d'ozeille champeſtre & do- teuſes en meſtique. or toutes choſes aceteuſes ſont fort loüées, parce qu'elles irritent l'appetit, & reſiſtent à la peſte. chaleur & ebullition de la fiévre putride, & gardent que la viande ne ſe corrompe en l'eſtomach : auſſi contrarient à la putrefaction du venin & pourriture des humeurs : mais ceux qui ont mauuais eſtomach, ou yice aux poulmons , en vferont moins que les autres, ou ſeront corrigées auec ſuccre & cannelle. et quelquesfois auſſi le malade pourra bien manger quelques viandes boühlies auec bonnes herbes, comme laictué,pourpié,ſcariole,bourrache,ozeille,houbelon,bugloſſe,creſſon,pimpernelle,ſourcie, cerfueil,tour- mentille,quintefueille,ſcabieuſe,ſemences froides,orge & auoine mondez,& leurs ſemblables, auec vn peu g de ſafran,qui pareillement en tel cas eſt ſouuerain, d'autant qu'il corrige le venin. les potages ne ſont à loüer, ſi ce n'eſt en petite quantité, à cauſe de leur grande humidité ( auſquels on fera cuire racines & ſe- les potages ºººººs aperitiues leſquelles ont vertu de prouoquer l'vrine & deſopiller ) ny pareillement les choſes graſ- n, ſont p - ſes & oleagineuſes,parce qu'elles s'enflamment promptement.les capres ſont bonnes, à cauſe qu'ellesai- pres aux guiſent l'appetit & deſopilent,& doiuent cſtre bien deſſalées & mangées au commencement du repas,auec malades de vn bien peu d'huyle d'oliue & vinaigre : on en peut pareillement vſer en potages. les oliues priſes en peti- peſte. . te quantité ne ſont auſfi à reietter. aux iours maigres, ſi le malade eſt ſcrupuleux, & friand de poiſſon(ce que ie n'approuue,pource qu'il eſt facile à ſe corrompte & engendrer mauuais ſuc)il en pourravſer : mais on luy eſlira les moins nuiſibles,comme ſont les ſaxatiles, c'eſt à dire, viuans en eau claire, où il y a force grauier,pierres & rochers : auſſi ceux qui ſont friables,c'eſt à dire,aiſez à ſe comminuer & froiſſer, comme truittes,brochets,gardons,perches,dars, loches, eſcreuiſſes principalement eſtouffées en laict, tourtues & autres ſemblables. quant aux poiſſons de mer,il pourra vſer de dorades,rougets,gounauds, merlus, ccle- rins,ſardines fraiſches & non ſalées,mulots,merlangs,eſperlants,aigrefins,turbots, & leurs ſemblables,leſ- . quels ſeront cuits en eau & vinaigre,& bonnes herbes. auſſi les œufs pochez en eau mangezauec jus d'o- zeille,& autres cy-deſſus mentionnez leur ſeront propres. l'orge mondé auquel on mettra graine de gre- nades aigres, eſt pareillement fort excellent en tel cas, pource qu'il eſt de facile digeſtion & de bonne nourriture auſſi qu'il rafraiſchit,humecte,deterge & laſche vn peule ventre. on y pourra adiouſter de la orge uendé graine de pauot & ſemences de melons,ſi la fiévre eſt grande : toutesfois aucuns ne le peuuent digerer, & a qui l'orge leur cauſe vne nausée & douleur de teſte,& à tels ne leur en ſera baillé aucunement, mais en lieu d'iceluy, mendé n'eſt on leur donnera panades , ou pain gratté auec boüillon de chapon, auquel on fera boüillir les herbes cy- bon. , deſſus mentionnées auec des ſemences froides. d quant aux fruicts,le malade pourra vſer de raiſins deſſeichez & confits entre deux plats auec eau roſe & ſuccre,pruneaux de damats aigrets, figues, ceriſes aigrettes, pommes de court-pendu,poires de bonchrc- ſtien,& autres tels bons fruicts.et apres le repas,on luy donnera coings cuits ſur la braiſe ou cotignac , ou conſerue de roſes,de bugloſe,violettes,bourrache,& leurs ſemblables,ou cette poudre cordiale. z.corian- dri præparat. .ij.margar tarum electarum,roſarum,raſuræ eboris,cornù cerui an. .f.carabes . ij. cinna- momi .).& oſiis de corde cerui .É.ſacchari roſati .iiij.fiat puluis.vtatur poſt paſtum.si le malade eſt fort debile,on luy donnera de la gelée faite de chapon &veau,y faiſant boüillir eau d'ozeille,de chardon benit, bourrache,& vn peu de vinaigre roſat,cannelle,ſucre,& autres choſes qu'on verra eſtre neceſſaires la noict poudre cor ne faut eſtre degarny de quelques bons preſſis & boüillons(y adionſtant vn peu de jus de citron ou degre- dia le, nades aigres)leſquels en cette maladie ſont plus à loüer que le coulis à cauſe qu'ils sôt trop eſpais,font ob- la gelée eſt ſtruction aux veines meſaraiques & capillaires du foye,& cauſent ſoif pour la tardiueté de leur diſtribution comme pro- &donnét peine à l'eſtomach de les cuire,lequel(côme auſſi le cœur &autres mëbres nobles)a aſſezd'autres pre pour les empeſchemens à vaincre ſon ennemy il n'eſt auſſi impertinent tenir & faire preparer le reſtaurant qui s'en- malades de- ſuit,afin de n'ennuyer le malade d'vne ſorte de viâdes,mais le recréer aucunemét en diuers vſages d'alimés: biles. non que par ce moyen on luy vueille rechercher & conciter vn appetit,mais le fortifier,& cependât le con- tenter en quelque façon, & luy donner courage de reſiſter à ſa maladie : partant on pourra vſer de cet- fºſfaurant, tuy-cy. prenez conſerue de bugloſe , bourraches , violettes de mars, nenuphar & cichorée, de chacun deux vſage de pciſſon. ) · de la peſte. | $ a deux onces,pouldre d'electuaire de diamargaritum froid & diafragacant froid, trochi ues de camphre,de chacun trois dragmes, ſemence de citron,chardon beniſt, & aceteuſe, racine de dictamne , & tormentille, de chacun deux dragmes,eau de decoction d'vn ieune chappon ſix liures,meſlée auec fueilles de laictue ace- teuſe, pourprié, bugloſe, & bourrache, de chacun demie poignée. le tout ſoit mis en vn alambic de verre auec la chair de deux poulets & deux perdrix : ſoit faicte diſtillation à petit feu. puis ſera pris demie liure de la diſtillation predicte,auec deux onces de ſuccre blanc & demie dragme de cannelle : ces choſes ſoient paſſées par la manche d'hyppocras; & que le malade en boiue quand il aura ſoif,ou qu'il vſe de ceſtuy ſui- uant. prenez vn viel chappon & vn jarret de veau,deux perdrix hachées,canelle entiere deux dragmes : le tout mis en vn vaiſſeau de verre bien eſtouppé ſans aucune autre liqueur , & ſoient faits boüillir au bain marie,iuſques à ce qu'ils ſoient parfaictement cuits, ou en vn vaiſſeau d'eſtain,qui t'eſt repreſenté en la pa. ge ſuiuante, lequel ſe cloſt à vis, de façon,que nulle vapeur ne peut ſortir dehors,& propre pour fairere- ſtaurans,& potions vulneraires,& decoctions de gaiac,ſalſepareille,& eſquine,&generalement toutes cho- ſes qui ſe doiuent cuire,au bain marie. car par ce moyen la chair ſe cuit en ſon propre jus,ſans que le feu y porte dommages puis le jus ſoit exprimé dedans des preſſes propres a telle choſe, duquel en ſera donné vne once ou plus pour chacune fqis auec vn peu d'eaux cordiales, comme eau de bourra- che, de violettes,de bugloſe,de ſcabieuſe, de roſes, ou de conſerue d'icelles, & du trianſa- tal,diamargaritum frigidum,deſquelles on en diſſoudra, & en ſera donné ſouuent au mala- de, à ſçauoir, de trois heures en trois heures, plus ou moins, ſelon que le malade le pourra digerer, & que la fiévre & autres accidens le §$ permettront:car ſelon que la fiévre ſera gran- $ de ou diminuée, il faudra diuerſifier les ali- \ ， † # mens, tant en quantité qu'en qualité or on | , ,!|||#! // ordonne les reſtaurans,coulis,& preſſis,& eau de chair à ceux qui ont l eſtomach debile, & ne peuuent cuire les viandes. outre-plus, il eſt bon de manger ſouuent en petite quantité confitures aigrettes,comme prunes,ceriſes,& autres dont nous auons fait mention cy-deſ- - / . - - - § |jſſſſſſſſſſſſ #º ſus.et faut du tout éuiter les confitures dou- w # : car , ( comme nous auons dit cv- \†# ces : car , ( . s dit cy-deſſus) · w # # toutes choſes douces promptement s'enflam- - \ |t llllljlllllffi # ment en noſtre corps,ſe tournans en cholere, # & ſouuent engendrent obſtruction au foye & º,n， #u - à la ratelle. et faut icy noter,qu'il n'y a point de maladie qui debilire tant nature que fait la peſte.parquoyil faut donner à manger au ma- - lade peu & ſouuent, ſelon qu'on verra eſtre d - # neceſſaire,ayanteſgard à la couſtume,à l'aage. à s= º temps,à la region,& ſur toutes choſes à la - vertu du malade, afin que le venin qui a eſté # chaſsé & expulsé aux parties exterieures, ne # ſoit derechef attiré au dedans par inanition. # conſideré auſſi que la putrefaction veneneuſe #--- corrompt,altere,& diſſipe les eſprits vitaux, & naturels,leſquels doiuent eſtre ſouuent re- nn ſtaurez par manger & boire, comme nous $ t'auons deſia aduerti cy-deuant : toutesfois il \w faut prendre garde que par trop marger on - # ne charge le malade de matiere ſuperfluë, | | | partant en ce on tiendra mediocrité.et quand - " - l'appetit ſera venu,il ne faut differer de don- / - ner à manger & à boire, tant pour les cauſes / ſuſdites,qu'auſſi de peur que l'eſtomach ne ſe % rempliſſe d'humeurs acres, bilieuſes, & ame- / res, dont s'cnſuiuent pluſieurs extorſions & l#ſſſſ///////// - nn \ | mordications en iceluy,inquietude, & priua- # tion de ſommeil,retention des excremens,leſ- n | quels auſſi font faicts plus acres & mordi- \"|iiiiii# cans. dauantage,faut auoir eſgard de donnet - ||| en hyuer plus à manger qu'en eſté, à cauſe que la chaleur naturelle eſt plus grande.plus, ceux qui ſont de complexion froide, & qui ent debilité d'eſtomach,vſeront moins de choſes refrigerantes,ou ſeront corrigées auecques autres choſes chaudes,comme canelle,cloux de girofle,muguette,macis,& autres. outre-plus,ceux qui ont grand flux de ventre,doiuent vſer de jus de grenades,tant au manger qu'au boire. et l'ordre de prendre les viandes,c'eſt que les liquides & de facile digeſtion, ſeront priſes deuant les ſolides, & plus difficiles à digerer.et ce te ſuffiſe du manger du malade. a preſent il nous faut traitter du boire. - autre ré - ſtauranfs les choſes douces ſont contraires a. aux fé- ºurºf x, quantité de manger rº - glée. · levingt-deuxiéme liure, maniere de , faire oxymel. j'yfocras d eau. yrat de a- cetºſîtate » citri, autre iulep. du peré, p - me ce ruoi e_º ( uiere . oxycrat c - - po, é. autre iulep. pour eſtan- cker une ex treme fouf. celſe liure ;. ewap. . oxycrat cö- f/ tt/ . en quel cas il eſt requis au fabrici. tant peſtife- ré de boire » t'in. le malade , de peſte ne doit endurer la ſoif. breuuage , du boire du peſtiferé malade . c h a p t r e xxi i i. i le malade a grande fiévre ardante, il s'abſtiendra entierement de vin s'il ne luy ſuruientde- faillance de cœur : mais en lieu d'iceluy il pourra boire de l'oxymel fait comme s'enſuit : ſ vous prendrez la quantité que voudrez de la meilleure eau que pourrez recouurer, & pour ſix liures d'eau y mettrez quatre onces de miel, & le ferez boüillir en l'eſcumant iuſques à la ` conſomption de la troiſieſme partie : puis ſera coulé, & mis en quelque vaiſſeau de verre : puis on adiouſtera trois ou quatre onces de vinaigre : & ſera aromatisé de canelle fine. l'areillement pour- ras vſer de l'hippocras d'eau fait en cette ſorte. prenez vne quarte d'eau de fontaine, fix onces de ſuccre, deux dragmes de canelle,& le tout enſemble coulerez par vne mâche d'hippocras,ſans aucunement le faire boüillir & s'il n'eſt aſſez doux au gouſt du malade, vous y pourrez adiouter dauantage du ſuccre enſemble, vn peu de jus de citron, & lors meſmement qu'il demande à boire. le ſyrop de acetoſitate citri emporte le prix entre tous les autres contre la peſte il pourra auſſi vſer du julep qui s'enfuit entre les repas auec eau boüillie, ou eau d'ozeille,de laictues, ſcabieuſe,& bugloie,de chacune egale portion : comme, prenez jus d'ozeille,bien purifié demie liure,jus de laictuès auſſi bien purifié quatre onces, ſuccre fin vne liure : clarifiez le tout enſemble, & le faites boüillira perfection,& le coulez, v adiouſtant ſur la fin vn peu de vi- naigre,& en vſera comme deſſus eſt dit & s'il n'eſt agreable au malade en cette ſorte,vous le pourrez faire en la maniere ſuiuante.prenez quatre onces dudit julep clarifié & coulé, & le meſlez auec vne liure deſdites eaux cordiales,& les ferez boüillir enſembles .ou .boüillons,& eſtant hors du feu y iettez vne dragme de ſantal citrin , & demy dragme de canelle concaſſée : ce faict le coulerez par vne manche d'hyppocras, & eſtant froid,le baillerez à boire au malade auec jus de citron, comme deſſus. ceux qui ont accouſtumé de boire du pe ré,ou du pommé,ou de la ceruoiſe,ou biere,le pourront faire,pourueu que la biere ſoit bonne, claire & deliée , & le peré & pomme faict de pommes & poires aigres, qui ſoyent bien purifiées : car s'ils eſtoient gros & troubles,non ſeulement engendreroient mauuaiſes humeurs, mais auſſi glandes cruditez & inflations à l'eſtomach , & pluſicurs obſtructions dont la fievre ſe pourroit augmenter, & par conſequent faire mauuais accidens; parquoy ie conſeille n'en vſer aucunemét, ſi le malade ne le deſiroit,& fuſt accouſtu- mé à boire tels breuuages. pour eſtancher la grande ſoif,& contrarier a la matiere putiide & veneuſe, on donnera à boire au malade de l'eau & vinaigre faicts côme ſenſuit.prenez deux liures d'eau de fôtaines,trois onces de vinaigre blanc ou rouge quatre onces de ſuccre fin,de,x onces de ſyrop de roſes : le tout ſoit faict bouillir vn petit boüillon , & en toit donné à boire au malade. ce julep ſuiuant eſt pareillement propre pour donner à ceux qui ſont fort feb citans, lequela vertu de rafraiſchir le cœur,& retient en bride la fu- reur du venin,& garde les humeurs de pourriture.prenez demie once de jus de limons, & autant de citrons, vin de grenades aigres deux onces,eau de petite ozeille,& eau roſe, de chacune vne once, eau de fontaine boüillie,tant qu'il ſera beſoin,& ſoit faict julep,duquel en ſera vsé entre le repas aure.prenez ſyrop de ci- trons & de groiſelles rouges, appellées ribes,de chacun vne once,eau nenuphar quatre onces, eau de fon- taine,huict onces,& de ce ſoit fait julep a boire comme deſſus. autre. prenez ſyrop de nenuphar, & fyrop aceteux ſimple,de chacun demie once:ſoient diſſouts en cinq onces d'eau de petite oxeille,& vne liure d'eau de fontaine & de ce ſoit faict julep.et ſi le malade eſtoit ieune,& de temperature chaude,& l'eſtomach bon, il pourra boire de bonne eau froide venant d'vne claire & viue fontaine,à grands traicts,afin d'eſt indre ſon extreme ſoif,& la vehemente fureur & ardeur de la fiévre.ie dy à grands traicts,pource que s'il beuuoit peu & fouuent,iamais ſa ſoif ne pourroit eſtre eſtanchée,ny la chaleur diminuée,mais pluſtoſt ſeroient augmen- tées. ce que nous cognoiſſons par l'exemple du mareſchal, qui voulant eſchauffer le fer, arrouſe ſon feu auec vne eſcouuette,& parce la vertu du feu en eſt renduë plus chaude & ardente:& lors qu'il le veut eſtein- dre il iette bonne quantité d eau deſſus, qui fait que le feu en eſt ſuffoqué & du tout eſleint:auſſi le pauure febricitant alteré d'vne extreme ſoif lors qu'on luy donne vn grand traict d'cau fraiſche,on luy ſuffoque pºr ce moyen ſa vehemente chaleur,& deſir de boii e. et en telle extreme ſoif ne faut renir meſure du boire:& ' où le malade vomira apres,il n'y aura pas grand danger:& cecy eſt meſme approuué de celſe qui dit qu'a- pres que l'eau froide aura refrigeré les parties interieures,il la conuient vomir:ce que toutesfois aucuns ne font pas,mais en vſent comme de medicarnent dauantage le malade tiendra eu ſa bouche ces trochiſques. .ſeminis.pſyllij. .ij.ſeminis cidoniorum .j.& É.ſaccaricandi in aqua roſarum diſſolut. .j.miſce,fiât tro- chiſci ſupinis ſimiles, teneat ſemper in ore. ces trochiſques humectent grandement la bouche du malade. auſſi pour appaiſer la ſoif, on pourra faire tenir en la bouche vn morceau de melon, ou concombre, ou courge,ou quelques fueilles de laictues,ou d'ozº ille,ou pourpié trempé en eau froide,& le renouueller ſou- uent. il pourra pareillement y tenir des leſches de citron vn peu ſuccrées & aſpergées d'eau roſe : ſembla- blement auſſi des grains de grenades aigres. outre plus,le vinaigre mixtionné auec eau,ainſi qu'on le pre- pare dedans les galeres pour boire,refroidit & garde de pourriture,fait paſſer & deſcendre l'eau parles par : ties,diſſipe les obſtructions,& eſtanche merueiileuſement la ſoif par la vertu de ſa froideur & acidité:auſſiil reſiſte & amortit beaucoup l'ebullition des humeurs,qui cauſèt la fiévre putride pareillemét les ſyrops ſui- uans ſont propres, comme aceteux,nenuphar,violat,de papauere,de limons,citrons,de ribes, berberis,& de grenades.l'vn d'iceux ſera battu & mixtionné auec eau boüillie,& en ſera donné à boire aux malades,cö- d me i'ay cy deſſus dit,moyennant qu'ils n'ayent toux,ny crachats de ſang,ou le ſanglot,ou !'eſtomach debile: car alors on doit du tout fuir telles choſes aceteuſes. or encor que 'aye cy-deuant defendu le vin,i'enten- dois que le malade fuſt ieune robuſte & euſt fiévre ardente:mais s'il eſtoit viel & debile,& de temperature pituiteuſe,& euſt accouſtumé de boire touſiours vin,auſſi qu'il euſt paſsél'eſtat de ſa maladie,& n'euſt fiévre trop grande ny ardante,il peut boire à ſes repas vin blanc ou clairet fort trempé ſelon la force du vin,&la diuerſité des chaleurs du temps. et ce n'eſt à reietter:car il n'y a rien qui conforte pluſtoſt les vertus,& qui augmente & reuerifie les eſprits que fait le bon vin,& partant en tel cas en faudra donner : & à la fin de la table on luy dönera quelque petit vin vermeil,verdelet & aſtringent,afin qu'il ferme & ſerre l'orifice de l'e- ſtomach,& repouſſe les viandes au profond,auſſi qu'il abbate les fumées qui montent à la teſte. et pour ce faict,on donnera pareillementvn peu de sotignat,conſerue de roſes,ou quelque pouldrecordiale.et noteras que le malade ne doit endurer la foif, & partant gargariſa ſouuent ſa bouche d'eau & vinaigre,ou vin & eau,& en lauera pareillement ſa face, & ſes mains : cartelle lotion reſiouyt & fortifie les vertus.si le malade a flux de ventre,il boira de l'eau ferrée,auec quelques ſyrops aſtringens auſſi le laict boüilly,auquel on aura eſteint ces cailloux par pluſieurs fois,luy ſera fort vtile. quant à ceux qui ont la langue ſeiche & raboteuſe, pour le flux & toutes les parties de la bouche deſſeichées,pour la leur rafraiſchir & addoucir,on leur fera lauer ſouuét de ventre . la bouche d eau mucilagineuſe faicte de ſemence de coings & de pſylliunu,auec eau de plantain & de roſes» & ) b • de la peſte. & vn peu de camphre : puis apres l'auoir lauée & humectée, il la faut nettoyer auec vne ratiſſoire , puis l'oindre d'vn peu d'huyle d'aumandes douces tirée ſans feu, meſlée auec du ſyrop violat. et s il ſuruenoit quelques vlceres en la bouche,on les touchera d'eau de ſublimé,ou eau forte, qui aura ſeruyaux orfévres: auſſi on fera des gargariſmes & autres choſes neceſſaires. - election de la bonne eau. il y a pluſieursmalades,& auſſi des ſains,qui iamais pour leur breuuage ne veulent & ne peuuent boire , autre breuuage que la ſeule eau.a cette cauſe vouloir m'a pris en cét endroit monſtrer par eſcrit la bonne eau remarquée par les anciens:& eſt bien neceſſaire la cognoiſtre, veu que noſtre vie conſiſte la plus grand part en l'vſage d'icelle.car c'eſt le principal breuuage,joinct que le pain que nous mangeons , en eſt peſtri, l'eau de .. & la pluſpart des viandes appreſtees & cuittes. or la meilleure eſt celle de pluye qui tombe en eſté, & pluye eſt la gardée en vne bonne ciſterne.apres eſt celle des fonraines,qui deſcend des montaignes,& decoule par de- meilleure- dans les pierres & rochers.puis l'eau des puits,ou celle qui ſort au bas d'vne montagne. celle de la riuiere eſt pareillement bonne, priſe au fil courant d'icelle entre deux eaux. celle des eſtangs ou marais eſt mau- uaiſe,& principalement celle qui ne court point eſt tres-pernicieuſe & peſtilente,à cauſe qu'en icelle naiſ- ſent pluſieurs animaux venimeux,comme couleuures,crapaux,vers,& autres. celle de neige & de glace eſt auſſi mal ſaine,à cauſe de ſa grande froideur & terreſtrité.et quant à l'eau des puits & des fontaines,laquel- le eſt touſiours ou le plus ſouuent trouuée bonne,ſa bonté ſera cogneuë, ſi elle n'a aucune ſaueur , odeur, b ny couleur,neantmoins bien claire comme l'air ſerain.elle doit eſtre tiede en hyuer,& froide en eſté,facile à eſchauffer & ſubite à refroidir, en laquelle les pois & les féves,nauets, & autres ſemblables choſes cui- ſent facilement. et ceux qui en vſent, ont la voix claire , & la poitrine ſaine, & le teint du viſage beau & clair,& la plus legere trouuée au poids eſt la meilleure. des medicamens alexiteres, c'eſt à dire contrepoiſons, qui ont vertu de chaſſer le venin peſtiferé. c h a p t r e * x x i v. a n t e n a n t il eſt temps que nous traictions de la propre curation de cette maladie pe- . peſte eſt ſtilente,laquelle eſt fort difficile,à cauſe de la diuerſité & fallace de pluſieurs accidens qui la # ſuiuent : tellement que le medecin & chirurgien à grande difficulté peuuent-ils iuger & co- cognoiſtre du gnoiſtre fi le malade eſt frappé de peſte,veu meſmement que quelquesfois il n'aura qu'vne pe- comm.nce- - tite fiévre,à raiſon que ce venin ne ſera imprimé en humeur chaud,& partant il ne ſe diſper- ment. ſe , & ne ſe fait apparoiſtre certainement, dont aduient que le peſtiferé meurt promptement ſans aucune cauſe manifeſte ou ſigne quelconque. parquoy en temps de peſte il ne faut prolonger le temps cherchant les vrais ſignes de cette maladie : car bien fouuent on ſeroit deceu , & le venin tuera bien toſt le malade, ſi c § ne maſte luy donner promptement ſon alexitere ou contrepoiſon. a cette cauſe lors qu'on verra la fié- vre à quelqu'vn en temps de peſte, il faut preſuppoſer qu'elle eſt peſtilentielle, attendu meſmement que tant que l'influence venimeuſe de l'air durera, tout l'humeur ſuperflu eſt facilement enuenimé. or pour il faut cem- commencer la curation,aucuns ſont d'aduis de faire la ſaignée, les autres de donner purgation, & les au- mencer la tres de donner incontinent quelque contrepoiſon : mais conſiderant la vehemence de cette maladie , la di- *** p* le • uerſité & fallace des accidens qui la ſuiuent,auſquels faut ſubuenir en contemplant la principale partie,qui medicament eſt la matiere veneneuſe & du tout ennemie du cœur, nous ſommes d'aduis, que le plus expedient eſt de " donner premierement & ſubitement au malade quelque medicament alexitere & cardiaque : ou contrarier & reſiſter au venin,non entant qu'il ſoit chaud ou froid , ſec ou humide, mais commc ayant vne proprieté occulte : car ſi c'eſtoit vne intemperature ſeule ou compliquée, elle pourroit eſtre curée auec medicamens contrarians par vne ſeule qualité , ou miſtionnez ſuiuant les remedes eſcrits & approuuez des anciens & modernes:mais nous voyons que par tels remedes communs & methodiques, tel venin ne peut eſtre vain- cu:parquoy nous ſommes contraincts pour la curation venir aux medicamens qui operent par vne proprie- té occulte,qui ne peuuent eſtre expliquez par raiſon:mais cogneus par ſeule experiéce,comme ſont lesale- deux ſort xiteres ou antidotes,c'eſt à dire remedes dediez contre les venins.or il y en a deux ſortes : l'vne qui arreſte #, & röpt la vertu du venin par ſa proprieté cachée ou particuliere,de laquelle on ne peut döner raiſon;l'au- tre le jette hors du corps,à ſçauoir par vomiſſement,flux de ventre,ſueur, & autres vacuations que dirons cy-apres:leſquels eſtans contraires aux veninsschangent & alterent tout le corps, non pas(comme dit iac- ques greuin en ſon liure des venins)qu'il faille entendre que leur ſubſtance penetre & paſſe tout le corps. d car il eſt impoſſible qu'en ſi peu de temps,& ſi peu de matiere qu'on donne pourcontrepoiſon, puiſſe paſſer vne ſi groſſe maſſe de noſtre corps.mais eſtât en l'eſtomach,là il s'eſchauffe.puis s'eſleuét certaines vapeurs, ººººº leſquelles ſe communiquent par tout le corps,de telle ſorte,ſouſtenu d'icelles il côbat par ſa vertu la force l'alexitere du venin en quelque part qu'il le rencontre,le maiſiriſant & le chaſſant hors non ſeulemét par ſa ſubſtan- #"" ce,mais par renuoy de ſes vertus & qualitez comme iournellement nous voyons,que quand nous auôs pris "º des pillules,ou quelque medecine laxatiue,combien que leur ſubſtance ou matiere demeure en l'eſtomach, leur vertu eſt eſpanduë en toutes les parties du corps. on en peut autant dire d'vn clyſtere, qui eſtant de- dans les inteſtins a puiſſance de faire reuulſion des humeurs du cerueau. autre exemple. comme nous vo- galliu. . de yons de l'emplaſtre de de vigo cum mercurio,qui liquefie & chaſſe le virus verolique, tant par fueurs , fiux com.med.ſe- de ventre,que flux de bouche, ſans que la ſubſtance du mercure entre aucunement dedans les parties inte- cundàm lº- rieures du corps:pareillement les alexiteres operent en nos corps , en combattant & chaſſant la virulence º*. de venin.mais auſſi que la morſure d'vnevipere, ou picqueure d'vn ſcorpion , ou d'autre befte veneneufe, vne bien petite quantité de leur venin fait en peu de temps grande mutation au corps, à cauſe que leur qualité s'eſpand par toutes les parties, & les altere & conuertit en ſa nature, dont la mort s'enſuit , ſi on n'y met remede : & pareillement vne petite quantité de contrepoiſon donné en temps & heure abbat la malice du venin,ſoit appliqué par dehors,ou donné par dedans toutesfois il faut icy noter, que l'alexi- lexiteres. tere doit eſtre plus fort que le venin,afin qu'il domine & le chaſſe hors,& en ſera donné deux fois le iour: , / .a'ii ' 'c"j. & partant il en faudra vfer en plus grande quantité,que n'eſt preſupposé eſtre le verin, afin qu'il le domi- ne. auſſi n'eſt-il pas bon en vſer trop grande quantité, de peur qu'il ne bleſſe la nature du corps , enco- re qu'il fuſt maiſtre dn venin; partant on y tiendra mcdiocrité, & en ſera contiſtué iuſqt'à ce qu'on ver- ra les acc.dens diminuez, ou du tout ceſſez. or les alexiteres ou contre-poiſons ſont ſouuent sfois # z vne - _ - a. - \uitité de ^ - t- le vingt-deuxiéme liure, le theriaque cºrmethridat ſont bons par dedans cr par dehors. val.max.li. - chap. .• obiection. reſtonſe. vertu du camphre. pour faire ſiter. hiſtoire. hiſtoire. decočtion pour prouo- d'vne partie de venins meſlez auec autres ſimples en quantité bien accommodée (comme on void en la compoſition du theriaque , qu'il y entre de la chair de vipere)afin qu'ils ſeruent de vehicule ou conduite pour les mener la part où eſt le venin dedans le corps,pource qu'vn venin cherche ſon ſemblable, comme auſſi font toutes choſes naturelles.dauantage il ſe trouue des venins qui ſont contrepoiſons les vns des au- tres,voire vn venin contre ſon ſemblable,comme on void le ſcorpion propre contre ſa piqueure. mais en- tre tous les alexiteres du venin peſtiferé, ſont principalement le theriaque & methridat, leſquels on a co- gneu reſiſter à la malice du venin, en fortifiant le cœur, & generalement tous les eſprits, non ſeulement pris par dedans,mais auſſi appliquez par dehors,comme ſur la region du cœur, & ſur les bubons & char- bons, & vniuerſellement par tout le corps,parce qu'ils attirent le venin vers eux par vne proprieté occul- te(ainſi que le magnes attirt le fer,& l'ambre le feſtu, & les arbres & herbes tirent de la terre ce qui leur eſt familier)& l'ayant attiré l'alterent, corrompent & mortifient ſa virulence & venenofité : ce qui eſt bien prouué par galien au liure des commoditez du theriaque : joint que tous les anciens ont tenu pour reſo- lu qu'en la compoſition d'iceux y a vne choſe merueilleuſe & conuenable à la forme de l'eſprit vital. de- quoy nous a faict foy le roy mithridates, inuenteur du methridat, lequel en ayant pris par long vſage ne ſe peut faire mourir par poiſon, pour ne tomber entre les mains des romains ſes ennemis mortels et quant au theriaque, galien afferme qu'il peut guarir de la morſure d'vn chien enragé, eſtant pris aupara- uant que le venin ait ſaiſi les partiesnobles.et ſi quelques-vns me vouloyent mettre en auant, que le the- . riaque & methridat, & pluſieurs autres medicamens alexiteres de la peſte , ſont chauds , & qu'elle com- mence le plus ſouuent par fiévre ardente & continue, & que partant tels remedes la pourroient augmen- ter,& qu'eſtant augmentée,nuiroient pluſtoſt aux malades,qu'ils ne leur profiteroient. a cela ie reſpons & confeſſe qu'ils ſont chauds : mais d'autant qu'ils reſiſtent au venin eſtans baillez & admis par proportion conuenable, peuuent plus aider que nuire à la fiévre, à laquelle ne faut auoir tant d'eſgard qu'à ſa cauſe. vray eſt que quand la fiévre eſt fort grande, il les faut meſler auec choſes refrigerantes, comme trochiſ- ques de camphre(lequel meſme preſerue le corps de pourriture, & pource eſt commodement meſlé ez an- tidotes contre la peſte)ſyrop de limons,citrons,nenuphar, eau d'ozeille, & autres ſemblables, & au reſte ne choiſir vn metridath ou theriaque trop vieille : ains du moyen aage, comme de quatre ans : ou recent, comme de deux : car ainſi elle n'eſchauffera pas tant. or la quantité dudit thetiaque & methridat ſe doit diuerſifier ſelon les perſonnes : car les forts & robuſtes en pourront prendre la quantité d'vne dragme ou plus : les moyens, demie : & quant aux enfans qui tettent encore, nous en parlerons cy-apres. quand le malade aura pris ledit theriaque ou autre alexitere, faut qu'il ſe pourmene quelque eſpace de temps , non pas toutesfois comme aucuns font, leſquels incontinent qu'ils ſe ſentent frappez de peſte, ne ceſſent de cheminer tant qu'ils ne ſe peuuent ſouſtenir : ce que ie n'approuue, veu qu'ils debilitent par tropna- ture, laquelle eſtant ainſi,debilitée, ne peut vaincre ſon ennemy peſtiferé , partant on ne doit point faire ainſi, mais y proceder par mediocrité. et apres que le malade ſe ſera pourmené, il le faut mettre dedans vn lict chaudement,& le faire bien couurir, & luy appliquer des pierres chaudes aux pieds, ou bouteilles remplies d'eau chaude,ou des veſſies, & le faire tres-bien ſuer : car la ſueur en tel cas eſt vne des vrayes purgations des humeurs qui cauſent la peſte,& les fiévres putrides, ſoient chaudes ou froides. toutesfois toute ſucur n'eſt pas profitable,comme il appert parce que george agricola, excellent medecin au pays d'alemagne, a eſcrit en ſon liure de la peſte , où il aſſeure auoir veu vne femme de miſne, ayant la peſte: fuer le ſang par la teſte & la poictrine l'eſpace de trois iours,& ce nonobſtant elle deceda. auſſi antonius beniuenius medecin florentin,au liure .chap. . dit auoir cogneu vn homme aſſez robuſte , aagé de trente ſix ans , lequel tous les mois ſuoit le ſang par les pores du cuir : lequel fut guary par ſection de veine. or pour retourner à noſtre propos, ce qui s'enſuit eſtant pris interieurement, ſera bon pour prouoquer la quer laſueur ſueur. %. rad,chinx in talleolas diſſectæ .j. ß. gaiaci #. ij. corticis tamariſci .j.rad. angelica .ij. raſurae eau excel- lente contre la pºſte, autre eau. ſ nd le dormir nuit au malade de peſie. cornu cerui .j.baccarum iuniperi .iij. le tout ſoit mis dans vne phiole de verre,tenant de cinq à ſix pin- tes,& ſoient miſes dans ladite phiole quatre pintes d'eau de riuiere,ou d'vne claire fontaine, & ſoit eſtou- pée,& laiſſée en infuſion toute la nuict ſur les cendres chaudes , & le lendemain ſoit boüilly in balneo ma- ria :& au cul du chauderon ſera mis du foin ou feurre, de peur que ladite bouteille ne touche au fonds, & que par ce moyen elle ne ſe rompe. l'ebullition ſe fera iuſqu'à la conſomption de la moitié, qui ſe pour- ra faire en ſix heures puis ſoit paſſé par dedans la chauſſe d'hippocras, & apres repaſſé auec ſix onces de ſuccre roſat,& vn peu de theriaque,& d'icelle eau eſtant vn peu chaude, en ſera donné plein vn verre, ou moins a boire au malade pour le faire ſuer. d'auantage on pourra aſſeurément prendre la poudre ſuiuan- te,laquelle eſt fort ſinguliere. .foliorum dictamni,rutæ, radicis tormentillae,betonicx, an. .É. boli arme- nica præparatx j. terræ ſigillatæ .iiij. myrrha an. . . croci orientalis .j. maſtiches . ij. le tout ſoit puluerise ſelon l'art,& ſoit faite poudre,de laquelle on baillera au malade vne dragme diſſoute en eau ro- ſe,ou de vinette ſauuage:& apres auoir pris ladite poudre,il ſe pourmènera,puis s'en ira coucher, & ſe fera ſuer , ainſi qu'auons dit. pareillement cette eau eſt tres-excellente. z. radicum gentiana & cyperi an. .i j.cardui benedicti,pimpinellx.an.m.j. ß oxalidis agreſtis & morſus diaboli an. p. ij. baccarum hederx & iuniperi an. .ſ .florum bugloſſi,violarum,& roſarum rubrarum en. p.ij. le tout ſoit mis en poudre groſ- ſement , puis le ferez tremper en vin blanc,& eau roſe, par l'eſpace d'vne nuict ſeulement , & apres on y adiouſtera boii armenicx. .j. theriacæ. .ſº. cela fait, on diſtillera le tout au bain marie, & on le gar- dera en vne phiole de verre bien boulchée : & lors qu'on en voudra prendre, on y mettra vn bien peu de cannelle & ſafran : & ſi le malade eſt delicat , comme ſont les femmes & enfans, on y mettra du ſuccre. la doſe ſera de ſix onces aux robuſtes,aux moyens trois,& tux delicats deux , plus ou moins, ſelon qu'on verra eſtre neceſſaire. et apres l'auoir prile , on ſe pourmenera & fuera comme deſſus. les eaux theria- cales & cordiales cy deſſus mentionnces , ſont auſſi de merueilleux effects pour cette intention, & en faut prendre quatre , cinq , ou ſix doigts en vn verre. semblablement celle qui s'enſuit, eſt bien approuuée. a.oxalidis agreitis minoris m.vj.rtitx p.j.piſtentur & macerentur in aceto xxiiij. horarum ſpatio, adden- do theriacx .iiij.fiat diſtillatio inbalneo mariæ. et incontinent que le malade ſe ſentira frappé, il en boira quatre onces,plus ou moins,ſelon ſa vertu,puis ſe pourmenera & ſuera, comme il a eſté dit cy-deſſus. le temps de faire ceſſer la ſueur eſt, ou qu'elle ſe refroidiſſe, ou qu'on ne la peuſt plus endurer par foibleſ- ſe,ou autrement : alors faut eſſuyer le malade auec linges vn peu chauds. et note, qu'il ne faut iamais pro- uoquer à la ſueur, l'eſtomach eſtant plein : car par ainſi la chaleur eſt diſſipée, ou pour le moins reuo- quee du ventricule en l'habitude du corps,dont s'enſuit crudité. dauantage, faut garder le malade de dor- mir pendant qu'il ſuera,& principalement au commencement qu'il ſe ſent frappé & atteint de ce mal:parce que noftre chakur naturelle & eſprits en ce faiſant ſe retirent au profond du corps, & partant le venin que nature taſche à chaſſer hors,eſt porté au cœur,& autres parties nobles auec iceux, & pour cette cau° ſe faut que le malade fuye grandement le dormir : ce qui ſe fera en l'entretenant de pºleºº # all ile ， de la peſte. a faiſ nt des comptes pour le faire rire,s'il peut. et pour ce faire luy dire & aſſeurer que ſon mal n'eſt rien, & qu'il ſera bien toſt guary:pareillement on fera bruit en la chambre,ôuurant les portes & feneſtres. et ſi peur rarde; pour tout cela il vouloit dormir,on luy fera des frictions aſpres,& luy liera les bras, & iambes aſſez eſtroi- le malade tement auſſi on luy tirera les cheueux par derriere le col & le nez, & les oreilles. dauantage,on diſſoudra de dormir. du caſtoreum en fort vinaigre & eau de vie,& on luy en appliquera dedans le nez & les oreilles. ainſi on procedera par toutes manieres ſelon la grandeur du mal & qualité des perſonnes, afin que le malade ne dorme,& principalement le premier iour,iuſques à ce que nature aidée par les remedes, ait ietté le venin du dedans au dehors par ſueur,vomiſſement , ou autrement. donc ne ſuffit defendre ſeulement le premier iottr,mais auſſi iuſques à ce qu'ils ayent paſsé le quatrieſme, pendant leſquels ne leur ſera permis de dor- mir que deux ou trois heures pour iour,plus ou moins,ſelon la vertu:car en ce faut tenir mediocrité(com- me on doit faire en toutes choſes ) & conſiderer que par trop veiller les eſprits ſe diſſipent, dont ſouuent incommodi s'enſuyt grande debilitation:& nature eſtant proſternée & abbatuë,ne peut vaincre ſon aduerſaire:partant tez de § le chirurgien y aura eſgard : car fi les ſains ſont attenuez & affoiblis par veilles, combien plus ſe trouue-vºitier. ront mal ceux qui ſont malades,leurs forces eſtansja abbatuës & diminuées or pour conclure noſtre pro- . pos, apres que le malade aura bien ſué, il le faut eſſuyer, & changer de draps, & ne mangera de deux ou trois heures apres : mais pour conforter les vertus, on luy pourra donner vn morceau d'eſcorce de citron confit,ou de la conſerue de roſes,ouvne petite roſtie trempée en bon vin,ou vn mirabolan confit,ſi le ma- lade eſt riche. . l -- - —- b · des epithemes oufomentations pour corroborer les parties nobles. ch a p t r e xxv. n t r e les alexiteres peuuent eſtre referez aucuns remedes locaux, c'eſt à dire, qu'on ap- faculté det $ $ plique par dehors,comme epithemes cordiaux & hepatiques, deſquels faut vſer dés le com- pitheme . " $'. mencement (toutesfois apres auoir faict quelques euacuations vniuerſelles, s'il eſt beſoin) $y ， pour munir les parties nobles, en roborant leurs vertus, afin qu'ils repouſſent les vapeurs # nsnr malignes & veneneuſes loing d'icelles. les epithemes doiuent auoir double faculté , à ſça- uoir d'eſchauffer,& refroidir. leur froidure ſert pour refrigerer la grande chaleur eſtrange,& leur chaleur eſt cordiale, parce que les medicaments cordiaux plus communement ſont chauds : & partant ils ſeront changez,& diuerſifiez ſelon l'ardeur de la fiévre, & doiuent eſtre appliquez tiedes auec vne piece d'eſcar- late ou vn drapeau en pluſieurs doubles,bien delié,ou vne eſponge,deſquels ſeront faites fomentations, & laiſſez moüillez ſur la region du cœur & du foye,pourueu que le charbon ne fuſt en ce lieu la:pource qu'il ne faut appliquer ſuriceux aucuns medicamens repercuſſifs. tu pourras faire leſdits epithemes ſelon les ºº des formulaires qui s'enſuyuent.%. aquarum roſarum,plantaginis & ſolani an. iiijaquz acetoſz, vini grana-º" torum & acetian .iij.ſantali rubri& coralli rubri pulueriſati an. .iij.thetiacz veteris # . caphurz .ij. croci .j caryophyllorum . .miſce & fiat epithema.autre epitheme fort aisé à faire. /. aquarum roſa- rum & plantaginis an. .x.aceti roſati .iiij.cariophyllorum,ſantali rubri,& coralli rubripulueriſati,& pul- ueris diamargariti frigidian. .j. .caphura & moſchian. j fiat epithema.autre epitheme. .aquarum ro- ſarum & meliſſœ an. .iiij.aceti roſati .iij.ſantali rubri j.cariophyllorum . .croci .ij.caphurx .j boli c armeniz,terrz ſigillatx,zedoarix an. .j fiat epithema. autre. .aceti roſati & aquae roſarum an. fb.ſº.ca- phurx . .theriacx & mithridatijan. j fiat epithema. autre. .aquarum roſarum,nenupharis, bugloſſi, . * acetoſx,aceti roſatian.fb.ſi.ſantali rubri,roſarum rubrarum an. .iij fiorum nenupharis,violarix, caphurx º ººº an. . .mithridatij & theriacz an. .ij. toutes ces choſes ſeront pilées & incorporées enſemble:puis quand composé. il faudra en vſer, on en mettra dans quelque vaiſſeau pour eſtre vn peu eſchauffé, & on en fomentera le cœur & le foye, comme deſſus. aſcauoirſi la ſaignée & purgation ſont neceſſaires au commencement de la > maladie peſtilente_ . - ch a p t r e xxv i. y a n t muny le cœur de medicamens alexiteres,on procedera à la ſaignée & purgation,s'il opiniâs con- # eſt beſoing : en quoy il y a grand different entre les medecins, deſquels aucuns commandent !tºire de la la ſaignée, les autres la defendent. ceux qui la commandent, diſent que la fievre peſtilente ſºsº ér eſt commnnement engendrée au ſang pour la mafignité du venin : lequel ſang ainfi alteré & # corrompu pourrit les autres humeurs,& partant concluent qu'il conuient ſaigner. ceux qui ## d la defendent,diſent que le plus ſouuent le ſang n'eſt point corrompu, mais que ce ſont les autres humeurs, # cr a% & partant concluent qu'il les conuient ſeulement purger. quant à moy, conſiderant les differences de pe- purgation. ſte que i'ay declarées par cy-deuant, à ſçauoir, que l'vne prouient du vice de l'air, & l'autre de la corru- ption des humeurs, & que le venin peſtiferé s'eſpand dedans les conduits du corps, & de là aux parties principales,comme on void par les apoſtemes,qui apparoiſſent tantoſt derriere les oreilles, tantoſt aux aiſ- ſelles,ou aux aines,ſelon que le cerueau le cœur, & le foye ſont infectez : duquel venin procedent auſſi les charbons & eruptions aux autres parties du corps, qui ſe font à cauſe que nature ſe deſcharge,& jette hors ledit venin aux emonctoires,conſtitués pour receuoir les excremens des membres principaux. en tel cas il me ſemble qu'il faut que le chirurgien aide nature à faire ſa deſcharge où elle pretend, ſuiuant la doctrine d'hippocrate,& qu'il ſuiue le mouuement d'icelle,qui ſe fait des parties interieures aux exterieu- res : parquoy ne faut en telle choſe purger ny ſaigner,s'il n'y a grande plenitude, de peur d'interrompre le mouuement de nature,& de retirer la matiere veneneuſe au dedans : ce qui eſt ordinairement cogneu en ceux qui ont commencement de bubons veneriens : car lors qu'on les purge ou ſaigne, on eſt ſouuentes- ſois cauſe qu'ils ne viennent à ſuppuration, & que la matiere virulente ſe retire au dedans, dont la verole . s'enſuit. parquoy au commencement des bubons , charbons, & eruptions peſtiferées , causées ſeulement hipp.aph - du vice de l'air, ne faut purger ny ſaigner, mais ſuffira de munir le cœur & toutes les parties nobles de "** medecines alexiteres , qui ont vertu & proprieté occulte d'abattre la malignité du venin tant par de- dans que par dehors,par où elle pretend faire ſa deſcharge. et note ce que i'ay dit du vice de l'air , parce - que o le vingt-deuxiéme liure, ne faut pur- ger ny ſai- gner en peſte qui vient de l'air. obſ ruation de l'au- theur. obſeruation de la ſai- gnée en la coqueluche. que l'on void ordinairement, que ceux que l'on ſaigne & purge en tel cas, ſont en grâd peril de leurs per- a ſonnes:pource qu'ayant vacué le ſang & les eſprits contenus auec luy,la contagion prouenante de l'air pe. ſtiferé,eſt plus prôptement portée aux poulmons & au cœur,& eſt rendue plus forte,& partant elle exerce pluſtoſt ſa tyrannie.semblablement le corps eſtant eſmeu par grandes purgations,il ſe fait promptement re- ſolutions des eſprits,à cauſe que la chair de toute l'habitude du corps ſe liquefie & conſume par vne gran- de vacuation.sur quoy ie te veux bien aduertir de ce que i'ay obſerué au voyage de bayonne, que i'ay fait auec mon roy en l'an .c'eſt que ie me ſuis enquis des medecins,chirurgiens,& barbiers de toutes les villes où nous auons paſsé,eſqueîles la peſte auoit eſté, comme il leur eſtoit aduenu d'auoir ſaigné les pe- ſtiferez : leſquels m'ont atteſté que preſque tous ceux qu'on auoit ſaignez & grandement purgez, eftoient morts,& ceux qui n'auoient eſté ſaignez ny purgez,eſchappoient preſque tous qui fait eſtre vray-ſemblable que la peſte venoit du vice de l'air, & non de la corruption des humeurs. semblable choſe auoit deſia eſté auparauant obſeruée en la maladie nommée coqueluche, comme i'ay eſcrit cy-deuant car alors qu'on pur- geoit & ſaignoit ceux qui en eſtoient eſpris,tant s'en faut qu'on les fiſt eſchapper,que meſme on leur abre- geoit leur vie,& en mouroient pluſtoſt. or celle choſe a eſté cogneuë par experience : à ſçauoir apres la mort de pluſieurs:toutesfois il y a quelque raiſon en ce qu'aucuns ont obſerué, lors que la peſte venoit du vice de l'air,les bubons & charbons le plus ſouuent apparoiſtre auparauant la fiévre.donc veu que l'expe- rience eſt jointe auec la raiſon,il ne faut indifferemment, comme l'on fait communément auſſi-toſt qu'on void le malade frappé de peſte,luy ordonner la ſaignée,ou quelque grande purgation:ce qui a eſté par cy- deuant bien ſouuent cauſe de la mort d'vne infinité de perſonnes. toutesfois s'il y auoit grande repletion ou corruption d'humeurs,au commencement de la douleur & tumeur du bubon & charbon peſtiferé,ſup- b en quel tsps posé auſſi qu'il n'y euſt que bien peu de matiere conjointe. nature eſtant encor en rut, c'eſt à dire,en ſon il faut pur- #er. hipp. apk. . liu. z. •phor. o. liu. - mouuennent d'expeller ce qui lamoleſte,alors on doit donner medicament grandement purgeant,pour jet- ter hors l'abondance & plenitude dé la matiere veneneuſe contenue aux humeurs,& en toute l'habitude du corps : & ce ſuiuant l'aphoriſme d'hippocrate, qui dit, que toutes maladies qui ſont faictes de plenitude, ſont curées par euacuation:puis en vn autre lieu, il nous enſeigne qu'il faut donner medecineaux maladies violentes & tres-aiguës,voire le meſme iour,ſila matiere eſt turgente:car en telle choſe il eſt dangereux de retarder.or ſi la matiere eſt turgente en quantité,qualité & mouuement,faut tirer vne reſolution , qu'en la • p eſte causée du vice de l'air auec plenitude de ſang & d'humeurs,la ſaignée & purgation y ſont neceſſaires. parquoy les medicamens hypercathariques,c'eſt à dire, qui font operation effrenée par proprieté occulte, comme alexiteres reſiſtans au venin,ſont propres pour eſtre baillez au commencement de ce mal, pourueu que nature ſoit aſſez forte:car à ceux qui ſont conſtituez au hazard de leur vie,& au dâger de mourir,vaut mieux tenter de donner vn fort remede,que de laiſſer le malade deſpourueu de tout ayde,eſtant à la miſeri- v. celſe liu. . corde de l'ennemy,qui eſt l'humeur peſtilent:ce qui eſt auſſi approuué de celſe,qui dit, que d'autant que la chap. . peſte eſt vne maladie haſtiue & tempeſtatiue,faut promptement vſer de remedes,meſmesauec temerité par- quoy faut conſiderer ſi le malade peſtiferé a vne fiévre ardante & grande repletion aux conduits, & que la vertu ſoit forte:qui ſe peut cognoiſtre lors que les veines ſont fort pleines & eſtendues, les yeux & la face grandement enflammez,auſſi que quelquesfois a crachement de ſang,auec grande pulſation des arteres des temples,douleur au goſier,difficulté de reſpirer,eſpoinçonnement par tout le corps,auec tres-grande peſan- c de quel coſté teur & laſſitude,les vrines eſtant rougeaſtres,troubles,& eſpeſſes.en tel cas faut ſaigner promptement,pour la ſaignée doit eſtre faicte. le dormir muit apres la ſaignée. aider nature à ſe deſcharger,de peur qu'il ne ſe faſſe ſuffocation de la chaleur naturelle,pour la trop grande abondâce de ſang,comme lameſche s'eſteint envne lampe,lors qu'il y a trop d'huyle:adöc tu ouuriras plu- ſtoſt ſa veine bafilique du coſté ſeneſtre que du dextre,à cauſe que le cœur &la ratelle en cette maladie sôt fort affectez:& tireras du ſang en abondance,ſelon que verras eſtre neceſſaire,prenant indication ſur toutes choſes de la force & vertu du malade.et garderas que tu ne faſſes la ſaignée pendant qu'il y aura friſſon de fiévre,parce que la chaleur naturelle & les eſprits ſont retirez au dedans, & alors les parties externes ſont vuides de ſang,&ſi on en tiroit lors,on debiliteroit grandement les vertus.auſſi pendant que tu ſaigneras le malade,tu luy feras tenir vn grain de ſel en la bouche ou de l'eau froide, & luy feras ſentir du vinaigre,du- . quelauiii luy frotteras le nez,la bouche,& les temples,de peur qu'il ne tombe en ſyncope. dauantage,il ne doit dormir toſt apres la ſaignée : car par le dormir , le venin & chaleur naturelle ſe retirent au centre du corps,& augmentent la chaleur eſtrange, dont la fiévre & autres accidens accroiſſent. or il faut icy noter qu'en telle repletion la ſaignée ſe doit faire autrement en fiévre peſtilente ſimple,qu'en celle qui eſt accom- pºgnée d'vn bubon ou charbon:car s'il y auoit l'vn au tous les deux conioincts auec la fiévre grande & fu- rieufe, alors il faudroit ouurir la veine plus proche de l'apoſteme ou charbon , & ſelon la rectitude des fi- @ brºs,afin que par icelle le ſang ſoit tiré & euacué plus directement pour autant que toute retraction & re- uulſion de ſang infect vers les parties nobles eſt defenduë de tous bons autheurs medecins & chirurgiens. polons donc pour exemple,que le malade ait vne grande repletion,laquelle ſurpaſſe la capacité desveines & les forces naturelles,ce que les medecins nomment ad vaſ,& ad vires, & qu'il ait vn apoſteme peſtiferé ou vn charbó és parties de la teſte & du col,il faut que la ſaignée ſoit faicte de la veine cephalique ou media- d pourquoy on ne,ou de l'vn des rameaux d'icelle,au bras qui eſt du coſté malade et où telles veines ne pourront apparoi- ſaigne le ſtre pour eſtre ouuertes à cauſe de la grâde quantité de graiſſe,ou autrement,faut ouurir celle qui eſt entre pied ou main le poulce & le ſecond doigt,ou vne autre prochaine & plus apparente, mettant la main du malade en eau c/j f /m. gal au liure de ſangui- nis miſſione chaude : car la chaleur de l'eau fait enfler la veine, & attire le ſang du profond aux parties exterieures du corps.et ſi l'apoſteme eſt ſous les aiſelles ou aux enuirós,faut auſſi tirer du ſang de laveine baſilique,ou me- diane au deſſus de la main.et ſi la tumeur s'apparoit aux aines,on ouurira laveinepoplitique,quieſt au milieu du jarret,ou la veine saphene,qui eſt au deſſus de la cheuille du pied de dedans,ou vn autre rameau le plus apparent qui ſoit ſur le pied,& touſiours du coſté meſme de l'apoſteme,mettant auſſi le pied en eau chaude pour la cauſe deſſuſdite.et ſera tiré du ſang ſelon que le malade ſera jeune & robuſte,ayant les veines fort enfiées,& autres ſignes cy-deſſus mentionnez,leſquels s'ils apparoiſſent tous,ou la plus part d'iceux,ne faut pourtant craindre d'ouurir la veine:ce qui ſe doit faire deuant le troiſieſme iour,à cauſe que cette maladie peſtilente vient promptement en ſon eſtat,voir quelquesfois en vingt quatre heures.et en tirant le ſang,tu conſidereras les forces du malade,luytouchant le poulx,ſile medecin n'eſt preſent : car galien dit, que le pouls monſtre infailliblement la vertu & force du malade.donc il le faut toucher & auoir égard à ſa muta- tion & inegalité:& s'il eſt trouué lent & petit,alors on doit ſoudainement ceſſer & clorre la veine, ou faire la ſaignée a deux ou trois fois ſi la force manque.il faut bien icy obſeruer,qu'aucuns par vne timidité tom- signes pre- bent en ſyncope deuant qu'on leur ait tiré vne palette de ſang parquoy il faut cognoiſtre les ſignes de ſyn- ºſºrº de cope:qui fe fera par vne petite ſueur qui commence à venir au front,& mal de cœur,comme volôté de vo- ſyncope en la ſaignée. mir,& bien ſouuent d'aller à la ſelle,baillement & changement de couleur les lévres deuenans palles : & le ſigne infallible,comme i'aydit,eſt le pouls qui ſera trouué lent & petit.et lors que tels ſignes •rr # ll v. $ de la peſte. . a faut mettre le doigt ſur le pertuis de la veine,tant que le malade ſoit plus aſſeuré,& luy donner vne roſtie de pain trempé en vin,ou quelque choſe ſemblable.et apres la ſaignée ainſi faite, on ne laiſſera de donner promptcment à boire au malade quelque alexitere ayant vertu & puiſſance de vaincre la malignité du vc- nin & le chaſſer hors,comme pour exemple, du theriaque ou methridat diſſout auec eau d'ozeille ſauuage, ou de l'eau theriacale, ou autres ſemblables que nous auons cy-deuant deſcrits. or c'eſt aſſez parle de la ſaignée,venons maintenant à la purgation. -@- - • des medicamens purgatifs. c h a p i t r e xxvii. i on void que la purgation ſoit neceſſaire par les intentions ſuſdictes, on y procedera comme indication, · la choſe le requiert,c'eſt à ſçauoir,en conſiderant que c'eſt icy vne maladie violente,laquelle qu'il faut a beſoin de remedes prompts pour combattre & vacuer la pourriture des humeurs hors du ſuiure , tou- corps,& les faut diuerſifier ſelon qu'on cognoiſtra l'humeur pechant:auſſi en prenant indica- chant les tion du temperament du malade,de l'aage,couſtume,pais,ſaiſon de l'année, ſexe,air ambiens, purgations & pluſieurs autres choſes ſemblables,qu'on verra eſtre neceſſaires, & principalement de la vertu. pattant, en la pºſte. ſi on void qu'il ſoit neceſſaire que le malade ſoit purgé,& qu'il ſoit fort robuſte, on luy donnera vne dra- gme de theriaque,auec ſix grains,voire dix grains de ſcammonée en poudre.on peut ſemblablement bail- ler des pillules faites ainſi. z.theriacx & mithridatijan. .j ſulphuris viui ſubtiliter pulueriſati . -dia- pihul , gredi g.iiij.fiant pillulae. autre pillules. /.aloës .iij.myrrhæ,croci an. .j.helleborialbi,azari an.ſcr.iiij. - cum theriaca veterifiat maſſa,capiat ſcr.iiij.pro doſi,tribus horis ante paſtum. les pillules de rufus,dont autr, nous auons parle cy-deuât,ſont propres pour döner aux moins forts & robuſtes pour vn remede gracieux, j• deſquelles faut prendre vne dragme en pillules ou potion. les anciens ont fort loüé l'agaric,parce qu'il attire les humeurs de tous les membres,& a vertu approchante du theriaque,parce qu'il renforce le cœur, de la verta & le purge de tout venin:on en peut donner deux dragmes aux robuſtes,vne aux mediocres , & demie aux de l'agaric. delicats.et par ainſi ſelon la force du malade,en ſera donné en trochiſque & bien preparé. et vaut mieux qu'il ſoit baillé en decoction qu'en ſubſtance,parce que quelquesfois il n'eſt pas bien eſleu & preparé,que s'il eſt bien eſleu & preparé, on le peut dire eſtre vne medecine diuine contre la peſte causée par le vice des humeurs,de laquelle pluſieurs experiences ont eſté faictes.quelques-vns approuuent & recommádent fort l'antimoine,alleguans pluſieurs experiences qu'ils ont veu.toutesfois parce que l'vſage d'iceluy eſt re- prouué par meſſieurs de la faculté de medecine,ie me deporteray d'en rien eſcrire en ce lieu.maintenât ve- nons aux autres remedes deſquels on vſe principalement lors que le vice giſt en l'intemperature de l'air,& non des humeurs, leſquels ont la vertu d'eſmouuoir les ſueurs : & quel remede en tel cas eſt le premier & plus excellent entre tous autres:or entre tous les remedes celuy qui s'enſuit eſt de me rueilleuſe vertu : & l'ay entendu de meſſire matthias rholder,chancelier de monſeigneur le duc george,comte palatin,hom- hi me de bien & d'honneur,demeurant à schimeten,lequel m'a puis n'agueres eſcrit qu'on a eſté fort vexé de # ids peſte en allemagne,& le plus grand & ſingulier remede qu'ils ayent peu trouuer(par le moyen d'vn docte #ur medecin)eſtoit prendre vne braſsée d'herbe nommée armoiſe, & de la cendre d'icelle on faiſoit de la le- § § xiue auec vne quarte d'eau pure,puis on la faiſoit boüillir & conſumer ſur le feu dedans vn vaiſſeau de ter gecrges re plombé,iuſqu'à ce qu'elle delaiſſaſt vne matiere eſpeſſe comme ſel,& de ce on faiſoit trochiſques chacû palatin. de la peſanteur d'vn florin d'or:& lors qu'on ſe ſentoit frappé de peſte,on faiſoit diſſoudre l'vn deſdits tro- trochiſques chiſques,oudeux,ou plus ou moins,ſelon la force & âge des malades,auec quatre ou cinq doigts de bô vin de lexiue de ou maluoiſie:puis ſe pourmenoyent apres l'eſpace de demie heure, & ſe mettoyent dans le lict & ſuoyent cºdres d ar- deux ou trois heures plus ou moins,ſel que la force & vertu des malades eſtoit grande;auſſi vomiſſoient ºiſ#f#* & alloient à la ſelle comme s'ils euſſent pris de l'antimoine & par ce remede, ceux quien ont vsé aupara-ſº uant que le venin euſt ſaiſi le cœur,ſont preſque tous eſchappez : ce que i'ay experimenté depuis en cette # ville de paris,auec bonne iſſuë.les anciens ont fort loüé l'armoiſe priſe par dedans & dehors , contre la # anti- - \ - -- " / v * - _ > - - - - / &. morſure des ſerpens : & partant eſt à loüer donnée à la peſte. auſſi il m'a eſté aſſeuré par maiſtre gilbert "§t.ré eroüard docteur en medecine à montpelier,que luy eſtant en sicile,medecin du vice-roy d'icelle prouin- er§rd ce,entra en familiarité & amitié auec vn nauarrois,qui auoit ſeruy auec grande reputation la religion de docteur en malte l'eſpace de quarante ans lequel eſtant à rhodes,en l'hoſpital de ladite religion, pour penſer les pe- medecine à ſtiferez,à la grande inſtance & priere d'vn patron de nauire raguſois,malade de peſte,auroit eſté côtraint montpelier. luy permettre de boire vn grâd plein verre de ſaumure d'anchois,pource que ledit malade diſoit cela eſtre vertu •dmi vn ſingulier remede contre la peſte:auquel breuuage ayant ſuccedé vne grãde chaleur,le malade ſe trouua º º ſans fiévre,& entierement guery:& aſſeuroit ledit nauarrois auoir donné depuis ce remede à pluſieurs qui ſaumar ont eſté guaris dauantage,ledit eroüard m'a aſfirmé, qu'ayant ouy ce recit,il en a fait l'experience à plu- ſieurs , & meſme en a donné à deux enfans de monſieur de la terraſſe, maiſtre des requeſtes du roy, qui eſtoient malades de peſte,& ont eſté guaris. de l'effect duquel remede luy ayant demandé quelle raiſon il en pourroit donner,ilm'allegua que la peſte n'eſt autre choſe qu'vne eſpece de putrefaction & corruption inſigne,à laquelle les medicamens grandement deſſeichans ſont propres & vtiles : & partant le ſel(comme eſtant fort excellent à garder toutes choſes fubiectes à corruption)à force & vigueur de conſumer l'indici- ble putrefaction où le venin peſtilentiel eſt attaché.or il faut icy noter au jeune chirurgié,qu'il ne faut at- tribuer ce remede aux anchois,mais du tout à la ſalſitude.aucûs prénent le poids d'vne dragme de ſemen- ce d'hiebles miſe en infuſion cn vin blanc,qui fait preſque ſemblable effect que l'antimoine , ce que ie ſçay § par experience:autres prennent vne dragme de ſemence de rué pilée,y meſlans le gros d'vne febue de the-prgre peur riaque,& donnent cela à boire au malade auec quatre doigts de maluoiſie.il y en a auſſi aucuns qui prénent euacuasion. vne poignée de fueilles & ſommitez de geneſt,& les pilent auec demy-ſeptier de vin blanc, & le donnentá boire,& toſt apres les malades vomiſſent,aſſellent,& ſuent:ce que i'approuue,d'autant qu'on void par expe- rience, que ceux qui ſont mordus de beſtes veneneuſes,lians du geneſt deſſus la morſure, ont gardé que le venin ne paſſe plus outre:pareillement on en donne à boire, pour garder que le venin ne ſaiſiſſe je coeur. autres vſent de racines de enula campana gentiane,tormentille , graine d'eſcarlate & de genévre, limure d'yuoire & de corne de cerf,prenans de chacun d'iceux à la volonté,à ſçauoir demie dragme pour l'ordi- naire,& le tout concaſsé,& mis en infuſion en vin blanc & en eau de vie par l'eſpace de vingtquatre heures ſur les cendres chaudes,coulent le tout,&d'icelle colature endonnét trois ou quatre doigts,plus ou moins, au malade de peſte,ſelon qu'il eſt beſoin:puis on le met dedans le lict,& on le couure bien.icelle meſlange prouoque beaucoup la ſueur,& chaſſe le venin,d'autant qu'elle eſt cordiale , & a vne grande euaporation - ſpiritueuſe joinct qu'elle eſt alexitere,comme on peut voir par ſes ingrediens. auſſi la potion ſuiuante a | eſté experimentéc auec heureux ſuccez,& eſt principalement propre pour les ruſtiques. - - prcncz semence-' le vingt-deuxiéme liure, autre brou- »sage propre, principale- /pge/ /* tt.a: ruſtiques. autre reme- de bon cº• •pprouué. des fueilles de laureole. la poudre de / ºrcf re t n- tre la peſte. hipp.aph. . liu.l. acciden, de la teſte. cauſe de la douleur de teſte. cure de la douleur de teſte. vt ilité de , l'arterio- f omie.. hip.aph. o. liu. . jiiſfoire . prenez mouſtarde acre(& non faite de mouſt ) demie once, deſlayez-là en vin blanc & vn peu d'eau de vie,& y meſlez le gros d'vne febue de theriaque ou mithridat , puis l'ayant beue, ſe faut promener & ſuer, comme deſſus eſt dit.pareillement le remede ſuiuant leur ſera conuenable. il faut prendre vn gros oignon, & le creuſer,& y mettre du theriaque ou methridat demie dragme auecvinaigre, & faire cuire le touten- ſemble,puis l'exprimer:& de ce on en baillera à boire au malade auec eau d'ozeille ou de chardon beniſt, ou autre eau cordiale,ou de bon vin:puis on le fera promener tant & ſi peu qu'il ſeta beſoin,& apres on le mettra dans vn lict pour ſuer,comme deſſus:ou on fera comme s'enſuit. prenez teſte d'ail la quantité d'vne noix aſſez groſſe,vingt fueilles de rue,& autant d'eſclaire,qu'on appelle en latin chelidonium maius : pilez tout auec vin blanc,& vn peu d'eau de vie,puis exprimez & en beuuez cinq ou fix doigts. aucuns prennent du jus d'eſclaire,& de mauues,tirez auec quatre doigts de vinaigre,qu'ils boiuent auec deux doigts d'huyle de noix,puis ſe promenent aſſez longuement,& toſt apres vomiſſement, & leur ventre s'ouure, & vont à la ſelle:& par ce moyen ſont guarantis. autres vſent de fueilles de laureole deſſeichée , le poids d'vn eſcu, plus ou moins ſelon la vertu du malade,leſquelles ils trempent deux iours dedans du vinaigre, & en don- nent à boire:cela les fait ſuer,vomir & aſſeller,& par ce moyen chaſſe le venin:qui eſt vn remede plus com- mode lors que le vice eſt aux humeurs,comme auſſi ſont les ſuiuans. matthiole au liure de la verole , dit que la poudre de mercure donnée auec vn peu de ſuc de chardon beniſt,ou electuaire de gemmis, chaſſe la peſte deuant qu'elle ſoit confirmée,en faiſant vomir,ſuer,& aſſeller. outre plus ledit matthiole conſeille de donner de la couperoſe diſſoulte en eau roſe,le poids d'vn eſcu aux peſtiferez.parce qu'elle fait vomir, ſuer,& aſſeller:& par ce moyen chaſſe le venin.autres donnent de l'huyle de ſcorpions en petite quantité, ou auec vin blanc,laquelle prouoque grandement le vomir , & peut attirer & vacuer auec ſoy le venin pe- ſtiferé:& mefmement en frottent la region du cœur, & les arteres des temples & du poignet. et d'autant que ce venin peſtilent eſt ennemy mortel de nature,d'autant le faut il combattre tant pat qualitez manife- ſtes,que par antidotes.or telles grandes euacuations ne ſont loüées pour cure reguliere , mais irreguliere, & ne ſont auſſi à rejetter,pource qu'ils diuertiſſent & vacuent l'humeur veneneux , tant par le ventre, vo- miſſement,que par ſueurs. et ne faut vſer de medecines trop debiles en maladie ſi cruelle & forte , pource qu'elles ne font gueres d'action, ains ſeulement eſmeuuent les humeurs ſans les euacuer , dont ſouuent les fiévres s'augmentent.et partant ſi on cognoift que tels remedes purgatifs n'ayent fait ſuffiſamment leur de- uoir,tu les dois reiterer & augmenter:car(comme nous auons dit)aux fortes maladies il faut vſer de forts & ſouuerains remedes toutesfois ſe faut donner de garde que la medecine ne ſoit trop forte, parce qu'elle ſterneroit & abbattroit les vertus,leſquelles ne pourroient batailler en vn meſme temps contre deux,à ſça- uoir,contre la medecine & le venin:& par ainſi on pourroit empeſcher le mouuement de nature à jetter le venin hors : partant ſur toutes choſes la vertu & force du malade doit eſtre recommandée. et pour cette cauſe ie conſeille que les remedes ainſi forts & violents ne ſoient donnez qu'aux forts & robuſtes, comme laboureurs,mariniers,crocheteurs,chaſſeurs & autres de forte complexion,ſi ce n'eſt en petite quantite. et apres auoir vsé de medicamens laxatifs,il faut donner des choſes qui roborent l'eſtomach, & repouſſent le venin du cœur,& appaiſent l'agitation des humeurs, comme la compoſition d'alkermes, ou autres choſes cy-deſſus mentionnees au chapitre des alexiteres. - des accidens & complications des maladies qui aduiennentaux peſtiferez : & premierement de la douleur de teſte . c h a p t r e xxv i i i. l nous conuient à preſent traitter des accidens, qui le plus ſouuent aduiennent en cette de- teſtable maladie,& de la correction d'iceux, comme ſont douleur de teſte & de reins, erup- tions & puſtules faictes au cuir;apoſtemes,charbons, flux de ventre, & vne infinité d'autres: & commencerons par la douleur de teſte, laquelle eft fort commune en cette maladie. car ſi - le venin eſt rauy au cerueau, & que nature ne l'ait peu expeller, adoncaduient en iceluy , & en ſes membranes inflammation, laquelle venant principalement à ſaiſir & occuper la partie anterieure, le ſens commun & imagination ſe troublent : ſi c'eſt au milieu, il ne ratiocine point : & ſi c'eſt en la par- tie poſterieure, il perd ſa memoire , dont le plus fouuent, par faute d'y remedier, le malade tombe en delire, freneſie, manie , & rage : laquelle ne vient ſeulement à cauſe de la qualité chaude, mais par vne particuliere malignité du venin. or cette douleur ſi grande & extreme prouient d'vne trop grande & abondante quantité de ſang , & de certaines vapeurs putrides, qui montent des parties inferieures à la te- ſte. qu'il ſoit vray,on leur voit la face & les yeux fort enflammez,rouges, & larmoyans, auec grande pe- ſanteur & chaleur de toute la teſte : partant il faut ſoigneuſement ſubuenir à tel accident. donc pour la curation,il faut premierement ouurir le ventre par clyſteres, & apres ſaigner de la veine cephalique , du coſté auquel ſera la plus grande douleur. et ſi pour cela la douleur ne ceſſe,alors on inciſera les arteres des temples,& on tirera du ſang ſelon la vehemence du mal,& la vertu du malade. et ne faut differer à ou- urir telles arteres des temples,& tirer du ſang,pour crainte qu'apres on ne peut eſtancher le ſang, à cauſe de leur mouuement(qui eſt ſyſtolé & diaſtolé, c'eſt à dire,contraction & dilatation)car veritablement ie l'ay faict pluſieurs fois, & n'y trouue non plus de difficulté à l'eſtancher que des veines joint auſſi, qu'au lendemain on trouuoit l'ouuerture auſſi-toſt conſolidée qu'és veines parquoy ne faut craindre à inciſer leſ- dites arteres :& vous puis aſſeurer qu'on void grand eſſect du ſang qui eſt vacué par icelles,voire cent fois plus que des veines, qui demonſtre bien que la matiere putride & vaporeuſe eft plus contenue en icelles qu'és veines.on pourra ſemblablement prouoquer la ſaignée par le nez, ſi on voit que nature y tende : car elle profite grandement aux obſtructions & inflammations du cerueau , & de ſes membranes , & peut par icelle eſtre vacué beaucoup de ſang pourry & corrompu : car par telle vâcuation,on voit delires,& fiévres ardantes allegées & du tout guaries : ce qui eſt auſſi prouué par hippocrate diſant qu'à celuy qui a grande douleur de teſte,la boué,eau,ou ſang decoulant par la bouche, & par le nez,ou par les oreilles, guarit la maladie. parquoy faut que le chirurgien ayde à nature à ietter hors ce qui luy nuit : à quoy elle paruien- dra en faiſant que le malade s'efforce a moucher , & gratter auec l'ongle le dedans de ſon nez, ou qu'il ſe picque auec ſoye de porc,& qu'il tienne ſa teſte en bas, afin d'ouurir quelque veine de laquelle la matiere conioincte ſe peut euacuer. quelquesfois à aucuns le ſang s'eſcoule de ſoy-meſme, parce qu'il eſt chaud, ſubtil , & bilieux , auſſi que nature veut faire ſa criſe : ce que i'ay veu aduenir à monſieur de fontaine, cheualier de l'ordre du roy (ſa majeſté eſtant à bayonne ) lequel auoit vne fiévre continue, & peſtilente, accompagnée d lde la peſte. ， a accompagnée de pluſieurs chaºons en diuerſes parties du corps,& fut deux iours ſans ceſſer de ſaigner par hiſtoire. le nez : & par ieeluy ñux ſa fiévre ceſſa auec vne tres grande ſueur:& toſt apres ſes charbons ſuppurerent, & moyen d'ar- fut par moy pensé,& par la grace de dieu guary.en tel cas faut laiſſer couler ledit fiuximais ſi on voyoit que reſter l'hº- nature fuſt deſreiglée & iettaſttrop de ſang par la vuidance duquel les forces s'affoibliſſent tropiadonc il doit morthºgº eſtre arreſté tant par ligatures fortes,faictes aux bras & iambes, application de ventouſes ſous les mammel- | les,& ſur les parties honteuſes,ou ſous les aiſſelles,eſtoupes ou eſponges imbués en oxycrat, ou quelques au- , tre liqueur froide,& appliquées froides & reiterées ſouuent.pareillement on luy fera tenir en la bouche eau froide,dedans le nez du cotton, du ſaulx,ou quelque reſtrainctif fait de poil d'entre les cuiſſes,ou ſous la gor- ge du liéure,bol armene, terre ſigillée ineorporée auec ius de plantain & centinode,ou autre ſemblable, & le ſituer en lieu frais, & qu'il puiſſe attirer l'air à ſon aiſe, et pour retourner à noſtre propos, apres la ſaignée» ſi la douleur perſeueroit & qu'on viſt les veilles eſtre grandes , de façon que le pauure malade ne peuſt dor- mir ny nuict ne iour,à cauſe des vapeurs putrides qui ont eſchauffé & deſſeiche le cerueau,alors il faut vſer de remedes qui prouoquent le dormir & ayent faculté de refroidir & humecter : leſquels ſeront adminiſtrez tant par dedans que par dehors. et pour exemple. on pourra donner à manger au malade orge mondé , fait auec eau de nenuphar & d'ozeille , de chacun deux onces, opium ſix ou huict grains , des quatre ſemences froides & du pauot blanc , de chacun demie pººr proº- once. en ſes potages on mettra laictues , pourpié , ſemence de pauot , & des ſemences froides concaſ- º le dor- ſées. on luy pourra auſſi donner vne pillule de cynogloſſa , dans laquelle y entre de l'opium. semblable- # d ment on luy pourra faire prendre vn peu de diacodion ſine ſpeciebus. et pour ſon boire, eaux de laictués § # e cy- & de nenuphar, auſquelles on aura fait boüillir ſemence de pauot, à ſçauoir demie once d'iceluy auec trois g i/a. * onces deſdites eaux, ou vne once & demie de ſyrop de nenuphar ou de pauot, auec trois onces de la de- coction de laictues, ou la potion ſuiuante. %. lactucarum recentium m j.fiorum nenuphar. & violan.p.ij. caput vnum papaueris albi contuſum cum ſeminib. pondere . ij. liquiritix , paſſul.an. .j.É. fiat decoctio : in colatura diſſolue diacodij ſine ſpecieb. .j. fiat potio larga danda hora ſomni. outre plus on doit vſer de clyſteres dormitifs pour refroidir la vehemente chaleur qui eſt au centre du corps , faits en la maniere qui clyſtere dor- s'enſuit. z. decoctionis hordei mundati quartaria iij olei violati nenupharis an. . ij. aqux plantaginis & mitif portulacx, vel ſuccorum .iij caphuræ gr.vij. album ouor.iij. fiat clyſter. et quant aux choſes qu'il conuient faire par dehors , il faut raſer le poil, & appliquer ſur toute la teſte de l'oxyrrhodinum, qui eſt huile & vi- naigre miſtionnez enſemble, & luy laiſſer deſſus vn linge en double trempé, lequel ſera renouuellé & re- mouillé ſouuent. pareillement on appliquera poulmons de veau, ou de mouton recentement tirez de la beſte,ou vn coqviffendu en deux,& le renouuellera-on ainfi qu'on verra eſtre beſoin. semblablement on ap- pliquera des ventouſes derriere le col & ſur les eſpaules ſans ſcarification,& auec ſcarification.auſſi on fera des frictions & ligatures aux bras & jambes, afin de diuertir & euacuer vne partie de la matiere. outre- plus, luy ſera fait vn frontal en cette maniere. %. olei roſati & nenupharis an. . ij. olei papaueris . É. opij .j. aceti roſati. .j. caphuræ. . ß.ces choſes ſoient incorporées enſemble,& ſoit fait vn frontal,lequel frontal. doit eſtre reiteré par fois : & ſeront continuées ces choſes ſeulement iuſqu'à ce que la vehemente inflamma- tion ſoit paſſée; de peur de trop refrigerer le cerueau.auſſi on luy fera ſentir au nez fleurs de pauot,iuſquia- me,nenuphar,mandragore ; broyez auec vinaigre & eau roſe,& vn peu de camphre enueloppez enſemble en vn mouſchoir : & ſoient tenus aſſez longuement contre le nez , afin que l'odeur ſe puiſſe communiquer au dormi c cerueau, & par ce moyen ſoit prouoqué le dormir. on luy peut pareillement appliquer cataplaſme ſur le #.º. front à ces meſmes fins,comme peut eſtre le ſuiuant . mucilaginis ſeminis pſyllij & cydoniorum in aqua §. roſarum extractx .iij. farinx hordei # iiij. pulueris roſarun rubrarum,florum nenupharis,violarum an, . ß. ſeminis papaueris & portulacx an. .ij. aquæ roſarum & aceti roſati an. . iij. fiat cataplaſma : & l'appli- quez tiede ſur le front,& meſme ſur toute la teſte.autre. .succorum lactucae,nenupharis,hyoſciami,portu- lacae.an. ft. r. roſarum rubrarum pulueriſatarum,ſeminis papaueris,an. .ſº. olei roſati .iij. aceti .ij. farinæ hord. quantum ſufficit : fiat cataplaſma ad formam pultis,ſatis liquida . - apres l'inflammation appaisée , on fera des fomentations reſolutiues, à fin de reſoudre quelque humeur contenu au cerueau & en fes membranes. et en ceſt endroit noteras , que pluſieurs ſont deceus aux grandes combien douleurs de teſte causées par inflammation qui commandent de ſerrer & lier tres-fort la teſte pour appaiſer nuiſt trºp la douleur:car tant s'en faut que cela y profite,qu'au contraire l'augmente, par ce qu'au moyen de cette aſtri- ſºfºº étion,le mouuement des arteres eſt empeſché:deſquelles l'vſage,qui eſt d'euentiller & rafraiſchir le corps,tant #" par attraction de l'air qui nous auoiſine,que par expreſſion d'excremens chauds & fuligineux,eſt de beaucoup de #s. empeſché & aboly:outre plus ſerrent & compriment les ſutures ou iointures des os du crane,& en ce faiſant gardent que les vapeurs & fumées ne ſe peuuent euaporer. et partât ſont cauſe d'accroiſtre vne extreme dou- jeur& chaleur,fiévre, reſuerie,& autres grands accidens,voire quelquesfois iuſqu'à faire ſortir & creuer les yeux hors de la teſte,& eſtre cauſe de la mort des pauures malades : ce que i'atteſte auoir veu, ainſi que i'ay efcrit en mon liure des playes de la teſte humaine.d'auantage, aucûs ſont ſi endormis & aſſommez,qu'ils ne ſe peuuent aider : partant il leur faut mettre dedans le nez choſes odorantes , & qui ayent vertu de les faire eſternuer,à fin que la faculté animale ſoit aiguillonnée & excitée à ſe defendre: & s'ils ne ſe peuuent aider, il d leur faut ouurir la bouche par force,pour leur faire aualler quelque aliment ou medicament. odeurs pour prouoquer le · · de la chaleur des reins. c h a p. xxix. #ſi a r e l l e m e n t pour dauantage diminuer la chaleur des reins, on appliquera deſ- \$ ſus de l'ongent refrigerant de galien recentement faict, y adiouſtant blancs-d'œufs tres- refrigerant #) #§ battus , à fin que ſon humidité ſoit plus longuement gardée : & le faut renouuel- # de galien, ler à chaſque quart d'heure, & l'eſſuyer quand on en mettra d'autre : ce que l'on fera iuſ- - qu'à quatre fois : car autrement eſtant eſchauffé en la partie, il ne refrigereroit pas, mais # à\ % pluſtoſt augmenteroit la chaleur. auſſi on pourra vſer du remede ſuiuant. %. aquarum roſarumfb.i.ſucci plantaginis .iiij.albumina ouorum iiij.olei roſacei & nenupharis an. .ij. aceti roſati . iij. miſce ad vſum. les reins eſtans frottez de l'vn deſdits onguens , on appliquera deſſus fueilles de nenuphar - recentes ou autres ſemblables herbes refrigerantes, puis apres vne ſeruiette trempée en oxycrat,& eſprein- te & renouuellée ſouuent. auſſi le malade ne couchera ſur licts de plume:ains luy ſera mis par deſſus vn ma- zelas, ou vne paillaſſe d'auoine , ou vn gros linceul de toile neuue ployé en pluſieurs doubles, ou de ca- melot, de peur que la plume n'augmente dauantage la chaleur des reins,& º# de tout lé º# il le vingt-deuxiéme liure, onguent on pourra auſſi appliquer ſur la region du cœur vn medicament refrigerant & contrariant au venin, com- a pour frotter me ceſtuy ſuiuant. la region du z. vnguenti roſati #. iij. olei nenupharis . ij. aceti roſati & aquæ roſa.an. .j theriaca .j.croci. . É. ' / ". leſdites choſes ſoient incorporées & fondues enſemble, & ſoit fait onguent mol, lequel ſera eſtendu ſur vne piece d'eſcarlate, ou ſur du cuir , & appliqué ſur la region du cœur. autre. . theriaca optima . j. ſ . ſucci acidi citri & limonis an. . ſ. coralli rubri , ſeminis roſarum rub. an. .ſº. caphurae , croci an. g. iiij. pluye artiſi- incorporentur omnia ſimul : fiat vnguentum vel linimentum. d'abondant on fera pleuuoir par artifice, en cielle. faiſant decouler de l'eau de quelque haut lieu dans vn baſſin, & qu'elle faſſe tel bruit qu'elle puiſſe eſtre en- tendue du malade. et auſſi luy faudra frotter doucement les mains & pieds , euitant tout bruit en la cham- bre , de laquelle on tiendra les portes & feneſtres cloſes, à fin qu'elle ſoit rendue plus obſcure : auſſi ſera rafraiſchie auec les choſes predites, euitant toufiours les odeurs chaudes,pour - ce qu'elles nuiſent beaucoup à la douleur de teſte , cauſée de matiere chaude. - c accidens de peſte. c h a p x x x. accidens de #l y a vn accident de peſte appellé caque-ſangue,qui eſt vn fiux de ventre qui vlcere & corro- # appellé # de les inteſtins, tellement que par les ſelles on voit ſortir comme vne raclure de boyaux, & du #ºº- | ſang tout pur ou boüe, ou autres matieres purulentes, auec vne extreme douleur, qui irrite le . # . | malade d'aller ſouuent à la ſelle , & n'y peut rien faire , ou bieu peu, encore eſt ce auec bien curioſº é de º grandes eſpreintes, & ce qu'il jette eſt fort puant, & de diuerſe couleur, comme rouſſe, iauna- l'auiheur. ſtre, verte, cendrée, noire, voire le ſang tout pur. ce que i'ay veu plufieurs fois aduenir, meſme au camp d'amiens , où pluſieurs moururent de tel flux, lequel eſtoit fort contagieux, & principalement à ceux qui alloient aux priuez apres eux, ou pour y auoir jetté tels excremens. si que voulât ſçauoir le lieu d'où cette grande quantité de ſang pouuoit ſortir, ie fis ouuerture de quelques-vns apres leur mort, & trouuay la bou- che des veines & arteres mezaraiques ouuertes , & tumefiées la part où elles aboutiſſent dedans les inte- curioſité de ſtins , en forme de petits cotyledons de groſſeur d'vn petit pois, deſquels lors que ie les preſſois, le ſang monſieur le ſortoit à veuë d'œil : & par là ie connus les voyes, par leſquelles le ſang eſtoit ietté par les ſelles. monſieur grand. le grand medecin ordinaire du roy, qui eſtoit auec moy au camp par le commandement du roy henry defunct, en ſauua pluſieurs : & entre autres remedes leur faiſoit boire du laict de vache, ferré, & auſſi en faiſoit ſouuent jetter par le ſiege, pour corriger & addoucir l'acrimonie de l'humeur. de la coqueluche. autre acci- il y a vn autre accident de peſte, appellé coqueluche , ainſi dit, parce que ceux qui en eſtoient eſprins, dent de peſte ſentoient vne extreme douleur de teſte, & a l'eſtomach , aux reins ; & aux jambes, auec fiévre continue, § é c & ſouuent auec delyre & freneſie, & lors qu'on les purgeoit ou ſaignoit, on a conneu leur auoir abbregé queluche. leurs iours. - - •- la suette. il y a vn autre accident appellé la suette, qui a eſté en angleterre, & aux baſſes allemagnes, ainſi nom- mée, parce que les patiens auoient vne bien grande ſueur vniuerſelle auec grand friſſon, tremblement, & c palpitation de cœur, accompagnée de fiévre continue, & mouroient en peu de iours : & tua vn bien grand nombre de peuple. - trouſſe-galand. autre acci- il y a vn autre accident , appellé trouſſe-galand , qui a eſté au puy en auuergne , ainſi nommé , parce dent de peſte, que ceux qui en eſtoient eſprins , mouroient en deux ou trois iours, & pluſtoſt les robuſtes que les foibles appellé, & debiles, & les riches que les pauures, auec fiévre continue, delire & frenefie, & mouroient comme en- trouſſe gº- ragez, en ſorte qu'il les falloit lier & attacher. si quelqu'vn reſchappoit, tout le poil luy tomboit : & cette land. maladie eſtoit fort contagieuſe. des eruptions & puſtules appellées pourpre. c h a p. xxxi. av c v n s aduiennent eruptions au cuir , ſemblables à morſures de pulces ou de punaiſes* auſſi ſont quelquesfois eſleuées,comme petits grains de mil, ou de petite verole qu'on voit aux enfans. et lors qu'elles ſont trouuées en grande quantité, c'eſt bon ſigne : au contraire non. auſſi ſelon la vehemence du venin,& la matiere dont elles ſont procreées, ſont veuës de diuer- ſes couleurs, à ſçauoir rouges, citrines, tannées, violettes, azurées, liuides, ou noires. les vul- gaires les appellent le tac, les autres le pourpre, pource qu'elles ſont ſouuétesfois trouuees à la ſimilitude de diuers noms graine de pourpre : autres les appellent lenticules. parce qu'elles ſont veuës quelquesfois cóme petites len- deſcription des eruptiós. des eru- tilles.auſſi aucuns les nomment papillots,à cauſe qu'elles ſe manifeſtent tantoſt au viſage,tantoſt aux bras & d ptions. iambes, voltigeans de place en place comme petits papillots volans : & quelquesfois occupent tout le corps» non ſeulement la ſuperficie du cuir, mais penetrent plus profondement dedans la chair, principalement lors qu'elles ſont faictes de groſſe matiere aduſte.aucunes ſont trouuées grandes & larges, occupans preſque tout vn bras,ou vne iambe, ou la face, comme vn eryſipele, & partant diuerſifient ſelon que l'humeur peche la cauſe des en quantité ou en qualité. et ſi elles ſont de couleur pourprée, noire, ou violette , auec defaillance de coºlll » eruptions. & s'en retournent ſans cauſe manifeſte, c'eſt vn ſigne infaillible de mort. la cauſe deſdictes eruptions eſt la differences fureur de l'ebullition du ſang, faicte par l'humeur malin & veneneux. elles viennent communement auec la de pourpre. fiévre peſtilentielle , & quelquesfois deuant que la boſſe ou charbon ſoient apparus , quelquesfois auſſi lºgºſtie apres : qui alors demonſtrent vne grande corruption d'humeurs au corps: car outre l'expulſion de la matie- mortel. re de la boſſe, ou du charbon, ladite corruption eſt ſi abondante, qu'elle ſe demonſtre aux autres lieux du corps , dont le plus ſouuent le pauure peſtiferé meurt. quelquesfois auſſi ſont trouuées ſeules, à ſçauoir - ſans boſſe ny charbons, alors qu'elles ſont rouges ſans eſtre accompagnées d'autres mauuais accidens » ne sººent le ſont mortelles. elles apparoiſſent communément au troiſieſme ou quatrieſme iour, & quelquesfois plus # tard : auſſi ſouuentesfois ne ſont apperceuës qu'apres la mort du malade, à cauſe que l'ebullition des hu- # # meurs faite par la pourriture n'eſt du tout eſteinte : & partant la chaleur qui reſte, excitée de pourriture, § iette des excremens au cuir, qui fait ſortir les eruptions. ou pluſtoſt parce que nature fur le dernier combat ayant monſtré quelque effort plus grand (comme eſt la couſtume de toutes choſes qui tirent à leur fin ) que d'ordinaire s'eſt dépeſtrée ſur l'inſtant de la mort de quelque portion de l'humeur peſtilent | - vcis de la peſte. n t -- a vers le cuir : tellement toutesfois qu'affoiblie de tel effort elle ſuccombe ſous le faix & malignité du reſte - de la matiere. de la cure des eruptions. ch a p. xxxii. o v r la curation des eruptions il faut ſe garder ſur tout de repouſſer l'humeur au dedans: hipp, aph & partant faut euiter le froid, pareillemet les medecines laxatiues, la ſaignée, & le dormir §" \% profond, parce que telles choſes retirent les humeurs au dedans, & partant pourroient in- . $ terrompre le mouuement,de nature , laquelle s'efforce de ietter hors ce malin humeur : mais # au contraire faut ſuiure nature la part où elle tend , c'eſt à dire , donner yſſue aux humeurs où elle veut faire ſa deſcharge , par remedes qui attirent le venin au dehors & principale- ment par ſueurs. et pour encore ayder nature à repouſſer le pourpre hors,faudra donner au malade vn once de ſyrop de limons ou de grenades, auec deux onces d'eau cordiale, comme de meliſſe ou ſçabieuſe, y ad- iouſtant vne demie dragme de theriaque ou mithridat. auſſi pour attirer le venin au dehors, on mettra au- tour du col, ſous les aiſſelles , & aux aines , eſponges trempées & exprimées en vne decoction d'herbes re- ſolutiues , comme lauande , laurier, ſaulge , roſmarin , & ſemblables : car ſi les eruptions ne ſortent, il y a danger que le venin ne ſuffoque le cœur, ou qu'il ne faſſe vn fiux de ventre mortel. et pour obuier à tels ac- cidens, ie mettray icy ſur le bureau vn remede ſingulier que i'ay trouué de grand & excellent effect(princi- palement quand la vertu expultrice eſt foible, & le cuir trop dur, & reſſerre, de ſorte que le pourpre ne peut eſtre ietté hors, mais demeure ſous le cuir, y faiſant petite tuberoſitez) qui eſt vn onguent, duquel i'ay guery (par la grace de dieu,) pluſieurs verolez. cognoiſſant qu'en la verole , y auoit vu certain venin qui ne ſe diuers acel- peut dire ny eſcrire, non plus que celuy qui cauſe la peſte, non que ie vueille dire qu'elle ſoit maladie epi- dens de la demiale, dependant des aſtres, ny de l'inſpiration de l'air , mais de dieu , qui par ce moyen punit les of- vºrºlº fences des hommes & femmes, & par ſpecial du peché de luxure, ce qu'on void en ce qu'elle prend le plus ſouuent ſon commencement par contagion des parties genitales, principalement pour habiter auec hommes ou femmes infects ou ſoüillez de venin verolique, lequel traine auec ſoy vn bien grand nombre d'accidens, ainſi que faict celuy de la peſte,comme ſont puſtules malignes & corroſiues,qui commencement aux parties honteuſes, puis apres ſe manifeſtent à la teſte & au front, & par toutes les parties du corps:puis vlceres à la bouche & parties honteuſes,& autres qui les mangent & rongent iuſques aux os : en apres leur ſuruiennent apoſtemes dure aux os,appellées nodus,ou gouttes noüées,auec extreme douleurs,& principalement la nuict, qui paſſionnent & font quaſi deſeſperer les pauures verolez : & quelque temps apres leur aduient pourriture aux os, & le plus ſouuent ſans enfleure ou tumeur exterieure apparente, dont les vns perdent les yeux,autres le nez, les autres le palais, qui eſt cauſe qu'ils parlent regnaut : à aucuns la bouche deuient torſe, comme à vn renieur de dieu,& bien ſouuent deuiennét ladres,& ont infinis accidens. et pour le dire en vn mot, ce virus venerien rend le plus ſouuent le pauure verolé impotent de tous ſes membres, & finalement produit vne fiévre hectique,qui apres l'auoir rendu tout ſec,n'ayant plus ſur le corps que la peau,le c fine miſerable- ment à la mort. tous leſquels accidens ne peuuent eſtre appaiſez ny curez par aucun remede, fors que par - - les onctions & emplaſtres vif-argétées,ou parfums cinnabariſez, qui ſont les vrais alexiteres de cette deſta- le vif ,* ble verole,ainſi que le theriaque & mithridat ſont dutout contraires au venin peſtiferé. parquoy cognoiſſant º eſtle. que par le moyen du vif-argent, cette verole ſe curoit, i'ay voulu ſemblablement experimenter la friction #- vniuerſelle pour attirer le venin deſdites eruptions au dehors par ſueurs,auec l'onguent propre à curer la § verole,conſiderant que le vif-argent eſt la vraye contrepoiſon à la verole,& qu'il eſt de tres-ſubtile ſubſtan- ce : auſſi qu'il liquefie les humeurs gros & viſqueux,& les rend mobiles auec le theriaque & les autres me- dicamens qui entrent en la côpofition de ceſt onguent, & ſtimule la vertu expulſiue à ietter hors du corps, & abbatre par ſa faculté occulte le venin peſtiferé cóme il faict au virus verolique,à ſçauoir tant par ſueurs, que par inſenſible tranſpiration, vomiſſemens, flux de ventre,flux d'vrine : & par puſtules euoquées au cuir par flux de bouche (ſpecialement à ceux qui ſont diſpoſez à cracher)& autres euacuations.parquoy voyant ! que nature tendoit à ſe deſcharger du venin par leſdites eruptions & puſtules purpurées, i'en ay faict frotter quelques-vns, comme s'ils euſſent eu la verole:toutesfois auparauant leur faiſois donner vn clyſtere, puis l'ayant rendu, leur donnois à boire quatre doigts d'eau theriacale, l'eſtomach eſtant vuide, à fin de prouo- quer la ſueur, pour faire mieux ſortir les humeurs, & cependant corroborer le cœur. et au lieu de i'eau vſage de la theriacale, on pourra vſer de la decoction de gajac, d'autant qu'il eſchauffe, & ſeiche, prouoque la ſueur, & decºaion ds reſiſte à la pourriture. et pour le faire plus vigoureux, on mettra en ladite decoction vn peu de vinaigre, à gajac. fin de le rendre de plus ſubtile ſubſtance : ce faiſant reſiſtera dauantage à la putrefaction, & meſmement ſi le corps eſt pituiteux. or quant à l'onguent il ſe fera ainſi. z. axungiz ſuillae fb.j. coquatur aliquantulum cum foliorum ſaluiae, thymi, roriſmarini an.m. É. poſtea coletur, & in ea extinguatur argenti viui, quod prius in aceto ebullierit cum prxdictis herbis. . v.ſalis ni- tri .iij. theriacx & mithridatij. an. . ß. terebenthinæ venetx, olei de ſcorpionibus & laurini an. . iij. vi- tellos ouorum ad duritiem coctos numero vj. aquae vitae. . iij. / le tout ſoit incorporé en vn mortier, & ſoit faict onguent, duquel on frottera le corps du malade, & )uelles par- principalement les aiſſelles & les aines, euitant la teſte, les parties pectorales, & l'eſpine du dos : puis ſoit § i enueloppé en vn drap chaud, & mis dedans le lict & couuert , & qu'il ſue deux heures ou plus : & doit-on uent eſtre mettre autour de ſon lict des draps rouges , & qu'il les regarde aſſiduellement & attentiuement. car par ce frottées de regard la matiere veneneuſe eſt attirée du dedans au dehors , puis il ſera eſſuyé legerement , à fin que le l'onguét vif- medicament produiſe dauantage ſon effect, & ſera mis en vn autre lict, s'il y a commodité : puis on luy argenté. donnera quelque boüillon de chapon, ou des œufs mollets, ou autre bons alimens : & faut derechef rei- terer la friction iuſques à ce qu'on voye que leſdites eruptions ſoient ſorties & eſteintes, qui ſe fait en deux ou trois iours.que s'il aduient flux de bouche ne le faudra empeſcher. et quand on void que le pourpre eſt romi, a f• du tout ſorty, & les ſueurs paſſées encor eſt ilbon de donner choſes diuretiques, c'eſt à dire,prouocatiues # d'vrine, parce que ſouuent on void leſdites eruptions eſtre euacuées par telle deſcharge. outre-plus ſeroit reſolutifs du bon pour les riches,en lieu de ceſt onguent, fendre le ventre d'vn cheual, ou mulet,& oſter les entrailles, & venin. mettre le malade nud ayant la teſte dehors, & qu'il y demeure iuſques à ce qu'il cómence à ſe refroidir,puis qu'il ſe remette ſubit dans vn autre, & reitere tant de fois qu'on verra eſtre neceſſaire : & telle choſe eſt fort loüée des anciens, à cauſe que la chaleur naturelle de ces beſtes attire merueilleuſement le venin, tant par ſueur que par inſenſible tranſpiration : ce qu'on a cogneu par experience, comme dit matthiolus au proé- me ſur le ſixieſine liure de dioſcoride, où il declare que le seigneur valentin, nepueu du pape alexan- hiſtºire. dre fixieſme, eſchappa par ce moyen de la mort, encor qu'il fut empoiſonné : car voulant empoiſonner a a a ' cgvt i s onguent vifargenté. le vingt-deuxiéme liure, certains cardinaux en vn feſtin, s'empoiſonna ſoy-meſme, & pareillement monſieur ſon oncle le pape a ſans y penſer. - de l'apoiteme peſtiferée, appellée bubon ou boſſe. ch a p. xxxi ii.' r poſons le cas que nature ne s'eſt peu deſcharger par aucuns moyens & remedes ſuſdits,mais pluſtoſt par vne apoſtene faite aux emunctoires,laquelle d'aucuns eſt appellée bubon peſtiferé, d'autres la boſſe, d'autres la peſte, ou fusée, & de galien beſte ſauuage & farouche; & aux au- tres parties du corps, charbon, anthrax, & carboncle. nous dirons que la boſſe eſt vne tumeur qui en ſon commencement eſt de forme longuette & mobile, & en ſon eſtat ronde ou pointue, & immobile, fixe & attachée fort profondement aux emonctoires, comme du cerueau à la gorge , du cœur aux aiſſelles du foye aux aines, & eſt faite de matiere plus craſſe & viſqueuſe que le charb , lequel eſt faict signes. d'vne matiere plus acre, bouillante & furieuſe faiſant eſcarre où il s'arreſte. au commencement que la flu- xion de la boſſe ſe fait, les malades diſent ſentir à l'emunctoire comme vne corde tenduë, ou vn nerf dur auec douleur poignante ; puis la matiere s'aſſemble comme vne glande, & à peu, & en brieftemps s'engroſ- ſit & s'enflamme, & eſt accompagnée d'autres accidens deſſus mentionez. si la tumeur eſt rouge & ſe groſſit peu à peu, c'eſt bon ſigne. celle qui eſt liuide & noire, & tardiue à venir, eſt dangereuſe. auſſi il y en a qui viennent promptement & d'vne grande furie, & ne tiennent la forme commune, c'eſt à dire, qui ſubitement deuiennent enflammées auec grande tumeur & douleur intolerable , & telles ſont communément mortel b les. on en a veu auſſi qui tenoient de la couleur du cuir naturel, & ſembloient eſtre vne tumeur œdema- teuſe, qui toutesfois faiſoient mourir le malade, auſſi toſt que celles qui eſtoient de couleur noire ou plom- bée : parquoy il ne s'y faut fier. gelau liure de theriaca ad piſonem, prognoſtie. de la cure de l'apoſteme peitiferée. c h a p. xxxiv. # ſur [ # n appliquera deſſus promptement vne ventouſe auec grande flamme, ſi elle n'eſtoit telle, #" n# comme celle qu'auons dict cy deſſus, à ſçauoir, auec grande infiammation, & douleur into- % lerable, & auec grande tumeur. auſſi on doit premierement oindre le cuir d'huile de lis à % l'endroict où on appliquera ladite ventouſe, afin de le rendre plus laxe, & que par ce moyen ，$，%ſ elle faſſe plus grande attraction, & ſera reiterée de trois en trois heures : & y demeurera à psa^nº* chacune fois vn quart d'heure plus ou moins ſelon la vertu du malade, & la vehemence de la matiere, à fin d'attirer le venin des parties nobles au dehors, & auſſi aider nature à faire ſuppuration plus ſubite, ou reſolution : qui ſe fera en appliquant deſſus vn tel liniment. liniment. %. vnguenti dialthea .j.É. olei de ſcorpionibus .É.mithridatij diſſoluti cum aqua vitæ .j. ce liniment #ºmºtiºns a vertu de relaxer le cuir, & ouurir les pores, & faire exhalation de quelque portion de la matiere peſtife- vºſº réc, qui a eſte attirée par la ventouſe. on peut auſſi en lieu d'iceluy faire des fomentations remollitiues, di- ſcutientes & reſolutiues, & autres remedes attractifs & ſuppuratifs, que deſcrirons cy apres. d'auantage, on doit faire vn veſiccatoire au deſſous de laboſſe, non au deſſus, ce que i'ay faict pluſieurs fois auec heureuſe c exemple des † comme pour exemple, ſi l'apoſteme eſtoit à la gorge, ſera appliqué ſur l'eſpaule & du coſté meſme:& veſiccatoires !º# eſt ſous l'aiſſelle, au milieu du bras partie inrerne & ſi elle eſt aux aines, au milieu du plat de la cuiſ- ſimples. ſe, afin de donner prompte iſſue à vne partie du venin & le departir en deux : dont par ce moyen la partie, - où premierement s'aſſembloit le venin en l'apoſteme, ſera plus deſchargée. or pour faire ampoulles ouveſ- ſies, les choſes ſuiuantes ſont propres, à ſçauoir, tithymal, bathracium, autrement nommé ranunculus, ou apium riſus : auſſi le ranunculus, ou bulboſus, perſicaria, pes leonis, autrement nommé pommellée, vitis al- ba, vel bryonia, & principalement par deſſus tcus la moyenne eſcorce de viburnum appelle viorne, auſſi , l'eſcorce de tapſus barbatus, ou flamme (laquelle eſt ainſi nommée des anciens, parce qu'elle eſt cauſtique, & faict veſſies,& enflamme la partie) & autres ſemblables simples. et où ne pourras trouuer deſdits reme- des, comme on fait difficilement en hyuer, tu vſeras de ceſtuy composé, lequel on peut faire en tout temps, %. cantharidum pul. piperis, euphorbij, pyrethri.an. . iij. ſinapi. .j. aceti parum. i'y adiouſte peu de vinaigre, d'autant qu'il abbat la vertu des cantharides. et en vne extremité, qu'on ne peut recouurer tels remedes, faut prendre huyle feruente, ou eau boüillante, ou vne chandelle flambante, voire vn charbonat- dant, qui fera vne veſication telle qu'on deſirera. et apres que les veſſies ou ampoulles ſeront faites, illes - faut ſubit couper, & laiſſer les vlceres long-temps ouuerts, en mettant deſſus fueilles de choux rouge, bet- te, ou poirée, cu de lierre, amorties en eau chaude, & les oindre auec huyle & beurre fcais. aucuns appli- quent des cauteres pour faire leſdictes ouuertures , mais les veſſies ſont beaucoup plus à loüer, parce que parauanr que les eſcarres fuſſent cheutes, le malade pourroit mourir. et faut entendre, que les ouuertures faictes par les viſiccatoires ſeruent beaucoup pour euacuer promptement le venin (ce qui a eſté experimen- té par pluſieurs fois) parce que le venin peſtiferé peche plus en qualité qu'en quantité. et ſur l'apoſteme ſe- cataplaſm, ront appliquées des fomentations, comme nous auons dict cy-deſſus : puis on vſera de ce remede, qui a attraaf vertu d'attirer la matiere au dehors. .cxpam magnam,excaua & imple theriaca cum foliis rutx : deinde - coque ſub cineribus calidis,poſtea contunde cun pauco fermento & axungia ſuilla ad quantitatem ſufficien- tem : & ce ſoit appliqué chaud ſur la boſſe , & le faudra renouueller de ſix en ſix heures. autre attractif. # , %. radicum biſmalur & liliorum an.lib ſeminis liai,fœnug rci & ſinapi an theriaca j ficuspin- fort. " gues numero x. axungiz ſuilla quantum ſufficit : fiat cataplaſma ſecundùm artem autre cataplaſme /. ca parum & aliorum ſub cineribus coctorum an. .iij. contunde cum fermenti acris .j addendovn- guen. baſilicomis .j.theriac. j.mithrid. .f.axungix ſuilla veteris j cantharid. pulueriſatarum .jſterco- ris columbini .ij. le tout ſoit piſté & meſlé enſemble, & ſoit fait cataplaſme. autre la vieille preſure eſt fort acre & chaude , & par conſequent attractiue, meſlée auec vieil leuain, & vn peu de baſilicum. on en peut faire d'autres ſemblables , deſquels on vſera iuſqu'à ce qu'il y aura ſuffiſante attraction, & que la boſſe ſoit fort eſleuée en tumeur : mais ſi on void que des le commencement il y euſt tres-grande inflammation & douleur extreme, comme il ſe fait bien ſouuent, & principalement aux charbons, en tel cas ſe faut garder d'vſer de tels remedes ainſi chauds & attractifs, & de ceux auſſi qui ſont fort emplaſtiques & viſqueux, leſ- quels condenſent & opilent les pores du cuir, ou reſoluent, conſument & ſeichent l'humeur ſubtil , qui pourroit eſtre canſe d'aider à ſuppuration : pareillement augmentent la douleur & la fiévre, & attirent trop grande quantité d'humeurs chaudes , dont le venin s'en fait plus grand & dangereux , rendant la ma- tiere plus rebelle , la tournant pluſtoſt à corruption qu'à maturation : parquoy ſouuent s'enſuit douleur cxiicii c de la peſte. | a extreme cauſant ſpaſme, gangrene , & par conſequent la mort ſubite. donc en tel cas tu euiteras tels re- medes , & en appliqueras des froids & temperez, à fin de diminuer la grande ferueur & ebullition de fang : ce faiſant nature ſera aidee , dont la ſuppuration ſe fera mieux. et de telle ſorte ſont les cataplaſmes faicts de fueilles de iuſquiame & ozeille cuitte ſous la braiſe, auſſi la pulte de galien, & autres que de- clarerons cy-apres. on a veu des malades de peſte, leſquels ont eu ſi grande apprehenſion de la mort, que d'vn grand cou- rage & conſtance eux meſmes ſe ſont tirez la boſſe auec tenailles de mareſchal. autres l'ont couppée en plu- ſieurs endroits,la cernans tout autour : les autres ont eſté ſi aſſeurez, qu'eux-meſmes ſe ſont appliquez fers ardans,& ſe ſont bruſlez pour donner iſſuë à l'humeur peſtiferé:ce que ie n'approuue. car la malignité peſti- lente n'eſt pas comme la morſure & picqueure des beſtes venimeuſes parce que le veninºvient du dedans, & non du dehors, comme en la morſure & picqueure des beſtes venimeu es. et telles cruautez ſi violèntes ac- croiſſent pluſtoſt la douleur & chaleur de la fiévre,empirent & augmentent la venenoſité,& pour cette cau- ſe abbregent leur vie. parquoy tu te contenteras en tel cas de remedes relaxans & ouurans les pores du cuir, & euacuans par reſolution & inſenſible tranſpiration vne porti du venin. et de tels t'en donneray pluſieurs fomëtation, bien approuuez & promptement parables , comme ſont ceux qui s'enſuiuent. . radicum biſmalux & li- reſolution & liorum an. . vj.florum camomillæ & melil.an. m.É. ſeminis lini . .foliorum rutæ m.É. le tout ſoit bouilly, relaxatine. puis coulé, & en cette decoction ſoit trempé vn feutre, ou vne eſponge, & ſoit faite fomentation aſſez lon- guement. autre remede. /.. micam panis calidi,& aſperge aqua theriac.vel aqua vitæ cum lacte vaccino,vel caprillo,& tribus vitellis ouorum. le tout ſoit incorpore & appliqué deſſus chaudement auec des eſtouppes. b autre. %.fermenti acris ex ſecali .iiij.baſiliconis .ij.vitellos ouorum numero iij. oleililiorum. .ij.theria- cx .j. le tout ſoit meſlé & appliqué comme deſſus. autre. .diachilonis communis & baſiliconis an. .ij. olei liliorum .j ß. ſoient liquefiez & fondus enſemble, & ſoit appliqué comme deſſus. et lors que l'on verra que la boſſe ſera ſuppurée (ce qui ſe peut connoiſtre à la veuë & au tact) d'autant que la tumeur eſt eſleuée aucunement en poincte ou pyramide, & le cuir blanchy & delié, & au ſentiment du toucher on trouue l'en- fleure obeiſſante aux doigts auec inondation molette, & la bouè va de lieu en autre : pareillement les acci- signes de la dens ſont grandement diminuez, comme douleur pulſatile & les eſlancemens & inflammations , alors qu'on boue faite. void telles choſes, il faut faire ouuerture par lancette,ou cauteres potentiels ou actuels : mais les potentiels ſont plus à loüer en tel cas,s'il n'y auoit grande inflâmation,parce qu'ils attirent le venin du profond à la ſu- perficie,& dönent plus ample iſſue à la matiere. et ne faut attendre que nature faſſe ouuerture d'elle meſme, de peur que la boüe eſtant faite,ne s'eſleue quelque vapeur veneneuſe, qui ſe cómuniqueroit par les arteres, & nerfs au cœur,& autres parties nobles. parquoy l'ouuerture ſe doit faire par la main du chirurgien, & n ne faut at- par nature. aucuns commandent faire l'ouuerture deuant que la ſuppuration ſoit faite,& apparente , diſant tendre que qu'il la faut ouurir entre le verd & le ſec. toutesfois ie vous puis aſſeurer, que ſi l'apoſteme n'eſt aſſez matu- l'ouuerture rée,on eſt cauſe d'induire grande douleur,&infiâmation,& accroiſſement de fiévre:qui eſt ſouuent cauſe d'vne ſe face par gangrene,ou de rendre l'vlcere malin; ce que i'ay veu aduenir ſouuentesfois. la ſuppuration ſe faict volon-mºurº tiers en dix ou douze iours,plus ou moins,ſelon la malignité de l'humeur, & qu'elle ſera traictée : auſſi ſelon la partie affectée. or apres l'ouuerture faicte, on doit encor vſer de medicamens ſuppuratifs & remollitifs tant qu'il ſera beſoin, pour toufiours ayder nature à ſuppurer & amollir, mondifiant neantmoins l'vlcere & cauité d'iceluy par onguens deterſifs,que declarerós cy-apres traictans des charbons. mais ſi on voyoit que vſage de vg- la boſſe ou tumeur retournatt au dedans,alors on doit appliquer ventouſes auec ſcarificatiós,& autres reme- touſes ſur la des plus forts & attractifs bien acres,voire iuſques aux cauteres actuels ou potentiels. dauantage, comme bºſſe. i'ay dit en tel cas, il eſt beſoin de faire ouuerture ſous la boſſe, auec veſiccatoires,afin d'euacuer quelque partie du venin pendant que l'éſcarre faicte par les cauteres,tôbera. pareillement autour des boſſes & char- bons on fera des ſcarifications, & y ſera appliqué plufieurs ſangſues, & reiterées par pluſieurs fois,afin d'at- tirer,& vacuer l'humeur conioinct à la partie. or que telles ouuertures ſeruent,meſines ſoient neceſſaires à deſcharger la partie du venin qui la moleſte, & par conſequent tout le corps, on le void iournellement par experience en ceux qui ont la verole : car cependant qu'ils ont quelques vlceres ouuerts,& qu'ils fluent,les pauures verolez n'ont point de douleur, ou en ont bien peu, & ſubit qu'ils ſont clos , leur douleur vient & s'augmente, à cauſe que le virus venerien n'a plus d'iſſue. si on voyoit que la peſte ou le charbon fuſſent ma- lins & enflammez & de couleur verdoyante ou noire (comme l'on voit principalement en ceux qui ſont faicts d'humeur melancholique bruſlé , qui eſt le pire humeur de tous, parce qu'il eſt froid & ſec, & par aduſtion eſt faict gros & rebelle aux remedes, & partant eſt difficilement vaincu par nature) & qu'auſſi on viſt qu'il y euſt grand danger de gangrene & mortificatió en la partie, alors il faudroit vſer de medicamens repercuſſifs autour & non deſſus, afin de prohiber que la fluxion ne s'augmentaſt par troa\& que la partie temps d'v- ne receuſt tant d'humeurs, que la chaleur naturelle fuſt ſuffoquée & eſteinte,& que la mat\ {e veneneuſe ne ſerº reper- remontaſt au cœur, alors on appliquera autour des medicamens repercuſſifs, leſquels ſero\ renouuellez ºſſº ſouuent : & en ce faiſant on laiſſe la propre cure pour ſuruenir aux accidens. exemple de repercuſſif . z. pomum granatum acidum : coque in aceto: poſtea contunde cum vnguento roſvel populeone recenter facto : & ce ſoit appliqué autour du charbon ou boſſe, & renouuellé ſouuent. autre. . ſucci ſemperuiui, portulacx, acetoſr,ſolani an. .ij. aceti .j. albumina ouorum numero iij. olei rqſ & nenuphar.an. .ij. ß. ces choſes ſoient agitées, & appliquées comme deſſus. et ſi on veoit que la boſſe ou charbon fuſſent fort vene- neux & de mauuaiſe couleur, auec trop grande multitude de matiere, & qu'il y euſt danger de gangrene , & mortification, il faut faire deſſus & aux enuirons pluſieurs & profondes ſcarificatiôs (ſi la partie le permet) afin d'ättirer, la deſcharger, & euacuer le venin,& la trop grande multitude des humeurs qui ſuffoquent & eſteignent la chaleur naturelle de la partie, afin que plus facilement puiſſent auoir air , euitant touſiours les grands vaiſſeaux,côme nerfs,veines & arteres, de peur de ſpaſme & flux de ſang.lequel en tel cas eſt difficile le ſang eſt à eſtancher, à cauſe que le lieu eſt grandement enflammé,& que les parties voiſines ſont tant eſchauffées de difficile a e- la malice de l'humeur,& auſſi pour le deſir que nature auec ſa vertu expultrice a de ſoy deſcharger : ce qui ſºººeher ** faict que ſouuentefois on ne peut eſtancher le ſang de ſorte que le malade meurt entre les mains du chirur- nflamatioos gien : ce que i'atteſte auoir veu aduenir pluſieurs fois : parquoy tu y prendras garde. or tu dois ſçauoir que peſtilentts. telle euacuation faite du lieu affecté profite à merueilles:car par ce moyen nature ſe decharge par le meſme lieu où elle a faict amas du venin,pour eſtre euacué:partant tu laiſſeras couler la quantité du ſang que tu co- gnoiſtras eſtre beſoin, prenant touſiours indications de la vertu du malade, qui pourra principalement eſtre cogneué par la force du pouls, & autres indices,qu'auons par cy-deuant eſcrits. auſſi on fera des fomenta- tions relaxantes, remollitiues, & reſolutiues, pour toufieurs euaporer & donner iſſue au venin, a aa . extmple le vingt-deuxiéme liure, exemple d'vne fomentation remollitiue & reſolutiue. É. radicis althçx,liliorum & enulx campana an.fb.j.ſeminis,lini & fœnugr.an. .j.ſeminis fœniculi,aniſi an. .É. foliorum ruthx, ſaluiæ,roriſm.an.m.j flor.camon.meliloti an.m.iij bulliant omnia ſimul: fiat decoctio profotu ſecund.artem. de cette decoction on en fomentera la partie aſſez longuement auec feutres , ou eſ- autres beſtes ponges ou linges au defaut d'eſponges. on pourra auſſi prendre vne poulaille, & principalement vne poulle propres pou, ººººº qui ponde, afin qu'elle ait le cul plus ouuert , ou vne groſſe poulle d'inde, & leur faudra plumer appliquer ſur le cul,mettre dedans deux ou trois grains de ſel profondement : afin que l'acrimonie du ſel irritant le boyau i# # # cuillier, le leur ſènne touſiours ouuert, & leur tenir le cul deſſus la boſſe ou charbon (apres auoir fait charbºns. - premierement des ſcarifications ſuperficielles) iuſques à ce qu'elles meurent : puis eſtant mortes on y en re- mettra d'autres en nombre de cinq ou ſix , ou dauantage , par l'eſpace de demie heure , ſi le malade le peut ſouffrir, leur ſerrant par fois le bec, afin qu'elles attirent plus viuement le venin. cette attraction faite par le cul de poulaille attire plus ledit venin que ne fait la ventouſe, par ce qu'on tient qu'elles ont vne contrarieté naturelle contre le venin, comme il ſe peut prouuer,par ce qu'elles mangent & digerent des beſtes veneneu- ſes,comme crapaux, viperes, couleuures, aſpics & autres ſerpens, ſans qu'elles en reçoiuent aucun mal. on peut pareillement prendre leſdites volailles, ou pigeons, ou petits chiens & chats nouuellement nez fendus tous vifs , & les y appliquer tous chauds, & lors qu'on connoiſtra qu'ils refroidiront,on y en remettra d'au- tres: ſemblablement poulmons de mouton ou de veau, appliquez tout ſubit eſtant tirez hors de la beſte.car par cette chaleur moderée & naturelle de ces beſtes, ſe fait attraction familiere du venin,& la partie malade eſt par ce moyen deſchargée & fortifiée: & faut mettre ſubit ces beſtes mortes profondement en terre, ou $)ue c'eſt que les bruſler, de peur que les chiens & chats ne les mangent & apportent le venin aux maiſons. et ſi on voyoit gangrene. que la boſſe ou charbon tendiſſent à vne gangrene, qui eſt preparation de mortification, alors on doit faire pluſieurs ſcarifications profondes , toutesfois euitant les grands vaiſſeaux ( comme i'ay dit ) laiſſant fluer du ſang,ainſi que verras eſtre neceſſaire,afin d'aleger la partie,&apres feras ablution d'eau ſalée,vinaigre,& eau de vie,auec leſquelles diſſoudras egyptiac,methridat,ou theriaques car telle ablution a tres-grande vertu de corriger la pourriture gangreneuſe,& garder que le ſang ne ſe coagule, & deterger la virulence de l'humeur imbu au lieu infect tendant à pourriture. et où on connnoiſtra que la gangrene ne voulut obeyr à tels reme- des, alors faut venir aux plus forts qui ſont les cauteres actuels ou potentiels , parce qu'aux fortes maladies le cauture il faut vſer de grands & forts remedes. et en tels cas les cauteres actuels ſont plus excellens que les poten- actuel eſt tiels , à raiſon que leur action eſt plus ſubite & plus contraire au venin , & laiſſent meilleure diſpoſition à la preposé au partie. apres la cauterization, promptement on ſcarifiera l'eſcarre iuſques à la chair viue, afin de faire ex- pºtentiel haler quelque vapeur, & donner iſſuë à quelque humeur contenu en la partie. et ne faut attendre que l'eſ- #º carre tombe de ſoy-meſme,mais on appliquera remedes pour la faire tomber, comme ceſtuy. /. mucilagi- volailles & contrarieté des poulailles & du venin. # nis,althxx,ſeminis lini,an. .ijbutyri recentis vel axungiæ porci .j.vitellos ouorum numero iij.incorporen- mundifica ' tur ſimul & fiat linimentum. auſſi on peut vſer de beurre frais, ou ſein de porc, huyle roſat, auec moyeux tifs. d'œufs puis apres la cheute de l'eſcarre, tu vſeras de mondificatifs : comme %. succi plantaginis, clymeni & apijan. .iij.mellis roſati .iiij.terebenthina venetz .v.far.hord. .iij pulueris aloës .ij. olei roſati .iiij. theriacx . . fiat mundificatiuum ſecundùm artem. autre z. vnguenti aegyptiaci & baſiliconis .ij. pul. mercurij. . . incorporentur ſimul, fiat vnguentum. autre. z. terebenth.venetx .iiij.ſyrupi de roſis ficcis c & de abſinthio an. .j.pulueris aloes,maſtiches,myrrhx, far.hor.an. .j. mithridatij. . É. incorporentur ſimul deterſiffort. fiat medicamentum. ou on vſera d'vn tel,qui eſt approprié aux vlceres depaſcents,putrides,virulens & gan- greneux. . auripigmenti rubri .j calcis viux,alumnis vſti,corticum granatorum an vij. thuris, gallarum an. .iij ceræ & olei quantum ſufficit: fiat vnguentum. ceſtuy onguent eſt fort deterſif,& conſomme la chair onguent pourrie, & deſſeiche l'humidité virulente,qui eſt mere nourrice de pourriture gangreneuſe. pareillement en egyptiac. , lieu de ceſtuy on fera de l'egyptiac fortifié,lequel auſſi corrige la chair pourrie,& conſomme celle qui croift * par trop, dauantage obtund & eſteint l'humeur virulent qui eſt en la partie, qui cauſe ſouuentesfois tres- grande douleur, & eſt excellent par deſſus tous autres remedes pour tel effect : d'autant qu'en ſa compoſi- tion n'entre huyle ny cire,leſquelles choſes rompent la force & acrimonie des medicamens acres, qui ſont propres à tels vlceres. la force de ces medicamens deterſifs ſera diminuée ou augmentée ſelon qu'on verra long-temps l'vlcere eſtre ſordide,& putride, & ſelon la nature du temperament de tout le corps & de la partie. et faut #- tenir l'vlcere ouuert le plus longuement qu'on pourra: car on a veu aucuns,deſquels la boſſe & les charbons § d, ia ayans jetté beaucoup de matiere, ſembloient eſtre du tout guaris , & toutesfois bien - toſt apres ils mou- boſſe, roient : & partant on tiendra l'vlcere long-temps ouuert, & confortera-l'on continuellement le cœur auſſi on donnera au malade par fois quelque petite medecine , afin de purger & rectifier les humeurs mauuaiſes, pourries & veneneuſes. il faut tenir \ | "- deſcription du charbon peſtiferé, & de ſes cauſes, ſignes & marques. c h a p i t r e x x x v. cauſe du $ # h a r e o n peſtiferé eſt vne petite tumeur ou puſtule maligne , feruente & furieuſe, faite d'vn charbon pe- (; # ſang gros & noir, corrompu en ſa ſubſtance , par tranſmutation de ſang loüable, de façon que le ſtiferé. $# plus ſouuent ne peut eſtre regy ne gouuerné par nature, parce qu il peche en vne qualité mali- gne qui luy eſt inuincible. il eſt de figure ronde & aiguë , & en ſon commencement n'eſt point plus gros qu'vn petit grain de miel,ou vn pois,adherant fort contre la partie immobile,tellement que le cuir de deſſus ne ſe peut enleuer de la chair de deſſous:& croiſt promptement ainſi que fait la boſſe,& quelques- fois plutoſt, aucunesfois plus tard,ſelon que la matiere eſt plus ou moins furieuſe, auec grande chaleur, ar- signes. deur , & douleur lacinante & poignante , comme poinctes d'aiguilles, laquelle eſt tres-cuiſſante & intolera- ble, principalement vers le ſoir & la nuict plus que le iour , & plus lors que la concoction ſe fait en l'eſto- pourquoy le mach, que quand elle eſt faite : & au milieu apparoiſt vne petite veſſie , en laquelle ſemble eſtre contenue charion eſt quelque ſanie : & ſi on l'ouure & qu'on deſcouure le cuir, on trouue deſſous de la chair bruſlée & noire, ainſi appellé. comme ſi vn charbon ardent y auoit eſté appliqué, & pour cette cauſe les anciens l'ont appellé charbon. et la chair d'entour eſt trouuée de diuerſe couleur , comme l'on void en l'arc-en-ciel, à ſçauoir, rouge, brune, perſe,violette,plombée & noiraſtre, auec ſplendeur ou lueur eſtincellante, comme poix noire, embraſée & enflâmée,ayant pareillement fimilitude à vne pierre nommée eſcarboucle,dont auſſi aucuns luy ont attribué ce nom. les vulgaires les appellent clouds,parce que la matiere d'iceux cauſe douleur ſemblable, comme fi w vq de la peſte " : : a vn clouà eſtoit fichè à la partie.l\ y a aucuns charbons qui prennent leur commencement d'vn vlcere crou- ſteux,ſans puſtule, & de couleur noire, comme ſi on y auoit appliqué vn cautere potentiel,ou vn fer ardant, qui croiſt auſſi ſubitement,& quelquesfois plus tard,ſelon que la matiere eſt plus ou moins maligne, comme nous auons dit. tous leſquels charbons peſtiferez ſont touſiours accompagnez de fiévre continué, & autres - accidens fort cruels : & ſemble au malade qu'il a vne grande charge de plomb ſur la partie charbonniere:& | qu'elle ſoit eſtroictement liée (& veritablement ie le ſçay pour l'auoir ſenty en mon corps) qui ſe faict à cau- ſe de la corruption & ſuffocation des eſprits,& de la chaleur naturelle de la partie,en laquelle eſt le charbon, dont ſouuentefois s'enſuit defaillance de cœur,inquietude,alienation d'eſprits,& furie & gangrenne,& mor- tification, & par conſequent la mort,non ſeulement de la partie, mais auſſi de tout le corps, ainſi qu'on void auſſi ſouuent aduenir à l'apoſteme peſtiferé. et à la verité on peut dire,que le charbon & la boſſe ſont com- differiee de me couſins germains,leſquels ne vont gueres l'vn ſans l'autre,& la matiere d'iceux ne differe ſeulement, ſi- l "ieſ & non celle de la boſſe eſt plus craſſe & viſqueuſe,& celle du charbon plus acre, boüillante,furieuſe & ſubtile, charbon. faiſant eſcarre au lieu où il ſe fied, ainſi qu'auons declaré cy-deſſus. prognoſtic des apoſtemes & charbons peitiferez. c h a p. xxx v i. v c v n s n'ont qu'vn charbon, les autres pluſieurs,& ſe jettent par toutes les parties du corps. il eſt meil- il aduient à aucuns qu'ils auront le charbon & la boſſe deuant la fiévre,& n'ont autre mauuais leur que les # accidents,qui eſt vn bon ſigne : car cela demonſtre que nature a eſté forte (comme nous auons ºhºréºns & $ dit cy-deſſus) & qu'elle a jetté le venin au dehors deuant que le cœur en fuſt ſaiſy.mais quand º# *fº- ils apparoiſſent apres la fiévre,c'eſt mauuais ſigne : car cela ſignifie que les humeurs ſont alterez # #. & corrompus,& que le cœur meſme en eſt ſaiſi, d'autant que la fiévre ayant ſon propre ſiege au cœur, ſe re- #" ſpand d'iceluy,côme d'vn centre à toute la circonferéce du corps. si le malade n'eſt point troublé d'entende- q - ment du cómencement iuſques au ſeptiéme iour, c'eſt bon ſigne. lors que la boſſe & le charbon s'en retour- .. nent,c'eſt vne choſe le plus ſouuent mortelle,ſpecialemét quand mauuais accidens ſuruiennent apres. pareil- #º //y r- ment quâd ils ſont ſuppurez,& ſe deſſeichent ſans cauſe raiſonnable,c'eſt ſigne de mort. les charbôs qui ſont fêl , faicts de ſang,font plus grâd eſcarre,que ceux qui ſont faicts d'humeur cholerique,d'autant que le ſang eſt de plus groſſe ſubſtance : partant occupent & prennent plus grâde quantité de chair que ne fait l'humeur chole- rique,qui eſt plus ſuperficiel ainſi que voyons aux eryſipeles. i'ay veu des charbons qui de leur eſcarre occu- poient preſque la moitié du dos,les autres les deux clauicules tirant vers la gorge,& auoient rongé ſi fort les des grands parties ſubiacentes,que l'on pouuoit voir la trachée artere deſcouuerte; autres occupoient la moitié des mu- charbons. ſcles de l'epigaſtre, & l'eſcarre cheute on voyoit à l'œil le peritoine deſcouuert : ce qui eſt aduenu à moy-,, - meſme d'vn charbon que i'ay eu au ventre,duquel la cicatrice m'eſt demeurée de la grandeur de la palme de l # la main. et lors qu'ils ſont ainſi grands & enormes,le plus ſouuét ſont mortels. il y a des charbons & boſſes #. # qui commencent ſous le menton , puis la tumeur s'augmentent peu à peu iuſques aux clauicules, & eſtran- #é glent le malade. semblablement il y en a aux aines, qui occupent grande partie des muſcles du ventre : mais boſſes dange- la plus dangereuſe apoſteme, eſt celle qui ſe fait ſous les aiſſelles : d'autant qu'elle eſt plus proche du cœur. rºſes. " il y en a auſſi qui ſont enormes,grands & hideux à regarder,& de tels le plus ſouuent le malade meurt, ou la partie demeure meheigné, y reſtant apres la conſolidation vne tumeur elephantique, & quelquesfois ſon action eſt du tout perduë : ce que i'ay veu pluſieursfois. dauantage aucunesfois pour la grande pourriture de la matiere,la chair laiſſe les os deſnuez , & les jointures & ligamens ſe trouuent tous reſolus , tant eſt la porriture chaude & humide.les charbons jettent vne ſanie virulente, tres-puante, d'eſtrange nature, qui fait l'vlce corroſif & ambulatif, pourry & corrompu, & le plus ſouuent ſe procréent pluſieurs veſſies aux par- ties voiſines, leſquelles apres s'aſſemblent toutes en vne, & jettent ſanie en petite quantité, principalement ceux qui font faicts de cholere, à cauſe de la ſiccité de la matiere bruſlée, qui fait eſcarre, & tard ſe conuer- tiſſent en bonne boue ou ſanie loüable, parce que la matiere eſt bruilée, & non pourrie,par l'actiuité exceſſi- ue de l'inflammation & corroſion. outre plus, la tumeur de la boſſe & du charbon eſt quaſi touſiours rebel- le,& tres-difficile à eſtre reſolue ou ſuppurée, pour la malignité de leur nature. et quand ils ne ſuppurent pregnºſtic par aucuns medicamens, & que la tumeur demeure de couleur noire, & ſi on veut attenter à les ouurir, qu'il mortel. n'en ſorte qu'vne ſeroſité noiraſtre, & le plus ſouuent nulle humidité : de mille malades ainſi affectez à pei- ne en reſchappe vn ſeul. ce que i'ay plufieurs fois remarqué, penſant les peſtiferez à l'hoſtel dieu de pa- ris. il y a des charbons, auſquels quand ils ſont ouuerts, on trouue vne chair molle & ſpongieuſe, qui ne ſe peut corriger : car quand on en conſume quelque portion, il en reuient dauantage : & tels ſont mortels, par- ce qu'ils ne cedent aux remedes, ce que i'ay veu ſouuentesfois à mon grand regret. dauantage aucuns ſont faicts d'vne ſi grande corruption d'humeurs,& ſi malings, que les membres tombent en mortification, telle- ment qu'on void le pied ſe ſeparer de la jambe,& le bras de l'eſpaule.auſſi autour d'aucuns charbons & boſ- ſes, ſe font petites veſſies, comme s'ils auoient eſté piquez d'orties, ou comme celles qu'on void aux herpes chartons milliaires, leſquelles ſont procreées de vapeurs exhalantes de matieres conjoinctes & arreſtées en la partie gangrenºux, que nature jette hors, telles veſſies ne preſagiſſent pas neceſſairement la mort : mais ſi la petite charbonnie- re deuient bourſoufflée & de couleur purpurée ou verdoyante, plombine & noire , & qu'autour l'on trouue des ampoulles ſemblables à celles des bruſlures, & que le malade die n'y ſentir plus de douleur, ſoit que l'on le picque,coupe ou bruſle,c'eſt ſigne non ſeulement de gangrene, mais de mortification totale, & que la chaleur naturelle eſt ſuffoquée & eſteinte par la malignité du venin. outre plus, i'ay eſté curieux eſtant à l'hoſtel-dieu de paris, ayant veu des malades de peſte, auſquels s'eſtoient apparues quelques tumeurs aux emunčtoires,leſquelles le lendemain n'apparoiſſoient aucunement,dont les malades mourroient, de chercher à la partie la cauſe de la mort : & veritablement, i'ay trouué à aucuns, ayant fait inciſion aſſez profonde , la chairy eſtre bruſlée,côme ſi vn cautere actuel y auoit paſſé. les boſſes & charbós ne ſont iamais gueres ſans les teſſes ér fiévre,laquelle eſt plus grande,lors qu'ils ſe font aux emunctoires, & aux parties nerueuſes, qu'aux charneu- charbons ra- ſes:toutesfois ceux qui ſont de bonne temperature, ayans les vertus & facuitez fortes, ont la fiévre moindre, rement ſont & pareillement tous les autres accidens. les charbons n'occupent pas ſeulement les parties externes, mais ſans Âévr°. auſſi quelquesfois les internes, & quelquesfois les deux enſemble. si interieurement le cœur en eſt ſaiſi ſans aucune apparence exterieure, la vie eſt deſplorée & briefue, & les malades meurent ſouuent en man- geant, beuuant & en cheminant. si le poulmon ou le diaphragme & autres parties dediées à l'inſpiration & cbarton, expiration en ſont occupées , le malade meurt en vingt-quatre heures ou moins, parce qu'il eft º par mortels. a a a \ltc charbons ambulatifs f 'c & / / , o le vingt-deuxiéme liure, • faute de reſpiration.si le cerueau en eſt aſſailly,s'enſuit freneſie & rage,puis la mort.si le venin ſe jette ſur les a parties dediées à l'vrine,le malade meurt par faute d'vriner. ce qui aduint au chaſteau de rouſſillon à vne , damoiſelle de la royne,de laquelle auons parlé cy-deſſus.auſſi ſi le charbon ſe jette en l'eſtomach, cela eſt hiſtoire. compaſſion des dames. moyen de cognoiſtre les eruptions ou pourpre, le malade eſtät / /f, -- le charbon cauſe dou- leur, fiévre, & mort. cataplaſme anodyn & ſuppuratif, pou j° lv/ g charbăniere influxion. de la ſca- bieuſe. de l'œufen- tier. racine de raifort. mortel:ce qui ſuruint au gouuerneur des dames de l'hoſtel-dieu de paris, lors que i'eſtois audit lieu pen- ſant les malades. or iceluy eſtoit vn moyne ieune, haut, droit,fort & puiſſants de l'ordre de ſainct victor,au- quel ſuruint vne fiévre continué, & auoit la langue aride, ſeiche & raboteuſe, de couleur noire , à cauſe de l'extréme chaleur de la fiévre & de la vapeur putride,qui montoit des parties interieures à la bouche(car ſelon le dire du vulgaire, quand vn four eſt bien chaud , la gueule s'en reſſent) & tiroit la langue hors la bouche comme vn chien qui a longuement couru , & auoit vne extréme alteration , deſirant perpetuellement boire auec grande defaillance de cœur,& appetit continuel de vomir, & mourut au troiſieſme iour en conuulſion vniuerſelle de tous ſes membres les danes voyans le pauure de moyne depeſché en fi brieftemps,& conſide- rans les accidens qui furent ſi cruels,affirmoient qu'il auoit eſté empoiſonné:dont meſſieurs les gouuerneurs dudit hoſtel-dieu,ayans eſté aduertis,commanderent que le corps du moyne fuſt ouuert,pour en ſçauoir la verité. et pour ce faire furent appellez vn medecin,& vn chirurgien auec moy,& l'ayant ouuert,nous trou- uaſmes au fond de ſon eſtomach vn veſtige ſemblable à celuy que laiſſe vn cautere potentiel auec vn eſcarre ou crouſte de largeur d'vne ongle, & le reſte de l'eſtomach fort retiré & bien dur. alors tous d'vn conſente- ment promptement concluſmes, qu'il auoit eſté empoiſonné du ſublimé ou arſenic, veu l'eſcarre laquelle penetroit bien profondement. et ainſi que ie recouſois le corps d'iceluy, i'apperceus pluſieurs petites taches noires,ſemées ſur ſon corps: & lors ie rappellay la compagnie pour contempler leſdites taches , leur diſant & affirmant que c'eſtoit du pourpre : mais le medecin & chirurgien me dirent que c'eſtoient morſures de pulces , ou punaiſes : ce que ne voulus aucunement accorder , parce qu'il y en auoit en grande quantité. et b pour verifier mon dire, ie prins vne eſpingle , la pouſſant aſſez profondement dans le cuir en pulſieurs en- droits, & leuay en haut, puis le coupay auec ciſeaux, & fut trouuée la chair de deſſous bien fort noire. pa- reillement nous conſideraſmes la couleur liuide du nez, des oreilles,& des ongles, meſmes de tout le corps, plus noire qu'elle n'a couſtume d'eſtre aux morts d'autres maladies,& principalement le viſage changé, tel- lement qu'il eſtoit quaſi impoſſible de le pouuoir recognoiſtre. adonc changerent d'opinion, & feiſmes rap- port que le moyne eſtoit mort d'vn charbon peſtiferé, & non d'autre poiſon. . " de la cure du peſtiferé ch a p, xxxvii. o v s auons dit par cy-deuant qu'au charbon y auoit grande inflammation & extreme dou- ，) leur, qui entretient & augmente la fiévre, & autres griefs accidens, leſquels affoibliſſent & # abbatent les vertus, ce que ſouuentesfois eſt cauſe de la mort des pauures malades : & cela prouient de la putrefaction & corruption qui ſe fait de la ſubſtance du ſang corrompu, & de la venenoſité d'iceluy. parquoy il faut que le chirurgien ait eſgard à contrarier à la cauſe d'icelle douleur , & n'applique deſſus le charbon remedes forts chauds & attractifs,ny fort emplaſtiques & viſqueux,cóme nous auons dit du bubon,parce qu'ils empeſchent quelque exhalation du ve- nin, eſchauffent & opilent trop, dont les tumeurs ſont rendues plus rebelles à ſuppuration. et partant il vſera de relaxatiſs, qui ouurent les pores & contrarient à la vehemente chaleur du venin , & ſuppurent : ce qui ſe c fait rarement, à cauſe que la partie charbonniere eſtant roſtie de chaleur eſtrange , jette vn morceau de chair nommé eſcarre , & apres eſtre cheute, demeure en vlcere caue , ſordide, & de difficile curation. donc pour le commencement on fomentera le lieu d'eau chaude & d'huyle, en laquelle on mettra vn peu de theria- que,y laiſſant deſſus eſtoupes ou laine # , ou du cotton : ou en lieu de telle choſes , on vſera d'vne deco- ction faicte de guimauues, oignons de lys, ſemence de lin, figues graſſes, huyle d'hypericon,afin de rarefier le cuir, & attirer la matiere au dehors : puis le lendemain on y appliquera ce cataplaſme. - /. foliorum acetoſa & hyoſcyami an. m.ij. coquantur ſub cineribus calidis, poſtea piſtentur cum vitellis ouorum numero iiij. theriacæ .ij. oleililiorum . iij. farinae hordei quantum ſufficit : fiat cataplaſma ad for- mam pultis ſatis liquidz. tel cataplaſme ſede la douleur, reprime l'inflammation & ſuppure , & ce faiſant fortifie les forces du malade. autre. radicum althzx & liliorum an. .iiij. ſeminis lini . ß. coquantur completè, & colentur per ſetaceum, addendo butyri recentis .j. . mithridatij .j. farinx hordei quantum ſufficit : fiat cataplaſma vt decet. les cataplaſmes ſuiuans ſont propres pour attirer la matiere veneneuſe, & ayder nature à faire ſuppuration, lors que la fluxion n'eſt grande. . radicis liliorum alborum , caepa- rum, fermenti an. . É. ſeminis ſinapi, fimi columbini, ſaponis mollis an. .j. limaces vj. cum teſtis , ſacchari optimi, theriacx & mithridatij. an. . ſº. piſtentur omnia, & incorporentur ſimul cum vitellis ouorum , & fiat cataplaſma, lequel ſera appliqué vn peu chaud ſur le charbon. et te puis aſſeurer que d'iceluy veras vn effect merueilleux pour ſuppurer & attirer la matiere virulente du dedans au dehors. autres. . vitellos ouorum numero vj ſalis cômunis pulueriſati .j. olei liliorum & theriacx an, ß. farina hordei quantum ſufficit, fiat cataplaſma. et en lieu d'iceux, on vſera du medicament ſuiuant. %. diachylonis parui .iv. vn- guenti baſiliconis .ij. olei violarum #. f. fiat medicamentum. pluſieurs autheurs ont loué à grand mer- ueille la ſcabieuſe broyée entre deux pierres, & mixtiônée auec vieil oing, jaulnes d'oeuf, & vn peu de ſel pour faire ſuppurer le chaibon.auſſi l'œufentier meſlé auecques huyle violat & farine de fourment,appaiſe la douleur & ſuppure. dauantage la racine de raifort coupée en petites pieces,& appliquée ſur les charbons & apoſtemes peſtiferées, & renouuelée ſouuent,attire grandemét le venin.et pour eſt inde la grande infiam- mation,on pourra pareillemét appliquer ſur les boſſes & charbós,cataplaſmes faicts d'eſcargots ou limaçons auec leur coquille ſubtilemët pilez & broyez,y adjouſtant du theriaque ou mithridat , & renouuellé ſouuent, eautre. prenez vers de terre tant qu'il ſera beſoin,comme vne bonne poignée, & les y appliquez deſſus , eſtant mis dedans vn petit linge bien delié, fait en maniere de ſachet. eautre, prenez grenoüilles hachées & pilées, & les appliquez deſſus. eautre. prenez eſcreuices broyées & pilées ſubtilement auec leur coquille. / - autrt. - "- | de la peſte. i : i, - autre. prenez huiſtres auec leur cequille & leur eau, & les pilez & appliquez deſſus. tels animaux ainſi ap° pliquez ſedent la douleur , & eſteignent la grande ferueur & inflammation, & attirent à nerueille le venin peſtiferé. si on abhorre ceſdits animaux, en lieu d'iceux on vſera ſur toute la partie charbonniere enflam- mée & embrasée, de remedes froids & humides, comme fueilles d'ozeille, juſquiame, mandragore, ciguë, morelle, plantain , & autres ſemblables, de chacun vne poignée : & ſeront appliquez auec leur jus, & re- nouuellez ſouuent, & continuez ſeulement tant que la grande douleur, ferueur & ebullition de l'inflam- mation ſera eſteinte. que ſi quelqu'vn dit que tels remedes extremement froids pourroient repercuter le oiiettios. venin du dehors au dedans, & ſuffoquer la chaleur naturelle de la partie par leur extreme froideur : à cela reſponſ. il eſt aisé de reſpondre, que l'intention pourquoy on les applique, eſt pour ſeder la douleur & eſteindre - l'impetuoſité & ferueur de la grande inflammation, qui fait augmentation de la fiévre, auſſi pour euiter la gangrene & mortification de la partie, comme nous auons dit. auſſi le jus de l'herbe nommée tuſſilago,ou iu de tuſſi- paſd'aſne , eſteint pareillement l'inflammation des charbons : comme auſſi fait l'herbe nommêe morſus lage - diaboli , piſtée & appliquée deſſus. i'ay ſouuent vsé du remede ſuiuant pour rebouſcher & abbattre la #º dia- grande ferueur & douleur, & ayder nature à faire ſuppuration. prenez quatre onces de ſuye, qui eſt adhe- f• rante contre les parois de la cheminée, deux onces de gros ſel,& les pulueriſez ſubtilement,y adiouſtant des moyeufs d'œufs, tant que le tout ſoit en forme de boüillie, & ce ſoit appliqué vn peu tiede ſur le charbon. cauteri{a- dauantage ne faut obmettre à l'augmentation du charbon de cauteriſer la poincte, ſi elle apparoiſt noire, tiºn de la auec huyle feruente ou eau forte : car par ladite cauteriſation on abbat & foudroye le venin, & appaiſe- pº dº on la grande douleur, & autres accidens : & te puis aſſeurer que ie l'ay fait plufieurs fois auec bonne & sharbon. heureuſe iſſue, & puis bien aſſeurer qu'elle ne fait grande douleur , à cauſe qu'on ne touche que la poin- cte du charbon, qui eſt le commencement d'eſcarre quaſi inſenſible. et apres l'auoir cauterisée on con-- tinuera les remedes ſuſdicts iuſques à ce que l'on verra que l'eſcarre ſe ſeparera d'autour , comme vn cer- cle, qui eſt lors vn bon preſage ſignifiant que nature eſt forte, & qu'elle domine ſur le venin. et apres que l'eſcarre ſera du tout hors, on vſera de remedes deterſifs, doux & benings, comme ceux qu'auons deſcrits cy-deſſus au chapitre de l'apoſteme peſtiferé,les diuerfifiant ſelon la nature de l'vlcere & de la partie & tem- perature des malades : car aux delicats, comme femmes, enfans, & ceux qui ont le cuir mollet & fort rare, faut vſer de remedes plus doux & moins forts, qu'à ceux qui ſont robuſtes, leſquels ont la chair & le cuir - plus dur, & les pores plus ſerrez. auſſi cependant qu'il y aura dureté & tumeur en la partie charbonniere, iuſques à on doit touſiours continuer les medicamens ſuppuratifs, remollirifs & deterſifs , afin de touſiours ayder na- quand on ture à jetter l'humeur ſuperflu entierement dehors,à cauſe qu'il y a double indication,c'eſt à ſçauoir d'amollir doit vſer de & ſuppurer l'humeur ſuperfiu qui eſt autour de la partie, & finalement mondifier & tarir celuy de l'vlcere. ſuppuratif . duprurit & demangeaiſon qui vient autour de l'vlcere, & de la maniere de - produire la cicatrice. - c h a p t r e xxxviii.' · s e s parties d'entour de l'vlcere le plus ſouuent s'eſcorchent ſuperficiellement par le moyen cauſe du (de petites puſtulles vlcereuſes ſituées ſans ordre, auec punction, ardeur,& prurit aigu & poi- prurit. gnant. or la cauſe peut venir du dedans, & auſſi du dehors : du dedans par vne ſanie aiguë à mordicante reſudante de l'vlcere, qui arrouſe les parties voiſines, prouenant du virus ve- neneux , qui eſt communément en l'humeur cholerique, ou phlegume ſalé : de la cauſe exte- , , rieure : par opilation des remedes deſquels on a longuement vsé, qui ferment & bouſchent ºº les pores , & eſchauffent la partie. et pour la cure d'iceluy, on doit fomenter la partie de choſes diſcu- tientes & remollitiues,& par ablutió d'eau bleuë(qui eſt eau forte eſteinte,& ayant ja ſeruy aux orfevres ) - ou alumineuſes ou eau de chaux, ou ſaulmure, & ſemblables choſes., or veritablement les vlceres faits par les charbons ſont fort difficiles à eſire conſolidez, par ce que la ſanie eſt aiguë & corroſiue, tantoſt craſſe, tantoſt ſubtile, joinct que la figure de l'vlcere eſt quaſi toufiours ronde. la cauſe d'ielle ſanie eſt le ſang aliené & changé du tout de ſa nature, par l'exceſſiue chaleur & corruption : & auſſi à cauſe que la partie a receu vne bien grande intemperiture par le vice de l'humeur. quant à ce que la figure ronde de l'vlcere c # eſt difficile à conſolider, cela ſe fait à cauſe que la ſanie ne ſe peut bien euacuer, laquelle par ſa trop longue de # # demeure acquiert vne chaleur & nitroſité ou acrimonie, qui par l'attouchement des parois de l'vlcere aug" conſolidatiä. mente la cauité, à cauſe qu'elle ronge la chair d'autour, & puis l'entour ſe borde & deuient calleux & dur, dont apres ne peut eſtre conſolidée que premierement on ne l'ait oſtée : cat les poroſitez de la chair ainſi calleuſe & dure , ſont ſerrées & eſtreintes, & ne permettent que le ſang puiſſe penetrer pour faire genera- tion de chair. semblablement les bords eſleuez par excroiſſance de chair repugnent à la conſolidation, comme eſtant choſe ſuperfluë: parquoy les faut couper & conſumer, ſoit par fer, ou par medicamens. et - apres auoir rendu l vlcere applany & ſans tumeur, & remply de chair, on vſera de medicamens cicatriſatifs, - leſquels ont puiſſance de condenſer & endurcir la chair, & produire peau ſemblable au cuir : deſquelles en y a de deux manieres: l'vne de ceux qui n'ont aucune eroſion, mais ont grande vertu aſtringente & deſicca- tiue, comme ſont efcorces de grenades,eſcorce de cheſne,tuthie,litharge, os bruſlez, ſquamme d'airain, noix de galle noix de cypres,minium,pompholyx lauée,antimoine,bole armene, coquille d'huiſtres bruſlées & la- uée,& la chaux lauée par neuf fois & pluſieurs metaux. les autres ſont preſque ſemblables à ceux qui ron- gent & conſument la chair : mais il faut qu'il ſoient appliquez en bien petite quantité, comme ſont vitriol laué, alum cuit, & autres ſemblables. or l'alum cuit ſur tous les cicatriſatifs eſt fingulier pour ſa vertu de- # # ſiccatiue & aſtringente,rendant la chair ferme & dure,laquelle eſt molle & ſpógieuſe,& arrouſée d§-# # té ſuperfluë,& partant il ayde à faire le cuir ſolide & dur. toutesfois les remedes ſeront diuerſifié ſelon les catriſatifs temperamens : car aux enfans & femmes, & generalement à ceux qui ont la chair molle & delicate, on en - vſera de moins forts qu'aux temperatures robuſtes & ſeiches,de peur qu'au lieu de faire le cuir,on en corro- daſt la chair.et apres auoir fait la cicatrice, pourueu qu'elle demeure en telle maladie touſiours laide & hi- deuſe à voir , à cauſe de la grande aduſtion qui a bruſlé la partie,comme ſi le feu d'vn charbon ardent y auoit paſſé : ie ne puis encor paſſer, que ie ne deſcriue quelque moyen pour l'embellir, car le plus ſouuent elle de- meure rouge, liuide, ou noire, eſleuée & raboteuſe : ce qu'on fera principalement en la partie, où le malade defire ladite cicatrice eſtre moins apparente. - exemple. le vingt-deuxiéme liure, | exemple pour vnir le cuir qui demeure inegal. : -, prenez vne lame de plomb frottée de vif-argent , & la liez deſſus la partie eſtroittement. et pour ren- dre le cuir blanc, il faut prendre de la chaux viue lauée par neuf fois, afin qu'elle ait perdu ſon acrimonie, huyle de puis ſera incorporée auec huyle roſat, & ſoit fait onguent. autre. prenez deux liures de tartare, c'eſt à dire, ae ?, lye de bon vin,qui adhere contre les tonneaux , & ſoit bruſlée & miſe en poudre , puis on la mettra dans vn couure-chef de toile mediocrement deliée, laquelle ſera pendue en vne caue humide, & on mettra vn vaiſ- ſeau deſſous pour receuoir la liqueur,laquelle diſtillera goutte à goutte,& d'icelle la cicatrice en ſoit frottée sueur d'œuf aſſez longtemps. semblablement la ſueur des œufs appliquée ſouuent deſſus la cicatrice , oſte grandement frais, la rougeur qui demeure en icelle. l'onguent citrin recentement fait a pareille vertu , comme auſſi l'empla- • onguent ci- ſtre de § , lequel fera pareillement fait de nouueau. outre-plus , les trois compoſitions ſuiuantes ſont # bien approuuées z. axungix ſuillx nouies lotx in aceto acerrimo . iv. cinabrij, ſucci citrij, & aluminis vſti # an. . ß. ſulphuris viui ignem non experti .ij. caphura . ij. pulueriſentur , deinde incorporentur omnia ſi- rf//º. linimët ex- mul, & fiat vnguentum. il ſubtilie le cuir,& efface grandement les taches. autre. . olei hyoſcyami & olei cellent pour leminis cucurbitz an. .j.olei tartari . .cerx albx iijliquefiant iſta ſimul lento igne,deinde adde ſpermatis | blanchir le ceti . vj. remoueantur prædicta ab igne, donec infrigidentur , poſtea addes trochiſcorum alborum rhaſis cuir. pulueriſatorum .iij. caphur. .j. tandem cum mali citrij ſucco omnia diligenter miſce : & fiat linimentum. autre. /.. radicis ſerpentariæ .j. bulliat in aqua communis fb.j. ad dimidias , deinde adde ſulphuris viui ignem non experti , & aluminis crudi pulueriſati an. .j. poſtea colentur prædicta & addatur caphurx .j. b ſucci hyoſcyami .j. . on gardera cela en vn vaiſſeau de plomb ou de verre : & quand on en voudra vſer, faut tremper des pieces de linge les appliquant ſur la partie. on peut vſer deſdits medicamens pour oſter la rougeur & principalement du viſage, les appliquant deſſus au ſoir, & les y laiſſant toute la nuict, puis au matin on ſe lauera d'eau de ſon vn peu tiede. - de pluſieurs euacuations qui ſe font, outre les precedentes, & premierement de la ſueur. c h a p t r e xxxix # y a n t parlé des euacuations qui ſe font par l'apoſteme peſtiferé,par les charbons & autres # eruptions du cuir , il nous reſte de preſent à parler de celles qui ſe font par ſueur, vomiſſe- , mens, fiux de ſang par le nez, ou hemorrhoides, & par les mois aux femmes, auſſi par le flux de ventre & autres, afin que par telles euacuati s on ayde encores nature à expeller le venin faut conſi- >% # du dedans au dehors,& principalemêt que celuy qui n'eſt encores paruenu iuſques au cœur, derer le che- * s n'y puiſſe aller aucunement. et en telles euacuations le chirurgien aura eſgard où nature eſt min où send couſtumiere à faire ſa deſcharge, & auſſi où elle tend à faire ſa criſe : toutesfois icelles euacuations ne ſont f / /'é, pas toufiours critiques, mais ſymptomatiques, ou accidentaires, comme nature n'ayant touſiours puiſſance de faire bonne concoction comme elle deſireroit , à cauſe de la malignité de la matiere, qui eſt alterée mºyen d * corrompuë, & du tout contraire aux principes dont nous ſommes compoſez. et pour commencer à la prouoquer la ſueur, ſi nature tend à ſe deſcharger par icelle,elle ſera prouoque en faiſant coucher le malade en vn lict bien ſueur. chaud & bien couuert : & luy mettant cailloux chauds, bouteilles ou veſſies de porc ou de bœuf r'emplies d'eau chaude, ou eſponges trempées en quelque decoction chaude, & puis eſpreintes, & faiſant ce qu'auons dit cy-deuant pour prouoquer la ſueur. les anciens nous ont laiſsé par eſcrit,que toutes ſueurs ſont bonnes " aux maladies aiguës, pourueu qu'elles ſoient faites aux iours critiques, & ſoient vniuerſelles & chaudes, & parauant fignifiees en iour demonſtratif : mais en telle maladie de peſte ne faut attendre la criſe, comme nous auons dit,mais ayder nature à chaſſer ſubitement le venin hors par tous moyens où on verra que nature s'en- clinera le plus. le malade donc ſuera vne heure ou deux,plus ou moins, ſelon qu'on verra eſtre neceſſaire. du vomiſſement. c h a p. xl. mcyent de # v ssi le vomiſſement purge les humeurs, ce que les medecines fortes ne peuuent bien faire,& prouoquer le #\ par le moyen de cette euacuation l'humeur veneneux eſt jetté le plus ſouuent hors. parquoy ſi "u / /'. #-\i §u e§ § deſcharger par iceluy, on luy aydera en donnant à boire au malade demi liure \ d'eau tiede, quatre onces d'huyle d'oliue, vne once de vinaigre,& vn peu du jus de raifort, puis toſt apres luy faiſant mettre en la gorge vne plume d'oye imbué en huyle, ou vne petite bran- che de roſmarin, ou mettra les doigts au profond de la gorge, pour ſe prouoquer à vomir. autre vomitoire. prenez eau de ſemence de lin , laquelle ſoit mucilagineuſe , & en faut boire vn verre d'icelle eſtant vn peu d autre vo- # tiede. autre. prenez de la decoction de raifort ou de ſa ſemence , & ſemence d'arroche, de chacun trois '. dragmes, demie once d'oxymel, & autant de ſyrop aceteux, & en faut donner à boire au malade en bonne quantité vn peu tiede autre. prenez ſix onces d'oximel de galien, & deux onces d'huyle commune, & ſoit donné tiede. or ſi nature n'eſt facile à ſe deſcharger par le vomiſſement, ne la faut contraindre : car eſtant fait par vehemence, il cauſe diſtenſion aux fibres nerueuſes de l'eſtomach,& abbat les vertus,& quelquefois - rompt quelque vaiſſeau aux poulmons,dont s'enſuit flux de ſang,qui abbrege la vie du malade. parquoy en #. tel cas ne faut prouoquer le vomir, mais pluſtoſt l'eſtomach ſera corroboré par dehors de ſachets faicts de mét eſt dan- roſes,abſynthe, ſantaulx (ce que deſcrirons plus amplement cy-apres)& par dedans de jus de coings,ouber- gereux. beris, & bons boüillons,& autres choſes qui corroborent l'eſtomach. | du cracher & bauer c h a p. xl i. pour proue- # a r cracher & bauer ſe faict auſſi grande euacuation : ce qu'on void par experience à plu- quer le cra- # # # ſieurs qui ont eu apoſtemes aux coſtez , nommée pleureſie , alors que la ſuppuration eſt fai- cher & ba- # # te, la ſanie eſt jettée par la ſubſtance rare & ſpongieuſe des poulmons, & de là conduite par la ſ '/, ' ' " " trachée-artere en la bouche. et quant au bauer, il eſt bien manifeſte que les pauures verolez ſe purgent par iceluy, comme auſſi par le cracher. or on pourra prouoquer le cracher & bauer auec maſtica- - toires de la peſte. ::: h a toires faits de tacines d'iris, & de pyrethre, maſtic, & autres ſemblables : auſſi en tenant dedans la bouche - & gargariſant, mucilage de ſemence de lin. - de l'esternuer & moucher. c h a p. x l i i. - - v s s par eſternuer & moucher, nature euacué ſouuent ce qui luy eſt ſuperflu ou nuiſible, %\ $ quand le cerueau de ſon propre naturel, ou par artifice ſe deſcharge par le nez, ce qu'on void $# *, º manifeſtement en ceux qui ont le cerueau fort humide, comme petits enfans, & vieilles gens, # leſquels ſe purgent fort par cét endroit. la cauie d'iceux eſt interieure ou exterieure : interieu-sternutatoi- ' re, comme vne matiere pituiteuſe ou vapoureuſe qui moleſte le cerueau, pluſtoſt toutesfois à '* l'eſternuer qu'au moucher : exterieure comme lors que le soleil donne droit dedans le nez, où alors qu'on y met vne plume, ou autre choſe ſemblable, ou quelque poudre mordicatiue, comme hellebore, euphorbe, poiure, mouſtarde, ou autre ſemblable ſternutatoire : cºf alors par le benefice de la faculté naturelle expul- trice, le cerueau s'aſtreint & ſerre pour jetter ce qui luy nuit : & cela procede principalement de la partie anterieure d'iceluy. or ladite ſternutation ſe fait auec ſon bruit, à raiſon que les matieres paſſent par lieux anguſtes & eſtroits qui ſont les colatoires ou les os cribleux , qui ſont au nez. et ne ſe doit procurer en grande repletion : ſi les choſes vniuerſelles n'ont procede, de peur de faire trop grande attraction au cer- ueau, qui pourroit cauſer apoplexie, vertigine, & autres mauuais accidens. de l'eruétation ou roučtement, & du ſanglot. c h a p. x l ii i. a v a n r a g e il ſe fait quelque vacuation par l'eructation,ou rouétement,& par le ſanglot. erudatio». # quant à l'eructation elle prou ent des ventofitez contenues en l'eſtomach, jettées par la fa- · cuité expultrice d'iceluy, leſquelles ſont procrees par indigeſtion, c'eſt a dire, faute de con- # coction, comme pour auoir pris trop de viandes ou breuuages, ou pour auoir vse de cho- # ſes vaporeuſes , comme pois , fèves , chaſtaigues , nauets raues , paſtenades, carrotes , vin ， nouueau, & leurs ſemblables : ou par faute de dormir , & generalement par toutes choſes qui corrompent ou empeſchent la vertu concoctrice , ſelon la diuerfite deſquelles l'odeur de l'eructation ſe- - ra diuerſe,à ſçauoir douce ou fetide,amere acide,poignante,ou d autre qualité. si le rouctement eſt doux, & prognºſtis- ſe fait ſeulement deux ou trois fois,cela eſt bon : au contraire, s'il eſt puant & reitere par pluſieurs fois,cela eſt mauuais ; car c'eſt ſigne que la vertu digeſtiuº eſt corrompuë. et pour y fubuenir,s'il vient en trop grande abondance, il faut faire vomir le malade : que ſi c'eſt par intemperature de l'eſtomach, il ſerà corrigé par le conſeil d'vn docte medecin. quant au ſanglot ou hocquet , c'eſt vne contraction & extenfion des fibres ner-sº"glºt ºn ueuſes de l'eſtomach, qui ſe fait pour expeller & jetter hors certaines vapeurs qui luy nuiſent. les cauſes hocquet. d'iceluy ſont inanition ou repletion ou certaines vapeurs prouºnantes de quelque putrefaction qui eſt en la capacité de l'eſtomach , ou comme le plus ſouuent attache obſtinément aux tuniques, ou portées en iceluy de quelques boſſes , charbons, ou autres apoſtemes & vlceres putrides, qui ſont és autres parties, ou pour auoir mzngé choſes fort aigres & aigues, comme vinaigre, fortes eſpiceries, & autres ſemblables , qui mor- dent & piquent l'eſtomach. s'il vient apres vne grande vacuation , ſoit naturelle, ou artificielle , ou ſuruient pregnoſtic en la playe, ſpecialement ſi elle eſt en la teſte, dont la ſanie tombant en l'eſtomach, procrée ledit ſanglot, & du ſanglot. qu'il continué,c'eſt choſe perilleuſe. auſſi s'il vient apres le vomir, c'eſt mauuais ſigne : que fi apres iceiuy le ſpaſme ſuruient,cela eſt mortel. or pour y remedier, il faut confiderer la cauſe : car s'il vient par repletion, on y remediera par euacuation : au contra#e , ſi par vacuation ou inatition, on y procedera par repletion : #" s'il prouient par vapeurs eſleuées de putrefaction, il faut donner du tºeriaque : & autres choſes alexiteres le ſanglot. qui contrarient à la pourriture, qu'auºns declarées cv-deuant : & fi c'eſt de choſes aigres & aiguës,il faudra vſer de remedes qui contrarient à icelles , & ainſi des autres. - de l'vrine. c h a p. xl iv. # ， v r r e euacuation ſe fait par l'vrine, & grandes maladies ſe terminent par icelle, ccmme , ^v #n# voyons quelquesfois aduenir aux verolez , auſquels l'onction vif-argentée, n'ayant pû procu- ,! # rer aucun flux de bouche, furuient flux d'vrine, & guariſſent : comme auſſi ſouuent aduient en ' /$#º\$ aucunes fiévres, & pluſieurs autres maladies. or l'vrine ſera prouoquée par les remedes diu- $#l# t retiques eſcrits en mon liure des pierres : toutesfois il ſe faut bien donner garde d'en vſer de trop forts s'il y auoit inflammation à la veſſie , à cauſe que l'on feroit fiuer d'auantage les humeurs, cho- - ſe qui la pourroit gangrener, & accelerer la mort du pauure malade. donc en ce cas ſi ſera plus expedient de diuertir par ſueurs ou autre maniere. v- - du flux menſtruel. c h a p. xl v. a r e l l e m e n r ſi on void aux femmes que nature ſe vueille deſcharger par le flux # menſtruel, on leur aydera par remedes qui le prouoquent, tant pris par dedans , qu'appli- #. liu. quez par dehors. ce que l'on doit prendre par la bouche, ſont eſcorce de cane de caſſe ra- §, . // f - # tiſſée , eſcorce de racine de meurier, ſafran , agaric , noix muguette , ſauinier , racine de d. diſcori- # boüillonblanc, paſtel diagrede, & pluſieurs autres. et s'il eſt queſtion d'vſer de plus forts, de liure • r ſeission prendra racine de thitymal , antimoine, & cantharides ( toutesfois en petite quantité ) nath syl- leſquels prouoquent grandement tel flux.auſſi on fera frictions & ligatures aux cuiſſes & jambes , appli- uius liure cation de ventouſe ſur le plat des cuiſſes , apertion de la veine saphene , ſangſuës appliquée à l'orifice du col dº mºi . de la matrice, peſſaires, nouets, clyſteres, bains, fomentations faites de choſes odoriferantes, qui eſchauf-º ?º fent,ſubtilient,& inciſent la groſſeur des humeurs, & ouurent les orifices des veines qui ſont eſtoupées , par # ºjſ- obſtruction, comme ſont racines de bouillon blanc, guimauue, iris, perſil,fenoil,bruſcus,fueilles & fleurs de che mille pertuis,aſperges,roquette,baſilic,meliſſe,cerfueil,armoiſe,mente,pouliot,ſarriette,roſinarin,rue, thym, hyſſope,ſauge,bayes de laurier & de genévre,gingembre,clous de girofle,poivre, muguette,& autres ſembla- bles, qu'on fera boüillir, & en receuoir la vapeur au col de la matrice, par vn entonnoir dedans vne chaire - percçe » le vingt-deuxieme liure, '- - . percée , ou faudra ſaire bains vniuerſels : on en pourra faire des particuliers, auſquels la femme ſe mettra a #ſſºrº - ſeulement les jambes iuſques au deſſus du genoüil, & s'y tiendra le plus longuement qu'il luy ſera poſſible. ºre pºſ- ou bien vſera de peſſaires,comme ceux qui s'enſuiuent. e*theriacæ & mithridatijan. . .caſtorei,& gum- ſaire. mi ammoniaci an. .j. miſce cum bombace in ſucco mercurialis tincta, & fiat peſſarium. | | autre. z. radices petroſelini & fœniculi ſub cineribus coctas, deinde contuſas cum pul. ſtaphyſ. pire- autrepeſſai- thri , croco & oleo lilior. & de ce ſoit fait vn peſſaire en forme de ſuppoſitoires ou noüets, qui ſeront en- re plu, fºrt uelloppez en linge tiſſu , en maniere d'vn ſac de longueur de quatre ou cinq doigts , ou plus. , autre . que les pre pul. myrrhæ & aloès an. .j.fol. ſabinx, nigellar, artemiſ. an. .ij. rad.helleb. nigri .j. croci .j. cum ſucco cedens. mercur.& melle comm.fiat peſſarium cum bombace. autre plus fort. .succi rutx & abſinth. an. .ij.myr- rhæ, euphorb. caſtorei, ſabinx,diagridij,terebinth.galbani,theriac.an. .j.fiat peſſarium ſecundùm artem. ces peſſaires ſeront liez & attachez auec du fil, lequel pendra aſſez long, afin de le retirer du col de la matrice quand on voudra. - remede de .. auſſi le chirurgien doit confiderer que ſi le flux eſt trop exceſſif, le faut eſtancher , qui ſe fera en plu- fºx me»- ſieurs manieres : premierement par alimens qui eſpeſſiſſent le ſang, auſſi par la ſaignée faite aubras, par ap- º.ººº plication des ventouſes ſous les mammelles par frictions & ligatures faites au bfas, appoſition de peſſaires, exceſſif emplaſtres, & autres medicamens froids & aſtringens poſez ſur la region des lumbes.et faut que la femme ſoit ſituée en lieu propre, non couchée ſur la plume, de peur que par icelle le ſang ne fuſt eſchauffé d'auanta- ge, et ſera bon auſſi vſer de cette iniection pour arreſter tel flux, É, aqux plantag & fabr.an.fb.j.nnc. cup. gallar. non matur.an. .ij.berb.ſumach.balauſt.vitrioli rom.alumi. rocha an. .ij.bul.omnia ſimul, & fiat de- , pºurquºy coctio : de laquelle en ſera faicte iniection en la matrice. et faut que le chirurgien ſe gouuerne ſagement, b * ºtheur a tant à la prouocation que reſtriction, de peur qu'il n'y commette erreur : parquoy en ce cas doit prendre le # º conſeil d'vn docte medecin , s'il luy eſt poſſible; ie dy s'il luy eſt poſſible , parce qu'il s'en trouue peu qui †" vueillent viſiter les pauures peſtiferez : choſe qui m'a incité d'amplifier cét eſcrit, pour inſtruire les ieunes f / , - - - - chirurgiens à mieux penſer ceux qui ſeront malades de peſte. des hemorrhoides. c h a p. xl v i. pour preuo- $? - §) i on connoit que nature ſe voulut deſcharger par les hemorrhoides, elles pourront eſtre quer les he $ $ prouoquées par frictions & ligatures aſſez fortes faites aux cuiſſes & aux jambes, appli- morroides. $ cation de grandes ventouſes , auec grande flambe ſur le plat du dedans des cuiſſes : auſſi & on mettra des choſes chaudes & attractiues ſur le ſiege, comme fomentations, & oignons cuits ſous les cendres , pilez auec vn peu de theriaque. dauantage on frottera les veines *hemorroidales de linges rudes, ou auec fueilles de figuier: ou oignon crud, ou fiel de bœu incorporé auec vn peu de poudre de colocynthe. pareillement y ſeront appliquées ſangſuës preparées, & bien choiſies, & pour le dernier la lancette, ſi les veines font aſſez ſorties hors du ſiege, & enfiées & plei- nes de ſang : toutesfois ſi le flux n'eſt reiglé, mais exceſſif, il ſera eſtanché par les remedes qu'auons decla- rez pour arreſter le flux menſtruel. - c pour prouoquer le flux de ventre. c h a p. x l v i l. ), l ſe fait ſemblablement vacuation de l'humeur peſtilent par le flux de ventre, à ſçauoir l # quand nature de ſon propre mouuement, ou par l'ayde des medicamens laxatifs, purge # & jette hors les excremens & humeurs contenus au ventre , & en toute l'habitude du # corps , à ſçauoir par flux diarrheique , lientherique & dyſenterique. et pour bien diſ- $ cerner vn flux d'auec l'autre , il faut voir les ſelles du malades : & s'il iette humeurs )) liquides , ſinceres, c'eft à dire d'vne ſorte, ou eſpece, comme de pituite ſeule, cholere - #é) ou melancholique, & en grande quantité ſans vlceration aucune des inteſtins & douleur grande, tel flux eſt appellé diarrheique, c'eſt à dire, humoral. flux lientherique eſt lors que les inteſtins ne retiennent point deuëment les viandes, mais deuant qu'el- les ſoient bien cuites en l'eſtomach,elles decoulent creuës, & telles qu'elles ont eſté mangées. tel flux vien- de la debilité de la vertu retentiue de l'eſtomach, pour vne trop grande abondance d'humeurs, ou de la de- bilité de la concoctrice d'iceluy pour vne trop grande frigidité. flux dyſenterique, eſt lors qu'il y a vlcera- tion aux inteſtins , auec grandes douleurs & tranchées, qui ſe fait d'vne corruption d'humeurs , principale- ment d'vne cholere bruſlée,laquelle corrode la tunique des inteſtins , dont s'enſuit que le ſang ſort tout pur par le ſiege. or en cette abominable maladie peſtilente ſuruient à aucuns grand & exceſſifflux de ventre par d lequel quelques-vns iettent vne matiere liquide, ſubtile, glutineuſe, & eſcumeuſe, reſſemblant quelquesfois à greſſe fondué, à cauſe de la chaleur putride,qui liquefie & corrompt les excremens, & empeſche la con- coction , dont les ſelles ſont quelquesfois veues de diuerſes couleurs, comme rouſſes, violettes, iaunaſtres, verdes , noires, cendrées , ou d'autre couleur, dont ſort vne feteur intolerable, comme auſſi de leur ſueur & haleine, qui prouient d'vne chaleur putredineuſe engendrée d'humeurs tenues choleriques , & acres par pourriture, dont eſt grandement irritée la vertu expulſiue à execretion. et quelques fois auſſi s'y trouue pourquoy les quantité de vers, qui demonſtrent pareillement grande pourriture des humeurs.et quand l'humeur eſt ar- excremés des dant & bruſlant, il irrite nature a letter non ſeulement les excremens & humeurs , mais auſſi le ſang tout p iij § pur , dont la mort s enſuit ce que i'ay veu aduenir au camp d'amiens à pluſieurs ſoldats forts & puiſſans. fetides. et veritablement ie fis diſſection de quelques-vns apres leur mort, pour connoiſtre d'où cette quantité de hiſtoires. ſang ainſi pur pouuoit ſortir,& trouuay la bouche des veines & arteres meſaraiques ouuertes & eſleuées,ou - tumefiées la part où elles aboutiſſent dâs les inteſtins en forme de petits cotyledons, deſquels lors que ie les signes pour comprimois, le ſang ſortoit tout pur. or quelquesfois ce vice n'eſt qu'aux gros inteſtins , quelquesfois ſeu- tonnoiſtre lement aux greſles, & aucunesfois aux gros & greſles : partant le chirurgien prendra indication du lieu quels inte- où le malade dit ſentir contorſions & douleurs. car ſi ce n'eſt qu'és greſles ou menus , la douleur ſera ſtins ſont af- vers l'eſtomach : au contraire, ſi c'eſt aux gros, la douleur ſera vers le petit ventre au deſſous du nom- fººtex bril. donc ſi le mal eſt aux inteſtins greſles, on baillera remedes par la bouche : au contraire ſi c'eſt aux gros , faut proceder par clyſteres : & ſi l'affection eſt en tous, faut y remedier par haut & par bas. et pour ces cauſes, le chirurgien rationel prendra indication de la diuerſité du flux de ventre , & des accidens qui ſe preſenteront : comme ſi on void que le malade ait tenelmes & grandes eſpraintes ( qui eſt vn ſigne que nature ſe veut deſcharger par le ventre) on luy aydera par medicamens pris par la bouche comme demie differences # de flux de "l'ex yé i. diarrhée. . ltenterie. # dyſenterie oilcc - de la peſte. t,! a once de hiere ſimple auee deux onces d'eau d'abſinthe, en y adiouſtant vne dragme de diaphœnicum, ou autres ſemblables : auſſi à cetteintention les clyſteres apportent grand profit , pource qu'ils purgent les ſu- perfluttez des inteſtins , diſſipent les ventoſitez, appaiſent les douleurs, & en tirant les ordures contenues aux boyaux , par conſequent ils attirent auſſi par ſucceſſion des parties ſuperieures » & meſmement des vei- nes & diuertiſſent des parties nobles. exemple d'vn clyſtere, pour irriter la vertu expultrice à ietter dehors les ſuperfluiiez. . florum maluz , violariz, mercurialis an. m. j. ſeminis lini .f. fiat decoctio ad fb.j. in qua diſſolue clyſfert. confectionis hamech, diaprunis ſolutiui an. .f. theriaca . iij. olei violati & liliorum an. .j. ſ. mellis violati . ij. fiat clyſter, lequel ſera reiteré, s'il eſt beſoin : toutesfois s'il y a vlcere aux boyaux , ou veines, ouuertures, ou lientherie, ou diarrhée, ce clyftere ſeroit mauuais,comme auſſi les ſuppoſitoires aigus. autre. %. decoctionis communis clyſteris fb.j. in colatura diſſolue catholici& caſſiz an. . fi. mellis anthoſati astrº tºyº . j. ſacchari rubri .j. . oleiviolarum . iij. fiat clyſter. autre plus fort. z. decoctionis clyſteris commu- ſtere. nis fb.j. in colatura diſſolue hierx . ſº. catholici & diaphoenici an . ij. mellis anthoſati . j.f. olei anetini & chamemelinian. .j. ß. fiat clyſter. si le chirurgien eſtoit en quelque lieu, où il ne peut trouuer vn apo- thicaire , ny ſyringue, ny chauſſe à clyſtere, ou que le malade ne peuſt, ou ne vouluſt prendre clyſtere (com- me aucuns font ) alors il pourra faire ſuppoſitoires , ou noüets , forts ou debiles, ſelon, qu'il verra eſtre beſoin pour accomplir ſon intention. aiitrr, exemple d'vn ſuppoſitoire, pour irriter la vertu expulirice des boyaux. /. mellis cocti .j. hierx picrx & ſalis communis an . ſ. & de ce ſoit fait vn ſuppofitoire on en peut auſſi faire de ſauon de longueur d'vn doigt, & de groſſeur moyenne : & auparauant qu'on les applique on les doit huyler ou engratſſer, à fin qu'ils entrent au ſiege plus aisément,& à moindre douleur. exemple a'vnplufort ſuppoſitoire. z. mellis . iij. fellis bubuli .j. ſcammonijpulueriſati, euphorbij, colocyntidisan. . É. & de ce ſoient autre ſup- faits ſuppofitoires. les noüets ont meſme vſage que les ſuppoſitoires, & ſeront pareillement faits forts,ou § debiles ſelon qu'il en ſera beſoin.exemple. .vitellos ouorum numero iij. fellis bubuli & mellis an. .f. desnouets, ſalis communis . É. le tout ſoit battu & incorporé enſemble , & de ce ſoient faits noüets, mettant des choſes predites dedans vn linge, en quantité d'vne groſſe aueline, le faut lier & mettre dans le fondement. si on veut qu'ils ſoient plus forts, on y adiouſtera vn peu de poudre d'euphorbe ou colocynthe. pour nrreſter le flux de ventre. c h a p. xlv iii. i on cognoit le flux de ventre eſtre trop grand, & la vertu affoiblie , & que tel mal vinſt de l'affection de tous les inteſtins, alors le faut arreſter : à quoy on procedera par remedes baillez tant par la bouche que par clyſteres, de peur que la vie du malade ne ſorte par le ſiege : parquoy on donnera à manger aux malades de la bouillie faite de farine de fourmentauecvne decoction bciiillit, d'eau en laquelle on aûra fait boüillir vne grenade aigre , berberis, bol d'armenie, terre ſel- lée, & ſemence de pauot , de chacun vne dragme. - prenez amandes douces cuites en eau d'orge , en laquelle on aura fait eſteindre des carreaux d'acier ou autre toiit. de fer ardant, puis pilez-les en vn mortier de marbre, & les faites en forme de laict d'amandes, & yad- lie. iouſtez vne dragme de poudre de diarrhodon abbatis, à fin que l'accrimonie de l'humeur cholerique ſoit adoucie, & l'eſtomach corroboré. autre remede de merueilleux effect, lequel ie tiens de feu monſieur cha- pelin , premier medecin du roy , qui l'auoit comme grand ſecret de defunct ſon pere, & proteſte luy en auoir veu ordonner auec vntresbon ſuccez. z. boli armen.terrz figill. lapis harmat.an. .j. picis naualis poudre de .j. É. coralli rub. mar. electar. cornu ceruivſti & losi in aqua plantag. .j. ſacchari roſat. .ij. fiat pul. de grand eſºff. aquelle le malade en prendra plein vne cuiller deuant le repas, ou bien auec le iaune d'vn œuf chriſtophle l'andré en ſon oecoiatrie loüe grandement la fiente de chien qui ait rongé par trois iours des os. on vſera , de ce remede en prenant plus ou moins ſelon que le flux ſera grand ou petit pareillement on peut faire manger deuant le repas de la chair de coings ou meſmes des coings cuits ſous la cendre, ou en compoſte,ou conſerue du fruict de cornalier, & berberis confit, & quelquesfois auſſi vn myrabolan,ou vne noix muguet- te roſtie pour corroborer l'eftomach. il faut ſemblablement que le malade mange de bonnes viandes & de facile digeſtion, & pluſtoſt roſties que boüillies. dauantage, il conuient concaſſer vne grenade aigre auec ſon eſcorce,& la faire cuire en eau ferrée : & d'icelle en bailler à boire, ou de l'eau en laquelle on aura fait boüillir vne pomme de coings, neffles, cormes, ou meures de ronces, & autres ſemblables : car telle choſes aſtreignent & conſomment beaucoup d'humiditez ſuperflués du corps. on peut pareillement vſer de ſyrops remedesex- cyrdeſſus eſcrits, comme de citrons, ribes, iulep roſat, & autres donnez auec eau ferrée. l'eſtomach ſera terieuremis pareillement frotté exterieurement d'huile de maſtic, de noix muguette, de coings, de myrrhe , & autres ºppº ( ſemblables. auſſi on peut mettre ſur iceluy la crouſte d'vn gros pain tiré vn peuauparauant du four, trem-ſºº- pée en vinaigre & eau roſe , ou vn cataplaſme fait de decoction d'eau ferrée, roſes rouges, ſumach, berbe- mºh. ris, myrthilles, chair de coings, maſtic, farines de féves & miel roſat. or ſi on void que le malade jette des vers, on y procedera ainſi qu'il ſera declaré cy-apres, à fin de les faire mourir, & jetter hors du ventre. auſſi on pourra vſer de clyſteres anodins, abſterſifs, conſolidatifs, reſtrictifs & nutritifs, ſelon qu'on verra eſtre beſoin, & premierement , lors que le malade ſent grande douleur de tranchées & contorſions au ventre, afin de refraiſchir l'acrimonie des humeurs, on pourra donner vn tel clyſtere. . lact. hyoſ.fo-clyſtere liorum acetoſae, portulacæ. an. m.j. florum violarum & nenuph. an. p.j. fiat decoct. ad fb.j. in colatura diſ- anodin, ſolue caſſiæ fiſtulae . vj. olei roſati & nenupharis an. .j. ß. fiat clyſter. autre anodin propre pour vne douleur aigué & poignante és inteſtins. /. roſarum rubrarum , hordei mundati & ſeminis plantaginis, an. p.j. fiat decoctio : in colatura adde alei roſati . ij. vitellos ouorum numero ij. fiat clyſter. b b b laufrº s le vingt-deuxième liure, •autre clyſtere refrigerant. a #. decoctionis caponis, cruris vituli & capitis veruecis vnà cum pelle f . ij. in quibus coquantur folio- rum violarum, malua , mercurialis & plantaginis an. m.j. hordei mundati .j. quatuor ſeminum frigidorum maiorum an . ſ. in colaturæ ib. . diſſolue caſſix recenter extractz .j. olei violati .iv. vitel. ouorum ij. ſacchari rubri .j. fiat clyfter. eautre clyſtere anodin. remedes %. foliorum camom. meliloti & anethi an. p.j. radicis biſmalua .j. fiat decoctio in lacte, & in colatu. pour les vl- ra adde mucilaginis ſeminis lini & fœnugrxci extractz in aqua malux .ij. ſacchari rubri .j. olei camzme- reres des in- li & anethi an. .j. . vitellos ouorum ij. fiat clyſter. il faut garder longtemps tels clyſteres, afin qu'ils puiſ- teſtins. ſent mieux appaiſer la douleur. lors qu'on verra aux excremens comme des raclures de boyaux (qui eſt vn ſigne infaillible qu'il y a des vlceres és inteſtins) alors il faut bailler des clyſteres deterſifs & conſolidatifs, comme ceux-cy. exemple d'vn clyſtere deterſif. l. hordei integri p.ij. roſ. rubr. & flor. camomilla , plantag.apij an. p.j. fiat decoctio : in colatura diſ- ſolue mellis roſati & ſyrupi de abſinthio an. .j. ß. vitellos ouorum numero ij. fiat clyſter. exemple d'vn clyſtere pour conſolider les vlceres aux inteſtins. z. succi plantaginis, centinodix & portulacz an. . ij. boli armenica , ſanguinis draconis,amili an. .j. ſeui hircini diſſoluti iij. fiat clyſter.pareillement le laict de vache vn peu boüilly auec plantain & ſyrop ro, ſat, eſt ſouuerain remede aux vlceres des inteſtins. et ſi on void (comme i'ay dit) que le flux fuſt trop im- petueux,& que le malade fuſt debile, alors on luy donnera clyſteres aſtringens. exemple d'vn clyſtere aſtringent. aatre c'y- z. caudx equinx, plantaginis, poligoni an. m. j.fiat decoctioin lacte vſtulato,ad quartaria iij. & inco- ſtere. latura adde boli armenicæ, terrx ſigillatae, ſanguinis draconis an . ij. albumina duorum ouorum, fiat clyſter. autre. z. succorum plantaginis, arnogloſſi, centinodix , portulacx, depuratorum reſidentiafa- cta quantum ſufficit pro clyſtere, addendo pulueris boli armenicæ,terrx ſigillatæ,ſanguinis draconis an. j. olei myrthini & roſati an. : ij. si le ſang ſort tout pur par les inteſtins, il faut vſer de plus fort aſtringens: & pource ie loüe beaucoup les decoctions faictes d'eſcorces de grenades, noix de cyprés , roſe rouges, ſu- mach, & quelque portion d'alum & de coupe-roſe bouillies en eau de mareſchal , & de ce ſoient faits cly- ſteres ſans huyle, ou autres ſemblables. on doit auſſi fomenter le ſiege d'vne decoction aſtringente. mais il faut noter que tels remedes fort aſtringens ne doiuent eſtre baillez , que premierement on n'ait purgé le malade, parce qu'ils arreſteroient les humeurs corrompus, qui ſont la principale cauſe de cette maladie,& les empeſcheroient d'eſtre vacuez, & ſeroit-on canſe de la mort du malade, mais ſeront baillez apres qu'il aura eſté ſuffiſamment purgé,auffi qu'on cognoiſtra les forces affoiblies & abbatuës,& le ventre fort lubrique. - si le malade eſt fort debile, & ne peut prendre alimens par la bouche, on luy pourra bailler clyſteres nutri- c clyſteres tifs, comme .decoctionis caponis pinguis & cruris vituli coctorum cum acetoſa , bugloſſo, borragine, nºriºſº pimpinella , & lactuca .x. velxij. in qua diſſolue vitellos ouorum numero iij. ſacchari roſati & aqux vitz an. . j.butyri recentis non ſaliti , ij. fiat clyfter. - - de l'euacuation faite par inſenſible tranſpiration. - . c h a p t r e x l i x. cauſes d'in- ! t e venin peſtiferé ſe peut quelquesfois exhaler & euacuer par inſenſible tranſpiration, qui ſe ſenſible trä- fait par le moyen de la chaleur naturelle, laquelle agit perpetuellement en noſtre corps ſoit ſºration, en dormant ou en veillant, & fait inſenſiblement exhaler les excremens du corps auec les eſ- effects # - # prits par les poroſitez du cuir:ce qui ſe peut bien cognoiſtre aux tumeurs & apoſtemes contre af vº forfº, ， $ nature, meſme y ayant ja de la boue faite, leſquelles bien ſouuent nous voyons ſe reſou- * dre par le ſeul benefice de nature, ſans ayde d'aucuns medicamens. parquoy lors que natu- re eſt forte, elle peut auſſi ietter quelquesfois le venin peſtiferé au dehors par inſenſible tranſpiration, voire encore qu'il y euſt ja quelque tumeur, & humeur amaſsé & cueilly en quelque partie de noſtre corps : car rien n'eſt impoſſible à nature forte, aydée de la liberté des conduits de tout le corps. de la curation des enfans eſpris de la peſte. - c h a p i t r e l. a ov r c e que les petits enfans malades demandent diuerſe & autre curation que celle § des grands, nous auons reſerué d'en traicter à part, tant de ceux qui tettent que de ceux qui ſont ſevrez. partant pour commencer au regime de l'enfant qui tette, il faut que ſa nourri- - | | º . # ce l'obſerue pour luy , tout ainſi que ſi elle-meſme auoit la peſte et le regime conſiſte és ſix # # # $ # choſes non naturelles, c'eſt à dire, qui ſont hors de nature & eſſence de la perſonne, comme pris d . #º ， ſont l'air, le mouuement & repos, dormir & veiller, manger & boire, repletion & vacuation de la ſuperfluité des excremens, & les mouuemens & accidens de l'ame. leſquelles choſes (quand on en vſe auec moderation, c'eſt à dire en qualité & quantité, & ſelon que la maladie de l'enfant le requiert ) ren- dent le laict de la nourrice profitable à la ſanté de l'enfant : car comme l'enfant ne prend que du laict, auſſi quand il ſera rectifié & moderé ſelon que la maladie le requiert, il nourrit non ſeulement l'enfant , mais auſſi il combat contre la maladie, comme ayant en ſoy deux qualitez, vne qui nourrit,& l'autre medicamenteuſe : parquoy le laict ſuccé par l'enfant ſupplée le lieu de ſon regime. pareillemét on fera que l'enfant obſeruera le regime en ce qu'il pourra,comme de ne trop dormir ou veiller,& de la vuidange des excremens,& des choſes qu on reg'mes des |. w- de la peſte. a qu'on vetra eſtre beſoin d'appliquer par dehors, comme linimens, emplaſtres, ſomentations, & autres.or que le laict de la nourrice ſoit medicamenteux , on le void ordinairement en ce que le iour qu'elle aura le lai# de · , pris quelque medecine laxatiue , le ventre de l'enfant ſe laſche ſubitement, voire quelquesfois ſi fort,qu'on la nourrice eſt contraint changer de nourrice pour allaicter l'enfant ( de peur qu'il n'euſt trop grand fiux de ventre, qui ſºmºdie• luy pourroit nuire & le faire mourir ) iuſqu'à ce que ſon laict ſoit retourné à ſon naturel : mais ſi l'enfant "º eſt opiniaſtre, & ne veut prendre vne autre nourrice, alors faut ſupporter quelque choſe de l'alteration du laict, pluſtoſt que le laiſſer mourir de deſpit & de faim,par faute de tetter. et pour retourner à noſtre pro- pos, il faut que la nourrice vſe de remedes propres contre la fiévre, comme potages & viandes qui re- frenent la chaleur & fureur de l'humeur feruent , afin que ſon ſang qui eſt matiere de ſon laict , ſoit rendu medicamenteux. et pour cette cauſe , elle ne boira aucunement de vin pour quelque temps : & doit lauer ſouuent le bout de ſa mammelle d'eau d'ozeille ou de ſuc d'icelle deſlayé auec ſuccre roſat, & vſera des re- medes qui ſeront declarez cy-apres. - " outre plus , l'enfant prendra vn ſcrupule de theriaque deſlayée au laict de ſa nourrice, ou en bouillon alexiteres d'vn poulet,ou quelque eau cordiale : auſſi on luy en frottera par dehors la region du coeur, & les emunctoi- des enfans res,& les poignets : pareillement on luy en fera ſentir au nez & à la bouche,le deſlayant en vinaigre roſat,& qui tettent. eau roſe,& vn peu d'eau de vie,afin de touſiours ayder nature à chaſſer & abbattre la malice du venin. les enfans fevrez & ja grandelets peuuent prendre medicamens par la bouche , car comme ainſi ſoit que des enfans leur eſtomach digere bien plus groſſes viandes que laict, & que le foye en faict du ſang, ils pourront pa-ſevr . reillement reduire vne petite medecine de puiſſance en ſon effect. parquoy on leur baillera à aualler du the- riaque la quantité de douze grains deſlayez en quelque eau cordiale,auec vn peu de ſirop de chicorée,ou mix- tionnez en conſerue de roſes,ou en quelque boüillon de chappon, ou en autre maniere qu'ils pourront pren- , dre. et faut bien auoir eſgard en quelle quantité on ordonnera ledit theriaque : car s'il n'eſt donné en pe- tite quantité aux enfans, il leur excite la fiévre, & eſteint leur chaleur naturelle. on leur pourra ſemblable-autre ale- ment donner vn boüillon de chappon, auec lequel on aura faict cuire petite ozeille, laictue, pourpié,ſemen-xitere- ces froides,auec vne once de bel armene, & autant de terre ſigillée enueloppée dedans vn linge, puis les eſ- preindre,& leur en donner ſouuêt auec vne cuillier sur ce,il faut noter,que le bol d'armenie,& la terre ſigillée ont grande vertu de conforter le coeur, & empeſcher que le venin ne l'infecte : & ce par vne proprieté oc- culte que l'on a cogneu par la ſeule experience. auſſi galien affirme, que le bol d'armenie a cette proprieté contre la peſte, qu'en vn inſtant ceux qui en vſent, ſont preſeruez & guaris pourueu que les parties nobles ne ſoient ja grandement infectées. dauantage, il ſera bon de leur prouoquer la ſueur, car par icelle la matiere gal. as . putride eſt ſouuent euacuée, ioinct qu'il y a en eux grande abondance de fumée & vapeurs.partant elle pour- chap. du . ra eſtre prouoquée en leur donnant à boire vne decoction faicte de ſemences de perſil,raiſins de damas, fi- des ſimpla . gues, racines d'ozeille,auec vn bien peu de ſafran, & corne de cerfou d'yuoire rapée.a ces meſnes fins au-mºyens de cûns baillent de la licorne, mais on ne ſçait encore que c'eſt,ioinct que la corne de cerf & l'yuoire peuuent º** faire plus grand effect, pareillement pour prouoquer la ſueur, on pourra vſer d'eſponges trempées en deco- " ction ou de ſaulge,roſmarin,lauande,laurier,camoinille, melilot, & mauues,puis les eſpreindre & les mettre aux coſtez, aux aines & ſous les aiſelles chaudement : ou en lieu d'icelles on prendra veſſies de porc à demy pleines de ladite decoction, leſquelles faut changer incontinent qu'elles ne ſeront aſſez chaudes, & les con- tinuer iuſques à ce que la ſueur ſorte en abondance.et ſe faut bien garder de faire trop ſuer les enfans,parce qu'ils ſont de facile reſolution, & ſe deſſeichent en peu de temps , & tombent promptement en defaillance de la vertu, à laquelle il faut touſiours auoir l'œil. et pendant qu'ils ſuent, il leur conuient eſuentiller la fa-medioerité ce auec vn eſuântoir,afin qu'ils puiſſent aſpirer l'air froid,doux & ſuaue,pour fortifier la vertu,laquelle eſtant de ſuer aux fortifiée, pourra mieux ietter la ſueur hors. auſſi leur faut faire ſentir vinaigre mixtionné auec eau roſe, en enfans. laquelle on aura diſſout vn peu de theriaque. et apres qu'ils auront ſuffiſamment ſué , ils ſeront eſſuyez, & apres on leur donnera à manger vn peu de conſerue de roſes, auec poudre de corne de cerf & yuoire,& boi- ront de l'eau de bugloſe auec vn peu d'ozeille, tant pour rafraiſchir, que pour touſiours preſeruer le cœur. et où l'enfant apres auoir pris les alexiteres ne ſueroit, ne faut pourtant auoir deſeſpoir de la cure,parce que nature ne laiſſe à faire ſon profit des antidotes & contre-poiſons qu'on luy aura donné. et s'il leur ſurue- de la boſſe noit quelque tumeur aux emunctoires , ou charbons en quelque partie, on leur y fera promptement vne fo- é charéons mentation de choſes qui amoliiſſent & relaſchent le cuir, & qui attirent moderement : puis on vſera de ſup- ſºº puratifs propres,comme limaces pilées ſubtilement auec leurs coquilles,moyeux d'œufs,auecvn peu de the- * enfans. riaque : ou bien on leur fera vne pulte de farine,d'huile,d'eau,& iaunes d'œnfs,& autres choſes propres,& on conduira le reſte de la cure le plus doucement qu'il ſera poſſible, ayant eſgard à leur ieuneſſe & delicateſſe. et s'il eſt beſoin de les purger, on leur pourra donner vne dragme de rheubarbe en infuſion, ou trois drag- de la pur- mes de caſſe,ou vne once de ſyrop roſat laxatif ou demie once de ſyrop de chicorée composé auec rheubar-gation des jbe : ou cette medecine qui s'enſuit. .rhab. electi pul. .j. infunde in aqua cardui benedicti cum cinnamomi enfans. .j. in colatura diſſolue catholici ij. ſyrupi roſati laxatiui .iij. fiat parua potio.or toutes ces choſes ſe doi- uent faire par le conſeil d'vn docte medecin s'il eſt poſſible de le recouurer. et quant au reſte de la cure,elle #d ſ， parfera ainſi qu'auons declaré par cy-deuant,ayant eſgard à leur nature tendre & delicate. : # il ! | b diſcours des incommoditez que la peſte apporte entre les hommes, & du ſouuerain remede. c h a p i t r e l i. #'a x cy deſſus remonſtré ſur les cauſes de la peſte,qu'eſtans vn des fleaux de l'ire de dieu,nous la peſte eſt # ne pouuons ſinon tomber en toute extremité de maux, quand l'enormité de nos pechez a prouo-lºvn des # qué ſa bonté à retirer ſa main fauorable de nous, & nous enuoyer vne telle playe : il me ſuffira fºux de † donc pour la fin, de rememorer quelques incommoditez , ou pluſtoſt à vray dire, horribles ca- diem. - lamitez qui aduiennent en la ſocieté humaine pour cette dangereuſe maladie, afin que ſelon les moyens humains que dieu a ordonné pour y pouruoir , nous ſoyons par la grandeur du mal plus enclins à chercher & vſer des remedes qui nous en peuuent preſeruer. confiderons donc, qu'auſſi-toft que la pe- ſte eſt en quelque prouince, tous commerces de marchandiſe, dont les hommes ont beſoin de s'entretenir par ayde reciproque des vns & des autres,viennent à eſtre interrompus & delaiſsés:car nul ne ſe veut hazarder de venir rien apporter au lieu où eſt la peſte, de peur de perdre ſa vie. de là s'enſuit que les viures vien- nent bien toſt en grande cherté , & en fin à defaillir du tout, meſmement aux villes où il y a grand peu- ple , qui a accouſtumé de viure au iour la iournée, ſans faire prouifion, car les marchands allans ça & là pour en apporter, ne peuuent non ſeulement entrer aux villes ny villages , mais † en ſont dechaſſez b b . par - le vingt-deuxiéme liure, les magi- ſtrats absëts de leur iuriſ diction , la iuſtice teſſe. y . hiſtoire. - vn ſigne de # pu- mition de dieu. pm commodi- te{des loge- tes faičtes pres lyon. hmſtoire ob- ſeruée par l'auteur. au liure des hiſtoires prodigieuſes. ačtes horri- bles des ma- lades de pe- ſte. hiſtoire. par armes, & à coups d'hacquebutes, arbaleſtes, & de pierres, pour ne les laiſſer approcher, tant que quel- a quesfois ils ſont tuez & maſſacrez inhumainement, au lieu du ſecours qu'on leur deuroit donner en leurs ' neceſſitez. de la vient que les autres n'y veulent aller , & eux qui ſouloient ſubuenir à ce que leur ville, ne tombaſt en defaut de viures , & autres choſes , ſont contraints d'endurer la famine auec leurs concitoyens. souuent les enfans ſont contraints d'enterrer leurs peres & meres, les peres & meres leurs enfans, les ma- ris leurs femmes, & les femmes leurs maris ( qui leur eſt vn grand creue-coeur ) pour ne trouuer perſonne qui les vueille enterrer. souuent auſſi on laiſſe les corps ſans les enterrer, deſquels s'eſleuent vapeurs putre- dineuſes, qui renforcent la peſte.outre-plus, les plus opulents, meſmes les magiſtrats & autres qui ont quel- que authorité au gouuernement de la choſe publique, s'abſentent ordinairement des premiers, & ſe retirent ailleurs , de ſorte que la iuſtice n'eſt plus adminiſtrée,n'y ayant perſonne à qui on la puiſſe requerir : & lors tout s'en va à confuſion, qui eſt vn mal des plus grands qui ſçauroit aduenir à vne republique, & dont les meſchans ameinent bien vne autre peſte : car ils entrent és maiſons , & y pillent & deſrobent à leur aiſe im- punément , & coupent le plus ſouuent la gorge aux malades, voire aux ſains meſmes, afin de n'eſtre cogneus & accuſez apres. qui en voudra des exemples bien recents, il en pourra ſçauoir des habitans de lyon , au voyage que le roy y a fait.auſſi en cette ville de paris ſe ſont trouuez des gens, qui auec l'aide de tels mai- ſtres ayant fait entendre qu'vn quidam leur ennemy auoit la peſte , ſans neantmoins qu'il euſt mal quelcon- que, le iour qu'il deuoit parler de ſon procez, ou faire quelque acte où ſa preſence eſtoit requiſe,le firent ra- uir & emporter à l'hoſtel dieu, par la force de ces galands, quelque reſiſtance qu'il y peuſt faire,eſtans plu- ſieurs contre vn : & ſi de fortune il imploroit l'aide & miſericorde du peuple qui le voyoit , les larrons & meurtriers l'empeſchoient, & crioient encore plus fort que luy afin qu'il ne fuſt entendu : ou bien ils don- noient à entendre que le mal l'auoit rendu furieux & demoniaque, pour faire fuir chacun d'aupres,& cepen- b dant eurent moyen de le pouſſer audit hoſtel-dieu,& le faire lier & coucher auec les peſtiferez où quelques ; iours apres il mourut tant de deſplaiſir,que de l'air infecté,ayant eſté ſa mort auparauant vendue & acheptée à beaux deniers contans. ie n'ay que faire de deduire icy au long ce que l'on ne ſçait que trop,c'eſt à ſçauoir que les villes delaiſsées deuiennent champeſtres, iuſques à voir l'herbe croiſtre par les rues, les laboureurs delaiſſans leurs maiſons & les fruicts ſur la terre, laquelle demeure en friche, les troupeaux ſont eſgarez & eſperdus par les champs : les hommes s'entre-rencontrans fuyent arriere les vns des autres, figne de grande punition de dieu. ie me contenteray d'adjouſter icy que cette maladie rend par tout l'homme ſi miſerable, & infortuné, que ſi toſt qu'il eſt ſoupçonné, ſa maiſon ( qui luy eſtoit lieu le plus ſeur & le plus libre ) luy ſert d'vne crûelle priſon : car on l'enferme dedans ſans qu'il puiſſe ſortir, ny que perſonne y ſoit admiſe pour le ſecourir. si cependant quelqu'vn de ceux qui ſont ainſi reſſerrez & enfermez ſe menrt, il faut que les autres qui ſont là dedans, voyent quelquesfois durant long-temps cét horrible ſpectacle d'vn corps remply de ver- mine & pourriture, auec vne grande puanteur charongneuſe, qui fait renforcer l'infection & venenoſité de l'air , qui puis apres fait redoubler la peſte , & eſt ſouuent cauſe de la mort de tous ceux qui ſont en la mai- ſon, & ſi on ſe retire aux champs,la meſine crainte & horreur y eſt,& ſe trouue en tout chacun qui les voit,& plus encore , d'autant qu'on a moins d'amitié ou cognoiſſance. tout eſt clos & fermé aux villes,villages,& bourgades, voire les maiſons propres ſont clauſes à leurs maiſtres, tellement que ſouuent on eſt contraint de faire quelque logette aux champs, arriere de toute conuerſation & cognoiſſance : comme on faiſoit à lyon ſur le roſne, là où les malades s'eſtans retirez, le chaud du iour les eſtouffoit,& le froid de la nuict les mor- fondoit, & leur amenoit d'autres mortelles maladies. et qui plus eſt, n'a-on pas veu eſdites loges que le c pere & la mere eſtans griefuement malades , ne pouuant ayder à leur enfant, le virent ſuffoquer & man-, ger aux mouſches gueſpes, & la mere cuidant le ſecourir, ſe leuer, puis tomber morte entre l'enfant & le mary ? plus, on n'eſt recogneu des vaſſaux , ſubiects, ou ſeruiteurs qu'on ait : chacun tourne le dos, & perſonne n'y oſeroit aller : meſine le pere abandonne l'enfant, l'enfant le pere : le mary la femme, & la femme le mary : le frere la ſœur, & la ſœur le frere : voire ceux que nous penſons les plus intimes, & fea- bles amis, en ce temps nous abandonnent, pour l'horreur & danger de cette maladie. et s'il y a quelqu'vn qui meu de pieté & charité chreſtienne, ou pour la conſanguinité vueille s'auancer pour ſecourir & viſiter vn malade , il n'aura apres parent ny amy qui le vueille frequenter ny approcher. qu'ainſi ſoit, on a veu à lyon, lors qu'on apperceuoit ſeulement és rues les medecins, chirurgiens & barbiers eſlens pour penſer les malades , chacun courir apres eux à coups de pierres pour les tuer comme chiens en- ragez , diſant qu'il falloit qu'ils n'allaſſent que de nuict , de peur d'infecter les ſains. combien de pauures femmes groſſes , ſans eſtre aucunement malades de peſte ( pource qu'en tel temps toutes autres maladies ſont ſuſpectes ) ont eſté pour le ſeul ſoupçon delaiſsées & abandonnées à leur enfantement, dont eſt proue- nuë la mort des meres & des enfans ? ie puis veritablement dire auoir trouué aux mammelles d'vne fem- me morte de peſte ſon enfant tettant encore le venin mortel, qui le deuoit tuer bien toſt apres. si la nour- rice d'vn enfant vient à deceder, encore que ce ne fuſt de la pefte, il ne s'en trouuera point d'autre, pour le ſoupçon qu'on a qu'elle ſoit morte de peſte, tant eſt cette maladie effroyable & eſpouuantable : que ſi toſt que quelqu'vn en eſt ſurpris, il ne trouue ſecours de perſonne, ains attent ſeulement la mort miſerable. qu'il ſoit ainſi, entre vne infinité d'autres exemples que l'on envoit ordinairement, nous liſons qu'vneieu- ne femme , ſon mary eſtant mort & deux de ſes enfans, ſe voyant frappée,commença à s'enſeuelir elle-meſ- me, & fut trouuée à demy enſeuelie , ayant encore le fil & l'aiguille entre ſes mains. outre-plus vn hoſhme : fort & robuſte ayant la peſte, eſt allé au cemetiere , & en ſa preſence a faict faire ſa foſſe, & auant qu'elle fuſt paracheuée, il mourut ſur le bord.au contraire il en y a qui ont eu telle apprehenſion de la mort, eſtans frappez de cette maladie peſtilente, que pour ſe ſecourir eux-meſmes, ſe ſont appliquez des fers ardans ſur la boſſe, ſe bruſlans tous vifs. autres auec tenailles l'ont arrachée ſe penſans guarantir. auſſi aucuns par la ferueur & rage de cette maladie ſe ſont iettez dedans le feu, autres dans les puits, aucuns és riuieres, autres ſe ſont precipitez par les feneſtres, autres en leurs extremes douleurs ſe ſont heurtez la teſte contre la muraille iuſqu'à en faire ſortir la ceruelle, ce que i'ay veu : autres auſſi ſe ſont tuez eux-meſnes à coups de dague ou de couſteau. lucrece poete latin a remarqué , la peſte auoir eſté autresfois ſi furieuſe au pays d'athenes,que pluſieurs ſurmontez de la vehemence de la maladie ſe precipitoient dedans l'eau. on racon- te que la peſte, il y a enuiron quatre vingts-ans, auoit de telle rage couru par la gaule lyonnoiſe, que les femmes principalement ſans apparence d'aucun mal en leur corps , ſe iettoient dans leurs puits, ſurmon- tées de la fureur de telle maladie. et à ce propos m'a eſté aſſeuré, que depuis n'agueres vn preſtre de la pa- roiſſe ſainct euſtache en cette ville de paris , eſtant malade de la peſte en l'hoſtel dieu; de furie ſe leua du lict,& prit vne dague,de laquelle il frappa pluſieurs des pauures malades couchez dedans leur lict, & entua trois : & n'euſt eſté qu'il fut apperceu & empoigné du chirurgien dudit hoſtel (qui receut de luy vn coup de dague dedans le ventre, le voulant ſaiſir,dont il cuida mourir)il en euſt occis autant qu'il en euſt trouué: mais ſi toſt qu'il fut retenu, & que cette furis diminua , il rendit l'eſprit. vn autre cas non moins º# - - : - - i)e la peſte. . eſt aduenu à lyon,tué merciere,ou la femme d'vn chirurgien nommé amy baſton (qui eſtoit mort de peſte) ſix iours apres eſtant eſpriſe de la meſme contagion, tomba en reſuerie, puis en freneſie, & ſe mit à la fene- autre hi- ſtre de ſa chambre, tenant & tourmentant ſon petit enfant entre ſes bras : ce que voyans ſes voiſins l'admo-ſtºire. neſtoient de ne luy faire mal : mais au lieu d'auoir eſgard à leur aduertiſſement, le iette incontinent en terre, puis toſt apres elle s'y precipita : ainſi la mere & l'enfant moururent. il y a vne infinité d'autres ſemblables oººººfºir exemples, leſquels ſi ie voulois raconter iamais la matiere ne me defaudroit:mais tant y a que le tout aduient pluſtoſt les le plus ſouuent aux malades, par faute qu'on n'oſe conuerſer, ny eſtre à l'entour d'eux pour les ſecourir : ce #, qui ne ſe fait aux autres maladies, meſme en lepre : car en icelle les malades ſon ſecourus, mais en cette-cy § on eſt dechaſsé de ſes parens & amis,voire de ſa propre maiſon,comme nous auons dit:de quoy ſe faut d'au- • | : : tant moins eſmerueiller,que l'on ſçait la charité des hommes eftre auiourd'huy tellement refroidie, que ceux meſmes qui ont toute liberté, encore qu'ils ayent or & argent pour ſatisfaire, ne peuuent en temps de peſte auoir ſecours d'autruy. en cét endroit , ie ne veux paſſer ſous ſilence , ce que recite le bon vieillard guidon, hiſtoire de qu'en l'an mil trois cens quarante & huict, vint vne peſte & mortalité, dont ceux qui en eſtoient eſpris,mou- gºidon. roient en trois iours ou en cinq au plus,& eſtoit ſi contagieuſe, que non feulement en conuerſant enſemble, mais auſſi en regardant l'vn l'autre,ſe prenoit, & les perſonnes mouroient ſans ſeruiteurs,& eſtoient enterrez ſans preſtres, & mouroient de iour en iour vn ſi grand nombre de peſtiferez,que ne pouuant ſuffire à les en- terrer, on eſtoit contraint de faire de grandes foſſes aux cemetieres,& les ietter dedans à monceaux, les vns morts,les autres eſtans encore en agonie. le pere ne viſitoit l'enfant,ny l'enfant le pere,ny la femme le mary, ny le mary la femme,comme auons dit cy-deſſus:toute charité eſtoit mort,& eſperance abbatue. cette mau- dite peſtilence fut quaſi par tout le monde,& n'en laiſſa preſque la quarte partie.elle fuſt fort honteuſe,& non profitable aux medecins & chirurgiens, leſquels n'oſoient viſiter les malades de peur d'eſtre infectez : ioint auſſi que tous les remedes ne profitoient en rien:car tous ceux qui eſtoient frappez de cette peſte mouroient. en aucunes contrées du pays ont eſtimoit que les iuifs euſſent enuenimé le monde , & à cette cauſe on leur couroit ſus,& les aſſommoit.les autres cuidoient que ce fuſſent les pauures manchets,pour laquelle occaſion eſtoient chaſſez. les autres en ſoupçonnoient les nobles, & pource n'oſoient aller par le monde. et finale- ment les portes des villes furent gardées, & ne laiſſoit-on entrer perſonne dedans s'il n'eftoit bien cogneu. et ſi quelques-vns auoient pouldre ou onguents , l'on penſoit que ce fuſſent poiſons,qui eſtoit cauſe qu'on ie eroy quº leur faiſoit aualler. ladite peſte dura ſept mois ſans ceſſe. voilà ce que le bon homme guidon en eſcrit,cho- ， eſtoient les ſe à la verité de grande remarque, touchant l'ire de dieu. gueux. epilogue ou concluſion de ce diſcours de la peſte, cn ar. lii === r ie m'aſſeure que le lecteur qui aura appris en ce petit traicté le moyen de s'en preſeruer, & meſme ſans danger viſiter & ſecourir ſon prochain , ne meſpriſera point mon labeur, combien que, ſi faire ſe pouuoit , i'aymerois beaucoup mieux qu'il ne fuſt beſoin à perſonne s'en ayder, & que la ſerenité de l'air par la bonté de noſtre dieu fuſt touſiours telle, que la peſte perdiſt ſon a nom & ſes effects.mais puis que cela prouient par l'iniquité des hommes,laquelleſe perpetue auec eux tout le cours de leur vie, en receuant patiemment tout ce qu'il plaiſt à dieu nous enuoyer, nous ſuiuions auſſi ſa volonté, quand nous apprendrons & vſerons des remedes, (ſelon qu'en toutes choſes il en a mis la proprieté & vertu, pour ſeruir à l'vſage de l'homme, ) tant à la nourriture du corps , qu'à la conſeruation · & recouurement de la ſanté d'iceluy. et d'autant plus que ce mal eſt grand, d'autant faut-il recourir prom-l. vray & ptement au remede, qui eſt ſeul & general : c'eſt que grands & petits de bonne heure implorions la miſeri-ſºu# corde de dieu par confeſſion & deſplaiſance de nos forfaicts, auec certaine deliberation & propos de nous remede con- amander, & donner gloire au nom de dieu, cherchant en tout & par tout de luy obeyr & complaire , ſui- tre la peſte. uant ſa ſaincte parole, ſans eſtriuer à l'encontre de luy par nos deſordonnées paſſions, comme nous auons faict & faiſons iournellement.et s'il luy plaiſt encore apres cela nous battre de ces verges-là,ou de quelques autres ſelon ſon conſeil eternel , faut l'endurer patiemment , ſçachant que c'eſt tout pour noſtre profit & amendement : & cependant s'entre-aider des remedes qu'on pourra trouuer, ſans s'abandonner ainſi les vns les autres, par vne extreme barbarie & inhumanité, croyons que le mal ſeroit boucoup moindre,ayans ayde & conſolation les vns des autres. le turc le fait , & nous chreſtiens de nom , n'en tenons compte,& i - l ſe faut ſi- abandonnons nos freres affligez : comme ſi nous penſions en cette ſorte eſchapper des mains de dieu. courir l'vn helas ! où nous pourrons - nous cacher que ne ſoyons trouuez ? recognoiſſons pluſtoſt auec le pſalmiſte : l'autre. si ie prens les aiſles de l'aube du iour, & que i'habite aux dernieres parties de la mer, là auſſi ta main me pſalm. . conduira, & ta dextre m'empoignera. croyons que quand nous pourrions euiter la mort de ce coſté- là ( ce qui ne peut eſtre ) il y a cent mille morts plus honteufes & miſerables pour nous attraper ailleurs & confondre de corps & d'ame pour eſtre tourmentez à tout iamais. parquoy ayans nos cœurs remplis de charité, il nous faut retourner à luy, d'autant qu'il eſt plein de clemence & benignité, preſt à nous ſoula- ger en nos tribulations, & eſt tout bon, & nous ayme comme ſes enfans : & quand il luy plaira, il retourne- ra toutes nos afflictions en noſtre ſalut, voire mieux que nous ne ſçaurions ſouhaiter ou imaginer. de là prenons cette reſolution ferme de nous aſſujettir & renger paiſiblement à ſa bonté & ſaincte volonté : qui eſt la regle de toute ſageſſe, à laquelle nous deuons conformer toutes nos cogitations & actions, voi-bºn alexi- là vn tres-bon onguent alexitere pour addoucir noſtre peſte , & vn remede ſalutaire pour appaiſer nos mur-# mures, & nous impoſer filence, & vn arreſt certain pour faire ceſſer le procez que nous intentons couſtu- mierement contre ſa iuſtice diuine, quand il nous chaſtie plus rudement qu'il ne nous ſemble bon & pro- fitable au iugement de la chair & non de l'eſprit. parquoy apprenons à nous captiuer & brider noſtre ap- petit, eſtimans que dieu fait toutes choſes par poids, & meſure : & quoy qu'il nous enuoye peſte, fa- mine, ou guerre, & autres infinies calamitez, il ne fait rien qui ne ſoit bon & droict. et quand il luy plai- ra nous retirer de ce monde, de là naiſtra noſtre heur & felicité,veu que cette vie traine auec ſoy vne infini- té de trauaux & miſeres où nous ſommes preſques abyſmez de choſes caduques & tranſitoires. et par cette mort nous ſommes appellez à la pleine fruition du royaume celeſte , comme par vn heraut & ambaſſade en- uoyé du ciel. si vn roy par vn meſſager appelloit vn pauure & miſerable à ſoy pour le faire participant de ſon royaume, quel plaiſir & ſoulas receuroit-il ? a plus forte raiſon deuons nous eſtre ioyeux quand dieu par la mort nous enuoye ce meſſager quinons guide à luy,pour heriter ſon royaume eternel & bien-heureux. veu donc que l'eſchange eſt tel , nous auons matiere de conſolation, la mort nous eſtant cét heureux meſ- ſager, lequel nous faict paſſer de ce monde au ciel, de cette vie miſerable à la vie eternelle, de mal-heur ºn felicité , d'ennuy en lieſſe, de miſere en proſperité , qui nous doit grandement conſoler, & tollir toute - - b b b occaſion ere côwtr la peſte, o le vingt-deuxiéme liure, occaſion de lamenter, quand il plait à dieu nous appeller & enuoyer la mort , laquelle il a ſouffert pour a noſtre redemption. et par tel argument de reſiouyſſance ezechias deſire la mort , non qu'il fuſt deſpité con- tre dieu : mais eſtant ennuyé des facheries & tourmens du monde , il deſiroit d'en ſortir, pourueu toutes- fois que dieu s'y accordaſt. carnoftre vie eſt comme vne garniſon en laquelle dieu nous a mis, nous enjoi- il ne fººt gnant y demeurer iuſques à ce qu'il nous appelle, & nous licentie pour en ſortir auec certaine foy & aſſeu- ºº * rance qu'il n'eſt pas venu en ce monde ſouffrir & eſtre mis en croix que pour la redemption des pecheurs, & # # non des iuſtes , comme il a dit ( d'autant qu'vn homme ſain n'a que faire de medecin. ) donc il ſe faut hu- ' / € - - - - enfermée milier, & auoir ferme fiance qu'il nous pardonnera toutes nos fautes, pourueu que nous luy addreſſions nos prieres du profond de noſtre cœur, & de droite & ardente affection , croyans que luy-meſme adit qu'il ne vouloit la mort du pecheur, mais ſa redemption. eſaie dit qu'il mettra nos pechez de riere le dos, voireau profond de la mer , & n'en aura iamais de recordation. ces choſes conſiderées nous ne deuons craindre la mort,n'eſtant en ce monde que comme en maiſon empruntée,de laquelle il nous faut deſloger quand il plaira au seigneur, auquel elle appartient. que ſi le partement de ce monde eſt vne entrée à vie, qu'eſt ce de ce monde ſinon vn ſepulchre ou tombeau ? et comme les mariniers deſirent vn bon port, auſſi deuons nous de- iob ſirer de ſortir de cette grande mer de miſere & calamité, pour aller au port du ſalut où tout mal ceſſera, & n'y aura orage ne tourmente, mais toute ioye & repos. iob dit que l'homme nay de femme eſt de peu de " iours & remply de miſeres, qui ſort hors comme la fleur, & eſt coupé, & s'enfuit comme l'ombre, & n'ar- souuent on reſte point. autres comparent cette vie à vne fumée ou vapeur d'vne bouteille d'eau qui s'eſleue entemps meurt auant de pluye. autres à vne nacelle eſtant au milieu de la mer agitée çà & là des vents & des ondes, heurtant que ſortir de contre les rochers,qui ſouuent ſe perd aux gouffres & abyſmes profondes. et par ainſi il faut mettre en la matrice la protection de dieu la grace de noſtre ame, qu'il nous a donnée pour eſtre reunie à ce corps lequel ſera glorifié en la reſurrection vniuerſelle de tous les morts. et pour concluſion, ſi nous rapportons le tout au conſeil de dieu, nous aurons dequoy nous conſoler au milieu des plus grandes angoiſſes & deſtreſſes qui nous pourroient aduenir : lequel nous prions de bon cœur, & de ferme & viue foy, qu'il nous pardonne nos pechez, leſquels ſont cauſe de cette maladie peſtiferée & autres, croyant que c'eſt le vray antidote contre la peſte. car ieſus-chriſt voulant guarir le paralytique luy dit , tes pechez te ſont pardonnez : - monſtrant & declarant par cela, que la cauſe & racine de ſa maladie procedoit de ſon † , & que pour en auoir la fin , il falloit que l'ire de dieu fuſt appaisée, & qu'il luy fut propice & fauorable par la remiſſion de ſes pechez. ainſi donc nous implorerons ſa grace d'vn cœur ardant, ayant fiance qu'il nous gardera & * defendra, nous donnant ce qui nous eſt neceſſaire, tant au corps qu'à l'ame. que s'il luy plaiſt nous appeller, il ſera noſtre redempteur & nous ayant retiré de ce labyrinthe & gouffre de tous maux & miſeres, il nous introduira en l'heritage de ſa gloire, pour l'amour de ſon cher fils noſtre sauueur ieſus chriſt, auquel ſoit gloire eternelle : ainſi ſoit-il. fin du vingt-deuxième liure traittant de la peſte. # # # # #'#é# # # # # # # # # #º#éº# # # #:# # c a d v e r t i s s e m e n t d e l a v t h e v r. (ſt 'a vth e vr a fait cette petite admonition pour $ le ieune chirurgien, ſe trouuant quelquesfois aux # lieux où il n'y a t'reſtres, ny autres gens d'egliſe à la § mort des pauures peſtiferez,. comme i'ay veu le roy | -- charles eſtant à lyon, pendant la grande mortalité, · où l'on enfermoit aux bonnes maiſons vn chirurgien pour medica-, menter ceux qui eſtoient pestiferez , ſans pouuoireſtre ſecourus d'au- cunes perſonnes pour les conſoler à l'extremité de la mort : & ledit | chirurgien ayant eſté inſtruié# de cette petite admonition, pourra ſeruir à la neceſſité d'vn plus grand (lerc que luy. et ne veux i) paſſer les bornes de ma vocation : mais ſeulement ayder aux pauures peſiiferex en leur extremité de la mort. - l de la peſte l'! , la mort eſt la peur des riches. le deſir des pauures. la ioye des ſages. " \- | la crainte des meſchans. $à fin de toutes miſeres, º\ et commencement de la vie eternelle. † bien-heureuſe aux eſleus, et mal-heureuſe aux reprouuex: --- -- . - "umnltlntllllllllllllltlll " tºººtttººººººººtttttttttt #º#º# # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # t a b l e - d e s c h a p itr e s | du vingt-troiſiéme liure, traittant des moyens &artifice d'adjouſter ce qui defaut. e moyen d'auoir vn a il artificiel. - v ' , chapitre j le moyen de contre-faire vn nez par artifice. . chap. ii ， la maniere d'accommoder les dents artificielles. chap. iij le moyen d'adapter vn inſtrument au palais pour rendre la parole mieux formée. châp. iv · le moyen de ſecourir à ceux qui auroient la langue coupée, & les faire parler. chap. v le moyen de reparer le vice de la face défigurée. chap. vj de l'oreille perduë. · · chap. vij d de ceux qui ſont voutez ayans l'eſpine courbée. chap. viij de ceux qui iettent leur vrine inuolontairement, & le moyen de ſecourir à ceux qui ont la verge perdue. - chap. ix l'artifice de mettre vn poulcier ou doigtier. - chap. x du vice dont le malade est appellé varus, & valgus, & des jambes trop greſles. chap. xj les moyens d'accommoder des mains, bras & jambes artificielles, au lieu des membres ex- tirpez. chap. xij le moyen de faire aller droict vne perſonne qui ſerqit boiteux à raiſon de l'accourciſſement de la jambe , • " - chap. xiij b b b l e partie de chirurgie. l e . v ingt-troisie m e livre, t r a i c t a n t d e s m o y e n s et a r t if ic es d'a dio v st e r c e qui defaut naturellement, ou paraccident. par a m b r o s e pare de laual au maine, conſeillier, & premier chirurgien du roy. p r e f a c e. - - - - -. le moyen d'auoir vn œil artificiel. c h a p. i. n(l, a r cy-deuant nous auons amplement deſcrit au liure des tumeurs, playes, vlceres , #, fractures, & diſlocations, les trois poincts auſquels s'exercent les operations de chirur- gie , qui ſont , joindre le ſeparé, oſter le ſuperflu, & ſeparer le continu reſte maintenant en brefle quatriéme, qui eſt d'adjouſter ce qui défaut naturellement, ou par accident. or , pour entrer en matiere,ſans dauantage s'amuſer à diſcourir & prefacer,nous voyons ſouuent à r les yeux ſe creuer,ſortir de la teſte,ou bien deuenir emaciez,à raiſon de quelque coup ou in- flammation. partant où tel accident aduiendroit apres la curation de l'vlcere, on pourra adapter dans l'or- bite vn œil fait par artifice, comme ceux-cy figurez, qui ſont ſeulement pour l'ornement du malade. yeux artificiels, deſquels t'eſt demonſtré le deſſus c le deſſous qui ſeront d'or eſmaillé, & de couleur ſemblable aux naturels. - et s'il aduenoit qu'on ne puſt loger cet œil artificiel dedans l'orbite , on pourra encore en faire vn autre, tel que tu vois par cette figure, fait d'vn fil de fer applaty, plié & couuert de velours ou taffetas , ayans ſon extremité plate, afin qu'il ne - bleſſe, & l'autre extremité ſera couuerte de cuir façonné, & - le peintre luy donnera par ſon artifice figure d'œil. cela fait, on le poſera ſur l'orbite. or ledit fil ſe peut eſtendre & reſſer- rer comme fait celuy que les femmes ont à tenir leurs che- ueux. il ſera paſſé par deſſus l'oreille , autour de la moitié de la teſte. dadjouſter ce qui defaut. | a b # il aduient ſouuent aux petits enfans vne maladie, dite strabiſmus, qui eſt vne diſtorſion contrainte auec inegalité de la veue, nous.les appellons en françois , louches ou bigles. le plus ſouuent telle maladie ad- uient (comme nous dirons plus amplement au liure de la generation ) pour auoir mal ſitué le berceau de l'enfant, ſoit de nuict ou de iour, le mettant à coſté de la lueur: qui fait que pour voir ladite lueur il eſt con- traint de retourner ſes yeux à coſte d'icelle, eſtant touſiours deſireux de la regarder : ou bien pource que la nourrice eſt louche,qui fait que l'enfant la contrefait. or poſons le cas, que quelque petit enfant fuſt louche, ayant la veue torſe,ou par vice de la nourrice,ou autrement.paul aeginete au liure .chapitre .nous a laiſ- sé vn moyen propre pour y remedier & redreſſer la veue, lequel n'a eſté prattiqué d'aucun de noſtre temps, que i'aye pû ſçauoir : c'eſt qu'il veut que l'on faſſe vn faux viſage en forme de maſque , lequel doit eſtre fi bien proportionnè & accommodé ſur le viſage de l'enfant, qu'il ne le bleſſe aucunement : & toutesfois il faut qu'il ſoit fi iuſte, que le iour n'y puiſſe entrer par les entre-deux , craignât que ledit enfant ne tournaſt ſa veuë vers le iour. tel faux viſage ou mafque aura ſeulement deux petits trous droit au milieu de l'œil, afin que le iour y puiſſe reluire : ce qui ſera cauſe que l'enfant n'apperceuant autre lumiere & clarté que par les trous, tiendra ſa veue touſiours fichée en cet endroit, de ſorte, que l'œil s'accouſtumera à demeurer droict & arreſté, reprenant vne nouuelle habitude, & laiſſant celle qu'il auoit acquiſe regardant de coſté. ledit faux viſage ſera fait de matiere la plus legere que l'on pourra, & ne doit couurir le viſage plus bas que le nez laiſſant la bouche à deſcouuert, afin que l'enfant puiſſe à toute heure tetter ou manger : attendu qu'il doit demeurer continuellement ſur ſon viſage : pour lequel tenir plus commodément, il ſera attaché par le derriere de la teſte auec quatre petites attaches , deux de chaſque coſte, comme on peut voir par ce pour- traict. pourtraict d'vn maſque,par lequel la veuë eſt redreſſe. $ $ s§ - \ - $. n#- | ss# w(«a = | | $n sses au lieu de ce maſque on pourra pareillement vſer de beſicles faites de corne, que l'on adaptera ſur du cuir, & ſeront poſées lur les yeux: au milieu y aura vn petit trou, par lequell'enfant pourra voir , & ad- dreſſer ſa veuë. les beſicles ſont marquées par bb, & la piece de cuir par a. les courroyes par leſquelles d ſont attachées, par cc. figure des beſicles, x | - - - le , le vingt-troiſiéme liure, : le moyen de contre-faire vn nez par artifice. c.h a p i t r e i i. a r e l l e m e n t le nez peut eſtre du tout coupé , ou portion d'iceluy , & ne peut ia- mais eſtre rejoint, parce qu'vnion ne peut eſtre faite aux membres organiques, ce qui eſt prouué par hippocrate. la raiſon eſt, qu'vne partie de noſtre corps pour eſtre rejointe & # conſolidée , a beſoin de receuoir nutrition , vie & ſentiment des membres principaux, au contraire des greffes qui ſe reprennent au tronc des arbres. parqucy il faut que celuy qui j aura perduſon nez, en faſſe faire vn par artifice, ſoit d'or, ou d'argent,ou de papier & linges colez, de telle figure & couleur qu'eftoit le ſien : lequel ſera lié & attaché par certains filets derriere l'occi- put, ou à vn bonnet. et d'abondant s'il aduenoit (comme ſouuent ſe fait) qu'auec le nez on emportaſt por- tion, ou toute la lévre ſuperieure, ie t'ay bien voulu donner les figures afin d'ayder à l'ornement du patient, lequel s'il portoit barbe en pourra faire adapter, ainſi qu'il en ſera neceſſaire. vnion ne ſe s> j'auroit fai- ques. pourtraicts de nez. façon nou- il s'eſt trouué en italie vn chirurgien , qui par ſon artifice refaiſoit des nez de chair en cette maniere. uelle de re- c'eſt qu'il coupoit entierement les bords calleux ou cicatriſez du nez perdu, comme l'on fait aux becs de faire les ne{: liévre, puis faiſoit vne inciſion tant grande & profonde qu'il eſtoit neceſſaire, au milieu du muſcle dit bi- ceps , qui eſt l'vn de ceux qui flechit le bras: puis ſubit faiſoit poſer le nez en ladite inciſion, & bandoit ſi bien la teſte auec le bras,qu'il ne pouuoit vaciller ça ne là:& certains iours apres, qui eſt ordinairement ſur le quarantiéme iour , cognoiſſant l'agglutination du nez auec la chair dudit muſcle , en coupoit tant qu'il en falloit pour la portion du nez qui manquoit : en apres la façonnoit de ſorte, qu'il rendoit le nez en figure, grandeur & groſſeur qu'il eſtoit requis, & traittoit cependant la playe du bras, comme les autres lors qu'il y a deperdition de ſubſtance : & durant leſdits quarante iours faiſoit vſer à ſon malade de panade, preſſis, & autres viandes faciles à tranſgloutir, & quant aux remedes deſquels il vſoit, eſtoient de quelques baumes hiſtºire agglutinatifs nous auons de ce teſmoignage d'vn gentil-homme nommé le cadet de ſainct thoan, lequel ayant perdu le nez , & porté long-temps vn d'argent, ſe faſcha pour la remarque, qui n'eſtoit ſans vne ri- sée,lors qu'il eſtoit en cópagnie.et ayant ouy dire, qu'il y auoit en italie vn maiſtre refaiſeur de nez perdus, s'en alla le trouuer,qui le luy refaçóna en la maniere que deſſus,côme vne infinité de gens l'ont veu depuis, · non ſans grande admiration de ceux qui l'auoient conneu auparauant ayant vn nez d'argent. telle choſe n'eſt impoſſible, toutesfois me ſemble fort difficile & onereuſe au malade,tant pour la peine de tenir la teſte telle choſeſ liée long temps auec le bras , que pour la douleur des inciſions faictes aux parties ſaines, coupant & eſle- c fait ainſi uant portion de la chair du bras pour former le nez : ioinct auſſi qu'icelle chair n'eſt de telle temperature ny , qu'on ente les ſemblable à celle du nez, & pareillement eſtant agglutinée & repriſe, ne peut iamais eſtre de telle figure & ſanuºgeaux couleur que celle qui eſtoit auparauant à la portion du nez perdu : auſſi les creux des narines ne peuuent eſtre tels, comme ils eſtoient premierement. - la maniere d'accommoder les dents artificielles. c h a p. ii i. ， incommºdi- v e l q v e s-f o s par vn coup orbe ou autrement, les dents de deuant ſont rompués : ce qui té qu'appor - fait que puis apres le patient demeure edenté , & défiguré auec deprauation de ſa parole, par- tent les dents $a# quoy apres la cure faicte , & que les genciues ſeront endurcies , luy en faut adapter d'autres dos perdues. ou d'yuoire, ou de dents de rohart qui ſont excellentes pour cét effet faictes par artifice, leſ- quelles ſeront liées aux autres dents proches , auec fil commun d'or ou d'argent, comme nous apprend hip- pocrate au liure de articulis, ſect , ſent. . de ces choſes tu en as icy les figures. d figure | le vingt-troiſiéme liure, inſtrument pour ayder à parler à vn patient, lequel auroit portion la langue coupée. l'vſage eſt tel ( a) eſt la partie ſuperieure , qui doit eſtre d'eſpeſſeur enuiron d'vn teſton & demy, laquelle il tenoit entre les dents de deuant , nommées inciſiues, non qu'elle ſortiſt hors, mais ſembloit qu'il n'euſt rien en ſa bouche. (b ) la partie inferieure plus ſubtile : eſpaiſſe d'vn teſton , ſeulement la tenoit iuſtement contre l'extre- mité du reſte de la langue eſtant au droict du filet ou liga- ment de la langue : & ce qui eſt vn peu concaue interieu- rement ( qui eſt la troiſieſme portion dudit inſtrument) marqué par (c) la tenoit deſſous en fa ſituation toute platte. et quant au filet que tu vois , c'eſtoit pour pendre ledit inſtrument au col. ( d ) eſt la partie exterieure dudit inſtrument. - degriptiºn , º,º puis aſſeurer qu'apres auoir recouuré ledit inſtrument, & la maniere d'en vſerſ qui fut parle du moyen de monſieur le tellier, medecin tres-docte, demeurant à bourges, i'en ay veul'experience à vn ſtrument. ieune garçon , auquel on auoit coupé la langue, lequel neantmoins par ſebenefice dudit inſtrument,pro- feroit ſi bien ſes mots, qu'on le pouuoit entendre entierement, ou tout ce qu'il vouloit dire & expliquer.et de ce chacun en faſſe l'eſpreuue, lors qu'on ſe trouuera à l'endroit pour ce faire - - le moyen de reparer le vice de la face défigurée. cha p. vi. nm $ l aduient quelquesfois par vne brufleure de poudre à canon, charbon peſtiferé ouautre occafion, que la face demeure extremement hideuſe à voir, de façon que le malade # eſt grandement eſpouuantable. a ceux-là donc, il faut bailler vn maſque fait ſi propre- ment qu'ils puiſſent conuerſer auec les hommes. auſſi peut-on reparer le vice des levres \ qui auront eſté amputées par vn coup d'eſpée ou d'vn charbon peſtilent,ou par vn chan- )) cre qui aura occupée telle partie,les dents demeurans deſcouuertes apresl'auoir extirpés - s.«ryt， % ce qui eſt difforme à voir. a tels on doit reparer ce qui defaut au plus pres du naturel par le moyen d'vne lévre d'or eſmaillé, de couleur du viſage, laquelle ſera attachée à vne petite calotte » ou pluſtot à la face : que nous auons heureuſement pratiquée & enfeignée cy-deuant au chapitre du chancre. de l'oreille perduë. c ha p. vii. ſ evx qui auront faute d'oreilles, ſoit par le defaut de nature, ou par accident , comme - † playe, ou par vn charbon peſtiferé, ou par morſure de beſte, ou par autre maniere, ſi 'oreille n'a eſté du tout emporté , & qu'il en ſoit reſtébonne portion on doit trouuer le car- tilage auec vne petite porte-piece, & y faire des trous, tant qu'ilſera neceſſaire. apresla cicatriſation deſdits trous, on attachera vne oreille artificielle : & où l'oreille auroit eſté du tout amputée,on y en appliquera vne artificielle de papier collé,ou cuirboüilly, façonnêe de bonne† » comme tu vois par cette figure. et ſera tenuë auec petits liens autour de la teſte : où le mala- de laiſſera croiſtre ſes cheueux longs,ou portera vne calotte.auſſi lors qu'il y a eugrande quantité du cra- º pºrdu faudra porter vn bonnet de cuir boüilly pour reſiſter aux iniures externes, ainſi que i'ay par ci° deuant eſcrit aux playes de teſtes. figure d'vne oreille artificielle. - b c dadjouſter ce qui defaut. # : - de ceux qui ſont voutez, ayant leſpine courbée. ch a p. v ii i. - ' ) v e l q v e s - v n s & principalement les filles , parce qu'elles ſont plus mollaſſes , deuiennent boſſues , pource que leur eſpine n'eſt pas droicte,mais en arc, ou en figure de s. & tel accident leur aduient parce que quelquesfois par cheute ou coups, ou quelque vice de ſe ſituer , comme nous auons amplement monſtré au liure des luxations. ou pareillement parce que les folles meres, ſubit qu'elles voyent leurs filles ſe pouuoir tant ſoit peu tenir debout, leur apprennent à faire la re- uerence , les faiſant baiſſer l'eſpine du dos, de laquelle eſtant encore les ligamens laxes , mols & glereux, en ſe releuant pour la peſanteur de tout le corps, dont l'eſpine eſt le fondement comme la carine d'vne na- uire , ſe conſtourne de coſté & d'autre, & ſe ploye en figure de la lettre s. qui fait qu'elles demeurent tor- tues & boſſues, & quelquesfois boiteuſes. auſſi pluſieurs filles ſont boſſues & contrefaictes pour auoir en leur ieuneſſe par trop ſerrè le corps.quil ſoit vray,on void que de mille filles villageoiſes,on n'en trouue pas vne boſſue : à raiſon qu'ils n'ont eu le corps aſtraint & trop ſerré. parquoy les meres & nourrices y doi- uent prendre exemple. pour reparer & cacher tel vice , on leur fera porter les corcelets de fer deſlié, leſ- quels ſeront troüez afin qu'ils ne poiſent pas tant, & ſeront ſi bien appropriez & embourrez qu'ils ne bleſ- ſeront aucunement, & ſeront leſdits corcelets changez ſouuentefois ſi le malade n'a accomply ſes trois di- menſions, & à ceux qui croiſſent, les faudra changer de trois mois en trois mois, plus ou moins, ainſi que l'on verra eſtfe neceſſaire : car autrement en lieu de faire vn bien, on feroit vn mal. la figure du corcelet eſt telle. • corcelet pcur dreſſer vn corps tortu. , %%# q) # # § # † %| o, | ºè - ſſ o o § o # o# ， \. é e / de eeux qui iettent leur vrine inuolontairement , & le moyen de ſuruenir à eeux qui ont la verge perdue. ſ c h a p i t r e i x. #s ) t r ^ s º v r , e , eſt lors que l'vrine diſtille inuolontairement goute à goute : ce qui aduient $# par le defaut de la vertu retentrice & deprauation de l'expulſiue, comme auons dit en ſon lieu. #^ ceux qui ont telle indiſpoſition, ſont en grande peine. et pour ſes ſoulager, 'ay inuenté cét " inſtru ment, lequel eſt de fer blanc de la figure d'vne brayette, & contient en ſa cauité enuiron " vn poſſon. il ſe doit mettre en la brayette du malade, à laquelle il ſera attaché auec vne aiguil- lette par l'anneau qui t'eſt aſſez apparent. et le malade poſera l'extremité de ſa verge dans la cauité mar- quée c. en laquelle y a vne piece auſſi de fer blanc , enfoncée aſſez profondement, tant pour ſouſtenir le bout de la verge, que pour garder & empeſcher l'vrine de ſortir hors , meſmes en cheminant b. monſtre la dite piece. a d. monſtrent le corps dudit inſtrument, à ſçauoir a. la partie anterieure, & d. la poſte- rieure. figure d'vn inſtrument qui peut eſtre dit reſeruoir de l'vrine. cc ç cetix : cauſe de ^v r fi rº e l'eſp.ne. s le vingt-troiſiéme liure, ceux qui ont entierement perdu la verge virile iuſque au ventre, ſont en peine lors qu'ils veulent vriner a & ſont contraints s'accroupir commes les femmes. ie leur ay inuenté cette canule, laquelle on peut faire de bois , ou de fer blanc, ou d'autre matiere, de longueur & groſſeur d'vn doigt, & caue. a. c. monſtrent le corps & longueur de ladite canule. b. l'extremité ſuperieure, qui eſt plate & plus large que le corps. d. la partie externe d'icelle extremité. il s'appliquera par ſa partie ſuperieure platte contre le conduit de l'y- rine, laquelle paſſera au trauers, & ainſi pourra vriner debout ſans s'accroupir. figure dudit inſtrument ou canule pour ceux qui ont perdu la verge, qu'on peut nommer vretere. l'artifice de mettre vn poulcier ou doigtier. ch a p. x. $ſ& o r s qu'vn nerf ou tendon ſont entierement coupez , l'action qu'ils faiſoient ſe perd, & par- #$ tant la partie demeure manque à flechir ou eſtendre, & quelquesfois peut eſtre aydée par l'ar- tifice du chirurgien. ce que i'ay fait à vn gentil-homme qui eſtoit à monſeigneur le con- & neſtable, lequel receut vn coup de coutelas le iour de la bataille de dreux pres la jointure de la main dextre partie externe, de ſortes que les tendons qui eſleuent le poulce, furent du tout coupez, dont ledit poulce apres la conſolidation de la playe demeura fiechy au dedans de la main ſans ſe pouuoir leuer, ſi ce n'eſtoit par le benefice de l'autre main : mais ſubit ſe retournoit à reflechir , comme auparauant, qui eſtoit cauſe que le gentil-homme ne pouuoit prendre ny tenir eſpée, dague , lance, picque, ny autres armes. or voyant ſa main eſtre quaſi inutile & priuée du maniement des g ººº º armes, il me pria luy couper le poulce, ce que ie ne luy voulus accordel : mais au contraire ie luy fis faire "sº vn inſtrument de fet blanc , dans lequel il mettoit ſon poulce. ledit inſtrument eſtoit attaché par deux la- nieres à deux petits annelets ſur la jointure de la main, ſi dextrement, que le poulce demeuroit eſleué : & par ainſi le gentil-homme pouuoit tenir eſpée, picque, lance, & autres armes. la figure t'eſt icy repreſentée hiſto're, figure d'vn poulcier de fer blanc pour tenir le poulce eſleué. · du vice des jambes dont les malades ſont appellez vari & valgi, & des iambes trop greſles. c h a p t r e x i. - cauſe du # l m'a ſemblé bon d'eſcrire vn vice dont le patient ſelon la diſpoſition eſt nommé en latinrºu, d v•e dont le # # ſçauoir eſt quand le pied eſt tourné vers le dedans : & ce vice vient quelquefois dés le ventre de la º º $ * º mere : laquelle pendant ſa groſſeſſe s'eſt tenué trop longuement aſſiſſe les iambes croisées : ou pour- oººº # ce que la mere a tel vice : ou pour la mauuaiſe figure qu'aura tenue la nourrice enuers l'enfant pour ne l'a- # ºu a - uoir tenu bien droit, ou pour auoir preſſé & tourné le pied contre la figure naturelle car les os despetits , , ,ati , enfans nouuellement nez ſont fort mols.au contraire, quand le pied eſt tourné vers la partie exterieure, on i , nomme le patient qui a tel vice valgus qui ſe fait auſſi de meſme cauſe : & l'vn & l'autre vice eſt nommé du ceſ'tt e pour vulgaire pied bot : & n'aduient pas ſeulement aux pieds , mais aux genoüils pareillement. pour remedier ruaire les à tels vices, & reduire les os en leur lieu, il les faut pouſſer en leur ſituation naturelle. et faut icy noter,que ( * . · ſi le malade eſt varus, il faut pouſſer le pied, & le tenir comme ſi on le vouloit rendre valgus.au contraire, s'il eſtoit valgus,le faut pôuſſer comme ſi on le vouloit rendre varus & les y faut tenir aſſez long-temps,afin que les os puiſſent demeurer en leur deüe ſituation. car où l'on ſe contenteroit de remettre ſeulement les os en leur place, ils retourneroient en leur premier vice. parquoy il faut dauantage les pouſſer, & les y faut tenir , tant par bandages & compreſſes appliquées au lieu vers lequel tend le vice, comme auſſi par petites botines propres à ce faire,leſquelles ſeront de l'eſpeſſeur d'vn teſton,faites de cuir boüilly, & fendues par le deuant & ſous le pied , afin qu'elles s'ouurent mieux pour y mettre le pied, & ſeront liées & attachées com- modément : & y ſera appliqué ce remede, qui en tel cas eſt excellent, - .thuris, d'adjouſter ce qui defaut. # ! # * #s l# d /.thuris, maſtiches, aloes, boli armenix an. .j.aluminis rocha, reſinz pini ſiccx ſubtiliſſimè pulue- riſatorum an. .iij. far volatilis . j.É. albumina ouorum q.f. fiat medicam. on y peut adiouter de la there- benthine, de peur qu'il ne ſe deſſeiche trop. il faut icy noter qu'on ne doit aucunement faire cheminer les s)uand on enfans vares & valges, que premierement les jointures ne ſoient bien affermies, de peur qu'ils ne ſe deſ doit faire boitent derechef. et lors qu'on voudra les faire marcher, on leur baillera des ſouliers aſſez hauts comme # las des demies botines, & lacez par le deuant, ou attachez à vn petit crochet, & qu'ils ſoient de cuir aſſez # &° ſolide, à fin de tenir toufiours les os fermes ſur leur jointure,& qu'ils ſoient contraints d'y demeurer : & algºta faut faire que la ſemelle ſoit plus haute du coſté où le vice eſt enclin, à ſe tourner,à fin de le faire renuer- ſer du coſté qu'il ne ſera neceſſaire comme tu vois par cette figure. pourtraitt de deux petites botines, l'vne ouuerte, & l'autre cloſe. les moyens d'accommoder des mains, bras & jambes artificielles , au lieu de ceux qui auront efté coupez. a - c h a p t r e x i i. nmaneceſſité nous a contraints à chercher les moyens d'imiter nature, & ſupplier au defaut ， des membres déperdus, comme tu verras aux membres artificiels. les figures & pourtrais des mains, bras & jambes qui s'enſuiuent, repreſentent les mouuemens volontaires d'auſ- - }ſi pres qu'il eſt poſſible à l'art d'enfuiure nature. car flexion & extenſion ſe peuuent faire #par bras & jambes artificiellement faictes ſur ces pourtraicts: leſquelsj'ay pº grande prie- - #dre recouuert, dvn nommé le petit lorrain, serrurier demeurant à paris » homme de bon l, petitlor- eſprit, auec les noms & explication de chacune partie deſdicts poutraicts , faites en propres termes : & rain , inge- mots de l'artiſan: afin que chacun serrurier ou horlogeur les puiſſe bien entendre, & faire bras ou jambes nºuss . artificielles ſemblables ， qui ſeruent non ſeulement à l'action des parties coupées » mais auſſi à la beauté & rier. - ornement d'icelles, comme on peut cognoiſtre & voir par les figures ſuiuantes. • ， cc c pourtraiſi o le vingt-troiſiéme liure, pourtraict de la main artificielle. a deſcription de la main defer. pignons ſeruans à vn chacun doigt, qui ſont de la piece meſme des doigts : adiouſtez & aſſemblez dedans le dos de la main. broche de fer qui paſſe par le milieu deſdicts pignons, en laquelle ils tour- ilcili. gaſchettes pour tenir ferme vn chacun doigt. eſtoqueaux , ou arreſts deſdittes gaſ- chettes , au meilleu deſquelles § cheuilles pour arreſter leſdictes gaſ- chettes. la grande gaſchette pour ouurir les quatre petites gaſchettes qui tiennent b les doigts fermez. le bouton de la queiie de la grande gaſchette, lequel ſi on pouſſe, la main s ol l i i . le reſſort qui eſt deſſous la grande gaſchette ſeruant à la faire retourner en ſon lieu, & tenant la main fermée. les reſſorts de chacun doigt, qui rame- nn nent & font ouurir les doigts d'eux- ) ) meſmes, quandils ſont fermez. ') les lames des doigts. %/ - \! #$ la figure ſuiuante te monſtre le dehors de la main, & le moyen de l'attacher au bras & à la manche du pourpoint. d'adjouſter ce qui defaut. le bracelet de fer pour la forme du bras. l'arbre mis au dedans du grand reſſort pour le tendre, le grand reſſort qui eſt au coude, lequel doit eſtre d'acier trempé : & de trois pieds de longueur ou plus, le roquet. - la gaſchette. le reſſort qui poſe ſur la gaſchette,& arreſte les dents du roquet. le clou à viz pour fermer le reſſort. - le tournant de la hauſſe dé l'auant-bras, qui eſt au deſſus du coude, la trompe du gantelet fait à tournant auec le canon de l'auant-bras qui eſt à la main ; leſquels ſeruent à faire la main prone & ſupine t c'eſt aſçauoir prone vers la terre, & ſupine vers le ciel. autre pourtraitt. d'vne main faicte de cuir boüilly, ou papier colé, les doits tenans vne plume pour eſcrire,propre à celuy qui auroites la main du tout coupée & amputée (le malade mettant ſon moignon dedans le plus auant qu'il pourra) laquelle s'attache à la manche du pourpoinct par certains trous que tu vois en la figure. $> (º m) º»aº [ semblablement quand à quelqu'vn par vne playe les tendons & nerfs de deſſus la main ſeront coupez,qui fait que le malade ne peut leuer la main, demeurant quaſi inutile : elle ſera tenue eſleuée par cét inſtrument fait de fer blanc , couuert de taffetas,ou autre choſe, & ſera poſé ſous la main joignant la premiere jointure des doigts : puis attaché par deſſus le carpe. cela fait, que la main demeure droite, de façon que le malade s'en ayde par le moyen dudit inſtrument, qu'on peut nommer dreſſe-main. le bout decét inſtrument qui eſt rond, ſe doit mettre contre la premiere jointure des doigts, & l'autre bout contre le carpe, & ſera ſerré par les liens fort ou peu ſerrez, ainſi qu'il ſera neceſſaire. - figure du dreſſe- main. pourtraict le vingt-troiſiéme liure, | : # - la jambe, miſe au deuant dugenouil. )) d) pourtraict des iambes artificielles. deſcription de la iambe de bois. o le lien par lequel on tire l'anneau de la gaſchette, pour plier la jambe. § le cuiſſot auec les cloux à viz , & les trous deſdits cloux pour eſlargir ou eſtendre ſur la cuiſſe qui ſera dedans. la pomme pour poſer & appuyer la main deſſus, & ſe tourner. le petit anneau qui eſt au deuant de la cuiſſe , pour dreſſer & conduire la jambe où l'on veut. les deux boucles de deuant, & celle de derriere, pour tenir & attacher au corps du pourpoint. , le petit fonds au bas,dedans lequel ſe met la cuiſſe iuſques à deux doigts pres du bout. " a ſeruant auſſi à faire la beauté & forme de la ! jambe. b le reſſort pour faire mouuoir la gaſchette qui ferme la jambe. la gachette qui tient le baſton de la jam- be droit & ferme, de peur qu'il ne renuerſe. l'anneau auquel eſt attachée vne corde pour tirer la gaſchette, afin que le baſton ſe puiſſe plier, lors que l'on ſe fied, & que l'on eſt à cheual. la charniere pour faire ioüer & mouuoir o vn petit eſtoqueau ou arreſt pour garder que la gaſchette ne paſſe outre le cuiſſot : car ſi elle paſſoit outre, le reſſort ſe romproit, & ' l'homme tomberoit. la virolle de fer, dedans laquelle le ba- ſton eſt inſeré. l'autre virolle au bout du baſton, qui porte la charniere à faire mouuoir le pied. vn reſſort pour faire remettre & rejetter le pied en ſa place. l'arreſt qui ſera au reſſors pour rejetter le pied en bas. iambe reueſtue, lames pour la beauté du genouil. la greue pour la beauté & forme de la jambe. le gras pour acheuer la forme de la jambe. lames pour former le coup de pied. figure d'vne iambe de bois pour les pauures. deſcription de la figure de la jambe de bois pour les pauures. a a repreſente l'arbre de la jambe. b b les deux fourchons pour inſerer la cuiſſe , dont le plus court ſe doit mettre dedans jambe. · c c te monſtre le couſinet, lequel ſe met pour ſupportet mol- lement le genouil ſur la rondeur de l'arbre. d d sont les courroyes auec boucles tranſuerſantes en deux en- droits les fourchons de la cuiſſe pour la ſerrer & tenir entre iceux. • par e, t'eſt marquée la cuiſſe, afin de t'enſeigner la poſition d'i- celle ſur la jambe de bois. e figure d'adjouſter ce qui defaut. - $ n - le moyen de faire aller droict vne perſonne qui ſeroit boiteux , à raiſon de l'accroiſſement de la jambe, | #l, # ) | - - e> -- a # figure d'vne bande pour ayder à leuer le pied. l^ ) - d'abondant, il aduient ſouuent, que pour auoir receu quel- que coup d'eſpée, ou autre inſtrument trenchant aux tendons, & nerfs de la jambe, le malade apres la conſolidation ne peut qu'à bien grande peine marcher & leuer le pied , le trainant en arrie- re, comme eftant à demy paralytique. pour remedier à cét acci- dent, le malade aura vn chauſſon au pied auquel ſera attachée vne bande marquée par a a , icelle faite de toile large de trois doigts, laquelle ſera fendue au milieu de la jambe , afin qu'elle paſſe aux coſtez du genoüil , attachée fermement aux œillets du pourpoint , afin de tenir le pied eſleué lors que le malade che- mine. la figure eſt telle. \ c h a p. - # par quelque accident la jambe demeuroit courte, dont le malade ſeroit boiteux : a tel ſymptome faudra vſer de cét inſtrument, dit potence à ſiege, laquelle eſt faicte de tel artifice, que l'on pourra facilement aller droict & bien à l'aiſe, eu eſgard à la grandeur de l'inconuenient : de laquelle poten- ce e t'ay voulu donner le pourtraict accommodé à la perſonne,tant par deuant que par derriere. c figure d'vn homme boiteux ſitué ſur vne potence de grand artifice, laquelle i'ay recouuert de maiſtre nicolas picard chirurgien de cmonſeigneur le duc de lorraine. $ # $ - z - ， % # % ## ' =â # # \% é| |\% # % *_º % ,| | - - # % #% || # #| v% #||| # \% \| / :% é%|% | = # es |# $ e =i %. - a - > ^#$ |à e =ès* | ºſ "#= llº á% #= | il a monſtre l'arbre de la potence, lequel eſt de bois. b le ſiege qui eſt de fer, lequel embraſſe la cuiſſe le long du ply de la feſſe. c c c l ll( p llz- il | / ， c l'arc le vingt-troiſiéme liure, l'arc-boutant qui ſouſtient ledit ſiege. - - - l'eſtrier de fer,ſur lequel eſt posée la plante du pied, lequel eſt crochu, afin de tenir le pied ſujet- l'arc-boutant dudit eſtrier. vn fer à pluſieurs pointes pour tenir la potence qu'elle ne gliſſe. la croix de la potence, laquelle ſe met ſous l'aiſſelle. . ceux qui auront perdu leurs cheueux, pour auoir eu la tigne, pelade, ou d'autre cauſe , auront vne fauſſe perruque. auſſi les femmes qui auront leurs cheueux argentez , de peur d'eſtre eſtimées vieilles por- teront, de ratepenades, deſquelles à preſent elles ſe ſçauent bien accouſtrer & farder , pour ſouuent dece- uoir les hommes. et auſſi pour ſe monſtrer plus grandes qu'elles ne ſont , portent des patins à la façon des femmes italiennes, & d'eſpagne. elles font auſſi plufieurs autres choſes pour tromper les hommes, queiene veux icy deſcrire, de peur d'encourir leur mauuaiſe grace. - fin du vingt-troiſiéme liure, traittant d'adioufterce qui defaut naturellement ou par accident. ， . # table des chapitre s - -, generation. $ # o vrqvo r les parties generatiues ſont accompagnées de grand plaiſir. •$ $ # de quelle qualité eſt la ſemence dont eſt engendré le maſle & la femelle. n # pourquoy les femelles des beſtes brutes, apres eſtre empreintes, ne deſirent plu de s'accou- - pler aux maſles. chap. iij. # $ # la maniere d'habiter & faire generation. chap. iv. les ſignes que la femme aura conceu, & eſt groſſe d'enfant. chap. v. comment la matrice ſe reſſerre ſi toſt que la ſemence y eſt jettée & retenuë, chap. vj. c de la generation du nombril. chap. vij. " des vaiſſeaux qui ſont au nombril de l'enfant. chap. viij. du vingt-quatriéme liure de la chapitre j. chap. ij- de l'ebullition des ſemences à lamatrice, & des trois ampoulles qui ſont les lieux des trois membres princi- paux, à ſçauoir, le foye, le cœur, & le cerueau. chap.ix- de la troiſieſme ampoulle où la teſte ſe forme. chap. x. de l'ame. chap. xj. des excremens naturels, & de ceux que iette l'enfant en la ma ice de ſa mere. chap. xij- comme l'enfant eſtant à terme, s'efforce de ſortir bors du ventre de ſa mere, & de ſa natiuité. chap. xiij. de la ſituation de l'enfant au ventre de la mere. chap xiv. du temps commode ou incommode de la nat，uité de l'enfant. - chap. xv. les ſignes de la femme de bien toſt enfanter. chap. xvj. ce qu'il faut faire à l'enfant ſubit qu'il eſt nay. chap.xvij. de la maniere d'extraire l'arriere-faix apres l'enfantement. ghap. xviij- ce qu'on doit bailler a l'enfant par la bouche deuant que luy donner à tetter. chap.xix. de l'eſle:lion d'vne bonne nourrice. chap.xx. de quelle qualité doit eſtre choiſie la nourrice. chap. xxj. de l'aage de la nourrice, chap. xxij. de # du corps de la nourrice. (.'.) chap. xxiij. d des mœurs de la nourrice. chap.xxiv. des mammelles, & de la poictrine de la nourrice. chap. xxv. de la nature du laict de la nourrice. chap.xxvj. de la diſtance du temps que la nourrice a enſanté, & du ſexe deſon enfant. chap. xxvij. du regime de la nourrice. chap. xxviij. comme l'on doit accouſtrer la boüillie du petit enfant. , chap. xxix. en quel temps il faut ſevrer l'enfant. chap. xxx. les ſignes pourcognoiſtre ſi l'enfant eſt viuant ou mort au ventre de la mere. chap.xxxj. de la maniere de bienſituer la femme pour luy extraire l'enfant. chap.xxxij. de la maniere de tirer les enfans hors le ventre de la mere, tant morts que vinant. chap,xxxiij. ce qu'il faut faire à la femmeſubit qu'elle eſt accouchée. chap. xxxiv. ce qu'il faut faire anx tetins de la nouuelle accouchée. chap.xxxv. des cauſes de la difficulté d'enfanter. des cauſes de l'auortement des femmes. des moyens de ſuruenir à l'enfant, la mere morte. de la ſuperfetation, c'eſt à dire, conception reiterée, ou ſurengendrée. chap. xxxvj. chap. xxxvij. chap xxxviij. chap. xxxix. de · table. 'a delamºl engendrée en la matrice, appellée des femmes, mauuais germe, chap. xl. des ſignes pour cognoiſtre vnemole d'auec vn enfant. chap. xlj, cure de la mofe, chap. xlij. de la ſterilité, qui eſt defaut d'engendrer aux hommes. chap. xliij. de la ſterilité & fecondité des femmes. chap. xliv. - les ſignes de la matrice intemperée. chap. xlv. de la precipitation ou peruerſion de la matrice. (.') chap. xlvi. cure de la precipitation de la matrice. chap. xlvij. comme il faut ſituer la femme lors que la matrice eſt tombée. chap. xlviij. de la membrane appellée hymen. hap. xlix. hiſtoire memorable de iean vuier, de la membrane appellée hymen. chap. l. de phimon. chap. lj. de la ſuffocation de la matrice, appellée des femmes le mal de la mere,& des cauſes. chap. lij. les ſignes que toſt la femme aura ſuffocation de matrice. chap. liij. les ſignes pour cognoiſtre ſi vne femme eſt morte, ounon, par vne ſuffocation de marrice. chap. liv. les differences de ſuffocation de matrice. chap. lv. les ſignes pour cognoiſtre ſi la ſuffocation vient par la ſemence retenue & corrompue, & non ºu ſang - menſtruel. chap. lvj. b cure de la ſuffocation de la matrice. chap. lvij. du flux menſtruel des femmes. * chap. lviij. pourquoy nature a faitt que la femme a vn flux menſtruel. (.') chap. lix. la cauſe des menſtrues aux femmes. - chap. lx. les cauſes pourquoy le flux menſtruel eſt retenu aux femmes. chap. lxj. les ſ# #º que les menſtrues ſont retenues, & les maladies & accidens qui en aduiennent. chap. lxij. des §pour prouoquer le flux menſtruel aux femmes. chap. lxiij. les ſignes que les mois veulent couler auxfemmes & filles. chap. lxiv. les accidens qui viennent aux flux du ſang menſtruel immoderé. chap. lxv. le moyen d'arreſter le flux menſtruel exceſſif. chap. lxvj. les remedes #º qu'on doit appliquer en la matrice pour eſtancher le flux de ſang immoderé. chap. lxvii. duflux # #.fleurs blanches. " chap. lxviij. cauſes des fleurs blanches. chap. lxix. cure du flux muliebre ou fleurs blanches. chap. lxx. des pales couleurs. (.'.) chap. lxxj. cºº battement de cœur. - | chap. lxxij. zbourſoufleure. chap. lxxiij. ' appetit corrompu & depraué. chap. lxxiv. nausée & vomiſſement. chap.lxxv. friſſons & rigueurs. (.".) chap. lxxvj. des ſouſpirs , gemiſſemens & ris. chap. lxxvij. reſueries. - chap. lxxviij. de l'euanouiſſement. chap. lxxix. · de la fiévre erratique. chap. lxxx. soif & alterations. (-'à chap. lxxxj. du veiller. chap.lxxxij. cure. chap. lxxxiij. des hemorroides qui naiſſent au col de la matrice. chap. lxxxiv. des verrués qui viennent au col de la matrice. chap. lxxxv. de thym eſpece de verrué. chap. lxxxvj. res rhagadies & condilomes. chap. lxxxvij. du prurit de la matrice. chap. lxxxviij. de l'hydropiſie de la matrice. (.'.) chap. lxxxix. de l'inflamation de la matrice. - chap. xc. . p des pierres & ſables contenu en lamatrice. chap.xcj. du col de lamatrice trop large, trop ouuert c trºp lubrique. chap. xcj- de la relation du gros inteſtin qui ſe fait aux femmes. - chap. xcuj. de la relation & enfleure du nombril qui ſe faitt aux enfant. chap. xciv. de la douleur des dents des petits enfans. * chap. xcv. l e in m e l i v r e , t r a i c t a n t d e la g e n e r ati on de l homme, recueilly des anciens & modernes. , par am b r o s e pare de laual au maine, conſeillier, & premier chirurgien du roy. p r e f a c e. gal. au . ， e i e v le createur de toutes choſes : au commencement du monde, par vn conſeil liu de l'vſa- # x ( # indicible & prudence ineſtimable; a creé non ſeulement en l'eſpece humaine, mais sºdº par- # $ · nnnv) auſſi en toutes eſpeces d'animaux,deux ſexes:l'vn maile,l'autre femelle : leſquels par iiº . $e z $ ,, certains allechemens de volupté ſe conioindroyent enſemble pour la generation de # # w leur ſemblable, à cauſe de la condition ineuitable de mort à tous indiuidus ani- # # \ maux, que la volonté diume leur auoit ordonnée. en cette conionction voluptueuſe ($\@)/{!y l'homme & la femme, principalement au ſacré mariage, jettent leurs ſemences.leſ- » < \ $ quelles jointes l'vne auec l'autre,ſont receüs & conſeruées en la matrice de la fem- )u'eſt-te • - me. or la ſemence eſt vn humeur eſcumeux , plein d'eſprit viuifiant, qui la faict que la #. boüillonner & accroiſtre en la matrice : & ſont leſdictes ſemences, la matiere & la forme naturelle de l'en- / c / / - - - - - - - r - - - - §" fant, faict du ſangle plus pur de la maſſe ſanguinaire.la virile eſtant jettée en la matrice , ſe fait principe & cauſe effectiue de la generation de l'animal. icelle ſemence doit eſtre blanche, ſplendide & claire : gluti- neuſe, globulente, & l'odeur de ſureau, ou de palme, & appetée des mouſches, deſcendante au fond de l'eau : car ſi elle nage deſſus, elle ſera infeconde. ºſº .. or la plus grande partie d'icelle vient du cerueau, mais le total procede de tout le corps vniuerſel, & de # *" chacune partie, tant ſolide que molle. car c'eſt choſe manifeſte que ſi ellene venoit de tout le corps les par- rps. ties de l'enfant n'en pourroient eſtre faictes, parce qu'il faut que toutes les parties ſoient faictes de leur ſem- blables. et cecy eſt prouué par la ſimilitude ou ſemblance des enfans aux peres & meres,& parl'imbecillité de certains membres:car ſi le pere ou mere ont le cerueau ou foye,poulmon,eſtomach,ou autre partie debile, l'enfant le plus ſouuent tient de cette debilité,& meſme eſt ſubject à certaines maladies hereditaires, tant du corps que de l'eſprit. or il faut icy entendre, que lors que les anciens ont dit la ſemence venir de toutes les parties du corps,il ne le faut entendre de la matiere : car elle eſt tirée de la maſſe ſanguinaire, mais auec icelle l'eſprit animal, vital, naturel, & les idées de la vertu formatrice d'vne chacune des parties ſont tirées de gal. de vſº tout le corps en general, & parties d'iceluy. et qu'il ne ſoit ainſi, nous voyons ceux auſquels on a coupé vn part lim. . bras ou vne jambe, ou autre partie, auoir toutesfois des enfans bien formez.or la ſemence attize & allume ehap. . le deſir d'habiter,& cauſe vn plaiſir delectable,& principalement à l'emiſſion d'icelle,de crainte que l'homme, de ſoybraue & fier, ne deſdaignaſt vn acte tel que ſemble l'accouplement charnel, & par ce moyen ne ſe ſouciaſt de perpetuer ſon nom à la poſterité par lignée procreée de ſon corps, & de peur que la ſemence galibid. ne fuſt jettée en autre lieu qu'en la matrice. Èt afin que la generation fut faicte, les maſles ayans compagnie ****° ' de la femelle, les parties genitales de l'vn & de l'autre s'eſtendent de toutes parts : aux maſſes la verge,pour jetter droict la ſemence en la capacité de la matrice : & aux femelles, le col de la matrice, qui pour la rece- uoir s'ouure & eſlargit, & ſe tient droict pour auſſi vuider ſa ſemence,qui eſt enuoyée par les vaiſſeauxſper- matiques aux teſticules, tant de l'homme que de la femme : leſquels vaiſſeaux font pluſieurs retours,reuolu- tions & replis comme capreoles de vignes, afin que dans ces entortilleures & anfractuoſitez le ſang & eſprit enuoyez aux teſticules ſoient cuits & digerez par ſi long chemin,& partant elabourez & blanchis enſubſtan- ce ſeminale : & ſe terminent ces dernieres entortilleures aux teſticules, qui ſont de ſubſtance rare, laxe & gal. chap. . ſpongieuſe, receuans cét humeur qui ja a commencé d'eſtre cuit aux vaiſſeaux , & l'acheuent de cuire en de vſu part plus grande perfection, luy donnant les qualitez, forme & eſſence requiſe pour la generation de l'animal. or la ſemence eſt rendué blanche par la faculté des teſticules qui ſont blancs. le maſle jette la ſemence hors de ſon corps, & la femelle dedans le ſien , par les vaiſſeaux ſpermatiques qui ſont implantez dans la ca- paeité interne de ſa matrice. - - pourquoy les parties generatiues ſont accompagnées d'vn grand plaiſir. c h a p i t r e p r e m e r. gal. an liu. de vſu part chap . # v s * g * des parties generatiues eſt accompagné d'vn tres - grand plaiſir, & aux animaux qui - #º ſont en la fleur de leur aage,certaine rage & cupidité furieuſe procede dudit vſage : ce que natu- #$re a ordonné , afin que l'eſpece demeure à iamais incorruptible & eternelle, par la multiplication º de ſes indiuidus : & partant nature a voulu que les animaux fuſſent aiguillonnez d'vn ardeur & enuie extreme de ſe coupler enſemble, & qu'à ce deſir fuſt conjoincte vne grande & cbatouilleuſe volupté, «fin d'autant qu'ils u'ont point de raiſon, ils fuſſent neantmoins par l'aiguillon du plaiſir, incitez à ſe mettre €f de la generation. *. a en deuoir pour conſevwer & maintenir leur genre & eſpece. pline dit que tous animaux ont certains temps limitez de charger & porter leurs petits, toutesfois l'homme ſeul n'a aucun temps ny terme prefix liu. . ch. ou definy, mais vient au monde en tout temps. outre que nature a donné aux parties genitales vn grand ſentiment, plus aigu & vif qu'à nulle autre partie, par le moyen des nerfs qui ſont † partant nul ne ſe doit eſmerueiller pourquoy à leur action elles ſentent plus grande delectation & plaiſir. or d'abondant " il y a vne certaine humeur ſereuſe ſemblable à la ſemence, mais plus liquide & ſubtile, contenue dedans les proſtates, qui ſont deux glandules ſituées au commencement du col de la veſſie,& aux femmes au fond de la matrice par les vaiſſeaux ſpermatiques. icelle humeur a vne petite acrimonie picquante,& aiguillonnante, auec vn petit prurit & demangeaiſon, qui irrite les parties à faire leur action, en donnant volupté & plaiſir, parce qu'elle eſt accompagnée de grande quantité d'eſprits qui s'eſchauffent & deſirent à ſortir hors. et pour exemple, comme lors qu'il y a en vne partie de noſtre corps quelques humeurs aigres ou acres accumulées . ſous lecuir , qui chatoüillent & demangent, elles inuitent à ſe gratter, & en ſe grattant on en a vn grand plaifir. ainſi les parties genitales qui ont vn plus grand ſentiment que celles de la peau , eſtant aiguillon- hipp liu de nées de cét eſprit, ſentent vn plus grand plaiſir, principalement à l'heure du coit. pareillement lors que la genera- ' ladite humeur ſort auec la ſemence, on ſent vn extreme & incomparable plaiſir & volupté : & telle choſe a tion. eſté faicte par dame nature, de peur que la ſemence ne fuſt jettée hors la matrice pour le deſir qu'elle a gal. iºiº. à faire generation dauantage cette humeur outre qu'elle donnent enuie de s'aſſembler, & s'aſſemblant don- *** ne vn grand plaiſir, elle arrouſe & moüille le canal de l'vrine contre l'acrimonie dicelle : autrement qui conſidereroit le conduit du champ de nature humaine, & les immondices qui paſſent par iceluy, & ſes deux voiſins le boyau cullier & la veſſie, iamais l'homme ne voudroit s'accoupler auec la femme : de l'autre co- ſté, ſi la femne auoit eſgard au mal, qu'elle doit auoir de porter l'enfant neuf mois en ſon ventre, & l'extre- me douleur d'enfanter , iamais ne deſireroit d'auoir compagnie d'homme. nonobſtaut tout cela , il y a des hommes qui vſent intempeſtiuement du coit , pour l'appetence excitée par la memoire du plaiſir & de la vo- lupté, & n'eſtant detenue de la ratiocination,enflamme & allume le ſang & les eſprits,leſquels eſchauffez ex- citent ce plaiſir lubrique, tellement que pluſieurs en vſent ſans reigle & immoderénent : bien ſouuent au lieu de ſemenee jettent vn humeur demy-cuit & ſanguinolent, voire le ſang tout pur, dont la mort s'enſuit: car la concupiſcence & l'appetit deſordonné ſont ſi grands , que bien ſouuent il contraignent nature de ſortir hors de ſes bornes & limites. or il aduient quelquesfois difficulté d'vriner pour auoir trop vsé du choſe digne coit, pour la conſomption de cette humeur glaireuſe , dont les parties dediées à l'vrine ont eſté trop deſſei- à nºter. chées : à tels pour les faires vriner, faut jetter de l'huile auec la ſyringue dedans la verge. et pour retourner à noſtre propos, pour bien habiter auec les femmes, il faut que la verge de l'homme ſoit bien fermement . tendué, afin que la ſemence par ſon canal ſoit jettée au loing dedans la matrice : & eſtoit neceſſaire qu'à l'emiſſion d'icelle, ledit canal demeuraſt fort droict & fort large,afin que promptement & ſans intermiſſion, elle fuſt jettée au profond de la matrice : car ſi elle tardoit en chemin elle ſe refroidiroit,& par euaporation gal.liu. , de ſes eſprits ſeroit rendue infeconde. or la verge ſe dreſſe par le moyen du ſang & eſprits flatulens,& pour de vſu part. cette cauſe eſt composée d'vne partie nerueuſe, ſpongieuſe & caue : la matrice a vne faculté propre d'attirer ch.i. & - la ſemence du maſle à elle par ſon conduit ou emboucheure : & par deux autres conduits qui ſont ſes cor- nes (où ſont les vaiſſeaux ſpermatiques ) eſt iettée la ſemence de la femme en la cauité de ſa matrice : leſ- quelles cornes ont eſté faites pour tirer la ſemence de ſes propres teſticules, leſquels ſont fort petits, & beaucoup moindres que ceux des hommes : à cette cauſe ne ſont ſi chauds ne vigoureux, & ainſi leur ſemen- ce eſt plus froid & humide que celle de l'homme, & partant meſlée auec celle de l'homme, ſe tempere : auſſil'orifice de la matrice s'ouure à l'emiſſion de ſa ſemence,pareillement afin que celle de l'homme entre en ſa cauité : & iamais la conception ne ſe fait, que les deux ſemences, ne concourent enſemble en vn meſine inſtant, & que la matiere ne ſoit bien diſposée, & que les deux ſemences de l'vn & de l'autre ne ſoient bien elabourées par bonne concoction. et s'il y a plus grande quantité & qualité plus vigoureuſe de ſemence de l'homme , il ſe fera vn maſle : au contraire, ſi la ſemence de la femme ſurmonte celle de l'homme tant en lamais la quantité qu'en vertu, il ſe fera vne fenelle : car comme vne grande lumiere obſcurciſt la petite, pareille-ººº ment la vertu eftant plus forte & plus grande des ſemences,la moindre cede toutesfois, & en la femme il y a * # eniture , tant pour engendrer maſle que femelle. qu'il ſoit vray, il y a pluſieurs femmes qui n'ont eu de # eurs premiers maris que des filles ſeulement,leſquelles depuis eſtans remariées à d'autres maris, n'ont faict ( c a ? que des fils. et auſſi meſnes les maris, deſquels les femmes ne faiſoient que des filles,& eſtans remariez à enſemble. d'autres femmes , on engendré des maſles : & autres qui ne faiſoient que des maſles, on engendré des fil- ily a en l'hā. les eſtant remariez à d'autres femmes. et pour le dire en vn mot, tant en la femme qu'en l'homme eſt conte- me & en la nuë ſemence maſculine & feminine. toutesfois il faut entendre,qu'il ne ſe produit pas touſiours en vn hom- femme ſe- me, vne ſemence pour engendrer vn fils, ny auſſi pour faire vne fille : mais cela varie ſelon la varieté de º # l'aage & façon de viure : ce qu'on void preſque ordinairement,ainſi eſt-il de la femme. parquoy nul ne ſe culine & fe- doit eſmerueiller, de ce qu'vn meſme homme auec vne meſme femme, engendrent tantoſt vn enfant maſle " & tantoſt vne femelle. d -- de quelle qualité eſt la ſemence dont eſt engendré le maſle & la femelle. c h a p t r e i i. # l eſt certain que la ſemence plus chaude & plus ſeiche engendre le mafle, & la plus froi hip ºu li.de )de & humide la femelle : car il y a beaucoup moins de vertu au froid qu'au chaud : ainſi ºº** p% l'humidité eſt de moindre efficace que la ſiccité: & c'eſt pourquoy la femelle eſt plus !ºſº # tard formée que le maſle. en la ſemence giſt la vertu creatiue & formatrice. exemplesen #( $yne graine de melon, potentiellement eſt le tronc , les branches, les fueilles, les fleurs, | i - a u# ) le fruict, la forme,la couleur, l'odeur, la ſaueur, & ſemence : ainſi eſt-il de toutes autres . : $ $ > #ſemences. ce qu'on cognoiſt auſſi aux greffes entées ſur ſauuageons , retenans la na- · ture du fruict de l'arbre , d'où ils ſon tirez. semblablement quand la ſemence du pere , ſurmonte celle de la mere lors l'enfant reſſemble au pere : & quand celle de la femme, ſurmonte celle de l'hommê , l'enfant reſſemble à la mere. toutesfois on void le plus communément les enfans reſſembler plus ºu l'imagin,. pere qu'à la mere, pour la grande imagination & ardeur qu'a la mere en la copulation charnelle : tel-ti, , cauſe de lement que l'enfant attire la forme & couleur de ce que ſi fort elle cognoiſt & imagine en ſon enten- la îmilitud« dement : comme il aduint de la royne d'ethiopie , laquelle en la copulation de ſon mary , imaginant deÂgºre. - vne • - le vingt-quatriéme liure, vne couleur fort blanche , enfanta vn fils blanc. telle choſe ſe peut encores prouuer par l'artifice de a iacob, qui mit des verges de diuerſes couleuis dans l'eau , au temps de la conjonction de ſes brebis : ce qui ſera cy - apres declaré plus au long parlant des monſtres. il aduient auſſi quelques-fois, mais rarement , que l'enfant ne reſſemble à pereny à mere : mais à quelques-vns de leurs parens , comme à leur pere & mere , grands & ayeuls : parce que naturellement la vertu des ayeuls eſt fichée & enracinée aux cœurs de ceux qui engendrent. en quoy nature reſſemble à vn peintre , qui pourtraict vne choſe au naturel , s'efforçant de faire reſſembler les enfans aux parens le plus qu'il luy eſt poſſible. les enfans ne - reſſemblent ſeulement à leurs pere & mere de corſage ( comme en ce qu'ils ſont grands ou petits, gros *º*º. ou deliez , camus ou boſſus , boiteux ou tortus ) de parler , & de maniere de cheminer : mais auſſi re- #. tiennent les maladies, auſquelles leſdits pere & mere ſont ſubjets, qu'on appelle hereditaires, comme n il ſe void aux lepreux, gouteux , epileptiques , lapidaires, ſplenetiques , aſthmatiques , & autres ſembla- h tpp.au liu. bles : parce que la femence ſuit la complexion & temperament de celuy qui engendre , cil ſorte qu vn homº- # me & vne femne bien temperez produiront vne ſemence bien complexionnée. au contraire s'ils ſont regions cº intemperez , produiront vne ſemence mal complexionnée , & non propre pour engendrer vn enfant ſain «es eaux & de bonne habitude, ſuiuant la ſentence de catulle. vn chacun touſiours ſuit l'origine & ſemence de ſa nature propre. parquoy celuy qui ſera gouteux, lepreux, ou en autre diſpoſition ſuſdite : s'il s'engen- dre vn enfant, à grand peine pourra - il euader qu'il ne ſoit ſujet aux maladies du pere & de la mere : ce que toutesfois n'aduient pas touſiours , comme l'experience le monſtre , ainſi que i'ay eſcrit au liure des goutes. car on void pluſieurs eſtre vexez de gouttes & d'autres maladies , deſquelles les pere & me- re n'auoient eſté malades : & d'autres n'en eſtre iamais affligez , deſquels toutesfois les pere & mere en d ci tieat eſtoient grandement tourmentez. laquelle choſe ſe fait par la bonté de la ſemence de la femme, & tem- º ºſ perature de ſa matrice, corrigeant l'intemperature de la ſemence virile, tout ainſi que celle de l'homme #º peut corriger celle de la femme. de la vient qu'on void ſouuent par experience des enfans n'eſtre point p ſent aux ºº ºº ſujets à autres maladies hereditaires , encores que leurs pere ou mere fuſſent ſubjects à telles , enſºns. indiſpoſitions : laquelle correction ſi elle defaut à la ſemence du pere ou de la mere à grand peine les enfans peuuent - ils eſchapper qu'ils ne ſoient ſujects auſdites maladies , qui ne ſe peuuent parfaictement guarit, quelque grande diligence qu'on puiſſe faire : parce qu'elles ont pris leur habitude auec les principes de la generation de l'enfant. - - plutarque au liure intitulé , pourquoy la iuſtice diuine differe quelques fois la punition des ma- lefices , dit que heſiode conſeille de n'engendrer point enfant quand l'on a eſté aux obſeques & funerailles des trépaſſez, nais bien apres auoit eſté en quelque magnifique banquet, & comedies ioyeuſes,car combien que la ſemence & geniture reçoiue non ſeulement la bonté ou malice de la matrice : mais auſſi elle transfe- re la ioye, la triſteſſe, & ſemblables affections en la procreation des enfans, les faiſans gays, ioyeux & gail- lards, ou melancholiques, ſelon la compoſition de la ſemence, & de la vertu imaginatiue. pourquoy les femelles des beſtes brutes, apres eſtre empreintes, ne deſirent plus de s'accoupler aux maſles. c h a p i t r e i i i. ariſt prcbl. 'e st qu'elles s'addreſſent ſeulement à ce qui s'offre , & qui eſt preſent en leur chaleur & . t, de la rut, n'ayant aucune recordation du plaiſir apres eſtre empreintes : meſmes abhorrent le coit # aprcs la conception : parce que leur imagination ne leur eſt donnée de nature que pour leur ( *j / /ºll c. eſpece, & non pour la volonté & delectation. or les maſles les vont chercher lors qu'elles - ſont en rut , à cauſe qu'il s'efleue de leur matrice vne certaine exhalation vaporeuſe, qui s'épat d en l'air , & les maſles ſentant cette odeur entrent en amour , qui fait qu'ils defirent s'accou- - pler enſemble. le contraire eſt aux femmes : car elles deſirent pour la delectation, & non ſeulement pourquºy la pour l'eſpcce, & auſſi qu'elles abondent en ſang qui les eſchauffe, quand elles s'en recordent, & que ſººº º , la vertu imaginatiue procedante du cerueau , & la concupiſcible, ou deſireuſe , du foye ( qui eſt l'vne # des plus principales cauſes d'habiter ) s'en reſſentent , ayans recordation de ce plaiſir delicieux cºufler. qu'elles ont receu au coit : & faut entendre , que la vertu concupiſcible ou deſireuſe , comman- la concupſ d° à la vertu expulſiue du cœur, lequel lors enuoye la chaleur aux parties genitales par les arteres, cence conſi & le foye par les veines, & icelle chaleur accompagnée d'eſprits vapoureux font enfler & tendre les ſte au fye parties genitales, tant aux hommes qu'aux femmes , puis par le coit la ſemence eſt expulsée. les be- ariſt ea ſes ſtes ſauuages ſont grandement furieuſes quand elles demandent les femelles : ainſi nous voyons le cerf ººººººs eſtant en rut, bramer & crier apres les biches : auſſi les aſnes en deuiennent à peu pres enragez, parce que leur membre ſort alors fort eſchauffé d'vn deſir des femelles : & tel deſir de s'accoupler les diſpoſe à | telle ire & fureur , mais auſſi apres l'accointance des femelles , ſont rendus doux & paiſibles. or commei'ay - dit cy - deſſus, il y a vne tres-grande delectation en la copulation du maſle & de la femelle, parce que c'eſt vn acte ſi abject & immonde, que s'il n'eſtoit accompagnée d'vn tel plaiſir delicieux , tous animaux natu- rellement le fuyroient & l'auroient en horreur , ce qui cauſeroit en bref la conſommarian des eſpeces : mais nature s'exerçant volontiers en telle voluptueufe titillation, fait que chacune eſpece eſt conſeruée, & de plus en plus eſt augmentée. •. - les choſes neceſſaires à la generation. - potºr cc / - . - - a - - - - - - - plir l'affe trois choſes ſont neceſſaires à la generation : la premiere, l'excrement humide & benin, qui vient la venerien, il plus grande part du cerueau : la ſeconde , ventoſitez pleines d'eſprits vitaux , qui procedent du cœur , qui eſt requis cauſe diſtenſion & erection des parties genitales : la troiſieſme eſt vne concupiſcence & appetit naturel, le- trois chºſes : quel prend ſa ſource du foye : de là s'épand par les parties genitales. d'abondant faut que l'obiect plaiſe , & ººº ºº ſoit deſiré tant de la part de l'homme que de la feinme : ſi l'vne de ces choſes manqucnt , les perſonnes tºſité # hu- ſont impuiſſantes. , , j • • º | l | v>e la generation. | . a - la maniere d'habiter & faire generation. 'h o m m e eſtant couché auec ſa compagne & eſpouſe, la doit mignarder,chatoüiller, careſſer & ce ch.eſt pris eſmouuoir, s'il trouuoit qu'elle fuſt dure à l'eſperon : & le cultiueur n'entrera dedans le champ de de gºrdon nature humaine à l'eſtourdy, ſans que premierement il n'aye fait ſes approches , qui ſe feront en la liu . ch. . baiſant, & luy parlant du jeu des dames rabbatuës , auſſi en maniant ſes parties genitales, & petits lequel , i'ay mammelons,afin qu'elle ſoit aiguillônée & titillée tant qu'elle ſoit eſpriſe des deſirs du maſle(qui eſt lors que exprimé le ſa matrice luy fretille)afin qu'elle prenne volonté & appetit d'habiter & faire vne petite creature de dieu & # # que les deux ſemences ſe puiſſent rencontrer enſemble : car aucunes femmes ne ſont pas ſi promptes à ce jeu # que les hommes, et pour encore auancer la beſongne , la femme fera vne fomentation d'herbes chaudes, # poſº cuites en bon vin ou maluoiſie, à ſes parties genitales , & mettra pareillement dedans le col de la matrice vn peu de muſc & ciuette:& lors qu'elle ſentira eſtre aiguillonnée & eſmeue, le dira à ſon mary : donc ſe join- dront enſemble,& accompliront leur jeu doucement , attendant l'vn l'autre, faiſant plaiſir à ſon compagnon. quand les deux ſemences ſeront jettées, l'homme ne doit promptement ſe deſioindre, afin que l'air n'entre en la matrice,& n'altere les ſemences,& qu'elles ſe mixtionnent mieux l'vne auec l'autre, & ſubit que l'hom- me ſera deſcendu,la femme ſe doit tenir coy,& croiſer & † les cuiſſes & jambes, les tenant doucement rehauſſées,de peur que par le mouuement & ſituation decline de l'amarry, la ſemence ne s'eſcoule hors,pour leſquelles meſmes raiſons il faut qu'elle ne parle, ne touſſe,ny eſternuë, & qu'elle dorme promptement apres s'il luy eſt poſſible. ainſi dieu donna à l'homme la femme pour ſon ayde & compagne & mit à l'vn & à l'au- tre vne vertu d'amour,& vn deſir d'engendrer lignée,ayant preparé en eux vne humeur & eſprit inflatil,auec inſtrumens conuenables à tel vſage. et à celle fin que l'vn ne dedaignaſt l'attouchement de l'autre, il b adiouſta en eux certains allechemens & façons de faire attractiues,auec vn appetit&mutuel embraſſement, afin que quand il conuiendroient, il leur aduint de receuoir vn ſouëf & delicieux plaiſir. car de vray ſi cela n'eſtoit infus de nature en toutes eſpeces d'animaux, de pouruoir à la poſterité & tendre à generation : veri- tablement tout le genre humain periroit & viendroit à neant & ne pourroit longuement ſubſiſter. puis donc que telle affection eſt ſi forte & difficile à dompter, dieu a permis à ceux qui ne peuuent moderer leurs con- noitiſes,& qui ſont deſpourueu du don de continence,le lict de mariage:afin qu'ils puiſſent ſe contenir de- dans les bornes d'iceluy , & ſe point contaminer par vne paillardiſe çà & là vagabonde. •- les ſignes que la femme aura congeu, & eſt groſſe d'enfant. c h a p. v. # e s ſignes par leſquels la femme ſera aſſeurée d'auoir conceu, ſont premierement ſi elle a eu signes de #$ autresfois enfans , elle prendra garde quand la ſemence ne luy ſera point ſortie de ſa matrice conception, #a, apres la copulation:car ſi elle eſt retenuë elle ſera aſſeurée d'auoir conceu: pareillement ſi elle ſent lors que les ſemences ſont ioinctes,vn petit friſſon,& horripilation, ou heriſſonnement en tout le corps : & telle choſe ſe faict à cauſe que la matrice ſe comprime, & ſon orifice ſe ' cloſt pour retenir les ſemences : ainſi que par fois nous ſentons à la fin qu'auons piſſe, qui ſe fait par la contraction de la veſſie, à cauſe de l'air qui ſubit s'introduict pour remplir aucunement ce qui eſt vuide;auſſi s'elle a ſenty quelque petite douleur autour du nombril & petit ventre,fi elle eſt fort endormie, & c ſi la compagnie de l'homme ne luy plaiſt comme auparauant : ſi ſa face eſt decolorée, entre blanche & paile , c'eſt ſigne de conception. aucunes quelques temps apres la conception ont des taueleures en la fa- ce, les yeux enfoncez, & le blanc d'iceux liuide : autres ont douleur de teſte auec vn vertigo , leur ſemblant que tout tourne deſſus deſſous, pour la conturbation des eſprits animaux cauſee des vapeurs qui s'eſleuent au chef du ſang menſtruel retenu, & le terme de ſes fleurs retenu, au lieu de les auoir, ſes tetins s'endurciſ- ſent & luy cuiſent : à raiſon du ſang qui les diſtend & amplifie. adohc peut eſtre aſſeurée d'eſtre groſſe d'en- fant : joint que ſur les trdis ou quatre mois le mouuement de l'enfant les rend certaines & aſſeurées : & lors que l'enfant eſt ja parfaict, & commfence à ſe mouuoir,le laict ſort des mammelles. autres ſont rechignées, § , & deſplaiſantes à elles-meſmes , tant pource que les efprits ſont obſcurcis des vapeurs ſuſcitées de bas en haut, que pour le fardeau non accouſtumé dont tout le corps eſt appeſanty, aucunes ont mal de dents, defaillance de cœur, appetit depraué, auec nauſée, dicte des anciens pica, faiſant qu'el- les deſdaignent les bonnes viandes, & quelquesfois appetent choſes contre nature, comme charbons , ter- re, cendres , vieux harens pourris , fruits verts & aſpres , poivre, & autres eſpiceries, boire vinaigre, & autres ſemblables , le tout ſelon la qualité & ſaueur des humeurs qui regorgent de l'amary au ventricule. ,or quelquesfois tel appetit depraué dure iuſques à ce que la femme ait enfanté : & auſſi ſouuent ceſſe lors que l'enfant eſt plus grand, qui conſomme teut le ſuperflu tant bon que mauuais. les femmes vefues & - autres filles, qui ne ſont groſſes , ſont remediées en leur prouoquant leurs mois (car ceſſant la cauſe ceſſe l'effet ) leſquels en vain on combat & taſche à guerir pendant que leur cauſe eſt entretenué: mais aux fem- mes groſſes on ne le doit faire , de peur de les faire auorter, acte inhumain & damnable. autres ont tel mal le plus ſouuent trois mois apres,& ſe rengregent lors que les cheueux viennent àl'enfant,& principalement d quand c'eſt vne fille. dauantage, communément au ſecond mois il ſuruient retention des fleurs : parce que d'autant que l'enfant agrandit, auſſi plus attire - t'il de ſang pour ſa nourriture que de couſtume, le quel eſt employé en trois parties, de la premiere deſquelles, plus pure, l'enfant ſe nourriſt. la ſeconde, qui eſt moins pure, eſt enuoyée aux mammelles de la femme à faire le laict pour la nourriture de l'enfant quand il ſera né. la troiſiéme, qui eſt la moins pure que les deux autres, demeure en la matrice, faiſant le ſaºz des ce qu'on appelle le giſte ou arriere-faix ſeruant de lict & couſſin, attendu que dedans iceluy l'enfant na-º eſtant ge, & y eſt ſupporté, puis jetté deuant & apres l'enfantement. autres ſentent leur vrine plus chaude & º.º ardente que de couſtume , & en outre rougeaſtre : car à cauſe de la retention des mois, la bouche de la # matrice eſt eſchauffée, & par conſequent la veſſie qui luy eſt au deſſous, conjoincte par certains petits fila- ployé en trois mens, par leſquels la plus ſubtile & ſanieuſe portion du ſang reſide dans icelle, qui pour cette cauſe fait # l'vrine teinte de rougeur, comme monſtre hippocrau liu. . de morbis mulierum. autres ont grande douleur aux reins &aux aines,&par interualles ſentent trenchées au ventre. item ſi les veines de la poictrine & celles de l'vrine qui ſont ſur les mammelles, ſont plus enfiées que de couſtume : meſme les mammelles s'enflent & durciſſent des_femmes dés le ſecond mois, & leur cuiſent vn peu, à raiſon du ſang qui monte : auſſi leurs papilles & mammelons vºſº deuiennent rougeaſtres ou noiraſtres , auec petits tubercules ſemblables à porreaux, tout le corps s'ap- peſantiſt, le ventre s'enfle, parce que l'enfant prend croiſſance. partant les coſtes & lumbes ſe dilatent , & par ſucceſſion de temps les mammelles rendent du laict qui eſt quand l'enfant eſt ja parfaict, acheué, & commence à ſe mouuoir : & lors qu'ils ſont ſur les derniers mois, ſentent grande peſanteur aux hanches, · • - - d d la les femmes groſſes ſont choleres. - o le vingt-quatriéme liure, la face maigriſt, les yeux, le nez, la bouche agrandiſſent , & ſes parties genitales ſe tumefient. item toutes a les veines de ſon corps ſont fort pleines de ſang , principalement celles des cuiſſes & des jambes, & autour de leur nature, & ſont trouuées ſouuent variqueuſes, dilatées & entortillées, & quelquesfois de pluſieurs reuolutions circulaires jointes enſemble pour la ſuppreſſion du ſang : dont s'enſuit grauité & peſanteur de tout le corps, qui fait qu'elles ne peuuent cheminer qu'à bien grande peine,principalement quand elles ſont proches d'accoucher. hipp. aphor. .lib. . dict , que pour prouuer ſi la femme eſt groſſe, il luy faut faire boire de l'ydromel fait auec eau de pluye,quand elles s'en va coucher : ſi elle eſt groſſe ſentira des tranchées, pourueu qu'elle ne ſoit accouſtumée à tel breuage. comment la matrice ſe reſerre ſi toit que la ſemence y eſt jettée & reteniie. - c h a p i t r e v i. - o r s que les deux ſemences ſeront ainſi receues en la matrice, l'orifice interieur d'icelle ſe reſſerre fermement & eſtroitement , afin qu'elles ne retombent : & quand la matrice a pris & re- la ſemence tenu les deux ſemences meſlées enſemble ( dont celle du maſle eſt nourrie de celle de la femelle, du maſſe ºſº ! qui luy eſt plus familiere que le ſang , parce que chaſque choſe plus facilement eſt nourrie & »ourrie de augmentée de ce qui luy eſt ſemblable ) ſe coagulent & adherent contre les parois de la matrice, & par ſa celle de la chaleur naturelle ſont eſchauffées ſubit & ſi fort, qu'à l'entour ſe concrée vne petite peau ſubtile ſemblable femme. à celle qui ſe fait ſur du laict non eſcremé, ou d'vne toile d'araignées, de façon que le tout eſt fait comme vn b œuf abortif, c'eſt à dire qui n'a encore ſa coquille ferme & dure. or à l'entour ſon vus des filamens entre- premiere lacez enſemble, auec vne ſubſtance glutineuſe & glaireuſe, de couleur rouge, & aucunement meſlée de gros peau ou ſang noir, & au milieu ſe manifeſte vn peu le nombril, duquel eſt produicte ladite taye : & à la verité i'on membrane. peut auoir cônoiſſance de beaucoup de choſes des enfans au ventre de la mere,en faiſant couuer vingt œufs à vne ou pluſieurs poulles , les caſſant tous les iours l'vn apres l'autre en vingt iours : car en ce temps-là le poulet eſt parfaict, & a vn nombril. ladite pellicule eſt nommée ſecondine ou chorrion, & des vulgaires arriere-faix, ou le lict de l'enfant, & icelle eſt faite des les ſix premiers iours, ſelon hippocrate, & ne ſert liure de la point ſeulement à contenir les deux ſemences enſemble enfermées , mais auſſi à attirer leur aliment par les nº* orifices des veines & arreteres, qui ſe termine en la matrice par où eſt expurgé le ſang menſtruel, pour la l'enfant. purgation vniuerſelle de la femme en téps oportun:& iceux orifices ont eſté appellez des grecs cotyledons, & des latins acetables , & reſſemblent aux petites eminences ou appendices, qui ſont aux extremitez des seches : aux femmes ſont peu apparens,par leſquels eſt ladite ſecondine attachée & liées de toutes parts à la matrice, pour la conſeruation & augmentation deſdites ſemences. les anciens ont laiſsé par eſcrit, que la bouche de la matrice des femmes enceintes eſt tant reſerrée, que depuis la conception iuſques à l'accou- chement, la pointe d'vn poinçon n'y ſçauroit entrer : toutesfois on peut monſtrer que le contraire eſt verita- ble : teſmoin la ſuperfetation, à ſçauoir, engendrer derechef ſur vn engendrement, laquelle choſe ne ſe fe- roit, ſi la matrice ne s'ouuroit. dauâtage on voit jetter ſouuent aux femmes groſſes grande quantité d'aquo- ſitez, & autres excremens hors la matrice, qu'on ne peut dire venir ſeulement du col,qui n'a pas aſſez de ca- c pacité pour contenir tant de matiere. plus la femme groſſe ayant affaire à ſon mary, jette ſa geniture hors: & ſi elle ne s'ouuroit elle ne pourroit en decouler. ité il y a des femmes qui ont leurs fleurs eſtant encein- tes, qui ne peuuent venir que du dedans de la matrice par l'ouuerture de certaines veines acetabulaires ou cotyledons, auſquelles l'enfant n'eſt pas attaché par ſa ſecondine ou arriere-faix. car s'il venoit par icelles meſmes, il s'enſuiuroit auortement. ce qui ne ſe fait, & ce ſang paſſager n'empeſche & n'offence non plus l'enfant enueloppé en ſes mébranes, que font leurs fleurs blanches, & autres matieres putrides,qui ſont pro- #ºſſºº duites & faites deſdites membranes. il peut bien eſtre toutesfois (ce qui n'eſt pas pourtant neceſſaire ) que # lors nature ſe deſcharge immediatement par quelques veines du col de la matrice, comme elle faict auſſi par # les hemorrhoides , & par le nez, lieux plus mal à propos, que le col de la matrice, voire meſme l'on a veu " telles deſcharges aduenir par vomiſſemens de ſang, & par les tetins au temps pre.ix , que les fleurs dotuent couler, choſes admirables en telles diuerſions & vacuations,qui ſe font par nature,& non imitables par ar- & tifice du medecin. dauantage, il s'eſt veu que la femme eſtant groſſe de deux enfans,la matrice s'ouure quel- quesfois pour en ietter vn mort, comme à elle eſtrange, ſans que le vifſorte qu'à ſon terme prefix. de la generation du nombril. c h a p. v i i. r en chacun de ces orifices des veines & arteres, dits cotyledons , la femme ayant conceu, il s'engendre vn autre vaiſſeau nouueau, qui eſt vne veine, au droit de la veine , & vne arte- re au droit de l'artere : ces vaiſſeaux nouueaux ſont attachez par vne membrane ſubtile & deſliée, qui par dehors eſt eſtendué à l'enuiron de tous leſdits vaiſſeaux, & cohere ou adhe- d re à iceux. cette membrane ſert auſdits vaiſſeaux de rempart, de ligature & couuerture, qui les attache enſemble, & ſe redouble auec les deux autres, pour couurir le boyau ou vmbilic faict de la veine & arteres vmbilicales, iuſques au pertuis de l'vmbilic de l'enfant. or chacun de ces vaiſſeaux nouueaux commence vis à vis des emboucheures de ceux de la matrice, appellez cy - deſſus cotyledons, & ſont bien petits & deliez comme ſont les dernieres racines d'vn arbre planté en terre : mais eſtans 'auancez vn peu, ils s'accouplent deux à deux : tellement qu'il s'en fait de deux vn, puis derechef ils s'aſ- ſemblent, à ſçauoir veine auec veine , artere auec artere : & cela va touſiours en continuant & augmen- \ tant enſemble , iuſques à ce que finalement tous les petits vaiſſeaux ſe rapportent & finiſſent en deux diuine eon- grands vaiſſeaux vmbilicaux, qui entrent au corps de l'enfant par le pertuis du nombril. et icy galien remplation admire la grandeur de dieu & de nature , qu'en ſi grand nombre de vaiſſeaux , conduit & menez par ſi grande eſpace de chemin , iamais l'artere ne s'adiouſte à la veine, ny la veine à l'artere , mais chacune d'icelles connoiſt le vaiſſeau de ſa propre eſpece , & à celuy-là s'addreſſe & ſe ioint : ſubit que les veines - _ ſont paſſées outre le nombril, elles ſe joignent enſemble, & d'icelles en eſt veu vne ſeule, qui entre en la , partie caue du foye de l'enfant , & l'artere ſubit qu'elle y eſt entré , ſe fourche en deux , qui deſcendent aux coſtez de la veſſie, & s'inſerent aux deux arteres iliaques, & ſont couuertes, eſtans dedans le corps de l'enfant, du peritoine, qui les lie aux parties où elles paſſent. les veines & arteres nouuellement engendrées, faites de cotyledons, ſont comme les racines, d'vn arbre, & la veine & artere vmbilicale ſont comme le gros tronc, pour attirer le nourriſſement, & viuifier la ſemence, dont l'enfant eſt faict : car nous viuons comme les plantes, & apres comme les beſtes brutes au ventre de la mere. la ſeconde tunique eſt appellée - amnios \)e la generation. i : : : l' a amnios ou agnelette, qui enueloppe de toutes parts la ſemence. or ces membranes ſont fort deliées ref- ſemblans au commencement à petites toilettes d'araignées & ſont les vnes ſur les autres,& en pluſieurs lieux secondetiis & endroits ſont vnies & attachées enſemble par certains filets ſubtils: , qui vont eſpars les vns entre les au- meur ou tres, & ainſi ſe fortifient : comme vne corde ou tiſſu de poil, de laine, ou de fil , qui acquiert grande force membrane. ar complication des choſes aſſemblées, combien que chacune d'icelle ſeparément ſoit fort foible.et tel-ºººpella ie choſe eſt à reſpondre à ceux qui voudroient demander comme il eſt poſſible , que leſdites membranes ne # les ſe rompent, quand la femme groſſe dance & ſaulte, & auſſi que l'enfant ſe emue quelquesfois viºlentement # au ventre de ſa mere : car eſtans leſdites membranes liées & entrelacées elles ſe fortifient eſtans enſemble, gal.liu § comme par l'exemple d'vn tiſſu,comme nous auons dit,& ne ſont ſeparées les vnes des autres,& ne trouue-on vſ . rien entr'elles, à ſçauoir ſueur ne vrine. nature toutesfois ne les a voulu faire ſi fortes qu'elles ne ſe rom- pent à l'heure que l'enfant veut ſortir & naiſtre. or le contraire de cela eſt tant enraciné en l'opinion de plu- iieurs, qu'il eſt impoſſible leur pouuoir oſter, mais pour ce faire ie les reuoyeray au liure de nature, c'eſt qu'ils ouurent vne femme morte, groſſe d'enfant, & alors ils pourront voir & cognoiſtre la verité, s'ils veulent ouurir les yeux : ce que i'ay voulu faire ſans croire au credit d'autruy. -- des vaiſſeaux qui ſont au nombril de l'enfant. ' c h a p. v iii. v c v n s de nos deuanciers ont eſcrit qu'au nombril il y auoit cinq vaiſſeaux,à ſçauoir, deux trois valſ. veines & deux arteres, & le conduit appellé vrachus: mais quant à moy,iamais ie n'en ay ſceu ſeaux vmbi. trouuer que trois,à ſçauoir la veine vmbilicale, qui eſt fort ample, de façon qu'on y mettoit ai-licaux. sément le fer d'vne aiguillette: & deux aurtes, leſquelles ne ſont fi groſſes à beaucoup pres: et - telle choſe a eſté ainſi faicte , parce qu'il falloit plus de ſang à l'enfant pour ſa norriture & augmentation que d'eſprit vital. or ces veines & arteres (dont eſt conſtitué le nombril, qui eſt fait le . le nombril iour eſtans enſemble ſe redoublent & entortillent, & font certains noeufs comme la ceinture d'vn cordelier: de l'enfant & ceſdits nœuds ainſi anfractueux n'ont eſté faits ſans grande vtilité, qui eſt afin que le ſang conduit au eſt fºrmé le corps de l'enfant fuſt arreſté, & ceſſaſt vn petit ſon cours, afin qu'il fuſt plus parfaictement elaboré, cuit * & digeré ainſi qu'il ſe fait aux vaiſſeaux ſpermatiques , dits eiaculatoires, c'eſt à dire, ſeruans à darder & ietter la ſemence , auſſi leſdits vaiſſeaux vmbilicaux ont eſté faicts de longueur de plus de demie braſsée l'enfant pour la raiſon predicte : tellement qu'à d'aucuns enfans on trouue ledit nombril entortillié vne ou deux fois prend ſon autour du col, & autresfois autour de leurs jambes. l'enfant, comme auons dict , reçoit ſon aliment & vie nourriſſemët au ventre de la mere par l'vmbilic , & ne prend aucun aliment par la bouche : auſſi n'a-il aucun vſage des par ſon nom- yeux, nez, oreilles, ny du ſiege, pendant qu'il eſt au ventre de ſa mere. dauantage il n'a beſoin de l'office du bril,ainſique cœur : car le ſang ſpirituel luy eſt enuoyé par les arteres ymbilicales aux arteres iliaques, & d'icelle à toutes fait lefruit · les autres arteres, par leſquelles l'enfant reſpire : & partant l'air n'eſt pas porté des poulmons au cœur, mais par ſa queuë du cœur aux poulmons , tellement qu'il ne trauaille point en la generation du ſang , ny des eſprits vitaux, # z ar le benefice des poulmons. car ces choſes eſtans ja elaborées, cuites & digerées par la mere,ſont portées §i, toutes les parties de l'enfant, lequel ne doit encore eſtre appellé enfant, tant que toutes ſes parties ſoient §a, bien formées & figurées,& que l'ame y ſoit introduicte,nais ſeulement ſera appellé genitura, ou embryon au liure de ou pullulant, ou naiſſant ou meuriſant , ou fœtus. _ • la generati de l'ebullition des ſemences en la matrice , & des trois ampoulles , qui ſont les lieux des trois membranes principaux, ſºauoir , le foye , le ca ur, & le cerueau. c h a p t r e : ix. v x ſix premiers iours ſe font les vaiſſeaux nouueaux , qui naiſſent des orifices des veines & ar- teres,appellez cy-deſſus cotyledons comme certaines fibres par toute la ſemence,laquelle boult temps de # touſiours dedans leſdites membranes, & le neufiéme iour eſt formé l'vmbilic. or il faut icy e n- formation tendre, que ces vaiſſeaux produits des cotyledons font pareille ouuerture à la ſecondine,qu'à la matrice : par leſquelles ouuertures paſſe grande quantité de ſang & d'eſprits dedans les petites §. veines qui ſont tiſſues & entrelacées autour de ladite ſecondine, & dedans la ſemence, tant pour la nourri- ture & augmentation de l'embryon, comme pour la conformation des membres principaux. les eſprits donc & le ſang meſlez auec la ſemence , qui deſia auparauant bouilloit, & boult touſiours de plus en plus, font comment ſe eſleuer trois petites ampoulles ſemblables à trois petites bulles ou veſſies reſſemblantes à celles qui s'eſleuent font les trois en l'eau agitée par la pluye : & icelles ampoulles ſont les lieux où ſeront formez le foye, le cœur, & le cer- ampoullis. ueau : auparauant qu'icelles ſoient eſleuées, la ſemence eſt toufiours appellée ſemence, & non encore fœtus d ou pullulant. le quatriéme iour apres que la veine vmbilicale eſt faicte, elle ſucce par les cotyledons,le ſang plus gros, l. premiere & de plus grand norriſſement , lequel à cauſe de ſa groſſeſſe ſe coagule aisément au lieu où ſe doit engen- § le foye ſe drer le foye:eſtant acheué & parfaict, il eſt admirable en ſa grandeur , pour laquelle dés le commencement à §e. comparaiſon des autres membres, il ſe peut aisément remarquer. or en outre il peut auſſi eſtre dit admirable en ce que, ce dont il a perfection & croiſſance, n'eſt qu'vne effuſion de ſang, dont il eſt appellé parenchyma. il s'engendrent en ſa partie boſſue vn gros tronc de veine,qui eſt la veine caue, laquelle inſerée eſtend ſes ra- meaux par toute la ſubſtance du foye, puis apres dreſſe deux rameaux, dont l'vn va aux parties ſuperieures,& l'autre aux inferieures,qui ſe ramefient & diſtribuent en toutes leurs particules pour leur formation & nour- riture:& cela fait la vertu formatrice ayant la matiere, dreſſe ſes delineamens pour faire le meſentere, les in- teſtins, eſtomac , ratelle , & tous autres membres nutritifs, & les rend parfaicts ainſi qu'il appartient - l'artere vmbilicale ſucce pareillement le ſang arterial desarteres cotyledoines, qui eſt tres-chaud,& fort ſpi-lº ſeconde, rituel : duquel en cette ſeconde ampoulle ſe forme le cœur, qui eſt de ſubſtance charneuſe, ſolide & eſpeſie, ººººº ainſi qu'il appartient au membre le plus chaud dé tous les autres : en la ſubſtance duquel nature formatrice prend ſa ſor*. fait deux ventricules, l'vn à dextre,l'autre à ſeneſtre. au droit ventricule ſe vient inſerer le tronc de la veine " · caue, & icelle apporte la nourriture au cœur. au ventricule ſeneſtre ſe fait vn tronc d'artere, qui pareille- ment ſe duiſe en deux : l'vn moindre monte aux parties ſuperieures, & l'autre plus grand aux inferieutes, leſquelsſe ramefient & ſe diſtribuent par toutes les parties pour les viuifier. d d d dc le vingt-quatriéme liure, de la troiſiéme ampoulle où la teſte ſe forme. c h a p. , x. $ p r e s la production des parties deuant dictes la plus grande partie de la ſemence eſt pouſ- # sée en la troiſieſme ampoulle, de laquelle le cerueau eſt fait, & n'eſt fait de ſang comme les % autres bubes & autres parties : mais eſt faict de la ſeule ſemence, comme auſſi ſont les os,car- tilages, veines & arteres, nerfs,ligamés, pannicules, la peau exterieure. toutes icelles parties - # ſont faites de la ſeule ſemence,& partant ſont appellées,membres ſpermatiques:leſquels tou- >y*®s tesfois ſont nourris de ſemence : car depuis qu'ils ſont formez,prennent aliment meſme auec les charneuſes,comme le foye,le cœur,les poulmons,les muſcles,qui ſont nourris de ſang et apres le cerueau formé,ſont adiouſtées & formées toutes les autres parties de la teſte: autour de laquelle eſt fait vn couuercle, lequel par ſucceſſion de téps ſe deſſeiche & eſt fait oſſeux.or du cerueau & de la moüelle de l'eſchine proce- dent les nerfs, qui ſont diſtribuez par toute les parties du corps, qui ont beſoin de mouuement & ſentiment. la teſte (comme ſiege des ſens, rempart de raiſon & ſapience, de laquelle comme d'vne fontaine ſortent di- uerſes operations eſt ſituée ſur tout le corps, afin que l'eſprit animal regiſſe, gouuerne,& diſpoſe de tout ce que nature a ordonné ſous icelle:& pour le dire en vn mot, en icelle ſont côtenuës les facultez de l'ame qui vtilité des , ºnt choſes ſublimes & obſcures,ſi bien que leur exellence ſurmonte la capacite de noſtre entendement.puis ſi de ſouſ ainſi que les architectes, maçons, & charpentiers, ayans ietté le premier fondement d'vne maiſon, ou dreſsé nir le corp,. la carine d'vn nauire, edifient & baſtiſſent le reſte du baſtiment:auſſi nature par bonne raiſon, apres auoir cmforma- rºs tion & ma- $ # tiere du cer- $ ſm€ajf , - conformatiö du crane. baſty ces trois principes,fait les os,qui ſont cóme fondement des autres parties : & ainſi ſont-ils mis au deſſus b & au deſſous cóme muraille & rempart. les premiers formez ſont les os des iſles:& entre iceux les vertebres: puis apres toutes les autres parties, nature fabrique auec vn indicible, admirable,& incóparable artifice, les bras & les iambes,& au dedans du corps les creux & canaux : & en la teſte fait ſept trous,à ſçauoir, deux aux oreilles,deux aux yeux,deux au nez,&vn pour la bouche,& aux parties inferieures,vn pour le fiege,vn autre pour le canal de la veſſie, & aux femelles vn pour leur matrice,ſans lequel ne pourroient eſtre appellées, me- soit veu la- res:puis nature couure tout le corps de cuir lequel elle polit,comme font les ouuiers leurs derniers ouura- § ges. or de cognoiſtre comme nature fait parfaictement toutes ces choſes, cela excede l'intelligence humai- pifice de ne. apres ce noble ouurage, appellé des anciens mycrocoſme, ainſi parfaictement baſty, dieu luy infond & dieu. tranſmet l'ame,de laquelle nous parlerons cy-apres le plus ſuccinctement qu'il ſera poſſible. or au ſoixantiéme jour l'enfant comence à ſe mouuoir & auoir vie : mais la mere ne le peut apperceuoir en,t so. pour eſtre encore trop debile. en iceluy temps l'ame raiſonnable eſt eſtimée entrer au corps de l'enfant. ce Χ § que ſainct auguſtin prouue par le teſmognage de moyſe. si quelqu'vn dit-il frappe vne femme enceinte, & crée, cr eſt à qu'elle en auorte, ſi l'enfant eſt ja formé,qu'il en perde la vie:mais s'il n'eſt encore formé,qu'il ſoit condamné l'inſtant de a amende pecuniaire. par laquelle ordonnance il denote clairement que l'ame n'eſt point à l'enfant, qu'il ne la fºrmation ſoit entierement formé de tous ſes membres. et pour ceſte cauſe il ne faut point croire que l'ame ſoit deriuée * fenfant d'adam,ou des peres & meres,mais qu'à chacun moment elle eſt creée & infuſée diuinement.auſſiles moles & faux germes,& autres choſes monſtrueuſes, encore qu'ils ſe meuuent, & qu'il ſemble qu'ils ayent quelque vie, ſi eſt-ce toutesfois qu'ils ne tiennent rien de l'ame raiſonnable, mais ſeulement de la faculté de la matri- ce,& de l'eſprit generatif,qui ſont en la ſemence & au ſang menſtruel , & par iceux meſmes ils reçoiuent ac- - croiſſement & vie au ventre de la mere, & non de l'ame raiſonnable. de l'ame. c h a p. xi. s. auguſt. 'a m e eſt vn eſprit diuin, inuiſible,immortel, reſpandu en toutes les parties du corps infuſe # # par la puiſſance de dieu le createur ſans aucune vertu de la ſemence genitale,quand les mem- # l bres ſont deſia formez & figurez au ventre de la mere,qui eſt le o.iour au maſle (d'autât que |y. ſa chaleur eſt plus grande,& ſa matiere plus vigoureuſe)&à le e.la femelle,quelquesfois plus toſt,quelquesfois plus tard:toutesfois à l'inſtant qu'elle eſt infuſe, elle ne peut encore faire les perations, à cauſe qu'en l'enfance les organes, ou inſtrumens ne ſont encore capables pour luy ſeruir : mais auec le temps,& à meſure que leſdits organes ſe parfont(& que le corps croiſt , alors elle com- mence à agir en ces operations:leſquelles à la verité,manquent quand iceux organes ne ſont en bonne diſpo- pourquoy fition. or ils peuuent eſtre vitiez dés la premiere conformation, comme à ceux qui ont le ſommet de la teſte l'ame ſe eſleué en pointe,comme l'auoient terſités grec, triboulet & tonin : tels n'ont iamais bonne ratiocination, mºnſtre vi- & partant ſont naturellement fols, à raiſon que les ventricules du cerueau,& autres organes ſont anguſtes & #ſº preſſez, partant l'ame ne peut faire ſes œuures. pareillement iceux organes peuuent eſtre vitiez par mauuais fonciions. regime, comme par trop boire & s'enyurer, ou par vne fiévre chaude qui aura causé vne phreneſie, ou autre accident : par autre intemperature,côme à ceux qui par trop grande humidite du cerueau tombent en lethar- gie : ou auoir receu quelque coup ſur la teſte, ou par autres choſes ſemblables fortuites aduenues, ou par la faute de la ſage femme en tirant de force l'enfant, qui naturellement preſente la teſte , ou de la nourrice en donnant mauuaiſe conformation ou fituation aux os tendres & delicats, dont ſeroit venu empeſchementés ,. cor , organes & inſtrumens de l'ame. or dieu a diſtribué apres la creation & infuſion d'icelle certains dons par- §. c ticuliers à vn chacun, à meſure& proportion:àl'vn de prophetie,à l'autre l'expoſition des eſcritures ſainctes, aux autres d'eſtre conſtituez roys, princes,& grands seigneurs : aux vns de ſuiure la médecine, aux autres d'embraſſer les loix : à quelques-vns de nauiger ſur la mer, aux autres de labourer la terre , aux autres de ſeruir d'aydes aux maçons, & aux autres choſes : de ſorte que les vns ſont ſubtils , les autres groſſiers , & s'addonnént à choſes diuerſes : ainſi ont les autres animaux leurs diuerſes proprietez & natures,ſelon que la ſapience infinie ordonne, & qu'il luy plaiſt : & ne faut que nul conteſte contre ſon createur. et ne faut eſtimer qu'elle ſoit vne partie de la diuinité, & que dieu l'aye crée de ſon eſſence, comme le pere lenfant ſelon le coips, ce ſeroit grand blaſpheme. car il s'enſuiuroit, que la nature de dieu ſeroit ſujette à muta- tion & paſſion:ce qui n'eſt pas. mais d'autant que l'ame eſt immortelle, & qu'apres cette vie,elle eſt neceſſai- rement ſujette au bien ou mal : nous pouuons dire en cét endroit, qu'il n'eſt pas licite ny poſſible à l'homme de ſçauoir le ſecrets des choſes que dieu fait par ſa prediſtination:& partant l'ignorance en eſt doctº,& l'ap: petit de les ſçauoir vne eſpece de rage : pource que ſi nous attentiôs de † entrer en ſon confeil ſacré & eternel, ce nous ſeroit vn abyſme pour nous engloutir. gardons-nous donc ſur toutes choſes de ce #ºº! aux rocher auquel on ne peut heurter ſans malencontre. car la choſe formée dira-elle à iceluy qui l'a formées rºm.chap. . pourquoy m'as-tu fait ainſi : le potier de terre n'a-il point de puiſſance d'vne maſſe de terre † vſl va call g! u)e la generation. | --=- l r. - - : - c tie principale, & plus exellente de l'homme, crée de dieu, vn eſprit par lequel non ſeulement nous ſen- a vaiſſeau à honneur , & vn à des honneur ? or ce n'eſt icy de ma vacation, rendre la cauſe de tels hauts ſe- crets de dieu, lequel a voulu que fuſſions curieux , non de les ſçauoir & comprendre, mais ſeulement de les admirer en toute humilité : & partant ie ne veux ny ne puis entrer plus auant au cabinet du conſeil pri- ué & ſacré de dieu t mais ie diray que la bonne ame contemne les choſes elementaires, c'eſt à dire , corpo- relles & ſenſibles, & priſe les choſes hautes & celeſtes pour contempler la beatitude eternelle, laquelle ſor- tie du corps, ſe peut dire heureuſe,eſtant hors de toute ignorance & de tous maux,& en eſtat de demeurer à iamais en repos : l'entends l'ame de ceux qui par la grace de dieu ſont faits dignes & capables de telle con- de#ntion de dition & felicité. cette ame eſt l'entelechie, ou perfection interieure, donnant mouuement,& cauſant l'action l' ame naturelle & volontaire; eſt la vraye forme de l'homme appellée l'eſprit celeſte , d'eſſence ſuperieure , in-ººº ºº corporée , inuiſible, intellectuelle & immortelle, extraicte comme de l'idée de la diuinité, diuinement com- # a . /i. muniquée & tranſmiſe en l'homme exterieur : laquelle tout ainſi qu'elle eſt viue,auſſi donne-elle au corps vie # & mouuement, quand elle eſt conioincte & vnie à iceluy: c'eſt le receptacle d'illumination diuine , atterdu # que par lapreſence d'icelle, le corps ne meurt point, cree par puiſſance de dieu , qui n'eſt point corporelle, que teiiede- ny compoſée d'aucune matiere, faicte pour viuifier le corps humain , & le conduire à toute œuure de vertu ſcriptio, eſt & piete , à l'honneur de ſon createur, & à l'ayde de ſon prochain. dauantage, outre ce qu'elle eſt vn eſprit apprºſe par inuiſible, eſpanduë par toutes les parties du corps , elle eſt toutesfois toute entiere en vne chacune partie ººº ººº- d'iceluy,& vne en ſoy, ayant pluſieurs facultez, puiſſances, vertus,& operatiós en diuerſes parties du corps, ſte s, # comme imaginer,entendre,iuger,rememorer,& regir les nouuemens volótaires : elle void,oyt,odore,gouſtes # # & ratiocine : de ſorte que nous voyons qu'elle contient le ciel & la terre, ſans , u'ils s'y entrempeſchent : le - vi u - - - - - - - - - hes. paſſé & le preſent, ſans qu'ils s'entre-nuiſent : infinis lieux , perſonnes, villes, ſans qu'il y ait preſſe en noſtre #n, de , b entendement. que les choſes grandes y ſont ſelon leur grandeur, les petites ſelon leur petiteſſe, les vnes & mer y liu. les autres toutes entieres, en elle toute entieres,& non partie d'elles, ou en vne partie d'elle ſeulement. da- de la religi uantage, plus elle ſe remplit, & plus elle eſt capable, plus elle loge de choſes & plus en appete-elle, & plus chreſtienne, grandes elles ſont, & plus propre eſt-elle à receuoir les tres grandes. s'enſuit donc que cette ame, qui eſt ººº# ?º- en quelque façon infinie, ne peut eſtre vn corps & d'autant moins le peut elle eſtre,que logeant tant de cho-º # ſes & ſi grandes en elle,elle loge ſoy-meſme en vn ſi petit corps.derechef,comme mille lieux diuers ſe trou # uent en elle ſans tenir place, auſſi ſans changer de place ſe trouue elle en mille lieux, & non par ſucceſſion de / - temps, ny par interualles, mais bien ſouuert tout en vn moment. exemple: commande à ton eſprit d'aller en conſtantinople: à l'heure meſme de reuenir à rome,& derechef à paris ou à lyon : commande luy de paſſer le trauers de l'amerique ou le circuit de l'afrique: il fait tout ce chemin en vn inſtant,& entant que tu com- mandes, il y eſt, & premier que l'ayes r'appellé, en eſt reuenu. selon leſquelles operations elle obtient plu- _ . ſieurs noms. elle eſt appellée ame, pource qu'elle anime, & viuifie le corps. elle eſt dicte eſprit, pource piººº qu'elle aſpire au corps. elle eſt appellée raiſon, pource qu'elle iuge & ſepare le vray d'auec le faux, elle eſt de l'ame. dicte pensée parce qu'elle recolle les choſes paſſées. elle eſt dicte courage , pour l'operation de la volon- té.elle eſt dite ſens, parce qu'elle ſent les choſes ſenſibles: & dauantage elle eſt inuiſible, intactible, & de nature intellectuelle. et pource auſſi qu'elle eſt incorporée, n'occupe point de lieu par extenſion corporelle, & eſtant de ſimple nature, ne croiſt ny diminué: car elle n'eſt point plus grande en vn grand corps qu'en vn petit, ny plus petite en vn petit qu'en vn grand : & eſt auſſi grande en ſa nature dés le commencement de la vie d'vn petir enfant, qu'elle ſera iamais, ſelon la diſtinction qui ſera cy apres touchée. l'ame eſt vne par- autres defi- nitions tons, mouuons, & viuons, mais auſſi voulons & entendons habitant au corps comme en vn domicille pour • auoir priuauté, regir & gouuerner la vie de l'homme, donner vigueur aux membres, rendre les organes ou - - - inſtrumens exterieurs propres & vtiles à leurs actions, non ſeulement és choſes qui concernent la vie cor- porelle, mais auſſi la vie ſpirituelle & eternelle. e autre definition. l'ame eſt vn eſprit orné de raiſon & d'intellect (comme eſcrit moyſe en ſon liure de la creation du mon- lyº trºis de) laquelle eſt celeſte & diuine, & n'a rien de conuenance auec noſtre corps terreſtre : mais il luy ſert ſeu- º de lement d'habitation, auquel il faut qu'elle demeure iuſques au temps qu'il plaira à dieu la r'appeler. or il º"" y a trois manieres de corps qui ont ame, par laquelle ils viuent : le premier & le plus imparfaict eſt celuy " des plantes : le ſecond, des beſtes : & le tiers, des hommes. les plantes viuent par l'ame vegetatiue , qui eſt cauſe de trois chcſes à ſçauoir, nourrir, croiſtre & engendrer : les beſtes par l'ame ſenſitiue : & les hommes outre ces deux, par l'ame raiſonnable & intellectuelle. les beſtes qui ont l'ame ſenſitiue, ont pareillement les actions de l'ame vegetatiue, qui eſt és plantes : mais l'ame humaine qui eſt intellectuelle, emporte toutes les perfections & vertus des autres : & partant tout ainſi que l'ame vegetatiue donne vie aux plantes, & les fait croiſtre, auſſi fait l'ame intellectuelle au corps humain : & cóme les beſtes ont mouuement & ſentiment par l'ame ſenſitiue, qui eſt en elles, auſſi l'ame intellectuelle (au moyen de la portion ſenſitiue, par laquelle elle participe auec les beſtes) donne ſentiment & mouuement au corps humain : mais par deſſus ces deux · portions,elle a la ratiocination,qui eſt la vraye cognoiſſance des choſes , laquelle procede d'vne lumiere di- uine, & par ſpecial priuilege a eſté faite à l'image & ſemblance de dieu. et y a diſſerence entre l'ame & l'eſprit.car l'ame eſt commune à toute choſe ayant vie, comme nous auons dit cy deſſus:mais l'eſprit eſt im- mortel & ſuſceptible de raiſon & ſcience,& eſt ſeul propre &particulier à l'homme. et pour conclure , l'ame humaine a toutes les trois puiſſances ſuſdites non ſeparément , mais vnies en vne ſeule. or pource que nous auons dit cy-deſſus que l'ame a pluſieurs facultez, puiſſances , vertus, & operations en diuerfes parties du corps, il ſeroit beſoin de dire de chacune en particulier : mais laiſſans cela à ceux qui voudront philoſopher plus amplement, nous nous contenterons, pour acheuer ce diſcours, de patler ſeulement du sens commun, de la fantaſie, de la ratiocination, & de la memoire. du sens commun. les sens commun, eſt ce qui reçoit les images & formes à luy offertes , & apportées par les cinq ſens ex- terieurs, & diſcerne les objects d'iceux,c'eſt à dire,qu'il comprend & reçoit les operations,eſpeces,ou ſem- blances des choſes materielles, qui ont eſté receües par les cinq ſens exterieurs, leſquels ſont ſeulement comme meſſagers au ſens commun,pource qu'il n'y a rien en l'entendement ou ſens commun , qui premiere- ment n'ait eſté aux ſens exterieurs: &partant le ſens commun nous eſt donné pour receuoir les actions des ſens exterieurs. car l'œil ne cognoit point le blanc, ou noir : partant ne peut diſcerner les couleurs, y la les aſiions - langue ce qu'elle gouſte, ny le nez ce qu'il odore , ny l'oreille ce qu'elle entend : ny la main ce qu elle des ſens ex- dd d touche le vingt-quatriéme liure, touche & parle, ſoit chaud ou froid : parce que telles actions appartiennent au ſens commun , qui iuge terieurs ap- l'œil auoir veu blanc , rouge ou noir , ou auoir veu vn homme ou vn cheual ou autre choſe materielle, partiennent comme vn chaſteau ou nauire , ou autres choſes ſemblables : & nonobſtant qu'on ne les voye plus , on ºº º" aura neantmoins connoiſſance que la choſe eſtoit blanche ou noire, grande ou petite, ou auoir ſenty vne #n, des odeur ſi elle eſt bonne ou mauuaiſe, ou apres auoir gouſté vne choſe douce ou amere, ou auoir ouy vn ſon ſens exte- gººº oul † ou parlé ou touché vne choſe ſi elle eſt chaude ou froide : cd i tolltcs les actions des ſens §r§ exterieurs finiſſent au ſens commun comme à leur centre , ainſi que d vn cercle toutes les lignes viennent de ſ com- la circonference finir au centre, qui eſt le poinct commun, comme il te peut eſtre demonſtré par cette petite f / . figure. - et pour cette cauſe eſt appellé iceluy sens commun & prince de tous les ſens exterieurs, sen com # pource qu'il en vſe comme de ſes ſeruiteurs en diuers negoces & manieres, iugeant & diſ- # cernant les choſes qui luy ont eſté offertes & portées. et pour concluſion, l'intention de na- ture a eſté ſeulement que les ſens exterieurs ne receuſſent ſinon que ſuperficiellement les ob- t'xf /e/ . - - - - - jects, comme vn miroir fait non pour autre fin , ſinon que pour les preſenter au ſens commun, comme à leur centre, prince & ſeigneur : afin de les diſcerner & communiquer à l'ame,le ſiege duquel, ſelon auicenne & auerroes. eſt en la partie anterieure du cerueau, l'aitant le ſens commun eſt com- me vn receptacle vniuerſel des ſens exterieurs. de la phantaſie ou imagination. º qºººº º apres le sens commun vient l'imagination,appellée des grecs phantaſia, à cauſe que d'icelle viennent les *ºntºſºe idées & viſions qu'on appelle fantaſie, laquelle n'a point d'arreſt , ſi ce n'eſt en dormant encore le plus ſou- uent eſt occupée en fongant & reſuant pluſieuis choſes qui n'ont eſté & iamais ne ſeront.jiceluy ſens a gran- de ſeigneurie en nous, tellement que le corps naturellement luy obeyt en pluſieurs & diuerſes choſes, lors qu'il eſt fort arreſté en quelque imagination. qu'il ſoit vray, les hiſtoires font mention qu'alexandre le macedon eſtant à diſner, ſon harpeur timothée ioüant ſur ſa harpe vn aſſaut de guerre luy fit abandonner la table, & demander ſes armes , & alors qu'il changeoit & adouciſſoit ſon ieu, raſſeoir : & par telle ad- miration d'harmonie de ſes ſons forts & concitez, ſes eſprits demeurans vaincus, eſtoient contraints y obeyr, le rendant audacieux, tranquille & ioyeux , ſelon la mutation du ſon de ſa harpe. dauantage, cette imagi- t*º- nation donne effroy & peur, lors qu'on void quelqu'vn en quelque peril eminent.exemple,lors qu'vn certain #" * tu c dançoit ſur vne corde en cette ville de paris les pieds dans vn baſſin , pluſieurs le voyans en peril de - ſe rompre le col, bras & jambes, trembloient de peur , l'oſans bonnement regarder. pareillement quel- quesfois cette vertu imaginatiue fait cheoir la perſonne de deſſus quelque planche, ou quelque lieu haut, pour la grande apprehenſion & timidité qu'elle a de tomber : & partant auec les choſes deuant dites, nous auons encore beſoin d'vne plus haute faculté, pour ſçauoir diſcerner ſi les choſes imaginées, veuës , ouyes, & ſenties par dehors ſont bonnes ou mauuaiſes. et pour cette cauſe nature nous a donné autre puiſſance, siege de la qui diſcerne le bien & le mal , à cauſe de quoy elle eſt appellé,raiſon,ou cogitation,que declarerons bientoſt. faculé ima- or cette faculté imaginatiue a ſon ſiege, pareillement aux ventricules anterieures du cerueau, auec le ſens ginatiue. commun , mais le ſens commun eſt ſitué (comme nous auons dict) en la partie anterieure deſdits ventricu- hiſtoire. les, & l'imaginatiue plus derriere. ra ſon, - - - de la ratiocination. # apres l'imagination, eſt la faculté nommée raiſon, qui git en l'entendement, laquelle eſt comme vne lam- |z e l e/ " pe prouenante de la puiſſance de dieu, pour conduire toutes nos deliberations, & moderer noſtre volonté, la princpale † eſt la principale partie de l'ame > laquelle peut raticioner , compoſer & diuiſer, & iuger en dernier partie de reſſort, & pour cette cauſe a eſté nommée des anciens lutellectuelle, qui eſt vne puiſſance ſupreme, non l'ame. ſubjecte à aucun organe ou inſtrument , ne choſe corporelle , mais au contraire, en toutes ſes actions eſt li- bre & penetrante iuſqu'aux profonditez des choſes : ſe treuue ſans bouger en mille lieux, trauerſe les mers, penetre les cieux , perce iuſques aux abyſmes de la terre,& faict vne infinité d'œuures admirables que nous ne pouuons connoiſtre, qui ſe font par vn haut ſecret caché en la sapience diuine, qui ne peut tomber en la petiteſſe de noſtre entendement humain. parquoy nous les deuons admirer. car l'homme n'eſt pas propre- ment ce que nous voyons , mais bien l'ame & l'eſprit, lequel nous ne voyons pas, qui a le corps pour ſon logis. en ſomme, icelle ſeule inuente le vray, iuge le faux, & diſtingue ce que de l'vn ou de l'autre s'enſuit, ou repugne, en rapportant les circonſtances des choſes veues & imaginées, les comparant les vnes aux autres , & ainſi diſcerne ia choſe ſe deuoir faire ou non. et pour concluſion cette ratiocination nous eſt plus que neceſſaire, & eſt vn grand bien à vn homme de n'eſtre trop ſoudain à faire ou parler, ſans que premie- rement raiſon ait diſcouru & diſcerné le bien d'auec le mal. car pluſieurs ſe laiſſent aller par leur ſubite apprehenſion , n'attendans le iugement de raiſon pour penſer , & diſcourir aux circonſtances particulieres: tendemët eſt par ce moyen tombent en pluſieurs inconueniens dont puis apres s'en repentent. le ſiege de ladite ratioci- - nation eſt au ventricule moyen, teſmoin galien au . liure de placitis , comme la plus haute & ſeuere forte- reſſe de toute la teſte, à cauſe de ſa principauté. - memoire. de la memoire. º ** apres la ratiocination deſcrite, nous faut parler de la memoire , laquelle comme fidelle tutrice retire & * garde ce qui a eſté aux trois veutricules du cerueau receu & eiabouré. et pour cette cauſe à bon droict elle a eſté des anciens accomparée au greffe,auquel(comme apres vn procés debatu) ce qui eſt decreté, eſt enre- giſtré : car par meſme raiſon, ce qui a eſté longuement en doute & controuerſe, par la ratiocination, & apres conclu & arreſté en l'eſprit, eſt à la fin imprimé en la memoire, afin qu'il ſoit reuoque, & qu'on s'en puiſſe ayder quand il ſera requis & neceſſaire. quil ſoit vray, que vaudroit d'auoir tant de conceptions en ſon eſ- prit , & tant de diuerfitez, ſi elles n'eſtoient en quelques lieux gardées ? et pour cette cauſe le grand archi- tecteur, facteur de toutes choſes , curieux de noſtre perfection, nous a donné ce fingulier remede prompt & commode, contre l'ignorance & oubliance des choſes , qu'à l'ayde de la memoire, nous pouuons de ce que nous auons veu ( comme des choſes enregiſtrées ) rememorer & des apprehendées ratiociner. aucuns philoſophes appellent la memoire le threſor de science : de là vient que sapience eſt fille de memoire & d'experience : d'autant que la memoire eſt vn cabinet de tout ce que nous apprenons, & voyons. le ſiege & domicile d'icelle eſt au ventricule poſterieur, ſitué au cerebelle, moins humide & plus ſolide que nulle a llttc le ſiege de la mermoire. a d de la generation. a autre partie du cerueau ; pour cette cauſe apte, & idoine à receuoir les choſes, qui ont eſté aux trois ventri- cules receues & elabourées. et outre toutes ces choſes , l'ame a encore ſix autres facultez, par leſquelles six autres chaſque partie de noſtre corps eſt conſeruée : la premiere attractrice, qui attire ſon aliment : la ſeconde re-facultez na- tentrice, qui le retient : la tierce concoctrice, qui le cuit : la quatriene aſſimilatrice, ou generatrice, & au-tarelles ds gmentatrice, c'eſt à dire, qui le rend ſemblable à la partie : la cinquiéme expultrice, qui jette hors les excre- l'ame. mens qui pechent en quantité ou qualité, ou tous les deux enſemble , & toutes les choſes qui luy ſont con- traires, comme le fer d'vne fleſche, vne bale, vhe eſquille d'os, & autres choſes eſtranges. la ſixiéme ſepara- trice, qui ſepare les choſes qui doiuent eſtre ſeparées : exemple, comme le laict dans le ſang , ou le pus ou les humeurs de la maſſe ſanguinaire, comme la cholere qui eſt enuoyée à la folicule du fiel, la melancholie à la ratte, l'vrine à la vefſie, & autres choſes qui ſe font par le benefice de nature. des excremens naturels, & de ceux que jette l'enfant en la matrice de ſa méte, - - - ! " c h a p t r e xi i. #s$é ev a n t que d'eſcrire par quels conduits l'enfant eſtant au ventre de ſa nºre, iette ſes excre- # $ mens, il m'a ſemblé bon de propoſer au ieune chirurgien ceux qui ſont naturels. donc on ap- ©ue c'eſt pelle excrement ce que nature ſepare d'auec le pur & net. et d'iceux y a pluſieurs genres : le ººtie premier eſt de la premiere digeſtion, laquelle ſe fait en l'eſtomach, qui eſtant pouſsé par les in- # teſtins, ſort par le fondement. le ſecond procede du foye,& comprend deux eſpeces: à ſçauoir la cholere,de laquelle vne partie eſt enuoyée du foye au kyſtis fellis, pour irriter la faculté expultrice a jetter la matierè fecale à ſortir par les inteſtins, l'autre ſemblable à megue & ſerofité s'en va du foye par les gran- des veines auec le ſang pour luy ſeruir de vehicule à couler ça & là : quoy fait, euoqué & chaſsé par n ture ſort pai l'vrine & ſueur. l'autre eſpece eſt l'humeur melancholic, lequel eſt attiré par la rate : ſe nourriſſant gal.devſu du meilleur d'iceluy, & iettant le reſte, partie à la bouche de l'eſtomach, afin d'irriter l'appetit par ſon acri- partium. monie, partie aux inteſtins le dernier ſe fait à chacune partie du corps, par la derniere digeſtion propre à chacune d'icelles, & eſt pouſsé hors du corps, partie par tranſpiration inſenſible, & quelquesfois par ſueur par les pores du cuir partie auſſi par certains paſſages,& conduits propres à chacunes deſdites parties : com- me ſur toutes autres aduient au cerueau, lequel ſe purge par pluſieurs canaux, comme par le nez,par la bou- che,de ce troſiéme excrement:qui deſcend par les trous du palais, pas les auçeilles, par les commiſſures du crane, par les yeux : & tous ces excremens ſe doiuent purger tous les matins, encore qu'en autre temps du iour cela ſe peut auſſi faire : & ſi quelques vns ſont par trop longtemps retenus, il faut remedier aux cauſes de leur retention, tant par regime, que par medecine. il y a bien d'autres excremens, leſquels ne ſont natu- rels, deſquels ſi tu veux auoir la connoiſſance, voy le traicté de la peſte. l'enfant eſtant au ventre de ſa mere, commence à vriner ſoudain que toutes ſes parties ſont formées, par le conduit de l'vmbilic nommé vrachus, mais aux derniers mois, prochains de ſa natiuité, le dit vrachus ſe fer- - me, comme auons dit, & alors l'enfant maſla vrine par la verge,la femelle par le col de la veſſie. cette vrine ilyad'au- c ſe conſerue au c les autres excremens, à ſçauoir, la ſueur, & les ſeroſitez, & autres ſuperfluitez du ſang men-ºº. ſtruel, qui ſeruent pour ſupporter plus facilement l'enfant nageant en icelles : &lors que le temps eſt venu #" d'enfanter, il rompt les membranes , & adonc leſdites aquoſitez ſortent, & lors les matrones prediſent que /) f , bien toſt la femme accouchera , puis que les eaux s'ecoulent : & ſi l'enfant ſort promptement auec l'expul- ſion d'icelles (ou ſubit apres) l'enfantement ſera heureux : car par l'humidité deſdites eaux, le col de la ma- trice, & autres parties ſont rendués plus lubriques,laxes,gliſſantes ou coulantes,qui fait que plus facilemnt le col de la matrice ſe dilate & ouure. et ſi l'enfant retarde à ſortir apres qu'elles ſont iſſuès , la femme enfan- tera auec vne tres-grande difficulté, parce que l'enfant demeure à ſec, & auſſi que la matrice, & le col d'icel- le ſe reſſerrent. les matrones rendent bon teſmoignage de cela : car quand la mere a perdu en abondance, & tout à coup ſes eaux,long temps auparauant que l'enfant ſe preſente au coronnement de la partie honteu- ſe, elles ſont contraintes (à l'exemple & imitation de nature) oindre le col de la matrice de choſes onctueu- ſes & oleagineuſes. or ledit enfant ne jette aucune matiere fecale par le fondement, eſtant au ventre de ſa l'enfant mere, ſi ce n'eſt lors que la femme eſt preſte d'accoucher, & qu'il aye rompu les tayes. la raiſon eſt qu'il ne eſtant au prend point d'aliment par la bouche, & auſſi que ſon eſtomach ne fait encore ſon office,dont rien n'eſt tranſ ººtrº dº ſº porté aux boyaux, & luy eſtant enuoyé vn ſang pur & digeré,il n'y a nulle ſuperfiuité fecale. qu'il ſoit vray, # i'ay veu des enfans naiſtre à terme,leſquels n'auoient aucune ouuerture au ſiege, iceluy eſtant clos d'vne pe- # - tite peau,de laquelle ayant fait apertion,tout ſubit en ſortoit des excremens : dont nous conclurons que l'en-§ # fant ne jette autre excrement au ventre de ſa mere, fors la ſueur & l'vrine, parce qu'il eſt nourry de ſang be- auſſi ne §tu nin & loüable, & non de ſang menſtruel, vilain & corrompu, comme aucuns ont pensé & eſcrit. or il faut rien par le icy noter , que leſdites aquoſitez ſont en la capacité de la matrice encloſes dans les membranes, eſquelles ſiege. l'enfant nage entierement,& ne ſont ſeparées de l'enfant,comme on voit aux chévres,brebis, chiens& autres d beſtes : ce que i'ay bien obſerué pluſieurs fois. - - - les ſignes que la femme aura conceu vn maſle, ou vne femelle. si elle eſt groſſe d'vn fils, la femme eſt plus diſpoſe & gaillarde en toute ſa groſſeſſe, & a la couleur plus hip.aph, vermeille,l'œil gay, vif,& le tein plus net & plus clair que d'vne fille. parce que le fils eſtant plus chaud de lib. ;. ſon temperament, redouble la chaleur de la mere,la femme aura meilleur appetit, elle ſent ſon enfant,mou- uoir dedans trois inois & demy, & d'vne fille plus tard : ſon ventre eſt pointu, toutes ſes parties droites ſont plus habiles à tous mouuemens : & dit-on que le premier pas qu'elle fait eſtant debout, eſt du pied droict & eſtant aſſiſe quand elle ſe veut leuer, met pluſtoſt la main droite ſur le genouil droit pour s'appuyer l'œil dextre eſt plus mobile, le tetin droit en groſſit pluſtoſt, & le mouuement de l'enfant eſt plus au coſté droit: le contraire eſt d'vne fille. ces ſignes aduiennent, le plus ſouuent,comme les anciens & modermes ont re- marqué.l'enfant maſle eſt plus excellét & parfait que la femelle,teſmoin l'authorité & préeminence que dieu , luy a donné, le conſtituant ſur la femme comme chef & seigneur. plufieurs tiennent que les maſles ſe font par la vertu du teſticule droit , parce qu'il eſt plus chaud & plus ſolide , à cauſe de quoy il rend vne ſemence plus chaude & ſeiche, & plus ſpiritueuſe : partant plus idoine à engendrer mailes. et c'eſt pourquoy les pa- ſteurs, lors qu'ils veulent auoir des maſles de leur betail, lient le teſticule gauche au taureau, belier,bouc, & autres maſles, qui doiuent ſaillir les vaches, cnévres, brebis, & autres. outre ces belles raiſons , on void par experience, que des hommes à qui on amputé le teſticule dextre, n'engendreront des enfans maſles. et par la ſeule vertu & volonté de dieu les maſles & femelles ſont en- : d d d gendrés | le vingt-quatriéme liure, gendrés ainſi qu'il luy plaiſt en ordonner : & me ſemble que les maris ne ſont ſages ſe courroucer contre a feurs femmes & compagnes, pour auoir fait des filles : car il n'eſt en la puiſſance de l'homme ny de la fem- cauſe de l', ffort de l'enfant pour ſeruir. # que le col de ſa matrice ( qui eſt rond, eſtroit & nerueux ) ſe dilate & eſlargiſſe grandement pour faire paſ- pleurs venât ſage à l'enfant, & auſſi que les os des hanches ſe ſeparent de l'os ſacrum, afin qu'eſtás dilatez, toutes les au- au monde. tres parties ſe puiſſent plus facilemét ouurir.or que leſdits os ſe defioignent&ſe ſeparent,il eſt aisé à croire l enfante- & à prouuer ; car c ne ſeroit-il poſſible qu'vn enfant eſtant à terme, ou deux gemeaux s'entretenans, joints ment ſe fºº eaſemble peuſſent paſſer par cette petite voye eſtroitte, ſans que leſdits os ne fuſſent diſioints l'vn d'auec º, l'autre ? Ôr veritablement ie le ſçay , pour auoir ouuert des femmes, ſubit apres auoir rendu leur fruict, #º auſquelles i'ay trouué entre les os des hanches & os ſacrum, diſtance à mettre le doigt entre deux.dauan- #a - tage, i'ay remarqué, eſtant appellé aux accouchemens des femmes, ayant la main ſous leur croupion, auoir § sa ouy & ſenty vn bruit de crepitation ou croquement deſdits os, pour la ſeparation qui s'y faiſoit : & meſme / / , i'ay entendu de pluſieurs femmes honorables, que quelques iours vn peu deuant que d'accoucher, apperce- uotent auec douleur certains bruits deſdits os qui croquetoient enſemble. dauantage , les femmes qui ont recentement enfanté ſe plaignent fort auoir douleur en la region de l'os coccyx ou (aude, qu'ils, appellent les reins : & icy ie conclus ( ſauf meilleur iugement que le mien ) que leſdits os commencent à s'entr'ouurir, uelquesfois deuant l'enfantement, principalement à l'heure que l'enfant ſort, & eſt inis ſur terre. mais ve- ritablement les os des hanches & pubis s'ouurent & ſeparent les vns des autres , en ſorte que pluſieurs fem- bourde ita- mes ( faute que nature ne les a puis apres bien rejoints)ſont demeurées boiteuſes. et quant à ce qu'on dit, lienne con- qu'en italie on rompt l'os pubis aux ieunes filles (afin que lors qu'elles auront des enfans, accouchent plus uaincuë de facilement) c'eſt vne choſe fauſſe & menſongere: car encore qu'on les euſt rompus, il s'y feroit vn callus, faux. comme il ſe fait touſiours aux fractures des os , dont puis apres l'enfantement ſeroit rendu plus difficile. il y a des hommes ſi fermes en leurs opinions, qu'encore qu'on leur fiſt toucher au doigt, & voir à l'œil la verité du contraire de ce qu'ils maintiennent, ſi eſt - ce toutesfois que iamais ils ne ſe voudront departir de ce qu'ils auront conçeu & engraué en leur eſprit : en quoy ils ſe monſtrent , ou merueillement amou- reux d'eux-meſmes s'ils aiment mieux leurs opinions que la raiſon : ou fort ennemis de la poſterité, ſi co- noiſſans la verité, veulent toutesfois icelle eſtre cachée & ignorée sainct auguſtin n'a point fait de diffi- culté de compoſer luy-meſme vn liure de ſes retractations. pareillement hippocrate eſcrit, comme font les - excellens hommes, & qui ſe tiennent aſſeurez de leur grand ſçauoir, qu'il a eſté deçeu à recognoiſtre la ſu- celſe. ture de la teſte d'auec la fracture. certes, comme eſcrit celſe, les petits & foibles eſprits, parce qu'ils n'ont rien, ne ſe peuuent auſſi rien oſter : mais il eſt bien ſeant à vn genereux, eſprit, de confeſſer & aduoüer plai- nement ſa vraye faute , & principalement encore qu'on l'enſeigne à la poſterité pour le bien public , afin que nos ſucceſſeurs ne ſe trompent en meſme façon que nous auons eſté. or qui me fait tenir ce propos, eſt que iuſques icy i'auois maintenu & par parole & par eſcrit, les os pubis ne ſe pouuoir ſeparer & entr'ouurir aucunement en l'enfantement : toutesfois il m'eſt apparu du contraire le premier iour de fevrier , mil cinq cens ſeptante-neuf, par l'anatomie d'vne femme, qui auoit eſté penduë quinze iours apres eſtre accouchée de laquelle ie vis la diſſection, & trouuay l'os pubis ſeparé en ſon milieu d'enuiron demy doigt, és preſences de maiſtre claude rebours, docteur regent en la faculté de medecine, de maiſtre iean d'amboiſe, coin- . teret, du bois , dionneau , pineau, larbaleſtier, viart, tous chirurgiens iurez à paris : & meſme nous veiſmes l'os iſchion ſeparé de contre l'os sacrum. qui ne le voudra croire, ie le renuoyeray au liure de na- ture, laquelle fait des choſes que noſtre intelligence n'eſt pas capable d'entendre : & principalement ces os s'ouurent & ferment à l'enfantement. de la ſituation de l'enfant au ventre de la mere. c h a p t r e x i v. diuerſeſ- # # n ne peut bien deſcrire la vrayeſituation de l'enfant au ventre de ſa mere : car veritablement tuarion de s ， ie l'ay trouuée diuerſe, tant aux femmes mortes qu'aux viues : aux mortes en diſſecant prom- # fant en % ptement apres qu'elles auoient jetté le dernier ſouſpir:aux viues lors que i'ay eſté appellé pour vferu . me d'engendrer vn maſle ou vne femelle quand ils veulent. comme l'enfant eitant à terme, s'efforce de ſortir hors du ventre de ſa mere, & de ſa natiutté. c h a p t r e x i i i. ' % van d l'enfant eſt venu à ſon tcrme prefix, il a lors affaire de plus grand nourriſſement qu'au- # parauant, & n'en pouuant tirer par le nombril tant qu'il en a beſoin, cela eſt cauſe que par vne grande impetuoſité il cherche a ſortir hors, donc il ſe meut, & rompt les membranes qui le ſouſtiennent : & fi elles eſtoient ſi durent qu'elles ne peuſſent ſe rompre, il les faudroit fendre - & deſchirer auec les doigts, pour donner libre iſſue aux eaux & à l'enfant, que la matrice ne peut plus louſtenir , s'en ſentant offencée & intereſſée : adonc elle s'ouure, & par icelle ouuerture l'enfant ſentant l'air entrer, le pourſuit, & s'efforce de ſortir hors la teſte deuant : alors ſe fait la natiuité naturelle de l'enfant, non ſans douleur de ſon corps tendre & delicat eſtant preſſé, dont en pleurant il fait ſon entrée és calamitez de la vie humaine : semblablement la mere enfante auec vne extreme douleur, parce qu'il faut % les deliurer, nature ne pouuant faire ſon deuoir,ayant la main en leur matrice,trouuois quel- r quesfois la teſte de l'enfant en bas : autresfois en haut , & les pieds premiers, autresfois les s) ſeſſes autresfois les mains & les pieds enſemble. et faut icy noter, que le petit fœtus ou embryon, eſt touſiours trouué en figure ſpherique : mais alors que l'ame y eſt infuſe, & à meſure qu'il croit, il ſe deſueloppe, & eſtend ſes membres, & prend autre figure, comme tu vois par ces figures ſuiuantes. autresfois de la generation. sns •w \n • s$ $ $ n $ u h- autresfois le dos , autresfois le ve > comme tu vois par la figure ſuiuante. autresfois vn ſeul pied º ~）; și ſă Žć "g ！ ） - d...$ „a ſº- - & · ; & · · · v^ § § § & ! &-> # # ! # autresfois # s le vingt-quatriéme liure, amm lium. #, . s#. atº entt de # # ( , qu peperit l'g) hipp.lib.de re humaine. . arſt en ſes autresfois les pieds eſcartez l'vn de l'autre : au- tresfois vn ſeul bras, eſtant l'enfant hermaphro- dite , comme tu vois par cette figure. \ \n § #à n -- ( \ % %- --- # # % #é\| #/y# # #\l #ll # % #ſſº è # % } n n ſſg v # à# \$ n \ aucuns iumeaux , dont l'vn d'iceux vient la teſte a premiere , & l'autre les pieds , comme tu peux voir par cette figure. s, * • - - (o> •s> > s - (a% yy | _ $ #s$ # a % $s $ $ $ $$ $ $ . n $ $ # à s $ pa #\ $ ſé| a \ \ st aux femmes mortes, lors que l'enfant eſtoit encore fort petit , ie les ay trouué en figure ronde, ayans la teſte ſur les genouils , & les deux mains par deſſus , & les talons contre les feſſes , qui ſemble eſtre la plus vraye & naturelle ſituation de l enfant : dauantage , ie proteſte en auoir trouué vn (ayant ouuert la c mere promptement eſtant decedée ) ſitué de ſon long, la face vers le ciel , & encore viuant, ayant les mains iointes : & partant nul ne peut donner reigle certaine de la ſituation des enfans au ventre de leurs meres. du temps commode ou incommode de la natiuité de l'enfant. a^iſt. cap. . - - • _ • _ r - • , de generat. f，º# o vs animaux ont certains temps limité de charger & porter leurs petits, mais ! homme ſeul # n'a aucun temps prefix,ains vient au monde en tout temps:ainſi les vns naiſſent à ſept mois,les # autres à huict, les autres à neuf, qui eſt le plus commun, les autres à dix, voire au commence- ment de l'onziéme.maſſurius dit, que lucius papyrius condamna par arreſt vn ſubſtitué ſur le rapport de la mere du poſthume, inſtitué heritier, qu'elle diſoit auoir porté treize mois apres la mort du teſtateur:tant y a qu'il n'y a aucun terme certain & definy à porter les enfans. l'en- v •x^ * • \sº "l --• c h a p. x v. fant naiſſant à ſix mois ne peut viure,à cauſe que ſes membres & tout ſon corps n'ont point encore toute leur perfection,au ſeptiéme il peut viures ce que l'experience nous monſtre, & toutesfois au huictiéme ne viuent iamais, ou rarement. maiſtre nicole du haut - pas , en ſon liure de la contemplation de la nature humai- ne, dit que la raiſon ne ſe doit rapporter à l"aſtrologie, & tient que le huictieſme mois n'eſt critique com- du haut pas me le ſeptiéme, ou le neufiéme, ou le onziéme, & que le huictiéme eſt attribué à saturne, ennemy des vies & naiſſances : où s'iis viuent, ſeront tout les cours de leur vie valetudinaires. les enfans qui naiſſent au hui- contempla- ctiéme mois, ne viuent gueres , & ſont appellez genitures de la lune, pource que la lune eſt planette froi- d ººººººtº-de, & par ſa grande froideur preſſe le fruict, de façon qu'en brefil meurt. toutesfois la vrayeraiſon de- pend de ce que l'enfant, touſiours ſur le ſeptiéme mois s'efforce de ſortir hors, ce qu'il fait heureuſement, & auec aſſeurance de vie ſans autre accident s'il eſt fort & puiſſant de nature. que ſi au contraire il eſt foi- ble & flotiet, non ſeulement il ne peut ſortir , mais en outre eſtant dauantage debile par le combat & effort qu'il a fait en vain pour ſortir, a beſoin quaſi d'eſtre comme recuit & retenu de l'vterus iuſques à deux ou trois mois apres, ne ſortant que ſur le neufiéme ou dixiéme mois, pour cependant recueillir & ramaſſer ſes forces. que s'il ſort vn mois apres, ſçauoir ſur le huictiéme mois, il eſt eſtimé mal-heureux, & ſans eſpe- l'enſant n'eſt rance de longue vie, pource qu'il n'a eu aſſez de temps à reparer & ramaſſer ſes debiles forces attenuées par le conflict,pour ſortir naturellement au ſeptiéme mois. note toutesfois que ſi la femme eſt forte & gail- larde, qu'elle peut heureuſement enfanter au huictiéme mois : de ſorte que l'enfant meſme ſera vital, comme teſmoigne ariſtote des femmes d'egypte , & auicenne des femmes d'eſpagne. en la naiſſance de l'enfant on peut dire auſſi cecy eſtre vne choſe fort admirable, & qui ſurpaſſe l'entendement humain : car l'orifice de la matrice tout le temps que la femme eſt groſſe,eſt tellement clos, que ſeulement la pointe d'vne eſprou- uette , ou d'vne aiguille n'y peut entrer, ſi ce n'eſt qu'il ſe faſſe vne ſuperfetation , ou que nature ſe deſchar- ge de grande quantité de ſang & d'eau qui ſont en la matrice : & au contraire, au temps de l'enfantement, s'ouure & s'eſtend de façon que l'enfant eſtant ſorty,ledit orifice ſe reſſerre incontinent apres par vnetres- grande prouidence de nature,laquelle ne ſe peut exprimer : & pour ce nul ne doit eſtre ſi hardy & audacieux de s'enqueſter, comme telle choſe ſe fait : car ſi on entreprend de paſſer outre, & d'eſplucher par le menu coiiliilc de la generation · À comme tellechoſe ſe fait, on demeurera condamné & conuaincu de n'auoir cogneu la puiſſance de dieu, ny la foibleſſe de ſon eſprit. communément les femmes ſont plus trauaillées à leur premier enfantement prouidsnet qu'aux autres, & tant plus qu'elles ont enfanté,trauaille moins que la premiere fois : & parce ie leur con- * nºtºrº. ſeille d'vſer d'vn onguent emollient comme cettuy, quelque temps deuant l'enfantement. . ſpermatis ceti .ij.olei amygdalar. dulcium .iv. cerz. albz & medullx ceruinar an. .iij. axung.anceris & gall.an. . j. terebenthinx venetz . ij fiat vnguentum, duquel en ſeront frottées les cuiſſes & le ventre de la femme groſſe : & tout autour de ſes parties genitales : dauantage, pourras ſemblablement porter vne maniere de li- gature faite de peaux de cuir de chien deliée, laquelle ſera frottée de l'onguent ſuſdit,qui luy aydera à ſup- porter l'enfant. plus quand elle ſera ſur neufiéme mois, faut qu'elle ſe baigne par pluſieurs fois dans vn l'enfante- bain, auquel auront bouilly herbes emollientes. or l'enfantement naturel eſt, quand la teſte vient la pre- ment natu- miere,& ſuit ſes eaux : l'autre qui eſt moins bon & facile, eſt quand il vient les pieds deuant : tous les autres rel. ſont tres-difficiles. parquoy ie veux icy aduertir les matrones, que là où elles connoiſtront que l'enfant ne enfantemens viendra point en ces deux manieres,mais le dos premier, ou le ventre, ou les mains & pieds enſemble, ou vn ºnºrº nº bras,ou en autre figure, qu'elles ayent à les tourner & les tirer par les pieds dehors : & ſi elles ne ſe ſentent* aſſez experimentées, qu'elles appellent les chirurgiens exercez en cét affaire. car comme ſeroit-il poſſible à la nature les ietter hors eſtans ainſi fituez, ſi ce n'eſtoit d'auanture petits auortons leſquels pour leur pe- titeſſe, nature pourroit ainſi facilement mettre hors. s b les ſignes à la femme de bien-toſt enfanter. c h a p. xv i. e s ſignes ſont, qu'elle ſent douleur au deſſous de l'vmbilic, & aux aines,& eſt ladite dou- signes d'en- leur communiquée aux vertebres des lombes, & principalement lors que les os des han-fantºmºnº # ches ſe ſeparent de contre los sacrum, & los de la queüe ſe recule en arriere : leurs cuiſſes pº # ) & parties genitales ſe tumefient , & leur font grande douleur : dauantage il leur ſuruient #: vn tremblement vniuerſel de tout le corps,tel qui ſe fait au commencement des accez des fiévres : plus leur face rougit, à cauſe que le ſang s'eſchauffe & boüillonne, parce que na- ture s'ayde de toutes ſes forces à mettre hors l'enfant, lequel s'eſmeut vehementement, & le ſang ainſi eſ- chauffé & eſmeu, ſort auec portion des aquoſitez premier que l'enfant. et ſi tels ſignes ſe demonſtrent, ſois aſſeuré qu'en brief la femme enfantera : & partant qu'on luy prepare tout ce qu'elle aura beſoin pour tel- affaire, & principalement à la bien ſituer en vn lict en figure moyenne,à ſçauoir non du tout à la renuerſe ny aſſiſe, mais aucunement le dos eſleué, afin qu'elle puiſſe mieux reſpirer, & auoir force à mettre l'enfant hors. dauantage , faut qu'elle ait les jambes courbées, & les talons vers les feſſes, & les cuiſſes eſcartées l'vn de l'autre, & quelle s'appuye cótre vne buche de bois poſée au trauers de ſon lict, ayant vn peu les feſſes eſle- uées. aucunes accouchent debout eſtans appuyées des bras ſur le bord du lict, ou d'vn banc : autres en vne aurºnes chaire propre à cela,laquelle ne doit pas eſtre plus haute de la terre, que de deux pieds. l'vtilité de cette # eſtre chaire n'eſt à meſpriſer, parce que la femme groſſe y eſt ſituée eſtant renuersée ſur le dos, de ſorte qu'elle a # ſon inſpiration & expiration libre : auſſi que l'os sacrum & l'os caudae ſont en l'air , n'eſtans aucunement § § preſſez, qui fait que leſdits os ſe defioignét & ſeparent plus aisément. pareillement l'os pubis, à cauſe que § #. c les cuiſſes ſont eſcartées l'vne de l'autre, ioinct auſſi que la ſage-femme beſongne plus à l'aiſe, eſtant aſſiſe , . deuant la femme groſſe. l'on mettra vn oreiller au doſſier de la chaire , & quelques linges, où les cuiſſes ſeront appuyées, afin que la femme groſſe ſoit plus à ſon aiſe. | p v * - • • - v • la figure de la chaire t'eſt icy rprſentée. or faut bien ſe garder de mettre la fem-aduertiſſe- me aux peines de trauail, deuant que les fi- ment aux gnes ſufdits precedent : car deuant iceux le matronet. trauail eſt faict en vain, & en ſont les pau- ures femmes plus moleſtées & debiles , quand ce vint à mettre hors l'enfant à bon eſcient , à cauſe qu'elles n'ont tant de for- ce & vertu, lors que l'expulſion de l'enfant ſe . doit faire. eſtant la femme en trauail d'en- fant, le tout venant bien , faut laiſſer fai- re nature , & la ſage - femme : toutesfois faut commander à la femme (lors qu'elle aura des ondées & tranchées ) qu'elle s'eſ- preigne le plus qu'elle pourra , luy cloüant le nez & la bouche , & vne matrone luy moyen d'ay- preſſe les parties ſuperieures du ventre en deràlafem- pouſſant l'enfant en bas : car telle choſe ayde ººſ" grandement à les faire accoucher, n'eſtans ſi f vexées des tranchées ou ondées : comme i'ay ſouuentesfois experimenté en pluſieurs fem- mes , où i'ay eſté appellé pour leur ayder à accoucher.si le trauail eſt long & laborieux (à cauſe que les vuidanges ſont ſorties long-. temps auant l'enfantement, & que la matri- ce demeure à ſec) faut faire ce qui s'enſuit. . butyri recentis fine ſale in aqua artemiſ, loti . ij. mucag. ſeminis lini, ficuum, & ſe- minis alth. cum aqua ſabin. extract.an. . . olei liliorum .j.fiat liniment. ex quo obſte- trix liniat frequenter collum vteri : ou huyle d'amédes douces, ou graiſſe d'oye,au d'autre ſemblable, afin de les lubrifier & relaſcher. ctam an. .j. . ſacchar. alb. ad pond. "# â$ \. oo le vingt-quatriéme liure, remedes ex- perimentez pour ietter l'enfant,l'ar- riere-faix féfé/ f , comment faut entêdre l'enfant eſtre heureux qui maiſt eveſſé. cauſe des tranchées. obſeruation qu'on doit auoir à la ligature du mombril. fiat pulu. ſubtiliſſ.ſumat .iv. cum decocto ſeminis lini : celeriorem enim & faciliorem partum fatit : tum minori a moleſtia poteſt hic puluis daricum vino albo tenui. dauantage la ſage-femme ( quand le trauail eſt ainſi faſcheux) pourra oindre ſa main de ce liniment, & en mettre § lecol & parties voiſines de la matrice, /.. olei de ſemin lini. j ß. olei moſcelini . f, gall. moſcatae .iij.ladani .j. fiat linimentum. plus on fera eſternuer la femme cum puluere piperis, vel tantillo bellebori albi, in mares immiſſa.plus pour haſter la femme d'accoucher, la ſemence de lin , pilée auec eau d'armoiſe & de ſabine ſert grandement, ou ce re- mede. ſ. cortic. caſſi. fiſt. concaſſ . ij. cicer. rubro. m. ß. bulliant cum vino albo , & cum aqua ſufficienti, addendo ſub finem ſabinx . ij. & fiat decoct. in. coll. pro vna doſi : adde cin.an. . .croci g vj. fiat potio: apres elle tachera à eſternuer auec ſternutatoires : quoy faiſant la femme auec moins de trauail enfantera. quelquefois les enfans naiſſans apportent autour de la teſte vne partie de la membrane agnelette, princi- palement quand les parties genitales de la mere par s'efforcer d'enfanter,& par le benefice de nature ſe ſont ouuertes & eſlargies, & que l'enfant ſort quand &quand les eaux : &alors les matrones preſagent que l'en- fant eſt heureux, parce ( diſent-elles ) qu'il eſt né coeffé. veritablement ie ſuis d'auec elles, & encore ie dis dauantage, que la mere eſt auſſi bien-heureuſe, à cauſe que l'enfant eſt ſorti aſſez librement : quand l'enfan- tement eſt laborieux, les enfans n'apportent iamais cette membrane ſur la teſte , car elle eſt arreſtée au paſſa- ge, ainſi q'vne couleuure voulant laiſſer ſa peau, paſſe par vn lieu eſtroit pour eſtre deſpouillée : ainſi le ſem- blable ſe fait à l'enfant laiſſant ſa coëffe au ventre de ſa mere. on baillera à la femme ſubit apres l'enfante- tement deux ou trois cuillerées d'huile d'amandes douces tirées ſans feu auec vn peu de ſuccre. autres pren- nent deux jaunes d'œufs auec ſuccres, autres prennent de bon hippocras : autres vn conſommé, ou de la ge- lée. ainſi on diuerſifiera telles choſes ſelon le gouſt, & la neceſſité qu'il faudra pour alimenter l'accouchée, & garder les tranchées, leſquelles viennent à cauſe que les veines ſe deſgorgent du ſang ſuperflu qui eſtoit retenu à cauſe de l'enfant, & eſtant gros & bourbeux comme lye, s'amaſſe de toutes parts, & accourt par les veines & arteres en la matrice , laquelle il penetre difficilement, & par grande violence le rejette comme inutile , qui la refroidit, & enfie. auſſi leſdites tranchées ſon ſouuent causées du vent, qui entre au corps & capacité de la matrice, faute d'auoir ſerré les cuiſſes, & lié le ventre de l'accouchée comme il falloit. ce qu'il faut faire à l'enfant ſubit qu'il eſt nay. c h a p t r e xvii. rs r e m = r e m e n r eſtant ſorty du ventre de la mere, la ſage-femme doit ſubit tirer l'ar- §riere-faix, s'il luy eſt poſſible, & s'il eſt beſoin mettra ſa main dans la matrice de la femme pour #|l'extraire & mettre hors, autrement ſortiroit apres auec grande difficulté, parce que la matrice ，nºl & toutes les autres parties ſe reſſerrent incontinent que l'enfant en eſt hors. cela fait, l'enfant " doit eſtre ſeparé d'auec ſon arriere-faix en luy liant le nombril d'vn filet double, à diſtance du ventre de la largeur d'vn poulce, & non plus : & la ligature ne doit eſtre trop ſerrée, de peur que la partie · qui eſt outre la ligature : ne tombe pluſtoſt qu'il n'eſt beſoin : ne auſſi trop laſche, de peur que le ſang ne fue pourquoy on laue l'enfant ſi toſt qu'il eſt né. » cheſe digne d' eſtre bien notée aux f / / , le vulgaire appelle cette maladie, le c%äcre blanc. des vaiſſeaux vmbilicaux, auſſi que l'air n'entre dedans le ventre de l'enfant. et apres eſtre lié, il doit eſtre coupé deux doigts deſſous la ligature,auec vn raſoir ou ciſeau bien tranchant,& puis appliqué ſur vn linge en double,trempé en huile roſat ou d'amendes douces pour ſeder la douleur : & apres cela, aubout de quelques iours, ce qui eſt coupé tombera auec la ligature. aduertiſſement aux ſages-femmes : c'eſt que la portion du nombril, apres l'auoir lié & coupê demeure pendante, qui ſe meurt peu à peu, en fin tombe en gangrene, puis en mortification. les ſages-femmes le couchent communément contre la chair nuë du ventre de l'enfant dont il s'enſuit grandes tranchées pour la froideur de ce qui eſt mortifié : à cette cauſe il faut l'enuelopper de linges ou cotton , iuſques à ce qu'il ſoit tombé. or pluſieurs matrones coupent incontinent le nombril apres l'auoir lié,ſans attendre que l'arriere-faix ſoit hors : mais celles qui enttendent mieux ces choſes,diffe- rent iuſques à ce qu'elles ayent tiré ledit arriere-faix hors la matrice. cela fait, l'enfant doit eſtre nettoyé d'huile roſat, ou de myrtilles, pour luy oſter la craſſe & excrement qu'il apporte deſſus ſon cuir : auſſi pour clorre les pores, afin qu'apres ſon habitude en ſoit renduë plus ferme.aucuns les baignent en eau chaude & vin aſtringent, puis les huylent des huiles ſus-nommées, ou bien ſe contentent de macerer & faire bouil- lir dans le vin,duquel ils doiuent baigner l'enfant des roſes rouges,ou fueilles de myrtils,y adiouſtans vn peu de ſel, & font cela par cinq ou ſix iours, afin de nettoyer ſon corps , & reſoudre les meutriſſeures & grands foulemens qu'il a eu en ſortant hors du ventre de ſa mere. il luy faut pareillement manier les doigts les vns apres les autres, eſtendre & flechir ſes jointures des bras & jambes, voire par pluſieurs ou diuersiours,afin de chaſſer quelque humeur ſuperfiu qui pourroit eſtre en ſes jointures. et ſi on voit qu'il y ait quelque vice aux os, il les faut habiller, ſoit qu'ils ſoient hors de leur place, ou fracturez , leſquels ſeront reduits & re- dreſſez par la main du chirurgien. - dauantage, faut auoir efgard ſi ſes conduits ſont eſtoupez par quelque petite membrane ( qui ſe fait à d'aucuns) cóme aux oreilles, nez, bouche, verge, fondement & à l'orifice du col de la matrice aux femelles: & ſitelle choſe ſe trouue,leront deſtoupez par l'artifice du chirurgien : puis on y appliquera tentes, peſſai- res, & quelque linge entre deux, de peur que les parties, qui auront eſté coupées, ne ſe rejoignent derechef. antonius beneuenius,medecin florentin au liu, .cha. o.dit auoir veu deux enfans maſles, leſquels eſtans venus ſur terre auoient le ſiege fermé:dont l'vn eſtoit clos d'vne chair& mourut,l'autre d'vne membrane, la- quelle fut incisée &guarit : pareillement aucuns dés leur naiſſance n'on point le bout du gland percé, mais il eſt au deſſous,où la figure du gland finit. ils ne peuuent vriner droict en deuant, ſans renuerſer la verge contre-mont : ils ne peuuent pareillement engendrer, parce que la ſemence ne peut eſtre lancée ne iettée droict au champ de nature humaine. dauantage, cette defectuoſité cauſe vne difformité. galien en l'intro- duction , & aux diffinitions medicinales, appelle cette affection hypoſpadias. la curation ſe fera en trenchant le bout du gland, à l'endroit de ſa couronne le plus proche du trou qu'il ſera poſſible. auſſi quelques-vns ont ſix doigts à chaque main, autres ont les doigts des pieds & des mains ioincts enſemble, le vulgaire appelle tel vice patte d'oye : autres ont vn ligament fous la langue qu'on appelle le filet, lequelles garde de tetter ou quand ils ſeront deuenus grands, il les fait balbutier à cauſe qu'il tient la langue liée contre la mandibulein- ferieure:tous leſquels vices ſeront aydez par la main du chirurgien.semblablement faut prendre garde s'ily a quelque excrement blanc ſemblable à de la craye, qui adhere contre les parties internes de la bouche, & ſur tout la langue , qui vient à cauſe de leur intemperature, qui pareillement les garde de tetter, & par faute - - de c v)e la generation. , c ! a de les nettoyer,il s'engendre ſouuent des vlceres,voire iuſqu'à la gorge, qui ſont cauſe de leur mort. or pour remedier, faut prendre huyle d'amandes douces tiré ſans feu, miel commun, ſucre fin, & auec vn peu de lin- ge lié au bout d'vn petit baſton , luy ſeront frottez doucement les lieux , où il ſera beſoin : telle mixtion ne doit eſtre trop eſpeſſe ne liquide : elle deterge & fait tomber la ſordicie. auſſi luy en peut-on donner quel- quesfois la quantité d'vne petite cuillerée, pour luy laſcher le ventre lors qu'il ſera conſtipé, & cecy appaiſe la toux s'il en y a,ſede la douleur des trenchées:pareillement nourrit,de ſorte qu'on peut dire telle mixtion eſtre medicamenteuſe & alimenteuſe : parce que nature ſe delecte par grande volupté, d'attirer les choſes douces, qui luy ſont familieres de leur nature. ie diray dauantage , qu'aucuns enfans nouuellement nez ont · les paupieres priſes auec le cil , & quelquesfois auec la conionctiue & cornée, leſquelles ſont ſeparez auec inſtrumens propres, ſe gardant de toucher à la cornée, à l'endroit du trou de la pupille : & apres en auoir faift ſeparation, on mettra dedans les yeux & aux parties voiſines, blanc d'œuf batu auec eau roſe, & tien- dra-on la paupiere ouuerte, mettant quelque petit linge delié entre le cil des yeux trempe en ladite nixtu- re , de peur qu'elle ne ſe reagglutine, & ſouuent on leur ouurira les yeux , puis apres on leur appliquera quelque collyre deſiccatif pour produire la cicatrice. que diray-ie plus ? c'eſt comme nous auons dit : que quelquesfois on trouue aux enfans nouuellement nez, entre le cuir & le crane, vne aſſez grande tumeur mo- laſſe, parce que la ſage femme aura tiré la teſte par violence , ou par quelque contuſion, ou par grande abondance d'aquoſitez, qui ſeront ſorties du cerueau par les ſutures qui ne ſeront encores iointes enſemble comme on void en hydrocephalos , pour la cure,il faut faire ouuerture auec la lancette , & euiter le muſcle temporal : puis fraicter la playe comme il eſt requis. d'auantage les enfans ſouuent apportent du ventre de leurs meres pluſieurs taches & macules dictes vul-cur, r gairement seings , dont les vnes ſont plattes & eſgales au cuir, autres ſont eſleuées en tumeur : aucunes ont #, du poil, & d'icelles les vnes ſont noiraſtres , tirant ſur la couleur plombine , mais la plus part d'icelles ſont des ſeings ºu rouges : autres ſon eſleuées en petite tumeur ronde, ſemblables à verruës : autres de diuerſes formes, qui marques des ſont ſurnommées de figures qu'elles repreſentent, comme ceriſes, fraiſes, meures, figues, raifins, melons enfans. - abricots, & autres, leſquelles ne peuuent eſtre effacées pour quelque choſe qu'on y faſſe. si par fois elles ſont comme fleſtries & obſcurcies neantmoins quand le temps des fruicts qu'elles repreſentent vient, c'eſt à dire, quand ils entrent en vigueur, & en leur ſaiſon , leſdites taſches reuerdiſſent & ſe colorent comme , auparauant.or c'eſt vne choſe merueilleuſe, que l'imagination, outre la forme qu'elle imprime ſur le petit simºde prº- enfant, puiſſe laiſſer vne diſpoſition ſujette à certaines ſaiſons, de ſorte que ces taches ſuyuent la ſigure des uanchier en choſes qu'elles repreſentent : ie dy que c'eſt vne choſe admirable, veu l'abſence de l'imagination generatiue # com ſur de ces taches, apres la parfaite formation de l'enfant. il ne faut pretendre en parler , comme ſi nous en # ſçauions ce qui eſt : & ne peut-on , à mon aduis,dire autre choſe, ſinon que la vertu formatrice rend ſou- / ls ple & obeiſſante la matiere ſuſceptible d'infinies formes, à la varieté & multiplicité de ſes impreſſions : tel- , , , , lement qu'elle la diſpoſe à receuoir la condition de la ſaiſon & conſtitution du ciel, en laquelle leſdites ta- . . ches ont eſté produites. telles choſes ſont grandement difformes & hydeuſe à voir, & principalement " -- , -- quand elles ſont au viſage , & s'eſpandent tellement qu'elles couurent ſouuent par ſucceſſion de temps vne - , , , ! bonne partie de toute la face. or telles marques (ce me ſemble ) viennent à raiſon que les mois couloient cauſes'dus, encore vn peu à la femme, ou bien qu'il en reſtoit quelque portion contre les parois de la matrice, lors que "º c le mary a eu ſa compagnie , & qu'elle a conceu : fi que les ſemences ſe meſlans auec tel ſang, il teint & bail- le couleur à quelque partie de l'enfant. - les femmes diſent que cela prouient d'auoir eu enuie de manger quelque viande ou fruicts pendant leur groſſeſſe, ou qu'on leur aura ietté au ſein ou au viſage quelque choſe. cela m'eſt bien difficile à croire : tou- tesfois ie croy bien que la forte imagination a grand puiſſance à eſnouuoir les humeurs, & qu'elle imprime en elles la figure des choſes imaginées, aisément ſur chacun indiuidu, puis le met en œuure en leur ſang (comme nous dirons cy-aptes parlans des enfans monſtrueux,faits par la vertu imaginatiue.)mais que j'e§ fant ja formé puiſſe receuoir telles marques par vn defir de manger quelque viande , ou qu'on aye ietté au- cunes choſes ſur elles , c'eſt choſe difficile à croire. : ' ' , · · . - aucunes de ces taches ſont curables, les autres non , principalement celles qui ſont fort grandes, ou qui ſont aux léures , nez , & palpebres, et celles qui ſont comme verrues à raiſon qu'elles participent de quel- que mauuaiſe qualité,laquelle s'irrite les voulant curer,ne doiuent eſtre aucunement touchées:ca r'participans d'vne humeur melancolic, facilement eſtans irritées ſe tourneroient en chancre, appellé des vulgaires \oli metangere. celles qui ſe peuuent curer ſont petites, & en partie qui peuuent permettre d'eſtre oſtées: ce qui ſe fera prenant vne aiguille enfilée , laquelle ſera paſſée au trauers de la tache, à ſçauoir deſſous le cuir, à fin de le leuer en haut pour couper toute la marque qui eſt imprimée en iceluy : & la playe qui reſte- ra, ſera traictée ainſi qu'il appartient.aucuns m'ont fort loüé telle choſe. c'eſt qu'appliquant par pluſieurs fois du ſang menſtruel de la femme, ou bien quelque petite portion de l'arriere faix , guariſſoit les marques rouges qui ne ſont eſleuées en tumeur. celles qui ſont mediocrement larges & eſleuées en tumeur , ayasus, poil comme vne taulpe où ſouris , ſeront liées ſelon leur largeur & groſſeur, paſſant vne aiguille au trauers de leur racine en trois ou quatre endroits, plus ou moins, qui eſt le moyen de les faire tomber, n'ayant plus de nourriſſement & vie, & apres eſtre tombées, l'vlcere qui reſtera ſera guary : & s'il reſtoit quelque chair à conſommer , ſe fera commodément auec aegyptiac , poudre de mercure , & autre. ou bien ſi on craint qu'elles reuiennent, la racine n'eſtant oſtée , ſera cauterisée, auec vn peu d'huile de vitriol, ou,d'eau fort, outre ceſdites marques appellées ſeings , il s'en trouuent d'autres qui ſont de couleur liuide,tirant ſur le violet , qui occupent les parties de la face , & principalement les léures , faifant tumeur molle, laxe, rare, ſans douleur, ayant aux enuirons pluſieurs veines variqueuſes. icelle tumeur lors que les enfans crient, & les plus aagez ſe mettent en cholere, s'enfie d'vn eſprit flatulent, & pour lors eſt de couleur di- uerſe ſemblable à celle de creſte de coq d'inde. le cry & cholere paſſée , la tumeur s'abbaiſſe & eſuanouit demeurant comme auparauant, & à telle tumeur ne faut mettre la main. pregnºã « ', desſting . · • de la maniere d'extraire l'arriere-faix apres l'enfantement. • ch a p i t r e x v i i i. - # a r r i e r *-r a x a eſté ainſi appellée du vulgaire , parce qu'il vient apres l'enfant, & qu'il eſt vn diuers nºms à # autre faix à la femme : des autres eſt appellé le lict, par-ce que l'enfant y eſt couché & enuclop- de l'arriers- # pé,& y demeure : des autres la deliurance,par-ce qu'eſtant hors,la femme eſt entierement deliuree: faix. & autant qu'il yaura d'enfans, autant y aura d'arriere faix ſeparez l'vn de l'autre, choſe aux matrones† - - - - e e e 'cltre o le vingt-quatriéme liure, # | re-faix ne d'eſtre bien nottée. ce qui nous eſt demonſtré par experience, en celles qui ayans enfanté auiourd'huy , & a mis hors leur arriere-faix ayans deux enfans , lors qu'elles viennent à enfanter , quelque temps apres jet- tent vn autre arriere-faix. or iceluy deineure ſouuent dans la matrice apres l'enfantement pour pluſieurs & diuerſes cauſes : comme par l'imbecilité de la vertu de la femme pour auoir eſté trop agitée & trauaillée de douleurs , pendant le trauail de ſon enfantement, ou que le col de la matrice,& aut es parties voifines ſe ſeront ſi fort enflées, par long & mauuais trauail , que l'iſſue ſe ſera fermée, en ſorte qu'il ne peut eſtre jetté hors. dauantage peut demeurer,à raiſon qu'il eſt entortillé & reployé dedans la matrice,ou s'il eſt demeuré à ſec, à cauſe des eaux qui auront efté euacuées pluſtoſt qu'il n'eſtoit beſoin : parquoy les voyes ne ſont ſi cauſes qui gliſſantes & coulantes : ou qu'il eſt encore attaché à la matrice,par la liaiſon & emboucheures des veines & *mpºſººt arteres qu'on nomme cotyledons:ce qui ſe fait volontiers aux femmes qui auortent.car tout ainſi que nous ".º- voyons les fruicts des arbres,leſquels ne ſont encore en parfaicte maturité,plus difficillement tôber que ceux qui ſont du tout meurs,& alors qu'ils ſont en parfaicte maturité,tomber d'eux-meſmes : ainſi eſt il de l'arrie- refaix, lequel ſe ſepare de contre la matrice, quand l'enfant eſt à ſon terme prefix, & y demeure au contraire quand l'enfantement ſe fait deuant le temps & de force. d'auantage quelquesfois aduient (ce que i'ay veu) qu'il ne peut nullement eſtre tiré dehors, pource qu'il ſera demeure trop long-temps en la matrice, & que la femme ſe ſera tenue deſcouuerte : de façon que l'air ſera entré en ladite matrice & qui aura eſté cauſe de faire grandement enfler le col & corps d'icelle. et là où il ne ſeroit ſeparé de ſoy-meſme, & demeureroit en la matrice, il ſuruiendroit à la mere pluſieurs accidens, comme ſuffocation de matrice, ne pouuant auoir ſon haleine , au inoyen de la putrefaction qui ſe fait en peu de temps, parce qu'il s'eſleue pluſieurs vapeurs cor- suſfºcation rompues & putrides, qui montent au cœur & au cerueau. parquoy ladite mere tombe ſouuentesfois en de- a amarry faillance de cœur, & quelquesfois eſt ſuffoquée, & rend l'eſprit : pour cette cauſe le faut extraire ſubit que b à raiſon de l'enfant eſt ſorty,en le tirant par le nombril , appellé petit boyau.et où il ne pourroit eſtre ainſi extrait, faut l arriere- ſituer la femme comme ſi on vouloit tirer l'enfant mort ou vif, lors que nature de ſoy ne le peut faire:et lors fº retenu la ſage femme mettra ſa main doucement dans la matrice, oincte d'huyle, ou de quelque axunge, & ſuiura ledit nombril, qui luy ſeruira de guide pour prendre l'arriere-faix, & le ſeparera, s'il eſt encor adherant con- tre le fond de la matrice auec les doigts , le tournant de coſté & d'autre : & le tirera hors tout doucement. & non par violence, comme font les folles & idiotes matrones,de peur de tirer quand-& quand le corps de la matrice, & la deprimer de ſon propre lieu , dont puis apres pluſieurs accidens aduiennent, & ſouuent hipp aph. la mort. car le tirant rudement, on peut rompre & dilacerer quelques veines, arteres ou fibres,& ligamens . l. . nerueux, où ladite matrice eſt liée & attachée, dont le ſang ſort : & eſtant ſorty de ſes propres vaiſſeaux, , ſe corrompt & putrefie, cauſe inflammation , apoſteme, gangrene, & par conſequent la mort : ou pour le moins(pour auoir tiré & rompu les ligaments)aduient que la matrice tombe entre les jambes de la femme remedes qui luy eſt vne peine & douleur ineſtimable , dequoy nous parlerons cy-apres. et ſi la ſage-femme trouue propres à en tirant l'arriere-faix quelque thrombus ou ſang caillé , il faut qu'elle le tire hors , & auſſi qu'il ne demeure expeller hors aucune portion dudit arriere-faix : quelquesfois la femme le iette quelque temps apres par ſa nature en º"iere- pourriture,qui ne ſe fait ſans grands accidens.on ayde à l'expulſion d'iceluy par ſternutations & fometations faik, faictes au col de la matrice de choſes aromatiques, & par iniections des choſes glaireuſes & remollientest d'auantage les ſenteurs fetides ſeront adminiſtrées par la bouche, & autres choſes qui prouoquent les mois, & principalement vne decoction faite de artemiſia, & baccis lauri, auec vin miellé , ou demie dragme de . · poudre de ſauinier donnée à aualler à la patiente : ſemblablement les cheueux de la femme bruſlez & pulue- riſez ſont profitables , les luy faiſant boire auec du vin. - ſort auec l'enfant ce qu'on doit bailler à l'enfant par la bouche deuant que luy donner à tetter. ch a p t r e xix. n doit frotter la bouche & le palais de l'enfant, auec vn peu de theriaque & de miel, ou | d'huyle d'amâdes douces tirées ſans feu,luy tenant la teſte eſleuée, afin qu'il en aualle quelque peu: car alors ſortent de ſa bouche quelques humiditez,& quelquesfors cela eſmeut l'eſtomach % à vomir les ſurperfluitez qui y ſont, leſquelles eſt bon de mettre hors : car non ſeulement on " " penſe que l'enfant aye des ſuperfluitez à la bouche,palais & gorge, mais il eſt à croire qu'il en a encore plus en l'eſtomach, & meſme aux inteſtins.parquoy eſt bon de bailler les choſes ſuſdites deuant que de faire tetter, de peur que le laict ne ſe meſle auec telle ordure,& ſoit corrompu,& qu'il ne s'eſleue quel- ques vapeurs mauuaiſes au cerueau qui pourroyent beaucoup nuire à l'enfant. or que l'enfant nouuellement nay n'apporte du ventre de ſa mere beaucoup de ſuperfluitez , on le void oculairement par les excrements qu'il jette des inteſtins auparauant qu'il ait iamais tetté ny pris aucunes choſes par la bouche, qui ſont de diuerſes couleurs, à ſçauoir citrines , verdes , noire comme encre & autres couleurs. parquoy pour vuider - telles ſuperfluitez des inteſtins, & garder qu'elles ne cauſent des tranchées eſtans retenues, il eſt beſoin donner à l'enfant vn peu de ſyrop de roſes laxatif, ou de theriaque, ou miel, le gros d'vn poix chiche , ou demy cuillerée d'huyle d'amandes douces tirée ſans feu , auec vn peu de ſuccre & eau de vie. et auant que l'enfant tétte, il ſera bon luy faire rayer vn peu de laict en la bouche, afin que les fibres de l'eſtomach s'exer- cent peu à peu à tirer le laict. pourquoy on baille de la theriaque & miel aux en- fans nouue- aux ne(. $? ſ ，/ - de l'eſlection d'vne bonne nourrice. c h a p. xx. # l faut à preſent parler de l'eſlection d'vne bonne nourrice pour allaicter & alimenter l'en- # fant, qui ſe fera toutesfois de la propre mere, s'il eſt poſſible, pluſtoſt que d'vne eſtran- # gere : car puis qu'il eſt ainſi , que l'enfant eſtant au ventre de la mere, eſt nourry du ſang # d'icelle, & que du ſang eſt faict le laict aux mammelles : veritablement le laict de la mº, # # # # # re ſera plus propre que nul autre, parce qu'il eſt plus ſemblable à la ſubſtance dont il # $ $l eſtoit nourry dedans le ventre de ſa mere : toutesfois ne luy donnera à tetter dés les pre- - miers iours apres qu'elle ſera accouchée,iuſques à ce qu'elle ſoit bien purgée de ſes vuidanges, & cependant - ſe fera tetter par quelques-vns , afin que ſon laict ſoit purifié. car és premiers iours elle eſt encore eſmue | | & alterée, à cauſe de l'enfantement auſſi que ſon laict a demeuré longtemps croupy, aux mammelles, . dont il pourroit eſtre trop eſpés & cailleboté, & aucunement alteré & corrompu, ainſi que par ſa ſubſtan- ce groſſiere , qualité exceſſiuement chaude , & couleur citrine,eſt aisé à iuger : toutes leſquelles alterations : , ne de la generation. o a ne prouiennent au laict que de la douleur qu'a enduré la mere en l'enfantement. parquoy les femmes qui veulent eſtre nourrices de leurs enfans, ſe doiuent aux premiers iours faire tetter par quelque pauure fille, l'aecouchée afin que le laict mauuais ſoit euacué, & le bon ſoit de nouueau engendré : & par ainſi en quelque temps que ne doit ſºº- la mere ſera mal diſpoſée, ne doit allaicter ſon enfant iuſques à ce qu'elle ſoit bien reſtituée en bonne § dain allai- ſition, & bien purgée de ſes vuidanges, de peur d'infecter l'enfant : & ne luy ſoit communiquée ſemblable éter ſon en- - diſpoſition qu'auroit la mere, comme fiévre,flux de ventre, & autres : qui ſeroit cauſe de le faire mourir, ou # ，s luy imprimer quelqne grande maladie, comme tranchées & epilepſie, apoſtemes, & autres indiſpoſitions: #. / /©- § meſmes les mœurs de leurs nourrices, joinct qu elles les peuuent changer à d'autres enfans, ce qu'on a veu iiuité s et pour ce ie ſuis d'aduis, & conſeille aux meres d'allaicter & nourrir leurs enfans, non ſeulement à raiſon l:# qu'ils ne changent de nourriſſement, mais auſſi d'autant qu'elles en ont plus grand ſoin & ſolicitude.marc mars aure- •. aurele empereur romain dit, que les femmes doiuent nourrir & allaicter leurs enfans, afin qu'elles ſoient le emperew meres entieres,& non imparfaictes : car la femme eſt moitié mere pour l'enfanter, & moitié pour la nourri- romain. ture de ſon fruict,de maniere que la femme ſe peut appeller mere entiere, lors qu'elle a enfanté & nourry ſon enfant du laict de ſes propres mammelles. car les nourrices n'aiment les enfans d'autruy que d'vne amour ſuppoſsé, & pour vn loyer mercenaire. mais les meres les nourriſſent par vne amitié,& grande affection na- turelle:parquoy elles nourriront leurs enfans elles meſmes ſi elles peuuent,& que leurs maris le veulent ſouf- b frir.et s'il aduient que la mere ne vueille ou ne puiſſe nourrir ſon enfant, alors on luy choiſira vne bonne i ouli'i cc, de quelle qualité doit eſtre choiſie la nourrice. c ha r. xxi. - \# o v r bien choiſir vne bonne nourrice, faut qu'elle aye enfanté deux ou trois enfans, d'au-pº.ººº #, tant que les mammelles qui ont eſté pleines, ont les veines & arteres qui ſont en icelles, plus ! # groſſes & dilatées partant contiendront du laict dauantage & puis faut conſiderer les choſes # / / © qui s'enſuiuent, à ſçauoir, l'aage,l'habitude du corps,les mœurs, la forme des mammelles & " # mammelons, la nature du laict,la diſtance du temps qu'elle a enfanté, le ſexe de ſon dernier - : -- # enfant, qu'elle ne ſoit point enceinte, & qu'elle ſoit ſaine,ſans aucun ſoupçon de lepre ou de verole : pource que c'eſt vne reigle infallible, que du laict que l'enfant tette depend toute la ſanté corpo- relle de la vie de l'enfant. - ， " # de l'aage de la nourrice. cha p. xxii. -/ # anourrice ne doit eſtre plus jeune que de vingt-cinq ans, ne plus vieille que de trente cinq, #ººl , $ par-ce que l'eſpace de temps qui eſt trente-deux, eſt l'aage de vigueur, d'autant qu'il eſt plus # de # ， temperé & plus ſain que les autres aages,par-ce qu'il n'abonde tant en ſuperfiuitez d'humeurs: ， # # d'autant auſſi que le corps ne croiſt plus,d'autant eſt-il plus abondant en ſang mais au deſſous #. %s de ving-cinq ans le corps croiſt encores, parquoy elle n'a pas le nourriſſement, ny le ſangſi º parfaict:& depuis trente cinq ans les mois ceſſent à beaucoup,ou bien elles en ont peu:& par- tant cela monſtre qu'elles ont moins de nourriſſement ; & moins de bon laict pour aillaicter l'enfant. - de l'habitude du corps de la nourrice. ch a p. xx ii i. # l faut que la nourrice ſoit de bonne habitude, & bien ſaine, bien quarrée de poitrine , & bien examen de # croisée d'eſpaules, ayant bonne &viue couleur, ny trop graſſe, ny trop maigre, ſa chair non la nourriss. # mollaſſe, mais ferme, afin qu'elle ſoit plus robuſte à veiller & trauailler à l'entour de l'enfant, # & qu'elle ne ſoit rouſſe, auſſi qu'elle aye le viſage beau.et qu'elle ſoit brunette , parce que le º laict eſt meilleur que d'vne blanche : car les brunes ſont de temperature plus chaude que les blanches : partant la chaleur digere, & cuit mieux l'aliment. dont le laict eſt rendu beaucoup meilleur. ce pºrquºy lº qui ſe prouue par sexte cheroenſe, lequel au liure de la nourriture des enfans dict, qu'ainſi que la terre enfans tien- noire eſt plus fertile que n'eſt la blanche : de meſme la femme brunette porte tonſiours le laict plus ſubſtan- º des tieux.on doit regarder à ſa teſte ſi elle n'a point de tigne, ou autre mal : ſi auſſi elle a les dents gaſtées, & ſi #. - elle a l'haleine forte : qu'elle n'aye point d'vlcere ſur ſon corps, ou quelques autres indiſpoſitions, comme § pluſtoſt de race de gouteux ou lepreux : dauantage qu'elle ſoit habillé honeſtement. que de leurs peres & me- '(ſ, d des mœurs de la mourrice. c h a p. , xxiv. l l e doit eſtre diligente & non fetarde à tenir l'enfant nettement , chaſte, ſobre,joyeuſe, chantant & riant à l'enfant, l'aimant comme le ſien meſme, & plus s'il eſt poſſible : auſſi faut $ qu'elle parle & profere bien ſa parole,d'autant que l'enfant appréd à parler par ſa mere nour- $ rice : ſemblablement qu'elle ſoit ſage, & bien morigenée : car l'enfant ne tire tant du naturel - m » # de perſonne, apres celuy de pere & de mere, que de ſa nourrice, à raiſon du laict qu'il tete : zg k$ ce qui eſt conneu par experience des petits chiens qui ſeront allaictez d'vne louue ou d'vne lyonne , leſquels ſeront plus furieux, hardis & mauuais. au contraire on appriuoiſe les petits lionceaux - & leopars, les faiſant nourrir de laict de chevre ou de vache. dauantage les petits agnelets qu'allaicteravne # chevre : auront leur laine plus dure : au contraire les chevreaux qu'allaicte vne brebis, auront leur poil mol : l'agneau qui aura teté vne chevre,n'aura pas ſeulement la laine plus rude, mais auſſi ſera plus farouche que ne porte ſon naturel. platon admoneſte les nourrices de ne compter pas indifferemment toutes ſortes de fa- bles aux petits enfans, de peur que leur ame dés ce commencement s'abbreuue de folie, & de mauuaiſe opi- - nion. et auſſi conſeille ſagement le poëte phocylides, quand il dit, phocylides - zbés que l'homme eſt en ſa premiere enfance, poet . monfirer luy faut du bien la connoiſſance. pourquoy ie conſeille qu'on regarde bien à eſlire vne nourrice,& qu'elle ne ſoit gloute,ne addonnée au vin : non ſeulement patce que pluſieurs s'eſtans endormies allaictans l'enfant, l'ont § de leurs mammelles : ce que i'ay veutrop ſouuent aduenir en cette ville de paris : mais parce que quaſi auec le laict les mœurs & ee e v cc$ o le vingt-quatriéme liure, vices de la nourrice influent dans les enfans.dauantage elle ne doit que rarement coucher auec les hommes, la nourrice pour pluſieurs raiſons : car premierement le coit trouble ſon ſang par conſequent le laict : ſecondement il di- ne doit cou-minue la quantité du laict : parce qu'il prouoque les fleurs , en diuertiſſant par le moyen du coit le ſang des º * mammelles à la matrice, qui eſt l'vne des principales cauſes qui altere & corrompt le laict : car le coiteſ- º ººººº meut le ſang menſtruel, le fait ſortir & changer de ſituation : tiercement il engendre mauuaiſe odeur au laict & qualité vitieuſe, telle que nous ſentons exhaler des corps de ceux qui ſont en rut & eſchauffez en l'amour & acte venerien : la quatrieſme raiſon, c'eſt que le coit eſt quelquesfois cauſe d'engroſſir la nourrice, dont il aduient double inconuenient , l'vn à l'enfant qu'elle nourrit , l'autre à l'enfant qu'elle a dedans le ventre : car le meilleur ſang abandonne les mammelles , eſtant attiré à la matrice pour nourrir & augmenter l'enfant qui eſt conceu : & le pire ſe retire aux mammelles, duquel eſt faict le laict pour la nourriture de l'enfant nouriſſon:lequel ſe corrompt & diminué. parquoy l'enfant qui eſt au ventre de la nourrice, ne prend ſuffiſante nourriture , & l'enfant qui eſt au dehors, en prend de mauuaiſe. les petits enfans ſe delectent à veoir choſes belles & luiſantes, c'eſt pourquoy ils regardent volontiers le feu & les chandelles allumées, & autres, choſes qui flamboient : & à oüyr paroles flateuſes, & qui les mignardent, tellement que les plus criarts & difficiles à appaiſer ſe taiſent oyans chanter, & pleurent lors / qu'on preſente deuant leurs yeux choſes laides & hideuſes. parquoy quand quelque femme vieille, laide, & ridée porte vn petit enfant entre ſes bras, ſi toſt qu'il la void, treſſault tout pleurant : au contraire, là où ſera quelque belle femme & propremement habillée qui s'approchera , lors l'enfant luy tendrales bras,pour aller vers elle. parquoy il ne faut qu'vne nourrice ſoit triſte ny melancholique, mais belle, gaillarde, chap- tant volontiers, bien habillée, & qu'elle aime ( comme il a eſté dit ) ſon nourriſſon comme le ſien propre. des mammelles, & de la poictrine de la nourrice. ch a p. xxv. pourquoy les l l e doit auoir la poictrine large, & les mammelles aſſez groſſes, & non laſches & pendan- mammelles tes, moyennes entre dures & molles : car celles qui ont vne moyenne fermeté,digerent mieux deiuent eſtre le laict de leur chaleur naturelle , laquelle eſt touſiours plus forte en vne chair ferme, pleine fermes & de veines & arteres, apparentes par dehors, qu'en vne chair laſche & mollaſſe : celles qui ont moyennemit e) l # vne moyenne groſſour, comprennent le laict ſuffiſament pour le nourriſſement de l'enfant: groſſes. & celles qui ſont dures & ſerrées , ont le laict quaſi eſtouffé : parquoy il fluë difficilement quand l'enfant le ſucce & tire. d'abondant l'enfant imprime le bout de ſon nez à la mammelle : la trouuant trop dure ſe fache, & ne veut tetter , & quelquesfois en deuient camus : & auſſi les molles & laſches n'on point la ver- tu lactifiante aſſez forte. pareillement les bouts des mammelles ne doiuent eſtre cachez ne retirez au dedans, parce que l'enfant ne les pourroit ſuccer qu'à bien grande peine : ny trop gros, à raiſon qu'ils rempliroient la bouche de l'enfant , qui ſeroit cauſe qu'il ne pourroit bien aualler. - de la nature du laict de la nourrice. c h a p. xxv i. ' cinq choſes # n faict iugement du bon laict , à la quantité ou ſubſtance, à la qualité, à la couleur , à l'o- pour cegnoi- q # deur, au gouſt : à la quantité, le peu de laict outre qu'il ne ſuffit pas pour nourrir l'enfant, ſtre le bon auſſi ne peut-il pas eſtre guere bon,par-ce qu'il demonſtre le temperament trop chaud& trop laict , % ſec : auſſi trop grande quantité n'eſt pas bonne, tant pour la nourrice , que pour l'enfant, de $antité %ſ， crainte qu'il ne ſe caillebotte & corrompe aux mammelles : toutesfois il vaut trop-mieux qualité. º* qu'il y en ait trop que trop peu, car elle en peut eſpancher quelque quantité deuant qu'en #. donner à l'enfant. de la ſubſtance , le laict qui eſt entre ſubtil & gros & blanc, ſignifie que la vertu lacti- ºl /' fiante a pleine domination en la digeſtion du laict, & par conſequent que le laict en eſt tres-bon. or pour gºuf#. - - - - j. • - #… le cognoiſtre il en faut tirer de la mammelle vne goutte deſſus l'ongle & s'il coule & s'eſpand ſans branſler ſtre le bon l'ongle,ceſt figne qu'il eſt aqueux,non ſuffiſant pour nourrir : au contraire s'il ne coule point en baiſſant l'on- laict. gle, il eſt trop gros & gluant : mais s'il demeure ferme ſans incliner l'ongle, & en la panchant il coule tout probation du bellement , c'eſt ſigne qu'il eſt bon. on peut iuger le laict pareillement eſtre bon par ſa couleur, parce que bon laict., ledit laict n'eſt autre choſe qu'vn ſang blanchy : & celuy qui eſt fait d'vn ſang temperé, eſt tout blanc,& #ºulºr dº celuy qui eſt d'autre couleur, ſe doit reietter : car s'il tire ſur le brun, c'eſt ſigne qu'il eſt procrée de ſang º º melancholique : & s'il eſt verdoyant, ſignifie aduftion:& s'il eſt aucunement citrin, c'eſt ſigne qu'il eſt chole- # rique : & s'il eſt rubicond, c'eſt ſigne que la vertu digeſtiue lactifiante eſt debile. icy nous deuons bien ad- § § l, mirer la prouidence de nature, d'auoir ainſi tranſmué le ſang en couleur blanche par la vertu lactifiante des latčt # mammelles:car ſi elle ſe fuſt oubliée (ce que iamais n'a fait)de laiſſer couler le ſang en ſa ſubſtance & cou- blanc. leur rouge,la femme nourrice euſt eu en horreur de voir ainſi eſpandre ſon ſang & auſſi cela euſt eſté odieux à l'enfant de le ſuccer pur & rouge de la mammelle : ioinct que nous n'euſſions point eu beurre ny fourmage. pareillement les aſſiſtans euſſent abhorré de voir la bouche de l'enfant, & tetins de la mere ſanglants : bref dieu à fait toutes ſes œuures par vne tres-grande ſageſſe. c'eſt ce que chante ce grand prophete du ciel: en tout ſe void ta grand vertu parfaičie, iuſqu'à la bouche aux enfans qu'on allaičier et rends par là confus & abbatu tout ennemy , qui nie ta vertu. pſalm. . et quand à l'odeur, elle doit eſtre douce & ſuaue & non autre : car s'il eſtoit de mauuaiſe odeur comme § d'eſchauffaiſon, c'eſt ſigne de chaleur ſuperfluë, & de ſangaduſte, comme volontiers on voit celuy des fem- laičt. mes rouſſes : s'il ſent l'aigre, il demonſtre l'humeur melancholique : & quant au gouſt, il doit eſtre ſuccré, & gouſt du bon ne faut pas qu'il ſoit amer ny ſalé , ny aigre, ny ſtyptique, c'eſt à dire de haut gouſt, comme verjus. laict. l': c d | de la generation. o # # #, a , # | de la diſtance du temps que la nourrice a enfanté, & du ſexe de ſon enfant. c h a p t r e x x v i i. a nourrice doit eſtre cinq ou ſix iours apres qu'elle a enfanté, deuant que donner à tet- ter à l'enfant, pour les raiſons qu'auons dictes cy-deſſus : auſſi d'autant qu'elle demeure long-temps au lict ſans faire nul exercice : parquoy ſe fera tetter, ou foy-meſme ſe tettera f$) auec vn inſtrument de verre que nous declarons cy-apres, & apres en donnerons le pour- # traict. si la nourrice a enfanté vn maſle dernier, ſon laict eſt plus à loüer , parce qu'elle | a ſon ſang plus élabouré, & par conſequent moins excrementeux, de ſorte que le laict qui en ſera engendré ſera meilleur : car l'enfant maſle eſtant au ventre de ſa mere, l'eſchauffe de ſa chaleur naturelle plus qu'vne femelle : ce qui fe cognoiſt par experience, en ce que la femme groſſe d'vn maſle ſe porte mieux couſtumierement,ioinct auſſi qu'elle eſt mieux colorée : auſſi faut que la nourrice aye porté ſon enfant à terme,car l'auortement faict de cauſe interne,demonſtre qu'il ya quelque vice au corps. du regime de la nourrice, & comme elle doit coucher l'enfant. c h a p i t r e x x v i i i. # n doit auoir ſoin du regime de la nourrice , ſoit au manger & boire, dormir & veiller, % exercice & repos, & les diuerſifier ſelon la difpoſition & habitude de l'enfant : comme s'il eſt trop chaud , doit vſer de regime refrigerant, & ainſi des autres temperatures : & vſera % des viandes de bon nourriſſement, en quantité meſurée, & doit euiter le mauuais air & s'ab- º ſtenir de coucher nuec les hommes pour les raiſons ſuſdites : elle euitera toutes viandes qui ºssº eſchauffent le ſang, comme eſpiſſeries, patiſſeries, ſaleures, mouſtarde, vins forts & ſans eau, & ſur tout auſſi la çholere, & toutes choſes qui bruſlent le ſang toutes nourrices doiuent vſer de medio- cre exercice, & plus s'exercer les parties hautes que les baſſes, à fin que l'attraction y ſoit plus forte. quand la nourrice couche l'enfant en ſon petit berceau, ſa teſte doit eſtre miſe plus haute que le reſte du corps , à fin que par telle fituation les ſuperfluitez du cerueau deſcendent plus aiſément vers les parties baſſes, et le faut lier & bander en ſon petit grabat de ſi bonne façon, que le col & ſon dos ſoyent aucu- nement courbez. et pour luy faire venir le ſommeil, le bercera doucement d'vn mouuement égal, & non point fort. car le fort & inegal eſmeut le laict qui eſt en l'eſtomach , empeſche la digeſtion, trouble & eſtonne le cerueau, & ſouuent le faict vomir , & pour l'engarder d'eſtre courbé, il eſt bon de le coucher droitement ſur ſon dos, & non ſur les coſtez : principalemen; durant le temps qu'il tette, & n'vſe point en- cores de viandes ſolides, & n'eſt pas encores fortifié, ny ſes os aſſez endurcis : par-ce que l'eſpine du dos eſt le ſouſtenement de tout le corps comme la carine de toute la nauire, & eſt plus ſeur que tous les autres os, ſur leſquels l'enfant s'appuye en dormant, comme ſus vn fondement qui eſt fort. s'il eſtoit couché ſur les co- ſtez, l'vn coſté ne pourroit ſouſtenir l'autre, parce que les coſtes ſont encores bien menuës, laxes & mol- ies : & partant il y auroit danger, couchant longuement l'enfant deſſus l'vn des coſtez, d'encourir en con- torſion de l'eſpine du dos & deuenir boſſus : par-ce que les coſtes ſont ployables à cauſe de leur molleſſe, & les ligaments qui les lient, ſont encores laxes & mols, comme nous auons dict. pendant donc le temps que l'enfant tette, & iuſques à ce que les dents commencent à ſortir, & n'vſe de nourriſſement plus ſolide que le laict, il doit eſtre couché ſur ſon dos : mais lors que ſes membres deuiennent plus forts, & ſes os plus durs, doit eſtre couché tour à tour ſur vn coſté, puis ſur l'autre, & quelquesfois ſur le dos & tant plus il ſe fortifiera & croiſtra, tant plus ſera couché ſur les coftez. il faut auſſi que la nourrice aye eſgard à la ſitua- tion de l'enfant, qu'il aye la lumiere de ligne droite, autrement il ſeroit louche. la raiſon eſt, que noſtre ， laiºt d'vnefemme accouchée d'vn maſle eſt meilleur. de l'exercice de la mour- rice. on doit cou- cher l'enfant ſur le dos, pendanr qu'il tette, comment l'enfant doit oeil eſt vne ſubſtance de ſa nature pellucide & lumineuſe : dont aduient que pour ce reſpect il cherche tou-eſtre ſitué ſiours la lumiere, abhorrant les tenebres, comme chacune choſe naturellement ſe delecte de voir, & cher- cher ſon ſemblable, & fuit ſon contraire. parquoy ſi d'ordinaire l'enfant eſt tellement ſitué dans ſon berceau qu'il n'aye la lumiere oppoſite directement à ſoy, il eſt contraint de la chercher à coſté: dont aduient que ſe virant & contournant de coſté il prend vn ply, lequel il ne peut aiſés aiſſer par apres : pour laquelle meſme raiſon les nourrices inſtruictes par experience des inconueniens -}es ont veu ſuruenir, couurent la teſte de leurs nourriſſons couchez dans le berceau d'vn archet d'oſier & vn linge par deſſus, à fin que la veué de l'enfant ſoit arreſtée, laquelle autrement ſe contournant vers tous les obiects circonuoiſins, luy rendoit la veué farouche, eſgarée, & louche. - la nourrice louche ne peut regarder ſon enfant ſinon que de coſté : de là vient que l'enfant comme en toute ſa ſubſtance, ainſi en ſon œil eſtant fort humide, par accouſtumance d'eſtre ainſi regardé, prend ai- ſément le ply de regarder de coſté, lequel par apres il ne peut bonnement delaiſſer. la raiſon eſt qu'és yeux des louches les muſcles qui trauaillent le plus ſont les deux qui ameinent les yeux vers le petit ou grand an- le. ceux-cy donc, ou ceux-là par le premier ply & continué d'action s'eſtans fortifiez & comme endurcis § toute partie en nous par ſon action ſe rend plus robuſte) les deux autres muſcles antagoniſtes, c'eſt à dire, qui leur ſont aiſément tirez, & tout l'œil tourné vers l'angle grand ou petit, ſelon que la nourrice ſera louche de cette façon ou d'autre : auſſi que par le mouuement continuel le muſcle s'eſchauffe. et par conſequent le nerf inſeré en iceluy ſe dilate (comme le propre de la chaleur eſt d'ouurir & dilater les con- duits) dont aduient que l'eſprit premier autheur du mouuement, lequel s'eſpand tant d'vn coſté que d'au- tre indifferemment,s'inſere ez parties leſquelles il trouue les plus ouuertes,faiſant en icelles principalement le mouuement.ainſi voyons nous les enfans deuenir gauchers, lors que s'exerçans touſiours de la main ſe- neſtre, la dextre demeure oiſiue, laquelle par meſme moyen eſt moins nourrie,& par conſequent plus foible. que ſi vn homme ja faict, & ayant accomply ſes trois dimenſions, s'accointant d'vn boiteux, prend & re- tient ie ne fçay quoy du boiteux : pourquoy le ſemblable ne ſe fera-il aux enfans,deſquels la chair molle & delicate eſt prompte à toutes mutations & inflexions ? or iaçoit que la nourrice ne ſoit louche, toutesfois ce vice vient aux enfans hereditairement , ainſi que l'on void aduenir és boſſus & boiteux , comme nous auons dit cy-deſſus. e e e c f/ e/ ' vis à vts de la lumiere. la nourrice ne doit eſtre louche. o le vingt-quatriéme liure, on doitfaire cuire la fari- ne pour faire la bouillie. temps pour demmer la bouillie à l'enfant. - remede con- tre les tren- chées, le temps de ſevrer l'en- fant. il ſe faut bien donner garde de ſe- vrer trop toſt les enfans. comme l'on doit accouſtrer la boüillie du petit enfant. · ch a p. x x i x. e$e a boüillie eſt bonne aux petits enfans, à cauſe qu'ils ont beſoin d'vne nourriture humide, de / #$ groſſeur conforme au laict,non trop de forte digeſtion,leſquelles conditions ſont trouuées en #， la boüillie , pourueu que la farine de forment ne ſoit crue : laquelle on doit mettre dans vn $ % \ - - - # É， pot de terre neuf, & le mettre dans vn four, & qu'il y demeure tant que le pain met à cuire, #s a fin qu'elle ne ſoit tant viſqueuſe & groſſiere, &auſſi que le laict ne cuiſe pas longuement, - rtsº c parce qu'il faut que pour donner cuiſſon à la farine , le laict cuiſe ſemblablement long-temps en quoy il perd ſa bonté, parce que le cuiſant beaucoup, ſa ſubſtance aqueuſe ſe conſomme par le feu, & engendre gros ſang, comme il ſe fait par la boüillie, lors que la farine n'eſt cuitte auparauant, car il perden cette façon ſa ſubſtance de maigue de beurre : il en reſte tant ſeulement la fourmageuſe , groſſe, viſ- queuſe, & de difficile digeſtion, & par conſequent peſante, & faiſant obſtruction ez premieres veines & au foye, qui ſouuent cauſe qu'ils ont des tranchées, & qu'il s'engendre des vers, à l'enfant, & des pierres, & autres mauuais accidens, pour n'eſtre ladite farine cuite, & le laict trop cuit. parquoy ceux qui ont des enfans, y prendront garde ſi bon leur ſemble. et ne ſert rien d'alleguer que par experience quotidiane on void pluſieurs enfans qui mangent bouillie ſans que la farine ſoit cuitte, & ſe portent bien : car ie dy que cela ſe fait pluſtoſt d'aduenture, ou de bonne nature, que de la bonté de cette nourriture. or on ne luy doit donner boüillie de dix ou de douze iours apres eſtre nay.meſme galien liu. .de ſanitate tuenda,veut que les enfans ſoient ſeulement nourris de laict , tant que l'on connoiſtra la nourrice en auoir ſuffiſamment pour fournir de nourriture à l'enfant à meſure qu'il croiſtra. et encore il y a des enfans qui ne la veulent prendre de deux ou trois mois & plus:& ſe contentent du laict, & où on leur en veut bailler, la reiettent:au- tres la prennent pluſtoſt,qui ſe faict pour la diuerſité de leur nature indicible à eſcrire. que s'il aduient que les enfans ayent le ventre conſtipé,il faut prendre vne dragme d'aloës,ellebore blanc & noir,de chaſcun quin- ze grains , & le tout puluerisé & meſlé auec ſuffiſante quantité de fiel de bœuf, & mettre tel remede ſur du cotton comme vne boüillie & de la grandeur de lapaume de la main, & l'appliquer vn peu tiede ſur le nom- bril. tel remede a pareillement faculté de faire ſortir les vers. que s'il leur ſuruient des trenchées cauſées de cruditez (ce qui ſe connoiſt lors qu'ils crient& pleurent fort,& ſe tournent d'vn coſté & d'autre ) il leur faut appliquer fur le ventre de la laine auec ſuif, trempée en huyle de camomille vn peu chaude. or quel- quesfois aduient que l'enfant eſtant ja grandelet, ayant ſes dents inciſiues,mord ſa nourrice,dont puis apres eſt en grande peine , à cauſe de l'vlcere qui y demeure,& pour la curation d'iceluy,doit la nourrice lauer ſon tetin auec de l'eau alumineuſe : & parce que le bout de ſa mammelle demeure douloureux , eſtant preſſé de ſes habillements, aura vn inſtrument de plomb faict en la maniere d'vn chapeau, lequel ſera percée au bout de pluſieurs petits troux, dans lequel mettra le bout de ſon tetin , afin que ſon laict puiſſe s'eſcouler , & la ſanie de ſon vlcere, ioinct que le plomb eſt propre pour la curation deſdits vlceres. j . a figure d'vn inſtrument pour mettre le bout dutetin vlceré d'vne nourrice. appaiſer leurs enfans, à ſçauoir de leur repreſenter la tette : de les bercer : de les chanter : & leur changer de linges, & couches, $) or il ne faut les bercer trop fort,mais bellement, à fin que le laict qui eſt en l'eſtomach, par la grande agitation ne ſe trouble & cor- rompe, ny pour meſme raiſon, les faire ſauter trop bruſquement. il eſt bon que les enfans crient quelquesfois : car par ce moyen le poulmon & la poitrine s'eſlargiſſent dauantage : & la chaleur na- turelle s'en rend plus forte, & auſſi que le cerueau ſe purge par le nez , yeux, & par la bouche en pleurant , mouchant, & crachant: mais auſſiie ne loue pas les laiſſer fort crier, de peur qu'ils ne rompent le procés du peritoine , & que puis apres il leur falluſt couper les teſticules pour curer leurs hargnes, qui feroit puis apres degenerer les maſles en nature feminine. les dents des enfans leur commencent à ſortir au ſeptieſme mois, ou vn peu plus tard & quand elles commencent à ſortir, ont vn prurit ou demangeaiſon aux genciues , qui cauſe qu'ils mordent le mammelon de leur nourrice. en quel temps ilfaut ſevrer l'enfant. ch a r. xxx #ſ# v e l q v e s-v n s ſont ſevrez à dixhuict mois, les autres à vingt , & le commun eſt à deux ans , parce qu'ils ont leurs dents, par leſquelles nature ſemble demander quelque # autre nourriture que le laict & boüillie : auſſi qu'ils appetent & deſirent des viandes plus , groſſes & ſolides que le laict,& y prennent plaiſir, & les mangent leur eſtans baillées en ſuffiſante quantité, de ſorte qu'il ne leur eſt plus beſoin de laict, ny de boüillie, laquelle, s'ils en mangeoient ordinairement, ſe corromproit auec la chair & les autres viandes : tou- tesfois on ne peut certainement deſigner ne limiter le temps legitime du ſevrement , pour la diuerſité du temps de la ſortie des dents , ne l'enuie de leur puiſſance de manger les viandes : car nous voyons que les dents ſortent pluſtoſt aux vns qu'aux autres. parquoy faut borner le temps de ſevrer l'enfant,par la ſortie d'i- celles:& ceux à qui elles mettent plus long-temps à ſortir, doiuét pareillement tetter plus long-temps,& plus tard eſtre ſevrez:& ceux à qui pluſtoſt elles ſortét,ſeront auſſi pluſtoſt ſevrez:pour autant que l'intention pour laquelle nature à produit les déts,eſt le briſemét & maſtication des viandes, pour les preparer,& rendre plus faciles à la digeſtion. et auſſi ſemble que quâd elles ſont ſorties,nature incite l'eſtomach de l'enfant à appeter le nourriſſement,qui ſe doit maſcher & briſer par icelles, partant elles ne ſont produites ſans cauſe,& ne leur faut bailler aucune viande,que premierement leur dents ne ſoient ſorties:car ſi pluſtoſt on les ſevre,auicenne dit que cela ſeroit cauſe de pluſieurs maladies, pour la mauuaiſe digeſtion & corruption qui s'enſuiuroit. - a au ſurplus, les nourrices ont quatre moyens de faire taire, & c qu de la generation. . - o # a qui pourroit eſtre cauſe de mort. les deux ans accomplis, ou pluſtoſt, ſi on void que l'enfant aye affection de prendre autre viande que le laict, & s'il la maſche & digere bien, & lors que nous verrons qu'ordinaire- ment il appete & demende à manger de la chair, ou autres bonnes viaandes plus ſolides que le lâict,& auſſi u'il s'en degouſte, nous deuonscroire que cela ne luy vient pas d'vne volonté ou fantaſie, mais d'vn inſtinct e nature , qui raiſonnablement l'incite à cela : pourquoy lors on le doit aſſeurément ſevrer, & luy donner viandes plus ſolides que le laict & bouillie. les enfans qui tetent trop long-temps,en ſont rendus effeminez, laſches & mols. auſſi ſi on void le contraire, qu'il n'aye point enuie de viandes ſolides, & n'y prend plaiſir, & les maſches & aualle contre ſon cœur, encore qu'il euſt deux ans, & ſes dents, nous le laiſſerons encor ſans le ſevrer : parce que la viande priſe contre ſon gré, ne ſe digere pas bien , & corrompt non ſeulement aux enfans , mais à toutes perſonnes , dont s'enſuiuent pluſieurs maladies , comme nous auons dit. d'auan- moyen de ſº- tage faut auoir eſgard à la diſpoſition de ſon corps pour ſçauoit s'il eſt temps de le ſevrer : car s'il eſt mala- vrer l'en- dif, comme tantoft ſain, tantoſt malade, lors on ne le doit ſevrer, parce qu'il ne mange pas ſuffiſamment, fant. à cauſe de ſa debilité : & lors qu'on le voudra ſevrer, la nourrice ne luy donnera ſa mammelle tant ſouuent qu'elle auoit de couſtume, & ainſi peu à peu ſera ſevré, & mettra deſſus ſon tetin quelque choſe amere, comme aloès , ou eau en laquelle on aura faict tremper colocynthes ou abſinthe , ou autre choſe ſembla- ble, ou bien vn peu de mouſtarde, & barboüillera entierement ſa mammelle de ſuye trempée en eau, à fin de la faire hair à l'enfant. que diray-ie plus ? c'eſt que quand les enfans ſont fort galleux à la teſte & au corps, & rendent beaucoup de morve & baue, & quand ils vont ordinairement bien à la ſelle, c'eſt ſigne qu'ils ſe porteront bien quand ils ſeront deuenus grands, parce qu'ils ſe purgent de leurs ſuperfiuitez : au contraire ceux qui n'ont point ces choſes, ne ſont hors de danger de pluſieurs maladies, quand ils ſeront en plus grand aage : & ſi telles ſuperfluitez tombent ſur le dos , aucuns en deuiennent boſſus, courbez, & signes d'en contrefaicts. or apres auoir ainſi deſcrit ce qu'il faut faire à l'enfant nouuellement nay, voire iuſques à eſtre fant vital. ſevré : maintenant nous retournerons à declarer les ſignes pour cognoiſtre quand il eſt mort au ventre de ſa mere. les ſignes pour cognoiſtre ſi l'enfant eſt mort au ventre de ſa mere. c h a p i t r e xxxi. n peut ſçauoir ſi ledict enfant eſt viuant ou mort dedans le ventre de ſa mere par les ſignes qui sion : s'enſuyuent. et premierement faut ſçauoir ſi l'enfant ne ſe remue plus : ce qu'on ſçaura tant par #" | l'interrogation de la mere, qu'en poſant la main ſur ſon ventre, & auſſi en peut-on auoir con- § | -- jecture quand les eaux aurôt eſté eſcoulées : & ſi l'arriere-faix eſt ſorty,lors infailliblement on mort. %ï$us n pourra juger l'enfant eſtre mort : ce que i'ay veu, eſtât appellé pour deliurer la femme de pier- re cœurly, maiſtre des chapelets, demeurant à paris rue galande, où eſtant arriué ie veis ſon arriere faix hors, adonc conneu l'enfant eſtre mort : i'appellay les matronnes , & leur demanday, ſi à leur aduis l'enfant toutesfois eſtoit mort : elles me firent reſponſe qu'elles l'auoient encores n'agueres apperceu ſe mouuoir ie leur de- #. quantes manday derechef combien de temps il y auoit : elles reſpondirent qu'il y auoit enuiron ſix heures : alors ie §ue 'arri - conneu que ces bonnes femmes ne diſoient verité : attendu que toutesfois & quantes que l'arriere-faix ſort faix ſort de deuant l'enfant, le plus ſouuent ledict enfant eſt mort,àcauſe qu'il ne reſpire que par l'artere vmbilicale,pre- uantl'enfät. nant l'eſprit des orifices de celles de la matrice,appellez cotyledons : dont en eſtant l'arriere-faix ſeparé, nul ºn peu pre- eſprit n'eſt plus enuoyé à l'enfant : & ainſi ie fey prognoſtic à toute la compagnie l'enfant eſtre mort; neant- ſager eſtre moins ne laiſſay promptement à deliurer la mere : ou mon dire fut aueré en la preſence de pluſieurs hono- * rables dames. d'auantage, quand la mere ſent plus grande peſanteur de ſon enfant qu'elle n'auoit de cou- , ſtume, c'eſt ſigne que l'enfant eſt mort : & la raiſon de ce eſt, que l'eſprit n'y eſt plus & qu'il n'eſt regy par les facultez naturelles, dont n'eſtant plus ſouſtenu, il ſe monſtre & ſent plus peſant.ainſi voyons nous touſ- jours vn mort peſer plus qu'il ne faiſoit eſtant vif: pour laquelle meſme cauſe vn homme à jeun peſe plus que celuy qui aura pris vne moderée refection. outre plus, ſi quand la mere ſe tourne çà & là , l'enfant tombe ſur la partie plus decliue,comme vne maſſe ou pierre, pareillement ſi la mere eſt fort vexée & tour- mentée de griefves douleurs vers ſon vmbilic,& parties genitales,& a vouloir d'vriner, & aſſeller auec #º le vifchaſſe des eſpreintes,à cauſe que nature ſe veut deſcharger de ſ'enfant mort,quine luy eſt plus naturel.car c'eſt vn § axiome ou reigle veritable que touſiours le vif chaſſe le mort, d'autant que la choſe morte n'a rien de com-mort tuë le mun auec celle qui eſt viue. or ce qui allie & tient les choſes en vnion, c'eſt la cómunauté & ſimilitude : ainſi vif voyons-nous aux vlceres que la chair viue pouſſe & jette celle qui eſt purulente & ſanieuſe, & és ſphace- les que l'os vif chaſſe hors les eſquilles de la portion de celuy qui eſt mort & pourry. pareillement en paſ- ſant la main ſus ſon ventre & parties genitales, on les ſent aucunement refroidies : joinct auſſi que la mere ſent froideur dedans ſa matrice, & telle choſe ſe fait par l'extinction de la chaleur vitale dudit enfant. da- uantage il ſort certaines humiditez,& autres ex cremens fort fœtides hors la matrice, & ſon haleine eſt auſſi d fort puante : ce qui ſe fait volontiers au deuxieſme ou troſieſme iour au plus pres que l'enfant eſt mort, & tombe ſouuent en ſyncope ou eſuanoüiſſement. telles choſes ſe font à raiſon des vapeurs ou fumées putri- des & corrompuës, qui s'eſleuent de l'enfant mort, & de ſon arriere-faix, qui ſont communiquées au cœur & au cerueau. et icy noteras, que l'enfant mort eſtant en la matrice de ſa mere,ſe corrompt plus en vn iour qu'il ,. ds ne feroit en quatre, ou plus, s'il eſtoit hors de ladite matrice, d'autant que c'eſt vn axiome approuué par ga- occaſion lien au liure de tumoribus. que toutes choſes chaudes & humides retenués en vn lieu pareillement chaud & humide ſe corrompent & putrefient, principalement ſi le lieu eſt eſtroit, par faute du benefice de tranſpira- tion.auſſi peut on coniecturer par la couleur de la face qui ſe trouue changée, apparoiſſant comme plom- bine ou tendante à liuidité : au moyen dequoy la femme ainſi empeſchée d'vn enfant mort en ſon ventre eſt . hideuſe à voir, a les mammelles ramollies, & ſon ventre grandement enflé & dur plus qu'il n'eſtoit aupara- - uant : duquel ſigne la raiſon eſt de notable contemplation. car en toutes choſes pourries vne chaleur eſtran- ge & exceſſiue vient à dominer & s'augmenter,par l'action de laquelle les humiditez du corps pourry vien- nent à ſe reſoudre en vapeurs & vento#ez , qui tenans plus de lieu que ne faiſoient les humidirez ( comme ainſi ſoit que ſelon l'opinion des phyſiciens d'vne portion d'eau par reſolution il s'en fait dix d'air)font en- fler la choſe pourrie, comme journellement nous voyons au corps de ceux qui ſont noyez : & és parries gan- renées, (leſquelles nonobſtant que par l'action de la chaleur putredineuſe nous voyons exhaler vne groſſe , † de vapeur, deuiennent neantmoins plus enflées que de couſtume) et de tous ces ſignes quand pluſieurs # ſe trouuent en vne perſonne & en vn meſme temps pourras juger certainement que l'enfant eſt mort , au eſtre tiré ſus contraire non. et notes que toutes ces choſes cogneues & conſiderees, le chirurgien doit faire diligence § - - e e e d'aider - pourriture. ， o le vingt-quatriéme liure, d'aider à la mere le pluſtoſt qu'il ſera poſſible, & faut qu'il ſoit bien inſtruict à telle œuure à cauſe qu'elle requiert vne ſinguliere prouidence & experience : car s'il faut à faire ſon deuoir , ſouuent il tue la mere & l'enfant s'il eſt vif : & qu'il connoiſſe s'il peut beſongner ſans danger de mort de la mere, pour euiter ſcan- dale qui ſe fera en conſiderant les forces & vertus d'icelle, en taſtant ſon pouls, ſçauoir s'il eſt debile ou grandement changé outre le naturel. et d'auantage , faut contempler la face, comme nous auons dict,ſça- uoir ſi elle eſt grandement changée du naturel, & ſi elle a le nez & les extremitez froides auec ſueurs pa- reillement froides, & qu'elle tombe ſouuent en ſyncope, auſſi ſi elle a perdu preſque toute cognoiſſance : & ſi tels ſignes apparoiſſent, on doit prognoſtiquer la mort eſtre prochaine : parquoy la faut laiſſer à nature, & - la recommander à dieu : toutesfois apres bon prognoſtic faict au mary & au parens de la patiente, le chi- mº# rurgien auec leur ferme reſolution & volonté, doit s'efforcer de la deliurer, parce qu'il vaut mieux tenter pº".ºſºr vn remede incertain auec eſperance, que laiſſer le malade en vn deſeſpoir tout aſſeuré:car tant qu'il reſte vne ºſ" ſcintille de n§ aydée peut faire des choſes incroyables au recit. mais auſſi au contraire, ſi la vertu f y'!, - - - - - - - - - eſt forte, illuy faut ayder en diligence à expeller l'enfant par potions, bains, ſuffumigations faictes de cho- ſes fœtides priſe par le nez & par la bouche, & de choſes aromatiques & delectables priſes par les parties d'en bas, ſternutatoires, vomitoires, & linimens, peſſaires, faicts de poudre de ſabine, d'ariſtoloche, pou- a )uel doit dre d'ellebore blanc, fiente de pigeon, incorporez auec miel mercurial, appliquez tant par dedans que par eſtre l'air. dehors la vulue. de la maniere de bien ſituer la femme pour luy extraire l'enfant. ch a p. xxxii. situation de la femme. § ) t ſi telles choſes ne profitent, faut beſongner par œuure manuelle,& inſtrumens propres, | | -- # en la maniere qui s'enſuit. premierement rectifieras l'air de la chambre ſçauoir eſt, s'il eſt | froid l'eſchaufferas, & s'il eſt trop chaud le refroidiras : cela faict, faut ſituer la mere, en # la poſant pres le bord du lict, & la coucher à l'enuers ayant les feſſes aucunement eſleuées ( ſur quelque carreau dur, ou autre choſe ſemblable, & qu'elle ſoit renuersée, toutesfois en ，l figure moyenne, c'eſt à ſçauoir, qu'elle ne ſoit du tout couchée ny courbée, comme nous " auons dit cy-deſſus,à fin qu'elle puiſſe mieux auoir ſon inſpiration&expiration plus libre, & que les ligamens de la matrice ne tendent point tant que ſi elle eſtoit couchée du tout à la renuerſe. auſſi luy faut courber les jambes ayant les talons aſſez pres des feſſes, & les lier auec vne grande & large bande . de toille,ou autre choſe,laquelle poſeras premierement par deſſus le col, & au trauers des eſpaules de ladite femme en maniere de croix s. andré : puis derechefcroiſeras ladite bande à chacun pied , & la tourneras autour des jambes & cuiſſes, leſquelles ſeront eſcartées l'vne de l'autre, en rapportant enore ladite liſiere par deſſus le col, & le faut lier & attacher ſi ferme que ladite patiente ne puiſſe ſe mouuoir çà nylà,ainſi qu'on lie ceux auſquels on extraict la pierre de la veſſie. et feras en ſorte qu'elle aye les talons appuyez contre le comme doit bout du lict,& la feras tenir par deſſous les aiſſelles & cuiſſes par bons ſeruiteurs tellement qu'en tirantl'en- eſtre la main fant, ſon corps ne ſuyue : car enfuyuant & obeiſſant on ne pourroit faire l'extraction. cela faict, faut preu- #" dre vn drap chaud en double, & le poſer ſur les cuiſſes de ladite patiente, afin que l'air exterieur ne bleſſe la gien, matrice,& que l'operation ſoit plus honneſte, à cauſe des aſſiſtans, puis faire oindre toutes ſes parties geni- tales auec choſes onctueuſe, afin de les rendre plus gliſſantes & coulantes, pour plus facilement extraire l'enfant : ayant le chirurgien ſes ongles rongnez,& qu'il n'aye aucun anneau en ſes doigts,pour garder qu'il ne faſſe leſion aux parties où il touchera. de la maniere de tirer les enfans hors le ventre de la mere, tant morts que viuans. ch a p. xxxiii. e chirurgien ayant ainſi ſitué la femme, mettra la main doucement ſans aucune violence dans la matrice : ce faiſant cognoiftra en quelle ſituation & figure ſera l'enfant, & s'il eſt ſeul ou accompagné. et posé le fait qu'il fuſt tourné ſelon nature, ayant la teſte au cou- \ | ronnement : pour deuëment l'extraire par art, faut doucement le repouſſer contre-mont, | & chercher les pieds, & les tirer pres le couronnement : ce faiſant tourneras facilement , l'enfant : & alors qu'auras attiré ainſi les pieds, en faut tirer vn hors,& le lier au deſſus du - * talon, en maniere de laqs courant, auec vn ruban ſemblable à ceux dont les femmes lient ºº leurs cheueux, ou autre ſemblable,puis remettras ledit pied ainſi lié dans la matrice : ce faict chercheras # " l'autre pied,& l'ayant trouué, le tireras hors, & alors tireras le lien où l'autre pied eſt attaché : & ſe doit-on - bien donner garde s'il y auoit deux enfans, de tirer vne jambe de chacun en vne fois : car par ce moyen on beſongneroit en vain, & ſeroit-on cauſe de la mort de la mere, & des enfans s'il eſtoient viuans. or pour ne s'abuſer,& les bien diſcerner l'vne de l'autre, c'eſt qu'apres auoir tiré l'vn des pieds hors de la matrice,il ſera lié au deſſus du talon,& alors le faut remettre en la matrice : comme auons dict : car il occuperoit la voye, & engarderoit que le chirurgien ne pourroit mettre ſa main pour chercher l'autre, puis ſuiura la ligature, laquelle le conduira au pied lié: & l'ayant trouué, coulera ſa main iuſqu'aux aines, & de là cherchera l'autre cuiſſe, & auſſi la jambe,laquelle quelquesfois eſt trouuée derriere le dos, voire ſur ſon col : &l'ayant trou- ſement pour uce, amenera hors ledit pied non lié, puis tirera le lien,à fin d amener les deux pieds enſemble pour extraire le chirurgië l'enfant : & apres qu'il les aura ainſi attirez hors la matrice, il les tirera joincts également enſemble,& peu à # #. peu, ſans violence tirera ! enfant † à ce qu'il ſoit dehors, & pendant ce, faut comprimer le ventre de la / e . mere comme nous auons dit cy-deſſus, & qu'elle tienne ſon haleine par interualle, en formant le nez & la bouche, & qu'elles s'eſpreigne tant que poſſible luy ſera & faſſe autres choſes', qu'auons predict. et l'enfant eſtant ſorty, faut ſubit pareillement tirer l'arriere-faix. au reſte quand le chirurgien aura tiré l'enfant de cette façon par les pieds, & l'aura amené dehors iuſqu'aux faux du corps : ſe faut bien donner garde de pourſuiure le reſte de l'extraction du corps, les deux bras eſtans couchez de leur long, ſur les deux coſtez: ains faut que l'vn deſdits bras ſeulement ſoit ainſi ſitué, & l'autre ſera repouſsé en haut le long du col par deſſus la teſte:car autrement nature eſtant deliurée de cette groſſeur de l'enfant,feroit que les os & orifice de l'amarry promptement ſe rejoindroient, & eſtans rejoints, la teſte puis apres ne pourroit paſſer, & par ainſi pourroit l'enfant eſtre eſtranglé, la teſte duquel demeureroit dedans, ſi on ne le tiroit par force, "† les ci'ocilcts bonaduertiſ. - , • : » . - • - c ， de la generation. o a crochets ſous le menton, ou dans la bouche, ou orbite des yeux : mais s'il aduenoit (ce qui ſe fait pluſieurs fois ) que l'enfant euſt les mains au couronnement , ou ja hors les parties genitales, iamais on ne doit ten- dre ny eſſayer à l'extraction par icelles, veu qu'il viendroit la teſte ployée auec les eſpaules : ce faiſant on ſeroit cauſe de faire grande leſion à la mere , & à l'enfant s'il auoit vie. i'ay eſté appellé quelquesfois à ex- traire des enfans morts que les matrones (ſoy diſans ſages-femmes ) s'eſtoient efforcées le tirer par vn des bras, lequel elles auoient par cette violence, causée d'intemperie, fait gangrener & mortifier, & par confe- quent fait mourir l'enfant, de ſorte meſme qu'on ne le pouuoit remettre dans la matrice pour la grande tumeur tant des parties genitales de la femme, que du bras de l'enfant, tellement que de neceſſité il fal- loit amputer. or le moyen de ce faire, eſt couper tous les muſcles auec le raſoir, le plus pres de l'eſpaule qu'il eſt poſſible, toutesfois en obſeruant que parauant l'inciſion l'on tire la partie charneuſe en haut : puis faut couper l'os auec tenailles inciſiues, afin que la chair couurant l'extremité de l'os, ne faſſe leſion aux fant eſtant parties genitales : puis cela fait, faut chercher les pieces du petit enfant, & l'extraire hors, comme auons par § cy deuant declaré,s'il eſt poſſible. et là où ledit enfant mort ſeroit fi gros naturellement, ou par accident§r de tumefié par la putrefaction , en ſorte qu'il ne peut aucunement eſtre extrait premierement que laiſſer mou- la mere. rir la mere » faudroit par tous moyens diminuer la groſſeur dudit enfant, & s'il aduenoit qu'il euſt la teſte au couronnement, la faudroit repouſſer en haut s'il eſtoit poſſible, & le tirer par les pieds comme auons dit : & où il ne ſeroit poſſible le repouſſer, & que l'enfant fut mort, il ſera tiré par des crochets ſembla- *•- b bles à ceux-cy : te donnant bien garde de bleſſer la femme par iceux, leſquels mettras dedans les yeux, ou en la bouche, ou ſous le menton. la methode de couper le bras à l'en- m †) m p=s | =se，，] m | #, #,# , #,º "t #s $nm ， ♂ lºlº : sxnÈ e º € tt:# l] | º# #: v \ \ \ \ # # :::: # # # - : $ s $ $n #s$ | (# ! c # #::: - - - - - - # et où la teſte del'enfant viendroit la premiere droict au commencement, & neantmoins que la femme ne m. - # peuſt accoucher, à raiſon qu'icelle eſt enorme en groſſeur que les grecs appellent macrophyſocephale, à cauſe # :- qu'elle eſt remplie de ventoſitez, ou aquoſitez, que les grecs appellent hydrocephale : alors ſi on void la fem- phaſe. lt:i :, - : ii - l » - - - hydrocepha- #u ' me eſtre en vn extreme trauail , & qu'on cognoiſſe l'enfant eſtre mort, faut faire inciſion aux ſutures du cra-# :# ne,pour euacuer ce qui eſt contre nature, & le tirer par pieces s'il eſt beſoin. auſſi ſi le thorax eſt pareille- ment trop gros, le faut vuider, puis le tirer piece à piece. - / j. couſteau courbé propre pour couper le ventre de l'enfant mort, eſtant dans le corps de la mere. # - # n$ lj(#' - ----- ----- nnnnnnnnnnns f#l) n$è r:ſt s， , , d # º et file ventre eſtoit auſſi trop enfié,ce qui ſe fait par hydropiſie,ou ventoſitez, y ſera faite inciſion auec vn mºyen de ti- #! petit couſteau courbé : ſemblable à cette figure que tu as cy-deſſus, lequel tiendras entre les doigts, en le po-rer la teſts. sº, ſant dedans la matrice,puis vuideras les entrailles : & ce faiſant,les aquoſitez s'eſcouleront, & ainſi ſera l'en- r# - fant plus facilement tire. or ſi la teſte de l'enfant demeure ſeule (ce que i'ay veu à mon grand regret ) alors 'a faut poſer la main ſeneſtre dans la matrice,l'ayant premierement oincte d'huyle de lys, ou de beurre frais, & # chercheras la bouche de l'enfant,en laquelle mettra les doigts, & de ta main dextre couleras vn crochet au rº , long de la ſeneſtre, & le mettras dedans la bouche, ou l'œil, ou ſous le menton, puis la tireras hors, s'il t'eſt #: poſſible. et au lieu deſdits crochets, tu te pourras ayder de ces deux inſtrumens, que i'ay pris au liure de la # chirurgie françoiſe de monſieur d'alechamps, qui ſont propres à tel effect, à raiſon qu'ils peuuent empoi- : gner vn corps rond comme la teſte de l'enfant. # |! - : : | inſtru , - o le vingt-quatriéme liure, - inſtruments dicts pieds degriffons, propre pour extraire la teſte d'vn enfant demeurée dans le ventre de la mere. i'ay dit , qu'on le tirera , s'il eſt poſſi- ble , parce qu'eſtant demeurée ſeule, tourne en la matrice à cauſe de ſa ro- tondité , en ſorte qu'a bien grande pei- ne elle peut eſtre tirée, ſi on ne preſſe le ventre de la mere par le haut, & aux deux coſtez, àfin que la teſte de l'enfant - ne tourne çà ny là. a - // ||illllllll lillºllllllllllwlw #f ce qu'il faut bailler à lafemme ſubit qu'elle eſt accouchée, & ce qu'il luy conuient faire. ch a p t r e xxxiv. i ， l faut garder que la femme recentement accouchée, ne reçoiue aucun air froid par ſa $ matrice : car eſtant vuide & vague apresl'enfantement, facilement eſt remplie de ventoſ- | |tez, leſquelles la refroidiſſent,diſtendent & tumefient, & bouſchent les orifices des coty- | ledons, qui empeſche ſes vuidanges, dont s'enſuit apres ſuffocation de matrice, & de tres- | grandes tranchées & douleurs, fiévres, & autres griefs accidens, & ſouuent la mort et n, pour obuier à cela , & à fin auſſi que les parties diſtantes ſe puiſſent mieux rejoindre,il pourquoy on " faut qu'elle aye les cuiſſes croisées les vnes ſur les autres.dauantage, on luy comprimera § le ventre d'vne bande aſſez large , pour prohiber que l'air froid n'entre en ſa matrice : joint auſſi qu'icelle d'vnefemme ligature aidera beaucoup à exprimer le ſang imbu en icelle:cela fait, on donnera à l'accouchée vn preſſis de eſtant recen- chappon, on vn chaudeau où il y aura du ſafran, & vn peu de poudre de duc ou vne roſtie auec de bon hip- tement ac- pocras,ou moyeux d'œufs auec ſucre candy, à fin de reſtaurer les vertus,& engarder les tranchées.aucuns rouchée. donnent des boüillons, & moyeux d'œufs,auec ſucre & canelle : autres des coulis & preſſis,& autres choſes fort nourriſſantes : & en cela on peut grandement faire faute. car peut eſtre que la femme aura bien diſné ou ſoupe vn peu auparauant qu'accoucher : de ſorte qu'elle n'aura beſoin de telle nourriture, puis qu'elle à aſſez de viandes en l'eſtomach encore creües & non cuittes. car ce n'eſt bien fait de mettre crud ſur crud,& decharger l'eſtomach, lequel s'en affoibliroit pluſtoſt que d'en eſtre fortifié, & par conſequent tout le corps. mais on luy pourra bien donner à boire,& non à manger,iuſques à ce que la digeſtion ſoit faite, pour euiter la fiévre & autres accidens,& la faut nourrir comme vne perſonne qui aura la fiévre laquelle elle a commu- nement,iuſques à tant que la douleur & autres accidés ſoient paſſez,& qu'elle ſoit bien purgée.ce qui ſe peut faire en huict ou dix jours, plus ou moins, ſelon qu'elle ſera bien gouuernée : apres elle doit eſtre bien nour- d rie. or ſi la femme eſtoit famelique,ſubit apres ſon enfantement , on luy donnera choſes nourriſſantes cy- deſſus mentionnées. on ne peut faillir de donner promptement de l'huyle d'amandes douces tirée ſans feu, auec ſucre candi,à fin d'humecter & adoucir la gorge, qui aura eſté eſchauffée & alterée : pource que l'ac- couchée aura grandement crie, pour les extremes douleurs qu'elle aura eu en l'enfantement : non pas que cette huyle aille juſqu'à la matrice,où eſt la cauſe de telles douleurs de tranchées, mais parce qu'elle eſt re- ceué dedans les boyaux, elle ſert comme de fomentation linitiue à la matrice, qui eſt voiſine des boyaux, & fait vuider plus facilement les ſuperfluitez contenues en iceux. car pluſieurs femmes trauaillent longuement en accouchant, & crient à gorge deſployée, lequel cry aide grandement a enfanter à raiſon que par le cry, les muſcles du ventre, enſemble ceux de la poitrine & le diaphragme ſont preſſez, au moyen dequoy la ma- trice eſt contraincte par la compreſſion, & par ce moyen elle ſe deſcharge plus aiſément. autant en font celles qui ont fait leurs enfans ſans mary, lors qu'elles accouchent aux lieux où elles n'oſent crier : parce qu'elles retiennent leur haleine , & s eſpregnent comme lors que nous voulons aller vuider noſtre ventre- on doit mettre ſubit quela femme qui eſt accouchée(principalement en temps d'hyuer)l'arriere-faix ſur ſon ventre:& en eſté,on prendra la peau d'vn mouton noir,lequel ſera eſcorché tout vif, ou tout ſubit luy ayant coupé la gorge, & ſera appliquée toute chaude ſur le ventre & ſur les reins. les feneſtres & portes de ſa chambre & cuſtodes de ſon lict ſeront cloſes & fermeés, & la laiſſera-on repoſer ſans bruit : & cinq ou ſix heures apres que la peau de mouton y aura eſté miſe, ſera oſtée, puis luy faudra oindre le ventre de l'on- guent qui s'enſuit . sperma ceti .ij olei amygd. dulci.hyperican. .j.ſ.ſeui hirc. .j.olei myrt ij. cerx noua quantum ſuff. fiat vnguentum ad vſum , duquel en ſera vsé deux fois le iour : & ſus le nombril ſera appliqué vn petit emplaſtre de galbanum , au milieu duquel y aura vn peu de ciuette & muſc, & fera-on en ſorte que la ſenteur d'icelle ne vienne au nez de l'accouchée : puis ſur tout le ventre ſera appliquée cette toille gautier. faut garder l'accouchée d'air froid. - %. cerz | * - de la generation. ii / , a z.cerx nouz .iiijſpermat.cet. .j.f.terebenthinx venetæ in aqua roſar.lota .ij.olei amygd dulc.& hy- teile gau? peric.an. .j. olei maſt. & myrt.an. .j. .axung cerui .j. É. liquefiant ſimul auferendo ab igne,impone telam º ex cannab.ad magnitudinem ventris : ladite toile ſera appliquée ſur le ventre. prenez limaçons rouges vne liure, fleurs de roſmarin trois quarterons, le tout trenché & haché me- autre reme- nu enſemble, puis le mettez en vn pot de terre plombé & bien luté, & ſoit enſeuely en du fient de cheual § tien ex- par quarante iours : & apres faut exprimer & mettre la liqueur en vne phiole de verre bien bouchée , & cellent. poſée par trois ou quatre iours au soleil, & d'icelle liqueur on en frottera le ventre de la nouuelle accou- chée : ces remedes gardent le ventre d'eſtre ridé & martelé. or ſi la femme eſt grandement oppreſsée de , tranchées : on luy donnera de cette poudre .aniſ.cond. . ij. nucis moſc. cornu cerui vſt.an. .j. .nucleor. • dacty. .iij.lig.aloes,cinnamo.an. .ij. fiat pul.ſubtiliſcap. .j.cuin vino alb.calid.autre. .rad.conſoiidae ma- ior. .jſ nucleor perſnucis moſcata an .ij.carabe . ſ ambr, griſgr.iiij. fiat pul.cap. .j.cum vino albo. si la remedesſin- femme eſtoit febricitante , on luy donnera auec vn boüillon de chappon.auſſi ſeront appliquez petits ſa- guliers pour ' chets de toile,où il y aura du mil, ou de l'auoine fricaſſée en vin blanc : & tous chauds on les appliquera ſur les tranchéer le ventre, & ſur les parties genitales de la femme , & meſmement aux reins. - * les cauſes des tranchées. ies cauſes des tranchées aux nouuelles accouchées ſe font, quand le ſang gros & feculent comme lye , de vin , s'amaſſe de tous coſtez, & court aux veines & arteres de la matrice, qui la refroidit & enfle, lequel ſang penetre difficilement, & par grande violence eſt rejetté comme inutile. et auſſi leſdites tranchées ſe . peuuent pareillement faire par le vent qui ſera entré promptement dans le corps de la femme apres l'enfan- tciilci}t, ce qu'ilfaut faire aux tetins de la nouuelle accouchée. c h a p i t r e xxxv. $ l faut oindre les tetins de ce liniment , à fin de faire fuime laict lors qu'il vient en trop grande abondance,& le faire euacuer par la matrice à celles qui ne deſirent eſtre nourri- ces. %. olei roſar.myrt.an. .iij.aceti roſa. .j. incorpor. ſimul. de ce en ſeront frottées remedes º, ， les mammelles trois ou quatre fois le iour,puis on aſpergera deſſus de la poudre de myr- poarfaire. \ tils , & quelques iours apres on vſera de cét emplaſtre. tarir le lai# z.pul.maſt.nuc.moſca.an. .ij.nucis cupreſ. .iijboli arm.terræ ſigilan. .ſº.ſang.drac. .ij.myrt.balauſt.an. .j.ſº.ireos flor. .ſ .olei myrtini. .iij.tereb.ven. .ij.cera noua quant. #. ſuff.fiat emplaſt.molle. la berle,le creſſon, & les fueilles de buys boüillies en vrine & : vinaigre, eſt vn fingulier remede pour faire fuir le laict des mammelles. autre. prenez fange trouuée au #º fond de l'auge des couſteliers ou eſmouleurs,meſlée auec huyle roſat,& ſoit appliquée tiede ſur les mammeſ- # c les : tel remede ſede la douleur & inflammation , & chaſſe le laict en peu de temps. auſſi le liere terreſtre, peruanche ſauge boüillie, enſemble en oxycrat,& de telle decoction en ſeront fomentées les mammelles, ad- . jouſtant des roſes & alum de roche.auſſi lye de vin vermeil auec vinaigre , & appliquée deſſus les mam- remed.tia # melles. autre eau diſtillée de pommes de pin non meures, appliquée deſſus auec linges. autre bien ap- approuué # prouué : cigué pilée & fueilles de courges recentes, appliquées comme deſſus.autre remede tres-aſſeuré: pour faire #: prenez oxyrrodinum, c'eſt huyle roſat & vinaigre,miſtionnez enſemble,fueilles de ſauge, ache,rué, cerfueil, fuir le laia : hachées bien menuës, le tout miſtionné enſemble, & appliqué ſur les mammelles vn peu tiede,& renou- des mam- # uellé par trois fois le iour. pareillement on appliquera des ventouſes au plat des cuiſſes & des aines, & au melles. # deſſus de l'vmbilic , leſquelles ont grande vertu d'attirer le laict des mammelles en la matrice, & le jetter # hors, pour-ce qu'en ce lieu il y a des veines de la matrice, qui communiquent auec celles deſdites mammel- il faut ºp- ， les. semblablement l'accouchée ſe fera tetter par vne grande perſonne, ou par des petits chiens, iuſques pºººº # à tarir tout ſon laict : & faut ſouuent faire cela, à fin qu'il ſoit tiré auparauant qu'il ſoit parfaictement cuict, # : incraſſé & imbu d'auantage és glandules des mammelles. et où elle ne voudra, ou que l'on ne peut trouuer # e « aucun pour ſe faire ainſi tetter, elle meſme le pourra faire par cét inſtrument de verre, dedans lequel méttra j' le bout de ſon tetin, & de l'autre ſuccera de ſa bouche : ainſi tirera ſon laict, tant & ſi peu qu'elle voudra. : | - inſtrument propre à tirer le laict des mammelles des femmes, nommé tetine. en lieu : - d'iceluy on peut vſer d'vne bouteille de verre, l'ayant chauffée, puis ſubit • mettre le bout du tetin en l'emboucheure d'icelle. . - d apres que l'accouchée ſera bien purifiée de ſes vui- bains danges (qui eſt le plus communément en trois ſepmaines » • • apres l'enfantement,& qu'elle n'aura fiévre,ny autre acci- dent)ſera baignée deux fois,auſquels bains on fera boüil- lir les herbes qui s'enſuiuent : maiora, menth.ſal.roriſar- temiſ agrim. puleg fior. camom. melilot.aneth. an.m. iiij. l'eau ſera de riuiere , ou d'vne claire & viuefontaine : le lendemain on fera vn ſemblable bainsauquel on adiouſte- ra ce qui s'enſuit. ſ. far. fab.& auen.an. fb.iijfari.orob. lup & glandan. fb.j. alum. rocha. .iiij ſal, comm. fb.ij. gall nucum cupreſan. .iij.roſrub.m.vjgaryophil. nucis † omnia # communi, & fiat ſaccul. cum panno lineo,& fiat balneum, in quo frequéter extin- -- ! ctum ſit ferrum candens, & ladite † ſe tiendra # en ce bain tant qu'elle voudra puis en ſortât,ſera poſée au # # - lict chaudement,& prendra vn peu d'eſcorce de citron,ou ann， vne petite roſtie trempée en hyppocrassou vn peu de bon vin , & endurera la ſueur tant qu'il luy plaira. le voyez le r. lendemain on luy fera des fomentations ſur les parties genitales , de choſes aſtringentes & reſſerrantes. liu chap. . exemple %. gall. nucum cupreſſ cort granatan. . † maior. thymian.m ſ, alum. racha & ſal. ºººº # a - coitl, diſtillation || | •] | , le vingt-quatriéme liure, - - com.an. .ijbulliant in vino auſtero, & fiar decoctio pro fotu ad vſum dictum. diſtillation excellente pour a appaiſer & affermir les tetins, & autres parties trop relaſchees & mollaſſes. É. catyophyl. nucis moſc.nu- cun cupreſſ. an. .j. .maſt. ij.alum roche j ß. gland. corticis quercini an. fb. b. roſarun rubrarum m.j, cort gran .ij.terra ſigillatæ .j cornu cerui vſti . . myrt.ſang.drac.an. .j.bol.arm. .ij ireos flor. j.ſun- mach.berber.hyper.an.m.É. conquaſſent. omnia , & macerentur ſpatio duor. dierum in lib. j. aqux roſar. & lib. ij. prunorum ſylueſt. meſpillo.pomo.querc.& lib.É. aqua fabr. & . iiij. aceti fortifſ poſtea fiat diſtillat. lento igne,& ſeruetur vſui:de laquelle on fomentera les parties trop relaxées,& les tetins deux fois le iour, & ſera laiſsé ſur la partie vne portion de feutre imbu en icelle, ou eſtoupes de lin. on peut pareillenen: faire vn cataplaſme de farine d'orge & de feves, de galand,& bol armene,deſtrempez & cuits en ladite eau, - diſtillée en forme de pulte : tout cela accomply , la femme pourra coucher auec ſon nary, pour refaire vne autre petite creature de dieu. des cauſes de la difficulté d'enfanter. c h a p. x x xv i. - cauſes de a difficulté d'enfanter prouient quelquesfois de la mere , & quelquesfois de l'enfant : de la difficulté mere,à cauſe qu'elle eſt trop graſſe,ou trop maigre,tropjeune ou trop vieille, ou trop debile d'eafanter & foible, comme pour auoir eu vn grand flux de ſang qui luy ſera ſorti par la matrice,ou par de par la quelque autre lieu , ou autres maladies qui auront eſté cauſe de proſterner & debiliter na- b jc'r€. ture en ſorte qu'elle n'a force ſuffiſante pour enfanter : auſſi celle qui accouche deuant le terme, enfante difficilement, ainſi qu'vn fruict ( comme vne pomme ou poire, ou autre ) n'e- ſtant en maturité tient ferme & fort par ſa queu, & lors qu'il eſt en ſa parfaicte maturité, tombe pluſtoſt & plus facilement de l'arbre : ou que la femme eſt jeune, qui ne ſçait encore ſe ſituer & endurer les dou- leurs : ou auſſi parce que l'enfant eſt mort, au moyen dequoy pour ſortir il ne s'aide aucunement : ou pour l'ignorance de la matrone qui n'eſt experte à ſon office : ou que la femme aura quelque vice en la matrice,ou au col d'icelle,comme s'il eſt trop clos, qui vient quelquesfois par le vice de la premiere conformation,que nature n'y a fait ample ouuerture, y laiſſant vne defectuoſité qui ne permet les parties s'eſtendre & aggran- dir, pour donner paſſage à l'enfant. auſſi il y a aucunes femmes qui ont le col de leur matrice dur & caileux: & tel vice peut venir de quelque playe,vlcere,apoſteme,ou par vne combuſtion,douleur,inflation,rhagadies, varices,& autres indiſpoſitions: ou par vn accouchement difficile qui aura dilaceré les parties gemitales : ou par ignorance,qui vient le plus ſouuent des matrones qui de leurs mains ſans raiſon auront faict tel excez: ce que i'ay pleuſieurs fois veu, ſi qu'apres l'vnion faite il ſe faiſoit vne cicatrice & calloſité, & lors qu'elle reiteroit à faire enfant, & l'heure venue d'enfanter, la partie ne ſe pouuoit eſtendre ſuffiſamment : & en tel * cas, ſi on ne donne ordre à couper ladite cicatrice & calloſité, la mere & l'enfant periront. pareillement la • difficulté d'enfanter prouient par l'air froid, qui comprime les parties,ou par vne exceſſiue chaleur,qui pro- ſterne les forces : auſſi vne grande crainte garde la femme d'enfanter, comme voir des hommes en ſa preſen- ce ou quelque femme qu'elle abhorre de voir : ou quand l'arriere-faix vient le premier, lequel accouche- ment eſt appellé filius ante patrem, qui eſt choſe tres-dangereuſe : ſemblablement quand l'arriere-faix ſe ſepare,& depart trop ſubitement de contre la matrice, il ſe fait vne grande effuſion de ſang qui l'occupe,& la rempliſſant ainſi outre meſure, qui empeſche auſſi que la vertu expulſiue ne peut jetter l'enfant dehors qu'a- uec tres-grande difficulté ainſi qu'on void quand la veſſie eſt trop pleine d'vrine qu'on ne peut piſſer:dauan- tage,quand il y a quelque corps eſtrange auec l'arriere-faix,comme vne mole , ou autre mauuais germe, ou ſable : ce que i'ay veu à deux femmes où ie fus appellé pour extraire leurs enfans morts : ie proteſte auoir enfantemët trouué en leur arriere-faix du ſable , la peſanteur d'vne liure & plus , ſemblable à celuy qu'on trouue d'vne fille à * la riuiere. plus la difficulté d'enfanter vient quelquesfois pour le trop bas aage , comme auoir conçeu neuf ans. a douze ou à treize ans , ou moins (comme sauonarola eſcrit auoir eſté veue vne fille de neuf ans groſſe par & . d'enfant, qui eſt choſe rare, attendu qu'en cét aage les vaiſſeaux ſont encores petits & anguſtes. sainct .epiſt. auguſtin eſcrit auſſi, qu'vn garçon de l'aage de dix ans engroſſa ſa nourrice, lequel continuoit à coucher • -" auec elle. ) le vice vient quelquesfois à cauſe du defaut de l'enfant, parce qu'il eſt trop gros, ou qu'il vient allueraſ . de trauers, ou les feſſes premieres, ou les mains & pieds enſemble, ou qu'il eſt mort, & grandement en- - flé, qu'auec luy a eſté engendré vne mole ( qui eſt vne maſſe de chair , de laquelle parlerons cy-apres ) ou que l'enfant eſt monſtrueux, comme ayans deux teſtes : ou qu'il yaye deux jumeaux joints enſemble : ou quand ils ſont pluſieurs, comme trois, ou quatre, ou plus ( ainſi qu'eſcrit albucraſis auoir veu vne femme qui en eut ſept d'vne ventrée) ou parce que l'enfant n'a fuiuy aſſez toſt les eaux, pource qu'eſtans vacuées il demeure à ſec, & que la matrice s'eſt reſſerrée, & toutes les autres parties : parquoy ledit enfant ne peut ! ſortir hors qu'auec vne tres-grande difficulté. l'enfantement ſe cognoiſtra eſtre difficile, quand les eaux ſont eſcoulées long-temps deuant que l'enfant ſorte. si les douleurs viennent de loing à loing, bien languides, º ºº pavce que les cotyledons ſe rompent à peine, de façon que l'arriere-faix ne ſe peut ſeparer qu'à la longue. pº de ſºges si vn flux de ſang par la matrice a precedé long-temps auparauant. et à toutes ces choſes le chirurgien femmes. bien expert renediera autant qu'il luy ſera poſſible, ſelon ſon art : & les matrones expertes pareillement . (deſquelles le nombre eſt tres-petit) parce qu'elles ne veulent apprendre des medecins & chirurgiens pour les conduire à mieux ſecourir les femmes en leur enfantement, qui eft cauſe d'vn grand mal. or pour faire qu'vn 'enfantement ſoit bon , il faut que l'enfant vienne à terme , & ſuiue les eaux, & qu'il ſorte la teſte premiere.& en cela eſt requis grâde force,à la mere & à l'enfant & conſeille que celles qui trauaillent beau- coup à enfanter, lors qu'elles ſeront ſur le terme , qu'elies ſe baignent en vn demy-bain , auquel on aura fait bouillir racines, ſemences,& herbes remollitiues , & qu'on leur oigne le ventre , & le col de la matrice, & toutes les parties voiſines, de choſes relaxantes, comme huyle d'amandes douces, graiſſe de geline, oye, & leurs ſemblables. pareillement on leur donnera vn clyſtere aigu, pour vacuer les excremens abondants, & , , afin qu'elle s'efforce par les eſpreintes qu'elle aura du clyſtere,& auec celles de l'enfant ce faiſant,actouchera lieu commo- toſt, & plus facilement, ce que i'ay veu pluſieurs fois d'auantage, ce doit eſtre pluſtoſt en vne grande chai- de pour ae- re percée propre à ce faire,'que dedans le lict : à raiſon que les os qui ſe doiuent ouurir à l'heure de l'enfan- coucher, tement, ſe dilateront plus facilement, parce que la femme ne ſera couchée deſſus. , > • • ) - , , ^ " ' - ' . - - - j • - . · s . \ , : - • - , • • » , - º y , , , > des de la generation. i - - •-a- - m•a- - º - des cauſes de l'auortement des femmes. c h a p. xxxvi i. ， la difference entre auortement & effluxion. auortement, c'eſt quand l'enfant eſt ja tout différence • formé & a receu vie.effluxion c'eſt quand les ſemences premieremét conglutinées enſem- entre auorte- # l ' ble par quelques iours,ſoudainement s'eſcoulent, & en ſortèt quelques mébranes & cail- ment & # # lebots de ſang concret,& chair ſans forne,que les matrones appellent faux germe , dont effluxion. # les femmes ſont fort tourmentees & vexées de douleurs & trenchées or l'auortemét des - | femmes vient deuant le terme, par nature inſtincte & contrainte d'enfanter par quelque # cauſe & violence contre nature, & tel enfantement eſt appellé auortif ou auortementsles nt pluſieurs,comme grand flux de ventre,ſtrangurie,ou ardeur d'vrine,auec grandes eſprein- - tes,grandes toux,vomiſſements violents,ou trop grand trauail & agitation,comme courir,danſer,ſauter,tom- ber de haut,ouleuer quelque peſant fardeau, ou cheuaucher vn cheual trottier,ou aller en coche,ou quelque couporbe donné contre le ventre parce que tels mouuements deſreiglez rompent & relaſchent leſdits li- §s de la matrice.auſſi les choſes qui compriment le ventre de la mere,comme font les beſtes,& choſes · # ! b ſemblables,quiempeſchent que l'enfant ne peut prendre croiſſance naturelle : de ſorte que les meres auortét» . º . § les enfans contraincts ſortir deuant le terme deu,au moyen de la leſion qui leur eſt faicte.auſſi toutes #ººººººſºº - choſes qui font que les veines,arteres,& ligamens de l'arriere-faix ſe relaſchent, & rompent par quelques ef- dauortemët fort : pareillement par la trop grande frequentation des hommes : auſſi le bruit de foudre & tonnerre & de ſont eſcrites j'artillerie,& le ſon des groſſes cloches font auorter,& pluſtoſt les ieunes que les vieilles, parce que le corps ! # des ieunes eft plus tendre,plus delicat,& plus rare,& le corps des vieilles plus robuſte & plus denſe dauan- # aſe- tage il vient auſſi de trop jeuſner,ou à cauſe de trop grand flux de ſang:mais ſi l'enfant eſt encore petit,com- - §d'vn mois ou deux, le danger n'eſt ſi grand,à cauſe qu'en tel temps il n'a affaire de grande nourriture.da- uantage,ſi la femme eſt long-temps malade,ſera cauſe de la faire auorter, parce que le ſang ſe conſommet parquoy ledit enfant eſt contraint de ſortir par faute d'aliment , qui ne luy eſt enuoyé en ſuffiſante quantité ny qualité : auſſi peut venir par trop prendre grande quantite de viandes.car par icelles eſt ſuffoquée, & ſon aiiment corrompu,à cauſe que le trºp boire & manger fait que la digeſtion eſt mal faicte, & par conſequent la maſſe du ſang ſe corrompt, dont l'enfant doit eſtre nourry & alimenté; auſſi pour auoir mangé viandes corrompués & de mauuais ſuc car ſouuent les femmes groſſes ſont degouſtées,& ont vu appetit inſatiable , & depraué de manger viandes eſtranges & mauuaiſes choſes, qui ſe fait le plus ſouuent enuiron le troiſieme mois qu'elles ont conceu : lequel appetit vient à raiſon de certaines humeurs viſqueuſes, aigres , froides, & . d'vne pituite qu'elles ont en l'eſtomach,ou entre les membranes d'iceluy, dont l'enfant eſt infecte. ainſi au- cunes deſirent manger des charbons,craye,tºrre» herbes, fruicts non meurs,harencs,& autres poiſſons cruds. & chair,papier , plaſtre, poiure ? & autres eſpiceries , boire du vinaigre , ayant en haine toutes bonnes vian- des, lequel appetit ainſi depraué • augmentº lors que les cheueux commencent à venir à l'enfant : & aucu- nes qui ont vn tel deſir d'en manger , quelquesfois auortent, & ſont en danger de leur vie. les femmes pourquoy leu c § en cela reſiſter & dompter cette mauuaiſe affection : toutesfois ſi on cognoit qu'elles ayent vn ſi # grand vouloir & enuie d'en mäger leur faut permettre,encore que telles choſes leurs ſoiét contraires, pour-ſes deſirent ueu qu'elles ne leur apportent trop grand dommage & preiudice : car ſouuent elles digerent telles choſes manger cho- §e , & les tranſmuent en aliment, ſans qu'elles en reſſentent aucun mal ny dommage en leur corps. da-ſºs ºſtramses. uantage, l'auortement ſe peut faire par l'vſage des bains & eſtuues, parce qu'elles mollifient & lubrifient, & - relaſe#ent les ligamens de la matrice , & auſſi que par la chaleur des bains, la chaleur interne de tout le - corps eſt bien fort augmentée,& l'enfant ſentant icelle,qui luy eſt eſtrange ne la peut ſouffrir, tellement qu'il § ſes efforts de ſortir hors de la matrice. les femmes groſſes qui ſans cauſe manifeſte auortent au deuxieſ- j: - § ou troiſieſme mois, tombent en cét inconuenient parce qu'elles ont les cotyledons, c'eſt à dire, les bou- # ches & orifices des vaiſſeaux de leur matrice, pleins de flegme cras & gluant,& partant l'enfant ne peut eſtre # §nu à cauſe de ſa peſanteur, & ſe rompent & deſchirent, parce qu'ils ſont oincts & moüillez de phlegme - #x gliſſanr. auſſi peut venir auortement par trop grande ioye , ou par vn grand deſir qu'elle auroit de manger : # quelque choſe, ou par deſpit & faſcherie qu'elle aura,ne ſe pouuant venger, & faire ce qu'elle deſire, ou par gº vne grande peur par la mutatiº trop ſubite qui ſe fait au corps. or voila les cauſes qui font auorter les fem- º f. l # - §s dauantage ſi les mammelles de la femme groſſe ſont dures & pleines : puis ſubit diminuent, c'eſt ſigne ºct ;.. # d'auortement car de la nous ſignifie,qu'il y a defaut d'aliment cópetant & ſuffiſant pour l'enfant : car comme # :: º eſt enſeigné en l'anatomie, il y a des veines communes aux mammelles & à l'amarry, leſquelles ſors qu'el- # : # les ont peu de ſang, les mammelles fruſtrées de leur enuitaillement ordinaire, deuiennent plus greſles que de ſea. p. - ººº ! couſtume : dont s'enſuit que par faute de nourriture ſuffiſante, l'enfant meurt, ou cherchant dehors ce qu'il par #as :# ne trouue dans le corps de la mere, rompt violentemét les membranes dont il eſt enueloppé,& ſort deuant le . ſaa. - #º d temps legitime en lumiere,auſſi ſi la femme porte deux enfans, & quel'vne de ſes mammelles fietriſſe & di- # - minué, c'eſt ſigne que l'enfant qui eſt de ce colté-là eſt mort, ou bien en grand danger. les femmes endurent # plus grande douleur en auortant, que lors qu'elles accouchent à terme, & ſont en plus grand peril, d'autant # que ce qui ſe fait contre nature, eſt plus grief & mauuais, que ce qui ſe fait naturellement. il auient ſou- # uent aux femmes, qui ne portent au commencement leurs enfans à terme, qu'elles font les enfans ſuiuans cº cn ce meſme temps. parquoy cela aduenant, on aura recours au medecin à rechercher les cauſes, & euiter (cº toutes les choſes qui font auorter. cét emplaſtre eſt vtile appliqué ſur les reins z. labd. .ij. galang .j.nu- # cis moſca. nucis cupreſ boli arm. terrae ſigill. ſang. drac.balauſt. an. . .acac.pſidior.hypociſt. an§ emplaſtre # myrrhx an. ij gummi arabici j tereb. vener. j picis naual. .j.ſ ceræ quant ſuff fiat emplaſtrum ſ§ aſtringene # dun artem , extendatur ſuper alutam ad vſum : s'il ſuruenoit chaleur & prurit aux lieux où il auroit eſté # #º # ! · appliqué, par le moyen dudit emplaſtre, il ſera oſté, & appliquera-on l'onguent roſat, infrigid. galeni ou l, #. $ - de celuy qui s'enſuit #. olei myrt; cidon & maſtic. an. .j.hypcciſt, acac.boli arm ſang drac.an. .j.ſan- dal, citrini iiij cera quantum ſufficit, fiat vnguentum ſecundum artem. quelques femmes § # enfans dix ou onze mois , parce qu'il a eſté engendré de grande quantité de ſemence à cette cauſe a eſté unia (ſt fait grand, fort, & vigoureux , quifºit que pour ſa nourriture il faut qu'il demeure plus longtemps en la # # mat ce. car vn gros fruict n'eſt ſi toſt meure qu'vn petit : auſſi vn enfant menu & greſle dés † tion foºru y ou premiere conformation, & qu'il ſoit chaud & ſec de ſa complexion, a aſſez de neuf§ § § vn femme fois de ſept pour ſa maturité, où à vn autre en faudra dix , onze & douze, auſſi voidon § les porte enfant filles venir iuſques au bout du neufieſme mois, & les fils naiſtre au commencement & § du mois : plus de neuf car la complexion chaude ſert beaucoup à la prompte maturité,& la froide & humide eſt plus §y " la quand àl'enfant, lequclſelonſa complexion & corpulence qui en procede, ſejourne plus ou moins en la # - ff f matrice | -.. | : le vingt-quatriéme liure, matrice attendant ſa maturité. a cecy ayde grandement la matrice : car elle eſt de temperature chaude ou a froide : la chaude ayde à cnyte le fruict pluſtoſt,& la froide plus tard. •' - • des moyens de ſuruenir à l'enfant, la mere morte. ' ! chap. xxxvii i. $ r s'il aduenoit que la femme groſſe d'enfant fuſt en agonie, ou aux efforts de la mort, qui ſe $ peut cognoiſtre par les ſignes cy deuant declarez , faut que le chirurgien ſe trouue preſt & ap- # pareillé à ouurir ſubit la femme , apres le dernier ſouſpir de la mort, à fin de ſauuer l'enfant s'il $# ſ# eſt poſſible, & ne faut auoir confidence à la baillonner & tenir ſa bouche & parties genitales ou- uertes pour donner air & eſprit à l'enfant eſtant dans le ventre de ſa mere, & encore inuolué dedans les membranes, veu que ledit enfant eſtant au ventre de ſa merei n'a ſon air que par les mouuemens de l'arte- re vmbilicale. or la mere decedée , ſes poulmons ne font plus leur action, qui eſtoit attirer l'air exterieur l'enfant ne par la bouche, & le conduire par la trachée artere aux poulmons , & d'iceux au cœur par l'artere venale, peut prendre & du cœur par la grande artere aux arteres de la matrice , & d'icelle par les cotyledons, qui ſont au cho- aucun air, rion ou arriere-faix,à l'vmbilic de l'enfant par l'artere vmbilicale, & de la aux arteres iliaques,puis au cœur, encore que, & d'iceluy à toutes les parties de l'enfant. parquoy la mere eſtant decedée, tous ces mouuemens ceſſans, ºººº & quelque baillonnage & ouuerture qnel'on ſceuſt faire tant à la bouche qu'ez parties genitales de la mere, # col de d l'enfant ne ſçauroit plus receuoir ny attirer aucun air : tellement que le mouuement naturel,du cœur dudit # enfant ceſſeroit en bref,apres que la mere auroit rendu l'eſprit , de ſorte que ſi toſt qu'elle aura ietté le der- #º" nier ſouſpir, il la faut ouurir en diligence , & ne ſe fier aucunement auſdites ouuertures. et quand à l'ou- moyen de uerture pour extraire l enfant , elle doit eſtre commencee pres le cartilage nommé xiphoide, ou pomum gra- ſauuer l'en- natum, en leuant le cuir & muſcles du ventre , & le peritoine en figure d'eſcuſſon, en euitant bien de faire fant la mere apertion des inteſtins : puis ſubit on inciſera la matrice la leuant en haut , de peur qu'en faiſant l'inciſion / rfe, on ne touche du raſoir à l'enfant,lequel trouueras nager aux aquoſitez ſuſdites,& ſouuent le nombril entour- tillé au col, ou aux bras & jambes. faicte l'ouuerture, ledit enfant ne ſe meut pas touſiours pour l'oppreſ- ſion & debilitation & faute des eſprits & vertus qu'il n'aura peu receuoir à ſuffiſance, à cauſe du decez de la mere. parquoy de prime face, ſemble aux aſſiſtans qu'il n'aura nulle vie : ce que cognoiſtras veritable- ment, en touchant & taſtant ſon vmbilic , auquel ſentiras pouſſer & batre l'artere vmbilicale, s'il y a vies auſſi que ſi toſt qu'il aura ſenty l'air, il mouuera tout en vn coup aucuns de ſes membres. or ſi tu cognois que les vertus & force ſoient debiles, faut bien euiter de lier & reparer l'vmbilic d'auec l'arriere-faix, à cauſe que ledit enfant peut attirer & receuoir chaleur , & quelque reſte d'eſprits contenus encore audit ar- riere-faix : parquoy le poſeras ſus le ventre de l'enfant,& le laiſſeras iuſques à ce que la chaleur ſoit exhalée: par ce moyen ſeras cauſe d'augmenter ſes vertus,& par conſequent d'allonger ſa vie: mais là où ledit enfant ſeroit fort,alors pourra lier ſubit ledit vmbilic, comme nous auons dit cy-deſſus, & au reſte laiſſer l'enfant à ce qu'ilfaut dieu & aux femmes, qui luy feront ce que nous auons eſcrit. et s'il aduenoit,comme quelquesfois il ſe faît, faire lors que que par la violence d'auoir attiré l'enfant , on euſt dilaceré les parties genitales de la mere, & que des deux la ſage fem- trous il ne s'en fuſt fait qu'vn, alors il faudra faire quelques poincts d'aiguille, pour reünir ce qui ſeroit me a dilace- contre nature ſeparé, & traicter la playe ſelon l'art : & lors que tel accident aduient c'eſt vn grand deſaſtre º & ºmpº à la pauure femme, par ce que ſi elle reuient à eſtre groſſe apres, & que ſon heure ſoit venuë d'enfanter, c le perheum. ſ . parties genitales ne ſe peuuent plus aſſez ſuffiſamment dilater, pour donner paſſage à l'enfant à cauſe de la cicatrice : parquoy on eſt contraint la couper vn peu, puis la dilacerer, à raiſon que l'vnion ſe fait mieux , ou autrement la femme ne pourroit iamais accoucher , ce que i'ay fait a deux de cette ville de paris. or ie m'eſmerueille comme aucuns veulent affermer auoir veu des femmes, auſquelles pour ex traire leurs enfans, l'on auroit inciſé le ventre , non ſeulement vne fois, mais pluſieurs : car telle choſe par raiſon m'eſt du tout impoſſible à croire, attendu que pour donner iſſue à l'enfant, il faudroit faire vne grande playe aux - muſcles del'epigaſtre, & pareillement à la matrice, laquelle eſtant imbue de grande quantité de ſang , & y faiſant vne diuiſion ſi grande,il y auroit vne tres grande hemorrhagie,dont la mort s'enſuiuroit. d'auanta- ge apres auoir conſolidé la playe, la cicatrice ne permettroit apres à la matrice de ſe dilater pour porter en- fant. il y a èncores d'autres accidens qui en pourroient aduenir,& le pis,vne mort ſubite à la mere : & par- tant ie ne conſeilleray iamais de faire tel œuure , où il y a ſi grand peril, ſans nul eſpoir, en parlant humai- nement, toutesfois l'on m'a aſſeuré qu'vn nommé maiſtre vincent barbié de hericy, pres fontaine-bleau, a faict cette pereilleuſe operation auec heureuſe iſſue,la femme que l'on dit auoir eſté incisée,& ledit m. vin- cent ſont encore auiourd'huy viuans, tant de gens d'honneur,dignes de foye me l'ont aſſermé,iuſques meſmes à me dire auoir veu faire l'operation,& extraire l'enfant, que ie ne veux ny oſe les meſcroire. mais cela eſtât, i'oſe bien dire que ce n'eſt vn vray miracle de nature, c'eſt à dire l'infinité & et ernelle puiſſance de dieu qui allonge, accourcit, & retarde les iours de l'homme quand bon luy ſemble, ainſi qu'il fit iadis les mouue- mens du soleil, & non vn effect de la dexterité , prudence & ſcience d'vn barbier de village : partant nous d deuons loüer & benir ſon nom, &le prier humblement en toutes nos operations , qu'il nous vueille aſſiſter de ſa grace, à fin que les œuures de noſtre main puiſſe tourner au ſalut des humains affligez, & à la gloire de ſon sainct nom. de la superfetation, c'eſt à dire, conception reiterée, ou ſurengendrée. c h a p i t r e xxxix. % v a n d la femme a deux ou ttois ou pluſieurs enfans, & chacun d'iceux ſont diſtincts, & ſeparez, ayans chacun leur arriere-faix ,il y a ſuperfetation, mais s'ils ſont trouuez enue- , loppez en vn ſeul, ſeront engendrez par vne grande quantité de ſemence, & non par ſu- perfetation , ce qui ſe prouue par les raiſons qui s'enſuiuent galien au liu. des facultez na- turelles , & au liure de ſemine, nous enſeigne que tout ainſi qu'apres que nous auons pris noſtre repas , l'eſtomach vient à ſe retirer de telle ſorte, que comme auec les deux mains il tient de tous coſtés enuironnées les viandes qui ſont au dedans, pour peu qu'il y en ait, afin de les cuire & alterer pour la generation du chyle, de ſorte que leſdits aliments ne peuuent eſtre esbranlez nà & là pour la corn- preſſion faicte par le ſuſdict eſtomach ( galien entend de l'eſtomach des perſonnes ſaines , non malades : ide meſme veut-il eſtre faict en la matrice, apres l'eiection de la ſemence de l'hommc & de la femme- belle compa- raiſon. le vingt-quatriéme liure, femme auoir conçeu vne mole ſans compagnie d'homme : parquoy principalement la cauſe de la mole eſtre a la ſemence de l'homme : qui fait fermenter celle de la femme, comme la preſure, le fourmage : ou le leuain, fernel. la paſte.ce que fernel a apprins d'hppocrate, & de la pluſpart des bons autheurs,quitiennét que mole n'eſt faite ſans la ſemence virile, mais plus de feminine, & d'vne grande quantité de ſang menſtruel contenu aux vaiſſeaux de la matrice, lequelauec la grande quantité de la ſemence feminine corrompt & ſuffoque la viri- • e le, empeſchant que la vertu formatrice ne faſſe ſon action, laquelle ſe fait par vne bonne temperature, & au rºººol- contraire eſt corrompue par vne immoderation : & telle opinion eſt la plus raiſonnable ; car telle mole ou mole ne ſe maſſe de chair ne s'engendre en l'vterus à la façon des vers d'vne ſimple chaleur, & d'vn humeur eſpais & peut engºn- viſqueux, mais en outre des deux ſemences de l'homme & de la femme, par le moyen de l'eſprit generatif, drer ſans la ce qui eſt aisé à connoiſtre par les membranes, deſquelles elle eſt enueloppée par les ligamens auec vn fœtus ſemence vi. formé , qui ſe void quelquesfois attaché à icelle par ſuperfetation, par accroiſſement , & par le mouuement rile. tremblotant. or par mauuaife quantité ou qualité des ſemences n'eſt ſeulement faite vne mole , mais auſſi enfans imparfaicts & monſtrueux, voire quelquesfois des animaux,& autres choſes monſtrueuſes, dont nous parlerons cy-apres. et ſi on tenoit qu'vne mole peuſt eſtre engendrée ſans ſemence d'homme, aucunes fem- mes pourroient par la couurir leur impudicité, ce qui ne ſe fait iamais. . - - - -* • .. : ' • º - – . | des ſignes pour connoiſtre vne mole d'auec vn enfant. c h a p. xli. n void en vne mole quaſi tous les ſignes des femmes groſſes d'enfant. les ſignes du com- # mencement de mole, ſont douleur poignante au ventre , comme de cholique : le ventre s'enfle plus ſubit & plus fort que d'vn enfant, & ſera plus dur. pareillement la mole eſt plus difficile à porter qu'vn enfant, parce qu'elle eſt contre nature, & comme vne choſe # . - & %， ſans eſprit & vie, & l'enfant eſt ſelon nature, ayant vne ame diuine. les mammelles s'en- mentpetit ! va à flent au commencement ; mais en fin demeurent mollaſſes & flaiſtries, & diminuent, pour- #ſ§ - ce que nature en vain y enuoyeroit du laict veu qu'il n'y a point d'enfant pour l'allaicter & nourrir : d'a- ，omme les uantage le nombril ne ſort hors , comme lors qu'il y a enfant. deuant le troiſiéme mois on y trouue eſponges at- mouuement, toutesfois fort obſcur, petit, & comme tremblotant : ce qui n'eſt trouué à vn enfant. or tachées con- combien que la mole ſe meuue, & qu'il ſemble y auoir quelque vie, neantmoins elle ne tient point cet- tre les ro- . te vie de l'ame raiſonnable, mais ſeulement de la faculté de la matrice, & de l'eſprit generatif, qui giſt cººé cº- aux ſemences, & au ſang menſtruel, leſquelles choſes nourriſſent & entretiennent & donnent forme à #ºuu l'enfant pour quelque temps : mais puis apres ſa formation, dieu luy tranſmet l'ame, qui eſt vne inſpi- #.. ration de l'eſprit diuin, laquelle diſtingue l'homme des beſtes , & le rend immortel, ce qui defaut à la §e mole, car elle a ſeulement vie vegetatiue comme les plantes. auſſi l'enfant en ſon temps a ſon mouue- mole eſt bien ment different, parce qu'il ſe meut de coſté dextre & ſeneſtre, ce qui n'aduient en vne mole ſans compreſ- different à ſion, & la comprimant à dextre eſt pouſsée à ſeneſtre, & du coſté ſeneſtre au dextre, & retourne en meſme celuy d'vn lieu d'où elle auoit eſté pouſſée : au contraire de l'enfant, qui pour l'heure qu'on le pouſſe ne ſort de ſa place. enfant. pareillement quand la femme ſe tourne en ſon lict, elle la ſent tourner de coſté & d'autre auec vne peſan- teur comme ſi c'eſtoit vne boule. dauantage tout le corps de la femme deuient mollaſtre & emacié, c'eſt à dire amaigry & ſec, principalement les cuiſſes & iambes , leſquelles s'enflent vers le ſoir, de ſorte que la femme ne ſe peut bien ſouſtenir deſſus,à cauſe de la debilité de la chaleur naturelle, qui commence à defail- lir aux parties plus eſloignées du cœur : auſſi le ventre eſt fort enfié,& ſemble que ce ſoit hydropiſie, exce- pté qu'il eſt plus dur, & ne rend point de ſon de tabourin lors qu'on frappe deſſus. telle enfleure de ventre prouient de ce que le ſang menſtruel qui tombe dans l'vterus, n'eſt point employé en nourriture, mais s'ac- cumule ainſi peu à peu.auſſi le nombril ne ſort dehors, comme quand il y a enfant pareillement en la mole iamais les fleurs ne coulent, comme il ſe fait quelquesfois à la femme groſſe d'enfant, ſi ce n'eſt à d'aucunes, à qui aduiennent grandes vuidanges, qui les allegent fort de la peſantur de leur ventre.aucunesfois la mo- le eſt tant adherante, & attachée contre les parois de la matrice, & aux orifices des vaiſſeaux (qu'auons par cy-deuant nommez cotyledons) que iamais n'en peut eſtre ſeparée : partant la pauure femme la porte quel- hiſtoire. quesfois ſix ou ſept ans, & meſme toute ſa vie la femme de guillaume roger, maiſtre potier d'eſtain de- meurant rue s.victor, agée de cinquante ans & plus, a porté vne mole dixſept ans ou enuiron, & le iour de iuillet eſtant decedée, ſon mary m'appella pour ouurir le corps, où ie trouuay ſa matrice n'eſtant au- cunement attachée & liée, ſinon que par le col d'icelle matrice, & bien peu par l'omentum : n'ayant qu'vn ſeul teſticule du coſté droit, aſſez large, mol & fieſtry. et quant aux cornes de ladite matrice, n'eſtoient au- cunement apparentes, ſinon que bien peu du ſuſdit coſté. elle ne receuoit aucuns vaiſſeaux ſinon que par ledit col, leſquels eſtoient fort apparents en la ſuperficie. telle matrice eſtoit de groſſeur de la teſte d'vn grand & puiſſant homme. l'ayant ſeparée toute entiere, ie la feis porter à mon logis pour la decouper, & ſçauoir ce qui eſtoit contenu en icelle:ce que ne voulus faire ſans auoir compagnie de doctes medecins & chirurgiens, les noms deſquels s'enſuiuent: monſieur de mazille,conſeiller & premier medecin du roy,monſieur alexis, premier medecin de la royne de france, monſieur vigor premier medecin de la royne regente, monſieur de s. pont premier medecin de la royne de nauarre, meſſieurs le févre, brouet, medecins ordinaires du roy, meſſieurs violaines, geraume, mareſcot, rauin, milot, haurin, riollan, luſſon, docteurs regens en la faculté de medecine : cointret, chirurgien du royau chaſtelet de paris, & premier de la royne : le brun, & guillemeau, chirurgiens iurez à paris : en la preſence deſquels ie feis ouuerture de ladite matrice, la- quelle nous trouuaſnes en ſa ſubſtance & propre tunique ( l'autre qui vient du peritoine eſtant au reſte ſaine & entiere)toute ſcirrheuſe & ſi extremement dure , qu'à bien grande peine le couſteau, bien trenchant qu'il fuſt, y pouuoit entrer : & eſtoit icelle matrice d'eſpeſſeur de trois doigts & plus. au milieu & capacité d'i- cauſe de l'enfleure de ventre en la mole. #º celle fut trouuée vne chair ſemblable à vne retine de vache, de groſſeur de deux poings, n'eſtant adherante " aux parois d'icelle, ſinon qu'en certains endroits, eſtant fort denſe & grumuleuſe : en la ſubſtance de laquel- | le eſtoient infiltrez des corps eſtranges, comme atheromes, cartilages & os : & fut conclu de tous, que le | commencement de telle chair auoit eſté vne mole , prenant nourriſſement & accroiſſement comme les · , · loupes qui aduiennent en quelque partie de noſtre corps : laquelle auec le temps s'eſtoit tournée en - ° ſcirrhe , & ſemblablement toute la ſubſtance de la matrice. dauantage nous trouuaſmes vne tu- mole peſanre ºeur au milieu du col de la matrice , de groſſeur & rondeur d'vn bien gros œuf de poulle d'inde, § dure en toute ſa ſubſtance , meſlée de cartilages & os , occupant du tout le col d'icelle, & principale- . é demy- men la bouche interieure de la matrice , dicte vulgairement le couronnement, de ſorte que rien n'y pou- quarteron uoit entrer ny ſortir. le tout eſtoit de peſanteur de neuf liures demy quarteron. ie la garde en mon cabi- net, comme choſe monſtrueuſe lors que cette femme viuoit, elle ſentoit grande § au ventre, l'a- - - yant de la generation. a yant dur & grand à merueilles, comme ſi elle euſt eſté groſſe de pluſieurs enfans,ſi bien que quelques mede- cins voyans le temps legitime d'enfanter, l'auoient traictée comme hydropique , toutesfois ne ſçeurent rien gaigner ſur l'enfleure de ſon ventre : quelquesfois auſſi elle auoit ſupreſſion d'vrine l'eſpace de deux ou trois iours, & lors n'vrinoit ſinon qu'auec grande douleur : pareillement elle eſtoit quelquesfois ſept ou huict iours ſans aller à la ſelle, pour la compreſſion de inteſtins que faiſoit cette enorme maſſe. et par interuale comme de trois mois en trois mois, elle auoit de grandes vuidanges, leſquelles ne pouuoient ſortir de la ca- pacite de la matrice,attendu (comme nous auons dit) qu'elle eſtoit remplie & exactement cloſe , fermée & eſtoupée : mais telles vuidanges ſortoient par les vaiſſeaux dont les filles ſe purgent de leurs mois, & aucu- nes femmes groſſes. au reſte pour l'enormité remarquable de telle mole, ie t'eaay bien voulu icy repreſen- la figure , l'vne entiere, & l'autre eſtant ouuerte. - figure dela matrice entiere. e • • c a monſtre le corps de la matrice. : b le teſticule. c le col de ladite matrice, auquel la petite tumeur eſtoit contenuë. d l'extremite du col de la matrice ſeparé, enſemble les vaiſſeaux par leſquels ladite matrice eſtoit ilouii't c. v e le lien, fff les vaiſſeaux eſpandus. figure de la matrice ouuerte. a a monſtrent le deſ. ſus du corps de la matrice. b b b l'eſpeſſeur du corps de la matri- cc, c la mole. d d la cauité en la quelle ladite mole e- ſtoit contenuë. |\ © #à | \ \n n nxss f f f rambert le vingt-quatriéme liure, hiſtoire rambert dondonay medecin,en ſes obſeruations medecinales chapitre . dict s'eſtre trouué vn mole à a vne vefue, laquelle eſtoit preſque de longueur d'vn pied,large de demy pied, & eſpeſſe de quatre doigts. | auſſi il aduient à quelques-vnes,qu'elles ne la portent qu'vn mois ou deux,ou plus,ou moins : & alors qu'el- le eſt jettée hors, les femmes la nomment mauuais germe. il s'en eſt trouue autresfois deux ou trois ſepa- | rées l'vne de l'autre. autresfois il s'en eft veu de deſliées & attachées auec vn fœtus bien formé , comme º raconte valeriola de la femme qui jetta vne mole qu'elle auoit porté douze mois à laquelle eſtoit lié vn fœtus de quatre mois, auquel ladite mole fit tort, luy oſtant ſa nourriture,& ne pouuoit auoir aſſez de place hiſtoire pour aller au terme de ſa maturité. or c'eſt choſe toute aſſeurée que cette mole, comme vne meſchante & cruelle beſte, tue touſiours le fœtus auec lequel elle eſt liée. il me ſouuiét auoir ouuert vne femme, laquelle mourut parce qu'elle auoit vne mole de la groſſeur d'vn œuf d'oye, que nature vouloit ietter hors , & ne auicenne pouuant elle demeura,& ſe pourriſt, dont la mort s'enſuiuit. auicenne dit,que la femme a des douleurs côme ſi elle vouloit accoucher & ietter vne maſſe de chair ſans forme. autres ne iettent que ſeules ventoſitez ſor- tans par le col de la matrice auec bruit & ſon , qui a eſté cauſe qu'on dit telles femmes auoir accouché d'vn pet. or pour concluſion, quand la femme penſe eſtre groſſe & qu'on void paſſer le temps,d'enfanter, faut conclurre que ce n'eſt enfant,& partât faut remedier à faire ietter hors,s'il eſt poſſible,ce qui eſt contrenature. - prognoſtic. telle eſt la mole adhere quelquesfois ſi eſtroictement aux cotyledons de la matrice,qu'elle ſe rend ſociable à icel- º le, en ſorte qu'elle n'en peut eſtre ſeparée, qui eſt cauſe qu'elle y demeure toute la vie de la femme. hippo- e crate appelle mole, mole viuante. le plus ſouuent eſt attachée legerement, & parce elle tôbe au trois, qua- tre, cinq, ou ſixieſme mois. hippocrate appelle telle molle , auortante : il aduient quelquesfois qu'il n'y en a qu'vne,& quelquesfois auſſi pluſieurs qui ſont moins dangereuſes qu'vne toute ſeule. souuent on trouue des moles auec des enfans, quelquesfois y ſont attachées , autresfois non. - cure de la mole lors qu'elle n'eſt pas encore trop groſſe. c h a p t r e x l i i. siluius li, . n，n xg ( ' o n donnera à la femme choſes qui prouoquent les fleurs, & qui font ietter tarriere- # $ # faix , & l'enfant mort , § † les trochiſques de myrrhe, les hermodactes, ques. #$ & autre ſemblables : les parties eſtant touſiours premierement fomentées de choſes re- º， º laſchantes & remollientes : pareillement diete tenue , ſaignée, bains, & le tout ordonné • * . par le medecin docte & experimenté:& s'il aduenoit que la mole fuſt deſliée & deſlachée f de contre la matrice,& que nature ne la peuſt ietter hors,le chirurgien ſituera la femme en meſme ſituation qu'à l'extraction de l'enfant , & fera tant qu'il la mettra hots & la prendra auec cét inſtrument nommé pied de griffon, lequel s'ouure eſtant dans le corps de matrice. pied de griffon pour extraire la mole. c extračiion •- de la mole. or il faut entendre que ſans inftrumens ou ne ſçauroit tirer hors la mole, ſi elle eſt trop groſſe à cauſe de ſa rondeur, parce qu'il n'y a aucune priſe, & lors qu'on la veut prendre de la main, elle tourne en la matrice hiſtoire. comme ſi c'eſtoit vne boule : pourquoy faut comprimer le ventre d'vne part & d'autre, comme nous auons dit cy-deſſus de la teſte de l'enfant eſtant demeurée ſeule en la matrice.apres l'extraction d'icelle, la femme ſera traictée ainfi que ſi elle eſtoit accouchée d'vn enfant. or il ſe peut faire que la mole & les enfants morts autre hiſtoi-dans le ventre de la mere, ſortent deux-meſmes par pourriture:ce qui ſe peut prouuer par albucraſis chapi- '€. tre .liure deux, qui dit auoir veu vne femme,au ventre de laquelle y auoit vn enfant mort, & neantmoins ayant conçeu & deuenue groſſe d'enfant mourut pour la ſeconde fois. or long temps apres il luy aduint vnº apoſteme en l'vmbilic, & s'enfla iuſques à ce qu'eſtant ouuert commença à ietter de la boüe : tellement qu'il fut appellé pour y remedier , & ne peut conſolider ny raffermir l'ouuerture, bien qu'il l'euſt traictée long- temps : pour-ce il mit ſur le lieu quelque emplaſtre fort attractiue,dont à la fin ſortit vn os dequoyil fut fort esbahy, veu qu'au ventre il n'y a nul os. recherchant la cauſe, & penſant à part luy,il trouua que c'eſtoit des os de l'enfant mort. la cauſe de la maladie eſtant ainſi conneue au vray, & ſçachant le moyen qu'il y falloit remedier,il tira pluſieurs os. la femme ſe portant mieux a veſcu long-temps apres , mais par l'ouuerture ſortoit touſiours quelque peu de boüe. semblablement françois rouſſet (homme docte & bien eſtimé en- tre les medecins de paris) en ſon liure de l'enfantement ceſarien eſcrit, que louyſe poupart femme de maiſtre nicolas seuin ( dit champ caſté) ietta ſon enfant mort , premierement les parties plus moles, par le col de fa matrice : les os ſe deſmirent la dedans auec le temps, & percerent la matrice ſur le derriere vers le gros inteſtin , de ſorte qu'elle commença peu à peu à les vuider par le ſiege allant à ſes affaires, & entre au- tres,vn os de la jambe,& ayant long-temps languy,elle mourut. elle fut ouuerte par maiſtre florent philip- pes,& michel picard, leſquels ne trouuerent leans qu'oſſemens pourris, & principalement ceux de la teſte, auec grande admiration d'auoir peu tant ſubſiſter en cette pourriture. pareillement de la generation. - i · a pareillement ledit rouſſet fait mention d'vne femme de bruxelle, laquelle n'auoit ſçeu accoucher. les chairs & parties molles de l'enfant eſtant vuidées en pourriture par embas,les os, ſe ſentoient craqueter (ce qu'on remarquoit à la main) ſous l'epigaſtre ſans guere empeſcher les ctions de la femme pour eſtre-defia la troiſieſme année qu'elle portoit cette charge de cimetiere en ſon ventre, ce qai ne pouuoit eſtre ſans àuoir percé la matrice, laquelle neantmoins eſtoit guarie,comme il falloit bien : parce qu'il n'en fortoit point de bouë par embas, & auſſi qu'elle eſtoit reglée.auſſi ledit rouſſet recite d'vne femme nommée catheriue des fiefs, dame d'onſy pres milly laquelle porta vn enfant mort en fon ventre quinze moisselle ietta lés parties molles par le col de la matrice, & les os demeurerent dedans. enfin elle mourut , eſt fut ouuél'èé psr luc champenois,& iacques dazier,barbiers à milly,es preſences desſieurs de verteauy& la gaignere,auec plu-*é ſieurs autres & fut trouué en icelle force boue, & point de matrice, & tous les os d'vn enfant, quelques vns tous pourris,les autres entiers. et entre iceux l'vne de ſes clauicules ayant ja pprcé &'corrodé lè peritoine $ les muſcles du ventre, il ne reſtoit plus que le cuir qu'il n'apparuſ dehors pathexoſtéſeneſtre deſia tout liuide, lequel auoit long-temps eſté pris pour vn ſcirrhe de ratte. il recite pluſieurs auttes hiſtoires que l'on peut lire dans ſon liure de l'enfantement ceſàrien. # ºlºnizº ! " - :: n t . :: : i , - - ------ -- . · · º : , , , • i i . . -# ! . . » . , ' > • , .' : ... · :* - • • . *- --- - , - l' --- -- | de la ſterilité, qui eſt defaut d'engendrer aux hommes de leur impuiſſance de " , ' ! " .*. º * - froïàure & malefice.º- $ - vt \ : \ > * - c h a ' p i t r eº xl i i i. º ! , · · · | # # . - · ', i , " " | " " , iti - l - » : p ) -- .. , · · - s * s cauſes de la ſterilité aux hommes ſont plufieurs , à ſçauoir, qnand leur ſemence eſt ºop chaude ou trop froide, trop ſeiche,ou trop humide & fiutde, qui fait qu'elle s'eſcoule ſubit de }la matrice, comme celle des vieilles genssº des ieunes qui ſont en trop basaaget ou à cauſe du trop frequent coit, qui rend la ſemence iddébile,indigeſte & corrompue, & partant paur - engendrer, il faut pat quelque temps s'abſtenir du coit , de ſorté qu il ne faut aſſaillit ſon eſ- *est = º pouſe trop ſouuent : car ce faiſant la ſemence n'a loiſir d'eſtre bien cuitte, elabousee & par- faicte, dont elle n'eſt feconde à generation : car toute ſemence n'eſt pas conuenable à faire enfans, il y faut deux conditions neceſſaires : l'vne qu'il y en ait en bonne quantité , l'autre qu'elle ſoit bien cuite, & digeſte, eſpeſſe, & gluante , & pleine d'eſprit fretillans cés deux choſes manquent à ceux qui retournent trop ſou- uent. et ceux qui vont mediocrement,font amas de ſemente qui ſe rend parfaicte en bonté. pareillement la femme de ſon coſté amaſſe beaucoup de ſemence , qui la chatouille & la faict deſirer la compagnie de ſon mary plus beaucoup que quand il la cognoiſt ſouuent : ce qu'on void par experience , quand le mary a eſté en vn long voyage, la femme deuiendra ſoudain groſſe, pourueuqu'il ait gardé loyauté à ſa compagnie , la- uellel'ayant attendu auſſi longuement, en eſt friande & affamée : ſi qu'au reuoir apres long-téps ſemblent faire l'amour comme le iour des nopces, où il ſe fait vn combat auec grande effuſion de ſang blanchy;qui eſt la matiere de faire petites creatures de dieu : & lors que la ſemence de l'homme eſt trop chaude ou froide,la féme le pourra bien juger la fentant fort chaude & aere,ou trop froide & aqueuſe,laquelle eſt jettée tardiuement : au contraire de la chaude qui eſt jettée promptement. que ſi telle ſemence n'eſt du tout in- feconde, du moins elle engendrera pluſtoſt vne femelle qu'vn maſle. semblablement apres l'inciſion de la pierre , quelques-vns demeure ſteriles. pareillement pour auoir receu quelque playe derriere les oreilles, ui aura coupé certains rameaux des veines & arteres jugulaires ; laquelle ſection apres eſtre cicatrisée, † cette voye ſolide par la cicatrice , de façon que la matiere de la ſemence ne peut deſcendre , & priue les teſticules de la communication du cerueau: de ſorte qu'ils ne peuuent receuoir d'iceluy ny l'eſprit animai,ny la matiere, dont le reſte de ſa ſemence eſt debile & en trop petite quantité, & par conſequent infeconde. les hommes chaſtrez ne jettent point de ſemence , à cauſe que les teſticules leur manquent : ny auſſi ceux a qui on les a tors & conprimez par violence, parce que la voye de la ſemence elt bouchée par vn callus, qui fait qu'elle ne peut eſtre jettée hors : toutesfois ils iettent l'humeur viſqueux contenu aux glandes proſtatés, & le jettans ſentent plaiſir. pareillement par pluſieurs indiſpoſitions de la verge, aduient ſterilité à l'homme, comme ſi elle eſt trop courte ou par trop enorme,ſoit en groſſeur,ou longueur , qui bleſſe la femme , & luy prouoque quelquesfois flux de ſang principalement aux jeunes, dè ſorte qu'elles ne peuuent.jetter leur ſe- mence : car en lieu d'auoir plaiſir & delectation elles ſouffrent douleur. or ſi le vice vient de la trop grande longueur de la verge , il leur faut bailler vn bourrelet, à fin qu'elle n'entre fi profondement, & ſera de telle groſſeur qu'il ſera beſoin,à ce que la femme ne ſente douleur. d'auantage, ſterilité vient parce que la verge eſt tortue,pour la briefveté du ligament (qu'on appelle le filet) qui la tient,de ſorte qu'en l'erection d'icelle elle ne ſe tient droicte,mais coutbée,de façon qu'il ne ſe peut faire intromiſſion.semblablement il ſe trouue quelques-vns qui n'ont point le trou au bout de la verge, mais ils l'ont deſſous, à cauſe dequoy ils ne peu- uent engendrer, parce que cette imperfection les empeſche de jetter la ſemence droict en la matrice. auſſi d par vne paralyſie particuliere de la verge peut venir ſterilité,qui ſe connoiſtra faiſant tremper les parties ge- nitales en de l'eau froide, & ſi elles ne ſe retirent , c'eſt ſigne qu'il y a paralyſie à la partie : càr en telles ma- ladies les parties ne ſe retirent point : mais demeurent touſiours laxes & molles, & y a quelquesfois peu de autre duaht rouſſet. . • .. v cauſes de ſterilité. ioubert. l'inciſion' des veines qui ſont der- riere les oreilles cau- ſent ſterilité " . · · · · syluius liura de la gen«- , ration, gourden, ſentiment : joinct que la ſemence ſort ſans que la verge ſe dreiſe,ſans nul plaiſir , & les teſticules ſont froids v, au tact. bref, les cauſes de l'impuiſſance d'engendrer viennét ou de defaut de ſuffiſante & bonne nourriture, comme on void és ectiques,emaciez & cachectiques ;ou d'intemperie, comme en ceux qui ſont trop chauds ou trop froids, ou de vice de conformation. on peut aider à ceux qui ſont de nature trop froide,en leur or- donnant electuaires chauds de diaſatyrion & diatriü piperum : auſſi de viandes telles qu'il s'enſuit, à ſçauoir, pigeonneaux, perdreaux, levraux, hairondeaux , œufs frais & mollets, teſticules & creſtes de coq : auſſi le membre genital d'vn taureau , & teſticule de ſanglier, ont tres-grande vertu : ris cuit auec laict de vache, adjouſtant ſaffran, canelle , clou de girofle, muguette, poivre , aſperges cuites auec vn bouillon mangée auec beurre frais , & poudre de duc. auſſi nauets & raues cuits en bouillon gras auec vn peu de poivre, marrons, truffes, porreaux, oignons , ciboulles, muguettes, menthe, roquette, pignons, piſtages, ſatyrion, erynge & perſil. et pour dire en vn mot toutes viandes, qui engendrent cſprit venteux, & boiront d'vn vin genereux, ou hypocras, ou maluoiſie, & tout en quantité mediocres. pour les remedes exterieurs , prenez huyle de ſuzeau, en laquelle ferez infuſer des fourmis, & en frotterez les reins & parties genitales. autre. prenez œufs de fourmis,& les faites boüillir en huyle de camomille, & y mettez poudre de ſemence f f f de - o le vingt-quatriéme liure, de ciboules de roquette,d'euphorbe, &caftoreum, cire tant qu'il ſuffira, & ſoit fait onguent,duquel en frot- a - terez comme deſſus. si la femme eſt froide au deduit, elle ſe frottera le col de ſa matrice , d'ambre, ciuet- · te, & muſc. l'homme pareillement ſe frottera la verge de poudre de pyrethre, de poivre, mixtionnez auec miel : & cecy eſchauffera la matrice trop refroidie. retournons ſur nos brisées. cette derniere cauſe eſt bien difficile à curer, principalement fi elle giſt en defectuoſité, il y a d'autres defauts & maleficesés pat- ·ties genitales aux hommes, qui ſe font par incantation, qui les rend infeconds, comme leur auoit noué l'ai- guillette,& fait autres charmes que ie ne puis dire ny eſcrire, par la vertu defquels eſt reftrainte fi fort la cecy ſºrpaſſe t'eſprit de l'autheur. diuerſes cauſes de ſte- rilité, la genera- tion é for- mation de l'enfant. prtd ſon ori- gine de deux choſes. galien fait mention de cét humeur ſalſugineux l. -tch. . de vſu part. vertu naturelle d'engendrer, qu'il leur eſt du tout impoſſible pouuoir ſeruir de maris aux femmes pour cet- tain temps, qui a eſté autresfois cauſe que les mariages ons eſté ſeparez. qu'il ſoit vray , les canoni- ſtes ont eſtably loy ſur ce fait, ayant dreſsé vn tiltre particulier , des froids » maleficiez, impotens, & en- ſorcelez. il ne faut douter qu'il n'y ait des ſorciers qui noüent l'aiguillette à l'heure des eſpouſailles, pour empeſcher l'habitation des mariez, deſquels ils ſe veulent venger meſchantement pour ſemer diſcor- de, qui eſt le vray meſtier & office du diable, or pour vray , ſainct auguſtin, entre les moyens de nui- re qu'il a remarqué eſtre aux ſorciers,il ſpecifie les ligatures ºu ſeptieſme traicté ſur l'euangile de ſainct iean, & noüer l'aiguillette eſt vne eſpece de ligature. il ſera icy apres plus amplement deduit de ces ſorciers, parlant de l'art magique. - - - - - - - - - - - - - a- — de la ſterilité & fecondité des femmes. ch a p. xliv. l n# e s femmes ſont dictes ſteriles ;lors qu'elles ne peuuent monſtrer le talent de mariage, & de- meurent ſans lignée (qui eſt contre leur deſir ) pour rendre leur nom immortel : ou bien cela fait # quand la voye de la ſemence eſt bouchée, ou le col de la matrice eſt trop eſtroict de nature, par · le defaut de la vertu formatrice : ou quelquesfois eſt clos d'vn membrane appellée hymen, dont nous parlerons cy-apres ou par accident, com ue par quelque tumeur ſcirrheuſe, ou par vn vlcere, qui a fait cicatrice, qui ne permet l'intromiſſion de la verge : auſſi par quelques vertues ou ſciſſures,& rhagadies: ou que la matrice eſt trop lubrique & dilatée : ou que ſes mois ſont retenus, ou qu'ils fiuent dereglément & immoderément, qui font couler la ſemence auec le ſang : ou par vn flux muliebre,qui vient du vice de la matrice,ou de tout le corps.tels accidens viennent à cauſe que la matrice eſt trop chaude, à raiſon dequoy reſout,& diſſipe la ſemence,& la bruſle.telle chaleur ſe connoiſt aux femmes hommaſſes & viragines,bar- buës , hautaines & felonnes, qui ont voix groſſe,leſquelles ſentent des chatoüillemens & titillations vene- uiennes en leurs parties honteuſes, auec ardeur & grand prurit , & ont leurs mois auec peine & en petite quantité, & quelquesfois point : d'autant que leur grande chaleur diſſipe le ſang. la ſterilité vient auſſi par trop grande † qui congele & aſtraint la ſemence qu'elle aura receuë. telle intemperature ſe co- noiſt en ce que la femme n'a aucun deſir du deduit de venus : au contraire le fuit & abhorre du tout ; elle n'a ſes fleurs que bien peu, encores toutes aqueuſes & blaffardes : auſſi elle ſent vne ſtupeur aux lumbes, & cuiſſes, & en toutes les parties genitales la matrice trop humide corrompt & ſuffoque la ſemence, & ne la ç peut tenir, à cauſe de ſa grande lubricité, & la laiſſe incôtinent eſcouler. les fignes ſont peſanteur aux lum- bes & parties genitales,& a ſes fleurs en abondâce, & toutes aqueuſes & blancheaſtres. la matrice trop ſei- che conſomme & deuore la ſemence, & ne ſe peut agglutiner, à raiſon de ſa trop grande ſeichereſſe & den- fité, pareillement la femme trop maigre ne peut conceuoir ſi elle n'eſt engraiſsée : auſſi le trop boire d'eau froide & manger fruicts cruds & non meurs, parce qu'ils rendent le corps froid & plein de ſuperfiuitez in- digeſtes,qui font obſtruction. pareillement pour vſer des choſes narcotiques, parce qu'elles empeſchent que la ſemence ne peut eſtre jetté, mais demeure concrette & glacée, & encores qu'elle ſoit jettée x ne pourra eſtre generatiue, parce que l'eſprit, & la chaleur ſout aucunement eſteints, c'eſt à dire, ſans vie, auſſi que les orifices des veines & arteres de la matrice appellez cotyledons ſont bouchez,tellement que les mois ne peur uent aucunement couler. d'auantage, quand l'homme eſt trop gras feſſu,ou la femme, ou tous les deux en- ſemble, cela eſt cauſe de ſterilité : parce que les parties genitales ne peuuent joindre & conuenir enſemble pour le trop de la graiſſe qui enfle le ventre,voire quelquesfois de demy pied,ou plus,& auſſi que le ſang eſt employé en la graiſſe,& partant ils engendrent moins de ſemence & de ſang menſtrual.car la generation & formation de l'enfant prend ſon origine de deux choſes : la premiere eſt de la ſemence de l'homme & de la femme : la ſeconde, eſt du ſang menſtrual, & eſprits qui donnent forme de matiere & nourriture à l'enfant eſtant au ventre de ſa mere : & partant ceux qui ſont ainſi gras appetent moins venus,& bien à tard en vſent ſemblablement le grand trauail exceſſif,& le trop jeuſner,longues veilles,& grandes euacuations,parce qu'el- les conſument le ſang & les eſprits.les femmes palles & maigres,& qui ſont brunettes ſont plus chaudes & plus auides de la compagnie de leurs maris que les graſſes & rouges de viſage : parce qu'elles ont leurs par- d ties genitales imbués d'vn humeur ſalſugineuſe, acre, & mordicante, qui les titille & aiguillonne, & pource demandent d'eſtre arrouſées & humectées du ſuc veneric : mais celles qui ſont graſſes & rouges de viſage, pourautant qu'elles ſont plus humides, & par conſequent leur ſemence plus aqueuſe & plus froide, ſont moins ardentes à l'acte venerique. la multitude de poils qui ſont autour des parties honteuſes, tant de l'homme que de la femine, monſtrent ſonuent la fecondité ou infecondité. et pour le dire en vn mot, hippo- crate liure. . zºe morbis mulierum remarque quatre cauſes generales : pour leſquelles les femmes ſont ſteri- les & inhabiles à engendrer : ou pource qu'elles ne peuuent receuoir, comme les non perforées, la ſemence virile,pource que l'ayans receué elles ne la peuuent conceuoir, ou pource que l'ayant conceuë, ne la peuuent porter & retenir : pource que l'ayans retenuë ne la peuuent nourrir, quelques femmes portent pluſieurs enfans, ce qui ſe verifie par ces hiſtoires. monſieur ioubert homme d'honneur & de grande condition (& à qui les chirurgiens ſont grandement redeuables pour plufieurs liures qu'il a mis en lumiere de la chirurgie) recite deux hiſtoires, leſquelles i'ay tirées de ſon liure de mot à mot. madamoiſelle de beauuille auoit vne garce belle & gaillarde : de laquelle ſon mary ſembloit eſtre amoureux.elle pour s'en desfaire plus honne- ſtement, la marie. cette garce de la premiere groſſeſſe fait trois enfans,dequoy la damoiſelle print fantaſie que ſon mary y auoit participé : ne ſe pouuant perſuader , qu'vne femme d'vn ſeul homme peuſt conceuoir tel nombre d'enfans,dont elle redouble ſa jalouſie : & quoy qu'on luy ſçeuſt remonſtrer le contraire , print à diffamer & hayr d'auantage la pauure garce, aduint que la damoiſelle fut groſſe de là à quelque temps: eſtant groſſe elle enfanta neuf filles. ce qu'on interpreta eſtre d'vne punition de dieu, afin qu'elle euſt hon- te de ſa calomnie, puis qu'on luy pouuoit obiecter vne plus grande faute, comme d'auoir paillardé auec plu- ſieurs : car elle ſouſtenoit toufiours opiniaſtrement que d'vn homme on ne pouuoit conceuoir au plus haut, que deux enfans,comme l'homme n'a que deux genitoires,& la femme deux mammelles.ainſi fort honteuſe craignant la diffame & condamnation par ſa propre ſentence, fut tellement tentée du mauuais eſprit, #. la goilclll t - de la generation. . i :$ # #r | . " # : # : a conduit à ce deſeſpoir de faire noyer les huict de ſes filles,& n'en retient qu'vne : ayant la choſe ſecrette en- tre la ſage femme& vne chambriere, à laquelle fut donnée cette maudite commiſſion mais dieu, qui pre- ſerua le petit moyſe de ſemblable meſchef, voulut que le mary reuenant de la chaſſe rencontra la cham- briere : & deſcouurant le fait preſerua les filles innocentes de mort : & les feit nourir au deſceu de la merqe & au bapteſme furent toutes nommées d'vn nom,à ſçauoir bourgue : comme auſſi la neufieſme que la mere s'eſtoit reſeruée. puis quand elles furent grandelettes les fiſt venir en ſa maiſon toutes habillées d'vne eſtof- fe & ſemblable façon, ayant auſſi fait habiller de meſme celle de la maiſon. eſtans miſes enfemble dedans vne chambre,il y fait venir ſa femme,accompagnée de parens communs & familiers amis : & luy dit qu'elle appellaſt bourgue. a cette appellation chacune des neufreſpondit. dequoy la mere bien eſtonnée & plus encor de les voir ſemblables l'vne à l'autre,tant de face, contenance & voix que d'habits : fut confuſe en elle meſme : & ſoudain le cœur luy dict que c'eſtoient ſes neuf filles : & que dieu auoit preſerué les huict qu'el- le auoit exposées, & cuidoit eſtre mortes dequoy le mary l'eſclaircit mieux , luy reprochant deuant toute la compagnie ſon inhumanité : & remonſtrant, que ce pouuoit eſtre aduenu pour la confondre de la mau- uaiſe opinion qu'elle auoit touſiours eu de luy à l'endroit de cette garce. voila à peu prés comme on le reci- te.autre hiſtoire preſque ſemblable,eſt le faict des pourcelets de la ville d'arles en prouence,d'ou eſt ſortie la noble maiſon des pourcelets,leſquels furent ainſi nommez, parce que la chambriere qui portoit noyer les huict,eſtant rencontrée du mary, diſoient que c'eſtoient pourcelets qu'elle alloit noyer,d'autant que la truye " n'en pouuoit tant nourrir. et en memoire de cela ils furent nommez pourcelets : & ont vne truye pour ar- moiries. on dit que ce fut par l'imprecation d'vne pauure femme qui demandoit l'aumoſne à la dame de la maiſon,ladite femme eſtant enuironnée de plufieurs ſiens petits enfans. ce que la femme luy reprocha,com- b me procedante de laſciueté,& d'eſtre trop addonnée aux hommes. lors la pauure femme qui eſtoit femme de bien, fit cette imprecation (comme l'on dit ) qu'icelle dame peuſt engroſſer d'autant d'enfans qu'vne truie fait de petits , & qu'il aduint ainſi par le vouloir de dieu, pour monſtrer à la noble dame quil ne faut imputer à vice ce qui eſt d'vne grande benediction. ainſi pluſieurs hiſtoires teſmoignent que la femme ir- regulierement porte grand nombre d'enfans. a paris au cimetiere s innocent au pilier de la grande gal- lerie, prés le s. eſprit eſt attaché vn epitaphe en pierre tel qui s'enfuit, cy giſt honorable femme yollande bailly jadis femme d'honorable homme denys capel , procureur au chaſtelet à paris, qui treſpaſſa le . d'auril,le an de ſon aage,le . de ſon veufage, laquelle a veu, ou a peu voir deuant ſon treſpas deux cens quatre vingts enfans iſſus d'elle. bodin liure . de,la republique,recite que iuſtin eſcrit,que herotimus roy de parthe auoit ſix cens enfans pour la pluralité des femmes qu'il auoit & aimoit. car pour faire des enfans, il faut auoir l'object, la volonté,& la puiſſance,& que les ſemences ſe rencontrent,& ſoient retenues iuſques au temps prefix en la matrice. - - - - ". les ſignes de la matrice intemperée. c h a p. xl v. e s ſignes qui demonſtrent la matrice trop chaude , ſont que les mois ſortent en petit ， quantité, vne bonne partie de leur matiere eſtant reſolué par inſenſible tranſpiration , à | cauſe de l'actiuité de la chaleur, le ſang eſt gros & noir , comme ainſi ſoit que le propre de la # chaleur eſt d'eſpaiſſir par reſolution des parties les plus tenues; & de noircir par aduſtion, $ & coule auecacuité & douleur,la femme deſire l'acte venerien, auec prompte expulſion de º la ſemence accompagnée d'vne cuiſeur & mordacité, apres eſtre jettée au parties par où elle aura paſsé,à cauſe de l'acrimonie chaleureuſe.les ſignes de la matrice froide ſont que les mois ſont ſup- primez,ou ſont rares & en petite quantité & de couleur blaffarde,& de tardiue expulſion,à cauſe que le pro- † de la froideur eſt de retenir,comme au contraire de la chaleur de pouſſer hors : le pareil ſe peut dire en a ſemence, laquelle par telles femmes eſt jettée auec peu de plaiſir & delectation, & le linge ſur lequel ſera tombée ſe laue legerement, à cauſe que telle ſemence n'eſt point eſpeſſe & corpulente, ains † & de nature d'eau. le ſigne de la matrice trop humide, eſt vne grande humidité coulante du col d'icelle, qui cau- ſe qu'elle ne peut retenir la ſemence de l'homme : s'il † qu'elle la retienne & engendre enfant, elle auorte facilement, principalement quand l'enfant commence à croiſtre. les ſignes que la matrice eſt trop ſeiche,ſe monſtrent par la petite quantité de ſes mois, &jette peu de ſemence, & deſire volontiers l'acte ve- nerien pour eſtre humectée, & lubrifiée, & le col de la matrice eſt ſuject aux rhagadies, fiſſures & prurit (deſquels accidens parlerons cy-apres) à cauſe que par le defaut d'humidité (le propre de laquelle eſt de lier & agglutiner les parties l'vne auec l'autre)il endure aisément ſolution de continuité de ſa ſubſtance , tout ainſi que nous voyons la terre deſſeichée par l'ardeur du soleil,ſe fendre & entr'ouurir en plufieurs en- droits. la femme engendre volontiers ſur le poinct qu'elle ceſſe à jetter ſes fleurs (tant parce qu'elle eſt bien nettoyée,& partant apte à bien conceuoir, qu'auſſi à cauſe que l'vterus eſt encore ouuert, qui † qu'il peut autre biº ſtoire. hiſtoire. * hiſtoirf. signes que la matrice eſt trop chaude. signes que la matrice eſt * trop hamide. le temps que aisément receuoir la ſemence de l'homme,& meſme que les bouches & cotyledons des veines qui aboutiſſent lºfºmºn- en iceluy,ſont encores entr'ouuertes, qui fait que l'vterus en ſa capacité interieure, aſpre, inegal, & comme gendre vo- raboteux,retirent commodément la ſemence receuë)ou lors qu'elles luy veulent venir; car elles s'y arreſtent d par lavertu de la ſemence:combien que lors y ait danger que le ſang venant pour ſon commencement à cou- ler en grande abondance ne noye & ſuffoque la ſemence virile. auſſi quelques vnes engendrent pendant qu'elles coulent encore,qui n'eſt pas ſans danger, que le fœtus ne s'en reſſente, de quelque marque ſur ſon corps & eſt ſujet à plufieurs maladies, voire quelquefois à lepre, principalement ſi telles femmes ſont caco- chymes,mal-ſaines,& valetudinaires : autrement le ſang d'vne femme ſaine eſtant ſain & loüable, ne pourra communiquer aucun vice ny ſeminaire de maladie à l'enfant, ſinon, ( peu eſtre ) de plethore & repletion. or il ſe trouue quelques femmes,l'orifice de l'vterus deſquelles ſe referme auſſi toſt que leurs mois ont commen- cë à couler, ſçauoir le premier ou ſecond iour paſsé, de ſorte que par apres elle ne peuuent receuoir la ſe- lontiers. mence virile. et à telles femmes, ſi elle veulent auoir enfans. ariſtote commande de ſe joindre & habiter º * - - - ", • • • - - - - - auec leurs maris lors que leurs mois coulent,car autremét n'en pourront elles iamais auoir:qui eſt vn poinct * fort remarquable & digne de conſideration.pour reuenir à noſtre premier poinct : auſſi quand l'homme a les reins vlcerez, il decoule quelquesfois duſangauec la ſemence , qui peut pareillement eſtre cauſe de donner , quelque tache à l'enfant,ainſi que fait le ſang menſtruel de la femme.or la femme peut engendrer depuis le uatorzieſme an iuſques au cinquantieſme,& l'homme depuis le douzieſme iuſques à ſoixante dix. toutes- § touchant cét article,il ya grande varietè ſelon la diuerfité de l'air, du temperament de la propre & ſpe- ciale nature d'vn chacun en particulier,des humeurs, de la maniere de viure : dont vient que pline liu. . cha- pitre .eſcrit, que maſiniſſa roy de numidie,ayant paſsé l'aage de quatre-vingts ans, engendra vn enfant: hiſtoire. choſe meſme qu'il afferme de cato cenſorius. outre entre les femmes, la romaine cornelia a ans #uoir - cilf i)te - - « / - le vingt-quatriéme liure, lin...deser- ſoixante-ſept ans, icelle meſme en ayant ja eu à ſoixante & ſoixante & vn. monſieur ioubert, tres-docte me- reurspºpu- decin,dit,qu'en auignon,la femme d'vn tailleur d'habits, nommé andré, ſeruiteur de monſieur de ioyeuſe, laires continua de faire des enfans à l'aage de ſoixante & dix ans. de la precipitation ou peruerſion de la matrice, c'eſt à dire, tombée ou renuersée hors - de ſon lieu naturel. - chap tr e xlvi. )ue c'eſt que precipitation d'amarry. lieu, comme eſtant ſon fond relaſché vers l'vn des flancs & coſtez, ou dedans ſon col, ou qu'vne grande partie d'icelle ſort du tout hors d'iceluy.hippocrate,autraicté des maladies des femmes,dit, qu'on aveu ſortir la matrice hors du corps iuſques aux cuiſſes, voire ſelon ºee duë n'a pas grand ſentiment,mais les lieux auſquels elle eſt attachée ſont fort ſenſibles. les cauſes,ſignes & accidens de ce mal,ſont ou la relaxation, ou ruption des ligamens qui lient la matrice,& cauſes de la tiennent en ſon lieu naturel, or ils ſe relaſchent ou röpent le plus ſouuent apres vn enfantement violent, precipita- ou par l'imprudence des matrones,qui tirent la matrice auec l'arriere-faiz par trop grande force,ce que i'ay tion, veu aduenir plufieurs fois : auſſi par vne vehemente extenſion, lers que la femme eſt groſſe d'enfant,en eſten- dant du linge,leuant les bras en haut,ou leuant de terre vn peſant fardeau,ou autres choſes ſemblables : pa- reillemêt par vn grand effort de crier, ou par vne toux violente,par teneſme(c'eſt à dire grandes eſpreintes à s'efforcer d'aller à la ſelle,ou delpiſſer :)auſſi cheutes,coups orbes donnez contre le ventre, ou cheuaucher la ruention vn cheual allant trop dur:auſſigrandes ſternutations,dācer,ſauter de haut en bas les jambes feparées l'vne de § l'autre.auſſi la retention dé l'haleine par defiuxion de quelque matiere pituiteuſe,accompagnée de quelques precipite l'a- ventoſitez,qui relaſchent & humectent les ligamens de la matrice, ou paralyfie d'iceux, & toutes choſes qui marry. compriment violentement le draphragme,& les muſcles de l'epigaſtre: auſſi pour auoir enfanté ſouuent, car l'enfant peſât au ventre la fait relaſcher & deſcendre en bas pour auoir receu air froid,comme pendantl'en- fantement,ou du flux menſtruel,ou pour s'eſtre long-temps tenue ſur vne pierre froide,ou pour auoirvne vio- lente expulſion de l'enfant,ou fauſſe geniture comme vne mole.ariſtote chap. .liu. .de l'hiſtoire des animaux, remarque vne autre cauſe fort notable de la cheute de l'vterus : a pluſieurs femmes ( dit il)l'vterus tombe pour le deſir qu'elles ont de s'accoupler aux hommes,de ſorte que leur amarry ne peut eſtre remis en ſa pla- signes. ce que par le remede de la conception. les ſignes que la matrice eſt deſcendue, c'eſt que la femme ſent dou- leur aux parties eſquelles la matrice eſt liée & attachée,à ſçauoir,aux fiancs,aux lumbes,& àl'os ſacrü,& ſent au col de ſa matrice vnetumeur auec les doigts:&ſi elle eſt dauantage relaſchée, on la voideſtre ſortie hors la nature de la femme,comme vne chair rouge en forme doüalle & diuerſe en quantité,ſelon la grandeur de la relaxation : & aura la femme difficulté d'aſſeller & vriner.par-ce que ladite matrice comprime l'inteſtin droit, & le col de la veſſie : enſemblement la femme ſent en ſa nature vne peſanteur & lgrande faſcherie, & prºgnºſtie, i'empeſche de cheminer,& de faire le jeu de venus. la recente ou nouuelle relaxation de la matrice en vne jeune femme eſt curable, au contraire non : ſi elle tombe par paralyſie des ligamens, elle eſt difficile à guarir, & ſi elle tombe par pourriture,eſt du tout incurable : ſi elle eſt fort deſcendue entre les cuiſſes, ellene peut eſtre reduite, & ſe corrompt par l'air ambient, s'vlcere & putrefie par le continuel attouchement de l'vrine & matiere fecale, & auſſi par la compreſſion & contuſion du fray des cuiſſes. i'atteſte auoir veu & medica- #* menté vne jeune femme, à qui ſa matrice tomboit hors de ſa nature la groſſeur d'vn gros œuf de poulle, & " auoir eſté guarie, & porté depuis des enfans, & ſa matrice n'eſtre iamais retombée . cure de precipitation de la matrice. cha p. xlvii. - - les ventou- # # $é i la matrice eſt eſleuée en haut, elle ſera aydée par les remedes que deſcrirons cy-apres ſes reſtituent $% gn # en la ſuffocation de la matrice : & fi elle eſtoit relaſchée du cofté droit, faut † lamaryen s ， ventouſes au coſté ſeneſtre : & ſi elle eſtoit peruertie au ſeneſtre, on les appliquera au dex- ſon lieu. º$ tre : & ſi elle eſtoit tombée en bas , & peu ſortie hors le col d'icelle, il faut faire ſituer la # femme en ſorte qu'elle aye les feſſes fort eſleuées en haut, & les cuiſſes croisées l'vne ſur º>ss év% l'autre,& appliquer des ventouſes ſur le nombril & petit ventre : puis eſtant reduite enſon lieu, on fera des iniections au col de la matrice de choſes aſtringentes, & fort deſiccatiues, parfums fetides, receus par le col de ladite matrice, & par la bouche & le nez:d'autres,faits de choſes odoriferantes. si elle eſt endurcie, la faut eſtuuer de vinaigre tiede, puis la ſaulpoudrer de ſel fort menu. or ſi la matrice tombe grandement entre les cuiſſes de la femme, & n'a peu eſtre reduit par les moyens ſuſdits : on y remediera par autre voye, tant en la ſituation qu'en remede. - - - •- comme ilfaut ſituer la femme, lors que la matrice eſt grandement tombée hors la nature de la femme. c ha p t r e xlviii. # #| l faut ſituer la femme à la renuerſe,les feſſes & cuiſſes eſleuées en haut,ainſi que ſi on luy vou- #| loit extraire ſon arriere-faix ou enfant, puis oindre le col de la matrice,&tout ce qui eſt ſorty | hors,auec huyle de lis ou beurre frais, graiſſe de geline, ou autres ſemblables puis ſera reduitte | en ſon lieu,en pouſſant auec les doigts tout ce qui eſt ſorty dehors non tout à vn coup,mais peu * à peu, auec vn linge delié : & pendant qu'elle ſera ainſi pouſsée, la femme retirera ſon haleine * , tant qu'elle pourra & ſubit qu'elle ſera reduite, faut eſſuyer de linges deliez l'onctuoſité qu'on y auoit appli- quée, afin que les parties ainfi oinctes ne ſoient laiſsées lubriques : car par ainfi la matrice pourroit facile- -- ,-- ,- incilt - enfanté.valeſius detarenta,liure .chapitre .afferme auoir veu vne femme, qui eut vn enfant en l'aage de a h a precipitation ou peruerſion de la matrice aduient, quand elle eſt de hors de ſon propre aétius, auſſi groſſe qu'vn œuf d'autruche, qui ne peut eſtre le ſeul col,ſans que teut le | corps n'y ſoit deuallé,renuersé & retourné comme vn ſac.or cette maſſe de chair deſcen- b de la generation. e :: # #! ſs ! # # |! : a ment tomber derechef. cela fait on fomentera toutes les parties genitales de la femme d'vne decoction faite de choſes aſtringentes comme ceſte-cy. %. cortic. granat.nuc.cupreſgall.alum.roch.caud equi.ſumach. berber. cum aqua fabror. fiat decoct. pro fotu : & de ces choſes en ſera faite pareillement poudre, laquelle on aſpergera deſſus, & ſera mis vn peſſaire dedans le col de la matrice de groſſeur mediocre , de longueur de huict à neufdoigts, plus ou moins ſelon la nature de la femme. d'auantage on y en appliquera d'autres de figure d'oualle , fait de liege couuert de cire, pour le rendre plus liſſe, au bout duquel y aura vn lien pour tirer quand on voudra. on en fait pareillement d'autres, faicts en rond comme en cercle, qui ſont auſſi fort propres, & ne ſortent hors comme ceux qui ſont de figure d'oualle. fomenrati# conſtringëte, les figures te ſont icy repreſentées. figures des peſſaires en figure oualle. a le corps du peſſaire. b le lieu, lequel doit eſtre attaché à la cuiſſe. cela fait, la femme ſe tiendra en repos huict ou dix iours, & aura les feſſes hautes, & les jambes croysées. pareillement on luy appliquera ſur les flancs des ventou- ſes aſſez grandes, à fin de faire tenir la matrice en ſon lieu : & s'il aduenoit pour auoir eſté trop long-temps de- ſcenduë & exposée à l'air, qu'elle fuſt fort refroidie, il la faut fomenter d'vne decoction chaude & carminatiue, pour reſoudre les ventoſitez, cóme cette-cy. /.. fol. alth. ſalui. lauand. roriſmarini, & artemiſ flor. camom. melil. an.m. É. ſeminis aniſi foenic. an. .j. coquantur omnia completè in aqua & vino & fiat decoctio ad vſum. pareil- lement ne faut oublier à luy donner des clyſteres, pour jeſter hors les excremens des inteſtins, à fin que la matri- ce aye meilleure place à ſe tenir en ſon lieu : & pareille- ment faire en ſorte que la veſſie ſoit touſiours vuide , au- tremét l'vterus eſtant ſitué au milieu d'icelle, & du boyau - cullier, par la côpreſſion & plenitude & l'vn & de l'autre, ſeroit touſiours repouſsé dehors. poſons le cas que la matrice n'euſt peu eſtre reduite par tous ces moyens, d & fut vlcerée & putrefiée, les anciens commandent l'amputer : mais premierement veulent qu'on la lie , & qu'on coupe ce qui eſt neceſſaire, puis la cauteriſer & paracheuer la cure ſelon l'art. on a veu des femmes à qui toute la matrice auoit eſté extirpée, & neantmoins ont ſurueſcu long-temps apres. ce que teſmoigne paulus au liure ſus-allegué : & de recente memoire ioannes langius , medecin du comte palatin, au liure hiſtoire, fecond de ſes epiſtres medecinales, epiſt. . dit qu'en ſa preſence vn chirurgien nommé carpus, extirpa la ,- matrice d'vne femme de la ville dite bononie : ce qui fut fait heureuſement, & ſans la mort de la femme. paul.liu. . hiſtoire. d'auantag antonius beneuenius medecin de florence, au traicté de mirandis morb.cauſis,chap.i .dict, qu'il r fut appellé par vn medecin nommé vgolius pour guarir vne femme,à laquelle ſa matrice tomba par pieces \ " toute corrompuë,& toutesfois depuis a veſcu dix ans. auicenne & auenzoar portent ſuffiſant teſmoignage, v, que la femme peut perdre toute ſa matrice, & toutesfois luy demeurera la vie. \ hiffoire d'vne femme à qui la matrice fut extirpée le iour des roys . | # vne femme aagée de vingt cinq à trente ans , ſaine & bien reglée de ſes purgations terines, comme hiſtoiri, elle diſoit, & reputée fort honneſte & de bonne vie, ſe maria pour la ſeconde fois en l'an i. n'ayant eu enfans de ſon premier mariage. peu apres la copulation , eut ſignes de conception : toutesfois auec progrés de temps, ſentant vne peſanteur és parties baſſes ſi faſcheuſe pour la douleur, retention d'vrine , & autres : accidens, qu'elle ne la pouuoit plus endurer , s'en deſcouurit à vn barbier chirurgien, ſon voifin & amy, nommé chriſtofle mombeau, demeurant aux faux-bourgs s.germain des prez, lequel ainſi qu'il me rappor- ta, voyant vne enfleure au perinée, ſuiuant le jugement de ſon art, appliqua embrocations & cataplaſmes de decoction d'herbes, & autres remedes anodyns & remollitifs, par le moyen deſquels la douleur ceſſa. mais - apparut le vingt-quatriéme liure, cette ſanie apparut à la lévre interleure de la partie honteuſe , vne ouuerture comme d'abſcez rompu, par laquelle ſor. a eſoi, de la ººvºº longue eſpace de temps, ſanie, tantoſt rougeaſtre , tantoſt jaunaſtre , tantoit blafarde. cependant mcle ſuppu- º peſanteur ne ſe perdoit point, ains s'augmentoit,& vint à telle conſequence que l'an & les dtllics rée. enſuiuans iuſques au iour de la cheute, ſi la malade ſe vouloit tourner au lict , elle ne pouuoit aisément ſans mettre les mains au ventre pour ayder à ſupporter ce faix du coſté qu'elle ſe vouloit tourner : & lors encor ſentoit-elle comme vne boule tombant à plomb , de quelque coſté que l'inclination du corps ſe fiſt. de- bout,ou aſſiſe,ne pouuoit vriner, n'aller à ſes affaires, ſans ſouſleuer vers le diaphragme auec les mainsledit faix. marchant, auoit grandiſſime difficulté de mouuoir les jambes, & penſoit auoir touſiours quelquecho- ſe entre deux qui l'empeſchaſt. quelquesfois auſſi de l'année, ſe renouueloit ledite ouuerture,& iſſue de ma- tiere : & lors ſentoit douleurs de tefte & es autres membres , defaillemens de cœur , degouſtemens, vomiſ. ſemens, ſuffocations, tant qu'en fin vaincue de mal & impatiente le vingt-ſeptieſme decembre dernier, ſans promeſſe de certaine & aſſeurée guariſon , fut perſuadée par vne femme empirique de prendre de l'an- l'antimoins timoine. dont la violence fut telle , qu'apres auoir pluſieurs fois vomy auec grands efforts, & fait pluſieurs produit des ſelles d'eaux ſentit(penſoit elle) fon fondement relaſché. viſitée par vne ſienne anie fut conſeillée d'appel- effects mer- ler l'aide des chirurgiens , parce que ce qui ſortoit, ne luy ſembloit eſtre le boyau cullier, mais autre choſe ueilleux. partant de ſa nature. ie fus donc appellé le ſixieſme iour de ianuier dernier, & m.iacques guillemeau, chi- rurgien iuré à paris, enſemble maittre antoine du vieux , maiſtre barbier chirurgien demeurant aux faux- bourgs ſainct germain des prez,voiſin de ladite malade. et apres auoir tout bien conſideré,aduiſaſnes pour le meilleur , qu'il falloit extirper ce qui paroiſſoit, attendu la couleur noire , puanteur, & autres ſignes de ſubſtance pourrie. si commençaſmes à tirer peu à peu par deux diuers iours, ſans douleur, vn corps qui fut juge de meſſieurs alexis gaudin, medecin ordinaire du roy,& premier de la royne, p.le févre, auſſi mede- , cin ordinaire du roy, & de madame la princeſſe de la roche ſur-yon , de-violaines docteur en l'vniuer- ſité de paris , & nous chirurgiens , eſtre le corps de la matrice, à raiſon que fut trouue l'vn des teſticules, & vne groſſe membrane reſtant d'vne mole qui s'eſtoit apoſtumée , creuée & vuidée , comme dict eſt. apres l'extirpation de cette partie, la malade ſe trouua mieux. il y auoit neuf iours deuant l'extirpation, qu'elle n'auoit eſté à ſes affaires , & quatre iours qu'elle n'auoit vriné : ce qu'elle fit depuis reglément, ſe trouuant fort bien par l'eſpace de trois mois, au bout deſquels luy ſuruint vne pleureſie , auec vne grande . fiévre continue, dont elle mourut. eſtant aduerti qu'elle eſtoit decedée, deſireux de ſçauoir ce que nature auoit baſty au lieu de ſa matrice,en fis ouuerture : & n'y trouuay point de matrice, ains en ſon lieu vne cal- loſité dure, que nature auoit machiné durant les trois mois de ſi peu qui en reſtoit, pour taſcher à refaire ce qui eſtoit perdu. hiſtoirs. d'auantage françois rouſſet en ſon liure de l'enfantement ceſarien, recite certaines hiſtoires des fem- mes, auſquelles on a veu tomber entierement leurs matrices. entre autres dit, que feue madame blanca- fort l'aiſnée,ayant de long temps peu à peu la matrice precipitée: de ſorte qu'elle ne la pouuoit plus reduire ny ſupporter, voyant qu'elle commençoit à ſe pourrir,l'alla trouuer à montargis, pour la penſer ou condui- re à paris : mais elle luy tomba en chemin, & ne laiſſa neantmoins de paſſer outre , & ne luy fut pour cela fait autre choſe qu'vn lauement de vin & de roſe, par felie chirurgien , qui à ſon dire n'apperçeut au lieu ou autre hi- ſouloit eſtre la matrice,qu'vne vacuité. semblablement ledit rouſſet fait mention de perrine boucher,vieil- ſtoire. le chambriere, chez maiſtre françois quarré, aduocat à montargis, laquelle pour auoir eu pluſieurs accou- chemens violens , auoit de long-temps vne precipitation de matrice, qui peu à peu s'augmenta tant qu'elle ne la pouuoit plus remettre, en fin ſe gangrena, & tomba d'elle meſme en cuidant vriner, dequoy ſont plu- ſieurs teſmoins monſieur contuge medecin, & maiſtre iean de beauuais, chirurgien de montargis : dont elle ne daigna garder le lict, & veſcut trois ans apres bien ſaine, ſinon que depuis elle eſtoit ſubiecte à ſe tenir couuerte par embas, autrement ſentoit douleur de colique. finalement iceluy rouſſet abſent, eſtant icelle morte de fiévre continue, & ayant desja eſté inhumée , fut à ſon retour deterrée par permiſſion de iuſtice , à ſa ſolicitation, l'ouuerture fut faite par felie chirurgien , és preſence dudit ſieur contuge mede- cin & de la ſage-femme,& autres & n'apperçeurent entre la veſſie & le gros boyau,au lieu où deuoit eſtre la matrice , rien qu'vn lieu vuide tout cicatrisé : & eſtoit à la verité , l'ouuerture par laquelle elle prenoit le froid cauſant douleur de colique. b de la membrane, appellée hymen. c h a p. xl ix. le; # a r e l l e m e n r il ſe trouue quelquesfois en aucunes vierges vne membrane à l'orifi- # # ſ, ce du col de la matrice, appellée des anciens hymen, qui empeſche d'auoir la compagnie de # ob- l'homme, & fait la femme ſterile. or le vulgaire (voire pluſieurs gens doctes)cuident & eſtiment qu'il n'y a nulle vierge qui n'aye ladite membrane, qu'ils appellent la porte virgi- nale : mais ils s'abuſent » pource que bien rarement on la trouue, & proteſte (compoſant mon anatomie ) l'auoir recherchée à pluſieurs filles mortes à l'hoſtel. dieu de paris, aageés de trois ou quatre, cinq, & iuſques à douze ans , & iamais ie ne l'ay peu apperceuoir, fors à vne fille aagée de dixſept ans, qui eſtoit accordée en mariage : & ſa mere ſçachant que ſa fille auoit quelque choſe qui pouuoit l'empeſcher d'eſtre appellée mere:me pria la voir,ce que ie fis,& luy trouuay vne membrane nerueuſe de l'eſpeſſeur d'vn parchemin fort delié, qui eſtoit au deſſus de nyinphes, immediatement pres le conduit par où les femmes piſſent, deuant l'entrée de l'orifice du col de la matrice , ayant vn petit trou au milieu, par où ſes mois ſe pouuoient eſcouler. et ayant veu ladite membrane ainſi peu eſpeſſe, la coupay promptement auecque des ciſeaux, & donnay à la mere conſeil de ce qu'il reſtoit pour parfaire la guariſon:& luy enchargeay expreſſément qu'elle mit entre les deux parties des plumaceaux, ou vne groſſe tente, de peur que l'vnion de ce qui auoit eſté coupé, ne ſe priſt derechefl'vn auec l'autre : peu apres fut mariée, & euſt enfant. vn iour deuiſant de cette matiere auec monſieur alexis (premier medecin de la royne)homme d'honneur, & eſtimé entre les gens doctes, ie luy dis que i'auois fait pluſieurs ſections des filles, tant à l'hoſtel-dieu de paris, qu'autre part, & que iamais n'auois veu cette membrane, fors vne fois, comme i'ay dit cy-deſſus , lequel me dit que veritablement elle fe trouue rarement, & que realdus columbus liure . en auicanºº li auoit eſcrit ce qui s'enſuit. il ſe trouueau deſſous des nymphes en aucunes vierges, non en toutes,vne mem- f#º brane appellée des anciens hymen, laquelle quand elle s'y trouue (toutesfois ſetrouue rarement) empeſche *rºi# *- l'entrée de la verge de l'homme, & a vn pertuis par lequel ſes mois coulent. dauantage dit, qu'il l'a ſeule- cap. i. ment trouué à deux petites fillettes, & vne fois à vne plus grande. auicenne dit, qu'au col de la matrice y a vn tiſſu de veines , arteres, & filamens nerueux tres-ſubtils, qui procedent de toutes les parties d# c l ſerué l'hi- f s : \de la generation. " . - • a col,leſquelles ſont rompues au premier coit venerique,dont ſouuent le ſang en ſort.almenſor eſcrit le con- duit des pucelles eſtre eſtroït & ridé, & en ſes rides y auoir des veines & arteres tres-ſubtiles, entrelacées, leſquelles ſe rompent à la defloration & extenſion des rides.voyla ce que les ſudits autheurs nous ont laiſ- sé par eſcrit. les matrones tiennent pour vne choſes vraye qu'elles peuuent connoiſtre vne fille vierge, d'a- uecque celle qui a eſté depucelée, parce qu'elles diſent trouuer vne ruption d'vne taye, qui ſe rompt au pre- mier coit,& ſouuent à leur rapport les iuſticiers,donnét iugement,& la ſe commettent grands abus par leſdi- tes matrones. qu'il ſoit vray, i'en ay interrogé pluſieurs pour ſçauoir où ils treuuent ladite taye : l'vne diſoit tout à l'entrée de la partie honteuſe : l'autre au milieu, & les autres tout au profond, au deuant de la bouche de la matrice : les autres diſent qu'elle ne peut eſtre veue qu'apres le premier enfantement. et voila comme la membra. ces ſages-femmes accordent leurs vielles. or on trouue ce pannicule hymen rarement , & lors qu'on le ne hymen trouue, on le peut dire eſtre contre nature : parquoy ne faut faire regle certaine, ny vniuerſelle. le ſang eſt contre na- qui ſort, n'eſt à cauſe de la rupture de l'hymen, mais vient à raiſon des rugofitez du col de la matrice, ture. ui n'ont encore eſté eſtendues & deprimées, & à cette premiere entrée ſe defioignent & ſeparent, & ſe † rupture de certaines petites veines & arteres,leſquelles deſcendent par la ſuperficie interne du col de la matrice,ſe rompans ou s'ouurans, ne pouuans ſouſtenir cette extenſion ſans douleur & ffux de ſang,lors que la fille n'a accomply ſes dimenſions : mais ſi la fille pucelle eſt en aage ſuffiſante, eſtant mariée auecque vn homme qui aura la verge propotionnée au col de ſa matrice, n'aura aucune douleur, ny flux de ſang eſtant depucelée. dont il eſt aisé à entendre , combien grandement ſont abuſez les habitans de fez, cité princi- hoſe di pale de mauritanie en afrique : deſquels la couſtume és nopces eſt telle(comme raconte leon l'africain li- # # ure . de ſon hiſtoire d'afrique : ) si toſt ( dit il ) que l'eſpoux & l'eſpouſe ſont paruenus en la maiſon, # s'enferment tous deux en vne chambre,où ils demeurent cependant que le feſtin s'appreſte,& y a vne femme i l'afri- dehors,attendant iuſqu'à tant que le mary aye defioré l'eſpouſe , tend vn petit linge moüillé du ſang de l'eſ- cain, iean pousée à la femme qui eſt à la porte l'attendant , qui tenant ce drapeau entre les mains, s'en va criant à vvier. ceux qyi ſont inuitez à haute voix,que la fille eſtoit pucelle : parquoy on les fait banqueter. mais ſi de mal- heur elle n'eſtoit trouuée n'ayant ietté le ſang, elle eſt renduë par le mary au pere & à la mere, qui en reçoi- uentvne grande honte,auec ce que les inuitez s'en retournent l'eſtomach creux ſans donner coup de dent. mais le cas ſe rencontrant tel que l'auons d'eſcrit cy deſſus , ils ſeront bien deceus. et partant ne faut con- clurre, comme aucuns veulent, que la fille au premier coit , qui ne iette le ſang par le col de la matrice, ne ſoit pucelle, pareillement auſſi celle qui en iette le ſoit : parce qu'aucunes par les meſchantes maquerelles & impudentes, qui ont accouſtumé vendre filles pour pucelles , ſe font contrefaire cette taye, par le moyen de certaines iniections d'eaux aſtringentes, puis mettent profondement au col de leur matrice vne eſponge imbué en ſang de quelque beſte, ou en rempliſſent quelque petite veſſie, comme la veſſie où eſt contenu l'humeur cholerique aux moutons , ou autres beſtes qu'on appelle la veſſie du fiel , & alors que l'homme vient auoir compagnie d'elles, font les reſſerrées, crians comme ſi on les depucelloit, ou qu'on leur fit vne douleur extreme : & en l'acte , ledit ſang qui en eſt exprimé, coule dehors, & le pauure badelo- , ry, doux de ſel, penſe auoir eu la creme, où il n'aura eu que le fonds du pot, voire que de ces pucelles en ſera quelquesfois yſſu de petites creatures, qui ſe degenerent en hommes ou femmes. ioinct auſſi que ces pucelles ſont fardées comme vn ſepulcre blanchy, qui eſt poly par dehors , & dedans remply de pourri- ture & puanteur comme les boettes des apothicaires, peintes par dehors auec or & azur, & dedans pleines de poiſon : ainſi eſt-il de ces putains affetées qui baillent la verole , & ſont cauſe que les pauures amoureux tranſſis meurent miſerablement arides & ſecs.partant garde le heurt qui pourra. - hiſtoire memorable de iean vvier, de la membrane appellée hymen. c h a p i t r e l. e a n vvier medecin du duc de cleues, en ſon liure de l'impoſture & tromperie des diables, cta ,s. . des enchantemens & ſorceleries,recite qu'il y auoit vne fille en chambourg,laquelle auoit vne - taye forte & dure, nommée hymen, qui empeſcha que ſes menſtrues, lors qu'elles, luy ſuruin- drent, ne pourent eſtre vacuées : & pour la regurgitation du ſang qui remontoit en haut, auoit le ventre † enflé & tendu, & auoit de grandes & extremes douleurs, comme ſi elle euſt deu. enfanter. alors les matrones furent mandées , leſquelles la virent auoir le ventre ainſi dur & tendu, & des retention'de douleurs ſi extremes,que d'vn commun accord elles dºnt qu'elle eſtoit groſſe d'enfant, encores que la pau-mois priſe ure fille leur contrediſt auec grands ſermens, & affermaſt n'auoir iamais eu connoiſſance d'homme : & dit pour groſſeſſe. qu'il fut appellé,lors que les femmes né luy pouuoient plus rien faire, & qu'elles en deſeſperoient,à raiſon des douleurs inſupportables, leſquelles auoient deſia duré trois ſepmaines, ſans luy donner repos ne iour nenuict, auec quelques ſuppreſſions d'vrine, veilles perpetuelles, & perte d'appetit. incontinent qu'il fut arriué,il reconneut la partie malade,où il trouua l'orifice du col de la matrice clos & eſtoupé par vne taye, tellement qu'il n'en pouuoit rien ou peu ſortir : & s'enquit de ſon aage, qui eſtoit de vingt & vn an , & que iamais n'auoit eu ſes fleurs:lors conneut cette tumeur ne proceder ſinon d'vne ſubite deſcharge & fiuxion de - fang,vers la region de l'vterus & vaiſſeaux d'iceluy : parquoy appella vn chirurgien,& luy commanda fai- car, d, re vne ouuerture à ladite taye, & peu a peu en ſortit bien huict liures de ſang coagulé, noir , & ja com- l'hymen. mencé à ſe pourrir , & l'euacuation de ſang faite, trois iours apres fut du tout guarie. pour cette cauſe ie conſeilleray toufiours aux peres & meres , qui auront la connoiſſance que leurs filles ayent ladite hymen, u'ils la faſſent couper, s'il n'y auoit ſuffiſante ouuerture à expurger leurs fleurs, pource que quelques vnes pour ſemblable cauſe ſont mortes par faute que le ſang menſtrual n'auoit iſſue. hiſtoireme- morable.' — de phimon. c h a p. l i. @ſil h m o n eſt vne indiſpoſition des femmes, qui n'ont point la nature percée, quelques-foi* # de leur naiſſance , & auſſi quelquesfois par accident. cét empeſchement eſt aucunesfois enl'orifice du col de la matrice : autresfois aux aiſles, & quelquesfois en l'eſpace qui eſt $ entre-elles : or pource que les bords ſont pris & attachez, telles choſes prohibent la con- a # ception, & flux menſtrual. si le paſſage eſt du tout bouché : pour la curation, faut que la en$ è\r: main du chirurgien y beſogne, en coupant & extirpant ce qui empeſche, s'il eſt poſſible, y appliquant vn peſſaire que les grecs appellent priapiſcum, ſemblable à la verge de l'homme, ou vne canule de plomb, oinčte d'vn medicament propre. g g g de le vingt-quatriéme liure, de la ſuffocation de la matrice, appellée des femmes le mal de mere, & deſes enfans, c h a p t r e l ii. é)ue c'eſt que ſuſfocation d'amarry. \ſ v f f o c a t o n de matrice eſt ablation de libre inſpiration & expiration qui vient, # ou pource que l'vterus gonffie & s'enfle, & pource qu'il eſt rauy & emporté en haut par vn mouuement forcé , & comme conuulſif, à cauſe de la plenitude de ſes vaiſſeaux. l'vterus ſe gonffle & s'enfle pource que quelque ſubſtance pourrie & corrompue en iceluy ſe reſout en vapeur & ventoſitez de la retention des menftruës , ou de la corruption de la ſemence, #º qui ſe putrefient en icelles, ou de ventofitez : ce qui ſe peut connoiſtre, parce que la femme aura grands de la matri- ſouſpirs, vertigines , ſcotomies , douleurs de teſte, nausée, rots , & grands bruits aux inteſtins. or de la c '. ſemence de la femme retenuë au vaiſſeaux ſpermatiques, ou ja reſpandue en la matrice , oü autour de ſeste- ſticules, ſeſleuent certaines vapeurs corrompuës , leſquelles ſont communiquées au foye, au cœur, & au cerueau, dont s'engendrent de tres-cruels accidens, approchans quelquesfois de ceux qui ſont mords de pºººººº chiens enragez, ou picquez de quelque beſte venimenſe. les accidens qui viennent en la ſuffocation de la ºccidenº ſºnt matrice, ſont plus grands & cruels pour la ſemence retenué, que ceux qui viennent pour la retention des #. menſtrués, à cauſe que d'autant que la ſemence eſt plus parfaicte demeurant en ſa diſpoſition naturelle, b retenuë que auſſi de tant plus deuienr-elle maligne & peruerſe, eſtant alienée d icelle , & changée en qualité contraire des fleurs. de forte que lors qu'elle eſt corrompuë, la pourriture en eſt plus maligne, plus ſubtile & penetratiue que du ſang menſtrual , dont les accidens ſont plus grands & plus veneneux , ce qu'on void aduenir au vinaigre: cauſes & car d'autant que le vin eſt meilleur , d'autant auſſi en eſt le vinaigre plus fort & aigu. or les accidens ſuſdits differences de aduiennent peu ſouuent aux femmes mariées, ayans la compagnie de leurs maris , mais aux ieunes vefues ſuffocation qui ſont nourries d'alimens copieux , & oifiues. la matrice par les mois retenus, ou par la ſemence, ou d'amarry quelques autres mauuaiſes humeurs ou ventoſitez, ſe peruertit & ſe meut de ſon ſiege, & ſituation naturel- le, quelquesfois ſe retire en haut, & quelquesfois à coſté dextre ou ſeneſtre, ou s'eſtend en largeur, pour la plenitude des vaiſſeaux qui paruiennent en icelle. car les veines, arteres, & autres vaiſſeaux eſtans fort remplis, s'eſtendent en profond & en large, & alors ils ſe fond plus courts, & partant ſe retire vers leur ori- gine , qui eſt la veine caue, & grande artere , adonc retirent la matrice ſemblablement à eux, & s'il la ti- rent également, lors elle ſemble monter en haut vers l'eſtomach & de diaphragme : & s'illa tirent inégale- ment, lors s'encline en deuant, & en derriere, & à dextre & à ſeneſtre vers les flancs, ou à la ſeule region de l'os pubis, & alors la veſſie & l'inteſtin droit ſont agreuez de douleurs, & enflez : & pour le dire en vn ººſººisme mot, tout lieu vers lequel le corps de la matrice ſe retirera & affaiſſera. or il faut icy noter, que combien deſtre bien que la matrice s'eſleue en haut, ſi ne faut-il pour cela penſer les accidens ſus-nommez prouenirlpar la ſeule f , tumeur & compreſſion qu'elle fait aux parties ſuperieures ( à ſçauoir vers l'eſtomach & diaphragme) ou inégalement vers d'autres parties : pource que ce n'eſt le corps de la matrice , encore que les femmes diſent qu'il leur ſemble monter iuſqu'à la gorge, les voulant eſtouffer & eſtrangler : mais ce ſont certaines vapeurs, qui ſont eſleuées d'elles ou de ſes vaiſſeaux qui montent , comme nous auons dit , aux parties ſuperieures veu qu'vne femme ayant en ſon ventre vn enfant ja grandelet, ou vn autre qui ſera hydropique, & vn autre avant l'eſtomach fort remply de viandes, ne tombera ſoudainement par aucune de ces choſes en priuation du benefice de reſpiration , ainſi qu'il ſe fait en la ſuffocation de la matrice. parquoy on ne peut vrayement conclure , que la ſuffocation ſe faſſe, parce que la matrice s'eſleue en tumeur, mais par les vapeurs qui s'eſle- uent vers les parties ſuperieures. ce qui ſe peut encore prouuer par vne autre raiſon : c'eſt que la ma- trice d'vne femme n'eſtant groſſe, eſt fort compacte, dure , & ſerrée , & de groſſeur ſeulement d'vne groſ- ſe poire de certeau, & ſi trouue-on bien petite cauité : & partant faut conclure que ce n'eſt ladite ma- trice, qui tant ſe groſſit, & s'eſleue en haut , qu'elle puiſſe oſter la reſpiration, mais les vapeurs putri- cauſes de la des, commenous auons dit. autres accidens aduiennent pour la ſemence & les mois retenus, & ſont variºré des diuers, ſelon la quantité & qualité des matieres : car ſi la cauſe eſt froide & venteuſe, elle refrigere tout le ººº corps, tellement que la reſpiration & le pouls des arteres ne peuuent eſtre apperceus par le ſens ， & fi la ma- ſupºreſſiº des § eſt groſſe , elle cauſe conuulſion : & ſi elle eſt d'humeur melancholique, elle engendre triſteſſe : par leſ- #º quelles choſes eſt euident, que la matrice eſt premierement bleſsée, auſſi par compaſſion l'eſtomach, le - cœur par vne palpitation , le foye & le cerueau. or le cerueau eſt bleſsé par douleur de teſte, qui ſouuent eſt auec rougeur de toute la face , & des yeux , auec ſcotomie & vertigine, c'eſt à dire, qu'il ſemble que tout tourne c'en deſſus deſſous, qui ſe fait par vne putredineuſe vapeur eſleuée au cerueau, perturbant entiere- ment les eſprits, inſtrumens des facultez animales , dont aduient vne reſuerie , tantoſt de vertu apprehen- ſiue, tantoſt de la raiſonnable, & ſouuent la femme parle à part-ſoy en reſuant, declarant tant ce qu'elle doit pluſtoſt taire que dire, & quelquesfois demeure toute ſtupide & eſtonnée. aucunes ont vn tres-long ſommeil , appellé des grecs caros, dont elles ſont ſourdes & muettes, & ne reſpondent rien quand on les - appelle hautement : aucunesfois elle entendent bien , mais elles ne peuuent reſpondre, & tels ſont les la reſicca- ſignes de la ſuffocation de l'vterus. les cauſes ſont refrigeration de l'amarry, corruption de ſemence, ou º***-- autre humeur ſeminal & groſſier : les mois ſupprimez, trop grande vacuation de la matrice, par laquelle #º l'vterus reſſeiché ſe tourne vers les parties humides , & tire de la teſte & de tout le reſte du corps : ce quiad- c ° - - - • - - - - ti on uient meſne aux femmes groſſes,lors que ou par faute d'aliment, l'amarry eſt trop reſſeiché ou trop eſchauf- fé par trauail : outre quelques-vns tiennent, que par appoſition de choſes odorantes miſes au nez, l'amarry monte en haut, & induit telle ſuffocation. et pour concluſion, en la ſuffocation de la matrice, les vapeurs putredineuſes montent quelquesfois iuſqu'au diaphragme, aux poulmons & au cœur, qui fait que la fem- · me ne peut reſpirer ny expirer, leſquelles vapeurs ne ſont ſeulement portées par les veines & arteres, mais auſſi par les ſpiracles occultes qui ſont au corps. et ſi leſdites vapeurs montent iuſqu'au cerueau , cauſent epilepſie, catalepſie ( qui eſt quand tout le corps demeure roide & froid, & en meſme figure qu'il eſtoit au- parauant que tomber en tel mal, les yeux ouuerts, ſans voir, & ſans ouyr (lethargie, apoplexie, & ſouuent la mort. or pour le dire en vn mot, la matrice a ſes ſentimens propres eſtans hors la volonté de la femme, de maniere qu'on la dit eſtre vn animal, à cauſe qu'elle ſe dilate & accourcit plus ou moins, ſelon les diuer- ſitez des cauſes : et quand elle deſire, elle fretille, & ſe meut faiſant perdre patience & touteraiſon à la pauure femme, luy cauſant vn grand tintamarre. dts — a nk ou d'vne : poſteme faicte en la matrice, ou fieurs blanches , & autres mauuaiſes humeurs, "n \de la generation. : les ſignes que toſt la femme aura ſuffocation de matrice. ch arp. liii. # fe,& dit ſentir monter quelque morceau ou autre choſe qui luy cloſt le goſier, auec grand # battement de cœur:la matrice & ſes vaiſſeaux s'enflent à quelques-vnes,qui les gardent de | % à ſe dreſſer debout, mais ſe couchent courbées ſur le ventre, pour auoir moindre douleur, # mettant la main deſſus , preſſant & s'efforçant , pour empeſcher que la matrice ne mon- =* te, comme elles cuident qu'elle monte, ce qu'elle ne fait : mais comme nous auons dit, ce ſont les vapeurs putredineuſes. la patiente eſt fort decolorée & deuient paſle & iaunaſtre, ne ſe pouuant te- # a femme auparauant que ces accidens aduiennent, ſent monter de ſa matrice vne tres- palpitatiº» | grande douleur iuſques à la bouche de l'eſtomach & au cœur, & luy ſemble qu'elle eſtouf- du cœur. ce qui fait penſer que nir debout, pource que les jambes & vertus luy defaillent : partant tombe en terre & ſe laiſſe aller comme ſi lamatrice elle eſtoit morte : & plufieurs perdent tout ſentiment & mouuement, & le pouls eſt tant petit qu'on ne le ſent mente. . aucunement, de façon qu'on eſtimeroit qu'elles fuſſent mortes,toutesfois elles ne le ſont pas, combien que la reſpiration ne nous apparoiſſe, qui eſt action inſeparable de vie : bref, les ſymptomes apparoiſſent diuers,ſe- lon que la vapeur eſleuée de l'vterus,heurte maintenât ces parties,& maintenant celles-là.car ſi telle vapeur donne vers le diaphragme, & parties thorachiques, elle cauſe vne reſpiration briefue & frequente & comme abolie : ſi elle donne vers le cœur , induit ſyncope : ſi vers le cerueau, elle ameine auec ſoy quelquesfois vne fureur auec babil, quelquesfois ſtupidité, endormiſſement, auec taciturnité non accouſtumée , le tout ſelon la nature de l'humeur bilieux ou groſſier & melancholic,dont la vapeur eſt eſleuée.mais il n'y a rien plus ad- mirable qu'à quelques vnes cette affection commence par vn ris, à autres par pleurs, à autres par tous deux enſemble. a ce propos monſieur houlier raconte, que les deux filles du preſident de roüen, qui eſtoit de ſon temps, lors qu'elles commençoient à entrer en paroxyſmes de ce mal,eſtoient ſurpriſes d'vn ris,qui leur duroit vne & deux heures, leſquelles on ne pouuoit arreſter, ny par leur faire peur & terreur, ny par honte & adnonitions, de ſorte que tancées par leurs parens, reſpondoient n'eſtre en leur puiſſance de ſe garder de rire. autres tombent en extaſe, qui eſt vn euanoüiſſement ou rauiſſement des eſprits, comme ſi l'ame eſtoit ſeparée du corps. autres diſent que c'eſt vn ſommeil , par lequel les forces, facultez & puiſſances de l'ame ſont enſeuelies, en ſorte qu'il ſemble que l'on ſoit mort. les ſignes pour connoiſtre ſi vne femme eſt morte ounon par vne ſuffocation de matrice. c h a p i t r e l i v. *a v r a n t que pluſieurs femmes, non ſeulement du temps paſſé, mais auſſi de fraiſche memoire eſpriſes de cette maladie, ont eſté portées en terre pour mortes, qui toutesfois ne l'eſtoient; i'ay pensé qu'il ſeroit plus que tres-neceſſaire de donner ſignes demonſtratifs de mort ou de vie en tel accident. premierement donc, cela ſe connoiſtra par application d'vn miroir bien net & poly au nez & à la bouche, pource que la vapeur de la reſpiration en cel- les qui reſpirent, l'obnubile, couure & tache d'vne petite vapeur, & le ternit : & ſi telle cho- ſe apparoit, c'eſt vn tres-certain figne de vie. auſſi pourra-on encore le connoiſtre en luy appliquant vne plume tres-mole, comme de duuet, ou vn petit floccon de laine cardée, qui par le mouuement puiſſe teſti- fier la reſpiration. toutesfois ces ſignes ſont ſouuent trompeurs, & non du tout aſſeurez : parquoy plus ſeu- rement on peut connoiſtre, s'il y a encore quelque reſte de vie en la femme par les medicamens ſternuta- toires , comme poſant prés le nez de l'ellebore ou du pyrethre, ou bien les ſoufflant dans le nez, lors qu'ils ſont reduits en poudre. or encore que nulle reſpiration apparoiſſe , ſi eſt-ce pourtant qu'il ne faut conclure la femme eſtre morte : car elle peut encore auoir vne petite chaleur qui luy reſte au centre du corps par le benefice de laquelle elle eſt conſeruée:& cette petite chaleur n'a pas grand beſoin de la reſpiration de la poi- ctrine, ny de l'action des poulmons pour ſa conſeruation, (c'eſt à dire refrigeration, ventilation & nutrition) tout ainſi que tous autres animaux froids,leſquels en hyuer ſe cachent en terre ſi auant qu'ils ne peuuent reſ- pirer,& toutesfois ſont entretenus de tranſpiration du cœur & des arteres : ainſi ſe faict-ilà la femme.siluius eſcrit qu'aucunes ont eſté par trois iours eſuanouyes, & penſoit-on qu'elles fuſent mortes, parce qu'elles ne reſpiroient nullement, & auoient tous autres ſignes de mort, à ſçauoir n'ayans nul ſentiment, mouuement,ny chaleur partant en telle diſpoſition ne ſe faut haſter les enſeuelir, & moins ouurir leurs corps, de peur d'en- courir vne calomnie. ainſi que de ce ſiecle eſt arriué à vn grand anatomiſte : ie dis grand & celebre,du- quelles liures reparent auiourd'huy les eſtudes des hommes doctes, lequel eſtant pour lors reſident en eſ- pagne, fut mandé pour ouurir vne femme de maiſon, qu'on eſtimoit eſtre morte par vne ſuffocation de ma- trice. le deuxiéme coup de raſoir qu'il luy donna , commença ladite femme à ſe mouuoir, & demonſtrer par autres ſignes qu'elle viuoit encore, dont tous les aſſiſtans furent grandement eſtonnez : ie laiſſe à penſer au lecteur comme ce bon seigneur faiſant cét œuure fut en perplexité, comme on cria tolle apres luy, telle- ment que toat ce qu'il peut faire, fut de s'abſenter du pays : car ceux qui le deuoient excuſer, c'eſtoient ceux qui luy couroient ſus : & eſtant exilé, toſt apres mourut de deſplaiſir : qui n'a eſté ſans vne grande perte pour la republique. or i'ay bien voulu reciter cette hiſtoire, afin d'inſtruire touſiours le ieune chirurgien eſtre diſcret à ſe garder qu'il ne tombe en tels accidens : & faut noter que l'on peut connoiſtre la mort de la femme, par l'eſcune qui luy ſort de la bouche, - - des differences de ſuffocation de la matrice. c h a p. l v. r il y a pluſieurs differences de ſuffocation de la matrice , qui ſe font ſelon la grandeur & difference de la cauſe efficiente, parce que les accidens ſont plus grands ou plus petits : car % aucunes femmes ſentent, ſe remuent & ratiocinent, mais elles ont vne defaillance de cœur & de reſpiration par interuale : auſſi aucunes ſe remuent d'vn mouuement inuolontaire ( comme les epileptiques)remuent les bras & les jambes auec grincemens de dents, par la conuulſion des muſcles des temples » les autres ſont ſurpriſes, comme auons dit, d'vn tres- · profond ſommeil ( dit des grecs caros ) comme ſi elles eſtoient apoplectiques, tous les ſentimens & mou- g g g - ulciilcil $ hiſtoire priſe de houlier. la reſpira- tion n'eſt me- ceſſaire pour la vie. hiſtoire d'v- me femme ou. uerte n'eſtät f/ / , caros pro- fond sümeil. —x x - | le vingt-quatriéme liure, mouuemens defaillans.les autres au contraire crient & rient,& ne font que parler:& apres que les cauſes de ^ ce mal ſont ceſsées , reſoluës , & vacuées, alors le corps commence à s'affermir , & la rougeur venir au viſage, & les mandibules à s'ouurir : & à pluſieurs d'icelles s'eſcoule quelque humeur de leur matrice, & à quelques - vnes il s'éuacué dehors vne groſſe ſemence, voire en grande quantité, auec trauail & plaifir, ainſi que ſi elles eſtoient en l'acte venerien, principalement à celles à qui les matrones titillent le col de leur matrice:& alors que les matieres ſont eſcoulées,la matrice ſe relafche peu à peu,& tous les accidens ceſſent. - les ſignes pour connoiſtreſ la ſuffocation vient par la ſemence retenuë & corrompué, & non du ſang menſtrual. c h a p i t r e l v i. # 'e s t que tout ſubit leur ſuruient vne difficulté de reſpiration : puis toſt apres priuation d'i- # celle : la femme retire les jambes en haut, & ſent quelque choſe eſtre eſleuée de la matrice # à la bouche de l'eſtomach, & au cœur, comme nous auons dit , ſi la femme eſt addonnée à # l'homme, & qu'elle s'en ſoit ja dés long-temps retenué, ou bien que ce ſoit vne fille vier- # $ ge, ſucculente & ſanguine, vſant de viandes chaudes, humides & venteuſes , & qu'elle ſoit b - à oifiue, & auec irritation d'homme, appetant venus , & les mois luy ſont ſupprimez, cela demonſtre que la ſuffocation vient de la ſemence retenuë. les accidens qui viennent aux hommes par la ſemence retenué, ſont moins fafcheux qu'aux femmes , parce qu'ils diſſipent par le trauail la plus grande part de la corruption. aecidens de la ſemence retenue. la cure de la ſuffocation de la matrice. ' c ha p. lvii. # a ſuffocation precedente de la matrice, pource que c'eſt vn grief & pernicieux acci- $ | dent, ſe veut ſecourir promptement , voire en negligeant pour l'heure la cauſe d'icelle. $. donc que la femme ſubit ſoit ſituée ſur l'eſpine du dos, ayant vn peu le thorax eſleué | | afin qu'elle expire plus librement, & que promptement on luy deſtache les lacets de ſa # poitrine, & qu'on l'appelle à haute voix par ſon nom , criant à ſes oreilles, qu'on luy ti- | re le poil des temples, & de derriere le col , ou pluſtoſt celuy des parties honteuſes, afin = m que non ſeulement elle ſoit eſueillée, mais dauantage que par la douleur excitée en bas, la vapeur qui monte en haut & fait la ſuffocation, ſoit retirée & rappelée en bas par reuulſion , auſſi luy faut lier les bras & jambes de liens douloureux, enſemble qu'on la frotte rudement auec gros linges, aſ c - pres & rudes, auec douleur, trempez en vinaigre & ſel. dauantage on luy appliquera vn peſſaire à la ma- peſſaire. trice ſemblable à cettuy-cy. /. ſucci mercur. & artemiſan. ij. in quibus diſſol. pul. benedict. . iij. pul. º º rad. enul. campa. galangae minoris , an .j.fiat peſſar. puis luy faut oindre la plante des pieds d'huyle laurin, #. ou autre ſemblable : apres on luy appliquera vne grande ventouſe ſur le petit ventre au deſſous du nom- da. bril auec grande flambe, auſſi luy en ſeront appliquées au plat des cuiſſes, c'eſt à dire, aux parties inte« rieures , pres les aines, afin de retirer la matrice en ſon lieu , & faire reuulfion des matieres qui cauſent ce mal, s'il eſt beſoin ſera fait parfum en la matrice auec choſes fort odorantes : mais premierement faut tenir le col de la matrice ouuert, afin que le parfum puiſſe mieux entrer dedans, qui ſera fait auec vn in- ſtrument fait en façon de peſſaire, pertuisé en pluſieurs lieux, à la bouche duquel y aura vn petit reſſort qui le pourra tenir ouuert , tant & ſi peu que l'on voudra : & ſera attaché par deux liens à vne bande cein- te au milieu du corps de la femme, lequel ſera faict d'or ou d'argent, ou de fer blanc, le pourtraict duquel eſt icy donné. - situation de la malade. peſſaire pour tenir le col de la matrice, ouuert par le benefice d'vn reſſort. pourtrai# \de la generation : # - pourtraict d'vn pot pour receuoir les parfums au col de la matrice. |//\wº les matieres des parfums odoriferans ſont; cinamo. mºiºrº des $ #-º calam.aromat xylaloes, ladanum, benioin, thym, piper, parfums •do- # caryophil , lauan. calament. artemiſ puleg alipta moſc. riferans. † gall. moſmuſ amb. iuncus odoratus, & autres ſemblables, \ qui par leur grande vertu aromatique attirent la matrice ) en ſon lieu , & conſument les ventoſitez putredineuſes. et faut garder que ladite fumée n'entre point aux narines ; | au contraire luy faut faire vn parfum de choſes puantes, - maniere des qu'elle receura par le nez & par la bouche, comme galba- - num, ſagapenum , ammoniacum , aſſa fœtida , bitumen, # ſºi oleum gagatae , huile de ſoulphre & de petrole : auſſi des " chandelles de ſuif recentement eſteintes, plumes de per- drix , becaſſes, & de tous autres oiſeaux, poil d'homme, de bouc, de vache, draps, feutres , vieilles ſauattes de ſoulier, ongles, & cornes de beſtes, pouldres à canon & ſoulphre vif bruſlez, & autres choſes ſemblables, afin que cette puante vapeur contraigne la matrice d'aller en bas : d'autant que la matrice, d'vn inſtinct naturel & peculieré faculte , fuit les choſes puantes , & ſe plaiſt aux choſes odoriferantes. or quand on dit qu'il faut vſer de parfums faicts de choſes puantes,cela ne ſe doit entendre des corps des animaux cadauereux,& des eaux des eſgouts de la voi- rie, & autres choſes ſemblables, parce que de leur vapeur putredineuſe pourroient infecter le malade & les aſſiſtans. semblablement on prouoquera le vomir, en mettant vne plume d'oye fort profondement en la gorge,ou les cheueux meſme de la malade,apres on luy donnera qninze grains de poyure noir pilez auec hydromel,ou bon vin, qui eſt le ſe- | cret d'auicenne : pareillement on luy peut donner vne de- sºrºt d'a- mie drachme de theriaque diſſout en vne once d'eau d'ab- *** ſinthe, trois heures auant le paſt. autre remede bien ap- prouué : vne goute d'huyle de genets miſe ſur la langue : autre remede. prenez demie drachme de caſtor, diſſout en vin blanc,ou boüillon de chappon, & luy en donnez a boi- - re. pareillement luy ſera ietté profondement dans le col de ſa matrice,theriaque diſſout auec eau de vie,& luy en ſera donné vne ou deux cuillerées : & dans les orei- les & nez on luy mettra deux ou trois goutes d'huyle de ſauge de quinte-eſſence. on la fera eſternuer, en luy mettât dans les narines de la poudre d'hellebore, ou de poiure, ou autre ſemblable,afin de reſueiller l'eſprit vital & animal,qui en tel cas eſt comme endormy & aſſoupy. dauantage,on fera des iniections carminatiues inieaions dans le ſiege &matrice, faictes de decoction de calamenthe,armoiſe, lauande,pouliot, camomille, melilot,& carminati- autres ſemblables : outre plus on fera ſuppoſitoires; & peſſaires de ladanum,gingeumbre, galla moſc.theria- ues. que,mithridat, ciuette, muſc : auſſi d'huyle de girofle, anis, ſaulge, roſmarin, & autres ſemblables, extraictes par quinte eſſence. dauantage on pourra vſer de clyſteres, comme cettuy-cy. z. rad. enulz. campa.ireos. ebul. ariſtoloch. an. .j. ſol. abſinth. artemiſ matricar. puleg origan.an. m. j baccar. lauri & iunip. ſambuc. an.p.j.ſem.rutae,cumini,ammonios an. .ij. florum ſtœchad. roriſm.ſaluiae, centaur.minor.an.p.ij.fiat decoctio, cape de colat.fb.j. in aqua diſſolue mellis anthoſ.ſacch. ſacch.rub, & bened. an. .j. diacath. ij. olei aneth. & nard.an. .j.É. fiat clyſt. dauantage on leur pourra appliquer cette emplaſtre ſur le ventre. /.. maſſ. emplaſt. emplaſtre. oxycroc. & de melil. an. . iij. olei nard. quant. ſuff. ad malaxand. fiat emplaſt. extendatur ſuper alutam , & applicetur reg.matricis. et ſi la femme eſt mariée, le paroxyſme eſtant ja paſsé, & la femme eitant reſueillée, qu'elle aye compagnie de ſon mary , car telle choſe ſurpaſſe tous autres remedes : & ſi c'eſt vne femme groſ- ſe qui ſouffre ſuffocation, de ce remede aura grand & prompt ſecours, & ſeur : car des autres aydes n'en doit vſer qu'auec grande prudence & conſeil du docte medecin, de peur d'auorter, & en lieu de la compagnie de - ſon mary, la ſage-femme doit oindre ſes doigts auec huyle nardin,ou de muguette, ou de clou de girofle, ou lºmâion . d'aſpic, meſlez enſemble, auec muſc & ambre gris, & ciuette, & quelques poudres ſubtiles & aromatiques, & les appliquer au profond du col de la matrice : & en frottant qu'elle titille ledit col de l'orifice d'iceluy, & qu'elle l'eſchauffe premierement de quelque linge et toutes ces choſes ſe feront,afin que la ſemence cor- rompuë,ou autres humeurs venimeux, ou ventoſitez (qui ſont cauſe de ſes maux) ſe puiſſent reſoudre,& s'eſ- couler hors,afin qu'eſtans euacuées, la matrice puiſſe deſcendre, & que ſoudain la femme reuienne à conua- leſcence de ſa ſuffocation, & en ſa premiere ſanté : qui ſe connoiſtra, les ioües commençant à rougir, & les mandibules à s'ouurir, & les yeux à s'eſleuer, & le pouls à ſe manifeſter, & la femme aura connoiſſance des aſſiſtans, & commencera à ſe reſiouyr, & autres ſignes de reconualeſcence. quelquels vns tiennent pour vn signes de c - grand ſecret de frotter l'vmbilic de ſuc exprimé d'vn ail cuit, meſlé auec vn peu d'aloé. la fleur eſt fonde- ualeſcence de ment ou preparatif à la ſemence & au fruict de chaſque plante. pour cette cauſe on appelle fleurs les purga- la ſuffoqua- tions menſtruales de la femme, d'autant qu'elles precedent communément, & ſont comme preparatifs à leur tion. fruict qui eſt l'enfant, dont il s'enſuit que les femmes ne peuuent auoir enfant deuant qu'auoir les fleurs. or icy faut entendre que la femme eſt froide & humide plus que l'homme, & engendre plus de ſang qu'elle ne peut conſommer à la nourriture de ſon corps, principalement depuis l'aage de douze ans, auquel terme elle a faict la plus part de fon accroiſſement : alors cömence le ſang eſtre ſuperflu, & n'eſtant tout employé à la nourriture des parties, il s'amaſſe peu à peu autour de la matrice , & quand il y en a ſuffiſante quantité, la vertu expultrice le jette dehors comme choſe inutile. car le fang qu'elle jette tous les mois , n'eſt que la philoſophi portion de tout le ſang la plus crue & indigeſte, & non pas comme pluſieurs ont pensé, infecte & de mau-§ # uaiſe & pernicieuſe qualité, & n'eſt à reprouuer que de ſa crudité, pourueu que la femme ſoit ſaine & gail- b , de, larde : & parce qu'elle abonde grandement en ſang, nature a ordonné que la portion moins digette s'eſcou- erreurs po- leroit tous les mois. pulaires. g g g dm o le vingt-quatriéme liure, du flux menſtruel des femmes. ch a p. lviii. raiſon du e s femmes appellent leur flux de ſang par la matrice, mois,parce que quand elles ſont ſai- mot de flux nes, elles s'euacuent par tel flux quaſi tous les mois : les autres appellent leur temps , parce de ſang que qu'il coule touſiours,ou le plus ſouuent en certain temps : autres le nomment sepmaines, à ont les fem- cauſe que ce flux a accouſtumé de fiuer en quelques-vnes qui ſont principalement oiſiues & / j. - # gourmandes, par ſept iours : autres apellent leurs purgations, pource que par tel flux ſe ºzºsssà purge tout le corps : les autres l'appellent fleurs rouges, & celles qui ſont blanches, fleurs siluius liu blanches, parce que tout ainſi que la fleur precede le fruict des plantes, pareillement les femmes ne conçoi- des moi - uent point ou rarement , que leurs mois n'ayent coulé. et pource aucuns ſont en doute, ſi vne fille eſtant meure & apte à receuoir l'homme , & qu'elle n'aye encore eu ſes fleurs , peut conceuoir : de ma part i'eſtime que difficilemét cela ſe peut faire.car puis que ce qui ayde à la conception defaut,& que la matrice eſt deſti- tuée de l'humeur dont il faut que l'enfant ſoit nourry,côme ſe pourroit-il faire que la conception ſe parfiſt? la conce- ce qui ſe peut prouuer par la ſimilitude des arbres & plantes qui iettent leurs fleurs, auſquels le fruict n'eſt ption ne ſe point denié,& nul arbre qui fleurit n'eſt ſterile:mais bien tout arbre qui eſt priué de ſa fleur,eſt infertile.ainſi faict ſans les filles qui ne iettent encore leurs flux,ne peuuent engendrer & deuenir groſſes:mais celles qui ſont d'aagé, flux men- conçoiuent & font des enfans tant que leurs mois durent, toutesfois il ſe peut faire , mais rarement, que les ſtruel. filles conçoiuent ſans auoir iamais eu leurs fleurs, à cauſe qu'il s'amaſſe en leur matrice autant de ſang qu'il y a de couſtume d'en reſter à celles à qui leurs fleurs coulent. or ſi les femmes & filles ſont ſaines, elles s'éua- cuent tous les mois,comme nous auons dit : toutesfois il faut entendre que cela ne ſe fait pas ordinairement à toutes femmes tous les mois, ne touſiours auſſi en vn mois, mais en aucunes plus ſouuent,en autres plus ra- rement : car il y a des femmes qui les ont trois fois en vn mois, qui ſe fait pour la grande multitude de ſang, à cauſe de leur habitude & ieuneſſe,& deſir d'habiter auec les hommes, les autres ne les ont que de # de deux § deux mois,plus ou moins dauantage,aucunes les ont à la nouuelle lune,les autres au defaut,& tel- # #º le choſe ſe fait pour la diuerſe complexion & temperature qu'elles ont des vnes aux autres, à ſçauoir plus " chaudes ou froides,& pour pluſieurs autres cauſes qui ſeroient longues à eſcrire.car pour le dire en vn mot, celles qui ont les veines amples, le foye grand, qui prennent beaucoup de viandes & bien nourriſſantes, qui ſont ſedentaires & oyſiues, qui dorment beaucoup , & viuent en pays & air pluuieux, & auſtral, qui vſent de bains d'eaux douces,ou de legeres frictions incontinent apres le repas.les ieunes & brunettes ont leurs mois en plus grande abondance:comme au contraire, en moindre quantité l'ont celles qui ont les veines eſtroittes & peu apparentes,les bien charnuës & graſſes(d'autant que la ſuperfiuité de l'aliment ſe conuertit en corpu- lence & greſſe)les mollaſſes & blancheaſtres(parce qu'elles ont le cuir plus rare, & partant endurent plus de diſſipation de leur ſubſtance, que les brunes qui ont le cuir plus denſe & ferme) & qui ſont ſubiettes à quel- que autre euacuation & couſtumieres de ietter du ſang,ſoit par les hemorrhoides,ou autre endroit du corps, quant aux ieunes, elles ont leurs mois en la nouuelle lune,& les vieilles au contraire en pleine lune, ou de- pourquoy la croiſſante.la raiſon eſt telle,la lune eſt vne planette qui ſeigneurie & eſmeut les corps, de la vient que pour vieille lune la diuerſité du cours d'icelle, la mer s'enfle,fluë, & refluë, les os s'empliſſent de mouelle, & les plantes d'hu- purge les midité:parquoy les ieunes qui ont beaucoup de ſang, & ſont plus fortes & gaillardes, ſont aisément eſmeuës, #. voire au premier quartier & croiſſant de la lune nouuelle : mais les vieilles, d'autant qu'elles ont moins de " ſang,requierent vne lune plus forte & vigoureuſe,parquoy ne ſont eſmeuës à auoir leurs mois, ſinon en plei- ne lune, ou decroiſſance , en laquelle le ſang amaſsé par la plenitude & vigueur de la lune paſsée, eſt aisé- ment incité à couler & fluer , raiſon que i'ay tirée du texte d'ariſtote du .de generatione animalium. - - • - -" pourquoy nature a faict que la femme a vn flux menſtrual. c h a p. l i x. # r nature a fait que la femme a vnfiux menſtrual : car pour autant que dieu l'a creée pour n# eſtre compagne à l'homme,& auſſi pour luy ſeruir de ſujet & champ fertile à la generation des % indiuidus:ila eſtè auſſi ſoigneux de la nourriture du petit enfant conçeu, & formé en la ma- trice de la femme:auſſi a composé la femme de téperament froid & humide,à ce qu'elle peuſt amaſſer ſuffiſante quantité de ſang ſuperflu, appellé ſang menſtrual, non ſeulement pour la nourriture de ſon corps,mais auſſi pour s'en ſeruir à nourrir l'enfant,& luy donner accroiſſe- llya des , ment tout le temps qu'il y ſeroit:meſmement pour d'iceluy ſang conuerty en laictés mammelles, donner ali- femmes qui ment quelque eſpace de temps à l'enfant eſtant ſorty du ventre de la mere. qu'il ſoit vray,ce ſang menſtrual #º. § commence à paroiſtre aux femmes,que lors qu'elles ſont capables d'eſtre mariées & porter enfans, qui eſt #. en l'aage de quatorze,quinze & ſeize ans, & ceſſe à celles qui approchent de quarante & cinquante ans. quante j• - la cauſe des menſtruès aux femmes. ch a p. l x. # o v r c e que les femmes ſont de temperature froide,au reſpect des hómes, auſſi le nourriſ- p - ſement ne ſe peut ſi toſt conuertir en bon ſang de façon que la plus grande partie demeure in- w digeſte,& ſe conuertit en méſtrués,deſquelles la femme, ſaine ſe purge & nettoye,ie dis ſaine # expreſsement:car aucunes femmes malades en ſont exemptes.or on peut affirmer qu'aucunes )， femmes abondent cent fois plus en ſang que l'hôme:qu'il ſoit vray,depuis treize ou quatorze e @ ans iuſques à cinquante,& quelques-vnes iuſques à ſoixante, elles iettent tous les mois gran- de quantité de ſang : & quelques-vnes, meſme encore qu'elles ſoient groſſes d'enfant, auſquelles faut abon- - dance de ſang pour ſa nourriture & croiſſance, eſtant au ventre de ſa mere. dauantage, il ſe trouue des fem- le lº# #, mes groſſes qui auortent, ſi elles ne ſont ſaignées, & diſent qu'elles ſuffoqueroient § ne l'eſtoient. plus vn ſang blä- quandl'enfant vient ſur terre,la mere iette grande quantité de ſang : & encore apres l'eſpace de dix ou douze # iours , & encore pendant cette § ſang monte aux mammelles, & ſe conuertit en laict , qui n'eſt #. qu'vn ſang blanchy lequell'enfant ſucce & tette iour & nuict:& iuſques à ce qu'il ſoit vn peu grandelet, ſou- fiante qui eſt u°nt la nourrice eſt contrainte d'eſpandre ſon laict, ouſe faire tetter à vn autre. et lors que ! enfant eſt ag- § mim. grandy & plus fort, d'autant auſſi ſuccera-il dauantage du laict des mammelles, voire que iour & nuict en melles, peut tirer demie liure ou plus, & neantmoins plufieurs nourrices ne laiſſeront d'auoir leurs fleurs tous les mois : & pour ces cauſes on peut vrayement dire que la femme a beaucoup plus de ſang que l'homme , mais b ]olls \de la generation. | i a nous retournerons le fueit, & dirons qu'vne drachme de ſang d'vn homme vaut mieux que deux liures de celuy d'vne femme, parce qu'il eſt plus cuit & digeré, & plus ſpirituel. parquoy l'homme ayant vne cha- leur plus vigoureuſe, tourne aisément & promptement en ſubſtance de ſon corps tout l'aliment qu'il prend: & s'il y a quelquc ſuperfiuite par le moyen d'icelle chaleur,il la diſcute & diſſipe promptement par inſenſible tranſpiration: mais la femme au côtraire eſt plus froide, partant appete & prend plus d'aliment qu'elle ne peut cuire pource amaſſe beaucoup d'humeur ſuperflu, lequel pour l'imbecillité de ſa chaleur, elle ne peut reſou- dre par inſenſible tranſpiration : de la vient que la femelle eſt ſubjecte aufiux menſtruel, & non le maſle. - - les cauſes parquoy le flux menitruel eſt retenu aux femmes. c h a p t r e l xi. e s cauſes de la retention & ceſſation ſont plufieurs, comme par maladies aiguees, ou longues, tout ce qui par triſteſſe,peur,faim,ou grands trauaux & veilles, ou pour eſtre groſſe d'enfant, ou d'vn mole, deſſeiche ou autre mauuais germe, & flux de ventre, ou par hemorrhoides , ou flux de ſang par le nez, ou peut retenir par la bouche, ou d'autres parties : auſſi pour eſtre trop ſouuent ſaignées, par ſueurs, auſſi vlce- * mºi . " res fluants en grande quantité, par multitude de galles au cuir, par fiévres quartes longues, par aage, comme vieilleſſe , par eſtre nourrice d'enfant, & autres, pour le dire en vn mot, par toutes choſes qui deſſeichent & euacuent le corps. pareillement les menſtrues ſont fupprimées,parce que le ſang eſt trop gros & glutineux, lequel ne peut ſortir par l'orifice des veines : auſſi pour auoir mangé grande quantité de fruicts cruds,& non meurs, & auoir beu eau froide, comme font volontiers les femmes : auſſi ſont ſupprimées pour quelque vice de la matrice,côme quelque intemperature,ou apoſteme,vlcere, ou pour cloſture de ſon orifice par vne calloſité ou excroiſſance de chair faicte par playe ou vlcere ou quelque membrane née & adherante à la bouche de la matrice,ou pour y auoir trop jetté de certaines eaux aſtringentes , pour faire que le col de leur matrice fuſt plus petit & eſtroit : toutes leſquelles choſes bouchent la matrice , que nous auons par cy- deuant appellé hymen, qui font que les menſtrues ne peuuent couler & le ſang eſt contrainct regurgiter en la maſſe ſanguinaire,qui cauſe plufieurs maladies & accidés voire ſouuent la mort. dauantage aucunes fem- famen mes ayans perdu leurs fleurs,ou iamais n'ayans eu le cours d'icelles,degenerét en nature virile, & ſont appel- hommaſſas. lées hommaſſes, & des latins viragines, parce qu'elles ſont robuſtes,audacieuſes , & ſuperbes, & ont la voix ， §. d'homme & deuiennent veluës & barbuës,à raiſon que ce ſang qu'elles perdent chacun mois eſt retenu, ce ſeci. , qui eſt prouué par hyppocrate diſant qu'en abdere, phaétuſa femme de pytheas,au commencement qu'elle hiſtoire. fut mariée,porta enfans,mais quelque temps apres ſon mary eſtant exilé pour quelque delict perdit ſes fleurs, à raiſon dequoy luy ſuruindrent des douleurs & rougeurs aux articles. et cela luy eſtant ſuruenu, ſon corps changea en homme, deuenant velue & barbuë, ſa voix eſtant rude & aſpre, puis il adiouſte : le ſemblable auſſi aduint en thaſo , à namyſia, femme de gorgippus. telles femmes ou filles ſont naturellement plus fortes & de temperature chaude & ſeiche, de ſorte qu'elles peuuent aisément diſſiper par inſenſible tranſpi- ration les ſuperfiuitez de leur nourriture à la façon des hommes , & en outre ſont ſteriles. les ſignes & prognoſtic que les menftruès ſont retenuès,& les maladies & accidens, qui en aduiennent. ch a p. l xi i. v a n d les mois ſont retenus par obſtruction des veines & arteres qui ſont à la matrice & col d'icelle,dediées à expulſer tel ſang,alors il ſe fait pluſieurs maladies & accidens comme ſuffe- º cation de matrice, dont nous auons parlé cy-deſſus, les mammelles de la femme deuiennent enflées & dures,& les parties genitales;auſſi douleur de teſte, defaillance de cœur & ſouuent j". - palpitation d'iceluy,inflämation à la matrice,fiévre,apoſteme,chancre, digeſtion debile,hydro- piſie,nausee, vomiſſement cóme aux femmes groſſes,ſi que pluſieurs le cuident eſtre : dauantage aucunes ont vne ſtrangurie, c'eſt à dire ne peuuent rendre leur vrine que goutte à goutte , à cauſe que la matrice eſtant remplie, preſſe & ferme quaſi la veſſie qui luy eſt au deſſus : ou bien ſi elles vrinent librement leur vrine eſt eſpeſſe , noiraſtre, ou rougeaſtre, pour vne partie du ſang retenu coulant par icelle , comme ra- conte galien au liure de atra bile. il y a des femmes qui lors qu'elles viennent ſur le poinct que leurs mois veulent couler, ſentent de grandes douleurs aux reins, & trenchées au ventre, à cauſe que leur ſang eſt fort groſſier , qui fait qu'il penetre difficilement par les veines & arteres. les femmes ſe peuuent purger de leurs mois non ſeulement par la matrice, mais auſſi par vomiſſemens,par les vrines,par les hemorrhoides. ie ſçay que ma femme eſtant fille au lieu d'auoir ſes fleurs par le lieu deſtiné de nature,les rendoit par le nez l'eſpace d d'vn an entier:dauantage la femme de pierre le févre vendeur de fer,demeurant à chaſteaudun,les rend par les mammelles auec telle quantité, que tous les mois elle gaſte trois ou quatre ſeruiettes.auſſi rembert do- . donay medecin de l'empereur ceſar en ſes obſeruations medecinales liure . chap. . dit auoir veu vne hiſtoire» fille aagée de ſeize ans, laquelle iettoit ſes fieurs par les yeux , comme gouttes de ſang, en maniere de lar- mes : autres ont auſſi difficulté de reſpirer , triſteſſe ſans cauſe raiſonnable, manie, principalement quand les mois ſont retenus , ou la ſemence ( comme nous auons dit ) quelques-vnes deuiennent podagriques, la cou- leur du viſage liuide, bouffie, blaffarde, & difforme, pareillement tout le corps, & deuiennent flaſques & languiſſantes, appetit perdu , phthiſie, epilepſie , paralyſie , apoplexie : & outre toute cela vn inſatia- ble appetit de venus, parce que toutes les parties de la matrice ſont titillées & eſmeuës du ſang fi putre- fiant, qui y eſt retenu. or ces choſes aduiennent principalement à celles qui ſont oyſiues, & qui viuent copieuſement de viandes, multiplians & eſchauffans le ſang & qui ont faict ceſſation du coyt, & d'en- fanter , auſſi eſtans couſtumierement auec les hommes , deſquels maux, lors qu'il y en a quelqu'vn ja pre- ſent, ou preſt de s'engendrer, il leur faut ayder à prouoquer leurs menſtrués par les choſes propres & de- diées à ce faire, comme nous declarerons bien toſt. or à la femme groſſe, combien que ſes mois luy prognoſtic. ſoient longuement ſupprimez : toutesfois iamais ne luy apportent tel accident ( ou c'eſt bien bien rarement) hºp au.li. parce que de la plus pure partie d'iceux l'enfant eſt nourry en la matrice,& le reſte qui eſt plus gros, & non º mala- gueres corrompu, s'y garde pour ſupporter l'enfant, & ayder à ſ'expulſer hors quand l'heure eſt venuë d'en- º ºº fanter , qui ſe fait par vne grande prouidence de dieu, & de nature. les femmes qui conçoiuent ne ſont # x tant ſujettes aux maladies de la matrice , que celles qui ne conçoiuent , parce que la femme eſtant #, ſet groſſe, ſes vaiſſeaux ſe rempliſſent, puis apres ſe purge mieux de ſes menſtruës : quelquesfois il s'en- §. gendre des vents en la matrice, qui l'enflent & durciſſent, & leurs fleurs ſont retenués, de façon que la - g g g femme - • p ， le vingt-quatriéme liure, - • femme penſe eſtre groſſe & ne l'eſt pas : & quelquesfois fait des vents par le col de la matrice comme par le a ſiege. la femme ayant ſon fiux, a l'appetit perdu, & mange peu, comme dit a eſté par cy-deuant : parce qu'en ce temps-la nature peine & trauaille plus à ietter ſes menſtrués qu'à digerer l'aliment , & fi elleman- geoit comme de couſtume , la viande ne pourroit eftre digerée ; à cette cauſe nature prudente en toutes ſes actions abhorre les viandes. auſſi la femme ayant ſes fleurs, a la couleur palle : par-ce que durant tel flux la chaleur naturelle ſe retire des parties exterieures, aux interieures, pour ayder à expeller tel flux, laquel- le abſente de la face cauſe telle couleur palle. et faut noter que la ſuppuration du ſang menſtrual retenu ze ſang ſe dans les veines : quelquesfois ſe conuertit en matiere purulente. ce qu'hippocrate a eſcrit au liure des pourrit dans maladies des femmes, dont nous pouuons colliger ce qu'on dit vulgairement eſtre faux, que la ſuppura- les veines. tion n'eſt iamais ſans apoſteme & vlceres. galien ſur le commentaire du troiſieſme liure des epidemies, la fºmºº faict mention d'vne femme qui pour la ſupreſſion de ſes fleurs deuint maigre & fort extenuée, palle & pº º ridée, à raiſon de l'impurité du ſang corrompu, laquelle il guarit, & luy fit reuenir ſes mois par frequen- ſº# tes ſaignées. antonius beneuenius au liure i. chap. . dit qu'vne femme eſtoit tourmentée d'vne grande º"ſ* §ui§eſte, à cauſe que ſes mois eſtoient retenus, & les ayans vomis, ſa douleur de teſte fut ceſſée. - - des moyens pour prouoquer le flux menſtrual aux femmes. ch a p. lxii. cecy eſt pris de siluius li- s parquoy pour ſa cure demande euacuation de la matiere qui fait la repletion, & ſe fera en va- ure des mois - l) cuant le ſang , ouurant les veines ſaphenes : mais où il y auroit fort grande plenitude en tout le corps , faudroit premierement ouurir celles des bras, à fin de n'en attirer trop à la les peſſaires $ matrice qui ſeroit cauſe d'y faire plus grande obſtruction : pareillement l'application des ne ſont pro- sº ſangſues au col de la matrice eſt vtile : auſſi les peſſaires, principalement aux femmes & non prº pour les aux filles, car à icelles par honneur & honte virginale les ſuffumigations ſont plus propres que les peſſaires: filles. onguens, ltnimens,emplaſtres, huyles, cataplaſmes appoſez au col de la matrice,ligatures,frictions aux cuiſ- ſes & aux jambes, ventouſes appliquées pres les aiſnes,'& ſur le plat des cuiſſes, clyſteres, parfums, pris per ambotum , faicts de choſes aromatiques, fomentations , ſternutations, equitation , ſauter, cheminer, & autre grand exercice : auſſi ſur tout la compagnie de leurs maris, s'ils ne ſont maleficiez. d'auantage on peut faire receuoir auec vn entonnoir, & cét inſtrument posé dans le col de la matrice, cette euaporation faicte de baies de laurier, genévre, pouliot, thym, aſſa odorata , & autres choſes odoriferantes. et fi c'eſt vne fille, l'euaporation ſuſdite eſt conuenable : auſſi vn petit de cotton trempé en jus de ſabina oud'aluine ou petite centaure, ou bien trempé en fiel de bœuf, & appliqué au col de la matrice en forme denoüet eſt vn ſingulier remede. les herbes & autres choſes qui prouoquent les mois, vt folia & flores hypericonis, , endiuia, chico. radices fœniculi,aſparagi,bruſci,petroſel.berula,baſilic.meliſſa, betonica, allia, cepz, criſta marina, cortex caſſix fiſtula , calament.orig.puleg-artemifia,thymus, hyſſop. ſaluia maiorana, roſmar. marru- bium, ruta,ſabina,tithymallus, crocus, agaricus, fiores ſambuci,bacc.laur.hedera,ſcammo.cantharidpyreth. c euphor. les aromatiques ſont ammo. cinam. iuncus odorat. calamus aromat. cyperus.gingiber, nux moſcat. cariophyl. galanga, piper, cubeb.amb. moſc. ſpica nardi, & autres. et de toutes ces choſes on en peut faire bouillons,bolus,potus,pillules,opiates, ſyrops,apozemes,deſquelles choſes on aura recours au docte mede- cin : toutesfois ie te donneray cét exemple d'apozeme, pource qu'il eſt fort cxperimenté. . folior. & florum dictamni an.p. ij. pimpinel. m. ß.omnium capil. an.p.j. artemiſ. maior.thimi, origan, m. .rad rubix maior. petroſ fœniculan. .j.É. rad. pxonix, biſtort.an. .ſº.cicer. rubror. ſeminis pzoni.feni- cul.an. .É.fiat decoct.in aqua ſufficien. ad fb.j. addendo cinam. .iij. in colat. diſſol. ſyrup.de artemiſ & hyſº les gains ſopan. .j diam abbat. .j.paſſentur per manicam hipp.cum .ij. nucleor. dact. cap. .iiij. pro doſmane.auſſi ſudorifiques on en peut faire bains,parfums, fomentations, iniections,onguent, linimens : peſſaires, ſuppoſitoires,noüets, aident à fai- & autres. exemple d'vn peſſaire : prenez galbanum, ammoniac,& autres ſemblables remollitifs leſquels ſe- re couler les ront mis en patte auec vn pilon dans vn mortier chaud, & en formez peſſaires , leſquels ſeront oincts d'huy- / / , le de iaſnin , ou d'euphorbe, ou de fiel de boeuf, ou de jus d'armoiſe, & d'autres herbes, qui auront ver- tu de prouoquer les mois, mixtionnez auec ſcammonée miſe en pouldre : & ſeront leſdits peſſaires de lon- gueur de fix doigts, plus ou moins, ſelon la corpulence de la femme, & de groſſeur d'vn gros poulce , & enueloppez en lingetlair tiſſu, & ſeront attachez (& principalement les noüets) auec fil,afin qu'on les puiſ- ſe retirer aisément lors qu'on en voudra remettre d'autres. on en pourra pareillement faire de miel cuit, y adiouſtant des pouldres propres, comme ſçamonée & euphorbe, & ne faut pas que tels peſſaires demeu- rent long-temps, de peur qu'ils n'exulcerent la partie. parquoy iceux retirez de bonne heure,faudra fomen- ter l'orifice de l'amarry de vin blanc, auquel auront cuit du pouliot ou matricaria. et icy noteras que ſiles mois ſont ſuprimez par la cloſture de l'orifice de la matrice, ou par inflammation, ou autre mauuaiſe diſ- poſition ou chaleur qui aye eſpeſſi le ſang, ne faut vſer de remedes qui eſpeſſiſſent ou eſchauffent trop, mais qui refroidiſſent & humectent, autrement on eſchaufferoit d'auantage : cela ſera conneu par la couleur & d habitude de la malade. auſſi il faut remedier à tels vices deuant que venir aux remedes qui prouoquent les mois : car autrement on redoubleroit l'inflammation, y attirant d'auantage de ſang : & s'il y a quelque ex- croiſſance de chair, ou calloſité faicte par playe ou vlcere, qui bouſche le col de la matricé, ou quelque membrane née à la bouche d'icelle, ou à l'orifice de ſon col, il faudra premierement oſter les callofitez, & couper les membranes. - hyp de na- tur.mul e, choix de or il faut icy obſeruer vn poinct fort remarquable, c'eſt que quand nous voudrons nous efforcer par art #.. & moyens ſouſnommez à faire auoir les mois aux femmes : il faut choifir le temps propre,ſçauoirle decours ſage de ces de la lune en celles qui ne les ont iamais eu, ou le temps auquel ils ont de couſtume de couler à celles § qui ont ja pluſieurs fois auparauant eu leſdicts mois. car ainſi nous aurons auec l'art & medicamens, na- ture & couſtume aidante à noſtre intention. de-là vient que nous voyons tant ſouuant les medecins ſe tra- uailler en vain à prouoquer les mois aux femmes : car de penſerl les faire couler en temps indeu, ou deuant & apres le temps qu'ils auoient couſtume de les auoir, c'eſt peine perdue : comme ainſi ſoit que les medi- camens n'ont aucune force ſans l'aide de nature. d'auantage apres l'vſage de tels remedes, ne faut enuoyer les femmes aux eſtuues, ny leur faire vſer d'autres choſes qui prouoquent les ſueurs, ſi ce n'eſt que les mois ſoient arreſtez, à raiſon de l'eſpeſſeur, craſſitie, & glutinoſité du ſang : car autrement les ſueurs diuertiſ- ſent la matiere ailleurs , empeſchans par ce moyen le flux menſtruel. ii ſe faut bien garder de donner choſe qui prouoque les mois des femmes groſſes, de peur de les faire auorter, qui ſeroit vn acte damnable & in- humain comme auons dict cy-deuant. •* lff - de la generation. : femmes par les veines & arteres, naiſſans des vaiſſeaux ſpermatiques, finiſſans leur orifice dedans le fond & - -- l- —i- - la ſignes que les mois veulent couler aux femmes & filles. ch a p, lxi v. - a femme aura les mammelles groſſes & endurcies : auſſi eſt titillée & incitée à venus : elle #s a pareillement vn grand prurit aux parties interieures du col de la matrice : parce que le n ， ſang eſt lors eſchauffé, deuient acre, & ſe putrefie s'il n'eſt euacué à heure deue. auſſi tou- # tes les parties genitales ſont eſchauffées & tumefiées : toutesfois ſi la matiere des fleurs eſt #zº%s froide, elle n'appete venus, ne s'y delecte, & ſent en ſa matrice ſtupcur , auec vn decou- | | - d lement d'aquofitez blaffardes : & ſi l'humeur choleric domine,la couleur dudict flux ſera jaul- ne : & ſi c'eſt le ſang, ſera rubiconde & vermeille : auſſi ſi c'eſt la melancholie , ſera gros, noir & plombin. aux filles qui ſont au quatorzieſme an, leurs fleurs commencent à ſortir, à autres à treize, à autres à dou- ze : alors leurs tetins ſe groſſiſſent, poignent, & demangent, & la voix ſe mue plus groſſe, & ſont incitées à venus, & ont douleur aux lumbes, & aux parties genitales, femblablement à la tette, auec vomiſſement de s， sn . signes que les fleurs cä- / / *, c/ f à cholere,on de phlegme,ou tous les deux enſemble : & le ſang de leurs fleurs eſt ſemblable à la laueure d'vne ſortiraux chair ſanglante, parce qu'il eſt encore indigeſte,& non cuit, à cauſe de leur tendre ieuneſſe, & partant eſt ſe- filles. reux, aqueux,& blaffard. et lors qu'elles ſont ja meures & capables d'vn mary,depuis qu'on attend trop à les marier, encores qu'elles rendent leurs fleurs en leurs temps , on void toutesfois qu'elles ſont tourmentées griefvement d'vne defaillance de cœur, & ſuffoquation de matrice , principalement quand elles deuiennent amoureuſes, & ſentent vne chaleur en leurs parties genitales qui leur demangent , titillent & chatoüillent, qui leurs cauſe de ietter leurs ſemences elles ſeules:laquelle demeurant aux vaiſſeaux ſpermatiques,ou en la matrice, ſe corrompt, & ſe tourne en venin (comme auons dit) d'où prouient qu'il s'eſleue des vapeurs pu- tredineuſes aux parties nobles,& en la maſſe ſanguinaire qui altere le ſang,& faict qu'elles ont vn battement & defaillance de cœur, gemiſſent & ſouſpirent,à cauſe que la faculté expultrice eſt incitée à ietter hors cette ſemence ſuperfluë & corrcmpué, & ſont penſiues & chagrineuſes, & fort degouſtées, ayans vne deprauation d'appetit, dit pica, ne peuuent dormir,ont la couleur palie & jaunaſtre baſanée bouffie, & tout le corps ſem- blablement, de ſorte qu'elles ſemblent pluſtoſt mortes que viues , & ſouuent meurent hydropiques, languiſ- ſantes, ou maniaques. donc pour obuier à tels accidens, ie conſeille aux parens & amis de la filie, eſtant en aage & maturité qu'ils la marient à vn homme qui ait dequoy payer : afin qu'il n'abuſe les marchâts : & eſtant ainſi mariée reprendra ſa couleur viue & naturelle,& le teint clair,poly,& delicat,& ſon corps retournera en tierement en ſa bonne habitude. les filles villageoiſes n'ont point ces accidens , ou bien rarement, à raiſon u'elles n'ont les obiects, & muguets, comme celles des villes : & auſſi qu'elles ne mangent & boiuent ſem- blables viandes tant en quantité qu'en qualité : ioinct pareillement qu'elles trauaillent beaucoup , qui leur faict oublier le deſir des hómes : & encor le cas aduenant qu'elles euſſent retention de leur ſemence, le bon air & le grand trauail aſſidu qu'elles prennent , conſomme & tarit cette matiere ſpermatique, corrompue & venimeuſe, tant par ſueur que par inſenſible tranſpiration. que diray-je plus? c'eft qu'il ſe trouue des filles ſi ſucculentes,abondantes grandement en ſang,qu'iceluy regorge aux mammelles , & e conuert,t en laict, & le peuuent faire rayer comme font les nourrices, à cauſe que les mammelles ont vne vertu lactifiante : ce qui ſe peut prouuer par hipp. qui dit que fi la femme n'eſt point groſſe & n'a point enfante, a du laict, c'eſt ſi- mammelles eſtans exangues & blanches conuertiſſent ce ſang menſtruel qui y regorge,en humeur ſemblable à elles en couleur. semblablement valeſcus de tarante medecin , dict auoir veu vne fille laquelle n'auoit ſes mois, auoir du laict aux mammelles. icy ne ſera hors de propos ce que cardan dit auoir veu à gennes vn siluius liaré des mois. accidës qui viennent aux femmes faurc d'auoir leurs fleurs. les remedes • auons cy- deuant de- . clare k luy ſeront auſſi faits. les filles peu« f . / f t r dte l»ict aux c gne que ſes mois ſont ſuppriméz : & ſur le cómentaire de cét apho, galien dit pour ce que les glandules des º aph . . antoine bu- nommé antoine buſe aagé de tréte ans, lequel auoit du laict en ſes mammelles aſſez ſuffiſamment pour nour- ſe auoir du rir vn enfant,& ne couloit pas ſeulement, mais le faiſoit rayer ainſi que faict vne nourrice de ſes manmelles, la a aux ledict valeſcus de tarante medecin,affirme qu'on a veu vn homme (ſa femme eſtant decedée) allaicter ſon enfant & le nourrir : qui eſtoit vne choſe admirable. ce qui eſt confirmé par ariſtot.liu. . chap. .lors qu'il parle du laict des hommes : parquoy ne faut pas toufiours conclurre qu'vne fille ayant du laict aux mammel- les ſoit groſſe, ou qu'elle ait enfanté,veu qu'vn homme auſſi en peut bien auoir. la raiſon eſt, que le laict ſon origine & cauſe efficiente de l'action de la ſemence virile : comme il ſe peut prouuer de ce que quelques hommes en ont,& de ce qu'ordinairement les femmes n'en ont point,qu'elles n'ayent c ceu par la reception de l'action de la ſemence du maſle. parquoy les filles maſculiniſantes, comme dit hippocrate aux liures de tieta, c'eſt à dire, qui ſont de nature forte & virile, ayans pareillement la ſemence virile, peuuent auoir du laiôt ſans auoir eu connoiſſance d'homme, auſſi bien que les hommes maſles en peuuent auoir, comme de- duict cardan expliquant l'aphoriſme ſus-allegué. or maintenant nous retournerons à noſtre propos, & di- rons que pendant que les femmes ont leur fiux,elles ſentét le corps peſant & mal-aiſé: aucunes iettent beau- coup de ſang,les autres peu,ſelon leur téperature,& les alimés dont elles ſont nourries & l'exercice qu'elles font,& pareillement ſelon leur aage. celles qui les ont couſtumierement en petite quantité, ce ſont les graſ- ſes,à cauſe qu'elles ont les veines eſtroittes,& par conſequent peu de ſang,lequel s'employe à la graiſſe(com- me auons dit cy-deſſus.) a peu de femmes leurs purgations s'eſmeuuent tous les mois ſans y faillir, mais à d pluſieurs il ſe fait intermiſſion. celles qui ont leur flux tout à la fois à ſçauoir,quatre ou cinq iours luyuans, font plus heureuſes, & ſe portent mieux que celles à qui il vient peu à peu, & à pluſieurs iours. - - - - - •- les accidens qui viennent au flux de ſang menſtruelimmoderé. c h a p. lxv. $mg o n t appetit perdu, toute concoction debile, & refrigeration de tout le corps, & les ver- # tus proſternées , decoloration & amaigriſſement, enfieures aux jambes, hydropiſie, fiévre # hectique, defaillance de cœur, conuulſion, ſpaſme , & quelquesfois la mort bien ſoudaine. # si le flux eſt faict par humeur chaud & acre, ſera fetide & de mauuaiſe odeur & couleur, # eſtant touſiours accompagne d'vne fiévre,& ſouuent vlceres aux genciues,& autres parties de º la bouche:la langue ſera aride & ſciche, pour les vapeurs putrides & malignes qui montent en haut, & pour ces cauſes faut y preuoir par les moyens qui ſeront dicts § les menſtruës fluent aux coſtez de la matrice : mais aux vierges & femmes groſſes (ſi l'enfant eſt ſain) les mois fluent par les rameaux de la veine & artere hypogaſtrique, qui ſe rejettent & ramifient au col de la matrice. ce qui aduient quand le ſang peche en quantité ou qualité, ou tous deux enſemble, ou par coit exceſſif, ou par ce que la verge vi- vle eſt trop enorme en grandeur & groſſeur , ou l'imbecillite de la vertu retentrice des vaiſſeaux , & la mammelles. prognoſtic. par quels vaiſ caux les femmes groſ- force ſes & filles iett ent leur mois. le vingt-quatriéme liure, signes pour cognoiſtre de quelle part ſert le ſang. alimens pro- $ pres à eſtan- $ cher vn flux de ſang ex- «eſſif. zs boire. le dormir eſt ſalubre pour vn flux de ſang. onguent. iniection. peſſaires le flux ſera cogneu par eroſion s'il coule goutte à goutte. flux men- ſtrual. force de l'expultrice. quelquesfois auſſi ledit flux exceſſif vient apres vn enfantement, coulant des cotyle- a dons,ou orifices des vaiſſeaux, où eſtoit attaché l'arriere-faix contre les parois de la matrice. dauantage autresfois vient du col de la matrice pour auoir eſté trop violentement dilatée à l'iſſue de l'enfantement, de façon que telles veines & arteres ont eſte par tel effort dilacerees & rompues il vient auſſi de l'vſage des medicamens acres & aperitifs comme de peſſaires. or tel flux ſe cognoiſtra ( s'il vient de la matrice) par-ce qu'il ſera plus gros & plus noir, & qu'il ſort par trombes & caillons , & s'il vient du col d'icelle il viendra autrement. tel fiux vient auſſi par vne criſe, lequel ne faut promptement reſtreindre : ny pa- reillement quand il y a au corps trop grande abondance de ſang. - - »- les moyens d'arreſter le flux menſtrual exceſſif ch a p. lxvi. ，ſi r e m e r e m e n t par la maniere de viure , à ſçauoir manger & boire alimens, qui ont # vertu d'engroſſir & eſpeſſir le ſang , car tout ainſi que ledict fiux eſt continué & augmenté par choſes chaudes & de tenuë ſubſtance auſſi eſt il arreſté par choſes froides, ſtiptiques groſſes, & aſtringentes,comme ſont orge mondé cuit auec ris, gigouteaux de veau, tru- ， meaux de bœuf, pieds de mouton , de veau, chappons cuits auec ozeille, pourpié, verjus | -- de grain, laictué, renoüee, plaintain, bource de paſteur : ſuc de prunelles , ia ſommité de ronces , eſpine vinette, ſumac & autres ſemblables : ſi on ne peut trouuer del'vn, on prendra de l'autre. la corne de cerf bruſlée & lauée,donnée à boire auec eau aſtringente eſt propre pour arreſter ledit flux,enſem- ble le fiux de ventre,s'il y en auoit : auſſi ſang de dragon,terre ſigillée, bol fin, pierre hematiſte, coral, ſubtilement pulueriſez , & donnez à boire auec les eaux aſtringentes ou ferrées. .. on peut donner ſalades d'oranges, citrons, limons , auec ſuccre & eau roſe. pareillement eſt vne choſe ſinguliere bouillir du laict ferré auec acier,puis cuit auec farine de fourment, ou amydon,ou d'orge, ou de feves,ou de ris,pareillement coings,cormes,nefles,& corniolles. le boire ſera eau cuitte & ferrée par pluſieurs fois,puis mixtionnée aued- ques ſyrops,côme de roſes ſeiches,aceteux,de grenade,myrtille,de coings,ou vieille côſerue de roſes. il faut euiter le vin, ſi les vertus le peuuent porter & la couſtume : ſi non il faut qu'il ſoit petit, gros, & aſtringent, & trempé en eau ferrée. sur tout faut euiter le coit : auſſi le trauail, la deſcente des degrez, les dances, par- ce que non ſeulement elles eſmeuuent le ſang, mais lauſſi l'attirent enbas : ſemblablement le courroux,l'air chaud : & partant en eſté la chambre ſera rectifiée par choſes ſroides. le dormir eſt ſalubre : auſſi par ſe- ction de veines aux bras , application de ventouſes ſous les mammelles, & à coſté du nombril , ſans oublier pareillement les frictions & ligatures douloureuſes faites aux parties ſuperieures. que ſi tel flux eſt cauſé d'vn humeur bilieux , acre & ſereux , il faudra premierement auoir eſgard à ce ſymptome par medicamens qui ayent vertu de purger la bile & les ſeroſitez : quels ſont la rheubarbe, les myrabolans, les tamarins , les ſe beſtes, le ſyrop de roſes laxatif. - \ :- les remedes particuliers qu'on doit appliquer en la matrice pour eſtancher le flux de ſang immoderé. ch a p. lxv ii. n peut appliquer onguens, iniections & peſſaires. exemple d'vn onguent duquel en ſera frot- tée la region des reins. l. olei maſtic. & myrr. an. .ij. ſucci roſar. rubrar. .j.pul.maſt .ij. nucum cupreſſi, olibani, myrtill. an. .ij.bol.armen.terrx ſigil. an. .É. cerx alb. quant, ſuff. fiat vngnentum ad vſum. et apres qu'on en aura frottè les reins on mettra vne ſeruiette deſ- ſus trempée en oxycrat : & ledict remede ſera reiteré ſouuentesfois. exemple d'vne injection - ºf qu'on jettera en la matrice. . aqu. plantag, & roſar. aq burſ. paſt. & centinod an. fb.É. cortic. querc. nuc. cupreſſ gal. non maturaran. .ij. berber ſumac, balauſt alum. roch. an. .j. fiat decoct. de laquelle en ſera faite injection auec vne aſſez groſſe ſeringue, tenant bonne quantité d'injection, qui aura en #º vn bouton , craignant de bleſſer les parois du col de la matrice , laquelle t'a eſté figurée cy-deſſus. • aucuns tiennent que les limaçons à coquille bien broyez,& appliquez ſur le nombril, arreſtent le flux im- petueux menſtruel.les coings cuits ſous la braiſe, incorporez auec poudre de myrtils & bol armene, appli- quez dans le col de la matrice,profitent grandemët en forme de peſſaire. exemple d'vn autre peſſaire.% pul. gall. immatur.combuſt.& in aceto extinct. . ij. amo. .ſº.ſang drac.pulu. radic. ſymphit. ſumac. maſt. ſucci acac cornu cerui vſti,coloph myrr.ſcoria ferran. .j.camph. .ij.miſce,& incorporentur omnia ſimulcum ſuc- co centinod. ſemperuiui,ſolani,hyoſcy. nenuph.plantag. an. quantum ſuff. fiat peſſar. l'on doit pareillement faire application de choſes froides par dehors ſur les reins, cuiſſes & autour des parties genitales, comme oxycrat, vnguent roſat , & autres ſemblables , comme nous auons dict cy-deſſus. or ſi le flux venoit par eroſion, & que la matiere d'iceluy euſt vlceré le col de la matrice, on appliquera laict d'aſneſſe auec orge mundé , ou mucilages aſtringens , comme pſyliij, cydoniorum, gummi tragachant. & arab. & autres ſem- blables. - - du flux muliebre , ou fleurs blanches. ch a p. l xv i ii. v t r e le flux naturel il s'en faict vn autre, appellé flux muliebre, parce quil eſt propre # & particulier aux femmes , qui leur eſt à d'aucunes vne longue & continuelle diſtillation, & % quaſi ſans douleur, qui vient de la matrice : & par icelle ſe purge l'abondance des ſuperflui- @ tez de tout le corps , ainſi que quelquefois ſe fait par les reins : aux autres il ſe faict parin- terualle, & eſt tel flux fort douloreux , principalement lors que la matrice eſt vlcerée. or ，/vè ] l/ae à cedit flux eſt different du flux menſtrual, de la gonorrhée ou flux de ſemence, de la chaude- piſſe, & de ce"uy qui ſort des vlceres de la matrice, quand à la purgation menſtruale, le ſang loüable en peu de iours fiue autant qu'il en doit eſtre vuidé : mais au flux muliebre, le ſang qui ſort eſt corrompu, & de couleur quelquesfois rouge , qui eſt vne ſanie de ſang meſme quelquesfois ſereux & liuide, autresfois blanc & eſpais comme vn colis d'orge-mondé, autres-fois jaunaſtre , causé le plus ſouuent de ſang phleg- matique.qu'il ſoit vray, tel fiux aduient plus ſouuent aux femmes phlegmatiques & qui on la chair mol. laſſe, qu'aux autres, & eſt nommé d'elles , fleurs blanches. - o / t d - de la generation , or le flux de la gonotthee ou de ſemence, eſt beaucoup different : il eſt toufiours blanchaſtre, & porte a ſubit vn amaigriſſement & grande foibleſſe, auec vne mauuaiſe couleur à tout le corps, encore qu'au ſortir il excite quelque petite titillation de volupté. les femmes le jettent ſouuent par leur matrice , laquelle ma- tiere eſt crue & ſereuſe , & ſort en petite quantité , non aſſiduellement ny tous les iours , mais ſeulement par interualle, & n'eſt nullement puant ny acre. jceluy aduient aux femmes luxurieuſes, & aux vefues qui ſe ſont long-temps abſtenu du coit. la matiere ſanieuſe purulente & blancheaſtre, qui ſort des vlceres de la matrice, eſt auſſi differente des fleurs blanches. car les fleurs blanches ſont plus liquides, ſereuſes, & aqueuſes : & auſſi moins blanches & moins fetides : joinct auſſi qu'elles fluent en plus grande quantité, que le pus qui vient és vlceres de la ma- trice. dauantage eſdits vlceres il y a douleur, en ſorte que la femme ne peut endurer l'habitation de ſon mary, & aux fleurs blanches ne ſent nulle, ou petite douleur. le flux de la chaude-piſſe prouient d'vne virulence venerienne, qui flué inceſſament comme les fleurs blanches , mais d'vne matiere plus eſpeſſe, tantoſt blancheaſtre, tantoſt rougeaſtre, ou verdoyante, acre ou corrodante, & puante qui toſt excite vlcere aux parties honteuſes , qui deſcend des vaiſſeaux ſpermatiques» & non des veines, qui font ffuer les menſtrues & fleurs blanches. tel fiux de chaude-piſſe ne ceſſe point à la venue du ſang menſtrual , mais il perſeuere deuant, & auec luy, & apres : au contraire des fleurs blanches, qui ceſſent à l'eruption des mois,& quelque peu de temps apres. le flux de chaude-piſſe fait douleur & cui- ſon, eſt puant , & coule quelquesfois en grande quantité, & eſt de couleur verdoyante ou jaunaſtre aux hommes fait eriger la verge, qui leur cauſe grande douleur , principalement en piſſant : ce quine ſe fait au flux des fleurs blanches. or la matiere de tels flux ſera cogneue par la couleur, comme ſi c'eſt cholere , ou pituite, ou melancholie, les linges ſeront teints de l'humeur qui abonde en iceluy : ſi c'eſt ſang pur , faut eſtimer que tel flux vient par eroſion ou par debilitation des vaiſſeaux de la matrice ou de ceux de ſon col. rarement tel flux ſe fait de matiere ſanguine, ſçauoir lors ſeulement que les femmes ſont groſſes , ou que leurs mois ſont arreſtez : car en lieu de ſang menſtrual ſort vn excrement ſereux , lequel rougit aucunement ainſi que feroit vne eau teinte & meſlée de quelque peu de ſang : fort rarement ſe fait auſſi tel flux d'humeur melancholic , ou s'il ſe fait eſt incontinent excité vn cancer en l'vterus : quelquesfois la matiere qui ſort de quelque vlcere caché dans l'vterus,abuſe le medecin & chirurgien,penſant que ce ſoient fleurs blanches & muliebres,toutesfois ces deux affections ſont aisées à diſtinguer:car la matiere qui fiue d'vn vlcere eſtant pu- rulente eſt plus craſſe, fetide & blanche,& en moindre quantité que celle qui prouient du flux muliebre. en outre telles femmes ne peuuent endurer la compagnie de l'homme ſans grande douleur, ſi principalement l'vlcere eſt au col de l'amarry : mais en ſon corps non. madamoiſelle de chalange de bretagne, ayant quel- ques fleurs blanches vint à paris pour auoir conſeil des medecins,& eſtre deliurée de ce flux, eſperant qu'a- pres en eſtre guarie elle auroit des enfans. or quelques iours apres il luy ſuruint vne grande douleur de co- ſté,accompagnée d'vne fiévre. meſſieurs le grand, duret, & rebours docteurs en medecine furent appel- lez, eſtans aſſemblez fut conclud qu'elle auoit vne pleureſie coniointe d'vne peripneumonie. en ce temps-là elle auoit ſes fleurs,neantmoins luy fut ordonné vn clyſtere & la ſaignée, qu'elle refuſa tout à plat. le iour d'apres qui eſtoit le ſeptiéme iour, & parce que les accidens croiſſoient , elle fut ſaignée. monſieur duret la venoit voir deux fois le iour,&dit que s'il luy ſuruenoit douleur de teſte auec prurit,qu'elle mourroit:& que cela aduenant il ſe feroit tranſport de la matiere des poulmons , à la teſte. le iour ſuiuant la douleur & de- mangeaiſon de teſte luy ſuruiendrent, & peu d'heures apres mourut. quatre ou cinq iours apres, monſieur rebours, viard, & moy nous ouuriſmes vn preſtre,lequel mourut d'vne pleureſie & peripnumonie ;auquel c ſuruint vne douleur de teſte:nous voulûmes voir ſi le prognoſttic cy-deſſus auoit lieu,&s'il ſe ſeroit fait trans- lation de la matiere du pleura au cerueau. apres auoir ouuert le crane nous le trouuaſme tout remply de pus, entre la pie-mere & le cerueau, comme en la damoiſelle ſuſdite. cauſes des fleurs blanches. c h a p. lxi x. º e s cauſes des fieurs blanches viennent ſouuent par la debiliation de la concoction de l'eſto- #s mach, ou de tout le corps, & de grande triſteſſe, ou pour autoir vsé trop de viandes crues & , phlegmatiques. le cours de ces fleurs, combien qu'elles ſoient blanches, conſerue le corps en ſanté, pourueu qu'iceluy ſoit moderé, à ſçauoir, qu'il ne ſoit trop grand ny trop petit, & n'aye nulle acrimonie:autrement tel flux engédre debilitation & laſſitude vniuerſelle de tout -- z . le corps, couleur palle, l'appetit abbatu, atrophie ou amaigriſſement de tout le corps , tri- ſteſſe, qui ne ſe peut appaiſſer pour la vergogne du decoulement d'vn tel flux, tumeurs œdemateuſes aux $s jambes , & fait à d'aucunes deſcendre la matrice en bas, ce que nous auons par cy-deuant appellé, precipi- tation de la matrice. tel flux empeſche la conception, parce qu'il corrompt la ſemence , ou la contraint de ſortir en s'eſcoulant: auſſi quelquesfois acquiert vne acrimonie, pour auoir demeuré cinq ou ſix mois ſans eſtre euacuée, lequel s'apoſteme au corps de la matrice ou au col d'icelle,& acquiert pourriture, laquelle eſt flux de la gonorrhée ou ſemence. flux des vl- ceres de la matrice. flux de la chaude piſſe, hiſtoire. braue pro- gnoſtis, pregnoſtic. - ſouuent jetté hors,qui cauſe vlceres putrides & chancreux- a aucunes femmes ſe font apoſtemes aux aines & . hanches, qui ſont ſouuent cauſe de leur mort, & le plus ſouuent pour ne s'eſtre monſtrées & declarées aux medecins & chirurgiens en temps opportun, pour honte & vergogne qu'elles ont à monſtrer leur mal.a ce propos montanus recite cette hiſtoire, qu'vne fois entre autrés, il fut appellé pour voir vne noble damoiſel- le d'italie, laquelle auoit des fleurs blanches, & ayant cogneu ſon mal, luy ordonna qu'elle ſe fiſt ſeringuer, & deterger ſa matrice:ce qu'ayant entendu ladite damoiſelle tomba en ſyncope, & pria ſon mary de non ia- mais l'appeller. et partant les maladies de la matrice ſont difficiles à connoiſtre, & difficiles à curer : car la matrice reçoit la plus grande part des ſuperfluitez de tout le corps, tant pource qu'elle eſt partie debile, que pource qu'elle eſt ſituée en bas', & apluſieurs vaiſſeaux qui aboutiſſent en ſoy, & dauantage eſt naturel- lement ſujette à purgations & fiuxions. - - cure du flux muliebre, ou fleurs blanches. cha p. lxx. - \# flux muliebre rouge, il faut ſaigner & faire les autres choſes qui ont eſté declarées pour arreſter - ll . $ le flux menſtrual immodere ; & au blanc, ou d'autre couleur,faut purger par remedes propres: $n. comme s'il eſt causé de cholere, par medicamens propres à icelle, & ainſi des autres humeurs. les remedes ſeront changez & diuerfifiez ſelon la cauſe d'celuy fiux, lequel faut laiſſer couler quelque peu de temps, afin que la matrice » & tout le corps ſe purge des humeurs ſuperabondans. les bains "† ulphurez, * º * autrehiſtoi- º, saignés. bains artiſi• ciels. le vingt-quatriéme liure, ſulphurez, ou bitumineux, ou ferrez, ſont propres à celuy qui eſt cauſe de pituite, ou en lieux d'iceux faut faire vne decoction d'herbes chaudes aromatiques & deſiccatiues, de laquelle ſera fait baing, jettant dedans pluſieurs pierres & cailloux ardàns,& quelque portion d'alum,afin de le rendre plus aſtringent. et le remede plus excellent que l'on tient, c'eſt de boire des eaux minerales de spa au liege , ou de plombiere, leſquels ont vertu admirable de tarir les fleurs blanches & chaudes-piſſes. toutesfois ſe faut bien garder d'arreſter trop toſt tels flux par medicament repercuſſifs & aſtringens, de peur de faire réuoy de cette matiere au foye qui ſeroit cauſe d'hypropiſie,ou quelque fiévre,ou apoſteme,ou maladie au cerueau,ouchancre à la matrice, ou autres accidens : dont apres les choſes vniuerſelles deuement faites,on vſera de remedes qui auront puiſ- ſance d'aſtraindre,nettoyer & ſecher la matrice,& le col d'icelle,auec injections,peſſaires,parfums,& autres. exemples d'vne decoction & iniection deterſiue & deſiccatiue. z. flor. abſint. agrimon. centinod. burſ. paſtor. an m.É. bulliant ſimul, & fiat decoct.in qua diſſol.mellis roſ. .ij.aloes,myrt.ſalis nitrian. .j & fiat iniectio. la femme ſera ſituée en vn lict,auquel ſera vn matelas,& a ura quelque oreiller ſous ſes feſſes,en ſorte que le col de la matrice ſoit eſleué en haut & apres auoir faict l'iniection, pour la faire demeurer quelque temps, on fera croiſer les cuiſſes & jambes de la malade,les ſer- rant l'vne contre l'autre, & flechies vers les feſſes : & ſi on veut plus aſtreindre & ſeicher, on adiouſtera cho- ſe propre à ce faire,comme ſuccus acacix,gall.virid.cortex gr.alumen. roch. vitriol. roman.bouillis en eau de remedes mareſchal & vin noir & auftere. on peut ſemblablement faire des peſſaires ayans ſemblable vertu. or ſi les pour l'vlcere matieres qui ſortent de la matrice, ſont fort fetides & puantes,& de mauuaiſe couleur , elles ſignifient qu'il de l'amary. y a vlcere putride:alcrs on doit vſer des remedes qui ont puiſſance de corriger tel vice,comme egyptiac(du- quel i'ay fait mention en mon traicté des †) diſſoult en lexiue ou vin noir, y adjouſtant vn peu d'eau de vie,& faire tout autre choſe neceſſaire en tel cas. dauantage aucunes bonnes dames diſent qu'el- les ont leurs fleurs blanches (qui eſt vne gonorrhée ou chaude-piſſe) jettans grande quantité de matiere pu- rulente,commme au flux muliebre, auſquelles le chirurgien,outre les autres ſuſdits remedes pourra ayder:& s'il connoiſt que ledit flux ou vlcere fuſſent cauſe de la verole, alors faudroit faire ſuer & bauer ladite dame, ou autrement ne pourroit guarir. pareillement ſera posé en ſa matrice vn inſtrument en forme de peſſaire, ayant certains petits trous en ſon extremité, afin que les matieres s'eſcoulent, & n'acquierent acrimonie, & que la matrice ſoit vn peu eſuentillée, & aucunement refroidie par le benefice d'vn reſſort qui-le tiendra ou- uert. maintenant il nous faut traicter des palles couleurs. des palles couleurs. c h a p. lxx i. )uand les o v s auons dict cy-deuant que le ſang menſtrual commence à apparoiſtre aux filles ja filles cömen- # meures, commençans à ſentir leur cœur, & deuenir amoureuſes , & eſtre capables d'eſtre cent à auoir # mariées, & porter enfans, qui eſt en l'aage de quatorze, quinze, & ſeize ans : qui eſt lors leurs mois. ſg que le ſang s'eſchauffe & boüillonne dedans les veines , & monte aux mammelles, qui les # font enfier & durcir. semblablement le poil follet commence à apparoiſtre autour de leurs $>>>rns parties genitales, qui lors ſont chaudes & tumefiées : leur voix ſe muë & deuient plus gra- ue : elles ſentent douleur à la teſte, auec vomiſſement de cholere & pituite. le ſang de leurs fleurs vientà ſortir goutte à goutte,, ſemblable en couleur à la laueur de chair ſanglante, parce qu'il n'eſt encore bien cuit, le ſang mé- à cauſe de leur tendre ieuneſſe, qui fait qu'il eſt ſereux, aqueux & blaffard. on void aduenir de grands ac- # cidens par la retention de leurs fleurs, & encore plus grands, ſi par l'irritation de la copulation charnelle ieunes filles elles ne rendent leur ſemence. car eſtant retenue ſe corrompt & acquiert venenoſité, d'où procedent les eſt blaffard. palles couleurs. or à d'aucunes le ſang menſtrual ne s'eſcoule, à cauſe que les vaiſſeaux, à ſçauoir veines & cauſe de re- arteres, ſont anguſtes & eftroits, & encore non deſtoupez : fi que ne pouuant ſortir regorge en la maſſe tention des ſanguinaire qui s'altere & corrompt, faute d'eſtre euacué, & toute l'habitude du corps ne peut eſtre bien / / . nourrie, dont ſe fait leucophlegmatie, qui fait le corps tout bouffy, & la couleur du viſage baſanée & bla- accidens farde : c'eſt pourquoy on les appelle palles couleurs. dont enſuiuent pluſieurs maladies & accidens, com- me battement de cœur, bourſoufleure, appetit corrompu, nausée, vomiſſemens, friſſons, rigueurs, ſouſpirs, vomiſſemens, ris, reſueries , eſuanouiſſemens, fiévres lentes & erratiques, veilles & autres accidens. - - r - • - - - - - a- du battement de cœur. c h a p. l xxii. cauſe du ©z e battement de cœur vient des grandes cruditez de l'eſtomach , & des obſtructions du lbattement # foye & ratelle , dont s'amaſſent grande quantité d'humeurs groſſiers & vaporeux , deſquels de cœur. # s'eſleuent pluſieurs flatuoſitez melancholiques, qui enuironnent le cœur, meſmes ſont con- tenus au pericarde, qui cauſe le battement : qui n'eſt autre choſe qu'vne concuſſion du cœur, pour mieux ſecoüer , & comme vne eſcouſſe qu'il prend pour mieux faire ſauter & bondir ssê loing de ſoy telle venenoſité & ordure,ſautelant par l'effort de la faculté expultrice,que na- ture luy a donnée comme à partie tres-noble pour ſe depeſtrer & deſuelopper d'vn nuage ſi odieux. pour y curt. donner ordre, faut prendre de l'eau theriacale, ou de l'eau de meliſſe, ou de bugloſſe, où l'on aura diſſout vn peu de theriaque. - - - - - - •m- de bourſoufleure. ch a p. lx x ii i. que c'eſt que ? ,?，g o v r s o v r l e v r e eſt ce que les grecs appellent cachexie , c'eſt à dire, mauuaiſe beurſoufleu- '. # habitude, en laquelle la charnure des parties qui ſont autour des os, eſt remplie d'aquo- é<è&? ſitez & de ventoſitez, & le cuir eſt laſche & mollaſſe, & de mauuaiſe couleur, comme en- # tre blanc & verdaſtre, & tout le corps las & debile , ne ſe pouuant ſouſtenir, accompagné à d'vne courte haleine. ce mal eſt comme auant-coureur d'hydropiſie. cette diſpoſition " vient à cauſe que le foye ne fait bien ſa ſanguification pour eſtre refroidy,& ſa chaleur natu- relle comme noyée & eſtouffée en l'abondance du ſang qui luy remonte de l'amarry : comme la lumiere a b d de - - - - - - #. d'vne lampe, qui eſt amortie par effuſion de trop d'huyle. vient auſſi d'vne dureté de rare, à laquelle les vier- ' , ges ſont ſuiectes , à cauſe qu'elles ne ſe purgent point par leurs fleurs, comme auſſi par mauuaiſe nourriture, . c re. de trop boire de l'eau froide, ou manger fruicts cruds, & autres viandes de pareille nature. pour la cure faut prouoquer les mois. - df de la generation. : -- - - - - de l'appetit corrompu & depraué. c h a p. l xx i v. e s filles qui ont les palles couleurs , ont l'appetit non moins corrompu que les femmes pies groſſes:lequel accident les latins nomment pica,ou malacia, c'elt à dire,langueur,laſcheté, - & moleſſe,par laquelle deſgouſtées de ce qui leur eſt preſenté,appetent toute autre choſe, meſmement du tout eſtrange & aliené de nature. car aucunes mangent le plaſtre, cendre, terre,charbons,farine,ſel, eſpiceries, & autres choſes non propres à manger : boiuent vi- - naigre tout pur , ce qui les rend ainſi desbauchées, & deſcontenancées, tant pource que e=e i leur ſang eſt corrompu par ſuppreſſion, que pource qu'elles ſe nourriſſent mal : qui fait o u le qu'elles ne peuuent auoir ny ſang , ny eſprits,ny force valide. telle affectiongiſt en l'orifice de l'eſtomach # » lequel appette alimens ſemblables aux humeurs qu'il contient, & deſquels il s'eſt faict diſſipation car nour- d'appeiit. riture n'eſt autre choſe que repletion de ce qui s'eſt vuidé. dont tels appetits eſtranges viennent aux filles qui ont leurs mois retenus, qui regorgent à l'eſtomach, & y enuoyent vapeurs ſemblables, ou humeurs, ou excremens corrompus. comme s'il y a quelque humeur melancholic naturel , efpandu à l'eſtomach , la fille aura appetit de choſes aigres : ſi celuy meſme deuient aduſte, deſirera viandes ſeiches ſemblables aux ſuſdi- tes. or le ſang menſtrual tient beaucoup de l'humeur melancholic, & aisément ſe tourne en iceluy, qui eſt cauſes que ſouuent elles appetent choſes ſallées : pource que tel humeur de ſa nature eſt groſſier, faculent, cure. ord, & immonde. pour la cure, il faut prouoquer les mois & vomiſſemens, qui ſont cauſes de tels accidens. vomitoires. le vomiſſement ſera prouoqué auec decoction tiede de graine de raue, & eau tiede, auec huyle , & autres ſemblables vomitoires. de nausée & vomiſſement. c h a p. lxx v. a nausée & vomiſſement vient de meſme cauſe que l'appetit depraue & degouſtement, à ſçauoir cauſe dº de l'vſage de mauuaiſes viandes, & de la regurgitation des excremens menſtruaux, ou des vapeurs nausée. putrides eſleuées d'iceux en l'eſtomach. partant il faut purger l'humeur qui eſt attaché en l'orifice cure de interieur du ventricule, ou adherant contre les tuniques d'iceluy, auec piilules ou potion de rheu-nausée. barbe, ayant premierement donné quelque breuuage propre pour inciſer & attenuer l'humeur auec ſyrop aceteux ou oxymel. d'auantage faut prouoquer le vomiſſement, qui guarira iceluy vomiſſement par euacua- tion de la matiere, qui de qualité maligne irritoit la faculté excretrice à excretion par en haut : mais en vain toutesfois,ou pour le moins ſans grand & ſuffiſant effect. que ſi tel vomiſſement ſe rend effrené & impe- tueux, faut appliquer vne ventouſe vn peu plus bas que l'eſtomach , à fin de l'arreſter : meſmes faut frotter & lier les extremitez. # # w - - - des friſſons & rigueurs. ch a p. l xxv i. e s filles ne pouuans auoir leurs mois, quelquesfois ſentent des friſſons & rigueurs ou horreurs canſe des aux lumbes,& par toute l'eſpine du dos, & au derriere de la teſte. ce qui leur aduient de la ma- # &» trice refroidie par les mois retenus nouuellement , & non encore corrompus : parce que la ma- rigueurs. trice qui eſt membraneuſe & nerueuſe, communique facilement ſa froideur vniuerſellement au * pannicule charneux,mais principalement aux lumbes,& à toute l'eſpine du dosstant pource que telles parties ſont fort ſenſibles, que pource qu'elles ſont tres froides, attendu qu'elles ſont nerueuſes, mem- braneuſes, & oſſeuſes. & en outre fort voiſines & contigués à la partie , c'eſt a dire à l'amarry, où ſe fait la corruption du ſang menſtruel. tels accidens ſe peuuét corriger par application de linges chauds,& onction d'huyle laurin, ou autre ſemblable,ou auec eau de vie, & frotter toute l'eſpine du dos.il ſera bon de donner à boire de l'hippocras, ou maluoiſie, ou de l'eau de vie où l'on aura diſſout vn peu de theriaque, & vn peu de e quinte-eſſence de muguette ou clou de girofle. - - des ſouſpirs, gemiſſemeus, & ris. - c h a p. lxxv i i. - #ºq e s mois retenus, à la longue ſe conuertiſſent en excrement melancholique, principalement cauſe des $) e aux filles qui ſont de tel temperament,qui leur cauſe vne triſteſſe,chagrin,ſouſpirs frequens, ſouſpirs. # pour la compreſſion du diaphragme à raiſon du ſang retourné au foye plus plein que de cauſe des # couſtume, & des vapeurs eſleuées : des pleurs & gemiſſemens, à raiſon des vapeur melan- º É$# choliques qui oppriment le cœur. i'ay veuvne bien grande dame qui pleuroit ſouuent fans ºſº cauſe, & s'enfermoir en ſa chambre pour mieux plorer. autres ſe prennent à rire ſans aucu- - - - ne occaſion, ce qui aduenoit à deux filles que ie ne veux icy nommer : car eſtans ſubjectes à vne ſuffocation ººrehiſtºi* d'amarry, à raiſon des mois arreſtez, ordinairement vne ou deux heures deuant que l'accez les prinſt,elles ſe * mettoient à rire ſi effusément, que ny les remonſtrances amiables , ny la honte & crainte de leur parens ne les pouuoient deſtourner & engarder. mais eſt bien plus admirable le faict d'vne certaine dane qui en pareil * accident eſtoit ordinairement ſurpriſe de reſuerie, ris , pleurs , contraction des yeux, & autres ſymptomes contraires les vns aux autres,comme raconte houlier en ſon traitté de la ſuffoquation vterine. pour obuier à tels accidens,faut leur prouoquer leurs mois,& les purger : auſſi qu'ils ayent compagnie joyeuſe, & qu'on joüe d'inſtrumens de muſique. - - - des reſueries, cha p. lxxv iii. #ee# o n ſeulement la regurgitation du ſang menſtrual , mais auſſi les vapeurs, les mois retenus, cºſ** #i eſleuées iuſqu'au cerueau , par les veines & arteres, quelquesfois infectent tellement le cer reſueries. ueau de leur puanteur & malignité , que ſa ſubſtance en eſt eſtourdie & abrutie, & ſes fonctions abolies & deprauées , ou corrompués , non ſeulement en imagination, mais auſſi en memoi- re & ratiocination : dont ſuruiennent plufieurs ſortes de reſueries, non ſeulement pour la di- uerſité des parties du cerueau engagées,mais auſſi pour la diuerſité de la pourriture : qui faict que # telles h h h ciiliilcs le vingt-quatriéme liure, • | femmes & filles, les aucunes rient ſans occaſion, autres ſont triſtes qui ne ceſſent de plorer , comme nous a auons dict cy-deſſus, autres furieuſes qui ſe veulent eſtrangler , & ſe jettent dedans les puits, ou par les fene- cura. ſtres : autres ſe tuent de coups de couſteau, autres gazouillent & babillent , reuelans ce qu'elles deuroient taire,& font des mouuemens extraordinaires. la guariſon depend de l'euacuation de la cauſe. hippocrate commande de ſaigner & purger,&appliquer ventouſes ſur le plat des cuiſſes, &ſur les eſpaules,faire ligature aux extremitez , ouurir les hemorrhoides auec ſangſues. de l'euanoiiiſſement. c h a p. lxxix. aſsº e s filles s'euanoüiſſent ſouuent par l'eſleuation des vapeurs puantes & pourries, excitées de #. ai # leurs mois retenus:deſquelles le cœur affailly & infecté tombe en ſyncope c'eſt à dire,grande e/ f, r" #a defailláce des vertus vitales,&par conſequét des animales,qui faict que leſdites filles demeu- definition de s© # rént immobiles ſans aucun ſentiment,ſans voir,ouyr,parler,ſans pouls,que bien obſcur,& ſans ſyncope. rè: s reſpiration. pour les faire reuenir, il les faut aſſeoir en figure moyenne à fin qu'elles puiſſent cure, - mieux reſpirer, laſcher leurs habillemens, frotter les cuiſſes & jambes contre bas auec lin- ges aſpres & rudes, leur donner vn air libre,& fairez prouoquer le vomiſſement : il leur faut bailler à boire vn peu de theriaque ou methridat, diſſoult en quelque eau cordiale : & faire ſentir choſes puantes, & par embas choſes odoriferantes, & arrouſer la face d'eau roſe, vinaigre, & eau de vie. d'auantage , leur faut tirer le poil de derriere le col , & auſſi les oreilles & le nez, & les pincer violentement, pour reſueiller les eſprits. de la fiévre erratique, ch a p. lxxx. au liure des = a fiévre qui eſt excitée par la ſuppreſſion des mois aux filles, ne garde aucun ordre, mais ém aladies des | | prend à heure & iours certains, ſelon que le ſang menſtrual regorge au cœur & au foye, vierges. \ | & que ledit ſang s'eſmeut. c'eſt pourquoy hippocrate l'appelle planettes , c'eſt à dire, er- = all ne s'enflamme qu'à peine,de ſorte que telle matiere meſlée parmy le ſang des jeunes filles, eſt cauſes des mouuemens inegaux,& deſreglez de la fiévre qui en prouient,faiſant ce que le feu fait en bois verd, flamme d'vn coſté,& fumée de l'autre. ioinct que leur ſang eft fort crud,tant à raiſon de l'aage, que de bonne com- la façon de viure deprauée, ſe nourriſſans de laictages, fruicts cruds , & eau froide, qu'auſſi à raiſon de la paraiſon. ſuppreſſion non naturelle d'iceluy ſang. de la ſoif& alteration. - cha p. lxxxi. a ſoif aux vierges prouient de leurs mois ſupprimez : la chaleur & ſeichereſſe ſont les cauſes de l deux cauſes de la ſoif, à ſçauoir, defaut d'humidité, & excez de chaleur. l'autre cauſe ſoif. m peut eſtre leur boire exceſſif d'eau froide : car l'eau par ſa crudité & peſanteur s'arreſte long-temps aux hypocondres,& y engendre obſtructions & cruditez,qui ſont cauſe que le # boire peut penetrer au foye. ces cruditez croupiſſantes où e les ſont arreſtées, ſe pour- (l riſſent & de cette pourriture s'eſleuent vapeurs putrides & acres, ſe tournent auſſi en phle- - gme ſalé, qui rempliſſant l'orifice de l'eſtomach(où eſt le ſiege & ſentiment de l'alteration) faict quaſi ſemblable ſoif à celle qui tourmente les hydropiques. effects de pourriture. - - du veiller. cha p. lxxxii. # #* veilles procedent de certaines vapeurs corrompues, qui montent au cerueau, qui ſont pertur- bation d'eſprit, reſverie, melancholie, epilepſie,& autres mauuaiſes † tout par alte- #º ration , qui en fin induit & apporte alienation à la ſubſtance du cerueau. or ces accidens ſuſdits - il ſuruiennent ſeulement, mais pluſieurs autres, comme dureté de rate, apoſteme au meſentere, rupture de veine aux poulmons : phytiſie, enfleure de jambes, peſanteur, laſſitude vniuerſelle, obſtructions, douleur de teſte, & autres maladies procedentes de l'amas des humeurs vicieux , qui corrompent toute la maſſe ſanguinaire, qui fera que le ſang menſtruel qui en ſortira, reſſentira de la corruption de l'humeur qui aura eſté engendré &meſlé : lequel paroiſtra bilieux, pituiteux, ſereux , melancholic , ou autre, ſelon la diuerſité de la corruption conçue en la maſſe ſanguinaire,& d'vne inflammation engendrée dedans les veines, qui y ſera ſuppurée, comme auons dit cy-deſſus. - cure. · ch a p. lxxx iii. #e poinct ſouuerain pour remedier à tous ces accidens, eſt de prouoquer les fleurs : pour # laquelle choſe executer, on appellera vn docte medecin qui ordonnera la ſaignée ( à fin ſé de deſcharger nature d'vne partie de ſon fardeau) & des purgations, ainſi qu'il verra eſtre neceſſaire. apres les purgations, ſera vtile faire prendre choſe aperitiues & inciſiues , à - # fin de deſtouper les obſtructions : comme ſont les ſyrops d'armoiſe, capilli veneris, & au- cz-z ss^ tres ſemblables, auec decoction d'hyſſope, ſabine, racine d'eringium, dit en françois pani- cault, & de garance. auſſi la conſerue de fleurs de ſoulcy eſt ſinguliere, priſe par trois matinées, auſſi gros ventouſes qu'vne noix commune. pareillement la decoction de la racine de perſil, fueille d'hyſſope aromatisée de appliquées canelle. semblablement faut appliquer ſur le plat des cuiſſes , ventouſes ſans ſcarification. on fera pa- # le plat reillement fomentation aux parties genitales, d'herbes à chat, matricaire, armoiſe, thim, origan, agri- # paume , ſabine & autres ſemblables. on fera auſſi parfums aux parties genitales, faicts de poiure, gin- ' gembre, clou de girofle, muſc, ciuette, noix muguette. puis il faut que la malade chemine, ſaulte, trauaille dance» - saignée. purgation. d vde la generation. dance, monte & deſcende ſouuent, qu'elle tire de l'eau d'vn puits,& autres exercices,ſi elle les peut ſuppor- ter,ſans que par iceux ſe falle plus grande irritation des matieres amaſsées & ſupprimées,ny que les douleurs & autres accidens mentionnez ſe reſueillent & enaigriſſent d'auantage. plus luy conuiendra faire des fri- ctions aux cuiſſes & jambes, auec linges rudes au matin. il faut faire ces remedes au commencement des lunes nouuelles,ou autre temps auquel les femmes ou filles malades auoient ou pouuoient auoir leurs pur- gations, autremement on trauailleroit en vain. les filles villageoiſes ne ſont ſubiectes aux palles couleurs, & aux ſuſdits accidents, à raiſon qu'elles tra- fri iont aux cuiſſes&» jambes. pourquoy lee filles des vil- uaillent beaucoup,& ne mangent tant de diuerſitez de viandes , comme celles des villes : auſſi qu'elles ſont lages ne ſont toufiours en plein air, lequel faict diſſipation & digeſtion de la ſubſtance ſuperflue de tout leur ſang par in-ſubiettes aus ſenſible tranſpiration : qui faict qu'elles ne ſentent point ou peu les incommoditez de leurs fleurs arreſtées palles cou- des hemorrhoides qui naiſſent au col de la matrice. c h a p i t r e l x x x l v. ， o v t ainſi qu'il ſe faict des hemorrhoides au ſiege, ainſi ſe faict-il au col de la matrice, leſ- quelles ſont extremitez des orifices des vaiſſeaux des rameaux des veines:qui viennent de la veine caue,deſcendante à l'entour du propre orifice de la matrice & du col d'icelle, par leſ- quelles les vierges & femmes groſſes ſe purgent de leurs mois : d'autant qu'en elles l'ori- fice ou bouche de la matrice,eſt fermée aux femmes groſſes à raiſon de l'enfant conceu, au- quel les cotyledons reſeruent le ſang pour ſa nourriture : &aux vierges , parce qu'elles n'ont point encoreſté ouuertes. ces extremitez des veines quelquesfois ſe groſſiſſent & ferment, ſans jetter ſang, &quelquefois auſſi ſont ouuertes, & jettent vn gros ſang noiraſtre, comme font les hemorrhoides du fiege, ſans ordre ny periode auec douleut. partant tel flux eſt appellé hemorrhoidal, & non menſtrual,encore que tel ffux ſorte par meſnes veines. elles viennent apres les inflammations,& rhagadies de la matrice.elles ſont cognuës par l'effuſion du ſang qui coule, non par temps certain, comme fait le fiux menſtrual, mais par in- terualle & ſans ordre. - cure. la cure eſt ſemblable à celle du ſiege, qui eſt d'appaiſer la douleur par fomentations faictes de ſemence de lin, de guimauues, fueilles de bouillon blanc : par liniments faicts d'huyle de pauot, de nenuphar, d'a- mandes douces, battues long-temps en vn mortier&pilon de plomb, adjoutant vn jaune d'œuf auecvn peu d'opium. - - - - des verruès qui viennent au col de la matrice. cha p. lxxxv. v col de la matrice ſe font des verrues de pluſieurs ſortes : aucunes ſont eminentes contre - la peau,ou lévres de la partie honteuſe , fort peu releuées,calleuſes, tuberculeuſes, & noira- - ſtres, ayans la baſe large. les grecs les ont appellées cmyrmecia, c'eſt à dire, fourmillieres : parce qu'au froid elles font douleur , comme ſi vn fourmy les mordoit. les arabes les nom- * ment verrués morales , parce qu'elles ſont groſſes comme vne meure , & qu'elles ſont com- posées de pluſieurs eminences petites, comme vne meure de ſes grains. il y en a d'autres nommées acro- chordon,qui ſont eminences calleuſes, & qui ont la racine greſle, & la teſte groſſette, de ſorte qu'on diroit eſtre vn nœud de corde, pendu à vn filet : les latins les appellent verrues penſiles. autres ſont appellées porales, parce qu'elles ont la teſte diuiséºen pluſieurs parties , comme la teſte d'vn pourceau : elles ſont longuettes & creuaſsées par deſſus , deſquelles ſort du ſang en grande quantité apres la compagnie de l'hom- me, ou ſi la femme chemine, ou fait grand exercice. pour le prognoſtic, toutes les verruës ſont engendrées d'vn humeur pituiteux & melancholique, enuoyé de toutes les parties du corps , parce que cette partie eſt leurs. document comme vn cloaque, où ſont enuoyez tous les excremens du corps. nota, qu'en toutes ces verrues s'il y a pour le ieune douleur, n'y faut toucher de medicamens acres,parce qu'elles ſont faictes d'humeur malin , & qu'elles ſe chirurgien. pourroient tourner en chancre : parquoy les faut pallier. si elles ne ſont douleureuſes, on les pourra lier, folſº . ou couper, ou appliquer cauſtiques,à fin d'oſter leur racine, & qu'elles ne repullulent : ce qui ſe fera auec huyle de vitriol, ou eau forte, ou eau de ſublimé, ou par telle eau. .aqua plantaginis . vj virid.aris .ij. alum. rochar. . ij. ſalis comm. .j. vitrioli romani & ſublimati an. . ß. terantur omnia ſimul, & reſeruetur , aqua ad vſum dictum. - h. de thym, eſpece de verruë qui vient au col de la matrice. c h a p i t r e lxxxv i. h , m naiſt aux aiſles du col de la matrice, ou dedans le col meſme , qui eſt vne eſpece de s# verrué auec aſperitez creuacées,ſemblable à la teſte du thym. les arabes les nomment ver- - $ # ruës porales, parce que la teſte eſt diuisée en pluſieurs parties , comme la teſte d'vn pourreau f% % # $# en ſes filets. il y en a deux eſpeces, vn petit, & l'autre fort grand, qui s'appelle ficus, ou fie, # # $ & du populace, le mal ſainct fiacre. l'vn eſt malin, & l'autre benin & gracieux. le benin eſt vne petite chair eſtroitte par embas, & large par en haut, auec deux eminences peu apparen- tes blancheaſtres ou rougeaſtres, ſans douleur. le malin eſt plus grand, plus dur, plus aſpre ou raboteux, de couleur liuide,fungueux, auec vne douleur poignante,comme poinctes d'aiguilles. tous deux s'indignent au toucher,& jettent grande quantité de ſang eſtans coupez ou irritez, principalement apres la compagnie de l'homme, ou que la femme aye cheminé , ou faict quelque grand exercice. cure. ils doiuent eſtre deſſeichez par remedes ſecs & aſtringens : auſſi les lier & couper. ceux qui ſont malins & douloureux , les faut pallier , & n'y toucher, de peur qu'il n'y ſuruienne vn chancre : on pourra mettre le ſpeculum matricis, à fin de voir plus aisément. " h h h , diuert - - -- . o le vingt-quatriéme liure, diuers pourtraicts de ſpeculum matricis. a demonſtre la vis qui le cloſt & ouure. b b b les branches qui doiuent eſtre de longueur de huict ou neuf doigts. ils doiuent eſtre de grandeur & longueur † l'aage de la femme : & lors que tu voudras appliquer l'vn d'iceux,feras ſituer la femme en elle façon,comme nous auons dit cy-deſſus à l'extraction de l'enfant mort, duquel ie t'ay baillé le pourtraict. or celles qui ſe pourront lier , ſe lieront par vn inſtrument propre, deſ- crit au chapitre de la relaxation de l'vuule, & ſeront ſerrées de iour en autre, tant que la verruë ſera tom- bée : donc pour les cures ſeront liées, coupées & cauterisées, afin de leur oſter leur racine , & qu'elles ne repulullent : ce qui ſera auec huyle de vitriol, ou eau forte , ou de capitel, dont nous faiſons nos cauteres potentiels.auſſi cette eau a grande puiſſance de les conſumer & deſſeicher iuſques à leur racine. . aquar d eau excel- plant. an. .vj.virid.aer. ij. alum. rocha . iij. ſalis communis f. vitriol. roman & ſublimat. an. .f. om- lente pour nia ſimul terantur & bulliant, & prendra-t'on garde que telle choſe cauſtique & bruſlante ne touche qu'au oſter les ver- lieu qu'on veut oſter, s'il y auoit quelque vlcere, on y remediera comme a eſté dict. quelque perſonna- vues ge m'a affirmé que la bouſe de bœuf chaudement appliquée y adjouſtant des fueilles ou poudres de ſaui- nier , fait mourir les verruës qui ſont au col de la matrice : a l'eſpreuue auſſi ſont les cantharides incorpo- rées aux onguents, font tomber les verrués, & cors qui naiſſent entre les orteils. ie ſçay d'aſſeurance que les verrues qui viennent aux mains, ſont guaries, y appliquant du pourpié pilé auec ſon jus : autant en ſont les feuiles & fleurs du ſoucy. - - des rhagadies & condylomes. ch a p. lxxxvii. h a g a d e s ſont vlceres creuacez , faits d'vn humeur acre & ſalé , qui faict quel- # quesfois contraction & ſtricture du col de la matrice, comme l'on void qu'vn parchemin - # ſe ſerre & gredille, lors qu'on le met trop pres du feu, en ſorte que ſouuent oa n'y ſgau- $ §) roit mettre qu'à grand difficulté le bout du doigt : ce mal ne vient ſeulement au col de la #à matrice , mais au ſiege & à l'extremité du prepuce, & à la bouche : qui empeſche le malade de l'ouurir, de parler, & maſcher, & ſouuent on eſt contraint de faire ſection. pour la curation, il faut º# c， s que c'eſt que rhagadies. - de la generation. i a les medicamens acres, mais faut amolir & fort humecter la partie auec fomentations, linimens cataplaſ- ' mes, emplaſtres, & y mettre ſouuent le ſpeculum matricis, & peſſaires, à fin d'agrandir & dilater ce qui eſt trop dut & ſerré, puis faire cicatrice aux vlceres creuacez. condylomes ſont eminences ridées, & com- condylomº me excroiſſance de chair, qui ſont meſmes les rugoſitez du col de la matrice, ou les muſcles du ſiege, auſ- ſont eminena quels il y a pluſieurs replis ſerrez les vns contre les autres, principalement lors qu'elles ſont enflammées & # ridées endurcies. on les cognoit à la veuë & au toucher du doigt. les remedes froids & relaxans ſont bons, * comme huyles d'œuf , & de ſemence de lin, de chacun deux onces battués longuement en vn mortier de plomb,& de ce en ſoit appliqué deſſus : s'il y auoit inflammation , on y adiouſtera vn peu de camphre, & fe- ra-on autres choſes que le chirurgien verra eſtre neceſſaires. - - - duprurit de la matrice. c h a p. lxxxv iii. / $y o v v e n t il fe fait vn prurit ou demangeaiſon au col de la matrice , principalement aux # femmes aagèes, qui leur donne grand tourment, & y portent ſouuent la main pour ſe grat- ) $ cer & frotter, qui les garde de repoſer. depuis n'agueres, vne femme eſtant vexée de ce mal, ne pria luy enſeigner quelque remede, & me dict qu'elle eſtoit ſouuent contrainte d'y met- tre des cendres du foyer, pour eſteindre ce prurit : ie luy enſeignay qu'elle fiſt des iniections - d'egyptiac diſſoult en eau marine, & autres-fois en lexiue, & auſſi qu'elle apliquaſt peſſaires ou groſſes tentes faites d'eſtouppes imbues en ladite iniection : & par ce moyen certains iours apres en tel prurit b fut totalement guarie. ledit prurit vient auſſi ſouuent au scrotum & autour du ſiege des hommes vieux, vient de pis qui prouient d'vne pituite ſalée : & lors que tel humeur tombe aux yeux , les malades ſont en grande pei- tuite ſalée ne. pareillement les menſtrués retenuës eſchauffent la matrice, engendrent le prurit, & incitent à ſe grat- ter , & auſſi à l'acte venerien. lors qu'il aura grande inflammation , on fera iniection de pourpié, morel- le, plantain : iuſquiame; & renouuellez ſouuent, d'abondant on y peut appliquer eſponges ou linges en forme de peſſaires trempez audit ius. or il ne vient ſeulement particulierement, mais auſſi en tout le corps, accompagné d'vne petite grattelle : & pour ſecourir à tels accidens, faut ordonner regime au malade , ten- dant à froideur & humidité : pareillement il le faut baigner , ſaigner , corneter auec ſcarification faites auec flammettes. pareillement on doit faire frotter vniuerſellement tout le corps de cét onguent, & les faire ſuer au lict. /.. axung.porc. recent. fb.j. ſaponis nigri, vel gallic. ſalis nitri, aſſat. tartar. ſtaphi- ſa, an. .j. . ſulph. viui .j. argenti viui . ij. acet.roſat. .iiij. incorporent. omnia ſimul, & fiat liniment.ſe- cundum artem, duquel le corps du malade ſera frotté tant de fois qu'il ſera beſoin. on a par pluſieurs fois experimenté vnguentum enulatum cum mercurio, lequel a grande puiſſance de guarir le prurit. & ſeicher les gratelles qui viennent au corps, ou en quelque partie d'iceluy. autres vſent de ceſtuy %. alum. ſpumae nitri, ſulphuris viui an. . vj ſtaphiſagrix .j.in aceto roſat.omnia diſſol. addendo butyri recentis quant. ſuff. fiat linim. duquel en ſoit faict onction. - hiſtoirs. a. sw autre de grand effett. c , . lapathi acuti enulæ an. .j. contundantur & macerentur in aceto; & paſſentur per ſetaceum, adden- do olei roſati . iij.ſal.'comm. .j.myrrha .ij. litargyri .j.É. cerœ quantum ſuff fiat linim. et où ledit prurit ne ceſſe, faut y adiouſter argentum viuum vel ſublimatum. - - de l'hydropiſie de la matrice. ch a p. l xxxix. a m a t r c e ſe remplit d'eau comme font les autres parties du corps : & telle repletion ſe peut appeller hydropiſie vterine, laquelle repreſente vne fauſſe groſſeſſe. cette eau eſt en- | gendrée en la matrice , ou bien y eſt enuoyée des autres parties , comme du foye, ratte, ou # de la grande veine caue. elle s'engendre en la cauité de la matrice, principalement apres les s auortements:ainſi que dit hippocrate au liure des maladies des femmes, qu'elle vient quand *º la ratte eſt pleine d'eau. ce qui aduient quand durant les fiévres continues, la femme eſt fort alterée , & boit beaucoup , comme fernei enſeigne par l'hiſtoire d'vne femme hydropique, laquelle tous les mois » quelque iours apres ſes purgations, vuidoit cinq ou ſix baſſins d'eau citrine par le col de ſa ma- trice , & de là ſon ventre ſe deſenfloit. ladite eau vient auſſi ſouuent du cerueau , comme ſont les fleurs blanches. la curation ſe fera par le medecin. de la paralyſie de la matrice. d la paralyſie vient des humiditez ſuperfluës, qui laſchent & rendent la matrice molaſſe, r idée &froide au toucher : ioint qu'elle n'a aucun deſir au coit , & ne retient aucunement la ſemence. la cure ſe fera auec · remedes chauds, ſecs , & aſtringens , ordonnez par le docte medecin. -- --- -- - - de l'inflation de la c_wmatrice. c h a p. x c. a matrice quelquesfois s'enfie de telle ſorte, qu'il ſemble la femme eſtre groſſe d'enfant. telle enfleure vient d'vne multitude de vents contenus en la matrice, & vient ſouuent apres vn accouchement , faute de s'eſtre ſerrée le ventre apres eſtre accouchée. ces vents ſortent ſouuent par la bouche, & par le col de la matrice auec bruit, comme par le ſiege. # ils ſe reſoluent en appliquant ſur le ventre fiente de vache, de chévre : ou de brebis , auec anis, cumin, & fenoiiil , fricaſſe auec maluoifie, ou hippocras. auſſi par clyſteres carmi- natifs faits de vin de maluoifie, ou hippocras auec eau de vie, & huyle de noix : par ſa- chets appliquez ſur le ventre, faits de choſes carminatiues, ſemblablement par fomentations faites de ruë, armoiſe, herbe à chat , pouliot , camomille, melilot, calament , origan, & leurs ſemblables, boüillis en eau & vin : pareillement l'emplaſtre de baccis lauri, application de grandes ventouſes ſur le nombril, ſans ſcarification. la femme boira du vin ou maluoiſie : vſera de viande de bon ſuc, pluſtoſt roſties que boüil- lies : apres le repas vſera de dragée carminatiue. - * - h h h ; drs le vingt-quatriéme liure, des pierres & ſables contenus en la matrice. - ch a p. xci. lne faut douter,que tout ainſi qu'il ſe fait des pierres en la veſſie : il ne s'en faſſe auſſi en la ma- trice, à cauſe des humeurs, groſſes craſſes, viſqueuſes & eſpeſſes, & obſtruction en la partie. si donc les mois ſont trop retenus par l'obſtruction des cotyledons, la bouche de la matrice cloſe & fermée, plufieurs humeurs muſqueuſes s'accumulent, & accroiſſent en la matrice, s'incraſſent, & de plus en plus s'endurciſſent & conuertiſſent en ſable, grauelle, puis en pierre. les ſignes ſont que la femme ſent de grandes douleurs , ayant touſiours volonté de jetter ces ſables ou pierres, & a ſouuent des eſpreintes comme ſi elle vouloit accoucher. neantmoins elle ne laiſſe à auoir ſes fleurs tous les mois , non par la cauité de la matrice, mais par les veines qui ſe rendent au col d'icelle par où les femmes groſſes & les filles ſe purgent. - - cure. il faut vſer de clyſteres , fomentations , & linimens remollitifs & relaxatifs pour rendre la bouche de la matrice plus ouuerte. et lors que la femme aura grandes eſpreintes , & que nature s'efforce jetter les pierres dehors l'on ſituera la femme à la maniere de l'extraction de la pierre de la veſſie, puis l'on mettra les deux doigts dedans le fondement le plus auant qu'on pourra, & de la main dextre faut preſſer le petit ventre, à celle fin d'attirer & jetter la pierre hors , s'il eſt poſſible. - du col de la matrice fermée. . pluſieurs femmes ne ſont encores ouuertes en leurs parties honteuſes, appellées en latin imperforate, & * en françois, non encores troüées ou percées. cela leur peut prouenir naturellement , ou par accident : & peut aduenir au commencement de l'orifice du col de la matrice,ou au millieu,ou au profond. le ſpeculum en fera foy, & l'appoſition des doigts. - - - - - du col de la matrice, trop large, trop ouuert, & trop lubrique. c h a p t r e xcii. o r s que le col de la matrice eſt trop large & dilaté, ſoit par nature,ou par accident,comme $ par vn enfantement laborieux,cela eſt cauſe de la ſterilité parce qu'il ne ſe peut reſerrer pour garder la geniture.lors qu'il eſt trop eſtroit,garde que le cultiueur n'entre au champ de natu- re humaine,pour y jetter ſa ſemence:ce qui eſt cauſe de la ſterilité.auſſi quand les parois du col de la matrice ſont calleux & durs,à raiſon de quelque playe ou vlcere d'vne cicatrice de- >sn$à laiſsée:tellement qu'apres auoir receu la ſemence,ils ne ſe peuuent vnir ny joindre pour la te- nir : au contraire la laiſſent eſcouler , qui eſt vne des cauſes que les putains n'engendrent point : ou s'il eſt eſtoupé de quelque membrane ou carnoſité, ou verrues, ou condylomes, ou fermé, & non encore ouuert: bref, mal diſposé d'vne infinité d'autres accidens , comme de prurit, inflammation, chancre, vlcere, ſcir- rhe, rhagadies, apoſtemes,& autres tels defauts, ou par le conſentement de la matrice , ou des parties voi- ſines. nous parlerons cy-apres de tous ces vices.auſſi quelquesfois le col de la matrice eſt tellement lubri- que,mol & humide, qu'il ne donne aucun chatoüillement au cultiueur, & cette humidité eſteint la ſemen- , ce, qui eſt cauſe que la femme ne peut conceuoir. or cette humidité vient ſouuent de tout le corps , ou de la matrice ſeulement. cure. la cure ſe fera par remedes vniuerſels & particuliers , par fomentations, peſſaires, injections, parfums, leſquels ſe feront en cette ſorte. prenez balauſtes, eſcorce de grenades, noix de cypres, & de galles, alum de roche, roſes rouges,menthe,de chacune deux onces,encens,maſtic,bol armene de chacun vne once:faites le tout boüillir en bon vinaigre,& en faites receuoir la vapeur par l'inſtrument, dont la figure t'eſt repreſen- tée cy apres. pareillement la fomentation qui s'enſuit eſt tres-vtile. prenez ſumac, alum, plantain, gomme. arabic, ſel commun,balauſtes, eſcorce de grenades,noix de cyprès, & noix de galle, de chacun deux onces: faites le tout boüillir en gros vin noir iuſqu'à la conſomption de la tierce partie,& les parties genitales de la femme ſeront fomentées & eſtuuées, & au dedans y mettrez vne petite eſponge, linge, ou cotton trempé en ladicte decoction:& continuerez les remedes tant que verrez la partie eſtre ſuffiſament r eſtrecie. de la relaxation du gros inteſtin qui ſe fait aux femmes. c h a p. xciii. d q v e l q v e s femmes, pour s'eſtre trop efforcées à leurs enfantemens , le gros inveſtin eſt re- laſche & ſort hors : & cette indiſpoſition eſt fort frequente auſſi aux enfans, qui leur prouient d'vn humeur pituiteux, qui abbreuue les trois muſcles,à ſçauoir le sphincter,& les deux qui le retirent & tiennent en haut. pour la curation, le faut premierement lauer & fomenter d'vne cauſe de la decoction, où auront bouilly herbes chaudes & reſolutiues,comme ſauge,roſmarin, lauande, relaxation thim , & leurs ſemblables, s'il n'y auoit grande inflammation : puis de choſes aſtringentes , commme de du boyaux. roſes , myrtils , eſcorce de grenade , noix de cyprés, de galles , auec vn peu d'alum, & ſaumure, ou vri- "ne d'enfant : puis on le ſinapiſe,c'eſt à dire,ſaupoudre d'vne poudre fort ſubtile, faite de choſes aſtringentes, & non mordicantes: apres ſera reduit en ſon lieu en le pouſſant au dedans. pareillement eſt vne choſe ſin- guliere,prendre vne douzaine de limaçons rouges les mettant dans vn pot , & les ſaupoudrer de ſel & alum , de la rela- de chacun demy once, les remuans dans le pot,& les laiſſer mourir : & de la liqueur,qui demeurera, en ſera xation du appliqué auec cotton ſnr l'inteſtin qui ſort dehors. pareillement aucunes femmes ont vne grande tumeur au nombril. nombril,parce que le peritoine eſt relaxé,& ſouuent rompu,au moyen dequoy,l'omentum,& ſouuent auſſi les ºſººº inteſtins y tombent,ou des ventoſitez; ce qui vient & procede par la trop grande diſtenſion du ventre, pour bril #º auoir porté enfans, & s'eſtre grandement eſpreinte à les mettre hors les ſignes que les inteſtins ſont deſcen- # dus, c'eſt que la tumeur eſt douloureuſe,& lors qu'on preſſe deſſus pour les remettre au dedans,font bruit & 'inteſtin & grougoulent, comme il ſe fait aux hernies inteſtinales : ſi c'eſt l'omentum, la tumeur ſera molle auec peu §m, de douleur,& lors qu'on le repouſſe au dedans , ne fait aucun bruit : & ſi la tumeur eſt faite de º# c prius de la generation. a eſprits flatulens, elle ſera molle, & la preſſant fera quelque bruit, & ſubit retourne. or ſi la temeur eſt fort grande, elle ne ſe peut guarir ſi on ne coupe le peritoine, ainſi qu'on fait aux hernies, i'ay veu des pauures femmes & hommes aux portes des temples, auſquels les inteſtins eſtoient hors du ſiege , de la groſſeur d'v- ne bien groſſe boule : neantmoins alloient, beuuoient & mangeoient bien, & faiſoient toutes autres actions, d'autant que la matiere fecale auoit libre entrée & iſſuë. de la relaxation & enfleure du nombril, qui ſe fait aux enfans. c h a p t r e. x c iv. - # v e l q v e s f o s aduient auſſi aux enfans nouuellement nez, que leur nombril eſt tu- cauſes. v mefié de groſſeur d'vn œuf, qui procede pour auoir eſté mal coupé, ou lié, ou pour quelques # humeurs & aquoſitez qui y ſont amaſſées, ou de trop crier pour les tranchées : quelquesfois auſſi apportent cette tumeur du ventre de la mere , accompagnée d'vne apoſteme, à laquelle $ ie conſeille au ieune chirurgien ne toucher pour y faire ouuerture : car eſtant faicte les in- - teſtins ſortent. ce que i'ay veu aduenir pluſieurs fois, & meſmement à l'enfant de defunct monſieur de martigues,lequel auoit eſpousé madame de la laual,qui eſtoit de la maiſon de lautrec:dont le chirurgien nômé maiſtre pierre de la roque,fut en grand danger de ſa perſonne : & n'euſt eſté monſieur d'e- ſtampes,& m dit ſieur de martigues,les ſeruiteurs luy euſſent coupé la gorge,eſtimâs que la mort eſtoit ſur- uenuë à l'enfant par la faute dudit chirurgien. et encores depuis n'agueres telle choſe eſt aduenuë à l'enfant de iean gourmont,tailleur d'hiſtoires,demeurant à l'arbre ſec,ruë s.iean de latran,en l'vniuerſité de pa- ris , lequel m'enuoya querir pour faire ouuerture audit vmbilic : ce que ie refuſay, & luy dis qu'il mourroit bien ſans moy. trois iours apres l'apoſteme ſe creua d'elle-meſme, & les inteſtins ſortirent, dont il mourut. hiſtoirè, - -t- de la douleur des dents des petits enfans. | c h a p t r e xcv. # e s petits enfans ont auſſi vne grande douleur de dents, principalement quand elles per- cauſes. # cent les genciues,& ſortent hors : ce qui aduient communement à ſept mois,quelquesfois - #. | - - # pluſtoſt, ou plus tard : & quand elles veulent ſortir, leur font douleur auec vn prurit, de- # # mangeaiſon & piqueure aux genciues, ayans ſouuent flux de ventre, fiévre, epilepſie, ſpaſ- #， me,qui leur cauſe quelquesfois la mort. les ſignes qu'elles veulent ſortir ſoht, que la nour- , | rice ſent la bouche de l'enfant plus chaude que de couſtume, & les genciues leur ſont en- * fiées, & les joües : auſſi ſont plus criards, & ne peuuent dormir : le prurit & demangeaiſon c ſe connoit, parce que l'enfant met ſouuent les doigts en la bouche, pour les cuider frotter, & baue fort : la douleur vient à raiſon que la pointe de la dent rompt & perce la chair de la genciue, qui eſt ſenſible & tendre. pour remedier à la douleur, faut que la nourrice ſoit traictée comme ſi elle auoit la fiévre, & ne fe- ra teter l'enfant tant que de couſtume, mais luy fera boire julep alexandrin, ou ſyrop de limons, ou de gre- nade, auec eau boüillie, pour luy eſtancher ſon extreme ſoif, & le rafrefchir : toutesfois il ne luy faut rien mettre en la bouche qui ſoit actuellement froid, de peur du retardement d'icelles, mais choſes douces & le- nitiues, afin de dilater la genciue, & appaiſer la douleur : parquoy la nourrice frottera ſouuét de ſes doigts les genciues, & auec huyle d'amendes douces, ou beurre fiais, ou miel & ſucre, ou de mucilages de ſemen- ce de pſyllium, guimauue, coings extraicts en decoction de petitoire : & par dehors on appliquera vn cata- plaſme de farine d'orge, laict, huyle roſat, moyeux d'œuf : dauantage on luy frottera ſouuent les genciues de ceruelle de liévre roſtie, ou boüillie, à cauſe qu'ell e relaſche, & a vne proprieté occulte d'aider à faire ſortir les dents, ce que l'experience monſtre : auſſi eſt propre la ceruelle de cochon. on leur baille volon- tiers vn baſton de recliſſe trempé en bon miel, ou en lieu d'iceluy, vn hochet auquel eſt enchaſsé vne dent . de loup, dont ils frottent leurs genciues : & par ce moyen l'enfant prend plaiſir, d'autant que lors que ſes . dents veulent ſortir, il ſent vn prurit & demangeaiſon aux genciues, & les frottant les rarefie & ſubtilie, & : . # † cette cauſe les dents ſortent pluſtoſt. les nourrices font adjouſter au hochet de petites ſonnettes, qui º eur ſeruent à joüer; & folaſtrer auec eux. or ſouuentesfois tels remedes ne profitent de rien, à raiſon que " * la genciue eſt fort dure, qui eſt cauſe que les dents ne la peuuent percer, dont s'enſuit pour la tenſion d'i- · • celle, que les enfans ont extremes douleurs , dont s'enſuit la fiévre, & autres accidents ſuſdits, & en fin la d mort. et pourcc ie ſuis d'aduis que le chirurgien faſſe vne inciſion ſur la genciue, & ce ſur la dent, pour luy ouurir le paſſage, à fin qu'elle ſorte plus aisément. ce que i'ay faict à mes enfans, en preſence de mon- fieur le févre medecin ordinaire du roy, & de madame la princeſſe de la roche ſur-yon, & de meſſieurs ſi haurin, courtin, docteurs regens en la faculte de medecine à paris, & de lacques guillemeau, chirurgien #º ordinaire du roy, & iure à paris : meſme aucunes nourrices , de leur inſtinct naturel, deſchirent le deſſus # . de la genciue auec leur ongle, à fin de faire voye aux dents qui veulent ſortir. or il ne ſera hors de propos reciter cette hiſtoire : monſeigneur de neuers m'enuoya querir pour anatomiſer ſon fils mort, aagé de huict mois ou enuiron, auquel n'eſtoit pércé aucune dent. ayant diligemment regardé qui pouuoit eſtre cauſe de ſa mort, n'en fuſt trouuée aucune,ſinon qu'il auoit les genciues fort dures,groſſes & enfiées,& les ayant cou- pées par deſſus, trouuay toutes les dents preſtes à ſortir, pour le peu d'aide qu'on y euſt faict en coupant la genciue : ce qui fut conclud des medecins preſens & demoy , que la ſeule cauſe de ſa mort eſtoit, que na- ture n'auoit eſté aſſez forte pour percer la genciue, & pouſſer les dents dehors, à raiſon que pour l'aage qu'il auoit elles eſtoient trop dures, & plus meſme qu'elles ne doiuent eſtre à vn plus aagé qu'il n'eſtoit. signm. cure, " -- - - experience de l'autheur fin du vingt-quatrieſme liure, traittant de la generation. · hhh : table : —r # t a b l e d e s c h a p itr e s dv livre des monstres. e s cauſes des monſtres. chap.j exemple de la gloire de dieu. chap. ij \ exemple de l'ire de dieu. chap. iij \ exemple de la trop grande quantité de ſemence. chap. iv # des femmes qui portent pluſieurs enfans d'vne ventrée. chap. v des hermafrodites ou landrogynes, c'eſt à dire, qu'en vn meſme corps s， liw eſt trouué deux ſexes. chap. vj b hiſtoires memorables de certaines femmes qui ſont degenerées en hommes. chap. vij exemple du defaut de la quantité de la ſemence. chap. viij exemple des monſtres qui ſe font par imagination. chap. ix exemple de l'anguſtie ou petiteſſe de la matrice. chap. x exemple des monſtres qui ſe font, la mere s'eſtant trop longuement aſſiſe, ayant eu les cuiſſes croisées, ou pour s'eſtre bandée trop le ventre durant qu'elle eſtoit groſſe. chap. xj exemple des monſtres qui ſont engendrez, la mere ayant receu quelque coup, ou cheute, eſtant groſſe d'enfant chap. xij exemple des monſtres qui ſe font par maladies hereditaires ou accidentales. chap. xiij exemple des monſtres faits par maladies accidentales. chap. xiv des pierres qui s'engendrent au corps humain. . chap. xv de certaines choſes eſtranges que nature expelle par ſon incomprehenſible prouidence. ch.xvj de pluſieurs choſes eſtranges. chap. xvij exemple des monſtres qui ſe font de pourriture & corruption. chap. xviij exemple de la commixtion & meſlange deſemence. chap. xix exemple de l'artifice des meſchans gueux de l'hoſtiere. chap. xx l'impoſture d'vne beliſtreſſe feignant auoir vn chanchre en la mammelle. chap. xxj l'impoſture d'vn certain maraut qui contrefaiſoit le ladre. chap. xxij d'vne caignardiere feignante eitre malade du mal de ſainčt fiacre, & luy ſortoit du cul vn long & gros boyau fait par artifice. chap. xxiij d'vne groſſe garce de normandie, qui feignoit auoirvn ſerpent dans le ventre. chap.xxiv exemple des choſes faites par les demons. chap. xxv de ceux qui ſont poſſedez des demons, quiparlent en diuerſes parties de leurs corps.ch.xxvj comme les demons habitent ez carrieres. chap. xxvij comme les demons nous peuuent deceuoir. chap. xxviij exemple de pluſieurs illuſions diaboliques. , chap. xxix de l'art magique. - chap.xxx des certaines maladies eſtranges. chap. xxxj des noüeurs d'aiguillette. chap. xxxij p des incubes & succubes. - - chap. xxxiij des monſtres marins. chap. xxxiv des monſtres volatiles. chap. xxxv des monſtres terreſtres, chap. xxxvj des monſtres celeſtes. - - chap.xxxvij uabraham ortelius, du theatre de l'vniuers. - chap. xxxviij - a vingt-cinqvie me livre, t r aict ant des monst r es e t p r o d i g e s. t'ar amb r o se par e , de laual au maine, (bnſeiller&º premier chirurgien du roy. b p r e f a c e. o n s t r e s, ſont choſes qui apparoiſſent outre le cours de nature (& ſont le plus les noms des ſouuent ſignes de quelque mal-heur à aduenir)cóme vn enfant qui naiſt auec vn ſeul autheurs,du | bras, vn autre qui aura deux teſtes, & autres membres, outre l'ordinaire. prodiges, teſmoignage ) ſont choſes qui viennent du tout contre nature, comme vne femme qui enfantera deſquels i'ay vn ſerpent, vn chien, ou autre choſe du tout contre nature , comme nous monſtre-recºilly º* rons cy-apres par pluſieurs exemples d'iceux monſtres & prodiges : leſquels i'ay re- #é uvqe l) ()$ | cuellis auec les figures de pluſieurs autheurs : comme des hiſtoires prodigieuſes, de p"éº $# @ s - pierre boiſtuau, & de claude teſſerant, de ſainct paul, ſainct auguſtin , eſdras le prophete : & des anciens philoſophes; à ſçauoir , d'hippocrate , galien, empedocles, ariſtote, pline, ly- coſthene & autres qui ſeront cottez ſelon qu'il viendra à propos. les mutilez , ſont comme aueugles, bor- gnes. bouſſus, boiteux , hermaphrodites, ou ceux qui ont ſix doigts à la main, ou aux pieds , ou moins de cinq , ou joints enſemble , ou les bras trop court, ou le nez trop enfoncé, comme ont les camus , ou les lé- ures groſſes & renuersées, ou les parties genitales cloſes, comme quelques filles pour cauſe de l'hymen, ou chair ſupernaturelle, ou quelques taſches ou verruës, ou louppes, ou autre choſe contre nature. des cauſes des cwmonſtres. c h a p t r e p r e m i e r. e s cauſes des monſtres ſont pluſieurs. la premiere eſt, la gloire de dieu. la ſeconde, ſon ire. treize • la troiſieſme la trop grande quantité de ſemence. la quatrieſme, la trop petite quantité. la ſes de mon- cinquieſme, l'imagination. la fixieſme, l'anguſtie ou petiteſſe de la matrice. la ſeptieſme, l'aſ-ſtre . fiete indecente de la mere, comme ſi eſtant groſſe, elle s'eſt tenuë trop longuement aſſiſſe les '. cuiſes croisées ou ſerrées contre le ventre. la huictieſme, cheute , ou coups donnez contre le ventre de la mere eſtant groſſe d'enfant. la neufvieſme, maladies hereditaires,ou accidétales. la dixieſme, pourriture ou corruption de la ſemence. l'onzieſme, mixtion ou meſlange de ſemence. la douzieſme, l'ar- tifice des meſchans beliſtres de l'hoſtiere. la trezieſme, les demons ou diables. - exemple de la gloire de dieu. c h a p. i i. $ l eſt eſcrit en ſainct iean d'vn homme qui eſtoit né aueugle. lequel ayant recouuré la veuë par la d, l'aneugle grace de i e s vs-ch r s r , fut interrogé de ſes diſciples , ſi le peché de luy, ou de ſes parens, ni, eſtoit cauſe qu'il euſt eſté ainſi produit aueugle dés le iour de ſa natiuité. et i e s v s c h r s t leur reſpondit : que luy, ne ſon pere, ne ſa mere, n'auoient peche : mais que c'eſtoit à fin que les oeuures de dieu fuſſent magnifiées en luy. ， exemple de l'ire de dieu. ch a p. i i i. ſ ' . | | l y a d'autres creatures qui nous eſtonnent doublement , parce qu'elles ne procedent des | | cauſes ſuſdites , mais d'vne confufion d'eſtranges eſpeces, qui rendent la nature non ſeu- | lement monſtrueuſe, mais prodigieuſe : c'eſt à dire, du tout abhorrente & contre nature, comme ſont ceux qui ont la figure d'vn chien, la teſte d'vne volaille, quatre cornes à la teſte, quatre pieds de bœuf, & les cuiſſes deſchiquettées, la teſte d'vn perroquet, & deux # panaches ſur la teſte, & quatre griffes, & autres formes que tu pourras voir par pluſieurs & diuerſes figures, cy-apres depeintes à leur reſſemblance. - il eſt certain que le plus ſouuent ces creatures monſtrueuſes & prodigieuſes procedent , du iu-chap. j. lin gement de dieu,lequel permet que les peres & meres produiſent telles abominations pour le º# .moyſe. qu ils le vingt-cinquiéme liure, qu'ils font en la copulation, comme beſtes brutes, où leur appetit les guide, ſans reſpecter le temps ou a a autres loix ordonnées de dieu & de nature, comme il eſt eſcrit en eſdras le prophete, que les femmes , ſoüillées de ſang menftruel engendreront des monſtres.pareillement moyſe defend telle conionction au le- uitique chapitre . auſſi les anciens ont obſerué par longues experiences, que la femme qui aura conçeu durant ſes fleurs,engendrera enfans lepreux,tigneux gouteux,eſcroüelleux, ou ſujets à mille maladies : d'au- tant que l'enfant conceu durant le flux menſtruel, prend nourriture & accroiſſement eſtant au ventre de la mere d'vn ſang vicieux,ſale & corrompu, lequel auec le temps ayant enraciné ſon infection , ſe manifeſte,& fait apparoiſtre ſa malignité : aucuns ſeront tigneux , autres gouteux, autres lepreux, autres auront la petite verole ou rougeolle, & autres infirmitez de maladies. concluſion, c'eſt vne choſe ſale & brutale d'auoir af- faire à vne femme pendant qu'elle ſe purge. leſdits anciens eſtimoient tels prodiges venir ſouuent de la pure volonté de dieu, pour nous aduertir des malheurs dont nous ſommes menacez de quelque grºnd de- ſordre , ainfi que le cours ordinaire de nature ſembloit eſtre peruerty en vne mal heureuſe engeance. l'ita- lie en fit preuue aſſez ſuffiſante, pour les trauaux qu'elle endura en |. guerre qui fut entre les florentins & les piſans, apres auoir veu à veronne l'an . vne jument qui poulina vn poulin qui auoit vne teſte d'hom- me bien formée, & le reſte d'vn cheual, comme tu vois par cette figure. figure d'vn poulain ayant la teſte d'homme. #aé autre preuue. du temps que le pape iules ii. ſuſcita - ，)i，º tant de mal-heurs en italie, & qu'il euſt la guerre contre | s-. # # # l. le roy louys xii. . laquelle fut ſuyuie d'vne ſanglan- te bataille donnée prés de rauenne, peu de temps apres on veid naiſtre en la mſeme ville vn monſtre ayant vne corne à la teſte, deux aiſles, & vn ſeul pied, ſemblable à celuy d'vn oyſeau de proye : à la jointure du genouil vn œil : & participant de la nature de maſle & de femelle, comme tu vois par ce pourtraict. ) des monſtres. s - - -- exemple de trop grande quantité de ſemence. c h a p. iv. \ lé# i p p o c r a t e ſur la generation des # monſtres, dit, que s'il y a trop grande abondance de matiere , il ſe fera grand chap. .de nombre de portées , ou vn enfant mon-§ # ſtrueux , ayant des parties ſuperfluës & die» inutiles ; comme deux teſtes, quatre bras, quatre jambes , ſix doigts és mains & pieds, ou autres chap. . : choſes : au contraire, ſi la ſemence defaut en quantité, lib. quelque membre defaudra, comme n'auoir qu'vne main, point de bras , ou de pied, ou de teſte, ou autres parties • defaillantes. sainct † dit , que de ſon temps il naſquit en orient vn enfant qui auoit le ventre en haut, toutes les parties ſuperieures doubles, & les inferieures ſimples : car il auoit deux teſtes & quatres yeux, deux poictrines & qnatre mains, & le reſte comme vn autre | homme, lequel veſquit aſſez long temps. caelius rho- diginus à eſcrit au liu. de ſes antiques leçons , auoir veu en italie deux monſtres, l'vn maſle & l'autre femelle, leurs corps bien parfaicts & proportionnez, reſte la duplica- tion de la teſte : le maſle mourut peu de iours apres # il - tiuité , & la femelle, de laquelle tu vois icy le pourtraict, la mºntre veſquit vingt-cinq ans apres, qui eſt contre le naturel des ne viu§ | - monſtres, leſquels ordinairement ne viuent gueres, pour- gueres. 'ai， tinn ce qu'ils ſe deſplaiſent, & melancholient de ſe voir ainſi en opprobre de tout le monde, ſi bien que leur vie eſt briefue. or il faut icy noter que licoſthene eſcrit vne choſe merueilleuſe de ce monſtre femelle : car reſeruée la duplication de la teſte, nature n'y - auoit rien obmis; ces deux teſtes(dit il) auoient meſme deſir de boire & manger, & dormir, & la pa- il n'eſt bien c role ſemblable, comme eſtoient meſmes toutes les affections. cette fille alloit d'huis en huis cher- que les mon- cher ſa vie, & luy donnoit-on volontiers pour la nouueauté d'vn ſi eſtrange & nouueau ſpectacles # toutesfois elle fut deſchaſſée à la longue de la duché de bauiere, parce (diſoit on ) qu'elle pourroit § gaſter le fruict des femmes groſſes, pour l'apprehenſion, & idées qui pourroient demeurer en la vertu imaginatiue, de la figure de cette creature ainſi monſtrueuſe. figure de deux filles gemelles, ioinctes c> figure d'vn homme, du ventre duquel vnies parles parties poſterieuret. ſortoit vn autre homme. -" le vingt-cinquiéme liure, l'an de grace . furent engendrées pareillement en italie en la ville de veronne deux filles con- a jointes par les reins, depuis les eſpaules iuſques aux feſſes : & parce que leurs parens eſtoient pauures, elles furent portées † pluſieurs villes d'italie, pour amaſſer argent du peuple, qui eſtoit fort ardent de voir ce nouueau ſpectacle de nature. en cette meſme année charles duc de bourgongne occupa par armes la duché de lorraine. vne grande partie de cracouie fut miſe en cendre par vn violent embraſement. le royaume d'eſpagne diuisé entre ferdinand le grand roy d'eſpagne , & alphonſe roy de portugal. ce monſtre fut ſuiuy de pluſieurs autres effects qu'il ſemble auoir preſagiez. l'an o. on a veu vn homme de cette ville de paris, du ventre duquel ſortoit vn autre homme bien formé de tous ſes membres , reſeruée la teſte, & cét homme eſtoit aagé de quarante ans ou en- uiron, & portoit ainſi ce corps entre ſes bras, auec ſi grande merueille, que le monde s'aſſembloit à grandes troupes pour le voir, la figure duquel t'eſt icy repreſentée au vif. en piedmond en la ville de quiers, diſtante de thurin enuiron de cinq lieuës ., vne honneſte dame accoucha d'vn monſtre le dix ſeptiéme iour de ianuier à huict heures du ſoir, cette preſente année . la face eſtant bien proportionnée en toutes ſes parties. il a eſté monſtrueux aux reſte de la teſte, en ce qu'il en ſortoit cinq cornes approchantes à celles d'vn belier, rengées les vnes con- tre les autres en haut du front, & au derriere vne longue piece de chair pendante le long du dos, en maniere d'vn chaperon de damoiſelle. il auoit autour de ſon col vne piece de chair double cou b chée en la maniere d'vn collet de chemiſe tout vny,les extremitez des doigts reſſenblans aux griffes de quelque oyſeau de proye,les genoux aux jarrets. le pied & la jâbe droicte eſtoient d'vn rouge fort haut en couleur. le reſte du corps eſtoit de la couleur d'vn gris enfumé. on dit qu'à la naiſſance de ce mon- ſtre qu'il ietta vn grand gry, qui eſtonna tellement la § & toute la compagnie , que l'effroy qu'ils en eurent leur fit quitter le logis. cette nouuelle eſtant venuë iuſques à monſieur le prince de piedmont, pour le deſir qu'il auoit de le voir, l'enuoya querir, en la preſence duquel pluſieurs en fi- rent diuers iugemens. la figure t'eſt icy repreſentée apres le naturel. c ce preſent monſtre que voyez cy-depeint comme vne aurre meduſe, a eſté trouué dedans vn œuf, ayant la face & viſage d'vn homme, tous les cheueux de petits ſerpenteaux tous vifs & la barbe à la mode & façon de trois ſerpens qui luy ſortoit hors du menton, $% *& # n) n $ # & fut trouué le quinziéme iours du rnois de mars dernier paſsé # . chez vn aduocat nommé baucheron à authun en bourgon- â gne, par vne chambriere qui caſſoit des œufs pour les mettre au % beurre, entre leſquels cettuy-cy eſtoit : lequel eſtant caſsé par elle, $ % \ veid ſortir ledit monſtre, ayant face humaine, les cheueux & bar- / # $ be de ſerpens, dont elle fut merueilleuſement eſpouuantée. et fut suš - za m.l>>s baillé de la glaire dudit œuf à vn chat, qui en mourut ſubitement. dequoy eſtant adfierty monſieur le baron de senecey cheualierde l'ordre, s'eſtant fait apporter ledit monſtre, ill'enuoya au roy charles, qui pour lors eſtoit à mets. figure des monſtres c teſtes, deux bras, & quatre jambes, lequel j'ouury & n'y trouuay qu'vn cœur , ie le garde en ma - a - . » - - figure d'vn enfant ayant deux teſtes - figure de deux gemeaux n'ayans deux bras, c> quatre iambes. qu'vne ſeule teſte. l'an mil cinq cens quarante ſix, à paris vne femme groſſe de ſix mois enfanta vn enfant ayant deux maiſon comme choſe monſtrueuſe : partant l'on peut dire que ce n'eſtoit qu'vn enfant. ariſtote dit, # #º que s'il eſt trouué qu'vn monſtre ayant deux corps joincts enſemble ait deux cœurs, on peut verita- # au # blement dire que ce ſont deux hommes ou deux femmes : autrement s'il eſt trouue n'auoir qu'vn cœur de gener. a• auec deux corps, ce n'eſt qu'vn homme ou qu'vne femme.. car ſi le cœur qui eſt la ſource de la vie, nimal. eſt vnique, il s'enſuit qu'il n'y peut auoir qu'vne vie, & s'il n'a qu'vne vie, il n'y a auſſi qu'vne ame. auſſi les affections de tels monſtres qui n'ont qu'vn cœur, tant du corps que de l'ame, comme il ſe eut voir par exemple au chapitre quatriéme cy-deſſus, ne ſont pas ſeulement ſemblables, mais en ef- fect ſont meſmes : qui eſt vne preuue certaine qu'il n'y a qu'vne ame. au contraire, quand il y a deux cœurs, la diuerſité des affections ſe void, comme en ces deux filles qui eſtoient jointes par le front, dont le pourtrait ſe void cy-deſſous. or la cauſe de ce monſtre pouuoit eſtre, faute de matiere en quan- tité, ou vice de la matrice qui eſtoit trop petite, parce que nature voulant créer deux enfans, la trouuant trop eſtroitte, ſe trouua manque, de façon que la ſemence eſtant contrainte & ſerrée, ſe vint lors à coaguler en vn globe, dont ſe formerent deux enfans ainſijoints & vnis enſemble. l'an mil cinq cens ſoixante neuf, vne femme de tours enfanta deux enfans gemeaux, n'ayans -# # pº# ſſſ - > - - icnt : anatomiſez dar mai - d qu'vne teſte, leſquels s'entre-embraſſoient : & me furent donnez ſecs, & ſez par maiſtre niers ſont en rené ciret, maiſtre barbier & chirurgien, duquelle renom eſt aſſez celebre par tout le pays de tou-# poffºſſió de raine, ſans que ie luy donne autre loüange. ' - l'autheur. · i i i figure o le vingt-cinquiéme liure, figure de deux filles gemelles , leſquelles s'entretenoient par le front. sebaſtien monſter eſcrit auoir veu deux filles l'an mil quatre cens nonante-cinq , au mois de sep- tembre pres devvormes, auvillage nommé briſtant, leſquelles auoient deux corps entiers & bien for- mez, mais leurs fronts s'entre-tenoient enſemble; ſans que par artifice humain on les pûſt ſeparer, & s'entre touchoient preſque du nez : & veſquirent iuſques à dix ans,& lors en mourut vne, laquelle fut oſtée & ſeparée de l'autre, & celle qui demeura viue mourut bien toſt apres, quand on † ſa ſœur morte d'auec elle, pour la playe qu'elle auoit receuë de la ſeparation : la figure deſquelles t'eſt icy deſſus repreſentée. - figure de deux enfans monſtrueux, n'agueres nez à paru. - l'an mil cinq cens ſeptante, le vingtiéme iour du mois de iuillet, à paris ruë des grauillers, à l'en- ſeigne de la cloche, naſquirent ces deux enfans ainſi figurez, remarquez par les chirurgiens pour maſle & femelle, & furent baptiſez à sainct nicolas des champs, & nommez louys & louyſe. le re auoit nom pierre germain, dit petit dieu, de ſon meſtier ayde à maçon, & leur mere, matthée ernelle. figure · des monſtres. | ". figure de deux filles ioinctes enſemble, pourtraits d'vn monſtre ayant n'agueres nées en la ville du - · deux teſtes,l'vne de maſle, pont de sée, pres & l'autre de fe- angers. melle. è % s': # | º a" \ns $s) ) le lundy dixiéme iour de iuillet, mil cinq cens ſoixante & douze, en la ville du pont de sée, pres d'angers, naſquirent deux enfans femelles, leſquels veſquirent demie heure, & receurent bapteſme, & eſtoient bien formez, fors qu'vne main ſeneſtre n'auoit ſeulement que quatre doigts & eſtoient con- joincts enſemble en leurs parties anterieures, à ſçauoir depuis le menton iuſques à l'vmbilic, & n'a° uoient qu'vn ſeul nombril & vn ſeul cœur, le foye diuiſé en quatre lobes. caelius rhodiginus, chap. troiſiéme, liure vingt-quatriéme de ſes antiques leçons, eſcrit qu'il fut produit vn monſtre à ferare en italie, l'an de grace, mil cinq cens quarante, le dix-neufiéme iour de mars, lequel lors qu'il fut enfanté, eſtoit auſſi grand & bien formé, que s'il euſt eu quatre mois accom- plis, ayant le ſexe feminin & maſculin, & deux teſtes, l'vne de maſles & l'autre de femelle. cette an- née fut toute remplie de prodiges, & de miſeres qui les enſuiuirent. - a milan naſquit vn veau auec deux teſtes parfaites, jointes enſemble par l'occiput. le vingt-ſixiéme decembre , en pluſieurs lieux d'allemagne fut veuë deuant le iour vne eſtoille dedans le corps de la lune, de laquelle en yſſirent deux le lendemain qui rendoient vne tres-grand lumiere. - le cinquiéme ianuier vn enfant monſtrueux naſquit en allemagne, auec deux teſtes tournez vers le dos, deſquelles les faces oppoſées l'vne auec l'autre s'entreregardoient d'vne contenance farouche, d & pleine de menace. vne comette parut, & le soleil ſouffrit vne tres-grande eclipſe, le ſeptiéme d'auril. il y eut de grandes & cruelles guerres en cette année. pluſieurs tremblemens de terre, tant en allemagne qu'ailleurs, auec tres-grandes ruines. l'egliſe cathedrale de prague, ville capitale de boheme, auec le palais royal, furent entierement bruſlez. •! les principaux effects de la reuolte des gantois executez par le commandement de charles cin- uiéme. l'eſté fut tres-ardent & ſec, auec vne tres-grande diſette d'herbages & legumes & autres neceſſi- tez. tous leſquels mal-heurs, & pluſieurs autres qui arriuerent en cette année, ſemblent auoir eſté predits par ces monſtres. car tout ainſi qu'en la compoſition parfaitte de l'indiuidu de tous les ani- | . maux, telles formes ſont monſtrueuſes, extraordinaires & horribles à voir : ces accidens le ſont de • meſme aux eſtats, citez & republiques qui en reçoiuent les afflictions. . . - l i i figure le vingt-cinquiéme liure, figure dvn enfant maſle ayant quatre figure d'vn homme ayant vneteſle bras & quatre iambes. au milieu du ventre. -\{ | # -# nn- s n $ § - iouinianus pontanus eſcrit que l'an mil cinq cens vingt-neuf, le neufiéme de ianuier, il fut veu en allemagne vn enfant maſle ayant quatre bras & quatre jambes, duquel tuvois icy le pourtraict. l'eſté pluuieux extraordinairement perdit vniuerſellement tous les biens de la terre. la mefme année que le #and roy françois fit la paix auec les suiſſes, naſquit en allemagne vn monſtre ayant vne teſte au milieu du ventre : iceluy veſquit iuſques à l'aage d'homme : icelle teſte pre- - noit aliment comme l'autre. pourtrait de deux enfans monſtrueux, auſquels vn ſºul ſexe feminin ſe manifeſie. fevrier mil cinq cens ſeptante-deux, en la paroiſſe au lieu des petites bordes, vne femme nommée cypriane gir accoucha de ce monſtre , lequel veſquit iuſqu§ pimanche enſui de viabam , ſur le chemin r iour de ºnde, femme de hartrc : hand labourº * le dernie de paris à iacqucs maic •' / figure des monſtres. figure d'vn cochon monſtrueux né à mets en lorraine, - - sesn t a a n è - sn m\' - s -, - †a$ #-- - sn snn x--- $ = > ， nul # $ | | | | | ," x n # jiiiim nuuſſſ % | $ nnnn n $ | "- \ ) | - //a(ſ / " |) - ) $ \ t # xº / s " u . ) § † § % | ， - a. - / - '/ $ n%/ % ^ º n\% /ll ||||| l|||||||iÈn, | |, | | -- w) | % jlll |! / / tllltl \llt n\ \ | # # . l# | | v. , - , \ \ - n | | | - * - - ! b # llll s-/ / - - - zs>ns $ - l'an . le lendemain de paſques à mets en lorraine, dans l'hoſtellerie du sainct eſprit, vne truye cochonna vn cochon ayant huict iambes, quatre oreilles, la teſte d'vn vray chien, le derriere du corps ſeparé iuſques à l'eſtomach, & depuis joinct en vn, ayant deux langues ſituées au trauers de la gueule, & auoit quatre grandes dents, ſçauoir eſt, autant deſſus que deſſous, de chacun coſté, leurs ſexes eſtoient mal diſtinguez, de façon qu'on ne pouuoit connoiſtre s'ils eſtoient maſles ou femelles: ils n'auoient chacun qu'vn conduit ſous la queuë , la figure duquel t'eſt icy demonſtrée par ce pour- trait, lequel puis n'agueres m'a eſté enuoyée par monſieur bourgeois docteur en medecine, homme de bpn ſçauoir, & bien experimenté en icelle, demeurant en ladite ville de mets. des femmes qui portent pluſieurs enfans d'vne ventrée. c h a p t r e v. - e commun accouchement des femmes eſt d'vn enfant, toutesfois on void (comme le cauſe de la nombre des femmes eſt grand) qu'elles accouchent ſouuent de deux, que l'on appelle pluralité gemeaux, ou beſſons : il y en a qui en accouchent de trois , quatre , cinq, ſix , & plus. d'enfant. empedocles dit, que lors qu'il y a grande quantité de ſemence, il ſe fait pluralité d'en- fans. autrès, comme les stoïques, diſent qu'il s'engendre pluſieurs enfans, pource qu'en la matrice il y a pluſieurs cellules, ſeparations & cauitez, & quand la ſemence eſt eſpanduë en icelles , il ſe fait pluſieurs enfans : toutesfois cela eſt faux : car en la matrice de la femme il ne ſe trouue qu'vne ſeule cauité, mais aux beſtes, com- me chiennes, pourceaux, & autres, il y a pluſieurs cel- lules, qui eſt cauſe qu'elles portent pluſieurs petits. ari- ſtote a eſcrit , que la femme ne pouuoit § d'vne portée plus de cinq enfans : ce qui eſt aduenu en vne ſer- uante d'auguſte ceſar, laquelle d'vne portée accoucha de cinq enfans, qui ne veſquirent que bien peu de temps nó plus que la mere. l'an mil cinq cens cinquante quatre à berne en suiſſes la femme de lean gelinger docteur enfanta pareillement d'vne portée cinq enfans , trois maſles, & deux femelles. albucaſis dit cſtre certain d'vne dame qui en auoit fait ſept : & d'vne autre, la- quelle s'eſtât bleſſée auorta de quinze bien formez, pline chap. . liure .fait mention d'vne qui auorta de douze. le meſme autheur dit, que l'on a veu au peloponeſe ( auiourd'huy la morée ) vne femme qui accoucha qua- tre fois, à chaque portée de cinq enfans , deſquels la · pluſpart veſquirent. d'alechamps en ſa chirurgie en ſa chi- françoiſe, chapitre nonante-quatre fueillet . dit, rurgie fran. qu'vn gentil-homme nommé bonauenture sauellisie- # nois luy a affermé qu'vne ſienne eſclaue , qu'il entre- tenoit , fit ſept enfans d'vne portée , † quatre furent baptiſez. et de noſtre temps , la femme d'vn gentil-homme sieur de maldemeure, qui eſt vne mai- ſon entre sarte & maine patroiſſe de seaux , pres chambellay, eut la premiere année qu'elle fut mariée edux enfans , la ſeconde année trois, la troiſieſme qua- tre , la quatriéme cinq , la cinquiéme ſix , dont elle mourut : il y a vn deſdits ſix § viuant, qui eſt au- ii i iourd'huy # - •- - - © • / li - - le vingt-cinquiéme liure, iourd'huy fieur dudit lieu de maldemeurc. a beaufort en vallé pays d'anjou, vne ieune fernme, fille de a feu macé chauniere, accoucha d'vn enfant, & huict ou dix iours apres d'vn autre qu'il luy fallut tirer hors le ventre, dont elle mourut. martius cromerus au liure de l'hiſtoire de pologne, eſcrit qu'en la chºſºººº prouince de cracouie,vne dame fort vertueuſe & de grande & ancienne maiſon,qui ſe nommoit mar- # gueritc , femme du comte virboſlaüs, accoucha le o.iour de ianuier . d'vne ventrée de trente-ſix porta #. enfans vifs. franciſcus picus mirandula eſcrit,qu'vne femme en italie, nommée dorothée, accoucha fans. en deux fois de vingt enfans, à ſçauoir, de neuf en vne fois, & vnze à l'autre, laquelle portant vn ſi grand fardeau,eſtoit ſi groſſe qu'elle ſouſtenoit ſon ventre,qui luy deſcendoit iuſques aux genoüils, auec v )c grande bande, qui la prenoit au col & aux eſpaules,comme tu vois par ce pourtrait. mais de toutes ces portées ou enfantemens, il n'y en a point qui approche de la meruelle de la comteſſe de flandres, laquelle par vne iuſte permiſſion & vengeance de dieu , conceut & accoucha d'vne ſeule portée, ainſi que pluſieurs hiſtoriens nous ont laillé par eſcrit, de trois cens ſoixante & cinq enfans, autant qu'il y a de iours en l'an. - - - fauſſe opi- or quant à la raiſon de la multitude des enfans, quelques vns du tout ignares de l'anatomie ont | nion teuchāt voulu perſuader,qu'en la matrice de la femme il y auoit pluſienrs cellules & ſinus, à ſçauoir ſept, trois ººº au coſté droict pour les maſles, trois au coſté gauche pour les femelles, & le ſeptiéme droit au milieu "#a pour les §. : meſme que ce menſonge a eſté authoriſé iuſques la , que quelques-vns par gemeaux. apres ont affermé vne chacune de ces ſept cauitez eſtre derechef diuiſée cil dix autres : & de là ils ont tiré la raiſon de la multitude des enfans d'vne ventrée, de ce que diuerſes portions de la ſeméce eſtoient b écartées & receuës en pluſieurs cellules: mais telle choſe n'eſt appuyée d'aucune raiſon, authorité ny ve- rité, ains eſt contraire au ſens & à la veuë, bien qu'hippocrate ſemble auoir eſté de cette opinion au liure de natura pueri,mais ariſtote liure chapitre . de gener.animal. penſe que les iumeaux ſe font, ou pluſieurs enfans d'vne ventrée, de meſme ſorte qu'vn ſixiéme doigt en la main, à ſçauoir par la re- dondance de la matiere, laquelle eſtant en grande abondance, ſi elle vient à ſe diuiſer en deux, il ſe fait des iumeaux. il m'a ſemblé bon qu'en cet endroit ie deſcriue des hermaphrodites, à cauſe qu'ils vien- nent auſſi de ſuperabondance de la matiere. des hermaphrodites ou androgynes, c'est à dire, qui en meſme corps ont deux ſexes. c h a p i t r e v i. e s hermaphrodites ou androgynes ſont des enfans qui naiſſent auec double membre deſtription ſe ſſ n# ，- des herma- j$a $ # genital, l'vn maſculin, l'autre feminin, & partant ſont appellez en noſtre langue fran- frodites. " -- • çoiſe hommes & femmes. or quant à la cauſe, c'eſt que la femme fournit autant de androgyne #ſemence quel'homme proportionnément, & pource la vertu formatrice, qui touſiours #. # tâche à faire ſon ſemblable, à ſçauoir de la matrice maſculine vn maſle, & de la femi- ér femme,čr nine, vne femelle, fait qu'en vn meſme corps ſont trouuez quelquesfois les deux ſexes, c femme & que l'on nomme hermaphrodites : deſquels il y a quatre differences, à ſçauoir hermaphrodite maſle, ºº qui eſt celuy qui a le ſexe de l'homme parfait, & qui peut engendrer, & a au perinaeum ( qui eſt le lieu # entre le ſcrotum & le ſiege) vn trou en forme de vulue, toutesfois non penetrant au dedans du corps, r§ & d'iceluy ne ſort vrine ne ſemence.la femme hermaphrodite, outre ſa vulue qui eſt bien compoſée, par laquelle elle jette ſa ſemence & ſes mois, a vn membre viril, ſitué au deſſus de ladite vulue, pres le penil, ſans prepuce: mais vne peau deliée, laquelle ne ſe peut renuerſer ne retourner, & ſans aucune e- rection, & d'iceluy ne ſort vrine ny ſemence, & ne s'y trouue veſtige de ſcrotum , ne teſticules. les les loix hermaphrodites qui ne ſont nyl'vn ny l'autre, ſont ceux qui ſont du tout forclos, & exempts de gene- pºur le her- neration,& leurs ſexes du tout imparfaits, & ſont ſitucz à coſté l'vn de l'autre & quelquesfois l'vn deſ- ##. ſus & l'autre deſſous, & ne s'en peuuent ſeruir que pour jetter l'vrine. hermaphrodites maſles & fe- # # melles, ce ſont ceux qui ont les deux ſexes bien formez, & s'en peuuent ayder & ſeruir à la generation: anciens & & à ceux-cy les loix anciennes & modernes ont fait & font encore eſlire, duquel ſexe ils veulent vſer, ººººº auec deffence ſur peine de perdre la vie de ne ſe ſeruir que de celuy duquel ils auront fait eſlection,pour # les inconueniens qui en pourroient aduenir. car aucuns en ont abuſé de telle ſorte, que par vn vſage #. § mutuel & reciproque, paillardoient de l'vn & de l'autre ſexe: tantoſt d'homme , tantoſt de femme , à diſcerner les cauſe qu'ils auoient nature d'homme & de femme, proportionnée à tel acte, voire comme deſcrit ari- hermaphro- ſtote, leur tetin droit eſt comme celuy d'vne homme, & le gauche comme celuy d'vne femme. les #n en ſes medecins & chirurgiens bien expers & bien aduiſez, peuuent connoiſtre quel ſexe les hermaphrodites §iſ doiuent tenir de maſle ou femelle, ou s'ils peuuent vſer des deux ou de pas vn. et telle choſe ſe con- bermaphro- noiſtra aux parties genitales, à ſçauoir, ſi le ſexe feminin eſt propre en ſes dimenſions, pour receuoir la dites prºbl , verge virile,& ſi par iceluy fluent les menſtruës, pareillement par le viſage,& ſi les cheueux ſont deliez # # ou gros : ſi la parole eſt virile ou greſle, ſi les tetins ſont ſemblables a ceux des hommes ou des femmes: # ſemblablement ſi toute l'habitude du corps eſt robuſte, ou effeminée, s'ils ſont hardis ou craintifs, & cbap... aux autres actions propres & familieres aux maſles, ou aux femelles. et quant aux parties genitales qui appartiennent à l'homme, faut examiner & voir s'il y a grande quantité de poil au penil & autour du ſiege : car communément, & quaſi touſiours les femmes n'en ont point au ſiege. semblablement faut bien examiner ſi la verge virile eſt bien proportionée en groſſeur & longueur,& ſi elle ſe dreſſe, & d'icelle ſort ſemence: qui ſe fera par la confeſſion de l'hermaphrodite, lors qu'il aura eu la compagnie de femme : & par cet examen on pourra veritablement diſcerner & connoiſtre l'hermaphrodite maſle & femelle, ou ceux qui ſeront & l'vn & l'autre, ou qui ne ſont ny l'vn nyl'autre. et ſi le ſexe de l'her- maphrodite tient plus de l'homme que de la femme, il doit eſtre appellé homme : & ainſi ſera il de la femme. et ſi l'hermaphrodite tient autant de l'vn que de l'autre, il ſera appellé hermaphrodite hom- me & femme, comme tu peux voir par ce pourtrait. pourtrait des monſtres. a - » - - pourtrait d'vn hermaphrodite hom- figure de deux hermaphrodites, eſtans me & femme. ioincts dos à dos, l'vn à l'autre. % - s # à f | # à é d. # â ## s l'an mil quatre cens quatre-vingt & ſix, on vid naiſtre au palatinat aſſez pres de heidelberg , en vn bourg nommé rhebarchie, deux enfans gemeaux s'entretenans, & joints enſemble dos à dos, qui eſtoient c hermaphrodites, comme on les peut voir par ce pourtrait. figure d'vn monſtre ayant quatre bras & quatre pieds, cs deux natures de femme. - #º) t m ſ% - $s> % | ns/ $ gaa ")n/$ # - - - - - # # "n( $ #. à n» $ $ =#/ le iour que les venitiens & geneuois furent recon- # # ) q s# $ = ciliez, naſquit en italie ( comme raconte boiſteau) vn =# ) w nsf# $ - - - - $s n) ) º n$ , monſtre qui auoit quatre bras & quatre jambes, & n'a- -* - )! > \ # n uoit qu'vne teſte, auec la proportion gardée en tout le - - †\,$ # q prop - )$w ， = # \ reſte du corps , & fut baptizé, & veſquit quelque temps - q) % •- .. s° apres. iacques ruef, chirurgien de surich, eſcrit en e - - - # - = | auoir veu vn ſemblable, lequel auoit deux natures de - - "] - - - i> $ - \ femme, comme tu peux voir par ce pourtrait. e= # #/\ e s\% - # $ # # # ) / # $ )' % -#/$ $e #a (#( \ - s s È= s $ $ * #se $ ' #n$ $ $ á a$ \s s # ns - hiſtoires memorables de certaines femmes qui ſont degenerées en hommes. cha p. vii. # m a t v s luſitanus recite, qu'il y eut en vn bourgnommé eſgucina,vne fille appellée marie pateca, 'aquelle eſtant ſur le temps que les filles commencent à auoir leurs fleurs, au lieu deſdites fleurs,luy ſortit vn membre viril, lequel eftoit caché dedans auparauant,& ainſi de femelle deuint maſle:par- quoy , tie fut veſtue de robbe d'homme, & ſon nom de marie fut changé en emmanuel. depuis il traficqua long-temps és indes,où ayant acquis grand bruit & grandes richeſſes, à ſon retour ſe maria : toutesfois cet autheur ne ſçait s'il eut enfans, vray (dit-il) qu'il demeura toufiours ſans barbe. - i i i antoin f | " le vingt-cinquiéme liure, autrehiſtoi- re ſemblable. autre hi- ſtoire, le roy charles re- gn ht. cardinal de lenoncourt. pline liu. . abap . antoine loqueneux receueur des tailles pour le roy à ſainct quentin, n'agueres m'a affirmé auoir veu a vn homme au logis du cygne à rheims, l'an ſoixante, lequel ſemblablement on auoit eſtimé eſtre fille, iuſ- ques en l'aage de quatorze ans: mais ſe iouant & folaſtrant,eſtant couché auec vne châbriere, ſes parties ge- nitales d'homme ſe vindrent à deuelopper: le pere & la mere le connoiſſant eſtre tel, luy firent par authorité de l'egliſe changer le nom de ieanne à iean,& luy furent baillez habillemens d'hôme. auſſi eſtant à la ſuit- te du roy, à vitry le françois en champagne i'y vid vn certain perſonnage nommé germain garnier,auciis le nommoient germain marie, parce qu'eſtant fille on l'appelloit marie , ieune homme , de taille moyenne, trappe, & bien amaſſé portant barbe rouſſe, aſſez eſpaiſſe, lequel iuſqu'au quinziéme de ſonaage auoit eſté tenu pour fille, attendu qu'en luy ne ſe monſtroit aucune marque de virilite,& meſme qu'il ſe tenoit auec les filles en habit de femme. or ayant atteint l'aage ſuſdit, comme il eſtoit aux champs, & pourſuiuoit aſſez viuement ſes pourceaux qui alloient dedans vnbled,trouuant vn foſſe le voulut affranchir:& l'ayant ſauté à l'inſtant ſes genitoires vindrent à ſe deſuelopper, & la verge virile s'eſtans rompus, leſquels auparauant eſtoient tenus clos & enſerrez ( ce qui luy aduint ſans douleur ) & s en retourna larmoyant en la maiſon de ſa mere,diſant que ſes trippes luy eſtoient ſorties hors du ventre,laquelle fut fort eſtónée de ce ſpectacle. et ayant aſſemblé des medecins & chirurgiens, pour là deſſus auoir aduis, on trouua qu'elle eſtoit homme, & non plus fille:& tantoſt apres en auoir fait le rapport à l'eueſque, qui eſtoit le defunct cardinal de lenon- court,par ſon authorité,& aſſemblée du peuple,il receut le n d'homme:& au lieu de marie(car il eſtoit ainſi nommé auparauant)il fut appellé germain, & luy fut baillé habit d'homme,& croy que luy & ſa mere ſont encore viuans. pline liu. . chap. . dit ſemblablement qu'vne fille deuint garçon, & fut confinée pour cette #ºſº" cauſe en vne iſle deſerte & inhabitée par arreſt des aruſpices. il me ſemble que ces deuineurs n'auoient oc- deuineurs. nature tend touſtours à perfection. hiſtoire. caſion de ce faire, pour les raiſons cy deſſus alleguées : toutesfois ils eſtimoient que telle monſtrueuſe b choſe leur eſtoit mauuais augure & preſage, qui eſtoit la cauſe de les chaſſer & exiler. la raiſon pourquoy les femmes ſe peuuent degenerer en hôme,c'eſt que les femmes ont autant de caché dedans le corps,que les hommes deſcouurent dehors:reſte ſeulement qu'elles n'ont pas tant de chaleur,ny ſuffiſance pour pouſſer de- hors , ce que par la froidure de leur temperature eſt tenu comme lié au dedans. parquoy ſi auec le temps, l'humidité de l'enfance qui empeſcheroit la chaleur de faire ſon plein deuoir, eſtant pour la pluſpart exha- lée,la chaleur eſt renduë plus robuſte,acre,& actiue,ce n'eſt choſe incredible,qu'icelle principalement aydée de quelque mouuement violent,ne puiſſe pouſſer dehors ce qui eſtoit carhé dedans. or comme telle meta- morphoſe a lieu en nature, par les raiſons & exemples alleguez : auſſi nous ne trouuons iamais en hiſtoire veritable, que homme aucun ſoit deuenu femme, pource que nature tend touſiours à ce qui eſt le plus par- fait, & non au contraire faire que ce qui eſt parfait, deuienne imparfait. exemple du defaut de la quantité de la ſemence. c h a p i t r e v i i i. i la quantité de la ſemence (comme nous auons par cy-deuant dit ) manque, pareillement quel- que membre defaudra auſſi, plus ou moins. de là viendra que l'enfant aura deux teſtes & vn bras, l'autre n'aura point de bras : vn autre n'aura ny bras jambes, ou autres parties defaillantes, com- me nous auons dit cy-deſſus : l'autre aura deux teſtes , & vn ſeul bras, & le reſte du corps bien accom- lv. - p #an . ie vis à paris à la porte de sainct andré des arts, vn enfant monſtrueux aagé de neufans, na- tif de parpeuille,village trois lieuës pres de guiſe(ſon pere ſe nommoit pierre renard & ſa nere qui le por- toit, marquette) qui n'auoit que deux doigts à la main dextre, & le bras eſtoit aſſez bien fomié depuis l'eſ- paule iuſques au coulde, mais depuis le coulde iuſques aux deux doigts eſtoit fort difforme. il eſtoit ſans jambes, toutesfois luy ſortoit hors de la feſſe dextres vne figure incomplette d'vn pied , apparence de qua- tre orteils : de l'autre feſſe ſeneſtre en ſortoit du milieu deux doigt, l'vn deſquels reſſembloit preſque à la verge virile. lequel t'eſt demonſtré au vray par cette preſente figure. figure d'vn enfant monſtrueux, par le defaut de la ſemence en deuë quantité lan des monſtres. a l'an mil cinq cens ſoixante deux, premier iour de nouembre,naſquit à ville-franche de beyran en gaſ hiſtoir， . congne ce preſent monſtre ſans teſte , lequel m'a eſté donné par monſieur hautin, docteur regent en la ， faculté de medecine à paris, duquel monſtre tuvois icy la figure, tant anterieure que poſterieure, & m'a - affirmé l'auoir veu. - figure d'vn monſtre femelle ſans teſte. choſ fort monſtrueuſe, ' u ſy" uné femme ſans teſte . |! b & # # - % - $\$ # % $ \s é - sn na - º - \ % #$ | é # l •ºs figure d'vn monſtre ayant deux teſtes, figure d'vn homme ſans deux tambes, & vn ſeul bras. - brau. c i on a veu depuis quelque temps en ça à paris vn homme ſans bras, aagé de quarante ans ou enuiron, 'hiſtºire fort & robuſte, lequel faiſoit preſque toutes les actions qu'vn autre pouuoit faire de ſes mains : à ſçauoir merusilleuſe auec ſon moignon d'eſpaule, & la teſte ruoit vne coignée contre vne piece de bois, auſſi ferme qu'vn autre homme euſt ſceu faire auec ſes bras. pareillement faiſoit cliquetter vn foiiet de chartier,& faiſoit pluſieurs autres actions : & auec ſes pieds , mangeoit, beuuoit, & iouoit aux cartes & aux dez , ce qui t'eſt demon- ſtré par ce pourtrait : à la fin fut larron , voleur & meurtrier, & executé en gueldres, à ſçauoir pendu , - puis mis ſur la rouë. - - semblablement de recente memoire, on à veu à paris vne femme ſans bras, qui tailloit & couſoit & stº, , faiſoit le vingt-cinquiéme liure, ariſtote, hippocr. & emped. la uërfté imaginatiue fait receuoir aux enfans pluſieurs fr- //s . . moyſe o. chap. hiſtoire. damaſcene. hippocr. preceptes pour les fem- mes qut en- gendrent. la femmse me peut faire nuiſance à bien former ſon enfant qu'en la con- ception & éö- formation. hiſtoire. faiſoit pluſieurs autres actions.hippocrate au liure . des epidimies,eſcrit que la femme d'antigenes accou- a cha d'vn enfant tout de chair, n'ayant aucun os, neantmoins auoit toutes les parties bien formées. c h a p. ix. exemples des monſtres qui ſe font par imagination. . es anciens qui ont recherché les ſecrets de nature , ont enſeigné d'autres cauſes des enfans | monſtrueux,& les ont referez à vne ardente & obſtinée imagination, que peut auoir la femme q #， cependant qu'elle conçoit, par quelque object, ou ſonge fantaſtique de quelques viſions no- $ $ # cturnes, que l'hôme ou la femme ont ſur l'heure de la conception.cecy meſme eſt verifié par #>/# l'authorité de moyſe, où il monſtre comme iacob deçeut ſon beau pere laban, & s'enrichit de ſon beſtial,ayant fait peler des verges,qu'il mit dans l'abreuoir, afin que les chevres & brebis regardans ces verges de couleurs diuerſes, formaſſent leurs petits marquetez de diuerſes tâches: parce que l'imagination a tant de puiſſance ſur la ſemence & geniture, que le rayon , & charactere en demeure ſur la choſe enfantée. qu'il ſoit vray, heliodore eſcrit, que purſina, reyne d'ethiopie, conceut du roy hydaſpes, tous deux ethiopiens, vne fille qui eſtoit blanche, & ce par l'imagination qu'elle attira de la ſemblance de la belle andromede, dont elle auoit la peinture deuant ſes yeux,pendant les embraſſemens deſquels elle de- uint groſſe. damaſcene, autheur graue, atteſte auoir veu vne fille velue comme vn ours , laquelle la mere auoit enfantée ainſi difforme & hideuſe, pour auoir trop attentiuement regardé la figure d'vn ſainct iean ve- ſtu de peau auec ſon poil, laquelle eſtoit attachée au pieds de ſon lict , pendant qu'elle conceuoit. par ſem- b blable raiſon hippocrate ſauua vne princeſſe accuſé d'adultere , parce qu'elle auoit enfanté vn enfant noir comme vn more, ſon mary & elle ayant la chair blanche , laquelle à la ſuaſion d'hippocrate fut abſoute, pour le pourtrait d'vn more ſemblable à l'enfant,lequel couſtumierement eſtoit attaché à s lict.dauantage, on void que les connins & paons qui ſont enfermez en des lieux blancs , par vertu im ginatiue engendrent leurs petits blancs. figure d'vn monſtre fort hideux,ayant figure d'vne fille veluë, & d'vnen- les mains & pieds de bœuf,& au- fant noir,faits par la vertu imaginaire. f/ . choſes fort monſtrueuſes. -% $ # n ns n \) / ) $ / n % a $n n\ \ r % \ $ \ \nv(#&\ $ |$ q% n \ \ ) \ &\ $v ) ( \ ù | $ (s l' n \ $ $s- #%! $ § - srs §) $! $l () $# | $w $\l' # - et partant faut que les femmes , à l'heure de la conception, & lors que l'enfant n'eſt encore formé (qui eſt de trente ou trente-cinq iours aux maſles , & de quarante ou quarante-deux, comme dit hippocrate liure de natura pueri, aux femelles ) n'ayent à regarder, ny imaginer choſes monſtrueuſes : mais la formation de l'enfant eſtant faite , jaçoit que la femme regarde ou imagine attentiuement choſes monſtrueuſes, tou- tesfois alors l'imagination n'aura aucun lieu , pource qu'il ne ſe fait point de transformation depuis que l'enfant eſt du tout formé. - en saxe en vn village nommé stecquer, fut né vn monſtre ayant quatre pieds de bœuf,les yeux, la bou- che, & le nez ſemblables à vn veau, ayant deſſus la teſte vne chair rouge, de forme ronde : vne autre par derriere, ſemblable à vn capuchon de moyne, les cuiſſes dechiquetées, comme tu vois par cette figure cy- deſſus peinte. : z l'an mil cinq cens dix-ſept en la parroiſſe de blois - le roy dans la foreſt de biévre, ſur le chemin de fontaine-bleau, naſquit vn enfant ayant la face d'vne grenoüille, qui a eſté veu & viſité par maiſtre iean belangier , chirurgien en la ſuitte de l'artillerie du roy, és preſences de meſſieurs de la iuſtice de harmois. a ſçauoir honorable homme iacques bribon, procureur du roy dudit lieu, & eſtienne lar- dot , bourgeois de melun, & iean de vitry, notaire royal à melun,& autres: le pere s'appelle eſme petit, & - des monſtres. a & la mere magdelaine sarboucart. ledit belanger, homme de bon eſprit ? deſirant fçauoir la cauſe de ce monſtre, s'enquit au pere d'où cela pouuoit proceder, lequel luy dit , qu il eſtimoit que fa femme ayant la fiévre, vne de ſes voiſines luy conſeilla pour guarir ſa fiévre, qu'elle priſt vne grenouille viue en ſa main, & qu'elle la tinſt iuſques à ce que ladite grenoüille fuſt morte : la nuict elle s'en alla coucher auec ſon marys ayant toufiours ladite grenoüille en ſa main, ſon mary & elle s'embraſſerent , & con$ºut . & par la vertº imaginatiue ce monſtre auoit eſté ainſi produit, comme tu vois par cette figure. - figure prodigieuſe d'vn enfant ayant la face de g renouille. )# si :# >ss $ ngwº "» s | -º§s # # ? ， $ - - % - % hsh % % $ - % - *, % . - - # n # ( - | -e - - s， ve# #=- = sn-x.z- =s- exemple de l'anguſtie & petiteſſe de la matrice. c h a p. x. p#= il l ſe fait auſſi des monſtres pour la detreſſe du corps de la matrice, comme l'on void, que lors raiſon par # #| qu'vne poire attachée à l'arbre , poſée en vn vaiſſeau eſtroit deuant qu'elle ſoit accruë , ne peut ſimilitude. a# † prendre croiſſance complette : ce qui eſt auſſi conneu aux dames, qui nourriſſent des ieunes | # chiens en petits paniers ou autres vaiſſeaux eſtroits , pour les garder de croiſtre. pareillement # la plante naiſſant de terre trouuant vne pierre, ou autre choſe ſolide à l'endroit où elle vient, deuient tortué, groſſiſſant en vne partie, & demeurant greſle en l'autre : pour meſme cauſe les enfans ſor- tent du ventre de leurs meres, monſtrueux & difformes. car hippocrate dit, qu'il eſt neceſſaire qu'vn corps hip. liu. de qui ſe meut en lieu eſtroit, deuienne mutile & manque. empedocle & diphille ont attribué ſemblablement la geniture. cela à ſurabondance, ou defaut & corruption de la ſemence, ou à l'indiſpoſition de la matrice: ce qui peut cauſes º eſtre veritable par la ſimilitude des choſes ſenſibles,eſquelles fi la matiere qu'on veut fondre n'eſt bien cuit- monſtres,ſe- te, purifiée & preparée, ou que le moule ſoit raboteux , ou autrement mal ordonné la medaille, ou effigie # empede- qui en eſt faite, eſt defectueuſe , hideuſe & difforme. ch j. exemples des monſtres qui ſe font, la mere eſtant tenuë trop longuement aſſiſe, ayant eu les - cuiſſes croiſées , ou pour s'eſtre bandé & ſerrée trop le ventre durant qu'elle eftoit groſſe. ch a p. xi. s r quelques-fois auſſi il aduient par accident, que la matrice eſt aſſez ample naturellement, toutes- ces enfant ) fois la femme eſtant groſſe , pour s'eſtre tenue quaſi touſiours aſſiſe pendant ſa groſſeſſe, & les cuiſ-ſont apptlleº **ſes croiſées, comme volontiers font les couſturiers, ou celles qui trauaillent en tapiſſeries ſur leurs pieds boſs & genoüils, ou s'eſtre bandé, & trop ſerré le ventre, font des enfans courbez, boſſus & contrefaits, aucuns " botes. ayans les mains & les pieds tortus , comme tu vois par cette figure. - figure --** - … -- .. , o le vingt-cinquiéme liure, figure d'vn enfant qui a eſté preſſe au ventre de ſa moe, ayant ks mains &%° pieds t /tl , - º é#, ssé --#- $ j ſſſ s$ se # -# $ $ - - --#!#- $ , $a b zº n --$ pourtrait d'vn prodige & enfant petrefié, lequela eſté - s trouué au cadauer d'vne femme en la ville de sens le ſei- c ziéme iour de may, mil cinq cens octante-deux, elle eſtant aagée de ſoixante-huict ans, & l'ayant porté en ſon ventre par l'eſpace de vingt-huict ans. ledit enfant eſtoit quaſi tout ramaſſé en vn globe, mais il eſt icy pourtrait # & tiré de ſon long, afin # mieux faire voir l'entiere fi- - ure de ſes membres, horſmis vne main qui eſtoit de- ectueuſe. cecy ſe peut confirmer par matthias cornax, mede- cin de maximilian roy des romains, lequel recite que luy-meſme aſſiſta à la diſſection du ventre d'vne femme, laquelle auoit porté en ſa matrice ſon enfant l'eſpace de quatre ans. auſſi egidius hertages medecin à bruxelles, fait mention d'vne femme qui a porté en ſes flancs treize ans reuolus, le ſquelette d'vn enfant mort ioannes lan- gius, en l'epiſtre qu'il eſcrit à achilles baſſarus, teſmoi- ne auſſi d'vne femme qui eſtoit d'vn bourgappellé eber-p - x , $ $ $ n s# # - > - - #$ $ ns ach, laquelle rendit les os d'vn enfant, qui eſtoit mort # # # | "s en ſon ventre dix ans auparauant. # # # _^ % . w\v ( - \ § \ \ - - \ • - q^. # \ . , ' | i ! $ # # nn : $# # $ / . \ # # # #. ) \ - exemple i des monſtres. i -- - • • - - - - , - - - - - - exemple des cmonſtres qui ſont eugendrez , la mere ayant receu quelque coup ou cheute» eſtant groſſe d'enfant. ch a p. , xii. 'a v a n r a g e quand la mere reçoit quelque coup ſur le ventre, ou qu'elle tombe de haut en bas , les enfans en peuuert auoir les os rompus , desboitez & torturez, ou receuoir autre vice , comme eſtre boiteux, boſſus, & contrefaits, ou pource que l'enfant deuient malade au ventre de ſa mere , ou que les femmes nangent,ou defirent manger, ou qu'elles abhorrent de voir toſt aprº qu'elles ont conçeu, ou que l'on aura jetté quelque choſe entre leurs tetins, conne vne ceriſe,prunesgrenouille, vne ſouris ou autres choſes qui peuuent rendre les enfans monſtrueux. — exemplº des monstres qui ſe font par les maladies hereditaires. c h a p t r e xiii. v s s pour les indiſpoſitions , ou compoſitions hereditaires des peres & meres, les en- -# fans ſont faits monſtrueux & difformes : car il eſt aſſez manifeſte , qu'vn boſſu, voire telle- # ment boſſu, que les deux boſſes deuant & derriere, a quelques-vns ſont ſi fort eſleuées, que la teſte eſt à moitié cachée entre les eſpaules, ainſi que la teſte d'vne tortuë dans ſa coquille. vne femme boiteuſe d'vn coſté, faict ſes enfans boiteux ſemblables à eile : autres eſtans boi- - teuſes des deux hanches, font enfans qui le ſont auſſi , & qui cheminent cannetant. les ca- balbutier mus font leurs enfans camus : autres balbutient : autres parlenr en bredouillant , auſſi leurs enfans bre- # § douillent : et où les peres & meres ſont petits, les enfans en naiſſent le plus ſouuent nains, ſans nulle autre begayer, ue deformité, à ſçauoir : quand le corps du pere & de la mere n'ont aucun vice en leur conformation : au-peuuant bien tres font leurs enfans bien maigres , à cauſe que le pere & la mere le ſont : autres ſont ventrus & fort proferer la feſſus , quaſi plus gros que longs, parce qu'ils ont eſté engendrez d'vn pere ou d'vne mere , ou de pere parole.. , & mere enſemble gros & gras , ventrus & feſſus. les gouteux engendrent des enfans gouteux , & les la- bredouiller, pidaires ſujets à la pierre : auſſi fi le pere & la mere ſont fols , le plus ſouuent les enfans ne ſont gue- c'eſt dire . res ſages : pareillement les epileptiques engendrent des enfans qui ſont ſubjets à l'epilepſie. or tou- # tes ces manieres de gens ſe trouuent ordinairement , qui eſt choſe qu'vn chacun peut voir, & connoi- #- ſtre à l'œil la verité de mon dire : partant ie n'ay que faire d'en parler d'auantage. auſſi ne veux-ie § eſcrire que les ladres engendrent des enfans ladres : car tout le monde le ſçait. il y a vne infinité d'au- proferée. tres indiſpoſitions des peres & meres , auſquelles les enfans ſont ſujets, voire meſines qu'ils retiennent des mœurs, de la parole, de mines & trongnes , contenances & geſtes, iuſques au marcher & cracher de leurs peres & meres. toutesfois de ce ne faut faire reigle certaine : car nous voyons quelquesfois des peres & meres auoir toutes ces indiſpoſitions , & neantmoins leurs enfans n'en retenir aucune choſe : parce que la vertu formatrice a corrigé ce vice. - exemple des choſes monſtrueuſes qui ſont aduenues en maladies accidentales. ' c h a p t r e x i v. e v a n t ſainct iean d'angely, vn ſoldat nommé franciſque, de la compagnie du capi- hiſtoire ad- n# taine muret, fut bleſsé d'vn coup d'arquebuze au ventre, entre l'vmbilic & les ils : la bale mirable. w# ne luy fut tirée , parce qu'on ne la pouuoit trouuer , au moyen dequoy il eut de grandes & # extremes douleurs : neuf iours apres ſa bleſſure,jetta la bale par le ſiege, & trois ſepmaines $ # apres fut guary : il fut traicté par maiſtre simon crinay, chirurgien des bandes françoiſes. autre hi- # iacques pape, seigneur de s. aubam aux baronniers en dauphiné fat bleſsé à l'eſcarmou-ſºººemº- che de chaſenay, de trois coups d'arquebuſe , penetrans en ſon corps, dont il y en auoit vn au deſſous du " le. nœud de la gor,e, tout proche la canne du poulmon, paſſant prés la nucque du col, & la bale y eſt en- core à preſent : au moyen dequoy luy ſuruindrent pluſieurs grands & cruels accidens, comme fiévre, gran- de tumeuralentour du col : de ſorte qu'il fut dix iours ſans pouuoir rien aualer , fors quelques boüillons li- quides, & nonobſtant toutes ces choſes a recouuré ſanté, & eſt à preſent encore viuant, & fut pensé par maiſtre iacques dalam , chirurgien fort expert , demeurant en la ville de montelimar en dauphiné. ale-liu ,.d.ſn xandre benedict eſcrit d'vn villagoîs , qui fut bleſsé d'vn coup de traict au dos , & fut tiré, mais le fer de-hiſtoire a. meura dedans le corps, lequel eftoit long de deux doigts en trauers , & eſtoit barbele aux coſtez. le chi-mato.ch. . rurgien l'ayant long-temps cherché ſans le pouuoir trouuer , ferma la playe , & deux mois apres ce fer ſor- tit par le ſiege. dauantage audit chapitre dit , qu'à veniſe vne hle aualla vne aiguilles laquelle deux ans autr, hi- apres elle jetta en vrinant , couuerte d'vne matiere pierreuſe , amaſsée alentour de quelques humeurs ſtoire. gluans.ainſi que catherine parlan, femme de guillaume guerrie,marchand drappier, homme d'honneur, demeurant à la ruë de la iuifuerie à paris, alloit aux champs en trouſſe ſur vn cheual , vne aiguille de ſon tabouret entra dedans ſa feſſe dextre, de ſorte que l'on ne la peuſt tirer dehors. quatre mois apres elle m'enuoya querir, ſe plaignant que lors que ſon mary l'embraſſoit, elle ſentoit en l'aine dextre vne grande douleur picquante,à raiſon qu'il preſſoit deſſus. ayant mis la main ſur la douleur , trouuay vne aſperité & dureté, & fis en ſorte que luy tiray ladite aiguille toute enrouillée, cecy doit bien eſtre mis au rang des choſe : monſtrueuſes, veu que l'acier qui ett peſant , monta conti e-mont, & paſſa au trauers des muſcles da · • .. la § ſans faire apoſtume. - kkk · des le vingt-cinquiéme liure, ll des pierres qui s'engendrent au corps humain. ch a p. xv, aiguille en- §r-#ï#'a n mil cinq cens ſoixante-ſix, les enfans de maiſtre laurens collo, hommes bien experimentez porée en vne $ $ en l'extraction des pierres, en tirerent vne de groſſeur d'vne noix, au milieu de laquelle fut trou- pierre. º uée vne aiguille , dequoy couſtumierement les couſturiers couſent. le malade ſe nommoit pierre cocquin demeurant en la rue galande, prés la place maubert à paris , & eſt encore à preſent viuant. la pierre fut preſentée au roy en ma preſence, auec ladite aiguille que leſdits collos m'ont donnée pour mettre en mon cabinet , laquelle ie garde, & ay encores de preſent en ma poſſeſſion , pour memoire de choſe ſi monſtrueuſe. - me couſtu- l'an mil cinq cens ſeptante, madame la ducheſſe de ferrare, enuoya querir en cette ville iean collo pour §ie, extraire vne pierre de la veſſie d'vn pauure patiſſier, demeurant à montargis, laquelle peſe neuf onces, de aux pau , groſſeur d'vn poing , & de figure comme tu vois icy le pourtraict, & fut tirée en la preſence de monſieur fit teus les maiſtre françois rouſſet, & maiſtre ioſeph iauelle, hommes ſçauans & bien experimentez en la medecine, frais pour la medecins ordinaires de ladite dame : & fut ſi heureuſement tirée, que ledit patiſſier guarit : toutesfois peu eure dudit de temps apres luy vint vne ſuppreſſion d'vrine au moyen de deux petites pierres qui deſcendirent des reins patiſſier. qui boucherent les pores vtereres, & furent cauſe de ſa mort. ladite da- figure d'vnepierre extraičte à vn patiſſier de montargis. l'an mil cinq cens ſoixante & ſix,le frère dudit iean collo, nommé laurens fit pareillement en cette ville de paris extraction de trois pierres eſtans en la veſſie, de groſſeur chacune d'vn bien gros œuf de poulle,de couleur blanche,peſans les trois, douze onces & plus , à vn ſurnommé tire- vit, demeurant à marly , lequel pource qu'il auoit ceux qui ont dés l'aage de dix ans quelque commencement deſ- vne pierre à dites pierres en la veſſie, tiroit ordinairement ſa la veſſie, ont verge, dont fut nommé tire-vit : car la vertu ex- touſieurs vn pultrice de la veſſie, voire de tout le corps, s'effor- - # çoit à jetter hors ce qui luy nuiſoit, & pour-ce luy l'extremité cauſoient vn certain aiguillennement à l'extremité d'icelle verge(comme ſe faict ordinairement à ceux qui ont quelque ſable, ou pierre aux parties de- diées à l'vrine)ce que i'ay eſcrit plus amplemét en mon liure des pierres. icelles furent preſentées au roy, eſtant pour lors à ſainct maur des foſſez : on en caſſa vne auec vn marteau de tapiſſier , au mi- lieu de laquelle en fut trouuée vne autre, reſſem- blante à vn noyau de peſche , couleur tannée, leſ- dits collos m'ont donné les ſuſdites pierres pour mettre en mon cabinet , comme choſe monſtrueu- ſes, & les ay fait pourtraire au plus prés du vif, de la verge. ainſi que tu peux voir par ces figures. figure de trois pierres extraičtes à vne fois ſans interualle de temps, de la veſſie d'vn appellétire-vit, l'vne deſquelles eſt brisée. --ſ % a^ % \ $ º， \. # d'auantage ie puis † que ſ'en ay trouué dedans les reins des corps morts, de plufieurs figures § fra»- † de cochons,de chiens & autres diuerſes figures, ce qui nous a eſté laiſſe par eſcrit des anciens. mon- fotſe. ſieur d alechamp recite en ſa chirurgie, qu'il a veu vn homme auoir vne apoſteme ſur les lumbes, laquelle l e r.des apres la ſuppurationsdegenera en fiſtule, par laquelle il jetta à diuerſes fois pluſieurs pierres, venans du rein, epidemies. & enduroit le trauail du cheual & des chariots. hippocrate eſcrit de la chambriere de dyſere, aagée de ſoi- hiſtoire. xante ans, qui auoit des douleurs comme ſi elle euſt deu accoucher, tellement qu'vne femme luy tirt de ſa liu , ch. de matrice vne pierre aſpre & dure,de la grandeur, groſſeur,& figure d'vn peſon de fuſeau. iacques hollier,do- ººº- cteur regent en la faculté de medecine à paris,eſcrit qu'vne femme, apres auoir eſté tourmentée d'vne diffi- tiº du cœur. culté d'vrine par l'eſpace de quatre mois, en fin mourut : laquelle ayant eſté ouuerte, furent trouuées ea la ſubſtance du cœur deux aſſez groſſes pierres,auec pluſieurs petites apoſtemes, eſtans les reins & les pores - vrctcres» des monſtres. a vreteres,& la veſſie ſains & entiers.l'an .fut appellé par iean bourlier,maiſtre tailleur d'habits,demeu- b rant rue ſaina honoré pour luy ouurir vne apoſteme aqueuſe qu'il auoit au genouil,en laquelle trouuay vne #º pierre de la groſſeur d'vne amende,fort blanche, dure & polie & guarit, & encores eſt à preſent viuant. vne hiſtoires dame de noſtre cour fut longuement & extremement malade,ſentant douleur au ventre , auec grandes eſ- preintes, & cependant eſtoit pensée par pluſieurs medecins, leſquels ignoroient le lieu de la douleur. on m'enuoya querîr, pour ſçauoir ſi ie pourrois connoiſtre la cauſe de ſon mal. par l'ordonnance des medecins ie luy regarday au ſiege & à la matrice, auec inſtrumens propres à ce faire,& pour tout cela ne peux connoi- ſtre ſon mal. monſieur le grand luy ordonna vn clyſtere, & en le rendant jetta vne pierre par le fiege, de la ... , . roſſeur d'vne noix : & tout ſubit ſes douleurs & autres accidens ceſſerent, & depuis s'eſt bien portée.sem- hiſtoire. blable choſe eſt arriuée à la dame de s. euſtache demeurant au carrefour de la rue de la harpe. le capitaine auguſtin, ingenieur du roy,m'enuoya querir auec monſieur violaine,docteur,regent en la hiſtoire. faculté de medecine, & claude viard, chirurgien luré à paris, pour luy extraire vne pierre qu'il auoit ſous pierres tron- la langue,de longueur de demy-doigt,& groſſe d'vn tuyau de plume. il en a encore vne, qu'on ne peut bien uées ſous la encore deſtacher. or pour le dire en vn mot, les pierres ſe peuuent engendrer en toutes les parties de no-langue- ſtre corps, tant interieuresqu'exterieures. qu'il ſoit vray, on en void eſtre engendrées aux jointures des ge-ºº noux. antonius beniuenius medecin florentin,au liure i. chapitre . dict, qu'vn nommé henry alleman, #" jetta vne pierre de la groſſeur d'vne auelaine, en touſſant. - touſſant. de certaines choſes eſtranges que nature repouſſe par ſon incomprehenſible prouidence. c h a p t r e. xv i. #) n t o n v s beniuenius medecin de florence, eſcrit qu'vne certaine femrhe aualla vne ai- hiſtoire d'v- $ guille d'airain , ſans auoir ſenty aucune douleur l'eſpace d'vn an : lequel eſtant paſsé luy ſur- ne aiguille a# uint grande douleur au ventré, & pour ce eut l'opinion de pluſieurs medecins touchant cette amallé . ' \ -， douleur,ſans leur faire mention de cette aiguille qu'elle auoit auallé : toutesfois aucun ne luy # # t ſceut donner allegement : & veſquit ainſi l'eſpace de deux ans : lors tout à coup par vn petit trou prés le nombril, ladite aiguille ſort, & fut guarie en peu de temps. vn eſcholier nommé chambelant, hiſtoire, natif de bourges, eſtudiant à paris au college de preſle, aualla vn eſpy d'herbe nommé gramen, lequel ſor- tit quelque temps apres, entre les coſtes tout entier , dont il cuida mourir : & fut pensé par defunct mon- ſieur fernel , & monfieur huguet, docteurs en la faculté de medecine. il me ſemble que c'eſtoit forfaict à nature d'auoir expulsé ledit eſpy de la ſubſtance des poulmons, & auoir fait ouuerture à la membrane pleu- retique, & aux muſcles qui ſont entre les coſtes , & neantmoins il receut gueriſon,& croy qu'il ſoit encore viuant. cabrolle chirurgien de monſieur le mareſchal d'anville, n'aguerès m'a certifié que françois guil- hiſtoirs. lemet chirurgien de sommieres petite ville, qui eſt à quatre lieües prés de montpelier, auoit pensé & guery vn berger, auquel des voleurs auoient faict aualler vn couſteau de longueur de demy-pied, duquel le man- che eſtoit de corne, de groſſeur d'vn poulce, qui fut l'eſpace de ſix mois en ſon corps,ſe plaignant de gran- des douleurs qu'il ſentoit & deuint hectique , ſec, & emacié, en fin luy ſuruint vne apoſteme au deſſous de l'aine, jettant grande quantité de pus fort puamt & infect, par laquelle en preſence de la iuftice fut tiré ledit d couſteau, lequel monſieur ioubert, medecin celebre à montpellier, garde en ſon cabinet, & l'a monſtré à # # pluſieurs, comme vne choſe admirable, monſtrueuſe & digne de grande memoire. iacques guillemeau, # chirurgien iuré à paris m'a affermé auoir veu ce couſteau au cabinet dudit ſieur ioubert, pour lors eſtant à §. montpellier. monſieur de rohan auoit vn fol nommé guion, qui aualla la poincte d'vne eſpée tranchante, hiſtoire, de longueur de trois doigts ou enuiron, & douze iours apres la jetta par le ſiege, & ne fut ſans luy aduenir de grands accidens, toutesfois il en eſchappa : il y a des gentils-hommes de bretagne encore viuans qui la luy virent aualler. on a veu auſſi à certaines femmes l'enfant eſtant mort dans leur matrice , les os ſortir par l'vmbilic & la chair par pourriture eſtre jettée par le col de leur matrice, & par le ſiege, s'eſtant fait abſcés» ce que deux chirurgiens celebres & dignes de foy m'ont certifié auoir veu à deux diuerſes femmes. pa- reillement monſieur d'alechamps en ſa chirurgie françoiſe, recite qu'albucraſis auoit tractée vne dame de meſine choſe, dont l'yſſué fut bonne ayant recouuré ſa ſanté, toutesfois elle ne porta plus d'enfant depuis. semblablement eſt vne choſe bien monſtrueuſe de voir vne femme, d'vne ſuffoquation de matrice eſtre trois iours ſans ſe mouuoir, ſans apparence de reſpirer, ſans apparente pulſation d'artere : dont quelques-vnes ont eſté enterrées viues, penſans leurs amis qu'elles fuſſent mortes. monſieur fernel,eſcrit d'vn certain ado- leſcent, lequel apres auoir pris grand exercice, commença à touſſir iuſques à tant qu'il euſt jetté vne apo- ſteme entiere de la groſſeur d'vn œuf, laquelle eſtant ouuerte fut trouuée pleine de boüe blanche, enuelop- pé en vne membrane. iceluy cracha le ſang par deux iours, auec vne grande fiévre, & toutesfois reſchappa. autre hi- l'enfant d'vn marchand drappier, nommé de pleurs, demeurant au coin de la rué neufue noſtre dame de ſºir. paris, aagé de vingt-deux mois, aualla vne piece d'vn miroir d'acier, qui deſcendit en la bourſe, & fut cauſe de ſa mort. eſtant decedé fut ouuert en la preſence de monſieur le gros, docteur regent en la faculté de medecine à paris, homme de tres grand ſçauoir, & l'ouuerture faicte par maiſtre § , chirurgien pour lors de l'hoſtel dieu : ce qu'ayant entendu, curieux de la verité, ie m'en allay parler à la femme dudit de pleurs,laquelle m'affirma la choſe eſtre vraye,& me monſtra la piece du miroir qu'elle portoit en ſa bour- fe, qui eſtoit de telle figure & grandeur. - - autre hi- ſtoire. figure d'vne piece de miroir qu'aualla vn enfant aagé de vingt-deux mois, · ' · . qui fut cauſe de ſa mort. • • • -*:; y, " " . . valeſcus de tarante medecin, en ſes obſeruations medecinales & exemples rares, autre bi- s dit qu'vne ieune fille venitienne aualla vne aiguille en dormant de la longueur de ſtoire. $ | quatre doigts, & dix mois apres la ietta par la veſſie auec l'vrine. - l'an . au mois d'octobre, tiennette chartier, demeurant à ſainct maur les ... . foſſez,femme vefue aagée de quarante ans, eſtant malade d'vne fiévre tierce vomiſt hiſtoire. au commencement de ſon accez grande quantité d'humeur bilieux , auec lequel elle reietta trois vers,qui eſtoient velus,& du tout ſemblables en figure,couleur,longueur,& groſſeur à chenilles, ſinon qu'ils eſtoient plus noirs, leſquels depuis veſquirent huict iours & plus, ſans aucun aliment et furent "- iceux apportez par le barbier dudit s.maur à monſieur milot docteur & lecteur des eſcholes en medecine, autre hi- qui penſoit lors ladite chartier,lequel me les monſtra.meſſieurs le févre, le gros,mareſcot, & courtin do- ſtoire. k k k &teurs le vingt-cinquiéme liure, cteurs en medecine, les ont auſſi veus. ie ne puis encore paſſer que ie ne recite cette hiſtoire priſe aux chro- niques de monſtrelet,d'vn franc-archer de meudon prés de paris,qui eſtoit priſonnier au chaſtelet pour plu- ſieurs larcins, pour raiſon deſquels il fut condamné d'eſtre pendu & eſtranglé : il en appella en la cour de parlement, & par icelle cour, fut dit qu'il auoit eſté bien iugé & mal appellé. en meſme iour fut remonſtré au roy par les medecins de la ville, que pluſieurs eſtoient fort trauaillez & moleſtez de pierre, colique paſ- ſion, & maladie de cofté, dont eſtoit fort moleſté ledit franc-archer, & auſſi deſdites maladies eſtoit fort moleſté monſeigneur de boſcage, & qu'il ſeroit fort requis de voir les lieux où leſdites maladies ſont con- crées dedans les corps humains, laquelle choſe ne pouuoit eſtre mieux ſceue qu'en inciſant le corps d'vn homme viuant : ce qui pouuoit eſtre bien fait en la perſonne d'iceluy franc-archer, qui auſſi bien eſtoit preſt de ſouffrir la mort : laquelle ouuerture fut faicte au corps dudit franc-archer, & dedans iceluy quis & re- gardé le lieu deſdites maladies, & apres qu'ils eurent eſté veus, fut recouſu, & ſes entrailles remiſes dedans: & par l'ordonnance du roy fut bien pensé, tellement que dedans quelques iours il fut bien guery, & eut ſa remiſſion, & luy fut donné auec ce argent. ee roy loys. - - - - de pluſieurs choſes eſtranges. ch a p. x x i i. l e x a n d r e benedict recite en ſa practique, auoir veu vne femme nommée victoire, la- quelle auoit perdu toutes ſes dents, & eſtant deuenue chaulue, autres dents luy reuindremt toutes en l'aage de quatre-vingts ans. antonius beniuenius medecin, au liu.i. chap. .faict mention d'vn nommé iacques de latron, lequel eſtant decedé luy fut trouué le cœur tout cou- uert de poil. eſtienne teſſier , maiſtre barbier chirurgien demeurant à orleans, homme de bien & experimenté en ſon art, m'a recité que depuis peu de temps auoit pensé & medicamenté charles verignel, ſergent demeurant à orleans, d'vne playe qu'il auoit receue au jarret, partie dextre, auec inciſion totale de deux tendons qui flechiſſent le jarret, & pour l'habiller luy fit fiechir la jambe, en ſorte qu'il couſt les deux tendons bout à bout l'vn de l'autre, & le ſitua & traicta ſi bien,que la playe fut conſolidée ſans eſtre demeuré boiteux : choſe digne d'eſtre bien nottée au ieune chirurgien, à fin que lors qu'il luy viendra entre ſes mains telle choſe, il faſſe le ſemblable. , que diray-je d'auantage ? c'eft que i'ay veu pluſieurs guaris,ayans des coups d'eſpées,de fleches,d'arque- buſes,au trauers du corps : d'autres des playes à la teſte,auec deperdition de la ſubſtance du cerueau autres auoir les bras & les jambes emportées de coups de canon,neâtmoins receuoir guariſon : & d'autres quin'a- uoient que de petites playes ſuperficielles,quel'on eſtimoit n'eſtre rien, toutesfois mouroient auec grands & cruels accidens. hippocrate au cinquieſme des epidemies , dict auoir arraché ſix ans apres vn fer de fleche concluſion. qui eſtoit demeuré au profond de l'aine,& ne rend autre cauſe de cette longue demeure,ſinon qu'il eftoitde- meuré entre les nerfs,veines,& arteres ſans en bleſſer vne ſeule. et pour concluſi ie diray auec hippocrate (pere & autheur de la medecine) qu'aux maladies il y a quelques choſes de diuin, dont l'homme ne ſçauroit donner raiſon. ie ferois icy mention de pluſieurs autres choſes môſtrueuſes,qui ſe font aux maladies,n'eſtoit que ie crains d'eſtre trop prolixe, & repeter vne choſe trop de fois. . liu. . ch.autre hi. ſtoire. exemple des monſtres qui ſe font par corruption & pourriture. c h a p. xviii. o s r e a v en ſes hiſtoires prodigieuſes eſcrit, que luy eſtant en auignon,vn artiſan ouurant hiſtoire - - - - - - #. vn cercueil de plomb d'vn mort, bien couuert & ſoudé , de façon qu'il n'y auoit aucun air, fut bapt ſte mordu d'vn ſerpent qui eſtoit enclos dedans,la morſure duquel eſtoit ſi veneneuſe, qu'il culda leon, # mourir, l'on peut bien donner raiſon de la naiſſance & de la vie de cét animal,c'eſt qu'il fut en- gendré de la pourriture du corps mort. crapaut baptiſte leon eſcrit pareillement, que du téps du pape martin cinquieſme,fut trouué en vne grande pierre trouué au ſolide vn ſerpent vifénclos,n'y ayant aucune apparence de veſtige,par lequel il deuſt reſpirer.en cét endroit mºlicº !'vne ie veux reciter vne ſemblable hiſtoire. eſtant en vne mienne vigne pres le village de meudon, où ie faiſois $º! !" rompre de bien grandes & groſſes pierres ſolides,on trouua au milieu de l'vne d'icelles vn gros crapautyif, #. & n'y auoit aucune apparence d'ouuerture, & m'eſmerueillay comme cét animal auoit peu naiſtre , croiſtre, §" & auoir vie.lors le carrier me dit, qu'il ne s'en falloit eſmerueiller, parce que pluſieurs fois il auoit trouué de tels, & autres animaux au profond des pierres, ſans apparence d'aucune ouuerture. on peut auſſi don- ner raiſon de la naiſſance & vie de ces animaux,c'eſt qu'ils ſont engendrez de quelque ſubſtance bumide des pierres, laquelle humidité putrefiée produit telles beſtes. | exemple de la commiftion & meſlange de ſemence. c h a p i t r e x i x. - | l y à des monſtres qui naiſſent moitié de figure de beſtes,&l'autre humaine,ou dutout retenans des animaux, qui ſont produicts de sodomites & atheiſtes, qui ſe joignent & desbordent con- tre nature auec les beſtes,& de là s'engendrent pluſieurs monſtres hideux, & grandementhon- teux à voir, & à en parler : toutesfois la deshonneſteté giſt en effect,& non en paroles, & eſt lors que cela ſe faict, vne choſe fort mal-heureuſe & abominable, & grande infamie & abo- nature taſ mination à l'homme ou à la femme ſe meſler & accoupler auec les beſtes : dont aucuns naiſſent demy-hom- che touſtours mes & demy beſtes. le ſemblable ſe faict, ſi beſtes de diuerſes eſpeces cohabitent les vnes auec les autres, à faire ſon * cauſe que, nature taſche touſiours à faire ſon ſemblable : comme il s'eſt veu vn agneau ayant la teſte ſemblable d' vn porc, parce qu'vn verrat auoit couuert la brebis : car nous voyons meſmes aux choſes inanimées,com- me d vn grain de froment, venir non l'orge, mais le froment : & du noyau d'abricot, venir vn abricotier , & non le pommier, parce que nature garde toufiours ſon genre & eſpece. impieté abo- - minable des tº# sodomites. - - *- figurt l'an .vn enfant fut conçeu & engendré d'vne femme & d'vn chien ayant depuis le nombril les parties ſuperieures ſemblables à la forme & figure de la mere, & eſtoit bien accomply, ſans que nature y euſt rien obmis : & depuis le nombril auoit toutes les parties inferieures ſemblables auſſi à la c forme & figure de l'animal, qui eſtoit le pere, lequel (ainſi que volateranus eſcrit ) fut enuoyé au pape qui regnoit en ce temps là.cardan liure .chap. de la varieté des choſes, en fait mention. #º - - - - - - - ºrdan cœlius rhodiginus en ſes antiques leçons, dit qu'vn paſteur nommé cratain en cybare, ayant § exercé auec vne de ſes chevres ſon deſir brutal, la chevre chevreta quelque temps apres vn cheureau rhod. gui auoit la teſte de figure humaine,& ſemblable au paſteur:mais le reſte du corps ſembloit à la chevre. figure d'vn cochon ayant la teſte, pieds & mains d'homme, & lereſte de cochon. l'an onze cens & dix, vne - truye en vnbourg du lie-ºº ge cochonna vn cochon, ayant la teſte & le viſage d'vn homme , ſemblable- ment les mains & les pieds, & le reſte comme vn co- chon. srs s x#*-- s, ns $ r, i* hiſtoire mvsrueilleuſe. le vingt-cinquiéme liure, l'an . à bruxelles, au logis d'vn nommé ioeſt diekpert, demeurant ruë vvarmoesbroeck, * vue ttuye cochonna ſix cochons, deſquels le premier eſtoit vn monſtre ayant face d'homme , en- ſemble bras & mains, repreſentant l'humanité, generalemenr depuis les eſpaules : &les deux † & le train derriere de pourceau, ayant la nature de truye ; il tettoit comme les autres , & veſquit deux iours, puis fut tué auec la truye, pour l'horreur qu'en auoit le peuple : duquel monſtre tu as icy le pour- traict , qui t'eſt repreſenté le plus naturellement qu'il eſt poſſible. pourtraictprodigieux d'vn monſtre chien, ayant la teſte ſemblable à vne volaille. l'an . à anuers la femme d'vn compagnon imprimeur, nommé michel, demeurant au lo- gis de lean mollin tailleur d'hiſtoires, à l'enſeigne du pied d'or, à la cameſtrate, le propre iour s.tho- mas ſur le dix heures du matin, accoucha d'vn monſtre repreſentant la figure d'vn vray chien, excepté qu'il auoit le col fort court, & la reſte ne plus ne moins qu'vne volaille, toutesfois ſans poil : & n'eut point de vie , parce que ladite femme accoucha auant terme : & à l'heure meſme de ſon enfantement, cét eſpouuantable monſtre iettant vn fort horrible cry(choſe eſmerueillable) la cheminée du logis cheur par terre, ſans aucunement offenſer quatre petits enfans qui eſtoient à l'entour du foyer : & parce que c'eſt vne toute recente, il m'a ſemblébon d'en donner icy le vray pourtraict. louys cellée eſcrit auoir leu en vn autheur approuué, qu'vne brebis conçeut & aignela d'vn lyon: choſe monſtrueuſe en nature. figure a'vn aigneau monſtrueux. niſſſſſſï， c · le . iour d'auril mil cinq censſe- tante-trois, vn aigneau naſquit en vn † nommé chambenoiſt, fauxbourg de sezanne, en la maiſon de iean pou- let, meſureur de ſel, & ne fut connu en cét agneau vie, ſinon qu'il fut veu re- muer bien peu : sous les oreilles yauoit vne emboucheure approchant de la for- me d'vne lamproye : la figure duquel eſt telle que tu vois icy repreſentée. "--- • * - · - - figure des monſtres. figure d'vn aigneau ayant trois teſtes. cette année preſente mil cinq cens ſeptante ſept, naſquit vn aigneau au village nommé blandy,vne lieuë hiſtoire. & demie pres de melun,ayant trois teſtes en vne : celle du milieu eſtoit plus groſſe que les deux autres, & ariſtote, quand vne deſdites teſtes belloit,les autres faifoient le ſemblable. maiſtre iean bellanger chirurgien,demeu- rant en la ville de melun,affirme l'auoir veu, & meſme en a faict pourtraire la figure, laquelle a eſté criée & venduë par cette ville de paris,auec priuilege,auec deux autres monſtres, l'vn de deux filles jumelles, & vn autre ayant la face d'vne grenoüille, qui a eſté cy-deuant figuré. il y a des choſes diuines cachées & admirables aux monſtres,principalement ceux qui aduiennent du tout contre nature : car à iceux les principes de philoſophie faillent,partant on n'y peut aſſeoir certain iugement. ariſtote en ſes problemes dit, qu'il ſe faict des monſtres en nature, à cauſe de la mauuaiſe diſpoſition de la matrice, & cours de certaines conſtellations. ce qui aduint du temps d'albert, en vne metairie en laquelle vne vache feit vn veau demy homme : dequoy les villageois ſoupçonnans le paſteur, l'accuſerent en juge- ment,pretendant le faire bruſler auec ladite vache : mais albert pour auoir fait pluſieurs experiéces en aſtro- nomie, connoiſſoit (diſoit-il) la verité du fait, & dit cela eſtre par vne ſpeciale conſtellation : de ſorte que le paſteur fut deliure & purgé de l'impoſition de tel execrable crime. ie doute fort ſi le jugemêt du ſeigneur le iugement albert eſtoit bon. or ie delaiſſe icy à eſcrire de pluſieurs autres monſtres engendrez de cette farine, enſem- des aſtrolo- ble leurs pourtraits, leſquels ſont ſi hydeux & abominables,non ſeulement à voir,mais auſſi à en ouyr parler gº eſt fors que pour leur grande deteſtation ie n'en ay rien voulu dire, ny les faire pourtraire. car (comme dit boiſteau apres auoir recité pluſieurs hiſtoires ſacrées & prophanes, qui ſont toutes remplies de griefves peines ſur les paillards) que doiuent eſperer les atheiſtes & sodomites, qui ſe joignent, contre dieu & nature (comme i'ay dit cy-deſſus) auec les beſtes brutes ? a ce propos s. auguſtin dit,la peine des paillards eſtre de tom- douteux. ieremie io. .. dieu n'eſ# point ſuies aux aſtres. ber en aueuglement, & deuenir enragez apres qu'ils ſont delaiſſez de dieu , & ne voir point leur aueugle- liure des ment, ne pouuans eſcouter bon conſeil, prouoquans l'ire de dieu contr'eux. exemple de l'artifice des meſchans gueux de l'hoſtiere. ch a p. xx. r> rº #l， res puant & infect,lequel il auoit attaché à ſon pourpoint, le tenant appuyé d'vne fourchette contre ** fon cofté, & cachoit ſon bras naturel derriere ſon dos, couuert de ſon manteau, afin qu'on eſtimaſt que le bras du pendu eſtoit le ſien propre, & crioit à la porte du temple qu'on luy dônaſt l'aumoſne en l'hon- neur de s. antoine. vn iour de vendredy ſainct, le monde voyant ainſi le bras pourry, luy faiſoit aumoſne, ... penſant que ce fuſt veritablement ſon bras. le coquin ayant par longue eſpace de temps remué ce bras, en . fin, il ſe deſtacha & tomba en terre, où tout ſubit le releuant, fut apperceu de quelques-vns auoir deux bons bras ſans celuy du pendu,alors fut mené priſonnier, puis condamné à auoir le foüet,par l'ordonnance du ma- giſtrat, ayant le bras pourry pendu à ſon col, deuant ſon eſtomach,& banny à iamais hors du pays. l'impoſture d'vn beliſtreſſefeignant auoir vn chancre à la mammelle. ch a p. xxi. & potelée cagnardiere , demandant l'aumoſne à la porte d'vn temple vm dimanche , laquelie fei- Épheſes. # 'a y ſouuenance eſtant à angers, . qu'vn meſchant coquin auoit coupé le bras d'vn pendu, enco* hiſtoire» - - - d » r - - - - _ - • - n mien frere nommé iean paré chirurgien demeurant à vitré, ville de bretagne veit vne groſſe com telle impo- gnoit auoir vn chancre à la mammelle, qui eſtoit vne choſe fort hideuſe à voir, à cauſe dvne grande quan- § tité de boüe,qui ſembloit en decouler ſur vn linge qu'elle auoit deuant ſoy. mondit frere contemplant ſa cpnnur. - - k k k face, le vingt-cinquiéme liure, malice inge . nieuſe. confeſſion du ladre & condamna- tion, face, qui eſtoit d'vne viue couleur,monſtrant eſtre bien ſaine,&les parties d'autour ſon chancre vlceré blan- ches,& de bonne couleur,& le reſte de ſon corps bien habitué, jugea en ſoy-meſme que cette garce ne pou- uoit auoir chancre eſtant ainſi graſſe potelée, & goulue,s'aſſeurant que c'eſtoit vne impoſture : ce qu'il de- nonça au magiſtrat(dit en ce pays-là l'aloué)lequel permit à mondict frere la faire mener en ſon logis pour cognoiſtre plus certainement l'impoſture. elle donc y eſtant arriuée, il luy deſcouurit toute ſa poictrine,& trouua qu'elle auoit ſous ſon aiſſelle vne eſponge trempée &imbue de ſang de beſte & de laict meſlez enſem- ble,& vn petit tuyau de ſureàu,par lequel cette mixtion eſtoit conduite par des faux trous de ſon chancre vlceré,decoulant ſur le linge qu'elle auoit deuant ſoy,& par cela cogneut pour certain que ce chancre eſtoit artificiel. alors print de l'eau chaude, & fomenta la mammelle, & l'ayant humectée,leua pluſieurs peaux de grenoüilles noires, vertes, & jaunaſtres,miſes les vnes ſur les autres,collées auec bol armene & blanc d'œuf, & farine,ce que l'on ſçeut par ſa confeſſion : & les ayant toutes leuées on trouua le tetin ſain & entier,& en auſſi bonne diſpoſition que l'autre. cette impoſture deſcouuerte » ledit aloue la fit conſtituer priſonniere, & eſtant interrogée,con feſſa l'impoſture,& dit que ç'auoit eſté ſon gueux qui l'auoit ainſi accouſtrée : lequel ſemblablement feignoit auoir vne vlcere grand & enorme à la jambe : ce qui ſembloit eſtre vray par le mo- yen d'vne ratte de bœuf qu'il poſoit le long & autour de la jambe, attachée & feneſtrée bien proprement, auec vieux drapeaux aux deux extremitez : de façon qu'elle ſembloit eſtre plus groſſe deux fois que la natu- relle : & pour faire la choſe plus monſtrueuſe & hideuſe à voir, faiſoit pluſieurs cauitez en ladite ratte,&par deſſus jettoit de cette mixtion faicte de ſang & de laict, & ſur tous ſes drapeaux , ledit aloué fit chercher ce maiſtre gueux , larron,impoſteur, lequel ne pût eſtre trouué , & condamna la pute à auoir du fouët, & la bannit hors du pays : qui ne fut ſans eſtre auparauant bien eſtrillée de coups de fouet de cordes nouées, b ainſi qu'on faiſoit en ce temps-là. »- l'impoſture d'vn certain maraut qui contrefaiſoit le ladre. cha p. xxii. - #s | n an apres vint vn gros maraut qui contrefaiſoit le ladre,& ſe mit à la porte du temple, deſ- - #| ployant ſon orifian,qui eſtoit vn couure-chef, ſur lequel poſa ſon baril & plufieurs eſpeces ſ\# de petite monnoye:tenant en ſa mais dextre des cliquettes,les faiſant cliquetter aſſez haut:ſa - # %$º) face couuerte de gros boutons , faits de certaine colle forte,& peinte d'vne façon rougeaſtre \， $m . & liuide,approchant à la couleur des ladres, & eſtoit fort hideuſe à voir:ainſi par compaſſion chacun luy faiſoit aumoſne. mondit frere s'approcha de luy , & luy demanda depuis quel temps il eſtoit ainſi malade : il luy reſpondit d'vne voix caſsée & rauque, qu'il eſtoit ladre dés le ventre de ſa mere, & que ſes pere & mere en eſtoient morts,& que leurs membres leur en eſtoient tombez par pieces. ce ladre auoit certaine liſiere de drap, entortillée autour de ſon col , & deſſous ſon manteau, de ſa main ſeneſtre ſe ſerroit la gorge à fin de ſe faire monter le ſang à la face, pour la rendre encore plus hideuſe & défigurée, & auſſi pour faire ſa voix enroüée,qui ſe faiſoit par l'anguſtie & ſtricture de la trachée artere, ſerrée par la lifiere. mondict frere eſtant ainſi à deuiſer auecluy, le ladre ne peut ſilong-temps demeurer qu'ilne deſſer- raſt ſa liſiere,pour reprendre vn peu ſon haleine:ce que mondict frere apperceut,& par ainſi eut ſoupçonque ce fut quelque fauſſeté & impoſture. parquoy s'en alla vers le magiſtrat, le priant luy vouloir tenir la main, pour en ſçauoir la verité : ce que volontiers luy accorda, commandant qu'il fut mené en ſa maiſon pour eſ c prouuer s'il eſtoit ladre. la premiere choſe qu'il fit,ce fut de luy oſter la ligature d'autour du col, puis luy la uer la face auec de l'eau chaude,& par icelle tous ſes boutons ſe deſtacherent,& tomberent, & la face de- . meura viue & naturelle ſans nul vice cela faict, il le faict deſpoüiller nud,& ne trouua ſur ſon corps aucun ſigne de lepre,tant vniuoque qu'equiuoque. le magiſtrat eſtant aduerty de ce le fit conſtituer priſonnier , & trois iours apres fut interrogé:où il confeſſa la verité (qu'il ne pouuoit nier) apres vne longue remonſtrance que luy fit le magiſtrat,luy mettant deuant les yeux,qu'il eſtoit vn larró du peuple, eſtant ſain & entier pour trauailler.ce ladre luy dit,qu'il ne ſçauoit meſtier autre que de contrefaire ceux qui ſont trauaillez du mals. iean, s. fiacre,s. main. bref qu'il ſçauoit contrefaire pluſieurs maladies, & qu'il n'en auoit iamais trouué de plus grand reuenu que de contrefaire le ladre,alors fut condamné,d'auoir le fouet par trois diuers samedis, ayant ſon baril pendu au col deuant ſa poictrine, & ſes cliquettes derriere ſon dos:& banny à iamais hors du pays,ſur peine de la hart. quand ce vint au dernier samedy le peuple crioit à haute voix au bourreau.boute, boute monſieur l'officier,il n'en ſent rien, c'eſt vn ladre:dont à la voix du peuple, monſieur le bourreau s'a- charna tellement à le fouetter, que peu de temps apres il mourut, tant pour le fouet dernier, que pour luy auoir renouuellé ſes playes par trois diuerſes fois, choſe qui ne fut grandement dommageable pour le pays , les vns demandent à loger & eſtre à couuert au ſoir : & les ayans par pitié mis au dedans ouurent les portes,& donnent entrée à leurs compagnons, leſquels pillent , & ſouuent tuent ceux qui les ont hebergez ainſi vn homme de bien ſous bonne foy ſouuent ſera tué, & pillé de tels meſchans, ce qu'on a veu plu° ſieurs fois. autres s'enueloppe la teſte de quelque meſchant drapeau, & ſe couchent dedans le fient en certains lieux où le monde paſſe, demandans l'aumoſne auec vne voix baſſe, & tremblante, comme ceux qui ont vn commencement de fiévre : & ainſi contrefaiſans eſtre bien malades, le monde en ayant pitié leur donne, & " cependant n'ont aucun mal. ©. | ils ont vn certain jargon par lequel ils ſe connoiſſent& entendent les vns les autres, pour mieux deceuoir le monde, & ſous ombre de compaſſion on leur donne l'aumoſne, qui les entretient en leur meſchanceté & impoſture. les femmes feignent eſtre groſſes,voire preſtes d'accoucher, poſans vn oreiller de plume ſur le ventre,de- mandant du linge, & autres choſes neceſſaires pour leurs couches, ce qu'encores n'agueres i'ay deſcouuert en cette ville de paris. -, • - , autres ſe diſent icteriques, & auoir la jauniſſe, ſe barboüillans tout le viſage, bras, jambes & poictrine, auec de la ſuye delayée en eau : mais telle impoſture eſt aisée à deſcouurir, regardant ſeulement le blanc de leurs yeux : car c'eſt la partie du corps où ladicte jauniſſe ſe monſtre premierement : autrement, leur frot- tant le viſage auec vn linge trempé en eau, leur fallace eſt deſcouuerte. certes, tels larrons, beliſtres,& im- poſteurs,pour viure en oyſiueté,ne veulent iamais apprendre autre art,que telle mendicité : qui à la verité eſt vne eſchole de toute meſchanceté:car quelles perſonnes ſçauroit-on trouuer plus propres pour exercer mac- querellages, ſemer poiſon par les villages & ville, pour eſtre boute-feux, pour faire trahiſons,& ſeruir d'eſ- pions,pour deſrober, brigander, & manier toute autre meſchante practique ? car outre ceux qui ont eſté meutriers d'eux-meſmes, & qui ont cauterizé & ſtigmatizé leurs corps, ou qui ont vsé d'herbes, & dro- gues pour rendre leurs playes & leur corps plus hydeux, il s'en eſt trouué qui ont deſrobé des petits enfans, des monſtres a & leur ont rompu les bras & jambes, creué les yeux,coupé la langue, preſſé & enfoncé la poictrine, diſans que la foudre les auoit ainſi meurtris, pour (les portans parmy le monde ) auoir couleur de mendier , & attrapper dèniers. , - « - - - # autres prennent deux petits enfans, & les mettent en deux paniers ſur vn aſne, crians qu'ils ont eſté ex- poliez, & leur maiſon bruſlée. autres prennent vne pance de mouton, l'aproprians ſur le bas du ventre diſans eſtre rompus & greuez , & qu'il les conuient tailler, & amputer leurs teſticules. autres cheminent ſur deux petites tablettes, qui peuuent voltiger,& faire ſoubresſauts autant qu'vn bon baſteleur. autres feignent venir de ieruſalem, rapportans quelques bagatelles pour reliques, & les vendent aux bonnes gens de village.autres ont vne iambe pendue à leur col. autres contrefont eſtre aueugles , ſourds, impotens, cheminans à deux potences , au demeurant bons compagnons. - •- • que diray-ie plus ? c'eſt qu'ils departent les prouinces , pour en certain temps rapporter tout au com- voyageri, mun butin , feignant faire voyage à s, claude , s. main , s. maturin , s. hubert, à noſtre dame de lorette, ambaſſº- en ieruſalem , & ſont ainſi enuoyez pour voir le monde, & apprendre, par leſquels ils mandent de ville deurs des en ville aux gueux leurs compagnons en leur jargon, ce qu'ils ſçauent de nouueau, & qui concerne leur &º # • - faict , comme quelque maniere de faire nouuellement inuentée pour attraper monnoye, -" : . ' puis n'agueres vn gros maraut feignoit eſtre ſourd, muet,& boiteux : toutesfois par le moyen d'vn in- ſtrument d'argent qu'il diſoit auoir eu en barbarie ( marqué toutesfois de la marque de paris ) il parloit de, façon qu'on le pouuoit entendre. il fut apperceu eſtre impoſteur , & fuſt mis és priſons de s. benoiſt, & par la priere de monſieur le baillif des pauures, i'allay anſdites priſons pour viſiter ledit maraut auec com- pagnie, & feiſmes rapport à meſſieurs du bureau des pauures de paris, comme s'enſuit. nous ambroiſe paré, conſeiller,& premier chirurgien du roy,pierre pigray, chirurgien ordinaire de ſa majeſté, & claude viard chirurgien à paris, certifions ce jourd'huy par la priere du procureur des pau- ures, auoir veu & viſité és priſons de s. benoiſt vn quidam, lequel n'a voulu dire ſon nom, aagé de quarante ans ou enuiron, ſur lequel auons trouué vne tierce partie de l'oreille dextre perdue, qui luy a eſté coupée. semblablement vne marque ſur l'eſpaule dextre, qu'eſtimons auoir eſté faicte par vn fer chaud. d'auantage contrefaifoit vn grand tremblement de iambe, iceluy diſant prouenir par vne deperdition de l'os de la cuiſſe, qui eſt vne choſe fauſſe, d'autant que ledit os y eſt tout entier : & ne paroiſt aucun figne parquoy puiſſions dire iceluy tremblement venir d'aucune maladie qui auroit precedé, mais prouenir d'vn mouue- ment volontaire. item, auons viſité ſa bouche ( à raiſon qu'il nous vouloit ſuader ſa langue lny auoir eſté tirée par la nucque du col, impoſture grande, & qui ne ſe peut faire ) mais auons trouué ſa langue en- tiere, ſans aucune leſion d'icelle , ny des inſtrumens ſeruans à ſon mouuement : toutesfois, quand il veut parler, il vſe d'vn inſtrument d'argent, lequel ne peut en rien y ſeruir, ains pluſtoſt nuire à la prolation item, dit eſtre ſourd, ce qui n'eſt pas à raiſon que l'auons interrogé : ſçauoir qui luy auoit couppé l'oreil- le, il nous a reſpondu par ſignes, qu'on luy auoit couppé auec les dents. apres que leſdits seigneurs du bureau eurent receu ledit rapport par vn crocheteur, ils firent apporter le venerable impoſteur à l'hoſpital s. germain des prez, & luy fut oſté ſon inſtrument d'argent. la nuictil paſſa par deffus la muraille, qui eſt aſſez haute, & de là s'en alla à roüen, cù il vouloit vſer de ſon impoſtu- re, laquelle fut deſcouuerte, & eſtant apprehendé, fut foüetté, & banny hors la duché de normandie, ſur peine de la hart : & de ce m'en a aſſeure monſieur le bailly des pauures de cette dite ville. - - - - c d'vne caignardierefeignante eiiremalade du maldeſainct fiacre,& luyſortoit du cul vn long & gros boyau fait par artifice. c h a p r r e x xiii. ^ # té, me pria vn iour l'accompagner au village de champigny, deux lieuës prés de paris , où il # auoit vne petite maiſon, où eſtant arriué , cependant qu'il ſe promenoit en la court, vint # vne groſſe garce,en bon poinct,luy demandant l'aumoſne en l'honneur de monſieur s.fiacre, # & leuant ſa cotte & chemiſe, monſtra vn gros boyau de longueur de demy-pied & plus, qui $ luy ſortoit du cul : duquel decouloit vne liqueur ſemblable à de la boüe, d'apoſteme qui cette garce, luy donnant pluſieurs coups de pied ſous le ventre, tellement qu'il l'atterra, & luy fit ſortir le boyau hors de ſon ſiege, auec ſon & bruit, & autre choſe : & la contraigit luy declarer l'impoſture : ce qu'elle fit, diſant que c'eſtoit vn boyau de bœuf noué en deux lieux, dont l'vn des nœuds eſtoit dans le cul, & eftoit ledit boyau remply de ſang & de laict meſlez enſemble, auquel elle auoit fait pluſieurs trous à fin que cette mixtion decoulaſt:& derechef connoiſſant cette impoſture, luy donna pluſieurs autres coups de pied deſſus le ventre, de ſorte qu'elle feignoit eſtre morte. lors eſtant entré en ſa maiſon pour appeller quelqu'vn de ſes gens, feignant enuoyer querir des sergens pour la conſtituer priſonniere : elle voyant la porte de la court ouuerte, ſe leua ſubit en ſurſaut, ainſi que ſi elle n'euſt point eſté battuë, & ſe print à courir,& iamais plus ne fut veuë audit champigny.et encore de fraiſche memoire vint vne vilaine cagnar- diere, priant meſſieurs du bureau des pauures de paris, qu'elle fuſt miſe à l'aumoſne, diſant que par vn mau- hiſtoire. uais enfantement ſa matrice luy eſtoit tombée , qui eſtoit cauſe qu'elle ne pouuoit gaigner ſa vie. alors meſſieurs la firent viſiter par les chirurgiens commis à cette charge,& trouuerent que c'eſtoit vne veſſie de bœuf, qui eſtoit demie pleine de vent, & barboüillée de ſang, ayant attaché le col d'icelle veſſie profon- | denent au conduit de ſa matrice bien proprement, par le moyen d'vne eſponge qu'elle auoit miſe à l'ex- tremité d'icelle veſſie, laquelle eſtant imbué s'enfle & groſſit, qui eſtoit cauſe de la faire tenir, de façon · qu'on ne luy pouuoit tirer que par force, & ainſi marchoit ſans que la dite veſſie peuſt tomber. ayant deſ- : couuert l'impoſture, meſſieurs la firent conſtituer priſonniere, & ne ſortit des priſons que premierement- le bourreau n'euſt bien carillonné ſur ſon dos, & apres fut bannie à iamais hors de la ville de paris. o n s e v r flecelle docteur en la faculté de medecine,hommeſçanant &bien experimen- hiſtºirt. ſ - luy auoit teint & barboüille toute ſes cuiſſes,enſemble ſa chemiſe deuant & derriere,de façon que cela eſtoit impoſture fort vilain& des-honneſte à voir.l'ayant interrogée combien il y auoit de temps qu'elle auoit ce mal,elleluy deſcouuertè - fit reſponce qu'il y auoit enuiron quatre ans : alors ledit flecelle contemplant le viſage & l'habitude de tout par flacelle ſon corps,cogneut qu'il eſtoit impoſſible(eſtant ainſi graſſe & feſſué) qu'il peuſt ſortir telle quantité d'excre- mºdºsim. mens,qu'elle ne deuint emaciée , ſeiche, & hectique : alors d'vn plein ſaut ſejetta de grande cholere ſus "- - o le vingt-cinquiéme liure, ，- •- •-rs. - d'vnegroſſe garce de normandie qui feignoit auoir vn ſerpent dans le ventre, - - c h a p i t r e xxiv. autre hiſtoi- - r , a n r. vint en cette ville vne groſſe garce feſſuë , potelée, & en bon poinct, aagée de trente ans, ou enuiron, laquelle(ſe diſoit eſtré de normandie, & s'en alloit par les bonnes maiſons des dames & damoiſelles , leur demandant l'aumoſne , diſant qu'elle auoit vn ſer- , pent dans le ventre, qui luy eſtoit entré eftant endormie en vne cheneuiere : & leur faiſoit mettre la main ſus ſon venrre , pour leur faire ſentir le mouuement du ſerpent, qui la rou- º geoit & tourmentoit iour & nuict, comme elle diſoit : ainſi tout le monde luy faiſoit au- - - moſne par vne grande compaſſion qu'on auoit de la voir, joinct qu'elle faiſoit bonne pippée. or il y eut vne damoiſelle honorable&grande aumoſniere qui la print en ſon logis , & me fit appeller (enſemble monſieur hollier docteur regét en la faculté de medecine & germain cheual , chirurgien iuré à paris)pour ſçauoir s'il y auroit moyen de chaſſer ce dragon hors le corps de cette pauure femme:& l'ayant veue,monſieur hol- lier luy ordonna vne medecine qui eſtoit aſſez gaillarde (laquelle luy fit faire pluſieurs ſelles)tendant à fin de faire ſortir cette beſte,neantmoins elle ne ſortit point. eſtans derechef aſſemblez nous concluſmes que - ie luy mettrois vn ſpeculum au col de la matrice : & partant fut posée ſur vne table, où ſon enſeigne fut deſployée , pour appliquer le ſpeculum , par lequel ie feis aſſez bonne & ample dilatation, pour ſçauoir ſi . on pourroit apperceuoir queue ou teſte de cette beſte : mais il ne fut rien apperceu, excepté vn mouuement, b volôtaire que faifoit ladite garce par le moyen des muſcles del'epigaſtre:& ayant conneuſon impoſture.nous nous retiraſmes à part, où il fut reſolu que ce mouuement ne venoit d'aucune beſte, mais qu'elle le faiſoit par l'action deſdits muſcles. et pour l'eſpouuanter & connoiſtre plus amplememt la verité,on luy dict qu'on la garce s'en reiteroit à luy donner encore vne autre medecine beaucoup plus forte, à fin de luy faire confeſſer la verite # # du fait,& elle craignant reprendre vne ſi forte medecine eſtant aſſeurée qu'elle n'auoit point de ſerpent , le adieu à ſon ſoir meſme s'en alla ſans dire adieu à ſa damoiſelle, & voila comme l'impoſture fut deſcouuerte. six iours hoſteſſe. apres ie la trouuay hors la porte de mont-martre ſur vn cheual de baſt, jambe de ça jambe de là, qui rioit à · gorge deſployée,& s'en alloit auec des chaſſe-marées, pour auec eux(comme ie croy)faire voler ſon dragon, & retourner en ſon pays. ceux qui contrefont les muets, replient & retirent leur langue en la bouche : auſſi ceux qui contrefont le mal ſainct iean, ſe font mettre des menottes aux mains, ſe veautrent & plongent en la fange, & mettent du ſang de quelques beſtes ſur leur teſte,diſans qu'en ſe debattans, ils ſe ſont ainſibleſſez & meurtris: eſtans tombez par terre,ils remuent les bras & les jambes,le debattent de tout le corps , & met- tent du ſauon en leur bouche pour ſe faire eſcumer ainſi que font les epileptiques en leur accés. autres font vne certaine colle auec farine delayée, & la poſent ſur tout le corps, criant qu'ils ſont malades du malſainſt ) main. or long-temps y a que ces larrons impoſteurs ont commencé le train d'abuſer le peuple, car ils eſtoient ja dés le temps d'hippocrate en l'aſie, comme il eſcrit au liure de l'air & des eaux : partant il les faut deſcouurir tant qu'il ſera poſſible,& les deferer au magiſtrat , à ce que punition en ſoit faite ainſique l'enormite du cas le requiert. exemple des choſes monſtrueuſes faites par les demons & sorciers. c, c h a p. xxv ， l y a des ſorciers, enchanteurs,empoiſonneurs, venefiques meſchans, ruſez, trompeurs, | leſquels font leur ſort par la paction qu'ils ont faite auec les demons,qui leur ſont eſcla- ues&vaſſeaux.et nul ne peut eſtre ſorcier que prennierement il n'aye renoncé à dieu ſon createur & sauueur,& prins volontairement l'alliance& amitié du diable,pour le rcco- gnoiftre & aduouer,au lieu de dieu viuant & ſe ſoit donné à luy.or ce n'eſt que par vne infidelité & defiance des promeſſes & aſſiſtance de dieu , que cette maniere de gens de- uiennent ſorciers ou par meſpris,ou pour vne curioſité de ſçauoir choſes ſecrettes & futu- res : ou eſtans preſſez d'vne grande pauureté aſpirans d'eſtre riches. or nul ne peu nier, & n'en faut douter, qu'il n'y ait des ſorciers:car cela ſe preuue par authorité de pluſieurs docteurs & expoſiteurs tant vieux que modernes,leſquels tiennent pour choſe reſoluë,qu'il y a des ſorciers & enchanteurs,qui par moyens ſubtils, diaboliques & incogneus,corrompent le corps,l'entendement la vie,& la ſanté des hommes & autres crea- tures,comme animaux,arbres,herbes,l'air,la terre,& les eaux.d'auantage l'experience & la raiſon nous con- traignent le confeſſer:parce que les loix ont eſtibly des peines contre telles manieres de gens.or on ne fait point de loy d'vne choſe qui ne fut veuë,n'y connue,car les droits tiennent les cas & crimes qui ne furent iamais veus ny apperceus pour choſes impoſſibles,& qui ne ſont point du tout.deuant la natiuité de lesvs- ch r st,il s'en eſt trouué,& bien longtemps auparauant, teſmoin moyſe, qui les a condamnez par le com- mandement expres de dieu,en exod.chap. .au leuit. . ochoſias receut ſentence de mort par le prophete, d pour auoir eu recours aux ſorciers & enchanteurs. les diables troublent l'entendement aux ſorciers par diuerſes & eſtranges illufions , de ſorte qu'ils cui- dent auoir veu,ouy, dit & fait ce que le diable leur repreſente en leur fantaſie, & qu'ils ſeront allez à cent lieuës loing voire meſme autres choſes qui ſont du tout impoſſibles, non ſeulement aux hommes, mais auſſi aux diables : ce neantmoins ils ne ſeront bougez de leur lict,ou autre place.mais le diable puis qu'il a puiſ- ſance ſur eux,leur imprime tellement en la fantaſie les images des choſes qu'il leur repreſente, & qu'il leur veut faire accroire comme vrayes,qu'il ne peuuent penſer autrement qu'il ne ſoit ainſi,& ne les ayent faites, & n'ayent veillé cependant qu'ils dormoient. telle choſe ſe fait aux ſorciers pour leur infidelité & meſchan- - ceté,& pource qu'ils ſe ſont donnez au diable,ont renoncé à dieu leur createur. - º º nous ſommes enſeignez par l'eſcriture ſaincte, qu'il y a des eſprits bons & mauuais,les bons ſont ap- aux hebr. pellez anges,& les mauuais demons ou diables. qu'il ſoit vray,la loy eſt baillée, par le miniſtere des an- pourquoy'les mommes ſe font ſorciers. bodin en ſa republique. # # , ges d'auantage il eſt eſcrit,nos corps reſſuſciteront au ſon de la trompette à la voix de l'archange. chriſt # # dict que dieu enuoyera ſes anges qui recueilliront les eſleus des bouts du ciel.il ſe peut pareillement proú- lob. . . uer qu'il y a des eſprits malins appelles diables. qu'ils ſoit ainſi, en l'hiſtoire de iob, le diable fit deſcen- dre le feu du ciel,tua le beſtial,ſuſcita les vents,qui esbranlerent les quatre coings de la maiſon,&accable- rét les enfans de iob.en l'hiſtoire d'achab,il y auoit vn eſprit de méſonge en la bouche des faux prophetes. le " des monſtres. # | # rº * lil, x # # i#r. - # d le diable mit au cœur de iudas de trahir ieſus-chriſt. les diables qui eſtoient en grand nombre dedans rois à t, le corps d'vn ſeul homme, s'appelloient legion, & obtiendrent permiſſion de dieu d'entter és porceaux, lº leſquels ils precipiterent en la mer. il y a pluſieurs autres teſmoignages de la ſaincte eſcriture, qu'il y a des marc. . anges & des diables. dés le commencement dieu crea vne grande multitude d'anges : pour citoyens du . . • t • ciel , qui ſont appellez eſprits diuins , & demeurent ſans corps, & ſont meſſagers & executeurs de la vo- ---- lonté de dieu leur createur , ſoit en iuſtice ou miſericorde, toutesfois ils s'eſtudient au ſalut des hommes: s . au contraire des malings anges , appellez demons ou diables, qui de leur nature taſchent touſtours à nui- . » re au genre humain par machinations, faulſes illuſions, tromperies, & menſonges : & s'il leur eſtoit permis à d'exercer leur cruauté à leur volonté & plaiſir, veritablement en bref le genre humain ſeroit perdu & ruiné,. mais il ne le peuuent faire qu'entant qu'il plaiſt à dieu leur laſcher la main. leſquels pour leur grand orgueil furent chaſſez & dejettez hors de paradis, & de la preſence de dieu, dont les vns font en l'air, les autres en l'eau qul apparoiſſent deſſus,& aux riues,les autres ſur la terre, les autres au profoud d'icelle,& demeureront ainſi iuſques à ce que dieu vienne iuger le monde : aucuns habitent aux maiſons ruinées, & ſe transforment en tout ce qui leur plaiſt. ainſi qu'on void aux nuées ſe former des figures de pluſieurs & diuers animaux,& autres choſes diuerſes,à ſçauoir centaures,ſerpens, rochers, chaſteaux,hommes & femmes,oiſeaux,poiſſons, & autres choſes : ainſi les demons ſe forment tout ſubit en ce qu'il leur plaiſt , & fouuent on les void trans- former en beſtes, comme ſerpens, crapaux, chats-huantes, huppes , corbeaux , boucs, aſnes, chiens, chats, loups , taureaux, & autres : voire ils prennent des corps humains vifs ou morts, les manient , tour- . mentent & empeſchent leurs œuures naturelles : non ſeulement ils ſe tranſmuent en hommes, mais auſſi en anges de lumiere : ils font ſemblant d'eſtre contraints, & qu'on les tient attachez à des anneaux, mais vne telle contrainte eſt volontaire & pleine de trahiſon. iceux demons defitent & craignent, aiment & deſdai- gnent; ils ont charge & office de dieu pour exiger les peines des malefices, & pechez des meſchans, comme ilſe peut prouuer, que dieu enuoya en egypte exploit par mauuais anges : ils hurlent la nuict,& font bruit nat.,s comme s'ils eſtoient enchaiſnez : ils remuent bancs, tables, traitteaux, bercent les enfans,ioüent au tablier . • fueillettent liures, comptent argent & les oit on promener par la chambre, ouurent portes, feneſtres,jettent pſam .º vaiſſelle par terre , caſſent pots & verres , & font autre tintamarre : neantmoins on ne void rien au matin pierre de hors de ſa place , ny rien caſſé , ny portes ou feneftres ouuertes. ils ont pluſieurs noms , comme demons, ronſard en cacodemons, incubes, ſuccubes , coquemares , gobelins, lutins, mauuais anges, sathan, lucifer, pere de ſes hymne# menſonge, prince des tenebres, legion , & vne infinité d'autres noms, qui ſont eſcrits au liure de l'impo- iture des diables , ſelon les difterences des maux qu'ils font , & és lieux où ils ſont le plus ſouuent. - - •- - - •- - de ceux qui ſont poſſedez des demons qui parlent en diuerſes parties de leurs corps, c h a p t r e xxv i. e v x qui ſont poſſedez des demons, parlent la langue tirée hors la bouche, par le ventre par les parties naturelles, & parlent diuers languages incognus. ils font trembler la terre # tonner, eſclairer, venter : deſracinent & arrachent les arbres, tant gros & forts ſoient-ils; à ils font marcher vne montagne d'vn iieu en autre, ſouſleuent en l'air vn chaſteau, & le re- mettent en ſa place : faſcinent les yeux & les esbloüiſſent, en ſorte qu'ils font voir ſouuent * ce qui n'eſt point. ce que i'atteſte auoir veu faire a vn ſorcier, en la preſence du deffunct roy charles neufieſme, & autres grands seigneurs. paul grillant eſcrit de ſon temps auoir veu à rome paulgrillat | bruſler vne femrne ſorciere qui faiſoit parler vn chien. ils font encores autres choſes que dirons cy-apres | sathan pour enſeigner aux plus grands ſorciers la ſorcelerie, entre-meſle les propos de la ſaincte eſcriture, & des saincts docteurs pour † du poiſon auec du miel, qui a touſiours eſté & ſera l'aſtuce de sathan. les ſorciers de pharaon contrefaiſoient les œuures de dieu. les actions de sathan ſont ſupernaturelles & incomprehenſibles, paſſans l'eſprit humain & n'en peut-on rendre raiſon non plus que de l'ainant qui atti- : re le fer, & fait tourner l'aiguille. et ne ſe faut opiniaſtrer contre la verité, quand on void les effects , & - qu'on ne ſçait la cauſe,ains pluſtoſt confeſſer la foibleſſe de noſtre eſprit, ſans nous arreſter aux principes & - raiſons des choſes naturelles, qni ſont manques, lors que nous voulons examiner les actions des demons & . enchanteurs. les malins eſprits ſont les executeurs & bourreaux de la haute iuſtice de dieu , & ne font leuit. . rien que par ſa permiſſion. pourquoy il nous faut prier dieu, qu'il ne permette point que ſoyons induits à chap. °. mal par les tentations de sathan, & qu'il nous donne la force d'y reſiſter. dieu a menacé par ſa loy d'exa- miner les peuples qui ſouffriroient viure les ſorciers & enchanteurs. c'eſt pourquoy ſainct auguſtin au li- ure de la cité de dieu dit, que toutes les ſectes qui iamais ont eſté , ont decerné peine contre les ſorciers, excepté les epicuriens.auſſi iehu fit jetter la royne iezabel, par les feneſtres de ſon chaſteau parce qu'elle eſtoit ſorciere, & apres la fit manger aux chiens. - - - i - #-- --- comme les demons habitent és carrieres. ch a p. xxvii. v eſprits veſtus comme ceux qui beſognent aux mines , courent cà & là, & ſemble, qu'ils ne veulent trauaillent » encores qu'ils ne bougent, auſſi diſent qu'ils ne font mal à perſonne, ſi on ne ſe eſtre moe,, # mocque d'eux : ce qu'aduenant, ils ietteront quelque choſe contre le moqueur, ou l'endom- que{. mageront de quelque autre choſe. auſſi n'aguiere que 'eſtois en la maiſon du duc d'aſ-#ruit des - ' cot, vn ſien gentil-homme nommé l'heiſter, homme d'honneur, & qui a la plus grande º * part de la charge de ſa maiſon, m'aſſeura qu'en certaines mines d'allemagne (joinct auſſi que d'autres l'ont " | | | l, - - - o v y s lauater eſcrit que les metaillers affirment que l'on void en certaines mines, des les demont | | l eſcrit,) on oyoit des cris fort eſtranges, & eſpouuantables, comme vne perſonne qui parleroit dedans vn pot, trainant chaiſnes aux pieds, touſſant & ſoupirant, tantoſt lamentant comme vn homme que l'on ge- hene, autresfois vn bruit d'vn grand feu qui craquette, autresfois coups d'artilleries laſchées de bien loin, tabourins, clerons, trompettes , bruit de chariots & cheuaux, cliquets de foüets, cliquetis de harnois, pic- ques, eſpées, hallebardes, & autres bruits ; comme il ſe fait aux grands combats : auſſi vn bruit, comme lors charmer les qu'on veut baſtir vne maiſon, oyant esbaucher le bois , bruire le cordeau , tailler la pierre , faire les mºy§ l'enuë- | les & autres, & cependant l'on ne void rien de tout cela. ledit lauater eſcrit, qu'en dauans, pais desgri ， ni,dr ſons , il y a vne mine d'argent, en laquelle pierre briot , homme notable, & conſul de ce lieu là a # t[aualligi le diable nous peut le vingt-cinquiéme liure, , trauailler ces années paſſées, & en a tiré de grandes richeſſes. il y auoit en icelle vn eſprit , lequel prin a les aureilles. cipalement le iour du vendredy, & ſouuent lors que les metailliers verſoient ce qu'il auoit tire dedans hiſtoire. des cuues , faiſoit fort de l'empeſché, changeant à ſa fantaſie les metaux des cuues en autres. ce conſul ne s'en ſoucioit pas autrement quand il vouloit deſcendre à ſa mine , ſe fiant que cét eſprit ne luy pouuoit ' faire aucun mal , ſi ce n'eſtoit par la volonté de dieu. or il aduint vn iour que cét eſprit fit beaucoup plus de bruit que de couſtume, tellement qu'vn metailler commença à l'injurier & luy commander d'aller au gi- bet & en ſon enfer, auec maudiſſons : lors cét eſprit print ce metailler par la teſte : laquelle il luy tordit en telle ſorte, que le deuant eſtoit droitement derriere, & n'en mourut pas toutesfois,mais veſquit longuement depuis, ayant le col tors,conneu familieremét de pluſieurs qui viuent encore,& quelques années apres mou- #- rut. il eſcrit beaucoup d'autres choſes des eſprits que chacun peut lire en ſon iiure. ledict louys lauater, que. au liure ſuſdit : dit auoir ouy dire & affirmer à vn homme prudent & honorable, baillifd'vne seigneurie dependante de surich , qu'vn iour d'eſté de grand matin , allant ſe promener par les prez , accompagné de ſon ſeruiteur, il veid vn homme qu'il connoiſſoit bien ſe meſlant meſchamment auec vne iument, dequoy eſtant grandement eſtonné, il retourna ſoudainement & vint frapper à la porte de celuy qu'il pen- ſoit auoir veu. or il trouua pour certain que l'autre n'auoit bougé de ſon lict : & ſi ce baillif n'euſt di- ligemment ſceu la verité, vn bon & honneſte perſonnage euſt eſté empriſonné & geſné. il recite cette hi- ſtoire , à fin que les iuges ſoient bien aduiſez en tel cas. - comme les demons nous peuuent deceuoir. b c h a p i t r e xxv i i i. artifice des r iceux demons peuuent en beaucoup de manieres & façons tromper noſtre terrienne lour- diables &r deſſe, à raiſon de la ſubtilité de leur eſſence, & malice de leur volonte : car ils obſcurciſſent illuſions. les yeux des hommes auec eſpaiſſes nuées,qui brouillent noſtre eſprit fantaſtiquement,&nous trompent par impoſtures ſataniques,corrompans noſtre imagination par leurs bouffonneries & impietez. ils ſont docteurs de menſonge, racines de malice,& de toutes meſchancetez à l" nous ſeduire & tromper , & preuaricateurs de la verité : & pour le dire en vn mot , ils ont vn incomparable artifice de tromperies, car ils ſe tranſmuent en mille façons , & entaſſent au corps des perſonnes viuantes mille choſes eſtranges , comme vieux panneaux , des os, des ferremens , de cloux , eſ- pines, du fiel, des cheueux entortillez, des morceaux de bois, des ſerpens, & autres choſes monſtrueuſes leſquelles ils font ſouuentesfois ſortir par le conduit de la matrice des femmes : ce qui ſe fait apres auoir esbloüy la veue , & alte é noſtre imagination, comme nous auons dit. aucuns ſont nommez incubes, & les autres succubes. incubes , ſont demons , qui ſe transforment en guiſe d'hommes , & ont copulations auec les femmes ſorcieres. succubes, ſont demons qui ſe tranſmuent en guiſe de femmes : & telle habita- tion ne ſe fait pas ſeulement en dormant, mais auſſi en veillant. ce que les ſorciers & ſorcieres ont con- en la cité de feſſé & maintenant pluſieurs fois, quand on les executoit à mort.s. auguſtin n'a pas du tout niè que les dia- die*,*** bles transformez en forme d'homme ou de femme, puiſſent exercer les œuures de natnre, & auoir affaire * chap. auec les hommes & femmes pour les allecher à luxure , tromper,& deceuoir, ce que les anciens n' ont # d,- point ſeulement experimenté, meſme de noſtre temps cecy eſt arriué en plufieurs prouinces, à diuerſes nier, liu. perſonnes, auec leſquelles les diables ont eu affaire ». transfigurez en homme & en femme. iacobus ruerpff. enſes liures, de conceptu & generatione hominis, teſmoigne que de ſon temps vne femme perduë eut affaire auec vn eſprit malin la nuict , ayant façe d'homme , & que ſubit le ventre luy enfia , & penſant eſtre groſſe, tomba en vne ſi eſtrange maladie , que toutes ſes entrailles tomberent, ſans que par aucun artifice de me- hiſtoire decin , ny de chirurgien, elle peut eſtre ſecourue. il eſt eſcrit le ſemblable d'vn ſeruiteur boucher : le- ºº *** quel eſtant profondement plongé, en vaines cogitations de luxure, fut eſtonné qu'il apperceut ſubit de- be. uant luy vn diable en figure de belle femme , auec lequel ayant eu affaire, ſes parties genitales commen- cerent a s'enflammer, de façon qu'il luy ſembloit auoir le feu ardant dedans le corps, & mourut miſerable- ment. or c'eſt vne choſe abſurde à pierre de la pallude, & martin d'arles , ſouſtenir , qu'au giron de la femme les diables laiſſent couler de la ſemence d'vn homme mort, dont vn enfant peut eſtie engendré, ce qui eſt manifeſtement faux : & pour reprouuer cette vaine opinion , ie diray ſeulement que la ſemence qui eſt faite de ſang & eſprit , laquelle eſt apte pour la generation , eſtant peu ou rien tranſportée, eſt incon- tinent corrompue & alterée, & par conſequent ſa vertu du tout eſteinte, parce que la chaleur & eſprit du cauſe de cœur & de tout le corps en eſt abſente, ſi bien qu'elle n'eſt plus temperée, ny en qualité, ny en quantité. ſterilité. pour cette raiſon les medecins ont iugé l'homme qui auroit la verge virile trop longue eſtre ſterile, à cauſe que la ſemence eſtant c ſcoulée par vn ſi long chemin, eſt ja refroidie auant qu'elle ſoit receuë en la matrice. , auſſi quand l'homme ſe deſioinct de ſa compagne trop ſubit, ayant iette ſa ſemence, elle peut d eſtre alterée de l'air qui entre en la matrice , qui cauſe qu'elle ne produit aucun fruict. ainſi donc l'on peut cognoiſtre combien albert le scoliaſte a lourdement faijy, lequel a eſcrit que ſi la ſemence qui tombe en terre eſtoit remiſe en la matrice , il ſeroit poſſible qu'elle conceuroit.autant en peut on dire de la voiſine d'auerroës , laquelle ( comme il dit ) l'auoit aſſeuré par ſerment, qu'elle auoit conceu vn enfant de la ſe- mence d'vn homme qu'il auoitietté dans vn bain, & s'eſtant baigné en iceluy elle en deuint groſſe. auſſi il ne nous faut nullement croire que les demons, ou diables , qui ſont de nature ſpirituelle , puiſſent con- : noiſtre charnellement les femmes : car à l'execution de cét acte, la chair & le ſang ſont requis , ce que les #ie. eſprits n'ont pas. d'auantage, comme ſeroit-il poſſible que les eſprits qui n'ont point de corps, puiſſent *** eſtre épris de l'amour des femmes, & qu'ils puiſſent engendrer en icelles ? & auſſi où il n'y a point de par- grande menterie de la voiſine d'auerrvès - - - • - - - - - - - - - - , : ties generantes, il n'y a auſſi point de conionction, & où il n'y a viande, ne breuuage, il n'y a point de ſe- < | mence : auſſi là où il n'a eſté neceſſaire auoir ſucceſſion & repeuplement, la nature n'a point baillé le deſir \ • - - - d'engendrer. d'auantage, les demons ſont immortels & eternels : qu'ont-ils donc neceſſité de cette ge- il n'eſt poſſi- neration, puis qu'ils n'ont affaire de ſucceſſeurs,d'autant qu'ils ſeront touſiours ; encore n'eſt- il en la puiſ- ble à sathan ſance de sathan , ny à ces anges , d'en créer de nouuelles, & ſi ainſi eſtoit, depuis que les demons ſont de réer nou- creez qu'ils euſſent peu en engendrer d'autres, il y auroit bien de la diablerie ſur les champs. or quand à #ºº moy, ie croy que cette pretendue cohabitation eſt imaginaire, procedente d'vne impreſſion illuſoire de - sathan. - - - exemple des monſtres | l · a- t- exemple de pluſieurs illuſions diaboliques. chap. xxix. , t à fin qu'on ne penſe que l'artifice du diable ne ſoit ancien, il a encores eſté praaiqué de noſtre temps, en ſemblables ſortes, comme pluſieurs ont veu, & beaucoup d'hommes à doctes ont eſcrit d'vne fort belle ieune fille à conſtance, laquelle auoit nom magdaleine, $ ſeruante d'vn fort riche citoyen de ladite ville : cette fille publioit par tout que ſe diable ve/f# vne nuict l'auoit engroſſée : & pour ce regard les poteſtats de la ville la firent mettre en h - - - - ô priſon, pour entendre l'yſſue de cét enfantement.l'heure venuë de ſes couches, elle ſentitº oſe#ri^ les trenchées & douleurs accouſtumées des femmes, qui veulent accoucher : & quant les matrones furent #. lais preſtes de receuoir le fruict,& qu'elles penſoient que la matrice ſe deuſt ouurir,il commença à ſcrtir du corps accroire ſor- d'icelle fille,des cloux de fer,des petits tronçons de bois,de verre,des os,pierres,& cheueux,des eſtouppes,& tir du corts, pluſieurs autres choſes fantaſtiques & eſtranges,leſquelles le diable par ſon artificey auoit appliquées,pour humain, deceuoir & embaboüiner le vulgaire populace, quiadiouſte legerement foy en preſtiges & tromperies. boi- ſtuau affirme, qu'il produiroit pluſieurs autres hiſtoires ſemblables,tecitées non ſeulement des philoſophes, , mais des eccleſiaſtiques : leſquels confeſſent que les diables par la permiſſion de dieu, ou pour punition de nos pechez,peuuent ainſi abuſer des hommes & des femmes:mais que de telle conjonction il ſe puiſſe engen- drer quelque creature humaine,cela n'eſt pas ſeulement faux, mais contraire à noſtre religion, laquelle croit qu'il n'y eut oncques homme engendré ſans ſemence humaine , reſerué le fils de dieu. meſmes comme di- ſoit caſſianus, quelle abſurdité , repugnance, & confuſion ſeroit-ce en nature , s'il eſtoit licite au diable de conceuoir d'hommes,& les femmes d'eux : combien depuis la creation du monde iuſques à preſent, les diables euſſent produit des monſtres par tout le genre humain , iettans leur ſemence dans les matrices des beſtes, creans ainſi par les perturbations de ſemence vne infinite de monſtres & prodiges ? a- - - de l'art magique. c h a p. xx x. l# 'a v a n t a g e l'art magique ſe fait par le meſchant artifice des diables. or il y a de plu- necroman- \$ ſieurs ſortes des magiciens : aucuns font venir à eux les diables, & interrogent les morts, ciens. w# leſquels ſont nommez necromanciens : autres cheiromanciens,parce qu'ils deuinent par cer- cheiromanº - tains lineamens qui ſont és mains : autres mydromanciens, parce qu'ils deuinent par l'eau: ciens. $ # autres geomanciens, parce qu'ils deuinent par la terre : autres pyromanciens, qui deuinent ºº- Èknº par le feu : autres aéromanciens , ou augures, ou prognoſtiqueurs de la diſpoſition future, #z - parce qu'ils deuinent par l'air, ſçauoir eſt par le vol des oiſeaux, ou par tourmentes, orages, tempeſtes & #º vents. tous leſquels faux, prophetes,deuins, malefiques, & enchanteurs,ne font que tromper & abuſer les #º incredules, qui vont au recours à eux, qui ſur tous autres ſont couſtumierement opprimez de perpetuelle aeman . pauureté & diſette , parce que les diables les engouffrent en vn abyſme d'obſcurité, leur faiſant accroire eien . menſonge eſtre verité , par illufions & fauſſes promeſſes interturbées & inſenſées, qui eſt vne folie & inſup- les magi- portable bourbier d'erreur, & facetie. il faut du tout fuir ces hommes, & les chaſſer loin de ceux qui ciens ſont t cognoiſſent & ayment la vraye religion, comme fit anciennement moyſe par le commandement de dieu. touſiours iean de marconuille en ſon liure, du recueil memorable d'aucuns cas merueilleux aduenus de nos ans, eſcrit pºé . -; - - " - - - malheureux- d'vne diuinereſſe, ſorciere de boulongne la graſſe en italie, laquelle apres auoir long-temps exercé ſon art hiſtoi diabolique, tomba en vne griefue maladie, dont elle finit ſes iours. quoy voyant vn magicien, qui ne l'auoit #" iamais volu quitter pour le pr ffit qu'il tiroit du viuant d'elle de ſon art : il luy mit vn certain poiſon ve- - nefique ſous les aiſelles, tellement que par la vertu de ce poiſon , elle ſembloit eſtre viuante, & ſe trouuoit aux compagnies , comme elle auoit accouſtumé, ne ſemblant en rien differer d'vne perſonne en vie, fors la couleur qui eſtoit exceſſiuement palle & bleſme. quelque temps apres il ſe trouua vn autre magicien à boulongne , auquel il prit fantaſie d'aller voir cette femme pource qu'elle auoit grand bruit, à raiſon de ſon art : lequel eſtant arriué à ce ſpectacle, comme les autres pour la voir ioüer, tout ſubit s'eſcria, diſant: ue faites-vous icy, meſſieurs ? cette femme que vous eſtimez qui faſſe ces beaux ſoubreſauts, & jeux de paſſe paſſe deuant vous, n'eſt qu'vne puante & orde charongne morte : & tout ſoudain elle tomba en terre morte, de ſorte que le preſtige de sathan, & l'abus de l'enchanteur fut manifeſté à tous les aſſiſtans. lan- epiſlre . gius en ſes epiſtres medecinales , raconte d'vne femme poſſedée d'vn mauuaisleſprit, laquelle apres auoir eſté affligée d'vne cruelle douleur d'eſtomach, eſtant delaiſſée par les medecins, ſubitement vomit des cloux fort longs & courbez,& des aiguilles d'airain empaquetées auec de la cire, & des cheueux : & en la meſme epiſtre il eſcrit,que en l'an mil cinq cens trente-neufau village nommé tugueſtag,vn certain laboureur nom- mé vvlrich nenzeſſer, apres auoir enduré vne cruelle douleur au fianc, luy ayant eſté faicte ouuerture d'vn choſis eſtra- raſoir, ſortit vn clou d'airin : toutesfois ſes douleurs augmenterent de plus en plus, & d'impatience ſe cou-ges trouuées pa la gorge : & ayant eſté ouuert on luy trouua dans l'eſtomach vn morceau de bois , long & rond, quatre ºdaºleºrps couſteaux d'acier, deſquels aucuns eſtoient aigus, les autres dentelez en maniere de ſcie, & enſemble deux d'vn homme ferremens aſpres, leſquels ſurmontoient la longueur d'vne demie coudée , auec vne groſſe pelotte de che-º parla- ueux.il eſt vray-ſemblable que toutes ces choſes ſe ſont faites par l'aſtuce du diable qui deceuoit les aſſiſtans # du dias par leur veué. encor depuis † i'ay veu faire à vn impoſteur & enchanteur , en la preſence du roy # pire charles i x. & de meſſeigneurs les mareſchaux de montmorency , de rets, & le seigneur de lanſac,& de # la · monſieur de mazile, premier medecin du roy, & de monſieur de ſainct pris , valet de chambre ordinaire preſence du du roy , pluſieurs autres choſes qui ſont impoſſibles aux hommes de faire ſans l'aſtuce du diable,qui deçoit roy,é de noſtre veue,& nous fait apparoiſtre choſe fauſſe & fantaſtique : & de faict ledit impoſteur confeſſa librement pluſieurs. au roy, que ce qu'il faiſoit eſtoit par l'aſtuce d'vn eſprit lequel auoit encor temps de trois ans à eſtre en ſes #ºº liens, & qu'il le tourmentoit fort : & promit au roy , ſon temps venu & accomply, qu'il ſeroit homme de # bien. dieu luy vueille donner la grace : car il eſt eſcrit. tu n'endureras point viure la ſorciere. le roy § - saiil fut cruellement puny, pour s'eſtre addreſſé à la femme enchantereſſe. moyſe pareillement a comman- - dé à ſes hebrieux » qu'ils miſſent toute peine d'exterminer d'autour d'eux les enchanteurs. l l l de le vingt-cinquiéme liure, / • de certaines maladies eſtranges. c h a p. viii. # r pour contenter l'eſprit du liſeur, de l'impoſture des diables, & de leurs eſclaues magiciens, # • malefiques, enchanteurs, & ſorciers,i'ay recueiily ces hiſtoires de fernel, telles qu'il s'enſuit. il #- y a des maladies leſquelles ſont enuoyees aux hommes par la permiſſion de dieu, & ne peu- §i. uent eſtre guaries par les remedes ordinaires, leſquelles pour cette raiſon ſont dites outre-paſ- ſer le cours ordinaire des maladies, dont les hommes ont accouſtumé d'eſtre tourmentez. ce qui ſe peut aiſement prouuer par l'eſcriture ſaincte meſme, laquelle nous fait foy, que pour le peché de da- uid il ſuruint vne telle corruption d'air, que la peſte trencha le filet de la vie à plus de ſoixante mille perſon- nes. nous liſons auſſi en la meſme eſcriture, qu'ezechias fut tourmenté d'vne tres-griefue maladie. iob re- les mala- ceut tant d'vlceres ſur ſon corps , qu'il en eſtoit tout couuert : ce qui leur aduint par la permiſſion de ce dies viennét grand dieu , lequel gouuerne à ſon vueil ce monde inferieur, & tout ce qui eſt contenu en iceluy. or tout par la per-: ainſi que le diable,capital & iuré ennemy de l'homme nous afflige ſouuent (par la permiſſion de dieu toutes- º'ſſiº* fois)de grandes & diuerſes maladies : ainſi les ſorciers trompeurs & meſchans, par ruſes & fineſſes diaboli- ditm. ques,tourmentent & abuſent vne infinité d'hommes:les vns inuoquent & adiurent ie ne ſçay quels eſprits par murmures,exorciſmes,imprecations,enchantemens & ſorcelleries : les autres lient à l'entour du col, ou bien portent ſur eux par autre façon quelques eſcritures, quelques characteres, quelques anneaux, quelques ima- ges & autres tels fatrats : les autres vſent de qeelques chants harmonieux & danſes. quelques fois ils vſent de certaines potions,ou pluſtoſt poiſons,ſuffumigations,ſenteurs,faſcinations, & enchantemens. il s'en trou- ue leſquels ayans braſſé l'image & repreſentation de quelqu'vn abſent, la tranſpercent auec certains inſtru- mens, & ſe vantent d'affliger de telle maladie qu'il leur plaira, celuy dont ils tranſpercent la repreſentation, encore qu'il ſoit bien eſloigné d'eux,& diſent que cela ſe fait par la vertu des eſtoilles,& de certaines paroles qu'ils bourdonnent en perçant telle image, ou repreſentation faite de cire.il y a encore vne infinité de telles forfanteries, qui ont eſté inuentées par les forfantes, pour affliger & tourmenter les hommes, mais l me faſ- che d'en parler dauantage. il y en a qui vſent de tels ſortileges,qui empeſchent l'homme & la femme de con- ſommer le mariage,ce qu'on appelle vulgairement noüer l'eſguillette.il y en a qui empeſcnent que l'hôme ne rende ſon vrine,ce qu'ils appellent cheuiller.il y en a auſſi qui rendent par leurs ſorcelleries,les hômes ſi mal- habiles à ſacrifier à venus, que les pauures femmes qui en ont bien affaire, penſent qu'ils ſoient chaſtrez, & plus que chaſtrez.telle canaille n'afflige pas ſeulement les hómes de pluſieurs & diuerſes ſortes de maladies: mais auſſi pendars & ſorciers qu'ils ſont, lancent des diables dedans les corps des hommes & des femmes, # ceux qui ſont ainſi tourmentez des diables par les ſorcelleries de ces forfantes, ne different en rien des ſim- . # ples maniaques,ſinon qu'ils diſent des choſes merueilleuſement grandes. ils racontent tout ce qui s'eſt paſsé parauant,encore qu'il fut bien fort caché & inconneu, fors qu'à bien peu de gens. ils deſcouurent le ſecret de ceux qui ſont preſens,les iniurians & blaſonnans ſi viuemét, qu'ils ſeroient plus que ladres s'ils ne le ſen- toient : mais incôtinent qu'on parle de la ſaincte eſcriture,ils ſont tout eſpouuantez,ils tremblent & ſont fort faſchez. n'agueres vn quidam par les grandes chaleurs de l'eſté, ſe leua de nuict pour boire, lequel ne trou- uant aucune liqueur pour eſtancher ſa ſoif prend vne pomme qu'il aduiſe : & incontinent qu'il eut mordu de- dans il luy ſembla qu'on l'eſtrangloit : & deſia comme aſſiegé d'vn malin eſprit caché en cette pomme, il luy ſembloit au milieu des tenebres voir vn grand chien fort noir qui le deuoroit :lequel eſtant puis apres guary, nous conta de fil en eſguille tout ce qui † eſtoit arriué. pluſieurs medecins luy ayans touché le pouls,ayans recogneu la chaleur extraordinaire qui eſtoit en luy, auec vne ſeichereſſe & noirceur, iugerent qu'il auoit la fiévre, & d'autant qu'il ne repoſoit aucunement, & qu'il ne ceſſoit de reſuer, le iugerent hers du ſens. il y a hiſtaire d'vn quelques années qu'vn ieune gentil-homme par interualle de temps tomboit en certaine conuulſion, tantoſt §- ayant le bras gauche ſeulement, tantoſt le droict,tantoſt vn ſeul doigt,tantoſt vne cuiſſe, tantoſt toutes deux, til-homme tantoſt l'eſpine du dos, & tout le corps ſi ſoudainement remué & tourmenté par cette conuulſion,qu'à grande tourmenté difficulté quatre valets le pouuoient tenir au lict. or eſt-il qu'l n'auoit aucunement le cerueau agité ny d'vn démon. tourmenté,il auoit laparole libre, l'eſprit nullement troublé, & tous les ſens entiers', meſmes au plus fort de telle conuulſion. il eſtoit trauaillé deux fois le iour pour le moins de telle conuulſion:de laquelle eſtant ſorty fl ſe portoit bien horſmis qu'il ſe trouuoit fort las & rompu, à cauſe du tourment qu'il auoit ſouffert tout medecin bien aduisé, eut peut iuger que c'eſtoit vne vraye epilepſie,ſi auec cela les ſens & l'eſprit euſſent eſté troublez,tous les plus braues medecins y eſtans appellez, iugerent que c'eſtoit vne conuulſion de fort prés approchante à l'epilepſie, qui eſtoit excitée d'vne vapeur maligne,encloſe dedans l'eſpine du dos,d'où telle vapeur s'eſpanchoit ſeulemétaux nerfs, qui ont leur origine d'icelle eſpine,ſans en rien offencer le cerueau. tel iugement a eſté aſſis de la cauſe de cette maladie, il ne fut rien oublié de tout ce que commande l'art» •a pour ſoulager ce pauure malade : mais en fin nous fiſmes tous nos efforts, eſtans plus de cent lieues eſloignez de la cauſe dé telle maladie. car le troiſiéme mois ſuiuant on deſcouturit que c'eſtoit vn diable , qui eſtoit autheur de ce mal, lequel ſe declara luy-meſme parlant par la bouche du malade,du grec & du latin à foi- les mede- ſon, encore que ledit malade ne ſceuſt rien en grec. il deſcouuroit le ſecret de ceux qui eſtoient preſens, & cins iniurie( principalement des medecins, ſe mocquant d'eux, pource qu'auec grand danger il les auoit circonuenus, & par les de- qu'auec des medecines inutiles ils auoient preſque fait mourir le malade. toutes & quantesfois que ſon pe- f/ / • re le venoit voir,incontinent que de loing il l'apperceuoit,il crioit, faites-le retirer, empeſchez qu'il n'entre, *- ou bien luy oſtez la chaine qu'il porte au col : car comme cheualier qu'il eſtoit, ſuiuât la couſtume des che- - ualiers françois, il portoit le collier de l'ordre, au bout duquel eſtoit l'image de ſainct michel. quand on liſoit quelque choſe de la ſaincte eſcriture deuant luy, il ſe heriſſonnoit, ſe ſouſleuoit , & ſe tourmentoit bien plus qu'auparauant. quand le paroxiſine eſtoit paſsé,le pauure tourmenté ſe ſouuenoit de tout ce qu'il auoit dit, ou fait, s'en repentant, & diſant que contre ſon vueil il auoit ou fait ou dit cela. ce demon con- traint par les ceremonies & exorciſmes, diſoit qu'il eſtoit vn eſprit, & qu'il n'eſtoit point damné pour aucun forfaict. eſtant interrogé quel il eſtoit, ou par quel moyen, & par la puiſſance de qui il tourmentoit ainſi ce gentil homme, il reſpondit qu'il y auoit beaucoup de domicilles où il ſe cachoit, & qu'au temps qu'il laiſſoit repoſer le malade, il en alloit tourmenter d'autres : au reſte qu'il auoit eſté jetté au corps de ce gentil-homme par vn quidam qu'il ne vouloit nommer, & qu'il y eſtoit entré par les pieds, ſe rampant pieds au iuſques au cerueau,& qu'il ſortiroit par les pieds quand le iour pactionné entr'eux ſeroit venu.il diſcouroit corps du gë- de beaucoup d'autres choſes , ſelon la couſtume des demoniacles , vous aſſeurant que ie ne mets cecy en § ieu, comme vne choſe nouuelle : mais afin qu'on cognoiſſe que quelquesfois les diables entrent dedans nos corps, & qu'ils les bourrelent par tourmens inaudits : quelques fois auſſi ils n'entrent point dedans, mais agitent les bonnes humeurs du corps, ou bien enuoyent les meſchantes aux principales parties » § † remplillent le demon entra par les c d des monſtres. | a rempliſſent les veines de ces meſchantes humeurs,ou en bouchent les conduits du corps, ou bien changent le baſtiment des inſtrumés, d'où il arriue vne infinité de maladies. les diables ſont cauſe de toutes ces cho- les ſorcierº ſes, mais les ſorciers & meſchans hommes ſont ſerfs & miniſtres des diables. pline eſcrit que neron de ſon §es temps a trouué les plus fauſſes magies & ſorcelleries qui ayent point eſté. mais qu'eſt-il de beſoin mettre en de diablet. auant les ethniques,attendu que l'eſcriture teſmoigne qu'il y en a eu, comme il appert de ce qui eſt eſcrit de la pythoniſſe, de la femme ventriloque, nabuchodonoſor roy des ſorciers, & enchanteurs de pharaon, & meſine de simon magus du temps des apoſtres ? le meſme pline eſcrit qu'vn nommé demarchus ſe chan- gea eh loup, ayant mangé des entrailles d'vn enfant ſacrifié. -" homere eſcrit que circé changea les compagnons d'vlyſſe en pourceaux. pluſieurs poëtes anciens eſ- criuent, que tels ſorciers faiſoient paſſer les fruicts de champ en champ, & de iardin en iardin. ce qui ne ſemble eſtre fabuleux, d'autant que la loy des douze tables conſtitue & ordonne certains ſupplices à tels - charlatans & forfants. or tout ainſi que le diable ne peut bailler les choſes vrayes, leſquelles il ne pourroit º ſorcin créer, ains baille ſeulement quelques vaines eſpeces d'icelles,par leſquelles il offuſque l'eſprit des hommest # des ainſi aux maladies ne peut-il donner vne vraye & entiere guarifon,ains vſe ſeulement d'vne fauſſe & pallia- # # f tiue cure. i'ay veu auſſi la jauniſſe diſparoiſtre de la ſuperficie du corps en vne ſeule nuict, par le moyë d'vn # certain petit breuet qui fut pendu au col de l'icterique. i'ay veu pareillement les fiévres eſtre guaries par oraiſons, & certaines ceremonies, mais elles retournoient apres bien plus mauuaiſes. il y en a encore bien d'vn autre tonneau : car il y a des façons de faire,que nous appellons ſuperſtitions, d'autant qu'elles ne ſont fondées ſur aucune raiſon ou authorité, ſoit diuine ou humaine : ains ſur quelque reſuerie de vieilles. ie b vous prie,n'eſt-ce pas vne vraye ſuperſtition de dire que celuy qui porte les noms des trois roys qui vindrét adorer noſtre dieu,à ſçauoir,gaſpar,melchior & baltazar,eſt guary de l'epilepſie ? ce que toutesfois les re- medes bien approuuez ne font pas ordinairement; comine peut eſtre l'eſſence de ſuccinum, ou ambre meſlé auec conſerue de piuoine, donnée au malade tous les matins la groſſeur d'vne noiſette. que les dents ſont guaries, ſi cependant qu'on dit la meſſe, on profere ces paroles, os non comminuetu ex eo. qu'on appaiſe les vomiſſemens par certaines, ceremonies ſçachant ſeulement le nom du patient. i'ay veu quelqu'vn qui arre- ſtoit le ſang de quelque partie du corps que ce fuſt,bourdonnât ie ne ſçay quelles paroles.il y en a qui diſent ces mots, de latere eius exiuit ſanguis & aqua. combien y a-il de telles manieres de guarir les fiévres ? les vns tenans la main du febricitant diſent aequè facilis tibi febris bec ſit, atque marie virgini, (briſti partus. les autres diſent en ſecret ce beau pſalme, exaltabote deu meu rex. si quelqu'vn ( dit pline) a eſté mordu d'vn scor- pion, & qu'en paſſant, il le die en l'oreille d'vn aſne, il eſt incontinent guary. voilà de belles manieres de uarir. or tout ainſi que par telles paroles ils guariſſent, auſſi par de ſemblables & ſuperſtitieux eſcrits gua- riſſent-ils. comme pour guarir le mal des yeux, il y en a qui eſcriuent ces deux lettres grecques, », a,& les enueloppent en vn linge, puis le pendent au col. pour le mal des dents ils eſcriuent, strigiles falcéſque den- tate, dentium dolorem perſanate. il ſe trouue auſſi de grandes ſuperſtitions aux applications externes. comme ceſtuy-cy d'apollonius, à ſçauoir ſe ſcarifier les genciues auecques la dent d'vn homme qui a eſté tué pour guarir le mal des dents : comme faire des pillules du crane d'vn hôme pendu, contre la morſure d'vn chien enragé. comme ils diſent que l'epilepſie eſt guarie pour manger de la chair d'vne beſte ſauuage, qui aura eſté tuée du meſne fer qu'aura eſté tué vn homme.comme ils diſent auſſi que la fiévre quarte eſt guarie, ſi on boit du bon vin où aura trempé vne eſpeée de laquelle on a coupé le col d'vn homme. si cela eſtoit vray, l'eſtat du bourreau de paris luy vaudroit mieux qu'il ne fait. ils diſent auſſi, que pour guarir la meſme fiévre c quarte, il ne faut que mettre les rogneures de ſes ongles dedans vn linge, les lier au col d'vne anguille viue, & la ietter incontinent en l'eau. pour guarir la ratelle (diſent ils) il ne faut que mettre deſſus icelle la ratte d'vne beſte, & faut que le medecin die qu'il fait la medecine à la ratte. pour guarir de la toux il ne faut que cracher dedans le bec d'vne grenoüille rouge, & la laiſſer incontinent aller. la corde dequoy on a pen- du quelqu'vn, liée à l'entour des temples,guarit le mal de teſte. c'eſt vn plaiſir que d'entendre telle maniere de faire la medecine, mais entre autre, cette-cy eſt gentille, qui eſt de mettre ce beau mot, abracadabra, en vne certaine figure qu'eſcrit serenus pour guarir de la fievre. c'eſt vn autre beau traict, de dire que la serentt . fueille de cataputia tirée par haut, fait vomir, & tirée par embas, faict deſcharger le ventre. et qui plus eſt, ils ont eſté ſi impudens,que de feindre qu'il y auoit quelques herbes dediées & conſacrées aux diables,côme gatin au «; recite galien d'vn certain andré & pamphile. ie n'aurois iamais faict ſi ie voulois m'amuſer à rapſodier § " vne miliace de telles ſuperſtitieuſes ſornettes, & n'en euſſe tant mis en auant, ſinon pour donner aduis à § beaucoup qui s'y abuſent, de plus n'y croire,& les prier de reietter toutes telles ſottiſes & s'arreſter à ce qui eſt aſſeuré, & partant d'habiles & galands hommes approuué & receu en la médecine, ce que faiſant, il en reüſſira vn bien infiny au public: d'autant qu'apres l'honneur de dieu, il n'y a rien qui doiue eſtre plus pre- cieux à l'homme que ſa ſanté. et ne faut aucunement ſe fier aux hómes, qui ont laiſſé les naturels moyens,& vertus données, que dieu a miſes aux plantes, animaux & mineraux, pour la curation des maladies, & ſe ſont iettez dans les filets des eſprits malins, qui les attédent au paſſage. car il ne faut point douter,que puis qu'ils ne ſe fient aux moyens que dieu a ordonné, & qu'ils abandonnent cette reigle vniuerſellemét eſtablie dés la creation du monde, que les eſprits malins ne ſe ſoient mis en peine de les y tenir, leur donnant entre d deux vertes vne meure,a fin qu'ils ſe fient plus librement par ce moyen à la vertu des paroles & characteres, & autres badinages & piperies, ainſi que les ſorciers, & pluſieurs en ſont venus iuſques à dire qu'ils ne ſe ſoucient qui les guariſſe, & fut-ce le diable d'enfer, qui eſt vn prouerbe indigne d'vn chreſtien : car l'eſcri- ture sainctes le defent expeſſement. il eſt certain que les ſorciers ne peuuent guarir les maladies naturelles, ny les medecins les maladies venuës par ſortileges. et quand à quelques empiriques qui curent les playes ſimples par ſeule application de linges ſecs ou trempez en eau pure, & quelquesfois les guariſſeut, pour cela ne faut croire que ce ſoit enchantement ny miracle, comme penſent les idiots & la populace mais par le ſeul benefice de nature, laquelle guarit les playes, vlceres, fractures, & autres maladies : car le chirurgienne fait que luy aider en quelque choſe, & oſter ce qui empeſcheroit,comme douleurs , fluxion , inflammation, apoſteme, gangrene,& autres choſes qu'elle ne peut faire,comme reduire les os fracturez & luxez, boucher vn grád vaiſſeau pour eſtancher vn flux de sång,extirper vne loupe : extraire vne groſſe pierre dela veſſie,oſter vne chair ſuperflué, abatre vne cataracte, & vne infinité d'autres choſes que nature de ſoy ne peut faire. pline. apollonius. grande ſu- perftition. - des incubes & succubes ſelon les medecins. ch a p. xxxii. e s medecins tiennent que incubus eſt vn mal où la perſonne penſe eſtre opprimée & ſuffoquée de quelque peſante charge ſur ſon corps, & vient principalement la nuict : le vulgairº dit que c'eſt vne vielle qui charge & comprime le corps, & l'appelle chaude poulet. la cauſe cſt !º plus l l i , ſouuent cauſes. * des monſtres. a du temps que mena eſtoit gouuºeur d'egypte, ſe promenant dumatin ſur la tiue dunil, il vid ſortir vn homme hors de l'eau iuſqu'à la ceinture, la face graue, la cheuelure jaune, entremeſlèe de quelques cheueux gris, l'eſtomach, le dos , & les bras bien formez, & le reſte de poiſſon. le tiers iour d'apres, vers le poinct duiour,vn autre mouſtre appparut auſſi dehors l'eau auec vnviſage de femme:car la douceur de la face, les longs cheueux & les mämelles le monftroient aſſez, & demeurerent ſi longtemps deſſus l'eau que tous ceux de la ville les virent l'vn & l'autre à leur aiſe. qui ſera curieux de s'inſtruire plus amplemen§ ces monſtres, liſez pline, liure ». oppian en ſon poëme des poiſſons & entre les recens françois maſſ§ en ſes commentaires ſur pline, & blaiſe de vigenere, vn des grands ornemens de noſtre ſiecle,enſes an - tations ſur philoſtrate. - rondelet, en ſonliure des poiſſons eſcrit,qu'on aveu vn monſtre marin en la mer de nortvegue, auquel ſi toſt qu'il fut prins, chacun donna le nom de moine, & eſtoit tel comme tu le peux voir par ce pourtraict. ètè# -# lx $ # # # [， - # # | vk # % % - x # | | à {È n # s# % %#% ， as # l# figure d'vn monſtre marin,reſſemblant à vn eueſque, veſtu de ſes habits pontificaux. vn autre monſtre deſcrit par ledit rondelet, en façon d'vn eueſque veſtu d'eſcailles, ayant ſa mitre & ſes ornemens ponti- | ficaux , comme tu vois par cette figure , lequel a eſté veu en po- $ longne , l'an . comme deſcrit geſnerus : mais vn autre mon- s ſtre ſe trouue bien merueilleux, nommé zitiron, ou gendarme de n mer, duquel s'enſuit la defcription. - $ du gendarme de mer, autrement dit zitiron. s àic - (% | zitiron ſelon iſidore,eſt vn monſtre marin, que le vulgaireap- >? pelle gendarme,ou soldat de mer,ce monſtre eſt puiſſant & fort # f) au poſſible, repreſentant quaſi la forme d'vn homme armé, à cau- $ #$ ſe dequoy on luy a donné le nom de gendarme, ſa teſte eft cou- (é， uerte d'vn cuir fort dur & eſpais, de forme preſque ſemblable à à# l'habillement de teſte de nos gendarmes , que l'on appelle caſ- # que ou ſalade. il a comme vn eſcu ou bouclier pendu au col,at- #! taché à de groſſes veines, & des nerfs tres-forts, qui s'eſtendent | de ſon col iuſques ſur les eſpaules. il eſt de figure triangulaire, fort long & large à proportion , caué par dedans, & releué en dehors, #§ au reſte, & ſi dur qu'à grand peine le peut-on per- cer d'vn coup de traict : cét eſcu luy couure tout l'eſtomach, ne plus ne moins qu'vn homme combattant ſe couure de ſon bou- clier. il a deux bras forts & robuſtes , les mains biſulgues : c'eſt à dire, diuiſées en deux, tout de meſme que ſi tous les doigts eſtoient joincts en deux ſeulement , auec ce, il ſe defend furieuſe- ment, & frappe ſi fort ce qu'il attaint , que mal-aisément peut-il eſtre pris:& encore eſtant pris, il eſt fi difficile à tuer, que l'on eſt contraint de l'aſſommer à coups de marteau & de maillets , de- puis l'eſtomach en bas il finit en poiſſon eſcaillé auec vne ſeule queuë. lll figure % - # # | vº [! # le vingt-cinquiéme liure, figure d'vn monſtre marin, ayant la teſte d'vn ours, & les bras d'vn singe. v\ \ ),ºs n\!) s x\ ' \ n - - -- - * % zzz zzs k% . - %#itrº !# "- ºmrſſ it • - i - l. #ms$， $àa fíſº $s ， // - a *- lº #º : § < n # hieronymus cardanus enuoya ce monſtre icy à geſnerus, lequel auoit la teſte ſemblable à vn ours, les bras & les mains quaſi comme vn singe, & le reſte d'vn poiſſon, & fut trouué en macerie. en la mer tyrrhene, prés la ville de caſtre, fut prins ce monſtre ayant la forme d'vn lyon, cou- uert d'eſcailles, qui fut preſenté à marcel pour lors eueſque, lequel apres la mort du pape paul iii. ſucceda au papat. iceluy lyon jettoit vne voix ſemblable à celle d'vn homme , & auec grande admi- b ration fut amené en la ville, & toſt apres mourut, ayant perdu ſon lieu naturel, comme nous teſmoi- , s,. gne philippe foreſtus au liure ;. de ſes chroniques, duquel la figure eſt telle. figure d'vn lyon marin couuert d'eſcailles. ss $ # l'an mil cinq cens vingt-trois, le troiſiéme iour de nouembre, fut veu vn monſtremarin à rome, de la grandeur d'vn enfant de cinq ou ſix ans, ayant la partie ſuperieure humaine iuſques au nombrº, horſmis les oreilles, & l'inferieure ſemblable à vn poiſſon. image d'vn monſire marin ayant figure humaine. figure des monſtres. figure hideuſe d'vn diable de mer. - geſnerus fait mention de ce monſtre marin, dont il auoit recouuré le pourtrait d'vn peintre qui l'auoit veu en anuers au naturel, ayant la teſte hideuſe, auec deux cornes & longues oreilles, & tout le reſte du corps d'vn poiſſon, hors les bras qui approchoient du naturel, lequel fut pris en la mer illyrique, ſe jettant hors du riuage.taſchant à prendre vn petit enfant qui eſtoit pres d'iceluy, & eſtant pourſuiuy de pres par les mariniers qui l'auoient apperceu, fut bleſſé de coups de pierres, & peu apres vint mourir au bord de l'eau. figure d'vn cheual de mer. s = c$ #b\º rn " , \ -- : =a ,l/ § ce monſtre marin ayant la teſte & les crins, & le deuant d'vn cheual, fut veu en la mer oceane : la fi- gure duquel fut apportée à rome au pape, pour lors regnant. figure d'vn veau marin. - // | ///// " n\ @ / / / / " #rº ayll # ſºsº - - l - - - / - - olaus magnus dit auoir eu ce monſtre marin d'vn gentil-homme anglois &auoir eſté pris pres le riua- ge de bergue,là où ordinairement il habitoit. et encore depuis peu on en fit preſent d'vn ſemblable au roy geſnerun. olaut ma- gnu. defunct, qu'il fit nourir aſſez longtemps à fontaine-bleau, lequel ſortoit ſouuent hors l eau, puis s'y remet- charles ». toit.auſii eſt-il amphibie car il reſpire & aſpire l'air,dort ſur terre,& y fait ſes petits, mais d autant qu'il ne roy de fran- ſçauroit viure longtemps hors de l'eau & qu'il y prend ſa nourriture , on le met au nombre des poiſſons, & ce. de la pluſpart des nations eſt nommé veau marin. rondelet liu. .de piſcibl appelle veau de la † - ne,en diſtinction de celuy de la mer mediteranée, qui eſt quelque peu diſſemblable de cettuy-cy pour le re- gard de l'habitude du corps ſeulement.car au reſte ils ſe rapportent entierement l'vn à l'autre. les grccsl'ont aommé çazy , à cauſe de ſon mugiſſement , qui luy a donné le nom de veau de mer parmy nous- - j. l l figure o le vingt-cinquiéme liure, figure d' vne truye marine. ce monſtre marin, « , s comme dit olaus, # - fut "† incr » $n/h-aaa pres l'iſle de thy- # r len , ſituée vers le asees= <nrs wp ss - septentrion , l'an de - # ， %is - c n§è#ssn- - race . de gran- # - - - c$ / † §º in- croyable, à ſçauoir de ſoixante & douze pieds de longueur , & quatorze de hau- teur, ayant diſtance entre les deux yeux de ſept pieds ou en- uiron : ſon foye e- ſtoit fi grand qu'on* en remplit cinq ton- neaux, la teſte ſem- blable à vne truye, ayant vn croiſſant ſitué ſur le dos, au milieu de chaſque coſté du corps trois yeux , & le reſte tout couuert d'eſcailles, comme tu peux voir par cette figure. les arabes, habitans du mont mazouan, qui eſt le long de la mer rouge, viuent ordinairement d'vn poiſ- ſon nommé orobon, grand de neuf à dix pieds, & large ſelon la proportion de ſa grandeur, ayant eſcail- les faites comme celles du crocodile. iceluy eſt merueilleuſement furieux contre les autres poiſſons. an- dré theuet en fait aſſez ample declaration en ſa coſmographie, où i'ay pris ce pourtrait, comme d'vnani- mal fort monſtrueux. - pourtrait du poiſſon nommé orobon. - -s.-sss snn$. nzs )n $=sn le crocodile, comme eſcrit ariſtote és liure de l'hiſtoire & parties des animaux, eſt vn grand animal long de quinze couldeées.il n'engendre point vn animal, mais des œufs, non plus gros que ceux d'oye, il en fait ſoixante au plus. il vit longtemps, & d'vn ſi petit commencement ſort vn grand animal : car les petits eſclos, ſont proportionnez à l'œuf il a la langue ſi empeſchée, quil ſemble n'en auoir point, qui eſt cauſe qu'il vit partie en terre , partie en eau : comme eſtant terreſtre,elle luy tient lieu de langue, & comme eſtant aquatique , il eſt ſans langue. car les poiſſons ou ils n'ont point du tout de langue, ou ils l'ont fort liée · · des monſtres. i # : a liée & empeſché. le ſeul crocodille entre toutes les beſtes, remue la maſchoire de deſſus, celle de deſſous demeurant ferme, parce que les pieds ne luy peuuent ſeruir à prendre ny retenir. il a les yeux comme vn le crocodillè pourceau, les dents longues qui luy ſortent hors de la gueule, les ongles fort pointus , le cuir ſi dur qu'il remuë ſeul n'y a fleche ny traict qui le ſceuſt percer. on fait vn medicament du crocodile nommée crocodilée, contre ſon bee deſ- les ſuffuſions & cataractes des yeux. il guerit les lentilles, taches & bourgeons qui viennent à la face. son ſº & deſ- fiel eſt bon contre les cataractes appliqué és yeux, le ſang appliqué és yeux clarifie la veue. . f/ , theuet en ſa coſmographie tome . chap. . dit qu'ils habitent és fontaines du nil, ou en vn lac qui ſort deſdites fontaines, & dit en auoir veu vn qui auoit fix enjambées de long , & plus de trois grands pieds de large ſur le dos, tellement que le ſeul regard en eſt hideux. la maniere de les prendre eſt telle : ſubit que les aegyptiens & arabes voyent que l'eau du nil deuient petite, ils lancent vne longue corde, au bout de la- quelley a vn hameçon aſſez gros & large, peſant enuiron trois liures,auquel ils attachent vne piece de chair de chameau, ou d'autre beſte : & lors que le crocodille apperçoit la proye, il ne faut à ſe jetter deſſus & l'engloutir, eſtant l'hameçon auallé bien auant,ſe ſentant picqué,il y a plaiſir à luy voir faire des ſauts en l'air & dedans l'eau, & quand il eſt prins, ces barbares le tirent peu à peu iuſques pres la riue,poſant & arreſtant le cordeau deſſus vn palmier ou autre arbre, & ainſi le ſuſpendent quelque peu en l'air, de peur qu'il ne ſe jette contre-eux, & ne les deuore. ils luy donnent plufieurs coups de leuier, & l'aſſomment & tuent, puis l'eſcorchent, & en mangent la chair qu'ils trouuent tres-bonne. iean de lery au chap. o. de ſon hiſtoire de la terre du breſil,dit que les sauuages mangent des crocodil- - les,& qu'il en a veu apporter des petits aux sauuages,tous en vie en leurs maiſons , à l'entour deſquels leurs petits enfans ſe joüent, ſans qu'ils leur faſſent aucun mal. vigenere en ſes annotations ſur les plattes pein- b tures de philoſtrate , a eſcrit fort amplement du naturel de cet animal , auſquelles le lecteur curieux pour- ra auoir recours. , figure de la prinſe des crocodilles. # § - il ſ $ snt=n = s ，s s>#ès llſſiii uuit!llu) iiiiiiil i i h $- isse \n !ºf，s rondelet en ſon liure des poiſſons inſectes , c'eſt à dire, qui ſont de nature moyenne entre les animaux baille ces deux figures, l'vne appellée panache de mer, parce qu'elle repreſente les panaches qu'on porte au chapeau : les peſcheurs pour la fimilitude qu'elle a au bout, du membre viril, l'appellent vit-volant : eſtant vifil s'enfle , & ſe rend plus gros, eſtant priué de vie deuient tout fieſtry & mollaſſe, il reluit de nuict com- me vne eſtoille. \ pline eſcrit qu'en la mer on trouue non ſeulement des figures des animaux qui ſont ſur la terre : mais auſſi pline liure de pluſieurs choſes inanimées : ie croy quant à moy que ce pourtrait eſt la grappe de laquelle il parle : car .chºp. av. par tout le deſſus repreſente vne grappe de raiſin qui eſt en fleur, eſt longue comme vne maſſe informe, pendante d'vne queuë. les figures deſquelles te ſont icy repreſentées. - · , , ， | le vingt-cinquiéme liure, figure de deuxpoiſſons, l'vn comme vn panache, & l'autre comme vne grappe de raiſin. $ -- nn e， e" # l- - # # en la mer de l'iſle eſpagnole, aux terres neuues , ſe trouuent pluſieurs poiſſons monſtreux. en- .. tre leſquels theuet liure . chap. . tome . de ſa coſmographie , dit en auoir veu vn fort rare, a , qu'ils nomment en la langue du pays, aloës, & ſemblable à vne oye, ayant ſon col haut eſleué, la teſte faicte en pointe, comme vne poire de bon-chreſtien, le corps comme celuy d'vne oye , fans eſcailles, ayant ſes quatre nageoires ſous le ventre : & diriez à levoir ſur l'eau , eſtre vne oye, faiſant le plonget permy les ondes de la mer. - la mer sarmatique, qu'on dit autrement germanique orientale , nourrit tant de poiſſon in- cogneus à ceux qui habitent és regions chalereuſes, & tant monſtreux que rien plus. entre au- tres. il s'en trouue vn tout ainſi fait qu'vn limaçon : mais gros comme vn tonneau , ayant les cornes -- - - quaſi - - le vin gt cinquiéme liure, i'en ay vn'en mon cabinet que l'on m'a donné que ie garde pour memoire, pourtraitt du hoga, poiſſon monſiueux. -s. -> -= e^ - l<f a» z ais | c - -- le meſme autheur tom. de ſa coſmographie chap. o. en nageant ſur mer dit auoir veuvnein- finité de poiſſons volans, que les sauuages appellent bulampech , leſquels ſe lancent ſi haut hors de l'eau, d'où ils ſortent, qu'on les void choir à cinquante pas de là. ce qu'ils font, d'autant qu'ils ſont pourſuiuis d'autres grands poiſſons qui en prennent leur curée. ce poiſſon eſt petit comme vn maquereau , ayant la teſte ronde,le dos de couleur azurée , & deux aiſſes auſſilongues preſque que tout le corps : leſquelles il cache ſous les machoires, eſtans faites tout ainſi que les fanons, ouaiſle- rons , auecleſquels les autres poiſſons s'aydent pour nager, ils volent en aſſez grande abondance, principalement la nuict, & en volantheurtent contre les voiles des nauires , & tombent dedans : les sauuages ſe nourriſſent de leur chair. - - - - pourtrai# des monſlres. - - $ ， pourtraitt des poiſſons volans. ^- - $ `=- = $ ns - - $ $ s rs - s. - $s sn ss ss · s .$ `s $ $ $ $ $ $à ， —- È= s ss $ \ # iean de lery en ſon hiſtoire de la terre du breſil, chap. . confirme cecy, & dit auoir veu ſortir de la mer, & s'eſleuer en l'air de groſſes troupes de poiſſons,(tout ainſi que ſur terre on void les aloüet- tes ou eſtourneaux) volans preſque auſſi haut hors l'eau qu'vne picque, quelquesfois pres de cent pas loing. mais auſſi il eſt ſouuent aduenu que quelques-vns ſe heurtans contre les mats de nos nauires, tombans dedans, nous les prenions à la main. ce poiſſon eſt de la forme d'vn harang , toutesfois vn peu plus long & plus gros : il a des petits barbillons ſous la gorge, & les aiſles comme vne chauue- , ſouris , & preſque auſſi longues que tout le corps : & eſt de fort bon gouſt, & fort ſauoureux à man- ger. il y a encore vne autre choſe, dit-il, que i'ay obſeruée, c'eſt que ny dedans l'eau ny hors de l'eau, ces pauures poiſſons volans ne ſont iamais en repos : car eſtans dedans la mer, les grands poiſſons les pourſuiuent pour les manger, & leur font vne continuelle guerre : & ſi pour euiter cela iis ſe veu- lent ſauuer en l'air, & au vol, il y a certains oyſeaux marins qui les prennent, & s'en repaiſſent, entre veniſe & rauenne, vne lieuë au deſſus de quioze, en la mer des venitiens, fut pris vn poiſ- ſon volant, terrible & merueilleux à voir, de grandeur de quatre pieds & plus de largeur, d'vme pointe à l'autre de ſes aiſles, deux fois autant de groſſeur, d'vn bon pied en quarré. la teſte eſtoit mer- ueilleuſement groſſe, ayant deux yeux, l'vn deſſus l'autre deſſous , deux grandes oreilles, & deux bou- ches , ſon groin eſtoit fort charnu, verd en couleur, ſes aiſles eſtoient doubles, en ſa gorge il y auoit cinq trous en façon de lamproye : ſa queuë eſtoit longue d'vne aulne, en haut de laquelle eſtoient · deux petites aiſles. il fut apporté tout vif en ladite ville de quioze, & preſenté aux seigneurs d'icelle, comme choſe qui n'auoit iamais cſté veuë. m m m figure lan ja; / le vingt-cinquiéme liure, coquilles tſfranger. sn'-#= * $ #w§s， # "# #ſ $ #a wll sé - n- - -n / # $ | # // # q. -z $f ) % n$$ ""$- |# | q) # ， [ #z # ſ # --s i\ -qt| [!- # |，, - ຠ%- - --%|- | # $ a- - # ， n- $ \ # - \ à # | à n s# nn # | s s>ès - : • n | n.- - * < zzzza '. - •\ à figure d'vn autre poiſſon volant fort monſtrueux. il ſe trouue en la mer de ſi eſtranges & diuerſes ſortes de coquilles , que l'on peut dite que nature , chambriere du grand dieu, ſe joué en la fa- brication d'icelles, dont ie t'ay fait pourtraire ces trois, qui ſont dignes de grande contem- plation , & admiration , dans leſquelles il y a des poiſſons, conme limaçons en leurs co- quilles : leſquels ariſtote liure . de l'hiſtoire des animaux, nomme cancellus, eſtanscom- pagnons de poiſſons couuerts de cocques, & de teſt dur, & ſemblables aux langouſtesnaiſ- ſans à par ſoy. b rondelet en ſon liure de l'hiſtoire des poiſſons , dit, qu'en languedoc ce poiſſon ſe nomme bérnard l'ermite : il a deux cornes longuettes, & menuës, ſous leſquelles il a ſes yeux , ne les pouuant retirer au dedans comme font les can- cres, mais touſiours apparoiſ- ſent aduancés au dehors : ſes pieds de deuant ſont fendus & fourchus, leſquels luy ſeruent à ſe defendre, & à porter en ſa bouche. il en a deux autres c courbez & pointus, deſquels il s'ayde à cheminer. la fe- melle fait des œufs , leſquels on void pendre par derriere coimm]c petites patenoſtres en- filées, toutesfois enueloppêes, & liées par petites membranes. elian au liure . chap. . en eſcrit ce · qui s'enſuit. cancellus naiſt tout nud, & ſans coquille, mais apres quelque temps il en choiſit de propres pour y faire ſa demeure quand il en trouue de vuides, comme celle du pourpre, ou de quel- que autre trouuée vuide, il s'y loge : & eſtant deuenu plus grand, en ſorte qu'il n'y peut plus tenir(ou lors que nature l'incite à frayer) il en cherche vne plus grande où il demeure au large & à ſon aiſe: ſouuent il y a combat entr'eux pour y entrer, & le plus fort jette le plus foible, & joüit de la place.le meſme teſmoigne pline, liu. . pourtraits de diuerſes coquilles, enſemble du poiſſon qui eſt dedans icelles, dit bernard l'ermite. pourtrait —i - des monſtres. s - pourtraict de deux coquilles vuides. $ # pourtraict de bernard l'ermite nud. - - -\ • » - - il y a vn autre petit poiſſon nommé pi- nothere, de la ſorte d'vn cancre, lequel ſe tient & vit touſiours auec la pine, qui eſt cette eſpece de grande coquille, qu'on appelle nacre, demeurant touſiours aſſis comme vn portier à l'ouuerture d'icelle, la tenant entr'ouuerte iuſques à ce qu'il y voye entrer quelque petit poiſſon, de ceux qu'ils peuuent bien prendre, lequel mordant le nacre ferme # coquille, puis tous deux grignottent & mangent leur proye enſem- b blement. •° de la lamie. rondelet au troiſiéme liure des poiſſons, chapitre onze, eſcrit que ce poiſſon ſe trouue aucu- nesfois ſi merueilleuſement grand, qu'à peine peut eſtre trainé par deux cheuaux ſur vne charette. il mange (dit - il) les autres poiſſons , & eſt tres-goulu, voire deuore les hommes entiers : ce qu'on à cogneu par experience. car à nice & à marſeille on a autresfois pris des lamies, dans l'eſtomach deſquelles on a trouué vn homme entier tout armé. l'ay veu ( dict rondelet)vne la- mie en xaintonge, qui auoit la gorge ſi grand, qu'vn homme gros & gras aisément y fut entré: tellement que ſi auec vn baillon on luy tient la bouche ouuerte, les chiens y entre aisément pour ... manger ce qu'ils trouuent dedans l'eſtomach. qui en voudra ſçauoir dauantage, liſe rondelet, au ##º liure allegué. pareillement corradus geſnerus en ſes hiſtoires des animaux, fueillet i. ordre o. §. confirme ce que rondelet en a eſcrit : & dit dauantage, s'eſtre trouué des chiens tous entiers dans la figure des l'eſtomach de ladite lamie, ayant fait ouuerture d'icelle : & qu'elle a les dents aiguës, aſpres & dents eſt groſſes. rondelet dit auſſi qu'elles ſont de figure triangulaire ; decoupées de deux coſtez, comme # vne ſcie, diſposées par ſix rangs : le premier duquel ſe monſtre hors de la gueulle, & tendant v# rang$. ( m m m c - le vingt-cinquiéme liure, · le deuant : celles du ſecond ſont droictes, celles du troiſiéme, quatriéme, cinquiéme, ſixiéme ſont a courbées vers le dedans de la bouche pour la pluſpart. les orfevres garniſſent ces dents d'argent, les appellans dents de ſerpent. les femmes les pendent au col des enfans, & penſent qu'elles leur font grand bien quand les dents leur ſortent, auſſi qu'elles les gardent d'auoir peur. i'ay ſouuenance d'a- uoir veu à lyon en la maiſon d'vn riche marchand vne teſte d'vn grand poiſſon, lequel auoit les dents ſemblables à cette deſcription : & ne ſceus ſçauoir le nom de ce poiſſon ie croy à preſent que c'eſtoit la teſte d'vne lamie. i'auois proposé de la faire voir au defunct roy charles, qui eſtoit fort curieux de voir les choſes ſerieuſes & monſtrueuſes : mais deux iours apres que ie voulus la faire apporter, il me fut dit quele marchand, ſa femme, & deux de ſes ſeruiteurs eſtoient frappez de la peſte, qui fut cauſe qu'il ne la vid point. - la figure de la lamie t'eſt icy repreſentée, que i'ay tiré du liure de rondelet, & geſnerus. ^@ | sy ſ - - $n) - b - - - -§) #%#'%ll % $ qns ns sn nw s$ d c pline. pline chapitre trente, liure neufen ſon hiſtoire naturelle nomme ce poiſſon nautilus, ou nauti- mºillº cu : auquel eſt grandement à conſiderer, que pour venir au deſſus de l'eau, ſe met à l'enuers, remon- # * tant peu à peu, pour eſcouler l'eau qui ſeroit en ſa coquille, afin de ſe rendre plus leger à nauiger, " comme s'il auoit eſpuiſé la ſentine de ſon nauire. et eſtant au deſſus de l'eau, il recourbeàmont deux de ſes pieds, qui ſont joints enſemble, auec vne pellicule fort mince pour luy ſeruir de voile, ſe ſer- uans de ſes bras, comme d'auirons, tenant touſiours ſa queuë au milieu, en lieu de timon : & va ainſi ſur la mer, contrefaiſant les fuſtes & galleres. que s'il ſe ſent auoir peur, il ſerre ſon equipage, & rem-p plit ſa coquille d'eau en la plongeant, & ainſi s'en va au fond. deſcription de la baleine. nous abuſons aucunement du mot de monſtre pour plus grand enrichiſſement de ce traitté, nous mettrons en ce rang la balaine, & dirons eſtre le plus grand monſtre poiſſon qui ſe trouue en la mer, de longueur le plus ſouuent de trente-ſix coudées, de huict de largeur, l'ouuerture de la bouche de dix-huict pieds, ſans auoir aucunes dents, mais au lieu d'icelles, aux coſtez des maſ- choires a des lames , comme de corne noire, qui finiſſent en poils ſemblables à ſoye de pourceau, qui ſortent hors de ſa bouche, & luy ſeruent de guide pour monſtrer le chemin , afin qu'elle ne ſe heurte contre les rochers. ses yeux ſont diſtans l'vn de l'autre de quatre aulnes, & plus gros que la teſte d'vn homme : le muſeau court, & au milieu du front vn conduit, par lequel elle attire l'air, & jette vne grande quantité d'eau, comme vne nuée, de laquelle elle peut remplir les eſ- quifs, & autres petits vaiſſeaux, & les renuerſer en la mer. quand elle eſt ſaoule, elle brame & crie ſi fort, qu'on la peut ouyr d'vne lieuë françoiſe, elle a deux grandes aiſles aux coſtez, deſquel- les elle nage, & cache ſes petits quand ils ont peur, & au dos n'en a point : ſa queuë eſt # à celle nºuv - — , \ des monſtres. .' ºs #s p> à ce\s du dauphin , & remuant emeut ſi fort l'eau , qu'elle peut remplir vn eſquif : elle eſt couuer- # te de cuit noit, & dur - il eſt certain par l'anatomie, qu'elle engendre ſes petits vifs, & qu'elle les $ allaicte, car le maſle a des teſticules & membre genital, & la femelle vne matrice & mammelles. elle #s , ſe prend en certain temps d'hyuer en pluſieurs lieux, meſmement à la coſte de bayonne, prés vn pe- # tit village diſtant de trois lieuës ou enuiron de ladite ville, nommé biarris : auquel fus enuoyé par le %zz commandement du roy (qui eſtoit lors à bayonne) pour traicter monſeigneur le † de la roche #i ſur-yon, qui y demeura malade : où i'appris le moyen qu'ils vſent pour ce faire , conformément à ce #g # que i'en auois deſia leu au liure que monſieur rondelet a eſcrit des poiſſons, qui eſt tel : contre ledit village il y a vne montagnette, ſur laquelle dés long temps a eſté edifié vne tour tout expres pour y faire le guet, tant le iour que la nuict, pour deſcouurir les balaines qui paſſent en ce lieu, & de là on f les apperçoit venir tant par le grand bruit qu'elles font, que pour l'eau qu'elles ſortent par vn conduit | - qu'elles ont au milieu du front : & l'apperceuans venir, ceux qui ſont au guet ſonnent vne cloche, au ſon de laquelle promptement tous ceux du village accourent equippez de tout ce qui leur eſt neceſſai- re pour l'attraper. ils ont pluſieurs vaiſſeaux & nacelles, dont en d'aucuns il y a des hommes ſeule- ment conſtituez pour peſcher ceux qui pourroient tomber en la mer : les autres dediez pour combattre, & en chacun ily a dix hommes forts & puiſſans pour bien ramer & pluſieurs autres dedans, auec dards | barbelez, qui ſont marquez de leur marque pour les reconnoiſtre, attachez à des cordes, & de tou- b tes leurs forces les jettent ſur la baleine, & lors qu'ils apperçoiuent qu'elle eſt bleſſée, qui ſe connoiſt pour le ſang qui en ſort, ils laſchent les cordes de leurs dards, & la ſuiuent afin de la laſſer, & pren- dre plus facilement, & ainſi l'attirent au bord,dont ils ſe reſioüiſſent & font godechere,& la partiſſent entre eux, chacun ayant ſa portion ſelon le deuoir qu'il aura fait : ce qui ſe connoiſt par la quantité des dards qu'ils auront jetté, & ſe ſeront trouuez, leſquels demeurent dedans, & les connoiſſent à leur marque. or les femelles ſont plus faciles à prendre que les maſles, pource qu'elles ſont ſoigneu- ſes de ſauuer leurs petits, & s'amuſent ſeulement à les cacher, & non à s'eſchapper. la chair n'eſt rien , eſtimée, mais la langue, pource qu'elle eſt molle & delicieuſe, ils la ſallent : ſemblablement le lard, lequel ils diſtribuent en § de prouinces, qu'on mange en careſme auec des pois : ils gardent la graiſſe pour bruſler & frotter leurs batteaux, laquelle eſtant fonduë ne ſe congele iamais. des la- mes qui ſortent de la bouche, on en fait des vertugales, buſques pour les femmes, & manches de cou- ſteau, & pluſieurs autres choſes : et quand aux os, ceux du pays en font des cloſtures de jardins : & des § , des marches & ſelles pour ſe ſeoir en leurs maiſons. i'en fis apporter vne que ie garde º en ma maiſon, comme vne choſe monſtrueuſe. figure d'vne balaine priſe, & le deſpart d'icelle. \ - - -;ºs # # fºrzº = - agº # # !t $e - :,ºº - vaiº | a | / | | | - - # #rnwn $ $ ) # # † ， j • - - '/ l |h # l - ) | ' # (# #(# #! #wuaºl # gº #º ::* # a % aº ， za +$èss s =- # #= s &âl= -<s- r• # ， - -- o , le vingt-cinquiéme liure, figure d'vne autre espcce de balaine. e | -- s #=\=tſ - • n w . - © # aſ -- | | | |! =\ \$#§ l vraye pourtraicture de l'vne de trois balaines qui furent priſes le deuxiéme de iuillet . en la riuiere de l'eſcaut, l'vne à fleſſingues, l'autre à safiinghe, & cette cy à haſtinghe au doël, en- uiron cinq lieuës d'anuers : elle eſtoit de couleur de bleu obſcur : elle anoit ſur la teſte vne narine par laquelle elle jettoit de l'eau, elle auoit de longueur en tout cinquante-huict pieds, & ſeize de hau- teur. la queuë large de quatorze pieds, depuis l'œil iuſques au deuant du muzeau , il y auoit ſeize pieds d'eſpace. la maſchoire d'embas eſtoit longue de ſix pieds, en chaſque coſté de laquelle eſtoient vingt-cinq dents. mais enhaut elle auoit autant de trous, dans leſquels leſdites dents d'embasſe pouuoient cacher. choſe monſtrueuſe, voir la maſchoire ſuperieure deſgarnie de dents, qui deuoient eſtre oppoſées pour la rencontre des viandes aux dents inferieures, & en lieu d'icelles dents voir des trous inutiles. la plus graude de ſes dents eſtoit longue de ſix poulces : le tout fort merueilleux & eſpouuentable à contempler pour la vaſtité , grandeur & groſſeur de tel animal. la figure eſt icy re- preſenrée. plinepºlit pline liure . chap. . dit qu'il y a vn petit malotru poiſſon, grand ſeulement de demy pied, du remma nommé d'aucuns echeneis , d'autres remora, qui merite bien eſtre mis icy entre les choſes merueil- "leuſes & monſtrueuſes, lequel retient & arreſte les vaiſſeaux de mer, tant grands ſoient-ils, lors qu'il s'attache contre, quelque effort que la mer ny les hommes ſçachent faire au contraire, comme les flots & les vagues, & le vent eſtant engolfé des voiles, & ſecondé des rames ou cables, & ancres , quelques c groſſes & peſantes qu'elles fuſſent. et de fait on dit qu'à la defaitte d'actium, ville d'albanie, ce poiſſon arreſta la galere capitaineſſe où eſtoit m. antonius, qui à force de rames alloit donnant cou- rage à ſes gens, de galere en galere : & cependant l'armée d'auguſte voyant ce deſordre, inueſtit ſi bruſquement celle de m. antonius, qu'illuy paſſa ſur le ventre. de meſme aduint à la galere de l'em- pereur caligula. ce prince voyant que ſa galere ſeule entre toutes celles de l'armée n'auançoit point & neantmoins eſtoient à cinq par bancs, entendit ſubit la cauſe de l'arreſt qu'elle faiſoit, ce fut pour- , quoy il fit promptement jetter force plongeurs en mer, pour chercher à l'entour de cette gallere, ce qui la faiſoit arreſter, & trouuerelnt ce petit poiſſon attaché au timon : lequel eſtant apporté à cali- gula, fut fort faſché qu'vn ſi petit poiſſon eut le pouuoir de s'oppoſor à l'effort de oo. eſpalliers & galliots qui eſtoient en ſa gallere. Èſcoctez ce grand & ſage poëte le seigneur du bartas, lequel dit de bonne grace au cinquiéme iour de ſasemaine, ce qui s'enſuit, la remore fichant ſon debile ,xmuſeau contre le moite bord du tempeſté vaiſſeau, l'arreſte tout d'vn coup au milieu d'ºne fiote, qui ſuit le vueil du vent, & le vueil du pilote. les reſnes de la nefon laſche tant qu'on peut. amais la nefpour cela charmée ne s'eſmeut, non plus que ſi la dent de mainte ancre fichée vingt pieds deſſous thetis la tenoit accrochée, non plus qu'vn cheſne encor, qui des vents irritez a mille & mille fois les efforts deſpitez, ferme n'ayant pas moins pour ſouffrir cetteguerre des racines deſſous, que des branches ſur terre. dy-nous, •arreſte-nef, dy-nous, comment peux-tu sans ſecours !'oppoſer à la iointe vertu, e. des vents, & des mers, & des cieux & desgaſches? dy-nous en quel endroit, ô remore , tu caches l'ancre qui tout d'vn coup bride les monuemens d'vn vaiſſeau combatu de tous les elemens? d'ou tu prens cet engin, d'où tu prens cette force qui trompe tout engin, qui toute force force. or | des monſtres. | : : a , or qui voudra ſçauoir pluſieurs autres choſes monſtrueuſes des poiſſons, liſe ledit pline, rondes . let, & geſner en leurs liures des poiſſons. figure d'vne auſtruche. ð § # # | $#) n# # ， des monſtres volatilles. ch a p. xxxv. #é# e t oyſeau eſt dit auſtruche, & eſt le plus grand de tous, tenant quaſi du naturel des # beſtes à quatre pieds, fort commun en affrique & en ethiopie : il ne bouge de terre # pour prendre l'air, neantmoins paſſe vn cheual de viteſſe, c'eſt vn miracle de nature, # la n que cét animal digere indifferemment toutes choſes : ſes œufs ſont de merueilleuſe %rns( grandeur, iuſques à en faire des vaſes : ſon pennage eſt fort beau, comme chacun peut connoiſtre par ce pourtrait. ie ne veux laiſſer paſſer ſous ſilence, de la rareté que i'ay veu touchant les os de l'auſtruche. le feu roy charles en § nourrir trois au logis de monſieur le mareſchal dé rets ; vne deſquelles eſtant morte , me fut donnée, & en fis vne ſquelette. le pourtrait duquel i'ay voulu icy inſerer auec ſa deſ- ci dt oi). † la teſte eſt vn peu plus groſſe que celle de la gruë, longue d'vn empant, depuis la ſommité de la teſte tirant au bec, eſtant platte, ayant le bec fendu iuſques enuiron le milieu de l'œil, eſtant iceluy aucunement rond en ſon extremité. b son col eſt de longueur de trois pieds, compoſé de dix-ſept vertebres, leſquelles ont de chacun coſté vne apophyſe tranſuerſe tirant contre bas, de longueur d'vn bon poulce, excepté que la premiere & ſeconde proche de la teſte, n'en ont point, & ſont conjointe par ginglyme. c son dos de longueur d'vn pied, eſt compoſé de ſept vertebres. - d l'os ſacrum eſt de longueur de deux pieds ou enuiron, au haut duquel y a vne apophyſe tranſ- uerſe, ſous laquelle y a vn grand pertuis. e puis trois autres moindres. f g h suiuant leſquels y a la boëte où l'os de la cuiſſe s'infinuë. i produiſant de ſa partie externe laterale vn os percé. k quaſi en ſon commencement, puis eſt vni : apres ledit os ſe fourche en deux, dont l'vn eſt plus gros. l et l'autre moindre. , m chacun de longueur de demy pied & quatre doigts, puis ſe reüniſſent, ayant entre le lieu où ils ſe fourchent, & le lieu où ils ſe reüniſſent, vn pertuis large de quatre doigts. n et plus long d'vn empant : puis ce qui reſte de l'os eſt de figure d'vne ſerpe ou couſteau crochu, large de trois trauers de doigts, longue de ſix poulces. o puis en ſon extremité ſe joint par ſynchodroſe. p l'os de la queuë a neuf ver- tebres ſemblables à celles de l'homme : il y a deux os en la cuiſſe, dont le premier, q l'os de la cuiſle eſt de longueur d'vn grand pied : & gros comme celuy d'vn cheual, & plus. r l'autre qui le ſuit, eſt d'vn pied & demy de longueur, ayant par haut vne petite focille de la longueur de - - m mm l'os - • / e , " - le vingt-cinquiéme liure, l'os en eſpointant vers le bas. s la jambe où eſt attaché le pied, eſt de la longueur d'vn pied & de- a my, ayant en ſon extremité deux ongles, vn grand, & l'autre petit, à chaque ongley a trois os. t huict coſtes qui s'enſerent à l'os du sternon, dont au trois du milieu de chaſque coſté y a vne produ- ction oſſeuſe, reſſemblant à vn croc. v l'os du sternon eſt d'vne piece de grandeur d'vn pied, re- preſentant vne targe, auquel ſejoint vn os qui cheuauche les trois premieres coſtes, qui tient le lieu des clauicules. x le premier os de l'aiſle eſt de longueur d'vn pied & demy. y au deſſous de luy y a deux os, reſſemblans au radius & cubitus, au bout deſquels ſont attachez ſix os. z qui font l'extremité de l'aiſle. l'animalentier eſt de longueur de ſept pieds, & de ſept pieds & plus de haut, sommençant aubec, & finiſſant aux pieds. - - ily a pluſieurs autres choſes remarquables que ie laiſſe pour briefueté. b n ses$ $ xssſsns$n ua ** ) s-ir y c liu. i. theuet en ſa coſmographie , dit, qu'il a veu aux terres neufues vn oyſeau que le sauuages appel- chap. º lent en leur jargon, toucan, lequel eſt fort monſtrueux & difforme, en tant qu'il a le bec plus gros & plus longque tout le reſte du corps. il vit de poivre, comme nos tourtes, merles, & eſtourneaux font icy de graine de herre, qui n'eſt point moins chaude que le poivre : vn gentil homme prouen- çal en fit preſent d'vn au feu roy charles ix. ce qu'il ne pût faire vif: car en l'apportant il mourut, & neantmoins le preſenta au roy , lequel apresl'auoir veu, il commanda à monſeigneur le mareſchal de rets de me le bailler pour l'anatomiſer & embaumer, afin de le mieux conſeruer : toutesfois bien- d toſt apres ſe putrefia. il eſtoit de groſſeur & plumage ſemblable à vn corbeau, reſte que le bec eſtoit plus grand que le reſte du corps, de couleur jaunaſtre, tranſparant, fort leger & dentelé en maniere de ſcie. ie le garde comme vne choſe quaſi monſtrueuſe. la figure duquel t'eſt icy repreſentée. de - des monſtres # c de l'oyſeau nommé toucan. $ s# - s $ | n «fº!'/ / - ,.; /ſ/ / x - es#ſſlºſtº * / - --- * e- # ', n )l]l w. | ) ms | - nn - - llt\sºlllºsss$s m $ - l $ =sssssssss wn hieroſme cardan en ſes liures de la subtilité, dit, qu'aux iſles des molucques, on trouue ſur la ter- re ou ſur la mer, vn oyſeau mort, appellé manucodiata, qui ſignifie en langue indique, oyſeau de dieu, lequel on ne void point vif. il habite en l'air haut, ſon bec & corps eſt ſemblable â l'atondelle, mais orné de diuerſes plumes : celles qui ſont ſur ſa teſte ſont ſemblables à l'or pur, & celles de ſa gorge à celles d vn canard , ſa queuë & aiſles ſemblables à celles d'vn panache. il n'a aucun pied, & ſi quel- que laſſitude le prend, ou bien qu'il vueille dormir, il ſe pend par ſes plumes, leſquelles il entortille au rameau de quelque arbre. iceluy vole d'vne merueilleuſe viſteſſe, & n'eſt nourry que de l'air & roſée. le maſle a vne cauité ſur ſon dos, ou la femelle couue ſes petits. i'en ay veuvn en cette ville, quel'on donna au defunct roy charles ix. & auſſi i'en garde vnen mon cabinet qu'on m'a donné par grande excellence, pourtrait de l'oyſeau de paradis. v# n - s>ès ->" ->.t，-- - ------- - - - sess - des * tr le vingt t ºnquiéme liure, ----- | t- * onſtres *erreſtres, º a p. xx xv i. $< n d r e" t » tome pºcmier liure quatre chapitre ºnze dit qu'en l'iſle de # º , on void vne be c qui s'appelle huſpalin * sºſſe comme # tort monſtrueuſe * ue les et opiens ti # pºu rouge ººme eſcarla§ c , les pieds ronds & plats ſa » puis la mangent apres l plus delicate & aisée à digerer. -- a , º ºps de baſton » afin de rendre ſa chair figure a'une beſle mméc huſalin. - - ca- limatiq, & - cangypu , p od - hob, de benga, & autres † §. par † § - - - i c / - au royaume de camota, #. de là le fleuue † giraffe : cét † & ſubtil à - 'inde inter - germains occ - - iron vne toile, • " • ſont en l'in appellée des l eſt long d'cnui ui ſoit ſous d ragan qui ſe trouue la beſte pp biches. son col e #leuées que beſte q / cct , c - s à nos » • - haut éleuée uchetée que # † , & de † d'autant qu'il les § an poſſible. elle † t u - de leſte . eillement • • •º les jarrets, a p i ard, qui a # - iffere par i ne paſſe point les j / ne celle du i eopi §beſte eſt ſiſ - merueil,& d & eſt ronde , qui ne p | & tai>né. comn dalis. cette be erts d - l ct) c c irant entre blanc de canna leopaidalis. is & deſerts du le ciel sa queuë de taches tiran donner le nó de r les bois & de ſieurs endroits, - hes grecs de luy iſle voir , ſe cachant pa aſche à gagner en pluſieut liſtoriographes - ſouuent ſe laiſle voir , - homme, elle t 'eſt la à quelques hiſtoriog e bien peu ſo 'elle void vn homme, ellet lle eſt,c'e ment a que d'eſtre priſe, que bie dés auſſi-toſt qu'e reſte priſe qu'e llc ant que iſſent point. et diue à ſa courſe. au re tites cornes long tiagc attan bcſtcs j)c repai u'elle eſt [ i(liil iſli dcux petites n'eſt vs où autres be la prend,parce qu'e ſa teſte apparoiſſent ur : vne lance pays ou au finalement on la p - ui viue. sur - / il tout autour : - bran- - s i il n autre qt nnées de po fueilles & au pied ma à gouuerner, qt roičtes & enuiro *l- --- vit auſſi de fue itre i . beſte la plus douce x> leſquelles ſont aſſcz d elle ſe paiſt d'herbe , & liure onze , chapitre 'vn pied, ou enuiron, leſq leue la teſte en haut. figure andré theuet, liu d'vn p § haute lors qu # cl) in, choſe qu'atteſte & fig. - t p :, • • • !- i c pa il , pont ! & aiine bien le p - es d'arbres, & - - aphie. § premier de ſa coſmograp [ • -* - $ É figure des monſtres. | figure du giraffe. \ |! \s\ - \ v | | - w s\ \ ! : luy-meſme, tome . chap. o en ſa coſmographie, dit, que du temps qu'il eſtoit ſur la mer rou- ge, arriuerent certains indiens de terre ferme qui apporterent vn monſtre de la grandeur & propor- tion d'vn tygre, n'ayant point de queuë , mais la face toute ſemblabl: à celle d'vn homme bien for- mé, fors que le nez eſtoit fort camus , les mains de deuant comme d'vn homme, & les pieds de der- riere reſſemblans à ceux d'vn tygre, tout couuert de poil bazanné. et quant à la teſte, oreilles, col & bouche, comme homme, ayant les cheueux bien peu noirs & creſpelus, de meſme que les mores qu'on void en affrique. c'eftoit la nouueauté que ces indiens apportoient pour faire voir l'honneſte- té & courtoiſie de leur terre, & nommoient cette gentille beſte tanacth, laquelle ils tuent à coups de heſches, puis la mangent. - f,gure º o le vingt- ci iém f, nquié e liure, "gºre de la beſle tanafih & . $ - f, - c< " - -- ( - r. n'a #ſe : -./ # % $# # #>ſ e - º sºº ©% n # >f g & u & # .\ :\'ans - " s# # é - jº) , $ - # # # | #llº #$s # # #$# - n - f -" ( $ - le meſme theuet en ſa coſmographie, tom.º. chap. . dit, qu'en amerique ſe trouuevne beſte nommée des sauuages haiit, fort difforme, & eſt preſque incroyable qu'il en ſoit de telle quinel'au- roit veuë. elle peut eſtre de grandeur à vne groſſe guenon, ayant ſon ventre aualé & fort proche de ' terre, quoy qu'elle ſoit debout : ſa face & teſte ſont preſque ſemblables à celles d'vn enfant, ce haiit eſtant pris, iette de grands ſouſpirs, ne plus ne moins que feroit vn homme atteint de quelquegrande & exceſſiue douleur. elle eſt de couleur griſe, n'ayant que trois ongles à chacune patte, longs de quatre doigts faits en forme d'arreſtes de carpe, auec leſquelles § qui ſont autant ou plus tran- chantes que celle d'vn lyon, ou autre beſte cruelle, elle monte ſur les arbres, où elle fait plus ſa reſi- dence qu'en terre. elle a la queuë longue ſeulement de trois doigts. au reſte, c'eſt vn cas eſtrange que iamais homme ne ſçauroit dire l'auoir veue manger de choſe quelconque, quoy que les sauua ges en ayent tenu long-temps dedans leurs loges, pour voir ſi elles mangeroient quelque choſe, & diſoient les sauuages que ſeulement elles viuoicnt du vent. - figure le vingt-cinquiéme liure, cauſes du changement des couleurs du chame- leon. a pourtraict du chameleon. w $ $ szn n %) % b on trouue cét animal nommé chameleon en afrique, & eſt faict comme vn lezard, ſinon qu'il eſt plus haut de iambes : d'auantage il a les flancs & le ventre enſemble comme les poiſſons: auſſi a-ildes areſtes ſur le dos comme on void aux poiſſons : il a le mufle comme vn petit cochon la queuë fort lon- gue, qui va touſiours en appointant, ſes ongles fort aigus, & marche auſſi peſanment qu'vne tortuë, & a le corps rude & eſcaillé comme vn crocodille, il ne ferme iamais l'œil, & ne bouge point la pru- nelle. au reſte, c'eſt vne choſe amirable de parler de ſa couleur : car à toutes heures, principalement quand il s'enfle, il la change : qui ſe faict à cauſe qu'il a le cuir fort delié & mince, & le corps tranſ. parent : tellement qu'il faict de deux choſes l'vne, ou qu'en la tenuité de ſon cuir tranſparent eſt aisé. ment repreſentée, comme en vn mirouër, la couleur des choſes qui luy ſont voiſines (ce qui eſtle plus vray ſemblable :)ou que les humeurs en luy eſmeus diuerſement ſelon la diuerſité de ſes imagina- tions, repreſentent diuerſes couleurs vers le cuir , non autrement que les pendans d'vn coq d'inde, eſtant mort il eſt paſle. matthiole dict que ſi on luy arrache l'œil droict quand il eſt en vie, il nettoye les taches blanches qui ſont ſur la cornée, meſlé auec du laict de chévre, ſi on ſe frotte de ſon corps le poil tombe, ſon fiel digere & oſte les cataractes des yeux. l'ay obſerué cette deſcription enceluyque c i'ay en mon logis. ' des monſtres celeſtes c h a p. xxxvii. e s anciens nous ont laiſſé pareſcrit que la face du ciel a eſtétant de fois defi gurée de co- sº# metes barbuës, cheueluës , de torches, flambeau, colomnes, lances, boucliers, batailles # # # de nuées, dragons, duplication de lunes & soleils, & autres choſes. ce que ie n'ay vou- # # lu obmettre pour accomplir ce liure des monſtres : & pource en premier lieu ie produi- #º ray cette hiſtoire figurée aux hiſtoires rodigieuſes de boiſtuau, lequel dit l'auoirtirée de lycoſthene. l'antiquité,dit-il n'a rien experimenté de plus prodigieux enl'air que la comere horrible de couleur de ſang qui apparut en vveſtrie, lé . iour d'octobre . cette comete eſtoit ſi horrible & eſpouuantable qu'elle engendroit ſi grand terreur au vulgaire,qu'il en mourut aucuns de peur:les au- tres tomberent malades. cette eſtrange comete dura vne heure & vn quart,& commença à ſe produire du coſté du soleilleuant , puis tira vers le midy : elle apparoiſoit eſtre de longueur exceſſiue, & ſi eſtoit de couleur de ſang : à la ſommité d'icelle on voyoit la figure d'vn bras courbé, tenant vne grande eſpée en la main, comme s'il euſt voulu frapper. au bout de la pointe il y auoit trois eſtoilles : mais elle qui eſtoit droitement ſur la pointe, eſtoit plus claire & luyſante que les autres. aux deux coſtez des rayons de cette comete, il ſe voyoit grand nombre de haches, couſteaux, eſpées colorées de ſang parmy leſquel- les il y auoit grand nombre de faces humaines hideuſes, auec les barbes & cheueux heriſſez, comme la voyez par cette figure. - - en ce temps le turc fit des tres grandes & ſanglantes incurſions ſur les chreſtiens.et charles de bourbon prit rome, dont l'hiſtoire eſt aſſez commune & eſcrite ailleurs. - ", : | - " . . " figure des monſtres | \ figure d'vne comete admirable veuë en lair. ioſephe & euſebe eſcriuent qu'apres la paſſion de ieſus - chriſt, la miſerable deſtruction de la ville de hieruſalem fut ſignifiée par pluſieurs ſignes, & meſme entre les autres, vne eſpouuantable co- mete en forme d'eſpée luiſante en feu,la- quelle apparut bien l'eſpace d'vn an ſur le temple : comme demonſtrant que l'ire diuine ſe vouloit vanger de la nation iu- daïque, par feu, par ſang, & par famine. ce qui aduint, & y eut vne ſi calamiteuſe # ， ſ# u#ll# #a - famine, que les meres mangerent leurs ' #|$ ， ropres enfans : & perirent en la cité du- •! i u p p p #! † # rant le fiege des romains plus de douze ( § %> a= - - / | |! # | % (z) a- cens mille iuifs & en fut vendu plus de # n quatre vingts dix mille, - ，# - - } s- â. - $ a>ºe s - #- as | e v" à les cometes ne ſont iamais apparués ſans produire quelque mauuais effect, & laiſſer vn ſiniſtre euene ment. le poete claudian : | - oncques au ciel (omete on n'a peu voir , que quelque mal ne nous faſſe apparoir. - les aſtronomes ont diuiſé les corps celeſtes en deux bandes : l'vn$ appellée eſtoilles fixes & arreſtées, diuiſion de: que l'onvoit bluetter ou eſtinceller au ciel, comme s'ils fuſſent feux embraſez. les autres ſont errantes, # celeſtes appellées planettes, qui ne bluettent point, & ſont au nombre de ſept, ayant chacune ſon ciel, cercle rond, # ou eſtage. leurs noms ſont saturne, iupiter,mars,sol,venus,mercure,& lune. les eſtoilles ſont corps ſphe- s§lanet- riques apparens & luiſans, compoſez de ſimple & pure matiere, comme le ciel, & nul n'en ſçait le nom-te . bre, ny les noms, fors que dieu. or leſdites planettes font leurs cours par le zodiaque(qui eſt vn des prin- )ue c'eſt que cipaux & le plus grand cercle du ciel , & la vraye route du soleil ) qui trauerſe ou enuironne biaiſement le odiaque. ciel, la nuict & le iour , à fin que toutes les contrées de la terre iouyſſent alternatiuement des quatre ſaiſons de l'année, par le moyen du soleil qui ſans ceſſe monte & deualle eſclairant & nourriſſant en l'eſpace d'vn - an tout le rond de la terre. il eſt le chariot & fontaine de la lumiere des corps celeſtes,qui ne ſont que com- * soleil. me petits ruiſſeaux dont il eſt la ſource : parquoy eſt nommé roy des eſtoilles, & le plus grand de tous les corps celeſtes. il eſt de trois cieux ou eſtages au deſſus de la lune : marche au milieu de ſix planettes, ſi # elles s'approchent de luy , pour n'empeſcher ſa route, elles ſe retirent à l'eſcart au plus haut de leurs epicy- #. cles : puis luy paſſé,elles deuallent au plus bas,pour l'accompagner & accoſter'comme les princes font leur # roy. et lors ayant fait leur deuoir s'arreſtent, & d'vne reuerence honteuſe reculent en arriere , deſcendans • au fond de leurs epicycles pour contempler, comme de loing,la face de leur seigneur. et quand il s'appro- che en reculant elles regaignent le haut de leurs epicycles pour aller au deuant de luy : de ſorte que le ſen- tans à quatre ſignes prés, elles font ſemblant de l'attendre, puis luy ayans faict la bien venuë marchent de-$ºrnº. uant luy vn peu à l'eſcart,pour ne donner empeſchement à ſa carriere & courſe naturelle. celle qui eſt nom-º mée saturne, par l'eſtimation des aſtronomes, eſt quatre vingts dix fois ou enuiron plus groſſe que toute la #º - - - - - -- - la l. ºº. terre,de laquelle elle eſt loing de plus de trente ſix millions de lieues françoiſes la grandeur de celle nom- - - n n n , mée en quele- | oo le vingt-cinquiéme liure, ciste du soleil. effects & vertu du soleil. viteſſe du soleil. les douxe ſignes du c tel. mée iupiter, eſt eſtimée nonante & dix fois plus groſſe que le diametre de la terre, en eſt eſloignée de a plus de vingt-deux millions de lieués. la planette de mars eſt auſſi groſſe que la terre , & eſt eſloignée d'i- celle de trois millions cinquantequatre mille deux cens quatre lieuës. la lune ſignifie mois, parce que tous les mois elle ſe renouuelle : elle eſt eſloignée de la terre de octante mille deux cens treize lieuës:elle eſt plus eſpeſſe & obſcure que les autres eſtoilles attachées à ſa ſphere qui la porte par certains\mouuemens, tours & retours eſtans limitez, creée de dieu pour remarquer aux hommes les temps & § , & beſongner par ſa lumiere & mouuement és corps inferieurs. - - le globe du soleil eſt preſque ſept mille fois plus grand que la lune. ptolomée & autres aſtronomes ont trouué par inuentions geometriques qu'il eſtoit cent ſoixante & ſix fois plus grand que toute la terre : il viuifie tous les animaux , non ſeulement ceux qui ſont ſur la terre, mais auſſi ceux qui ſont au profond des eaux. le seigneur du bartas l'appelle peſtillon continuel , fontaine de chaleur, ſource de clarté, vie de l'v- niuers, flambeau du monde, & ornement du ciel. d'auantage le soleil fait ſon tour du ciel au tour de la terre en vingt-quatre heures, & cauſe les commoditez & aggreables reuolutions du iour & de la nuict, pour le ſoulagement & contentement de l'homme & de tous animaux. · que le lecteur conſidere & adore icy l'admirable ſageſſe & puiſſance du createur, en la grandeur, viteſ- ſe continuelle, incroyable rapidité, lueur & chaleur immenſe, conionctions & mouuemens contraires en vn ſinoble corps que celuy du soleil, qui en vne minutte d'heure faict pluſieurs milliers de lieuës, ſans qu'on l'apperçoiue bouger, & n'en recognoit-on rien qu'apres qu'il eſt fort auancé en ſa courſe. qui plus eſt, la moindre eſtoille eſt dix-huict fois plus grande que toute la terre.cecy ſoit dit non ſeulement,pour vne gran- de ſpeculation , mais à la loüange du createur, & pour humilier l'homme qui fait tant de bruit en la terre, qui n'eſt rien qu'vn poinct au regard de la machine celeſte. outre plus, il y a au ciel douze ſignes,à ſçauoir aries, taurus, gemini, cancer, leo, virgo, libra, scorpius , sagittarius , capricornus, aquarius, piſces, l'vſage des tous leſquels ſont differens. l'vſage d'iceux eſt que par leur conionction auec le soleil, ils augmentent ou ººº{º ſignes diminuent la chaleur d'iceluy, à ce que par telle varieté de chaleur ſoient produittes les quatre ſaiſons de du ciel. autheurs qu'il faut li- re pour ap- prendre l'a- ſtronomie. pline. ", l'annëe, la vie & conſeruation ſoit donnée à toutes choſes. les cieux ſont vne quinte-eſſen ce des quatre elemens faicts de rien, c'eſt à dire, ſans matiere. hola, ma plume arreſte-toy, car ie ne veux ny ne puis en- trer plus auant au cabinet ſacré de la diuine majeſté de dieu : qui en voudra ſçauoir d'auantage, liſe ptolo- mée, pline , ariſtote, milichius, cardan, & autres aſtronomes, & principalement le seigneur du bartas, & ſon interprete, qui en ont tres-doctement & diuinement eſcrit au . iour de la ſepmaine , où l'on trouue- ra pour ſe contenter : & confeſſe en auoir retiré les choſes cy-deſſus mentionnées, pour inſtruire le ieune chirurgien à la contemplation des choſes celeſtes. et icy chanterons auec ce grand prophete diuin, pſal. les cieux en chacun lieu - la puiſſance de dieu racontent aux humains ce grand entour eſpars publie en toutes parts l'ouurage de ſes mains, et au pſeaume viij. et quand ie voy & contemple en courage les cieux , qui ſont de tes doigts haut ouurage eſtoilles, lune, & signes differens, - que tu as faicts & aſſis en leurs rangs : alors ie dis à moy , ainſi comme tout esbay. & qu'eſt-ce que l'homme , d' auoir daigné de luy te jouuenir , et de vouloir en ton ſoin le tenir ? d'auantage ie ne veux laiſſer à eſcrire choſes monſtrueuſes & admirables qui ſe ſont faictes au ciel : & premierement boiſtuau eſcrit en ſes hiſtoires prodigieuſes, qu'en sugolie ſituée ſur les confins de hongrie, il tomba vne pierre du ciel auec vne horrible eſclattement, le ſeptieſme iour de septembre . de la pe- ſanteur de deux cens cinquante liures, laquelle les citoyens ont faict enclauer en vne groſſe chaiſne de fer, au milieu de leur temple, & ſe monſtre auec grande merueille à ceux qui voyagent par leur prouince, choſe merueilleuſe que l'air ait peu ſouſtenir telle peſanteur. pline eſcrit que durant les guerres de cimbres,furent ouys dans l'air des ſons de trompettes & clairons, auec grands cliquetis d'armes, auſſi il dit dauantage,que durant le cóſulat des marius, il apparut des armées au ciel,dont les vnes venoienr d'orient les autres d'oc- cident, & ſe combattirent les vnes contre les autres longuement, & que celles d'orient repouſſerent celles d'occident. la meſme choſe a eſté veuë l'an .en luſalie vers vn bourg nommé iuben,ſur les deux heures apres midy. d'auantage l'an o. le . iuillet au pays de saxe, non fort loin de la ville de vvitemberg, fut d veu en l'air vn grand cerf, enuironné de deux groſſes armées, leſquelles faiſoient vn grand bruit en ſe com- batant, & à l'inſtant meſme le ſang tomba ſur la terre comme vne forte pluye : & le soleil ſe fendit en deux pieces,dont l'vne ſembloit eſtre tombé en terre. auſſi auant la priſe de conſtantinople, il apparut vne † armée en l'air,auec vne infinité de chiens & autres beſtes.iulius obſequens dit,que l'an .en italie,il pleut de la chair par gros & petits lopins,laquelle fut en partie deuorée par les oiſeaux du cielauant qu'elle tom- baſt en terre, & le reſte qui cheut en terre demeura long-temps ſans ſe corrompre, ny changer de couleur, ny d'odeur. et qui plus eſt, l'an , regnant otton empereur troiſieſme de ce nom, pleut du ciel du froment en italie, l'an o. il pleut du laict & de l'huyle en grande quantité, & les arbres fruictiers porterent du fro- ment. lycoſthenes raconte,qu'en saxe il pleut des poiſſons engrand nombre,& que du temps de louys em- pereur,il pleut trois iours & trois nuicts durant du ſang : & que l'an . il tomba vers la ville de veniſe neige rouge comme ſang : & que l'an . en l'eueſche de dole , il pleut du ſang en grande quantité. ce qui aduint la meſme année au mois de iuin en angleterre. or non ſeulement ſe font des choſes monſtrueu- ſes en l'air, mais auſſi au soleil & en la lune.lycoſthenes eſcrit, que durant le ſiege de magdebourg,du temps de l'empereur charles cinquieſme, ſur les ſept heures du matin, il apparut trois soleils, deſquels celuy du milieu eſtoit fort clair, les autres deux tiroient ſur le rouge & couleur de ſang , & apparurent tout le iour auſſi ſur la nuict apparurent trois lunes.le meſme eſt aduenu en bauiere . et ſi au ciel s'engendrent tel- les nouuelles, nous trouuerons la terre produire d'autant ou plus admirables & dangereux effects. l an *. toute la terre trembla, & meſme le mont etna vomit force flammeſches dont la plus grande part des villes & villages, & biens de sicile furent embraſez. cha p. · des monſtres or : r # # : f, ! f) •. » ch a p i t r e x x x v iii- · b r a h a m orthelius au theatre de l'vniuers eſcrit, qu'il y a en sicile vne montagne bruſlan- te nommée aetna : de cette montagne ont eſcrit pluſieurs philoſophes & poetes : parce que continuellement elle jette feu & fumée, laquelle a plus de trente lieues d'italie de hauteur, & fa{ellur. plus de cent lieues de circuit par en bas : commº fazellus eſcrit, qui l'atres-bien regardée, & epn auec non moindre curioſité deſcrite.par deſſus ette continuelle flamme qui ne s'eſtent point, - • elle iette aucune fois telle quantité de feu, que tout le pays circonuoiſin en eſt totalement gafté & bruſlé. - . mais cóbien de fois cela eſt venu, nos predeceſſeurs ne l'ºnt pas couché par memoire,neantmoins ce que les autheurs en ont eſcrit , nous le raconterons, icy briºm ent, & ſelon le dire de fazelle. l'an de la fonda- grand c - s tion de la ville de rome °. cette montagne vomitº de feu , que par les braſiers & charbons qui en ſor- b ſi #ti tirent furent bruſlez pluſieurs champs & villages , # *ns a pres aduint le ſemblable ? ans apres cecy, par le fºu elle degorgea & jetta tant de cendres chaudes qu 'ºicts, & couuertures des maiſons de la ville de ca-vomy de la tana, fituée au pied de cette montagne,de la peſarºi °elles furent ruinées.elle feit ſemblablemeut grand ººntagne dommage du temps de l'empereur caligula : & #res ' l'an. le premier iour de feurier, l'an . elle *** . abbatit par le feu continuel qui en ſortoit, pluſie"hers & c uſa tel tremblement de terre que la grande ' - egliſe de la ville de catana en fut demolie & aº & l' ºueſ ue auec les preſtres, &gens qui y eſtoient pour lors, furent aſſommez & froiſſez : l'an °mier our， le iuillet ayant faict nouuelle ouuerture, tremblemit abbatit & ruina par ces flammes & † qui : dui . , pluſieurs egliſes & montagnes ſituées "" à l'entour de ladite montagne:elle fit tarir pluſitºines jetta d , lans la mer pluſieurs batteaux qui eſtoient à terre, & au meſme inſtant ſe fendit encore en tlrc iºs de telle impetuoſité qu'ellelrenuerſa & jetta enl'air pluſieurs rochers,voire auſſi des foreſts & e , jettan t & vomiſſant telfeu par ces quatre con- duicts infernaux, qu'il decouloit de ladicte montag s, col nme ruiſſeaux bruyans, ruynant & abba- tant tout ce qu'il rencontroit, ou luy faiſoit reſiſtance : le pais circonuoifin fut couuert de cendres ſor- - tans hors de ceſdites gueules ardentes au ſommet de la sagne , & beaucoup de gens en furent eſtouf- - fez, de maniere que leſdites cendres qui eſtoient d'odeur l' gé e furent tranſportées du vent qui ſouffloit · alors du septentrion , iuſques à l'iſle de malthe, qui eſt d§ : o. lieuees italiques de cette montagne - là. l'an . ſe demenoit derecheffort terriblement, en vomla mt feux & cailloux. apres ce temps-là elle träſport des ceſſa entierement de jetter feu ny fumée, tellement qu'on l'eſtimoit totalement eſteinte, & ne deuoir plus cendres du bruſler : mais ce beau temps-là (par maniere de dire) eſtoit bien toſt paſsé. car l'an . le . de mars #,;º elle recommença à vomir force flammes ardentes , qui abattirent tout ce qu'elles recontrent en chemin. iuſqu'à mal, l'egliſe de s. leon ſituée dedans la foreſt tomba par le tremblement de la montagne, & incontinent apres " elle fut tellement embraſée du feu,qu'il n'en reſte plus rien,ſinon vn monceau de pierres bruſlées.tout cecy eſtoit vne choſe bien horrible. mais ce n'eſt encore rien au prix de ce qui eſt aduenu depuis en l'an mil cinq tremblemët cens trente ſept, le premier iour de may. premierement, toute l'iſle de sicile trembla douze iours durant " "* apres il fut ouy vn horrible tonnerre, auecvn eſclat bruyant, tout ainſi que les groſſes artilleries, dont plu- ſieurs maiſons ſe dementirent par toute cette iſle. cecy dura enuiron l'eſpace d'onze iours, apres cela elle ſe fendit en pluſieurs & diuers endroicts : deſquelles fentes & creuaſſes ſortit telle quantité de flammes de feu, , qui deſcendirent de ladite montagne, qu'en l'eſpace de quatre iours ruinerent & mirent en cendres tout ce qu'il y auoit à quinze lieuës à la ronde,voire auſſi pluſieurs villages furent entierement bruſlez & ruinez.les habitans de catana, & pluſieurs autres abandonnans leurs villes s'enfuirent aux champs. vn peu de temps apres le trou qui eſt au ſommet de la montagne jetta trois iours conſecutifs telle quantité de cendres , que non ſeulement cette montagne en fut couuerte, mais qui plus eſt s'eſpandit & fut chaſsée du vent iuſques aux extremitez de cette iſle,voire outre la mer iuſques en calabre.certaines nauires voguans en la mer pour aller de leſſine à veniſe, diſtant de cette iſle de trois cens lieues italiques, furent entachées des cendres ſuſdites. voicy ce que fazellus eſcrit en langue latine de ces hiſtoires tragiques, mais beaucoup plus au rong. il y a enuiron trois ans que les nouuelles viendrent à anuers que ladite montagne auoit grandement éndommagé le pays par ſes feux. en cette iſle furent jadis pluſieurs villes magnifiques , comme syracuſe, agrigente,& autres, pour le preſent meſſine & palerne y ſont les principales. marc paul venitien au . liure , . des pays orientaux chap. dit que la ville de quinſay eſt la plus grandville du monde, & qu'elle a cent ºſº milles d'italie de circuit, où il y a douze mille ponts de pierre, ſous leſquels les vaiſſeaux & maſt eſleuez peu- uent paſſer. elle eſt en mer commeveniſe. il affirme y auoir ſejourné : ce que i'ay recueilly de l'interprete de flammes saluſte du bartas en ſon quatrieſme iour de la sepmaine, fuillet cent ſoixante-ſix. .. | . . ſorties des il aduint pareillement choſes admirables és eaux. car on a veu ſortir des abyſmes & gouffres de la mer, gouffres de groſſes flammes de feu au trauers de l'eau, choſe fort monſtreuſe, comme ſi grande quantité d'eau ne ſuffo-mer. quoit le feu : en cela dieu ſe monſtrent incomprehenſible comme en toutes ſes œuures. lucio maggio enſºn diſcours du tremblement de terre dit qu'on a veu par vn tremblement de terre l'eau de la mer s'eſchauffer de telle ſorte, qu'elle fit fondre toute la poix autour des nauires qui eſtoient pour lors à la rade, iuſques à vºir les poiſſons nagers ſur l'eau quaſi tous cuits, & moururent infinies perſonnes & beſtes par l'extreme cº*- leur. pareillement on a veu en mer calme en vn moment les nauires abyſmer, à raiſon qu'elles paſſoient ſur quelques abyſmes, où l'eau eſt morte & inpuiſſante de ſouſtenir faix. dauantage en la mer il y a des rochers de pierre d'aimant, que ſi les nauires paſſent trop pres, à cauſe du fer, elles ſont englouties & perdues au . profond de la mer. somme il ſe trouue d'eſtranges & monſtrueuſe choſes en la mer , ce qui eſt prouué par ce grand prophete dauid , qui dict : " , , \ " . • ' , ' , pſeaume o . - " , - *. en cette mer nauires vont erranter, • i : - ... • - puis la balaine horrible monſtre & grand, tas formé qui bien à l'aiſe y noiie, et à ſon gré par les ondes ſe ioue, - fin du vingt-quatriéme liure traittant des monſtres & prodiges, + , , - º n n n , table # # b v in gt - sixie'me l iv r e, t r aicta nt de l a fa cv lte et vert v des medicamens simple s, enſemble de la compoſition & vſage d'iceux. t'ar amb roi se par e , de laual au maine, (bnſeiller& . premier chirurgien du roy. t - - p r e f a c e. n tre les choſes que nous appellons ſalubres, & autres temedes concer- nans tant la ſanté de l'homme , que la gueriſon des maladies , les medica- w mens ont le premier lieu. leſquels comme dit salomon , dieu a produit de la \ terre, & l'homme ſage ne les meſpriſera. car certainement il n'y a rien qui eccleſ ， appaiſe & oſte ſi toſt, & quaſi comme auec miracles, les grandes maladies, que les medicaments. pour autant, diſoit herophilus, qu'iceux deuëment ap- pliquez, eſtoient les mains de dieu, comme auons dict cy-denant. auſſi les }ssn mmedecins premiers ont eſté reputez & tenus comme diuins, à raiſon dela co- gnoiſſance des vertus & facultez des remedes & medicamens : laquelle en la medecine eſt ineſtimable & plus que neceſſaire, tant en la precaution des maladies, qu'à la curation d'icelles : & comme dit ga- - - - ·- :- - - galien. lien il ſaut ſçauoir les facultez des medicamens, auant qu'entreprendre la curation des maladies. un, ue c'eſt que medicament, & la difference d'entre medicament & aliment. - ch a p i t r e p r e m i e r. # e d : c a m e n t eſt la choſe qui peut alterer nature en vne qualité, ou pluſieurs, & n'eſt defaitie». point conuertit en ſa ſubſtance : au contraire d'aliment, lequel n'altere point ou peu na- º eſt ture, & ſe conuertit en la ſubſtance de noſtre corps. toutesfois medicament & aliment º" ſont pris & vſurpez par comparaiſon du corps, qui eſt medicamenté, ou alimenté en ſorte - * qu'vn me dicament peut eſtre aliment à vn,& medicament à l'autre : comme par exemple, l'ellebore eſt aliment à la caille, & medicament aux hômes: auſſi la ciguë eſt aliment à l'cſtourneau, & oiſon à l'oye, pareillement l'herbe appellée ferule eſt aliment à l'aſne, & eſt venin à toutes autres - § cheualines. et ne ſe faut esbahir ſi ces choſes ſont aliment à telles beſtes : car il faut eſti- hiſtoir*. mer qu'elles ſont conuenables à leur nature. ce qui peut auſſi aduenir aux hommes par accouſtu- mance & long vſage, deſquels eſt faicte naturelle habitude. et de cecy les hiſtoires anciennes font foy,eſquelles nous liſons qu'aucuns ont eſté nourris de venins, comme la fille qui fut enuoyée à ale- xandre le grand, laquelle auoit eſté nourrie de napel, & autres venins, & par longue practique en auoit faict nature & habitude,de ſorte que ſon haleine eſtoit poiſon mortelle aux hommes. parquoy neſe faut donner merueille,ſi les medicamens ſont aucunesfois conuertisen aliments:ce qu'on void auſſi iournellement aux poulailles & cocqs, leſquels mangent ſerpens, crapaux & autres choſes venimeu- ſes ſans dommages : meſme que la cicogne & pluſieurs autres animaux s'en nourriſſent,& leurs petits. diuiſions des medicaments ſelon leur matiere & ſubſtance. c h a p. ii. - vx entrailles & veines de la terre, & és abyſmes des eaux, eſt cachée & enſeuelie la ſu- richeſ de ſ\ perbité des richeſſes de ce monde, comme or, argent, & autres mineraux, enſemble, la terre & # pluſieurs pierres precieuſes accompagnées de diuerſes proprietez ſingulieres. auſſila ** ) - • • - » - • ' - - v • ſuperficie de la terre, eſt reueſtuë d'vne infinité d'arbres, herbes, & arbriſſeaux où ilya vne conſideration infinie à contempler leur grand nombre & varieté en leurs racines, fueilles, fruicts, de quelles fleurs,gommes, odeurs,ſaueurs, & couleurs,diuerſité de leurs grandes vertus qu'elles ont pareillement choſes ſont . ſont produits ſur icelle innumerables animaux differés la plufpart entr'eux,a quoy la bonté de ce grand pris #- architecte ſe manifeſte infiniment deles auoir données à l'homme, tant pour ſon contentement & plai- # ſir, que pour le nourrir & medicamenter. et par ainſi à bon droict les anciens on dit tous les medica- mens eſtre pris des beſtes, des plantes, de la terre, de l'eau & de l'air. n nn des o le xxvi liure de la faculté •º ". plantes, terre esté, effects de chaleur. Éffuâs de froideur. des beſtes, totales & entieres, parties & excremens d'icelles. des beſtes totales : car aucunes fois a on vſe d'vn renard, d'vn petit chien, heriſſon, grenoüille, limaçon,vers de terre,cancre,& autresſortes a* de beſtes. des parties des beſtes que l'on prend,comme foye de loup,foye de bouc poulmon de renard, l'os du cœur de cerf, l'os coronal de l'homme, graiſſe, ſang,chair, moelles, teſticules de caſtor dontilſe fait le caſtoreum, & autres parties. des excremens d'icelles ou eſtans comme excremens,cornes, ongles, oil, plumes,cuir, fiel, vrine, fiente,ſaliue, miel, œufs,cire, laict, laine,ſueur, & autres ſemblables : ſous equel genre auſſi ſont contenus ſpecialement les excremens de certains animaux, comme les perles,le muſe, la ciuette, l'œſipus, & l'ambre, ſperma ceti, & autres. des plantes, ſoyent arbres, arbriſſeaux, ou herbes entieres, ou parties d'icelles. entieres, comme ſouuent l'on vſe de cichorée, guimaulues, maulues, plantain, & autres. des parties des plantes,com- me racines, moüelle, bois, eſcorce, jettons, caule, fueille, fleurs, ſemences, fruict, ſuc, ou jus, larme, gomme, mouſſe. - - de la terre,leſquels ſont ou ſortes & eſpeces de terre, ou pierres , ou metaux.les ſortes & eſpeces de terre, bolus armenus, terra ſigillata,cimolia, creta, argilla, &c. les pierres : ſont pumex,pyrites, ou marchaſita auri, argenti, æris, &c. marmor, magnes, gypſum, calx viua, lapis ſpecularis, &c.les me- taux & matieres metalliques : ſont or, argent, eſtain,cuiure, fer, acier antimonium, ceruſſa, ſuphur, cinnabrium , lithargyro, auri,argenti, tuthia vulgaris,pompholix vera, aerugo, alumen, vitreolum vtrumque, ſalis genera, arſenicum vtrumque, &c. : b de l'eau douce ſont prins medicaments , comme de l'eau de pluye, fontaine, fleuue, auec tout cequi * naiſt en icelle, comme lenticula aquatica, acorus vulgaris, nymphaea, ſiſymbrium. de l'eau ſalée ſont pris le ſel, l'aleyonium, omnia coralla,onnes teſta piſcium , vt oſſa ſapia , ſpongiæ. del'eau meſlée de douce & ſalée ſont pris l'herbe androſaces, qui ontaſsée & enracinée ſur quelque pierre ou teſt & co. quille de poiſſon,flotte ſur l'eau douce és lieux où elle ſe meſle auec la ſalée,comme és emboucheures du nil,és eſtangs de frontignan & cap de sete. de telle eſpece d'eau auſſieſt pris l'aſphaltum, comme il ſe void és eſtangs de la met morte en iudée, & en cette fontaine de languedoc à beau-regard, que les habitans du lieu nomment en leur vulgaire fons de la pege. de l'air ſont pris la manne,laquelle pour ce reſpect eſt appellée par galien,miel aërien, & toute autre eſpece de roſsée qui peut eſtre en vſage medicinal tât pour le reſpect des vertus qu'elle reçoit du soleil, duquel elle eſt attirêe,& de l'air,que des herbes & plantes,ſur leſquelles elle tóbe & s'aſſied. diuiſions des medicamens ſimples ſelon leurs qualitez & effečts. c h a p i t r e iii. , ov s ceſdits medicamens ſimples ont vne ou pluſieurs des quatre facultez, leſquelles # nous deduirons à preſent. - c - premiere faculté c la premiere faculté,qui eſt commune àtoutes les autres,& quaſi fondemét prouenant º immediatement des quatre premieres qualitez des elemens, qui ſont, chaleur, froideur, humidité, siccité, eſt ou ſimple, ou composée, ſelon ce qu'vne ou deux de ces quatre premieres qua- litez excedent & ſurpaſſent les autres en la temperature du medicament : comme tu peux voir parcette table. rd'eſchauffer, } refroidir, j humecter, \seicher. ſ† ſeicher, eſchauffer humecter, refroidir ſeicher, lrefroidir humecter, reſchauffe, l ſubtilie, ' rarefie, digere, chaleur ſuppure pouure les conduits. \-immoderée | deſſeiche, j enflamme , boruſle, | faict mordication , t dont s'enſuit simple composée de deux qualitez ioinctes, comme. ſºciee ſattraction, : tubrification, . # conſomption, # eſcharre, \mortification. ſ | cond enſe, .. faict c bſtruction. congele » \ immoderée & • { ſtupefie, mortifie. - froideur < moderée {# igere, humidité et compoſition des medicamens. o rhumecte - rmoderée j lubrifie - - - < addoucit hutnidité { glutine. faict obſtruction l. , , iimmoderée &exceſſiue# § principalement ſi l'humidité eſt flatueuſe. deſſeiche. mediocre & rarefie. attenuë. •- siccité faict conſtriction, - exceſſiue d contraction, fiſſures & furfurations. ſiccité, les effects d'icelles qualitez, comme galien eſcrit au . des simples ſont diſtinguez & mis par or- dre certain, que nous appellons degrez, à fin de les appliquer aux maladies, en certaine meſure & pro- portion, comme galien dit au premier des alimens : car à maladie chaude au ſecond degré, conuien- nent remedes froids en pareil degré. et partant tous medicamens ſimples ſont, chauds cointmencemcnt † · · • - froids - - - econd · · · · . humides #- # † # "#- # degrez. secs ' i il quatrieſme la chaleur premier obſcure & inſenſible , froideur , ſecond degré eſt manifeſte & apparente, humidité troiſiéme vehemente, siccité. quatriéme tres-immoderée & exceſſiue. comme pour exemple de chaleur diſtinguée† leſdits degre : l'eau tiede eſt temperée : celle qui eſt vn petit plus chaude eſt au premier degré, ſi elle a deſia chaleur apparente, au . ſi elle a chaleur vehemente, au . degré : ſi elle bruſle, elle eſt chaude au . degré. ainſi peut-on entendre de froi- deur, humidité, & ſiccité. donc nous deduirons les medicamens ſimples ſelon leur degré de chaleur, froideur, humidité, & ſiccité. • - medicamens ſimples chauds au degré & ordre. - "premier. anethum abſinthium sarcocolla. altaea troiſieſme. amygdala dulcia abrotonum, praeſertim vſtum, beta agnus braſſica aniſum chamaemelum aſarum ladanum ariſtolochia semen lini chamaedrys saccharum calamintha eruum fiue orobus cinnamomum vinum nouum : car le vieil ſelon qu'il eſt de iris plus ou moins d'années, eſt chaud au . ou iuniperus . degré. hyſſopus second. origanum ammoniacum sagapenum apium ruta hortenſis artemiſia opopanax chamaepytis galbanum d crocus bryonia fœnum graecum ammi. ficus quatrieſme. maſtiche allium marrubium cepa mel euphorbium meliſſa naſturtium myrrha pyrethrum nux moſcata. sinapi pix arida, comme auſſi pix liquida, qui a ſembla- tithymali bles facultez, ſinon que cette-là eſt plus propre chelidonium minus pour les corps & parties plus robuſtes : cette- anacardi cy pour les delicates. scilla sal saluia thus ruta ſylueſtris, comme toutes plantes ſauuages, que nature produit d'elle-meſme, ſurpaſſe en vigueur de meſmes qualitez & facultez, celles qui en meſme eſpece viennent par art & main d'hommc, medica o le xxv i. liure de la faculté chaleur. medicamens ſimples froids , au degré & ordre. premier. atriplex cotonea hordaeum malua pyra pruna - roſa * viola. - - second. acacia cucurbita cucumis mala granata acida : car les grenades qu'on ap- pelle douces, ou vineuſes , ſont temperées, comme celles qn'on appelle dulcoacida, qua- ſi comme meſlées de doux & acide, qu'on ap- pelle aigre doux, ſont froides au premier de- ic. plantago poligonon sumach solanum hortenſe : car celuy qu'on appelle som- niferum, pour qu'il rend les hommes inſenſez ſtupides & endormis , eſt preſque auſſi froid que le papauer , de ſorte qu'on ne le peut rendre dans le corps ſans dommage, ains ſeu- ement doit eſtre appliqué par dehors. troiſieſ s hyoſcyamus semperuiuum mandragora solanum mortiferum ſ uatrieſine cicuta opium - le pauot de quelque eſpece que ce ſoit, excepté celuy qu'on appelle corniculatum. medicamens ſimples humides au degré & ordre. premier. bugloſſum viola malua , rapum second. ammoniacum lactuca cucurbita cucumis melones portulaca. medicamens ſimples & ſecr, au degré & ordre- premier. braſſica thus chamaemelum sarcocolla crocus faba fœnum graecum hordaeum. second. artemiſia balauſtia orobus lens mel maſtiche sal anethum myrra pix arida plantago nuxmoſchata. troiſieſme. abrotonum vſtum abſinthium acetum aloë cuminum galla chelidonium maius chamaepitys - myrtus marrubium milium oryganum bryonia sanguis draconis | sabina. - quatrieſme. piper, allium. naſturtium sinapi euphorbium. ces qualitez ſuſdites monſtrent les effects & operations tantja dites, que pluſieurs autres (leſquelles ie delaiſſe à la phyſiologie) par ſoy-meſme & de leur propre nature , laquelle ils retiennent touſiours en leur vray effect : toutesfois elles ont autres operations qui ne ſont pas de leur nature, ainſi ſont faictes par accident : par ainſi nous les appellons accidentales. ce qui ſera manifeſté par les exemples ſuyuans. la chaleur externe rafraiſchit les parties interieures par accident, pource qu'icelle ouure les pores, en ſorte qu'en ſuant, la chaleur yſſante auec l'humeur, delaiſſe, deſtituë, refrigere les parties internesz & à cauſe de ce la concoction eſt plus imbecille, & l'appetit moindre. icelle meſme humecte par acci- dent en fondant & liquefiant, ce qui auoit eſté congelé & arreſté par le froid : car ainſi on dit ques venus humecte. le froid et compoſition des medicamens. o : : a le froid ſemblablement, non de ſa propre nature : mais accidentale, eſchauffe : ce qu'onvoid en lefioid, hyuer par le froid exterieur, qui cloſt les pores, & empeſche l'expiration & yſſuë de la chaleur na- turelle, laquelle retenuë & repouſſée au dedans fait bonne concoction : qui eſt cauſe que l'appetit eſt plus grand en hyuer, qu'en eſté. semblablement ceux qui manient la neige, ſentent puis apres vne chaleur tres grande pour la meſme raiſon. iceluy froid auſſi ſeiche par accident en repouſſant la matiere humide tombant en vne partie. il deſſeiche auſſi par trop grande congelation & compreſ- ſion de lamatiere humide ainſi que nous voyons tous les iours, que par l'induë application des reme- des repercuſſifs en matiere pituiteuſe, craſſe & viſqueuſe,on endurcit l'humeur, & fait on vn ſcirrhe. siccité & humidité, à cauſe que ſont qualitez plus paſſiues, qu'actiues, n'ont pas leurs operations siceité & ſi manifeſtes & apparentes que le chaud & froid, ains ſont comme materielles au regard d'icelles. hºmiººº de la ſeconde faculté des medicamens. c h a p. iv. s#: # a ſeconde faculté des medicamens eſt celle qui enſuit les effects des qualitez premieres : $ $j & eſt. #-s- - rrarefier ſ† *, b | attirer repouſſer | ouurir | fermer \ de chaleur { attenuer defroideur. incraſſet - - l adoucir, ou | exaſperer polir i embouſcher & faire empla- udeterger. u ſtique. amollir - endurcir du midité { lde ſtaté{ \ laxer. tendre. ainſi nous appellons medicament attractif, qui a vertu d'attirer : au contraire repercuſſif, qui peut repouſſer. § rarefactif, qui ouure les pores : & au contraire condenſatif, qui les ferme. pareille- ment detergeant , ce qui eſt viſqueux : & emplaſtique, faiſant plus ſolide ce qui eſt trop fluxile. et conſequemment les autres remollitifs, laxatifs, tenſifs, attenuans, & autres, deſquels parlerons plus amplement cy-apres, en les declarant particulierement auec aucuns de la troiſieſme faculté, de la- quelle faut dire à preſent. - c de la troiſieſme faculté des medicamens. c h a p. v. a troiſieſme faculté, eſt pour la pluſpart produire des effects de qualitez premieres & ſecondes : aucunesfois par complication de deux, aucunesfois d'vne ſeule : ſouuentes- fois auſſi elle ne ſuit ny la premiere ny la ſeconde faculté, mais elle a vne proprieté & qualité indicible, cognuë par la ſeule experience. les effects & operations d'icelle facultéſont, incarner, glutiner, cicatriſer, ſeder dou- leurs , mouuoir , prouoquer , ou arreſter vrines, laict, ſemence, menſtruës, ſueurs , vomiſſemens, & autres ſemblables operations. par complication de deux facultez prouiennent, incarner par ſiccité & deterſion, agglutiner, cica- triſer, par ſiccité & aſtriction : prouoquer ſueurs, vrines , menſtruës, ſemences, le laict, par chaleur & tenuité. faut entrendre au contraire, pour icelles arreſter. d'vne ſeule qualité de la premiere faculté prouient, ſeder douleur ( que l'on dit proprement, & ſelon la premiere eſpece des anodyns, non de la ſeconde, qui eſt par euacuation de la matiere dolorifi- que : py de la troiſieſme, qui eſt par ſtupefaction du ſentiment) ſçauoir par chaleur immoderée. prouo- quer le ſommeil par froideur ſimple, ou froideur humide. - - prouoquer vomiſſement ne tient le rang des effects deſſudits, ains eſt à raiſon d'vne proprieté oc- d culte, laquelle a eſté miſe & infuſe de nature à l'agaric, & autres medicamens, qui peuuent inciter à vo- mir : & pour ce faire ſont nez, comme tous les autres medicamens purgatifs, deſquels diront prom- ptement en la quatrieſme faculté. · de la quatricſme faculté de cmedicamens. • c h a p. vi. a quatrieſme faculté differe des precedentes, à cauſe qu'elle ne depend d'icelles, ny prºprittz. n'a aucune qualité manifeſte:ny elementaire pour faire ſon action : mais par vne pro- - prieté & vcrtu occulte, monſtre ſon effect en vne partie plus qu'en l'autre, ou purge # vn humeur pluſtoſt que l'autre : ce qui ſe connoiſt ſeulement par experience comme # ja eſt dict du medicament vomitif. et pourtant les mcdicamens de cette quatriéſme - faculté, ont les noms des parties que plus elles aident entre les autres. cephaliques ou capitales, c'eſt à dire, de la teſte : tels ſont betoine, marjolaine, ſaulge, ſtœchas, rolmarin. - pulmoniques pour le regard des poulmons, comme regliſſe, amandes douces, iris, tragacanth, enula campana & autres. cordiaux, o le xxvi. liure de la faculté cordiaux, pour le cœur, comme cinamome, eſcorce de citron, ſaffran, bugloſſe, coral, iuoyre, a & atltics. stomachiques, qui ont eſgard au ventricule & eſtomach, ſont poyure, gingembre , noix muſca- de, menthe, anis, maſtic , & autrcs. hepatiques , qui aident le foye , ſont abſinthe, eupatoire , agrimoine, ſpica nardi, chicho- rium, ſantal, &c. « a spleniques, qui font leur operation à la ratte, ſont thymus, flos geniſta , ceterach, epithymus cortex tamariſci, cortex radicum capparis. - - ceux qui ont eſgard aux reins ou les nephritiques, ſont radices apij, aſparagi, fœniculi, bruſci : ſemina quatuor frigida maiora, terebenthina , plantago , ſaxifraga, &c. arthritiques, qui regardent les iointures , ſont ceux-cy, chamaepitis, herba paralyſis, enula cam- mºdiº pana, calamenthum, hermodactyli, # entre ceux-cy peuuent eſtre racomptez les medicamens purgatifs, qui ne purgent pas les humeurs §- de noſtre corps par leur chaleur, froideur, ſiccité ou humidité : mais de tout leur temperament force tie qu'àl'au- & vertu ſpeciale ou occulte, iaçoit qu'ils ayent eſté mis auec ceux de la troiſieſme faculté : car ils be- {rf. ſongnent au corps humain, par proprieté ſpecifique, & ſouuent plus en vne partie qu'en l autre : comme pour exemple, l'agaric tire plus le phlegme des lointures de la teſte, que des autres. la rheu- barbe eſt plus propre à purger le foye & reins qu'autres parties les hermodates tirent principale-b - ment des iointures, & ainfi des autres.la contemplation entiere des purgatifs que ie laiſſe à ceux qui deux facal- du tout s'exercent en icelle, pourtant qu'elle n'appartient à la chirurgi. - ， airaires or des medicamens ſuſdits aucuns ont vne faculté ſimple , autres en ont pluſieurs , autres en ont en ºnmºſº deux contraires , comme ſenſiblement nous connoiſſons par les ſaueurs contraires qui en gouſtant # ſe manifeſtent, ainſi qu'apert en la rheubarbe, laquelle en la ſuperficie ſe monſtre amere & chaude, simples é & puis monſtre à la fin vne aſtriction de ſa ſubſtance terreſtre & craſſe. et pour raiſon que par les alim. ſaueurs les facultez & effects des medicamens ſont certainement conneus , eſtans ſimples & attiedis, appliquez ſur la langue, afin que le ſens du gouſt (iuge deſdites ſaueurs) en puiſſe iuger, nous di- rons à preſent des ſaucurs, des saueurs. c h a p. vii # que a v e v r, ſelon ariſtote & theophraſte, ainſi que galien le recite au premier liure des simples, eſt vne concoction d humidité en ſiccité, faicte par le benefice de chaleur, laquelle eſt cogneuë eſtant appliquée ſur la langue bien diſpoſée, par le moyen du nerf c de ladite langue, & d'vne ſaliue mediocre. les differences des ſaueurs ſont neuf. trois - #$ chaudes, qui ſont, acre, amere, & ſalée.trois froides, ſçauoir eſt, acide, acerbe, au- ſtere.trois tcmperées, qui ſont, douce, oleeuſe, inſipide ou fade. toutes leſquelles prouiennent de concoction : laquelle eſt plus grande aux ſaueurs que nous appcllons chaudes : plus petite en celles que nous diſons froides : mediocre és temperées. parquoy nature tient fort ſouuent & plus commu- nément tel ordre en la concoction des ſaueurs, ſi que ptemierement ſe monſtre & apparoilt la ſaueur acerbe, la choſe eſtant encores du rout cruë, puis auec quelque concoction eſt faicte l'auſtere : apres en ſuiuant l'acide, puis l'acide par concoction plus grande eſt faicte douce ou oleeuſe, laquelle auec chaleur augmentée eſt tournée en ſalée, & de ſalée faicte amere : iuſques à tant que par vne chaleur exceſſiue & trop grande, finalament eſt faicte l'acre, qui tient entierement la nature du feu : à cette cauſe c'eſt la fin des ſaueurs, & miſe au dernier degré de concoction. de chacune ſaueur dirons par- ticulierement, commençans aux froides. difference. saueurs froides. s memy ' /- be l'acerbe eſt froide & terreſtre, moins aqueuſe que l'acide , de craſſe ſubſtance. elle rafraiſchit, eſpaiſfit, condenſe, aſtraint, repouſſe, principalement en la ſuperficie. elle ſe connoiſt és eſcorces acide. de grenade, noix de galle, tan, & noix de cyprés. l'acide eſt aqueuſe, froide, ſubtille, ſans chaleur naturelle. elle inciſe, attenuë, mord, purge, deliure obſtructions : & ſe manifeſte en toute eſpeſce d'ozeille, vinaigre, ceriſes, eſpine-vinette » & autres. l'auſtere eſt prochaine quant au temperament & effects, à l'acerbe : car l'acerbe conſiſte en ſubſtan- ce terreſtre & froide. icelle receuant mutation & auancement, eſt augmenté, ou de la ſeule chaleur- ou de chaleur & humidité : & icelle ou aërée, ou aquée, ou de la ſeule humidité. si les ftuicts acer » bes, qui tels ſont deuant leur maturité, ſont augmentez de la ſeule chaleur, ils paſſent en ſaueur dou - ce, comme les chaſtaignes. s'ils ſont augmentez de la ſeule humidité, & icelle craſſe, d'acerbe ils paſ- en quºy dif ſent en faueur auſtere : car ces deux ſaueurs acerbe & auſtere ſont en pareil degré de frigidité : ſeule- #.#. ment l'acerbe eſt plus terreſtre, l'auſtere eſt plus humide. que ſi la frigidité perſiſtante, les fruicts ſont ' augmentez en humidité,& icelle tenuë,ils paſſeront en ſaueur acide. que ſi enſemble ils ſont augmen- tez de chaleur & d'humidité aquée, ils paſſeront en faueur douce ou bien ſaueur oleeuſe, ſi auec la cha- leur l'humidité qui ſuruient eſt aërée.dequoy il a eſté bon donner aduertiſſement , à fin d'entendre par quels moyens les corps ſauoureux d'acerbes qu'ils ſont au commencement, deuiennent en fin doux par les moyens d'auſterité, acidité & ſaueur oleeuſe, ſelon qu'ils ſont augmentez de chaleur & humi- dité ſimple ou compliquée: dont il eſt aisé à entendre que la ſaueur auſtere deſſeiche moins que l'acerbe: au reſte reſtreint & reſſerre,agglutine,refraiſchit. elle ſe monſtre és cornoilles, neffles, pommes, poires de bois, & autres fruicts cruds,& non encores meurs. auſters. saurnrs et compoſition des medicamens. o # --, •- ". - - . : * saueurs temperées. · · · · . - l 'inſipide ou fade, improprement appellée ſaueur, eſt froide & aqueuſe, elle eſpaiſſit, coagule, l»ſipide fait contraction des pores & des orifices des veines, reſtreint, eſteint la chaleur, & ſouuent rend ptde. le membre ſtupide. l'on la connoiſt en vne choſe qui n'a aucune ſaueur notable, qui ſe puiſſe diſec- rner : comme l'eau ſimple. - - l'oleuſe, chaude, humide, aëreuſe. elle humecte, laſche, amollit .. lubrefie , comme huyle, oleuſe beurre, axunge , mouëlle,& autres ſemblables. .. , , ! • : la douce, chaude , aëreuſe & temperée.elle laue, polit , cuit, digere, ſuppure, laxe, appaiſe douce. les douleurs : comme ſuccre, miel, manne, amandes douces , laict, & les autres. : - * / - - saueurs chaudes. } - la ſalée chaude, aſtringente, moins terreſtre que l'amere, fait contraction des poroſitez , re salée. ſtreint, preſerue les corps de putrefaction, deſſeiche ſans apparence de grande chaleur, digere, deterge, ſerre. toutes eſpcces de ſel, ſalpeſtre, ſel.nitre, ſel ammoniac, ſel gemme, ſel commun eau ſalée, & ſemblables qui retiennent la ſaueur ſalée. - - - l'amere, chaude, & terreſtre & deſſeichante, purge, deterge la ſanie des vlceres, & les humeurs amere. . ſuperfius du corps , ouure les poroſitez, & orifices des veines, ſubtilie, inciſe les groſſes humeurs, - b prouoque menſtruës & hemorrhoides. elle ſe monſtre en aloë , fiel, abſinthe, ſuye, gentiane, · centaure petit, fumeterre , & autres ſemblables, - - l'acre chaude & fubtile de nature du feu , eſchauffe, attire , ſeiche, deterge, inciſe , attenuë * digere, purge, prouoque les vrines & menſtruës, ſueurs : conſume, liquefie , fait veſſies & eſcha- res , cauteriſe & bruſle. aulx , oignons , ſquilles , pourreaux , poivre , mouſtarde , pyrethre, ſemblable, repreſentent la ſaueur acre. - | • - outre le iugement des ſaueurs , l'on peut auſſi connoiſtre les medicamens par les autres ſens sens exte- naturels exterieurs, comme par l'attouchement, la veuë, l'oüye, & le flair : par leſquels quel- rieurs. quesfois nous iugeons, de leur bonté ou malice en l'election : ſouuentesfois auſſi de leurs qualitez | actiues, combien que le iugement en ſoit beaucoup incertain. · l'attouchement iuge des choſes rudes, ou polies & douces à la main : dures ou molles, tendres l'attouche. & gluantes : lubriques & gliſſantes, ou arides & ſeiches : chaudes, ou froides : humides ou ſei- ment. ches : peſantes ou legeres. | - " . - - ) - . - - " - . la veuë iuge des couleurs par vne ſplendeur eſtant és corps : pour laquelle diſtinguer les yeux lav . ſont ordonnez : de là nous eſtimons vn bon ſené qui tire le noir verdoyant, & n'eſtimons le blan- . - cheaſtre. toutesfois quant aux qualitez premieres des medicamens : le iugement pris de la cou- .. · leur eſt fort fallacieux : car tous medicamens blancs comme neige, ne ſont froids : ains aucuns . chauds : comme la chaux : les autres froids.auſſi les medicamens rouges ſont en partie chauds, com: me chalcantum calciné.autresfois, comme roſes rouges. parquoy d'icelle nous ne ferons grand compte pour le iugement des medicamens. - - · · , | - le flair diſcerne l'odeur bon du mauuais, & les qualitez chaudes qui ſe trouuent és euaporations leflair. des medicamens qui ont odeur : car entant qu'ils ont odeur, ils ſont chauds, veu que tout odeur eſt chaud. · · · , · · · , : l'oüye iuge des ſons, moyennant l'air exterieur. icelle pour l'election du medicament, diſcerne les l'ouye. choſes pleines des vuides, comme les baſtons de caſſe noix d'inde, pierres d'aigles, & autres. : nous auons iuſques à preſent declaré en general les facultez des medicamens, premiere, ſeconde, troiſieſme, quatrieſme : & la connoiſſance & iugement d'icelles : à preſent faut deſduire en particu- lier aucunes facultez & vertus de la ſeconde & troiſieſme faculté, à raiſon que pour le reſpect de telles facultez les medicamens viennent, & ſont en vſage iournalier, & ordinaire entre les chirurgiens, commençans aux medicamens repercuſſifs, ayant toutesfois, premierement & en bref, touché la façon de les preparer. - - encore ne veux-je oublier à deſcrire les choſes odoriferantes,dont les chirurgiens vſent en la com- poſition des medicamens, auparauant que parler de la façon de les preparer ; c'eſt à ſçauoir, muſc, am- bre gris, ciuette, lignum aloës, oſſa odorata, galanga, ſpica nardi, macis, ſtyrax, calamite, clou de gi- rofle, ſouehet , iris de florence, camphre, fleurs de lauande, de roſmarin, de camomille, de melilot, thym, fleurs d'oranges, marjolaine, mente, hyſſope, & pluſieurs autres. .. ! - - - o o o de la o le xxvi.liure de la faculté de la façon de preparer les medicamens. c h a p i t r e v i i i. fbronze, r fla choſe que l'on pile. fqui eſt, les reduire en | fer , | | la force & maniere qu'on doit piler , | †" frappant ou # plomb, | le temps & eſpace. - # broyant ce que l'on^ verre, }c ! la ſituation. piler # dans vn mortier ! bois, l derant. | ce qu'ony adiouſte rbenins. n auec pilons qui ſont, | marbre,& l | la conſiſtance en laquelle on doit ou de \ autres. u u laiſſer la choſſe pilée. qui eſt ſeparer ce - eſcorce de tillet, - ayant égard qu'il y a meſme raiſon à l - ui eſt net & delié \parchemin , cribler qu'à piler, & pource les choſes qui cribler )d'auec ce qui eſt ſa- {soye de cheual , {veulent eſtre pilées deliés , demandent le & groſſier, ce qui ('taffetas, & lin- ('eſtre paſſées auſſi par vn crible delié, & au ſe faict auec crible ge coiltialic. qui n'eſt autre choſe ſinon démeſ- ( seul )surquoy on( d'amollir. diſſoudre )ler & ramollir vn medicament qui )auec li-$ peut com- eſtoit de conſiſtence dure & ſolide, ) queur v prendre la ce qui ſe faict, ou forme. fondre. qui n'eſt autre choſe que conſommer - au soleil. l'humidité,laquelle eſt §{ - ayant égard au medica- deſſeicher geable & ſuperfluë , ce qui ſe faict, ou au feu iilcili. b. ayſez à laict , rsur l'infuſion on peut prendre qui eſt temperer les medica-) la liqueur,) vinaigre, | adiouſter la nutrition, infuſer {§ apres qu'ils ſont §}§ autres ſe l huyle, | qui eſt augmentation ment pilez , conſiderant. infuſent en neau. < du medicament , l'a- vne heures,deux | breuuant petit à petit, en preparer les - , le temps { heure, vn iour, j le remuant. medicamens plus , ou moins. \. n'eſt autre choſe qu'ar- fauec mixtion ) ſ les mettre plus facil.ment en tificiellemét ouldre eſtanr trop gluantes ou les rendre n'eſt autre choſe #| § , les rendre plus ſub- propres a< conſommer l'humi- & ce | tiles. acquerir quelque qualité imcttrc en brufler ) dité qui eſt en iceux, ou < ignée , diminuer leur force, laquel- vſage , ou ce qui ſe faict, ou pour | le eſtant acre s'addoucit , com- és compoſi- me eſprit gal. libr. . des sim- tions, à fin ples chap. . les deſguiſer en autre qu'ils ſoient uſans mixtion couleur. ou plus - fn'eſt autre choſe ( feu n caugmenter leurs facultez qui ſont fis,º que faire boüillir en cuiſans auec eux ceux qui ont plus de faculté | quelque liqueur vn | ce qui l & vertu. medicament , ou ſe fait l amoindrir leurs facultez. cuire < bien luy faire con-< > ou { oſter vne mauua ſe qualité | ſommer , quelque | | pour | faire que pluſieurs ſimples cuits enſemble de ce qui pour les partie de ſon humi- diuerſes facultez, ſe produiſe vne certaine ver- dité, qui ſe faict ou - tu. donner telle conſiſtence que deſirons gar- vau lsoleil j \-der, & les conſeruer longuement. a rmetaux ret pour les bien lauer, les faut ) ayſez à pierres | mettre en poudre tres-deliée, à meſler rdu) parties ， fin qu'en toute leur ſubſtance | couleur. ſ# eſt vne | res ) d'anim. ) l'eau puiſſe penetrer,& la chan- eſpece de | sucsde- | ger tant de fois qu'elle n'ayt purgation , uſeichez. caucune qualité du medicament ! - & nettoye- ſ'en yodeur. | ment, quiſe leſquelles faut fondre, puis les \. lauer faict pour ietter en vn vaiſſeau plein d'eau, | oſter quel- reſines, l & les remuer : puis les laiſſer llc iilitloil- gom- { repoſer iuſqu'à ce que tout | saueur. d dice és cho- | mo {mes, a- le gras vienne au deſſus : & le - \-ſes, ou (les ('xunge, | reïterer iuſqu'à ce que l'eau huyles. ' ne retienne aucune qualité, \ ſoit en - salutai- \ fcs» j des et compoſition des medicamens *- des medicamens repercuſſifs, ou repouſſans. c h a p. ix. eo camens repercuſſifs, ou repouſſans ſont froids, & de gtoſſes parties. sous ce nom de - repercuſſifs, nous entendons auſſi les aſtringents & roboratifs , pource qu'ils ſemblent re- * pouſſer , empefchant la fluxion des humeurs tombans & coulans en quelque partie. or tels ſont ils ou de ſoy, & de leur propre nature, ou par accident , & ſans qualitez & - effects propres. . - de ceux qui ſont repercuſſifs de leur propre nature, les vns ſont aqueux & humides ſans aucune aſtriction , pourtant ſont debiles : les autres terreſtres & aſtringents : deſquels les vns ſont chauds, les autres froids, qui ſont forts, & proprement appellez repercuſſifs : & d'iceux les vns ſim- ples & les autres compoſez. - medicamens repercuſſifs de leur propre nature aqueux & humides, repouſſans ſeulement d'vne qualité aqueux & froide,ſont lactuca,portulaca,ſonchus, lenticula paluſtris,vmbilicus veneris, cucumis, melones , cucurbita , hum ues jim, ſemperuiuum vtrumque , aqua communis. on peut auſſi adiouſter à ceux-cy, poma mandragora , folanum , ples. hyoſcyamus & ſuccus papaueris : leſquels refrigerent grandement, & pourtant les faut oſter auant que les parties où ils ont eſté appliquez deuiennent liuides. . les terreſtres aſtringents froids, proprement appellez repellents'ou repercuſſifs, ſont, plantago, folia vi- plantes. tium,capita roſarum, quercus,cupreſſus, rubus, oxyacantha, thus, cauda equina. b fructus ſorborum, cornorum, meſpilorum,cydoniorum, myrtillorum, nuces cupreſſi, nuces aliæ virides, fruiéts. gallx, glandes, ſumach. omnes fructus immaturi. - - omphacium, acetum, vinum auſterum, ſuccus granatorum acidorum, acacia, ſuccus berberis, ſuccus cy- ius. - , doniorum, hypociſtis. malicorium,cortex quercus, cytrini, balauſtia. eſcorces & : farina hordei, fabarum, panici, auenae, milij, orobi, admixta ſuccis ad modum pultis. # - : bolus armenus, ſanguis draconis,ceruſa, lithargyros,terra ſigillata, cimollia, creta, argilla, magnes plum- farines. r bum, coralla, marcaſitae omnes , antimonium, ſpodium , pompholyx verax, omnis terra ſpecies, & autres tels metaux. , medicamens repercuſſifs ſimples. r | - les compoſez. ſont , oleum roſaceum , omphacinum, myrtillorum , papaueris , cydoniorum , nenu- huyles. pharis. vnguentum roſatum, album rhaſis, caphuratum, emplaſtrum diachalciteos diſſolutum in aceto & oleo vnguents. roſato, deſiccatiuum rubrum, populeum. : - - - - n emplaſtrum nigrum ſiue triapharmacum deſcriptione gal. emplaſtrum contra rupturam, de ceruſa , pro emplaſtret, •. eilat t cc. - - tous ces medicamens repercuſſifs froids ont plus grande efficace , quand ils ont quelque tenuité de ſub- -- ſtance adiointe, ſoit par leur nature, ſoit par mixtion : comme pour exemple, fouuent on adjouſte aux autres - # # repercuſſifs de craſſe ſubſtance , † camphre, & autres de parties ſubtiles , à fin de mieux penetrer & - #- ſeruir, comme de chariot, à porter la ſubſtance terreſtre & aſtringente iuſques au dedans. - les repercuſſifs terreſtres aſtringents chauds, ſon abſinthium, centaurium, gentiana, eupatorium , ſabina, herbes, c coriandrum, mentha, lauri folia. •* graine de paradis, cardamomum, calamus aromaticus, aloé, ſpica, crocus, nux moſcata, cinnamomum , co fortans * · ſuccinum , &c. - & aromati- - sal, alumen, vitriolum, ſulphur, &c. ques metaux. oleum abſinthij, maſtichinum, nºrdinum, coſtinum, cerotum ſtomachicum galeni, ſantalinum, empla- ſtrum diachalciteos. i* • repercuſſifs par accident, ſont ligatures, compreſſes, aſtelles,cauteres, ſaignées, ventouſes, frictions dou- repercuſſift loureuſes és parties oppoſites : & autres ſemblables remedes que proprement on appelle reuulſifs. - para e uent. l'vſage de repercuſſifs, eſt pour repouſſer l'humeur coulant d'vne partie à l'autre, & appaiſer l'intempera- l'vſageſ ture chaude:car ſouuent par le flux des humeurs eſt engendré douleur, fiévre,apoſteme,vlcere malin, gangre- ne, mortifications & autres accidens. tels medicamens repercuſſifs, faut premierement appliquer à la maladie , confiderant la temperatu conſidera- re & complexion du corps , & nature de la partie affectée. car toutes parties ne peuuent pas ſouſtenir & tion. endurer meſmes repercuſſifs , comme nerueuſes , ſpermatiques , & autres telles parties froides. ioint qu'à d'aucunes en tout, il ne faut vſer de repercuſſifs : comme aux emonctoires du foye, du cœur , & du cerueau, afin de ne renuoyer la fluxion en vne partie principale & premiere. auſſi tous corps ne peuuent pas endu- rer meſmes repellents : car femmes chaſtrez, & autres telles gens delicats , ou aagez ne ſouffriront medi- camens ſi fort froids, que feront les corps robuſtes, chauds & forts. des maladies auſſi aucunes demandent repercuſſifs,autres non. car cacochymie & plenitude ne requierent tels medicamens , que l'euacuation vni- uerſelle n'aye precedé. pareillement matiere veneneuſe, craſſe, acre, & en multitude, ne demande repercuſ- ſifs,comme bien le declare monſieur maiſtre iacques hollier, docteur en medecine , en ſon liure de la ma- huyles. d tiere de chirurgie : ny pareillement la matiere qui eſt accompagnée de grande & intolerable douleur : non plus que celle qui fiuë par vne excretion critique : car en tel cas au contraire , il faut vſer de medicamens attractifs & paregoriques. - or les maladies qui demandent repercuſſifs, quelquesfois ſont grandes; parquoy en icelles ne ferez rien de petits remedes , comme de laictue en grande inflammation , autres ſont petites , ou mediocres, eſ- . quelles ne faut vſer de forts repercuſſifs : car s'il ſont trop fots, le cuir eſt reſſerré, l'humeur congele, la fiu- xion & inflammation accroit, de ſorte que bien ſouuent la matiere s'endurcit en ſcirrhe, comme nous dirons cy-apres ſelon galien. < - des medicamens attractifs. c h a p. x. - | edicame nt attractif ou attirant contraire au repouſſant, ou repercuſſif,que les grecs appellent definition, %l# helctique,eſt de chaude & tenue ſubſtance:par laquelle il attire au dehors & à la circonference, § ce qui eſt au dedans du corps bien profond & auant : & ce, ou par vne qualité manifeſte , ou'par * vn don & proprieté de nature,ou d'vne qualité accidentale & acrimonie. medicamens attractifs de leur propre nature & qualité manifeſte ſont ſimples, ou compoſez. - | o o o les | le xxvi liure de la faculté les reſolutifs compoſez ſont, oleum amygdalarum amararum, iuniperinum , laurinum, de ſcorpionibus, irinum , coſtinum, nardinum , terebenthina , de croco , cannabinum , raphaninum , è cucumere agreſti, vlpinum , rutaceum, philoſophorum , de lateribus, de euphorbio, de tartaro, de petroleo, de kerua ſiue ricinium. fientes, vnguentum agrippae, martiatum , aragon, enulatum. huyles. emplaſtrum de vigo ſine additione & cum additione, oxicroceum,diachalciteos, diſſolutum in oleo dige- onguenºs. rente ad formam cerati. emplaſtres. les rarefactifs conuiennent à l'accroiſſement & vigueur d'vne tumeur ſuperficielle,en lieu mol,& matiere l'vſage chaude & humide : auſſi en vne matiere venteuſe. les diaphoretiques doiuent eſtre appliquez à l'accroiſ- ſement des tumeurs, en y adjouſtant quelque aſtringent , de peur que par trop digerer ils n'attirent & augmentent la fluxion. a la declination deſdites tumeurs, les faut appliquer ſans mixtion aucune à vn corps racines. les ſimples ſont bryonia, allium, cepa, porrum , ariſtolochia, hermodactyli, cyclamen , lilium , ſigillum a beatz marix, arum, aſarum, aſphodelus,gentiana,pyrethrum. herbes. .. ruta, ſabina, calamentum, omnes tithimalorum ſpecies, viſcum, abrotonum, anagallis, vrtica , ranuncu- * lus, ſtruthio, & autres telles plantes acres. - gonºmes. ammoniacum,bdellium, galbanum, opopanax,ſagapenum euphorbium, aſphaltum, &c. - metat x. calx viua , cinis è fxce vini vel aceti, ſulphur , ſal ammoniacus, & omnes ſalis ſpecies , auripi- gmentum. · - huyles & oleum vetus & multorum annorum, adeps leonis,vrſi, canis,anſeris, viperar:axungia porci vetuſtate acris, graiſſes. aut attritu rotarum. - les compoſez ſont oleum de ſpica, phyloſophorum,de terebenthina,de croco, de ſcorpionibus,rutaceum vulpinum, laurinum, anethinum, de vitriolo. onguents. vnguentum agrippa,aragon, ſeu auxiliare, martiatum, enulatum, theriaca, mithridatium. emp'aſtres. emplaſtrum de melilotho, diachylon magnum, & paruum, oxycroceum, diuinum. attractifs ceux qui attirent d'vn don de nature & familiarité de ſubſtance, ſont magnes, argentum viuum , pzonia , par #º ſuccinum omnia alexipharmaca, c'eſt à dire, qui repugne aux venins : & theriaca medicamenta, c'eſt à dire, #f qui contrarient aux morſures des beſtes : & omnia purgantia medicamenta. par puiſ f.- ceux qui attirent par qualité accidentale, attirent ou par putrefaction , ou autrement. - dion. | par putrefaction attirent ſtercus columbinum , caprinum, vaccinum, humanum , & omnes aliz ſtercorum attractifs ſpecies,fermentum, caſeus vetus , &c. par qualitex ceux qui attirent par autres qualitez, ſont,cucurbutulz, ſanguiſuga ſyringa, frictio aſperior & durior, ſu- meſlées. ctus , dolor,vincula aſtrictoria, cauteria. b ces medicamens attractifs ne doiuent ny bruſler, ny reſoudre. les trop acres , faut attremper d'huy- le roſat, ou par medicamens doux. les debiles, faut renforcer d'huyle laurin, chaux-viue, & autre plus forts. ceſdits attractifs ſeruent à tirer le venin à la peau : ou s'il y a quelque choſe peſtiferée & vitieuſe au milieu du corps, ils la tirent ailleurs. ils aident à maturer les abſcés critiques. ils rendent la vie aux parties tabides & emaciées, & rechauffent celles qui ſont trop refrigerées. ils eſpuiſent la ſanie vitieuſe des mauuais vlceres, & playes de nerfs.ils eſleuent & tirent dehors les eſquilles d'os, cloux, eſpines, ſagettes. ils euacuent les reſtes de phlegmons plus endurcis. ils ſuruiennent aux morſures, tant des beſtes, que des hommes. des medicamens reſolutifs. - cha p. xi. difference $ ， e d c a m e n t reſolutif eſt celuy qui par ſa chaleur & tenuité de ſubſtance ouure les des reſoluiif. ) a , pores, attenue, diſſipe, & fait euaporer & exhaler par inſenſible tranſpiration les humeurs, # & autres matiere inutiles & ſuperfiues és parties où elles ſont arreſtées. d'iceluy y a deux eſpeces : car l'vn eſt rarefactif, l'autre reſolutif, que les grecs appellent diaphoretique le - $ # rarefactif par chaleur mediocre, peu de ſiccité & ſubtile ſubſtance, ouure & amollit la $# # peau, & donne ſortie à ce qui eſtoit retenu : pourtant peut eſtre dit anodyn, car il excede bien peu le temperé. le diaphoretique par chaleur plus grande que ſe rarefactif , diſſipe inſenſiblement ce c \ qui eſt arreſté & impacte en vne partie; & aucunes-fois a plus grande chaleur qui l'attractif, ſelon le corps où il doit eſtre appliqué : car aucunes-fois l'attractif appliqué a vn corps dur pourra eſtre reſolutif : où s'il eſtoit appliqué à vn autre, il attireroit dedans au dehors. les rarefactifs , que nous pouuons appeller reſo- lutifs, debiles, ſont fimples ou compoſez. a | herbes. les ſimples ſont, biſmalua cum toto , parietaria , adianthum, mercurialis, ebulus,valeriana , roſmarinus, ſaluia , thymus. fleurs. camomilla, melilotum, anethum. semences & farina hordei, tritici, ſeminis lini, fœnugrxci , nigellx, furfur. farines d'i- adeps gallinx, anſeris, anatis, cuniculi , vitulinus. celles. mettallica ferè omnia, niſi acria ſint. - metaux. les compoſez ſont, oleum camomillae, anethinum , liliorum, catellorum,lumbricorum , keiri, de vitellis huyles. ouorum , tritici, amygdalarum dulcium. onguents & vnguentum dealthara » emplaſtrum diachylum,ireatum. em§l,ſire les diaphoretiques ou digeſtifs, ſemblablement ſont ſimples, ou compoſez. racines. les ſimples ſont,ariſtolochia,enuls campana, iris,cepa,ſigillum salomonis, ſigillum beatz mariz,bryonia, panis porcinus, draculus, acorus,aſphodelus. herbes. origanum , mentha, pulegium, ſabina, ſerpyllum, calamenthum,hyſſopus,vrtica, artemiſia, lauandula, chamæpytis. - emences. aniſum, fœniculum, cuminum , piper, nux moſcata,coriandum, baccx lauri & iuniperi. d farines. farina fabarum, lupinorum, orobi , milij, frumenti, furfur, mica panis. acetum tepidum, oxycratum, vinum vetus, aromaticum, mel, aqua vitæ, muria. adeps tauri, equi, leonis, canis, hirci, butyrum, & alijadipes. ju . medulla cerui, cruris bouis, arietis, & c. graiſſes. ammoniacum galbanum,opponax, ſagapenum, myrrha, bdellium,thus,terebentina, pix nigra, ladanum, moelles. ſtirax , calamita benioinum, &c. gommes. stercus caprinum, columbinum , cininum, bubulum, & alix ſtercorum ſpecies. qui et compoſitions des medicamens. a qui a la peau dure, & quand l'humeur eſt froid & craſſe, caché au profond du corps, où à peine les medica- mens peuuent imprimer leurs vertus & effects. toutesfois il faut auoir # aux parties où l'on applique reſolutifs. car au foyê , à la ratte, ventricule, & autres telles parties , ne faut appliquer reſolutifs & relaxa- tifs, ſans y adjouſter quelque adſtringent, comme choſes aromatiques : en partie ſtupide & peu ſenſible,faut ne faut a mettre diaphoretiques plus fortes:és autres plus ſenſibles,comme à l'œil & parties nerueuſes, plus doux.auſſi pliquer r#- en matiere froide & craſſe, faut vſer premierement de remedes inciſifs,attenuants, apres des emolliens, pour # ifs aux petit à petit venir aux diaphoretiques : car autrement le plus ſubtil ſe reſoudroit , & ce qui eſt cras & eſpais parties no- s'endurciroit. d'auantage, que la partie eſt tellement oppreſsée de fluxion, qu'il y a danger de gangrene & bles ſans mortification , il faut § les reſolutifs, & venit à la ſcarification , comme doctement l'eſcrit monſieur aſtringens. maiſtre iacques hollier,docteur en medecine, en ſon liure de la matiere de chirurgie, lequel il nous à laiſsé hºllier. au grand auancement & illuſtration dudit art. - - - tes ſuppuratifs. c h a p. xi i. e d c a m e n t suppuratif eſt celuy qui par ſa conſiſtence emplaſtique fermant les pores,& - empeſchant la tranſpiration, augmente la chaleur naturelle en ſubſiltence ou quantité,& non # c'eſt que en qualité : à raiſon dequoy ladite chaleur fortifiée conuertit & tranſmuë le ſang, & autres uppuratif matieres ſuperflués , en boue & ſanie. il eſt de nature chaude & humide, ſemblable & pro- | portionnée à la temperature & chaleur naturelle de la partie où il eſt appliqué: de confiſtence emplaſtique, à fin de retenir la chaleur naturelle, de peur qu'elle ne s'exhale ou diſſipe.et par natur, du cette conſiſtance emplaſtique il eſt different des medicamens emollients ou malactiques , deſquels cy-apres ſu§. nous parlerons : car s'ils eſtoient emplaſtiques, ils pourroient ſuppurer. or il y a deux ſortes de ſuppuratifs: diſſerence les vns ſont ſuppuratifs de leur propre nature , les autres par accident.ceux qui ſuppurent de leur propre des ſuppura- nature, ſont ſimples, ou compoſez. - tifs. les ſimples ſont, radix liliorum, cepa, allium, biſmalua, bugloſſum, malux omnes. - biſmaluz, maluz folia & ſemina, branca vrſina, ſenecio , violz, bugloſſum, parietaria,crocus , caules. racinet. | ficus, & paſſulz mundatae, earümque decoctum . herbes. farina tritici, farina volatilis , farina hordei excorticati, lolij, ſeminis lini, fœnugrzci. frttič#f. galbanum , ammoniacum , ſtyrax pinguis » ladanum , viſcum aucupatorium , thus, pix, cera, re- #. ſina, ſarco colla. adepsſuillus, vitulinus,vaccinus,caprinus,butyrum,vitellus dui,œſipus humida. graſſes. stercus ſuillum,columbinum,caprinum,pueri, fiantes. les compoſez ſont, oleum liliorum,lumbricorum,de croco,&c. huyles. vnguentum baſilicon. r . onguents. emplaſtrum diachylon communesmagnum,& de mucilaginibus. emplaſtres. les fuppuratifs par accident, ſont tous ceux qui ont vne conſiſtence emplaſtique rcomme bien ſouuent l'on º# void que les medicamens repercuſſifs, à raiſon de leur ſubſtance craſſe, ſuppurent, tel eſt vnguentum de bo- par accidit. lo, nutritum,& autres. auſſi ceux qui par refrigeration ferment les pores, comme l'ozeille : laquelle eſtant appliquée eſt fort ſuppuratiue : car retenant la chaleur naturelle au dedans, & aydant icelle à inciſer les hu- - meurs, fait proptement ſuppuration. breftous medicamens chauds, ayans quelque humidité, s'ils ſont meſlez l'ºſºtº auec des emplaſtiques, ils ſuppurent : moyennant qu'ils ne ſoyent trop reſolutifs & deterſifs. nous vſons de ſuppuratifs aux grands phlegmons, leſquels n'auons peu empeſcher par repercuſſifs, ny reſoudre auſſi aux - grandes contuſions & playes contuſes. . des medicamens emollients, ou remollitifs. cha p t r e. xi i i. e d c a m e n r remollitif, eſt celuy qui par ſa chaleur plus grande que celle des ſup- que c'eſt que puratifs;au reſte,ſans aucune humidité,ou ſiccité manifeſte & apparente,amollit les corps medicament endurcis. parquoy differre du ſuppuratif parce que le ſuppuratif peut eſtre chaud du pre-"ºf mier au ſecond degré, ou plus, † la temperature du corps où il eſt appliqué, agiſſant plus par abondance de chaleur moderée, que par qualité & acrimonie d'icelle. l'emol- lient au contraire eſtant plus robuſte en chaleur,agite plus par qualité d'icelle : temperé - au relte en humidité & ſiccité: jaçoit que nous auons aucuns remollitifs chauds au pre- mier degré, & ſecs au ſecond & troiſieme. les medicamens emollients ſont ſimples, ou compoſez,de biles ou forts. racines. herbes. semences és les debiles ſont radix liliorum alborum,cucumeris agreſtis,althza. - fruicts. folia maluae,biſmalux, liliorum,anethi ſummitates,viola,brancha vrſina,ſemen malux, biſmaluz, lini, fœ- parties des nugrzci,caricx pingues,paſſulae mundatz. beſtes. pedum, capitum, inteſtinorum veruecinorum decoctum. graiſſes des adeps ex iunioribus & caſtratis, domeſticis fœminis animalibus. adeps ſuillus,vitulinus,hœdinus,capri-*ſº, ºſ# nus bubulus, vulpinus,gallinaceus,anſerinus,anatinus,olorinus,efficaces : ex anguillis & piſcibus fluuiatili- # & poiſ- bus,debiles : ad omnia mediocris, humanus,butyrum, lana ſuecida,cera pinguis,vitellus oui. / j. medulla ex oſſibus, ceruina, ouilla,caprina. moiielles. les compoſez ſont oleum fimplex in quo coctz fuerint herbz mollientes,liliorum,chamzmelinum, amyg- dalarum dulcium. \ emollients les forts emollients,acetum,adeps taurinus, vrſinus,ceruinus, leonius,pardalinus,apri,equi ſeuum. forts. pinea,picea, abietina, terebenthina. anmoniacum,bdellium, ſtyrax,galbanum,ladanum,propolis,opopanax,vnguentum de althza. reſines é» emplaſtrum diachylon commune & magnum, de mucilaginibus,ceroneum,oxycroceum,ioannis de vigo. gommes. nous vſons de medicamens remollitifs aux tumeurs ſcirrheuſes,qui ſe font ſouuent és fins des muſcles, quel- vſage des quesfois au milieu des muſcles, ſouuentesfois és glandes , és viſceres, & lévres obords des vlceres, d'vne medicamens matiere craſſe,froide & viſqueuſe: comme ſont la pituite, & le ſuc melancholique. mais le tumeurs fai-remºllufº ctes de cét humeur ſont touſiours chancreuſes: & pour cette cauſe ſont rédues plus malignes par l'vſage des o o o emollients le xxvi. liure de la faculté emollients. au contraire, celles qui ſont faictes de pituite, demandent ſeulement emollients.toutesfois en a l'vſage deſdits emollients,faut auoir eſgard à trois choſes. la premiere eſt qu'il faut cognoiſtre combien le vice eſt grand,afin d'appliquer remede ſuffiſant : secondement,faut diſtinguer les natures des parties : tier- cement, faut colliger artificieuſement comme il faudra amollir : s'il faudra point adiouſter quelque medica- -- , ment qui deterge & inciſe auec les emollients : car aucuns ſcirrhes ſont incurables, comme celuy qui n'a point de ſentiment,& qui a causé deſia deperdition de poil en la partie où il eſt il faut icy noter,que ſi la partie eſt grandement intemperée d'intemperature froide,& que la chaleur natu-* relle fuſt languide, elle ne pourroit reduire les remedes de puiſſance en effect. pour donc augmenter icelle chaleur,on poſera pres vn eſtuffe de fer, en laquelle ſera mis vn carreau de fer ardent, puis ſera cloſe : et par ce moyen la chaleur ſera gardée longuement. - a monſtre le corps de l'eſtuffe. b le carreau de fer. a，- c le couuercle. des deterſifs, ou mondificatif . cha p. xiv. definition de # e d c a m e n r, deterſif, ou mondicatif,eſt celuy qui par vne tenuité de ſubſtance accompa- deterſif gnée de ſiccité, nettoye & purge vn vlcere de deux ſortes d'excremens : deſquels l'vn eſt gros & c eſpais, appellé sordes,vulgairement dit boué : qui eſt tiré du profond des vlceres au dehors, par $ les qualitez dudit mondificatif l'autre eſt ſubtil & aqueux,appellé des grecs jcbor : lequel eſt · deſſeiché par la ſiccité du mondificatif et pourtant dit hpipocrate, que tout vlcere doit eſtre li mondifié. des medicamens mondificatifs, les vns ſont ſimples,les autres compoſez : les vns forts les autres # * d§. les ſimples ſont,ou amers,ou doux,ou acides, - - - - racine . ceux qui ont ſaueur amere,ſont gentiana,ariſtolochia,iris,enula campana, ſcilla ſerpentina. herbes. centaurium, minus,abſinthium,marrubium, perforata, abrotonum, apium, chelidonium, ruta, hyſſopus, ſcabioſa,artemiſia,eupatorium,aloe. - senteurs. fumus terrae, hedera terreſtris, & lixiuium factum ex cineribus horum, lupini, orobus, amygdala, amara, faba. gomamges- terebenthina, myrrha,maſtiche,ſagapenum, galbanum,ammoniacum. excremen fella animalium,ſtercus caprinum,vrina bene cocta. - # | squamma gris, xs vſtum,zrugoſcoria,zris,antimonium calx,chalcitis,miſyſory,alumen , . - l， mºndiſ - º doux, ſont viola, roſa, melilotum , ficus pingues,dactyli,vux paſſae,liquiritia, aqua hordei, aqua mul- #. ſa,vinum dulce mel,ſaccharum,ſerum lactis,manna thus,&c. - les mondſ - les acides ſont, omnes acetoſx ſpecies, capreoli vitium,acetum,& c tct acida. - catifs acides. les compoſez ſont, ſyripus de abſinthio, de fumaria,de marrubio, de eupatorio , artemiſia, acetoſus, li- xiuium. oleum de vitellis ouorum, oleum terebenthinz, oleum de tartaro. vnguentum mundificatiuum de apio apoſtolorum, puluis mercurialis,&c . - l'vſage des nous vſons des medicamens mondificatifs, pour en purgeant les vlceres caues, donner moyen à nature d mºdificatifs. d'engendrer chair, & les remplir : mais en l'vſage d'iceux , faut auoir premierement égard à tout le corps : car il eſt ſain,ou plethorique,ou cacochyme.secondement, de la partie laquelle eſt humide ou ſeiche,plus ou moins, ſelon ſa temperature,& ſon lieu, de ſentiment aigu, ou hebeté : d'auantage,aucunes-fois elle reçqit quelque vice eſtrange, comme callus, fluxion chaude,douleur, quelque mauuais ſuc ou pourriture, ou quel- que autre mauuaiſe qualité. finalement faut conſiderer ſi l'vlcere eſt recent,& puis n'agueres faict, inueteré & vieil. car ſelon la diuerſité de telles conſiderations faut diuerſifier les remedes, tant en qualité qu'en quan- tité,augmentée ou diminuée.car ſi le doux & mediocre eſt quelquesfois changé en acre, & plus deſſeichant. auſſi à vn vlcere trop ſec & douloureux conuiennent medicamens liquides : à vn trop humide faut appliquer poudres & medicamens de conſiſtence ſeiche : & faut ainſi changer les remedes debiles ou forts,ſecs ou hu- mides,durs ou mols,ſelon la diſpoſition des vlceres. des - | et compoſitions des medicamens | matiere s'enſuit. - - rºr.a •s des medicamens ſarcotiques. c h a p, xv. · ed cament ſarcotique, c'eſt à dire, regeneratif de chair, eſt celuy qui par vne ſiccité aide # nature à r'engendrer chair en vlcere caue, ja bien net & mondifié : ce qui eſt faict d'vn ſang mediocre en quantité,& non pechant en qualité:car pour parler proprement à la verité,nous n'auons point de medicamens qui puiſſent proprement eſtre appellez ſarcotiques,mais ceux qu'on nomme de ce nom,ſont ſarcotiques par accident : à cauſe que ſans eroſion deſſeichent <， & mohdifient les excremens, qui empeſchent l'œuure de nature. car du nourriſſement propre pour la generation de la chair,prouiennent deux excremensil'vn & ſubtil,appellé des grecs ichor, & des latins sanies:l'autre eſt gros & eſpais,appellé des grecs rypos,& des latins serdes.or du premier, la playe, eſt rendue humide:& de l'autre, qui eſt gros & eſpais,ſordide. parquoy toute playe qui re- quiert quelque repletion,deſire medicament ayant double qualité,ou vertu : car d'autant que la playe eſt hu- mide,demande deficcation : & d'autant qu'elle eſt ſordide,demande abſterſion. auſſi d'autant que la playe eſt plus profonde, deſire leſdits medicamens de ſubſtance plus liquide, à fin que leſdits medicamens tou- chent au fonds de la playe. et ſeront diuerſifiez ſelon la temperature de la partie : car ſi la partie eſt humi- de, ils ſeront moins deſiccatifs : au contraire ſi elle eſt ſeiche, ils ſeront plus deſiccatifs. d'auantage ils ſe- ront diuerſifiez ſelon la diuerſité des complications & diſpoſitions des maladies qui accompagneront la playe. et pourtant nature en la regeneration de chair , eſt comme ſeule ouuriere & cauſe efficiente : le ſang dont la chair eſt faicte, eſt la cauſe materielle : le medicament tient lieu de cauſe adiuuante & coefficiente : car le medicament par vne deterſion & deſiccation mediocre ſans chaleur grande, en oſtant tous empeſche- mens à nature, prepare la matiere pour eſtre promptement tournée en ſang tel medicament, comme dit galien au cinquieſme des simples,doit eſtre ſec au premier degré ſeulement : afin qu'il ne conſomme le ſang & nourriture de la partie vlcerée : ce qu'il faut entendre en vn corps mol & temperé. car ſi l'vlcere eſt trop humide, ou le corps trop dur, il ne faut pas ſeulement vn medicament ſec au premier degré, mais iuſques au ſecond & troiſieſme. parquoy tels medicamens fort deſiccatifs ſont premierement appellez mondificatifs , ſecondement ſarcotiques. medicament ſarcotique eſt ſimple, ou composé : bening & doux,ou fort & acre. | n, definition de ſacotique. intention de la curation des vlceret. sarcotiquet les ſimples ſont ariſtolochia vtraque, iris,acorus, dracunculus,aſarum,ſymphitum maius,omnia ſymphyti ſimples. genera, betonica,ſanicula,millefolium,lingua canis,verbena,ſcabioſa,pimpinella,hypericon,ſcordium,planta- go » rubia maior & minor, & eorum ſucci. terenbenthina lota & non lota, reſina pini, gummi arabicum, ſarcocolla, maſtiche, colophonia , manna thuris, aloé cortex eiuſdem , olibanum, myrrha, &c. - mel , vinum, ſanguis draconis. lithargyros auri, ſpodium, pompholix,tuthia,plumbum vſtum lotum,ſcoria ferri, &c. - les compoſez ſont, oleum hypericonis, oleum ouorum, maſtichinum, & cxtera olea quæ balſami nomine appellantur. - vnguentum aureum, emplaſtrum de betonita, vulgo de ianua, emplaſtrum gratia dei, emplaſtrum nigrum. o - le cortices. metallica. sarcotiquet compoſez. olea ſeu balſama. vnguenta. emplaſtres. inous vſons des ſarcotiques quand l'vlcere eſt ja mondifié, & ſans douleur aucune ſans fluxion,ſans phleg-l'vſage des mon,ſans calloſité & intemperie. en l'vſage deſquels faut conſiderer la temperature du corps, & de la par-ſarcotiquet. tie affectée : car quelquesfois vne partie non trop ſeiche de ſa nature, demande medicament fort ſarcotique, & plus deſſeichant qu'vn autre plus ſeiche, à raiſon de quelque accidentt comme pour exemple , le balanus veut eître plus deſſeiché que le prepuce, jaçoit qu'il ſoit de temperature moins ſeiche, à raiſon qu'il eſt la voye de l'vrine. ainſi faut cognoiſtre la nature des parties, & cognoiſtre quand le medicament eſt trop our moins ſarcotique. car le moins & trop ſarcotique laiſſe l'vlcere ſordide : l'vn, à cauſe qu'il deſſeiche peu ; l'autre à cauſe de l'acrimonie qui irrite fluxion , ce qu'il faut diligemment entendre, à fin d'approprier le medicament tel qu'il conuient au corps & à la partie. - - • des medicamens epulotiques ou cicatriſatifs. ch a p. xv i. e d c a m e n r epulotique ou cicatriſatif, c'eſt à dire qui engendre cuir, eſt celuy qui par ſa ſiccité & aſtriction,ſans mordication aucune , deſſeiche, aſtreint, & condenſe la chair en ſub- ſtance calleuſe, approchant à la nature du cuir : & nous appellons cela cicatrice. neantmoins cicatriſer en vlcere, eſt ouurage propre de nature,comme engendrer chair, parquoy vn medi- cament eſt appellé epulotique à cauſe qu'il aide nature à produire vne peau ſemblable au cair, en conſommant les humiditez,condenſant & eſpaiſſiſſant la chair. et pour cette raiſon, il doit eſtre plus deſiccatif que le ſarcotique. d'iceluy on faict trois eſpeces. la premiere, eſt du vray epulotique, quand il deſſeiche & aſtreint. la ſeconde, du medicament acre & mordant, lequel pour conſumer & oſter la chair ſuperfiué, eſt appellé epulotique, lequel appliqué en petite quantité, fait cicatrice, & principalement aux corps durs. la troiſieſme, eſt du medicament qui deſſeiche ſans aſtriction. deſquelles trois eſpeces la ariſtolochia longa & rotunda, gentiana, iris,centaurium maius, pentaphyllon,ſymphytum maius, chamæ- drys, betonica, cauda equina , eupatorium, verbenaca, plantaginis & ſymphyti folia. gallae,myrti baccar, glandes & earum calices, balauſtia, cupreſſi nuces. malicorium, cortex quercus, cortex tamaricis, cortex ligni aloës, acacia, colophonia, ſarcocolla, ſanguis draconis, ladanum. lithargyros auti & argenti , cerufa , plumbum vſtum , alumen vſtum , tuthia , ſquamma xris, & ferri , & eorum ſcoria , aerugo, flos xris, xs vſtum & lotum , vitreolum vſtum & lotum , ſulphur viuum, chryſocolla, coralla, bolus armena, terra ſigillata , cineres oſtreorum , licifis, oſſa vſta & ſiccata , caries lignorum. vnguentum diapompholygos,vnguentum album rhaſis, deſiccatiuum rubrum. emplaſtrum de ceruſa, de betonica , diachalciteos, emplaſtrum nigrun. nous vſons des epulotiques quand l'vlcere eſt preſque plein, & quaſi égal à la peau. mais en l'vſage d'iceux, faut auoir égard au corps mol ou dur. car les medicamens qui ſont catheretiques au corps delicats & mollets,aux durs,ſont cicatriſa- tifs. faut auſſi ſe donner garde que le corps ne foit plethorique,ou cacochyme : car cela regarde la cicatri- ce. d'auantage,faut aduiſer que l'vlcere preſt à cicatriſer , ne ſoit entretenu,ou du vice de quelque partie, c q o coiilii g neÂnition . d'epulotique. eſpeces d'e- pulotiques. racine. fleurs & fruicts. eſcorces. mefahx. oguenti. emplaſtres. l'vſage des epulvtiques. le xxvi. liure de la faculté comme du foye, de la ratte, des poulmons, ou autres : ou d'vne varice ; car tel vlcere ne ſe pourra cicatri. ſer, ſi les cauſes qui empeſchent la cicatrice, ne ſont premierement oſtées. finalement les bords calleux en vn vlcere, retardent la cicatrice, s'ils ne ſont amollis ou coupez. il faut oſter ces empeſchemens auant qu'entreprendre faire cicatrice,& accommoder medicament deſiccatiftel,qu'il ne faſſe cicatrice caue, car il excederoit la meſure : ny trop haute, car il ſeroit trop peu deſſeichant,ains égale : parquoy ſera bien propor- tionné tant au corps qu'à la partie. des medicamens agglutinatif . ch a p. x.vii. ue c'eſtque #,\! # e d c a m e n t colletique, c'eſt à dire, agglutinatif , tient le moyen entre les ſarcotiques & ci- colletique.  # catriſatifs:car il eſt moins deſiccatifque le cicatriſatif,& deſſeiche plus que le ſarcotique,à ſçauoit # | iuſques au . degré. iceluy par ſa ſiccité & aſtriction ſans aucune deterſion, joint & aſſemble les = parties diſtantes & ſeparées, & aide en ce nature : laquelle ( comme auons dit ) eſt premiere, & quaſi ſeule operatrice, tant à regenerer chair & cuir , comme à glutiner. diuiſion, les medicamens agglutinatifs, tant foibles que forts, ſont tels par ſoy , ou de leur propre nature, ou par accident. herbes. les agglutinatifs de leur propre nature ſont, plantaginis ſpecies, conſolida vtraque, bugloſſa , millefo- lium , verbena, pimpinella, piloſella, cauda equina, ſemperuiuum, telephium, ſeufaba inuerſa, ſanicula,st- a tractilis, folia quercus, & dracunculi, ſalix,ebulus, ſambucus,pentaphyllon : cortex pini, cortex vlmi,cortex , palmae, cortex quercus. eſcorees. aqua vitis, aqua è folliculis vlmi, ſuccus calaminthz, vinum auſterum. luº. terebinthina , myrrha, ſanguis draconis, bolus armenus, terra figillata , omnia denique qux ſapore ſunt gommes, & acerbo. metaux. il y a d'autres glutinatifs ayans lieu de medicamens, qui empeſchent fluxion, & aſtreignent la pir- tie, comme ſuture, ou couſtures ſeiches, ligatures , repos de la partie, compreſſes, & autres tels aggluti- natifs par accident. - rvſue du nous yſons des glutinatifs és playes recentement faites & ſanglantes, & pour cette cauſe les grecs les glutinatiſ. ont appellez enaimes. or non ſeulement les agglutinatifs ſont appliquez és playes nouuelles , mais auſſi és vlceres malings & vieils,és fiſtules & ſinuofitez , à raiſon qu'ils empeſchent la fiuxion quiſe pourroit faire és bords & lévres de l'vlcere. en l'vſage d'iceux faut conſiderer ſi la peau eſt entiere ou non. car les playes ſont de difficile curation , qui ont ſouffert perdition de la peau : au contraire celles qui ont la peau entiere, conſidew- reçoiuent facile gueriſon. pareillement ne faut obmettre en l'vſage particulier deſdits glutinatifs,les conſ- derations du ſexe, du corps mol ou dur, de l'vlcere vieil ou nouueau, grand ou petit : car ſelon icelles faut glutinatifs. tions. - - - - diſtinguer & approprier les remedes. l' des medicamens cauſtiques & corroſifs. ch a p. xv iii. " . )ue c'eſt que e d c a m e n r pyrotique,c'eſt à dire, cauſtique & corroſif, eſt celuy qui par ſa ſubſtance acre, c pyrotique. mordante & terreſtre vient à corroder ſuperficiellement,ou fondre,liquefier & pourrir profonde- ment:ou bruſler & manger la peau & chair, & penetrer au dedans des corps durs & calleux. et trou eſpeces pourtant on fait trois differences de pyrotiques. les vns ſont appellez catheretiques, c'eſt à dire, de medica- corroſifs, à cauſe qu'ils mangent & corrodent la chair ſurcroiſſante ſuperficiellement en vn vlcere, ou autre mens cauſti- eminence du cuir,qui ſont les foibles & debiles pyrotiques.les autres ſont septiques,c'eſt à dire,putrefactifs, ques. autrement auſſi dicts veſiccatifs,qui pourriſſent la chair au dedans,& eſleuent le cuir en veſſies : leſquels ſont plus fort que les premieres.les tiers ſont eſcarotiques, c'eſt à dire,faiſans crouſtes & eſcarre par leur qualité ardente,ignée & terreſtre : nous les nommons ruptoires, ou cauteres potentiels, qui ſont les tres-forts.tou- tes leſquelles differences ne ſont que du plus ou moins en chaleur. car bien ſouuent il aduient quel'vn fait l'operation de l'autre : aucunesfois à raiſon de la complexion de la partie, quelquefois pour la quantité & longue demeure du temps. catberati- les catheretiques ou corroſifs ſont ſpongia vſta,alumen vſtum & non vſtum,vitreolum vſtum,calx medio- ques. criter lota,ætugo,calcanthum,ſquamma xris, oleum de vitriolo, trochiſci andronis, phaſionis,aſphodelorum, simples vnguentum aegyptiacum vnguentum apoſtolorum,puluis mercurij, arſenicum ſublimatum. compoſe{. les septiques ou veſiccatifs ſont radix ſcillz,bryonix, ſigillibeatæ marix, bulboſa, radix ranunculi,panis $ººººººº porcini, apium riſus, lac tithymalorum, lac fici, euphorbium, anacardus, ſinapi cantharides,arſenicum ſubli- veſiccatifi matum : leſquelles corrompent la temperature de la partie, & y attirent humiditez eſtranges. les eſcharotiques ou cauſtiques ſont,calx viua, fxx vinicremata , & prxcipuè aceti,ignis, adquem refe- haroti- - - - - - - - - # runtur omnia cauteria actualia dicta & potentialia, deſquels parlerons cy-apres. • d vſage. nous vſons des medicamens corroſifs és corps delicats, & maladies qui ne ſont trop rebelles. et partant d'autant qu'ils ſont moins acres & mordant,sd'autant ſont ils de plus grande operation , à cauſe qu'ils cau- ſent moindre douleur. des putrefactifs & eſcharotiques nous vſons és corps plus durs & maladies plus grandes : comme és vlceres calleux, fiſtuleux putrilagineux,humides, difficiles à guerir. mais des eſcharoti- ques parriculierement es chancres, charbons,hemorrhagie,& à pluſieurs autres maladies. toutesfois en l'v- ſage d'iceux faut tenir bon regime,& maniere de viure , auec abſtinence de vin , & auoir grande prudence à les appliquer : pour raiſon des grands ſymptomes & accidens qui s'en enſuiuent : comme extremes dou- leurs, ſyncopes,defaillance de cœur, fiévre, inflammations exceſſiues,gangrene, mortification, & ſouuent la morr. il y a grandes commoditez de cautere, tant actuel que potentiel : comme de corroborer la partie, la commodité. deſſeicher, corriger ſon intemperature, obtondre & hebeter la ventofité & § autres pluſieurs vtilitez leſquelles ſont deſcrites par auicenne. - - - -- - des medicamens anodyns. ch a p. xix. # de $ (# v a n t que parler des medicamens anodyns,faut premierement declarer la nature de la douleur, à v l f )'• fin de mieux deduire les anodyns.douleur doncques eſt vn ſentiment triſte & faſcheux,faict ou par vne alteration ſubite, ou par ſolution de continuité : dont s'enſuit que trois choſes ſont requi- ſes pour faire douleur. la premiere eſt les cauſes efficientes : qui ſont deux , alteration ſubite , & ſolution - - - - | -- et compoſition des medicamens. \ - a ſolution de continuité. secondement, que la partie où ces cauſes s'attache ſoit ſenſible. tiercement, qu'il ſe faſſe apprehenſion de ladite alteration ou ſolution de continuité. autrement ſi l'on n'apperçoit point les cauſes du douleur, nonobſtant la ſenſibilité de la partie, douleur ne ſe fera point. a cette cauſe dit hippo- $s te duobus doloribus , eumdem locum ſimul occupantibus , maior minorem obſcurat , à raiſon de l'apprehenſion de- ſtournée du tout vers la plus grande douleur. l'alteration ſubite eſt faicte de chaleur , froidu e, ſiccité, & humidité. de chaud & froid eſt faite douleur tres-forte : de ſiccité,mediocre : d'humidité preſque nulle,ou aſſoupie:car l'humidité ne faict point tant de douleur de ſa qualité,que de ſon abondance.la ſolution de con- tinuité eſt faicte tant de ſes qualitez conjoinctes auec matiere,que des cauſes externes,comme contuſion, in- ciſion, & les autres. douleur donc eſt ſymptome tres-grand du ſens de l'attouchement, qui accompagne preſque toutes maladies, & bien ſouuent nous contraint laiſſer la propre cure d'icelles, pour eſtre premie- rement appaisé & al'egé : ce que nous faiſons tant en oſtant & addouciſſant ces cauſes efficientes , que he- - betant la ſenſibilité de la partie. qu'il ſoit vray , ſi les medicamens peuuent obuier aux cauſes de douleur , ou ſtupefier le ſentiment du tact, ils ſeront appellez anodyns, deſquels nous faiſons trois differences. les vns ſont curatifs des maladies, anodyns generalement dicts. les autres propres anodyns. les tiers ſont ſtu- pefactifs ou narcotiques, - les premiers ſont tout medicamens contrarians aux caufes des maladies,& oſtans toute alteration : com- liu.a. aph, doulenr, diſſerencé des anodynt. - - - - premiere, # 'me en intemperie chaude l'huyle roſat,oxycrat, & autres ſemblables , ſont anodyns , & oſtent la cauſe de # douleur en intemperie froide, huyle laurin,huyle nardin, huyle de caſtoreum: en ſeiche intemperature,mix- º, - - - - - - - - (t : tion d'eau & d'huyle, baing d'eau douce.bref,tous medicamens qui curent les maladies,ſont anodyns, prins largement : auſſi tous medicamens purgatifs , phlebotomie , ſacrifications , cauteres actuels & potentiels, ventouſes, clyſteres , & autres quand en oſtant la multitude & abondance des matieres, allegent & aneantiſ- ſent la douleur. b les propres anodyns ſont de deux ſortes : les vns ſont temperez,n'excedans en aucune qualité : les autres ººſºº ſont chauds & humides au premier degré,approchans fort des temperez. d'anodyns les temperez ſont ceux qui n'ayans aucune qualité exceſſiue, gardent la chaleur naturelle en ſon entier " ſans la diminuer ny augmenter, appaiſent douieurs,& conuiennent à toutes intemperatures. d'iceux on en trouue bien petit nombre,comme des alimens temperez. entre iceux on prend huyle ſimple , huyle d'aman- des douces,moyeux d'œufs,& les ſemblables. les ſecond anodyns, propres, chauds & humides au premier degré , corroborent la chaleur na- turelle, à fin qu'elle puiſſe mieux abbatre la cauſe de douleur : rarefient, euacuent , extenuent,di- . - gerent, tant humeurs eſpais & viſqueux, que les ventofitez vaporeuſes & froides, qui n'ont iſſuë de ſortie , coilliilc, flores chamameli , meliloti , aneti, crocus. - | oleum chamæmelium,anethinum , oleum lini, oleum ex ſem. althea , oleum lumbricorum, oleum ouo- fleurt. rum,ex tritico. - huyles. butyrum, lana ſuccida, ſuillus adeps, vitulinus, gallinaceus, anſerinus, humanus, ex anguilla, cuniculo,& - aliis : lac muliebre & vaccinum. - mucilago ſeminis lini, fœnugrzci,althez,malua,aut earum decoctio. item decoctio liliorum,violarix ca- graiſſes. pitis pedum & inteſtinorum arietis & hoedi. les ſtupefactifs ou narcotiques improprement dits anodyns , ſont froids iuſques au quatrieſme degré, matilagesé, c par leur froidure extreme empeſchent que l'eſprit animal ne peut venir iuſques à la partie : partant oſtent de§. le ſentiment d'icelle, & par conſequent fapprehenſion qui ſe pouuoit faire : finablement viennent à endor- troiſieſme · mir & ſtupefier la partie où ils ſont appliquez. et ſont comme hyoſcyamus,circuta,ſolanum furioſum,man- eſpece. :: " dragora,papauer,opium,philonium & les ſemblables. ligatures extremes, & compreſſions, oſtent auſſi le narcotiquet. *- ſentiment d'vne partie, comme quand il faut amputer vn membre : parquoy elles ſeront miſes au nombre des anodyns impropres. l'vſage de premiers anodyns, eſt manifeſte en la curation de chacune maladie par ſon contraire. nous vſage. vſons des ſeconds en toute douleur qui ſe peut ranger,à fin d'euiter fluxion, inflammation , fiévres, & autres caution . ::: accidens. mais où la douleur eſt extreme & trop vehemente,qui ne veut obeir aux vray anodyns, il faut ve- | nir aux narcotiques, puis qu'il n'y a autre remede : non pas ſeulement apres auoir vsé des anodyns , mais » - auſſi du commencement de douleur trop grandes,quand le mal ne permet vſer des anodyns. toutesfois il ne faut appliquer narcotiques ſans y meſler du † ou mirrhe, ou caſtoreum , autrement il ſeroit dange- ,- reux : comme auſſi la continuelle application d'iceux eſt perilleuſe & dommageable. car par fcelle la par- tie deuient liuide ; pour l'extinction de la chaleur naturelle : & conſequemment ſe tourne en mortification ou eſthiomene. or aux douleurs extremes de grandes inflammations , & phlegmons, gangrenes , ne faut : º vſer ny de vrays anodyns, ny des ſtupefactifs : car ils ne pourront appaiſer telle douleur : mais des premiers, à ſçauoir , de phlebotomie, purgation, & ſacrification de la partie dolente , & que dolor ſi medicina doloris : comme nous auons dit au traicté de gangrene & mortification. d d'abondant nous auons quelque medicamens purgatifs eſtans appliquez par dehors, comme ceux que aë- tius tetrab. t.chap. .nous a laiſsé par eſcrit,comme tu verras par ces exemples. - epithemata purgantia. - %. pulpx colocynth ſeminis erucx,rutx ſylueſtris,elaterij grani cnidij, lathyridum expurgatarum,galbani, nitri rubri,ceræ,ſingul. . iiij. opopanacis . ij. terebenthinae . vj.terenda terito,& taurino felle paulatim ir- rigato,donec aptè imbibantur, deinde circa vmbilicum apponito vſque ad pubem & ventrem inferius du- cet : ſi verò fundo ſtomachi applicabis, vomitum excitabit. : - aliud. - z elaterij . iij. colocynthidis, ſcammonæ, ſquammz aeris, radicis agreſtis cucumeris, lathyridum anº . j.'aut pro lathyride tithymali ſuccum terito & cribrato,& cum oleo plurimum ſalis habente,ſubigito: ma- - ^ gnam deinde pilam è lana confectam, hoc medicamento illitam,cuicunque parti volueris applicabis, vmbili- co(inquam) aut lumhis. # compoſitio olei & vnguenti purgantis. ". . fellis taurini . j.grani cindijviridis .iiij.ſucci lupinorum viridium . ij. euphor. .j. pulpa colocynt- ,- tantundem,vulpini adipis recen. .ij.adipis viperx .j. . ſtercoris muris . iiij. ſubci pxonia , caſtor. ſingul. iiij. olei liguſtrini .vj. olei antiqui .j.fiat vnguentum vel oleum.purgat abſque moleſtia, & prater § » - vt l t tc le xxviliure de lafaculté vtilitates etiam mentis delirio confert, menſura verò quæ ad vſum aſſumitur , maxima eſt , cochlearia duo:- nam quibuſdam & vnum ſufficit. illinitur vmbilicus, & inregra purgatio ſubſequitur: qua ſi plus œquo exu- perauerit, ſpongia vino tepido imbuta & expreſſa ventrem fouebis,& confeſtim ſiſtetur. hypoglottides,c'eft a dire,ſublinguales,que l'on tient en la bouche,comme fueilles de vinette, roüelles de citron trempées en eau roſe & ſucre, grenade,ou orenge,berberis confit,ou autres ſemblables,qui ont puiſſance de rafraiſchir & humecter la langue & toute la bouche. - - t de la compoſition des medicamens, & de leur vſage. - c h a p. xx. v s q v e s icy auons declaré tant en general qu'en particulier,les facultez & effects des» # medicamens ſimples : leſquels il faut cognoiſtre auant qu entreprendre les compoſez : # qu'il ſoit vray, vn architecte & edificateur doit premier cognoiſtre les matieres qui luy $#ſont neceſſaires à maſſonner & dreſſer ſon ouurage. ainſſvn chirurgien voulant compo- | ſimples qui entrent en ſa compoſition. laquelle auons voulu declarer auant que donner la maniere de compoſer leſdits medicamens. - compoſition donques eſt mixtion des medicamens diuers en effects & vertus , faicte # .des par le medecin.a cette cauſe les medicamens ayans pluſieurs ſubſtances,comme la rheubarbe,ainſi que nous # .de auºns dit, l'aloë, la roſe, & l'abſinthe, ſont dits ſimpless au regard des compoſez artificiellement : jaçoit " garder ſa qu'ils ſoient bien compoſez par l'ouurage de nature. ainſi pluſieurs compoſitions ſont appellées ſimples , ſanté. comme oxymel ſimplex,oxyſaccharum ſimplex,& autres,pour la comparaiſon des plus compoſez. nous vſons des medicamens compoſez , pour cauſe que les ſimples n'ont touſiours contrarieté ſuffiſante vſage. en pareil degré aux maladies, & qu'il faut augmenter ou diminuer la force de l'vn ou de l'autre. d'auantage pour la complication des maladies, & des indications ſommes contraints meſler medicamens ſimples : car la nature du corps ou de la partie ſouuent demande autres medicamens, que les maladies. qu'il ſoyent vray , pour les indications contraires nous donnons medicamens compoſez,qui ſeruent à tous les deux,en augmen- tant celuy qui eſt de plus grande importance,& diminuant l'autre. quartement la compoſition des medica- • mens a eſté inuenté, afin de changer leur couleur,ſaueur & odeur. les autres vſages & cauſes de la compo- # ſ* § des medicamens ſimples, ont eſté bien doctement eſcrit par monſieur maiſtre iacques syluius , en ſa methode de compoſer les medicamens auec l'election d'iceux : à cette cauſe le pourras veoir. des medicamens compoſex, - des medicamens ſimples cy-deſſus eſcrits , les anciens ont fait diuers compoſitions & remedes topiques & particuliers, commun tant au medecin qu'au chirurgien : deſquels nous faut parler. telles compoſitions ſont clyſteres,ſuppoſitoires,noüets, paſſaires, huyles,linimens,onguents,emplaſtres,ceroüennes,pultes,calta- • plaſmes, fomentations,embrocations,epithemes,veſicatoires, cauteres ou ruptoires,collyres,errhines,ſternu- tatoires,maſticatoires, gargariſmes, dentifrices, ſachets, ſuffumigations & parfums , inſeſſions & baings. la maniere de les eſcrire & ordonner je declareray particulierement & le plus briefuement que faire ſe pourra commençant aux plus ſimples vniuerſels & plus neceſſaires, apres que i'auray deduit les valeurs , figures & pourtraicts des meſures & poids , deſquels nous vſons communément à diſpoſer & proportionner les medi- camens les vns auec les autres. des poids & meſures, & de leurs figures. cha p. xxi. il o v r poids depend d'vn commencement,& quaſi eſleuement : car tout ainſi que les corps #. ont leur commencement de quatre corps ſimples, que nous appellons elemens, eſquels il ſe ) peuuent reſoudre : ainſi tous poids ſont compoſez d'vn grain, qui eſt comme element des au- graius , en # } tres poids : auſquels ils ſont terminez. ledit grain doit eſtre entendu d'orge, non trop ſec ny poids medi )$# humide, & chancy, ains bien nourry , & mediocrement gros : de tels dix grains eſt faict vn cinal. obole,ou demyſcrupule : de deux oboles ou vingt grains,vn ſcrupule,puis de trois ſcrupules, ou ſoixante grains eſt composée la dragme ; de huict drachmes,l'once; tant que de douze onces nous faiſons la liure medicinale, qui eſt preſque le plus haut poids duquel nous vſons communément : & ſe peut reſoudre en drachmes, ſcrupules, oboles, & finalement engrains, outre leſquels n'eſt poſſible deſcendre plus bas. pour eſcrire ces poids, nous vſons de certaines lettres & figures qui s'enſuiuent. la liure eſt ſignifiée par ft. l'on- ce par cette figure , comme la drachme en telle . auſſi le ſcrupule ſainſi . l'obole eſt eſcrit par ſes pre- mieres lettres obol.le grain ſemblablement par g. le manipule par m. le pugile par p. le nombre par n. la moitié de chacun deſdits poids eſt figurée par É. miſe apres leſdits poids comme demie fb. ſ. demie . É. & ainſi des autres. telles ſont les figures des poids & meſures : mais en diſpenſant medicamens nous vſons au- cunesfois d'vn poids,& de l'autre non : parquoy faut entendre que les herbes vertes & ſeiches ſont diſpen- sées par m. ou p. les ſeiches que l'on peut pulueriſer, par . . ou p. dre le mot de les racines n ſ . . p. m. les eſcorces | | . . les ſemences > | . . les fruicts par { # p. . . . les fleurs | | p. m. . . les legumes j up. . . tous autres medicamens,tant ſecs que liquides, ſont diſpenſez & eſcrits par fb. . . . obol. g. deſquels poids tous medicamens bien diſpenſez des anciens ſont ſeulement eſcrits. ces choſes entenduës , faut deſ- crire les manieres de diſpenſer & ordonner medicamens compoſez: & pour ce faire commencerons aux cly- ſteres, comme los plus coinmuns & plus neceſſaires. - - des a \ſer vn medicament à ſa neceſſité,doit entendre que c'eſt que compoſition, & la nature des et compoſition des medicamens. : rt ,:: ſ - #: #.. '-, | -- # des clyſteres. ch a p. xxiii. - • a $: l r s r e r e , c'eſt a dire, ablution ou lauement , eſt vne injection appropriée au ſiege & )se c'eſt qus aux inteſtins en premiere intention : car autrement ſont auſſi faicts & donnez des clyſteres clyſters. tant pour le ventricule, ratte » reins , veſſie , amarry , meſentere, & autres parties voiſines, ， que meſme pour la teſte, de laquelle ſouuent par clyſtere acre eſt faicte revulſion de la ma- tiere en bas, comme il ſe practique iournellement, & non ſans heureux ſuccez, en l'apo- - à plexie : de ſorte qu'il n'y a aucune.partie qui ne reſſente quelque profit du clyſtere, mais les vnes plus les autres moins. il y a pluſieurs eſpeces ou differences : car ou il eſt remollitif, ou pur- atif, ou anodyn, ou aſtringent , ou deterfif, ou ſarcotique, ou epulotique, ou nutritif toutes leſquel- es differences ſont composées & faites des parties des plantes , des parties des beſtes , ou des medica- mens compoſez, tant reſolutifs qu'autres » ſelon les intentions du compoſant. les parties des plantes ſont matiere, racines, ſemences, fueilles, fleurs, fruicts, gommes, jus, mucilages. les parties des beſtes ſont, iaunes & au- bins d'œufs, miel,poulet, chappon, viel coq vené & preparé, la teſte & pieds de mouton, laict clair, tripes, ſuif de bouc, axunge : toùtes leſquelles parties tant de beſtes que de plantes , on fait cuire & boüillir , & en la decoction l'on meſle & deſtrempe les medicamens laxatifs, & autres tant ſimples que compoſez. quel- quesfois ſans mixtion de medicamens compoſez ſont faits clyſteres ſeulement d'huyle, comme d'huyle de noix pour la colique : de laict clair, de decoction de pieds , teſte & tripes de mouton, potage de pois chi- ches, & d'orge. la quantité du chyſtere eſt aucunesfois grande , autresfois plus petite , ſelon les temperatures & com- plexions , & ſelon les intentions. aucuns peuuent endurer grande quantité, les autres moindre , aux en- fans debiles, femmes groſſes conuient moindre quantité. auſſi où le ventre eſt fort ſerré & dur, en vne colique, dyſenterie, lienterie , & autres affections du ventre inferieur , faut que la quantité du clyſtere ſoit plus petite. au contraire, où l'on voit ſeulement eſmouuoir le ventre ; faut plus grande quantité : toutes- fois la quantité de la decoction communement eſt d'vne liure & demie, d'vneliure, ou tout au moins de trois quarterons : mais le plus ſouuent nous laiſſons la quantité au jugement de l'apothicaire, diſant ſeu- lement, quant. ſuff. il faut que le clyſtere ſoit tiede, plus ou moins, ſelon que les patiens le peuuent endurer, de peur que s'il lº qualité. eſtoit froid, il n'offenſaſt les inteſtins & autres parties voiſines , qui ſont nerueuſes & froides de leur naturel: & d'auantage faut en faire l'iniectionpeu à peu & doucement,de peur que pouſsé d'impetuoſité,& tout à coup, il ne chaſſe les flatuofitez ( qui ordinairement ſont contenues en la capacité des inteſtins ) en haut, & par ce moyen n'excite des trenchées intolerables. pour donner le tout à entendre, faut à preſent venir à deſcrire les exemples de chacune difference des clyſteres. - z. maluz, violarum,biſmaluz.branca vrſina an m.j. radicis altheae & liliorum alborum an. .j. paſſula- clyftere re- rum & ficuum pinguium an. . . fiat decoctio ad fb.j. in qua diſſolue caſſix, butyri recentis an. .j. violati mollitif . iij. fiat clyfter. - les § laxatifs ſont faits de quatre ſortes de medicamens, de la decoction de medicamens laxatifs , huyles & miel, ou autre qui ait vertu d'irriter. la decoction eſt quelquesfois propre à tirer les humeurs que l'on veut purger, comme pour tirer les humeurs froids & viſqueux, elle ſe fera ainſi. z. saluix,origani,abrotoni,camomillx & meliloti an.m.É.ſeminum aniſi, fœniculi, cumini an. .iij. ſemi-' nis carthami .ij.fiat decoctio, in qua diſſolue diaphœnici & hierz ſimplicis ana. .É. olei anethi & chamzm, ana. .j.É. mellis anthoſati & ſacchari rubri ana. .j. fiat clyſter. "- autre .vini albi gener.fb.j.bul.ad conſumpt.medieta in quain diſſſachar.rubri .ij.iterum parum adden- do vitell.ouor.num. ij & fiat clyſter. pour purger & tirer l'humeur colerique & bilieux, il ſera fait en cette maniere. /.. quatuor remollientium, parietariae, cichorij , endiuia ana m. . ſeminum quat. frigidorum maiorum ana .iij.hordei integri p. j fiat decoctio. in colatura diſſolue caſſiz .j. olei violati & mellis oſati ana . ij. fiat clvſter. - § tirer & purger l'humeur melancholique, l'on fera tel clyſtere. - z. fumiterrœ , centaurij minoris , mercurialis ana m.j. polypodij quercini, folliculorum ſenz ana . iij. ſeminis agni caſti, thymi, epithymi ana . ij. fiat decoctio, in qua diſſolue confectionis hamech . . caſſix recens extractz . iij. olei violati & liliorum ana . . ſacchari rubri & mellis violati ana .j. ſalis com- mun s . j. tels #asies ne ſeruent ſeulement à euacuer les humeurs ſuſdites, mais auſſi ſouuent contrarient aux in- clyſteres cor- temperatures : comme le premier & le dernier alterent les intemperies froides : le ſecond conuient aux in- re#iſe d'in- temperatures chaudes. temperature. les medicamens laxatifs qui ſont mis aux clyſteres ſont doux , ou forts. les forts comme confection ha- mech , benedicta , diaprunis ſolutiuum, diafœnicum ſont meſlez à par ſoy iuſques à . vj. ou .j. tout au plus, ſelon la nature du patient facile ou difficile à eſmouuoir. les debiles & benins, comme catholicon , caſſia , hiera ſimplex,de vj. iuſques à .j. . .ij. au plus, ſelon les indications. et tels medicamens l'on diſſout le plus ſouuent en decoction commune de clyſteres , qui eſt faite de quelques remollitifs auec fieurs de camo- mille & ſemence d'anis. le clyſtere anodyn eſt fait ſans medicamens laxatifs des medicamens anodyns , deſcrit en cette iilail ct *. - /.florum chamzmeli,meliloti,anethi ana p.j. radicis biſmaluz .j. fiat decoct. in lacte, colatura adde mu- cilaginis ſeminis lini & fœnugrzci extractæ in aqua malux . ij. ſacchari albi . ij. olei camomilla & anethi ana .j. vitellos duos ouorum, fiat clyſter. tels clyſteres faut garder long temps , afin qu'ils puiſſent mieux appaiſer les douleurs. aſtringent, vn clyſtere aſtringent eſt fait de choſes aſtringentes en la façon que s'enſuit. - . /.. caudz equinx , plantaginis, polygoni ana : fiat decoctio in lacte vſtulato ad quart. iv. col- laturz adde boli armen & ſangui. draconis ana . ij. olei roſati . iij. albumina duorum ourum , fiat clyſter. † tels clyſteres nous vſons en vne dyſenterie, apres que les groſſes matieres ſont euacuées & nettoyées, nutritiſi. ' ou en flux exceſſif des hemorrhoides. les clyſteres ſarcotiques , epulotiques deterſifs, ſont faits de medica- - mens deſcrits en leurs propres chapitres, pour ſeruiraux vlceres des gros inteſtins. les clyſteres nutritifs ſont faits de la decoction de poulets , chappons , vieils coqs cuits iuſqu'à pourriture & fort expreſſion # mouellge et compoſition des medicamens figure d'vn inſtrument proprepour ſe donner ſoy-meſme vn clyſtere. $ - = < = - e= - des suppoſitoires noiiets, & peſſaires. c ha p. xxiii. v p r os t o r e eſt vne maniere de tente (ayant le temps paſsé eu figure de gland , dont encore pour le iourd'huy elle retient le nom de glans)qui ſe met au ſiege,afin d'irriter le muſ- # cle sphincter à l'expulſion des excremens contenus és inteſtins. ceux que l'on fait de preſent ^, s n'ont figure de gland, mais pluſtoſt de peſſaires : car on les faict ronds & longs en forme de - chandelle de cire, d'où vient que le vulgaire de languedoc les appelle candelettes. ils ſont doux, ou mediocres , ou forts. les doux mediocres ſont faicts de poudres laxatiues , comme de hierre, ſel , & miel. les forts ſont compoſez des poudres de ſcammonée, euphorbe, colocinthe, & ſem- : blables, auec miel, ou jus d'herbes acres, ou fiel de beſtes. quelquesfois ils ſont faicts de ſauon, ſouuent auſſi é des troncs de porée, ou de ſa racine, aucunesfois d'vn lardon. :- pour compoſer vn ſuppoſitoire faut mettre pour vne once de miel , vne drachme de ſel, ou de pouldre -- irritant & laſchant, comme il eſt facile à connoiſtre par les exemples. . mellis cocti .j. hierx picrx & ſalis communis an. .É. fiat ſuppoſitorium longum quat.digitor. suppoſitoire . /.. mellis cocti #.j. pulueris colocynthidos .f. ſalis gemma .j. fiat ſuppoſitorium. mediocre. nous vſons de ſuppoſitoires, quand le patient pour ſon imbecillité ne peut pas endurer clyſteres, com- vſº º # : me és fiévres ardentes , ou quand les malades ne veulent prendre clyſtere , auſſi quand on ne rend point le ºr clyſtere qu'on a pris : finalement és affections froides de la teſte , qui endorment les malades, nous vſons l* communément de ſuppoſitoires forts & aigus, afin d'exciter la vertu expultrice du muſcle sphincter, eſtant - aſſoupie par telles maladies : ou bien quand la maladie de ſon naturel eſt telle, qu'elle eſt euidemment of- | -' fensée par l'vſage des clyſteres, comme en l'enterocele, en laquelle ſi le boyau eſt remply de clyſtere, il :，. preſſe dauantage le peritoine : & de ſa grauité tombe plus aisément par la partie relaxée ou deſchirée, dans : d le ſcrotum. - x les noüets, que l'on appelle en latin noduli, ont meſme vſage que les ſuppoſitoires, & fouuentesfois noiitt. -- ſont prins pour ſuppleer le defaut, tant des ſuppoſitoires , que des clyſteres , quand on eſt en lieu où l'on #. n'en peut pas fournir. et pourtant les noüets ſont faicts des medicamens que l'on peut par tout facilement trouuer : ſçauoir eſt, de jaunes d'oeufs meſlez auec vn peu de ſel & de beurre, aucunesfois fiel & miel, & le tout lié en vn linge mediocrement delié , à la groſſeur d'vne auelaine , laiſſant du fil de quelque longueur au bout, afin que quand on les mettra dans le ſiege, ils ſe puiſſent retirer quand on voudra. vous le pouuez ordonner en cette maniere. - z. vitellum vnius oui, cui adde ſalis modicum, fellis veruecis & mellis an. .f. butyri .iij. miſce, fiant noduli filo appenſi. r les temps propres à prendre tant ſuppoſitoires que noüets, eſt le matin auant diſner , comme des clyſte- res : car à telles heures nature a couſtume de reieter les excremens. si on eſt contraint d'en vſer apres diſ- ner, que ce ſoit pour le moins quatre heures apres le repas. peſſaire eſt plus gros que ſuppoſitoire, & eſt approprié à la matrice , lequel eſt fait de cotton ou ſoye, des peſſai- ou linge & laine peignée , en laquelle on a mis quelque medicament pcur mettre au col de la matrice : le-res. - quel eſt fait ou pour les vlceres du col de la matrice, ou pour prouoquer ou arreſter les menſtrues, ou pour la ſuffocation de la matrice, & purger les excremens d'icelle. parquoy ils ſont faicts de gommes, ius , ſe- mences, herbes, racines , appropriées aux intentions que nous voulons, & incorporées en conſiſtance em- plaſtique & ſolide , pour les mettre en figure d'vn doigt dedans la matrice : mais on a couſtume de les lier au bout, comme appert par les exemples. p p p z. myrrha, # le xxvi.liure, de la faculté /. myrrhz, aloës an. .j. ſabinx, ſeminis nigella , artemiſia an. . ij radicis ellebori nigri .j. croci .j. a peſſaire pro- cum ſucco mercurialis & melle fiat peſſarium filo alligatum coxae. uequant les É. maſtiches, thuris an. .ii). aluminis, roſar.rubr. nuc. cupreſſi an. .ij. ladani, hypociſtidos , ſumach. l , myrtillan. .iij fiat peſſarium cum ſucco arnogloſſa , & cotone. - peſſaire pour a l'exemple de ceux-cyon pourra faire d'autres peſſaires pour amollir, aſtreindre, mondifier , incarner, #º les cicatriſer les vlceres du col de la matrice,leſquels faut prendre au ſoir quand on ſe couche,& les faut garder vſage. ſix ou ſept heures. or les peſſaires ſe font non ſeulement des poudres des medicamens receuës & abbreu- uées de quelque ſuc, comme portent les exemples cy-deſſus mentionnez, mais auſſi des fimples poudres re- ceuës en vn ſachet de linge rare, delié & farcy d'vn peu dé cotton pour le faire enfler & bouffer en iuſte vſage. groſſeur de telle forme de peſſaire nous pourrons commodément vſer contre la cheute & precipice de l'a- pour la ſuffo.marry. l'exemple proposé par monſieur rondelet en ſon liure des medicamens internes, eſt tel. cation de z. benjoini, ſtyrac garioph. an. .j gallæ moſcatæ . . moſchijg. vj. fiat puluis exceptus bombace, im- la matrice. ponatur in vterum. des huyles c h a p. - xxi v. # v r l e proprement dite, eſt celle qui eſt tirée des oliues meures,ou non meures : mais abu- . fiuement elle eſt prinſe pour toute liqueur fiuxile, onctueuſe & aérée, de laquelle on fait b #" # trois eſpeces, la premiere eſt des huyles faites par expreſſion, tant des fruicts que des ſe- mences broyées & caſsées,afin d'en faire ſortir par expreſſion ce qui eſt oleagineux. aucu- # nesfois ſans feu : comme huyle d'amandes tant douces qu'ameres : huyle de noix tant peti- zvu $ tes que grandes : huyle de kerua, ou palma chriſti : leſquelles auſſi ſe peuuent tirer auec feu. aucunesfois ſeulement auec feu : comme huyle de lin, de laurier,de nauette,de chaneuy & autres telles ſemences. la maniere de les faire trouueras au troiſiéme de meſué, où il parle des huyles. seccnde eſ- la ſeconde eſpece, eſt des huyles composées des medicamens ſimples auec l'huyle, afin d'imprimer & pece laiſſer en l'huyle la vertu des medicamens, & ſe fait en trois manieres. la premiere eſt par decoction des racines, fueilles & ſommitez , fleurs, fruicts , ſemences, gommes, beſtes entieres cuittes auec du vin , ou eau, ou jus , en huyle commun , omphacin, ou autres , ſelon nos intentions , iuſques à la conſomption du- dit vin & eau : ce qui ſe connoiſtra, ſi vne goutte de telle huyle jettée dans le feu ne crepite point & ne pe- tille auec bruit. or telle compoſition ſe faict, à celle fin que l'huyle ſe puiſſe mieux & plus long-temps gar- , der ſans crainte de corruption, de laquelle ſemble bailler occaſion l'eſtrange matiere d'eau ou de vin meſlé | auec icelle quelquesfois on fait tremper & macerer les fruicts , ſemences, & autres ingrediens, par quel- que eſpace de temps auant que les faire cuire. et la coction ſe doit faira en double vaiſſeau , afin qu'elles ne retiennent vne qualité du feu, que nous appellons empyreume. ainſi ſont faictes oleum coſtinum , ruta- ceum, de croco, cydoniorum, myrtillorum , maſtichinum , de euphorbio, vulpinum , de ſcorpionibus, & autres telles huyles cuittes auec le feu. la ſeconde maniere ſe fait par maceration , quand on met trem- per par quelque eſpace de temps les medicamens ſimples en huyle : quelquesfois ſur les cendres chaudes: c quelquesfois en fiente de cheual, ou au soleil, afin que par cette chaleur moderée l'huyle puiſſe retenir la vertu des medicamens macerez. la troiſiéme maniere eſt faite par inſolation, quand en eſté l'on laiſſe au soleil fieurs des herbes miſes tremper en l'huyle, afin que ladite huyle eſtant eſchauffée de la chaleur amia- ble du soleil , puiſſe prendre les facultez & effects deſdites fleurs : & de ce nombre ſont, huyles de roſes , de camomille , d'aneth , de lis, de nymphæa , de violes, & autres leſquelles pourras voir en meſué, afin d'ap- prendre la compoſition & vertu, comme des autres cy-deſſus. troiſiéme la troiſiéuie eſpece appartient aux alchymiſtes, laquelle eſt faicte par reſolution en diuerſes manieres, & eſpece a vertus & effects merueilleux : quand par chaleur,ſoit du soleil,ſoit du feu, ſoit de putrefaction, vne liqueur huyleuſe eſt tirée. or l'extraction de ladite liqueur eſt faicte en deux manieres, l'vne per aſcenſum,l'autre per deſcenlum,ainſi qu'ils appellent. per aſcenſum ſont faictes huyles auec alembic,& receptoire, eſchauffez ou en cendres,ou arene,ou limature de fer, afin de faire monter en haut la vapeur & exhalation des medicamens . contenus au dedans, laquelle par refrigeration du ſommet de la chapelle & alembic deſcend au receptoire & telle liqueur eſt la partie la plus tenue & ſubtile qui ſoit eſdits medicamens : ce qu'ils appellent reſolution en ſes elemens, & extraction de l'humidité ſubſtantifique de la matiere. ainſi eſt fait oleum philoſopho- rum, qui eſt deſcrit au troiſiéme liure de l'antidotaire de meſué : auſſi oleum ſulphuris , qui eſt de tres- grande efficace & vertu , & preſque toutes les nobles & bonnes compoſitions, qui vulgairement ont le nom de baume. aucunesfois eſt faite telle ſublimation à la vapeur de l'eau , qu'ils appellent balneum ma- per deſcen- riae. per deſcenſum, ſont faictes huyles, quand la liqueur ne monte en la chapelle, ains deſcend en vne cor- ſum, nue, en la maniere que s'enſuit. il faut emplir vn vaiſſeau de terre, bien plombé, qui ait le col eſtroit : de tailleures menues du bois, ou autres medicamens gras, duquel nous voulons auoir huyle, & les bien diſpo- d ſer audit vaiſſeau par ordre : puis appliquer au col d'iceluy vne lamine de fer,ayant pluſieurs trous & pertuis, & la luter au col tant dudit vaiſſeau, que d'vn autre vaiſſeau de verre , qui doit receuoir ladite huyle,lequel faut mettre en terre : puis faut eſchaffer l'eſpace de deux heures ou plus,le vaiſſeau deſſus contenant les me- dicamens que l'on veut diſtiller, & par ainſi diſtillera huyles dedans le vaiſſeau enterré:telle diſtillation,com- me auons dit,eſt faite per deſcenſum,c'eſt à dire,par deſcente contraire à la precedente. plus ample doctrine de telles ſortes de diſtiller tu trouueras en philippe vlſtade enſon liure du ciel des philoſophes , & au pre- mier liure de la matiere de chirurgie,chapitre des reſolutions. auſſi meſué la deſcrit ; parlant de l'huyle de genévre ainſi ſe peut tirer l'huyle du bois de genévre,de gajac,du freſne,du bois de roſmarin,& pluſieurs au- tres,de vertus & effects merueilleux en la curation des maladies. semblablement, eſt tirée par reſolution, huyle d'œufs, de froment,& de mouſtarde:toutes fois elles ſe peuuent tirer par expreſſion comme la premiere autre façon eſpece. il y a vne autre façon d'extraire telles huyles per deſcenſum,quand on met le vaiſſeau contenant me- de tirer | dicamens,decliue & panche en lieu frais,comme en la cauetainſi eſt tirée huyle de myrrhe,huyle de tartre,& lhuyle per de vitriol. or faut noter,qu'en l'extraction de la quinte-eſſence des vegetables,c'eſt a dire,qui ont faculté de *ſºſº croiſtre ou de diminuer,comme ſont les herbes,l'humidité ſubſtantifique eſt tirée la premiere,mais des mine- · raux eſt tirée la derniere,laquelle eſt pure & nette,ſemblable à l'huyle. il y a d'autre ſubſtance excrementeu- ſe qui ſe tire, mais elle n'a tels effects que la ſubſtantifique, laquelle ſurpaſſe toutes autres facultez de medi- . camens bien ſouuent, outre toute opinion commune. - vſage nous vſons des huyles, afin que la vertu penetre au profond , ou afin que l'huyle puiſſe addoucir la gº. ſubſtance des choſes que l'on meſle auec ladite huyle toutesfois faut entendre, que quand on fait huyles froides composées auec huyle commune, il faut prendre de l'huyle omphacin, c'eſt à dire, tirée d'oliues vertcs » per aſcen - ſum. et compoſition des medicamens. - •: a vertes, & non meures, comme l'huyle roſat. auſſi quand on veut faire huyles chaudes, comme huyles des philoſophes, ou benedicta , il faut prendre de l'huyle douce & bien meure, ou vieille, ou d'infuſion de roſmarin & ſemblables. . - des linimens. c h a p. xxv. - -- $ i n m e n r eſt compoſition externe, moyenne entre huyle & onguent : ayant plus de con- )ue c'eſt que ſiſtance que l'huyle, pource qu'en ſa compoſition outre l'huyle, il reçoit beurre, axunge, & ºnºment ſ# choſes ſemblables : leſquelles eſtans refrigerées, acquierent & retiennent quelque conſi- · ſtance, qui eſt cauſe que pour eſchauffer, meurir & appaiſer douleur, le liniment eſt plus propre que les huyles ſeules, pource qu'il s'attache mieux, & a plus de priſe ſur la partie, & ne s'écoule ſi aisément, & moins que l'onguent : lequel eſt ainſi appellé, à cauſe qu'il lenit & addoucit les parties rudes & exafperées , & appaiſe les douleurs. les eſpeces de linimens ſont priſes de leurs effects : car aucuns ſont refrigerans,autres eſchauffans, aucuns humectans, quelques-vns maturatifs,& ainſi des autres, ſelon les indications des maladies. la matiere & ingrediens des linimens ſont huyle , axun- ge,ſuif,beurre: ou ce qui a conſiſtance d'huyle,comme ſtyrax liquide,terebenthine, mucilages de fœnugrec & guimauues,moelle,laine ſuccide, & autres. quelquesfois on y adiouſte quelques poudres de racines, ſemen- ces,fleurs,eſcorces, mineraux,& autres,mais en petite quantite,afin que le liniment retienne touſiours ſa con- ſiſtance liquide : auſſi on y meſle bien peu de cire,pour relier vn petit, & retenir les huyles ou axunges. on en peut faire des autres medicamens tant ſimples que compoſez, declarez cy-deuant , ſelon l'exigence , & neceſſité, & complication des maladies. les exemples donneront tout à connoiſtre. /.. olei amygdalarum amararum , liliorum an. .j. axungix anatis & gallina an. . ß. butyri fine ſale .j. liniment eſ. mucilaginis ſeminis althear, & fœnugraeci, extractx in aqua hyſſopi an. . .addendo pulueris croci & ireos ehauſſant, an. .j. fiat linimentum. attenuant, , olei amygdalarum dulcium .ij. axungiz humanx . É. mucilaginis ſeminis malux extractz in aqua # ºsº parietarix .É. fiat lininentun addito croco. # # ainſi pourras faire autres linimens à cét exemple, plus ou moins forts ou debiles, des remedes ja deſcrits. # l f• les linimens ſe peuuent appliquer à toutes les parties du corps, tant pour eſchauffer,refrigerer humecter gº. & deſſeicher, que pour digerer, maturer, amollir,appaiſer douleurs à cauſe qu'ils adherent d'auantage, & ne coulent p.sn toſt que les huyles. toutesfois en la compoſition de linimens, faut confiderer la partie où l'on les veut appliquer : car fi la partie a quelque conduit, meat ou ſinuoſité comme l'oreille, il faut que le li- niment ſoit plus liquide , & ait plus grande quantité d'huyle. s'il faut qu'il adhere ſur la partie où il eſt ap- pliqué, faut y mettre plus de graiſſes ou axunges, & autres chofes qui ont conſiſtance. aucuns veulent met- differente rre difference entre les linimens & onguens : à cauſe qu'aux linimens ne faut mettre cire comme aux on- entre onguie guens, leſquels certainement s'abuſent : car il y a des onguens où il n'y entre point de cire , comme entre & lintment. les autres l'egyptiac , non plus que tous † ſont preparez pour les les gangrenes & vlceres putrides, pource qu'à telles maladies, toutes choſes graſſes, comme huyle, graiſſe , reſine, cire ſont fort contraires: en lieudeſquelles entre en l'egyptiac le miel & verd de gris, tant pour donner cbnſiſtance à l'onguent, que pour le rendre deterfif. - eſpectte ---- - -- •-- -- • - des onguents. ch a p. xxv i. # e s onguents ont plus de conſiſtance & ſont plus fermes que les linimens, & de plus grands diference # effects : ainſi nommez, à cauſe que les parties où l'on les applique, ſont oinctes & engraiſsées des onguens, les differences d'iceux ſont priſes en partie de leurs effects, à cauſe qu'ils eſchauffent, refri- # gerent,deſſeichent,humectent, mondifient, confortent les parties, conſument la chair, faiſans cicatrices, & autres choſes ſemblables : en partie de leurs couleurs , & des aoins des inuen- *º teurs,comme album rhaſis, deſiccatiuum rubrum : en partie auſſi du nombre des ſimples deſ- quels ils ſont faits,comme vnguentum tetrapharmacum, que communement on nomme baſilicum, & triphar- macum, que l'on dit nutritum:& de pluſieurs autres tels accidens,ſont faites les differences deſdits onguens, comme le plus ſouuent ils retiennent le nom du principal ſimple qui entre en la compoſition d'iceux : ainſi - nous diſons vnguentum de lithargyro, de minio, diapompholigos, & les autres ſemblables. ils ſont faits l //ºatie/'é d'herbes,racines,ſemences,fruicts,des parties des beſtes, des metalliques,& quelques corps terreſtres les ius des ongueny. & autres humiditez , ſont conſommées en cuiſant, comme aux huyles : les heibes & parties d'icelles ſont puluerisées,ſi elles font ſeiches,tout ainſi que les metalliques & corps terreſtres:ſi elles ſont vertes, elles ſont cuittes, exprimées,& puis leur jus conſommé en decoction. les gommes & refines aucunesfois ſont pulueri- sées, autresfois ſont diſſoutes & fondues,ou par feu,ou par quelque liqueur conuenable. la cire ſe fond auec l'huyle ſur le feu.or pour compoſer onguens on a accouſtumé garder telle proportion,que pour vne once de pouldre,on y mette deux onces de cire, & huict onces d'huyle : toutesfois puis que la cire n'eſt miſe aux on- † que pour leur donner conſiſtance, il vaut mieux laiſſer la quantité de cire au iugement de celuy qui les ait : joint qu'il faut auſſi moins y adioulter de cire en eſté qu'en hyuer : à cauſe que la chaleur de l'eſté deſ - ſeichant dauantage la compoſition totale de l'onguent,luy donne plus de conſiſtance. telle eſt la reigle des communs practiciens pour ordonner des onguens, laquelle entendras mieux par exemple. - | . oleiroſati .iv. pilorum leporis,boli armeni, terrx ſigillatæ an. .j. balauſtiorum, & gallarum an. . ſ. ºººº tritis quae terenda, & ſimul mixtis, addita cera quod ſufficit, fiat vnguentum. percuſſif &r ainſi promptement à ta neceſſité pourras compoſer onguens à cét exemple : mais ſouuent on en fait d'au- #. tre fa on:car il y a trois manieres de compoſer onguens : la premiere eſt celle qui eſt faite ſans feu,en piſtant § # ſeulement au mortier : ainſi eſt fait vnguentum nutritum la ſeconde,quand auec feu nous fondons en l'huy-, de comre- le la cire, ou autre telle graiſſe : puis quand tout eſt fondu, nous meſlons les poudres en meſme proportion ſeronguens. que celle cy-deſſus. en cette façon l'on compoſe vnguentum aureum , baſilicon , diapompholigos , deſicca- tiuum rubrum, & enulatum. la troifiéme maniere eſt de piſter axunges auec le herbes, puis les cuire en- ſemble & les couler, car la colature eſt onguent. et pour facile intelligence, ie te donneray la deſcription des ſuſdits onguens, & la maniere de les faire. t | n t pt . .. m - " , lithargyri auri triti & loti fb. . olei roſati fb. j aceti roſatf .iv. & fiat vnguentum. vnguentum vous prendrez premierement voſtre litharge, & la mettrez en vn mortier, y adiouſtant vn peu d'huyle, nutritum. · : p p p afin - - - le xxvi. liure, de la faculté pnguentum f . vnguentums tetraphar- f/ ſ/º/ , vnguentum diapompho- l gos. vnguentum deſiccatif / / rubrum. vnguentum tnulatum. ynguentum albi rhaſis. vnguentum de althea. - s les racines, & les morceaux de ſcille , & les ſemences de lin, ſeront miſes en infufion chacun à part, en vnguentum populeonis. ' vnguentum apoſtolorum. vnguentum cmitiſſa. afin qu'elle s'eſpaiſſiſſe, la remuant auec vn pilon, puis adiouſterez autant de vinaigre, en remuantiuſque a à ce qu'ils ſe ſoient incorporez enſemble : & continuerez à etter tantoſt vn peu de voſtre huyle, puis du vinaigre, iuſques à ce que l'onguent ſoit rendu en bonne forme & conſiſtance. et ſi tu veux faire de cet on- guent l'emplaſtrum nigrum, tu feras conſommer petit à petit tout ton vinaigre, & lots l'emplaſtre viendra noir & luiſante. . cerz citrina . vj olei boni fb.ij. tereb. .ij. reſinz,colophoniz an. .j. f. olibani , maſtiches an. .j, croci j. fiat vnguentum. - en premier lieu, terez fondre voſtre cire,auec vne grande portion de l'huyle, puis vous adiouſterez la re- fine & colophone rompue par petit morceaux : & eſtans fondués : oſterez le tout du feu, & adiouſterez vo- ttre terebenthine : cela eſtant à demy refroidy, mettrez l'oliban & maſtic pulueriſez , & ſur la fin le ſafran diſſout ou deſtrempé auec le reſte de voſtre huyle. le tetrapharmacum eſt ainſi appellé, parce qu'il eſt composé de quatre ſimples, ſçauoir cire, reſine, poir, & ſuif de taureau, egalement meſlez & fondus. . refinz, picis nigrx, cera an. ij.É.olei veteris oliuarum matur.f .j.ſ.aut fb.j. si durius id eſſe vis, fiat vnguentum, aucuns l'appellent baſilicum. faites fondre auec l'huyle la cire coupée par petits morceauxpuis,adiouſterez la reſine & poix:& le tout eſtant fondu aurez voſtre onguent. - .É. olei roſati .ix.cerx albx .iij. ſucci ſolani hortenſis .iv.ceruſſx lotz .jpompholigos, plumbi vſti& loti, olibani puri an. . .fiat vnguentum. - en l'huyle ſera fondue la cire à petit feu, puis eſtant oſtée du feu, adiouſterez vos ſuſdits ingrediens, & les broyerez long temps en vn mortier de marbre, verſant petit à petit du ſuc : & ce qui ne ſera incorporé, vous le ſeparerez. %. lapidis calaminaris, terra ſigillatz an. .ij.lithargyri auri, cerufſæ an. .jf. camphorz . . cerz # ijf. olei roſati & violarum an. .iij fiat vnguentum. vous ferez fondre la cire auec l'huyle, & eſtans refroidis vous meſlerez vos poudres, remuant auec vne ſpatule de bois, adiouſtant ſur la fin le camphre diſſout auec vn peu d'huyle roſat, ou eau de roſes. %. radicis enulz campanr coctz cum aceto, & piſtatz vt decet, f . fi. axungiz porci, olei communis § . j.fi.argenti viui extincti, & terebenthinz lotæ an. .j.ſalis communis pulueriſati . ij. incorporenturyt ccct. vous prendrez vos racines cuittes, & paſsées par l'eſtamine, leſquelles ferez cuire auec voſtre axunge à petit feu , en remuant touſiours, puis ſoudain ietterez voſtre ſel , & huyle & cire, le tout meſlé enſemble: cela fait, ſera oſtée du feu la compoſition : à laquelle eſtant froide, adiouſterez le vif-argent eſteint auec vn peu d'axunge & terebenthine. /. olei roſati .ix.ceruſx albar .iij.cerae alba .ij.confice ſic. la ceruſe ſera bien puluerisée, ſur laquelle jetterez l'huyle & la cire, que vous meſlerez enſemble chau- dement, puis longuement battrez le tout enſemble , iufques à ce que le meſlange vous enſemble bien arfaict. z. radicis althex fb.j.ſeminis lini, fœnugrxci an.fb. . ſcillz .iij. olei communis fb.ij. cerz fb.f. tere- benth,galb.gummi hederx an. .j.colophonia & reſan. .iij. cinq liures d'eau l'eſpace de trois iours, puis on les fera boüillir iuſques à la conſomption chacun de trois onces : cela fait on en tirera les mucilages, que l'on fera cuire auec huyle, adiouftant la cire taillée en petits c morceaux : puis l'oſtant du feu mettrez le galbanum diſſout en vinaigre meſlé auec la terebenthine, enſemble la gomme de lierre, colophone & refine, reduits en poudre : ou bien ferez fondre voſtre colophone & re- ſine, auec la cire & huyle,qui ſeront mieux. - /.. ocul.populi arb.fb.j. folio paupauer.nig.mandrag folior.rubiz hyoſcya.vermic.lactucx,ſemperuiui, folior. violar. cimbalaris , folior. nominati cortali, naſcentis in figul. & muris an. . É. cordus & fernelius itemque nicolaus dozent les fimples iuſques à trois onces chacun adipis ſuilli recentis expertis ſalis fb.ij° vini boni fb. j.fiat vnguentum. - .° les fueilles des violes & œillets de peuple ſeront pilées en vn mortier de marbre auec les axunges, puis ſeront miſes en vn pot,& laiſsées l'eſpace de deux ou trois mois,attendant que les autres herbes ſoient enleur vigueur, leſquelles eſtans cueillies, ſeront hachées & piſtées comme les ſuſdites, puis meſlees enſemble, & fera le tout mis en vn lieu tiede l'eſpace de nuict iours, adiouſtant vne liure de vinaigre fort : cela fait on fe- rera le tout cuire iuſques à la conſomption de l'humidité,qui ſe connoiſtra lors que l'on en iettera vn peu deſ ſus le feu, & s'il fait bruit, c'eſt ſigne qu'il y a encore quelque humidité:laquelle eſtant conſommée, ledit on- guent ſera paſsé par vn gros linge, en exprimant bien fort le marc des ſuſdites herbes. /.. terebenthinx, cerx alba , reſinz an. .xiv. opopanacis & floris zris (ſeu viridis zris : car flos zris ne ſe prend pas icy proprement pour ces petits † qui comme ſcintilles ſaillent de l'airain, lors que les mareſchaux l'abbreuuent d'eau pour le rafraiſchir : mais il ſe prend pour le verd de gris, quieſtfort propre contre les vlceres malins, contre leſquels tout cét onguent eſt preparé)an. .ij. ammoniaci . xiv. ariſtolo- d chix longz, thuris maſc.an. .vj. myrrhz & galbani an. .iij.bdellij .vj lithargyri .ix. oleifb.ij fiatvn. u ºiltlliil. $ la litharge doit eſtre nourrie auec .ij. d'huyle, l'eſpace de .heures, en apres cuitte à petit feu iuſques en forme de miel , en remuant , afin qu'elle ne ſe bruſle : à laquelle eſtant hors du feu, adiouſterez la cire fondue auec le reſte de l'huyle,enſemble la reſine:puis le tout eſtant refroidi, mettrez les gommes diſſoultes en vinai- gre,& cuittes,incorporées auec la terebenthine, ou bien les adiouſterez en pouldretcela fait les poudres d'a- riſtoloche, myrrhe & encens ſeront incorporées : & par ainſi voſtre onguent , y adiouſtant ſur la fin,foris zris bien ſubtilement puluerisé. encore que par cy-deuant la deſcription de l'egyptiac ſoit miſe, ie n'ay voulu faillir la mettre en ce lieu. - ' l, floris xris, aluminis t ochae,mellis communis an. .iij.aceti acerrimi .v ſalis communis .jvitrioli ro: mani#. .ſublimati pulueriſ .ij. bulliant omnia ſimul, & fiat vnguentum vt artis eſt. i'ay adiouſté le ſublimé our luy donner plus de force, lequel tu pourras diminuer ou oſter ſibon te ſemble. #. corticum medianorum caſtanearum, corticum medianorum arboris glandium, & glandium, myrtillo- rum, caudx equina , corticum fabarum, acinorum vuarum, ſorborum ſiccorum immaturorum, meſpillº rum immaturorum , radicum chelidoniz, foliorum prunorum ſylueſtrium an. .j.fi. aquæ plantaginis ib.viij cerz noux . viij. s. olei myrtillorum fb.ij.ſ . en apreste faut eſpandre dru & menu la poudre des choſes qui s'enſuiuent. - - - - #. puluetis et compoſition'des medicamens. ? - À %. pulueris corticis mediani caftanearum, corticis mediani glandium, corticum medianorum arboris glandium , id eſt quercus, gallarum an. .j. cineris oſſium cruris bouis , myrtillorum , acinorum vuarum, ſorborum ſiccorum an. . . trochiſcorum de carabe .ij. fiat vnguentum. premierement vous ferez vne decoction en l'eau de plantain , des ſimples concaſſez qui s'enſuiuent, com- me cortex medianus arboris quercinae , acini vuarum, radix chelidoniae,meſpilla ſorba, cauda equina,ſemen myrtillorum,pruni ſylueſtris folia,cortices fabarum,cortices mediani glandium,caftanearum cortices & gal- la:leſquels ſimples eſtans bien cuits,ſeront laiſſez en infuſion l'eſpace de deux heures,& ladite decoction ſera paſsée & ſeparée en neuf portions: & auec vne des ſuſdites portions la cire eſtant fondue auec l'huyle de myrtils,ſera lauée en continuant telle ablution ſept fois:cela fait,& l'ayant bien égoutée,de ſorte qu'il ne re- fte aucune goutte de la decoction,auec la cire & l'huyle, la ferez fondre, adiouſtant les poudres qui s'enſui- uent,comme oſſium cruris bouis,ſcorticum mediorum arboris quercinz, & mediorum corticum glandium, - corticum mediorum caſtanearum, gallarum , ſorborum, meſpillorum, ſeminum myrtillorum, acinorum vua- rum,& ſur la fin trochiſcos de carabet& par ainſi aurez voſtre onguent fait ſelon l'art. - vngaentum %. olei abſinthij, maſtichis, de ſpica & roſati an. .ſ. pul abſinthij, roſar. maioranz , mentha an. .j. prºtemabe. garyophyllorum , cinnamomi, maſtichis, galanga an. .j. pulueriſentur pulueriſanda , & cum ſufficien- ti quantitate cerœ fiat vnguentum molle , de quo vngatur ſtomachus calidè per horam ante paſtum, con- tinuando. - - nous vſons des onguens,afin qu'ils demeurent & s'arreſtent en la ſuperficie,ſans couler,& auſſi afin qu'ils ºzº- ne penetrent trop au dedans:pour cette raiſon ils ſont moyens entre les linimens & emplaſtres : & bien ſou-** uent nous prenons onguens pour linimens,vſant indifferemment de l'vn & de l'autre. * onguent de hedrus eſcrit par galien,propre aux morſures des beſtes enragées & à toutes morſures, liº de la ſoit d'hommes ou autres animaux, auſſi aux ragadies du fondement : on en fait pareillement des peſſaires º# º remollitifs. - - - # /. cerz albz fb.ij.ceruſx,lithargyri aurei an. fbj.myrrhz,& medullz cerui an. .ijthur. .j.olei fb.ſ. la "*" maniere de le faire eſt telle:il faut cuire la litharge auec huyle iuſques à bonne conſiſtance : cela fait il faut ietter la cire & ceruſe,& les mouuoir:& lors qu'ils ſeront vnis,& n'adhereront point aux doigts,oſtez-les du feu,& y mettez la moüelle, puis quand ils ſeront refroidis on y adiouſtera la myrrhe , & le thus , ſubtile- ment pulueriſez, & ſera gardé tel onguent pour en vſer aux diſpoſitions ſuſdites. liu . de la autre medicament de galien,propre aux morſures des chiens enragez,& aux picqueures des nerfs & ten- somp. des dons,il prohibe que telles playes ne ſe peuuent glutiner ny cicatriſer. il ſe fait ainſi prenez vne liure de poix medicamens graſſe,trois onces d'opopanax,cuits en fort vinaigre,huyle de lis, axunge de porc fort vieille, & ſoit fait engeneral. onguent. il dit que l'huyle de mouſtarde eſt ſi acre, que la mettant ſur les playes recentement fermées, elle a vertu de les faire ouurir, & partant elle eſt bonne auſdites playes faites des beſtes eſtranges, & aux ponctions des nerfs & tendons. - - - - - des ceroiiennes& emplastres. c h a p. xxvii ge s ceroüennes & emplaſtres ont fi grande affinité en leur compoſition, que ſouuentesfois affinité à àn) ， on eſcrit l'vn pour l'autre , tout ainſi que les linimens & onguens , leſquels on confond cerciienne é» )k# quelquesfois l'vn auec l'autre : à cette cauſe nous diſtinguerons bien peu les ceroiiennes emplaſtre. # , des emplaſtres:car la difference eſt bien petite. ceroüenne eſt vne compoſition plus dure & ceroiienne. k$y $ ſolide que les onguens,& plus molle que les emplaſtres,laquelle a ſon nom de la cire qu'elle .. >ss& y reçoit, pour donner conſiſtance & arreſter l'huyle, les differences ſont priſes aucunesfois differentes. des parties où elles ſont appliquées,comme ceratum ſtomachicum, autresfeis de leurs effects, comme ce- ratum refrigerans galeni : ſouuentesfois des ſimples, deſquels iſs ſont compoſez , comme ceratum ſantali- num, ainſi des autres. la propre matiere des ceroüennes eſt la cire neufue, & les huyles accommodées aux parties & maladies : de ſorte que linimens & onguens ne different aucunement des ceroiiennes, s'ils reçoi- uent de la cire en leur compoſition, comme vnguentum roſaceum, s'il reçoit de la cire, ſera appellé ce- roüenne, non onguent. - les ceroüennes qui ſont compoſez de racines, gommes, & metaux, ſont pluſtoſt appellez emplaſtres que compoſition. ceroüennes, comme le ceroüenne pour la hergne, communément appellé emplaſtrum contra rupturam. da- uantage,ſouuentesfois s'il y a douleur ou inflammation en vne partie, nous faiſons ceroüennes des emplaſtres liquefiez en huyle,de peur que la ſubſtance trop ſolide,dure & peſante de l'emplaſtre, ne bleſſe la partie do- lente par ſa grauité,& n'augmente l'inflammation,empeſchant la perſpiration d'icelle par ſa ſolididé.et pour- tant delaiſſans la maniere de compoſer leſdits ceroüennes, dirons des emplaſtres. emplaſtre eſt vne compo- emplaſtré. ſition faite de toute ſorte de medicamens, principalement gras & ſecs, aſſemblez & amaſſez en vn corps eſ- # - - - - - b pais & viſqueux,dur & ſolide,adherant aux doigts. les differences des emplaſtres ſont autant manifeſtes que differences. celles des onguents. qu'il ſoit vray elles ſont priſes bien ſouuent d'vn principal medicament qui entre en la ' compoſition,comme diachylons de meliloto,de baccis lauri,diachalciteos ſiue palmeum,de betonica ſiue de ianua aucunesfois de leurs effects, comme diuinum,gratia dei , apoſtolicum , contra rupturam. quelques- fois auſſi de la couleur,comme emplaſtrum nigrum,griſeum,& autres telles differences,leſquelles connoiſtras à leur nom commun & vulgaire. la matiere des emplaſtres eſt prinſe des parties des plantes,des metalliques,& corps terreſtres principale- compºſitiºn. ment, & des parties des beſtes:deſquels les vns laiſſent ſeulement leurs vertus, comme le vin, vinaigre, eau & tous ius liquides des herbes:les autres ſeruent principalement pour donner conſiſtance ferme aux empla- - ſtres,comme la litarge(laquelle,ſelon galien,eſt la principale matiere à faire emplaſtres)la cire , l'huyle, & aux liures les reſines. les autres ſont mis aux emplaſtres,non ſeulement pour ſeruir de matiere,mais auſſi pour donner de la #- leurs vertus & effects,comme les gommes,quelques metalliques,parties des beſtes & reſines,comme la tere- # #… benthine pour digerer,mondifier & deſſeicher. or des emplaſtres aucuns ſont faits ſans coction, les autres # parricu. auec coction. ceux qui ſont fait ſans feu, incontinent ſont deſſeichez , & ne ſont aucunement viſqueux. lur. ils ſont faicts de farine & poudre, meſlées & incorporées auec ius, ou autre choſe humide. tels emplaſtres doiuent pluſtoſt eſtre appellez onguent durs,ou cataplaſmes qu'emplaſtres. qu'ainſi ſoit, par decoction ſont faits les vrays emplaſtres, laquelle eſt aux vns plus longue, aux autres plus briefue, ſelon que les in- grediens la peuuent endurer de leur nature & ſubſtance : parquoy il eſt fort vtile connoiſtre ceux qui por- tept grande decoction ou petite. donc la methode & moyen de faire les emplaſtres, c'eſt que les racines, ººº bois,fueilles,tiges, fleurs, ſemences ſeiches & puluerisées, ſont miſes preſques toutes les dernieres, lors #" que l'emplaſtre eſt quaſi cuite , ou qu'elle eſt ja hors du feu, ou autrement leur vertu s'euapporeroit. empleſtres. \- pp p ; toutesfois le xxvi, liure, de la faculté toutesfois ſi quelques-vnes de ces choſes entrent en la compoſition lors qu'elles ſont fraiches & encore a , verdes, ou illes faudra faire cuire en quelque liqueur, puis les paſſer & meſler auec les reſte : ou bien ſi elles ont du ſuc, on le tire apres les auoir pilées : & ſe ſert-on de ſuc pour cuire les autres choſes , & les fait-on du tout conſommer, n'y laiſſant rien que la vertu & faculté, comme l'on peut voir en l'emplaſtre de ianua, , ou betonica,ou gratia dei : ce qu'on obſerue auſſi és mucilages : vray eſt qu'à cauſe de leur viſcoſité,ils ne ſe conſomment pas tant que les ſucs. quant au miel & huyle,il en demeure encore beaucoup , encore que l'emplaſtre ſoit parfait. et quant aux ſucs ſolides & endurcis, comme l'aloes , l'hypociſtisº, l'acacia , & au- tres ſemblables, ſi quelqu'vn entre en la compoſition de l'emplaſtre, & s'il eſt encor recent & frais,il le fau- dra ſeulement diſſoudre & détremper en quelque liqueur propre à noſtre intention : lequel neantmoins il faudra faire conſommer à force de cuire, autant que le meſler en la compoſition , ou bien faire cuire toute la , compoſition,iuſques à la conſomption de l'humidité des ſucs. les gommes,comme galbanum, opopanax,ſa- gapenum,ammoniacum,& autres,ſe doiuent diſſoudre en vinaigre , eau de vie,ou autre liqueur : puis doiuent eſtre coulées,& cuites iuſques à la conſomption deſdites liqueurs, & conſiſtance emplaſtique,& ſeront miſes § aux emplaſtres ja du tout cuittes. et eſt à noter que pour bien auoir la quantite & poids des gommes, il les ſeiches és faut premierement diſſoudre & couler, & les faire cuire, à cauſe des petits éclats de bois, & autres ordures emplaſtres, qui ſe trouuent le plus ſouuent. dauantage le chirurgien doit auoir égard en quelle liqueur il les fait diſ- ſoudre : car le vinaigre fait de bon vin fort & puiſſant, eſt de trop plus grande vertu,pour ſubtilier & pene- , • trer , que celuy qui eſt fait de petit vin bruſc, rude & aſpre. . les autrès gommes qui ſont plus ſeiches,ſont miſes en poudre, & meſlées à la fin des emplaſtres : les me- talliques, comme aes vſtum,chalcitis,magnes,bolus armena,ſulphur,auripigmentum: & les autres qui ſe peu- moyen de , fºire entrer · · · uent pulueriſer,doiuent eſtre mis à la fin,ſi d'auanture on ne veut obtondre & refrener leur trop grande for- . - ce par longue dccoction.ainſi eſt fait des reſines, de la poix , de la terebenthine , laquelle doit eſtre miſe · · apres la cire,ſans ſentir aucune coction,ou bien petite : les graiſſes ſont meſlées ſur le feu. la litarge auec ， ' l'huyle doit eſtre cuitte à conſiſtance, ſi l'on veut que l'emplaſtre deſſeiche ſans mordication. la ceruſe pourra bien endurer tant longue decoction,mais elle ne rendra l'emplaſtre blanc : tout ne plus ne moins que la litarge d'argent ne donne tant belle couleur aux emplaſtres que la litarge d'or. finalement tel ordre tu garderas en la decoction des emplaſtres. la litharge ſera cuitte à conſiſtance, le ius ou mucilages ja con- ſumez,puis on y adiouſtera les graiſſes , en apres les refines ſeiches, les gommes, la cire, la terebenthi- - ne, & à la fin les poudres. la parfaicte coction des emplaſtres eſt cogneue par la conſiſtance craſſe, dure, · signes que glutineuſe & adherante. ce qui eſt euident, quand en prenant quelque portion de l'emplaſtre, icelle je- º"?!ºſº froidie, ſoit par l'air ou eau froide, ou marbre, elle ne vient à adherer aux doigts. dauantage, quand ſºraººfººº tout eſt bien meſlé, & la paſte de l'emplaſtre eſt bonne & bien amaſsé , difficile à rompre & mettre en · iilol cc d llx . " - - - la quantité des medicamens que l'on veut meſler pour faire emplaſtre ne ſe peut deſcrire, ains eſt eſti- mée par vne coniecture artificieuſe, ayant égard aux medicamens qui donnent confiftance & glutinofité: puis à la coction parfaicte on connoiſt ſi l'emplaſtre eſt trop mol ou trop dur. la cire n'entre point aux em- plaſtres eſquels il y a du ladanum : car il ſert de cire. dauantage, ſi la compoſition d'vn emplaftre reçoit quelques medicamens emplaſtiques, la cire ſera diminuée : au contraire , ſi les autres ſont tous liquides, l'on augmentera la cire en telle quantité qu'elle puiſſe donner conſiſtance emplaſtique. le temps auſſi & l'air , varient la quantité de la cire, & pourtant ſera bon laiſſer la quantité de la cire au iugement de l'operateur, , eſcriuant ſeulement, cera quantum ſufficit. des onguens , on peut faire emplaſtres, en y adiouſtant ou · - - cire , ou reſines ſeiches , ou autre choſe dure & ſolide. aucuns veulent, que pour vne poignée des medica- c mens groſſement pulueriſez, on y mette vne once, ou once & demie d'huyle , ou autre liqueur mais de ce- cy ne s'en peut donner precepte certain , ains tout giſt en l'examen & conſideration des emplaſtres ja com- poſez des anciens, eſquels ſe faut diligemment exercer, pour bien bien entendre la maniere d'ordonner em- emplaſtrum plaſtres a cette raiſon nous deſcrirons le plus communs. - - - - - - - - § % olei chamameli,anethi,de ſpica,liliorum an. .ij.olei de croco .j pinguedinis porcina ib.j.pinguedi- merc§rio. nis vitulinx fb. .euphorbij. v.thuris .x. olei laurini .j.É. ranas viuentes n.vj. pinguedinis viperx . ij. - lumbricorum lotorum in vino .iij. .ſucci ebuli, enulae an. .ij. ſcheenanti,ſtœcados, matricariae an.m.ij.vi- ni odorifieri fb.ij.lithargyri auri fb.j. terebenthina clarae .ij. ſtyracis liquidae .j.É. argenti viui extincti, fiat deſ de vif emplaſtrum.pour † d'ingrediens, on y met iv. . de vif-argent,& ſouuent l'on le multiplie pour eſtre ladite emplaſtre de plus grand effect. les vers doiuent eſtre lauez auec eau de fontaine, puis auec vn . peu de vin , afin de leur oſter toute la terre qu'ils pourroient auoir : eſtans ainſi lauez,on les fera tremper au vin qui entre en cette compoſition,& les grenoüilles toutes viues ſeront adiouſtées;& le tout boüilly enſem- ble,iuſques à la conſomption de la tierce partie, puis ſera miſe l'herbe appellée matricaria , incisée, auſſi le .. v : ſchœnanthe, contus , & le ſtoechas, & derechef on fera cuire le tout iuſques à la conſomption d'vne liure. telle decoction ſera cuitte à perfection,& qu'elle ſoit claire,puis ſera laiſsée refroidir,puis coulée & gardée, attendant que la litharge aye eſté nourrie l'eſpace de xij.heures auec huyle de camomille,aneth,de lis,de ſa- fran,enſemble les axunges de porc,de veau,& de vipere(en lieu de l'axunge de vipere,on prendra de faxunge humaine)laquelle litharge ayant eſté nourrie,ſera cuitte bien lentementipuis oſterez le tout du feu,& adiou- - ſterez vn carteron de la ſuſdite decoction:en apres ſera miſe ſur le feu , afin que l'humidité en ſoit conſom- autres font née & continuerez iuſques à ce qu'ayez mis toute la decoction & notez qu'vne partie de lhuyle d'aſpic ſera #" gardée pour mettre à la fin de ladite decoction, afin que l'emplaſtre aye meilleur odeur. cela fait,lors adiou- §t, §ute ſterez ſuccos ebuli & enula campanz,faiſant le tout cuire iuſques à leur conſomption,puis(l'ayant oſté hors la decoction. du feu)adiouſterez le thus,euphorbium , & de la racine blanche tant qu'il ſera beſoin, puis mettrez l'ar- gent vif eſteint auec la terebenthine,& huyle d'amandes ameres,& le ſtyrax,l'huyle laurin & de ſpica,en re- * \ * ^ muant tout iuſques à ce qu'il ſoit froidipuis en ferez magdaleons. le vif-argent ſera incorporé,eſteint,com- · · · ) · me dit eft, auec l'emplaſtre, ſur le marbre auec les mains. annotation au ieune chirugien, que tous les on- | | | guents auſquels entre du vif-argent, on le doit eſteindre auec vn peu d'axunge ou huyle viſqueuſe, º ' comme de lin,ou terebenthine, puis apres l'incorporer auec le medicament, eſtant preſque du tout refroidy, ' autrement il s'euaporeroit en fumée , ou ſe reüniroit en corps comme deuant qu'il fuſt eſteint:laquelle cho- ſe eſt bien à noter, principalement comme à l'emplaſtre de vigo, & autres. cerati œſy- %, croci . ij. .bdellij maſt ammoniaci, aloès, ſtyrac liquidae an. . cera ft. f. tereb.g. vi. medullae pi ex pb#- crurisvacca , adipis anſeris an#.j. œſypi, vel axung gall ſi deſit, .ix. olei nard quantum ſatis ad magda- gris. leones formandos, expreſſionis ſcilla .j.ſs.olibani ,ſ$. ſepivitulini .j.l'œſipus, ſepum , adeps & medullas auec la cire ſeront fondus enſemble : & eſtant le tout refroidy, adiouſterez l'ammoniac diſſout en vne de- mie once d'vne decoction faite de fœnugrec & de camomille, & en vne once & demie de ſuc de ſcille, fai- ſant conſommer l'humidité : puis mettrez le ſtyrax & terebenthine , & remuant touſiours , lors adiouſterez ' - - ' ! le argent. et compoſition des medicamens. , À le bdellium, origan , maſtic, aloés, mis en poûdre : le tout eſtant bien incorporé auec huyle de nardinum en formerez magdaleons. - .terebent. fb. . refina fb.j. cera alba . iv.maſtic.# j fol.verb.bet.pimpin anim.j. les herbes verdes & emplaſtrum • principalement leurs ſommitez, ſeront hachées & broyées en vn mortier de marbre , puis ſeront cuittes en de gratia bon vin rouge & odoriferant, iufques à la conſomption de la tierce partie , & en la colature aaiouſterez dei. voſtre cire taillée en petits morceaux pour la faire fondre : & l'humidité conſommée , mettrez la reſine , & le tout eſtant refrigeré, adiouſterez le maſtic bien puluerise, le malaxant entre vos mains pour le mieux ncorporer. - %. ſucci beton. plantag.apijan.fb.j. ceræ, picis, reſina , terebent.an:ft.ſ. fiat emplaſt. les ſucs ſeront mis emplaſtrum auec la cire pour la liquefier & fondre, leſquels ſeront conſommez iuſques à la confomption de trois parties, de ºnuºſº puis adiouſterez la reſine, poix, leſquels eſtans fondus, ſeront paſſez tous chauds : adiouſtant puis apres la * betonica. terebenthine, apres en ſeront faits magdaleons. - - #. croci, picis communis (ou pluſſoſt naualis, laquelle à la verité ſemble plus propre en ce cas , de tant ºſº que tel onguent eſt preparé pouramollir, diſcuter, & euoquer la douleur des jointures) coloph.cerae an. j. ** terebenth.galb. ammo. thuris, myrrhae, maſtic. an. .v. b. vous ferez lentement fondre la cire, adiouſtant la poix & colophone,puis mettrez vos gommes diſſoutes comme il appartient,& meſlées auec la terebenthine, & le tout eſtant oſté du feu, mettrez le thus & la myrrhe l'vn apres l'autre, & ſur la fin le ſafran bien pulue- risé, puis en formerez magdaleons auec huyle de vers. - ". . olei communis fb.ij. ceruſae ſubtiliſſ fb.j. si tu veux faire ton emplaſtre plus blanche, ne faut mettre #º que .ix.d'huyle. vous ferez cuire voſtre emplaſtre petit à petit, mettant tout enſemble, en remuant juſques « ceruſa. à ce qu'il aye conſiſtance d'emplaſtre. - .litharg triti , aceti fortiſſimi an. fb.ſº. olei antiqui f .j. fiat emplaſtrum. la litharge ſera nourrie auec emplaſtrum b l'huyle l'eſpace de neuf heures , la faiſant cuire à petit feu , iuſques à ce qu'il ſoit eſpais, puis adioulterez tripharma- voſtre vinaigre petit à petit, vous donnant de garde qu'il ne ſe bruſle, & ferez tout boüllir, iuſques à la ººm ºn mi- conſomption d'iceluyvinaigre. icelle emplaſtre eſt dite triapharmacum , à raiſon qu'elle eſt composée de s" • trois ſimples. *. " %. olei veteris f .iij.axungiae veteris ſine ſale fb.ij. lithargiri tritifb.iij. vitrioli .iv. l'huyle & la lithar-emplaſtrume ge ſeront miſes enſemble, afin de la nourrir, l'eſpace de douze heures , puis ſera cuitte ayant quelque con- palmeumſ- ſiſtance, adiouſtant l'axunge, & faut touſiours remuer auec vne ſpatule de palme, ou en lieu d'icelle , avec ! diachal- vne racine de canne ou baſton de ſaux, & eſtant cuitte à perfection, & oſtée du feu, adiouſterez voſtre vi-" • triol bien puluerisé. - - - • • #. picis naualis, aloés an. .iij. lithargiri, cerœ, colophonix, galbani, ammoniaci an. .ij.viſci quercini emplaſtrum .vj. gypſi viti, vtriuſque ariſtolochiz an. .iv. myrrhæ , thurisan. . vj terebenthina .ij. pulueris vermi-#." num terreſtrium, gallarum, vtriuſque conſolida, boli armenix an. .iv. ſanguinis humanifb.j. fiat empla- pturam. ſtrum : lequel ſi vous voulez faire bonne conſiſtance, adiouſterez olei myrtillorum , vel maſtiches fb. ß. ſi- non que tel apres ſa compoſition ſera de mauuaiſe paſte. le moyen de bien faire cét enplaſtre eſt tel. pre- nez vne peau entiere d'vn belier, laquelle coupperez en petits morceaux, & ſera cutte en cent liures d'eau & vinaigre, iuſques à ce qu'elle ſoit renduë comme vne colle ou gelée : en laquelle diſſoudrez viſcus quer- . cinum , adiouſtant la cire taillée en petites pieces, enſemble la poix rompuë en petits morceaux : & ſi vou- lez adiouſter de l'huyle, le ferez : puis adiouſterez le galbannm, ammoniac diſſout en vinaigre : puis meſlez , auec la terebenthine : en apres ſeront incorporez la litharge, gypſum , le bol , l'atiſtoloche , & la conſolde» · les vers , & le ſang , & ſur la fin la myrrhe, le thus, colophone , & l'aloës , ſans faire aucune interpoſition n de remuer, puis afin que le tout ſoit mieux incorporé , on battra long temps l'emplaſtre en vn mortier auec c vn pilon chaud. #- : - • • • %, mucag ſeminis lini, radicutn althez, fœnugræci & mediani corticis vlmi an. .iv. oleililiacei , camo- # melini, anethini an. .j.ſ. ammoniaci, opopanacis, ſagapeni, an. .f. croci .ij. cera noua fb.j .viij tere- #º- benthina .ij. fiat emplaftrum. - . . " - - fernel ne doſe la cire que iuſques à vingt dragmes, voulant au reſte la doſe des autres ingrediens , eſtre ſemblable à celle qui eſt icy ordonnée. les mucilages & la cire coupée en petits morceaux , ſeront miſes auec les huyles, & ſeront conſommées , en remuant auec vne ſpatule de bois : puis ſeront adiouſtées les gommes diſſoutes, & meſlées auec la terebenthine, puis apres metrez le ſafran bien puluerisé . . %. olei roſati, myrt. vnguent populan. .iy.pingued.gall. .ij. ſepi caſtrati, ſepivaccinian. .vj pingued. porcinz .x ceruſx #.iv.minij .iii.terebent. iv eerz quant fatis, ſi opus fuerit fiat emplaſtrum velcera- tum molle. - · · la litharge, ceruſe, & minium, chacun à part ſeront reduits en poudre ſur le marbre , les atrouſant d vn emplaſirum peu d'eau roſe, afin que le plus ſubtil ne s'euapore : puis ſeront incorporez auec huyle roſat.myrtil, les inet- de minio. tant ſur le petit feu,iuſques à ce qu'ils ayent acquis la conſiſtance de miel cela fait adiouſterez les axunges, & la ferez cuire iuſques ce qu'elle deuienne noire : lors ſubit mettrez le ſepum caſtratum & vaccinum, leſ- quels eſtans fondus , oſterez le tout du feu, adiouſtantl'vnguentum populeonis, & s'il y a beſoin de cire, en adioufterez, puis formerez vos magdaleons. - -- - - . . .. - tm . § puri & pulueriſa# xj oleiirini , aneth, chamæmelini ah. viij. mucilaginis ſeminis lini, # d fœnugræci & radicis althex, & § & vuarum paſſarum, ſucci ireos,& ſcillx, cefypi, ichthyo- collae an. .xij,ß terebenth. .iii. reſina pini, cerx flaux an. .ii. fiat emplaſtrun. . - , - - • j la litharge doit eſtre nourrie auec l'huyle, auant que la mettre ſur le feu , pºis eſtre cuitte à petit feu, iuſques à ce qu'elle deuienne eſpeſſe : apres faut mettre petit à petit les mucilagºs iuſques à la conſom- ption : apres le ius de ſcille & iris ſoient meſlez auec ledit euiplaſtre , auſſi le nucilage de ichthyocols : r iceux eſtans conſumez, faut faire fondre la cire & la refine, & hors du feu ſoit miſe la terebenthine, & oeſypus. - - - - • • •» #- des emplaſtres ; eſt afin que plus de temps ils puiſſent demeurer ſur les parties où ils ſont appli- # quez,& que leur vertu ne ſe puiſſe ſi toſt exhaler : ioint que l'on les peut garder long temps. - - des cataplaſmes & pultes ch a p. xxv ii i. iere d - maftere des $， e s cataplaſmes ont grande ſimilitude auec les emplaſtres , dits improprement , à cauſe qu'ils peu- cataplaſmes # uent eſtre eſtendus ſur linges ou eſtoupes, & adherer aux parties comme emplaſtres. ils ſont faicts •: * de racines, fueilles, fruicts, fleurs, ſemences des herbes, ius d'icelles , huyles , axuºgº ! mouel- les, farines, ſines deſquels les vns ſont cuits, les autres cruds ceux qui ſont cuits ſºnº † - ppp ctbcs le xxvi. liure, de la faculté herbes cuittes à pourriture, puis paſsèes par vn ſaſſet, en y adiouſtant l'huyle ou axunge. les cruds a ſont faicts des herbes pilées, ou ius d'icelles meſlées auec huyle » farine, & autres poudres accommodées ou à la maladie, ou à la partie, ſelon l'intention du compoſiteur. la quantité des medicamens ingrediens n eſt point determinée, ains eſt laiſsée au iugement & eſtimation des fimples que l'on veut meſler en vne conſiſtance molle & eſpaiſſe, laquelle doit eltre viſqueuſe, ſi nous voulons maturer : & au contraire, ſi nous voulons digerer : la choſe ſera manifeſte des exemples , leſquels nous mettrons, apres auoir deſcrit vſage° leur vſage. - - - nous vſons des cataplaſmes en la curation des maladies pour appaiſer douleur , cuire & digerer tumeurs contre nature,reſoudre ventoſitez. ils doiuent eſtre chauds moderément, & de parties ſubtiles, afin que me- diocrement ils attirent. l'vſage eſt ſuſpect & dangereux , où le corps n'eſt pas purgé, à cauſe qu'ils attirent à la partie ja affectée : auſſi ne faut vſer d'iceux, quand la matiere que l'on veut digerer eſt groſſe, & terreſtre : car ils reſoudroient le ſubtil, & laiſſeroient le gros : ſinon, en cas que leſdits cataplaſmes fuſſent meſlez des choſes non ſeulement diſcutientes, mais auſſi reſoluantes. ºſº - º. medullae panis ib. fi. decoquatur in lacte pingui, cui adde olei camomillz .f. axungiz gallinz #j. º .. fiat cataplaſma. - *"ºf y. radicis althez ;. iij.foliorum malux, ſenecionis an. m.j. ſeminis lini, fœnugræci an. .ijficuspingues num.vj decoquantur in aqua, & perſetaceum tranſmittantur, addendo olei liliorum .j farinz hordei j.ij. reſolutif axungiz porcina j.ſ fiat cataplaſma. - - - - - - %. farinx fabarum & orobi an, ij pulueris camomillz & meliloti an. iij olei irini & amygdalarum z, matiere, amºrºrum an. .j ſucci rutx .fiat cataplaſma. - - - - - ai#erºn & º pultes ne different des cataplaſmes, ſinon à raiſon qu'elles ſont faites des farines cuittes en huyle & #e d,, eau, ou miel ou beurre, ou axunge. l'on fait pultes pour la maturation des tumeurs contre nature, de farine pultes. d'orge , ou de froment, & de laict ferré, principaleinent aux affections des parties internes, pour deſſei- cher & aſtreindre, & lors ſont faites de farine de riz, ou de lentilles,ou d'orobus auec vinaigre:ou pour mon- difier, & en tel cas ſont faites de miel, farine de féves, de lupins, en y adiouſtant de l'huyle vieille, ou autre huyle chaude,its fairez reſolutiues. dauantage, l'on fait pultes pour appaiſer douleur, & lors ſont faictes de laict : les exemples feront le tont manifeſte. pºlº maº- %. farinx tritici . ij. micx panis puriſſimi, .iij.decoquantur in lacte, & fiat pulticula. " jfeº• .. farinz hordei & fabarum an. .ij.farinz orobi .iij. decoquantur in hydromelite, addendo iis quart. olei amygdal. maturarum .ij. fiat pulticula. nous vſons des pultes au commencement des maladies, aux douleurs & maturations des tumeurs contre nature, eſtans tant és parties internes qu'externes. quelquesfois nous vſons d'icelles pour tuer & occire les vers : telles ſont faires de farine de lupins, cuitte en vinaigre & en fiel de bœuf, & decoction d'abſinthe, a , & generalement de toutes choſes ameres. » des fomentations. ch a p. xxix. leſinition. >s # o m e n t a t o n s eſt vne euaporation ou eſtuuement, faite principalement pouramol- #, lir, relaxer & appaiſer douleur, des medicamens relaxans, emolliens, & anodyns, afin ， que par ſa chaleur elle puiſſe incontinent échauffer, digerer, & maturer. icelle eſt ſeiche, , ou humide. la ſeiche ne differe point des ſachets : deſquels nous dirons cy-apres, partant icy nous n'en dirons rien, mais ſeulement traitterons de l'humide, laquelle eſt faite de meſ- à me matiere que l'embrocation, ſçauoir eſt, d'herbes , racines, ſemences, fleurs emollientes, relaxantes, & digerantes, cuittes en eau & vin : & differe ſeulement de ladite embrocation, quant à la ma- niere d'appliquer. les racines de guimauues, mauues , de lis.les ſemences de mauues, guimauues, perſil, ache, de lin, fœnugrec. les fieurs de camomille & melilot, figues, leſquelles choſes ſont miſes en telle quantité qu'il conuient , & ſont cuittes en eau, vin ou lexiue, en plus grande quantité ou moyenne, ſelon que la partie & maladie requiert, aucunesfois iuſques à la conſomption de la moitié, quelquesfois iuſques à la troiſiéme partie, ce que connoiſtras par les exemples. fomentation . radicis biſmalux & liliorum an. .ij.ſem.lini, fœnugr. cumini . iij. fior. camom. meliloti & ane- emolliente & thi an.p j. ſummitatum origani m. . decoquant. in arquis partibus aqua & vini, aut ij. partibus aqua & vna "ſº vini, aut in lixiuio cineris ſarmentorum , ad tertix partis conſumptionem, & fiat fotus. - a cét exemple pourras eſcrire autres fomentations à autre vſage, ſelon ta neceſſité. vſage. . or nous vſons des fomentations auant qu'vſer de cataplaſines ou onguents, afin d'ouurir les pores , re- laxer les parties, & ſubtilier l'humeur, de ſorte que la voye ſoit preparée aux autres remedes. elles ſont fai- tes en toutes parties du corps : mais ne faut vſer d'icelles ſinon apres la purgation du corps, de peur qu'elles n'attirent dauantage d'humeur & ſang à ſoy, qu'elles ne puiſſent digerer. l'application & maniere d'vſer deſdites fomentations eſt telle.aucunesfois l'on trempe d'vne eſponge femelle (car telle eſt plus liſſe & dou- ce pour ſon egalité que l'eſponge maſle)en ladite decoction chaude,ou feutres, ou linge, puis eſt eſpreinte & · appliqu e iuſques à ce qu'elle eſt refroidie,& derechef eſt trempée,& ſnuuentesfois appliquée aucunesfois l'on emplit à demy de la fomentation chaude vne veſſie (laquelle principalement eſt appliquée aux coſtez) ou vne bouteille, afin que la chaleur ſoit gardée plus longuement en la partie : auec telle caution toutesfois, que telle bouteille, ſoit d'airain ou de terre, ſoit enueloppée de quelque choſe molle & douce, comme laine - ſarge catdee, ou autre ſemblable matiere, de ſorte que ledit vaiſſeau , ny de ſa grauité, ny de ſon aſperité h'pº n'offence la partie dolente, comme admoneſte hippocrate au .de dieta in acutis. des embrocations. c h a p. xxx. ns> m b r o c a r o n , ſelon les grecs , ou irrigation , ſelon les latins, eſt vn arrouſement . $ quand d'en haut,à la fimilitude de la pluye,l'on laiſſe diſtiller quelque decoction ſur quelque # partie, principalement aux affections de la teſte, enuiron la ſuture coronale, tant pource que s， par les ouuertures manifeſtes de telle ſuture, la vertu du medicament eſt portée plus aisé- # ment au dedans qu'auſſi pource que le crane enuiron ce quartier eſt plus mince qu'en aucun idn nsn autre endroit. la decoction conuenable à faire embrocation, eſt faite de racines, fueilles, fleurs,leumences fruicts,& autres ſemblables medicamens choiſis ſelon nos intentions,leſquelles ſont cuits en liure & demie,ou en deux liures d'eau & de vin.iuſques à la conſomption de la moitié, ou de la tierce † " - aucune f difinition. $ et compoſition des medicamens. a # ſ - aucunesfois on fait embrocations de lexiue & ſaumures deſſeichantes pour les maladies froides du cerueau: - - ſouuentesfois auſſi elles ſont faites d'huyle ſeule,ou de vinaigre auec huile,ſi c'eſt pour la teſte:vn exemple ' .. ſeul ſuffira pour t'en donner la connoiſſance. embrotation z.foliorum plantaginis & ſolani an m.j. ſeminum portulacx & cucurbitae an. .ij. myrtillorum . j.flo- repercuſſiur. rum nymphzx & roſarum an.p.ſ. fiat decoctio ad fb.j. ex qua irrigetur pars inflammata. pour repercuter g lien § auſſi pourra eſtre faite embrocation d'huyle roſat auec vinaigre. nous vſons des embrocations, afin que la liures des partie la plus ſubtile puiſſe penetrer auec l'air qui eſt attiré par les arteres : au moyen dequoy la partie eſt ſimples, euentilée, & aucunement rafraichie, qui eſt cauſe que telles embrocations ont plus de lieu aux maladies froides que chaudes, la maniere d'en vſer eſt , quand ou pour la crainte du flux de ſang , ou pour vn os rompu, nous ne voulons défaire la ligature, ains eſpreignons de haut vn linge, ou du cotton trempè en de- coction, ou huyle conuenable à noſt re propos, ſur la ligature : car le coup eſt rompu par les bandes. aucu- nesfois nous imbibons le linge ou cotton , & en touchant la partie nous faiſons embrocation. toutesfois pour en parler à la verité, telle choſe merite pluſtoſt le nom de fomentation humide,que d'embrocation: comme l'etymologie du mot grec le monſtre euidemment. des epithemes. c h a p. xxx i. é#, p t h e m e eſt vne compoſition appropriée ſeulement aux parties nobles des deux ventres definition, \ % inferieurs, ſemblable à fomentation, & peu differente d'embrocation. les pratticiens l'ap- pellent humectation ou irrigation, laquelle eſt faite des eaux ou ius & poudres appropriées au foye,au cœur,& au thorax,auſquels on adiouſte du vin plus ou moins,ſelon que l'affection froide ou chaude le requiert. car lors qu'il faut eſchauffer , on adiouſte dauantage de vin, - comme en la ſyncope prouenante de quelque grumeau de ſang, de corruption de ſperme, de venin froid pris par la bouche:le contraire ſe doit prattiquer és fiévres:aucunesfois de la maluoiſie,aucunes- fois du vinaigre. les herbes & autres medicamens ſimples, conuenables aux parties internes, ont eſté deſ- cris au chapitre de la quatriéme faculté des medicamens : on vſe toutesfois le plus ſouuent des poudres ele- ctuaires compoſez,comme d'electuarium triaſantali pour le foye,diamargariti pour le cœur. en la compo- ſition des epithemes,les practiciens vſent de telle proportion, pour vne liure de ius & eaux,ils mettent vne once, ou vne once & demie de poudres,y adiouſtant quelquesfois vinaigre iuſque à demie once : & de la maluoiſie ou du vin iuſques à vne once : ce que connoiſtras par l'exemple ſuiuant. - /.. aquz roſarum,bugloſſa & borraginis an. .iv. ſucci ſcabioſx .ij. pulueris electuarij,diamargariti fri- epitheme gidi ijcorticis citri ſicci j coralli,raſura eboris an. . . ſeminis citri & card. benedictian. ij .croci & pour le cœmr. moſchi ang.v. addendo vini albi .j. fiat epithema pro corde. - vſage nous vſons d'iceux, tant pour le foye que pour le cœur, & tout le thorax és fiévres hectiques ardentes, |gº, (eſquelles fiévres hectiques & ardentes,plus opportunément ſont appoſez les epithemes ſur le thorax, & re- gion des poulmons,que ſur le cœur:car les poulmós ainſi refrigerez,eſchauffent moins l'air attiré:& faut que tels epithemes ſoient compoſez de choſes humides & froides, pour par icelles contemperer l'ardeur de la fiévre,qui deſſeiche par trop le corps)afin de refrigerer ou eſchauffer,ou conforter leſdites parties.aucunes- fois nous en vſons pour garder & preſeruer le cœur des exhalations veneneuſes eſleuées de quelque partie, comme gangrenes, ſphaceles, & mortifications. la maniere d'appliquer tels epithemes, eſt de tremper & moüiller ſouuent linge delié, ou cotton, ou ſantal, principalement quand c'eſt pour le coeur, & l'epithemer aſſez chaud & en eſtuuer les parties. tels remedes,comme tous les autres topiques,ne ſont appliquez, ſinon apres les choſes vniuerſelles faites. ** * s$ a - - des ruptoires, ou cauteres potentiels. ch a p. , xxx ii v p t o r e eſt vn cautere potentiel, lequel par ſa vertu cauſtique bruſle & fait eſcar- definition. re. on les applique pour faire ouuerture à quelque partie, comme pour faire vacuation , # deriuation,reuuiſion,& attraction des humeurs. dauantage, ſeruent aux piqueures , & mor- pºſage des s)ns ſures des beſtes venimeuſes; & aux apoſtemes veneriques,& bubons, & charbons peſti-º # $ , $ lentiels, s'il n'y a grande inflammation,parce que l'ouuerture faicte par iceux eſt beaucoup s>- º @º à loüer (ainſi que i'ay eſcrit au traicté de la peſte) d'autant qu'ils obtondent & attirent le. venin du profond à la ſuperficie , & donnent ample iſſue à la matiere conioincte : ſemblablement ſont fort propres aux apoſtemes pituitèuſes & phlegmatiques, pource que par leur chaleur ils aydent à cuire l'humeur froid & crud,mal-aisé à ſuppurer, & aux autres apoſtemes où il y a crainte de flux de ſang:à couper les vei- nes variqueuſes,& pareillement à conſommer chairs ſuperfluës & pourries, trouuées dedans les loupes, & faire cheoir les bords calleux des vlceres, & autres choſes qui ſeroient longues à reciter. or les matieres deſdits cauteres,ſont calx viua, cendre de cheſne, de grauelée, tithymal, pommelée, de figuier, de tronc de la matiere des canteres d choux,de febues,de ſarment de vigne & autres ſemblables : pareillement des ſels, comme ammoniac, alkali axungia vitri,nigra,ſal nitrum,vitriol romain,& autres ſemblables. et de toutes les choſes on en fait vn ſec qui ſera fort corroſif ſelon la quantité & qualité des choſes dont ils ſeront composées, lequel par ſa chaleur eſt cauſtique, faiſant eſcarre & crouſte , comme vn fer ou charbon ardant, & partant fait ouuerture en conſommant & erodant le cuir, & la chair où on les applique. le d prenez chaux viue trois liures, laquelle ſera eſteinte en vn ſeau de lexiue de barbier: & apres que ladite # ( ſ} lexiue ſera raſſiſe, on la coulera : & dedans icelle on mettra ſein de verre, & cendre de grauelée , † chacun # a deux liures, ſel nitre,& ſel ammoniac, de chacun quatre onces : leſdites choſes ſe doiuent puluerifer groſſe-§. ment, puis il les faut faire vn peu boüillir, & les laiſſer infuſer par l'eſpace d'vn iour & d'vne nuict , en les remuant par pluſieurs fois : puis faut paſſer leſdites choſes par dedans vne groſſe toile en double, afin que nulle choſe terreſtre y ſoit adiouſtée,, & eſtant ce capitel clair, comme pure eau, ſera posé en vn vaiſſeau de cuiure,comme vn baſſin à barbier. puis on le fera boüillir promptement,& auec grande flamme, en le re- muant touſiours, † que le ſel n'adhere contre le baſſin, & lors que ledit capitel ſera conſommé à moitié, il y faut jetter du vitriol en poudre deux onces (afin que les eſcarres tombent pluſtoſt)& laiſſer le baſſin ſur le feu iuſques à ce que toute l'humidité ſoit preſque conſommée, alors faut tailler la terreſtrité du ſel qui ſe fait du capitel, & en former les cauteres gros & petits, longs, ronds quarrez, & de telle figure que voudras, auecquelque inſtrument de fer chaud & non froid , comme d'vne ſpatule ou autre ſembla- ble & les fauttoufiours tenir ſur le feu, iuſques à ce que l'humidité ſoit preſque conſommée puis § - ts · o le xxvi liure de la faculté - - * leſdits trochiſques ou cauteres dedans vne fiole de verre, & ſera bien eſtoupée , en ſorte que nul vent n'y a antºes. . puiſſè entrer , puis en vſeras à ta commodité. §. prenez vn fagot de tronc de féves auec les coſſes, & deux fagots de tronc de choux , quatre iauelles de ſarment de vigne, & en faites cendres, leſquelles mettrez en vn ſeau d'eau de riuiere, & laiſſerez infuſer par l'eſpace d'vn iour & vne nuict, les remuant ſouuent : puis apres adioûterez bonne chaux viue deux liures, ſein de verre demie liure , cendre grauelée deux liures,ſel nitre quatre onces : le tout ſera mis en pou- dre, & les laiſſerez encore infuſer deux ou trois iours, en les remuant par pluſieurs fois : puis on paſſera le capitel par vne toile en double, ou en vne chauſſe d'hippocras , tant que le capitel ſoit fort clair, & le ferez conſumer ſur le feu, comme il a eſté dict , ſur la fin que verrez l'humidite preſque conſommée, vous adiouterez deux ou trois onces de vitriol & le tiendrez toufiours ſur le feu , iuſques à ce que peu d'hu- midité apparoiſſe , puis formerez tels cauteres de telle groſſeur & figure que voudrez , comme il a eſté dit cy-deſſus. et notez derechef qu'en les cuiſant, vous empeſcherez auec vne ſpatule que le capitel n'adhe- re contre le baſſin , & le garderez , comme a eſté dit. autre prenez de la cendre de vieil bois de cheſne noüeux en bonne quantité, non pourry, & en faites lexiue,la- | • quelle ferez derechef repaſſer par autres cendres dudit bois, à fin de rendre ladite lexiue plus forte, & *z , fera-on cela par trois ou quatre fois : puis en icelle on fera eſteindre chaux viue, & de ces deux choſes ſera - fait capitele, duquel on fera bons cauteres, car cette cendre eſt chaude au quatrieſme degré: & pareille- ment les pierres dont on fait la chaux, par leur cuiſſon ſont ignifiées & chaudes auſſi au quatrieſine degré. ie diray plus que i'ay faict des cauteres de la ſeule cendre de bois de cheſne, voire qui operoient prompte- ! ment & vigoreuſement. prenez demy boiſſeau de cendres communes , & les calcinez toutes ſeiches iuſques à ce qu'elles deuien- nent blanches, & de ce en ſoit fait capitel pour cauteres, leſquels trouuerez eſtre bons. et pour ſçauoir ſi . le capitel ou lexiue eſt aſſez forte, faut qu'vn œuf nage deſſus. º*** prenez de cendres faites de troncs de féves iij. liures, chaux viue, cendre grauelée , cendres de bois de # cheſne fort cuittes an. fb.ij. puis leſdites choſes ſeront miſes en vn ſeau de lexiue faite de cendres de cheſ- au . ne , & les remuer fort : puis les laiſſer infuſer l'eſpace de deux iours. apres on les fera paſſèr par quelque vaiſſeau propre, lequel ſera percée au fonds en pluſieurs endroits , y ayant mis quelque bouchon de paille: à fin que le capitel puiſſe mieux paſſer,& ſe rendre plus clair. et faut le repaſſer par trois ou quatre fois,à fin qu'il prenne la qualité des ingrediens , & faut de neceſſité qu'il ſoit biºſ clair, & qu'il n'y reſte aucune ter- reſtrité. apres le faut metre en vn baſſin de cuiure, & le faire tant #oüillir ſur le feu qu'il demeure eſpais, & ſubit qu'il commencera à s'epaiſſir, faut augmenter le feu ſous ledſt baſſin : & la matiere eſtant aſſez con- gelée, on formera les cauteres comme l'on voudra , puis ſeront gardez comme deſſus, pour en vſer à lane- ceſſité. * , - - ces iours paſſez ie me ſuis trouué auec vn philoſophe,grand extracteur de quinte-eſſence : où noustom- baſmes en propos ſur les cauteres potentiels, lequel me dit en ſçauoir des plus excellens que iamais furent, & que leur operation ſe faiſoit en peu de temps, ſans douleur, ou bien peu,auſſi que leurs eſcarres eſtoient mollaſſes & humides,& qu'il ne failloit,pour les faire tomber,y faire aucunes ſçarifications.alors ie le priay c bien affectueuſement m'en vouloir donner la deſcription,à quoy il me reſpond qu'il ne le pouuoit faire : par- ce que c'eſtoit l'vn de ſes plus grands ſecrets,mais qu'il m'en donneroit quand i'en aurois affaire:ſubit le prie m'en donner vn,ce qu'il fiſt, lequel toſt apres i'appliquay ſur le bras de l'vn de mes ſeruiteurs pour en faire -preuue, ie proteſte à dieu, qu'il ne fut qu'enuiron demye heure qu'il ne fiſt vn vlcere à y mettre le doigt, & profond iuſqu'à l'os & n'eſtoit ledit cautere que de la groſſeur d'vn pois, lequel laiſſa ſon eſcarre mol- . le & humide, comme ledit extracteur m'auoit dit. quand ie conneu par experience tel cffect, ſubit m'en retourne trouuer le maiſtre quintenſſencieux,& le priay derechef quoy qu'il me couſtaſt, m'en donner la deſ- cription deſdits cauteres, enſemble la maniere de les faire : dequoy il me refuſa tout à plat, & de tant que ie me monſtrois affectionné à auoir fon ſecret, de tant plus il faiſoit le renchery, en fin ie luy dy que ie luy donnerois du velours pour faire vne paire de chauſſes quoy ouyilaccorda ma priere, à la charge que iamais ne le dirois à perſonne , & auſſi que ne l'eſcrirois en mon liure, me reprochant que i'eftois trop liberal de communiquer mon ſçauoir , à quoy ie luy reſpons, que ſi nos deuanciers euſſent fait cela , nous ſçaurions peu de choſes. ces propos finis ie luy fis bailler le velours,& me donna la deſcription & la maniere de faire ſes cauteres,à la charge que ie ne le dirois à perſonne,ny pareillement l'eſcrirois:ce que ie luypromis de pa- role, & non de volonté, parce que tel ſecret ne doit eſtre enſeuely en la terre,pour l'excellence deſdits cau- . teres,qui eſt qu'ils operent ſans douleur,pourueu que la partie ſur laquelle on les veut appliquer ſoit exem- , pte d'inflammation ou douleur & laiſſent leur eſcarre aſſez molle & humide,principalement appliquez aux corps mollaſſes,comme femmes & enfans, ce quaucuns des autres ne font,au moins que i'ay pû encore deſ- couurir, & n'a eſté faute de diligence, m'enqu'eſtant ſoignieuſement de tous les chirurgiens de cette ville, leſquels ſe vantent chacun pour ſoy auoir la pierre philoſophale des cauteres,mais pas-vn d'eux ne m'a vou lu tant fauoriſer que me departir cette pierre philoſophique, disåt que leurs peres & freres la leur auoient laiſſée,comme vn heritage paternel : ioint auſſi que ſi ie ſçauois ce grand ſecret, ie ne faudrois de le deſcrire en mon liure,& partant ſeroient fruſtrez de leurs chers & bien-aimez cauteres:mais ie ſçay que ie leur feray laiſſer priſe & qu'ils viendront à meſpriſer leur grand ſecret , lors qu'ils auront cogneu par experience l'ex- cellence de ceux du philoſophe. or il nous faut à preſent deſcrire les ingrediens , & la maniere de former leſdits cauteres, à fin que tous les chirurgiens, non ſeulement de paris, mais de toute l'europe, puiſſent ſe- courir les malades qui en auront beſoin. a iceux ie donneray le nom de cauteres de velours, à raiſon qu'ils ne font douleur principalement quand ils ſeront apppliquz ſur les parties exemptes d'inflammation & dou- cauteres de voleurs. leur comme i'ay dit, & auſſi que ie les ay recouurez par du velours. prenez cendre de goſſeaux de feves,©> en lieu deſquelles l'on prendra les troncs , cendre de bois de cheſne bien cuitte, de chacun trois liures - eau de riuiere ſix quartes , vne liure de cendre grauelée, quatre onces d'alum de glace en poudre, que l'on mettra en vn chauderon, puis l'on remuera le tout enſemble : cela fait , on y metra vne pierre de chaux viue , de la peſanteur de quatre liures, & y eſtant eſteinte, faut derechefbroüiller & meſler tout par plu- ' ſieurs fois, laiſſer leſdites choſes par l'eſpace de deux iours , en remuant ſouuent, afin de faire le capitel (ou lexiue) plus forte. cela fait, ferez le tout vn peu bouillir, afin que par l'ebullition la qualité ignée demeure au capitel, puis coulerez le tout au trauers d'vne groſſe nappe ou charier , & cette colature la faut ietter ſur leſdites cendres deux ou trois fois, à fin que ledit capitel en prenne la vertu ignée, puis on le ferabouillir dedans vn baſſin de barbier, ou en vn vaiſſeau de terre plombé, à grand feu faict de charben, iuſques à ce que le tout ſoit reduit en matiere terreſtre , ou ſel. or voicy le ſecret & moyen • de bien faire tous cauteres potentiels : c'eſt qu'il ne faut tenir ledit ſel tant ſur le feu, que ſon humidité ſoit du tout tarie, de peur de conſommer du tout l'humidité : partant on l'oſtera de deſſus le feu ayant ，. »l， cnÇ ic et compoſition des medicamens a encore quelque certaine humidité,puis ſeront formez cauteres,gros petits, ronds, longs,ſelon la volonté de " celuy qui les formera:puis ſubit apres ſeront mis en vne ou pluſieurs fioles de terre renforcées,bien bouchées & eſtoupées, de peur que l'air ne les reduiſe en eau:& ſeront leſdits cauteres gardez en lieu chaud & ſec,& non humide, de peur qu'ils ne ſe fondent & reduiſent en eau , pour en vſer quand il ſera beſoin. et ſi quel- . qu'vn me vouloit obiecter n'auoit tenu promeſſe audit extracteur, que ne le dirois à perſonne, nv que les eſ- crirois : ie luy, reſpons que puis qu'il me les auoit vendus , qu'ils eſtoient miens : & partant ie penſe ne luy faire tort.au contraire, luy & moy auons fait choſe qui ſeruira au public. icy i'ay bien voulu deſcrire la maniere de ſaire la poudre de mercure , qui pour ſon excellence a eſté d'aucuns nommée poudre angelique, laquelle fais en cette maniere. ( - - la maniers la maniere de faire de la poudre de mercure & eau-fort. de faire la poudre de .autipig citrini,flor.xris an. ij.ſalis nitri fb.j.É. alum rochx fb.ij. vitriol. romani fb.iij. merct fe - ces choſes ſoient pilées & bien puluerisées , apres miſe en vne retorte de verre ou terre, y adiouſtant vn recipient de verre fort grand & bien luté : puis la retorte ſoit miſe ſur le fourneau, en faiſant petit feu au commencement, & ſoit le tout diſtillé en fortifiant le feu petit à petit , tant que le recipient deuienne vn peu rouge & que le tout ſoit diſtillé. et de cette diſtillation en eſt faicte l'eau-fort. argenti viui fb.fi.aqua fortis, fb.j. ponantur omnia in phiala, & fiat puluis, vt ſequitur. vous prendrez vn pot de terre aſſez grand , dans lequel mettrez voſtre matelas ou fiole , où ſeront conte- nus voſtre argent-vif, & eau fort, & entre l'eſpace de la fiole & le pot, faut mettre des cendres, tellement b que voſtre fiole ſoit toute enſeuelie dedans excepté le col : puis tout autour & contre le pot, ſeront mis cen- dres & charbons ardans , & par ainſi ferez boüillir & euaporer voſtre eau-fort, ſans craindre que la fiole ſe rompe, & l'eau eſtant toute euaporée,ce que connoiſtrez qu'il ne ſortira plus de fumée , vous laiſſerez tout refroidir : puis tirerez voſtre fiole des cendres , au fond de laquelle trouuerez voſtre mercure calcine de couleur de vermillon,lequel ſera ſeparé de toute autre ſuperfluité blanche, iaune ou noire : car la blancheur qui ſe concrée en haut eſt le ſublimé, lequel demeurant auec la poudre, la rendroit douloureuſe. iceluy eſtant ſeparé,le pulueriſeras : puis les mettras en vn vaiſſeau d'aitin ſur les charbons ardans , le remuant auec vne ſpatule l'eſpace d'vne heure ou deux, car par ce moyen il perd vne partie de ſon acrimonie ou mordacité, qui fait qu'il n'eſt ſi douloureux en ſon operation. - · eau-fort. poudre de m ygf y * des veſiccatoires. c h a p. xxxiii. e s c c a t o r e ou rubifiant ſelon les latins , ſelon les grecs phenigme, eſt vn on- deſinition. guent, ou cataplaſme, ou emplaſtre, faict de medicamens acres, qui a faculté d'attirer hu- n# meurs du profond au dehors, & exulcerer la peau & faire veſſies, dont il retient le nom, la matiere. )# matiere a eſté ja deſcrite au chapitre des cauſtiques, laquelle eſt prinſe des medicamens sep- ， s ， § tiques, comme mouſtarde,anacarde,cantharides , euphorbe,racine de fcilles, bryonia, & les $ $º *" autres,leſquels on incorpore auec miel ou terebenthine, ou leuain, ou quelques gommes . & reſine, pour en faire onguent,cataplaſme ou emplaſtre. parquoy la compoſition des veſiccatoires n'eſt differente de celle des onguens durs ou mols : à cette cauſe vn exemple ſuffira. - • .cantharidum, euphorbij, finapian. . . mellis anacardini j. modico aceti & fermento q. ſatis ſit excipiantur, & fiat veſiccatorium. - * quelques anciens choiſiſſent pluſtoſt l'eau fimple que le vinaigre,pour receuoir & incorporer tel medica- vſagi. ment : ſoit diſant auoir trouué par experience que la vertu de la mouſtarde s'abaſtardit par le meſlange du vinaigre , ce que meſme nous eſt authorisé par galien & oribaſius. nous vſons de ces remedes és affections longues, quand les autres remedes n'ont profité aſſez, & princi- palement és douleurs de teſte, hemicranies,epilepſies,à la ſcyatique,aux gouttes,auſſi aux morſures & poin- ctures des beſtes veneneuſes, & charbons peſtiferez, & pluſieurs autres maladies longues & rebelles à au- # tres remedes : on en vſe auſſi pour reſtituer la vie & vigueur à la partie ja preſque morte,par reuocation de chaleur & eſprits vitaux à icelle , pour lequel effect faut que tels veſiccatoires ſoient vn peu plus doux : de ſorte qu'ils ne bruſlent ſinon en cas qu'ils ne demeuraſſent trop long-temps ſur la partie. le moyen d'vſer des veſiccatoires eſt, que deuant que de les appliquer ſur la partie on y faſſe friction , afin que les pores d'i- celle eſtans ouuerts, la vertu du medicament penetre plus aisenent, & la chaleur languide, & comme aſ- ſoupie en icelle ſoit regalliardie & eſueillée. - - - - - - - »- - - - - · · · · - des collyres. c h a p. xxxiv. - | | - º - - - - - • • • • definition, o l y r e eſt vn medicament approprié aux yeux, fait de medicamens bien ſubtilement ſi ， pulueriſez,que les arabes diſent comme alcohol.aucunesfois collyre eſt dit improprement, º pour quelque medicament liquide côposé des poudres,& quelques liqueurs qui s'appliquent _. - à autres parties.les collyres ſont faits de trois ſortes:les vns ſont humides proprement appel- difference, # lez collyres:& les autres ſont ſecs,leſquels on confond auec les trochiſques:les autres ont eſ- à paiſſeur & conſiſtance de miel ouliniment,partant de ceux là nous ne traitterons que l'vſage, wſºzº les liquides ſeruent principalement pour les coins des yeux,ſçauoir eſt,le grand & le petit canthus. ceux qui ſont comme onguens, feruent à la prunelle des yeux. ceux qui ſont ſecs, ſont mis en poudre pour les ſouffler dedans : quelquesfois ſont meſlez auec des liqueurs ou ius pour en faire collyre humide. les trois ſortes de collyres ont diuers vſages , & ſont appliquez ſur diuerſes parties,ſelon la diuerſité de l'intention du chirur- gien:car les liquides rafraiſchiſſent mieux , eſtans appliquez aux angles des yeux, mais ceux qui ont plus ferme conſiſtance : demeurent plus long-temps ſur la partie , & par conſequent font mieux leur operation. les collyres humides ſont faicts de ius, mucilages des herbes, liqueurs, fleurs, ſemences, metalliques, parties des beſtes, comme•fiel, & autres tels medicamens repercuſſifs, reſolutifs, deterſifs, anodyns, ou autres, ſelon que les affections & maladies des yeux le requierent. aucunesfois ſont faicts des liqueurs ſeu- les, comme de ius & eaux diſtillées. souuentesfois l'on meſle medicamens mis en poudre ſubtile, ou autre collyre ſec, qui n'eſt autre choſe que trochiſque auec ius ou eau diſtillée, ou aubins d'œuf les poudres ſont meſlées comme à deux drachmes ou plus, les eaux iuſques à quatre ou cinq onces ou plus, mais pour les yeux cela ſuffit. pour les autres parties, comme pour faire injection à la verge,l'on fait collyres en # - * grande la matiere des collyres, - a * ! le xxv iliure de la faculté - grande quantité, comme iuſques à vne liure. les collyres arides & ſecs,ſont faicts de pouldre bien ſubti- a lement puluerisées & incorporées auec quelque ius, dont ne ſemblent eſtre differens des trochiſques qu'il ſoit vray,le collyre blanc de rhaſis, eſt appellé auiourd'huy trochiſque, & eſt gardé auec les trochiſ- , ques. or les poudres corroſiues ne ſont appliquées en forme de collyre , ains en forme de liniment, & ſont meſlées auec graiſſe ou huyles : les exemples feront le tout manifeſte. # #. aqua plantaginis & roſarum an, #.ij. albumen vnius oui bene agitatum,miſce : fiat collyrium. collyre ano- # aqua roſarum & violarum an. .iij trochiſcorum alborum rhaſis cum apio .ij.fiat collyrium. dyn. | . decoctionis fanugrxci .iiij mucilaginis ſeminis lini .ij. ſacchari candi j croci j. fiat colly- autre. l' uliil, collyre. z. thuris , myrrhz an. .ij. tuthia præparatx & antimonijlotian. .ij. cum ſucco chelidoniz : fiat col- lyrium ſiccandum in vmbra. deterſf z. fellis perdicis aut leporis . fi. ſucci fœniculi .j. ſacchari cand. .ij. ſyrupo roſato excipiantur, & vfage. fiat collyrium. nous vſons des collyres aux vlceres,playes, fiſtules,ſuffuſions,inflammations,& autres maladies des yeux. les collyres liquides penetrent pluſtoſt que les autres : partant ſont fort neceſſaires à repercuter & appai- ſer douleur. les autres ſont arreſtez plus long temps aux yeux : & par ainfi operent dauantage. des errhines & sternutatoires. ch a p. xxxv. definition. r r h n e s ſont medicamens appropriez au nez, à fin d'expurger le cerueau, & tirer les % excrements d'iceluy par le nez : ou pout nettoyer & deterger ceux qui ja ſont adherans & | attachez au nez, comme il aduint aux polypes, ozenes, & autres vlceres d'iceluy. ces errhi- ºn nes ſont ou liquides, ou ſecs, ou de conſiſtance emplaſtique. les liquides, que les latins # nomment caputpurgia, ſont faicts aucunesfois des ius des herbes, comme des ius de poree, ' choux, marjolaine, anagallis,hyſſope, meliſſe, ou des eaux d'icelles, meſlées ou cuittes auec u vin, ou quelque ſyrop, comme oxymel ſcilliticum, ſyrupus de hyſſopo, ſyrupus roſatus ou mel anthoſa- tum. souuentesfois ſont faits des poudres de poyvre, pyrethre, marrubium , nigella romana , caſtoreum, myrrhe, ellebore blanc,euphorbe , cyclamen , & autres poudres meſlées en petite quantité : comme à vne drachme ou vne drachme & demie, ſelon la violence du medicament, auec les ius ſuſdits depurez, ou les eaux diſtillées des meſmes herbes. le tout te ſera manifeſté par deux exemples ſuyuantes, attirer les : %. succi beta , maiorana & braſſica an. .j. depurentur & modicè bulliant cum vini albij.ij oxyme- ex'grt/ litis ſcilitici #. . fiat errhinum. - - - §. , quelquesfois quand il eſt queſtion de faire plus forte attraction du cerueau, l'on peut adioufter ou faire - diſſoudre en la decoction de l'erhinum quelque medicament purgatif, comme l'agaric, le diaphœnicum, ſené , cartami, & autres ſemblables , dont eſt venué la diſtinction des errhines en ceux qui tirent la pitui- la matiere des errhines. errhine pour errhine pour la pi. nite. xemple proposé par monſieur rondelet, eſt tel. /.. radicum pyrethri , ir d. an. .j. puleg. calam orig.an. m j. agarici trochiſ .iij. florum anthos & ſtœchados an. p.j. fiat decoctio in.fb.j. colat. diſſol. mellis anthoſ. & ſcill.an. .iiij. fiat caputpurg, toutesfois le cas eſcheant qu'il faille que les purgatifs entrent en la compoſition de l'erthine, il ſera meilleur d'vſer d'iceux ſimples, comme d'agaric, turbith, colocynthe , & ſemblables, que des compoſez, comme diaphoenicum , & ſemblables : car ceux-cy rendent la decoction plus eſpaiſſe, & par conſequent mal habile, à paſſer par les conduits & os ſpongieux qui menent au cerue , faiſant en outre obſtruction · au nez, & empeſchant la liberté de la reſpiration. /. succi betz .j. aqux ſaluiz & betonicx un, # ij f. pulueris caltorij . .pipetis & pyrethri an j. fiat caputpurgium. les errhines ſecs, que les latins apellent sternutatoria, à cauſe qu'ils prouoquent l'eſternuement, ſont faicts des poudres ſeulement bien pulueriſées. les pouldres ſont ſemblables aux precedentes ou autres aromatiques, leſquelles ſont faictes & meſlées en petite quantité, laquelle cummunément ne monte point à plus de deux drachmes. %. maioranae, nigella , garyophillorum , zinziberis an. . j acori, pyrethri & panis por cini an. . .euphorbij .j.terantur diligenter , & in nares mittantur aut inſufflentur. les errhines ayans conſiſtance emplaſtique, que les larins appellent, naſalia, ſont faicts des poudres exemple ſuſdites , gommes malaxées auec quelqu'vn des ius des herbes cy-deſſus declarées, incorporées auec tercº benthine & cire, à fin qu'ils ayent conſiſtance dure, & qu'on en puiſſe faire maſſe, de laquelle on faiter- rhines en figure de pyramide, ſelon les cauitez internes du nez. - maioranx ſaluir, nigella an . ij piperis albi , garyophyllorum , galangr an. , j. pyrethri, cº vſage. phorbijan. .j. .panis porcini, ellebori albi an. .j. terantur, & in puluerem redigantur, deinde cum terebenthina & cera, & quantum ſatis fit , incorporentur, fiântque naſalia pyramidis figura, nous vſons des errhines aux longues maladies du cerueau , comme en epilepſie, aueuglement des yeu# apoplexie, letargie, conuulſion, & odorat perdu , mais faut que les purgations vniuerſelles ayent precedé auparauant, de peur que par l'eſternuement, & ſemblable émotion du cerueau, pour deietter ce qui luy nuiſt, il ne ſe faſſe attraction plus grande d'humeurs d'vn corps impur & cacochyme vers iceluy. les li- sternuta- toire. (ſ tips propre quides doiuent eſtre attirez par le nez ou coulez dedans le nez iuſques à demie once. et lors faut qº le pour les er- patient tienne de l'eau en ſa bouche , à fin qu'en attirant l'errhine, il ne puiſſe repaſſer portion dudit erthi- rbines. ne en la bouche, & de là aux poulmons. les ſecs doiuent ettre ſoufflez dedans les nazeaux, auec vnetuyºu de plume, ou autre choſe. les emplaſtiques ſont mis dedans les nazeaux eſtans liez d'vn fil : à fin qu'ils ſe puiſſent retirer quand on voudra, le temps propre pour vſer d'errhines en general, eſt le matin, le patient eſtant à jeun.apres l'vſage d'iceux , ſil'ont ſent quelque demangeaiſon & mordication au nez, il faudra ietter ou attirer en iceluy laict de femme, ou huyle violat. l'vſage des errhines attractifs eſt nuiſible à ceux qui ſont ſujects à mal des yeux : on attire en iceluy laict de femme, ou huyle violat l'vſage des errhi- nes attractifs eſt nuiſible à ceux qui ſont ſujects à mal des yeux, & qui ont vlceres aux naſeaux, comme il aduient ſouuent en la groſſe verolle, auquel cas il ſera plus expedien t d'vſer de gargariſmes, qui faſſentdi- uerſion des yeux. d(! te, bile & melancholie, ſelon que le medicament diſſout en iceux a vertu d'atirer vn humeur, ou autre :le- c - - et compoſition des medicamens. , a — —º -- •- des apophlegmatiſmes ou maſticatoires. c h a p. xxxvi. $ p o p h l e g m a r s m e s ſelon les grecs , ou maſticatoires ſelon les latins, ſont rnedi- dºfinition. # camés,leſquels eſtans tournez dedans la bouche,& maſchez quelque eſpace-de temps,tirent à, #$) n par le palais les excremens pituiteux,ou autres humeurs nuiſans au cerueau. iceux ſont faits #n@n en quatre manieres.la premiere eſt,quand on incorpore les medicamens propres à maſcher, % à né auec miel ou cire,& en fait-on trochiſques ou pillules, leſquelles on donne à maſcher. la zºsÉ*ºs ſeconde eſt, quand on couure & lie les medicamens en vn petit ſachet de ſandal ou autre linge deſlié pour les maſcher. la troiſieſme maniere eſt, quand on tient la decoction des medicamens acres long-temps en la bouche.aucunesfois l'on ne meſle point les maſticatoires, ains prend-on vn ſimple me- dicament acre & faiſant cracher,à la groſſeur d'vne petite noix, pour maſcher & tourner par la bouche, comme maſtic,pyrethre. la matiere des maſticatoires eſt prinſe des medicamensacres, comme de poyvre, mouſtarde, hyſſope, gingembre, pyrethre , & autres medicamens ayans acrimonie : entre leſquels il faut choifir ceux principalement qui n'auront aucune ſaueur , ny gouſt mal-plaiſant , afin que plus longuement & ſans deſdain ils puiſſent eſtre tenus en la bouche.toutesfois on en fait des medicamens acerbes, com- me de fruict de berberis , raifins , noyaux de prunes ou ſeriſes : leſquels eſtans tournez quelque temps en la bouche & comme maſchez, ne tirent guere moindre quantité de pituite que les medicamens acres. ce b qui me ſemble aduenir pluftoſt à raiſon du mouuement & agitation qui eſt faict en la bouche , que d'vne qua- lité manifefte. la quantité deſdits medicamens, eſt communément d'vne demie once, iuſques à vne once, ou vne once & demie. ce que connoiſtras par les exemple ſuiuantes. . %.pyrethri, ſtaphiſagrix an .j.f. maſtiches .f. puiueriſentur & inuoluantur ſacculo pro maſtica-maſties- - toi o. - toire. .zinziberis , ſinapi an. .j. euphorbij. .ij. piperis . ſº. excipiantur melle, & fiant paſtilli pro maſti-autres. catorio. /.. hyſſopi, thymi, origani, ſaluia an. p.i. decoquantur in aqua pro collutione oris. /.. zinziberis,gariophillorum an. . j. pyrethri , piperis an. . ß. ſtaphiſagrix .ij. maſtiches . É. exci- piantur, fiant paſtilli pro maſticatorio. vſage. nous vſons des maſticatoires és maladies vielles du cerueau, obfuſcation de la veuë, ſurditez , puſtules qui ſont à la teſte & à la face.aucunesfois auſſi pour deriuer les excremens qui coulent par le nez, princi- palement quand il y a quelque vlcere en iceluy, comme au contraire ils ſont fort nuifibles à ceux qui ont vlceres en la bouche ou au goſſier,& à ceux qui ont les poulmons ſujets à vlceres,inflammations & fiuxions. car en tel cas les errhines ſont plus vtiles pour deriuer la matiere par le nez : d'autant que combien que l'humeur pituiteux attiré du cerueau par la force du maſticatoire, ſoit purgé & mis hors en crachants toutesfois on trace & apprend-on vn chemin à l'humeur , lequel aisément il ne peut de laiſſer ny oublier par apres : de ſorte que meſme en dormant, ſuiuant ſon cours ordinaire, il vient à tomber & fleur ſur telles parties, ou naturellement, ou par accident, imbecilles. le temps commode pour en vſer eſt le matin, quand c le corps eſt purgé des autres excremens. apres auoir vſé des maſticatoires , faut lauer ſa bouche d'eau tie- de, ou de ptiſane, ou quelque autre liqueur, afin d'oſter la mauuaiſe ſaueur qui peut eſtre de reſte du ma- ſticatoire. % $ n# $ % %, ſ la maniere des maſtica- toiret. temps. des gargariſmes. c h a p. xxxv i i. - #sr a r g a r s m e eſt vne liqueur appropriée au lauement de la bouche & de toutes les parties pºmiiiº $ º d'icelle, tant pour empeſcher fluxion & inflammation , que pour curer vlceres de la bouche,& - $ appaiſer douleurs. les gargariſines ſont compoſez en deux manieres : la premiere eſt, quand deux ſorte: ， on fait cuire racines, feuilles, fleurs, fruicts , & ſemences ſeruans à noſtre intention.la deco-*s"zºiſ ' ction eſt faicte en eau ſeule, ou eau & vin blanc, ou en gros vin rouge & ſtyptique, ou en pti-" ſane, ou laict clair , decoction pectorale : le tout ſelon la diuerſité de noſtre intention, qui eſt ou de repouſ- ſer, rafraiſchir , & empeſcher l'inflammation, comme en mal de dents,qui ſe fait : ou de digerer, comme en mal de dents, qui eſt ja fait : ou de mondifier, comme en vlceres de bouche : ou de ſeicher & aſtreindre, comme quand il eſt queſtion de fermer iceux vlceres ja parauant mondifiez. l'autre maniere de compo- materiaux. ſer gargariſmes eſt ſans decoction, quand nous faiſons gargariſmes, ou auec les eaux diſtillées ſeule- ment , ou meſlées auec ſyrops, ou auec mucilage, ou auec du laict de vache, ou laict clair de chévre, bien paſſe & coulé , aucunesfois on meſle, tant auec la decoction, que les eaux & mucilages, miel roſat, oxy- • r mel ſimple , dianucum, diamorum , hiera picra, oxyſacchara , ſyrop de roſes ſeiches, fyrop aceteux, & d autres ſyrops ſelon nos intentions ſuſdites : alum, balauſtes, myrrhe, thus, gingembre, poyvre, canelle, l'amertume roſes ſeiches, & autres. iuſques là meſme, que quelquesfois en la decoction des gargariſmes, nous y n'eſt propre faiſons entrer medicamens propres à attirer les humeurs du cerueau, comme le pyrethre , la carthame, la en gargariſ- racine de turbith , & autres propres à tirer la pituite, moyennant qu'ils n'ayent aucune amertume en ſoy: * qui eſt cauſe que ny l'agaric, ny la colocynthe, n'ont lieu en cette compofition. la quantité de la totale li- queur d'vn gargariſme, doit eſtre comme de demie, iuſques à vne liure : on y met des ſyrops, ou autre tel- le compoſition, iuſques à deux onces. les pouldres ſont miſes en bien petite quantite, comme iuſques à trois drachmes : d'alum on y met iuſques à fix drachmes:les mucilages faits de deux drachmes des ſemences mucilagineuſes. les exemples feront le tout aſſez clair & facile. -- -" - ， gargariſme aitringent & repercuſsif. z. plantaginis, polygoni, oxalidis an. m. j. roſarum rubrarum p. . hordei p.j. fiat decoctio ad . viij. gargariſine in qua diſſolue ſyrupi myrtillorum . vj dianucum . É. fiat gargariſma. · anoayn. † , meliloti,anethi an. p.j. roſarum rubrarum p. ß. paſſularum mundatarum & ſicuum an. paria iij. decoquantur in æquis partibus vini albi & aquæ ad . vj. addendo mucilaginis ſeminis lini & fœ- nugrxci an. .j. fiat gargariſma. -- gargariſme mondificatif z.aquz plantaginis, aqux liguſtri & abſinthijan. .ij. mellis roſati colati . vj. ſyrupi roſarum ſiccarum vſage. & de abſinthio an. . vj fiat gargariſma. - - q_q q nous | le xxvi liure,dela faculté poudre pour blanchir les dents. vſage. definition. differences. figure des ſachets. dº(es. - - • • nous vſons des gargariſmes au matin & à jeun,apres les purgations vniuerſelles,tant pour deterger, re- a froidir,repercuter,attirer,que pour appaiſer douleurs, & autres intentions. aucunesfois on les prend tous froids,principalement quand il ſe fait quelque diſtillation d'humeur acre & ſubtil : autresfois on les fait tie- dir, ſelon les indications que nous auons tant des maladies que du temps. - -- - - -r r- - • • - des dentifrices. chap. xxxv i ii. º e n t f r c e s ſont medicamens compoſez , ſeruans aux dents , dont ils rêtiennent le nom,pour les nettoyer & blanchir : ils ſont faits en plufieurs manieres. les vns ſont ſecs, les autres humides.quant aux ſecs,les vns ſont en façon d'opiate, les autres en poudres ſei- ches groſſement puluerisées. les humides ſont faits par diſtillation : la matiere des deux, # premiers eſt faite des medicamens detergeans & deſſeichans, comme coralla, cornu cerui, rszsy osſæpie, alumen, cryſtallus,pumex,ſal nitrum, myrrha,thus,balauſtiz , glandes , omnes te- ſtx pucium : leſquels aucunesfois on bruſle : & apres ſont mis en poudre, ſouuentesfois ſont pulueriſez ſans vſtion (comme l'os ſepir, pource qu'eſtant bruſlé il exhale vne odeur fetide & mal-plaiſante) en y adjou- ſtant quelques medicamens aromatiques pour donner odeur aux autres, comme cinamomum, cloux de gi- rofle , noix muſcade, & autres ſemblables, l'on fait dentifrices ſecs. si telles poudres ſont incorporées ou auec quelque ſyrop ou oxymel ſcilliticum , ou quelque mucilage de gomme arabique & de tragacan- tha, l'on fera opiates ſeruantes à dentifrices, leſquelles aucunesfois ſont figurées en pyramides longues d'vn doigt, rondes ou quarrées, pointues au bout , & ſeiches,pour ſeruir de dentifrices. auſſi ſouuentesfois l'on b fait cuire racines emollientes auec du ſel , ou de l'alum , & apres ſeicher au four dentifrices : les humi- des ſont faits des herbes deſſeichantes miſes en alembic, pour diſtiller auec aucuns des medicamens ſecs, & aſtringens cy-deſſus deſcrits. les exemples donneront à connoiſtre la quantité des medicamens ſeruans à dentifr ces. \ z. lapidis ſpongix, pumicis, & cornu cerui vſtian. .ij. coralli rubri & cryſtalli an. .j. aluminis & ſalis vſti an. . j. ſ. cinnamomi & caryophyllorum, roſarun rubrarum pulueriſatarum an. .ij. fiat puluis pro dentifricio. autre. %. oſſis ſepix . maſtic coralli rubri vſti an. .ij.cornu cerui vſti .j. .aluminis carbonis,roriſna- rini an. . j, cinnamoni ij. fiat puluis. autre. . odis ſepiae,aluminis & ſalis vſti an. .j.cryſtalli,glandium,myrrhae,thuris an. .ii. corticis grana- torum macis, cinnamomi an. i. fiat puluis, qui excipiatur mucagine gummi tragacantha,& formentur py- ramides longx ſiccanda pro dentifricio. - .radicis malux iunioris & biſmaluæ an. .ii. coquantur in aqua ſalſa aut aluminoſa, deinde ficcenturin furno pro dentifricio. - z.salis .vi.aluminis .iii.thuris, maſtichis, ſanguinis draconis an. . É. aquz roſarum . vi. diſtillenturin alembico vitreo pro dentifricio. - les dentifrices ſeruent à polir les dents,mondifier, nettoyer, & conformer. aucunesfois on en vſe aux re- frigerations & douleurs d'icelles,ſouuentesfois auſſi és vices de la bouche & genciues corrodées. le temps c de les appliquer eſt le matin,ou deuant & apres le repas.les anciens ſans artifice faiſoient des dentifrices de bois de lantiſque pour affermir les dents tremblantes : ce qui ſe practique encores iournellement en langue- doc,ou tel bois eſt frequent, & dont on en apporte en cour pour les seigneurs. a meſme effect pourroit ſer- uir le myrrhe & tout autre bois aſtringent : noſtre vulgaire ſe ſert en cette intention des corces de fenouil, & ſans raiſon,veu qu'en telle plante n'y a aucune aſtriction. parquoy ne peut eſtre choiſie ſinon pour l'odeur agreable qui eſt en elle, & pour bien ſimplement ſe curer les dents. dentifrice humide bien experimenté •- - - - - - - - - - - - - -- des sachets. - c h a p. xxxix. a c h e t eſt vne compoſition de medicamens ſecs & pulueriſez mis en vn petit ſac , dont il retient le nom : & ſemble telle compoſition eſtre ſeulement vne fomentation aride & ſei- $è# che, comme nous auons dit au chapitre des fomentations. les differences des ſachets ne ' $ ſont priſes que des parties auſquelles ils ſont appliquez. ceux qui s'appliquent à la teſte # doiuent eſtre faits en maniere de bonnet ou coiffe. les ſachets pour l'eſtomach doiuent s º aûoir la figure d'vne cornemuſe. pour la ratte ils ſont faits en forme de langue de bœuf: & ainſi ſont appropriez au foye, au cœur,à la poictrine, ſelon les figures des parties. la matiere des ſachets le plus ſouuent eſt priſe des ſemences entieres fricaſsées en vne paeſle,ou miſes en poudre : quelquesfois on y d adiouſte racines,fleurs,fruicts,eſcorces,poudres cordiales,& autres medicamens ſecs, & qui ſe peuuent met- tre en poudre, conuenables aux affections des parties où nous le voulons appliquer. la quantité des poudres n'eſt pas limitée,ny certaine en tous ſachets, quelquesfois elle eſt plus grande, quelquesfois plus petite ſelon les parties eſquelles nous voulons mettre ſachets. icelle doit eſtre obſeruée aux autheurs qui ont ordonné ſachets : eſquels ie la trouue de trois onces, iuſques à ſix onces & demie. aucunesfois l'on ordonne herbes ſeiches & fleurs par manipules ou pugiles : & là giſt la conſideration de la bonne & deuë quantité des pou- dres. le reſte ie delaiſſe à plus curieuſe inquiſition : venons aux exemples, sachet pour conforter l'eſtomach. - | /. roſarum rubrarum p.i. maſtichis . ſ. coralli rubri .iii. ſeminis aniſi & fœniculi an. .ii. nu- cis moſcatx . i. ſummitatum abſinthii. & menthx an.mi.tritis omnibus fiat ſacculus interbaſtatus pro ventriculo. sachets és affections froides du cerueau. , /.. furfuris macri p. i.millii. .i. ſalis .ii.roſarum rubrarum, florum roriſmarini, ſtœchados,cariophyllo- rum an. .ii.foliorum betonicæ & ſaluix an.m.ſ.tritis omnibus fiat cucupha interſuta & calefacta fumo thu- tis & ſandaracæ exutorum , capiti apponatur. , t : ! : - - - sacbet et compoſition des medicamens c sachet pour le cœur. z. florum boraginis, bugloſſx & violarum an.p. ij. corticis citri ſicci, macis , ligni aloés, raſurx ebo- ris an. .j. oſſis de corde cerui , croci an. . ij. foliorum meliſſa m. . pulueris diambra . . contritis om- nibus fiat ſacculus è ſerico pro corde, irrorandus aqua ſcabioſae. nous vſons des ſachets à conforter tant les parties nobles, le cerueau, le cœur, & le foye, que le ven- tricule, la ratte, la poictrine , & parties du ventre inferieur. souuentesfois auſſi nous en vſons pour diſ- cuter & diſſiper les ventoſitez, comme les coliques & pleureſies, qu'on appelle baſtardes , à flatu. iceux faut couldre en preſſes interbaſtatoires : les pouldres eſtans eſpanchées ſur du cotton,afin qu'elles ne pan- chent plus en vn endroit qu'à l'autre.aucunesfois nous arroſons leſdits ſachets de vin, ou des eaux diſtil- lées : autres fois non de la ſubſtance,mais de la fimple vapeur du vin, ou eau diſtillée & verſée ſur vne paël- le de fer, toute rouge de feu : autres-fois nous les eſchauffons auec parfum , ou les fricaſſons en la poeſle. les ſachets du cœur, doiuent eſtre faicts de ſoye cramoiſie ou ſandal : pour ce (diſent-ils) que telles ma- tieres ſont teinctes en eſcarlatte : de laquelle la graine nommée alkermés , reſioüit le cœur : les autres de linge bien delié : aucunesfois l'on les fait de taffetas comme les bonnets. vſage, des suffumigations & parfums. ch a p. xl. - a r f v m eſt vne euaporation des medicamens humides, viſqueux aucunement, & gras. il definition. y a deux manieres de parfums & fumigations : les vns ſont ſecs , les autres humides : les differences $% ſecs ſont faits en deux ſortes : les vns ſont faits en trochiſques, les autres en pillules. la §res. # matiere d'iceux doit eſtre graſſe & viſqueuſe, afin qu'en bruſlant elle puiſſe rendre fumée, # comme ladanum, myrrha, maſtiche,pix, cera,reſina,terebenthina, caſtorium,ſtyrax,thus,oli- . - banum , & les autres gommes , leſquelles on peut meſler auec pouldres conuenables à nos intentions : car elles ſeruent de matiere à incorporer leſdites poudres en trochiſques ou pillules. aucuns vſent ſeulement des pouldres, ſans y adiouſter autre matiere craſſe : mais le parfum d'icelles n'eſt tant long ny de tel effect que quand elles ſont meſlées auec gommes,par le moyen deſquelles,outre cela, les ingrediens * ſont bien mieux incorporez l'vn auec l'autre. les pouldres peuuent eſtre miſes ez parfums d'vne demie on- ce uſques à vne once, plus ou moins : toutesfois la quantité du tout eſt delaiſſée au iugement du compoſant. parfum deſſeichant & confortant le cerueau. .sandaracae, maſtiches & roſarum an. .j. benjoini , galanga , an. . iij. terebenthina excipiantur, fiant trochiſci, quibus incenſis ſuffumigantur tegumenta capitis. autres pour dureſſes des nerf . t _ %. marcaſſitæ . ij.bdellij, myrrhæ,ſtyracis an. .j. . cera & terebenthina quantum ſatis ſit, fiant for- mula pro ſuffumigio. - autre pour les reſtes de la verole. .cinnabaris #.ij.ſtyracis & benjoinian. .j.cum terebenthina fiant trochiſci pro ſuffumigio per embotum nous vſons des parfums aux grandes obſtructions du cerueau, vlceres des poulmons, à la toux ja vieille en aſthme, douleurs de coſtez,aux affections de la matrice, & autres affections des parties du corps.on par- fume aucunesfois tout le corps , pour la curation de la verole, & eſmouuoir ſueurs : aucunesfois vne partie ſeule qui a quelque relique de ladite verole, & tels parfums ſont faits de cinnabre , qui a grande quantité d'argent-vif. la maniere de parfumer eſt, que la fumée ſoit receuë de l'emboucheure large d'vn entonnoir, qu'ils appellent embotum , & expire ſeulement par le petit ſouſpirail, afin que la fumée ne ſoit diſſipée, & ſoit ſeulement aſſiſe ſur la partie affectée que l'on veut parfumer. ainſi faut faire à la matrice, & aux oreil- les. aux parfums tant du cerueau que du thorax , faut ouurir la bouche, & prendre la fumée tant auec la bouche que par le nez : outre faire tenir au deſſus de la teſte vn grand voile en forme de paeſle, afin que la fumée plus ramaſſée en ſoy, face dauantage d'impreſſion & d'operation. les humides ſont faits aucunes- fois de decoctions d'herbes , ſouuentesfois d'vn ſeul medicament fimple que l'on fait boüillir auec huyles ardentes , ou quelques marcaſſites auſſi ardentes, leſquelles on fait eſteindre en vinaigre , vin, eau de vie , & autre telle liqueur , afin que ſoit leuée vapeur & fumée humide. nous vſons de tels parfums aux affections ſcirrheuſes, qnand nous voulons eſteindre, penetrer, inciſer, deſſeicher, & reſoudre. la maniere de l'or- donner eſt telle. - .laterem vnum ſatis craſſum aut marcaſſitem ponderis ib. j incandeſcat ſuper carbones ignitos, dein- de extinguatur in aceto acerrimo, effundendo interim paucan aquam vitx , fiat ſuffumigatio pro parte lab orante. les parfums faits de decoction d'herbes & autres medicamens, ſont peu differens des fomentations hu- . mides : car quand à la compoſition, n'y a aucune difference, mais l'application des fomentations humi- des n'eſt telle que des fumigations : parquoy me contenteray de bailler ſeulement vn exemple d'vne fumi- ation humide. /.abſinthij, ſaluiæ , ruta , origani an. p.j. radicis bryoniz & aſari an. . . ſeminis finapi & cumini an. suffumiga- parfums humides, .ij. decoquanturin duabus partibus aquae , & vna vini albi pro ſuffumigio auris cum emboto. tion pour l'o- il y a de telles ſuffumigations humides vniuerſelles & pour tout le corps , que nous appellons eſtuues ſei- reille. ches, deſquelles nous parlerons cy-apres. • - - des inſeſſions ou demi-baings. c h a p. xl i. ainſi appellé,à cauſe qu'il faut que le patient ſoit aſſis ſur la decoction des herbes. inſeſſion eſt definition. peu differente de fomentation humide , car elle eſt faite de meſme matiere, ſçauoir de la de- coction d'herbes , racines , ſemences , fruicts : mais la quantité de la decoction eſt plus grande q q q cs - n s e s s o n, ou ſemicupium,n'eſt autre choſe qu'vn demy-baing des parties du ventre inferieur, | y p w le xxvi.liure, de la faculté és inſeſſions,qu'aux fomentations : toutesfois nous ne deſcrirons icelle quantité,ains,la laiſſerons auiugement a de l'operateur, diſant ſeulement, pro ſemicupio, ou pro inſeſſu : neantmoins il y faut mettre grande quantité d'herbes & racines que l'on veut cuire , comme iuſques au .ou . manipules. vn exemple ſeul te monſtreta le tout - inſeſſion pour vne affection des reins. %. malux & biſmalux cum toto an. m. j. , betonicx, ſaxifragix, parietaria an. m.j. ſeminum melonis milij ſolis, alkekengi an. .iij.cicerum rubrorum p. ij. radicis apij, graminis , fœniculi, eryngijan. j.de- coquantur in ſufficienti quantitate aquæ pro inſeſſu. nous vſons des inſeſſions és affections des reins, de la veſſie & de ſon col, de la matrice & de ſon col du ſiege & ventre inferieur , quand le patient pour ſon imbecillité ne peut endurer le bain , qui luy pourroit faire trop grande reſolution d'eſprits. la maniere d'en vſer eſt telle : faut remplir des ſachets de la reſi- dence de la decoction , & faire aſſeoir le patient ſur leſdits ſachets : mais faut ce temps pendant couurir la teſte de peur qu'elle ne ſoit remplie de fumées & vapeurs. aucunesfois l'on fait aſſeoir le patient en la de- coction iuſques au nombril, que nous appellons ſemicupium ou demy-bain , à raiſon que toutes les par- ties baſſes ſont baignées & eſtuuées. reſte maintenant eſcrire des bains tant naturels qu'artificiels, afin que l'vſage & artifice d'iceux ſoit entendu comme des autres cy-deſſus. - -" des bains. ch a p. xlii. definition. e s bains ne ſont autre choſe que fomentations vniuerſelles de tout le corps, ſeruans tant gal.au li. . à garder la ſanté d'iceluy (comme galien monſtre au liure de ſanitate tuenda) qu'à la curi- de ſan twen. tion de la plus part des maladies : remedes fort communs & familiers aux medecins an- ciens , tant grecs que latins , ſur tous les autres remedes topiques & externes:car outre leur vſage & profit(qui eſt d'euacuer les excremens, & autres humeurs pourris arreſtez à --， = @ la peau, d'appaiſer douleurs, laſſitudes, & corriger toutes intemperatures du corps) en la vtilitez. s=s=ºe curation des fiévres & en la plus part des autres maladies,ſont le dernier refuge,de grande differences. ayde & effects merueilleux. outre ce ils ſont delectables aux hommes : parquoy d'iceux la connoiſſance eſt fort vtile & neceſſaire. l'on fait deux differences de bains, les vns ſont naturels, les autres artificiels. les galau liu naturels ſont ceux qui de leur propre nature ſortent tels ſans ayde ou artifice externe, & ont quelque quali- des alimen*- té medicamenteuſe. car l'eau qui de ſon naturel doit eſtre ſans qualité apparente, ſi d'auanture elle paſſe par les minieres des corps metalliques, ou prés d'icelles, promptement elle reçoit impreſſion des qualitez &cf- fects deſdits metalliques. a cette cauſe toute telle eau, ainſi que galien dit au premier liure. deſamiiut tuenda, a vne vertu commune qui eſt de deſſeicher : mais particulierement l'vne eſchauffe grandement & deſſeiche : l'autre deſſeiche, aſtreint & refrigere. leſdites eaux ſont chaudes, tiedes ou bouillantes, ſelon qu'elles paſſent prés ou loing des matieres allumées ſous terre, deſquelles retiennent & empruntent la ver- tu, à cauſe qu'elles paſſent par les minieres pleines de feu, & faiſans leurs cours par icelles, acquierent cha- leur actuelle ſans autre artifice : laquelle eſt de grande admiration , d'où ſe concrée telle chaleur ſous la terre ralert.de où manifeſte feu n'apparoiſt : auſſi qui l'allume, qui l'entretient & nourrit par ſi long-temps ſans s'eſteindre § des aucuns philoſophes voulans donner raiſon naturelle, diſent que le feu s'allume ſous terte par les rayons eaux chau- du soleil, les autres diſent que c'eſt par la penetration des foudres ; autres que c'eſt par l'air vehemente- des. ment eſmeu , comme dehors du caillou eſt tiré le feu par attrition. mais outre ces raiſons humaines, la cauſe principale doit eſtre referée à la grande prouidence du grand architecte, facteur de toutes choſes, qui a voulu manifeſter ſa puiſſance, voire iuſques aux entrailles de la terre. iaçoit qu'aucuns veulent que telles eaux ſoient eſchauffées par le moyen du ſouphre, qui entre les corps metalliques retient plus la nº- ture du feu, comme auſſi on luy attribuë la cauſe du feu perpetuel, qui des tout temps ſort de la montagº raiſºº de sicile nommé aetna, ainſi qu'auons parlé cy-deuant, & ſelon que deſcriuent les poétes & hiſtoriens à fº *** cette cauſe les eaux ſortans ainſi chaudes retiennent, principalement la vertu du ſoulphre les autres te- preſent en la qualité de l'alum ou du ſel nitre, ou de bitumen, ou chalchantum. et telles eaux tant chau- des que froides ſont conneuës par ſaueur , odeur , couleur, & le limon qui adhere auxcanaux : auſſi par ſeparation artificielle des parties terreſtres deſdites eaux d'auec les ſubtiles : comme en faiſant bouillir l'eau dudit baing , comme ſi tu voulois faire cauteres, laquelle eſtant conſommée tu connoiſtras par leſdites par- ties terreſtres qui demeureronr, la nature du baing. comme s'il eſt ſulphuré, leſdites parties terreſtres : ſentiront le ſoulphre : s'il eſt alumineux , auront le gouſt d'alum , & ainſi conſequemment des autres. d'a- uantage , par les effects & aydes qu'elles donnent aux maladies , leſquelles declarerons particulierement, commençans aux ſulphurées. ' - baings ſul- les eaux ſulphurées eſchauffent grandement, deſſeichent,reſoluent, ouurent, attirent du dedans au dehors phure (. elles nettoyent la peau des galles gratelles, & dartres : ſont profitables au prurit,aux vlceres, defluxions de - articles & gouttes:elles remedient au mal de la cholique, de la ratte endurcie : inutiles au reſte pour boire,à alumineux cauſe de leur mauuaiſe odeur & ſaueur, & nuiſantes au foyè. les alumineuſes, quant à leur ſaueur, ont vne grande ſtypticité & aſtriction, partant deſſeichent grandement.leur chaleur n'eſt tant manifeſte : toutesfois quand on en boit, elles laſchent ſort le ventre.ce qui ſemble aduenir à raiſon d'vne nitroſité & chaleur elles detergent & repriment les fiuxions, & les menftruës ſuperfluês des femmes : conuiennemt aux douleurs des dents,aux vlceres corroſifs & apoſtemes cachées & latentes,tant des genciues que d'autre partie de la bouche nitreux les falées, & nitreuſes ſont manifeſtes de leur ſaueur : elles eſchauffent, deſſeichent, aſtreignent, detergºnº -" . reſoluent, extenuent, reſiſtent à la putrefaction, oſtent les ecchymoſes, elles profitent aux gratelles wlce- biºiºº reuſes, & vlceres malins : & toutes tumeurs laxes : telle eſt l'eau de la mer. les bitumineuſes, eſchauffent continuellement, reſoluent, & par longue eſpaee de temps emolliſſent les nerfs : elles ſont toutesfois diuer- cuivreux. ſes & variables, ſelon les eſpeces & diuerſitez de bitumen,qui impriment leurs qualitez eſdites eaux.les eaux qui retiennent la qualité de l'airain ou cuiure, eſchauffent, deſſeiehent,detergent , reſoluent, inciſent & aſtrer gnent : elles aident grandement contre les vlceres corroſifs,fiſtules, dureſſes des paupieres, des yeux & cot- rodent les carnoſitez tant du nez que du fiege.les ferées refrigerent, deſſeichent, & grandement aſtreigne , fºg , à cette cauſe ſont profitables aux apoſtemes, durtez & tumeurs de la ratte, debilité d'eſtomach, ventricule, - flux d'vrinesflux de menſtrues,intemperies chaudes du foye,& des reins:telles ſont aucunes de luques en itº- plombe ( lie. les plombées, refrigerent, deſſeichent & retiennent toutes les autres qualitez du plomb. telles ſont cel- pſº , les qui paſſent par les canaux du plomb. ainſi faut iuger des eaux gypſeuſes, ou ayans la nature de # - - leſquelles c yºt compoſition des medicamens À leſquelles ont les meſmes effects que les corps par où elles paſſent. les ſuſdites eaux chaudes aydent gran- |"º, # dement contre les maladies froides & humides, paralyfies, ſpaſmes, rigueurs des nerfs,tremblement , pal-%ºse des #: pitations, goutes froides, inflations de membres, hvdropiſies, iauniſſe procedant d'humeur viſqueux , dou # leurs de coſtez, coliques, douleurs nephritiques , à la ſterilité des femmes, à la ſuppreſſion des mois d'icel-* ands. les, à la ſuffocation de la matrice , aux laſſitudes ſpontanées, aux defedations du cuir, dartes, morphées, galles , gratelles, à la lepre,& autres maladies prouenantes d'obſtruction faicte d'humeur viſqueux & froid, a raiſon qu'elles prouoquent ſueurs : mais icelles faut euiter és natures choleriques, & es intemperatures chaudes du foye : car elles pourroient cauſer cachexie & hydropiſie, par la mauuaiſe complexion acquiſe - au foye , pour l'vſage deſdites eaux. les froides ſont fort conuenables aux intemperatures chaudes vſage des #: tant de tout le corps que des parties d'iceluy : & ſont pluſtoſt prinſes au dedans, qu'appliquées au dehors.f#. elles confortent grandement & roborent les parties internes relaxées : comme la vertu retentrice du ven- tricule, des inteſtins, des reins, de la veſſie,& des autres parties du ventre inferieur. et pourtant elles corri- gent les exceſſiues chaleurs du foye,le remettant à ſa naturelle temperature, & grandement le corroborent: elles arreſtent flux de ventre,dyſenteries,flux des menſtrues, flux d'vrine,gonorrhées,ſueurs immoderées,flux de ſang , & guariſſent beaucoup d'autres maladies cauſées par imbecilité des parties dudit ventre infe- . rieur entre leſquels ceux du liege,& de spa, & de plombiere pris par dehors & par dedans, ont meſne - effect, faiſant d'vne meſme main pluſieurs offices ſans rien gaſter : veu que ces eaux ſont tellement pota- bles , que ceux du pays en vſent ordinairement en leurs potages, & breuuages ſans mal receuoir. - on fait des baings artificiels à l'imitation des naturels, pour ſuppléer le defaut d'iceux , en y mettant baings arti- b pouldre des deſſuſdits mineraux , comme ſoulphre, alum , ſel nitre, bitumen. aucunesfois on fait chauffer ſicul，. fer, cuyure, or,argent, iuſques à rougeur, & les fait-on eſteindre pluſieurs fois en eau commune ou de pluye pour en donner à boire aux patiens. et telles eaux retiennent ſouuent la vertu du metal qui a eſté eſteint en icelles, comme lon void par les effects, tant és dyſenteries qu'es autres excretions immoderées des hu- meurs bons & ſuperflus aux corps humains, quand elles debilitent nature. outre ceux cy, il y a d'autres ſortes de baings artificiels, deſquels les vns ſont faits d'eau ſimple ſeulement ſans autre mixion : les autres baings d' ſont faicts auec decoction de quelques medicamens. les baings d'eau ſimple, doiuent eſtre tiedes & me- # é l diocrement chauds car l'eau eſtant ainſi tiede,humecte,relaſche amollit les parties ſolides trop ſeiches,du- §i•. • res & tenduës, ouure les pores par vne chaleur accidentale,digere,attire,& reſoult les excremens tant fuligi- de sanit. - neux qu'autres acres & mordants,arreſtez entre cuir & chair. auſſi eſt fort commode aux combuſtions impri- tuend. •t mées ſur le corps & viſage par inſolations,c'eſt à dire trop grandes ardeurs du soleil, & aux laſſitudes,par le gal au liu. : moyen deſquelles les parties ſimilaires ſont deſſeichées. dauantage ſoit que nous ſoyons eſchauffez, ou re-º. de lº #. fr gerez ou deſſeichez, ou qu'ayons nauſée,ou quelque autre intemperie, & que le corps demande quelque ** : euacuation,nous trouuons manifeſtement grands ſecours aux baings d'eau tiede,& peuuét ſeruir de frictions, #. ou d'exercice.car ils apportent au corps mediocrité du temperament:ils augmentent la chaleur & la vertu, - & auec ſueurs viennent à diſcuter ventoſitez. partant ſon conuenables aux fiévres hectiques, & à la decli- . #. nation de toutes les fiévres : ioinct qu'outre les commoditez ſuſdites ils prouoquent le repos & dormir, ainſi gal li de le # - que dit galien. mais pour autant que l'eau ſeule ne peut longuement adherer au corps, on y meſle de l'huy- comp.desme. : l' te d'oliue pour la faire demeurer plus longuement.et iceux bains ſont grandement louez pour ceux qui ſont dic.particu- :- ' de temperature chaude & ſeiche auſſi ſont profitables aux inflammations des poulmons, & aux pleuretiques, lieri. #:' c parce qu'ils appaiſſent la douleur,& aident à ſuppurer & ietter les crachats, pourueu qu'ils ſoient faits apres • les choſes vniuerſelles pource que s'ils eſtoient pris auant la purgation & ſaignée,ils ſeroient fort dangereux, vſage des :: à raiſon qu'ils pourroient cauſer fluxion ſur les parties affligées.le baing, dit galien, eſt adminiſtré ſans dan- baings artifs #: ger aux maladies, quand la matiere eſt cuite & digerée : ils ſont vtiles aux fiévres ardentes causées de chole- ciels - #: re , parce qu'ils refrigerent & humectent, & auſſi qu'ils euacuent portion de la cholere. pour tels effects ſont ill. choiſies les eaux de pluye:puis celles de riuiere non limoneuſe,en apres celles de bonnes fontaines:le dernier : rang tiennent les eaux de paluds & eſtangs : car il faut que l'eau pour le baing, que nous appellons aqux dul- #. cis,ſoit legere , & de ſubſtance tenue&ſubtile. les baings d'eau trop chaude ou froide n'ont pas tel vſage, ' ! " wx mais pluſtoſt apportent vne incommodité:car ils ſerrent & ferment les pores du corps & par conſequent re- :: tiennent les excremens & autres humeurs à la peau. les autres baings artificiels ſont faits de meſme matie- matim. | re que les fomentations humides:parquoy aucuns d'iceux ſont relaxatifs:les autres ſedatifs des douleurs:les # # autres mondificatifs & deterſifs:les autres prouoquent ou arreſtent les menſtrues des fºmmes,& ainſi des au- ° #t $ tres. les relaxatifs ſont faits de la decoction & permixtion des medicamens remollitifs,& reſolutifs deſcrits #: par cy-deuant,mis en grande quantité. on y adiouſte aucunesfois du vin, quelquesfois de l'huile, quelques- # # fois du beurre frais, du laict;diceux nous vſons aux ſuppreſſions d'vrine,& douleurs nephritiques,& contra- # ctions de nerfs , & habitudes des corps hectiques. car par medicamens relaſchans, l'aridité du cuir eſt cor- ! rºgée:& par les humectans,qui peuuent penetrer & enuoyer leur humidité graſſe & aërée,iuſques au dedans #: - du corps ja rarefié & ouuert par la tiedeur du bain,arrousée & nourrie comme d'vn gras & fertillimon. les *ººdyns, qui allegent ou diminuent douleurs, ſont faits de medicamens anodyns & temperez, auſquels on # adiouſte quelquesfois des medicamens relaxans,autresfois des forts reſolutifs, & les fait on cuire en eau & #. vº, principalement és douleurs de coliques prouenans de pituite vitrée, ou de ventoſitez groſſes encloſes diocrité # ººventre. nous vſons de tels baings pour les douleurs du ventre inferieur, des reins,de la matrice & de l'in- # - ſ · teſtinlum colon. toutesfois ne faut que le malade ſue en iceux , mais ſeulement qu'il y nage quelque eſpace |g- de temps , iuſques à ce qu'il ſente ſa douleur allegée, de peur de proſterner d'auantage la vertu ja affoiblie par deuleur. les deterſifs ſont faits de medicamens mondificatifs & deſſeichans. quelquesfois nous vſons des re*mollitifs meſlez auec legers deterfifs,où il y a quelque dureté à la peau, ou que les crouſtes & eſcailles de la galle , & autre vice du cuir, ſont dures exceſſiuement, pour venir par apres aux forts deterſifs & de- - ficcatifs. ils ſont fort requisés affections du cuir, galles, gratelles, prurit, morphées, & autres telles de feda- , tions du cuir : *pres leſquels,pour troiſieſme baing,faut faire decoction de choſes deſſeichantes & aſtringen- | . tes legerement , pour corroborer la peau & habitude du corps, à ce qu'elle ne ſoit deſormais ſi prompte & ,-" ouuerte à receuoir nouuelles fluxions, & que le mal ne retourne comme auparauant. on fait aucunesfois º - - - - - - - - - - º d'autres baings compoſez & meſlez enſemble des deſſuſdits, ſelon les indications compliquées. les baings # , * appropriez aux femmes , ſont faits des medicamens appropriez à la matrice,ſelon les intentions, com- # / - • me de prouoquer ou arreſter les mois d'icelles. vne,ſeule deſcription d'vn , ſeruira pour toute deſcription # iauii (, de baing - a l.azf l j l o - : r # : : - - - - - - v, - - - - - - de la meth. | #. rad, liliorum alborum & biſmalux an. fb. ij malux , parietariz , violan.'m. vj.ſeminis lini, fœ- & au liu ;. | nugrœci & biſmalua an. fb.j. fior. chamaemeli, meliloti & anethi an. p. vj. fiat decoctio in ſufficienti aqux de cauſpuiſ. # quantitate , cui permiſceto oleililiorum & lini, an. fb.ij. vini albi fb. vj. fiat baleneum, in quo diutius na- gal. de la , tet aeger. - metk. q q q les le xxvi. liure, de la faculté les baings tant naturels qu'artificiels, ſont remedes fort loüables & ſains,s'ils ſont prins en temps deu,& a quantité & qualité conuenable,comme tous autres remedes mais s'ils ne gardent telles regles, ils nuiſent grandement. car ils excitent horreurs,friſſons & douleurs,denſitè de la peau,debilitent les facultez de noſtre corps,& apportent pluſieurs autres dommages. parquoy faut auoir eſgard aux confiderations cy-apres eſcri- tes. premierement auant qu'entrer au baing, faut qu'il n'y ait aucune partie principale debile : car telles parties debiles attirent & reçoiuent promptement les humeurs fondus & liquefiez par le baing, veu que les voyes ſont ouuertes. secondement, faut qu'il n'y ait abondance & multitude d'humeurs cruds aux pre- mieres veines : car tels humeurs par le baing ſeroient diſperſez par tout le corps. parquoy il eſt fort bon que les purgations vnjuerſelles ,& vacuations deſdits humeurs, precedent auant qu'entrer au baing et non ſeulement telles §. vniuerſelles ſont neceſſaires auant le baing, mais auſſi les excretions, tant de l'vrine que d'autres excremens. apres telles purgations, tant vniuerſelles que particulieres, faut que la vertu & force du patient ſoit ſuffiſante , tant pour entrer & demeurer aubaing, que pourſe tenir ſans manger, & à jeun. tiercement, faut que tel baing ſoit adminiſtré, ſans friſſon, à cauſe qu'il pourroit cauſer vne fiévre. temps. le temps commode pour ſe mettre au baing eſt apres le soleil leué, à jeun : ou ſix ou ſept heures apres le les reigles repas,ſi d'auâture on veut vſer deux fois le iour des baings.car ſi la viande eſtoit encore aux premieres veines, º fººº ou au ventricule, elle ſeroit attirée auant ſa parfaicte coction : à raiſon de la chaleur dubaing, qui eſchauffe- º * roit toutes les parties du corps, dont elles ſeroient plus promptes à attirer l'aliment encores crud. aucuns baing. . eſliſent la partie de l'année commode pour leſdits baings,le printemps & fin de l'eſté : autres vn iour beau & clair, ny froid, ny venteux, ny pluuieux.ainſi la diſpoſition & vertu du corps, & les temps confiderez, faut entrer bien chaudement aubaing, dans lequel ne faut boire ny manger pour les cauſes ja dites : fi d'a- uanture, pour le regard des forces, l'on ne prend vn peu de pain,ou quelques raiſins,ou quelque orange, ou grenade pour la ſoif le temps d'y demeurer ne ſe peut dire,ny eſcrire. aucuns toutesfois veulent qu'il ſoit d'vne demie heure juſques à vne heure : mais ne ſe faut fier à cela, ains auoir eſgard à la vertu. car il ne faut que le patient demeure au baingiuſques à l'extreme debilité & foibleſſe : à raiſon qu'és baings eſt faite gran- le ſortir du de reſolution des eſprits & de l'humeur ſubſtantifique.au ſortir du baing faut eſtre diligemment couuert,& ſe baing- mettre au lict pour y ſuer , & euacuer par ſueurs quelques excremens attirez à la peau par la chaleur du baing. apres la ſueur diligemment nettoyée, faut faire ou frictions legeres, ou deambulations: puis ſe nourrir de viandes de bon ſuc, de facile digeſtion & diſtribution : car la vertu concoctrice du ventricule à eſté affoiblie par le baing. la quantité deſdites viandes ſera moderée, quand elle ne fera peſanteur à l'eſto- mach. finalement apres les baings fauteuiter la compagnie des femmes : car le coit, outre l'imbecillite • acquiſe du baing,abbat grandement les forces & vertus tant de tout le corps, que principalement des par- ties nerueuſes. ceux qui ſe baignent pour dureſſe, ou retreciſſement de nerfs, ou pour appaiſſer les douleurs d'iceux doiuent frotter & entourer les parties malades de la fange du baing : car par ce moyen la vertu du baingèſt conſeruée plus longuement en la partie,& reçoit-on plus grand profit en ſe frottant & induiſant la partie d'icelle fange,que ſi on vſoit du ſeul baing ces reigles icy diligemment obſeruées, & gardées,l'vſa- ge des baings eſt d'vn effect diuin & merueilleux, comme il à eſte predit : & non ſeulement telles reigles ſont à garder en vſant des baings, mais auſſi en prenant les eſtuues, deſquelles nous parlerons, pourl'affinité & vſage commun qu'elles ont auec le baing : joinct auſſi que les anciens vſoient des eſtuues ſeiches &baings - l'vn apres l'autre , & le tout auoit le nom de baing, comme il eſtoit facile à connoiſtre par les liures dela - methode de galien. - • des eſtuues. ch a p. xl i ii. e s eſtuues ſont ſeiches, ou humides. les ſeiches ſont faites auecvne euaporation d'air chaud & ſec : qui en eſchauffant tout le corps ouure les pores d'iceluy & eſmeut ſueurs.on peutex- citer & faire telle euaporation d'air chaud & ſec en pluſieurs manieres : communément & pu- $ bliquement eſt faicte, tant en cette ville , qu'en autre lieu où ſont eſtuues publiques, auec vn $ fourneau vouſté, ſous lequel on fait grand feu, afin que ledit fourneau eſtant eſchauffé, puiſſe - maniere de ，y，sé à faire telle euaporation. toutesfois chacun en peut faire particulierement auec telle induſtrie fair**ſº & artifice. on peut mettre en vne cuue des pierres de grais, rouges & ardentes, entre leſquelles ſera aſſis nud le patient bien couuert, & l'exhalation ſeiche deſdits grais eſtant ainſi encloſe en ladite cuue, eſchauf- not . fera & efmouuera ſueurs : toutesfois de peur que les grais ne bruſlent la cuue, les faut poſer ſur tuilles ou la- mes de fer. et dauantage,faudra auoir diligemment eſgard au patient, & l'entreuoir de fois à autre : car il eſt | aduenu quelquesfois,qu'iceux par nonchalance des aſſiſtans ou gardes,eſtans delaiſſez ſeuls,venansſubitement à s'eſuanoüir par trop grande diſſipation des eſprits,causée par la chaleur de l'eſtuue,& tombans ſur les pier- res ardentes,ont eſté retirez demy-morts & bruſlez. aucuns prennent telles eſtuues ſeiches en vn four, apres qu'on a tiré hors le pain : mais elles font fort incommodes,à cauſe que le malade n'y peut pas demeurer à ſon aiſe. les eſtuues humides ſont faites auec vne vapeur ou fumée chaude & humide : telle vapeur ſe fait par decoction de racines , feuilles, fleurs & ſemences des herbes, leſquelles on fait boüillir auec eau ou vin, ou tous les deux enſemble, en vne marmite bien cloſe & lutée , & l'ebullition & vapeur de telle decoction eſt conduite par tuyaux & canaux de fer blanc, leſquels s'inſerent en vne cuue ayant deux fonds, dont le ſecond eſt troüé & percé en pluſieurs endroits, afin que ladite vapeur ait ſortie de toutes parts, & puiſſe eſchauffer & ouurir lcs pores du corps pour ſuer. la cuue ſera bien garnie de couuertures par deſſus : le patient auſſi ayant la teſte couuerte,& hors de la cuue,s'aſſeoira ſur vne petite felle dans ladite cuue, & ſuera à ſa volonté auec telle chaleur qu'il luy plaira.car la chaleur eſt moderée par le benefice d'vn trou eſtant au haut des tuyaux, ſequel on deſtoupe lors que la chaleur eſt trop grande, autrement non : telle vapeur eſt fort plaiſan- te à ſentir, & donne plaiſir en ſuant, comme tu peux voir par cette figure. differences, - eſtuues hu- mides. } · - figure b | et compoſition des medicamens. figure d'vne cuue à double fond auerſes tuyaux & marmite, propre pour receuoir les eſtuues humides. $ . # - b \ |||| †llº y ( ë # ! # - | - - wn | . w (/ $\(( \ ſa | ) $) !{a=a : - lllllllll iiiiiii | # = - ) $< ( : % )| | -- - si l'on n'atels tuyaux, on peut faire telles eſtuues humides, ainſi qu'il s'enſuit. faut faire cuire les herbes - - en vn chauderon, puis les mettras aux pieds du patient, en la cuue, eſtant bien couuerte par deſſus : & pour exciter vapeur humide, faut mettre pierre de grais ardente dans le chauderon : car elle boüillira en la de- coction, & excitera grandes vapeurs humides qui eſmouueront ſueurs. - " , - des fards pour decorer & embellir la face des femmes. c c h a p t r e. x l iv. t e l e s femmes qui ſe fardent pour leur plaiſir & delices , ie ne leur voudois donner s# aucun aide : mais bien à celles qui ſont honneſtes, fuyans les marques de vieilleſſe & de hip.aù com - # turpitude, deſirans euiter l'indignation de leurs maris : & à icelles ces moyens qui s'enſui-§ # uent s'addreſſent ,pour pallier leurs rides & couleur mauuaiſe. or la couleur du viſage du liure des demonſtre la bonne temperature ou mauuaiſe, & la domination des humeurs : car cha- humeurs. - s cun humeur donne ſa teinture au cuir, & principalement à celuy de la face. car ſi la cho- lere domine, la couleur ſera jaunaſtre & citrine : ſi le phlegme, blaffarde : ſi la melancholie, plombine, ou li- uide : & ſi le ſang, la couleur ſera vermeille. il y a autres choſes qui donnent la couleur au cuir , & luy changent ſa couleur naturelle : telles ſont les choſes exterieures, comme le soleil, le froid , luxure , triſteſſe, peur,veilles,jeunes,douleur,longues maladies,l'vſage de mauuaiſes viandes & breuuages, comme vinaigre & mauuaiſes eaux, au contraire, les bonnes viandes & le bon vin aydent à faire bonne couleur, à raiſon qu'elles engendrent bon ſuc. si telles turpitudes prouenoient par les humeurs pechans en quantité & qualité , faut purger & ſaigner. et ſi tel vice prenoit ſa ſource de quelque intemperature des parties principales , il fau- droit premierement icelles roborer : ce qui ſe fera par l'aduis du docte medecin. maintenant nous vien- - drons aux remedes particuliers : qui ont faculté de pallier les rides, & blanchir le cuir. premierement on lauement à} lauera la face en eau diſtillée des fleurs de lis, ou féves, ou nenuphar, ou laict de vaches pareillement di- #rº aº p ſtillé bien auec eau d'orge ou d'amydon , de riz, delayez en eau tiede : & la face en eſtant lauée ſera deſ pºrººf ºr ſeichée, puis oincte des ongueus que dirons cy-apres : car tels lauemens detergent & preparent la face à # receuoir l'action d'iceux onguens, comme fait la lexiue alumineuſe au poil , lors que l'on le veut noircir. rº apres auoir detergé & preparé la face on vſera des remedes qui s'enſuiuent, leſquels ont faculté d'embel- '. lir, de tendre le cuir, & effacer les rides : comme. % gummi tragacanthz conquaſſ .ij. diſtemp. in vaſe vitreo cum fb.ij. aquz communis. icelle gomme ſe fondra, & l'eau demeurera blanche. % lithargyri aurian. ij. ceruſx & ſalis communis an. #. . aceti, aquz plantaginis an. .ij. caphura . . faut faire tremper la litharge & ceruſe en vinaigre l'eſpace de trois ou quatre heures à part, le ſel & cam- phre en l'eau que prendrez, puis les faut diſtiller le tout à part par le filtre : & apres eſtre diſtillez, à meſure - que vous en vſerez, les meſler. - - % lact vaccin. fb.ij. aurant. & limon.an. n.iv. ſacchar. albiſſ. & alum roch.an. .j. diſtillentur om- eau de laia # nia ſimul. devache. l'on mettra les citrons & oranges par petites pieces, puis ſeront infuſées dedans le laict, & adjou- » ſtant voſtre ſuccre & alum , le tout ſera diſtillé in balneo mariz. cette eau eſt excellente pour tenir le † net & frais embellir la face : lors qu'on ſe couche on mettra linges qui en ſeront imbus ſur i cc. autre eau fort excellente pour rendre le teint clair & beau. faites diſtiller limaçons de vigne, & jus de limons , fieurs de boüillon blanc, de chacun quantité egale puis y ſoit adiouſté autant d'eau , contenue dedans les bourſettes de l'orme, & en foit vſé comme auons dit. | - q_q q autrê Èt compoſition des medicamens v vn baſton âe bois, iuſques à ce qu'ils acquierent vne conſiſtance de beurre, puis oſtez-les hors de deſ- ſus le feu, & gardez cette meſlange pour vous en frotter le viſage au ſoir, apres l'auoir laué de ſon, ou de mie de pain blanc. - - —l- de la goute-roſe. c h a p. xlv. definition. a n r e n a n t nons parlerons d'vne rougeur eſtrange, qui ſe fait au nez & aux joués, | # & quelquesfois par tout le viſage auec tumeur, & quelquesfois ſans tumeur : aucunesfois p - # auec puſtules & crouſtes, qui ſe fait pour certaines humeurs ſalées & aduftes. la goute- rognoſtir. # roſe feſt plus grande en hyuer qu'en eſté, parce que le froid cloſt les pores , & partant la % matiere ne ſe peut euacuer : mais eſt tenue ſous le cuir, qui fait qu'elle requiert vne acrimo- | $ $ nie & mordacité, faiſant eſleuer des boutons & crouſtes, rendant la couleur du viſage, plombine. cetºe maladie éſt difficile, & ſouuent impoſſible à curer. cuye generale. pour la cure generale, il faut que le malade euite le vin, s'il n'eſt bien trempé, & generalement toutes choſes qui eſchauffent le ſang , & qui ſont vaporeuſes, auſſi toute chaleur & froideur exceſſiue : pareille- ment que le malade aye le ventre laſche, ſoit par art,ou par nature. il ſera ſaigné de la veine baſilique, puis de celle du front, & de celle du nez : & ſeront ſemblablement appliquées ſang-ſues en pluſieurs lieux de la b face, auſſi ventouſes auec ſcarification ſur les eſpaules. cureparticuliere. si le mal eſt inueteré, on commencera la cure par choſes emollientes, puis on vſera des onguents qui s'enſuiuent , leſquels ſeront changez à la diſcretion du medecin preſent, les diuerſifiant ſelon que le mal ſera petit ou grand. - bon & eè exemple. . ſucci citri . iij. ceruſœ quantum ſufficit ad inſpiſſandum przdictum ſuccum, argen- § ti viui . . extincti cum axung. porci , & cum . É. ſulphur. viui, incorporentur ſimul, & fiat vn- per - - u entum. : .boracis .ij. far. cicer.& fab an. .j.ſº.camph. .j.& cum melle & ſucco cepx fiant trochiſci.quand on en voudra vſer ſeront deſtrempez en eau roſe ou de plantain , & en ſera applicqué deſſus le lieu auec linge delié, & laiſſez deſſus la nuict, les renouuellant ſouuent. autre. . vng citrini, recent. diſpenſ . ij. ſulph viui #. É. & cum modico olei ſemini. cucur. & ſuc. : limon, fiat vng quoillinatur facies hora ſomni : le lendemain ſera lauée la face auec eau roſe, blanchie auec du ſon. - :: autre. faut faire boüillir du vinaigre bien fort,auec du ſon & eau roſe, & en ſera appliqué comme deſ* :: ſus : ledit vinaigre eſteint la rougeur. - l. autre. ceruſœ & litharg. auri,ſulph. viui pulueriſ an. . , ponantur in phiala cum aceto & aqua roſat. . d'icelle compoſition en faut appliquer auec linges,& les y laiſſer toute la nuict, puis ſeront oſtez , & ſera la- - ueé la face auec eau de ſon : d'iceluy remede on vſera § d'vn mois,plus ou moins. | autre. %. ſang.taur.fb.j.butyri recent.fb.É. † noter que ladite eau eſt trouble & puan- te au commencement : mais quelques iours apres vient claire , & perd ſa puanteur. •- autre faites boüillir du ſon en vinaigre & eau de nenuphar, & diſſoudrez du ſoulphre & vn peu de cam- a phre,& de ce en tremperez linges qui ſeront mis ſur le viſage au ſoir. . pour deſſeicher les puſtules ou ſaphirs. #l alb. ouorum num.ijaquz roſar. .jſ ſucci plantaginis & lapathi acuti an. .f. ſublimat. .j. incorp. in l',º iiloi t • inarinor. , ! - # - pour les lentilles. - | touchez les lieux auec eau forte. autre.faites tremper vn ou pluſieurs œufs en fort vinaigre iuſques à ce qu'ils ſoient mols, incorporez auec ſemence puluerisée en forme d'onguent,& en frottez les lentilles,tant que la peau s'éſleue. - -- zaxungiz porci decies in aceto lota iiij.argenti viui .j. alum ſulphur. viuian. . j, piſtentur omnia diu in mortario plumbeo,& fiat vnguentum. l'argent-vif ne ſe doit mettre qu'à la fin. - z. radic. lapathi acuti & aſphod an. .ij. coquant, in aceto ſcillitico, poſtea piſtentur & paſſentur , ad- * - den do auripigmenti -ij.ſulphur.viui .x. incorporentur, & fiat vng.duquel en ſera mis ſur les puſtules pour .'ſ- d les deſſeicher. - . . rad. lilior.ſub cinerib.coct. . iij piſtis & paſſatis adde butyri recent. & axung. porci lotæ in aceto an. autre. .j ſulphur.viui .iij. camph. .ij.ſucci limon.quant ſuff malax. ſimul, & fiat vnguentum. - , =/. lact.virg fb.ſalum. . .ſulphur. viui j.ſucc.limo. .vj. ſal. comm. . É. diſtillentur omnia inalemb. vi autre. trec>.et d'icelle eau on vſera comme deſſus. - %. ſucci lapat.acuti,plantag & aſphodelo.an. .j. É. olei vitell ouor. . j. tereb. venetæ . ß.ſucci limonum iiialuminis combuſti .i. argent viui extincti .i olei liliorum . É. piſtentur omnia in mortario plumbeo, add endo ſub finem argent. viu. ne mortario adhaereat. autre. prenez eau de nenuphar, de plantain, de morelle, de chacun deux onces, vinaigre fort vne once & demie, eſteignez dedans cinq ou fix coquilles d'œufs toutes rouges venans du feu, &les y laiſſez trem- per & ramollir, comme à ſe rediger en poudre , puis coulez le tout , & verſez dedans vne bouteille - † , en laquelle tremperez vn petit noüet plein d'vne dragme & demie de ſoulphre vif, ſubtilement :: " puluerisé. ' - - autre prenez ſoulphre vne once, ceruſe lauée deux dragmes, os de ſeiche,camphre de chacune vne drag- me,jus de limons de chacun demie liure, jus d'oignons deux onces, triturez ſubtilement, & incorporez auec le jus,oignez-en la face au ſoir allant au lict,& au matin lauez la auec decoction de ſon. et au cas que les pu- - ſtules ou boutons ne vouluſſent ceder aux remedes,il faut appliquer des veſicatoires, non faits de canthari- - des,à fin d'attirer du profond le ſang aduſte & bruflé, qui cauſe leſdites puſtules, - autre. aºtrº. # · | autrê le xxvi. liure, de la faculté autre bien approuué. /. ſulphuris viui ignis expert. .ij. .zinziberis optimi .j. peperis nigri .ij.fiat puluis ſubtiliſſimus & in- corporetur cum .iiij. pommacei optimi. faut oindre la partie rouge & boutons le ſoir,& le lendemain ma- tin lauer ledit onguent auec de l'eau qui aura eſté tiede dans la bouche. pour oſter les ſaphirs du viſage. prenez ſuc d'oignon, pilé auec ſel, ou autrement pilé auec moyeux d'œufs. pour amortir les dartres. fueilles d'ellebore pilées auec vinaigre, ou laict de figuier tout ſeul, ou laict de tithymal, ou mouſtarde diſſoute auec vinaigre fort , auec vn peu de ſoulphre. autre.prenez coupe-roſe,ſoulphre & alum,de chacun vne drachme,& les faites tremper en fortvinaigre, puis ſoient paſsées par vn linge , & en ſoit appliqué deſſus. autre. prenez vn oeuf , & le faites tremper en fort vinaigre, auec coupe-roſe & ſoulphre vif mis en poudre, puis paſſez,& en vſez comme deſſus. si les herbes ou dartres ſont au viſage, l'eau de ſublimé eſt exellente, auſſi l'alum incorporé auec blanc d'œuf, & vn peu de jus de citron, auſſi fait l'aloés deſtrempé b auec oxymel ſcillitic. or il faut icy noter,qu'à cauſe que les ſuſdits remedes ſont aucunement corroſifs, rendans le cuir aſpre & ſcabre pour l'adoucir & polir, on vſera de ce liniment. /...terebenthinz venetx , tam diu lotx vt acrimoniam nullam habeat , butyri ſalis expert.an. . f. olei vitell. ouor. .i. axung. porci in aqua roſar.lot. .ſº.cera parum, vt inde fiat linimentum ad vſum. on peut auſſi vſer des autres remedes cy-deſſus mentionnez, qui ont pareille vertu. pour affermir les dents,& les tenir nettes & blanches que nos dames de la cour vſent. prenez eau commune & eau roſe , de chacune quatre onces , deux drachmes d'alum de roche, cuit & ſubtilement puluerise, canelle entiere demie drachme, mettez l'alum & la poudre dedans vne phiole de verre auec les eaux, puis expoſez la phiole ſur les cendres chaudes, faictes le boüillir iuſques à la conſom- ption de la tierce partie des eaux : eſtant refroidie, frottez-en vos dents au matin aucc vn linge net. pour affermir les dents qui lochent & branſlent. faut vſer de toutes choſes qui aſtreignent , ſoit en gargariſme ou opiate. la decoction de berberis,ſu- mach,balauſtes , alum , vin de grenades , meſlé auec eau roſe, & verjus , eſt ſingulier remede pour reſerrer & affermir les genciues. la maniere de faire noircir le poil. ch a p. , xl v i. |l faut premierement lauer la teſte ou la barbe de lexiue, en laquelle on mettra vn $ peu d'alum de roche, à cauſe qu'icelle lexiue prepare le poil à mieux receuoir la tein- # ture, conſumant la graiſſe qui peut eſtre aux cheueux ou barbe. les remedes parti- #| culiers pour noircir le poil doiuent eſtre aromatiques & cephaliques , & vn peu ſty- # ptiques, à fin que par leur aromaticité ils corroborent la vertu animale, & que par leur # ſtypticité ils aſtreignent : auſſi doiuent eſtre de ſubtile ſubſtance pour penetrer iuſques à * la racine du poil. - - il faut prendre vne pierre de chaux-viue peſant vne liure & demie, & la mettre dedans vne terrine, auec aſſez grande quantité d'eau : & quand ladite chaux ſera deſteinte, il la faut remuer auec vn baſton, & paſ- ſer ladite chaux & eau par vn ſaſſet dedans vn autre vaiſſeau, & quand la chaux ſera raſſiſſe, il faut ietter toute l'eau,& y en remettre de fraiche autant & plus qu'à la deſteindre, & la remuer comme à la premie- re fois : & faut laiſſer ſeicher ladite chaux,tant qu'on la puiſſe mettre en poudre : & prendre de ladite chaux cinq quarterons : & la mettre en poudre,& demie liure de litharge ſubtilement puluerisée:& le tout paſ- ſer enſemble par vn ſaſſet. pour en faire paſte aſſez liquide, faut prendre vne poignée de ſauge franche,la concaſſer & mettre dedans vn pot de terre,auec vne pinte d'eau,& la faire conſumer iuſques à la tierce par- tie,& paſſer par vn linge : & de ladite decoction ferez voſtre paſte , de laquelle vous frotterez le lieu que voudrez noircir, & lairrez ladite paſte l'eſpace de quatre ou cinq heures : apres lauerez le lieu auec de l'eau tiede en laquelle on aura mis du ſon. É. ſulphur. vitrioli, gallar.calcis viux, lith. an. .ij. ſcoria ferri . , pulueriſentur omnia ſubtil. & cum aqua communi incorporentur, vt inde fiat maſſa : de laquelle on frottera les cheueux s'en allant cou- cher , puis on mettra vne compreſſe deſſus auec vne coëffe , & le matin ſeront deſueloppez de la- dite paſte. z.calcis lotx .i. litarg. vtriuſque . ß. & cum decočto gallarum, cort. nucum, fiat maſſa addendo olei camom. .ii. - z. litarg. aur. .ii. ciner.clauellat. .i. . calc.viux .i. diſſol. omnia cum vrina hominis donec acquirat conſiſtentiam vnguenti,de quo vngantur capilli. /.. calcis lotæ .iiii. litharg. vtriuſque an. ii. cum deçocto ſaluiæ& cortic. granat. fiat paſta ad formam pultis ſaltis liquida : de laquelle on ſe frottera les cheueux ou barbe s'en allant coucher , & le lendemain ſe lauera de vin & eau. la chaux ſe doit lauer en cette ſorte : vous prendrez vne liure de chaux que vous ietterez en cinq ou ſix pintes d'eau commune, laquelle y demeurera l'eſpace de vingt-quatre heures, puis oſterez voſtre eau parin- clination,en adiouſtant d'autre eau : & pour la troiſieſme fois en lieu d'eau commune, mettrez de la deco- ction de ſauge & galles,qui y demeurera l'eſpace de vingt-quatre heures, puis ſera oſtée par inclination , & par ainſi aurez voſtre chaux lauée. - autre. autre. autre, moyen de la . uer la chaux. autrč vºt compoſition des medicamens. uautre remede ſingulier ^- - le jus de l'eſcorce de noix vertes, comme l'on peut connoiſtre par les mains de ceux qui cernent les noix l, nouuelles, qui en ſont noircies pertinacitement. ce qui aduient d'vne aſtriction coniointe , auec vne tenuité # ' de ſubſtance:laquelle faict que ſon aſtriction deſcende au profond, & ſe diffuſe de toutes parts, & l aſtriction empeſche que ſa teinture ne ſe puiſſe effacer qu'à grande peine, auec drogues tant ſoient elles aſtringentes. c_autre de merueilleux effečt. - - - prenez de la chaux viue, la laiſſez eſteindre toute ſeule en lieu humide, & d'icelle prenez trois onces* plomb bruſlé ſans eſtre laué, mis en poudre deux onces , litharge d'or puluerisèe quatre onces, le tout ſera mis dedans vn mortier de plomb, & auec eau ſera fait comme vne pulte : & de ce en feras frotter les che- ueux, puis mettre vn bonnet ou coiffe qui ſera laiſsé la nuict , & au matin ſe faut frotter la teſte auec linges chauds, & cette matiere tombera toute en poudre. - %. plumbi vſti j.gall.non perfor.cortic.nuc.an. .iij terra ſigill. ferreta hiſpan.an. .ij. vitr. rom. . vj. autre ſal gem. .j.É.caryoph.nuc.moſc.an. j.ſalamm.aloes an. . ß. fiat pulu.ſubtil. leſdites poudres ſeront trem- pées par trois iours naturels dans de bon vinaigre, apres il faut le tout diſtiller par l'alambic, & de l'eau en ivſer comme il appartient. - • • ' , ! | b . fior.geniſt.ſtœcad cardamoan. .j lupin.conquaſſ. raſura buxi, cort. citri,radic.gentian. & berber.an. .j.ſº.cum aqua nitri, fiat lenta decoctio, de laquelle on lauera ſes cheueux par pluſieurs iours. - - --- - - - - " • ' ' - - -- - - # - - # pour faire les cheueux blonds. : s pſilothra , / depilatoires pour faire choir le poil · · , . ! - - - · c h a p i t r e , xlvii. , , . | . - - * - , • \ - - e c p. calc.viu. .iij.auripig. .j. la chaux ſera eſteinte en eau commune: puis on adiouſtera n% l'orpiment en poudre,auec quelque choſe odoriferante.la maniere d'en vſer eſt, que l'on ne $$ doit tenir ſur la partie,ſinon que l'eſpace de bien peu de temps, autrement il bruſleroit : & $ auſſi deuant que l'appliquer, faut fomenter la partie d'eau chaude, & faut que ledit depila- $ toire ſoit appliqué chaudement, & eſpais comme boüillie : on connoiſtra l'effect en frottant - a-» xkk la partie legerement auec eau chaude, & le poil tombera : & s'il auoit eſcorché la partie, on # - * vſera de l'onguent roſat, ou autre ſemblable. - - º - . - - - - - : autre. .calc.viux,auripigm.citr.an. .j.amyli,ſpumae argent.an. .ſ. terantur & incorporentur cum aqua communi,& bulliant ſimul. or le ſigne de parfaicte cuiſſon eſt, que l'on mette vne plume d'oye, & elle ſera ſubit deſplumée. , , - » . ' - · · . autre. prenez chaux viue & orpiment autant d'vn que d'autre, ſoit le tout puluerisé & mis en vn noüet, c lequel ſera trempé en eau, & de celuy on frottera la partie, puis paſſant le doigt par deſſus , le poil tombera. moyen d'en vſer. - - ----- ' • ' ' , - . " , • • • • - · · · · autre maniere. . - ! " " > " - v. - - prenez vneliure de chaux viue, & demie liure d'orpin iaune, mettez le tout en poudre ſubtilement, & ， uand vous en voudrez vſer, en prend :ez telle quantite que voudrez : & auec de l'eau èn ferez paſte mollaſ- - · ſe, laquelle mettrez ſur la partie que veudrez depiler, & pour ſçauoir quand l'action dudit depilatoire ſera #r : faite, vous lauerez la partie auec vn peu d'eau tiede, & verrez que le poil tombera. . v ie ne puis encore paſſer que ne deſcriue certaines eaux pour lauer les mains & viſage, voire tout le corps, : & pour faire ſentir bon les linges & autre choſes. .. · · À ， , ' ， , . * " ' · · eau de lauande. . " - - # ;. : . : ) - • , • '... • • • • # %. fior. lauand. fb.iv. aqua roſ & vinialbi an. fb.ij.aqux viux #. iv, miſceantur omnia ſimul , & fiat di- # ſtillatio in balneo marix. on le peut faire ſans diſtiller, mettant infuſer des fleurs de la lauande en vne fiole m: • de verre au soleilauec eau pure,ou au bain marie, en y adiouſtant vn peu d'huyle d'aſpic, ou vn peu de muſc. # " ! eaux de cloux de girofles, # ! %. caryoph. .ijaquz roſarum fb.ij.macerent.ſpatio xxiv.hor.& diſtill. in balneo mariæ. # c. eau de ſenteur. . . menth. maior. hyſſopi ſaluia , roriſ.lauand. an.m. ij. rad. ireos . ij. caryoph cino. nuc. moſc. an. .f$. - " limo.num.iv. macerentur omnia in aqua roſar. xxiv: hor. omnia diſtillentur in balneo marix , addend° mc ſci . ij. º ' fin du vingt ſixiéme liure, de la faculté (/ ° compoſition des medicamens. $ # - - t a b l e # § t a b l e d e s chap t r e s du vingt-ſeptiéme liure, des diſtillations. # ve c'eſt que diſtillation, & combien de ſortes ou # manieres il y a de diſtiller. chap.j · la matiere & forme des fourneaux. - chap. ije # des vaiſſeaux pour diſtiller. chap.iij - - i - % # w. - p > - % | / a % - - n - " ' ， # ^ \/% <ss s% | $\),j) ss . quelles choſes doiuent eſtre conſiderées és diſtillations. aen quels vaiſſeaux faut diſtiller les eaux. -" chap.v comme il faut preparer les matieres deuant qu'en diſtiller les eaux. chap. vj la maniere de diſtiller les eaux. - chap.vij la maniere de diſtiller l'eau de vie, appellée l'eſprit de vin.chap.viij la maniere de reéiifier les eaux. chap.ix la maniere de diſtillerparfiltre. , chapx la maniere de diſtiller les huyles, & par combien de manieres ſont extraictes. chapxj la maniere de tirer les huyles des vegetaux par diſtillation.chap.xij eautre maniere de tirer # &'eſprit de tous aromates, tant her- bes, fleurs,ſemences, & ffuicts, auſſi de la rheubarbe, agaric, tur- bith, hermodacte, & autres purgatifs. chap.xiij la maniere de tirer l'huyle des gommes, larmes, ou liqueurs eſpaiſſes, es reſines, & meſmes de certains bois. chap.xiv la maniere de tirer les huyles des gommes plus ſolides, comme myr- rhe, maſtic, & autres. chap.xv lamaniere de faire huyle de vitriol. chap.xvj . " | le, ; ) vingt-septie'me l iv r e, traictant des distillations, tar amb ro se par e , de laual au maine, (bnſeiller&° premier chirurgien du roy. - ue c'eſt que diſtillation, & combien deſortes ou manieres ily a de diſtiller. c h a p t r e p r e m e r. r ſi maintenant il nous reſte encore ſommairement traitter des medicamens pyrotiques & chymiques , c'eſt à dire , extraits par diſtillation de quinte- eſſence,en laquelle il y a vne vertu ſinguliere, &quaſi diuine: qui a tellement $ rauy les eſprits des hommes,que bien peu de choſes ſe trouuent ayans quel- _ .. , ques effects & ſingularitez en ſoy,que l'on ne ſouſmette à la diſtillation. di- $ºe，'eſt que ſtiller, c'eſt vn art & moyen par lequel la liqueur ou humidité d'aucunes cho-ºr- ſes par la vertu & force du feu, ou de chaleur ſemblable (comme les ma- tieres le requierent) eſt extraicte & tirée , eſtant premierement ſubtiliée en ºh vapeur, puis reſſerrée & eſpaiſſie par froideur.aucuns appellent cét art ſubli- sublimer, mer,qui ne ſignifie autre choſe que ſeparer le pur de l'impur, les parties plus * cºſt. ſubtiles & deliées d'auec les plus corpulentes, eſpaiſſes & excrementeuſes, ineſmement faire que les matieres deſquelles la ſubſtance eſt groſſiere, ſoient g renduës plus pures, nettes & ſinceres : ou bien que les parties terreſtres,aſſez mal vnies & conjointes, ou au- trçment par trop confuſes,& eſpanduës par toute la ſubftance de leurs corps,ſoient reſſerrées,mieux vnies & amaſsées enſemble, de façon que ſeparées par chaleur , chacune demeure à part au fond de l'alembic & vaiſ- ſeau. ou bien diſtillation eſt vne extraction ou effuſion d'humeur, découlante goutte à goutte par alembic, ou autre tel vaiſſeau:laquelle moyennant quelque coction qui ſe fait par la vertu de chaleur, ſepare pluſieurs ſubſtances les vnes d'auec les autres, & reduit quelques-vnes d'icelles ſeparées & eſleuées en vne certaine - -- forme & vertu, qui par apres ſert & profite beaucoup à pluſieurs affections, & maladies.aucunes matieres difference de demandent chaleur de feu clair,autres de charbon, ou du soleil,ou des cendres,ou arenes,ou limeures de fer j*- puluerisées,les autres veulent chaleur de fient de cheual,ou d'eau boüillante, ou la vapeur d'icelle ſeulement. on remarque quatre degrez de chaleur au feu duquel on diſtille,dont le premier eſt tiede, comme vne eau para , à demy chaude, ou la vapeur d'vne eau boüillante : le ſecond eſt vn peu plus chaud, toutesfois on y peut ſouf. # frir la main ſans offence, comme eſt la chaleur de la cendre : le tiers eſt encore plus chaud, tellement qu'il peut offenſer griefuement ſi on y tient la main longuement,comme eſt la chaleur des arenes : le quart eſt ſi vehement, que l'on n'y peu endurer la main ſans bruſler, comme eſt la chaleur d'eſcaille ou limature de fer. le premier degré eſt conuenable pour diſtiller les matieres ſubtiles & humides, comme les fleurs. le ſe- cond, pour les ſubtiles & ſeiches,ainſi que les choſes odorantes & aromatiques,comme canelle,gingembre, vſages des cloux de girofles.le tiers pour diſtiller les matieres de ſubſtance eſpaiſſe & plaines de ſuc, comme ſont plu- # ſieurs racines & gommes. le quart pour la diſtillation des metaux & mineraux, comme l'alum, le vitriol, gre{. l'ambre, le gagatés!, & ſemblables. pareillement on peut diſtiller fans chaleur,comme nous voyons és choſes diſiillation qui ſont diſtillées en forme de colatures,à ſçauoir,quand la plus pnre partie eſt extraicte & ſeparée de la par-ſanschaleur p tie plus limoneuſe & terreſtre,comme l'on fait du laict virginal , & autres choſes qui ſe font par le moyen du feutre ou chauſſe d'hippocras,ou piece de drap en forme de languette,ou ſablon, ou de vaiſſeaux faits de bois de liere. quelquesfois auſſi on diſtiile des matieres par froideur & humidité, ainſi que ſe fait l'huyle de tartre, myrrhre & vitriol, lors qu'elles ſont miſes au lieu froid & humide ſur le marbre. de la matiere & forme des fourneaux. cha p. ii. a e s matieres & formes des fourneaux ſont diuerſes : car les vns ſont faicts de briques & de differences terre graſſe, autres de terre graſſe ſeule : les meilleurs ſont faicts de terre graſſe auec ciment & defour- blanc doeuf, & beurre : toutesfois ſi tu veux ſoudainement diſtiller, tu en peuxsfaire vn de neaux. briques miſes les vnes ſur les autres, proprement accommodées.la meilleure & plus commo- le fourneau de forme des fourneaux entre tous, eſt celle qui eſt ronde par tout,à raiſon que le feu porté en rond eſt le ) haut va par tout en plus égale meſure : ce quil ne feroit pas s'il eſtoit d'autre figure, comme meilleur. quarré ou triangulaire,à cauſe que la ſeparation des angles diſioindroit la force du feu ſeſeparant çà & là.ils ſeront de telle grandeur qui ſera requiſe ſelon le vaiſſeau qu'on y voudra appoſer, & ſeront eſpais plus ou moins que tu aduiſera» eſtre neceſſaire. tels fourneaux doiuent auoir deux fonds, l'vn en bas , pour receuoir les cendres du charbon, ou d'autres telles matieres de feu : l'autre plus haut, qui tienne les charbons allu- mez,& fait en façon de gril,ou bien ſeparé par pluſieurs petits trou à fin que les cendres s'eſcoulent au fond d'embas plus facilement,& qu'elles ne ſuffoquent le feu qui eſchauffe ! alembic : autres ont trois fonds, com- me au four de reuerberation , ſçauoirl'vn pour receuoir la cendre , l'autre rº, # le charbon , le tiers t pour . le vingt-ſeptiéme liure, pour mettre la matiere à calciner ou à diſtiller, lequel doit eſtre couuert d'vne couuerture à demy-ronde, a - pour reuerberer la chaleur ou la flamme ſur la matiere à calciner ou à diſtiller , ſelon que la matiere lere- artifice du quiert le fonds d'embas peut auoir vne ou pluſieurs gueules, à fin d'oſter les cendres qui y ſeront tombées fºurneau & quand à celuy d'enhaut, il en doit auoir vne ſeule, de grandeur mediocre pour mettre le charbon ou bois - dedans, & en haut deux ou trois petits trous, pour donner air & euenter le feu , lors que tu voudras l'aug- • * • menter : l'vne & l'autre gueule ſeront garnies de leur bouchon ou porte. .. or en defaut de fourneauoude " - matiere pour ce faire, tu peux accommoder ton vaiſſeau, ou bien ton chauderon ou jatte ſur vn trepié, coms me il te ſera monſtré cy-apres en la diſtillation du baing marie. : t- des vaiſſeaux pour bien diſtiller. c h ap. iii. # e s vaiſſeaux propres aux diſtillations, ſont faits de diuerſe matiere & forme : car les vnsſont ſeaux. # de plomb , d'eſtain, d'airin, de terre plombée, & non plombée, de grais,leſquels ſont foit #ſ bons, de verre, dor, d'argent. quand aux vaiſſeaux de plomb, ils ſont du tout à reprouuer, reprobation #º principalement ſi les liqueurs tirées par iceux ſe doiuent prendre par la bouche, à cauſe de - la ſalſitude, & autres malefiques qualitez du plomb : conſideré meſmement que galien con- des vaiſ- d - - - ſeaux de amne & reprouue l'eau conduite par canaux de plomb, pource qu elle eſmeut flux de ventre, à cauſe de ſa plºm# # nature qui eſt de ſubſtance de mercure. dauantage nous voyons ordinairement eaux diſtillées par le plomb, b de cuyure. eſtre le plus ſouuent auec acre & vehemente vapeur,qui ſe fait, à raiſon que iceluyſel eſt diſſout de la vou- matiere des ſte de l'alembic,lequel gaſte les eaux,les rendant blanches & eſpaiſſes comme laict. et quand à ceux d'airain vaiſſeaux. & cuyu e,ils rendent les eaux airugineuſes,& encores plus nuiſantes que ceux de plomb. ceux d'or & dat- gent ſont moins nuiſans, ainſi en appareil ſont-ils plus difficiles, à cauſe du gouſt qui en oſte le gouſt.pat- quoy faut mettre diligence que les vaiſſeaux diſtillatoires ſoient ou de terre plombée, ou de verre, ou de grais, nommé terre de beauuais, pluſtoſt que de plomb oud'aucun metal ; toutesfois ceux de verre ſont les meilleurs ; en ſecond lieu ceux de terre plombée , ou vitrée, ou de grais : apres, ceux d'eſtain : & ceux de verre ne doiuent eſtre de fugere. quand à la forme & figure des vaiſſeaux, ils ſont de pluſieurs façons,les vns ſont de figure ronde & oblongue, les autres tortus, autre d'autre figure , comme ils te ſont repreſentez aux liures des alchimiſtes : du nombre infiny deſquels ie ten donneray le pourtraict des plus neceſſaires,& declareray leur vſage en leur propre lieu. - - - - - - - -aa quelles choſes doiuent eſtre conſiderées és diſtillations c h a p t r e iv. lieu com- #$ p r e s auoir monſtré que c'eſt que diſtillation, faut connoiſtre quelles choſes ſont requiſes mode. $ # en icelle. donc il faut premierement choiſir vn lieu conuenable pour mettre le fourneau, à fin qu'il ne faſſe tort à la maiſon, ny auſſi que rien ne puiſſe tomber ſur les vaiſſeaux. lors # qu'on diſtillera quelque matiere qui ſoit de qualité maligne & veneneuſe, durantla diſtilla-c tion on ne doit approcher que le moins qu'on pourra. si on faict diſtillation en vaiſſeaux de mediocrité ss verre, il les faut choiſir bien cuits, ſans bulles, non fiſſurez, egaux de toutes parts, le feune du eu. doit eſtre violent du commencement, tant pour la ſauuegarde des vaiſſeaux qui ſe pourroient caſſer, rece- uans la chaleur trop ſubite, tant auſſi que les matieres reçoiuent la chaleur tout doucement. ne faut mettre dans le vaiſſeau trop grande quantité de matiere, autrement elle pourroit regorger & ſortir hors. les ma- tieres chaudes, pour eſtre de plus grande efficace, requierent bien d'eſtre diſtillées par deux ou trois fois, en les reiettant ſur autre mat ere, ou bien les rectifier à part, comme ſont gommes, cire, axunges , huyles d'os, d'ambres, iamme & iayet, & à chacune diſtillation faut diminuer la chaleur d'vn demy degré, & ainſi conſequemment; attendu qu'il n'eſt requis ſi grande chaleur,parce que la matiere eſtant ſubtiliée de plus en plus par chacune diſtillation, ne merite ſi grande chaleur à la fin qu'au commencement, qu'elle eſt plus groſ- ſe & plus eſpaiſſe : mais quant aux choſes aromatiques, comme girofle, canelle & ſemblables, & auſſi ce qui elt extraict de la ſaulge, roſmarin, thym, & ſemblables, ne ſe doiuent rectifier, parce qu'elles ſortent toutes il connen, pures en toºs diſtillations faut diligemment ſeparer & mettre à part le phlegme, c'eſt à dire, l'humeur prendre in- plus aqueux, & pour ce faire faut aduiſer ſoigneuſement à la matiere que l'on diſtilles car au commence- § § ment le phlegme ſort du vinaigre quand on le diſtille, & au contraire en l'eau de vie le phlegme ſort le der- choſes que nier,encore qu'elle ſoit diſtillée pluſieurs fois.si on veut que les eaux ayent l'odeur ou ſaueur,ou autre qua- l'on diſtille. lité de quelque choſe, comme de cannelle, de camphre, de muſc, ou autres telles matieres odorantes, ſera bon de mettre la matiere odorante, cóme muſc, canelle ou ſemblable,dedans & auec la ſubſtance que vous voudrés diſtiller, à fin que par ces matieres l'eau diſtillante en retiéne l'odeur ou autre qualité. les liqueurs diſtillées au feu de cendre ou de ſable , acquierent ordinairement quelque empyreume, & pource eſt tres-d expedient de les mettre au soleil,la fiole bien bouchée,& par fois l'ouurir, à fin de faire exhaler telle odeur, remarqua- & conſommer le phlegme ſi peu qu'il en ſeroit reſte or combien qu'en toute diſtillation pluſieurs choſes §ute ſoient requiſes & neceſſaires,toutes-fois faut auoir égard principalement à ces deux cy,leſquelles ſe propo- a ſiiiia ſent tous bons ouuriers & artiſtes en cét art. l'vne eſt la matiere qu'on veut ttaicter & mettre en œuure, à ſçauoir qu'elle elle eſt, à quoy de ſon naturel elle eſt propre pour endurer ou agir , l'autre que l'on choiſiſſe les fourneaux & vaiſſeaux conuenables, tant en leur matiere que figure. et ſi l'ouurier veut conſiderer ces deux poincts, il ne faut douter que ſon œuure ne ſoit bien conduite : car tous corps ne ſont faicts & formez de toute ſorte de matiere, & les artiſans ne peuuent indifferement faire d'vn ſeul bois tout ouurage. ainſi en cét art ne faut-il eſperer de pouuoir extraire par diſtillation huyle ou eau , dequelque matiere que ceſoit mais il faut ſçauoir ſi elle eſt telle qu'on en puiſſe eſperer huyle ou autre choſe ſemblable : puis choſir & chercher les inſtrumens pour l'œuure que l'on deſire. car ſi l'on diſtille quelque matiere qui ſoit deſtituée de la liqueur ou humeur que nous cherchons, que ſera-ce autre choſe ſinon'que vouloir extraire de l'huyle d'vn murè attendu que tous corps ſont mixtionnez des quatre elemens,& qu'entre iceux les vns participent plus de l'air, les autres plus de l'eau , autres plus du feu, autre plus de la terre. ce conſideré, il ſera facile, de º , moyennant la force du feu, extraire l'eau des matieres plus aqueuſes, comme l'huyle de celles qui ſont plus cºrps !'hºyle aërées & ignées. d'abondant eſt à conſiderer,que quelques-fois l'eau vient la premiere : puis l'huyle endon- # " nant feu plus aſpre, comme de toutes les herbes froides,bois & racines : & des chaudes, l'huyle vient la © premiere auecl'eau. - • '# kn deux poincts - - • - - " des diſtillations. en quels vaiſſeaux faut diſtiller. - c h a p. v. ， o v r diſtiller toutes ſortes d'eaux, deux vaiſſeaux ſont principalement neceſſaires, qu'on nom- $ée é'aſtqua # j.# me en vn mot, alembic : l'vn d'iceux eſt appellé cucurbite, ou vaiſſeau contenant : l'autre eſt dit cucurbite rt #) chapiteau ou chape, auquel ſont amaſſées les vapeurs conuerties en eau, pource qu'il repreſente & chapi- quelque certaine forme & figure de chefou teſte, au regard du deſſous qui eſt plus grand, large & * - long. en ce vaiſſeau il y a vn canal en forme de bec d'oiſeau, par lequel l'eau diſtille goute à goute en vne fiole, ou autre vaiſſeau, comme tu peux voir par ce pourtraict. - | - - # fourneau de bain marie, auec les alembics & recipiens. | - - b - # c # a monſtre la cuue de cuyure, laquelle eſt pleine d'eau. #. b le couuercle de ladite cuue percée en deux endroits pour paſſer le vaiſſeau. )- c le canal de cuyure attaché à la cuue, auquel eſt contenu le feu pour eſchauffer l'eau. # d l'alembic auec ſon chapiteau. : e le recipient dans lequel diſtille l'eau. # . autre maniere de bain marie, lequel n'eſt ſiportatif. {: - - i. ' # a # # # $. : d a le vaiſſeau où eſt contenuë l'eau. b les alembics diſpoſez en l'eau. or à fin que ton alembic ne vacille de coſté & d'autre , & qu'il ne nage eſtant demy vuide : pareillement auſſi craignant qu'il ne ſe rompe eſtant immediatement contre la cuue, ie t'ay bien voulu bailler vnema- niere fort commode pour y obuier. - r r r a monſtre o le vingt-ſeptiéme liure, eau de vie, de lie de vin # : genereux. preuues de bonne eau de vie. pourtraict du baingmarie, lequel peut ſeruir à diſtillerpar cendres. - a demonſtre le fourneau de terre , auquel t'eſt monſtré la gueule pour tirer les cendres. b monſtre vn autre fourneau, lequel eſt fait de cuyure, & paſſe tout : u trauers de la cuue faicte de cuyure pour eſchauffer l'eau ou cendre contenue dedans. la cuue où eſt contenuë l'eau, cendres, ou ſable. d les alembics diſpoſez dans ladite eau, ſable, ou cendre, auec le bec de leur recipient. \. on peut faire d'autres reſtaurans plus ſubitement & à moins de frais, ny tant de peine. il faut bien battre les chairs,puis les hacher à petits norceaux,& les faut enfiler de fil double ou fiſſelle, & qu'ils tiennentl'vn à l'autre : apres on les mettra dedans vne groſſe bouteille de verre, & que le fil ſorte dehors : laquelle ſera bien eſtoupée par deſſus auec linges, cotton,filaſſe,trempez en laict faict de blanc d'œuf & farine, l'on met- tra cette bouteille en vn chaudron plein d'eau iuſques au col, & qu'elle ne touche le fond du chaudron, & ainſi qu'elle ſoit appuyée de toute part, afin qu'elle ne vacille , comme tu as veu par cy deuant : laquelle eſtant bien accommodée on fera boüillir à petit feu par l'eſpace de quatre heures , plus ou moins, iuſques à tant que la plus grande partie de la chair ſoit conuertie en ſuc ou jus : les quatres heures paſsées, on oſtera le chaudron du feu ſans oſter la bouteille de dedans : car fi vous l'oſtiez promptement elle ſe pourroit rom- pre,à raiſon qu'elle ſeroit enuironnée (eſtant chaude)de l'air froid eſtant refroidie on l'oſtera du feu, & ſera deſtoupée : puis tirerez les fils auec les chairs, de façon que le ſuc demeurera ſeul. coulez cette liqueur en chauſſe d'hippocras,& l'aromatiſez auec ſuccre & canelle,y adjouſtant vn peu de jus de citron ou verjus, ou vn peu de vinaigre, ſelon le gouſt du malade : l'on peut ſelon cette forme faire reſtaurans tels qu'on voudra, c plus ou moins chers & delicats,alimenteux & medicamenteux. eau pu gaiine. on peut tirer la vertu des medicamens purgatifs, comme turbith, agaric, rheubarbe, & autres : l'on tire l'eſſence & eſprit de la ſaulge, roſmarin, thym,anis, fenoüil, girofle, canelle,muſcade,& autres; mais par vne façon toute autre que les eaux ny huyles : parce qu'elles ſont de nature ſubtile & aèrée , montant quandon les diſtille : mais la vertu purgatiue au contraire, parce qu'elle eſt conjoincte inſeparablement auec ſa pro- pre ſubſtance,ne monte point , mais demeure au fond , comme ſera monſtré cy-apres. - eau pour embellir la face. quant aux eaux pour embellir la face, & autres qui ſont odorifiques, nous en auons traicté cy-deuant: eſquelles ſeront diſtillées in balneo marix, à ſçauoir, ainſi que l'eau des roſes. de la maniere de diſtiller l'eau de vie, appellée l'ame ou l'eſprit de vin c h a p t r e v i i i. r e n s de bon vinblanc ou clairet,fort vineux,ou de leur lie, & non de vinaigry ny éuenté d i ou infect, la quantité ſelon la grandeur du vaiſſeau, auquel tu veux faire la diſtillation; em- ply-le iuſques à la tierce partie, puis le faut couurir de ſa chape à longbec , & ainſi fais le ， diſtiller au bain marie : ſi tu veux auoir l'eau de vie excellente, la faut rectifier deux ou trois : fois, iuſques à ſept. et faut obſeruer que pour la premiere diſtillation ſera aſſez de tirer la "-* lº w ) n- quatrieſme partie, à ſçauoir de douze pintes trois ou quatre, pour la ſeconde, la moit*é, qui ſeroit deux pintes, pour la tierce, autre moitie, qui ſera vne pinte , & plus : tellement que plus de fois ſera diſtillée , moins y en aura, & auſſi mieux vaudra. ie ſerois d'aduis que la premiere diſtillation fuſt au feu des cendres, & les autres au baing marie. or les moyens par leſquels on cognoiſt l'eau de vie eſtre aſſez di- ſtillée ſont, qu'eſtant posée en vne cuillier & allumée , elle ſe conſomme du tout, ne laiſſant aucune marque , d'humidité au fond de la cuillier : auſſi ſi on trempe vn linge en ladite eau, eſtant allumé,bruſle ſans offencer le drapeau : pareillement ſi vne goute d'huyle eſt jettée en ladite eau , elle va au fond, comme ſi quelque peu d'icelle eſt eſpandue ſur la main , ſe conſomme & penetre bien toſt. les vertus de l'eau de vie ſont infinies, elle ayde aux epilepſies, & apoplexies , generalement à toutes maladies froides : elle ſede la douleur des pents , elle eſt vtile aux ponctions, és playes des nerfs , aux defaillances de cœur & ſyncopes , grangre- difference de nes & pourritures, mixtionnée auec autres medicamens, afin de les faire penetrer au profond des paties. la diſlillatio» entre la diſtillation du vin & vinaigre, il y a difference, parce que le vin eſt de ſubſtance vaporeuſe & ae- du vin &r vinaigre. rée,& la meilleure vertu qui eſt en iceluy,giſt en la premiere diſtillation,c'eſt à dire, à l'eau qui eſt diſtillée la premiere, qui eſt la vertu aërée & ignée : tellement que ee qui reſte & demeure au vaiſſeau, eſt froid & - - - ſec, des diſtillations. . i · a (ec, de nature de vinaigre. au contraire l'eau premiere du vinaigre eſt inſipide, & n'eſt que phlegme, comme auoºs !º , parce qu'en la corruption & alteration du vin, il ſe faict ſeparation de la vertu aërce & ignée en s'aig illant, & n'y demeure que le phlegne qui faict la corruption du vinaigre, lequel predominant eſt con- - trainct de ſortir le premier. parquoy pour auoir bon vinaigre par diſtillation apres l'auoir mis en pareille t quantite qu'auons dit du vin , pour faire l'eau de vie, dedans l'alembic, faut laiſſer diſtiller le phlegme ou l'aquoſite,& le mettre à part : quand on ſentira au gouſter que l'acetofité ou eſprit viendra, le feu ſera con- tinué iuſques à ce qu'il s'eſpaiſiſſe en forme de miel , & lors ceſſerez ; autrement aurez par l'aduſtion vne | grande puanteur. , - or les vaiſſeaux pour diſtiller tant l'eau de vie que le vinaigre, ſont diuers, à ſçauoir,l'alembic,ou retorte, differice des posée dans les cendres ou arenes. on les peut pareillement diſtiller dedans vn chauderon, ou pot de cuyure, "lº d'airain faict en forme de marmite, appellé veſſie vulgairement,couuert d'vn couuercle, duquel ſort vn canal droit courbe en angle droit, qui paſſe par dedans vn muy plein d'eau fraiſche, lequel te ſera pourtraict lors qu'on donnera la maniere de diſtiller huyle des vegetaux, c'eſt à dire, des herbes & plantes. - - -, - b la maniere de rectifier les eaux distillées. c h a p. i x. o v r rectifier les eaux qui ont eſté diſtillées au baing marie, il les conuient mettre au premiere soleil en vn vaiſſeau de verre bien bouſché & à demy plein , mettant le vaiſſeau iuſques ººiºre à la tierce partie dans le ſable : à fin qu'eſtant eſchauffé par le soleil , le phlegme ſoit entiere- ment conſommé, & le laiſſer l'eſpace de douze ou quinze iours : plus ou moins. il ya vne au- tre maniere plus commode , c'eſt derechef les diſtiller au baing marie à petit feu : ou bien seconde pour mieux faire, les mettre en vne retorte ou cornuë auec ſon recipient aſſiſſe ſur des boules maniere de cryſtal, & mettre le tout au soleil, ou bien l'aſſeoir , en defaut de cryſtal, ſur vn mortier de fer, ouboulles de fer, comme tu peux voir par ces pourtraicts. cornuë auec le recipient aſſiſe ſur des boulles de cryſtal, pour dſtiller au soleil. \ s sn#a- š# - a monſtre la cornuë. # l\ % \ % b le recipient. n- c les boulles de cryſtal, -*. #r autre cornueauec le recipient aſſiſe en vn mortier de marbre, ou de fer, d pour pareillement diſtiller au soleil. niitt $ # º : a monſtre la retorte. º b le mortier de marbre, ou de fer. - ' j - (.'- * c le recipient. ，º - # - - r r r la # le vingt-ſeptiéme liure, laičt vir- ginal. a° huyle par expre • par infuſion. n n par diſtilla- ) n tion. huyle lau- rin. huyle d'œufs. ,' la maniere de diſtiller parfiltre. c h a p. x. l faut auoir trois jattes ou baſſins , ou autres vaiſſeaux faits de telle matiere qu'il ſera requis,ſelon la liqueur que voudrez diſtiller iceux ſeront tellement ſituez, que l'vn ſoit plus haut que les deux autres , & le ſecond que le dernier. le plus haut contiendra le jus qu'on voudra diſtiller, & le bas ou dernier receura la diſtillation. et dedans les deux premiers vaiſſeaux trempera vne ou pluſieurs pieces de drap ou de feutre aſſez longue, qui ſera large par vn bout , & poinctué de l'autre, le coſté large trempera dans le jus ou ，- gà %$ liqueur, & le poinctu pendra dehors, par lequel la liqueur plus ſubtile montera & diſtil- - ra goutte à goutte au vaiſſeau d'embas, en ſorte que le plus limoneux & impur demeurera au premier & ſe- cond vaiſſeau si l'on veut pluſieurs fois & en meſme temps diſtiller vne meſme liqueur , l'on pourra diſpo- ſer pluſieurs vaiſſeaux en forme d'eſcalier ou d'eſchellette : & en chacun de ceux qui ſeront les plus hauts, mettre la piece de feutre de la façon qu'auons dit,en ſorte que le dernier vaiſſeau ſoit celuy qui reſeruera toutes les diſtillations. en lieu de liſiere de drap, on peut vfºr de cotton,ou de laine filée , dix ou douze fi- lets enſemble liez par vn bout, lequel trempera dans le premier vaiſſeau. pourtraict des vaiſſeaux pour diſtiller par filtre. au lieu de cette diſtillation, les apothicai- res vſent de manche de draps faite en poincte, qu'on appelle chauſſe d'hippocras. or telle diſtillation n'a eſté excogitée, ſinon que pour purifier,dépurer,& clarifier toutes eaux & jus, & autres compoſitions qui ſont en eau : de- quoy le laict, vulgairement dit virginal, te ſer- uira d'exemple, lequel ſe purifie en cette ſorte par le filtre. prenez litharge d'or bien puluerisée . iij faites les infuſer en vj. onces de bon vinaigre par l'eſpace de trois heures, dans vn vaiſſeau à part, & dedans vn autre vaiſſeau mettez auſſi infuſer ſel commun en eau de plantain, mo- relle, eau roſe, ou commune,faites diſtiller par -- · filtre chacun à part : & apres qu'ils ſeront di- ſtillez, meſlez-les enſemble, & alors aurez le laict virginal,blanc comme laict, qui eſt propre pour la goutte-roſe, comme ay eſcrit en mon antidotaire. l la maniere de diftiller les huyles, & par combien de manieres elles ſont extraictes. c h a p t r e xi. l y a trois manieres d'extraire les huyles. la premiere eſt par expreſſion, comme eſt celle # qu'on tire des oliues,noix ſemences,fruicts,& autres ou bien par ebullition,conquaſſantla § matiere,& la faiſant boüillir en eau,& au deſſus viendra huyle quinage,cóme de la graine $ # de ſureau,hiebles,baies de laurier,& autres.la ſeconde eſt par infufion,comme celle qu'on n# fait auec huyles,mettant dedans tremper quelques parties des plantes.ou des animaux.ia #$ troiſiéme eſt par diſtillation, comme celle qu'on fait par force de feu,ſoit cil iiloilta int, ou -* deſcendant, ou par rencontre. la premiere maniere eſt cogneuë d'vn chacun, & ſe fait ainſi:comme pour extraire l'huyle d'amandes, le faut piler ſans peler, & les reduire en pains, qui ſeront en- ueloppez en vn ſac fait de poil de cheual , ou toile neufve, premierement trempée en eau ou vin blanc, puis on les met en la preſſe : & par tel moyen on en extraict l'huyle, ce qu'on peut pareillement faire de pignolas, noiſettes de noix d'inde , muſcade & de peſche, & pareillement de ſemences de courges , de concombres, piſtaches, & generalement de toutes autres ſemences huyleuſes. l'huyle laurin ſe fait des fruicts des lau- riers meurs & recentement cueillis, leſquels on pile en vn mortier , & les fait-on boüillir en eau in duplici vaſe : puis on les preſſe en vne preſſe, comme les amandes, ou bien on les tire par ebullition, comme auons dit. l'huyle d'œuf ſe fait auec jaune d'œufs, qu'on à fait durcir à force boüillir, au nombre que tu voudras, apres eſtre bien durs on les emince entre les mains dedans vne paeſle,& les fait-on fricaſſer à feu mediocre, les remuant touſiours auec vn cuillier iuſques à ce qu'ils deuiennent roux ou tanez, & qu'on en voye ſor- tir l'huyle, puis ſubit les faut mettre en vn ſac de toile ou eſtamine fait de poil de cheual & les preſſer à la preſſe comme on fait l'huyle d'amandes celles qui ſe font par infuſion ſe prattiquent en telle ſorte. vous prendez de bonne huyle, en laquelle mettrez tremper ou infuſer vos herbes & plantes, ou bien quelques animaux ou parties diceux, & ce par l'eſpace de quelque temps : leſquels apres auoir laiſſé leur vertu & fa- culté pour y eſtre trempez longuement, on les fait boüillir , puis on les coule & preſſe, & ſr dedans l'huyle demeure quelque humeur,on la fait conſommer, la faiſant boüillir : aucuns adjouſtent des gommes en ceſ- dites huyles, lors qu'on les veut compoſer, deſquelles encore qu'en noſtre antidotaire en ait eſté eſcrit, tou- tesfois ie donneray la copie de cette-cy. huyle d'hypericon. prenez fleurs d'hypericon fb. ß. leſquelles mettrez en vne bouteille auec fleurs de centaure q. ſ gomme elemi . ij. huyle commune deux liures,mettez tout en la bouteille au soleille long de l'eſté, lors que le so- leil eſt en ſa plus grande force, ſi vouliez adjouſter vn peu d'eau de vie, elle ſeroit ſinguliere, dans laquelle pourrez diſſoudre du benjoin. l'huyle de maſtic eſt faite de douze onces , d'huyle roſat, maſtic trois onces, bon vin huict onces , puis on fait cuire le tout enſemble iuſques à ce que le vin ſoit conſommé : en apres on paſſe l'huyle, & eſt reſeruée en vn vaiſſeau. - l "º- \ d des diſtillations. - s : : - - - - - --- - | -- -- - l' • *,º º l: a • -- - - - la maniere de tirer les huiles des vegetaux par diſtillation. cha p. · xii. r e s q v e toutes les herbes qui portent leurs fleurs&ſemences en mouchet,ont leurs ſemen- % ces composees de ſubſtance chaude, ſubtile, aërée, & partant il faut qu'ils tiennent quelque % choſe de la ſubſtance oleagineuſe ou huyleuſe:car preſque toute huyle eft composée des meſ- # mes parties.or d'autant que l'huyle qui ſe trouue és ſimples eſt de deux ſortes;ainſi ſeront- # & elles tirées par deux manieres:car l'vne eſt groſſe, terreſtre, viſqueuſe, & entierement meſlée #-- - auec le corps duquel on la veut tirer,comme celles deſquelles auons parlé cy-deſſus qui ſont " tirée par expreſſion, eſtans joinctes inſeparablement auec leur ſubſtance, ne pouuans monter pour leur con- ſiſtance groſſe & viſqueuſe. il y a vne autre ſorte d'huyle qui eſt de nature ſubtile & aërée, laquelle on peut aisément ſeparer du corps auec lequel elle eſt joincte, par-ce qu'elle monte facilement par diſtillation, & n'eſt mal-aisée à ſeparer d'auec le corps qui la contient, & de telle nature ſont toutes les huyles des aro- mares on ſenteurs,comme l'huyle de genévre, anis, fenouil,cloux de girofle, muſcade, canelle, & leurs ſem- blables : auſſi des eſpiceries,côme poivre,gingembre,& autres : le moyen de les extraire eſt tel. il faut piler & conquaſſer ſeulement ta matiere, & la mettre infuſer en eau commune, & pour vne liure de matiere, dix d'eau dans vn vaiſſeau de cuyure ayant vne chappe,auec ſon refrigerion pleine d'eau froide laquelle chappe ſera eſtamée ou argentée par dedans, & iceluy vaiſſeau ſera posé ſur vn fourneau ayant du feu deſſous, ſans ſable ny cendres, & quand l'eau qui eſt au refrigerion ſera chaude, il faudra la changer, y en remettre de la preparation des nvatieres b froide,afin de congeler les eſprits,& empeſcher qu'ils ne s'euaporent : & au bout du nez de l'alembic tu po- ſeras vn recipient à long col, comme materas, & feras feu iuſques à ce qu'il bouille, en le continuant. tu peux auſſi § en vne autre maniere, à ſçauoir,ta matiere preparée & infusée comme deſſus,& miſe dans vn vaiſſeau de cuyure,ayant vn alembic au deſſus , au bec duquel alembic ſera accommodé vn tuyau d'eſtain ou de fer blanc bien luté, auecques le lut de ſapience, lequel tuyau paſſera au trauers d'vn muy d'eau froide, afin qu'en diſtillant la liqueur, qui ſortira auecques l'huyle, ſe refroidiſſe , au bout duquel ſera mis yn reci- pient, puis allumerez deſſous vn petit feu au cómencement,& l'augmentant iuſques à ce qu'il boüille, com- me dit eſt : & ſe faut donner garde de faire trop grand feu, craignant que la matiere ne regorge : lors verrez auec l'eau diſtiller au commencement voſtre huyle : car elle vient la premiere, & non ſur la fin, & lors ne diſtillant plus, ceſſerez de faire du feu,& connoiſtrez aisément qu'il ne diſtille plus d'huyle, tant par la veué que par le gouſt & ſaueur de ce que faites diſtiller : apres ſeparez voſtre huyle qui ſera auec l'eau diſtillee le † ſubtilement qu'il ſera poſſible,comme auecques vn deſtier dont les femmes couſent, attaché à vn petit aſton. et faut icy noter qu'il y a des huyles qui nagent deſſus l'eau, les autres vont au fond, comme l'huyle d'anis nage deſſus l'eau : mais l'huyle de canelle, macis, & girofle,va au fond, ainſi que l'experience monſtre: dauantage l'eau d'anis & de canelle qui eſt diſtillée auecques l'huyle eſt blancheaſtre, de laquelle blancheur quelque peu ſe conuertit auecques le temps en huyle.les eaux doiuent eſtre ſeparées, car elles ſont plus excellentes que celles qui ſont diſtillées in balneo marix , comme auons dict cy-deſſus, & principalement celles qui viennent au cómencement auecques l'huyle. il faut icy noter que les huyles ont vne meſme vertu, , que les ſimples, deſquels on les tire, voire beaucoup plus grande., car toute la yertu qui eſtoit en vne liure, hiyles qui c eſt encloſe en quelque peu de drachmes : comme pour exemple, la vertu qui eſtoit en vne liure de cloux de tu / f girofle, eſt contenuë en deux onces pour le plus : de canelle, à vne drachme & demie, ou deux. or à fin d'en fonds de tirer en plus grande quantité & à moins de frais, & ſans crainte de rompre les vaiſſeaux de verre, ie ſerois l'eau. - d'aduis d'vſer de celuy de cuyure, ſans crainte que l'huyle acquiere quelque mauuaiſe qualité du vaiſſeauice vidatur eºn- qui pourroit eſtre au vaiſſeau : joinct auſſi qu'il doit eſtre bien eſtamé ou argenté : duquel ie t'ay voulu bail-ºium ſ* ler le pourtraict auec ſon fourneau. prä. fournaau auec ſon vaiſſeau par lequelſe tirent toutes eſſences vegetables, comme ſaulge, roſ- - marin, thym,lauande,ſemence d'anis,fenouil, cloux de girofles,muſcade,canelle,poiure,gin- gembre, & autres : ſemblablement l'eau de vie, & le vinaigre diſtillé.en lieu d'iceluy vaiſſeau tu peux vſer de celuy qui a ſon refrigerant au deſſus. a monſtre le vaiſſeau appellé ordinaire- ment veſſie , fait de cuyure eſtamé par. dedans. . b le chapiteau. c le tonneau plein d'eau froide pour refroi- dir l'eau & huyle qui coulent par vn tuyau qui paſſe au trauers. - d le tuyau faict de cuyure ou fer blanc paſ- fant au trauers du muy. e la veſſie eſtant posée & aſſiſe ſur ſon four- neau immediatement eontre le feu. $ le vingt-ſeptiéme liure, | tels arbres,il m'a ſemblé bon te donner le pourtraict de ces deux,enſemble la deſcription priſe de theuet en theust en ſa ſa ccſmographie, lequel comme l'ayant veu nous l'a fait repreſenter. - - coſmogr. le poyure croiſt en indie, en des petits arbres,qui jettent des petites grapes,qui portent des grans com- me de lierre, ou petis raiſins noirs quand ils ſont bien meurs. les fueil es ſont ſemblables au citronnier, quelque peu aigues & poignantes. les indiens ſont fort curieux à recuillir cette grape, lors qu'elle eſtve- nué en ſa maturité, & en rempliſſent de bien fort grands magazins. il y a telle année qu'il aborde en l'iſle de la petite iaue plus de deux cens vaiſſeaux pour ſe charger de poyure,& d'autres eſpiceries. on en vſe aux antidotes & contre poiſons.il prouoque l'vrine, digere, attire, reſoult, donne ſecours aux morſures des ſer- pents. il eſt bon l'eſtomach refroidy, donné tant par dedans, qu'appliqué par dehors & ayde à faire la dige- - ſtion, & donne appetit mis en ſaulces. il le faut choiſir qui ſoit noir, peſant, & non fieſtry. - le # l'arbre qui porte le poyure blanc, & celuy qui porte le noir, ſont fi peu differens, que ceux du païs ne #" les peuuent remarquer , ſinon que lors qu'ils portent leurs fruicts : comme l'on void des vignes blanches d'avec l'au- & noires. tre ſans rai- or d'autant que nous auons parlé de la canelle, poyure & autres,& à raiſon qu'en noſtre france n'auons a ſins, ſ ie ne \, figure de larbre qui porte le poyure. me trompe. r "- m- - o s % #) |%) ego% a. [n ce ? l] n # - # | - $pſº - % % { | n? % # * % #>sé， (º \ | )# /% - n, %ſo vſ " | ©s | | =s z # s # ea#s=s ºc $ ao lllſlllll) \= $ - é <z #sº # da#s #z e # ſſºe= d thºuet enſa , l'arbre qui porte la canelle croiſt aux montagnes des indes, & eſt preſque ſemblable ànoſtre laurier ººſmºgr. le roy en fait couper par certains mois de l'année certains jettons & ſcions, & en fait leuer l'eſcorce, qui eſt ce que nous appellons canelle ,laquelle eſt vendue à ſa taxe aux eſtrangers, n'eſtant permis à autre faire c.l. liu du couper ce bois. galien dit la canelle eſtre de ſubtiles parties : chaude au tiers degré , ayant quelque legere ſimples. aſtriction au moyen dequoy elle inciſe & diſſoult les ſuperfiuitez du corps, & fortifie les membres. elle eſt fort propre à eſmouuoir les mois aux femmes, arreſtez par trop grande abondance & eſpaiſſeur d'excremens, de ſorte qu'ils ne s'éuacuent ſuffiſamment. elle ſert à faire bonne bouche, & aromatiſer les medecines & à faire hyppocras, & donner gouſt aux ſaulſes. on fait de la canelle vne eau exellente , laquelle eſt ſouue- *ºſ# raine contre toutes les maladies froides, defaillance de cœur preſeruant de la peſte, & contrariant aux #ººÉ venins. sa deſcription eſt telle. prenez vne liure de la meilleure canelle que la pourrez choſir, & l'ayant vn foride. peu concaſſée, la jetterez dans vn vaiſſeau de verre, auec quatre liures de bonne eau roſe, & demieiiure de bon vin blanc, le tout ferez infuſer par l'eſpace de ving-quatre heures, le mouuant ſouuent, puis mettrez à diſtiller au baing marie, ſelon l'art,les vaiſſeaux & recipiens bien lutez enſemble,à fin que l'eſprit ne reſpire. figure · t des diſtillations ! a -- *** " figure de l'arbre qui porte la canelle. - " # \(#ſé| # º| % " º, lautre maniere pour tirer l'eſſence & eſprit de tous aromates, tant herbes,fleurs, ſemences, & fruičts : qu'auſſi de la rheubarbe, agaric, turbith, hermodačte, & autres purgatifs. c ha p t r e xiii. ei'e s s = n c e & eſprit de tels fimples ſont extraicts en cette ſorte : prenez ſaulge, #º. \ | rheubarbe , canelle , ou autre matiere , & la hachez menu, ou bien la concaſſez : cela # #u i ) faict, ſeront mis en vn materas ou bouteille de verre, ayant le col bien haut, & verſez / / / , # } # deſſus eau de vie , ou eſprit de vin bien rectifié, en telle quantité qu'il couure la matiere #% # miſe au vaiſſeau, de la hauteur d'vn doigt ou deux : puis eſtoupez le vaiſſeau diligem- ment , qu'il ne puiſſe auoir aucun air, & le laifſez huict iours tremper tout ſeul au baing l marie bien lent : lors voſtre eau de vie attire à ſoy l'eſprit qui eſt implanté à la matiere, - es extraction , & le transforme en ſoy : ce que connoiſtrez quand elle ſera bien colorée» ayant tiré la teinture de la matiere trempée. ces huict iours expirez, verſez voſtre eſprit de vin en vn au- tre vaiſſeau , auquely aura autre matiere ainſi preparée, à fin qu'il ne tire pareillement la qualité : & reite- terez cecy par trois ou quatre fois, iuſques à ce que voſtre eau de vie aye parfaictement pris la couleur & teinture de voſtre ingredient. or ſi le ſimple duquel voulez extraire l'eſſence eſtoit de grand prix, com- me bois d'aloés, ou rheubarbe, il ne ſe faudroit contenter de verſer vne fois de l'eau de vie ſur iceluy, mais deux ou trois fois, iuſques à ce que l'eſſence fuſt du tout tirée : ce que connoiſtrez, lors que la matiere ſera du tout infipide & perdu entierement ſon gouſt : cela fait tant qu'il ſera beſoin, mettrez toutes les eaux dans vn alembiccouuert de ſon chapiteau, bien luté, mis & posé au baing marie, à fin de faire euaporer voſtre eau de vie, qui doit eſtre ſoigneuſement gardée pour vne autrefois, & au fond demeurera voſtre eſprit ou eſſence , laquelle ſi voulez auoir en conſiſtance de miel, la mettrez en vn vaiſſeau de terre plombé ſur les - cendres chaudes , faiſant euaperer le plus ſubtil, ou bien dans l'alembic : & par tel moyen aurez à la parfin rendre l'eſ- vne ſubſtance ou eſſence tres-excellente & precieuſe de la choſe extraicte, & en aſſez bonne quantité , auec #" laquelle, meſme en petite quantité, ferez plus grande operation,qu'auec vn grand morceau de racine ou her- #º be : comme auec vn ſcrupule de l'eſſence de rheubarbe,agaric, turbith, ferez plus d'operation, qu'auec deux ou trois dragmes. - - moyen de l^ . # le vingt-ſeptiéme liure, cautionſe- #s lon la gran- deur du vaiſſeau. muyle de cire. · huyle de myrrhe. a la maniere de tirer l'huyle degommes, larmes, ou liqueurs eſpaiſſes, & reſines, - & meſme de certains bois. * # #- • » ". ， c h a p t r e x i v. |. o v r e s les huyles de gommes & bois oleagineux , enſemble de metaux , ſont tireés par à # vn vaiſſeau appellé retorte, & des françois cornemuſe, # la ſemblance duquel inſtrument # eſt faicte la retorte quant à la matiere dont elle doit eſtre faicte, il eſt meilleur qu'elle ſoit de ， · verre, de pierre, puis de terre plombée & verniſsée : quant à la grandeur, il doit eſtre ſelon la $# matiere & quantité d'huyle qu'il te ſemblerabon extraire:toutesfois nous le prenons ordinai- rement de telle grandeur, que ſa capacité interieure puiſſe tenir douze liures d'eau ayant auſſi vn col de pied & demy, ou d'vn pied pour le moins. le vaiſſeau receuant le plus ſouuent eſt vne fiole de verre , ou bien vne autre retorte, dans laquelle ſoit accommodé & inſeré le col de la retorte contenante- icelle doit eſtre poſée en vne jatte ou terrine de cendre ou ſable , laquelle doit eſtre miſe & accommodée - ſur le fourneau, comme tu peux voir par ce pourtraict. • * entre les gommes,les vnes ſont liquides, les autres ſoli- b des, & d'icelles aucunes plus ſolides que les autres : les ſo- lides donnent plus de peine à diſtiller que les liquides, à raiſon qu'elles ne ſe liquefient ſi toſt, & n'obeiſſent parei- lement au feu , & pource ſouuentesfois ſe bruſlent deuant que ſe diſſoudre , & pource aucuns adjouſtent pour liure de gomme ſolide,deux ou trois onces d'huyle de terebenthi- ne, de la plus claire & liquide : à raiſon qu'elle eſt tres-pure & nette. quant aux liquides , elles ſont faſcheuſes auſſi à diſtiller, à raiſon que ſouuent elles s'enfient de telle façon, u'elles regorgent dans le receuant , telles qu'on les a miſes à la retorte, principalement fi du commencement on y don- ne feu grand & violent : & pour obuier à tel inconuenient, aucuns adjouſtent en la retorte du ſable. huyle de reſine, & terebenthine. prenez terebenthine deux ou trois liures, laquelle mettrez en voſtre retorte de verre aſſez grande, telle- ment que les trois parties ſoient vuides , y adiouſtant pour liure de terebenthine trois ou quatre onces de ſable : cela faict, vous poſerez voſtre retorte dans vne jatte ou terrine, pleine de cendresſaſsées & bien ac- commodées ſur voſtre fourneau, au col de laquelle adjouſterez vn receuant bien luté, puis ferez feu au com- mencement bien leger : car ces liqueurs eſchauffées , facilement s'eſleuent & enflent, puis augmenterez vo- ſtre feu petit à petit, donnant garde que la matiere ne boüille trop à coup. au commencement diſtillera vne eau claire aceteuſe, à laquelle ordinairement ſe concrée vne hypoſtaſe, puis ſortira vne huyle fort claire approchant d'iceluy phlegme, & lors augmenterez vn peu voſtre feu à fin de faire monter la troiſieſme li- queur, qui eſt vne huyle de couleur d'or claire & ſubtile : & derechef donnerez feu de chaſſe, auecfeu de flambe, pour tirer vne huyle rouge & vermeille de couleur de ruby, aſſez eſpaiſſe,& par ce moyen tirerez de la terebenthine ces quatre liqueurs : vous pourrez changer à chaſque fois vn recipient, mais il eſt plus expe- dient les laiſſer enſemble, à fin de les diſtiller vne autrefois. d'vne liure de terebenthine, ſera toufiours tiré dix ou douze onces d'huyle : elle eſt ſinguliere pour la paralyſie, conuulſion, picqueure de nerfs, & pour les playes des parties nerueuſes. prenez vne liure de cire, laquelle fairez fondre, & la verſerez en voſtre retorte de verre accommodée au feu de ſablon, ou de cendre, comme auons dict cy-deſſus de la terebenthine, & d'icelle ſera faict diſtillation, augmentant le feu petit à petit : il ne ſort ordinairement qu'vne ſeule huyle, & vn peu de phlegme, toutes- fois vne partie d'icelle ſe congele comme beurre, & pource ce derechef doit eſtre diſtillée & rectifiée, d'vne liure de cire ſe peut tirer ſix ou huict onces d'huyle,laquelle eſt recommandée ſur toutes autres choſes, pour les contuſions & douleurs froides. — p la maniere de tirer l'huyle des gommes plus ſolides, comme myrrhe, maſtic, & autres. c h a p i t r e xv. # v c v n s tirent ces huyles par le feu de cendre, ou de ſable , comme auons dict des prece- †%\ n# dentes, y adjouſtant pour liure de gomme deux ou trois onces d'huyle de terebenthine, & Á # deux d'eau de vie, & laiſſent macerer & tremper l'eſpace de huict ou dix iours au baing $ # marie,ou bien au ventre de cheual,c'eſt à dire,au fumier,l'eſpace d'vn mois,puis la diſtillent en la retorte. or le vray moyen de faire l'huyle de myrrhe eſt telle : prenez myrrhe pulue- m - ºn- s risée,laquelle ferez diſtiller par les œufs les faiſant durcir,& au lieu de jaune les remplir de myrrhe , leſquels ſeront mis ſur vne claye à eſgouter, en vne caue froide & humide, & au deſſous on metra vn plat oubaſſin de terre verniſſée : la myrrhe ſe diſſoudra en eau huyleuſe, laquelle ſera apres miſe en vn materas de verre,auec autant d'eau de vie, bien rectifiée au fumier, l'eſpace de deux ou trois mois , le ma- teras eſtant bien bouſché : cela fait ſera tirée dudit fumier & versée par inclination en vn alembic : car au fond dudit materas demeurera vn marc aſſez eſpais : puis l'alembic ſera mis au baing marie pour faire éua- porer l'eau de vie & le phlegme, & au fond demeurera ton huyle belle & claire, laquelle tu pourras colo- rer d'vn peu d'orcanete : & ſi tu luy veux donner quelque odeur, tuy adjouſteras vne goutte ou deux d'huyle de ſaulge, canelle, ou girofle, ſelon ta diſcretion. deſcription des diſtillations. : : # # • a deſcription d'vn baume, deſcrit par veſal enſa chirurgie. %.terebin.opt.fb.j.olei laur. .iv galb. .iijigummi elem. .iv.fi.thuris, myrrhz, gummi, hederx centaureae maior. ligni aloes an. . iij. caryoph. conſol. maior.cinam. nucis moſc.zedoarix , zinzib. dictamni alb. an. .j. olei verm. terreſt. .ij. aquæ vitæ fb. vj. la maniere de faire le baume eſt telle. tous les ingrediens ſeront concaſſez & hachez pour les infuſer en l'eau de vie l'eſpace de trois iours , puis on en fera diſtillation en la retorte, comme des ſuſdites huyles de terebenthine & cire , dont en ſera tiré trois liqueurs : la premiere ſera fqueuſe & claire : la ſeconde de couleur d'or tres-ſubtile : & la tierce repreſentant la couleur du rubi, qui eſt le vray baume. la premiere liqueur eſt ſinguliere contre l'imbecillité de l'eſtomach prouenant de matiere froide, à raiſon qu'elle conſomme & inciſe les phlegmes, & diſſipe les ventoſitez : la ſeconde eſt ſouueraine pour agglutiner les playes recentes , picqueures des nerfs , contre la paralyſie : la troiſiéme ſur- · paſſe les deux autres pour ſuruenir à telles infirmitez. sautre de fallope. /...tereb.clarx fb.ij.olei de ſemine lini fb j.refina pini .vj.thuris,myrrhz, aloès,maſt.ſarcocan. .iij.macis, ligni aloes an .ij.croci . mettez tout en vne retorte de verre ſur les cendres, & le faites diſtiller:au com- mencement ſortira vne eau claire,puis vn huyle rougeaſtre:icelle eſt ſouuerainne pour les playes ie te veux aduertir que par tel moyen tu peux diſtiller toutes axunges & graiſſe, & toutes parties d'animaux,enſemble tous bois , eſcorces, ſemences pourueu qu'elles ſoyent auparauant bien macerées, deſquelles toutesfois on tirera d'eau en plus grande quantité que d'huyle : tu peux pareillement extraire l'huyle de gagatés. ayant ce pourtraict de l'encens, de theuet, comme il le deſcrit en ſa coſmographie, ie n'ay voulu faillir theuet en ſa à le repreſenter, & d'en eſcrire en bref ce qu'il en dit, comme l'ayant veu. l'encens,dit-il, eſt vn arbre qui ºº croiſt en arabie, qui reſſemble aux pins, iettant vne liqueur qui s'endurcit puis apres , & ſe forme en petits grains de couleur blanchaſtre & tranſparens, gras au dedans, s'allumans quand on les iette au feu. on le ſophiſtique auec refine de pin , qui eſt cauſe que nous ne l'auons tel qu'il le deſcrit , ce qu'on peut cognoi- ſtre : car la reſine ny autre gomme ne s'allume au feu, ny ne ſent ſi bon comme fait l'encens. les arabes inciſent ces arbres , pour en mieux faire diſtiller la liqueur , dont il font grand profit. il remplit les vlceres profonds, agglutine les playes profondes,& pource eſt mis aux baumes comme principal ingredient : appli- qué ſeul en poudre , arreſte le ſang qui fiue des playes. matthiole dit , qu'il eſt ſingulier meſlé auec cimolée & huyle roſat , aux inflammations des mammelles des femmes nouuellement accouchées. la figure de l'arbre qui porte l'encens. | . # $ #s#'s% w ns ) | # |# e- # #$ $h#)ſ')% l# %z/ l le vingt-ſeptiéme liure, la maniere de faire l' bwi. de vitriol. prenez vitriol dix liures, les mettez bien pulueriſées en vn pot de terre, lequel ſera enuironné de charbons ardens, afin de le faire calciner,ce que cognoiſtrezlors qu'il deuiendra rouge:lequel poteſtant demeuré . ou . heures, & refroidy, ſera caſsé, & ledit vitriol derechef mis en pouldre, pour eſtre encore calciné vne fois, & reiteré iuſques à ce qu'il ſoit bien calciné : ce que cognoiſtrez lors qu'il signe de vi-, ſera parfaictement rouge. cela fait, ſubtilement puluerisé, puis mis en la retorte de terre, comme trºl éien celle en laquelle on tire l'eau forte,adiouſtant pour huile de vitriol calciné vn quarteron de ciment de calciné. tuille : en apres voſtre retorte accommodée de ſon recipient , ſera au fourneau de reuerberation, faiſant touſiours feu de flambe, & ce par l'eſpace de deux fois heures, plus ou moins,ſelon quevoſtre diſtillation durera : laquelle cognoiſtrez eſtre parfaite alors que voſtre recipient viendra clair, n'e- #ººº di- ſtant plus rempli d'eſprit : car tant que la diſtillation durera, il ſera touſiours plein comme de fumée ## blanche. or iete veux aduertir de deux choſes touchant ton recipient : c'eſt en premier lieu qu'il doit ' ' eſtre fort grand, afin qu'il ne rompe, à raiſon de l'abondance des eſprits qui ſouuentesfois y affluent : en ſecond lieu il ſera accommodé dans vne cuue pleine d'eau froide pour le tenir fraiſchement,afin qu'il ne ſoit par trop eſchauffé, qui ſeroit cauſe de le rompre. et pour ample cognoſſance de ce,ie t'ay bien voulu donner le pourtraict du fourneau, enſemble des vaiſſeaux. -， fourneau de reuerberation, accommodé de ſa retorte & recipient. a. ladite huyle eſt d'admi- a monſtre le fourneau. rable opera- b la retorte - tien, plus \ ) ----- - grande que \n c _ t- c le recipient. - l'eau forte. en a - d la cuue où eſt contenue l'eau. registre de toutes ſortes de medicamens & inſtrumens ſeruans à la guariſon des maladiet. - c l reſte encore à declarer la ſource de tous medicamens, dont vſent les medecins & chirurgiens pour curer & parier toutes maladies qui aduiennent aux hommes, deſquels auſſi quelques-fois ſe ſeruent pour alimens medicamentaux. les medicamens, tant ceux de cette garenne que tous autres, ſont pris des beſtes, des plantes, & des mineraux. des bestes on vſe. des cornes moëlle ongles os poil extremitez plume cccu i coquilles foye teſt poulmon eſcailles cciu c l ſueur matrice cuir arrierefaix greſſe teſticules chair vcrge ſang § entrailles ſperme vrine cul fiente queuë membrane de geſier odeurs tant fetides qu'odoriferantes, & meſmes expiration de leur venin. ſoye auſſi quelquesfois on vſe de la totalité d'icelles, toile comme renardeaux cntiers, larmes etits chiens ſaliue § miel grenoüilles cire vers de terre *. oeufs c ctºs laict eſcreuiſſes beurre ſcorpions fourmage - ſang-ſuës, & autres. f · des diſtillations. · les plantes ſont, arbres, abriſſeaux, & herbes dont on prend les racines mouſſe eſcorce bois moëlles iettons (.') boutons tigcs §les fleurs calices cheuelures eſpics ſemences farines ſuc larmes huyles gommes reſines pourriture ii ic manne tombant du ciel ſur les plantes, &c. on vſe auſſi par fois de totalité des plantes, comme des mauues, oignons, bulbes, & autres. - les mineraux ſont pris, ou del'eau, ou de la terre : & s'ils ſont deterre, ou ils ſeront eſpeces de terre, ou pierre, ou metaux. les eſpeces de terre ſont, comme bol armene terre ſigillée cimolée croye ocic cailloux ('.) iudaicus lyncis pumex ſantaiis haematites dentalis amiantus galactites lapis ſpongiae , adamas ſapphirus chryſolytus (.'.) topaſius magnes gypſum pyrites calx albaſtre marbre cryſtal, & pluſieurs autresgemmes, c'eſt à di- re pierres precieuſes. les moyens mineraux ſont marcaſſites antimoine eſtain de glace tuthie arſenic auripigment zuii reagal ſoulphre argent-vif § chalcitis pſory miſy atramentum nigrum colcotar alumen ſciſſile alumen rotundum alumen liquidum alumen plumoſum laiilci borax bitumen naphtha cinnabaris litharge d'or litharge d'argent chryſocolla ſandaracha, & autres. item les eſpeces de ſel, tant naturelles qu'artificielles, comme sel nitre ſel commun ſel alkali ſel ammoniacum ſel d'vrine ſel de tartre, & generalement tous ſels qu'on fait de toutes plantes. les metaux ſont, or argent cuyure acier fer de l'eau on vſe ſemblablement. - de fontaines , eſtangs, riuieres, de la mer, du ciel, & de leurs fanges & boiies : & d'icelles ſont pris les coraux blancs & rouges, perles, & vne infinité d'autres choſes, que nature chambriere du # plomb eſtain airain leton, & autres choſes qui en prouiennent, comme leur eſcaille, roüilleure, & autres. par tout ſe voyentrems : ss ſ grand o le vingt-ſeptiéme liure, d'où ſe prend le choix des ſimples. grand architecte , a produites pour la curation des maladies, en telle ſorte, que quelque part qu'on a ſçache jetter l'œil ſur la terre, ou aux entrailles d'icelle, on trouuera grande abondance & multitude de remedes. de tous leſquels ſimples le choix & eſlection (comme auſſi d e pluſieurs autres choſes) ſe prend ou de la ſubſtance, ou de la quantité, ou de la qualité, ou de l'action, ou du lieu, ou du temps, ou del'odeur, ou de la ſaueur, ou de la ſituation, ou de la forme, ou figure, ou du poids. / toutes ces choſes ſont amplement declarées par le menu au liure de la pharmacopée de iacques syluius, deſquels on fait pluſieurs compoſitions, comme collyres apozemes caput-purges juleps lohoc ſyrops dentifrices pouldres apophlegmatiſmes tablettes argariſmes oplates illules conſerues lus condits potus confections. medicamens alimenteux, comme b reſtaurans peré coulis pommé preſſis cormé gelée biere orge mondé ceruoiſe / panade vinaigre amandé (.'.) verjus blanc-manger huyle - maſſepains eau ferée ptiſane call † potus diuinus eau ſucrée hypocras hypocras d'eau, & autres manieres de breu- vin uage. item des electuaires. penides fards c vomitoires epithemes - ſternutatoires fomentations ſudatoires pications clyſteres depilatoires † veſiccatoires uppoſitoires cauteres potentiels parfums infuſions trochiſques repercuſſifs fronteaux (.'.) reſolutifs - coëffes l* attractifs eſcuſſons ſuppuratifs bains remollitifs demy-bains mondificatifs mucilages incarnatifs oxyme cicatriſatifs oxycrat ('.) digeſtifs oxyrrhodinum putrefactifs hydraeleum corroſifs d hydromel agglutinatifs carminatifs pareillement anodyns emplaſtres - ſacs pour agiter l'air onguents fontaines artificielles linimens eaux & huyles diſtillées , & autres choſes ti- cctats rées par quinte eſſence, en pluſieurs & diuer- laict virginal ſes § a ſçauoir, les eaux & huyles quint-eſſentielles des herbes chaudes, ſeiches, & aromatiques ſe ti- rent par alembic de cuyvre, lequel a vn refrigeratoire au deſſus , en adiouſtant dix fois autant d'eau comme peſent les herbes, & faut qu'elles ſoient ſeiches pour eſtre meilleures. les fieurs ſe tirent ausoleil en vn vaiſſeau de rencontre en bain marie, ou par fumier,ou par le marc des raiſins eſtant hors du preſſoir. tous ſels apres leur calcination, ſe doiuent diſtiller par filtre deux ou trois fois pour les mieux pu- rifier, & les rendre apres à faire huyles. les | des diſtillations. i a : les autres diſtillations aux caues & lieux froids & humides, ſur le marbre : ou dans vne chauſſe d'hipocras, comme ſe fait l'huyle de tartre, & de tous autres ſels, & de tous fiels, & autres choſes ſem- blables, ou qui ſont de nature d'alum. les os des animaux ſe doiuent diſtiller par deſcenſoire, ou par rencontre. tous bois, racines, eſcorces, coquilles de mer, ou graines, comme de froment, de geneſt, pois » féves, & autres qui ne ſe peuuent tirer par expreſſion, ſe diſtillent par deſcenſoire, ou par rencontre, au four de reuerberation. - les mineraux eſtans calcinez , & reduits en nature de ſel , ſe doiuent diſſoudre & diſtiller par · filtre : puis euaporer iuſques à ce qu'ils ſoient ſecs & reſouts en vinaigre diſtillé, puis derechef eua- porez & ſeichez : leſquels apres facilement ſe diſtillent en la caue ſur le marbre , ou en la chauſſe d'hypocras , ou en vne cornuë de verre , posée ſur vn fourneau , auquel , y aura du ſable fai- ſant feu par deſſous, augmentant peu peu iuſques à ce que l'humidité aqueuſe ſoit conſommée, puis faut changer de rccipient & le luter à la cornuë, faiſant feu par deſſus & par deſſous, & par ainſi ſortira l'huyle, laquelle ſera fort rouge.ainſi ſe diſtillent tous metaux moyens, mineraux , atramens, --* alums , & ſels. les remedes faicts des mineraux ſont de plus grande force & efficace que ceux des vegetaux & animaux. les gommes & axunges, & generalement toutes reſines, ſe diſtillent par cornuë ou alembic de ver- * re,auecleurs recipiens poſez ſur vn fourneau, auquel y ait vne terrine,auec cendres chauffées, augmen- tant le feu peu à peu, ſelon l'exigence des matieres. les vaiſſeaux ſeruans aux diſtillations ſont , alembic cornuë é refrigeratoires cl ci c ſublimatoires recipiens • reuerberatoires aludel - ' , * deſeenſoires itlatci as calcinatoires vaiſſeaux de rencontre pellicans terrines à filtrer gemini ou circulatoires fours ſecrets des philoſophes oeufs des philoſophes marbres pour diſtiller en lieu humide - fourneaux auec creuzets, pour faire redaction des metaux calcinez. il refie encore à declarer la diuerſté des instrumens, dont nou auons faict cy-deſſu mention» pour la guariſon des maladies, deſquels les noms s'enſuiuent. c bec de corbin algalies bec de gruë pied de griffon bec de cygne tire - bale bec de perroquet ſondes droites & courbées , cloſes & ouuer- - tire - fons tcs ， ſpeculum oris conducteurs | † naſi cliicitcs ſpeculum matricis cailcttcs . foceolles [ciloils - c i)oils pitons doubles canons pour donner clyſteres auec chauſ forets | ſes & ſyringues ventouſes : cleuatoires - coiilcts - | dilatatoires compas ! lenticulaires eſpatules droites & renuersées | tenailles inciſiues cllulcs | · tenailles non inciſiues - cuucttcs • * ' , | aiguilles à ſeton, & autres , tant droites que cuueaux : courbées chaires à demy-bains auec tout leur equi- tentes cannulées & non cannulées page crochets marmites · arai gnes trepieds · l poulcier tuyaux i vrctere ligatures | receptoire de l'vrine bandes · burins bandelettes pincettes bandeaux maillets de plomb bourlets | cizeaux de pluſieurs ſortès couſſin i - rugines ſcies couſſinets | trepanes perforatiues charpy ·| trepanes exfoliatiues, & autres eſtoupes * § cotton | lancettes compreſſes sss biſtories | le vingt-ſeptieſme liure, biſtories aſtelles flammettes queſſes cauteres actuels de pluſieurs & diuerſes façons torches ou fenons & figures archets yeux - maniuelle langues mouffle bras tables jambes artificielles cheuilles brayers iictcaulx eſpaulettes - courge deſchauſſoirs piliers, & generalement tous autres engins & pouſſoirs machines , qui ſeruent aux fractures & lu- dauiers xations des os, nommés des anciens : gloſ- policans à tirer & rompre les dents ſocomes entonnoirs pluſieurs pourtraicts, tant de l'anatomie que biberons à tirerlelaict des mammelles des choſes monſtrueuſes. or pour concluſion, nous deuons bien auec grande admiration , loüer & remercier ce grand architecte & facteur de toutes choſes, de nous auoir deſcouuert vne ſi grande multitude deremcdes & moyens qui ſeruent à la curation & palliation des maladies, auſquelles l'homme eſt ſujet. le temps d 'hippocrate deuant galien. #i p p o c r a t e naſquit en la cité de cos, quatre cens cinquante - cinq ans auant l'incarna. # #tion de i e s v s - c h r s t, & fut fils d'heraclite, & de praxitée ſa femme venant du coſté lus lº paternel de la race d'aÊſculape, & du coſté maternel de celle d'hercule. galien naſquit en aſie en la ville de pergame, cent quarante ans apres l'aduenement de ie s vs- c h r s t , & fut fils de nicon, geometre & architecte. - •_artaxerxes grand roy des roys, à hyſtanes gouuernéur d'helleſpont. cette lettre # # n m'a rapporté qu'hippocrate, medecin natif de la cité de cos, iſſu de la race d'aeſculape xerxes roy fait la medecine fort heureuſement, & auec grand honneur. donne-luy donc tant d'orqu'il º#ſans, s# voudra, & tout ce dont il aura beſoin, & nous l'enuoye : l'aſſeurant que ie le feray égal aux à hiſtanes, plus grands de perſe. et s'il y a encore quelque autre braue homme en l'europe, rends-leamydela º c - - - - #. maiſon royale, n'eſpargnant pour ce faire or ny argent. car ce n'eſt pas choſe facile de trouuer gent pour luy de bon conſeil. aye ſoin de ta ſanté. commander de prier - - - » # de ve- hyſtanes, gouuerneur d'helleſpont, à hippocrate iſſu d'aeſculape , salut. mir en ſa cour, pour $# e grand roy artaxerxes a affaire de toy,& m'a eſcrit & commandé comme à ſon gouuerneur # - |, ſecourir ceux $ n % - - t cc # # par deça, de te donnet or & argent tant que tu auras beſoin & pour le faire court , tou # # que tu voudras, & qu'on t'enuoye de bref par deuers luy, t'aſſeurant qu'il te mettra au rang gºv de pºſte des plus grands de tous les perſans. parquoy viens - moy trouuer incontinent. aye ſoin deta ſanté, lettre d'hy- mes , gou- - - - > - # hippocrate, medecin, à hiſtanes , gouuerneur d'helleſpont, salut & ioye. d'helleſpont, - # g #ne o v r † tes lettres, que tu dis eſtre de la part du roy, reſcry - luy , & le pluſtoſt . ! decin, #e)º - - - - - # º # # que faire ſe pourra, que i'ay des viures, des veſtemens, & des maiſons à ſuffiſance, & de tout d'hipp.au- (º#} ce qui eſt neceſſaire à la vie. dauantage qu'il ne m'eſt licite d'vſer des richeſſes des perſans, dit hyſtanet. ny de ſecourir & deliurer de maladies les barbares qui ſont ennemis des grecs. aye ſoin de ta ſanté d - la | des diſtillations. - c la figure de ce grand hippocrates. # $ È ( ) hº p) # \ - l) i. l, le l . : $ # # $ s n - • l | | | ! •. | $# º) º# a* * u - | - wj, h/ ) tel fut d'hippocrates le port & le viſage : . d de quel ſºauoir il fut, de quelle nation, comme il ſe comporta en ſaprofeſſion, les liures qu'ila faits en donnent teſmoignage. ce n'eſt rien que de voird'hippocrates l'image, jl faut voir ſes eſcrits, les lire & contempler, conferer auec ceux qui en peuuent parler, . eafin de les entendre, & les mettre en vſage. -t s s s - | apho aphoriſmes d'hippocrate. # # ººº ººººººººººººººº # # # # # # # # # # # # # # a p h o r i s m e s d' h i p p o c r a t e, appartenans à la chirurgie laphoriſme en vn mot, qui autant ſignifie que dccret ou extraict, ou ſentence choiſie. . . - e v x qui ont dans le corps de la boiie croupie, #//# ou entre cuir & chair quelque abondance d'eau, a\# s'ils ſont cauteriſez, ou taillez au couſteau, k$# et deſchargez à coup, ils en perdent la vie. i. . ceux qui ont mal aux yeux treuuent allegement, par boire du vin pur , par bain, ou par ſaignée, par fomentation deuëment ordonnée, ou apres auoir beu quelque medicament. . . il eſt beaucoup meilleur de ne mettre la main a ces chancres cachez, qu'vſer de chirurgie : car ceux qui ſont penſez en meurent tout ſoudain : ceux qui ne le ſont point, ſont plus long-temps en vie. f. . la goute qui les pieds engourdit & eſtonne, se meut le plus ſouuent au printemps & automne. . . iamais la goute és pieds les chaſtrez ne moleſte, ny faute de cheueux au deuant de la teſte. . . de la goute des pieds le feu qui bruſſe & ard, dedans quarante iours s'eſteint pour le plus tard. * . . c'eſt ſigne de grand mal ſi en vne bleſſeure, qui eſt grande & maligne, on ne voit point d'enfleure .j. la tumeur qui eſt molle, eſt fort bonne & loüable : mais celle qui eſt dure, eſt mauuaiſe & damnable. . . / quand l'eryſipelas r'entre dedans le corps, - tout va mal : & tout bien, quand il reſſort dehors. ) . . quand l'eryſipelas vient autour de l'os nu, et deſcouuert de chair, pour ſuſpect eſt tenu. o. . a l'eryſipelas s'il ſuruient pourriture, ou ſuppuration, c'eſt vn mauuais augure. i. . si à gens furieux des varices ſuruiennent, ou flux de ſang par bas, à raiſon ils reuiennent. i. . si à l'vlcere aduient flux de ſangcopieux, pour la force du poulx, cela eſt dangereux. . . il vaut mieux que la fiévre apres le ſpaſme aduienne, que le ſpaſme à l'accez de la fiévre ſuruienne. . . les vlceres polis autour de labordure, sont à cicatriſer de mauuaiſe nature. . . quand le foye eſt navré, le cœur ou la veſſie, l entre - deux trauerſant, l'eſtomach, le cerueau, voire tant ſeulement quelque menuboyau, si le coup eſt profond, c'eſt pour perdre la vie. - . . aux vlceres qui ont vn an ou dauantage, l'os neceſſairement ſe pourrit & dechet : la c - reigles chirurgiques j') galien au i. comment.du li. d'hipp.d # medecin,dit. que ledit hip a eſcrit aucunesfois ſi obſcuremët , que pour l'im - erpreter il requeroit plaſtoſt vne diuination qu'vne ſci- b) b ence ce grand hippocrates doit ſon nom & ſa gloire ($ • ea claude galien, icy repreſenté, car ſans luy ſes eſcrits , pourleur obſcurité, - demeuroient incogneus, & n'en fuſt plus memoire. c a n o n s e t r e i g l e s chirurgiques de l'auteur. ce n'eſt autre choſe practique le flux de ſang vient par chaleur, sinon l'effect de theorique. et eſt repouſsé par froideur. . la parole ne guarit point, la picqueure des nerfs deſire mais le remede mis à poinct. subtil medicament qui tire. p) - / vn remede experimenté - - - - vaut mieux qu vn noullcall inllciltc. la playe ouurant vn grandvaiſſeau, le navré conduit au tombeau. j où il y a contufion, procure ſuppuration. - selon qu'onvoid la maladie, il faut que l'on y remedie. . sil tombe quelque os du palais, danger ya d'eſtre punais, io au mal de pied, ou jambe, ou cuiſſe le lict eſt ſalubre & propice. i i toutes medecines mordantes aux vlceres ne ſont nuiſantes. i - pour bien luxation curer, tenir faut, pouſſer & tirer. l la gangrene qui eſt ja grande, rien que le couſteaune demande. i le monſtre eſt vne creature, contre les regles de nature. la º . des rapports. - . # a qui nous donnent à entendre par raiſon, que le crane eſt rompu : mais par les ſens iceluy meſme ſe connoiſt eſtre rompº » quand en preſſant les doigts deſſus, on ſent au tact l'os eſtre eſleuë ou enfoncé outre le natu- rel. pareillement ſe connoiſt au ſens de la veuë, lors qu'il eſt denué , & qu'on frappe deſſus auec vne ſonde de fer , & qu'il ſonne caſſé, comme ſi l'on frappoit ſur vn pot de terre felle & rompu : voilà les ſignes § demonſtrent le cerueau eſtre offenſé & le crane fracturé. on peut prognoſtiquer & rapporter † bleſſé, lors qu'il a du tout perdu ſa raiſon & memoire, ou s'il deuient du tout mu§ , ayant les yeux tene- breux , & ſe veut jetter hors du lict, ne ſe pouuant au reſte nullement mouuoir : ayant la fievre continué, la langue noire & ſeiche , & les lévres de la playe arides, ne jettent aucune choſe , ou bien peu, & § elle eſt de couleur blafarde, comme d'vne chair ſalée, ou qu'il ait apoplexie, freneſie, ſpaſine, paralyſie tc- tenant ſon vrine, & autres excremens, on les laiſſe couler inuolontairement. si tels ſignes apparoiſſ§ § ton rapport que bien toſt le malade mourra. les ſignes que la trachée artere, & l'œſophague ſont coupez. cela ſe reconnoiſt au ſens de la veuë, auſſi le bleſſé perd la parole, & ne peut plus boire ny manger, parce que chacune partie coupée ſe retire, l'vne en haut, l'autre en bas, & toſt apres la mort s'enſuit. les ſignes que la playe penetre dans le thorax. c'eſt que par la playe on void ſortir de l'air, auec vn ſifflement, & le malade a peine à reſpirer, principale- ment quand il y a grande quantité de ſang tombé ſur le diaphragme, lequel il jette par la bouche encrachanti b la fievre ſuruient & puanteur d'haleine, à cauſe que le ſang ſe pourrit & conuertit en vne ſanie fetide , & le malade ne peut demeurer couché que ſur le dos,& a ſouuent volonté de vomir, & s'il reſchappe le plus ſou- uent ſa p'aye degenere en fiſtule, & meurt tabide & ſec. - les ſignes du poulmon vulneré. c'eſt qu'il ſort par la playe vn ſang ſpumeux, auec toux & grande difficulté de reſpirer, & douleur aux coſtez. les ſignes que le cœur eſt bleſſé. c'eft qu'il ſort par la playe grande quantité de ſang , auec vn tremblement vniuerſel de tout le corps, le poux languide & fort petit, la couleur paſle, ſueur froide auec ſyncope, & les extremitez fort froides,& toſt la mort s'enſuit. - les ſignes du diaphºne c'eſt que le malade ſent vne grande peſanteur au lieu vulneré, & a perturbation de raiſon, & vne tres- grande difficulté d'halener, toux & douleurs aiguës, & les flancs ſe retirent contre-mont : ſi tels ſignes appa- roiſſent, fais rapport de mort hardiment. les ſignes que la veine caue & grande artere ſont vulnerées. c'eſt que le malade meurt promptement, à cauſe de la ſubite & grande vacuation qui ſe fait du ſang & eſprit qui rempliſſent le ventre inferieur outhorax, faiſant ceſſer l'action des poulmons & du cœur. | les ſignes que la moëlle de l'eſpine du dos eſt bleſſée, c'eſt que le malade ſubit tombe en paralyſie on conuulſion, & le ſentiment & mouuement des parties in- ferieures ſe perd & les excremens, comme la matiere fecale & vrine, ſont jettez inuolontairement , ou du tollt rctciluls. - les ſignes que le foye eſt vulneré. c'eſt qui ſort grande quantité de ſangpar la playe, & le bleſſé ſent vne douleur poignante, qui s'eſtend iºſques à la cartilage ſcutiforme, & le ſang decoulant dedans le ventre ſouuent ſe pourrit, & cauſe de per- nicieux accidens, & le plus ſouuent la mort. - • - les ſignes que l'eſtomach eſt vulneré c'eſt que le manger & boire ſortent par la playe, & vomit ſouuent pnre cholere & ſang , il ſuruient ſueurs & refroidiſſemens des extremitez, & la mort toſt apres aduient. les ſignes que la ratelle eſt vulnerée, c'eſt qu'il ſort par la playe vn gros ſang noir,& le malade eſt grandement alteré, & a douleur au coſté ſe- neſtre : & fi le ſang decoule dans le ventre, ſouuent ſe pourrit, dont pluſieurs accidens ſourdent, & ſouuent la mort les ſaiſit. les ſignes que les inteſtins ſont vulnerez. c'eſt que le malade ſent vne grande contorſion & douleur au ventre, & la matiere fecale ſort par la playe ſouuent, & grande quantité de boyaux ſortent par icelle hors le ventre. es ſignes aue les roigno / " c » | les ſignes que gnons ſont vulnerez c'eſt que le malade a difficulté d'vriner, & jette du ſangauec l'vrine, & douleur aux aiſnes, verge & teſti- cules. les ſignes que la veſſie eſt vulnerée, & les pores vreteres. c'eſt que le malade ſent douleur aux flancs, & les parties du penil ſont tendues, & fi il jette l'vrine ſanglan- te, & quelquesfois meſme par la playe. - les ſignes que la femme aſon amary vulneré c'eſt que le ſang ſort par ſes parties honteuſes , & a preſque ſemblables accidens que ceux qui ont la veſie vulnerée. t t t les les ſignes que l'os eſf rompu. les ſignes mortels. o le vingt-huictiéme liure, les ſignes que les nerfs ſont picquez , ou à demy-coupez. c'eſt que le malade ſent vne douleur vehemente au lieu bleſse, & auſſi que promptement luy ſuruient inflammation , fluxion , fiévre, apoſteme, & conuulſion, & quelquesfois auſſi gangrene & mortification de la partie ; dont ſuruient la mort, ſi le malade n'eſt bien & promptement ſecouru,'comme i'ay eſcrit cy- deuant parlant des playes des nerfs. - apres auoir baillé les ſignes pour connoiſtre les parties de noſtre corps vulnerées, à fin d'en faire rapport en iuſtice : pour plus grande & facile intelligence m'a ſemblé bon de donner le formulaire de ces quatre rapports : dont le premier ſera de rapporter de neceſſité de la mort du bleſsé : le ſecond ſera douteux de la mort ou de la vie : le troiſieſme du mehain, c'eſt à dire, de l'impotence d'vne partie bleſſée : le quart, de pluſieurs parties bleſſées enſemble. selon leſquels formulaires tu en pourras faire d'autres, ainſi que connoi- ſtras par les ſignes cy-deſſus eſcrits, telles ou telles parties du corps eſtre vulnerées. exemple a'vn rapport, de neceſſité concluantà la mort. ie a. p. ce iourd'huy par l'ordonnance de meſſeigneurs de la cour de parlement, me ſuis tranſporté en la ' maiſon de tel , ruë s. germain , à l'enſeigne de s.lequel i'ay trouué giſant au lict, ayant vne playe à la te- ſte , partie feneſtre , ſituée ſur le temporal , auec fracture & embarreure d'aucunes parties dudit os, les deux membranes eſtans rompues, ſont enfoncées en la ſubſtance du cerueau. au moyen dequoy ledit tel a perdu toute connoiſſance de raiſon , auecques vne conuulſion, le poulx fort petit, & ſueur froide : au re- ſte, tant degouſté , qu'il ne boit ny mange. a cauſe dequoy certifie que bien toſt mourra, teſmoing mon b ſeing manuel cy mis le, &c. exemple d'vn rapport douteux de la mort. ie tel , &c. par le commandement de monſieur le lieutenant criminel, ſuis allé en la maiſon de n. le- quel i'ay veu giſant au lict , ayant trouué ſur ſon corps vne playe faicte d'vn inſtrument trenchant , ſituée au milieu de la cuiſſe dextre , de grandeur de trois doigts ou enuiron, penetrante tout outre, auecques in- ciſion de veines & arteres : à raiſon dequoy eſt ſuruenu vn bien grand fiux de ſang, qui luy a proſternë & ab- batu les forces. au moyen dequoy tombe ſouuent en defaillance de cœur, & toute la cuiſſe eſt grandement tumefiée & liuide , dont pluſieurs pernicieux accidens s'en pourroient enſuiure : parquoy ie dy que ledit tel - eſt en grand danger de mort. et tout ce certifie eſtre vray, teſmoing mon ſeing manuel cy mis le, & c. exemple d'vn rapport de mehain ou impotence. ie tel, &c. par le commandement de monſieur le procureur du roy, me ſuis tranſporté en la maiſon de monſieur, &c. rue s. pierre aux bœufs, pour viſiter vn tel, &c. ſur lequel i'ay trouué vne playe à la jointure du jarret dextre, de grandeur de quatre doigts ou enuiron, auecques inciſion des cordes ou tendons qui plient la jambe, enſemble inciſion de veines, arteres, & nerfs.au moyen dequoy eſt ledit tel en danger de mort, pour les accidens qui en telles playes viennent le plus ſouuent, comme extreme douleur , fiévre,in- flammation, apoſteme, conuulſion, gangrene,& autres. parquoy à ledit tel beſoin tenir bon regime, & eſtre bien & deuement penſé & medicamenté & où il eſchappera de la mort , à iamais demeurera impotent de la partie, et tout ce certifie eſtre vray , teſmoin mon ſeing manuel cy mis le iour, &c. mil, &c. exemple d'vn rapport d'vn homme blsſé de pluſieurs coups, & en diuerſes parties du corps. . | nous ſoubs ſignez chirurgiens, ce iourd'huy vingt-vnieſme &c. par le commandement de meſſeigneurs de la cour de parlement, ſommes allez au logis de tel, ruë s.denys, à l'enſeigne de saincte catherine, pour viſiter vn nommé, &c. gentil-homme des ordonnances du roy, ſur lequel auons trouué cinq playes la premiere ſituée à la teſte, au milieu de l'os coronal, de grandeur de trois doigts ou enuiron , penetran- te iuſques à la ſeconde table , dont luy auons tiré trois eſquilles dudit os. ltem vne autre playe au trauers de la ioue, partie dextre, comprenant depuis l'oreille iuſques au milieu du nez: à cauſe de ce à eſté neceſ- ſaire luy faire quatre poincts d'aiguille. item, vne autre playe au milieu du ventre, de grandeur de deux doigts, ou enuiron, penettrant en la capacité d'iceluy : ſortant par ladicte playe vne partie de l'omentum, de groſſeur de demy-eſteuf, qu'auons trouuè liuide, & toute deſtituée de chaleur naturelle : parquoy a eſté beſoin lier & coupper ce qui eſtoit ſorty dehors. item , vne autre playe ſituée ſur le metacarpe de la main ſeneſtre, de grandeur de quatre doigts ou enuiron, auecques inciſion de veines, arteres, nerfs & ten- dons, & portion des os. au moyen dequoy, ledit tel demeurera apres la guariſon, mehaigne de la main, & a beſoin de tenir bon regime, garder la chambre, & eſtre bien & deuëment pensé & medicamenté : & diſons qu'il n'eſt hors du danger de la mort. et tout ce certifions eſtre vray, teſmoints nos ſeings manuels cy mis le iour; &c. autre rapport d'vn corps mort , faict en la preſence de meſieurs ie lieutenant criminel, & procureur du roy, au chaſtelet de paris, & du commiſſaire bazin. rapportez par nous ſoubs-ſignez,que ce iourd'huy en la preſence de meſſieurs le lieutenant criminel & procureur du royau chaſtelet de paris, nous auons veu & viſitè le corps mort de noble homme, &c. ſur lequel auons trouué vne playe faicte d'eſtoc, pres la mammelle ſeneſtre, longue & large de deux doigts ou enuiron, tranuerſant le corps de part en part, paſſant tout au trauers du cœur plus vne grande playe faitie d'eſtoc ſur la iointure de l'eſpaule du bras ſeneſtre, longue de quatre doigts ou enuiron, large de trois» profonde iuſques à ladite jointure, auec inciſion des nerfs & ligamens , veines & arteres dudit lieu. plus vne grande playe faicte auſſi d'eſtoc ſous l'aiſſelle ſeneſtre, longue & large de quatre doigts ou enuiron, pro- fonde iuſques au dedans & creux de ladite aiſſelle, auec inciſion des veines, arteres, & nerfs. plus deuxau- tres playes faictes auſſi d'eſtoc ſituées en la poictrine, vn peu plus bas que la mammelle ſeneſtre , longues & larges d'vn poulce ou enuiron, & profondes iuſques en la capacité du thorax. plus vne autre grande playe faite d'eſtoc , fituée prés la mammelle dextre, longue & large de quatre à cinq doigts, profonde ſeule- ment iuſques aux coſtes. plus vne autre petite playe pres ladite mammelle dextre , penettrant auſſi ſur les coſtes. plus vne autre playe faite de taille ſur le coulde dextre, grande de trois doigts ou enuiron, & large c des rapports. # ' ， : - -- large de deux » profonde iuſqu'aux nerfs & ligamens de la iointure dudit coulde plus vne autre playe fai- čte pareillement d'eſtoc au flanc dextre, longue & large d'vn poulce ou enuiron, & peu profonde. plus vne autre playe faite auſſi d'eſtoc à la main dextre, ou doigt nommé medicus, auec inciſion totale de l'os de la premiere iointure, penetrant le metacarpe. pour raiſon de toutes leſquelles playes , certifions mort ſubite luy eſtre aduenuë. fait ſous nos ſeings manuels, le dimanche . aouſt .ambroiſe paré, iean cointeret,& iean charbonnel. c h a p t r e i i. ! rapport à é#$ſ m，z a moüelle de l'eſpine du dos eſtant comme vn ruiſſeau coulant du cerueau, eſt faite pour d'vn coup or- # la diſtribution des nerfs qui doiuent donner ſentiment & mouuement à toutes les parties be qui aura $# ſ ſituées au deſſous de la teſte : & lors que ladite moüelle eſt bleſſée, ſuruiennent pluſieurs répu & - #s & pernicieux accidens , & ſelon iceux le chirurgien fera ſon rapport. a ſçauoir,ſi les bras # # $ & mains du malade ſont ſtupides , & paralytiques, ſans pouuoir remuer, & auſſi qu'en les # º ºns & picquant ou ſerrant le malade ne ſente rien, c'eſt ſigne que les nerfs qui ſortent de la . . . # en las vertebre du col ſp t offenſez semblablement quand tels accidens ſe trouuent aux cuiſſes, jambes, & aux mºue de pieds, auec refroidiſſement, & que le malade laiſſe ſortir ſes excremens inuolontairement ſans les ſentir, ou l'eſpine. qu'ils ſoient retenus du tout : cela monſtre, que les nerfs qui ſortent des vertebres, des lumbes, & os ſacrum, ſont offenſez, & que tous ces accidens prouiennent à cauſe que la faculté animale ne peut relui- re par les nerfs, dont s'enſuit reſolution , & par conſequent difficulté de ſentir & mouuoir aux parties, où ils ſont diſtribuez : qui fait que le muſcle de la veſſie & ſiege ne font plus leur action naturelle, qui eſt d'ou- urir & fºrmer. et fi tels ſignes apparoiſſent , fais ton rapport que bien toſt ton malade mourra, & principa- hippº* prº lement s'il a difficulté de reſpirer. rapport d'vnefemme groſſe ayant eſté bleſſée au ventre. ie, tel par le commandement de monſieur le grand preuoſt de l'hoſtel, me ſuis tranſporté en la ruë sainct honoré, en la maiſon de monſieur m. où i'ay trouué vne damoiſelle nommée marguerite, giſante au lict, ayant vne grande fiévre , conuulſion, & flux de ſang par ſa nature : à raiſon d'vne playe qu'elle a receuë au ventre inferieur, ſituée trois doigts au deſſous du nombril , partie dextre : laquelle penetre en la capa- cite d'iceluy , ayant bleſſé & percé ſa matrice , au moyen dequoy eſt accouchee deuant ſon terme prefix, d'vn enfant maſle , mort, bien formé de tous ſes membres , lequel enfanta auſſi receu le coup à la teſte, penetrant iuſques à la propre ſubſtance du cerueau. et pour ce ladicte damoiſelle en bref mourra , ce que tout certifie eſtre vray, teſmoing mon ſeing manuel cy mis , &c. i'ay bien voulu nettre ce rapport , à fin d'inſtruire le ieune chirurgien à faire rapport à meſſieurs de la iuſtice en tel cas, ſi l'enfant eſt formé de tous ſes membres, ou non, à fin qu'ils donnent tel iugement qu'ils verront eſtre neceſſaire : pour ce que la punition doit eſtre plus grande ayant fait auorter vne femme, l'enfant eſtant bien formé, à raiſon que l'ame y eſt infuſe, que s'il n'eſtoit encore accomply de tous ſes membres : car lors l'ame n'eſt encore entrée au corps. ce que i'ay monſtré cy deuant parlant de l'ame, de l'opinion de moyſe & de s auguſtin, diſant exode , . que ſi quelqu'vn frappe ou pouſſe vne femme enceinte, & qu'elle en auorte, ſi l'enfant eſt ja formé, qu'il s.au so, en perde la vie, mais s'il n'eſt encore formé, qu'il ſoit condamné à amende pecuniaire. © - exemple d'vn rapport d'vn enfant eſtouffé. il y a grande apparence que le petit enfant mort aura eſté eſtouffé par ſa nourrice , qui ſera endormie ſur luy en l'allaictant,ou autrement par malice:ſi le dit enfant ſe portoit bien,& ne ſe plaignoit de rien au pre- cedent , s'il a la bouche & nez pleins d'eſcume:s'il a le reſte de la face non palle & blaffarde,mais violette,& comme de couleur de pourpre : ſi ouuert, eſt trouué auoir les poulmons pleins comme d'air eſcumeux. exemple d'vn rapport d'vn corps mort par tonnerre & fouldre. il peut eſcheoir qu'on ſoit en doute ſi vn corps trouué mort par la campagne, ou ſeul en vne maiſon, eſt mort de fouldre ou autrement. parquoy eſtant appelle par iuſtice pour en faire rapport;conclurras par ces ſignes qu'il eſt mort de fouldre. c'eſt que tout corps frappé & mort de fouldre ſent vne odeur faſcheuſe & ſulphurée, qui fait que les oiſeaux & chiens n'en oſent approcher, encore moins gouſter, la partie frap- pée de fouldre fouuent demeure entiere ſans apparence de playe, & neantmoins les os ſe trouuent commi- nuez & briſez dedans : que s'il aduient qu'il y ayt playe apparente, ſubit qu'on la touchera , on la ſentira ſans comparaiſon plus froide que le reſte du corps, comme dit pline : pource que ſubit la ſubſtance ſpiri-liu. .ch. , tueuſe touchée, eſt diſſipée par le vent tres-ſubtil & violent, que la fouldre chaſſe & pouſſe touſiours deuant ſoy : auſſi la fouldre laiſſe toufiours certaine marque de bruſleure, pource que nulle foudre n'eſt ſans feu, ſoit en bruſlant ou en noirciſſant. or comme ainſi ſoit que tous animaux frappez de fouldre tombent de l' autre coſté , le ſeul homme ne meurt point du coup,s'il ne tombe ſur la partie frappée de fouldre ou s'il n'eſt tourné par force du coſté dont la fouldre vient. l'homme qui en veillant eſt frappée de fouldre, de- meure les yeux fermez : au contraire ils luy demeurent ouuerts s'il eſt foudroyé en dormant , comme dit pline. philippe de comines a laiſſé par eſcrit, que les corps frappez de fouldre ne ſont point ſubiects à corruption comme les autres : & que partant les anciens n'auoyent de couſtume les bruſler ny enterrer. car ainfi que le ſel garde de corruption les corps qui ſont ſalez : ainſi le ſoulphre que la fouldre charge & porte quand & ſoy entretient long-temps les corps en leur eſtre ſans pourriture, pour la chaleur ignée & ſeichereſſe toute contraire à la pourriture. pline au liu. meſme. v, pour faire rapport infaillible. qu'vn corps ſoit mort de peſte, c'eſt qu'on trouue vne grande molleſſe en tout le corps, à cauſe d'vne putrefaction indicible,laquelle durât la vie rendoit le corps fort laſche& mollaſſe,& apres la mort elle s'aug- mente encore dauantage, comme eſtant venuë à ſa perfection.auſſi tels corps ſe rendent pourris & puants ſubitement. d'auantage, à pluſieurs apres la mort apparoiſſent bubons , jcharbons, & pourpre,qui eſtoient cachez dedans le corps:à raiſon que la chaleur putredineuſe,qui s'engédre par la pourriture, pouſſe & † t t t qis le vingt-huictiéme liure, - hors de la peau les excremens,deſquels ſont faits les bubons,charbons, & pourpres. plus on void la couleur a du nez,des oreilles, & des ongles, plus noire , & meſmement tout le corps, qu'elle n'a accouſtumé d'eſtre aux morts d'autres maladies. semblablement le viſage eſt fort hideux à regarder , & à bien grande peine le peut-on reconnoiſtre, & qu'en peu de temps le corps ſe corrompt & pourriſt, accompagné d'vne puan- teur cadauereuſe, & principalement en temps chaud. si telles choſes ſe monſtrent, fais ton rapport que le mala de eſt mort de peſte. · autre rapport d'vn trouué mort & bleſſé, ou noyé, ou pendu , apresſa mort. semblablement le chirurgien peut eſtre appellé pour faire rapport d'vn corps mort , ayant des playes , penetrantes dans le corps, & autres non, pour ſçauoir s'il les à receues eitant vif ou apres la mort. donc ſi les playes luy ont eſté faites pendant qu'il viuoit, elles ſeront trouuees rouges, & ſanguinolentes,& les lévres d'icelles tumufiées & plombines. au contraire, ſi on les luy a données apres la mort , elles neſe- ront rouges, ſanglantes, ny tumefiées , ny liuides. parce que les corps eſtant mort, nature ceſſe toutes ſes œuures , & n'enuoye plus de ſang ny eſprits aux lieux vulnerez : & partant le chirurgien fera ſon rapport, que les playes auront eſté données pendant la vie , ou apres la mort ſelon les ſignes qu'il trouuera. pa- si vn a eſté reillement fi le chirurgien eſt appellé pour faire rapport d'vn corps mort pendu, ſçauoir s'il a eſté pendu pendu vifou vif ou mort s il a eſté pendu vif, le veſtige du cordeau à la circonferenee du col ſera trouué rouge, liui- f/ . /f. de & noiraſtre, & le cuir d'autour amoncelé replié & ridé , pour la compreſſion qu'aura faict la corde : & quelquesfois le chef de la trachée artere rompu & laceré, & la ſeconde vertebre du col hors de ſa place. semblablement les bras & jambes ſeront trouuées liuides & toute la face : à raiſon que tous les eſprits tout à coup ont eſté ſuffoquées : auſſi pareillement l ſera trouué de la baue en la bouche, & de la morue yſſant du nez, la enuoyée tant par expreſſion du poulmon eſchauffé & ſuffoqué, que par la commotion conuulfi- ue du cerueau , de meſme qu'en l'epilepſie. au contraire , ſi le perſonnage a eſté pendu eſtant mort , on ne trouuera les choſes telles, car le veſtige du cordeau ne ſera rouge ne liuide, mais de couleur des autres par- si vn a eſté ties du corps, à cauſe qu'apres la mort, la chaleur ny eſprit, ne ſang ne courent plus aux autres parties bleſ- #u sées , pareillement la teſte & le thorax ſont trouuez pleins de ſang. dauantage, ſi le chirurgien eſt appellé vifou mort. pour faire rapport d'vn corps mort tiré hors de l'eau , pour ſçauoir s'il a eſté noyé vif ou jetté en l'eau mort. les ſignes qu'il aura eſté jetté vif, ſont qu'on trouuera l'eſtomach , & le ventre remplis d'eau,& ſort dunez quelque excrement morueux , & par la bouche eſcumeux & baueux , & le plus ſouuent ſaignera du nez. d'abondant il aura l'extremité des doigts & front eſcorchez , à raiſon qu'en mourant il gratte le ſable au fonds de l'eau , penſant prendre quelque choſe pour ſe ſauuer , & qu'il meurt comme en furie & rage. au contraire, s'il a eſté jetté en l'eau mort,il n'aura aucune tumeur en l'eſtomach ny au ventre, parce que tous les conduits ſont affaiſſez & eſtoupez, & qu'il n'inſpire plus, & auſſi n'aura morue au nez, ny baue en la bou- che,ny veſtiges aux doigts ny au front. parquoy,ſelon ces ſignes, le chirurgien pourra faire rapport fidelle- ment des corps morts trouuez en l'eau , s'ils ont eſté jettez morts ou viuans et quand aux corps morts qui s'eſleuent ſur l'eau , c'eſt adonc qu'ils ſont ja cadauereux & remplis d'air qui les fait eſleuer ſur l'eau comme vne veſſie remplie de vent. or quant à faire rapport fi vne perſonne eſt morte de venin ou non,on le pourta faire par les ſignes cy deſſus eſcrits au liure des venins. exemple du rapport de ceux qui auront eſté en danger d'eſtre eitouffezpar la - vapeur & fumée de feu de charbon. hiſtoire de le o. de mars .ie fus appellé auec monſieur greaulme, docteur regent en la faculté de medecine, deux ſerui- en la maiſon de monſieur du hamel , aduocat en la cour de parlement à paris pour viſiter & faire rapport teurs qui de deux ſiens ſeruiteurs , l'vn clerc, & l'autre palefrenier, leſquels on eſtimoit eſtre morts, parce que ou- euiderent tre ce qu'il n'y auoit aucune apparence de poulx en eux , ils auoient vne froideur vniuerſelle de tout le º * corps, ſans parler, & ſans mouuoir aucunement : ayans au reſte la face teinte de couleur plombine; de # # fait que lors que ie les pinçois, ou tirois le poil rudement, ils n'en ſentoient rien , tellement que tous les aſſi- "" ſtans les eſtimoient eſtre morts. mais la diſpute eſtoit ſur la façon de mort : car ledit du hamel diſoit iceux auoir eſté eſtouffez, autres penſoient qu'il ſe fuſſent meurdris l'vn l'autre : autres philoſophoient iceux auoir eſté ſurprins d'apoplexie. ie demanday s'ils auoient point faict du feu de charbon : à quoy vn chacun me reſpondant n'en ſçauoir rien ;ledit du hamel preſte l'oreille à ce prepos, & s'auança luy meſ- me de chercher en leur eſtude ( qui eſtoit fort petite & bien cloſe) où il trouua ſous la table vne grande remedescon- terrine,où il y auoit encore grande quantité de charbon, non du tout bruſlé. quoy veu, fut de tous conclu trarians aux & arreſté que la cauſe de tel deſaſtre ne prouenoit d'ailleurs, que de la fumée maligne du charbon ardent, accidens qui qui les auoit ainſi aſſoupis & eſtouffez. parquoy leur ayant posé la main ſur la region du cœur, & tant par proºiennent la chaleur qui y reſtoit encore aſſez manifeſte, que par le petit battement qui s'y apperceuoit, ayant conneu ººººººur iceux eſtre encore en vie,fut aduisé de les ſecourir promptement. pour à quoy paruenir, on leur fit par arti- º,º" fice ouurir la bouche ( qu'ils tenoit fort cloſe,& les dents ſerrées) en laquelle, tant auec vne cuillier qu'auec d ardent. vne ſyringue, on jetta de l'eau de vie rectifiée, en laquelle on auoit fait diſſouldre de la hiere & theriaque, pour la leur faire aualler : lors ils commencerent à ſe mouuoir, & jetter certains excremens pituiteux,tant par la bouche , que par le nez , puis commencerent à raller , comme l'on oit choux boüillans dans vn pot. adonc on leur fit aualler des medicamens vomitoires,& bonne quantité d'oxymel, leur battant de la main & genoüil aſſez rudement ſur le dos, vers la derniere vertebre d'iceluy & premiere des lombes, auquel lieu reſ- pond l'orifice du ventricule,ſe retournant en la partie poſterieure : à fin que tant par la vertu de ces vomi- toires, que par la conuulſion de l'eſtomach , ils fuſſentcontraints à rendre gorge, ce qui aduint, & jetterent du phlegme viſqueux & de couleur jaune, auec ſang ſpumeux. pareillement leur fut jetté auec vn tuyau de huyle de plume d'oye dedans le nez,de la poudre d'euphorbe, à fin de ſtimuler la vertu expulſiue du cerueau à ſe deſ- menthe tirée charger,& par ce moyen toſt apres eſternuerent, & ietterent grande quantité de morue par le nez : à quoy par eſſence ils furent encore dauantage eſmeus par l'huyle de menthe, tirée par quinte-eſſence , leur en eſtant frotté le ſingulieré en palais,voire iuſqu'a la gorge & goſier d'vne plume,de laquelle l'ampam auoit eſté graiſſé de quelques gout- **eident tes de ladite huyle. au reſte leur fut pourueu par frictions faites au bras,cuiſſes, & jambes, le long de l'eſ- pine du dos.auſſi par clyſteres acres & forts, par le moyen deſquels ſe deſchargea leur ventre copieuſement, & lors cómencerent à parler,& reuenir à ſoy,& à boire & manger& retourner à leur naturel peu à peu : en l'execution de toutes leſquelles choſes fuſmes merueilleuſement bien aidez par iacques guillemeau chirur- gien juré à paris,& maiſtre iean de s. germain maiſtre apothicaire à paris, nomme de bien & ſecourable des malades. sur l'apres-diſnée furent appellez monſieur thibaut,& monſieur hautin,docteurs regens en ", la des rapports . j -" • * "- À la faculté de medecine (hommes doctes tant enla medecine qu'en la chirurgie ) pour conſulter auec nous de ce qui reſtoit à faire : leſquels ayans de poinct en poinct approuué tout ce que nous auions fait, furent *aduis auec nous de leur pouruoir quant au reſte, par cardiaques reſtauratifs & confortatifs d'eſprits, pour uruenir aux parties tant vitales qu'animales manifeſtement offensées. le reſte de la conſultation-fut cou- ommé ſur la recherche de la cauſe d'vn tel effect : car que les hommes puiſſent eſtouffer de la fumée du hiſtoire de charbon allumé, ce n'eſt choſe fort nouuelle, alleguans auoir leu dans fulgoſe,liure ». chap. . volaterran au 'empereur liure . dans egnatius, que iouinian empereur ſe haſtant pour aller à rome, en temps d'hyuer, ſe ſentant las ioºººn- & trauaillé du chemin, s'arreſta pour loger en vne petite bourgade , nonmée dadaſtanes , qui eſt entre gala- ,tie & bithynie , où il coucha en vne chambre nouuellement baſtie & enduite de chaux, ou l'on auoit fait bruſler force charbon pour ſeicher ladite chambre, fut ſur la minuict eſtouffé de la vapeur dudit charbon, le huictieſme mois de ſon empire,qui eſtoit le trentiéme de ſon âge,& le o.iour d'aouſt. mais icy ne nous faut tant ſoucier de la preuue des anciens, attendu que de recente memoire en la maiſon de iean de begine, mai- ſtre orfevre à paris, demeurant ſous la tournée du pont au change, moururent trois de ſes ſeruiteurs, pour - auoir fait du feu de charbon en vne petite chambre où il n'y auoit point de cheminée : & qui en voudroit faire recherche,on trouueroit grand nombre de telles hiſtoires. quant aux cauſes, celles-cy furent miſes en hiſtoire ſem- auant : aucuns eſtimerent tel accident ſe faire ſeulement par la vapeur du charbon allumé,laquelle encloſe bi§ §- en vn lieu non ventilé , donne à celuy qui la reçoit tels ou preſque ſemblables accidens, comme fait la nueà paris. vapeur du vin nouueau, ſçauoir douleur de teſte & vertiginoſitez. car ces deux vapeurs ont puiſſance de les remedes b bien toſt remplir l'origine des nerfs, & faire grandes conuulſions , parce qu'elles ſont chaudes, & de ſub-cºrarianº à ftance eſpaiſſe. et partant hippocrate parlant des accidens qui prouiennent de la vapeur du vin , a hardi- # accidens ment prononcé ces mots. si ebrus quiſpiam de repentè obmutuerit, conuulſus mortur, niſijebre corripiatur, aut mſi #. # vocem recuperit tunc cùm crapule ſoluuntur. si quelqu'vn ayant fort beu,iuſques à s'eſtre enyure, perd la parole c à coup, & ſoudainement : ſi la fievre ne luy ſuruient, ou s'il ne recouure la parole à l'heure qu'il peut & doit charbon. auoir cuué, dormy & digeré ſon vin , il meurt par conuulſion.autant en peut on dire de la vapeur du char- bon occupant le cerueau de ces deux malades, leſquels ſoudainement faits muets, immobiles & inſenſibles comme yurongnes,fuſſent morts, ſi par remedes chauds mis en ſyringues par la bouche, & le nez, on n'euſt . " attenuél'eſpaiſſeur de la vapeur, & excité la faculté expultrice pour jetter hors ce qui luy nuiſoit. et com- bien qu'il ſemble de prime-face, que par l'inſpiration de la vapeur maligne le poulmon fut bleſsé plus que toutes autres parties , toutesfois le plus grand mal qui en aduint aux poulmons en ce cas-cy , venoit principalement pour la connexion & mutuelle amitie & accord qu'il a auec le cerueau, lequel eſtoit grande- ment offensé : car ces deux malades tout ſubit furent faicts muets,priuez de ſens & de mouuement,choſe qui aduient au malade, quand la premiere origine des nerfs eſt occupée de quelque matiere eſtrange que ce - ſoit , & non pas quand les poulmons ſont offenſez. et tout ainſi que les apoplectiques ne meurent ſinon que pourquoy par faute de reſpirer, combien que le poulmon en ſoy ne ſoit offensé : ainſi de cette maladie ces deux mala-§ le des fuſſent morts faute de reſpirer,non pour vice du poulmon, mais pour le cerueau & nerfs bleſſez, qui don- §- nent à tout le corps mouuement & ſentiment, & principalement aux inſtrumens de la reſpiration. les autres ques, eſtimoient que telle choſe pouuoit aduenir, non du vice du cerueau,mais par defaut de l'eſprit vital, lequel n'eſtant plus porté du cœur au cerueau, à cauſe des conduits du poulmon bouſchez, ne pouuoit plus fournir de matiere à l'eſprit animal. parquoy, diſoient-ils, ces ieunes hommes mouroient ſuffoquez par faute de re- ſpiration , ſans laquelle vie eſt nulle : car outre ce qu'en tel cas le cœur ne ſe pouuoit deſcharger des excre- mens fuligineux, le poulmon reſtant bouſché de cette craſſe & eſpaiſſe fumée de charbon, l'inſpiraion ne ſe faiſoit bonnement, de tant qu'elle ſe fait d'air ambient : qui pour faire ce qui eſt requis, ſçauoir eſt temperer l'ardeurdu cœur, doit auoir quatre conditions : la premiere, qu'il ſoit attiré en competente quantité : la ſe- conde, qu'il ſoit frais de qualité : la tierce, qu'il ſoit de conſiſtance tenue & ſubtile : la quarte, qu'il ſoit de ſubſtance douce & benigne. or toutes ces quatre conditions defailloient pour lors à l'air,qui eſtoit attiré par ces deux ieunes hommes : car premierement il n'eſtoit en quantité competente, de tant qu'en cette petite eſtudesſi peu qu'il y en auoit, eſtoit deuoré par le feu de charbon allumé, comme celuy d'vne ventouſe par la chandelle flamboyante : ſecondement il n'eſtoit frais de ſa qualité,ains eſchauffé, & comme ignifié par l'ar- deur du feu allumé : tiercement,iln'eſtoit de conſiſtance tenuê ains craſſe & eſpaiſſe, eſpaiſſi par le meſlange & permixtion des vapeurs groſſieres du charbon.car telle eſt la nature de l'air & de tous autres corps tenus de leur nature d'eſtre aisément alterez , & receuoir promptement la forme de tous corps qui les abordent. quartement,il n'eſtoit de ſubſtance douce & benigne : ains maligne,à cauſe que le charbon eſt fait de bois allumé en vne foſſe en terre, & eſtouffé, eſtant eſteint en ſa fumée meſme, comme entendent ceux qui ont hanté les charbonnieres. or toutesfois pour conclurre quelque choſe ſur ces opinions qui ſemblent aucu- nemét differentes,tous deux auoient raiſons pertinentes de ſe maintenir en leur aduis. car pour le moins il eſt tout euident que les conduits qui ſont communs des parties pectorales au cerueau, éftoient bouſchez de la craſſitie & eſpaiſſeur de telle vapeur charbonniere, dont aduenoit que les vnes & les autres parties eſtoient mal-affectées : comme ainſi ſoit que telles parties, ny autres quelconques de noſtre corps , ne puiſſent de- d meurer en leur integrité ſans l'aide de l'autre,pour la grande colligeance & intelligence qu'à tout le corps en ſºy,& en ſes parties parquoy les arteres carotides & ventricules du cerueau & bronchie du poulmon eſtant ainſi eſtoupées, l'entrée au cerueau eſtoit déniée à l'eſprit vital, & l'iſſuë à l'eſprit animal, dont s'enſuiuit le defaut de toutes les facultez neceſſaires à la vie. rapport des filles, ſi elles ſont vierges / / / . or quand à faire rapport ſi vne fille eſt pucelle ou non, cela eſt fort difficile , toutesfois les matrones tiennent pour choſe aſſeurée , qu'elles le peuuent connoiſtre , parce qu'elles diſent trou- uer vne ruption d'vne taye, qui ſe rompt au premier combat venerique. mais i'ay icy deuant mon- #n ſtré au liure de la generation chapitre e. que de vingt mille femmes on ne trouue cette taye, par- # - - - - - - » - a tant nos matrones ne doiuent eſtre crues pour leur imperitie : la preuue giſt en l'experience , & à fr n t ty/ la grandeur ou anguſtie du col de la matrice , mais elles y peuuent eſtre bien deceuës & trom- en auoir, &r pées. car ſelon la grandeur du corps, & de l'aage de la fille, l'ouuerture ſera plus grande ou plus ſi.il.y.ſi petite : parce qu'vne grande fille doit auoir ſon ouuerture plus grande qu'vne petite car toutes les elle eſt con- parties de noſtre corps ſe doiuent rapporter les vnes aux autres : vne aagée de quinze ans l'aura plus tre nature. grande que celle douze ioubert eſcrit qu'à la ville de lectoure en gaſcogne , vne fille enfanta à neuf ans, & eſt encore viuante , nommée ieanne du perie , qui fut mariée à videau beché , en ſon viuant receueur des amendes pour le roy de nauarre audit lieu , qui eſt argument qu'aucunes filles , ſont plus aſpres à auoir la compagnie de l'homme à neuf ans, qu'autres à quinze , à raiſon qu'elles ont leur - t t t ollllcit !)t le ving-huictiéme liure, aphor. . liu. . liu. . hi. ſtoire des animaux. chap. o. liu "i .. de ſubtilttate. hiſtoire. toute na- tion a eſté ſoigneuſe de la ſepulture des morts. les ethio- piensfatſotèt leurs ſepultu- ouuerture plus ample. auſſi celle qui aura mis quelquesfois ſon doigt bien profondement au col de ſa a matrice pour quelque prurit qu'elle y auroit, ou y auroit mis quelque peſſaire ou nodulus, à cauſe de la retention de ſes mois, ou autre diſpoſition , & que par ce moyen ſon ouuerture luy fut trouuée plus grande, ſeroit-elle pour cela moins pucelle ; nenny : parce qu'il n'y aura difference entre y auoir mis vn peſſaire, ou le doigts ou autre choſe de la groſſeur dela verge virile, qui puiſſe remarquer ces differee- ces : parquoy il me ſemble qu'on ne peut à la verité , iuger du pucelage d'vne fille. d'auantage, les matrones ny chirugiens ne peuuent iuger vne fille n'eſtre pucelle, à laquelle oa trouuera auoir du laict aux mammélles : car hippocrates dit qu'vne femelle ſans eſtre groſſe, ou auoir enfanté, peut auoir du laict, ſi ſa purgation naturelle eſt empeſchée. sur le commentaire de cét aphoriſme galien dit pour- ce que les glandules des mammelles eſtans exangues , conuertiſſent le ſang menſtruel quiyregorge » en humeur ſemblable à elles en couleur par leur vertu lactifiante. semblablement ariſtote dit, que l'on void à quelques hommes du laict aux mammelles qu'on peut ſuccer & eſpandre. cardan dit auoir veu à veniſe vn nommé anthoine buſſe, aagé de trente ans, lequel auoit du laict en ſes mammelles aſſez ſuffiſamment pour nourrir vn enfant, & ne couloit pas ſeulement, mais le faiſoit rayer, ainſi que fait vne nourrice de ſes mam- melles. ces choſes conſiderées, il me ſemble qu'on ne peut veritablement iuger du pucelage d'vne fille : par tant les magiſtrats y doiuent bien aduiſer,& plus encores les medecins & chirurgiens à ce deputez,dont s'il y a faute,le tout en eſt plus ſur eux qui en ont mal rapporté, qu'aux iuges qui en donnent ſentence. rapport de l'impuiſſance tant de l'homme que de la femme. souuent il ſe fait des procez pour ſeparer les mariages, parce que la femmetient que ſon mary eſt im- puiſſant, ne faiſant pas la beſongne de la maiſon : l'homme dit qu'il ne tient à luy, & que ſa femme n'eſt pas aſſez percée, en ſorte qu'il ne peut entrer au cabinet priué, & partant le defaut ne procede pas deſon b impuiſſance. § deſſus les iuges ordonnent viſitation eſtre faite tant de l'vne que de l'autre des parties, par medecins, chirurgiens,matrones,preſtres de l'officialité.apres auoir veu & diligemment viſité leurs parties dediées à generation,& ſi on leur trouue defectuoſité en leurs dimenſions : à ſçauoir , en largeur , longueur, groſſeur: profondité, & ſituation : & on trouue leſdites parties en leur integrité, le rapport en ſera faict à meſſieurs de la iuſtice,leſquels pour eſtre mieux aſſeurez,ordonnent derechef que leſdits mariez coucheront enſemble en la preſence deſdits medecins,& autres cy-deſſus nommez,pour ſçauoir s'ils pourront accomplir le jeu de venus.or il me ſemble que telle eſpreuue n'eſt bien aſſeurée,& que ledit jeune ſe peut pas accomplir en la preſence de tant de gens que l'on craint, & auec vne femme qnel'on n'aime point. ioint que telle action ne depend ny de noſtre eſprit,ny de noſtre corps,ny de noſtre volonté : de ſorte que les parties deſtinées à telle action, n'obeiſſent à noſtre volonté comme les autres membres. car quelque aſſeurance que tout homme ſe puiſſe promettre,ſi confeſſera-il qu'il n'eſt en ſa puiſſance de ſe faire paroiſtre capable du mariage en la pre- ſence de tant de compagnie,&,comme i'ay dit auecvne femme que l'on n'ayme point, pour le different qu'ils ont enſemble : veu pareillement que telles actions requierent d'elles-meſmes vne aſſeurance & vn ſecret, & vne amitié entre l'homme & la femme. parquoy cela depend de la conſcience de la femme pluſtoſt que de la probation du congrez, pour les raiſons alleguées. exemple d'vn rapport d'vn lepreux confirmé. nous chirurgiens jurez à paris, par l'ordonnance de monſieur le procureur du roy,de chaſtelet,donnée me . iour d'aouſt mil cinq cens quatre vingt & trois, par laquelle auons eſté nommez pour faire rapport, c ſçauoir ſi g. p. eſt lepreux. partant l'auons examiné comme s'enſuit. premierement auons trouué la couleur de ſon viſage couperoſée, blafarde & liuide, & pleine de ſaphir : auſſi auons tiré, & arraché de ſes cheueux, & du poil de ſa barbe & ſourcils, & auons veu qu'à la racine du poil eſtoit attaché, quelque petite portion de chair. es ſourcils, & derriere les oreilles, auons trouué des petits tubercules glanduleux, le front ridé; ſon regard fixe & immobile, ſes yeux rouges,& eſtincellans, les narines larges par dehors, eſtroictes par de- dans, quaſi bouſchées auec petites vlceres crouſteuſes, la langue enfiée & noire au deſſus & au deſſous auons trouué petits grains, comme on void aux pourceaux ladres, les genciues corrodées, & les dents deſ- charnees, & ſon haleine fort puante, ayant la voix enroüée, parlant du nez. auſſi l'auons veu nud, & auons trouué tout ſon cuir creſpy & inegal, comme celuy d'vne oye maigre plumée & en certains lieux pluſieurs dartres. d'auantage, nous l'auons piqué aſſez profondément d'vne aiguille au tendon du talon, ſans l'auoir à peine ſenty. par ces ſignes tant vniuoques qu'equiuoques, diſons que ledit g. p. eſt la- dre confirmé. parquoy ſera bon qu'il ſoit ſeparé de la compagnie des ſains, d'autant que ce mal eſt conta- gieux. le tout certifions eſtre vray , teſmoings nos ſeins manuels cy mis le ſixieſme may mil cinq cens-qua- tre-vingts & trois. n e aubre rapport d'vn ſoupgonné eſtre lepreux. | nous ſoubs-ſignez chirurgiens iurez à paris, par le commandement de nos seigneurs de la cour de d parlement, certifions auoir veu & viſité diligemment, par toutes les patties du corps, maiſtre iacques , &c. pour faire rapport ſur la diſpoſition & ſanté de ſon corps : ſçauoir principalement s'il y a en luy aucun ſoup- çon , ſigne tant vniuoque qu'equiuoque, de la maladie appellée vulgairement ladrerie, lequel auons trou- ué en couleur de tout le corps, groſſeur, charactere, & actions , pur & net de ladite maladie. fait ſous nos ſeings le vingt-quatrieſme aouſt mil cinq cens octante trois. de la façon d'embaumer les corps morts. 'a , bien voulu adiouſter à cét oeuure ce petit enſeignement d'embaumer les corps morts,pour le ieune chirurgien à fin qu'il fuſt accomply de tout ce qui eſt à faire enuiron le corps humain, tant vif que mort.car bien à peine s'eſt-il trouué nation, tant barbare fuſt-elle qui n'ait eu ſoing d'embaumer les corps morts, non pas meſme les scythes, qui ſemblent en barbarie auoir ſurpaſſé le reſte des hommes. car iceux, comme raconte herodote liure quatrieſme de ſon hiſtoire, n'en- terrent point le corps de leur roy, que premierement ils ne l'ayent mis en cire, apres auoir curé le ventre & nettoyé, puis remply de cyprés concaſſé, d'encens, & de graine de perſil, & d'anis, & en apres recouſu. de cette meſme choſe les ethiopiens ſe ſont monſtrez curieux, faiſant leurs ſepultures de verre, en cette ſorte : apres qu'il auoient vuidé & deſcharné les corps de leurs amis ºts de verre.defuncts : ils les accouſtroicnt & liſſoient de plaſtre, ſur lequel ils iettoient apres vne peinture qui approchoit des rapports. · a approºhºº levif tant qu'il leur eſtoit poſſible. et ce faict, ils enfermoient le corps ainſi peint & plaſtré dans vne colomne de verre creux, le corps ainſi enchaſsé, paroiſſoit au trauers le verre, ſans rendre mauuaiſe odeur , ſans deſagréer aucunement , encores qu'on n'y conneuſt qu'vne peinture morte. les plus proches parens les gardoient chez eux-l'eſpace d'vn an , en luy faiſant offrandes & ſacrifices, & au bout de l'an le tranſportoient & alloient planter és enuirons de la ville, comme eſcrit herodote liure troiſieſme. mais ce † & curioſité eſt entré plus auant dans le cœur des egyptiens, que d'aucune autre nation. dont ils ont merité grande loüange s'eſtans monſtrez tant affe- ctionnez à la memoire de leurs peres, que pour la conſeruation d'icelle , ils eſtoient couſtumiers d'embaumer les corps entiers d'iceux en vaiſſeaux de verre, diaphanes & tranſparans, & les mettre en lieu le plus § & eminent de leurs maiſons, pour en auoir la memoire touſiours repreſentée deuant les yeux : & leur ſerui d'aiguillon & ſtimule § , pour enſuiure & imiter les bonnes parties & vertus d'iceux, à fin de ne degenerer, & forligner de leurs naturels & bonne inclination. et d'auantage, ſeruoient iceux corps ainſi embaumez, de † gages & aſſeurance de leur foy, ſi bien que s'il eſtoit aduenu , qu'aucun egyptien euſt affaire de quelque groſſe ſomme d'argent, il ne failloit point de la trouuer à emprunter vers ſes voiſins ſur le gage d'vn corps de l'vn de ſes ayeulx : ſe tenans tous aſſeurez les crediteurs,que moyennant tel gage le debiteur manqueroit pluſtoſt de vie que de foy, tant ils auoient à cœur de tirer tel gage. et ſi la fortune faiſoit, & le mal heur fuſt ſi grand, b qu'aucun s'oubliaſt de tant en ſes neceſſitez, que de ne vouloir, ou ſçauoir trouuer moyen de retirer ſon gage, il tomboit en tel deshonneur & infamie, qu'il n'euſt pas eſté bon à manger aux chiens , & ne ſe fuſt oſé monſtrer en public : car on luy faiſoit la huée, comme l'on faict à vn loup , ou chien enragé & de liberté tomboit en ignomineuſe ſetuitude, comme ayant deſaduoüé & renoncé ſa race & origine. ce qui eſt teſmoigné par claude paradin en la preface du liure qu'il a faict des alliances ge- nealogiques des roys & prince de gaule. d'auantage comme eſcrit herodote, iceux egyptiens rcco- gnoiſſans cette vie eſtre de peu de durée, au regard de celle que nous auons à viure apres la ſeparation du corps d'auec l'ame, eſtoient fort negligens à baſtir maiſons pour eux loger , mais au reſte † fiques à edifier pyramides, deſquelles ils ſe vouloient ſeruir pour leurs ſepulchres, que pour le baſtiment d'vne qui fut entrepriſe par chéopes l'vn de leurs roys, trauailloient cent mil hommes l'eſpace de chacun trois mois par le temps de vingt ans : laquelle auoit de profondeur cinq ſtades, & eſtant de for- me quarrée, auoit en chacun front huict cens pieds de large & autant de haut, eſtant chacune pierre le plus ordinairement de trente pieds fort bien ouurée , comme raconte herodote liu. . or de- uant qu'enfermer les corps dans ces tant ſuperbes ſepulchres, ils les pourtoient auec pompe magni- fique vers les ſaleurs & embaumeurs , qui eſtoient offices bien ſalariez du peuple. ils l'embau- moient de drogue aromatiques, puis ils couſoient les inciſions , & refermoient le tout : cela fait, ils ſalloient tres-bien le corps, & couuioient le ſalloir iuſques à ſoixante & dix iours , leſquels c reuolus , ils retournoient prendre le corps, lequel laué & nettoyé , le lioient de bandes faites d'vn drap de ſoy , collées auec certaine gomme : alors les parens reprenoient le corps , & luy faiſoient faire vn eſtuy de bois moulé en effigie d'homme, dans lequel ils l'eſtuyoient ; & voila comment ils embaumoient les riches. de cette meſme curioſité nos françois eſmeus & incitez, font la pluſ- part embaumer les corps des roys & grands seigneurs : ce que chreſtiennement comme toute autre choſe , ils ont euidemment tiré tant du nouueau que du vieil teſtament & façon ancienne de faire des iuifs : car il eſt dit au nouueau teſtament , que loſeph acheta vn linceul, & que ni- codeme apporta vne mixtion de myrrhe & d'aloës, iuſqu'au poids ou enuiron de cent liures, de la- quelle, auec autres odeurs aromatiques , ils embaumerent & enſeuelirent le corps de ieſus chriſt ( comme la couſtume des iuifs eſtoit d'enſeuelir leurs morts embaumez, qui eſtoit ſigne de cette incor- ruption qu'ils eſperoient en la reſurrection des morts ) ce que meſme depuis eux oulurent faire les maries. ce qu'ils auoient appris de leurs peres anciens. car ioſeph au vieil teſtament commanda à ſes medecins d'embaumer ſon pere. or pour bien embaumer vn corps, premierement il faut vuider toutes les entrailles & viſceres, re- ſeruant le cœur particulierement, à fin de l'embaumer & mette à part, ainſi qu'il ſera aduiſé par les amis du deffunct : il faudra pareillement vuider le cerueau, apres auoir coupé le crane, ainſi qu'on faict és diſſections & anatomies. ce faict, il faut faire des inciſions profondes & † és bras, dos, feſſes, cuiſſes, iambes, & principalement à l'endroit des grandes veines & arteres , à fin d'en faire d ſortir le ſang qui ſe corromproic, & pareillement auſſi d'y plonger des pouldres : cela fait , il faut exactement lauer tout le corps auec vne eſponge imbuë d'eau de vie, & fort vinaigre , dans lequel auront boüilly abſinthe, aloë, pommes de coloquintes, & ſel commun & alum : en arres faudra rempli leſdites inciſions, & toutes les ouuertures , & les trois ventres, de choſes qui s'enſuiuent aſſez gloſſement pulueriſées. z. pul. roſar. camo. melil. balſami, menthae, aneth. ſaluiae, lauand. roriſ. maior. thymi, abſinth. cyperi, calam. aromat.gen ireos, flor. aſſae odoratae, cariophyl. nuc moſc. ci- namo ſtyrac. calam.benjoin, myrrhæ, aloës, ſandal omnium. et apres les inciſions ſeront couſuës: puis faut oindre tout le corps de terebenthine liquefiée auec huyle de camomille & de roſe, y ad- iouſtant, ſi bon ſemble, huyles aromatiques , tirées par quinte eſſence, puis au reſte ſera en tout ſaupoudré auec portion des pouldres deſſus dictes, en fin ſera enueloppé d'vn linceul , & apres de toile cirée, & pour fin de tout l'appareil, ſera mis en vn cercueil de plomb bien ioint & ſoudé, rem- ply de bonnes herbes aromatiques ſeiches. et ſi le chirurgien eſtoit en quelque lieu où il ne peuſt recouurer les ſuſdites pouldres, comme en quelque place aſſiegée, il ſe contentera des ſuiuantes. z. calcis ext. ciner. communis aut querc. au reſte le corps eſtant en tout & par tout laué de vi- naigre, ou de lexiue en lieu de vinaigre, telles choſes conſerueront le corps vne bonne eſpace de temps, pourueu que ne ſoit en temps de grande chaleur, & qu'il ne ſoit ſitué enlieu chaud & humide : ce que i'ay fait quelquesfois. tt t qui s. ie n q. • geneſ e. a le moyen d'embaumer qui eſt cauſe qu'à preſent les roys, princes, & grands seigneurs n'eſtans bien embaumez & vui- ^ dez , & lauez d'eau de vie & de vinaigre, ſaupoudiez de choſes grandement aromatiques, ncant- moins tout.cela, en cinq ou ſix iours, plus ou moins, ſentent ſi mal qu'on ne peut endurer eſtre au lieu où ils ſont, & eſt-on contraint les enfermer en plomb ? cela aduient, parce qu'ils ne ſont longue- | ment gardez en ſaumure auec leſdites choſes aromatiques, comme anciennement on faiſoit, & auſſi par la grande multitude de gens qui entrent pour voir, le grand nombre de torches & luminaires eſtans iour & nuict, cela eſchauffe ſi fort l'air, que le corps n'ayant eſté imbu de choſes qui gardent la pour- riture, cela fait qu'en peu de iours ſe corrompent & pourriſſent, & de leur pourriture s'eſleue vne va- peur puante & cadauereuſe, qui offenſe grandement ceux qui la ſentent. parquoy ma façon de bien & deuëment embaumer & garder les corps morts fort long-tem ps, c'eſt qu'apres les auoir vuidez comme deſſus, il les conuient poſer en vn vaiſſeau de bois bienioint, remply de fort vinaigre, auquel on aura fait boüillir ſel & herbes aromatiques, ameres, comme aluine, ruë, aloës, coloquintes : puis adiou- ſter eau de vie deux ou trois quartes, & laiſſer tremper le corps en cette miſture l'eſpace de vingt iours apres le faut mettre debout, & laiſſer en lieu ſec & non humide : le vinaigre garde de pourriture, d'au- tant qu'il eſt froid & ſec, qui ſont deux choſes repugnantes à putrefaction : ce quel'experience monſtre- car en iceluy on garde les herbes, fleurs, fruicts, & autres choſes, ſans qu'elles ſe pourriſſent. ie pro- teſte auoir vn corps, lequel me fut donné par le lieutenant criminel, apres auoir eſté executé il y a vingt-einq ans & plus, que i'anatomiſay, & leuay preſque tous les muſcles du corps de la partie dex- b tre ( afin que lors que ie veux faire quelque inciſion, voyant les parties de recente memoire : que ie ſois plus aſſeuré en mes œuures) la partie ſeneſtre laiſſée en ſon entier : toutesfois afin de le mieux con- ſeruer, ie le picquay d'vn poinçon en pluſieurs endroits, afin que la liqueur penetraſt au profond des muſcles, & autres parties : & void-on encore entiers les poulmons, cœur, diaphragme, eſtomach, ra- poil é on- telle, reins, & ſemblablement le poil de la barbe, de la teſte, & d'autres parties, voire les ongles leſ- gles croiſſent quels i'ay apperçeus euidemment croiſtre, apres les auoir par diuerſes fois rongnez. par ces miracles apres la mort en la nature (tels osé-ie les appeller, puisque les corps priuez de leur ame & ſubſtance, qui eſt le ſang, pouſſent encore leurs excremens, à ſçauoir le poil & les ongles) ayant finy mon œuure, i'ay eu auſſi eſgard à l'ordre tenu en la pourſuite d'iceluy. car ayant declaré ce qui eſtoit neceſſaire pour la conſer- uation de ce corps eſtant en vie, & pour le remettre en vigueur, y ayant quelque alteration : c'eſtoit bien raiſon auſſi que la fin de ce diſcours fuſt du corps mort, & des moyens de le conſeruer en ſon entier ſans pourriture, & ſans employer des frais ſi exorbitans que faiſoient jadis les roys (par trop ſcrupu- leux)d'egypte, qui employoient toutes les drogues aromatiques que l'orient produit, pour embau- mer leurs corps, & dreſſoient des baſtimens admirables, pour leur ſeruir de ſepulture. · fin des oevvres de m. ambroise pare" conſeiller, & premier chirurgien du tk gy. · labor improbus omnia vincit. - d a p o l o g ie | ----- a p o l o g i e e t t r a i c t e contenant l es voyages f a i c t s e n d i v e r s l i e v x, t'ar a mb r o s e par e , de laual au maine , conſeiller &' premier chirurgien du roy. n) e r i t a e l e m e n t ie n'euſſe mis la main à la plume pour eſcrire de telle ma- dequoyl'ad- © tiere , n'euſt eſté que quelqu'vn m'a taxé & injurié impudemment , & meſpriſé par uerſaire ac- )$ haine & affection particulere, plus que de bon zele qu'il deuoit auoir au public , de ºſe l'au- ma maniere de lier les veines & arteres , eſcriuant ce qui s'enſuit. cmalè igitur cº theur. nimium arroganter, inconſultus & temerarius quidam vaſorum vſtionem poſt mortui mem- # bri reſetiionem , à veteribus omnibus plurimùm commendatam , & ſemper probatam , dam- # ſ ,'«. nare auſus eſt : nouum quendam deligandi vaſa modum , contra veteres omnes medicos fine - ratione , experientia, & iudicio, docere cupiens , nec animaduertit maiora multà pericula, ex *)ns ipſa vaſorum deligatione (quam acu partem ſanam profundè transfigendo ) adminiſtrari vult imminere, quàm ex ipſa vſlione. nam ſi acu neruoſam aliquam partem, vel neruum ipſum pupugerit, dàm ita nouo & inuſitato modo, venam abſurdè conatur conſtringere, noua inflammatio neceſſariô conſequetur, à quo, conuulſio , & à con- uulſione cita mors. quorum ſymptomatum metu, galenus non antè tranſuerſa vulnera ſuere audabat ( quod tamen minus etat periculoſum) quàm maſculorum aponeuroſes denudaſſet. adde quàd forcipes , quibus poſt ſettionem iterum carnem c dilacerat , càm retračia verſus originem vaſa ſe poſſe extrahere ſomniat : non minorem adferant dolorem , quam igntta ferramenta admota. quàd ſi quis tunc laniatum expertus incolumis euaſerit, is deo optimo maximo , cuius beneficentia, crudelitate iſta & carnificina liberatus eſt, maximas gratias habere, & ſemper agere debet. qui eſt à dire. mal doncques & trop arrogamment, indiſcrettement & temairement vn certain perſonnage a voulu condamner & blaſiner la bruſleure des vaiſſeaux, apres l'amputation d'vn membre corrompu & pourry , fort loüée & re- commandée des anciens, & touſiours approuuée : nous voulant & deſirant monſtrer & enſeigner ſans rai- ſon, ſans iugement & experience vne nouuelle maniere de lier les vaiſſeaux, contre l'opinion de tous les an- ciens medecins : ne s'eſtant pas donné de garde ny aduiſe , qu'il ſuruient beaucoup plus grands perils & ac- cidens de cette nouuelle façon de lier les vaiſſeaux (laquelle il veut eftre faite d'vne aiguille perçant profon- dement la partie ſaine) que de la bruſleure & vſtion deſdits vaiſſeaux. car ſi par l'aiguille on picque quelque t partie nerueuſe, voire meſme le nerf, quand il veut par ce moyen nouueau & invſité, lourdement contrain- dre la veine en la liant, neceſſairement il s'enſuiura vne nouuelle inflammation, de l'inflammatiou la conuul- * ſion, de la conuulſion la mort, pour crainte deſquels accidens, galien n'a iamais osé coudre les playes trans- uerſales (ce que toutesfois eſtoit moins dangereux ) deuant que deſcouurir les aponeuroſes des muſcles. ioinct que les pincettes auec leſquelles, apres la ſection, derechef il deſchire la chair, pendant qu'il penſe reſpºſ de pouuoir tirer dehors les vaiſſeaux qui ſe ſont retirez vers leur origine, n'apportent moins de douleur que les ***. fers ardans. et ſi quelqu'vn ayant experimenté cette façon nouuelle de cruauté , en a eſté guery, celuy-là doit rendre graces à dieu à tout iamais, par la bonté duquel il eſt rechappé de telle cruauté, ſentant plus ſon bourreau que chirururgien methodique. o quels beaux mots ? pour vn homme ancien qui ſe dit ſage , & docteur. il ne ſe ſauuient pas que ſa barbe blanche l'admoneſte de ne dire aucune choſe indigne de ſon aage, d & qu'il doit deſpouiller & chaſſer hors de ſoy toute enuie & rancune conceue contre ſon voiſin. or mainte- nant ie luy veux prouuer par authorité, raiſon & experience que leſdites veines & arteres ſe doiuent lier. u authoritez. quant aux authoritez , ie viendray à celle de ce grand perſonnage hipp. lequel veut & commande guarir a. tie i, les fiſtules du ſiege par ligature, tant pour abſumer la calloſité que pour euiter l'hemorrhagie. #ui§ · galien en ſa methode parlant du flux de ſang faict par cauſe externe, duquel voicy les paroles c'eſt (dit- ſiege. il) le plus ſeur de lier la racine du vaiſſeau, laquelle i'entens eſtre celle qui eſt plus pres , ou du foye, ou a chap. . du cœur. liu j . - auicenne commande de lier la veine & l'artere apres l'auoir deſcouuerte vers ſon origine. liu fueil. guy de cauliac parlant de la playe des veines & arteres, enioint au chirurgien de faire la ligature du # • - ct. i. c. . vaiſſeau. au li .c. . monſieur holier parlant du flux de ſang, commande expreſſement de lier les vaiſſeaux. de ſa matiere calmethée au chap. des playes des veines & arteres, traicte vn tres-ſeur moyen d'arreſter le flux de ſang §. chirurgie par ligature du vaiſſeau. playes c. . celſe duquel ledit medecin a la plus grand part rapſodié ſon liure, recommande expreſſément de lier les au liu . vaiſſeaux au flux de ſang,ſuruenant aux playes, comme remede tres-facile& plus ſeur. du . liu. veſalius en ſa chirurgie, veut que l'on lie les vaiſſeaux au flux de ſang. iean apologie, au ch. du iean de vigo, traittant de l'hemorrhagie aux playes recentes, commande de lier la veine & l'ar- a liu. tctc. - - - au liu. i. tagaut, traittant les moyens d'arreſter vn flux de ſang , commande de pinſer la veine ou l'artere auec vn # bec de corbin ou de perroquet, puis la lier auec vn fil aſſez fort. » #." pierre de argillata de boulongne, diſcourant du flux de ſang , & de la maniere de l'arreſter donne vn qua- #u aiété trieſme moyen expreſſément qui e fait par ligature du vaiſſeau - ， chap. , . ioannes andreas à cruce , venitien , fait mention d'vne methode d'arreſter le flux de ſang par ligature du liu. . vaiſſeau. d'alechamp, commande de lier les veines & arteres. au liu. . or voila, mon petit bon-homme, des authoritez qui vous commandent lier les vaiſſeaux. quant aux rai- ſect. . c. . ſons ie les veux debattre. - - pºt ;.$º l'hemorrhagie n'eſt pas tant à craindre (dites-vous)à la ſection de l'epiploon,à celle des varices, & inci- ºººº fion des arteres temporales, qu'apres l'amputation d'vn membre. or vous meſmes commandez, qu'en cou- de # pant les varices, l'on arreſte le flux de ſang par ligature du vaiſſeau. le meſme vous commandez parlant de # la ſuture auec l'amputation & ſection de la coeffe alterée del'air ambient ; voicy vos paroles : apres cela, il gefu . . faut aduiſer à la coeffe,cºr s'il y en a quelque partie gaſtée, pourrie, corrompuë,ternie, & noiraſtre, premie- au liure .. ment l'ayant liée, de peur du flux de ſang: & le reſte. vous ne dites pas, apres auoir cauterisée, mais à dire chap. de la vray, vous auiez les yeux fermez , & tous les ſens hebetez , lors que vous auez voulu meſdire d'vne ſi ſeure ſuture. methode, & que ce n'eſt que par ire & mauuaiſe volonté. car il n'y a rien qui aye plus de puiſſance de chaſſer la raiſon de ſon ſiege que la cholere & l'ire : ioint que comme l'on vient à bruſler la partie amputée, le plus ſouuent quand l'eſcarre vient à cheoir il ſuruient vn nouueau flux de ſang comme i'ay apperceu plu- ſieurs fois,n'ayant encore eſté inſpiré de dieu, d'vn fi ſeur moyen lors que i'vſois du feu. que ſi vous n'auez au chap. de trouué ou entendu cette methode aux liures des anciens , vous ne la deuez ainſi fouler aux pieds, & parler bruſleure li. ſiniſtrement d'vn qui toute ſa vie a preferé le profit du public au ſien particulier. n'eſt-il pas plus que rai- fueil. ſonnable de ſe fonder au dire d'hippocrate, de l'authorité duquel vous vous ſeruez, qui eſt telle : que ce que º liº !: le medicament ne guarit point, le fer le fait, & ce que le fer n'amende point, le feu l'extermine ? c'eſt vne fueil ;. # choſe qui ne ſent point ſon chreſtien,de bruſler tout du premier coup ſans s'arreſter aux plus doux remedes, # comme vous meſmes eſcriuez, parlant des conditions requiſes au chirurgien pour bien guarir,lequel paſſage § vous empruntez d'ailleurs : car ce qui ſe peut faire doucement ſans feu eſt bien plus recommandable qu'au- hip. aph. . trement.n'eſt-ce pas vne choſe que toute l'eſchole tient comme vn axiome, qu il faut touſiours commencer liu. . au plus aiſez remedes ? & s'ils ne ſont ſuffiſans , l'on viendra aux extremes,ſuiuant la doctrine d'hippocrate. au liu. de galien recommande tant au lieu preallegué,de traitter les malades toſt, ſeurement,& auec le moins de dou- arte parua leur que faire ſe pourra. venons maintenant à la raiſon. - # or eſt il qu'on ne ſçauroit appliquer les fers ardans, qu'auec vne extreme & vehemente douleur en vne ' » partie ſenſible exempte de gangrene, qui ſeroit cauſe d'vne conuulfion,fiévre, voire ſouuent de mort. et da- uantage ſeroient apres les pauures patiens long temps ſans eſtre guaris, à raiſon que par l'action du feu il ſe fait eſcharre,qui ſe fait de la chair ſujette, laquelle eſtant tombée il faut que nature regenere vne autre chair nouuelle, au lieu de celle qui aura eſté bruſlée : joint que l'os demeure nud & deſcouuert,& par ce moyen y reſte le plus ſouuent vn vlcere incurable. encore y a-il vn autre accident : c'eſt que ſouuent l'eſcharre tom- bée,la chair n'eſtant bien regenerée, le ſang en ſort autant ou plus qu'auparauant : & quand on les aura liez, au . de la la ligature ne tombera que premierement la chair ne les ayes recouuerts. ce qui eſt prouué par galien, di- metho. ſant que les medicamens eſcharotiques qui engendrent crouſtes, toutesfois & quantes qu'ils tombent,delaiſ- ſent la partie plus nuë que ſa naturelle habitude ne requiert. car la generation de crouſte prouient des parties ſujettes & qui ſont ſituez alentour, demy-bruſlées, par maniere de dire. parquoy d'autant que la par- , paroles de tie eſt bruſlée,d'autant perd elle ſa chaleur naturelle. or dites-vous, quand il eſt neceſſaire d'vſer de medi- ººººº/airº camens eſcharotiques ou de ferremens ardens, c'eſt quand le flux de ſang eſt concité par eroſion, ou quelquer gangrene ou putrefaction. or eſt-il ainſi qu'aux playes recentes il n'y a nulle gangrene ny putrefaction : ergo, les caute es n'y doiuent eſtre appliquez. et lors que les anciens ont commandé de mettie les fers ar- dans en la bouche des vaiſſeaux, ce n'a ſeulement eſté pour arreſter le ſang, mais principalement pour corri- ger la malignité ou pourriture gangreneuſe qui pourroit gaſter les parties voiſines. et faut icy noter que ſi i'euſſe conneu tels accidens venir qu'auez declaré en voſtre liure, pour tirer & lier les vaiſſeaux , iamais ie n'euſſe eſté trompé deux fois, & n'euſſe voulu laiſſer à la poſterité par mes eſcrits , telle maniere d'arreſter le flux de ſang: mais ie l'ay eſcrit apres l'auoir veu faire,& fait pluſieurs fois auec heureux ſuccez. voila ce qui peut aduenir de voſtre conſeil inconſideré, & ſans examiner & s'arreſter ſur la facilité de lier leſdits vaiſ- propoſitiö de ſeaux. car voicy voſtre but & propoſition, lier les vaiſſeaux apres l'amputation eſt vn remede nouueau, di- l'aduerſaire. tes-vous : donc il n'en faut vſer : c'eſt mal argumenter pour vn docteur. quant à ce qu'il faut ( dites-vous) vſer de feu apres les amputations des membres, pour conſommer & tarir la putrefaction qui eſt commune aux gangrenes & mortifications : cela à la verité n'a point de lieu, d'autant que la practique eſt d'amputer toufiours la partie au deſſus de ce qui eſt mortifié & corrompu, com- me eſcrit & commande celſe, de faire l'amputation ſur ce qui eſt ſain, plutoſt que de laiſſer quelque choſe au liu. .ch. de corrompu. ie vous demanderois fort volontiers, ſi lors qu'vne veine eſt coupée à trauers, & qu'elle s'eſt & au liu. retirée fort auant vers ſon principe, vous ne feriez point de conſcience de bruſler, iuſques à ce qu'euſſiez . ch. . trouué l'orifice de la veine ou artere, & s'il n'eſt pas plus facile auec vn ſeul bec de corbin de pincer & tirer le vaiſſeau & lier ? en quoy vous monſtrez apertement voſtre ignorance, & qu'auez voſtre ame ſaiſie d'vne a" chap. de grande animoſité & cholere. nous voyons prattiquer tous les iours auec heureux ſuccez, ladite ligature du lº compeure, vaiſſeau apres l'amputation d'vne partie, ce que ie veux maintenant verifier par experiences & hiſtoires , de liu. . ceux à qui ladite ligature a eſté faite, & perſonnes viuantes. experience. hiſtoire me° le ſeizieſme iour de iuin mil cinq cens quatre-vingts deux, en la preſence de maiſtre iean liebaud, do- table. cteur en la faculté de medecine de paris, claude viard, chirurgien iuré, maiſtre mathurin huron, chirur- † de monſieur de souuray, & moy, iean charbonnel, maiſtre barbier , chirurgien à paris , bien entendu la theorique & prattique de chirurgie, a fort dextrement amputé la jambe ſeneſtre à vne femme , trauail- léº il y auoit plus de trois ans d'vne extreme douleur, à cauſe d'vne grande carie qui eſtoit aux os aſtragal- ciboide, grand & petit focile,& par toutes les parties nerueuſes , d'où elle ſentoit des douleurs intolerables iour - - • • et voyages. À b c p le ſang fort impetueuſement, de façon que les remedes communs pour l'eſtancher n'y ſceurent ſeruir i'y fus iour & nuict. elle s'appelle marie d'hoſtel,âgée de vingt-huict ans,ou enuiron,femme de pierre herué, eſ- cuyer de cuiſine de madame la ducheſſe d'vzez, demeurant ruë du verbois,par de là s. martin des champs, operation à l'enſeigne du chef s. iean, à laquelle ledit charbonnel coupa ladite jambe à quatre grand doigts au deſ fait par ſous du genoüil, & apres qu'il eut incisé la chair, & ſcié l'os, ilpinça auec le bec de corbin la"eine, puis charbonel. l'artere, puis les lia : dont ie proteſte à dieu(comme la compagnie qui y eſtoit le pourra teſnoigner ) qu'en toute l'operation qui fut ſoudainement faite,il n'y eut pas vne palette de ſang perdué , & conmanday audit charbonneld'en laiſſer couler dauantage, ſuiuant le precepte d'hippocrate , qu'il eſt bon en toute playe & vlcere,meſme inueterée,de laiſſer fluer le ſang, par ce moyen la partie eſt moins ſujette à l'inflammation. le en la ſent. . dit charbonnel continua de la traicter & medicamenter,laquelle a eſté guarie en deux mois, ſans que iamais du liure des il ſoit ſuruenu aucune hemorrhagie ou flux de ſang,ny autre mauuais accident : & vous eſt allée voir en vo- vlares. ſtre logis, eſtant toute guarie. - - - autre hiſtoire de recente memoire, d'vn chantre de noſtre dame,nommé monſieur poulain , qui ſe rom- autre hi- pit les deux os de la jambe,qui eſtoient briſez en pluſieurs eſclats,de façon qu'il n'y auoit nulle eſperance de ſtoire. le guarir. pour obuier à la gangrene & mortification,& par conſequent à la mort, monſieur helin, docteur regent en la faculté de medecine,homme d'honneur,& de bon ſçauoir, caude viard , & simon pierre,chi - rurgiens jurez à paris,hommes bien excercez en chirurgie,& balthazar de leſtre, & leonard de leſchenal, maiſtres barbiers,chirurgiens, auſſi bien experimentez és operations de chirurgie,fuſmes tous d'aduis pour obuier aux accidens predits,luy faire entiere amputation de la jambe, vn peu au deſſus des os rompus & eſ. operation clattez,& des nerfs,veines,& arteres dilacerées. l'operation fut dextrement faite par ledit viard , & le ſang #" eſtanché par la ligature des vaiſſeaux en la preſence dudit helin,& de monſieur tonſard , grand vicaire d§ - noſtre dame,& fut continuellement pensé par ledit leſchenal,& ie l'allois voir par fois.il fut heureuſement guary ſans l'application des fers ardans, & chemine gaillard ſur vne jambe de bois. - autre histoire. · l'an mil cinq cens quatre vingts & trois, le dixieſme iour de decembre, touſſain poſſon, natif de roin- uille, à preſent demeurant à beauuais pres dourdan, auoit la jambe toute vlcerée, & tous les os carieux & pourris, me pria que pour l'honneur de dieu e luy euſſe à couper la jambe, pour la grande douleur qu'il ne pouuoit plus tolerer.apres eſtre preparé,luy fis couper la jambe à quatre doigts pres la rotule du genouil, par daniel poulet l'vn de mes ſeruiteurs, pour l'apprendre & enhardir à faire telle œuure, là où il ſia bien dextrement les vaiſſeaux pour eſtancher le ſang, ſans application des fers ardans, en la preſence de acques guillemeau,chirurgien ordinaire du roy,& iean charbonnel, maiſtre barbier,chirurgien à paris. et pen- dant la cure,a eſté veu & viſité par meſſieurs laffilé & courtin , docteurs regens en la faculté de medecine à paris. ladite operation fut faite en la maiſon de iean gohel hoſtelier , demeurant à l'enſeigne du cheual blanc en greue.ie ne veux oublier icy à dire que madame la princeſſe de montpenſier, ſçachant qu'il eſtoit pauure,& qu'il eſtoit entre mes mains,luy donna de l'argent pour payer ſa chambre & ſa nourriture. il a eſté bien guary , dieu mercy, & s'en eſt retourné en ſa maiſon auec vne jambe de bois. autre histoire. vne gangrene ſuruint à la moitié de la jambe,à vn nommé nicolas meſnager,âgé de ſoixante & ſeize ans, gangrene demeurant rue s. honoré, à l'enſeigne de la hotte, laquelle luy ſuruint de cauſe interne, & fut on contraint ſuruenuë de de luy amputer la jambe pour luy ſauuer la vie : & fut amputée par anthoine renaud maiſtre barbier, chi-ººº- rurgien à paris, le ſeizieſme iour de decembre, mil cinq cens quatre vingts & trois , en la preſence de meſ- cedentes ſieurs le fort,& la nouë,chirurgiens jurez à paris et le ſang fut eſtanché par la ligature des vaiſſeaux, & eſt à preſent guary, & ſe porte bien cheminant auec vne jambe bois. v. autre hiſtoire. vn paſſeur d'eau , au port de neſle, demeurant pres monſieur du mas controlleur des poſtes , nommé hiſtoire. iean bouſſereau , à qui vne arquebuſe ſe creua en la main,qui luy briſa entierement les os, & dilacera toutes les autres parties, en ſorte qu'il fut beſoin & neceſſaire luy faire amputation de la main deux doigts au deſ- ſus du carpe. ce qui fut fait par iaques guillemeau, à preſent chirurgien ordinaire du roy , qui demeuroit operation pour lors auec moy. l'operation fut pareillement faite dextrement, & le ſang eſtanche par la ligature des faite par vaiſſeaux , ſans les fers ardans. il eſt encore a preſent viuant. guillemeau. - - - • eautre hiſtoire. vn marchand groſſier demeurant ruë s. denys,à l'enſeigne du gros tournois nommé le iuge, lequel tom-operation ba ſur la teſte, où il fe fit vne playe pres le muſcle temporal, où il eut vne artere ouuerte, de laquelle ſortoit # f / 'f /'. appellé,où ie trouuay meſſieurs raſſe,cointaret, viard,chirurgiens jurez à paris, pour eſtancher le ſang, où promptement ie pris vne aiguille enfilée, & luy liay l'artere, & depuis ne ſaigna, & fut toſt guary : teſmoin en ſera monſieur rouſſelet n'agueres doyen de voſtre faculté qui le traictoit auec nous, autre hiſtoire vn sergent du chaſte let,demeurant pres s.andré des arts, qui eut vn coup d'eſpée à la gorge,au pré aux autre ope- clercs, qui coupoit tout en trauers la veine jugulaire externe, ſubit qu'il fut bleſsé poſa ſon mouſchoir ſur la ration. playe , & me vint trouuer en ma maiſon, & lors qu'il oſta ſon mouchoir le ſang jailliſſoit d'vne grande impetuoſité : ſubit liay la veine vers ſa racine , par ce moyen fut eſtanché , & guary , graces à dieu. et ſi on euſt ſuiuy voſtre maniere d'eſtancher le fang par les cauteres, ie laiſſe à penſer s'il fut guary , ie croy qu'il fuſt mort entre les mains de l'operateur. si ie voulois reciter tous ceux auſquels on a lie les vaiſſeaux pour arreſter le ſang , leſquels ont eſté guaris ie n'aurois de long-temps fait, & me ſemble que voilà aſſez d'hiſtoires alleguées pour vous faire croire,que l'on eſtanche ſeurement le ſang des veines & arteres, ſans appliquer les cauteres actuels. du bartas. celuy-là qui contre l'experience · zn'eſt digne du diſcours d'vne haute ſcience. apologie, v _ & ſes enſeignemens qu'ils venoient tels : mais il luy fut reſpondu par vn conſeiller , qu'il reſſembloit à l* ^ queux ,ui rendoit le couſteau aiguisé & preſt à couper, ne le pouuant faire elle-meſme : & luy allegua de* vers d'horace , que fungebatur vice cotis, acutum treddere que ferrum valet, exors ipſa ſecandi. or voilà , mon petit maiſtre , ma reſponſe à vos calomnies : & vous prie, ſi vous auez l'ame bonne, de vouloir ( pour le public) reuoir & corriger voſtre liure le pluſtoſt que vous pourrez , pour ne tenir les ieunes chirurgiens en cét erreur par la lecture d'iceluy, où vous les enſeignez d'vſer des fers ardans apres l'amputation des membres, pour eſtancher le ſang , attemdu qu'il y a vn autre moyen non fi cruel , & plus ſeur & aisé : ioinct que ſi aujourd'huy apres vn aſſaut de ville où pluſieurs ſoldats ont eu bras & jambes rom- pués & emportées de coups d'artilleries, ou de coutelas, ou d'autres machines pour eſtancher le ſang : vous falloit vſer de fers ardans,il faudroit pour ce faire vne forge & beaucoup de charbon pour les chauffer , & auſſi que les ſoldats vous auroient en tel horreur pour cette cruaute, qu'il vous aſſommeroient comme vn veau, ainſi que jadis fut l'vn des premiers chirurgiens de rome : ce qu'on trouuera eſcrit cy-deſſus au chap. . de l'introduction de chirurgie liure . or de peur que les ſectateurs de vos eſcrits ne tombe en tel inconuenient, ie les prie ſuiure la methode cy-deſſus dite, laquelle ay monſtrée eſtre vraye & certaine , & approuuée par authorité, raiſon, & experience. - le voyage de tourin, . auantage ie veux icy monſtrer aux lecteurs les lieux & places où i'ay peu apprendre la chirurgie , b pour touſiours mieux inſtruire le ieune chirurgien. et premierement, en l'an mil cinq cens trente ſix, le grand roy françois enuoya vne grande armée à thurin, pour reprendre les villes & chaſteaux qu'auoit pris le marquis du guaſt, lieutenant general de l'empereur : où monſieur le conneſtable, lors grand mai- ſtre, eſtoit lieutenant general de l'armée, & monſieur de monte-jan colonnel general des gens de pied, - duquel lors i'eftois chirurgien. vne grande partie de l'armée arriuée au pas de suze, trouuaſmes les enne- \ retraicte des mis qui tenoient le paſſage, & auoient fait certains forts & tranchées, de façon que pour les faire de- " buſquer & quitter la place , il conuint combattre, où il y eut pluſieurs tuez & bleſſez, tant d'vne part que d'autre : mais les ennemis furent contraifits ſe retirer & gagner le chaſteau, qui fut en partie par le capi- taine le rat , qui grimpa auec pluſieurs ſoldats de ſa compagnie ſur vne petite montagnette,là où ils tiroient à plomb ſur les ennemis, il receut vn coup d'arquebuſe à la cheuille du pied dextre où tout ſubit tomba en terre : & alors dit, a cette heure le rat eſt pris. ie le penſay, & dieu le guarit. nous entraſmes à foule en , la ville , & paſſions par ſur les morts, & quelques-vns ne l'eſtans encore, les oyons crier ſous les pieds de nos cheuaux , qui me faiſoient grande compaſſion en mon cœur. et veritablement ie me repenty d'eſtre par- ty de paris, pour voir ſi piteux ſpectacle. eſtant en la ville, i'entray en vne eſtable pour cuider loger mon cheual & celuy de mon homme, là où ie trouuay quatre ſoldats morts, & trois eitoient appuyez contre la muraille , leur face entierement defigurée,qui ne voyoient, n'oyoient, ny ne parloient, & leurs habillemens hiſtoire. flamboyoient encore de la poudre à canon qui les auoient bruſlez. les regardant en pitié , il ſuruint vn vieil ſoldat qui me demanda s'il y auoit moyen de les pouuoir guarir,ie dis que non, ſubit il s'approcha d'eux & leur coupa la gorge doucement & ſans cholere. voyant cette grande cruauté, ie luy dis qu'il eſtoit vn mau- uais homme. il me fit reſponce, qu'il prioit dieu, que lors qu'il ſeroit accouſtré de telle façon,qu'il ſe trou- ' uaſt quelqu'vn qui luy en fiſt autant, afin de ne languir miſerablement. et pour venir ſur nos brisées, les en- ne mis furent ſommez de ſe rendre , ſe qu'ils firent , & ſortirent ſeulement la vie ſauue, le baſton blanc au poing : dont la plus grande partie s en alla gaigner le chaſteau de villane, où il y auoit enuiron deux cens eſ- pagnols.monſieur le conneſtable ne le voulut laiſſer en arriere,afin de rendre le chemin libre. ce chaſteau eſt aſſis ſur vne petite montagne,qui donnoit grande aſſeurance à ceux de dedans, qu'on ne pourroit aſſeoir l'artillerie pour les battre,& furent ſommez de ſe rendre,ou qu'on les mettroit en pieces:ce qu'ils refuſerent tout à plat, faiſant reſponſe qu'ils eſtoient autant bons & fideles ſeruiteurs de l'empereur, que pouuoit eſtre braue reſpö- monſieur le conneſtable du roy ſon maiſtre. leur reſponſe entenduë, on fit de nuict monter deux gros ca- ſºº ſºº- nons à force de bras auec cordages par les suiſſes & lanſquenets:où le mal-heur voulut qu'eſtans les deux dats. . canons aſſis, vn canonnier mit par inaduertance le feu dedans vn ſac plein de poudre à canon , dont il fut bruſlé, enſemble dix ou douze ſoldats, & en outre les flamme de la poudre fut cauſe de deſcouurir l'artille- rie,qui fit que toute la nuict ceux du chaſteau tirerent pluſieurs coups d'arquebuſes à l'endroit où ils auoient peu deſcouurir les deux canons , dont tuerent & bleſſerent quelque nombre de nos gens. le lendemain de grand matin on fit batterie, qui en peu d'heure fit breche. eſtant faicte, demanderent à parlementer auec . nous : mais ce fut trop tard pour eux : car cependant nos gens de pied frânçois, les voyans eſtonnez, mon- terent à la breche, & les mirent tous en pieces, excepté vne fort belle ieune & gaillarde piemontoiſe, qu'vn grand seigneur voulut auoir pour luy tenir compagnie de nuict , de peur du loupgarou. le capi- taine & enſeigne furent pris en vie, mais bien toſt apres pendus & eſtranglez ſur le creneaux de la porte de la ville , afin de donner exemple & crainte aux ſoldats imperiaux, de n'eſtre ſi temeraires & ſi fols, de vouloir tenir telles places contre vne fi grande armée. or tous les ſuſdits ſoldats du chaſteau, voyans ve- nir nos gens d'vne tres-grande furie , firent tout deuoir de ſe defendre, tuerent & bleſſerent vn grand nombre de nos ſoldats à coups de piques, d'arquebuſes , & de pierres : où les chirurgiens eurent beau- coup de beſongue taillée. or i'eſtois en ce temps-la bien doux de ſel , ie n'auois encore veu traicter les conſeil de playes faictes par arquebuſes , pour le premier appareil. il eſt vray que i'auois leu en iean de vigo, liure de vigo. premier des playes en general , chapitre huictiéme, que les playes faictes par baſtons à feu participent de venenoſité , à cauſe de la poudre , & pour leur curation commande les cauteriſer auec huyle de ſambuc toute boüillante, en laquelle ſoit meſlé vn peu de theriaque : & pour ne faillir parauant qu'vſer de ladite huyle, ſçachant que telle choſe pourroit apporter au malade extreme douleur, ie voulu ſçauoir premiere- ment que d'en appliquer, comme les autres chirurgiens faiſoient pour le premier appareil, qui eſtoit d'ap- pliquer ladite huyle la plus boüillante qu'il eſtoit poſſible dedans les playes, auec tentes & ſetons : tellement que ie pris la hardieſſe de faire comme eux. en fin mon huyle, me manqua, & fus contraint d'appliquer en experience ſon lieu vn digeſtiffaict de jaune d'œuf, huyle roſat, & terebenthine. la nuict ie ne peus bien dormir à §. mon aiſe, craignant par faute d'auoir cauterisé, de trouuer les bleſſez où i'auois failly à mettre de ladite hardy. huyle , morts empoiſonnez, qui me fit leuer de grand matin pour les viſiter , où outre mon eſperance trou- heureux uay ceux auſquels i'auois mis le medicament digeſtif, ſentir peu de douleur , & leurs playes ſans inflamma- ſucce(. tion ny tumeurs,ayant aſſez bien reposé la nuict.les autres où l'on auoit appliqué ladite huyle bouillante,les trouuay febricitans, auec grande douleur & tumeur aux enuirons de leurs playes. adonc ie me deliberay de - nc punition exemplaire. | \ - et voyages. , •, # •: | u \ ! #l a ne iamais plus bruſlerainſi cruellement les pauures bleſſez d'arquebuſades. eſtant à thurin trouuay vn chi- rurgien quiauoit le bruit par deſſus tous de bien traicter les playes faites par arquebuſes, en la grace du- quel trouuay façon de m'inſinuer pour auoir la recette qu'il appelloit ſon baume, dont il traictoit les playes d'arquebuſes , & me fit faire la cour deux ans auant que pouuoir tirer ſa recepte en fin auec dons & pre- recepte d'vn ſens me la donna , qui eſtoit faire boüillir dans de l'huyle de lys, des petits chiens nouuellement naiz, & baume ex- des vers de terre preparez » auec de la terebenthine de veniſe.alors ie fus bien ioyeux, & mon cœur aſ- cellent pour ſouuy d'auoir entendu ſon remede, qui ſe rapportoit au mien que i'auois trouué par cas fortuit. voilà com- lº plºº me i'appris à traicter les playes faites par arquebuſes,non pas par les liures.mondit seigneur le mareſchal de d'arquebu- monte-jan demeura lieutenant general pour le roy en piemont,ayant dix ou douze mille hommes en garni- ſon par les villes & chaſteaux , leſquels ſe battoient ſouuent à coups d'eſpée, & d'autres baſtons, & meſme à coups d'arquebuſes, & s'il y auoit quatre bleſſez i'en auois touſiours les trois,& s'il eſtoit queſtion de couper vn bras ou vne jambe , ou trepaner , ou reduire vne fracture ou diſlocation, i'en venois bien à bout. mon- dit seigneur le mareſchal m'enuoyoit tantoſt d'vn coſté tantoſt de l'autre, pour penſer les ſoldats ſignalez qui s'eſtoient battus tant aux autres villes qu'a thurin , de ſorte que i'eſtois touſiours par les champs de co- ſté & d'autre. monſieur le mareſchal enuoya querir à milan vn medecin qui n'auoit pas moins de reputa- tion que defunct monſieur le grand , pour bien faire la medecine, pour le traicter d'vn flux hepatique,dont à la fin il en mourut. le medecin fut quelque temps à thurin pour le traicter & eſtoit ſouuent appellé pour viſiter les bleſſez , où touiours m'y trouuois, & conſultois auec luy , & quelques autres chirurgiens, & lors qu'auions reſolu de faire quelque œuure ſerieuſe de la chirurgie, c'eſtoit ambroiſe paré qui y mettoit la main, là où ie le faiſois promptement & dextrement & d'vne grande aſſeurance, de ſorte que l, dit mede- cin m'admiroit , me voyant ſi adextre aux operations de chirurgie , veu le bas aage que i'auois. vn iour de- uiſant auec mondit seigneur le mareſchal, luy dit. seignor, tu bas vn chirurgico giouane di anni, ma egli è vecchio diſapere e di eſperiantia, guarda lo ben e, perchè egli ti fara ſeruicio & honore. teſmoigna- ge de la dex- c'eſt à dire, tu as vn ieune chirurgien d'aage, mais il eſt viel de ſçauoir & experience, garde-le bien terité de car il te fera ſeruice & honneur. mais le bon homme ne ſçauoit pas que i'auois demeuré trois ans à l'hoſtel l'autheur. dieu de paris,pour y traicter les malades. en fin monſieur le mareſchal mourut de ſon flux hepatique.eſtant mort, le roy enuoya monſieur le mareſchal d'annebaut pour eſtre en ſa place, lequel me fit cét honneur de me faire prier de demeurer auecluy, & qu'il me traitteroit autant bien ou mieux que monſieur le mareſchal de monte-jan.ce que ie ne voulois point, pour le regret, que i'auois d'auoir perdu mon maiſtre qui m'ay-j . moit intimement , & moy luy pareillement.ainſi m'en reuins à paris. voyage de marolle, & de baſſe bretagne. . e m'en allay au camp de marolle auec defunct monſieur de rohan , où le roy françois eſtoit en perſon- ne, & eſtois chirurgien de la compagnie dudit sieur de rohan. or le roy fut aduerty par monſieur d'e- ſtampes gouuerneur de bretagne, que les anglois auoient fait voile pour deſcendre en la baſſe bretagne : & le prioit de vouloir enuoyer pour ſecours meſſieurs de rohan, & de laual, attendu que c'eſtoient les sei- gneurs du pays, & que par leur faueur ceux du pays pourroient repouſſer l'ennemy , & garder qu'il ne print terre.ayant receu cét aduertiſſement, ſa majeſté depeſcha leſdits seigneurs pour aller en diligence au ſecours de leur patrie, & leur fut donné à chacun autant de pouuoir comme au gouuerneur, de façon qu'ils eſtoient tous trois lieutenans du roy. ils prindrent volontiers cette charge, & partirent prompte- ment en poſte, & me menerent auec eux iuſques à landreneau, là où nous trouuaſmes tout le monde en armes, le toxin ſonnant de toutes parts, voire à cinq ou ſix lieuës autour des havres, à ſçauoir, breſt, conquet, crozon , le fou, doulat, laudanec, chacun bien muny d'artillerie, comme canons , doubles canons, baſtardes , mouſquets, paſſe-volans, pieces de campagne, couleurines, ſerpentines, baſiliquès, ſacres, faulcons, fauconneaux , flutes, orgues, arquebuſes à croc. somme que toutes les aduenuës eſtoient bien munies de toutes ſortes & façon d'artilleries , & pluſieurs ſoldats tant bretons, que françois, pour em- peſcher que les anglois ne fiſſent leur deſcente : ainſi qu'ils auoient delibere au partir d'angleterre. l'armée de l'ennemy vint iuſques à la portée du canon, lors qu'on les apperceut voulant aborder en terre, on les ſalüa à coups de canon , & deſcouurirent nos gens de guerre, enſemble noſtre artillerie. ils voltigerent ſur la mer, ou i'eſtois bien ioyeux de voir leurs vaiſſeaux faiſans voile, qui eſtoient en bon nombre & en bon or- dre, & ſembloit que ce fuſt vne foreſt qui marchaſt ſur la mer. ie veis auſſi vne choſe dont ie fus bien eſmer- ueillé qui eſtoit que les balles de bien groſſes pieces, faiſoient de grands bons, & trottoient ſur l'eau comme elles font ſur la terre. or pour le faire court, nos anglois ne nous feirent point de mal & s'en retourne- rent en angleterre ſains & entiers,& nous laiſſant en paix : nous demeuraſmes en ce pays là en garniſon,iuſ- ques à ce que nous fuſmes bien aſſeurez que leur armée eſtoit rompuë. cependant les gens d'armes s'exer- çoient ſouuent à courir la bague,autresfois combattoient à l'eſpée,d'armes,en ſorte qu'il y en auoit touſiours quelqu'vn qui auoit quelque chinfreneau, & touſiours auois quelque choſe à m'exercer. monſieur d'eſtam- pes pour donner paſſe-temps & plaiſir à meſdits seigneurs de rohan & de laual,& autres gentils-hommes, faiſoit venir aux feſtes grande quantité de filles villageoiſes pour chanter des chanſons en bas breton,où leur harmonie eſtoit de coater comme grenoüilles, lors qu'elles ſont en amour. dauantage leur faiſoit dancer le triori de bretagne & n'eſtoit ſans bien remuer les pieds & feſſes. il les faiſoit moult bon oüir & voir. au- tresfois faiſoit venir les luitteurs des villes & villages, où il y auoit prix : le ieu n'eſtoit point acheué qu'il n'y euſt quelqu'vn qui euſt vn bras ou jambe rompuë, ou l'eſpaule, ou hanche démiſe. il y eut vn petit bas breton bien quadraturé, feſſu & materiel , qui tint long temps le berlan , & par ſon aſtuce force en ietta cinq ou ſix par terre. il ſuruint vn grand datiuo magiſter d'eſchole, qu'on diſoit eſtre l'vn des meilleurs luit- teurs de toute la bretagne : il entre en lice, ayant oſté ſa longue jaquette, en chauſſe & en pourpoint , & eſtant pres le petit homme, il ſembloit que s'il euſt eſté attaché à ſa ceinture il n'euſt pas laiſſé de courir.tou- · tesfois quand ils ſe prinrent collet à collet, il furent long-temps ſans rien faire, & penſoit-on qu'ils demeu- reroient eſgaux en force & aſtuce : mais le petit feſſu ſe jetta en ſurſaut & d'emblée ſous ce grand datiuo, le chargea ſur ſon eſpaule, & le jetta en terre ſur les reins tout eſtendu comme vne grenoüille , & alors tout le monde commença à bien rire de la force & aſtuce du petit feſſu. ce grand datiuo euſt grand deſpit d'a- uoir eſté ainſi jetté par terre par vn ſi petit hommet : il ſe releua tout en cholere,& voulut auoir ſa reuanciies ils ſe prindrent derechef collet à collet, & furent encore vn bien long-temps à leurs priſes ne ſe pouuant mettre par terre : enfin ce grand homme ſe laiſſa tomber ſur le petit, & tombant mit ſon coulde au creux de l'eſtomach, & luy creua le cœur, & le tua tout mort. et ſçachant luy auoir donné le coup de la mort, re- print ſa longue jaquette,& s'en alla la queue entre les jambes, & s'eclipſa , voyant que le ceeur ne reuenoit v v v point mort du mareſchal de mºnte- les anglois ſe retirerent. dances des flles villa- geoiſes. luitteurs. le petit bre- ton excellent luitteur. le petit bre- ton occis. - apologie, otuttertf re faite de ſon corps par l'autheur. addreſſe de l'autheur. hiſtoire. point au petit homme, pour vin,vinaigre, ny autres choſes qu'on luy preſentaſt ie m'approchay de luy, taſtay a le poulx qui ne battoit nullement, alors ie dis qu'il eſtoit mort. adonc les bretons qui aſſiſtoient à la luitte, dirent tout haut en leur baragouyn , andraxe menraquet enes rac vn bloa ſo abeudeux henelepe bar«an gouremon enel ma moa engoufium , c'eſt à dire , cela n'eſt pas du jeu. et quelqu'vn dit que ce grand datiuo eſtoit cou- ſtumier de ce faire, & qu'il n'y auoit qu'vn an qu'il auoit fait le ſemblable à vne luitte. ie voulus faire ou-- uerture du corps mort , pour ſçauoir qui auoit eſté cauſe de cette mort ſubite : ie trouuay beaucoup de ſang eſpandu au thorax & au ventre inferieur, & m'efforçay de connoiſtre quelque ouuerture du lieu d'où pou- uoit eſtre ſortytelle quantité de ſang, ce que ie ne ſceu, pour quelque diligence que ie ſceu faire. or ie croy que c'eſtoit per zdiapedeſin , ou anaſtomoſin , c'eſt à dire, par l'ouuerture des bouches des vaiſſeaux , ou par leurs poroſitez. le pauure petit luitteur fut enterré. ie prins congé de meſſieurs de rohan, de laual, & § monſieur de rohan me fit preſent de cinquante doubles ducats , & d'vne hacquenée, & mon- ſieur de laual d'vn courtaut pour mon homme , & monſieur d'eſtampes, d'vn diamant de valeur de trente " eſcus : & ie m'en reuins en ma maiſon à paris. - voyage de parpignan. . º velque temps apres monſieur de rohan me mena en poſte auec luy au camp de parpignan: eſtant là les ennemis firent vne ſortie, & vindrent encloüer trois pieces de noſtre artillerie, là où ils furent repouſ- ſez tuſques pres la porte de la ville. ce qui ne fut ſans qu'il y euſt beaucoup de tuez & bleſſez , entre les au- tres monſieur de briſſac ( qui lors eſtoit grand maiſtre de l'artillerie) qui receut vn coup d'arquebuſe à l'eſ- paule. s'en retournant à ſa tente tous les bleſſez le ſuiuirent , eſperans eſtre penſez des chirurgiens qui le deuoient penſer. eſtant arriué à ſa tente & poſé ſur vn lict, la balle fut cherchée par trois ou quatre chi- b rurgiens les plus experts de l'armée, leſquels ne la peurent trouuer, & diſoient eſtre entrée dedans le corps. en fin il n'appella, pour ſçauoir ſi e pourrois eſtre plus habile qu'eux , pour ce qu'il m'auoit connu en pié- mont. incontinent ie le fis leuer de deſſus ſon lict , & luy dis qu'il ſe mit en meſme ſituation qu'il eſtoit lors qu'il fut bleſſé. ce qu'il fit, & print vn jauelot entre ſes mains, tout ainſi qu'alors il auoit vne picque pour combattre. ie poſay la main autour de ſa playe , & trouuay la balle en la chair , faiſant vne petite tumeur ſous l'omoplate : l'ayant trouuée, ie leur monſtray l'endroit oû elle eſtoit, & fut tirée par m. nicole lauer- naut, chirurgien de monſieur le dauphin , qui eſtoit lieutenant du roy en cette armée : toutesfois l'hon- neur m'en demeura pour l'auoir trouuée, ie vis vne choſe de grande remarque : c'eſt qu'vn ſoldat donna en ma preſence vn coup de halebarde ſur la teſte de l'vn de ſes compagnons, penetrant iuſques à la cauité du ventricule ſeneſtre du cerueau , ſans qu'il tombaſt en terre. ceſtuy qu'il frappa , diſoit qu'il auoit entendu l'auoir pippé au dez , & auoit tiré de luy vne grande ſomme d'argent , & eftoit couſtumier de pipper. on m'appella pour le penſer : ce que ie fis, comme par acquit , ſçachant que bien toſt il deuoit mourir. l'ayant penſe, il s'en retourna tout ſeul en ſa loge, où il y auoit pour le moins deux cens pas de diſtance : ie dis à vn de ſes compagnons qu'il enuoyaſt querir vn preſtre pour diſpoſer des affaires de ſon ame, il luy en bailla vn qui l'accompagna iuſques au der- nier ſouſpir. le lendemain le malade m'enuoya querir par ſa gougue habille en garçon pour le penſer: ce que ie ne voulus, craignant qu'il ne mouruſt entre mes mains. et pour m'en deffaire, ie luy dis qu'il ne fal- loit leuer ſon appareil que le troiſiéme iour, d'autant qu'il mourroit ſans plus y toucher le troiſiéme iour il me vint trouuer tout chancelant en ma tente, accompagné de ſa garce, & me pria affectueuſement de le c penſer, & me monſtra vne bourſe où il y pouuoit auoir cent ou ſix vingts pieces d'or, & qu'il me conten- teroit à ma volonté. pour tout cela neantmoins ie ne laiſſois de differer à leuer ſon appareil , craignant qu'il ne mourut ſur l'heure. certains gentils-hommes me prierent de l'aller penſer : ce que ie fis à leur re- queſte , mais en le penſant il mourut entre mes mains en conuuiſion. or ce preſtre l'accompagna iuſques à la mort , qui ſe ſaiſit de la bourſe, de peur qu'vn autre ne la print, diſant qu'il en diroit des meſſes pour ſa pauure ame. dauantage il s'empara°de ſes hardes , & de tout le reſte. i'ay recité cette hiſtoire com- me choſe monſtrueuſe, que le ſoſdat ayant receu ce grand coup ne tomba en terre, & ratiocina iuſque à la mort. toſt apres le camp fut rompu pour pluſieurs cauſes : l'vne, que nous fuſmes aduertis qu'il eſtoit entré quatre compagnies d'eſpagnols dans parpignan : l'autre, que la peſte commençoit fort à noſtre camp : & nous fut dit par gens du pays, qu'en brefil ſe feroit vn grand desbordement de la mer, qui nous , pourroit tous noyer : & le preſage qu'ils en auoient eſtoit vn bien grand vent marin , qui s'eſleua de ſorte qu'il ne demeura vne ſeule tente qui ne fuſt rompuë & renuerſée par terre, quelque diligence & force qu'on y peut mettre : & les cuiſines eſtans toutes deſcouuertes , le vent eſleuoit les pouſſieres & ſables qui ſaloient & ſaulpoudroient nos viandes, de façon qu'on n'en pouuoit manger, & nous les falloit faire cuire en pots & autres vaiſſeaux couuerts. or nous ne decampaſmes pas de ſi bonne heure, qu'il n'y euſt beaucoup de charrettes & charretiers , mulets , & muletiers , ſubmergez en la mer auec grande perte de bagage. le camp rompu , ie m'en reuins à paris. p> - voyage de landreſy. . l# roy françois leua vne grande armée pour enuictuailler landreſy. de l'autre coſté, l'empereur n'auoit pas moins de gens, voire beaucoup plus : à ſçauoir , dix-mille allemans , dix-mille eſpa- gnols , ſix mille vvalons, dix-mille anglois, & de treize à quatorze mille cheuaux. ie veis les deux armées proches les vnes des autres à la portée du canon, & penſoit on qu'ils ne ſe partiroient iamais ſans donner bataille. il y eut des fols gentils-hommes qui ſe voulurent approcher du camp de l'ennemy : il leur fut tiré des coups de paſſe-volans, aucuns demeurerent ſur la place, autres eurent les bras & jambes empor- portées. le roy ayant faict ce qu'il deſiroit, qui eſtoit auoir renuictuaillé landreſy , ſe retira auec ſon ar- v mée à guiſe , qui fut le lendemain de la touſſaincts, mil cinq cens quarante-quatre, & de là , ie m'en re- * uins à paris. voyage de boulongne. . qu'ils auoient, à ſçauoir monlambert, le petit paradis, monplaiſir, le fort de chaſtillon, le portet,le fort dandelot. vn iour allant par le champ pour penſer mes bleſſez,les ennemis qui eſtoient en la tour d'ordre, tirent vne piece d'artillerie , penſans tuer des hommes d'armes qui eſtoient arreſtez pour deuiſer enſemble- - aduint- - - p† de temps (pres nous allaſmes à boulongne, où les anglois voyans noſtre armée, quitterent les forts - et voyages a aduint que la balle paſſa fort pres de l'vn d'iceux, qui le renuerſa par terre, & penſoit-on que ladite balle luy eult touche : ce qu'elle ne fit nullement : mais ſeulement le vent de ladite balle au milieu de ſa taſſette, qui fit telle force, que toute la partie exterieure de la cuiſſe deuint liuide & noire, & ne ſe pouuoit ſouſte- . nir qu'à bien grande peine. ie le penſay & luy fis pluſieurs ſcarifications pour euacuer le ſang meurtry qu'auoit fait le vent de ladite balle , & des bons qu'elle fit ſur terre tua quatre ſoldats demeurans tous morts en la place. ie n'eſtois pas loing de ce coup, de façon que i'en ſenty aucunement l'air agite, ſans me faire aucun mal, que d'vne peur qui me fit baiſſer la teſte aſſez bas , mais la balle eſtoit ja bien loing. les ſoldats ſe mocquerent de moy d'auoir peur d'vneballe qui eſtoit ja paſſée. mon petit maiſtre, ie croy que . ， ſi vous euſſiez eſté là , que ie n'euſſe eu la peur tout ſeul, qu'en euſſiez eu voltre part. que diray plus ? bl de monſieur le duc de guiſe, françois de lorraine, fut bleſſe deuant boulongne d'vn coup de lance, qui au # de "- # deſſus l'œil dextre, declinant vers le nez, entra & paſſa outre de l'autre-part, entre la nucque & l'oreille guiſe. # d'vne ſi grande violence, que le fer de la lance auec portion du bois fut rompu , & demeura dedans, en ſorte qu'il ne pût eſtre tiré hors qu'à grande force, meſme auec des tenailles de mareſchal. toutesfois nonobſtant cette grande violence, qui ne fut ſans fracture d'os , nerfs, veines & arteres, & autres parties, mondit seigneur par la grace de dieu fut guary. ledit seigneur alloit toufiours guerroyer à face deſcou- uerte : voilà pourquoy la lance paſſa outre de l'autre-part. . voyage dallemagne. i . e m'en allay au voyage d'allemagne l'an .auec monſieur de rohan capitaine de o. hommes d'armes, où i'eſtois chirurgien de ſa compagnie , ce que i'ay dit cy-deſſus. en ce voyage monſieur le conne- ſtable eſtoit general de l'armée : monſieur de chaſtillon, depuis admiral, eſtoit chef& colonnel de l'in- fanterie , ayant quatre regimens de lanſquenets ſous la conduite des capitaines, de recrod, & ringraue, ayans chacun deux regimens, chaque reginent eſtoit de dix enſeignes, & chacune enſeigne, de cinq cens hommes. et outre ceux cy eſtoit le capitaine chartel, lequel conduiſoit les trouppes que les princes pro- teſtans auoient enuoyées au roy. cette infanterie eſtoit fort belle, accompagnée de quinze cens hommes d'armes, auec la fuitte chacun de deux archers , qui pouuoient faire quatre mille cinq cens cheuaux , & outre deux mille cheuaux legers, & autant d'arquebuſiers à cheual , deſquels eſtoit general monſieur d'au- malle, ſans le grand nombre de nobleſſe qui y eſtoit venuë pour ſon plaifir. d'abondant le roy eſtoit ac- compagné de deux cens gentils-hommes de ſa maiſon, auſquels commandoit le ſieur de boiſy , & l'autre le - ſieur de canappe , & pareillement de pluſieurs princes. a ſa ſuitte y auoit encore pour luy ſeruir d'eſcorte les gardes françoiſes & eſcoſſoiſes, & suiſſes, montans à ſix cens hommes de pied : & les compagnies de monſieur le dauphin, meſſieurs de guiſe , d'aumalle, & du mareſchal ſainct andré, qui montoient à quatre cens lances, qui eſtoit vne choſe merueilleuſe de voir vne ſi belle compagnie, & en cet equipage le roy en- tra dans toul & mets. ie ne veux laiſſer à dire qu'il fut ordonné que les compagnies de meſſieurs de rohan, du comte de sancerre , de iarnac ( qui eſtoient chacune de cinquante hommes d'armes ) cheminoient ſur les aiſles du camp ; & dieu ſçait comme nous auions diſette de viures : & proteſte à dieu que par trois di- uerſes fois ie cuiday mourir de faim , & n'eſtoit faute d'argent » car i'en auois aſſez : & ne pouuions auoir viures que par force, à raiſon que les payſans les retiroient dedans les villes & chaſteaux. vn des ſeruiteurs hiſtoi du capitaine-enſeigne de la compagnie de monſieur de rohan, alla auec d'autres pour cuider entrer en vne oure. egliſe, où les payſans s'eſtoient retirez, penſant trouuer des viures par amour ou par force : mais entre les autres ceſtuy-là fut bien battu, & s'en reuint auec ſept coups d'eſpée à la teſte : le moindre penetroit la ſe- conde table du crane, & en auoit quatre autres ſur le bras, & vn ſur l'eſpaule droicte, qui coupoit plus de la moitié de l'omoplate ou paleron. il fut rapporté au logis de ſon maiſtre, lequel le voyant ainſi navré, & qu'auſſi deuoit on partir le lendemain dés la poincte du iour, & n'eſtimant pas qu'il deut iamais guarir, fiſt cauer vne foſſe, & le vouloit faire ietter dedans, diſant qu'auſſi bien les payſans les maſſecreroient & tue- roient. meu'de pitié, ie luy dis qu'il pourroit encore guarir s'il eſtoit bien pensé : pluſieurs gentils-hom- charité de mes de la compagnie le prierent de le faire mener auec le bagage, puis que i'auois cette volonté de le pen- l'autheur. ſer : ce qu'il accorda, & apres que ie l'eu habillé, fut mis en vne chatrette ſur vn lict , bien couuert & bien accommodé, qu'vn cheual traiſnoit. ie luy fis office de medecin, d'apothicaire, de chirurgien, & de cui- ſinier : ie le penſay iuſques à la fin de la cure , & dîeu le guarit : ſi bien que tous ceux de ces trois compa- gnies admiroient cette cure. les hommes d'armes de la compagnie de monſieur de rohan, la premiere mon- ſtre qui ſe fiſt, me donnerent chacun vn eſcu, & les archers demy eſcu. voyage de danuilliers.. j . - v retour du camp d'allemagne, le roy henry aſſiegea danuilliers, ceux du dedans ne ſe vouloient hiſtoire. º rendre. ils furent bien battus : & la poudre nous manqua , ce pendant tiroient touſiours ſur nos gens. lf il y eut vn coup de couleurine qui paſſa au trauers de la tente de monſieur de rohan , qui donna contre la jambe d'vn gentil-homme qui eſtoit à ſa ſuitte , qu'il me fallut paracheuer de couper , qui fut ſans appli- quer les fers ardans. - le roy manda querir de la poudre à sedan : eſtant arriuée on commença la batterie plus grande qu'au- parauant , de façon qu'on fit breche. meſſieurs de guiſe & le conneſtable eſtans à la chambre du roy, º luy dirent , & conclurent que le lendemain il falloit donner l'aſſaut , & eſtoient aſſeurez qu'on entreroit # dedans : & falloit tenir cela ſecret , de peur que l'ennemy n'en fut aduerty & promirent chacun de n'en hi - ! parler à perſonne. or il y auoit vn valet de chambre du roy, qui s'eſtant couché ſous ſon lict de camp affétre bi- pour dormir, entendit qu'on auoit reſolu donner le lendemain l'aſſaut. subit reuela à vn certain capi- ſtoire. taine, & luy dit , que pour certain le lendemain on donneroit l'aſſaut, & l'auoit entendu du roy , & - pria ledit capitaine de n'en parler à perſonne : ce qu'il promit, mais ſa promeſſe ne tint pas, & de ce pas # s'en alla le declarer à vn capitaine, & ce capitaine à vn autre capitaine, & des capitaines à quelques-vns :: de leurs ſoldats, diſans touſiours, n'en dites mot. cela fut ſi bien celé, que le lendemain du grand matin, ou voyoit la plus grand part des ſoldats, auec leurs rondaches & leurs chauſſes couppées au genoüil, pour mieux monter à la breche. le roy fut aduerty de ce bruit qui couroit parmy ce camp, qu'on deuoit donner l'aſſaut : dont il fut eſmerueillé , attendu qu'ils n'eſtoient que trois en cét aduis, qui auoient promis l'vn à l'autre n'en parler à perſonne. le roy enuoya querir monſieur de guiſe, pour ſçauoir s'il n'auoit parlé - de cét aſſaut : il luy iura & affirma qu'il ne l'auoit declaré à perſonne. autant en dit monſieur le conneſta- ble , lequel dit au roy qu'il falloit expreſſément ſçauoir qui auoit declaré le conſeil ſecret , attendu qu'ils n'eſtoient que trois. inquiſition fut faite de capitaine en capitaine, en fin on trouua la verité : car | ; v v v l'vn " . apologie, )ue c'eſt de reueler les ſecrets des princes. le roy de natharre pria l'au- theur de le ſuiure. hiſtoire de gens deſeſpe- re{. prinſe du chaſteau le comte. les noms des princes qui eſtoient au ſiege de mets. n t , , ç'en-deſſus-deſſous. apres cela le camp ſe rompt, & m'en retournay à paris. ie ne veux encore oublier à - l'vn diſoit, ça eſté tel qui me l'a dit : vn autre autant : tant que l'on vint au premier , qui deélara l'auoirap. a pris du valet de chambre du roy, nommé guyard, natif de blois, fils d'vn barbier du defunct roy fran- çois le roy l'enuoya querir en ſa tente, en la preſence de monſieur de guyſe, & de monſieur le conneſta- ble, pour entendre de luy, d'où il tenoit, & qui luy auoit dit qu'on deuoit donner cét aſſaut le roy luy dit, que s'il ne diſoit la verité, qu'il le feroit pendre. alors il declara qu'il s'eſtoit mis ſous ſon lict pen. ſant dormir : l'ayant entendu l'auoit dit à vn capitaine qui eſtoit de ſes amis , afin qu'il ſe preparaft auec ſes ſoldats, d'aller des premiers à l'aſſaut. alors le roy conneut la verité, & luy dit que iamais ne s'en ſet- uiroit, & qu'il auoit meritè le pendre, & que iamais plus il ne ſe trouuaſt à la cour. mon valet de cham- bre s'en alla auec ce bonnet de nuict, & couchoit auec vn chirurgien ordinaire du roy, nommé maiſtte louys de la coſte ſainct andré : la nuict ſe donna ſix coups de couſteau, & ſe coupa la gorge, ſans que le- dit chirurgien s'en apperceuſt iuſques au matin, qu'il trouua ſon lict enſanglanté , & le corps mort aupres de luy. dont il fut fort eſmerueillé de voir ce ſpectacle à ſon reſueil , & eut peur qu'on dit qu'il fut cauſe de ce meurtre. mais ſubit fut deſcharge , connoiſſant la cauſe, qui fut par deſeſpoir, d'auoir perdu la bonne amitié que luy portoit le roy. ledit guyard fut enterré. et ceux de danuilliers , lors qu'ils virent la breche raiſonnable pour entrer dedans, & les ſoldats preparez à l'aſſaut, ſe rendirent à la diſcretion du roy. les chefs furent priſonniers, & les ſoldats renuoyez ſans armes. le camp rompu, ie m'en retour- nay à paris auec mon gentil homme, auquel i'auois coupé la jambe : ie le penſay, & dieu le guarit. lele renuoyay en ſa maiſon , gaillard, auec vne jambe de bois , & ſe contentoit, diſant qu'il en eſtoit quitte à bon marché , de n'auoir eſté miſerablement bruſlé pour luy eſtancher le ſang , comme eſcriuez en voſtre li- ure, non petit maiſtre. - a voyage de chaſteau le cmt . i . velque temps apres , le roy henry fit leuer vne armée de trente mille hommes , pour aller faire le de gaſt à l'entour de hedin. le roy de nauarre qu'on appelloit pour lors monſieur de vendoſme, eſtoit chef de l'armée , & lieutenant du roy. eſtant à sainct denys en france, attendant que les compagnies paſ- ſoient , il m'enuoya querir à paris pour aller parler à luy, eſtant là, me pria (ſa priere m'eſtoit commande- ment ) de le vouloir ſuiure à ce voyage : & voulant faire mes excuſes, diſant que ma femme eſtoit au lict malade, il me fit reſponſe, qu'il y auoit des medecins à paris pour la traitter , & qu'il laiſſoit bien la fienne qui eſtoit d'auſſi bonne maiſon que la mienne, me promettant qu'il me traitteroit bien : & deſlors fit com- mandement que ie fuſſe conché en ſon eſtat. voyant cette grande affection qu'il auoit de me mener auec luy, ie ne l'oſay refuſer. ie l'allay treuuer au chaſteau le comte , trois ou quatre lieues pres de hedin, là où il y auoit des ſoldats imperiaux en garniſon , auec nombre de payſans d'alentour. il les fit ſommer de ſeren- dre : & ils firent reſponce : qu'il ne les auroit iamais que par pieces, & qu'il fit du pis qu'il pourroit,& eux feroient du mieux à ſe defendre. ils ſe fioient en leurs foſſez qui eſtoient pleins d'eau : & en deux heures, auec grand nombre de faſcines, & certains tonneaux, on fit chemin pour paſſer les gens de pied, quandil faudroit aller à l'aſſaut , & furent battus de cinq canons, & fit-on breſche aucunement ſuffiſante pour y entrer , où ceux de dedans receurent l'aſſaut bien viuement, & ne fut ſans tuer & bleſſer grand nombre de nos gens de coups d'arquebuſes , de piques , & de pierres. en fin quand ils ſe virent forcez, ils mirent le feu en leurs poudres & munitions , qui fut cauſe de bruſler beaucoup de nos gens , d'entreux ſemblable- ment , & furent preſque tous mis au fil de l'eſpée. toutesfois quelques-vns de nos ſoldats en uoient prins vingt ou trente , eſperans en auoir rançon. cela fut ſceu & arreſté par le conſeil, qu'il ſeroit crié à ſon de c trompe parmy le camp , que tous ſoldats qui auoient des eſpagnols priſonniers, euſſent à les tuer, ſur pei- ne d'eſtre pendus & eſtranglez. ce qui fut fait de ſang froid. de là nous nous en allaſmes bruſler pluſieurs villages, dont les granges eſtoient toutes pleines de grain , à mon tres-grand regret, nous nous en allalmes iuſques à tournahan , où il y auoit vne bien groſſe tour, où les ennemis ſe retiroient, mais il n'y fut trou- ué perſonne : tout fut pillè , & fit-on ſauter la tour par vne mine, auec la poudre à canon , qui la rennerſa eſcrire , que le lendemain que chaſteau le comte fut pris, monſieur de vendoſme enuoya vn gentil-homme ſignalé deuers le roy, pour luy faire rapport de tout ce qui s'eitoit paſsé, & entre autres propos dit au roy, que i'auois grandement faict mon deuoir à penſer les bleſſez , que ie luy auois monſtrè dix-huict balles que i'auois tirees des corps des bleſſez : & qu'il y en auoit encore bien dauantage que ie n'auois pas peu trouuer ny tirer , & luy dit plus de bien de moy , qu'il n'y en auoit la moitié. alors le roy dit, qu'il vou- loit que ie fuſſe à ſon ſeruice, & commanda à monſieur de goguier , ſon premier medecin, qu'il euſt à m'eſcrire, qu'il me retenoit à ſon ſeruice pour l'vn de ſes chirurgiens ordinaires , & que ie l'allaſſe trouuer à rheims dedans dix ou douze iours. ce que ie fis, là où il me fit cét honneur de me commander que i'euſſe à demeurer aupres de luy, & qu'il me feroit du bien. alors ie le remerciay bien humblement de l'honneur qu'il luy plaiſoit me faire de m'appeller à ſon ſeruice. voyage de mets. - ; - a 'empereur ayant aſſiegé mets auec plus de ſix vingts mil hommes, & au plus fort de l'hyuer, comme chacun ſçait dé recente memoire : & y auoir en la ville de cinq à ſix mil hommes, & entre autres ſept princes : à ſçauoir , monſieur le duc de guiſe, lieutenant du roy , meſſieurs d'anguien, de condé, de montpenſier, de la roche ſur-yon , monſieur de nemours , & pluſieurs autres gentils-hommes, auec vn nombre de vieux capitaines & gens de guerre , leſquels faiſoient ſouuent des ſaillies ſur les ennemis(com- me nous dirons cy-apres) ce qui ne ſe faiſoit ſans qu'il en demeuraſt beaucoup tant d'vne part que d'au- tre. nos gens bleſſez mouroient quaſi tous , & penſoit-on que les drogues dont ils eſtoient penſez , fuſſent empoiſonnées. qui fut cauſe que monſieur de guiſe, & meſſieurs les princes firent tant qu'ils manderent au roy , que s'il eſtoit poſſible , on m'enuoyaſt vers eux auec des drogues, & qu'ils croyoient que les leurs fuſſent empoiſonnées, veu que de leurs bleſſez peu réchappoient. ie croy qu'il n'y auoit aucune poiſon , mais les grands coups de coutelas, & d'arquebuzes, & l'extreme froid en eſtoient cauſe, le roy fit eſcrire à monſieur le mareſchal de sainct andré, qui eſtoit ſon lieutenant à verdun , qu'il trouuaſt moyen de me faire entrer à mets par quelque façon que ce fuſt. le seigneur mareſchal de sainct andré, & monſieur le mareſchal de vieille-ville, gaignerent vn capitaine italien, lequel leur promit m'y faire entrer , ce qu'il fit : & pource, eut quinze cens eſcus, le roy ayant entendu la promeſſe qu'auoit fait le capitaine italien , m'enuoya querir , & me commanda de prendre de ſon apothicaire, nommé daigue, tant & telles drogues que ie verrois eſtre neceſſaires pour les bleſſez aſſiegez : ce que ie fis, ºnt - - qu'vn et voyages. ， a qu'vn cheual de poſte en pouuoit porter. le roy me donna charge de parler à monſieur de guiſe, & aux #. princes & capitaines qui eſtoient à mets. eſtant arriué à verdun,quelques iours apres monſieur le mareſchal cºmiſſion de #s de sainct andré me fit bailler des cheuaux pour moy & pour mon homme , & pour le capitaine italien, le- l'autheur # quel parloit fort bon alleman , eſpagnol , & vvalon, auec ſa langue maternelle. quand nous fuſmes à #s huict ou dix lieuës prés de mets, nous n'allions plus que de nuict : & eſtant pres du camp, ie vis à plus d'v- . . " . ne lieue & demie, des feux allumez autour de la ville, ſi qu'il ſembloit quaſi que toute la terre ardoit, & #: m'eſtoit aduis que nous ne pourrions iamais paſſer au trauers de ces feux ſans eſtre deſcouuerts, & par con- | ſequent eſtre pendus & eſtranglez, ou mis en pieces, ou payer groſſe rançon. pour vray dire, i'euſſe bien - & volontiers voulu eſtre encores à paris pour le danger eminent que ie preuoyois. dieu conduit ſi bien no- ſtre affaire, que nous entraſmes en la ville à minuict, auec vn certain ſignal , que le capitaine auoit auec vn autre capitaine de la compagnie de monſieur de guiſe : lequel seigneur i'allay trouuer en ſon lict, qui me receut de bonne grace, eſtant bien ioyeux de ma venue. ie luy fis ma legation de tout ce que le roy m'a- uoit commandé luy dire. ie luy dis que i'auois vne petite lettre à luy bailler, & que le lendemain ie ne ferois faute la luy donner. cela fait, commanda qu'on me donnaſt logis, & que ie fuſſe bien traicté, & me dit que ie ne failliſſe le lendemain me trouuer ſur la breche, où ie trouuerois tous les princes & seigneurs, & plu- ſieurs capitaines : ce que ie fis, & me receurent auec vne grande ioye, me faiſans cét honneur de m'em- braſſer , & me dire que i'eſtois le bien-venu : adiouſtans qu'ils n'auoient plus peur de mourir, s'il adue- noit qu'ils fuſſent bleſſez. monſieur le prince de la roche ſur-yon fut le premier qui me feſtoya,& s'enquit de moy ce qu'on diſoit en la cour, de la ville de mets. ie luy dis tout ce que ie voulus. puis ſubit me pria l- d'aller voir l'vn de ſes gentils-hômes,nommé monſieur de magnane,à preſent cheualier de l'ordre du roy, . & lieutenant des gardes de ſa majeſté, lequel eut la jambe rompue d'vn eſclat de canon.ie le tiouuay au lict, hiſtoire. ſa jambe ployée & courbée, ſans aucun appareil deſſus,parce qu'vn gentil homme luy promettoit guariſon, en ayant ſon nom & ſa ceinture, auec certaines paroles:& le pauure gentil-hôme pleuroit,& crioit de dou-^ leur qu'il ſentoit,ne dormant ne iour ne nuict,il y a voit quatre iours ; alors ie me mocquay fort de cette im- poſture, & fauſſe promeſſe. promptement ie racouſtray & habillay fi dextrement ſa jambe, qu'il fut ſans douleur , & dormit toute la nuict : & depuis fut, graces à dieu, guary : & eſt encores à preſent viuant, fai- ſant ſeruice au roy. ledit seigneur de la roche ſur-yon m'enuoya vn tonneau de vin, plus gros qu'vne pi- - pe d'anjou,en mon logis, & me fit dire, que lors qu'il ſeroit beu, il en enuoyeroit d'autre. c'eſtoit à qui me : traitteroit, me faiſant tous bonne chere. cela fait, monſieur de guiſe me bailla vne liſte de centains capitai- nes & seigneurs, & commanda de leur dire ce que le roy m'auoit donné en charge : ce que ie fis : qui eſtoit faire ſes recommandations, & vn remerciement du deuoir qu'ils auoient fait, & faiſoient à la garde ·.. de ſa ville de mets,& qu'il le reconnoiſtroit. ie fus plus de huict iours pour acquitter ma charge, parce qu'ils eſtoient pluſieurs. premierement à tous les princes & autres, comme le duc horace , le comte de ia martigues, & ſon frere monſieur de bauge, les seigneurs de montmorency & danuille, à preſent mareſchal # de france,monſieur de la chappelleaux vrſins,bonniuet,carouge, auiourd'huy gouuerneur de roüen,le vi- ， , daſme de chartres,le comte de lude,monſieur de biron,à preſent mareſchal de france, monſieur de râdan, :" la rochefoucault, bordaille, d'eſtrez le ieune, monſieur de sainct iean en dauphiné, & pluſieurs autres qui ſeroient trop longs à reciter : & meſmes à pluſieurs capitaines qui auoient tous bien fait leur deuoir , à la #.; defenſe de leurs vies & de la ville. ie demanday puis apres à monſieur de guiſe,qu'il luy plaiſoit que ie fiſſe - des drogues que i'auois apportées : il me dit que ie les departiſſe aux chirurgiens & apothicaires, & princi- º palement aux pauures ſoldats bleſſez, qui eſtoient en grand nombre à l'hoſt # dieu : ce que ie fis : & puis i aſſeurer que ne pouuois aſſez tant faire que d'aller voir les bleſſez, qui m'enuo,'oſent querir pour les viſiter & c penſer. tous les seigneurs aſſiegez me prierent de ſolliciter bien ſoigneuſement ſur tous les autres, mon- eleſſeure de il ſieur de pienne, qui auoit eſté bleſſé ſur la breche,d'vn éclat de pierre d'vn coup de canon, à la temple, auec monſieur de - fracture & enfonceure de l'os. on me dit que ſubit auoir receu le coup, tomba en terre comme mort & ietta pienne. # le ſang par la bouchc, par le nez, & par les oreilles, auec grands vomiſſemens, & fut quatorze iours ſans : pouuoir parler ny ratiociner:auſſi luy ſuruindrent les treſſaillemens approchans de ſpaſme , & eut tout le vi- ſage enflé & fort liuide. il fut trepané à coſté du muſcle temporal, ſur l'os coronal. ie le penſay auec au- monſieur de tres chirurgiens, & dieu le guarit, & auiourd'huy eſt encore viuant, dieu mercy. l'empereur faiſoit faire pienne tre- la batterie de quarante doubles canons, où la poudre n'eſtoit eſpargnée iour ny nuict. subit que monſieur pané & gua- de guiſe vid l'artillerie aſſiſe & braquée pour faire breche, il fit abbattre les maiſons les plus proches pour !y. remparer, & les poultres & ſoliues eſtoient arrengées bout à bout, & entre deux des faſcines, de la terre, des licts & balles de laine : puis on remettoit encore par deſſus autres poultres & ſoliues , comme deſſous. or al beaucoup de bois des maiſons des faux bourgs qui auoient eſté miſes par terre, ( de peur que l'ennemy ne '... ſe logeaſt au couuert, & qu'ils ne s'aidaſſent du bois)ſeruit bien à remparer la breche. tout le monde eſtoit # empeſché à porter la terre pour la remparer iour & nuict. meſſieurs les princes , seigneurs & capitaines, les princes #: . lieutenans, enſeignes, portoient tous la hotte, pour donner exemple aux ſoldats & citoyens à faire le ſem-portent la blable:ce qu'ils faiſoient,voire iuſques aux dames & damoiſelles,& ceux qui n'auoient des hottes s'aidoient hotte. de chaudrons, panniers , ſacs, linceuls, & tout ce qu'ils pouuoient pour porter la terre : en ſorte que l'enne- d my n'auoit point ſi toſt abbattu la muraille , qu'il ne trouuaſt derriere vn rempart plus fort. la muraille eftant tombée, nos ſoldats crioyent à ceux de dehors, au regnard,au regnard,au regnard,& ſe diſoient mil- le injures les vns aux autres.monſieur de guiſe fit defenſe ſur peine de la vie,que nul n'euſt à parler à ceux de dehors, de peur qu'il n'y euſt quelque traiſtre qui leur donnaſt aduetiſſement de ce qu'on faiſoit dedans la ville la defenſe faite, ils attacherent des chats viuans au bout de leurs piques,& les mettoient ſur la murail- brebr. le & cryoient auec les chats miaut,miaut. veritablement les imperiaux auoient grand deſpit d'auoir eſté ſi long-temps à faire breche auec grandc deſpenſe, qui eſtoit large de quatre vingts pas,pour entrer cinquante hommes de front, où trouuerent vn rempart plus fort que la muraille. ils ſe iettoient ſur les pauures chats, & les tiroient à coups d'arquebuzes comme l'on fait au papegaul. nos gens faiſoient ſouuent des ſorties, par le commandement de monſieur de guiſe. vn iour deuant il y auoit preſſe à ſe faire enrooller,entre ceux - qui deuoient ſortir,& principalement la ieune nobleſſe,menez par capitaines experimentez,de maniere que c'eſtoit leur faire vne grande faueur de permettre de ſortir & courir ſur l'ennemy, & ſortoient touſiours en nombre de cent ou de ſix vingts bien armez , auec rondaches, coutelas , arquebuſes, & piſtolets,piques,per- tuiſanes , & halebardes, leſquels alloiènt iuſques aux tranchées les réueiller en ſurſaut. là où l'alarme ſe # donnoit en tout leur camp, & leurs tabourins ſonnoient,plan, plan,tati,ta,ta,ta, ti,ta,tou, touftouf. pareil- ' - #• - lement leurs trompettes & clairons ronfloient & ſonnoient boute ſelle , boute-ſelle , boute ſelle , mon- * te à cheual, monte à cheual, monte à cheual, boute-ſelle, monte à caual, à caual. et tous leurs ſoldats . - crioyent à l'arme, à l'arme, à l'arme, aux armes, aux armes, aux armes, à l'arme aux armes , à l'arme aux armes à l'arme, comme l'on fait la huée apres les loups : & tous diuers langages, ſelon les,nations , & les - v v v voyoit on apologi pologie, voyoit-on ſortir de leurs tentes & petites loges, drus comme fourmillons, lors qu'on deſcouure leurs four- millieres, pour ſecourir leurs compagnons qu'on égoſilloit comme moutons. la cauallerie pareillement venoit de toutes parts au grand gallop, patati, patata, patati, patata, pata, ta, pata,ta,pata, ta, & leur tardoit bien qu'ils ne fuſſent à la meſlée,oùles coups ſe departoient, pour en donner & en receuoir. et quand les no- . . ſtres ſe voyoient forcez, ils reuenoient en la ville toufiours en côbattant, & ceux qui couroient apres eſtoient repouſſez à coups d'artillerie , qu'on auoit chargée de cailloux, & gros carreaux de fer de figure quarrée & triangle. et nos ſoldats qui eſtoient ſur ladite muraille, faiſoient vne eſcopeterie, & pleuuoir leurs bal- · · les ſur eux comme greſle , pour les renuoyer coucher , où pluſieurs demeuroient en la place du combat : & nos gens auſſi ne s'en reuenoient tous leur peau entiere, & en demeuroient touſiours quelques-vns pour la diſme , leſquels eſtoient ioyeux de mourir au lict d'honneur. et là où il y auoit vn cheual bleſsé , il eſtoit eſ- corché, & mangé par les ſoldats : c'eſtoit en lieu de bœuf& de lard.et pour penſer nos bleſſez, c'eſtoit à moy à courir. quelques iours apres on faiſoit autres ſorties,qui faſchoient fort les ennemis,pource qu'on les laiſ- ſoit peu dormir à ſeureté. monſieur de guiſe fit vn ſtratageme, ou ruſe ſtratagente de guerre : c'eſt qu'il en- uoya vn payſan qui n'eſtoit pas trop habille homme, auec deux paires de lettres,vers le roy, auquel il donna dix eſcus, & promeſſe que le roy luy en donneroit cent, pourueu qu'il luy baillaſt ſes lettres. en l'vne il luy mandoit que l'ennemy ne faiſoit nul ſemblant de ſe retirer, & à toutes forces faiſoit vne grande breſche : qu'i eſperoit la bien garder,iuſques à y employer ſa vie,& celle de tous ceux qui eſtoient dedans & que ſi l'ennemy euſt auſſi bien aſſis ſon artillerie en vn certain lieu qu'il nommoit, à grande difficulté l'euſt-on peu garder qu'il n'euſt entré dedans, attendu que c'eſtoit le lieu le plus foible de toute la ville, mais bien teſt il eſperoit de le bien remparer, en ſorte qu'on n'y pourroit entrer. l'vne de ces lettres luy fut couſuë en la doubleure de ſon pourpoint,& luy fut dit qu'il ſe donnaſt bien garde de le dire à perſonne : & luy en fut donnée vneau- tre,là où mondit seigneur de guiſe mandoit au roy,que luy & tous les aſſiegez eſperoient de bien garder la ville,& autre choſe que ie laiſſe icy à dire. il fit ſortir ce payſan la nuict, & incontinent apres il fut pris par vn corps de garde, & mené au duc d'albe, pour prendre langue de ce qu'on faiſoit en la ville ; & luy fut de- mande s'il auoit des lettres:il dit qu'ouy, & leur en bailla vne : & l'ayant veuë, luy fut demandé par ſerment, s'il n'en auoit point d'autres : dit que non : lors fut foüillé, & luy fut trouuée celle qu'il auoit couſue à ſon pourpoint , & le pauure meſſager fut pendu & eſtranglé. lettres ºm: leſdittes lettres furent communiquées à l'empereur, lequel fit appeller ſon conſeil, là où il fut reſolu ºº * puiſque on n'auoit peu rien faire à la premiere breſche, que promptement l'artillerie ſeroit menée à l'endroit #" qu'on eſtimoit le plus foible, là où ils firent grands efforts à refaire vne autre breche, & ſappert nt & mine- # rent la muraille, & taſchoient à ſurprendre la tour d'enfer, neantmoins ils n'oſerent venir à l'aſſaut. le duc conſeil. > - - - - #- d'albe remonſtra à l'empereur que tous les iours les ſoldats mouroient, voire au nombre de plus de deux § ue cens , & qu'il y auoit auſſi peu d'eſperance d'entrer en la ville, veu le temps & le grand nombre de gens de d'albe à guerre qui y eſtoient. l'empereur demanda quelles gens c'eſtoient qui ſe mouroient, & ſi c'eſtoient gentils- l'empereur. hommes, & hommes de remarque. luy fut fait reſponſe, que c'eſtoient tous pauures ſoldats.alors dit qu'il reſponſe de n'y auoit point de danger qu'ils mouruſſent , les comparant au chenilles, ſauterelles & hannetons , qui *ººººº mangent les bourgeons & autres biens de la terre, & ques'ils eſtoient gens de bien, ils ne ſeroient en ſon camp pour ſix liures par mois,& partant qu'il n'y auoit nul danger qu'ils mouruſſent. dauantage, diſoit qu'il ne partiroit iamais de deuant la ville qu'il ne la priſt, par force ou par famine, quand il deuroit perdre toute ſon armée : à cauſe du grand nombre de princes qui y eſtoient enfermez, auec la plus grand part de la no- bleſſe de france , deſquels il eſperoit retirer au quadruple de ſa deſpence, & iroit encore vne fois à paris pour viſiter les pariſiens, & fe faire roy de tout le royaume de france. monſieur de guiſe, auec les princes capitaines, & ſoldats,& generalement tous les citoyens de la ville, ayans entendu l'intention de l'empereur qui eſtoit de nous tous exterminer, aduiſerent à tout ce qu'ils auoient à faire : & depuis ne fut permis aux ſoldats & citoyens & meſmes aux princes & seigneur de manger marée fraiche ny venaiſon , pareille- ment aucunes perdris , beccaſſes, aloüettes, francolins, pluuiers, & autres gibiers, de peur qu'ils euſſent ac- quis quelque air peſtilent qui nous euſt peu donner vne contagion : mais auroient à ſe contenter de l'amo- nition , à ſçauoir, du biſcuit, bœuf, vaches ſalées, lards, ceruelas, jambons de mayence : ſemblablement poiſſons , comme moluës, merlus, ſaulmons, alouſes, tonnine, baleine, anchois, ſardines, harancs. auſſi pois,féves,riz,ails olgnons, pruneaux,fourmages, beurre, huyle, & ſel, poyvre, gingembre, maniguet, & au- tres eſpiceries pour mettre en nos paſtiſſeries : principalement des cheuaux, qui ſans cela auroient vn tres- mauuais gouſt. pluſieurs citoyens ayans des jardins en la ville,y auoient enterré groſſes raues, nauets,carrot- tes, & porreaux, qu'ils gardoient bien cherement, pour l'extreme neceſſité de la faim. or toutes ces muni- tions eſtoient diſtribuées par poids, meſure, & iuſtice, ſelon la qualité des perſonnes, parce que nous ne ſça- uoins pas combien de temps le ſiege dureroit. car ayant entendu de la bouche de l'empereur , qu'il ne par- tiroit iamais de deuant mets, qu'il ne l'euſt priſe par force ou par famine; les viures furent retranchez , en ſorte ce que qu'on diſtribuoit à trois ſoldats, eſtoit baillé pour quatre , & defenſe à eux de vendre le reſte qui pouuoit demeurer de leur repas, mais permis de le donner à leurs goujats. et ſe leuoient touſiours de table auec appetit , de peur qu'ils fuſſent ſubjects à prendre medecine. et auparant nous rendre à la grande reſo- - - •- , / - - lution # mercy des ennemis , auions deliberé de manger les aſnes, mulets, cheuaux , chiens » chats, rats , voire # nos bottes & collets, & autres cuirs qu'on euit peut amollir & fricaſſer. generalement tous les a#gº deli- mtts, berent de valeureuſement ſe defendre, auec toutes machines de guerre : à ſçauoir de braquer & charger l'artillerie ( à la pentiere de la breſche ) de boulets, cailloux, clouds de charrette, carreaux, & chaiſnes de fer ; auſſi toutes eſpeces & differences d'artifices de feu, comme boettes, bariques, grenades , pots , lan- ces, torches, & fusées, cercles entourez de chauſſes-trappes, fagots bruſlans. dabondant eau boüillante, & plomb fondu, & poudre de chaux viue, pour leur creuer les yeux. auſſi auoit-on reſolu de percer les mai- ſons de coſté & d'autre, pour y loger des arquebuziers pour les battre en flanc, & les haſter d'aller, ou » les faire du tout demeurer. pareillement on euſt donné commiſſion aux femmes de dépauer les rues , & leur etter par les feneſtres des miches de ſainct eſtienne, buſches, tables, treteaux, bancs, & eſcabel- les, qui leur euſſent effondré la ceruelle. dauantage, il y auoit vn peu plus auant vn gros corps de garde remparé de charrettes & paliſſades, tonnes, tonneaux, & bariques remplis de terre, pour ſeruir de ga- bions » entrelardez de fauconneaux & faucons, pieces de campagne, arquebuzes à croq, & arquebuzes & piſtolets , & artifices de feu,qui leur euſſent rompu jambes & cuiſſes, de façon qu'ils euſſent eſté battu en - teſte » en flanc, & en queue : & où ils euſſent forcé ce corps de garde, il y en euſt eu d'autres aux carres des rººs de cent pas en cent pas, qui euſſent eſté autant mauuais garçons, ou plus que les premiers : & n'euſt eſté ſans faire beaucoup de femmes vefues, & orfelins. et ſi la fortune euſt tant voulu c§ nous, qu'ils | euſſent fendu & rompus nos corps de gardes, il y euſt eu encore ſept gros hoſts & bataillons ordonnez en quarré & en triangle pour combattre tous enſemble, accompagnez chacun d'vn prince, pour leur donner bardieſſe a b c et voyages. a hardieſſe de mieux combatre iuſques au dernier ſouſpir, & mourir tous enſemble. dauantage ils eſtoient tous reſolus, que chacun porteroit leurs threſors, bagues, & ioyaux,& leurs meubles les meilleurs & plus ri- ches, & plus beaux , pour les bruſler en la grande place , & les mettre en cendres, de peur que les ennemis ne s'en preualufſent, & en fiſſent trophée. pareillement il y auoit gens qui euſſent eu charge de mettre le feu,& bruſler toutes les munitions, enſemble d'effondrer aux caues tous les vaiſſeaux a vin : autres de met- tre le feu en chacune maiſon pour bruſler nos et,nemis , & nous enſemble. les citoyens l'auoient ainſi tous accordé, pluſtoſt que de voir le couſteau ſanglant ſur leur gorge, & leurs femmes & filles violées, & prendre à force par les eſpagnols, cruels & ir humains. or nous au ons certains priſonniers que monſieur de guiſe renuoya ſur leur foy , auſquels l'on auoit fait tacitement conceuoir noſtre derniere volonté & deſeſpoir , leſ- quels eſtans arriuez en leur camp,ne differerent de la publier:qui fut cauſe de refrener la grande impetuoſité l - & volonté des ſoldats, de plus vouloir entrer dans la ville pour nous couper la gorge, & s'enrichir de no- - ſtre pillage. l'empereur ayant entendu cette deliberation de ce grand guer ier monſieu de guiſe, m,t de - l'eau en ſon vin , & refrena ſa grande cholere , diſant qu'il pourroit entrer dans la ville , ſans faire vne reſoldat ne bien grande boucherie & carnage s & eſpandre beaucoup de ſang, tant des defendans que des aſſaillans, va à la & fuſſent morts enſemble, & à la fin n'euſt ſceu auoir autre choſe que des cendres. et qu'apres on eult pû guerre que dire, que c'euſt eſte vne pareille deſtruction, que celle de la ville de ieruſalem , faite iadis par titus & veſ pºur le pil- paſian. l'empereur donc ayant entendu noſtre derniere eſolution , & voyant le peu qu'il auoit auancé par ºzº. . ſa batterie , ſappes & mines , & la grand peſte qui eſtoit en tout ſon camp, & l'indiſpoſition du temps , & la neceſſité de viures & d'argent & que ſes ſoldats le desbandoient, & par grandes trouppes s'en alloient : con- clud en fin ſe retirer , accompagné de la cauallerie de ſon auant garde , auec la plus grande part de ſon ar- tillerie , & de la bataille. le marquis de brandebourg fut le dernier qui deſlogea, ſouſtenu de quelques ban- des d'eſpagnols , de boémiens , & ſes compagnies d'allemans , & y demeura apres vne iournée & denie, au grand regret de monſieur de guiſe, lequel fit ſortir de la ville quatre pieces d'artillerie , qu'i fit tirer fur luy à tort & à trauers, pour le halter d'aller : ce qu'il fit bien toſt , auec toutes ſes troupes. eſtant à vn quart de lieuë de mets, fut épris d'vne frayeur, cragnant que noſtre cauallerie ne luy donnaſt ſur la queuë: qui fut cauſe qu'il fit mettre le feu en ſes pouldres de munition , & laiſſer quelques pieces d'artillerie, & - beaucoup de bagage qu'il ne ſceut faire mener , pource que l'auant garde & la bataille , & les gros canons auoient rompu & effondré les chemins. noſtre gendarmerie vouloit à toutes forces ſortir de la ville pour - · luy aller donner en queue : mais monſieur de guile ne le voulut iamais permettre : ains au contraire, leur guiſe reſſ l' dit qu'on leur deuoit piuſtoſt applanir les chemins , & leur faire des ponts d'or & d'argent pour les laiſſer #" aller, reſſemblant au bon paſteur & berger , qui ne veut perdre vne ſeule de ſes ouailles. voila comme nos eaſteur. chers & bien aymez imperiaux s'en allerent de deuant mets, qui fut le lendemain de noel,au grand conten- tement des aſſiegez,& loüange des princes, seigneurs , capitaines & ſoldats, qui auoient enduré les trauaux de ce ſiege l'eſpace de deux mois. toutesfois ils ne s'en allerent pas tous, l s'en falluſt plus de vingt mil qui eſtoient morts, tant par l'artillerie & coups de main , que de la peſte , du froid , & de la faim ( & de deſ- - pit & grand rage qu'ils ne pouuoient entrer en la ville pour nous couper la gorge, & en auoir le pillage ) & auſſi moururent grand nombre de leurs cheuaux , deſquels ils auoient mangé la plus grand part, en lieu de bœuf & de lard. on alla où ils auoient campé, où l'on trouua pluſieurs corps morts_non encore enter- c rez, & la terre toute labourée , comme l'on void le cimetie e sainct innocent, durant quelque grande mor- talite. en leurs tentes, pauillions,& loges, y auoient laiſſé pareillement pluſieurs malades : auſſi boulets, ar- mes, charrettes, chariots, & autres bagages, auec vn grand nombre de pains de monition, gaſtez & pou ris par les neiges & pluyes:encore les ſoldats n'en auoient pas que par meſure & compas.et ſemblablement laiſ- ſerent grande prouiſion de bois, du reſte des maiſons qu'ils auoient demolies & abbatues des villages à deux & trois lieuës d'alentour. pareillement pluſieurs aurres maiſons de plaiſance , appartenans aux ci- toyens, accompagnées de iardins & beaux vergers,remplis de diuers arbres fruictiers. auſſi ſans cela ils fuſ- '• ſent tous tranſis & morts du froid, & euſſent eſte contrains de leuer pluſtoft le ſiege. mondit ſeigneur de guiſe fit enterrer les morts, & traicter leurs malades. pareillement les ennemis laiſſerent en l'abbaye de s. arnoul beaucoup de leurs soldats bleſſez , qu'ils n'eurent moyen de faire enmener, mondit seigneur de guiſe leur enuoya à tous viures à ſuffi auce, & me commanda , & aux autres chirurgiens , de les aller : monſieur de e . - - - - - - # # penſei & medicamenter : ce que nous faiſons de bonne volonté,& croy qu'ils n'euſſent fait le ſemblable en- - uers les noſtres ( parce que l'eſpagnol eſt tres cruel , perfide & inhumain, & partant ennemy de toutes na- tions ( ce qui ſe preuue pas lop z eſpagnol , & benzo miianois, & autres qui ont eſcrit l hiſtoire de l'a- · merique & inde occidentale , ieſquels ont eſté contraints confeſſer, que la cruauté, auarice , blaſphemes & meſchanceté des eſpagnols, ont du tout aliené les pauures indiens de la region que leſdits eſpagnols diſoient tenir. et tous eſcriuent qu'ils valent moins que les indiens idolatres , par le cruel traictement fait auſdits indiens. - et quelques iours apres enuoya vn trompette à thionuille vers les ennemis, qu'ils euſſent à renuoyer que- rir leurs bleſſez en bonne ſeu ete : ce qu'ils firent auec charettes & chariots, mais non à ſuffiſance. mon- p ſieur de guiſe leur fit ballier charettes & chartiers pour les aider à conduire audit thionuille. noſdits char- - tiers eitans de retour, nous rapporterent que les chemins eſtoient tous pauez de corps morts, & n'en rame- - nerent iamais la moitié car ils mouroient en leuss charettes : & les eſpagnols les voyans eſtre aux traicts de la mort, auparauant qu'ils euſſent ietté le dernir ſouſpir, les iettoient hors leurs charettes, & les enſeueliſ- ſoient en la bone & lange , ditant qu'ils n'auoient nulle commiſſion de remener les morts. d'abondant noſ- dits chartiers diſo ét auoir trouué par les chemins beaucoup de charettes eunbourbées, chargées de bagages, qu'ils n'oſoient renuoyer querir, craignans que ceux de mets ne leur couruſſent ſus. ie veux encore re- tourner à la cauſe de leur mortalité , qui eſtoit principalement de la faim, peſte & du froid : car la neige la cauſe de eſtoit ſur la terre plus de hauteur de deux pieds, & eſtoient logez en des cauernes ſous terre , couuertes la morialué d'vn peu de chaume ſeulement neantmoins chacun ſoldat auoit ſon lict de camp, & vne couuerture tou- des impe- te ſemée d'eſtoilles luiſantes & brillantes, plus claire que fin or : & tous les iours auoient draps blancs, & riaux. logez à l'enſeigne de la lune, & faiſoient bonne chere quand ils auoient dequoy : & payoient ſi bien leur hoſte des le ſoir , que le matin ils s'en alloient quittes, ſecouant les oreilles. et ne leur falloit nul peigne pour deſtacher le duuet & la plume de contre leurs barbes & cheueux : & trouuoient touſiours nappe blan- che,perdans de bons repas par faute de viandes, auſſi la plus grande part n'auoit bottes ny bottines,pantou- fies,chauſſes,ny ſouliers:& pluſieurs aimoient mieux n'en auoir point que d'en auoir, pource qu'ils eſtoient touſiours en la fange iuſques à my jambes,& à cauſe qu'ils alloient nuds pieds, nous les appellions les apo , de l' ſtres de l'empereur apres que le camp fut entierement rompu, ie diſtribuay mes malades entre les mains # empe- . des chirurgiens de la ville , pour les paracheuer de penſer : puis ie prins congé de monſieur de guiſe & t'f r. m'en reuins deuers le roy , qui me receut auec bon viſage, lequel me demanda comme i'auois pû entrer - / - - · en les apoſtrer | o apologie, la mort du en la ville de mets. ie luy racontay entierement tout ce que i'auois fait. il me fit donner deux cens eſcus,& a cent que i'auois eu aupartir ; & me dit qu'il ne me laiſſeroit iamais pauure. alors ie le reunerciay tres-hum- blement, dubien & de l'honneur qu'il luy plaiſoit me faire. voyage de hedin. i [ • 'Émpereur charles fit aſſieger la ville de theroüenne, où monſieur le duc de sauoye eſtoit general de toute l'armée. elle fut priſe d'aſſaut,où il y euſt de nos gens grand nombre de tuez,& de priſonniers. le roy voulant preuoir que l'ennemy ne vint auſſi aſſieger la ville & chaſteau de hedin , enuoya meſſieurs le duc de boüillon, le duc horace, le marquis de villars, vn nombre de capitaines , & enuiron dix-huict cens ſoldats, & pendant le ſiege de theroüenne, leſdits seigneurs firent fortifier ledit chaſteau de hedin, de façon qu'il ſembloit eſtre imprenable. le roy m'enuoya vers leſdits seigneurs pour les ſecourir de mon art, ſi d'auanture ils en auoient affaire. or toſt apres la priſe de theroüenne , nous fuſmes aſſiegez de l'ar- mée. il y auoit vne viue & claire fontaine à la portée de noſtre canon , où il y auoit enuiron quatre-vingts ou cent goujats & putains de nos ennemis, qui eſtoient autour pour puiſer de l'eau. i'eſtois ſur vn ram- part regardant aſſeoir le camp : & voyant cette multitude de faineants autour de ladite fontaine, ie priay monſieur du pont,commiſſaire de l'artillerie,de faire tirer vn coup de canon à cette canaille: il m'en fit grand refus , me remonſtrant que toute cette maniere de gens ne vaudroit point la poudre qu'on y dependroit. derechef ie le priay de braquer le canon, luy diſant, que plus de morts moins d'ennemis, ce qu'il fit par ma priere: & de ce coup en furent tuez quinze ou ſeize, & beaucoup de bleſſez. nos ſoldats firent ſaillies ſur les ennemis, où il y en eut beaucoup de tuez & bleſſez de coup d'arquebuſes & de main, tant d'vne part que d'autre : & nos ſoldats faiſoient ſouuent des ſaillies ſur les ennemis , auparauant que leurs tranchées fuſſent faites, là où i'eus beaucoup de beſongne taillée, de façon que ie n'auois repos nyiour ny nuict , à penſer les bleſſez. et diray cecy en paſſant, que nous en auions mis beaucoup en vne groſſe tour, couchez ſur vn peu de paille : & leurs oreillers eſtoient des pierres : leurs couuertures eſtoient leurs manteaux, à ceux ui en auoient. lors que la batterie ſe faiſoit, autant de coups que leurs canons tiroient, les malades di- § ſentir douleur en leurs playes , comme ſi on leur euſt donné des coups de baſton : l'vn crioit la teſte, l'autre le bras, & ainſi des autres parties, & à pluſieurs leurs playes reſaignoient, voire en plus grande abondance qu'à l'heure qu'ils furent bleſſez, & lors c'eſtoit à moy à courir pour les eſtancher. mon petit maiſtre, ſi vous euſſiez eſté là, vous euſſiez eſté bien empeſché auec vos fers ardans. il vous euſt fallu beau- coup de charbon pour les rougir , & croy qu'on vous euſt aſſommé comme vn veau pour cette cruauté. or par cette tempeſte diabolique de l'echo de cette machine canonique, & grande & vehemente agitation de la colliſion de l'air retentiſſant aux playes de ces bleſſez, pluſieurs mourroient : & d'autres, par ce qu'ils ne pouuoient repoſer, à cauſe des clameurs & cris qu'ils faſoient iour & nuict , & auſſi faute de bons aliments & autres traittemens neceſſaires aux bleſſez. or, mon petit maiſtre, ſi vous euſſiez eſté là, vous euſſiez bien pû leur ordonner de la gelée, reſtaurans, coulis, preſſis, panade » orge mondé , amandes, blanc-manger, pruneaux, raiſins de damas , & autres viandes propres aux malades , voſtre ordonnance euſt eſté ſeulement accomplie en papier, mais à l'effect ils n'euſſent ſceu autre choſe auoir, que de la chair de vieilles vaches empreintes, qui furent priſes autour de hedin pour noſtre munition, ſalées & demy-cuites, en ſorte que qui la vouloit manger, il la falloit tirer à force de dents, comme font les oyſeaux de proye leur viande. ie ne veux laiſſer leurs linges dont ils eſtoient penſez , qui eſtoient ſeulement relauez tous les iours, & ſeichez au feu, partant endurcis comme parchemin. ie laiſſe à penſer comme leurs playes ſe deuoient bien porter. il y auoit quatre groſſes putains de † , à qui fut donnée la charge de blanchir le linge, qui s'en ac- quittoient à coups de baſton , & auſſi qu'elles n'auoient l'eau à commandement ny moins le ſauon. voilà comme les pauures malades mourroient par fautè d'alimens, & autres choſes , ceſſaires. vn iour nos enne- mis feignirent de nous donner vn aſſaut general, pour attirer nos ſoldats ſur la breſche, afin de reconnoiſtre noſtre contenance : tout le monde y courut , nous auions grande prouiſion de teu d'artifice, pour defendre la breſche. vn preſtre de monſieur le duc de boüillon print vne grenade, penſant la jetter ſur les ennemis, & y mit le feu plutoſt qu'il ne deuoit : elle ſe creua , & le feu ſe mit en nos artifices, qui eſtoient en vne maiſon pres la breſche, qui nous fut vn merueilleux deſaſtre , pource qu'il bruſla beaucoup de pauures ſol- dats : meſme ſe print en la maiſon, & euſſions eſté tous bruſlez , n'euſt eſté le ſecours qu'on fit pour l'eſtein- dre. il n'y auoit qu'vn ſeul puits là où il y euſt de l'eau en noſtre chaſteau , qui fut preſque tout tary , & en lieu d'eau , on prit de la biere pour l'eſteindre. puis apres euſmes grande diſette d'eau : & pour boire le reſte qui demeura, il la nous falloit paſſer au trauers des ſeruiettes. or l'ennemy voyant cette foudre & tem- peſte de ces artifices , qui jetterent vne merueilleuſe flamme & tintamarre, eſtimoient que nous euſſions mis le feu expres pour la deffenſe de noſtre breſche pour les bruſler, & que nous en auions bien d'autres. cela leur fit prendre autre opinion de nous auoir par autre voye que par aſſaut : il firent des mines , & ſapperent la plus grande partie de nos murailles : tellement que cela eſtoit pour renuerſer entierement noſtre chaſteau s'en deſſus-deſſous : & lors que les ſappes furent acheuées de faire, & que leur artillerie tiroit, tout noſtre chaſteaubranſloit ſous nous, comme vn tremblement de terre qui nous eſtonna fort. dauantage, ils auoient braqué cinq pieces d'artillerie, qu'ils auoient aſſiſes ſur vne petite colline, pour nous donner à dos, lors que fuſſions allez pour la deffence de la breſche. le duc horace eut vn coup de canon à vne eſpaule , qui luy emporta le bras d'vn coſté & le corps de due ra l'autre , ſans que iamais il ſceuſt dire vne ſeule parole. cette mort-là nous fut vn grand deſaſtre , pour le rang qu'il tenoit en cette place. monſieur de semblablement monſieur de martigues eut vn coup de boulet qui luy perça les poulmons : ie le penſay, martigues bleſſé. comme ie diray cy-apres. alors nous demandaſmes à parlementer, & fut enuoyé vn trompette vers le prin- ce de piedmont, pour ſçauoir quelle compoſition il luy plaiſoit nous faire. sa reſponſe fut , que tous chefs, comme gentils-hommes, capitaines, lieutenans, enſeignes, ſeroient pris à rançon,& les ſoldats ſortiroient ſans armes : & que s'ils refuſoient ce beau & honneſte party, le lendemain nous deuions eſtre aſſeurez qu'on nous auroit par aſſaut ou autrement. le conſeil fut tenu, où ie fus appellé, pour ſçauoir fi ie voulois figner comme pluſieurs capitaines, gentils-hommes, & autres, que la place fuſt rendue. ie fis reſponſe, qu'elle n'eſtoit pas tenable, & que ie le ſignerois de mon propre ſang , pour le peu d'eſperance que i'auois que l'on peuſt reſiſter aux forces des ennemis, & auſſi pour le grand defir d'eſtre hors de cét enfer & grand tourment car ie ny dormois ny iour ny nuict, pour la grande quantité des bleſſez , qui pouuoient eſtre en nombre de deux cens. les morts rendoient vne grande putrefaction, eſtans entaſſez les vns ſur les autres comme fagots, n'eſtans point couuerts de terre,à cauſe que nous n'en auions pas. et ſi i'entrois en vn logis il y auoit des ſol- dats qui m'attendoient à la porte lors que i'en ſortois pour en penſer d'autres : c'eſtoit à qui m'auroit , & me porto ent et voyages. i À portoient cºmme vn corps fainct, ne touchant du pied en terre malgré les vns des autres, & ne pouuois ſa- tisfaire à ce grand nombre de bleſſez : ioinct que ie n'auois ce qui m'eſtoit neceſſaire pour les medicamenter. car il ne ſuffit au chirurgien faire ſon deuoir enuers les malades, mais il faut que le malade faſſe le ſien ; & les aſſiſtans & les choſes exterieures , teſmoin hippocrate, aphoriſine premier. or ayant entendu la re- ſolution de la reddition de noſtre place : ie conneu que noſtre affaire n'alloit pas bien : & de peur d'eſtre conneu, ie donnay vn ſaye de velours, vn pourpoint de ſatin, vn manteau d'vn fin drap, paré de velours, à vn ſoldat qui me donna vn meſchant pourpoint tout deſchiré & dechiqueté d'vſure , & vn collet de cuir bien examiné,&}vn meſchant chappeau,& vn petit manteau:ie barboüillay le collet de ma chemiſe,auec de l'eau, où i'auois deſtrempé vn peu de ſuye pareillement i'vſay mes chouſſes auec vne pierre à l'endroit des ge- noüils,& au deſſus des tallons,comme ſi elles euſſent long temps eſté portées:i'en fis autant à mes ſouliers,de façon qu'on m'euſt pluſtoſt prins pour vn ramonneur de cheminée que pour vn chirurgien de roy ie m'en allay en cét equippage vers monfieur de martigues,où ie le priay, qu'il fit en ſorte que ie demeuraſſe aupres de luy pour le penſer , ce qu'il m'accorda bien volontairement : & auoit auſſi grande enuie que ie demeuraſ- ſe aupres de luy, que moy-meſme. toſt apres les commiſſaires qui auoient charge d'eſlire les priſonniers, entrerent dedans le chaſteau.le dixſeptieſme iour de iuillet,mil cinq cens cinquante trois : où ils firent pren- dre meſſieurs le duc de boüillon,le marquis de villars,de roye,le baron de culan, monſieur du pont,com- miſſaire de l'artillerie , & de martigues , & moy auec luy (par la priere qu'il leur en fit) & tous les gentils- hommes qu'ils peurent reconnoiſtre pouuoir payer quelque rançon, & la plus grande part des ſoldats & chefs des coinpagnies, ayans des priſonniers tant & tels qu'ils voulurent. apres les ſoldats eſpagnols entrerent par la breſche, ſans aucune reſiſtance : les noſtres eſtimoient qu'ils tiendroient leur foy & leur compoſition, qu'ils auroient la vie ſauue : ils entrerent dedans d'vne grande fu- rie pour tout tuer , piller & ſaccager : ils en retindrent quelques vns eſperans en auoir rançon, leur lierent les coüillons auec leurs cordes d'arquebuſes,qui eſtoient jettées par deſſus vne pique, que deux tenoient ſur leurs eſpaules, puis tiroient ladite corde par vne grande violence & derifion, comme s'ils euſſent voulu fai- re ſonner vne cloche, leut diſant qu'il falloit qu'ils ſe miſſent à rançon,& dire de quelles maiſons ils eſtoient, & s'ils voyoient n'en auoir aucun profit,les faiſoient mourir cruellement eptre leurs mains:ou toſt apres leurs parties genitales tomboient en gangrene & en totale mortification. et les tuerent tous à coups de dagues, & leur coupoient la gorge. voilà leur grande cruauté & perfidie : s'y fie qui voudra. or pour retourner à mon propos, eſtant mené du chaſteau en la ville auec monſieur de martigues, il y eut vn gentil-homme de monfieur de sauoye, qui me demanda ſi la playe de monſieur de martigues ſe pourroit guarir : ie luy dis que non , & qu'elle eſtoit incurable. promptement s'en alla le dire à monſieur le duc de sauoye. or ie penſois bien qu'il enuoyeroit des medecins & chirurgiens, pour viſiter & penſer mondit ſieur de marti- gues : cependant ie fis vn diſcours en mon ame , ſi ie deuois faire le niaiz , & ne me donner à connoiſtre eſtre chirurgien, de peur qu'ils ne me retinſſent, pour penſer leurs bleſſez, & qu'en fin ie fuſſe conneu eſtre chirurgien du roy, & qu'ils ne me fiſſent payer vne groſſe rançon. d'autre coſté , ie craignois que ſi ie ne me monſtrois eſtre chirurgien,& auoir bien pensé le seigneur de martigues, qu'ils ne me coupaſſent la gor- ge : tellement que ie prins reſolution, de leur faire paroiſtre qu'il ne mourroit pas , par defaut d'auoir eſté bien pensé & ſecouru toſt apres voicy arriuer plufieurs gentils-hommes , accompagnez d'vn medecin & chirurgien de l'empereur, & de ceux dudit seigneur de sauoye, auec ſix autres chirurgiens ſuiuans l'ar- mée, pour voir la bleſſeure dudit seigneur de martigues, & ſçauoir de moy comme ie l'auois pensé & me- dicamenté. le medecin de l'empereur me dit, que i'euſſe à declarer l'eſſence de la playe, & comme ie l'auois'traictée. or toute l'aſſiſtance auoit l'oreille fort attentiue,à ſçauoir ſi la playe eſtoit mortelle ou non. ie commence à leur diſcourir, que monſieur de martigues regardant par deſſus la muraille, pour reconnoi- ſtre ceux qui la ſappoient, receut vn coup d'arquebuſe au trauers du corps, où tout ſubit ie fus appellé pour le penſer : e vis qu'ils jettoit le ſang par la bouche, & par ſes playes. dauantage, il auoit vne grande diffi- culte de reſpirer, & expirer : & iettoit le vent par leſdites playes, auec vn ſifflement, en ſorte qu'il euſt pû eſteindre vne chandelle, & diſoit auoir vne tres grande douleur poignante, à l'entrée de la bale. teſtime & croy que ce pouuoient eſtre quelques eſquilles qui piquoient les poulmons, lors qu'ils faiſoient leur ſiſto- lé & diaſtolé. ie luy mis le doigt dedans, où ie trouuay que l'entrée de la bale auoit rompu la quatrieſme coſte en ſon milieu & des eſquilles que ladite bale auoit pouſſées au dedans,& la ſortie auoit ſemblablement rompu la cinquiéme coſte,auec des eſquilles qui auoient eſté chaſſées du dedans au dehors. i'en tiray quel- ques-vnes,& non toutes, à cauſe qu'elles eſteient trop profondes & adherantes. ie mis à chacune playe vne , tente,ayant lat eſte aſſez groſſe,attachée par vn filet,de peur que par l'inſpiration,ne fuſſent attirées en la ca- pacité du thorax : ce qu'on a conneu par experience, au detriment des pauures bleſſez. car eſtans tombées dedans,on ne les peut retirer,qui eſt cauſe qu'elles engendrerent vne pourriture, comme choſe eſtrange à na- ture.leſdites tentes furent ointes d'vn medicament,fait de iaune d'œuf & terebenthine de veniſe,auec vn peu d'huyle roſat. mon intention y mettant leſdites tentes, eſtoit d'arreſter le ſang, & pour garder que l'air exte- aphoriſ , d'hippocr. perfidisé cruauté des eſpagnols. rieur n'entraſt dans la poitrine,qui euſt peu refroidir les poulmons, & par confequent le cœur. leſdites ten-: tes y eſtoient miſes auſſi, afin de donner iſſué au ſang reſpandu dedans le thorax. ie mis ſur les playes vne grande emplaſtre de diachalciteos,en laquelle i'auois fait fondre de l'huyle roſat & vinaigre,afin d'euite l'in- flammation : puis apres ie mis de grandes compreſſes, trempées dedans de l'oxycrat, & le banday non pas fort, afin qu'il reſpiraſt à ſon aiſe. cela fait, ie luy tiray cinq palettes de ſang de la veine baſilique du bras droit , afin de faire reuulſion du ſang, qui decouloit de ſes playes dans le thorax , ayant premierement prins - - • - - e" t-. - indication des parties bleſſées, & principalement des vertus, confiderant ſa ieuneſſe, & ſon temperament ſanguin. toſt apres alla à ſes affaires, & par ſes vrines & ſelles jetta grande quantite de ſang. et quant à la douleur qu'il diſoit ſentir à l'entree de la bale, comme s'il euſt eſté piqué d'vn poinçon, cela ſe faiſoit, à cauſe que les poulmons, par les mouuemens, battoient contre les eſquilles de la coſte rompue. or les poulmons ſont couuerts d'vne tunique venant de la membrane pleuretique, eſtant tiſſuë des nerfs de la ſixieſme coniugaiſon du cerueau, qui eſtoit cauſe de la douleur qu'il ſentoit. pareillement auoit vne grande difficulté de reſpirer & expirer, qui prouenoit du ſang eſpandu en la capacité du thorax , & ſur le diaphragme, principal inſtrument de la reſpiration , & de la dilaceration des muſcles , qui ſont entre chacu- ne coſte, qui aydent auſſi à faire la reſpiration & expiration , & pareillement à cauſe que les poulmons eſtoient vulnerez & rompus, & dilacerez par la bale, qui a fait, qu'il a touſiours craché vn ſang noir & pourry en touſſant. - la fiévre le print toſt apres qu'il fut bleſsé,auec deffaillance de cœur. ladite fiévte me ſembloit proue- des vapeurs putredineuſes eſleuées du ſang. qui eſt hors de ſes vaiſſeaux, qui a decoulé & decoulera encore. la playe du poulmon eſt agrandie, & agrandira, parce qu'il eſt en perpetuel mouuement, ſoit en dormant, ou en veillant,& ſe dilate,& comprime, pour attirer l'air au cœur,& ietter les vapeurs fuligineuſes dehors. - par la playe du poulmon pourquoy . s'aggrandit. . apologie, prognoſtis de mort. gräde teme° rité d'vn im - poſteur eſ- nol. #. fai- te à l'au- theur. hiſtoire d'vn impo- ſteur eſpa- gnol. gal.de de- cretu, & , hipp.de lo- cſ affectis. belle anno- tation au chirurgien. par la chaleur eſtrange eſt faicte inflammation : puis la vertu expulſiue s'efforçant à jetter par la toux ce qui a luy nuit : car le poulmon ne ſe peut purger qu'en touſſant, & en touſſant la playe ſe dilate touſiours , & agrandit dauantage, dont le ſang en ſort en grande abondance, lequel ſang eſt attiré du cœur par la veine artereuſe, pour leur donner nourriture, & du cœur de la veine caue. son manger ettoit de l'orge- mondé, des pruneaux auec du ſucre , autresfois de la panade : ſon boire eſtoit de la ptiſane. il ne ſe peut tenir couché que ſur le dos : qui demonſtre auoir grande quantité de ang eſpandu en la capacitè du thorax, & s'eſpanchant au long de l'eſpine, ne comprime tant les poulmons, comme il faict eſtant couché ſur les coſtes, ou aſſis. que diray-ie plus ? c'eſt que mondit seigneur de martigues, depuis qu'il fut bleſſé , iamais n'a ſceu re- poſer vne ſeule heure, & a touſiours jetté ſes ſelles & vrines ſanguinolentes. ces choſes confiderées , meſ- ſieurs , on ne peut faire autre prognoſtic, ſinon qu'il mourra en briefs iours , qui auec mon grand regret. · ayant acheué mon diſcours, ie le penſay comme i'auois accouſtume. ayant deſcouuert ſes playes, les me- decins & chirurgiens, & autres aſſiſtans preſens , conneurent la verité de ce que ie leur auois dit. leſdits medecins ayans touche le pouls , & conneuſes forces quaſi proſternées & abbatues, conclurent auec moy, qu'en peu de iours il mourroit. et de ce pas s'en allerent tous vers mondit seigneur de sauoye, où ils dirent que ledit seigneur de martigues mourroit en brief temps. il leur fit reſponſe que poſſible s'il euſt eſté bien pensé, il en euſt peu reſçhapper. alors tous d'vne voix dirent : qu'il auoit eſté tres-bien pen- sé, & ſolicité de tout ce qu'il appartenoit, pour la guariſon de ſes playes , & ne pouuoit eſtre mieux : & qu'il eſtoit impoſſible de le pouuoir guarir, & que ſa playe eſtoit mortelle de neceſſité. - alors monſieur de sauoye monſtra eſtre fort deſplaiſant, & pleura,& leur demanda derechef,ſi pour cer- tain ils le tenoient tout pour deploré. ils reſpondirent que ouy. là ſe preſenta vn impoſteur eſpagnol, qui promit ſur ſa vie qu'il les gueriroit, & s'il failloit à le guarir , qu'on le miſt en cent pieces, mais qu' l ne vou- loit auoir nuls medecins, ny chirurgiens, ny apothicaires auec luy : & ſur l'heure ledit seigneur de sauoye * dit aux medecins & chirurgiens,qu'ils n'allaſſent aucunement voir ledit seigneur de martigues.auſſi m'en- uoya vn gentil-homme defendre ſur peine de la vie, de ne toucher aucunement à monſieur de martigues:ce que ie luy promis faire. ' de quoy.ie fort ioyeux , voyant qu'il ne mourroit pas entre mes mains : & com- manda à cét impoſteur , de penſer ledit seigneur de martigues, & qu'il n'y auroit autres medecins ny chi- rurgiens que luy. il arriua bien-toſt apres vers ledit seigneur de martigues, & luy dit : sefior caualero, el ſeñor zduque de saboya me ba mandado, que venieſſe à curar voſtra beriua , yr os iuro à dior que antes de'ocho dias yo'os baga ſubir à cauallo con la lanſa, en puiio con'tal que noayo que yo qu'os toque. comereis y · beberis todas comidas que fuerent de vofiro guéto, y yo hare la dieta por y.m. y defio os de yeis aſſeguirar ſobre de mi. yo beſanado muchos que tunian mayores que la voſtra. c'eſt à dire, seigneur cheualier, monſieur le duc de sauoye m'a commandé de te venir penſer de ta bleſ- ſure. ie te iure dieu » que deuant huict iours ie te feray monter à cheual , la lance au poing , pourueu qu'il n'y ait que moy qui te touche. tu mangeras & boiras toutes viandes qui ſeront à ton gouſt : ie feray diete pour toy , & de ce tu te dois aſſeurer ſur ma promeſſe. i'en ay guary pluſieurs, qui auoient de plus grandes playes que la tienne. et les seigneurs luy reſpondirent. dieu vous en donne la grace. il demanda vne chemiſe dudit seigneur de martigues, & la mit en petits lambeaux , qu'il poſa en croix, marmottant & barbotant certaines paroles ſur les playes : & l'ayant habillé,luy permit manger & boire tout ce qu'il voudroit , luy diſant qu'il feroit diette pour luy : ce qu'il faiſoit ne mangeant que ſix pruneaux, & ſix morceaux de pain pour repas, ne beuuant que de la biere. neantmoins deux iours apres ledit seigneur de martigues mourut : & mon eſpanol le voyant en agonie s'eclipſa , & gaigna le haut, ſans dire à dieu à perſonne : & croy que s'il euſt eſté attrappe, il euſt eſté pendu & eſtranglé , pour la faqſſe promeſſe qu'il auoit faicte à monſieur le duc de sauoye, & à pluſieurs autres gentils-hommes. il mourut ſur les dix heures du matin & ſur l'apres-diſnée, ledit seigneur de sauoye renuoya des me- decins & chirurgiens, & ſon apothicaire, auec quantité de drogues pour l'embaumer. ils vindrent ac- compagnez de pluſieurs gentil-hommes & capitaines de l'armée. - le chirurgien de l'empereur s'approcha de moy, & me pria bien affectueuſement d'en faire l'ouuerture: ce que ie refuſay , luy remoſtrant que ie ne meritois pas de porter ſon eſtuy apresluy : il me pria derechef que ie le fiſſe pour l'amour de luy , & qu il l'auroit fort agreable. ie voulu encore dauantage m'excuſer, que puis qu'il n'auoit cette volonté de l'embaumer, qu'il donnaſt cette charge à vn autre chirurgien de la compagnie. il me fit encore reſponſe qu'il vouloit que ce fuſt moy, & où ie ne le voudrois faire, que ie m'en pourrois bien repentir. connoiſſant cette ſienne affection, de crainte qu'il ne me fit quelque deſplaiſir, prins le raſoir , & le preſentay à tous en particulier, leur remonſtrant que ie n'eſtois bien ſtile a faire telle opera- tion : ce qu'ils refuſerent tous. - - le corps posé ſur vne table, veritablement ie me propoſay de leur monſtrer que i'eſtois anatomiſte, leur -, declarant beaucoup de choſes, qui ſeroient icy trop longues à reciter. ie commençay à dire à toute la com- . pagnie, que i'auois tenu pour aſſeuré que la bale auoit rompu deux coſtes, & auoit paſsé au trauers des poulmons,& qu'on trouueroit la playe fort agrandie, parce qu'ils ſont en perpetuel mouuement, ſoit en dor- mant , ou en veillant, & par ce mouuement, la playe ſe dilacere dauantage : auſſi qu'il y auoit grande quan- tité de ſang reſpandu en la poitrine, & ſur le diaphragme : & des eſquilles des coſtes fracturées, que l'en- d trée de la bale auoit pouſsées en dedans , & la ſortie les auoit pouſſées en dehors. or veritablement tout ce que ie leur auois dit, fut trouué en ce corps mort. • l'vn des medecins me demanda par où pouuoit paſſer le ſang , pour eſtre jetté par les vrines, eſtant con- tenu au thorax. ie luy fis reſponſe , qu'il auoit vn conduit manifeſte : c'eſt que la veine azygos ayant nour- ry toutes les coſtes, ſon reſte deſcend ſous le diaphragme, & du coſté gauche, ſe conjoint auec la veine emulgente, qui eſt la voye, par laquelle la matiere de la pleureſie, & la boué des empyemes, ſe vuident manifeſtement par les vrines & par le ſiege : comme on void pareillement, le laict pur des mammelles des femmes nouuellement accouchées, deſcendre par les veines mammillaires, & eſtre vacué en bas par le col de la matrice , ſans ſe meſler auec le ſang : & telle choſe ſe faict (comme par vn miracle de nature ) par ſa vertu expulſiue, & ſequeſtrice. ce qui ſe void par experience, de deux vaiſſeaux de verre appellez monte- vins, que l'vn ſoit remply d'eau, & l'autre de vin clairet, & ſoient poſez l'vn ſur l'autre, à ſçauoir celuy qui ſera remply d'eau, ſur l'autre remply de vin , on void à l'œil le vin monter au haut du vaiſſeau au tra- uers de l'eau, & l'eau deſcendre au trauers du vin, & aller au fonds du vaiſſeau, ſans meſlange des deux. et ſi telle choſe ſe faict ainſi exterieurement & apertement , au ſens de noſtre veue, par choſes inanimées , il faut croire de meſme en noſtre entendement , que nature peut faire paſſer la bouë , & le ſang , ayant eſte hors de ſes vaiſſeaux , voire au trauers des os, ſans qu'ils ſoient meſlez auec le bon ſang. - noſtre diſcours finy, i'embaume le corps, & fut posé en vn cercueil. apres cela le chirurgien de l'empe- iclli et voyages. ， : a reur me tira à part,& me dit que fiie voulois demeurer auec luy,qu'il me traicteroit bien, & qu'il m'habil- leroit tout à neuf : auſſi qu'il me feroit aller à cheual. ie le remercieray bien fort, de l'honneur qu'il me fai- braue reſs ſoit, & luy dis que ie n'auois aucune enuie de faire ſeruice aux eſträgers & ennemis de ma patrie, alors il ponſe. me dit que i'eſtois vn fol,& que s'il eſtoit priſonnier comme moy, qu'il ſeruiroit vn diable,pour eſtre mis en liberté.en-fin ie luy dis tout à plat , que ie ne voulois point demeurer auec luy. le medecin de l'empereur s'en retourna vers ledit ſeigneur de sauoye, où il declara la mort dudit ſei- gneur de martigues » & luy dit qu'il eſtoit impoſſible à tous les hommes qui ſont au monde de le pouuoir guarir : & luy confi rma encore, que i'auois fait tout ce qui eſtoit neceſſaire de faire, & le pria de me reti- rer à ſon ſeruice, & luy dit plus de bien de moy, qu'il n'y en auoit. ayant eſté perſuadé me prendre à ſon ſeruice, il donna la charge à vn de ſes maiſtres d'hoſtel, nommé monſieur du bouchet, me dire que ſi ie voulois demeurer à ſon ſeruice, qu'il me traicteroit bien : ie luy fis reſponſe, que ie le remerciois bien humblement, & que i'auois deliberé de ne demeurer auec nul eſtranger. cette mienne reſponſe entenduë par le duc de sauoye,il ſe cholera aucunement,& dit qu'il me falloit euuo- yer aux galeres. - monſieur de vaudeuille , gouuerneur de graueline, & colonnel de dix ſept enſeignes de gens de pied, le pria de me donner à luy , pour le penſer d'vn vieil vlcere qu'il auoit à vne jambe, il y auoit ſi ou ſept ans. monſieur de sauoye luy dit, pour ce que ie valois, qu'il en eſtoit content : & que ſi ie luy mettois le feu à la jambe,que ce ſeroit bien fait. il luy reſpondit que s'il en apperceuoit quelque choſe, qu'il me feroit couper la gorge. b # toſt apres ledit ſeigneur de vaudeuille m'enuoya querir par quatre hallebardiers allemans de ſa garde,leſquels m'eſtonnerent bien fort, ne ſçachant où ils me menoient : ils ne parloient non plus françois que moy allemand. eſtant arriué à ſon logis, il me dit que i'eſtois le bien venu, & que i'eſtois à luy, & que ſi toſt que ie l'aurois guari de cét vlcere, qu'il auoit à vne jambe qu'il me donneroit mon congé ſans prendre aucune rançon de moy. ie luy dis que ie n'auois nul moyen de payer aucune rançon. lors il fit appeller ſon medecin & chirurgien ordinaire pour me monſtrer ſa jambe vlcerée. l'ayant veue & conſiderée, nous retiraſmes à part en vne chambre, où ie commença à leur dire, que ledit vlcere eſtoit annuel,n'eſtant ſimple,mais compliqué , à ſçauoir de figure ronde & oſtraqueuſe, ayant les bords durs & calleux,caue & ſordide,accompagné d vne groſſe veine variqueuſe, qui perpetuellement l'abreuuoit. d'a- bondant,d'vne groſſe tumeur & intemperature phlegmoneuſe,& douloureuſe en toute la jambe,en vn corps de temperature fort cholerique : comme le poil de ſa barbe, & ſon viſage le demonſtroit. la methode de le guarir (ſi guarir ſe pouuoir) eſt qu'il falloitcommencer aux choſes vniuerſelles,à ſçauoir à la purgation. & à la ſaignée, & à ſa maniere de viure : qu'il n'vſaſt nullement de vin, ny de viandes ſalées, & de haut gouſt, & generalement de celles qui eſchauffent le ſang.apres, qu'il falloit commencer la cure , en faiſant pluſieurs ſcarifications autour de l'vlcere : & couper totalement les bords calleux, & donner vne figure lon- gue ou triangle. car la ronde ne ſe peut que difficillement guarir, comme les anciens ont laiſsé par eſcrit. ce qu'on void par experience. cela fait il falloit mondifier la ſordicie, & chair pourrie de l'vlcere,qui ſe fe- roit auec de l'onguent egyptiac, & par deſſus vne compreſſe trempée en jus de plantain & de morelle &oxy- crat, & falloit bander ſa jambe, commençant au pied , & finiſſant au genoüil , & n'oublier à mettre vne petite compreſſe ſur la veine variqueuſe, afin qu'il ne fiuat rien de § auſdits vlceres. dauantage qu'il ſe tint à repos ſur le lict, ce qui eſt commandé par hippocrate,qui dit que ceux qui ont mal aux jambes ne ſe doiuent tenir debout, ny aſſis, mais couché. et apres ces choſes faites, & l'vlcere bien mondifié, on luy appliqueroit deſſus vne lamine de plomb,frottée & blanchie de vif argent. voila les moyens, par leſquels ledit ſeigneur de vaudeuille pourra guarir de ſon vlcere. tout cela trouuerent ils bon. lors le medecin me laiſsât auec le chirurgien,s'en alla vers le ſeigneur de vaudeuille,luy dire, qu'il s'aſſeuraſt que ie le pour- rois guarir,& luy dit tout ce qu'auois deliberé de faire pour la guariſon de ſon vlcere, dont il fut fort io- yeux. il me fit appeller,& me demanda ſi i'auois opinion que ſon vlcere ſe peuft guarir : ie luy dis qu'oüy, pourueu qu'il fuſt obeyſſant à faire ce qu'il falloit : il me fit promeſſe , qu'il feroit entierement tout ce que ie voudrois luy faire ordonner, & que fi toſt que ſon vlcere ſeroit guari, qu'il me donneroit liberté de m'en retourner,ſans payer aucune rançon, alors ie le fuppliay venir à vne meilleure compoſition auec moy, & luy remonſtrant que le temps me ſeroit trop long pour seſtre en liberte iuſques à ce qu'il fut entierement guary, & que dedans quinze iours i'eſperois faire que ſon vlcere ſeroit diminué de plus de la moitié, & ſe- roit ſans douleur, & que ſon chirurgien & medecin paracheueroient facilement de guarir ce qui en re- fteroit : il s'accorda, & dés lors ie pris vn peu de papier pour prendre la grandeur de ſon vlcere, que ie luy baillay,& en retins autant par deuers moy. ie le priay qu'il me tint promeſſe lors qu'il connoiſtroit beſon- gne faite. il me jura foy de gentil-homme,qu'il le feroit : adonc ie me deliberay de le bien penſer , ſelon la methode de gal. qui fut qu'apres auoir oſté les choſes eſtranges de l'vlcere, & qu'il ne reſteroit que reple- tion de chair,ie ne le penſerois plus qu'vne fois le iour : & trouuoit cela bien eſtrange : & pareillement ſon d medecin, qui eſtoit bien doux de ſel, lequel me vouloit perſuader auec le malade,de le penſer deux ou trois fois le iour.ie les priay qu'ils me laiſſaſsét faire,& que ce que i'en faiſois n'eſtoit pour allonger la cure,au con- traire, pour l'aduancer,pour le deſir que i'auois d'eſtre en liberté : & qu'il regardaſt en gal.au . liure de la compoſition des medicamens ſelon ſes genres, qui dit , que ſi vn medicament ne ſeiourne long-temps ſur la partie,il ne profite ſi bien côme lors qu'il y eſt laiſsé long-temps:choſe qu'aucûs medecins ont ignoré,& ont pensé qu'il eſt mieux de remuer les emplaſtres. et cette mauuaiſe couſtume eſt tant inueterée & enracinée, que les malades meſmes accuſent ſouuent les chirurgiens de negligence,qu'ils ne changent plus ſouuent les emplaſtres : mais ils ſont deceus.car comme auez entendu & leu en pluſieurs lieux de mes œuures, les qua- litez de tous corps qui s'entre-touchent,agiſſent l'vne contre l'autre : & tous deux patiſſent quelque choſe, fuſt l'vne d'icelles beaucoup plus forte que l'autre:au moyen dequoy lefdites qualitez s'vniſsét,& familiariſent auec le temps,combien qu'elles ſoient de beaucoup differentes : de maniere que la qualité du medicament s'vnit,& quelquesfois deuient ſemblable à celle du corps,qui eſt choſe fort vtile. parquoy doit-on beaucoup loiier celuy qui premiera inuenté de n'vfer ſi ſouuent de nouuelles emplaſtres, d'autant qu'on a conneu par experience cette inuention eſtre bonne. opinion de l'autheur de t'vlcere du ſe gneur de vandeuille, gal au. - liu. de la compoſdes medic. dauantage , dit qu'on fait encore grande faute, d'habiller ſouuent les vlceres , les eſſuyant bien pourquºy il fort : car on oſte non ſeulement l'excrement inutile, qui eſt la boue ou fanie des vlceres, mais auſſi la ma- ne faut ſou- tiere dont eſt faite la chair. parquoy pour les raiſons ſuſdites, il n'eſt beſoin de ſi ſouuent penſer les vls uent remuer cer es. des cmpla- ledit seigneur de vaudeuille voulut entendre, ſi ce que i'alleguois de galien eſtoit vray, & comman ſtres. da audit medecin d'y regarder, & qu'il le vouloit ſçauoir : il fe fit apporter le liure ſur la table, où mon dire fut trouué veritable,& lors ledit medecin demeura fort honteux , & moy bien ioyeux. ral : § x x x edi apologie, monſieur de baugé pri- ſonnier,ven- du trente eſcus. le conneſta- ble bleſſé au dot. ledit seigneur de vaudeuille ne deſira plus d'eſtre pensé qu'vne fois le iour : de façon que dedans les quinze a iours ſon vlcere eſtoit preſque tout cicatrizé.la compoſition entre nous faite, ie commençay à me refiouyr. il me faiſoit manger & boire à ſa table , lors qu'il n'y auoit point de plus gens de bien que luy & moy. il me fit donner vne grande eſcharpe rouge : qu'il me commanda de porter. ie puis dire que i'en eſtois autant ioyeux,comme vn chien à qui on baille vn tribar, de peur qu'il n'aille aux vignes manger les raiſins. le medecin & chirurgien me menoient parmy le camp, pour viſiter leurs bleſſez où ie prenois garde que faiſoient nos ennemis : ie recogneu qu'ils n'auoient plus de groſſes pieces de batterie, mais ſeulement vingt- cinq ou trente de campagne. monſieur de vaudeuille tenoit monſieur de baugé priſonnier, frere de monſieur de martigues qui mou- rut à hedin. ledit ſeigneur de baugé eſtoit priſonnier au chaſteau de la morte au bois, appartenant à l'em- pereur, lequel auoit eſté pris à therouenne, par deux ſoldats eſpagnols. or ledit ſeigneur de vaudeuille l'ayant enuiſagé,concluoit deuoir eſtre quelque gentil-homme de bonne maiſon : & pour s'en aſſeurer da- uantage il le fit deſchauſſer , & voyant ſes chauſſes & pieds nets, auec la petite chauſſette bien blanche & deliée, cela le confirma dauantage en ſon opinion, que c'eſtoit vn homme qui pourroit payer quelque bonne rançon. il demanda auſdits ſoldats,que s'ils vouloient trente eſcus de leur priſonnier, qu'il les baille- roit preſentement : ce qu'ils accorderent volontiers,parce qu'ils n'auoient pas moyen de le garder, & moins de le nourrir : joint qu'ils ne ſçauoient ſa valeur : partant liurerent leur priſonnier entre les mains dudit ſieur de vaudeuille : lequel ſubit par quatre ſoldats de ſa garde l'enuoya audit chaſteau de la motte au bois , auec autres priſonniers, gentils-hommes des noſtres. le ſeigneur de baugé ne ſe vouloit deſcouurir qu'il eſtoit,& endura beaucoup,eſtant au pain & à l'eau,& couchant ſur vn peu de paille. ledit ſeigneur de vaudeuille,apres la priſe de hedin,enuoya vers ledit ſeigneur de baugé,& autres priſonniers, comme la pla- ce de hedin auoit efté priſe,& la liſte de ceux qui auoient eſté tuez,& entre les autres monſieur de marti- gues : & lors que ledit seigneur de baugé entendit ſonner à ſes oreilles,que ſon frere monſieur de martigues eſtoit mort, il commença à s'eſcrier,pleurer & lamenter. ses gardes luy demandoient pourquoy il faiſoit tant & de ſi piteuſes lamentations , il leur declara que c'eſtoit pour l'amour de monſieur de martigues ſon frere. ayant entendu cela, le capitaine du chaſteau , depeſcha ſoudain vn homme, pour annoncer à mon- ſieur de vaudeuille, qu'il auoit vn bon priſonnier : lequel ayant receu cette bonne nouuelle, s'en reſiouit grandement,& le lendemain m'enuoya auec quatre ſoldats & ſon medecin, au chaſteau de la motte au bois, pour ſçauoir ſi ſon priſonnier luy vouloit donner quinze mil eſcus de rançon, & qu'il le renuoyeroit li- bre en ſa maiſon & que pour le preſent il ne demandoit qu'vne reſponce de deux marchands d'anuers qu'il nommeroit, ledit de vaudeuille me perſuadoit, que ie fiſſe accorder cela à ſon priſonnier. voila pour- quoy il m'enuoya au chaſteau de la motte au bois, & commanda au capitaine du chaſteau de le bien trai- čter, & mettre en vne chambre tapiſsé : auſſi qu'on renforçaſt ſa garde, & des lors on luy fit bonne chere à ſes deſpens. - la reſponce dudit ſeigneur de baugé , fut, que de ſe mettre à rançon il ne pouuoit, & que cela de- pendoit de monſieur d'eſtampes ſon oncle, & de madamoiſelle de breſſure ſa tante, & qu'il n'auoit nul moyen de payer telle rançon. ie retournay auec mes # vers ledit ſeigneur de vaudeuille, & luy fis la reſponce de ſondit perſonnier : lequel me dit,que poſſible ne ſortiroit-il à fibon marché ce qui fut vray: car il fut découuert. et auſſi-toſt la royne de hongrie, & monſieur le duc de sauoye, manderent audit ſeigneur de vaudeuille que ce morceau eſtoit vn peu trop gros pour luy,& qu'il euſt à leur enuoyer,(ce qu'il fit) & qu'il auoit aſſez d'autres priſonniers ſans ceſtuy-là. il fut mis à quarante mileſcus de rançon ſans les autres deſpens. m'en retournant vers le ſieur de vaudeuille, ie paſſay par ſainct omer, où ie veis leurs groſſes pieces de batterie,dont la pluſpart eſtoient eſuentées & rompuës. ie repaſſay pareillement par theroüenne, où ie ne veis plus pierre ſur pierre,fors vn veſtige de la grande egliſe. car l'empereur fit faire commandement aux villageois,à cinq ou ſix lieuës d'alentour, qu'ils euſſent à vuider & tranſporter les pierres, en ſorte qu'à pre- ſent on y charie par deſſus la ville,comme l'on fait auſſi à hedin,ſans nulle apparence de chaſteau & forte- reſſe. voila le malheur qu'apportent les guerres. et pour retourner à mon propos,toſt apres mondit ſeigneur de vaudeuille ſe porta bien de ſon vlcere, & peu s'en falloit qu'il ne fuſt entierement guary, qui fut cauſe qu'il me donna congé, & me fit conduire auec paſſe port,par vn trompette,iuſques à abbeuille : là où ie pris la poſte, & m'en allay trouuer le roy henry mon maiſtre à auſimon , qui me receut auec allegreſſe & de bonne grace. - il enuoya querir meſſieurs de guiſe,le conneſtable,& d'eſtrez,pour entendre de moy ce qui s'eſtoit paſsé à noſtre priſe de hedin,& leur en fis fidele rapport : & les aſſeuray que i'auois veu les groſſes pieces de bat- terie qu'ils auoient menées à s. omer. dont le roy fut ioyeux , parce qu'il craignoit que l'ennemy ne vinſt plus auant en france. il me fit donner deux cens eſcus pour me retirer en ma maiſon : & moy fort ioyeux d'eſtre en liberté,& hors de ce grand tourment & bruit de tonnerre de la diabolique artillerie, & loing des ſoldats,blaſphemateurs & renieurs de dieu. le ne veux icy laiſſer à dire qu'apres la priſe de hedin, le roy fut aduerty que ie n'auois eſté tué, & que i'eſtois priſonnier , ſi que ſa majeſté fit eſcrire à ma femme, par monſieur de goguier ſon premier medecin, qu'elle ne fuſt point en peine de moy que i'eſtois ſain & ſauf d dieu mercy, & qu'il payeroit ma rançon. bataille de s. quentin. . pres la bataille de sainct quentin , le roy m'enuoya à la fere en tartenois vers monſieur le ma- reſchal de bourdillon , pour me faire donner paſſe-port par le duc de sauoye, pour aller penſer monſieur le conneſtable , qui auoit eſté grandement bleſsé d'vn coup de piſtolet au dos , dont il cuida mourir, & eſtoit demeuré priſonnier entre les mains des ennemis. mais iamais le duc de sa- uoye ne voulut conſentir que i'allaſſe vers ledit fieur le conneſtable , diſant qu'il ne demeureroit ſans chirurgien, & qu'il ſe doutoit bien que l'on ne m'y enuoyoit pas ſeulement pour le penſer , mais auſſi pour luy bailler quelque aduertiſſement, & qu'il ſçauoit que ie ſçauois bien faire autre choſe que la chirurgie, & qu'il me connoiſſoit pour auoir eſté ſon priſonnier à hedin. monſieur le mareſchal de bourdillon aduertit le roy du refus qu'auoit fait le duc de sauoye. au moyen dequoy ſa majeſté eſcriuit audit seigneur de bourdillon, que ſi madame la conneſtable enuoyoit quelqu'vn de ſa maiſon qui fut habille homme, que ie luy baillaſſe vne lettre, & que verbalement i'euſſe auſſi à luy dire de bou- che ce que le roy & monſieur le cardinal de lorraine m'auoient donné charge. deux iours apres il arriua vn valet de chambre dudit ſieur le conneſtable, qui luy portoit des chemiſes & autres linges, auquel - mondit et voyages. s , º, : ; : •!, • eſtoient grandement puantes & pleines de vers, auec gangrene & pourriture, tellement qu'il me fallut joüer des couſteaux , pour amputer ce qui eſtoit gaſté , & ne fut ſans couper bras & jambes, & auſſi en trepaner a mondit ſeigneur le marefchal fit donner paſſe-port pour aller vers ledit ſeigneur conneſtable. ie fus fort joyeux, & luy baillay ma lettre, & luy fis ſa leçon de ce que deuoit faire ſon maiſtre eſtant priſonnier. ie penſois eſtant deſchargé de ma legation, m'en retourner vers le roy. mais ledit ſeigneur de bourdillon me pria de demeurer à la fere auec luy, pour penſer vn bien grand nombre de bleſſez qni s'y eſtoient retirez apres la bataille, & qu'il reſcriroit au roy la cauſe de ma demeure : ce que ie fis. les playes des bleſſez pluſieurs. or on ne trouuoit aucuns medicamens, à la pere , parce que les chirurgiens de noftre camp auoient tout emporté. ie deſcouuray que le chariot de l'artillerie eſtoit demeuré à la fere, & n'y auoit-on encore touché.ie dis audit ſeigneur le mareſchal, qu'il me fiſt deliurer vne partie des drogues qui eſtoient dedans : ce qu'il fit, & m'en fut donnée la moitié ſeulement pour vne fois , & cinq ou ſix iours apres il me fallut prendre tout le reſte,encore n'y en auoit-il pas à moitié pour penſer le grand nombre des bleſſez : & pour corriger & arreſter la pourriture, & tuer les vers qui eſtoient en leurs playes, ie les lauois d'egyptiac diſſoult en vin & eau de vie, & leur faiſois tout ce que ie pouuois, mais nonobſtant toutes mes diligences, il en mourut beaucoup. il ſe trouua à la fere des gentils-hommes † auoient charge de trouuer le corps mort de monſieur de bois-dauphin l'aiſné, qui auoit eſté tué en la bataille : ils prierent les vouloir accompagner au camp pour le choiſir, s'il eſtoit poſſible,entre les morts : ce qui eſtoit impoſſible, attendu que les corps eſtoient tous enfondrez par pourriture, & deuiſagez. nous viſmes plus de demie lieuë autour de nous, la terre toute couuerte de corps morts, & n'y de- meuraſmes gueres , pour la grande puanteur cadauereuſe, qui s'eſleuoit des corps, tant des hommes que des cheuaux : & croy que nous fuſmes cauſe de faire eſleuer de ces corps vne ſi grande quantité de groſſes mouſches, qui s'eſtoient procrées de l'humidité des corps morts & de la chaleur du soleil, ayant le cul verd & bleu, qu'eſtans en l'air elles faiſoient ombre au soleil. on les oyoit bourdonner à grand merueil- le, & croy que c'eſtoit aſſez pour cauſer la peſte au lieu où elles s'aſſirent. (mon petit maiſtre, ie voudrois qu'euſſiez eſté là côme moy,pour diſcerner des odeurs,& pour auſſi en faire rapport à ceux qui n'y ont eſté.j or m'ennuyant fort en ce pays là, ie priay monfieur le mareſchal de me donner congé de m'en aller , & auois peur de demeurer malade pour le trop grand trauail & puanteur des bleſſez, qui mouroient quaſi tous, quelque diligence qu'on y peût faire.il fit venir des chirurgiens pour paracheuer a traicter les bleſſez , & m'en allay auec ſa bonne grace.il eſcriuit vne lettre au roy,de la diligence que i'auois faite enuers les pau- ures bleſſez.puis ie m'en reuins à paris , où ie trouuay encore beaucoup de gentils-hommes qui auoient efté bleſſez, & s'y eſtoient retirez apres la bataille, voyage du camp d' amiens. i . e roy m'enuoya à dourlan, & me fit conduire par le capitaine igouaſt , auec cinquante hommes d'ar- ruſe de mes, de peur que ie fuſſe pris des ennemis : & voyant que par chemin eſtions touſiours en allarmes, ie l'antheºr fis deſcendre mon homme , & le fis eſtre maiſtre pource coup là car ie montay ſur ſon cheual qui por- toit ma malle, & alloit bien du pied s'il euſt fallu gaigner le haut, & pris ſon manteau & chapeau , & luy baillay ma monteure, qui eſtoit vne belle & petite haquenée. mon homme eſtant deſſus, on l'euſt pris pour mon maiſtre, & moy pour monſieur ſon valet. ceux de dourlan nous voyans de loin, penſoient que fuſſions ennemis, & nous tirerent des coups de canon. le capitaine gouaſt, mon conducteur, leur fit ſignes auec ſon chappeau,qui n'eſtoient ennemis : tellement qu'ils ceſſerent de tirer , & entraſmes à dourlan auec vne grand'joye. ceux de dourlan auoient fait vne ſortie ſur l'ennemy cinq ou ſix iours auparauant, leſquel tuerent & bleſſerent pluſieurs de nos capitaines & bons ſoldats , & entre les autres le capitaine s. aubin, vaillant comme l'eſpée,que monſieur de guife aimoit fort , & pour lequel principalement le roy m'enuo- yoit-là,lequel eſtant en accez de fiévre quarte , voulut ſortir pour commander à la plus grande partie de ſa compagnie. vn eſpagnol voyant qu'il commandoit, apperceut eſtre vn capitaine, & luy tira vn coup d'ar- quebuſe tout au trauers du col. mon capitaine s.aubin penſoit de ce coup eſtre mort, & de la peur, ie pro- teſte à dieu qu'il perdit ſa fiévre quarte,& en fut du tout deliuré. ie le penſay auec antoine portail chirur- gien ordinaire du roy,& pluſieurs autres ſoldats, les vns mouroient, les autres réchappoient , quittes pour vn bras,ou vne jambe,ou perte d'vn œil,& ceux-là diſoit-on eſtre quittes à bon marche : eſchappe qui peut. lors que les ennemis euremt rompu leur camp,ie m'en retourna qui eſtoit plus aiſe en ſa maiſon, que moy à la guerre. voyage du havre de grace. i . y à paris.icy ie me tais de mon petit maiſtre, e† ie ne veux laiſſer à parler du camp du havre de grace. lors qu'on faiſoit les approches pour aſſeoir l'artillerie, les anglois qui eſtoient dedans,tuerent quelques-vns de nos ſoldats, & pluſieurs pion- niers qui gabionnoient, leſquels (lors qu'on les voyoit eſtre tant bleſſez qu'il n'y auoit nulle eſperance de gariſon)leurs compagnons les deſpoüilloient, & les mettoient encores viuans dedans les gabions , & leur ſeruoient d'autant de remplage. les anglois voyans qu'ils ne pourroient ſouſtenir vn aſſaut, par ce qu'ils eſtoient fort atteins de maladies, & principalement de la peſte, ſe rendirent bagues ſauues. le roy leur fit bailler des vaiſſeaux pour s'en retourner en angleterre, bien joyeux d'eſtre hors de ce lieu infecté de peſte.il en mourut la plus grand'part & porterent la peſte en angleterre,& depuis n'en ont eſté exempts. le capi- taine sarlabons, maiſtre de camp, y fut laiſsé en garniſon , auec fix enſeignes de gens de pied, leſquels n'a- uoient nulle peur de la peſte : & furent bien jo ſtre, ſi vous y euſſiez eſté, vous euſſiez fait comme eux. voyage de roüen . yeux d'y entrer, eſperans y faire bonne chere.mon petit mai- - . r quand à la priſe deroüen,ils firent mourir beaucoup des noſtres deuant l'aſſaut, & à l'aſſaut le len- demain meſme qu'entraſmes en la ville,i'en trepanay huict ou neufqui auoient eſté bleſſez à la breſche, de coups de pierre. il y auoit vn air ſi'malin,que pluſieurs mouroient,voire de bien petitebleſſeures,de façon qu'aucuns eſtimoient qu'ils auoient empoiſonné leurs bales. ceux de dedans diſoient le ſemblable de nous: car encore qu'ils fuſſent bien traictez de leurs neceſſitez dedans la ville, ils ne laiſſoiêt point de mourir com- me ceux de dehors le roy de nauarre fut bleſsé quelques iours deuant l'aſſaut d'vn coup de boulet à leſ- « ) xx x z pawle hiſtoire de •la bleſſeurs du roy de nauarre. º apologie, paule.ie le viſitay & ayday à le penſer auec vn ſien chirurgien nommé maiſtre gilbert, vn des premiers de montpellier,& autres.on ne peut trouuer la bale,ie la cherchay bien exactement : i'apperceu par coniecture qu'elle eſtoit entrée par la teſte de l'os du haut du bras,& qu'elle auoit coulé en la cauité dudit os , qui fai- | ſoit qu'on ne la pouuoit pas trouuer.la plus grand'part la diſoient eſtre entrée & perdue dedans le corps. monſieur le prince de la roche-ſur-yon,qui aymoit intimement le roy de nauarre, me tira à part, & s'en- quiſt ſi le coup eſtoit mortel : ie luy dis que ouy,parce que toutes les playes faites aux grandes joinctures , & principalement les playes contuſes.eſtoient mortelles,ſelon tous les autheurs qui en ont eſcrit. il s'enquit des autres ce qui leur en ſembloit, & principalement audit gilbert : qui luy dit auoir grande eſperance que le roy ſon maiſtre guariroit,& fut ledit prince bien joyeux. quatre iours apres,le roy &la royne mere, mon- conſultation ſieur le cardinal de bourbon ſon frere,monſieur le prince de la roche-ſur-yon, monſieur de guiſe, & au- pour le rºy tres grands perſonnages,apres que nous euſmes pensé le roy de nauarre, voulurent faire faire vne conſul- de nauarre tati en leurs preſences,où il y auoit plufieurs medecins & chirurgiés.chacun en dit ce qui luy en ſembloit, ºººº & n'y eut pas vn d'iceux qui n'euſſent bonne eſperance (diſoient-ils) que le roy guariroit,& moy perfiſtois **" touſiours au contraire.monſeigneur le prince de la roche-ſur-yon,qui m'aymoit, me retira à part, & me dit que i'eſtois ſeul contre l'opinion de tous les autres, & me prioit de n'eſtre opiniaſtre contre tant de gens de bien.ie luy reſponds,que lors que ie connoiſtrois bons ſignes de guariſon,je changerois mon aduis. pluſieurs conſultations furent faites, ou iamais ie ne changeay de parole, & prognoſtic tel que ie l'auois fait au pre- mier appareil, & diſois touſiours que le bras tomberoit en gangrene : ce qu'il fit, quelque grande diligence qu'on y peut mettre,& rendit l'eſprit à dieu le . iour de ſa bleſſeure. monſieur le prince de la roche-ſur- yon ayant entendu la mort dudit roy,enuoya vers moy ſon chirurgien & medecin nommé le févre, à pre- ſent medecin ordinaire du roy & de la royne mere, me dire qu'il vouloit auoir la bale,&qu'on la cherchaſt à quelque endroit que ce fuſt.alors ie fus joyeux, & leur dis que i'eſtois bien aſſeuré la trouuer bien toſt. ce que ie fis en leurs preſences, & de pluſieurs gentils-hommes. elle eſtoit tout au beau milieu de la caui- té de l'os du haut du bras.mondit ſeigneur le prince l'ayant, la monſtra au roy, & à la royne, qni tous di- rent que mon prognoſtic s'eſtoit trouué veritable.le corps fut mis repoſer auchaſteau gaillard, & ie m'en retournay à paris,où ie trouuay pluſieurs malades qui auoient eſté bleſſez à la breche de roüen, & princi- palement des italiens, leſquels me deſiroient fort pour les penſer : ce que ie fis volontiers. il y en eut plu- ſieurs qui guarirent, les autres moururent. ie croy, mon petit maiſtre,que fuſtes appellé pour en penſer quelques-vns, pour le grand nombre qu'il y auoit. voyage de la bataille de dreux. . mort du cö- e lendemain apres la bataille donnée à dreux , le roy me commanda d'aller penſer monſieur le com- te d'en, te d'eu, qui auoit eſté bleſsé d'vn coup de piſtolet à la cuiſſe dextre, pres la jointure de la hanche, & auoit fracaſse & brisé l'os femoris en pluſieurs eſclats, dont pluſieurs accidens luy ſuruindrent, puis la mort, qui fut à montres-grand regret. le lendemain que ie fus arriué, ie voulus aller au camp ou s'e- ſtoit donnée la bataille pour voir les corps morts, ie veis à vne grande lieuë d'alentour la terre toute couuerte : on auoit eſtime de ving-cinq mille hommes,ou plus : tout cela fut depeſché en moins de deux - heures. ie voudrois mon petit maiſtre, pour l'amour que ie vous porte , qu'y euſſiez eſté pour le racon- ter à vos eſcholiers & à vos enfans. cependant que ie fus à dreux,ie viſitay & penſay grand nombre de gentils-hommes, & pauures ſoldats, & entre les autres beaucoup de capitaines suiſſes. l'en penſois quatorze eſtans en vne ſeule chambre, tous bleſſez de coups de piſtolets, & d'autres inſtrumens à feux dia- boliques, & n'en mourut pas vn de quatorze. monſieur le comte d'eu eſtant mort ie ne fis grand ſejour à dreux. il vint des chirurgiens de paris , qui faiſoient bien leur deuoir vers les bleſſez, comme pigray, cointeret, hubert, & autres & ie m'en retournay à paris où ie trouuay beaucoup de gentils hommes bleſſez qui s'y eſtoient retirez apres ladite bataille, pour eſtre penſez de leurs bleſſures , où ne fus ſans en voir pluſieurs. voyage de la bataille de umontcontour. . monſieur le endant la bataille de montcontour, le roy charles eſtoit au pleſſis lez tours, où il entendit l'auoir gai- comte de gnée. il ſe retira grand nombre de gentils-hommes,& ſoldats, en la ville & faux-bourgs de tours,bleſ- mansfeld ſez, pour ſe faire penſer & medicamenter. où le roy & la royne mere me commanderent faire mon de- bleſsé. uoir auec les autres chirurgiens, qui lors eſtoient en quartier, comme pigray, du bois, portail,& vn nommé siret, chirurgien de tours, homme bien entendu en la chirurgie, eſtant alors chirurgien de monſeigneur frere du roy : & pour la multitude des navrez,n'eſtions gueres a repos,ny les medecins pareillement. mon- ſieur le comte de mansfeld, gouuerneur de la duché de luxembourg, cheualier de l'ordre du roy d'eſpa- gne, fut grandement bleſsé à la bataille, au bras ſeneſtre d'vn coup de piſtolet, qui luy rompit grande partie de la jointure du coulde,& s'eſtoit retiré à bourgueil pres de tours.eſtant là,il enuoya vn gentil-homme vers le roy, le ſupplier bien affectueuſement luy vouloir enuoyer l'vn de ſes chirurgiens pour le ſecourir de ſa bleſſeure. le conſeil fut tenu quel chirurgien ſeroit qn'on y enuoyeroit.monſieur le mareſchal de montmo- rency dit au roy & à la royne,qu'il ſeroit bon de luy enuoyer ſon premier chirurgien,& leur remonſtra que ledit seigneur de mansfeld auoit eſté vne grande partie cauſe du gain de la bataille. le roy dit tout à plat, qu'il ne vouloit que i'y allaſſe,& vouloit que ie demeuraſſe pres de luy. adonc la royne mere luy dit que ie ne ferois qu'aller & venir, & falloit auoir eſgard que c'eſtoit vn seigneur eſtranger qui eſtoit venu de la part du roy d'eſpagne, pour ſon ſecours. et ſur ce il me permit y aller, pourueu que ie reuinſſe bien toſt. apres cette reſolution il m'enuoya querir, & pareillement la royne mere, & me commanderent d'aller trouuer le- dit seigneur comte de mansfeld,la part où il ſeroit,pour luy ſeruir en tout ce que pourrois faire pour la gua- riſon de ſableſſeure. ie l'allay trouuer accompagné d'vne lettre de leurs majeſtez. l'ayant veuë,il me receue de bonne volonté,& deſlors donna congé à trois ou quatre chirurgiens qui le penſoient, qui fut à mon tres- \- grand regret, parce que ſa bleſſeure me ſembloit eſtre incurable. or audit bourgueil s'eſtoient retirez plu- ſieurs gentils-hommes qui auoient eſté bieſſez à ladite bataille: ſçachans que monſieur de guiſe y eſtoit,quf - auoit eſté auſſi fort bleſsé d'vn coup de piſtolet au trauers d'vne jambe, bien aſſeurez qu'il auroit de † e rin- chirurgiens pour le penſer, & auſſi qu'eſtant debonnaire & fort liberal, il les aſſiſteroit d'vne grande partie comte rin- - - - - - - - - - - graue. de leurs neceſſitez. ce que veritablement il faiſoit volontiers, tant pour leur manger & boire, qu'autres ne- monſieur de ceſſitez : & de ma part ie les ſoulageois & aidois en mon art,autant qu'il m'eſtoit poſſible:les vns mouroient, baſſºmpier- autres guariſſoient, ſelon leurs bleſſeures. le comte ringraue mourut, qui auoit vn coup à l'eſpaule ſembla- re bleſsé ble à celuy qu'euſt le roy de nauarre deuant roüen. monſieur de baſſompierre, colonnel de douze cens ) cheuaux \ ' et voyages. s a cheuaux fut ſemblablement bleſsé de pareil coup, & endroit, que celuy de monſieur le comte de #. mansfeld que ie penſay , & dieu le guarit. dieu benit ſi bien mon œuure, que dans trois ſepmaines ie $ . les remenay à paris , où fallut faire encore quelques inciſions au bras dudit comte de mansfeld, pour ex- ， traire les os qui eſtoient grandement fracaſſez, rompus & carieux. il guarit par la grace de dieu, & me fit ': vn honneſte preſent, de ſorte que ie me contentay bien fort de luy, & luy de moy, comme il m'a fait pa- le roiſtre depuis. il eſcriuit vne lettre à monſieur le duc d'aſcot comme il eſtoit guari de ſableſſeure, & auſſi # monſieur de baſſompierre de la ſienne,&pluſieurs autres que i'auois penſez apres la bataille de montcon- #. tour,& luy conſeilloit de ſupplier le roy de france mon bon maiſtre,me permettre d'aller voir monſieur le l# marquis d'auret ſon frere. voyage de flandres. - : onſieur le duc d'aſcot ne fit faute d'enuoyer vn gentil-homme vers le roy, accompagné d'vne lettre , pour le ſupplier humblement , luy faire tant de bien & d'honneur, que de permettre & com- mander à ſon premier chirurgien venir voir monſieur le marquis d'auret ſon frere,qui auoit receu vn coup d'arquebuſe pres le genouil , auec fracture d'os : il y auoit enuiron ſept mois, que les medecins & chirur- giens de par delà eſtoient bien empeſchez à ſa guariſon, le roy m'enuoya querir, & me commanda d'ailer voir ledit ſeigneur d'auret, & le ſecourir en tout ce que ie pourrois pour la guariſon de ſa bleſſeure. ie luy dis que i'y employerois tout le peu de ſçauoir qu'il auroit pleu à dieu me donner ie m'en allay donc, conduit par deux gentils-hommes, au chaſteau d'auret, qui eſt à vne lieuë & demie de monts en hainaut, où eſtoit ledit marquis. subit que ie fus arriué, ie le viſitay : & luy dis, que le roy m'auoit commandé de le venir voir , & penſer de ſa bleſſeure.il me dit qu'il eſtoit bien joyeux de ma venue, & eſtoit grandement tenu au roy, de luy auoir fait tant d'honneur de m'auoir enuoyé vers luy. ie le trouuay auec vne groſſe fiévre, les yeux fort enfoncez auec vn viſage moribond & jaunaſtre, la langue ſeiche & aride, & tout le corps fort emacié & maigre , la parole baſſe comme d'vn homme fort pres de la mort : puis trouuay ſa cuiſſe fort enflée, apoſtumée, & vlcerée, jettant vne ſanie verdoyante, & fort fetide.ie le ſonday auec vne ſonde d'argent. par icelle trouuay vne cauité pres l'aine, finiſſant au milieu de la cuiſſe, & d'au- tres autour du genoüil , ſanieuſes & cuniculeuſes : auſſi certaines eſquilles d'os les vnes ſeparées,les autres non : la jambe eſtoit fort tumefiée & imbue d'vn humeur pituiteux, froid & humide & flatulent ( de ſorte que la chaleur naturelle eſtoit en chemin d'eſtre ſuffoquée& eſteinte) & ladite jambe courbée & retirée vers les feſſes : le croupion vlceré de la grandeur de la palme de la main : & diſoit y ſentir vne extreme cui- ſeur & douleur,& ſemblablement aux reins, de façon qu'il ne pouuoit aucunement repoſer iour ny nuict, & n'auoit nul appetit de manger, mais de boire aſſez. il me fut dit que ſouuent tomboit en defaillance de cœur, & quelquesfois comme en epilepſie : & auoit ſouuent volonté de vomir, auec vn tremblement tels, qu'il ne pouuoit porter ſes mains à ſa bouche. voyant & conſiderant tous ces grands accidens , & les ver- tus grandement abbatuës, veritablement i'eu vn tres grand regret d'eſtre allé vers luy , parce qu'il me ſem- · bloit qu'il y auoit peu d'apparence qu'il puſt reſchapper. toutesfois pour luy donner courage & bonne c eſperance, ie luy dis que bien toſt le mettrois debout,par la grace de dieu,& l'aide de ſes medecins & chi- rurgiens. l'ayant veuie m'en allay promener en vn jardin, ou ie priay dieu , qu'il me fiſt cette grace, qu'il , guariſt,& qu'il beniſt nos mains,& les medicamens,à combattre tant de maladies compliquées. ie diſcou- : ru en mon eſprit les moyens qu'il me falloit tenir pour ce faire. on m'appella pour diſner : i'entray à la : cuiſine,là où ie veis tirer d'vne grande marmite demy mouton, vn quartier de veau »trois groſſes pieces de # ' boeuf,& deux volailles,& vn bien gros lopin de lard,auec force bonnes herbes : alors ie dis en moy meſme, que ce boüillon de marmite eſtoit ſucculent, & de bonne nourriture.apres le diſner, tous les medecins & #- chirurgiens aſſemblez, nous entraſnes en conference en la preſence de monſieur le duc d'aſcot, & quel- #! ques gentils-hommes qui l'accompagnoient. ie commencay à dire aux chirurgiens, que ie m'eſmerueillois grandement comme ils n'auoit fait des ouuertures à la cuiſſe de monſieur le marquis , qui eſtoit toute apo- ſtumée,& que la bouë qui en ſortoit, eſtoit grandement fetide & puante, qui demonſtroit y eſtre de long- temps croupie,& que i'auois trouué auec la ſonde, carie d'os,& des eſquilles qui eſtoient ja ſeparèes. ils me reſponſe des firent reſponſe, que iamais ne l'auoit voulu conſentir, & meſme qu'il y auoit prés de deux mois qu'on chirurgiens n'auoit pû gaigner à mettre des draps blancs en ſon lict, & meſme n'oſoit on qu'à peine toucher à la i, couuerture, tant il ſentoit de douleur. los ie dis que pour le guarir , il falloit toucher autre choſe que & la couuerture du lict. chacun diſt ce qu'il luy ſembloit de la maladie dudit seigneur, & pour concluſion, ft le tenoient tout deploré. ie leur dis qu'il y auoit encor quelque eſperance, pour ſa ieuneſſe, & que dieu #! & nature font quelquesfois des choſes qui ſemblent aux medecins & chirurgiens eſtre impoſſibles. ma • conſultation fut que tous ces accidens eſtoient venus par le coup du boulet donné par la joincture du ge- . * . noüil, qui auoit rompu les ligamens, tendons & aponeuroſes des muſcles, qui lient ladite joincture, en- conſultatiº # d ſemble l'os femoris : auſſi nerfs, veines,& arteres,dont s'en eſtoit enſuiui douleur,inflammation,apoſteme,& de l'au- l, :: vlcere,&qu'il falloit commencer la cure par la maladie , qui eftoit cauſe de tous les ſuſdits accidens qu'il theur. auoit, à ſçauoir faire des ouuertures pour donner iſſue à la ſanie retenué entre les ſpacioſitez des muſcles, & |%- en leur ſubſtance (ſemblablemet aux os) laquelle cauſoit vne grande corruption en tcute la cuiſſe, dont les vapeurs en eſtoient eſleuées & portées au cœur,qui cauſoient ſyncope & la fiévre & de la fiévre vn feu vni- 'uerſel en tout le corps, & par conſequent deprauation de l'œconomie. pareillement leſdites vapeurs eſtoient communiquées au cerueau, qui cauſoient l'epilepſie & tremblement, & à l'eſtomach nausée,& l'engardoit faire ſes fonctions, qui ſont principalement de digerer & cuire les viandes, & le conuertir en chyle : leſ- quelles n'eſtans pas bien cuites, il s'engendre des cruditez & obſtructions qui font que les parties ne ſont nourries, & par conſequent le corps deſſeiche & maigriſt , & pource auſſi qu'il ne faiſoit nul exercice. et quant à l'oedeme de ſa jambe, cela eſtoit prouenu à cauſe du defaut de l'aliment, & de la chaleur naturelle arreſtée en toute la cuiſſe, & auſſi faute qu'elle ne ſe pouuoit mouuoir. car toute partie qui n'a ſon mouue- ment, dèmeure languide & atrophiée : par ce que la chaleur & eſprits n'y ſont point enuoyez ny attirez, dont enſuit mortification:& que pour refociller & engraiſſer le corps,il falloit faire des frictions vniuer- ſel]es auec des linges chauds, en haut, en bas,à dextre, à ſeneſtre, & en rond, afin d'attirer le ſang & eſprits du dedans au dehors , & reſoudre quelques vapeurs fuligineuſes detenues entre cuir & chair:partant les par- ties ſeront puis apres nourries & refaites ( commeli'ay dit cy-deuant au liure o. traictant des playes d'ar- quebuſes)& les failloit laiſſer lors qu'on verroit au cuir chaleur & rougeur,de peur de reſoudre ce qu'on au- roit attiré, & par conſequent le rendre encore plus maigre.or quant à l'vlcere qu'il auoit ſur le croupion, qui eſtoit venu pour auoir eſté trop long-temps couché deſſus, ſans ſe remuer : qui a eſté cauſe que les eſ- prits n'ont pû reluire. au moyen dequoy ſe ſeroit fait inflammation, de l'inflammation, apoſteme, puis l'vl- x x x cctc # i ', pourquoy vne partie deutent at- trophiés. apologie, cere,voire auec deperdition de ſubſtance de la chair ſujette, auec vnetres-grande douleur, à cauſe des nerfs a qui diſſeminent en cette partie qu'il falloit pareillement faire tant qu'on le mit en vn autre lict bien mol, & luy bailler chemiſe & draps blancs : antrement toutes les choſes qu'on luy pourroit faire, ne luy ſerui- roient de rien à cauſe que ces excremens & vapeurs de la ſanie retenuë ſi long-temps en ſon lict, ſont at- tirée par le ſyſtolé & diaſtolé des arteres,qui ſont diſſeminées par le cuir, & font que les eſprits s'alterent, & acquierent vne mauuaiſe diatheſe ou qualité & corruption:ce qui ſe void de quelqu'vn qui couchera en vn lict là où vn verolé aura couché & ſue,lequel prédra la verole par les vapeurs putrides qui ſeront imbues & demeurées aux draps & couuertures.or quant à ce qu'il ne pouuoit aucunemenr dormir , & eſtoit quaſi en atrophie, c'eſtoit à raiſon qu'il mangeoit peu , & ne faiſoit ſon exercice, & qu'il eſtoit vexé de grandes dou- leurs. car il n'y a rien qui abbatte & proſterne plus les vertus,que la douleur. la cauſe qu'il auoit la langue aride & ſeiche, qui eſtoit la vehemence de la chaleur de la fiévre, par les vapeurs qui montent de tout le corps à la bouche. car comme on dit en commun prouerbe , quand on chauffe bien vn four, la gueule s'en reſſent. ayant diſcouru des cauſes & accidens,ie dis qu'il falloit les guarir par leurs contraires , & premiere- ment appaiſer les douleurs , faiſant des ouuertures à la cuiſſe pour euacuer la boué retenue, ne l'euacuant tout à coup,de peur que par la grande euacuation ſubite, ſe fiſt vne reſolution d'eſprits, qui pourroit gran- dement debiliter le patient, & abbreger ſes iours. secondement,auoir égard à lagrande tumeur & froideur de la jambe,craignant qu'elle ne tombaft en gangrene,&qu'il luy falloit appliquer vne chaleur actuelle,par- la chaleur ce que la potentielle ne pourroit reduire l'intemperie de potentia ad actum.a cette cauſe, qu'il falloit y appli- potentielle quer autour des briques chaudes,ſur lefquelles on jetteroit vne decoction faite d'herbes neruales cuites en n'eſtoit ſuffi-vin & vinaigre,puis enueloppées en quelque ſeruiette, & aux pieds vne bouteille de terre remplie de ladite ſante de re- decoction, bouchée & enueloppée en quelques linges.auſſi qu'il luy falloit faire des fomentations ſur la º º cuiſſe & toute la jambe,d'vne de coction faite de ſaulge,roſmarin,thym,lauande,fleurs de camomille& meli- #. lot, roſes rouges cuittes en vin blanc,& lexiue faite de cheſne,& vn peu de vinaigre,& demie poignée de ſel. en # cette decoction a vertu de ſubtilier,attenüer, inciſer reſoudre, tarir & ſeicher , l'humeur gros & viſqueux. §is. leſdites fomentations ſe feront longuement,afin que la reſolution ſoit plus grande:car eſtant ainſi faites lon- guement,on reſout plus qu'on n'attire,à cauſe qu'on liquefie l'humeur contenu en la partie,on rarefie le cuir, & la chair de muſcles.tiercement qu'il falloit appliquer ſur l'vlcere du croupion vne grande emplaſtre faite de l'onguent deſiccatif rouge,& l'onguent comitiſſx,parties égales incorporées enſemble,à fin de luy appaiſer ſa douleur & deſſeicher l'vlcere:auſſi luy faire vn bourrelet de duuet, qui portaſt le croupion en l'air, ſans eſtre appuyé deſſus.quartement,pour rafraiſchir la chaleur des reins,on luy appliqueroit deſſus de l'onguent refrigerant de galien recentement faict,& par deſſus des fueilles de nenuphar recente. puis vne ſeruiette trempée en oxycrat,eſpreinte & renouuellée ſouuent.et pour la corroborati du cœur, on appliqueroit deſ- e,uillo, d, ſus vn medicament refrigerant fait d'huyle de nenuphar & longuent roſat,& vn peu de ſaffran,deſſus en vi- la grande º º roſat & theriaque,eſtendus ſur vne piece d'eſcarlatte.pour la ſyncope qui procedoit de la debilitation ma§ des forces naturelles,faiſant auſſi troubler le cerueau,falloit vſer de bons alimens ſucculents, comme œufs - mollets,raiſins de damas confits en vin & ſucre,auſſi panade faicte de boüillon de la grande marmite (de la- quelle i'ay parlé cy-deuant) auec blács de chapon,aiſles de perdrix hachées bien menu,& autres viandes ro- fties,faciles à digerer,côme veau,chevreau,pigeonneaux,perdreaux,griues,& autres ſemblables.la ſaulce ſe- roit orenge,verjus d'ozeille,grenades aigres:& qu'il en pourroit pareillement manger de boüillis auec bônes herbes,comme ozeille,laictué,pourpié,cichorée,bugloſe,ſoucy,& autres ſemblables.la nuict il pourroit vſer d'orge mundé,auec jus d'ozeille & nenuphar de chacun deux onces,auec quatre ou cinq grains d'opium, & des quatre ſemences froides concaſsées de chacune demie once,qui eſt vn remede aliméteux & medicamen- teux,qui le prouoquera à dormir.que ſon pain ſeroit de meteil,& ne ſeroit trop raſſis ny tendre. et pour ſa grande douleur de teſte il faudra couper ſes cheueux,& la froter d'oxyrrhodinum,vn peu tiede,& y laiſſer vn linge double trémpé dedans.on luy fera pareillement vn frontail d'huyle roſat,& nenuphar,& de pauot,& vn peu d'opium,& vinaigre roſat,auec vn peu de câphre,& renouuellé par fois.d'auantage on luy fera ſentir au nez fleur de juſquiame,&nenuphar broyez auec vinaigre,&eau roſe,auec vn peu de cáphre, enueloppez en- ſemble en vn mouchoir,lequel ſera tenu longuemét contre le nez,à fin que l'odeur ſe puiſſe cómuniquer au cerueau, & ſeront ces choſes continuées ſeulement iuſques à ce que la grande inflammation & douleur ſoient paſsees,de peur de refrigerer par trop le cerueau.d'abondant on fera pleuuoir par artifice, en faiſant decoulerde l'eau de quelque haut lieu dans vn chauderon,& qu'elle faſſe tel bruit que le malade le puiſſe en- pourquoy ne pouuoit dor- mair. tendre,par ces moyens luy ſera prouoqué le dormir.et quant à la retraction de ſa jambe,qu'il y auoit eſpe- rance la redreſſer, lors qu'on auroit fait vacuation du pus, & autres humeurs contenuës à la cuiſſe, qui par leur extenſion(faicte par repletion)ont attiré la jambe,laquelle ſe pourroit redreſſer,en luy frottant premie- remét toute la jointure du genoüil,auec vnguentü de althea,& huyle de lys,& vn peu d'eau de vie:& par deſ- ſus de la laine noire auec ſon ſuc.pareillement en mettant ſous le jarret vn oreiller de plume, ployé en dou- ble,& peu à peu on luy fera eſtendre la jambe.lequel mien diſcours fut bien approuué des medecins & chi- rurgiens.l a conſultation acheuée,nous en allaſmes vers le malade,& luy fis trois ouuertures à ſa cuiſſe, deſ- quelles ſortit vne grande quantité de boue & ſanie,& dés l'heure luy tiray quelque petite eſquille d'os , & ne voulu laiſſer ſortir trop grande abondance de ladite ſanie, de peur de trop debiliter ſes forces. deux ou le malad, trois heures a pres ie luy fis faire vn lict pres le ſien où il y auoit de beaux draps blancs , puis vn homme fort dormit tojt le poſa dedans,& fut joyeux d'auoir eſté tiré hors de ſon lict ſale & puant. toſt apres il demanda à dormir, apres aºir ce qu'il fiſt pres de quatre heures:où tout le monde de la maiſon commença à ſe reſioüir , & principalement eſté posé en monſieur le duc d'aſcot ſon frere.les iours ſuiuans ie luy faiſois des iniections au profond & cauitez des draps blancs. vlceres faites d'egyptiac diſſout tantoſt en eau de vie , & autresfois en vin. i'appliquois pour mondifier & ſeicher les chairs ſpongieuſes & mollaſſes des compreſſes, au fond des ſinuofitez, tentes de plomb.canulées, afin de touſiours donner yſſue à la ſanie,& par deſſus vne grande emplaſtre de diachalciteos,diſſout en vin. pareillement ie bandois ſi dextrement,qu'il n'auoit nulle douleur:laquelle ſedée, la fièvre commença fort à ſe diminuer.alors ie luy fis boire du vin,trempé mediocreinent d'eau, ſçachant qu'il reſtaure & viuifie les vertus.et toutes les choſes que nous arreſtaſmes en la conſultation furent accomplies ſelon le temps & or- liberalité dre,& ſes douleurs:la fiévre ceſsée, il commença touſiours à ſe mieux porter , & donna congé à deux de ſes ºé chirurgiens & v de ſes medecins de § 'eſtions pl isauec luv. or fvd - d.ie i - chirurgiens,& a vn de ſes medecins de taçon que nous n eſtions plus que trois auec luy or y demeuray en marquis. ºron deux mois,& ne fut ſans voir pluſieurs malades,tant riches que pauures, qui venoit à moy de trois & quatre lieués à l'entour. il faiſoit bailler à manger & à boire aux neceſſiteux : tous leſquels il me recom- mandoit,& prioit qu'en faueur de luy,ie les ſecouruſſe. ie proteſte que ie n'en refuſay vn ſeul, & leur faiſois à tous ce qu'il m'eſtoit poſſible, dont il eſtoit joyeux. lors que ie veis qu'il commençoit à ſe bien porter, ie luy dis qu'il failloit auoir des violes & violons, & quelque farceur pour le reſioüir : ce qu'il fiſt. en vn mois nous fiſmes en ſorte qu'il ſe pouuoit tenir en vne chaire, & ſe faiſoit porter & promener en ſon iardin, & d et voyages. - a & à la porte de ſon chaſteau pour voir paſſer le monde. les villageois de deux ou trois lieuës d'autour,ſça- chans qu'on le pouuoit voir,venoient aux feſtes chanter & danſer,maſles & femelles,peſle-meſle,en reſioüiſ- ſance de ſa bonne conualeſcence, eſtans tous ioyeux de le voir, & n'eſtoit ſans bien rire & ſans bien boire. il leur faiſoit touſiours donner vne barique de biere,& beuuoient tous à tirelarigot à ſa ſanté.et les citoyens de monts en hainaut, & autres gentils-hommes voiſins le venoient voir, par vne admiration , comme vn homme ſortant du tombeau : & dés lors qu'il commença à ſe porter bien , il ne fut plus ſans compagnie : & comme l'vn ſortoit,l'autre y entroit pour le viſiter,ſa table eſtoit touſiours bien couuerte.il eſtoit grandement aimé de la nobleſſe,& du commun peuple, tant pour ſa liberalité qu'à cauſe de ſa beauté & honeſteté, ayant leregard doux,& la parole gracieuſe,en ſorte que ceux qui l'auoient enuiſagé eſtoient contrains de l'aymer. les principaux de la ville de môts vindrent vn samedy,pour le ſupplier que i'allaſſe à monts,où ils auoient bonne volonté de feſtoyer,& me faire bonne chere pour l'amour de luy.il leur dit qu'il me prieroit d'y al- ler:ce qu'il fiſt. mais ie luy fis reſponſe que ce n'eſtoit pas à moy a qui il falloit faire tant d'honneur, ioint auſſi qu'ils ne me ſçauroient donner meilleures viandes que les ſiennes. et derechef me pria bien affectueu- - ſement d'y aller, & que ie fiſſe cela pour l'amour de luy:ce que luy accorday. le lendemain donc ils me vin- -- • drent querir auec deux chariots : & eſtans arriuez à monts, trouuaſmes le diſner preſt, & des principaux de la ville auec leurs femmes , qui m'attendoient auec bonne deuotion. nous nous miſines à table, & me mi- rent au haut bout, & beuuoient tous à moy, & à la ſanté de monſieur le marquis d'auret, diſant qu'il eſtoit bien heureux & eux pareillement, de m'auoir recouuré pour le mettre ſus, & conneu en cette compagnie b qu'il eſtoit grandement honoré & aymé. apres le diſner ils me ramenerent au chaſteau d'auret, où mon- ſieur le marquis m'attendoit en grande deuotion, pour luy raconter ce que nous auions faict en noſtre ban- quet : ie luy dis, que toute la compagnie auoit beu pluſieurs fois à ſa ſanté. en fix ſepmaines il commença à ſe ſouſtenir vn peu ſur des potences : & à ſe bien fort engraiſſer, & prendre vne viue & naturelle cou- leur. or il luy print volonté d'aller à beaumont, qui eſt la demeure de monſieur le duc d'aſcot, & ſe fiſt porter en vne chairé à bras par huict hommes de relais. et les payſans des villages par où nous paſſions, ſçachans que c'eſtoit monſieur le marquis, ſe battoient à qui le porteroit, & nous contraignoient de boire: mais ce n'eſtoit que de la biere, & croy que s'ils euſſent eu du vin , voire de l'hipocras , ils nous en euſſent donné de bonne volonté, tant ils ſe monſtroient ioyeux devoir ledit marquis, & prioient tous dieu pour luy. eſtant arriué à beaumont tout le peuple vint au deuant de nous, luy faire la reuerence, & prioient dieu qu'il le beniſt, & le tinſt en bonne ſanté. nous entraſines au chaſteau où il y auoit plus de cinquante gentils-hommes, que monſieur le duc l'aſcot auoit mandez pour venir faire bonne chere auec monſieur ſon frere : & fut trois iours entiers ſa table couuerte. apres diſner les gentils-hommes couroient la bague, ſe battoient à l'eſpée d'armes,& ſe reſiouiſſoient grandement de voir monſieur d'auret : parce qu'ils auoient entendu que iamais il ne pourroit partir du lict & guarir de ſa bleſſeure : i'eſtois à table touſiours au haut on taſchoit bout, là où tout le monde beuuoit carous à luy & à moy penſans m'enyurer , ce qu'ils ne ſçeurent ; car ie ne faire enyurer beuuois que comme i'auois accouſtumé. quelques iours apres nous en retournaſmes, & pris congé de ma- l'autheur, dame la ducheſſe d'aſcot laquelle tira vn diamant de ſon doigt, qu'elle me donna en reconnoiſſance d'auoir en demon- bien pensé ſon frere, & eſtoit le diamant de la valeur de plus de cinquante eſcus. monſieur d'auret ſe por-ſº !º c toit toufiours de mieux en mieux,& cheminoit tout ſeul autour de ſon iardin ſur des potences.ie luy deman- # # day congé par diuerſes fois, pour m'en reuenir à paris, luy monſtrant que ſon medecin & chirurgien fe- " " roient bien ce qui reſtoit à faire à ſa bleſſeure.et pour commencer toufiours à m'eſloigner de luy, ie le priay qu'il me permiſt d'aller voir la ville d'anuers, ce qu'il m'accorda bien volontiers, & commanda à ſon mai- ſtre d'hoſtel m'y conduire, accompagné de deux pages. nous paſſaſmes par malignes & bruxelle,là où les principaux de la ville prierent ledit maiſtre d'hoſtel,qu'au repaſſer il leur fiſt entendre & qu'ils auoient vo- lonté de m'y feſtoyer , comme auoient faict ceux de monts. ie le remerciay bien humblement , leur diſant que ce n'eſtoit à moy à qui appartenoit tel honneur.ie fus deux iours & demy pour viſiter la ville d'anuers, où aucuns marchands connoiſſans le maiſtre d'hoſtel, le prierent leur faire ceſt honneur que de nous don- ner à diſner ou ſouper, c'eſtoit à qui nous auroit, & eſtoient tous fort ioyeux d'entendre la bonne diſpo- ſition de monſieur d'auret, me faiſant plus d'honneur que ie ne demandois. en fin nous reuinſmes trouuer monſieur le marquis, faiſant bonne chere : & cinq ou ſix iours apres ie luy demanday congé .. qu'il m'accor- da auec grand regret (ce diſoit-il) & me donna vn preſent honneſte, & de grande valeur, & me fit recon- duire par ſondit maiſtre d'hoſtel, auec deux pages, iuſques en ma maiſon à paris. ie me ſuis laiſsé dire, que les eſpagnols ont depuis ruiné & demoly ſon chaſteau d'auret, ſaccagé,pillé, & bruſlé toutes les maiſons & villages à luy appartenans, à cauſe qn'il n'a voulu eſtre de leur meſchant par- ty, en leurs aſſaſſinats & ruyne du pays bas. voyages de bourges. i . e royauec ſon camp ne demeura gueres à bourges, que ceux de dedans ne ſe rendiſſent, & ſortiſſent l† bagues ſauues. ie ne ſçache rien digne de memoire , fors vn garçon de cuiſine de la bouche du roy , lequel s'eſtant approché des murailles de la ville, auparauant que l'on euſt fait la compoſition , cria à haute voix, huguenot, huguenot,tiré-là, tiré-là, ayant le bras leué, & la main eſtendue,vn ſoldat luy per- ça la main tout outre d'vn boulet. ayant receu ce coup', il me vint trouuer pour le penſer. monfieur le con- neſtable voyant ce garçon ayant ſa main toute ſanglante, & tout eſploré, luy demanda qui l'auoit bleſsé. alors il y eut vn gentil-homme, qui ayant veu donner le coup, dict que cela luy eſtoit bien employê, parce qu'il crioit , huguenot , frappé-la, donné-là. alors ledit seigneur conneſtable dit que cét huguenot eſtoit bonarquebuzier,& auoit l'ame bonne, parce qu'il eſtoit vray-ſemblable,que s'il euſt voulu tirer à la teſte,il euſt encores fait plus aisément qu'à la main. ie penſay ledit cuiſinier, qui fut malade. il guarit , mais auec impotence de la main :& depuis ſes compagnons l'appellerent huguenot : il eſt encor viuant. bataille de sainč# denys. . - • t quant à la bataille de s. denys, il y en eut pluſieurs de tuez tant d'vne part que d'autre. les noſtres e† ſe retirerent à paris pour ſe faire penſer, enſemble les priſonniers qu'on auoit pris, dont i'en penſay vne grande partie. le roy me fiſt commander (par la priere de madame la conneſtable ) d'aller en ſa maiſon pour penſer monſieur le conneſtable, qui eut vn coup de piſtolet au milieu de l'eſpine du dos: dont tout ſubit perdit le ſentiment, & mouuement des cuiſſes & jambes, & ſes excremens retenus, ne pou- uantietter l'vrine, ny rien par le fiege, à raiſon que l'eſpine medullaire, de laquelle naiſſent les nerfs ( pour bailler ſentiment & mouuement aux parties inferieures) fut brisée, rompue, & dila cerée par la vehemen- ce de la bale. il perdit pareillement l'entendement & ratiocination , & en peu de iours il mourut. : : x x x les oo · apologie, les chirurgiens de paris furent long-temps empeſchez pour traicter les ſuſdits bleſſez. ie croy, mon pe a tit maiſtre , que vous en veiſtes quelques-vns. ie ſupplie ce grand dieu des victoires, que iamais ne ſoyons employez en tel melencontre & delaſtre. voyage de bayonne . # r ie dis encore dauantage, que i'ay faict le voyage auec le roy à bayonne, où nous nn# auons eſté deux ans & plus à circuir preſque tout ce royaume : où en pluſieurs villes & #) % villages, i'ay eſté appellé en conſultation de diuerſes maladies aucc defunct monſieur chapellain premier medecin du roy , & monſieur caſtellan, † de la royne mere, homme d'honneur , & tres-ſçauant en la medecine & chirurgie, faiſant ce diligence de voyage, ie me ſuis touſiours enquis aux chirurgiens, s'ils auoient remarqué quelque choſe rare en l'autheur. hiſtoire. autre hi-- ſtoire. leurs practiques, à fin d'apprendre quelque choſe de nouueau : eſtant à bayonne, il aduint deux cho- ſes de remarque pour les ieunes chirurgiens. la premiere , c'eſt que ie penſay vn gentil homme pour p - - - eſpagnol , lequel auoit vne apoſteme grande & enorme à la gorge. il vint pour ſe faire toucher au p q pouer - - deffunct roy charles , des eſcroüelles. ie fis ouuerture de ſon apoſteme, où il ſe trouua grande quantité de vers tous groiiillans, gros comme la pointe d'vn fuzeau, ayans la teſte noire, & auoit grande quantité de chair pourrie. dauantage, il auoit ſous la langue vne apoſteme nommée ranula, qui l'empeſchoit de proferer ſes mots, & de maſcher & aualler ſes viandes. il me pria à jointes mains ， la luy ouurir, s'il ſe pouuoit faire ſans peril de ſa perſonne : ce que ie fis promptement, & trouuay ſous ma lancette vn corps ſolide, qui eſtoient cinq pierres ſemblables à celles qu'on tire de la veſſie la plus groſſe pouuoit eſtre d'vne petite amande, & les autres comme petites féves longuettes, qui eſtoient en nombre de cinq. en cette apoſteme eſtoit contenu vn humeur glaireux de couleurjauna- ſtre, en quantité qui ne pouuoit entrer en quatre cuilliers d'argent. ie le laiſſay entre les mainsd'vn chirurgien de la ville, pour paracheuer d'eſtre guary. monſieur de fontaine, cheualier de l'ordre du roy, eut vne grande fiévre continuë, peſtilente, accompagnée de pluſieurs charbons en diuerſes parties du corps, lequel fut deux iours ſans ceſſer de ſaigner du nez, & ne le pouuoit-on eſtancher : & par iceluy flux la fiévre ceſſa, auec vne tres-grande ſueur, & toſt apres les charbons ſuppuretent : & fut par moy penſé, & par la grace de dieu, guary. i'ay publié cette apologie,a fin que chacun connoiſſe de quel pied i'ay marché touſiours :& nepen- ſe qu'il y ayt homme ſi chatoüilleux,qui ne prenne enbonne part ce que i'ay dit,puis que mondiſcours eſt veritable,& quel'effect monſtre la choſe à l'œil, laraiſon m'eſtant garand contre toutes calomnies. fin de l'aoplogie & voyages le : | ; t r e nt i e sme l iv r e, t ra i ct ant des fievres • e n g e n e r a l e t e n p a r t i c v l i e r, tar a mb roi se pa r e , de laual au maine, (bnſeiller&' premier chirurgien du roy. trouué dans les manuſcripts de l'autheur, & adiouſté en cette nouuelle edition. p r e f ac e ea v l e cte vr m y l e c t e v r, l'auois bien preueu que le traicté des fiévres dont ) i'auois autresfois fait voir quelque eſchantillon,donneroit occaſion à plu- ſieurs de reprendre&blaſmer mon deſſein,en ce que ie t'aſchois d'inſtrui- re les chirurgiens en vne maladie qui n'eſt point de leur gibier, qui ne touche en aucune façon l'object de la chirurgie, qui eſt hors l'eſtenduë d'icelle,& qui appartient proprement au medecin.on ſçait aſſez ce qui eſt # arriué ſur ce ſujet, ſans que ie m'eſtende dauantage,ou à reſpondre à leurs l'eſchole ( n» raiſons, ou à m'excuſer de mon deſſein. l'ay trouué bonne la cenſure de v§ de $a l'eſchole de medecine de paris, comme eſtant celle qui nourrit & eſleue paris. ts> les plus beaux eſprits qui ſoient en la medecine,qui diſtribuë la # la • . vraye doctrine d'hippocrate & de galien , & pour mon particulier , qui m'a enſeigné & donné ce peu de ſçauoir que ie deſire communiquer aux autres mais ie n'ay pûiamais gouſter la reprimande de quelques-vns, qui pour auoir plus d'enuie à ma reputation, que de bonne vo- l'atheu, lonté de ſeruir au public, m'ont chargé de calomnie, accusé de plagiaire, & ſans oüyr mes raiſons, & :'eſt ſerui prendre en bonne part mes deſſeins,condamné d'ignorance & de temerité.pour la premiere,ie ne ſuis du conſeil de point ſi amateur de moy-meſme,& ſi eſclaue de mes perfections que ie ne confeſſe ignorer beaucoup #. de choſes en la medecine,que pour beaucoup de difficultez ie n'aypris l'aduis de quelques medecins - plus ſçauans que ie ne ſuis, que ie ne me ſois ſervy de leur conſeil & de leur labeur,& que ie n'aye pro- fité beaucoup en leur conference & communication. mais pour la temerité, ie leur prie de croire que ie n'en ſuis non plus coulpable, qu'eux ne le croyent eſtre en la cenſure qu'ils font de mes intentions. loiiangé de d car pour dire laverité, ce n'eſt nyl'ambition de paroiſtre docte,nyl'enuie que i'ayde ietter de la pouſ-# de - * » - - - l'autheur ſiere aux yeux des medecins que i'ay entrepris ce diſcours des fiévres : c'a eſté ſeulement le deſir de § profiter au public, de déraciner beaucoup d'abus qui ſe ſont gliſſez dans la practique des chirurgiens diſcours. qui ſont hors des grandcs villes, & de rendre vniuerſellement le chirurgien plus propre & plus in- ſtruit de ſeruir & ſoulager les medecins preſens , & d'aduertir les abſens plus ſoigneuſement & exacte- - ment des accidens qui arriuent aux § car il eſt tres-aſſeuré que le chirurgien ayant quelque legere & ſuperficielle cognoiſſance des fiévres peut plus commodément que ne ſçauroient faire les gar- des & aſſiſtans des malades,aduertir le medecin de l'eſpece de la fiévre, & des accidens qui peuuent eneasdene- luruenir. meſme en l'abſence du medecin, & en cas de neceſſité preſſante & vrgente, il peut donner ceſſité le chi- quelque allegement, empeſcher les inflammations des parties nobles, & deſtourner par quelque reme-ººº ºº de fait à propos & tiré par l'indication des effects & des cauſes des fiévres , les ſymptomes qui iettent # le bien ſouuent les malades dans le peril de la mort. et veritablemeut les fiévres eſtans des accidens qui § accompagnent ordinairement ou le plus ſouuent, les diſpoſitions contre nature que la chirurgie en- qui apparti- treprend de guerir, comme ſont les tumeurs, les playes, les vlceres, les fractures & les luxations, voire nenºº chº meſme que les fiévres entretiennent leſdites maladies, & les empeſchent de guerir, & que pareillement #nu · le plus ſouuent leſdites fiévres ne ſuruiennent que par la douleur & autres accidens des ſuſdites mala-# - - - / - - - de tét of%- dies qui entretiennent lcs fiévres tandis qu'elles ſubſiſtent. on peut par là reconnoiſtre que la connoiſ-ure. ſance — o preface au lecteur. ſance des fiévres & de leurs cauſes eſt tres-neceſſaire au chirurgien. ie demanderois volontiers à ceux qui blaſment ſi opiniaſtrement mon deſſein que deuiendra vn chirurgien lequel ſera appellé à vn ma- lade febricitât qui aura eſté bleſſé à la teſte,& qu'il trouuera en de grands vomiſſeméts & en vn ſaigne- ment de nez comment connoiltra il que ledit vomiſſement & ſaignement de nez viennent de la fiévre & non de la playe, s'il ignore tout à fait la nature de la fiévre & qu'il ne ſçache que ces accidens peu- uent auſſi bien venir de la fiévre que de la bleſſeure ? il ne ſçauroit iamais s'éclaicir de cette diffi- culté ſans cette connoiſſance, & ne pourra en aſſeurance traicter la playe & en faire ſon prognoſtic ſans cette lumiere. c'eſt ce qui m'a induit à reuoir de nouueau mon premier traicté des fiévres,& à l'ac- #º " commoder à la capacité des chirurgiens.ie ne pretens pas par iceluy de les rendre capables d'entre- #. prendre leur curation ? elle doit eſtre entierement reſeruée aux medecins nos maiſtres : mais ie deſire 'medecin, faire en ſorte qu'vn chirurgien ne ſoit point ſurprins pour les accidens qu'elles apportent , & qu'il puiſſe eſtre capable de ſeruir le medecin qui ne peut eſtre preſent à la curation. et de fait, que l'on remarquera que ie ne donne icy aucuns preceptes ny enſeignemens du pouls ou battement des arteres, des ſignes & indications qui ſont priſes des vrines & des excremés du ventre,des vomiſſemens,rigueurs, ftiſſons, tremblemens, & autres changemens qui accompagnent les fiévres, ſans la connoiſſance deſ- quels il eſt impoſſible de les guerir ſeurement, promptement & doucement. mais ie laiſſe cela aux ce qui eſt medecins, me reſeruant ſimplement à traicter ce qui eſt de la nature, difference, signes, curation, & traité en cét mitigation des ſymptomes des fiévres, ce que i'eſtendray vn peu plus au long que ie n'ay fait par cy- b º" denant, mabriefueté ayant eſté cauſe que les nouices en la chirurgie n'ont peu receuoir le profit de diuiſon de mon oeuure tel qu'ils ſe propoſoient. or afin que nous gardions quelque methode en ce diſcours, qui ciioºuure oſte l'obſcurité & la difficulté du ſujet que nous traictons, nous le diuiſerons en deux parties : dont la premiere parlera de la nature, difference, cauſes, ſignes, & curation des fiévres, tant en general qu'en particulier : l'autre donnera quelques aduis ſur les ſymptomes & accidens d'icelles : tant afin d'adoucir leur faſcherie & importunité, que pour en ſoulager le malade qui ſe trouue quelquesfois plus incommodé des ſymptomes que des fiévres meſmes. mais deuant que paſſer outre, ie veux que l'on voye tout mon deſſein racourcy dans la figure ſuiuante pour ſeruir non ſeulement d'indice à tout l'ou- urage, mais auſſi pour ayder la memoire & le iugement de ceux quivoudront lire mon diſcours. table ov indice de tovt ce discovrs des fiévres. | rdefinition. chap. . | cauſes. chap. . | signes. chap. . c ſen general touchant le" curation en general. - | chap. . la premiere parle ; | moyens pour les guerir. u chap. . ce diſcours des fiévres j | deux parties | - len particulier {des differences. chap. . u la ſeconde parle des ſymptomes des fiévres. voy le ſecond diſcours. le a c dité qu'elle n'aye eu auſſi auec ſoy quelque fruict & quelque douceur. car nous obſeruons apres hippocrate d r emier e par tie d e s f i e'v r e s en g en e r al et en pa r t i c vl ie r. la definition de fiévre. c h a p t r e p r e m i e r. 'e s r choſe tres-aſſeurée qu'entre toutes les maladies les fiévres ſont les plus communes & les plus faſcheuſes. il n'y a ſi petit mal pour peu de temps qu'il dure, qui ne ſoit accompagné de la fiévre,, & ſi nous voulons croire à quelques vns, per ºrdinai ſonne ne meurt ſans fiévre, non pas meſme ceux qui meurent de mort violente. fiévre, "# elle eſt quelquesfois ſinaturelle qu'elle accompagne quelques-vns toute leur vie, §u , p . comme l'on dit qu'il arriue aux lyons;les autres vne fois tous les ans, & ce, au iour riodique . de leur naiſſance, comme on raconte d'vn certain poete nommé antipater , & d'vn la fiévre autre appellé iean l'architecte. c'eſt vn mal tres-importun, pource que par iceluy offence toutes sſº teutes les parties de noſtre corps exterieures & interieures ſont affligées, d'où s'en- les parties dº ſuit leſion & deprauation de toutes les operations. outre que par la vehemence d'iceluy les eſprits qui "?* ſont communs inſtruments de toutes nos actions ſont manifeſtement offenſez, ou en leur qualité pour eſtre trop eſchauffez & ſubtiliſez, ou en leur quantité pour eſtre promptement diſſipez par l'ardeur de la fiévre, ou en leur ſubſtance pour eſtre corrompus par l'infection des vapeurs pourries qui ſortent des humeurs que font les fiévres putrides. en ſorte que c'eſt vn mal tres-pernicieux , veu meſme qu'il a ſon ſiege en la partie la plus noble que nous ayons, qui eſt le cœur. ie diray toutesfois que comme la nature n'a point donné à la vipere devenin qu'il ne luy ait donné pareillement ſon antidote, auſſi que la fiévre n'a point tant d'incommo- la fiévre & galien, qu'il eſt quelquesfois à ſouhaitter d'auoir la fiévre, qu'elle guerit de pluſieurs maladies, quelle # criſe vient par voye de criſe & de ſoulagement, & qu'elle oſte des incommoditez que peut eſtre l'art de medecine # ne pourroit deſraciner. mais certes ce bien icy eſt ſi rare & fi peu ordinaire , que quand il arriue il donne ， # meſme de l'apprehenſion, & feroit-on volontiers des ſacrifices comme anciennement à rome à la fiévre, afin qu'elle n'euſt point à venir, ou à s'en retourner promptement. or en quelque façon que la fiévre arriue, ſa connoiſſance eſt tres-neceſſaire, c'eſt pourquoy nous deuons trauailler diligemment en cét eſtude, & nous efforcer à ſon eſclairciſſement, afin que le ieune chirurgien en tire profit. nous auons dit que cette doctrine a deux parties , l'vne qui explique l'eſſence & la nature de la fiévre, & l'autre † regarde les accidens. la premiere eſt double, generale & particulier. pour la ge- diuiſion de nerale, elle conſiſte à expliquer la definition de la fiévre, ſes cauſes, ſes ſignes, & ſa curation. pour la particu- . premieres liere, elle ſera expliquée cy-apres. c'eſt vne maxime des philoſophes, que les choſes generales & vniuer-partie de ce ſelles vont touſiours deuant les particulieres, & que la connoiſſance de celles-cy depend immediatement de diſcours celles-là : ne plus ne moins que les indiuidus dependent des eſpeces, & celles-cy des genres. c'eſt pourquoy le general il eſt tres à propos pour eſclaicir ce traicté, de commencer au general des fiévres, & voir auant que paſſet va deuant : outre qu'elle eſt ſa definition. le particuli- ie ne veux point icy rechercher curieuſement les noms de la fiévre grecs & latins, veu qu'ils ſeruent for lier. peu à l'intelligence de la fiévre, & point du tout à l'inſtruction du chirurgien. ie me contenteray d'apporter deſinition de ſa definition, ou deſcription la plus propre & exacte que i'ay peu tirer des meilleurs autheurs. la fiévre donc # n'eſt autre choſe qu'vne intemperie chaude & ſeiche, excitée & enflammée au cœur , & du cœur commu- e§ation niquée à tout le corps par les veines & arteres. en cette definition le mot d'intemperie eſt mis pour le genre, de lette acf. afin que nous conuenions que la fiévre eſtant vne intemperie, par corſequent que c'eſt vne maladie des par- nition. ties ſimilaires, & non point des organiques; outre auſſi que par ce mot d' ntemperie on diſtingue la fiévre la fiévre eſt des maladies qui ſont appellées communes,pour eſtre propres des parties ſimilaires & organiques. pour la inºpºriº, premiere difference, nous auons dit que c'eſt vne intemperie chaude & ſeiche, afin de diſtinguer la fiévre des º autres imtemperatures, ſoit ſimples, ſoit composées, qui ont leur nature diuerſe de celle de la fiévre. ie ſçay que quelques-vns ont eſtimé l'intemperature qui fait la fievre; eſt ſeulement chaude & non ſeiche , fondez ſur quelques paſſages d'hippocrate & de galien mal entendus. mais il n'y a point d'apparence de les croi- re, veu que ces deux grands perſonnages ont eſcrit le contraire, & qu'il eſt impoſſible qu'vne notable cha- leur,telle que l'on void aux fiévres, ſoit ſans ſeichereſſe. l'autre difference eſt compriſe en ces mots excitée l. ſigne de au cœur, par leſquels on donne à entendre quel eſt le ſiege & le lieu de la fiévre. il eſt tres certain que l'i-l.#. ſi dée ou eſpece du mal conſiſte en la partie affectée , & en la diſpoſition qui eſt contre nature : mais c'eſt la le cœur partie affectée principalement qui fait diſtinguer les maladies les vnes des autres. par exemple, par où pen- la partie di. ſons-nous que la phreneſie, la pleureſie,& l'ophthalmie ſoient diſtinguées les vnes des autres ? ce n'eſt pas # les par l'inflammation, car toutes ces trois ſont inflammations , mais par la partie malade , car la phreneſie eſt maladie . vne infiammation des membranes du cerueau, la pleureſie eſt auſſi inflammation de la membrane qui enue- - lope o premiere partie, lope les coſtes : & l'ophthalmie pareillement eſt vne inflammation, mais de la membrane de l'œil,qui s'ap- a pelle conjonctiue.la fiévre donc eſt bien vne intemperie chaude & ſeiche, mais qui n'eſt pas reſſerrée & atta- chée à vne ſeule partie, ains qui eſt excitée premierement au cœur, & de là communiquée à tout le reſte du cºrps. la fiévre ſi par où nous apprenons premierement, que la fiévre n'eſt pas vne maladie particuliere, & propre d'vne ſeule maladie ge-pattie, generale & vniuerſelle à tout le corps; & en ſecond lieu, qu'elle ne pourroit eſtre communiquée à tout le nerale. corps, ſi elle n'eſtoit allumée en vne parie noble & principale, comme eſt le cœur, qui à vne ſympathie & communication manifeſte auec tout le corps, tant par les arteres qui naiſſent de luy, que par les veines qui luy ſont enuoyées du foye.voila ce qu'on peut briefuement dire pour l'explication & intelligence de la defini- tion de la fiévre, n'eſtant point beſoin de s'amuſer à vne quantfté de queſtions que l'on fait ſur ce ſuject, leſ- quelles ſont bonnes pour l'eſchole, mais ne ſeruent de rien en la practique. - des cauſes generales de la fiévre. c h a p. ii. s)uatre gen- - - - - # §ſ )# i º n. que l'on ait accouſtumé de mettre quatre genres de cauſes lors qu'il eſt queſtion d'exami- les maladies : $ ner l'eſſence des choſes : ſi eſt-ce qu'en l'expoſition des maladies , on obmet touſiours la cauſe m'on point de formelle & la finale, d'autant qu'elles ſeruent de peu de connoiſſance. on ſe contente donc de par- b cauſe finale ler de l'efficiente , & de la materielle. pour l'efficiente, c'eſt celle qui a preſque tout pouuoir, & par laquelle la cauſe effi- l'intemperie chaude & ſeiche, qui eſt le genre de la fiévre, eſt engendrée. or on peut dire generalement ciente de la que tout ce qui augmente la chaleur de noſtre corps, iuſques à ce poinct qu'elle puiſſe empeſcher les opera- #a•e tions d'iceluy, eſt la cauſe efficiente de la fiévre. galien auliure premier des differences des fiévres, chapitre à . chefs. troiſieſme, rapporte cette cauſe à cinq chef principaux, au mouuement, à la pourriture, à la retention & ſuppreſſion le me - des excremens, à l'attouchement & voiſinage d'vne chaleur externe & eſtrangere , au meſlange de quelque ſubſtan- ment cauſe ce chaude parmy la noſtre interieure. par le mouuement, on entend celuy qui eſt violent & exceſſif, tant de de la fiévre. l'eſprit, que du corps. celuy du corps eſt ou actifvolontaire & prouenant de nous, comme luitter, courir,joüer à la paume:ou paſſif, & qui nous eſt donné par vne cauſe externe , comme pour auoir eſté en carroſſe, ou auoir l'oiſiueté picqué vn cheual faſcheux & violent. celuy de leſprit eſt ſoing, vehemente apprehenſion, faſcherie,corroux, cauſe la fié- & autres ſemblables paſſions de l'ame, lors qu'elles nous tiennent fort ſouuent, & fort long-temps. mais il ne faut pas icy s'abuſer ; & penſer que le ſeul mouuement excite la fiévre ; car nous voyons par experience, que le repos qui eſt ſon contraire, apporte ſouuent la fiévre : car ceux qui auoient de couſtume de s'exercer, s'ils viennent à s'adonner à l'oiſiueté , par accident tombent en fiévre , tant parce que les excremens qu'ils ſouloient diſſiper par l'exercice retenu dans le corps ſe pourriſſans aisément, l'eſchauffent outre meſure : fourriture qu'auſſi pource que leur chaleur naturelle ſe fait contre nature, pour n'eſtre plus eſuentée par l'exercice mo- cauſe de la deré, ainſi qu'elle ſoulois auparauant. la ſeconde cauſe efficiente des fiévres , eft la pourriture ou putreſattien, fiévre. qui g'eſt autre choſe qu'vne corruption causée par vne chaleur eſtrange & externe en vne humeur enfermé & non eſuenté, comme nous voyons ſouuent aduenir aux phlegmons & eryſipeles, auſquels par conſequent les fiévres ſont annexées & conioinctes. cette cauſe eſt propre des fiévres putrides, c'eſt pourquoy nous troiſieſme remettons en ce lieu là à en parler plus particulierement & amplement. la troiſieſme eſt la retentien & ſup- cauſe de la preſſion des excremens, qui ont de couſtume d'eſtre vuidez & pouſſez hors de nos corps, non ſeulement par vne fiévre euacuation manifeſte & ſenſible à la veue, comme ſont les mois des femmes, & les hemorrhoides des hom- mes; mais auſſi par vne euacuation qui ne ſe void point, & que nous appellons inſenfible tranſpiration qui ſe fait par les pores du cuir : cartel excrement principalement s'il eſt acre & fuligineux, comme des hommes bilieux, retenu & entaſsé dans le corps, ne pouuant expirer pour la denſité du cuir, ou pour la conſtipation des pores d'iceluy , excite promptement des fiévres,ou ephemeres, ou putrides. la quatrieſme eſt l'atronche- ment & voiſinage d'vne chaleur externe, comme du feu, des medicamens cauſtiques, des rayons du soleil, d'vn corps febricitant auec lequel nous auons couché, & principalement s'il eſt d'vn temperament picrochole ou attrabilaire. la cinquieſme cauſe des fiévres,eſt la priſe ou meſlange de quelque ſubſtance chaude parmy la noſtre interieure, ſoit qu'icelle ſubſtance chaude ſoit medicamenteuſe, ſoit qu'elle ſoit alimenteuſe. ainſi voyons-nous ſouuent qu'vne medecine de ſcamonée,ou de rheubarbe, donne la fiévre à celuy principalement qui a le foye chaud.le ſemblable faitl'vſage du miel & duſucre és corps des ieunes hommes,d'autant qu'en iceux les choſes douces s'enflamment aisément,& ſe tournent en bile : ce que plus euidemment font les eſ- pices, & toutes autres choſes aromatiques , ameres, acres, ou ſalées ; comme auſſi les vins qui ſont forts & puiſſans. voila les cinq cauſes efficientes des fiévres, qui ont eſté tres-doctement expliquées & traictées par galien, & du depuis confirmées par tous les medecins qui l'ont fuiuy. reſte à parler des cauſes materiel- la cauſ les, eſquelles conſiſte la nature de la fiévre, & fur leſquelles elle eſt placée & fondée, comme en ſon propre materielle ſubject. ces cauſes icy ſont de trois ſortes, comme eſtant rapportées à noſtre corps qui eſt baſty & conſtitué de des fiévres. trois diuerſes ſubſtances , de la ſpiritueuſe ou aérée , de la liquide ou bumoralle & de la ſolide. car l'intemperie d chaude & ſeiche qui fait la fiévre, venant à s'attacher à l'vne de ces trois ſubſtances eſt triple, fait vne fiévre differente & conforme à la naturede la ſubſtance, qui reçoit cette intemperie, à laquelle elleſert comme de cauſe mate- matiere & de propre ſuject. par exemple , ſi l'intemperie s'attache à la ſubſtance ſpirituelle ou aérée, il s'en- rielle de la gendre vne fiévre vrayement ſpirituelle, c'eſt à dire, qui eſt propre des eſprits de noſtre corps, & qui pour ne fiévre ephe- durer qu'vn iour naturel eſt appellée ephemere,ou diaire si le feu s'enflamme en la ſubſtance bumoralle,la fiévre a éyé. ſera vrayement bumoralle, comme ayant pour matiere & ſubject les humeurs du corps. que ſi la chaleur s'al- ºſº lumeen la ſubſtance ſolide du corps , il ſe fera vne fiévre hečiique, ainſi nommé 'elle eſt ſtable & fiévre hu- # # - » *. - pectique, a mmee pource qu'eiie eit itable # difficile à guerir, comme les choſes qui ont pris leurs habitudes. c'eſt pourquoy nous concluons, que com- c#. la me ily a cinq cauſes efficientes des fiévres cy-deſſus ſpecifiées , auſſi y a-il trois cauſes materielles ; à ſçauoir, fiévre becii- les eſprits, les humeurs, & les parties ſolides de noſtre corps. que. "ui' º• la cauſe de la fiévre. la . cauſe. des signes des fiévres engeneral. ch a p. ii i. # n c o º f que la connoiſſance des fiévres appartienne au ſeul medecin, & qu'il n'y ait rien de # # plus difficile en la medecine que le traicté des ſignes, ſi eſt-ce que ie ne laiſſeray pas d'en parler vn º petit mot en paſſant : & taſcheray d'en dire quelque choſe ſi vulgairement & groſſiement, que le chirurgien pourra s'en informer mediocrement , & en tant qu'il a en beſoin , pour le ſoulagement des malades o premiere partie, c'eſt vne maladie, que le chirurgien le doit faire par les indications priſes des choſes naturelles, non naturelles a & contre nature. leſquelles choſes toutesfois, afin de les racourcir ſe peuuent & ſe doiuent rapporter à trois - indications principales,ſçauoir à celle qui eſt priſe de la maladie, à celle qui eſt puisée de ſa cauſe . & à celle #º qui eſt priſe des forces du malade. par la premiere nous apprenons que la fiévre ainſi que les autres maladies, dication. ſe doit guerir par ſon contraire, eſtant vn axiome tres-certain en la doctrine d'hippocrate & de galien, que tout contraire ſe guerit par ſon contraire. or eſt-il que nous auons eſcrit cy-deſſus que la fiévre eſtoit vne intemperie chaude & ſeiche, par conſequent il faut pour guerir la fiévre vſer de remedes rafraiſchiſſans & humectans. donc la premiere indication nous apprend, que le chirurgien qui voudra entreprendre à gue- rir la fiévre, generalement parlant, ne doit ſe ſeruir que des remedes qui rafraiſchiſſent & qui humectent, eſtant impoſſible d'oſter la chaleur que par les choſes rafraiſchiſſantes, & de corriger la ſeichereſſe que par seconde in° celles qui moüillent & humectent. pour la ſeconde indication, elle eſt priſe des cauſes du mal, lequel ne peut ºiº , eſtre guery ſi ce n'eſt en retranchant ſa cauſe, eſtant tres-veritable l'axiome des philoſophes, que l'effect la cauſe # ceſſe , ſa cauſe eſtant oſtée. il faut toutesfois icy obſeruer qu'il y a des fievres telle qu'eſt l'ephemere & # diaire, qui perſiſtent encore que leurs cauſes ſoient oſtées : & c'eſt pourquoy cette indication n'a lieu #. #- qu'aux fiévres, qui ont leurs cauſes preſentes, & qui ſont en mouuement, qui fomentent & entretiennent ºr fois non. le mal par leur preſence & par leur action , & qui donnent commencement , progrez & entretien par leur )u'eſt ce effect réel & actuel auſdites fiévres. lors que telles cauſes ſe preſentent,alors le chirurgien par cette ſecon- qu'il faut de indication doit recourir à leur retranchement, afin de coupper le mal en ſa racine : veu que ce ſeroit faire la cau- vn abus de le vouloir oſter tandis qu'on laiſſeroit en force & en vigueur le principe & l'agent de ſa genera- ſº ººº prº tion. partant toutesfois & quantes qu'il y aura vne cauſe preſente, il faut commencer la curation de la fié- ſente. vre par le retranchement de cette cauſe , quoy faiſant on oſtera tout enſemble & la cauſe de la fiévre, & la fiévre meſme ſans autre plus grand appareil. que s'il n'y a point de cauſe preſente en la fiévre , comme il arriue à l'hephemere causée par l'ardeur du soleil, laquelle perſiſte hors la preſence d'iceluy , alors il ne faut point s'amuſer à cette indication , mais il faudra ſeulement combattre par remedes rafraiſchiſſans & humectans l'intemperie chaude & ſeiche de la fiévre. mais s'il arriue qu'en partie la fiévre ſoit faite, en par- tie qu'elle ſe face, c'eſt à dire que ſi la cauſe de la fiévre n'y eſt plus, mais qu'vne autre pareille cauſe vien- ne à entretenir la meſme fiévre , il faut premierement'oſter cette derniere cauſe , & puis il faudra com- battre la fiévre faite de la premiere cauſe abſente par la voye de la premiere indication , ie veux dire par troiſiéme les remedes qui rafraichiſſent & humectent. paſſons à la troiſieſme indication, laquelle ſe prend des forces lnº , du malade : icelle n'eſtant rien que le deſſein qu'a le chirurgien de maintenir la vertu du febricitant, & ººgºº luy donner la force de reſiſter au mal iuſques à la fin, par le moyen de la bonne nourriture. par cettein- # ** dication on ordonne vn regime de viure contraire à la fiévre, & à ſes cauſes, mais qui eſt conforme & pro- cº troi- portionné au temperament, à l'aage, & à la couſtume du febricitant : & ſouuent nous faiſons tel eſtat de ſtim, indica- cette indication que nous laiſſons là les deux autres pour embraſſer cette-cy: car comme nous auons dit tion eſt pro- ailleurs, le plus ſouuent nous laiſſons la propre cure & principale de la fiévre , qui eſt le retranchement de fitable aux la cauſe, pour ſuyure cette indication, & nous employer à la conſeruation de la force & vertu du febri- / , citant par exemple, au commencement des accez de la fiévre, en prenant indication de la maladie : il n'y a rien ſi contraire que le manger : veu qu'il augmente la matiere de la fiévre : toutesfois s'il aduenoit que les forces du malade fuſſent ſi debiles , que le malade ne peut reſiſter à l'effort de l'accez , alors prenant indi- cation des forces, & non d'autre choſe, il faudroit nourrir le malade & luy donner à manger , encore bien que la matiere de la fiévre s'en d'euſt augmenter. - - " deuant que finir ce chapitre, il faut obſeruer deux choſes : la premiere , que les deux premieres indica- tions quelquesfois s'accordent enſemble, quelquesfois elles ſont contraires entr'elles : ſi bien que l'indica- tion qui oſte la cauſe de la fiévre, augmente l'intemperie de la fiévre.au premier cas la choſe eſt bien aisée, - les deux pre- mieres indi- cations quel- quesfois ſe contrar tent. , - - - - - - - v. qu'eſt-ce qu'ā l'intemperie de la fiévre qui eſt chaude & ſeiche, il faut rafraiſchir & humecter , eu pareillement eſgard à fait quand la cauſe materielle de la fiévre, qui eſt la bile auſſi chaude & ſeiche, il ne faut faire autre choſe que rafraiſ- cela aduient chir & humecter.mais lors que deux indications ne s'accordent pas, comme és fiévres pituiteuſes & melan- choliques, alors il faut prendre indication de la choſe qui preſſe le plus & qui apporte plus de peine, ou de peril au malade , ne negligeant pas tout à fait neantmoins l'autre indication. en vn mot, il faut s'addreſſer premierement & principalement au plus neceſſaire & plus vrgent , & puis apres à ce qui preſſe le moins. l'autre choſe à obſeruer eſt , pour la ſeconde indication , que nous auons dit eſtre priſe du retranchement l* ºſº de la cauſe. or ce retranchement ne ſe peut faire par vn ſeul remede, mais par diuers moyens , à cauſe pour eſtre *- qu'il n'eſt pas queſtion d'vne ſeule cauſe en la fiévre, mais de plufieurs, comme nous auons donné à enten- # dre cy deſſus.par exemple l'eſtoupement des pores & conduits du cuir, & la ſuppreſſion de l'excrement acre & uerſité de re. fuligineux qui ſe fait par ces pores, ſont oſtez par les medicamens relaſchans, reſolutifs & digeſtifs, la §, , pourriture par ceux qui euacuent, cuiſent, contemperent , attenuent, inciſent & ouurent , ſ'obſtruction des pourquoy. vaiſſeaux, ſi elle eſt faite par humeurs craſſes, lentes & froides, par ceux qui eſchauffent puiſſamment & qui inciſent & attenuent : ſi elle eſt causée d'humeurs bilieuſes par ceux qui rafraiſchiſſent, & ainſi des autres, comme nous dirons au progrez de ce traicté, en la cure de chaſque fiévre en particulier. des moyens deſquels on ſe ſert à guerir les fiévres. c h a p. v. inſtrument l faut parler en ce chapitre des infirumens ou remedes qui peuuent ſeruir à obtenir la fin pour guerir. des trois indications , que nous auons expliqué au chapitre precedent. car ce n'eſt pas ou de dire qu'il faut ſe ſeruir de remedes froids pour eſteindre la fiévre,qu'il faut couper la cauſe de la fiévre par ſon contraire, & qu'il eſt neceſſaire de reſtablir & conſeruer les for- ' ces du malade; il faut ſçauoir par quels inſtrumens ou moyens nous pouuons venir à la fin trois ſortes de ces deſſeins. or ces inſtrumens ſont trois, autant qu'il y a de ſortes de remedes en la d'inſtrumës. º= partie de medecine, qu'on appelle therapeutique, ſçauoir la diete, la (hirurgie,& la phar- six choſes n macie. la diete n'eſt autre choſe que l'ordre & la reigle qu'on doit garder, non ſeulement au boire & manger, naturelles mais auſſi en l'vſage des ſix choſes que les medecins appellent non naturelles,qui ſont l'air, le boir & le manger,le dormir & le veiller,l'exerciie & le repos,la moderation aux affections & paſſions de l'ame,& l'excretion,& retention, " car il ne faut rien faire que rafraiſchir & humecter , comme il arriue aux fiévres bilieuſes : car eu eſgard à du traicté des fiévres. o | - " - - - - - - a ou repletion & inanition.par la chirurgie nous entendons les operations de la main,qui ſeruent à la gueriſon des fiévres. et par la pbarmacie l'vſage des medicamens ſoit purgatifs, ſoit alteratifs, qui doiuent eſtre employez à la cure des meſmes fiévres. - - - - - pource qui eſt de la diete des fiévres nous pouuons definir en general qu'elle doit eſtre refraiſchiſſante la diete des & humectante tant que faire ſe pourra, ayant éſgard à la nature du malade , à ſon aage » à ſa couſtume, & fº au pais où il eſt. et afin de particulariſer cette regle, & rendre noſtre doctrine plus claire & intelligible, ., . nous diſons que l'air que hument les malades doit eſtre froid & humide : que ſi la ſaiſon ne le permet, il faut # #º la preparer par l'art de medecine , arrouſant la chambre du malade d'eau fraiſche , ſemant par iceile des # fueilles de violiers de mars, de vigne & de laictués, de fleurs de nenuphar & de roſes,& choſes ſemblables: humide. d'autant que par ce moyen l'air eſtant rendu froid & humide, imprime à tout le corps les meſmes qualitez: les viandes & bien d'auantage au poulmon & au cœur, aufquels il eſt porté directement par la reſpiration , ce faiſant des febrici- on modere l'intemperie chaude & ſeiche de la fiévre par la premiere indication , qui eſt de guerir le mal tan，. par ſon contraire. pareillement la qualité des viandes doit eſtre froide & humide pour les meſmes raiſons, le boire des prenant garde que telles viandes ſoient aisées à cuire , & de bon ſuc, & qu'on en donne en telle quantité fabricitan . qu'elle ſuffiſe à entretenir les forces & la vertu du malade, & en temps où elles puiſſent touſiours profiter, & ne nuire iamais. les meilleures viandes & plus commune des febricitans ſont bouillons , iaunes d'œufs , gelée, pruneaux cuits, pommes cuittes, orges mondez , & autres viandes legeres , faciles à digerer, & qui ne chargent point l'eſtomach. le boire des febricitans doit eſtre de l'eau bouillie, de la ptiſane faite auec regliſſe, orge & choſes ſemblables, & quelquesfois de l'eau meſlée auec quelque ſyrop rafraichiſſant & hu- mectant, comme eſt le viclat,& de nenuphar.galien au neufieſme de la methode , recommande l'eau froide pour la fiévre, mais auec certains dioriſmes & precautions qu'on peut aller voir à loiſir dans le meſme au- theur.pour le vin il leur doit eſtre defendu, ſur tout s'il eſt puiſſant, genereux, fort, fumeux & groſſier.pour ce qui eſt des veilles & duſommeil, elles doiuent eſtre moderées, en ſorte toutesfois que le ſommeil ſoit le ſommeil plus long que les veilles : car encore bien que les veilles rafraiſchiſſent d'auantage les parties interieures,& neceſſºire . ie ſommeilles exterieures, à cauſe que par les veilles la chaleur s'eſpand au dehors, & par le ſommeil ſe * /º- retire au dedans.si eſt-ce toutesfois qu'à cauſe de beaucoup de biens & commoditez que le ſommeil ap- #ſº porte à l'eſprit & au corps, comme d'aider la coction , reſtablir les eſprits, fortifier les puiſſances de l'a- # #. me & du corps, eſteindre la ſoif, arreſter les vomiſſemens, la toux & le flux de ventre , humecter le cer- # vtile ueau & tout le corps, à cauſe dis-je d'vn plus grand bien le ſommeil des febricitans doit eſtre plus long que §. les veilles.quand à ce qui eſt de l'exercice du corps ou du repos , il eſt tres-aſſeuré que l'exercice eſchauffant tans. & les humeurs & les eſprits, que le repos eſt à preferer, & qu'il doit eſtre recommandé aux febricitans, puis qu'il rafraiſchit & humecte, blaſmant la façon de faire de prodicus & herodicus , & de leurs ſecta- teurs,leſquels par l'exercice de luiter & de courir qu'ils faiſoient faire aux febricitans, les tuoient pluſtoſt que de les guerir. / ' · . les paſſions & perturbations de l'ame ne ſont aucunement vtiles aux febricitans, au contraire le repos & la ioye vtile la tranquilité de l'eſprit leur eſt neceſſaire, oſtant par ce moyen le trouble des humeurs & des eſprits, qui * la fiévre, ſuruient par l'excez des paſſions, telles que ſont la cholere, la ialouſie, le chagrin, la triſteſſe & le deſeſ- spauoir ſi la poir, la ioye moderée par accident, car par icelle le ſang ſe retirant du cœur, qui eſt le ſiege de la fiévre,és #a parties du corps, & principalement aux exterieures, elle eſt cauſe que le cœur ſe rafraiſchit aucunement, §" & par conſequent diminué l'intemperie chaude de la fiévre. il n'y a point de paſſion qui fut plus propre §nte aux fiévres que la crainte, laquelle rafraiſchit les humeurs & les eſprits,fi ce n'eſt qu'elle apporte beaucoup ſuite § de plus grands accidens auec elle : & de faict , nous liſons que pluſieurs perſonnes par crainte & frayeur la fiévre. ſubite & non preueuë , ont perdu tout à faict la fiévre par vn extraordinaire rafraiſchiſſement du cœur & des parties contenués en iceluy, causé de l'excez de cette frayeur. ce que i'adiouſte pour donner à enten- dre qu'il ne faut pas pour eſteindre la fiévre vne petite crainte , & telle qu'elle arriue communement : mais qu'il faut vne frayeur extraordinaire & exceſſiue, qui ait non ſeulement le pouuoir de faire retirer le ſang , les eſprits & la chaleur des parties exterieures vers le cœur, mais auſſi de rafraiſchir la chaleur du cœur, ſans l'eſteindre neantmoins tout à fait , en quoy on deſcouure la difficulté & le peril de ce remede. le dernier article des choſes non naturelles qu'on doit obſeruer pour la fiévre eſt la retention & euacua- la retention tion ; la retention des choſes vtiles & profitables au corps , & l'euacuation des excremens & ſuperfluitez nui- & euacua- ſibles.ie ne m'eſtens point d'auantage au denombrement de telles choſes, ie diray ſeulement que ſi les ex- tion. cremens du ventre, les vrines , les ſueurs, &c. ſont retenus trop long temps au corps du febricitant qu'ils augmentent la fiévre, & la diminuent quand ils en ſont euacués en temps & lieu, & en quantité ſuffiſante: comme au contraire , s'il ſuruient au febricitant vne euacuation d'humeurs froides au lieu des chaudes, il ſent la fiévre s'en augmenter : & trouue que ſes forces s'abbattent, s'il luy arriue vne euacuation des cho- ſes qui doiuent eſtre retenues au corps, & qui luy ſont vtiles & neceſſaires. i'ay rapporté en mon inſtru- ction de chirurgie chap. .ce fixieſme chef des choſes non naturelles à la repletion & à l'inanition , & en ay particularisé les eſpeces & differences , leſquelles peuuent eſtre rapportées en ce lieu , & accommo- dées à noſtre intention. c'eſt pourquoy ie n'en diray rien d'auantage, & paſſeray à l'autre inſtrument de la therapeutique, qui eſt la chirurgie. quand nous parlons icy de la chirurgie , nous n'entendons pas parler de toutes les operations de la comment la main qui luy appartiennent, mais de celles ſeulement qui peuuent ſeruir à combattre & guerir la fiévre, chirurgie eſt telie qu'eſt principalement la ſaignée. non pas que la ſaignée conuienne directement & proprement à la neceſſaire fiévre , mais indirectement ſeulement, & par accident. le propre de la ſaignée n'eſt pas de rafraiſchir & pºur guerir la d'humecter, mais de vuider le corps & d'euacuer le ſang , à quoy à la verité ſuccede le rafraiſchiſſement , fiévre , par la diminution qu'on fait & du ſang , & de la chaleur qui l'accompagne. elle peut toutesfois conuenir la ſaignée en à la fièvre, par le moyen d'vne de ſes cauſes, qui eſt la plenitude , laquelle ne peut eſtre oſtée plus pro- # prement, promptement & ſeurement que par la ſaignée. pour toutes ces raiſons , & pour deſtourner quel- # quefois les fluxions qui ſe font ſur les parties nobles en la pluſpart des fiévres, & auſſi pour donner air & § #. vent à la chaleur qui eſt eſtouffée dans le corps,comme pareillement pour deſgager les obſtructions, & fiévres. pour beaucoup d'autres cºmmoditez qu'apporte la ſaignée au corps, elle eſt tres propre & tres neceſſaire aux fiévres, en forte qu'il ſeroit preſque impoſſible de les guerir, ſi ce n'eſtoit par ſon moyen. et voilà prin- cipalement l'operation pour laquelle la chirurgie eſt vtiles aux fiévres, bien qn'on ſe ſerue encore de quel- ques autres , mais moins puiſſantes & moins profitables, comme ſont l'application des ſangſuës, les ſca- rifications faires aux iambes, vſuelle en egypte, eſpagne, & quelques lieux d'italie, les v§ouſes & les ººº- coti] ets appliquez ſur les eſpaules , & preſque ſur tout le corps , auec, ou ſans ſcarification & mouſchetu- # la re les ſynapiſmes, veſiccatoires & cauteres, & autres choſes ſemblables, leſquelles ſont employées à la srurgie - r - - ' vtiles à la guariſon des fiévres, mais auec bien peu de ſuccez. fiévre. y yy i'aurois repletion inanition. o premiere partie, l'aurois beaucoup à diſcourir ſur le troifieſme inſtrument qui conuient aux fiévres, qui eſt la pbamscie, la pharma-ſinon que ie me reſerue au particulier des fiévres. nous dirons toutesfois en general que la pharmacie cte fournit de beaucoup de moyens à employer pour la gueriſon , qu elle prend des medicamens f i t pugetſ qu'alteratifs, teaucºup de qu'aſe donne ou nterieurement ou exterieurement, ſoit pour tout le coips , ſoit pour quelqu'vne de ſes partier. ºº * les lauemens ou clyſteres, les breuuages purgatifs, les emetiques ou vomitoires, les bolus, les pillules fiévres. ſeruent à oſter la cacochymie, & à purger le corps de beaucoup de ſuperfiuitez , qui nourriſſent & entre- | *# *** tiennent la fiévre. les iuleps & apozemes rafraiſchiſſans & humectans , les epithemes » fomentations, lini- # lur,- mens, bains, onguens, combattent directement les cauſes de la fiévre, & ſon intemperie chaude & ſeiche. - #- er les alexipharmaque & cordiaux corrigent la malignité des humeurs , donnent de la force & de la vigueur - les cardia- au cœur & parties nobles , & reſiſtent à la pourriture qui ſe meſle d ordinaire parmy les fiévres. bref, il ques. n'y a rien en la pharmacie qui ne puiſſe ayder à la gueriſon des fiévres , s'il eſt bien meſnagé par vn docte & iudicieux medecin, qui ſçait meſme tirer profit des poiſons & vcnins pour l'vtilité & ſalut des malades. - la difference des fiévres. c h a p. v i. la diuiſion ncore bien que les philoſophes ayent accouſtumé de faire ſuiure la diuiſion des choſes apres des fiévres - _ - - - - * \ - - # c€ leur definition : ſi eſt-ce toutesfois que ie me ſuis reſerué à parler de la difference des fiévres en - - - : ,- * lieu & psur- ce lieu, & en rapporter toutes les eſpeces, afin d'auoir l occaſion & le moyen de parler de quºy. º chaque eſpece de fiévre tout d'vne ſuitte, & ſans interruption d'autre matiere. or les mede- diſcorde des ，llé cins n'ont pas touſiours eſté bien d'accord lors qu'il a fallu aſſigner les eſpeces & differences medecins en des névres : c'eſt pourquoy galien reprend les anciens pour auoir grandement erré en ce ſuject; les vns ºf" pour auoir mis moins de differences de fiévres qu'il n'y en a, les autres pour auoir rapporté celles qui ſont º, accidentelles au lieu des eſſentielles : & les autres pour auoir ſupposé au lieu des differences vtiles & neceſſai- #º res , celles qui ſont purement inutiles & ſans profit. de faict, que nous apprenons que les vns ont pris la § # difference des fiévres de leur inuaſion, diſant que les vnes prennent ſans friſſon, les autres auecfriſſon : quel- uaſion. ques-vns les ont priſes en l'eſſence ou condition de la nature de la fiévre, aſſeurant que des fiévres les vnes .be la eha- ont vne chaleur aiguë & mordante au toucher, les autres vne chaleur douce , quelques-vnes qui paroiſſent leur qui les douces, & qui ſe font ſentir peu apres aigres & mordantes : & quelques autres en fin qui ſemblent aigres accompagne & aigues, & qui deuiennent douces à la main. il y en a qui prenent la difference des fiévres de l'intention # pº- de leur chaleur, appellant les vnes bruſlantes, & les autres tiedes & debiles : & bien les diuiſent ſelon le§ , ſº de la cidens & qualitez qui accompagnent ladite chaleur. par exemple , ils appellent les vnes ſeiches & ſalées, les ºººººr , autres venteuſes & horribles à voir, ils en nomment quelques autres humides, rouges,paſles, liuides, malignes, ve- # " " neneuſe, peſtilentes, populaires, lentes, aigues, contagieuſes, & ainſi des autres. bref, pluſieurs croyent que la di- º/ j. § pa te ſtinction des fiévres doit eſtre priſe des humeurs dont elles ſont faictes, & par conſequent que les vnes ſont meurs ſanguines , les autres bilieuſes , les autres pituiteuſes ou phlegmatiques & quelques autres melancboliquet. mais d'où eſt priſe pour dire la verité de toutes ces differences, il n y en a pas vne qui ſoit ſans reprehenſion , veu qu'elles la vraye di- ſont en partie ou ſuperflués , ou deffectueuſes , ou inutiles, ou de peu de confideration. - uiſion des nous auons dit cy-deſſus que la difference des fiévres , ſelon galien , doit eſtre priſe duſubject ou matie- fievres. re où elles s'allument dans noſtre corps , qui ſont les eſprits, les bumeurs , & les parties ſolides, d'où il re- - ºº eſpeces ſulte trois genres de fiévres , que l'on appelle ſpirituelle ou ephemere, humorale & hectique ; la premiere deſ. de fievres quelles s'allume aux eſprits : la ſeconde aux humeurs : la troiſieſme aux parties ſolides, & n'y a aucune ſeulement. autre difference de fiévres qui ne puiſſe eſtre rapportée à l'vne de ces trois, comme nous verrons en la ſuit- - te de ce diſcours. i'adiouſteray toutesfois pour plus grand eſclairciſſement de cette doctrine, & pour nous | accommoder à la capacité des ieunes chirurgiens, pour l'inſtruction deſquels nous auons ramaſſé ces pre- ceptes des œuures des milleurs autheurs de la medecine, que toutes les fievres ſont ordinaires ou extraor- fiévres or- dinaires. i'appelle ordinaires celles qui ſont communes & vulgaires , & n ont rien que les accidens coiil - dinaires é muns qui les accompagnent & ſouuent & frequemment, ſans ſoupçon d'vne cauſe plus cachée, ou d'effects extraordi- prodigieux & eſtranges. les extraordinaires ſont celles qui ont quelque choſe par de-là les communes , ſoit naºreº , en leur cauſe, on en leurs effects, ou en leurs accidens , ou en quelque autre choſe qui les accompagne , fiérº ºrº- comme ſont les fiévres peſtilentes , les epidemiques , la ſueur d'angleterre , les purpurées, &c. pou les # ordinaires elles ſont eſſentielles ou ſymptomatiques : les eſſentielles ſont ainſi appellées à cauſe de leur origine fiévres eſ qui vient d'elles meſmes, & non en ſuite d'vn autre mal , comme d'vne inflammation de quelque partie , ſentielles & § que font les ſymptomatiques. or ces fiévres eſſentielles ſont de trois eſpeces, ephemeres , bumorales cº- mptomati- - - - - # | hečtiques, deſquelles nous allons parler particulierement commençant aux ephemeres. - ephemeres. chap. . - ſeſſentielles, & ſont . humorales. chap. . hcctiques. chap. . ſordinaires,& c'eſt ou% - | les fiévres ſont , ou# isymptomatiques. chap. . lextraordinaires. chap. . pes fiévres en particulier , & premierement de la fiévre ephemere. c h a p t r e. v i i. la fiévre # º * # * aºoi parlé des fiévres en general » il faut deſcendre au particulier d'icelles, & commencer ephenere. #\#à celle qui eſt la moins perilleuſe,& de moindre durée, c'eſt l'ephemere ou iournaliere ainſi appellée, #$ pource que de ſa nature elle parfaict ſon cours & ſon temps en vn ſeul accez , qui ne dure pas dauantage que vingt-quatre heures , qui eſt l'eſpace d'vn iour naturel » ce qui a pareillement faict ^ - qu'elle a du traicté des fiévres. o º,, : - | c quelle l'vrine donne cognoiſſance, & non des eſprits qui ſont les propres ſubiets des fiévres ephemeres. u'elle ait eſte nommée diaire, qui vaut autant à dire chez les latins qu'ephemere chez les grecs,& iournaliere appellatiºns aux françois. cy deuant nous i'auons appelléeſpirituelle ou ſpiritueuſe, d'autant qu'elle s'allume aux eſprits de la fiévre du cœur , qui luy ſeruent de ſubiect & de matiere. on la peut donc definir vne intemperature chaude & ſei- # cbe allumée aux eſprits vitaux, par l'eſpace de vingt-quutre beures ſeulement, son temps eſt fort court , parce # qu'eſtant allumée aux eſprits, comme en vne matiere tenuë, ſubtile & fort aisée à diſſiper : elle ne peut ſub- p - ſiſter dauantage, ne plus ne moins que nous voyons que le feu ſe prend à la paille , ou à quelque autre matiere deiiee & ſubtile, s'eſteint incontinent & eſt de fort peu de durée. sa cauſe eſt touſiours externe, les cauſes de & vient de dehors,appellée pour ce ſubiect des medecins procatbartique, c'eſt pourquoy elle eſt fort diuer-ºphººrº ſe, bien qu'elle ſe puiſſe rapporter à quatre chefs principaux , ſçauoir premierement aux choſes de dehors, ſont quatre. qui touchent le corps exterieurement , ſecondement aux choſes qui entrent dans le corps:tiercement aux choſes qui apportent paſſion & alteration à l'eſprit, ou au corps , ou enſemble à l'vn & à l'autre , en quatrieſme lieu aux ſymptomes & accidens çontre nature.au premier poinct ſe rapporte l'air chaud & eſtouffant , l'air trop p,emiere froid & trop ſec, les bains d'eau froide ou alumineuſe,qui pour eſtouper les pores du cuir eſchauffent les eſ cauſe de l'e- prits par accident. au ſecond appartiennent les alimens & les medicamens chauds & acres, le vin, les eſpices phemere. & choſes ſemblables, meſme les alimens bien temperez , mais pris en trop grahde quantité & ſans meſure. la ſeconde le troiſieſme comprend tous les mouuemens & changements naturels, comme la faim, la ſoif, la laſſitude,ire, cauſe. . fureur,triſteſſe, longues veilles,&c. le quatrieſme regarde principalement la douleur, qui pour eſtre vn ſym-* troiſſeſ- ptome tres ordinaire, ne laiſſe pas pour cela d'eſchauffer grandement les eſprits, & introduire en iceux vne #. intemperie chaude & ſeiche.en vn mot, toutes les cauſes nommées cy-deuant communes à toutes les eſpe-† quatrieſ- ces de fiévres peuuent exciter la fiévre ephemere, excepté la pourriture ou putrefaction qui eſt reſerueé ſeu- lement pout la generation des fiévres putrides.le bubon meſme, c'eſt à dire l'inflammation & phlegmon le tuton eſt des glandules, ioint auec vne vlcere manifeſte, & prouenant d'vne cauſe manifeſte, excite cette fiévre diaire: cauſe de l'e- comme au contraire, s'il eſt ſans vlcere prouenant de cauſe latente & interieure : comme d'inflammation phemere. & autre vice de partie noble , cerueau , cœur & foye,excite vne autre eſpece de fiévre, & pire que la diai- re, comme eſcrit hippocrate en l'aphoriſme .du liure . où il dit, les fiévres qui ſuruiennent aux tumeurs aphoriſme des glandules ſur toutes malignes, execepté les diaires. lequel aphoriſme toutesfois n'eſt pas vray en tout & º'hippºcrate partout; comme il eſt aisé à cognoiſtre par les bubons qui ſuruiennent ſouuent aux enfans, & par les bu- ºººſº pº bons veneriens,leſquels bien qu'ils ſoient ſans vlcere manifeſte, ſont toutesfois ordinairement ſans fiévre touſiours dangereuſe, aduertiſſement que doit bien noter le ieune chirurgien. # , de l les ſignes communs de la fiévre ephemere , ſont chaleur douce , halitueuſe & ſuaue à l'attouchement : # # le poux viſte & frequent quelquefois grand & fort , quand la diaire eſt cauſée de courroux & de fureur : au-§ co - tresfois petit lors qu'elle eſt causée de faſcherie, triſteſſe, faim, froid, crudité, au reſte eſgal & bien reglé. muns. les ſignes tres-certains & pathogonomoniques ſont , ſi la fiévre eſt ſuruenuë non lentement,& peu à peu,mais signes cer- ſubitement & inopinément de quelque cauſe externe & euidente, ſans que le malade aye eſté premierement tains. degouſté,ſans auoir ſenty vne laſſitude ſpontanée, ſans profond ſommeil, oſcitation & baillement, ſans , grande douleur, ſans iactation du corps & inquietude , ſans horreur & grand friſſon, bref ſans aucun autre - faſcheux ſymptome. ie ne fais point icy mention des vrines pour les cauſes que i'ay dites cy-deuant, & auſ-vrines pºur- ſi à raiſon que le plus ſouuent en ces fiévres icy les vrines ſont ſemblables à celles des ſains , outre qu'en ſi ººº peu de temps que leſdites fiévres durent, il ne ſe peut faire grand changement de la maſſe du ſang, de la- # cy-deſſus i'ay dit que cette fiévre n'a qu'vn accez, lequel dure vn iour de ſa propre nature , combien'qu'il #. s'eſtende quelquesfois iuſques à trois ou quatre iours, & alors elle ſe change facilement & degenere en fie-§ pu- vre putride, ſi quelque erreur ſuruient , ou par le defaut du malade , ou par quelque autre choſe exterieure : tride. elle deſigne & ſe termine ou par inſenſible tranſpiration, ou par vne moiteur & ſueur naturelle, douce & ccmment non fertide ou puante, en ſorte qu'elle ne laiſſe apres elle aucun ſymptome, ny accident de ceux qui ont ac- elle ſe termi- couſtumé d'accompagner les fiévres, ou de leur ſuruiure. . - l'ordre de la cure de ces fièvres eſt double,general ou commun , en particulier à chaque fievre. la cu- la curation re generale conſiſte és ſix choſes non naturelles,qu'on doit ordonner par la voye de contrarieté à la cauſe #º deſdites fievres. en premier lieu , les bains d'eau tiede & naturelles ſont tres-vtiles, pourueu que le mala- # §. #. de ne ſoit point plethorique , plein d'excremens, ou autrement ſubject à catharrhes & defiuxions : pource § #. qu'en fondant & liquefiant les humeurs, & en relaſchant les parties , on ſeroit cauſe d'exciter ou augmen- ſie en ſix ter le catharre : c'eſt auſſi pourquoy en tel accident on doit euiter les frictions & onctions faites auec les chef . huyles tiedes, qui d'ailleurs ſont fort vtiles à ces fievres, principalement quand elles ſont cauſées par tra- uail exceſſif , par adſtriction des pores , & par les bubons. que la nourriture ſoit rafraiſchiſſante & hu- mectante, faicte de viandes legere, de bon ſuc, & aisées à cuire & diſtribuer. pour le boire on peut don- le vin en la ner de petit vin, & bien trempé, d'autant qu'il rafraiſchit , prouoque les vrines & les ſueurs, humecte & fiévre ephº- fortifie l'eſtomach, & recrée les eſprits. qu'on ſe donne toutesfois bien garde de le donner lors qu'il y º aura douleur de teſte, & quand la fiévre ſera excitée de courroux, & d'vn bubon , car principalement # # •ſt en ce dernier cas il faut retrancher tout à fait le vin, iuſques à tant que l'inflammation ayant paſſé ſon eſtat # # • vienne en ſa declinaiſon. - - º • # pour la cure particuliere, il faut tenir pour regle aſſeurée qu'à chaſque cauſe qui aura excité la fiévre, §par- il eſt neceſſaire d'oppoſer ſon contraire pour remede, comme au trauail le repos , aux veilles le dormir , à ticuliere. la cholere & faſcherie toutes choſes plaiſantes & agreables, propos ioyeux & recreatifs , au bubon la cura- tion de l'vlcere dont il aura eſté excité, en apres celle du bubon, & en fin celle de la fiévre. ie ne parle point icy,ny de la ſaignée, n'y de la purgation, d'autant que la fiévre eſtant courte,ſans peril , ſans l'impure- . té du ſang & des humeurs, tels remedes generaux ſeroient icy hors de ſaiſon. - de la fiévre humorale , & de ſes differences, c h a p. v iii. $ovr eſclaircir les differences des fiévres, il eſt beſoin de s'arreſter au precepte de galien, la diference $# qui nous aduertit que la fiévre ayant ſon ſiege dans le cœur,elle ne peut auoir plus de diffe- des i#vres n'% rences qu'il y a de parties dans iceluy. or eſt il que dans le cœur nous n'y conſiderons que priſe des par- $ trois parties,ſçauoir le corps & la ſubſtance du cœur,les humeurs qui ſont contenués dans ice- ties du cœur. luy,& qui ſeruét à le nourrir:& en fin les eſprits vitaux,qui ſont continuellemët engédrez en- - iceluy. partant il ne peut y auoit plus de trois genres de fiévre,dont la premiere eſt allumée, cóme il a eſté dit dâs la propre ſubſtance du coeur:la ſecôde aux humeurs d'iceluy:& la troiſiéme aux eſprits: y y y nqus ./ i · l'remiere partie, - de la cure de la synoque ſimple. c h a p. x i. trois parties gas de la thera peutique. eſ\© a therapeutique ayant trois parties, la diete, la chirurgie & la pharmacie. il faut qu'en la gueriſon de toutes les maladies on ait recours à vn ou à pluſieurs de ces chefs ? comme nous ferons dores-en-auant en la cure de toutes fiévres, les remedes deſquels ſeront pris k de ces trois chefs enſemble. le regime de ， lk$/# .. et pºur cºmmencer à la synoque ſinple, le dis que le genre deviure doit eſtre rafraiſchiſ- § ºzen$& ſant & humectant,tenu & leger, afin de ne ſurcharger les malades qui ont plus de ſang qu'il se fiévre. ºn en faut. c'eſt pourquoy on doit ſe contenter de boüillons faicts au veau & à la volaille, aſſaiſonnez d'her- bes rafraiſchiſſantes , comme laictuë,pourpié, ozeille, bugloſſe, concombre en la ſaiſon. on peut auſſi don- sçauoirſ º des œufs fraiz bien mollets, des jus de pruneaux, de la gelée faicte auec le jus de citron , & non auec le i§ eſ vin,ſans beaucoup de canelle. pour le boire on ne donnera point de vin , mais de la ptiſane ſeulement, ou de bonne. l'eau boüillie auec orge & chiendent. galien au neufieſme de la methode chapitre . conſeille de donner de ceux à qui l'eau froide & crue, tant que les malades en voudront & pourront boire. a laquelle opinion pluſieurs me- l'eau cruë eſt decins ne s'accordent pas pour les accidens qu'on en a veu arriuer. car on a reconneu que l'eau froide eſtoit mºiſſºlº grandement contraire à ceux qui ont peu de ſang & de chair, qui ont les viſceres bouffis ou enflez, ou pleins d'obſtructions causée par des humeurs craſſes, viſqueuſes ou pituiteuſes, & qui ont l'eſtomach & les parties nerueuſes, grandement foibles & dilicates.a ces perſonnes icy l'eau froide donnée ſans meſure & ſans re- gle apporte l'hydropiſie, difficulté de reſpirer, tremblement de membres, conuulfions, lethargies & autres `ceux à aui p. - - - » | | - # # violens accidens, ſur tout quand telles gens ne ſont pas accouſtumez à boire de l'eau. que s'il s'en trouue profite qui ayent accouſtumé ce breuuage , & qui ayent les entrailles bonnes & vigoureuſes , l'eſtomach bon & fort, & grande quantité de ſang dans les veines, à ceux-cy on peut leur laiſſer boire de l'eau froide, pourueu que - ce ne ſoit point au commencement , ny en l'accroiſſement de la fiévre, mais en ſa vigueur & lors que les ſi- gnes de coction apparoiſſent. car pour lors l'eau froide fortifie tellement les parties ſolides, & recrée telle- ment la chaleur naturelle,qu'elle en cuit mieux les humeurs,retenant les bonnes, & chaſſant les mauuaiſes & ſuperflué,ſoit par le vomiſſement, ſoit par les ſelles ſoit par les ſueurs. la ſaignée pour les remedes pris de la chirurgie, la ſaignée tient le premier lieu, ſur tout en cette fiévre où il eſt que- § ſtion de plenitude. or eſt-il que par la voye des contraires, la plenitude du ſangne ſe peut mieux guerir que en cette ſié- par l'euacuation d'iceluy , à quoy la ſaignée a eſté inuenté par l'art de medecine;outre que par accident elle "u 'º, profite grandement à rafraiſchir le ſang & les eſprits, & à rendre la liberté aux conduits qui ſont eftoupez ou bouchez.voilà pourquoy le but principal en cette fiévre eſtant deſtine à oſter premierement la plenitude du corps, & à diminuer le ſang, & puis apres à ouurir les paſſages,à attenuer les choſes eſpaiſſes,à inciſer les gluantes, à prouoquer la tranſpiration, à eſteindre la ferueur de la fiévre, & à fortifier les parties du corps s'il faut ſai- foibles & abbatuës par l'oppreſſion des humeurs. on a reconneu qu'il n'y auoit rien de plus excellent à tous gºer iuſques ces effects,que de tirer promptement du ſang en cette maladie , non vne fois ſeulement, mais deux ou trois à ºpºmº fois,ſelon lavehemence du mal,la force du malade, & le degré de la plenitude que l'on obſerue en luy.galien au lieu cy-deſſus allegué,ordonne la ſaignée iuſques à defaillance de cœur, & preſque iuſques à l'eſuanouiſ- ſement,pour quelque nombre de raiſon:qu'il propoſe tres-iudicieuſement. toutesfois cela eſt ſi perilleux,& apporte telle eſpouuante au malade & aux aſſiſtans, outre beaucoup d'accidens qui en peuuent ſuruenir, & deſquels galien meſme fait mention, que le plus ſeur eſt de conſeruer touſiours les forces du malade,& tirer flux de ſang pluſtoſt du ſang cinq & ſix fois par interualle, que d'en oſter vne ſeule fois ſi profuſément. l'on a obſerué p l " en cette fiévre,que ceux qui n'ont pas tiré du ſanghardiment, ont precipite quelquesfois les malades à des demeſure& fiux de ſang par le nez fi deſmeſurez & exceſſifs , qu'ils en ont pensé perdre la vie. car la nature ſe trouuant par fois grandément irritée , ſoit par l'abondance, ſoit par l'acrimonie des humeurs, ou autrement, s'oublie tellement, qu'au lieu d'vne criſe,elle faict vne hypercriſie, & en lieu d'vne euacuation iuſte & moderée , faict vn desbordement deſreglé & pernicieux. remedes quant aux remedes pharmaceutiques,il eſt beſoin premier que de ſaigner,ſi le ventre eſtoit ſerré,de donner pº* vn lauement emolient , lequel on pourra continuer tous les iours, afin de rabattre beaucoup de fumées , ra- #. fraiſchir le dedans, & vuider beaucoup d'ordures qui s'amaſſent touls les iours de la nourriture que i'on iuleps. prend. pluſieurs preſcriuent des juleps & epozemes rafraiſchiſſans & aperitifs, preparez auecvne decoction de chiendent,de cichorée ſauuage,d'ozeille,endiue,laictuë,pimpernelle blugloſſe, bourache, capillaire, orge, ſemences froides, fleurs cordiales,& de nenuphar,en y adiouſtant les ſyrops violat, de nenuphar,de limons, de cichoree fimple, aceteux ſimple, de pommes ſimple, & autres de pareille qualité. epithemes. . on ordonne auſſi des epithemes, partie ſur le cœur, partie ſur les hypochondres, afin d'eſteindre la fer- sºuana ii ueur du ſang,& empeſcher que pareille intemperie ne s'attache trop fixement au cœur,& aux autres viſceres. j，ut purger. on ſe doit donner garde de purger au commencement de cette fiévre,mais on doit attendre que les ſignes de coction apparoiſſent aux vrines,& aux excremens, & pcur lors on peut donner des medicamens doux & be- · nins,comme eſt la caſſe, le tamaris,& le ſené de leuant,auec les ſyrops de cichorée, ou de pommes compo- ſez ; ou bien on donnera le lenitif, ou le catholicon double de rheubarbe , fuyant tant qu'il ſera poſſible les purgatifs,où il y entre du diagrede & ſcammonée. ie n'approuue point les vomitifs en cette fiévre,& n'en ay iamais veu aucun bon effect; ils ne ſeruent qu'à troubler la nature, & tourmenter le malade, & ne vuident vomitifs rien de la cauſe conjoincte.ie ne mets point icy en ligne de compte beaucoup d'autres medicamens, comme ºſº les orges mondez,les juleps pour dormir,les opiates tablettes & poudres cordiales,les linimens, frontaux & paſtes confortatiues, auecvn nombre infiny d'alexiteres & alexipharmaques, deſquels on a de couſtume d'a- muſer les malades ; car la fiévre n'eſtant pas perilleuſe d'elle meſme , elle n'a pas beſoin de tant d'appareils, qui en outre ont quelquesfois plus de monſtre que d'effect. il entend il y a quelques recens,qui apres nicolas de florence conſtituent vne fiévre ſynoque ſimple, engendrée de pºrter de la bile & de l'agitation des plus chaudes humeurs du corps,ſans toutesfois aucune pourriture. ce que iene º# #º- crois pas neantmoins trop aisément, veu que ſi cette fiévre ſe faict de la bile, il eſt neceſſaire qu'elle ait pa- *** reils redoublemens qu'ont les autres qui en ſont faites,& qu'elle ait des periodes de trois en trois iours.il eſt plus vray-ſemblable que telle fiévre ſe fait du ſangle plus ſubtil,qui quelquesfois eſt appellé de quelques- vns bile, à cauſe de ſa ſubtilité, & de ſon eſcume ; mais à n'en mentir point ce n'eſt que pur ſang, & qui par- tant ne peut faire de fiévre autre que ſynoque ſimple ſanguine. - r / dčs ^! du traicté des fiévres $ > - - - - des fiévres putrides en general, & de leurs differences, c h a p, xi i. # v a º r que de parler des synoques putrides, il nous faut eſclaircir quelque difficultez, · ſans le ſquelles on ne ſçauroit comprendre ce que c'eſt que fiévre putride,ny comfnent elle ，)) ſe fait, ny meſme en quelle façon elle differe des autres.voila pourquoy nous dirons quel- l%que choſe d'elles en general,de leurs cauſes,fignes& curatiô,afin puis apres de l'appliquer . . $au particulier de la synoque putride.il y a eu grand debat entre quelques autheurs an- º'il y a dº v§ dutraicté des fiévres. - ! a & qui fait les obſtructions auſſi faut-il par fois rafraiſchir, deſſeicher,inciſer,deterger, fortifier mais comme b le premier, eſt qui faut oſter les cauſes euidentes & manifeſtes, s'il s'en trouue quelqu'vne qui puiſſe aug- · meilleure trempe.en fin, il faut corriger l'intemperie du corps & des humeurs, oſier la pourriture, reſtablir §. toutes ces choſes ne peuuent eſtre faictes toutes à la fois, il faut ſuiure le conſeil que galien donne à l'on- ce qui ,tait zieſme de la methode chap. . qui eſt qu'en la reſolution & analyſe des cauſes, ce qui eſt le dernier trouué dernier en cº doit eſtre mis le premier en execution lors qu'il eſt queſtion de la cure des malades. c'eſt donc ce qu'il faut ºiºn ºſº faire en la cure des fiévres putrides , il faut commencer à oſter la cauſe qui a eſté trouuée la derniere en or- le premier en dre de la generation d'icelles : par exemple, il faut euacuer la matiere qui fait l'obſtruction. car ſi la fièvre # ne peut eſtre oſtée tandis que la pourriture demeure, qui eſt la vraye & propre cauſe ; & ſi la pourriture ne # peut ceſſer, tandis † l'euentilation eſt empeſchée, & ſi l'euentilation ne peut eſtre libre tandis que l'ob-# ſtuction perſeuere il faut conclurre qu'auant toutes choſes,il faut oſter les cauſes qui empeſchent la tranſpi-mais auſſi ration, qui eſt l'obſtruction ou conſtipation. or l'obſtruction eſtant en partie faicte, en partie ſe faiſant tous qu'elle ne ſe les iours,ce ſeroit trauailler en vain qui voudroit oſter l'obſtruction qui eſt deſia faicte, deuant que d'empeſ-faſſe de nou- cher celle qui ſe doit faire tous les iours.car encore bien qu'on taſche de vuider les humeurs qui font l'ob- *** ſtruction,meſme quand on oſteroit tout à faict l'obſtruction ; ce n'eſt toutesfois rien d'auancé, puis que l'on n'mpeſche pas que les humeurs n'affluent derechefpour continuer l'obſtruction. c'eſt pourquoy il faut s'ar- reſter à cette maxime,que pour commencer la gueriſon des fiévres putrides,il faut deuant toutes choſes oſter l'humeur ſuperfluë qui eſt propre à faire l'obſtruction : car ce faiſant on empeſche qu'il ne ſe faſſe aucuñe obſtruction dans le corps. voicy donc ſix ou ſept chefs qu'il faut obſeruer en la cure des fiévres putrides. sept choſes à - - - - - - obſeruer en menter le mal. en ſecond lieu, il faut preſcrire vn regime de viure propre & conuenable, ſuffiſant d'entrete- # des nir les forces, & ne fomenter pas le mal. tiercement , il faut retrancher la cauſe antecedente en euacuant les févres pu- humeurs ſuperflues, & vitieuſes par les voyes conuenables ; ſçauoir par la ſa ignée, ou par la purgation, ou trides. par les deux enſemble. quatrieſmement , il faut deſgager les obſtructions s'il y en a, & procurer par toutes la premiere. ſortes de remedes propres & conuenables, la tranſpiration & l'euentilation des humeurs. en cinquieſme la ſeconde. lieu, il faut corriger les indiſpoſitions du corps & des parties nobles qui engendrent tous les iours de nou-º troiſiéme. uelles humeurs vitieuſes, ou qui corrompent les bonnes. en ſixiſme lieu, ſi la matiere d'elle meſme ne chaſſe # - - - - - f,ºtº/j les mauuaiſes humeurs, il faut les euacuer, ou bien ſi faire ſe peut les corriger & les ramener à quelque la cinquieſ- les parties en leur premier eſtat, & rendre à celles qui ſont debilitées & affoiblies leur premiere force & vi- la ſixieſme. gueur. mais il faut icy obſeruer deuant que venir à l'euacuation des humeurs vitieuſes qu'il faut preparer la ſptieſme tant le corps que les humeurs. la preparation des humeurs ſe faict en attenuant & ſubtiliſant ceux qui ſont la prepara- eſpais, detergeant ceux qui ſont lents, & inciſant ceux qui ſont viſcides & gluans. ie ne mets point icy tion des hu- en controuerſe, s'il faut eſpaiſſir ceux qui ſont trop liquides & tenues, i'en laiſſe la deciſion à ceux qui en º ont fait des liures entiers. la preparation du corps ſe fait en oſtant & ouurant les obſtructions, & ren-# # - dant tous les conduits du corps tant manifeſtes qu'inſenſibles, tant internes qu'externes, ouuerts , libres, # & tranſpirables. c'eſt pourquoy en vain en vne fiévre causée d'obſtruction interne, ordonne-t'on choſes ſage des #. qui eſmeuuent les ſueurs & les vrines. car par ce moyen on euacue l'humeur crud de la cauité des veines dorifiques,ér & entrailles en l'habitude & ſuperficie du corps, auquel lieu par defaut de chaleur ſuffiſante , il ne ſe peut diureiiqu . iamais cuire qu'à tres-grande peine & en fort long-temps ? là où ſi on l'euſt laiſsé à l'entour des entrailles, )uand eſt- il eut peu ſe cuire aisément, facilement & en peu de temps, à cauſe de la chaleur puiſſante qui reſide em ce qu'il eſt ces lieux-là : qui eſt l'occaſion pour laquelle galien au liure quatrieſme de la conſeruation de la ſºté? & ºfiºle de auliure premier à glaucon defend fort ſagement de tirer du ſang à ceux qui ont des cruditez au veflricule #º & veines de la premiere region du corps, d'autant que par telle euacuation, le ſang qui ſouuent eſt bon & # loüable, tant en quantité qu'en qualité des grandes veines, eſt euacué & tiré, & celuy qui eſt crud, cor- # ſ/ f • rompu & pourry, eſt attiré du véntricule dans les grandes veines & vers les parties nobles. que ſi la " fiévre putride eſtoit causée non d'obſtruction interne, mais de la conſtipation du cuir , pour lors les medicamens qui purgent ſont inutiles » d'autant qu'ils attirent l'humeur peccante de la ſuperficie au dedans & centre du corps : en ce cas-là il faut donc ſe ſeruir des ſudorifiques & diuretiques. toutes- fois il faut noter que ſi l'euacuation que nous taſchons faire par digerens & ſudorifiques n'eſt ſuffiſante pour euacuer toute l'humeur, qu'en tel cas il ſera vtile d'vſer de medicamens purgatifs & diuretiques comme au contraire lors que la crudité des humeurs qui ſont en la premiere region du corps,ſera cuitte,di- gerée & mitifiée, il ſera tres-neceſſaire non ſeulement de purger par en bas , auecques potions & clyſteres; mais auſſi de prouoquer les ſueurs & les vrines. - . quiconque voudroit icy ſpecifier par le menu tous les remedes qui ſont neceſſaires, & vtiles aux fiévres l'vtilité de putrides , auroit beſoin de faire vn diſcours plus long que celuy que nous auons entrepris pour toutes les la ſaignée. fiévres d'autant qu'il n'y a ſorte de medicament qui ne puiſſe y eſtre approprié, à cauſe de la grande diuerſi- - d té d'indications que nous auons dit deuoir eſtre priſes en la cure de ces fiévres. il euſt eſté auſſi bien à - propos de mettre icy en queſtion ſi la ſaignée eſt neceſſaîre à toutes les fiévres pourries ; car comme il eſt tres-certain qu'elle conuient à celles qui ſe font du ſang pourry , & auſſi à celles qui ſe font des autres hu- meurs, & qui ſont continués; de meſme peut-on douter ſi elle eſt vtile aux fièvres intermittentes, qui ont leur ſiege non dans le ſangny dans les grands vaiſſeaux, mais dans les autres humeurs non alimenteuſes, & dans les petites veines eſparſes par la premiere region. mais ie remets cette difficulte lors que nous parle- rons de la cure des fiévres intermittentes en particulier. - - / de la fiévre synoque. c h a p. xv. % $ y deſſus nous auons rapporté la difference qu'ilyauoit entre la ſynoque fimple, & la ſynoque definition de ſ# putride , & nous auons dit que celle-cy eſtoit fiévre continué, excitée de la pourriture du ſang qui eſt la ſynoque $# contenu dans les grands vaiſſeaux ſituexentre les aiſnes & les aiſſelles. or ce ſang, qui ſe pourrit eſt patride. ^ moderé & composé d'vne eſgale permiſtion, & meſlange des quatre humeurs ;ce que ie dis afin comme elle qu'on la reconnoiſſe des autres fiévres continuës, leſquelles ont cela de propre, que ſi le ſang n'eſt moderé,& diſſere des eſgalement meſlé des autres humeurs , ont des ſenſibles redoublemens,& exacerbations,ou tous les iours, ou autres con- de deux l'vn , ou de trois l'vn , ſelon qu'il y a en la maſſe du ſang vne humeur qui excede & ſurabonde, ainſi tinués., que nous dirons cy-apres.mais lors que le ſang eſt proportionné d'vne eſgale partie des autres humeurs,pour catefiévre lors cette fiévre n'a aucuns redoublemens ſenſibles; ſi ce n'eſt lors que les vapeurs putrides qui s'eſleuent de m # ce ſang , s'euaporent plus ou moins, ce qui fait & produit trois degrez de fiévre, qui ſont comme autant de # differences d'icelle, ſçauoir l'homotone ou acmaſtique, l'epacmaſtique, & la parasmaſtique, deſquels nous auons " - parlé n. premiere partie, parlé cy-deſſus au chapitre de la ſynoque ſimple.quelques autheurs ont voulu nier,qu'il y ait aucune fievit a trois ſºrtes ſynoque putride,d'autant (diſent-ils) que le ſang ne peut enflammer & pourrir , qu'il ne ſe tourne inconti- ent,& degenere ou en bile,ou en atre-bile,ce qui fait indubitablement changer l'eſpece de la fiévre, mais de fiévre ſy- i #. f pour toute reſponce, ie les renuoye à galien au huictieſme de la methode,ºh au ſecond des differences des q fiévres chap. .& .& au troiſieſme des criſes,ch. auſquels lieux ils pourront voir q'ie galien admet ccttc vns ont dau- .. ! - - - - - - § fiévre pour deux ou trois raiſons qui n'ont point de repartie. - v févre. les cauſes de cette fiévre ont eſté expliquées cy-deſſus au chapitre treize, là où nous auons dit que ce- cauſes de la ſtoit ou la conſtipation , ou l'obſtruction, leſquelles eſtoient cauſe que la pourriture ſe mettoit dans le ſang, ſynoque pu- principalement en celuy qui eſt moins pur & net. on pourroit icy s'enquerir s'il eſt poſſible de ſubſiſ§ iride. .. , auec la pourriture du ſang qui nous ſert de nourriture, & commentil ſe peut faire qu'eſtant vne fois pour- $fº ſº lº ry, il puiſſe ſe corriger &ſreuenir en grace & en faueur auec la nature. a cecy ie reſpons que iamis tout le ſang ne ſe pourrit ſi ce n'eſt par vne extréme ou inſigne pourriture , de laquelle il n'y a point dip- ſang ſe pour° ºº pel, pour eſtre icelle tout à fait ennemie de noſtre vie : mais toutesfois & quand que la pourriture ſemet g,mais non pas toutes les parties du ſang car iceluy eſtint // e/ f. - - • / voy fernel dans les veines, elle pourrit à la verité tout le ſang - composé de trois autres humeurs, & en outre d'vne certaine ſeroſité : en premier lieu, la partie plus pron. au li. de la ** - - - - - - parth ch.é. pte & plus preſte à ſe pourrir reçoit la pourriture, & puis en ſuite les autres parties les vnes apres lesad- le ſang de- tres , ſelon qu'elles ont plus ou moins de diſpoſition : et ainſi la pourriture s'introduit auſang , & y demeu- quoy compo- re iuſques à ce que toutes les parties du ſang plus diſposées à pourir ayent eſté conſommées & diſſipées, - & la fiévre entierement eſteinte : cependant la partie du ſang la meilleure, & qui pour n'auoir pas eu de j€ • °mmº !º diſpoſition à la pourriture ne s'eſt point infectée auec les autres, demeure & perſeuere enſon entier pour h c'eſt pourquoy nous reſpondrons aux difficultez proposées, quetou- ſºº p" conſeruation & entretien de la vie. ſººº tes les parties du ſang ne ſe pourriſſant pas, il en reſte quelqu'vne ſaine & entiere quiſert de nourritureà - signes de noſtre corps. . - ſg pour les ſignes de cette fiévre, ce ſont les meſmes qui ſe trouuent en la ſynoque ſimple, mais envn degré b # plus emrinent & excellent. la cbaleur eſt plus acre, le poux plus grand, vehement, & frequent qu'en la fimple le poule ſynoque, outre qu'il eſt inegal & dereglé,a cauſe, comme nous auons dit au chapitre treize, que ſa tontra- le vrimes ction eſt plus legere que ſa dilatation. les vrines en cette fiévre ſont rouges, eſpaiſſes, troubles, ſans ſedi- progneſtie. ment & puantes. breftous les accidens & ſymptomes ſont plus violents qu'en la ſimple ſynoque auſſieſt- cours de elle bien plus perilleuſe, ſur tout lors que dés le commencement il ſuruient vn cours de ventre, carilabbat ºrºdan- tellement les forces,que la nature ne ſe peut rendre la maiſtreſſe du mal. il eſt vray que ſi ce cours de ventre venoit à cauſe d'vn grand amas d'humeurs, il pourroit accourcir la fiévre , pourueu qu'il ne fuſt de longue gereux. la durée de r - _ _ » • - _ - • • i ' -- :-- --- : - cette fiévr durée, mais s'il vient de la malignité des humeurs, pour l'ordinaire il apporte la mort au reſte cette fiévre # quelquesfois ſe termine au quatrieſme iour, bien que rarement, le plus ſouuent c'eſt au ſeptieſne,& ce, ou par cours de ventre , ou par flux d'vrine, ou par ſueurs, ou par vomiſſemens, ou par flux de ſang mais cela criſe duſ- xieſine iour p*** - - - - - - ſuſi ét,." n'arriue point que dés le quatrieſne iour on n'ait apperceu des ſignes de coction dans les ſelles & dans les amacules vrines.que ſi apres auoir veu les ſignes de coction au quatrieſme iour, il ſuruenoit quelque criſe au ſixieſme, rouges & il faut la tenir pour ſuſpecte & pour imparfaicte, qui ameine apres elle, ou la recidiue,ou la mort nous vo- purpurées , yons quelquesfois que cette fiévre ſe termine par vne quantité de macules & de taches rouges qui apparoiſ- rougeºlles & ſtnt par tout le corps, & ſont cauſe que l'on l'appelle pour lors , pemphygodes purpurée, ou fiévre de pºurpre, verollet qui eſt s,rdinairement fort pereilleuſe, & qui ne ſe termine gueres que dans la ſeconde ou t:oiſieſme ſepmai- ne. a ' enfans cette fiévre eſt ſouuent accompagnée de rougeolles , & veroles. - c - - de la cure de la synoque putride. c h a p. xv i. ºé o v s auons dit vne partie de ce qu'il faut faire pour la cure de cette fiévre en celle de la |$ ſynoque ſimple, & au chap. .qui eſt que la principale intention conſiſte à oſter la cauſe, & indications tuerir a - - - - - ##º à moderer l'excez de la chaleur. premierement donc à cauſe que c'eſt le ſang qui peche icy,il conſipºn |$ faut l'euacuer & le diminuer, & en ſuitte combattre les cauſes par leurs contraires : par } exemple la conſ^pation des pores du cuir , doit eſtre deſgagée par les medicamens quiou- #º urent,qui desbouchent, & qui rarefient. semblablement on doit oſter l'obſtrutiion , ſçauoir čomment on celle qui ſe fait de l'abondance des humeurs par leur euacuation, & celle qui ſe fait par la craſſitie d'iceux s deſtage l'ob- par les remedes qui attenuent. en ſomme le viure doit eſtre tout à faict refrigerant & humectant, au reſte fort ruéiiom. tenué, & qui pour la plus part conſiſte en boüillons de poulets & de chair de veau, que meſme nous alterons **giº* auec herbes d'ozeille, de laictuë & de pourpié. car la chaleur naturelle eſtant affoiblie, & par la violence de de # la fiévre, & par les remedes qu'il conuient faire ne pourroit cuire beaucoup de viandes. la boiſſon ſera d'eau #aſ d'orge, de ſirop violat trempé de beaucoup d'eau, dejulep alexandrin, ſi principalement il ſuruient quelque pect. grand flux de ventre,comme il aduient ſouuent en cette fiévre, fuyant tant que faire ſe pourra le vin, que ie ne conſeille meſmes pas de boire au declin de la fiévre, de peur de reſchauffer le foye & le ſang qui n'eſt pas encore bien remis de la premiere chaleur. quelques-vns trouuent bon d'en donner ſur le declin, afin deſ- mouuoir les ſueurs, mais ie le trouue vn peu dangereux, à cauſe qu'en ces violentes fiévres continuês, on n'eſt d pas ſans ſoupçon d'inflammation aux parties nobles. ie trouue meilleur auec galien de donner l'eau froide librement & liberalement, mais auec les cautions cy-deuant obſeruées. la ſaignée mais la curation principale de cette fiévre, ſelon l'opinion de galien en l'onzieſme de la methode ! cº ſº º conſiſte en la phlebotomie, car le ſang eſtant tiré, la plenitude eſt oſtée, d'où il s'enſuit que l'obſtruction eſt tex en cette deſgagée, & par conſequent la pourriture. or comme ainſi ſoit qu'en cette fiévre, il n'y a pas ſeulement fiévre. vice de la matiere par la pourriture du ſang, mais auſſi excez en la temperature par la vehemence de la chº leur : de la vient que la phlebotomie ne remedie pas ſeulement à la pourriture, comme nous auons dit, mai* auſſi à l'intemperie chaude. car le ſang (auquel conſiſte toute noſtre chaleur ) eftant euacué fait exhaleraucc . iuy les excremens a cres & fulgineux , qui pour eſtre ſupprimez & retenus au corps augmentoient fort l'ar- deur de la fiévre. en outre en ſa place du ſang euacué, les vein es attirent beaucoup d'air froid pour euiter le v uide que la nature abhorre : d'où vient le rafraichiſſementde toute l'habitude du corps; meſme à pluſieurs gner iuſques par le moyen de la phlebotomie il ſuruient yn benefice de ventre, ou bien les ſueurs ſortent en abondancº à lipothy- choſes fort ſouhaitables en certe eſpece de fiévre. ce qui a eſmeu galien à dire qu'il falloit icy ſaigner iu - aie. ques à lipothymie , ce que nous n'auons pas toutesfois approuué cy-deſſus, loüant d'auantage l'opinion de coméien de ceux , qui aduenant le cas que le malade euſt beſoin de grande euacuation de ſang, departent par pº- phereſe, icelle vacuation, oſtant du ſang par interualles, tant de fois que les forces du malade le penuent /ois il faut ſaigner. ſouffrir aisément , & que la grandeur du mal le deſire. il eſt à la verité impoſſible de dire l a quantité du # qu ! s'il faut ſai- i premiere partie, l'accez auſſi de la fiévre retourne de nouueau, & dure iuſques à ce que ladite matiere ſoit diſſipée & reſoute: a & ainſi par periode la fiévre a des repriſes & des intermiſſions, qui font que pour ce ſubjet elle eſt nommée évre intermittente. - letſignes qui par ce diſcours nous apprenons que les fiévres continués doiuent eſtre diſtinguées des intermittentes fºnt cºgnoi- par deux ou trois ſignes. premierement, en ce que depuis leur commencement iuſques à la fin & guariſon ſºººº entiere, elles tiennent conſtamment le malade ſans aucun relaſche , là où les intermittentes, apres auoir # * fait vn accez de douze ou de quinze heures, plus ou moins, donnent vne intermiſſion manifeſte de quelques #ºº heures ſans tenir aucunement le malade.secondement, la continué eſt diſtinguée de l'intermittente par la di- le premier. uerſe façon de ſurprendre le malade. car la continue ſurprend ſubitement le febricitant, ſans enuoyer de- le ſecond, uant ny friſſon, ny horreur, ny rigueur , ſinon peut-eſtre qu'au premier commencement il peut y auoir quel- que inegalité au corps. mais l'intermittente vient peu à peu, & enuoye toufiours pour meſſagers, & auant- coureurs ou vn friſſon ou vn tremblement,auec des pandiculations,baaillemens,reſtreciſſemens des parties, paſleur au viſage, liuidité ou terniſſeure aux ongles, & autres tels accidens bref , la continue preſſe & tient le troiſieſ ſon homme outre les vingt-quatre heures , & perſeuere iuſques à ce qu'elle ſe termine & quitte du tout le malade. la où l'intermittente apres quelques heures comme i'ay dit , finit ſon accez ou inſenſiblement ou ſenſiblement, & manifeſtement par vomiſſemens, ſueurs ou autres euacuations. eſpeces des auant que finir ce chapitre, ie veux donner les eſpeces des fiévres continues & des intermittentes, & di- fiévres conti- re les marques par leſquelles on les peut diſtinguer les vnes d'auec les autres. pour les continués nous en nués , & des auons de quatre eſpeces, la ſjnoque, la tierce continué, la quotidiane çontinuë, & la quarte continué : la ſynoque ººº- ſe faict quand le ſang ſe pourrit, comme nous auons demonſtré cy-deſſus. la tierce continué ſe fait quand # continuë la maſſe du ſang qui ſe pourrit a en ſoy plus de bile que des autres humeurs.la quotidiane continuë s'engen- b eſt de §. dre quand il y a en la maſſe du ſang plus de pituite,que des autres humeurs, la quarte continué vient quand eſpeces. en la maſſe du ſang la melancholie ſurmonte. mais,me direz vous, ſi telles fiévres ſont continues, pourquoy ia . eſt la les nommez-vous tierce, quotidiane , quarte à la mode des intermittentes ? elles ſont appellées continuës, ſynoque. parce que pour le voiſinage & commerce qu'a la matiere dont elles ſont excitées auec le cœur, elles conti- la ... eſt nuent touſiours ſans aucune intermiſſion,iuſques à la fin & terminaiſon generale de toute la maladie. mais tierce. elles ſont auſſi appellées l'vne tierce, l'autre quarte, l'autre quotidiane , pource qu'eſtant excitées d'vn ſang l* , eſt ou plus bilieux,ou plus melancholique, ou plus pituiteux, elles donnent quelque redoublemens & exacerba- #º tions, & ſemonſtrent plus violentes & ardentes,ou de trois en trois,ou de quatre en quatre iours,ou de iour #º en autre, donnant au reſte quelque relaſche & remiſſion,mais non pas intermiſſion abſoluë, és iours & heures idifficulté re. d'entre-deux.en quoy elles ſemblent retenir quelque choſe du mouuement des intermittentes,ſelon qu'en la / t '. matiere pourrie qui les fait, il y a plus de bile, melancholie ou pituite. or afin que tu reconnoiſſe ces qua- tes eovti- tre ſortes de fiévres continues les vnes d'auec les autres , tu te reſouuiendras que la ſynoque ne ſurprend ſi- nuè,commèt non ceux qui ſont de bonne nature & d'vn temperament bien reiglé & moderé, qui ont abondance de bon elles ſe reco- ſang, & qui ont vne bonne habitude de corps.au reſte,elle tient touſiours eſgalement ſont homme, non ſeu- gnoiſent les lement ſans intermiſſion,mais auſſi ſans remiſſion & exacerbation manifeſte. les tierces, quartes, & quotidianes #º.º continuës,ſe connoiſſent par les cauſes qui peuuent accumuler & engendrer bile, melancholie, ou pituite en #a la maſſe du fang, ou bien par les effects de telles humeurs, & par leurs exacerbations, qui ſont que les titrtes de fiévres in- continués les ont de deux ours l'vn , les quartes de trois l'vn, & les quotidianes tous les ours, §. quant aux fiévres intermittentes , il y en a de trois eſpeces, la tierce qui ſe fait de la bile, la quarte qui comment vient de l'humeur melancholique ou atrabilaire,& la quotidiane de la pituite. elles ſont diſtinguées entr'el- c elles ſont les,en ce que la tierce ne prend que de deux iours l'vn , la quarte de trois l'vn , & la quotidiane tous les iours. diftinguées nous allons taſcher d'apporter les raiſons de ces intermiſſions periodiques au chapitre ſuyuant. entr'elles. e . pourquoy les accez des fiévres intermittentes retourment à certains iours,ſauoir des uotidianes tous les iours, des tierces de trois en trois, des quarte de quatre en quatre iours. c h a p. xv i ii. 'e n t r e p r e n s en ce chapitre l'explication d'vne queſtion non moins profitable que plaiſante ; que ie fais d'autant plus volontiers que ie recognois la cauſe d'icelle n'e- la cauſe des ſtre moins obſcure, & controuersé en l'eſprit des medecins , que ſon effect eſt manifeſte # #. & ſenſible és corps des pauures febricitans , qui en endurent les accez. car à commen- ſcure & § cer par galien le premier de tous, luy-meſme a confefsé pleinement & apertement, qu'il chée. ignoroit la cauſe de la certitude des accez des fiévres intermittentes.ses paroles ſontcou- - chées à ce propos au chapitre .du troiſieſme liure des iours critiques. quelle eſt la cauſe ( dit-il ) que des maladies aiguës les accex ſe font de trois en trois iours , & des longues de quatre, en quatre , ou tous les iººrº , il n'eſt pas aisé à trouuer, & n'eſt pas maintenant neceſſaire de le dirs. quelques-vns qui ſont venus depuis d galien ont dit, que cela procedoit d'vne certaine qualité incognuë & proprieté occulte qui eſt en chaque proprieté ee-humeur,& qui la faict mouuoir en tel & en tel iour, ny pluſtoſt, ny plus tard.mais de recourir à vne proprieté culte,refuge occulte, c'eſt pluſtoſt fuyr le trauail d'vne curieuſe induſtrie,que de rechercher la verité du faict.car qui eſt- º pºſſeux ce qui ne pourra par ce moyen ſoudre toutes ſortes de queſtions les plus difficiles ? mais pour cela nous ne & ignorans. ſerons pas eſclaircis, ny reſouls de ce que nous auons à tenir de telles propoſitions.c'eſt pourquoy pour par- uenir à la reſolution de celle qui ſe preſente, prenans vn autre chemin ; nous dirons premierement que c'eſt qu'accex , & qu'elles cauſes font l'accez , pour de là tirer des principes propres pour l'intelligence & conclu- ſions de ce que nous pretendons. definition accex donc n'eſt autre choſe ſinon vn effort de nature, irritée pour ſe defaire & depeſtrer de l'humeur º'aeeez. qui luy eſt faſcheux & moleſte. car l'humeur chaud & pourry , recluz en quelque lieu que ce ſoit hors des veines, tant qu'il eſt à recoy & de repos n'agite & ne trouble le corps aucunement : mais lors que quaſi com- me forcené, il vient à s'eſmouuoir de là par impetuoſité de nature irritée,ill'esbranle diuerſement. car pour accommoder cecy aux fiévres intermittentes, poſons le cas, comme il peut aduenir, que le meſentere ſoit le foyer de la fiévre ;.l'humeur bilieux l'a enuoyé ou accumulé peu à peu, ſe pourrit au bout de quelque temps, tant à cauſe de l'obſtruction que de l'impreſſion de la pourriture laiſsée en ce lieu par le premier & prece- dent accez : dont eſchauffé & comme fomenté par la chaleur putredineuſe ſe gonfle & enfle , de ſorte que ne pouuant plus tenir en ſon lieu & tas accouftumé , il s'eſpand par les parties membraneuſes & fen- ſibles du meſentere, donnant vn effroy & horreur à tout le corps , pour le conſentement & ſympathie qu'ont o premiere partie, ) des fiévres faictes de la bile, & premierement de la tierce intermittente, vray & legitime. c h a p i t r e xix. # e l o n noſtre diuifion cy-deſſus rapportée , apres les fiévres pourries qui ſe font du ſang vien- § #s ſont nent celles qui s'engendrent de la bile, ou de la cholere, deſquelles nous auons dit que les vnes $ſ§è) $ eſtoient intermittentes, & les autres continués. entre les intermittentes ſont la vraye tierce, & §)$ la tierce baſtarde : entre les continuës la cauſonide & la tierce continuë. partant ſelon cét ordre, * " il faut parler en ce chapitre de la tierce qu'ils appellent veram & exquiſitam, non pas à cauſe deſinition de qu'elle prend de trois iours l'vn, car la baſtarde fait le meſme, mais à cauſe qu'elle eſt faicte de l'humeur §"§ bilieuſe, pure & ſimple ſans mixtion ou meſlange d'aucune autre. donc la fiévre tierce vraye legitime, vraye. eſt celle qui ſe faict de deux iours l'vn, à cauſe d'vn amas de bile qui ſe pourrit hors des grands vaiſſeaux. en quoy nous remarquerons premierement, que cette fiévre eſt intermittente ; ſecondement qu'elle vient deux iours l'vn ; tiercement, qu'elle ſe faict d'vne bile pourrie : & finalement, que la cauſe materielle de cette humeur elles eſt in eſt hors de grands vaiſſeaux. or elle ſe faict intermittente pour trois raiſons,par le ſinathriſme, ainſi que par- termittºntº lent les grecs, par la pourriture, & par le mouuement de la matiere. le ſynatbriſme, eſt vn amas d humeur pº#." contre nature qui ſe faict en la partie, laquelle eſt le foyer de la pourriture : & cét amas ne vient qu'à #. cauſe que ladite partie ſe remplit, ou en receuant des autres parties ce qui leur eſt nuiſible par ſa debi# #- ou en attirant à elle par quelque douleur ou chaleur eſtrangere qui luy ſuruient. cét amas eſtant ain- de la tierce vraye. la nature le chaſſer , ſoit par ſa quantité, ſoit par ſa qualité. de ſorte qu'vne de ces conditions manquant, iamais la eſt eſguillon- fiévre ne ſe faict intermittente. quand donc la bile s'amaſſe en quelque partie, qu'elle s'y pourrit, & que née pº. la nature vient à s'efforcer à l'expulſer hors de là, comme vne choſe nuiſible, la fiévre intermittente s'engen- deux raiſº. dre, laquelle ne prend que de deux iours l'vn, à cauſe que comme nous auons dit cy-deſſus, il n'y a pas ſi *ſº*" grande quantité debile en noſtre corps, que de ſang & de pituite laquelle raiſon doit ſuffire, ſi ce n'eſt ſe faict cette º§ qua - orps, q r ,: p - q - » fiévre. qu'on vueille recourir aux proprietez occultes , & dire que le propre de la bile eſt de ſe mouuoir de deux §pl, des iours l'vn , comme le propre de l'aymant eſt d'attirer le fer; & que de ce mouuement l'on n'en peut pas ren- propriete(ee-dre raiſon, non plus que du flux & reflux de la mer, du mouuement de l'eguille marine vers le nort, & de cultes. la vertu des medicamens purgatifs , qui purgent par election certaines humeurs pluſtoſt que les autres, ou bien de la proprieté de quelques venins qui bleſſent certaines parties, & non pas d'autres, comme le lié- la cauſe des vre marin le poulmon, & les cantharides la veſſie, ſelon que diſcourt l'autheur de la theriaque. soit donc venins oc- que nous referions la cauſe du mouuement de la bile, qui ſe faict de deux iours l'vn , à vne proprieté occul- cultes. te & inconneuë , ſoit que nous la rapportions à la quantité de l'humeur ; il eſt certain que lors que nous * voyons vne fiévre intermittente qui prend de deux iours l'vn, que nous pouuons aſſeurer qu'elle ſe faict de deux ſorte la bile. mais comme ainſi ſoit qu'il y a deux ſortes de bile, l'vne naturelle, & l'autre contre nature. il faut exa- de bile, & miner laquelle des deux faict la vraye fiévre tierce intermittente. nous appellons la bile naturelle, non le quelle des ſang bilieux, mais cette quatriéme humeur de la maſſe du ſang, qui pour ſa tenuité, chaleur & ſeichereſſe, & de* fº pour la reſſemblance qu'elle a auec la bile excrementeuſe, s'appelle vulgairement bile ou humeur bilieuſe, la- # quelle s'engendre dans le foye de la partie du chyle la plus chaude & la plus ſubtile, eſtant de ſa nature ame- #. re, & iaune en couleur, c'eſt pourquoy onl'appelle bileiaune. la meilleure portion & la plus vtile de cet- elle ſe faict º humeur, ſe meſle auec le ſang dans les grandes & petites veines , l'autre portion eſt portée dans la veſſie #li# § du fiel, & de là enuoyée dans l'inteſtin duodenum par les conduits cbolidoques pour ayder à chaſſer les gros bile- excremens des inteſtins. pour ce qui eſt de la btle non naturelle, il y en a de quatre ſortes, leſquelles ie paſſe guatre ſor- ſous ſilence, pour n'eſtre pas celles qui font la fièvre tierce legitime mais ſeulement celle que nous auons ap- tes de bile , pellé non naturelle. cette bile icy venant à s'amaſſer en quantité à l'entour du foye, du meſentere, pancreas, non naturel-& autres parties voiſines qui ſont dans la premiere region du corps, par traict de temps elle vient à s'eſ- le fiévre chauffer & à ſe pourrir, & en fin à exciter la fiévre tierce intermittente. que ſi ladite bile n'eſtoit pas ſeu- º * lement contenuë dans les petites veines de la premiere region : mais auſſi dans les grandes veines de la ſe- /j '• conde region du corps , alors la fiévre qu'elle exciteroit ne ſeroit pas intermittente mais continuë, pour les opinion de raiſons que nous auons rapportées cy-deſſus au chapitre . il eſt vray que galien n'a pas eſté de noſtre galten aduis touchant le ſiege de cette fièvre intermittente, ne voulant pas que l'humeur fuſt amaſſé dans les pe- voy fernel. tites veines de la premiere region, mais dans les petits vaiſſeaux de la troiſiéme region, ou habitude du & houlier. corps, pour quelques raiſons qu'il en apporte, leſquelles toutesfois ſe tronuent legeres, miſes en compa- raiſon auec celles qui combattent pour vne opinion , que l'on peut voir deduite dans les œuures des bons medecins de noſtre temps, n'eſtant pas à propos que ie les tranſcriue icy , d'autant que nous n'auons que cauſes effi- des chirurgiens à enſeigner, pout leſquels ce que i'ay rapporté peut ſuffire. - éaces de la pour les cauſes efficientes de cette fiévre, nous diſons en general, que ce ſont toutes celles qui peuuent en- tierce. gendrer, augmenter, ou eſchauffer l'humeur bilieuſe : comme ſont la ieuneſſe , l'eſté chaud & boüillant, la conſtitution de l'air chaude & ſeiche, les veilles, les grands exercices, le long vſage des choſes calefacti- - ues & deſiccatiues, ſoit de medicamens, ſoit d'alimens : exceſſiue abſtinence , de manger auec trauail, cauſes pri- ſoing & faſcheries ; leſquelles cauſes proprement ſont dictes primiiiues. les antecedentes ſont grande abon- mitiº & dance de bile ou cholere , la temperature de tout le corps ou du foye ſeulement tendant à chaud & ſec. les º coniointies, ſont le ſynatbriſme, conculcation ou amas & putréfaction d'humeurs choleriques dans les petits # vaiſſeaux de la premiere region du corps & auſſi ſelon galien hors des grands vaiſſeaux en toute l'habitude ' du corps, -- '- desſignes de la fiévre tierce, où il s'agit de la rigueur & de l'horreur. ch a p t r e xx. $ n t r e les ſignes des fiévres intermittentes, l'horreur, la rigueur , ou le friſſonnement auec la fioideur ou refroidiſſement tiennent le premier lieu. c'eſt pourquoy il eſt bon auant que de paſſer outre , de dire vn petit mot de ces ſignes icy , afin d'inſtruire le chirurgien à ne ſe troubler point de ces accidens, qui le plus ſouuent ſuruiennent aux playes dangereuſes & mortelles. comme les fiévres intermittentes ne ſe font point ſans la pourriture des humeurs, auſſi n'attaquent-el- signes des fiévres inter- - º}, ) # tffênfé , ( le mouue- - ment des hu- x ez meurs neceſ- ſaire pour - - - - - # les point ſans que les humeurs pourries s'eſmeuuent , & ſe jettent ſur les parties ſenſibles du corps : comme fiévre. ſont les membraneuſes & nerueuſes ; ce mouuement icy ſe faiſant ſur des parties grandement ſenſibles , & - - " par ſi faict , il vient à ſe pourrir, eſtant pourry la nature vient à le mouuoir pour eſtre excitée & aiguillonnée à b | du traicté des fiévres. i a par vne humeur acre, picquante, & eſchauffée donne le reſſentiment, ou de l'homeur, ou de la rigueur , ou du ſimple refroidiſſement, eſtant tres-veritable que ces trois choſes ne different entr'elles que ſelon le plus cauſe de \ & le moins. car le refroidiſſement ſe faict lors que l'humeur eſt en moindre quantité, qu'elle eſt moins acre l'horreur & & mordante, & qu'elle ſe meut aſſez legerement. l'horreur au contraire eſt excitée par vne grande abon- de la ri- dance d'humeurs aſſez acres, & picquantes , & agitées ou eſmeues aſſez fermement. pour la rigueur, elle #º" : º - ſuruient par vne grande quantité d'humeurs , grandement eſchauffées & poignantes, & violemment eſ- #. meuës. la rigueur n'eſt donc autre choſe qu'vne concuſſion ou esbranlement inegal de tout le corps, & principa- #& lement de tous les muſcles , auec vn reſſentiment de froid douloureux , qui eſt excitée par la vertu expultrice, laquelle §i taſche à ſe deſgager d'vne quantité de matiere acre, mordante & violemment eſmeuë par les parties du corps les plus eſt fait. - ſenſibles,ce pendant que la chaleur naturelle faict vn reflux des partier exterieeres aux interieures. l'horreur eſt moin- rigueur , dre que la rigueur, auſſi elle n'esbranle que la peau & le cuir , & ne donne qu'vn reſſentiment de froid ſans eomme elle douleur, pour eſtre excitée par vn humeur moins picquante, & plus legerement agitée. en vn mot, la ri. eſt prºduite. gueur ſemble eſtre propre des fiévres bilieuſes, pource que la bile pour eſtre acre, picquante & aisée à eſ- pº * mouuoir, irrite la nature plus violemment que les autres humeurs. , l'horreur eſt propre pour des fiévres me # lancholiquest& le refroidiſſement des pituiteuſes : à cauſe que c'eſt vn humeur plus douce & plus peſante, # f : ou difficile à eſmouuoir. par ce diſcours on remarquera, que ſelon la quantité, la qualité & le mouuement de # # l'humeur qui fait la fièvre, on a les reſſentimens differens , longs ou courts , doux ou violens, encore que l. § quelques-vns ne rapportent pas cela aux humeurs, mais aux fumées & vapeurs qui s'eſleuent des humeurs propre des pourries , & qui vont frapper & attaquer le coeur. fiévres bi- cecy preſupposé, diſons que les ſignes de la fiévre tierce intermittente, vraye & legitime eſt horreur, com- lieuſes. me quand en hyuer apres auoir vriné on treſſaut; rigueur forte & poignante, comme ſi l'on ſentoit quel-ºººrrºr. que choſe aiguë qui poigniſt par tout le corps , à cauſe de l'acrimonie de la bile pouſſée & portée violem- #º* • ment au commencement de l'accez par les membranes & corps ſenſible : la chaleur deuient acre des le # //jº- b commencement, pour eſtre le feu allumé comme en bois ſec. le poulx eſt grand, ſubit & eſgal, la langue # #. eſt ſeiche, l'vrine rouge, enflammée, tenué ou ſubtile. .. les accidens ſont veilles continuelles, ſoif deme- § putniteus- ſurée , fureur ou delire, promptitude à ſe cholerer pour la moindre occafion, comme pour ouyr parler, ou ſ . autre petit bruit : iactation & agitation de tout le corps , que les grecs appellent aliſme ; inquietudes, intermitten- maux de cœur & d'eſtomach , nausées , vomiſſement d'humeurs iaunes & ameres , tranchées par fois tes dans le ventre & douleurs importunes, à cauſe du mouuement de la bile. telles fiévres ſe terminent aliſme.. auec grandes. ſueurs , à cauſe du mouuement de la bile. elles viennent à gens choleriques & bi- pregnoſtic. lieux, aux ieunes, aux maigres, & en eſté. l'intermiſſion d'icelles eſt pure , & ſans aucun reliquat de intermiſſion fiévre, iuſques à tant que l'accez ſuiuant reprenne, à cauſe que la matiere bilieuſe qui donnoit l'accez à eſté º#º# par la vehemence & concuſſion d'iceluy toute diſſipée, à cauſe de ſa tenuité & ſubtilité : ce qui n'aduient # aux fievres quotidianes, d'autant qu'elles laiſſent apres l'accez toufiours quelque inegalité, moleſtie & pe- # ſanteur du corps, à cauſe de la peſanteur & tardiueté de la pituite, qui n'a peu eſtre tout à faict reſoulte & euaporée les accex de cette fiévre durent quatre , cinq , ſix, huict , onze , douze, quinze , dix-huict l, attez de heures & prennent en ſorte que le premier & le fecond accez ſont plus doux , le trois & le quatre tres- combien àe violens ; & les autres qui ſuiuent vont touſiours en diminuant, ſoit de violence, ſoit de durée. le septieſ- durée. me accez éſt la fin de cette fiévre, laquelle eſt ſans peril & danger, pourueu qu'il ne ſoit commis aucun - erreur ny du coſté du medecin , ny de la part du malade. celle qui ſuruient en eſté eſt tres-courte, celle pourquoy. - - qui vient en hyuer eſt plus longue, d'autant qu'en cette ſaiſon la bile ne peut point eſtre ſi pure qu'elle plº lºngue c n'ait quelque meſlange d'vne autre humeur : outre que la tranſpiration ne ſe faict pas ſi bien en hyuer qu'en ** º- eſté , à cauſe que les pores du cuir ſont reſſerrez par la rigueur du froid. le commencement de cette, - fiévre eſt auec rigueur, l'eſtat auec ſueur. que s'il ſuruient des vlceres au nez, à la bouche, ou aux lévres, excrations c'eſt ſigne que la fiévre ſe termine : car par cét accident on deſcouure & on apperçoit la force de la nature critiques. qui peut ietter la matiere morbifique du centre & interieur du corps , à l'exterieur & à la ſuperficie : outre qu'en cét effort il ſe faict euacuation de la cauſe conioincte. or telles vlceres n'apparoiſſent pas en la de- vlceres de la " . clinaiſon de toute fiévre tierce, mais ſeulement en celles eſquelles la bile, cauſe de cette fiévre, eſt conte- bouche pºur- • • nue ou pouſsée de quelqu'autre partie de la premiere region du corps dans le ventricnle : car de là la plus quoy ſiniſſent i *. tenue & ſereuſe portion d'icelle, portée par la continuité de la tunique interieure, à la bouche & aux lé- # a - vres excite aisément des vlceres en ces parties là. bref, nous auons deux aphoriſmes d'hippocrate qui ſer- aphoriſmes - uent au prognoſtic de cette fiévre. le premier eſt le . du . liure , où il dit que les fiévres qui ne ſont # d'hippocr. : termittentes , & qui ont des redoublemens de trois en trois iours ſont dangereuſes : mais que celles qui ſont intermit- pour cette tentes ſont ſans peril. l'autre aphoriſme eſt le . de la meſme section, où il aſſeure que les fiévres tierces ex- fiévre. - quiſes ceſſent pour le plus au ſeptieſme accex, il dit pour le plus, d'autant que ſelon que la matiere eſt plus ſub- **pº tile & en moindre quantité, il arriue que cette fiévre ſe termine au troiſiéme ou quatriéme accez.au reſte il * # deux faut prendre ces deux aphoriſmes d'hippcrate auec vn grain de ſel, c'eſt à dire , auec cette diſtinction, #º que ce qu'il dit eſt vray, pourueu, comme nous auons dit cy-deuant, qu'il ne ſe faſſe aucune faute, ny de la ppocr- tf ! part du malade, ny de la part de ceux qui le traittent & le ſolicitent. ie diray vn mot en paſſant contre les #" . " apothicaires , leſquels ne ſe laſſent iamais de donner des remedes aux malades qu'ils traittent en tout temps apothicaires ! º d & à toutes les heures, ſans ſe ſoucier de ce que dit ou ordonne le medecin, pourueu qu'ils debitent leurs indiſerett. r# drogues , & qu'ils faſſent aualler force iuleps aux malades , & qu'ils leur trempent les hypochondres auec : # leurs epithemes, cela leur ſuffit , ſans ſe ſoucier ſi c'eſt en temps & en ſaiſon ; mais que tels apothicaires - « apprennent la leçon que leur faict galien , qui les appelle au premier liure des iours critiques chap. . & : º ennemu de la nature, & ennemis du malade. galien ayant obſerué au premier ad glauc. chapitre . qu'vn ma- - lade de la fiévre tierce eſtoit mort tabide, pour auoir vsé du bain hors de ſaiſon , par l'aduis de quelqu'vn - qui ſe ſeruoit d'vn meſtier qu'il ne ſçauoit pas. ce que ie dis, afin que les chirurgiens que ie taſche d'in-adºi aº ſtruire , ne faſſent iamais rien à l'eſtourdie & ſans raiſon , & qu'aux choſes douteuſes & de conſequence , ils chirurgiens ,* prennent touſiours l'aduis des medecins. de la cure de la fiévre tierce legitime. c h a p. xxi. : #$ e ne veux point icy m'embroüiller d'vn nombre infiny de remedes , tant externes qu'internes, les remedes | - | # qui ont eſté mis en auant par les medecins qui ont ſuiuy le methode des arabes : eſtant choſe ſi des arabes confuſe & ſi difficile à pratiquer , qu'il y a plus de peril en cette grande varieté de remedes en nombre - qu'en la grandeur du mal, c'eſt pourquoy ie traicteray de la gueriſon de cette fiévre, & des autres le infºy. # plus ſimplement qu'il me ſera poſſible, afin de ne troubler point le iugement du ieune chirurgien, & de z z z • q premiere partie, ne fatiguer point les malades d'vn nombre preſque infiny de remedes que l'on leur ordonne communément a au grand detriment de leur coups & de leur bourſe. il faut en premier lieu ordonner le regime de viure ſur les ſix choſes non naturelles, qui ſeront eſtablies pout rafraiſchir & humecter le plus qu'il ſera poſſible , à cauſe que l'humeur bilieuſe qui faict cette fiévre, eſt la plus chaude & ſeiche de tout ce qui eſt en noſtre corps. c'eſt pourquoy il faudra faire que le malade reſpi- re vn air froid & humide : ce qui ſe fera eu eſté arroſant la chambre d'eau fraiſche, & la parſemant d'her- #ººº bes & de fieurs rafraiſchiſſantes.il faut luy donner pour nourrituretoutes choſes refrigerantes & humectan- regime de viure. # tes, en tant qu'il les pourra cuire , comme laictué, ozeille , courge , concombre , poirée, maulue, orges / - - - - - - - - # , mondez , bouillons clairs, & non preſſez, aſſaiſonnez de verjus , ou de ius de citron. il vſera de vin bien # §eil trempé , petit, tenu & en petite quantité, & ce lors ſeulement que l'humeur aura commencé d'eſtre cuite: §le car au commencement il n'en faut aucunement vſer, mais en la declinaiſon il ſera permis d'en vſer plus liberalement, pourueu toutesfois qu'il ne ſoit ny fort, ny vieil. en quoy on peut reprendre l'erreur de ceux qui croyent que le vin vieii eſt plus ſain , & qui pour ce ſujet le recommandent aux malades febricitans. mais ils deuroient ſe mettre deuant les yeux que le vin vieil eſt tout vineux , qu'il a fort peu de parties aqueuſes & ſereuſes, qu'il eſt peſant, de parties craſſes & difficiles à diſtribuer , que par conſequent peut faire plus de ſang , peut eſchauffer dauantage les entrailles par la longue demeure qu'il y faict, & a de cou- ſtume de reſſerrer le ventre & le rendre pareſſeux. mais pour le dire ſainement, il ſeroit tres à propos de defendre toutes ſortes de vins tandis que cette fiévre continuë, de peur d'entretenir ſon foyer, & cepen- # dant faire vſer au malade de quelque boiſſon rafraiſchiſſante & aperitiue, preparée auec quelque raci- f / f. " ne ou ſyrops violar, de limons, de pommes ſimples, de capillaires, de ceriſes , & autres de ſemblables le temps de effects. , quant au temps propre pour nourrir le malade, il ſe faut donner garde le iour de l'accez, de luy b nourrir leſ - bailler à manger plus tard que trois ou quatre heures auparauant ledit accez ; de peur que la chaleur de la bricitant fiévre (le propre de laquelle eſt de corrompre toutes choſes, comme le propre de la chaleur naturelle eſt . de cuire & conſeruer ) rencontrant les viandes encore crués en l'eſtomach , ne les corrompe, putrefie & .. .. tourne en ſuc bilieux : augmentant par ce moyen la matiere de la fiévre, prolongeant l'accez, & en ou- | tre reuoquant la nature qui eſt occupée à la concoction & expulſion de l'humeur morbifique, pour s'em- ployer à la conccction des viandes priſes , pour leſquelles raiſons on s'abſtiendra auſſi de donner aucune nourriture audit febricitant durant tout ſon accez , & attendra-on à le nourrir qu'il ſoit tout à faict hors de º ºº fiévre. toutesfois, cette regle ſe doit entendre lors que la vertu du malade eſt forte & vigoureuſe; autre- #" ment ſi la nature eſtoit debile, & qu'il priſt des foibleſſes au malade, il faut non ſeulement le nouri de #. uant l'accez , mais auſſi en l'accez, mais il faudroit que ce fut legerement, & que ce qu'on luy donneroit l'acce(; fuſt en petite quantité. .. pour le breuuage, il faut luy defendre, tandis que dure le friſſon ; en la chaleur on .mt de ne luy doit point defendre, au contraire il faut inuiter ceux qui boiuent peu, à prendre quelque grand traict boire ., de ce qui luy aura eſté ordonné pour ſon breuuage. remedes. pour ce qui eſt des remedes pris tant de la pbarmacie, que de la cbirurgie , il eſt bon à la ſortie de chaſ- que accez de donner quelque lauement en partie rafraiſchiſſant, en partie laxatif, afin d'eſteindre les reſtes de la chaleur allumée dans les reins & dans le ventre, & auſſi afin d'euacuer l'humeur qui aura eſté esbran- cºſºrº lée par la violence de l'accez ayant obſerue pluſieurs fois qu'il ſort par le moyen de tels lauemens, des biſ- ſinées entieres de bile iaune, & eſcumante des les ſecond & troiſième accez, ce qui addoucit grandement #º * la furie de cette fiévre & accourcit ſes accez on faict vn lauement auec decoction de maulues, guymau- clyſtere ues , violiers de mars, apparitoire, laictues , pourpié , concombres mis par tranches & ruelles, fueilles c de vignes en la ſaiſon, fleurs de nenuphar, vn peu de fenoüilverd : on delaye dedans vne liuretrois onces de miel violat, & autant d'huyle violat, ou de beurre frais, vne once de ſucre rouge, & de lenitif, & don- ne-on ce clyſtere à la ſortie de l'accez, comme dit eſt que ſi les malades ſe trouuoient trop laſche & fi- tiguez apres leur fiévre, on peut remettre ledit lauement au iour de l'intermiſſion , ou le matin ſi la ſaignée • , • ne l'empeſche ou ſur l'apreſdiſnée. souuent on fait les clyſteres auec decoction de prunes, iuiubes, violes, de la ſaignée º °, ſon, & choſes ſemblables , quelquesfois auec le petit laict ſeulement. il y a vne grande controuetſe & purgation. entre les autheurs , ſçauoir s'il faut ſaigner ou purger dés le commencement : pour moy i'ay veu en monieu- fraäique , ne age, & l'ay remarqué en mon premier traicté des fiévres , que dés le commencement de la fiévre, apres ancienne & auoir conſideré ſi les forces du malade le permettoient qu'on le purgeoit, principalement quand les hu- contraire à urs eſtoient furieux & mobiles, & ce auec diaprunis ſimple, caſſe fiſtulaire mundée, decoction de vio- la. mouuelle. , mirabolans citrins, ſyrops violat, roſat, de grenades, oxyſaccara : & on ne ſaignoit, ſelonle pre- cepte de galien, qu'apres le troiſiéme accez. et encore n'eſtoit-ce que ceux où il y auoit plethore au corps & plenitude des vaiſſeaux pour euentiler & rafraiſchir la maſſe des humeurs : autrement il n'eſtoit loiſible de faire vacuation de ſang , d'autant qu'on croyoit que c'eſt luy qui eſt le frein de la cholere, c'eſt à dire, ce qui l'adoucit, & qui meſle auec icelle, par ſa douceur & vapoureuſe benignité empeſche qu'elle ne ſe mon- il faut ſai- ſtre ſi furieuſe, & violente. mais maintenant ie voy que les plus celebres medecins,ſoit qu'ils ayent eſte faits gner dés le ſages par l'erreur des autres, ſoit par † propre experience, & par les beaux effects qu'ils ont veu reuſſir º de la ſaignée, ſaignent dés le commencement, non vne ſeule fois, mais apres les trois premiers accez aux # ſa trois iours de l'incermiſſion, & ne purgent leurs, malades qu'apres le quatriéme accez. et de fait que c'eſtoit ſaigner apres mal ordonné que de differer la premiere ſaignée apres le troiſieme accez. car comme ainſi ſoit que cette le roiſiéme fiévre au plus tard ſe termine en ſept accez : certes ſi on attend que le troiſiéme accez ſoit paſsé,la fiévre acce(. ſera en ſon eſtat. or hippocrate defend de rien mouuoir en l'eſtat par l'aphoriſme . de la .ſect, de crai - te que la nature, qui lors ſeulement trauaille à la concoction de la maladie, ne ſoit retirée & desbauchée la purgatiz. de ſon entrepriſe. donc ſelon la violence du mal & le temperament du malade, on pourra ſaigner deux ou trois fois dés les premiers accez aux iours d'intermiſſion, & apres le quatriéme on purgera doucement & benignement auec caſſe , tamarins, rheubarbe , ſenné de leuant , mirabolans citrins, & ſyrops violat, de ' pommes composées, & de cichorée auſſi composé, reiterant le meſme medicament apres le cinq ou ſixiéme purgation accez , afin d'eſpuiſer le ventre d'vne quantité d'humeurs qui y regorgent. i'ay obſerué que ceux qui pur- cauſant vne geoient auant le quatriéme accez, ou qui vſoient de remedes vn peu forts & violens , d'vne fiévre tierce double tierce. ſimple, faiſoient vne double tierce : c'eſt pourquoy il faut ſe faire ſage, & eſtre vn peu plus retenu à la purga- bain. tion que n'eſtoient pas nos anciens. sur le declin de la fiévre, il eſt bon de faire vn bain d'eau douce aucc $ºdº#ques. fueille de vignes , de ſauls, de laictues & ſemblables refrigerans. et meſme apres les purgations generº- diuretiques. les prouoquer les ſueurs par l'vſage du vinblanc & tenu bien trempé : & les vtines par decoction d'ache & d'aneth, r- . - » -. » - du traicté des fiévres. º, de la fiévre tierce baſtarde, de ſes cauſes,ſignes & cure. c h a p. xxi i. # 'a v r r e fiévre intermittente qui ſe faict de bille eſt la tierce baſtarde, ainſi appellée , - cauſe qu'elle ne ſe faict pas comme la precedente de bile pure & ſimple, mais de bile meſlée x auec quelque autre humeur, & auſſi à cauſe qu'elle ne garde pas toutes les qualitez, repre- $ ſentation & idée de la tierce legitime. elle en a bien quelque choſe de ce que l'vne & l'au- # tre ont leurs redoublemens de deux iours l'vn ; mais chacune d'elles à certauns ſignes , par zºns^ leſquels elles ſemblent conſtituer diuerſes eſpeces de fiévre, de forte qu'elles ne § pas entre elles par l'ordre & par le temps de leur accez & periode, mais par quelques autres accidens qui vien- nent de la condition de la matiere qui fait ces deux ſortes de fiévres. or ayant diſcouru de la condition de - - la tierce legutn e , il faut parler icy de la bafiarde, afin d'apprendre quelle ſera leur difference, & comme ſelon icelle il faudra traicter les malades qui ſeront atteints de cette tierce baſtarde. l'vne & l'autre fiévre, cauſe mate- à la verité ſe font de bile , mais la legitime ſe faict de bile pure & ſimple; & la baſtarde ſe faict de bile rielle de la meſlée auec quelque autre humeur, en ſorte toutesfois qu'elle excede & ſurmonte l'humeur auec laquelle ºrº *** elle eſt meſlée, autrement la fiévre ne ſeroit pas tierce, mais garderoit le mouuement de l'humeur qui y ſº predomineroit. or cette mixtion ſe faict ou de labile auec la pituite tenue ou craſſe, ou auec la melancho- # lie , ſi c'eſt auec la pituite, il ſe faict vne fiévre que les arabes appellent choleram maioris fame, cholere plus # 'le fiévré > p q pp - p"* battarde. ordinaire & plus remarquable , ſi c'eſt auec la melancholie, il s'en faict vne autre que les ineſmes arabes nomment choleram minoris fame, cholere moins ordinaire & moins remarquable, d'autant que la premiere arriue fort ſouuent , & la derniere fort rarement. les ſuſdits medecins arabes enſeignent que cette pre- miere º évre baſtarde maioris fame , comme ils appellent , ſe fait ou lors que la bile citrine ou paſle eſt meſlée auec la pituite aqueuſe & tenuë, ou lors que la bile vitelline eſt meſlée auec la pituite craſſe : sem- doctrine des blablement ils diſent que la derniere fiévre baſtarde s'engendre ou quand la bile eſt meſlée auec l'humeur araººs em- melancholique naturelle, ou quand elle eſt meſlée, auec l'humeur melancholique atrabilaire, & ſelon tou-ºrº tes ces diuiſions , ils iugent de la longueur ou de la briefueté, de la violence ou de la douceur de la fiévre. mais certes cette doctrine eſt tellement embrouillée, & il eſt ſi difficile de iuger de toutes les differences de ces cauſes, que ie ne veux y engager l'eſprit du ieune chirurgien, de peur de luy donner plus de trou- ble que de lumiere. c'eſt pourquoy ie me contenteray de parler de la fièvre tierce baſtarde appellée maio- definitien de ru fame, comme plus ordinaire, & qui ſe faict du meſlange de l'humeur bilieuſe auec la pituiteuſe : & qui la fiévre ba- pour ce ſubiect peut eſtre definie fiévre qui a des actez & intermiſſions de deux iours l'vn, pour eſtre engendrée ſºrdº d'humeur bilieuſe meſlée auec la pituite qui ſe pourrit hors des grands vaiſſeaux. il n'eſt point queſtion de ſçauoir ſi - cette bile eſt citrine, vitelline, porracée, ou ærugineuſe, & en quelle partie du corps ces diuerſes ſortes de bile ſe peuuent engendrer. il faut tenir pour conſtant que c'eſt bile contre nature, laquelle plus elle ac- la malighi- quiert de degrez de chaleur , plus elle ſe rend maligne, & apporte de plus ſiniſtres accidens ; ſi bien que fi té de l'hu- la fievre a vne mediocre vehemence & violence, ce ſera vn ſigne que l'humeur bilieuſe qui la faict a acquis meur rend vn degré de chaleur contre nature mediocre : que ſi les ſymptomes ſont violens , ce ſera la marque d'vn de- cette fiévre gré de chaleur exceſſif pour ce qui eſt de la pituite qui eſt meſlée auec la bile , on la recognoiſtra ſi le fe-maligne bricitant auec vn temperament chaud & ſec, & en ſon ieune aage, aura demeurée en oyſiueté, ſe ſera rem- cºmme ônt , ply de beaucoup de viandes, de fruicts cruds, & en vn mot aura amaſsé beaucoup d'excremens & de crudi- # # tez. et par la longueur de la fiévre on remarquera aisément ſi ladite pituite eſt en grande ou petite quantité, #. & auſſi par la longueur & lenteur des friſſons. car ſi la fiévre n'a ſes accez que ſeize ou dix-huict heures, # # & que les friſſons ſoient violent & aigus, c'eſt ſans doute qu'il y aura peu de pituite, d'autant que la fiévre belle remar- approche fort pres de la condition de la tierce legitime : mais fi les accez ſont de vingt-quatre , trente, ou que. trente-ſix heures, & que le friſſon ſoit long & lent ; c'eſt ſigne qu'il y a beaucoup de pituite, dautant que la i'ierce eſten- fiévre s'eſloigne fort de la nature de la tierce legitime. en quoy nous remarquerons que la fiévre baſtarde, dºé - qui a fes accez plus longs que dix-huict heures s'appelle teriiana extenſa , tierce eſtendue , plus ou moins **º{.* , ſelon que l'accez s'eſtend ou à vingt, ou à vingt cinq, ou à trente, ou à trente-ſix heures. car il eſt tres- # aſſeuré que cette fiévre a des accez quelquesfois de trente , de trente ſix, ou de quarante , meſme de dauan- # #. tage ſelon la quantité & la craſſitie de la pituite qui y eſt meſlée. or cette fiévre commence pluſtoſt auec # horreur qu'auec vn friſſon violent; ſa chaleur eſt plus douce & moins mordicante, & qui s'eſpand plus dif # quels téps ficilement par tout le corps qu'en la tierce legitime, le malade n'eſt point tant alteré, ny ne vomit point elle » egne lé des matieres ſiameres. il ſent vne peſanteur de corps, douleur à l'eſpine du dos, bouffement à l'eſtomach plus. . ' auec deſgouſt. l'accez paſſe douze heures,& s'eſtend quelquesfois iuſques à trente, & dauantage, comme ceux qui y enſeigne galien au commentaire troiſiéme du premier des epidemies, & au commentaire . du ſixiéme li- ſont enchnº ure. les accez ſe terminent non par des grandes ſueurs, mais par des moiteurs. elle eſt plus frequente en - automne qu'en autre ſaiſon , & attaque les ieunes hommes qui par vne vie deſreglée , amaſſent grande quantité d'excremens & de cruditez, elle ſurprend auſſi ceux qui viuent en oyſiueté, les hommes gras & re- . ) . plets , ceux qui crapulent & qui vſent des bains mal à propos, rarement ſe termine-elle au ſeptiéme accez mais va iuſques au quartorziéme, voire meſme dure quarante iours , tantoſt deux mois, tantoſt trois mois , quelquesfois ſix mois, & lors qu'elle dure ſi long temps elle apporte en fin ou vne dureté de.ratte, ou vne prognoſtic. "- hydropiſie, ou quelque vice notable des entrailles. souuent elle ameine des coliques furieuſes, leſquelles coliques de- - º - degenerent en quelque paralyſie imparfaicte, ou des bras ou des cuiſſes , mal à ce que l'on dit familier & generantes en commun à quelques prouinces de ce royaume. cette fiévre eſt de difficile gueriſon , mais toutesfois ſans paralyſie. peril, puis qu'elle eſt intermittente, s'il n'arriue quelque faute en la traictant. toutesfois elle eſt plus dan- gereuſe , que la tierce legitime, à cauſe de la diuerſité des humeurs qui la font , leſquels rendent les ma- ladies faſcheuſes & contumaces , comme enſeigne hippocrate, & galien au premier des epidemies, com- ment. . article ;. - : -- '' , ' pour la cure de cette fiévre, elle n'eſt point autre que celle qui conuient à la tierce legitime, ſinon qu'il la cure de , ne faut pas tant rafraiſchir, mais au contraire eſchauffer doucement & moderement, inciſer puiſſamment cette fiévre. l'humeur peccante, attenuer, cuire, vuider & fortifier les entrailles. les clyſteres deterſifs tous les iours clyſtere. ſont tres-vtiles, dans leſquels on doit meſler les ſimples qui diſſipent les vents & flatuofitez, qui rempliſſent les inteſtins de ceux † trauaillez de cette fiévre, s'engendrans de la pituite qui eſt attenuée par l'ar- deur de la fiévre.dés le commencement il faut auſſi ſaigner pour eſteindre l'empireume des entrailles, & la ſaignééi ce pluſieurs fois pour aller au deuant de la pourriture, & empeſcher la continuelle generation des mauuai- - ſes humeurs. il ne faut pas ſe perſuader que la pituite empeſche ce remede , elle le modere bien , mais de l'empeicher tout à faict, nullement; veu que le feu, qui eſt en la pituite, eſt auſſi bien feu que celuy qui eſt - n - z zz €il #. #. à la baſtar dé en quoy elle dijere d« la legitime. - : ， gº -- : partie, premiere - - + - en la bile. en quelque ſubiect que ſe met la pourriture, l'intemperie chaude l'accompagne, laquelle s'eſteint a purgation par l'euaporation, qui ſe faict fort commodement par la ſaignée. ayant oſté tout ſoupçon d'inflammation frequente. aux parties nobles, on viendra purger le corps doucement & ſouvent auec apozemes aperitifs & relaxatifs de vomitifs : fenné, agaric, rheubarbe, electuaire lenitif, & autres medicamens benins. il y en a qui trouuent bon de º é donner des vomitifs au commencement des accez; mais il faut premierement que ce ſoient vomitifs doux # & benins & non violens, tels que ſont les metalliques & en ſecond lieu il les faut donner lors que la coction apokemes. " paroiſt dans les vrines, autrement i'ay touſiours trouue qu ils ne profitoient de rien , & qu'ils debilitoient grandement l'eſtomach, qui apres cuiſoit moins bien les viandes , & par conſequent engendroit quantité de mauuaiſes humeurs, & donnoit occaſion au foye d'en faire de meſme, puis que c'eſt vne maxime en me- decine que la ſeconde coction ne corrige iamais la premiere. ie donnerois icy des formules d'apoxemes ape- ritifs, inciſifs & laxatifs, deſquels il faut entretenir le malade durant vne ſi grande longueur de temps , mais d'autant que cette longueur de temps donne aſſez de loifir au chirurgien de conſulter les medecins ſur les diuers incidens de cette fiévre, ie les remets auſdits medecins, auſſi qu'il eſt impoſſible qu'vn chi- le chirur rurgien puiſſe auoir la cognoiſſance & la ſcience d'vne fi grande diuerſité de remedes, telle qu'elle eſt ne- gien ne peut ceſſaire d'eſtre practiquée en ce mal, afin de n'ennuyer point le malade d'vn ſeul genre de medicament. #auoir les que le chirurgien ait ſoin ſeulement de bien nourrir le febricitant, & vn peu plus largement qu'en la tier- formules des ce legitime ;afin qu'il ait des forces de refiſter iuſques à la fin du mal. apres donc les premiers accez rºmedeº , ( durant leſquels on ne nourrira les malades que de viandes legeres & liquides ) on pourra donner les iours rºgº** de l'intermiſſion quelque viande ſolide, aisée à digerer vne fois le iour ſeulement, comme ſont les poul- "l'/e ' , lets, chapons, perdris, veau, mouton. ayant touſiours pour maxime de ne nourrir point le malade du- rant l'accez (s'il n'auoit quelque foibleſſe extraordinaire) mais trois ou quatre heures auant l'accez, & à breuuage la fin de l'accez. les anciens donnoient pour breuuage l'eau miellée, qu'ils appelloient mulſam , qu'ils aro- d'eau m el matizoient d'hyſope ou de ſpicnar , les recens ſe ſeruent de l'eau ſuccrée ou de l'oyſaccara , quelquesfois b lée. d'eau d'orge aſſaiſonnée de racine de fenoüil & de ſemence d'aniz. les plus delicats ſe ſeruent d'hipocras d'eau, les autres de decoction de regliſſe, racine d'ozeille, & de cichorée ſauuage , bref on peut s'accom- moder aucunement au gouſt des malades , & leur faire changer de boiſſon lors qu'ils ſeront ennuyez de quelque vne. il ne faut pas leur permettre toutesfois de boire du vin iuſques au declin de la fiévre, & que # def- les ſignes de coction apparoiſſent. apres les purgations on n'oubliera pas ny les ſudorifiques ny les diu- sudorifiques retiques, & à la fin de tout le bain d'eau douce. diuretiques. · de la fiévre ardente, eſpece de fiévre tierce continué. c h a p. xxii i. fiévre appel ! p r e s les fiévres de bile intermittentes, viennent les continués, entre leſquelles eſt rar- lée des grecs dente bilieuſe, que les grecs appellent cauſon excitée de bile, mais bien plus ardente que . cauſus & des , celle qui faict la tierce continué commune, de laquelle nous parlerons au chapitre ſuiuant. françois fé- vsr parquoy ſi la maſſe ſanguinaire bilieuſe, c'eſt à dire, qui a en ſoy plus de bile que d'autre ºu é # - • n humeur , conçoit en ſoy ſi grande inflammation qu'elle tienne touſiours le cœur aſſiegé, ens # f- s elle faict la vraye cauſanide, c'eſt à dire, fiévre ardente, qui differe en cecy ſeulement de # la fiévre tierce continue commune, qu'elle n'a point de trois en trois iours d'exacerbation manifeſte, c§ la ains marche toufiours d'vne perpetuelle conſtance & eſgale ardeur. au reſte elle eſt auſſi quelquesfois c ſtard. excitée de phlegme ſalé , & faict vne eſpece de cauſus moins propre, qu'on appelle, cauſus baffard , ou non ceux qui legitime, qui n'eſt pas fi vehement que le premier. cette fiévre ſuruient aux ieunes en eſté, & à ceux qui ſant ſubiets à ſont de temperament chauds & ſecs, & qui font meſtier de trauailler exceſſiuement. les ſignes du cauſus pa- cette fiévre tbognomoniques, c'eſt à dire propres & perpetuels, ſont fiévre vehemente (à cauſe qu'il eſt excité de l'hu- signes pathe-meur bilieuſe, qui d'ordinaire s'enflamme le plus aisément & furieuſement ) & laſſitude vlcereuſe, comme ſi º on eſtoit piqué d'aiguillons par tout le corps : ce qui vient à cauſe de l'acrimonie de l'humeur bilieuſe & te- #. nué , qui pique les parties ſenſibles de noſtre corps les fignes accompagnans cette maladie que l'on appel- cauſes fort le aſſidens & non perpetuels , ſont la langue ſeiche, & pour ce fort aſpre, noire à raiſon de l'aduſtion, dou- remarqua- leur de ventre mordicante & tormineuſe, prouenante d'vne fluxion de bile tenue, ſanieuſe & ichoreuſe, bles deiection ſouuent paſle & liquide pour l'abondance de la matiere crué, acre & tenue là pouſsée par la vehe- cauſu qui a mence de la maladie.lors que le ſiege du cauſus eſt le foye ou le ventricule, alors la ſoif eſt grande & exceſ- ſon ſiege au ſiue, à cauſe de l'ardeur & ficcité detout le corps, ſi principalement la bile qui fait le cauſu eſt amaſsé en fºyes ſºfau lieu & partie, d'où ſe peut proprement exciter la ſoif, comme en la bouche & orifice ſuperieur du ventri- cauſuu. cule, au ventricule meſme , ou aux poulmons , quelquesfois au pilore, ou orifice inferieur de l'eſtomach,& # dans l'inteſtin appellé ieiunum, les veilles ſont grandes par le defaut d'humidité benigne & vaporeuſe qui #… cauſe le ſommeil & delires à cauſe du mouuement de la bile vers le chef,fi principalement le ſiege d'icelle eſt é aſpre. *! poulmon, & lors ſans doute la langue eſt aſpre & noire , ils ne reſpirent qu'à peine, & halenent vn eſprit #ale§ment. chaud & bruſlant , haletans toufiours à bouche ouuerte.la bouche eſt inceſſamment amere pour la continui- amertume té de la tunique interieure du ventricule qui eſt commune à la langue. cette maladie eſt fort aiguë , & qui de bouche. tue en peu de temps, d'où vient qu'à bon droict elle eſt appellée à montpellier trouſſe-galand : partant dés le fiévre trou- commencement il faut que le chirurgien pour ſon honneur, & pour s'exempter de calomnie , expoſe aux ſºtºlº , aſſiſtans le danger où eſt le malade : car ſi les accidens ſuſnommez ſe monſtrent grands dés le commence- º#*"., ment de cette maladie, s'il ſuruient vne petite ſueur au front ou aux clauicules,ſi le malade amaſſe les floc- # # cons de ſa couuerture vers luy, s'il iouë fort des doigts ſi les extremitez luy deuienent froides, ſi la mala- ' die a ſes exacerbations & redoublemens à iours pairs , ſi les vrines ſont tenues, noires, cruës & en petite quantité, ſi le ventre eſt retenu, ou bien ſi és dejections il y a indice de colliquation, ſi la ſoif n'eſt ſi grande qu'elle doit eſtre, eu eſgard à l'ardeur de la fiévre , ſi goutte à goutte illuy fiuë vn peu de ſang par le nez, on peut aſſeurément predire la mort , ſans autrement entreprendre à guarir tel malade.toutesfois s'il y a eſpe- caration. rance de ſanté, il faut que la curation conſiſte en deux choſes, ſçauoir eſt en la diete, & és medicamens. pour diete é en la diete faut confiderer trois choſes, c'eſt à ſçauoir , la quantité des alimens & la vertu du malade, le irelle trou temps de la maladie,& la qualité de la fiévre.il faut cognoiſtre la vertu du malade pour la garder & conſer- pºints à com- uer : car c'eſt celle qui chaſſe la maladie , partant il ne conuient donner ſi grande quantité d'alimens qu'elle ſiderer. ne les puiſſe cuire, ny pareillement en donner ſi peu qu'elle defaille, & qu'elle ne ſoit aſſez forte. et quant le . au temps de la maladiesfi elle eſt en'la vigueur ou pres d'icelle, il faut donner peu d'alimens ou rien du tout, le . pource que c'eſt diuertir nature de ſon intention : car elle ne peut cuire les alimens, & enſemble contrarier le . à la maladie outre plus faut conſiderer la qualité de la maladie : car la fiévre, veu que c'eſt vne maladie chaude & ſeiche, requiert alimens froids & humides, non enclins à putrefaction , comme laictué , pourpié, | - - ozeille, | ( t - - - ^--- º •? du traicté des fiévres. - s a ozeille , orge-mondé, & autres ſemblables. le boire doit eſtre d'eau d'orge-mondé, auec ſyrop violat ou * de limons, eau boüillie, d'hipocras d'eau, ou eau panée , donnant à boire au malade tout ſon ſaoul & à boire fan ， ſon plaiſir : & quand à la chair & viandes ſolides, ie ne ſuis pas d'aduis qu'on en donne, ou bien que ce ſoit lºoºl & à s en tres petite quantité, & que la chair ſoit cuite auec herbes refrigerantes cy-deſſus mentionnées, & priſe plaiſir .. s auecius d'oranges, limons, citrons, grenade, ou verjus de grain. que fi pour le ſouſtenir on eſt contraint # # de luy donner de la gelée, qu'elle ſoit faicte ſans expreſſion, & diſtillation , & outre ſans canelle & vin, eſtre interdi- euitant les ſalines & eſpiceries, & autres choſes contraires. il faut faire en ſorte que le malade reſpire l'air # é? le plus frais qu'il ſera poſſible ſi ce n'eſt en hyuer, braſſant & verſant de l'eau de puits d'vn verre en autre, fafen de car de là il ſera rafraiſchy, & en outre endormy par le doux murmure de l'eau, que le paué de la chambre gaia. - ſoit ſemé de roſes, de fueilles de vignes, de laictue, de nenuphar, pourpié , & autres trempées en eau ro- moyens de ſe, vinaigre, ou eau de puits tres-froide : arangeant dauantage par la chambre , des branches de ſaules verds rafraiſehir. - qu'il faudra changer ſouuent : qu'il aye touſiours en ſa main des fueilles de laictuës, ou de vigne, ou des pieces de courge ou concombre, meſme à la plante des pieds : qu'on luy plonge les pieds & les mains dans | de l'eau froide en laquelle y ait vn peu de vin pour faire penetrer l'eau qu'on le remuë de lict & de draps, , d'heure en heure, pourueu toutesfois que le temps de criſe ne ſoit proche : car lors on luy nuiroit grande- ment en le rafraiſchiſſant & remuant. la ſaignée doit eſtre faicte ſouuent & en bonne quantité, non ſeule- ment des bras, mais auſſi des pieds quand le malade eſt en delyre , ou qu'il eſt proche d'y tomber , comme auſſi és femmes qui n'ont pas leurs reiglemens ordinaires, ou qui ne les ont pas ſuffiſamment : & aux hom- mes pareillement qui ont hemorrhoydes arreſtées, pourueu que la vertu, l'aage & autres circonſtances deſ- quelles nous auons parlé en la phlebotomie le permettent. les epithemes ſur la region du foye, ſeront faicts tes epithe- auec huyle roſat, de coings, de nenuphar, & autres refrigerans, & ce en la vigueur ou declinaiſon de la mes. - maladie. on n'obmettra pas les fronteaux, faits d'oxyrrhodinum , huyle de nenuphar, aubins d'œufs & oxy- fronteaux. erat & leurs ſemblables, & que le malade tienne ſouuent en la bouche, eau froide, ou eau d'orge, ou b des fueilles d'ozeille trempées en eau froide, ou bien des ceriſes ſeiches , aigrettes auſſi trempées en eau. il conuient auſſieuacuer la matiere auecdyſieres emolliens & rafraiſchiſſants, tels que ſont ceux que l'on pre-º%ſiºrº pare auec le ſerum lactis, auec decoction de violles, maulues & autres ſemblables. en tels clyſieres tu diſ- ſoudras pluſtoſt du ſuccre que du miel, & de l'huyle violat, pluſtoſt que du commun , pour touſiours curer la chaleur.pour les purgatifs on donnera de la caſſe nouuellement mondée , de tamarains, de diaprunis fim- medicamens ple, de la decoction de roſes & violes, des ſyrops de capilli veneris, de violles , de nenuphar, de cichorée, purgºtiſt. - d'endiues,& de leurs ſemblables (ayant eſgard aux obſtructions du foye ) toutes les autres purgations ſe- ront faictes de rheubarbe infusée en decoction de tamarins, endiue, laictué, ſcariole, & autres qui rafraiſ- aduerriſſº- chiſſent ſans adſtriction ſont fort vtiles. combien qu'il faille preſcrire le moins dc medicamens purgatifs ment ſur les 'qu'on pourra, à cauſe qu'ils ſont tous chauds & acres, & par conſequent contraires à la fiévre ardente. ºººººns Êarquoy en lieu d'iceux,il ſeroit fort bon de purger le malade auec laict d'aneſſe cuit, ou pour le mieux auec #ºſ . le ſerum de laict, car l'vn & l'autre a proprieté de purger les ſerofitez bilieuſes, & eſt fort humide, ſans #" ls ſaignée. - aucune acrimonie, & ſans flatuoſité par le benefice de la cuiſſon. # laict d'aneſ- –- ſe. de la fiévre tierce continuë. c h a p. x x iv. o c y la derniere des fiévres qui ſe font de la bile, de laquelle nous auons peu de choſes à de la fiévre # dire, à cauſe de ce qui a eſté dit de la nature & curation du tauſus ; on peut comprendre ce qui #. # eſt de l'eſſence & de la curation de cette fiévre tierce continuë, y ayant peu de difference entre differe de l'vne & l'autre, en ſorte que galien meſme à peine les diſtingue-il au liure ſecond des criſes, l' aen . i mn ) chapitre fix. cette fiévre donc n'eſt autre choſe, qu'vne fiévre continué qui a des redoublemens ma- sa deſinition. nifeſtes , & des ſenſibles remiſſions de deux iours, l'vn, produite d'vne bile pure, qui ſe pourrit dans les vaiſſeaux eſloi- comme elle gnex du cœur. lors donc que la bile contenué dans ces vaiſſeaux vient à ſe pourrir , ſi la nature ne peut la s'engendre. chaſſer en l'habitude du corps, elle la vomit & dans les grands vaiſſeaux, & au cœur meſne , d'où il arriue qu'il ſe fait vne fiévre continuë periodique, laquelle a deux accez ou redoublemens d'autant plus ſenſibles, comme auſſi des remiſſions d'autant plus aisées à remarquer, que l'humeur qui ſe pourrit eſt eſloigné du cœur. lors donc que cette bile de deux iours accourt au foyer où la pourriture s'attache , elle s'eſchauf cauſe des , , -- fe aisément, & allume vne chaleur remarquable, laquelle vient à ſe diminuer vn peu à meſure que cette bile redoublemis. - qui accourt ſe conſomme, mais elle ne ceſſe point tout à fait que ladite bile ne ſoit tout à fait conſommée : c'eſt pourquoy la fiévre eſt continue, & à cauſe du lieu où la bile ſe pourrit eſloignée du cœur, ladite fiévre pourquoy elle a des redoublemens & des remiſſions manifeſtes. pour la bile qui fait cette fiévre, elle eit moins acre & en eft continuë. moindre quantité que celle qui faict la fiévre ardente, & au reſte n'eſt pas fi proche du cœur, eſtant tres-ve- condition de ritable que tant plus l'humeur qui ſe pourrit eſt proche du cœur, plus donne-il de chaleur & de violence de la bºle qui fiévre. que ſi l'on me demande comment ie recognoiſtray vne fiévre ardente d'auec la fiévre continue,ie reſ !ºſ# pons que la fiévre ardente bruſle aſſiduellement les febricitans d'vne pareille chaleur, ſans auoir de ſenſibles #º #: , redoublemens ou remiſſions de deux iours l'vn : là où la tierce continuë a des remiſes bien douces , & a des #º- :: d redoublemens remarquables de iour à autre, par conſequent negarde pas vne pareille chaleur de ſon com- ce :: mencent iuſques à ſa fin, au reſte tous les accidens & ſymptomes ſont moins violens en la tierce continuë , luſigne . - qu'en la fiévre ardente , la ſoif & les veilles moindres : elle eſt plus longue & moins perilleuſe & ne ſe ter- l §gnoſti. : mine que vers le . iour ;elle s'attache à ceux meſines qui ſont ſubiects au cauſus, ſçauoir aux ieunes, bi- que - lieux, d'vn temperament chaud & ſec, en l'eſté pluſtoſt qu'en autre temps, à ceux qui trauaillent beaucoup, ceux qui y : qui veillent , qui ont beaucoup de ſoin, qui ſe laiſſent tranſporter à la cholere , qui s'expoſent à l'ardeur du ſºnt ſuiºtº - | soleil , & qui vſent de viandes chaude & acres, & boiuent des vins forts, ieuſnent beaucoup ou ont amaſsé de la bile de longue main, qu'ils auoient accouſtumé de vuider en certaines ſaiſons. la cure de cette fiévre la enre. eſt preſque meſme qu'au cauſus, le viure ne doit pas eſtre ſi rafraiſchiſſant & humectant ; l'on peut nourrir le malade plus liberalement aux iours de remiſſion. les remedes doiuent eſtre meſurez à proportion que ce mal approche plus ou moins de la fiévre ardente. il ne faut point eſpargner la ſaignée, les lauemens , les la ſaigrés. purgatifs, les alteratifs, les corroborans, les epithemes, frontaux & autres remedes ſe rapportans à ceux / que nous auons ſpecifiez au chapitre precedent. bref le cauſus & la tierce continué differant ſeulement du plus ou du moins , doiuent auſſi eſtre traictez par remedes qui ſoient differens du plus & du moins ſeule- ' ment. ie diray pour concluſion que la fiévre que les autheurs'appellent ſynoque bilieuſe, ſe rapporte à cette synºque º- fiévre icy continué, d'autant qu'elle ſe faict du ſang qui ſe change & ſe tourne en bile, elle a neantmoins !ºſº vne chaleur vn peu plus douce que les fiévres qui ſont faictes de la bile pure qui ſe pourrit. et voilà ce que nous auons a dire des fiévres bilieuſes. - ', jdts dutraicté des fiévres. -( a eftant refroidy,tout noſtre corps eſt pareillement refroidytd'ou vient que les humeurs froides ont leur mou- uement en iceluy, leſquelles auparauant eſtoient aucunement tenuës par la chaleur : les doubles tierces au contraire , commencent & ſurprennent le matin , & deuant midy. la brieuete & douceur de l'accez & grande ſueur,ſont ſignes que la fiévre eſt briefue & ſalutaire, ſi cela aduient l'humeur eſtant ja cuit. la curation conſiſte en deux chôſes, ſçauoir eſt, en regime & medicamens. le regime doit eſt tenu & inciſif, principales l'air clair, chaud & ſec moderement. les alimens ſoient pain bien cuit, chaudeaux faicts de poulailles cuits de la ra- auec racines de perſil, ozeille, petit hou, ſemences froides, & autres ſemblables. on peut manger poulets, tion de la mouton,perdris, & petits oyſelets,poiſſons d'eau douce roſtis,œuſs mollets. les fruicts ſoient raiſins, pru-quotidiane. neaux,amandes,dactes. le breuuage ſoit petit vin blanc, trempé auec eau cuitte : l'exercice moderé eſt tres-region de bon, comme auſſi les frictions de tout le corps; le dormir eſt commode s'il eſt faict aux heures deuës, & qu'il viºrº ſoit proportionné aux veilles.quant aux affections de l'ame,il faut que le malade ſe reſioüiſſe,& qu'il prenne touſiours bonne eſperance de ſa ſanté. a l'heure de l'accez les pieds & les jambes du malade ſoient miſes en fomenta- eau tiede,en laquelle aura cuit camomille,anet,melilot,marjolaine,ſauge,roſmarin.les medicamens alteratifs tion. ſont ſyrops digeſtifs,oxymel:tels que ſont les ſyrops d'abſinthe,de menthe, des deux & cinq racines,auec de- medicamens coctions de camomille,calamente,melilot,anet,& leurs ſemblables, ou auec decoctions communes. les me-alteratifi. dicamens purgatifs, ſoient diaphoenicum, electuaire,diacarthami,hiera picra, pullules aurées, agaric,turbith, medicamens deſquels on fera potion auec eau de mente,meliſſe,hyſſope,ſauge,fonouil, ſcariolle: aucuns ſeront donnez en purgatifs. forme de bolus auec ſucre, ſelon que le docte medecin conſiderera eſtre moins moleſte & faſcheux au malade. enuiron l'eſtat de la maladie, il faudra auoir eſgard au ventricule,& principalement à l'orifice d'ice- luy d'autant qu'il eſt le ſiege principal de la pituite, qui faict cette fiévre quotidiane. parquoy de deux iours corrobora : indications b l'vn il ſera bon de l'oindre d'huyle de camomille auec vn peu de vin blanc. il ſera bon auſſi de le decharger tif,. par vomiſſement auec le ſuc de raue,& force oxymel, ou auec decoction de ſemence ou racine d'azarum , ou vomiſſemit. de camomille,auec ſyrop aceteux, & ſur le commencement de l'accez,lors que nature commence à s'eſmou- remede em* uoir. pour vne quotidiane inueterée, que l'on n'aura peu guarir par remede communs & vſitez, il n'y a rien ?" º pº ſi propre que de donner demie drachme entiere de theriaque vieille,auec ſucre en forme de bolus, ou bien # # diſſoute auec vn peu d'eau de vie. f/ f fé €éf• que dirons-nous de laſaignée, eſt elle neceſſaire en la cure des quotidianes les autheurs grecs n'en font la ſaignée aucune mention , ne ſemblant pas eſtre à propos de rafraichir vn corps par la ſaignée, qui tombe malade # § pour eſtre trop rafraiſchy. les arabes ſont d'vn autre aduis,& eſtiment qu'il eſt à propos quelquesfois, lors ，ſ bºn , en qu'on apperçoit quelque plenitude detirer vn peu de ſang, tantoſt du bras droict, lors que le temps & la ſai- cette fiévre. ſon eſt chaude & boüillante, tantoſt du bras gauche quand le temps eſt froid. pour moy i'ay appris des meilleurs medecins de paris,qu'à cauſe de la pourriture, & de cette chaleur eſtrangere qui s'introduit dans il faut ſai- les humeurs,que ce n'eſt pas mal faict d'euenter par fois la vaine, principalement lors que nous obſeruons gner- que les vrines ſont eſpaiſſes & rouges, que nous voyons que la fiévre s'augmente & s'aigrit,& que nous crai- gnons quelques grands & violens ſymptomes , qui peuuent eſtre cauſe de quelque ſiniſtre accident à la vie - - - du malade. en cecy il faut s'en rapporter à la prudence du ſage medecin , qui apres auoir bien pesé & balan- la quotidia- cé toutes les circonſtances , qui ſe trouuent & au temperament naturel du malade, & aux conditions de la " baſtards. fiévre,peut on preſcrire,ou obmettre ce remede. pource qui eſt de la quotidiane baſtarde, nous en dirons vn mot au chapitre vingt-ſept. c - de la fiévre quotidiane continuè. c ha p. xxv i. - comme la a fiévre quotidiane continuè eſt vn peu plus frequente que n'eſt pas l'intermittente : & qua nt co§ au reſte elle ne differre point auec elle,ſoit en ſa cognoiſſance , ſoit en ſa curation. toute la diffe- quotidiane rence qu'il y a entre ces deux fiévres, c'eſt en leur foyer, celuy de la continue eſtant dans les differe de grands vaiſſeaux, & celuy de l'intermittente dans les petits vaiſſeaux, au fond du ventricule, aux ſ'intermit- inteſtins,meſentere,& autres parties adjacentes de l'abdomen , d'où il arriue que la chaleur de ºº l'intermittente eſt moindre que celle de la continuè. au reſte tu cognoiſtras la continué par les meſmes indices signes de la que l'intermittente, te reſouuenant toufiours qu'elle n'a ny accez ny friſſon, ny intermiſſion; & qu'entre tou-* tes les fiévres continues, il n'y en a point qui ait plus de reſſemblance auec ſon intermittente que cette-cy , d'autant que l'intermittente a ſi peu d'interualle & d'intermiſſion , que durant ce repos meſme il ſemble que la fiévre perſeuere touſiours,ſi bien que galien meſme auec tous les anciens grecs ont douté ſi cette fiévre la curation. intermittente n'eſtoit point continué, comme tu pourras apprendre du chap. . du liu. . des differences des fiévres de galien. la façon de guerir cette fiévre continuë eſt diuerſe ſelon la diuerſité des temps de la ma-minoratifs. ladie. c'eſt pourquoy au cotnmencemenr il ſera tres à propos de laſcher le ventre auec vn clyſtere, ou quel- que medecine douce,bien que ie voye la pluſpart des medecins d'a preſent reculer la purgation iuſques apres laſaignée. la ſaignée. doncques apres le clyſtere,il faut penſer à la ſaignée, s'il y a iuſte occaſion de ce faire,comme ſi la fiévre eſt grande,ſi le poux eſt haut & eſleué,ſi les vrines ſont eſpaiſſes & rouges, s'il y a quelque eſtouffemét, p ſi les forces le peuuent porter, toutefois quoy que ce ſoit, il ne faut pas baucoup tirer de ſang à la fois, mais minoratif . partir & diuiſer l'euacuation à deux ou à trois fois. deux iours apres la ſaignée,il faut donner vn minoratif pour touſiours ſoulager la nature, la deſchargeant d'vne partie de ſon faix : ce qui ſe faict à commandement - auec vne decoction propre contre la pituite en laquelle on diſſoudra du catholicon ( & non de la caſſe,qui eſt caſſe enne- ennemie du ventricule & de cette maladie, à cauſe de ſon humidité ) & quelque peu de diaphoenicum.car le mie du ven- catholicon, bien qu'il ſoit propre à purger la bile, ſi eſt-ce que diſſout en quelque decoction attenuante & in-º cidente purge auſſi la pituite.en apres il faudra cuire la maſſe de l'humeur pituiteux par deterſifs , incidens, #º & aperitifs : le miel roſat coulé & l'hydromel detergent,inciſent & ouurent : l'oxymel tant ſimple que com- # posé, le ſyrop aceteux,de byzantiis,capilli veneris,de duabus & quinque radicibus. en fin faut donner vne # / bonne & paſſablement forte purgation pour purger, la matiere, ainſi comme dit eſt preparée. on obſeruera toutefois, que ſi la chaleur de la fiévre eſt vehemente & acre, on doit contemperer les ſyrops cy-deſſus nom- mez auec de plus benins & moins eſchauffans, tels que ſont les ſyrops d'endiue ſimple & composée, l'eau d'endiue, deborache,de capillaires,& autres de meſme facultez.au reſte, ſouuienne-toy en cette fiévre touſ cerrobora- jours de roborer le ventricule,ce qui ſe fera commodement auec le mithridat. en cette fiévre il faut fuyr l'v- tifs neceſſai- ſage immoderé des potages, coullis,& chauſes ſemblables, d'autant qu'elle humectent trop le ventricule, & res empliſſent la teſte de vapeurs, pour laquelle meſme raiſon il faut nourrir le malade de chair ſolide , de beſtes de moyen aage: car celle des ieunes eſt pleine d'humidité muſqueuſe & excrementitielle. d • © - j de la fiévre epiale, & de la lypirie. ch a p. xxvii. o v s auons remarqué cy-deuant,ce me ſemble, que la pituite naturelle, douce ou inſipide premiere partie, a cauſe mate- eſtoit cauſe de la fiévre quotidiane intermittente exquiſite & legitime, laquelle nous auons rielle de la expliquée au chapitre . il reſte maintenant à demonſtrer que les autres eſpeces de pi- l#" tuite non naturelle,telles que ſont la ſalée, l'accide, & la vitrée font l'autre eſpece de fievre p§us ) quotidiane illegitime oul baſtarde : mais nous auons deux ſortes de cette fiévre baſtarde ; l' vne de fiévre ba- plus douce & moins faſcheuſe, qui eſt engendrée de la pituite ſalée ou accide ;l'autre plus ſtarde. importune & facheuſe,qui ſe faict de la pituite vitrée.pour la premiere qui ſe faict de la ſalée ou accide, nous la premiere n'en dirons autre choſe, à cauſe qu'icelle approche fort de la condition & nature de la quotidiane legitime, fiévre baſtar- c'eſt pourquoy il faut fort peu d'indications & de remedes. qu'on ſe remette ſeulement deuant les yeux de, que la pituite acide ſe faict par vne vehemente froideur, la ſalée par vne chaleur eſtrangere , la douce & inſipide differences par vne froideur mediocre, que l'acide excite la faim, la ſalée la ſoif,& la douce le ſommeil : & que l'acide de la pituite, demande des medicamens qui la puiſſent cuire & adoucir , & la ſalée des purgatifs qui la chaſſent hors du & ſes effeits. - - s qui la pu - - - .r.-- > qui la - corps : ce faiſant il ſera aisé d'appliquer les remedes de la quotidiane legitime à la quotidiane baſtarde, qui ſera faite ou de la pituite acide, ou de la ſalée. - la ſeconde pour l'autre fiévre baiiarde qui ſe faict de la pituite vitrée, elle eſt nommée epiale du nom grec, qui ſi- #..ſ.p- gnifie chez les latins.algorem, c'eſt à dire froideur vebemente, telle qu on la reſſent en cette fiévre. or elle pellée epiaie. eſt definie fiévre quotidiane baſtarde , laquelle apporte au corps vn reſſentiment de grande fioiaeur , & de peu de sadefinition. chaleur, engendrée de la pituite vitrée qui ſe pourrit en partie. par cette definition nous apprenons premierement , cauſes de , qu'il y a en cette fiévre vn inégal ſentiment, d' autant que les parties tout enſemble ont froid & chaud , b l' gºººº de mais le froid eſt violent, & la chaleur eſt douce & moderée. car cette fiévre eſtant engendrée de la pituite la chaleur vitrée, laquelle eſt l'humeur la plus froide & la plus humide de tout le corps, il aduient qu'a cauſe de cette # grande froideur les parties du corps reſſentent le froid, & à cauſe que ladite humeur ſe pourrit,les meſmes #r parties reſſentent du chaud,mais le chaud eſt moindre que le froid , à cauſe qu'il n'y a qu'vne petite portion §'où de l'humeur vitrée qui ſe pourrit, le reſte eſtant ſans pourriture demeure froid & humide , d'où vient ce eue s'engen, grand reſſentiment de froid. nous dirons en ſecond lieu , que l'humeur vitré s'engendre ennoſtre corps, ou à dre. cauſe des alimens qui ſont grandement froids & pituiteux, ou à cauſe de la chaleur naturelle qui eſt foible pourquoy elle & languide, mais cette humeur ne peut s'y engendrer en grande quantité, pource qu'vne froideur telle qu'il eº en petite en faudroit pour amaſſer vne grande quantité de cette humeur vitrée , eſteindroit tout à faict la chaleur na- ºº , turelle. or tandis que cette humeur ainſi amaſsée dans le corps ne ſe remué point, & ne s'eſmeut point,elle commel'hu- n'apporte point de grande froideur aux parties, d'autant que les parties ſont accouſtumées à la ſentir : mais / e/ ° ui t ' ' ' - - a - - - - lors qu'elle vient & à ſe porter & à ſe mouuoir par les parties ſenſibles; c'eſt lors qu'elle apportele reſſenti- ſ** § § inſupportable ſans aucune fiévre , ſi cela aduient ſans qu'elle ſe pourriſſe; mais fi elle ſe vient à pourrir, alors elle excite la fiévre. finalement nous pouuons apprendre par la definition ſuſdite, que c mm, la cette humeur ſe peut pourrir ou en partie, ou totalement & entierement. que ſi elle ſe pourrit entierement, elle § e ,- apporte vne fiévre vrayement quotidiane, dont la gueriſon eſt fort peu differente de celle que nous auons le ſe fa# apportée cy-deuant.si elle ſe pourrit en partie, elle engendre la fiévre epiale, & voila la cauſe du ſentiment c l'epiale eſt inégal qui eſt au corps durant l'accez de cette fiévre : car la portion d'humeur qui n'eſt pas pourrie cauſe le rare , ſes ſi-froid,la portion qui eſt pourrie enuoye des vapeurs chaudes par tout le corps, qui donnent la cognoiſſance de gnes. la fiévre. elle arriue à la verité tres-rarement, & le commencement de ſon accez eſt par des baaillemens, friſſon violent,petit poux & tardif, vrines cruës & aqueuſes : l'accez arriue tous les iours , s'eſtend quelque- prºgnoſtic. fois iuſques à vingt-quatre heures , quelquefois moins : mais touſiours il eſt plus rude que celuy des quoti- dianes legitimes,& apporte des ſymptomes & accidens plus violens. sa curation. .. pour la cure, il faut meſme regime de viure qu'aux legitimes, ſinon qu'il faut qu'il ſoit vn peu plus eſ- la ſºgº chauffant, attenuatif& inciſif. il ne faut nullement parler icy de la ſaignée, de peur que la pituite ſe ren- º # dant plus tenace & viſqueuſe, n'apporte vne fiévre tres-longue & tres-difficile à guerir.ll ſe faut ſeruir de medicºmº medicamens qui eſchauffent & qui inciſent commençant toutesfois par les plus legers,pour puis apres ve- nir aux plus forts. du commencement donc on donnera le ſyrop aceteux, l'oxymel, auec les decoctions de bourrache,bugloſſe,betoine,les cinq racines aperitiues,calament, origan, & autres.en apres on donnera l'o- xymel composé & ſcillitique,leſyrop d'hyſſope,de bizance, de deux & de cinq racines, qu'on diſſoudra dans vne apozeme preparé auec hyſſope,calament,origan, thim, ſtœchas, abſinthe, racines d'enula campana, d'i- purgation. ºº & autres de pareille vertu.ayant ainſi preparé les matieres, il faudra venir à la purgation, afin de vuider ce qui aura eſté bien cuit & preparé, & ce auec diaphoenic, diacortami,les deux hieres ou pillules conuena- alteratif bles. cela fait,derechef il faut recourir aux alteratifs, afin d'eſchauffer & d'inciſer, & puis apres aux purgatifs, n'obmettant pas par interuaile l'vsage des clyſteres ou ſuppoſitoires vn peu acres. bref on recommande les eſtuues ſei- eſtuues ſeiches , lors que les ſignes de coction apparoiſſent, leſquelles on peut preparer auec menthe,origan, d ches,& cöme roſinarinscalament ſerriette,thim, ſtœchas & autres qu'on fera bouillir dans quatre portion d'eau de riuie- il faut les re, & vne de vin blanc.par le moyen de ce remede,la pituite craſſe & eſpaiſſe eſt attenuée,& puis apres eua- préparer & cuée par les ſueurs,mais que le malade ne s'en ſerue qu'à jeun, & apres auoir purgé le ventre, ou auec vn s'en ſeruir purgatifle iour precedent,ou auec quelque clyſtere. il ſera bon ſortant des eſtuues de frotter le corps aſſez frictions. doucement,& principalement le long de l'eſpine du dos, que l'on frottera auec huyles de jaſmin , de camo- linimens. mille,d'aneth, de nard,de noix muſcade,& autres ſemblables. apres cela qu'on donne au malade vne dragme de trium pipereon, ou diacalamenthe, ou methridat,ou theriaque,ou de quelque opiate vſuelle qu'il prendra en bol, ou bien delayée auec vn peu de vin blanc. fiévre lypi- deuant que de finir ce chapitre, ie diray vn mot de la fiévre que les grecs ont appellée lypirie, pource ffg, qu'il ſemble que la chaleur defaille en icelle. a la verité ie me trouue bien empeſché à quelle ſorte de fié- vres ie la dois rapporter, voyant les arabes eſtre contraires tout à faict aux autheurs grecs,ceux-cy la rap- portant à vne grande inffammation,ceux-là à vne pituite craſſe & viſqueuſe. pour moy, apres auoir bien eſ- la lypirie pluché les raiſons des vns & des autres , ie trouue qu'il y a deux ſortes de fiévre lypirie , l'vne propremenr eſt dººtl. ainſi appellée, & l'autre appellée improprement & par reſſemblance. celle qui eſt proprement appellée definition de lypirie , eſt celle des grecs , qui eſt vne fiévre continué , causée par l'inflammation vehemente de quelque la premiere partie interieure , ou par vne ferueur deſmeſurée d'humeurs chaudes , bouillantes & malignes , en laquelle les parties eſpece, interieures bruſlent cependant que les exterieurs demeurerent toutes froides. ce qui arriue pource que la chaleur du dedans attire à ſoy côme vne ventouſe la chaleur des parties externes.or telle fiévre n'appartiët nullemët aux fiévres pituiteuſes,c'eſt pourquoy il n'eſt point beſoin d'é döner icy la guerisó,il faut les reſeruer pour les ſymptornati du traicté des fiévres. a fymptomatiques , qui ſuiuent l'infiammation de quelque partie noble. .. il faut ſeulement parler de celle - que nous auons dit eſtre improprement appellée lypirie , & ce pour reſſemblance qu'elle a auec la preceden- l'autrèeſpe te, qui eſt en ce que le dehors demeure froid , tandis que le dedans brufle. car eſtant engendrée d'vne pi- ce de lyperie tuite eſpaiſſe & viſqueuſe » la chaleur & les vapeurs ſont tellement retenues & ſuffoquees , qu'elle ne ses cauſes &- peuuent s'eſtendre à l'exterieur : d'où il arriue qu'on ſent de la chaleur au dedans du corps, mais au dehors ſes ſignes. on y ſent du froid. les autres veulent qu'elle ſe faſſe d'vne pituite moins eſpaiſſe, qui ſe pourriſſant au cen-$º ºration. tre du corps y allume le feu ; mais qui enuoye à l'exterieur ſi peu de fumées & de vapeurs, qu'elles n'ont #** pas la force d'echauffer beaucoup, ny long-temps les parties , c'eſt pourquoy elles demeurent touſiours # froides. a cette fiévre icy ie ne cognois point d'autre curation que celle de l'epiale & des autres quotidia- # nes, le regime de viure eſt de meſme façon , les purgations pareilles , les alteratifi de meſme vertu. les # autheurs qui en ont traicte ordonnent le ſyrop aceteux , & l'oxymel, pour preparer la matiere , y meſlant diuretiques. toutesfois les choſes qui fortifient & corroborent l'eſtomach, comme le ſyrop des roſes ſeiches & de ber clyſteres. beris. apres cela ils purgent le corps auec l'aloe , la hiere , & la rheubarbe. par fois ils ordonnent le eſtuues. vomiſſement, vne autrefois les diuretiques , le plusſouuent des clyſteres acres & forts. bref ils gardent le #ri#iº meſme ordre qu'en l'epiale , & font prendre au malade les eſtuues ſeiches , les ſueurs, les frictions, on ºº ctions, opiates & antidotes qui ont eſté ſpecifiez cy-deſſus. ce qui doit ſuffire pour la concluſion des fié- antidotes. vres pituiteuſes. b des fiévresfaictes de l'humeur melacholique, & premierement de la uatre inermtittente vraye. - les fiévres c ha p. xxv iii. melancholi- l ºſ. e s dernieres fiévres humoralles ſont celles qui ſe font de l'humeur melancholique , leſquelles deux ſortes ſont diuerſes ſelon que ladite humeur eſt diuerſe, eſtant vray qu'il y en a vne qui eſt naturelle, d'humeur froide & ſeiche, & l'autre contre nature, chaude & ſeiche , appellée communément atra-ººº- bile. quoy que ce ſoit , les fiévres melancholiques ſont ou intermittentes , ou continuè : les ?* - intermittentes viennent de quatre en quatre iours , ou de cinq en cinq , de ſix en ſix , de ſept # en ſept, ou autre tel interualle. celles qui viennent de quatre en quatre iours ſont appellées quartes inter-§li. mittentes ; celles qui viennent de cinq en cinq , de ſix en ſix, &c. ſont appellées du nom du iour qu'elles ques arriuent, ſçauoir quintaines, ſextaines , očtaines , nonaines, qu'on dit en latin quintanas ,ſextanas , ſeptanas, les quartes očianas, nonanas, &c. deſquelles nous dirons vn mot cy apres. .. parlons des vrayes fiévres melancholiques intermitien- intermittentes, que l'on appelle quartes ; & en premier lieu de celle qui eſt vraye & legitime, & puis au tº - chapitre ſuiuant nous parlerons de la baſtarde ou illegitime. fiévresquin. la fiévre quarte intermittente legitime a ſon accez le quatrieſme iour , & a deux iours de remiſſion , ou # & - pluſtoſt d'intermiſſion : & s'engendre de l'humeur melancºolique maturelle qui ſe pourrit dans les petites veines, #. - où il s'amaſſe peu à peu & de longue-main. chacun ſçait que la maſſe du ſang eſt composée de quatre diuer- de auartes $ ſes humeurs, qui ſe rapportent aux conditions & qualitez de quatre elemens , ſçauoir de la bile, qui pour # de eſtre chaude & ſeiche repreſente lefeu , du ſant qui ſe rapporte à l'air pour eſtre chaud & humide,de la pi la quarte le- | tuite, qui conuient à l'eau par ſa froideur & humidité, & de l'humeur melancholique, qui par ſa ſeichereſſe & guime º - froideur repreſente la terre. or comme de ces quatre humeurs, il n'y a que le ſang qui ſoit grandement fa-l* maſſe du : - milier à noſtre nature, & tres-propre à la nourrir & fomenter, auſſi il ſemble que les veines ayent eſté fai- ſang , & ſa ctes expres pour le receuoir & le retenir; & qu'il y a eu des receptacles pour retirer les autres humeurs, de ºp # peur qu'ils ne ſe rendiſſent les plus puiſſans dans les veines. et de faict , que quelques-vns ont voulu dire #" º ·. - que teſtomach eſtoit le receptacle de la pituite;mais paſſant celle-cy ſous filence,à cauſe qu'elle ne s'eſloigne #.i. # pas beaucoup de la douceur & de la trempe du ſang ; nous dirons que la veſſie du fiel a eſté faicte pour re. . la pituite. •:. ceuoir labile, & en decharger les veines, comme nous auons diſcouru cy-deuant parlant des fiévres bilieu- , eluy de la :: ſes : & que la ratte a eſté miſe au corps pour retirer l'humeur melancholique, pour en purger, nettoyer & bile. « ! purifier le ſang, & pour empeſcher en fin qu'il ne vint trop à s'augmenter dans les veines. cette humeur la rate re- •. ! donc ainſi attirée à la ratte,par la foibleſſe de la chaleur naturelle, ou par la quantité de viandes propres à ººpºº ºº l- engendrer vn tel ſuc,vient quelquefois à s'amaſſer & croupir à l'entour de ladite partie, dans le petites vei juc melan- , , ne meſeraiques,dans le pancreas,l'omentum, & autres parties voiſines ; ou en fin ſe pourriſſant il vient à ex- cholique. citer cette fiévre icy de quatre en quatre iours , ſoit par vn proprieté occulte ou ſecrette, ſoit pour les cau- # fgf #' ſes & raiſons que nous en auons rapportées cy-deuant , parlant des accez & periodes des fiévres intermit- § . tentes. doncques la cauſe conioinéte de cette fiévre eſt l'humeur melancolique naturelle, qui ſe pourrit hors la cauſe des grands § dans les petits,qui ſont ou en la premiere region du corps , comme dit eſt, ou eſt l'habi- coniointe de tude d'iceluy comme à voulu galien. les cauſes antecedentes ſont abondance d'humeurs melancholiques, la quarte. regorgeantes & redondantes par tout le corps. pour les primitiues , ce ſont les choſes qui multiplient & les eauſes engendrent le ſuc melancolique, comme le long vſage des legumes, pain bis & bruſlé, chairs ſalées, com- º ， d me de bœuf, chévre, cerf, vieils liévres, vieil fromace , choux , gros vins , bref les viandes terreſtres & º ºſº | de gros ſuc , froides & ſeiches, comme propres à engendrer l'humeur melancholique. # : les ſignes de la vraye quarte ſont pris de trois choſes, ſçauoir eſt, des naturelles , non naturelles , & contre # §i, . nature. des naturelles, pource que la temperature froide & ſeiche , l'aage de la vieilleſſe , ceux auſſi qui § choſes ， ſont froids & graſſets, ayans les veines petites & cachées , & la ratte imbecile & enflée ſont affligez de tel- naurelles. : , le fiévre. des chauſes non naturelles pource qu'en temps d'automne cette eſpece de fiévre eſt fort frequente, signes pris non ſeulement pource que l'automne eſt froid & ſec , & par conſequent propre à faire amas de l'humeur des chºſes • melancholique: mais auſſi à cauſe que par l'aduſtion de l'eſté paſsé, les humeurs les plus tenuës & liquides nºn naturel- | ayant eſté couſommées, le reſte demeure eſpaiſſy,deſſeiché,& reduit à vne conſiſtence terreſtre. bref en tout les. . º temps froid & ſec,aux regions froides & ſeiches,aux corps froids & ſecs ordinairement cette fiévre s'engé. la cr f/ fé - dre, ſi principalement à cela eſt coniointe vne façon & condition de viure triſte , penible & faſcheuſe , # #. - pleine de crainte & anxieté, et veritablement entre les paſſions de l'ame la triſteſſe & la crainre ſont tres- # §. | propres à engendrer cette fiévre, veu meſme qu'hippocrate nous a laiſsé par eſcrit en l'aphoriſme .du . cbolie. º iiure quela triſteſſe & la crainte eſtoient ſignes aſſeurez des maladies melancholiques. quant aux ſignes signes pris · pris des chauſes contre nature ; premierement c'eſt qu'au commencement de l'accez, quant la matiere ſe pu- des chºſes ， trefie,il ſuruient horreur ou rigueur tres-labourieuſe,tout ainſi que ſi l'on auoit les os froiſſez , ſecondement, cºntre mºtº º c'eſt que la maladie ſe fait recognoiſtre par ſon inuaſion, qui reuient le quatrieſme iour, & que le mal eſt " ·yº ^ a a a a froid du traicté des fiévres a il faut digerer & diminuer la matiere par ſyrops d'epitheme, de ſcolopendre, de capilli veneris, de eupa- torio, auec eaux decoctions de houblon, bourrache, bugloſſe, & ſeurs ſemblables. on peut faire quei- que ſyrop magiſtral de pommes de reinette, ou court-pendu , de bugloſſe, bourrache, capillaires,& autre & le rendre purgatifauec bon ſené de leuant, qui eſt comme l'alexipharmaque de l'humeur melancholi- # #e - † , & en purger le malade deux fois la ſepmaine.ce qu'il faut continuer opiniaſtrement , pour auoir rai- lºſ de on de ce mal opiniaſtre. ie proteſte auoir eſté cauſe de la gueriſon de pluſieurs, qui auoient eſté long- ſené en ces temps vexez & trauaillez de ladite fiévre, donnant à boire au commencement de leur accez, & à la decli-ſiévre . maiſon de la maladie trois doigts d'eau de vie, auec vn peu de theriaque diſſoute en icelle, leſquels remedes remede eſtoient baillez ſelon les forces du malade , & les indications cy-deſſus mentionnées , le tout apres auoir vsé empirique. des remedes generaux & particuliers, pour la preparation de l'humeur melancholique; car pour en parler à la verité, la fiévre quarte inueterée ne peut eſtre guerie, ſi le corps n'eſt grandement eſchauffé par alimens & medicamens. parquoy en tel cas, ie trouue bon ce que pluſieurs diſent auoir heureuſement practiqué ; vin blane. ſçauoir de donner au matin du vin blanc à boire, dans lequel par l'eſpace d'vne nuict auront trempé fueil-linimenr. les de ſauge. c'eſt auſſi choſe vtile ſur le commencement de l'accez, d'oindre toute l'eſpine du dos d'huyles propre à eſchauffer les nerfs, telles qui ſont l'huyle de rué , de noix muſcade, de poivre, de vers,y met- tant quelque peu d'eau de vie; car telles onctions valent non ſeulement à mitiger la vehemence de l'horreur, mais auſſi à eſmouuoir les ſueurs. medieam # de la fiévre quarte intermittente baftarde. - | c h a p. xxix. | | n t r e les fiévres de l'humeur melancholique, eſt la fiévre quarte intermittente illegiti- la quarte $ me & baſtarde, ainſi appellée à cauſe qu'elle ne ſe faict pas comme la precedente de l'hu-ºſtarde & $, meur melacholique naturelle, pure & fimple : mais bien ou d'icelle humeur meſlée & pourquoy # # adulterée de quelque autre humeur, telle qu'eſt la pituite ou la bile, où de l'humeur me- #" "º | ， lancholique contre nature, qui s'appelle atrebile.de quelque façon qu'on le prenne,elle É€. - a ſes accez comme la precedente de quatre iours l'vn,c'eſt à ſçauoir,apres deux iours d'in- * termiſſion vn iour d'accez,& ce d'autant que quelque mixti qu'il y puiſſe auoir, l'humeur melancholique y predomine touſiours.or on obſeruera diligemment, que la fiévre quarte legitime eſt touſ la quarte iours plus longue que la baſtarde,d'autant qu'entre toutes les humeurs,il n'y en a point de plus rebelle, & de vraye plus plus difficile à preparer & mitiger que l'humeur melancholique:ſibié que là où cette humeur ſe trouue pure ºxº qºe , & ſimple, & ſans meſlange d'aucune autre humeur, il y a plus de peine à la dompter & à la preparer; la où la baſtarde. s'il y a quelque autre humeur meſlée parmy cette humeur là, l'adoucit & l'empeſche d'eſtre ſi rebelle. donc pittai ſi la pitiuite ſe trouue meſlée parmy l'humeur melancholique, la fiévre n'en ſera pas ſi longue : mais elle ſera # # auſſi plus longue que ſi ladite humeur melancholique eſtoit adulterée de l'humeur bilieuſe;à raiſon que la pi- ſuc # tuite eſt bien plus difficile à cuire, mitiger & adoucir que la bile, laquelle faict les maladies bien plus cour- cholique. tes que ne faict pas la pituite. on peut en outre recognoiſtre la qualité, & condition de l'humeur qui eſt le mºyen de meſlée auec la melancholique, par les ſignes que nous auons rapportez en la fiévre tierce, & en la fiévre recognoiſtre quotidiane. car ſi parmy les ſignes de la fiévre quarte, nous en recognoiſſons quelques-vns qui ſoyent pro le meſlange pres , ou de la fiévre tierce, ou de la fiévre quotidiane , nous pouuons dire en aſſeurance, que c'eſt la bile dºumeurs. ou la pituite qui eſt meſlée auec la melancholie, outre qu'auec cela nous pouuons recognoiſtre , & par le temperament du malade, & par ſon genre de viure , & par la ſaiſon, & par la conſtitution de l'air, & par l'aage meſme du malade, ſi c'eſt bile ou pituite qui ſe meſle auec la melancholie. certes quand ie ſonge bclle expli. qu'hippocrate dit au liure z. des aphoriſmes aphor. . que les fièvres quartes qui arriuent l'eſté ſant courtes , cation d'vn que telles qui viennent l'automne ſant longues, & celles qui viennent proche de l'hyuer ſont encore plus longues. ie #?ºriſmº me perſuade qu'il a voulu donner à entendre que les fiévres quartes qui ſe font de la mixtion de la bile qui º* regne en eſté, ſont plus courtes que les autres,que celles qui ſe font en automne,tiennent du meſlange de " la pituite, & par conſequent qu'elles ſont plus longues que celles qui ſe font en eſté,mais auſſi plus cour- tes que celles qui ce font en huyuer, auquel temps le ſuc melancholique domine dauantage. ce qui ſoit dit d.la ta- pour plus claire intelilgence,du tout ce que nous auons rapportée cy-deſſus des fiévres quartes taiiardes in-j .#.it. termittentes, qui s'engendrent de la mixtion de quelques humeurs auec la melancholique. reſte à parler de latreble. de celle qui ſe fait de l'atrebile ou humeur melancholique contre nature. or cette humeur ſe faict double- la genera. ment, premierement du ſuc melancholique qui ſe bruſlant & pourriſſant outre meſure , deuient mordant , tion de l'hu- acre, malin & grandement noiraſtre :ſecondement de la bile iaune ou vitelline, qui venant à ſe bruſler ſe mºrºtrº- conuertit premierement en bile porracée, puis apres en erugineuſe , & en fin enbile atre & noire. cette ºº humeur auſſi bruſlée acquiert vne grande & inſigne acrimonie, & vne vertu corroſiue ſi remarquable que double. li versée & eſpandue ſur la terte, elle la fermente & la faict comme bouillir & efleuer. galien compare cette # - humeur à la lie du vin bruſlée ,ou à vn fer rouge & ardant de feu , & le ſuc melancholique au fer qui n'eſt §- chaud nyardant, & à la lie de vin qui n'eſt point bruſlée.toutesfois & quâtes donc que cette humeur atrabi- gnes de l'a- laire s'amaſſe en trop grande quantité hors des grands vaiſſeaux, & qu'elle vient à ſe pourrir, elle excite vne §ebile. fiévre quarte intermittente baſtarde, bien plus violente & ardente, bien plus maligne & perilleuſe que tou- signes. tes celles que nous auons eſcrit cy-deſſus. tous les accidens qu'elles apportent ſont plus violens, & ſes accez approchent fort en vehemence de la fiévre cauſonide, la langue eſt ſeiche, aride & noire, l'alteration grande & demeſurée,l'eſprit extrauagué ordinairement,le ventre eſt bouffy & douloureux, les veilles ſont la turation importunes, & le peu de ſommeil qui vient eſt accompagné de grandes reſueries & de fonges eſpouuanta- obſeruation bles les entrailles ſont eſchauffées outre meſure, le foye & la rate bruſlans & ardans : breftous les ſympto- pour les mes ſont grands & conſiderables , & donnent apprehenſion ou que quelque inflammation interieure ſe faſſe, qº * otl † foye & la rate ſe deſſeichent ou s'endurbiſſent, en ſorte qu'ils cauſent vne hydropiſie ou dyſenterie #. i ottclic. · · · - - - - - - º * pour ce qui eſt de la cure de la fiévre quartebaſtarde, ſi elle ſe faict du meſlange du ſuc melancholique, # auec l'humeur bilieuſe ou pituiteuſe,il faudra la traitter comme la vraye & legitime, ayant toutesfois eſgard iuleps , #i- 'à l'humeur qui ſera meſlé auec la melancholique,y appropriant les remedes propres & conuenables, ſçauoir themes. à la bile, ceux que nous auons ſpecifiez en la cure de la tierce, & à la pituite ceux dont nous auons parlé le demy en la cure de la fiévre quotidiane. mais quand à ce qui eſt de la quarte faicte de l'humeur atrabilaire , il faut bºin.. . preſque vne contraire curation, s'empeſchant tant qu'il eſt poſſible d'vſer ny d'alimens ny de medicamens ! ** chauds. toutes choſes doiuent eſtre rafraiſchiſſante & humectantes : la ſaignée doit eſtre frequente & clair. , : º a a a a des premiere partie, . - des bras & des pieds; les purgatifs doiuent eſtre doux & benins : les iuleps & apozemes aperitifs doiuent a eſtre ſans chaleur manifeſte; les epithemes ſont grandement vtiles pour rafraiſchir & humecter, & detrem- per cette mauuaiſe humeur , & la rendre plus ſouple & obeiſſante aux medicamens purgatifs : le demy bains d'eau tiede aux iours d'intermiſſion ſont tres-excellens : le petit laict pris en grande quatité , eſt v remede ſouuerain, principalement ſi on faict bouillir dedans vn peu de fumetere. bref il faut vne gran- de prudence à traitter les malades de cette fiévre, laquelle de meſme que les carcinomes demande pluſtoſt à eſtre flattée qu'irritée. - - des fiévres qujntaine , sextaine , očtaine, & c. c h a p. xxx. %a\ # # e metrouue bien empeſché touchant la cognoiſſance de ces fiévres icy intermittétes,pour hippºcrate s# #)， | ne ſçauoir preſque à quel genre de fiévreie le dois rapporter. eſtant au reſte ſi rares & fi le premier a \ # | peu vſitées que peu de medecins les récontrent.le premier toutesfois qui les a obſeruées, parlé des fié- n % | & qni nous en a laiſſé quelque choſe par eſcrit, c'eſt hippocrate au liurer de epimedies : #" & en ſuite quelques medecins ſont venus , dont les vns ont dit qu'ils auoyent veu des a §i e/ - fiévres quintaines, les autres des ſextaines, les autres des ſeptaines, očtaines, nonaines, & ainfi re de fiévres de quelques autres pareilles, dont toutefois ils ont parlé ſi legerement, qu'ils ne nous b ſe rapportent ont rien laiſſé d'aſſeuré par eſcrit, ſoit de leurs cauſes, ſoit de leurs curations. quelqnes-vns d'eux ſe ſont celles-cy, perſuadez , que ce n'eſtoit point vn genre de fiévre diſtinct & ſeparé des autres , mais que c'eſtoient fiévres fiévres er- erratiques, tantoſt ephemeres,tantoſt quotidianes, tantoſt tierces,ſelon la condition de l'humeur qui les faiſoit rº º & qui eſtant amaſſé en petite quantité n'apportoit que peu d'accez d'autres ont voulu dire que c'eſtoient fié- º" vres compliquées, taotoſt d'vne ephemere auec vne quarte, tantoſt d'vne tierce auec vne quotidiane, dont /, a. - - - - - - • # l'on n'obſeruoit pas bien les accez ny les periodes. bref il y en a qui ont creu que tout ainſi qu'aux choſes monſtrueu- naturelles il y a des monſtres & des prodiges, auſſi parmy les maladies & les fiévres, il y en a de monſtrueu- ſes. ſes & prodigieuſes, deſquelles on ne ſçauroit rendre raiſon, ſi ce n'eſt qu'on recouruſt aux cauſes vniuerſelles, eſtranges & aux conſtellations du ciel,qui ſelon ſes diuerſes influences produit diuerſitez d'effects,leſquels les hom- effeas de mes admirent ſans en cognoiſtre la raiſon. pour moy i'ay trouué bon de rapporter ces fiévres icy aux me- l'humeur lancholiques, à cauſe des eſtranges effects que produit cette humeur,laquelle comme vn protée ſe change melancoli- en mille & mille façons, & produit des accidens ſi diuers & fi prodigieux, que quelques-vns n'ont point que, faict de difficulté de dire qu'il y auoit quelque choſe de diuin en iceiles : meſme qu'ariſtote en ſes proble- mes, & au liure de la diuination par les ſonges, aſſeure que tous les grands perſonnages qui ont paru & eſclatté, ſoit en la guerre,ſoit en la poéſie, ſoit aux ſciences, ſoit aux diuinations, ont eſté touchez de cette humeur melancholique. et veritablement nous voyons vne ſi grande difference, & varieté entre ceux que hypºchon. nous appellons hypochondriaques, bien qu'ils ſoyent affligez d'vne maladie de melancholie,qu'il faut croi- driaques de re & confeſſer qu'il y a quelque choſe d'extraordinaire en cette humeur, ie me ſuis mille fois eſtonné com- diuerſes eſ ment vn melancholique s'eſtime roy, empereur , riche, heureux, ſçauant, qui ne l'eſt pas, & vn autre qui c peces , l'eſt , s'eſtime ignorant, pauure, malheureux, & de baſſe condition. tel croit auoir les forces de ſouſte- ces fº nir le ciel auec le doigt, & vn autre ſe perſuadera qu'il n'aura pas la force de ſe mouuoir. toutes ces mer- # ueilles font que i'ay creu pouuoir rapporter toutes ces fiévres periodiques extraordinaires au mouuemét de choliques. l'humeur melancholique ou attrabilaire qui ne s'ammaſſant pas touſiours en ſuffiſante quantité, & n'acque- rant pas pareillement vne ſuffiſante qualité putredinale, pour exciter la fiévre de quatre en quatre iours, quelquesfois elle le fait de cinq en cinq , tantoſt de ſix en ſix , tantoſt de ſept en ſept, plus ou moins, ſelon que le corps ſe trouue diſposé à engendrer peu ou prou de cette humeur, & ſelon que l'humeur ſe trouue elles ſe peu- diſposée & preſte à receuoir pourriture. que s'il y a quelqu'vn qui n'approuue mes raiſons, il luy ſera loi- ºent rappº" fible de remettre ces fiévres icy au rang des erratiques & inconſtantes, deſquelles galien a tres-doctement ** *** " & tres-iudicieuſement parlé à la fin du ſecond liure des differences des fiévres, les paroles duquel ie veux # i, rapporrer pour eſclairciſſement de cette matiere. les fiévres, dit-il , qui n'ont point d'ordre acquierent ce #. lien tou- deſreiglement , par l'erreur qu'on commet au regime de viure. auſſi le ſang quand il ſe pourrit , je change grande- chant le deſ * & paſſe en vne autre nature, comme nous auons expliqué cy-deuant vne portion du ſang ſe change en bile reglement ' iaune , vne autre en la bile noire. or eſt-il ſelon que les humeurs ſe changent dans le corps des malades à meſme de periode temps auſſi les accex, & periodes des fiévres ſe dhangent, comme pareillement à cauſe des fautes que l'on commet au des fiévr s. boire & au manger, leſquelles fautes changent les actex. partant à tous les changemens & fautes notables que le malade faict , il eſt neceſſaire ou que les accex anticipent , ou qu'il s'en faſſe de nouueaux tous diffèrens des autres, d'où vient la varieté des periodes. l'oicy vne autre raiſon de ce changement, c'eſt qu'à meſme temps qu'il y a vne bu- d - meur en quelque partie du corps qui commence à ſe pourrir, à meſme temps il y a vne autre humeur differente qui re- gorge ou en quelque autre partie du corps ou bien meſme en tout le corps : d'où le plus ſouuent à cauſe de la complication ou | - confuſion des accex & redoublemens incogneus au medecin, il ſemble que les periodes ſont ſans ordre & reglement, te qui n'eſt pas toutesfois. l'ordre ne ſe changeant iamais , que lors que les humeurs qui font la fiévre changeant de mature, & ſont conuertu en d'autres humeurs,ou bien lors qu'il arriue que l'on commet des fautes au regime de viure. voyla à peu pres ce qu'à dit galien pour le changement des accez que nous pouuons approprier à ces fiévres cy-deſſus nommées. bien qu'à vray dire, il n'eſt beſoin de ſe mettre tant en peine pour leur intelligence , veu qu'elles arriuent ſi rarement, & qu'elles donnent en outre loiſir de conſulter les medecins ſur leur gue- riſon or pour l'ordre qu'il faut y apporter lors qu'elles arriuent, ie defire que l'on conſidere ſeulement, ſi elles ſe font ou de ſuc melancholique naturel,ou de l'humeur atrabilaire ; ſi c'eſt du premier, il faudra les traitter comme les fiévres quartes intermittentes legitimes ; ſi c'eſt du dernier, elles ſeront traictées com- me la quarte intermittente, qui ſe faict de l'atrebile. c'eſt pourquoy il leur faudra des remedes rafraiſchiſ- ſans & humectans. au reſte hippocrate dit qu'entre les fiévres qui auoient cours en thaſos,durant la troi- . ſieſme conſtitution de l'air qu'il raconte au premier des epidemies , il n'y en auoit point de pire que les $uintaines quintaines , car ſoit qu'elles arriuaſſent auant la phtifie , ſoit qu'elles vinſſent apres, elles apportoient la mºrtºlles mort. ceux qui voudront ſçauoir quelle opinion a eu galien de ces fiévres , qu'ils aillent voir ſon com- telles fiévres ſont rares. curation d'icelles. - mentaire troiſieme ſur le premier des epidemies,article neux, deuf & dixſept. , " ' , ^ u', · · · , , * • , , , : - - , · " . - - º ! t - • ' • , , " : . » : · · - · · · • ::] ) .. ! " . :" ! - • • • • - " º - " , . . - , • , • · · · · · · · · · · -- : - : - - * .. ' eº · · · · - i- -' : • * # * - (* dg - * n > - du traicté des fiévres. - " : a.-.--- ſ, * _ - - de la fiévre aarte continuë. cha r. xxxl. •rº - p r e s les fiévres quartes intermittentes , vient la quarte continué,laquelle eſt fort rare,pour pourquoy la # le peu de melancholie qui s'amaſſe dans les veines au regard des autres humeurs. eile ſe co-quarte con- #(gnoiſt par les meſnes ſignes que l'intermittente,ſi non qu'elle a ſon exacerbation de quatre en tinue ſe voit # quatre iours ſāns friſſon ny horreur, & ſa remiſſion ſans ſueur. - cette fiévre quelques ſignes de pourriture mais , fort obſcurement. ny le poulx meſme n'eſt ſi leger,frequent & inégal qu'és autres fiévres ; my l'vrine n'eſt ſi rouge ny enfiammée, bien qu'elle ſe monſtre on peut bien remarquer en rº signes- - plus eſpaiſſe. la cauſe d'icelle eſt l'abondance du ſuc melancholique en la maſſe du ſang, laquelle prouient cauſet. de l'infirmité de la rate, qui ne faict pas deuément ſon deuoir d'attirer ſuffiſamment ledit ſuc melancholi- - que, deuant que le ſang paſſe dans la veine caue. il faut icy ſaigner comme és autres fiévres apres auoir saignées. . donné vn clyſtere auparauant. pour laquelle choſe artificiellement executer, il faut choiſir & ouurir la chºix de veine du bras gauche, qui a plus de communication auec la ratte, à l'entour de laquelle la plus part de la veine pºur matiere de cette fievre eſt ſouuent amaſſée. quoy faict,trois ou quatre tours apres ſans ſe haſter dauanta- laſagnée . ge ( d'autant que cette fiévre eſt longue, & non ſi aiguë due les autres continue ) il faudra donner quelque º" doux medicament,& lenitif, comme de caſſe & de catholicon, auec decoction de mercuriale, ou de laict douce. clair, ou de paſſules, polipode & ſené : que ſi l'ardeur eſt grande apres auoir encor ſaigné vne fois, nous vſerons des ſirops de fumeterre , de acetoſitate citri, meſme nous y adiouſterons les eaux de pareille facul- té ; comme de violes , de pourpié , de courges , de bugloſſe, bourroche, & en ceux qui ont vn tempe- · rament bilieux, de cichorée & d'endiue. or il faut notter que cette fiévre comme elle eſt rare, auſſi eſt- elle tres dangereuſe, au contraire de la quarte intermittenté, ſi bien que peu en reſchappent, & principa- sirops. . vſage de ſi- rops cöpoſe(; prognoſtic. lement les vieilles gens. c'eſt pourquoy il faut par tous moyens regarder à entretenir les forces du mala- vſage du de, ce qui ſe fera en permettant l'vſage du bon vin, tenuë & odoriferant , comme vin de maluoiſie, vſant vin de reſtaurans & condits, qui ſe font de conſerue de bugloſſe, de bourroches, des violles, de capillaires, condits. de cichorée, auec poudres de diamargaritum frigidum , & de gemmis.on peut auſſi donner des potions potions cor- cordialſes qui ſe feront de confection d'alkermes , auec eau de violles, de bourroche, ſirop de violles , ou diaſtet. bien ſirop de nenuphar & de pauot, ſi le malade ne peut dormir. les confitures de ceriſes, de peſches , & lº cºnſº autres fruicts que nous auons accouſtume de confire en eſté, ſont fort propres à telle maladie, au reſte ſur # l'eſtat & declinaiſon de ce mal , pluſieurs loüent l'vſage des choſes acres,comme mouſtarde, poiure & vian- des ſalées, d'autant que le ſel inciſe & attenuë les excremens, qu'il deſſeiche, ramaſſe & fortifie les facul- vſage des ' choſes ſalées. vomiſſement tez, ce que toutesfois ie n'approuue pas beaucoup.cette fiévre fort heureuſement ſe peut terminer par vo- § miſſement d'humeurs noires. non en toutes perſonnes, mais en ceux auſquels le vaiſſeau appellé vas breue no . (qui va de la cauité de la ratte, à l'orifice de l'eſtomach pour en repurgeant la ratte exciter l'appetit,& ro• l'vſage du borer le ventricule par le moyen du l'acidité de ſuc melancholique ) eſt fort grand & ample. autrement la vas breue. ratte ſe purge mieux par embas, la matiere eſtant portée de la veine ſplenique au tronc de la veine porte, par qºllº & de là incontinent en la veine meſanterique. elle ſe purge auſſi par les veines hemorroides,qui naiſſent de voyes ſe pur- la veine ſplenique,& auſſi par les reins & vrines par le moyen de l'artere meſanterique. i'ay oublié vn poinct qu'il faut toutesfois bien noter, pour la curation generale de toutes les fiévres continuës,c'eſt qu'en icelles, ge ' l'humeur melancholi- :' c il faut que la façon de viure ſoit bien plus exquiſe & tenué qu'és intermittentes ; & principalement ſi auec §le de vi- ce qu'elle ſont continues, elles ſont aiguës,c'eſt à dire qu'elles doiuent auoir leur eſtat & criſe au ſeptieſme, §table iour : iuſques la que ſur le point de l'eſtat & de la criſe, il ne faut que tres-peu ou point nourrir le malade pour les fé- de peur de reuoquer la nature de ſon mouuement & excretion des humeurs morbifiques , pour l'occuper vres conti° & l'empeſcher en la cuiſſon des viandes. si que peu à peu du commencement iuſques à l'eſtat, nous dimi- nuës. . nuions toufiours l'ordinaire de la nourriture : & au contraire l'eſtat paſsé, nous l'augmentions touſiours oºſºrº peu à peu comme nous l'auions auparauant diminué. souuienne-toy auſſi de ne donner eau froide aux fiévres côtinués,ſi la fiévre n'eſt fort ardéte,& ſi les ſignes de côcoction n'ont precedé,& ſi les parties né ſont exemptes de phlegmon ou infiammation;autremét tu permettras au malade d'en prendre tant qu'il en pour- ra porter; voila ce que i'auois oublié pour le general des fiévres contenués. - nué, & dis qu'outre celle que nous vendſfsd'expliquer,il y en a vne autre qui ſe fait de l'atrebile, iaquelle eſt ie reuiens à la quarte conti- touchant l'eau froide & cruë. quarre ſ' / - inuë faite de tres-perilleuſe & tres-dangereuſes,eſtant preſque impoſſible qu'vne humeur ſi chaude & maligne, puiſſe §. s'amaſſer au corps ſans l'inflammation de la ratte ou de quelque autre partie. a cette fiévre icy , il faut ſaigner hardiment des bras & des pieds , pour empeſcher qu'il ne ſe faſſe quelque phlegmon, faut fuir la purgation au commencement comme vn poiſon, mais la faudra remettre au temps que la matiere ſera ,. .. , cuite & preparée. .. qu'on ſe donne garde d'vſer de remedes chauds , mais de toutes choſes refrigerantes la ſºignº & humectantes. le laict clair , les epithemes & fomentations , les bains & demy bains d'eau tiede ſont excellens. bref on traicte les malades de ce mal , comme ceux qui ſont affligez d'vne maladie grande- d ment chaude, & qui eſt produite par les humeurs grandement acres & violens. &> : et cecy ſuffiſe pour la cu-, ration des fiévres melancholiques, enſemble de toutes les fiévres humoralles ſimples, tant intermittentes que continués. . - - - | des fiévres humorales composées, & premierement de l'hemitritée. c h a p i t r e xxxi i. temps, & ont leur ſignes ſi confus qu'on ne le peut preſque recognoiſtre. s. - e pliquée. •- •- - # o v s avons cy-deuant diuisé les fiévres bumoralles en ſimpler & composées : pour les ſimples, elles la diuiſion on eſté expliquées aſſez copieuſement & prolixement. il reſte donc à parler des composées. or des fiévres par les compo ées ie n'entens pas ſeulemët celles qui ſont compliquées,mais auſſi les confuſes,i'appelle composées. # compliquées,celle, qui concourent tellement enſemble,& ſont en ſorte aſſemblées, que la nature de eſt cº º chaque fiévre, les fignes, & les ſymptomes peuuent eſtre aisément diſtinguez & recogneu mais les confuſes ſont tellement meſlées enſemble, qu'elles commencent à meſmé temps, finiſſent à meſm or la compliquation ( car il faut parler de celle là, deuant que parler de la confuſion ) ſe fait en diuerſes façons : premierement lors qu'vne fievre com- g)u'eſt-reque fiévre confu- fiévre putride, ſe meſle auec vne fiévre non putride , comme quand l'ephemere ſe meſle auec la ſynoque combien ily pourrie ; ou vne fiévre pourrie auec l'hectique ; ſecondement , lors qu'vne fiévre pourrie ſe meſle auec a de ſorte de · vne autre pourrie ; & ce, auec des fièvres qui ſoient de meſme eſpece, ou qui ſoient de diuerſes eſpeces, º) a a a a quand complicatiö. n-" - du traicté des fiévres. ss a durer . ou .'heures,ſins doute le meſme iour vers les heures l'accez de la quotidiane reuiendra, & par ainſi ce iour là le malade aura deux redoublemens : l'vn de tierce ſur le matin , l'autre de quotidiane , ſur le foir : mais auſſi le iour ſuiuant il n'aura ſur le ſoir que l'accez de la quotidiane, à cauſe que la tierce donne trefue d'vn iour:& que ſon accez ne doit reuenir que le iour de la maladie de ce malade, auquel ſur le ma- tin il aura ledit accez de tierce,& ſur le ſoir celuy de quotidiane, le propre de laquelle eſt de r uenir tous les iours:& voila l'ordre que tient cette fiévre bemetmitée, ſi ce n'eſt que les accez peuuent anticiper ou retarder elea des an- de quelques heures comme nôus auons dit, que font les accez des fiévres intermittentes : voire meſme que ticipationsör les redoublemens de ces deux fiévres peuuent tellement l'vn anticiper & l'autre retarder, qu'ils ſe rencon- retardement trent en meſme temps & en meſme heure, ce qu'arriuant à cauſe de cette confuſion , il eſt difficile de les bien elle eſt ap- : - ! diſtinguer l'vne d'auec l'autre, ce que tu peux voir ingenieuſement expliqué dans galien au liur. . des diffe- pellée horri- - a- rences des fiévres, chap. . au demeurant tu remarqueras qu'hippocrate & galien ont appellé cette fiévre que • &r - horriſique,à cauſe desſrigueurs & horreurs qu'elle apporte en ſes redoublemens. ce qui aduient d'autât qu'elle pourquºy. n'eſt pas composée de deux fiévres continues, car ſi elle en eſtoit composée elle n'auroit pas de ſi ſenſibles exacerbations : elle n'eſt pas auſſi meſlée de,deux intermittentes, veu que ſi cela eftoit, elle ne,ſeroit pas con- tinuë,mais auroit neceſſairement quelque ſenſible & manifeſte intermiſſion. le iour que la ſeule quotidiane apparoit,il ne ſuruient en cette fiévre aucune horreur,mais ſeulement au iour que la tierce & quotidaine vien- ' nent : auquel iour le malade eſt grandement trauaillé, tant à cauſe de ce double accez , que ce que la natu- re eſt deſia laſsée & fatiguée de l'accez precedent.ie n'oublieray pas à remarquer que la demy tierie, propre- la demi- ment appellée , eſt double, l'vne vraye & legitime, l'autre illegitime & baſtarde. en la legitime il y a eſgale por- tierce eſt, tion des humeurs qui ſe pourriſſent, à ſçauoir , bilieuſe , &. pituitéuſe : en la baſtarde la portion de ces double b deux humeurs eſt inegale,car ou labile eſt en plus grande quantité, ce qui fait que les accideus & ſignes de lº legitime. la tierce ſont plus apparens & ſenſibles: ou bien elle eſt la moindre & en plus petite doſe, & pour lors la ***ººrdº fiévre quotidiane ſe fait bien mieux remarquer que ne fait pas la tierce. - - par ce diſcours nous apprenons que la cauſe materielle de cette fiévre eſt en partie la pituite qui ſe pourrit la cauſe dans les grands vaiſſeaux, & en partie la bile qui ſe pourrit dans les petits, l'vne & l'autre humèur, au reſte à mºrerielle de cauſe qu'elles ont des qualitez contraires, s'amaſſent dans les corps par des cauſes contraires ; la sile, par ce cette fiévre. qui eſt chaud & ſec, & la pituite, par ce qui eſt froid & humide. partant cette fiévre arriue principalement #. # d. durantl'automne,& aux hommes qui viuent en oifiueté,& qui vſent d'alimens pituiteux, comme auſſi a ceux º"º" - - qui ſont d'vn temperament froid & humide, & qui vſent de nourriture grandement chaude & ſeiche. elle - arriue ordinairement aux regions qui ſont chaudes & humides, & dit-on qu'elle eſt fort commune & ordi- - | naire à rome,& en la coſte d'afrique. elle s'accompagne toufiours de tres-mauuais & ſiniſtres acciden , car accidens & • · outre ces mouuemens horrifiques & inegaux , elle apporte de grandes incommoditez à l'eſtomach & aux ſymptomes • parties nerueuſes : ſouuent elle iette les malades dans de profonds aſſoupiſſemens,qui ſont comme lethargi- . - ques, vne autre fois elle donne des veilles importunes, des reſueries,des nausées , des vomiſſemens , des foi- - bleſſes de cœur,vne langue ſeiche & aride, vne ſoif demeſurée l'on recognoiſt cette fiévre d'auec les autres en qucy elle , ， - en ce qu'elle eſt continue, pleine d'horreurs, de diuers redoublemens & de tres-violents ſymptomes : vn iour diffoe des - elle eſt ſans horreur auec le ſeul refroidiſſement des extremitez, l'autre iour elle eſt auec horreurs & autres autres Ééº - mauuais accidens, ſi bien qu'elle à vn iour meilleur l'vn que l'autre. quand il arriue des ſueurs en cette fiévre, º d'ordinaire elles n'apportent rien de bon,ſoit à cauſe que les forces ſont debilitées & abatuës, ſoit à cauſe de º* la quantité d'humeurs crues, qui ſe recontrent au febricitant.les vrines ſont cruës, tenuës,vne fois ſans cou- # leur, vne autre fois fort troubles, & toufiours ſansſediment , ou auec vn ſediment mauuais , le poulx eſt fre- # - c quent & inégal, bref elle n'eſt point ſans donner ou de la douleur ou vne peſanteur de teſte, ou vn aſſoupiſ- ſement, ou autres accidens dangereux. hippocrate met cette fiévre entre les maladies aiguës & longues : entre prognoſſie. les aiguës, à câuſe ou qu'elle apporte bien toſt la mort, ou que la tierce dont elle eſt composée, ſe finit bien toſt,ſi bien qu'il ne demeure plus que la fiévre continuë, quotidiane, qui dure encore quelque temps:apres il , la met pareillement entre les maladies longues & chroniques , d'autant qu'elle dure iuſques à vn mois, voire sa durée, meſme iuſques à deux & à trois, ſi elle paſſe outre clle apporte d'ordinaire la fiévre hectique, qui eſt ſans re- mede & ſans eſpoir de ſalut. il eſt vray que pour l'ordinaire elle eſt plus longue que la tierce, & plus courte que la quotidiane, de laquelle toutesfois elle approche fort lors qu'elle eſt produite par vne grande quantité de pituite, car ſelon qu'elle a plus ou moins de cette humeur, auſſi eſt elle plus ou moins longue.tu obſerue- en quelle fié- ras que quand il y a eſgale portion en cette fiévre de bile & de pituite, elle ſaiſit auec peu d'horreur qui ſem- vre l'horreur ble eſtre moyenne entre la rigueur & le refroidiſſement ; mais lors qu'il y a plus de bile que de pituite, alors eſt grand ou l'horreur eſt violente, non ſans eſtre meſlée de rigueur,laquelle eſt incontinent ſuiuie d'vne chaleur ardente, petit, de ſoif,de veilles, de vomiſſemens bilieux, de cours de ventre, & autres ſignes qui accompagnent les fiévres tierces. que ſi la pituite eſt en plus grande quantité que la bile , l'horreur eſt douce, le refroidiſſement des blººſ*º- extremitez ſenſible,la chaleur tarde à venir,les accez ſont longs,& accompagnez des ſignes des fiévres quo- perilleuſe. tidianes : finalement quoy que s'en ſoit, c'eſt vne fiévre tres-perilleuſe, & pour la pluſpart du temps mor- telle ;tant à cauſe de la violence de la maladie & des ſymptomes qui abatent les forces du febricitant, qu'à cauſe que ces fiévres icy ne ſont preſque iamais exemptes de quelque inflammation des parties nobles , ou à tout le moins de quelque diſpoſition inflammatoire, comme remarque galien aux epidemies. la cure de b.ti. obſer- cette fiévre femble eſtre double,pour eſtre composée de celle qui conuient à la quotidiane, & de celle qui eſt § d propre à la tierce. a celle-cy l'vſage des medicamens rafraiſchiſſans & humectans eſt plus profitable que des curation. attenuatifs,inciſifs; & aperitifs, tout au contraire à l'autre, en laquelle il faut pluſtoſt attenuër,inciſer,ouurir, deterger & euacuer les mauuaiſes humeurs, que rafraiſchir & humecter. en ſorte que ſelon cette regle, lors , qu'il y a autant dè bile que de pituite,il faut auoir eſgard eſgalement, & à la tierce, & à la quotidiane par des medicamens qui ayent la force & la vertu de remedier à l'vne & à l'autre : mais ſi la bile ſurpaſſe, il faut :: . auoir plus d'eſgard à la tierce qu'à la quotidiane : au contraire s'il y a plus de pituite que de bile, il faut ſon- - ger pluſtoſt à la quotidiane qu'à la tierce. partant pour ce qui concerne le regime de viure, il faut qu'il ſoit refrigerant, humectant,deterſif,attenuatifpar alimens de bon ſuc & de bonne nourriture prenant garde que le iour que la ſeule quotidiane arriue, on peut nourrir vn peu plus liberalement, mais plus eſcharcement le iour que la tierce & la quotidiane ſuruiennent. il faut auſſi bien prendre garde que l'on ne donne pas la nourriture ſur l'heure de l'accez pour les raiſons que nous auons dites cy-deuant. il n'eſt pas à propos que ces alimens ſoient ſolides, mais liquides afin qu'ils en ſoient plus aisément cuits,digerez, & diſtribués. tou- -- tesfois ſur le declin de la fiévre on pourra vn peu ſe licentier & donner quelque choſe de ſolide au febrici- § tant. il ne faut point icy parler de donner de vin, à cauſe qu'il ayde à augmenter la ferueur des entrailles, & # vin •uſ. : donne à bon eſcient à la teſte,qui n'eſt que trop chargée d'excremens en cette maladie.on fera donc vſer au ble. | malade de quelque decoction de racines pour ſon boire ordinaire, en y meſlant le ſirop aceteux ſimple , le breuuage or, é iulep roſat, le ſuc des limons, ſirop d'eſcorce de citron, de ceriſes aigrettes, de berberis & autres : quant dinaire. l*: - a a a a ux :> ") regime de ºl/ f €. alimens li- premiere partie, · exemple de - aux medicamens, les clyſteres ſont tres-vtiles qu'on preparera auec maulues, mercuriale,'laictûë, apparitoire, clyſteres. eſpinars, fleurs de canomille, melilot, ſemence de fenoüil & de cumin,& diſſoudra-on dedans miel , ſuccre rouge, lenitif, catholicum & choſes ſemblables : ſelon la chaleur que le febricitant ſentira aux lombes & aux reins,on pourra faire plus ou moins rafraiſchiſſans leſdits clyſteres.ayant ainſi preparé le corps,il faudra saignée. venir à la ſaignée, laquelle quoy qu'on en die, ne doit point eſtre icy eſpargnée,afin d'empeſcher l'inflamma- purgations. tion des parties nobles & diminuer la pourriture. c'eſt pourquoy elle ſera faicte pluſieurs fois des deux bras & des deux pieds par remiſes toutesfois & interualles, afin de n'abatre les forces du malade & eſteindre la chaleur naturelle. durant ces interualles là ; il faudra purger le corps , car c'eſt ſans doute qu'il y a grande a quel iour • - - - - - - - - # - il faut p - quantité d'excremens dans la premiere region du corps qui a beſoin qu'on les chaſſe par purgatifs benins grr. & ſouuent reiterez. il faudra donc tantoſt recourir à la ſaignée pour efteindre le feu & la flamme de la fié- les altera- vre, tantoſt à la purgation pour expulſer les charbons qui entretiennent ce feu. mais qu'on ſe ſouuienne de tif}. donner les purgatiſt és iours où il y a moins d'accez,& aux autres iours on donnera des alteratifs , comme iu- fomentat s. leps, apozemes,& potus ſans oublier les fomentations, epithemes, vnguens, linimens, huyles & cataplaſmes. vomitifs. il y en a qui approuuent les vomitifs, en cette fiévre, mais il faut y apporter vne grande precaution : car s'il y a quelque diſpoſition infiammatoire aux entrailles,ils ne peuuent eſtre que tres pernicieux ; que s'il n'y a aucun ſoupçon d'inflammation, on en peut bailler quelque benin, principalement à ceux qui vomiſſent, ou qui ont ſans ceſſe des enuies de vomir, & ce le iour où le malade eſt trauaillé de l'accez de la tierce : & cecy ſuffiſe pour ce qui eſt des fiévres hemitritées. - - - de la double & triple tierce, double quotidiane, double & triple quarte. - ch a p t r e xxxii i. fiév ovs allons expliquer en ce chapitre les fiévres composées de fiévres de meſme nature & eſpe- #" ce,qui ſuyuent celles qui font composées de fiévres de diuerſes eſpeces,telle qu'eſtl'hemitritée. #. eſpe- n# # or en la compoſition de ces fiévres de meſme eſpece, quelquesfois il ne s'y en recontre que cº• - # deux,quelquesfois il ny en a que trois, par exemple, en la double tierce il n'y en a que deux,en la deſinition de x j # # triple tierce,il y en a trou:comme pareillement en la double & triple quarte.nous auons donc icy à ces fiévres. ynsº>>ns expliquer trois fiévres doubles,ſçauoir, la double tierce,la double quotidiane,& la double quarte, & double tier- puis apres deux fiévres triples, qui ſont la triple tierce, & la triple quarte. nous appellons double tierce vne fiévre º& ſºdº#- compu ee de deux tierces, qui ſe ſont d'vne bile qui ſe pourrit en deux diuers lieux hors des grands vaſſeaux. tou- # d tesfois & quant doncque qu'il y à deux foyers de bile au meſentere qui prennent feu l'vn apres l'autre, pour # * lors il arriue deux fiévres, leſquelles,à cauſes qu'elles prennent de deux iours l'vn,on appelle double tierce;par turct. exemple qu'auiourd'huy vn des foyers de la bile excite vne fiévre ſur les dix heures.du matin , laquelle ne doiue finir que ſur les dix heures du ſoit,ſi le meſme iour l'autre foyer s'allume ſur les .ou . heures du ſoir, ou bien.le lendemain à quelque heure que ce ſoit , ſans doute on obſeruera vne fiévre composée de deux tierces , laquelle peut auoir deux redoublemens en vn°iour ; par exemple, ſi l'vne prend le matin à dix heures & l'autre le ſoir à quatre heures ; ou bien vn ſeul redoublement tous le ioprs , ſi la ſeconde fiévre par exemple ne prend pas le meſme iour que l'autre,mais ſeulement le lendemain. il eſt vray qu'il y a quel- ques autheurs qui apportent en cecy quelque diſtinction, & diſent, que fi ces deux fiévres tierces prennent - à meſme iour,on ne les doit pas appeller doubles tierces, mais deux tiertes ſimplement; que ſi elle prennent à cºmme elle diuers iours,c'eſt alors que l'on les doit nommer doubles tierces.,combien au reſte que la double tierce prenne ºſſº * tous les iours,à la façon de la quotidiane,ſi ya-ilbien de la difference, d'autant qu'elle a tous les ſignes qui # accompagnent vne fiévre bilieuſe : elle vient auec rigueur,elle ſe termine par ſueur ; les accidens qu'elle ap- *" porte ſont ſeichereſſe & amertume de bouche,grande alteration,veilles,vomiſſemens de matieres bilieuſes & ameres,agitations, inquietudes,& les autres que nous auons ſpecifiez en la fiévre tierce intermittente. ie ne m'eſtens pas d'auantage à rapporter les ſignes de la double tierce,veu que celuy qui recognoiſtra la ſimple tierce · intermittente, cognoiſtra incontinent la nature de cette-cy.ie diray ſeulement que la double tierce, qui afflige deux fois tous les iours eſt fort rare, & que celle qui vient tous les iours eſt aſſez frequente & commune ; bien que les accez n'arriuent pas toufiours, ny à meſme temps, ny à meſme heure. - - l•. double · pour la double quotidiahe elle arriue tres-rarement, & ne l'ay peu encore iamais obſeruer, elle ſe ſaitt au † reſte de la pituite qui ſe pourrit en deux diuers foyers, qui faict qu'elle prend deux fois en vingt-quatre heures. car ſi #º " par exemple la premiere fiévre s'allume à quatre heures du ſoir, & l'autre à quatre heures du matin, on a deux accez en .heures, & s'il arriue ce faiſant que le malade ne ſe trouue point ſans fiévre , la ſeconde ſur- la double prenant deuant que la premiere quitte, & la premiere reuenant pour la ſeconde fois, deuant que la ſeconde quotidiane ait quitté. ce que ie deſire qu'on entende de la fiévre quotidiane, qui a ſes accez eſtendus & prolongez iuſ- ques à dix-huict heures comme il arriue le plus ſouuent, non de celle qui auroit tant ſeulement ſept ou huict signes. heures d'accez. quant aux ſignes de la double quotidiane, il ſont les meſmes que ceux de la quotidiane inter- mittente, c'eſt pourquoy ie n'en diray rien dauantage. - - doublequar- reſte la double quarte qui ſe fait de l'humeur melancholique, laquelle ſe pourrit dans deux diuers endroits du corps te,é ſa deſ - bors de grands vaiſſeaux. cette fiévre icy eſt aſſez ordinaire, & trauaille le malade deux iours conſecutifs, ne ºtti . luy en laiſſant qu'vn de bon. car ſi la premiere quarte prend ce iourd'huy à ſix heures du ſoir, la ſeconde ses ſignes. - - - - - - - - # §, prendra le lendemain peut eſtre à meſme heure , ſi bien qu'on aura deux iours conſecutifs mauuais : le troi- ce , & ſa ge. ſieſme ſuiuant ſera bon,& ſans fiévre,& puis en ſuitte il en viendra deux mauuais. ces ſignes au reſte ne ſont neration. point autres que ceux de la ſimple quarte intermittente. signes. voila pour les fiévres composées doubles de meſme eſpece : entre les triples eſt premierement la triple tierce, exemple ap- laquelle eſt produite & engendrée de la bile qui ſe pourrit en trou foyers aux lieux diuers du corps, hors des grands pºrº par vaiſſeaux toutefois. or cette fiévre icy a trois redoublemens en l'eſpace de deux iours;c'eſt à ſçauoir vn ſeul galien. redoublement en vn iour, & deux redoublemens l'autre iour. galien au liure . des criſes chapitre . faict mention d'vn ieune adoleſcent, qui eſtoit trauaillé de cettè ſorte de fiévre : ffl commenta , dit-il, à auoir la fiévre vers les cinq heures du matin auec vn friſſon fort court , ſur le veſpre il ſua vn peu : vers lis ſept beurcs de - nuict , deuant que la premiere fiévre fut tout à faiét eiieinte , vne autre fièvre le reprit , auec vn friſſon auſſi fort | court , en apres it ſua vn peu : le lendemain vers les dix beures il eut vn nouueau redoublement , & puis ſua la nuict ſuiuante. derechef le troiſieſme iour la fiévre le prit par anticipation à deux heures du matin, auec friſſon deuant qoe jugement l'accex du iour precedent fuſt tout à faiit eſteint. voila ce qu'en dit galien, lequel s'eſtend bien au long , pour de- admirable monſtrer que c'eſtoit vne fiévre composée de trois tierces, & que ce n'eſtoit point vne hemitritée, comme * ººn quelques-vns penſoient. ce qu'il remarqua ſi exactement, qu'il prit garde que tous les accez de cette y- triple , ^- a - •! du traicté des fiévres. | v, -, ， "- : - a triple tierce anticipoient iuſques au ſeptieſme periode,& que de là en auant ils commencerent à retarder, & puis à diminuer grandement : ſi bien que le malade qui n'auoit point eſté iuſques à ce temps là ſans fiévre, commença à auoir deux heures entieres d'intermiſſion. tu peux voir ce chapitre là de galien pour plus grande intelligence des fiévres composées & compliquées, par lequel auſſi tu apprendras par quels ſignes on peut venir à la cognoiſſance de la triple tierce, & laquelle des trois fiévres doit finir la premiere. reſte la triple quarte, laquelle ſe faict toutesfois & quant que l'humeur melancholique ſe pourrit en trois diuers de la triple endroits du corps hors de grands vaiſſeaux. les ſignes de cette fievre ſont de prendre tous les iours, mais auec les quarte, ſa marques qui ſont propres de la fiévre quarte ſimple, par leſquelles elle eſt aisément diſtinguée & de la quo-cºrºº tidiane,& de la double tierce.or ce qui eſt cauſe que cette fievre ſe multiplie ainſi, c'eſt quelquefois auſſi l'v-ºgº la ſage deſreiglé des choſes qui augmentent l'humeur melancholique:quelquefois auſſi l'vſage des medicamens #. trop chauds, comme de la theriaque que l'on donne au commencement des fièvres quartes. car ces medica- # mens icy n'ayant pas la faculté de cuire ou d'euâcuer l'humeur morbifique, ils l'agitent ſeulement & la iettent §que d'vn lieu en l'autre,d'où viennent les diuers foyers.ainſi galien remarque au liure des predictions chap. . §iſile. qu'vn certain philoſophe peripateticien nommé eudemus , eſtant trauaiilé d'vne fimple quarte intermitten- te,par l'aduis de quelque medecins prit de la theriaque, auant que la matiere fuſt cuite & preparée , laquel- le fit qu'il tomba en vne triple quarte, laquelle par apres galien guerit par l'vſage meſme de la theriaque, qu'il donna à propos lors que la matiere fut preparée. lors donc que toutes choſes ſont cruës , ſi on don- ne des medicamens qui eſchauffent beaucoup,d'autant qu'ils ne peuuent reſoudre les humeurs par les ſueurs , ils l'agitent ſimplement & en tranſportent vne partie qui çà qui là ſi bien qu'il arriue qu'au lieu d'vn ſeul foyer qu'il y auoit, il s'en faict & deux & trois, d'où puis apres il s'engendre autant de fiévres. si nous n'auions parlé de la curation des fiévres en particulier, il faudroit icy faire vn grand diſcours pour curation la cure de ces fiévres composées.mais qui entendra bien ce que nous auons dit iuſques icy , il n'aura pas beau- coup de peine de trouuer les indications neceſſaires à la gueriſon de celle que nous traittons en ce chapi- tre,veu que la compoſition ne change,ny les indications , ny les remedes, mais les mondifie ſeulement ; entant qu'il faut auoir plus d'eſgard à conſeruer les forces du malade en ces fiévres composées , que non pas aux ſimples, d'autant qu'il n'a pas eſté relaſché, & qu'il eſt plus aigrement & violemment trauaillé. quiconque donc voudra guerir les a oubles & les triples tierces, qu'il recoure aux remedes preſcrits à la ſimple tier- ceintermittente; qui voudra guerir les doubles quotidianes, aille chercher les remedes ordonnez à la ſim- ple quotidiane intermittente : brief, qu'on ait recours au remedes de la ſimple quarte intermittente, ſi on veut guerir les doubles & les triples quartes. neantmoins ie donneray cet aduertiſſement, qu'il faut auant que aduertiſſº- de ſonger aux remedes recognoiſtre ſi la double & la triple tierce, ſi la double quotidiane, ſi la double & ment neceſ- triple quarte ſe font de la bile naturelle, ou contre nature, de la pituite naturelle, ou contre nature , du ſuc melan- ſaire # cholique naturel, ou de l'humeur atrabilaire : car ſelon cette diuerſité, il faudra recourir aux remedes de la # ſ'$ tierce vraye ou baſtarde, de la quotidiane vraye ou baſtarde, de la quarte vraye ou baſtarde : veu que nous # ſ f/j• auons appris par cy-deuant que la curation des fiévres vrayes,eſt grandement eſloignée en quelques-vnes de posees. la curation des baſtardes. •- •- •-• •- des fiévres confuſes. c h a p. xxxiv. e n'ay que trois mots à dire en ce chapitre, veu que la doctrine des fiévres confuſes de- fiévres con- pend de celle des composées, que nous auons expliquées aſſez copieuſement au chapitre fuſes. precedent. nous appellons fiévre confuſe, celle qui eſt engendrée de la pourriture de diue ſes leur dtfini- humeurs enſemble peſle-meſlées, & confuſes en vn meſme lieu, mau qui ne laiffent pas de garder leur !º , propre nature. les compoſées ſe font bien de la pourriture de dinerſes humeurs : mais ny ces # | humeurs là ne ſont point confuſes & peſle-meſlees enſemble,ny ne ſe pourriſſent point en # # >-_-. vn ſeul lieu,mais en diuers foyers ; d'où il arriue auſſi que les ſignes & les ſymptomes des " posees, composées ſont saiément cógnus & diſtinguez, là où ceux des confuſes ſont confus, & tellement joints & liez par enſemble, qu'on ne les ſçauroit ny recognoiltre,ny diſtinguer.i'ay dit au reſte, que telles humeurs encore bien qu'elles ſoient retenuës en vn meſme lieu, ne laiſſent pas que de conſeruer leur propre nature , qui eſt par exemple de la pituite,de s'eſmouuoir tous les iours, & de donner des refroidiſſemens au commencement la nature de la fiévre qu'elle produit ; de la bile de s'eſmouuoir tous les trois iours, & de donner des friſſons, de la des humeurs- melancholie de ſe mouuoir le quatrieſme iour,& d'apporter des horreurs. ce que i'ay bien voulu adiouſter, hºrºſlº- afi» de donner la difference qu'il y a entre les fiévres confuſes , & les fiévres intermittente baſtardes, que quel-# # · ques-vns ont voulu mettre au rang des confuſes, veu qu'elles s'engendrent de deux diuerſes humeurs qui ſe # pourriſſent,& en meſme temps & en meſme lieu. mais comme i'ay dit, les humeurs qui font les confuſes gar- - dent chacune leur naturel, d'autant qu'elles ne ſont pas ſi bien meſlées qu'elles ne faſſent qu'vne nature, ains ſeulement ſont confusément miſes en meſme lieu : de ſorte que cela n'empeſche pas qu'elles ne gardent touſiours & leur nature & leurs proprietez ; mais les humeurs qui font les fiévres baſtardes, ſont ſi exacte- ment meſlées, & mixtionnées entr'elles,qu'elles ne font qu'vne nature, & ne reçoiuent qu'vne forme : c'eſt pourquoy auſſi elles ne font qu'vne ſeule fiévre. · · · - - - quelques autres veulent que les fiévres confuſes ſoient produites de deux occaſions,comme de l'inflamma- opinion de tion de deux diuerſes parties, laquelle fait deux fievres continués. que ſi pareillement le poulmon par exem- loubert. ple eſt trauaillé d'vn eryſipelle,& le foye d'vn phlegmon,ils diſent qu'alors il,ſuruient deux fiévres confuſes, l'vne bilieuſe causée par l'eryſipele du poulmon, & l'autre ſanguine engendrée par le phlegmon du foye : mais tous cela eſt de peu d'importance pour la pratique : car ſoit que ce ſoient fiévres confuſes, ou fiévres composées,pourueu qu'on recognoiſſe la qualité de l'humeur qui ſe pourrit,il eſt aisé d'inuenter & de trouuer les remedes propres à les guerir. - -- • - | de la fiévre heiiique, de ſes differences, cauſes, ſignes & •ure º . . | c h a p. xxxv. · l : # n noſtre diuifion des fiévres,nous auons dit qu'il y en auoit de trois ſortes, rhephemere, l'bumorale, & ethymºlaie y. l'heétique ; nous auons expliqué iuſques icy l'ephemere & les humorales : partant il ne nous reſte plus #º #i que la fiévre heſiique, laquelle eſt ainſi appellée, ou pource qu'elle eſt ſtable & difficile à guerir & que. . oſter, comme les choſes qui ont pris leur habitude : car le mot grec #s ſignifie babitude; ou pource qu'elle u .. ! • ** occupe n lau "t · dutraicté des fiévres. comme les anguilles priſes en eau pure & bien aſſaiſonnées, les tortuës, les eſcreuiſſes, les limaçons & gre- noüilles.le laict d'aſneſſe pris chaudement,& corrigée auec vn peu de ſel,de ſucre roſat,miel,fenouil,ou anis, le laia de peur qu'il ſe corrompe ou aigriſſe en l'eſtomach, ou bien le laict de femme ſuccé de la mainmelle, ſont d'aſneſſe pre- fort recommandez en cette maladie,le tout pris iuſques à demie liure. qu'il trempe lon vin auec quelque peu paré. d'eau de laictué, de pourpié, ou de nenuphar, & auec beaucoup de celle de bugloſſe, tant pource qu'elle hu- #° ºº ºº mecte grandement, qu'auſſi qu'elle a la vertu ſpeciale de reſiouyr & recreer le cœur , la fubſtance duquel eſt femme. fort § en cette maladie, & telles ſont les choſes qu'il conuient prendre au dedans. vertu de • celles qui ſe doiuent appliquer par dehors ſont les onctions,les bains, les epithemes,les clyſteres.les onéiions #. de bu- #e ſont diuerſes,ſelon la diuerſité de l'indication, priſe des parties ſur leſquelles il les faut appliquer. car ſur le # •ſa, j " dos & ſur toute l'eſpine galien y faict des onctions des choſes froides & aſtringentes moderénent, c'eſt à l'eſpine du # ! dire, qui puiſſent roborer les parties, & empeſcher la colliquation d'icelles, & non boucher le paſſa- do，. # ge à l'inſenſible tranſpiration, ce qui rendroit la chaleur beaucoup plus acre. tels ſont les linimens qu'on - peut faire d'huyle roſat, de nenuphar,de coings auec vn peu de cire,s'il vient à propos. les parties pectora ouétion pour #: les au contraire doiuent eſtre oinctes de choſes moyennement rafraiſchiſſantes & relaſchantes:ie dy moyen- les parties • nement rafraiſchiſſantes, d'autant que le froid eſt tout à faict leur ennemy : le dis auſſi relaſchantes , à raiſon peâorales. l - que les aſtringentes apporteroient vne difficulté de reſpirer,& de monuoir librement les muſcles du thorax. - telles ſont les onctions qui ſe peuuent faire d'huyle violat, de ſaules, d'huyle de ſemence de laictué,de pauot , caution : de nenuphar,y meſlant de l'huyle d'amandes douces,pour temperer l'adſtriction & frigidité qu'ils pourroient touchant l'a- # auoir. sur tout que l'on ſe garde que l'apothicaire par auarice au lieu de ces huyles recentement tirées , ne uaricº des *. vous en ſuppoſe de vieilles, rancides & ſalées ; car au lieu de rafraiſchir vous eſchaufferiez,comme ainſi ſoit apothicai- . b que le vin,le miel,& l'huyle par l'aage acquierent vne chaleur exceſſiue.au defaut de bonnes huyles,nous les * oindrons de beurre premierement laué diligemment en eau de violles & de morelle. l'vſage de telles on- ctions eſt de rafraiſchir, humecter & conforter les parties, & ſe doiuent faire matin & ſoir, quand le malade s'ira coucher, deuant & apres le bain. - º, s qant aux bains,nous les ordonnons,ou pour ſimplement humecter,& lors ſuffira le bain d'eau tiede, dans bains de laquelle on pourra ietter fleurs de violles, de nenuphar,fueilles de ſaule,& orge mondé : ou pour non ſeule- deux ſ§s, ment humecter, mais auſſi relaſcher les parties qui ſont tendués de ſiccité & aridité hectique , & outre leur . bain. # apporter quelque meilleure habitude,à ce qu'elles deuiennent mieux refaictes & nourries,& lors on y pourra . bain. #l auſſi meſler la decoction d'vne teſte & tripes de mouton,& enſemble quelque quâtité de beurre.au reſte l'ap- | pareil d'vn bain pour les hectiques doit eſtre de plus grand artifice, que le vulgaire des practiciens ne penſe. l'artifice eſt tel.il faut auoir trois baignoires : la premiere ſera d'eau douce moderément chaude, & ce pour artiſiee fºrt ouurir les pores du cuir : la ſeconde ſera d'eau tiede pour ſimplement humecter,l'eau penetrant aisément par notable du les pores du cuir : la troiſieſme d'eau froide pour rafraiſchir, fortifier & adſtraindre les parties, & leur faire bain pour les arder l'humidité receue,de peur qu'elle n'exhale ; il faut demeurer quelque peu de temps dans le ſecond,& hectiques, † peu dans le troiſieſme.toutesfois ceux qui n'auront les moyens,ou qui ſe faſcheront de tranſporter leurs corps ainſi ſucceſſiuement de baignoire en autre, pourront accomplir toutes ces trois intentions en vn meſ- me bain, luy donnant l'eau plus chaude au commencement, puis y mettant tant d'eau froide qu'il y en ait ſuf- fiſamment pour rendre le tout tiede : enfin vuidant par vne fontaine qu'il y aura au dehors de la baignoire, tant de cette eau tiede qu'empliſſant le reſte d'eau froide, le tout ſoit rendu entierement froid. ie trouuerois choſes à ob - c bon que deuant que plonger le malade dans le premier bain, qu'on luy fiſt receuoir non par la bouche, mais j§s par le reſte de tout le corps la vapeur de l'eau chaude.le moyen ſeroit,que tenu ſur la gueule de la baignoire que d'entrer par trois ou quatre hommes, & au deſſus enueloppé & couuerc de toutes parts d'vn linge horſmis la teſte, il dans le bain. receut ladite vapeur pour eſtre plus pleinement par apres dans le bain humecté,le corps eſtant ainſi rarefié & laxé. or il faut qu'il ait pris & cuit quelques viandes deuant que d'entrer dans ce bain, afin que par la il ne faut en . -* chaleur dudit bain l'aliment ja cuit ſoit attiré aux parties, & en toute l'habitude du corps : car d'y entrer l'e- trer au bain : ſtomach vuide & à ieun, il ſe feroit trop grande diſſolution des forces du corps. le regime donc qu'il con- à ieun. uiendra tenir deuant que d'entrer dedans , doit eſtre tel : que le iour de deuant ſur le matin on luy donne vn rºgººº clyſtere remollient,afin que les excremens qui ont couſtume d'eſtre retenus dans les inteſtins par l'intemperie º # en- # ! . ſeiche ſoient euacuez : qu'on le faſſe diſner par apres ſur les neuf heures luy donnant viande de ſolide nour-""" riture : qu'il ſouppe ſur les quatre heures, mais moins & de viandes aisées à cuire : vne heure apres minuict - qu'il prenne la decoction d'vn poulet,ou vn orge mondé ; ou deux œufs mollets, dans leſquels on mettra vn # peu d'eau roſe & de ſuccre au lieu de ſel,quatre ou cinq heures apres qu'il entre dans le bain, à la façon que : - dit eſt:en apres au ſortir du bain qu'on le nettoye & frotte doucement auec linges mols & deliez apres qu'il - ::: ſoit oinct à la mode cy-deuant deſcrite; puis qu'il repoſe & dorme dans le lict deux ou trois heures, ſi poſ-º º il faut #l - ſible eſt : à ſon réueil qu'il boiue de la ptiſane, & qu'il prenne des potages de facile digeſtion : à ſon ſou- faire ſortant • - - - - - - • - • " • - b - : --， - du bain. # per qu'il boiue du vin, & qu'il ſe nourriſſe de viandes plus ſolides : le matin qu'on luy redonne vn or- #º- ge mondé, ou autre viande de pareille eſtoffe : en apres qu'il r'entre dans le bain à la mode ſuſdite. ce luy ſera tres-profitable qu'il vſe ainſi artificiellement du bain de dix en dix iours, & ce par l'eſpace de trois | i iours continus. que ſi le malade eſt ſubiect à quelque crudité d'eſtomach de ſorte qu'il ne puiſſe endurer le # p b ains ſans danger , & de ſyncopé & d'autres accidens, il luy conuiendra roborer & fortifier le ventricule #º ; ; a ueclinimens d'huyle de coings , d'abſynthe & de maſtic, ou bien luy appoſer vne crouſte de pain aſper- #r gée de poudre de roſes,de ſandal,& de girofle,& de vin odoriferant ſur la region du ventricule,& par derrie- ，: re enuiron le treizieſme vertebre du dos, où par l'intelligence de l'anatomie nous entendons reſpondre la :: bouche de l'eſtomach. - - | : les epithemes luy doiuent eſtre appoſez ſur le foye & ſur le cœur, afin de temperer l'ardeur acre d'icelles choſ noia- : parties,& corriger leur ſiccité par vne humidité raiſonnable:c'eſt pourquoy tels epithemes ſe preparent auec ble. - choſes froides & humectantes,mais plus humectantes que froides, d'autant que ce qui eſt fort froid couppe & ferme paſſage à l'humidité : à cela ſont propres les eaux de bugloſſe & de violles iuſques à vn quarteron, * auec quelques goutres de vin blanc. mais ceux qui ſe font d'orge mondé, de ſemence de courge, de pompons, - ou de concombres, iuſques à trois drachmes de chacune en la decoction , en y meſlant par forte agitation de epithemes. - i'huyle de violles, ou d'amendes douces, ſont plus excellens que tous les autres. le moyen d'appliquer ces epithemes , eſt de plonger des drapeaux dedans, & les appliquer ſur le cœur, & ſur les hypochondres, les changeant d'heure à autre à meſure qu'ils eſchaufferont ſur la partie. , quant aux clyfieres,d'autant que pour l'imbecillité de la faculté coqſoctrice, pluſieurs excremens s'amaſ- - ſent és corps des hectiques, il ſera vtile d'en vſer ſouuent tout le long de la maladie : on les preparera de la decoction d'herbes,fleurs & ſemences refrigerantes & humectantes, ſans y diſſoudre autre medicament que ia caſſe auec le ſucre, huyle violat, ou de nenuphar,& autres ſemblables. mais auſſi d'autant qu'a la fiévre he- ctique,quand elle eſt fort aduancée, ſuruiennent des flux de ventre fort pernicieux,qui ſont ſignes & "a# c clyſteres. o n d t ie d is c o v r s d e s f i e v r e s t o v c h a n t l e v r s s y m p t o m e s. b de la diuiſion des ſymptomes, & ſuite de ce diſcours. ch a p t r e. i. l n'y a point de maladies qui ne ſoyent ſuiuies & accompagnées de quel- ques ſymptomes, tout ainſi que le corps eſt ſuiuy de ſon ombre. mais en- } tre toutes les maladies,il n'y en a point qui en ait de plus frequés, de plus " violens, & de moins ſupportables que les fiévres , d'autant , qu'eltant #s maladies vniuerſelles , & communes à tout le corps, elles peuuent en tous endroicts d'iceluy produire de mauuais accidens. c'eſt pourquoyce n'a pas eſté ſans raiſon, que nous auons diuisé le traicté des fiévres en deux parties, la ſeconde deſquelles nous auons deſtinée à l'explicationde leurs ſymptomes. car encore bien qu'iceux n'ayent aucune propre indi- cation, & qu'ils ſe diſſipent & s'eſuanoüiſſent à meſure que les fiévres les ſympto- - ceſſent & finiſſent, ce qui ſemblenous perſuader qu'ilne leur faut autres me remedes que ceux qui ſont ordonnez aux fiévres.si eſt ce toutesfois qu'ils ſont quelquefois ſi violens, c point d' ndi- ſi faſcheux & inſupportables aux febricitans,qu'ils obligét les malades à demâder quelque ſoulagement, c f/ / , & forcent le medecin de leur trouuer & appliquer des remedes. outre qu'il eſt tres-conſtant & aſſeuré que les ſymptomes quelquesfois ſont cauſes de nouuelles maladies,bien qu'ils ne ſoyent que les cfeds symptomes, d'icelles : mais ils ſont effett des premiers maladies & ſont cauſes de quelques maladies ſecondes qu'ils #." excitent , par exemple, le delire n'eſt qu'vn effect de l'intemperie chaude & ſeiche de tout le corps ; nouuelles mais ſi ce delire perſeuere, il apporte la phreneſie,& eſt cauſe d'vne inflammation qui ſe faict au cer- maladies. ueau,qui eſt vne nouuelle maladie. d'autant doncques que les febricitans ſe plaignent plutoſt des ſym- ptomes que de la maladie, & auſſi afin d'empeſcher leurs mauuais effects, i'ay trouué à propos de don- ner quelques remedes pour leur ſoulagement, que toutesfois ie modereray tellement, qu'ayant eſgard aux ſymptomes , ie ne laiſſeray pas touſiours de buter premierement, & principalement à la cure il y a trou & § des fiévres, dont ils ſont accidens & effects. or afin de garder quelque ordre en ce ſorte de hm diſcours, nous prendrons celuy des ſymptomes , que les medecins apportent en la pathologie , qui symptomes des fiévres $ # fort frequens ſ， & violens. ptomes. eſt, qu'ils diuiſent les ſymptomes en trois chefs, ſçauoir, i. en ceux qui appartiennent à l'action lesée, # . en ceux qui dependent de l'ametrie des excremens. . en ceux qui ſuiuent la ſimple affeiiion dn leſée. corpi. nous pareillement , & à leur exemple , parlerons des ſymptomes des fiévres qui appat- tiennent à l'atiion lesée, tels que ſont la douleur , les veilles, l'aſſoupiſſement & ſommeil profond.lede- lire, la conuulſion, la paralyſie;l'esblouiſſement de la veuë , la ſurdité, la difficulté de reſpirer,latoux,la dif d ficulté d'aualler, le degouſt, la nausée, le ſanglot , le vomiſſement, la ſoifdeſreglée,la lypothimie & ſyncºpe symptomes en ſecond lieu nous ferons mention des ſymptoi es qui ſuiuent l'ametrie des excremens ; comme º.º - ſont, le flux de ventre, la dureté de ventre, la ſuppreſſion d'vrine, le flux exceſſif d'vrine, les ſueurs im- #- moderées, & le flux de ſang. en troiſieme lieu nous ranconterons les ſymptomes qui appartiennent s§e, à la ſimple affettion du corps, telle qu'eſt la iauniſſe,la ſeichereſſe & noirceur de la languela jroideur des de la ſimple extremitez du corps, l'exceſſiue chaleur, la tenſion des hypochondres. voilà l'ordre quc nous tien- ºffrétion du drons, duquel tu vois le racourciſſement en la table ſuiuante. corps. | du traicté des fiévres. ，# | b fla douleur. chap. . les veilles. chap. . - - l'aſſoupiſſement & ſommeil profond. chap. le delire. chap. . - la conuulſion. chap. . - ſde l'action lesée tels , la paralyſie. chap. . - que ſont l'ébloüiſſement de la veuë. chap. . la ſurdité. chap. , la difficulté de reſpirer. chap. o. la toux. chap. . la difficulté d'aualer. chap. . le degouſt. chap. . la nausée. chap. . le ſanglot. chap. . le vomiſſement. chap. . la ſoif deſreglée chap. . | \ la lypothimie & ſyncope. chap. . les ſymptomes des { " - fiévres ſont pris ou rle flux de ventre. chap. . - l la dureté de ventre. chap. o. - - - la ſuppreſſion d'vrine. chap. i. - de l'ametrie des § le flux exceſſif d'vrine. chap. . cremens tel que ſont l les ſueurs immoderées. chap. . - ( le flux de ſang chap. . ſla iauniſſe. chap. . | la ſeichereſſe & noirceur de la langue. chap. , de la ſimple affeâi } la froideur des extremitez. chap. . du corps telsque ſont l l'exceſſiue chaleur. chap. . - \. - ula tenſion des hypochondres. chap. . des ſymptomes, de l'aétion lesée : et premierement de la douleur. c h a p t r e i i. n r r e tous les ſymptomer des fiévres, il ny en a point de ſi frequent & de plus impor- la douleur tun que la pouleur, c'eſt pourquoy nous la mettons icy au premier rang. or la douleur eft vn ſym- $ qu'apporte la fiévre eſt principalement, ou à la teſte ou à l'eſtomacb, ou au ventre; ou aux º aſ- " " l $ lombes, ou aux cuiſſes & aux iambes. pour la douleur de teiie peu de febricitans en ſont # dou $ # e# exempts, & s'attache particulierement aux temples, au front, & au deuant de la teſte. leur de #e » ] #s / | celle qui vient au ſommet & derriere de la teſte ou à l'entour des oreilles venant plu-#, ſes =*ſtoſt d'autre cauſe que non pas de la fiévre. au reſte la fiévre donne la douleur de teſte, cauſrs. par le moyen des fumées & vapeurs qui ſortans du foyer de la fiévre contenués dans la premiere ou ſeconde region du corps ſont portées au cerueau par les veines & arteres & autres conduits. quand cette douleur eſt legere, elle ne merite pas que l'on faſſe autre remedes que ceux que l'on donne pour la fiévre : mais ſi elle eſt importune & violente apres les clyſteres & la ſaignées , on pourra faire quelques remedes topi- ques frottant les temples & le front d'oxyrrhodin , preparé auec huyle roſat, & la . ou . partie de vinai- gre, ou bien on prendra quatre once d'eau roſe , vne once de feuilles de ſaule ou de fleurs de violles & de nenuphar, ſix drachmes de vinaigre roſat, le blanc d'vn œuf , qu'on agitera & meſlera enſemble,pour - faire vn frontal à mettre ſur leſdictes parties. que ſi les choſes ne ſuffiſent à appaiſer la douleur, on peut embroca- raſer la teſte, & la frotter ſouuent dudit oxyrhodin , ou mettre deſſus vn linge trempé en eau de roſe, de * plantin, de betoine , de morelle & autres de pareilles vertus. quelques-vns aiment mieux ſe ſeruir de cét onguent preparê auec deux onces d'huyle violat & de nenuphar, vne once & demie d'huyle tirée de la ſe- mence de courge, vne once de ſuc de laictue & de morelle, auec vn peu de cire pour luy donner eorps. que file malade ne peut endurer les choſes liquides ny moüillées,on luy fera ce frontal ſec , prennant fleurs de nenuphar & violles de chacune deux drachmes , vne drachme & demie de fleurs de chamomille & de melilot, vne drachme & demie de graine d'ozeille, de pourpié, & de laictuës, deux ſcrupules de graine de pauot blanc & de pſyllium, fleurs de roſes de prouins . drachmes, qu'on meſle le tout en poudre pour enfermer en vn ſachet de tafetas de iuſte grandeur bien picqué à mettre ſur le front & ſur les temples, apres qu'on l'aura arrousé du coſté qu'il doit toucher la chair d'eaux de pourpié, de laictuës, d'ozeille, de vio- digerer les, de nenuphar, de morelles & autres ſemblables, le liant ferment, afin d'empeſcher d'autant plus # les fumées de monter au cerueau : d'autres prennent feiiilles ſechées de mariolaine,de ſauge, de meliſſe, & . º/ f/ º, • de botoine de chaſcune ou . drachmes; du calamus aromatique, ſouchet & galanga menuë de chacune '. vne drachme noix muſcade, macis, ſchœnante , graine d'alkermes , & roſe rouges de chacune demie , drachme, ils reduiſent le tout en poudre , dont ils font vn frontal , qui ſert à digerer & reſoudre les fu- - mées, qui ne viennent pas d'humeurs ſi boüillantes & eſchauffees. la douleur eſt quelquesfois ſi opiniaſtre - qu'il faut venir aux ventouſes ſacrifiées , & ſans ſacrification qu'on applique ſur les eſpaules, & qu'on rei- les venteu, tere pluſieurs fois, ou bien aux veſicatoires , qui par l'extraction qu'ils font, donnent air aux fumées enfer- ſes, · - ſ - \ oxyrrhodin. onguent. ， frontal ſeo | en forme de | ſachet. bandeau ſec mées dans le cerueau, & en tirent en outre bonne quantité de ſeroſitez. si cela n'y fait rien , les iuleps ſom- veſicatoires. - | niferes ſont excellens, veu que par le ſommeil qu'ils apportent ils rafraichiſſent puiſſemment le cerveau & luleps. ſom- - hebetent la chaleur & furie des vapeurs les plus bouillantes : de ces iuleps icy nous en parlerons cyapres niferes, · au chapitre des veilles immoderées. • | vè, f b b b b ie - / - - - ' . seconde partie, la cardial le viens à la douleur d'eſtomach, que les grecs appellent cardialgiam, qui eſt excitée de quelque humeur a gie ou dou- acre piquante , laquelle bleſſe & offenſe l'orifice ſuperieur de l'eſtomach , que les medecins appellent leur, ººſtº- g•pêi. .. | cette douleur eſt grandement ſenſible , & apporte quelquefois auec elle la nausée, le ſanglot, "º & ſº le vomiſſemêt à cauſe que la partie affligée eſt grandemét nerueuſe,c'eſt pourquoy les febricitans ſe plaignent catºſes. ſouuent au medecin de cette douleur. il faut à cét accident icy les choſes qui peuuent hebeter l'acrimonie # refri- de l'humenr, & qui peuuent la rafraiſchir, tels que ſont les ſyreps violat, de limons ; de grenades, de ber- # beris, de agreſta, qu'on prendra ſeuls ou delayez en eau ou decoction d' endiue, de ſchariole, d'ozeille, de cichorée ſauuage, de pourpié, de laictué ou bien dans l'eau de decoction d'orge, des quatre ſemences cenſerues froides,grandes ou petites,de fleurs de violles,de bugloſſe,de bourroche de nenuphar.on peut auſſi ordonner ' les conſerues de nenuphar,de violle,de roſes, de bugloſſe ; comme pareillement quelques poudres qui puiſſent pouldres. - - - - - - - - / / | boire les ſeroſitez bilieuſes qui ſont dans le ventricule; ſans toutesfois eſchauffer comme ſont la poudre de coraux, de perles preparées, de raclure de corne de cerf & d'yuoire, de coriandre , de ſpodium, & autres tablettes. de pareilles vertus, deſquelles on pourra meſme preparer des tablettes auec ſuccre diſſout en eau de bu- opiates. gloſſe & de laictué, ou des opiates ſtomachales. nous en dirons d'auantage au chapitre du vomiſſement, & de la ſyncope. - - souuent il ſuruient aux febricitans das douleurs de choliquer, qui ſont excitées ou par humeurs acres & eſ- #. #. # chauffées, ou bien de quelques vents & fiatuoſitez qui erret & vaguent par les inteſtins. a ces premiers, • . - - - - - que il faut toutes choſes refrigerantes; comme clyſteres,iuleps, apozemes,epithemes,linimens. on prepare les les cauſes. clyſteres auec le laict clair , feuilles de vignes, de laictuë, de pourpié, de fleurs de nenuphar , de concombre cyſie # coupée par tranches,de ſemences froides; ou delayé dedans le miel violat,l'huyle violat,caſſe mondée: quel- quefois quand les douleurs ſont violentes,ſyrops de pauot,pillules de cynogloſſe,theriaque recente,camphre b narcotiques & autres. les iuleps & apozemes ſont faicts d'herbes, de fleurs, & de ſemences rafraiſchiſſantes, on delaye iulepls , dedans les ſyrops de limons, de violles, de nenuphar, de pauot appellé diacodion. on donne auſſi par fois lº, ºº le petit laict en grande quantité cuit & clarifié; ou bien quelques emuliſions rafraiſchiſſantes. les epithemes # doiuent continuellement eſtre appliquées ſur le ventre faits d'eaux de morelle , d'ozeille, de bugloſſe , de # plantain, de roſes, meſlées auec vinaigre roſat, & quelques poudres adſtringentes , pour conſeruer les forces demy §. du foye & de la ratte. les linimens ſe font d'huyles de nenuphar, roſat , violat , omphacin, cerat , ſantalin , §d à onguent roſat de meſué, auec vn peu de vinaigre roſat. que ſi cela ne profite, on donne le demy bain ma- la cholique tin & ſoir, qui eſt vn excellent remede contre les choliques d'humeurs bilieuſes. que ſi ces douleurs ſont venteuſe. excitées par des ventoſitex, on fera des clyſteres deterſifs & reſolutifs preparez auec maulues , aigremoine , clyſteres. ſon, orge, betoine, fleurs de camomille & de melilot; ſemence de lin, de fœnugrec, de fenoüil, d'anis, de fomenº figues graſſes : delayant dedans miel mercurial ou d'anthos, electuaire lenitif, diaphenic , ſuccre rouge, auec huyles de camomille, de noix , de rue & autres. on applique auſſi ſur le ventre fomentations faictes de decoction des quatre emollients, de betoine, de mariolaine , de calament , de fleurs de camomille & me- sachets. lilot , de ſemence d'aneth & de fenoüil, qu'on fait cuire dans moitié eau & moitié vin blanc. on fait auſſi huyle & li- des ſachets de millet , d'auoine fricaſſée, de ſon, de paritoire auſſi fricaſſée auec beurre frais. les huyles aimens. de rue, de iaſmin,de camomille, de lin, de noix muſcade ſeruent à faire les liniment. on fait auſſi des poudres. poudres à prendre par la bouche auec coriandre, fenoüil , perles preparées, canelle, poudres de l'electuai- re de gemmis,diarrhodon abbatis que le malade prend à certaines heures du iour. de la dou- les douleurs des lombes & de la region renale prouiennent de la grande chaleur qui eſt contenué dans la leur des lom- - bes & de ſes l'oxyrrhodin pour frotter les lombes, l'oxycrat appliqué auec des lignes ; les linimens de ſuc de laictue & de - | cauſes. blanc d'œuf, de populeum , & de cerat de galien , auec les ſucs de morelle , de ioubarbe , & vn peu de oxyrrhodin, camphre. on fait fomentations, auec eau de laictue , plantain , morelle,roſes, pourpié, vinaigre roſat & oxyºrat camphre. on met ſus le malade vne piece ou de maroquin, ou de camelot ou de bougran , eſtoffes qui ºº ne retiennent que bien peu la chaleur. autres font mettre ſur les lombes , ou feuilles de vigne , ou tran- *"º ches de melons & de concombres. on donne des iuleps ou emulſions rafraichiſſantes , & des orges mgn- # dez : vn grand remede, ce ſont les c lyſteres emolliens & rafraiſchiſſans & doucement purgatifs, afin d'o- ciyier ſter d'alentour des reins vne quantité d'ordures qui croupiſſent ordinairement dans le ventre,& qui eſtant vne fois eſchauffées apportent ces importunes douleurs de reins. pe la dou- la douleur de cuiſſes & de iambes, eſt ſouuent bien importune aux febricitans, qui ſe ſentent auoir les leur des cuiſ os comme briſez, à peine peuuent ils ſe remuer, & meſme endurer que la couuerture du lict les touche : ſes & iam- autrefois ils ont des iactations , & agitations faſcheuſes pour ne pouuoir trouuer aucune bonne place. or bes. ces douleurs viennent quelquefois de l'ardeur de la fiévre, qui enflamme les eſprits & les humeurs qui ſont iaétations eſparſes parmy les parties cutanées & muſculeuſes : autrefois elles arriuent par l'effuſion d'vne humeur ſe- º ºſº reuſe, acre & bilieuſe qui ſe iette ou dans les eſpaces vuides des muſcles, ou ſur le perioſte, qui eſt la ººº membrane qui enueloppe les os. pour les agitations , iactations & alyſme, elles prouiennent ou des eſprits leurs. enflammez qui ſe iettent ça & là , ſelon qu'ils ſont pouſſez & chaſſez par l'ardeur de la fiévre, ou bien d'vne remedes des • / » - - - - - a | • - iactations & ºlºº d'humeurs bilieuſes chaudes & acres , qui pour eſtre dans les veines ou à l'entour des entrailles , §. toutesboüillantes & furieuſes, cherchent vn plus grand lieu que celuy où elles ſont enfermées & trop ſer- d rées, d'où vient,qu'elles preſſent le diaphragme, le cœur & les poulmons, ce qui fait que la maladie eſtouf- fe, & ne peut trouuer de place à ſon aiſe. a ces iactations, ie ne trouue point meilleurs remedes que ceux fričtions, li- qui ſont ordonnez à la fiévre, les ſaignées frequentes, les clyſteres reiterez , les fomentations, les iuleps , nimen . & quand le mal le permet, les purgations , vomitifs & autres. aux douleurs des membres,principalement §ati s. des cuiſſes & des iambes, on faict des frictions douces, des linimens auec huyle d'amandes douces , de ne- lauemens de nuphar , roſat , violat , y adiouſtant tant ſoit peu de celle de lis & de camomille, pour reſoudre & ouurir. iambes. on faict des decoctions partie refrigerantes , partie reſolutiues, pour fomenter auec bons lignes les parties | sangſuès, dolentes. on fait des lauemens de pied & des iambes auec eau tiede ſimplement, ou auec decoctions de camomille, de melilot, de nenuphar , de feüilles de vigne , de laictué , & autres ſemblables. on deſ- iuleps ſom- charge auſſi les iambes , par l'application d'vne quantité de ſangſuës; brefon fait ſachets, linimens, bains , miferes. onguents,fomentations,leſquels n'ont pas quelquefois tant de force qu'aura quelque iuleps ſomnifere,qui par - ſommeil qu'il apportera, appaiſera tout d'vn coup telles douleurs. grande artere, & la veine caue deſcendante, à cauſe du ſang qui boult dedans ; à ces douleurs on ordonne c dutraictédesfiévres , s a - - ， •- - - ， des veilles immoderées. · - c h a p i t r e i i i. [ - » - - - ，zis， i l y a choſe qui apres la douleur abbate les forces d'vn febricitant , ce ſont les lon- cauſes des longues veil- gues veilles & immoderées, qui quelquefois viennent de la violence des douleurs , quel- ºf quefois d'vne grande ſeichereſſe de cerueau , qui eſt causée par des humeurs ou vapeurs chaudes & ſeiches. les veilles que la douleur apporte ſont oſtées par les meſmes reme- des qui aſſoupiſſent la douleur : celles qui viennent de feichereſſe du cerueau , doi- uent eſtre empeſchées par remedes contraires , c'eſt à dire par ceux qui rafraiſchiſſent frontaux, & humectent. on, fera donc des frontaux auec huyle roſat , eau roſe , vinaigre roſat , & vn blanc d'œuf meſlez enſemble ; ou bien auec'conſerue de betoine , de nenuphar » de violes , de roſes, iuleps. & l'onguent populeum. il faudra rafraichir la chambre du malade auec herbes rafraichiſſantes, & l'ar- roſer d'eau froide , il faudra faire tomber de l'eau de haut en vn baſſin , afin que le petit bruit & murmu- : re qu'elle fera, induiſe le malade à dormir. que les iuleps & apozemes ſoient rafraichiſſans & humectans, syrops. - & pour ce on le preparera auec decoction de laictue, pourpié, ozeille , bugloſſe , bourroche , ſemences - froides grandes & petites : fleurs de violles & de nenuphar ; dilayant dedans les ſyrops de nymphea , de , pauot , pourpié , de courge, dans .ou . onces de decoction, on pourra mettre vne once, dix drachmes, b ou vne once & demie de diacodion pour chaque choſe qu'on donnera ſur les dix heures du ſoir. lors qu'on caution donnera des iuleps hypnotiques, on ne mettra pas des topiques à l'entour de la teſte, il ſe faut contenter pour les topi° des vns ou des autres, de peur de trop aſſoupir le malade. les topiques plus doux ſont huyle violat, de ne- ques. nuphar, de courge, les ſucs de laictué, de cichorée, d'ombilic de venus, de morelle. l'huyle de pauot, tºp *. le ſuc de iuſquiame, ou de mandragore, l'opium ſont plus dangereux. on prepare des boüillons ſomni- feres , auec force laictues qu'on fait boüillir dedans, . . . . teſtes de paûot blanc , plus ou moins ſe- lon les forces du malade, & la continuité des veilles, & tels bouillons ſont excellens & de grand profit. galien confeſſe que l'vſage des laictues juy oſtoit les douleurs de teſte, & luy apportoit le ſommeil : quel-laiauts. ques vns preparent vne eſponge hypnotique, comme remede tres-aisé & ſouuerain-; ils font bouillir des feuil- les de laictues, de pourpié, de morelle, de lentille aquatique , d'ombilic de venus, de chacune z. poi- gnées , feuille de ſaulie & de vigne, de iuſquiame, de mandragore, & de pauot blanc vne poignée de cha- * cune, ils prennent vne liure de ladicte decoction , & y adiouftent . onces de ſuc de laictuês, & vn drac- boiéillons, - me d'opium. cela fait, ils font tremper & macerer . ou . fois vn eſponge qu'ils font ſeicher à l'ombre. # l p• quant ils s'en veulent ſeruir, ils la trempent dans ladicte decoction , & la font ſentir toute tiede au febri- #re l citant ou bien luy appliquent aux temples & ſur le deuant de la teſte, ils font auſſi grand eſtat d'vne em- ſomniferes. : • plaſtre hypnotique , qu'ils font auec vne once & demie de racine de mandragore , vne demie once de graine : de pſyllium & de coriandre preparée, deux drachmes de teſte de pauot blanc, demie drachme d'opium , & meſlent & amoliſſent le tout auec huyle de nenuphar, & de pauot, & en font vne emplaſtre. mais pour - dire la verité , ie ne trouue pas beaucoup de ſeurté à ces remedes exterieurs , & ne le voudrois ordonner luleps ſont à c qu'à céux qui abhorrent les iuleps , leſquels ie prefere aux autres remedes pour contrarier non ſeulement preferer aux aux veilles,mais auſſi à la fiévre qui excite les veilles.mais d'autant qu'il n'eſt pas à propos de donner touſ-repiques. : iours des hyponitiques , il faut recourir ſouuent aux bains des pieds & des iambes , qu'on peut faire ou | bains des : l'eau tiede ſeulement , ou auec la deçoction de feüilles de ſaulle, laictue, nenuphar, maulues, violes, te pieds. ， de pauot blanc , pourpié, morelle, chair & ſemence de courge, dans laquélle quelquefois on peut adiouſter #. vn peu de vinaigre blanc. : i- # : / - ， de l'aſſoupiſſement & ſommeil trop profond. ' - :: c h a p. i v. a : ,- : t x da. aſſoupiſſement eſt contraire aux grandes veilles, & tous deux ſont contre nature : voire meſ- # • | | # me que l'aſſoupiſſement quelquefois ſuruíent aux febricitans en ſuite des grandes veilles , apres cauſes de · . #l© leur auoir ordonné trop inconſidérement les narcotiques & ſomniferes; mais nous ne par- l'aſſoupiſſe- ſlz. lons point de cét aſſoupiſſement là, ne croyant pas qu'il y ait aucun ſage & prudent mede-* # " cin qui faſſe cette faute, il n'y a que les empiriques & ignorans , qui pour n'auoir aucune # d cognoiſſance, ny de la maladie, ny du temperament, & des forces du malade peuuent ietter les febricitans .. # en ce danger. nous parlons donc de l'aſſoupiſſement qui ſuruient aux fiévres, qui ſe recognoiſt en ce que les # de : malades ſe reueillent à peine, & eſtans reſueillez retombent au ſommeil tout incontinent. tel ſommeil con- #º #- tre nature eſt excité de quelques mauuaiſes & malignes vapeurs qui ſe congelent aucunement dans le cer- § §auſa. (t. ueau, & s'y eſpaiſſiſſent en partie; cependant que celles qui ſont les plus tenues,deliées & legeres ſe diſſipent § ſo- # tout à faict il y a des fiévres qu'on appelle ſoporeuſes, à cauſes qu'elles apportent touſiours auec elle de grands poreuſes. ， aſſoupiſſemens :& cela vient de ce que y ayant quantité de pituite à l'entour des entrailles , l'ardeur de la fie- - ure venant à la fonde & liquefier, enuoye grande abondance de vapeurs craſſe & eſpaiſſes au cerueau, leſ- - quelles par apres ſe reſſoudent & conuertiſſent en humeurs qui apportent l'aſſoupiſſement. quand on voit remede . , - ces grands aſſoupiſſemens , il faut reſueiller le febricitant, tantoſt auec les choſes qui puiſſent eſchauffer les eſprits animaux engourdis & gelez, tantoſt auec celles qui reſueillent la pareſſe de la vertu expultrice, tantoſt auec elles qui attenuent, inciſent & euacuent la pituite qui abreuue le cerueau. c'eſt pourquoy on agitera · le malade çà & là, on luy fera des frictions fortes & dures, que l'on continuera long-temps, on parlera ſou- # · uent à luy , on luy fera des ligatures douloureuſes au bras & au deſſus des genoux , on le pincera, on luy tire- # - •! rales cheueux , on le ventouſera auec ſcarifications profondes,on luy mettra des veficatoires en diuers endroits, veſicatoires. entre les eſpaules, derriere les oreilles, & au ſommet de la teſte. on luy donnera des clyfieres acres, & pic- clyſteres. quans. on luy mettra du caſtoreum diſſoult auec fort vinaigre dans les narines, ſans oublier les ſternutatoi- siérnuiatoi- º & maſticatoires. l'on loue fort en cette extremité la confection dicte anacardina, diſſoute auec vinaigre res. ſcillitique. si tout cela ne profite, à peine trouuera-on d'autres remedes. q) b b bb dg seconde partie, du delire & reſuerie. c h a p. v. l y a deux ſortes de delire & de reſuerie ; l'vne qui eſt eſſentielle , & qui vient de l'inflam- ire d \ - - - - j- #. º # mation des membranes du cerueau ; & l'autre n'eſt que ſymptomatique. nous n'entendons cauſes du | point parler de la premiere , mais ſeulement de la ſeconde , qui eſt excitée par des va- delire. º § & fumées chaudes & acres , qui ſont enuoyées au cerueau des parties inferieures delire & ſes où eſt allumée la fiévre. ce delire icy quelquefois n'eſt que paſſager , & paroit durant la vi- differences gueur des accez des fiévres intermittentes : autrefois il eſt fixe & permanent. & pour lors il eſt à craindre cure qu'il n'ameine la phreneſie, au reſte il eſt par fois gay & joyeux : quelquefois ſerieux & ſeuere, & pour lors ººſteres : il eſt plus à craindre ; car c'eſt ſigne qu'il ſe faict de vapeurs beaucoup plus noires & plus acres. quand nous ſº voyons que la reſaerie des febricitans perſeuere, il faut promptement recourir aux remedes.on aura donc re- cours aux clyfieres acres, aux frictions, aux ligatures des cuiſſes, aux bains des pieds & des iambes, à la ſaignée gatures. bains. - - a saignée du le pieden ! eau, que les arabes recommandent comme vn remede tres propre a ce mal. cependant onne pied. negligera point les topiquer;comme fiontaux rafraiſchiſſans & humectâs,embrocations auec oxyrhodin ſur toute fronteaux. la teſte qu'on raſera auparauant, les ventouſes ſur les lombes & ſur les eſpaules auec ſcarification, lesſangſuit, enbrocatiös. la ſaignée des vaines des temples,l'ouuerture de l'artere qui eſt tout contre les oreilles, les cochets ou ieunes vºntouſes, coqs blancs fendus en deux par le dos, & appliquez tous chauds ſur la teſte trois heures durant ; les poul-b jamtſºés , mons tous chauds des ieunes agneaux ou cheureuils tuez tout ſur l'heure,pareillement appliquez ſur la teſte, ſºgºº ºº & infinité d'autres remedes. ie loue grandement entre les principaux les choſes qui font dormir, tant à cau- #. ſe que d'ordinaire les veilles accompagnent le delire, que pour autant que le ſommeil eſt ſouuerain refrigºn. sommiferes. . mnifer tif du cerueau. de la conuulſîon & iecfigation. ch a p. vi. - a iečiigation qui vient aux fiévres eſt vn tremblottement & treſſaillement que l'on ſent au poulx # du malade, qui monſtre que le cerueau qui eſt l'origine des nerfs eſt attaqué, & en outre menacé -- # t, •\: iaſtigation. de quelque conuulſion. or cét accident auſſi bien que la conuulſion qui ſuruient aux fiévres ne vient pas à cauſe de quelques ventoſitez ou humeurs crues & pituiteuſes qui occupent les par- conuulſion , ties nerueuſes, mais de l'ardeur & trop grande ſeichereſſe deſdites parties , qui eſt introduite é ſes cau- par la fiévre & par les humeurs meſmes acres & mordantes qui ſont cauſe de la fiévre. mais il faut remar- ſes, quer qu'à proprement parler , cette conuulſion icy n'eſt qu'vne image de la vraye conuulſion, autrement nousy chercherions des remedes en vain, veu que la vraye conuulſion qui vient de la deſiccation des partiesnerueu- conuulſion ſes eſt tout à faict mortelle. cét accident icy donc parlant proprement, n'eſt qu'vn treſſaillement & trem- incurable. blottement des parties nerueuſes, causé & excité par la ſeichereſſe que la fiévre apporte : c'eſt pourquoy prt- - mierement il faut tacher à vuider vne partie des humeurs morbifiques qui entretiennent la fiévre, & empeſ- remedes. cher qu'elles ne ſoient tranſportées au cerueau ; or cela ſe faict commodément aucc clyſteres vn peu actes , g * clyſteres tels que nous en auons ordonné au delire , enſemble la ſaignée des pieds, apres celle des bras qu'on aura ` saignée. faict à raiſon de la fiévre. en ſecond lieu il faut rafraiſchir & humecter le cerueau, qui eſt la ſource & l'origi- tºpiques ne des parties nerueuſes : à cela conuiennent les frótaux, les embrocations , les linimens & vnguens ſur la teſte apres eſtre rasée , les juleps rafraiſchiſſans & humectans, les orges mondez,les hypnotiques,mais doux & non violens, de peur de quelque ſiniſtre accident. bref, il faudra venir aux remedes qui deſtournent , & remedes re-ſeruent de reuulſion, & qui peuuent fortifier le cerueau. a ceux-cyſe rapportent les frictions, les ligatures, uulſifs. les ventouſes & ſcarifications, les veſiccatoires, les poulettes, & les poulmons des animaux fraiz tuez ap- pliquez ſur la teſte. quelquesfois ces conuulſions icy repreſentent les Épileptiques, & pour lors ou elles ſont mortelles pour la pluſpart, où elles durent tout du long de la vie, i'ay veu les malades qui pour auoir eu des conaulſions conuulſions dans les fiévres peſtilentes,ont eſté ſubjets toute leur vie aux conuulſions epileptiques, nonobſtant tou- ºpilºptique*- te ſorte de remedes internes & externes, iuſques aux cauteres des bras,& à la nuque du col. de la paralyſie. c h a p. vii. 'e s t accident icy eſt rare, mais qui arriue toutesfois comme i'ay ouy dire en quelques pro- # uinces de la france & de l'allemagne, oû il eſt aſſez familier. il ne ſuruient pas aux fiévres violentes & aiguës, mais aux longues & ch roniques ; & ſi il ne vient pas directement de la fiévre, mais de la colique qui ſuruient auſdites fiévres longues. car vne quantité de bile eſ- chauffée & ardente s'amaſſant dans les veines du meſentere, & à l'entour de la veſſie du fieb · eſe de la - » ſi elle n'eſt euacuée par le benefice de la nature ou des medicamens » & qu'elle ne puiſſe # alyſie. conſommée par la longueur de la fiévre,elle croupit dans les petites veines, où peu à peu s eſchauffant [c - bruſlant, elle tache à trouuer quelque iſſuë , ce que ne pouuant faire par les veines du meſentere, à cauſe des grandes obſtructions qui y ſont, elle ſe iette de furie ſur les membranes de l'abdomen, qui ſont parties gran- dement ſenſibles, là oû elle excite des douleurs intolerables qui reſpondent au bas ventre , & qui appoº- rent par interualles tantoft des vomiſſemens bilieux, tantoſt des deſcharges de ventre porracées & erºgº neuſes. en fin par traict de remps, apres pluſieurs remedes alteratifs & purgatifs ces douleurs s'appaiſent; mais il arriue qu'vne portion de l'humeur eſt portée par la continuité des membranes iuſques à l'eſpine dº • dos, laquelle doucement & peu à peu ſe coule & s'inſinuë iuſques à la moëlle par les petits trous des veº bres,où elle bouche les nerfs & les eſtoupe,empeſchant que les eſprits animaux ne puiſſent auoir accez,d'où ions. il s'enſuit vne paralyſe imparfaicte : toutesfois d'autant qu'il n'y a que le ſeul mouuement qui eſt empeichº le ſentiment demeurant en ſon entier. a cét accident icy il ne faut des remedes qui ſoyent grandement eſ- chauffans, il faut doucement & benignement purger le corps,& auec clyſteres & auec purgatifs : o"† - - a rç, catéſe de la colique bi- 'teteſe / j . - —º- - - a •- / du traicté des fiévres. -- º faire des linimens le long de l'eſpine du dos,auec huyles qui rarefient & diſſipent ſans beaucoup de chaleur, de peur de faire fondre quelque humeur craſſe & pituiteuſe,ou l'attirer en ces parties là des lieux plus eſloi- / gnées, qui feroit vne vraye & parfaicte paralyſie. en ſe contentant de ces petits remedes là , où on trouue que quelque temps apres la nature trouue moyen de ſe deffaire de ſes mauuaiſes humeurs, & redonne le mouuement au malade. de l'esbloiiiſſement des yeux. f c h a p t r e v i i i. º l'aueuglement ou cecité qu'ils nomment répa•ais : & la tromperie de la veué quand elle prend mes de la vn object pour vn autre, qu'ils appellent a«géeaaw : la premiere diminuë la veué, la ſeconde veuë. l'oſte tout à faict, & la troiſieſne la depraue & rend autre qu'elle ne deuroit. or l'esblouiſ- ſement eſt aſſez familier durant & apres les fievres : il ſuruient quelquefois vn critique durant la fiévre , qu'ils appellent ax•reôuo• , & eſt auant - coureur ou d'vn vomiſſe- * ment, ou d'vne hemorrhagie critique. apres les fiévres, la veuë demeure quelquefois esbleuiſſe- trouble, particulierement lors que le febricitant a eſté atteint au cerueau ou de reſuerie, ou de veilles in-mê*ºritique- portunes, ou de grande douleur de teſte : ſouuent auſſi cela arriue à cauſes des grandes euacuations de ſang, cauſes de ou d'autres matieres. quoy que ce ſoit , le plus ſouuerain remede en cecy eſt le bon regime de viure , & l'esbloüiſſe- les bonnes viandes que l'on donne aux febricitans ; car c'eſt le moyen de faire de bons eſprits, de les aug # menter, & de fortifier meſme les yeux ainſi que les autres parties. le bon vin repare les eſprits, & les reſ-§. ueille & clarifie quand ils ſont aſſoupis, pareſſeux, ou obſcurcis ; il faut donc attendre que le temps, aidé collyres. de ces bonnes viandes, fortifie le cerueau, & reſtabliſſe les eſprits animaux. il ne ſera pas cependant hors de propos de faire quelques collyres pour les yeux, auec decoction où les eaux deſtillées de fenoüil, de rué, de chelidoine, d'euphraiſe, de verueine, d'aſperges, de betoine, de raues , de pimpernelle , d'ache, de marjolaine, de paritoire, de roſmarin, de canelle, de bois d'aloés,de ſentaux, yadiouſtant vn peu de miei, d'aloës, de tutie, de ſafran, & choſes ſemblables. de la surdité. c h a p. ix. p©. estrois ſymptomes qui ſuruiennent à l'oüye, il n'y en a point qui vienne plus ordinaire- trois ſympto- # ment durant les fiévres que la ſurdité imparfaicte, que les grecs nomment daeuxé a , les mes de l'oiye. : latinsſadaſtritatem, qui eſt proprement entendre dur or cela vient d'vne vapeur bilieu-cauº; de la ſe, qui eſtant porté au cerueau, ſe iette ſouuent ſur les organes de l'oiiye, par leſquelles ſurdité n# la bile a accouſtumé de ſe deſcharger , comme teſnoignent les ſaletez qui viennent aux * oreilles. cét accident icy quelquefois eſt paſſager , quelquefois il eſt permanent, & ſou- cure. uent il eſt accompagné de quelque tintouin des oreilles, qui incommode fort les malades. a ce mal icy, il flux deven- n'y a rien de meilleur que prouoquer s'il y a moyen le cours de ventre, puis qu'hippocrate a dit aux apho-ºrº ſfº la riſmes, qué le fiux de ventre bilieux eſtoient arreſtez par la ſurdité qui ſuruient; & qu'au contraire laſuraité ſº eſt oſtée toutesfois & quant qu'il ſuruient vn flux de ventre bilieux. ce qui nous donne aſſez à cognoiſtre que quand l'humeur bilieuſe eſt arreſtée, il s'en fait vn tranſport au cerueau ; ce qui n'arriue pas quand la- dite humeur prend ſon cours par le ventre. au reſte, ſi auec la ſurdité il y a douleur d'oreille grande & vio- douleur d'o- lente, il faut ſouuent attendre queique ſuppuration; par fois la douleur ſe reſoult auec medicamens, com reille. me ſachets & fomentations qu'on fait auec herbes emollientes, camomille , melilot, aneth, ſemence de fomëtatiös. fenouil qu'on fait bouillir dans le laict. on ſe contente auſſi de mettre dans l'oreille vn peu d'huyle d'aman- des douces ou ameres , vn peu de laict, vne decoction de peu de coloquinte, du coton muſqué , & autres telles choſes qui en partie ſont anodynes, en partie reſolutiues. | de la difficulté de reſpirer. c h a p. x. e n'eſt pas de la diffnoée, ou difficulté de reſpirer que nous parlerons , qui eſt excitée ou deux ſortes # par vne humeur craſſe & viſqueuſe , qui occupe la trachée artere & le poulmon ; ou qui de diſpnoſe. vient de l'inflammation des parties qui ſeruent à le reſpiration. mais de celle qui arriue or- dinairement de quelque matiere qui petille à l'entour du foye & de la ratte, & qui par ce moyen preſſe le diaphragme & les poulmons. ou bien de celle qui vient de la chaleur du cœur, que les poulmons ne peuuent ſuffiſamment eſuenter, ny rafraiſchir, tant il y a de fumées enfermèes & reſerrées à l'entour de luy. en cette premiere il faut recourir aux clyſteres emolliens, refrigerans & vn peu remedes. laxatifs, afin de rafraiſchir les humeurs qui bouillent, & en vuider touſiours quelque partie, l'attirant vers clyſteres. les parties baſſes; il ſe faut auſſi ſeruir d'epithemes & linimens refrigeratifs ſur les deux hypochondres. epithemer. on ſe ſeruira pareillement de iuleps & apozemes refrigerans & humectans afin par toutes ſortes de moyens lulºpº. d'oſter la ferueur de ces humeurs, & brider leur furie. a la † vient de la chaleur du cœur des parties thorachiques, il faut mettre des epithemes ſur le cœur auêc eaux de morelle,de roſes, d'endiue, de charbon beniſt , de ſcabieuſe, d'ozeille, de plantin, & pareilles autres. on fera des linimens ſur toute la stconde q. poictrine , auec huyle de † , violat,pauot , ou de peur que ces huyles ne s'enflamment ſi on les met-pneée, & ſes toit toutes ſeules, on pourra ſes meſler auec les ſucs depurez de pourpié, de laictué, d'ombilic de venus, remºdes. - & vn peu de camphre. il eſt beſoin que le malade reſpire vn air froid; c'eſt pourquoy s'il n'eſt tel, on le º ſººº preparera auec aſperſion d'eau froide, ou de roſes, d'herbes & fleurs refrigerantes , & de bonne odeur, difficulté nourriſſant cependant le malade de viandes legeres, & luy donnant à boire fraiz. au reſte c'eſt touſiours # lé - vn tres-mauuais accident des fiévres , quand la reſpiration eſt empeſchée, & que le febricitant ſe ſent #" eſtouffer,ſur tout quand ce ſymptome vient de l'imbecillité des forces , car c'eſt ſigne que la vertu animale §. · ne peut mouuoir à eſleuer les muſcles du thorax , à cauſe de la penurie & paucité de la chaleur naturelle , | | # & des eſprits, auſſi ne ſuruient-il qu'à ceux qui ſont proches de la mort. " ) - , bb b b d? - | la dſpnoée. | l y a trois ſymptomes de la veuë, l'esblouiſſement, que les grecs appellent éuê»vaaia , trois ſymptº seconde partie, - de la toux. c h a p. x i. # l y a vne ſorte de toux qui arriue vn peu deuant les accez des fiévres intermittentes, qui | prouient des vapeurs de la matie e morbifique qui commence à s'efmouuoir , mais qui ſe paſſe à meſure que par l'ardeur de l'accez leſdites vapeurs ſont conſommées; c'eſt pourquoy il ne faut point s'arreſter à cette toux là,mais ſeulement à celle qui dure apres toux deuant les acce{: la toux & les accez, & qui trauaille ceux qui ont deux fiévres continués. or cette toux icy eſt fort & les maux ( $ faſcheuſe & incommode, pource qu'elle apporte la douleur de teſte telle qu'il ſemble º º?- #$ $ $ # qu'on la fende, qu'elle empeſche le ſommeil, qu'elle trauaille le poulmon,& apporte op- porte. - preſſion & difficulté de reſpirer,& d'auantage qu'elle fait redoubler la fiévre, aiguiſant # ** la chaleur des poulmons par l'effort continuel qu'elle apporte. la cauſe de cette toux icy, ou c'eſt l'intempe- tous ſeiche rie chaude & ſeiche des organes qui ſeruent à la reſpiration, ou quelque refroidiſſement qu'à reſſentyle ' malade, ſoit à la teſte, ſoit à la poitrine , qu'il découure quelquefois mal à propos. c'eſt pourquoy cette toux icy eſt aride & faſcheuſe, ſur tout quand elle eſt frequente; car ſi elle ne vient que par interualles, & qu'elle ! ne ſoit pas ſi aigre, elle peut ſeruir à quelque choſe, comme dit hippocrate en l'aphoriſme ; du quatrieſme la ou co,- liure ; c'eſt à ſçauoir à la ſoif des malades qu'elle adoucit : car comme dit galien , par l'effort & le mouue- # ment qu'elle apporte elle attire l'humidité des parties voiſines, qui ſert à arrouſer & la bouche & les parties qui ſont à l'entour de la trachée artere. mais ſi la toux eſt aigre, il faut y pouruoir par quelques remedes, c'eſt à ſçauoir par ceux qui humectent & rafraiſchiſſent, ſoit qu'on les tienne à la bouche,ſoit qu'on les aual b remede de le doucement & lentement, ſoit qu'on les prenne en forme de breuuage.on ſe peut donc ſeruir de ſynops vio- la toux lat, pauot, nenuphar, de pommes ſimple,de regliſſe, de iujubes, ou pris à part, ou meſlez enſemble, ou dila- yez dans quelque decoction de violles, de laictué, de pourpié, ſemences froides grandes & petites, regliſſe syrops. orge,& autres, on fait auſſi des tablettes de ſucre roſat, de tragacanthe, de racines de guymaulues. on b donne des conſerue de roſes,de violettes, de nenuphar, de pas d'aſne, de pauot rouge, & ſemblables. il ya #º quantité d'autres remedes à latoux, mais c'eſt à celle qui eſt excitée de la pituite du cerueau qui diſtille dans conſerues, : a l - • • • • . - - - - la poictrine; de laquelle nous ne faiſons point icy mention. • de la difficulté d'aualler. ch a p. x ii. cauſes de la # x . o c , vn'accident qui eſtonne grandement les malades, quand ils ſentent que les viures ne difficultéd'a !)\# peuuent preſque paſſer, & qu'ils ſe perſuadent qu'il y a quelques choſe en l'œſophage qui les tualler. veut ſuffoquer & eſtouffer. c'eſt pourquoy il faut auoir quelques remedes pour les ſoulager promptement.ce ſymptome icy arriue par vne vapeur eſpaiſſe, ou humeur pituiteuſe qui tom- bant du cerueau , ou eſleuée de l'eſtomach s'attache à l'oeſophage, & peu à peu par l'ardeur de la fievre s'y endurcit : ſi bien que partie à cauſe de ſa viſcoſité, parti : à cauſe de ſa grande ſti- chereſſe, elle eſtoupe & eſtrecit en ſorte le paſſage,que le febricitant a peine d'aualler. il faut donc à ce mal rºmºdº partie deterger & nettoyer partie humecter & amollir. ce qui ſe faict auec les ſyrops violat, de iujube, ſucre syrops. . candi, ſuc de regliſſe, vinaigre,verjus, on peut faire vn gargariſme auec regliſſe recente, orge, betoine, ſauge, c gargariſmes hyſſope, marjolaine , figues graſſes, ſemence d'anis, dans lequel on dilaye vne once de ſyrop aceteux ſimple pour quatre ou cinq onces de decoction.quelques-vns en font vn plus aise, auecdecoction d'orge ſeulement, difficulté de & ſyrop de grenade , miel roſat , ou oxymel. , au reſte il y a vne difficulté de reſpirer qui ſuruknt reſpirer mor- aux fiévres où il n'y a point de remede : elle vient de la luxation des vertebres du col excitée par la conuul- telle. ſion des nerfs deſdites vertebres, ou d'vne grande foibleſſe & imbecillité du malade : en ce cas il ne faut eſ- perer que la mort, veut que la conuulſion qui vient de la ſeichereſſe eſt mortelle, & lors que les forces du malade manquent, les remedes n'qnt plus de lieu. - - : . : du degouſt & appetit perdu. c h a p. xiii. l y a deux accidens touchant le gouſt;l'vn eſt le goufi depraué, lors que la langueiuge autre- ment des ſaueurs qu'elle ne deuroit; l'autre eſt l'appetit perdu ou inappetence, par laquelle le ma- deux accidës # lade perd tout à faict la volonté de manger. pour le premier, quand il n'eſt point accompagné du #.. # degouſt, c'eſt vn vice de la langue ſeulement ; ou de ſa tunique qui l'enueloppe, pour eſtreim- cauſe du buë & arrosée ou de quelque mauuaiſe vapeur, ou de quelque humeur corrumpue. cette hu- §u# d§ra- meur icy eſtant eſmeuë par l'humidité des viandes & du breuuage penetre iuſques au nerf qui eſt eſpandu par - la chair & par la membrane de la langue, & communique ſa qualité & ſa ſaueur à la viande, ſçauoir,l'amºr: f{ tume quand l'humeur eſt bilieuſe, la fadeur & ſaueur inſipide quand elle eſt pituiteuſe, la ſaline quand éeſt vne pituite ſalée, & ainſi des autres ; ce qui trompe le malade , d'autant qu'il penſe que telles ſaueurs vien- d nent des viandes, & non pas des humeurs dont ſa langue eſt abbreuuée. a cét accident icy, il faut ſouuent lauer la bouche auec eau & vin, ou auec du vinaigre ou verjus, ſuc de limon, d'orenge, decoction d'orge , & remedes. autres ſemblables. mais quand le goujt eſt depraué auec vn grand degouſt & inappetence alors le vicen'eſt pas cauſes du ſeulement à la langue & au palais de la bouche , mais auſſi s eſtend iuſques au ventricule qui eſt abbreuué de degouſt quelque humeur peccante, laquelle aſſoupit tout à faict l'appetit, ou eſt alteré de quelque chaleur eſtrangere & extraordinaire. a ceux cy on doit permettre l'vſage des choſes qu'ils demandront à manger , pourueu remedes qu'elles ne leur ſoient point tout à faict contraire, ſuyuant en cela le conſeil d'hippocrate, qui en l'aphoriſ- pour le de- me . du . liur. dit que les alimens deſirez, bien que pires à la ſanté, ſont à preferer, à ceux qui ſont meil- gouft leurs,mais qui ſont en degouſt au mâlade. au reſte,ſi cette inappetence vient de quelques mauuaiſes humeurs contenuës au ventricule , il faut les purger doucement & nettoyer l'eſtomach de telles ordures, autrement# ne faut pas eſperer que l'appetit reuienne. mais ſi ce n'eſt qu'à cauſe de la chaleur eſtrangere du ventriculeil regime de faut ſe ſeruir de remedes rafraiſchiſſans, & qui ſoient acides , afin que leſdits medice mens penetrent mieux » viure, tels ſont le jus de citron , d'orange & de grenades, le verjus,les ceriſes aigrettes, le vinaigre roſat, & autrº cependant attendant que l'appetit vienne, il faudra nourrir le malade de viandes liquides & aisée à prendre # à # , comme jaunes d'oeufs mollets,boüillons,jus de chair de perdris,de veau, & de volaille, & de a gelce. du du traicté des fiévres. - » # : des nausées & enuies de vomir. · c h a p. xi v. - 'e n v e de vomir quelquefois ſuit le grand degouſt,c'eſt à ſçauoir, quand le malade à tel. nausée le horreur des viandes, que fi toſt qu'il les ſent, le cœur luy ſouſleue, quelquefois elle eſt ſans - , grand degouſt, ſeulement apres auoir pris quelque choſe, il ſuruient des efforts de vomir, ſans toutefois rien vuider & rejetter. cét accident eſt excité par quelque humeur vitieuſe, qui ses cauſes. #$ pour ſa quantité ou qualité picote l'eſtomach , l'irrite & le force à ſe deſcharger de ce qui ºzºss， luy eſt nuiſible. cette humeur vitieuſe quelquefois nage dans la cauité du ventricule, quel- quefois elle eſt fixement attaché à ſes tuniques ; c'eſt pour lors que l'eſtomach s'efforce ſi ſouuent ſans aucun effect de la mettre hors. la pourriture eſt quelquefois ſi grande dans le corps,comme par les fiévres naumée en peſtillentielles & malignes, qu'il arriue des nausées perpetuelles, à cauſe des vapeurs putrides qui vont la pºſt.. frapper l'orifice ſuperieur de l'eſtomach. a cette nausée icy maligne, il faut les choſes acides rafraiſchiſſan- - tes, qui puiſſent empeſcher ou corriger la pourriture. quelques-vns recourent à la theriaque, & autres me- remedes. dicamens chauds , que ie n'approuue point, d'autant qu'ils augmentent la fiévre & par conſequent entre- nausée des tiennent la pourriture. pour l'autre nausée qui vient des humeurs attachées au ventricule, il faut les nettoyer humeurs, & les euacuer, on bien par vomitifs; ou bien par purgatifs. que ſi l'eſtat de la fiévre ne le permet, on peut #º- donner quelques poudres, tablettes ou opiates pour ebiber, abſorber & conſommer les humiditez ſuper- ſiccatiuet. flues du ventricule. on prend de la coriandre macerée pluſieurs fois dans le vinaigre vne once & demie, vne once de ſemence d'anis & de fenouil , de l'eſcorce de citron confit trois drachmes, deux drachmes de coral rouge bruſlé & laué neuf fois auec eau roſe, vn ſcrupule de canelle & de maſtich , perles preparées demie drachme, crouſte de pain bruſlé vne once, auec quantité ſuffiſante de ſucre roſat, on fait vne pou- dre dont le malade prend vne bonne cuillerée auant le repas. que ſi le malade l'ayme mieux en tablettes †º il ſera aise de le contenter ou luy en faiſant exprez,ou luy faiſant vſer de celles de ſentaux, ou iarrhodon. du sanglot & hocquet. ch a p. x v. l n'y a pas grande difference entre la nausée & le ſanglot, veu que c'eſt auſſi vn effort ſans effect de l'expultrice du ventricule : mais le ſanglot eſt vn mouuement conuulſif, & qui #º trauaille bien plus le ventricule que ne fait la nausée : d'auantage , par le ſanglot & hocquet #. le ventricule ſe reſſerre en ſoy-mefme & tire en bas l'œſophage , au contraire en la nau # sée le ventricule ſe relaſche & ſe renuerſe , comme pour monter vers l'œſophage.la cau- du ae. ſe du hocquet eſt double, la repletion & l'inanition. la repletion quand il y vn humeur acre cauſes du " #s # #º & mordant attaché fixement aux tuniques du ventricule, que la nature taſche de chaſſer hocquet. & mettre hors. l'inanition, lors que les tuniques du ventricule toutes deſſeichées par l'ardeur de la fiévre, ſe repletion. inanition. cure du hoe- quet qui vët de replstion. retirent & font ce mouuement de conuulſion. si le hocquet vient de la premiere cauſe, il faut premierement he- beterl'acrimonie de ces humeurs auec juleps & apozemes rafraiſchiſſans, preparez auec decoction de nenu- phar, de bugloſſe, de violettes,de roſes, de pourpie, ou auec emulfions faites de quatre ſemences froides grandes & petites,diſſoudant dedans ſyrops violat,de nenuphar, de grenade,de agreſta, de pourpié,& de pa- uot, faiſant cependant des fomentations auec herbes, fleurs, & ſemences de pareille vertu. en ſecond lieu, il faut taſcher de vuider ces mauuaiſes humeurs, ou auec vomitifs, ou auec purgatifs. quelquesfois il n'eft ventouſe au pas hors de propos ſi le hocquet perſeuere d'appliquer vne ventouſe ſur la region de l'eſtomach, ou bien an ºº terieurement, ou poſterieurement vers l'onzieſme,douxieſme ou treizieſme vertebre. quant au bocquct qui # du hoc- vient de l'inanition, encore bien qu'il ſoit incurable, ſi ne faut-il pas laiſſer de donner au malade des reme- quet qui viët - - / - - - - a'inamition. des humectans, & des alimens de pareille vertu. les fiévres malignes & peſtilentielles , par les vapeur pu- sanglot en trides qu'elles enuoyent à l'orifice ſuperieur de l'eſtomach apportent auſſi le ſanglot, auquel pour remedes l, peſte. conuiennent ceux que nous auons rapportée à la nausée, qui viennent pareillement des fiévres malignes. il y sanglot qui a vne autre eſpeces deſanglot qui vient de l'inflammation du cerueau,ou du foye,& ce par le conſentement & ſuit l'inflam- ſympathie qu'il y a entre toutes ces parties par le benefice des nerfs, & pour lors il ne faut pas tant auoir eſ tion. ard à l'eſtomach, qu'au cerueau & au foye, leur ordonnant des remedes qui ſerucnt à guerir l'inflammation §. parties. - - - » -- • du vomiſſement. c h a p. x v i. - la differencè $e a nausée & le vomiſſement ne different que de plus ou du moins , ſelon leur cauſe, & non pas § #$ ſelon leur effett , veu qu'vn petit vomiſſement n'eſt pas vne grande nausée. il eſt certain & du vomiſ- | qu'il y a telle cauſe qui peut faire la nausée, qui ne peut faire le vomiſſement , parce qu'elle n'eſt ſé zent. pas aſſez forte : c'eſt pourquoy la nausée eſt moindre que le vomiſſement. ie ne veux point m'e- cauſes du s ſtendre à expliquer les cauſes du vomiſſement , veu qu'elles ſe peuuent aſſez entendre parce vomiſſ mét. - » qui a eſté dit au chapit. de la nausée,ie diray ſeulement que les humeurs qui cauſent le vomiſſe-ºſſºmºnº † ſont chaudes & fluides quelquesfois froides, lentes & pituiteuſes. pour les chaudes elles º peuuent eſtre aisément euacuées par le vomiſſement qu'il n'eſt pas beſoin d'arreſter dés ſon commencement, le #- de peur de faire jetter l'humeur ſur quelque partie noble : mais s'il perſeuere trop long temps, de peur qu'il porte # n'affoibliſſe trop le malade, & n'empeſche qu'il ne puiſſe prendre nourriture, & par ainſi qu'il ne le precipite miſſment. à la mort ; il faut apporter tous les artifices qu'on pourra afin de l'arreſter. les ſyrops propres à cét effect ſont syrops. de berberis,de grenade, de coins, de acetoſitate citri, de coral, de agreſta : on fera des poudres auec les perles foudres. preparées, le ſpodion, les coraux,les ſentaux,les cinq fragmens precieux,le bol armene, la terre ſigillée, l'eſ sucs. corce de citron,le naſtich,le ſang de dragó,& autres.le ſuc de ribes & de berberis,le fuc de grenade,'a chair tºº º. de coins & de nefles, la conſerue de roſes rouges ſont de grand effect. exterieurement les linimens d'huyle ro-º# ſat, de cerat ſantalin,d'huyle de maſtich, de coins,ſont vtiles.quelques-vns font des ſachets de poudres aſtrin- #º gentes qu'ils appliquent ſur l'eſtomach, d'autres ſe contentent d'vne roſtie de pain, ou d'vne eſponge # arrosée de vin ou de vinaigre. si le vomiſſement eſt excité par des humeurs pituiteuſes, il faut premierement §. les inciſer & attenuer, pluſtoſt que de taſcher à les euacuer par vomitifs, ou purgatifs. cependant interieure-terieurs. jent on donnera oxymel & le ſyrop acetueux, auec decoction de menthe, d'abſynthe, de roſes , d'aneth, remedes ex- -- d'eſcorce terieurs. dutraicté des fiévres. i ' 'ºn a -- - - - " . # ! des symptomes qui ſuiuent l'ametrie des excremens : et premierement du flux de ventre. c h a p t r e x ix. # - p r e s les ſymptomes de l'action lesée, viennent ceux qui appartiennent à l'ametrie des ex lºftux de ， cremens. entre leſquels eſt leſlux de ventre, qui eſt vn accilent fort commun des fiévres , º # # quelquefois vtile & profitable, quelquefois tres-mauuais & pernicieux. celuy qui eſt touſ- # iours mauuais eſt le lienterique, qui vient de boire trop, ou de quelque malignité qui par les # lak # fiévres peſtillentielles & malignes diſſout les forces de l'eſtomach & des inteſtins. a ce flux §te- *- s de ventre icy , il faut tant qu'on peut fortifier l'eſtomach & les inteſtins tant par les remedes rique mau- interieurs qu'exterieurs. on faict des poudres auec les choſes qui aſtreignent & fortifient, uau. comme ſpodium, ſantaux,bol armene, ſang de dragon, perles preparées,coraux , & autres. on donne des remedes au r， opiates auec la conſerue de roſes, le maſtic, la chair de coins, le rhapontic, les mirabolans ; exterieurement ſtux lienteri- : on faict des linimens auec huyles de myrtilles, de maſtich, de coings , on applique des emplaſtres à l'eſto- # : r ' mach de maitich & de cotignac, on faict de ſachets & fomentations de choſes aditringentes & corroborati- # # ues. que ſi tout cela ne profite, on recourt aux choſes qui prouoquent le ſommeil, lequel comme dit hip- #. pocrate auliure de victu in acutis, arreſte toutes ſortes de fluxions. l'autre flux de ventre qui eſt vtile eſt le ſommeil. b humoral , ou diarrhoique, par lequel les mauuaiſes humeurs ſont euacuées. mais afin qu'il ſoit profitable, pre- l.jiux diºr- mierement, il faut qu'il ſuruienne à la fin des fiévres, lors que les humeurs ſont cuites & domptées par la na- rhoique ér : ture;ſecondement, il faut qu'il ſoit moderé, veu que toutes choſes qui ſont ſans meſure ſont ennemies de la na- ſes conditions ture. de là nous apprenons qu'il ne faut pas touſiours arreſter le cours de ventre ; car ce ſeroit bien ſou- pour eſtre uent enfermer le loup dans labergerie, comme l'on dit. en outre nous apprenons que le cours de ventre mo- #º ... deré, nous monſtre le deſſein de la nature, qui eſt de chaſſer hors les humeurs nuiſibles. c'eſt pourquoy il il ne faut ne faut point faire de difficulté, lors qu'on voit tel flux de ventre de donner quel doux purgatif afin d'aider à # a,*- la nature,quibien ſouuent ne vuide que le plus clair,le marc & le terreſtre ou limonneux demeurant au corps, § #º qui eſt bien ſouuent cauſe des recidiues, c'eſt pourquoy il eſt bon de donner les purgatifs qui puiſſent en- on purge au ,,-- traiſner auec ce qui ſort volontairement, les humeurs plus groſſieres & limonneuſes. que ſi le flux deuient flux de ven, ' immoderé, alors il faudra temperer les humeurs chaudes auec medicamens rafraiſchiſſans , fortifier l'eſto- ire. mach auec des corroboratifs, addoucir les boyaux auec quelques clyſteres deterſifs & anodins : purger flux immo- doucement les humeurs auec le catholicum double de rheubarbe, ou auec la rheubarbe en infuſion, ou ººré é ſºs | bien meſlée en tablettes ou opiates. on peut pareillement prouoquer le ſommeil qui arreſte les fluxions , remed.s. comme dit eſt, contempere les humeurs, & fortifie les parties. il y a deux autres ſortes de fux de ventre, # mºre l'vn qui vient de l'imbecillité ou corruption des parties nobles, qui eſt tout à fait mortel, & l'autre qui eſt col- , liquatif, à cauſe du grand feu qui fond la ſubſtance propre du corps , & celuy-cy n'eſt gueres moins peril- leux , toutesfois il faut taſcher à moderer cette grande chaleur par toutes ſortes d'artifices, ce qui reüſſit quelquefois aſſez heureuſement. . \ de la dureté du ventre. ch a p. xx. v commencement des fiévres, le ventre deuient pareſſeux à cauſe du repos que l'on prend cauſe de la dans le lict, & auſſi à cauſe que le febricitant demeurant long-temps couché ſur le dos, il dureté du s'eſchauffe le ventre, qui par apres endurcit les humeurs qui ſont contenuës dans les inteſtins. " car la cauſe ordinaire de la dureté du ventre vient de la chaleur, qui deſſeiche les excremens - qui pour eſtre ainſi eſpuiſez de toute humidité reſiſtent à la vertu expultrice des inteſtins en sama cét accident il faut recourir aux clyiteres emolliens, & refrigeratifs & aux ſuppoſitoires.il faut donner quan- § # tité de boüillons au veau, & aſſaiſonnez de bourrache, bugloſe, chicorée, laictué, ozeille, endiue, ſummitez #. de maulues au febricitant : on luy fera vſer de pommes cuites, & de pruneaux auec leur jus , en attendant qu'on le puiſſe purger auec quelque bol de caſſe & autres doux purgatifs. il y a vne autre cauſe de la dureté du ventre, c'eſt à ſçauoir l'eſtouppement, & obſtruction du conduit cholydoque, qui porte la bile dans les otſtruition inteſtins, laquelle ſert à irriter la vertu expultrice. quand donc la bile ne coule pas aux inteſtins, ladicte du conduit vertu expultrice deuient pareſſeuſe, & par conſequent le ventre deuient dur. a cette cauſe icy il faut des re- cholydeque. medes particuliers,leſquels nous particulariſerons au chapitre de la iauniſſe. - #:: •, , *! | de la ſuppreſſion d'vrine c h a p. . xx i. i e s trois empeſchemens qu'il y a à l'vrine, ſçauoir de la dyſurie, quand on a douleur en piſſant trouſympto. # de la ſtrangurie, quand on piſſe goutte à goutte, & de l' ſºurie, quand l'vrine eſt ſupprimée & mes de l'v- l arreſté, la derniere eſt la pire, & celle auſſi qui vient plus ordinairement aux febricitans. or rine. telleſuppreſſion eſt ou critique, ou ſymptomatique. la critique, comme enſeigne galien, vient de- suppreſſiºn #ºs# uant les rigueurs, & eſt comme vn auant-coureur d'vne criſe qui ſe doit faire par les ſueurs ; d'vrine dou- les ſueurs & les vrines ayant vne meſme matiere. pour la ſymptomatique, il arriue ou la veſſie eſtant vuide, c - - ou la veſſie eſtant pleine. quand on recognoiſt en la ſuppreſſion de l'vrine que la veſſie eſt pleine, s'il n'y a tres- § #. - grande inflammation au col de la veſſie, il n'ya rien de plus prompt pour ſoulager le febricitant, que la ſon- # : de creuſe, laquelle ſi toſt qu'elle eſt introduite vuide l'vrine qui eſt retenuë en ſa veſſie. que s'il y a inflam- l ſonde º mation & obſtruction , ou à la veſſie, ou aux vreteres, ou au reins, il faut recourir aux remedes particuliers creuſe ou al, de ces maladies , deſquelles tous les practiciens ont parlé fort amplement, c'eſt pourquoy il faut auoir re-galie, cours à leurs liures. - " cauſes de la ſuppreſſion, - * dm % - premiere partie, du flux exceſif d'vrine. ch a p. xx ii. a nature cherche quelquefois diuerſes deſcharges pour guerir les maladies , tantoſt par le ventre, par les diarrhées , tantoſt par les ſueurs, tantoſt par vn flux d'vrine que ! les grecs appellent perirrhée, & ce flux icy eſt critique, d'autant qu'il ſe faict par le flux d'vrine & benefice de la nature au ſoulagement du malade. quelquesfois on prouoque l'vrine nuiſibles. #$ auec des medicamens diuretiques ſi puiſſamment , qu'il ſort vne grande quantité remedes d'eaux du corps ; mais tel flux eſt pluſtoſt nuiſible que profitable, d'autant que cela vient de la malignité de tels medicamens, qui pour eſtre grandement chauds, & de parties tenuës fondent le ſang , & le font tourner en eaue & ſeroſité. a cet accident icy , il faut donner les medicamens ra- fraiſchiſſans, qui puiſſent pareillement eſpaiſſir & incraſſer le ſang , & arreſter les fluxions, com- me ſont les decoctions de plantin , de pourpié , laictue, bourſe de paſteur, ioubarbe, auec les ſyrops dibettes & de papot & de pourpié. il y a vn autre flux d'vrine exceſſif, que l'on appelle diabetes, lors que les fe- ſes cauſes bricitans piſſent beaucoup & ſouuent, & rendent leur vrine aqueuſe , & tenuë ſi toſt qu'ils ont beu. la cauſe de ce ſymptome eſt triple, ſçauoir l'intemperie chaude & ſeiche des reins, l'humeur bilieuſe, acre & ſalée, dont les reins ſont abbreuuez, & inceſſamment irritez, & quelque venin pernicieux. on obſerue qu'aux fiévres ardentes le diabetes ſuruient par la colliquation des reins & diſſolution de tout le flux d'vrine q# critique- $ flux d'vrine corps, ce qui faict qu'ordinairement il eſt mortel. ces accidents ſont de telle importance qu'ils meri- ſ de colliqua tent bien qu'on aille fuëilletter les liures des bons autheurs, pour leur trouuer des remedes, c'eſt pour- ft / , quoy ie n'en diray rien autre choſe. il me ſuffit d'indiquer ces ſymptomes, comme effects pernicieux des fiévres. - - a" des ſueurs immoderées. c h a p. xx i i i. susurimmº. | | e ne m'eſtens point icy ſur la difference des ſueurs, & leur ſignification, veu que ce- derée , & ſes | la appartient à la ſimiotique, ie m'arreſte ſeulement à la ſueur immoderée; laquelle ſoit accidens $ qu'elle vienne par voye de criſe, ou autrement, precipite le malade en de grandes remedes à la ſueur immo- derée, ſ#| foibleſſes,& enſuite ſi on n'y remedie à la mort. c'eſt pourquoy lors qu'on voit tel- # le ſueur immoderée, il faut recourir aux medicamens qui repercutent, & qui bou- lºgºs#，| chent les pores du cuir. on fera donc des fomentations,d'eau de roſe:de plantain, de morelleyadiouſtant la ſixieſme partie devinaigre roſat, ou bien on fera vne decoction dans l'eau des mareſchaux, de roſes rouges, de balauſtes, de noix de cypres, d'eſcorce de grenade, de morelle, de plan- tin, de ioubarbe, d'abſinthe , de pantaphylum, de centinode, de tapſus barbatus & autres. on aura auſſi rccours à ces medicamens que les grecs appellent diapaſinata & aliſpaſmata, faicts de poudres de roſes rouges, de bol armene, de terre ſigillée, de craye, d'alun, de plomb bruſlé, de plaſtre laué, c diapaſmata leſquels on ſeme ſur le corps du malade, afin que par leur vertu emplaſtique, ils empeſchent la ſueur medicamens de ſortir. on donnera auſſi cependant au malade des iuleps & apozemes adſtringens, & incraſſans pour arreſter pour le meſme effect, les nourriſſant bien au reſte de viandes aisées à cuire, mais qui ne puiſſent nulle- "ſ" ment eſchauffer. \ du flux de ſang immoderé. c h a p. xxiv. - # n c o r e bien qu'il ſe puiſſe faire durant les fiévres des flux de ſang immoderées, hemorrha- tant par les veines hemorrhoïdales, que par celles de la matrice aux femmes : bien qu'il gie par le - ſuruienne des dyſenteries, & que quelquesfois on piſſe le ſang aux fiévres malignes. si nc #) eſt-ce qu'ence chapitre icy nous nedeliberons parler que du ſiux deſang qui vient par le ' nez eſtant vn accident aſſez commun, preſque à toutes les fiévres, principalement aux ses differen- ſynoques. or ce flux de ſang eſt ou critique ou ſymptomatique, le ſymptomatique doit touſiours eſtre ccj, arreſté, puiſqu'il ne faict qu'affoiblir le malade ſans diminuer la maladie. pour le critique, il eſt ou petit, ou mediocre, ou exceſſif le petit ne doit point eſtre arreſté, au contriare il doit eſtre excité ſi faire ſe peut en grattant & frottant le nez,& en y mettant dedans quelque paille ou quelque plume afin d'irri- remedes, de ter les veines & les ouurir, au mediocre, il ne faut rien faire. l'exceſſifimmoderé pour empeſcher qu'il d # n'oſte les forcès & la vie toute enſemble doit eſtre promptement arreſté,veu qu'il prend la qualité & la gie exceſſiue. # # condition du ſymptomatique.il faut donc en premier lieu, tirer vn peu de ſang, & à diuerſes fois des propriei# " bras pour ſeruir de reuulſion.en apres il faut ſe ſeruir de remedes aſtringens & glutinatifs pour appliquer ſur le front & ſur les temples, dilayant auec de l'eau roſe & vinaigre & vn blanc d'œuf, du plaſtre , du poil de liévre, & du bol armene ; on met dans les narines quelques poudres adſtringentes , ou du cotton trempé en quelque decoction adſtringente. on met alentour du malade des § trempez en oxycrat , meſme ſi le flux eſt grandement exceſſif, on luy enueloppe tout le corps en pareils lin- ges, on en met pareillement ſur la bource des teſticules. on oſte le malade de deſſus la plume & le • met-on ſur la paille. on luy applique des ventouſes ſur la region du foye, on luy frotte l'eſpine & les lombes de cerat de galien rafraiſchiſſant, d'oxyrhodin , ou de mucilage de ſemence de pſyllium tirée auec l'eau de pourpié. on luy donne à boire de l'oxycrat auec le bol armene & la terre ſigillée. on luy prend au col du coral rouge, & du iafpe que l'on croit auoir la force d'arreſter toutes ſortes de flux de ſang. - | des du traicté des fiévres. : : e-• •-•r • •- des ſymptomes des fiévres qui appartiennent à la ſimple affection du corps: et premierement de la iauniſſe. c h a p t r e xxv. - - - ， $)# # $ # foye, ou de l'obſtruction du conduit cholidoque, par lequel la bile a accouſtumé de ſe jauniſſe. deſcharger dans les boyaux pour les irrirer à l'excretion des excremens. lors donc que ce conduit & paſſage eſt eſtouppé, la bile au lieu d'aller aux inteſtins ſe porte dans les grandes veines, & des grandes aux petites , & des petites dans toute la ſuperficie & ha- noiſtre, ſi cét accident quand il ſuruient aux à des exemples ſi contraires entre eux, qu'il eſt difficille d'en tirer quelque reigle aſſeurée. au reſte ſi la iauniſſe vient de l'inflammation du foye, elle n'a point d'autres remedes que ceux que l'on fait à § iauniſſe. l'inflammation. quand elle vient d'obſtruction, il faut ſe ſeruir des medicamens qui deſtoupent & qui ouurent, deſquels nous auons rapporté grand nombre cy-deuant. .. on ſe ſeruira pareiilement de pur- gations frequentes, d'epithemes, de clyſteres, iuleps, † & autres. le corps ayant eſté ainſi , . preparé, lors qu'il ne reſte plus que l'humeur qui eſt eſparſe par la ſuperficie du corps on mettra le #º malade dans le bain d'eau tiede, afin de reſoudre le tout, & remettre le corps à ſa propre couleur. iauniſſe. -- de la ſeichereſſe, noirceur, & autres accidens de la langue.. c h a f t r e xxvi. a v t a nt que la langue a ſa tunique quil'enuelope commune auec toute ſa pouche, pourquoy la # l'œſophage & le ventricule, & qu'elle a de petites veines pat-leſquelles elle a communi langº d - # cation auec les viſceres, il arriue de là que de la couleur de la langue nous iugeons de la # les # diſpoſition des entrailles, & des humeurs qui ſont contenuës dans les veines. .. auſſi # - # voyons nous durant les fiévres que la langue préd diuerſes qualitez & affections ſelon la qualitecde condition , violence, & malignitè de la fiévre. cela arriue volontiers à la langue, pource que les va- la langue peurs qui s'eſleuent de bas en haut lors qu'elles ſont paruenuës iuſques à la langue pour ne pouuoir paſ- # ler ſer outre, & pour trouuer la langue molle & ſpongieuſe, elles s'y attachent & la rendent telle qu'elles " ſont, tantoſt aſpre & rude, tantoſt noire,tantoſt fenduë, tantoſt ſeiche & ainſi des autres. doncques tous ces accidens icy ſont produits par les fumées bruſlées qui s'eſleuent de tout le corps,& font le meſ cauſes dº me effect que les fumées qui s'eſleuent du bois qui bruſle, leſquelles noirciſſent la cheminée & y fót croi- # de ſtre vne ſuye qui la couure comme vne groſſe crouſte or l'aſpreté de la langue venant d'vne grande # ſeichereſſe doit eſtre † par les remedes qui humectent leniſſent & addouciſſent, comme par le ſy-laſpretéé rop violat,de iuiubes,de ſuccre candi,ſuc de regliſſe tenu en labouche. a meſme effect on prepare vn ſeichereſſe de agariſme de decoction d'orge , de racine, & ſemence de guimauues, de ſemence de lin, de fuëilles de la # † de pourpié,de fleurs de violettes auecquelque ſyrop connenable. les meſmes medicamens # ſont bons à la noirceur de la langue, enſemble les frictions que l'on y fait auec vn linge rude, ou auec §u, vne cuilliere d'argent, lauant auſſi la bouche auec verjus, vinaigre, vin blanc,ſyrop aceteux, miel roſat, remedes à ſuc de limons, d'orenge,& autres. quand la langue eſt fendue & comme decouppée en diuers lieux; lº lºgº pour l'addoucir on prepare le mucilage de ſemence de coins & de pſyllium, on la laue auec le laict clair, fenduë. ou meſme auec le laict on fait vn gagariſme de feüilles de laictuë, de pourpié, de plantin,de langue de rimudes chien, ſemence de coins & de pſyllium,auec le miel roſat ou violat,& le fyrop violat. pour les ordures § ordure, qui s'attachent à la langue,aux dents & au palais de la bouche,on les gratte auecvne cuillere d'argent,& de la langus on laue la bouche auec les meſmes remedes cy-deſſus ſpecifiés. -t - - »• a- de la froideur des extremitez du corps. c h a p i t r e xxvi i. v a n d les friſſons & les horreurs des fiévres intermittentes arriuent, ils ſont quel- v# quesfois tellement violens, qu'on eſt contraint d'y apporter quelques remedes. le # # plus ordinaire eſt d'eſchauffer bien le lict des febricitans, les enuelopper de bonnes alai §. ſes chaudes, mettre des linges chauds ſur la poictrine, à l'entour du col, ſur le ventre, malade. #s s$ ſur les genoux, & autres parties c§ on leur faict prendre quelque choſe par abouche, comme deux doigts d'eau de vie, d'eau roſe, de canelle & de ſuccre meſlez enſemble , & infuſez par l'eſpace de vingt-quatre heures. d'autres donnent ſimplement de l'hippocras ou du vin remedes in- d'eſpagne, ou de la theriaque diſſoute dans de bon vin. il y a des fiévres continuës où les malades ont teriº .. § touſiours les extremitez froides : à ceux-cy outre les linges chauds, on faict des douces frictions fºf - aueclinges mollets, on frotte les cuiſſes & les jambes auec huyles d'amandes douces, de camomille, de - lis, de iaſmin,afin de rappeller la chaleur on met dans le lict des bouteilles pleines d'eau tiede à l'entour du febricitant,on luy met des grez chauds au pieds,&à l'entour de luy. quelques-vns les enueloppent auckdes fourrures bien douces & mollettes, qui peu à peu font reuenir la chaleur. c c c c de la qun : a jauniſſe qui apparoiſt aux fiévres aiguës vient ou de l'inflammation & ſcirrhe du cauſ# de la bitude du corps, ce qui le fait† tout iaune. or ilya grande difficultè de recon- launiſſe cri- évres aiguës eſt critique ou ſymptomatique. hippocrate ! iqueé ſym- - ptomatique. remedes de • abeilles chaſées par les araignées. d e s m a t ier es, e t c h o s e s n o t a b l es conte n v es e s oe vv r e s d e m. a m b r o is e p a r e', | . conſeiller, & premier chirurgien du roy. . a § aage,diuisé en quatre. ibid.b aage, d'enfance comparé au printemps. ibid. ſeiche de ſon propre tempe- en?. l o # aage viril,comparé a l'au- f / '. ibid. ºge,auquel les hommes ſont appellez, lenes. ibid. *ºgº, caduc que froide & ſeiche, melancholique,fſ. cheuſe, & deſ?ite, combien dure. ibid.b aage ºr » pºur engendrer l'humeur ſanguin, quel i l. - º-aºge connexe des choſes naturelles. .a " age monſlre la maniere de viure. i . c chacun aage porte ſon indication. . " ºge, demonſtre les humeurs en l'homme. o.b abeilles, leurs naturels. .d cºmment enſeueliſſent leur roy. ibid. abeilles de leur picqueure, cauſent grande douleur. .b - remedient à leur venin. ibid. abeilles en graºd nombre , peuuent tuer vn homme. ibid. - ibid.d ablution de tout le corpſ, en temps de peſte. . abondance de viandes ſant ſaturité,& ſatieté. .a abouchement des veines,& arteres. .b abouchement notables,des veines mammilaires auec les epigaſtriques. .b abſcez , & le moyen de connoiſtre l'inondation en i- c x . .c és abſcez , comme ſe doit faire l'apertion, & choſes à conſiderer. ibid. abracadabra, mot pour guerir de la fiévre, .c abſinthe,& ſa decoction pour tuer les vers. ſb abſinthe,lauande,& c.bonnes pour roborer goutte#froi- des. º ſc abſinthe, origan, camomille, & c.boüillis pour # mede ſont bons. o. abſinthe,thanaſie,rue,& c.bonnes contre les vers. ſ c abſ#the » & noix de galle, pour faire baing, à faire •! mourir les vers. - ibid. abſinthe, fiel de bœuf, & c. pour faire cataplaſme con- tre les vers. - ibid. ' l'abſinthe,& feuilles de peſcher, propres contre le vers aſcarides. / ibid. abu d'vn enchanteur manifeſté à tous les aſſiſtans. .d abus de pluſieurs breuets, ſornettes, & ſotteries, pour guerir les maladies. . b accident incurable quel. .d accidents, qui ſuiuent les playes de teſte dangereux, quels. .c quand aduiennent. . accidents, qui aduiennent par trop lier, & ſerrer les | parties du corps. - , .b acetabules, ou cotyleàons. .a acetabulum. .b l'acier ne reçoit la trempe en ſa ſubſtance interieure, & pourquoy. .c acone, village des periandins. o .b dont l'aconi a prins ſon nom. ibid. aconit, autrement dict luparia, ou vulparia, & pour- quoy. / .. canſe perturbation d'eſprit. ibid. faict venir les larmes aux yeux, cauſe peſanteur d'eſtomach. ibid. venin auſſi dangereux que de la salemandre. .c en abondance és montaignes de trente. o .b son principal antidote. ibid. sa figure, & deſcription. ibid. acorus vulgaris, ou prins. o . l'accouchement doit eftre gardée tl'air froid. o.b l'accouchée, ne doit alaicter ſon enfant, que quatre iours apres ſa natiuité. o .a lieux commodes pour accoucher. .d atcrochordon, eſpece de verrue aduenantes au col de la matrice. o.b ' ea corochordon verrué pendante & ſa cure .c · acromion faict de l'eſpine. i .c . qut c'eſt. ibid. .d #.. acte venerien abiett,& immonde. i o i . · action, ou operation que c'est. # f ſl• 'attion, & œuure different. - actiºn principale diuisée en trois, & ſes differences .b - cc cc toute table des matieres. - •aflembics de verre, & leur figure. ibid. alexandre le grand,ſon viſage & naturel. i. . alexandrin, & roſat,ſynonymeſ. .d alexitaire tres-bon contre la peffe,quel. .d alexitaires de deux ſortes. ' .c alexitaire & ſa quantité. ibid.d alexitaire des enfans qui tettent. , .a aliment que c'eſt. • o .c aliment & medicament en quoy different. ibid. en quoy conſiſte la bonté ou malice de l'aliment. .c alimentum qu'eſt-ce ſelon galien. . alimens quel, pour garderſanté. i. c alimens doiuent eſtre plus grand en hyuerqu'en eſté. o.b alkermés graine d'eſcarlatte,reſioiiit le cœur. .a alkermes, & confettion a'iceluy, bons contre la peſte. j .c . . allantoide. .b eallemans, quels .b allemans inuenteurs de canonnerie & imprimerie. ibid.c eallemans vuident leur differens par le duel ibid. allemans, reiſtres, auallent la poudre à canon pour medecine. .b alces , bon contre les vins. .c aloës & autres choſes ameres,appliquées ſurla teſte des ſangſues,les font quitter. o .a aloes poiſſon monſtreux, & ſon pourtraitt. .b aloe, magiſtrat de bretagne. .a l'aloetit craint l'eſmerillon & l'eſperuier .d alopecie, ſes cauſes & cure. .b alopecte ditte pelade ou cheute de poil. ibid. | signe de ladrerie. .a alopecie ſe guarit en allant en bauiere. .c alopecie venant de vieilleſſe fiévre hettique,ou bruſ- leure,& c.incurable. ibid. alopex regnard. . alphitidon. .b alteration & ſoifd'où cauſée aux filles. . a alteration ſubite, de quoy faicte. o.b alteration de l'humeur veneneux comment faiéle és morſures. .c alueoles, cauitez des dents. .c alum cuit propres aux chairs ſpongieuſes. o . singuliers ſur tous cicatriſatif . .d alum & vitricl, cicatriſent. .b aluine hachée,& miſe ſur vnepaelle chaude, appli- quée entre deux linges, propre aux meurtriſſeures. .b aluine, la rhué, & le laict, bons contre le ſpaſme o b amarry , & ſa ſituation. .c. d l' amarry, combien a de cellules. .a fauſſes opinions ſur ce. .c marry,mere nourrice de la ſemence receue. .b precipitation d'amarry,que c'eſt. .a cure d'icelle. ai ibid.c suffocatiö d'iceluy, que c'eſt, & ſes cauſes & ſignes. o .b - reſiccation d'iceluy,& dequºy cauſe. .d ambiſſadeurs des gueux,voyageurs. .a ambi inſtrument propre a reduire l'eſpaule,& deſcri- ption d'iceluy. ,a eaſme,& ſa definition. .b,c l'ame pourquoy ainſi appellée. .b pourquoy dite eſprit & raiſon. ibid. et pensée,ſens& courage. ibid. l'ame & l'eſprit en quoy differents. .d l'ame eſt l'entelechie. ibid.a l'ans eſt creée de dieu i .c. . l'ame eſt inuiſible & incorporée. .b l'ame impaſſible,ſelon ariſtote. .d lame, inſpiration de l'eſprit diuin, diſtingue l'homme des beſtes. .b l'ame n'eſt point à l'enfant qu'il ne ſoit entierement ormé. .b l'ame raiſonnable eſt en l'enfantauſoixantieſme iour. bid. l'ame a trois facultez. .c vnies en vne. - . l'ame ne peut faire ſi toſt ſes fonctions. j .c l'ame deſtituée d'arts. . l'ame n'eſt non plus grande en vn corps qu'en l'aure. .c l'ame intellectuelle donne aux hommes laratiocination & connoiſſance. ibid. l'ame de l homme,& ſon excellence. .d emporte les perfections des autres. j .c surpaſſe celle des beſtes & plantes. .d l'ame a le corps pour ſon logis. .c eſt la perfection d'iceluy. j .c l'ame bonne contemne les choſes elementairer,& priſe les celeſtes. j . l'ame ſenſitiue donne aux beſtesſentiment & mouue- w '//t, ibid.d l'ame vegetatiue donne vie aux plantes, & les faict croiſtre. .d l'ame des plantes de moindre vertu & plus impar- faicte que celle des beſtes. ibid. paſſions de l'ame comment cogneues. .d ameriquains mangent chair humaine. . #" leurs enfans dans le ſang de leurs ennemis. ibid. amertume n'eſt propre és gargariſmes. .b amitié extreme des beſtes enuers leurs faons, . . amnios. .b amnios,premiere tunique. ibid. ibid.c membrane prochaine du fœtus. amnios & chorion,membranes liées enſembles, enui- ronnent le fœtus. ibid. amnios, ou agnelette,ſecond tunique, enueloppant la ſemence. i.a amphibies. . j . amphibliſtroide, ou retiforme. i . amphitheatre de diocletian,& ce que l'onfaiſoit en la dedicace d'iceluy. - io.c ampoulles & veſſies,comme faites. .c ampoulles dans la matrice, comment ſe font, & que c'eſt .c.d ampoulle premiere où le foye ſe ſiege. ibid. ampoulie deuxieſme, ou le cœur prend ſa forme. ibid. ampoulle troiſieſme, où la teſte ſeforme. ibid. amputation des membres,dernier remede. o .c comment doit eſtre faicte. .d ce qu'il faut faire auant icelle. ibid. se doit faire promptement. ibid. amputation d'vn bras mortifié. o . amputation à la iambe & au bras,doit eſtre faicte au contraire. of.d amygdales. . leurs cauſes, ſignes,& vſage. .d cure d'icelles. ibid. anabroſis. o . anaſarca, ou leucophlegmatica,'eſpece d'hydropiſie. .d anaftomoſe que c'eſt. .a anaſtomoſis. o . anatomie & ſa definition. .c cc cc anate table des matieres. anatomie neceſſaire au chirurgien. o .a qaatre vtilite (principales d'icelle. .c que ſert ſa connoiſſance. .b analomie premier fondement de la medecine. .c l'ordre que ſuit l'autheur en ſon anatomie. .b eancyle,ou ancyloſtº. l ,c andré theuet,& ſon teſmoignage de la mumie. .b experience d'iceluy. .b androgyne en grec ſignifie homme & femme. .b andura,ou hoga,poiſſon monſtreux. .a aneuriſme & ſa definition. .a ses cauſes & ſignes. ibid. moyen de lesguarirpar operation mannelle. ibid.b aneuriſme cauſe de gangrene. o .b,c aneuriſme causéparcicatrice autour de l'artere. o.é és aneuriſmes on ſent vne pulſation, quelquesfois ſont auſſi ſans pulſation. b ' les anges cree (de dieu pour citoyens du ciel. c.d sans corps. ibid. anges ſeront enuoyez pour recueillir les eſleus. ibid. anglois vuidoient leurs differens parle duel. . anguilles peuuent eſtre appriuoisées. .c eanimal ſanguinſroid,a plus de graiſſe. .d chaque eanimal a enuie de perpetuer ſa race. .b nul e animal deſgarny des eſprits fixes, & de la cha- leur naturelle,ne peut viure. .d eanimal mangeant choſe veneneuſe,porte quelque nui- ſance. .d animalreſſemblant vn scorpion, trouué au cerueau d'vn italien apres ſa mort. .b animal ſorty d'vne apoſteme de la cuiſſe d'vn ieune homme. ibid.c animal merueilleux nay d'vne femme. .c eanimal ietté par la verge, quel. ibid. animal petit,& malaisé de ſes membres en egypte, qui eſt la mort. du genre humain. .d animal naiſſant ét indes,dont la corne eſt ſouueraine contre tous venins. o.d canimalterreſtre,au cap de bonne eſperance, qui ſe plaiſt en la mer,ennemy des elephans. i.a les eanimaux ont reçeu quelque choſe de particulier de dieu. .d les animaux craignent l'homme & luy ſont ſubietts. j . - pourquoy la raiſon ne leur a eſté donnée ibid. leur proprieté. .a leur artifice. - i. animaux, les vns ſont hardis,les autres timides. .a tous animaux taſchent à entretenir leur vie & leur corps. . en quels temps s'accouplent. ibid. les eanimaux ont certain temps à porter leurs petits. .d eanimaux ſoigneux de leurs petits, & en quel temps plus furieux. . eanimaux , tant terreſtres qu'aquatiques , donnent cognoiſſance aux hommes des mutations des temps. .c - eanimaux de pluſieurs ſortes preſageans la peſte ſur la terre. - .b eanimaux veneneux ne ſont ſeulement ſur la terre. mats dans la mer. joi.c quels animaux n'ont qn'vn boyau tout droit. id eanimaux de toutes ſortes veu à rome és ſpectacles faits par gordian. i o.c eanneau ou glandule. i.c eannée diuisée en quatre ſaiſons. i o. c chacune d'icelles requiert ſon medicament. .c •anodyns, & leurs differences. .d. vſage d'iceux. ibid. anodyns de deux ſortes, fort proprer. ibid. tons medicamens qui curent les maladies ſont ane- dyns. tous anodyns,quelle faculté ont. o.a anthes,& ſcares poiſſons ſe courent l'vn l'auire. .c anthrax. c anticnemion. i .c antidotes de diuerſes ſortes contre le venin. .a antidote principal de lapeſte,eſt conuerſion & aman- dement de vie. .c l'antimoine produit des effects merueilleux. .a antimoine eſt ſingulier contre les venins. .d armoiſe bonne contre la peſte. . antiochus premier mena en bataille les elephans con- tre les romains. .d antoine mizauld,homme de grande recherche & tru- dition. - .c aorta,ariere ainſi nommée. .c aphoriſme,que c'eſt. aphoriſme d'hippocrate appartenäs à lachirurgie.ib. aphthée,maladie familiere aux petits enfans. o.d apium riſus, on ſardonia, rend les hommes inſenſez. o .d apochema. - .b apollo,inuenteur de la medecine. .b apollonius, excellent en la ſcience de contrefaire toutes voix de beſte. ". . reſponſe ſubtile d'iceluy. i . apolºgie & traitté contenant les voyages del'autheur en diuers lieux. a apophlegmatiſmes. uoyez maſticatoires. apophyſe,que c'eſt. i i. apophyſe vermiformis. o.d que c'eſt,& pourquoy ainſi dite, & l'vtilité d'icelle. ibid. apophyſes pterygoides. o .b apophyſes clynoides, & leur definition. .a. .a apophyſes droites des vertebes du col, .b apophyſes obliques. bid. apophyſes mammillaires du cerueau. i i o. eapºphyſes du thorax ne different de celles du col. i ap§ſes & epiphyſes ſont part ies del'eſpine. .d signes des ſeules apophyſes rompues. o. apoplectiques,pourquoy meurent. .b apoplexie & paralyſie different. .b apoplexie & epilepſie,en quoy different. .b eapoſpaſma. o . apoſteme, ſa definition & differences. .b eapoſteme n'eſt fait iamais de pur & ſimple humeur. .c apoſteme ſe peut faire au cerueau, contre l'opinion d'aucuns. ' eapoſteme peſtiferé appellé bubon, ou boſſe. .a sa cure. - ibid.h signes d'apoſteme peſtiferé, ibid. quand la boue eſt faicte en i eluy. . apoſteme de la groſſeur d'vn œufcrachée par vn ieune garçon. .c apoftemes & leur prognoſtic general. .b apoſtemer, & toutes leurs cauſes,ſe rapportent à trois. .b trois choſes à obſeruer en leur curation. .b apoſtemes qui ſefont au foye.c leurs cauſes. o .a apoſtemes,difficiles à guarir,quelles. .b apoſtemes ont leur paroxiſme conforme à l'humeur dont ſont engendrées. i .c apoſtemes & tumeur d'où dependant. .b en icelle le ſang doit eſtre rettifié. ibid. apoſtemes ne doiuent eſtre ouuerte deuant la parfaicte r ſuppnra table des matieres à - ſuppuration, j . signes par leſquels le chirurgien connoiſt comment l'a- poſteme ſe termine & reſoult. .d qui ſont celles qui doinent eſtre ouuertes auant la- ditte parfaicte ſuppuration & comment. .c apoſtemes & fiévres putrides en tsmps de peſte ſe tournent en icelle. .a apoſtemes & luxations peuuent aduenr aupetits en- fans au ventre de leur mere. . apostemeſ aduenuës aux petits enfans non purgées à ſuffiſance, malaisées aguarir. . apoſtemes en sarragoce d'arragon durent vn an. .b és apoſtemes ſe treuuent des corps bien eſtranges, & quels. - . l'apothicaire doit ſçauoir l'anatomie, .a l'apothicaire ignare fruftre ſouuent l'experience du chirurgien & medecin. ibid. tou apothicaires ſe diſent auoir de la licorne. .d caution touchant l'auarice des apothicaires. .a appendices glanduloſae. .b appetit canum. · .. .b appetit corrompu & depraué où giſt és filles & cure d'iceluy. .a appetit depraué des femmes groſſes quand aduient. .d. .a appetit plu grand en hyuer qu'en eſté. o .a application indeue de repercuſſifs & reſolutifs cauſe de nœuds. .b arabes quels. .b les arabes inciſent les arbres d'encens & les ſophiſti- quent auec reſine. .b l'araignée,ſerpent & crapaut ont inimitiéiurée. .d araignées & leur artifice en faiſant leur toille. .c .c araignées comment prennent les mouſches. ibid. araignées de pluſieurs eſpeces. .c raignées ayans la bouche au milieu du ventre. ibid. »araignées en italie fort venimeuſes en eſté. .a araignées nommées rhagion quelles. .c arbre priué de ſes fleurs est ſterile. o.a arbres frutctiers portans froment. o .d arcabuto premier chirurgien à rome. .b lapidé au camp de mars. - ibid archers iadis mis és batailles à la premiere pointe, comme ores les arquebuſiers. architecte diuin de grande prouidence. i i.g ardeur du corps, ponctiis ſignes de ladrerie. . .d eareſtes attachées à la gorge,& les moyens de les oſter .c argemon , que c'eſt. .d argent & or, amoureux du plomb. .b argent vif pourquoy ainſi nommé o .a l'argent vif eſt extremement froid. ibid. chaud au dedans, & froid au dehors , ſelon para- celſe , veneneux, ſelon aucuns. ibid.b.c argent vif de deux eſpeces. oo.c ſigne quand il eſt bon. .b . où ſe treuue. o ° argent vifmeilleur de tou, eſt le plu clair ſubtil & blanc. ibid.b comment eſleu, preparé, & mixtionné. . moyen de le bien eſteindre. - ibid. argent vifeft faitt de plomb, & autre matiere froide. o .b. o .a eargent vifeſtpurifié en bouillant auec du vinaigre. ibid.c argent vif, ſouuerain contre l'iliaque paſſion, auatlé auec eau ſimple. o.b faict mourir les poux. o .b ordonnépour la rogne & tigne. ibid. º, - bon pour les vlceres & chancret. - ibide »argent vif, dernier remede aux femmes qui ne peu- nent accoucher. ibid. furet de la verole, . mray antidote d'icelle, ibid. pourquoy appelle furet par l'autheur. · ibid. l'argent vif a les actions & vertus du gaiac. .b argër viffait mourir vn ſinge pour en auoir beu. o « auallé ſans aucune leſion. ibid. ariſtoloche longue, ordonnée contre l'aconit, jo .b ariftomachus a nourry cinquante-huict ans des mou- ches à miel. - .a. ariu peripatetitu mort ſubitement, de boire de l'eau froide. .d armées eſpouuantées par vn lievre,& par des char- dans. , .rz armées apperceuës au ciel. oe.c armoiſegrandement louée des anciens contre la morſu- re des ſerpenr. . .b · maniere de tirer l'eſſence de tous aromates. .as aron, herbe ſauuage propre aux ours pour amollir le q/ / fy '. . c arriere-faix, ou chorion,en quel temps faict & formé. « o.b - ses noms diuers. b .d l'arriere.faix doit eſtre ſubit oſté apres l'enfantement oo.b. o .b l'arriere-faix ne doit eſtre rudement tiré. · ibid. l'arriere-faix empeſché de ſortir,& les cauſes, oo.b arſenac de paris bruſlé de poudre à canon. .b arſenic, c'eſt chaux viue, ou orpiment. o .c arſenic, ou venin, apposé ſur la region du cœur, pre- ſerue de la peſte ſelon aucuns. .b art, chacun art a ſa maniere de parler. .d l'art & maniere de viure pourquoy à cvnſfderer. d artere & ſa definition.. ſa origine d'icelle, & diuſion du ramean deſcendant ' " aux parties naturelles, .c sa diuiſion. | . o i. artere intercoſtale, mammillaire,ceruicale, muſculeu- ſe, humorale. ibid. artere veineuſe & arterieuſe, & diſtribution d'icellei. .d. e artere axillaire & ſ diſtribution. -d artere muſculeuſe, quelle. ibid. artere veineuſe a pris nature de veine , & pourquoy. .b.c artere accompagnée de veine comme s'entend, oº a l'artere qui eſt ſous la baſilique, ne doit eſtre touchée en ſaignant. i. l'artere contient vn ſang plu ſubtil que laveine. .b l'artere ouuerte auec la lancette, n'eſt non plus dan- gereuſe que la veine. o.a l'artere ouuerte par l'authour au prince de la roche- ſur ron, pour la migraine. o.a ariere ne s'arreſte iamais à la veine en quel endroit du corps. - o.d signes que la grande eartcre & veine caue ſºnt vulnerées. o.d tºouls de l'artere ne ſe peut empeſcher. i .c earteres, leur declaration & figure. • io .c source d'icelles ou giſt. .b. .d deux earteres emulgentes produites par nature. .b earteres coronales du cœur, & leur diuiſſon. o . les arteres ne ſont iamais ſans veines. . l oi.c arteres ſont en perpetuel mouuement. .d lequel eſt changé par les paſſions de l'ame,& le mou- uement du cœur. - ' , » r, , .c arteres comment ſe iettent dans les parties du cºrpº. i o. - - cc c c , - arttres table des matieres. vtilitez d'iceux. .b les bains ſont profitables aux inflammations des poul- / j. ibid. conſiderations pour bien vſer des baings. .a vſage des baings chauds & froid . .a baings pour les hettiques quels. jj.a baing & fomentations pour la colique & matiere d'i- c ' .x'. .b baings hypocauſtes propres aux coleriques. i. baings contre les vers. .c baings pourfemmes accouchées. .d baings ſudorifiques aydent à couler les mois. .b baings & purgation pour les flux muliebres. o.c baings & demy baings vtiles pour diſſiper vrine. .c baings relaxatifs anodyns deterſifs dequoy faits. .c baingr propres pour les femmes quel . .d demy-baing, ou inciſion ou ſemicupium que c'eſt. .d matiere & vſage d'iceux. .a ſe baigner dans la mer n'eſt remede certain contre la rage. .c balanus. r .b voye de l'vrine. .c balbutier que c'eſt. , .b balde iuriſconſulte mordu de ſon chien enragé,mourut furieux & enragé. .d baleine & ſa deſcription. .d. . sa figure, comme departie à eeux qui la prennent. ibid son cri entendu d'vne lieue. .d la baleine ſuit volontiers le poiſſon gouuerneur. .c baleine d'autre eſpece & couleur que la grande & ſa deſcription. o. vne baleine morte & pourrie cauſe lapeſte à la toſca- . .c balle d'arquebuſe demeurant par l'eſpace de dix ans dans la chairſans faire nuiſance. o . la balle comment doit eſtre tirée des playes. . .c balle de cire perçant vn bois de l'eſpeſſeur de demy doigt. .a balle de plomb frottée de vif argent auallée par vna- ant la colique. o. balle & differences de leurs matieres. .c balles a'arquebuſe demeurant ſouuent au corps long- temps. o.c les balles ne peuuent eſtre empoiſonnéeſ. . les balles ont plus de force contre choſes dures que mol- les. .a baluſtre fleur de grenade. .b bandage pour les playes. - .c bandge feneſtré ne vaut rien. & ba»dage du genoüil comment faict. .a bazdage des vlceres & par qui inuenté. .c bandage de la cuiſe apres la reduction. . .a bandages quels pour la cuiſſe. - .d bandages de la face comment doiuent eſtre attachez. .a.b - banaages des fractures & luxations en quels temps ſe doiuent deſlier. - .a tes bandages ſe laſchent de . iours iuſques au . vtilité des bandages. - ibid.d . /l faut humecter les bandages. .d ce qu'il faut obſeruer aux bandages pour les fra- čtures auec playes. . bande nombrillere. .d trois bandes neceſſirer aux fractures. .b la bande doit commencer au fonds du ſinus. .d la bande doit tſtre amenée du lieu au quel l'os eſt tom- bé. .b la b ande doit eſtre ſerrée moderément. . .c les b»ndes ſont de deux especer, , , , .b de toileforte & non rude. m a• • • • .c bandes àfaire ligatures,differentes entr'elles. .b conditions requiſes en bonne bande. .b llfaut bauder les parties en la figure qu'on les veut laiſſer. ibid. barbes differentes de l'homme à la femme. i . pourquoy nature en a mis à la face. ibid. barbiers & apothicaires font ſouuent ouurir le ciel par leur imperitie. .d bartholomeus magius medecin boulonnois. .b baſilic & ſa figure. - . baſilic nommé roy des ſerpens. ,c baſilic le plus venimeux entre tous les ſerpens. ibid. le baſilic par ſon ſeul regard & cri fait mourir les hom- mtº. . .a le baſilic tué toutes beſtes veneneuſes demeurant au- pres de luy. ibid. & .c le bºſilic regardé attentiuement quel mal en aduient. ibid. le baſilic apres ſa mort a des grandes vertus. ibid. le baſilicfait mourir les herbes & arbres par où il grat- te.. ibid. baſilic acheté par ceux de pergame pour mettre au temple a'appolon & pourquoy. ibid.d par le baſilic les oiſeaux ſont engardés de faire leur nid & les araignées leur toile. ' ibid. pourſouuent ſentir le baſilic,eſt engendré vn ſcor- pion au cerueau. i.c baſilic broyé entre deux pierres & exposé au soleil, d'iceluy naiſtra vn ſcorpion. ibid. bºſilicon liquefié en huyle eſt propre aux playes. .b d'arquebuſe. .c baſilic, eſpece d'artillerie. .d. baſtarde, eſpece d'artillerie. ibid. barrachium en grec,& ranula en latin,eſt vne apo- ſteme ſous la langue. .b eautrement ranunculus. .c battement de cœur, & la cauſe & cure d'iceluy. .c baue des animaux de qualité contraire à noſtre nature. | .b beaume & la maniere de le faire. .d beaume artificiel de l'autheur. .d excellent aux playes des nerfs & des iointiures. . .a - beaume naturel a chacune partie. .d bec de liévre, espece de maladie & ſymptome. .a - ue c'eſt, & comment reduit. .d bec de cane,& ſa figure. . bec de cane caué pour tirer la pierre, & ſafigure. o .c bec de corbin dentelé,& ſa figure. , .c autre pour rompre la pierre en la veſſie. o .d bec de corbin a'autre facon. io. bec de grué,droit,& ſa figure. . bec de corbin propre à tirer les fleches des os. .b bec de grue cauldé,& ſa figure. . c bec de perroquet, espece de tenailles, & ſa figure. .a bec de lezard, eſpece de tire-balle , & ſa figure. .b la bellette ennemie mortelle du baſilic, . a autant de force contre iceluy, que le baſilic contre les hommes, ibid. la belette mange du tapſus barbatut pour ſa guariſon. . - la belette faiſant guerre à l'aſpic , s'arme de rue .d - la belette & les rats ennemis. . beliers ". table des matieres. beliers s'entrechoquans , preſagent changement de temps. - o.b bernard l'ermite,poiſſon,& ſon pourtraict, .b ou ſe troune, & figure de ſa coquille. ibid. , beſides pour redreſſer la veue & leur figure. .b,c les beſtes creées pour ſeruir l'homme. .d beſtes brutes monſtrent pluſieurs choſes aux hommes, fuyent le mal, & preſagent le beau & mauuais temps. - .b. o.b douées de certaines vertus naturelles. ibid. les beſtes ont l'ame ſenſitiue. .c beſtès brutes differentes grandemens les vnes des au- fr 'j. .b ont guerre perpetuelle entr'elles . les beſtes ſentent & monſtrent le changement des temps. .b sont dociles o. a s'entendent l'vne l'autre en leur eſpece. | .c les beſtes connoiſſent la medecine de nature. .c ont enſeigné aux hommes pluſieurs remedes. .c les beſtes ne ſont tant miſerables que les hommes. .d - les beſies ont vne ſympathie & antipatie entr'elles. ibid.c les beſtes n'ont iugement aſſeuré. .a beſtes en general ayment ce qu'elles engenàrent. . les beſtes peuuent eſtre appriuoisées. .d ont leurs armenres naturelles. .b beſtes à quatre pieds ſuiettes à la peſte venant de la f rre. b les beſtes n'ont connoiſſance de dieu. .d beſtes # de leurs trous & cauernes,que ſignifient. j i . - beſtes ſauuages fortferieuſes,quand demandent à s'ac- coupler. .c beſtes abhorrent le coit apres leur conception,& pour- quoy. ibid beſtes veneneuſes. .a beſies veneneuſes eſtimées eſprits de dieu en calicut. .b voye ( animaux. les beſtes ne tuent ſeulement par leurs morſures ou pi- queures. .a beſtes inſettes,que c'eſt. .d bezahar,que c'eſt,& ce que ſignifie. .a où ſe trouue. ibid. bezahar de l'apium riſua,eſt le ſuc de meliſſe. o .a du napellu, quel. ibid. b deſcription du bezahar,vſage,& le moyen de le con- noiſtre. jo . bezar,ou pa (ar pierre creée en vn bouc és indes,& ſa deſcription, ibid.b biarris pres bayonne,où ſe prennent les baleines, & c / / f. - , .d biches font leurs petits pres des chemins, & pourquoy. . - -- bievre, beſte amphibie. .c bile,& ſes ſignes. " ! # bile,cauſe de la fiévre tierce. o.c bilieux ſuiets a la diſſipation d'esprits. : .a bilis flaua,c'eſt à dire cholere iaune. i i , c bis pueri ſenes. - ic, biſtoire lancette courbée. .b leur figure. bid. bitume, que c'eſt. . c bize. a , o. d blanc & rouge font la couleur belle. o. c bleſſeure de monſieur de martigues à hedin, & diſcours ſur icelle. . c. & .b bleſſeures enuenimées, quelles. .s bleſſez doiuent euiter les femmes. c .d bleſſez meurent pluſtoſt en hyuer,qu'en eſté,& pour- quay. o.a bleſſe (de balles,comment doiuent eſtre ſituez pour les extraire. .d boete nommée de grecs cotyle,des latins acetabu- lum. .b bœufs ſe leſchans à contre-poil,demonſtrent change- ment de temps. o.b bœuf & moutons mangeans des bupreſtes deuiennent gros & enflés. o .b boire & manger. i. c ordre d'iceux. . boire & manger,neceſſaires apresl'air. .b boire,contraire aux goutes. .d boire à grands traicts, bon pour eſtancher la ſoif. $ .c le boire des femmes qui ont par trop le flux de ſang, quel. .b incommoditez de trop boire. .d bota,racines,eſcorces,coquilles de mer,ou graines,com- ment ſe doiuent diſtiller. .a bois couppez en pleine lune, ſont ſuiets à pourriture. .b les boueux engendrent des boiteux le plus ſouuent . j bol d'armenie,& la terre ſigillée ont grande vertu con- tre la peſte. - .b bombarde. .d bombus, que c'eſt. .d bombus, ou bourdonnement,d'où causé. .as bonnet dccuir fait au laquais de monſieur de coulai- ne, ayant perdupartie du crane. .d borborygmes, que c'eſt. .c bord, lévre ou ſourcil, vnis auec l'os par ſymphyſe i . - borgnes viſent mieux, & voyent plus loing que ceux qui ont deux yeux. i i . boſſe, que c'eſt. . e boſſe,nom de peſte. .c baſſe & charbon different. .a boffe & charbons ſuruenans aux petits enfans , com- ment cure k. . .c la boſſe ſe doit tenir long temps ouuerte. .d bºſſe ſur le dos du batrole comme celle d'vn chameau. i . a boſſes & charbons rarement ſont ſans fiévre. .d boſſes & charbons apparoiſſans deuant la fiévre.eſt meilleure qu'apres. . boſſes & charbons qui ſe deſſeichent & ſe retirent trop toſi,c'eſt ſigne de mort. ibid. boſſes & charbons de couleur verte, noire, ou violette, mortels. - i -# boſſus engendrent boſſus aucunefois. . boſſu ont volontiers l'haleine puante. .c batallus, & opinion d'iceluy ſur le paſſage du ſang du dextre ventricule au ſeneſtre. .c botines, l'vne ouuerte, & l'autre cloſe, & leur figure .b botryon,que c'est. .d bouc appellé pazin. c .a. bouc nonrri en ſa maiſon en temps de peſte eſt bon, cº p ourquoy. . bocquin, pourquoy ainſi dit. .b nom de bonche, qu'emporte. .b la bouche rendue tortue,par trop ſerrer les playes des ioues & lévres. .b flux de bouche violent doit eſtre moderé. .d remedes pour ce. # - moyen table des matieres. ºu # ft ' moyen dont on vſe pour tirer ce qui eſt en la bouche & gorge. .a,b bouchet, ou hippocras d'eau. .a boue en françois, pus en latin, & pyon en grec,ſi- gnifie humeurputride. i. . boué peut eftre euacuée par les vrines. i .c et comment. d boué d'apoſtemes faites au bras ou ratelle, poulmons ou foye, & parties internes,euacuées par les vrines. i . a - boue fetide aux vlceres de la veſſie,& non des reins,& pourquoy. .b ſignes de la boue faite en l'apofteme peftiferé. bouleuers & fortification à la mouelle ſpinale, que c'eſt. .b - - boullet d'artillerie bleſſe ſans toucher, comment. o. c. .a - : la bouillie eſt bonne aux petits enfans. o .a comme ſe doit preparer. ibid. la bonne bouillie doit eſtre faite de farine cuitre. . .d la bouillie ne doit eſtre baillée à l'enfant ſubit qu'il eſt /, - o .a boiiillie bonne contre les vers, .d bouillie contre le flux de ventre. - .d bourde italienne connaincue defaux. ibid. bourdons chaſſez par les mouſches à miel. . bourguignons vuidoient leurs differens par le duel. .b bourſouflement en la partie contuſe , d'où causée. .d ' - - bourſoufleure, que c'eſt, les cauſes & cure d'icelle. .d bous, bœuf .b zbouteille de verre pour tirer le laitt aux femmes. .d bouteilles d'eau miſes dans du bled pour le rendre plus peſant. - .d boutons à la teſte & par tout le corps ſignes de verolle. . boutons de la petite verole comment couppe k. & ſup- • purex. ö.d boyau culier, & de la relaxation d'iceluy. o .d cure d'iceluy. ibid. boyau fait par artifice d'vne cagnardiere feignant auoir le mal s.fiacre. .d boyaux iateſtins ſont ſept fois auſſi longs que le corps. boyaux de brebis propres à faire cordes pour inſtru- mens de muſique. o. és boyaux d'où prouient le bruit grenouillant. . a. f i. a le bras a huict muſcles pour le mouuoir. o b · le bras commençant à l'omoplate, a . or, & com- ment ſituez. i .c le brau fracturé doit demeurer en repos quarante iours. o.d le bras comment doit eſtre tenu apres ſa reduction. ibid. · brau tombé en paralyſie, & pourquoy. .b brau & iambes ſont differens en ſection ou amputa- tion. c f d le bras & iambe ſe bandent de façon toute contraire. .b n . & iambe artificielles, & le moyen de les accom- moder au lieu des couppez. .c bras d'vn pendu attaché au pourpoint d'vn gueux, pourquoy. .c p« artificiel defer, & fgºre d'iceluy. | o.b brebis & moutons à quv ſont bons. o.a,b brebi qui agnela d'vn lyon, choſe monſtrueuſe en na- tt . .c bredouiller, que c'eſt. .b petit breton excellent luiteur. .d occis , & l'ouuerture de ſon corps faite par l'au- theur. a breuets appliquez pour guarir certains maux, ſuper- ſtition. .b briſeure, que c'eſt. .c bronchocele en grec, gouétre en françois, i i.g mot general, dont il y a pluſieurs eſpeces. ibid. bruit faiſant cloq,ſigne de luxation. .c bruſler,en mattere de medicamens,que c'eſt. o.b brufleure profonde n'eſt tant douleureuſe qu'vne ſu- perficielle. - e .b en quoy different. - ibid. remedes diuers pour icelles . " ibid. bruuage de vin diſtillé. . bruuage pour le flux de ventre. .d. bruuage contre la peſte. .a bubon, c'eſt inflammation ou phlegmon des glandulet. .a. .a bubon apparoiſſant deuant la fiévre, eſt bon ſigne. ſ i. . bubons par quelle veine ſont faits. .b bubons veneriques comment curez o.a bubons des enfans,& veneriques,ſont ſouuentſans fié- vre dangereuſe. . bubonocele , ou inguinale , ou hargne incomplette. · .d - - bucefal, cheual d'alexandre, connoiſſoit ſon maiftre .c bugloſſeſauuage, dite viperie, pourqnoy. .c eau de bugloſſe. . . .a # poiſſons volans, ſelon les sauuages,& leur deſcription. .c. .a bulbe ſauuage, ou ephemerum. - o .c bulimos,faim enragée. .b brupreſte,mouſche ſemblable à cantharide. o .b appellée des paſteurs enfle-bœuf ibid. accidens des buprestes,ſemblables à ceux des cantha- rides. ibid. bupreſtis, beſtiole faiſant mourir les bœuf , .c buſtes ſounent cauſe d'auortement. .a butrol, taureau de la floride,animal farouche. .a buzo en italien, trou françoir. .a c achexie,que c'eſt. ' .c cachots, cagots,& capots, ladres blancs en baſſe . bretagne. .d cacochymes de pluſieurs eſpeces. . . cacochymes difficiles à guerir de leurs player ibid. cacochymes & vieux,ſuiets à œdeme. .c faciles à prendre la peſte. .b cacochymes & repletsſuiets aux tumeurs des genouils. o .d cacochymie. .c 'appellée manuais ſang par les grecs. i.c cacochymie,ſource de toutes maladies. ibid. comment corrigée. b. .d dequoy engendrée. , .c caecum inteſtinum. .b caecum foramen. .d cagnardierefeignant auoir vn serpent dans les ventre. o.a - cagnardiere feignant eſtre malade du mal s. fiacre .c autre table des matieres. autre feignant auoir la ma trice tombée. .d calement broyé, & appliqué ſur la morſure du scor- pion, remede contre icelle. . caligula, arreſté aaec ſa galere par vn petit poiſſon. d.c calloſité, que c'eſt. . callu, que c'eſt. o .d de quoy fait. .b comment. .a temps requit en la generation d'iceluy. .b dequoy ſert aux os rompus. . les choſes propres à lefaire. ibid. comment amoindry. . le callu endurcy ne ſe doit rompre. ibid. la maniere de le rompre. ibid. le callu eſtant fait, pourquoy on ne ſçauroit marcher. ibid. signes pour connoiſtre le callu ſe faire. .c callu,ou vnion des os du crane, en combien de iours ſe fait. .c callus és fractures, dequoy fait. o.a callus en combien de temps fait en la mandibule infe- rieure. . en l'os clauiculaire. ibid.d en la fracture du bras. o.d en la fratture de la cuiſſe, . callu comment ſe fait au bras. .b en la iambe en comhien de temps ſe fait. .c et en la fracture du nez. .d le callu & ſa generation , empeſché par reſolutifs. .d - caluaria. o .d cambium, mot barbare. .d cambium ros & gluten, que ſignifient. i . . camphre, & ſes vertus. . d. & .b " camphur, beſte amphibie. i .c sa deſcription. ibid- sa figure. . i .a camphur ſe void en l'iſle de moluque. i i.c sa corne eſt riche & excellente contre le venin, ibid. - canards, cigongnes, herons, paons,& c.mangent beſtes veneneuſes. .d cancellu, poiſſons couuerts de coques. .b naiſſans ſans coquille, & comment ils en prennent u/ '. .c cancer , tumeur reſſemblant à vn cancre de mer. a cancre,eſpece de maladie pourquoy ainſi dite. o .a cancres, & eſºreuiſſes. jo. cancres, beſtes amphibies. . cancri- .b candelettes en langue d'ochen, ſont ſuppoſitoires. i.c canelle, que c'eſt. d chaude au tiers degré, ſelon galien. ibid. bonne pour l'eſtomach. c canelle fortifie les membres, « ibid. propre à eſmouuoir les mois aux femmes. ibid. eau de canelle fouueraine contre toutes maladies froi- des. ibid. preſeruant de la peſte, & contraire aux venins. .d deſcription d'icelle. .a canes & canards, comment ſignifient changement de temps. o.d cannulle, & ſon pourtraitt. .a propre pour la paracenteſe. ibid. cannulle d'argent pour la hargne. i .a cannulle ou reſeruoir d'vrine, dequoy fait. .a sa figure. iéid. cannnlle feneſtrée, & ſon vſage. o.b , sa figure. ibid. cannules de tire fond,& ſa figure. .c cannules propres à coupper les carnoſite (. .d cannules propres pour ſeruir en la playe, l'extratiion de la pierre faite en la veſſie. o .d telles cannules ne doiuent eſtre longuement tenues en la veſſie. o.b cannules & aiguilles propres à faires les ſutures. io.c canon & ſes effects, ſemblables à celuy du foudre. , .b canons & regles chirurgiques de l'autheur. .c canonniere, par qui innentée. . i j.c canonniers ſouuent perdent l'ouie. .b cantharides, quelles. co.a cantharides reſplendiſſantes comme l'or. ibid. de tres-mauuaiſe odeur. ibid. chaudes & ſeiches au quatriéme degré. ibid. ſignes qu'on apris des cantharides par dedans. ibid. les accidens qui en aduiennent. ibid. cantharides ont de merueilleux effects. oo.d cantharides bleſſent la veſſie. .d. b cure des venins des cantharides. oo.b cantharides font tomber les verrues & cors, & com- ent, . capitel & ſa preuue. o.b capitel des cauteres propres aux gangrenes. o . cappel, medecin, homme tres-ſçauant & vertueux. j . .c • capres, comment bonnes pour les peſtiferez. . caputpurgium, louable pour la punaiſie du nez, & dequoy fait. o.c caqueſangue, nom de peſte. .c. .a carboucles. - .a carbunculus, ou anthrax. .b carcheſien, lien. . carie, comment ſe faict és os. o.d comment ſe cauteriſe. . la cheute de la carie de l'os ne doit eſtre oſtée parforce. .b la carie oſtée comment ſe connoiſtra. .d carie du talon,cauſe de grands accidens. o.d incurable. ibid. carnoſité doit eſtre ſoudain guerie. .d cure particuliere d'icelles. i -c carnoſitez doiuent eſtre prousquées à ſaigner. .d carnoſitez calleuſes apres la chaude-piſſe. ibid. mortifications d'icelles. .c signes d'icelles. .c carnoſitez engendrées au conduit de l'vrine apres la chaude-piſſe. .d d'où prouiennent. ibid. signes d'icelles. ibid. . le moyen d'vlcerer les carnoſite (qui ont pris cicatrice. .c - obſeruation touchant la cure des carnoſitez. .d ceux qui ont carnoſitez piſſent fourchu. ibid. caros en grec, que c'eſt. .d carotides. oo.d le carpe ou poignet a ſeize os, .d le carpe a huitt oſſelets. .b carreau de fer, & ſa figure. .b cartilage,vulgairement fourchette. . sa definition & differences. ibid. cartilage ſcutiforme. .b autrement thyroide. ico.d cartilage xiphoide, dit la fourchette. . cartilage enſiforme. i.ſ cartihige - table des matieres. , cartilage bronchique. .a le cartilage tarſus,d'où,comment,& pourquoy a eſté fait. .d le cartilage moins froid & ſec que l'os. o.b cartilage au nex, ſix. . cartilages au larynx ſont trois. .d cartilager d'entre les connexions des os, degenerent en leur ſubſtance, aux hommes deuenus grands. i .c . caſpillypoiſſon au gouffre d'arabie,& ſa deſcription. .a caſſole de fer blanc,& ſon inuention. . vtilitez de la caſſole,quelles. ibid. caſtor diſſout en vin blanc, ou boiiillon de chapon,à quoy propre. .b caſtorée beue auec vin,ouſuc de pauot,remede contre la morſure du baſilic. .c caſtoreum donné à boire en poudre, auec du vin,& be- zahar,à quoy propre. o d caſtoreum doit eſtre adiouſté aux narcotiques. .c catagma. o .b catagma en grec, c'eſt fracture. .b et ſolution de continuité en l'os. ibid.& o.c catagmatiques ſont poudres pour aider à ſeparer les os bid. catalepſie, que c'eſt. .d cataplaſme. .d vſage des cataplaſmes. .a cataplaſme pour l'œdeme. .d pour les tumeurs venteuſes. .c pour le chancre. .a,d • pour les parotides. .d t, pour la putrefaction des gangrenes. o .a pour les carnoſitez. .c cataplaſmes pour les eſcrouèlles. .c •. et /ur le cuir muſculeux fracturé. .d cataplaſine pour les petits enfans, contre les vers. . cataplaſmes pour les accouehées. oo, a cataplaſme appliqué ſur le frôt à faire dormir. .a,b cataplaſme emollient pour la rupture. .c cataplaſme appaiſant la douleur,& aidant à faire deſ- cendre la pierre en la veſſie. o .g cataplaſme de limaçons. ) cataplaſme anodyn. .a maturatifc reſolutif. ibid.b cataplaſmes en quoy different des pulter. ibid. cataplaſines ont ſimilitude auec les emplaſtres. la matiere & compoſition d'iceux. .d leur vſage. a cataplaſme pour le phlegmon. .d stupefactifi,ſuppuratifs. , ， , ibid. cataplaſmes repercuſſifs, reſolutifs,& ansdyns, pour le meſme. .b fueilles de cataputia, & ſa vertu,ſelon aucuns cata- rattes. o.c,d : appellée des grecs hipochyma, autrement dite, , maille en l'œil,ſes cauſes & ſignes. . · ibid.b,c · lieu auquel ſe fait. \ : º : .b la cataracte eſtant formée, le partient void moins le iour qu'au ſoir. i. a cataratte par quelque choſe abbatue. .. . j.c autre maniere d'abbatre les cataractes. r .b en quelle ſituation doit eſtre le malade lors qu'on abbat da cataracte. .b.c) .a l'ail ſain doit eſtre bouché oſtant la cataracte. ibid. ce qu'il faut obſeruer durant & apres l'operation. .c • . \ - ſignes pour connoiſtre ſi la cataracte eſt abbatué. * d aucunes cataractes ſe rompent. ibid. les cataractes ont diuerſes couleurs. o.d ceux qui ont des cataracles qui n'occupent que portion de la pupille,voye choſes fantaſques. ibid. cataractes incurables, qnelles. .d on ne doit toncher aux cataractes, le malade eſtant vexé de toux & vomiſſement. ibid.b.c quel temps on doit eſlire pour abbatre les cataraties. ibid. catherinaire, herbe petum. . catholicum loué pour les goutes. .d cauernes de fourmis, triples , & à quoy deſtinées. ,a caues pour ſe retirer de peur du tonnere. .c cauité digne deſtre bien notée. o .d cauitez manifeſtes trouuées aux grands os. .b cauitez des parties fracturées, doiuent, eſtre remplies pour les rendre égales. - . cauſe de maladie. . , sa definition. ibid. cauſes de chaleur,de tumeurs,de douleur. .a defluxion de l'imbecilité de la partie,de congeſtion. ibid. cauſes ſpecialles des apoſtemes. ibid.b cauſes de vomiſſement en cholique. .c cauſes d'inflammation. .b les cauſes inferieures ne peuuent agir ſans la premiere, qui efl dieu. .a cauteres,& la matiere d'iceux. .c comment illes faut faire. ibid. vtilité & commodité des cauterer. .a. .d cautere pour la racine du poil des paupieres. .b le cautere pour les fiſtules lachymales de quelle figure doit eſtre. .c cautere eſprouué par l'autheur ſu vn de ſes ſerui- f .j's o.k le cautere actuel loué de l'autheurplus que le poten- tiel. .b vtilité du cautere actuel. o.c cautere potentiel ayant guary vne damoiſelle,cr com- // / f. . c cautere auec ſa platine pour ouurir l'empyeme. .a deſcription d'iceluy. ibid. cautere auec la platine pour ouurir le ranula & ſa fi- gure. .c cautere à ſeton. ſ.c cauteres actuels de diuerſe figure. b.c cauteres actu els auec cannule. c du mal qui vient des cauteres actuels. o .a comment il faut bien appliquer iceux cauteres: ibid. cauteres actuels & potentiels. . cauteres actuels pourquoy ſont à propoſer aux poten- ttels. \ ! id. cautures potentiels quels. ibid.b vſage des cauteres potentiels. .c moyen de bienfuire tous cauteres potentiels. , o.d cauteres auec leur cannule pour canteriſer l'vuée. o.k vſage des cauteres pour le nodu. o , auparauant qu'appliquer les cauteresſur le nodu,faut coupper la chair. ibid. cauteres ne doiuent eſtre appliquez aux playes recen- f 'ſ . .b cauteres grandement à louer pour les playes venimeu- ſes. cauteres de velonrs quels. o d ponrquoy ainſi appellez. ihid. cauteres de bois de cheſne prattiquez par l'authenr. ibid. aº , - la matiere des cauteres n'operepas, mais le feu. l, • le ferplus propre pour ladite matiere que l'or ou ddd d l'argent. table des matieres. l'argent. ibid. cauteriſant la carie des os, ce qui s'y doit obſeruer. .a cauteriſation de la pointte du charbon. i.a caution touchant l'auarice des apothicaires. .a caution en eſleuant les eſquilles. .d caution touchant les remedes. .d o .c caution pour les gemeaux. caution touchant l'vſage des anodyns. .c ceinture de drap, oinète de vif argent , auec ſein de porc,tue les poulx. - o .b cellules de l'amarry, & fauſſes opinions d'icelles. . cemetieres,ſont à éuiter en temps de peſte, .c la cendre repreſente la terre. .b la cendre fait tomber les ſang-ſues. . cendres des corps bruſle ( gardées dans des vrnes par les romains. - yº cendres ſulphurées du mont. •aetna, tranſportées iuſ- ques à malthe, & en calabre. o . cendres quelles pour faire tous cauteres. .c cendres de figuiere & de cheſne,dequoy ſeruent. o .d cendres de féves,ſingulieres pour la pierre. o .a cendres de cheſne de bois vieil, eſt chaude en quatrié- me degré. .c cendres d'armoiſe faiſans ſemblables vacuations que l'antimoine. - .b ceneones. o.c centaure petite,bonne contre les venins. .c centaurium minus. i .c cephale ou caput,teſte groſſedes os. .d (ſephalique veine,& ſa diſtribution. .d cerat de vigo,propre aux concuſſions du cerueau. .c cerat propre és fractures du crane. ibid. pour les playes des nerfs. .c pour les nodoſitez. c ceratum œſipi ex philagrio. .d cerebelle. o .b le cerf qui a perdu ſes teſticules ne mue iamais. o .a le cerf& le ſanglier, lors qu'ils ſont en rut,s'endurcit au pot. - .b cerfveuen l'air, enuironné de deux groſſes armées. o o.d cerfs preſſez des chiens comment ſeſauuêt d'eux. .a cerf bleſſez de quel remede vſent. ibid.b les cerf nous monſtrent l'herbe nommée dictame.ibid. les cerfs brament & crient apres les biches , quand ils ſe veulent accoupler. .c cerotum de minio. . ceroiienne,que c'eſt. .c d'où a ſon nom. ibid. cerouennes ou emplaſtres ſont vicaires de la friction. i . c - • difference d'iceux,& leur matiere propre .c cerueau. c .d. o .a son action & vſage. , à ibid. ſignes du cerueau bien temperé. · ibid. ſignes du cerueau chaud. . • .. .. : ibid. ſºgnes du cerueau froid. . · · · · ibid. ſignes du cerueau ſec & humide. . ibid. cerueau principe des nerfs,& inſtrument de la princi- pale faculte de l'ame. ibid. le cerueau,vne desprincipales entre les parties organi- ques. . * ce qui en procede. • ' ibid. ' neceſſaire à la vie. - ' o.b cerueau ſource des parties nerueuſes. .. ss. .c le cerueau le plus ſouuêt eſt la fontaine des goutes. .c cerueau double anterieur,& poſterieur. .. o .a le cerueau a deux ſortes d'excrement s) , s, o.c • b c - t le cerueau par où ſe purge. .d concuſſion de cerueau, & ſa cure. .b ceux qai ont cette concuſſion deuiennent begues, ois . hetſ . ibid. conformation du cerueau. . au cerueau ſont trente ſept paire de nerfs. .d la ſuperficie du cerueau eſt molle, l'interieure dure. o .a le cerueau plus humide que la peau. .c le cerueau de l'homme plus grand qu'aux autres ani- / .x. io . cerueau ſec memoire excellente. ibid.b ceux qui ont le cerueau humide,facilement apprennent les arts & ſciences. ibid. cerueau froid,tardif à conceuoir. ibid. le cerueau ne doit demeurer a deſcouuert. j.b cerueau bleſsé par douleur de teſte. les ſignes que le cerueau eſt offensé,& le crane fraäu- ré,ſont pluſieurs. i , le cerueau bleſsé ne ſe peut conſolider. o.c le cerueau eſtant vulneré,la fiévre & vomiſſement ſºr- f / / / t. i . le cerueau ne doit eſtre refroidy en le trepanant. t .d mouuement du cerueau peuuent eſtre appellex.ſſfolé & diaſtolé. o .b cerueau deſcouuert,& ſa figure. : o .c ventricules du ceruean. ibid.d cerueau deſnué de ſes membranes & ſa figure, i i . la ceruſe cauſe hocquets & la toux , & ſes antidotes. o .d ſel de ceruſe comment ſe fait. o.b le chat-huan & les corneilles mortels ennemi , f .d chair,quelle. .a troisſortes de chair. ibid. la chair eſt procrée du ſang louable. .a en la regeneration de la chair deux choſes neceſſaires. ibid. - cauſe efficiente. ibid, la chair a de trois ſortes de couleurs. ibid. la chair plus humide & chaude que la peau. .c la chair nouuellement engendrée eſt molle comme | formage. - . la chairſe regenere aisément en tou les endroits de la teſte,fors au front. .b la chair ſanguine & ſpongieuſe , eſt ſuitte à fluxion. . d - la chair ne peut s'engendrer en vn hydropique & ele- . phantique. o. chair ſupercroiſſante vient aux vlceres contuſes. .b la chair ne peut eſtre engëdrée ſous l'os carieux. .c ny croiſtre deiiement ſur vn callus. ;.d la chair & cuir des lepreux ſe monstre ſaine,& les os ſont pourris deſſou. , o .b chair de brebis delicieuſe à manger. o. chair permiſe à ceux qui font le diette. .c chair bouillie plus propre que la roſtie à ceux qui ont la chaude piſſe. · · · · · · i · .d chair tombée du ciel en ital ie,par lopins. , oo.d chaire propre à l'enfantement des femmes. , v .c chaire à demy bain, & ſa figure. o . la chaleur ne demeure exceſſiue aux corps compoſc<.. º .a · · · · • • ' :: . -- • - : -- • « • ; chaleur naturelle,quand peut faire.coction. .c quel fondement a. .a eſt reueillée par l'exercice. . .c . comment aſſoupie. · · · .d et eſteinte. s.- i . chaleur naturelle en quelles regions eſt plus ou moins diſſipée. : i . chºleur table des matieres. # ausf monſtrueux. .d les chais offenſent de leur regard. o .c chats comment ſignifie la plu)e. c.b chauche poulet eſt vn incube ſelon le vulgaire. .d chaude piſſe,que t'eſt. .d d'où eſt ainſi nommée. j . prognoſtic d'icelle. -'. j. cure generale d'icelle. ibid.d cure particuliere. . la chaude piſſe dure long-temps. .d · source d'icelle. .d cauſes & differences d'icelle. b accidens qui en aduiennent. .d incurable à aucuns. . chaude-piſſe dite fleurs blanches, .d chaude-piſſe vient de repletion. .b sa cure. .c chaude-piſſe faite par inanition & contagion. c,d .sa cure. .d chaude-piſſe ameine ſouuent la verole. .d chaude-piſſe vieille eſt verole particuliere. ibid. chaude-piſſe grandement aydée par la erebenthine de v# - .d chaude-piſſe en quoy differe de la gonorrhée. .d flux de chaude-piſſe d'ou prouient,& quel. .a chaudes-piſſes ne doiuent eſtre negligées. .d chauſſe d'hippocrau vſitée par les apoticaires. o.b chauſſe de cuir de chien conſerue la chaleur naturelle. chauues-ſouris volans engrand nombre,ſignifient beau •emps. o.b chaux, & le moyen de la lauer. .d chaux viue faite de cailloux. c .b chaux viue & erpigment par les grecs appellé arſeni- cm , - o .c chaux viue propre pour vnir le cuir & blanchir du charhom. .a cheir,main. . cheiromanciens,quels. .b chemoſis,mot grec ſont palpebres renuersées,& cauſes d'icelles. .a chenilles engendrent demangeaiſon. .c chenilles & ſauterelles pourquoy deuorent les biens a'e- gypte. .c cheopes,roy d'egypte,fit baſtirvne pyramide merueil- euſe. .d le cheual connoiſt ſon maiſtre. .c eſt ſuperbe & courageux. . le cheual a grand crainte du chameau, .c cheual d'alexandre,furieux. é cheuaux ſons dociles. jo. cheuaux bœufs, & vaches,qui mangent des fueilles de l'tf meurent. o .d cheual de mer, & ſa figure. .b cheueche chantant beaucoup durant la pluye preſage de beau temps. o. c cheueux & leur vtilité. o .b cheueux dreſſez de peur,& comment. .d cheueux pourquoy tombent. .b les cheueux comment faits blonds. .b cheuiller, que c'eſt. b la chévre en troupeau d'autres, ſtant tirée par la bar- be fait tout eſmarmeler. j . chevre qui cheureta vn chevreau qui auoit la teſte d'vn homme. .b chévre ſauuages bleſiées,de quels remedes vſent .c chévreaux recognoiſſent leur mere. .b chévreaux ſentant le loup s'enfuyent. .d chien appellégarde fidele par ciceron. . g exemple de ce. ibid. le chien entena la voix des domeſtiques. ibid.c hait le loup. .c le chien enragé eſt du tout ennemy de l'homme. .b ſignes pour counoiſtre le chien eſtre enragé o. chien enragé n'abbaye point ains eſt muet. ibid. chien enragé lors qu'il void de l'eau il tremble, ibid. chien enragé ne boit ny mange. ibid. chien enragé ne connoiſt ſon maiſtre, ny la maiſon où il a eſté nourry. ibid. mordu de chien enragé tombent en hydrophobie. o.c cure de ladite morſure. i. les chiens enragent aux grandes chaleurs,ou aux grads froids. .d chiens pourquoy deuiennent enragez pluſtoſt que les autres beſtes. ibid. les chiens enragez ſon fuis de ceux qui ne le ſont pau. o. - poil de chien enrage k,à vertu d'attirer le venin. . accidens ſuruenans de la morſure des chiens enrage{. ſont ſouuent tardifi, .b chiens bons à garder les maiſons. .b les chiens ne viuent d'os. .b les chiens mangent l'herbe nommée dent de chien pour ſe purger. .c les chiens froids & ſecs de leur nature. o. ont vn ſentiment exquis de fleurer. b.d. chiens nourris d'vne louue où lyonne, deuiennent fu- rieux & hardis. o .d chiens.ſigner,cheuaux fort dociles à apprendre. oa chiens & chats cauſent la peſte. . chiens ny oyſeaux n'oſent approcher d'vn corps mort du f / / ' ' ' ', .b chiens & chats doiuent eſtre tuez en temps de peſte, & pourquoy. .a chiens & chattons nouuellemët nais,bonspour les chan- c ' ſ , .b et pour les charbons. .a chien à demy vnfant. - .d chien ayant la teſte ſemblable à vne volaille. a chiflet,ou trachée artere. io . chilon lacedemonien,mort de ioye. .d chiragra. . .b chirurgie que c'eſt. . la chirurgie enſeigne à methodiquement curer les mala- dies. ibid. chirurgie partie de medecine. ibid. curatoire. .d ses operations, quelles. i -c chirurgie eſt operation nouuelle. j. quatrieſme partie d'icelle,que e. ſ .c chirurgie ne ſe fait ſans douleur. .b chirurgie manuelle ne ſe peut mettre par eſcrit. o .c la chirurgie s'apprend mieux par la practique & vſa- ge,que par liures. ibid. et par la veuë & au toucher. .a chirurgie plu difficile que les autres parties de mede- cinel .d la chirurgie contenue en trois poincts principalement. .c ' • aux operations de chirurgie, les parens du malade ne doiuent aſſiſter. .b chirurgien, c ſon ºffice. o .a lechirurgien doit auoir vne bonne ame,& la crainte de dieu. .b inſtruction pour iceluy. .c obſeruation à luy neceſſaire. . .a zbelle contemplation d'iceluy. .d le iugement & prudence du chirurgien en quoy git. o .d beaupreceptepour le chirurgien. .d • le - table des matieres. le chirurgien(ſeló celſe,)ne doit eſtre craintifnypiteux en ſes œuures. .c le chirurgien rationel que doit auoir auant toutes cho- ſes. .cº le chirurgien ſçauant que doit connoiſtre. o.b chirurgien rationel comment differe du vulgaire. ibid.c le chirurgienprend indication, d'où. .b le chirurgien doit ſçauoir le nombre des ſutures,& leur ſituation. i o . chirurgien ignorant en l'anatomie, eſt ſouuent cauſe de mort. o .a le chirurgien doit auoir bonne connoiſſance de ſubſtan- ce ſpongieuſe. . o .d le chirurgien doit connoiſtre la ſituation & aſſemblage des os du corps humain. i j .c le chirurgien comment connoiſtrales tumeurs,& quand ſe terminent. .b le chirurgien doit eſtre attentifpour connoiſtre le pu ou pourriiure. .a le chirurgien quel moyen doit tenirpour tromper le ma- lade. - .c le chirurgienfaut qu'ilfaſſe ouuerture auant que le ma- lade ait loiſir d'y penſer. i .c le chirurgien doit conſiderer trois poincts touchat la cu- · ration de l'eriſpelu. .d et du herpes. o.b le chirurgien doit eſtre attentifà l'intention princpale. le #- ne doit ouurir les eſcrouelles, quand. # ºu tumeurs, où ne ſe faut haſter. ibid. le chirurgien doit aider à nature à ſe deſcharger. le #- comment ſe gouuernera au fait de la squi- / / cº, i o.c le chirurgien doit eſtre grandement aduiſé à l'ouuertu- re du genouil. o .d le chirurgien doit ſçauoir quelles playes ſont gran- des, pour les accidens qu'elles amenent, & comment. .o . le chirurgien miniſtre & aide de nature. .d le chirurgien ſe doit prcpoſer cinq poincts principaux touchant les playes. ibid. le chirurgien quand peut vſer de tentes. o .b le chirurgien doit operer promptement, ſeurement & auec peu de douleur. ibid. le chirurgien regardera la cauſe de douleur , & les hu- meur fluants à la partie bleſſée. b le chirurgien doit oſter du crane tout ce qu'il ſera poſſi- ble. .d le chirurgien doit prendre diuerſes indications pour operer , & ſelon icelles diuerſifier les remedes. .c et conſiderer la conſtitution du temps & de l'air. .c le chirurgien faut qu'il ait eſgard de rectifier l'air & roborer les parties nobles. .a le chirurgien doit tirer du ſangés grandes contuſions. .b le chirurgien doit eſtre ambidextre s'il eſt poſſible. .c le chirurgien touſiours reprins , qui ne conduit ſon œu- ure par methode raiſonnable. .d le chirurgien quand ne touchera à l'vngula, ſuruenant aux yeux. .b le chirurgien comment ſe doit conduire à tirer la pierre, tant par inciſion qu'autrement, o . o . le chirurgien rationel doit connoiſtre trois choſa, & quelles. .d le chirurgien doit entendre que c'eſt que compoſition de - medicamens. - .c et connoiſtre la nature des ſimples ibid. conditions requiſes du chirurgien pour rapporter. .b pluſieurs chirurgiens n'vſent que d'vne indication. o.a chirurgiens & medecins que doiuent conſiderer pour la gueriſon du malade. . chirurgiens abuſeurs, quels. .d chirurgiens excuſables en pluſieurs maladies. | o.b - les chirurgiens qui ſont appellez pour medicamenter les peſtiferez ſe douent quelquesfois purger & comment garder. .d doiuent porter verge blanche. .b les chirurgiens & medecins connoiſſent à grand diff- culté les peſliferez. .d chlyomenos, nom de gangrene. o . chœrades, eſcrouelles. voyez eſcrouelles. chois de la matiere du cautere. •/ .c cholaguegues ſont medicamens. .d cholere,ſa nature,conſiſtance, couleur, ſaueur, & vſage. .a,b comment faite & engendrée. ibid. · · ses ſignes. .d | signes d'icelle aux gouteux. t .a ce qui ſe rapporte à icelle. cholere dont faite en eſte. - .b cholere vitelline. .b cholere chaude & ſeiche. o.b cholere noire attirée par la ratte. i . cholere iaune attirée par le follicule du fiel, puis paſſe aux inteſtins. ibid. difference de la cholere contre nature. i .c icelles ſont iettées par vomiſſement. ibid.c la cholere enflamme les eſprits. .d la cholere n'eſt vtile à aucuns. .d cholere faite tant hors des veines , que dedans i .a choleriques & ſanguins ont beſoin de manger. .e remede topique pour l'humeur cholerique. .c aux choleriques, pourquoy ſont ordonnées les viandes de gros ſuc. - .b coracoide, ou tbec de corbin. - c pourquoy ainſi ditt. .d chorion, .d dict arriere-faix ou deliurance. .a chorion,origine du vray cuir. .d chorion, & amnios ſont membranes liées. .c choſe digne d'eſtre notée, .b. .a. .b. . . o.b. .c. .c. .c choſe digne à noter par les matrones. .b - chacune choſe ſe nourrit d'vn aliment ſemblable à ſoy. ſ.c .d. .b le choux & la vigne fort contraires. . choux cauſent douleur de teſte. chylu. .c. .b uand a vraye couleur. .c cicatrice que c'eſt. .b cicatrice cauſe de cecité aux yeux. .d cicatrice des bruſleures comment traittée. or.c cicatrice autour de l'artere,dequoy cauſe. o.b cicatrice laiſſées de la verole. .a cicatrices & marques qui demeurent au cuir de la peti- te verole. .d comment effacées. ibid. cicatrices des feux, pourquoy ſont de diuerſes couleurs. o.b d d d d cicatri table des matieres. conarium,que c'eſt. o.d conception ne ſe fait ſans flux menſtruel. .d & ſi les deux ſemences ne concurrët enſemble. .c signes de ce. .b conception ſeconde,c'eſt ſuperfetation. .b concupiſcence conſiſte au foye. .c ceux qui ont concuſſion au cerueau,'deuiennent ,begues // f fſ. .b concuſſion de la mouelle spinale. .b condition de l'humeur artritique. .b conditions requiſes au chirurgien pour rapporter. .b conducteurs de denx façons,& leursfigures. o .a conduit de l'vrine. .a conduits & voyes vrinaireſ ſont cauſes adiuuantes à la pierre. \ .b condylomes, que c'eſt. . condylomes ſont eminences ridées. ibid. condylomes conneués à la veue & au toucher. b confeſſion de ladre impoſteur. .b confirmation de la temperature du ſang. .b confitures douces contraires aux fiévres. .b confuſion grande en temps de peſte. .d les connins ont monſtré aux hommes à faire les mines. . bourg en eſpagne ruiné par les connins, . conſeil par l'autheur au ieune chirurgien. .d conſeil de de vigo, pour la cure des playes d'arque- buſes. .a conſerues contre la peſte. .b aisée à faire. ibid.b conſiderations auant que ſaigner. o.c conſiderations en appropriant les remedes. i i. c conſtantin anclez en, ealemaud, autheur de l'artille- rie ſelon a. theuer. i. contraction eſt la vraye & propre attion des nerfs & muſcles, o .d. contractions d'vn medecin. .a contrarieté naturelle des poulailles & du venin. .a contrefente, eſpece de fratiure. . contre-ouuerture neceſſaire quelquesfois aux playes. . a vſage d'icelles. . c contrepoiſon de l'yfſemblable à celuy de la ciguë. o .d contrepoiſon du champignon,c'eſt le poirier. o .b contrepoiſons,dites bezardica. o .a º#ſº doiuent eftre plus forts que les poiſons. o . contrepoiſons eperent par leur vertu. ibid. contrepoiſons operent en nos corps pour com battre le ve- nin. - ibid. centrepoiſons ayans vertu de chaſſer le venin peſtiferé. .a contuſion,ſeconde efpece de fracture. i. c quand ſe fait, . contuſion faite au talon, & accidens d'icelle. .c contuſion, que c'eſt. . differences d'icelles. - .b cauſe d'icelles. .b accidens merueilleux qui viennent à icelles. .d contuſions grandes ſont perilleuſes. ibid.a contuſions ſans playe,& curation d'icelles. .d , maniere de traitier celles qui ſont auec playes. ibid.c égrandes contuſions on doit ſaigner & purger. .d .d contuſions du talon,pourquoy ſe coupe le cuir de deſſous. .c cure vniuerſelle des enormes contuſions. i. conuulſio canina. .d conuulſion,ſes cauſes & differences. .d signes d'icelles. i , conuulſion & parabſie,& leurs differences. .d conuulſion au nerf eſt guarie la coupat au trauers. o.d le coq chantant apres soleil couché que ſignifie. o.d coqs oyſeaux royaux. - . donnent crainte aux lyons. ibid. coqueluche,quelle maladie. o.c nom de peſte. - - % accident d'icelle,& que c'eſt. ibid. tourquoy ainſi dite. ibid. obſeruation ſur icelle. jo.a coquille où bernard l'hermite'eſt en embuſcade. coquilles, & leur pourtraict. .d coquilles eftranges en la mer. .a c oquilles de mer comment diſtillées. t.c coral, plante lapidifiée. j c d'où tiré & prins. - ibid. coral & corne de cerf,ne ſont vrays cardiaques. .a le corbeau en chantant que ſignifie. o.c le courbeau & milan ont guerre perpetuelle. .d corcelet pour dreſſer vn corps tortu. .b cormes bonnes pour arreſter le flux de ventre. .d le (ormoran & loup ceruier n'ont qu'vn boyau. .a corne de cerf ratiſſée prinſe contre la peſte. .b la corne de cerfa grande vertu contre les vers. b corne de cerf & de chévre,à quoy prºpres. lo redigée en cendre,medecine ſouueraine pour caux qui crachent le ſang. ibid. corne de cerf& d'yuoire peuuent faire plus grand effect que la licorne. .b corne de licorne, & la varieté ſur la deſcription & vertu d'icelle;voyez licorne. queſtion ſur les vertu d'icelle. .b corne de licorne n'a lavertu que le peuple luy attribué. .b la à# de licorne ne ſert non plu que l'yuoire. o b corne de licorne bruſlée,ſent meſme odeur que l'yuoire. .b corne de licorne n'a aucun air en ſoy. j . la corne de licorne n'a mon plus d'efficace que celle de cerf. e.b corne de licornen'a ny chair,ny ſuc, & ne ſe ptut con- uertir en ſang. i a corne de licorne vendueplu cher que l'or. .d corne de licorne laiſſé en la coupe du roy tremper cou- ſtumierement. o.c cornes pretenduès de licornes, pluſieurs és cabinets des roys. / i i. cornes de licorne monſtrées à veniſe aux feſtes ſo- lemnelles. j i . cornes de bœufſe peuuent amollir. .c cornes de brebis propre à faire produire les aſperger. cornes de butrol propres contre le venin. j i . corne de caſbilly bonne contre le veninr. . corne de piraſſoipi bonne contre les venins. .d cornes de rhinocerots tenus pour licorne. ſ i. corne d'vletif, faite en maniere de ſcie au cabinet de l'autheur. .d eſtimé du vulgaire langue de ſerpent. ibid. deſcription a't eluy. ibid. cornes de la matrice. .c cornes approchantes de celles d'vn bellier,c vne piece de chair veue à vn monſtre espouuantable. f .b toutes cornes en general n'ont ny ſaueur, ny oueur. o.b cornets qui attirent ſans feu, & leur figure. . cornets depluſieurs ſortes, & leur figure. ibid. vſage d'iceux. ibid. les corneilles & le chat-huan mortels ennemis. .d cornelia romaine a eu enfant à ſoixante deux-ans. .d - cornemtuſe | table des matieres. \ corps d'vn homme mort. .c coustume eſt vne autre nature. .d couſtume és malades ne ſe doit changer tout à comp. ibid. - couſtume des iuifs touchant la ſepulture des mortſ. f. a. [.c couſture ou ſuture. - .c couſturiers, mols, & excrementeux. .d cracher & bauer font euacuation. - d comme eſt prouoqué auec maſticatoires. ibid. crainte, & ſignes d'icelle. .b crainte trop grande eſt quelquesfois cauſe de mort ſubite. .b • la crainte n'eſt profitable à perſonne ibid crainte peut donner la peſte. . crainte reuoque & attire le ſang au cœur. .b ce qui ſe rapporte à la crainte. - ibid.b crane, ou teſt. o .d le crane eſt composé de ſept os, ibid. a huict os. .d pourquoy elle l'a fait de pluſieurs pieces. .c le crane fait de pluſieurs pieces. io . a deux tables. - ibid.d • leur difference. ibid. · ses fractures & differences. - i . | signes d'iceluy rompu. .d le crane fait de quatorze or. i .c contenans, & contenu, & quels. ibid.d des trou de la baſe interne d'iceux. .b de l'externe, & leur vſage. ibid.c crane mol & delié en plus grand danger,, en fracture, que le ſolide. o .c le crane eſtant fracturé, ou contu, ouuerture, s') doit faire. ' .d • accidens du crane , comment doiuent eſtre curez. , .b crapaut, & de ſa morſure. .d veſtu d'vne groſſe peau dure. .b se gonfle,enfie & remplit d'air. ibid. crapaut, araignée, & ſerpent ſon ennemis. .d crapaut viftrouuépar l'authour dans vne pierre ſolide & ſans air. . c crapauts comment impriment leur venin. .d crapauts ſont friands de fraiſes. ibid. crapauts, comment, par quel moyen contraints ſortir bors de terre. .a crapauts iettent leur venin par leur vrine & baue ibid. crapauts n'ont aucunes dents, & toutesfois ne laiſſent pas de mordre de leurs babines & genciues. bid. crapaux en quel temps s'engendrent. o .a crafis. · · • .b creatures monſtrueuſes procedent le plus ſouuent du iu- gement de dieu. .d toutes creatures ont certaines proprietez pour le ſoulage- ment des malades. a la creſſerelle eſpouuante les eſperuiers. .d creſſon pillé & fficaſſé auec graiſſe de porc, guarit la tºgne. .a creſſon pilé pour la picqueure des mouſches & chenilles. .d creſſon , berle & fueilles de buys, bouillies en vrine & vinaigre, font fuyr le laict. .b creuaces ou ſciſſures venans le pluſouuent apres la ve- role. .b creuaces occupent le plu ſouuent les palmes des mains & plante des pieds. ibid. cribler, que c'eſt, és medicamens. o.b cridons maladie qui prouient aux petits enfans. o .c criſe imparfaitte, quelle, & ſignes d'icelle. j l . crochet pour tirerl'vngula, & ſa figure. .d - crochet pour tirer les mailles & autres choſes eſtranges, & ſa figure. . .c crochets pour tirer l'enfant mort au ventre de ſa mere. o . crochets propres pour tirer la pierre. o .c autres pour extraire la pierre aux petits enfans.ibid. crocodille, beſte amphibie. .c sa figure. jj.c deſcription d'iceluy. .a eautre figure, comment ils ſont pris. ihid. le crocodile armé de coquille. . mange les hommes. a .d où faitſes œuf . o.d combiem. i.a le crocodile baille ſes dents à curer. f.b remué la maſuhoire de deſſu. i. le crocodile preſage la hauteur du nil, & ſon de bor- dement. .d crocodile long de quinze coudées. .a crocodiles appriuoiſez par les hommes. ja crocodiles medicament contre les cataractes desj'eux .a enfant des ſauuages iciient auec les crocodiller. .b crotaphite, c'eſt à dire temporal. . crottes & vrines des moutons & brebis, bonnes à faire fient. o. le croupion nommé os coccyx,composé de quatre oſſelttt. o.b " crouſte de pain, comment bonne pour arreſter le flux de z/ / fre, .d crouſte dequoy engendrée és vlceres. c crudité dont cauſée. o.d mere de goute.. .c cry & bray de la balaine, ciy a'vne lieue françoiſe. .d ， cteſias premier a eſcrit de la licorne. i o. cucurbite, & chapiteau, que c'eſt. - cuir, premiere partie du corps. .b compoſé des nerfs, veines, & chair. ibid.c poreux, tranſpirable,ſenſible. ibid. vſage d'iceluy. ibid.c de quelle choſe prend ſa couleur. .c cuir vray, & ſa definition. - .b dict en grec, derma. ibid. sa ſubſtance, quantité, & compoſition. ibid. sa ſituation & connexion, temperament & vſage ibid.d prend ſon origine du chorion. ibid. cuir non vray, dit epiderm i, en grec. ibid. cuir peut eſtre dit ligament. i o. cuir ramolly à la ſaigné, & pourquºy. i. cuir des doigts, premier inſtrument du toucher. .a le cuir & pannicule charneux,enuironnent tout le corps. .b de chien,bonpour les podagres. . cuire en medicamens, que c'eſt. o. cuiſinier de madame de chaſtel pers mordu d'vne cou- leuure. .d caiſiniers pourquoy coupent la teſte aux viues. jo d cuiſſes & ſa deſcription. .b ce qui eſt entendu par icelle. i. . situation de la cuiſſe luxée ayant eſté remiſe. .c la cuiſſe fačlurée doit eſlre teni e auſſi longue que la ſaine. - - .à la cuiſſe auec hanche a ſcixante-ſix os. i . cul de poule, caliſité eminente aux fiſtules du fonde- / f, : , cure diuerſe ſelon la diuerſité des cauſes. .d la propre cure ſouuent eſt delaiſſée pourſuruenir aux ' aca dent, table des matieres. diſcours de l'autheur du ſang & pu qui peuuent eſtre euacuez par les vrines. .d diſlocation comment cognue. i.c 'cauſe de douleur aux diſlocations. ibid. dispoſitions ou indiſpoſitions des peres & meres auſquel- les les enfans ſont ſuiets. i.at diſpute de l'eautheur touchat les playes des arquebu- zades prinſes des philoſophes, medecins,& cbirur- iens. .a diſſection demonſtratiueſe commence au ventricule in- ferieur. - o.c diſſoudre en medicament,qu'eſt-ce. io.a diftillation, que c'eſt. .b ce qui eſt requis en icelle. ' •bid.c diſtillation ſans chaleur,comment faicte. ibid.c et par froideur. - ibid. diſtillation des eaux en quels vaiſſeaux ſe doit faire. . matieres d'icelles comment preparées. . maniere de les diſtiller. ibid.b et rectifier apres. .a diſtillation des buyles comment faicte,& en combien de manieres ſont extra.ctes. .c distillation des vegetaux pour en tirer huyle,comment. « . diſtillations des gommes , reſines, & certains bois. .a diſtillation du vitriol. .a signes d'icelle parfaicte. ibid. diſtillation de l'eau theriacale, & le moyen de la faire. .a diſtillation excellente, aſtringente, reſſerrante,pour ac- conchées. .d diſtillation du vin & vinaigre,differente. o d la maniere de diſtiller par filtre. . pourquoy inuentée. sbid. quelles choſes doiuent eſtre conſiderées és diſtillationt. .b diuerſions attirent le venin & poiſon. .d diuiſion,à quoy ſert. .a comment ſe prend quelquesfois. o .b diuiſion artificielle,& ſa definition. .b diuiſion des parties animales. .d diuiſion des medicamens ſelon leur matiere & ſubſtan- cº, o .d diuiſion des medicamens ſimples, ſelon leurs qualitex & effects. o .c diuretiques. o.b contraires à l'inflammation de la veſſie. .d adminiſtrées en diuerſes façons. i . dangereuſes en beaucoup de ſortes,& quand en faut ' vſer. ibid. vſage des diuretiques,bon pour les goutes. . les diuretiques propres à la grauelle. ©i c document fort bon pour le ieune chirurgien. .a documens pour le ieune chirurgien touchant les ſutures des playes. o.b doigts,pourquoy inégaux. - , .d ont trente os. .d se luxent en quatre manieres. .a sont cinq en nombre. .d doigts bleſſez & meurtris,& remede ſur ce. .b doigts ſuperflux,& de ceux qui ſont ioints enſemble,& cure d'iceux. .d cuir des doigts,premier inſtrument du toucher. .a .a doreurs ſouuent ſuiets à la migraine. .d dormir,que c'eſt. .d ayde à la concoction. - doù prouient,& quel temps eſt le plus commode pour #elºy. .d. .a dormir ſe tournant en peine au malade,ſigne de mort, .b dormir mediocre, vtile en la cure du phlegmon. .a dormir,nuit apres la ſaignée. o.c dormirſoudain,contraire aux contuſions. .b incontinent apres le repas engendre les gouttes. .c remplit le cerueau de vapeurs. .d dormir fort commode au heures deués, proportionné aux veilles hors de l'accez de la fiévre. .a dormir eſt ſalubre pour le flux de ſang menſtruel. .b - nuiſible durant l'acce{ des fiévres. .a contraire aux morſures venimeuſes. .a le dormir qu und nuit au malide de peſte. .d dormir de nuict,combien qu'il ſoit ſa n,doit eſtre me- diocre. d dormir de iour eſt mauuais,& pourquoy. . . ' sur quel coſté ſe faut coucher. · ibid.b dormir ſur le dos eſt mauuais. ibid. et ſur le ventre à ceux qui ont mal aux . yeux, ibid. c dormir du malade,comment prouoqué. .c dormir aux champs la bouche ouuerte eſt dangereux. .a dormir de l'enfant ayant la petite verole. .c temps d'auoir dormy aſſez,comment connu. a dorycnium , ou solanum , manicum, ou mortale, ont accidens de meſme le napellu. o . , ses accidens & bezahar. ibid. doſe de vif-argent. o .c double empirique. .c douleur & definition. .d caues d'icelle,quatre. i o.a se fair par trois choſes. .d douleur ſe doit appaiſer ſelon l'intention & remiſſion. d'icelle. o.a douleur aduenuë de cauſe froide, comment appaisée. ſ . c douleur tres-forte, dequoy fa te. - · .d douleur pulſatiue, & ſa cauſe. .a douleur de teſte commune aux malades de peſte. .c en douleur de teſte ne faut trop ſerrer le front. .c guariſon d'icelle, quelle. ibid. douleur de migraine, & ſes ſignes au pericrane. .d ſignes pour cognoiſtre ſi la donleur eſt faite de matiere chaude ou froide. .d comment ſedée venant de cauſe chaude. ibid.b douleur des dents des petits enfans. . b cauſes,ſignes, & cure a'icelle. sbid. la douleur interieure ceſſe quand le dehors s'enfle. .b douleur ſuruenant aux playes doit eſtre diligemment appaisée, .b douleur des podagres où commencée. .d douleur des playes externes, ſedée par huyle feruente. .c douleur des iointures, aucunes faites d'intemperature ſans matiere. - .c és douleurs des iointures,'la matiere y eſtant,eſt froide, & cure d'icelles. .c drachme, once,ſcrupule, liure, obole, comment enten- dus. .d vne drachme du ſang de l'homme, vaut mieux que deux liures de eeluy d'vne femme. o d dragons de dix coudées de longueur en ethiopie, a dragons de cent pieds de long en indie. · ibid. dragons de la groſſeur d'vn pourceau. - ibid. 'dragons fort venimeux, que la perſonne en eſtant pic- quée meurt ſubitement. ibid. dragons vainquent les elephans,& comment. ibid. e e b e dragon table des matieres. dragonneaux que c'eſt,& pourquoy alnſi appellés. .b. o .c cure d'iceux. o .c opinion de galien touchant iceux. o c et d'autres pluſieurs. ibid.c dragonneaux, que c'eſt, ſelon soranu. ibid. c dequoy engendrez ſelon l'opinion de menardu, &° f fy s. bid. leurs noms diuers. - · ibid.b raiſons de l'autheur touchant les dragonneaux,contre l'opinion des anciens. o .c reſponſe de l'autheur ſur le meſme. bid.c dragonneaux engendrez en l'indie ou en egypte. .o . dragonneaux ſemblables aux vers. ibid. les dragonneaux ne ſont iamais ſans fiévre. ibid.d cure d'iceux. ibid. drap d'eſcarlatte pour enuelopper le petit enfant ve- rolé. « .b draps rouges doiuent eſtre mis autour du lict du mala- de de pourpre. .d dreſſe-main,& ſa figure. .d dropax contre l'atrophie. .d duel vſiié entre les septentrionnaux. .b reprouué par les meridionaux. ibid. duodenum inteſtinum ou ecphyſis. .c dure mere, ſa ſubſtance, quelle. ic .a vtilitez d'icelle. ibid. quels accidens y ſuruiennent. ibid. dure mere, l'vne des premieres & principales membra- nes de noſtre corps. o .a , vtilité d'icelle. ibid poudre propre pour la dure-mere. .b & .b la dure-mere ſe noircit, & pourquoy. . cure d'icelle noirciſſeure. ibid. la dure mere peut porter medicamens fºrt deſſeichans & pourquoy. ibid. dureté en la partie fracturée,comment corrigée. .b dyſderis,eſpece d'earaignée. .d dyſenterie,qne c'eſt. j c dyſurie,c'eſt à dire difficulté d'vrine. .a e. an tres-bonne,quelle,& de ſon election. . s'approuue par la veue,le gouſt,& l'odeur, .d eau eſt peſante,& miſe ſous l'air. .c l'eau moyen au poiſſon d'odorer. .a eau de fontaine peut eſtre baillé aux ieunes malades de pefte pour ſoif extreme. .d eau de marau dormans & de neige,& glace,mal ſaine & peftilente. . eaux de puits é fontaines bonnes. ibid.a eau de pluye qui tombe en eſté, eſt bonne gardée en ci- ſterne. ibid. eau de la mer,& ſa vertu. o.c eau de pluye n'eſt bonne en temps depeſte,causée de l'air. .c ' eau de puits bien profonde en temps de peſte causée de la terre,eſt bonne. ibid.c eaufroide,breuuage des maladies chaudes. i .a sa vertu. pour les goutes. .a eau chaude, & ſa faculté. . fomentatiou d'eau chaude doit eftre temperée.ibid.d eau alimenteuſe & restauratiue, n'eſt autre choſe que reſtaurant, & le moyen de la diſtiller. .c eau alumineuſe louée par galien. .b eau bleue que c'eſt. .c eau de canelle,& ſa deſcription, .d souueraine contre toutes maladies froides,& contra- riant aux venins. ibid. bonne contre la peſte. #bid. , eau de ſenteurs. .d eau de ſemence de lin tiede,prouoque le vomir. .d eau de ſublimé eſt bonne contre les dartres. o.d eau de ſublimé eſt bleue,bonne pour la verole. . eau de vie appellée l'ame & l'eſprit du vin. o.d , maniere de la diſtiller. ibid. preuue d'icelle ſi elle eſt bonne. ibid.b eau de vie faite de lie de vin genereux. ibida comment rectifiée. ibid. ses vertus,quelles ibid. eau de vie auec theriaque fait reuenir le cœur. .d meſlée auec le theriaque & mithridat, bonne contre la ſyncope. ibid. eau forte ſepare l'or de l'argent. o .d comment faite. ibid. tºropre contre les lentilles i.c eau forte eſteinte, dite eau de ſeparation. o.c eau roſe auec blancs d'œuf battus, gardent les yeux de la verole, mis dedans. o. moyen de la diſtiller. ibid. conforte le cœur,& chaſſe le venin. ibid. eau theriacale composée par rondelet. . eau cordiale de grade efficace en temps de peſte. .b eau diſtillée de pommes de pin non meures , fait fuirle laict. .b eau exellente pour prouoquer l'vrine. .b eau exellente pour oſter les verués du col de la matrice o.d - eau dite par de vigo, precieuſe & admirable pour les yeux. .d eau ſinguliere pour le pruritdes palpebres. ibid.s eau pour embellir la face. - e.c eau pour la rougeur du viſage. o.d eau pour effacer les rides du viſage. o.b eau de laitt de vache excellente pour tenir le teint net & frais. i j • autre eau excellente pour rendre le teint clair & beau. ibid. autre eau pour lauerles mains & la face. ibid. autre en forme de liniment. ibid. eautre pour rendre le cuir de la face tendu & delié, c% pour le blanchir. ibid. eau pour effacer les puſtules & ſaphirs. o.d eau pour blanchir les dents fort excellente. .b eau pour odorer au peſtiferé, .d autre pour le malade peſtºferé. ibid. eau preſeruatiue pour ceux qui hantent les peſtiferez- f . eau purgatiue. - o.c eau trouué aux ventricules du cerueau , dont causée o.b eau venant à la teſte des enfans,appellée hydrocepha- le. .a eaux pour rafraiſchir les bruſleures quelles. oo.a eaux cordiales. ſ . eaux propres pour prouoquer le dormir. eaux minerales de spa & plombiere, & leur vertu " admirable. . eaux chaudes detergent & reprimët les fluxions. .c recherche & raiſon de ce. ibid. eauxſulphurées,alumineuſes, nitreuſes, bitumineuſes, cuyurenſes,ferrées plombées,& leur vertu, proprie- tez,& qualite{. ibid. item les gypſeuſes. ibid.d vſages d'icelles. . eaux comment diſtillées, & comme faut preparer les matieres,voyez diſtillation. s r". * # table des matieres. en quel vaiſſeaux. .a comment rectifiées. .b equx diſtillées au bain-marie, excellentes par deſſu f ' j. .c eaux compoſées, & leurs differences. ibid. maniere de diſtiller les eaux. • .c eaux dont on vſe és medicamens. j . eaux quinteſſentielles des herbes chaudes, comment ti- rées. ibid. ebullition des ſemences à la matrice, & des ampoules, lieux du foye,cœur, & cerueau. .c ecchymoſi , que c'est. .t. .c echeneis, autrement remora, poiſſon. o.c echo, d'où ſe fait. .c ecphyſis. .c ečtropion, que c'eſt. .b effect horrible de la poudre à canon. .a effets de bruſleure. .d effects des fiitions & fomentations,contraires. .b effects merueilleux des cantharides. o .b.c effects des qualitez des medicamens. o .c diſtingue{ par degrez, quels. o .c effluxion & auortement comment different. .a et que c'eſt. ibid. effuſion, que c'eſt. .c egilops. i i .c egine & megare peries par tremblement de terre. egliſe en sicile, abbattues par tremblemement de terre. .s. o .a egypte habitée auiourd'huy de turcs, iuifs, & chre- iens. .a egyptiac, & deſcription d'iceluy. o d vſage & vtilité d'iceluy. . excellent contre les pourritures. .c quand en fant vſer. .a reſponſe au meſpri d'iceluy. .d l'egyptiac n'eſt ſuppuratif. .a egyptiac eſt propre aux playes d'arquebuzes, & lors qu'il y a ſoupçon de pourriture. .d egyptiac fortifié propre contre la teigne. , .d egyptiac appliqué aux palpebres, ne doit toucher l'œil. .c egyptiac diſſoult en lexiue, ou vin noir, propre contre l'vlcere de l'amarry. .b egyptiens negligent à baſtir maiſons pour le peu de vie en ce monde. . . egyptiens fort curieux à la ſepulture de leurs peres. .d - leur façon de faire en icelle. .b comme enterroient leurs roys. ibid. les egyptiens n'auoient gage plu precieux que le corps de leurs ayeuls. .d egyptiens & arabes mangent la chair des crocoailles. i.a eiaculatoire, que c'eſt. .b election de la bonne eau. . election du gaiac pour eſtre bon. .c electuaire de diacartami purge l'humeur coleric. i. electuaire fort profitable contre la peſte. .c electuaire dont on vſe aux medecines. element, & ſa definition. .d element comme ſe prend en la medecine. .d qualitex premiers d'iceux. ibid. elemens du monde, quels. ibid.b du corps, quels. ibid.c elemens(ſelon hippocrate) quels. .a ont deux qualitex exceſſiues. ibid. conneu par l'eſprit, & non par autre ſens. ibid. peuuent eftre cognu par leur reſolution. ibid. -> et veue. ibid. elemens diſtribuez à chacune partie également. ibid elemens retiennent leurs qualitez en la compoſition des corps. ibid. leur mixtion. ibid. les elemens ſymboliſent les vns auec les autres, & en quoy .d elemens de noſtre generation ſont la ſemence & ſang · menſtruel. • c corroyefaicte d'elephant de mer fort bonne. ibid. ) elephant de mer, & ſa figure elephant eſpouuanté d'vnporceau. .d hait les rats & ſouris. ibid. figure de l'elephant. .b elephant instruit à rome, & de quoy. . elephanu, leur nature, religion, force, vertu,obeiſſance, humanité & adoration. ibid. les elephans portent leurs petits deux ans dans leur z/ / t ré, ibid.b n'en portent qu'vn en leur vie. - viuent deux cens ans. ibid. elephans pluegrands, plus puiſſans, & eſpouuantables, qu'autre animal. d craignant s le feu. . eappaiſek de leurfureurpar la veue d'vn mouton. .c les elephansſe mettent à genoux pour faire leur adora- tion au soleil. . elephans menez en bataille par antiochu contre les romains. .d elephans aiguiſent leur dents, & comment. .c elephans ont inimitié mortelle auec les rhinoceros. .c - les elephans ſont ſi forts qu'ils portent de grands edifi- ces ſur leur dos. .d elephans ayans des eſpées liées au bout de leurs trompes, & pourquoy. ibid. elephantiaſis eſpece de maladie. .a. o .c elephantiaſis en grec, c'eſt ladrerie. .c elephas, eſpece de maladie. o .a pourquoy ainſi dite. ， ibid. eleuatoire ne doit eſtre appliqué ſur l'os entierement fracturé. .c eleuatoire, quels doiuent eſtre . . .c eleuatoires à trois pieds. . i.c autres & leur figure. .d elie par ſa priere fit qu'il ne pleut de trois ans ſix mois. .b - eloquence dont venue. i .c emaciation dont aduient. .b emaciation aux goutes ſciatiques, & cauſe. . embaumement aboly en egypte. .a embaumeurs en egypte, voyez egyptiens. leur maniere de faire. ibid.d office bien ſalarié. .b façon d'embaumer les corps morts. .d mboiture, ou enarthroſe. .b embotum, entonnoir propre à parfumer. .d embrocations, que c'eſt, & leur uſage. .d dequoy faites. ibid. leur vſage. ibid.d embrocation repercuſſiue. . embryon ou genitura , l'enfant non encore formé o.d - emiſſion d'vrine inuolontaire , dite strangurie. d empedocles monſtre la cauſe des monſtres. .d l'empereur iouinian eſtouffé de la vapeur du charbon. . - l'empereur tibere de peur du tonnerre portºit du e e e e laurier. table des matieres. - laurier. .c empeſchement & retraction de la langue. .c signes & cure d'icelle. ibid. empiriques, quels. o.c comme ils penſent les verolez. emplaſtres que c'eſt. .c differences d'icelles,& matiere, d'où priſe. ibid. leur compoſition, quelle. ihid. amethode de les bien faire. ibid. moyen d'yfaire entrer les gommes ſeiches. ibid. ſigne que l'emplaſtre ſera bien fiicte. h vſage d'icelles. .d emplastres pour les hydropiques. .c pour la teigne. .c pour la douleur des dents. .b pour les podagres & gouteux. . pour les modoſitez. - ibid. pour la ſciatique. . emplaſlre reſolutif pour les loupes. .b pour les contuſions. .c emplaſtres qu'on applique à la teſte, doiuent eftre de conſiſtance molle. ". .c emplastre ſouuerain pour les playes du thorax, dict ſainct. .b amaniere de le faire. ibid. emplaſtre pour faire le callus ou ſoudure des os. .c emplaſtre propre pour appaiſer les douleurs des gou- teux, & roborer les iointures. ſ . c emplaſtre pour appliquer ſur le nombril,contre les vers. .c emplaſtre pour mettre ſur le ventre aux femmes pour la matrice. . autre ponr leur faire tarir le laiti. .b emplaſtre grandement remollitif .d emplaſtre incarnatifpour les yeux. emplaſtres de baies de lauriers. o .d emplaſtre de ceruſe pour la rougeur du charbon. de gratia dei. .a de ianua ſeu de betonica. ibid. oxycroceum. ibid. de ceruſa. ibid. triapharmacum, ou nigrum. ibid. palmeum, ſiue diachalciteos. ibid. contra rupturam. - ibid.c de mucaginibu. ibid.c de mimio. ibid. · diachylon magnum. ibid. emplaſtrum nigrum, quel. .d emplaſtrum triarpharmacum , pourquoy ainſi dit. .b pour le ganglium. .b propres pour amollir. .c emplaſtre de vigo cum mercurio reſolutiuo. .d chaſſe le virus verolique. .d emplaſtre de vigo, duplicato mercurio, propre pour amollir les tumeurs ſcirrheuſes. .d emplaſtre de betonica, & ſa vertu. .c emplaſtre de diachalciteos, & ſa vertu. ibid. le moyen de la bien faire. .b emplaſtre de tneodoric, ſedatif de douleur aux chan- cres vlcerez. .a emplaſtres pour les tumeurs venteuſes. .a propres aux eſcrouelles. .c emplaſtres pour eſlener les coſtes rompues en haut. .b emplaſtres & cerouennes,vicaires des frictions. .c leur affinité. .c emplaſtres attractiues pour les playes venimeuſes. .c - , • " emplaſtres ne doiuent eſtre ſouuent changées, & pour- quoy. .c empoiſonneurs de quelle meſchanceté vſent. b comment ſe doiuent gouuerner ceux qui ont # d'eſtre empoiſonnez. ibid. empyeme & ce qu'il faut obſeruer. - āb empyreuma, que ſignifie. .b enaimes, en grec, que c'eft. .b enarthroſe, que c'eſt. .b dite embaiture. ibid. l'encens, arbre qui croiſt en arabie, reſſemblant aux pins. .b encens comment faitt & ſophiſtiqué. ibid. l'encens agglutine les playes profondes. ibid.d l'encens arreſte leſang qui fiue desplayes. ibid. encenrſingulier / a # des mammelles des femmes. ibid. enchanteurs & ſorciers corrompent la vie & ſanté des hommes. o.d enclaueure ou ginglyme. i .c enclume eſt vn os dans le trou des oreilles. o .b encre appliquée ſur le teſt, pour connoiſtre les fiſſures. . o,c - l'enfant maſle eſt formé au quarantieſme iour,& la fe- melle au cinquante. .c la generation de l'enfant prend ſon origine de deux choſes. o.c. quand l'enfant eſt bien formé , l'ame y eſt infuſe ibid. l'enfant commence à ſe mouuoir, & auoir vie au ſoi- xantieſme iour. ibid.b l'enfant formé, la femme ne luy peut faire nuiſance. . d l'enfant prend ſon nourriſſement par le nombril, o ,b l'enfant au ventre de ſa mere n'a aucun vſage des yeux ny du nez, ny des oreillet. ibid. l'enfant n'a aucun beſoin de l'office du cœur, ny du ſiege. j .c l'enfant ne doit eſtre appellé enfant, s'il n'eſt du tout ormé. ibid. l'enfant au ventre de ſa mere ne prend rien par la bou- che,ne iette rien par le ſiege. ibid. comment y eſt ſitué. .d figure de ce. . aſon commencement en ſon temps. .b l'enfant comment reſpire auventre de ſa mere. o .c beau diſcours ſur ce. .b ne prend aucun air par la bouche de ſa mere. ibid. l'enfant eſtant à terme, s'efforce de ſortir du ventre de ſa mere. .a pourquoy ne veut ſortir. ibid. n'a terme certain d'y eſtre. j .c l'enfant iette de l'vrine quand il eſt pret de ſon terme. .b ne peut viure au huictieſme mois, & eſt dit geni- ture de la lune. .c au ſeptieſme il peut viure. l'enfant heureux qui naiſt coffé comment entendu. oo.a - l'enfant maſle eſt plu excellent que la femelle,& poar- quoy. .a l'enfant pourquoy pleure venant au monde. ibid. ce qu'il luy faut faireſ teſt qu'il eſt nay. ## ſl , eſt là, & pourquoy. l'enfant doit prendre pour la bouche quelque choſe a- uant que ietter, & comment. o . c ilne doit manger bouillie de dix ou douze iours apres eſtre may. o .b l'enfant doit eſtre couché ſur le dos pendant qu'il tette. o .b. l'enfant comment doit eſtre couché vis à vi de la lumiere © -- table des matieres. º : lumiere,& pourquoy. ibid.b ne doit eſtre trop bercé & pourquoy. o .c bon qu'ils crient quelquesfou. ibid. l'enfant en quels temps ſe doit ſevrer. ibid.d nourry d'vne mauuaiſe nourrice retient les mœurs d'icelle. o .c l'enfant ſouuent eſtouffé enſon maillot par trop ſerrer. i. - ſignes ſi l'enfant eſt eſtouffé par ſa nourrice, ou autre- // º/ f. .c enfant entaché de petite verole comment faut quil ſoit c / /'f. .a l'enfant mort ou vif au ventre de la mere comment c / 'jf. o .b l'enfant mort au ventre de ſa mere,doit eſtre tiré viſte- / / f. ibid.d eſtant trop gros,doit eſtre couppé,& commèt. o .a enfant hlanc,nay d'vne royne d'ethiopie. .d enfant noir, nay d'vne princeſſe blanche. ibid.b enfant mort enfanté, ayant vn ſerpent vifattache à , ſon dos qui le rongeoit. .b enfant monſtrueux du defaut de ſemêce en deue quan- tité. .b enfant nay ſans aucuns os,& neantmoins bien formé. .d enfant noir nay d'vne princeſſe blanche. . , .b enfant ayant les pieds & mains tortues,ayant eſtépreſ- sé au ventre de ſa mere. o.a enfans möſtrueux,ayant quatre brau,& quatre iambes .c enfant ayant les pieds & les bras en haut,au ventre de ſa mere. .c enfant hermafrodite, eſtant aſſis au ventre de ſa mere. .a enfans gemeaux. - ibid. autre ayant laface d'vne grenouille. .a autre estant demy-chien. .a autre ayant deux teſtes, deux iambes, & vn bras. .c enfant petrifié , trouué au cadauer d'vne femme. o.c enfans ſont de nature chaude & humide. .d me peuuent porter la faim. .d quelles viandes leur ſont conuenables. ibid. fort ſubiects aux poulx. .a enfans quelquesfcis ſont au ventre de leur mere dix, onze, dou{e mois, & pourquoy. .d enfans ſortent du vent e de leur mere quelquesfois ve- rolez, & ſont difficilement guaris. .d iceux eftans petits, comme faut qu'ils ſoient frottez ayans la verole. .a enfans, verolez donnent la verole à leurs nourrices. . - retiennent la nature dont ils ſont nourris. ibid. peuuent prendre la verole par baiſer. bid. et allaichans leur nourrice. ibid. enfans nai{ auec verole, difficillement ſont guaris .d les enfans apportent des ſeins & macules du ventre de leur mere. o .b les enfans doiuent eſtre ſevrez par raiſon, & non trop toſt, & comment. - - o .d moyen de les ſevrer. ibid. iceux ſevrez comment mrdicamentez. . les enfans reſſemblent ſouuent plus au pere qu'à la mere, . cºr pourquoy. .d quelquesfois ny à l'vn ny à l'autre .a les enfans ſouuent ne ſont ſubiets aux maladies here- ditaires. - ibid.b enfans naiz pluſieurs fois boſſu, tortu,& contrefaits, -) - par la faute des meres. .d *#k piedbots, manchots , faute des meres. s peuuent eſtre louches hereditairement. o .c leº enfans deviennent camu, tetans mammelles dures. o .b tetans trop long-temps, en ſont rendu effeminez. * , o .a les enfans commencent à auoir dents au ſeptieſme moi . o .d les enfans ſe delette à voir choſes belles. o .a enfans naiſſans ayans le ſiege clos, ne viuent long- temps. .d - enfans ne ſont gouteux auant qu'ils vſent du coit. .d pluſieurs leſont,diſquels les peres ne l'ont eſté,& au contraire. .b enfans plus ſubies à la pierre que les aagez, & pour- quoy. . enfans comment tirez du ventre de leurmere,morts ou vifs. o .c les petits enfans quand aſſaillis de la fiévre hettique,& comment y eſt pourueu. .c enfans eſpris de peſte, comment purgez & medica- j ?fc c , .d.& ſeqq. enfans conceu parſuperfetation, ont chacun leur ar- riere-faix. .b enfans gemeaux couuerts d'vn meſme arriere-faix. · ibid.d - cauſe de la pluralité d'enfans. .c comment l'enfantement ſe fait moyennant la diſtra- ctiou des os des hanches d'auec l'os ſacrum. .b enfantement naturel, quel eſt. contre nature, quel eſt. . . signes d'iceluy prothain. ibid.b comment cogneu estre difficile. - .c enfantement à neufans. ibid.c l'enfanter difficile prouient de la mere, ou de l'enfant. ibid.b enfonceure ou arthrodie. i .b t, oſieſme eſpece de fracture. i . l'entendemët,l'vne des principales puiſſances de l'ame, & pourquoy donné à l'homme. , .b eni erocele,ou inteſtinale,hargne. · .d enteroepiplocele, eſpece de hargne. bid. entrefeſſon,que c'eſt .c enumeration & diſſection anatomique. \ . ephemeron, autrement colchicon, ou bulbe ſauuage,& ſon contrepoiſon. o .c epicauma,que c'eſt. - .d l'epiderme n'eſt de temperament chand froid,g ſec, ny humide. .b perdu fe peut regenerer. · ibid.d epideſmi,eſpeces de bandes. .b epididyme, pourquoy crée. .c.d autrement paraſtate. .b epigaſtre,& ce qni eſt entendu par iceluy. o.b generalement pris. .a les parties contenantes d'iceluy qu'elles. . par iceluy eſt commencée la diſſettion anatomique. .b. .c - epigaſtre ou ventre inferieur, & de ſes playes epiglotte,ou languette. . c' principal inſtrument de la voix. ibid. ses muſcles, quatre. ' ibid. choſe à conſiderer en icelle. .c sa figure. ibid.d epilepſie,que c'eſt. b epilepſie & apoplexie, en qnoy different. ibid. epiphyſe,que c'eſt. - .a epiphyſes du cœur,on ke,& leurs difference. - a e e e e epiphyſes _ - table des matieres. epiphyſes des os ſouuent ſeparées, malaisées à reduire, & pourquoy. .d epiplocele,que c'eſt. o.b epiplocele,hargne,ou zirbalo. .d que c'eſt. - .o i . epiploon,ou omentum, que c'eſt, & ſa ſiubſtance, quan- tité,figure, & c. o. epitheme,que c'eſt. .b dit des pratticiens humectation,ou irroration. ibid. . dequoy compoſez. ibid. l'vſage d'iceux,& maniere de les appliquer. , ibid. epitheme pour le cœur. * - - i ibid. epithemer refrigeran prºpres a la fievre quarte. .d pour les fiévres hettiques. .b epithemes ou fomentations pour corroborer les parties nobles. , , .b leur faculté,& exemple de leur compoſition. ibid.c epomis. .c epulis,ſa definition,& cure. a degenere en cartilage & os. ibid. epuli enorme extirpe par l'autheur. ibid. epulides, ainſi appellez des grec,ſont tumeurs és gen- ciues. ibid. eringium,en françois panicault. .d eriſmum,ou irio, cortelle en françois propre pourle chancre. .b erreur couuert d'ignorance. .d erreur de l'vſage des medicamens emplaſtiques. .a errhines,que c'eſt. .b leurs differences. ibid. et matiere d'iceux. - ibid. leur vſage, & le temps d'en vſer, & a qui nuiſible. ibid.d errhines liquides, en latin caputpurgia. b · secr, sternutatoria. ibid.c autres, naſalia. ibid. errkine pour attirer les excremens du cerueau. ibid.b autre pour la pituité. ibid. eruttation, ou routement, du ſanglot. .b doù prouient. ibid. eruption & puſtules, appelléet pourpre. j . ont diuers noms,& quels. . ibid. cauſe, & cure d'iceux. j .a moyens de les connoiſtre apres la mort. o.b eryſipelau,maladie chaude. i .a ce qui eſt contenu ſou iceluy. ibid. ses cauſes,quelles,& prognoſtic. ibid.b signes d'iceluy comment cogneu. ibid. sa couleur. | .a eryſipelas comment engendré. .a ses differences. ibid.b sa definition. ibid. quatre intentiös pour la cure d'iceluy.ibid.& .c eryſipelau occupe la face,& pourquºy .c mceluy ietté du dedans au dehors , eſt bon ſigne. ibid.b saignée neceſſaire à la cure d'iceluy. ibid.d remedes propres pour icelny. ibid.c,d eryſipelau phlegmonodes , œdematodes , ſcirrhodes. - .a,b eryſipela plus chaud que le phlegmon,pourquoy. ibid. suruenant à la matrice,choſe mortelle. ibid.c erythroide. .d eſcaille d'airain beiie,cauſe flux de ventre,& vomiſſe- ment,& ſon antidote. o .c eſcarbots meurent de l'odeur des roſes. . eſcargots auec leur coquille, pilez, remede pour la pi- queure du scorpion. , eſchare,dequoy eſt faicte. .b faicte de bruſleure, comment gnarie. oo.b '. |! eſchare doit promptement eſtre faicte tüber aux playes venimeuſes. .a eſcharotiques, pourquoy il n'en faut vſer aux playes d'arquebuſes. .a l'eſchine composée de trente quatre or. . eſclair eſteint & ſuffoque la veue. .c eſclair,herbe propre pour la veuë. .c dite chelidonium maius. jj . eſclaue d'vn stenois qui fit ſept enfans d'vne portée . .d * • eſcreuſſes & cancreſ. o. a beſtes amphibier. .c amangée par les pourceaux pourſe guarir. .c eſcreuſſes bruſlées, ſont bonnes contre la merſure d'vn " chien enragé, delayées en vin. broyeess & pilée,bonnes contre le charbon. o.d eſcorces comment diſtillées. .a . eſcorcheures prouenantes de bruſleure, comment gua- ries. oo.d jeſcriteaux de pluſieurs ſortes pour penſer & guarir des maladies. .b à l'eſcriture on doit adiouſter foy. j .a eſcrouelles,qu'eſt ce, . dequoy engendrées. ibid.d amaniere de curer. ibid.c,d eſcrouelles ſouuent engendrées au mezentere ſelon pol- lux. i .a soixante dix-trouuées au mezentere d'vn more. ibid.b different des autres apoſtemes. ibid.b eſcrouelles degenerent ſouuent en chancres. ibid.a a icelles vlceres ne faut toucher par medicamens c/ 'ſ, ibid. eſcume delimaçons rouges,à quoy propre. o .d eſpaulette ou paleron,omoplate en grec. .a eſpeces de luxation. .c eſpeces d'epulotiques. .c l'eſpée ayant bleſsée quelqu'vn eſt pensée au lieu du bleſié & le bleſsé s'en guariſt. . eſperance aide aux malades. .c eſperuiers fuyant la creſcerelle,c ſont fuis de l'alouettes .d eſpine du dos,& ſa figure. - i o. fondemët & ſouſtenement du corps. .d. .a. o .b aines composée de pluſieurs. . .c vtilite (d'icelle,quatre. - ibid.c eſpinemedullaire ſon origine, & vſage. .d eſpine de l'omoplate. c espine fuxée comment reduite en la partie exterieure. .a signes de la bonne reduction d'icelle. j . c eſpine gibbeuſe en enfance , garde de croiſtre le corps- . eſpine courbée ou voutée,eº ſa cauſe- -a bleſſeure de l'eſpine du dos incurable. .d luxation de l'eſpine en la partie exterieure, & le moyen de la reduire. - .a ſignes quand la mouelle de l'eſpine eſt bleſſé. c.d vertebres de l'eſpine ont chacune ſix connexions. .c eſponge femelle plu douce que le maſle. .c eſponges propres pour contenir les choſes aromatiques. .c esprit, que c'eſt. .c ſt triple. ibid. l'eſprit ne vieillit point. o.b en quoy differe de l'ame. .c l'eſprit animal où ſe fait, & pourquoy. .c eſprit vital, que c'eſt. ibid.d se perd auec le ſang, . , o.b où aſſis, & dequoy fait ; & comment perdu. a pourquoz . | table des matieres. - ". • - extraction du fer barbelé. .c fer de fieſche tiré par hippocrates, demeure en l'ame. ibid.d ferule eſt aliment à l'aſne, & venin à toute autre che- ualine. o .c ferules pour les fractures. o.c dequoy doiuent eſtre faictes. ibid. leur vſage, & comment appliquées. ibid.b ferules, & eſtelles, torches & queſſes ſeruent à tenir les os en leurplace. ibid. feu tres-leger,& plus haut des elemens. .c , le feu eſt plus chaudſelon les matieres. .d ſon action. ibid. le feu vray alexitaire des petites bruſleures. oo.b le feu le plus requis à purger l'air en temps de peſte. . le feu grand ennemy de l'argent-vif. o .d le feu de ſouffre tres puant. .a feu de fouldre plus chaud que nul autre feu. ibid. appelle feu des feux. ibid. feu de fouldre,fond le fer d'vne picque ſans bruſler le bois. ibid. fond l'or & l'argent dans la bourſe ſans l'endomma- ger. ibid. feu volage, comment guary, .b feu ſortant des eaux comme choſe monſtrueuſe. o .a difference de feux requiſe é, diſtillations. .c fibra, mollet de l'oreille. .d fibres,& leurs genres. .c fibres des inteſtins, quelles. .d fibres du cœur,de trois genres,& leur attion. .c toutes fiebres des muſcles droites. .b fic ou fil ſainči fiacre. .b aufic ſaintt fiacre,ne faut aucune cure fors la paillia- ff mº. ibid.a : fiche ou gomphoſe. i .c la veſſie du fiel attire la colere du ſang. i . fiel du crocodile bon pour les catarattes des yeux. . fiente d'animaux, de quelle vertu. .c fiente de bœufcontre la picqueure des mouſches. .b fiente de bœuf ou vache pour la douleur des goutes. fiente de brebis, excellente pour engraiſſer les terres. c b fiente du cheual comment bonne pour les bruſleures. oo.b fiente de chévre propre à diſcuter les tumeurs ſcirrheu- ſes .d boullue & fricaſſée en vinaigre,a vertu d'attirer le venin des araignes & autres. .d fiente de chien qui ait rongé par trois iours des os, propre pour arreſter le flux de ventre. .c fiente de pigeons, auec noyaux de peſches, bonne pour la migraine. o.a boulue en vinaigre, propre à fomenter les goutes. .b fiente de vache,chévre ou brebis,auec anis,& c. bonne contre l'inflation de la matrice, .d fèvre & ſa definition. . eſt affection ſeiche. . augmenté par les choſes ameres. .d a ſon ſiegeau cœur. .b fievre diaire, ou ephemere, & ſesſignes. . tourmente les petits enfans. .c s'eſtend iuſques à quatre ionrs, & ſa curation. ibid.b fiévre quotidiane, que c'eſt. .h,c ſes ſignes & cauſe. ibid. accidens qu'elle ameine. ibid. en quel temps & region ſe prend. ibid. le plusſouuent eſt longue, & pourquoy. ibid.d cure d'icelle. - .a la fiévre quotidienne laiſſe touſ ours quelque accident.. & quels. ibid.b ſignes de ſa guariſon. .d fiévre hectique,ſes cauſes & differences. f .c ſon etymologie. ibid. aduertiſſement ſur la cure d'icelle. - fiévre hectique quand aſſaut les petits enfans,c moyens d'y remedier. .c fiévre intermittente, qu'eſt-ce ,c comment finit. .c eſt generalement ſans danger. o.d la fiévre synoche,putride,tient le patient plu de vingt- quatre heures. .a,c fiévreputride & ſa curation. o.b fiévre continué apporte touſiours danger au malade . fiévre erratique aduenant aux filles par ſupreſſion des mois dicte planetes,ou epiale. . fiévre quarte que c'eſt. .d ſes #º ſignes,& qui ſont ceux qui y ſont ſubiects . d'où engendrée. .c dure quelquesfois douze ans. .b inueteré comme guerie. ibid. Éiévre quarte ne ſe guerit en hyuer,& bienpeu la quo- • tidienne. .d fiévre quarte, ſouuent guariepar vne peur ſubite, & c / f, .c fiévre ſuruenant aux tumeurs ſcirreuſes. .d fiévre ſuruenante au commencement des playes de la teſte quelle,c que ſignifie. .b fiévre procedante d eryſipela, n'eſt mortelle le plu ſouuent. ibid.é comment connue eſtre telle. ibid. fiévre ſuruenante a l'autheur l'onzieſmeiourde ſableſ- ſeure,& cauſe d'icelle. .b fiévre guerie pour eſtre cheut dans vn fleuue. a fiévres guaries en diſant certains mots & autrement. .b fiévres ephemeres, & lenrs cauſes. .d fiévres quotidiennes reprenent le plu ſouuent ſur le ſoir, & pourquoy. .d de peu de duree. : .c fiévre tierces ſuruiennent ſouuent de la bile ou colere. aux eryſipeles. i o.c leurs ſignes,cauſes & accidens. ibid. quels hommes en ſont aſſaillis, & combien dure l'ac- ce ( d'icelles. ibid.a fiévre tierce, quarte,quotidienne & continue,quels bu- meurs demonſtrent. - o.b. º fiévres tierces,que ſignifient les vlceres de la bouche, & quelle eſt leur cauſe. o.d leurcure & diette en icelles. i i. a fiévres doubles tierces prennent volontiers vers le mi dy .a févres quartes en eſtéſont briefues, en automne lon- gues. .b leurs ſignes comment pris,& leur cure. ibid.c fiévres pºlº , tierce , quarte, & quotidienne . és fiévres peſtilentilles, le dedans bruſle, & le dehors eſt froid, pourquoy. .b fiévres qui ſuruiennent au phlegmon, & curation d'i- celles. .d fiévres ſuruenantes aux tumeurs des gladules,ſont tou- tes malignes,excepté les diaires. ibid. fiévres ſuruenantes aux œdemes. .b fiévres guaries par l'autheur,& comment. .c à toutes fiévres la maniere de viure humettante eſt con- uenable. . . - f,f *- - -' table des matieres. cure d'iceluy. ibid. flux de ſang és carnoſitez doit eſtre prouoqué. .a flux de ſang venant és playes, & meyen de l'arreſter. flux de ſang,comment arreſté à la couppe des membres o .b - flux de ſang ſuruenant apres la cheute de l'eſcarre o .b flux de ſangſuruenant des vaiſſeaux & arteres deſliez, ce qu'il faut faire. o .c flux de ſang cauſé par l'inciſion faite par trop pres du ſiege dangereux. o .d flux menſtruel, appellé mois, & pourquoy. o. cauſes d'iceluy. ibid.b pourquoy vient pluſtoſt ou plus tard en aucunes. o.b flux menſtruel purge les femmes de beaucoup de ſuper- uitex, . flux menſtruel trop exceſſif, s'aſtraint en pluſieurs ma- / ſ • . pourquoy retenu aux femmes. i.a le moyen de le prouoquer. .b signes pour connoiſtre qu'il veut couler. .a le moyen de l'arreſter. .a flux menſtrnel immoderé cauſe de diuers accidens. .d le flux comment conneu venir par eroſion. .c flux muliebre, & difference d'iceluy a'auec le pus de l'amarry. ibid. cure d'iceluy. .c.d fluxion, que c'eſt, & ſes cauſes. .a comment deſtournée. j.c fluxion cauſe de gangrene. o .b fluxions ſur les yeux comment gueries. e.b focile du bras. o.b focile petit de la iambe, à quoy ſert. .d follicule du fel, & ſa figure. fomentation, que c'eſt. .c en quoy differe de l'embrocation. ibid. leur vſage, & maniere de les appliquer. ibid.c fomentation longuement faicte, reſoult plu qu'elle n'at- f ' '. - . . fomentation de vin reprime , refroidit , & ſeiche ibid.d fomentation relaxatiue & reſolutiue. j .c fomentation emolliente & reſoluente. .c fomentation pour l'eryſipelau. o.a pour conforter la partie de l'œdeme. .h pour les tumeurs venteuſes. i .a pour le chancre. .d pour les coups orbes. .d fomentation remolitiue & reſolutiue pour le charbon. .a pour reduire la paupiere. pour les iointures des gouteux. .c pour les carnoſitex. .b pourl'apoſteme #a .b fomentation conſtringente pour l'amarry. .a autres tres-vtile pour la matrice. .d fomentations aſtringentes & reſerrantes pour les fem- mes accouchées i.d fomentations pour les yeux. •c pour les meurtriſſeures. .b pour la ſciatique. .b fomentations & frictions ont contraires effects. methode pour les bien faire, pour reparer vne par- tie atrophiée. .c fondement, receptacle des excremens. o .a fondement & tumeur d'iceluy, les cauſes & cure d'icel- le. ibid. fondeurs,ſubiects à maladieschaudes. .d fontaines où habitent les crocodilles ſont pres du nil . - fontenelle ou ſcriciput. io .a foret pour commencer à ouurir le crane, & ſa figure : .a formation de cauteres, quelle. .c formica. i .a formicatio. # .b formillon, eſpece d'araigne. .d foſſe clodiane, auioura'huy chioggia. .c foulare, deſa naturepestilente & puante. .b de deux eſpeces, ſelon ariſtote. j i. n'eſt ſi cruelle que l'artillerie. .b en quoy differe d'icelle. .b la fouldre ne deſcend plus de cinq pieds en terre. .c tombe volontiers ſur vn cheſne. . quelles choſes en ſont preſeruées. ibid. laiſſe touſiours certaines marques de bruſleure. .c m'eſt ſans feu, ibid. fouldre & tonnerre briſe & fracaſſe les os à ceux qu'il touche & ſans apparence en la chair. i. font auorter les femmes. .a les fouldres ſont de trois genres differens l'vn de l'au- fr , .b les fouldres fondent l'or & l'argent ſans intereſſer les bourſes, & c. ibid.d. .a aux fouldres & tonnerres y a quelque diuinité, ſelon seneque. .c fouldres & feu du ciel,ſont les ſergens de la iuſtice de dieu. ibid, fourchette. . dequoyſert. . la fourchette ſe peut luxer par ſes deux extremitez .b la fourmis, miroiier des choſes excellentes en nature .c fourmis, dequel nature. ' .b semblent entendre l'aſtronomie. ibid. leur diſcipline, quelle. ibid,c ont iours de foire, ſelon pline. ibid.c s'enſeueliſſent les vnes les autres. ibid. formis propres aux ours contre tout venin. .c # ſe rencontrans à monceaux, ſignifient la pluye. o. fourmis volans. .d fourneaux à diſtiller,& de leurs differences. .b artifice d'iceux. ibid.c le fourneau rondeſt le meilleur. ibid. fourneau de baing marie auec les alembics & recipiens . fourneau auec ſon vaiſſeau pour diſtiller à la vapeur de l'eau. . fourneau auec ſon vaiſſeau pour tirer toutes eſſences vegetables, & l'eau de vie , & vinaigre diſtillé. .c fourneau de reuerberation accommodé de ſa retorte & recipient. . " .b les fourneaux doiuent auoir deux ou trois fonds, & pourquoy. - .d foye & ſa definition. . sa ſubſtance & quantité. ibid. sa figure, temperament, & action ibid.c le foye plus mol que la peau. .d propre à faire ſang. i i ,c change le chilus en ſang. ,d plus chaud que le ventricule. b par où ſe purge. .d le foye, l'vne des principales parties organiques. .a ce qui en procede. ibid. que c'eit qu'il fait. o.f . - (! table des matieres eſt ntceſſaire à vie. ibid. le foye, autheur, ſource, & origine de toutes veines. . eſt lié & attaché par trois ligamenn ibid.c · le foye autrement diuise aux hommes qu'aux beſtes. ibid. pourquoy plu grandaux craintifr. ibid. hommes qui ont le foye trop haut ont les veines groſſes, & le ſang chaud. .d le foye chaud, enuoyant fumées au cerueau,cauſe diſtil- lations froides en l'eſtomach. .c le foye bleſsé ne peut eſtre conſolidé. . o.c signes a'iceluy bleſsé. .d. o .c partie du foye oſtée du corps d'vn homme ſans mort. .a le foye de la paſtenaque bon contre ſon venin. o .b,c fracture, que c'eſt,& les eſpeces & differences. .b les cauſes,ſignes,& prognoſtic d'icelles. ibid.d cure vniuerſelle des fractures & luxations. , .a fracture ne ſe fait iamais ſans contuſion.. .a danger en la reduction d'icelle, lors que la partie eſt enflée. - . fractureplus ou moins fucheuſe,quelle. .b fracture, ſelon hippocrate, eſt auſſi bien des cartilages, comme de l'os. .d fratture de trauers plu facile à guarir que toute autre. .c fractureſe peut faire à l'oppoſite du coup,& comme s'en- tend en meſme os. .d la fracture ne demande à eſtre remuée ſouuent. .a fracture & luxation ameinent atrophie , ºh quel ſ . d quand aisément reduite. . en fracture auecplaye y a neceſſité de bandage. .a fracture du nez. - . c maniere pour la reduire. - ibid. fratture de la mandibule inferieure. . fracture de l'os clauiculaire ou furculaire. .b fraflure de l'omoplate. .a signes & curation d'icelle. ibid.b fracture faicte au col du pauleron, ou à la iointure de l'eſpaule, dangereuſe. - ibid.c fracture ou depreſſion du ſternon,ſignes & cure d'icelle. ibid.c - fratture des coſtes ibid d signes & prognoſtic d'icelle. . accidens qui en aduiennent , & cure d'iceux. ibid.c - fratture des vertebres,& leur cure. ibid.d prognoſtic d'icelles. o. fracture de l'os ſacrum. ibid.b fracture de los du croupion, ou de la queué, & leur re- duction. - ibid. fractare de l'os de la hanche. ibid.c signet & curation d'icelle. ibid. fracture de l'os du haut du bras,ou adiutoire. ibid.d ce qu'il faut obſeruer en ſa reduction. ibid.c comment le brasſeraſitué apresla fratture remiſe. .a fracture de l'os du coulde, & du rayon & ſes differences ibid.b fračture de la main. ibid.d fracture de la cuiſſe au milieu, & le moyen de la redui- 'e, • . autre faicle pres la iointure,& ſignes,& cure d'icel- le, - .b fratture des cuiſſes ſe guarit mal aisément ſans boiter. ibid.d fracture de la rotule du genoiiil. . cauſe de la claudication. ibid. fracture de la iambe. , · ibid. -' ceux ui ºnt fracture doiuent vſer d'vn bourrelet ſºus leurs feſſes. .d fratture des os du pied. . fraiture du talon mortelle,& pourquoy. .c fracture des coſtes en dehors,comment retirée. .b frattare de l'os de la gréue eſt plus dangereuſe que celle du petit os. ce qu'il faut faire en la fracture d'vn ſeul coſté de l'oi. a,b - fratlure dn crane. - les eſpeces & differences d'icelle. ibid. d'où prinſes. . ' . cinq eſpeces ſelon hippocrate. . . autre differencer. ibid. cauſes & ſignes d'icelles. ! . fractures du crane ne ſont hors du periliuſques à cene / yſ, - . pourquoy l'on trepane en icelles. ibid.d regime vniuerſel d'icelles, ibid.b fracture de teſtes faites à ceux qui releuent de maladie, difficiles à guarir. .c ſignes ſenſuels pour connoiftre la fratlure de la teſte. . c - fractures ſe font pluſtot l'hyuer que l'eſté, . sont perilleuſes,quand les eſclats ſont grands. ibid.d correction des accidens en icelles. .a cauſe du treſſaillement en icelles. .b fractures gueries par le benefice des humeurs. .b fractures pres des iointures faſcheuſes à gnarir,& pour- quoy. c. ,c ne ſe peuuent ſi bienguerir,que le malade en demeu- re boiteux. - ibid. ſignes deſdites fractures. - ibid. fractures plus faciles à guerir aux ieunes qu'aux vieux, pourquoy. .b accidens qui peuuent ſuiure lerfrattures. .b aux fractures ſont neceſſaires troir bandes. .b és fractures,ſi les os nè ſont dutout ſeparez & tiennent · à leurperioſte,ne doiuent eſtre oſtez. .b és fractures & luxations on doit attacher vne corde au plancher au milieu du litt. - -c és fractures faut reduire les lieux vuides, & cauitez. . és fractures auec playe,faut bander ſur la playe. ibid.b quatre efpeces de frattures peuuent deceuoir le chirur- gien. . obſeruations communes és luxations & fractures. .b crepitation & croquement monſtrent l'os eſtre fracturé. . françois,quels. .b les françois font embaumer leurs roys & grands sei- gneurs, & leur font dreſſer figure enleuées. .d freres lombards. . freſne arbre degrand vertu contre le venin. .c frittion, & ſes effects & differences. . maniere de la faire. .c friction pour roborer les iointures des gouteux.' .d 'friction,certain remede pour la verole. . quelle preparation la doit preceder. ibid. lieux propres,& temps pour la faire. o.b en quelles parties des verolez. ibid. intermiſſion d'icelle bonne. fo.d frittion vif-argentée. b apres la frittion ne faut attendre flux de bouche ou de z/e/ trº. - b frictions quelles doiuent eſtre. . .c viilité d'icelles vniuerſelles .a frittions briefues font attractions ſans reſoudre. ibid.a bonnes pour chaſſer lapierre en la veſſie. o .c frittions comment bienfaites pour reparer vne partie. - - - ff f f atrophiée table des matieres. . atrophiée . , e frictions trop douces ne ſont bonnes pour ouurir lespores. o.c - - - trop fortes, cauſes de les ſerrer. ibid. doiuent eftre mediocres. ibid. le nombre des frictions doit eſtre meſuré ſelon les forces des verole?. ibid.d signes pour cognoiſtre la ſuffiſante frittion. ibid. frigiditez cauſes des goutes. .d friſſon de fiévre quotidienne. .c friſſon & rigueurs d'où prouiennent aux filles,& reme- - des à iceux. .c froid ennemy du cerueau . . .c ennemy des playes de la teſte. ibid. t des parties pectorales. d de la mouelle ſpinale & des nerfs. .d froid contraire aux playes des parties nerueuſes. .a contraire à toutes playes & vlceres. .d les rend difficiles à guarir. .d contraire aux pierreux. - o .c froid ennemy contraire des os, dents, nerfs & cerueau. .d le froid par ſa violence eſt ſouuent cauſe de noſtre mort. · » o.c le froid cauſe efficiente de graiſſe. • cauſe gargrene & mortification. .d comment. o . le foid eſchauffe par accident, & non de ſa propre na- , ture & ſeiche auſſi. o .a le froid mord en pinçant les playes. .c choſes froides , ennemies des yeux & de la veuë. , , -c -) froideur de ceux qui ſont piquez des beſtes venimeuſes, ne procede du venin. .c proment plºu en italie. oo.d jfroment maſché tout cru, bon pour la morſure veni- .d · · meuſe. . jfront, & ce qui eſt entendu par iceluy. o .b jf ont ne doit estre ſerré en douleur de teſte. . front ridé comme vn lyon,ſigne de ladrerie. .a #gict de grande groſſeur n'eſt ſi toſt meur qu'vn petit. .d le fruict de tous arbres prend ſon nourriſſement par la queue. .b fruicts dont pourra vſer le peſtiferé. .c fruitts cruds, fourmage & laictage / gendrent les vers. .d - les fruicts de la terre ſe peuuent conuertir en aliment. .c les fruicts quelquesfois corrompus en l'arbre cauſent la peſte. i. c fruitts imprimez ſur le corps humain , & cauſe de ce. • .b . - fueilles de ſaulge trempées vne nuict en vin blanc, pro- : pres à boire pour la fiévre quarte. .c fueilles de rue, noix, & figues ſeiches, bons contre-poi- * ſons. - .c fueilles de cypré, alexitere du venin de la salemandre. . .d paeilles de l'eaſconit ſemblables à celle du concombre . · .d quatre pour le plu. ibid. sont velues & heriſſées,plaines d'aiguillons, ſembla- blement les queues. ibid. fueilles de geneſt propres à faire vomir , & comment » t d " . fueilles de laureoles trempées en vinaigre, contre la pestr. - | . fueilles & fleurs de ſoulcy bonnes pour les verrues. o.c feuillet de l'arbre qui porte le poyvre, ſemblables à cel- - • -- -- les du citronnier. ,b fumée de charbon fait ſouuent mourir l'homme. .a mauuaiſe & dangereuſe, c exemple de ce. ibid. fumigation pour les carnoſitez, .a fungus que c'eſt, cauſe d'iceluy, & ſa cure. o.d pourquoy ainſi nommé, ibid. fungu dit fic ſaintt fiacre,eſpaces de verrues. .b cure d'icelles. - ibid. furunculus, ou anthrax. .a fuſée, ou peſte. - .a g g abets ſont ladres en langue bourdeloiſe. .d gad, prophete enuoyé à dauid pour eſlire famine, peſte, ou la guerre. .ç gajac, election & faculté d'iceluy. . trois ſubſtances trouuée en iceluy. ibid. maniere de preparer ſa decoltion. ibid.d vſage d'icelle. .c gajac bon aux paralytiques. .d eſcorce & cœur d'iceluy,ſes vrayes ſubſtances, leur vſage. .c cauſe de vermouleure. . ibid. diette de gajac propre pour les nodu. .c gajacd'vn corps mort en egypte, qutl. .b galien #º o. ans auant leſu-chriſt, en pergame. . fils de nicom architecte. ibid. figure d'iceluy. . e c'eſt que galien enſeigne en ſes liures des admini- ſtrations anatomiques & vſage des parties. .a galeres de m. antoniu & caligula, arreſtées par le poiſſon remora. o.b ºuatre cens galiots & leurgalere, arreſtez par vnfort petit poiſſon. - ibid. anglion que c'eſt, ſa cauſe & cure. .b gangre, que c'eſt. o .d ses noms diuers. ibid. prognoſtic, ferocité, & cure d'icelle. o - pourquoy appellée clyomenis. ibid. gangrene, quand aduient au col de la matrice. .b gangrene ſouuent cauſée par trop lier vne partie. .c gangrene ne ſe trouue és playe recentes, ny putrefaction. .c - gangrene ſuruenue de cauſe antecedente. .c gangrenes, & leurs cauſes generales. o ...a les particulieres. ibid.d les antecedentes. ibid.c comment cauſée par le froid. o .b cure d'icelles. o .b,c. gangrenes appellées des modernes le feu sainct antoine, ou sainct marcel. . o . gangrenes par inflammation,froidure,ligatures,bruſleu- res, & autres cauſes, & leurs ſignes. o .c,d gangrenes engendrées par morſures , picqueures, & aneuriſmes, & cacochymies. ibid. toutes gangrenes aduiennent par qualité veneneuſe. o .d moyen d'obuier aux menaces des gangrenes, ſuiuant les contuſions. . . eauant-coureurs de mort en gangrene. o | gardes des pestifere{, & tous autres qui les hantent à euiter. j .c gargareon, ou luette. i . c gargariſme, que c'eſt. .c deux ſortes diceux. ibid. effects, & matiere de leur compoſition. ibid. leur vſage. . ibid. ibid. gargariſme aſtringent & repercuſſif anodyn - | - i table des matieres. ii leurs façons & malice,qu'elle. .d guaux,larrons,boute-feux, & maquereaux. ibid. les gueux & impoſteurs ont certain iargon pour ſe co- ibid.d gnoiſtre. gueux cr impoſteurs contre-faiſans les aueugles,ſourds, & impotens.&c. . pt hº# de ceux qui hantent les peſtiferez, quels doiuent eſtre. .b baut,& ſa deſcription. > - o .c sa figure. o . haleine des ladres fort pnante. .c dangereuſe,& pourquo). o.a haleine des verolez eſt puante toute leur vie. .d haleine & excremens des peſtifere{,ſont dangereux. .d ti# de lafemme,ayant vn enfant mort au ventre, - eſt fort puante. o .c haleine d'vne fille nourrie de venin,poiſon mortelle aux hommes. o .c retention a'haleine precipitel'amarry. .b haleine de la belette fait mourir le baſilic. .d phaleine du baſilic fait mourir les arbres,& herbes.ibid. haleine des chats dangereuſes. . o .c l'hameçonpourprendre le crocodille,peſant troi liures. .a la hanche ſe deſloue en quatre façons, & ſignes de ce. .b le # d'icelle,pourquoyſe rompt ou relaſche.ibid. hannibal, & ſa cruauté. .a hargne,& ſon etymologie. .d ses differences. ibid. cauſe prognoſtic,& cure d'icelle. .b hargne inguinale,& ſes ſignes. ibid. hargne kirable,ou epiplocelle. .o i • curation d'icelle aisée & ſeure. ibid. hargne charneuſe,& ſa deſcription. ibid.d signes & cure d'icelle. ibid. hargne aqueuſe,que c'eſt,& ſignes d'icelle. ibid. c dite hydropiſie particuliere. ibid. cure d'icelle,& par chirurgie. ibid./ hargne venteuſe,& ſa definition & difference. ibid.d cure d'icelle. ibid. difference entre la charneuſe,& venteuſe. ibid. hargne variqueuſe,quelle, & cure d'icelle. o . hargne humorale,quelle. ibid.c hargne incurable,quelle. .b hargne enorme. - ibid. hargnes des petits enfans pourquoyſeguariſſeent. .c aduertiſſement touchant la guariſon des hargnes. d o .. eharmonie que c'eſt. , .b harquebuſe, eſpece d'artillerie, & etymologie du nom. .a ba kard ſur ceux qui habitent auec les femmes verolées. .b hector fut trainé par le tendon des muſcles de la iambe au long des murs de troye. .c hedin pris ou eſtoit l'autheur. .b heleos,eſt ſolution en la chair. t . hellebore, aliment à la caille & medicament aux bom- ?f. - o .c hellebore,appliqué au ne (,fait eſternuer. .c hellend animalpourquoy ainſi nommé. .d doute de la vertu dupied d'iceluy. ibid. hemorrhagie aux playes doit efire promptement ſecou- rue. o.d --» pourquoy n'auient touſiours és playes d'arque- buſe. moyen de l'arreſter. # l'hemorragie des petits vaiſſeaux ,'arreſte aisément par les ſeuls aſtringens. o . hemorrhoides,que c'eſt. . leurs differences & accidens. ibid. temps de leur fluxion. ibid. cure d'icelles. ibid.d hemorrhoide veſicales, wuales, morales, verrucales, quelles. . prognoſtic d'icelles , .c hemorrhoides causées par les efpreintes. cauſent grande euacnation. ſ . hemorrhoides naiſſans au col de la matrice, que c'eſt .a quand viennent,& comment cogneuës. ibid. cure d'icelles. ibid.d heraut & ambaſſade de dieu c'eſt la mort. o.a berbes propres pour les hectiques. .b herbes neruales. .d berbes contraires aux venins. .b. c herbes propres à empouller la peau. . b herbes medicamenteuſes priſes des eaax, quelles. o .c herbes comment diſpenſées par les amedecins. o.c berbes & fueilles de pluſieursſortes dans la chambre du peſtiferé. .b herenne sicilien ſaiſi de peur,ſe tua. .a heriſſon caut & fin pour la garde de ſes petits. .b le heriſſon ſe charge de raiſins, pommes & poires, com- / f, ibid. heriſſon de mer, & ſa figure. ' j.c bermaphrodite,patticipant de l'homme & de la femme, ſa deſcription,& cauſe. .b ses differences,quatre. . ibid. signes pour connoifire l'habitude d'iceux. ibid. figure d'iceluy. .a hermaphrodites ou androgynes,ſont enfans qui en vn meſme corps, ont deux ſexes. . hermaphrodites gemeaux eſtant ioincts dos à dos l'vn auec l'autre. ibid. hermodactes,& leur proprieté. o .b hernia gutturis,c ſes differences. i i.c heron volant fort haut,denote beau temps. o.d heron, & ſa ruſe, eſtant pouſuiny du faulcon, quelle. jo.c herotimus roy de parthe auoit ſix cons enfans,& com- //ºº/ f. .b herpes,& leur definition. . o.b de trois eſpeces,ſelon gulien. ibid. cure d'iceluy. ibid. remedes à ce. - - ibid. herpes miliaris. | .a berpes exedens. • o.b heſiode conſeille n'engendrer enfant quand on a eſtéaux obſeques d'vn treſpaſsé. · .b ' hibou, ou chathuant, negligé apresſa mort, & mal- voulu durant ſa vie. o.c hiebles, & ſa ſemence propre à euacuer. f .d hippocras d'eaupour les gouteux. . hippocrate naſquit en la cité de cos, auant l'incarna- tion de ieſus-chriſt .ans. .d fils d'heraclite,& de praxithée. ibid. sa figure. . hippocrate tenu pour•authenr & fondement des loix de la medecine. .b hippocrate trompé au nombre des ſuturet. io a inuenteur des bandages larges des ſuturet. i. .c hippocrate adoré pour auoir fait ceſſer la peſte, & appellé conſeruateur du pays. j .c #ionneurs à luy faits. .c . ffff hippo table des matieres. \ hippocrate eſcrit à hyſfenes. .d l'hippopotame, cheual du nil, de nature gonrmand, a enſeigné la phlebotomie. \ o. hirondelles volans contre terreſignifient la pluye, com- ment font leur nids. o.c hirondelles ont monſtré la proprieté de l'herbe nommée eſclaire. .c hiſtoire aduenue à l'autheur viſitant vn peſtiferé. .b - hiſtoire d'ariu peripateticu,lequel contraint boire de l'eau froide, mourut ſubitement. .d hochet baillé aux enfans,pourquoy. .c hocquet & ſanglat, & ſes cauſes. .b boga poiſſon grand comme veau marin. .a deſcription d'iceluy,& d'ou a pris ſon nom. . holandois quels. .b l'homme nayſans ſauoir aucune choſe. .d doiiéde raiſon,& pourquoy. .d par icelle excede tous autres animaux, .b deſtitué d'art & ſcience,les peut apprendre. .d a imposé nom à toutes choſes, & redigé les arts & ſciences par eſcrit. .d appellé petit monde. ibid.c peut apprendre toutes langues, . l'hommenay tout nud,armé d'entendement. . plu excellent & parfait que toutes beſtes, & en quoy differe d'icelles. .d a tous moyens de ſe defendre. ibid. l'homme crée à l'image de dieu. ibid.b eſt ſeul diuin. ibid.c seul pour entendre les choſes diuines, & la connoiſ- jance de dieu. . a en ſon ame trois puiſſances principales, & quelles. .b l'homme ne veut viure ſansl'humeur radicale. .a a trente deux dents. i .c seul vient au monde en tout temps. .a n'eſt engendré ſansſemence humaine. .a n'eſt qu'vn poinct au regard de la machine celeſte. . oo.b - l'homme vieil ne doit eſtre dit humide, & pourquoy i o. l'homme ſangnin, quel il eſt. .d l'homme ſangnin boit & mange beaucoup. ibid. l'homme ſanguin a la couleur belle,vermeille, & c. & à quelles maladies ſubiet. ibid. homme cholerique,& ſignes de ce, ibid. homme phlegmatique,c ſes ſignes. homme melancholique,& ſes ſignes. ibid. l'homme,tel qu'il ſoit,peut venir mclancholiqiie. .b homme ſans cholere, dit eſtre ſans entendement. .d l'homme peut engendrer depuis le douzieſme,iuſque au ſoixantieſme an,voire ſoixante & dix. ibid. l' homme trop gras & feſſu, & la femme de meſme · cauſe de ſterilité. o.c l'homme s'accointant d'vn boiteux,en retient ſouuent. o .d homme à ieun pourquoy prendpluſtoſt la peſte. .a peſe plus que celuy qui a pris ſa refection. o .c l'homme prompt à receuoirlevenin lepreux. .a l'homme hantant les peſtiferez peut porter l'air infect en ſes habits. . .d l'homme priuilegié plus que les autres animaux en la fouldre. .b et quand il en meurt. ibid. , seul ne meurt point du coup d'iceluy. .d l'homme qui en veillant eſt frappé de foudre demeure les yeux ouuerts. ibid. homme enragé à vne ſoifintolerable, & neantmoins n'a appetit de boire. o.d penſe eſtre chien luy-meſme. ibid.d craint la lumiere & l'eau. tbid. ſignes que l'homme eſt mordu d'vn chien enragé. o.a et # la rage eſt confirmée aux parties nobles. $b (!,c homme empoiſonné eſt peſant par tout le corps. a lihomme empoiſonné ſera mis dans le ventre d'vn bœuf, ou d'vn cheual pourſuer. .d l # peut eſtre lepreux par vn mauuais regime. . hommeſage ne doit mefpriſer les medicamens. o . homme comment lié quandon luy veut extraire la pier- re de la veſſie. o .a l'homme qui a perdu vn bras ou iambe, ne doit tant manger qu'auparauant. .d omme qui a eu du laict iuſques à le faire rayer. .c autre veu à veniſe,ayant du laitt aſſe{pour nourrir vn enfant. ibid. hommes ſans brau faiſant toutes actions qu'vn autre pouuoit faire. .z homme qui a eu la compagnie d'vne chévre. . l' # eſt fort eſtonné aupays eſtrange,& pourquoy. i. - l'homme veu du loup premier,perd la voix, & ne peut crier. .c vie de l'homme tend à ſiccité. .d temperature & complexion de l'homme, comme peut eſtre changée. .d les hommes ſont diſſemblables pour la diuerſe ſituatiºn des regions. ibid.d hommes retenans la nature des femmes. i .c les hommes mangent plu que les femmes. hommes poureux dreſſent ſouuent les cheueux. les hommes ſgauent tout faire hors les nids des oiſeaux, prouerbe. .b les hommes enſeigne (par les beftes , à fourbir leurs ar- mes,& vſer d'embuſcades. .c les hommes ne preſagent comme les animaux, & pour- quoy. ſ . les hommes contre-font la voix des beſtes, & quelles. ibid. hommes pourquoy ont plus grand foye les vns que les f f ' 'j, .a hommes craintifs & froids mangent plus que les au- f ré ' ibid.e deux hommes ne peuuent eſtre trouuez du tout ſembla- bles. i i . les hommes ont l'ame raisonable, & intellecluele .b honte,ditte verecundia, qu'eſt-ce, qu'elle cauſe. .b honte fort familiere aux enfans. ibid. #". ou orgeole, tubercule au bord des paupieres. .c h# proprement dite,quelle. .a huyle naturellement appaiſe les douleurs. .b de quels corps l'huyle vient la premiere en diſtillant. .b " toute l'huyle de quelles parties composée. . huyle feruéte pour appaiſer vne extreme douleur. .c huyle des vegetaux cöment tirée par diſtillation. .a l'huyle tirée des ſimples,eſt de deux ſortes. ibid. buyles de gommes,& le moyens de les faire. .c,d comment faite. l. huyle roſat & eau de vie,quelle puiſſance ont. .c buyle de vitriol eſt ſiccatiue,& fort aſtringente. .a propre à guarir la tigne. .d son operation plus grande que de l'eau forte. ibid. e_waoyen de la faire. ibid.a huyle de renarà anodyn pour la goutte. . huyle d'oliue fait mourir les vers. . l'hºye° ". table des matieres. hypoſacre eſt tumeur molle, -a,é phypoſpadias que c'eſt. - oo.d bypatenar, muſcle. i . hyuer combien dure, & ſes qualitez. o.b augmente la chaleur naturelle. ibid. en hyuer le mouuement & ſentiment quand depraué. de quelles viandes y faut vſer. .d en hyuer faut plu donner à manger anx malades peſti- ferez qu'en eſté. ibid. i ambe,& ſa declaration. .d i ſimplement priſe,ou auec additiou. ibid. iambe ſpecialement dite,que c'eſt. ibid. la lambe, ou cuiſſe en general composée de .ou . os i jo.c & c. iambe eſt inſtrument du mouuement progreſſif .a la iambe où eſt ce que ce doit coupper. o .d figure d'vne lambe rompue auec playe. .b comment doit eſtre bandée. .d la lambe fratturée, non bien ſituée rend le malade boi- f ' .m'. - .d iambe de bois artificielle,ſa figure & deſcription. .a iambe de bois pour les pauures,ſa deſcription, & figure. .d iambe navrée en pluſieurs lieux & ſa figure. .d iambes trop greſles. .d bis ſemblable a la cicogne. .d rchor, que c'eſt & ſignifie. i i .c lchor, eſt mot grec, & sauies eſt latin, prins pour toutes humiditez. i . comparez au laict clair par galien. ibid. eſpece d'éxcrement double. ibid. ič}is,belette. - .b idole de marbre au cabinet de theuet, trouuée en vn corps mumié. .d idoles mis és corps morts des e#yptiens,pourquoy. ibid. ieiunum, & pourquoy ainſi dit. . ieſabel royne,ſorciere,mangée des chiens. .c ieſus-chriſt a voulu communiquer,& tonuerſer auec les ladres - ieſus-chriſt guarit des ladres. jeunes gens,prodigues, gaillards,& hardis. io.c tºluſtoſt guaris de leur playes que les vieux. sont forts ſuiects à verole. .b abondent en ſang. . j o. leunes enfans ne doiuent eſtre ſaignez, & pour cauſe. o.d leunes choleriques & ſanguins plus ſubiects à la peſte, que les vieux. i. et autres viandes, conuiennent à l'vn qu'à l'autre. . .c ieunes femmes auortent pluſtoſt que les vieilles. .a leuneſſe ou virilité,& ſa temperature. i o. leuneſſe comparée à l'Éſté. ibid. ne peut porter la faim. i. reuner contraire aux choleriques. .c leux dreſſez à hippocrate en athenes. en la preſa- c '. , lfarbre venimeux, & les accidens qu'il cauſe o .d agnorance des matrones. - .a ileon. - ileos. . iles, parties laterales du ventre inferieur. o.c ilia,que les grecs appellent lagones. ibid. iliaque paſſion, eſt maladie mortelle, dicte miſerere itlci. o. illuſions diaboliques,quelles. - | .c lmaginations, qu'eſt-ce. , exemples des maladies faites par imagination fantaſti- que. .d. .d,b,c ce qu'elle faict en nou. o .b l'imagination cauſe de la ſimilitude de figure. s. imbecilité de la partie,& ſes cauſes. . ſ .a impetigo. .b impoſteur faiſant le ſourd & muet, fouetté, & banny. .b doiuent eſtre chaſſez par le magiſtrat. o.c impoſteurs,larrons,& beliſtres, quels. .d prennent petits enfans,& pourquoy. ibid. autres vſent d'herbes & drogues. ibid. abuſent le monde. o.e impoſture. impoſtures d'aucuns chirurgiens. d impoſture deſcouuerte par flecelle medecin. .b impoſture d'vn gueux, ayant vn bras de pendu puant, attaché à ſon pourpoint. .d autre d'vne beliſtreſſe, feignant auoir vn chancre en la mammelle. ibid.c aure d'vne cagnardiere, cogneue par le frere de l'autheur. ibid. impoſture par le moyen d'vne ratte de bœuf ibid.d autre d'vn certain maraut qui contrefaiſoit le ladrt. .b autre d'vne cagnardiere. .c impoſture de vendre tant de corne de licorne. o.d imprimerie par qui inuentée. i y-c jnanition,ou euacuation. .d cauſe d'icelle. ' .d inanition accroiſt la malignité du venin. . incarnatifpour les yeux. - .c mnciſion,que c'eſt. o . inciſion & marque efpece de fracture. . inciſion comment cogneuë eſtre bien faicte aux amygda- les. .a inciſion ſou la langue, & le moyen de la faire ſans he- morrhagie. .c inciſion en la verge pour tirer lapierre, & en quel lieuſe dont faire. o .c inciſion pour la pierre,en quel lieu faut qu'elle ſoit faite. o .c moyen de faire vn pointt d'aiguille ſur icelle. o.b inciſion faite apres auoir tiré la pierre, comment ſe doit traitter. ibid. inciſion de pierre cauſe ſterilité. .b inciſion de veines derriere les oreilles, cauſent ſterilité. ibid.c inciſion de diuerſes eſpeces. | -a inciſion quandſe font en gangrene. o .cº inclination naturelle comment changée. d incommodité qu'apportent les dents perdues. .a incommoditez que la peſte apporte aux hommes, & du ſouuerain remede. .d incubes & succubes quels. .b. .d incube appellé par le vulgaire,charge vieille,ou chau- che poulet. .d incubes par faulſe imagination dcçoiuent les femmes en dormant. .b,c.crc. incubes,que c'eſt, la cauſe,& cure d'icelle. .d incus,malleolus, & stapes.ſemblables à vne enclume, marteau,& eſtrier. .d figure d'iceux. ibid. indication, mot propre aux medecins & chirurgiens, que c'eſt. .d ses especes. . . indication methodique,que c'eſt. .d d'où priſe generalement. .r indication notable touchant l'vſage des repercuſſif. .b andicatio i table des matieres. la maniere de reduire l'extremité de l'os ſtyloide du coulde. ibid.b la luxation du poigner. ibid.c. signes pour cognoſtre quelle eſt la diſlocation, & le moyen de reduire icelles. ibid. luxation des os du carpe, & ſignes de ce, & comment relluits. ibid.d luxation des os du metacarpe. ' .a luxation des doigts. ibid. luxation de la hanche, faite en quatre fagonr. ibid.b me peut eftre incomplette. ibid.b ſignes pour cognoiftre en quelle partie eſt faite ladite luxation. ibid. prognoſtic d'icelle. ibid.c quelle luxation de la hancheplus tolerable. ibid.d ceux auſquels la luxation de la hanche n'eſt reduite, cheminent comme bœuf . o. ſignes pour connoiſtre la luxation de la hanche eſtre en dehors. ibid.c luxation de la iambe faicte en denant,& les ſignes pour la connoiſtre. ibid.d pourquoy en telle luxation l'vrine eſt ſupprimée. ibid. luxation de la hanche faite en derriere,& ſignes pour la connoiſtre. ibid.d.& .a la maniere de ſituer le malade pour reduire telles luxa- tions. ibid.b pour reduire telles luxations, faut ſituer la cuiſſe de droicte ligne. ibid. maniere de reduire la luxation de la cuiſſe faitte en de- dans. i.c amaniere de la reduire au dedat,par machines.ibid.d signes de la reduction. . maniere de reduire la luxation de la cuiſſe en dehors .c signes pour connoiſtre qu'elle eſt reduite. ibid.d maniere de la reduire en deuant. . la maniere de la reduire en derriere. bid.d luxation de la rotule,ou rouelle du genouil. ibid.b sa reduttion,& ce qu'il faut faire apres. ibid. luxation du genou l,faite en trois manieres. ibid. cauſes & ſignes de telle luxation. ibid. maniere de la reduire. ibid.c luxation de l'os periné , ou petit focile de la iambe . a luxation du grandfbcile auec l'aſtragale. ibid.b signes & reduction d'iceux. ibid. luxation du talon,& cöment elle ſe fait,& reduit. ibid. accidens ſuruenans de la contuſion d'iceluy. ibid.c luxation de l'os aſtragale,& reduction d'iceluy. ibid.d luxation du tarſe & pedion,& la diuerſe maniere de la reduire, .a luxation des doigts du pied faictes en quatre manieres. ibid.b pareille à celle de la main. ibid. les enfans au ventre de la mere ſe peuuent luxer les bras & iambes. ſ . lyon comment il marche. - .c plu fort,& de plu grand cœur que toutes autres be- ſtes. ibid.d - craint le coq. ibid.d et la licorne. .d le lyon connoift quand vn autre lyon a eu compagnie % ſa femelle,& le bat cruellement. . lyon conduit par la ville de conſtantinople. . .a lyon marin couuert d'eſcailles,& ſa figure. .b am *- mº# des anciens en comparaiſon aux noſtres, eſtoient iouet d'enfans. .b maquerelles,& de leur meſchanceté. .b magrophyſocephale,que c'eſt. o .c magazins de poiure en indue. ſ . magiciens de pluſieurs ſortes. .b sont touſiours pauures & mal-heureux,& à refuyr. ibid.d magie ſe faitpar l'artifice du diable. ibid. magiſtrats doiuent chaſſer tous impoſteurs de la repu- blique. . amaille dičte cataračte. o.c maillet de plomb,& ſon vſage. . main generalement priſe & ſa deſcription. ij .a son nom pris de deux manieres. ibid. sa compoſition, & deſcription particuliere,& diffe- rence d'icelle. ibid ce qui eſt contenu ſpecialement par elle. .c la main pourquoy diuisée en cinq doigts, & pourquºy nature l'a fait double. .b la main inſtrument plu noble de tous inſtrument. .b tropre inſtrument de l'apprehenſion. .d organe des organes. .b deſtinée pour tenir & prendre. ibid. main ou pied pourquoy ſaignée en l'eau. o.d mains pourquoy données a l'homme. d mains du foye, . main de fer artificielle,& ſa figure par dehors. o.c sa deſcription. ibid.a autre main faite de cuir. .b maiſon magnifique baillée au change d'vne pierre be- zahar. o . maiſon du malade de peſte comment faut qu'elle ſoitſ- tuée,& moyen d'y retfifier l'air. j . maiſons & chambres comment parfumées,& dequoy en temps de peſte. ibid maiſons de mouſches à miel fort nettes. . mal miſerable,dit miſerere mei. .d mal ſainct iean. .b comment contrefaict. - o.b amal s.amain. o.c dit lepre des grecs. ibid. mal de la mere, que c'eſt. .a mal s.fiacre,que c'eſt. .c mal appaisé ſouuent par eſperance. .c mal quiaduient des cauteres actuels induëment appli- quez. .d · mala inſana,que c'eſt. o .b malacia,ou pica,que c'eſt. . le malade comment,& en quel cas, meſme en l'accez,il le faut nourrir. i i. ne doit eſtre ſaignée en la vigueur de la fiévre. o. le malade comment doit eſtre ſitué en la cure des playes du ventre inferieur. .c comment pour tirer les ehoſes eſtranges. .b comment en luxation faite en la partie poſterieure. .c le malade doit eſtre habillé le troiſieſme iour en lafia- cture de la cuiſſe. . . malade depeſte ſe doit retirer en lieu bien ſain. .a uelles viandes doit euiter. j - ne doit endurer la ſoif. f .d doit eſtre gardé de dormir pendant la ſueur. .d les malades plu tourmentez en temps de pluye, qu'en beau temps. . .c malades ayans luxations aux vertebres.ſouuent laiſſent aller leurs extremens. .c malades bruſlans de la goutte,ne peuuent eſtre refroi- dis. .d amalades qui ne ſont ſecourus parſaignée ny purga- tions table des matieres. tions,quel,. - .d malades de la petite verole & rougeolle, eſternuent ſouuent. .c malades des vers veulent ſouuent manger. - malades de peſte de quel aage & semperature ſont en plus grand danger. i. a ceux qui frequentent les malades de peſteſont à euiter. .c º, malades des iambes,appellez vari & valgi. .d malades d'yurongnerie faits muets,& pourquoy. maladie,ſa diuuſion, & definition. .d maladie appellée cridons, qui prouient aux petits èn- fans. -" · d .c maladie appellée des anciens therioma. .. .a - maladie d'hectique entretient le ſymptome. .b maladie neapolitaine , autrement groſſe verole. b , - maladie oſtant l'haleine & laparole, à beſoin de phle- botomie. » . " d.d maladie vniuerſelle ſelon auicenne , c'eſt la lepre. .d chaque maladie à ſes propres accident. .a maladies engendrées des humeurs. o.d maladies diuerſes faites par imaginations fantaſti- ques. .d maladies,quelles,& comment compliquées. .b ce qu'il y faut conſiderer. .c comment gueries. o.d maladies & corruption d'humeurs par mauaaiſes vian- des,& quelles. ' .d maladies de la matrice. | .c et du col d'icelle, ibid. maladies hereditaires d'où prouiennent. .a maladie de la moëlle ſpinale. - : .d maladies familieres aux petits enfans,ſont vlceres à la bouche. | o,d maladies des yeux,& explication d'iselles. .a maladies des ioinctures ſont fort griefs maux. .d maladies epidemiales, ſont vulgaires, ou populaires, maladiespopulaires. o.c maladies des peres & meres, ne paſſent touſjours aux. , enfans, & pourquoy. - .a maladies auſquelles le pere & la mere ſont ſuiets, les enfans le ſont. - ibid. maladies & accidens qui aduiennent pour les men- ſtrues retenues. / .c maladies d'eſté, briefues, & d'automne longues. o.d maladies ordinaires des meridionnaux. .b et septentrionnanx. - ibid. maladies aucunes curables aux ieunes, & incurables aux vieux. ,d maladies de vieilleſſe incurables. ibid. · maladies gueries par leurs contraires. o. pluſieurs gueries de peur,& de ioye. - maladies gueries par trois manieres. .d les maladies par quels moyens cognuës du chirurgien. . ' les cauſes d'icelles trois. . .a euenemens d'icelles ſonnent difficiles à prognoſtiquer. .b c signes pour en ingeraisément,quels. ' ibid.d aux maladies, quels regimes s'ydoiuent tenir . . . és maladies la couſtume ſe doit peu à peu changer , & non tout à coup. ibid. és maladies,& accidens d'icelles,la qualité des vents ſe doit conſiderer. .c en ancunes maladies il y a quelque choſe de diuini ,c , . - aux maladies fortes, fortr remedes neceſſairo . . malice d'aliment en quoy conſiſte. - .b malignité & pourriture des playes & la cauſe. o.b malleolus. - .d malthe diſtante du mont taetna de o. lieuè, itali- ques. o .b mammelles quelles. - .t leur temperament,attion, & vſage. . mammelles connexes auec l'amarry. .b ont ſymphatie enſemble. ibid. mammelles des femmes groſſesſe durciſſent dé, le ſecond · môts. - mammelles dc la femme groſſe ſe diminuans, ſignifient m rfé / e/ f. les mammelles de la nourrice doiuent eſtre fermes, & moyennement groſſes. o .b mammelon,ou papille des mammelles. .b poureux & rare. ibid. mandibule inferieure , & ſa deſcription anotomique. . ce qu'elle contient,e comment luxée. . .b,e plus dure que la ſuperieure. .c comment remiſe. - .c la mandibule luxée doit eſtre ſoudainement remiſe. · ibid. - - mandibule de long temps luxée, qu'eſt-ce qu'il faut faire deuant. ibid. amandibule luxée d'vn coſté,& la maniere de la reduire. .a - mandibule luxée de deux coſtez de l'anterieure partie, & de la maniere de la rednire. .d àſjauoir ſi la mandibule ſe luxe en lapartie poſterieu- 'e. - . mandragore priſe en quantité eſt venimenſe. o c •aux ours. .c mandragore pratiquée des anciens medecins , com- / /, o .c manger doit preceder le boire. .c dangereux és accez des fiévres. . - le manger de l'enfant ſevré, ayant la petite verole. | .b,c manger & boire des phlegmoniques, quel doit eſtre. .c des fracturez au crane,quel. .d manger & boire aux vaiſſeaux des verolez, donne la verole. .d maniere de vinre és playes. o . en lapeſte. .d maniere de viure en gangrene,conſiderable. o .b maniuelle, inſtrument propre pour les luxations , & ſa deſcription & figure. . la manne dite miel aérien,que c'eſt. - mani codiata, oiſeau appellé oiſeaa mort, ou oiſeau de dieu. .d sa figure. , a mareſèhaux,ſerruriers, & fondeurs ſubietts à maladies chaudes. - .d abondans en cholere. o b mariniers ſubiects à maladies froides. .d leur induſtrie à prendre l'elephant de mer. .é marrons & chaſtaignes, pourquoy creuent au feu. .a - marroquin ou trei llis d'allemagne,pour ceux qui pen- ſent les peſtiferez. .c · marſouyn ſe monſtrans ſurl'eau ſignifient grandorages o.c marteau,on petit oſſelet des oreillet. .d maſchoire,& ſes muſcles. " . maſchoire inferieure appellée des grecs corone. ibid. maſſiniſſa roy de numidie, engendra vn enfant à o. g g g g js table des matieres. e medicaments humides & relaxans en quel cas ont lieu en la generation du callu. .d amedicaments purgatifs, & ſueurs , ſont contraires. · .a - medicaments onctueux,contraires aux os. .d medicaments acres à euiter aux rhagadies. o.d medicaments purgatifs ont plus d'affinité à vne partie u'à l'autre. o .a medicaments appliquez aux parties intemperées, quels , »i … doiuent eftre appliquez plus chauds en hyuers, qu'en eſté. · .d et ſelon les affections des playes. o.a medicaments ne peuuêt guarir le malſainct main ſans argent-vif. • " o .a mediocrité du baing. .d megare & egine, peries parfoudre & tremblement de terre, .c melancholie, & ſes ſignes. .b melancholie noire la pire de toutes. .c melancholie ſupprimeé engendre la lepre. .c melancholie & cholere , humeurs ineptes en la genera- tion des vens. .c ſuc melancholie, ſec & froid. i l . c humieur melancholie, ſanature, conſiſtance,couleur,ſa- ueur, vſage. l ., c dequoy fait, & en quel temps redonde. ibid. ' : en quel lieu, & differences. i . comment toute perſonne peut deuenir melancholique. ' " .d melancholiques ont quelque choſe particuliere en crain- f '. i. ·e wmelicrat recommandé pour les playes du thorax. i. « membrane, ſa definition, & ſes diuerſes appellations. , .b - de quel temperament. . .a la membraneplus froide & ſeithe que l'artere & veine. • .d , -- e_ m embrane nommée pleura. . , son action, vſage, & c. · · · , ibid. · pourquoy dite subcoſtale. - ibid.b membrane appellée hymen. , .c eſt contre mature. ibid. membrane premiere de l'enfant conceu. o.b amembranes du cerueau ſont cauſe du ſentiment. - t. o .c ) ' - il ne faut laiſſer les membranes ny cerueau à deſcou- $ ' t. .b membre amputé , & comment faut proceder au traictement a'iceluy , & pourſuiure la curation. o .c r'habiller vn membre, que c'eſt. - . , ceux qui ſont mutilez de quelque membre doinent re- · : · trancher leur ordinaire. .d membres, par quelle cauſe ſe meuuent en rond. c memoire, que c'eſt. - r . . .d , vtilité d'icelle. " _/ ibid.c • son ſiege. - ibid.c amemoire, l'vne des principales puiſſances de l'ame, & .. pourquoy donnée .b . gardienne de qu'on apprend. .d threſor de ſcience,ſelon les philoſophes. ibid. memoire accomparée par les anciens à vn greffe de s cour. : • * ibid- memoire grande d'vn chien. - menstrués aux femmes & les cauſes. o.d pourquoy ſupprimées , & ſignes d'icelles retenués. i. a suppreſſion d'icelles, que c'eſf. ibid. ,-- menſtrués retenués ſont ietties par l'vrine. .d menſtrues comment ſe peuuent purger. i . par quels vaiſſeaux fluent aux femmes groſſes &-fil- les. o.b mer flue & reflue ſelon le cours de la lune. o.b mercure deux fois calciné, ſingulier aux playes d'hac- quebuttes. .b la mere par quels ſignes cognoiſt ſon enfant mort dans ſon ventre. o .c la mere morte,l'enfat ne prend aucun air par ſa bouche, ny autres conduits. . amoyen de le ſauuer. - ibid. ameres entieres & imparfaičies, quelles · o ,a meridionaux, excellent en eſprit, propres à eftudier. .b • sobres, ruſez, laſcifi,& cruels. ibid. a quelles maladies ſubiets. * ibid. meridionaux ont le crane dur, o .c merless, ramier & perdri, vſent de fueilles de laurier pourſe purger. .d merque, ou inciſion, eſpece de facture. . mery, ouoeſophague, voye du boire & manger. .d meſaraiques, dites les main du foye. .c meſaraiques,veines toutes prouenans du foye. ibid. ameſentere, & ſa definition .ſeul & vnique. ibid.c diuisé en deux, ſelon aucuns. ibid. subſtance, quantité, & figure d'iceluy , & c. ibid. meſentere eſt comme vn eſgout du corps. .b m'a aucun ſentiment, .a pluſieurs glandules & eſcrouelles trouuées en iceluy. . meſentere peſant dix liures & demie. .d meſocolon. .c metacarpe composé de quatre os, .d • de huict. .b metallier iniuriant vn demon,ledict demon luy tordit le col. .a metaphrenepartie du thorax,faite de dou ke vertebres. .b tous metaux ſont froids en leurs dehors. o .c metaux aux medicamens, & medecines. | .d metaux & mineraux venimeux, quels. o .b methridat bon contre les vers. . - ſ. a- et contre le venin. : .c methode extraordinaire de bander les fratiures. .d de bien faire les emplaſtres. .d methode de faire fomentations & frictions, pour vne partie atrophiée. - c methode de coupper les bras à l'enfant mort au ventre de ſa mere. o .a ſiege de mets, & diſcours des choſa faittes en icelu). .d - jmeurtriſſeures, ſymptome de la contuſion. . .l c ce que l'on applicque aux petites meurtriſſeures. .c microcoſme , epithete du corps humain , que c'eſt. .b miel, & ſon vſage. . le miel vtile ſur tous aux vlceres interieures. ibid. miel & theriaque donné aux petits enfans, pourquoy. o .c migraine, que c'eſt. .d signes & cauſes tant internes qu'externes d'icelle, & ſa curation. ibid.b,c le milan & corbeau on touſiours guerre. i .c craint des poullets. ibid. milans fuyent l'air infect & peſtilent. o.d mineraux medicamens ou medecines , quels. .b les mineraux calcinez, comment diſtillez. .a amiroir \ table des matieres. suturs,& le moyë de les prouoquer aux peſtiferez. .b sueurs & medicamens purgatifs ſont contraires. . suffocation de la matrice, appellée le mal de la mere, signes& cauſes d'icelle. . ses differences & cure. .d signes de conualeſcence dº ladite ſuffocation. suffocation d'amarry,que c'eſt. .a vient à raiſon de l'arriere-faix retenu. · o .d signes pour connoiſtre ſi vne femme eſt morte ou non - par vne ſuffocation de matrice.- .b suffumigations & parfums. .b superfetation,que c'eſt,& ſes cauſes. .d , n a lien en'toutes femmes,& quand ſe fait. superſtition tres-grande pour penſer guarir de diuerſes maladies, & fiévrer. .b suppoſitoire, que c'eft, dequoy fait & composé, & ſon vſage. i. c suppoſitoire fort à irriter la vertu expulſiue des boyaux. ,d suppoſitoires mediocres. i.c suppoſitoires quelquesfois iettez par la bouche. o.c suppreſſion des menſtrues,que c'eſt. .b suppreſſion de ſemence ont diuers accidens,& pourquoy. b suppuratifs de nouuelle ſorte. .c iuſques à quand on en doit vſer. .b suppuration, vray rtmtde de guarir les playes d'arque- buſe. - .b suppuration & deterſion ne ſe font qu'en long-temps. surdité des oreilles, & queſtions ſur ce. surdité cauſe degrandes faſcheries aux malades, & ourquoy- ibid. surdisé hereditaire,incurable. ibid. suture ou couſture,que c'eſt. o.b suture ſeiche. suture apres l'inciſion de la verge. suture des inteſtins,comment doit eſtre faicte. . .c suture & ligature non bien faite, eſt preiudiciable. .c sutures du crane,appellées en grec rapha. o .a sont cinq,& quelles. ibid. sutures vrayes,ou serratilles. o .b sutures mendeuſes, ou lepidoides, deux. ibid. autrement squammeuſes. ibid. les sutures trompent ſouuent le chirurgien. o.b figure d'vne damoiſelle auec vne ſuture ſeiche. .b suricelle ne faut trepaner. .c suye de la cheminée , ſel, & œufs, battu enſemble, bons contre le charbon peftiferé. o.b syderatio,autrement feu ſainct antoine. c .d syderation pesie des plantes. .d sylla senateur, le premier bruſlé apres ſa mort,à rome. . symphſe, que c'eſt. - . i o. comment faite. ' .b symptome promptement priº. .d a trois especes,& quelles. ibid. symptome faſcheux touchant lapierre. i i. · dugland non percé. .d | , et curation d'iceluy. .b symanche,ou squinance,que c'eſt. i .a synarthroſe,que c'eſt. i j .c synchondroſis,que c'est. .a synciput,partie de la teſte. o .b syncope,que c'eſt. i .c appellée des anciens petite mort. ibid. sts cauſes, ſignes,& cure. - ibid. signes d'icelle en la ſaignée. o.d en syncope durant la fiévre, on peut donner du vin au malade. a syneuroſis, que c'eſt. . syringue pour faire iniections, auec ſa figure. .e syringue, dite pyoulcos, & ſa figure. b.d syringue pour bailler clyſtere aux hommes. .b syrop pour la pierre aux reins. o .c syrop de acetoſitate citri , emporte le prix contre la pefte. . syrop de chicorée,ou de limons, bon contre les vers. . - - syrops refrigeratifs, & contraires à la pourriture, quels, : .d syrops pour empeſcher la pourriture du ſang. .a pour les vlceres des reins & de la veſſie. .c pour eſtancher la ſoif f .c syſſarcoſis, que c'eſt. i .a syſtole, que c'eſt. .c eſt dite vn des mouuemens du cœur. et du cerueuu. o .b t: able des indications. table methodique pour cognoiſtre les maladies par les cinq ſens. table des la connexion des os, # table des tumeurs contre nature. h .c table des differences des playes. o table des faclures du crane. . table des vlceres. a autre table des choſes eſtranges qui ſortent des vlceres, fiſtules & apoſtemes. i table contenant les maladies aduenantes auxyeux. table des facultez des medicamens. o .c table de la façon de preparer les medicamens. # i o tablettes preſeruatiues contre la peſte. .d tabourin des oreilles.. i . .c tac, eſpece de pourpre. .c tačt, en quelle partie conſiſte principalement. . a double ſentiment. tait de la main ſouueni trompé. .b taeniae, vers ainſi nommex. .c talent. d talon, & ſa figure exterieure ou ſuperieur#. i i.c fracture d'iceluy mortelle. o.d comment ſe faict, & cure d'iceluy. .b le talon, fort ſenſible. .d se luxe au dedans, & pourquoy. .b accidens par la contuſion d'iceluy. ibid.c remedes à ce. talpa. .b talparia. i . tapſus barbatus, herbe dont vſe la bolette. .c tarentule. . tareronde & ſa picqueure. o .b tarſe de l'œil, comment,d'où, & pourquoy fait. o.a tarſe du pied. , combien a d'os. .b comment ſont luxez. . tartarie, liuonie, moſcouie,exèptes de tonnerrt. .d taſſes faites de corne, & vertu d'icelle. o.b huyle de tartre. taupes rompans la terre menue, ſignifient la pluye pr• chaine. c. taureau furieux & farouche, attaché a vn figuier deuient doux. j . taureau comment combattent. .d taurus, .c taye ou dure mere, eſt l'vne des principales membra- nes de noſtre corps. o .a tayes de l'œil,ou cataractes, & leurs cauſes,& lieu où elles table des matieres | verminatio,eſpece de maladie. . « uentricule & inteſtins,parties dediées à l'expulſion des º m'c ' / / j. ventricule anterieure,& ſa figure. . ventricule trouué c'en deuant derriere,& ſa figure.ibid. ventricnle dextre pour l'vſage des poulmons, ſelon ga- lien. .a paſſage des matieres du dextre ventricule au ſeneſtre. .a vcntricules naturellement tres-chauds en hyuer & au printemps. .d ventricules du cœur,des paſſages des matieres d'iceux. .c ventricules du cerueau, quatre. i o, leur vtilité & ſituation. ibid.c,d venu eſt remede & guariſon aux maladies qui viennent de pituite. i . du tout contraire aux gouteux. .b doit eſtre fuye des verolex, .b vers de la grandeur de quatre doigts ſorty du corps d'vn homme par vomiſſement. .b autre plus long d'vne toiſe. ibid. autre long de huict pieds & vn doigt, ſorty d'v villageois. ibid. autre,de neufpieds & plus de long. .b vers de trois eſpeces & differences. .c dequoy,& comment. ibid. cure d'iceux. - • vers s'engendrent en diuerſes parties,& lieux du corps bumain. .b sont du genre des choſes contre nature. ibid.d - ibid. tous engendrez de pourriture. percent quelquesfois les boyaux,dont aduient la mort. ibid. quelquefois ſortis par les aines. ibid. signes d'iceux aux inteſtins. ibid. sont tuez de toutes choſes ameres. ibid.b vers grands dans le corps,ſont pires que les petits. .c vers rouges dans le corps pires que les blancs. ibid. vers contenus au ventre, ſont tuez par du vif-argent en frottant le nombril. o .b trouue x quelquefois aux dents, & comment on les fait mourir. .b engendre (en l'enfant au ventre de ſa mere. .b vers ſortans du corps en vie, c'eſt ſigne que le dedans eſt infecté. ibid.d vers morts pris en breuuages,chaſſent les vifs. .c vers de terre, mis en linge ſur le charbon,remede d'i- celuy. o. vers velu& cornu,naiſſent de l'excremët du nez. .c vers gros comme les doigts ſortans d'vne apoſteme d'vne femme. .b r# #- crachez par vne femme qui auoit la fiévre. / • vers veus des anciens, auſſi longs ſept fois que noſtre corps. - vers à ſoye. . verd de gris eſtoupe la reſpiration,& eſtouffe ceux qui en auallent. o .b verge,ſes parties,& declaration. .d spongieuſe & rare. ibid. | dequoy composée.' ibid.b elles choſer y peuuent entrer. .c la verge comment traittés apres l'inciſion. o .d moyen de ſuruenir à icelle perduë. .c cure du ligament d'icelle trop court. .d cure de l'extenſion & erection continue d'icelle. .a varges miſes à l'abrauoir par iacob,pourquoy. .a verges de plomb propres aux vlceres de la verge. .d .a vermouleure du gajac,& ſes cauſes, . verole,c ſa definition. .b · diners nom f,& diuers accidents, ibid. ses cauſes ſignes,& prognoſtic d'icelle. ibid.d et ſuiuant. . verole ſe prend enſe couchant au lict d'vn verolé. .a par le coit & comment. - ibid. par l'haleine infecté d'icelle,& boire aprer. ibid. signes d'icelle curable,ou incurable. .é entachez d'icelle,ne peuuent profiter. .b eſt punition de dieu. · dit mal neapolitain,& venitien. . son fondement,quel,& où giſf. .b doù prendſon commencement. .h verole, & ladrerie, autresfois penſées de meſme façon. .b font tomberle poil. verole inueteré,& ſes ſignes. . , verole de maintenant plu aisée à guerir que le temps paſſé. .c guerie par quatre manieres. ibid.d ce qu'ilfaut ſçauoir pour la guarir. ibid. verole peſtilente,& cure d'icelle. .b verolez par quels moyens ſe purgent. . verolez ſont ſuiects aux aneuriſmes. .c et à l'alopecie. .b ne ſentent mal lors que les vlceres coulent. vexez pluſtoſt la nuict que le iour, & pourquoy. . ° .a •! moyen de les eſſuyer apres la ſueur. .b doiuent eſtre frottez en vn lieuſeur & chaud. o.a verolez ſouuent perdent l'oiiye. . le verolique virus eu quel humeur eſt enraciné. .b petite verole & rougeolle,& lcur deſcription. .b signes qu'elles doiuent ſortir, ibid.c petite verole croiſt trois ou quatre iours,puis ſe blan- chit. * .c comment corrigée. o.c ibid. - quelles parties en faut preſeruer. petite verole eſt plu eſlenée en pointie que la rou- eolle. .c picque,& fait demangeaiſon, & la rougeolle point. ibid. fait perdre la veué,& l'oiiye. . se ſuppure auec beurre frais. o.b petite verole & rougeolle, auant-coureurs de lapeſte. . .a cauſe des accidens auſſi faſcheux que la grºſſe ve- - role. . yerrues prouenans au col de la mairice, & leurs noms diuers. .c verrues morales, penſiles, poralet, & d'où engendrées ibid. cure d'icelles. .d verrues des mains, & leur cure. - .c vertebre & que ſignifie le corps d'icelle. ,b vertebres de baleine gardée par l'autheur, & à quoy ſert. . vertebres ſe meuuent en deuant comment baiſtes. .a - ses accidens incurablet. .d par quel moyen ſe courbent. .d eſtant viciées,ne gaſtent tout le corpº, . vertebres luxées par dedans ne ſe peuuent reduire. .º vertebres de l'eſpine ont chacune ſix connexionſ. # luxation interieure aux vertebres des lumber, cauſe detention d'vrine. i .c luxation des vertebres faicle en dehors,comment curée par hippocrate. .d vertex partie de lateſte. o .b iiii ve§ ! table des matieres n, voluulus. | - . vomir, & le moyen de leuoquer. .c vomir eſt profitable connes poiſons. .c vomir promptement , ncipal antidote de l'aconit. o .b vamiſſement, pourquoy at. .b gand meilleur, & euel cas ſuſpect. o.d camment ſe doit prouer. ibid.b trop vehement, eſt daereux. .d vomiſſement en la fiévraue ſignifie. .a remede ſouuerain enfiévre quarte. .b vomiſſement bilieux, d cauſé. vomiſſement aide beaup à chaſſer la pierre. o .c approuué des ancienux gouteux. o.d propre contre le vende la salemandre. .d purge les humeurgue les medecins ne peuuent /a c/ º ". .d vomiſſement ordinairela colique venteuſe. .d vomiſſement a'où pront aux filles, & cure d'iceluy. .b vomiſſement arreſté p parolles. .b vomiſſemens frequens acuent les humeurs. .b vomitoire. .b vomitoire pour la fiév, quel. .b vomitoire pour les fit ayans l'appetit corrompu. .a voyages de l'authei, diuers, & diſcours ſuriceux. .b vrachos, que s'eſt. .c wretere ou cannule pr ceux qui ont perdu la verge. .a vreteres. .c signes de la pierrdemeuré en iceux. o .c comment conneuſtre vlcerez. i . wrine, & ſon condu. - .c wrine dorée & iaun ſigne de la concoction parfaitte. . .b pourquoy eſt roue. .c ne peut iamaisdu tout eſtre euacuée de la veſſie. • cantenue en icet, rend chaleur au corps. .c supprimée, cau'ſouuent la mort. .b wrine ſupprimée a la luxation de l'os femoris. o.d vrine eſt iettée inolontairement par la dilaceration de la veſſie. i j ,c moyens de laſecourir. .c quelquesfºis ittée par le vomiſſement. ' .b l'vrine ſanglant iettée par la, verge, & cauſe de ce. . - - l'vrine empeſche l'attion des remedes pour les carnoſi- f c. ſ .c l'vrine des peſtierez ſemble louable. .c l'vrine des ladre eſpaiſſe. o. de perſonnetenragées, quelle. i. des femmes lroſſes, qutlle. .d difficulté d'vrine d'où prouient quelquesfoi, & moyen d'y remedier. .c cauſes diuerſes de ladite retention. . cauſe exterieure de ce, i. .g cure d'icelle. . l'vrine bonne à lauer les yeux. .c apte pour la morſure des chiens enragez. .d vrines cauſent euacuation. j. sont ſignes certains des affections des humeurs con- fº/ ma / x v ' ſ'. ſ . vrines mortelles peſtilentes. ibid.d vletif, poiſſon, eſtimé licorne marine,ſa deſcription & gure. ſ . vuée, membre de l'œil. .c vulnus, c'eſt à dire, ouuerture dilatée. lo . vulparia,ou aconit,tue les rats & souris de ſon oder, & pourquoy ainſi dite. of.b t eux, organes & inſtrumens viſiues. l .o. leurfubſtance, ſituation.& c. ibid.b orbite des teux, & ſon vtilité. c.b teux gueris par breuets ſelon aucuns. b playes d'iceux, & leurs cauſes. .d choſes eſtranges comment extraittes d'iceux. .d es teux, nez, &gorge, comment conſeruex de la petite verole. o.a,k aux reux verolez, il faut defendre la grande clarté & choſes rouges. . ibid. cure d'iceux. ibid.c les teux ſortent quelquesfois aux femmes de crier à leur enfantement. .d et à tous autres,de douleur & inflammation. .c les" teux d'vne femme ayant ſes fleurs, infectent vn % ' g ', teux artificiels, & leur figure. .c teux de (rocodille, comme a'vn porceau. .a mf o .d tuoire cuitte auec mandragore, s'amollit. ſ .c turongnerie,oiſiueté & pareſſe, cauſe de lagoutte gram- pe. -c turognes, comment meurent par conuulſion. .b z ephyre, vent d'occident fauorable. if. zirbale,nom de hargne,mömée epiplocele. o .a zirbale & inteſtinale tumeur, & leur curation. .c zirbu,dit omentum,ou coeffe, que c'eſf. o.ô son ſigne. .d zirbu ſortant hors l'omentum,ſe pourrit. . zoophytes, que c'eſt. . . zygoma. º .d af / n. f - -- | ---- - | -- " - - - - - - - \ | • - a i « - | b . - - - - - - - r ， " . -, / - · · - * - - l , - - blb loteca u.cm mlllïïiii o ||- —–|-！|-~~ ~~~~！~~~~== ~~ |-· |-- - - - ~~- - - - - - - - - - - - - ---- - - - ----- ---- ----- - - ----- - - - - - - - - -- - - - --- - - - - ---------- - - - - - ~~~~ ------- ----- „--~~~~----- |-·|- \ |- ·|- ---- ----- |-- ----|-|-- |-|----- |-----|- |-·-- |- -- |-- |- ·----- ---- |-|--|- |- |-·- |-|- ：----* ----- •|-|- ----~---- |-· |--|--• |----- -|-|- -- `-- ----|----- -：----- |- * •|-|- ||-· ||-|- |- |-- - ---------- |- |-\ ·|----- - ||- | -|-· |~~ ||- ||-|-- -----·* ·， ， -·… - *---- - -•---- ----|-· |-|-~ - - ·· - - |--- ： |-·|--|--|-|- |-|------ -|------ · - |- |-·· *- - |- •|- |--”. |---- - ·|- - -v.----- -----|-·---- |-|-· ----· · ！ |- ----~,·|-· -,· - |- |-！ ·-- -- |-· |--\ |- ~ |-）;-· |-- |-|--|- -· |-·|- ·|-- -- |-----|- |-- ·|- ·- → -· -|-|-----|-· -- · *|×·· |--|-- --- -|- |- |-→ ----！ --·|-· |- --|- |- ·|-|- |-|- ••|-|-- - |--|× |-|- |-·… • / .----| |-·- |-|- •||- ~|- -|- *·|-|- ， ,----· |-·· |-· --|- ----··|- |·- wworkes r—- li ºf ºtº -ºº: of t hat famous = . chirur ion ambroſe phrey º 'rath.ſlated out of | ttine anſom º/ - viſiſ %meſ- § tho: johnſon - # whereunto are added threetractate; | out ºf adrianus spigelius fthe _i veines, arterics & nerves, with large figures. r – •aſ a tºle ºf the bºok, and chapter. - ?rinted ty richard Čotes , and h willi: dugard. and ..ºid- & tt.i. clarke y atriº invaſºrenchartel. % ºr. * • h o n o v r a b l e e. - d vv. a r d lord h e r be rt of … cherbury and caſtle iſland, and one - - -- of his majeſties moſt honorable counſell of war. my lord, - - :==slt is not the far-fetcht pedegree of noble ance. :nº ſtors, nor thoſe honours your lordſhip de- ſervedly poſſeſſes, that make mee crave your patronage to this my labour; but it is that heroick mind, enriched with the choice en- dowments of nature and art, and that earneſt affection wherewith your honour entertains all sciences, arts,and artiſts,with that exquiſite iudgment which ſees into the inner man, which embolden and incite me to ſue for your honors aſſiſtance,in prote&ing the fame of him,who by your many favours is made yours.i know the ſeeming and ſelf-pleafing wiſdom of our times, conſiſts much in cavilling and unjuſtly carping at all things that ſee light, and that there are many who earneſtly hunt after the publike fame of learning and judgment, §. eaſily trod, and deſpicable path, which notwithſtanding they tread with as much confidence as folly; for that oft-times which they vainly and unjuſtly brand with opprobrie, outlives their fate, and flouriſhes when it is forgot that ever any ſuch as they had being. -- - i know your lordſhips diſpoſition to be far diſſenting from theſe men,and that you rather endeavour to buildup the fame of your learning and judgement upon a ſtrong laid foundation of your own,than heroſtratus like, by pulling down any howſoever fair built fabrick of another. i heartily wiſh that your *::: a. courig! - |- -- - - - - • the epiſtle dedicatory. could propagate this good, and that all detraćtors might be turned into a&ors,and then i know it would much mitigate their rigour in cenſuring others, when as they themſelves were alſo expoſed unto the ſame hazzard. i think it impertinent to acquaint your honour with the na- ture of the work,my pains in tranſlating, or the benefit that may enſue thereon,for that i know your honour ignorant of nothing in this kind; neither doubt i of your fa- vourable acceptance of the good will of him, that thinks himſelf much honoured by being ----- thomas johnson. to tºº-ºººººººººººººººº- in lºd r d bungºumºſ º to the reader. $n have here for the publike good taken pains to ſubječ myſelf to § common cenſure, the which i doubt not but to find as various as the faces of the cenſurers; but i expe&t no thanks,nor hunt after o- ther praiſe,than that i have laboured formy countries good, if that *\ deſerve any. i fear not calumniation (though ſure to hear of it) §§ and therefore i will not apologize,but inform thee of ſome things concerning the author his work,and the reaſon that induced me to § the tranſlation thereof, with ſome few things beſides. for the au- thor, who was principall surgeon to two r three kings of france, he was a man well verſed in the writings ofthe antient and modern phyfitians, and sur- gºons, as you may evidently find by ſundry places alledged in his wº. . for his ex- perience, or pračiſe (the chief help to attain the higheſt perfeóion in this art) it was " " ' wonderfull great,asyou may colle&by his voyages recorded in the laſt part of this work: . . . . as alſo by that which james guillemau, surgeon to the french king, a man both learned. andjudicious in his profeſſion, avers, ſpeaking of his own education and progreſſe, - in the art of surgery. i ſo laid (*ſaith he the firſt foundation of this art in the ho-> in his epſils ſpitall of paris, being as it were, an apmple theater of wounds and diſcaſts of all kindes, prefixed bºſote that for two whole years, during which time iyasthere converſant, nothing was coiſ- the latinºdi- ſulted of, nothing performed, the phyfitians,and surgeons bein preſent, whereof iwas fº this a not an auditor or a&or. there flouriſhed at theſe times, .# yet doth, ambroſe pari º qfe principall surgeonto the moſt chriſtian king, the author ºf this great work, moſt . nowned for the moſt gracious favour of kings, princes and - obles towards him, for his authority amongſt his equals, for his chirurgicall operations amongſt all pien. there- fore i earneſtly endeavoured to be received into his ºmily, as unto another. *:::: or pºdalirius; once admitted, iſoby all dutifilifíſindårreſpect acquired his favour. that he, unleſſe i were preſent and aſſiſting, . ; ; his ; andcurteſie to all ſuch as are ſtudious of the art) at fiftājāśad,i in the tents, or laſtly in this famous city of pariº, about thâhîrājā pikºi, noblemen, or citizens, in whoſe cure, he by the ardent deſire of theißhad ſtill the pſih place.” now for this work,hear what this ſame man in the ſame place affirmeth § : fiot content with theſe means, which may ſeem ſufficient,and too much, as deſirous to ſatisfie my long thirſt, determined to try whether i could draw, or borrow any thing from ſtran- gers, which our men wanted, to the fullerknowledge of surgery. to this parpoſe i travailed over germany, and then for four years ſpace i followed the spaniſh army in the low-countries; whereas i did not only carefully cure the wounded souldier, but alſo hecdfully and curiouſly obſerve what way ofcuring the renowned italian,germane,and spa- niſh surgeons obſerved, who together with me were imployed in the º, for the healing of the wounded and ſick. i obſerved them all to take no other courſe than that which is here deliveredby parey. such as did not underſtand french, got ſome pieces of this work for large rewards, turned into latin, or ſuch languages as they underſtood, which they kept charily,and made great ſtore of; and they eſteemed,and admired,and em. braced this work alone, above all otherworks of surgery;&c. our author alſo himſelf, not out of a vain-glorious offentation, but a mind conſcious of the truth of his aſſertion, affirms thus much of this his work. i have (ſaith he) ſo certainly toucht the mark whereat i aimed, that antiquity may ſeem to have º: wherein it may exceed us, baſides the glory of invention,nor poſterity anything left, but a certain ſmall hope to add ſome things, as it is eaſie to add to former inventions. thus much concerning our author, and the excellency of his work. - - - - - ----- --- nowcome i tomy tranſlation, the which, as deſiring more a publike good, than pri- vate praiſe,i have performed plainly and honeſtly, labouring to fit it to the capacity of the meaneſt artiſt; for theſe are they to whom ichiefly commend this work, and from whom i expetacceptation. i being by the earneſt perſwäſions of ſome of this profeſſion, chieflya. and almoſt wholly perſwaded and incited to take this pains, who knowing the diſability. of underſtanding this author in latin or french, in many of the weaker members of - the large body of their profeſſion, diſperſed over this kingdome, , and the reſt of his : majeſtics dominions, whoſe good, and encreaſe in knowledge may be wiſht,that ſo they maybe the better inabled to do good to ſuch as ſhall implore their aid in their profeſſion. a . there işşâșºad, in the field, in Ép ; § - ---, to the reader. there are ſome (i know) will blame me for engliſhing this work, as laying open the myſteries of aworthy art, to the unworthy view of the vulgar. to ſuch i could anſwer as º ºidºl. th ariſtºtle did to alexander; but for the preſent i will give them theſe, which i think may . . . . . ſatisfieany but the purpoſely malicious: the firſt is drawn from the goodneſſe of the thing, as intended for thoſe that want ſuch guides to direét thcm in their art; for it is com: monly granted, that, bonum quo communius tº melius. secondly, it hath been the cuſtome of moſt writers in all ages and countries thus to do : hippocrates, galen, and the other greeks, writ in their mother tongue the myſteries of their art; thus did celſus, serenu, and others in latin: meſue, avicen, serapio, and others, in arabick as alſo, to go no further, our author writ this work in his native french, and learned men have done the like in this, and all other arts. and it is a great hinderance tous in theſe dayes, that we - muſt beforced to learn to underſtand two or three tongues, before we can learn any ſci- ence,whereas the ancients learned and taught theirs in their mother tongue: ſo that they ſpent a great deal lefſe time about words, and more upon the ſtudy of that art or science ey intended to learn and follow." thirdly, i muſt tell you, that, ex libri, nemo evaſt artifex, no man becomes a workman by book: ſo that uſeſ: they have had ſome inſight in the art, and be in ſome ſort acquainted both with the tearms of art; as alſo with the knowledge and uſe of the inſtruments thereto belonging, if by reading this, or any other book ofthe like nature they becomes surgeons, i muſt needs liken them (asgalen dotha- sºldſmº. . nother ſort of men”) to pilots ; book only: to whoſe care,i think none of us would tºt; §: commit his ſafety at sea, nor any if wiſe, will commit themſelves to theſe at land, or sea kuglprints, either, unleſſe wholly deſtitute of other. the otherthings whereof imuſt alſo give you notice, are theſe. the figures in the a- natomy are not the ſame uſed by my author (whoſe were according to thoſe of veſaliu) but according to thoſe of bauline, which were uſed in the work of dr. croºks and theſe indeed are the better and more compleat. alſopag. . i thought it better to give the - true . of the helmet floured aconite, mentioned out offliny,than to reſerve the faig- ned pièure of matthioluſ, which in our author was encreaſed with the further fiation - of a helmet. i have in ſome few places in the margent, which you ſhall find marked with a ſtar, put ſhort annotations, for the better illuſtration of that which is obſcure, &c. i have alſo in the text to the ſame #. here and there put two or three words, con- tainedintheſe limits [ ], which findhereandthere turned into a plain parentheſis, eſpe- cially toward the latter end of the book, but thematterisnot great. further immº- i. i. the § ani # being the laſt part of this work, and not in ſon rer; > latin,but french - ted into engliſh out of french by george baker, a - surgeon ºf this city,ſines. išti fhear, dead beyond the seas. -- * > “. this is all, courteous readir, that'ſ have thought neceſſary to acquaint thee withall %. concerning this, which º; theetotake with theſame mind that it is preſented to the by Émihar wiſhah team happpineſſ. - - º: tº . c. . . . . . º . . . - * * . . . . cº . . . . . . . . . . r - " ' ". . . . . . . . .. - & tº . . . . . . . . - --- - - - - - - * . a - " - - : º -- º - - - i - ... " º - - º º º º .. two was johnson. r . r * i - -- i - - - i r . . . . . [tº t iſ - * ; ſ º ºf . f t i. i - - tº . * * - - : -, w ºs ) wº (º); ſº . . w o (~/. º fº § . q/º sº º episrle d edi caro rie to henrythe third,the moſtchriſtian . king of france and poland. - =|wen as (noff chriſtian king) weſee the members of §ll maur body by a friendly conſent are alwayer bufted, §ººl and ſtand ready to perform thoſe funéliens for jºrºll which they are appaintedly nature, for the preſer- º) wation of the whale, ºf which they are parts; ſo it | is convenient that *e, which are, as it were, citi. t-r zens of this earthly commonweal ſhould be dili. gent in the following of that calling which (by gods appointment) we have once taken upon us and content with our preſenteſtate,not carried away with raſhneſſe and envy, deſire different and divers things whereof webavano knowledg, hexhich doth otherwiſe, perverts & deftle with kated confuſiantbé order and beauty, ou which this ºwnivers conſºr. wherefore when i conſidered with myſelf, that i was a member of this great mundant body, and that not altogether unprofitable:hendeavoured earneſtly, that all men ſhould be acquainted with my duty, and that it might % known how much i conid profit every man. for god is my witneſſe, and all geod men knows that i have now laboured ffy years with all care and pains in the illuſtration and amplifteetion of chirurgery and that i haveſe certainly touched the mark whereat i aimed that antiquity may ſeem tabave notbing wherein it may exceed wº, beſide the glory of invention;ner poſterity anything left but a certain ſmall hope to addſomethings, as it is eafteto add to forwar inventions, in performance whereof, i have been ſaprodigall of myſelf, my wateh- ingº,facultieſ and meant, that iſpared neither time, abour, nor coſt, whereby irwight ſatisfie and accompliſh my own deſires, this my great work,add the deſires oftbe ſtudiaus. neither may we doubt but theirſh; dies would at length wax cold,if they only furniſhed with the theorick and precepts in schools and that with much labour, ſhould ſee no mann- all operation, normanifeft way of performing the art. for which cauſe i ſeeking the praiſe and profit of the french nation,even with the a binder- - --- ------------- -, -– *~~ the authors epiſtle dedicatory. binderance of my particular eſtate, have endeavoured to illuſtrate and increaſe chirurgery,hitherto obſcure either by the infelicity of thefor- mer ageſ, or the envy of the 'profeſſors; and not only with precepts and rules,but being a lover of carved works l beautified it with .o.forms, or graven figures,and apt delineations, in which whoſoever (ball at- tentively lookſhall find five hundred anatomicall or organicall figures be- longing to the art,(if they be reckoned particularly). toevery of theſe ibave given their names and ſhewed their uſe, left they ſhould ſeem to have been put in vainly for offentation or delight. but although ihere be few men of this profeſſion which can bring ſo much authority to their writings either with reaſon, or experience as i can ; notwithſtanding i have not been ſo arrogant,but intending to publiſh my work, ifirſt con- municated it with men the moſt excellent in the art of phyſick, who gave me greater incouragement to perfeół and publiſh it, that it might be in common uſe: profeſſing they wiſhed nothing more,than that it might be turned into latin, ſo by which means it ſhould bee known to forain nations, that there is no kind of learning which is not delivered with great dexterity of wit intbis kingdom over which you rule. and thus much idare boldly affirm,that there is ſcarſe any,be he never ſo ſtately or ſupercilious, but that he may here findſome thing which may delight him, and by which he may better his knowledg. therefore i doubted not to conſecrate this book unto yonrmajeſty both as a pattern and treaſury of my labours, aſ well in reſpeči of my duty, who am yoursby nature and education, as that i might manifeſt to all, your highneſſe exceeding bounty towards me,in placing me,(having heretofore injoyed the office of principall chirurgeon under three kings your majeſties predeceſſors)in the ſame dignity,and that of your own accord. and moreover i did con- ječure that it would fall ont,as now it doth, that this my work carried through the world by the fame of your majeſties name, ſhould neither fear the face nor view of any,ſupported by the favour and majeſty of a moſt invincible monarch and moſt excellent and renowned prince. nei- ther did king charles the ninth of happy memory,incited by the relati- on of the moſt gracious queen his mother, refuſe to read it, being he un- derſtood it proceeded from him,who having happily paſſed all his time in private and publike imployments, and converſed with all men of all fortſ, was judged moſt worthy to obtain this favonr, as to have the front of this work adorned and beautified with the ſplendor of his prefixed name. i encouraged by this hope, deſired that my requeft ſhould paſſe as by a certain continuation and ſucceſſionfrom amoff powerfull, to a moſt invincible king;and do wholly conſecrate theſe my labours taken for my countries good unto your ſacred majeſty. god grant that your #. may have bappy ſucceſſe of all your enterpriſes aboundantly added to neſtors years. patis, .feb:anno dom. . your moſt chriſtian majeſties - - faithfull servant ambroſe parey. the preface. - - - - - | oſt men derive the originall of phyſick from iſºl heaven;for thoſe who hold the beſt opinion of º/|\|| the creation of the world, affirm, the elements |\| being created and ſeparated each from other, §lſº man being not as yet made ; incontinently by - - , , , on s the divine decree,all herbes and plants with in- fº finite variety of flowers, endued with various fents,taſtes,colours,and forms,grew and ſprung forth of the bowels of the earth,enriched with ſomany and great vertues, that it may be thought a great offence to attribute to any other than the deity, the benefit of ſo great a bleſfing ſo neceſſary for ſo many uſes. neither could mans capacity ever have attained to the knewledg of thoſe things without the guidance of the divine power. for god the great creator and faſhioner of the world, when firſt he inſpired adam by the breath of his mouth into a living and breath- ingman,he taught him the nature,the proper operations, faculties and vertues of all things contained in the circuit of this univerſe. so that if there be any who would aſcribe the glory of this inven- tion toman,he is condemned of ingratitude even by the judgment of pliny. but this knowledg was not buryed in oblivion with a- dam:but by the ſame gift of god was given to thoſe whom he had choſen and ordained for phyſick,to put their helping hands to o- thers that ſtood in need thereof. which opinion was not only re- ceived in the common manner and by the tacite conſent of all na- tions,but confirmed by moſei in the scripture. which thing jeſus gnº, the ſon of sirach the wiſeſt amongſt the jews, hath confirmed ſay- eccleſ , tº ing;honor the phyſitian with the honor due unto him,for the moſt high hath created him becauſe of neceſſity ; and of the lord cometh the gift ofhealing.the lord hath created medicins of the earth, and be that is wiſe will not abhor them.give place and honour to the phyſitian,for god hath created him,ſet him not go from thee for thou haft need of him.the græcians who firſt ſeem more fully and with greater fame to have profeſſed the art of phyſick, do in a manner conſent with this o- pinion,in acknowledging apollo to have been the inventer thereof, neither did they it without a reaſonable cauſe. for whether by apollo they may underſtand the sun who by its gentle and vitall heat doth bring forth,temper and cheriſh all things; or elſe ſome - heros, -------—------ the prºfic. plin.i. .c. . heros,who incited by an excellent and almoſt divine underſtand- ing firſt taught and put in praðiſethe medicinall vertues of herbs; in which ſenſe ovid brings him in ſpeaking thus: herbes are of mine invention,and throngh all the world,they methe firſt phyſitian call. the originall of phyſick ariſing from thoſe beginnings ſhall al- wayes be celebrated,as celeſtiall,and wasincreaſed principally af. ter this manner. after apollo,aeſculapius his ſon inſtruáed by his father reduced this art being as yet rude and vulgar into a little better and more exquiſite form, for which cauſe he was reputed worthy to be accounted as one of the gods. at the ſame time flouriſhed chiron the centaure,who for that he excelled in know- ledgof plants,and taught Æſculapius (as many report) their facul- ties,is thought by pliny and ſome others to have been the inventor of phyſick. aeſculapius had two ſons, podalirius and machaon, who following their fathers ſteps and profeſſing phyſick,did prin- cipally beautifieand pračile that part thereof which is called chir- urgery, and for that cauſe were accounted the inventers thereof. after thoſe aſclepiades left this art much inlarged as hereditary to his poſterity; by whoſe ſtudy and diligence, that part of the art was invented and annexed, which by a more curious skill ſearch- eth and cureth thoſe diſeaſes which lye hid within the body. hip- pocrates the coan the ſon of heraclidas, bornef the noble race of aſtlepiades,prince of the phyſitians that were before him,perfeóed phyſick and reduced it into an art and wrote divers books thereof in greek.galen ſucceeded him fix hundred years after, who was a man moſt famous not only for his knowledgin phyſick,but alſo in allother ſciences,who faithfully interpreting every thing that was obſcure and difficult in the writings of hippocrates, enlarged the frience with many volumes. thus therefore was the beginning, thus the increaſe and perfeóing the art of phyſickas much as can be hoped for from mans induſtry.although indeed we cannot de- ny but that experience hath much profited this art, as it hath and doth many other. for as men perceived that ſomethings were profitable, ſome unprofitable for this or that diſeaſe, they ſet it down,and ſo by diligent obſervation and marking offingularities, they eſtabliſhed univerſall and certain precepts and ſo brought it into an art. for ſo we find it recorded in ancient hiſtories, before the invention of phyſick, that the babylonians and aſſyrians had a cuſtom amongſt them to lay their ſickand diſeaſed perſons in the porches and entries of their houſes, or to carry them into the ſtreets and market places, that ſuch as paſſed by and ſaw them, might give them counſel to take thoſe things to cure their diſeaſes, which they had formerly found profitable in themſelves or any o- ther in the like affects,neither might any paſſe by a fickman in ſi- lence. the preface. lenee. alſo strabo writes that it was a cuſtom in greece that thoſe which were fick ſhould reſort to Æſculapius his temple in epi- daurum, that thereas they ſlept,by their dreams they might be ad- moniſhed by the god what means they ſhould uſe to be cured;and when they were freed from their diſeaſes,they writ themanner of their infirmities and the means by which they were cured in tables and faſtened them to the pillars of the temple, not only for the glory of the god, but alſo for the profit of ſuch, as ſhould after- wards be affected with the like iſ: all which tables(as fame reports) hippocrates tranſcribed, and ſo from thoſe drew the att of phyſick. beaſts alſo have added much to this art. for one mad was not only inſtruêed by another, but learned alſo much from brute beaſts,for they by the only inſtiné of nature have found out divers herbs, and remedies, by which they freed and preſerved themſelves from infirmities, which might preſently be transferred to mans uſe. wherefore confidering that ſuch and ſo many have concurred to bring this art to perfe&ion, who hereafter dare caſt in queſtien the excellency thereof chiefly if he reſpeš the ſub- jeathereof, mans body, a thing more noble than all other mun- dane things, and for which thereſt were created.which thing ſno- ved herophilus in times paſt to call phyfitians the hands of the gods. for as we by putting forth our hand, do helpany man out of the water or mud into which he is fallen: even ſo we do ſuſtain thoſe that are thrown down from the top of health to the gates of death by violence of diſeaſes, with happy medicins,andasir were by ſome ſpeciall and divine gift deliver them out of the jaws of death. homer the prince of greek poets affirms that one phyfitian is far more worthy than many othermeh.all antiquity gave phy- fitians ſuch honour, that they worſhipped them with great vene- rationas gods,or the ſons of their gods. for who is it which is not much delighted with the divine force of healthful medicins,with which (we ſee by dayly . phyſitians, as armed with mercaries rod, do bring back thoſe º: which are e- ven entring the gates of death? hence itcometh to paſſe that the divine poets of ancienttimes,as orpheus,and muſeus, and heſiod, and themoſt renowned philoſophers, pythagoº, plate, ariſtotle, theophraftus, chryſippu,cato . parro,eſteemed nothing more excellent than to excell in the knowledgof medicins,and to teſtifie the ſame by written monuments to poſterity. for what can be more noble and worthy of a generous diſpoſition than to attain to that by the benefit of phyſick,that adorned with the ornaments of dignity thou mayeſt have power over other men, and favoured of princes, kings,and emperours, mayeſt appoint and preſcribe to them thoſe things which are profitable to preſerve health, and cure their diſeaſes? but if you look for benefit by ſci- crices; the preface. ences;then know that the profeſſors hereof have beſide ſufficient lººm gain,acquired much honour and many friends.hippocrates coming phyſitianshave formerly becn. names given to plants. to abdera to cure democritus of his madneſs, not only the men of the city,but alſo the women,children, and people of every age, ſexe and rank, went forth to meet him, giving him with a com- mon conſent and loud voice the title of a tutelary deity and fa- ther of their country. but the athenians, for freeing their coun- try from the plague, with triumphant pompe celebrated playes to his honour, and bountifully ſet upon his head as if he had been a king, a crown of gold weighing a ooo. pieces of their golden coin,andereaed his ſtatue,for a perpetuall monument of his piety and learning.eraſſtratus the nephew of ariſtotle by his daughter, received, freely given him by ptolomy king of egypt,for the cure of his ſon; oo.talents of gold. the emperour auguſtus henoured antonius muſa with a golden ſtatue. quintus stertinius yearly re- ceived out of the emperours treaſury ooo. oo. pieces of gold. in the time of our grandfathers petrus aponenfit called conciliator was ſo famous through all italy for his knowledgin, phyſick, that he could ſcarſe beintreated to come to any man of faſhion that was fick, unleſs he gave him o. crowns, for every day he was abſent from home: but when hee went to cure honorius the biſhop of rome, he received oo, crowns for every day he was abſent, our french chronicles relate in what credit & eſtimation james cotte. rius the phyſitian was with lewis the .king of france; for they reporthe gave him monethly out of his treaſury loooo. crowns. phyſickintimes paſt hath been in ſuch eſteem with many famous and noble perſonages,that divers kings and princes delighted with the ſtudy thereof,and deſirous to attain glory and credit thereby, called fundry herbs after their own names.for ſo gentian took its name of gentius king of illyria; the herb lyſimachia of lyſimachn, the king of macedon,the mithridatickherb or scordium, of mithri- dates the king of pontus & bithinia, achills of achylles,centorie of chiron the centaure; artemiffa of artemiſia the queen of caria. attahºº king of pergamur,salomon of judea, evax of arabia, and iab, the king mauritania, were not only inflamed with a deſire of the knowledgof plants; but either they have written books of it, or for the great commodity of poſterity,invented by their skilma- ny choiſe antidotes compounded of divers fimples;neither the de- fire of learning this noble ſcience is yet altogether extin&asma appearby that indian plant tobace,called by ſome the noble ; catherines herb and medices herb,but commonly the queens herb, becauſe catherine medice, the mother of our kings,by her fingular ſtudy and induſtry made manifeſt the excellent vertue it hath in curing malign ulcers and wounds, which before was unknown to the french. for theſe worthy men underſtood that their glory, thus the prºf. --- t thusiaſtened and ingraffed into the deep, and as it were everli- ving roets of plants,would never decay;but ſhould be propagated to all poſterity in many ſucceeding ages, growing up with their ſprouting and buddingſhouts,ſtalks flowers and fruits.neither did theſe famous men whil'ſt they adorned this part of phyfick ſuffer the other,which treats of the diſſe&ion of mans body,be buried in oblivion, and without their knowledg; as inſtruáed with the pre- cepts and learning of the wiſeſt men,how artificiall and unimita- ble by mortall hand this fabrick of our body is. neither is it proba. ble that apis, ftris and ptolomy kings of egypt, solomon, alexander the great,mithridates, ttalus, ſeeing they dedicated themſelves wholly to the contemplation of naturall things; negle&ed the uſe of anatomy,and being men moſt defirous to know themſelves,to have beenignorant of the ſtrućture of their own bodies being the habitations oftheir ſouls immortaland made to the image of god: ſeeing they obſerved with certain judgment the differentlights of the sun, moon and stars;and paſſed over ſo many lands, ſo many ſeas, ſo many regions, ſo far remote one from another,by wayes ſo terrible by reaſon of cold, uncouthneſs,darkneſs, by rocks,by fire and ſword, with greatlabour,charge and danger of life, only that they might ſatisfie their minds thurſting after the knowledg of things;and to have left untouched a thing truly noble, admirable, and moſt worthy of knowledg, eafie to beattained by any and to be acquired without any danger of life, or fortunes. - seeing therebethree parts ofthat phyſick which at this time ºf kidº, ded into three we profeſſe,chirurgery which by the uſe of the hand, diet which j with a convenient manner of feeding and ordering the body,and pharmacy that by medicins attempt to expell diſeaſes,and preſerve health; the prime phyſitians do not without reaſon contend w” of theſe may be accounted the chief.certainly horophilus had pharmacy in ſuch eſteem,that he thought medicins were firſt mix- edand adminiſtred to the fick by apollo(whom antiquity thought a great deity.)and pliny had ſo good an opinion of diet, that he exclaims;the true remedies and antidotes againſt diſeaſes are put into the pot and eaten every day by the poor people. verily all learned men confeſſe that the manner of curing which is per- formed by diet,is much more facile & proſperous, than that which is done by medicins;as thoſe things which ſought with much labor and coſt are taken with much loathing,and taken are ſcarce retain- ed,but retained they oftwork with much labour and pain: which things long ago moved aſclepiades to exclude the uſe of medicins, as hurtfull to the ſtomach. yet if we will beleeve celſus, neither of theſe parts merit the preheminence,but both of them give place to chirurgery.for ſeeing that fortune is very powerfull in diſeaſes, and the ſame meats and medicins are often good and often vain, - truly r tthe preface. - the excellency of chirurgery. truly itis hard to ſay,whether the health is recovered by the bene- fit of dietand pharmacy, or by the ſtrength of the body.moreover in thoſe caſes,in which we moſt prevail with medicins, althcugh the profit be more manifeſt, yet it is evident that health is often ſought in vain even by theſe things,and often recovered without them. as it may be perceived by ſome troubled with fore eyes, and others with quartain feavers, who having been long troubled by phyſitians are ſometimes healed without them. but the effect of chirurgery as it is very neceſſary,ſo it is the moſt evident amongſt all the parts of phyſick. for who without chirurgery can hope to cure broken, or luxated parts,who wounds and ulcers,who the fal- ling of the matrix,the ſtonein the bladder,a member infeſted with a gangrene or sphacele? beſides,this part alſo is the moſt ancient; for podalirius and machaon following their generall agamemnon to the trojane wars, yeelded no ſmall comfort to their fellow souldiers. whom notwithſtanding homer affirms not to have gi- ven any helpin the peſtilence,nor in divers other diſeaſes,but on- ly were accuſtomed to heal wounds by inſtruments and medicins. and if the difficulty of learning it argue the excellency of the art, who can doubt but chirurgery muſt be the moſt excellent, ſeeing that none ought to be accounted a shirurgeon or which can perform his duty, without the knowledg of diet and phar- macy? but both the other can perform their parts without chir- urgery if we may beleeve galen. but if we confider the matter more neerly according to truth; we ſhall underſtand thoſe three parts have a certain common bond and are very near of kindred, ſo that the one implorestheaid of the other; neither can the phy- fitian do any thing praiſe-worthy without the conſpiracy and joint conſent of theſe three; therefore in ancient times there was but one performer and uſer of all the three parts. but the multi- tude of men daily increaſing, and on the contrary mans life de- creaſing,ſo that it did not ſeemable to ſuffice for to learn and ex- erciſe all the three,the workmen divided themſelves. wherefore that which happens to any man either by lot,or counſell, thatlet him follow, maintain and only uſe, as mindfull how ſhort his life is,and how long the art. t h e --- *—- - - - xiv. ofthe ventricle or flomach, - - w - - - w - - -, ~ r - . - --- t - - º : -- a table of the books and chapters. . . chup. . . pag, chap. - - pag. . º.º.bat chirurgery iº, |... hollow-vein, . . . . b. º º * ii. ofahruſticall operations, ib. xxvi: ſhe kidneysorcinº, i **** º & iii. oſthings naturall, xxvii. of the ſpermatick veſſels, . . wa § iv. of elements, - it. |xxviii. ; the lenicles of ſtones, * b. §wº v. of temperamcats, xxix. of the variousbodies or paraſtat's, and of the: *s vi. oſhumors, - craculatorie veſſels,and the glandulous or proſtates, ” vii, of the praaice of the aforeſaid rules oftempera. § .. ; fººts i xx titc try - w y - |xxxii. ol the yard . . . º, xxxiii. of the frºmwick veſſels and teſticles in ". x. ofthe ſpirits, | mºn, ... . * . ofthe adjunèsofthings naturall |xxxiv. of the womb, , , - #º". at |xxxv, of the coats containing the infant in the xiii. of the air, ib. womb,and of the navill, c - # : : xxxvi. of the navill, c imotion and tt - - —. .v. sleep and withing, .. the fourab book, titating of thewitall?arts contained in xvi. kepletion, nunition or emptineſe, the cheſt. xviii. of the returbations or pallions of the º, i. what the thorax or the cheſt is,into what parts it may xy. of things againſ, naure, and twº of the cauſe o be divided,and the nature of theſe parts, c xº diſeaſe | ii.o. the containing and contained parts of th: chef, a dilcar, § | iii. of the breaſts or dugs, xxi. ofa ſymptome, iv. oſthe clavicles, or collar-bones and ribs, ib. xxiſ. ofindications, - . v. the anatomical adminiſtration of the ſternon, xxiii. oftertain wonderfull and extravagant wºº" vi. ofthé pleura,or coat inveſting of the ribs, curing diſeaſes, . . - * || vii. ofthe mediaſinur, ib, - (v. of certain juggling and deceitfull wayes of viii. of theliaphragma,or midriffe, ii o guring, *h ix of the lungs, - ib. * | of the pericardium or purſe of the heart, ii i theſecondbºok, of living creatures and ºf the excellency ºf man, from to pig. . -thirdtack, treating of the anatomy of man body, !. the diviſion or partition of mans body, mſ. of the containing parts of the epigaſtrium and the preparation to anatomicall adminiſtration, ſfſ. of the outmoſt skin or cuticle, | w. of the true skin, ib. v. of the fleſhy panicle, wº othefat, vii. of the common coat of the muſcles, o wilſ. what a muſcle is, and how many differences therebe thereof, ib. ix. of the parts of a muſcle, x. a more particular inquiſition into each part of a muſ. cle, ib. xi. ofthe muſcles of the epigaſtrium,or lower belly, xii. of the white-line, and peritonawn, or rim of the belly, - xiii, ofthe epiploon, omentum, or irbus, that is, the kall, xv. of the guts, i xvi. of the meſentery, xvii. ofthe glandults in general', and ofthe pancrem, x. of the hearſ, . xi. of the orifices and valves of the heart, * xii. of he diſtribution of the vena arterioſa, and the arteria venoſa, ib. xiii. of the diſliibution of the hollow. vein, i . xiv. of the diſtribution of the nerves or ſinews of the fixth conjugation, xv. the diviſion of the arteries, - ib. xvi. of the thymuſ, i xvii qfthe aſpera attery or weazon, xviii. of the gallet, . the fifth book, of the animall parts cºntained in the lead. i ageneral deſcription of the head, i ii. othe muſculous skin of the head, (commonly called the hairy ſcalp)and of the pericranium, iii. of the ſutures, ib. iv. of the cranium, or skull, v. ofthe meningeſ, that is, the two membranes called dura mater and pia mater, vi, of the brain, - ib. vii. of the ventricles and mamillary proceſſes of the brain, o viii. of the ſeven conjugations of the nerves of ă. brain, ſo called,becauſe they alwayes ſhew the nerve conjugated and doubled, that is, on each ſide one, or ſweet-brtad, ib. ix. of the rtte mirabilé, or wonderfull net.and of the xviii. of the liver, - wedg bone, . . . . i xix. ofthe bladder of the gill, x. oftheholes of the inner baſis of the skull, xx oſtheſpleen of milt, xi.of the perforations of the externall laſt of the brain, - xxi. of the veni poria, and gate-vein, and the diſtribu- - - ib. tion thereof, ib. xii. ofthe ſpinall marrow, or pith of the back, xxii. oſthe originall of the artery, and the diviſion of _- the branch,deſcending to the naturall parts, - xxill of the diſtribution ofthe nerves to the natural the ſixth book, treating ºf the muſcles and bones, and the parts - xxiv. the manner oftaking out the guts, ; otherex tream part of the body. . - **v. the originalland diſtribution of the deſcendent |i. of the bones ofthe face, ii. § - - x- - - - - - ! º a table of the books and chapters. * --- chap. page | chap. pag. ii. of the teeth, xxiii of the feaver which happens upon an ordema. iii. of the broad muſcle, tous tumor, --- iv. of the eye-lids and eye.brows, | xxiv. of scirºbin or an hard rumor proceeding of v. of the eyes, rb melancholy, a vi: q: he muſcles, coats,and humors ofthe eye, |xxv. of the cure of stirrhia, vii. of the noſe, | xxvi. oſa cancer alieady generated, ib. viii of the muſcles of the face, xxvii. ofthecauſes,kinds,and prognoſticks of a can- |x. of the muſcles of the lower jaw, ib. cer, - x. of the cars and parotides, or kernels of the ears, xxviii. of the cure of acancer beginning and net yet xi. of the bone hjoideſ,and the muſcles thereoſ, ulcerated, o xii. of the tongue, |xxix. of the cure of an ulcerated cancer, ib. xiii. of the mouth, |xxx. of the ropick medicins to be applyed an to ul- xiv. of the gargareen, or vvula, ib. cerated,and not ulcerated cancer, xy. of the law inz, or throtle, |xxxi. ot the ſeawer which happenethin scirrhew t xvi. of the neck and parts thereof, ... mars, x vii. o. the muſcles ofthe neck, | xxxii.of an areariſina,that is,the dilatation or ſpring- xviii. o. the mºſcle, ofthe chea and loins, i ing of an artcry vein or finew, xix oi the muſcles of the houlier blade, i x^. the deſcription of the hand taken in generall, xxi. the deſtribution of the ſubclavian vein,and firſt of the cephalica or humeraria, xxi. the deſcription of the axillary vein, iš xxiii. the diſtribution of the axillary artery, i xxiv. q: the nerves of the neck,back, and arm, ib. xxv. the deſcription of the bone of the arm, and the muſcles which move it, xxvi. a diſcription of the bènes of the cubit, and the muſcles moving them, xxvii. a deſcription of the bones of the writt, after- wriſt and fingers, xxviii. of the muſcles which ſeaſed in the cubit move the wand,and with it the hand, xxix. of the muſcles of the inſide of the hand, i xxx. a deſcription of thc leg taken in gencialſ, : xxxi. a de cription ºf the crurall vein, b xx xii a deſcription of the crurall artery, xxxiii. of the nervcs of the loins, holy-bone, and thigh, - ib. xxxiv. of the proper parts of the thigh, xxxv. of the muſcles moving the thigh, o xxxvi. of the bones of the leg or ſhank, xxxvii. of the muſcles of the legs, xxxviii. of the bones of the foot, ; xxxix. of the muſcles moving the foot, xt. of the muſcles moving the toes of the feet, xli. an epitome or brief recitall of the bones in mans body, xlii: an epitome ofthe names and kinds of compoſure of the bones, the ſeventh book, of tumors againſ nature in general. the eighth book, ofthe particular tumors againſt namre, i. of an hydrocephalos, or watery tumor which come monly affetts the heads of infants, ii. ofa polypus being an eating diſeaſe in the noſe, iii. of the parotideſ, that is, certain ſwellings about the ears, iv. of the ephlit, or overgrowing of the fleſh of the gums, w. of the ravula, ib. vi. of the ſwelling of the glandules, or almonds of the throat, e vii. of the inflammation and relaxation in the wvula or columella, ib. viii. of the augina or ſquinzy, x. of the brºnchocºl, or rupture of the throat, ags x. of the piuriſie, xi. of the dropſie, ab xii. of the cure of the dropſie, - xiii. of the the tumor and relaxation of the navell, xiv. of the tumors of the groins and cods called hervie, that is, ruptures, ib, xv. of the cure of ruptures, xvi. ofthe golden ligature or the pundu, aurém,as they call it, - - xvii. ofthe cure of other kinds of ruptures, xviii. of the talling down of the fundament, xix. of the paronychia, ib. xx. of the ſwellingofthe knees, xxi. of the dracunculu, it. i. what a tumor againſ nature, vulgarly called an impo- fluine,is,and what be the differences thereof, ii. of the generall cauſes of tumors, iii. the ſigns of impoſtumes or tumors in generall, ib. iv. of the prognoſticks in impoſturaes, v. of the generall cure of rumors againſt nature, vi. of the four principall and generall tumors, and ofo- ther impoſtumes which may be reduced to them, vii. oſa phlegmon, ib. viii. ofthe cauſes and ſigns of a phlegmon, o ix. of the cure of a true phlegmon, b. x of the cure of an ulcerated phlegmon, o xi. oſſeavers, and the cure of the leavers which accom- pany a phlegmon, xii. of an eryſipelin,or inflammation, o xiii, of the cure of an fryſiptlas, it. xiv. ofthe herpes;that is, eaters,or ringworms,or ſuch like, xv.offeavers,which happen upon eryſepelous tumors ib. xvi. of an -dema or cold phlegmatick tumor, xvii. of the cure of flatulent and wateriſh tumors, xviii. of the cure of a flatulent and wateriſh tumor, . xix of an atheroma, steatoms,and melicerit, i . xx. of the cure of lupie, that is, wens, or ganglions i xxi. ofa ganglion more particularly ſo called, xxii. oſthc, }rwme of $ crophale, that is, the kings cwill, the ninth book; of wounds in fentral. i. what a wounds is, what the kinds and differences thereofare,and from whence they may be drawn, or de- rived, i ii. of the cauſes of wounds, iii. of the ſigns of wounds, iê. iv. of prognoſticks to be made in wounds, v. of the cure of wounds in generall, ib. vi. of ſutures, vii. of the flux of blood, which uſually happens in wounds, viii. of the pain which happens upon wounds, x. of convulſion by reaſon of a wound, ib. x. the cure of a convulſion, xi. ofthe cure of a convulſion, by ſympathy and pain, . xii. of the palſie, ib. xiii. of the cure of the palfie, xiv. ofſwouning, i xv.of delirium (i.) raving talking idly,or doting, ib. the tenth book, of the green and blend wºunds of each , part. i. of the kinds and differences of a broken skull, ii. of the cauſes and ſigns of a broken skull, iii. of the ſignsofa broken skull, which are manifeſt to our ſenſe, iv. of * atable of the book and chapters. chup. - pag. a chap. pag. iv. ofa fiſſure being the firſt kind of abroken skull,ib. lx. what remains for the chiturgeon to do in this kind w. of contuſion, which is the ſecond patt of a fia. { ...of wounds, s {luſc. *. x. of bullets which remain in the body, for a long vi, of an effaëute, depreſſioneſ the bone, being the time after the woundis healed up, - . thirdkind of a ſtature. |xi. how to corred the conſtitutions of the air, ſo that wll. oſaſcal,being the fourth kind of abroken skull. the noble parts may be ſtrengthened, and the whole - - body beſide, . . . - . . . . i* viii, of a rºſmiu, orcounterfiſſure, being the fifth xi. certain memorable hiſtories, . . . . ib. kind of fraćture, - ib. xiii. an apology concerning wounds made by ºwn: ix, ofthe moving or concuſſion ofthe brain, x. of prognoſticks to be made in ſtatures of the skull, xi.why when the brain is hurt by a wound of the head, there may follow a convulſion of the oppoſite part, xii, aconvulſion of the deadly ſigns in the wounds of the head, - xiii, ofſalutary ſigns in wounds of the heads, º xiv, ofthe generall cure of a broken skull, and of thi ſhot, ho have lab xiv. anotherapology, againſt thoſe who hy" ºr cd with new reaſons, * prove that wounds made by gunſhot are poyſoned, - xv. how wounds made by arrows differ from thoſe *º. - xvi. of the diverſity of arrows and dart, i . xvii. orhºofthe wounded parts & xviii. oſdrawing forth arrows, ib. xix, how arrows broken in a wound may be draw” forth, , - xx. what to be done, when an arrow is left faſtened or ſticking in a bone, , - - tº is: xxi. ofpoyſonous wounds, tº it. of cantuſion, and gangrene, therwelfth boºk i. ofa contuſion, --- , , ° ii, ofthe generall cure of great and enomous toniº; ons - a ſymptomes uſually happening thereupon, xv, ofthe particular cure of wounds of the head, and of the muſculous skin, xvi, of the particular tute of a frature or broken skull, - xvii. why we uſe trepāning, in the fratures of the skull, - xviii. a deſcription oftrepans, xix. of the places ofthe skullwhereto you may not: ply atrepan, - xx, ofthe corruption and caries, or rottenneſe of hº bones of the head, - xxi. of the diſcommodities which happen to the craſſa meninx, by haºwics of he skull, xxii. ofthe cure efthe brain being ſhaken or moved, xxiii. ofthe wounds of the face, o xxiv. of the wounds of the eyes, xxv. ofthe wounds of the checks, xxvi. of the wounds ofthe noſe, xxvii. ofthe wounds of the tongue, ... ib. xxviii. of the wounds of the ears, xxix, ofthe wounds ofthe neck and throat, ib. xxx. of the wounds of the cheſt, xxxi. ofthecure of the wounds of the dieſt, xxxii, ofthe differences,cauſes, ſigns, and cure of an heflick feaver, - ºxxxiii. of the wounds of the epigaſtrium,and ofthe whole lower belly, - xxxiv. ofthecure of wounds of the lowet belly, xxxv. ofthewounds of the groins, yard and teſti- cles, xxxvi. ofthe wounds of the thighs and legs. ib. xxxvii, of the wounds of the nerves, and nervous parts, ib, xxxviii. of the cure of the wounds of the nervous parts, xxxix. of the wounds of the joints, j xl. of the womads of the ligaments, —- ofwºund, made by gunſhot, other fieryengine, and fair iii, how we mua handle contuſions when **** joined with a wound, - : iv. of thoſe contuſions whichare withouta wound, ib. w. by what means the contuſed part may be freed from the fear, and imminent danger ºf a gangrºnº ib, vi. of that ºrange kind of ſymptome which happen." upon confuſions of the ribs, vii. a diſcourſe of mummia, or mummy; ibº viii. ofcombuſtions and their differences, ix. of hor and attrađive medicias to be applyed tº burns, - - x. ofa gangrene and mortification, . xi.ofthe generalland particular cauſes of a gangrenesiſ. xii. of the antecedent cauſes of a gangſence , xiii. of the figns of a gangrene, xiv. ofthe prognoſticks ingsngreness , xv. of the generall cure of a gangrene, ib. xvi. of the particular cure of a gangrent, il, xviithe figuofa perfeónecrºft, or motification, ' xviii. where amputation mnſt be made, . . . ib. xix. how the ſcăion or amputation muſt be per- formed, xx. how to flanth the bleeding when the member is taken off, it, xxi. how after the bloud is flasched, you muſhdieſe the wounded member, xxii, how you muſt flop the bleeding, ifany of the bound up veſſels chance to get looſe, ib. xxiii. how to perform the reſidue of the cure of the amputated member, ib. xxiv. what jaſ occaſion moved the author to deviſe ſºu of weapons; the eleventh book. the preface. the firſt diſcourſe wherein wounds made by gunſhot,are freed from being bunt,or cauterized according to wigzel method. - another diſconſe of theſe things, which king charles the ninth, eiurning from the expedition, and taking of Žoven,inquired of me concerning wounds made by this new form of remedy, to ſtanch the blond after the amputation of a member,and to forſake the common way uſed almoſt by all chirurgeons; which is by ap: plication of aduall cauteries, : xxv. the pračice of the former precepts is declared,to- gether with a memorable hiſtory of a certain ſouldiers whoſe arm was taken offat the clbow, * tºnho, i i. a diviſion of wounds drawn from the variety of the wounded parts and the bullets which wound, ; i fulstrºfiftula', and hamroid, the thirteenth book, . of the nature, cauſes and differences of ulcers, !. ofthe ſigns of wounds made by gunſhot, ib. ii. of the figns of ulcers, iii. how theſe wounds muſt be ordered at the firſt dreſ. | iii. of the frognoſticks of ulcers, ib, i fing, - ib. iv. ofthe generall cure of ulcers, ? v. a deſcription offit inflruments to draw forth bullets, v. oſadiſemperedulcer, andother ſtrange bodies, . || vi. of an ulcer with pain, w: what defing muſt firſt be uſed, after the flrange | vii. of alcers, with overgrowing of roº % ºlies are pluckt or drawn out of the wound, : fleſh, b. vi. how you ſhall order it at the ſecond dreſſin v " _ _ - - - gº iii. ofan ulcer putrid and breeding worms, b. vii. by what means flrange bodies, left in at º: ix. of a .." ld an ingworms, aſ dºng, may be drawn forth, x. ofa virulent and malign ulcer, which is termed “ſ. viii. of indications to be obſerved in this kind of ) thrº, and ofa chironian ulcer, - - - - - - - * w - - ounds, h - a. ki. an - t atable ofthe books and chapters. | xi. an advertiſement to the young chirurgeon touch- ing the diſtance of times wherein malign ulcers are to be dreſſed , xii. how to bind up ulcers. --- ib. xiii. of the cure of particular ulcers, and firſt of thoſe of the eyes, o xiv. of the Özena and ulcers of the noſe, th. xv. of the ulcers of the mouth, ib. xvi. of the ulcers of the ears, xvii. of the ulcers of the windºwuwº. and guts - - xviiff ºf the ulcers of the kidnies and bladder, . xix. of the ulcers of the womb, - xx. cf the varices, and their cure by cutting, ib. xxi. of fiſtula's, . xxii. of the cure of fiſtula's, kxiii. of the fiſtula's in the fundament, ib. kxiv. of haemorrhoides, of bandages ºr ligaturer, the fourteenth bºok, i. of the differences of bandages, ii. sheweth the indications and generall precepts of fit- __ting of bandages and ligatures, . . ib. iii. of the three kinds of handages neceſſary in fra- ôtures, . iv. of the binding up of fraaures aſſociated with a wound, v. certain commonprecepts of the binding up of fra- ôtures and luxations, ib. vi. of the uſes for which ligatures ſerve, s: . vii. of bolſters or compreſſes, viii. of the uſe of ſplints, junks, and caſes. * off.a.ru, the first, sº i. what a pračture is, and what the differences there- of are, - ii. of the ſigns of a fraćture, iii. prognoſticks to be made in fraćtures, ib. iv. the generall cure of broken and diſlocated bones, . . . v. by what means you may perform the third intentſ. on in curing fraćtures and diſlocations, which is, the hindering and correàion of accidents and ſym- toms, . of the fraćture of the noſe, vii. of the fraćture of the lower jaw, ib. viii. of the fračture of the clavicle, or collar bone, ix. of the fraćture of the ſhoulder blade, ib. x. of the fraćture and depreſſion of the sternon, or breaſt bone, xi. of the fraćture of the ribs, ib. xii. of certain preternaturall affeds which enſue up- on broken ribs, xiii. of the fraćture of the vertebre, or rack bones of the back, and their proceſes, xiv. of the fraćture of the holy bone, ib. xv. of the fraaure of the rump, ib. xvi. of the fraćture of the hip, or of ilium, ib, xvii. of a fraćture of the ſhoulder, or arm bone, ib. xviii. of the fraćture of the cubit, or ell and wand, . o xix. of the fraćture of a hand, ib. xx. of the fraćture of a thigh, ib. xxi. of the fraćture of therhigh nighto the joint, or the upper or lower head of the bone, ib. xxii. of the fraćture of the paiella, of whirle bone of the knee, ib. xxiii. of a broken leg, ib. rxiv. of ſomething to be obſerved in ligation, when a fraćture is aſſociated with a wound, xxv. what was uſed to the authors leg after the firſt • dreſſing, ik. xxvi. what may be the cauſe of the convulſion twitch- ings of broken members, xxvii.certain documents concerning the parts where- on the patient muſt neceſſarily reſt, whilſt he lyes in his bed, ič. *xviii. by what mans we may know the cala is a t chap. p - breeding, xxix. of thoſe things that may hinder the generation of a £alluſ > and how to correót the fault thereof, if it be ill formed, xxx. of fomentations which be uſed in broken bones xxxi. of the fraćtures of the bones in the feet. º t- of diſlocationſ or luxations, the ſixteenth boºk. i. of the kinds and manners of diſlocations, ii. of the differences of diſlocations. #: iii. of the cauſes of diſlocations, ić. iv. the ſigns of diſlocations, ib. m, qeprognoſtickito be made upon luxations, . vi. of the generall cure of diſlocations, x. vii. the deſcription of certaine engins, ſerving for the reſtoring .#diſlocations, iš. viii. of the diſlocation of the jaw bone, ix. how to ſet the jaw diſlocated forwards on both ſides, *. f reſtoring the jaw diſlocated forwards but on on: ſide, ii. xi. of the luxation of the collar bone, ib. #!. of the luxation of the ſpine, or back bone, ; xiii. of the diſlocation of the head, b. *ty. of the diſlocation of the vertebra, or radº bones of the neck, ib. xv. of the diſlocated vertebre of the back. *y. how to reſtore the ſpine outwardly diſlocated, i. xviii. a more particularinquiry of the diſlocation of #.ºertebræ, proceeding from an internall cauſe, *yº: prognoſticks of the diſlocated vertebre of the ck, ib. xix. of the diſlocation of the rump, sº xx. of the luxation of the ribs, ib xxi. ofa diſlocated ſhoulder, *śl. of the firſt mannerºſetting a ſhoulder, whi is with ones fiſt. ( ) xxiii. of the ſecond manner of reſtoring a ſhoulder. that is, with the heel; when as the patient by reaſon of pain can neither fit, nor fland. ( ) xxiv. of the third manner of reſtoring a ſhoulder, ii. xxv. of the fourth manner of reſtoring a diſlocated ſhoulder, ( ) xxvi. of the fifth manner of putting the ſhoulderine tº joint, which is performed by a ladder, i . **vii. the fixth manner of refloring a ſhoulder. luxated into the arm-pit, ( ) xxviii. how to reſtore a ſhoulder diſlocated’;º wards, xººx. of the ſhoulder luxated outwardly, §: xxx. of the ſhoulder diſlocated upwards. * *** {{. xxxi. of the diſlocation of the eſbow, iš. xxxii: how to reſtore the elbow, diſlocated out- wardly, ( ) xxxiii. of the diſlocation of the elbow to the infid: * f a compleat and uncomplcat luxation, ( xxxiv. of the diſlocation of the styliformit or bod- kin-like proceſſe of the cubitor ell, iº. xxxv. of the diſlocation of the wriſt, gº? xxxvi. of the diſlocated bones of the wriſt, tº. *xxvii. of the diſlocated bones of the after-wriſt, -. xxxviii. of the diſlocated finger, it. xxxix. of a diſlocated thigh, or hip, ib. xl. prognoſticks belonging to a diſlocated hip, xli. of the ſigns of the hip, diſlocated outwardly, or inwardly, il. xlii. of the thigh bone diſlocated forwards, xliii. of the thigh bone diſlocated backwards, ib. xliv. of reſtoring the thigh bone diſlocated inwards, . xlv. of reſtoring the thigh diſlocated outwardly, xlvi. of reſtoring the thigh diſlocated forwards, xlvii. of reſtoring the thigh diſlocated backwards, ib. xlviii. of the diſlocation of the whirl bone of . knee, - xlix. of the diſlocated knee, . w tz table ofthe books and chapter. --- chap. - pag. l. of a knee diſlocated forwards, . li.of the ſeparation of the greater and jeffer focile, ib. lii. of the leg bone, or greater focile diſlocated, and divided from the paſterbone, iš. liii. of the diſlocation of the heel, liv. of the ſymptomes which follow upon the contu- ſon of the heel, ib, lv. of the diſlocated paſtern, orancle bone, lvi. of the diſlocation of the inſtep and back of the foot, ih, lvii. ofthe diſlocation of the toes, #b. lviii. of the ſymptomes, and accidents which may befall a broken or diſlocated member, ofdivers other preternaturall #. whoſe cure is commonly performed by surgery, the ſeventeenth book, i. ofan alopecia,or the falling away of the hairs of the head, w ; ii. of the tiens or ſcaldhead, jºb. iii. of the vertige or giddineſe, ſ iv. f the hemicrasia or megrim, ič, v. of certain affets ofthe eyes, and firſt of flaying up the ºpper eye-lid when it is too lax, wi. of lagopthalme, or the hare-eye, vii. of the chaistion, orhail ſtone,and the hordeºlºm, or barly corn ofthe eye-lids, ib. viii. ofthe hydaritor fatneſſe of the eye-lids, fb. ix. of the eye-lids faſtened or glºwed together, x. ofthe itching of the eye-lids, ib. xi. oflippindo, or blear-eyes, xii. of the opthalmia, or inflammation of the eyes, ib. xiii. of the proptoft, that is, the falling or the ſtarting forth of the eye, and of the phthiſ, and cam/ft of the ſame, xiv. of the ungula, or web, ik, xy, of the agilepºſſula lacrymſº, or weeping fiſtula of the - xvi. of:ſºapbyloma or grape-like ſwelling, : xvii. ofthebypºpyon, that is, the ſuppurate or putrid eye, - ... xviii. of the mydriaſis, or dilation of the pupil of º eye, , xix. of a cataraft - ib. xx, ofthe phyficall cure of a beginning catarat, to xxi.by what ſign; ripe and curable cataraasanay be diſ. covered from unripe and uncurable ones, ii xxii. ofthecouching a cataraë. il. xxiii, ofthe floppingofthe paſſage of the cars, and of the falling of things thereinto, - . . xxiv. ofgetting ſittlebones, and ſuch like things out of the jaws and throat, xxv. of the toothach, ib, xxvi. of other affe′s of the teeth, xxvii. of drawing of teeth, xxviii. of clenſing the teeth, xxix. of the impediment and contration ºf the tongue, ib, xxx, of ſuperfluous fingers, and ſuch as ſtick *: ther, jb. xxxi. ofthe too ſhort a prepute, and of ſuch as have been circumciſed, xxxii. of phimofti,and paraphimoſis, that isſo great a conflriàion ofthe prepuce about the the glans or nut that it cannot be bared or uncovered at pleaſure, ik. xxxiii. of thoſe whoſe glans is not rightly perfora. ted,and of the too ſhort or too ſtrait ligament bridle, or coard of the yard. i xxxiv. of the cauſes of the ſtone, # xxxv. of the ſigns of the ſtone in the kidneys and bladder, xxxvi. prognoſticks in the ſtone, i xxxvii. wwhat cure is to be uſed when we fear the ſtone, xxxviii, what is to be done when the ſtone falleth out of the kidney into the ureters xxxix. what muſt be done the ſtone being fallen into the neck of the bladder, xl. what courſe muſt be taken, if the ſtoneflicking in the wreter, or urinary paſſage, annot be gotten our by the fogmentipped art, . chap. pag. xli.what manner offečion is to be made, when altone -is in a boyes bladder, . xlii. how to cut men,for the taking out of the flon;is the bladder, - xliii. what cure muſt be uſed to the wound when the ſtone is taken forth, , xliv. how to lay the patient after the fiene is taken away, xiv. how to cure the wound made by the inciſion, it. xlvi. whaf cure is to be uſed to ulcers, when as the urine flows through them, ong after theft one is drawn out, xºr. how to take ſlopes out of womens blad- t$ . . xlviii. of the ſuppreſſion of the urine by intº cauſes, xlix. a digreſſion concerning the purging offuch as are unprofitable in the whole body by the urine, lby what external cauſes the urine is fuppreſtand prog- inoſticks concerning the ſuppreſſion thereof, ib, ii. of bloudy urine, iii. of the ſigns of the ulcerated kidneys, it. liii. ofthe figns ofthe ulceratcdbladder, liv. prognoſiks of the ulcerated reins and bladder,ib. lv. what cure muſt be uſed in the ſuppreſſion of the urine, - lvi. of the diabete,or inability to hold the urine, lvii. ofthe flrangary, ik. lviii, ofthe colick, lix. of phlebotomy or bloud-letting, i lx. how to open a vein or draw blood from thence, ixi, ofcupping-glaſſes or ventoſ”, lxii. ofleeches and their uſe, ; of the gent; the eighteenth beak, i. of the deſcription of the gout. ii. of the occult cauſes of the gour, ić. iii. of the manifeſt cauſes of the gout, iv. out of what part the matter of the goût may flow down upon the joints, iſe v. the ſigns of the arthritick humor flowing from the brain, v} the ſigns of a gouty humor, proceeding from the iver, - - ib. vii. by what figns we may underſtand thisor that hu- mor, to accompany the gout in malignity, iº, viii. prognoſticks in the gout, ix. the generall method of preventing and suring the gout, º ;i x. of vomiting, xi. the other generall remedies for the gout, ib. xii. what diet is convenient for ſuch as have the gout, xiii. how to ſtrengthen the joints, * xiv. of the palliativecure of the gout, and themateri- all cauſes thereof, xv. of locall medicins that may be uſed to a cold gout, xvi. of locall medicias to be applyed to a hot or ſan- guino gent, ;g . xvii. uflocall medicins for a cholerick gout, xviii. what remedies muſt be uſed in pains of the joints proceeding of a diſemper only, without . ter - xix.’ what is to be done after the fit of the gout is i. wer - jºe xx. fthe tophi, or knots which grow at the joints of ſuch as are troubled with the gout, t xxi. of the flatulencies contained in the joints, and counterſeiting true gouts, and of the remedies to be uſed thereto, - - xxii. of the ſchin, hip gout, or seiaries, ib, xxiii. the cure of the ſciatics, xxiv. of the flatulent convulſien, or convulſive con- tradion, which is commonly called by the french goutcramp;and by the engliſh the cramp, ºf t - a table of the books and chapters. chap. - - - pag. ſerve our bodies in fear of the plague, and cure tº already infected therewith, ib viii: ſ local medicins to be applyed outwardly, sº. ix. of ther things to be obſerved for prevention, in fear of the plague, - - $ . x. of the #: of magiſtrates in time of the plague ib. xi. what caution muſt be uſed in chooſing phyān, apothecaries, and surgeons, who may have care of ſuch as are taken with the plague, --- xii. how ſuch as undertake the cure of the #". to arm themſelves, ib. xiii. of the figns of ſuch as are infected with the lague, **- xiv. what ſigns in the plague are mortall, xv. signs of the plague coming by contagion of the air without any fault of the humours, xyi, signs ef the plague drawn into the body by the fault and putrefaction of humours, xvii. of the prognoſtication that is to be in ;i. xviii:how apeſtilent fever comes to be bred inus, # . xx. into what place the patient ought to betake him- ſelfe ſo ſoone as he finds himſelfe infeated, . l xx: what diet ought to be obſerved, and firſt of the choice of meat, . xxi. what drink the patient infected ought to uſe, . plague inſtituted xxii. of antidotes to be uſed in the plague, ::: xxiii. of epithems to be uſed for i. ſtrengthening of the principal parts, xxiv. whether purging and blood-lettingbe neceſſa- - ‘. *a*...ºf the nineteenth book. ºf. &, , . . . thap. pág. . of the lues venerea, and thoſe ſymptomes which hap- en by the means thercof, ii. of the cauſes of the lurs venered, iii. in what humor the malignity of the latt venered reſides, . iv. ofthe figns of the luet venerta, . v. of prognoſticks, . .vi. how many and by what means there are to oppugn this diſeaſe, vii. how to make choice of the wood guaicum, b. viii. of the preparation of the decoétion of *:::: - , ix. of the ſecond manner of "curing the lues venerea , which is performed by frićtion or unétion, o x. of the choice preparation and mixing of hydrargy- rum, - ib. xi. how to uſe the unétion, - xii. what cautions to be uſed in rubbing, or anointing. the patient, xiii. of the third manner of cure, which is performed by cerates and cmplaiſters, as ſubſtitutes of undtions, xiv. of the fourth manner of curing the lues venerea, - - xv. of the cure of the ſymptomes, or ſymptomatique affects of the lues venerea, and firſt of the ulcers of the ard, ib. xvi. how a onerrhaea differeth from a virulent ſtran- $º - - xvii. of the cauſes and difference of the ſcalding, or ſharpneſſe of the urine, - ić. xviii. prognoſticks in a virulent ſtrangury, xix. the chiefe heads of curing a genurrbara, xx. the generall cure both of the ſcalding of the wa- ter, and the virulent ſtrangury, ib. xxi. of the proper cure of a virulent ſtrangury, ib. xxii. of caruncles,or fleſhy excreſcences which ſome- times happen to grow in the urethea by the heat or ſcalding of the urin. -xxiii. what other remedies ſhall be uſed to caruncles occaſioned by the lues venerea, xxiv. of venercall bubºes, or ſwellings in the sº - - xxv. of the exoftoffs, bunches, or knots growing upon the bones, by reaſon of the lues ventrea, xxvi. why the bones become rotten, and by what means it may be perceived, ib. xxvii. of ačtuall and potentiall cauteries, xxviii. of the vulnerary paion, ib. xxix. oftetters, ring-worms, or chops, occaſioned by the luet venerea, . xxx. of curing the latt venerea in infants and little children, ib. the twentieth book, ofthe ſmallpºx and meazks; aſ alſo of worms and the leproſe, from . to . the ºne and twentieth book, of poſºns, and of the * biting, and ſinging of a mad dog, and the biting, and ſinging of other venemous creatureſ, from pag- . to pag, . the two and twentieth book, of the plague. i. the deſcription of the plague, ii. of the divine cauſes of an extraordinary plague, ib. iii. of the naturall cauſcs of the plague, v. of the preparation to humors to putrefaction, and admiſſion of peſtiferous impreſſions, v. what ſignes in the air and earth prognoſticate a plague, vi. by uſing what cautions in air and diet, one may prevent the plague, , vii. of the cordiall remedies by which we may prº- ry in the beginning of peſtilent diſeaſes, xxv. of purging medicins in a peſtilent diſeaſe, $ xxvi. of many ſymptomes which happen together with the plague, and firſt of the pain . head, . xxvii. of the heat of the kidnies, xxviii. of the eruptions and ſpots, which commonly are called by the name of purples, and tokens," i. xxix. of the cure of eruptions and ſpots, . xxx. of a peſtilent bubo or plague ſore, : xxxi. of the cure of buboeror plague ſores, il. xxxii. qf the nature, cauſes, and ſignes of a peſti- lent carbuncle, xxxiii. what prognoſticks may be made in peſtient buboes and carbuncles ib. xxxiv. of the cure of a peſtilent carbuncle, xxxv. of the itching and inflammation happening in peſtilent ulcers, . how to cicatrize them, xxxv . of ſundrykinds of evacuations, and firſt of ſweating and vomiting, ib. xxxvii. of ſpitting,ſalivation, ſneezing, belching, hicketting, and making water, o xxxviii. of the menſtruall and harmorrhoidall pur- gation, - . xxxix. of procuring evacuation by ſtool, or a flux of the belly, - . xl. of ſtopping the flux of the belly, i . xli. of evacuation by inſenſible tranſpiration, . xlii. how to cure infants and children taken with the plague, ib. the three and twentieth book, of the meanes and manner to repair orſupply the defeds of mani body. i. how the loſſe of the naturall or true eye may be co- vered, hidden, or ſhadowed, ii. by what meanes a part of the noſe that is cut off, may be reſtored or how in ſtead of the noſe that is cut off, another counterfeit noſe may be faſtned, or placed in the ſtead, iii. of the placing of teeth artificially made in ſtead of thoſe that are .# or wanting, iv. of filling the hollowneſſe of the palat, ib. w. how to help ſuch as cannot ſpeak by reaſon of the loſſe of ſome part of the tongue, o v . of covering #: repairing certaine defe&ts or de- faults in the face, ib. vii. of the defeats of the ears, viii. of amending the deformity of ſuch as are crook-back’t, ib. ix. how * * , ----- - --- ~ .----------, - . . . . cháp. - - *h. to relieve ſuch as have their urine flow from them againſt their wils, and ſuch as want their yards, - ' x. by what means the periſhed funčtion or ačtion of aſ thumb or finger may be corre&ed and amended, xi. of the helping thoſe that are vari or valgi, crook kgged, or crook footed,inwards,or outwards, xii. by what means arms,legs,and hands may be made by art, and placed in the ſtead of naturall arms, legs, or hands, that are cut off, and loſt, kiii. of amending or helping lameneſs or halting, of the generation of man, the fºur and twentieth books h. why the generative parts are endued with great plea- ſure, o ii. of what qualitie the ſeed is, whereof the male, and whereof the female is engendred, #. iii. what is the cauſe why females of all brute beaſts, being great with young, do neither deſire nor admit the males, untill they have brought forth their young, iv. what things are to be obſerved, as neceſſary unto generation in the time of copulation, v. by what ſigns it may be known, whether the woman have conceived or not ib. vi, that the womb ſo ſoon as it hath received the ſeed, is preſently contracted or drawn together, . vii. of the generation of the navell, b. viii. of the umbilicall veſſels, or the weſels belonging to the navell, ix. of the cbullition or ſwelling of the ſced in the womb, and of the concretion of the bubbles or blad— ders, or the three principall entrals, ib. x. of the third bubble or bladder, wherein the head and the brain is formed, xi. of the life or ſoul, - xii. of the naturall czcrements in generall, and eſpe- cially of thoſe that the child or infant being in the womb excludeth, . xiii. with what travell the child is brought into the world, and of the cauſe of this travell, o xiv. of the ſituation of the infant in the womb, ib. xv. which is the legitimate, and naturall, and which the illegitimate or unnaturall time of childbirth, oz xvi. signs of the birth at hand, o xvii. what is to be done preſently after the child is born, of xviii. how to pull away the ſecundine or after-birth, o' 'xix. what things muſt be given to the infant by the mouth, before he be permitted to ſuck the teat or dug, ib. xºria. mothers ought to give ſuck to their owne children, - oz yxi. of the choiſe of nurſes, b. xxii. what dict the nurſe ought to uſe, and in what fituation ſhe ought to place the infant in the cradle, o xxiiſ. how to make pap for children, o xxiv. of the weaning of children, xxv. iy what ſignes it may be known whether the child in the womb be dead or alive, . rxvi. of the chirurgicall extraćtions of the child from the womb, either dead or alive, ib. xxvii. what muſt be done unto the woman in tra– vell, preſently after her deliverance, xxviii. what care muſt be uſed to the dugs and teats of thoſe that are brought to bed, xxix. what the cauſes of difficult and painfull travell' in childbirth are, xxx. the cauſe of abortion or untimely birth, xxxi. how to preſerve the infant in the womb when the mother is dead, - xxxii. of ſuperfctation, o xxxiii. of the tumor called mola, or a mole grow- ing in the womb of women, ib. xxxiv. how to diſcerne a true conception from a falſe conception or mela, *xxv. what cure muſt be uſed to the mola, - atall, of the book and chºir. moderate flowing of the courſes, ib. lviii. of women fluxes or the whites, ib. lix. of the cauſes of the whites, . lx. the cure of the whites, - ib. | lxi. of the hemorloides and warts of the neck of the womb, , lxii. of the cure of the warts that are in the neck of the womb, -----_----- - chap. . . - pag. xxxvi. of tumors or ſwellings happening to the pancreas or ſweet-bread,and the whole meſenterie, xxxvii. of the cauſe of barrenneſſe in women, ; xxxviii. of the barrenneſle or unfruitfulneſſe of women, - , - xxix. the ſigns of a diſtempered womb, xl. of the falling down, or perverſion, or turning of the womb, - xli. the cure of the falling down of the womb, b. xlii. of the tunicle or membrane called bymen, o xliii. a memorable hiſtory of the membrane called hymen, - - xliv. of the ſtrangulation of the womb, xlv. the ſignes of imminent ſtrangulation of the womb, , .* xlvi. how to know whether the woman be dead in the ſtrangulation of the womb, or not, ib. xlvii. how to know whether the ſtrangulation of the womb comes of the ſuppreſſion of the flowers, or. - the corruption of the ſeed, . . xlviii. of the cure of the ſtrangulation of the womb, ib. xlix. of womens monthly flux or courſes, l; the cauſes of the monthly flux or courſes, li. the cauſes of the ſuppreſſion of the courſes or menſtruall flux, lii: what accidents follow the ſuppreſſion or flopping of the monthly flux or flowers, ik. liii. of provoking the flowers or courſes, . liv. of the ſignes of the approaching of the menſtrº- all flux, ib. lv. accidents follow immoderate fluxes of the flow- ers or courſes, o lvi. of ſtopping the immoderate flowing of the flow- ers and courſes, lvii. of locall medicines to be uſed againſt the im- lxiii. of chaps, and thoſe wrinckled and hard excre. ſcences, which the greeks call condylomata, lxiv. of the itching of the womb, th. lxv. of the relaxation of the great gut, or inteſtine, which happeneth to women, - lxvi. of the relaxation of the navelſ in children, ib. lxvii. of the pain that children have in breeding of teeth, . of monſter, and prodigier, the five and twentieth book, from pag. . to pag. . - - - - - - - - ------- of the faculties ofſimple medicine, as alſº of their com- poſition and uſe, the ſix and twentieth book, . what a medicine is, and how it differeth from nou- riſhment, ii. the differences of medicins in their matter and ſubſtance, it. iii. the difference of ſimples in their qualities and effečts, - iv. of the ſecond faculties of medicines, . v. of the third faculties of medicines, vi. of the fourth facultie of medicines, it. vii. of taſtes, o o viii. of the preparation of medicines, or ix. of repelling,or repercuſſive medicines, oz. x. of attraétive medicines, of xi. of reſolving smedicines, o’ . xii. of ſuppuratives, o xiii. of mollifying things, ib. xiv. of deterſives, or mundificatives, oë xv. of ſarcoticks, - oz. xvi. of epuloticks, or skinning medicines, b. xvii. of agglutinatives, . . . o' . xyiii. qf - — a table of the books and chapters. *{--- - chap, pag. chap. - pag. xviii. of pyroticks, or cauſtick medicins, još there be, - xix, of adédynes, or ſuch as mitigate or aſſwage ii: he ºr and farm of fornaces, b. paine, , iii. of veſſels fit for diſtillation, xx. of the compoſition and uſe of medicines, xxi. of the weight and meaſures,and the notes of both of them, - xxii. of clyſters, - xxiii. of ſuppoſitorics, nodules, and peſſaries, xxiv. of oils, - xxv. of liniments, xxxvi. of apophlegmatiſms, or maſticatories, xxxvii. of gargariſms, º - xxxviii. ifri xviii. of dentifriccs, ;: xv. of extrading of oils out of the harder ſorts of xxxix. of baggi, or quilts, . iv. what things are to be conſidered in diſtillation, ib. v. of what falhion the veſſels for the diſtilling of wa- vii. of the art of diſtilling of waters, ; viii. how to diſtill aqua vii.or the ſpirits of wine, ters, ought to be, ić. vi. how the materials muſt be prepared before diſtilla- tion, xxv l. of ointments ib. ix. of the manner of reëtifying,that is,how to increaſe xxvii. . emplaſters, the ſtrength of waters, that have been once diſtilled, xxviii. of cataplaſms and pulties o - - - . xxix. of i. p , x. of diſtillation by filtring b. xxx. of embrocations, : i xi. what and how many wayes there are to make oils, xxxi. of epith b. % xxxii. §. i cauterics, : xīi of extrading ofoils of vegetables by diſtillation,ib. xxxiii. of veſicatories, : xiii. another manner how to draw the eſſence and ſpi- xxxiv. of colºnia, : rits of herbs, flowers, ſeeds, and ſpices, as alſo of fu- xxxv. of errhines, and ſternutatorics, it. barb, agarick, turbith, hermodaćtyls, and other pur- gers, xiv. how to extrá oil out of gums, condenſed juſ- ces, and roſins, as alſo out of ſome woods, i . xl. of fumigations, b. ... gums, as myrrh..maſtick,frankincenſe,and the like, ib. xli. of a particular, or halfe bath, xvi. the making of oil of vitrioll, - ..? xlii. of baths, it. xvii. a table or catalogue of medicines and inflru- xliii. of ſtoves, or hot-houſes, ; ments ſerving for the cure of diſeaſes, xliv. offaci, that ... º things for . - rº- ſmoothing and beautifying of the skin . - x ...v. §. * . & a fiery ñº, how to make reports, and to embalm the dead, the xlvi. io black or colour the hair, xlvii. of pſikthra,or depilatorics, and alſo of ſweet watei , ib. of diffiliation, the ſeven and twentieth book. i. what diſtillation is, and how many kindes thereof eight and twentieth book. the nine and twentieth boek, a treatiſt containing diverſ voyageſ. a table of the chapters of the three traft. chap. p g. l. reckons up the branches or propagations of the vena peria: , or the gate-vein, and explaines an º of hippºcrates, that makes very much to the urpoie, i ii. #. of the ſuperior, or aſcendent trunk of the ve- na cava, or hollow vein, and the branches which it ſcat- ters through the head, iii. shews how the axillary vein is diſtributed through the arm, iv. explaines the lower, or deſcendent trunk of the hollow vein, i i w. reckons . the propagations, and branches of the outer iliacall branch diffeminated through the cru, or reat foot, that reaches from the lower part of the tº: to the end of the toes, i an explanation of the table of the veins, chap. - pag. great artery, and the propagation thereof through the middle and loweſt bellies, ib. iv. the propagations of the outer iliacall branches which are diſtributed through the cras, or great foot, containing the thigh, legs and foot, o an explanation of the table of the arteries, - the ſecond treatiſe concerning the arteries. i. shewes the upper or aſcendent trunk of the great ar- tery,with its propagations that are diſtributed through the head, i ii. declares the hiſtory of the axillary artery being di- ſtributed through the arm, iii. shewcs the inferiour or deſcendent trunk of the the third treatiſe concerning the nerves. i. of the nerves of the brain, ii. concerning the nerves of the ſpinall marrow pro- perly ſo called, and firſt of thoſe of the rack bonds of the neck, a iii. concerning thc nerves of the marrow of the rack bones of the cheſt, . iv. concerning the marrow of the rack bones of the loines, v. concerning the nervcs of the marrow of s ſacrum or the great É. - vi. concerning the nerves which are diſtributed through the arms, vii. of the nerves that are diſtributed through the crura, or thighs, legs, and feet, an explanation of the two tables of the nerves, - $ ! i chap. i, . $$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$. ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ################## introdyction co m p e n di o j s. w. af chirurgery. c h a p. i. what chirargery is. sess h r /r ger t is an art, which teacheth the way by reaſon, how ºr by the operation of the hand we may cure, prevent, and mitigate diſeaſes, which accidentally happen untous. others have thought good to deſtribe it otherwiſe; as that, it is that part of phyſick which undertaketh the cure of diſeaſes by the ſole induſtry of the hand: as, by cutting, burning, ſawing off, unitingfraćtures, reſto- ring diſlocations, and performing other works, of which we ſhall hereafter treat. chirurgery alſo is thus defined by the author of the medicinal definitions; the quick motion of an º hand joyned with experience; or, an artificiallačtion by the hand uſed in phyſick, for ſome convenient intent. yet none muſt think to attain to any great perfeótion in this art, without the help of the other two parts of phyſick; i ſay, .#diet and pharmacie, and the divers applications of proper medicines, reſpecting the condition of the cauſes, diſeaſes, symptomes, and the like circumſtances, which comprehended under the names of things naturall, not naturall, and befides nature, (as they commonly call them) we intend to de- ſcribe in their proper place. but if any reply, that there be many which do the works of chirurgery, without any knowledgof ſuc ſike things, who notwithſtanding have cured deſperate diſeaſes with happy ſucceſs: let them take this for an anſwer, that ſuch things happen rather by chance, than by the induſtry of the art; and that they are not provident that commit themſelves to ſuch. becauſe that for ſome one happy chance, a thouſand dan- gerous errors happen afterwards, as galen (in divers places of his method) ſpeaks againſt the empericks. wherefore ſeeing we have ſet down chirurgery to be a diligent opera- tion of the hands, ſtrengthened by the aſſiſtance of diet and pharmacy, we will now ſhew what, and of what nature the operations of it are. c hap. ii. of chirurgical operations. ive things are proper to the duty of a chirurgeon; to take away that which is ſuperfluous; to reſtore to their places ſuch things as are diſplaced; to ſeparate thoſe things which are joyned together; to joyn thoſe which are ſeparated;and * to ſupply the defečts of nature. thou ſhalt far more eaſily and happily attain to the knowledg of theſe things by long uſe and much exerciſe, than by much reading of books, or daily hearing of teachers. for ſpeech, how perſpicuous and elegant, ſoever it be, cannot ſo wively expreſs anything, as that which is ſubjećted to the faithfull eyes and the definition of chirurgery. what neceſſary for a chirut- gºon. bands. b we the nature of chirurgeons experience more neceſſary for a chirur- geom, than arts an introdućlion, or exam ples of taking away. that which is ſuperfluous, * two tunicles of the eys. examples of replacing. example of ſeparating things joined together. examples of uniting things disjoincid. examples of ſupplying defečts, we have examples of taking away that which abounds in the amputation or cutting off a finger, it any have ſix on one hand, or any other monſtrous member that may grow out: in the lopping off a putreficd part inwardly corrupted; in the extraćtion of a dead child, the ſecondine, mole, or ſuch like bodies out of a womans womb : in taking down of all tumors, as wens, warts, polypus, cancers, and fleſhy excreſcences of the like na- ture; in the pulling forth of bullets, of pieces of maile, of darts, arrows, ſhells, ſplinters, and of all kind of weapons in what part of the body ſoever they be. and he taketh away that which redounds, which plucks away the hairs of the ey-lids which trouble the ey by their turning in towards it: who cuts away the web, poſſeſſing all the * almata, and part of the * cornea ; , who letteth forth ſuppurated matter: who taketh out ſtones in what part ſoever of the body they grow ; who puls out a rotten or otherwiſe hurtfull tooth; or cuts a nail that runs into the fleſh: who cuts away part of the uvula, or hairs that grow on the ey-lids: who taketh off a cataraćt; who cuts the navill or forcskin of a childe newly born ; or the skinny caruncles of womens privities. examples of placing thoſe things which are out of their naturall ſite, are manifeſt in reſtoring diſlocated bones; in re-placing of the guts and kall fallen into the cods, or out of the navill or belly by a wound; or of the falling down of the womb, fundament, or great gut, or the eye hanging out of its circle, or proper place. but we may take examples of disjoyning thoſe things which are continued; from the fingers growing together, either by ſome chance, as burning; or by the imbecillity of the forming faculty: by the disjunětion of the membrane called hymen, or any other trou- ling the neck of the womb; by diſſºtion of the ligament of the tongue, which hinders ch #. from ſucking and ſpeaking, and of that which hinders the glans from being unco- vercd of the foreskin; by the #: of a varicous vein, or of a half cut nerve or tendon, cauſing convulſion ; by the diviſion of the membrane ſtopping the auditory paſſage, the noſe, mouth, or fundament, or the ſtubborn ſticking i: of the hairs of the ey-lids. refer to this place all the works done by cauſticks, the saw, trepan, lancet,cupping- glaſſes,inciſion-knife, leeches, either for evacuation, derivation, or revulſion ſake. the chirurgeon draws together things ſeparated, which healeth wounds by ſtitching them, by bolſtering, binding, giving reſt to, and fit placing the part: which repairs fra- &tures; reſtoring luxated parts, who by binding the yeffel, ſtayeth the violent effuſion of blood: who cicatriceth cloven lips, commonly called hare-lips: who reduceth to cqua- lity the cavities of ulcers and fiſtula's. - - but he repairs thoſe things which are defe&tive either from the infancy, or afterwards by accident, as nuch as art and nature will ſuffer; who ſets on an ear, an ey, a noſe, one or more teeth; who fils the hollowneſs of the palat eaten by the pox, with a thin late of gold or filver, or ſuch like , who ſupplies the defeót of the tongue in part cut off, § ſome new addition; who faſtens to a hand, an arm, or leg with É. work- manlike: who fits a doublet, bumbaſted, or made with iron plates to make the body ſtreight; who fils a ſhoo too º: with cork, or faſtens a ſtocking or ſock to a lame mans girdle to help his gate. we will treat more fuſly of all theſe in our following work. but in performing thoſe things with the hands, we cannot but cauſe pain: (for who can archagatu, the chirurgeon. in prafat.lib. . the properties of a good chirurgeon. without pain cutoff an arm, or leg, divide and tear aſunder the neck of the bladder, re- ſtorebones put out of their places, open ulcers, bind up wounds, and apply cauteries, and do ſuch like? ), notwithſtanding the matter often comes to that paſs, that unleſs we uſe a judicious hand, we muſt either die, or lead the remnant of our lives in perpetuall miſèry. who therefore can juſtly abhor achirurgeon for this, or accuſe him of cruelty or deſire they may be ſerved, as in ancient times the romans ſerved archagatus, who at the firſt made him free of the city; but preſently after, becauſe he did ſomewhat too cruelly burn, cut, and perform the other .# of a good chirurgeon, they drew him from his houſe into the Čampus martius, and thereſtoned him to death, as we read it recorded by sextuſ chero- neus, plutarch's nephew by his daughter. truly it was an inhumane kind of ingratitude,ſo cruelly to murder a man intent to the works of ſo º art. but the senate could not approve the ačt, wherefore to expiate the crime as welſ as then they could, they made his statue in gold, placed it in #. his temple, and dedicated it to his perpetuall memory. for my part, i very well like that ſaying of celſus: a chirurgeon muſt have a ſtrong, ſtable, and intrepid hand, and a mind reſolute and mercileſs; ſo that to heal him he taketh in hand, he be not moved to make more haſte than the thing requires; or to cut leſs than is needfull; but which doth all things as if he were nothing . with their cries; not giving heed to the judgment of the vain common people, who ſpeak ill of chi- rurgeons becauſe of their ignorance. c h. a. p. chap. . . compendious way to chirurgery. chap. iii. - of things naturall. *hat the chirurgeon may rightly,and according to art perform the foreſaid works, ºlº he muſt ſet before his eys certain indications of working: otherwiſe he is like to become an emperick, whom no art, no certain reaſon, but only a blind temerity of fortune moves to boldneſs and ačtion. theſe indications of from whence aćtions are drawn from things (as they call them) naturall, not naturall, and beſides na- wºnuſ draw ture, and their adjunās, as it is ſingularly delivered of the ancients, being men of an ex- *** cellent underſtanding. wherefore we will proſecute according to that order,all the ſpe- culation of this art of ours. firſt therefore things naturall are ſo termed, becauſe they what things conſtitute and contain the nature of mans body, which wholly depends of themixture and .º na- temperament of the four firſt bodies, as it is ſhewed by hippocrates in his book de natura - humana; wherefore the conſideration thereof belongs to that part of phyſick, which is named phyſiologia; as the examination of things not naturall to dietetice, or diet, becauſe f phyſick by the uſe of ſuch things it endevours to retain and keep health; but therapeutice, or the § : ... rt which cures the diſeaſes, and all the affe&s beſides nature, challenges the contempla: tu iſ jºin. tion of thoſe things which are not agreeable to nature. but the things which are called towharthings naturall, may be reduced to ſeven heads: beſides which there comes into their fellowſhip, beſides natue. thoſe which we termannexed. ſelements •) temperaments sex the ſeven principall humors to theſe are an- | colour heads of things & parts or members i nexed,and ſom-º: compºſure ! - º º sº nº. to what part tage naturall; are faculties what near ; time or ſeaſon l; region spirits. vocation of life. chap. i iii. of elements. #n element (by the definition which is commonly received amongſt phyſitians)is wº ele- wº the leaſt and moſt fimpleportion of that thing which it compoſeth; or that my “" º ſpeech maybe the more plain: the four firſt and fimple bodies are called ele- ** ments; fire,air, water, and earth; which accommodate and ſubjećt themſelves as matterto the promiſcuous generation of all things which the heawens engirt, whether: younderſtand things perfeótly, or unperfeitly mixed. such elements are only to be con- ºne. i. ceived in your mind, being it is not granted to any externall ſenſe to handle them in their ... § ! pure and abſolutenature. which was the cauſe that hippocrates expreſſed them not by the ſº.” names of ſubſtances, butofproper qualities, ſaying, hot, cold, moiſt,dry ; becauſe ſome why hippex. one of theſe qualitics is inherent in every element, as his proper and eſſentiall form, not preſſed hºlº-. only according tothe exceſs of latitude, but alſo oftheative faculty; to which is adjoined . * another ſimple quality, and by that reaſon principall, but which notwithſtanding attains ºft. not to the higheſtdegree of his kind, as youmay underſtand by galen in his firſt book of - - elements. so, for example ſake, in the air we obſerve two qualities, heat and moiſture, two principal both principall, and not remitted by the commixture of any contrary quality, for other- §: are in j werenot ſimple. therefore thou maiſt ſay, what hinders that the principall “"“” effe&s of heat ſhew not themſelves as well in the air, as in the fire? becauſe, as we É. before, although the air have as great a heat according tº his nature, extent, and degree, why dean no otherwiſe than fire hath, yet it is not ſo great in its ačtive quality. the reaſon is be: ...?. cauſe that the calfattory force in the air is hindered, and dulled by ſociety of his compa- vehemently, as nion and adjoyned quality, that is, humidity which abateth the force of heat, as on the the fire. contrary, drineſs quickneth it. the elements therefore are endewed with theſe qualities. fire hot and dry - names of the )air ... )moiſt and hot names of the ſubſtances.swater’” scold and moist qualities. earth cold and dry. theſe four elements in the compoſition of naturall bodies, retain the qualities they how the ele: formerly had, but that by their mixture and meeting together of contraries, they are ſome- mºnº* what tempered and abated. but the elements are ſo mutually mixed one with another,and ...; .* all with .l, that no finiple part may be found; no more than in a maſs of the emplaiſter compound diacaltithraſyou can ſhºw any axungia oil, or litharge by itſelf, all things are ſo confuſed bodies, b and an introdušion, or why of the firſt qualitics, two are a&tive, and two paſ- ſive. and united by the power of heat, mixing the ſmalleſt particulars with the ſmalleſt,and the whole with the whole, in all parts. you may know and perceive this concretion of the four elementary ſubſtances in one compound body, by the power of mixture, in their diſſolution by burning a pile or heap of green wood: for the flame expreſſes the fire;the ſmoke,the air; the moiſture that ſweats out at the ends,the water; and i. aſhes,the earth: you may eaſily perceive by this example ſo familiar and obvious to the ſenſes, what diſſo- lution is, which is ſucceeded by the decay of the compound body; on the contrary, you may know that the coagmentation,or uniting andjoyning into one of the firſt mixedbo- dies is ſuch, that there is no part ſincere or without mixture. for if the heat which is pre- dominant in the fire, ſhould remain in the mixture in its perfeót vigor, it would conſume the reſtby its pernicious neighborhood; the like may be ſaid of coldneſs, moiſture, and drineſs; although of theſe qualitics, two have the title of a&tive, that is, heat and Čold- neſs, becauſe they are the more powerfull; the other two paſſive, becauſe they may ſeem moredull and ſlow, being compared to the former. the temperaments of all ſubſunary bodies ariſe from the commixture of theſe ſubſtances and elementary qualitics, which hath been the principall cauſe that moved me to treat of the elements. but i leave the force and … effečts of the eſementary qualities to ſome it. contemplation, content to have noted why the firſt qualities are ſo called. what the fe- cond qualities arce what ele- ments light, what heavy. what the ele- ments of gene- ration arc. what the ele- ments of mixt bodies. what a tem- perantnt is." + anima. what the life performs in plants. * animid, what in beaſts. mans ſoule comes from a- bove. * the manifold diviſion of a tempera- incut. a tempera- me t, ad pon, diff. this, that of theſe firſt qualitics, (ſo called, e.they are prinarily and naturally in the four firſt bodies) others ariſe and proceed, which are thereforecalled the ſecond quali- ties: as of many, theſe, heavineſs, #. variouſly diſtributcd by the four elements, as the heat or coldneſs, moiſtneſs or drineſs have more power over them. for of the elements, two are called light, becauſe they naturally affe&t to move upwards: the other two heavie, by reaſon they are carryed downward by their own weight. so we think the fire the lighteſt, becauſe it holds the higheſt place of this lower world; the air, which is next to it in ſite, we account light , for the water which lies next to the air, we judg heavie; and the earth the center of the reſt we judg to be the heavieſt of them all. here- upon it is, that light bodies, and the light parts in bodies, have moſt of the lighter ele- ments; as on the contrary heavie bodies have more of the heavier. this is a brief deſcri- ption of the elements of this frail world, which are only to be diſcerned by the underſtan- ding, to which i think good to adjoin another deſcription of other elements, as it were ariſing or flowing from the conmixture of the firſt : for beſides theſe, there are ſaid to be elements of generation, and elements of mans body. which as they are more corporall,ſo alſo are they more manifeſt to the ſenſe. by which reaſon hippocrates being moved, in his book de naturahumana, after he had deſcribed the nature of hot, cold, moiſt, and dry, he comes to take notice of theſe by the order of compoſition. wherefore the elements of our eneration, as alſo of all creatures which have blood, are ſºciland menſtruous blood. but š. elements of our bodies, are the ſolid and ſimilar parts ariſing from thoſe elements of generation. of this kind are bones, membranes,ligaments, veins,arteries, and many others manifeſt to the eys, which we will deſcribe at large in our treatiſeofanatomie. cha p. v. of t.emperaments. xº: temperament is defined, a proportionable mixture of hot, cold, moiſt, and dry; §a\}; or, it is a concord of the firſt diſagreeing faculties. that harmony ſprings from ºf the mixture of the four firſt bodies of the world. this whether temperament *** or concord is given to plants and brute beaſts for the beginning of i. life, and ſo conſequently for their life and form. but as plants are inferior in order and dignity to beaſts, ſo their “life is more baſe and infirm, for they have only a growing faculty, by which they may draw an alimentary juice from the earth, as from their mothers breaſts, to preſerve them and their life, by which they may grow to a certain bigneſs; and laſtly, by which they may bring forth their like for the perpetuallcontinuance of their kind. but the * life of beaſts, have to the three former, the gift of ſenſeannexed: by benefit whereof, as by a certain inward knowledg they ſhun thoſe things that are hurtfull,and follow thoſe which profit them; and by the power of their will, they move themſelves whither they pleaſe. but the ſoul of man far more perfeót and noble than the reſt, ariſeth not from that earthly mixture and temper of the elements, but acknowledgeth and hath a far more di- vine off-ſpring; as we ſhall teach hereafter. they § temperament at the firſt diviſion, into two kinds; as one a temperate, anotheran untemperate. theuntemperate is oftwo ſorts: the one wholly vicious, which hath altogether exceeded the bounds of mediocrity: the other, which hath ſomewhat ſtrayed from the mediocrity of temper, but notwithſtanding is yet contained within the limits of health: as that which brings no ſuch evident harm to the aëtions, but that it ſomewhat hinders them,ſo that they cannot ſo well and perfeótly perform their duties. but the vicious temperament doth three manner of wayes corrupt the funètions, either . - weak- chap. v. compendious way to chirurgery. weakning, depraving, or aboliſhing them. for ſo ſtupor, or aſtoniſhment, diminiſheth and ſloweth the quickneſs of motion; convulſion depraves it; the palſie aboliſheth it, and taketh it away. the temperate tcmperament is alſo divided into two kinds; which is cither to equality of weight or juſtice. it is called a temperature to weight which ari- ſeth from the equall force of exačtly concurring qualities, and as placed in a perfeótbal- lance, draws down neither to this nor that part. they think the example of this tempe- ranient to appear in the inner skin of the fingers ends of a man ... to juſtice. for ſting the moſt exquiſite touch reſides there, they ought to be free from all exceſs of con- trariety ; for otherwiſe being corrupted by too much heat or cold, moiſture or drineſs, they could give no certain jº of the tangible qualities. . for which thing nature hath excellently provided in the fabrick and coagmentation of the parts, of which the skin conſiſts. for it is compoſed of hot and moiſt fleſh, and therefore ſoft, and of a tendon and nerve cold and dry, and therefore hard; which are not only equally fitted and conjoyned, but wholly confuſed and mixed together, by which it comes, that removed from aſ ex- tremes of oppoſition, it is placed in the midſt, as a rule to judg of all the exceſſes that happen to the touch. so it was fit the eye, which was to be the inſtrument of fight, ſhould be tinčtured with no certain colour, that it . be the leſs deceived in the judgment of colours. so it was convenient the heari ould not be troubled with any diſtin&ſound, whereby it might more certainly judgo º, and unequall ſounds, not diſtinguiſhed by a ratable proportion; neither was it fit the tongue ſhould have an certain taſte, left the acceſs of that taſte ſhould deceive it in knowing and i. of ſo º different taſtes. the temperature tempered to juſtice, is that, which ad pandu, ve! adjuſtitiam. though it a tempera: is a ſittle abſent from the exaët and ſevere parility of mixed qualitics,yet hath that equa- ºn adjuſti. lity which doth fully and abundantly ſuffice for to performall the funètions fitly and per- * integrity of the a&ions. for hence it took its name; for as diſtributive juſtice equally gives to every one rewards, or puniſhment according to their deſerts; ſo nature, having regard to all the parts of the .. them all that temper which may ſuffice to perform . duties, for which they are ordai frétly, which nature doth require, wherefore we can judgno otherwiſe of it º: the ned. let us for an example conſidera bone; the temperi- noman doubts,but that, like as the other ſimilar parts of the body, proceeds from the mix mºntotabone. ture of the four elements: but nevertheleſs nature weighing the uſe of it, and ordaining it to ſupport the reſt of the body, would have more of the terrene and dry element infi. ſedinto it, that it might be the .# and firmer to ſuſtain weight. but a ligament,ſee- ing it was made for otheruſes, hath leſs of that earthly drineſs than the bone, but more than the fleſh,altogether fitted to its nature. so it hath ſeemed good to nature to endue all the parts of the body, not only with an equall portion,but alſo proportion of elements and qualities; we call that a temperament to juſtice:and we ſay,that it is in plants,brute beaſts, and all naturallbodies, which enjoy that temper and mediocrity, which may be agreeable to their nature. hereupon by compariſon ariſe eight kinds of intemperate tem- pers: as - * #. . temperate in º four ſimple d moi; - heat an }. . temperate in ºil. - hot : moiſt - hot and dry four compounds old and moiſt cold and dry. - but theſe temperaments are either of the whole body, or of ſome part thereof; pe y p the brain º - - |-- †: #. and that either - the stones. or of the reſt of the parts compoſed of other which have no prin- cipality in the body. the kindes of untemperate tempers; again, ſuch temperaments are eitherhealthfull , which ſuffice perſe&ly to perform their ſ: . iºnhealthfull, which manifeſtly hurt them, the figne; whereofmay be read de- º ºgalin. andyot muſt obſerve that when we ſay the ody,or any part of it is hot, i.underſtand more hot than is fit for one of that kinde which is tempered to juſtice; as tº: ſºy manhatha hot liver, wenean his liver is hotter,thana manjuſtly tempered º . ; for all ºther tempers,whether of the whole body, or anyoftheparts thereof, an i. referred to this and in the cure of diſeaſes we . look upon it, as the mark, :“ºpreſerve it by the uſe of convenient things, as much as lies in our power. *becauſe it is very neceſſary to know the diffinaion of temperaments, i have b - thought lib. , de tem: per & in aff medick, : an introdućtion, or what the tem- petaments of mans body are. ad finem, lib. de temper. the tempera- ments of ages. what an ageis. thought good in this place, briefly to handle the temperaments of the parts of the body, ages, ſeaſons of the year, humors, and medicines. therefore the temperaments of the parts ofourbody are of this nature, not only by the lº. of the touch of a mans hand, which is juſtly tempered, (who is often deceived by flowing heat, which ſpread from the heart into alſthe body, imparts a certain kind of heat to all the parts) but alſo by the rule of their reaſon, compoſure and ſubſtance, as - a bone is the moſt dry and cold. a griſk: leſs than it. - a ligament leſs than a griſle. a tendon is ſo much dryer and colder than the membrane, by how much it in the ſame temperexceeds a vein and artery. then follow the harder veins, for the ſofter are in a middle temper of dryneſs and moiſture, like as the skin ; although all, both moſt and hard, are of ...; temper. wherefore all theſe parts of their own nature are cold and withoutblood: although the weins and arteries waxhot, by reaſon of the heat of the blood they contain, which notwithſtanding alſo borroweth, that heat from the heart, as apart moſt hot, and ſofter than the skin; the liver next followeth the heart, in the order of the hotter parts, which is far ſofter than the skin itſelf: for if, according to galens opinion, the heartis ſomewhat leſs hard than the skin,and that is far harder than the iiver, as appears by touching them, it muſt neceſſarily follow that the liver much exceeds the skin inſoftneſs; i underſtand the skin ſimple, ºr. from the fleſh lying under it, to which it firmly cleaves. the fleſh is more moiſt and hot than the skin, by reaſon of the blood diſperſed in it. the ſpinall marrow is colder, and moiſter than the skin ; but thebrain ſomuch exceeds it in moiſture, as it is exceeded by the fat. the lungs are not ſo moiſt as the fat; and the ſpleen, and kidneys are of the like nature, and nevertheleſs they are all moiſter than the skin. - º to the diverſities of ages, the temperaments both of the whole body, and all its parts, undergo great mutations; for the bones are far harder in old men than in chil- dren, becauſe our life is, as it were, a certain progreſs to º ; which when it comes to the height, conſequently cauſeth death. herefore in this place we muſt ſpeak of the temperaments of ages, when firſt we ſhall have defined what an age is...thereforean age is defined, aſpace of life in which the conſtitution of the body of its ſelf and own accord, undergoeth'manifeſt changes. the whole courſe of life hath four ſuch%ges. the firſt is childhood, which extends from the birth to the eighteenth year of age, and hath a hot and moiſt temper, becauſe it is next to the hot and moiſtbeginnings of life,ſted,and blood. youth followeth this, which is prolonged from the eighteenth to the twenty fifth year, and is temperate, and in the mi ſt of all exceſſes. mans eſtate ſucceedeth youth, which they deny to extend beyond the thirty fifth year of age, in its proper temperit is hot and dry; whereby it cometh to paſs that then the heat is felt more acride and biting, which in childhoodſeemed milde; becauſe the progreſs of the life to dryneſs, hath much waſted old-age divi- ded into two arts. * three dº- rees of the econd part o Ö. § old men have their ſolid parts dry. a compariſon of the four ages to the four ſea- {ons of the year the native humidity. then ſucceeds old-age, ever divided into two parts; the firſt whereof extends from the thirty fifth, to the forty ninth year; thoſe of this age are called old-men,(*but we commonly cal/them middle-ag'd men.) the latteris, as it were, divided by galen into three degrees; the firſt whereofare thoſe, who having their ſtrength ſound ...} firm, undergo civil affairs and buſineſſes: which things thoſe which are in the fecond degree of old-age cannot do, be- cauſe of the debility of their now decaying ſtrength; but thoſe which are in the laſt de- gree, are afflićted with moſt extreme weakneſs and miſery, and areas much deprived of their fenſes and underſtanding as of the ſtrength of their bodies; whereofaroſe this proverb, old men,twice children.thoſe old men of the firſt rank are pleaſant and curteous;and thoſe we ſay, are beginning to grow old, or in their green old-age; thoſe of the ſecond ſort delight in nothing but the boord and bed; but old decrepit men of the laſt order, think of nothing elſe, than their graves and monuments. #. and ſolid parts are of a cold and d temperature, by reaſon of the decay of the radicall moiſture,which the inbred heat º in the continuance of ſo many years. which thing may happen in a ſhort ſpace, by the vehement flame of the ſame naturall heat, turned by fevers into a fiery heat. but if any to prove qld men moiſt, willobjeºt, that they cough up, and ſpit much, i will anſwer {ij as an old dočtor once ſaid; that a pitcher filled with water, may pour forth much moi- flure; yet no man will deny but that ſuch a veſſel of its own terrºne nature and matter is moſt dry; ſo old men may plainly be affirmed to bemoiſt, by reaſon of their defeº of heat,and abundance ofexcrements. but this deſcription of ages is not to be taken ſo ſtrićtly as alwayes to be meaſured by the ſpaces and diſtances of years for there are many which by their own miſdemeanor ſeem elderatforty, than others do at fifty. laſtly, the famous philoſopher pythagoras divided mans life into four ages, and by a cer- tain proportion compared the whole courſe thereof to the four ſeaſons of the year; as childhood to the spring, in which all things grow and ſprout out, by reaſon of plent and abundance of moiſture. and youth to the summer, becauſe of the vigor and ſtrengt which men enjoy at that age. and mans eſtate, or conſtant age, to autumn; for *::::: aſter – compendious may to (hirurgery. | after all the dangers of the fore-paſſed life, the gifts of diſcretion and wit acquire a ſeaſo- nableneſs or ripeneſs,like as the fruits of the earth enjoy at that ièaſon. and laſtly,he com- parts old-age to the ſtºrile and fruitleſs winter, which can caſe and conſolate its tediouſ- meſsby no other means, than the uſe of fruits gathered and ſtored up before, which then are of a cold and troubleſome condition. but for extreme old-age, which extends to tighty or a hundred years, it is ſo cold and dry, that thoſe which arrive at that decrepit age are troubleſome, harſh, touchy, froward, crabby,and often complaining, untill at the length deprived of all their ſenſes, tongue, fect, and underſtanding, they doting, return again to childiſhneſs, as from the ſtaff to the ſtart. and thus much of the temperaments of ages. j now in like manner we will explain the temperatures of the ſeaſons of the year, which are four; the spring, summer,autumn,winter. the spring continues almoſt from the twelfth or thirteenth day of march to the midſt of may; hippocrates ſecmeth to make ithot and moiſt; which opinion ſeemeth not to have ſprung from the thing it ſelf, but from an inveterate error of the ancient philoſophers, who would fit the temperaments of the four ſeaſons of the year, as anſwering in proportion to the temperatures of the four ages. for if the matter come to a juſt tryall, all men will ſay, the spring is temperate, as that which is in the midſt of the exceſs of heat, cold, moiſture and drineſs; not only by compariſon, becauſe it is hotter than summer, and colder than winter; but becauſe it hath that quality of its own proper nature. wherefore it is ſaid of hippocrates,the spring is moſt holeſome and leaſt deadly ; if ſo be that it keep its native temper, from which if it decline, or ſucceed a former untemperate ſeaſon,as autumn or winter,it will give occaſion to many diſeaſes deſcribed by hippocrate; . not that it breeds them, but becauſe it brings them to fight, which before lay hid in the body.' summer is comprehended in the ſpace of almoſt four months; it is of a hot and dry temper, a breeder of ſuch diſeaſes as proceed from choler, becauſe that humor at this time is heaped up in many bodies by aduſtion of bloodbred in the spring; but all ſuch diſeaſes do ſpeedily run their courſe. the begin- ning of autumn,is from the time the sun enters into libra, and endures the like ſpace of time as the spring. but when it is dry, it hath great inequality of heat and cold, for the mornings and evenings being very cold, the noondays on the contrary are exceeding hot. wherefore many diſeaſºs are in autumn, and then long and deadly, eſpecially if they in- cline towards winter; becauſe all daily and ſodain changes to heat and cold are dangerous. the winter poſſeſſes the remnant of the year, and is cold and moiſt, it increaſes naturall heat, ſtirs up the appetite, and augments phlegme. it encreaſes heat by antiperiſtaſis, or ...; i:; air, which . then cold, prohibits #. tº: out of heat: whereby it happens that the heat being driven in and hindered from diſſipation, is *. by co-uniting its forces. but it augments phlegme, for that men are more greedy,the appetite being encreaſed by the ſtrengthened heat: from whence proceeds much crudity, and a large ſtore of diſeaſes, eſpecially chronick or long, which ſpread and en- creaſe rather in this winter-ſeaſon than in any other part of the year. to this diſcourſe f the temper of the ſeaſons of the years, is to be revoked the variety of tempers which happens everyday, which certainly is not to be neglečted, that there may be place of ele- &ion, eſpecially if nothing urge. for hither belongs that ſaying of hippocrates; when in theſame day it is one while hot another cold,autumnalſ diſeaſes are to be expeted.there- fore an indication taken from hence is ofgreat conſequence to the judgment of diſeaſes; for the tempers of the ſeaſons of the year. how the ſpring is temperate. aphor. ſº. . aphor. . ſº, . - autumn un- equall. how winter encreaſes the native heat. aphºr. ſºdi, ifitagree with the diſeaſe, the diſeaſe is made more contumacious, and difficult to cure. whereupon the patient and phyſitian will have much trouble; but if on the contrary it reclaim and diſſent, the health of the patient is ſooner to be expetted. neither is it a thing of leſs conſequence to know the cuſtoms and habits of the places and countreys in which we live; as alſo the inclination of the heavens, and temperature ofthe air; but let usleave theſe things to be confidered by naturall philoſophers, that we may deliver our judgment of the temperaments of humors. blood, as that which anſwers to the air in proportion, is of a hot and moiſt nature, or rather temperate,as galen teſtifies; for,ſaith he, it is certain and ſure, that the blood is neither hot nor moiſt, but temperate, as in its firi sompoſure none ofthefour firſt qualities exceeds other by any manifeſtexceſs,as he repeats it upon the * sentence. phlegm, as that which is of awateriſh nature,is cold and moiſt; no otherwiſe than choler being of a fiery temper, is hot and dry. but melancholy affimi. lated to earth, is cold and dry. this which we have ſpoken in generall of phlegm and me- lantholy, is not always true in every kind of the #. for ſalt phlegm is of a hot *dry temperature; as alſo all kinds of melancholy which have aroſe or ſprung by ad- *ion from the native and alimentary, as we will teach in the following chapter. now **mperaments of medicines have not the ſame form of judgment, as thoſe things which **before ſpoken of ; as, not from the elementary quality, which conquering in the $ºntention and mixture, obtains the dominion; but plainly from the effects, which taken or º: they imprint in a temperate body. for ſo we w. thoſe things, hot, *ºſt, or dry, which product the effeasof heat,coláneſs moiſture, or dryneſs. but *willdefºrtheſarger explication of theſe things to that place, where wehave peculiarly - appointed the tempera: ments of hus mors, lib. de natura bunana,adſent. . seč. i. the tempera- ture of the blood. from whence we judg of the temperature of medicinese ~ an introduïion, or * the knowledg of the humor is neceſſary. lib. de natura humana, the helps of health. what an humor iss the manifold diviſion of humors. the materiaſl and cfficient cauſes of blood what the chylus is. * venaparta. where the blood is per- fe ted. the receptacles of choler and mclancholy. four unlike humors in the blood, appointed to treat of medicines; where we will not ſimply enquire whether they be hot or cold, but what degree of heat and cold, or the like other quality ; in which ſame place we will touch the temperature and all the nature of taſtes, becauſe the certaineſt judgment of medicines is drawn from their taſtes. hitherto of ºf. ; now we muſt ſpeak of humors, whoſeuſe in phyſicall ſpeculation is no leſs than that of temperaments. c. h. a. p. vi. of humort. alſo for chirurgeons, becauſe there is no diſeaſe with matter which ariſeth not from ſome one, or the mixture of more humors.which thing hippocrates underſtan- ding, writ, every creature to be either ſick or well according to the condition of the humor; in the body. and certainly all putrid feavers proceed from the putrefačtion of humors. neither do any acknowledgany other originall ordiſtinétion of the differences of abſceſſes or tumors: neither do ulcerated, broken, or otherwiſe wounded members hopefor the reſtauration of continuity, from other than from the ſweet falling down of humors to the wounded i. which is the cauſe that often in the cure of theſe affects,the phyſitians are neceſſarily buſied in tempering the blocq, that is, bringing to a mediocrity the four humors compoſing the maſs of blood, if they at any time offend in quantity, or quality. for whether if anything abound or digreſs from the wonted temper in any ex- ceſs of heat, cold, viſcoſity, #. thinneſs, or any ſuch like quality,none of the accu- ſtomed funètions will be well performed. for which cauſe thoſe .. helps to preſerve and reſtore health have been divinely invented: phlebotamie,or blood-letting,which amends the quantity of too much blood; and purging, which corrºts and draws away the vicious quality. but nowletus begin to ſpeak of the humors, taking our beginning from the defi- illt oil. an humor(is called by phyſitians)what thing ſo ever is liquid and flowing in the body of living creatures endued with blood, and that is either naturall, or againſt nature. the naturali is ſo called becauſe it is fit to defend, preſerve and ſuſtain the life of a creature. quite different is the nature and reaſon of that which is againſt nature. again,the former is either alimentary or excrementitious: the alimentary which is fit to nouriſh the body, is that humor which is contained in the veins and arteries of a man which is temperate and perfeótly well; and which is underſtood by the generall name of blood, which is let out at the opening of a vein. for blood otherwiſe taken, is an humor of a certain kind, diſtinguiſhed by heat and warmneſs from the other humors comprehended together with iſ: know the nature of humorſ, is a thing not only neceſſary for phyſitians, but it,in the whole maſs of the blood.which thing,that it may the better be underſtood,l have thought good in this place to declare the generation of blood by the efficient and materiall cauſes. all things which weeat or drink, are thematerials of blood; which things drawn into the bottom of the ventricle by its attractive force, and there detained, are turned b the force of concočtion implanted in it, into a ſubſtance like to almond-butter. wii. thing, although it appear one and like it ſelf, yet it conſiſts of parts of a different nature, ..which not only the variety of meats, but one and the ſame meatsyeelds of it ſelf. we term this chylus, (when it is perfeótly concoëted in the ſtomach.) but the gate-vein receives it driven from thence into the ſmall guts, and ſucked in by the meſeraick-veins,and now ha- ving gotten a little rudiment of change in the way, carries it to the liver, where by the blood-making faculty, which is proper and naturall to this part, it acquires the abſolute and perfeót form of blood. but with that blood, at one and the ſame time and ačtion all the humors are made, whetheralimentary or excrementitious. therefore the blood, that it may perform its office, that is, the faculty of nutrition, muſt neceſſarily be purged and cleanſed from the two excrementitious humors: of which the bladder of gall draws one, which we call yellow choler; and the spleen the other,which we term melancholy. theſe two humors are naturall, but not alinientary or nouriſhing, but of another uſe in the body, as afterwards we will ſhºw more at large. the blood freed from theſe two kinds of excrements, is ſent by the veins and arteries into all parts of the body for their nouriſh- ment. which althou { then it ſeem to be of one ſimple nature, yet notwithſtanding it is truly ſuch, that four different and unlike ſubſtances may be obſerved in it, as, blood, pro- perly ſo named, phlegm, choler, and melancholy; not only diſtinët in colour, but alſo in taſte, effe&s, and qualitics. for, as galen notes in his book de natura humana, melancholy is acide or ſour,choler bitter,blood ſweet, phlegm unſavory. but you may know the variety of their effečts, both by the different temper of the nouriſhed parts, as alſo by the various condition of the #. ſpringing from thence. for therefore ſuch ſubſtances ought to be tempered and mixed amongſt j in a certain proportion, which remaining, health remains; but violated, diſeaſes follow. for all acknowledg, that an cedema is cauſed b phlegmatick; a scirrhus,by melancholick; an eryſipºlº,by cholerick; and a phlegmone,by - - pure compendious way to chirurgery. pure and laudable blood. galen teaches by a familiar example of new wine preſently taken from the preſs, that theſe ſubſtances are contained in that one maſs and mixture of the blood.in which every one obſerves diſtinët eſſences;for the flower of the wine work- ingup, ſwims at the top, the dregs fall down to the bottom, but the crude and watery mºiſture mixed together with the ſweet and vinous liquor;is every where diffuſed through the body of the wine: the flower of the wine, repreſents choler, which bubbling up ºn the ſupérficies of blood, as it concretes and grows cold,ſhineth with a golden colour; the dregs melancholy, which by reaſon of its heavineſs ever finketh downward, as it were, the mud of the blood;the crude and watery portion, phlegm for as that crude humor, tycept it be rebellious in quantity; or ſtubborn by its quality, there is hope it may be danged into wine,by the naturall heat of the wine; ſo phlºgm which is blood halfton- coacă, may by the force of native heat be changed into good and laudable blood...which is the cauſe that nature decreed or ordained no peculiar place as to the other humors, wherdby it might be ſevered from the blood: but the true and perfºr liquor of the wine repreſents the pure blood, which is the more laudable and perfºr portion of both the hu; mors of the confuſed maſs. it may eaſily appearby the following ſcheme, of what kind they all are,and alſo what the diſtinčion of theſe four humors maybe. tnature. consist ence. icololir. itaste. us e. -- - - of *:::: that it chiefly of nature aery, of indifferent con- ſerves for the nouriſhment - º mini, fiftence, ...of cºlour ſºlo taffe of the fleſhy party, and blood is "? o - roſe, or crim-ſº > or rather tem- tº thick nor too ſº.” wett. carryed by the veſſels,im- - perate. thin. - parts heat to the whole - -- - body. i- of taffe, - - . º, fit to nouriſh the brain, of nature wa ſ of º ſavory, for andº, the other cold and - iof conſiſtence colour. .." moiſt parts, to temper the - phlegm s tery, cold and lº p white. " | * - beat finº > and by - moiſt. . . . . water its ſlipperineſſe to help | unſavory. – - - - - ' ' ' it provoketb the expulſive -- | faculty of the guts, atte- - -- * - ates the phlegm clea- ;aof nature fiery, of conſiſtence, colour yel-of taffe nu choler lºſ >|- . .."? | wing to them, but the bot and dry. i thin. low, or fals. bitter. alimentary º t to * . - riſh the parts of like tem- - per with it. º stirs up the appetite, now- melan- ºu of ſº > ". º: o:& riſhes the #: nd ! cholv is > *| groſſe and muddy, blackiſh. "ºſ" the parts of like temper to y and dry. or biting. it, ſ the bones. blood hath its neareſt matter from the better portion of the chylus: and being begun to be laboured in the veins, at length gets form and perfeótion in the liver; but it hath its remote matter from meats of good digeſtion and quality, ſeaſonably eaten after moderate exerciſe; but for that, one age is better than another, and one time of the year more con- venient than another. for blood is made more copiouſly in the †. that ſeaſon of the year comes neareſt to the temper of the blood, by reaſon of which the blood is ra- ther to be thought temperate, i. and moiſt; for that galen makes the spring tem rate; and beſides, at that time blood-letting is performed with the beſt ſucceſs *. is an age very fit for the generation of blood;or by galen, opinion rather that part of life that continues from the , to the year of our age. thoſe in whom this humor hath the dominion,are beautified with a freſh and roſe colour, gentle, and wel-natured, pleaſant, merry, and facetious. the generation of phlegm, is not . the imbecillity of heat, as ſome $ºf the ancients thought; who were perſwaded that choler was cauſed by a raging,blood by amoderate, and phlegm and melancholy by a remiſsheat. but that opinion is full of manifeſterror: for if it be true that the Čhylus is laboured and made into blood in the ſame part, and by the ſame fire, that is,the liver; from whence in the ſame moment of *ſhºuld proceed that ſtrong and weak heat, ſeeing the whole maſs of the blood diffe- **its four eſſentiall parts, is perfeóted and made at the ſame time, and by the ſame *mper of the ſame partaction,and blood-making faculty; therefore from whence a compariſon of blood and new wine. phlegm is blood half concoöted. why it hath no propetres ceptacle. lib. , de lemſ, one and the ſame heat is the efficient cauſe of all humors at the ſame times i have io an introdušion, or the heat of the sun alone doth melt wax and harden clay. the divers condition of the matter as lone, is the cauſe of va- riety. the effett of phlegm. the effetts of choler. the effeóts of melancholy. what motions are in each quarter of the body. the melan- choly humor doth not cauſe, but whet the appetitc. a ſerous or fear and ſadneſs. it is augmented in autumn, and in t have we this variety of huniors? from hence,for that thoſe meats by which we are nouri- ſhed, enjoy the like condition that our bodies do,from the four elemcnts, and the four firſt qualities: for it is certain, and we may often obſerve, in what kind ſocver they be united or joined together, they retain a certain hot portion imitating the fire; another cold, the water; another dry, the earth; and laſtly, another moiſt like to the air. neither can you name any kind of nouriſhment, how cold ſoever it be, not lºttuce it ſelf, in which there is not ſome fiery force of heat. therefore it is no marvail; if one and the ſame heat working upon the ſame matter of chylus, varying with ſo great diſſimilitude of ſubſtances, do by its power produce ſo unlike humors,as from the hot,choler;from the cold, phlegm; and of the others, ſuch as their affinity of temper will permit. there is no cauſe that any one ſhould think that variety of humors to be cauſed in us, rather by the diverſity of the aëtive heat, than wax and a flint placed at the ſame time, and in the ſame ſituation of climat and ſoil,this to melt by the heat of the sun, and that ſcarce to wax warm. therefore that diverſity of effe&ts is not to be attributed to the force of the cfficient-cauſe, that is of heat, which is one, and of one kinde in all of us; but rather to the materiall cauſe, ſeeing it is compoſed of the conflux, or meeting together of various ſubſtances, gives the heat leave to work, as it were out of its ſtore, which may make and º: from the hotter part therof choler,and of the colder and more rebellious phlegm. et i will not deny, but that more phlegm, or choler may be bred in one and the ſame body,according to the quicker, or ſlower provocation of the #. nevertheleſs it is not conſequent, that the originall of choler ſhould be from a more acide, and of phlegm from a more dull heat in the ſame man. every one of us naturally have a ſimple heat, and of one kind, which is the worker of divers operations, not of itſelf, ſeeing it is always the ſame, and like it ſelf, but by the different fitneſs, pliableneſs, or reſiſtance of the matter on which it works. wherefore phlegm is generated in the ſame moment of time, in the fire of the ſame part, by the efficiency of the ſame heat, with the reſt of the blood, of the more cold, liquid, crude, and watery portion of the chylus. whereby it comes to paſs, that it ſhºws an expreſs figure of a certain rude or unperfeót blood, for which occaſion nature hath made it no peculiar receptacle, but would have it to run friendly with the blood in the ſame paſſages of the veins,that any neceſſity hapning by famin, or indigency,and in defeót of bet- ternouriſhment, it may by a perfeóter . - and rude nouriſhment #. this humor to abound principally in winter,& in thoſe which incline to old-age,by reaſon of the fimilitude which phlegm hath with that ſeaſon andage. it makes a man drowfie,dulfat,and ſwollen up,and haſtneth gray-hairs.choler is as it were, a certain heat and fury of humors, which #. in the liver, together with the blood is carried by the veins and arterics through the whole body. that of it which abounds, is ſent, partly into the guts, and partly into the bladder of the gall, or is conſumed by tran- ſpiration,or ſweats; it is ſomewhat probable that the arteriallblood is made more thin, hot, guick, and pallid, than the blood of the veins, by the commixture of this alimentary choſer. this humor is chiefly bred and expel’d in youth, and acrid and bitter meats give matter to it: but great labours of body and mind give the occaſion. it maketh a man nimble, quick, ready for all performance, lean, and quick to anger, and alſo to concoët meats. the hº humor, or melancholy, being theſº portion of the blood, is partly ſent from the liver to the spleen to nouriſh it, and partly carried by the veſſels into the reſt of the body,and ſpent in the nouriſhment of the parts endued with an earthly drineſs; it is made of meats .groſs juice, and by the i. of the mind,turned to e firſt and crude old-age; it makes men ſad, harſh, conſtant, froward, envious and fearfull. all men ought to think,that ſuch humors are wont to move at ſet hours of the day, as by a certain peculiar motion or tide, therefore the blood flows from the ninth hour of the night,to the third hour of the day; then choler to the ninth of the day; then melancholy to the third of the night; the reſt of the night that remains, is under the dominion of phlegm. manifeſt examples hereof appears in the french-pox. from the elaborat and abſolute niaſs of the blood,(as we ſaid before) two kinds of humors, as excrements of the ſecond concoëtion,are commonly and naturally ſeparated, the one more groſs, the other more thin. this is called either abſo- lutely choler,or with an adjunét,yellow choler. that is called melancholy,which drawn by the spleen in a thinner portion, and elaborate by the heat of the arteries,which in that part are both many and large, becomes nouriſhment to the part ; the remnant thereof is carried by the veiny veſſel into the orifice of the ventricle, whereby it may not cauſe but whet the appetite, and by its aſtrićtion ſtrengthen the aëtions thereof. but yellow choler drawn into the bladder of the gall, remains there ſo long, till being troubleſome, either in quantity or quality, it is excluded into the guts, whereby it may caſt forth the excrc- ments reſiding in them; the expulſive faculty being provoked by its acrimony,and by its bitterneſs kils the worms that are bred there. this ſame humor is accuſtomed to die the urine of a yellow colour. there is another ſerous humor;which truly is not fit to nouriſh wheyiſhhumor but profitable formany other things, which is not an excrement of the ſecond, but of the firſt concoëtion. therefore nature would that mixed with the chyluſ, it ſhould come to the oration quickly aſſume the form of blood. cold chap. . compendiou, way to chirurgery. ii the liver, and not be voided with the excrements, whereby it might allay the groſneſs of the blood, and ſerve it for a vehicle; for otherwiſe the blood could ſcarce paſs through the capillary veins of the liver, and paſſing the fimous and gibbous parts thereof, come to the hollow vein. part of this ſerous humor ſeparated together with the blood which ſerves for the nouriſhment of the reins, and ſtraight carried into the bladder, is turned into that urine which we daily make the other part therefore carryed through all the body toge- ther with the blood, jº. the like duty of tranſportation, is excluded by ſweats into which it degenerates. beſides the forenamed, the arabians have mentioned four other humors, which they term alimentary and ſecondary, as being the next matter of nouriſh- ment, as thoſe four the blood contains, the remote. they have given no name to the firſt kind, but imagin it to be that humor, which hangs ready to fall like to little drops in the utmoſt orifices of the veins. they call the ſecond kind, * dew being that hunior, which entred already into the ſubſtance of the º: doth moiſten it. the third they call by a barbarous name, cambium, which already put to the part to be nouriſhed, is there faſtned. the fourth named gluten, or glew, is only the proper and ſubſtance-making humidity of the ſimilar parts,not their ſubſtance. the diſtinétion of the degrees of nutrition j by galen in his books of naturall faculties, anſwer in proportion to this diſtinétion of hu- mors. the firſt is, that the blood flow to the part that requires nouriſhment ; then that being there arrived, it may be agglutinated; then laſtly,that having loſt its former form of nouriſhment, it may be aſſimilated. - thoſe humors are againſt nature, which being corrupted, infect the body and the parts in which they are contained by the contagion of their corruption, retaining the names and titles of the humors, from whoſe perfeótion and nature they have revolted, they all grow hot by putrefaction, although they were former y by their own nature cold. and they are corruptcd,either in the vºins only,or within and without the veins: in theycins blood and melancholy; but both without and within the veins, choler and *::::: when blood is corrupted in its thinner portion, it turns into choler, when in its thicker, into melancholy for the blood becomes faulty two manner of ways,either by the corru- ption of its proper ſubſtance by putrefačtion, or by admixtion of another ſubſtance by in- fećtion. the melancholy humor which is corrupted in the veins, is of three ſorts: the firſt is of a melancholy juice putrefying, and º the force of a ſtrange heat, turned, as it were,into aſhes,by which it becomes aduſt, acrid and biting. the other ariſeth from that choler which reſembles the yolks of eggs, which by aduſtion becomes leek-coloured, then aruginous, or of a blewiſh green, then red, and laſtly black, which is the very worſt kind of melancholy, hot, malign, eating, and exulcerating, and which is never ſeen or voided with ſafety. the third comes from phlegm fº in the veins, which firſt degenerates into ſalt phlegm, but ſtraight by the ſtrength of extraneous heat degenerates into melan- choly. - y acide and very crude,as which hath had none or very - - little impreſſion of heat, but that which it firſt had in {in the veinssºn. d is either y. . . . - - an salt which is bred by the ſweet, putrefying and aduſ, or mixture of aduſt and ſalt particles. y - † wateriſh, as is that thin moiſture which diſtils from phlegm not naturall ! - is bred, either i the brain by the noſtrils. - mucous, as when that wateriſh is thickned into filth or without by the help of ſome accidentall or ſmall heat. - the veins, j. glaſſie, or * albuminous, reſembling molten glaſs.or & is ºf four | rather the white of an egg, and is moſt cold. ſorts; either gypſea, or plaiſter-like, which is concrete into the secundary humors. * ros, humors a- gainſt nature. into what hu- mors the blood when it cor. rupts, doth degenerate. the melan- choly humor corrupted, is of three kinds. * albuminea. hardneſs and form of chalk,as you may ſee in the joints … of the fingers in a knotty gout, or in inveterate diſtilla- tions upon the lungs. t - - ſin the weins, as the * vitelline (like in conſiſtence to the yolk of a raw egg) which the acrimony of ſtrange heat breeds of yellow choler, which ſame in diſeaſes altogether deadly,degenerates into green, a ru- ginous,& laſtly into a blue or colourlike that which is drica bywoad. chole nºt natural | the firſt is called porracea, or leek-coloured, reſent- is bred, either bling the juice of a leek in greenneſs. - - or in the ca- the ſecond eruginoſa, or eruginous, like in colour pacity of the | to verdigreaſe. . . . - upper belly, the third blewiſh,or woad-coloured, like the colour } as the vº! died by woad. . . . " - . tricle, and | the fourth red, differing in this from blood, whoſe this is offive colour it imitates, that it never cometh into knots, or * kinds: clods like blood. - - -- - - the fifth very red, generated by the exceſs of the for- emer,which cauſeth burning feawers. the - + vitellina, t -º i an introdułion, or $uch as the humoris,ſuch is the colour. the manners and diſeaſºs of sanguine per- ſons. cholerick are not commonly fat. the manners and diſeaſes of cholerick perſons. the manners and diſeaſes of phlegmatick perſons. from whence noiſe or rum- bling in the belly proceeds. diſeaſes fami- liar to melan- choly perſons. the kinds of ſuch choler, are often caſt forth by vomit in diſeaſes, the ſtrength of the diſeaſe being paſt; being troubleſome to the parts through which they are evacuated, by their bitterneſs, acrimony, and biting. the ſignes of a sanguine perſon. think it manifeſt,becauſe the matter and generation of fleſh is principally from blood, i that aman of a fleſhy, denſe, and ſolid habit of body, and full of a ſweet and vaporous juice, is of a sanguine complexion. and the ſame party hath a flouriſhing and roſe colour in his face, tempered as with an equal mixture of white and red; of white, by reaſon of the skin lying utmoſt ; of red,becauſe of the blood ſpread underneath the skin: for always ſuch as the humoris, ſuch is the colour in the face. in manners, he is curteous, gentle,eaſe to be ſpoken to, not altogether eſtranged from the love of women, of a lovely countenance and ſmooth forehead, ſeldom angry, but taking all things in good part; for as the incli- nation of humors is, ſo alſo is the diſpoſition of manners. but blood is thought the mild- eſt of all humors; but the ſtrong heat of the inward parts maketh him to eat and drink freely. theirdreams are pleaſant, they are troubled with diſeaſes ariſing from blood, as frequent phlegmons, and many ſanguine puſtles º through the skin, much bleeding, . menſtruous fluxes. wherefore they can well endure blood-letting, and delight in the moderate uſe of cold and dry things; and laſtly, are offended §. and moiſt things. they haye a great and .."; pulſe, and much urine in quantity, but milde of quality, of an indifferent colour add ſubſtance. the ſignes of a cholerick perſon. c. men are of a pale or yellowiſh colour, of a lean,ſlender and rough habit of body, with fair veins and large arteries, and a ſtrong and quick pulſe: their skin being touched, feels hot, . hard, rough and harſh, with a pricking and acrid ex- halation which breathes forth of their i. body. they caſt forth much choler by ſtool, vomit and urine. they are of a quick and nimble wit, ſtout, hardy and ſharp vindi- cators of received injuries,liberall even to prodigality, and ſomwhat too deſirous of glory. their ſleep is light, and from which they are quickly waked; their dreams are ... ing, quick, and full of fury; they are delighted with meats and drinks which are ſome- what more cold and moiſt, and are ſubjećt to tertian and burning feavers, the phrenfie, jaundiſe, inflammations, and other cholerick puſtles, the lask, bloody flux, and bitter. neſs of the mouth. - the ſignes of a phlegmatick perſon. hoſe in whom phlegm hath the dominion, are of a whitiſh coloured face, and ſome- times livid and ſwollen, with their body fat, ſoft, and cold to touch. they are moleſted with phlegmatick diſeaſes, as oedematous tumors, the dropſie,quo- tidian feavers, falling away of the hairs, and catarrhes falling down upon the *. the affera arteria,or weaſon: they are of a ſlow ca j. ſlothfull,drowfie; they do dream of rains, ſnows, floods, ſwimming,and ſuch like, that they often imagin themſelves overwhelmed with waters; they vomit . much watery and É. matter or otherwiſe ſpit and evacuate it, and have a ſoft and moiſt tongue. and they are troubled with a dog-like hunger, if at any time it ſhould happen that their infipid phlegm become acide; and they are ſlow of digeſtion, by reaſon of which they have great ſtore of cold and phlegmatick humors; . if they be carried down into the windings of the colick-gut, they cauſe murmuring and º, and ſometimes the colick. for much wind is eaſily cauſed of ſuch like phlegmatick excrements wrought upon by a ſmall and weak heat, ſuch as phlegmatick perſons have, which by its naturall lightneſs is diverſly carried through the turnings of the guts, and diſtends and ſwels them up, and whiles it ſtrives for paſſage out, it cauſeth murmurings and noiſes in the belly, like wind breaking through narrow paſſages. signes of a melancholick perſon. he face of melancholy perſons is ſwart, their countenance cloudy and often cruell, t# aſpe&t is ſad and froward; frequent scirrhous, or hard ſwellings, tumors of the spleen, hamorroids, varices (or ſwollen veins) quartain feavers, whether, continuall or intermitting; quintain, sextain, and septimane feavers: and to conclude, all ſuch wanderingfeavers or agues ſet upon them. but when it happens the melancholy humor is ſharpned, either by aduſtion, or commixture of choler, §. tetters, the black mor- phew, the cancer ſimple and ulcerated, the leprous and filthy ſcab, ſending forth cer- tain ſcaly and branlike excreſcences, (being vulgarly called saint mani; his evils) and the leproſe it ſelf invades them: they have ſmall veins and arteries, becauſe coldneſs hath dominion over them whoſe property is to ſtraitºn, as the quality of heat is to di- late. but if at any time their veins É. big, that largeneſs is not by reaſon : §: - laudable º º chap. . compendious way to chirurgery. i ſ laudable blood contained in them, but from much windineſs; by occaſion whereof it is ſomewhat difficult to let them blood; not only, becauſe that when the vein is opened, the blood flows ſlowly forth, by reaſon of the cold ſlowneſs of the humors ; but much the rather, for that the vein doth not receive the impreſſion of the lancet, ſliding this way and that way, by reaſon of the windineſs contained in it and becauſe that the harſh drineſs of the upper skin, reſiſts the edg of the inſtrument. their bodies ſeem cold and hard to the touch, and they are troubled with terrible dreams, for they are obſerved to ſeem to ſee in the night devils, serpents, dark dens and caves, º dead corpſes, and man other ſuch things full of horror, by reaſon of a black vapor, diverſly moving and diſ- turbing the brain, which alſo we ſee happens to thoſe, who * fear the water, by rea- ſon of the biting of a mad dog. you ſhall finde them froward, fraudulent, parſi- monious, and covetous even to baſeneſs, ſlow ſpeakers, fearfull, ſad, complainers, carefull, ingenious, lovers of ſolitarineſs, man-haters, obſtinate maintainers of opinions once conceived, ſlow to anger, but angred not to be pacified. but when melancholy hath ex- ceeded natures and its own bounds, then by reaſon of putrefačtion and inflammation all things appear full of extreme fury and madneſs,ſo that they often caſt themſelves headlong down from ſome high place, or are otherwiſe guilty of their own death, with fear of which notwithſtauding they are terrified. - - but we muſt note that changes of the native temperament, do often º in the courſe of a mans life, ſo that he which a while agone was sanguine, may now be cholerick, mc- lancholick, or phlegmatick; not truly by the changing of the blood into ſuch humors, but by the mutation of diet, and the courſe or vocation of life. for none of a sanguine complexion but will prove cholerick if he eat hot and dry meats, (as all like things are cheriſhed and preſerved by the uſe of their like, and contraries are deſtroyed by their contraries) and weary his body by violent exerciſes, and continuall labors; and if there be a ſuppreſſion of cholerick excrements, which before did freely, flow, either by na- ture or art. but whoſoever feeds upon meats generating groſs blood, as beef, veniſon, hare, old cheeſe, and all ſalt meats, he without all doubt ſliding from his nature, will fall into a melancholy temper; eſpecially if to that manner of diet, he ſhall have a voca- tion full of cares, turmoils, miſeries, ſtrong and much ſtudy, carefull thoughts and fears; and alſo if he ſit much, wanting exerciſe, for ſo the inward heat, as it were, defrauded of its nouriſhment, faints, and grows dull, whereupon #. and droſſie humors abound in the body. to this alſo the cold and dry condition of the place in which we live, doth conduce, and the ſuppreſſion of the melancholy humor accuſtomed to be evacuated by the hamorrhoids, courſes, and ſtools. but he acquires a phlegmatick temper, whoſoever uſeth cold and moiſt nouriſhment, much feeding, who before the former meat is gone out of the belly, ſhall ſtuff his paunch with more, who preſently aftermeat runs into violent exerciſes, who inhabit cold and moiſt places, who lead their life at eaſe in all idleneſs; and laſtly, who ſuffer a ſuppreſſion of the phlegmatick humor accuſtomly evacuated by vomit, cough, or blowing the noſe,or any other way, either by nature or art. certainly it is very convenient to know theſe things, that wenay diſcern if any at the preſentbe phlegmatick, melancholick, or of any other temper, whether he be ſuch by nature, or neceſſity. , having declared thoſe things which concern the nature of temperaments, and deferred the deſcription of the parts of the body to our anatomy, we j. to ſpeak of the faculties governing this our life, when firſt we ſhall have ſhewn by a pračticall demonſtration of examples, the uſe and cer- tainty of the aforeſaid rules of temperaments. c h.a.p. w ii. of the praffice of the aforeſaid rules of temperaments. sººhat wenay draw the theorick of the temperaments into praćtice, it hath ޺ ſeemed good for avoyding of confuſion *ś might make this our introdu- º &ion ſeem obſcure,if we would proſecute the differences of the tempers of all § men of all nations, to take thoſe limits which nature hath placed in the - world; as south, north, eaſt, and weſt, and, as it were, the center of thoſe bounds,that the deſcribed variety of tempers,incolour,habit,manners,ſtudies, ačtions, and form offifeofmen that inhabit thoſe regions fituated ſofardiſtant one from another may ășaſure rule, by which we may certainly judg of every mans temperature in particular, *hºſhallappear to be nearer or further off from this or that region. thoſe which **bit the south, as the africans, aethiopians, arabians, and egyptians, are for the * part deformed, lean, duskie coloured, and pale, with black ºys and great lips, *d hair, and a ſmall and ſhrill voice. thoſe which inhabit the northern parts, *sothians, muſcovites, polonians, and germanes, have their faces of colour white, mixed "haconvenient quantity of blood, their skinſoft and delicate, their hair long, hanging c down from, or by what their veins are ſwolleń. their dreams. --- k hºpkii. their mannels. from whence the change of the native temper. how one may become cho- lcrick. how melan- cholick. how phlegma- tick. four bound, or regions of the would. the forces of temperatures in particulars. the tempera- ture of the southern eople. É. the nor- thern, - -- º: i . an introdućtion, or . ch a p. . down and ſpreading abroad, and of a yellowiſh,or reddiſh colour; of ſtature they are com- monly tall, and of a well proportioned,fat and compačt habit of body,their eyes gray,their voice ſtrong, loud and big. but thoſe who are ſituated between theſe two former, as the italians and french,have their faces ſomewhat ſwart,are well favoured, nimble, ſtrong,hairy, ſlender, well in fleſh,with their eyes reſembling the colour of goats-eyes, and often hollow eyed,having a cleer,ſhrill and pleaſing voyce, the southern, the southern people are exceeded ſo much by the northern in ſtrength and ability of people prevail body,as they ſurpaſs them in wit and faculties of the mind. , hence is it you may read in § hiſtories,that the scythianſ,goths and vandal; vexed africk and spain with infinite incurſi- .." " ons, and moſt large and famous §: have been founded from the north to south; but ng few or none from the south to the north. therefore the northern people thinking all right and law to conſiſt in arms, did by duell only determine all cauſts and controver- fies ariſing amongſt the inhabitants, as we may gather by the ancient laws, and cuſtomes of the lumbards, engliſh, burgonians, danes and german; ; and we may ſee in saxo the grammarian that ſuch a law was once made by fronto king of tenmark. the which cuſtome at this day is every where in force amongſt the muskºvites. but the sou- thern people have alwayes much abhorred that faſhion, and have thought it more agreeable to beaſts than men. wherefore we never heard of any ſuch thing uſed by the aſſyrians, aegyptians ? perſians, or jews. but moved º the goodneſs of their wit, they ere&ed kingdomes and empires by the onely help of learning and hid- den ſciences. for ſeeing by nature they are melancholik, by reaſon of the dryneſs of their temperature, they willingly addićt themſelves to ſolitarineſs and contempla- the southern tion, being endued with a ſingular ſharpneſs of wit. wherefore the Æthiopians, fgyptians, peºple learned africans,jiwi, phanicians,perſians, aſſyrians, and indians,have invented many curious ſciences, an"g” revealed the myſteries and ſecrets of nature,digeſted the mathematiques into order, obſer- ved the motions of the heavens,and firſt brought in the worſhip and religious ſacrifices of the gods: even ſo far that the arabians who live only by ſtealth,aud have only a waggon for their houſe, doboaſt that they have many things diligently and accurately obſerved - in aſtrology by their anceſtors, which every day made more accurate and copious, they, the northern as by an hereditary right, commend to poſterity, as it is recorded by leo the african. but famous war, the northern people, as the german: , by reaſon of the aboundance of humors and ...and * blood, by §§ the mind is as it were oppreſt, ſº themſelves to works obvi- tificers. ous to the ſenſes, and which may be done by the hand. for their minds oppreſt with the earhtly maſs of their bodies, are eaſily drawn from heaven and the contemplation of celeſtiall things, to theſe inferior things, as to find out mines by digging, to buy and caſt metalls, to draw and hammer outworks of iron, ſteel and braſs. in which things they have proved ſo excellent, that the glory of the invention of guns and printing belongs to them. - the endow- the people who inhabit the middle i. between theſe, are neither naturally fit ments of ſuch for the more abſtruſe ſciences, as the southern people are, nor for mechanick works, as s . * the northern, but intermeddle with civil affairs, commerce and merchandizing. but twcen iſle are endued with ſuch ſtrength of body as may ſuffice to avoid and delude the crafts and arts of the southern inhabitants;and with ſuch wiſdom as may be ſufficient to reſtrain the fury and violence of the northern. how true this is, any one may underſtand by the example of the carthaginians and africans, who when they had held italy for ſome years by their ſub- tile counſels,crafty ſleights and devices; yet could not eſcape, but at the length their arts being deluded,and they ſpoiled ofall their fortunes, were º: in ſubjećtion to the ro- thºrhºrn mans. the gothes, humes and other northern people have ſpoiled and overrun the romane . jº empire by many incurſions and inroads, but deſtitute of counſell and providence, they no how our could not keep thoſe things which they had gotten by armes and valour. therefore the the viđory. opinion of all hiſtorians is agreeing in this,that good laws,the form of governing a com- mon-wealth,all politick ordinances, the arts ofdiſputing and ſpeaking;have had their be- the abºun: ginnings from the greek, romans and french. and from hence in times paſt and at this day ...” a greater number of writers, lăwyers and counſellors of state have ſprung up, than in #.m. alſ the whole worldbeſides. therefore that we may attribute their gifts to each region, france and weaffirm that, the southern people are born and fit for the studies of learning, the nor- italy. thern forwarres, and thoſe which be between them both for empire and rule. the italian is naturally wiſe, the spaniard grave and conſtant ; the french quick and di- ligent, for you would ſay hee runs when he goes, being compared to the ſlow and womaniſh pace of the spaniard, which is the cauſe that spaniards are delighted with french ſervants for their quick agility in diſpatching buſineſs. the eaſtern people are ſpecially indued with a good, firm and well tempered wit, not keeping their counſels ſecret .."hid. for the haſte is of the nature of the sun, and that part of the manners the day which is next to the riſing of the sun is counted theright fide and ſtronger; and of the eaſtein verily in all things living the right fide is alwayes the more ſtrong and vigorous. but the people. weſtern people are more tender and effeminate, and more cloſe in their carriage and mind, - in ot. chap. . compendious way to cºngº. -- not eaſily making any one partaker of their ſecrets. for the weſt is as it were ſubjeºt to the moon, becauſe at the change it alwayes inclines to the weſt,whereby it happens,that it isreputed as noćturnall,finiſter and oppoſite to the eaſt; and the weſt is leſs temperate and wholſome. therefore of the winds none is more wholſomethºn the eaſtwind which blows from the weſt with a moſt freſh and healthfull gale,yet it ſeldome blows, and but only at sun-ſet. - the northern people are good eaters,but nuch better drinkers, witty when they area littlemoiſtened with wine,and talkers of things both to be ſpoken and concealed, not very conſtant in their promiſes and agreements,but principalkeepers and preſervers of ſhamefaſt- neſs and chaſtity, far different from the inhabitants of the south, who are wonderfull ſpa- ring,ſober, ſecrèt and ſubtle, and much addićted to all ſorts of wicked luſt. ariāotle in his problemes ſaith that thoſe nations are barbarous and cruell, both which are burnt with immoderate heat, and which are oppreſt with exceſſive cold, becauſe a ſoft temper of the heavens, ſoftens the manners and the mind. wherefore both, as well the northern, as scythians and germans; and the southern, as africans,are cruell; but theſe have this of ačertain naturall ſtoutneſs, and ſouldierlike boldneſs, and rather of anger then a wilfull deſire of revenge; becauſe they cannot reſtrain by the power of reaſon the firſt violent motions of their anger by reaſon of the heat of their blood. but thoſe of a certain in- bred and inhumane pravity of manners, wilfully and willingly ſº.g they per- form the works of cruelty, becauſe they are of a ſad and melancholy nature. you may have an example of the northern cruelty from the tranſilvanians againſt their ſeditious captain george, whom they gave to be torne in pieces alive and devoured by his souldi- ers,(being kept faſting for three dayes before for that purpoſe)who was then unbowelled, and roſted, and ſo by them eaten up. the cruelty of hannibal the captain of the cartha- ginians may ſuffice .. an inſtance of the southern cruelty. he left the roman captives wearied with burdens and the length of the way,with the ſoles of their feet cut off; but thoſe he brought into his tents, ſoyning brethren and kinſmen together he cauſed to fight, neither was ſatisfied with . before he brought all the vićtors to one man. alſo we may ſee the cruell nature of the southern americans, who dip their children in the blood of their ſlain enemies, then ſuck their blood, and banquet with their broken and ſqueaſed limbs. and as the inhabitants of the south are free from divers plethorick diſeaſes, which are cauſed by aboundance of blood,to which the northern people are ſubjećt, as feavers, de- fluxions, tumors, madneſs with laughter which cauſeth thoſe which have it to leap and dance, (the people commonly tearm it s. vittu, his evilſ) which admits of no remedy but muſick: ſo they are often moleſted with the frenſie invading with madneſs and filry; b the heat whereof they are often ſo raviſhed and carried beſide themſelves that they § things to come; they are terrified with horrible dreams, and in their fits they ſpeak in ſtrange and forain tongues, but they are ſo ſubject to the ſcurſe and all kind |ſcabs and to the leproſe as their homebred diſeaſe, that no houſes are ſo frequently met withall by º: travell through cither of the mauritania's, as hoſpitalls provided for the lodging of leapers. - thoſe who inhabit rough and mountainous places, are more brutiſh,tough and able to indurelabour: but ſuch as dwell in plains,eſpecially if they bemooriſh,or fenniſh, are of a tender body,and ſweat much with a little labour; the truth of which is confirmed by the hollanders and frizlanders. but if the plain be ſuch as is ſcorched by the heat of the sun, andblown upon by much contrariety of winds, it breeds men who are turbulent, not to be tamed, deſirous of ſedition and novelty,ſtubborn,impatient of ſervitude, as may be per- ceived by the ſole example of the inhabitants of narbon a province of france. thoſe who dwell in poor and barren places are commonly morewitty and diligent and moſtpatient of labours; the truth of which the famous wits of the athenians,ligurians and romanſ,and the plain country of the baotians in greece,of the campanians in italy,and of the reſtofthe inhabiters adjoining to the ligurian sea, approves. c. h. a. p. viii. of the faculties, \ { §. faculty is a certain power,and efficient cauſe proceeding from the temperament ºs ofthe part, and the performer of ſome agions of the body. there are three | principall faculties governing mans body as long as itenjoyes its integrity; ºš the animall,vital and natural.the animall is ſeated in the proper tempera- 'ment of the brain,from whence it is diſtributed by the nerves into all parts of *bodywº, have ſenſe&motion. this isofthree kinds,for one is moving, another ſenfi- **thirdprincipall.the ſenſitive confiſts in the five external ſenſes,fight,hearing,taſte, the eaſt wind healthfull. the northern people great caters and drinkers. who are to be counted bar. barous. the northern and southern have each their cruelties. - walsr. max. lib. , cap. . the diſeaſes of the southern people. mountainers. find &touch. the moving principally remains in the muſcles & nerves as the fit inſtruments what a faculty is. - . faculties. c of ſ º an introdućtion, or the triple uſe of the pulſe. --- ----- of voluntary motion. the principall comprehends the reaſoning faculty,the memory and fantaſie. galen would have the common or inward ſenſe to be comprehended within the compaſs of the fantaſie, although ariāotle diſtinguiſh between them. the vitall abides ſº the heart, from whence heat and life is diſtributed by the arteries to the whole body; this is principally hindered in the diſcaſes of the brºſt; as the princi- pºll is, when any diſeaſe affails the brain; the prime ačtion of the vitall faculty is pulſa- tion,and that continued agitation of the heart and arteries, which is of threefold uſe to the body: for by the dilatation of the heart and arteries the vitall ſpirit is cheriſhed by the benefit of the air which is drawn in ; by the contračtion thereof the vapours of it are pur- ged and ſent forth and the native heat of the whole body is ten pered by them both. the laſt is the naturall faculty which hath choſen its principall ſeat in the liver, it ſpreads or carrics the nouriſhment over the wholebody ; but it is diſtinguiſhed into . o- ther faculties; the generative,which ſerves for the generation and forming of the iſſue in the wombe; the growing or increaſing faculty,which flouriſheth from the time the iſſue is formed, untill the perfºët growth of the ſolid parts into their full dimenſions of length, height and bredth. the nouriſhing faculty,which as ſervant to both the other repairs and ays the continuall efflux,and waſte of the threefold ſubſtance; for nutrition is nothing .# §: a repleniſhing,or repairing whatſoever is waſted or emptied. this nouriſhing fa. culty endures from that time the infant is formed in the wombe untill the end of life. it is amatter of great conſequence in phyſick to know the .other faculties,which as ſervants attend upon the nouriſhing faculty; which are the attraćtive,retentive,digeſtive,and ex- pulſive faculty. the attractive draws that juyce which is fit to nouriſh the body,that i ſay which by application may be aſſimilated to the part. this is that faculty . ſuch as are hungry draws down the meat ſcarce chewed,and the drink ſcarſe taſted, into the gnaw- ing and empty ſtomack. the retentive faculty is that which retains the nouriſhment once attračted untill it be fully laboured and perfectly conco&ted; and by that means it yeelds no ſmall aſſiſtance to the digeſtive faculty. for the naturall heat cannot perform the office of conco&tion, unleſs the meatbe embraced by the part,and make ſome ſtay therein. foro- therwiſe the meat carryed into the ſtomach never acquires the form of chylus, unleſs it ſtay detained in the wrinkles thereof,as in a rough e. the time of chylification. the digeſtive facultie aſſimilates the nouriſhment, being attraćted and detained, into the ſub- ſtance of that part whoſe faculty it is, by the force of the inbred heat and proper diſpoſiti- on or temper of the part. so the ſtomach plainly changes all things § are catand drunk into chylus,and the liver turns the chylus into blood. but the bones and nerves convert the red and liquid blood which is brought down unto them by the capillary or ſmall veins, into a white and ſolid ſubſtance. such concoëtion is far more laborious in a bone and nerve,than in the muſculous fleſh. for the blood being not much different from its nature by a light change and concretion turns into fleſh. but this concoëtion will ne- verſatisfie the defire of nature and the parts.unleſs the nouriſhment purged from its excre- ments, put away the filth and droſs, which muſt never enter into the ſubſtance of the part. wherefore there do not only two ſorts of excrements remain of the firſt and ſecond con- coćtion, the one thick,the other thin,as we have ſaid before; but alſo from the third con- co&ion which is performed in every part. the one of which we conceive only by reaſon, being that which vaniſheth into airby inſenſible tranſpiration. the other is known ſometimes by ſweats,ſometimes by a thick fatty ſubſtance ſtaining the ſhirt; ſometimes by the generation of hairs and nails, whoſe matter is from fuliginous and earthly excrements of the third conco&tion. wherefore the fourth faculty was neceſſary which might yeeld no ſmall help to nouriſhment; it is called the expulſive,appointed to expell thoſe ſuper- fluous excrements which by no ačtion of heat, can obtain the form of the part. such facul- ties ſerving for nutrition are in ſome parts two-fold;as ſome common,the benefit of which redounds to the whole body, as in the ventricle, liver and veins; qthers only attending the ſervice of thoſe parrs in which they remain,and in ſome parts all theſe , aſwell com: mon as properare abiding and reſiding as in thoſe parts we now mentioned: ſome with the . proper have only two common, as the gall, spleen, kidnies and bladder. others are content only with the proper,as the ſimilar and muſculous parts, who if they want any of theſe . faculties,their health is decayed eitherby want of nouriſhment,and ulcer, or o- therwiſe. the like unnaturall affects happen by the deficiency of juſt audlaudable nouriſh- ment. but if it happen thoſe faculties do rightly perform their duty, the nouriſhment is changed into the proper part, , and is truly aſſimilated as by theſe degrees. firſt it muſt flow to the part,then be joyned to it,then agglutinated,and laſtly as we have ſaid,aſ- milated. now we muſt ſpeak of the a&ions which ariſe from the faculties. the naturall faculty is three- fold. what nutriti- on is, four other fa- culties attend upon the nou- riſhing faculty. the neeeſſity of the retentive faculty. two extre- ments of every concoëtion. the work of the expulſive faculty. by what de- grees the nou- riſhment is aſſimilated. chap. chap. . compendious way to chirurgery. c h a p. i x. of the aëtions. º qn aétion or funètion is an ačtive motion proceeding from a faculty; for as the ɺ faculty depends on the temperament,ſo the a&tion on the faculty, and the aët º or work depends upon the a&ion by a certain order of conſequence. but, al- * though that the words a&tion and a& or work are often confounded, yet there is this difference between them, as that the a&ion ſignifies the motion uſed in the perfor- mance of any thing; but the a& or work, the thing already done and performed: for ex- ample, nutrition and the generating of fleſh are naturall aétions; but the partsnouriſh- ed, and a hallow ulcer filled with fleſhare the works of that notion,or ačtion. wherefore the a& ariſeth from the a&ion,as the a&ion ariſeth from the faculty,the integrity or per- fećtion of the inſtruments concurring in both. foras, if the faculty be either defečtive, or hurt,no a&tion will be well performed; ſo unleſs the inſtruments keep their native and due conformity (which is their perfeót health,the operator of the aëtion proper to the in- ſtrument) none of thoſe things, which ought to be will be well performed. therefore for the performance of blameleſs and perfećt aćtions,it is fit a due conformity of the inſtrument concur with the faculty. but a&tions are two fold; for they are either naturall, or vo- luntary. they are tearmed naturall,becauſe they are performed not by our will, but by their own accord and againſt our will : as are, that continuall motion of the heart, the beating of the arteries, the expulſion of the excrements, and ſuch other like which are done in us by the law of nature whether we will,or no. theſe aétions flow either from the liver and veins,or from the heart and arteries. wherefore we may comprehend them under the names of naturall and vitall a&tions. for we muſt attribute his a&tion to each faculty, leſt wenay ſeem to conſtitute an idle faculty, and noway profitable for uſe. the unvoluntary vitallaëtions,are the dilatation and contraćtion of the heart and arteries,the which we comprehend under the ſole name of the pulſe: by that they draw in,and by this they expell, or drive forth. the unvoluntary vitall actions be, generation generative growth and x which proceed from the kgrowing,and-facultie. nutrition "nouriſhing generation is nothing elſe then a certain produçing or acquiring of matter, and an in- troducing of a ſubſtantiall form into that matter;this is ºš the aſſiſtance of two faculties; of the ... doth diverſly prepare and diſpoſe the ſeed and menſtru- ous blood to put on the form of a bone, nerve, ſpleen,fleſh and ſuch like: of the forming faculty,which adorns with figure, fite,and compoſition, the matter ordered by ſo various a preparation. - growth is an inlarging of the ſolid parts into all the dimenſions,the priſtine and anci- entform remaining ſafe and ſound in figure and ſolidity.for the perfeótion of every growth isjudged only by the ſolid parts; for if the body ſwell into a maſs offleſh, or fat, it ſhall not therefore be ſaid to be grown: but then only when the ſolid parts do in like manner increaſe,eſpecially the bones,becauſe the growth of the whole body follows their increaſe, even although at the ſame time it wax lean and pine away. - nutrition is a perfeót aſſimilation of that nouriſhment which is digeſted,into the nature of the part which digeſts. it is performed by the aſſiſtance of . ſubſidiary or helping ačti- ons.attraºtive,retentive, digeſtive, and expulſive. the voluntary ačtions which we willingly perform,are ſo called, becauſe we can at our pleaſure j. up, ſlow or quicken them. they are three in generall,the ſenſitive,mo- ying, and principall aëtion. the ſenſitive *soul comprehends all things in five ſenſes, in sight, hearing, smell, taſte and touch. three things muſt neceſſarily concur to the performance of them, the organ, the medium or mean, and the objećt. the principall or- É. or inſtrument, is the animall ſpirit diffuſed by the nerves into each ſeveral part of the ody, by which ſuch ačtions are performed. wherefore for the preſent we will uſe the part; themſelves for their organs. the mean is a body, wiś carryes the objećt to the inſtrument. the obješ is a certain externall quality, which hath power by a fit medium or mean to ſtir up and alter the organ. this will be more manifeſt º relating the particular finétions of the ſenſes by the neceſſary concurring of theſe t(e. ... sight, is an ačion of the ſeeing faculty, which is done by the eye, fitly compoſed of . ats and humors, and ſo conſequently the organicall body of this a&tion. the ob- jº is a viſible quality brought to the eye. but ſuch an objećt is twofold; for either .* abſolutely viſible of its ſelf, and by its own nature, as the sun, the fire, the " and stars: or deſires as it were the help of another that it may be ačtual- y ſuch, for ſo by the coming of the light %. which were .#. in power * , being brought to the eye, they dº ſeem and appear ſuch as they adually are: c but what an aği- on is, anaðion and and a are different. naturallaòti- on se what growth is. what natriti. on is. a&tion volun- tary. *animaſet- tiens. how ſight is performed. an introdućtion, or - - - how hearing. how ſmelling. how the laſe. * saper. how touching. of motion. * how reſpirati- en may be a voluntary mo- tion. the third prin- cipal aáion. what a ſpirit is, - - - -—, but ſuch objećts cannotarrive at the eye, but through a clear and illuminate medium, as the air,water, glaſſe and all ſorts of cryſtall. the hearing hath for its . the ear and auditory paſſage, which goes to the ſtony bone furniſhed.with a membrane inveſting it, an auditory nerve, and a certain in- ward ſpirit there contained. the objećt is every ſound ariſing from the ſmitten or broken air, and the colliſion of two bodies meeting together. the medium is the en- compaſſing air which carries the ſound to the ear. . . º smelling (according to galens opinion) is performed in the mamillary proceſſes pro- duced from the proper ſubſtance of the brain, and ſeated in the upper part of the noſe: although others had rather ſmelling ſhould be made in the very foremoſt ventricles of the brain. this aëtion is weak in man in conpariſon of other creatures: the obje& thereof is every ſmell, or fumid exhalation breathing out of bodies. the medium by which the objećt is carried to the noſes of men, beaſts and birds, is the air, but to fiſhes the water itſelf. the aétion of taſte is performed by the tongue being tompered well and according to nature, and furniſhed with a nerve ſpredover its upper part from the third and fourth conjugation of the brain. the objećt is “taſte,of*: nature and kinds we will treatmore at large in our antidotary. the medium by the which the objećt is ſo carried to the organ, that it may affe&t it, is either externall or internall: the ex- ternall is that ſpattle which doth as it were anoint and ſupple the tongue; the internall is the ſpongy fleſh of the tongue it ſelf, which affečted with the quality of the objećt doth preſently ſo poſſeſs the nerve that is implanted in it, that the kind and quality there- of by the force of the ſpirit may be . into the common ſenſe. all parts endued with a nerve enjoy the ſenſe of touching, which is chiefly done, when a tračtable quality doth penetrate even to the true and nervous skin, which lyeth under the cuticle, or ſcarf-skin; we have formerly noted, that it is moſt exquiſite in the skin which inveſts the ends of the fingers. the objećt is every tračtable quality, whether it be of the firſt rank of qualities, as heat, cold, moiſture, dryneſs, or of the ſecond, as roughneſs, smoothneſs, heavineſs, lightneſs, hardneſs, softneſs, rarity, denſity, friability, unétuoſity, groſneſs,thinneſs. the medium by whoſe procurement the inſtrument is affetted, is either the skin or the fleſh interwoven with many nerves. the next a&ion, is that motion, which by a peculiar name we call voluntary; this is performed and accompliſhed by a muſcle, being the proper inſtrument of voluntary mo- tion. furthermore cvery motion of amenber poſſeſſing a muſcle is made either by bend- ing and contračtion, . extention. although fº there be ſo many differences of voluntary motion, as there are kinds of fite in place; therefore motion is ſaid to be made upward, downward, to the right hand, to the left, forward and backward; hither arc . th. many kinds of motions, which the infinite variety of muſcles produce in the body. into this rank of voluntary a&ions, comes reſpiration, or breathing, becauſe it is done by the help of the muſcles;although it be chiefly to temper the heat of the heart. for we can make it more quick, or ſlow as we pleaſe, which are the conditions of a vo- luntary motion. laſtly, that we may have ſomewhat in which we may ſafely reſtand defend our ſelves a- ainſt the many queſtions which are commonly moved concerning this thing, wee muſt É. that reſpiration is undergone and performed by the animall faculty,but chiefly in- ſtituted for the vitall. - the principall a&tion and prime amongſt the voluntary is abſolutely divided in three, injº. and memory. imagination is a certain expreſſing, and apprehenſion which diſcerns and diſtinguiſheth between the forms and ſhapes of things ſenſible, or which are known by the ſenſes. º is a certain judicialleſtimation of conceived or apprehended forms or figures, by a mutuall collating or comparing them together. memory is the ſure ſtorer of all things,and as it were the treaſury which the mind of- ten unfolds and opens, the other faculties of the mind being idle and not imployed. but becauſe all the forementioned a&tions whether they be naturall, or animall and volunta- ry, are done and performed by the help and aſſiſtance of the spirits ; therefore now we muſt ſpeak of the spirits. c h a p.x. of the spirits. *she spirit is a ſubtile and acry ſubſtance, raiſed from the purer blood that ºğ it might be a vehicle for the faculties (by whoſe power the whole body ºš is governed) to all the parts, and the prime inſtrument for the perfor- * mance of their office. for they being deſtitute of its ſweet approach doe pre- ſently ceaſe fromaëtion, and as dead do reſt from their accuſtomed labours. from hence it $ chap. io. compendious way to chirurgery. i . is that making a variety of spirits according to the number of the faculties,they have divi- ded then into three; as one animall,another vitall, another naturall. the animall hath taken his ſeat in the brain ; for there it is prepared and made, that from thence conveyed by the nerves, it may impart the power of ſenſe and motion to all the reſt of the members. an argument hereof is, that in the great cold of winter, whether by the intercepting them in their way, or by the concretion, or,as it were,freezing of thoſe ſpirits the joynts grow ſtiff, the hands numb, and all the other parts are dull, deſtitute of i. accuſtomed agility of motion, and quickneſs of ſenſe. it is called animall, not be- cauſe it is the * life, but the chief and prime inſtrument thereof: wherefore it hath a moſt ſubtil and aery ſubſtance; and enjoys divers names, ..º. the various condition of spirits three- fold the animal! ſpirit. why ſo called, * anima. the senſories or ſeats of the ſenſes into which it enters; for that which cauſeth the fight, - is named the viſive: you may ſee this by night, rubbing your eys, as ...; like fire. that which is conveyed to the auditory ...; is called the audit - ive or hearing: that which is carried to the inſtruments of touching, is termed the tačtive; and ſo of the reſt. this animall ſpirit is made and laboured in the windings and foldings of the veins and arteries of the brain, of an exquiſit ſubtil portion of the vitall brought thither by the carotide arterie, or ſleepy arteries ; and ſometimes alſo of the pure air, or ſweet vapour drawn in by the noſeinbreathing. hence it is, that with ligatures we ſtop the paſſage of this ſpirit, from the parts we intend to cut off. an humor which obſtructs or ſtops its paſſage, doth the like in apoplexies and pallies, whereby it happens that the members iituate under that place do languiſh and ſeem dead, ſometimes deſtitute of motion, ſome- times wanting . and motion. - the vitalſ ſpirit is next to it indignity and excellency, which hath its chief manſion in the left ventricle of the heart, from whence, through the channels of the arteries, it flows into the whole body, to nouriſh the heat which reſides fixed in the ſubſtance of each part which would periſhinſhort time, unleſs it ſhould be refreſhed by heat flowing thither together with the #: and becauſe it is the moſt ſubtil next to the animall, nature (leſt it ſhould vaniſh away) would have it contained in the nervous coat of an artery, . ſº times more thick than the coat of the veins, as galen, out of herophilus, hath iccotolćcl. - it is firniſhed with matter from the ſubtil exhalation of the blood, and that air which we draw in breathing. wherefore it doth eaſily and quickly periſhby immoderate diffipa- tions of the ſpirituous ſubſtance, and great evacuations; ſo it is eaſily corrupted by the putrefaāion ºf humors, or breathing in of pºſilent air and filthy vapours; which thing is the cauſe of the ſo ſuddain death of thoſe which are infected with the plague. this ſpirit is often hindred from entring into ſome part, by reaſon of obſtrućtion, fulneſs, or great inflammations; whereby it follows,that in a ſhort ſpace,by reaſon of the decay of the fixed and inbred heat, the parts do eaſily fall into a gangrene,and become mortified. the naturall ſpirit (if ſuch there beany) hath its ſtation in the liver and veins. it is more groſs and dull than the other, and inferior to them in the dignity of the aétion, and the excellency of the uſe. the uſe thereof is to help the conco&ion both of the whole body, as alſo of each ſeverall part, and to carry blood and heat to them. beſides thoſe already mentioned, there are other spirits fixed and implanted in the fimilar and prime parts of the body, which alſo are naturall, and natives of the ſameplace in which they are ſeated and placed. and becauſe they are alſo of an aery and fiery nature, they are ſo joined or rather united to the native heat, that they can no more be ſeparated from it than flame from heat; wherefore they with theſe that flow to them, are the principallinſtruments of the a&ions which are performed in each ſeverall part; aud theſe fixed spirits have their nouriſhment and maintenance from the radicall and firſt-bred moi- ſture, which is of an aery and oily ſubſtance, and is, as it were, the foundation of theſe spirits, and the inbred heat. therefore without this moiſture, no man can live a moment. but alſo the chief inſtruments of life are theſe spirits, together with the native heat. wherefore this radicall moiſture being diſſipated and *: , (which is the ſeat, fod- der, and nouriſhment of the spirits and heat) how can they any longer ſubſiſt and re- main. therefore the conſumption of the naturall heat, followeth the decay of this ſweet *nº ſubſtance-making moiſture, and conſequently death, which happens by the diſſipating and reſolving of naturall heat. but ſince then theſe kind of spirits with the naturall heat, is contained in the ſubſtance *fach ſimilar part of our body, $. otherwiſe it could not perfiſt) it muſt neceſſaril follow,that therebe as many kinds of fixed spirits, as of ſimilar parts. for becauſe eac part hath its proper temper and encreaſe, it hath alſo its roper spirit, and alſo its sº"proper fixed and implanted heat, which here hath its a lººrs the spirit and heat which is ſeated in the bone, is different from that which is jº. into the ſubſtance of a nerve, vein, or ſuch other fimilar part; becauſe the temper andſ *parts is different, as alſo the mixture of the elements from which they firſt aroſe pºung up. neither is this contem sonſiſtall the force and efficacy of our nature. theſe e, as well as its originall. ' lation of spirits of ſmall account, for in theſe how it is made: the vitali ſpirit. what the mat- ter of it is, there is ſome doubt of the naturall ſpirit. fixed spirits, the radicall moiſture. naturall death. i an introdućlion, or chap. ii. - the uſe and neceſſity of the spirits. what the re- medy for the diffipation of the spirits. what the re- medy for op- preſſion of the spirits is. what ſex is. the nature of women. . of eunuchs, of herma- phrodites. colour the be- wrayer of the temperament. the perfettion of the organi- call parts, con- ſiſts in four things. theſe being by any chance º or waſted, we languiſh ; neither is any health to be hoped for, the flour of lifewit º and decaying by little and little. which thing ought to make us more diligent, to defend them againſt the continuall efflux of the threefold ſubſtance. for if they be decayed, there is left no proper, indication of curing the diſeaſe; ſo that we are often conſtrained, all other care laid aſide, to betake ourſelves to the reſtoring and repairing the decayed powers. which is done by meats of good juice, eaſie to be conco&ted and diſtributed; ſº. wines, and fragrant ſmels. but ſometimes theſe spirits are not diſſipated, but driven in and returned to their foun- tains, and ſo both oppreſs and are oppreſt; whereupon it happens we are often forced to dilate and ſpread them abroad hº and rubbing the parts. hitherto we have ſpoke of theſe things which are called naturall, becauſe wenaturally conſiſt of them; it remains that we now ſay ſomewhat of their adjunèts and aſſociates by familiarity of condition. {age: of which, by reaſon of the ſimilitude of the argu- ment, we were conſtrained to ſpeak,when we handled the temperatures. sex. colour: of which we have already ſpoken. the conformation of the inſtrumental parts. time: whoſe force we have alſo conſidered. region. {order of diet, and condition of life. the adjunčts and aſſociates to things naturall: are, chap. xi. of the adjunifs of things naturall. %ye x is no other thing than the diſtinétion of male and female; in which this is moſt obſervable, that for the parts of the body, and the ſite of theſe parts, there is little difference between them;but the female is colder than the male. where- - fore their ſpermaticall parts are more cold, ſoft, and moiſt; and all their naturall ačtions leſs vigorous and more depraved. . the nature of eunuchs is to be referred to that of women, as who may ſeem to have degenerated into a womaniſh nature, by deficiency of heat; their ſmooth body, and ſoft . ſhrill voice do very much aſſimilate women. notwithſtanding you muſt confider, that there be ſome manly women, which their manly voice,and chin covered with a little hairi- neſs, do argue: and on the contrary,there are ſome womanizing, or womaniſhmen, which therefore we term dainty and effeminate. the hermaphrodite is of a doubtfull nature, and in the middle of both ſexes ſeems to articipate of both male and female. . . . . the colour which is predominant in the habit and ſuperficies of the body, and lycs next under the skin, ſhews the temperament of what i. it be ; for as galen notes in comment. ad aphor. . ſeti. i. such a colour appears in us, as the contained humor hath. wherefore if a roſie hew colour the cheeks, it is a ſign the body abounds with blood, and that it is carried abroadby the plenty of spirits. but if the skin be dyed with a yellow colour, it i. choler is predominant ; if with a whitiſh and pallidhue,phlegm with aſable and duskie, melancholy. so the colour of the excrements which are according to nature, is not of the leaſt conſideration. . for thus, if an ulcer being broken ſend forth white matter, it argues the ſoundneſs of the part from whence it flows; but if ſanious or bloody, green, blackiſh, or of divers colours, itſhews the weakneſs of the ſolid part, which could not aſſimilate by concoëtion the colour of the excrementitious humor. the like rea- ſon is of unnaturall tumors: for, as the colour, ſo the dominion of the humor cauſing or accompanying the ſwelling commonly is. : the conformity and integrity of the organicall parts is confidered by their figure, reatneſs, number, ſituation, and mutuall connexion. we confider the figure, when we É. almoſt all the externall parts of the body are naturally round, not only for ſhew, but for neceſſity, that being ſmooth and no way cornered, they ſhould be leſs obnoxious to externall injuries; we ſpeak of greatneſs, when we ſay, ſome are large and thick, ſome lank and lean. but we conſider their number, when we obſerve ſome parts to abound, ſome to want, or nothing to be defeótive or wanting. we inſinuate site and con- nexion, when we ſearch, whether every thing be in its proper place, and whether they be decently fitted, and well joined together. - we have handled the varieties º the four ſeaſons of the year, when we treated of tem- peraments. but the conſideration of region (becauſe it hath the ſame judgment that the air) ſhall be referred to that ºlition or enquiry which we intend to make of the air, amongſt the things not naturall. the - chap. . compendious way to chirurgery. i the manner of life, and order of diet are to be diligently obſerved by us, becauſe they dict, have great power cither to alter, or preſerve the temperament. but becauſe they are of al- moſt infinite variety, therefore they ſcarce ſeem poſſible to fall into art; which may, pro- fºcute all the differences of diet and vocations of life. wherefore if the calling of life be laborious, as that of husbandmen, mariners, and other ſuch trades, it ſtrengthens and dries the parts of the body. although thoſe which labour much about waters, are moſt ...; troubled with cold and moiſt diſeaſes, although they almoſt kill themſelves with labour. again, thoſe which deal with metals, as all ſorts of smiths, and thoſe which caſt and work braſs, are more troubled with hot diſeaſes, as feayers. but if their calling be ſuch, as they fit much, and work all the day long ſitting at home, as ſhoomakers ; it makes the body tender, the fleſh effeminate, and cauſeth great quantity of excrements. a life as well idle and negligent in body, as quiet in mind, in all riotouſneſs and exceſſes of diet, doth the ſame. for from hence the body is made ſubjećt to the stone,gravel, and gout. that calling of life which is performed with moderate labour, clothing, and diet,ſeems the commo. very fit and convenient to preſerve the naturall temper of the body. the ingenious chi- diſi; of an rurgeon may frame more of himſelf that may more particularly conduce to the examina- indifferent tion of †: things. therefore the things naturall,and thoſe which are near or neighbou- dict. ring to them being thus briefly declared; the orderſtems to require that wenake enquiry of things not naturall. l chap. xii. of things not naturall. mºshe things which wenuſt now treat of have by the later phyfitians been terme - n r. ; becauſe they are not of the . of §. which enter . . º: ×) the conſtitution of compoſure of mans body; as the elements, humors, and not naturall, - & all ſuch things which we formerly comprehended under the name of natural: sº, nº. although they be ſuch as are neceſſary to preſerve and defend the body al- ready made and compoſed. wherefore they were called by galen preſervers ; becauſeby the due uſe of them the body..f. in health. alſo, they may be called doubtfull, and neuters, for that rightl fitly uſed,they keep the body heaſthfull, but inconfideratly, they cauſe diſeaſes. ereby it comes to paſs, that they may be thought to pertain to that part of phyſick which is of preſerving health; not becauſe ſome of theſe thi ſhould be abſolutely and of their own nature wholſom, and others unwholſom; but º, by this, that they are, or prove ſo . convenient, or prepoſterous uſe. therefore we confider the uſe of ſuch like things from four conditions, quantity, quality, occaſion, data ...,d and manner of uſing: if thou ſhalt obſerve theſe, thouſhalt attain and effect this, that gºin. thoſe things which are of themſelves, are, as it were, doubtfull, ſhall bring certain and undoubted health. for theſe four circumſtances do ſo far extend, that in i: in the . perſe&ion of art, the rules which may be preſcribed to preſerve health are contained. $ut galen in another place, hathin four words comprehended theſe things not naturall; , , - -- as, things taken, applyed, expelled, and to be done. things taken, are thoſe which : finitat, are put into thebody, eitherby the mouth,or any other way; as the air, meat and drink. - things applyed, are thoſe which muſt touch the body, as the air, now mentioned, affe- &ing the body with a diverſe touch of its qualities of heat, cold, moiſture, or drineſs. expelled, are what things ſoever being unprofitable are generated in the body,and require to be expelled. tobe done, are labour, reſt, ſkep, watching, and the like. we morediſtinétly, and by expreſſion of proper names, revoke all theſe things to fix: ſ air. - meat and drink. labor and reſ?. which are ; sleep and watching. - | rºkº*. inanition; or things to be expelled, or retained . t. * 
anº; the minde. chap. an introdu'lion, or char: . how neceſſary for life the air is. what air is hurtfull. three things are under by the name of the air. aphor. -ſtºl. . the force of the winds, how the winds acquire other faculties, than they naturally have. the weſtwind of it ſelf un- wholſom. what force flarshave upon the air. c hap. xiii. - of the air. §i r is ſo neceſſary to life, that we cannot live a moment without it; if ſo be that (\}º breathing,and much more tranſpiration,be not to be ſeparated from life.where- £º fore it much conduceth to know, what air is wholſon, what unwholſon, and rººs which by contrariety of qualities fights for the patient againſt the diſeaſe; or on the contrary by a ſimilitude of qualities ſhall nouriſh the diſeaſe, that if it may ſcem to burden jº. by increaſing or adding to the diſeaſe, we may correót it by art. so in curing the wounds of the head, eſpecially in winter, we labour by all the means we may to make the air warm. for cold is hurtfull to the brain, bones, and the wounds of theſe parts; and heat is comfortable and friendly. but alſo the air being drawn into the bodyby breathing when it is hotter than ordinary, doth with a new warmth over-heat the heart, lungs, and ſpirits, and weaken the ſtrength by the diſſipation of the spirits too much attenuated; ſo being too cold, in like manner the ſtrength of the faculties faints and grows dull, cither by ſuppreſſion of the vapors, or by the inſpiſſation or thickning of the spirits. . therefore to conclude, that air is to be eſteemed healthfull, which is clear, ſubtil, and pure,free and open on every ſide,and which is far remote from all carion-like ſmels of dead carkaſſes, or the ſtench of any putrefying thing whatſoever: the which is far diſtant from ſtanding pools,and fens, and caves,ſending forth ſtrong and ill vapors; neither too cloudy in ot .#. the nearneſs of ſome river. - such an %. i ſay, if it have a vernall temper, is good againſt all diſeaſes. that air which is contrary to this, is altogether unhealthfull ; as that which is putrid, ſhut up,and reſt by the ſtraitneſs of .#. mountains, inſcèted with ſome noiſom vapor. and ecauſe i cannot proſecute all the conditions of airs, fit for the expelling of all diſeaſes, as which are almoſt infinite; it ſhall ſuffice here to have ſet down, what we muſt under- ſtand by this word air. phyſitians commonly uſe to underſtand three things by the name of air ; the preſent ſtate of the air; the region in which we live; and the ſeaſon of the year. we ſpoke of this laſt, when we treated of temperaments. wherefore we will now ſpeak of the two former. the preſent ſtate of the air, one while for ſome ſmall time, is like the spring, that is, temperate; otherwhiles like the summer, that is, hot and dry; otherwhiles like the winter, that is, cold and moiſt; and ſometimes like the autumn, which is unequall; and this laſt conſtitution of the air is the cauſe of many diſeaſes. when upon the ſame day, it is one while hot, another cold, we muſt expect autumnall diſeaſes. theſe tempers and varieties of conſtitutions of the air, are chiefly and principally ſtirred up by the winds; as which being diffuſed over all the air, ſhow no ſmall force by their ſodain change. wherefore we will briefly touch their natures: that which blows from the eaſt, is called the eaſt-wind, and is of a hot and dry nature, and therefore healthfull. but the weſkrn-wind is cold and moiſt, and therefore ſickly. the south-wind is hot and moiſt, ...'. of putrefaction and putrid diſeaſes. the north-wind is cold and dry, therefore healthy; wherefore it is thought, if it happen to blow in the dog-days; that it makes the whole year healthfull, and purges and takes away the ſeeds of putrefaction, if any chance to be in the air. but this deſcription of the four winds, is then only thought to be true, if we conſider the winds in their own proper nature, which they borrow from theſe regions from which they firſt proceed. for otherwiſe they affe&t the air quite con- trary, according to the diſpoſition of the places over which they came ; as snowie places, seas,lakes;rivers,woods, or ſandy plains, from whence they may borrow new qualitics, with which they may afterwards poſſeſs the air, and ſo conſequently our bodies. hence it is we have noted the weſtern-wind unwholſom, and breeding diſeaſes, by reaſon of the proper condition of the region from whence it came; and ſuch, that is cold and moiſt; the gaſcoins find it truly to their ſo great harm, that it ſeldom blows with them, but it brings ſome manifeſt and great harm, either to their bodies, or fruits of the earth. and yet the greek and latius are wont to commend it for healthfulneſs, more than the reſt. but alſo the riſing and ſetting of ſome more eminent ſtars, do often cauſe ſuch cold winds, that the whole air is cooled, or infečted with ſome other malign quality. for vapors and exhalations are often raiſed by the force of the stars, from whence winds, clouds, ſtorms, whirlwinds, lightnings, thunders, hail, ſnow, rain, earthquakes, inunda- tions, and violent raging of the ſea, have their originall. the exačt contemplation of which things,although it be proper to aſtronomers, coſmographers,and geographers, yet hippocrates could not omit it, but that he muſt ſpeak ſomething in his book de aéré & aquis ; where he touches by the way, the deſcription of the neighbouring regions, and ſuch as he knew. from this force of the air, either hurtfull, or helping in diſeaſes, came that . od ctvä- chap. i . compendious way to chirurgery. & obſervation of guido of caulus ; that wounds of the head are more difficult to cure at park, than at avignion, and the plain contrary of wounds of the legs; for the air of pariſ, how the air of compared to that of avignion, is cold and moiſt, wherefore hurtfull and offenſive to the º comes wounds of the head. on the contrary, the ſame air, becauſe it obſcures the ſpirits, in- º | º, craſates the blood, condenſates the humors, and makes them leſs fit for defluxions, makes he head, and the wounds of the legs more eaſie to be healed by reaſon it hinders the courſe of the humors, good for thoſe by whoſe defluxion the cure is hindred. but it is manifeſt, that hot and dry places make a ofthe legg. greater diſſipation of the naturall heat, from whence the weakneſs of the powers; by which ſame reaſon, the inhabitants of ſuch places do not ſo well endure blood-letting; but more eaſily ſuffer purgations, though vehement, by reaſon of the contumacie of . humor, cauſed by drineſs. to conclude, the air changes the conſtitutions of our bodies, by wharmºns either by its qualities, as if it be hotter, colder, moiſter, or drier; or by its matter, as if it ºf . changes iº. or more ſubtil than is fit, or corruptcd by exhalations from the earth, or by out bodies. a ſodain and unaccuſtomed alteration, which º man may prove, who makes a ſodain change out of a quict air into a ſtormy and troubled with many winds. but becauſe, next to the air, nothing is ſo neceſſary to nouriſh mans body, as meat and drink, i will now begin to ſpeak of them both. c. h. a. p. xiiii. of meat and drink. shat this our treatiſe of meat and drink may be more brief and plain, i have thought good to part it into theſe heads, as to conſider the goodneſs and ilneſs § of both of them, their quantity, quality, cuſtom, delight, order, time, and to " accommodate them all tº the ages and ſeaſons of they ar. we judge of the the goodneſ, goodneſs and pravity of meats and drinks, from the condition of the good or vicious hu- of nouriſh- mours, or juice which they beget in us. for evill juice cauſeth many diſeaſes. as on the ments. contrary, good juice drives away all diſeaſes from the body, except the fault happen from ſome other occaſion, as from quantity, or too much exceſs. wherefore it is principally neceſſary, that thoſe who will preſerve their preſent health, and hinder the acceſs of diſea- ſes, feed upon things of good nouriſhment and digeſtion, as are good wine, the yolks of egs, good milk, wheaten bread well baked, the fleſh of capons, partridge,thruſhes,larks, cal, mutton, kid, and ſuch like other, which you may find mentioned in the books which galen writ, de alimentorum facultatibus ; where alſo he examins thoſe which are of evill juice by their manifeſt qualities, as acrimony, bitterneſs, ſaltneſs, acidity, harſhneſs, and ſuch like. - - - but unleſs wºuſe a convenient quantity and meaſure in our meats, howſoever laudable. their quantity they be, we ſhall never reap theſe fruits of health we hoped for. for they yeeld matter of diſtaſes, by the only exceſs of their quantity; but we may by this know the force of quan- tity on both parts, becauſe often the poiſonous quality of meats of ill nouriſhment doth not hurt, by reaſon they were not taken into the body into a great quantity. that mea- ſure of quantity is chiefly to be regarded in diſeaſes: #. as hippocrates faith. if any giye the quantity iileat t . one § of a feaver, he gives ſtrength to the well, and increaſes the diſeaſe to the of meals muſt ſick, eſpecially if he do not uſe a mean. wherefore it is a thing of no ſmall conſequence, bººmed to know what diſeaſes require a ſlender, and what a large dict, of which thing there is ...”.” large relation made in the seá, of the aphoriſms of #". where he reºheun, the ..., ſick muſt feed more largely in the beginnings of long diſeaſes, whereby they may be ena- ſtrength ºf the bled to cndure the length of the diſeaſe, and laſt to the ſtate thereof. but in ſharp and vio- patient. lent diſeaſes, which preſently come to their height, we muſt uſe a ſlender diet; but moſt ſlender, when the diſeaſe is in the height; and beſides, all our conſultations in this kinde, muſt be referred to the ſtrength of the patients. but thoſe who enjoy their perfeót health, muſt uſe a quantity of meat, agreeable to their evacuation and tranſpiration; formen, b reaſon of the ſtrength of their heat, and the more copious diſſipation of the triple ſubſtance have greater appetite than women; altogether by the ſame reaſon, that young people, an ſuch as grow, necdmore frequent and j nouriſhment, than old men; and alſo amongſ youngmen of the like age; ſome do rightly require more copious nouriſhment thanotherſome; that is, according to the quantity of their evacuations and cuſtom. cer- tainly for gluttony, it is ſuch as may be extended to all; but weall ſhould take ſo much meat and drink, that our powers may be refreſhed and not oppreſſed; for by the decree of hiſtºrates, theſe be the two compendiary ways of preſerving health; not to be over-filled with meat, and to be quick to work; and thus much of the quantity of meats. neither the qualitics muſt theſe who are j ſound, or fick, have leſs regard to the qualities of their meats; of meat. *thoſe are either the firſt, as heating, cooling, moiſtening, drying; or the ſecond, atte- *incraſiating, obſtrućting, opening, or ſome other-like, working according to the “ndition of their nature. the manner of our diet is not only to be #: according to . an introdućlion, or chap. . old-age is a diſeaſe, aphor. . ſºft. i • the force of cuſtom, aphor. : . ſº. . apher. . ſº. , accuſtomed mcats arc more gratefull, and ſo by that means more nouriſhing, the order of eating our mta is. we muſt begin " our meals with moiſt or liquid uncat. the time of cating. the profit of labour before [i]tate to theſe, but alſo to be varied; for the preſent ſtate of ſuch as be in health, requires to be preſerved by the uſe of like things. as hot and moiſt nouriſhment is to be preſcribed to children, as to thoſe which are hot and moiſt: and cold and dry to old men, as to thoſe who are cold and dry ; if ſo be that vulgar ſaying be true, that, health delights in the uſe of like things. yet becauſe old-age how green and new-begun howſoever it be, is of it ſelf, as it were, a diſeaſe, it ſeems to be more convenient, both to truth, and for health, that old people ſhould eatmeats contrary to their nature, that is, hot and moiſt, that ſo we ma defer as much as we can, the cauſes of death, cold and drineſs, which haſten the deſtruction of that age. for we muſt reſiſt diſeaſes by the uſe of their contraries, as thoſe things which, are contrary to nature. for otherwiſe, as much meat as you give to the ſick, you add ſo much ſtrength to the diſeaſe. and the ſame is the cauſe why hippocrates ſaid, that a moiſt : dict is convenient for all ſuch as are ſick of feavers,becauſe a feaver is a dry diſtemperature. therefore we muſt diligently pry into the nature of the diſeaſe, that knowing it, we may endevour to abate its fury by the uſe of contraries. but if cuſtom (as they ſay) be another nature, the phyſitian muſt have a great care of it, both in ſound and ſick. for this ſometimes by little and little, and inſenſibly, changes our naturall temperament, and in ſtead thereof gives us aborrowed temper. wherefore if any would preſently or ſodainly change a cuſtom which is ſometimes ill, into a better, truly he will bring more harm than good; becauſe all ſodain changes (according to the opinion of hippocrates) are dangerous. wherefore if neceſſity require that we ſhould with- draw any thing from our cuſtom, we muſt do it by little and little, that ſo nature may by degrees be accuſtomed to contraries without violence, or the diſturbance of its uſualſ go- vernment.for that meat and drink which is ſomwhat worſe,but more pleaſant and familiar by cuſtom,is to be preferred(in hippocrates opinion)before better,but leſs pleaſant and accu- ſtomed. hence is it that country-men do very well digeſt beef and bacon which commonly they uſe; but will turn into nidorulent vapors, partridg, capons,and other meat of good nouriſhment, ſooner than change them into good and laudable chylus. the cauſe of which thing is not only to be attributed unto the property of their ſtronger, & as it were,burning heat, but much more to cuſtom; which by a certain kind of familiarity, cauſeth that meats of hard digeſtion, are eaſily turned into laudable blood. . for the force of cuſtom is ſo great, that accuſtomed meats are more acceptable; whereby it comes to paſs, that while the ſtomach delights in them, it more ſtraitly embraces them, and happily digeſts them, without any trouble of loathing, vomiting, or heavineſs. all the contrary meet and happen in the uſe of meats which are unpleaſant to the taſte and ſtomach. for the ven- j. thoſe things, makes manifeſt how it is troubled by its acide and nidorulent ...t. loathing, nauſeouſneſs, vomit, heavineſs, pain of the head, and trouble of the whole body. - - w. we muſt diligently enquire, what meats the patient chiefly delighted in,that by offering them, his appetite languiſhing by reaſon of ſome great evacuation, vomit, or the like, may be ſtirred up. for it will be better and more readily reſtored by things acce- ptable, though they be ſomewhat worſe, as we noted a little before out of hippocrates. by which wordsheplainly taught, that it is the part of a good and prudent phyſitian to ſub- ſcribe to, and pleaſe the palat of his patient. but ſeeing that order is moſt beautifull in all things, it is truly very neceſſary in eating our meat: for how laudable ſoever the meats be in their quantity and quality, howſoever familiar by uſe, and gratefull by cuſtom, yet unleſs they be eaten in due order, they will either trouble or moleſt the ſtomach, or be ill, or ſlowly and difficultly conco&ted; wherefore we muſt diligently obſerve, what meats muſt be eaten at the firſt, and what at the ſecond courſe; for thoſe meats which be hard to concoët, are not to be eaten before thoſe which are eaſie of digeſtion; neither dry and aſtringent things, before moiſte- ning and loofing. but on the contrary, all ſlippery,fat, and liquid things,and which are quickly changed, ought to go before, that ſo j; may bemoiſtned; and then aſtringent things muſt follow, that the ſtomach, by their help, being ſhut and drawn together, may more ſtraitly comprehend the meat on every ſide, and better perform the chylification by its proper heat united and joined together. for this cauſe hippocrateſ, lib. de vičiu in acutiº, commands thoſe things to be always eaten in the morning which are fit to looſen the belly, and in the evenings ſuch as nouriſh the body. yet notwithſtanding drink ought not to precede or go before meat, but on the contrary meat muſt precede drink, by the order preſcribed by him. whether ought we in our eating to have leſs care of the time, than we have of the order; for the time of eating of ſuch as are healthfull, ought to be certain and fixt; for at the accuſtomed hour, and when hunger preſſes, any ſound man, and which is at his own diſ- poſure may cat, but exerciſe and accuſtomed labors º to go before; for it is fit, ac- cording to the precept of {{...; that labor precede meat, whereby the excrements of the third conco&tion may be evacuated; the native heat increaſed, and the ſolid parts confirmed and ſtrengthened, which are three commoditics of exerciſe very neceſſary * tlle chap. . compendious way to chirurgery. - - the convenient taking of meat. but in ſick perſons we can ſcarce attend and give heed to theſe circumſtances of time, and accuſtomed hour of feeding; for that indication of giving meat to the fick, is the beſt of all, which is drawn from the motion of the diſeaſe, and the declining of the fit: for if {. give meat in feavers, ſpecially the fit then taking the patient, you nouriſh not him, but the diſeaſe. for the meat then caten, is corru- pted in the ſtomach, and yºelds fit matter for the diſeaſe: for meat(as we noted before out of hippocrates) is ſtrength to the ſound, and a diſeaſe to the ſick, unleſs it be eaten at i. time, and diligent care be had of the ſtrength of the patient, and greatneſs of he diſeaſe.' but neither is it convenient that the meat ſhould be ſimple, and of one kind, but of ! many ſorts, and ofdivers diſhes dreſſed after different forms, lºſt nature by the continuall and hatefull feeding upon the ſame meat, may at the length loath it, and ſo neither ſtraitly contain it, nor well digeſt it; or the ſtomach accuſtomed to one meat, taking any loath- ing thereat, may abhor all other; and as there is no deſire of that we do not know, ſo the dótáed appetite cannot be delighted and ſtirred up with the pleaſure of any meat which can be offered. for we muſt not credit thoſe ſuperſtitious or too nice phyſitians, who think the digeſtion is hindred by the much variety of meats. the matter is far otherwiſe, for by the pleaſure of what things ſoever the ſtomach allu- red doth require, it embraces them more ſtraitly, and concoëts them more perfeótly. and our nature is deſirous of variety. moreover, ſeeing our body is compoſed of a ſolid, moiſt, and airy ſubſtance, and it may happen, that by ſo many labors, which we are compelled to undergo and ſuſtain in this liſt, one of theſe may ſuffer a greater diffipation and loſs than another; therefore the ſtomach is neceſſarily compelled to ſeek more variety, leſt anything ſhould be wanting to, repair that which is waſted. but alſo the age and ſeaſon of the year, yºeld indications of feeding, for ſome things are convenient for a young man, ſome for an old; ſome in ſum- mer, ſome in winter. wherefore we ought to know what befits each age and ſeaſon. children need hot, moiſt, and much nouriſhment, which may not only ſuffice to nouriſh, but increaſe the body. wherefore they worſt endure faſting, and of them, eſpecially thoſe who are the moſt lively and ſpiritfull. with old men it is otherwiſe, for becauſe their heat is ſmall, they need little nouriſhment, and are extinguiſhed º much. wherefore old men eaſily endure to faſt; they ought to be nouriſhed with hot and moiſt meats, by which their ſolid parts now growing cold and dry, may be heated and moiſtned, as by the ſweet nouriſhment of ſuch like meats. middle-ag'd men delight in the moderate uſe of con- traries, to temper the exceſs of their too acrid heat. young people as temperate, are to be preſerved by the uſe of like things. the manner of diet in winter muſt be hot, and inclining to drineſs. wherefore then we may more plentifully uſe roſt-meats, ſtrong wines and ſpices; becauſe in the winter-ſeaſon we are troubled with the cold and moiſt air, and at the ſame time, have much heatinwardly , for the inner parts, according to hippocrates, are naturally moſt hot in the winter and the spring, but feaveriſh in summer; ſo the heat of summer is to be tempered by the uſe of cold and moiſt things, and much drink. in the temperate spring all things muſt be moderate; but in autumn, by little and little, we muſt paſs from our summer to our winter diet. c h a p. x w. of motion and reft, ºfre phyſitians admoniſh us, that by the name of motion, we muſt underſtand all #ſº ſorts of exerciſes, as walking, leaping, running, riding, playing at tennis,carry- § inga burden, and the like, É. or rubbing is of this kind, which in times * paſt was in great uſe and eſteem, neither at this day is it altogether negle&ted by phyſitians. they mention many kinds of it, but they may be all reduced to three; as, one gentle, another hard, a third indifferent; and that of the whole body, or only of ſome part thereof. the friðion is called hard, which is made by the rough, or ſtrong preſſure ; the hands, ſpunges, or a courſe and new hinnen cloth: it draws together, condenſates, bindsand hardens the fleſh, yet ifit be often and long uſed, at length it rarifics, diffolves, **śnuates, and diminiſhes the fleſh, and any other ſubſtance of the body; and alſo it cau- ºullion, and draws the defluxion of humors from one part to another. the gentle friðion, which is performed by the light rubbing of the hand, and ſuch like, doth the $ºrary; as, ſoftens, relaxes, and makes the skin ſmooth and unwrinkled; yet unleſs it lºcontinued, it doth none of theſeworthyrobeſpoken of the indifferent kinds, $ººting in the mean betwixt the other two, #: the fleſh, ſwels or puffs up the tº: we muſt not give meat in a ht of a feaver. variety of tnçaºs. why variety of meats is good. indications of feeding , taken from the age, indication from the tim: of the year. what motion fignifies, three kinds of friðicns. hard, gentic, indifferent, an introdušion, or c * a pié, the uſe of exerciſts. what the fit- teſt time for cxcrciſe. the quality of cxtreiſe. for whom ſtrong exer- ciſes are con- vcnicnt. the benefit of exerciſe is great, for it increaſts naturall heat, whereby better digeſtion follows, and by that means nouriſhment, and the expulſion of the excrements; and laſtly a quicker motion of the ſpirits, to perform their offices in the body, all the ways and paſſages being cleanſed, beſides, it ſtrengthºns the reſpitatiºn, and the other ačtions of the body, confirms the habit, and all the limbs of the body, by the mutuall attrition of the one with the other; whereby it comes to paſs they are not ſo quickly wearicq with labor. hence we ſee that country people are not to be tired with labor. if any will reap theſe benefits by exerciſe; it is neceſſary that he take opportunity to be: gin his exerciſe, and that he ſeaſonably deſiſt from it, not exerciſing himſelf violently and without diſcretion; but at certain times according to reaſon. wherefore the beſt time for exerciſe will be before meat (that the appetite may be increa- ſed by augmenting the naturall heat) all the excrements being evacuated, lºſt nature being hungry and empty, do draw and infuſe the ill humors contained in the guts and other parts of the body, into the whole habit, the liver, and other noble parts. neither is it fit preſently, after meat, to run into exerciſe, lºſt the crudehumors and meats not well con- cočted, be carried into the veins. the meaſure and bounds of cxerciſe muſt be, when the body appears more full, the face looks red, ſweat begins to break forth, we breath more ſtrongly and quick, and begin to #. weary if any continue exerciſe longer, ſtiffneſs and wearineſs aſſails his joints, and the body flowing with ſweat ſuffers a loſs of the ſpiri- tuous and humid ſubſtance, which is not eaſily repaired; by which it becomes more cold, and lean even to deformity. - the quality of exerciſe which we require, is in the midſt of exerciſe, ſo that the exerciſe muſt be neither too ſlow and idle, neither too ſtrong nor too weak, neither too haſty nor remiſs, but which may move all the the members alike. such excrciſe is very fit for ſound bodies. but if they be diſtempered, that ſort of exerciſe is to be made choice of, which by the quality of its exceſs, may correót the diſemper of the body, and reduce it to a certain mediocrity. wherefore ſuch men as are ſtuffed with cold, groſs, and viſcous humors, ſhall hold that kind of exerciſe moſt fit for them, which is more laborious, vehement,ſtrong,and longer continued. yet ſo, that they do nºt cnter into it before the firſt and ſecond con- coötion, which they may know by the yellowneſs of their urine. but let ſuch as abound with thin and ...; humors, chuſe gentle exerciſes, and ſuch as are free from conten- tion, not expe&ting the finiſhing of the ſecond concoëtion, for the more acride heat of the ſolid parts delights in ſuch halfconcoëted juices, which otherwiſe it would ſoburn up, all the glutinous ſubſtance thereof being waſted, that they could not be adjoynedor faſtened to the parts. for the repeating or renewing of exerciſe, the body ſhould be ſo often exer: ciſed, as there is a deſire to eat. for exerciſe ſtirs up and revives the heat which lies buried * amoºsexxvia, what diſcom- modities pro-. cced from idle- ntſs. what fleep is: the uſe of fleep. and hidin the body: for digeſtion cannot be well performed by a ſluggiſh heat;neither have we any benefit by the meat we eat, unleſs we uſe exerciſebefore. the laſt part of exerciſe begun and performed .# to reaſon, is named, * the orde- ring ºf the body, which is performed by an indifferent rubbing and drying of the members; that ſo the ſweatbreaking forth, the filth of the body,and ſuch excrements lying under the skin, may be allured and drawn out; and alſo that the members may be freed from ſtiffneſs and wearineſs. at this time it is commonly uſed by ſuch as play at tennis. but, as many and great commodities ariſe from exerciſe conveniently begun and per- formed, ſo great harm proceeds of idleneſs; for groſs and vicious juices heaped up in the body commonly produce crudities, obſtrućtions, ſtones both in the reins and bladder, the gout, apoplexie, and a thouſand other diſeaſes. c. h. a. p. xvi. of sleep and watching. s.hatthis our ſpeech of sleep and watching, which we now intend, may be more |sº plain, we will briefly declare, what commodity or diſcommodity they brings tº what time and what hour is convenient for both ; what the manner of lying muſt * be and the choice thereof; what the dreams in ſleeping,and what pains or heavi- neſs and chearfulneſs after ſleep may portend.' . - sleep is nothing elſe than the reſt of the whole body, and the ceſſation of the animall faculty from ſenſe and motion. sleep is cauſed, when the ſubſtance of the brain is poſſeſſed, and after ſome ſort-overcome and dulled by a certain vaporous, ſweet and delightſome humidity ; or when the ſpirits almoſt exhauſt by performance of ſome labor, cannot any longer ſuſtain the weight of the body, but cauſe reſt by a neceſſary conſequence, by which means nature may produce other from the meat by conco&tion turned into blood. sleep fitly taken much helps the digeſtion of the parts, becauſe in the time of reſt, the heat being the worker of . concoëtion, is carried back to them, together with the ſpirits chap. . compendious way to chirurgery. ! ſpirits. neither doth ſleep º give eaſe to the wearied members, but alſo leſſºns our cares, and makes us to forget our labors. . the night is a fit time to ſleep and to take our reſt in, as inviting ſleep by its moiſture, filence and darkneſs. for the heat and spirits in the thick obſcurity of night, are driven in and retained in the center of the body; as on the contrary by the daily, and as it were, friendly and familiar light of the sun, they are allured and drawn forth into the ſuper- ficies, and outward part of the body; from whence they leave ſleeping, and begin to wake. beſides alſo, which makes not a little to that opportunity and benefit which we look for from ſleep, the night ſeaſon ſuffices for the work of juſt and perfeót concoëtion. which is one § amongſt many that ſleep on the day time may be hurtfull. for we are wakened from our ſleep by the heat and ſpirits, called forth to the skin either by the light, or noiſe on the daytime, before that the concoëtion which was begun be finiſhed. but that ſleep cannot but be light which comes without neceſſity of ſleeping. wherefore the concočtion being attempted, but not perfetted, the ſtomach is filled with crudities, diffended with acide or ſour belchings, and the brain troubled with groſs vapors and ex- crementitious humidities. from whence proceeds pain and heavineſs of the head, and flore of cold diſeaſes. but although ſleep on the night time be wholſome, yet it is fit,that it be reſtrained within the limits of an indifferent time. for that which exceeds, hinders the evacuation of excrements both upwards and downwards: but in the mean time the heat which is never idle, draws from them ſome portion or vapor into the veins,prin- cipall parts and habit of the body, to become matter for ſome diſeaſe. we muſt meaſure this time, not by the ſpace of hours, but by the finiſhing the work of concoëtion, which is performed in ſome ſooner than in other ſome. yet that which is longeſt is perfeóted and done in ſeven or eight hours. the ventricle ſubſiding and falling into its ſelf and its pro- percoats, and the urine tinëtured yellow, É. perfeót judgment thereof. for on the con- trary the extenſion of the ſtomach, acide belching, pain of the head, and heavineſs of the whole body, ſhew that the conco&ion is unperfeót. - – in ſleeping we muſt have ſpeciall care of ourlying down ; for firſt we muſt lye on our right ſide, that ſo the meat may fall into the bottom of our ſtomach, which being fleſhy, and leſs membranous, is the hotter, and more powerfull to aſſimilate. then a little after we muſt turn upon our left ſide, that ſo the liver with its lobes, as with hands may on every ſide embrace the ventricle, and as fire put under akettle, haſten the concoëtion. laſtly, towards morning it will not be unprofitable t turn again upon our right fide, that by this ſituation the mouth of the ſtomach being opened, the vapors which ariſe from the elixation of the chylus may have freer paſſage. lying upon º: is wholly to be avoided; for from hence the reins are inflamed, the stone is bred, palfies, convulſion, and all diſeaſes which have their originall from the defluxion into the ſpinall marrow, and to the nerves taking beginning from thence. to lye upon the belly is not unprofi- table for ſuch as have uſed to lye ſo, if they be not troubled with defluxions into the eys; for ſo the humor will more º, flow into the part affe&ted. but thus the work of con- cočtion is not a little furthered, becauſe by that form of lying,not only the inward heat is contained and gathered together about the ventricle,but the encompaſſing warmneſs of the ſoft feathers of the bed aids and aſſiſts it. . neither are the dreams which we have in our ſleep to be negle&ed, for by the diligent confideration of theſe, the affections and ſuperfluous humors which have chief power in thebody are marvailouſly known.for thoſe who have raging choler running up and down their bodies while they ſleep, all things to them appear bright, ſhining, fiery, burning, full of noiſe and contention. thoſe who abound with phlegm, dream of floods, ſhows, ſhowers,and inundations and falling from high places. #. are melancholy dream of gapings and gulfs in the earth, thick and obſcure darkneſs, ſmokes, caves, and all black .# things. but thoſe whoſe bodies abound in blood, dream of marriages,dances, embracings of women, feaſts, eſts, laughter, of orchards and gardens; and to conclude, of all things pleaſant and ſplendent. alſo we muſt obſerve how the patient doth after ſleep, whethermore lively and chear- full, or more heavie: for by the opinion of hippocrates, - cum labor a ſomno eff, lethalem collige morbum: sin proſt ſomnus, nihil hinc lethale timendum eſt. pain ſleep enſuing, an ill diſeaſe doth ſhow: but if ſleep profit bring, no harm from thence willflow. and as ſkep,ſo watching, if it exceedmeaſure, is hurtfull; for it hurts the temperature §ebrain, weakens the ſºnſes, waſtes the ſpirits, breeds crudities, heavineſs of the head, fallingaway of the fleſh, and leanneſs overall the body; and to conclude, it makes ulcers *dy, and ſo conſequently rebellious, difficult to heal and malign. there are many other things may be ſpoken of ſleep and wº but theſe may ſuffice a chinº, p c. h. a. p. fit time for ſleep and the nature of the night. sleep on the day-time. there ought to be a mode- ration of our nights ſleep. how to be known. what the form and fire of our body ought to be while we ſleep. the harm of lying on otit s. uipon our bellies. the conſide. ration of dreams, aphor: . ſt&# . cha p. . an introdućion, or t the kinds of repletions, or & rather of ex- ccſics. *re sad vaſa pletio & advine, gal. meth. . cap. , what caco- chymia. the kinds of cvacuation. the commo- dities of mode- rate ſcratching. the ſorce of vomits. salivation. the whole body is alſo purged by uſtinc, w c h a p. x w ii. w of repletion, and inanition, or emptineſs. hºsesºs here are, to be ſhort,two ſorts of repletion, or of all exceſs; one is of a ſimple §§ quality, without any defluxion, or ſociety of any humor, as appears in diſ- ić) tempers without matter: the other is of quantity and maſs, the body being § diſtended with too much meat, or too great quantity of humors; from - * whence proceed an infinite number of diſeaſes. they call the repletion of meats, ſatiety or fulneſs; and it is of two kinds: the one which is called “répletion or fulneſs to the veſſels; the other * repletion to the ſtrength. - we judg of ſatiety to the yeſſels, by the diſtention and ſwelling of the veins and en- trails, as the ſtomach. we call ſatiety to the ſtrength, when the body is loaded with more meats than it can well bear. but alſo there is a double repletion of humors. for cither it is of ſome one humor, or of all the humors; they call i. by a peculiar name, flºthora. for galen defines plethora an equal exceſs of all the humors. for if at any time he define a plethora to be an exceſs of blood only; then verily by the name of blood, he underſtands an equal comprehenſion of the four humors; as it is taught in phyſick ſchools. the repletion which is cauſed by ſome one humor, is termed by galin in the place be- fore mentioned, cacochymia, (that is, an evil juice) whether the repletion proceed of a cholerick, melancholick, phlegmatick, or ſerous humor, now inanition,or evacuation is no other thing than the expulſion or effuſion of humors which are troubleſome,either in quantity or quality. of evacuations,ſome are univerſall, which expell ſuperfluous huniors from the whole body ſuch are purging, vomiting, tranſpiration,ſweats,phlebotomy. some particular, which are performed only to evacuate ſome part,as the brain by the noſe,palat,eys,ears; the lungs by the weazon ; the ſtomach by vomit and ſtool; the guts by ſtool; the liver and the ſpleen by urine and ordure. theſe evacuations are ſometimes performed by nature, freeing itſelf of that which is trouble- ſome to it; otherwhiles by the art of the phyſitian in imitation of nature. and again, one of theſe is good and requiſite, when only the humor which is hurtfull either in quantity or quality, is evacuated; the other not requiſite, or immoderate,when the profitable humors together with the unprofitable, are expelled, but what evacuations ſoever theſe be, they are performed and done, either by the ſcratching and rubbing of the skin, as when a ãº. ſalt, or ſerous humor, or ſome windineſs lying between the skin and the fleſh, cauſe itching. for by ſcratching the skin, it gets paſſage out, which is manifeſt by the cfflux of a ſerous matter burning, or cauſing ſcabs and ulcers, if the humor be ſomewhat groſs, but inſenſible and not ſo manifeſt, if it be windineſ, the skin by that rubbing being rified , and the groſs flatulency attenuated. wherefore they do ill who hinder their patients from ſcratching, unleſs they ſcratch ſo cruelly and hard, that there may be danger (by reaſon of the great heat and pain thereby j of ſome defluxion or falling down of humors into the part. or theſe evacuations are performed by much matter evacuated from an opened bile, or running ulcer,a fiflula, or ſuch like ſores. or by ſweats which are very good and health- full, eſpecially in ſharp diſeaſºs, if they proceed from the whºle body, and happen on the criticall days. by vomit, which often violently draws theſe humors from the whole body, even from the utmoſt joints, which purging medicins could not evacuate,as we may ſee in the palſie, and sciatica, or hip-gout. by ſpitting, as in all who are ſuppurated either in the ſides or lungs. by salivation, or a phlegmatick flux by the mouth, as in thoſe who are troubled with the french-pox. by ſneezing and blowing the noſe; for by theſe, the brain oppreſt with moiſture, disburdeneth its ſelf whether it be done without, or with the help of ſternutatories and errhines ; wherefore children, and ſuch as have ſomewhat moiſt brains, purge themſelves often this way. by hicket and belching; for by theſe the windi- neſs contained in the ſtomach, is often expelled. by urine, for by this not only feavers but which is more to be admired, the french-pox hath often been terminated an cured. for there have been ſome troubled with the pox, in whom a flux of the vicious and venenate humor could not by unétions of quickſilver be procured, either from the mouth or belly; yet have been wonderfully freed by abundance of urine, both from danger of death and their diſeaſe. by bleeding; for nature hath often found a way for grievous diſeaſes, eſpecially in young bodies, by bleeding at the noſe, and by their courſes in wo- men. by a flux, or lask, purgation, ſweats; inſenſible evacuation and tranſpiration ; for ſo tumors; the matter being brought to ſuppuration, do ſometimes vaniſh away and are diſſolved, both of their own accord, as alſo by diſſolving or diſcuſſing medicins. we do the ſame by exerciſe, diet, hot-houſes, long ſleep, waking, and ſhºdding of tears. by fucking, as with cupping-glaſſes, and horſ-letches, in wounds made by venºmous bid; - - | chap. . compendious way to chirurgery. * º in all ſuch kinds of evacuations, we muſt conſider three things, the quantity, quality, andmanner of evacuation. as for an example, when an empyema is opened,the matter which runs out, ought to be anſwerable in proportion to the purulent matter, which was con- tained in the capacity of the breaſts; otherwiſe, unleſs all the matter be cmptied, there may happen a relapſe; the matter ſhould be white, ſoft, equal, and nothing ſtinking : laſtly,you muſt let it forth not all together,and at one time,but by little and little, and at ſeverall times, otherwiſe not a little quantity of the spirits and heat doth flow out toge- ther, with the unprofitable matter,and ſo conſequently a diſſolution of all the powers. c. h. a. p. xviii. • of the perturbations, or paſions of the minde. sh: perturbations are commonly called the accidents of the minde, becauſe as ºlº bodily accidents from the body, ſo may theſe be #. and abſent from the mind, without the corruption of the ſubjećt. the knowledg of theſe muſt not be lightly paſſed over by the fº ; for they ſtir f great troubles in the bodies, and yeeld occaſion of many and great diſeaſes ; of which things, joy, hope, and love, may give an apparent teſtimony. for by theſe motions the heat and ſpirits are ſome- times gently, ſometimes viº diffuſed overall the body, for the enjoying of the pre- ſent, or hoped for good. for then the heart is dilated, as to embrace the thing beloved, and the face is died with a roſie and lively colour. for it is likely, that the faculty itſelf is ſtirred by the objećt, by whoſe power the heart it ſelf is moved. for it is firſt neceſſary, before we be moved by any paſſions, that the ſenſes in their proper ſeats, in which they are ſeldom deceived, a prehend the obječts, and ſtraight, as meſſengers carry them to the common ſenſe, which fºnds their conceived forms to all the faculties. and then, that each faculty, as a judge may afreſh examin the whole matter, how it is, and conceive in the preſented objećts ſome ſhew of good, or ill, to be deſired, or ſhunned. for what man that was well in his wits, did ever fall into a laughter, unleſs he formerly knew, or ſaw ſomewhat ſaid ordone, which might yeeld occaſion of laughter? therefore joy proceeds from the heart, for the thing cauſing mirth or joy, being concei- wed, the faculty moves the heart, which ſhaken and moved º the faculty which hath do- minion over it, is dilated and opened, as ready to embrace the exhilarating objećt. but in the mean time by the force of that dilatation, it ſends forth much heat, and ſpirits to- gether with the bloud into all the body. a great part of which comming to the face, di- lates it, the forehead is ſmooth and plain, the eies look bright, the cheeks become red, as died with vermilion, the lips and mouth are drawn together, and made plain and ſmooth; ſome have their cheeks dented with two little pits(which from the effe&s are called laugh- ing cheeks) becauſe of the contraćtion, or ...; which the muſcles ſuffer by reaſon of their fulneſs of bloud and ſpirits, all which to be brief is nothing but to laugh. joy recreates and quickens all the faculties, ſtirs up the ſpirits, helps concoëtion, makes the body to be better liking, and fattens it, the heat, bloud, and ſpirits flowing thither, and the nouriſhing dew or moiſture, watering and refreſhing all the members; from whence it is, that of all the paſſions of the mind, this only is profitable, ſo that it exceed not meaſure; for immoderate and unaccuſtomed joy carries ſo violently the bloud and ſpirits from the heart, into the habit of the body, that ſodain and unlookt for death en- ſues, by a ſpeedy decay of the ſtrength, the laſting fountain of the vitall humour being ex- . ich thing principally happens to thoſe who are leſs hearty, as women and oicl ill&n. - anger cauſeth the ſame effuſion of heat in us, but far ſpeedier than joy; therefore the ſpirits and humors are ſo enflamed by it, that it often cauſes putrid feavers, eſpecially if the body abound with any ill humour. sorrow, or grief dries the body by a way, quite contrary to that of anger, becauſe by this the heart is ſo ſtraitncq, the heat being almoſt extin't, that the accuſtomed generati- on of ſpirits cannot be performed; and if any be generated, they cannot freely paſs into the members with the bloud; wherefore the vitall faculty is weakned, the lively colour of the face withers and decays, and the body waſtes away with a lingering conſumption. fear in like ſort draws in and calls back the ſpirits, and not by little and little as in forrow, but ſodainly and violently; hereupon the face growes ſodainly pale,the extreme parts cold, all the body trembles or ſhakes, the belly in ſome is looſed, the voice as it were #ays in the jawes, the heartbeats with a violent pulſation, becauſe it is almoſt oppreſt by the heat, ſtrangled by the plenty of bloud, and ſpirits aboundantly ruſhing thither; the hair alſo ſtands upright, º the heat and bloud are retired to the inner parts, *the utmoſtparts are more cold and drie than ſtone; by reaſon whereofthe utmoſt skin and the pores, in which the roots of the hairs are faſtned, are drawn together, d shame we muſt ob- ſerve three things in every cvacuation, < why the paſ- fions of the minde are cal- led accidents, their force. from whence they have their force. the reaſon of joy. – .* the effe&s of joy. anger. ~ . feat. hippºcr. liº. . de morº. w ,-- o shame. **shauptfaſtneſs. --~~ , - - - - an agony. why the firſt ſigns of paſſi- ons of the mind appear in the facc. the uſe of paſ- fions of the mind. an introdućtion, or cha riº. shame is a certain affečtion mixed, as it were, of anger and fear; therefore if, in that conflićt of, as it were, contending paſſions. fear .#. anger, the face waxeth pale (the blood flying back to the heart ) and theſe or theſe symptones riſe, according to th. vehemency of the contrated and abated heat, but if on the contrary, anger get the domi- nion over fear,the blood runs violently to the face,the eyes look red, and ſometimes they even fome at the mouth. there is another kind of ſhame,which the lating call verecundia (we shamcfaſtneſs) in which there is a certain flux, and reflux of the heat, and blood, firſt recoiling to the heart, then preſently rebounding from thence again. but that motion is ſo gentle, that the heart thereby ſuffers no º: nor defečt of ſpirits; wherefore no additiºn: worthy to be ſpoken of ariſe from hence: this affect is familiar to young maids and boyes, who if they bluſh for a fault committed unawares, or through careleſneſs, it is thought an argu- ment of vertuous and good diſpoſition. butan agony,which is a mixt paſſion of a ſtrong fear, and vehement anger,involves the heart in the danger ofboth motions;wherefore by this paſſion,the vitall facultieisbrought into very great danger. to theſe ſix paſſions of the mind, all other may be revoked,as ha- tred and diſcord,to anger: mirth and boaſting, to joy; terrors, frights and swound. ings,to fear; envy, ºl. and mourning, to sorrow. by theſe it is evident, how much the paſſions of the mind can prevail, to alter and over- throw the ſtate of the body; and that i. no other means, than that by the compreſſion and dilatation of the heart, they diffuſe and contraët the ſpirits blood, and heat; from whence happens the diſſipation,or oppreſſion of the ſpirits. the ſignes of theſe symptomes quickly ſhew themſelves in the face; the heart,by reaſon of the thinneſs of the skin in that part, as it were painting forth the notes of its affections. and certainly the face is a part ſo fit to diſcloſe †. affe&tions of the inward parts, that by it you may manifeſtly know an old man from a young,a woman from a man, atºmpe- rate perſon from an untemperate, an ºf. from an indian, a frenchman from a spaniard a ſad man from a merry, a ſound from a fick, a living from a dead. wherefore many affirm that the manners,and thoſe things which we keep ſecret and hid in our hearts, may be un- derſtood by the face and countenance. .. now we have declared what commodity and diſcommodity may redound to the man from theſe forementioned paſſions,and have ſhewed that anger is profitable to none, unleſs by chance to ſome dull by reaſon of idleneſs,or oppreſt with ſome cold, clammy and phleg- matick humor; and fear convenient for none, unleſsperadventure for ſuch as are brought into manifeſt and extream †. of their life by ſome extraordinary ſweat, immoderate bleeding or the like unbridled evacuation:wherefore it behoves a wiſe chirurgeon to have a care, #. he inconſiderately put any patient committed to his charge into any of theſe gº unleſs there be ſome neceſſity thereof, by reaſon of any ºf: forementionedoc- c : olls. c h a p. xix. * - of things againſt nature, and firſt of the cauſe of a diſeaſe. *aving intreated of things naturall, and not naturall, now it remains we ſpeak of ºthings (which are called) againſt nature, becauſe that they are ſuch as are apt to § . weaken & corrupt the ſtate of our body.and they be three in number;the cauſe of * a diſeaſe, a diſeaſe, and a symptome.the cauſe of a diſeaſe is an affect againſ na- ture,which cauſes the diſeaſe. which is divided into internall and externall. the exter- nal,originall or primitive comes from ſome other place,and outwardly into the body;ſuch be meats of ill nouriſhment,and ſuch weapons as hoſtilely wound the body. - the internall have their eſſence and ſeat in the body,andare ſubdivided into antecedent and . that is called an antecedent cauſe, which as yet doth not ačtually make a diſeaſe, but goes near to cauſe one ; ſo humors co iouſly flowing, or ready to flow into any part, are the antecedent cauſes of diſeaſes; #. conjunct is that which aćtually cauſes the diſeaſe,and is ſo immediately joyned in affinity to the diſeaſe,that the diſeaſe being pre- ſent, it is .. being abſent, . is abſent. p again,of all ſuch cauſes ſome areborn together with us,as the over-great quanti malign quality of both the ſeeds,and the menſtruous blood from j . of many diſeaſes,and ſpecially of thoſe which are called hereditary. other happen to us afterwebeborn,by our diet and manner of life,a ſtroke,fall or ſuch other like. thoſe which bebred with us,cannot be wholly avoided or amended, but ſome of the other may be avoided,as a ſtroke and fall; ſome not as thoſe which neceſſarily enter into ourbody,ás air,meat,drink, and the like. but if any will reckonupamongſt the internal,inherent and inevitable cauſes,the dayly nay hourely diſſipation of the radicall moiſture,which the naturall heat continually º what things againſt nature are. whar,and how many the cau" ſes of diſeaſes be. the primitive cauſe. internallante- cedent- internallcon- junét. the congenit, or inevitable cauſe of death. upon ; - : chap. , . compendious way to chirurgery. upon; i do not gainſay it, no more than that diviſion of cauſes celebrated and received ofphiloſophers, divided into material, formall, efficient, and finall; for ſuch a curious contemplation belongs not to a chirurgeon, whom i only intend plainly to inſtrućt. wherefore that we have written may ſuffice him. c h a p. x x. of a diſtaſe. & diſeaſe is an affect againſt nature, principally, and by itſelf, hurting and depra- ºf wing the aëion of the part in which it reſides. the diviſion of a diſeaſe is threefold; diſtemperature, ill conformation, and the solution of conti- ºwe inuity. pººre is a diſeaſe of the ſimilar parts diffenting, and changed from their pro- rand native temper. that digreſſion from the native temper, happens two ways; either § a ſimple diſemperature from the exceſs of one quality; and this is fourfold, hot, cold, moiſt, and dry or by a compound diſtemperature, by the exceſs of two qualities, which alſo is fourfold, hot and moiſt, hot and dry; cold and moiſt, cold and dry. again, every diſemperisthefault of one fimple and fingle quality, as an inflammation; or hath ſome vicious humorsjoined with it as a phlegmon:again,a diſemperature is either equal, as in a sphacele; or h. as in a phlegmon, inning or increaſing. : - ill conformity is a fault of the organicall parts, whoſe compoſure is thereby depraved. this hath four kinds; the firſt is, when the figure of the part is faulty, either by nature oraccident, or ſome cavitie aboliſhed; as if a part which nature would have hoſlow for ſome certain uſe,dogrow or cloſeup; orlaſtly, if they be rough, or ſmooth otherwiſe than they ſhould, as if that part which ſhould be rough, beſmooth, or the contrary. ano- ther is in the magnitude of the part increaſed, or diminiſhed contrary to nature. the third is in the number of the parts increaſed or diminiſhed; as ifa hand have but four or elſe fix fingers. the fourth is in the fite and mutuall connexion of the parts; as if the ts which ſhould be naturally united and continued be pluckt aſunder, as happens in luxations or the contrary. . the third generall kind of diſeaſe, is the ſolution of continuity, a diſeaſe common.both to the fimilar and organicall parts acquiring diverfity ofnames, according to the variety of the parts in which it reſides. - chap. xxi. of a spºptome. ºb do not in this place take the word symptome in the moſt generall acceptation, wº% for every change oraccident which happenstoman befides his own nature, but x& more reſervedly and ſpecially, only for that change which the diſeaſe brings, and * which follows the diſeaſe, as aſhadow doth the body. there be three kindes of a symptome § taken. the firſt is, when the ağion is hurt; i ſay hurt, becauſe it is either aboliſhed, weakned, or depraved; ſo blindneſs is a deprivation or aboliſhing of theation of ſeeing; dulneſs of fight, is a diminution or weakning thereof; and a ſuffuſion, ſuch as happens at the beginning of a catarağ, when they ; flies, hares, and ſuch like bodies fly to and frobefore their eys,is a deprivation of the ſight. - the ...a is a ſimple affett of the body, and a full fault of the habit thereof being changed, happening by the mutation of ſome qualities; ſuch is the changing of the native colour into ared by a phlegmon, and into a livid and blackby a gangrene; ſuch is the filthy ſtench the noſe affected with a polypus ſends forth; the bitter taſte, in ſuch as have the laundiſe; and the rough and rugged skin in them which are leprous. the third is the fault of the overmuch retention of excrements which ſhould be expel- led and expulſion of ſuch as ſhould be retained; for the evacuation of an humor profitable bothin quantity and quality, is againſt nature, as bleeding in a body not full of ill hu- mors, nor plethorick; and alſo the retention of thin º in ſubflance, quantity and quality, as the courſes in women, the urine, and #. ſtone in the bladder. chap, what a diſeaſe is, and how various. a diſempe- rature. ill conforma- tion. solution of continuity. what a ymp- tome is. three kind; thereof, w . . . an introdućlion, or , chap. . º c h a p. xxii. of indications. *he knowledg and exerciſe of indications befits that chirurgeon, whom noblind tº raſtneſs of fortune, but reaſon ; no chance, but counſell direčis in the under- §º taking and performing the works of his art. for an indication is a certain & ſafe and ſhortway, which leads the phyſician,as by the hand, to the attainment of his purpoſed cnd, of preſerving the ſound,or curing the ſick. see method. for galendoth define an indication to be a certain inſinuation of what is to be done, or what indica. tion is. cap; lib.de a quick and judicious apprehenſion of that which may profit or hurt. and as faulconers, *::ſºla,cap. mariners, plowmen, souldiers, and allmanner of artizens, have their peculiar terms and ii . words;which are neither known;nor uſed by the vulgar, ſo this word lidication is proper and peculiar to phyſitians and chirurgeons, as a term of art not vulgarsby conſideration of which, as by ſome ſign,or ſecret token,they are admoniſhed what is to to be done to re- ſtore health, or repell an imminent º; º the kind of . there are three prime and principall kinds of indications,every of which is ſubdivided indications into many other. the firſt is from things naturall.the ſecond from thoſe things which are termed not naturall. the third from thoſe things which are contrary to nature. things naturall ſhºw they muſt be preſerved by their like,and in the compaſs of theſe are contained all the indications which are drawn from the nature of the patient, that is , from his ſtrength, tamper, age, ſex, habit, cuſtome, diet. . things not naturall may be doubted as uncertain, for one while they indicate the ſame things with things naturall,that is, they coindicate with the ſtrength, temperand the reſt; otherwhiles they conſent with things againſt nature, that is, they coindicate with the diſ- - eaſe. wherefore galen when he ſaith, that indications are drawn from three things; ***** the diſeaſº, the nature of the patient, and the encompaſſ ir ; b > táp. . - t - * : “... • “; paſſing air; by propoſing the familiar example of the air, he would have us to underſtand the other things not natu- rall; becauſe we nay ſhun or imbrace them more or leſs as we will our ſclves, but we muſt, whether we will or no, endure the preſent ſtate of the air. therefore the air indicatcs ſomething to us, or rather coindicates; for if it nouriſh the diſeaſe, as conſpiring withit,it will indicate the ſame that the diſeaſe,that is, that it muſt be preſerved in the ſame ſtate. ‘’’. if . . . . . . . - - indications things contrary to ". muſt be taken away by their contraries; there- ... fore that we may more accurately and fully handle all the indications drawn from things àing naturall. naturall, we muſt note, that ſemeof theſe are concerning the ſtrength of the patient,by care to preſerve which, we are often compelled for a time to forſake the cure of the proper diſeaſe: for ſo a great ſhaking happening at the beginning of an ague or feaver, we are of. ten forced to give ſuſtenance to the patient, to ſtrength.cn the powers ſhaken by the vehe- mency of the ſºaking, which thing notwithſtanding lengthens i. the generall and parti- cular fits of the ague. other pertain to the temper, other reſpc&t the habit, if the patient - be ſlender, iffat, if well fleſht;if of a rare, or denſe conſtitution of body. other reſpc&t the condition ºf the part affected in ſubſtance, conſiſtence, ſoftneſs, hardliefs, quick or dull ſenſe, form, figure, magnitude, ſite, connexiºn, principality, ſervice, funétion and uſe. from all theſe, as from notes,the skilfull chirurgeon will draw indications according to - the time and part affečted: for the ſame things are not fit for ſore eyes, which were con- venient for the ears, neither doth the phlºgº on in the jaws and throat admit the ſame form of cure, as it doth in other parts of the body. for none can there outwardly apply what the con- repercuſſives, without preſent danger of ſuffocation. sothere is no uſe of repercuſſives in ditions of the defluxions of thoſe parts which in ſite are neer the i. neither muſt thou cure a parts ºfteå wounded nerve and muſcle, after one manner. the temperature of a part, as moiſture,al- *** wayes indicates its preſervation, although the diſeaſe be moiſt,and give indication of dry- ing, as an ulcer. the principality of a part alway.cs inſinuatcs an indication of aſtringent things, although the diſeaſe require diffolving, as an obſtrućtion of the liver; for o- f therwiſe unleſs you mix aſtringent things with dffiolving you will ſo diſſolve the ſtrength of the part,that hereafter it cannot ſuffice for º: texture of a part be rare, it ſhºws it is leſs apt,or prone to obſtrućtion ; ifdenſe,it is more obnoxious to that diſeaſe, hence it is: that º?. is oftener obſtrućted than the splcºn. if the part be ſituate more deep, or remote,it indicates the medicines muſt be more vigorous and liquid,that they may ſend their force ſofar. the ſºnſibleneſs, or quick-ſenſe of the part, gives indication of milder medicines, than º the ſigns, or notes of a great diſeaſe require. for - - the phyſitian which applics things equally ſharp to the horny tunicle of the eye being *::::... ulcerated,and to the lº need be counted either cruell, or ignorant. each ſex and age ion *" hath its indications, for ſome diſeaſes are curable in youth, which we muſt not hope to cure in old age; for hoarſneſs and great diſtillations in very old men, admit no digeſti- ahbor, o. li. . on,as hippocrates ſaith. nundham - chap. . compendious way to chirurgery. numquam decrepitu, branchun coquit, atque coryzam. the feeble sire, for age that hardly goes, me're well digeſts the hurtfull rheume or poſt. moreover according to his decree the diſeaſes of the reins, and whatſoever pains moleſt aphor ſº. . the bladder, aie difficultly healed in old men ; and alſo reaſon perſwades that a quartain admits no cure in winter;and ſcarce a quotidian; and ulcers in likemanner are more hard to healin winter;that hence we may underſtand certain indications to be drawn from time; and to increaſe the credit of the variety and certainty of indications; ſome certaine time, - and ſeaſons in thoſe times command us to make choiſe of medicines; for as hippocrates aphor. ſ. . teſtifics; -- - - ad cani, ardorem facilis purgatio moneſt. in dogdayes heatitis not good, by purging for to cleanſe the blood. neither ſhalt thouſo well preſcribe aſlender diet in winter,as in the spring, for the air hath its indications. for experience teachesus, that wounds of the head are far more diffi- cultly and hardly cured, at rome, asples, and rochell in xantoigne. but the times of diſeaſes ...? the principall indications, for ſome medicines are only to be uſed at the beginning and end of diſeaſes,others at the increaſe and vigour of the diſeaſe. wee muſt not contema thoſe indications which are drawn from the vocation of life,andmanner of diet; for you from our diet. muſt otherwiſe deal with the painfull husbandman (when he is your patient) which leads his life ſparingly and hardly than with the citizen who lives daihtily and idlely. to this manner of life and diet may be referred a certain ſocret and occult property,by which many harred ariſing are not only ready to vomitateating of ſome meats, but tremble over all their bodies tºº. when they hear them but ſpoken of knew a prime nobleman of the french nobility, **** who was ſo perplext at the ſerving in of an eel to the table, at the midſt of dinner and amongſt his friends, that he fell into a ſwound, all his powers failing him. galen in his book de conſuatudine tells that arius the peripatetick died ſodainly, becauſe compelled by the advice of thoſe phyfitians he uſed, he drank a great draught of coldwater in the intolerable heat of a feaver. for no reaſon, ſaith galen, than that, becauſe he know- ing he had naturally a cold ſtomach from his childhood, perpetually abſtained from cold twater, r - - - - for as much as belongs to indications taken from things againſt nature; the length and º ta- depth of a wound or ulcer indicates one way;the figure cornered,round,cquall . things againſt unequall and rough, with a hollowneſs ſtºright or winding, indicate otherwiſe; the ſite nature. right, left, upper, lower in another manner; and otherwiſe the force and violence of ante- cedent and conjunct cauſes. for oftentimes the condition of the cauſe indicates contrary to the diſeaſe, as when abundance of cold and groſs humors cauſe and nouriſh a fcaver. so alſo a symptome often indicates ... the diſeaſe, in which contradićtion, that in- dication muſtbe moſt ºffeemed, which doth moſt urge; as for example ſake, iffwound- ing happen in a feaver, the feaveriſh burning ſhall not hinderus from giving wine to the patient. wherefore theſe indications are the principalleſt and moſt noble which lead us,as by the hand, to do; theſe things which pertain to the cure, prevention and mitigating of diſeaſes. but if any objećt, that ſo curious a ſearch of fomany indications is to no purpoſe, becauſe there are many chirurgeons, which ſetting only one before their eyes,which is drawn from the eſſence of the diſeaſe, have the report and fame of skilfull chirurgeons, in the opini- ..., on of the vulgar; butlet him know that it doth not therefore follow, that this indicati- which isfrom . on is ſufficient for the cure of all diſeaſes; for we do not alwayes follow that which the the diſeaſe. eſſence of the diſeaſe doth indicate to be done. butchiefly then, where none of thefore- recited indications doth reſiſt or gainſay you may underſtand this by the example of a plethora,which by the indication drawn from the eſſence of the thing requires phlebotomy; yet who is it,that will draw blood from a child of three months old?beſides,ſuch an indica- tion is not artificiall but common to the chirurgeon with the common people. for who is it that is ignorant, that contraries are the remedies of contraries? and that broken bones muſt be united by joyning them together but how it muſt be performed and done, this is of art and peculiar to a chirurgeon, and not known to the vulgar. which the indicati- ons drawn from thoſe fountains we pointed at before, aboundantly teaches, which, as by *tain limits of circumſtances,encompaſs the indication which is taken from the effence of thºdiſeaſº, left any ſhould think, wenuſ truſt to that only. for there is ſome great and inwhº pº wrincipall matterin it, but not all. for ſo the meaneſt º: common people is not igno- . . *that the ſolution of continuity is to be cured by repairing that which is loſt. but in É. of ſo- tº: may hope for reſtitution of the loſt ſubſtance,and in which not,is the part of ionoſconti. **iliullchirurgeonto know and pronounce. wherefore he will not vainly beſtow his nuity labour we do not al., wayes follow an introdućlion, or chap. . w experience without reaſon is like a blind man without a guide. indications in implicit diſ- caſcs. labor to cure the nervous part of the diaphragma, or midriffe being wounded,or the heart, ſmall guts, lungs,liver, stomach, brain or bladder; and that i may ſpeak in a word,eni- pericks are not much more skilfull than the common people, although they do ſo much extoll themſelves above others by the name of experience. for although experience be ano- ther inſtrument to find out things with reaſon, yet without reaſon, it will never teach, what the ſubſtance of the part in which the diſeaſe lies, may be ; or what the ačtion, uſe, fite, connexion, from whence ſpeciall and %. indications are drawn; with which the chirurgeon being provided and inſtrućted ſhall not only know by what means to find out a remedy,but alſo, left he may ſºcm to mock any with vain promiſes, he ſhall diſcern what diſeaſes are uncurable,and therefore not to be medled withall. • but implicit or intricate diſeaſes require each to be cured in their ſeverall order, except ſome one of them be deſperate,or ſourge & preſs that the phyſitian think it neceſſary after prepoſterous order,to begin with it,although often he be forced to make ſome one of theſe diſeaſes incurable, or give occaſion of cauſing ſome new oncinto which ſtraits we are neceſ- ſarily compelled to É. when, (for example) we determine to pull, or takeaway ſome ex- traneous body; for the performance whereof we are compelled to inlarge the wound. so we are forced by neceſſity to open the neck of the bladder, (that ſo we may drawforth the ſtone therein contained) with a wound which often degenerates into an uncurable fiſtula. for that diſeaſe which threatens danger of preſent death is of ſuch moment, that to ſhun that it may be counted a ſmall matter, and commodious for the fick to bring in other diſeaſes, though uncurable. for if a convulſion happen by pricking a nerve, which we cannot heal by any remedies, then by cutting the nerve aſunder we end the convulſion,but deprive the part into which that nerve did goe, of the uſe of ſome voluntary motion. so if in any great joynt there happen a luxation with a wound,becauſe there is danger of con- vulſion by trying to reſtore and ſet right the luxated part, we are forc'd for ſhunning there- of, to attend the wound only, and in the mean time to let alone the luxation. other- wiſe in implicit diſeaſes if there benothing which may urge, or callus from the ordinary cure, wenuſt obſerve this order, that beginning with that affe&t, which hinders the cure of the principall diſeaſe, we proſecute the reſt in the ſame and their proper order, untill all the diſeaſes §. overcome weſhall reſtore the part affetted to its integrity. therefore let us take for an example, an ulcer in the lega varix(or big ſwollen vein)anda phlegmonous tumor round about it; and laſtly, a body wholly plethorick and filled with ill humors; order and reaſon require this, that uſing the adviſe of ſome learned phyſitian we preſcribe a convenient diet, and by what means we . him to an equality by purging and blood-letting, and then we will ſcarifiein divers places the part where it is moſt ſwollen, then preſently apply leeches,that ſo we may free it from the burden of the conjunét matter; then uſe cauteries to help the corruption of thf bone, and in the mean time change the cir- cular figure of the ulcer into an ovall, or triangular; then at the length we will under- take the cutting of the varix,and cure the ulcer which remains according to art, and ſo at the length cicatrize it. in all this whole time the patient ſhall neither walk,nor ſtand, nor fit,butly quietly,having his legorderly and decently rowled up.but iſ as it often happens) the temper of the hurt part, be different from the temper of the whole body,the manner of curing muſt be ſo tempered,that we increaſe the doſis of hot or cold medicines,according to the ratable proportion of the indications requiring this or that, therefore imagine the part ulcerated to be ſuch,as that it is two degrees dryer than the juſt temper;but the whole body to exceed the ſame temperin one degree of humidity: reaſon and art will require, that the medicin applyed to the ulcer be dryer by one degree than that which the part would other- wiſe require if it were temperate; but on the contrary let us ſuppoſe thus: the whole body to be one degree more moiſt then the temper requires, and the ulcerated part to be one de- gree dryer: truly in this caſe the medicine that is applyed to the ulcer by reaſon of the part itſelf,ſhall not be increaſed in dryneſs, but wholly compoſed and tempered to the indicati- on of the ulcer, becauſe the force of the moiſture exceeding in the like degree, doth counter- poiſe the ſuperfluous degree of dryneſs. but it is more eaſie by an artificiall conjećture to determine of all ſuch things,than by any rules or precepts. to theſe ſo many and various indications, i think good to add two other; the one from ſimilitude;the other of a certain crafty deviſe, & as the latter phyſitians term it,of a certain ſubtile ſtratagem. we draw indication from fimilitude, in diſeaſes which newly ſpring up and ariſe, as which cannot becured by indications drawn from their contraries, as long as their eſſence is unknown and hid; wherefore they think it neceſſary to cure them by a way and art like thoſe diſeaſes, with which they ſeem to have an agreeing ſimilitude of sym- tomes and accidents; our anceſtors did the ſame in curing the french pocks, at the firſt ginning thereof, as longas they aſſimilated the cure to that of the lepraſie, by reaſon of that affinity, which both the diſeaſes ſeem to have. but we follow crafty devices and ſub- tile jº, when the eſſence of the diſeaſe we meet, with is wholly ſecret and hid,either becauſe it is altogether of a hidden and ſecret nature,and which cannot be unfolded by ma- nifeſt qualities, or elſe reſides in a ſubjećt which is not ſufficiently known to us, nor of a phyſicall contemplation, as the mind. for then we being deſtitute of indications taken an example of indications in implicit diſeaſes. what we muſt do when the temper of the part is different from the tem- er of the whole body. an artificiall conječure is of much force in indications. indication from ſimilitude. indication of a ſubtile device. from cha ra . compendious way to chirurgery. from the nature of the thing,are compelled to turn our cogitations to impoſtures and crafty counſels; and they ſay this art and craft is of chiefuſe in melancholy affects and fićtions, which are often more monſtrous and deformed than the chimera ſo much mentioned in the fables of the ancients; to which purpoſe , i will not think much to recite two exam- ples. a certain man troubled with a melancholick diſeaſe, i know not by what errour of o- pinion,had ſtrongly perſwaded himſelf that he was without a head; the phyſitians omitted nothing, by which º might hope to take this mad opinion out of his mind. but when they had in vain tryed all medicines,at length they deviſed this crafty, but profitable device, they faſtened and put upon his head a moſt heavy helmet,that ſo by the pain and trouble of i. nodding and drawn down by that weight, he might be admoniſhed of his error. it is reported, another moleſted by the obſcurity and darkneſs of the ſame diſeaſe, did verily beleeve, that he had horns upon his head;neither could he be drawn or diverted from that abſurd and monſtrous opinion, untill that º his eyes, they miſèrably bruiſed andſcratched his forehead with the bony roughneſs of the lower parts of an oxes hôrns,that ſo he begun to believe by the painfull drawing of the blood that ran down his face, that thoſe bloody horns were forcibly j. from him. ingenious chirurgeons in imitation of theſe examples may in like caſes do the like. for that caſe requires a man of a quick a prehenſion and advice, who may give manifeſtproofof his diligence and skill by medicinil itratagems,as who forthwith can politickly deviſe ſtratagems of divers ſorts. - but, now coming to the end of this our trađof indications, we muſichiefly and princi- pally obſerve; that of indications ſome are indicative; which abſolutely and of them- . fºlves command this to be done; other conidicative, which indicate the ſame with the in- dicative, and joyntly ſhew it to be done but in ſome ſort ſecondarily and not primitively; ſome are gnants which of themſelves and their own nature perſwade quite contrary ºil. the indicative primitively did perſwadeus; other correpugnant, which give their voice after the ſame formand manner with the repugnant againſt the indicative . as the coindicative conſent to and maintain them. let this ſerve for an example ofthemati. a plethora, or plenitudeof humors of its own nature, requires and indicates blood-" letting,the spring time perſwades and colndicates the ſame,but to this counſeli is quite op- poſite and repugnant, a weak faculty, and childhood is correpugnant. - wherefore theſe four muſt be diligently weighed and confidered when we deliberate what is to be done, and wenuſ rather follow that which the indicative, or repugnant ſhºw and declare, as what the diſeaſes and ſtrength of the patient require, than that which theºn. dicative, or correpugnantſhall perſwade, becauſe they have a weaker and bit ſºcian power ofindicatiºn: not eſſentiall &primitive ºt becauſe the kinds of i. ſo many and divers,therefore that the . of them may bemore perſpicuous and leſ; confuſed, i have thought good to deſcribe and diſtinguiſh them by this following ſcheme. - * . - - " ; , , , , , , , , - - - —— - . . . . . . . . . . . - • * - - --- - , , , , ; º - - - - - - -- - -" examples. a phy fi ian fhould be of a quick appre- henſion. indications in. cative. coindicative. repugnant, correpugnant. an indication * a certain plain ſy - leads the chir- argeon to cer- sain, determinate andpropoſedend fºr the are she preſent dif: sºfts; ºf which | where are three . kisdº, , , , , } t | : | ( º º - c r a p. . -- a table of indications. - ſ: firſt is drawn frºm thing naturam which in- dicate their preſervation by their like; ofthis kind are many other which are drawn, either theſecond is drawnfrom th ing, set naturall, which one whilein. dicate their preſervation by their iike, another while their change rfrom the ſtrength c. for whoſe preſervation,ºf entime, the propercure f and faculties of d the diſeaſe muſt be negleded; fºr where theſe fail,it i. the patient. s impoſſible the chirurgeon ſhould perform what he de- 'cſírez and expeth. |fpreſ: - of preſervation of which the chinar. from the tempt :* geon muſt have care, and if they raments* #* flegmali º, *::: rom *; reduce them patient ſha - to that which fºrmerly they main- .. rally were. y - dainty and delicate, frºm behabit ºf) sinºr and ºak. the body, the pi-sex, of ſtature. | titatſball be rare, or elſe denſe and compati. [the ſubſtance thereof, a far as much as it is ſimilar, we conſider whether it be her, cold, moiſt, dry, or as it is - organical, and then whether it be a principall and :::::::::: neble part, or ſubordinate and ignoble park barter afted or the ſenſe, whether quick, or dull, by reaſºn - whereof the eye cannot endure ſuch ſharpe and acrid ſº: * } medicine,a finplefiſh can. ſh or the fºrm figure, magnitude, namber,ſts,connexi- onallion,wſ?. from the age, for each age jeeld, his peculiar indicationſ, hence you may elſerve moſt diſtaſes to be incurable in old men, which aſeeiſly cured in yºung, others which in youth admit ºf no cure, unleſ; by the change of age and the enſiting temperament. from sex, for medicine work upon women far more eaſily than upºn men. from the time of theytar for ſºme meat, and medicine arefit in winter,ſºme in summer. from the region, fºr a there are diverſities ºf ſituationſ and habitſ of placer, ſº alſº there are motions ofbumors,and manners of diſeaſes : hence it is that wºund, on the head at paris, andfºre ſhing at avignion are more difficult to be cured. from the timeroſaſtaſe, for ſºme thing, is the beginnine, other in the increaſe ſtate *::::::: ofthe diſeaſe, are mºre convenient. from the manner fliet,for this, as the prºper temper, muſt be preſerved. wherefºreſch muffiefd ºtherwiſ, who live daimily, than thoſe who lead their five-ſpiringly and hardly. hereunie add tertain peculian natures, which by a certain hidden property are offended at this or that kind of meat. forthere are ſºme which notonely cannot concº priſºn, appleſ, seles,partridge, water and ſush likeºut canſtarct behold them without nauſeouſneſ. ſhe-air, have aſ it were conſpired with the diſeaſeh acertainſimi- indefaualities to the deſiruffion of the patient, it muſt *cor- retird by its centraries, according to rt. - - burifi, ſhe diſagreement of qualities it refſ, the diſeaſe, it muſt * by their contraries; fºr ſº kept in the ſame temper." f p w - - - rprom that rbitterneſ; | º, * of pain, a | moſt urgent defuxion, º } into a - -- h' from the tº: ! [. 'ſ in impli- cauſe arºx, or 'ſ the great- cit, ºr and | ſuch ; ſwol- * * - - is we fn ºvern # i tºp third from the diſtaſ, **. ;: from that, a 'º' . ãº. |imº |** }. nºw withºut . < perature, rare mann, . *::... i. indicati- which the # if they be which ſhew, ºf" tion with ons from diſeaſe can- joyned || they muſt be theſe, ºther; ſº theſe three : not be taken with a taken away - , thi .) caway: diſeaſe. by the uſe of •] . ... [- iſ their contra- <" t iſit, as l *- - !cºlſº | o - the *sºlid weſinidium andruwin musiv won ſh diſeaſº. , symp. {l rºma, . ; chap. . way to chirurgery. c h a p. xxiii. of certain wonderful and extravagant ways of citring diſeaſes. ºxºs monſters ſometimes happen in nature, ſo alſo in diſeaſes, and in the events and §an}; cures of diſeaſes. i underſtand by monſters certain marvailous ſucceſſes in diſ- ºf caſes, or certain ways of curing them, which ſwerve from art, and happen be- §º ſides reaſon, nature, and common uſe. alexander ab alexandro, and pter gilius tell, that in apulia a part of italy they have a certain kind of spider very frequent; the natives call it t.arantula, petrus rhodiuſ cals it phalangium; the inhabitants find theſe spiders in the firſt heat of summer ſo venenate and deadly, that whomſoever they touch with their virulent biting, he preſently, without he have ſpecdy remedy, deprived of all ſenſe and motion fals down, or certainly if he eſcape the danger of death, he leads the remnant of his life in madneſs. experience hath found a remedy by muſick for this ſo ſpeedy and deadly a diſeaſe: wherefore as ſoon as they can they fetch fidlers and pipers of divers kinds , who y . and piping may make muſick; at the hearing whereof, he which was fallen down by reaſon of the venemous bite, riſes cheerfully, and dances ſo long to their meaſures and tunes, untill by the painfull and continued ſhaking and agitation of the whole body, all the malignity is diſſipated by tranſpiration and ſweats. monſtrous diſeaſes, the wonder- full force of the bite of a cer. tain spider. muſick the . remedythereof. alexander adds, that it happened once in his ſight, that the muſicians their wind and hands failing them ceaſed playing, and then the dancer preſently fell down as if he had been dead; but by and by the muſick beginning anew, he riſe up again and continued his dancing till the perfe sº of the venome. and that it hath happened beſides, - that one not ſo perfeótly healed, certain reliques of the diſeaſe yet remaining, when a long time after he heard by chance a noiſe of muſicians,he preſently fell a leaping and dancing, neither could he be made to leave before he was j, cured. some affirm according to the opinion of aſclepiades, that ſuch as are frantick aremuch helped with a ſweet and muſicall harmony. theophraſtus and aulus gellius ſay, that the pain of the gout and sciatica are taken away by muſick. and the ſacred sëripture teſtifies, that david was wont by the ſweet ſound of the harp to refreſh and eaſe king saul when he was miſerably tormented by his evil ſpirit. . herodotus in clio tels, that craſu, the king of lydia had a son, which of a long time could not ſpeak, and when he came to mans eſtate was accounted dumb: but when an enemy with his drawn ſword invaded his fa- ther(overcome in a great fight, and the city being taken in which he was) not knowing that he was the king, the youngman opened his mouth endevouring to cry out,and with that ſtriving and forcing of the spirit, he broke the bonds and hinderances of his tongue, and ſpoke plainly and articulately, crying out to the enemy that he ſhould not kill kin craſu. soboth the enemy with-held his ſword, and the king had his life, and his ſon ha his ſpeech always after.plutarch in his book, f the benefit to be received from our enemies, tels, that a theſſalian called proteus, had a certain inveterate and incurable ulcer in a cer- tain part of his body, which could not behealed, before he received a wound in a conflićt in the ſame place, and by that means the cure being begun afreſh,the wound and ulcer were both i. quintus fabius maximu, as livie writes, was long and very ſick of a quartain ague, ineither could have wiſhed ſucceſs from medicins adminiſtred according to art, untill skir- miſhing with the allobroges, he ſhaked off his old feaveriſh heat, by a new heat and ardent deſire of fighting. it was credibly reported to me of late by a gentleman of the lord of lanſackes chamber, that there was a french gentleman in polonia, who was grievouſly tormented with a quartain feaver, who on a time walking upon the bank .# the river jwixel, to take away the irkſomneſs of his fit, was thruſt injeſtinto the river by a friend of his that met him by chance, by which (although he could ſwim, as he alſo knew that thruſt him in) he conceived ſo great fear, that the quartain never troubled him after. king henry the ſecond commanded me to go from the camp at amiens to the city torlan, that i might cure thoſe that were hurt in the conflićt with the spaniards, the ca tain s. arbin, although at that time he had a fit of a quartain ague, yet would i. be preſent at the fight, in which being ſhot through the ſide of his neck with a bul- let, he was ſtrucken with ſuch a terror of death, that the heat of the feaver was aſſwa- gºdby the cold fear, and he afterwards lived freed fromhis ague. franciſcu, valeriola the famous phyſitian of arles, tels, that john berlam his fellow citizen troubled with a palſey of one ſide of his body for many years, his houſe taking *and the flame coming near the bed in which he lay, he ſtrucken with a great fear, ſuddenly raiſed himſelf with all the force he had, and pº y recovering the ſtrength of his body, leaps out at the window from the top of the houſe, and was prº citrº muſick gives eaſe to pain. a fliong per- turbation of the mind helps by moving the ſpirits. chante ſotne. imes excced; art. oiſºrt. , lit. *. - --------------------- an introdušion, &c. char . cap ult, lib.de cur. rat per ſan- ganis miſi. galen by a dream cures the sciatica, the cauſe of the laſt recited cul!cŞ. sciences are cured of his diſeaſe, ſenſe and motion being reſtored to the º , ſo that afterward he went upright without any ſenſe of pain; who lay unmovable for many yeers before. he tells the like in the ſame place of his couſen john soliratius ; hee was a long time lame at avignion, by reaſon that the nerves of his hams were ſhrunk and drawn up, ſo that he could not go being moved with a vehement and ſodain paſſion of anger againſt one of his ſervants whom hee endevoured to beat, he ſo ſtirred his body that forthwith the nerves of his hams being diſtended and his knees made liant he began to go and ſtand upright without any ſenſe of pain, when he had tº. dº about the ſpace of ſix years before, and all his #. after he remained ſound. - galen tels he was once fetched to ſtanch the bleeding, for one who had an artery cut neer his anckle,and that by his means he was cured without any danger of an aneuriſma( ) a relaxation of a veinous veſſell ; and beſides by that accidentalſ wound he was frced from moſtgrievous pain of his hip with which he was tormented four yeers before but although this eaſing of the pain of the sciatica happened according to reaſon by the evacuation of the conjunét matter, by the artery of the anckle of the ſame ſide being opened; yet be- cauſe it was not cut for this purpoſe but happened only by chance,ijudged it was nét much diſſenting from this argument. pliny writes that there was one named phalereuſ,which caſting up blood at his mouth,and at the length medicines nothing availing, being weary of his life, went unarmed in the front of the battell againſt the enemy, and there receiving a wound in his breaſt,ſhed a great uantity of blood, which gave an end to his ſpitting of blood,the wound being healed and . vein which could not contain the blood being condenſate. at paris, anno , in iuly, a certain gentleman being of a modeſt and curteous cariage fell into a continuall feaver, and by that means became frantick, moved with the violence of which he caſt himſelf headlong out of a window two ſtories high, and fell firſt upon the ſhoulder of waterra the duke of alenzon; phyſitian, and then upon the pavement; with which fall he cruelly bruiſed his ribs and hip, but was reſtored to his former judgment and reaſon. there were preſent with the patient beſides valterra, witneſſes of this accident theſe phyſitians, alexiºs, magnuſ, durettº, and martinuº. the ſame happened in the like diſeaſe, and by the like chance to a certain gaſcoyn lying at the houſe of agrippa in the pa- ved ſtreet. - othomammu, dočtor of phyſick of mompelier and the kings profeſſor, told me that a cer- tain carpenter at broquer a village in switzerland, .# frantick caſt himſelf headlong out of an high window into a river, and being taken out of the water was preſently reſtored to jhis underſtanding. - - but if wemay convert caſualties into counſel and art, i would not caſt the patient head- long out of a window. but would rather caſt them ſodainly and thinking of no ſuch thing into a great ciſtern filled with coldwater, with their heads foremoſt, neither would i take them out untill they had drunk a good quantity of water, that by that ſodain fall and ſtrong fear, the matter cauſing the frenzy might be carryed from above downwards, from the noble parts to the ignoble ; the poſſibility of which is manifeſt by the forecited exam- ples,as alſo by the example of ſuch as bit by a mad dog,fearing the water are often ducked into it to cure them. c. h. a. p. xxiv. 'of certain juggling and deceitfull wayes of curing. §§ ere i determine to treat of thoſe impoſtors,who taking upon them the perſon of # a chirurgeon, do º any means either right or wrong, put themſelves upon the lºº works of the art; but they principally boaſt themſelves amongſt the ignorant * common ſort, of ſetting bones which are out of joint and broken,affirming as falſly as impudently,that they have the knowledg of thoſe things from their anceſtors; as by a certain hereditary right; which is a moſt ridiculous fićtion; for our minds when notheredita)' we are born,is as a ſmooth table, upon which nothing is painted. otherwiſe what need we take ſuch ibour and pains to acquire and exerciſe ſciences? god hath endued all brute beaſts with an inbred knowledg of certain things neceſſary for to preſerve their life, more than man. - but on the contrary he hath enriched him with awit furniſhed with incredible celerity and judgment, by whoſe diligent and laborious agitation he ſubjećts all things to his knowledg. for it is no more likely, that any man ſhould have skill in chirurgery becauſe his father was a chirurgeon, than that one who never endured ſweat, duſt nor sun in the field, ſhould know how to ride and govern a great horſe, and know how to - carry chap. . way to chirurgery. carry away the credit in tilting, only becauſe he was begot by a gentleman and one fa- mous in the art of war.” - - - - - there is another ſort of impoſtors far more pernicious and leſs ſufferable, boldly and inſolently promiſing to reſtore to their proper unity and ſeat,bones which are broken and out of joint, by the only murmuring of ſome conceited charms, ſo that they may but have the patients name and his girdle. in which thing i cannot ſufficiently admire the idle- neſs of our country-men ſo caſily crediting ſo great and pernicious an error; not obſer- ving the inviolable law of the ancient phyfitians, and principally of divide hippocrates, by which it is determined, that three things are neceſſary to the ſetting of bones diſlocated: and out of joynt; to draw the bones aſunder; to hold the bone receiving, firmly im- moveable with a ſtrong and ſtcddy hand; to put the bone to be received into the ca- vity of the receiving. for which purpoſe the diligence of the ancients hath invented ſo many engines, gloſſocomics and bands,left that the hand ſhould not be ſufficient for that laborious work. what therefore is the niadneſs of ſuch impoſtcrs to undertake to do that by words;which can ſcarcebe done by the ſtrong hands of ſomany servants, and by many: artificiall cngines? -- - - - - - - * * * * * of late years another kind of impoſture hath ſprung up in germany, they beat into fine powder a ſtone which in their mother tongue they call bembruch,and give it in drink to any who have a bone broken, or diſlocated,and affirm that it is ſufficient to cure them.through the ſame germany there wander other impoſtors who bid to bring to them the weapons with which any is hurt; they lay up in a ſecret place and frce from noiſe,and put and ap- ply medicines to it, as if they had the patient to dreſs,and in the mean time they ſuffer him to go about his buſineſs,and impudently affirm that the wound heals by little and little by reaſon of themedicine applyed to the weapon. ~ but it is not likely that a thing inanimate which is deſtitute of all manner of ſenſe, ſhould feel the effett of any medicine; and leſs probable by much,that the wounded party ſhould receive any benefit from thence. neitherifaay ſhould let ne ſee the truth of ſuch juggling by the events themſelves and . own eyes, would i therefore beleeve that it were done naturally and by reaſon,but ratherby charms and magick. in the laſt aſſault of the caſtle of hiſdin the lord of martigue; the elder was ſhot through the breaſt with a musket bullet. had him in cure together with the phyſitians,and chir- urgeons of the emperour charles the fift and emanuel philibert the duke of savoy, who be- cauſe he entirely . the wounded priſoner, cauſed an aſſembly of phyſitians and chir- urgeons to conſult of the beſt means for his cure. they all were of one opinion, that the wound was deadly and incurable, becauſe it paſſed through the midſt of his lungs, . beſides had caſt forth a great quantity of knotted blood into the hollowneſs of his reſt. - there was found at that time a certain spaniard, a notable knave, and one of thoſe im- poſtors, who would pawn his life, that he would make him ſound; wherefore this hono- rable perſonage being in this deſperate caſe was committed unto his care. firſt of all hee bid th . give him the patients ſhirt, which he tore into ſhreds and peeces, which preſently framing into a croſs, he laid upon the wounds whiſpering ſome conceived or coined words,with a low murmure. for all other things he wiſhed the patient to reſt con- tent,and to uſewhat diet he pleaſed,for he would do that for him,which truly he did. for he cat nothing but a few prunes, and drunk nothing but ſmall beer, yet for all this the wounded prince died within two days; the spaniard ń. away, and ſo ſcaped hanging.and whileſt i opened the body in the fight of the phyſitians and chirurgeons to embalm him, the ſigns and accidents of the wound did evidently and plainly appear to be as we had pro- nounced before. - - and there be alſo other jugling companions of this tribe, who promiſe to cure all wounds with lint, or tents, either dry, or macerated in oyl or water,and bound to the wound, having murmurcd over ſome charm or other,who have had ſometimes good ſuc- ceſas i can witneſs.but the wounds upon which tryall was made were fimple ones,which only equired union,or cloſing for to perfeót the cure. soverily the bones of beaſts when they i. together § the only benefit of nature.but when the affečt ſhal becom- pound by diverſity of symptonics, as awound with an ulcer, inflammation, contuſion and frature of a bone, you muſt hope for no other from tents or lints, nor charms than death. therefore the common ſort who commit themſelves to theſe impoſtors to be cured do not only injure themſelves, but alſo hurt the common-wealth, and the com- mon profit of the citizens; for whoſe good and juſtice ſake a prudent magiſtrate º to deprive impoſtors of all freedome in a free and chriſtian common- weal. witches, conjurers, diviners, soothſayers, magicians, and ſuch like, boaſt of curing many diſeaſes; but if they do or perform any thing in this kind, they do it all by ſkights,ſubtilties and forbidden arts, as charms, conjurations,witcheries, charaćters, knots, magicall ligatures,rings,images, poyſons, laces tyed acroſs, and other damna- nable tricks, with which they pollute, pervert and defame the prime and ſacred §: : e phyſic a moſt impu- dent ſort of impoſtors. three things neceſſary for the cure of a luxation. what wounds may be cured only by lint, or by tents and water. o an introdućion,©c. char . deut. , phyſick, and that with the danger of mens lives. who certainly are to be baniſhed by the laws of our countrey,eſpecially ſeeing it is decreed in moſes law, let none be found among you that uſeth witchcraft, or a regarder of times, or a marker of the flying of fowls or a sorcerer, or a charmer, or that counſelleth with spirits, or a soothfayer, or that asketh counſell at the dead; for all that do ſuch things, are abomination to the lord, and becauſe of theſe abominations the lord thy god doth caſt them out before thee. but the miracles of our lord jeſus chriſt the son of god, and of his saints and apoſtles in curing diſeaſes beyond nature and all art, are of another kind, which we ought to beleeve ſo firmly and conſtantly, that it ſhould be counted an impiety for a chriſtian to doubt of them. all holy writings are full of theſe ; as to give ſight to the blinde, hearing to the deaf, power to go to thoſe fick of the palfie, to drive forth devils, to cure the leprofie, to give fruit- fulneſs to women, to raiſe the dead, and perform by the holy ghoſt other miracles which exceed the condition and law of nature; whom here we earneſtly intreat to free and prote&us from unclean devils, and the ſpirits of diabolicall deceit, and to give us the mind that we may will and be able always to aſpire to heaven, and faſten the hope, ſafety, and anchor of all our fortunes in god alone. amen. the endof the firſt book, f . º \ \ r w * º : ºl º º º * lib. . i -- tuº t. it nyºğnyºš o f - - living creatvres, and of the excellency of - m a. n. =mefore i come to ſpeak of the anatomy of mans body, i have the difference #|| thought fit to ſay a little of the nature of brute beaſts. there is of brute beats. between beaſts a great deal of difference by nature; for of theſe, }| ſome are hardy and bold, others fearfull; ſome wilde and ſa- | vage, others tame; ſomewalking in herds, others wandring alone; fome covered and defended with ſhels and ſcales, as the crocodile, the tortois, and many kinds of fiſh; others have ſtings and prickles. - - the horſe hath his hard and ſtrong hoofs,his creſt (as being a generous beaſt) beſet with a thick and harſh mane. the defence of the magnanimous lion, are his teeth, his crooked paws and tail. bulsage formidable - by their horns. the boar by his tusks ſtanding out, as it were naturall hunting ſpears... the hare being a timerous creature, is naked and unarmed; but in recompence thereof nature hath made her nimble and ſwift of foot. for what the more noble and courageous beaſts have in arms, is ſupplyed in the fearfull by nimbleneſs and celerity. infinite are the other endowments of brutebeaſts, and ſuch as can hardly he imagined or deſcribed. for if we diligently ſearch into their nature, we ſhall obſerve the impreſſions and ſhadows of many vertues, as of magnanimity, prudence, fortitude, clemency, and docility: for th entirely love one another, follow thoſe things that are good, ſhun thoſe that are i. and gather and lay up in ſtore thoſe things that are neceſſary for life and food. laſtly, they give undoubted preſages of the weather and air. they have . men manythings, and are of amoff exquiſit and quick ſenſe ; of rare artin vocall muſick, prudent and carefull for their young, and faithfull lovers of their native ſoil. they are religiouſly obſervant of the rights of friendſhip and chaſtity. they have their weapons whereby they are pre- pared, both to invade, and to defend themſelves being invaded. they ſubmit themſelves to the diſcipline of man, praśtiſe and imitate his ſpeech, and mutually prattle and chant one to another. they have a kind of weal-publick amongſt themſelves, and know how - to preſerve their preſent welfare, and to depell the contrary, being in this their own counſellors, and not tutored by man, yea, man is beholden to them for the knowledg of many wholſome things. the conſideration of which bred ſo great a doubt amongſt the ancient philoſophers, that it was a queſtion amongſt them, whether beaſts had uſe of rea- ſon, or no? therefore alſo the wiſe solomon ſends us for examples of parſimony and dili- gence unto the ant or piſmire; and eſaia, in exprobration of the people of iſrael for their ingratitude and rebellion againſt god, ſends them to the ox and aſs; for they do not only know, but reverence their maſters. ºr . . but from whence is the knowledg of theſe medicins, wherewith the art of phyſick is ſº richly adorned, but from brute beaſts, as pliny affirmeth? the infallible vertue of the herb titiamus, in drawing darts out of the fleſh, was taught us by the hart, who wºunded with the huntſmans darts or arrows, by means hereof draws out the weapons which remain ſticking in her. which is likewiſe pračtiſed by the goats of candie, as rifttle writeth. the wonderfull effećt which celandine hath upon the fight, was learnt y the praćtiſe of swallows, who have been obſerved with it to have beſmeared, and ſo *ngthened the eys of their oung. serpents rub their ey-lids with fennell, and are thºught by that means to º and reſtore the decaying fight of their eys. the tor- ºdºth defend and ſtrengthen her ſelf againſt the biting of vipers, by eating of ſavorie. bearsby eating of piſmires, expell that poiſon that they have contraćted by their uſe of e mandrakes. some ſhadow of vertue in beaſts. lib. , cap, . -t of living creatures, and l i b. . the craftineſs of btais. . the bird ibis the firſt inven- ter, or ſhewer of clyſlers. the invention of removing a . cataraët. - the invention of pheloboto- my. a preſervative againſt thun- dcre what the but- ring of rams ſignifies, preſages of rain. the ſign at ſea of a ſtorm at hand. the crocodile by laying her egs,ſhews the bounds of the increaſe of the river niluſ. mandrakes...and for correótion of that drouzineſs and ſloth which growes upon them by their long ſleep in their dens, they eat the hearb of aron (i.) cuckopint. but the art they uſe in the chticing and catching of piſmires is very pretty, they go ſoftly to the holes or hils of the piſmires, and there lay themſelves all their length upon the ground,as if they were dead, hanging out their tongue wet with their foam,which they draw not again into their mouth, before they feel them full of piſmires, which are enticed § the ſweetneſs of the foam; and having taken this as a purging medicine, they czpell by the guts, thoſe ill hu- mors wherewith they were ...i weſte that dogs give themſelves a vomit,by eating a kind ofgraſs,which is from thence called dog-graſs.swine, when they find themſelves fiak, will hunt after ſmalt or river lobſters. stockdovcs, blackbirds,and partridges,purgethem. ſclves by bay leaves. pigeons, turtles, and all ſort of pullen, disburden jº. of groſs humors, by taking of pellitory of the wall. the bird ibis (being not much unlike the stork) taught us the uſe of clyſters. for when he finds himſelf oppreſſed with a burden of hurtfull humors, he fills his bill with ſaltwater, and ſo purgetfillinſelf by that part, by which the belly is beſt diſcharged. the invention of the way of removing the cataraćt of the eye, we muſt yeeld unto the goat, who by ſtriking by chance againſt the thorny buſhes, pulls off the cataraćt which hinders the fight, and covers the ball of the eye, and ſo reco- vers his ſight. the benefit of phlebotomie, we owe unto the hi potamus or river-horſe, beinga kind of horſe, and the inhabitant of the river nilus ; who being a great devourer, when he finds himſelf ſurcharged with a great deal of blood,doth by rubbing his thigh a- gainſt the ſharp ſands on the bankſide, open a vein, whereby the ſuperfluous blood is diſ- charged, which he ſtoppeth likewiſe when it is fit, by rowling himſelf in the thick mud. the tortois having chanced to cat any of the fleſh of a serpent, doth make origanum and marjoram her antidote. the ancients found help from brute beaſts,even againſt the dread- full and non-ſparing force of lightning; for they were of opinion that the wings of alf eagle were never ſtruck with lightning, and therefore they put about their heads little wreaths of theſe feathers. they were perſwaded the ſame thing of the seal, or sea-calf,and therefore were wont to encompaſs their bodies with his skin, as a moſt certain ſafeguard againſt lightening. it were a thing too long, and laborious, to ſpeak of all thoſe other muniments of life and health (obſerved here and thereby ariſtotle and plinie) which we have learnt of brutebeaſts. i will therefore end this chapter, after that i have firſt added this ; that we are beholding to beaſts not only for . skill of curing diſeaſes, and of reſervation"of health, but for our food, our raynient, and the ornament and beautify- ing the bodies. of the faculty ºf brute beaff, in preſaging. t he firſt knowledg and skill of prognoſtication, and obſervation of weather by the air, was firſt delivered untous from beaſts of the land and water, and from fowl. for we ſee in dayly obſervation, that it is a ſign of change of weather, when lambs and rams do butt at one another with their horns,aud playing wantonly do kick,and keep up their heels. the ſame is thought to be preſaged when the oxe licks himſelf againſt the hair,and on the ſodain fils the air with his lowing, and ſmels to the ground, and when he feeds more greedily than he uſed to do. but if the piſmires in great multitudes fetch their prey ſo haſtily,that they run and tumble one upon another in their narrow paths, it is thought a fign of rain; as is alſo the buſie working of moals, and the cats rubbing and ftroaking of her head and neck,and above her ears, with the bottome of her feet. alſo when fiſhes play and leap a little above the water,it is taken for a ſign of rain. but if the dolphins do the ſame in the ſea,and in great companies,it is thought to preſage a ſodain ſtorm and tem- peſt.whereby the mariners forewarned, uſe all care poſſible for the ſafety of themſelves and their ſhips,and if they can caſt anchor.and it is ſufficiently known what the louder croak- ing of frogs than ordinary portends. but the facultie of birds in this kind of preſaging is wonderfull. if cranes flie through the air without noiſe,it is a ſign of fairweather,and of the contrary, if they make a great noiſe and flic ſtragglingly. as alſo if seafowl fliefar frºm the sea and light ºn the land. the cry or ſcricching of owls portends a change of the preſent weather,whether foul or fair. plutarch ſaith, that the loud cawing of the crow betokens winds and ſhow- crs, as alſo when he flaps his ſide with his wings. geeſe and ducks, when they dive much, and order, and prune, and pick their feathers with their beaks, and cry to one another, foretell rain; and in like manner swallows, when they flie ſo low about the water, that they wet themſelves, and their wings. and the wren, when he is ob- ſerved to ſing more ſweetly than uſuall, and to hop up and down. and the cock when he chants, or rather crows preſently after the ſetting, of the sun. and gnuts, and fleas,when they bite more than ordinary.if the hern ſoar aloft into the air,it betoken- eth fair weather, if on the contrary he #. cloſe by the watter, rain. if pigeons come late home to the dove-houſe, it is a fign of rain. if bats flie in the evening, they fore- ſhew wet weather. and laſtly the crocodile layes her egs in that place, which muſt be the bounds of the overflowing of the river nilus ; and therefore he that firſt º w. it l i b. . of the excellency ofsºſan. with theſe eggs, tels the reſt of the countrey people, and ſhews them how high the flood will riſe, and what inundation it will make upon their grounds : . a thing moſt worthy of admiration, that in this monſter there ſhould be that ſtrong faculty of preſaging. . of the induſtry of fiſhes. any ſta-fiſhes, when they feel a tempeſt coming, do gravell or balaſt themſelves, m to the end they may not be toſſed up and down at the pleaſure of the waves. others when the fury of the ſea is at the height, hide themſelves in the holes of rocks. ... but in that they ſwim againſt the ſtream, they do it for this cauſe and reaſon, that the force of the ſtream and the flood may not take from them, and ſtrike off their ſcales, and that thcirgills may not fill with water which would hinder their ſwimming, and intercept their reſpiration. as by the ſame advice cranes fly againſt the wind;whereas if they ſhould . down the wind, their feathers would be diſplaced and broken, and they would not be able to fly. - y of the induſtry of birds in the building of their neffs. he induſtry of birds in the building of their neſts is ſuch that it dothfar exceed the art tº: skill of all maſons and archite&ts. from whence it is become a proverb,ihat men knºw,and and all thing, but make bird-nºſis. they are built within with woolland feathers, and ſuch kind of ſoft things, which are as a kind of a pallet for the young ones. swal- lows build their neſts in a round form, that they may be the more firm, and leſs ſubjećt to be hurt by anything that ſhall ſtrike againſt them, and likewiſe more capacious. they chooſe their matter out of dirt and chaff, (interlacing it with many ſtraws) as it were —their plaſter or lime. thoſe that build in trees.” do make choice of the ſoundeſt boughs, as if they meant to have them as a ſure foundation for the building which they ſhould erect thereon. the cock and the hen do by turns fit over their cºgs, and likewiſe fetch their meat, interchanging each others labor; neither do they ever forſake their young, before they are able to get their own living. i had at my houſe a great number of spar- rows neſts in earthen pots; and when the young ones begun to wax pretty big, and to be covered with feathers, i made the whole neſt be taken down and ſet upon the ground, that i and my friends might delight our ſelves in beholding the care of the old ones in the feeding of their young; for they feed them every one in order, skipping none, nei- ther will they (to the wrong of the reſt) give one two parts, although he gape, and be importunate for it; dividing moſt juſtly to every one his own ſhare, according to the exačt rule of diſtribution. and oftentimes for experiment, i would make trialſ with a ſtrange sparrow of the ſame age, laid near, or put among the reſt of the young ones, whether the old ones would feed the ſtranger, as if it were legitimate. but this as a ſtranger and a baſtard they would ſuffer to ſtarve, skipping it when it gaped after the meat. and in like manner lambs and young kidds do in the fields, in the midſt of a great flock, run every one to his own dam ; who being moſt certainly able to di- ſtinguiſh between the legitimate and abaffard, will not ſuffer her ſelf to be ſ: but by her own young. - of the induſtry of spiders. - the spider ſpins her web with wonderfulſartifice, hanging and faſtening it to every tack or ſtay that is nigh, drawing of his thread, and running upwards and down- wards,and every way. and although the diligence of the chamber-maid beats down and mars thispendulous and new-begun work, yet her ſeat and her hold,the spiderkeeps ſtill, neither is ſhe, or will ſhe defift from the work ſhe hath begun, but in a very ſhort time weaves a great deal more unto the ruins of her former work, than can be unweaved again with much labor. so that from hence all cloth and linnen weavers, all embroiderers and workers with the needle(you will eaſily think)have learnt their arts,if either you obſerve the exaëtneſs of the weaving, the fineneſs of the thred, or the continuation and indiſſo- luble knitting together of the whole web; for being abrupt, and troubled with no ends ofthreds at all,it reſembles a thin membrane, anointed with a kind of #. wherewith, when the prey is entangled, the spider runs preſently in, and,as it were draws her nets,and infolds, and takes the captive after the manner of huntſmen. if this were not daily ſeen with our eys, it would be thought fabulous. of bees. cannot paſs in ſilence the great induſtry of bees: for having eſtabliſhed a kind of weal-publick, they make eleētion of a king, who is ſuch a one, as in procerity of body, ºl. of feature exceedeth all the reſt. he is remarkable by his ſhort wings, his *ight legs, his grave gate; and in ſtead of a diadem or regall crown, either he hath hºſting, or elſe doth not uſe it, which is the artillery of the reſt. he never goethuuatten- §out of the hive, but always invironed with a princely retinue, the reſt of his train °llowing after neither goes he at any time abroad, but upon urgent affairs which concctil s how fiſhcs provide for their ſafety againſt a ſtorm. how they ſwim againſt the ſtream, of what things birds build their neſts. in what ſhape, with what care sparrows feed their young, how the sri- ders weave. how they catch their prey. ' bees chooſe themſelves a king. . of living creaturer, and - lib. --------- their pitching their tents. their obſe- quies for their dead king. their juſtice. their watch. their divers employments. they puniſh ſloth with baniſhment. ariſtomachus a diligent obſer- wer of bees. lib, ii, & o. wonderſull carc. there is no- thing but may be attained by ſa diligence, concerns the whole ſtate. his progreſs is forewarned by the voice and ſound of trumpets, and as it were with ſinging, and they all draw nigh... every one gets as near to his perſon as he can, and when he is weary with flying, they all bear him up with their own bodies. on what place ſoever he alighteth, there they forthwith pitch their tents. if he chance to die, they go not abroad to feed, but ſtand all mourning round about the corpſe; then carry him out of the hive, and (as it were) follow his hearſe and bury him ; and laſtly, having with ſolemnity performed all the ſeverall rites and obſequies, they chooſe them. ſelves another king, for without a king they cannot live. he then § care of all things, having his ey every where, whilſt that the reſt intend the performance of the work. and ſuperviſing all, giveth them encouragement, and chaſtiſeth negligence. for their time ºgoing forth for food, they chooſe a clear and fair day; for they have a naturall faculty of preſaging of the weather. they are ſuch obſervers of juſtice and equity, that never, either with their ſting, or by any other way, do they moleſt any creature, neither do they exerciſe and prepare their ſpears againſt any, but for the ſafegard of themſelves and their hives. of the care of bees. t. manage and order their affairs in this manner; in the day-time they appoint before their gates a ſtation of watchmen and guarders. in the night they reſt from their labors, ſo long, till that one (who is appointed to this charge) by one or two humms, as by a ſound of a trumpet, rowſeth all the reſt. then come they together to obſerve what is the ſtate of the weather, which if they foreſte will be fair, then abroad o they into the fields and paſtures. some therefore bring into the hive little faſcicles of É. on their thighs; others water in their mouth, and others a dewie moiſture ga- thered on their bodies. theſe are met by others, who receive their burdens, which they diſpoſe in their due and proper places. thoſe that are ſent out into the fields for food, are the youngeſt and the ſmalleſt; and therefore if the wind chance to riſe any thing high, they expect untill it ceaſe, and that the force and violence thereof be over. but if it con- tinue violent, then do they ballaſt themſelves with a little ſtone flying cloſe by the ground, to prevent their being drived to and fro by the force of the wind. they are exceeding i. in all their buſineſs, and do puniſh the ſloth of the lazie oftentimes with death. some of them are the builders, others poliſh the building, and the reſt bring in their materials. - *: the building in their arched hives is with wonderfull artifice, being made with two doors, one to come in, and the other to É.". they have all º alike, left that. the inequality, either of their food or labor, ſhould give occaſion of diſſention. their care is, that their houſes may ſhew both ſtate and handſomneſs. idle drones, born for no- thing but to eat, and conſume the fruits of . labors, they chaſe from their hives. thoſe that chance to loſe their ſtings, are utterly diſabled, and in a ſhort time their guts come out that way, and they die. they bring to their owners wonderfull increaſe of wax and honey. fi - . . . . '. ariſtomachuſ the philoſopherdoth boaſt, that for fifty cight years together, he had with great care been a nouriſher of bees, only that he might the better attain to the knowledg of their ſtate and condition. . . . . . . . . . - t ºf . , ' , i.... . of piſmires and ants. - - either truly is the induſtry, diligence, and experience of the piſmire leſs worthy of admiration, than that of the bees. inſomuch as that solomon bids the ſluggard to take an example of diligence from the piſmire. truly, if experience did not witneſs it, it would ſcem incredible, that ſo ſmall a creature ſhould be able to ſtore up ſuch abun- dance of corn, to diſpoſe and manage her affairs in that good order that we ſee ſhe doth, pliny faith, that they have among them the form of a wel-govern'd and wel-order'd common-weal. for how pretty a ſight is it to ſee them, when they ſciſe upon a grain they have a mind to carry away, how they ſet to it, and lift it with head and ſhoulders. and how left the corn which they carry to their ſtore-houſe, ſhould put forth and grow, they bite it at one end. if it i. bigg that they cannot carry it into their little hole, they divide it in the middle. if it be dampiſh, they lay it out to dry in the sun and open air. when the moon is at the full, . follow their work in the night; when ſhe doth not ſhine, they take their reſt, whereby they ſhew themſelves to have ſome know- ledg of heavenly things. pliny affirmeth that they have their ſet fairs and markets,whither they come in great companies, and where they uſe to cſtabliſh leagues of amity and friend- ſhip one with another. and when one marks them well, would he not think that they were in conference one with another, and that they did diſcourſe among themſelves of their buſineſs? do we not ſee that the often trampling of their little feet doth wear a path even upon hard flint ſtones? - - , , , from whence wenay note, what in all kind of things is the effečt of aſſiduity. they y alſo that they perform the rites of buriall one unto another, after the manner of. what lib. . of the excellency of man. what words ſhall i uſe (ſaith plutarch) to expreſs ſufficiently the diligence and induſtry of the piſmires there is not among all the great things in nature, a light of greater won- der than theſe: for in the piſmires are ſeen themarks of all vertue. their great meetings argue that they maintain a kinde of friendſhip. their alacrity in the undergoing of their labors, ſeems to ſhºw their fortitude and magnanimity; and laſtly, they are eminent examples of temperance, providence, and ju- ſtice. their mutuall charity appeareth in this, that if one of them that is not loaden meets another, (in one of their narrow paths) that is, he will give him the way, that he may the better go on in his intended journey. they ſay that the firſt thirance into their hole, is not ſtreight, but full of many diverticles and crooked paths, which all end, which will bring you to three little cels; in one of which they have their conventicles in the other, they lay up their º: and in the third they bury the carkaſks of their dead. this doth plutarch ſpeak concerning piſmires. of silk-ivorms. with the induſtry of theſe creatures, i ſhall not unfitly joyn that of the silk-wornis, of whoſe pains and care, both in the making of their neſts, and the ſpinning of their thred and bottons (wherewith kings are ſo magnificently adorned) philoſophers have written very . things. and who can chuſebut wonder at thoſe greatendowments of skill and knowledg, and that exceeding induſtry, (the mother of ſo much wealth) in the little body of ſo ſmall a creature ? the º therefore of god, doth not only appear in this, that he hath adorned each creature with a peculiar and preper cndowment,but in this eſpecially,that on the leaſt creatmres of all, he hath beſtowed the greater portion of skill,induſtry, and ingº- nuity to ſupply their defe&of bodily ſtrength. - º, of the love of beaſts one toward; another, and to their young. pl tº writeth, that all kind of creatures bear a ſingular love, and have a kind of care of thoſe that are generated of them, and the induſtry of the partridges this way is much commended; for during the time that their young ones are weak and unable to fly, they teach them to lye upon their backs, and to hide themſelves among the clods on º: round, that ſo being almoſt of the ſame colour, they may not be diſcerned by the #. but if notwithſtanding, they ſce anybody coming, and that he is near them, they do with a hundred dodges and ſtoopings of themſelves, as if they were weary with flying, entice him away from their young to follow after them, and when they have their purpoſe they then, as if they had recovered ſome freſh ſtrength fly quite away;who can but wonder at this both affection and ſubtilty? *- in florida part of the weſt-indies, they have a beaſt, which for the variety and de- formity of it lcannot paſs over in filence ; the natives call it. succarath, the canibals, su. *sjº º hºs º º - º º: **psfor the moſt part about the rivers, and the ſea-ſhore, and lives by prey. when he pºlyeth that he is purſued by the huntſman, he gets his young ones upon his back, and with his tail, which is very long and broad, he covereth them, and ſo flying, pro'. bot - the forms of all vertues cre preſt in piſ- mires. diligence the mother of wealth. the induſtry of partridg in preſerving their young. of living creatures, and liº. . tom . lib. . cap. . how hares rovide for themſelves and their young, for ſear of hunters. the care of the hedghog to provide for her young. the piety of storks. . . . . * - the fidelity of dogs, doves free from adultcry. turtles never souple twice. lib. . cap.i. the religion of the elephant, chancé offers to meddle with her chickens. both for his own and their ſafety; neither can he be taken by any other way but by pits, - which thoſe ſavage men uſe to dig in the places near which he is to run, into which at º he tumbles headlong. this pićture of him here, i drew out of thevets coſmo- graphie. - §er are thoſe things leſs wonderfull that are reported of harks, forwhen they would go to their ſeat, they ſever their young, and commit them to the truſt of divers places, it may be two acres aſunder one from another, lºſt peradventure a huntſman, a dog, or any man ſhould chance to come that way, and they might be in danger to be loſt at once. and then after they have traced up and down, hither and thither, and cvery way that the dogs may not trace them, nor the huntſman prick them, they take a leap or two and leap into their forms. - ~. nor inferior to this is the craft of the hedghog, for when the fox purſueth him, and is now at his heels, he rowls himſelf up in his prickles like a cheſnut in the outward ſhell, ſo that cvery part being rounded and encompaſſed with theſe ſharp and dangerous pricks, he cannot be hurt; and ſo ſaves himſelf by this trick. for his young he provides in thismanner: - - - - * --> in the time of vintage he goes to the vines, and there with his feet he ſtrikes off the boughs and the grapes, and then rowling his body makes them ſtick upon his prickles,and ſo doth (as it *:::: take his burthen upon his back, and then returns to his hole; you would think that the grapcs did move of themſelves ; the prey he divides between himſelf and his young. - - of the affection of birdi, and of dogs toward; their maſters. - - t; young stork provides for the old, which is diſabled by age; and if any one of their equals come to any miſchance, that he is not able to fly, they will give him their affſtance, and bear him on their backs and wings. and therefore this affečtion and piety towards the old oncs, and (as it were) º; love towards their equals, is commended in the stork. - - the hen in any kind of danger gathers her chickens under her wings, and (as it were) with that guard, defends them as well as ſhe can. for their ſake ſhe expoſeth her ſelf to the cruelty of the fierceſ beaſts; and will fly in the eys of a dog, a wolf, or a bear, that by but who is there that doth not admire the fidelity and love of dogs towards their maffers, whereby they recompence them for their keeping? a dog will never forſake his maſter, no, ifhebe neverſo hardly uſed. for there is no man can find a ſtick hard enough to drive that dog clean away from him which hath once taken a love to him. there is no. kind of creature that doth more certainly and readily remember his maſter; he will know the voice of all the houſhold, and of thoſe which frequent the houſe. there cannot be a truſtier keeper, (as cicero himſelf faith) than a dog is; i ſpeak not of their faculty of ſmelling, whereby they follow their maſters by the foot, and find them,neither do i ſpeak of thoſe infinit examples of the fidelity of dogs, which were too long to rehearſe. pigeons, as well the cock as the hen, although they are all very venercous, yet they know no adultery; yea, and the hen will bear with the frowardneſs of the cock, neither will ſhe ever leave him, but reconciling him unto her by her officious diligence, bring him to his wonted dalliance and kiſſes, neither is the love of either of them leſs towards their yoring. - there is the like mutuall-bond of love between turtles; for if one of them die,the ſur- viver never ſolicits hymen more, neither will he ever chuſe other ſeat than a dry withered bough. of the ſtrength, piety, docility, clemency, chaffity, and gaituk of eliphants. a.; the beaſts of the field, there is none more vaſt, more ſtrong, or more to be fea- red than the elephant. his ſtrength is ſufficiently ſhown by thoſe towred caſtles of armed men which he carries, and fiercely ruſheth with into the battail. the roman ſouldiers, being otherwiſe of undaunted ſpirits, yet in that battail which they fought againſt pyrrhus, being terrified with the vaſtneſs and immanity of theſe bodies, which they had never before ſeen, preſently turned their backs and fled; which notwithſtan- ding, it is a wonderfull thing what stories naturall philoſophers tell of the vertues of the elephant. º ‘. writeth, that an elephant cometh very near to the underſtanding that men have, and that he hath a rude kind of knowledgof language; that his facility and obſcquiouſ- neſs is wonderfull, that his memory in the performance of his wonted duties, is no leſs wonderfull. and for religion (plutarch faith) that they pray unto the gods, and ſprinkle and purge themſelves with ſaltwater, and that with great reverence they worſhip the sun at his . lifting their trunks up towards heaven for want of hands. plinie addeth, that they do with the like reverence worſhip the moon and the stars. for it it related in. - - - the lib. . of the excellency of man. the hiſtorics of the arabianſ, that at a new moon the elephants go by troops down unto the rivers, and there waſh themſelves with water and being thus purged, kncel down and worſhip the moon, and then return to the woods, the eldeſt going firſt, and the other ſol- lowing after according to their age. n \ *\ , , ºùù "/º § º º º w º iº \ºº §uv' sº § ny --- . . . . . n § nº. - plutarh reporteth, that it hapned once,that among the elºung which were taught at ~ - - rome - --- - of living creatures, and l i b. . plin, lib. . cap, . coſinograph. tom. . lib. , cap, . the provi- dence of the lion in his going. the greateſt are terrified by the leaſt, rome againſt the pancgyrick ſhews, there was one that was ſomething dull, and not ſo docile as the reſt, which made him be deſpiſed by his fellows, and often beaten by his maſter. but that this elephant, that he might ſupply by diligence what he wanted in wit, was oftentimes obſerved in the night, by the light of the moon, to be praćtiſing and conning what he had learnt of his maſter in the day-time.for they were wont to be taught to make letters, and alſo to preſent garlands to the ſpectators, and other ſuch like tricks. but they can never be tº: to go aboard a ſhip, to be carried over the ſca into any ſtrange land, unleſs their maſter give them his word to aſſure them that they ſhall return again to their own native ſoil. they never hurt any one that doth not firſttºok them. they never gender but in private out of ſight, an argument of their modeſty. of the lamprey. - eſt that the heat of affection may ſeem to lie quenched under the waters, letus by one example, (it were an infinit thing to ſpeak of all) ſee in what kind of mutuall love the creatures of the water come ſhort of thoſe of the land. the lamprey of all the creatures of this kind doth worthily bear the praiſe for its picty towards |. of whom it was generated, its affe&tion towards thoſe that are generated of her ; for firſt ſhe breeds eggs within her, which in a ſhort time after are ſpawned. but ſhe doth not as ſoon as her young ones are formed and procreated, bring them º forth into the light after the manner of other fiſhes, that bring forth their young alive, but nouriſheth two within her, as if ſhe brought forth twice, and had a ſecond brood. theſe ſhe doth not put forth before they are of ſome bigneſs, then ſhe teacheth them to ſwim and to play in the water, but ſuffers them not to go far from her and anon gapes and receives thcm by her mouth into her bowels again, ſuffering them to inhabit there, and to fecd in her belly ſo long as ſhe thinks fit. the ſavage or brute beaſts may be made tame. hevet reporteth, that the emperor of the turks hath at caire (it was once called memphis) and at conſtantinople, many ſavage beaſts kept for his delight, as lions, ti- gers, leopards, antilopes, camels, elephants, porcupines, and many other of this kind. theſe they uſe to lead about the city to ſhew. the maſters of them are girt with a girdle hung about with little bels, that by noiſ of theſe bels the people may É. forewarned to keep themſelves from being hurt by theſe beaſts. but in hope of reward and of gifts, they ſhew them to ambaſſadors of ſtrange nations, before whom they make theſe beaſts do a thouſand very delightfull tricks, and in the interim they play their countrey tunes and muſick upon their pipes and other inſtruments, and make many ſports in hope of gain. that fiſhes alſo may be tamed. ut it is far more wonderfull, that the creatures of the water ſhould bemade tame,and b be taught by the art of man. among which, the chiefeſt are held to be the eel. the ſame things alſo are reported of the lamprey. for we have it recorded, that marcus craſſa: had a lamprey in his fiſh-pool, that was ſo tame, and ſo well taught, that he could com- mand her at his pleaſure. thereforeas a domeſticall and tame beaſt he gave her a name,by which when he called her, ſhe would come. and when this lamprey died, he mourned for her in black, as if ſhe had been his daughter. which when his colleague cheus domitiuſ objećted to him by way of reproach, he replying, told him, that he had buried three wives, and had mourned for none of all them three. - * of the lion, the ichneumon, and thoſe other beaſts which are not eaſily terrified. he lion when he goes,hath his claws always clutched, and(as it were)put up in their t ſheaths, not only becauſe he would leave no mark of his feet, whereby he may be tra- ced and ſo taken, but becauſe by continuall walking he ſhould wear off, and blunt the points of his claws. buls when they fight charge one another with their horns, and like valiant ſouldiers, provoke and animate one another to the battail. the ichneumon ſeems to imitate the moſt valiant ſouldier in his preparation and acceſs to battail; for he bedawbs himſelf with mud, and doth (as it were) buckle and make tite his armor, eſpecially when he is to encounter with the crocodile; who although he bee a vaſt beaſt, is put to flight by this littlecreature. and this truly hath been obſerved to be by the ... rovidence of nature, that the moſt vaſt creatures are terrified by the leaſt things, and ſuch from whence there can ariſe no danger; ſo they ſay the elephant doth ſtartle at the grunting of an hog ; and the lion, at the crowing of a cock; although it be reported of ë. lion, that no fear can make him turn his face. theſe kind of fears,terrors, and affrightnients,ariſing upon light and moſt ridiculous occaſions, we find as well in the ancient as modern hiſtories of our times,to have diſperſed and put to flight mighty legions of ſouldiers, and moſt potent armies. that men were taught by beaſts to poliſh and to whet their weapons, and to lye in ambuſh. ouldiers are carefull to keep their weapons from ruſt, and therefore they carry them to the armorers to be poliſhed. but in this care, many bcaſts are nothing inferior un- to - - - - - --------------—–––. —-...--__ li b. . of the excellency of man. to them; for boar, whet their tusks againſt they fight. and the elephant knowing that one ofhistºrthis doubled with digging at the roots of trees to get meat,keepeth the other * ſharp, and touches nothing with it. preſerving it for his combat with the rhinocerot his * gº ". g º u n | | -- tºº º; % ~ſ). ( / . o c޺ ſ % tº p- - • : * ~ * -\, ()'ſ. '" § ; %gº.º ) § nº §:####, - - #|ſºo yº nan %iº nº. %ſ %|º . t f t]|| %: - nº | | -§ § i. § § : | º \ . § º ( §: % w f enemy of living creatures, and lie. . the craft of the rhinocerot about to fight with the . elephant. cocks are kingly and martiall birds. conies have taught us un- dermining. new dwellings. the deceits and ambuſhes of welves. the craft of the fox. the fox ſeems to reaſon with himſelf. his soriter. the love of fiſhes one to another. enemy; but the craft of the rhinocerot is very remarkable, that being in continu - mity with the elephant, at the time when he prepares for the .."; whets . . againſt a rock, as if it were with a whetſtone; nor (ifhe can chuſe) will he ſtrike an other part of the elephant but the belly, becauſe he knows that part of the elephant is . tender, that it may be eaſily pierced. this beaſt is in length equall to the elephant, but in height he is inferior unto him.by reaſon of the ſhortneſs ofi. feet; he is of a piń el- low colour, and full of many ſpots. - y of cocks. , c ocks are kingly birds, and therefore nature hath adorned them with a comb, as with a princely diadem; and wherefoºver they come, their magnanimity, and courage makes them kings. they fight with theirbeaks and their ſpurs, and with their martiáil voice they fright the lion, who is otherwiſe the king of beaſts. of conies. onies have taughtus the art of undermining the earth, whereby the moſt lofty citi * , and ſtrućtures reaching the very skies, are by taking away . foundation %. with the ground. marcuſ warro writes, that in spain there was a town, and that no mean one, which ſtan- ding on a ſandie ground, was ſoundermined by a company of conies, that all the houſes tumbling and falling down to the ground, the inhabitants were fain to depart aud ſeek of wolves. en have learnt the arts of waging war from the wolves, for they com troops, and lye in ambuſh near the towns which they have jºand . of them runs unto the town and provokes the dogs. and making as if he run away, in- cites the dogs to follow him, untill he hath gotten them unto the place where the fam- buſhlyeth, which on a ſodain appeareth, and ruſheth out upon them. and ſo they kill and catalior as many of the dogs as they are able to catch. of the fox. - n ſubtilty and craft the fox exceedeth all otherbeaſts: when in the chaſe i. his heels, he berays and bepiſſes his tail, and ſwings it in the face and :::::::::: that follow him, and ſo blinding them, in the mean time gets ground of §. to fetch the hensdown from their pearch, he hath this deviſe, he ſhakes and ſwings his tail up- wards and downwards, as if hemeant to throw it at them; which they fearing ºš. down, and he takes up one of them for his prey. his warineſs when he paſſeth over a river that is frozen, is wonderfull; for he goes ſoftly to the bank, and lays his ear to liſten, if he can hear the noiſe of the waterrunning under the ice. for if he can, back he goes, and will not venture to paſs over. the knowledgof which thing he could never meerly by his ſubtilty and craft attain unto, but that of neceſſity he muſt #. ſome faculty of reaſoningjoined with it; which by diſcourſe; and by proving one thing by another arrives at this concluſion: whatſoever is liquid and maketha noiſe,is in motion; what: ſoever liquid is in motion, is not concrete and frozen ; that which is not concrete and frozen, is liquid; whatſoever is liquid, will notbear a heavier body; whatſoever will not bear aheavier body, cannot with ſafety be adventuredon; and therefore back again muſt igo, and not paſs over this river. of swine. wine, if in the woods, they hear any one of the ſame herd with them crying out, they ſtraightmake a ſtand; and marſhalling their forces,haſe all, as if they had been warned by the ſound of a martiall trumpet, to the aſſiſtance of their fellows. of the fiſhes scarus and anthia. º plutºſh reports of the scari, that when one of them chances to ſwallow a hook, and be taken, the reſt of the ſame kind come to his reſcue, and ſhearing the line with their teeth, ſet him at liberty. but the readineſs of the anthia to the mutuall aſſiſtance of one another, is yet more manifeſt; for by caſting the line upon which the hook hangeth on their back, with the ſharpneſe of their fins they cut it aſunder, and ſo ſet free themſelves and their captived fellows. of the pilot-fiſh. here is great kindneſs between the pilot-fiſh and the whale ; for although in bulk i of body the whale ſo far exceed him, yet he leads the whale, and goes always before him. l i b. . of the excellency of man. i him as his pilot, to keep him from running himſelf into any ſtraight or muddy place, whence he might not eaſily get out. and therefore the whale always follows him,and very willingly ſuffers himſelf to be led by him; it being for his ºwn good. and in like manner he gets into the whales mouth, and there lodging himſelf, fleeps when he ſleeps, and leaves him not either by day or night. ranes when they are to take a long journey into ſome couritrey croſs the ſeas, put c their company in ſo good order, that no captain can put his ſouldiers in better. for before they ſtir out of any place, they have (as it were) their trumpets to call them toge- ther, and encourage them to fly. they come together, and then fly up on high, that they may ſeeafar off, chooſing a captain whom they are to follow. they have their serjeants to take care of their ranks, and keep their .# watches by turns. plutarch tels us that the crane, which is appointed to ſtand sentinell for all the reſt, holds a ſtone in her foot, to the end, that if ſhe chance to give way to nature and ſleep, ſhe may be waked by the noiſe of the fallingſtone. the leader lifting up his head, and ſtretching out his long reck, looks about him far and wide, and gives warning to the reſt, of any danger that may befall them. the ſtrongeſt lead the way, that they may the better with the flapping oftheir wings break the force of the air, and this they do by turns. and that they may the eaſilyer prevail againſt the force and ºf..." of the winds, they diſpoſe their com: pany into a wedgin the form of the greek letter a ºr a triangles and ...; skilfull in the ſtars, they foreſee when tempeſts are coming,and fly downto the ground to eep themſelves from the injury of the approaching ſtorm. of geeſ. he geeſe of sicilie do with greatwarineſs take care, that by their keeking and their noiſe, they do not expoſe themſelves to the rapacity of birds of prey: for plutarch ſaith, that when they are to fly over the hill taurus, for fear of the eagles that are there, they hold ſtones in their mouths to keep themſelves from gagling, untill that they comé unto a place where they may be ſecure. n either are the dragons leſs crafty; for thus do they overconie thoſe vaſtand other. wiſe invincible beaſts the elephants. they lye in ambuſh, and ſodainly ſet upon the elephants where they fear no ſuch matter, and involve their legs with the twines of their . in ſuch ſort, that they are notable to go forward; and ſtop their noſtrils with their heads, ſo that they cannot fetch their breath,they pull out theireys, and whereſoeverth find the skin moſt tender, there they bite and ſuck the blood untill they make them º down dead. pliny ſaith, that there are º found in athiopia of ten cubits long, but that in india there are dragons of an hundred footlong, that fly ſo high, that they fetch birds, and take their prey even from the midſt of the clouds. t; fiſh is called the fiſherman, becauſe he hunts and takes other fiſhes,which he doth almoſt by the ſame cunning which the cuttelluſts; for he hath hanging at his throat a certain bag, like the wattels of a turky-cock. this when he liſteth he caſteth out, and layeth before the little fiſhes for a bait, and then by little and little draws it up again,un- till he catch for food the little fiſhes ſeiſing upon it as a prey. v onderfull is the craft of the cuttell-fiſhes, for they carry abladder at their neck full of a black juice or ink,which they pour forth as ſoon as they feel themſelves taken; that ſo they may blind the eys of the fiſhermen, as plutarch ſaith, and as . witneſſeth, they with their longfangs do not only hunt and take little fiſhes, but often- times alſo mullets. of cranes. of prºnt. of the fiſh called the fiſhermah. of the cuttell fiſh. of the arms or weapons of brute beaft. b. beaſts are naturally ſo furniſhed with arms,that they have no need to get,make or borrow in any other place. * * - - - - : and ſome of them nevertheleſs are ſo furniſhed with ſuch arms, that they captivate thoſe which hold them priſoners; an example of this is the torpedo, which doth not only hurt by touch, but alſo by the net being between, he breaths ſich a quality from him, as piñes the hands of the fiſhermen, ſo that they are forced to let go their nets, and ſo ºthingo; moreoverif it touch a ſhip it makes it ſtay. thevet writes, that the perſian bay *wards arabia, nouriſhes a fiſh equal in º and thickneſs to a carp, on every the whales pilot or guide. cranes order. themſelves in ranks. the ſentinell crane. the care of the eeſe that their gagling do them no harm, the craft of dragons fight- ing againſt, the elephant. lib . cap.if. & . the craft of the fiſherman-fiſh iu taking her prey. the craft of the cuttell to ſave her ſelf. lib. ° de hiſt, animal, cap. . cºſmogr.tem.*. fib, o, cap, lº- of living creatures, and lib. . tom.i.lib. . cap, . the wonder- full docility of dogs, a ſpeaack fall of admiration and truth. gallii. . de uſu partium. fide encompaſſed with ſharp and ſtrong pricks, like our porcupine, with which he fights againſtall inds of fiſh. if a man chance but to be lightly hurt either with theſe of his teeth, he will die within hours. of the fiſh vteliſ. e ſaith moreover, that as he was carryed by force of tempeſt through the atlantick ocean, he ſaw this fiſh, having(as it were) a saw in his forehead of three foot long, and four fingers broad, armed on each fide with ſharp ſpikes; they call it /telif in their countrey ſpeech. of the fiſh caffilly. here is another fiſh to be ſeen in the arabian-gulf, which the arabians call caſpilly, it's two foot long, and as many broad, it hatha skin not much unlike a dogfiſh, but armed with ſpikes, one whereof he carries in his forehead a foot and half broad, in ſharp- neſs and force of cutting not much ſhort of a graver or chiffell: with this weapon, when ſhe is oppreſt with hunger ſheaffails the firſt fiſh ſhe meets, neither doth ſhe give over, before ſhe carry her as a prey whither ſhe pleaſe, as thevet ſaith he hath ſeen. of crabs. rabs and lobſters, though in the quantity of their body they be but ſmall, yet they uſe their forked claws before,not only in feeding but alſo in defending themſelves and aſſailing others. of the docility of beafts, and firſt of the dog. b. are apt to learn thoſe things which men deſire, whereby they ſhew themſelves not wholſy void of reaſon. for *::::a; and horſes learn to creep through the uglers hoops, and riſe on their hinderfect, as though they would dance. plutarihtels, that a jugler had a dog which would repreſent many things upon; the flage befit: ting the occaſion and argument of the play; amongſt the reſt, he exceeded all admiration in that, that taking a ſopotifick medicin, he excellently feigned himſelf dead; for firſt, as taken with a giddineſs in his head he begun to tremble, then preſently fell down, and lying on the ground, as it were contrated his dying members, and laſtly, as if truly §he wax'd ſtiff; and moreover ſuffered himſelf diverſly to be fitted according to di- wers parts of the theater, the fableſo requiring. but when he, by thoſe things that were ſaid and done, knew it was time to riſe, he firſt begun to move his legsby little and little, as if he had been wakened from a ſound . then preſently with his head a little lifted up, he looked this way and that way, to the great admiration of all the behol- ders; and finally riſe up and went familiarly and chearfully to him he ſhould; the which htthe emperor veſhºffan (who was then preſent in marcellu, his theater) never ſaw any which more delighted him. of the ape. n ape is a ridiculous creature, and which makes men much ſport in imitating their a aćtions. there hath been ſeen an ape which would pipe and ſing, and beſides dance and write, and endevour to perform many other things É. to men. i remember i ſaw in the duke of somes houſe a great and curſt ape, who becauſe he much troubled many, had his hands cutoff, who ſuffering himſelf to be cured, when the wound was cicatrized, he grew more milde and docile. wherefore cloathed in a green coat, and girt over his loius with a girdle, he carried hanging thereat a caſe of ſpe&tacles, a pair of knives, and a childs handkerchief. he was committed to the charge of the maſter-cook to teach, becauſe he had taken up his lodging in the chimney-corner, he was taught many tricks and feats. ifat any time he fiverved from his do&rine and precepts, in a trice the whip was upon his back and loins, and much was abated of his daily allowance; for as perſiuſſaith, he belly is the maſter of arts, and ſharpener of wit. by theſe means he profited ſo in a ſhort time,that he much exceeded all the apes of his time in the glory of his wit; and there was none counted more skilfull in leaping and dancing to the pipe, running up a pole,and nimbly leaping through his maſters legs. to conclude,he performed all the aëtions of a ſtrong ape, and very reverently carried up diſhes with the waiters and ſerving-men, and made clean the diſhes and platters by licking,and did much other drudgery, ſo that he was commonly called, maſter john do-all. at dinner and ſupper fitting in a chair, he ſaid grace, and caſt his eys up towards heaven, and rouled them this way and that way, and ſmote his breaſt with . ſtumps of his hands with much lamentation, and imitated prayer by the º or beating together of his teeth. he would turn up his tail to any that offended im, (for his coat ſcarce covered half his buttocks left he ſhould have filed it)he made much other paſtime, always going upright by reaſon of the cutting away of his hands, unleſs at any time through wearineſs he were forced to fit on his buttocks. , - - of - - - - - -" - l b. . . of living creatires, and of the camels. he camell is a very domeſticall and gentle beaſt, and which is eaſily tamed and taught all kind of obedience and ſervice; although ſome of them are cruel,wilde and º º *% º - † § tº- . º ºf & n. wºź ºš º º º - * \ § º !" - of living creatures, and . lib. . came's both tame and wilde, the eaſie and ... not chargeable keeping of caniels. camels know when they have a ſuffis citnt load, camels both to carry bur- dens, and to ride upon. troubleſome by biting and ſtriking ſuch as they meet, no leſs than untaned horſes. there is no need to houſe then in the night, for they may be left in the plain fields in the open and free air, feeding upon the graſs and trees and cropping the tops of the thiſtles, nei- ther in the morning do they any whit the worſe undergºe or carry their burdens. they are not put to carry burdens before they be four year old. the arabians geld them young, that they may enjoy their labour the longer, neither º gelt do they rage for love or deſire of venery. at the putting in of the spring they endure hunger and thirſt for eight dayes; they are ſo dutifull, that at the beck of the turkiſh ſlaves, or but touched on the neck with a twig, thcy preſently kncel on the º to take up their burden, neither do they lift themſelves up before that they find they have a ſufficient load laid upon them. thoſe that have but one bunch upon their back are of africk; but ſuch as have two bun- ches are of aſia, or scythia. thoſe kind of camels that are the bigger are uſed to carry packs, but the leſſer are uſed to ride upon, as our horſes are. they love nothing ſo weſt as beans, and yet they live content with four handfuls ofbeans for a day. the greateſt wealth of the arabians conſiſts in camels, and ſo they eſtimate their riches, not by the quantity of ſilver;or gold, but by the number of camels. the turkiſh emperour (ihevet being the reporter)made a captain over the heards of his caniels giving him a great troop of african and chriſtian ſlaves, that they might be the betterlooked unto. i have heard it reported(ſaith hevet)by certain arabian, african and jewiſh merchants who were reſent, at that time when sultan selim the firſt of that name, beſieged caire in a gypt (which in a mightytroop of camels, the diligence of falconers in training up their hawks. the fight of the hern and falcon. to ſing like a nightingale. the veice to beaſts is of the ſame uſe, as ſpeech is to former times was called memphis)that there thenwas in that emperors army ſixty thouſand camels, beſides a mighty company of mules. - t * - of ravenous birds. ut let us take a view of falconers teaching ravenous birds, how with ſwift wings carried aloft into the air, they may ſeiſe upon other birds, and caſt them down dead to the ground; in performance whereof, they often too freely ſoare up to the clouds, ſo that they carry themſelves out of the falconers fight, with a deſire to ſun themſelves, negle&ing in the mean time their deſigned prey. º the hºrn when ſhe ſees her ſelf kept under and below the falcon carried up by his ſtrong wings with a marvailous ſwiftneſs, with her beak, which is long and ſharp, hid under her wings, and turned upwards, ſhe receives the falcon blinded with the heat of fight and deſire of prey, careleſly flying down and ruſhing upon him; ſo that he often ſtrikes him through the gorge, ſo that of times they both fall down dead to the ground. but if the falcon without harm eſcape the deceitsby art, and the happy turning of his body, and the hern be not caſt down, the faulconer calling herback § never ſo loud a voice, yet by ſettingup her feathers ſhe dares her to the pretended fight. that birds have taught uſ muſicall tunes. t he nightingales are ſweet and excellent ſingers, tuning their notes with infinite quaverings, and diverſities of ſounds, ſo prettily and ſweetly, that humane induſtry can ſcarce equal the ſweetneſs thereof, by ſo many muſicall inſtruments ; ſo that we ſay, he fings like a nightingale, who waries his voice with much variety. in which thing Éirds much excell men, becauſe they have that admirable ſweetneſs of ſinging from nature it ſelf without any labor of learning;which men can ſcarce attain to in any ſchool of muſick, by having their cars a thouſand times pluckt by the hand of a curſt maſter. that beaſts know one anothers voice. eaſts know one another by their voice, ſo that they may ſeem to talk and to laugh incin. we are as ill as deaf, when we hear an unknown lan- guage. together, whilſt flattering with their ears, they pluck in their noſes with a pleaſant aſpe&t of their eys; and as ſpeech is given to men, ſo birds have their º voice, which is of the ſame uſe to them, as ſpeech is to us. for all birds of the ſame ſpecies, as men of the ſame countrey, chant and chirp to one another, when men underſtand not the ſpeech of other men, unleſs of the ſame nation. wherefore the scythian tongue is no more profitable to one living in egypt, than if he were dumb ; nor the egyptians underſtand it no more than if they were deaf. wherefore an egyptian is dumb and deaf to a scythian. this thoſe which travail well underſtand how many dangers, how many troubles they undergo, becauſe they cannot expreſs their minds, and require things né- ceſſary for life. wherefore to the aſſiſtance of this unprofitable tongue, we are compelled to call the reſt of the members, and to abuſe the geſtures of the head, eys, hands, and feet. truly the condition of brute beaſts is not ſo miſerable, ſeeing that all of the ſame kind whereſoever they be may anſwer each other with a known voice. truly if any ſhould hear a german, briton, spaniard, engliſhman, polonian, and greek, ſpeaking amongſt themſelves in their native tongues, not underſtanding any of them, he could ſcarce diſcern, and certainly judg, whether he heard the voice of men or of beaſts. "/ that lib. . of the excellency of man. "- that birds may counterfeit mans voice. incts.larks, pies, rooks, daws,crows, stares, and other ſuch like birds, ſpeak, fing, patrºisire whiſtle, and imitate the voices of men,and other creatures. in this parrats excelſall o' wºnderful ther being wonderous skilfull imitaters of mens voices,and very merry,but ſpecially when . ... they have drunk a little wine. - º plutarh reports that there was a barber at rome;who kept a pie in his ſhop, which ſpoke aakaspi. exceeding well, and that of her own accord, none teaching her, when ſhe firſt heard men talking together;ſhee imitated the voice or cry of all beaſts ſhee heard, as alſo the ſound of drums,and the ſound of pipes,and trumpets;to conclude,there was nothing which ſhe did not indevour to imitate. there have been crows that have ſpoken and articulately ſung ſongs and palmes, and that of ſome length. to which purpoſe the hiſtory of macrºbius is lit...sanga. notable;for he tels that there was one amongſt thoſe, who went forth for luck ſake to meet apa. with auguſtus cæſar, returning from the was againſt antonius, who carried a crow, which he had taught plainly to pronounce this ſalutation, salve ceſar imperator auguſiiffine, that is, god ſave thee, o moſt ſacred emperor ceſar. ceſar taken with the novelty of this ſpeda- cle, bought this obſequious bird with a thouſand peeces of ſilver. pliny and valeriuſ have reckoned up amongſt prodigits,oxen and aſſes that have ſpoken i omit infinit other things recorded by the ancients, plato, ariſtotle, pliny, plutarch, and other philoſophers of great cre- dit, of the docility of beaſts, and their admirable felicity of underſtanding. wift things, ifuntrue, theſe learned men would never have recorded in writing, leſt ſo they might brand with vanity,(then which nothing is more baſe) the reſt of their writings to poſterity in all enſuing ages. - - - of the sympathy and antipathy of living creatures amongſt themſelves. - h aving briefly deſcribed the "...ºf of brute beaſts, it ſcenis not impertinent to ſet down ſome things moreworthy of knowledg, happening unto them by reaſon - of sympathy and antipathy; that is, mutuall agreement and diſagreement, which hap- - pens not only to them living, but alſo dead, by a certain hidden property, through oc- caſion whereof ſome deſire, other ſhun, and others proſecute one another even to death. in teſtimony whereof; the lyon the king of beaſts excelling all other in courage and the lion ſeats magnanimity,fears the cock,for he is not only terrified by his preſence, but alſo by his a jº. crowingbeing abſent. so an elephant fears a hog;but he is ſo afraid of mice and rats,that he will not touch the meat that is given him, if he ſmelt that it hath been defiled with ſuch creatures. there is deadly hatred between the elephant and rhinocerot; yet when the elephant is furious and angry, he becomes quiet and calm at the fightofa ram. a horſe a horſeſear: a is ſo afraid of a camel, that he cannot indure his fight. the dog hates the wolf the hart camell. flies the dog. the snake flies from and fears anakedman,and followes him being elothed. there is deadly hatred between the aſpis and ichneumon, for he when he hath cowled himſelf in the clay, drics himſelf in the sun, and ſo being covered over (by doing thus divers times) as it were with ſhells, or armour, he enters into combat, ſtretching out his tail,and preſentinghis back, untill he get opportunity to choak his adverſary, by leaping and faſtening on her jaws, by which ſtratagem he alſo kils the crocodile. the green li- zard is a capitall enemy to the serpent, but moſt friendly to man, as eraſmus witneſſeth by many hiſtories concerning that matter, in his dialogue of sympathy and antipathy. there is a great deal of hatred between a man and a wolf, which is moſt manifeſt by this, that if the wolves firſt ſee a man, his voice is taken away, and his intended cry hindered. if the weaſell intend tº ſet upon the aſpis that moſt venemous serpent, ſhee arms her ſelf by eating rue, as a moſt certain antidote. the ape fears the torpedo, as eraſmus manifeſts by a pleaſant hiſtory in the forementioned dialogue; where alſo he prettily ſhews the deadly hatred between the ſerpent called areus and the toad.the like hate is between the owl and whitfoul ſeaf crows, ſo that the owl dares not go out, fly abroad, or ſeek her food unleſs by night.the the falcon. water or riverfowl are afraid of the falcon;that if they but hear herbells,they had rather be killed with ſtaves and ſtones, than take wing to flie into the air. . so the lark yelds herſelf to be taken by a man, leſt ſheefall into the talons of the hobby. the caſtrill, or merlin is naturally a terror to hauks, ſo that they both ſhun his voice and preſence. the kites are all at perpetual enmity with the crows wherefore the crow alwayes gets the enemy away the kites proviſion. all kind of pullen fear the fox. the chicken fears neither a between the horſe, or an elephant, but ſcarce hatched, it preſently runs away at the voice or ſight of kites and a kite, and hides itſelf under the hens wings. the lambe and kid flie from the wolf #: d when they firſt ſee him, neither doth death give an end to that hatred, but it ſupervives ... their funerall. an experiment whereof (they ſay) is, that if one drumbe headed with lamº wolves skins and another with sheeps, and beaten up togethar, you ſhall ſcarce hear the welliºnotºn- fºund of the drum covered with ſheeps skins. and befides, if you ſtring one harp with **by dea". things made of ſheeps guts, and another with ſtrings of wolves guts, you cannot bring - t of the excellency of man. l i b. . how to make cheeſe that mice will not gnaw. it to paſs, by any art, to make them w. and go in one tune. it is reportcd from the experiments of many men, that if a wolves head be º up on high in the place where sheep are, that th will not touch the graſs how goo quict in any place, but tumultuouſly run up and down, untill all ſuch kind of terror be taken away. the hate betwixt mice and weaſels appears by this, that if you mix never ſo little of the brains of a weaſell in the rennet, with which you crudle you cheeſe, the mice will never gnaw or touch that cheeſe. the linnet doth ſo hate the bird florus, that both their . ut into one veſſel cannot be mixed together. a wolves head hung up in a dove-houſe, º away poll-cats and weaſels. the panther and hyana burn with ſo great hatred, that if both their skins be laid one againſt the other, the panthers will ...i the hair, the hairs of the hyana remaining cntire and not moved; which thing,they {ay, happens to the feathers of other birds if any one chance to tye them up in a bundle with j. eagles. let theſe ſuffice for ſome few examples of many, of the º amongſtbeaſts. but of the sympathy and conſent of beaſts amongſt themſelves, i thin mans bcars gods image. manhath gi- ven nanies to things, needleſs to write any thing, being it is ſufficiently known to all, that one jay aſſociates another, and the cruel bears agree amongſt themſelves; and beaſts of the ſame ſpecies do wonderfully conſent one with another. - - that man excells all beaſts. now think it fit to aſſay to write of that excellency of man over beaſts, which i have ſo long intended. neither would i that epicures and other too much naturall and mate- riate philoſophers, ſo take thoſe things i have written of the endowments of beaſts, as though we ſhould think, there were no difference between man and beaſt. i had no ſuch meaning, no ſuch intention ; but only that man ſhould not become too ſtately,or too in- grate in leſs acknowledging god to be the author of ſo many benefits with which he abounds. for whatſoever we have largely ſpoken of beaſts, yet there is no compariſon be- tween bcaſts and man, for there is too great a difference between them. for mans mind is adorned with religion, juſtice, prudence, magnanimity, faith, piety, modeſty,clemency, fortitude,and other vertues as lights, which ſhine much more bright in man than in beaſts. for they are ſonmetimes all in ſome one man,each whereof are thought great in beaſts. for ſeeing that man is made to the image of god,it cannot be,how much ſoever he defile hin:- ſelf with the pollution of vices, that he can ſo obſcure that inbred light,but that alwaics ſome beam of the divine wiſdome will beinherent & ſhine in him. but although by collati- on to ſomebeaſts,he may ſeem a defective and weak creature; yet no fortitude nor ſtrength of beaſts can be ſo great as to equall the fortitude of man. for god hath ingraven in man the chara&er of his divine vertue, by the aſſiſtance whereof, he might have all beaſts under and obedient to him. and though by that we have formerly ſaid, beaſts may ſeem to have a certain ſhadow of reaſon, yet that ſmall light is not fit for many and divers uſes, but there is only given them ſo much providence,as ſhould be ſufficient for them and the preſervation of their bodics. but men have reaſon given them to crop or gather the fruits of eternall life, (as laâantius ...? whereby it comes to paſs, that man only, amongſt ſo many creatures, hath ſenſe and underſtanding of divine things. which cicero thought to be known by that,becauſe man only had a certain knowledg of god in his mind.wherefore he was inriched by god with reaſon, ſpeech and hands as helps for the performance of all his ačtions; morcover by his ſingular and almoſt divine wit he eaſily czcels all brute beaſts. for firſt, reaſon being his guide, he invented things neceſſary for life, ftly im- poſed names on the things invented befitting their natures, framed letters and charaćters, invented all liberall arts and handy-crafts,and found means to meaſure the land and sea. he hath obſerved and drawn into an art the ſpaces of the celeſtiall globe, the diſtinétions of the stars, the changes and orders of dayes and nights, of times and ſeaſons, the ri- ſing and ſetting of stars, and their power and effects over theſe lower bodies. laſtly, he records in writing to perpetuall memory that which concerns his own nature, or the na- ture of other things, the precepts and ordinances of life and manners: by which ſingular gift we can now confer with socrates, plato, ariſtotle, and other philoſophers of ancient times, as if they were living, gal. cap. . lib, .deſ, parti- what benefit man bath by reaſon of hiſ native nakedreſs and ignorance. - uit as mans body is by nature naked and unarmed, ſo is his mind like a ſmooth table in which nothing is painted, nothing graven; but for help of his nakedneſs he hath. hands, and for ſupply of his ignorance, reaſon and ſpeech. and by theſe three being as it were the miniſters of infinite variety of things, he clothes and defends his body with all things needfull and inriches his mind with the knowledg of arts and sciences. now if he had certain weapons born with him, he ſhould uſe them only , if he ſhould be born skil- full in any art, he would meddle with none elſe. therefore becauſe it was more exps- dicnt to uſe all ſorts of weapons with the hand, and be skilfull in all arts ; therefore he muſt be born wanting and ignorant of all. ariſtotle very wittily called the hand the inſtru- ment of inſtruments:in inlitation of which ſpecch,one nay rightly affirm, that reaſon is the - art and freſh ſočver it be, nor reſt win . as the hand is the inſtrument of inſtruments ſo reaſon is the art of arts. . lib. . of the excellency of man. : - art of arts:for as the hand in worth exceeds the other inſtruments,becauſe it can make han- dle and fit them for uſe; ſo reaſon and ſpeech, though names of no art,yet comprehend and encreaſe all arts. therefore man ſeeing he hath his mind inſtructed by art, that is, by rea- ſon ; it is fit he ſhould have his body defended with a weapon, or inſtrument, that is, the hand, which in agility and excellency ſhould excell all . inſtruments. for ſo man hath of his hands in ſtead of all weapons, which he may uſe in war and peace as the inſtru- ments of all arts ; he wants not the buls horns, the boars tuskes, the horſes hoofs, nor to conclude, any arms of any other beaſt. for by the benefit of his hands he can handle o- ther arms far more profitable and ſafe; as a lance, sword,spear,halberd; but man alſo can uſe at ſome diſtance the bow, ſling audhandgun, when the horn and the hoof cannot be uſed but neer at hand. but ſome may ſay : a lyon exceeds a man in ſwiftneſs of foot; what then? is man therefore inferiour to him? no,for by the means of his hands and the guidance of his reaſon he bridling and ridin . a horſe, out runs the lyon, and being vićtor follows him to and again as he himſelf pleaſes, or vanquiſhed flies away, and from the horſes back as from a tower wounds the É.i. what weapons he pleaſes. to conclude, man is aboundantly provided with means, to defend himſelf from the violence of all otherbeaſts. for this purpoſe he doth not only harneſs himſelf as with braſen wals, but alſo makes ditches and bulwarkes, he makes by the miniſtery of his hands all kind of weapons, weaves himſelf garments, caſts into the water and draws forth nets to catch fiſh ; and to conclude, he performs all things to his own contentment, and having that priviledge granted him by god, he rules over all the earth; all things which lye # ... man under din . the king the bowels of the earth, which go, or creep upon the earth, which ſwim in the sea,and flie . emperour through the air, or are any where ſhut up in the compaſs of the skie, are in mans domi- of hº nion. how wonderful! god hath ſhewed himſelf inmaking man. - g. and providence hath principally ſhewed it ſelf in the creation of man; manisthe end neither his ſo admired light hath ſo ſhone in the produćtion of other creatures, ſeeing of all mundane that god would have them to live and have their being only formans ſake,that they might things. ſerve him. thereforeman is, if wediligently confider all his endowments, a certain pat- tern and rule of the divine majeſty and (if i nay ſo ſay) artifice. for being made to gods image, he is as it were his coin, exceeding the capacity of all humane underſtanding.which māna little world, yea al- ſeemed a juſt reaſon to the ancient philoſophers, that he ſhould be called microcoſmos, or a . little world, becauſethe particles of all things contained in the compaſs of heaven and wº earth, are contained in his mind and body, that in the mean time i may in filence paſs over his ſoul more great and noble than the whole world. why name has nº given man the faculty ºf preſaging. t. ſcenis the reaſon, that men by the inſtin& of nature do not foreſee the filture ſea- man is not ſons & diſpoſitions ofthe heaven & air;becauſe,ſeeing they have received certain É. obnoxious to of prudence from god,by whoſe care and guidance they are led to the knowledg of things the air and by no deceitfull but certain judgment, being not obnoxious to the conditions and changes flat. of times and ſeaſons, as beaſts are. wherefore knowing all theſe airy changes to be placed under them, that is to ſay,their minds, according as occaſion ſerves, and their minds deſire, they give themſelves to mirth when the air is wet ſtormy and dark,and on the contrary, in a clear and fair ſeaſon,to a ſincere andgravemeditation of things ſublime andful of doubt. but beaſts accommodating themſelves to that diſpoſition of the air which is preſent and at hand, are lively, or §. from any judgmentasmen,but according to the temper and complexion of their bodies following the inclinations of the air, and of the humors one while diffuſed, another while contraćted. neither ought we to blame man, becauſe he one man will can imitate the voice of beaſts, but rathermuch commend him, that he can infinitely wreſt . and vary one thing, that is,his voice; for men can barke like foxes and dogs; grünt like voi...oring. hogs; whet and grind their teeth like boars; roare like lyons; bellow like bulls; neigh nite varieties of like horſes; i. their teeth like apes; houl like wolves; bray like aſſes; bleat like beaſts, goats and sheep; mourn like bears, pigeons, and turtles; keeke and gaggle like geeſe; hiſs like serpents; cry like storks; caw like a crow, and crow like cock; clock like hens; chatter as swallows and pies; fing like nightingales; croak like frogs; imitate the fing- ing of waſpes, and humming of bees; mew like cats. the finging of birds ſcarce ſeems to merit the name of muſicall, compared to the harmony of men fitted and tuned hºwers: withinfinit variety of voices.for with this they poſſeſs the ears of kings and princes; pro- voke and temper #: wrath, and mens minds i. themſelves, and tranſforme them into what habits they pleaſe. but if thoſe cruell beaſts have any humanity, they ow; it all to man. for he tames lyons, elephants, bears, tigers, leopards, panthers, and ſuch other like. of muſick. of living creatures, and l i b. . a tame croco- dile, of the crocodile. - lutarch reports of the crocodile (whoſe figure is delineated) that being tamed, and taught by man, he doth not only hear mans voice, and anſwers to his call, but ſuffers himſelf to be handled, and opening his throat, lets his teeth be ſcratched and wiped with a tºwell. how ſmall a part of phyſick is that, which beaſts are taught by nature? cer- tainly nothing in compariſon of man, who by the ſtudy and º of a few years can learn at his fingers ends all the parts of phyſick: and praćtiſ: them not only for his own, but alſo for the common good of all men. but why cannot beaſts attain unto the know- ledgof phyſick ſo well as men? i think, becauſe ſo great an art as phyſick is, cannot be attained unto by the dull capacities of beaſts, but lie. . of the excellency of man. * but for that i have written of the religion of elephants, if i muſt ſpeak according to in what ſente the truth of the matter, we cannot ſay they worſhip god, or have any ſenſe of the divine : ſaid ele- majeſty. for how can they have any knowledge of ſublimethings or of god, ſeeing they º, had wholly following their food, know not how to meditate on celeſtiall things? now for religion. that they behold and turn themſelves to the moon by night,and to the sun in the mor- ning, they do not that as worſhipping or for that they conceive any excellency or divinity in the sun; but becauſe nature ſo requiring and leading them, they feel their bodies to * - rejoyce in that light,and their entralls and humors to move and ſtir them to it, therefore when we attributed religion to elephants, we ſaid it rather popularly,than truly,and more that we mightexhort men to the worſhip of god, than that we thought elephants had any knowledg of divine worſhip implanted in their minds. that man may attain unto the knowledg of all voices and tongues. th: docility of mans wit is ſo #. and facility of the body obeying that divine gift of wit ſuch, that he is not only able to learn to underſtand and ſpeak the tongues of di- vers nations differing in ſo many peculiar languages; and not only to imitate and coun- - terfeit the voices of É beaſts though ſo much different from man, which many flattering º...y andjugling companions, followers of other men; tables, will do; but alſo may be able to burih. †. know and underſtandboth what they pretend and fignifie.in confirmation of which thing preter ofthe they cite the philoſopher apollonius moſt famous in this kind of ſtudy aud knowledg. he wººfbeams waſking on a time amongſtäcompany of his friends through the field, and ſeeing a spar- and birds, row come flying and chirping much to divers other sparrows fitting upon a tree, is repor: red to have É to thoſe which were with him: that bird which came flying hither,told she other in her language, that an aſs laded with corn was fallen down at the city gate, and had ſhed the wheat upon the ground. wherefore apollonius and all his friends which minds were with him went thither to ſee whether it were ſo, and found that it was ſo, as he had told them, and obſerved that the sº. moved thereto by the coming of theo- ther, were eating up the grains of corn ſhed on the ground. - but for crows and pies artificially taught to counterfeit mens voyces, it is too ſmall a thing, that for that cauſe they ſhould contend with men. for they have quickly babled all they have learnt with longer coſt and labour, tediouſly finging ſtill the ſame ſong,and whatſoever they.. they do it without ſenſºunderſtanding or any reaſon for what they ſay. butman alwayes ...; ſomewhat more high, ſtill thinks of greater things the unques. than theſepreſent, and never reſts.but burning with an infinite and endleſs deſire of know- hable define ledg, he doth not only covet to know theſe things which appertain to food and cloa- ***** thing, but by caſting up his eyes towards heaven, and by the light of his mind,he learns “ and underſtands . divine. which is ſo certain an argument of the celeſtiall originall ofour ſoul,that he which confiders thoſe things can nowayes doubt,but that we have our minds ſeaſoned, by the univerſall divine underſtanding. but now it is time for us to ſet . upon . deſcription of the body,the habitation and fit inſtrument of al the funètions of divnemin - the end of theſecond book: o l i b. . the neceſſity of the know- ledgof anato. my. initia lib. de offic, medici, lib.de ºffibus. .de locaffè- $ , lib. , meth. why when the liver is hot the ſtomach is commonly cold. the know- ledg of anato- my, is commo- dious four manner of wayes. there is a threefold me- thod. of ſciences. galen hath, the third book, t re at in g of the anatomy of m ans b d.t. . zºº; following the cuſtom and the manner of ſuch as beforeme have written º of anatomy, will firſt,(that i may make the minds of the readers more. sº attentive and deſirous of theſe ſtudies) declare how neceſſary it is, and alſo how profitable,and then ſhew the order to be obſerved in it, before * i come to the particular deſcription of mans body. finition of the parts. for the firſt, the knowledg of anatomy ſtems in my judgment very neceſſary to thoſe that deſire to excell, or attain to perfºrion of phyſick; that is, whereby they may be able to preſerve the preſent health of the body,and the parts thereof, and drive away diſeaſes. for how can either phyſician or chirurgeon preſerve health by the uſe of the like things, which conſiſts in the tempera- ment;conformation,and naturall union of the parts;or expell the diſeaſe which hurts thoſe - . the like uſe of their contraries, unleſs he ſhall know the nature and compºſure of the body,and underſtand as by the rule of this knowledg, how much it ſwerves from the nature thercof: wherefore it is excellently ſaid of hippocrates ; that the phyfitian called to cure the ſick patient;ought diligently to conſider, whether thoſe things that are in him, or appear to be in him, be like or unlike, that is, whether the patient be like himſelf and his own nature in all his parts and funètions,temperature, compoſure and union; that he may preſerve thoſe which are yet contained in the bounds of nature, and reſtore thoſe that are gone aſtray.which thing galen hath alſo confirmed,ſpecially where he ſaith,he muſt wel know the nature and ſtrućture or compoſure of the bones, who takes upon him to reſtore them broken or diſlocated to themſelves and their proper ſeats or places. moreover ſeeing that healingdoth not only conſiſt in the knowledg of the diſeaſe,but as well in preſcribin fit medicines and like application of them to the body and the parts thereof, all .# by their naturall diſſimilitude, do require unlike medicines, according to galens opinion: prethe tell mee, who can perform this, which is ignorant of the deſcription of the whole and the parts thereof taught by anatomy? we may ſay the like of the apothecary, who ignorant of the fituation of the parts in the body cannot apply tºº. ointments, cataplaſms,fomentations, epithemes, bags to the fit places, as to the ſutures of the skull, to the heart,liver,stomach,spleen, reins, wombe or bladder. for example,letus imagine the liver to be troubled with a hot diſtemperature, but on the contrary,the ſtomach with a cold(which commonly happens, ſeeing the liver hotter than it ought to be.ſends up many vapours to the head;from whence cold humors fall into the ſtomach)if hot things to be ap- plied to the ſtomach by the phyſitians #. by the apothecary making no diffe- rence, applied both to the ſtomach and neighboring liver (which may chance if hebe ig- norant that the ſtomach bends ſomewhat to the left ſide under the breaſt-blade; but the li- wer ſo takes up the right ſide of the body that with a great part thereof, it covers almoſt all the ſtomach) will not he much offendby increaſing the hot diffemper of the liver, and not thereby giving eaſe, or help to the diſeaſe ? shall not by this his ignorance, the patient be j of his deſire,the phyſitian of his intent,and the medicine of its effect? by theſe examples i think it moſt manifeſt,that the anatomicall knowledg of the parts of the body is exceeding neceſſary to all phyſitians, chirurgeons, and apothecarics, who will praśtiſe phyſick with any praiſe to the glory of god, and the benefit and good of nuan, for whoſe ſake we have writ theſe things,and illuſtrated them by figures,ſubjećting the parts to the eye and fitly put them in their proper places. but anatomy is commodious four manner of wayes;the firſt is,becauſe thus we are led to the knowledg of god the creator,as by the effºt to the cauſe;for as we read in st.paul,the inviſible things of godaremade # by the viſible.the ſecond is, that by means here- of we know the nature of mans body,and the parts thereof,whereby we may more eaſily and certainly judg and determine offickneſs and health. the third is, that by the knowledg of the body and its parts,and together therewith its affections and diſeaſes, we may prognoſti- cate what is to come,and foretell the events of diſeaſes.laſtly,the fourth is,that conſidering the nature of the diſeaſed part, we may fitly preſcribe medicincs, and apply them in their due places. now we muſt declare in what order anatomy may be fitly delivered; but firſt we muſt obſerve there is a threefold method ; the firſt is called of compoſition , being very commodious for the teaching of arts, which ariāotle hath uſed in his works of logick, and naturall philoſophy, the order and beginning taken from the leaſt and moſt ſimple to the more º. the ſecond of diviſion,fit for the inventing or finding out ollowed this order in his books of anatomicall adminiſtrations, - and furthermore how anatomy may be defined,and the manner of the de-, n -- a- - - - ** * º . º lib. . - of mans body. and of the uſe of the parts. the third of definition, which ſheweth the nature and eſſence of things, as appears by galen in his book de arte parva. and becauſe this order doth al- ſo proſecute the diviſions, therefore it is commonly accuſtomed to be ºf.” in the compaſs of the ſecond. therefore i will follow this in my anatomicall treatiſe, di- viding mans body into its parts, which i will not only ſubjećt to the eye in the way of knowing them, §: alſo to the mind in the faithfull underſtanding them. for i will ad- joyn thoſe things that are delivered of them by galen in his book of anatom. admini- ſtrations,with .. which he hath taught in his books of the uſe of the parts.for there he fitly laids theparts of mans body before our eyes,to the ſenſe. buthere he teaches to know them, not to ſee them; for he ſhews why, and for what uſe they are made. having briefly handled theſe things, we muſt declare what anatomy is ; that as cicero faith out of plato's phedro, it may be underſtood of what we diſpute. and becauſe weattain that by definition (which is a ſhort and plain ſpeech, conſiſting of the genus and difference of the things de- fined, being the eſſentiall parts, by which the nature and eſſence of the thing, is briefly and plainly explained) firſt we define anatomy, then preſently explain the particular parts of the definition. the authors intent. wherefore anatomy,(if you have regard to the name) isa perfeótaud abſolute diviſion, what ahata. or artificiall reſolution of mans body into its parts,as well generall as particular, as well my is." compound as ſimple. neither may this definition ſeem illegitimate,ſpecially amongſt phy- fitians and chirurgeons. for ſeeing they are artizanshumiliated to the ſenſe they may uſe the proper and common lº. of things for their eſſentiall differences and forms. as how defini- on the contrary,philoſophers may refuſe all definitions as ſpurious, which conſiſt not of #. º: jps the next genu, and themoſt proper,and eſſentiall differences. but ſeeing that, through the . a deſcrip imbecillity of our underſtanding,ſuch differences are unknown to us,in their places we are ...?in defining things,to draw into one many common and proper accidents, to fi- niſh that definition which we intend, which for that cauſe wenay more truly call a de- ſcription, becauſe for the matter and eſſentiall form of the thing, it preſents us only the matter adorned with crrtain accidents. this appearsby the former definition, in wich di- viſion and reſolution ſtand for the genuſ,becauſe they may be parted into divers others, as it were into ſpecies. that which is added over and beſides ſtands in place of the difference, be: cauſe they ſeparate and make different the thing itſelf from all other raſh and unartificiall diſk&ions.we muſt know an artificiall diviſion,is no other than a ſeparation of one part from another,without the hurt of the other, obſerving the proper circumſcription of each of them; which if they periſh orbedefaced by the diviſion,it cannot be ſaid to be artificiall; and thus much may ſuffice for the parts of the definition in generall. for as much as belongs to the explication of each word;we ſaid of mans body, becauſe as much as lies in us, we take care of, preſerve the health, and depell the diſeaſes thereof, by the ſnbjet of . which it may appear that mans body is the ſubjećt of phyſick,nótas it is mans,or confiſts of matter and form but as it is partaker of health and fickneſs. - we underſtand nothing elſe by a part, according to galen, than ſome certain body, which is not wholly disjoined,nor wholly united with other bodies of their kinds; but ſo that,according to his opinion,the whole being compoſed therewith,with which in ſome fort it is united,and in ſome kind ſeparated from the ſame by their proper circumſcription. furthermore by the parts ingenerall,i underſtand the head, breaſt, belly, and their adjunčts. by the particular parts ofthoſe,i underſtand,the fimple parts,as the #. which are nine in º: a griſtle,bone, ligament,membrame,tendon,nerve, vein,arterie, muſculous fleſh; ſome add fibers,fat,marrow,the nails and hairs; other omit them as excrements; but we muſt note that ſuch parts are called fimple, rather in the judgment of the ſenſe,than of reaſon.for if any will more diligently confider their nature, they find ſhall none abſolutely fimple, becauſe they are nouriſhed, have life and ſenſe, eithermanifeſtor obſcure,which happens not without a nerve, vein,and artery. but if any ſhall obječt, that no nerve is communicated to any bone, except the teeth; i will anſwer,that nevertheleſs the bones have ſenſe by the nervous fibers, which are commu- nicated to them by the perioſteum, as by whoſe mediation the perioſteum is connext to the bones,as we ſee it happens to theſe membranes,which involve the bowels. and the bones, by this benefit of the animall ſenſe expell the noxious and excrementitious humors from themſelves into the ſpaces between them and the perioſteum, which as indued with a more quick ſenſe,admoniſheth us,according to its office and duty, of that danger which is ready to ſeiſe upon the bones, unleſs it be prevented. wherefore we will conclude according to the truth of the thing,that there is no part in our body ſimple, but only ſome are ſo named and thought, according to the ſenſe; although alſo otherwiſe ſome may be truly named ſimple,as according to the peculiar and proper fleſh of each oftheir kinds. thoſe parts are calſcq compound which are made or compoſed by the mediation, or immediately of theſe pound,or org” ſimple, which they term otherwiſe organicall,or inſtrumentall; as an arm, leg, hand, foot, and others of this kind. and here weemuſt obſerve, that the parts are called ſimple and finilar, becauſe they phyſick. gal.lib.i.de aſar part.lib.i.mºsh. the ſimilar " parts are nine. how the bones come tº feel. the com, nicall patts. cannot be divided into any particles but of the ſame kind; but the compound are called g - diſſimilar * ! | of the anatomy li na. - diſſimilar from the quite contrary reaſon.they are called inſtrumentall and organicall, be- cauſe they can perform ſuch ačtions of themſelves, as ſerve for the preſervation of them- ſelves and the whole as the eye of it ſelf,without theaſſiſtance of any other part,ſeeth, and by this faculty defends the whole body,as alſo itſelf. wherefore it is called an inſtrument or organe, but not any part of it, as the coats, which cannot of itſelf perform that ačt. four particles. whereby wenuſtun erſtand, that in each inſtrumentall part we muſt diligently obſerve to be ºbſerved four proper parts. qne by which the aëtion is properly performed, as the cryſtalline hu- in . :* morin the eye;another without which the aëtion cannot be performed,as the nerve and the "**** other humors of the eye. the third, whereby the aëtion is better and more convenientl done,as the tunicles and muſcles.the fourth,by which the aëtion is preſerved,as the . and circle of the eye.the ſame may be ſaid of the hand, which is the proper inſtrument of holding;for it performs this ačtion, firſt,by the muſcle,as the principall part; secondly,by the ligament, as a part without which ſuch action cannot be performed; thirdly, by the bones and nails,becauſe by the benefit of theſe parts,the aëtion is more happily performed; fourthly,by the veins,arteries and skin,for that by theirbenefit and uſe,the reſt,and ſo con- ſequently the aëtion itſelf is *:::: four ſorts of but we muſt confider that the inſtrumentall parts have a fourfold order.they are ſaid to inſtrumentall be of the firſt order, which are firſt and º; compoſed of the ſimple, as only the parts. authors of ſome one attion,of which kinds are the muſcles and veſſels. they are of a ſecond which confiſt of theſe firſt ſimple, and others beſides,as the fingers. they are counted of the third rank, which are compoſed of parts of the ſecond order and ſome beſides, as the hand taken in generall. the fourth order is the moſt compoſed,as the wholebody,the organ and inſtrument of the ſoul. but }. muſt obſerve,that when we ſay the muſcles and veſſels are fimple parts, we refer you to the ſenſe and fight,and to the underſtanding, comparatively to the parts which are more compound;but ifany confider their effence and conſtitution,he ſhal underſtand they are truly compound,as we ſaid before.now it remains,that we underſtand, nimething, is that in each part whether ſimple or compound,nine things are to be conſidered asſubſtance, becomfidºcain quantity or magnitude, figure compoſition,number, connexion, (by which name, we alſo each part. underſtand the originall and inſertion)temperature,ačtion, and uſe; that by the confidera- tion of theſe things, every one may exerciſe the art of phyſick, in preſerving health, curing - diſeaſes,or foreſeeing their events and ends. why the three but alſo we muſt note,that of the organicall parts,there be three,by whoſe power the bo- . ..., dy is governed; which for that cauſe . call regent and principali, becauſe they govern §: all the reſt; they are the liver,heart and brain. but they are called principall,not only, be- cauſe they are neceſſary for life,(for the ſtomach, wind-pipelungs, reins, bladder, and ſuch like parts perhaps are equally as neceſſary for life)but becauſe from each of theſe three,ſome force,power,and faculty,or alſo matter neceſſary for the wholebody, flow over all the body, when no ſuch thing proceeds from the reſt of the parts. for from the liver amatter fit for nouriſhment,is .. by the veins through all the body;from the heart the vitall force diffuſed by the arteries, imparts life to the whole body; from the brain by the nerves a power or faculty is carried through all the parts of the body, which gives them ſenſe and innotion. lib.de aneme. galen would have the teſticles to be of this kind, not for the neceſſity of the individualſ, dica. or peculiar body, but for the preſervation of the species or kind. and moreover in his book de semine comparing the teſticles with the heart, heemakes them the more noble by this reaſon,that by how much it is better to live wel and happily,than ſimply and abſolute- ly to live, by ſo much the teſticles are more excellent than the heart, becauſe with them we may live well & º: with this ſimply live,as we ſee by the example of eunuches, and ſuch as aregelt,by which the teſticles ſeem rightly to be accounted amongſt the princi- pal parts;for nature ſeeing it deſired,that this its work ſhould be immortal,for the attaining f i. immortality which it intends,frames thoſe parts,like as prudent founders of a city, who do not only procure to furniſh their city with many inhabitants, ſo long as they are in building it, but alſo that it may remain in the ſame ſtate and condition for ever, or at the uſe and leaſt for many ages. and yet notwithſtanding of ſo many cities built in the firſt memory of funètion of man, there remains none, whoſe fame and ſtate,together with the builders name, is not de- the parts ſer- cayed and periſhed. but this humane work of nature,ſtands yet ſecure for this many thou- .." * (and of years,and ſhalendure hereafter becauſe it hath found away by which every one may - ſubſtitute another in his place before he depart. hence it is that all creatures have members fit for generation,and pleaſures inſerted in thoſe members, by which they might be inticed to mutuall embraces and copulations. but the mind, which hath dominion over thoſe members hath an incredible deſire of propagating the iſſue, by which alſo brute beaſts in- cited, deſire to propagate their kinds for ever. for ſeeing that nature underſtands all theſe her works conſidered particularly by themſelves, are frail and mortall, it hath done what it could to recompence that fatall neceſſity of dying, by a perpetuall ſucceſſion of individualls. hitherto we may ſeem to have aboundantly ſhewed what neceſſity of knowledg in anatomy belongs to all artizans in phyſick, and alſo what order is to be obſerved ". the alſt c. lis. . of mans body. ſame. and laſtly, how it is defined, and the reaſon of the parts of the definition. where- fore it remains that we proſecute what we have taken in hand: which is, that we ſhew and declarehow to know all and every the parts of mans body, how many, and what they be, and to underſtand wherefore they be. for although the true knowledg of anatomy may be perfeóted by the fight of the ey; and touching and handling each part with the hand, yet nevertheleſs the labor of deſcribing anatomy is not unprofitable. for by reading,ſuch as have often exerciſed themſelves in the diffe&ting of mens bodies, may refreſh and help their memories, and ſuch as have not, may make plain and eaſie the way to the underſtan- ding of diſſºčtions. c h a p. i. the diviſion or partition of mans body. . §§y reaſon the partition of mans body can hardly be underſtood, if the diſtinčtion § of the proper faculties of the ſoul be not underſtood, for whoſe cauſe the body & enjoys that form (which we ſee) and diviſion into divers inſtruments; there- *** fore i thought good in few words to touch that diſtinétion of the faculties of the ſoul, for the better underſtanding of the partition of the body which we intend. wherefore the ſoul, the perfeótion of the body, and beginning of all its funèti- ) - ons, is commonly diſtinguiſhed, and that in the firſt and generall diviſion,into three facul- .. ties, which are the animall, vitall, and naturall. but the animall is divided into the jºi. principall, ſenſitive, and motive; again the principall is diſtinguiſhed into the imagina- endued. tive, reaſonable, and memorative: and the senſitive into ſeeing hearing,ſmelling,taſting, and touching: but the motive into progreſſive and apprehenſive. and the vital is divided into the dilative and contraćtive faculty of the heart and arteries, which we know or un- derſtand by the pulſifick faculty. but the naturall is parted into the nutritive,aućtive,and generative faculties;which three perform their parts by the help and miniſtery of five other. faculties,which are, the attractive, retentive, concoëtive, aſſimilative, and expulſive. ‘. . . . . after the ſelf-ſame manner, the organ or inſtrument of the ſoul, to wit, mans body, at all the pºrts of the firſt diviſion is diſtinguiſhed into three parts, which from their office they call animall, †. * vitall, and naturall. theſe again, according to the ſubdiviſion of the ſubalternall facul: . . e ties, are divided particularly into other parts ; ſo that any one may know the organ of each faculty, by the property of the funètion. for while other anatomiſts divide mans body into four univerſall and chief parts, they diſtinguiſh from the three firſt, thoſe which they call the extremities; neither do they teach to what rank of the three prime parts each . extremity ſhould be reduced. from whence many difficulties happen in reading the wri- tings of anatomiſts; for ſhunning whereof, we will proſecute, as we have ſaid,that diſtin- &tion of mans body, which we have touched before. - - - . . . . - wherefore, as we ſaid before, mans body is divided into three principall and generall what part, , parts, animall, vitall,and naturall. by the animall parts, we underſtand not only the are here called arts pertaining to the head, which are bounded with the crown of the head, the coller- animall. fies, and the firſt vertebra of the breaſt, but alſo the extremities, becauſe they are organs • * * * * and inſtruments of the motive faculty; hippocrates ſeems to have confirmed the ſame,where lib. epidem. he writes; thoſe who have a thick and great head, have alſo great bones, nerves, and limbs. and in another place he ſaith, thoſe who have great heads, and when they ſtoop ſhew alongneck, ſuch have all their parts large, but chiefly the animall. not for that hippocrates would therefore have the head the beginning and cauſe of the magnitude and greatneſs of the bones and the reſt of the members; but that he might ſhew the equality and private care or government of nature, being moſt juſt and exaët in the fabrick of mans ' body, as if ſhe hath well framed the head, it ſhould not be unlike that ſhe idly or careleſly : the other parts which are leſs ſeen... i thought good to dilate this paſſage, leſt any might abūſe that authority ofºf: gather from thence, that not only the bones, membranes, ligaments, griſles, and all the other animall parts, but alſo the veins and arte- ries depend on the head as the originall..but if any obſerve this our diſtinčtion of the parts of the body, he will underſtand we have a far other meaning. . . . . . ‘. . . . . - ** by the vitall parts, we underſtand only the heart, arteries, lungs, winde-pipe,and other what pairs * particles annexed to theſe. but by the naturall, we would have all thoſe parts underſtood called vital, , which are contained in the whole compaſs of the peritoneum or rim of the body, and * - the proceſſes of the erythroides, the ſecond coat of the teſticles. for as much as {i,j to all the other parts, which we call containing; they muſt be reckoned in the number of the animall, which notwithſtanding, we muſt thus divide into principall, ſenſitive, , , , and motive ; and again, each of theſe in the manner following. for firſt,the principalliš the diviſor. divided into the imaginative, which is the firſt and upper part of the brain, with its two ofths ani" ventricles and otherannexed particles; into the reaſoning, which is a part of the brain, pº'" . lying under the former, and (as it were) the top thereof with its third ventricle; into the memorative, which is the cerebellum or afterbrain, with a ventricle hollowed in its ſub- ſtance. secondly, the senſitive is parted into theºwa is in the eys; the audiº º - tº € iſ . what the ſoul of the anatomy li b. . the diviſion of the vitall parts, the diviſijn of the naturall parts. - the vulgar die viſion of mans body, why the belly is not bony. the diviſion of the lower bel- ly. the hypochºn- dria, the cars; the ſmelling in the noſe;the taſting in the i. and palate;the taëtive,or touch- ing which is in the body, but moſt exquiſite in the skin which inveſts the palms of the hands.thirdly,the motive is divided into the progreſſive,which intimates the legs, and the comprehenſive which intimates the hº ,into fimply motive,which are three parts, called bellies,for the greateſt part terminating and containing; for the vitall, the inſtru- ment of the faculty of the heart, and dilatation of the arteries, are the direét or ſtreight fi- bers,but of the conſtrićtive the tranſverſe; but the three kinds offibers together, f the pul- ſifick; or if you pleaſe you may divide them into parts ſerving for reſpiration, as are the lungs,and weazon,and parts ſerving for vitall motion,as are the heart and arteries,furniſh- ed with theſe fibers, which we formerly mentioned. the diviſion of the naturall parts re- mains,which is into the nouriſhing,aućtive and generative,which again are diſtributed into attraćtive, univerſall,and particular;retentive, concoëtive, diſtributive, aſſimilative, and ex- pulſive.the attraćtive,as the gullet and upper orifice of the ventricle; the retentive, as the pylorus or lower paſſage of the ſtomach; the conco&tive,as the body of the ventricle, or its inner coat;the diſtributive,as the three ſmallguts; the expulſive, as the three great guts; we may ſay the ſame of the liver, for that draws by the meſaraick and gate veins, retains by the narrow orifices ofthe veins diſperſed through the ſubſtance thereofit conco&sby its proper fleſh;diſtributes by the hollow vein,expels by the ſpleen, bladder of the gall and kidnies. we alſo ſee the parts in the teſticles divided into as many funétions ; for they draw by the preparing j. retain by the various crooked paſſages; in the ſame veſſels they concoët the ſeed by the power of their proper ſubſtance .#faculty; they diſtribute by the ejacula- tory,at the glandules called proſtate, and the horns of the wombe, ſupplying the place of roſtates; laſtly,they expellor caſt forth by the proſtates, horns, and adjoining parts, for as much as belongs to the particular attraćtion,retention,concoëtion, diſtribution,aſi- milation of each part,that depends of the particular temper,and as they term it,occult pro- perty of each ſimilar and ſimple part. neither do theſe particular ačtions differ from the univerſall, but that the generalſ are performed by the aſſiſtance of the three ſorts of fibers, but the ſpecial by the ſeverall occult property of their fleſh, ariſing from their temperature, which we may cal aſpecifickproperty.now in the compoſition of mans body, nature princi- pally aims at three things.the firſt is,to create parts neceſſary for life,as are the heartbrain, and liver. the ſecond,to bring forth other for the better & more commodious living,as the eyes, noſe, ears,arms and hands. the third is,for the propagation and renewing the ſpecies or kind, as the privie parts,teſticles, and wombe. and this is my opinion, of the true di- itinëtion of mans body,furniſhed with ſo many parts, for the performance of ſomany fa- cultics ; which you, if you pleaſe, may approve of and follow. if not, you may follow the common and vulgar, which is, into three bellies.or capacities,the upper,middle, lower (that is, the head, breſ and lowerbelly) and the limbs or joints. in which by the head we do not underſtand all the animall parts,but only thoſe º are from the crown of the head to the firſt vertebra of the neck, or to the firſt of the back, if according to the opi- nion of galen, lib. de offibus, where hemakes mention of enarthroſis . arthrodia, we reckon the neck amongſt the parts of the head. by the breſt, whatſoever is contained from the col- ler bones to the ends of the true and baſtard,or ſhort ribs,and the midriffe. by the lower belly,the reſt of the trunck of the body,from the ends of the ribs to the ſhare-bones; by the limbs, we underſtand the arms and legs. we will follow this diviſion in this our anatomi- call diſcourſe, becauſe we cannot follow the former in diſſeding the parts of mans body by reaſon the animall parts are mutually mixed with the vitalland naturall, and firſt of the lower belly. - - . nature would not have this lowerbelly bony,becauſe the ventricle might be more eaſily dilated by meat and drink, children might grow the better, and the body be more flexible. it is convenient we begin our anatonical adminiſtration from this,becauſe it is more ſub- i. to putreflètion than the reſt,both by reaſon of its cold and moiſt temperature; as alſo by reaſon of the feculent excrements therein contained. yet before we go any further,if the anatomicall adminiſtration muſt be performed in publick, the body being firſt handſomely placed,and all the inſtruments neceſſary for diſſºtion made ready,the belly muſt be divided into its parts, of which ſome contain, and other ſome are contained. they are called containing which make all that capacity which is terminated by the pe- ritoneum or rim of the belly. the upper part whereof is bounded by galen within the coni- paſs of the dire&muſcles,and by a generall name is called epigaſtrium, or the upper part of the lower belly. that again is § into three parts, that is, into that which is above the navil,and which carries the name of the whole, into that which is about the navil,and is called the umbilicall or middle part; and laſtly, into that which is below the navill,called the hypogaſtrium, or the lower part of the lower belly. - in every of which three parts therebe two lºft, or ſide parts to be confidered, as in the epigaſtrium, the right and left hypochondria, which are bounded above and below, in the compaſs of the midriffe,and the ſhort ribs.in the umbilicall the two i umbares(ſome call them latera fides ) which on both fides from the loweſt parts of the brett, are drawn to the flanks or fianch-bones; in the hypogaſtrium, the two ilia, or flanks, bº. w . -- º . | l i b. . of evmans body. with the hanch and ſhare-bones.neither am i ignorant,the ilia,or flanks, which the greeks call aayºt ſignifie all the empty parts, from the cnds of the ribs, even to the hanch-bones, whereupon they alſo call them kºrºrº, as ifyou ſhould ſay empty ſpaces,becauſe they are not encompaſſed with any bone. yet i thought good that this doćtrine of dividing the belly ſhould be more diſtinét,to call the parts which are on each ſide the navell lumbares, and thoſe on the lower part of the lower belly ilia, flanks. but we muſt obſerve that the ancients have been ſo diligent in deciphering the containing parts,that as exačtly as might be, they deſigned the bowells contained in the belly, which being divers lie in ſundry pla- cºs; for the greater portion of the liver lies under the right hypochondrium; under the left almoſt all the ventricle and ſpleen. under the epigaſhium the lower orifice of the ventricle, and the ſmaller portion of the liver; in the lumbarei,or ſides, in the º and upper part the right kidney,in the lower part towards the flanck,the blind gut;in the middle part thereof the colick and empty guts. in the upper part of the left ſide lies the left kidney, in the middle part, the reſt #. . and colick, guts. under the region of the navell, lies the girdle or upper part of the kall, the colick gutthruſting it ſelf alſo through that way. under the ilia,or flanks,the right and left, lie the greater part of the gut, lleon, the horns of the women big with j the ſpermatick veſſels in men and women. under the hypoga- ſtrium in the lower part lics the right,or ſtrait gut,the bladder,womb,and the reſt of the kal. if we know,and well underſtand theſe . ſhall more eaſily diſcern the parts affe& a moſt cer. by the place of the pain,and cure it by fit application of remedies, without the hurting of . . # any part.the diſtinétion of ſuch places,and the parts in thoſe places, as ſeeming moſt pro-j §: fitable, i have thought good to illuſtrate by the placing theſe two following figures, in place where which thou haſ deciphered, not only the foreſaid parts,containing, and contained, but alſo the pain is, - of the whole body,and many other things which may ſtem to conduce to the knowldge of the mentioned parts.the figures are theſe. - - the figureſhewing the foreparts of the body. the hairy scalp, cald texºtº. untilisiii.or the middle part of b the forehead cald front hårotwº. the lower belly. • the temples cald tempora,xeºrwºol a. the navill umbilicus. the root from b to d the compaſs of the of the belly gºax :. . face. bb. the fide latera wasvgº, and e the greater or inward corner of in our author lumbi ſtu lumba- the eyes,cald canthus internus, riu regio. f the leſſer or externall angle of c. hypogaſtrium, he water-courſe, the eye, cald canthuſ externie. aſualiculu, , the lower part of **the lower eybrow which is im. the lowerbelly, ey. movable, palpebra. dd. the flanks called ilia, and g the check-bäcald mala, unxa. xavia'ss. b the cheek-pufcald bacca, yyá. e. the groin called pubts or . . . - pººl, xylºn. i the ridg of the noſe cald waſu, ff. the leske caldingwen where externus; iv. thoſe tumors are cald bubones. k the noithrils cald nare, ºvºi. g. the yard with the fore-skin, £ge peniſ cum prepatie. l the outwardear,auri, externa. h. the ſtones or teſticles, with the m the meuth made of the two codor ſtronun, - lips, s. ii. the ſhoulders,bumeri, izwei- n the chin called mentum, yvetºv, jºs. o the nick, cellum, divxºr sad kk. the armº brachia, aegyiara. afé ag. l.the bowl of the aim, called from .to e the pillar of the neck, gibber,ºya'r, *- truncu, and awº-, m.the outfide ofthe lower part of pp. the hollow of the neck, called , the arm called cubitu, x s. juguli,goayºu.' n. the wriſt called brachiale, * the pateibones,claves, asſº. kºtwor. * the cheſt, pehu, sityw. o. the after wriſt pºſtbrachiale, f the right bieſ. ailas'fºnor. - . ſf.the left bren: to this region we p. the palm called palma or vola apply cordiall epithemationſ manuſ,%raf. - * * moiſt and dry. p the back of the hand, dorſum t! the nipples ofthe breſts,papille, gº...! shaºy. qq. the fore and middle part of w the trench of the heart which the thigh, where we apply cup - the ancient called x&pſ)'a. the pingglaſſes to bring down wo— latines ſcrobiculu, cordii. this menscourſes, untºr. patt is anointed for the mouth of rr. the knee, genu. /vw. the flomach. ss. the leg,tilia. kºun. fromu.toe.the lower belly, agº. tt. the calf of the leg, ſºrº, x. the epigaſtrium or upper part jareºusy. of the lower belly, vv. the inflep, aſſuſ, y the hypochondria or pracºrdia. xx. the top of the foot, rſiºn * the outward liver-remedies are pedit,smºg). todºs. . applied to this place. yy. iſ he inner ancklehººve the - z the region of the navill, called zz. the outward *..."d toes of the ſeer, the place under the inward anckle,where the vein called s.r.º. penca. g - of the anatomy . - lis. . - the figure of the back-parts of a man. a. the forepart of the head, nciput, greysed. b the top or crown of the head, vertex, x^pupil. c. the hinder-part of the head, occiput, wºn; kaº t?top. from d. to d. the fice, facier, aeſawmy. *e. the eybrows, ſpercºlia, tººs. f. the upper eylid, caáçaeyº. sº the tip of the noſe, called globula naſ. h. the back-part of the neck, called cervix,&ve", and the nuke or nape of the neck. there iſ a hollowneſs at the top of this cervix, where we apply seatons. . the back-part of the ſhoulder top, called axilla, & - kº ſhoulder blades,ſºapule, dura.ru. , , . on this place we ſet qupping-glaſſes. , , , , the back, dorſun, wæny. , , the ridg-ſpina dorſ. # s. l. the armhole, ald, ºzºan. * the elbow, gibber brazhii. m m m m. the ſides, latera. nn, the loins, lumbi,or the region of the kidneys, boºves. o o. the place of the hips, coxendices, where we apply remedies for the sciatica. p. the place of the holy bone, or ſacrum,where weapply remedies in the diſeaſes of the right gut. sº the place of the rump or cºccyx. r. r. the buttocks, nates, rºadws. s.s. the back parts of the thigh, ſemes. tt. the ham, pople, ixvºr. wv, the calf of the leg, ſara. xx. the foot, or parvº pes, www. yy. the utter ankle, maleoluſ externus. z.z. the heel, calz, or calcaneus, slipwa. , the ſole of the foot, planta pedis, winor rº mºs. b. the inſide of the lower part of the arm, called ulna, caárn. º; hºou fide ofthe fame, culina, m . d d. the wriſt, carpuſ. •e, the back-part of the hand, dorſum manuſ, g.the fºrefinger,index, wixa, g. h. the thumb, pºll.x, arrixºp. - is the middle finger, medium, ºute g-. k, thering finger, anmularis, medicuſ, iametz};. l, the little finger, awicularis, minimus, wring. c h a p. ii. of the containing parts of the eº: and the preparation to anatomicall adminiſtration. the contai. §he containing parts of the epigaſtrium, are the epidermit, of thin outward skin; ning parts of the true skin; the fleſhy or fatty pannicle; the eight muſcles of the #. the lower § with their common coat; the rim of the belly; the five vertebra’s of the loins; btlly. all the holy-bone; the hanch-bone; ſhare-bone; the white line and midriff. of theſe parts, ſome are common to the whole body, as the three firſt; the other proper to the parts contained in the epigaſtrium taken in generall. which that you may ſee in their order, firſt you muſt cut round about the navell, to the upper ſuperficies of the muſcles; that ſo we may keep it, till ſuch time, as occaſion ſhall offer itſelf, to ſhºw the umbilicall veſſels lying in that place,which are one vein,two arteries, and the urachus (if it be there.) wº done, you muſt draw a ſtreight line from the cheſt, over the breſt-blade, even to the ſhare-bone, which may divide the common-containing parts, even to the white Č. "à. preſently it will be convenient to draw two other lines acroſs or overthwart, of the like depth on each hand, from the circumference of the navell, even to the ſides, that fo on each part we may draw the skin more commodiouſly from the parts lying under it; the fight of which otherwiſe it would hinder. theſe things being done, the skin muſt be º - º: * : º º lib. . of mans body. be divided from the i. lying, under it from the deſigned circumference left about the navell. we muſt teach how the skin is twofold, the true and falſe, and render a reaſon of the name, which we will every where do, as far as the thing williuffer, and it ſhall lye in our power. and in doing orexamining theſe things, it will be convenient diligently to cuquire into the nine things j in the preface. we will begin with the skin, be- cauſe that part is firſt obvious to our ſenſes. - • c h a p. i ii. of the utmoſt skin or cuticle. he skin being the firſt part, and ſpred over all the body, is twofold, that is, the true and baſtard skin : the true is called by the greeks, derma, which may almoſt every where be pulled from the parts lying under it, which it inveſts; º except in the face,ears, the palms of the hands, ſoles of the feet, fingers, and * privitics, where it ſticks ſo cloſe that it cannot be ſeparated. the baſard (which firſt of all we will declare, becauſe it firſt preſents it ſelf to our fight) is by the greeks called epidermis, becauſe it covers the true skin, they term it commonly the cuticle. the ſubſtance of it is excrementitious, and (as it were) a certain dry flouring, or produćtion of the true skin. that it draws not its ſubſtance from the ſecq is apparent by this, that as it is eaſily loſt, ſo it is eaſily repaired, which happens not in parts truly ſpermaticall. this utmoſt thin skin, or cuticle, may two manner of ways be made apparent by itſelf, and ſeparated from the other, as by burning with fire, of ardent heat of the sun, (in ſome delicate bodies, and ſuch as are not accuſtoned to be converſant in sunſhine.) the quantity in thickneſs is very ſmall, but the extent is moſt large, becauſe it covers all the skin; the figure of it is round, and long, like thoſe parts which it inveſts. the compoſure of it is obſcure; yet becauſe this cuticle is the excre- ment of the true skin; we ſay it hath its matter from the excrementitious ſuperfluity of the merves, veins, arteries, and ſubſtance of the true skin. - it is in number one, like as the true skin which it outwardly covers, that it might be a medium between the objećt and fixed faculty of touching, diffuſed over all the true skin, which everywhere lies under it. for the temperature, by the common conſent of phy- fitians, it is in the midſt of all exceſs; for that ſeeing it is the medium between the objećt and faculty, if it ſhould be hotter, colder, moiſter, or drier, it would deceive the faculty by exhibiting all objećts, not as they are of themſelves, but as it ſhould be ; no otherwiſe than as to ſuch as look through red or green ſpectacles, all things appear red or green. wherefore for this reaſon it was convenient the cuticle ſhould be void of all ſenſe. it hath no ačtion in the body; but it hath uſe, for it preſerves and beautifies the true skin; for it ſeems to be given by the fingular indulgence of nature, to be a muniment and orna- ment to the true skin. this providence of nature, the induſtry of ſome artizans (or ra- ther curtizans) doth imitate; who for to ſeem more beautifull, do ſmooth and poliſh it. by this you may underſtand, that not all the parts of the body have aëtion, yet have they their uſe, becauſe, according to ariſtotles opinion,nature hath made nothing in vain. alſo you muſt note that this thin skin or cuticle being loſt, may every where be regene- rated, unleſs in the place which is covered with a ſcar. for here the true skin being defi- cient, both the matter and former faculty of the cuticle is wanting, chap. i i ii. of the true skin, * he true skin called by the greeks derma, is of a ſpermatick ſubſtance, where- #º fore being once loſt, it cannot be reſtored as formerly it was. for in place §: thereof comes a ſcar, which is nothing elſe but fleſh dried beyond meaſure. it # is of ſufficient thickneſs, as appears by the ſeparating from the fleſh. - but for the extent thereof, it encompaſſes the whole body, if you except the eys, cars, noſe, privities, fundament, mouth, the ends of the fingers where the nails grow, that is, all the parts by which any excrements are evacuated. the figure of it is like the cuticle, round and long, with its produćtions, with which it covers the extremities of the parts. it is compoſed of nerves, veins, arteries, and of a proper fleſh and ſubſtance of its kind, which we have ſaid to be ſpermaticall, which ariſeth from the proceſs of the ſecundine, which lead the ſpermatick veſſels even to the navell; in which place each of them into the parts appointed by nature, ſend forth ſuch veſſels as are ſpred abroad and diffuſed from the generation of the skin. which alſo the ſimilitude of them both, that is, the skin and the skin two- old from what parts the skin cannot be ſe- parated. the matter of the cuticle. the quantity. the figure. the compo- luſc. the number. the tempeſt. iurce the uſe, why the cui. ticle cannot be reflored in ſcars. the ſubſtance, magnitude. figure. compoſure. of the anatomy l i b. . the skin of it ſt]f is void of ſcnſe. the number, connexion. temperature. uſe. the reaſon why the skin is blacker and rougher in winter. what a mem. brane is. why it is ſom- rimes called a coat, ſomtimes the fleſhy and fatty pannicle. why beaſts have this pan- nicle wholly fleſhy or muſculous. the ſubſtance. the magnitude and figure. number. compoſure. and membrane chorion do argue. for as the chorion is double, without ſenſe, encom aſſing the whole infant, º faſtened to the firſt coat, which is called amnios; ſo the skin is double, and of itſelf inſenſible, (for otherwiſe the nerves were added in vain from the parts lying under it) ingirting the whole body, lightly cleaving to the fleſhy pannicle. but if any objećt, that the cuticle is no part of the true skin, ſcèing it is wholly diffe- rent from it, and eaſily to be ſeparated from it, and wholly void of ſenſe: i will anſwer, theſe arguments do not prevail. for that the true skin is more craſs, thick,ſºnſible, vivid, and fleſhy, is not of itſelf, being rather by the aſſiſtance and admixture of the parts,which derived from the three principall it receives into its proper ſubſtance; which hap- pens not in the cuticle. neither if it ſhould . would it be better for it, but verily exceeding ill for us, becauſe ſo our life ſhould lye fit and open to receive a thouſand externall injuries, which encompaſsus on every ſide, as the violent aud contrary acceſs of the four firſt qualitics; there is only one skin, as that which ſhould cover but one body, the which it every where doth,except in thoſe places i formerly mentioned. it hath connexion with the parts lying under it by the nerves, veins, and arteries, with thoſe ſubjacent parts put forth into # . inveſting them, that there may be a certain communion of all the parts of the body amongſt themſelves. - it is cold and dry in its proper temper, in reſpećt of its proper fleſh and ſubſtance, for it is aſpermaticall part. yet if any conſider the finews, veins, arteries, and fleſhy threds wº are mixed in its body, it will ſeem temperate, and placed (as it were) in the midſt of contrary qualitics, as which hath grown up from the like portion of hot, cold, moiſt, and dry bodies. the uſe of the skin is to keep ſafe and ſound the continuity of the whole body,and all the parts thereoffrom the violent aſſault of all externall dangers; for which cauſe it is every where indued with ſenſe, in ſome parts more exaët, in others more dull, according to h. dignity and neceſſity of the parts which itingirts, that they might all be admoniſhed of their ſafety and preſervation. laſtly, it is penetrated with many pores, as breathing-places, as wenay ſee by the flowing out of ſweat, that ſo the arteries in their diaſtole might draw the encompaſſing air into the body, for the tempering and nou- riſhing of the fixed inbred heat, and in the ſyſtole expell : fuliginous excrement, which in winter ſuppreſt by the cold air cncompaſſingus, makes the skin black and rough. we have an argument and example of breathing through theſe, by drawing the air in by tranſpiration, in women troubled with the mother, who without reſpiration live only for ſome pretty ſpace by tranſpiration. - brane. c hap. v. of the fleſhy pannicle. on fter the true skin, follows the membrane, which anatomiſts call the fleſhy pan- %\; nicle, whoſe nature that we may more eaſily proſecute and declare, we muſt firſt º, ſhew what a membrane is and how many ways the word is taken. then where- º * fore it hath the name of the fleſhy pannicle. a membrane therefore is a ſimple part, broad and thin, yet ſtrong and denſe, white and nervous, and the which may eaſil without any great danger be extended and contračted. sometimes it is called a coat, whic is, when it covers and defends ſome part. this is called the fleſhy pannicle; becauſe in ſome parts it degenerates into fleſh, and becomes muſculous, as in a man from the coller- bones, to the hair of the head, in which part it is therefore called the broad muſcle, whereas in other places it is a ſimple membrane, here and there intangled with the fat lying under it, from whence it may ſeem to take or borrow the name of the fatty pan- nicle. but in beaſts (whence it took that name, becauſe in thoſe a fleſhy ſubſtance maketh a great part of this pannicle) it appears manifeſtly fleſhy and muſculous over all the body, as you may ſee in horſes and oxen; that by that means being moveable, they may drive ind ſhake off their flies, and other troubleſome things, by their ſhaking and contraćting their backs. theſe things conſidered, we ſay the fleſhy pannicle in its proper body, is of a nervous or membranous ſubſtance, as that which hath its originall from the coat amnioſ, (which is next to the infant) dilated near to the navell, and ſtretched forth for the genera- tion of this pannicle; in which thing i think good to note, that as the membranes chorion and amnios mutually interwoven with ſmall nervous fibers, encompaſs and inveſt the child as long as it is contained in the womb ; ſo the skin and fleſhy pannicle, knit together by ſuch |É. bands, engirt the whole body. therefore the fleſhy pannicle is equal in magnitude and like in figure to the true skin, but that it lyes under it, and is contained in it, in ſome places mixt with the fat, in others º the compoſition of it is ſuch, as the fight of it preſents to our cy, that is, of veins, º artc- d by the flaſh interwoven with it, and in other ſome is only a ſimple mem- liº. . of ans body. ites mixed and interlaced with elt, and ſome- -----> rves,and the proper fleſh, ſome whites mixed and - . - i. .*. it is barone, by reaſon of the uſe we ſhall preſently ſhew; * ſituated between the skin and fat, or common coat of the muſcles, annexed to theſe and the other parts lying under it, by the veins, nerves and artories aſcending from theſe - - - - ethereof, and then into the true inward parts, and implanting themſelves into the ſubſtance thereof, - - skin. - - - - erature thereof is diverſe, according to the variety of the parts interwoven ....": uſe of it is, to lead, direé, and ſtrengthen in their paſſage, the ... * are diffiminated into the true skin, and the whole ſuperficies of the body. but in peats º hath another commodity, that is, it gives a ſhaking ortrembling motion to theirskin an back, for that cauſe we formerly touched. - chap. vi. of the fat. the tempera- ture. . the uſe. - ** º " - - arthe condition of an excrement, rather than of a part (as º, *::::. º: treated of the ſimilar parts) is of an oily {ubſtance, bred º, of the 'aº; and vaporous portion of the blood, whichſweating through the res of the coats, ormouths of the veſſels, becomes concrete about the mem- - §: and nerves, and cold bodies, and turns into fat . of the place. whereby wº may know, that cold, or a more remiſsheat, is t *: . : #. which is manifeſt by contemplation not only of creatures of diverskinds, but alſo by tº: of the ſame ſpecies and ſex, if ſo be that the onebe colder than the other. - by which we may underſtand that the fat is the more or leſs in guantity, according to the different temper of the whole :: and of its particular parts; for its compoſition, it confiſts of that portion of the blood which we formerly mentioned, intermist with certain membranes, nervous fibers, veins and arteries. the greateſt art of it lyes between the fleſhy pannicle, and the common coat of the muſcles, *otherwiſe it is diffuſed overall chebody, in ſomeplacesmore, in ſomeleſs, yet it is always about the nervous . § which it delights to cleave. moğanatomiſsenquire whether the ſatlye abºve or reneath the fleſhy pannicke. but me thinks this queſtion as both impertinent and idle; º: we often ſee the fat to be on both fides. it is of a middlet betweenbeat and ‘. it ariſeth of the more aery portion of the blood; although it may ſtein : ºpe of the efficient cauſe, that is, of coldby which it concretes. for the reſt, moiſture is p. dominant in the fat. b the uſe thereof is, to moiſten the parts which ma become dry by hong faſting, vehement exerciſt.or.immoderate heat; and beſides to give heat, or keep . arts warm. although it do this laſtratherby accident, than of its own nature, as heat º § exerciſe, or by ſome ſuch other chance; it heats the adjacent parts, or may therefore be thought to heat them, becauſe it hinders the diſſipation of the native and internall heat; like as cold heats in winter,whereby the bellies are at that time the hotter. i º form lamed phyſitians of our timeſtifly maintained, that the fat was hot, . - they acknowledg any other efficient cauſe thereofthan . heat and #.i. - . i think itbeſ to leave the more ſubtilagitation of theſe queſtions to naturall philoſophers. but wenuſt note, that at the joints which are more uſually moved, there is another ſort ef fat, far more ſolid and hard, than that which we formerly mentioned, often º mixed with a viſcid and tough humor like the whites of # that ſo it º: u º cient for alonger time to moiſºn theſe parts, ſubjećt to be hurt by º: j e them ſlippery, and ſo fitterfor motion, in imitation whereof they º: rado- dies, which muſt be infrequent motion, as coach-wheels and pilºtrees. from *::::: ther kind of fat, which is called sevum, ſtam, in one thing . diſfi t ed º fat.that is much dryer; the moiſter and ſofter portion of the fat eng #: º the raging heat of the place. for itis found†. about the midriº, w db t ; i. many windings of arteries and veins; and it is alſo about the reins, loins, and baſis of t i heart. the fatis waſted by long faſting; is dryed and hardened by vehement exerciſe an immoderate heat., hence it is that it is much more compact in the palms of the hands, and ſoles of the feet, about the eys and heart,ſo that it reſembles the fleſh in denſity and hard- neſs; becauſe by the continuall motion and ſtrongheat of theſe parts, the thinner portion being diſſipated and diffuſed, the more groſs and terreſtriall remain. - - º w - ºa ºr aº . nº. - º chap. the fat is rather an cxcrement than a part. the ſubſtance: the efficient cauſa of fat. the quantity. the compon ſure. the fire. s i was preſent at the opening of a body feb.isso. in which the fat in the lower part of the lower belly was in j. abºve inches, upon the breaſt be. tween and f inches:; which r thought good to remember in this place both for the rarity of the thing,as alſo becauſe it was encreaſed by rés' port, and the place miſtaken, ſome ſaying the omewºmm or call was ſo thick, which was falſe, for it did not * much exceed the quantity of "that part, in other fat †. * the temper. & the uſe. per. •the ſolider fat, orſtame. * * * * * in what parts and for what ‘. cauſe the rt is more denſe, o lie. . of the anatomy the ſubſtance. tº the quantity. * the compo- furt. the originall. the number. the ſitc. the uſe. what the white line is, what a muſ- cle is. how the circu- lar motion is performed. c. h. a. p. vii. of the common coat of the muſcles. # the common coat of the muſcles, it is of a nervous ſubſtance,as a ºextunder the fat, appears a certain coat, ſpred over all the muſcles, and called. ll other mem- branes are. the quantity and breadth thereof is bounded by the quantity of the muſcles which it involves, and fits it ſelf to, as that which encompaſſes the muſcles of the epigaſtrium, is of equal largeneſs with the ſame muſcles. the figure of it is round: it is compoſed of veins, nerves, arteries, and its peculiar fleſh conſiſting of three ſorts of fibers; the beginning of it is from the perioſtium, in that part where the bones give ligaments to the muſcles ; or according to the opinion of others, of the ner- vousand ligamentous fibers of the muſcles, which riſing up and diffuſed over the fleſhy ſuperficies thereof, are united for the generation of this coat. but this membrane ariſing from the perioſium (as every membrane which is below the head takes it § inall from the perioſtium either primarily, by the interpoſition of no medium, or ſecondarily) is ſtretched over the muſcles by their tendons. but if any objećt, that this membrane pluck'd from the belly of the muſcle, may ſeem to end in a ligament...i will anſwer, that it is the condition of every nervous part, ſo to binde or faſten it ſelf to another part of his own kinde as to a ſtay, ſo that it can ſcarce be pluck'd from thence. we ſee the proof hereof, in the peritoneum or rim in the epigaſtrium or lower part of the lowerbelly. that which covers the muſcles of the epigaſtrium is but one, unleſsp. had rather part it in two, the right and the left diſtinguiſhed by the interpoſition o the linea alba, or white line. it is ſituate betwixt the fat and muſcles; for it is faſtened above and below to theſe parts with fibers, which in ſmalneſs and fitneſs exceed the spiders web. but by its veſſels, it par- ticipates with the three principall parts, and is of a cold and dry temper. the uſe of it is, to contain the muſcles in their naturall union,and to keep them as much as in it lyes,from putrefaction, which may happen to them from pu, or matter, which is often caſt forth of the ſimilar parts into the empty ſpaces and diſtances of the muſcles. wherforegoing about to ſeparate the fat of the epigaſtrium (where thou muſt begin the diſſºčtion of mans body) you muſt have a care that you hurt it notwith your knife, but that, before you touch the Åſuſcles,ſee you artificially take it away,that you may the more eaſily ſeparate the muſcles lying under it,diſtinguiſhed by a manifeſt ſpace at the white line, which is made by the meeting together of the proper coats of all thoſe muſcles. ! c. h. a. p. viii. what a muſcle is, and how many differences there be thereof. muſcle is the inſtrument of voluntary motion; and ſimple voluntary motion is performed fixmanner of ways, upwards, downwards, forwards, backwards,to the right hand and to the left; but the compound one way,which is circularly, the which is performed by the continuall ſucceſſion of the motion of the muſ- clesingirting the part. such a motion falconers uſe when they ſtretch forth their hand and lure their hawk. we have ſome parts, which have motion without a muſcle, but that motion is not voluntary; ſuch parts be the heart, ſtomach, guts, both the bladders, '(that is, that of the gall and that of the urine) and divers other which have the motions of attraction, expulſion and retention, by the means of the three ſorts of fibers; for they draw by the right, expell by the tranſverſe,and retain by the oblique. the differences of muſcles which are many and diverſe,are taken from their ſubſtance, originall, inſertion into the part which they move, form or figure, holes or openings, magnitude, colour,ſite, kinde of fibers, their conjugation or connexion, heads, bellies, tendons, oppoſition in aćtion and office. some in ſubſtance are nervous, venous, arterious, becauſe they have ma- nifeſt nerves, veins, and arteries, as the midriff, the intercoſtall or epigaſtrick muſcles, and from whence the differences. of muſcles are drawn. - differences of muſcles from their ſubſtance differences of muſcles from their originall. many more,and that for their difference from other muſcles, into which neither nerve,nor vein, or arteries are manifeſtly inſerted,although ſecretly they admit them all for ſenſe and motion,life and nouriſhment; ſuch are the muſcles of the wriſt, the wormy muſcles of the hands and feet ; for if there be any nerves obſerved in them, they are very ſmall. some had rather make the difference of muſcles thus, that ſome of them are fleſhy, ſome nervous, others membranous. from their originall, ſome ariſe from the bones,as theſe which move the hands, arms, and legs; others from griſles, as the muſcles of the throat; others from membranes which inveſt the tendons, as the wormy muſcles of the hands and feet; others from ligaments, as the extenders of the fingers; others from other muſcles, as the two lower muſcles of the yard which proceed from the sphinéter muſcle of the fundament. others have no originall,as the membrane which we call the fleſhy pannicle aſſumes fleſh il liº. . -------------------- . ----— - - of wman: body. . in certain places,and degenerates into a muſcle; ſuch are the cremaſter or hanging muſcles of the teſticles, the large muſcles of the face, and if you pleaſe the midriff, as that which is compoſed of two coats, the one encompaſſing the ribs and the peritoneum, hath fleſh in the midſt between the two membranes. and moreover ſome muſcles have their originall from one only bone, as theſe which bend and extend the cubit; others ariſeof many bones,as the oblique deſcending, the dorſall and many muſcles of the neck, which ariſe together from many ſpondyls and ſides of ſpondyls. there be others according to the opinion of ſome men, both from the bones and griſles of the pabi, at i. right or dire& muſcles of the epigaſtrium, yet by their favor i think otherwiſe. becauſe by the anato- micall and received axiome,a muſcle is there thought to take his b inning, from whence he receives a nerve; but theſe muſcles take a nerve from the intercoſtall muſcles, wherefore their originallought to be referred to the fides of the breſt-blades, as ſhall be ſhewed in due place. from their inſertion ariſ; theſe differences, ſome are inſerted into a bone, as .# which move the head, arms andlegs; others into a griſle, as thoſe of the thrötle, ey-lids, noſe, and the oblique aſcendent muſcles of the epigaſtrium ; ſome into a bone and griſle both, as the right muſcles of the epigaſtrium and the midriff; ſome into the skin,as the muſcles of the lips; others into the coats,as the muſcles of the eys; others into ii- aments,as the muſcles of the yard. but theſe differences following may be drawn both #. their inſertion and originall. for ſome muſcles ariſing from many parts,áre inſerted into ſomeone part, as divers of theſe which move the arm and the ſhotſler,which ariſing from many ſpondyls, are inſerted into the bone of the ſhoulder, and the ſhoulder-blade. others ariſe from one part, and inſert themſelves into more, as thoſe which ariſe from the bottom of the ſhoulder-blades,are extended and inſerted into ſome eight or nine of the up- per ribs,to help reſpiration; and the benders and extenders of the fingers and toes: others ariſing from many bones, are inſerted into as many, as ſome of thoſe which ſerve for reſpi- ration,to wit thoſe which we call the hinder saw-muſcles and the semiffinatu,which ſends a tendón into all the ribs. others have their originall from many bonés,and end in griſles of the ſeven ribs, as thoſe two which lye under the sternon, moreover alſo theſe differences of muſcles may be drawn from the original and inſertion; that ſome proceed from bones, and are inſerted into the next bone, to help and ſtrengthen the motion thereofas the three muſcles of the hip: others ariſe from an upper bone and are not inſerted into the next, but into ſome other, as the long muſcles. some are named from the part they move as the temporall muſcles, becauſe they move the temples; others from their office, as thegrinding muſcles, becauſe they move the skin as a mill;to grinde aſunder the meaf. from their form or figure, becauſe ſome are like mice, other like lizards which have their legs cutoff, for that they imitate in their belly, body or tendon, the belly or tail of ſuch creatures, and from whence the names of muſculus and laſertus are derived. such are thoſe which bend the wriſt, and which are faſtned to the bone of the leg, and which extend the foot; others are triangular, as that which lifts up the arm, called epomi, or deltoides, and that which draws the arm to the breſt.called the pećtorall muſcle. others quadrangular, as the rhomboides, or lozenge-muſcle of the ſhoulder-blade,and the two hindeſom-muſcles ſerving for reſpí. ration, and two of the wriſts which turn down the hand; others conſiſt of more than four angles, as the oblique .# and that muſcle which joins itſelf to it from the ſhoul- der-blade; others are round and broad, as the midriff; others circular, as the sphinéter- muſcle of the fundament and bladder; others are of a pyramidicall figure, as the ſeventh muſcle of the ey, which compaſſes the optick nerve in beaſts but not in nien. others have a ſemicircular form, as that which ſhuts up the ey, ſeated at the leſſer corner thereof;others reſemble a monks cowl, or hood, as the trapezius of the ſhoulder-blade. beſides others at their firſt originall are narrow, but broad at their inſertion, as the saw-muſcle of the ſhoulder, and the tranſverſe of the epigaſtrium j . others are quite contrary, as the three muſcles of the hip; others keep an equal breadth orbigneſs in all places,as the intercoſtall muſcles and theſe of the wriſt; others are long and ſkinder,as the É. muſcle of the thigh; others are long and broad, as the oblique deſcending muſcles of the epigaſtrium; others are dire&tly contrary, as the intercoſtall, which are very narrow. from their perforations,for ſome are perforated, as the midriff which hath three holes, as alſo the ob ique and tranſ- verſe of the epigaſirium, that ſo they may give paſſage forth to the preparing ſpermatick veſſels, and to the ejaculatory veſſels, the coat erythroides aſſociating and ſtrengthening them; others are not perforated. from their magnitude, for ſome are moſt large, as the two muſcles of the hip; others very ſmall, as the eight ſmall muſcles of the neck, and the proper muſcles of the throtle, and the wormy muſcles. others are of an indifferent mag- nitude. from their colour, for ſome are white and red, as the temporall muſcles, which have tendons coming from the midſt of their belly; others are livid, as the three greater muſcles of the calf of the leg, which colour they have by the admixtion of the white, or tendinous nervie coat with the red fleſh, for this coat by its thickneſs darkning the colour of the fleſh, ſo that it cannot ſhew its redneſs and freſh colour, makes it ſeem of that livid colour. from their fittiation, for ſome are ſuperficiary, as thoſe which appear under the skin andfat; others deep in and hid, as the ſinooth and four twinnuſcles; ſome i ſtretche º where a muſcle hath its originall. differences of muſcles from their infertion. differences of muſcles takeri from their figure. differences from their perforations. \ from their magnitudes from theif colour. from their ſite. of the anatomy lib. . from their fibers. from their connexion. from their head, from their belly. from their tendons, from their aćtion. from their funètion. ſtretched out, and (as it were) ſpred over in a ſtreight and plain paſſage, as of the thigh which move the #. except the ham-muſcle; cº §. as ... epigaſtrium; otherſome tranſverſe, as the tranſverſe of the epigaſtrium; where you muſt obſerve, that although all the fibers of the muſcles are direct, yet we call them oblique and tranſverſe, by comparing them to the right muſcles, as which by the concourſe of ‘. fibers make a *...; i. º: angle. k - from the ſorts of fibers; for ſome have one kinde of fiber; yet the greate - two ſorts running ſo up and down,that they either are jää. ... in the pećtorall and grinding muſcles; or elſe do not concur, as in the trapeii § ers have three ſorts of fibers, as * broad muſcle of the face. - from their coherence and connexion, or their texture of nervous - have fibers ſomewhat more diſtant and remote immediatelyat their :::::::: . places, as you may ſee in the muſcles of the buttºcks: others in their midſtºn. bell which by reaſon thereof in ſuch muſcles is more big or tumid, their head and tail ; ſlender, as happens in moſt of the muſcles of the arm and leg, in which the denſemaſ: offleſh interwoven with fibers, disjoins the fibers in ſo great a diſtance; in otherſome the fibers are º in . . as in the #. saw-muſcle ariſing from the bottom of the ſhoulder-blade; in others they are equa iſtant through t - themuſcles of the wriſt *. º: gh the whole muſcle, as in • from their head; for in ſome it is fleſhy, interwoven with few fibers, as i of the buttocks; in others it is wholly nervous, as in the ...i. to the arm and ſhoulder-blade, and in the three muſcles of the thigh proceeding from the tuberofity of the hucle-bone; in ſome it is nervous and fleſhy, as in the j and externalſ muſcle of the arm. beſides, ſome have one head, others two, as the bender .. elbow, and the externall ofthe leg; others three, as the threeheaded muſcle of the thi º but we muſt note that the word nerve or sinew is here taken in a large ſignification . s ligament, nerve and tendon, as galen faith, (lib. de oſsibus)and moreoverwenuſ: ošºv. that the head of a muſcle is one while above, another while below, otherwhiles in th: midſt, as in the midriff, asyou may know by the inſertion of the nerve, becauſe it ºntº the muſcle by ... there be ſome diff > from their belly alſo, there be ſome differences of muſcles taken; for - belly immediately at their beginning, as the muſcles of the buttocks º: §: inſertion, as the midriff; others juſt at their head, as thoſe which put forth the calf of the leg; in othersitis ſomewhat further off, as in thoſe which drawback the arm, and which bend the leg; in others,the belly extends even from the head to the tail, as in the intercoſtall muſcles,and theſeofthe wriſt; in others it is produced even to their inſertion as in thoſe of the palms of the hand; and ſoles of the feet; ſome have a doublebelly diffin: uiſhed by a nervous ſubſtance; as thoſe which open the mouth, and thoſe which ariſ: #. the root of the lower proceſs of the ſhoulder-blade. moreover the differences of muſcles are drawn alſo from the tendons, for ſome have none, at leaſt which are manifeſt, as the muſcles of the lips and the ſphináer muſic the intercoſtall and thoſe of the wriſt; others have them in part, and want them in art. . the midriff; for the midriff wants a tendon at the ends of the ſhorter ribs, but #. two at the firſt vertebra of the loins in which it is terminated: others have a fºndon indeed but ſome of theſe move with the bone, ſome not, as the muſcles of the eys; and befides fome of theſe have broad and membranous tendons, as the muſcles of the º: and epi º: ſtrium, except the right muſcles: in others they are thick and round, as in the ºf the fingers; in others they are leſs round, but more broad than thick, ſuch is the tendon ariſing from the twin muſcles and soleus of the leg; others have ſhort tendons, as the muſcles which turn down the hand; otherſome long, as thoſe o and ſoles of the feet; beſides others produce #j. the . §e . tendons are manifeſt; others from the midſt,as the temporall muſcles. beſides alſo, others diffuſemany tendons from their belly, as in the hands the benders of the fingers, and the extenders of the feet. otherſome put forth but one, which ſome- times is divided into many, as thoſe which bend the third articulation of th. foot; other- while many muſcles by their . make one tendon, as the three miſſis of the calf of the leg, and thoſe which bend the cubit and leg. all tendons have their ori- ginall, when the nerves and ligaments diſperſed through the fleſhy ſubſtance of a muſcle are by little and little drawn and meet together, j. laſt carried to the joint, they ar: there faſtned for the fit bending and extenſion thereof. from the contrariety oftheir a&ti- ons, for ſome parts have contrary muſcles, benders and extenders; other parts have none for the cods and fundament have only lifters up. from their finótion, for ſome are made for direčt motions, as thoſe which extend the fingers and toes; others for oblique as the supinators of the hand, and the pronators; others perform both, as the peão aii muſcle, which moves the arm obliquely upward and downward, as th: upper and lower fibers are contraćted; and alſo outright, if all the fibers be contraded together, which alſo happens to the deltoides and trapezius. i have thought it good to handle particu- larly liº. . of e ams body. larly theſe differences of muſcles,becauſe that by underſtanding them the prognoſtick will be more certain; and alſo the application of remedies to each part ; º if any occaſion be either to make inciſion,or ſuture, we may be more certain whether the part affeded be more or leſs nervous. chap. ix. of the parts of a muſcle. aving declared the nature and differences of a muſcle, we muſt note that ſome of the parts thereofare compound or univerſall, others ſimple or particular. the compound are the i. belly, and tail. the ſimple are ligaments,a nerve, -- fleſh, a vein, artery and coat. for the compound parts, by the head, we under. ſtand the beginning and originall of a muſcle, which is one while ligamentous and ner- yous, otherwhiles alſo fleſhy. by the belly, that portion which is abſolutely fleſhy; but by the tail we underſtand a tendon conſiſting partly of a nerve, partly of a ligament pro- miſcuouſly comming forth from the belly of the muſcle. for as much as be ongs to the fimple, which are fix in number, three are called proper, and three common. the proper area ligament from a bone, a nerve e. if rom the brain or ſpinall marrow, and fleſh compačt by the concretion of blood. the common are, a vein from the liver or trunkârifing from thence; an artery proceeding from the heart, a coat produced by the nervous and ligamentous fibers ſpreading over the ſuperficies of the muſcle. but for the ſimple uſe of all ſuch parts, the nerve is (as it were) the principall part of a muſcle,which gives it ſenſe and motion, the ligament gives ſtrength, the fleſh contains the nervous and ligamentous fibers of the muſcle, and ſtrengthensit, fillingup all the void ſpaces, and alſo it preſerves the native humidity of theſe parts, and cheriſheth the heat implanted in them; and to conclude, defends it from all externall injuries; for like a fan it oppoſeth it ſelf againſt the heat of the sun; and is as a garment againſt the cold; and is as a cuſhion in .#. and bruiſes; and as a buckler or defence againſt wounding weapons. thevein nouriſhes the muſcle, the artery gives it life, the coat preſerves the harmony of all the arts thereof, left they ſhould be any ways disjoined or corrupted by purulent abſceſſes reaking into the empty or void ſpaces of the muſcles, as we ſee it hapneth in a gangrene, where the corruption hath inv this membrane, by the breathing out of the more acriá matter or filth. - c. - r. v. ' .. ſº º * - - ºr chap. x. a more particularinquiſition into each part of a muſtle. *avinggone thus far, it remains, that we more particularly inquire into each - a part of a muſcle, that (if it be poſſible) nothing may be wanting to this diſ. i jś courſe. wherefore a ligament properly ſo called,is a fimple part of mans bo- ºkº dy, next of aboneand griſle,the moſt terreſtriall, dry,hard, cold,white,taking * its originall immediatly, or by the interpofition of ſome medium from the bones or griſles (from whence alſo the muſcles have their beginning)whereby it comes to paſs,that aligament is void of ſenſe, unleſs it receive anerve from ſome other place; (for fo the ligaments which compoſe and ſtrengthen the tongueandyard,are partakers of ſenſe, and it inſerts itſelf into the bone and griſle,that ſo it may bind them together,and ſtreng: then and beautifiethe whole joint or connexion; (for theſe three be the ...; uſes of a ligament)then diffuſing itſelf into themembranes and muſcles to ſtrengthen thoſe parts. a nerve, to ſpeak properly, is alſo a fimple part of ourbody, bred and nouriſhed by a groſs and phlegmatick humor, ſuch as the brain,the originall of all the nerves,and alſo the spi- mall marrow endued with the faculty offeeling,and oftentimes alſo of moving. forthere be divers parts of the body which have nerves, yet are deſtitute of all voluntary motion, having the ſenſe only of feeling as themembranes, veins, arteries, guts, and all the entrails. a nerve is covered with a double cover from the two membranes of the brain, and beſides alſo with a third proceeding from the ligaments which faſten the hinder part of the head to the vertebra’,orelſe from the pericranium. we underſtand no other things by the fibers of a nerve, or of a ligament, than long and ſlender threds, white,ſolid, cold, ſtrong, more or leſs, according to the quantity of the ſubſtance, which is partly nervous and ſenſible, artly ligamentous and inſºnfible. you muſt imagine the ſame of the fleſhy fibers in their £inde ; but of theſe threds ſome are ſtreight for attraction; others oblique,for retention of that which is convenient for the creature; and laſtly,ſome tranſverſe, for expulfion of that which is unprofitable. but when theſe tranſverſe threds are extended in length,they are leſ- ned in bredth;but when they are directly contraćted,they are ſhortned in length.but when they are extended all together as it were with an unanimous conſent,the whole member the comi-. pound and fimple parts of a muſtle. what uſe each fimple particle hath in a muſcle, the natuft of a ligament; the threefold uſe of a liga- refits what a nerve what we mean by the nervous and ligamen- tous fibers. h is . of the anatomy lis. . by what power the ſimilar parts, princi. pally draw or ttraët. what and of how many ſorts the fleſh is. what a veinis. what an arte- ry is: º is wrinkled as contraćted into itſelf, as on the contrary it is extended when they are re- laxed. some of theſe are beſtowed upon the animall parts, to perform voluntary motions; others upon the virall to perform the agitation of the heart and arteries; others upon the naturall for attraćtion, retention, and expulſion. yet we muſt obſerve, that the attraction of no ſimilar part is performed by the help of the foreſaid fibers or threds, but rather b the heat implanted in them,or by the ſhunning of emptineſs, or the familiarity of the ſub. ſtance. the fleſh alſo is a ſimpleand ſoft part, compoſed of the purer portion of the blood infinuating itſelf into the ſpaces between the fibers, ſo to inveſt them for the uſes for- merly mentioned. this is (as it wºre) a certain wall and bulwark againſt the injuries of heat and cold, againſt all falls and bruiſes, as it were a certain ſoft pillow or cuſhion yeel- ding to any violent impreſſion. there be three ſorts of fleſh; one more ruddy, as the mu- ſculous i. of perfeót creatures, and ſuch as have blood; for the fleſh of all tender and young things having blood, as galvºs, and alſo of all ſorts of fiſh, is whitiſh, by reaſon of the too much humidity of the blood. the ſecond kinde is more pallid, even in perfect creatures having blood, ſuch is the fleſh of the heart, ſtomach, weaſond, guts, §: womb. the third is belonging to the entrails, or the proper ſubſtance of each entrail a. that which remains of the liver (the veins, artºries and coat being taken away) of 'th. bladder of the ... : some add a fourth ſort of fleſh which is ſpongy and that they ſay is f. to the tongue alone. a vein is the veſſeſ,pipe,or channel of the blood,or bloody matter; it hath a ſpermatick ſubſtance,confiſts of one coat compoſed of ſorts of fibers, an artery is alſo the receptacle of blood, but that ſpirituousandyellowiſh, conſiſtin in like manner of a ſpermatick ſubſtance; but it hath two coats with three ſorts offiber; the utmoſt whereof is moſt thin, conſiſting of right fibers, and ſome oblique: but th: inner is five times more thick and denſe than the utmoſt, interwoven with tranſverſe fibers; and it doth not only contain blood and ſpirit, but alſo a ſerous humor,which we may be: why an attery is more thick and denſe than sº vcin, the mutuall anaſtomoſis of the veins an arteries, where it is manifeſt. from whence a muſcle hath its beginning or head. eight muſcles of the epiga- firium, the oblique deſcendant. their ſub- ſtance. their greatnes and figurc. leeve becauſe there be º: emulgent †. as well as veins. but the inner coat of an artery is therefore more thick, becauſe it may contai which is more hot, ſubtil, and ſpirituous; for the ſi iriºing it is ºº: and light, and in perpetuall motion, would quickly fly away, unleſs it were held in a ſtronger hold. there is other reaſon for a vein,as that which contains blood groſs pon- derous, and ſlow of motion. wherefore if it had acquired a denſe and groſs coat, iºd ſcarce be diſtributed to the neighbouring parts: §. the maker of the üniverſe,foreſtei this, made the coats of the veſſels contrary to the confiſtence of the bodies contained in them. the anaſtomaffs of the veins and arteries, that is to ſay, the application of the mouths of the one to the other,is very remarkable, by benefit of which th - municate and draw the matters contained in them, # ſo alſo ...” fººt fible paſſages, although that anaſtomoſis is apparent in the vein and artery that meet toge- ther at the joint and bending of the arm, which i have ſometimes ſhewed in the phyſick ſchools,at ſuch time as i there diffe&ed anatomics. - but the aëtion or funètion of a muſcle is either to move or confirm the parta *** to our will, into which it is implanted; which it doth when it draws it ſelf towards its originall,that is to ſaysits head. butwedefine the head by the inſertion of the nerve, which we underſtandby the manner of the working of the muſcle, … º. *- c h a p. xi. of the muſcles of the epigºffrium, or lower bely. ºow ſeeing that we have taught what a muſcle is and what the differences thereof nº|| are, and what ſimple and compound parts it hath, and what the uſe, ačtion, and lºº manner of ačtionin each partis; it remains that we come to the particular ex- * plication of each ºi. with thoſe of the lowerbelly,as thoſe which we firſt meet withall in diffcétion. - theſe are in number, four oblique,two on each ſide,two right or dire&, one on the right another on the left ſide;and in likemanner two tranſverſe all theſe arealike inforce, magnitude and a 'tion,ſo mutually compoſed,that the oblique deſcendant of one ſide, is conjoined with the other oblique deſcendant on the other ſide, and ſo of the reſt. we may add to this number the two little supplying or aſſiſting muſcles, which are of a pyramidal form, and ariſe from the share-bone, above the inſertion of the right muſcles; of the oblique muſcles of each ſide the one aſcends, the other deſcends, whereupon it comes to paſs, that they are called the oblique deſcendant and aſcendant muſcles. thoſe oblique which we firſt meet with, are the deſcendant, whoſe ſubſtance is partly ſan- guine, partly ſpermatick; for they are fleſhy, nervous, ligamentous, yeinous, arterious, and membranous. yet the fleſhy portion is predominant in them.out of which reſpett hip- pocratesis wont to expreſs the nuiſclºsby the name offleſhes; their greatneſs is indifferent be- • `s - - lia. . of e mans body. between the large and the ſmall muſcles; their figure is three ſquare. they are compoſed their compo- of the forementioned parts, they are two in number; their ſite is oblique, taking their ſure and ſite, beginning from the touching of the great ſaw-muſcle, and from the ſixt and ſeventh true ribs, or rather from the ſpaces between the ſix lower ribs, and rather on the forepart of the mufties, than of the ribs themſelves, from whence ſhunning the vertebra’s of the loins, the fleſhy parts of them are terminated in the externall and upper eminency of the haunch- bone, and the membranous end in the lower eminency of the share-bone and the white- line.” yet columbus diſſenting from this common deſcription of the oblique muſcles, thinks that they are only terminated in the white-line, and not in the share-bone. for (ſaith he wherefore ſhould they be inſerted into the share-bone which is not moved? but becauſe it would be an infinit labor and trouble to ſet down at large the ſeverall opinions of all authors of anatomy; i have thought it ſufficient for me to touch them lightly by the way. their connexion is with the oblique aſcendant lying under them, and with the their con. dire&or right. their temperament is twofold,the one hot and moiſt, by reaſon of the nexton. belly and the fleſhy portion of them;the other cold and dry,in reſpect of their ligamentous their tempe- and tendinous portion. their attion is to draw the %. into which they are inſerted to- t.a. on wards their originall, or elſe to unite them firmly. yet each of theſe º and pro- iwi is rly draws the hip in an oblique manner towards the cartilago scutiformit or breſt-blade. #. follow the oblique aſcendant, who have the ſame ſubſtance, quantity, figure; tāmpo- the oblique fire, number and temper the deſcendanthave. they are ſituate betwºn the deſcendant and aſcendant. tranſverſe with whom they have connexion, eſpecially by the veſſels which are brought theirº and from the parts beneath. all the fleſhy parts ariſe frºm the rackbones of the haunch to the ** ends of the baſtard ribs,which they ſeem to admit above and below.being fleſhy even to the fourth, and then becoming membranous, they take their way to the white-line, with a - double afoneuroſis, which paſſes through the º: muſcles above and below, as wenay plainly ſee from the navell downwards. in their fleſhy part they draw their original from the ſpine of the haunch-bones a little lower than the deſcendent and in their fleſhy part. but for their membranous parts, they ariſcbefore from the ſharebone, but behinde from the ſpondyls of the holy-bone, and vertebra’s of the loins obliquely aſcending upwards to'the w.h., which they are terminated by an aponeuroſis or membranous tendon(which ſeems to penetrate the right muſcle upwards and downwards, eſpecially under the navell) but by their fleſhy part at the ends of all the baſtard ribs, which they ſeem to receive above and below. and becauſe theſe muſcles are terminated in the white-line, they have alſo another uſe, yet ſuch as is common to all the muſcles of the epigaſtrium, that is, to preſs down the guts. their ačtion is(if they perform it together) to draw down the cheſt, º their adion. dilate the breſt; but if their ačtions be ſeparate, they draw the cheſt to the hip with an ob- lique motion. after theſe follow, the right muſcles, ſo called becauſe they deſcend the right according to the length of the body, and becauſe they have right or freight muſcle of the fibers. zº epigaſtrium. we will ſay nothing ( to ſhun prolixity, which in all other places we will avoid) of their ſubſtance and other conditions, which they have common with the fore-mentioned muſcles. they are ſituate in the eminenteſt or extuberating region of the .."; bounding their fire. the epigaſtrium taken in generall, (or the ſuperficiary belly) they are divided by the mani- feſtintercourſe of the white-line, even to the navell, in which place they ſeem to be uni- ted even to the place of their inſertion. they draw their originall not from the share- original. bone, as ſome would have it, but according to the inſertion of their nerves from the ſides of the cartilago ſtutiformis, and the ends of the fixth, ſeventh and eighth ribs; but they end in the share-bone,where they make a common tendon ſufficiently ſtrong and ſhort. syl- vius, weſalius, and columbus think they ariſe from the share-bone, becauſe they cannot be inſerted into that bone,becauſe it is unmovable. you may perceive in theſe muſcles certain nervous and tranſverſe interſe&ions, oftentimes three in number for the ſtrength of theſe muſcles,(of which galen makes no mention,although they may be ſeen in apes.) and alſo in the inner ſide of theſe muſcles you may ſee four veins, and as many arteries, of which ſome creep upwards, others run downwards. the upper, called the mamillary, deſcend from the axillary by the ſide and lower parts of the sternon,the ſlenderer portions thereof being diſtributed by the way to the mediaſtinum, and about the fourth and fift rib to the dugs, from whence they take their name. - - - . that which remains breaking out by the ſides of the breſt-blade,inſerts itſelf into thoſe *::::::::. muſcles, creeping along, even almoſt to the navell; in which place they are manifeſtly uni- É. and ted (that is,the veins with the veins, and arteries with the arteries) with the epigaſtrick, mºlliyºeing which aſcend from the upper part of the iliacks on each fide under the ſaid muſcles, untill and arteiies, they meet with theſe four mamillary veſſels. that you may finde this concourſe of the veins and arteries about the navell, you muſt follow both the upper and the lower ſome- what deep into the fleſh, preſſing the blood on both ſides from above downwards, and from below upward, untill you ſhall finde the exoſculation of theſe veſſels,which will ap- pearby this, that the blood will flow from this into that, and from that into this;other- wiſe you can ſcarce perceive it, by reaſon of the ſmalneſs of ſuch veſſels which want blº - h tiº ofthe anatomy b. . l i ---> --- their ačtion. their uſe. the pyramidal or aſſifling muſcles. the tranſverſe muſcles of the epigaſtrium, their figure and ſitc. their ačlton. the common uſe and ačtion of the eight illuſcles of the epigaſtrium, but that by the benefit of ſuch concourſe of the veſſels, the matters may be communicated and tranſported both from the womb to the dugs, and again from the dugs to the womb, appears in nurſes who want their courſes, when the milk comes into their dugs; and on the contrary loſe their milk when their courſes flow plentifully. otherwiſe to what pur- poſe ſhould there be ſuch concourſe between the veſſels of the paps and womb for there are veins and arteries diffuſed to the ſides of the womb from the root of the epigaſtricks; for indeed the epigaſtricks which in their aſcent meet with the mamillary, go not to the womb,though they be next to them, and ariſe from the ſame trunk with the hypogaſtrick vein of the womb. the aëtion of theſe muſcles is,to move or draw near together the parts of the hypogaſtrium to the precordia or hypochondries. their uſe,in columbus opinion,is, to draw #. breſt downwards ſo to dilate it. at the ends of theſe,nature hath produced two other ſmall muſcles from the upper part of the share-bone, of a triangular figure, for the ſafety of the thick and common tendon of the right muſcles; whereupon they are called the firſt figure of the lower belly. succenturiati, or aſſiſters. a dbcd. the upper, lower and laterall parts of the peri- fºr £wn. ee. the white line from the griſle of the breaſt-bone, called the breaſi-blade, to the commiſſure or meeting of the sharebones. f. the griſle of the breaſt- bone, cartilage enſ, formis, or the breafl-blade. g. the navell, which all the muſcles being taken away, muſt be kept for the demon- ſtration of the umbilicall veſſels. h.h. the produćtions of the peritonaum, which contain the ſeminary veſſels on eitherfide, ** the hole which giveth way to the ſeminary veſſels of intn, ii. a vein and an attery from the epigaſtrick, which being carried upward under the tight muſcles, do here hang down, and are diſtributed into the lower part of the abdomen. kk; awein and anartery, from the internall mammary proceeding from under the bone of the breaſ, are carried downward through the right *i muſcles,&are diffeminated into tº the upper part of the aldomen. | , ſhe place wherin the right it, muſcles ariſe,which being here cut off, do hang down, thit their veſſels may the better be ſeen. , .the anaſtomaſ; or inoculation of the foreſaid veſſels, making the conſent of the abdomen and the noſe,and of the womb with the breſts, as ſome think. ll. branches of veins running into the fides of the peritoneum. n. the place of the haunch- bone baſed, to which the oblique and the tranſverſe muſcles do grow. some (moved with i know not what reaſon) would have theſe two ſmall muſcles to help the erećtion of the yard. columbus thinks they ſhould not be ſeparated from the right, ºfthat they only are #. fleſhy beginnings of the right. but on the contrary, fallºpius manifeſtly proves them different and ſeparate from the right, and ſhews their uſe. the tranſverſe remain to be ſpoken of, ſo called by reaſon of their fibers, which make right angles with the fibers of §. right muſcles. they have a quadrangular figure ſituate up- on the greateſt part of the peritoneum, to which . ſtick ſo cloſe that they ſcarce can be ſeparated. they take their originall from the produćtion of the loins,the eminency of the haunch-bone, the tranſverſe produćtions of the vertebra’s of the loins, and the ends of the baſtard-ribs; contrary to the opinion of many, whom the inſertion of the nerve convinces, but they end in the white-line, as all the reſt do. their ačtion is to preſs the guts, eſpecially for the expulſion of excrements. but all the eight recited muſcles, beſides their proper uſe, have another common, that is, they ſtand for a defence or bulwark for all the parts lying under them, and ſerve for the expulſion both of the excrements, infant, and vapors, and alſo for the ſtrengthening of tº ºm ºt, º {	º yth: ºng riº º sº # ºff, º tºº ** this º '*... "...[ ſº º: # * *\ ºlò l i b. . of mans body. *. of the voice, as experience ſhews in thoſe who ſound trumpets and cornets. therefore theſe muſcles do equally on every fide preſs the belly; but the midriff, the intercoſtall muſcles aſſiſting it, doth drive from above downwards, from which conſpiring contention follows the excretion of the excrements by the fundament; but unleſs the mid- riffſhould aſſiſt, theſe muſcles would preſs the excrements no more downwards, than up- ward to the mouth. - although to this excretion of the excrements, it is not ſufficient that the epigaſtrick, why when the midriff, and intercoſtall muſcles preſs the belly, but the muſcles of the throtle muſt be alſo ºth "open ſhut. for the mouth being open, the excrements never go well forth becauſe the vapors º; that paſs out of the mouth, which being reſtrained and driven to the midriff,by ſtretching form. , it powerfully thruſts down the excrement. wherefore apothecaries when they give gly: • * ~ * ſters, bid the patient to open his mouth, that the #. may eaſilyer go up, which other- wiſe would ſcarcely go up, the mouth being ſhut, becauſe ſo we ſhould have no place enlpty! in us,into which #: glyſter might be admitted. Čf the white-line, and peritoneum or rim of the bely. ... : he white-line is nothing elſe, than the bound and extremities of the muſcles of the what the epigaſtrium, diſtinguiſhing the belly in the midſt into two parts,the right and left.it is: white, ne is. called white,both of its own colour,and alſo for that no fleſhy part lycs under it,or is pla- ced above it. it is broader above the navell, but narrower below, becauſe the right muſcles do there grow into one. now we muſt treat of the coat or membrane, peritoneum or rim: what the pe- of the belly; it is ſo called, becauſe it is ſtretched overall the lower º , and particu-, "ironxum is . larly over all the parts contained in the ventricle, to which alſo it freely lends a common coat. it hath a ſpermatick ſubſtance, as all other membranes have ; the quantity of it in the ſubſtance, thickneſs is very ſmall, (for it is almoſt as thin as a spiders web) yet differing in divers and quantity. . places in men and women; for men have it more thick and ſtrong above the navell,that ſo “ it may contain the extenſion of the ſtomack, often ſtretched beyond meaſure with meat and drink. on the contrary women have it ſo thick and ſtrong below their navell, that it ſeems double, that ſo they may more eaſily endure the diſtention of their womb, cauſed by the childe contained in it. but above the navell, men and women have the peritoneum ofan equal ſtrength, for the ſelf-ſame reaſon. the longitude and latitude of it is known by the circumſcription of the . the figure is round and ſomewhat long; it puts forth ſome productions, like finger- the figure. , ſtalls, both for the leading and ſtrengthening the ſpermatick veſſels, and the cremaſter - muſcles of the teſticles, and beſides it the ejaculatory veſſels, as alſo to impart a coat to the teſticles and all the naturall É. it is compoſed of ſlender, membranous and nervous fibers, certain ſmall branches of the compo- veins and arteries concurring with them, which it receives for life and nouriſhment from firion. the adherent parts. - this membrane is one in number, and beſides every where one and equal, although the number. galen would have it perforated in that place where the ſpermatick veſſels deſcend to the lib. de ſem, teſticles; but in truth we muſt not think that a hole, but rather a produćtion, as we ſaid before. - , , * . . . . the later anatomiſts have obſerved,the coat peritoneum is doubled below the navel,and that by the ſpaces of theſe reduplications the umbilicall arteries aſcend to the navell. • it is ſituate near the naturalſ parts, and compaſſes them about, and joined by the coat, the fite and which it gives them, as alſo on the fides, it is joined to the vertebra’s of the loins, from “onnexion. whoſelligaments (or rather perioſteum) it takes the originall: on the lowerpart, it cleaves to the ſhare-bone, and on the upper to the midriff, whoſe lower part it wholly inveſts; on the fore or outer part it ſticks ſo cloſe to the tranſverſe muſcles, that it cannot be pluckt from them but by force, by reaſon of the complication and adheſion of the fibers thereof with the fibers of the proper membrane of theſe muſcles, which mem- brane in galens opinion proceeds from this peritoneum, that ſo it is no marvail that wenay lib. , meth, more eaſily break than ſeparate theſe two coats. it is of temperature cold and dry, as other membranes are. - it hath many uſes, the firſt whereof is, to inveſt, and cover all the parts of the lower uſe. belly, ſpecially the kall, leſt it ſhould be ſqueezed by great compreſſures and violent at- tempts into the empty º of the muſcles, as it ſometimes happens in the wounds of the epigaſtrium, unleſs the lips of the ulcer be very well united; for then appears a tumor about the wound by the guts and kall thruſting without the peritoneum into thoſe ſpaces of the muſcles; from whence proceeds cruel pain. another uſe is to further the caſting forth of the excrements by preſſing the ventricle and uts on the foreſide, as the midriff doth above, as one ſhould do it by both their hands joined together. the third uſe is, it prohibits the repletion of the parts with flatulency after the expul- fion of the excrements, by ſtraitning and preſſing them down. the fourth and laſt is, that it contains all the parts in their ſeat, and binds them to the backbone, principally that they ſhould not fly out of their places by violent motions, as leaping and falling from on high. - h . laſtly, - of the anatomy lib. . laſtly, we muſt know,that the rim is of that nature, that it will eaſily dilate it ſelf, as we ſeein dropſies, in women with childe, and in tumors againſt nature. c h a p. viii. j of the epiploon, omentum, or zirbus, that is, the kal. fºr the containing parts, follow the contained, the firſt of which is the epiphon, (or kall) focalled, becauſe it (as it were) ſwims upon all the guts. the ſub- ſtance of it is fatty and ſpermatick, the quantity of it for thickneſs is diverſe, ºrs in divers men according to their tenperament. the latitude of it is deſcribed by the quantity of the guts. it is in figure like a purſe, becauſe it is double. it is compo- ſºd of veins, arteries, fat and a membrane, which ſliding down from the gibbous part of the ventricle,and the flat part ofthe gut duodenum and ſpleen over the guts, is turned back from the lowerbelly to the top of the colon. it is one as we ſaid covering the guts. it hath its chief connexion with the firſt vertebra’s of the loins,from which place in beaſts it ſeems to take a coat,as in men from the hollow part of the spleen, and gibbous of the ven- tricle, and depreſſed part of the duodenum, from whence doubled it is terminated in the fore and higher part of the solick-gut. which moved galen to write, that the upper part of the membrane of the kall was annexed to the ventricle; but the lower, to the laxer part of the colick-gut. from the veſſels of which parts it borrows his as aſſo the nerves, if it have any. the temper of it in lean bodies is cold and dry becauſe their kallis with- out fat; but in fat bodies it is cold and moiſt by reaſon of the fat. the uſe of it is two- fold: the firſt is to heat and moiſten the guts, and help their conco&ion, although it do it by accident, as that which through the denſity of the fat hinders the cold air from piercing in, and alſo forbids the diſſipation of the internall heat. another uſe is, that in want of nouriſhment in times of great famin, for ſometimes it cheriſhes, and (as it were) by its dew preſerves the innate heat, both of the ventricle and neighbouring parts, as itſ written by galen. moreover we muſt obſerve, that in a rupture or relaxation of the peril toneum, the kall fals down into the ſcrotum, from whence comes that rupture we call epi- flotele. but in women that are ſonxwhat more fat, it thruſts it ſelf between the bladder and the neck of the womb, and by its compreſſion hinders, that the ſeca comes not with full force into the womb,and ſofruſtrates the conception. beſides, when by a wound or ſome other chance, any part of it be defečtive, then that part of the belly which anſwers to it, will afterwards remain cold and raw, by reaſon of the forementioned cauſes. the ſecond figure ºf the lower bell). the ſubſtance, magnitude, figure, the compo- ſure. the con- nexion. lib. anatom. adminiſt. the temper. the uſe two- fold, lib. de uſu partium. a cauſe of fruſtrating conception. , bb. the inner part ofthe perits. newm cut into four parts, and ſo turned backward. b.the upper b ſheweth the implantation of the umbilicall vein into the liver. c. the navel ſeparated from the perite- * from d to the upper b the umbi- licall veins. e. e. the forepart of the flomach blown "paneither covered by the livernor kall. f.f.apart of the gibbona fide of the liver. g. veſels diſeminated through the peri. £ m. wine * the breſt blade, a. the bottom of the bladder of urine. i. the connexion of the peritoneum to the bottom of the bladder. k, k, k, k. the kall covering the guts. m, n. veſſels and finews cmbracing the bottom of the flomach. the meeting of the veſſels of both ſides; ſo that m, n, and , ſhew the ſeam which ariſtetle mentions, hiſł. & de part-anim. where he ſaith, that the kall ariſes and proceeds from the midſt of the belly. p, p. branches of veſſels running alongſt the bottom of the ſtomach, q qss. certain branches of the veſſels diſtributcd to the upper membrane of the onentum, and compaſſed with fat , a. the two umbilicall arterics going down by the ſides of the bladder to a branch of the great attery. * the ligament of the bladder which is ſhewed for the urachm. c h a i’. lu. . tof man, bºy." c h a p.xi i ii. of the pentricle or stomach. ºf ow we muſt i. of the stomach the receptacle of the food neceſſary for the # whole body,the ſeat of appetite,by reaſon of the nerves diſperſed into its upper n}. orifice,and ſo into its whole ſubſtance. the ſubſtance thereof is rather ſpermatick quantity or magnitude of the ventricle is divers,according to the various magnitude of bo- dies,and gluttony of men. the figure of it is round and ſomewhat long, like a bagpipe. the ſtomach is compoſed of two proper coats,andone common from the peritoneum, toge- ther with veins, ſincws,and arteries; the innermoſt of its proper coats is membranous wo- ven with right fibers, for the attraction of meats, it is extended and propagatcd even to the mouth thereof, whereby it comcs to paſs that the aff:étions of one part may eaſily be communicated to the other by ſympathy, or conſent. this coat hath its originall from the membranes of the brain which accompany the nerves deſcending from the third and fourth conjugation to the mouth thereof. and in like ſort from other produćtions deſcending by the paſſages of the head, from whence alſo another reaſon may be drawn from that, than ſanguine,becauſe that for one fleſhy membrane, it hath two nervous ; the the what the veh- tricle is the ſubſtance; magni- tude. the fi gure. the com po- ſure. the cauſe of the conſent of the meuth and ſtomach. which they commonly bring from the nerves of the fixt conjugation; why in wounds of . the head,the ſtomach doth ſo ſoon ſuffer by conſent with the brain. the exterior or outer ismore fleſhy and thick, woven with oblique fibers, to retain and expell. it draws it ori- inall from the pericranium, which as ſoon as it comes to the gullet, takes unto it certain #. fibers. there be nerves ſent into the ſtomach from the fixt conjugation of the brain, as it ſhall be ſhewed in its proper place. weins and arteries are ſpread into it from the ga- ſtrica, the gaſtrepiploides, the coronaria and ſplenick, from the ſecond, third, and fourth diſtribution of the vena porta, or gate-vein; and the third of the deſcendent artery to the naturall parts, as ſoon as it paſſes forth of the midriffe. . - it is one in number. the greater part of it is ſituated on the left fidebetween the ſpleen, the hollowneſs of the liver, and the guts, that aſſiſted by the heat of ſuch neighbouring parts, it may more cheerfully perform the concoëtion of the meat. neither am i ignorant that galen hath written,that a great part of the ſtomach lies on the left ſide. but inſpetti- on itſelf, and reaſon makes me derogate from galens authority, for becauſe there is more empty ſpace on the left ſide,by reaſon the ſpleen is leſs than the liver, it was fit it ſhould lie more on the left ſide. the more proper connexion of it is with the gullet andguts, by its two orifices; with the brain by its nerves; with the liver and §§ its veins; with the heartby its arteries; and with all the naturall parts by its common membrane. the temper of the ventricle in men of good habit,is temperate, becauſe it is almoſt com- poſed of the equall commixture of ſanguine and ſpermatick parts; or according to galens opinion, it is cold of its ſelf, and by the parts compoſing it; and hot by the vicinity of the bowels. but in ſome it is hotter, in others colder, according to the divers temper and complexion of divers bodies. that ſtomach is to be thought well tempered, that powerful- ly draws down the meat and drink, and embraces and retains them ſo drawn, untill by con- coötion and elixation, they ſhall be turned into a juice like cream (which the ğ. call chylos ; ) and laſtly, which doth ſtrongly ſend from it, and repell the excrements of this firſt concoëtion. the ſtomach is known to be hotter by this, that it better conco&s and digeſts courſ: and hard meats, as beef, hard egs, and the like, than ſoft meats eaſie of digeſtiqn, which it corrupts and turns into belchings. for ſo a ...; chickin, is ſooner burnt than well re- fted at a great fire. the ſtomach which is colder, deſires much meat,but is ſlow in concoët- ing them, eſpecially if they be cold and hard of digeſtion, which for that cauſe quickly turn ſowre. the ačtion of a well conditioned ſtomach is twofold, one common, another proper. the common is to attenuate,mixe and digeſt the meats taken in at the mouth, for the nutrition of itſelf and the whole body,after the liver hath performed its duty, which before it be done,the ventricle only enjoyes the ſweet pleaſure of the chylus, and comforts its ſelf againſt the impurity of the adjacent parts, whereof it is called the work-houſe of concoëtion. its firſtačtion is to attračt, retain, and aſſimilate to itſelf that which is con- venient; but to expell whatſoever ſhall be contrary, either in quantity, or quality, or in the whole ſubſtance. - - it hath two orifices,one above,which they commonly call the ſtomach and heart, the o- ther lower which is called the pylorus, or lower mouth of the ſtomach. the upper bends to the left ſidencer the back bone; it is far more large and capacious than the lower, that ſo it nay more commodiouſly receive meats half chewed, hard and groſs, which gluttons caſt the number. lit...deſ, partium. the connexi- ons the temper. : lib. . meth, notes of a hot ſtomach. the aëtion twofold. the two orifices of the ſtomach. down with great greedineſs; it hath an exquiſite ſenſe of feeling, becauſe it is the ſeat of the appetite, by reaſon of the nerves incom º this orifice, with their mutuall imbra- § lat part is endued with a quick ſenſe, that cings; whereby it happens that the ventricſe in t perceiving the want and emptineſs of meat,it may ſtir up the creature to ſeek food.for albeit patullº o of the anatomy l i b. . the fire. the glandu- lous ring of the tyloruſ, * the falſing down of the flotnach. nature hath beſtowed four faculties on other w. they are not ſenſible of their wants, but are only nouriſhed by the continuall ſucking of the veins, as plants by juice drawn from the earth. thisorifice is ſeated at the fifth vertebra of the cheſt, upon which they ſay it almoſt reſts. - yetl had rather ſay that it lies upon the twelfth vertebra of the cheſt, and the firſt of the loins; for in this place the gullet perforates the midriffe,and makes this upper orifice. the lower orifice º rather to the right ſide of the body, under the cavity of the liver. it is far ſtraiter than the upper, leſt anything ſhould paſs away before it be well attenuated and conco&ted ; and it . that by §. help or aſſiſtance of, as it were,a certain ring,like to the ſphinéter muſcle of the fundament,which ſome have thought a glandule made by the tranſ- poſition of the inner and fleſhy membrane of the ventricle into that which is the outer of the guts... i know columbus laughs at this glandulous ring, but any one that looks more attentively ſhall perceive that the pylorus is glandulous. the ſtomach in its lower and inner ſide, hath many folds and wrincles, which #. to hold and contain the mºats, untill they be perfeótly concoëted. in the ventricle we obſerve parts gibbous and hollow ; the hoſ- low is next to the liver and midriffe; the gibbous is .# the guts. now we muſt note, that the ventricle when it is much .# or looſed, may ſlide down even to the navilt near the bladder, the which we have obſerved in ſome bodies diſſºčted after their death. the third and fourth figure. the firſt figure ſhews the fore-ſide of the ſtomach and gul- let. a. ſheweth the orifice of the gullet cut from the throat. b. the ſtraight and di- rečt courſe of the gullet from a. to b. c., how the gulleta- bove the firſt rack from b. to c. in- clineth to the right hand. d. his inclination to the left hand, from % º c. to d. ee: the two glan- dules called the al- monds, ſet cloſe to the gullet in the - end of the throat, called alſo pariſtmia,antiades,tonſile and salviares glandule: ff. another glandulous body in the midſt of the gullet,about the fifth rack bone from which place the gullet gives place to the great arterie, ſomewhat declining to the right ſide : veſalius, lib. . cap. . and colum- bus Čap, ult, lib. .write, that thoſe glandules are filled with a certain moiſture, with which the gullet is moiſtened, that the meats may ſlidedown more eaſily into the ſtomach, as through a ſlippery paſſage. no otherwiſe than the glandule proſtate, flled with a kind of groſs and |. moiſture, ſmooth the paſſage of the urine, that ſo it may flow through it, with a more free and leſs troubled courſe. g. the connexion of the gullet with the ſto- mach, where the upper orifice of the ſtomach is faſhioned. h. the lower orifice of the ſto- mach called pylorus. i. k. the upper part of the ſtomach at i. the lower at k. l.l. the fore- fide of the ſtomach. p. the gut j. duodenum. t. v, the right and left nerves of the fixth pair encompaſſing about the gullet and the uppermoſtleft orifice of the ſtomach. the ſecond figure ſhºweth the back part of the ventricle and gullet. a. ee. ff. g. h. p. tv. ſhew the like parts as in the former. from c. to d. the incli- nation of the ſtomach to the left hand. m. n.o. the backfide of the ſtomach. m. ſheweth the prominence of the left ſide. n. of the right. o. ſheweth the dock or impreſſion, where it reſteth upon the rackbones. q.r. the paſſage of the bladder of the gall into the duode- num at r. s., a glandulous body growing under the duodenam,bearing up the veſſels x. y. a nerve on the left ſide creeping up to the top of the ſtomach, and ſo running out to the liver. chap. bone of the cheſ , lu. . t of man, body. c. h. a. p. xv. of the guts. she guts the inſtruments of diſtribution and expulſion, are of the ſame ſubſtance ºšº and compoſure with the ſtomach, but that the ſite of the coats of the ſtomach is tº contrary to thoſe of the guts. for that which is the innermoſt coat of the ſto- * mach is the outermoſt oftheguts, and ſo on the contrary. the figure of the guts is round,hollow and capacious, ſome more,ſomeleſs,according to the divers bigneſs. but for the quantity of the guts, ſome are ſmall, ſome great, more or leſs, according to the variety of bodies. but they are fix in number: for there be three ſmall; the duod- num,the jejunum, rempty gut,and the ileon. three great, the blind, the colick, and the rightgut. all which have had their names for the following reaſons; the firſt, becauſe it is extended the length of twelve fingers; like another ſtomach, without any turning, or winding; of which greatneſs it is found in great bodied men, ſuch as were more frequent- ly to be met withall in galens time,than in this time of ours,in which this gut is found no longer than ſeven,eight, or nine fingers at the moſt. the cauſe of this length is, that there may be a free paſſage to the gate-vein, coming out of the liver as alſo to the artery and nerve which run into it.for ſeeing that this gºt may ſometimes riſe to the top of the liver, it would poſſeſs the ſpace under the bladder of the#. (with which it is oftentinčured) iſit had any revolutions that way,which is the paſſage for ſuch like veſſels. others give a- nother reaſon of this figure,which is that there ſhould be nothingtohinder the eaſie and fit diſtribution of the perfeótly concoëted chylus to the liver. . . . w - - the ſecond is . jejunum, r the empty gut,not becauſ, it is abſolutely ſo,but becauſe it contains little in compariſon of the other. there is a triple cauſe of this emptineſs,the firſt the multitude of the meſeraick veins and arteries which are about it, whereupon there is a greater and quicker diſtribution of the chylus. the ſecond is the vicinity or neighbor- hood of the liver ſtrongly drawing the chylus contained in it; the third is the flowing down of the chollerick humor from the bladder of the gall into it, which ever and anen by its acrimony cleanſ's away the filth, and by continuall flowing ſolicits it to expulſi- on. the third is called ileon becauſe it lies botween the ilia or flanks; it differs nothing from the reſt in ſubſtance and magnitude, but in this one thing, that there is more matter containca in it than in the ºt. reaſon of the paucity of the veſſels terminated in it,that it is no narvell that there can be no exačt demonſtration made of them. the fourth is cal- led cecum or the blind, becauſe it hath but one paſſage to ſendout and receive in the mat- ter. this gut hath a long and ſtrait produćtion, which according to the opinion of ſome (though ſº erroneous) often falls down into the strotum in the rupture, or rela- xation of the rim of the belly; for that produćtion in the lower belly ſtrongly ſticks to the peritoneum or rim, which hinders ſuch falling down. but galen ſeems by ſuch a blind gut to havemeant this long and narrow produćtion, and certainly ſo thinks the common fort of anatomiſts, but here veſalius juſtly reprehended galen. wherefore sylvius that he mightfree galen of this fault, would have usby the blind gºt to underſtand the beginning of the colick gut. the fifth is called colon (or colick gut) becauſe it is greater and more capacious than the reſt. the fixt and laſt, the right gut, by reaſon .#the rightneſs or ſtreightneſs of the paſſage. this,in beaſts eſpecially, hath a certain fatneſs in it to make the paſſage ſlippery,andleſt the gut ſhould be exulcerated in the paſſage,by the ſharpneſs of hard and acrid excrements. the fite oftheſe guts is thus:the duodenum upon the backbone bends to the right hand; the jejunum ſº. a great part of the upper umbilicall region, diffuſes it ſelf into both ſides with windings, like to theſe of the gut ileum, even to the flanks.the gut ileonis fituate at the lower part of the umbilicall region, going with many turnings andwindings,even to the hollowneſſes of the holy-bone above the bladder and ſide parts of the hypogaſtrium, they call the flanks. the blindbends to the right hand,alittle below the kidney, above the firſt and fourth vertebra of the loins. the colon or colick gut is crooked and bent, in the form of a scy- thian º all the ſpace from the blind gut, below the right kidney even to the hol- lowneſs of the liver,and then it goes by the gibbous part of the ſtomach above the ſmall guts,even to the hollowneſs of the spleen; from whence ſliding under the left kidney,with ſome turnings,it is terminated upon the vertebra’s of the loins. by all which turnings andwindings of the colickgut,it is eaſie to diſtinguiſh the pain of the ſtone of the kidneys, which remain fixt in one certain place, from the colick wandrin through theſe crooked paſſages we mentioned. the right guttends with an obliquefit: towards the left hand, upon the holy bone even to theyery fundament. they have all one and a common connexion; for they are all mutually joined togetherby their coats, be- cauſe there is but one way from the gullet even to the fundament, but they are joined to the principall parts by ... nerves veins, and arteries. but amore proper connexion is that where the duodenum on the upper part of it, is join- - " ed their ſub- ſtance. figure. their number the duode. ' nun, the iejwnan, ileon. catcºm, colon. rešum, their ſite: the diſlinóis of between the colick and the ſtone in the kidneys. - their connexi- on. of the anatomy l i b. . ed with the pylorus; but on the lower part to the jejunum, and the parts lying under it, by the coat of the peritoneum. the jejunum, or empty gut,is joyned to the duodenum and ilºon. w the ileum with the empty and blind guts. the blind with the ikon and colon, and with the why vomitin right ſide of the backbone where it is tied more ſtraitly. - the co. on with the blind and h ... in . right guts,and in his middle part,with the kidneys and gibbous part of the ſtomach;where- colick. by it comes to paſs,that being diſtended with wind in the colick, it overturns and pleiſ's - the ſtomach,and ſo cauſes vomiting. - the sphinfler laſtly, the right gut is annexcd with the colick gut and fundament. at the cnd whereof ... there is a muſcle faſtened,of figure round and circular, called the sphinéier, ariſing from the fundament, lower vertebra’s of the holy bone and rump,by the benefit of which as of a dore orgate, the ~ excrements are reſtrained at our wil,leſt man born for all honeſt ačtions,without all ſhame, gal lib, .de in every time and place, ſhould be forced every where to eaſe his belly. for ſuch as have “ſº pºrtium, loſt the benefit of this muſcle by the palſy,have their excrements go from them againſt their cap. i . wills. there is a body ſituate at the cnd of the right gut, of amiddle ſubſtance between the skin and fleſh, as it were ariſing from the mixture of them both, like the extremitics of the lips, of the ſame uſe with the sphinéier, but that it is not altogether ſo powerfull- but there are alſo certain veins ſituate about it called the haºmorrhoidall,of which we will ſpeak in their place. beſides there are two other muſcles that deſcend to the end of this gut, being broad and membranous on each ſide, one ariſing from the ſide and inner parts of the ſhare and hip- bones, which inſerted above the sphināer pull up the fundament falling down, wherefore lºvatore, ani, they are called levatores ani,or the lifters up of the fundament. wherefore when as either they are too weak, or reſolved, or the fundament oppreſſed with the weight of flegmatick, ſalt.cholerick and ſharp humors,the gut is ſcarce reſtored into its place,that there is need of the help of the fingers for that purpoſe. the ačtion of the guts follow the temperof the ſtomach. their ačtion is the diſtributing the chylus the guts, by the meſeraick veins(which of duty belongs to the three ſmall guts)and the receiving the excrements of the chylu,and retention of them,till a fit time of expulſion,which belongs to the third quarter. beſides,theſe ſmall guts finiſh up the work of concoëtion, begun in the ſtomach,although they be not altogether made for that uſe. but nature is often accuſtomed to abuſe the parts of the body for ſome better uſe. - the fifth figure of the lower belly. a. the breſtblade, cartilago, enſi- formú. bb. the rim, with the midriffe | and broken ribs bent outwards. m) t "in | sº cc. the gibbous part of the liver. ww d.a ligament tying the liver to the midriffe. e. part of the umbilicall vein. ff, the ſtomach fild full of meat. ' g. a part of the ſpleen. h.theblind gut of the late writers, for the ancients took the top of the colon for it. i. the beginning of the great or thick guts. i. and ſo to k. ſheweth the paſſages of the colick gut from the right kidney to the liver. and ſo the colick and the ſtone on this fide are in one place, and therefore hardly diſtinguiſhed. k. to l. the ſame colick gut lyeth under the whole bottome of the ſtomach,which is the reaſon that thoſe which are troubled with the colick caſt ſo much. l. to m. the paſſage of the colon from the ſpleen to the ſharebone, by the left kidney,a way, which maketh the pain of the ſtone and the colick on the left ſide very hard to º: colon ending in the right gut. o. the beginning of the right gut, unto the bladder.p.q. the ſunken or fallen ſide of the colon at p.and his chambers or cels at q.r.s.t.the leſſer guts eſpecially lying under the navel.a.a.the two umbilicall artc- ries,h.the bottome of the bladder. *the connexion of the bladder and the peritoneum. but º * - lib. . of many ody. but we muſt note,that for the compoſure of the guts, they have only tranſverſe fibers,for expulſions ſake, unleſs that at the beginning of the colon,and the end of the right gut,you may ſee certain right fibers added to the tranſverſe to ſtrengthen them, leſt theſe guts ſhould chance to be broken and torn º: tº: hard excrements, and the laborious endea- vour of expulſion (ſpecially in brute beaſts. - - - - but if . .. # have retention,being they want oblique fibers; he may know that thefects are retained in the right gut by the force of the shind-rmuſcle. but oft times in the blind, by their hardneſs and abundance, whereby they ſick in the paſſage; but in the reſt,by reaſon of their conformation into many winding; and turnings. the length of the guts,is ſeven times more than the length of the whole body; to this length they have windings, left the nouriſhment ſhould quickly ſlide away, and left men ſhould be with- drawn by gluttony from ačtion and contemplation. for ſo we ſee it comes to paſs in moſt beaſts,which have one gut, ſtretched ſtreight out from the ſtomach to the fundament; as in the lynx and ſuch other beaſts of inſatiable gluttony, alwayes, like plants, regarding their food. * c h a p. xvi. of the meſentery. fter the guts followes the meſentery,being partly of a fatty and partly of a ſper- e^\º matick ſubſtance. the greatneſs of it is apparent enough, although in ſome it º be bigger, and in ſomeleſſºr actording to the greatneſs of the body. it is of a e-" ºr j and not verythick. “it is compoſed of adouble coat ariſing from the beginning and root of the peritoneum. in the midſt thereof it admits nerves from the . of the fixt conjugation, veinsfrom the vena porta or gate vein; arteries from the deſcendent artery, over and befides a great quantity offat and many glandulous bodies, to prop up the diviſion of the veſſels ſpredover it, as alſo to moiſten their ſubſtance. it is in number one, ſituate in the middle of the guts, from whence it took its name. yet ſome divide it into two parts, to wit, into the meſereum, that is, the portion interwoven with theſmall guts,and into the meſocolon which is joyned with the great. it hath connexion by its veſſels, with the principall parts,by its whole ſubſtance with the guts,and in ſome ſort with the kidneys,from whoſe region it ſeems to take its coats. " ..., it is of a cold and moiſt temper,ifyou have reſpea to his fatty ſubſtance; but if to the reſt of the parts, cold and dry. . . . * ... . . . . - * . . . the aftionand uſe of it is to bind and hold together the guts each in his place, left they ſhould raſhly befolded together, and by the meſtraick veins (which they term the hands of the liver)carry the chylus to the liver. . . . . in which you muſt note, that all the meſeraick veins come from the liver, as we un- derſtand by the diſſºtion of bodies; although ſome have affirmed; that there be ſome veins ſerving for the nouriſhment of the guts,nowayes appertainingtotheliver,but which end in : glandulous bodies,diſperſed through the meſentery, of whoſe uſe we will treathereafter. - . . . . ; . . . –––––– c h a p.xvii. º of the glandules in generall, and of the pancreas,orſweet-bread, tº glandule is a fimple part of the body, ſometimes of a ſpungy and ſoft ſub- º ſtance,ſometimes of a denſe and hard. of the ſoft glanduſes are the tonſle, or & almonds,like in ſubſtance to blanched almonds; the thymuſ, pancreas, teſticles, º proſtate. but the denſe and hard are the parotides and other like.the glandules differ amongſt theemſlves;in quantity and figure,for ſome are greater than o- ther ſome,and ſome are round and others plain,as the thymus and pancreas. others are compounded of veins,nerves, arteries, and their proper fleſh, as the almonds of the ears,the milky glandules in the breaſts and the teſticles. others want nerves, at leaſt which may be ſeen,as the parotides,the axillary,or thoſe under the armholes and others.the - their fibers. - how the guts become he to retain. their length. the ſubſing: magnitude. figure. compoſure. number. the cennexi- qu. the temper; the a&ion and uſe, all the meſerá. ick veins come from the liver, subſtanceof the glandules. quantity and figure. compoſition, number of glanduſes is uncertain by reaſon ofthe infinitemultitudeand variety of ſport- number. ing nature. youſhall find them alwayes in theſe places,where the great diviſions of veſſels are made;as in the middleventricle of the brain,in the upper part of the cheſt in the meſºn- tery and other like places. although *::::: be ſeated in ſuch places,as nature thinks needfull to generate and caſt forth of thema profitable humor to the creature; as the almonds at the root of the tongue,the kernels in the dugs,theſpermatick veſſels in the ſcrotum and at the fides of the wombe; or where nature hath decreed to make emunāories for the principall parts, a - - / connexion. temper. a&ion and uſe. the ſubſtance of the pancreas. the ſite. what the liver its ſubſtance and quantity. why cowards have greatli- wers, the figure. of the anatomy ling. as behind the ears,under thearmholes, and in the groins. the connexion of glandules is not only with the veſſels of the parts concurring to their compoſition, but alſo with thoſe, whoſe diviſion they keep and preſerve. they are of a cold temper, wherefore phyſitians ſay the blood recrudeſere (i) to become raw again in the dugs, when it takes upon it the form of milk. but of theſe ſome have ačtion,as the almonds,which pour our ſpatle uſefull for the whole mouth,the dugs milk,the teſticles ſeed; others, uſe only,as thoſe which are madeto preſerve, underpropaud fill up the diviſions of the veſſels.beſides this we have ſpo- ken of glandules in tº: , we muſt know that the pancreas is a glandulous and fleſh-like body, as that which hath everywhere the ſhape and reſemblance of fleſh. it is ſituate at the flatend of the liver,under the duodenum with which it hath great connexion, and under the gate-vein,to ſerve as a bulwarke,both to it and the diviſions thereof, whilſt it fils up the empty ſpaces between the veſſels themſelves,and ſo hinders,that they be not plucktaſunder, nor hurt by any violent motion,as a fall or the like. c. h. a. p. xviii. of the liver. rºsa aving gonethus far, order of diſſºtion now requires,that we ſhould treat of the |ºlº diſtribution of the gate-vein; but becauſe it cannot well be underſtood unleſs all tº the nature of the liver from whence it ariſes,be well known, therefore putting it * off to a more fit place, we will now ſpeak of the liver. wherefore the É. §: cording to galent opinion, lib, deform. frtus) is the firſt of all the parts of the body, which is finiſhed inconformation, it is the ſhop and author of the blood,and the originall of the veins; the ſubſtance of it, is like the concrete mud of the blood,the quantity of it is divers, not only in bodies of different, but alſo of the ſame ſpecies; as in men amongſt themſelves, of whom one will be gluttonousand fearfull,another bold,and temperate,or ſober; for he ſhall have a greater liver than this, becauſe it muſt conceive and concoët a greater quantity of chylus: yet the liver is greatin all men, becauſe they have need of a great quantity of blood for the repairing of ſo many ſpirits and the ſubſtantifick moiſture,which are reſolved and diſſipated in every moment by ačtion and contemplation. but there may be a twofold reaſon given,why ſuch as are fearfull have a . liver. the firſt is, becauſe in thoſe the vitall faculty (in which the heat of courage and anger refides)which is in the heart,is weak; and therefore the defečt of it muſt be ſupplyed ;: ſtrength of the naturall faculty. for thus nature is accuſtomed to recompence . which is wanting in one part,by the increaſe and acceſſion of another. the other reaſon is, becauſe cold men have a great appetite, for by galens opinion in arte parva, coldneſs increaſes the appetite; by which it comes to paſs that they have a greater quantity of chyluſ, by which plenty the liver is nouriſhed and grows larger. some beaſts, as dogs, and ſwine,have the liver divided into five or more lobes, but a man hath but one lobe, or two, or three at the moſt ; and theſe not ſo much diſtinguiſhed, as which cheriſh the upper and hollow region of the ventricle, with embracing to help forward the work of concoëtion. therefore the liver is almoſt con- tent with one lobe, although it is alwayes rent with a ſmall diviſion, that the umbilicall vein piercing into the roots and ſubſtance of it, may have a free paſſage; but alſo often- times there is as it were a certain ſmall lobe of the liver, laid under that umbilicall vein, as a cuſhion. - the figure of the liver is gibbous; riſing up and ſmooth towards the midriffe; towards the ſtomach is theſimous or hollow fide of it ſomewhat unequall,and rough by reaſon of the ... diſtance of the lobes,the original of the hollow vein,and the fite of the bladder of the gall. the compo: ſure. the veſſels, the number and ſite., the counexi- oſlº the temper. the compoſition of the liver is of veins, nerves, arteries, the coat and proper ſubſtance thereof which we call the groſs and concrete blood,or parenchima. weins and artecies come to it from the navill; but nerves immediately from theſe which are diffuſed over the ſto- mach according to hippocrates; yet they penetrate not very deep into its ſubſtance, for it ſeems not to ſtand in need of ſuch exač ſenſe, but they are diſtributed upon the coat and ſurface thereof, becauſe this part made for diſtribution over the whole body, keeps to it felf no acrid or malign humor;for the perception of which it ſhould need a nerve,although the coat inveſting it, ſends many nervous i. into its ſubſtance, as is apparent by the ta- king away ofthe coat from a boiled liver; we muſt think the ſame of the other entrails. the coat of the liver is from the peritoneum,waxing ſmall from the umbilicall vein, when it divides it ſelf for the generation of the gate and hollow veins, as is obſerved by galen, lib. de format. fetus. the liver is only one, fituate in the greater part on the right ſide, but with the leſſer part on the left, quite contrary to the ſtomach. its chief connexion is with the ſtomach andguts,by the veins and membranes of the peritoneum;by the hollow vein and artery, with the heart; by the nerve with the brain,and by the ſame ligatures with all the i. of the whole body. it is of a hot and moiſt temper,and ſuch as have it more hot, have arge veins and hotblood; but ſuch as have it cold, have ſmall veins, and a disolº cw. w - - – - lib. . of mans body. -- - - iver is the converſion of chylus into the blood,the work of the ſcº. i heation- . the . º the chylus cntring i. the meſeraick veins, receive ſome re- §: f blood yet it acquires not the form and perfe&tion of blood.before it be elabo- fem ...i ºngº in the liver. it is bound and tyed with three ſtrong ligaments, two the ii rate, . ; the midſt of the baſtard ribs, to bear up its ſides, and the third more high tligaments; : º: from the breaſt-blade, to ſuſtain its proper part, which with its and º: reſs the lower orifice of the ſtomach, and ſo cauſe a falling or drawing weight ; he º and coller bone. and thus much may ſuffice for its proper ligaments, down ‘. rementioned its common; the veins, arteries,nerves, and coat of the ºritone- : . it is knit to the loins and other naturall parts. but we muſt note, that befids am, by *. c roperligaments,the liver is alſo bound with others to the baſtard ribs; as syl- i.j . anatomicall obſervations, and hollerius in his padiſe.cº.d. plaritide. - chap. xix. of the bladder of the gall. rºgow we muſt come to the bladder ofthe gall, which is of a nervous ſubſtance, ... §§ and of the bigneſs of ſmall pear; it is of figure round, with the bottom more figure thereof. n& large, but the ſides and mouth more narrow and ſtrait. it is compoſed of a dou- the compoſi- wº: i.a.n. proper, conſiſting of three ſorts of fibers, the other from the perite- º d neum. it hath avin from the fºnºor gate-vein, and an artery from that which is diffu- *::: flinto the liver, and a nerve from the fixt conjugation. it is but one and that hid on - the right fide under the greater lobe of the liver, it is knit with the touching of its own body and of the #: and channels made for the ºrformance of its ačtions with the wer and alike manner with the duodenum, and not ſe dome with the ſtomach alſo, by another paſſige and to conclude to all the parts by its veiº, nerves, arteries, and common coat.it is of cold temper, as ºvery nervous part is.the aëtion of it is to ſeparatefrom the liver the cholerick humor,and that excrementitious, but yet naturall by the help of the right fibers, for the purifying of the blood, and by the oblique fibers,ſo longto keep it be- ing drawn, untill it begin to become troubleſome in quantity or quality,or its whole ſub- the channells ſtance, and then by the tranſverſe fibers, to put it down into the duodenum to provoke the ofthe gall. expulſive faculty of the guts. i know fallopius denies the texture of ſo many fibers, to be the miniſter of ſuch ačtion to the gall. but veſalius ſeems ſufficiently to have anſwered him. the bladder of the gall hath divers channell; for coming with a narrow neck, event, the beginning of the gate-vein, it is divided into two paſſages, the one whereof ſuffer- ing no diviſion is carryed into the duºdenum, unleſs that in ſomeitſendanother branch ib. . de into the bottome of the ſtomach,asis obſerved by galen; which men have a miſerable and # #. -- wretched life, being ſubjećt to cholerick vomitings, eſpecially when their fºom.hs are temp empty, with great pains of their ſtomach and head, as is alſo obſerved by galen, cap. . arti, med. the other coming out of the body of the liver divides it ſºlfinº, tºo". three paſſages, again entring the ſubſtance of the liver,is divided with infinite branches,ac- sºmpanying ſo many branches of the gate-vein through the ſubſtance of the liver, thºſo the blood unleſs it be moſt elaborate and pure, may not riſe into the hollow vein,all which things diſſettion doth manifeſtly teach. temper. aëtions; the ſixth figure of the bladder of the gal. m.the pylorus joyned to the duodenum. n.the duodenum joyned to the pylor. p. ſhºws the bottom of the bladder of the gall. q , the holes of the bladder of gall diſperſed through the liver, betwixt the roots of the hollow and gate- veins. r. the root of the gate vein in the liver.s.the root ofthehollow vein in the liver.a.the concourſe or meeting of the paſſages of cholerin- to one branch. b. the neck of the - - o bladder into which the paſſage is ****the paſſage of the gall into the duodenumººn. phodenum opened, to manifeſt the inſertion of the pºruſ biliari. e.an arterygoing to the hollow part of the liver,and *bladder of the gall. f ºf all nerve belonging to the liver and the biºf gall, from the ribbranchöfth fixth pair ºf the ciſtick twins from the gate-veins, chap. - º of the anatomic lib. . the ſubſtance. magnitude. figure. compoſition, number and site. connexion. temper and uſe. . the ſub flance and figure. compoſition. number and site, - temper and aćtion, diviſion there- of into bran. ches, of which, fimple- i £yſtice gemelle . gaſtrica. gaſtrepiplois, . inteſtinalis. cha p. xx. of the spleen or milt. §ºut becauſe we cannot well ſhew the diſtribution of the gate-vein,unleſs the spleen nibe firſt taken away,and removed from its ſeat therefore before wego any further, ) i have thought good to treat of the spleen.therefore the spleen is of a ſoft, rare, º and ſpongious ſubſtance(whereby it mightmore eaſily receive and drink up the dregs of the blood from the liver) and of a fleſh more black than the liver.for it reſembles the colour of its muddy blood,from which it is generated. it is of an indifferent greatneſs;but bigger in ſome,than in otherſome, according to the diverſe temper and com- plexion of men.it hath as it were a triangular figure.gibbous on that part, it ſticks to the ribs and midriffe, but hollow on that partnext the ſtomach.it is compoſed of a coat, the proper fleſh;a vein, artery, and nerve.themembrane comes from the peritºneum, the proper fleſh from the feces or dregs of bloud,or rather of the naturall melancholy humour, with which it is nouriſhed. the fourth branch of the vena porta, or gate vein, lends it a vein the firſt branch of the great deſcendent artery preſently, after the firſt entrance without the midrifflends it an artery. but it receives a nerve,from the left coſtall,from the ſixt conjugati- on on the inner part, by the roots of the ribs; and wenay manifeſtly ſee this nerve, not only diſperſingit ſelfthrough the coatofthe liver,but alſo penetrating with its veſſels the proper fleſhthereof,after the ſelf ſame manner,as we ſee it is in the heart and lungs. it is one in num- ber,ſituate on the left ſide,between the ſtomach and the baffard ribs, or rather the midriffe which deſcends to their roots.for it ofttimes cleaves to the midriffe, on its gibbous part,by a coat from the peritoneum,as alſo on the hollow part to the ſtomach, both by certain veins which ſends it into the ventricle,as alſo by the kall.[thath connexion,either primarily, orſe- cundarily, with all the parts of the body,by theſe its veſſels. - it is of acold and drie temper; the aëtion and uſe of it is to ſeparate the melancholick hu- mor, which being feculent and droſſie, maybe attenuated by the force of many arteries diſper- ſed through its ſubſtance.for by their continuallmotion,and native heat, which they carry infull force with them from the heart,that groſs blood puts offitsgroſneſs, which the spleen ſends away by paſſages fit for that purpoſe, retaining the ſubtler portion for its nouriſh- ment. thépaſſages by which it purges itſelf from the groſneſſe of the melancholy bloud, area veinaſcending from it into the ſtomach to ſtir up the appetiteby its ſourneſſe, and ſtren- then the ſubſtance thereof by its aſtrićtion;and alſo another vein, which ſometimes from the spleenbranch, ſometimes from the gate-vein-plainly under its orifice,deſcends to the funda- ment, there to make the hzmorrhoidallveins. e- chap. xxi. _ of the vena porta, and gate-vein, and the diſtribution thereof. sº hegate-vein, as alſo all the other veins, is of a ſpermatick ſubſtance, of a manifeſt sº largeneſs,of around and hollow figure,iike to a pipe or quill.it is compoſed of its §§§ propercoat, and one common from the peritoneum.it is only one,and that fituate * in theſimous or hollow part of the liver,from whence it breaks forth (or rather out of the umbilicall vein) into the midſt of all the guts,with which it hath con- nexion,as alſo with the ſtomach,ſpleen,ſphinéfer of the fundament and peritoneum,by the coat, which it receives from thence. it isofacold and dry temper.the a&ion of it is, to ſuck the chyluſ out of the ventricle and guts, and ſo to take and carry it to the liver, untill it maycar- ry back the ſame turned intoblood for the nutriment of the ſtomach,ſpleen and guts. this ate-vein coming out of the ſimous part of the liver, is divided into ſix branches,that is, four imple, and two compound,again divided into many other branches. the firſt ofthe fimple aſcends from the forepart of the trunk to the bladder of the gall by the paſſage of the cho- ler(and are marked with g.g. ) with a like artery for life and nouriſhment, and this diſtribution is knowne by the name of cyſtice genelle or cyſtick twins. the ſecond is called the gaſtrica or ſtomach vein, ariſing in like manner from the forepart of the trunk , is carried to the pyloruſ and the ſimous or back part of the ſtomach next to it. the third is called gaffrepiplois, the ſtomach and kall vein, which coming from the right fide of the gate-vein goes to the gibbous part of the ſtomach next to the pyleru, and the right fide of the kall. - the fourth going forth from behind and on the right hand of the gate-vein,aſcends above the root of the meſeraick branch even to the beginning of the gut jejunum, , along the gut duodenum, from whence it is called inteſtinals, or the gut vein, and theſe .tc lis. . - of mans body. – are the foure fimple branches. now we will ſpeak of the compound. * * the firſt is theſplenick, which is divided after the followingmanner, for in its firſt be- inning and upper part, itſends forth the coronalit,or crowne vein of the ſtomach, which f the back part of the ſtomach aſcends into the upper and hollow part thereof; to which place, asſoon as it arrives, it is divided again into two branches, the one whereof climbs up even to its higher orifice,the other deſcends downe to the lower, ſending forth by the way otherbranches to the fore and back parts of the ſtomach. theſe engirt and on every fide incompaſs the body of the ventricle,for which cauſe they are named the crown veins, i have ſometime obſerved this commingforth of the trunk, a little above the orifice of the ſplenick branch. but this ſame ... on its lower part, produces the branch of the harmorrhoidall veins,which deſcending to the fundament above the left ſide of the - loines, diffuſes a good portion thereof into the leaſt part of the colick gut, and the right gutatthe end whereofit is often ſeen to be divided into five hamorrhoidall veins, ſome- times more,ſometimes leſs. - silvius writes that the hamorrhoidall branch deſcends fromthe meſenterick, and truly we have ſometimes obſerved it to have been ſo. yet it is more ſutable to reaſon, that it ſhould deſcend from the ſplenick,not only for that we have ſeen with our eyes that it is ſo, but alſo becauſe it is appointed by nature for the evacuation of the excrementitious melancholick humor.but this ſame ſplenick branch out of the middle almoſt of its upper part produces the third branchgoing to the gibbous part of the ſtomach,and the kall;they terme it the greater,middle and left gaſtrepiploa. but on the lower É. towards the ſpleen it produces the ſimple epiploit,or kall-vein, which it diffuſes through the left ſide of the kall. moreover from its upper part, which touches the liver, it ſends forth a ſhort branch called was breve,or venoſum,to the upper orifice of the ventricle for ſtirring up the appetite. . we have oftentimes and almoſt alwayes obſerved, that this venie veſſell, which galencals was breve,comes from the verybody of the ſpleen, and isłterminated in the midſt of the ſto- mach on the left ſide,but never pierces both the coats thereof.wherefore it is ſomewhat dif- ficult to find,how the melancholy juyce can that way be powred,or ſent into the capacitie of the ſtomach. now the ſplenick branch,when it hath produced out of it thoſe five fore- mentioned branches, is waſted and diſperſed into the ſubſtance and body of the ſpleen. then followes another compoundbranch of the vena porta,called the meſenterick,which is divided into three parts;the firſt and leaſt whereof goes to the blindgut and to the right and middle part of §: º: divided into an infinite multitude of other branches. the ſecond and middle is waſted in the ileon;as the third and greater in the lefunum or emp- ty gut. it is called meſenterick becauſe it is diffuſed overall the meſentery; as the ſplenick is in the ſpleen.and thus much we have to ſay of the diviſion of the gate vein, the which if at any time thou ſhalt find to be otherwiſe,than i have ſet downe, you muſt not wonder at it;for you ſhall ſcarce find it the ſame in two bodies, by reaſon of the infinite varietie of particularbodies,which (as the philoſophers ſay) have each their owne, or peculiar gifts, our judgment is the ſame of other diviſions of the veſſels.yet we have ſetdown that which we have moſt frequently obſerved. chap. xxii. of the original of the artery, and the diviſion of the brandh, deſcending to the naturall parts. : hoſe thingsbeing thus finiſhed and conſidered, the guts ſhould be pulled away, ; but ſeeing that if we ſhould do ſo, we ſhould diſturb and loſe the diviſion o the artery deſcending to the naturall parts;therefore i have thought it betterto a handle the diviſion thercoſ.before the gutsbe ſº away. therefore we muſt fup ! the veins come from the liver, - - - poſe,according to galent opinion, that as a ſo all arteries proceed from the heart.this preſently at the beginning is divided into two º branches,the greater whereofdeſcends downwards to the naturall parts upon the ſpine of she back,taking its beginning at the fifth vertebra thereof,from whence it goes into the fol- lowing arteries.the firſt called the intercoſtall,runs amongſt the intercoſtall muſcles, and the diſtances of the ribs,and ſpinall marrow,through the perforations of the nerves on the right and left hand from the fifth true,even to the laſt of the baſtard ribs, - this in going this progreſs makes ittlebranchings,diſtributed after the forementioned * goingforth of the trunk of the deſcendent overagainſt each of the intercoſtall cics. . the ſecond being called or .# $ºbeing of a large proportionarifing from theupperpart of the arteric preſently after *hºth gaffed the midiffe is divided into two notablébranches,whereofon goes to the flo- *hºſpittakall,to the hollow part oftheliver *fºll, the ther is ſentforth # . meitſlº parted into two goes on each fide to the midriff, whence it may be y the name of theſiaphragmatica or phrenica,(i) the midriff artery.the tº ttocompound. - . -- ramuſ ſpleni- cus ſending forth. ... i , cºronalis, - memorrhoida- lit. interna, * - - gaſºrepiploit, major finiſtra, . .*. epiploit ſimp- itz. . . war beve ſen veneſium. lib, .dºſ. partium, - . ramus meſºn- ; tericº devided into three parts, the orial - ofarteries. - the diviſion of the great .. deſcendent at; tery, is into theſe. , ... i - it. arteria inter; coſtalis. tº ºr of the anatomie * l a. ) meſentery and guts after the ſame manner, as we ſaid of the meſeraick veins, wherefore itis called the caliza, or ſtomach artery. but we muſt note,all ... €vcin to - the innermoſt coat of the guts,that by that means they may the better and more eaſily at- bylus contained in them. *:::::: carryed to thereins, where it is named the reinall or emulgent, becauſe . . it ſucks fit matter from the whole maſs of blood. emulgent. the fifth is ſent to the teſticles with the preparing spermatick veins, whence alſo it is named thespermatick artery which ariſes on the right ſide from theyºry trunk of the de- fºndent artcry; that it may aſſociate the ſpermatick vein of the ſame fide, they ºn one a- bove another beneath the hollow vein, wherefore we muſt have a great care whilſt we la- bour to lay it open,that we do not hurt and break it. spermalica. a the ſeventh fºr: sf the lower bely. a, a, the midriffe turned back with the ribs and the peritoneum. - bb, the cave or hollow part of the li- ver, for the liver is lifted up that the hollow part of it may be better ſeen. § c, the leaſt ligament of the liver. § d, the umbilicall vein. % s, e., the º: a. the º, which § giveth way to the ſtomach. Š fs the left : of the ſtomach. gg,certain knubs or knots, and im- preſſions in the hollow part of the liver. - h, the bladder of gall. - i, the gate-vein, cut off, and branches. which go to the bladder of gall. k. a nerve of the liver coming from the ſtomachicall nerve. l., an artery common to the liver and bladder of gall. m,a nerve common alſo to them both, coming from the right coſtall nerve of the ribs. - n, the paſſage of the gall to the guts cut off. - o o, the hollow of the fore parts of the spleen. p, the line where the veſſels of the spleen are implanted. q. the trunk of the hollow vein. r, the trunk of the great artery. s, the caliacall ar- tery cut off. t, v, the kidneys yet wrapped in their membrane. x;y.the fatty veins called vene adipoſe- , , the emulgent veins with the arteries under them. c c,dd, the ureter from either kidney to the blad- der. e,f, the ſpermaticallveins to the teſticles,the right from the hollow vein, the left from the emulgent. gig, veins coming from the ſpermaticall to the peritoneum.h,i, the ſpermaticall arteries. k, the lowermeſentericall artery. l. the aſcending of the great artery above the hollow vein,and the diviſion of it, and the hollow vein into two trunks, m, the arteries of the loins called lumbari,. n, the holy artery called sacra. , a part of the right gut. p,the bladder of urine. *the connexion of the bladder with the peritoneum. q, a part of the veſſels which lead the ſeed from the teſticles, is here re- fleåed, r, ſ,the ſcrotun,or cod,that is,the skin that inveſts the yard and teſticles. , the fleſhy pannicle or membrane which is under the cod.u,the coat which is proper to the º teſticles with his veſſels.<,a part of the yard excoriated or flayed,and hanging down. ºp remonºid.h, . the fixth going from the fore and upper part ofthis deſcendent arterie, deſcends with fumºſºmerica the haemorrhoidall veins to the fundament; preſently from his beginning, ſending forth inferior, certain branches alongſt the colick gut, which by anaſtomaſ's are united with other bran- ches of the carliata'ſ arteries; for whoſoever ſhall look more attentively, he ſhall often ob- ſerve that veins are ſo united amongſt themſelves,and alſo arteries, and ſometimes alſo the veins with the arteries. for an anaſomaſis is a communion and communicating of the veſſels amongſt themſelves,by the application of their mouths, that ſo by mutuall ſupplies they . may eaſe each others defe&ts.but they call this the lowermeſeraick artery. - lumbariº, the ſeventh proceeding from the trunk with ſo many branches as there be verrebra’s -a l i b. . of mansbody. * -—-- --> in the loines.goes to the loines and the parts belonging to them, that is, the ſpinallmar- row of that part,and other parts encompaſſing theſe vertebra's, whereupon it is ſtiled the lumbari, or loine artery. - -- the eight maketh the iliackarteries, untill ſuch time as it departs from the peritoneum where the crurall arteries take their originall. this iliack artery ſends many divaricati- ons towards the holy bone where it takes its beginning,and to the places lying neer the holy bone,which becauſe they run the ſame couiſe as the iliak veins, for brevities ſake, we will let paſs further mention of them,till we come to treat of the iliack veins. c h a p. xxiii. of the diffribution ºf the nerves to the natural parts. tºº.t remains,that before the bowels be taken away, we ſhew the nerves ſent to the § entrails and natural parts,that as wiſe and provident men we may ſeem to have * sº omitted nothing.firſt we muſt know that theſe nerves are of the ſixt conjugati- § on which deſcend as well to the ſtomach all alongſt the gullet and the ſides - thereofas thoſe at the roots of the ribson both ſides within. but when they are paſſed through the midriffe,thoſe which are diſtributed amongſt the naturall parts fol: low the turnings of the veins and arteries, but ſpecially of the arteries. wherefore if you have a mind to follow this diſtribution of the nerves, you muſt chiefly look for it in thoſe places, in which the artery is diſtributed amongſt the guts above the loins. theſe nerves are but ſmall, becauſe the parts ſerving for nutrition, needed none but lit- tle nerves,for the performance of the third duty of the nerves, which is in the diſcerning & knowing of what is troubleſome to them. for unleſſe they had this ſenſe, there is nothing would hinder, but theſe bowels neceſſary for life being poſſeſſed with ſome hurtfull thing, the creature ſhould preſently fall down dead; but we have this benefit by this ſenſe, that as ſoon as anything troubles and vellicates the bowels, we being admoniſhed thereof may look for help in time. and beſides if they were deſtitute of this ſenſe,they might be #. , ulcerated and pu- trefied by the raging acrimony of the excrements * into and ſtaying in them;but now (by means hereof) as ſoon as they find themſelves pricked, or pluckt, preſently by the ex- ulfive faculty they endeavour to expell that which is troubleſome, and ſo free themſelves of preſent and futuredangers. º chap. xxiiii. - the manner of tiling out the guts. r gº?heathe guts are to be taken out youmuſt begin with the right cut. andyou }\%muſt divide it,being firſt ſtraitly tyca in two different places, at a juſt diſtance a- ($ %bout four fingers from the end, with a ſharp knife between the two ligatures. nº. then you muſt ſhew its proper coats,and fibers,and that common one which it hath from the peritoneum. this being done, you muſt in like manner bind the trunk of the gate veine asncer the originallas you can;that ſo all his branches being in like manner ty- cd there may be no feare of effuſion of blood:you muſt doe the like with the coeliack ar- tery at the left kidney,and in the lower meſenterick, which deſcends to the right gut with the hamorrhoidall veins.this beingdone, pull away the guts cycn to the tuodenum, which being in like mannertyed in two places, which ought to be below the inſertion of the porus cholagogus or paſſage of the gall,that you may ſhew the oblique inſertion thereof into that gut,for the obliquity of its inſertion is worth obſervation, as that which is the cauſe that the gall cannot flow back into its bladder, by the compreſſion of thisgut from below upwards.then all theſe windings of the guts may be taken away from the body. chap. xxv. the original and diſtribution of the deſcendent hollow veine. - §§§secauſe the reſt of the naturall parts, do almoſt all depend upon the deſcendent s \º § hollow vein,thereforebefore we goe any further, we will ſhºw its originall and - § diſtribution.we ſaid before that all veins proceeded from the liver, but yet in s. divers places. for the gate vein goes out of the hollow part, and the hollow vein out of the gibbous part of the liver, which going forth like the body of, srce,is divided into two great branches,the fº of which goes to the vital & animal parts, and º wa. º iliace; the originall of the nerves which are car- ryed to the na, turall parts. their magni. tude and uſe. - the original; of the hollow. veins, it is divided into two trunks: - - - of the anatomy liaº. the diviſion of the greater and the extremetics oftheſe parts, as we ſhall ſhew in their place. the greater deſcriding from the back part of the liver above the vertebra’s of the ſoins to the parts beneath, goes in the manner following.the firſt diviſion thereof is to the membranes of thereins, which **.* come from the peritoneum.wherefore there it produces the vene adipoſe, or fatty veins, ſo cal- hollow vein, i • adipºſa. . emulgent. -, spermatica. tumºu, nicºid are divided into, i. muſculoſae. . $acre. __ : hypogaſtrica, which produce the haemor- rhoidalesex. (craz, traffin. led, becauſe they bring forth a great quantity of fat in thoſe places; of theſe fatty veins, there is a diverſe originall,for the right doth oftentimes ariſe from the right emulgent, be- cauſe it is higher; but the leſs comes from the very trunck of the hollow vein be- cauſe the emulgent on that ſide is lower, and you ſhall ſcarſe ſce it happen other- wiſe. the ſecond being the kidney or emulgentveins, go to the reins, which at their en- trance, or a little before, is divided into two branches, like as the artery is,the one higher, the other lower, and theſe again into many other through the ſubſtance of the kidneys,as you may learn better by ocular inſpºtion, than by book. they are thick and broad that the ſerous humor may without impediment have freer paſſage. their originall is different, for the right emulgent oftentimes comes forth of the hollow vein ſomewhat higher than the left; that ſeeing their office and duty is to purge the maſs of blood from the cho- lerick and ferous humor, that if any part thereof ſlide by the one, it may not ſo ſcape, but fall as it were into the other. which certainly would not have happened if they had been placed the one juſt oppoſite to the other. for the ſcrous or wheyilh humor would have ſtayed as equally, ballanced or poiſed, by reaſon of the contrariety of the aëti- on and traćtion, or drawing thereof. bnt we muſt reincºmber that in diſcòting of bodies, i have oft-times found in ſuch as have been troubled with the ſtone, ſeven enûlgent veins and ſo many arteries ; four from the left ſide conting from divers places, of which the laſt came from the iliack; three from the right hand likewiſe in divers places. the third diviſion is called the spermatick or ſeed vein, it goes to the teſticles; the ori- ginall thereof is thus,that the right ariſes on the forepart of the trunck of the hollow vein; but the left moſt commonly from the emulgent. beſides you ſhall ſometimes find that theſe have companions with them,to the right emulgent;but to the left,another from the hollow vein,in ſome but on one ſide,in others on both. but alſo i have ſometimes obſcryed the left emulgent to proceed from the ſpermatick or fººdyein. the fourth bec, uſe it goes to the loins is called lumbaris; which in his originall and in- fertion is wholly like the artery of the loins. but there are lambares or loin-veins on each fide,that is, one in each of the ſpaces of the vertebra’s of thcloins. the fift diviſion makes the iliace, untill paſſing through the peritoneum, they use the names of crurall veins; theſe are firſt divided into the muſculous, ſo called, becauſe they goe to the oblique aſcendent and tranſverſe muſcles, and to the peritoneum. sometimes they have their originall from the end of the trunk; and then the ſame iliace, are divi- ded into the sacre, or holy; which goe to the ſpinall marrow of the holy-bone, through thoſe holes, by which the nerves generated of this marrow,have their paſſage. thirdly, the iliaceare divided into the hypºgaſtrice,ſo called, becauſe they were diſtribu- ted to all the parts of the hypogaſtrium, or lower part of the lower belly,as to the right gut, the muſcles thereof, the muſculous skin,(in which place they often make the externall hae- morrhoidall, ordained for the purging of ſuch blood as offends in quantity, as thoſe o- ther, [that is, the inward hºmorrhoidal]] which deſcends to the right gut from the gatº-vein by the ſpleenick branch, ſerves for cleanſing of that which offends in quality,)to the bladder and the neck thereof, even to the end of the yard, to the womb and even to the neck of the wombe and utmoſt parts of the privities, from whence it is likely the courſes break forth in woemen with child and virgins. but this ſame vein alſo ſends a portion alſo without the epigaſtrium by that perforation which is common to the ſhare and haunch bones, which ſtrengthened by meeting of the other internall crurall vein deſcends even to the ham, but in the mean time by the way it is communicated to the muſcles of the thigh called obturatores and other parts within. fourthly, the iliace pro- duce the frigaſtric, which on both ſides from below aſcend according to the length of the right muſcles, ſpreading alſo by the way ſome branches to the oblique and tranſverſe mu- #. and alſo to the peritoneum. fiftly, theſe produce iliate the pudende or veins of the pri- wities, becauſe they go in women to their privities,and into men to the cods, where they enter that fleſhy coat filled with veins,and go to the skin of the yard, they take their beginning under the hypºgaſtrice. chap. lib. . - -- tjwtºº." -- - ^ chap, xxv i. - of the kidneys or reins. #qw follºw the kidneys,which that they maybe more eaſily ſeen, (after that you nº have diligently obſerved their ſituation) you ſhall diſpoil of their fat,if they have § any about them,as alſo of themembrané they have from the peritoneum.firſt, you - fall they all their conditions, beginning at their ſubſtance. the ſubſtance of the kidneys is fleſhy, denſe and ſolid, left they ſhould be hurt by the ſharpneſs of the urine. their magnitude is large enough, as you may ſee. their figure is fomewhat long and round almoſt reſenbling a ſemicircle, and they are lightly flatted a- bove and below. they are partly hollow and partly gibbous; the hollow lies next the hollow vein, and on this fid: they receive the emulgent veins and arteries, and ſend forth the hººters their gibbous partlitstowards theiði. they are compoſed of a coat coming from the peritoneum, their own peculiar fleſh, with the effuſion of blood about the proper wºffºls, (ashappens alſo in other entrails) generates a ſmall nerve, which ſpringing from *coſtall of the ſixtconjugation is difféſàro ºh kidney on his ſide into the coat of the kidney itſelf, although others think it alwayes accompanies the vein and artery. * the ninth and tenth figure ºfthe veſſels feed and urine. -- ----- the foreſide,the ſecond the hinder-ſide. . . . i.the forepart of the # right kidney. # b. b. b. . the back part of the left kidney. e. i. the outſide. d; d. , . the inner-ſide. e. e. , . the two cavities whereinto the emulgen veſſels are inſerted. - f f. , . the trunk of the hollow vein. g.g. , . the trunk of the great artery. b. i. . the cmulgent vein and artery. kk , . the right fatty wcln. l. . the left fatty vein. *. . the coeliacall artery. m. n. , . the ureters. v. p. : . the right ſper- matick veine which ari- ſeth neerſ.theleſt neer q. r. i. the place where the arteries of the ſeed ariſe. ſ: , . small branches di- maticall veins to the peri- * * *, *. the ſpiry varicous body, called waricoſum waſ pyrimidale, u. , . the pºrºſłats, or, epididymir. x. . the teſtičić yet covered with its coat. y. , . the place where the leading veſſelſ called via deferenſ, doth ariſe. , , . the deſcent of the * leading veſſell. § , . the revolutiºn of hºan. lºading veſſell. , , . the paſſage of the ſame veſſelſ reflected like a recurrent nerve. ” . the meeting of the ºne lºading veſſels. , , . the bladder of uring, the firſt figureſheweth it ºpen,the ºn; ſheweth the back parts. & i. the finiſłajj opened.n,n, .the glandules called glandulº †: . . the sphinéter muſcle of the bladder.iii. .the 'wobodies which make theſúbſtance of the yard, ºr, . the veſſels which go unto theyard and neck of the bladder. a. the paſſage which is common to the urine and *tutop-n + . theimplantation of hºurt.j * fallºpius that moſt diligent author ofanatomy hath obſerved, that this nerve is not *y oftentimes divaricated into the coatofth. kidneys, but alſo pierces into their : the firſt figure ſheweth their ſub- ſtance, magnitude: figure. compoſition, º ſtributed from the ſper- of the anatomi, l i b. . number. site. connexion. temper. aćuon. their ſtraincr. their ſub- flance. quantity. figure and compoſure, - rumber. $ité: .. their ſub, ſtance. magnitude and figure, compoſition; . £hé coat erithrorhi ſtance. they are two in number,that if the one of them ſhould by chance be hurt,the other might ſupply thoſe neceſſities of nature for which the kidneys are made. they lye upon the loyns at the ſides of the great veſſels,on which they depend by their proper veins and arte- rics;and they ſtick to them, as it were by a certain ſecond coat, left that they might be ſha- ken by any violent motions.wherefore we may ſay that the kidneys have two coats, one proper adhering to their ſubſtance, the otheras it were coming from the peritoneum on that part they ſtick to it. the right kidney is almoſt alwayes the higher for thoſe reaſons i gave, ſpeaking of the originall of the emulgent veſſels. columbus ſeems to thinke the con- trary, but ſuch like controverſics may be quickly decided by the eye.they have connexion with the principall veſſels by the veins,nerves and arteries, by the coats with the loins & the other parts of the lower belly,but eſpecally with the bladder by the ureters. they are of a hot and moiſt temper as all fleſhy parts are. their ačtion is to cleanſe the maffe of the blood from the greater part of the ſerous and cholerick humor. i ſaid the greater part, be-. cauſe it is necdfull that ſome portion thereofſhould go with the alimentary blood to the ſolid parts,to ſerve in ſtead ofa vehicle, leſt otherwiſe it ſhould be too thick. beſides you muſt note that in each kidney there is a cavity bounded by a certain mem- brane, incompaſſed by the diviſion of the emulgent veins and arteries, through which the urine is ſtrained partly by the expulſive faculty of the kidneys, partly by the attraćtive of the ureters,which run through the ſubſtance of the kidneys, on the hollow ſide, no other- wiſe than the porus cholagogus through the body of the liver. n – chap. xxvii. - cf the permatick veffºls. ºow weſhould have ſpoken of the ureters, becauſe as we ſaid before, they are paſ- & ſº ſages derived from the kidneys to carry the urine to the bladder.but becauſe § they cannot be diſtinguiſhed and ſhewed unleſſe by the corrupting and vitiating the ſite of the ſpermatick veſſels; therefore i have thought it better to paſs to the explication of all the ſpermatick parts. . . - - and firſt of all you muſt gently ſeparate them, (that ſo the declaration of them may be more eaſie and manifeſt) and that from the coat which conics from the peritanæum, and the fat which inveſts them even to the ſhare-bone,having diligently conſidered their ſite before you ſeparate them.then you ſhall teach that the ſubſtance of theſe veſſels, is like to that of the veins and arteries. their quantity is ſmall in thicknes, but of an indifferent length by reaſon of the diſtance of their originall from the teſticles. they are longer in men than in women,becauſe theſe have their teſticles hanging without their belly, but women have them lying hid within their belly. their figure and compoſure is wholly like the figure and compoſition of the veines and arteries, except in this one thing, that from that place where they goc forth of the great capacity of the peritoneum, they are turned into many in- tricate windings, like crooked ſwoln veins, even to the teſticles. that the ſpermatick matter in that one tračt,which yet is no other than blood, may be prepared to concoëtion, or rather be turned into ſeed in theſe veſſels,by the irradiation of the faculty of the toſti- cles.theſe veſſels are ſix in number, foure º: two ejaculatory.of which we will ſpeak hereafter.therefore on each ſide there be two preparing veſſels,that is, a vein and an artery,ariſing as we told you when we ſpoke of the diſtribution of the hallow vein. they are inſerted into the teſticles through that coate which ſome call fpididymis, others dar- ton.their ſite is oblique above the loins & flanks,whileſt they run downe between the ends of the ſhare and haunch bone,they are knit to the parts lying under them, both by certaine fibers which they ſend from them, as alſo º the membrane they have from the peritoneum. they have like temperature as the veines and arterics have. their ačtion is to carry blood to the teſticles,for generating of ſced. chap. xxviii. of the teſticles, or stones. ºhe teſticles are of a glandulous, white, ſoft and looſe ſubſtance, that ſo they tº may the more eaſily receive the ſpermatick matter:their magnitude and figure & equall,and reſemble a ſmall pullets egge ſomewhat flatted; their compoſure is § of veins,arteries,coats and their proper fleſh. their veins, and artºrics proceed - from theſpermatick veſſels,their nerves from the fixt conjugation,by the roots of the ribs and out of the holybone. they are wrapped in foure coats, two whereof are common and two proper. the common are the scrotum or skin of the qods, proceeding from the true skin and the fleſhy coat, which confiſts of the fleſhy pannicle in that place re- ceiving a greatnumber of veſſels,through which occaſion it is ſo called. the proper coats are firſ; the erythrori, ariſing from the proceſs of the peritoneum, going into the scrotum i. gether lis. . of mans body. - sº with theſ ermatick veſſels which it involves and covers; this appears red both by reaſon of the veſſels as alſo of the cremaſter muſcles of the teſticles; then the epididymir or darto; which takes its originall of the membrane of the ſpermatick preparing veſſels.the fleſh of the teſticles is as it were a certaine effuſion of matter about the veſſels, as we ſaid of other entrails. but you muſt obſerve that the erythrois encompaſſes the whole ſtone, except its head,in which placeitſlicks to the epididymi,which is continued through the whºleſ. ſtance of the teſticle. this epididymi, or dartos was therefore put about the ſtones, becauſe the teſticles of themſelves, are logſ, ſpongious, cavernousand ſoft, ſo that they cannot ſafe. ly be joined to the ſpermatick veſſels,which are hard and ſtrong. wherefore nature that it might join extreams by a fit medium or means formed this coat epididymis.this is ſcarce ap- parent in women by reaſon of its ſmalneſſe. the two forementioned common coats, adhere or ſtick together by their veſſels not only amongſt themſelves,but alſo with the erythrois. you muſt beſides obſerve the cremaſter muſcles are of the ſaid ſubſtance with other muſcles, ſmall and thin,ofan oblique and broad figure,ariſing from the membrane of the peritoneum, which (as we ſaid before ) aſſumes fleſh from the flanks. their compoſition is like that of other muſcles.they are two, n each ſide one.they are ſituate from the ends of the flanks.even to the ſtones. they have connexion with the proceſs of the peritoneum and teſticles.their temper is like that ofother muſcles. theiraćtion is to hang and draw up the teſticles towards the bel. ly,whence they are called hanging muſcles.the teſticles are moſt commonly two in humber; on each fide one;ſometimes there bethree ſometimes one alone, as it happens alſo in the kid: nies;for ſome have but one kidney.they lie hid in the scrotum at the very roots of the ſhare- bone, connexed to the principallparts of their veſſels,with the neck of the bladder and yard; but by their coats they adhere to the parts from whence they have them.they are of a 'cold the epididy. minor dartos i .* - the cremañer muſcles, and moiſt temper.becauſe they are glandulous;although they maybe hot by accident, by rea- tempeſ, ſon of the multitude of the veſſels flowing thither.thoſe whoſe teſticles are more hºt are prompt to venery,and have their privities and the adjacent parts very hairy, and beſides their teſticles are very large and compatt. thoſe on the contrary that have them coldare ſlow to venery, neither do they beget many children, and thoſe they get are rather female than male, their privities have little hair upon them,and their teſticles are ſmall;ſoft and flat. theation of the teſticles is to generate ſeed, to corroborate all the parts of the body, and &ion, by a certain manly irradiation to breed or encreaſe a true maſculine courage. this you may knowby eunuchs or ſuch as are gelt, who are of a womaniſh nature, and are oftentimes more tender and weak than women. as hippocrates teaches, by example of the scythian, lib.de aere, loci, aqui. - - cha p.xxix. ofthe varicous bodies or paraſtat's, and of the jealin, veſſelſ, and the glandulouſ or proſtates, - -ºš he varicous paraſtate are hervous and white bodies, like as the nerves wound and º cloſe woven amongſt themſelves, they are ſtretched even from the top to the bot- sº tom of the teſticles,from whence preſently by their departure they produce the vaſa "...ejaculatºria, or leading veſſels. but unleſs we doeyery well diſtinguiſh their names, they ſhall ſcarce ſhun confuſion.for that which i call paraſtate;that is, as it were the head f the teſticle, being as it were like another ſtone, is called epididymi, by galen.lib. . de ſemine. but i by the example and authority of many anatomiſts, underſtand by the epididymi, the proper coat of the teſticles,of which thing i thought good by the way to admoniſh you of. their a&ion is by their crooked paſſages to hinder the ſeed from departing out of the pre- paring into the leading, veilels before it ſhall bee moſt perfeótly laboured and concoëted in theſe veſſels by the power and force of the teſticles. for in the firſt win- dings, the blood lookes pure;but in the laſt it is not ſo red,but ſomewhat whitiſh for nature commonly doth thus delay the matter in its paſſage eitherby ſtraitneſs, or obliquity,which it deſires to make more perfeótandelaborate by any new concoëtion;this we may learn by the foldings of the kete mirabile, the windings of the guts, the wrinkles in the bottome of the ſtomach, the ſtraitneſſe of the pyloruſ, the capillary veinsdiſperſed through the body of the liver, certainly nature hath intended ſome ſuch thing in the making of the ſpermatick veſ- ſels. their quantity is viſible, and figure round, tending ſomewhat to ſharpneſſe. they are compoſed of veins, nerves, and arteries, which they enjoy from the veſſels of the teſticles, from the epididymis, or the coat, from the peritoneum and their proper ſub- ſtance. their temper is cold and dry. they bee two in number, one to each tºº. bºt. theſe various bºdies, are called peºffate , aſiſters, becauſe they firficiaſ, aſſiſt, and arc knitto the teſticles according to their length, or long wayes. ont. of the paraſtate proceed the vaſa ejaculatoria, or leading veſſels, being of the ſame ſubſtance astheir progenitors; that is,ſolid, white and as it were nervous. their quantity. is indifferent, their figure round, and hollow, that the ſeed may have a free paſſage through them, yet they ſeem not to bee perforated by any manifeſt paſſage , - unleſs - their ſubs ſtance. here theat. thor ſpeaks otherwiſe then galeh, ağion. their quantiš figure, and compoſure. ... their temper and number. waſ ejaculates via,the ejacula: tory or leading veſſeltº . - ofthe anatomy • lisa. º - unleſs by chance in ſuch as have had a long gºmorrhº. they have like temper as the para- ates,between which and the proſtate; they are ſeated,immediately knit with them both; as both in the coat and the other veſſels with the parts from whence they take them. their number andačicn, . == but we muſt note,that ſuch like veſſels coming out of the paraſtates aſcend from the bot- tom of the ſtones even to the top, in which placemºting with the preparing veſſels, they riſe into the belly by the ſame paſſages, and bind themſelves together by nervous fibers,even to the inner capacity of the belly; from whence turning back, they forſake the preparing,that ſo they may run tº the bottom of the ſhare-bone, into the midſt of two glandulous bodics which they call proſtates ſituate at the neck of the bladder, that there meeting together they may grow into one paſſage. the tenth fºure, wherein thoſe things ſhewed in the former figure, are more exačily ſet forth. - fgure, ſe things ſt f f aa. a part |the midriffe and of the peritoneum with the ribs broken. bb,cc.the convex or gib- bous part of the liver marked with bb. the hollow or concavous part with cc. de, the right and left li- gaments of the liver. f. the trunk of the gate wc . g, the trunk of the hol- low vein. h, l, the fatty veins both left and right. i, the aſcent of the great artery of above the hol- low vein,and the diviſi- on thereof. ketheceliacal'artery. m, n, the emulgentiveſ. ſels. , pp, the fat tunicles or coats torn from both the kidneys. qq, the ureters that go unto the bladder. t, u, the right ſpermati- call vein which ariſeth - near to u. x, y, the double originall of the left ſpermaticall vein. x. from the emulgent:y, from the hol- low vein. a. the originall of the ſpermaticall arteries. , certain branches from the ſpermatick arteries which run unto the peritoneum. . the paſſage of the ſpermaticall veſſels through the produćtions of the peritoneum, which muſt be obſerved by ſuch as uſe to cut for the rupture. ſ. the ſpiry bodden bodies entrance into the teſticle, it is called corpus varicoſum pyramidale.e.the paraſtate. Č. the ſtone or teſticle covered with his inmoſt coat.n.the deſcent of the leading veſſell called vas deferent.wy,the bladder. *the right gut. . the glandules called proſtate into which the leading veſſels are in- ſºrted. p. the muſcle of the bladder.ºrv, twóbodies of the yard,” and t, and v, his veſ- ſels.ºx, the coat of the teſticle. ja, the muſcle of the teſticle j, hit veſſels a for thus of three paſſages, that is, of the leading veſſels, and paſſage ofthe bladder, there is one common,one in men for the caſting forth of ſeed and urine. a caruncle riſi like a creſt at the beginning of the neck ofthe bladder argues this uniting of the paſſages, which receiving this ſame paſſage which is ſufficiently large, is oft-times taken by ſuch as are ignorantin anatomy for an unnaturall caruncle, then eſpecially when it is ſwoln through any occaſion. theſe leading veſſels are two in number,on each ſide one.their ačti- on is to convey the ſecq made by the teſticles to the proſtats,& ſo to the neck of the bladder, ſo to be caſt forth at the common paſſage.but if any ask whether that common paſſage made by the two leading veſſelsbetween the two glandulous bodies be obvious to k. or no: we anſwer,it is not manifeſt,though reaſon compellus to confeſsthat that way is per- forated . reaſon of the ſpermatick, groſsandviſcousmatter carryed that way bitpºrad- venture the reaſon why that paſſage cannot be ſeen is becauſe in a dead carcaſs all ſmall paſſages aredoſed and hid the heat and ſpiritsbeing gone, and the great appear much leſs, by l rº. . of mans body. º by reaſon all the perforations fade, and fall into themſelves...yet certainly theſe paſſages muſt needs be very ſtrait,even in a living man, ſeeing that in a dead they will not admit the moint of a needle. wherefore we need not fear,leſt in ſearching, whilſt we thruſt the cathe- tº into the bladder,it penetrate into the common paſſage of the leading veſſels which runs within the caruncle, unleſs peradventure by ſome chance as a gomorrhºa, or ſome great phlegmon,it be much dilated beſides nature.for i have ſometimes ſeen ſuch paſſages ſo open, that they would receive the head of a spathern ; which thing ſhould admoniſh us, that in ſearchingwe take great care,that we do not raſhly hurt this caruncle,for being ſomewhat raſhly handled with a catheter it caſts forth blood, eſpecially if it be inflamed. but alſo the concºurſe of the ſpirits flowing with greatyiolence together with the fed, much helps for- wardſuch ejaculation thereof performed through theſe ſtrait paſſages by the power of the imaginative faculty in the aët of generation. . - - after the leading veſſels follow the proſtate,being glandulous bodies of the ſame ſubſtance and temper that other glandules are; their quantity is large enough their figure round,& fomewhat long,ſending forth on each ſide a ſoft production of an indifferent length.they are compoſed of veins.nerves, arteries, a coat ( which they have from the neighbouring parts)and laſtly their proper fleſh, which they have from their firſt conformation. they are two in number, ſituate at the root of the neck of the bladder, ſomewhat ſtraitly bound or tycé to the ſame,to the leading veſſels,and the parts annexed to them.but alwayes obſerve, that every part which enjoyes nouriſhment,life and ſenſe,either firſt or laſt hath connexion with the principall parts of the body, by the intercourſe of the veſſels which they receive from thence. - - - - - the uſe of the proſtates is, to receive in their properbody the ſced laboured in the teſti- cles,and to contain it there, untill it be troubleſome either in i. or quality,or both. beſides they contain a certain oily and viſcid humorin their g andulous body, that conti- nually diſilling into the paſſage of the urine.itºnay preſerve it from the acrimony & ſharp- neſs jº: we have obſerved alſo on each fide other glandules, which rondeletius calls aſpendice; glanduloſe,glandulous dependences to ariſ; from theſeproſtates,in which alſo there is ſeed reſerved. , - c. h.a. p. xxx. . . . . . • of the wreters. - \ &ow it ſeems fit to ſpeak of the wreters,bladder and parts belonging'to the bladder. §§therefore the ureters are of a †. white, denſe and ſolid ſubſtance, of an § indifferent bignes in length and thickncs.their figure is round and hollow.they are compoſed of two coats, one . conſiſting of right and tranſverſe fibers, which comes from the emulgent veins and arteries; the other common, from the peritane- um;beſides they have veins,nerves and arteries from the neighbouring parts. they be two in number,on each fide one; they are ſituate, between the kidneys (out of whoſe hollow part they proceed) and the bladder. but the manner how the lireters in- ſert or enter themſelves into the bladder,and the porus cholagogus into the duodenum,exceeds admiration;for the ureters are not direétly but obliquely implanted neer the orifice of the bladder,and penetrate into the inner ſpace thereof; for within they doe as it were divide themembrane or membranous coat of the body of the bladder,and infinuate themſelves in- to that, as though it were double. but this is opened at the entrance of the urine, but ſhut at other times,the cover as it were .# upon it,ſo that the humor which is faln into the capacity of the bladder cannot beforced or driven back, no not ſo much as the aire blown into it can come this way out,as we ſee in ſwines bladders blown up and filled with aire. for weſte it is the aire contained in theſe which fills them thus,meither can it be preſſed forth but with extraordinary force. - - - for as this skin or coat turned in by the force of the humor gives way,ſo it being preſ- fed out by the body contained within thruſts its whole body into the paſſage as a ſtopple; ike to this is the inſertion of the porus cholagogue into the guts. - the ureters have connexion with the above mentioned parts, with the muſcles of the loins;upon which they run from the kidneys to the bladder. wherefore nothing hinders,but that the ſtone ſliding through the ureters into the blad- der, may ſtupefic the thigh as much as it did when it was in the kidney. they are of a cold and dry temper. - - their uſe is,to ſerve as paſſages,or channels for carrying the urine into the bladder. -- c. h. a.p. xxxi. - of the bladder. \ §he bladder is of the ſame ſubſtance that the ureters, that is,nervous,that ſo it may rº"w . be the more eaſily dilated. # it is of a large proportion, in ſome bigger, in ſome leſſe, according to the dif- * - - --- tº ference of age, and habit, of body. it is of a round figure and as it were this carun- cle muſt be ob: ſerved and dis ſtinguiſhed froma hyper. farcoſis or fleſhy excres ſcence. ” the proffate. their quantity and figure. numberana ſite. n anatomi. call axiome, their uſes; &ohd in me: thod.med.ad morbor. the ſubſtance, magnitude, figure and compoſure of the ureters. number ind ſite. - connexiori; temper and Ç, the ſubſtance: figufe. …, pyramidall, - |t ofthe anatomy - linz. com poſition. --- temper,uſe or ačtion. their sphin- àer of the bladder, - - - - * it is compoſed of the two coats,one proper; which is very thick and ſtrong, compoſed of the three ſorts of fibers,that is in the inner ſide of the direét; without of the tranſverſe;and in the midſt of the oblique. the other common coat coming from the peritoneum hath ycins and arterks on each ſide one, from the hypogaſtrick veſſels above the holy-bone, alſo it hath nerves on each ſide from the fixt conjugation mixt with the nerves of the holy-bone. for theſe nerves deſcend from the brain even to the end of the holy-bone. it is but one and that ſituate in men in the lower belly upon the right gut and below the ſhare-bone,but in women between the womb and that bone, to which it cleaves with its membranous ligaments,as it doth to the yard by its neck,and to the right gut by its coni- mon coat and proper veſſels. it is of a cold and dry temper. the uſe and ačtion thereotis by the fibers continually to draw the urine, and contain it as long as need requires,and then to expell it by the neck partly by compreſſion either of it ſelf, or rathcrto the muſcles of the epigaſtrium and midriffe,becauſe this motion, ſeeing it is voluntary cannot be performed unleſs by a muſcle which the bladder wants; partly by the dilatation and relaxation of the sphinéter muſcle compoſed of tranſverſé fibers, like the ſphinéter of the fundament, after the ſame manner to ſhut up the orifice of the bladder,that the urine flow not out againſt our will. but the bladder as it fils is dilated, but as it is emptycd.it is contraćted like a purſe. you may eaſily obſerve this muſcle in sows bladder, it is ſtretched from the orifice of the bladder and beginning of the urinary paſſage even to the privities even in women;but in men it is terminated in the peritoneum as ſoon as it hath left the right gut. beſides,this muſcle is thus far ſtretched forth, that the urine by its compreſſion ſhould be wholly_preſſed out of the bladder, which by too long ſtay would by itsacrimony do ſome harm.this is the common opinion of anatºmiſts.com: £erning the sphinéter of the bladder,which nevertheleſs fallºpius allows not of for (ſaith he) if this muſcle ſhould be ſituate beneath the glandulous bodies, the ſeed in copulation could never be caſt forth without ſome ſmall quantity of urine. wherefore he thinks that this muſcle is fituate above the proſtats,and that it is nothing elſe but the beginning of the neck of the bladders which becomes more fleſhy whilſt it is woven with tranſverº fibers. the eleventh figure of the bladder and yard. ab, , , , , , , ,the two bodies which make the yard. cc, , , the place where theſe two bodies do firſt ariſe. d, , , , , , , , the nut of the yard called glams penir. ee, , , the fungous and red ſubſtance of the bo- dies of the yard. f, , , the mutuall con- nexion of the bodies of the yard,and the nervous outward ſubſtance of the ſame, compaſſing round about the former fun- gous ſubſtance. g- , , , , , , , the paſ- ſage of the lirine, or common pipe running under the yard all along his length. h, , , , the firſt pair of muſcles of the yard, which in the firſt figure do yet grow to it, but in the ſecond they hang from their originall. - k.l, , ,the ſecond pair of muſcles of the yard,in the firſt figure growing,in the ſecond hanging from their inſer- tion. m, , ,the sphinéter of the right gut.n, , , , ,the round ſphinéter muſcle of the bladder. oo, a membrane, which is over the holes of the ſhare-bone.p. ,around liga- ment from the meeting of the ſhare-bones on the head of the thigh. q$ , the body of the bladder. rr, , the proſtate, which into ſeed when it is perfeótly ſaboured, isfed. s$ , .portions of the ureters.tt* , portions of the veſſels,which lead down the ſced. vv, , -the umbilicall arteries. x, , , the ligament of the bladdercald vrachu. y, , the navilorumbilicus. z, , ,the umbilicall vein.aa, ,the vein and artery of the yard.b, . the artery diſtributed through the body of the yard. for lib. . of manºody. . t-- for the neck of the bladder it differs nothing in ſubſtance,compoſure, number, and tem- er from the bladder,but only in quantity which is neither ſo large, nor round in figure, É. ſomewhat long together with the yard repreſenting the ſhape of the letter s. it is pla: cedin men at the end of the right gut and perineum, riſing upwards even to the roots of the yard,and with it bending itſelf downwards; in women it is ſhort,broad,and ſtreight, en- àing at the orifice of the neck of the womb between the nervous bodies of the nymphe. ' in men it hath connexion with the bladder, the ejaculatory veſſels, the right gut and ard,but in women only with the neck of the wombe and privities. the uſe of it is in men to caſt forth ſeed and urine, in women only urine. but we muſt note that the ſhare bones muſt be divided and pulled aſunder,in that part where they are joyned,that ſo §." may the more exačtly obſerve the fituation of theſe parts. beſides you muſt note that y the peri- nºm we underſtand nothing elſe, in men and women; then that ſpace which is from the fundament to the privities,in which the ſeam is called taurus. nicle, but the veins and arteries from theſe of the lower part of the lower belly which run on the lower part of the holy-bone into the yard, as the ſeminary veſſels run on the up- dart. pe #. ligaments ofthe yard proceed on both ſides from the fides and lower commiſſure of the ſhare-bones; wherefore the yard is immediately at his root furniſhed with a double ligament, but theſe two .# run into one º one. the paſſage of the urine fitu- are in the lower part of the yard comes from the neck of the bladder between the two li- annents. - g for the four muſcles, the two ſide ones compoſing or . a.. part of the yard, proceed from the inward extuberancy of the hip-bone, and preſently they are dilated from their originall; and then grow leſs again. the two other lower ariſe from the muſcles of the fundament and accompany theurinary paſſage the length of the perineum untill they enter the yard; but theſe two muſcles cleave ſo cloſe together,that they may ſtem one ha- ving a triangular form. -- f - the ačtion of theſe four muſcles in the aâ of generation is, they open and dilate this common paſſage of urine and ſeed, that the ſeedmay be forcibly or violently caſt into the field of nature; and beſides they then keep the yard ſo ſtiffe, that it cannot § to either fide. - ... * * ſ' - - the yard is in number one, and ſituate upon the lower parts of the ſhare-bone, that it might be more ſtiffe in ere&ion. it hath connexion with the ſhare-bone and neighbouring parts; by the particles of which it is compoſed. it is of a cold and dry temper. theaëtion of it is to caſt the ſeed into the womb, for preſervation of mankind. the head of itbegins where the tendonsend, this head from the figure thereof is called glans and balanus, that is, the nut, and the skin which covers that head is called preputium, that is, the foreskin. the fleſhof this glandule is of amiddle nature between the glandulous fleſh and true skin. but you muſt note that the ligaments of the yard are #. contrary to the condition of others, and filled with groſs and black blood. butal º:ſtirred up by theº: of defired pleaſure, and provoked with a venereall fire, ſwell up andercè the yard. - --- - - --- - chap. xxx iii. of the ſpermatick veſſels and teſticles in women. . . . . . . ow we ſhould treat of the privy parts in women,but becauſe they depend up- § on the neck and proper body of the womb, we will firſt ſpeak of the . s having firſt declared what difference there is between the ſpermatick veſſels and teſticles of men and women. wherefore wenuſt know that the ſperma- tick veſſels in women do nothing differ from thoſe in men in ſubſtance, fi- gure, compoſure, number, connexion, temper, originall and uſe ; but only in magnitude the neck of - rhe bladder. the connexi- on and uſe thereof. chap. xxx ii. - - of the tard. - - s r&owfollows the declaration of the privy parts of men and women,and firſt we will the fishing, |nº||$ treat of mens.the yard is of aligamentous ſubſtance,becauſe it hath its originall quantity and § from bones, it is of an indifferent magnitude in all dimenſions,yet in ſomebig- º: of the ger, in ſomeleſs; the figure of it is round,but yet ſomewhat flatted above and be- * neath. - it is compoſed of a double coat, nerves, veins, arteries, two ligaments,the É. of the compoſue; urine,and four muſcles.it hath its coats both from the true skin,as alſo from the fleſhy pan- the ligaments: the muſcles their aðion; the nut: . the preputi: unior fore; skin. in what the ſpermatick veſſels in wo, men differ and diſtribution,for women have them more large *: ſhort, - y - , - - - - the men, . . . . ." . from thoſe in º ofthe anatomy - lisa. .* why womans ſpermatick veſ- ſels they are larger, but fhorter then pººns, a. the bottome of the womb laid open with. out any membrane. bb the neck of the womb turned upward. cd, a part of the bottom of the womb like the nut of the yard, ſwel- of the neck of the womb, in the middle whereof the orifice ap- peareth. ee. a membrane knitti the womb to the perito. neum, & holding toge- ther the veſſels thereof. f. the left teſticle. g, the ſpermaticall vein and artery. hapart of the ſpermati- call veſſels reachi womb. :* to the teſticles * a veſſell leading the ſeed unto the womb. k. the coat of the teſticle with the implication of the veſſels. l. the cavity of the bladder opened. m. the inſerti- w - rºsiº on of the ureters into - wº the bladder.n.the lire- ters cut from the kidnies.o.the inſertion of the neck of the bladder into the lap or privity. the ſecond figure. - aa.the ſpermaticall vein and artery. bb. branches diſtributed to the peritoneum from the ſpermatical veſſels.c.the bottom of the womb.d.theneck of the womb. e. certain veſſels run- ning through the inſide of the womb,and the neck thereof. ff.veſſels †: the bottom ... womb produced from the ſpermaticall veſſel. gg, the leading veſſell of the ſeed called tuba,the trumpet.hhabranch of the ſpermaticall .# compaſſing the trumpet.ii.the teſti- cles.kk the lowerligaments of the womb, which ſome cal the cremaſters or hanging muſcles of the womb. l. the lap or privity into which the cremaſters do end. m. a portion of the neck of the bladder. • , the third figure. aa.the ſpermaticall veſſels, bb, a branch from theſe ſpermaticall veſſels to the bottom of the womb.cc, the body or bottom of the womb.d. the neck of the ſame. e. the neck of the bladder ending into the neck of the womb. ff. the teſticles.gg. the leading veſſels.common- #.º.º.º. veſſs, one of them determining into the horns at double kk. ii. the other branch ending in the neck, by which women with child avoid their ſeed. kk, the horns of the womb. - the fourth figure. ab.the boſome of the bottom of the womb,at whoſe ſides are the horns. cd.a line like a ſuture or ſeam, a little diſtinguiſhing that boſome. ee.the ſubſtance of the bottom of the womb, or the thickneſs of his inner coat. f. a protuberation or ſwelling of the womb in the middle of the boſom. g. the orifice of the bottom of the womb. hh, the coat or ſecond cover of the bottom of the womb,coming from the peritoneum. iiii, a portion of the mem- branes which tie the womb. kk. the beginning of the neck of the womb.l. the neck of the bladder inſerted into theneck of the womb.m.the clitoriº in the top of the privity.n.the in- º of the privity where the hymen is placed.o. the hole or paſſage of the privity in the cleft.p. the skinny caruncle of the privity. it was fit they ſhould be more large, becauſe they ſhould not only convey the matter fit for generation of young and nouriſhment of the teſticles, but alſo ſufficient for the nou- riſhment of the womb . child; but ſhorter, becauſe they end at the teſticles and womb within the belly in women. where you muſt note that the preparing ſpermatick i. cis, ling intothe upper part - unto the bottom of the . i, one part ofthe veſſels ! lis. - of mans body. ſels, little before they come to the teſticles are divided into two unequall branches, of which the leſſer bended, after the ſame manner as we ſaid in men, goes into the head of the teſticle through which it ſends a ſlender branch into the coats of the teſticles for life and nouriſhment,and not only into the coats but alſo into leading veſſels.but the bigger branch deſcends on each ſide by the upperpart of the wombe between the proper coat and the com- mon,from the peritoneum where it is divided into divers branches. by this difference of the ſpermatick veſſels you may eaſily underſtand why women caſt forth leſs ſeed than men. for their teſticles,they differ little from mens but in ‘. ; for they are leſſer and in figure more hollow and flat,by reaſon of their defe&tive heat which could not elevate or lift them up to their juſt magnitude.their compoſure is more ſimple;for they want theſtrº- tum or cod, the fleſhy coat,and alſo according to the opinion of ſome the erythroides, but in place thereof they have another from the peritoneum which covers the proper coat, that is, the epididymi,or dartos. silvius writes that womens teſticles wants the erythroides; yet it is certain that beſides their peculiar coat dartos,they have another from the peritoneum,which is the erythroides,or as fallopius cals it the elythroides,that is as much as the vaginali, or ſhcatl. but i think that this hath ſprung from the uiſ-underſtanding that place in galen where he writes,that womens teſticles want the epididymir. for we muſt not underſtand that to be ſpoken of the coat,but of the varicous paraſtats (as i formerly ſaid). .. differ nothing in number,out in ſite; for in men they hang without the belly at the ſhare bone above the peritoneum;women have them lying hid in their belly, neer the bottome at the ſides of the wombe,but yet ſo as they ... not the body of the wombe. but theſe teſticles are tyed to the womb both by a coat from the peritoneum,as alſo by the leading veſſels deſcending to the horns of the wombe, but to the reſt of the body by the veſſels and the nerves ariſing from the º bone and coſtall nerves. they are of a colder temper than mans. the ejaculatory, or leading veſſels in women differ thus from illéns, they are large at the beginning, and of a veiny conſiſtence, r ſubſtance, ſo that you can ſcarce diſcern them from the coat peritoneum, then preſently they become nervous, and waxe ſo ſlender, that they may ſeem broken or torn, though it be not ſo ; but when they come nearer to the horns of the wombe, they are again dilated; in their other con- ditions, they agree with mºns, but that they are altogether more ſlender and ſhort. they have a round figure, but more intricate windings than mens; ibeleeve, that theſe windings might ſupply the defect of the varicous paraſtats. they are ſtated between the teſticles and wombe, for they proceed out of the head of the id: , then preſent- ly armed with a coat from the peritoneum,they are implanted into the wombe by its horns. c h a p. xxxiiii. of the wombe. hewombe is a partproper only to women.given by nature inſtead ofthe scro- tum,as the neck thereof,and the annexed parts in ſtead of the yard; ſo that if a- ny more i. confider the parts of generation in women and men, he ſhall find that they differ not much in number, but only in ſituation and uſe. for that which manhath apparent without,that women have hid within, both by the fingular prºvidence of nature,as alſo by the defeat of heatin women, which could not driveandthruſtforth thoſe parts,as in man.the womb is of a nervous and membranous ſub- ſtance,that it may be more eaſily dilated and contraćted,as need ſhall require. the magnitude thereof is divers, according to the diverſity of age, the uſe of venery,the flowing of their courſes, and the time of conception. the wombe is but ſmall in one of unripe i. not uſed venery,nor which is menſtrous; therefore the quantity cannot be rightly defined. the figure ºf the wombt is abſolutely like that of the bladder, if you confider it with- out the produćtions, which herºphilus called horns,by reaſon of the fimilitude they have with th:horns ºf oxen at their firſt coming forth, é conſiſts of ſimple and and parts. the fimple are the veins,arteries, nerves,and coats.the veinsandarieties ar. our in fumber twofºom the preparing ſpermatick veſſels,the two other aſcend thither frºm the hypogaſtrick, after this manner. firſt, thºſºſºlºbºfore they aſcendon each fide to the wombe, divide themſelves into twº blanchº, from which otherſome go to the lower part of the wombe otherſ mºto the neck ºwº, which the menſtrucus blood, if it abound from the conception, may be purged. - - - nºrves come onboth fides to the wombe,both from the fixt conjugation,deſcending by the length of the back bone, as alſo from the holy bone,which preſently united and joyn- ed togetheraſcend and are diſtributed through the wombe, like the veins and arteries. the utmoſt or common coat of the wº proceeds from the peritoneum, on that in what their teſticles differ from mens. lik . % ºft part. site. connexion. temper. . their ejacula- tory veſſels. why they have more inº tricate win- dings. their ſite. whereiñ the privy parts is womtm differ from thoſe in men. the ſubſtance and magnitude of the wombe, figure. the horns of the wombe. compoſure. the veins and arteries, part nerves. the coars. | - ioo of the anatomy l i b. . no cels in the wombe. the ſite. the temper and attion. the cotyle- dones. columbu juſt- ly reproved. the orifice of the wombe. the proper o- rifice of the wombe is not alwayes exačt- ly ſhut in wo. men with child. the neck of the wombe, its magnitude. compoſition. number and ſite. temper, partit touches the holy bone; but the proper it hath from the firſt conformation, which is compoſed of the three ſorts of fibers, of the º on the inſide of the attraćtion of both ſeeds;the tranſverſe without to expell, if occaſion be;the oblique in the midſt for the due re- tention thereof. - the wombe admits no diviſion, unleſs into the right and left ſide, by an obſcure line or ſeam, ſuch as we ſee in the ſcrotum,but ſcarce ſo manifeſt; neither muſt we after the manner of the ancients, imagine any other cels in the wombe. for by the law of nature,a woman at one birth can have no more than two. an argument hereof is, they have no more than two dugs. if any chance to bringforth more, it is beſides nature,and ſomewhat monſtrous, becauſe nature ſº made no proviſion of nouriſhment for them. nature hath placed the wombe at the bottome of the belly, becauſe that place ſeems moſt fit to receive ſeed,to carry and bring forth the young. it is placed between the bladder and right gut, and is bound to theſe parts much more ſtraitly § the neck, than by the body thereof; but alſo beſides it is tyed with two moſt ſtrong ligaments on the fides, and upper parts of the ſharebone,on which it ſeems to hang; but by its common coat from the perito- neum, chiefly thick in that place,it is tied to the hollow bone, and the bones of the hanch and loins. - by reaſon of this ſtrait connexion,a woman with child feeling the painfull drawingsback, and as it were convulſions of thoſe ligaments, knows her ſelf with child. it isofa cold and moiſt temper,ratherby accident, than of itſelf. the ačtion thereof is to contain both the feeds,and to cheriſh, preſerve, and nouriſh it,ſo contained,untill the time appointed by na- ture; and alſo beſides,to receive,and evacuate the menſtruous blood. the compound parts of the wombe are,the proper body and neck thereof. that body is extended in women big with child,even to the navell,in ſome higher,in ſome lower. in the inner ſide the cotyledones come into our conſideration, which are nothing elſe than the orifices and mouths of the veins, ending in that place. they ſcarce appear in women, unleſs preſently after child-bearing,or their º urgation; but they are apparent in ſheep, goats,and kine,at all times likewheat corns, ... when they are with young, for then they are of the bigneſs of haſell nuts: but then alſo they ſwell up in women, and are like a rude peece of fleſh of a finger and a half thick; which begirt all #. naturall parts of the infant i. up in the wombe; out of which reſpećt this ſhapeles fleſh, according to the opinion of ſome,is reckoned amongſt the number ofcoats inveſting the infant, and called chorion, becauſe,as in beaſts,the chorion is interwoven with veins, and arteries, whence the umbilicall veſſels proceed; ſo in women this fleſhy lump is woven with veins, and arteries, whence ſuch veſſels have their originall. which thing, º true and agreeable to reaſon it is, let other men judg. there is one thing whereof i would admoniſh thee,that as the growth of the cotyledones in beaſts are not called by the name of chorion, but are only ſaid to be the dependents there- of ſo in women ſuch ſwollen cotyledones merit not the name of chorion, but rather of the de- pendences thereof. § this body ends in a certainſtraitneſs which is met withall, in following it towards the privities,in women which have borfie no children, or have remained barren, ſome certain time; for in ſuch as are lately delivered,you can ſee ... a cavity and no ſtraitneſs at all. this ſtraitneſs we call the proper orifice of the wombe,which is moſt exaëtly ſhut af. ter conception, eſpecially untill the membrane, or coats incompaſſing the child be firniſh- ed,and ſtrong enough to contain the ſeed,that it flow not forth, nor be corrupted by en- trance of the air; for it is opened to ſend forth the ſeed,and in ſome the courſes and ſerous humors,which are heaped up in the wombe in the time of their being with child. from this orifice the .# of the wombe taking its originall,is extended even to the pri- vities. it is of a muſculous ſubſtance,compoſed of ſoft fleſh becauſe it might be extended and contraćted, wrinckled,and ſtretched forth,and unfolded,and wreſted,and ſhaken at the com- ing forth of the child,and after be reſtored to its former ſoundneſs and integrity.in proceſs of age it grows harder,both by uſe of venery,and alſo by reaſon of age,by which the whole body in all parts thereof becomes dry and hard. but in £ºf young women,it is more tračtable and flexible for the neceſſity of nature. the magnitude is ſufficiently large in all dimenſions, though divers, by reaſon of the infinite variety of bodies. the figure is long, round, and hollow. the compoſition is the ſame with the wombe, but it receives not ſo many veſſels as the wombe; for it hath none but thoſe which are ſent from the hypogaſtrick veins, by the branches aſcending to the wombe. this neck on the inſide is wrinckled with many creſts, like the upper §. of a dogs mouth, ſo in copulation to cauſe greater pleaſure by that inequality,and alſo ten the a&. - it is only one, and that ſituate between the neck of the bladder and the right gut, to which it cloſely ſticketh,as to the wombe by the proper orifice thereof, and to the privities by its own orifice; but by the veſſels to all the parts from whence they are ſent. it is of a cold and dry temper, and the way to admit the ſeed into the wombe, to ex- clude the infant out of the wombe,as alſo the menſtruall evacuation. but it is worth obſer- vation, to ſhor- l i b. . - ofsºſan body. ioi vation,that in all this paſſage there is no ſuch membrane found,as that they called hymen, which they feigned to be broken at the firſt coition. yet, notwithſtanding columbus, fallo- pius }. many other learned men of our time think otherwiſe,and ſay, that in vir- gins a little above the paſſage of the urine,may be found and ſeen ſuch a nervous membrane, placed overtwhart as it were in the middle way of this neck, and perforated for the paſſages of the courſes.but you may find this falſe by experience;it is likely the ancients fell into this error through this occaſion,becauſe that in ſome a good quantity of blood breaks forth of theſe places at the firſt copulation. - but it is more probable that this happens by the violent artrition ofcertain veſſels lying in the inward ſuperficies of the neck of the wombe, not being able to endure withoutbreak: ing ſo great extention as that nervous neck undergoes at the firſt coition. for a maid which is mariageable, and hath her genitall parts proportionable in quantity and bigneſs to a mans;ſhall find no ſuch effuſion of blood, as we ſhall thew more at large in our book of generation. - the thirteenth figure, ſhewing the parts of women different from theſe in men. a.b.c.d.the peritoneum refle&ed or turned backward, above and be- low. - e.f. the gibbous part of the livere, the cave or hollow part f. - g. the trunk of the gate-vein. h. the hollow vein. i. the great artery. - k, the roots of the calical artery. which accompanieth the gate. velil. l.m.the fatty vein going to the coat of the j going n.o. the fore-part of both the kid- neys. t.v. the emulgent veins and arte- ties. aa. the right ureter at the loweſt a, cut from a part which neer to b, ſticketh yet to the bladder, becauſe the bottome of the bladder is drawn to the left ſide. c. the left ureter inſerted into the º bladderneer to r. dd, the ſpermatick vein which goeth to the left teſticle marked with i. ee, the ſpermatickvein which goeth to the left teſticle with i,alſo. f. the trunk of the great artery from whence the ſpermatical arteries'do proceed gh.theſpermatical arteries. ii. the two teſticles. ll, a branch which from the ſpermatick veſſels reacheth unto the bottome of the wombe. mm. the leading veſſel of the ſeed which fallºpiuſ calleth the tuba or trumpet, becauſe it is crooked and refle&ed, n, a branch of the ſpermatick veſſel,compaſſing the lead- ing veſſel. . aveſſell like a worm which paſſeth to the wombe, ſome call it cremaſter. p.the bottome of the wombe called fundus uteri. .a part of the right gut. r. ſ.thebottome of the bladder whereto is inſerted the left ureter, and a vein led from the neck of the wombe neer untor. t. the neck of the bladder.u.the ſame inſerted into the privity or lap.x, apart of theneck of the wombe above the privity. yy. certain skinny caruncles of the privities, in the midſtof which is the ſlit,and on both fides appear little {i. - the figures belonging to the dug, and breafts. *the veins of the dugs which come from thoſe, which deſcending from the top of the ſhoulder, are offered to the skin. , the veins of the dugs derived from thoſe which through the arm-hole are led into the hand y, the body of the dug or breaſt. **, the kernels and fat between them. “ the veſſels of the dugs deſcending from the lower part of the neck cal- lediugulum, under the breaſt bone. - - k this no hymen, from whence the blood pro- ceeds that breaks forth in ſome virgins at the firſt coi- tion. io ſ of the anatomy lib. . alt. w/sfu; &tw. cleitori,ten- tºg. their ſub- ſtance, magni. tude, figure, and compo- ſure. the number. this neck ends at the privities,where its proper orifice is, which privy parts we muſt treat of, as being the produćtions and appendices of this neck. this pudendum, or privity, is of a middle ſubſtance,between the fleſh and a nerve - magnitude is ſufficiently large, the figure, round,hollow, long.it is compoſed of veins,arteries, nerves, deſcending to the neck of the wombe,and a double coat proceeding from the true skin and fleſhy pannicle; both theſe coats are firmly united by the fleſh coming between them ; whereupon it is ſaid, that this part conſiſts of a muſculous coat. it is one in number,ſituate above the peritoneum. it hath connexion with the fundament, the neck of the wombe and bladderby both their peculiar orifices. - it hath a middle temper,between hot,and cold, moiſtand dry. it hath the ſame uſe as a mans preputium or fore-skin,that is,that together with the nymphe it may hinder the en- trance of the air, by which the wombe may be in danger to take cold. the lips of the pri- vities called by the greeks "tºº", by the latines ale, contain all that region which is inveſted with hairs; and becauſe we have faln into mention of theſe nymphe,you muſt know that they are as it were produćtions of the muſculous skin, which ...?on both ſides, from the upper part of the ſhare-bone downwards; even to the orifice of the neck of the bladder, ofttimes growing to ſo great a bigneſs, that they will ſtand out likea mans yard. wherefore in ſome they muſt be cut off in their young years, yet with a great deal of caution, left if they be cut too raſhly, ſo great an effuſion of blood may follow,that it may cauſe, either death to the woman, or barreneſs of the wombe by reaſon of the refrigeration by the too great effuſion of blood. the latter anatomiſts, as columbus and fallºpius, beſides theſe parts, have made mention of another particle, which ſtands forth in the upper part of the privities, and alſo of the urinary paſſage, which joyns together thoſe wings we formerly mentioned. columbus cals it tentigo, fallºpiu, cleitoria,whence proceeds that in- famous word cleitorizein,(which ſignifies impudently to handle that part). but becauſe it #. º: part, let thoſe which defire to know more of it, read the authors willch i c ted. ~. c. h. a. p. xxxv. of the coats containing the infant in the wombe, and of the navell. |º aſpermatick and nervous ſubſtance,having their matter from the ſeed of the mo- ºlº ther. but they are nervous that ſo they may be the more eaſily extended, as it ** ſhal be neceſſary for the child.they are of good length and bredth,eſpecially near the time of deliverance, t º are round in figure like the wombe. - their compoſition is of veins,arteries and their proper ſubſtance.the veins,and arteries, are diſtributed to them (whether obſcurely or manifeſtly,more or fewer) from the wombe by thecotyledones,which have the ſame office,as long as the child is contained in the wombe, as the nipples or paps of the nurſes after it is born. for thus the wombe brings the cotyle- dones,or veins,degenerating into them through the coats like certain paps to the infant ſhut up in them. - - p}. coats are three in number according to galen; one called the chorion, secundine,or afterbirth; the other allantoides; the third amnios. i find this number of coats in beaſts,but not in women, unleſs peradventure any will reckon up in the number of the coats, the cotyledones ſwollen up,and grown into a fleſhy maſs, which many skilfull in anatomy, do write,which opinion notwithſtanding we cannot receive as true. i could never in any place find the allantoides in women with child, neither in the infantborn in the ſixth, ſeventh, eight, or in the full time, º: ninth month, although i have ſought it with all poſſi- ble diligence, the midwives being ſet apart, which might have violated ſome of the coats. but thus i went about this buſineſs, i divided the dead body of the mother croſwiſeupon the region of the wombe,and taking away all impediments which might either hinder,or obſcure our diligence, with as .# dexterity as was poſſible, we did not only draw away that receptacle or den of the infant, from the inward ſurface of the wombe, to which it ſtuck by the cotyledones, but we alſo took away the firſt membrane which we called chorion, from that which lies nextunder it,called amnios,without any rending or tearing;for thus we powred forth no moiſture, whereby it might be ſaid,that any coat made for the containing of that humor, was rent or torn.and then we diligently looked,having many witneſſes and º: preſent,if in any place there did appearany diſtinčtion of theſe two membranes, the allantoides and amnios,for the ſeparating the contained humors,and for other uſes which they mention. - but when we could perceive no ſuch thing, we took the amnios filled with moiſture on the upper fide, and having opened it, two ſervants ſo holding the apertion, that no moiſture mightflow out of it into the circumference of the chorion or wombe,then preſentl *- - - - w t $he membranes or coats containing the infant in the wombe of the mother, are of | lib. . . of mans body. with ſpunges we drew out by little and little all the humidity contained in it, the infant yet contained in it, which was fit to come forth,that ſo the coat amniot being freed of this moiſture, we might ſee whether there were any other humor contained in any other coat beſides. but having done this with fingular diligence and fidelity, we could ſee no other humor, nor no other ſeparation of the membrants beſides. - so that, from that time i have confidently held this opinion, that the infant in the womb, is only wrapped in two coats,the chorion and amnioſ. but yet not ſatisfied by this experience, that i might yet be more certain concerning this allantoides, having paſſed through the two former coats,l came to the infant, and i put a quil into its bladder, and blew it up as forcibly as i could, ſo to try, if by that blowing i might force the air into that coat which we queſtioned, as ſome have written. but neither thus could i drive any air from hence, through the navellinto the controverted coat, but rather i found it to fly out of the bladder by the privities. wherefore i am certainly perſwaded that there is no aſantoides. moreover i could never finde nor ſee in the navell that paſſage called the ura- chu, which they affirm to be the beginning and originall of the coat allantoides. but if it be granted,that there is no ſuch coat as the allantoideſ,vhat diſcommodity wil ariſe hereof: £e ſhews by, three ſeverall reaſons that there is no allantoides. ‘. ſeeing the ſweat and urine of the infant may eaſily, and without any diſcommo- it y be received, collected, and contained in the ſame coat by reaſon of the ſmall difference which is between them. but if any objećt, that the urine by its ſharpneſs and touching will hurt the infant: i will anſwer, there can be no ſo great ſharpneſs in the urine of ſo ſmall an infant; and that,if that therebe any,it is tempered by the admixture of the gentle vapor of ſweat. ---- beſides, if you conſider,or have regard to the uſe of ſuch an humor (which is to hold up the child, leſtby its weight it break the ties,by which it is bound to the womb) we ſhall finde no humor more fit for this purpoſe than this ſerous, as which by its thickneſs is much more fit to bear up a weight, than the thin and too liquid ſweat. for ſo we ſee the {ea or ſalt-water carries greater weights without danger of drowning than freſh rivers do. wherefore i conclude that there is no need, that the urine ſhould be kept and contai- ned in one coat, and the ſweat in another. the ancients who have writ otherwiſe, have written from obſervations made in beaſts. wherefore we make but only two coats, the chorion and amios ; the one of which ſeeing it contains the other,they both ſo encompaſs the child, that they veſt it on every ſide. - fallºpius in ſome ſort ſeems to be of this opinion; for he only makes two coats, the chorion and amnios ; but he thinks the infant makes the water into a certain part of the chorion, as you may perceive by reading of his obſervations. both theſe coats are tyed between themſelves by the intercourſe of moſt ſlender nervous fibers, and ſmall veſſels penetrating from the outer chorion to the inner amnios. wherefore unleſs you warily handle theſe coats, you may eaſily tear the amnios in ſeparating it. they are of the ſame temper with other membranes. their uſe is different, for the chorion is made both for the É. of the veſſels, which it receives from the womb for the generating of the umbilicall veins and arteries, as alſo to keep whole and ſafe the parts which it inveſts. but the amnios is to receive and contain the excrementitious and ſerous humors, which the childe ſhut up in the womb is accuſtomed to evacuate. but this coat is very thin and ſoft, but ſtrong and ſmooth, left by its touch it might hurt the infant, whereupon it is called the skin-coat. c h a p. xxxvi. of the navell, rhe navell follows theſe coats; it is a white body, ſomewhat reſembling the wreathen cord, or girdle of the franciſcan-friers, but that it hath not the knots ſtanding ſo far out, but only ſwelling in certain places, reſembling a * knot, only lifted up on one #. ; it ariſes and takes its originall from a fleſhy maſs, which weexpreſſed by the name of ſwelling cotyledones, and goes into the midſt of the lower belly of the infant, yeaverily into the midſt of the whole body, whoſe root it is therefore ſaid to be. for even as a tree by the root ſucks nouriſhment from the earth, ſo the infant in the womb draws its nouriſhment by the navell. the #. of it in breadth and thickneſs,equals the bigneſs of the littlefinger. but it is a oot and a half long,ſo that children are brought forth with it, encompaſſing their middle, neck, arms, or legs. the figure of it is round. it is compoſed of two arteries, one vein, and two coats. it hath theſe veſſels from that great multitude of capillary veins and arte- ries, which are ſeen diſperſed over the chorion. wherefore the vein entring in at the na- well, penetrates from thence into the hollow part of the liver, where divided into two, according to galens opinion, it makes the gate and hollow veins. but the arteries, ar. y - their teñret : and uſe. what the navellis. the navelſ is the eenter of the body. " - the ſignre and compoſure. £iº. &fºrmats - fetaw in were. io . ofthe anatomy l i b. . there is only one vein in a childs navell, bur no ura- chus, by themſelves the length of the navell, caſt themſelves into the iliate,which they make, as º: all other, that from thence the vitall ſpirit may be carried by them overall the infant. it hath its two coats from the chorion. - but ſeeing they are mutually woven and conjoined without any medium, and are of a ſufficient ſtrength and thickneſs over all the navell, they may ſeem to make the infants ex- ternall skin and fleſhy pannicle. i know very many reckon two limbilicall veins, as alſo arteries, and the urachu, by, or through which the urine flows into the coat allantoides. but becauſe this is not to be found in women, but only in beaſts, i willingly omit it, be- cauſe i do not intend to mention any parts, but ſuch as ; to humane bodies. yet if there beany, which can teach me, that theſe parts,which i think proper to brute beaſts, are to be found in women,i willingly confeſs,and that to his credit from whom i have reaped ſuch benefit. the other things that may be required concerning the navell, as of its number, fite, connexion,temper and uſe, may eaſily appearby that we have ſpoken before. for we have apparently ſet §. the uſe, when we ſaid, the navell was made for that purpoſe, that the infant may be nouriſhed by it,as the treeby the root, by reaſon of the continuation of the veſſels thereof, with the preparing ſpermatick veſſels made by god for that purpoſe, to whombe honor and glory for ever and ever, amen. the endof the third book. \ s - io; - nºvº -ness td uſ, in a undſ, a da qºlq d [. - - º º ftttttttttldliiillillieldiiillulºid ttttttutiili dud - the fourth book, treating of the oital parts contained in the chest. the pr e fa c e. sº aving finiſhed the firſt book of our anatomy, in explanation of the naturall parts contained in the lower belly, now order requires, § that we treat of the breſt; that ſo the parts in ſome ſort already § explained (i mean the veins and arteries) may be diſpatched after the ſame order and manner, without interpoſition of any other § matter. & and beſides alſo that we may the more exaëtly and chearfully § ſhew the reſt of the parts which remain, as the head and limbs, knowing already the originall of thoſe veſſels which are diſperſed through them. to this purpoſe, we will define what the cheſt is, and then we wildivide it intº its parts. thirdly, in theſe we will confider which parts contain, and which are contained, that ſo we may more happily finiſh our intended diſcourſe. chap. i. what the thorax or the cheft is ; into what parts it may be divided, and the nature of theſe parts. §º the coller-bones, below with the midriff, before with the sternum orbreſt, $º behinde, with the twelve vertebra’s of the back on both ſides, with the true § and baſtard ribs, and with the intercoſtall and intercartilagineous muſcles. nature hath given it this ſtrućture and compoſition, left that being a defence for the vitall parts againſt externallinjuries, it ſhould hinder reſpiration; which is no leſs needfull for the preſervation of the native heat diffuſed by the vital ſpirits,and ſhut up in the heart, as in the fountain thereof, againſt internall injuries, than the other fore- mentioned parts againſt externall. for if the cheſt ſhould have been all bony, verily it had been the ſtronger, but it would have hindred our reſpiration or breathing, which is rformed by the dilating and contraćting thereof. erefore left one of theſe ſhould É. the other, nature hathframed it, partly bony and griſly, and partly fleſhy. some render another reaſon hereof,which is,that nature hath framed the cheſt,that it mighthere alſo obſerve the order uſed by it in the fabrick of things, which is, that it might conjoin the parts much diſagreeing in their compoſure, as the lower belly, . fleſhy, and the §. all bony, by a medium partaker both of the bony and fleſhy ſubſtance; which courſe we ſee it hath obſerved in the connexion of the fire and water,by the interpoſition of the air ; of the earth and air,by the water placed between them. the cheſt is divided into three parts, the upper, lower, and middle; the coller-bones contain the upper; the midriff the lower;and the sternon the middle. the sternon in galens opinion is compoſed of ſeven bones, i belceve by reaſon of the great ſtature of the people that lived then. now in our times,you ſhall of find it compačt of three,four, r five [... although we wil not deny, but that we have often obſerved it(eſpecially in young bodies) to conſiſt of ſeven or eight bones. wherefore thoſe who have fewer bones in number in their sternon,have them larger,that they might be ſufficient to receive the ribs. this is the common opinion of the sternon. yet fallopius hath deſcribed it far otherwiſe; wherefore let thoſe who deſire to know more hereof, lookin his obſervations. at the lower part of the sternon, there is a griſle, called commonly furcula, and malum granatum, or the pomgranate, becauſe it reſembles that fruit; others call it cartilago ſcuti- formā, that is, the breit-blade. - sºhe thorax, or cheſt, is the middle belly, terminated or bounded above with the contai- ning parts of the cheſt. why nature hath made the cheſt partly bony, partly griſly. the number of the bones of the sternon. cartilagoſcuº formis, thº ºlde. io of the oitall parts lis. . what a griſle ſs. the differences thercaf. their twofold uſe. the diviſion of the cheſt into its parts. it is placed there, to be (as it were) a bulwark or defence to the mouth of the ſtomach endued with moſt exquiſit ſenſe; and alſo that it ſhould do the like to that part of th: midriff which the liverbears up in that place, ſituate above the orifice of the entricle by the ligament coming between, deſcending from the lower part of the ſame griſle into the upper part of the liver. the common people think that this griſle ſometimes fals down. but it ſo adheres, and is united to the bones of the sternon, that the falling thereof may ſeem to be without any danger, although oft-times it may be ſo j with watery and ſerous humidities with which the orifice of the ſtomach abounds, that (as it were) ſoaked and drunk with theſe, it may be ſo relaxed, that it may ſeem to be out of its place; in which caſe it may be preſſed and forced by the hand into the former place and ſeat, as alſo by applying out- m. , and taking inwardly aſtringent and drying medicines to exhauſt thº'ſ perfluous unlicity. this Šid: at its beginning is narrºw.but more broad and obtuſe at its end,ſomewhat reſembling the round or blunt point of a ſword, whereupon it is alſo called cartilago enſº- formit,or the ſword-like griſle. in ſome it hath a doublein others a ſingle point. in old people, it degenerates into a bone. now becauſe we make mention of this #. we will ſhew both what a griſle is, and how many differences thereofthere be, that enceforward as often as we ſhall have occaſion to ſpeak of a griſle, you may underſtand what it is. a griſle is a ſimilar part ofour bodies, next to a bone moſt terreſtriall, cold, dry, hard, weighty, and without ſenſe, differing from a bone in drineſs only, the which is more in a bone. w. a griſlebeing loſt, cannot be regenerated, like as a bone, without the interpoſition of a callus. - the differences of theſe are almoſt theſame with bones, that is, from their conſiſtence, ſubſtance, greatneſs,number, ſite, figure,connexion, ačtion,and uſe. omitting the other for brevity ſake, i will only handle thoſe differences which ariſe from fite, uſe and connexion. thereforegriſles, either adhere to the bones, or of, and by themſelves make ſome art, as the griſles of the ey-lids called tarſ, of the epiglotti, and throtle. and others which ad- here to bones, either adhere by the interpoſition of no medium, as thoſe which come be- tween the bones of the sternon, the coller-bones, the ſhare and haunch-bones, and others; or by a ligament coming between, as thoſe which are at the ends of the baſtard-ribs to the Šternon by the means of a ligament, that by thoſe º: being ſofter than a griſle, themotions of the cheſt may be more quickly and ſafely p. the griſles which depend on bones, do not †: i. ſtrength to the bones, but to themſelves, and the parts contained in them, againſt ſuch things as may break and bruiſe them. the griſles of the sternon, and at the ends of the baſtard-ribs are of this ſort. by this we may gather, that the º: a double uſe, one to poliſh and levigate the parts to which that ſlippery ſmoothneſs was neceſſary for performance of their duty; and for this uſeſerve the griſles which are at the joints, to make their motions the more nimble. the other uſe is to defend thoſe parts upon which they are placed,from externall injuries, by breaking violent aſſaults, by ſomewhat yeelding to their impreſſion,no other- wiſe than %; things oppoſed againſt cannon-ſhot: we wil proſecute the other differences of griſles in their place, as occaſion ſhall be offered and required. c. h. a. p. ii. of the containing and contained parts of the cheft. he containing parts of the cheſt are both the skins, the fleſhy pannicle, the fat, the breſts, the common coat of the muſcles, the muſcles of that place, the fore- mentioned bones, the coat inveſting the ribs, and the diaphragma or midriff. the parts contained are the mediaſtinum, the pericardium or purſe of the heart, the heart,the lungs and their veſſels. of the containing parts, ſome are common to all the body, or themoſt part thereof, as both the skins, the fleſhy pannicle and fat. . of which being we have ſpoken in our firſt book, there is no need now further to inſiſt upon: others are proper to the cheſt,as its muſcles, of which we will ſpeak in their place, the breſts, the forementioned bones, the membrane inveſting the ribs, and the diaphragma or midriff. we will treat of all theſe in order, after we have firſt ſhewed you the way, how you may ſeparate the skin from the reſt of the cheſt. putting your knife down even to the perfeó. diviſion of the skin, you muſt draw a ſtreight iinefrom the upper part of the lowerbelly, even to the chin ; then draw another ſtreight line, overthwart at the coller-bones even to the ſhoulder-blades; and in the places beneath the coller-bones: (if you deſire to ſhun prolixity) you may at once ſeparate both the skins, the fleſhy pannicle, the fat, and com- mon coat of the muſcles; becauſe theſe parts were ſhewed and ſpoken of in the diſſečtion of the lowerbelly, yet l i b. - contained intbecheft. to ſhoulder-lade and neck, therefore ith y uſt reſerve the brefs in diſſºting of the bodies of women; wherefore from the º: of the breſts, as artificially as you can, ſeparate only the skin from the hº: under it, that ſo you may ſhew the pannicle which there becometh fleſhy and muſculous, and is ſo ſpred over the neck and parts of the face, even to the roots of the hairs. * - c h a p. ii i. of the breſts or dugs. ºhe breſts, as we ſaid, when we ſpoke of the nature of glandules, are of a glan- ºdulous ſubſtance, white, rare, or ſpongious; in maids and women that do not eltº give fuck, they are more ſolid and not ſo large. - º wherefore the bigneſs of the dugs is different, although of a ſufficient mag- sº ni.ii. fiji. figure is round, ſomewhat long, and in ſome for: pyra- midall. their compoſure is of the skin, the fleſhy pannicle, glandules, fat, nerves, veins, and arteries, deſcending to them from the axillari, under the sternon, betwixt the fourth and fifth, and ſometimes the fixth of the true ribs. - - - - -- - - and there they are divided into infinite rivelets by the interpofition of the glandules andfat, by which fit mattermaybe brought, to be changed into milk by the faculty of *...in ſpeak no more of the nature of glandules or kernels, as having treated of them before; only we will add this, that ſome of the glandules have nerves, as thoſe of the breſts, which they receive from the parts lying under them, that is, from the intercoſtall,by which it comestopaſ that they have moſtexquiſit ſenſe. others want a nerve, as thoſe which ſerve only §. diviſion of the veſſels, and which havenoa&ion..but only uſe. they be two in number, on each fide one, feated at the fides of the sºng, upon the fourth, fifth and ſixth true ribs. - - wherefore they haveconnexion with the mentioned parts with their º, but by their veſſels with all other parts,but eſpecially with the womb by the reliques of the manillary veins and arteries, which deſcend down at the fides of the brefl-blade; in which lace theſe veins infinuating themſelves through the ſubſtance of the muſcles, area little above the navell conjoined with the epigaſtrick,whoſe originall is in ſome ſort oppoſite to the hypºgaſtrick, which ſend forth branches to the womb. by the meeting of theſe it is more #. that this commerce ſhould ariſe, than from other and thoſe almoſt capillary bran- ches which are ſometimes ſeen to deſcend to the womb from the e #. they are of a cold and moiſt temper, wherefore they ſay that th: Éio by bei verted into milk “becomes raw, flegmatick and ††, the dugs. their action is to prepare nouriſhment for the new-born babe,to warm the heart from whence they have received heat, and to adorn the breſt. - by this you may know that ſome glandules have ačtion, others uſe and ſome both. at the top of the dugs there are certain hillocks, or eminencies called ºats ºf ples, by ſucking of which the childe is nouriſhed through certain ſmall and crook paſſages, which though they appearmanifeſt to the fight, whilſt you preſs out the milk by preſſing the dug, yet whºm the milk is preſſed out, they do not appear, nor ſo much as: it the pºint of a needlºy reaſon ofthe crooked ways made by nature in thoſ: º for this uſe, that the milk being perſetly made, ſhould not flowout of its own º againſt the nurſes will. for ſo theſe disretained and kept for a certaintime in hºp. c h a p. i i ii. of the clavicles, or coller-bones and rits, ºf w*.ſhºld handle theſe parts after the common order, we ſhould now treat of §º the muſcles of the cheſt which move the arm, and ſerve for reſpiration, and x. º which firſt offer themſelvesto our fight, º, ºut for that they cannot be fitly ſhºwed, unleſ; we hurt the muſcles of the i. it better to defer the explanation of theſe muſcle; untill ſuch time as i have ſhewed therſ of the contain. .#containing parts, ºnly of the cheſt, but alſo of the head, that having finiſhed theſe, we may come toº full demonſtration of all the reſt of the muſcles, beginning with thoſe ofthe which yeºmºtwith, and ſo proſecuting thereſteven tº hºl. feet, as they ſhall ſeem# offer themſelves more fitly to diſſºtion,that ſo as much as lyesinus, we may ſhun coil oil. - ******our propoſedusk, affºrtheforeſid muſcle come the coller- bones, the sternon, and ribs. - - but con- the force of the proper #. of # their ſub- ſtance, magnitude figure. . . compoſure. which glad: dules have nerves, and which have riories their con- ". nexion. how the breſis and womb communicate each with other, their temper, rºeriºdºſters. . their ačtion and uſe, - the nipples: ios - of the oital parts lib. . but that theſe parts may be the more eaſily underſtood, we muſt firſt know whatabone is, and whence the differences thereof are drawn. - - what a bone therefore a bone is a part of our body moſt terreſtriall,cold, dry,hard, wanting all ma- is, nifeſt ſenſe, if the teeth be excepted. i ſaid manifeſt ſenſe, that you may upderſtand that the parts have a double ſenſe of a double ſenſe touching, the one manifeſt, ſuch as reſides in the fleſh, skin, membrancs, nerves, teeth, and certain other parts; the other obſcure; yet which may ſuffice to diſcern the helping and hurting ta(tile qualities, ſuch ſenſe the bowels and bones have ; for very ſmall fibers of the zil. ..., e.i, nº * diſſeminated to theſe partsb mediation of their coat, or membrane, i ſay, ſo rail. ſmall, that they can ſcarce be diſcerned by the eys, unleſs (as galen ſaith) by plucking ſuch coats away from the parts. why the but it is no marvail if nature would have theſe parts in like manner to have ſuch ſmall tºº, have veins, contrary to the lungs and moſt part of the muſcles, only to yecla ſo much nouriſh- ſuchſmal veins, ment to the part,as ſhould be needfull; for ſeeing the ſubſtance of the bones is cold hard, denſe and ; it waſtes the leſs. o wherefore they need not ſo much blood for their nouriſhment,as the hot and ſoft parts; and beſides the §: bones have neither veins nor arterics, but draw fit nouriſhment only by the force of the attractive faculty implanted in them. - whence the the differences of bones are taken from many things, as from their apophyſei. epiphyſes difference of riſks, ºil. ineſs, number jr., .. may be #. we will proſecute alſ theſe as they ſhall offer themſelves in the ãº. of the - bones; to which doćtrine we will give a beginning at the clavicles or coller-bones. the clavicles . the clavicles ar: two very hard and ſolid bones, without any great or notable cavity, sºon ºne, ſituate on each fidebetwixt the ſide and upper part of the sternon and top of the ſhoulder- blade, for the ſtrength and ſtability of theſe parts, whence they take the name of clavicule clavicles, (from the greek”, which fignifies, a key or any other bar or faſtning of a door.) they carry the ſhape of a surgeons levatory. but you muſt riote that the clavicles ſeem to be faſtned to the sternon by the mediation of a griſly bone.moreover the ſpace and cavity contained within the coller-bones is called by the latinsjugulum, by the french the upper {.. becauſe the jugular veins paſs that ºil. . % way; it ſticks to the ". proceſs of the ſhoulder by a griſle which galen cals the ſmall ””” griflebone, although it be nothingºlſe but a produćtion of the osjuguli. for the sternon, which weſaid isframed of divers bones, as ſometimes , ſometimes , , , , and ſometimes , you muſt note they are very ſpongy and full of pores, and of a ãr ſofter conſiſtence than the coller-bones,wherefore more ſubjećt to corruption; beſides they are mutually joined by interpoſition of muſcles. their uſe is to be as a ſhield to de- fend the vitall parts. the ribs, the ribs are in number, on each fide , ſeven of theſe are called true or perfeót - ribs, becauſe they make a circle, at the one end joined to the sternon, on the other to the vertebra’s; the other are called baſtard or ſhort ribs,becauſe they fall ſhort in their way and come not to the sternon; but they are faſtned on the fore-fide to the sternon by griſles and ligaments, but on the back-part to the tranſverſe vertebra’s of the back-bone, and to the files of the ſaid vertebra’s. but the ſhort ribs are only knit to the vertebra’s;wherefore that part of the vertebra’s is called the root of the ribs. the exteriour or fore-part of the baſtard or ſhort ribs is griſly, that they ſhould not be broken, and that they might be the eaſier lifted up in the di º of the ſtomach filled their con- with meat. they are of a conſiſtenceſufficiently hard, yetmore towards their root, than fiſtence, at the sternon, where they come nearer together, and are more hardly broken; they are ſmooth both within and without, but in the midſt they have ſome ſign of being double ; or hollow to receive the veins and arteries, which nouriſh their bony ſubſtance; they are faſhioned like a bow ; their uſe is the ſame with the sternon,and beſides to carry and ſtreng- then the muſcles ſerving for reſpiration. c h a p. v. the anatomicall adminiſtration of the sternon. - - *he coat inveſting the ribs, which the common anatomiſts call pleura, is the laſt ºlº of the containing parts of the cheſt, which becauſe it lyes hid in the inner part thereof, it cannot be ſhown unleſs by pulling aſunder of the sternon; wherefore we muſt now ſhew the manner of opening the sternon, that hereby we may not violate the originall or inſertion of any of the muſcles. wherefore firſt you muſt under- ſtand that he which will ſhew in their proper place their originall and inſertion of the pećtorallmuſcles, of the maſtoideſ, of the two muſcles of i. bone hyoh, of the muſcles ſubclavii, and intercartilaginei, ought firſt of all to ſeparate all the pećtorall muſcks from the - l p. . contained intbe cheſt. - io - i the sternon and the griſles from the true ribs; then to cut the ligaments, next the bones themſelves, even from the fixth true rib to the clavicles. and then ſhewing the mediaftinum ſtretched under the sternon all the length thereof, he muſt ſeparate the sternon with his knife, and bend it up to the clavicles, and there. it reſerving together with it the four muſcles,that is the two maftoides, and the two mº s. j the bone hyou, becauſe they either wholly or for the moſt partariſe from theſternon. - laſtly,the clavicles being ſomewhat thruſt upwards,the griſles muſt on each fide be tur- ned outwards towards the arm; that ſo the containing parts of the cheſt may not only lye open to view, and be eaſily ſhewed, but alſo the muſcles may be contained in their place, untill they come to be ſhewed in their order. - and becauſe the coller-bones muſtbe lifted up very high, that the recurrent nerves may be more eaſily ſeen,and the diſtribution of the veins and arteries, the two ſmall ſubclavian muſcles, one on each fide muſt be ſhown by the way, who have their originall from the inner and fore-part of the clavicles, and an oblique deſcent to the stern; towards the griſle of the firſt rib. for the clavicles cannot be thus ſeparated,but that theſe muſcles muſt be violated and ſpoiled. alſo you may divide the sternon in the midſt,that you may ſhew the inward pećto- ral muſcles wholehaving ſeparated the muſcles which ariſe from the upper part.ali which things being performed as they ought we muſt come to the coat inveſting the ribs and then to the mediaftinum, as ariſing from it. chap. vi. of the pleura, or coat inveſting the ribs. - mºš he tunica ſubcoſtall,or coat º the ribs.being the laſt of the containing what the parts of the cheſt,is alarge and abroad membraneanſwerable in proportion membrane in. of uſe and attion to the peritoneum of the lower belly. for as the peritoneum veſting the ribs iss § generally and particularly coversall the naturall parts, binding and holdin ------n them in their places,ſo this coat inveſts all the vitall parts in generall,becauſe it is ſtretched over all the infide of the cheſt,but in particular whilſt it gives each a coat from it ſelf. lf - h 'ſeum ( h ill have it.from th - it hath its original from the perioſteum (or as others will have it,from the pericranium)in- in originall, veſting the . of the cheſt at the roots of the ribs.whereforeit j faſt .. its originall, ribs,ſcarce to be ſeparated,as alſo to all the sbounding the cheſt, and contained in it. veſalius reprehends galen becauſe he ſaid, that this was double on both fides; yet columbu, defends galen,and verily it is ſeen to be double in the inner part of the cheſt, under the ribs and the muſcles of the ribs,that in that ſpace theremay beway for the veins, arteries, and inerves. some have made it twofold, and divided it into the internal and external;as thoſe which whether. . have made two ſorts of plurifies, the true and baffard, placing the external above the ribs jº., and intercoſtal muſcles;but the internal under the ribs, muſcles, diaphragma and sternon. fold plurifie, but we,to ſhun ambiguity,intend only to proſecute thoſe things which are manifeſt to ſº alſº : - the eys; whereforewe ſay?, that the ribs are lined on the infide with a double coat; on ***** which immediatly and firmly ſticks to them on every fide called the perioſtium, which is common to them and other bones. the other which lyes upon that perioſeum, and on the infide inveſts all the ribs, ... . . ., whence it is called the ſubcoſtalis tunica. the ſubſtance,temper and compoſure are the ſame as §: .# - in other membranes. the magnitude in length as alſo the figure,is the ſame with the com: “**** aſs of the inner part of the cheſt; the thickneſs of it is very little. this coat is commonly called the pleura,from the name of the part which it covers or lines, (for the greeks call the ribs” ) and in like manner which happens betwixt the perioſſeum and this pleura, is called either a true or baſtard plurifie. chap. vii. of the mediaſtinum. * $ ow we muſt ſpeak of the parts contained in the cheſt, ſeeing we have already the aid § han the *:::::: i. with the mediaſtinum as i. a part which in º: jº diſſºtion firſt preſents itſelf to our fight. the mediaftinum is of the ſame ſub- - º-ſº ſtance,thicknes,compoſure, number temper,as the pleura.for the ſubſtance of the ºff. is membranous,and though it be ſtretchedal the length of the cheſt,yet it is of a ſmal thicknes,receiving veins,nerves and arteries from althe parts to which it is knit;like as the pleura doth ; but eſpecially from the mamíllary veſſels, deſcending under the ſternon. it is in number one, but it is made of two membranes produced from the ſubcoſtall, for this aſcending on each fide by the hollowneſs of the cheſt to theſternon, and then at right angles it is refleåed to the bodies of the vertebra’, * the pleura hath its originalſ. ia - i ic of the Öitall parts liu. . the figure, the uſe, what the midriff is, its ſubſtance, compoſition, &c. connexion. quantity. a&tion. why the diaphragma was called phrenes. their ſub- ſtance. quantity. the lobes thereof, figure. in that refle&ion there is ſo much diſtance between each membrane, as may be ſufficient to receive two fingers.for otherwiſe,ſeeing that they cannot penetrate through the heart,it was fit each ſide of the pleura ſhould turn to the pericardium, that ſo they might arrive at the appointed place without offence. neither yet is that ſpacevoid and empty but woven with many ſmall nervous fibers. columbus adds, that that place is often filled with a certain humor beſides nature,which you may draw out or evacuate by opening the ſternon. yet i would gladly learn ofcolumbus,by what ſigns we may know that ſuch an humor is contained there. for the figure,the mediaſtinum with the pleura on each ſide, repreſents the figure of a leather bottle, whoſe flat ſide is the mediaſtinum,whoſe other ſide the pleura; the bottom that part of the pleura which is next the midriff; the mouth the upper part of the pleura at the firſt ribs. we ſhewed the ſite and connexion of the mediaftinum, when we declared its originall. the uſe thereof is to ſeparate the vitall parts(as it were) into two cels,the right and left, that if peradventure it happen that the one be hurt,the creature may liveby the benefit of the other. and it hath another uſe, which is to prop and hold up the pericardium, that it fall not upon the heart with its weight,but toſſed with the motions of the heart and cheſt, it may move to this or that ſide. - chap. viii. of the diaphragma or midriff. wºjlthough the midriffmay ſeem to be accºunted rather a part containg than ** * * §: contained, yet for commodities ſake we have †† the demonſtration § thereof till now. therefore it is a muſcle round and long, terminating the s lower part of the cheſt, .. it is of the ſame ſubſtance,compoſition and temper,as the muſcles of the epi- gaſtrium; it is made of two coats,the lower whereof is from the peritoneum, and the upper from the pleura. which getting to them fleſh, but not there but in their circumference, . the benefit of theblood brought thither by the veins and arteries diſtributed through it, turn into a muſcle, whoſe middle is nervous and membranous, but the extremities by which it is inſerted, one while fleſhy,as in that partnext to the baſtard ribs;another while tendonous,as where it touches the #. and ſecond vertebra’s of the loins,for it ends in them by two tendons manifeſt enough. it is one in number, interpoſed with an oblique ſite betwixt the naturall and vitall parts. it hath connexion with the lower part of the ster- mon and ſhort ribs, and the two firſt vertebra’s of the loins,but by its coats and veſſels with the parts from whence it received them. - the extent thereof is equal to the compaſs of the lower part of the cheſt. the length of it is from the breſt-blade, even to the firſt and ſecond vertebra of the loins. the thickneſs is diverſe,for it is far thicker in its fleſhy extremity,than in its nervous originall. . . the a&ion thereof is to help the expulſion of the excrements by the mutuall aſſiſtance of the epigaſtrick muſcles,but the chief uſe is for reſpiration,of which it is one of the prime inſtruments. this partition the ancients called phrenes, becauſe the inflammation thereof cauſed like ſymptomes as the inflammation of the brain,by reaſon of the large nerves on each ſide . come to it dire&tly and primarily from the third, fourth, and fifth ver- tebra of the neck.this muſcle differs from other muſcles,ſpecially in figure. it is perforated in º: gº giveway or paſſage to the aſcendent hollow-vein, to the artery aorta, and the gull&t. . . . . . - . . . c h a p. ix. of the lang. rhe lungs are of a ſoft ſubſtance and fleſh, rare and like a ſponge, of a various } colour pamered; their quantity is ſufficiently large;for moſt commonly th are divided into four lobes disjoined with a manifeſt and viſible diviſión, on - each ſide two,whereby they may be the more eaſily opened and contračted, - - and the air may the better enter. beſides alſo in large bodies,who have a very great cheſt, there is found a fifth lobe, ari- fing from the ſecond lobe of the right fide,as a cuſhion or bolſter to bear up the hollow- vein aſcending from the midriff to the heart. in little men who have a ſhorter cheſt, becauſe the heart is ſo near as to touch the dia- phragma, this lobe is not ſeen yet it is always found in dogs. the lungs repreſent the figure or ſhape of an oxes foot or hoof, for like it º º: till ckct li b. . contained intbe cheft. iii --- thicker in their baſis but ſlenderer in their circumference, as you may ſee in blowing them up by the weazon, with your mouth or a#." ofbellows. they are compounded of a coat coming from the pleura, which on each fi - fixth conjugation;and alſo of the vena arterioſa coming from the right ventricle of the heart, and the arteria venoſa from the left, as ſhall be ſhewed in the anatomy of the heart; befides the ffera arteria or weazon coming from the throat;and laſtly its own fleſh, which compoſition, de receives ſufficient number of nerves from the is nothing elſe than the concretion of cholerick blood poured out Íike foam about the divifions of the foreſaid veſſels,as we have ſaid ofother parts. the body of the º: is one in number, unleſs you will divide it into two, by reaſon of the variety of its fite, left fide do almoſt involve all the heart, that ſo they may defend it againſt the hardneſs of the bones which are about it, they are tyed to the heart,chiefly at its baſis,but to the roots of the ribs, and their vertebra’s by the coat it hath from thence; but by the veſſels to theſe parts from whence they proceed. but ofttimes preſently from the firſt and naturall con: formation they arebound to the circumference of the ribs by certain thin membranous rodućtions which deſcend from thence to the lungs,otherways they are tyed to the ribs É. the pleura. • a the nouriſhment of the ...; is unlike to the nouriſhment of other parts of the body; for you cannot finde a partequally rare, light, and full of rare, which may be nouriſh: with blood equally thin and vaporous. in temper they incline more to heat than to cold whether you have regard to their compoſure of cholerick blood, or their uſe, which is to prepare and alter the air, that it hurt not the heart by its coldneſs.the lungs is the inſtru- ment of voice and breathing by the weazon or wind-pipe. for the lobes are the infº- ments of voice, and the ligaments, of reſpiration. but the lºrinx or throtle is the chief. inſtrument of the voice;for the weazon firſt prepares the voice for the throtle, in which it being in ſome meaſure formed,is perfeóted in the palat of the mouth,as in the upper part of alue ºr ſuch like inſtrument by the help ofthe gargarem or uvula as a certainić, play withall. * . but as longas one hºlds his brºath, hºnnot ſpeak; for then the muſcles ofthe lºrinº, ribs, the diaphragma,and the epigaſtrick muſcles are preſſed down, whence proceeds a ſup- preſſion of the vocall matter;which muſt be ſent forth, in making or uttering a voice. nature would have the lungs lightformany reaſons; the firſt is, that ſeeing they aré of themſelves immovable,they might be more obſequious and ready to follow the motion of the cheſt; for when it is ſtraitned, the lungs are ſtraitned and ſubſide with it;and when it is dilated they alſo are dilated, and ſwell ſo big that they almoſt fill upaiii. upper capacity thereof. another cauſe is, that by this their rarity º might more eaſily admitthe entring air, at ſuch times as they have much or ſodain neceſſity, as in running a race. and laſtly, that in plurifies and other purulent abſceſſes of th: cheſt, the pu or matter oured ; into the capacity of the cheſt maybe ſuckt in by the rare ſubſtance of the ungs,and by that means the ſooner ſent forth and expećtorated. #: uſe .reſpiration is to cooland temper the raging heat oftheheart.for it is cooled in drawing in the breath by the cool air,and in ſending out thereof by avoyding the hot fuliginous vapor,therefore the cheſt performs two contrary motions foºd. tedit draws in the encompaſſing air,and when it is depreſſed it expels the fuliginous vapor of the heart;which any one may eaſily perceiveby the example of a pair of smiths bellows: c. h. a. p. x, of the pericardium or purſ ºf the heart. º, he pericardium is (as it were) the houſe of the heart, which ariſing at the baſis ºf- thereof (either the ligaments of the vertebra’s fituate there or elſe the vetºſ.f ſº the heart yelding it matter)is of a nervous,thick and denºſubſtance with. º, º any fibers. it retains the figure of the heart and leavesan empty ſpace for the * heart to performits proper motions. wherefore the bigneſs ºf thºr. exceeds that of the heart. - it confiſts of a double coat, one proper, of which we have ſpoken; another common, coming from the pleura; and alſo of veins, arteries, and nerves; the veſſels partly coming from themamillary, partly from the diaphragma, chiefly there where it touché it; the nerves come on each fide from the fixtconjugation. it is only one, placed about the heart,and annexed to it at the baſis thereofby its mem- branes,to the originall of the lungs,and the vertebra’s lying under them, and by the veſſels to the parts from whence it received them. it is of a cold and dry temper, as everyman. brane is. - the uſe thereof is to cover the heart,and preſerveit in its native humidity, by a certain l • naturall ecauſe the lobes of the lungs ſtretched forth into the right and the flicking, of the lungstg the ribs. ngs th; irnouriſh. ment, why the lung, are light, the uſe of re? ſpiration or breathing, whence it. hath its maſter; - number and connexion. uſe. of the Öitall parts lia.a. - naturall moiſture contained in it, unleſs you had rather ſay that themoiſture we ſee con- tained in the pericardium, is generated in it after death by the condenſation and concretion of the ſpirits. although this ſeems not very likely, becauſe it grows and is heaped up in ſo great quantity in living bodies, that it hinders the motion of the heart, and cauſes ſuch palpitation or violent beating thereof, that it often ſuffocates a man. ...; 'or this ºr. happens alſo to hearty and ſtout men, whoſe hearts are hot, but ...” blood thin and wateriſh, by reaſon of ſome infirmity of the ſtomach or liver; and thishu- humor contain mor may be generated of vapors which on every ſide exhale into the pericardium from the <d in the blood boiling in the ventricles of the heart, where kept in by the denſity thereof;they turn * into yellowiſh moiſture,as we ſee it happens in an aſembeck. the conſi. nature would have the pericardium of a denſe and hard conſiſtence, that by the force ſtence. thereof the heart might be kept in better ſtate;for if the pericardium had bin bony,it would have made the heart like iron by the continuall attrition ; on the contrary, if it had been ſoft and fungous,it would have made it ſpongy and ſoft like the lungs. c h a p. xxx. of the heart. what the º he heart, the chief manſion of the soul,the organ of the vitall faculty,the begin- hºrris, and of “i jº, ning of life,the fountain of the vitall ſpirits, and ſo conſequently the continuall *** */asa nouriſher of the vitall heat, the firſt living and laſtdying; which becauſe it muſt - have a naturall motion of it ſelf, was made of a denſe, ſolid, and more compač ſubſtance than any other part of the body. - - the three ſort. the fleſh thereof is woven with three ſorts of fibers, for it hath the right in the inner affibers of the part deſcending from the baſis into the point, that they might dilate it, and ſo draw the heart. blood from the hollow vein into the receptacles thereof, and the breath or air from the lungs by the arteria venoſa; it hath the tranſverſe without, which paſs through the right at right angles, to contraćt the heart,and ſo drive the vitall ſpirits into the great artery aorta, and the cholerick blood to the lungs by the vena arterioſa for their nouriſhment; it hath the oblique in the midſt to contain the air and blood drawn thither by the foremen- tioned veſſels, untill they be ſufficiently elaborate by the heart. all theſe fibers do their parts by contračing themſelves towards their originall, as the right from the point of the heart towards the baſis, whereby it comes to paſs that by this contraćtion of the fibers theheart dilated becomes ſhorter,but broader,no otherwiſe than it is made more long and narrow by the contraćtion of the tranſverſe but by the drawing of the oblique, it j in that part which looks towards the vertebra’s which chiefly ap- pears in the point thereof. themagni. it is of an indifferent bigneſs.hut yet in ſome bigger,in ſome leſs,according to the diverſe tude. temper of cold or hot men, as we noted in the liver. figure. the figure thereof is pyramidall, that is, it is broader in the baſis,and narrower at his round point. compoſition. it is compoſed of the moſt denſe fleſh of all the body, y the affuſion of blood at the divi- - fions and foldings of the veſſels,and there concrete,as it happens alſo to the other entrails. for the bloodbeing there a little more dryed, than that which is concrete for the making of the liver,turns into a fleſhy ſubſtance more denſe than the common fleſh,even as in hol- low ulcers,when they come to acicatrize. the proper ithath the coronallveins and arteries,which it receives either on the right fide from veſſels. the hollow vein,or on the left from the baſis at the entrance of the artery aorta. you can- the nemes, not by yourey diſcern that the heart hath any other nerves than thoſe which come to it with the pleura. yet i have plainly enough obſerved others in certain beaſts which have great hearts, as ſwine; they appeared ſeated under the fat which covers the veſſels and baſis of the heart, leſt the humid ſubſtance of theſe parts ſhould be diſſolved and diſſipated by the burning heat of the heart. whereby you may perceive that the heat of the heart is different from the elementary heat, as that which ſuffers fat to grow about this entrail, where otherwiſe it doth not concrete unleſs by cold or a remiſs heat, which thing is chiefly worth admi- ration. - the heart is one alone, fituate moſt commonly upon the fourth vertebra of the cheſt, which is in the midſt of the cheſt. yet ſomethink that it inclines ſomewhat to the left ſide, becauſe we there feel the motion or beating thereof; but that happens by reaſon of its leftventricle,which being it is filled with many ſpirits, and the . ing of the arteries, itbeats far more vehemently,than the right. it required that ſeat by the decree of nature; becauſe that region is the moſt ſafe and : it is here on every ſide covered (as it were)with the hands of the lungs. connexion. it hath connexion with the fore-mentioned vertebra’s, but by the parts compoſing it, with thoſe parts from whence it hath them; with the lungs by the zena arterioſa - d tnumber and ſite, lis. . contained in the cheſt. and the arteria venoſa; and laſtly, with all the parts of the body by the arteries,which it ſends to them all. • it is of a hot and moiſt temper, as every fleſhy part is. the aëtion thereofis, firſt to pre- are the blood in its right ventricle, for the fit nouriſhment of the lungs, for from hence it is that galen ſaith, this right ventricle was made for the neceſſity of the lungs. se- condly,to generate the vitall ſpirits in its left ventricle for the uſe of the whole bºdy. but this ſpirit is nothing elſe than a certain middle ſubſtance between air and blood, fit to preſerve and carry the native heat,wherefore it is named the vitall,as being the authorand preſerver of life. in the inner parts of the heart there preſent themſelves to our confide- łation the ventricles and the parts contained in the ventricles and between them; ſuch are the valvule, or valves, the veſſels and their mouths, their diſtribution into the lungs, the wall or partition, and the two produćtions or ears of the heart; which becauſe they are jº. they may be reckoned amongſt the externall or internall parts of the heart, i will here handle in the firſt place. therefore theſe auricule or ears are of a ſoft and nervous ſubſtance, compačt of three ſorts offibers, that ſo by their ſoftneſs they might the more eaſily follow the motions of the heart, and ſo break the violence of the matter entring the heart with great force when- it is dilated. for otherwiſe by their violent and abundant entrance they might hurt the heart, and(as it were) overwhelm and ſuffocate it; but they have that capacity which we ſee given by nature, that ſo they might (as it were) keep in ſtore the blood and air, and then by little and little draw it forth for the uſe or neceſſity of the heart. but if any en- quire, if ſuch matters may be drawn into the heartby the only force of the diaſtole, ad fu- gam vacui,for avoyding of emptineſs; i will anſwer, that that drawing in or attraction is cauſed by the heat of the heart, which continually draws theſe matters to it, no other- wiſe than a fire draws the adjacent air,and the flame of a candle the tallow which is about the weik for nouriſhments ſake. whilſt the heart is dilated it draws the air, whilſt it is drawn together or contra&edit expels it. this motion oftheheart is abſolutely naturally as the motion of the lungs is animall. some add a third cauſe of the attraction of the heart, to wit, the ſimilitude of the whole ſubſtance. but in my . rather takes place in that attraćtion which is of blood by the vene coronales for the proper nouriſhment of the heart, than in that which is performed for attraction of matters for the benefit of the whole body. theſe ears differ in quantity,for the right is far more capacious than the left,becauſe it was made to receive a greater abundance of matter. they are two in number, on each fide one,fituate at the baſis of the heart:the greater at the entrance of the hollow vein into the heart, the leſs at the entrance of the veinous and of the great artery, with which parts they both have connexion. we have formerly declared what uſe they have,that is, to i. the violence of the matters, and beſides to be ſtays or props to the arteria venoſa and great ar- tery, which could not ſuſtain ſo rapid and violent a motion as that of the heart,by reaſon of their tenderneſs of ſubſtance. of the ventricles of the heart. he wentricles are in number two, on each fide one, diſtinguiſhed with a fleſhy parti- h º ſtrong enough, having many holes in the ſuperficies, yet no where piercing through. # right of theſe ventricles is the bigger, and encompaſſed with the ſofter and rarer fleſh; the left is the leſſer, but is engirt with a threefold more denſe and compačt fleſh; for the right ventricle was made for a place to receive the blood brought by the hollow vein, and for diſtributing of it, partly by the vena arterioſa into the lungs for their nouriſhment, partly into the left ventricle,by ſweating through the wall or partition, toyeeld matter for the generation of the vitall ſpirits. • * thereforebecauſe it was needfull there ſhould be ſo great a quantity of this blood, it was likewiſe fit that there ſhould be a place proportionable to receive that matter. and becauſe the blood which was to be received in the right ventricle was more thick, it was not ſo needfull,that the fleſh to contain itſhould be ſo compačt;but on the contrary,the arterious blood and vital ſpirit have need of a more denſe receptacle,for fear of waſting,and left they ſhould vaniſh into air; and alſo leſs room,that ſo the heatbeing united,might become the ſtronger,and more powerfully ſet upon the elaboration of the blood and ſpirits. therefore the rightventricle of the heart is made for the preparation of the blood ap- f. for the nouriſhment of the lungs, and the generation of the vitall ſpirits, as the ungs are made for the mitification or qualifying of the air. which works were neceſſary if the phyſicall axiome be true, that like is nouriſhed by like, as the rare and ſpongious lungs with more ſubtil blood; the ſubſtance of the heart groſs and denſe,with the veinous blood as it flows from the liver, that is groſs. and it hath its coronall veins from the hollow vein,that it might thencedraw as much as ſhould be ſufficient. - but the left ventricle is for the perfeóting of the vitall ſpirit, and the preſervation of the native heat, - - l of —-ar temper and aćtion. what he virall ſpirit is. the auricule cordin,or cars of the hearts their magi: tude and number. their uſe. the partition between the ventricles of the heart. why the right ventricle is more capacious & leſs compaſt, why the right ventricle is more capacious & leſs compat. the adion of the right ven- tricle, theation of the left vert. tricle. . of the vitall parts li b. . the uſes of the four orifices of the heart. the walves. how they differ. a&tion. site. figure. subſtance, number. motion; why there be only two valves that arteria venoſa. the artery always lyes undcr the vein. a twofold reaſon why the vein was made arrerious er like an ar- tery. the latter are whol of the orifices and valves of the heart. here befour orifices of the heart, two in the right, and as many in the left ventricle; the greater of the two former gives paſſage to the vein, or the blood carried by the hollow vein to the heart; the leſſer opens a paſſage to the vina arterioſa, or the cholerick blood carried in it for the nouriſhment of the lungs. the larger of the two other makes a way for the diſtribution of the artery aorta, and the vitall ſpirit through all the body; but the leſſer gives egreſs and regreſs to the arteria venoſa,or to the air .fuliginous vapors. and becauſe it was convenient that the matters ſhould be admitted into their proper ventricles by theſe orifices,by the diaſiole, to wit,into the right ventricle by the greater orifice, and into the left by the leſſºr; and becauſe on the contrary it was fit that the matters ſhould be expelled by the syſtole from their ventricles, by the fore-mentioned orifices; af therefore nature to all theſe orifices hath put cleaven valves, that is to ſay, ſix in the right ventricle, that there might be three to cach orifice; five in the left, that the greater orifice might have three,and the leſſer two,for the reaſon we will preſently give. º theſe valves differ many ways: firſt, in ačtion; for ſome of them carry in matter to the heart, others hinder that which is gone out, that it come not back again. secondly, i. differ in ſite, for thoſe which bring in, have membranes without, looking in; thoſe whic carry out, have them within looking out. thirdly,in figure,for thoſe which carry in,have a pyramidall figure, but thoſe which hinder the coming back again, are made in the ſhape of the j. c. fourthly, in ſubſtance, for the former for the moſt part are fleſhy, or woven with fleſhy fibers into certain fleſhy knots ending towards the point of the heart; l, membranous. fiftly, they differ in number, for there be only five which bring in, three in the right yentricle at the greater orifice, and two in the left at the leſſer orifice ; thoſe which pro- hibit the coming back, are ſix in each ventricle, three at each orifice. laſtly, they differin motion; for the fleſhy ones are opened in the diaſtole,for the bringing in of blood and ſpi- rit, and contrariwiſe are ſhut in the ſyſtole, that they may contain all or the greater part of that they brought in. the membranous on the contrary are opened in the ſyſtole to give paſſage forth to the blood and ſpirits over all the body, but ſhut in the diaſtole, that that which is excluded might not flow back into the heart. but you ſhall obſerve that nature hath placed only two valves at the orifice of the arteria venoſa, becauſe it was needfull that this orifice ſhould be always open, either wholly or certainly a third part thereof; that the air might continually be drawn into the heart by this orifice in inſpiration, and ſent forth by exſpiration in the contračtion of the heart. whereby we may gather this, that there is but one third part of that air we draw into the heart in breathing,ſent forth again in the form of vapor in exſpiration, becauſenature would have but one third part of the orifice to lye open for its paſſage out. therefore the exſpiration or breathing out, and the ſyſtole of the heart and arteries,is ſhorter than the inſpiration, ſo that we may truly ſay,that the inſpiration,or drawing the breath in, is equally ſo long as the exſpiration is together with the reſt, which is in the midſt between the two motions. - - chap. xi. i. - of the diffribution of the pena arterioſa, and the arteria vendſ. §§ º § aving hitherto ſhewed the originall of each of the veſſels of the heart, we muſt now ſpeak of their diſtribution. the vena arterioſa,or the arterious vein; and the arteria venoſa,or the veinous artery, each proceeding out of his proper wºn- * tricle, that is, the right and left, are divided into two large branches; one of which goes to the right and the other to the left hand, the one lying croſs-ways over the other, theyein always riding over the *::: as you may underſtand better by the fight of your eys,than by reading of books. theſe branches at . entrance of the lungs are di- vided into two other large branches,and each of them go to his peculiar lobe of the lungs; and theſe again run almoſt into infinit other branches, diſperſed in three places over the lungs. - theſe veſſels have acquired their names by reaſon of that tranſmutation of conſiſtence, whereby the compoſure of a vein degenerates into an artery, and that of an artery into a vein, for the commodity of life. for this is a miracle of prudent nature to change the coats of the veſſels of the lungs; producing a vein which in its body ſhould imitate an artery,and an artery which ſhould repreſent a vein;for if the vena arterioſa ſhould have retai- ned its proper conſiſtence, the arterious blood which is carried by it from the heart to nouriſh the lungs,nlight by reaſon of its ſubtilty penetrate through, and flow away by rea- ſon ofthe rarity of the veinous texture: and ſo nature ſhould never have attained her i. cc wc --~ - `- li b. - * contained inthecheſ. ceived cnd,that is,to nouriſh the lungs, by reaſon ofthe continuall motion of their contra- &ion and dilatation. . - - - for nouriſhment cannot be aſſimilated to the part, unleſ; it be pit, and cleave to it. wherefore it was fit, that nature ſhould ń. the body of this vein ſolid, that it might be immoveable,unſhaken and ſtubborn (in reſpect of a vºin which by its ſoftneſs would have been too obſequious and yeilding to the agitation of the lungi)that ſo it might have nou- riſhment,which might be diffuſed into all parts thereof, and which might neither be drawn by its diſtole, nor driven back into the heartby its ſºftle. but the artery hath the conſi- ſtence of a vein, that by that veinous ſoftneſs according to the neceſſity of nature it might be the more readily contraćted and dilated, to bring . air in and carry the vapours forth . hcart. here wenect with a difficulty,which is,by what way the blood is carryed out of the right into the left ventricle of the heart. * r - - - galen thinks that there be certain holes º the partition made for that purpoſe; and veri- ly there are ſuch,but they are not perforated.wherefore columbus hath found out a new way, which is,that the blood is carryed to the lungs by the vena arterioſa, and there sº and carried from thence together with . y the arteria venºſi to the left ventricle of the heart; this he writes truly very probablely. botallu, in his º d: catarrho hath found out a third way,to wit, a vein, which he cals.atteriarum nutrix.that is, the nurſ º thearteries, which creeps a little above the coronall to the º car of the heart,and 㺠goes into the left earthereof. but yet i am very much afraid,that this vein obſerved by sº- talu, is that veſſel obſerved by faſpius, whº by the ſchººſterialá is joyned to the art, andby which all the vital blood is carried for the forming and nouriſhment officiang. whilſt the infant is yet in the womb. ofwhich alſo galtnºmakes mention,but it i. iainlid from his time to this day but that falfius raiſed up the memory of it again. -- º c h a p. xiii. the diſtribution of the aſcendent hollow vein. ºšhe hollow vein riſing out of the gibbous pºrt of the liver,and reſembling º: | sº cording to galen) the body of a tree,is divided into two notable branches,but |º not of alikebigneſs. for the greater, §: hind part of the liver upon the § back bone &by the way,receives certain other branches from the ſubſtance.of - * the livºr which entred not into the great trunck with the reſt. you may often ſee this deſcendent branch even to the back bónéil on which it lies in this its deſcent, co- vercd with the ſubſtance of the liver,ſo that it may ſeem that branch proceeds not from that common trunck together with the aſcendent, although indeed it always doth. but the leſſer branch aſcends to the upper parts, and is diſtributed after this manner following.for firſt ariſing into the midrifle it §: two ſmall veins upon it, on º ſide one, which from that part are called phrenice. but from #. when it arrives at the right ear of the heart, it makes the coronales, the coronall or grown veins,which compaſs the baſis of the heart in manner of a crown. thirdly, hiring ſomewhat more deeply into its right ear,in its greaterpart it produces the vená" arterioſa. fourthly, lifica up above the heart, on the right fide it produces the vein ; or ſine£, ğı". out a fºllow) which ove downwards) nouriſheth the in- deſcending to the fourth rib , (reckoning from tercoſtall muſcles and alſo the membrancs of the cightlower ribs, on both ſides, ſending a branch into each of the muſcles at the lower part of the rib, which may be ſufficient for their nouriſhment. beſides alſo *...; in little men; this vein azygº; noti- riſhes all the ſpaces between all the ribs by the like branches, which it ſends in the ſame manner to the four upper ribs. moreover alſo this aºgº; ſºmetimes,though but ſeldome, is found double, that is, on each ſide one. here you # iefly obſerve, that this vein after it hath nouriſhed the ſpaces between the lower ribs, in its remainder deſcends under the diaphragma and is joyned on the left ſide to the emulgent vein; by which it is manifeſt how an abſceſs ma !. critically evacuated by the urine, in a pluriſie. but this ſame azy- goſ is more ...] on the right ſide,and meets with the #. lumbares,but eſpecially with one of them which goes down to the thigh, whereby f opius gathers that it is very con- venient in the beginnings of plurifies to open the vena # the vein of the ham. fifthly above the azygos (when it is wanting thºſe) it ſºnds forth the branch called intercoſali, to the other ſpaces between the upper ribs; although this #. ſeen to come from the axillares,which sylvius cals the ſubclavie. sixtly.it brings forth the mammarie.ſo called, be- cauſe in their greater part they run to the digs between the fourth and fifth ribs, for the uſes formerly mentioned; men and women'have on each ſide one of theſe coming from the subclavie. they are ſometimes i. proceed by a certain common orifice from the hollow vein,before it be divided into the subclavian branches, but it is rather in beaſts than in men; theſe veins deſcending by the ſides of theſternonyeild nouriſhment to the two inner muſcles ofthe cheſ,to the ſeven intercoſtallmuſcles of the true ribs,to the ſternon itſelf and £q - - - why º ar- tery was made like a vein, " by what way blood may paſs out of the right inte the left wentricle, the vein caſ- led the nurſe of the arteries. fallsp. initio oſ. fºr- rteriarum,' :::::::: de "ſº faſt.caf gallik defºrm. fetus. the greater deſcendent branch of the hollow vein. the upper branch of the hollow vein the leſs. vene phrenice. coronaleſ, vena arteriºſi. vena azygoſ, of ſine part. this azygos ſometimes two. . .- how the mat- ter of a plurifie may be evacuas ted by urin. intereſalú. mammaria, of the Öital parts lie.a. —i. its ligaments and griſtles,as alſo to the mediaſtinum & the upper part of the right muſcles, -- - ºr " and the adjacent parts. seaventhly,it produces the cervicali, which on both fides through cºrvitalia. the holes of the produćtions of the vertebra’s ofthe neck, aſcends to the head,ſending many ſmall branches into the ſpinallmarrow through the holes by which the nerves paſs,and al- muſºuloſa. ſo into the membranes, ligaments, griſtles, bones, and jº. muſcles. eightly, the in what :. muſculoſa or muſculous, which alſo ariſing out of the subclavie is divided into two other ;º, branches,the one whereofgoeth upon the breſt to the paps nouriſhing the foremoſt muſcles; jedina - wherefore in abaſtard§: cupping-glaſſes may be fitly applied in this place. bºard plurifle. the other branch deſcends to the upper muſcles of the cheſt,but ſpecially to that which axillaris. is called latiffmu. the tenth is the axillaris; the eleventh the humeralia,of which we will hameralia. treatin their place. the twelfth and laſt is the iugulari, properly ſo called, which is two- ingularis inter" fold,the internall and externall. the internall being the . doth preſently on both fides ºut. from this very beginning aſcend by the fides of the aſpera arteria or weazon even to the the ingularis mouth and skull, yeilding nouriſhment to the parts by which it paſſes,as to the next mem- intrºgoes, branes and nerves. but when it comes to the baſis of the cranium it is divided into two branches, the greater whereof going back along the baſis of the cranium to the hind part thereof, ſending a branch to the long muſcle ſituate upon the aſphague,it enters the cranium with the ſmall carotides through the hole of the nerves of the fixt conjugation, where th become one common veſſell. the leſſer ſending a ſlip to the organ of hearing by the hole called cecum (or the blind) alſo enters the cranium and is ſpent in the thicker meninx neer intewhat parts to the hole of the third an fourth conjugation of nerves.the externall jugular vein being jºiºi, greater and fairer,moſt commonly ſimple yet ſometimes double,either preſently at his be: fierºgoet, ginning or a little after aſcends ſuperficially on both fides of the neck; between the broad muſcle or fleſhy pannicle,being there eaſie to be diſcerned,and other muſcles ſituate at the fides of theneck into which as alſo into the skin it ſends certain branches for nouriſhment. the figure of the hollow vein whole and freed from the reſt of the body. asºº’s a, the trunk of the hol- | §§ w low vein. the lower źº aa,at this place of the º liver, is ſeated the left ºn . \ part of the vein, and di- º º i ...-- ſtributeth branches to the left ſide. b. sheweth how the trunk of the hollow vein in the cheſt (to give way to the heart) is . or bowed to the right hand. - betwixt a.and b. that part of the hollow vein which is betwixt the gibbous fide of the liver - and the midriffe. - c. the left midriffe vein called phrenica ſiniſtra, from which ſurcles do run in a man unto the purſs of the heart, for the midriffe and it do grow together. d. the orifice of the hol- low vein which groweth unto the heart. : e. the crown-vein called coronaria, which like a crown compaſſeth the baſis of the heart, and ſprinkleth his ſurcles on the outſide thereofas far as to the cone or point. ff. the trunk of the vein azygos or non parill, deſcending along the right ſide of the rack- bones unto the loins. which go unto the diſtan- ccs gg,the lower intercoſtal veins,to the branches of the vein azygoſ, - - lib. . contained in the cheft. ces betwixt the ribs,and afford ſurcles unto the muſcles which lie upon the ribs and the rack-bones, and the membrancs of the cheſt. h. the diviſion of the hollow vein into two ſubclavian trunks near the iugulum under the brett-bone. ii, the ſubclavian branch tending on either fide unto the arm; called by ſome xillariº. k. the º intercoſtall vein which commonly ſendeth three ſlips unto the diſtances of the upper ribs, unto which the firſt intercoſtall vein ſent no branches. ll. the deſcending mammary vein: this deſcend- eth under the breſt-bone unto the º: muſcles of the abdomen, and affordeth ſurcles to the diſtances of the griſtles of the true ribs, to the mediaſtinum, the muſcles that lye upon the brøſt and the skin of the abdomen. m.the conjunétion of the mammary with the epigaſtrick veinaſcending about the navill under the right muſcles. n, the vein of the neck called cer- vitalis, aſcending towards the skull,which alloweth furtles to thoſe muſcles that lieupon the neck. o. the vein called muſtula, which is propagated with many ſurcles into the mu- ſcles that occupie the lower parts of the neck and the upper parts of the cheſt, p. thbratica ſuperior, the upper cheſtvein which gºeth to the muſcles lying upon the cheſt, to the skin of that place and to the dugs. ğ. double stapularis diſtributed into the hollow part of the ſhoulderblade and the neighbourmuſcles: ſo alſo betwixt p. and r. ſometimes ſmall veins do reach unto the glandules that are in the arm-holes. r. thoracica infrior running downwardalong the fides ofthe cheſt, and eſpecially diſtributed into the muſcle ofthe armi called latima.s. the inner jugular vein which entreth into the scull after it hath be. flowed ſome ſurcles upon the rough artery.t. the externall jugular veih. v. the diviſion of this vein under the root of the ear x, a branch of the externalſ jugular which goeth into theinfide of the mouth, and is diverſly divided into the parts therein contained. . the ex- terior branch diſtributed near the fauces into the muſcles of the chops ahd the hole skin of the head. z. a portion of the branch. , reaching unto the facea.e.the vein of the fore-head. . a portion of it creeping through the temples, e.” a propagation that goeth unto the skin of the nowl or occiput.a.a.the vein called cephalica, or the externall vein of the arm which others call humeraria,b, muſcula ſuperior, a propagation of the cephalica vein which goethunto the backward muſcles of the neck. betwixt b. and , on the backfide iſſueth a franch from the cephalica which paſſeth unto the outſide of the blade,and a portion thereof runneth betwixt the fleſh and the skin. d.d. a vein from the cephalita which attaineth unto the top of the ſhoulder,and is conſumed into the muſcle that elevatethor lifteth up the arm. and into his skin.e. e. a ſmall vein from the cephalica . through the skin and the muſcles of the arm.f. the diviſion of the cephalica into three parts.g. the firſt branch run- neth deep unto the muſcles which ariſeout of the externall protuberation of the arm.h.. the (econdbranch which goºth to make the median vein. i. i. the third branch running oblique- ly above the wand and the outfide of the arm.k from this branchcertain circles are divſded into the skin, the chief whereof is marked with k, l, the third branch at the wriſt which is joymed atl, with the branch of the baſilicamarked with xjn, the #: which on the right hand is called hepatica, on the left hand lienariº. n. , a branch of the baſilica going to the heads ofthe muſcles of the cubitatn, and to the muſcles themſelves atºp. a notable branch of the baſilica running obliquely, and beſtowing ſurcles upon the muſcles that iſſue from the externall protuberation. this branch deſcendeth together with the fourth nerve.g. divi- ſion of the baſilica into two branches and that is noted with qis ever accompanied with an artery.ſ. a branch of this veinbeſtowed upon the skin of the arm.t.a branch ofthe baſilica which together with the branch of the cephalita marked with h.makes the mediana or mid- qle vein marked with a. a. a branch of the baſilice going to the inner head of the arms <x.abranch iſſuing out of the former that halongunto the wriſt and toward the littlefinger conjoyning itſelf with a branch of the cephalica, y. a vein running out unto the skin at the outfide of the cubit. upper z, aº iſſuing out of a branch of the baſilica marked with t. lower z. a branch of the baſilita, w, going to the infide of the arm. ... the median or common vein. , the partition of the median vein above the wriſt: this diviſion ſhould have been made above?; the externall branch of the partition which goeth to the outſide of the head.*, from which iſſueth a ſmall branch to the infide. , the internall branch under “ which toward the middle and the ring finger is eſpecially diſ. poſed. # the vein of the thumb diſperſed into therhountenet or hillock, which is con- i. with the branch noted with **, the trunk of the hollow vein from which iſſue ranches unto the parts ſeated under the fiver, the fatty vein called adiºſ, finiſtra, ’’ which goeth unto the fat of the kidneys. ºn the two emulgents which lead wheyey blood unto the kidneys. **, the two ſpermaticall veins leading the matter of the ſeed unto the teſticles. v, the beginning of the bodden veſſell called v varicoſum. #, the veins of the oins called lumbares, which are ſent in the knots or knees to the rackbones, to the mar- row of the back, to themuſcles that lieupon the loins, and to the peritoneum.s, the bifur- cation of the hollow vein into the illack branches, which bifurcation is not unlike. as * muſcula ſuperior, a tranſverſe branch going to the muſcles of the abdomen, and to the peritoneum. *, the diviſion of the left iliack vein, into an inner branch att, and an utter at” muſcula media the utter propagation ofthe branch *, diſtributed through the mu- ſcles of the coxa and the skin of the buttocks,” an inner propagation o *: . - railci . ofºilin, tl . -- where the externall jugu. lar vein may be fitly opened in inflammations. of the parts of the mouth. wenareča. vena pupis. ' branch (, which goeth unto the holes of the holy bone. •, the vein called sacra, which oeth to the upper holes of the holy bone. x+, the vein hypogaſtrica diſtributed to the blad- er, to the muſcles of the fundament, and the neck of the womb,” a vein ariſing from the utter branch marked with, which isjoyned with ſome branches of the internall vein, near the holes or perforations of the ſhare-bone. . a vein which when it hath paſſed the ſhare-bone diſtributeth one branch into the cup of the coxendix and to the muſcles of that place. ..., another ſmall branch which runneth under the skin at the infide of the thigh. x, the congreſs or meeting of the foreſaidvein, with a branch marked with char. . and di- ſtributed into the leg. , the epigaſtrickvein, a propagation of the utter branch -, perfo- rating the peritoneum, whereto as alſo the muſcles of the abdomen, and the skin it offereth branches, the chief branch of this vein is joyned with the deſcending mammary above the navill at m. . a. pudenda an inner propagation ofthe branch...", running overthwart unto the privities. . saphena or the ancle vein or the inner branch of the crurall trunk, which creepeth through the inſide of the leg under the skin unto the tops of the toes. , the firſt interior †. of the saphena offered to the groin. , the utter propagation there- ofdivided to the foreſide or outfide of the thigh. ii, the ſecond propagation of the sa. phena going to the firſt muſcle of the leg. x, the third propagation of the saphana going to the skin of the whirle-bone, and unto the ham. ... the fourth propagation of the saphena diſperſing his muſcles forward and backward. * branches from this unto the foreſide of the inward ankle, to the upper part of the foot,and to all the toes, o, iſchias minor, called alſo muſcula interior the utter branch of the crurall trunk divided into the muſcles of the coxendix;and to the skin of thatplace. , ,and this alſo may be called muſcula. , the exterior and leſſer which paſſeth into ſome muſcles of the leg. ,the interior greater and deeper unto themuſcles of the thigh. , the vein called poplitea, made of two crurall veins divided under the knee. , from this a ſurcle is reached upward unto the skin of the thigh. ,but the greater part runs by the bent of the knee under the skin as far as the heel. , alſo to the skin of the outward ankle. , the vein called surali, or calf vein,becauſe it runneth unto the muſcles that make the calf of the leg. ,the diviſion of the surall vein into an exterior trunk , and an interior . , t ... the diviſion of the exterior trunk under the knee into an externall branch, which along the brace attaineth unto the muſcles of the foot. , and an internall. , , , .which deſcending along the out- ſide of the leg to the upper part ofthe foot is cloven into divers branches, and in the back of the foot mixeth itſelf with pºplitea, or the ham vein. . , the interior branch of the surallyein which runneth into thebackfide of the leg. , a branch hereof deſcending to the infide of the heel and the great toe and is divided into divers ſurcles. , iſthias major iſſuing out of the internall trunk at , and running through the muſcles of the calf. ,a propagation hereof derived unto the upper* of the foot,and affording two ſurcles to every toe. , the remainder of the inner trunk. ; behind the inner ankle,approach- eth to the bottom of the foot and is conſumed into all the toes. , the commixion of the vein poplitea with the ſmall or calf-branch at . - - but when it arrives to the baſis of the lower part of the head, it is divided into more branches,one whereof is carried to the muſcles of the bone hyois,the larinx,the tongue and the lower part of the tongue (in which place it is commonly opened in the ſquinances,and other inflammations of the mouth) and to the coat of the noſe. another is carried to the dura mater, paſſing on both fides through a hole fituate under the bone maſtoideſ, and be- ſides, aſcending to the bone of the back part of the ſcull, itcomes obliquely to the upper É. of the ſuture lambdoides, where theſe branches meeting . paſs into the re- uplication of the duramater,dividing the fore-part of the brain,that ſojoined and united, they may make the torcular; the third aſcendentis diſtributed upon the back-part and baſis of the lower jaw, to the lips, the fides of the noſe, and the muſcles thereof; and in like manner to the greater corner of the eyes,to the fore-head and other parts of the face, and at length by meeting together of many branches,it makes in the forehead the vein which is called vena rečja or vena fronti, that is,the forehead vein. the fourth aſcending by the glandules behind the ears, after it hath ſent forth many branches to them, is divided into two others, one whereof paſſing before, and the other behind the ear, are at length ſpent in the skin of the head. t. fifth and laſt wandring over all the lower part of the head, going to the back part thereof, makes the venapupil, which extended the length of the head by the ſagitall ſuture, at length goeth ſo far, that it meets with the venafrontis, which meeting is the cauſe, that a vein opened in the forehead, is good in griefs of the hinder part of the head, and ſo on the contrary. but we muſt obſerve that in the cranium of ſome, the vena pupis by one or more manifeſt paſſages ſends ſome portion thereof to the inner part of head, ſo that the vena pupis being opened may make revulſion of the matter which cauſeth the internall pains of the head. !y chap, lis. . contained in the cheft. - ii c. h. a. p. xii ii. the diſtribution of the nerves, or ſinews of the ſixth conjugation. tesecauſe the diſtribution of the arteries cannot be wellſhewed,"unleſs we violate three pair of ) thoſe nerves which are carryed over the cheſt,therefore before we ſhew the di- nººn. |; ſtribution of the arteries, we will as briefly as we can, proſecute the diſtribution fixt conjugati. *] of theſe nerves. on. nºw the fixth conjugation brings forth three pair of nerves; for paſſing out of the skul as it comes down to the cheſt, it by the way ſends forth ſome . to certain muſcle: of the neck,and to the three aſcendent muſcles of the larinx on each ſide of the sternon and upon the clavicles. then the remainder deſcending into the cheſt, is divided on each fide into theſe three pair. the firſt pair makes the ramus (oftalia. the ſecond,the ramu, recurren. the third pair, the ramu ſtomachicus. the ramus coſtiliºor coſtall branch is ſo called, be- ranucºſalii. cauſe deſcending by the roots of the ribs, even to the holy bone, and joining themſelves to theſe which proceed from cach of the vertebra’s of the ſpine, they are carryed to all the naturall parts. - the recurrens, or recurrent is alſo called, becauſe as it were ſtarting up from the cheſt,it rearrin. runs upward again,but theſe two recurrent nerves do not run back from the ſame place; but the right from below the artery, called by ſome the axillary, by others subclavian,and the left from beneath the great artery,deſcending to the naturall parts.but each of them on each ſide aſcending alongby the weazon,even to the larinx, and then they infinuate them- felves by the wings of cartilago jcutiformis,and thyroides into the proper muſcles, which open and ſhut the larinx. by how much the nerves are nearer the originall,to wit, the brain, or ſpinall marrow, they are by ſo much the ſofter. on the contrary,by how much they are further abſent from their originall, they are ſo much the harder and ſtronger, which is the reaſon that nature w would have theſe recurrent nerves to run back again upwards, that ſo they might be the wº: tur i. - fronger to perform the motions of the muſcles of the larinx. but the stomachicu, or ſto- ºft º: le .#. ſo called, becauſe it deſcends to the ſtomach orventricle. for this branch recurrent. deſcending on both ſides by the ſides of the gullet, ſends many branches from it into the $ muſiondº, | inner ſubſtance of the lungs, into the coat thereof, into the pericardium and heart; and chich: then coming into the upper orifice of the ſtomach,it is ſpent in many branches, which fol- - ded after divers manners and wayes, chiefly makes that mouth or ſtomach a which is the feat ofthe animall appetite(as they termit) apd hunger, and the judger of things conveni- ent or hurtfull for the ſtomach. but from thence they are diverſly diſſºminated over all the body of the ventricle. a ". . . - . . . . v. moreover the ſame branch ſends forth ſome ſhall branches to the liver and bladder of the gall, giving each part by the way, ſo much ſenſe as ſhould be ſufficiently neceſſary for it. here you muſtnote, the ſtomach branch deſcetidson each ſide one, knit to the gullet, and by the way they divide themſelves into two branches, each of which goes to the oppoſite ſide,that it may there join itſelf to the nerve of that ſide. to which purpoſe the right is carried above the gullet,the left below it, ſo that theſe two ſtomatick become four, and a- gain theſe four preſently become two. . . w : an anatomical xiome. -* -- c h a p. x v. sº the diviſion of the arteries. . . • -º-nhe artery ariſing forth of the left ventricle of the heart, is preſently (the two tº º coronall arteries being firſt ſpred over the ſubſtance of the heart)divided into the left branch º yº two .. branches. the greater whereofdeſcends to the lower parts,be- oftheaſcendent , ſ sº ing diſtributed,as we formerly mentioned in the third book, and . chapter. aſtery isleſ; ºn zºº the leſſer aſcending to the uppet parts,is again divided into two other une- tºights gualbranches,theleſſºr of which aſcending towards theieſt ſide ſºnds forth no artery from ..." it, untill it arrive at the rib of the cheſt, where it produces the ſubclavian artery, which ºn. is diſtributed after the manner £º *. - tery into thes firſt, it produces the intercoſtall, and by it imparts life to the three intercoſtall muſcles i of the four upper ribs,and to the neighbouring places. - intercoſtalis. secondly, it bringsforth the mammillary branch, which is diſtributed as the mammil- . lary vein is. - º - º, 's>. mámmaria. thirdly, the cervicali,which aſcends along the neck by the tranſverſe produćtions to the duta mater, being diſtributed as the vena Červitalis is. . . . . . fourthly, paſſing out of the cheſt from the back part of the cheſt,it ſends forth the mu- . ſculoſa,whereby it gives life to the hind muſcles of the neck,even to the back part of the head. muſculºſa. fiftly, cervicaliſ. / i o lisa. of the vitallparts p!:w. thoracica dw- pleas. the diſtributi- on of the right ſubčlavian artery. the carotides, or ſleepy arte- ticse • their divificn. the diſtributi- cn of the inter- mall branch of the ſleepy arterics. to what parts the externall braneh of the ſleepy artery arrives. fiftly,having wholly left the cheſt, it ſends forth the two humerarie, or ſhoulder arte- hameraria du ries,the one whereof goes to the muſcles of the hollow part of the ſhoulderblade,the other to the joynt of the arm and the muſcles ſituate there, and the gibbous part of the ſhoulder blade. sixthly and laſtly, it ". the thoracica,which alſo is twofold, for the one goes to the fore muſcles of the c of it makes the axillaris of that ſide. eſt, the other to the latiſimu,as we ſaid of the vein, the remnant the other greater branch likewiſe aſcending by the right ſide,even to the firſt rib of the cheſt,makes alſo the ſubclavian of that ſide, which beſides thoſe diviſions it makes on this ſide, like thoſe of the left ſide, hath alſo another which makes the right and left carotides or ſkepy arteries; which aſcending undivided with a nerve of the fixth conjugation and the internall jugular vein, by the fides of the aſpera arteria or windpipe, when they come to the pharinx,they are divided on each ſide into two branches,the one internall, the other externall. the internall and ;. is ſent to the pharinx, larinx,and tongue; then entring into the head by the long ho e and the back part of the upper jaw, it ſends manybranches to the noſe,eyes,the infide of thetemporal muſcles and to the craſs meninx, or duramater:the remainder of this branch going by the ſide holes of the ſame, that it might there make the plexus admirabilis as we ſee.and then it is ſpent npon thebaſis of the brain abundantly diffu- ſed over the tenui, meninz or pia mater,& then the membrane or plexus choroider.the external or leſſer branch of the ſl y arteries goes to the cheeks,the temples, & behind the ears;laſt- ly,itſends a branch into the long muſcle of the neck, with which the internal jugular vein infinuates it ſelf into the dura mater, entring by the hole ofthe nerves of the ſixth con- jugation, the figure of the arteries. lº ſº - º d an º tnu yw, º of the cheſt, attaineth to the broad muſcles ofthe arm. out into the arm and affordingbranches unto the muſcles thereof. o. abranch reaching —t- n w a. the orifice of the great ar- tery, or the beginning ther:- of, where it iſſueth out of the heart. b. coronaria, ſo called, becauſe like a crown it compaſſeth the baſis of the heart. c.the diviſion of the great arte- into two trunks, v.i. (d. the left ſubclavian climbin obliquely upward unto the ribs. e. the upper intercoſtall artery, or a branch which beſtoweth four propagations unto the diſtances of the lower rib. f. the neck artery which through the tranſverſe proceſ- ſes of the rackbones of the neck, attaineth to the ſcull, beſtowing ſurcles unto the marrow and his neighbour muſcles. ng. the left mammary artery running under the breſt-bone, and to the navill. it diſtributeth ſurcles to the me- diaſtinum, the muſcles of the breſ, and of the abdomen. h. muſcula, or a branch attaining to the backward muſcles of the neck. i. the scapular arteries which go unto the hollowneſs of the blade, and of the muſcles that lie thereon. k. humeraria which climbeth o- ver the top of the ſhoulder l. thoracica ſuperior, ſprinkled unto the forward muſcles of the cheſt m.thoracica inferior; which paſſing along the fides n; the axillarie artery running to º lima, - contained in the cheft. - i i to the outſide of the cubit lying deep.pp.branches to the joint of the cubit with the arm. q:the upperbranch of the artery running along the radius and offering ſurcles to the thumb,the fore-finger,and the middle finger k. a ſurgle creeping unto the outſide of the hand,and led betwixt the firſt bone of the thumb and that of the after-wriſt, ſupporteth the fore-finger where we uſe to feel the pulſe. s. the lower branch of the artery running along the vina and communicating ſurcles to the little finger,the ring finger,and the .# definger. * a little branch unto the muſcles about the little finger.t. the diſtribution of the upper and lower branches.into the hand and the fingers. v. the trunk of the greatar- tery aſcending to the jugulum, and the diviſion thereof in that place into x, r,z. x the left caroti, or ſleepy artery. i. subclavian dextra is divided into branches,as the right is divided. z. caroti, dextra,called alſo appleãica and lithargica. . the diviſion of the left caroti, in the chops. b. the exteriour branch of that diviſion going into the face, the temples, and behind the ears, c. the inner branch ; to the throttle, the chops, and the tongue. d. the diviſion hereof at the baſis of the skull,into two branches which enter the ſinus of the puramater. e.a propagation of the branchº, unto the muſcles of the face. f. the diſtri- bution of the branch b. under the root of the ear.g. the fore-branch hereof greeping up the temples. h. the back branch running on the backſide of the ear under the skin. i. the trunk of the great artery,deſcending unto the #. of the back, kkk the lower inter- coſial arreries which go unto the diſtances of the eight lower ribs, from which are offe- rédfurcles to the marrow, and to the muſcles that grow to the back and to the cheſt...l. the artery of the midriffecalled phronica or diaphragmatica. Č, meſenterica su- perior, but you muſt note that above , the trunk ºf the galiacall artery is taken away,leſt the multitude of letters in ſo ſmall a table ſhould breed obſcurity. n, , the right and left emulgents running from the aorta or great arteriºunio the kidnies, u, ºx the ſper- maticall arteries on either ſide going to the teſticks, a, the lower meſentericall artery ou the left below u, running eſpecially into the colick gut on that ſide. pa, the arteries cal- led lumbares which run overthwart and like knees, affording ſurcles to the muſcles that grow to the loins, and to the peritoneum; º; the lower; º: ſuperior running into the fides of the abdomen and the muſcles. "...thebifurcation of the great artery into two iliack trunks, and at the fides, but ſomewhat inward are branches which make . that are cal- led sacre.t. the diviſion of the left iliack trunk into an inner branch at £ and an utter at º, g. the inner iliack branch...", muſcula inferior the utter propagation ofthe inner branch going unto the muſcles which gover the branch bone and the caxendix. . §º: inner propagation of the inner branch going to the bladder,theyard and the neck of the womb. e. the umbilicall artery. ... the remainder of the branch , aſſuming an addition from the utter branch neer º. and ſo falling through the hole of the ſhare-bone into the leg. ... epigaſhica, it aſcendeth upward unto the right muſcle of the abdomen, and about. the navell isjoyned with the mammary artery. #. pudenda, it creepeth overthwart the fare-bone. "...thecºurall trunk without the peritineum. x. muſcula rural exteriºr, goi into the fore muſcles of the thigh. n. mºſcalatruralis interior going unto the muſcles of the infide of the thigh....the conjunčtion ofthis artery with the branches. t-pºplitea.going to the muſcles on the backſide of the thigh.** which communicateth finall branches to the joint of the knee, and the muſcles that make the calfe of the leg. e. the diviſion ofthe crural artery under the ham into three branches. a. tibira exterior, it accompa- nieth the brace-bone, and is conſumed into the muſcles. #. the chief part of the cru- rallartery. z. the upper and backer tibiea. *. the lower and backer ſibiea running unto the upper fide of the foot atº. *. a propagation of the crurall arterygoing to the inner and upper fide of the foot, and ſprinkling a branch unto the ankle. a. a propagation unto the lower part of the foot which affordeth ſurcles to each toe. - but we muſt note that there be more veins in a mans body,than arteries,and beſides that the veins are far thicker. for there is no need for preſerving the native heat in the parts themſelves, either of ſo many, or ſo large inſtruments of that kind. therefore you may of ten find veins without arteries, but never arteries without veins. - but we underſtand that an artery is a companion to a vein,not only when it touches it, or adheres to it by common membranes,as uſually it happens; but alſo when it is appoin- ted together with the vein for the uſe of the ſame part. c h a p. xvi. of the thymus. • - - * - she thymuſ is a glandule of a ſoft, rare, and ſpongious ſubſtance, of large bigneſſ, what the §l fituate in the furtheſt and higheſt part of the cheſt, amongſt the diviſions of the thymus is. ſubclavian or jugular veins and arteries, as& contained in the cheſt, for this uſe; that it might ſerve theſe veſſels for a defence againſt the bony hardneſſe of the cheſt, and beſides,that as it were by this prop ºw , the diſtributions of theſe veſſels the uſe. i of the vitallparts. lib. . the magni. tude, the ſubſtance, compoſure. why the back part of the - weazon is li. gamontous, veſſels might become the ſtronger; for ſo we ſee that nature hath provided for others, e- ſpecially ſuch as are the morenoble and worthy. this glandule appears very large in beaſts and young men,but in ſuch as have attained to full growth it is much leſs,and ſcarce to be ſeen. c h a p. x; w ii. of the aſpera arteria, the rough artery a weazon. the figure of the aſpera arteria or weazon. fi gº, i, a. the orifice of the great <º artery cut from the .. aa. the coronall arteries of the heart. b. c. d. the diviſion of the great artery in two trunks, the deſcending c.the aſcen- ding d. e. the left axillarie, or ſub- clavian artery. f. the right axillarie or ſub- clavian artery. g. the right caroti, or ſleepy artery. h. the left carotis. i, the trunk of the rough arter w. or weazon. k.l. the diviſion of the rough artery into two branches, of which the right goes into the right, and left into the left ſide of the lungs; which bran- > ches are again ſubdivided into many other. m. the head of the rough artery called the larinx or throttle. n.n. certain glandules or kernells at the root of it. oo. the right and lift nerves of the fixth and ſeaventh conjugation. p. a revolu- tion of ſmall branches of the right nerve to the right axillary artery. qq. the right recurrent nerve. r. a revolution of ſmall branches of the left nerve unto the deſcending trunk of the great artery. ss.the left recurrent nerve. †: affera arteria or weazon ſeeing it is the inſtrument of voice and reſpiration, . | is of a griſtly,ligamentous,and wholly various ſubſtance. for if it had been one rough, and continued body with the larinx or throttle,it could not be neither dilated nor compreſſed; opened, nor ſhut,neither could it order the voice accor- ding to our deſire. it is compoſed of veins from the internall jugular, of arteries ariſing from the carotideſ, and of nerves proceeding from the recurrent branch,of a double membrane, of which the externall comes from the peritoneum; the internall, which is the ſtronger and woven with right fibers, from the inner coat of the mouth,the which is common with the inner coat of the aſphagus or gullet. and alſo it confiſts of round griſtles, yet not drawn into a perfeót circle.compoſed in manner of a channell,and mutually joyned together in order,by the li- gaments that proceed from their fides andends. theſe ſame ligaments perfe& the remnant of the circle of this aſpera arteria, on that part next the gullet; which is thought to be done to this end; that that ſoftneſs of a liga- ment, might then give place, when we ſwallow harder and greater gobbets of meat. of" the two ſorts of lº. which are annexed to the griſtles of the weazon, ſome tie and faſten together the rings or circles, which give means both to it, and theſe circles to à t --- ~ l i b. . contained in the cheft. to be drawn in length; otherſome bring theſe griſtles into a perfeót circle,which alſo yeeld them means ofdilatation. theſe ligaments cover the inner ſuperficies, but the griſtles are placed without, to reſiſt the incurſion of externall injuries. but we muſt note, that by this communion of the inner coats of the weazon and gullet; we reap this benefit in the commodiouſneſs of the aëion,that one of theſe parts being depreſſed the other is liſted up, like a rope running in a wheel or pully. for thus whilſt the gullet is depreſt to ſwallow any thing, the weazon is lifted up; and on the contrary when the ſtomach riſes up in vo- miting,the weazon is depreſts. it is only one, and that ſeated between the larinx (from which it takes its beginning) and the lungs in which it ends; firſt dividing itſelfinto two large branches, the right and the left,and beſides each of theſe entring into the ſubſtance of the lungs, is againdivided into two others; to each of the lobºs one;and to conclude,theſe be ſubdivided into infinite others,through the ſubſtance of the lobes. all theſe branches are griſtlely even to the ends.they are ſituate between the ends ofthe artera venoſa, and the vena arterioſa, that the entrance of the air into the heart by the ar. teria venoſa might be ſpeedier, as alſo the paſſage out of the vapour, by the vena arterioſa. thus it hath connexion with theſe in the ends,or utmoſt parts thereof, but by the other parts compaſſing it, with the members from whence it takes them. the temperament thereofiscold and dry. theaòtion is to carry the air to, and vapours from the lungs;that by dilating, but this by preſſing the griſtles together. chap. xv. º' - . of the gula, * - ſº -- - - - hºsºhe oeſºphagus,or gullet.which is the paſſage of the meat and drink,is of a mid- sº dle ſubſtance between the fleſh and finews, becauſe it conſiſts of one nervous membrane and another fleſhy. the nervous is placed the innermoſt, and is continued to the inner coat of the mouth even to the lips, (whereby itcomes - to paſs,) that the lipstremble, in diſeaſes which are ready to be judged by a criticall vomiting,and to the inner part of the aſpera arteria; it conſiſts of right fibers for the attra&ion of the meat, which we ſee is ſometimes ſo º: and forcible in hungry peo- ple, that they have ſcarcetime to chawit, before they findit,to be pluckt down, as it were with a hand. thefleſhy coatplaced without is woven with tranſverſe fibers,to haſten the oing of the meat into the ſtomach;and for expulfion in vomiting and breaking of wind. #. “two coats are continued with the two coats of the ſtomach, and have the like ſite. befides, the gullet hath theſe parts compoſingit,as a vein from the gate and hollow aſcen- dent vein; a nerve from the fixt conjugation, an artery from that which creeps º: the bottome of the ſtomach with the vena gaſtrica, or elſe from the arteries aſcending the hollow part thereof; but alſo beſides all theſe veſſels it may have a third coat from the membrane inveſting the ribs,or pleura. . the magnitude of the gullet is large enough, yet fome be bigger,ſome leſs,according to the variety of bodies. the figure of it is round,that ſo it might É. more large to ſwallow meat,and leſs ſubjećt to offence. it is placed between the back bone and weazon from the roots of the tongue even to the ſtomach. but as it deſcends alongſt the backbone, when it comes to the fourth vertebra of the cheſt, it turns to the right fide, to give way to the great artery aorta and the deſcendent artery, then it turns to the left fide to the ſtomach, or mouth of the ventricle. nature hath faſtenedit to the diaphragma with ſtrongmembranous ties, left that if it had lain upon the artery it ſhould have hindred the paſſage of the vitall ſpirit to the lower parts. it is only one and thattyed to the forementioned parts, both by its veſſels and membranes. it is oftemper rather cold than hot,as all thoſe parts, which are more nervous than fleſhy, are.the a&ion thereof is to draw and carry down the meat,and to caſt forth ſuch things by vomitas trou- ble the ſtomach. here youmuſt note, that whilſt we ſwallow down, the gullet is drawn downwards, and the weazon upwards, which is the cauſe that we cannot ſup and blow, ſwallow and breath together at the ſame inſtant; which we muſt think to happen by gods fingular providence; to whoſe name be glory for everlaſting, amen, º r - the endof the fourth book why the fore. part is griſtle- ly. - the tiumbar and ſite. - the diviſion of the weaz through ź. lobes of the ltings. the temper and aftion. theſubſtance º - - . ** attraćtive force. thereof. - the compo: - ſure, - the migii. tude. the figure; site. remperand a&tion. why we cans not ſup and blowatons time, - - - - tº . - - lib. . hdtttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttt _ sºğuğnjºšyºğjºšŠussu snjº ii, dulliſdditilititttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttf ºzºzzzzzzzza. . × - - - …~~~~~~~~~~~~ …~~~~~~~…~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ the fifth boök, of the animall parts contained in the he ad. c h a p. i. a generall deſcription of the head. $ aving hitherto declared two generall parts of mans body,that is, the © naturall and vital,it is now fit to betake ourſelves to the laſt,that § is the animall,beginning with the head. , § wherefore we will firſt define the head,then divide it into its parts; § thirdly, deſcribe each of theſe parts; fourthly, demonſtrate them af. what the head } ter the order they offer themſelves to our fight in diſſºtion. } wh ſeated i the head therefore is the ſeat of the ſenſes, the palace and habi- the § in tation of reaſon and wiſdome,from whence as from a fountain infi- place. nite ačtions and commodities ariſe. it is ſeated above the reſt of the … body,that the animall ſpirit from thence,as from a tower, may govern and moderate the whole body and performall ačtions according to the praſcript of nature. by the head we º all that which is contained from the crown of the hed to the firſt vertebra of the cck. * * * . . . . . . . ºr . - i -, * , *** tº figure ofthehadis round, lightly flatedoned fidºu rain ſomethingto thefore and hind part thereof. for from hence is takeſian argument of the goodneſs of the divi the ſenſes; on the contrary, thoſe which are exactly round, or acuminate, and ſharp to- jº" wards the top, are not thought good. the head is divided into the face forehead temples, º the forepart, the crown and hind part. - - by the face we underſtand,whatſoever is contained between the eye-brows and the low- er part of the chin. by the forehead,all the ſpace from the eye-brows even to the coronall suture. by the temples,whatſoever is hollowed from the leſſer corner of the eye,”ven to the ears. by the forepart of the head,whatſoever runs in length from the top of the forehead,or the coronall suture,even to the suture lambdoides,and on each fide to the oſſa petroſa, the ſtony bones, or ſcaly sutures. by the crown we ſignifie a certain point .. in the midſt of the . suture,which is ſufficiently known.by the deciput or hind part of the head,that which is terminated by the suture lambdoides,and the firſt vertebra of the neck. rhetorting all theſe parts there befome fimple, ſome compound, beſides ſome are containing, pººfinº" ſome contained. of the containing ſome are common to all the parts of the head, as the head. : skin,the fleſhy pannicle and pericranium; others are properto certain parts,as the fleſhy}. nicle to the ... face, forehead, and skin covering the cranium, the common coat of the muſcles to the fat and face; the skułł and both the meninges to the brain. - the parts. ... the parts contained are the ſubſtance of the brain, .#. ventricles, and the bodies contained, ... contained in them,the nerves,the mamillary proceſſes; the plexus choroides or rete admira- bile,the glandula baſilari,and others of which we will ſpeak hereafter. - - we muſt now ſpeak of the containing parts beginning with the skin; for the order of teaching requires that we take our exordium from the more ſimple, but firſt we will ſay what th ſomething of the hair. }. the the hair is nothing elſe than an excrement generated and formed of the more groſs and thºuſe there- terrene portion of the ſuperfluities of the third conco&tion, which could not be waſted by of. inſenſible tranſpiration. the benefit of it is, that conſuming the groſs and fuliginous or ſooty excrements of the brain it becomes a cover and ornament for the head. this hair of the head and eye-browes have their originall from the firſt conformation of the infant in the womb, the reſt of the hairs of the body ariſe and grow forth as the body grows and becomes more dry, of which ſort are the hairs which cover the chin, armlfbles, groins, and other parts of our bodies. * . . . . c. h. a. p. lis. . contained intbe head. \ c. h. a. p. ii. - “... of the muſculous skin of the head, (commonly called the hairy ſcalpe) and of the pericranium. * he skin which covers the skull, and is covered with the hair, is far more fleſhy, § thick, hard and dry than any other part of the body, eſpecially which wants § gº hair. the skin'hath almoſt the like condition of quality as thoſe parts have, º which it doth ſimply cover,but is as it were loſt in them, or grown into one with them,as in the lips and forehead with the fleſhy pannicle, wherefore it is there called mu- ſculous; in other places it adheres to the griſles, as on the fides of the noſtrills and cor- ners of the eyes,whereupon it is there called griſlely. - - -- it hath connexion with the pericranium, becauſe joyned to it,it receives nerves from the firſt and ſecond vertebra of the neck,and from the third conjugation of the brain which are diſſeminated through all its ſubſtance, whereby it comes to paſs,that the wounds, contuſ- ons,and impoſthumes,that happen in or upon this skin, are not to be neglečted. the * pericranium, (but i ſuppoſe it ſhould be the perioſteum) is a moſt thin membrane; which next and immediately coversall the bones of the bedy, and this on the head is call ed by a peculiar name the pericranium by reaſon of the excellency of the cranium or skull, in otherbones it is tearmed the perioſium: and as the periºranium takes its originall from the craſſà meninx propagating itſelf by certain ſtrings or threds ſent forth by the ſutures and holes of the ... all other membranes of the body have their originall either from this pericranium, orcraſſa méminx, ſending forth their produćtions, as well by the holes or paſſages of the head, as by theſe of the ſpinall marrow or backbone it ſelf,even to the ho- ly bone. - y of which this is an argument, for in what part ſoever of the body a membrane is hurt, preſently the hurt or ſenſe thereof comes to the craſſa meminx. for ſo thoſe who have but their little toe hurt when they ſheeſe, or cough, perceive an increaſe of their pain,by the paſſage thereof to the brain. the uſe of this pericranium is to cover the skull; and to givenotice of things hurtfull, by the power of the quick ſenſe which it is endued withall,and the pereoſtium doth the like in other bones. beſides itſuſtaines and faſtens by the ſutures the craſſa meninx to the skul; left it ſhould fall by reaſon of its weight upon the pia mater, and ſo hurt it,and hinder the pul- ſation of the brain and arteries that are plenteouſly ſpread through both the meninger; wherefore the perigranium hath moſt ſtrait connexion with the craſſa º: the originall from thence. we muſt think the ſame of theother membranes of the body,which thing is very noa. ble in the ſolution of the continuity of the membranes. r c h a p. i i i. of the sutures. rºsahe sutures do ſew or faſten together the bones of the skull ; theſe be five in * ... number. three are true and legitimate, two falſe and ſpurious. the coronally ºf the firſt of the true sutures,is ſeated in the forepart of the head, deſcending downwards overthwart the forepart of the head to the midſt of the temples; it iſ is ſo called,becauſe corole,that is wreaths,crowns,or garlands,are ſet upon that place. * . - - the ſecond is called the sagittali,or right ſuture, as that which running through the grown divides the head into two equall parts;as with a ſtraight line, running the length of it from the coronall to the lambdoides or hind suture. . . . – - - but this third suture lambdoides,is ſo called becauſe it repreſents this capitallgreek let- ter lambda a. you muſt underſtand this deſcription of the sutures, not as alwayes but as for the greater part to be thus. for there be ſome skulls that want the foremoſt suture, o- therſome the hind, and ſometimes ſuch as have none of the true sutures,but only the falſe and ſpurious.but alſo you ſhall ſometimes find the sagittal to run to the noſe. . . . ) and ofttimes there {: three or four sntures in the back part of the head, ſo that indeed the number of the sutures is not certain. which alſo we find obſerved by cornelius celſus; where he writes,that hippocrates was deceived by the suturesby chance, for that he conje- Čtured that the bones of the back part of the head, were broken;becauſe his probe thruſt to the roughnes of the ſecond ſuture lambdoides,ſtaied as at a cleft made in the bone by a ſtroak. the other two are called the falſe,ſtony and ſcaly sutures,by reaſon they are made by a ſcaly conjun&ion of the bones,but not by a toothed ſaw or comb-like connexion. but if any ask, why the head confiſts not of one bone;thatſ.*it alight be the ſtronger: i anſwer - - ir - what the hairy ſcalp is. its connexion * our author with fallopius and laurentiuſ confounds the pericranium : and perioſteam; bur veſalius bauhinu, and bartheelina: diſtinguiſh , them making the pericrani- um thiri and foſt, and the , perioſfeam moſt thin and ner- vous,and of , moſt exquiſite ſenſe, , why the ..., wounds there- of muſt not he negleded. the pericrani- wn and perio- ſfewm of the ſame nature. whence all . the membranes proceed, why when any membra. inous part is , hurt in any part of the body,the head is affeded be conſent. , the uſe ofthe periºrănium. º number. ..., . . . . . . . . . . ." * --> ----- some skull; vº want sutures; cºſtil. , cap; . of the animall parts lib.s. way the ſcull it is, that ſo it might be the ſafer both from internall and externall injuries. for the skull conſiſts ofdi- vers bones. in what bodies andby what means the vena papis ſome- times enters into the parts within the ſcull. in what men one part of the being head ſtricken, the oppoſite is broken. why we muſt not apply a trepan to the suttres. what the cra" nium or skul is. why the nowl bone is hardcr than the reſt. * my anthor means by the of baſſlare in this place the wedgbone:but ſome anato- miſts make it a £ynonyma of . this ; occipis tiſ. the forehead bene, next to the nowl bone is harder than the reſt. a cavity to be obſerved in the forthead bone. oſſ, parietalia & bregmatis. oſſa petroſa, or the ſcaly bones, being as it were the tunnel of the chimney of this humanefabrick, to which all the ſmoky vapours of the wholebody aſcend, if it had becn compoſed of one bone, theſe vapours ſhould have had no paſſage forth. - wherefore the groſſer vapours paſs away by the sutures, but the more ſubtile by the pores of the skull; ſome have their sutures very open, but others on the contrary very cloſe. therefore nature hath otherwiſe compendiouſly provided for ſuch as want sutures;for it hath made one or two holes, ſome two fingers bredth from the lambdoides, through which the vena pupil enters into the skul,and they are of that largeneſs that you may put a points tag into them, that ſo the vapours may have free paſſage forth, otherwiſe there would be danger ofdeath; thus nature hath been carefull to provide for man againſt in- ternall injuries; and in like manner againſt externall, for it hath made the head to conſiſt of divers bones, that when one bone is broken the other may be ſafe, the violence of the ſtroak being ſtayed in the diviſion of the bones. whereby you may know,that if the skull chance to be broken in the oppoſiteſide to that which received the blow,that it happens either by reaſon of the defe&t of ſutures,or elſe be- cauſe they are unperfeå,& too firmly cloſed;otherwiſe it is unpoſſible ſuch fraćtures ſhould happen by reaſon of the ſeparation of the bones, which breaks the violence of the blow that it can go no further. and certainly, as it is rare to find a skull without sutures,ſo it is rare to find ſuch kind of fraćtures. therefore chirurgeons muſt diligently obſerve the sutures and ſite of them, left they be deceived and take them for fraćtures, or unawares apply a trepan to them, whence by breaking the veins, arteries and nervous fibers by which the internall parts communicate with the externall, there may enſue increaſe of pain, a violent defluxion of blood upon the craſſa meminx, and the falling thereof upon the brain, (the fibers being broken ; which it ſtuck to the pericranium) and ſo conſequently a deadly interception of the pulſion of the brain. c h a p. i i i i. of the cranium, or skull. hº cranium, or skull covering the brain like an helmet, is compoſed and conſiſts of ſeaven bones, of which ſome are more denſe,thick and hard than other ſome. the firſt is the s occipitis, or nowlbone ſeated in the back part of the head, more hard and thick than the reſt,becauſe we wanthands and eyes behind,where- by we may keep or ſave our ſelves from falling: this bone is circumſcribed,or bounded by the ſuture lambdoides,and the * s baſſlare.the eminencies and as it were heads of this bone are received into the firſt vertebra; for upon this the head is turned forwards and backwards, by the force of fourteen muſcles and ſtrong ligaments,which firmly tye theſe heads of the nowl bone in the cavities of this firſt vertebra. the ſecondbone of the skull is in the forepart, and is called the os coronale or os fronti, the forehead bone, it hath the ſecond place in ſtrength and thickneſs. it is bounded by the coronall ſuture, and the ends of the wedgbone: in this foreheadbone there is often found a great cavity under the upper part of the eyebrows, filled with a glutinous, groſs, viſcid . matter or ſubſtance, which is thought to help to claborate the air for the ſenſe of imelling. - ! * chirurgeons muſt takeſpecial notice of this cavity,becauſe when the head chances to be broken in that place,it may happen,that the fraćture exceeds not the firſt table; wherefore being ignorant of this cavity, and moved with a falſe perſwaſion that they ſee the brain, they may think the bone wholly broken, and to preſs the meninges, whereupon they will dilate the womb,and apply a trepan and other inſtruments to lift up the ſecond table of the bone,without any need at i. with the manifeſt danger of the life of the patient. the third and fourthbones of the skull are the offa parietalia, or bregmatis, having the third place of denſity and thickneſs; although this denſity and thickneſs be different in divers places of them. for on the upper part of the head, or crown, (where that ſubſtance turns not to a bonein children untill they have all their teeth,ſo that it feels ſoft in touch- ing, & through it you may feel the beating of the brain)theſe bones are very tender ſo that oft times,they are no thicker than ones nail,that ſo the moiſt and vaporous excrements of the brain, ſhut up where the greater portion of the brain reſides, may have a freer paſ- ſageby the Érains diaſtole and pſtole. theſe two ſquare bones arebounded above with the sagittall ſuture,below with the ſcaly,on the forepart with the coronall, and on the hind part with the lambdoides. the fifth and fixth bone of the skull are the two ſapetroſa flony or ſcaly bones, which arc lin. . contained in the head. ! are next to the former in ſtrength. they are bounded with the falſe or baſtard suture,and with part of the lambdoides, and wedgbone. - the ſeventh is the os ſphenoides, baſſlare, or cuneiforme, that is,the wedgbone. it is called baſſlare, becauſe it is (as it were)the baſis of the head. to this the reſt of the bones of the head are fitly faſtned in their places. this bone is bounded on each ſide with the bones of the forehead, the ſtony bones, and bones of the now! and palat. the figure repreſents a bat, and its proceſſes her wings. - . . . . . . . . . . . there is beſides theſe another bone at the baſis of the forehead bone, into which the mamillary proceſſes end, the greeks call it”.jthe latins critrºſum and spongioſum, the ſpongybóme,becauſe it hath many holes in it not perfºrated in a direct paſſage,as in a five, but winding and anſraétuous, that the air ſhould not by the force of attraćtion, preſently leap or aſcend into thebrain, and affºt it with its qualities, before it be elaborated by its lingring in the way. there are beſides alſo, ſix other little bones lying hid in the ſtony bones at the hole or auditory paſſage; oneach ſide three, that is to ſay,the incus or anvilſ the malleolus or hammer,and the stapes or ſtirrop,becauſe in their figure they repreſent theſ: three things; the uſe of theſe we will declare hereafter. - - but alſo in ſome skuls there are found ſome diviſions of bones,as it were colleged fing- - ments, to the bigneſs almoſt of ones thumb, furniſhed and diſtinguiſhed by their proper commiſſures, or ſutures, which thing is very fitto be known to a chirurgeon in the uſe of a trepan. - • * * § he may give a conjecture hereof whilſt he ſeparates the perioranium from the skul, for the pericranium is with greater difficult pluckt away from the ſutures,becauſe the craſa meninx hath ſtraiter connexion therewith by his nervous fibers ſent forth in ſuch places. the skuls in women are ſofter and thinner than in men, and in children more than inwo- men,and in young men more then in men of a middle age. alſo the aethiopians or black- moors, as aſſo all the people inhabiting to the south;have their skuls more hard and com- poſed with fewer ſutures. - * . - - tberefore as it is written by hippocrates, ſuch as have their skuls the ſofter, the ſymp- tomes in fraćtures are more dangerous and to be feared in them. but the skull by how much the ſofter it is, by ſo much it more eaſily and readily yetlds to the perforating tre- pan. , moreover in ſome skuls, there be bunches ſtanding out befides nature, made either round or cornered, which the chirurgeon muſt obſerve for two cauſes; the firſt is for the better conſideration of a blow or fracture. for in theſebunches or knots, the ſolution of the continuity cannot be, if it ſeem to be ſtretched in length, but that the wound muſt pe- netrate to the inner parts. for in around body there can be no long wound, but it muſt be deep,by the . forced the deeper, becauſe as a roll d body touches a plain but on- ly inpunio in a prick or point: ſo whatſoeverſals only lightly or ſu cially upon it,on- ly touches a point thereof. but on the contrary,a long wound muſtbeupon aplain ſurface, which may be but only ſuperficiall. j' . . . . . . - another cauſe is, becauſe ſuch bunches change the and fite of the sutures. and the chirurgeon muſtnote that the skulſhath two table;in the midſt whereofthediplºis, which is a ſpongy ſubſtance into which many veins and arteries,and a certain fleſhineſs are inſerted, that the skull ſhould not be ſo heavie,and that it might have within itſelfprovi- fion for the life thereof; and laſtly that there might be freer paſſage out for the fuliginous vapors of the brain. - . . . . . . . . . .''.' . .” - the upper table is thicker, denſer, ſtronger and ſnoother than the lower. for this as it is the ſlenderer, ſo it is the more unequal, that it may give place to the inter- mall veins and arteries, (which make a manifeſt impreſſion into the ſecond table on the infide thereof) from which branches enter into the skull by the holes which contain the ; with thing faſtens the craſſameninx to the skull, and is therefore very worthy to be ooictwcc , for in great contuſions when no frašure or fiſſure appears in the skull by reaſon of the great concuſſion or ſhaking of the brain, theſe veſſels are often broken, whence happens a flux of blood between the skull and membranes, and laſtly death. but it is fit the chirurgeon take good heed to the tender and ſoft ſubſtance of the diploe, that when he comes to it having paſſed the firſtable,hemay carefully uſe his trºpan, jeff by leading too hard, it run in too vielently, and hurt the :rancs º: it, whence convulſion and death would follow. to which danger i have found a remedy by the happy ... :a trepan, as i wil hereaftermore at large declare in: º: #. . o c ileads - - - º, º i is . . . . . . . . . ; - . . . . . . . . . . . . - :::::: - - - - - 'c: ; ºti º '.... . . . . . - * . . . . . . . . . . . .” chap. ſphenoider, of the wedg. bone. , ethºroid, or tribroſiºn. the three. bones of the auditory paſſage. by what means a chirurgeon . may conjećture that there are extraordinary utures in certain places of the skull- the skuls of ſuch as inhabit the southern countreys, are more-hard and denſe. we muſt obſerve the cxtuberancies beſides nature, which are in ſome skuls. the fite and” ſubſtance of the diploe. there may be a deadly rup- ture of the veſſels of the braia without any frature of the skull, ..., caution to be had in the uſe of the trepair. of the animallparts l i b. . why the bone ethmoides is pciforated. the conſi- ſtence of the craſſa meniax. the uſe, what the torcularis. one part of the brain being hurt the other keeps the creature alive. the conſi. ſtence of the piamater, c. h. a. p. v. of the meninges, that is, the two membranes called dura mater and pia mater. º --rhe craſſa meninx is one of the firſt and principall membranes of the body; it n oes forth by the ſutures and the holes of the nerves that proceed out of the É.i. and it paſſes forth by the bone ethmoides perforated for that purpoſe, * to carry ſmels to the brain, and purge it of excrementitious humors. this ſame craſſa meninx inveſts the inner coat of the noſe; alſo it paſſes forth of the great hole through which the ſpinall marrow paſſes, weſted with this craſſà meninz, with all the nerves and membranes. for which cauſe if any membrane in the whole body be hurt, by reaſon of that continuation which it hath with the meninges,it ſtraight communi- cates the hurt to the head bw conſent. the craſſa meninx is i. and harder than all other membranes in the body; where- upon it hath got the name of the dura mater, beſides alſo it begirts, produces, and defends the other membranes. - the uſe of it is to involve all the brain, and to keep it when it is dilated, that it be not hurt by the hardneſs of the skull. for the courſe of nature is ſuch, that it always places ſome § thing of a middle nature,betwixt two contraries. alſo the craſſa meninx yeelds another commodity, which is, that it carries the veins and arteries entring the skull for a longſpace. for they infinuate themſelves into that part, where the duplicated or folded meninges ſeparate the brain from the cerebellum, and ſo from thence they are led by the fides of the cerebellum, untill they come (as it were) to the top thereof; where being united, they infinuate themſelves into that other part of the craſſa meninx, where in like manner being duplicated and doubled, it parts the brain at the top into the right and left. theſe united veins run in a direét paſſage even to the forehead, after the manner of the sagittall ſuture; they have called this paſſage of the mutually infolded veins,the torcular or preſs, becauſe the §. which nouriſhes the brain is preſſed and . from thence by the infi. nite mouths of theſe ſmall veins. therefore alſo here is another uſe of the craſſameninx, to diſtinguiſh the brain by its duplication,being it thruſts itſelf.deep into its body, into two parts,the fore and hind,and preſtntly to ſeparate the ſame into the right and left; that onepart being hurt,the other may remain ſafe and ſound, performing itsduty to the crea- ture,as we ſee in ſome that have the palſey. columbus obſerved that this meninx was double, and verily ihave found it true by my own fight. the other meninx qr membrane of the brain, called pia mater, is moſt ſlender intercha- ſed with diversveins and arteries, for its own and the brains nouriſhment and life. this doth not only involve the brain,as the craſſa meninºdoth, but alſo more deeply penetrates into the anſraétuous paſſages thereofthat it mayfyfry wherejoyn and bind it to itſelf not the ſenſe of the mesinger, * what le brain is, tne quantity; temper; eaſily to be drawn from thence, by many ſmall fibers whereby it deſcends even to the cavities of the ventricles i. wherefore you muſt ſee it abſolutely in the ſite as we have mentioned,and not pluck it away unleſs with the ſubſtance of the Érain. theſe membranes when they are hurtór afflićted,cauſe grievous and moſt bitter torment and pain;wherefore idare ſay,that theſe membranes are rather the authors of ſenſe,than the brain itſelf, becauſe in diſeaſes of the brain, as in the lethargy, the party affected is trou- bled with little or no ſenſe of pain. - - - - - - - c h a p. vi. º tº - of the brain. º ow followeth the brain, the beginning of the nerves and voluntary motion, ºf the inſtrument of the firſt and principall faculty of the soul,that is, the ani- tº mall and rationall. manhath this part in greater plenty then any other creature,for it almoſt fils theyhole skull. but if it ſhould have filled it all, the brain could not be moved that is,dilated and contraćted in the skull. it is of a cold and moiſt temperature. the laudable temper of the brain is known by the integrity and perfeótion of the internall and externall ſenſes,the indifferency of ſleep and waking, the maturity or ripeneſs of judgment,and conſtancy of opinions, from which, un- leſ it meet with better and more probable, it is not eaſie to be moved. º lib. . -- comined m the head. the firſt figure of the head, as it appears when the skull is taken away. the ſecond figure ſhewing the brain,the skull and duramater being taken off. aa,bb. the dura meninst or thick membrane. ccc. the third sinus of this membrane. dd. the courſe of the veins as they run through the membrane or the ſecond vein of the brain. º, ee. the firſt vein of the rain. - Ø% nam mºw w w \ nay:w\% \ - wxw)| § - \ wn § wºź w. wn "a" ſlº wn § . . . . . . . . which perforate the . . . . . skull and reach to the ; : . . . pericranium or skull- %%a): lºº skin. . . ^ \ ... ...ggg. fibers of the urh tº the coronall sutures . . . . . which fibers make the ºr 'º', ; pericranium. - . . . . . . " ... the ſagittall suture. º' tº ii.qthers paſſing through vi., . the lambdall suture. . . . . . . . k. a knub whichuſeth to ºf tº grow to the sinus of - the skull. - - º ": ºl. a cavity in the fore- - | -- ~' head bone. sº º aº m. the skull, . . . . . . . . s ull-skin. , - - … - fig. . . . . . . . i meminx dividing the c" ": brain, bb, the thirdsii nu of the ſame craſe tº membrane opened. - - - - | " ' "...º cc. the beginning of the . . . . . . tº liº veſſels out of the third . . . . . . jº' !' " sinus into the pia mater. ddd.the propagation or branches of theſe veſſels.eee.the pismater orthin meninwimmedi- ately .#. thebrain.fff.certain veſſels running through the convolutions or bran- ches of the brain. ggg. certain branches of veins running through theſides of the durame- minx. hhh. the thick membrane refle&ed downward. youſhall know the brain is more hot, by the quickneſs of the ſenſes and motions of the body by ſhortneſs of ſkep,the ſuddain conceiving of opinions and change of them, by the ſlippery and failing memory, and laſtly, by eaſily receiving hurt from hot things, as the sun and fire. such as have a cold brain,are ſlow to learning, and to conceive qther things, but they do not cafily put away their once conceived opinions. they have ſlow motion to attion,and are ſleepy. thoſe who have a dry brain,are alſo ſlow to learn; for you ſhall noteaſily imprint anything in dry bodies, but they are moſt conſtant retainers of thoſe things they have once learned;alſo the motions of their bodies are quick and nimble.thoſe who have amoiſt brain do eaſily learn,but have an il memory,for with like facility as the admit the ſpeices of things and imprint them in their minds, do they ſuffer them to ſlide and ſlip out ofit again.so clay doth º admit what charaćter or impreſſion ſoever you will, but the parts of this clay which eaſily gave way to this impreſſion, going togethera- gain, mixes, obliterates and confounds the ſame. therefore the ſenſes proceeding from coldbrain are dull, the motions ſlow, the fleep profound. the attion of the brain is to elaborate the animall spirit and neceſſary ſenſe ſerving the wholebody, and to ſubjećt it ſºlfas an inſtrument to the principall faculties, as to reaſon. thebrain is twofold, the fore and hind. the hind by reaſon of its ſnaiineſs is §§º fff. certain ſmall veins ... … meninx paſſing through . . a hiſtºriºgthrough º, º n. the peritranium of i) aaa. a part of the craffè ~ * ºr " • *, *. . ºr , w call the a&tion, number. of the animallparts l in. . the ſubſtance of the brain is porous and ſweats forth blood. the four ven- tricles thereof. the magnitude ofthe upper wentricles of the brain. the septum lucidum. why the palſy of one ſide is not preſently communicated to the other, k. called the cerebellum, (the little or after-brain). but the fore by reaſon of its magnitude hath retained the abſolute name of the brain. again this fore-brain is twofold, the right and left, parted by that º which we formerly mentioned, of the meninges into the body of the brain. but this diviſion is not to be here ſo abſolutely taken, as though the brain were exaëtly divided and ſeparated into ſo many parts, but in the ſenſe as weſay the liver and lungs are divided a pretty way, whereas at their baſis they have one continued body. the outward ſurface of the brain is ſoft,but the inward hard, allous& very ſmooth; when on the contrary, the outward appears indented and unequall with many windings, and creſted as it were with many wormlike foldings. f - : chap. vii. of the ventricles and mamilary proceſſes of the brain. #|or the eaſie demonſtation of the ventricles of the brain, it is convenient you cut away a large portion thereof, and in your cutting obſerve the blood | ſweating out of the pores of it. but beſides, it is fit you conſider the ſpongy i ſubſtance by which the excrements of the brain are heaped up, to be preſent ſtrained out, and ſent away by the hollow paſſage. in the ſubſtance of the brain you muſt obſerve four ventricles mutually conjoyned by certain paſſages, by which the ſpirits endued with the ſpecies of things ſenſible may go from one into another. the firſt and two greater, one on each ſide are. in the upper brain. the third is under them in themiddle part of the brain. the fourth and laſt at the fore fide of the cerebellum, towards the beginning of the ſpinallmarrow. the two formoſt are extended the length way of the brain in the form of a ſemicircle, whoſe horns look or bend outwards. #. are ſpacious and large, becauſe it was meet the spirits contained there together with their excrements, ſhould be there purified and clenſed; but in other ventricles, the pure and al- ready elaborate ſpirits are only received. theſe ventricles are white and ſmooth in their inner ſuperficies; but that on each fide they have an extuberancy at the midſt of the ſemicir- cle, ſituate at the baſis of the pillar of the middle ventricle towards the noſe under the septum lucidum or cleer partition,ſevering or parting in ſunder theſe two ventricles. this septum lucidum, or cleer or thin partition,is nothing elſe than a portion of the brain indifferently ſolid, but very clear,that ſo through this partition the animall ſpirits con- tained in theſe two º: may mutually §: and be communicaced, and yet no other groſſer ſubſtance may pierce the thin denſity thereof. . * wherefore it is not to be feared that the water contained in one of the ventricles may paſsto the other through this partition,as i have ofttimes obſerved to the great admiration of the ſpe&tators in the deadbodies of ſuch as dyed of the palſy, in which i have found the ventricle of that fidewhich was taken with the palſy much dilated,accordin to the quan- tity of the water contained therein,the other being either wholly empty and without any; or certainly no fuller than in any other, dead through any other occaſion. for ſome af. firm that thereis a certain kind of wateriſh moiſture alwayes to be found in the ventricles, which may be made by the condenſation of the animall ſpirits by theforce of the deadly cold. but theſe two firſt ventricles of the brain go into one common paſſage, as both the bellows of a formace whereby the ſpirit inſtrućted with . of things goes into the under, or middleventricle from the former. in theſe ſame firſt ventricles the plexus choroides is to beconſidered,and in likemanner the paſſage by which the groſſer excrements are dri- ven or ſent into the pituitary glandule. - - ſº the third figure repreſent, the cerebellum with the wormy proceſſesſ parated from it. - ab.the right and left part - of the after-brain. cd.the anterior and poſſe- rior regions of the middle part of the after-brain. e. the anterior wormy proceſſe, f. the peſterior wormy proceſs. gg. in this place the af. ter-brain did grow to the ſpinall marrow. h. the cavity in the ſpi- nall marrow maketh the foruth ventricle. ik. the anterior and pofferior proceſſes of the brain, called vermi-forme; or the wormy proceſſes, - - for contained inth, head. - *--------- this plexus choroides is nothing elſe, but a produćtion of the pia mater diverſly folded with the mutuall implication of veins and arteries woven in the form of a net.theſe veſſels are of magnitude and ãº. ſufficient, both to yeildlife and nouriſhment to that parti- cle to which they are faſtened, as alſo for the generation of the animall ſpirits, as which takefit matter from the veins ſtretched forth into the ſame plexuſ, the hind artery and vein torcular; and alſo from the air entring into the brain by the namíllary proceſſis. but the mamillary proceſſes are certain common wayes for conveyance of the air and ſmells into the brain and carrying of excrements from the brain. * for thus in them who have the catarrhe and coriza or poſe, neither the air, nor ſmels can penetrate into the brain; whence frequent ſheeſings enſue, the brain ſtrongly moving itſelf to the expulſion of that which is troubleſome to it.but of the excrements of the brain, whether §. there,or proceeding from ſome other part, ſome are of a fumid and va- porous nature, which breath inſenſibly through the sutures of the skull; others are groſs and viſcid, of which a great part is expelled by both theſe produćtions, or through each of them. for this in the poſe you may ſee ſome who have one of their noſtrils ſtopt, the other running, and ſome who have both obſtrućted. the moſt proper benefit of the two firſtventricles of the brain is to entertain the phantafie as in a convenient ſeat and habita- tion ſeeing the mind there eſtimates and diſpoſes in order the ſpecies of thingsbrought in from the ºvernail ſenſes,that ſo it may receive a true judgment of them from reaſon which rsfides in the middle ventricke. • - the third ventricle is ſtated between the hindermoſt extremities of the former ventricles, and the laſt ventricle of the cerebellum. in this fix parts preſent themſelves to our conſidera- tion, that is, the pſalloides of arch, the conarium, or pine glandule, the buttocks.wormlike productions the baſon and paſſage which is from this middle intº the laſt & hindmoſt ven- tricle. the fjallides or arch is nothing elſe but the cover of the middle ventricle, reſembling a roofbornéup with three ſtayes of pillars, the one whereof is extended to the noſe under the septum lucidum, the two other on each ſide one, look tºwards the back part of the brain. this is the reaſon of this figure which is outwardly convexe and inward- ly concave, to wit, that there might be free ſpace for that motion which the animall £irit inwardly produces, and b that it might more eafily ſuſtain the burden of the brain lying upon it. for an arched figure is the moſt convenient of all other to ſu- ſtain a weight. - | - - : - the conarium or pine glandulº, is a ſmall glandule of the ſame ſubſtance with the brain, roundand ſomewhat long, like a pine § from whence it hath the name; this glandule is ſeated over againſt a ſmall hole which deſcends to the loweſt ventricle. it hath thisuſe, to ſtrengthen the diviſion of the veſſels led thither with the produ&ion of the pia mater for the generation of the animall ſpirits, and the life afid nouriſhment of the brain. - the nater or buttocks are ſubjećted or placed under this glandule, that is , bodies of a ſolid and whiteſubſtancedrawn out in length like a childs buttocks, eſpecially in beaſts, and chiefly in a ſheep. theſe buttocks have ſuch a ſolid ſubſtance, that ſo they keep open and free the paſſage, or channell that runs down from the mid- dle ...º. lowerventritle, by means of which the brain participates with the cere- bellum. | the worm is a produćtion of the cerebellum or after-brain, to wit, a portion of the ſame being in the top of beginning and as it were in the entrance thereof, being like many iittle circles or wheels mutually knit together by ſlender membranes; and it is ſo called becauſe it reſembles thoſe thick white worms which are found in rotten wood. it doth as it were . the office of a porter to the formerly mentioned paſſage, that it may give way and entrance into the cerebt llam, to a neceſſary quantity of #:. need requires; ſeſ that, if they ſhould ruſh with a ſodain violence into the cerebellum, they might con- found the imprinted notions of things to be remembred. the pelvi, or baſon is a paſſage appointed for the carrying away of the groſsexcrements by the palate, and is ſo called becauſe it hath the fimilitude and uſe of a baſon or tunnell: ić deſcends from the third ventricle into the glandule which is ſeated between the pro- ceſſes of the wedg-bone called the ſaddlºthereof, as you may perceive by putting in a ſpa- thera. now there remains the laſt of the ſix parts propoſed to our confideration in the third ventricle, that is, the channell or paſſage running from this third ventricle into the fourth,for the uſe formerly mentioned. - - this channell deſcending in its originall from the baſon, goes from thence under the buttocks into the laſt ventricle, the meninges *. ; which that you may ſhew, it is fit you put the endofa ſpathern through it. the benefit of a third ventricle is that it may be as a tribunalhor judgment-ſeat,to the reaſoning faculty, when the mind will draw concluſions from things ſeen. the plexus cborsider. the prºceſſa aimilarer. the uſe of the upper ventti. cles of the brain. the ſeat of the third ventricle of the brain, the parts to be conſidered in it. what the for. mix or arch is, and the uſe thereof. whatthe co- nariumor pine glandulcis. what the mater or buf- tocks are, what the worm is. here the pelvº; or baſon is confounded with the turi. néiſ. the chañnetſ from the third into the fourth wentricle. - ofthe animallparts l i b. . the fourth and fifth figure of the brain. ass= figure . - rrr. the lower ſuperficies ofthe cal- lous body refle&ed. stv. the triangular ſurface of the fornix or arch. xx.the lower part of the partition of the ventricles continuated with the arch. ty. the upper part of the partition continued with the callous body. figure . aaa.the lower ſurface of the arch. bc. two corners of the arch, by which it is continuated with the ventricles. te.the right and left ventricles. fg. arteries climbing up from the ſleepy arteries through the lower ſide of the ventriches for the for- ming of that complication of veſ- ſels which is called plexus choroides. h. a veſſell iſſuing out of the fourth sinus under the arch, and paſſing into the third ventricle. ikl.the diviſion of this veſſell,a part *:::::::: to the rightventricle at k. and another to the left at l. mn. the plexus choroides made of the ... artery fg.and the veſſel h. . . . . small veins É. through the ventricles of the brain, produced from the veſſels k. and l. p. other veins arifing from the ſame, diſper- ſed without the ventricles into the 'pia mater. # a paſſage from the third ventricle unto the baſon or tunnell. r.s.canales or sinus graven or furrowed in the ſubſtance of the ventricles; in which the phlegm is led along to the orifice of the fore- ſaid emarked with . ... figure io. aa. parts of the ſpinal marrow cut from the brain. bc.the places where this marrow did grow unto the brain. - e.theteſticles, fg. the but- tocks. h. the pine glandule. from i to r. a part of the third ventricle going to the fourth, un- der the teſticles. klmn. a part of the fourth ven- tricle which is engraven in the marrow. .the top of the fourth ventricle, p. the place where the ſpinall marrow gorth out of the skull. figure i . . parts ofthe optick nerves, c . the ſleepy atteries, e. the baſon of tunnell hanging down. f. a hole or perforation of the dura meninz,through which the tun: nel reacheth unto the glandule. gg.parts of the ſecond conjugati- on of gnews. figure . a.the glandale.b. the baſon or tunnell called pelvi, or infundibulum, cdef. the four holes through which the phlegmatickexcrement iſſueth. the lib. . - contained in the head. the fourth ventricle is ſeated in the place we formerly mentioned; it is leſs than the reſt, but more ſolid; leſs as that which was not to receive the ſpirit before it was purified, and clenſed from all impurities; but more ſolid, that it might contain it the ſafer. the uſe thereofis,to be as a treaſury and ſtore-houſe of the opinion, and judgments which reaſon ſhall decree,that when need requires, we may fetch and draw them from thence as laid up in ſtore. i know galen and the greek phyſitians have not ſo diſtinguiſhed in places the three fore-mentioned faculties;but have written that they all are all overconfuſed through the whole ſubſtance of the brain, which opinion alſo fernelius in his pathologia hath renew- ed. yet i had rather follow this opinion, as commonly received and celebrated by the a- abian phyſitians. - - - - r the nº. roceſſes are the inſtruments and paſſages of ſmelling being of the ſame ſubſtance with the É. ,and like nerves,which run out from the hind horns of the upper or foremoſt ventricles of the brain to the ethmoides and ſpongy bones of the noſe, that hence they may receive the divers kinds of ſmells,and carry them into the brain. but although they be like nerves, yet they are not accounted nerves becauſe they go not out of the skul. —l * c h a p. viii. of the ſeven conjugations of the nerve; of the brain, ſº callelºcauſe they alwayes ſhºw the nerves conjugated and doubled,that is, on each ſide one. ºhe nerves are the wayes and inſtruments of the animall ſpirit and faculty, as of which thoſe ſpirits are vehicles, as long as they are contained in the brain; they conſiſt of the only and ſimple marrowey ſubſtance of the brain,or ſpinall marrow. but paſſingforth of the brain, they have another membranous ſub- ſtance which involves them joyned with them from the two membranes of the brain; and according to the opinion of ſome anatomiſts, they have alſo a third from the ligaments drawn as well from divers others, as from theſe by which they are tyed to the ºftebra's, yet this opinion ſeems abſurd to me,ſeeing ſuch a membrane,as that which is in- fenbfile,wholly repugnes the condition of a nerve, which is to give ſenſe to the parts to which it is inſerted. - * * dent to the parts into which they are inſerted.their figure is round,and long,like toacon- duit pipe to carry water in ; themembranes of the brain, with which the nerves are covered, being à. and ſtretched over them, after the ſame manner that the proceſſes of the pe- ritoneum involves the º: veſſels, with which they go down to the teſticles,and take life and nouriſhment by the capillary veins and arteries, which deſcend to them with the . membranes.they are made for i. uſe,that they may impart ſenſe to the ſenſitive parts,and motion to theſe that are fit to be moved. all the nerves deſcend from the brain either medi- the fourth a wentricle of the brain. the uſe of the mamillary pro- ceſſes. what a nerve or sinew is. its ſubſtance. whether the nerve have a third mem- brane from the ligaments of the vertebra'ſ. . the magnitude of the nerves is different, according to the divers neceſſity of ſenſe inci- theirmagni. rude. their figure, their uſe, t ately or immediately;their number is ſeven and thirty pair.or conjugations,whereof ſeven their number; have their originall immediately from thebrain, the other thirty from the ſpinallmar- • tow. - - - . the firſt conjugation of the nerves of the brain is thicker than all the reſt, and goes to the eyes,to carry i. viſive ſpirit to them. theſe ariſing from divers parts of the brain, in the middleway before they go out of the skull meet together croſwiſe like the iron of a mill (which is faſtened in §: upper ſtone) going into one common paſſage with their ca- vities notviſible to the eye; that ſo the ſpirits brought by thoſe two nerves may be com- municated, and they are mutually joyned and meet together ſo, that being driven back from one eye they may flieback into the other. an argument whereof may be drawn from filch as aim at anything, who ſhutting one of their eyes ſee more accurately; becauſe the force of the . {j ſpirits united into one eye, is more ſtrong than when it is diſ- perſed into both. this conjugation when it comes into the glaſſie humor, is ſpent in the rućture of the net-like coat which contains this humor on the back part. the ſecond conjugation goes into many parts, at its paſſing forth of the skull; and in the bottom of the circle of the eye it is diſtributed into the ſeven muſcles moving the eyes. - the third is twofold, in the paſſage out of the skull it is likewiſe divided into many rhetºld ºn: branches, of which ſome are carryed to the temporall muſcles,into the maſſeteres orgrind- ing muſcles into the skin of the face, forehead and noſe; otherſome are ſent into the upper part of the cheek, and the parts belonging to it, as into the teeth, gums and the muſcles of the upper lip;and thoſe which are called the round which incompaſs the mouth on the infide; the laſt are waſted in the coat of the tongue, to beſtow upon it the ſenſe of taſting- - - the fourth conjugation is much ſmaller and is almoſt wholly waſted upon the coat of the palatof the mouth,to endue it alſo with the ſenſe of taſting. the fift at its originalland having not as yet paſſed ºth of the skul,is divided into two, . the firſt con. . jugation of nerves. º l the ſecond conjugation, jugation. the fourth jº.; - the fift con}* nd gatione of the animallparts l i b. . the ſixt come jugation. the ſeventh conjugation. and ſends,the greater portion thereof to the hole of the ear, or paſſage of hearing, that it, may ſupport the auditory faculty;and it ſendsforth the other leſſer portion thereof to the temporall muſcles by the paſſage next to it; by which the ſecond conjugation paſſes forth. the fixtbeing the greateſt next to the firſt,paſſing entire forth of the skull,imparts ſome ſmall branches to certain muſcles of the neck and throttle, and then deſcending into the cheſt,it makes the recurrent nerves,and diſperſed over all the parts of the two lower bellies, it paſſes even to the bladder and teſticles,as we ſhºwed in the former book. * - the ſeventh is inſerted and ſpent upon the muſcles of the bone hyois, the tongue, and ſome of the throttle,to give them motion ; it paſſes forth of the skull by the hole of the nowlbone at the extuberancies thereof. the ſeventh figureſhewing the eighth conjugation of the nerves of the brain. a, . the brain. bb , . the after-brain. cc , .. the ſmelling of the brain. which ſome call themamillary proceſſes. d i,the beginning of the ſpinall mar- row out of the baſis of thebrain. f , . a part of the ſpinall marrow when it is ready to iſſue out of the skull. - ff , ... the mamillary proceſſes which ſerve for the ſenſe of ſmelling. gg , ..the optick nerves. - h .the coition or union of the optick il crves. ii , . the coat of the eye whereinto the optick nerves are extended. kr , the ſecond pair of the finews ordained for the motion of the eyes. ll , ..the third pair of finews, or ac- ... cording to the moſt anatomiſts, the leſſer root of the third pair. - mm , ... the fourth pair of finews for the greater root .#. third pair. n , a branch of the third conjugation derived to themuſculous skin of the forehead. - , a branch of the ſame to the upper jaw. pp . anotherinto the coat of the no- ſtrils. . . another into the temporall muſcles. r , a branch of the fourth conjugation crumpled like the ten- drill of a vein. s . a branch of the ſame reaching unto the upper teeth, and the gums. t . another of the ſame to the loweriaw. v . a surcle of the branch , to the lower lip. xx . another ſurcle from the § t, to the roots of the lower teeth. tt . the aſſumption of the nerves of the fourth conjugation unto the coat of the tongue. z , ..the fourth pair are vulgarly ſo called which are ſpent into the coats of the palat. a , ..the fifth pair of finews which be- long to the hearingº, the auditory nerve ſpredabroad into the cavity of the ſtony bone.*, a hard part of the fift conjugation above, the * which may be counted for a diſtinét nerve. , b , ... a ſmall branch derived from this harder part of the firſt pair. c. , . a lower branch from the ſame originall, di, ..this nerve is commonly aſcribed to the fift pair,but indeed is a diſtina conjugation which we will cal the eighth becauſe we would not interrupt the or- der ofcther mens accounts.e., ..the fixt pair of ...! .abranch from them derived to the neck and the muſcles couched thereupon g .another branch to the muſcles of the larinx or throttle.hi, ..the ſeventh pair of finews. i i.the union of the ſeventh pair with the fixt. ! : a propagation of the ſeventh pair to thoſe muſcles which ariſe from the appendix cal- led styloidesm .surcles from the § conjugation to the muſcles of the tongue,the bone hygi, and the larinx. ºf q ... three holes;through the hole o the phlegm iſſueth out of the third ventricle of the brain to the tunnell,andatpg.is the paſſage of the soporary arteries to the ventricles of the brain, chap. - lib, . - contained in the head. s. le |t c h ap. ix. of the rete mirabile, or wonderful net, and ºf the hºdg-lone. he animall ſpirit is made of the vitall, ſent from the heart by the internall ſleepy arteries to the brain. for it was requiſite that it ſhould be the more elaborate, becauſe theačtion of the animall is more exccllent than that of the vitall;nature hath framed a texture of arteries in many places running croſs one another, in the form of a net divers times doubled; (whereupon it had the name of the wonderfull net) that ſo the ſpirit by |. delay in theſe labyrinthian or maze-like turnings, might º perfeótly concoëted and elaborate, and attain to a greater fitneſs to perform the animall inótions. r this wonderfull net ſituate at the fides of the apophyſes clinoides or produćtions of the *:::::: twofold; that is,divided by the pituitary glandule which is ſituate between the ſaid apºphyſes clinoides,having the wedgbonelying under them, next to the craſſa me- minx,being perforated on the right and left ſide,next to which lye bones as rare as a ſponge even to the palat, by which the phlegme is purged by the mouth and noſe; and there- . i º, that ſpattle flows,which ſuch as have a moiſt brain,continually ſpit out of illtir mouth. the eight figure of the brain. a,the brain. - - f, the cerebellum or after-brain. . c,a proceſs of the brain, but not that which is called manillaris. dd. the marrow of the back as it is yet within the skull. e, the manillary proceſs or inſtru: ment of ſmelling. ..., f.the optick nerve. - '' , the coat of the eye into which the optick nerve is ſpread. a, the nerve that moveth the eye or the ſecond pair. º ,the third conjugation,or the hat- der and leſſer branch of the nerves of the third conjugation brought forward. - - k, the fourth conjugation of the greater and thicker nerve of the third pair bending downward. l, a branch of the nerve marked with i, which goeth to the ſoic: head. * - m, another branch of the nerve i, reaching to the upper jaw. nn, a nerve proceeding from the branch i, intexca or woven with the coat of the noſe, , the nerve of the temporall muſcle iſſuing from the branch i. p,a nerve contorted of the nerves k and b. q, a nerve proceeding from the branch k, to the ſockets of the upper teeth. r,a nerve creeping from the nerve k to the lower jaw.s,a ſurce of the branch r, ffered to the low- er lip. tt other furcles from the branch r, attaining to the lower teeth. vv, a branch of the nerve k; diffiiſed into the coat of the tongue, xx, the fourth pair of finews which go into the coat of the palat. , the fifth pair of finews which are the nerves of hearing a, the membrane of the ear, unto which that fifth nerve goeth. bc, two ſmall branches of the fifthconjugation uniting themſelves with the nerve p. d, the eight conjugation or a nerve of the fiſth pair at- taining unto the face, ee,the fixt pair of nerves, f, a branchfrom the nerve e, leadhing to the muſcles ofthe neck. £, ſmall branches derived unto the throttle or larinx, h, the bifurcation of the nerve into two branches. iii, ar: ſ :º -- inner branchhanging to the rackbones,and ſtrengthning the intercoſtallmerves,and is therefore called intercoſialis, . kk, surcles of the utter branch going to the heads of the muſcles, to the breaſt bone and to the coller bones. lm-branches of the right nerve , making the right recurrent nerve. inn, the inſertion of the recurrent finews in- to the muſcles of the larinx.cp, branches of the ief nerve making the leſt recurrent finew p. qq.branches from the fixt{onjugation going to the coat of the lungs. r,ſmall nerves of the heart and of the purſe thereof called the peri- radianasalſo ſome approaching to the coats of the lungs, ſ, nerves on cither fide ſent to the ſtomach, t, the right ſtomach nerve going to the feſt orifice of the ſtomach. , the left romach nerve going to the right orifice of the flomach. x,a nerve frºm the branchu,paſſing into the hollowneſs ofthe liver, y, the nerve belonging to the fightſide ofthekellº, he nerve belonging to the colick gut. a, a nerve creepingſ, the gut called dº deman and n gre the exiſtence of the animali pirit. what the rete mirabile is. the ſite and nhmb.cr. : - lib. : of --- ---- the animallparts what the - pophyſet cli- noides are. whether the rete mirabil differ from the plexus cho. roides. the beginning of the jejunum or empty gº. , a nerve im planted in the right ſide of the bottom of the nomach. ,a nerve belonging to the liver & bladder of gallº, a nerve reaching unto the right kidney,érabranch reaching the meſenterium and the guts. <, a branch ſprinkled to the right part of the bladder.n,a branch going through the left part of the kel. ,ſurcles derived to the colick gut and the kel, s, ſmall branches inſerted into the ſpleen aa, a nerve approaching to the left fide of the bottom of the flomach. a, a branch belonging to the left fide of the me- ſentery and the guts. , a branch which attaineth to the left kidney. , ſimall nerves creeping through the left fide: of the bladder. , the ſeven pair of ſinews ºr, a branch derived from the fixt conjugation to the muſcles which a. tiſe from the proceſs called styloides, tº a branch of the ſeventh conjugation which goeth to the muſcles of the §º of the bone byois,and of the throttle or larinx. . $, a conjunflion or coition of the .and .pair into one crvcº. theſe apºphyſes clinoides are certain produćtions of the ; baſſlare or wedg-bone, (called the saddlethereof, ) between which, as i ſaid, the pituitary glandule lies with part of the wonderfull net. there is a great controverfie amongſt anatomiſts concerning this part; for veſalius denies that it is in man, columbus admits it, yet he ſtems to confound it with the plexus choroides. truly i have obſerved it alwayes after the manner, as sylviu al- ledges againſt veſaliu. it remains, that we recite the perforations of the skull, becauſe the . goftheſe much conduces to the underſtanding of the inſertions of the veins, arte- iic and ilcrves. c. h. a. p. x. of the holes of the inner baſis of the skull. %n the firſt place are reckoned the holes of the bone ethmoides; then thoſe of the º ºg optick nerves.thirdly, of the nerves moving the eyes. fourthly,of that portion, ºl º of the nerves of the fourth conjugation which go to the temporall muſcles. fiftly are reckoned,theſe holes ſcarce viſible, fituate under the pituitary glan- dule, by which the i. is evacuated. sixthly,that hole which is in theyedg-bone made for the entrance of the internall ſleepy arteries, compoſing the wonderfull net, and then paſſing into the brain by a great ſlit. that perforation which we reckon in the ſeventh lace is commonly double, made for the entrance of one of the branches of the internall $º. vein. the eighthole is ſomewhat long, of an ovall figure, by which, part of the third conjugation i all the fourth conjugation paſſes forth. the ninth are the auditory paſſages. the tenth are ſmall holes, and giveway to the vein and artery going to the auditory paſſage,above the foramencecum. in the eleventh place are reckoned the perforati- ons which yeeſd paſſage forth to the fixth pair of nerves, to part of the ſleepy arteries, and of the internall jugular. in the twelfth thoſe which yeeld a way out to the ſeventh con- jugation. the great hole of the nowl-bone through which the ſpinallmarrow paſſes, is reckoned the thirteenth.the fourteenth is that, which moſt commonly is behind that great hole,by which the cervicall veins and arteries enter in. chap. xi. of the perforations ºf the externall baſs of the brain. ºhere is a hole on each ſide at the eye-brows, by which paſſes a ſmall nerve from *hºº the third conjugation . of the cavity of the orb of the eye,and go- .# ing by the forehead bone to the eye-brows, that it may give motion to the ſº two muſcles of the upper eye-brow and forehead. yet oftentimes the hole is * but to be ſeen on one fide, ofttimes there is a cleft in ſtead thereof, otherwhiles it is not perforated nor cleft at all. the ſecond, is the perforation ofthe greater corner of the ey.by which a portion of the nerves of the third conjugation deſcends to the coat of the noſe; in this hole the glandula lachymali, is ſeated. the third is ſeated under the eye, that it may give way to the other portion of the nerves of the third conjugation going to the partt of the face, and the teeth of the upper jaw. the fourth is at the beginning of the palat,amongſt the cutting or ſhearing teeth, through which a vein, an artery and the coat of the palat paſſes out. in the fifth order are reckoned the perforations of the palat,by which the nerves deſcend from the fourth conjugation,to give, or cauſe the taſte.in the fixt order are ranked the holes of the palat ſerving for the reſpiration, and the flegm falling from the brain by the noſtrils. and there is a cleft under the yoak bone aſcending into the orb of the eye,by which there is away,as wel for the nerves ...} the third conjugation to the tem- porall muſcles, as alſo for certain veins and arteries.but alſo there is noted another hole at the manillary proceſs,which is not perforated in the judgment of the ſenſe. beſides there is thought to be another at the hind root of the ſame proceſs, by which a certain ſmall vein paſſes from the jugular to the torcular. but i have only noted theſe three paſſages by the way, becauſe there is ſo much variety in them, that nothing can be certainly ſaid ofthem.' chap. ſº i, *t l . . - contained in the head. - ---- - - c h a p. xii. of the spinall marrow, or pith of the back. he ſpinall marrow is like a river running from the fountain of the brain. this sy ſends nerves for ſenſe and motion to all the neighbouring. . under the head, ſpreading its branches as from the body of a tree. theſe branches, as we ſhall hereafter ſhew, are on each ſide thirty. this ſame ſpinallmarrow is cove- - red with the two membranes inveſting the brain, diſtinguiſhed by no diſtance of place,as in thebrain. but alſo it hath another membrane added to theſe, being very hard : denſe, which keeps it from being broken and violated by the violent bending of the body forwards and about. the diſeaſes of this marrow do almoſt cauſe the like symp- tomes,as the diſeaſes of the brain; for they hurt the ſenſe and motion of all the parts ly- ing beneath them: as for example; if any of the vertebra’s of the back bone,be moved out of their place,there follows a diſtortion or wreſting aſide of the marrow ; but then eſpecially if it happen that one of the vertebra’s be ſtrained, ſo ſharp and bitter d compreſſion urges the marrow by reaſon of the bony body of the vertebra, that it will either rend it,or certainly hinder the paſſage of the ſpirit by it.but by theſe ſame holes of the vertebra’s the veins and arteries go to . ſpinalſ marrow for to give life and nouriſhment to it, as the nerves by them paſs forth into all the lower parts of the body. - - - - figure .ſheweth the form of the ſpinallmarrow properly ſo called, with its membranes, and the nerves proceeding from it. . . . - - f.º: . the finallmarrow naked and bare, together with its nerves, * moſt part of anatomiſts have deſcribed it. - - - the tenth figure of the ſpinall marrow. row where it fals out of the skull. or rackbones of the loins. c.the diviſion thereof into firings, or ' hairy threds. t.the ſeven nerves of the neck. from d. to e. or from . to . ſhew the nerves of the back. - from e.to f. the nerves of the loins. from f. to g, the nerves of the osſa. * crumor holy bone, - h. the end of the marrow. - " ikl. do ſhew how the nerves do iſſue from the marrow in ſtrings. mm.the knots of the finews made of the conjunětion of thoſe ſtrings. n . the membranes that inveſt the iilaſſow. figure . a. the beginning of the ſpinallmar- row in the skull. - , , , , ,theſe charaćters ſhew(accor- ding to veſalius opinion) how the conjugations of the nervesofthe brain do take their originall from the mar- row remaining yet within the skull. b. the egreſs of the ſpinall marrow out of the skull. c. the cords or ſtrings whereinto it is divided. t .the marrow of the neck and ſeven pair of finews. e .twelve pair or conjugations of nerves proceeding from the marrow of the ciº. f . the marrow of the loins and pair of finews.g . the marrow of the holy bone and . pair of finews, h. the extremity or end ofthe ſpinall iºlarſ.ow, the end of the fifth books n the what he Špi: - mall mariewis, the coats of the ſpinallmar- rows the diſeaſes from the hur- ting of the ſpi- mall marrow; . the beginning ofthe ſpinallmar- - b.the thickneſs thereof in the ſpondels - [it] du du d dtt, de, d. j. d. d. l. j d º sºğtnsystnsystn - treating of the e muſcles and bones, and the other - extreme parts of the bodt. the preface. ss eradventure ſome may wonder that i have ended my fifth book of § anatomy, before i have fully deſcribed all the parts of the head, the which ſeemed as it were only appointed for that purpoſe.there- fore i muſt yeelda reaſon of this my intention.i have a deſire in one the deſcripti- nº sn treatiſe and as it were at one breath, to proſecute the anatomy of on of the bones § nº, the muſcles. whereforebecauſe the parts of the head not yet deſcri- being un- §: § bed, principally confiſt of the muſcles, therefore i defired to com- | - wºlſ sº § s prehend them together with this ſame deſcription of the extreme low that the - parts of the º: beginning at the upper part of the face; to wit, originall and the eyes:but having firſt deſcribed the bones of the face, without the knowledg of which infºrtion of it is in poſſible to ſhew the originall and inſertion of the muſcles. we have formerly no- the muſcles... ted, that by the face is meant whatſoever lyes from the eye-browes even to the chin. in muſt be ſo alſo. which there is ſuch admirable induſtry of nature, that of the infinite multi- tude of men you cannot find two ſo like, but that they may be diſtinguiſhed by ſome un- the endow. likeneſſe in their faces; alſo it hath adorned this part with ſuch exquiſite beauty, that ments of the many have dyed by longing to enjoy the ...] efired by them. this ſame face albeit it face. littleexceeds halfea foot, yet it indicates and piainly intimates by the ſodain º: known, it muſt neceſſarily fol- the º: thereof,what affe&tions and paſſions of *::: fear, ſorrow and delight poſſeſſe our minds; ... ... and what ſtate our bodies are in, ſound, fick, or neither.wherefore ſeeing the face is of ſo the will, much moment, let us return to the anatomicall deſcription thereof, which that wee may eaſily and .# perform we will begin with the bones thereof whereby, as we formerly ſaid,the originall and inſertion of the muſcles may be more certain and manifeſt to us. _* c. h. a. p. i. of the bones of the face. ºhº bones of the face are , or , in number...and firſt, there be reckoned . bories in each rb of the eye. tº about the orbs of the eyes, that is . to each orb, of which one is the big- orbor the eye nº ºn. É. another leſſer, and the third between both, ºh of her touch the for:- yº*::: * head bone in their upper part. beſides,the greater is joyned with a ſuture to what uſe it the proceſſe of the ſtony bone, and ſo makes the zygona, that is,the s fugale hath. or yoak bone, framed by nature for preſervation of the temporall muſcle. the leſſer is the aegylºpi, ſtated at the greater corner of the eye, in which there is a hole perforated to the noſe,and ...” in this is the glandulein which the }º doth breed. the middle is in the bottom, ; * orinner part of the orb, very ſknder and as it were of a membranous thinneſſe : then bj follow the two bones of the noſe which are joined to the forehead bone by a ſuture, but palat. on the foreſide between themſelves by harmony. but on the back or *. with two other bones, on each ſide one, which deſcending from the bone of the forehead ( to which alſo they are joined by a ſuture) receive all the teeth. theſe two in galens opinion are ſeldome found ſeparated. but theſe are the thickeſt of all the bones of the face hitherto mentioned, knit by a ſuture with the greateſt bone of the orb, on the back part with the wedg-bone, on the inner fide with the two little inner bones of the palat, which on the inſide make the extremity thereof, whereby it comes to paſſe, that we may call theſe bones the hinder, or inner bones of the palat. they reckon one of theſebones the ele- venth and the other the twelfth bone of the head;theſe two littlebones on their fides next to the winged produćtions of the wedge-bone, receive on each fide one of the nerves of the fourth º tº ſt: de ºft |ſ. iſ: alt | lº . lin. . of the muſcles and bones, &c. the palat. a. in galens opinion there be other two in the lower jaw,joined at the middle of the chin;although ſomethink it but one bone,becauſe by the judgement of ſenſe there appears no diviſion or ſeparation therein. but you may ſee in children how true this their filp- poſition is, for in men of perfeół growth it appears but one bonestheſe two are reckoned for the thirteenth and fourteenth bones. now theſe two bones making the lower jaw, have in in their back parton each fide two produćtions,as they lye to the upper jaw, the one of which repreſents the point of a ſword, and is called the corone; the other is obtuſe and round; which is inſerted into the cavity ſeated at the root of the proceſſe of the ſto- my bone, neer to the paſſage of the ear. this may be ſtrained to the forepart by violent gaping, by retraćtion of the muſcles ariſing from the wing-like proceſſes, and &nding at the lower angles of the broader part of the ſame jaw. - tº t - - this jaw is hollow as alſo the upper, eſpecially in the back-part, being filled with a white and glutinous humour, conducing to the growth of the teeth. this humour hath its matter from the blood brought thither by the veſſels, veins, arteries and nerves from the third conjugation entring in hereby a paſſage large enough. whereby it comes to pafle,that this part is not only nouriſhed and lives, but alſo the teeth receive ſenſe by the benefit of the nerves entring thither with the vein and artery.by final holes to be ſeen at the lower roots of the teeth; and thence it is that a beating pain may be perceived in the tooth-ach, becauſe the defluxion may be by the arteries; or ratherbecauſe the humour flowing to the roots of the teeth, may preſſe the artery in that place; beſide alſo you may h ſee ſome appearance of a nervous ſubſtance in the root of a tooth newly plucktout. but alſo you muſt conſider, that this jaw from its inner capacity produces at the ſides of the chin two nerves of a ſufficient magnitude, over againſt the lowerdog-teeth, and the firſt of the ſmaller grinding teeth, as i have noted in the deſcription of the nervcs of the third conjugation. i have thought good to put thee in mind of theſe, that when thou ſhalt have occaſion to make inciſion in theſe places,thoumaiſt warily and diſcreetly han- dle the matter,that theſe parts receive no harme. there remains another bone ſeated above the palat, from which the griſtly partition of the noſe ariſes, being omitted of all the anatomiſts, for as much as i know. now there- fore that you may the better remember the number of the bones of the face,i will here make a repetition of them. thereare fix of the orbs of the eyes,at each three.the ſeventh and eightwee may call the naſall, or noſebones. the ninth and tenth the jaw-bones. the eleventh and twelfth are called the innee bones of the palat. the thirteenth and fourteenth the bones of the lower jaw. the partition of the noſe may be reckoned the fifteenth. w now it remains having ſpoken of theſe bones, that wee treat of the teeth, the eye- browes,the skin, the fleſhy pannicle, the muſcles, and laſtly, the other parts of the face: chap. ii. of the teeth. mºhe teeth are of the number of the bones, and thoſe which have the moſt have |jº thirty two,that is, fixteen above,and ſo many below;of which in the fore- ^ part of the mouth there are four above and as many beneath, which are called t inciſorii cutting or ſhearing teeth,to cut in ſunder the meat,and they have but sº. sº one root. to theſe are joyned two in each jaw, that is, on each ſide of the other one, which are called caminidenteſ, dog-teeth, becauſe they are ſharp and ſtrong like dogs-teeth;theſe alſo have but one root,but that is far longer then the other have. - then follow the molares or grinders,on each ſide five, that is, ten above, and as many below,that they may grind, chaw, and break the meat,that ſo it may be the ſooner con- coéted in the ſtomach; for ſo they vulgarly think, that meat well chawed is halfe con- co&ted; thoſe grinders which are faſtened in the . jaw, have moſt commonly three roots, and oft-times four. but theſe which are faſtened in the lower,have only two roots, and ſometimes three,becauſe this lower jaw is harder than the upper ſo that it cannot be ſo eaſily hollowed, or elſebecauſe theſe teeth being fixed and firmly ſeated, needed not ſo fourth conjugation,which in the former book, we ſaid were ſpent upon the membrane of the two bones of the iaw. two produći. orison each ſide of the lower law. the luxatibh of the lower raw. the lower law filled with a marrowy ha. ºn jr. how the teeth feeſ. why the teeth *e a beating pain. - the nerves of the lower law muſt be obſet. wed. the bone of the noſe abové the palate, or the partition of the noſe, the teeth ate bones. the ſheating teeth, the dogreeth the gliading iºn-re têet why the up: per #.g teeth have many ſtayes as the upper, which as it were hang out of their ſeats. the ſhearing teeth more roots. cut the meat becauſe they are broad and ſharp; the dog-teeth break it, becauſe they are thºſe of the harp pointed and firm; but the grinders being hard, broad and ſharp, chawand grind it * aſunder. but if the grinders had been ſmooth; they could not fitly have performed their duty, for things are chawed and broken aſunder more eaſily by that which is rough and unequall. w. they ſharpen their milſtones when they are ſmoother than they ſhould º: y - of the muſcles and bones l i b. . the teeth are faſtened in the iaws by gom- phoſis. the faſtening of the teeth in- to the iaws is to be obſerved. wherein the teeth differ from the other bones, for what uſe the teeth have ſenſe. the fore-teeth help for the ar. ticulation of the voice, by picking them with a ſharp iron.the teeth are faſtened in the jawes by gomphoſis, that is, as a ſtake or nail, ſo arethey fixed into the holes of their jaws; for they adhere ſo firmly thereto in ſome, that when they are pluckt out,part thereof followes together with the tooth; which i have often obſerved to have been alſo with great effuſion of blood. this adheſion of the teeth faſtened in their jaws, is beſides ſtrengthned with a ligament, which applies itſelfe to their roots together with the nerve and veſſels. the teeth differ from the other bones,becauſe they have ačtion whilſt they chaw the meat; ... becauſe being loſt they may be regenerated, and for that they grow as long as the party lives, for otherwiſe by the continuall uſe of chawing they would be worn and waſted away by one another. §. may perceive this by any that have loſt one of their teeth,for that which is oppoſite to it becomes longer than the reſt,becauſe it is not worn by its oppoſite. beſides aſſo they are more hard and ſolid than the reſt of the bones, and indued with a quick ſenſe by rea: ſon of the nerves of the third conjugation which inſert themſelves into their roots; for if ou rub, or grind a tooth newly pluckt out,you may ſee the remains of the nerve; they i. ſuch quick ſenſe, that with the tongue they might judg of taſtes. but how feel the, teeth, ſeeing they may be filed without pain? fallopius anſwers, that the teeth feel not in their upper or exterior part, but only by a membrane which they have within. and the teeth have another uſe,eſpecially the fore-teeth, which is,they ſerve for diſtinét and articu- late pronuntiation;for thoſe that want them faulter in ãº, as alſo ſuch as have them to o i. or too long, or ill ranked.beſides, children ſpeak not diſtinčtly before they have their fore-teeth. and you muſt note that the infant as yet ſhut up in its mothers womb i. ſolid and bony teeth;which you may perceiveby diſſeding it preſently after it is tn. but even as there are two large cavities in the forehead bone at the eye-browes, filled with a viſcous humor, ſerving for the ſmelling; and in like manner,the air ſhut up in the mamillary proceſſes is for hearing; ſo in the jaws there be two cavities furniſhed with a viſcid humour for the nouriſhment of the teeth. c. h. a. p. iii. of the broad muſcle. ow we ſhould proſecute the containing parts of the face; to wit, the skin, $ the fleſhy pannicle andfat;but becauſe they have been ſpoken of ſufficiently before, i will only deſcribe the fleſhy pannicle,before i come to the diſſe&i- - on of the eye, that wee may themore eaſily underſtandall the motions per- s&ns formed by it, whether in the face or forehead. firſt,that you may more eaſily ſee it, you muſt curiouſly ſeparate the skin in ſome part of the face.for unleſſeyou take good heed, you will pluck away the fleſhy pannicle toge- ther with the skin,as alſo this broad muſcle to which it immediately adheres,and in ſome laces ſo cloſely and firmly,as in the lips,eye-lids and the whole forehead, that it cannot É. ſeparated from it,nature hath given motion, or a moving force ito this broad muſcle, that whilſt it extends,or contraćts itſelf, it might ſerve to ſhut and open the eye. it will be convenient to ſeparate the muſcle thus freed from the skin,beginning from the forepart of the clavicles even to the chin, aſcending in a right line, and then turning back as far as you can; for thus you ſhall ſhew how it mixes itſelf with the skin and the muſcles of the #: - y there are no particular muſcles ap- pointed to o- pen and ſhut the eye,for that is the work of the broad muſcle only. divers reaſons to that purpoſe. why you muſt take herd of making a tranſverſe in. ciſionupon the eyebrowes. when thou ſhalt come to the eyes, thou ſhalt teach how the eye is ſhut and opened this one muſcle,becauſe it is compoſed of the three ſorts of fibers;although by the opinion of all who have hitherto written of anatomy,thoſe ačtions are ſaid to be performed by the tº. of two muſcles appointed for that purpoſe;one of which is at the greater corner on he upper part, the other reſembling a ſemicircle at the leſſer corner, from whence exten- ding itſelf to the middle of the griſtle tarſuſ, it meets with the former . there, but they are in part extended overall the eye-lid, whereby it commeth to paſſe that it alſo in ſome ſort becommeth movable. but although in publike diſcòtions theſe two . muſcles are commonly wont to be ſolemnly ſhewed, after the manner i have related; yet i think, that thoſe which ſhew them know no more of them than i do. i have grounded my . from this, 'that there appears no other muſculous fleſh in theſe places, to thoſe which ſeparate the fleſhy pannicle, or broad muſcle, than that which is of the pannicle it felf, whether you draw your inciſion knife from theforehead downwards, or from the cheek upwards. befides,when there is occaſion to make inciſion on the eye-browes, we are forbidden to doeit tranſverſe, leſt this broad muſcle falling upon the eye, make the upper eye-lid un- moveable: but if ſuch a cut be received accidentally, we are commanded preſently to ſtitch it up;which is a great argument that the motlon of the upper eye-lid is not performed by its proper muſcles, but wholly depends and is performed by the broad muſcle. now if theſe ſame proper muſcles which we have deſcribed ſhould be in the upper eye-lid,it loº - e w ! liº. . - - ----- i ------- body. --- and otherextreme parts of the be meet, (becauſe when one of the muſcles is in ation,the other which is its oppoſite or antagoniſt, reſts or keepsholyday) that when that which is ſaid to open the eye is im- ployed, the oppoſite thereofreſting, the upper eye-lid ſhould be drawn towards its origi- ; as weſte it happens in convulſions: becauſe the operation of a muſcle is the colle&i- on of the part which it moves towards its ºriginall. - therefore ſeeing ſuch a motion or collećtion appears not any where in the eye-lid, f think it therefore manifeſt that all the motion of this upper eye-lid depends upon this broadmuſcle, and that it alone is the author of the motion thereof. - the originall of this broad muſcle is from the upper part of the sternon, the clavicles, the ſhoulderblades, and all the ſpines of the vertebra’s of the neck; but it is inſerted into all theſe parts of the head which want hair, and the whole face, having divers fibers from ſo various an originall,by benefit of which it performs ſuch manifold motions in the face (for it ſo ſpreads itſelföver the face,that it coversit like a wizard)by reaſon of the variety of the original and the produćtion of the divers fibers of this muſcle.but i have not in the deſcription of this muſtle proſecuted thoſe nine conditions,which in the firſt book of my anatomy i required inevery part becauſe i may ſeem to have ſufficiently declared them in the deſcription ofthe muſcles of the epigaſtrium. whereforehence forward you muſt ex- peã nothing from me in the deſcription of muſcles befides their original,inſertiona&ion, compoſition and the deſignation oftheir veſſels. c h a p. iv. of the eye-lids and eye-browes. fsr.ecauſe we have ſalm into mention of the eye-lids, and eye-browes, and becauſe the order of diffe&ion alſo requires it, we muſt tell you what they are, of what they conſiſt,and how and for what uſe they were framed by nature. * therefore the eye-browes are nothing elſe,than a rank of hairs ſet in a ſemi- circular form upon the upper part of the orb of the eye, from the greater to the leſſer cor- ner thereof, to ſerve for an ornament of the body, and a defence of the eyes againſt the acrimony of the ſweatfalling from the forehead. but the ey-lids on each ſide two,one above and another below, are nothing elſe than as it were certain ſhuttings appointed and made to cloſe and open the eyes when need re- quires, and to contain them in their orbs. their compoſure is of a muſculous skin, a griſtle and haires ſet like a pale at the ſides of them to preſerve the . when they are open, chiefly againſt the injuries of ſmallbodies, as motes, duſt and ſuch like. theſeñairs areaſwaies of equall and like bigneſſe,implanted at the edges of the# part,that they might alwaies fland ſtreight and ſtiffe out. they are not thick for ſo they ſhould darkeſ, the eye. the griſtle in which they are faſtned is encompaſſed with the periºranium ſtretched ſo fibefore it produce the conjunjiva. it was placed there, that when any part thereof, ſhoſld be drawn upwards or downwards by the force of the broad muſcle or of the two proper muſcles, it might follow entirely and wholly by reaſon of its hardneſſe. they call : griſtle, eſpecially the upper, tarſus. the upper and lower eye-lid differ in no- thing, but that the upper hath a more manifeſtmotion,and the lower a more obſcure:for otherwiſe nature ſhould have in vain encompaſſed it with a muſculous ſubſtance. l_ chap. v. of the eyes. rhe eyes are the inſtruments of the faculty of ſeeing,brought thither by the viſive ſpirit ofthe optick nerves, as in an aqua-duët. they are of a ſoft ſubſtance, of a large quantity, being bigger or leſſºr according to the bigneſſe of the body. they are ſeated in the head,that they might overlook the reſt of the body, to perceive and ſhun ſuch things as mightendanger, or endamage the body; for theaòion of the eyes is moſt quick, as that which is performed in a monent, which is grafited to none of the other ſenſes. wherefore this is the moſt excellent ſenſe of them all. for by this we behold the fabrick and beauty of the heavens and earth, diſtinguiſh the infinite varieties of colours, we perceive and know the magnitude, figure, number, proportion, ſite, motion and reſt of all bodies. the eyes have a j figure whoſe baſis is without, but the cone or point within at the optick nerves. nature would have them contained in a hol- low circle, that ſo by the profundity and ſolidity of the place they might be free from the incurſions of bruiſing and hurtfull things. - they are compoſed offix muſcles, five coats, three humours, and a moſt bright ſpirit, (ef which there is a perpetual afflux from the brain)two nerves a double vein,andonear: tery, the aëtion of a muſcle. * the originalſ of the broad muſcle. the inſertion and reaſon why we expreſſe ſo many motions with the face. what the eye. browes are. their uſe, what the eyes lids are. their compo- a ſure and uſes j what the fifs ſih is. . z what the eyes arc. their fire. the quicknes and excellency’ of their attion, fightc. . com p oſition: of the muſcles and bones lib. . glandula la- chrymalis. fiſtula la- rhynalis. why fat is pla- ced about the eyes. the numb er, ſite and ačtien of the muſcles. the coats of the eye. i conjuntliva, or adnata. cornea, or the horny coat. pºvea,or the grapy ccat. why the gra. py coat tº ſembles divers colours it muſt be coloured,that ſo it may co tery, beſides much fat, and laſtly, a glandule ſeated at the greaterangle thereof, upon that large hole which on both ſides goes to the noſe, and that, left that the humors falling from the brain ſhould flow by the noſe into the eyes,as we ſee it fares with thoſe whoſe eyes perpetually weep, or water, by reaſon of the cating away of this glandule , whence that affeót is .. the fiſtula lachrymalis, or weeping fiſtula. but there is much fat put between the muſcles of the cyc, partly that the motion of the eyes might be more quick, iu that ſlipperineſſe of the fat,as alſo that the temper and coni- plexion of the eyes, and chiefly of their nervous parts, might be more conſtant and laſt- ing, which otherwiſe by their continuall and perpetuall motion would be ſubjećt to ex- ceſſive dryneſſe. for nature, for the ſame reaſon i. placed glandules flowing with a certain moiſture, neer thoſe parts which have perpetuall agitation. c. h. a. p. vi. of the muſcles, coats and humors of the eye. ºfthere are fix muſcles in the eye, of which four perform the four dire&motions of the eye-they ariſe from the bottom of the orb, and end in the midſt of the eye º the optick nerve. when they are all moved with one en- devour, they draw the eye inwards. but if the upper only uſe its ačtion, it draws the eye upwards; if the lower, downwards; if the right, to the right ſide; if the left, to the left ſide. the two other muſcles turn the eye about; the firſt of which being the longer and ſlen- derer, ariſes almoſt from the ſame place, from which that muſcle ariſes, which draws the eye to the right ſide to the greater corner. but when it comes to the utmoſt part of the inner angle where the glandulalachrymali, is ſeated, it ends in a ſlender tendon, there pier- cing through the middle membrane which is there, as through a ring;from whence it pre- ſently going back is ſpent in a right angle towards the upper part of the eye, betwixt the inſertions of thoſe two muſcles, of the which one draws the eye upwards, the other di- rećtly to the outward corner, as it is obſerved by fallºpius,or rather, which i remember i have alwaies obſerved, they turn between the muſcles which move the eye upwards,and to the inner corner. this fifth muſcle when it is drawn in towards its beginning, ſo draws the eye with its circular tendon, that it carries it to the greater corner. - - the ſixt muſcle is contrary to that; for it hath its originall from the lower part of the orb at a ſmallhole, by which a nerve of the third conjugation paſſes forth; and being that it is moſt ſlender, whilſt it aſcends tranſverſly to the outward corner, it involves the eye ſo alſo, that it is inſerted in it by a . tendon, ſo that the tendons of them both are oftentimes taken but for one. that thou mayſt truly and accurately obſerve this anatomicall deſcription of the eye;the eye muſt uot be pluckt out of its orb,but rathºr the orb itſelf muſt be broken and ſeparated. *** for thus thou ſhalt certainly and plainly ſee the forementinoed original of the muſºles. for the five coats, the firſt which is firſt met with in diſſe&tion, comes from the pericrankpin, and is extended over all the white of the eye, even to the iri, or rain-bow. the duty ºf it is to ſtrengthen,bind and contain the eye in its orb,wherefore it had the name tºº, others called it adnata, or epipephycoſ. - the ſecond is called the cornea, becauſe it reſembles a horn in colour and confiftehce; this coat differs and varies from itſelf,for in the forepart,as far as the iri, goes, it is clear and perſpicuous,but thick and obſcure in the hind part,by reaſon of the diverſe poliſhing. on the fore-part it is denſe,that it may preſerve and contain the cryſtalline and wateriſh humor, but withall tranſparent,ſo to give the objećt a frcer paſſage to the cryſtalline. it hath its originall from the craſſà meninz, proceeding forth from the inner holes of the orb of the eye, for it compaſſes the eye on every ſide. the third is called the wvta or grapy coat, becauſe in the exterior part it repreſents the colour of a black grape; it ariſes from the pia mater,and encompaſſes all the eye, xcºpt the pupilla or apple of the eye,for here being perforated, it adheres to the horny coat by the veins and arteries which it communicates to it for life and nouriſhment. but when it arrives at the iris,then forſaking the cornea, it deſcends decp into the eye,and in ſome ſort is turned about the cryſtalline humour, to which alſo it moſt firmly adheres,ſo bounding the watcriſh humour, and alſo prohibiting that the albugineous humor do not over- whelm the cryſtalline. this grapy coat is as it were dyed on the inſide with divers .* as black, brown, blew, or green like a rain-bow, and that for theſe enſuing enefits. . - - the firſt is, if that it had been tinétured with one colour, all objećts would have appea- red of the ſame colour,as it comes to paſſe when we look through green or red glaſſ. but § the ſpirits diſſipated by the sun and ſceing. table. . lia. , and otherextreme parts of the $ody. tº table . figure .ſheweth the membranes and humors of the eye by lines drawn after the manner of a true eye. figure . ſheweth the horny coat with a portion of the optick nerve. fig. . ſeweth the ſame divided by a tranſverſe ſettion. fig. . ſheweth the [ivea or grapy coat with a portion ºf the opticknerve. fig. . the grapy coat of a mans eye. fig. . the horny, grapy and the choroides. fig. . the interiour ſuperficies of the grapy coat. - - - - fig. . the poſteriour part of the horny coat together with the ſaid net coat ſeparated from the eye: fig. . the coat of the vitreou, orglaſſy humor called hyaloides. fig. io. three humours joined together. fig. . the forward part of the cryſtalline. fig. . the cryſtalline humour covered yet with his coat. fig. .the cryſtalline of a mans eye. fig. . his coat. fig. . the watery humor diſpoſed upon the cryſtalline round about. . . fig. . the hairy proceſſes beamingly ſprinkled through the foreſide of the cºat ºf the glaſſy humor. fig. . the foreſide of the glaſſy humor. jfig. . the place of the watery humor. fig. . the glaſſy humor containing or comprehending the cryſtalline. the figure of the eye. the explcation of the firſt fi- gure by it ſelfe. . - a, the cryſtalline humor. f, by the glaſſiehumor. , \ c, the watery humor. d. the utmoſt coat called | \ adnata. . . e, the dark part of the horny tiš. which is not tranſparent. f. the grapy coat called wved. g, the net-like coat cal- led retiformis. h, the coat of the glaſſy a humor cald hyaloides. \i, the coat of the cry- . º h roceſſ. he hai rocellºs º proceſſus #. l, the impreſſion of the grapy coat where it de- parteth from the thick †h m, the horny coat, a part of i. p wn, the fat betwixt the muſcles. o, the optick nerve. p, the dura meminx. // ruz, q, the pia, mater or thin meninx. rr, the muſcles. the explication of the other -figures together. §: optick nerve. b. , , the thin meninx #.” nerve. c , . the thick meninx cloa- . the . # the oltcr o t i’s ny coat. e . the coat called retina gathered together on an hea § - r *:::::::: the eye.g. , . the leſſºr circle of the eye or the pupilla, b , . weſſeſs diſperſed through the puſamminx, iž, . the grapy coat, but i, in the . fig. ſheweth how the veſſels . join the hard membrane with the grapy coat. # . the horny or hard membrane turned over, l , .certain fibers and ſtrings of veſſels, whereby the grapy coat is tyed to of the muſcles and bones lib. . ~tt to the horny. mm +, . the impreſſion of the grapy coat where it recedeth or departeth from the horny coat. n n , , , . the pupilla or apple of the cye, o . the §. ot hairy proceſſes. p. . the beginning of the grapy coat made of a thin membrane dilated, but p in the . figure ſheweth the ciliar#. ſprinkled through the fore part of the glaſſic humor. . the boſome or depreſſion of the glaſſie humor receiving the cryſtal- line. ſ , . the bredth of the coat of the cryſtalline. t , , , . the poſterior art of the cryſtalline humor, which is ſphericall or round, u , , . the fore part of the ſame cryſtalline depreſſed. x , . the amplitude of the glaſſie humor. y , , . the amplitude of the watry humor. , .the place where the glaſſie humour is diſtin- guiſhed from the watry by the interpoſition of the hyaloides or coat of the glaſſy humor. * , . the place where the grapy coat ſwimmethin the watry humor. . the ca- º vity ordepreſſion of the glaſſic humor which remaineth when the cryſtalline is exempted or taken from it. j . the cavity or depreſſion of the watry humor made by the ſame iileans. - thirdly, it was convenient it ſhould be painted with infinite variety of colours for the preſervation of the ſight. for as the extream colours corrupt and weaken the ſight, ſo the middle refreſh and preſerve it, more or leſſe as they are neerer, or further remote from the extremes.it was fit it ſhould be ſoft, that ſo it might not hurt the cryſtalline humor upon whoſe circumference it ends; and perforated in the part objećted to it, leſt by its obſcurity it ſhould hinder the paſſage of the objećts to the cryſtalline, but rather that it might col- lečt by its blackneſſe as a contrary, the great and as it were diffuſed variety of colours, no otherwiſe than we ſee the heat is #j, by the oppoſition of cold;ſome call this coat choroides,becauſe it is woven with many veins and arteries, like the coat charion which in- ... . . volves the infant in the womb. - - *"pºiºſº | now followes the fourthcoat called amphibleſtroides or retiformit,the net-like coat, be- :ºil. cauſe proceeding from the optick nerve dilated into a coat, it is woven like a met with º, veins and arteries which it receives from the grapy coat,both for the life and nouriſhment both of itſelf, as alſo of the glaſſie humor jº, cucompaſſes on the back part. the principall commodity of this coat is, to perceive when the cryſtalline humor ſhall be changed by objećts, and to lead the viſive ſpirit inſtructed or furniſhed with the faculty of ſeeing, by the mediation of the glaſſie humour, even to the cryſtalline being the princi- pall inſtrument of ſeeing. it is ſofter than any other coat,leſt the touch of itſhould offend that humor. wherein thou wilt admire the ſingular order of nature, which as in other an anatomi- . it paſſes not from one extreme to another unleſſe by a medium, ſo here it hath not jºi... fitted the hard horny coat to the ſoft humors, but by interpoſition of divers media of a middle conſiſtence.for thus after the harder coats adnata and cornea it hath placed the * grapy coat,by ſo much ſofter then theſe two,as the net-like coat is ſofter then it,that thus it might paſſe from extreme to extreme as it were by theſe degrees of hardnes and ſoftnes. . the fifth and laſt coat is called arachnoides, becauſe it is of the conſiſtence of a ſpiders arachnoideſ, web. and we may well reſemble this coat, to that skin of an union which exceeds the o- ſº&: ther in clearneſs,whiteneſs,and thinneſs.this araneofa or cobweb-like coat encompaſſes . the cryſtalline humor on thefore ſide, peradventure that ſo it might defend it,as the chief inſtrument of ſeeing, if the other humors ſhould at any time be hurt. it hath its originall from the excrementitious humidity of the cryſtalline {. , hardned into that coat by the humors the coldnes of the adjacent part;abſolutely like the thin skin which encompaſſes the white of the eye. of an egg. - - - . : i the firſt humor of the eye is called the aqueus or wateriſh,from the ſimilitude of water; aneu, or it;is ſtated between the tranſparent part of the horny coat, the portion of the cryſtalline watery. humor lying towards the apple of the eye, and that refle&tion of the grapy coat which comes from the iris to the circumference of the cryſtalline humor, that filling the empty fpace it may diſtend the cornea, and ſo hinder the falling thereof upon the cryſtalline which would ſpoil the . alſo that by its moiſture it might hinder the drying of the cryſtalline humor. peradventure it is made of the whayiſh humor ſweating out of the veſſels of the coats,having their orifices for themoſt part in that place, where this wateriſh humor reſides.the ſecond humor and middlemoſt in ſituation is called the cryſtalline, coſtallinuſ, becauſe it imitates cryſtall in the brightnes and colour;if ſo be that we may attribute an cryſtalline, colour to it.for indeed it was fit that none of the three humors ſhould be tinčtured with any colour, as thoſe which would be the inſtruments of fight,leſt they might beguile usin ſeeing as red and green ſpeºtaclesdo;for that is true which we have red written by the phi- loſopher; that the ſubjećt or matter appointed for the reception of any form ſhould want all impreſſion thereof. hence nature hath created a formleſs matter, the humors of the eyes without colours, wax, without any figure, the mind without any particular knowledg of anything, that ſo they might be able to receive all manner of forms. the figure of the cryſtalline humor is . ſomewhat flatted on the forefide,but yet more flatted behind,that ſo the objećts might be the better retained in that, as it were, plane figure, and that they might not flyback as from a globe, or round body, in which they could make but ſhort ſtay; leſt it might be eaſily moved from its place by the force “... - thuſg a philoſophi- call axiome. lib. . and other extreme parts of the body. - ! - thing falling or hitting againſt it,becauſe that body which is exačtly, round touches not a plane body but only in a point or prick.half this humor ſwims in the glaſſie humor,that ſo it may be nouriſhed from it by tranſpoſition of matter; or rather ( (ccing it is encom- paſſed on every ſide with the fift coat, that the matter cannot eaſily be fºnt from the one into the other) by the benefit of the veſſels produced even unto it as well by the nct-like coat as by the grapy, but it is filled with a bright ſpirit on the forepart, which lyes next to the wateriſh humor and the ſpace of the apple of the eye. - - - of which thing this is an argument, that as long as a man remains alive, we ſee the eye galcap . it every way full, and ſwoln, but lank and wrinkled when he is dead; beſides alſo one of the no. denſi, part. eyes being ſhut, the pupilla of the other is dilated by the ſpirit compelled to fly thither. º alſo for the ſame cauſe the horny coat is wrinkled in very old men,and the pupilla is ſtraitned by the wrinkles ſubſiding into themſelves, which is the cauſe that they ſee little, or not at all;for by age and ſucceſs of time the humor is conſumed by little and little, the implanted ſpirit vaniſhes away, and ſmaller quantity of ſpirits flow from the brain, as from a fountain which is alſo exhauſted.the horny coat at his original,that is,in the pºrts. --- next the iris, ſeemeth to be very nigh the cryſtalline humor, becauſe all the coats in that place mutually cohere as touching one another, but as it runs further out to the pupilla, ſo it is further diſtant from the cryſtalline. which you may eaſily perceive by anatomicall " * diſſečtion,and the operation of touching or taking away a catarrhaët: for whereas a ca- ºn what piace tarrhaët is ſeated between the horny coat, and cryſtalline humor, the necdle thruſt in, is i. #. º: carriedabout upwards, downwards, and on every fide through a large and free ſpace, “ neither touching the horny coat nor cryſtalline humour, by reaſon theſe bodies are fevered by a good diſtance filled with ſpirit and a thin humour. the uſe of it is, that it may be like a looking-glaſſe to the faculty of ſeeing carried thither with the viſive {pirit. the third and laſt humoris the vitreu, the glaſſie,or rather albugineous humor, called - ſo, becauſe it is like molten glaſſe, or the white of an egg.it is ſeated in the hind part of vitreu, ſºn al- the cryſtalline humor,that ſo it may in ſome ſort break the violence of the ſpirit fº ; luginºus, that is from the brain into the cryſtalline humour, no otherwiſe than the watry humor is ...; *i. º c n on the foreſide of the cryſtalline to hinder the violence of the light and colours entring egg. a that way. this glaſſie humor is nouriſhed by the net-like coat. - we haveformerly ſpoken ſufficiently of the nerves of the eye: wherefore it remains that the veins of we ſpeak of the veins.some of theſe are internall, carried thither with the coats of the the eye. j brain; other ſome externall,ſt retched over the externall parts of the eye, as , , the muſcles,and coat adnata; and by theſe veins inflammations and redneſs often happen w º veins , in the externall parts of the eye: for which the vena pupi, muſt be opened, and cuppin ...;º: glaſſes and horns muſt be j to the nape of the neck and ſhoulders: as in the internail misſion.". inflammations of the eye, the cephalik vein muſt be opened to avert and evacuate the mor- eyes, - bifick humor. - c h a p. vii, of the nºſe. sººhe noſe is called in greek riº, becauſe the excrements of the brain flow forth § by this paſſage,thoumaiſtunderſtand it hath a divers ſubſtance by compoſiti- |º on.the º and ſite are ſufficiently known to all. but it is compo- sº ſed of the skin and muſcles.bones griſtles,a membrane, or coat nerves, veins and arteries. the skin and bones both contained and containing, have for- * - . . . . merly been explained, as alſo the nerves, veins and arteries. thegriſtles of the noſe are ſix the gºſſes ºf in number; the firſt is double, ſeparating both the noſtrills in the top of the noſeextended " noſe, even to the bone ethmoides. the ſecond lyes under the former. the third and fourth are continued to the two outward bones of the noſe. the fifth and ſixth being very ſlender and deſcending on both fides of the noſe, make the wings or moveable parts jº. ! . . . . fore the uſe of theſe griſtles is, that the noſe moveable about the end thereof.ſhould be leſſè *. obnoxious to externall injuries, as fraćtures and bruiſes,and beſides more fit for drawing the air in and expelling it forth inbreathing. for nature for this purpoſe hath beſtowed four muſcles upon the noſe,on each ſide two, one within,and another without. - the external taketh its original from the cheek,and deſcending obliquely from thence, the muſclei and after ſome ſort annexed to that which opens the upper lip, is terminated into the **of. wing of the noſe, which it dilates. * - - - - the internall going on the inner ſide from the jaw-bone, ends at the beginning of the griftles that make the wings, that ſo it may contraćt them. the coat which inwardly inveſts the noſtrils and their paſſages, it produced by the five-like bones from the craſſa meninx, as the inner coat of the palat,throttle, weazon, gullet and innerventricle, that it is no mervail, if the affects of ſuch parts be quickly communicated with the brain. this ſame coat on each fide receives a portion of a nerve from the hiº. - conjº ~ of the muſcles and bones lib. . º the temper, &tion and uſe. why the noſe was parted in two, their number. their number: the tempo. fall muſcle. why the wounds of the temporall muſcle are deadly; conjugation, through the hole which deſcends to the noſe by the great corner of the eye. the noſe in al the parts thereof is of a cold and dry temper.the a&ion and profit there- of is to carry the air and oft-times ſmells to themamillary proceſſes, and from thence to the four ventricles of the brain,for the reaſons formerly ſhewed. but becauſe the mamil- lary proceſſes being the paſſages of the air and ſmels are double,and for that one of theſe may §. obſtrućted without the other, therefore nature hath alſo diſtinguiſhed the paſſage of the noſe with a griſtly partition put between, that when the one is obſtrućted, the air by the other may enter into the brain for the generation and preſervation of the animall ſpirit. the two holes of the noſe firſt aſcend upwards, and then downwards into the mouth, by a crooked paſſage, leſt the cold air, or duſt ſhould be carried into the lungs. but the noſe was parted into two paſſages as we ſee, not only for the forementioned cauſe, but alſo for helping the reſpiration and vindicating the ſmell from externall injuries;and laſtly, for the ornament of the face. c.h.a.p. viii. of the muſcles of the face. r&ow we muſt deſcribe themuſcles of the face pertaining as well to the lips as to nº the lower jaw. theſe are . in number, on each ſide nine, that is, four of the nº lips, two of the upper, and as many of the lower. but there belong five to the lower jaw. the firſt of the upper lip being the longer, and narrower,ari- ſing from the yoak-bone deſcends by the corner of the mouth to the lower lip, that ſo it may bring it to the upper lip, and by that means ſhut the mouth. the other tº: ſhorter and broader, paſſing forth of the hollowneſs of the cheek, or upper jaw (by which a por- tion of the nerves of the third conjugation deſcends to theſe two muſcles, and other parts of the face) ends in the upper part of the ſame upper lip,which it compoſes together with the fleſhy pannicle and skin,and it opens it by turning up the czterior fibers towards the noſe, and ſhuts it by drawing the internallinwards towards the teeth. - the firſt of the lower lip being the longer and ſlenderer, entring out of that region which is betwcen the externall perforation of the upper jaw(through which on the inner part of the ſame, a nerve paſſeth forth to the ſame muſcles) and the muſcle maſſeter, (of which hereafter) then aſcending upwards by the corner of the the mouth, it ends in the upper lip, that ſo it may draw it to the lower. - . the other broader and ſhorter begins at the lower part of the chin, and the hollow- neſs thereof, and ends at the lower lip which it makes, opening it within and without by its internall and externall fibers, as we alſo ſaid of its oppoſite. and that i may ſpeak in a word, nature hath framed three ſorts of muſcles for the motion of the mouth, of which ſome open the mouth, others ſhut it, and otherſome wreſt it and draw it awry; but you muſt note that when the muſcles of one kind jointly perform their funètions(as the two upper which we deſcribed in the firſt place, on each ſide one, which draw the lower lip to the upper, and the muſcles oppoſite to them.) they make a right or ſtreight motion; but when either of them moves ſeverally, it moves j. as when we draw our mouth aſide. but theſe muſcles are ſo faſtned and fixed to the skin, that they cannot be ſeparated; ſo that it is no great matter whether you call hºa muſculous skin, or a skinny muſcle:(which alſo takes place in the palms of the hands and ſoles of the feet) but theſe muſcles move the lips the upper jaw being not moved at all. chap. ix. of the muſcles of the lower iair. §§ e have ſaid theſe muſcles are five in number, that is , four which ſhut it, and one which opensit, and theſe are alike on both ſides. the firſt and greater of §: theſe four muſcles which ſhut the jaw is called crotºphita or temporall muſcle; itariſes from the ſides of the forehead and bregma bones, and adhering to the ſame and the ſtony bone, it deſcends under the yoak-bone, from whence it inſerts itſelf to the proceſſe of the lower jaw which the greeks call corone, that it may draw it direétly to the upper,ſo to ſhut the mouth. - - but you muſt note, that this muſcle is tendinous even to his belly, and that it fils and makes both the temples. it is more ſubjećt to deadly wounds than the reſt by reaſon of the multitude of nerves diſperſcd over the ſubſtance thereof, which becauſe they are neer their originall, that is,the brain,they infer danger of ſodain death by a convulſion which uſually follows the affečts of this muſcle, bnt alſo in like manner it cauſes a feaver, the phrenſy and coma. -- . . the lib. . and other extreme parts of the body. --- the figure of the chief muſcleſ - #. #. f a. the muſcle of the forehead and the fig.ii. right fibers thereof. b. the temporal muſcle. . . a . . his ſemicircular originalſ. d. the muſcle of the upper lip. poral muſcles paſſe. . the maſſeter, or grinding muſcle. k. the upper griſtle of the noſe. m. a muſcle fºrming the cheek. n. the muſcle of the lower lip. o. apart of the fifth muſcle of the lower iaw called digaſtricus, that is, double bellied. q. r. the firſt muſcle of the bone tery. s. the ſecond muſcle of the bone hyoides under the chin. t. the third muſcle of the bone hyoides ſtretched to the jaw. - • t. k. the ſeventh muſcle of the head and his inſertion at t., , v. v. the two venters of the fourth muſcle of the bone hyoides. . the place where the veſſels paſſe which go to the head,and the nerves which are ſent to the arm. therefore that it ſhould be leſſe ſubjećt or obvious to externall injuries, nature hath, as it were, made it a retiring place in the bone,and fortified it ... with a wall of bone rai- fed ſomewhat higher about it. the other muſcle almoſt equall to the former in bigneſs, being called the maſſeter,orgrinding muſcle, makes the cheek;it deſcends from the loweſt part of the greateſtbone of the orb (which bends itſelfas it were back, that it may make part of the yoak-bone) and inſerts itſelf into the º from the corner thereof to the end of the root of the proceſſe corone, that ſo it may draw this jaw forward and back- ward, and move it like a #. - wherefore nature hath compoſed it of two ſorts offibers, of the which ſome from the neck(the cheek in that place under the eyes ſtanding ſomewhat out like an apple ariſing from the concourſe of the greater bones of the orb and upper jaw ) deſcend § uely to the corner and hinder part of the lower jaw, that it may move it forwards. otherſome ariſe from the lower part of the ſame yoak-bone, and deſcending obliquely interſe& the former fibers after the ſimilitude of the letter x, and inſert themſelves into the ſame lower jaw at the roots of the proceſſe corone, that ſo they may draw it back:truely by reaſon of theſe contrary motions it is likely this muſcle was called the maſſeter or grinder. - the third, which is the round muſcle, ariſes from all the gums of the upper jaw; and is inſerted into all the gums of the lower, inveſting the fides of all the mouth with the coat, with which it is covered on the infide, being otherwiſe covered on the outſide with morefat than any other muſcle. theaòtion thereof is, not only to draw the lower. jaw to the upper, but alſo as with aſhovell to bring the meat diſperſed over all the mouth un- der the teeth, no otherwiſe then the tongue draws it in. - - the fourth being ſhorter and leſſe than thereſt ariſing from all the hollowneſs of the winged proceſſe of the wedge-bone, is inſerted within into the broadeſt part of the lower jaw, that ſo in like mannerit may draw the ſame to the upper. this is the muſcle through whoſe occaſion, we ſaid this lower jaw is ſometimes diſlocated. ----- the figure of the muſcles ofthe lower jaw. - - - - • * * - ** - * * a. a hole in the forehead bone in the brim of the ſeat ºf the eye, ſending a ſmall nerve of the third pair to the muſcles of the forehead and the upper eye-brow." b. the tempºral muſk. º - > º º nº - wº --> - - - - s wº - - ſ - -- º ower jaw g. the yoak-bone under which the tem- hyoidesgrowing unto the rough ar- . . . :-- the maſter er grinding muſcle, the round muſcle, - the leſſet' - muſcle of the lower iaw. from the proceſſeſtyloides of the ſtony bone, the fiffºn" aſcends to the forepart of the chin, neer to the connexion of the two bones of this jaw, aſ muſcles. o - to - of the muſcles and bones --- l i b. . to draw this jaw downwards from the upper in opening the mouth.this muſcle is ſlender and tendinous in the midſt,that ſo it might be the ſtronger, but it is fleſhy at the ends. all the uſe of theſe muſcles were made by the ſingular providence of nature, and engraffed into this part theſe mentio. for the performance of many uſes and ačtions, as biting aſunder, chawing, grinding and ned muſcles ſevering the meat into ſmall particles,which the tongue by a various and harmleſs motion puts under the teeth. thus much i thought good to ſay of the parts of the face, as well containing as contained. c h a p. x. of the ears and parotides or kernels of the ears. the nature rhe ears are the organs of the ſenſe of hearing. they are compoſed of the skin, and compoſiti- tº a little fleſh,a .#. veins, arteries and nerves.they may be bended or folded on of the ears. in without harm, becauſe being griftly, they eaſily yeclá and give way; but x. fibra * they would not do ſo, if . bebony, but would rather break. that #. d lap at which they hang pendants . is by the ancients called fibra, the reaſon * but the upper part pinna. they have been framed by the providence of nature into two thereof, twining paſſages like a snails ſhell, which as they come neerer to the formen cetum or blind hole;are the more ſtraitned, that ſo they might the better gather the air into them, and conceive the differences of ſounds and voices, and by little and little lead them to the membrane. - - the figure of the ears and bones of the auditory paſſage. tab. . ſheweth the ears and the divers internal parts thereof. fig. . ſheweth the whole external ear, with a part of the temple bone. fig. ... ſheweth the left bone ºf the temple divided in the midſt by the inſtrument of hearing, where- about on either ſide there are certain paſſages here particularly deſcribed. fig. , and . ſheweth the three little bones. fig. . ſheweth a portion ºf the bone of the temple, which is ſeen neer the hole of hearing divided through the midſt, whereby the merves, bones and membranes may appear,as veſalius of them conceiveth. h the veſel fig. . eth the veſſels', mem- #: andholes ºf the or- gan of hearing, as platerus hath deſcribed them. - fig. , and . ſhºweth the little bones of the hearing of a man and of a calfe, both joined and ſepa- rated. fig. ...ſheweth the muſcle found out by aquapendemy. for i. particular declaration ſee d. crook: anatomy. pag. . thismembrane which is indifferently hardhath grown up from the nerves of * - th -- lib. . and other extreme parts of the body. i - *. fifth conjugation, which they call the auditory. but they were made thus into crooked windings, left the ſounds ruſhing in too violently ſhould hurt the ſenſe of hearing. yet for all this we oft find it troubled and hurt by the noiſe of thunder, guns and bels, otherwiſe alſo leſt that the air too ſodainly entring in ſhould by its qualities,as cold,cauſe É. extraneous bodies, as fleas and the like, ſhould be ſtayed in theſe windings and turnings of the waies,the glutinous thick- neſs of the cholerick excrement or ear-wax hereunto alſo conducing, which the brain purges and ſends forth into this part, that is, the auditory paſſage framed into theſe intri- ſome harm: and alſo that little creeping things an cate maeanders. but that we may underſtand how the hearing is made, we muſt know the ſtrućture of the organ or inſtrument hereof, the membrane which we formerl mentioned to conſiſt of the auditory nerve, is ſtretched in the inſide over the auditory paſſage like as the head of a drum. for it is ſtretched and extended with the air, or auditory ſpirit implanted there, and ſhut up in the cavity of the mamillary proceſſe and forā- men cecum, that ſmitten upon by the touch of the externall air entring in, it may re- ceive the objećt, that is, the ſound, which is nothing elſe then a certain quality a- rifing from the air beaten or moved by the colliſion and conflićt of one or more bodies. such a colliſion is ſpred over the air,as the water which by the gliding touch of a ſtone produces . circles and rings one as it were riſing from another. so in rivelets running in a narrow c annel, the water ſtrucken,and as it were, beaten back in its courſe againſt broken, craggy and ſteep rocks, wheels about into many turnings: this colliſion of the beaten air flying back divers waies from arched and hollow roofed places, as dens, ci- ſterns, wells, thick woods and the like, yeelds and produces a double ſound, and this re- duplication is called an echo.wherefore the hearing is thus made by the air,as a medium, but this air is twofold, that is, externall and internall. the experiour is that which encompaſſes us, but the interiour is that which is ſhutu in the cavity of themamillary proceſſe andforamen cecum,which truly is not pure and #. air, but tempered and mixed with the auditory ſpirit. thence º: the noiſe or bea- ting of the ears, when vapors are there mixed with the air inſtea of ſpirits,whereby their motion is perturbed and confuſed. but neither do theſe ſuffice for hearing,for nature for the more exačt diſtinétion of ſounds hath alſo made the littlebones, of which one is called the incus oranvill, another the malleolus or hammer, the third the stapes or ſtirrop,becauſe the ſhape thereof reſembles a german ſtirrop. alſo it may be called deltoides, becauſe it is made in the ſhapeof the greek letter a. they are placedbehind the membrane,wherefore the anvill and hammer moved by the force of the entrance of the externall air,and beating thereofagainſt that membrane, they more diſtinétly expreſſe the difference of ſounds,as ſtrings ſtretched within under the head ofa drum; as for example, theſe bones being more gently moved repreſent a low ſound to the common ſenſe and faculty of hearing, but being moved more vehemently and vi- olently, they preſent a quick and great ſound; to conclude,according to their divers agi- tation, they produce divers and different ſounds. the glandules, ſhould follow the ears in the order of anatomy, as well thoſe which are called the emunétories of the brain, that is, the parotides, (which are laced as it were at the lower part of the ears) as theſe which lye under the lower }. the muſcles of the bone hyoides and the tongue, in which the scrºphale and other ſuch cold abſceſſes breed. it ſhall here ſuffice to ſet down the uſe of all ſuch like glandules. - therefore the parotides are framed in that place by nature, to receive the viru- lent and malign matter ſent forth by the ſtrength of the brain, by the veins and arteries ſpred over that place. the reſt ſerve to ſtrengthen the diviſion of the veſſels, to moiſten the ligaments and membranes of the jaw, left they ſhould be dryed by their con- tinuall motion. their other conditions and uſes are formerly handled in our firſt book of anatomy. c. h. a. p. xi. of the bone hyoides, and the muſcles thereof. he ſubſtance of the bone hyoides is the ſame with that of other bones. the figure thereof imitates the greek letter v from whence it took the name, (as alſo the name jºaoeidºs; and from the letter a it is in like ſort called *****; by ſome it is ſtiled os gutturi, and os lingue, that is, the throat. bone and tonguebone. . the compoſition thereof confiſts joined into one by the interpoſition of griſtles. of many bones this bone is bigger in beaſts and compoſed of more bones,and that not only by the in- tercourſe of griſtles,but alſo of ligaments.it is ſeated with its baſis (being gibbous on the o forepart for what uſe the ear.wax ſerves. for what uſe the membrane ſtretched under the auditory paſſage ſerves. what ſound is; the cauſe of an echo. the bones of the auditory paſſage, their uſe: whence the difference of ſounds, the reaſon of the name. the comfº ſition. the fite, of the muſcles and bones l i b. . the temper and uſe. the muſcles of the bone hyoi- der. the aftion of theſe muſcles. what kind of fleſh the tongue hath. the quantity, the figure. compoſure. the nerves. the muſcles of the tongue. forepart for conſtancy, and arched on the inſide that it might receive and contain the root of the tongue) upon the upper part of that griſtle of the throtle which is called ſcutiformis or shield-like, (for this ſeems to prop it up by the ſtrength of two proceſſes ri- ſing at the baſis thereof) and the root of the tongue. from this baſis it ſends forth two horns to the fides of the tongue on each ſide one,which in men are tyed to the appendix ſtyloides by ligaments ſent from it ſelf. contrary then it is in beaſts, who have it of many bones united as we ſaid,by the intercouſe of ligaments even to the root of the ſtyloideſ. wherefore this bone hath connexion with the forementioned parts,and other hereafter to be mentioned. it hath the ſame temperac otherbones have. the uſe of it is, to miniſter ligaments to certain muſcles of the tongue,and inſertion as well to the two foremoſt and upper muſcles of the throtle,as to its own, of which we will now treat. the muſcles of the bone hyoides,according to the opinion of ſome are eight, on each ſide four;of which there betwo, one of which galen refers to the common muſcles of the larinx or throtle;and the other to thoſe which move the ſhoulder-blade upwards. howſoe- verit be, the firſt of the four beforementioned ariſes from the appendix styloides, and paſ- fing over the nervous ſubſtance of the muſcle opening the lower jaw, is inſerted into the horns of the bone hyoides. this muſcle is verythin, yet ſomewhat broad, the which in that reſpect may eaſily be cut, unleſſe you have a care in ſeparating themuſcle which opens the lower chap. the ſecond aſcends obliquely from the upper part of the ſhoulder-blade neer the produćtion thereof called coracoides, to the beginnings of the horns of the ſaid bone hyoides. this is round and nervous in the midſt that ſo it might be the ſtronger, as that is which we formerly ſaid opens the lower jaw; and it is refer'd by galen amongſt thoſe which move the ſhoulder-blade upwards.the third ariſes from the upper part of the ſternon,and is inſerted at the root and baſis of the bone hyoides; yet galen refers it to the common muſcles of the larinx; whoſe opinion takes place rather in beaſts, than in man, ſeeing in man this muſcle cannot be found either to proceed,or be inſerted into the thro- tle, as it is in beaſts. the fourth and laſt deſcends within from the chin to the root of the bone hyoides. the firſt of theſe muſcles with its companion or partner moves the bone hyoides upwards, the ſecond downwards;the third backwards; and the fourth forwards. i would declare whence theſe muſcles have their veſſels, had i not abundantly ſatisfied that thing, when i treated of the diſtribution of the nerves, veins and arteries. - chap. xii. of the tongue. -* *: i §h e tongue is of a fleſhy, rare, looſe and ſoft ſubſtance; it enjoyes fleſh of a §§ §§ different kind from the reſt of the fleſh, as chiefly appears when you cut it §§§ from the firſt originall of the muſcles thereof;which thing hath moyed ſome, bºlº that they have made a fourth kind offleſh proper to the tongue and different º from the reſt, viz. the fibrous, muſculous, and that of the bowells.the quan- tity thercoſis ſuch that it may be contained in themouth, and eaſily moved to each part thereof. the figure of it is triangular, which it rather expreſſes in the baſis, which is at the root ofthe bone hyoides, than in its point, or forepart, where from a triangle it be- comes more dilated. it is compoſed of a membrane (which it hath from that which lines all the inſide of the mouth ) muſcles . nerves two on each ſide; the one whereof is ſent from the third conjugation, into the coat thereof; the other from the ſeventh is ſent into the muſculous ſubſtance even to the end thereof for motions ſake; ſo that thoſe ſenſifick nerves from the third conjugation only give to judg of taſtes, compoſe the coat, and touch or enter not the fleſh. beſides it is compoſed of veins and arteries on each ſide one, which it receives from the externall. j. and carotides, running manifeſtly to the end thercof on the lower ſide, that ſo they might be eaſily opened in the diſeaſes of the mouth and throtle; they commonly term theſe the vene migre or black weins, the muſcles of the tongue, are abſolutely ten, on each ſide five. the firſt narrow at the beginning and broader at the end, deſcends into the upper ſide of the tongue from the appendix styloides, and together with its copartner draws it upwards. the ſecond hath its originall within from the lower jaw, about the region of the gº." , and is inſerted into the lower ſide of the tongue, the which with its partner draws it down- ward. the third proceeds from the inner part of the chin, and goes to the root of the tongne, that when need requires it may put it forth of the mouth. the fourth the reateſt and broadeſt of them all, compoſed of all ſorts of fibers, paſſes forth from the f. of the bone hyoides , , and ends at the lower part of the tongue, which with its companion plucks it back into the mouth. the fift and laſt moſt uſu- ally ariſes from the upper part of the horns of the bone hyoides, and goes to the roots of the tongue between the two firſt, that it may move it to the ſides of . iiiqultſl. lin. , andotherextreme -- . ---- ~ - * ------- parts of the tody. mouth. the temper thereof, as of all other fleſh, is hot and moiſt. the firſt ačtion and commodity thereofis,to be the organ of the ſenſe of taſting, wherefore it was made fungous and ſpongy,that by reaſon of the rarity of it, it might more eaſily admit the taſts conjoyn- edwith the ſpettle,as a vehicle. another to be an inſtrument to diſtinguiſh the voice by ar- ticulate ſpeeech,for which it was made movable into each part of the mouth. the third is to be a help to chaw and ſwallow the meat. for which cauſe it is like a ſcoop or diſh with which we throw back the corn into the mill, which hath ſcaped grinding. and becauſe, when the tongue is dry, it is leſsninible and quick to perform its motions, as appears by thoſe which can ſcarce ſpeak by reaſon of thirſt or a burning feaver: ther: ore nature hath laced very ſpongy glandules at theroots thereof, on each ſide one, which like ſponges }. and receive both from the brain and other ". wateriſh and ſpettlely humor, with which they humett and make more glib,not only the tongue, but alſo the other parts of the mouth,as the throat and jawes;theſe glandules are called the tonſile, or almonds of the throat. y. chap. iii. of the mouth. *she mouth is that capacity which bounded with the cheeks and lips contains sº within its precinéts the teeth,tongue,and the beginnings of the throtle and gul- sºlº let.therefore the uſe of the mouth is to contain the tongue,and ſerve it in the fit- s ter performance of its ačtions; and although many parts ereofhave been former- ly handled,as the lips,tecth,jawes,tongue,almonds,and aſſages of the palat coming from #: noſe,yet it remains,that we declare what the palat,the gargareon,or wvulva,the pharinx, and fauce; or chops are. the palat (or as it is commonly called,the roof of the mouth) is nothing elſe but the upper part of themouthbounded with the teeth gums and upper jaw. in which place the coat common to the whole mouth,is made rough with divers wrincles, that the meats put up and down between the tongue and the palat might be broken and chawed more eaſily by that inequality and roughneſs. if any would find the nerves, which deſcend into the palat from the fourth conjugation, let him ſeparate that coat and caſt it from the fore to the hind partofthe mouth; for ſo he ſhall find them at the fides and hind parts of the bones of the palat which incompaſs the palat,and at the beginning of the inner holes of the mouth, which deſcend from the noſe, and region of the produćtions of the wedgbone called the saddle. theſe holes or paſſages are open, that we may breath the better when we ſleep, and that when the noſe is not well, the excrements which ſºck their paſſage by it, may be eaſilier drawn away by the mouth. this ſame coat is woven with nervous fibers, that like the tongue it might judg of taſts; theſe fibers compoſe a coat that hath a middle conſiſtence betwixt ſoft and hard. for if it ſhould have been any harder,like a bone or griſtle, it would have been without ſenſe,but if ſofter,hard, acrid and ſharp meats would have hurt it. c. h. a. p. xii ii. of the gargareon, or wvula. fºy the gargareon we underſtand a º and ſpongy body, in ſhape like a pine apple,hanging direétly down at the further end of the palat and baſis of the bone ethmoides, where the two holes of the palat come from the noſe,above the entrance of the throtle. this littlebody is ſituate in this place to break the violence of the air drawn in by breathing,and that by delay it might ºſome ſort temper and mitigate it º the warmneſs of the mouth. beſides, that it might be as it were the plečirum, or quil of the voice, ſo to diffuſe the fuliginous vapour ſent forth in breathing,that it may be diſperſed over all the mouth, that reſounding from thence it may be articulate, and by the motion of the tongue diſtinguiſhed and formed into a certain voice. which uſe is not ſmall,when we ſee by experience that ſuch as have this particle, cut away,or eaten,or corrupted by any accident, have not only their voyce vitiated and de- praved, but ſpeak ill-favouredly,and as they ſay, through the noſe ; and beſides in proceſs of time they fall into a conſumption by reaſon of the cold air paſſing down before it be, ualified. this ſame particle, is alſo a means to hinder the duff from flying down . the weazon into the lungs.by the pharinx and faucer is meant the inner and back part of the mouth,ſet or placed before the entrance of the throtle and gullet; being ſo. called,becauſe that place is narrow and ſtrait, that as it were by theſe ſtraits, the air drawn in by the mouth might be forced down by the throtle, and the meat into the gullet. -- the temper, aćtion, andma. nifold uſe of the tongue, the uſe of the glandules pla- cedar rheroets ofthe tongue. what itis, the uſe. what the palat is. the nervrs thereof. why the holes of the palat are open. what kind of coat the palat hath. what the gars gareoxi, or wvalais, the ſite and manifold nſe thereof. the diſcom. modities that enſue the loſs ofthe wvula, what the pharinx and faucer are. chap. of the muſcles and bones lib. . what is meant by the larinx. the magni. tude, figure, and compo, ſur. the deſcripti- on of the griſtles of the larinx. whence the infinite variety of voices pro- ceed. chap. xv. of the larinx, or throttle. ºirſ: we muſt ſhew what is meant by the larinx and throttle,then proſecute the o- § §§ ther conditions of it after our accuſtomedmanner.therefore by the larinx we un- tº derſtand nothing elſe in this place,than the head & extremity of the rough artery, * or weazon,which comes neerer to griſtly ſubſtance than to any other. the quan- tity thereof is . large, yet divers according to the diverſity of bodies. it re- fembles in ſhape the head of a germane pipe. the compoſure of it conſiſts of . muſcles,on each ſide nine,which as they are like in jº: ſo alſo in ſtrength and ačtion; of three griſtles,veins,arteries and nerves, as we ſhewed, when we ſpoke of the diſtribution of the veſſels; as alſo of a double coat, the one externall,the other internall, as we ſhewed when we ſpoke of the weazon. theſe three griſtles are joyned together by certain ligaments and muſcles;the foremoſtgriſtle,which alſo is the greater,is called by the greeks ºutsº, in latin commonly scutiformis,that is ſhield-like,becauſe it reſembles a ſhield. the ſecond be- ing the hinder and middle in .. a name,wherefore it is called the innominata or nameleſs griſtle. the laſt and leaſt, which notwithſtanding may be parted into two, ſo lyes upon the edges of the other,that it reſembles the mouth of an oyl pot, or a pitcher, whereupon the greeks call it arytenoides.theſe griſtles thus fitted amongſt themſelves utter a diſtinët voice, by the benefit of the epiglottis, or after-tongue; and alſo of the muſcles opening and ſhutting, dilating and compreſſing them, whence proceed infinite varieties of voices. for thus when they are opened and dilated,they yeeld a heavy,or dull ſound;when they are ſhut or drawn together,a quick,or ſharp ſound;and to conclude, they make it infi- nite wayes different according to the infinite variety of the dilatation, or conſtrićtion the muſcles of thereof. therefore becauſe it was fit theſe griſtles ſhould be moveable, eſpecially the aryte- the larinx. their number. a hotable hiſtory. whence the muſcles of the throttle have their nerves, moides, and thyroides, nature hath put to them on each ſide muſcles, of which three are common,and fix proper.the firſt of the common lying hid under the third muſcle of them that move the bone hyoides, ariſes from the root of the ſame bone,and by an oblique de- ſcent inſerts it ſelf at the baſis of the ſhield-like griſtle, to dilate it upwards and down- wards. the ſecond aſcends obliquely from the inner part of the ſternon according to the length of the weazon (whence it is called bronchius) to the bottom and fides of the ſame ſhield-like griſtle,that it may open and dilate it with its wings.this muſcle is ſeen from the firſt original thereof.even a great part of the way ſtraitlty to cohere with the third muſcle of the bone hyoides;therefore under each of the muſcles,there is a glandulous body ſpredabout the fore and upper part of the weazon, on that place where it applies itſelf to the throttle; this body although it reſemble a fleſhy ſubſtance, yet it is a glandule,which being pluckt away by a certain emperick . upon him to cure the kings evill, cauſed a ă. of voice on one fide, becauſe he pulled away the recurrent nerve lying upon the glandule as it goes to the throttle, as galen reports, lib. de loci affeii. the third and laſt ariſes from the parts of the vertebra’s of the neck #. tranſverſly upon the fides of the gullet,and ends at the wings and fides of the ſhield-like griſtle, that it may tye it more ſtraitly to the ſecond griſtle. but theſe three are called common muſcles, becauſe they take their originall from iome other place than the throttle;that ſo ; may be inſerted into ſome part thereof, for they are called the proper muſcles which ariſe from the throttle itſelf,which we have ſaid to be ſix on each #. e firſt of which ariſing from the fore part of the ſecond griſtle,makes a circle under the baſis of the ſhieldlike griſtle; whilſt aſcending obliquely to the baſis there- of, it is afterwards inſerted in a part of it,ſo to ſtrengthen and dilate it. the ſecond in like manner arifing from the ſecond griſtle, from that place where it adheres to the firſt, it runs obliquely croſſing the firſt to the inner and forepart of the griſtle thyroides neer to the baſis thereof,that it may joyn it to the ſecond.the third from the hind baſis of the ſecond griſtle aſcends dire&ly to the baſis of the third griſtle arytenoides, that with the ſecond muſcle it may open and ſhut it. the fourth aſcends from the fides of the ſecond griſtle.neer the ori- ginall of the ſecond muſcle, to the ſides of the arytenoides, that with the ſecond muſcle it may open and ſhut it.the fift ariſes from the inner middle of the ſhield-griſtle, and ends in the fore-part of the arytenoides at the inſertion of the fourth muſcle, that ſo it may preſs down the ſaid griſtle. the fixt and laſt aſcends by the hind baſis of the arytenoides to the fore baſis of the ſame, to preſs it down. but you muſt note,that all ſuch muſcles as ariſe from below upwards,re- ceive branches from the recurrent, but eſpecially thoſe who open and ſhut the griſtle ary- tenoides. but the fite,temper,connexion,and uſe of the throttle may eaſily be known by that we have ſaid before: although it be a .# very full of difficulty to ſearch out and de- monſtrate all the conditions of theorganicalſ parts, by reaſon of the diverſity of their com- oſition. wherefore hence-forward concerning the ſubſtance, temper, and other circum- nces of ſuch parts as we ſhall omit, you may have recourſe to thoſe things which we have written in the demonſtration of the ſimple and ſimilar parts, of which theſe orga- - nicall liº. , and otherextreme part ofthe body. - - - - nicall are compoſed; as if any ſhould ask of what temper the larinx is you ſhall anſwer,of a cold dry, and hot,and moiſt,becauſe it conſiſts both of a griſtly and fleſhly ſubſtance. he which reckons up all the parts of the mouth, muſt not omit that griſtly, and membra- nous body which ariſes from the roots of the tongue,which that it might be more quick for motion,that is, whereby it might be more º ercêted and depreſſed (for thoſe things which are more ſoft do continually ſlide away, but thoſe which are too hard cannot be bended) it was convenient it ſhould be neither too hard not too ſoft, that it might bee- re&ed whileſt we breath, but depreſſed when we ſwallow. it is a principall inſtrument of the voice,for it cannot be well articulated unleſs the way were ſtrait. therefore it ſtrai- tens that way,and the paſſage of the griſtles of the throttle, but ſpecially the aytandides; it is alwayes moiſt by a certain native, and inbred humidity ; wherefore if it happen to be dried by a feaver, or any other like accident,the ſpeech is taken away. it is bound on both fides by the common membrane of the mouth to the ſides of the arytenoides even to the back part thereof, that ſo like a cover it may open and ſhut the orifice of the throttle, that none of the meat and drink in ſwallowingmay fall into the weazon, in ſuch aboun- dance as may hinder the egreſs and regreſs of the air. for we moſt not think that this bo- dy doth ſo cloſely ſhut the orifice of the throttle, but that ſome ſmall quantity of moi- ſture alwaies runsdown by the inner fides, as the walls thereof, to moiſten the lungs; o- therwiſe eclºgma's ſhould be of no uſe in the diſeaſes of the cheſt. and becauſe that this little body is partaker of voluntary motion, therefore according to the opinion of ſome there are %. muſcles beſtowed upon it, two which may open it and two that ſhut it, on each fide one. the opening muſcles deſcend from the root of the bone hyoides, and in their inſertion É. into one they are terminated in the root of this body, that is, the . epiglotti, in the back part thereof. the ſhutting muſcles (in thoſe creatures where they are found) ariſe on the infide between the coat and griſtle thereof. truly i could never, ob-, ſerve and find theſe four muſcles in a man, though i have diligently and earneſtly ſought for them,but i have alwayes obſerved them in beaſts. therefore ſome have boldly affirmed that this little body in ſwallowing lies not upon the orifice of the throttle, unleſs when it is preſſed down by the heavineſs of ſuch things as are to be ſwallowed; but that at allo- ther times by reaſon of the continuall breathing it ſtands upright, the throttle being o- n. there remain as yet to be confidered, two ſmall boſomes,or cavities,or rather #. which nature hath hollowed in the very throttle under the epiglottis,on each fide one,that if by chance any of the meat or drink ſhould fall or ſlip aſide in the larinx, it might be there ſtayed and retained. beſide that, the air too violently entring, ſhould be in ſome ſort bro- ken by theſe clifts, or chinks,no otherwiſe then the blood and ſpirit entring into the heart through the auricula or ears thereof. chap. xvi. of the neck and the parts thereof. arist.àirſt we will define what the neck is, then proſecute the parts thereofas well pro- | per,as common,eſpecially thoſe of which we have not as yet treated. for it were nº ſuperfluous to ſpeak any more of the skin,the fleſhy pannicle,the veins, arteries, nerves, gullet, weazon and muſcles aſcending and deſcending to the parts into which they are inſerted alongſt the neck; wherefore you muſt not expett that we ſhould ſay any thing of the neck,more than to deſcribe the vertebra or rackbones,being the proper parts thereof, and the ligaments as well thoſe proper to the neck, as . which it hath in common with the head;and laſtly the muſcles as well thoſe it hath incom- mon with the head and cheſt,as thoſe of its own. therefore the neck is nothing elſe,then a art of the head, which is contained between the nowl bone and the firſt vertebra of the # ck. firſt in the neck the vertebra’s muſt be confidered, and we muſt ſhew what they have proper and peculiar,and what common amongſt themſelves, that we may the more eaſily ſhew the originall and inſertion of the muſcles growing out of them and ending in them. the neck conſiſts of ſeven vertebre or rack-bones, in which youmuſt confider their pro- per body; and then the holes by which the ſpinall marrow paſſes ; thirdly the apºphyſes or proceſſes of the vertebre; fourthly the holes through which the nerves are diſſeminated in- to other parts from the ſpinall marrow, and beſides the perforations of the tranſverſe produćtions by which the veins, and arteries, which we ºf. aſcend alongſt the neck, and laſtly the connexion of theſe ſame vertebre or rack-bones. for the firſt, by the *::: the vertebra, we underſtand the forepart thereof upon which the gullet lies. ‘for the hole,that is not alwayes the largeſt in thoſe vertebrewhich are nigheſt the head;but it is alwayes encompaſſed with the body ofthe vertebre, and beſides with three ſorts of proceſ- ſts, except in the firſt rack-bone,that is right tranſverſe and oblique. by right we under- ſland theſe extuberancies in the rack-bones of the neck which are hollowed direétly in the upper part of them,and riſe up creſted on each fide to ſuſtain and receive the baſis of the rack-bone which is ſet upon it. by the oblique proceſſes we underſtand the bunchings - out the epiglotti; or after- tongue. of potable things ſome. what alwayes falls upon the lungs. the muſcles of the epiglottis. the uſe of the cavities or fif: ſures of the throttle, what theneck - -* what to be conſidered in the vertebræ of the neck. which be the right prroceſs of the vertebræ which the obliques of the muſcles and bones lib. . w --~ which the tranſverſe. the tonnexi- ons of the ver- rebre of the tieck, out by which theſe rack-bones are mutually knit together by ginglymos; theſe are ſeated between the right and tranſverſe proceſſes. by the tranſverſe we underſtand the pro- tuberations next the body, which divide the vertebra or rack-bone in a ſtraight line. theſe proceſſes are perforated that they may give way to the before deſcribed veins and ar- teries,which entring the spinallmarrow by the holes of the nerves nouriſh the rack-bones and parts belonging to them. beſides you muſt note that the perforations of the rack- bones of the nec º which the nerves proceed from the ſpinall marrow to the outward parts,are under the tranſverſe proceſs,that is growing or made by the upper and lower ver- rebra,contrary to all the other which are in the reſt of the rack-bones. for the connexion of the rack-bones, you muſt know that all the vertebre of the ſpine have ſix connexions, two in their own bodies,& four in their oblique proceſſes.by the two firſt connexions they are ſo mutually articulated in their own bodies that each are joyned with other both above and below.but by the four other by their oblique aſcendent & deſcendent proceſſes on each ſide two,they are ſo mutually inarticulate, that as the fourth rack-bone of the neck by its oblique aſcendent proceſſes, is received of the deſcendent proceſſes of the third rack-bone;ſo it receives the oblique aſcendent proceſſes of the firſt, by its oblique deſcendents,for alwayes the oblique aſcendents are received, and the deſcendents receive. yet we muſt except the firſt rack-bone of the neck which is contained with four connexions by his lower oblique the proceſs talled the teoth. proceſſes, and by its upperby which it receives the oblique proceſſes both of the nowl- one, and of the ſecon ſº. the ſecond vertebra or rack-bone muſt alſo be excep- ted which is holden by five connexions, that is to ſay, fourby its oblique proceſſes, and the fift by its own §§§ which it is knit to the body of the third vertebra. but we muſt note, that whereas nature hath not given a spine to the firſt rack-bone,yet it hath given it a certain bunch or extuberancy in ſtead thereof;in like manner,ſeeing it makes no common paſſage with the ſecond vertebra for the paſſing forth of the nerve, it is perforated at the fides of its body, and it is made very thin on the foreſide, as if it were without body, that it might receive the fore proceſs raiſed in the upper body of the ſecond rack-bone, which hippocrates calls the tooth,to which the principall ligamentof the head is faſtened, which deſcends within from the hind part of the head under the apºphyſes clinoides or proceſſes of she wedg-bone. table .figure .sheweth all the rack-bones of the back knit together. figure . sheweth the fore and upper face of the neck;&c,see d. crook,pag. . jfig..." from a, to b,the ſeven vertebres of the neck. from c, to , the twelve verte- bres of the cheſt. from e,to f,the five rack-bones of the loines. from g, to h, the s ſacrum, or holy-bone conſiſting, com- monly of vertebræ, from i, to k, the bone coccyx or the rump-bone according to the late writers, - ll,the bodies of the vertebræ. twº §§ *t* | * mthe tranſverſe proceſſes of the gº" - - vertebræ, " º |lºw n,the deſcendent proceſſes. nimº - ſº ,the aſcendent proceſſes. qw nº - ſ' pp, the backward proceſſes. ſº s.c. §§ // &q,the holesthat are in the fides º w eº of the vertebræ through which غwły º nº º \{\ w the nerves are tranſmitted: v\}<\º: º - º rr, agriſly ligament betwixt the vertebrae. a, , , , the hole whereout the marrow of the back iſſueth. b, , . the cavity which admit. teth the root of the ſecond rack-bone. c, , , acavity or sinus in the ſame place cruſted over with a griſtle. - d,a, a prominence in the out- ward region of this sinus. ef, , , the sinus or cavity of the firſt rack-bone which ad- mitteth the , heads of the nowl-bone. , , , , the tranſverſe proceſs of the i. vertebra. h, i, the hole of this tranſverſe proceſs, º lin. , and other extreme part ofthe pody. , , the sinu, which together with the cavity of the nowl-bone marked with e, maketh a common paſſage pre- pared for the '. here the ſpine of the firſt rack is wanti - ough place where the ſpine of the firſt rack wanting. . - - - # : ...; . firſt j the . bunches of the ſecond rack marked with maw. - r mn, ; , the , bunches of the ſecond rack which fall into the cavities of the firſt. , , the appendix or tooth of the ſecond rack. p, , a knub of this appendix cruſted over with d griſle. , the backfide of the tooth. r, , the sinus or cavity of the ſame, about which a tranſverſe ligament is rowled containing the ſaid tooth in the cavity of the firſt rack. st. , certain cavities at the fides of the tooth whence the roots iſſue of the fore: branch of the ſecond pair of finews. v, , the point of the the tooth, x, , an aſperity o: roughmeſs where is a hole but not thrilled through. , , a cavity of the ſecond rack which together with the cavity marked with zma. keth a hole through which the nerves do iſſue, z, , the sinus of the firſt rack. , , , , the double ſpine of the ſecond rack, b, , , , the tranſverſe proceſs of the ſecond rack. c, , the hole of the ſaid tranſverſe proceſs. d, , , the deſcending proceſs ofthe ſecond rack whoſe cavity is marked withd, in the , figure. e., , , the place where the body of the ſecond rack deſcendeth downward. fgg, , the lower ſide of the body of the third rack at f, the two eminent parts of the ſame areg, bi: , the aſcending proceſes, lm, , the two deſcending proceſſes, n op , , the tranſverſe proceſſes, r, , , the ſpine or backward proceſs, [t, , the two tops of the ſpine. u, , the deſcending proceſs of the third rack. x, , the aſcending proceſs. y, the tranſverſe proceſs of the third rack. a, , , the hole of this tranſverſe proceſs, , , the upper hollowed part of the body of the third rack. j, , the sinu, or cavity which maketh the lower part of a hole through which the conjugations of the nerves are led. , , the upper part ofthe ſame hole. andby this articulation the head is bended forwards and backwards, as it is moved to the ſides § the articulation of the firſt rack-bone with the ſecond. that proceſs is bound by two ligaments, the firſt of which being greater and broader is externall,comprehend- ing in the compaſs thereof all the upper articulation, aſcending from the rack-bones to the head,or rather deſcending from the head to them,as any otherligament going from one bone to another; the other is the ſtronger and alſo incompaſſes the articulation mixing its ſelf with the griſtle, which by its interpoſition binds together all the rack-bones, the firſt excepted as you may ſeein pulling aſunder the rack-bones of swine; and the whole spine or back-bone is tyed together and compoſed throughout with ſuch ligaments. the holy bone is compoſed of . vertebre (or rather offive, or fix,as in the figure fol- lowing) beſides the rump-bone, it receives,and holds faſt the oſa ilium, or hanch-bones, and is as a baſis to all the rack-bones placed above it, whereby it comes to paſs that the by what arti culation the head is bended backwards and forwards, - the ventiré fthe holy bone. rack-bones from the head to the holy-bone grow ſtill thicker, becauſe that which ſup- ports ought to bigger than that which is ſupported. there is a certain moiſture,tough and fatty,put between the rack-bones,as alſo in otherjoynts, to make them glib and ſlippery, that ſo they may the better move. whilſt this motion is made, the rack-bones part one from another. - • the commodities or uſes of the spine are ſaid to be four.the firſt is, that it is,as it were; the ſeat and foundation of the compoſure and conſtrućtion of the whole body, as the car. kaſsis in a ſhip.the ſecond,that it is a . or paſſage for the marrow. the third is,becauſe it contains and preſerves the ſame. the fourth is, that it ſerves for a wallor bulwark to the entrails, which lye and reſt upon it on the inſide. and becauſe we have fallen into men- tion of ligaments, it will not beamiſs to inſert in this place, that which ought to be known of them. firſt,therefore, we will declare what a ligamentis,then explain the divers acceptions thereof, and laſtly proſecute their differences. therefore a ligament is nothing elſe than a ſimple part of mans body,next to a bone and griſtle the moſt terreſtriall, and which moſt uſually ariſes from the one or other of them either mediately or immediately, and in the like manner ends in one of them, or in a muſcle,or in ſome other part;whereby it comes to paſs that a ligament is without blood, dry, hard,cold, and without ſenſe, like the parts from whence it ariſes,although it reſemble a nerve in whiteneſs and conſiſtence,but that it is ſomewhat harder. a ligament is taken either generally or more particularly ; in generalſ, for every part of the body, which tyes one part to another, in which ſenſe the skin may be called áliga- ment,becauſe it contains all the inner parts in one union. so the peritonean comprehending all the naturall parts, and binding them to the back-bone; ſo the membrane inveſting the ribs, (that is,the pleura) containing all the vitall parts; thus the membrants ofthe brain, the nerves, veins, arteries,muſcles, membranes, and laſtly all ſuch parts of the body, which bind together and contain other, may be called ligaments, becauſe they bind one part to another;as the nerves annex the whole body to the brain,the arteries faſten it to the heart, and the veins to the liver. but to conclude,the name of a ligament more particularly taken, ſignifies the part of the body,which we have deſcribed a little before. the differences of ligaments are many for ſome are membranous and thin;others broad, otherſomethick and round, ſome . ſome ſoft, ſome great, ſome little, ſome wholly griftly, others of a middle conſiſtence beeween a bone and a griſtle, according to the na- tºre of the motion of the parts, which they bind together in quickneſs, vehemency and flowneſs. we will ſhew the other differences of ligaments, as they ſhall preſent themſelves in diffection, . - - - chap, the minibid uſes of the backbonds. what a lig. ment is, why it is without ſenſe: what parts may be called ligaments in generall ſigni: fication; the differe:- ces of liga, incrlts properſ? ſo called. of the muſcles and bones lin. . c. h. a. p. xvii. of the muſcles of the neck. ºhe muſcles of the neck as well proper as common, are in number twenty, or elſe §§ twenty two, that is, ten, or eleven on each ſide; of which, ſeven only move the ºlº head, or the firſt vertebra with the head; the other three or four,the neck it ſelf. º of the ſeven which move the head, and with the head the firſt wertebra, ſome ex- tendandercétit, others bend and decline it,others move it obliquely, but aſ of them together in a ſucceſſive motion move it circularly, and the like judgment may be of the muſcles of the neck. - - their number. the fourth figure ofthe muſcles. this figure ſheweth the cavities of the middle and lower belieſ,the bowel; being taken out, but moſt part of the bones and muſcles remaining. ab. the firſt muſcle bending the neck called longuſ. cc. the ſecond bender of the neck called scalenuſ. dddd. the outwardinterco- ſtall muſcles. e e e e, the inner intercoſtall muſcles. fff, the ſecond muſcle of the cheſt called ſerratus maior. (ºnw & % . g, the firſt muſcle of the | §§§yºº ſhoulder-blade called ſerra- §§§nºssºr tus minor, ſeparated from t § (? - - § w esº - his original l. h, the firſt muſcle of the arm called pećiorali, ſe- parated from his originall. i. the ſecond muſcle of the arm called deltoides. k. the bone of the arm without fleſh. l., the firſt muſcle of the cubit callad biceps. m. the ſecond muſcle of the cubit called brachieu. n. the clavicle or coller- bone bent backward. o. the firſt muſcle of the cheſt called ſubclavius. p. the upper proceſs of the ſhoulder-blade.g. the firſt muſcle of the head called obliquus inferior. r. the ſe- cond muſcle of the head talled complexuſ. s. the - - fourth muſcle of the ſhoul- derblade called levator. t v. the two bellies of the fourth muſcle of the bone hyoir. yx. a . the fift muſcle of the back whoſe originall is at . tt, bb.cc. the ſixt muſcle of the thigh called pſe, whoſe originall is at . and tendon ath b. zz. the ſeventh muſcle . thigh. d, the holy bone... o.o.o. the holes of the holy bone,out of which the nerves do iſſue. e. a portion of the fifth muſcle of the thigh ariſing from the ſhare-bone. f the ſhare-bone bared. k. the ninth muſcle of the thigh or the firſt circumajor. but before i can come to the deſcription of their originall and inſertion,i muſt admoniſh thee, that the muſcles of the ſhouder-blade muſt firſt be taken away by diffection; that is, the trapeziuſ, or table-muſcle, and the rhomboideſ, or ſquare-muſcle; whoſe originall and inſertion that we may the better demonſtrate,(or rather the aëtion by which we ſeek that originall and inſertion,) they muſt be pulled up, beginning at their inſertion, which is at the ſhoulder-blade (as ſhall be ſhewed in the proper place ) turning them up towards their originalls, that is, to the spine. beſides the leſs rhomboides , the hinder ... and upper (called alſo the dentatus or toothed-muſcle) muſt be raiſed from its briginal), which is at the three lower rack-bones of the neck and the firſt of the back, and turned up to its inſertion, which is at three ſpaces of the lower ribs nigh ---------- - - - lºn. . - andotherextreme parts of the body. nigh to the hind, and upper angle of the shoulder-blade;as ſhall be ſhewed in fit place here- after. theſe muſcles thus raiſed up, the muſcles which ere&t and extend the head muſt be taken away, and then thoſe two which move it obliquely, and laſtly one which bends, or declines,for thus anatomicall order . if you think good,you may, not ic hurting the other, firſt of all cutaway that which is called the maſtoides, which declines or bends the head.for theſe which lift up and extend the head,the firſt from the figure of the fplgen is called the spleniuſ,it aſcends from the , upper ſpines of the back and the , lower of the neck,and is obliquely inſerted at the back part of the head and the mamillary proceſs, whence you may raiſe it towards its originall. the ſecond by reaſon of its compoſure is called complexus ; this paſſing from the third, fourth and fifth tranſverſe proceſs of the back and often from the firſt of the neck,aſcends dire&ly to the back part of the head, incompaſ- fing the lower and fide part of the neck,you may eaſily take it up ; if you begin at the ſpine, and ſo go forwards to the tranſverſe proceſſes and mamillary proceſſes of the nowl-bone. this complexus may be divided into two or three muſcles, but that with ſome difficulty,by a the fifth figure of the muſcles in which ſome muſcles of the head, cheſt, arms ſº ſhoulder-blade are deſcribed. */- - > / i. the proceſs of the ſhoulder-blade, called the top of the ſhoulder. o. the fourth muſcle of the arm or the greater roundmuſcle, to which fallopius his right muſcle is adjoined, which ſome call the leſſer roundmüſcle. g_q. the fixt muſcle of the armor the up- per bade-rider. x. the ſecond muſcle of the ſhoulder-blade or the levator or heaver. z. the ſecond muſcle of the cheſt or the greater saw-muſcle. t. the fift muſcle of the cheſt or muſcle called sacrolumbus. ag. his place wherein he cleaveth faſt to the lº muſcle of the back. . the tendons of the muſcle obliquely inſerted into the ribs. aa. the firſt pair of the muſcles of the head or the splinters. ch. . . their length whoſe beginning at and inſertion at . - o. . the ſides of this muſcle. .that diſtance where they depart one from the other. . the two muſcles called complexi, near their inſertion. *. the ſecond muſcle of the back or the longeſt muſcle. o, the fourth muſcle of the back or the semi-ſpinatus. . m. the fºld. bare. p. a part of the tranſverſe muſcle of the abdomen. reaſon of its folded texture. the third and fourth,which betwo of the eight littlemuſcles, being four on each fide, do aſcend ſomewhat obliquely, the firſt truly from the whole fide of the ſecond vertebra.the ſecond from the whole fide of the proceſs of the firſt vertebra, which it hath in ſtead of a ſpine; they aſcend to the back part of the head juſt againſt the ſpine; theſe two muſcles by the conſent of all anatomiſts are called right, or dire muſcles, only moving the head: theſe truly muſt not be plucktfrom the places of their originall, nor inſertion, but only bound by a ſtring put under them, that ſo they may be the more eaſily ſhewed. on each ſide follow two oblique muſcles, one where. of only moves the head; the other primarily the firſt vertebra, but ſecondarily, and by - p accident the splenius: the complex: wº the redi. of right muf- cles, of the muſcles and bones lib. . ſ which maybe truly called the propet muſcle of the neck. the two no- tions ofthe head, the maftoidthſ' accident the head it ſelf. for the firſt, contrary to the opinion of ſome, it ariſes from the tranſverſe proceſs of the firſt rack-bone, and then is inſerted, above the inſertion of the firſt right muſcle: the which in like manner you muſt lift up, by ſomething put under- neath it, but not ſeparate it. the other entring forth of the ſpine of the ſecond vertebra, is inſerted at the proceſs of the firſt, contrary to the originall of the precedent, although fomethink otherwiſe. it will be convenient in the like manner only, to lift up this with a ſtring, and not pluck him from his place, that ſo you may ſee how all theſe make a perfe& triangle. the ačtion of this muſcle is contrary to the aëtion of the precedent, as the con- trariety of its originall and inſertion ſhew. t. ſ: figure ºf the muſcles, ſhewing ſome of the muſcles of the head, back, cheft, shoulder-blade d . - a d. the ſecond pair of the muſcles of the head, r the two complexi, the firſt part is at a ). - b c. the ſecond part e.f, the third part riſing up under g and inſerted at f. g, the fourth part of this muſcle or the right muſcle of the head according to fallºpius, which veſalius made the part of the . g.g. (betwixt the ribs) the externall intercoſtall muſcles. l., the originall of the . muſcle of the back. m. his tendons at the rack-bone of the /a neck. sthe upper othe ſouth muſcle ofthearm or the greater round muſcle. , the lower, the muſcle of the cheſ,er the sacrolumbus hanging from his originall. & the fixt muſcle of the arm or the up- per bladerider inverted. v. the third ligament ofthe joynt of the aſſus ... the fourth muſcle of the ſhoulders blade or the heaver. z. the ſecond muſcle of the cheſt, or the greater saw.muſcle. . the three muſcles of the neck called tranſverſalù. ii, the -muſcle of the neck called spi- flatwº - >, the firſt muſcle of the back, or the square muſcle. *.. the . muſcle of the back or the lon. geſt, whoſe originall is at l and his tendons at the vertebræ at &m m, q. the fourrh muſcle of the back called spinatus. j. the back of the ſhoulder-blade flayed | =s*ns wherefore when the firſt oblique moves the head obliquely forwards, the ſecond puls it back by the firſt vertebra, this with his aſſociate of the other ſide, may be truly termed the proper muſcles of the neck,becauſe they belong to no other part; whereas it is contrary in other muſcles.but we muſt note, that the head (according to galens opinion)hath two mo- tions,one dire&ly forwards and backwards,as appears in beckning it forwards,and caſting it backwards; the other circular. - - the firſt in galen, opinion is performed by the firſt vertebra moved upon the ſecond; the ſecond by the head moved upon the firſt vertebra ; for which he is reproved by the latter anatomiſts, who teach that the head cannot be turned round or circularly upon the firſt vertebra withoutputting it out of joynt. for the laſt whichbends the head, it aſcends from the upper and fide part of the sternon, and the next part of the clavicle, obliquely to the apophyſis maſtoides or manillary proceſs of the hind part of the head, whence it is called the maſtoideus. you may divide this by reaſon of its manifold originall rather into two, than into three muſcles. but it had been better that the head might have beco moved every way, “. ack- __-_- - - - lia. , and other extreme parts of the body. --. backwards and to theright and left ſides; but thus it would often have been ſtrained to our great damage and danger of life; neither could there have been ſuch facility of mo- tion without aloofneſs of the joint. therefore nature had rather beſtow upon the head an hamleſs faculty of fewer motions, than one furniſhed with more variety, but with a great deal more uncertainty and danger. wherefore it hath made this juncture not laxe or looſe, but ſtiffe and ſtrong. theſeventh figure ofthe muſcles; ſhewing ſºme muſcles f the head and cheſ, the trapezius or table-muſcle being taken away; as alſo of the bla and arm. a. the prominent part of the fourth muſcle of the cheſt called serratus po- ſticus ſuperior. - * the firſt muſcle of the head called ſplenius. e.e. the inſertion of the ſº- cond muſcle of the head called complexus. i. the collerbone bared. m. the back part of the ſe- cond muſcle of the arm called deltoir. & h his backward originall. #, his implantation into the arm. nn.thefourth muſcle of the arm called latijimus, sa, his originall from the ſpines of the rack-bones and from the holy-bone. w. the connexion of this muſcle with the handh- bone, which is led in the inſide frmuto w. w, the place where it lyeth upon the lower angle of the baſis of the ſhoulder- blade. o. the four muſcles of the arm called rotundu major. e. ſome muſcles of the back do here offer themſelves. - p. the .. º: the arm * s. §§ w. s. ºf called ſuperſcapularis inferi- §§ # § or. g. the ſixt .#of § n = ss tº $, r_ the arm called superſcapu- lark superior.s.the beginning of the third muſcle of the arm called latiſsimus. v. the third muſcle of the blade called rhomboides. º x, his originall from the ſpines of the rackbones. na, his inſertion into the baſis of the ſhoulder-blade. x, the fourth muſcle of the blade called levator. * a part of the oblique deſcendent muſcle of the abdomen. §§§ § after the ſhewing of theſe muſcles, we muſt come to three or four of the neck, of which number two (which ſome reduce to one) extend, anotherbends, and the laſt moves fide wayes, and all of them with a motion ſucceeding each other turn it about as we ſaid of the muſcles of the head. the firſt of theſe which extend, taking its originall from the ſix tranſverſe proceſſes of the fix upper rack-bones of the back, or rather, from the root of the oblique, aſcends dire&ly to the ſpine of the ſecond vertebra of the neck, and the oblique proceſs thereof; ſome call it the tranſverſarius ; , that is, the tranſverſe-muſcle. this, if you deſire to take it away, it is beſt firſt to ſeparate it from the ſpine, then to turn it upwards to the tranſverſe proceſſes; unleſs you had rather draw it a little from its part- ner and companion in that place where their originals are diſtinét, ſeeing it is the laſt and next to the bones. * - - - - - - - - - - - • marvell not, if you find not this diſtinétion of their originall, ſo plain and manifeſt, for it is commonly obſcure. for the muſcle ſpinatuſ, as it moſt commonly comes to paſs, ariſing from the roots of the ſeven upper ſpines of the back, and the laſt of the neck,is in- ſºrted into other ſpines of the neck, ſo that it might eaſily be confounded with the former the tranſººr- far im e the spinaru, p by . o of the muſcles and bones lib. . w. the lengw. , the scalenw. by galen. the third bºnds the neck, and ariſing within from the body of the five upper wertebre of the back (though with a very obſcure originall, ſpecially in lean bodies)ita- ſcends under the gullet alongſt the neck, even to the nowl-bone, into whoſe inner part it is obſcurely inſerted. wherefore it is likely that it helps not only to bend the neck, but alſo the head. this muſcle is made of oblique fibers proceeding from the body of the vertebre, all the way it paſſes to the tranſverſe proceſſes of the other vertebra. but it ſeems with its copartner which is oppoſite to it, to make a certain hollow path upon the bodies of the vertebre, to the gullet, and it is called the long muſcle. the fourth and laſt, which we ſaid moves the neck to one fide, is called scalenus from the figure thereof; it aſcends from the hinder and º: part of the firſt rib of the cheſt, inſerting its ſelf into all the tranſverſe proceſſes of the neck by its fibers, which as it were for the 'ſame purpoſe, it hath ſufficiently '. it may faſten itſelf from the furtheſt and loweſt proceſs of the neck into the firſt or higheſt thereof. the paſſage of the nerves through this to the arm makes this muſcle ſeem double or divided into two. for the veins and arteries rtaining to the neck, they have been declared in the proper chapters of the diſtributions of the veſſels; it remains that you note, all theſe muſcles receive nerves from the vertebre whence they ariſe. the eight figure of the muſcles, eſpecially thoſe #. cheft, head, and shoalder blade, the trapezius, latifimus, and rhomboides, being taken away. a. the fourth muſcle of the cheſt, or the upper and binder saw-muſcle. b. the , muſcles of the cheſt, or the lower and hinder saw- muſcle. a, b. amembranous beginning of the muſcle of the abdomen, de- ſcending obliquely down from the ſpine of the back. c. the firſt muſcle extending the cubit att,his originall is from the neck of the arm, and from the lower baſis of the blade at d. e. the originall of the fourth muſcle of the bone byois from the blade. | g g. the outward intercoſtall n. sº muſcles. § nº. i, the clavicle or coller-bone º bared. d f nnn j m. the upper,the ſecond muſcle o s § n. sº the arm called deltois, char. , - n n s s/ the beginning of this muſcle. w. the third muſcle of the armor the broad muſcle ſeparated. o. the fourth muſcle of che arm or the lower super-scapularit or blade-rider. , , . char. his originall at the baſis of the ſhoulder-blade at . and his inſertion into the joynt of the arm at . g. the ſixt muſcle of the arm or : upper super-scapularir. x, the ; #: . blade cal- led levator or the heaver. z.the frcond muſcle of the cheſt or the greater saw-muſcle, . . char: the fibº rºhe fºr muſcleofthecheſ, or the muſcle called satrolumbu..a. the firſt muſcle ºf the heador the ſplinter. e.e. the ſecond muſcle of the head or the inſertion of the muſcles called complexi. & the ſecond muſcle of the back or the longeſt muſcle. *the fourth muſcle of the back called semiſpinatuſ, nº º § ss s-s the lib. . and other ºrm. parts of the body. the ninth figure of the muſcles,ſhewing the muſcles of the head and neck a b, the third pair of the muſcles of the head called reāi majores. c. the mamillary proceſs. - d. the tranſverſe proceſs of the firſt rackbone. e,the proceſs of the ſecond rackboncof the neck. fg, the fourth pair of muſcles of the head called reći minores. hi, the fift pair of muſcles of the head called obliqui supepeirior. kl, the fixt pair of muſcles of the head called obliqui inferiores. x, the fourth pair of muſcles of the ſhoulder ; a, the ſecond muſcle of the neck called scalenus, which falopius maketh the eight muſcle of the cheſt. ii, the fourth muſcle of the neck called ſpinatus, *, the firſt muſcle of the back called quadratus. - • the ſecond muſcle of the back called longiſſimuſ. - , the ſinks or boſom of this muſcle, whereby it giveth way unto the third muſcle of the back, called sater. b, his originall. - , the third muſcle of the back called , sacer. , his originall. , bis end. * the fourth muſcle ofthe back called j. º, his upperend under the fourth muſcle of #. neck. chap. xviii, of the muſcles of the cheft and loynt. ºf muſt now ſpeak of the muſcles both of the cheſt which ſerve for reſpiration, as in what the * alſo . : É. but firſt we muſt know that the hind part of the cheſt called w.º: of the § the metaphrenum, or back, conſiſts of twelve wertebre the loins offive all which . : º * differ not from the vertºire of the neck, but that they are thickerin their bodies : - than theſe oftheneck; neither are they leſſer in holes,neither have they their tranſverſe pro- - ceſſes perforated or parted in two as the rackbones of the neck have. beſides each of theſe -- rackbones alone by itſelf, on each fide in the lower part thereofmakes a hole, through which a nerve hath paſſage from the ſpinall marrow to the .. , when on the contrary in the vertebra of the neck,ſuch holes or paſſagesare not made,but by meeting to- gether of two ofthem. - - - - + concerning the proceſſes ofthe rackbones of the cheſt,whether tranſverſe, right or ob- lique,they differ nothing from theſe of the neck (i mean even to the tenth) but that the tranſverſe ſeeing they are not perforated, as we ſaid before, do as it were ſuſtain the ribs, being ſtraitly bound to them with ſtrong ligaments both § and common ; but after the tenth vertebra of the back,the two other of the back,and all thoſe of the loins are differ- ent, not only from thoſe of the neck, but alſo, from theten firſt of the back, by reaſon of their oblique proceſſes,becauſe from the eleventh (which is received,as well by that which is above it, as by that under it, for the ſtrength of the whole back, and the eaſier bendin thereof without fear offia&ureordiſlocation)the abovementioned proceſſes of the lower rackbones which were wont to receive,are received; as on the contrary they receive which werewont to be received. they differ beſides from all the forementioned, by reaſon of their ſpines,becauſe from the eleventh they begin by little and little to look upwards,con- trary to the former. : - - but if any ask, how the tenth vertebra of the back may be termed the midſt of the p ſpine --- of the muſcles and bones lib. . * how the tenth vertebra of the back,may be ſaid to be the middle of the ſpine. the number of the muſcles of the cheſt. the muſcles dilating the cheſt, – the muſcles contraćting the cheſt. the subclavius is the firſt of the muſcles dila - ting the cheſt. serratus major. serratus poſte. rior and ſupe- rior. the oblique aſcendent of the lower bel- ly. the eleven intercoſtales externi. . intercartila- ginei. - the sacrolum- bu,the firſt of thoſe which contraćt the chcſ. the oblique deſcendent,the right and tranſ- verſe of the epigaſtrium. ſpine,being the whole ſpine conſiſts oftwenty four vertebre he may know that this may be true, as thus; if the ſix bones of the holy bone,and the fourth of the rump (being more griſtly thanbony)be numbred amongſt the bones of the spine; for then from the ſetting ºn of the head to the eleventh rackbone of the back are ſeventeen in number and ſo many from thence downwards. butlet us return to the muſcles of the cheſt ſerving for reſpiration. firſt, you muſt know that theſe muſcles are fourſcore and nine, that is, on each ſide forty four, a- like in ſtrength, thickneſs, fite, and ačtion and one beſides in the midſt which they call the diaphragma or midriffe. of theſe forty four, there are twenty two which dilata the cheſt in drawing in the breath; that is, the subclaviuſ, the dentatus, or serratus major in the opinion of ſome, both the rhomboides or serrati poſtici; the oblique aſcendent of the lower belly, the eleven intercoſtales, and the fixe intercartilaginei externi. on the contrary, as many contraćt the breaſt in expiration; to wit, the sacrolumbus, the oblique deſcen- dent, the right and tranverſe of the lower belly, the inner trangular, the fix intercarti- laginei, and the eleven inner intercoſtales. of theſe twenty two dilating the cheſt, the firſt from the fite is called the subclavius, for it deſcends obliquely from the inner and forepart of the clavicula or caller bone, into the griſtle of the firſt rib, even to the sternon, and di- lates it. the ſecond is the serratus major, the greater saw muſcle ariſing according to the opinion of ſome from the whole baſis of the ſhoulder blade on the infide, and it is tranſ. verſly inſerted into the nine upper ribs, producing certain toothed or ſaw-like proceſſes running further to the bones of the rib, than to the ſpaces between them, or intercoſtall muſcles, whereupon it hath the name of the saw muſcle; yet ſome have referred this muſcle to them of the ſhoulderblade. the third deſcends from the three lower ſpines of theneck, and the firſt of the back,by means of a membranous and moſt thin ligament, into the three or four upper ribs, running further into their ſpaces or intercoſtall muſcles,than into the ribs themſelves, whereupon it is called serratus foſterior & ſuperior, that is, the hinder and upper saw muſcle. the fourthin like manner aſcends by means of a membranous and thin ligament from the three upper ſpines of the loins, and the two laſt of the cheſt, or back,into three or four of the lower, or laſt of the baſtard ribs, ſent forth further into them ortheir bones,than into the intercoſtallmuſcles poſſeſſing the ſpaces between them, wherefore it is called serratus poſterior & inferior, the hinder and lower saw muſcle. moreover theſe two laſt muſcles have been called by a common name from their figure the rhomboides, that is, the ſquare muſcles. the fift which we ſaid was the aſcendent of the epigraffrium, hath already been ſufficiently deſcribed in his place. the eleven intercoſtales externi, or exter- mall intercoſtallmuſcles deſcend obliquely from the back part of the lower fide of the upper rib, into the forepart of the upper fide of the rib lying next under it, after a quite manner to the fix intercartilaginei, who having like originall and inſertion cointſ iº the griſtles, as the intercoſtall amongſt the ribs, deſcend obliquely from the forepart backwards. and àss much of the muſcles dilating the cheſt in inſpi. i'dti cin. • twº: * * * *.*... but the firſt , of the other muſcles, being as many in number, which contra& the cheſt in expiration, ariſing from the holy-bone, and the oblique proceſſes of the loines, aſcends (firmly and confuſedly adhering with the muſculie ſafer, or holy muſcle, which we ſhall deſcribe hereafter) to the roots of the twelve ribs, imparting in the aſcent a ſmall tendon to each of them, by which it draws theſe ribs towards the tranſverſe º ; and by reaſon of its originall it is called sağphinbul, that is, the holy loin- illulcie. - * - ". the ſecond, third,and fourth, which we ſaid were the obliquedeſcendent, right, and tranſverſe of the epigaſtrium,have been formerly deſcribed in their place. - but by the way you muſt note that theſe three muſcle ºfthe epigaſtrium help expiration rather by accident, than of themſelves, to wit, by driving back the midriff towards the lungs by the entrails, which alſo they force upwards, by drawing the parts into which they are inſerted towards their originall. the fift which we called the triangulus, or tri- angular, may be called the compreſſor of the griſtles, which proceeding from the inner ſides of the sternon, goes to all the griſtles of the true ribs; this is more apparent under the sternon in beaſts, than in men, though it be not very obſcure in them neither. for the in- ternall intercoſtallmuſcles,in my judgment,they ariſe from the lower ſides of the upper rib, & .# obliquely from the forepart backwards, are inſerted into the upper § of the rib next under it; ſo that they may follow the produćtion of the fibers of the externall in- tercartilaginei; as the ſix internall *::::::: follow the ſite of the czternall intercoſtall proceeding from behind forwards; wherefore as well the intercoſtall, as the intercartilagi- nei, every where interſe& each other, after the ſimilitude of the letter x. i know ſome have written that the internall muſcles (whether intercoſtall or intercartilaginei) aſcend from the upper fide of the lower rib forwards,and backwards. but if this were true, it would follow that theſe muſcles admitted their nerves in their tail, and not in their head, ſeeing the nerve alwayes goes under the rib,and not a- triangulus muſculus. intercoſtales interni. intercartaligi- nei intermi, muſcles al- wayes receive their nerves in heir heads, bove it. the lib. , and otherextreme parts ofthe body. - t--- , * : * v. the laſtmuſcle of the cheſt, that is, the diaphragma or midriffe,is ſufficiently deſcribed - before; wherefore it remains we deſcribe the muſcles of the loins.theſe are fix in num- ber, on each ſide three, equall in thickneſs, ſtrength and ſituation; one of theſe bends, and the other two extend the loins ; it is called by reaſon of the figure the triangulus,or triangular which bends the loins,it aſcends from a great part of the hind ſide of the hanch-bone into the tranſverſe†† of the loins, and the laſt of the cheſt on the infide, for which cauſe it is made of fibers ſhort, long, and indifferent, anſwering to the nearneſs or diſtance of the ſaid proceſſes. the firſt of the cztenders is called the semiſpinatus, becauſe even to the middle of its body it takes the ºl. from the ſpines of the holy bones and loins; this with its oblique fibers aſcends from all the ſaid pines to the tranſverſe proceſſes, as well of the loins as cheſt.the other is called sacer, the holy-muſcle, becauſe it takes its originall from the holy-bone, or the fides thereof; it aſcends with its oblique fibers to the ſpincs of the loins, and of the eleaven lower rack-bones of the cheſt. chap. xix. of the muſcles of the shoulder-blade. ow we muſt deſcribe the muſcles of the extreme parts, and firſt of the arms hk taking our beginning from theſe of the ſhoulder-blade. but firſt, that we may thebetter underſtand their deſcription, we muſt obſerve the nature and |n condition of the ſhoulder-blade. therefore the blade-bone on that part, tº which lies next unto the ribs, is ſomewhat hollowed; wherefore on the o- ther ſide it ſomewhat buncles out. it hath two ribs,one above, another below:by the up- er is meant nothing elſethan a border or right line,which looking towards the j. is extended from the exterior angle thereof under the collar-bone,even to the proceſſe co- racoides which this rib produces in the end thereof: by the lower, the underſide which lies towards the lower belly and the ſhort ribs. . befides, in this ſhoulder-bladewe obſerve the baſis, head and ſpine. by the baſis we un- derſtand the broader part of the ſhoulder-blade, which looks towards the back-bone. by the head we underſtand the narrower part thereof, in which it receives the head of the arm in a cavity, indifferently hollow, which it produces both by itſelf, as alſo by certain griſtles, which there faſtned encompaſſe that cavity. this kind of cavity is called glene. this receives and contains the bone of the arm,by a certain ſtrong ligament encompaſ. ſing aud ſtrengthning the joint, which kind of ligament is common to all other joints;. this ligamentariſes from the bottom of the cavity of the ſhoulder-blade, and circularly encompaſſes the whole joint, faſtning it ſelf to the head of the arm; there are alſo other ligaments beſides this, which incompaſſe and ſtrengthen this articulation. by the ſpine is meant a proceſſe, which riſing by little and little upon the gibbous part of the i. from the baſis thereofwhere it was low and depreſt, becomes higher untill it ends in the acromion, or upper part thereof. nature hath made two produćtions in this bone (that is to ſay,the acromion from the ſpine, and the coracoides from the upper fide) for the ſtrengthning of thcarticulation of the arm and ſhoulder-blade; that is, left the arme ſhould be eaſily ſtrained upward or forwards; beſides, it is faſtned to the clavicle, by the proceſſe acromion. - - . . . . . . . . . . the muſcles which move the ſhoulder-blade are fix in number, of which four are pro- per, and two common. the firſt of the four proper ſeated in the forepart, aſkends from the bones offive or ſix of the upper ribs, to the coracoideſ, which it drawes forwards, and is called serrate minor, that is, the leſſºr ſºw-mºſch;which that you may plainly ſhºw, it is fit you pull the pe&torall muſcle from the collar-bone, almöft to the middle of the sier. . #. other firſt oppoſite againſt it, is placed on the fore ſide, and draws its originall from the three lower ſpines of the neck, and the three upper of the cheſt, from whānce it extends it ſelf, and j into all the griſtly baſis of the ſhoulder-blades drawing it back- wards; it is called the rhomboides. the third from its attion, is called the lºvator, or the heaver, or lifter up,ſtated in the upper part, it deſcends from the tranſverſe profeſſes of the four firſt vertebre of the neck into the upper angle and ſpine of the blade.the fourth called trapezius, or the table-muſcle, is ſeated in the º and is membranous at the originall, but preſently becomes fleſhy : it ariſes from almoſt all the back-part of the head, #. all the ſpines of the neck, and, the eight upper vertebre of the cheſt, and then is inſerted by his nervous part, almoſt into the whole baſis of the blade, extending itſelf above the muſcles thereof.cven to the midſt of its ſpine,where being fleſhy it is inſerted even to the acromion, the upper part of the clavicle,and in ſome ſort to the upper rib. this muſcle hath a threefold ačtion, by reaſon of its triple originall. the firſt is to draw the ſhoulder-blade towards its originall, that is, to the nowle, and ſpine of the neck;the other is to draw it towards the back, becauſe of the contraćtion of the middle or - tranſ- the midrifle. the muſcles of the loins. they are three pair. triangular. * * * .. semiſpinatuſ. . s ter, - the deſcripti. on of the * blade-bone, of ſhoulder-blade, the baſis of the blades. the head of the ſhoulders blade. * - the ſpirie of rhe blade, the proceſſes acromion and coracoides. the muſcles of the ſhoulder. blade, - -- &erratiu minor; rhºmboider: levator. trapeziut, of the muſcles and bones lib. . latiſſimus. petluralia. what is meant by the hand in generall, the differcnces of the hand from the ſite thereof. why the hand is divided into ſo many fingers why the nails tranſverſe fibers which lead it directly thither;and the other is to draw it downwards by reaſon of the originall it hath from the fifth, ſixth, ſeventh and eight ſpine of the vertebre of the cheſt. - but we muſt note,that theſe diversa&ions are not performed by this muſcle, by the aſſiſtance of one only nerve, but by more, which come into it by the ſpinall marrow, by the holes of the vertebreas well of the neck as the cheſt, from whence it takes the original. for the two other which are the common muſcles of the blade, and arm, or ſhoulder, we will deſcribe them with the muſcles of the ſhoulder or arm:for one of theſe which is called the latijimu,that is,the broadeſt, aſcends from the holy-bone to the ſhoulder-blade and diii]. the other the named pediorals comes from the sternon and collar-bone to the ſhoulder- blade and arm. c. h. a. p. xx. the deſcription of the hand taken in generall. sº: know, what it is that we call the arm. but ſeeing that cannot fitly be under- : nº flood, unleſſe we know what the hand is, ſeeing that the arm is a part of the º, hand;therefore firſt we muſt define what a hand is, and then divide it into its parts. therefore the hand is taken two manner of waies,that is generally and the hand generally taken, fignifies all that which is contained from the joyning of the arm to the ſhoulder-blade, even to the ends of the fingers.but in particular it fignifies on- ly that which is comprehended from the furtheſt bones of the cubit, or the beginning of the wriſt, to the very fingers ends. therefore the hand in generall is an inſtrument of inſtruments,made for to take up and hold any thing. it is compoſed of three great parts, that is, of the arm, cubit, and hand, vulgarly, and properly ſo called; but the hand taken thus in particular is again divided in three other parts, the carpus or brachiale, the wriſt, the metacarpium or poſtbrachiale, the after-wriſt, and the fingers; all theſe parts ( ſeeing each of them are not only organicall parts, but alſo parts of organicall parts) are compoſed ofall, or certainly of the moſt of the fimilar parts; that is, of both the skins, the fleſhy pannicle, thefatveins, arteries, nerves, muſcles or fleſh, coats both common and proper, bones,griſtles,and ligaments, alſ which we will deſcribe in their order. but firſt thinkgood to admoniſh you of the differences of the hand taken from the fite thereof,and theſe differences are fix in number,the fore,the hind,the internal, the external, the upper and lower ſide or part thereof. - by thefore we mean that part which looks direétly from the thumb to the ſhoulder:b the hind, we underſtand the part oppoſite to it, which from the little finger looks towards the baſis of the ſhoulder-blade. by the inſide we ſignifie . which lies next to the fides of the body, when the hand retains its naturall fite;by the outfide, the fº oppoſite to it. the upper and lower fideyou . know by the very naming thereof. the hand properly ſo called is divided into five ...; that ſo it may hold and takeup bodies of all figures,as round,triangular,ſquare and t like,andgather up the leaſtbodies with the fingers ends, as needles,pins, and ſuch like. nature hath beſtowed two hands upon us, that ſo they may help each other, each mo- ving to each ſide. but for the taking up and holding of ſmall bodies it was fit, that the *. of their own nature ſoft, j e armed with nails," that confiſting of ſoft fleſh and an hard nail, they might ſerve for all attions, for the nail is a ſtay to the ſoft fleſh, which otherwiſe would turn away in meeting with an hard body; the uſe of the nails is to ſcratch,ſhave,and pull off the skin, to rend, pinch, and pluck aſunder ſmall bodies.they have not bony hardneſſe, that ſo they might notbreak but bend. yet other creatures have hard . to ſerve them in ſtead of weapons. their figure is round, becauſe ſuch a figure is leſſe obnoxious to externallinjuries; and by reaſon they are ſubjećt to wearing, they grow continually. nature hath placed fleſh on the inner and fide part of the fingers,ſo to preſſe more ſtrait- ly, the things they once take hold of, ſo that by holding them cloſe together we can hold water that it may not run out. the length of the fingers is unequall, that when they are opened and ſtretched forth, they make as it were a circular figure;for ſo it comes to paſſe, that the hand can hold all bodies, but eſpecially round. it remains that we proſecute the diſtribution of the veins,arteries,and finews,which run overal the parts of the hand taken in generall and particular,whereby we may more com- modiouſly hereafter handle all the proper parts thereof. are added to the ſoft fleſh of she fingers. why the nails grow continti- ally, chap. * * .# it. w. lib. . and other extreme parts of the body. - chap. xxi. the diſtribution of the subclavian vein, and firſt of the cephalica, or humeraria. ºwo . veins deſcend from the subclavian,the one from the lower ſide, the other from the higher. yet ſometimes, and moſt uſually, both theſe pro- ceed from the ſame common orifice,as in men of a low ſtature in the arm.the one of theſe is called the axillari,the other the humeraria, or cephalik;there- *f fºre this cephalick paſſing forth of the subclavian runs ſuperficially alon the foreſide,between the muſcle deltoides, and the tendon of the pećtorall muſcle , .# deſcends in the midſt between the common coat of the muſcles,and the fleſhy pannicle,even to the bending of the cubit, where in lean bodies it is plainly to be ſeen, whereas in fat bodies it is hardly to be perceived,being as it were buried in abundance of fat. this vein having in its deſcent ſent forth ſome ſmall branches, both to the skin, as alſo to certain muſcles over which it runs, is divided into two, a littleabove the outward protuberation of the arm. one of the branches into which it is divided deſcending obliquely to the fore art of the cubit, a little below the bending of the cubit, it meets, and is united with the ikebranch in the ſame place, as ſhall beſhown hereafter. that which ariſes from this concourſe, is called the median vein,becauſe it ariſes from two branches, and is ſeated between them. they uſually open this median vein in the diſeaſes of the head and liver, which require phlebotomy;but if it ſhall not be ſufficiently manifeſt, when you judgit muſt be opened, for a generall evacuation of the wholebody’; youmay cut one of theſe branches, by whoſe concourſe it is made, which you ſhall think the fitter; and becauſe each branch draws from thenext parts, according to the ſtraight- neſſe of the fibers, rather then from the oppoſite fide;if you would evacuate the head, and liver º opening either oftheſe branches, it is convenient that opening that branch (for example) which comes from the cephalick, you i. º your thumb upon it, untill you ſuppoſe }. have drawn a juſt quantity of blood from the liver,hy the baſilica, or liver-vein; which done you may take off your thumb,and ſuffer the blood to follow freely,by the open branch of the cephalick, untill you have drawn as much blood as you ſhall judge requiſite; otherwiſe you will draw it but from one part, to wit, the head. so you ſhalſevacuate it only from the liver, if you open the §: which comes from the baſilica, and concurs to the generation ofthe median. moreover, when there is need to open the baſilica,and it ſhallbeno where conſpicuous, the cephalick or median being cafie to be diſcerned at the ſame time, you may in ſtead thereof open the median, or if it be not to be found, the cephalick, preſſing but the trunk thereof with your thumb,as we ſaid before, left the head ſhould be evacuated in ſtead of the liver. you may doe the ſame in the baſilica, if when there ſhall be neceſſity to the ce- phalick,it ſhall not . moſt of thoſe which at this day open a vein,in ſtead of the me- dian, open that branch of the baſilica which aſcends together with the cephalick to make the #. but you muſt underſtand that the median deſcends between the two bones of the cubit, even to the end thereof, and then divided into many branches, it is at length ſpent on the back of the hand hehind the thumb, the fore and middle fingers,or the after- wriſt. sometimes it runs back into the following branch, and then at the wriſt it departs from it, to be beſtowed upon the forementioned parts.the other branch of the cephalick, which we may call the fore and outward cephalick,deſcending dire&ly downto the midſt of the wand, thence wanders overthwart into the hind part of the arm, where encreaſed with a branch from the baſilica, it is diſtributed overall º: back of the hand, which with the median it nouriſheth. but the branches oftheſe veins do ſo run through the forenamed parts, that by the way they yeeld them neceſſary proviſion. c h a p. xxii. the deſcription of the axillary vein. after it hath produced the two thoracice it is divided under the tendon of that muſcle into two fairbranches, that is to ſay,into the inner deep axillary,and * the skin or outward axillary. the deep or inner having ſtill for his compa" nion in his deſcent, the axillary artery, and the nerves of the third conjuga- tion, after it hath produced the ſmall externall muſculous of the arm , it goes into the bending of the elbow,where running ſomewhat deep with the artery and nerve into the muſcles of the cubit,it is divided into three other branches,of which one deſcending with the wand, ſlides under the ring, into the inner fide of the hand, and hath beſtowed two ſmall branches on the thumb, two others on the fore, and one upon the middle-finger, ſo that all of them aſcend by the fides of theſe fingers, the other deſcending with the artery, . *** *** =rhe axillary ariſing at the inſertion of the pećtorall muſcle, or a little higher, - the ceph; lick v cin. the thedian vein, hewby ope: ning the medi. an vein,you may draw more or leſſe blood 'from the head or livers the axillary is divided into the deep axiſ- lary, and out- ward axillary; of the muſcles and bones l i b. . the salvatella and splenitica, an anatomi. call axiome. the pair of nerves of the neck. the firſt pair. the ſecond pair. as the former alongſt the cubit, ſends branches to the reſt of the fingers, like as the former. *ºld goes on the forefide between the two bones even to the wriſt, and the ſquare illuſcle. butyou muſt note that the veins of which we now treat,do not only make theſe diviſi- ons mentioned by us,but infinite others beſides, as well in the parts which they goe to, as alſo in the innermuſcles of the hand which they nouriſh. and thus much of theinternall and deep axillary vein. for the externall or skin axil- lary (which firſt appears under the skin,eſpecially in lean bodies, a little above the inward produćtion of the arm) it is divided in that place into two branches, the one whereof deſcending to the bending of the arm meets, and is united with the cephalick branch,ſoo- ner or later, that ſo it may produce the median,as we formerly mentioned. the other branch having ſent forth many ſhoots of different length and thickneſſe, as well into the skin,as into the other neighbouring parts, deſcending alongſt the lower ſide of the bone of the cubit, properly ſo i. is at length ſpent upon the fore and outward cephalick branch, which we ſaid deſcendended alongſt the wand; and thus united, they run over all the hand, where in the right hand, between the middle and fore finger, they make the salvatella; but in the left, in the ſame place,they produce the splenitica. but alwaies remember, (if indiffe&ion you find anything otherwiſe than we have deli- veredit)that the diſtribution of the veſſels is ſo various,eſpecially in the hands)that there can no certain rule be delivered thereof. chap. xxiii. the diſtribution of the axillary artery. tice, deſcendingbetween the muſcle called biceps, or the two headed muſcle, and the brachieu, with the deep axillary vein, diſtributes a large branch amongſt the outward muſcles of the arm, which extend the cubit,and is ſpent in the ex- termall muſcles of the ſame, which ariſe without, from the produćtions of the arm. and this is called the ramus muſculu, or muſculous branch,as alſo the vein that accom- panies this arterie. then this artery when it comes to the bending of the cubit, thruſting itſelf into the muſcles bending the fingers, communicates certain branches to the parts pertaining to the dearticulation of the cubit with the ſhoulder and other parts there ſitu- ate, as it did in the upper parts, by which it deſcended hither. verily it may be a geuerall rule; that every j ſends orbeſtows certain portions thereof by the way to all the parts by which it paſſes. but if you ſhould ask why i have not proſecuted theſe produćti- ons; would anſwer; i never intended to handle other than large and fair branches of veſſels, by raſh inciſion of which, there may happen danger of death or a diſeaſe. for it would be both an infinit and needleſs buſines to handle all the ſmall devarications of the veins, arteries, and nerves. therefore this artery ſunk into theſe muſcles, when it comes almoſt to the midſt of the cubit.preſently or a little after it is divided into two largebran- the, the one of which alongſt the wand, and the other alongſt the cubit is carryed into the hand on the inſide under the ring. for both theſe branches are diſtributed and ſpentup- on the hand after the ſame manner as the branches of the interall axillary vein, that is, having ſent by the way ſome littleſhoots into the parts by which they paſſe, at the length the branch which deſcends by the wand of the remainder thereof beſtows two ſprigs upon the thumb, on each fide one, and two in like manner on the fore finger, and one on the middle; the other which runs alongſt the ell, performs the like office to the little and the middle or ring finger,as you may ſee by diſſºtion. iſ: axillary artery from the firſt originall,which is preſently after the two thora- chap. xxiv. of the nerves of the neck, back, and arm. §§ow we ſhould handle the finewes of the arm, ut becauſe theſe proceed from the nº||$ nerves of the neck and back;i think it fit therefore to ſpeak ſomething of them §na; in the firſt place. ººm- therefore from the neck there proceeds ſeven pair of nerves, the firſt of which roceeds from the nowl bone, and the firſt vertebra of the neck; as alſo the firſt pair of the É. from the laſt vertebra of the neck, and the firſt of the cheſt. but all theſe nerves are divided into two or more branches of the firſt pair(that is to ſay, on each fide)go,the one to the ſmall right muſcle aſcending from the firſt rack-bone of the neck to the nowl bone, the other to the long muſcle on the foreſide of the neck. the branches of the ſecond pair are diſtributed, ſome with a portion which they ". - oill lin. , and otherextremeparts ofthe ----------—---------- body. the third pair over all the skin of the head; the two others go as wel to the muſcles, º are }. ſecond vertebra to the backpart of the hcad, and from the ſame to the firſt pºrtebra, as alſo to the long muſcle beforementioned. - one of the third pair of ſinewes is communicated to the head, as we ſaid before, but o- th...o the muſcles which extend, or ercêt the head and theneck;there is alſo one of theſe diſtributed into the neighbouring ſide muſcle and ſº of thc long. the nerves of the fourth pairgo, one to the muſcles as well of the neck as the head,and to the broad muſcle;the other after it hath ſent ſome portion thcreof into the long muſcle es of the neck, it deſcends with a portion of the fift and fixt pair to the §.. branches of the fift pair is beſtowed on the hind muſcles . the neck and head,the other upon the lon muſcle and midrifle; the third is communicated to the levatores, or heaving muſcles of the arm and ſhoulder. one ofthe nerves of the fixt pair goes to the hind muſcles of theneck and head, another to the midriffe, the third with a portion of the ſeventh pair of thencek,and of the firſt and frcond ofthecheſt go to the arms and heaving muſcles of the ſhoulder-blade. one of the branches of the ſeventh pair runs to the broad muſcle and to the neighbou- ring muſcles both of the neck and head; another encreaſed with a portion ºf the fift and fixt pair of the neck,and a third joyned to the ſecond and third pair of the cheſtdeſcending into the arm go to the hand. - - - - but you muſt note that the muſcles which take their original from many vertebre, whe- ther from above downwards, or from below upwards.admit nerves not only from the ver- rebre from whence they take their originall, but alſo from them which they come neer in their deſcent, or aſcent. there ºft twelve conjugations of nerves from the rack-bones of the cheſt. the firſt entring forth from between the laſt rack-bone of the neck and the firſt of the cheſt, is divided (that is,on each ſide, each nerve from his ſide)into two or more portions, as alſo all the reſ.therefore the branches of this firſt conjugation go ſome of them to the arms,as we ſaid before, others to the muſcles, as well theſe of the cheſt, as others ariſing there, or running that way. the branches of the ſecond conjugation are diſtributed to the ſame parts, that theſe of the firſt were. but the branches of all the other conjugations even to the twelfth, are communicated, ſome to the intercoſtallmuſcles running within under the true ribs even to the sternon,and under the baſtard ribs even to the right and long muſcles; and the coſtall nerves of the fixt: conjugation are augmented by meeting theſe intercoſtall branches by the way as they de- frend by the roots of the ribs. other particles ofthe ſaid nerves are communicated to the muſcles as well of the cheſt,as ſpine,as the ſame muſcles paſſe forth, or run alongſt by the vertebre,from whence theſe nerves have either their originall,or paſſage forth. having thus therefore ſhewed the originall of the ſinews of the arm, it remains that we ſhew their number and diſtribution. their number is five or ſix;proceeding from the fifth, fixth, and ſeventh vertebra of the neck, and the firſt and ſecond of the cheſt. the firſt of which not mixed with any other from the fifth vertebra of the neck, goes to the muſcle deltoides and the skin which co- wers ſt. the other or when they have mutually embraced each other, not only from their firſt originall but even to the ſhoulder, where they free themſelves from this convolution, are diſtributed after the following manner. - the firſt and ſecond deſcending to the muſcle mentioned a little before, and thence ſometimes even to the hand, is by the way communicated to the muſcle biceps, and then under the ſaid muſcle it meets ind isjoined with the third nerve. thirdly,it is communi- gated with the longeſt muſcle of the cubit, in the bending whereof it is divided into two branches deſcending sº the two bones of the cubit, untill at laſt born up by the fleſhy pannicle it is ſpent upon the skin and inner ſide of the hand. the third lower than this, is firſt united with the ſecond, under the muſcle biceps then ſtraightway, ſeparated from it, it ſends a portion thereof to the arm which lies under it, and to the skin thereof, laſtly, at the bending of the cubit on the foreſide, it is mingled with the fift pair. the fourth the largeſt of all thereſt,comming down below the thirdbranch under the biceps,with the internallaxillary vein and artery,is turned towards the outwatd and back- part ofthe arm, there to communicate it ſelf to the muſcles extending the cubit, and alſo the third pair. the fourth pair. the fift pair. the ſixt pair, the ſeventh pair. the . pair of nerves of the cheſt. the firſt pair, the ſecond pair. the other , pairs. the nerves which are carríº ed to the arms. to the inner skin of the arm, and the exterior of the cubit; the remainder of this branch when in its deſcent it hath arrived at the joint of the cubit, below the bending thereof it is divided into two branches, the one whereof deſcending alongſt the cubit is ſpent on the outſide of the wriſt; the other aſſociating the wand is on the outſide in like manner in two branches beſtowed upon the thumb, and in as many upon the fore finger,and by a fift upon the middle finger though more obſcurely. the fift branch being alſo lower than the reſt, ſliding between the muſcles bending and cxtcil- of the muſcles and bones lib. . the greatneſſe. and figure. the appendix ofthe arm. the proceſſes of the arm. the figure of the arm. extending the cubit, when it comes behind the inner protuberation of the cubit(in which place we ſaid before the third branch meets with §§ it is communicated to the internall imuſcles of the ſame,and then divided into three portions,one of which on the outſide a- longſt the middle of the cubit goes in two ſprigs to the little finger, and ſo many to the middle finger,and one to the ring finger; the other two,the one without & the other with- in the ring, goe to the hand,where after each of them hath beſtowed what was requiſite on the muſcles of the hand,they are waſted into other five ſmal portions,of which theſe which are from that portion which deſcends without the ring, ſend two i. to the little, two to the fore,& one to the middle finger;but theſe which come from that which paſſes under thering, by ſuch a diſtribution communicates itſelf to other . two ſprigs to the thumb, two to the fore and one to the middle finger.the fixth the loweſt and laſt runs be- tween the skin and fleſhy pannicle,by the inner protuberation of the arm,and then is ſpent upon the skin of the cubit. c. h.a. p. xxv. the deſcription of the bone of the arm, and the muſcles which move it. ecauſe we cannot perfeótly demonſtrate the originall of the muſcles of the arm, (eſpecially of the two arm muſcles) not knowing the deſcription of this bone; firſt therefore we will deſcribe it, then return to the originall of the muſcles ariſing from thence. the bone of the arm is the greateſt of all the bones in the body, except the thigh-bone; it is round, hollow and fil- led with marrow, with a great appendix or head on the top thereof.having an indifferent neck, to which it is knit by symphyſis, for appendices are no otherwiſe uni- ted to their bones.in the lower part thereof it hath two proceſſes, or protuberations,one on the foreſide, another on the hind,between which ſwellings there is a cavity like to half the compaſſe of a wheel, about which the cubit is moyed. the extremities of this cavity ends in two holes,of which one is the more externall, the other more internall: theſe ca- vities receive the heads ofthe cubit, that is, the fore, or internall receives the fore proceſe when the arm is bended inwards,but the externall or hinder the exterior as it is extended. for the head of the arm it hath a double connexion,the one with its own neck by sym- phyſis; that is, a naturall union of the bones without any motion; the other with the lightly ingraven cavity of the ſhoulder-blade,which we call glene, by that kind of idear- ticulation which is called arthrodia; this connexion is made firm and ſtable by the muſcles deſcending into the arm from the ſhoulder-blade, as alſo by the proper ligaments deſcen- ding from the circle and brow of the cavity of the acromion and Čoracoides to this head of the arm;this ſame head of the arm is, as it were,more cleft and open on the inner fide,than on the fore ſide, that ſo it may give way to one of the ligaments coming from the ſhoul- der-blade to the muſcle biceps. foraſmuch as belongs to the lower end of the bone of the arm (which we ſaid hath two proceſſes) we may ſay that it is faſtned to thebones of the cubit by two ſorts of articulation; that is, by ginglymos with the ell or properbone of the cubit, and by arthrodia with the radius or wand, which in a lightly engraven cavity re- ceives the fore proceſſe of the arm, and is turned about it for the motion of the hand. the hinder proceſſe is chiefly added for the ſafety and preſervation of the veins, arteries and iner wes. - theſe things thus ſhown,it is worth our labour to know the figure of the arm it ſelf, as it lies between the forementioned appendices and proceſſes;that in the caſe of a fraćture, we may know how conveniently to reſtore it; therefore firſt we muſt underſtand, that this bone is ſomewhat bended and hollowed on the inſide under the cleft of the head thereof, but bunching out on the out and fore ſide. the muſcles wherefore ſeeing it muſt be moveable forwards and backwards, upwards and down- whereof. wards, nature for the performance of ſo many motions hath furniſhed it with eight muſcles, which are ſix proper and two common with the ſhoulder-blade. of which num- ber two move it forwards, two backwards, two upwards and downwards. which muſt not be underſtood ſo, as that theſe two muſcles ſhould move it direétly forwards iuclining neither upwards, nor downwards;and the other two ſhould move it ſo upwards, as it ſhould incline neither forward nor backwards;but thus, that it cannnot be moved neither to this nor that part unleſſe by the help and properation of this, or that muſcle. thus thereforeif the pećtorall with his aſſociate perform their duty or attion,the arm is alwaies moved'for º: it is lifted up wheation of the deltoides and his companion, and ſo of the reſt, table , liº. . and other extreme part ---------—--—--- ------. - - ofthe body. table , ſheweth the brain together with the after-brain, the ſpinallmarrow and the nerves of the whole body. a, that part of the brain that is next the noſtrils, - - b, that part which is at the ſide of the ventricles, c, the back part of the brain. - d, the cerebellum or after-brain. e, the mamillary proceſſe in the right ſide. f, the originall ofthe optick nerve, g, their conjunétions, - h, the coat into which the optick nerve is exren: ded, - i, the ſecond pair of the ſinews of the brain. k, the leſſºr root of the third conjugation. l., the thick root of the ſame conjugation accor- ding to the common opinion. m, the fourth conjugation of the finews. n, the leſſer root of the fift pair. . the bigger root of the ſame pair. - *the ſmallmembrane of the car which they call the tympany, .*the lower branch of the bigger root of the fift conjugation, - - - s, the ſixt pair of ſinews. - * t; the ſeventh pair. - w., the beginning of the ſpinall marrow out of the middle of the baſis ofthe brain. - x, the right finew of the midriffe cut off, , abranchfrom the fift pair creeping to the top of the ſhoulder. - - , the firſt nerve of the arms from whence there | - - goetha branch to the skin. - - .the ſecond nerve ofthearm,and a branch theres - from into the firſt muſcle of the cubit. -- | f b, the third nerve ofthe arm and a branch going - to the skin on the outſide. c, abranch from the third nerve to the ſecond muſcle ofthe cubit. p, the congreſſe or meeting of the ſecond nerve - with the third. - w e, aſmall branch from the thirdnerve to the ſes cond muſcle of the radius, - f, the diſtribution of the ſecond nerve into two branches. *the leſſºr branch of this diviſion lengthned out to the skin as far as the thumb. ,the place of the ſpinall marrow where it iſſueth out of the brain , , . &c. thirty pair of nerves ariſing from the ſpinall marrow are here noted by their char,that is to ſay, of the neck, .of the cheſt, . of the loins,and .of the holy-bone. b, the thicker branch of the nerve divided into parts, *º ſ:!% |itº::- s#º:e #:| !&ſº# :#- º§n§º ; *branches of the nerve ſprinkled here and there; ... d, nerves from the third pair to the thumb, the fore finger and the middle finger... . re, the nerve of the arm. f. the paſſage hereof through the inſide ofthe ſhoulder. * a tripartition of this branch whereit touchºth the cºir. hh, abranch diſtributcd from the nerve to the ºutward kin of the cubit. i, the upper branch of the diviſion of the nerve. kk. a branch of i, reaching to *onºde ofthehand, ll, the lowerbranchof the diviſion of the nerve paſſing through the bickidº of the cubit. m, the fifth nerve ofthe arm, n, branches of his nerve diſperſed here and there. , abranch of the f hºrºrºchingtothe inſide of the hand and the fingers.p. a ſurcle of the branch , derived to the outſide of the handand the fingers. , the nerve oftheamanīthe courſe thereofunder the skin, rr, the intercoſial nerves there cutoffwhere they are together with the ribs refleåed forward.ſ branches on each fide running backward, **vesalſaining unto the cheſt. uu, the commixtion of the nerves.fr, with the deſcending branch of the , con- jugºſion of the brain. xx, nerves from the loins led unto this place...y.a branch going to the teſticle here cut off. $, a nerve readhing to the i muſcle of the thigh, c, the i nerves of the legag,a ſurcle of the former nerve derived to the skin ara, and inſerted into the muſcles at y, the nerve of the let. pj'ſ, a nerve from the for- mersallowed unto the skinaslow as to the foot,and paſſing along the inſide of the lºgº, a branch of the nerve tunning unto the muſcles.c., the . nerve of the leg, n, a ſurcle thereof unro the skin. , another ſurcle unto the "uſcle...it,the nerve of the legº,the anterior pro pagations ofthe nerves proceeding from the holy-bone. a, th; end of the ſpinall marrow.e., a branch from the nerve inſerted into the muſcles ariſing from the cºxendix thipbone, y, another branchgoing to the skin of the thigh on the backfide, , propagation derived to the . ºuſtle of the leg and to the skin of the knee, oo, nerves attaining to the heads of the muſcles of the foot. *, the ". . . . tiviſion of the crurall nerve into two trunksa, a branch from #. trunk , iſperſed into the outward skin of the -- leg-r,aſurcle of the trunkºr,derived to the muſcles,v, anotherſurcle to the skin of the leg on the foreſide. o,a s'. ' branch of the trunk?, to the skin of the inſide of the leg and of the foº. x., a ſurcle of the trunk, f, to the hinds moſt skin of the leg, n., a branch of the whole trunk?, led alongto the ºrd part of the leg and the foot, w, the deſcent ofthe runk £, into the foot, - - ... " - . . 'the original but to come to the originall and inſertion of theſe muſcles;the one of theſe two which and ..., move the arm forwards called by reaſon of his originall, the pećtorall. ariſing from † :::: pc&c ray " * ~ *--- * -- - - aſ] mill cice - o of the muſcles and bones lib. . than half of the collar bone,and almoſt al the sternon,and the , ,and . rib, goes up and faſtens itſelfe to the coracoides,by a membrane or a membranous tendon ſufficiently ſtrong (for which cauſe it is ſaid to becommon to the ſhoulder and arm) and it goes into the arm between the muſcles deltoides and biceps with a ſtrong tendon tº: of fibers croſ- fing each other, of which ſome deſcend from the collar-bone and the upper part of the sternon,others aſcend from the lower originall hereof, that is,from the , ,and ribs;and although the aëtion of this muſcle be diverſe,by reaſon of the diverſity of its fibers ariſing from divers places, yet alwaies it drawes the arm forwards, whether it #: moved upwards, downwards, or to the breſt; the other which is his companion deſcends from the whole lip or brow of the ſimous or hollow part of the blade,which it fills in the forepart of the arm neer the head thereof. for the two levatores,or the lifters up of the arm, the firſt na- the deloides, med deltoides deſcends from almoſt halfe the clavicle, the proceſs acromion and all the ſpine of the ſhoulder-blade into the foreſide of the arm the bredth of four fingers below the joint. it hath divers ačtions according to the diverſity of the fibers, as alſo every muſcle #. yet howſoever it is contraćted, whether by the fibers from the clavicle alone, or by the ſpinall alone, or by both at once, it alwaies lifts and heaves the arm upwards. the other which is his aſſociate deſcends from the gibbous part of the ſhoulder-blade, contai- ned between the upper rib thereof, and the ſpine between the proceſſes acromion and cora- the epami, or coides, to the neck of the arm;and this we wiſ call the eponi, or scapulariº;that is,the ſhoul- scapularis, der muſcle. but the firſt and larger of the two muſcles, which draw the arm backwards, a- riſes from the greateſt part of the utter lip of the gibbous part of the ſhoulder-blade, which is under the ſpine thereof, and lying upon the blade it ſelf, it goes into the hind part of the arm above the neck thereof.the other which is contiguous to it and his part ner in working, but leſſer, paſſes from the upper and exterior part of the lower rib of the ſhoulder-blade,and thence as it were in ſome ſort extending it ſelf upon the gibbous par- thereofneer unto that rib,it goes into the arm. this muſcle ſeems to be the ſame with the former, being fleſhy without even above the top of the ſhoulder. one and the leſſer of theſe two which drawdownwards, enters out from the ſtreight line of the lower rib of the blade, and goes into the lower part of the arm about the neck thereof. the other called the latiſſimus or broadeſt,aſcends from the ſpines of the holy-bone, of the loins, and often alſo from the nine lower of the cheſt,by the lower corner of the ſhoulder-blade into which is inſerted by a membranous tendon,as alſo it is into the inner part of the arm neer unto neck by another ſtrong tendon; whereupon this muſcle is called a common muſcle of the ſhoulder and arm. but when this muſcle happens to be wounded,the arm cannot eaſily be ſtretched forth, or lifted up. - - chap. xxvi. the deſcription of the bones of the cubit and the muſcles moving them. &xº fter theſe muſcles,follow thoſe which bend and extend the cubit, but becauſe §§§ their inſertion cannot be fitly demonſtrated, unleſſe the bones of the cubit be §§§ firſt deſcribed;therefore firſt of all we will delineate the bones themſelves. but * verily left this doubtful word cubitſhould cauſe obſcurity;firſt we muſt note,that it hath a threefold ſignification,for ofttimes it is uſed for all that part of the hand which what is meant lies between the arm and wriſtoft-times for the lower bone of this part,ſometimes for the by the cubi. upper part of this bone which is turned within the orb or cavity of the arm (no otherwiſe than a cord in the wheel of a pulley) and this is called the olecranon. here truly we uſe what the this word cubit in the firſt ſignification. wherefore we ſay the cubit is compoſed of two olºranumis, bones, the one of which we cal the radium or wand,or the leſſer focil; of the arm;the other th; ºnes of we properly cal the cubit or el.theſe two bones ſtick together at their ends being firmly *** bound together by ſtrong ligaments,but the middle parts of them are a prety way diſtant from each other,and chiefly towards their lower ends, for the better ſituation and paſ- ſage of the muſcles and veſſels from the inner ſide to the exterior, as ſhall be ſhewed in fit place.the wand hath two epiphyſes or appendices the one at the upper end, the other at the two a.. the lower.the upper is round and hollowed on the ſurface like a baſon,it receives the fore piºne proceſe of the bºne of the arm,bouud to the ſameby ſtrong ligaments, deſcending as well wind, from that proceſe of the arm, as the olecranon into the circumjacent parts of this appen- - dix of the wand.this connexion is made for this uſe,that wenay turn our hand upwards and downwards by the cubit turned and twined about this proceſs.but the lower appendix of this wand is hollowed on the inſide that ſo it might more commodiouſly receive the the figure and bones of the wriſt,but gibbous without that it might be ſafer;now this wand is ſofter and ſite of the thicker at the lower end,but leſſer and harder above, where on the infide it hath a ſwelli wand, out whereby to receive the muſcle biceps, beſides on the outſide of the middle thereof it is ſomewhat gibbous and round,ſo to become more ſafe from the injuries of external bodies; but it is hollowed,or bended on the infide for the better taking and holding any thing in the hand. but that ſide which lies next to the ellis flatted for the fitter originall and ſeat of the muſcles;laſtly,it is ſeated upon the bone of the cubit, or ell.juſt againſt the * ut lib. . - and other extreme part, of the body. - but the ell,or bone of the cubit properly aud particularly ſo called, hath in like manner two appendices,the one above,the other beneath.the upper which alſo is the greater,is fit- the appendi- ted to the orb of the arm in which it goes to and again for the extenſion and bending of . of the bone the arm, no otherwiſe than a rope runs in a pulley but that it turns not abſolutely and perſe&ly round, which is cauſed by the two proceſſes of unequallbignes, the which are therefore ſtayed in the holes or cavities of the bone of the arm, the greater proceſſe which we called olecranon is letted by the exterior hole that ſo the cxtenſion of the arm can be no further, but the leſſer proceſſe by the inner hole, makes the bending thereof the leſſe per- fe&.the compoſure of theſe bones is by ginglymoy,and it is ſtrengthned not only by com- mon ligaments comming from the muſcles,which move the bones themſelves, but alſo by properligaments deſcending from the proceſſes of the arm and the lips of the holes and cavities ſtanding about the appendix of the cubit. the other lower and leſſer appendix is in ſome ſort hollow on the inſide for the fitter receiving the bones of the wriſt, but the outſide is round and ends in a point, whence it is j by the greeks styloides. but now this ell (contrary in this to the wand) is thicker towards the arm,but ſlenderer towards the wriſt. and beſides in the thicker part thereof it is hollowed orbended towards the inſide,and in the ſame place is gibbous or bunching forth on the outſide; but it is round and ſtreight, unleſſe on that ſide which lies next the wand,for the reſt,it is hollow and full of marrow like the wand. the ſite of the radius or wand is oblique,but that of the cubit or ellis right,that the arm might be the better and more eaſily moved;becauſe the motion by which the arm is extended and bended is according to a right line, but that by which the inſide of the hand is turned upwards and downwards, is performcdobliquely and cir- cularly.wherefore it was expedient that the wand ſhould be oblique,and the cubit ſtreight; for the cubit-bone is appointed for to extend and bend the arm,but the wand to perform the wheeling and turning about thereof; and this is the cauſe that it was fitting there ſhould be a different connexion of theſe bones with the arm. theſe things were fitting to be ſpoken concerning the nature of theſebones,that in the cure of fraćtures we may work the more ſafely and happily, taking indication from that which is agreeable to nature : wherefore now it remains that we come to the deſcription of the muſcles which are ſeated in the arm, the cubit-bone,or ell.theſe are four in number, two extending it, and two bending it. the firſt of the benders is called biceps, by reaſon of its two heads, the one whereofdeſcends from the coracoides, that ::::::: the lip of the cavity of the ſhoulder- blade by the fiſſure or clift of the head of the bone of the arm. theſe two heads under the neck of this arm becoming fleſhy,are firmly united at the belly and midſt of the arm, and thus united are at the length implanted by a ſtrong tendon to the inner protuberation of the wand. the other is called the brachieu, by reaſon of the ſtrait coherence thereof with thebone of the arm;this faſtned under the biceps deſcends obliquely on the back and upper part of the bone of the arm into the top of the wand and the inner ſide of the ell. but the firſt of the extenders is called the longus or long muſcle, this deſcends from the lower rib of the ſhoulder,and cleaving to the bone of the arm goes thither (faſtned and as it were alwaies moſt ſtraitly joined with his fellow muſcle,ſpecially neer the cubit) where you ſhall preſently hear. the other termed the brevu or ſhort muſcle,being the compani- on of the long, deſcends on the hind part of the neck of the bone of the arm, as it were growingſto,and lying under the former long muſcle, ſo that making one common broad tendon outwardly fleſhy, inwardly nervous,they are inſerted into the olecranum,ſo by mu- tuallaſſiſtance to extend the cubit. - - c. h. a. p. xxvii. the deſcription of the bones of the wriſt, afterwrift and fingers. §§ eſaid before that the hand taken more particularly and properly,is divided into q% the wriſt, afterwriſt, and fingers, and that the hand in this fignification is wºº bounded by the ends of the bones of the cubit and fingers.all the parts of the wriſt, which it hath common with the afterwriſt,have been already alſo plenti- fully explained,this only remains to be noted, that the skin as well of the hands as of the feet is of a middle nature between pure fleſh and pureskin, no otherwiſe than that which covers the forehead, but that this which covers the palms of the hands and ſoles of the feet is unmoveable;but it is moſt thick, eſpecially on the feet, leſt it ſhould be eaſily offended by continuall going. beſides the common parts, the wriſt is compoſed of eight ſmal bones mutually knit together in acertain order, and by diarthroſis with the two bones of the cubit, but º; and amongſt themſelves by synarthroſis, by interpoſition of griſtles and ligaments as well common, that is, coming from the muſcles, as proper, deſcending alwaies from the upper to the lower. but theſe ſame bones are ſomeleſſe than otherſome; beſides, they are hard and without marrow, gibbous on the out- fide for the ſecurity and comlineſſe of the hand, but hollow on the inſide for to give way to the tendons going into the fingers. theſe bones are diſpoſed in two ranks. ql the ofth cubit, the figure of the cubit bone or ell. the muſcled moving the cubit. the biceps, of two-headed muſcle- the brachiºi the longue, the breviº what 'the hand properly ſo called is, ! - | -- l | of the muſcles and bones l i b. . what the an- rulu, or ringis. the bones of the afterwriſt, the firſt rank contains only three,but the ſecond five.the three of the firſt rank are thus ar- rayed,or placed,that one of them may receive the appendix styloides,of the cubit;the other the eiland the wand together,aud the third may be received by the wand. but three of the fivebones of the ſecond order ſuſtain the four bones of the afterwriſt and are knit to the ſame by synarthroſis,after which manner of connexion they are joined to the bones of the firſt rank;the fourth ſuſtains the firſt bone of the thumb,to which alſo it is coarticulate by synarthrofts; the fift and laſt is ſcated on the inſide againſt the ell, chiefly above that bone of the firſt order, which receives the appendix styloides of the cubit, this is the leaſt and weakeſ of them all by reaſon of its griſtly ſubſtance, which makes the ring with cºrtain ligaments running from one of the inner ſides of the wriſt to the other.’ this ring is placed there,as well for the preſervation of the ſinews, veins, and arteries paſſing under it (leſt when we lean upon our hand or wriſt, theſe i.". ſhould be hurt by compreſſion) as alſo for the commodity of the aëtion of the nuſcles bending the finger, which in the performance of their ačtion and the contračting themſelves might deform the handby their paſſing forth of the cavity of the wriſt. for what attračtion ſoever is made by ſtrings,if it be free and not hindred, is according to a ſtreight line. now follow the bones of the ſecond part of the hand, or of the afterwriſt. theſe are four in uumber, gibbous without, but arched within, or hollow in the middle; for hence is the palm of the hand, or certainly the greater part thereof; their ends next the fingers are ſomewhat remote from each other, that in theſe clifts the muſcles interoſſes might find a place and ſeat. but theſe ends have each an appendix, as you may perceive in the scele- ton of a child.but you muſt note that by the firſt bone of the wriſt or afterwriſt,wcemean that which is in the foreſide of the hand, that is to ſay, that in the wriſt which lics under the thumb,and that in the afterwriſt, which is ſeated under the fore finger, as theſe which keep in order the fingers which exceed the reſt in neceſſity and dignity. the figure of the bones of the hand. the . ſhews the inſide of the right hand, and the ...ſhºws the back ſide of the ſame. . . the charaćt. , , , , , , , .ſhew the eight bones of the wriſt. a, , . the firſt bone of } the afterwriſt lying un- º der the thumb. i, ii, iii. iiii. the other bones of the afterwriſt annexed to the fingers. b,c, the two bones of the thumb. d,e,f. , . the bones of the forefinger which are the ſame in the other fin- gers. - m, , ..a littlebone ſome- º-ºff/ tnº. times faſtned outwardly s & "i.y.) at the joint of the eight wits, -- bone of the wriſt. n, . a proceſe of the eight bone of the wriſt,ſwelling out into the ball of the hand. o, .a proceſe of the fift bone of the wriſt, from which a ligament f. p, .an appendix of the bones of the wriſt,by which they are articulated to the afterwriſt. §, .another appendix which with its headentreth into the cavity of the finger. r, , . the ſpace between the bones of the afterwriſt. s, , . two ſittle ſeed-bones ſet on the inſide and outſide of the firſt joint. t. . two ſeed-boncs in the firſt of the four fingers. wv, . one ſeed-bone in the ſecond and third joint of the fingers. after theſe follow the fifteen bones of the fingers;that is,three in each,which are hollow and fiſtulous,full of a thin and liquid marrow,and not of groſſe and thick, as in the arm and thigh. they are outwardly gibbous,but inwardly hollow and flat for the fitter ſeat of the tendons aſcending alongſt the fingers on the inſide even to the upper joint. the which that nature might the better ſtrengthen and preſerve,it hath produced from the lips of the inner cavities of theſe bones a membranous and ſtrong ligament, which running over- thwart from one ſide to the other doth ſo ſtraitly cloſe the tendons to their bones, that they cannot goe forth of their places, or incline to either ſide. they are connexed on the outſide, that they might be more fit to hold any thing. but for the firſt bones of the fin- gers and thumb, four are joined together with ſo many bones of the afterwriſt by synar- throſis, for the bones of the afterwriſt are moved by no manifeſt motion; the fift is knit to the ſccond rank of the bones of the wriſt,therefore that bone cannot be attributed to the the bones of the fingers, after- lº. . and other extreme parts of the body. r afterwriſt, as ſome have written, ſeeing it hath manifeſt motion and is knitby diarthroſu, but the bones of the afterwriſt are only faſtned by synarthroſis. for the ſecond and third rank of bones of the fingers,they are knit the ſecond to the firſt,and the third to the ſecond by fiarthroffs and arthrodia,becauſe beſides the manifeſt motion they have, they receive each other by a ſuperficiary cavity, as thoſe of the firſt rank, the bones of the afterwriſt, and thoſe of the #. rank, them of the firſt;thoſe of the third them of the ſecond.and al the bones of the fingers are largerand thicker at their baſis,but ſmaller towards the ends, and they areboundby ligaments eſpecially proper, which(as we ſald formerly j deſcend from the firſt to the ſecond; ſo that the laſtbones ſeeing they have not to whom to communicate their nerve, make and produce nails thereof.wherefore the nails are generated by the fibers of the ligaments,and the excrement of the tendons which are terminated at the bottom of the nails. now remain the oſſa seſamoidea, or ſeed-bones: theſe are in number in the inner joints of each of the hands, and as many in each foot, viz.two in the firſt joint of the four #: and in the ſecond of the thumb, and one in each of the reſt. for the inner fide ofthejoints,you may for the moſt part obſerve one in each of them;yet in the ſecond joint of the thumb there be two, above the two tendons, which are ſomewhat º: they are made for this uſe, that they firm and ſtrengthen , the joints, ſo that the bones of the fingers may not be turned awry, or thruſt forth of their places by ſtrong and violent motions,as it ſometimes happens in the whirlebone of the knee. they are called seſamoidea from the reſemblance they have to the ſeed of seſamum which is ſomewhat long and flat. _- chapxxviii of the muſcles which ſeated in the cubit move the wand and with it the hand, sº ow muſt we deſcribe the muſcles of the formerly deſcribed parts; that is, thoſe . which are ſeated in the cubit, which are carryed to the inſide of the hand, and ºs thoſe which are called the interoſº. now the muſcles of the cubit are , sºlº ſeven externall and ſeven internall;two of the ſeven ext doe primarily * - - - - twine or turn up the wand, and ſecondarily or by accident turn the palm of the hand upwards, whereupon they have called them ſupinatores or turners up of the hand; two extend the wriſt, whereupon they are named carpitenſores or the wriſt-extenders;two the fingers,whence they are ſtiled digitantenſores or fingerſtretchers;to conclude,the ſeventh and laſt is termed abdućior or obliquator externuſ.the firſt of the two ſpinatores is called the long,or longeſt becauſe it deſcends from the outſide of the arm above the proceſſes there- of, and is inſerted by a round and ſtrong tendon into the lower appendix. the other de- ſcends obliquely from the outward and upper proceſſe of the arm,and is inſerted at the third part of the wandby a membranous and fleſhy tendon before and on the inſide there. of. the upper of the two extenders of the wriſt,deſcending above the wand from the exter. nal and upper proceſe ofthe arm is inſerted by two tendons into the firſt and ſecond bone of the afterwriſt, which ſuſtain the fore and middle fingers. - the other and lower, deſcending from the ſame place as the former, above the cubit is inſerted into the fourth bons of the afterwriſt which bears up the little finger. theſe muſcles whileſt they move alone, that is, each with his antagoniſt,to wit,the wriſt-ben- ders,they move obliquely upwards or downwards, the whole hand properly ſo called. the firſt and greater ofthe extenders of the fingers,or finger-ſtretchers #. from the ole- cranum, or bone of the cubit,deſcends ſuperficiarily between the two bones of the cubiteven to the wriſt, in which place it is divided into fºur tendons, which paſſing under the ring ſeated there end (each diſtinguiſhed by a common ligament above the bone of the after- wriſt) in the laſt joints of the four fingers, adhering nevertheleſſe firmly to the bones, which are above theſe joints. whence the nails are gene. rated, - theoſ, sefº moidea, or ſeed-bones." their uſe: the muſclesqf the cubits, the swindº tſ. the capium. i ſºres, the digitum; mºnſoreſ, the oblignatº, €ºternº. the firſt of the sapiuatoreſ. the ſecond, the upper of the carpiterſ: reſs ſhe lower, the greater of the *gium: tenſºreſ, - the other which is the lº. in the middle of the wand, goes obliquely rhetºr to the thumbinto which it is inſerted by two tendons;the one thicker which is inſerted into the root thereof and draws it from the other fingers; the other ſlenderer continued even to the upper joint thereof, and by its ačtion extending the thumb. - the ſeventh which is the abdućior or obliquator, is ſeated at the hind part of the hand; rheoliguor; that is, towards the littlefinger; we have often found this divided in two,yeaverily we ºdºres: have found it trifide, or divided into . this year in three or four dead bodies,one porti- on thereof went to the lower fideofthe ring-finger with two tendons, the other in like manner to the middle and forefingers, and the third to the thumb. - - - and for all that it is thus divided yet ſome have taken and accounted it for one muſcle, becauſe it hath one originall and ačtion, which is to draw the fingers backwards, ſome have added to this the extender of the thumb by reaſon of their common originall; and thus of four muſcles they have made one divided into ſeven tendons, diſtributed, as is formerly ſhewed. but when the obliquator of the ring-finger is wanting, as it often hap- s ğ. extender of the finger ſupplies that defe&by certain produćtions of tendinous. ings, but ſome alſo have written, that this muſcle which we ſaid hath feven tendons, q_ -- of the muſcles and bones l i b. . --- * * - - is only a produćtion of the deep fore muſcle, which ſhould be ſent through the ſpace be- lºween the bones of the cubit:yet i had rather make it a muſcle of it ſelf, by reaſon of its *ſtrait adheſion with the bones of the arm and wand. and let thus much ſuffice for the ex- ternal muſcles of the cubit, which you . connprehend in the number of ſeven, as we have done; or in fix, if you take away one of the - or in nine, if you had rather reſolve it into . with galen; or in eight, if you divide this muſcle only into three. for in very deed the : abduáor or obliquator of the ring-finger is not often found in men. . . . the muſcles of the inner part of the cur bite - •l • - - -- . the palmark. - ". . . the pronato, rºſe * . -- - - - the carpi. . flexoreſ, - - - * * * - - - -: * rhebitiºn. exereſ, he subſimi: pirº . . . . " - - - -- . . . . " •. . . . .” -: * -- - * * ---, * * * -: * ~ * ~ * * now muſt we come to the inner muſcles of the cubit, the firſt of which compaſſes the skin of the palme of the hand, whence it is called the palmari.the ſecond and third joined by the communion of their ačtion turn down or prone the wand, and conſequently the hand,ſo that the palme looks towards the feet, whereupon they are called pronatores. the . and . joined alſo in affinity of a&ion bend the wriſt, wherefore they are named ::::::: wriſt-benders. the ſixt and ſeventh are appointed to bend the firſt, ſecond, and third joints of the fingers, wherefore they are termed digitumflexores, fingerbenders. for their originall; the palmaris,the laſt and uppermoſt of them all, deſcends fleſhy from the hind proceſſe of the inner arm,and a little after ending in a long and ſlender tendon, it is ſpent in the skin of the ğ. of the hand even to the roots of the fingers. for it was ne- :ceſſary that this skin ſhould ſtraitly cohere with the ſubjacent parts,not only for the fitter taking or comprehenſion of anything,leſt that skin in holding ſhould be wrinckled and drawn away from the palme and fingers, and ſo be an impediment; but beſides that the hand might havea more exačt ſenſe to diſtinguiſh of hot, cold, moiſt, dry, ſmooth,equall, rough, ſoft, hard, #. little, and ſuch other qualities. then follow the two pronatoreſ, of which one called the round, comes . from the inner fide of the hind proceſſé of the arm almoſt to the middle of the wand,to whith it adheres by a membranous and fleſhly tendon, ºven to the place appointed for inſertion. the other ſquare three or four fingers broad, yet ſomewhat ſlender, ſeated within under all the muſcles which deſcend on the inſide to the wriſt or fingers, upon the ends of the bones of the cubit,aſcends tranſverſe from below the ell, unto the top of the wand,where it ends in a membranous tendon. both the carpiflexores, or wriſt-benders,ariſe from the hind, but inner proceſſe, and deſcend obliquely,(the one more, or leſſe than the other) the one alongſt the ell,but the othera- longſt the wand; and that which deſcends alongſt the ellis inſerted into the eight bone of the wriſt, which we ſaid made part of the ring;the other which followes the wand is inſer- ted with his greater part into the bone of the wriſt, and with the reſt into the firſtbone of the after-wriſt which ſuſtains the fore finger. * * * - - now remain the digitumflexores s, or fingerbenders, which becauſe they lye upon one another, the upper is called the sublimi, but the lower the ºft. sublimit or upper, ariſing #om the inner part of the hind proceſs of the arm,and from the upper parts of the eh and wand,deſcends between theſe two bones of the cubit even to the wriſt and ring; divided into tendons it is inſerted into the ſecond dearticulation of the four eis, which it bendsby the force of this his proper inſertion; as alſo the firſt, as well by the tº power of the common ºff. by certain fibers coming from it, which it ſends thi- ther by the way in its paſſage. but theſe tendons neer unto this their inſertion are divi- ded into two ſo to give paſſage and add ſtrength to the tendons of the deep muſcles de- frending into the third and laſt joint of the fingers. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . but this ſame profundu, or deep muſcle ariſing from the upper and inner parts of the ell ::::::::: and wand, deſcendsbetween theſe two bones under the sublimi;alſo undivided even to the "*" wriſt,where it is divided into ’ tendons which it brings forth under the common liga- * . . ment, and the diviſions of the tendons of the sublimi, even to the laſt joint of the ... º. fingers, which they bend, by this their proper inſertion, as alſo the bones of the firſt and fºndjoin. of the fingersby the means of the common ligament and fibrous produćti- ons which they beſtow upon them by the way. beſides theſe forementioned there is ſeen - - - -a- alſo a certain membranous ligament which cngirts the tendons in the compaſſeof the fin- . ... it gers. … . . . . . . . . . . . . . º, ſº * ..… . ºf c. . . . ,--→ — — − —. * : y - " " ." º , * chap. xxix. . . . . . tº . . . . . . . . * º --- --> * > * > of the muſcles ºf the infide ºf the hand. , :...'. the nºf ºººhemuſcles of the infide of the hand are in number; the firſt is called thenar, juſtics of ºlis becauſe it makes the greatºr part of the palme; the ſecond from the fite is the inſide of & . the hypothenar; the third the externall abdućfor of the thumb.the four the hand. º other are § reaſon of their figure the lumbrici or wormy muſcles, or * the abdujore, ordrawers ofthefour fingers to the thumb. now the firſt cal- the thénars led thena, thicker than the reſbariſes from all thebones of the afterwriſt, taking its be- ** a gºnº a ginning from that bone which bears up the ringfinger, whence aſcending alongſt the wi- tall line even to the end thereofat the firſt bone of the afterwriſt ſuſtaining the fore finger, and it is at length inſerted into the laſt joint of the thumb by the longeſt fibers,but by §: - - - - - - - . . . . . . . . . - - - - - e g. - - midd ‘. . . li b . and other extreme parts of the $ody. i ---—--— + middle and ſhorteſt fibers almoſt into all the inner part of the firſt bones of two joints,and by reaſon of this, the thumb is drawn to the otherfingers, and from them again by his lower originall. - - some divide this muſcle into three, by reaſon of his divers ačtions, making the firſt to ariſe from the root of the bone of the afterwriſt which bears up the ring finger; but the other from that middlebone of the afterwriſt which ſuſtains the middle finger;but of the third, from the upper end of that bone which underprops thefore finger, and that the inſertion of themäll, is as we formerly mentioned.but the former opinion likes me better, both for ſhunning confuſion, and abbreviating the doćtrin of the number of muſcles. the hypothenar ariſes from the fourth bone of the afterwriſt,and that bone of the wriſt which ſuſtains it, and then with its longeſ fibers, it is inſerted into the ſecondjoint of the ring finger, and by the ſhorteſt into the firſt, through which occaſion,as alſo in reſped of its twofold ačtion, ſome have divided it into two, that the one of them might lead it from the reſt, aud the other might draw it to the thumb. - . the third the jº. of the thumb, deſcends from the firſt bone oftheaſter. wriſt,into the firſt and ſecond joint of the thumb;wherefore ſome have divided it into two. the lumbrici, or four externall abdućiores of the fore fingers ariſe from a membrane, in- veſting and binding together the tendons of the digitumflexoreſ, or fingerbenders, and at length on the ſides towards the thumb even by a ſmall tendon, running even to the ſe- cond joint of the four fingers. - ... now the interoſes of the afterwriſt, remain to be ſpoken of theſe arefix, two in each of the ſpaces between the fingers, one internall, the other externall, of which the internall deſcending with oblique fibers from the ſide of the firſt bone ofthe afterwriſt goes alſo in- to the fides of the fingers,that ſo it may the more cloſely bind together the bones of the af- terwriſt, whoſe ačtion is manifeſted when we thruſt our fingers into a ſtrait glove,or when webend our hand.some think that it . alſo the drawing of the fingers towards the thumb. the externall aſcends alſo by oblique fibers from the fides of the ſecond bone of the afterwriſt, to the firſt joints of the fingers, interſtöting the internall which we now deſcribed after the manner of the letter x for to extend the palm of the hand,and help the drawing away of the fingers from the thumb. -: . - - here concluding the deſcription of themuſcles of the whole hand taken in generall,you ſhall note that they are , in number, that is, eight †. to move the arm; four ſet to move the cubit in generall; ſeven ſtated on the outſide of the cubit, and as many on the infide in the ſame cubit, moving the wand,and with it the hand; ſeven on the inſide of the hand; and laſtly,the ſix interoſſes.some encreaſe this number, ſaying, there are nine on the rxternall part . cubit, and cleven on the inſide of the hand.’ ” . - -: , . . . . . . ." * chap. xxx. ºf t *... " . . . . . . . . . " - . . . . . . - - , " . ºr ~, ºr a deſcription of the leg taken in generall. . * * * * * * * - - * * * --- * ~ * !, - -- zºº. fter the hand followes the deſcription ofthe lºg. wherefore to take away all º tº doubtfulneſſe we will firſt define the legithen divide it into the parts more and * leſſe compound; thirdly, we will proſecute all things common to all theſe n parts;fourthly, thoſe which are peculiar to each; and then, god willing, we *****, will give an end to our anatomy. - * now this word crus, or legis uſed two manner of wayes, that is, either generally or fpecially, and ſpecially again after two ſorts, that is, either abſolutely and ſimply ſo, or with an adjună. it is fimply taken for all that which is between the knee and the foot, butwith an adjunét for the greater bone thereof. but the leg taken in generall, is theiu- flrument of going, containing all whatſoever is from the hips,to the very ends of the toes. it is divided into three great parts,that is to ſays the high, the leg, or ſhank, and the foot. by the thigh we mean that which lies between the hip and the knee. by the leg, properly fºcalled, or ſhank, that which is contained between the knce and the foot.by the foot º {rom thence to the ends of the toes. ....: - . again,they divide the foot into three parts; that is, the tarſus or inſtep, the pedian or top of the foot, and the digitipedum, or toes. we underſtand by the inſtep, that which is £ontained in the firſt ſeven bones, which anſwers in proportion to the wriſt of the hand. s/s$º by the top of the foot, that which is comprehended in the five followingbones, which is foo anſwerable to the afterwriſt. that which remains, we call the toes. but becauſe all theſe parts have other common and proper parts we will only follow the diſtribution of the veins, arteries, and nerves; ſeeing we have ſufficiently explained the reſt, when we deſcri- bed the containing parts ofthe body in generall. . . . . . - c hapa t-- * the hºoſhi: ſlar. the externali abdućfor of the thumb. the lumbricſ: the interofft the humber of the muſcles of the whole taken in genes tall. gene: the diverſ. acception of the leg. - the thigh. the leg or ſhank, the foot, the diviſion of the foot. the inflep. the top of the te the toes) | - of the muſcles and bones lib. . c. h. a. p. xxxi. adeſcription of the crurallvein. the beginning ºhe crurall vein begins then, when the hollow vein paſſing forth of the peritones ofthe crurall sºlº um, and ſtretched to the hanch bone,and the fides of the pubu in the groin,is #: • *m. bº ; firſt divided into two large branches,the one of which deſcends on the infide, : ... " * alongſt the bones of the whole leg, together with the artery and nerve; the other runs down outwardly and ſuperficially alongſt the leg, between the fat lying under the skin, and the muſcle; even to the foot, and is ſpent in the skin thereof. afhis becauſe it is alwaies apparent and manifeſt, is called properly by the greeks sapheia ... but commonly sapheme. ... this vein by the way preſently at its originall is divided into two branches, the one rººm internall, the other externall;of which the internallis ſpentupon the bubones, and other mors called glandules of that place and the skin, and by this branch come the defluxions called bubo- eubones flow nes; the otherbranch is waſted in the fore and utter skin of the upper part of the thigh; down. - - - t- - - - then a little lower, that is, about the bredth of three or four fingers,it is gathered again into one branch made of many little ones, which is ſpent in the fore .# hind skin of this thigh. thirdly, a little below the middle of the thigh it is again divided into two other branches, of which the one goes into the skin on the foreſide, and the other on the hindfide. fourthly, it is diſtributed by two other ſmall ſprigs into the skin, on the fore and hind part of the knce,whith oftentimes are not found, eſpecially when the pºplitea or ham vein, is ſomewhat larger than ordinary. fiftly, a little below the knee, it produces two other branches, lying upon each other in their paſſage out into the fore and hind skin of that place.you muſt note, that branch which runs into the skin of the hind part, is carried by a certain other ſprig, which it [. into abranch of the poplitea paſſi forth of the two twin muſcles.sixtly in the bigger part of the calf of the leg, it is divi into two other branches, which in like manner are diſtributed into the skin,as well in the foreſide as the backſide of the leg. - where and in . at length after many other &ion, which for brevitieſake i omit, when it arrives at . º the fore and inner fide of the ankle (where it is commonly opened in the diſeaſes of the ::::::... parts below the midrifle which require blood-letting) it is parted into two other bran- ned, ches, the leſſer of which deſcends to the heel; the other in many ſprigs is ſpent upon the skin of all the upper and lower part of the foot and toes. - to what pla- the ſecond branch of this crural vein, which we ſaid deſcends within together with the cesandby how artery and nerve, even into the foot,is j ſomewhat deep in, it produces i. ºi four divarications;one internal deſcending below the original of the intoſaphia the muſcle º:... called olturator externu, and into certain other external muſcles.the three other run out- the crurall vein wardly, the firſt towards the huckle-bone by which the iſchia, is made,the two other into goes. the fore muſcles of the thigh, neither are theſe ſprigs far remote from one another.secondly, iſchiadicavens, althat branch is divided into two otherbranches,the one above,the other below,an artery mºſul, vena. nalwaies accompanying it; the lower of which is ſpent upon many of the hinder muſcles of the thigh ending high the ham. the upper, beſides, that it beſtows many branches upon the fore and inner muſcles of the thigh; deſcending to the ham, it produces the poplites or ham vein, made ſometimes of two branches, the one proceeding from above,and the other popliteavens. from below. this poplitea deſcending by the bending of the ham,is ſpent one while upon’ the skin of the calf of the leg, another while upon the knee,otherwhiles encreaſed with branches of the sapheia;it goes on the outſide of the ankle to the skin, on the upper fide of the foot, and ſometimes on the lower. thirdly,a little below the original of the ham vein,and under the bending of the knee, suralis vena, it bringsforth the suralia, which is beſtowed upon the muſcle of the sura, or calf of the leg, and upon the skin of the inner fide thereof;and ofthe foot continued ſometimes even to the inner part of the great toe. fourthly, under the head of the hinder appendix of the bones of the leg, it produces between theſe two bones, another vein, which nouriſhing the foremuſcle of the legis con- ſumed upon the foot, - iſchiadicama. fiftly and laſtly,it brings forth the #: major or greater iſthias,which is divided fin- j to two branches of an unequallbigneſſe;the larger whereof, from his originall deſcendi alongſt the inner part of the leg bone,infinuates it ſelfunder the muſcles of the calf, be- - tween this and the heel, into the ſole of the foot, upon which it is waffed, divided into ten finall ſprigs,two for each toe;the other being the leſſer deſcending alongſt the perone, or ſhin-bone,is conſumed between it and the heel yet ſometimes it is produced, not only even to the muſcle the abdućior of the toes, but alſo by five ſurcles,even to the fourth toe and the ſides of the middle toe. - - chap: lib. , and otherextreme parts ofthe tº--—- - tt. $ody. c h a p. xxxii. the diſtribution of the crurall artery. sººhe crurall artery ariſing from the ſame place whence the crurall vein proceeded, ** and deſcending with the internall crurall vein, is diſtributed as followeth. # firſt, into the muſcle of the thigh, which ſpreading it ſelf through the - muſcles thereof meets with the utmoſt hypogaſtrica, deſcending with the vein through the common hole ofthehuckle and ſharebone, and is joined with it. secondly, when it arrives at the ham,between the condylos or proceſſes of the leg.it ſends two branches into the knce. • * * thirdly,a little after it produces another branch,which it ſends to the exterior muſcles of the leg and when it arrives at the middle of the leg, it is divided into two branches, be. tween the twin muſcles and soleu, the one internal, the other externall; the internail, ſome ſurcles communicated by the way to the parts by which it paſſes, but ſpecially to the joint of the ankle, ſtretches itſelf over the ſole of the foot, between the lower extremity thereof and heel, whither when it arrives, it is divaricated into five ſurcles,of which iebº. ſlowes two on the great toe, two on the next, and one on the middle toe. the externali deſcending in like manner to the ſole of the foot, between the fibula and the heel, beſides other ſprigs, which it may ſpread by the way, it produces one without on the joint of the ankle, another in the muſcle, the abdućior of the toes, to the wriſt and back of the foot. but the remainder is divided into five portions, of which two are ſent to the fourth, and two to the littletoe,and one to the middle. - chap. xxxiii. of the nerves of the loins,holy-lone and thigh. §§ here ariſe five conjugations of nerves from the loins, divided into externall and internal branches;the external are diffeminated into the rachite orchin muſcles, the muſcles semifinatus and sacer and the skin lying over them. the internalí. are ſent into the oblique aſcendent and tranſverſe muſcle of the lower belly,in- to the peritoneum, into the loin and cheſtmuſcles ariſing there,but after a different manner; for ſome are abſolutely carried thither as the nerves of the firſt conjugation of the loins, and oftentimes alſo of the ſecond, but that ſometimes they ſend a ſmall ſprig to the teſti- cles, when the coſtall have ſent nonethither;but ſome lower are partly diſtributed there, and partly ſent ſome other way; for the greater portions firſt united amongſt themſelves. then preſently with the portions of theſe of the holy-bone; goe into the thigh,as we ſhall ſhew in the diſtribution of the nerves of the holy-bone. - now from the holy-bone, ſº. ſix conjugåtions of nerves, reckoning that for the firſt which proceeds from the laſt vertebra of the loins,and firſt of the holy-bone, and that the fixt which proceeds from the loweſt part of the holy-bone, and the firſt of the rump; theſe conjugations of nerves are divided into externall and internalibranches. - the leſſer externall paſſing forth by the externalland hinder holes of the holy-bone, are diſtributed into the parts properly belonging thereto, to wit, the muſcles and skin thereof;for every nerve by the law of nature firſt and alwaies yeelds to the neighbouring parts, that which is necdfull, then preſently to others as much as it can. f. wherefore if thou wouldſt know whence each part hath his veſſels at the next hand, that is, the veins,arteries,hnd nerves, thou muſt remember the ſite of each part, , and the courſe of the veſſels,and to conſider this, that the veins and arteries asſi cedily and conve- niently as they can, inſinuate themſelves into the parts, ſometimes at the head or begin- ning, ſomewhiles by the middle or extremes thereof, as there is occaſion. but a nerve principally enters a muſcle at the head thereof, or at leaſt not far from thence, but never by the tail, whereby it may eaſily be underſtood by what branch of each vein, artery, and nervs, each part may have nouriſhment, life, and ſenſe. the otherinternall branches ofthe foreſaid conjugations goe, eſpecially the four uppermoſt united from their originall with the three lowermoſt of the loins,into all th leg, as you ſhall preſently hear. but the two lower are conſumed upon the muſcles called levatores ani, the sphinier muſcle of the ſame place beſides,upon the muſcles of the yard and neck of the bladder in men,but in women upon the neck of the womb and bladder. - for theſe parts admit another in their bottom from the coſtall nerve, being of the fixth conjugation of the brain; theſe thus conſidered, , let us come to the nerves of the thigh, which (as weſaid) from their firſt originall, as it were compačted and compoſed of the greatcrportion of the three inner and lowerbranches of the loins, and the four upper of the holybone,are divided in the thigh into four branches,of which the firſt and higher de- ſcending from above the peritoneum, to the little trochanter, is waſted upon the inward and ſuperficiary muſcles of the thigh,and the skin which covers them a little above the d; - - - the arteria miſ: cult, the five conju: gations of the nerves of the loins. --- where the teſticks have their ncrycs. the conjugatts on of the nerves procee- ding through the holybone, an anatomi- call axiomſ, -- of the muſcles and bones lib. . the ſecond, deſcending with the crurall vein and artery by the groin, is divided into two branches like as the vein,the one internall, the other externall, of which the internall deſcending with the vein and arterie is ſent into the inner and deep muſcles of the thigh, ending above the knee.but the externall deſcending ſuperficially with the sapheia, even into the foot gives branches by the way to the skin which coversit. the third feated under theſe former, paſſing by the hole common to the ſhare and hanch-bone,ſends certain branches to the groins to the muſcles called qbturatores, to the tricipites,and ſometimes to the muſcles of the yard,and it ends at the midſt of the thigh. the fourth, which is the thickeſt,ſolideſtand hardeſt of al the nerves in the body,deſcen- ding wholly from the produćtions oftheholy-bone and deſcending outwardly, between the lower part of the ſame bone,and the os ilium, or hanch-bone to the thigh,beſtows cer- tain ſprigs to the hind muſcles thereof proceeding from the protuberation of the iſchium or huckle-bone,and in like ſort it gives otherſome to the skin of the buttocks,and alſo to the skin covering the forementioned muſcles. alittle after, it is parted into two branches deſcending undivided even to the bending of the knee,they both are communicated by divers ſurcles of the muſcles of the .." ſo as the leſſer produces anotherbranch from the reſt of the portion thereof deſcending on the fore part of the legalongſt the ſhin-bone unto the top of the foot where it is divided into ten ſurcles ſcarce j to the fight, two running to each of the toes. the other greater deſcending in like manner in the remainder of its portion by the hind part of the f. into the ſole of the foot, caſts it ſelf with the veins and arteries between the heel and leg bone, were firſt divided into two branches, each of which preſently parted into five, fend two ſprigs to the fides of the toes. and theſe are the moſt notable and neceſſary diſtriº butions ofthe veſſels and nerves;we purpoſely omit others which are infinite,and of which the knowledge is impertinent. -- chap. xxxiv. of the prºperparts of the thigh. - r.' . . . & *aºaving explained the common parts of the leg in generall, now we muſt come . \ſºſé to the proper, beginning at the thigh.the proper parts of the thigh, are --> #|gy ; muſcles, bones,and ligaments. but becauſe the demonſtration of the muſcles ağ as is ſomewhat difficult, if we be ignorant of the deſcription of the bones from * whence they ariſe, and into which they are inſerted; therefore we judgit worth our labour, firſt to ſhew the bones, and the dearticulation of theſe of the thigh; beginning with theſe bones which are knit with the upper part of the holy-bone. of how many and they are two in number,on each fide one,commonly called the oſa ilium;each of theſe bºnesthºº! is compoſed of three bones,of which one is the upper,another the lower and anterior,and ilium conſiſt. the third the middle,and after a manner the poſterior. the upper by a particular name is what theo, called the os ilium, the hanch-bone, and it is the largeſt and biggeſt, having a griſtly ap- ilium ſtrialy pendix in the compaſſe thereof, even to the connexion it hath with the other neighbou- taken is. ring bones, whoſe upper part we term the right line thereof;but the baſis, which is adjoi- - ned to it by symphyſis, we call the lip or brow, thereof, becauſe it ſtands both ſomewhat what the fine, out and in after themanner of the brow.but that which lies between the baſis and ſtreight lip.hrow and line we name the rib;this ſame upper bone hath two hollow ſuperficies,the one internall, #: * the otherexternall. the connexion thereof by symphyſis, is twofold, the one with the up- - perpart of the holy-bone; the other with that bone we called the middle, and after ſome theoriſthium, ſort the poſterior; which taking its #. from the narrower part of the q, ilium; or huckle-bone makes that cavity in which the head of the thigh is received; this cavity the greeks call cotyle, the latins acetabulnm, and it is ended by the fide of the hole common to it,and the ſhare-bone; this middle, and in ſome ſort poſterior bone is called properly and particu- larly the os iſchii, or huckle-bone,and contains nothing elſe but the forementioned cavi- is . ty, but that on the hind and lower part thereof, it brings forth a proceſſe, which adjoins itſelf to the ſhare-bone at the lowerpart of the common hole, in which place it appears very rough and unequall, and it is called the tuberoſitie of the huckle-bone, at §: ex- tremity alſo it brings forth a little head ſomewhat reſembling the proceſſe of the lower the or pubiº, jaw called corone. the thirdbone named os pubi, or the ſhare-bone ſtretches itſelf even to or ſhare-bone, the higheſtpart of the pedien;where meeting with the like bone of the other fide, it is uni- ted to it by symphyſiſ,after which manner alſo, all theſe three bones are united;it is repor- ted, that this bone opens in women in their travel, yet hitherto i can find no certainty thereof. you may perceive a manifeſt . of theſe three bones in the sceleton of a child; for in thoſe who are of more years,the griſtles which run between theſeconnexions turn into . . bones. jºi. now followes the thigh-bone,the biggeſt of al the bones of the body; it is round,and ſo tightc. bended that it is gibbous on the exterior and forepart thereofthat ſo it might be the ſafer from ln . -- --- and other extreme parts of the body. . – from externall injuries; but on the hind and inner part,it is hollow or ſimous,like to the back of an aſſe, whereby the muſcles might have a more commodious originall and inſer- tion. the figure of the thigh-bone. a , ..the head of the thigh É. into the cup of the ip-bone. b, . a ſinus in the head of the thigh,into which is in- ſerted a round ligament. c , . the conjunčtion of the appendix of the thigh with the bone itſelf. d , , . the neck of the thigh. - - e #. two lower heads of the thigh. - g , . the conjunčtion of the lower appendix. . h , . a ſinus betwixt the two heads of the thigh. k . a part of the lower head of the thigh, from whence the firſt muſcle of the foot doth proceed. l . another part from whence the ſecond and firſt muſcles ariſe. m . another part to which the tendon of the fift muſcle of the thigh is in- fixed. - n , a finus of the out- ward fide of the head for the fourth muſcle of the leg. o . a ſinus of the inſide through which the tendons doe paſſe. p . a protuberation at which the ſaid tendons are refle&ted. - - . the upper proceſſe of the thigh,and betwixt #. d is the ſinus. r. , . the union of the proceſſe with the thigh. t s s . a rough line from the impreſſion of the externall proceſſes. t . the an- terior impreſſion of the internall proceſſes, é, betwixt tand vanother impreſſion higher than theformer. v. , . the fourth impreſſion in the top of the proceſſe. x . four x, fhew the four appendices of the thigh. f . three t, ſhew the three heads of the thigh. zz . two proceſſes of the thigh. a . the interior proceſſe of the thigh. b . . the conjunétion of the proceſſe with the thigh, c .a line deſcending obliquely from the in- ner proceſſedd .aline running through the length of the thigh.e. .the largeneſſe of the thigh in this part.f .a roughneſſe from which the eighth muſcle iſſueth.g,h . a knub of the whirle-bone going into the finus marked with i;which is betwixt the heads of the thigh. i . a finus fitted for the inner head of the thigh. k . a finus º with the externail head of the thigh. l. . the lower jºrity or roughneſſe, m . the foreſide of the pattell or whirle-bone rough and unequall. that finious part a little below the midſt thereof, is divided into two lines, the one whereof goes to the internall tuberoſity,the other to the externall of the lower appendix of the ſame thigh. theſe are chiefly to be obſerved, becauſe the oblique fibers of the vaſt muſcles thence take their originall. beſides, this bone hath two appendices in the ends thereofas eaſily appears in a childs thigh; the upper appendix makes the round head of the thigh itſelf, which (as every other appendix) ſeated upon a long neck, is received in the cavity of the hanch-bone - by e- marthrofts;it is ſtayed and faſtned there by two ſorts of ligaments,of which the one is com- mon, proceeding from the muſcles,which deſcend from . the neck thereof; the otherisproper, which is twofold, that is, one membranous and broad, proceeding fº - the - the two ap- pendices o - the thigh- bonds of the muſcles and bones ... l b. : the whole cavity of the orb, or cup, deſcending about all the head of the thigh, above the neck thereof;the other thick and round, deſcending from the ſecond cavity of the cotyle it felt which is extended, even to the common hole at the top of the head thereof the two pro, beſides,under this head, that bone hath two proceſſes, the one great and thick, the o- ce º, i.f the ther little and ſhort. ... the greater feated in the hind part,is called the great trochanter; the leſſºr ſituate in the trechanters. whence the marrow be. comes parta- ker of ſtnſe, their number. the two flexs. . fe. the three tenſores, three introno. ventes, inner part, is named the little trochanter. - but you muſt note, that the greater trochanter, on the higher and hind part thereof. which looks towards the head of this bone, make a certain ; tty or tº: i. which the twin muſcles and others,whereofwe ſhal hereafter hºſ. implanted;we muſt alſo conſider the multitude of holes encompaſſing this neck,between the head and the two trochanter', which yelda paſſage to the veſſels, that is,the veins, arteries, and nerves, into the marrow of the bone itſelf, whence the marrow itſelf becomes partaker offenſe,eſpeci- ally on that part which is covered with a coat,and the bonelives and is nouriſh. the other appendix of the thigh, that is, the lower,is the greateſtand thickeſt, riſing as it were with two heads,which are divided by two cavities, the one ſuperficiary and on the foreſide, whereby it receives the whirl-bone of the knee; the other deep, and on the back part,by which it receives the griſtly and as it were bony ligaments, proceeding from the eminencie which is ſeen between the two cavities of the upper º of the fº of the leg which hiſtocrates, lib. de fraiuri,calls in his tongue diºphyſi. - – c. h. a. p. xxxv. of the muſcles moving the thigh. sº he muſcles of the thigh are juſt fourteen in number,that is,two bend it, where- §§ upon they are called the flexores,or benders; three extend it,whereupon they §§§ are called tenſores,extenders;three move it inwards,driving the knee outwards, § and drawing the heel inwards, as when we croſſe our legs; yet ſome make - theſe three one, and call it the triceps, or threeheaded muſcle. six ſpread it abroad,and dilate it,as happens in the aët of venery. four of theſe arc called gemini or twins,by º of the ſimilitude of their thickneſſ, originall inſertion and ačtion;the two other are called obturatores, becauſe they ſtop the hole which is common to the ſhare and back-bones. now one of the two flexores, being round, deſcends on the infide with fibers of an un- equall length from all the tranſverſe proceſſes of the loins, above the hind commiſſure oſ the hanch and ſhare-bones,and is inſerted into the little irochanter; the other broader and larger from the origiuall paſſes forth of the whole lip,and inner brow of the hanch-bone, and filling the inner cavity thereof, is inſerted above the forepart of the head of the thigh;into the little trochanter by a thick tendon, which it with the fellow muſcle lately deſcribed, produces even from the fleſhy part thereof; wherefore you need to take no §rº great pains in drawing or plucking then away. the three tenſores or extenders, make the buttocks,of which the firſt being the thicker, larger,and externall,ariſing from the rump,the holy-bone,and more than half of the exte- riour and hinder lip of the hanch-bone, is inſerted by oblique fibers, ſome four fingers bredth from the great trochanter at the right line,which we ſaid, reſembled an aſſes |. the ſecond, which is the middle in bigneſſe and fite, deſcends from the reſt of the lip, and from the fore and outward rib of the hanch-bone,and above the midſt of the bone, is inſerted into the upper part of the great trochanter, by a triangular inſertion above the upper and exterior part thereof. . the third being ſº, ſhorter,and thinner,lying hid under theſe former proceeds from the middle of the externall ſurface of the hanch-bone; and then is inſerted into the grea- terpart of the right line of the great trochanter. theſe three muſcles have a great andlarge originall, but a narrow inſertion, as it were by oblique fibers. then follow thoſe three muſcles which move the thighs inwards, ſtraiten and croſſe them,ſo that the knee ſtands forwards or outwards,but the heel is drawn inwards, as you may underſtand by their inſertion,although ſome think otherwiſe.but theſe three muſcles by their originall partly fleſhy, and partly membranous,ariſe from the upper and forepart of the circumference of the ſhare-bone,and thence are inſerted into the hind line of the huckle-bone, ſome higher than otherſome; for the leſſer and ſhorter ſtayes at the roots of the little trochanter,the middle deſcends a little deeper, the third with the longeſt of his fibers,deſcends even to the midſt of the line. this if it be ſo, that is, theſe muſcles proceeding from the fore and upper part, to be inſerted into the hinder line of the huckle-bone,whilſt they alone perform their ačtion, and draw the thighs together, they will turn them outwards, juſt ſo as when we put . acrolle, liº. , andother extreme parts ofthe body. *-- ------ - acroſſe, but they will not draw one heel to another,and put the heel outwards, for ſuch like motion is performed by the inner vaſt muſcle of the thigh, moving the leg. now fol- low the ſix which move the buttocks. - - the firſt, and higher of the gººdrºgenini, or the four twin muſcles, paſſes forth of the commiſſure of the holy-bone;with the bone of the rump,or rather from the loweſt extream of the holy-bone,and thence it is inſerted into the cavity ofthe great trochanter by a ten- don of a ſufficient largeneſſe. - - - . . . . . the ſecond proceeding from the hollow part or fiſſure, which is between the extremity of the huckle-bone,and the tuberoſity or ſwelling out of the ſame, is inſerted in like man. ner into the cavity of the great trochanter. * , ) the third aſcends from the inner part of the ſwelling out of the huckle-bone , a little - above, between the two trochanters, into the cavity of the greater of them, i. y . the fourth and laſt, the loweſt and broadcſt of them all, proceeds from all the exteriod: protuberancie of the huckle-bone,and thence is inſerted into the ſº trochanter,and theſe fourmuſclºslie hid under the thick and more eminent part of thebuttocks;wherefore that you may the better ſhew them, they muſt be turned up towards their originall. the two qbturatores remain to be ſpoken of that is, the internall and externall, both which ariſe from the circuit and circumference of the hole which they ſtop, which as we ſaid is common to the ſhare and hucklebone,but the internall aſcends to the exterior root of the great troſhantºr by the middle fiſſure between the upper part of the protuberancy of the j. bone, and the ſpine which ſtands up in the hinderbaſis of the hanch bone. i but the externall proceeds from the exteriour cavity,and the middle ſpace between the the movers of he buttocks, fhetwo oil; ratoret. tuberoſity of the hucklebone and cavity thereof,and is inſerted into the lower part into . the cavity of the great trochanter, together with the quadragemini. -- - if you would plainly ſee the exteriour obturator, you muſt either cut off the beginning of the three-headed muſclººr handſomely pluck it away, aud then extend it, and turn it up; the internallis eaſily diſcerned when the bladder is taken away. . . . 'l- chap. xxxvi - ºf . . . . . . . of the bones of the leg, or shank, - - i. |hoſe which would deſcribe the muſcles of the legge, ought firſt to deſcribe the | bones thereof beginning at the rotula, or whirlebone of the knce. . . . this bone is griffly on the outſide,and round in compaſſe, but on the inner and middle part after ſome ſort gibbous,but ſomewhat flatted at the ſides,that * ſo it may be fitlier applied to the joint of the knee,and fitted within the an+ teriour cavity of the twº appendices of the thigh,and the upper and foremoſt of the kg. the uſe thereof is to ſtrengthen the joint of the knee, and to hold the leg at his due ex- tent,ſo that it may not be bended ſo far forwards.ac.it is backwards. º, the bones of the leg are two,the one thicker, called by the particular and proper name, the of tibie or leg bone;the other which is leſſºr, is termed perone, or fibula,but commonly the leſſer focile,(and in engliſh it may be termed the ſhin-bone.) the thicker being hollow andmarrowie, is feated in the inner part of the leg,having two proceſſes, the one bigger, the other leſſe. - - - - º the bigger ſtated on the upper part of the bone,and conjoined to it by symphyſis, makes two ſuperficiall and fide cavities disjoined by an indifferent riſing;wherefore this bone is commext to the bone of the thigh by ginglymos. for in the cavities thereof it receives the ower and hinder protuberances of the appendix of the thigh bone, but the middle eminencie thereof, is received by it between the two protuberances thereof. ...t thisjoint is ſtrengthnednot only by the force of the tendons, or muſcles ending there, but alſo of three ſtrong ligaments, of which one proceeds from all the externall, another from all the internal parts of thar connexion;the third which we,out of h if pocrates,called diaphyſis,from the diſtance or ſpace between them. the other proceſſe of the leg bone, which we called the leſſe, ſeated in the lower part thereof, makes as it were a double cavity, whereby it receives the aſtragalus or paſtern bone;but on the inſide it makes the ankle, as the perone makes it without: between theſe ankles the affragalus is received on theſides,and turned as the nut in a croſſe-bow,as often as there is need to bend or extend the foot. beſides, this ſame leg-bone, being triangular,hath three eminencies made in the ſhape of an aſſes back;the ſharper deſcends alongſt the fore part, called by the greeks antion hions, the ſecond reſides on the inner part and the third on the outcr;all theſe muſt be diligently, what the º- tella,or while bone of the nee is. the uſe thereof what, and how many bones the leg hath. the leg-bones tº what diaplyſis iss obſerved, and chiefly, that on the forepart;becauſe it is as a guide and rule to a chirur-, . - geon in the well ſetting of a broken leg. the perone, or ſhin bone, is ſeated, as it were, on the pºleſ.: the outſide, and as behind the leg-bone; it hath alſo two appendiccs hollow on the in-l º: ſhiny ſide, but gibbous on the out.this bone by the upper of theſe is faſtned and inſerted under the inner,and in ſome ſort the hinder appendix of the leg bone,ſo that it is in no ſort ar- ticulated with the thigh, ut ſerves only inſtead ofa leaning ſtock.but by the lower, this. ſame bone is not only received in the loweſt* ofthe leg or ankle, or paſtern boné, but - - alſo of the muſcles and bones lib. . their number. the longº, •r. - alſo receives part thereof which isjoined on the ſame ſide with the heel, eſpecially thea when we bend our foot outwards. , - this bone is faſtned to the forementioned bonesby synarthrofts,but bound by ſtrong li- ts proceeding from the ſame bones,and mutually ſent from one to another,or if you É. rather, from the upper into the lower,as we ſaid in the arm.but this ſame fibula or ſhin bone is alſo triangular, having three lines, of which one ſtands outwards, another on the foreſide,and the third behind. chap. xxxvii. of the muſcles of the legs. r}ll the motions of the leg, are performed by eleven muſcles, of which there be ſix on the foreſide,and five on the hind. but of theſe,ſome move the leg only , as thoſe which take their originall from the bone of the thigh;others truly move * the leg, but with the thigh,as thoſe which ariſe above the thigh, that is, from the hanch, huckle, and ſhare bones, the firſt of theſe on the forefide called the long,but commonly the sutorius (or tailor muſcle, by reaſon of its ačtion) it ariſes from the lower and fore extremity of the ſpine or appendix of the hanch bone, and deſcending obliquely above the other muſcles,is inſerted the membra- noſia, the reāhū. the two waſi. . . .” the crºrew, the three internall. by a large and membranous tendon,in the fore and inner part of the leg under the knee; theačtion thereof is to croſſe the legs, but being firſt bended by the muſcles preſently to * of, it helps alſo the three headed muſcle in the performance of the formentioned attlon. - the ſecond of theſe four muſcles is termed themembranoſu, or membranous,becauſe it is wholly ſuch,unleſſe at the originallyhere it deſcends fleſhy from the root and baſis of the above mentioned ſpine of the hanchbone,and that obliquely with its membranous and broad tendon (mixed with the common coat of the muſcles)into the outward part of the leg,which it moves outwards;as alſo the thigh with the four twin muſcles;for as we have in another place obſerved, oftwo oblique motions concurring in one,is made a rightmo- tion;and beſides,almoſt all the motions of the body,are thus performed;the muſcles which perform ſuch motions are placed and oppoſed in an oblique fite, as may be perceived by the motions and ſite of the muſcles of the hand taken in generall. - the third, called the rettu,or right (becauſe it deſcends above the crureus,alongſt the right fore line of the thigh, between the two vaſt muſcles) comes forth between the ex- tremity of the appendix of the hanch bone and cavity thereof, with a very ſtrong liga- ment,and then is inſerted into theforepart of the leg, paſſing over themidſt of the whirle- bone of the knee; it extends the leg, with the three #. but by accident it may help the bending of the thigh. the fourth and fifth arecalled vaſti,waſ or hugemuſcles, by reaſon of their largeneſſe, the one of theſe is internall, the other externall: they both ariſe with right fibers, from their originall, but with oblique at their inſertion, by reaſon whereof they both ſeem to have a compound ačtion from a right and oblique motion; the right helping for the extenſion ofthe leg.but the oblique to draw one knee to another, or to disjoin both the knees;the internalſ comes by its right fibers from the root of the little trochanter,but by its oblique from the inner deſcendent line of the thigh.the externall paſſes forth by its right fibers from the root of the great troſhanter, but by the oblique from the externall deſcendent line of the ſame bone. but all theſe fibers are in certain places ſo mixed with the crureus that they cannot be ſeparated unleſſe you violate the one of them; they go in- to the leg (each on his fide) above the whirlbone of the knee alongſt the fides of the right muſcle with which it makes an unſeparable tendon,as you ſhall preſently hear. the fixt and laſt of theſe fore muſcles called the crureus,or thigh muſcle (by reaſon of theſtrait and firm adheſion, which it hath with the thigh bone,which is by ſome called crus) from the ſpace between the two trochanters j under the right muſcle and two vaſt muſcles into theforepart of the thigh, even to the whirlbone of the knee. butwenuſt note that theſe four . muſcles make a common thick and broad tendon, with which they cover the patella, or whirl bone, and all the fore dearticulation of the knee, that they cannot be ſeparated without tearing; wherefore we muſt think that this tendon ſerves the knee for a ligament; now all theſe muſcles performing their ačtion together, extend the leg. the five hind muſcles follow to be ſpoken of, of which three ariſe from the tu- berofitie of the hucklebone, going into the inner part; the fourth from the middle of the pubiº, called biceps, that is, the two-headed muſcle into the outſide of the leg. of the internall,one paſſing from the forementioned tuberoſity,deſcends ligamentous even into the midſt of the thigh, and then becoming fleſhy;is inſerted by its tendon, after the manner we formerly mentioned. the other being ſlender, paſſing forth alſo from the ſame place, with its tendon, is in- ſerted with the tendon of the long muſcle,and ends in the inner part of the leg, which with its companion, it draws inwardly,and : to the other, which ſame thing it per- forms in the thigh,by the help ofthe three-headed muſcle. the ln . andotherextreme part of the body. -- tº the third being the inner, or hinder, deſcends from the middle part of the ſhare-bone, with a broad and ſlenderligament,and is inſerted with a round tendon,into the inner part of the leg after the manner of the forementioned. the fourth called biceps takes one of the two heads,of which it conſiſts, from the laſt mentioned tuberoſitie, the other from the outer line of the thigh, but is inſerted into the externall part of the leg, as we formerly ſaid. - the # and laſt called the popliteus deſcends obliquely fleſhy from the externall con- dyle or knot of the thigh, into the inner and hinderpart of the leg.at the joining thereof to the ſhin-bone; the aëtion thereof is, to draw the leg, after a manner inwards. c. h. a. p. xxxviii. ofthe bones of the foot. ºhe order of anatomy requires, that we now proſecute the muſcles moving the º foot;but becauſe weſhould in vain deliver their inſertion, the diſpoſition and tº condition of the bones of the foot, not being firſt tº: it firſt be- º hoves us, to ſet forth their deſcription. therefore the bones of the foot are fix and twenty in number diſtinguiſhed into three ranks;that is, the bones of the tarſus or in- ſepare ſeven; thoſe of the pedium, the afterwriſtor back of the foot, five; and thoſe of the toes fourteen. of the ſeven bones of the inſtep,there are named,and unnamed.the firſt of the named immediately following the bones of the leg is called aſhragalu,the paſternor ankle-bone. this hath three connexions,one,as we ſaid before,in the upper and broader art, with the bones ofthe leg of which it is received;the other in the lower and hind part, § which it receives the upper and inner proceſſe of the bone of the heel; the third on the forefide by which it is received in the cavity of the s naviculare or scaphoides, that is, the boat-likebone. by the firſt connexion the foot is extended and bended;by the ſecond it is moved with the heel to the ſides; the two firſt connexions are by diarthroſis, the laſt by synarthrofts.but it is ſtrengthned by ſtrong and broad ...; and aſcending from one bone into another;alſo they are ſtrengthned by membranes, muſcles and tendons, deſcending to the foot,above and under theſe joints.but this bone hath three proceſſes, as three feet faſtened to the bone of the heel; of which the firſt and leaſt is under the outer an- kle; the bigger (which galen ſaith, makes around head,faſtned on a long neck) looks to- wards jº of the foot, over againſt the great toe, and the next toe to it; the mid- dlemoſt is at the heel, behind the leg-bone. - i paſſe over in filence many other things;as the ſmoothneſs and aſperity or roughneſs of the bone,which i had rather you ſhould learn by ocular inſpećtion, than by . the £econd bone lying under this is called the calcaneum, or heel-bone,being the biggeſt of all the bones of the foot, upon which all the body relies when we go.it hath two upper pro- ceſſes, the one great,the other little. thegreat is received in the hind and outer proceſſe ofthe affragalus; the leſſer is received on the infide in the third proceſſe of the ſame bone, which we ſaid had a roundhead faſtned to a long neck.beſides,it is round on the hind part, and much disjoined from the leg-bone,but on the fore and longer part,it is knit by synar- throſs to the die-bone, whoſe lower and inner part, it ſeems to receive; the ſuperficies thereof is wholly unequall, and riſing up with many ſwellings.on the inner fide it makes as it were a channell,ſo to giveway,as well to the veſſels as tendons going to the ſole of the foot and toes. laſtly, we muſt conſider the holes by which the veſſels paſſe into that bone to give it nouriſhment;by reaſon of which veſſels #. fraćture of this heelbone,is very dangerous,becauſe of the i. ing and contuſion of the veſſels;as hippocrates ſhews. for the ligaments of this heel,or heel-bone,they are ſuch, as theſe of the aſhragalus, towittendons, membranes and ligaments properly ſo called, coming from one bone to another.the third bone of the foot is named staphoides or boat-like, from the reſemblance it hath to a boat, for on that part which looks towards the paſtern bone, it is hollow ; but on that part frain which is next the three innominata,or nameleſs bones (which itſuſtains,and of which it is received, as it in the cavity thereof receives the head of the affragalus) it is gibbous like the bottome of a boat. the connexions thereofareby synarthroſis,and they are ſtrength- ned by the forementioned ligaments;this ſame bone is arched on the upperpart,but ſome- whathollowed or flatted below;the inner part ends in a point,like the prow of ſhip,but the outer obtuſe like the ſtern of a ſhip. the fourth bone of theſe º have names, is talled the cuboides, from the reſemblance of a die; although that fimilitude be very co- foure. on the forepart it ſuſtains the toes, which by a certain proportion to the fingers of the hand, may be called the ring and little toes;but it is ſuſtained on the hind part, with theback part of the heel;on the inner fide it is joined with the boat-like bone, and that nameleſs bone which ſuſtains the middletoe; on the outſide, it produces a riſing like the back of an aſſe, which on the lower part is extended tranſverſely all the length thereof;at the two fides of this eminency or riſing,there are º ſmal cavities, in form of a channel. the biceps, ct two-headed muſcle. the pepliteuſ or haun muſcle, their number. the bones of the inſtep. the aſtragalug its three con- nexions and, their uſe. its three pro- ceſſes, - the deſcripti. on of the caleanumer i calº, why a frature of the heel is ſo dangerouss hippocrates, sečº. . lib. de , #wrif. f the the ; sca- phoides, or boat-like: bone. the ; cubo- ides or die. bone. of the muſcles and bones lºn. . the figure of the bones of the foot properly ſo called. * . - igure , and .ſhew the bones of the rightfootfaſtned tºgether their upper face and their neather face. #. , ,and . ſhew the upper, lower, inner and outer ſides of the talus or paſtern. fig. , , , ſheweth the ſame ſides of the heel. fig. , and ...ſheweth the tº: and º:*: #. º fig. . . the fore and back part of the wriſt made of four bones. fig. , . ſhew the f f abcd , , . the protu- beration of the talue joined to the appendix of the leg-bone, and of this protuberation four ſides. ee . a ſinus inſculped in the protuberation of the talus. ff , two bunching parts of the talue. g , the inner ſide of the protuberation of the ta- lus cruſted over with a inner ankle. h , the outward ſinus of the potuberation of the talus covered over with a griſtle, and receiving the inner ankle. i . a rough ſinus of the talus, receiving a griſtly ligament from the inner } ankle. - k ,a ſinus of the talu, re- ment from the outward , ankle. lm , , two ſinus in the hinderpart of the talas. n , , , . the neck of the talus or paſtern bone. o , , , ,the head of the talus going under the ſinus of the iº. p , , .. the head of the heel cruſted over with a | griſtle, and going under : \% the ſinus of the talus or the paſtern bone. q , a large ſinus of the talu, receiving the head of the heel.r , , , a ſinus of the heel. wherto the lower part of the head of the talu is joined.s .the lower power of the head of the talus going into the ſinus of the heel.tt .a ſharpſinus of the heel receiving a griſtly li- ament from the paſtern bone.xyz .the place of the heel.yz .y . .a proceſe of the É. made for the produćtion of muſcles. a b% , .from a to b the diſtance of the upper part ofthe heel.c , . the hinder part of the heel. d. , , the inner ſide of the heel. e . the place where the tendons that run to the bottom of the foot are refle&cd. f , . the utter ſide of the heel.g. , , .here the tendons of the and muſcles of the foot are ſtretched out.h . the forepart of the heel which is joined to the paſtern bone.i that part of , the heel which isjoined to the cubebone. à. . the finus of the boat bone receiving the head of the talus. m n io. three ſurfaces of the boat bone lightly prominent,which are articu- lated to the bones of the wriſt. op .the upper part of the boat bone regarding the j. of the foot. q r ,and q .his lower part. io, i i. a ſinus through which the ſixt muſcle of the foot is led, ſtu , the plain ſurfaces of the three inner bonds of the wriſt whereby they are articulated to the boat bone.x .a ſhallow ſinus of the cubebone whereby it is articu- lated to the heel.a ,the place of the cube bone to which that bone of the afterwriſt is joined which ſupporteth the laſt toe ſave one-y , . the place of the cube bone where the third bone of the wriſt is articulated.}\ , . that part of the cube bone which re- ſpetteth the outſide of the foot. , , , the ſurface of the cube bone in the upper part of the foot. & , . that part of the cube bone which regardeth the earth." ,a ſinus % : - lū - griſtle, joined to the ceiving a griſtly liga: lib. . and other extreme parts of º body. cubebone at which the tendon of the ſeventh muſcle of the foot is refle&ted. b . a proceſſe of the third bone of the wriſt whereinto the fift muſcle of the foot is inſerted. , i . the place of the inner bone of the wriſt to which that bone of the afterwriſt which {uſtaineth the great toe is coupled. * . the place of the ſecond bone of the wriſt whereto the bone of the afterwriſt that ſupporteth the fore toe is articulated. a , the place of the third bone of the wriſt whereto that bone of the afterwriſt which ſupporteth the middle toe is articulated.u , . a ſmall bone whereby that bone of the afterwriſt which £uſtaineth the little toe is joined unto the cubebone ºr , the diſtances betwixt the bones of the afterwriſt. £ , , .the heads of the bones of the afterwriſt, which cnter into the boſonics of the toes." , a proceſſe of the bone of the afterwriſt wherein the tendon of the ſtyenth muſcle of the foot is implanted. , ,a proceſſe of the bone of the afterwriſt, which füğaineth the little toe,which proceſe receiveth the tendon of the eight muſcle of the foot: _* ºt,”, , ..the threeboncs of the forctoe. j, e, , two ſced bones placed under that bone of the afterwriſt which ſuſtaineth the great toe. * under x, a feed bone ſet to the ſecond joint of the great toe.t.i., . the talus or paſtern. as , , the heel.e., . ; the boat-bone. a, e, , .. the bones of the toes,”, k, , , two bones of the great toe, i, ii, iii, iv,v, i. the fivebones of the afterwriſt. - the firſt and the greater of the offa innominata, or nameles bones, ſuſtains the great tot; the leſſer and ſecond the next toe thereto; the third and middle in bigneſſe,the middle toe. theſe three bones are arched on their upper part,but ſomewhat hollowed below.they are knit to the three forementioned bones by synarthrofts, of which they are received, but on the hind part with the boat-like bone which they receive.now we muſt come to the bones of the ſecond rank, that is, of the pedium, or back of the foot,theſe are five in number, bea- ring up the five bones of the toes. they are ſomewhat gibbous on the upper part but hol- low below;each of them hath two proceſſes at the end thereof, by the lower and firſt of which they receive the three nameleſs and dic-bone,but by the upper made into a round head,they are received of the firſt bones of the toes...their connexions, whether with the toes, or bones of the inſtep,are by synarthroſis. the ligaments as well proper as common are ſuch,as we ſaid ofthe former.the bones of the third order now remain to be ſpoken of which we ſaid, make the toes, and they arc fourteen,two ofthe great toe, but three of each of the other toes.the firſt is ſomewhat longiſh, but the reſt are very ſhort, except that of the great toe, all of them on the upper ſide are round and convex, but on the lower ſome- what hollow, and plain long-wiſe, that the tendons which bend them, may paſſe more ſtraitly and ſafely without inclining to either fide, even to their furtheſt joints; although ſuch paſſages are much helped by the membranous & common ligament,which riſing from the ſides of theſe bones, involves theſe tendons,as we mentioned in the fingers.to cou- clude each of theſe bones,the laſt excepted have a double connexion by diarthrofts,they are all unequall in their bigneſſe, that is, thick at their beginning ( where they receive the heads of the precedent bones, upon which they move as adore upon the hinges)and ſo they the offa innº- .h ta or nameleſs bones. the bones of the foot or tedimm. - the bones of the toes. grow ſmaller towards the ends,but by their ends,they are received of the following bones: . at theirends they riſe into two eminencies on their ſides,diſtinguiſhed by a cavity between them, through which occaſion they are far thicker at their ends,than in their middle. the ligaments by which their connexions are faſtned are ſuch as the former.the oſſa ſeſamoidea or ſeedbones of the feet are like in number and ſite to theſe of the hands. but this is to be noted, that thoſe ſeed-bones which are in the firſt articulation are ſomewhat bigger than the reſt,and they are round and longiſh on the outſide, but ſmooth and hollow on the in- ſide,ſtated between two cavities, encompaſſed by three riſings, of which two are on the , ſides,and the third in the midſt of the extremity of the firſt bone of the pedium, which chieflybears up the great toe. to conclude,before we come to ſpeak of the muſcles, we muſt obſerve that the foot was made for two commodities. the firſt is to ſtay and bear the whole body, when we ſtand, for which cauſe nature ſet not the great toe contrary to the other, as it placed the thumb on the hand. the other is for apprehenſion, or taking hold of wherefore nature framed andmade the foot, and theſe moveable and jointed in the toes, as in the fingers of the hand.beſides alſo for that we muſt goeupon our feet, nature hath made them in ſome places hollow on the lower fide,and in otherſom plain in a triangular figure,that ſo our foet may carry us over every ſoil,plain,mountainous,equal and unequal, through all parts of the world. cha p. xxxix. of the muſcles moving the foot. he muſcles ofthe leg moving the foot are abſolutely nine, three in the forepart and fix in the hind. two of the three fore muſcles bend the foot, when they jointly perform their ačtion,but when ſeverally,each draws it to his fide; the - third chiefly extends the toes, for other whiles it ſeems by its ſlenderer and longer tendon(which exceeds not that bone of the pedium which ſuſtains the little toe) to . help alſo to bend the foot, . r º the the ſeed bones of the foot. the twofold uſe of the feet; their number. º - of the muſcles and bones • li * . maſculia pero- naºſ. tibitºh anticuſ, the toe - ſtretcher is twofold. the hind muſcles. the two ge- melli or twin muſcles. in what place the kibes breed the plantaris. the soleum. the tibitus poſticuſ. the digilum. flexor twofold. the firſt is called peroneus,becauſe it deſcends alongſt the bone perone; the other the tibi- zu, anticus,tor that it deſcends along the os tibie, or bone of the leg. the third from its ağion is called the digitumtenſor, r toe-ſtretcher. for their originall the peroneus which ſeems to have two heads,deſcends from the upper appendix of the perone or ſhin-bone by its firſt head, but by the other from the middle of the ſame bone from the fore ſide into the hind,as the ſuperficies ſhews which paſſes between the fore and outward line of the ſaid bone, but after it arrives at the lower and hinder appendix of the ſame bone, behind the outer ankle it produces two tendons, which by the guidance of the ligaments as well proper, as common, goº the thicker under the ſole of the foot, º; in the die-bone and that bone of the pedium which ſuſtains the great toe ; the leſſer goes on the outſide to the die-bone, and the laſt and leaſt bone of the pedium which bears up the little toe, ſometimes a ſlender portion thereof is produced even to the ſide of the little toe,extending it and drawing it from the reſt. the iibieu, anticus or fore leg muſcle proceeding from the upper and outer appendix of the leg-bonº deſcends above the ſurface of the ſamebone,which is between the fore and outer line to which it adheres, as alſo to that ſurface even to the midſt, from which place it produces one tendon, which deſcending on the fore and loweſt part,ends on the outſide into two of the nameleſs bones,that is, into the firſt which is the thicker, and into the middlemoſt, but beſides by a ſlender portion thereof it is cxtended into the firſt and greater bone of the pedium, ſo to extend the great toe,drawing it inwards to the other foot.and this muſcle with the prece- dentbends the foot,if they both perform their parts at once;but if ſeverally,each draws the, foot towards his fide. the third which is the digitumtenſor, or toe-ſtretcher, is twofold; the one takes its originall from the top of the leg, and running alongſt the ſhin-bone,and paſſing under the ring.carries itſelf into the foot,in which it ends by five tendons going to all the joints of the toes, and by a fixth at that bone of the pedium which ſuſtains the little toe,whereby (as we formerly ſaid) it helps the bending of the foot. the other de- ſcends into the midſt of the ſhin-bone,and ſomewhat faſtned thereto, by one tendon paſ- ſing under the ring it goes to the great toe. but you muſt note that all theſe tendons have nervous, ligamentous and fleſhy fibers ſo ſeparated from each other,that they can e- qually alone perform their funètion, as if they were more diſtinét muſcles. . and we muſt think the ſame of the reſt which have diſtinét tendons preſently from their fleſhy part. the fix hind muſcles follow, f which the two firſt are called the gemelli or twins b reaſon of the ſimilitude of their thickneſſe,originall, inſertion and ačtion. the third is called the plantariº.becauſe it is ſpent upon the ſole of the foot, as the palmari, upon the alm of the hand.the fourth is termed the soleus or ſole muſcle by reaſon of the reſem- - É. it hath to the fiſh of that name. the fift the tibieu, poſticus or hind leg muſcle which deſcends alongſt the back part of the leg-bone. the ſixth and laſt the digitumflexor or toe-bender, equivalent to the deep muſcle of the hand;ſome make but one muſcle of this and the tihieu, poſticus, which produces three tendons ; others had rather make three, as thus, that oncºſhould be the tibieu,the other the bender of four toes,the third the bender of the great toe. now for the two gemelli or twins, the one is internall,the other externall;the internafl. paſſes forth from the root of the inner condyle of the thigh ; but the extermall from the external condyle;and from this their original preſently becoming fleſhy, eſpecially on the outſide, they meet together a little after in their fleſhy parts,and with the ſoleus they make the thick and great tendon at the midſt of the leg, which from thence is inſerted into the back part of the heel;in this very tendon breed painfull kibes. the aëtion thereofis,to help our going by putting forth the foot, whilſt it draws the heel towards its originall. . the plantari, the leaſt and ſlendereſt of them all, paſſes forth fleſhy from the outward head of the leg-bone,and from thence the ſpace of ſome four fingers brºdth it ends in a ſtrong and ſlender tendon, which it ſends between the twin and ſole muſcles to the ſole of the foot,there to produce a membrane which covers the ſole of the foot,and amuſcle equi- valent to the upper bender of the hand. . the soleus,or ſole muſcle, the thickeſt of them all, and ſeated under the twin muſcles, deſcends from the commiſſure of the leg and ſhin-bones,and about the midſt of the leg, af. ter it hath mixed his tendon with that of the twin muſcles,it runs into the foreſaid place that it may extend the foot for the foreſaid uſe. the tilieu, fºſſicus deſcends from the hinder appendix of the leg and ſhin-bones, and adhering to them almoſt as far as they . a ſtrong tendon, being as it were bony at the end thereof,it is inſerted into the boat-like bone,and the two firſt nameleſsbones,ſo to help the oblique extenſion of the foot. - . the laſt being the digitumflexor or toe-bender is twofold, for one ariſts from the leg- bone,in that place where the popliteus ends,and inſerted into that ſame bone it goes even to the backſide of the inner ankle & from thence into the joints of four of the toºs.the other draws his original from almoſt the middle of the ãº. ſomewhat inſerted into it, it goes by the heel and paſtern bone to the great toe, mixed with the precedent; their ačti- on is to bend the firſt joint of the toes, rather by the force of the common ligament,than by the ſmall portion of the tendon which ends there. bnt it is their action to bend the laſt dear tº: of the toes by their proper inſertion, chap. lib. , and otherextreme partsof the £ody. cha p. x l. n of the muſcles moving the toes of the feet. . §§ow follow the muſcles moving the toes; theſe are eight in number, one on the |nº. § upper,and ſeven on the lower ſide. the firſt proceeds from the paſtern, heel and nù diebones below the external ankle,or the ligament of theſe bones with the leg- - bone,and obliquely ſtretched to the top of the foot is parted into five ſmall ten- dons to the ſides of the five toes,ſo to draw thern outwards towards its originall, where- upon it is called the abdućior of the toes,and alſo pedioſus, becauſe it is ſtretched over the pedium or back of the foot. - the firſt of the ſeven of the lower ſide called the flexor ſuperior or upper bender, ariſes from the heel and ſtretched alongſt the foot under the ſtrong membrane, (which from the heel is ſtraitly faſtned to the extremity of the bones of the pºdium to ſtrengthen the parts contained under it)is inſerted by four tendons,at the ſecond joints of the four toes which it bends.here you muſt note,that neer the inſertion thereof,this muſcle divides itſelf, like that muſcle of the hand which is called ſublimit,that ſo it may give way to the deep, which (as we ſaid jäeſcends alongſt the fingers, to which a certain common membranous liga- ment adjoins itſelfe,which involvesand faſtens it to the bone all alongſt the lower part of the fingers, even to the laſt dearticulation. . . - * the ſecond equivalent to that muſcle of the hand which is called thenar, ſeated on the inner ſide of the footariſes from the inner and hollow part of the heel and paſtern bones, and ends in the ſide,and inner part of the great toe,which it draws from the reſt, inwards. this may be divided into two or three muſcles,as the thenār of the band,to draw the great toe to the reſt,as much as need requires, juſt as we ſaid of the hand. the third anſwerable to that of the hand which is named the hypothenar, paſſes from the outer part of the heel, and aſcending by the ſides of the foot it is in like manner inſerted into the ſide of the little toe,ſo to draw it from the reſt;to which ſame ačtion a certain fleſh contained under the ſole of the feet may ſerve, which is ſtretched even to theſe toes, that alſo it may ſerve to hollow the foot. the four lumbrici or wormy muſcles follow next , which from the membrane of the deep toe-bender are inſerted into the inner and fide part of the four toes, £o to draw them inwards, by a motion contrary to that which is performed by the pedio- jus. the interoſſes or bone-bound muſcles of the pedium or back of the foot, remain to be ſpoken of: theſe are eight in number, four above,and as many below,different in their o- ºriginall, inſertion and ačtion;for the upper, becauſe they draw the foot outwards with the pedioſus,ariſe from the fore and inner part of that bone of the pedium,which bears up the hittle toeſ and ſo alſo the reſt each in its order)and are inſerted into the outward and fore part of the followingbone. the lower on the contrary paſſe from the fore and outer part of that bone of the pºdium,which bears up the great toe (and ſo each of the reſt in its or- der,) but are inſerted into the inner and upper part of the following bone, ſo with the wornly muſcles to draw it inwards, or to hollow the foot as the outwards, or to flat the foot,as we ſaid of the interoſſes of the hand. * . f — c. h.a.p. xli. an epitome or brief recitall of the bones in a mans body. as: he whole head which hath the leaſt conſiſts of bones; but that which hath y moſt that is, of the granium or skull, or of theface, aud # teeth;of the bones of the ſculthere be containing,and contained the con- taining are, the : fronti, or forehead bone, the nowle-bone, the two bones of the sinciput,the two ſtony bones,the wedgbone,and the sive-like or ſpon- gy bone. but the contained are fix ſhut up in the cavity of the ears, the anvil, hammer and sitrºop. for *one of the face, there are fix within or about the orb of the eye, that is, on each ſide three;two bones of the noſe,two §: bones,and two bigger,which are al- waies in beaſts ſeen diſtinguiſhed bya manifeſt difference,but it is ſo rarjin men,that i have not found it as yet; therefore theſe only are diſtinguiſhed by manifeſt difference two which contain all the upper teeth,the two inner of the palate, the two of the lower jaw in chil- . and laſt of all the : criſte, whence the middlegriſtle or partition ºf the noſ: al’iic. theſe there becight ſhearers, four fangs, or dog teeth, and twenty grinders. - - and their humber. the abduđor of the toes, or pedioſus. the flexorſ:- perior. the muſcle equivalent to the thenár. the lumi- brici. the deſcripti. on of the up- per and lowet intereſſeſ, the bones of the scull , the bones of the face is. : the two and thirty teeth are equally diſtributed in the upper and lower jaws; and of the testh , l | - of the muſcles and bones lib. . the bone and there is another bone at the root of the tongue called of hyoides, alwaies compo- hyoides, ſed of three bones,ſometimes of four. the bones of . now follow the bones of the spine, or back-bone, which are juſt four and thirty, that the ſpine . is, ſeven of the neck, twelve of the cheſt, five of the loins,ſix of the holy-bone; and four of . collar- the rump.beſides there are two bones of the throat, or collar bones. #: the ribs are twenty four, that is, fourteen true and ten baſtard ribs.the bones of the e rios the ...: sternon or breaſt-bone moſt frequently three, therwhiles ſeven, as ſometimes in young the sternon . odies. - - - - the bones’of . hence coming to the arms there are reckoned ,beginning with the ſhoulder-blade; the whole as there are two ſhoulder-blades,two arm bones;four bones of the cubit; that is, two ell arm . bones and two wands,ſixteen of the wriſt,eight of the afterwriſt,and thirty of the fingers; into this mumber alſo come the seſamoidea or feedbones,of which ſome are internall, and theſe alwaies twelve at the leaſt, although ſometimes there may be more found,a great part of which rather merit the name of griſtles, than bones;there are others externall if we be- leeve sylvius. - the firſt ſeweth the forepart of the sceleton of a man, &c. the declaration of theſe three figures put into one. a . the coronall suture called in greek stºriafa. b .the ſuture like the let- ter,called *Čjºdº. c . the ſagittall ſuture called iéxiağa. d . the ſcale-like con- junion calledanº. • . of verticit,or syncipiti, the bone of the synciput, cal- cd oy &piyºgº. - . the forehead bone, that is,***. .the bone of the nowl or ivſk. & . . the bones of the tem- ples oſ xi orwear. }, . an appendix in the tem- ple bone like a bodkin, ºvatºr. & . a proceſſe in the temple bone like the teatof a dug, called therefore mamiliari, and aerºs., e . the wedge bone, wººdſºr. . . the ſtony part of the ſcul. - , . a proceſſe of the wedgbone much like the wing of a bat,and therefore called “lºvyadºs. . now remain the bones of the leg, which (if we reckon the offa ilium on each ſide three, :...'. as in young bodies, it is fit they #. ) they are ſixty ſix, befides *...* s . to ſay two haunch bones,two ſhare bones, two hucklebones, two high bones, two whiibones of the knees,four of the leg, that is, two leg bones, and two ſhin bones. fourteen of the inſtep, as two heel, two paſtern, twº boat-like, two die, and fix name- leſſe bones. ten ofthe pedium or back of the foot, that is, five in each foot;and twen- eight of the tues; and as many ſeed bones in the feet; as the hands enjoy. but i have ãº, good to add theſe figures for the better underſtanding of what hath been ſpoken hereof. the r -- lin. , and otherextreme parts ofthe body. / the and figure ſheweth the backſide of the sceleton, and the laterall part of the sceleton, f : , . the yoak bone &º.g . the lower jaw. i, k, l, m. n. , , . the back or the ſpine, axis.from i to k, the neck.ºrizºng".from k to l,the rack bones of the cheſt. from l to m, the rackbones of the loins. from m to n, the holybone it.netherump bone,”.o, , . the breſt bone slºw.p. , . the ſword-like griſtle of the breſ , titºr. char. , as far as to . in all three tables,ſhew the twelve ribs of the cheſt, aves. q_ . the clavicles or collar bones,” “a.r., , , . the ſhoulder-blade, ºusmaant. x, , , . the upper proceſe of the ſhoulderblade,or the top of the ſhoulder, called *, *, , , the lower proceſe of the ſhoulder blade, called ºwesºs. s , . the bone of the arm, called hamera, and éexis'.tv , , , the cubit *.x , , , the wand or the upper bone of the cubit, called *.y , , . the ell or lower bone of the cubit,called º.º. . the proceſe of the cubit, '-xtre+". # . the proceſſelike a bodkin or probe, called *.*. zz. , , . the wriſt arº. tf , , the afterwriſtº'º", aºi, the fingers **i.e. , , .the bones joined to the ſides of the holy bone, on each ſide diſtinguiſhed as it were into three parts. • , , .the firſt part called thc hanch bone q, ilium, xº~. * , , . the ſecond part the bone of the coxendix ićxis. , , . the third part the ſhare bone, o, pubw, igns." , , . a griſtle going between the conjunětion of the ſharebones. a , , ..the thigh.”e', , , . the greater outward proceſſe of the thigh called rotator,"rººt *.*.* , , .his icter and inner proceſſe.z , , . the whirlbone of the knee, patella rotutula.”ue. ii: , , . the legiºus.* , , . the inner and greaterbone of the leg, seºwº. , , , , the utter and ſmaller bone of the leg, called the brace bone, fibula,” , , .the proceſe of the leg or the inner ankle called malleolus internus. x, , , the proceſe of the brace of the out- ward ankle both of them are called in greek “”. , , , the bone called the cockall- - - taº, of the muſcles and bone, lin. . ~ talu, baliſta, os “eº.a, , the heel calx, *. b , . the bone called os naviculares ****.cc, , , .the wriſt of the foot called tarſu, conſiſting of four bones,"***: d, e,f, , , -three inner bones of the wriſt of the foot, called by ſome **.g. , , : the utter bone of the wriſt of the foot like a die, *.hh , , . the afterwriſt of the foot called pedium, by ſome”.ii, , , .the toes of the foot. k , , . the ſeed bones ofthe foot, called officula ſeſamina mººds. this figureſheweth the steleton of the bones andgriſtles of a woman, that it may appear all her bones are in prºportion leſſerthan the bones of a man. but in this figure only thoſe parts are marked with letters wherein a woman differeth from a man in her bones and griffles. a, the ſagittall ſuture deſcending into the noſe, and dividing the fore-head bone, which is ſome- times found in women, very rare- ly in men, but alwaies in infants. bb, the cheſt ſomewhat depreſſed before, becauſe of the paps. cc, the collar bones not ſo much crooked as in men, nor intorted ſo much upward. d, the breſt bone perforated ſome- times with a hole much like the form of a heart, through which veins do run outward, from the #|h mammary veins unto the paps. ſ º e, the º, of the ribs, † in wºl women are ſomewhatbony, be- * -ºº: cauſe of the weight of the dugs. f, a part of the back refle&ted, or bent backward above the loins. gg,the compaſs of the hanch bones running more outward, for the womb to reſt upon, when a wo- man is with child. hh, the lower proceſſes of the ſharebones,bearing outward,that the cavity marked with k, might be the larger. i, the anterior commiſſure or con- junčtion of the ſhare-bones filled up with a thick griſtle, that in the birth they might betteryeeld ſomewhat for natures neceſſity. k, a great and large cavity circum- ſcribed by the bones of the coxen- dix and the holy-bone. l., the rump or coccyx, curved backward to give way in the time of the birth. - m, the thigh bones by reaſon of the largeneſſe of the foreſaid cavity,have a greater diſtance betwixt them above whence alſo it is that womens thighs are thicker than mens. º l c. h. a.p. xlii. an epitome of the names and kinds of compoſure of the bones. nºfcauſe it is as neceſſary for a chirurgeon to know the manner of ſetting and re- }} pairingbroken bones, as to put them in their gº. when they are diſlocated, or |q& out of oynt;but ſeeing neither of them can be underſtood when the naturall * connexion ofthe bone is not knowne, i have thought it a worke worth my la- bour, briefly to ſet down, by what and how many means the bones are mutually knit and faſtned together. the univerſall compoſure and ſtrućture of all the bones in a mans body what he sce- is called by the greeks sceletos. but all theſe bones are compoſed after two ſorts, that is by kts. is. thrºnian articulat on or joint,andby symphyſis a naturall uniting or joining together. - . the lib. . andotherextreme parts of the body. - there are many otherſkinds both of theſe ſorts, for there are two kinds of articulation, sorts of ar- that is, diarthroſis, or dearticulation, and synarthroſis, or coarticulation; which differ as thus, dearticulation is a compoſition of the bones with a manifeſt and viſible motion ; coarticulation hath a motion of the bones, yet not ſo manifeſt, but more obſcure. but ticulation. what diar- threſs anp sy- marthroſs are. theſe two do again admit a ſubdiviſion into other kinds. for diartbroſis contains under it softs of zi. emartbroſis, arthrodia, and ginglymos. now enrathroſis or inarticulation is a kind of de- articulation, in which a de hath the thigh-bone º arthrodia is when a lightly engraven cavity admits a ſmall and ſhort head;ſuch a con- whatarthroº nexion is that of the arm-bone with the ſhoulder-blade;of the firſt vertebra with the ſecond. the greeks have diſtinguiſhed by proper names theſe two kinds of cavities and heads; for they call the thick and long head cephale, that is,a head abſolutely; but the leſſer they term corone, or coronan which the latines call capitulum,a little-head. but they call a deep cavity receives a thick and long head, ſuch a compoſition e huckle-bone. cavity cotyle, and a ſuperficiary one glene. the third ſort called ginglymoſ, is when the bones mutually receive and are received one of another; as when there is a cavity in on bone, which receives the head of the oppoſite bone, and alſo the ſame bone hath a § which may be received in the cavity of the º bone;ſuch a compoſure is in the cubit w knce, that is in the connexion of the thigh-bone. and thus much of dearticulation and the three kinds thereof. synarthrofit or coarticu- lation, another kind of junăure, hath alſo three kinds thereof (gal. lib. de ojibus) to wit, sutura, gomphoſis and harmonia. suttire is a compoſition of the bones after the manner of ſowing things together, exam- ple whereofappears in the bones of the skull.gomphoſis is when one bone is faſtened in ano- ther as a pin is faſtened in a hole, after which manner the teeth are faſtened in their ſockets in both the { aws. harmony is when the bones are compoſed by the interpoſition of a ſimple line, after which manner many bones of the noſe and face are joined together. hitherto we have ſpoken of the firſt conſtrućtion of the bones by articulation and the kinds thereof; now it follows we treat of symphyſis. - " symphyſis, or growing together,as weformerly ſaid,is . than naturall union of the bones; ſuch union is made two manner of wayes,that is,ti other thing;after which ſort in ſucceſs of time the bones of the lower jaw grow together, ... or by the mediation of ſome . which formerly in children were manifeſtl . y interpoſition of three ſeverall media, medium ; but that happens three manner o as firſt of a griſtle,which kind of union the greeks cal synchondrºſis,after which manner the share-bones grow together and alſo ſome appendices in young bodies; ſecondly, of a liga- ment, and it is named by the grecians syneurofts, the name of a nerve being taken in the largeſt ſenſe,for ſometimes it is uſed for a tendon, otherwhiles fora ligament, otherwhiles rly ſo called and which is the author of ſenſe and motion. but this sym- for a nerve pr thplace by syneuroſis, or interpoſition of a nerve,in certain bones of the phyſis or union sternon and haunch. thirdly, the bones grow into oneby interpoſition of fleſh, called in greek synſarcoſis; thus the fleſh of the gums faſten the teeth and makes them immoveable. but if ſome beleſs pleaſed with this diviſion, by reaſon of the obſcurities, in which it ſeems to be involved, this following expreſſion comes into my mind, which i was firſt admoniſhed of by german çortin doãor of phyſick, which if you well obſerve it, is both blameleſs and more eaſie for your underſtanding. an epitome or brief recital of all the muſcles of mans body. as i have formerly reckoned up the bones, ſo here, i have decreed to recite the muſcles of mans body. wherefore in the face we firſt meet with the broad or skin muſcle ariſing from the fleſhy pannicle, and covering the whole neck and almoſt all the face. then follow -pertaining to the upper eye-lids.in the orbs of the eyes lye , that is ,in each orb, of which are called right,two oblique, and one pyramidall.then ſucceed of the noſe, two externallen each ſide one,and two internall, theſe draw it together and the other open after theſe come the ten muſcles of the lower jaw, of which two arecalled the crataphite or temporall; two maſſeteres or grinders; two round (which ſeem to mee rather to pertain to the lips,than to this jaw;) two little ones hid in the mouth, ariſing from the winged er by interpoſition of no wayes, proceſs of the wedg-bone,two openers of the mouth being nervous or tendinous in their midſt. then follow the muſcles of the lips, that is, of the upper,and as many of the lower,ſhutting and opening the mouth.the tongue with his ten muſclesis hid as it were in the den of the mouth. wherefore the muſcles of the whole face are . in the fore part of neck are found the muſcles of the bone hyoides and throttle; now muſcles hold the bone hyoides as equally ballanced; of which there are upper ariſing from the chin; on the ſides from the proceſſe styloides, the mouth in that partnervous do paſs; ariſe from the sternon,and laſtly from the upper º rib of the ſhoulder-blade to the coracoides, which alſo in their midſt are nervous, in which place the two maſtoidei lye upon them. - the it. rforated in their midſt, through which the openers of arthroſis, what enar- throſis is, dia, what cephale s. w hat corone s what cotyle is: what glene it. hat gingly- / ſ, kinds of synarthrofft, wiss suture sa what gam- phoſis is. what harmº- mid is. what symphy: ſº is. synchondroſiº syneurºſis. the things ſignified by the word nerve, synſarcoſiº - of the muſcles and bones l i b. . the , of the larinx. the head is moved by muſcles, the . muſcles ofthe neck. the muſcles . of the cheſt the .mnſcles of the lower belly. r ited mutually by symphyſis or union; by which they are ſo conjoined that, there is ..º. inor º: body,at leaſt which may be diſcerned interpoſed between ... such union appears in the two bones of the lower.jaw at the chin, in the bones of the sternon,the hanch with the huckle-bones,and the share-bones between themſelves of : is union there are no more kinds, for by this it cometh to paſs, that the bones which jmore and diſtinét meet together by interpoſition of one medium, to wit, a griſtle, which now indeed is no griſtle,but is turned into a bone. - - - - * fnarthroſis, when the head of a bone is wholly ºf either more looſly received in the cavity of another, and hid there- as by diarthroſis, in,as the thigh-bone is joyned with the huckle- - that is a kind of bone. articulation not arthrodia, when in a lightly engraven and very ſtrait, as by not much depreſſed cavity the head of - which it might nother bone is not wholly hid, but only | have opportunity, received, in, part thereof; ſo that unleſs na- . to perform diverſe turf had otherwiſe provided a ſufficient recep- º motions: of this tacle for the head of this bone (as by the liga- or conjoined compoſure or ar- ments of the neighbouring muſcles) it would o- the bones, by that which |ticulation of bones therwiſe have been in perpetuall danger of diſlo- which as they call ar- there are three cation. thus the arm-bone is faſtened to the pillars ſu- throdia, or ar- kinds, as ſhoulder-blade. - itain the fa-lticulation, as ginglymos, when the bones º receive brick of the when they ſo each other, ſuch like compoſition hath the cubit whole bo- concur & are . . ! and arm-bone. - dy,are ei- || bound toge- - ther * ther,that ſome - * …"; i. | gomphyſis, as when one bone ſo receives a- | | heterogene- - . nother as a pin is faſtened in the hole made |ous ſubſtance |* * ſtrºitly, as by a piercer, thus the teethare faſtened in the may be noted by ſnarthroff, when jäws. - | betwixt them, the bones are in orc sutura, like a saw or teeth of a combe; |tº the son:l ſtraitly knit ſo that as the bones of the skull are mutually knit || thus compoſed they can perform no | together, or as ſcales, or tiles are laid, after |a.kniº |motions in the bo- which manner the ſtony bones are faſtened to { manner of dy. of this articu- theſe of the synciput. '''“wayes, that is, llation there are alſo harmonia, which is by interpoſition of a * kinds, that is, ſimple line, which |. bones abutting one k upon another, as the bonds of the noſe. the throttle compoſed of three griſtles hath eighteen or twenty muſcles, of which fix - or eight are common, and twelve proper; ofthe common there are two above,two below: and two at the ſides of the firſt griſtle, to which we may add theſe two which ſerve for the opening of the epiglotti, which arc alwayes found in great four-footed beaſts for to preſs down the epiglottiſ. the proper are twelv,ewhich almoſt all of them come from the ſecond griſtle, ſo to be inſerted into the firſt and third, of which ſome are before, others behind the thyroides. be- fides theſe there are the maſtoidei which bend the head. but in the back part of the neck there are twelve muſcles alſo appointed for to move the head, ſo that in all there are fourteen muſcles ſerving for the motion of the head, the two fore maſtoidei, and the twelvehind muſcles, that is to ſay, the two splenii, two con- flexi, four right, and ſo many oblique,which are very ſhort, ſo that they paſs not beyond the firſt and ſecond vertebra. the neck hath eight muſcles, of which two are called the long, lying before upon the bodies of the vertebre; the two scaleni, which are at the fides; the two spinati, which run alongſt the spine; the two tranſverſe,which go to the tranſverſe proceſs of the cheſt. the cheſt hath muſcles, of which ſome are on the fore part, ſome on the hind,others on the ſides,they are all combined and coupled together except the midriffe. now of theſe there are the two subclavii; the two great saw-muſcles which proceed from the baſis of the ſhoulder-blade; the four little rhomboides or ſquare muſcles, that is, two above, and two below ; the two sacrolumbi, the two binders of the griſtles within the cheſt. beſides there are twenty and two externall and as many internall intercoſtall muſcles, twenty four intercartilaginei,that is, twelve externall and as many internall ; ſo that the intercoſtall, and intercartilaginei are , which with the twelve before mentioned make the number of o muſcles. add to theſe the midriffe being without an aſſociate, and you ſhall have the number formerly mentioned, to wit, . but alſo if you will add to theſe the muſcles of the lowerbelly, i will not much gainſay it, becauſe by accident they help inſpiration and exſpiration. - wherefore of the eight muſcles of the epigaſtrium, there are four oblique, of which two are deſcendent and ſo many aſcendent; two right, to which you may add the two aſſiſting ow lib. . and other extreme parts of the body. or pyramidal muſcles which come from theſnare-boue, if it pleaſe you to eparate them from the head of the right muſcles. - . . . . - there are ſix or eight muſcles of the loins, of which two bend the loins which are the triangular;the two semiſpinati;two sacri; two are in the midſt of the back, which for that cauſe we may call the răchite or chin-muſcles. now, that hereafter we may ſeverally and diſtinétly ſet down the muſcles of the exercme parts, we willcome to the privities. where for the uſe of the teſticles there are two muſcles called the cremaſteres, or hang- ing muſcles.at the root of the yard,or perineumothere are four others, partly for the com- modious paſſing of the urin and ſeed,and partly for crečting the yard. the sphin'ier muſcle is ſeated at the neck of the bladder. . . - • . at the end of the right gut are three muſcles,two levatores anisor lifters up of the fun- dament, and one sphinier or ſhutting muſcle.now let us proſecute the muſcles of the ex- tremities,or limbs.but it will be ſufficient to mention only the muſcles ofone ſide,becauſe feeing theſe parts of the body are double,thoſe things which are ſaid of the one may be applyed to i. other. - - - herefore the muſcles of the arm,beginning with theſe of the ſhoulder-blade, at the leaſt,are , for there are four of the ſhoulder-blade: of the arm properly or particularly fo called, ſeven or eight; and there are three, four or five proper muſcles of the cubit; that is, appointed for the performance of the motions thereof; in the inner part of the cubit are ſeven, and as many in the outer;but thoſe of the hand are reckoned thirteen at the leaſt. - - • - the fourth of the ſhoulder-blade are the ºl. reſembling a monks cowl, which moves it upwards and downwards,and draws it backwards; the ſecond is the levator, or j third the great rhomboides lying under the trapezius.the fourth,the leſſer ſaw "muſcle which is inſerted into the coracoides.the arm is moved forwards, backwards, up- wards, downwards and circularly. - - the pećtorall muſcle arifing from the clavicle, breſt-bone and neighbouring ribs, draws it forwards; the humilu or low muſcle coming from the lower rib of the ſhoulder- blade draws it backwards;the deltoides upwards;and the latijimus downwards, and ſome- what backwards.but the three ſeated about the ſhoulder-blade move it about, or circu- larſv. #. epomi, or scapulari, upwards;the superſcapulariº, which may ſeem two, backwards and downwards;the subſcapulari, which is in the cavitie of the ſhoulderblade,forwards,ſo that by a certain viciilitude and ſucceſſion of ačtion they move it circularly. two muſcles bend the cubit, the one named biceps or twoheaded, and the other brachieu, or the arm muſcle;but one,two or three muſcles extend it;for if you have reſpect to the original,this muſcle hath two or three heads,but one only inſertion. - in the infide of the cubit are ſeven muſcles, one palmaris, two wriſt benders;two pronato- res, one ſquare,another in ſome ſort round;two fingerbenders,and one abdućior or drawer aſide. theſe fourteeen internall and externall muſcles of the cubit, do not indeed move the cubit, but only ſeated there move the wand and with it the hand.theſe are the thir- teen muſcles of the hand; the thenar which may not only be divided into two, but into fix, not only by the diverſea&ions it performs,but alſo § the branches divided by a ma- nifeſt ſpace between them;the ſecond is called the hypothenar, which lies under the little finger,as the themar doth under the thumb;the third is the abdućior of the thumb;then fol- low the four lumbrici and ſix interoſſes,although eight may be obſerved. - the whole leghath at the leaſt muſcles,for we reckon there arefourteen muſcles in the thigh;there are eleven made for the uſe of the leg;there are nine ſeated in the leg,three before, and ſix behind,which ſerve for the uſe of the foot and toes; in the foot are ſeated fixteen.therefore of the fourteen muſcles ſerving the thigh two bend it, one called the lumbari, the other ariſing from the cavity of the hanch bone;but the three which make the buttocks and the triceps or three-headed muſcle,(which if you pleaſe,you may divide into three)extend it.beſides theſe the four twin muſcles, and two obturatorſ, of which the one is internal,and the other external turn the thigh about.the leg hath eleven;that is,the long,the membranous,the four poſtici or hind muſcles(three of which come from the huc- klebone,but the other from the commiſſure of the share bone) the right,the two vaſt,the crureus or leg muſcle,and the popliteuſ,or hammuſcle.theſe ſeated in the leg for the uſe of the foot and toes are three fore,and fix hind muſcles:two of the fore bend the foot,one of which is called the iibieu, anticuſ,the other peroneus,which you may divide into two.the third the bender of the toes,although it alſo partly bend the foot,tówhich alſo the bender of the thumb may be revoked.one of the § is the toe-bender,others extend the foot; and are in this order; two twins, one plantariº, one soleu, one tibieu, poiicus and the great bender of the toes, to which may be revoked the bender of the thumb. cºf the ſixteen ſeated in the foot, one is above,ſeated on the back of the foot, which wee. call the abdućior of the toes; another in the ſole of the foot; to wit, the little bender of the toes, which goes to the ſecond joint of the toes alongſt the inſide of the foot; the other lends his help to the great tóe,which you may call the abdu'lor of the thumb; ‘. s ther: the .or . of the loins. the two cré- maſters of the teſticles, the three of the ſundamenr. the muſcles of the arm in ge- nerall . themuſae of the leg in gene; rall jo. --- of the muſcles and bones,ºc. l i b. . ther is ſeated on the outſide for the uſe of the little toe. to theſe are added the four lum- brici.beſides the cight interoſſes; or if you had rather,ten.and thus much may ſuffice for the enumeration of the muſcles. the figure of the muſcles when the ſkin with its veinſ, the fat, and all the fleſhy membranes are taken away, that part of the fleſhy membrane excepted, which takes upon it the nature of a muſcle, as being conjoined with the muſcles. a,the muſcle of the fore- head. b, the temporall muſcle. º, the muſcle ſhutting the eyelid. d, the muſcle opening the wings of the noſe. e, the fore part of the yoak-bone. f, the muſcle of the up- per lip tending to i. noſe. g, the beginning of the maſſeter or grinding muſcle. - h, the broad muſcle con- fifting of a fleſhy mem- brane. i,k, the beginning therof which riſes immediatly from the coller-bone and , the top of the ſhoulder. bends forwards to . m, the muſcle which lifts up the arm. n, the pećtorall muſcle. º,the membranous part of this muſcle which is joined to the nervous part of the firſt muſcle of the abdomen, rbelly. q, q, the fleſhy portion thereof, from the and º-> - - ribs,and the inſertion thereof, r the muſcle drawing down the armſ, the oblique deſcending muſcle of the lower belly. t, t, t, the inſertion of the greater ſaw muſcle, u ü. the linea alba or white line, at which the two oblique deſcendent muſcles meet, covering the whole belly: the yard, the skin being taken away. y, the veſſels of ſeed. *the teſticks wrapped in the fleſhy membrane. e, the fore muſcle bending the cubit.),), the hind muſcle bending the cubitº, the muſcle extending the cubit., the two-headed muſcle extending the wriſt.’, the muſcle producing the i. tendon on the back of the hand. (, his tendon. , the muſcle turning up the wand.", the upper muſcle flatting the wand. , the ſecond of the arm-benders, whoſe be- ginning is , and tendon a...a portion of the muſcle,whereof one part yelds tendons to the wriſt, the other to the thumb.",the fleſhleſſe articulation of the thumb. ?, a muſcle in- ſºrted into the wriſt, lying neer to the following muſcles, a muſcle divided into two ten- dons, the one whereof is inſerted into the firſt joint of the thumb the other into the fol- owing: "...the firſt muſcle of the thigh, whoſe head is at vand tendon at and inſertion at ... *ſ, the end ofthe ſecond muſcle ...”the thigh,a,the end of the third muſcle of the thigh. is the fixt muſcle of the leg;his beginning at .almoſt wholly membranous at , , the ninth muſcle of the leg. , the eight of the leg. , a portion of the fixth and ſeventh of the thigh. , the glandults of the groins. , the º: of the thigh. , the ſecºnd of the leg. , the innermoſt of the ankle.i. ,the fixth muſºle of the foot,his originall .cnd . ;, the ſeventh of the foot. ,the tendon of the muſcle lifting up the great toe. ,the muſcles . the four other toes. ,the abdućtor of the great toe. , a tranſverſe ligament. , a tendon of the ninth muſcle oſthe foot. , the firſt muſcle. ,the fourth muſcle of ;foot. .the tendon of the third muſcle, ,amuſcle bending the thirdbone ofthefour clier toes, - the "l.that part thereof which ! : §nºšŠześu.s.&ssv: s.s$ - ºw." tettitithitfiihänäiiihfhititittttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttilitiehi the seventh book of tumors againſt nature in generall. chap, i. what a tumour againſt nature, vulgarly called an impºſtume, it, and what be the differences thereof. san impoſtume,commonly ſo called, is an affeót againſt nature, compo- § ſed and made of three kinds of diſeaſes, diſtemperature, ill confor- mation,and solution of continuity,concurring to the hindering or hurting of the a&tion. an humor, r any other matter,anſwering in vº \ g; proportion to a humor, aboliſhing, weakning,or depraving of the ſº n sº office or funètion of that part or body in which it refides,cauſeth it. § $º ܺ the differences of impoſtumes are commonly drawn from five tº $ & things;quantity, matter, accidents,the nature of the part, which they affect or poſſeſs; and laſtly, their efficient cauſes.i have thought good for the better under- ſtanding of them, to deſcribe them in this following scheme. t | impoſtumes are called l breakings out. 'a table of the differences of tumors. from their f_great,which are comprehended under the generall name of quantity, ſº happen inthe fleſhy parts, by galen,lib.de tu- by reaſon mor, contra naturam, & lib. . ad glauconem. #! whereof indifferent,or of the middle ſort,as fellons. small, as thoſe which avicem calls bothores, i. puſhes and puſtules, all kind of scabs and leproſies; and laſtly, all ſmall colour, from whence impoſtumes are named white, red, pale, y what an ims poſtume vul- garly ſo called se the materialſ cauſes of impo- flumes, or un- natural tumors. } from their ) yellow, blew orblack, and ſo of any other colour. accidents,as ypain,hardneſs, ſoftneſs, and ſuch like, from whence they are ſaid to be painfull, not painfull, hard, ſoft,and ſo of the reſt. the diff f- hot,and that: sanguin, from whence a truephlegmon. c- |natural) either cholerick frå whence a truefryſipela. rences of - cold,&that; phlegmatick fråwhence a true oedema. impoſtumes; from the either, melicholick,frówhâce aperſe&scirrhus. are drawn matter, of rof . ſanguine -carbuncles, gangſenes, exting principally which they or humour, ulcers, sphacels are cauſed, from five & are cauſed - things, that and made, | not naturall, which of a cholerick] . .#. º eating her- which is hath exceeded the humour, jº...” either limits of its naturall i - < goodneſſe, from $of a phlegma-i waley and flatulent, impo- i whence illegitimate tick humor, . kings evil, knots al phlegmatick ſwellings tumors, therefore and excreſcences, of amelancho- ) the exquiſit or perſeascir: . lick humor. rhua,hardneſſes and all ſorts . - of cancerous tumors. - *- from the condition and nature of the parts which they poſſeſs, from whence the ophthalmia, is a phlegmon of the eyes.parotis a tumor neer the ears. fa- ||ronychia or a whitlow at the roots of thenails;and ſo of the reſt. from the efficient cauſes, or rather the manner of doing. for ſome impo- ſtumes are ſaid to be made by defluxions,othersby congeſtion, thoſe are com- monly hot,and the other commonly cold,as it ſhal more manifeſtly appear by the following chapter. sz c. \ ny. —--~ - ---, -- , of tumors againſt nature in generall. lib. . .. - chap. ii. - . of the generall cauſes of tumors. here are two generall cauſes of impoſtumes,fluxion,and congeſtion. defluxi- ons are occaſioned,either by the part ſending, or receiving; the part ſending diſcharges itſelf of the humors, becauſe the expulſive º; reſident in that § part is provoked to expell then, moved thereto,either by the troubleſomneſs - of their quantity or quality.the part receiving draws,and receives occaſion of heat, pain, weakneſſe (whether naturall, or accidentall) openneſſe of the paſſages, and wer ſituation. three cauſes . the cauſes of heat,in what partſoever it be,are commonly three,as all immoderate mo- of heat. tion (under which frištions are alſo contained, ) externall heat, either from fire or ſun, and the uſe of acrid meats and medicines. four cauſes of the cauſes of pain are four, the firſt is a ſodain and violent invaſion of ſome untempe- pain, rate thing, by means of the four firſt qualities; the ſecond is ſolution of continuity, by a wound, luxation,fračture, contuſion, or diſtention;the third, is the exquiſit ſenſe of the part,for you feel no pain in cutting a bone, or expoſing it to cold or heat; the fourth is , the attention,as it were,of the animall faculty; for the mind diverted from the ačtuall cauſe of pain, is leſſe troubled, or ſenſible of it. a part is weak, either by its nature, or by ſome accident; by its nature,as the glandules and the emunétories of the principall parts; by accident,as if ſome diſtemper,bitter pain,or great defluxion have ſeized . it, and wearied it,for ſo the ſtrength is .#, and the paſſages dilated. and the lowneſſe of ſite yeelds opportunity for the falling down of humors. r two ºuſes of . the cauſes of congeſtion are two principally, as the weakneſſe of the concoëtive facul- * tie, which reſides in the part, (by which the aſſimilation into the ſubſtance of the part of the nouriſhment flowing to it is fruſtrated) and the weakneſſe of the expulſive faculty;for whilſt the part cannot expell ſuperfluities, their quantity continually encreaſes. and thus oftentimes cold impoſtumes, have their originall from a groſſe and tough hu- mor,and ſo are more difficult to cure. laſtly,all the cauſes of impoſtumes may be reduced to three; that is, the primitive, or eºſ ; the antecedent, or internall; and the conjunct, or containing,as we will hereaf- - ter treat more at large. - after what ºf . ºf manner tu • tº gº mours againſt & sº tlattire are £hicfly made, two cauſes of weakneſſe. * - - - c. h. a. p. iii. the ſignes of hmpoſtumes or tumors in generall. the principall ſigns of t ºl'efore we undertake the sure of tumors, it is expedient to know their kinds ... ." § º! and differences,which knowledg muſt be drawn from their proper ſigns,the drawn from t § ſame way,as in other diſeaſes.but becauſe the proper and principall ſigns of the effence of lºº § tumors are drawn from the eſſence of the part they poſſeſſes we muſt firſt * the paſt. ººl know the parts,and then confider what their effence and compoſition are. *wºn: taught both by skill in anatomy,and the obſervation of the deprived funètion, eſpecially when the affečted part is one of thoſe which lie hid in the body; for we know . or no, the ..f. are affe&ted with a tumor againſt nature, by comparin ... that with his naturall which is contrary. for comparing the ſound part with the diſeaſ. we ſhall eaſily judge whether it be ſwollen, or no. but becauſe it is not ſufficient for a chirurgeon only to know theſe generall figns(which are known even to the vulgar) he muſt attentively obſerve ſuch as are more proper and neer.and theſe are drawn from the difference of the matter and humors, of which the tu- lit. ...a mºſſ; - - glanc. ºf . for this galen teaches,that all differences of tumors ariſe from the nature aud condition unethéd. of the matter which flows down and generates the tumor; alſo they are known by ſuch the pºpº accidents as happen to them,as colour,heat,hardneſs,ſoftneſs, pain, tenſion, reſiſtance. figns º ſan- wherefore pain, heat, redneſſe, and tenſion indicate a ſanguine humour;coldneſs, ſoft- #º. meſſe, and no great pain, phlegm;tenſion, hardneſs, the livid colour of the parts and a ſick, of "... pricking pain by fits, melancholy; and yellowiſh and pale colour, biting pain without melancholick, hardneſs of the part, choler. # ‘. and beſides, impoſtumes have their periods and exacerbations following the nature and ..ſº ; motion of the humors of which they are generated. wherefore by the motion and fits it jorion' will be no difficult matter to know the kind of the humor;for as in the ſi . ſo in the and exacerba morning the blood is in motion;as in the ſummer,ſo in the midſt of the day,choler; as in tion. ...,... autumn, ſo in the evening,melancholy;as in winter,ſo in the night the exacerbation of lib. , epidem. phlegm are moſt predominant. for hippocrates and galen teach,that the year hath circuits ofdiſeaſº,ſo that the ſame proportion of the exceſs and motion of humors, which is in the four ſeaſons of the year, is alſo in the four quarters of each day, im- , -, a rºws lib. . of tumors againſt nature in generall. º impoſtumes which are curable have four times, their beginning, encreaſe,ſtate, and de- clination, and we muſt alter our medicines, according to the variety of theſe times. we know the beginning by the firſt ſwelling of the part; the encreaſe,when the ſwelllng, pain, and other accidents do manifeſtly encreaſe and enlarge rhemſelves; the ſtate, when the foreſaid ſymptomes increaſe no more,but each of them,becauſe at their height, remain in their ſtate immoveable, unleſſe the very matter of the tumor degenerate; and change it ſelf into another kind of humor;the declination, when the ſwelling, pain, feaver, reſtleſ. neſſe are leſſened.and from hence the chirurgeon may preſage what the end of the tumor may be;for tumors are commonly terminated four manner of wayes, if ſo be that the mo- tion of the humors cauſing them be not intercepted, or they without ſome manifeſt cauſe, do flow back into the body. therefore firſt they are terminated by inſenſible tranſpiration, or reſolution; ſecondly, by ſuppuration when the matter is digeſted and ripened; thirdly,by induration, when it degenerates into a scirrhus, the thinner part of the humor being diſſolved; the fourth, which is the worſt of all,by a corruption and gangrene of the part,which is,when over. the beginning of an impo- ſtune. the encreaſe: the ſtate. come with violence, or the abundance or quality of the humor, or both, it comes to that diſtemper,that it loſes its proper ačtion. it is beſt to terminate a tumor by reſolution;and the worſt by corruption;ſuppuration and induration are between both,although that is far better than this.the ſigns by which the chirurgeons may preſage that an impoſtume may be terminated by reſolving, are the remiſſion or ſlacking oſthe ſwelling, pain, pulſation, tenſion, heat, and all other acci- dents, and the unaccuſtomed livelineſs and itching of the part; and hot impoſtumes are commonly thus terminated, becauſe the hot humor is eaſily reſolved, by reaſon of its ſubtiltw. s: of ſuppuration are the intenſion or encreaſt of pain,heat,ſwelling,pulſation,and the feaver; for according to hippocrates,pain and the feaver are greater when the matter is ſuppurating, than when it is ſuppurated. the chirurgeon muſtbevery attentive to know and obſerve when ſuppuration is made; for the purulent matter oft-times lies hid (as hippocrates ſaith) by reaſon of the thickneſs of the part lying above, or over it. the figns of an impoſtume degenerating into a scirrhous hardneſſe, are the diminuti- on of the tumor, and hardneſs remaining in the part.the cauſes of the hardneſs not goin away with the ſwelling,are the weakneſs ofnature, the groſheſs and toughneſs of the hu: mor, and unskilfulneſs of the chirurgeon, who by too long uſing reſolving things hath occaſioned, that the more ſubtil part of the humor being diſſolved, the reſt of the groſſernature like earthy dregs remains concrete in the part. for ſo potters veſſels dried in the sun grow hard. but the unskilfull º may occaſion a scirrhous hardneſs by another means;as by condenſating the skin,and incraſſating the humors, by too much uſe of repercuſſives. but you may perceive an impoſtume to dºgenerate into a gangrene thus, ifj accidents jºjº. and tenſion ſhal be more intenſe, than they arewont to be in ſuppuration;ifthe pain preſently ceaſe without any manifeſt cauſe;if the part wax livid or black; and laſtly, if it ſtink. ' ' ' -- - but we ſhall treat of this more at large when we come to treat of the gangrene and sphacelus. a ſodain diminution of the tumor, and that without manifeſt cauſe, is a fign of the matterfallen black, and turned into the body again, which may be occaſioned by the immoderate uſe of refrigerating things.and ſometimes much flatulencienixed with the matter,although there be no fault in thoſe things which were applied. - feavers and many other malign symptomes, as ſwoundings and convulſion, by lº." of the matter to the noble parts,follow this j of the humor into . . . . c. h. a. p. iv. of the prognoſtiques in impoſtumes. *uimors ariſing from amelancholy,phlegmatick, groſſe,tough, or viſcous humor; aske a longer time for their cure,than thoſe which are of bloud or choler. and they are more difficultly cured which are of humors not naturall, than thoſe - which are of humors yet contained in thebounds of nature. - for thoſe humors which are rebellious,offend rather in quality, than in quantity, and undergoe the divers forms of things diſſenting from nature, which are joined by no ſimi- litude or affinity with things naturall, as ſuet, poultis,hony, the dregs of oil, and wine; y. and of ſolid bodies, as ſtone,ſand, coal, ſtraws; and ſometimes of living things, as ormes, nts, and the like monſters. the tumors which poſſeſſe the inner parts,and noble entrails, are more dangerous and deadly, as alſo thoſe which are in the joints, or neer to them. and theſe tumors which ſeiſe upon great veſſels,as veins, arteries, and nerves, for fear of great effuſion of blºod, the figns a tumor to be terminated by reſolution. the ſigns of ſuppuration. the ſigns and cauſes of a tu- mor terminated in a scirrhus. the ſigns of gan e fºr " ar of diſappes: rance of a tu- mor, and the figns thereof; cold tumors require alon- ger cure, tumors made of matter not naturall, are more difficultly cured. s watinº, | º - of tumors againſt nature ingenerall. l in . | - hippº. aph, . ſº. . what muſt be conſidered. in undertaking the cure of tu- ~ : ºn ofs, what we muſt underſtand by: the nature of the part, waſting of the ſpirits and convulſion. so impoſtumes of a monſtrous bigneſs are often deadly by reaſon of the great reſolution of the ſpirits cauſed by their opening. thoſe which degenerate into a scirrhus are of long continuance and hard to cure, as alſo thoſe which are in hydropick, leprous, ſcabby and corrupt bodies,for they often turn into ma- lign and ill conditioned ulcers. c h a p. v. of the generall cure of tºmors againſt nature. nº here be three things to be obſerved in cure of impoſtumes.the firſt is the eſſence thereof;the ſecond, the quality ofthehumor cauſing the impoſtume;the third, - ... the temper of the part affečted.the firſt indication drawn from the eſſence,that is, from the greatneſſe or ſmalneſſe of the tunior, varies the manner of curing, for the medicines muſt be increaſed or diminiſhed according to the greatneſs of the tu- mor. the ſecond, taken from the nature of the humor alſo changes our counſell, for a phlegmon muſt be otherwiſe cured than an eryſipelº,and an oidema than a scirrhus, and a ſimple tumor, otherwiſe than a compound.and alſo you muſt cure after another manner a tumor coming of an humor not natural,than that which is of a natural humor,and other- wiſe that which is made by congeſtion,than that which is made by defluxion. the third indication is taken from the partin which the tumor reſides; by the nature of the part we underſtand its temperature, conformation, ſite, faculty, and funètion. the temperature indicates that ſome medicines are convenient for the fleſhy parts, as thoſe which are more moiſt;others for the nervous,as more drie;for you muſt apply ſome *...***** -- * things to the eye,and others to the throat; one ſort of things to theſe parts which by rea- what we muſt underſland by the faculty of he part, what we muſt confider in performing the cure. what things diſſwade us from uſing re- percuſſives, fººt- ſon of their rarity are eaſily ſubjećt to defluxion, another to thoſe parts which by their denſity are not obnoxious to it. but we muſt have good regard to the fite of the part, as if it have any connexion with . great veſſels, and if it be fit to powre forth the matter and humor when it is ſuppura- ted. - - - galen by the name of faculty underſtands the uſe and ſenſe of the part. this hath a ma- nifold indication in curing, for ſomeparts are principall, as the brain, heart, and liver; for their vertue is communicated to the whole body, by th. nerves,arteries,and veins. others truly are not principall, but yet ſo neceſſary that none can live without them, as the ſtomach.some are endued with a moſt quick ſenſe, as the eye, the membranes, nerves, and tendons;wherefore they cannot indure acrid and biting medicines. having called to mind theſe indications,the indication will be perfečted by theſe three following intenti- ons,as if we conſider the humor flowing down, or which is ready to flow;the conjunét mat- ter, that is, the humor impač in the part; the correótion of accidents; yet ſo that we al- waies have care of that which is moſturgent and of the cauſe. . therefore firſt repercuſ- ſives muſt be applied for the antecedent matter, ſtrong or weak, having regard to the tu- moras it is then, only excepting fix conditions of tumors;the firſt is, if the matter of the tumor be venenate:the ſecond, if it be a criticall abſceſs the third, if the defluxion be neer the noble parts: the fourth,if the matter be groſſe, tough, and viſcid : the fifth, when the matter lies far in, that is, flows by the veins which lies more deep: the ſixth, when it lies in the glandules. but if the whole body be plethorick, a convenent diet, purging and phlebotomie muſt be appointed, frićtions and bathes muſt be uſed.ill humors are amended by diet and purging. if the weakneſs of the part receiving draw on a defluxion, it muſt be ſtrengthned. - if the part be inferior in its fite, let the patient be ſo ſeated, or layed,that the part recei- wing as much as may be,may be the higher.if pain be the cauſe ofdefluxion, we muſt aſſwage it by things mitigating it.ifthe thinneſs, or lightneſs of the humor cauſe defluxion,it muſt be inſpiſſate by meats and medicines. but for the matter contained in the part,becauſe it is againſt nature, it requires to be evacuate by reſolving things, as cataplaſmes,ointments, fomentations,cupping-glaſſes;or by evacuation as by ſcarifying,or by º things, asby ripening . opening the impoſtume laſtly, for the conjunét accidents, as the fêa. ºr pain and ſuch like,they muſt be mitigated by aſſwaging,mollifying and malaxingme- dicines.as iſhall ſhew more at large hereafter, chap. l * . of tumor; againſt nature in generall. c.h. a. p. xxxv. of the fºur principal and generall tumors, and of other impoſtumes which may be reduced to them. Ž tº he principall and chief tumors which the abundance of humors generate, %a are four;a phlegmon, eryſipelº, oedema and scirrhus: innumerable others may º be reduced to theſe, diſtinguiſhed by divers names according to the various º') condition of the efficient cauſe and parts receiving. wherefore a phygethlum, "" phyma,fellon, carbuncle, inflammation of the eyes, º: and laſtly, all ſorts of hot and moiſt tumors may be reduced to a phlegmon. the herpes miliaris, the eating herpes, ringwormes and tetters and all impoſtumes brought forth by choler, are contained under an #ſº atheromata, steatomata,melicerides, the teffudo, or talpa, gan- glion, knots, kings-ewill, wens, watery ruptures, the aſites and leucºphlegmatia may be reduced to an oedema, as alſo all flatulent tumors, which the abundance of corrupt plegm roduces. - p in the kindred of the scirrhus are reckoned a cancer, leprofie, warts, corns, a thymuſ, a varix, morphew, black and white, and other impoſtumes ariſing from a melancholy humor. - - now we will treat of theſe tumors in particular, beginning with a phlegmon. chap. vii. of a phlegmon. bºſſ phlegmon is af. name for all impoſtumes, which the abundance of - § iniflamed bloud produces. that is called a true phlegmon, which is made of § laudable bloud, offending only in quantity. but a baſtard phlegmon, or a º § phlegmonous impoſtume hath ſome other, and proper name; as a carbuncle, fellon, gangrene, sphacel, and the like malign puſtules. so when there is a conflux of divers humors into one tumor.divers kinds of phlegmonous impoſtumes called by divers names, according to the more abundanthumor, ariſe ; as if a ſmall portion of phlegm ſhall be mixed with a greater quantity of bloud, it ſhall be called an ocdematou, phlegmon; but if on the contrary, the quantity of phlegm be the greater, it ſhall be named a phlegmonous oedema, and ſo of the reſt; alwayes naming the tumor, from that which is predominant in it. . . . therefore we muſt obſerve that all differences of ſuch tumors ariſe from that, either be. cauſe the bloud cauſing it offends only in quantity; which if it do,it cauſes that tumor which is properly called a phlegmon; if in . makes a phlegmonous tumor,becauſe the matter thereof is much departed from the goodneſs of bloud. - but bloud is ſaid to offend in quantity, either by admixture of ſome other matter, as phlegm, choler, or melancholy, from whence proceeds oedematou,eryſipelou, and scirrhou, phlegmons; or by corruption of its proper ſubſtance, from whence. carbuncles, and all kinds of gangrens;or by concretion,and when nature is diſappointed of its attempted and hoped for ſuppuration, either by default of the air.or patient, orby the error of the phy: fitian ; and hence ofttimes happen atheroma's, steatoma'i, and meliterides. although theſe things be ſet down by the ancients, of the fimple and ſimilar matter of the true phlegmon; yet you muſt know, that in truth there is no impoſtume, whoſe matter exquiſitely ſhews the nature of one, and that fimple humor without all admixture of any other matter; for all humors are mixed together with the bloud, yet from the plenty of bloud predomina- ting,they are called sanguine,as if they were of bloud alone. wherefore if any tumors reſemble the nature of one ſimple humor, truly they are not of any naturall humor,but from ſome humor which is . and offending in qua- lity; for ſo bloudby aduſtion degenerates into choler and melancholy. #: a true phlegmon is defined by galen;a tumor againſt nature,of laudable blood, flowing into any part in too great a quantity. - - *this tumor though moſt commonly it be in the fleſh, yet ſometimes it happens in the bones, as hippocrates and galen witneſs. - - - “a phlegmon is made and generated thus: when bloud flows into any part, in too great a quantity; firſt the greater veins and arteries of the affected part are filled,then the middle, and laſtly, the finalleſtand capillary; ſo from thoſe thus diſtended, the blood ſweats out of the pores and ſmall paſſages like dew ; and with this the void ſpaces which are between the fimilar parts are firſt filled, & then with the ſamebloud all the adjacent parts are filled, but ... the fleſh,as that which is moſt fit to receive defluxions,by reaſon of the ſpon- #. rarity of its ſubſtance; but then the nerves,tendons, membranes, and ligaments, are i kewiſe ſtuffed full; *. a tumor muſt neceſſarily follow,by reaſon of the reple- tion which exceeds the boun s of nature;and from hence alſo are tenſion and reſiſtance and what tumors may be redu- ced to a phleg- noon. - which to an fr iſpelº- which to an oedema. which to scirrhuſ, what a true phlegmon is: a phlegmon one thing,and a phlegmo. nous tumor another. gallib.de tus mºribus, &c. ad glauc. hippoc.lib. de -s vuln.cap.gal. ' lib.de twmor. preter naturaº paid - *… " oo. of tumors.againſt nature in generall. lib. . pain alſo happens at the ſame time,both by reaſon of the tenſion and preternaturall heat. the cauſe of a and there is a manifeſt pulſation in the part,ſpecially whilſt it ſuppurates, becauſe the beatiº pain veins, arteries, and nerves, are much, being they are not only heated within by the influx in” of the tervid humor, but preſſed without by the adjacent parts. therefore ſeeing the pain comes to all the foreſaid parts becauſe they are two immoderately heated and preſſed, the arteries, which are in the perpetuall motion of their ſyſtole & diaſtole, whilſt they are dila- ted, ſtrike upon the other inflamed parts, whereupon proceeds that beating pain. hereunto add, the arteries then filled with more copious and hot bloud, have greater need to ſeek refrigeration by drawing in the encompaſſing air; wherefore they .# as of neceſſity,have a conflićt with the neighbouring parts which are ſwollen and pained.there- fore from hence is that pulſation in a phlegmon which is defined by galen, an agitation of thearteries, painfull and ſenſible to the patient himſelf; for otherwiſe as longas we are in health, we . not perceive the pulſation of the arteries. wherefore theſe two cauſes of pulſation, or a pulſifick pain in a phlegmon, are worthy to be obſerved,that is,the heat and abundance of bloud, contained in the veſſels and arté. ries(which more frequently than their wont incite the arteries to motion, that is, to their ſyſtole and diaſtole) and the compreſſion and ſtrºitning of the ſaid arteries, by reaſon of the repletion and diſtention of the adjacent parts,by whoſe occaſion the parts afflićted and bea- - ten by the trembling and frequent pulſation of arteries are in pain. hence they commonly ſay,that in the part affected with a phlegmon,they feel as it were the ſenſe or ſtroke of a mallet or hammerſmiting upon it. but alſo beſides this pulſation anºhº kind of the arteries, there is,as it were,another pulſation with itching from the humors whilſt *:::::n, they º: and ſuppurate, by the permixtion, motion,and agitation of vapours, there- upon ariſing. pº. . of heat in a phlegmon is bloud, which whilſt it flows more plentifully into the part, is as it were troden or thruſt down,and cauſes obſtruction, from whence neceſſa- rily follows a prohibition of tranſpiration,and a putrefačtion of the bloud, by reaſon of the preternaturall heat. but the phlegmon looks red by reaſon of the bloud contained in it, becauſe the humor predominant in the part ſhines through the skin. wº- commad aph. . ſe?. . chap. xxiii. of the cauſes and ſignes of a phlegmon. the primirive iſ: cauſes of a phlegmon are of three kinds; for ſome are primitive, ſome antece- #: ofa dent, and ſome conjunét. primitive are falls,contuſions,ſtrains,immoderatela- c on. - - - - - - - - the *::. bour,frićtions,application of acrid ointments,burnings, long ſtaying or labour- dent and con- 'ing in the hot sun,a diet unconſiderate,and which breeds much bloud.the ante- junét. cedent cauſes are, the great abundance of bloud, too plentifully flowing in the veins. the the figns of a conjunét,the collečtion or gathering together of bloud impact in any part. phlegmon, the ſigns of a phlegmon are §. tenſion, reſiſtance feaveriſh heat, pain, pulſation, g; while it ſuppurates) j. and others, by which the abundance of bloud is ig(nificol. - #. a little phlegmon is often terminated by reſolution;but a great one by ſuppuration; and ſometimes it ends in a scirrhus,or a tumor like a scirrhus; but otherwhiles in a gan- gren, that is, when the faculty, and native ſtrength ofº affected, is overwhelmed b dal, lde tum, the greatneſs of the defluxion,as it is reported by galen. the chirurgeon ought to confi- derall theſe things, that he may apply and vary ſuch medicines as are convenient for the nature ofthe patient,and for the time and condition of the part affected. chap. ix. of the cure of a true phlegmon. hat kind of he chirurgeon in the cure of a true phlegmon muſt propoſe to himſelf four w; º: o .# the firſt of diet; this, becauſe the phlegmon is a hot affect and preſcribed in a cauſes a feaver,muſt be ordained of refrigerative and hume&ting things, with phlegmon, "q- the convenient uſe of the fixthings not naturall, that is, air, meat and drink, motion and reſt, ſleep and waking, repletion and inanition; and laſtly, the paſſions of the mind. therefore let him make choiſe of that air which is pure and cleer, not too moiſt,for fear of defluxion,bnt ſomewhat cool; let him commandmeats which are mo- derately cool and moiſt, ſhunning ſuch as generate bloud too plentifully, ſuch will be broths not too fat, ſeaſoned with a little borage, lettuce, sorrell, and succory: let him be forbidden the uſes of all ſpices, and alſo of garlick, and onions, and all things which heat the bloud,as are all fatty and ſweet things,as thoſe which eaſily take fire. let the pa- tient drink ſmall wine,and much allaied with water: or if the feaver be vehement,the water of the decočtion of licoris,barly, ſweet almonds,or water and sugar; alwayes having re- gard to the ſtrength,age,and cuſtome of the patient. for lib. . of - tumors againſ nature in generall. # for if hebe of that age,or have ſo led his life,that he cannot want the uſe of wine, let him uſe it,but altogether moderately. reſt muſt be commanded ; for all bodies wax hot by motion,but lethim chiefly have a care that he do not exerciſe the part poſſeſſed by the hlegmon for fear of a new defluxion. let his ſleep be moderate, neither, if he have a full [. him ſleep by day, ſpecially preſently after meat. let him have his belly ſoluble, if not by nature, then by art, as by the frequent uſe of glyſters and ſuppoſitories. let him avoid º vehement perturbations of mind,as hate,anger,brawling; let him wholly abſtain from venery. this manner of diet thus preſcribed, we muſt come to the ſecond ſcope,that is,the diver- fion of the defluxion, which is performed by taking away its cauſe,that is, the fulneſs and ilneſs of the humors. both which we may amend by purging and bloud-letting, if the ſtrength and age of the patient permit. but if the part receiving be weak, it muſt be ſtrengthned with thoſe things which by their aſtrićtion amend the openneſs of the paſſages,the violence of the humor being drawn away by cupping-glaſſes, frićtions, ligatures. but if pain trouble the part, which is of ten the occaſion of defluxion, it muſt be mitigated by medicines aſſwaging pain. - the third ſcope is to overcome the conjunět cauſe. that we may attain to this, we muſt enter into the conſideration of the tumor, according to its times, that is,the beginning, in- creaſe, ſtate, and declination. for from hence the indications of variety of medicines muſt be drawn.for in the beginning we uſe repercuſſives to drive away the matter of the phleg- mon flowing down, as the white of an egge, oxycrate, the juices or waters of houſleek, plantain, roſes; cataplaſms of henbane,pomgranate, pils,balauſties, bole armenick,terra ſigillata, oil of roſes,g]uinces, mirtils, poppies. - - of theſe ſimples variety of compound medicines ariſts. this may be the form of a cata- plaſm.r.far.hordei iſ ſucci ſemper vivi, plantag-an. iij. pulmalicorii,balauftiorum & roſar.an. ij. olmirtill & roſar.anº; i. fiat cataplaſma. another, r, plantag, ſolani,hyoſcyam. an: m, ii. caude e- quin. tapſ barb, tentinodie, an. m. i. coquantur perfeółe in oxycrato, piſtentur, trajiciantur, addendo pul- veri, mirtill nuc. cupreſſi. & roſ. rub; an: iij farin, fab. ij. oleiroſar. & cydon.an.} iſ, mixe them and make a cataplaſm to the form of a liquid pultis. and you may uſe this liniment,’ by dipping linnen clothes in it, and applying to the part; r, ol. nymph.º. roſar. an:; iij. aq. roſ. ſolani & plantag.an. iſ,aceti iij,albumin. ovorum n. iij. fiat linimentum. alſo ung. roſatum & ung. album, camphor. kaſis are good to apply to it, as in like manner, emp. diacalcitheos diſ. ſolved in vinegar, and oil of roſes, and alſo pºpuleon may be uſed. in the increaſe you muſt have care of the humor flowing down, and of that which already impacted in the part did formerly fall down. therefore repercuſſives muſt be tempered and mixed with diſcuſſing medicines, but ſo that they may carry the chief ſway, as r, fol. malve, abſinth. plantag. an: m, iij. coquantur in oxycrato, contundantur, traječii, addfarinefabarum & bordeian. i. pull roſar. rub. & abſinth. am. i, ol. roſar. & chamem. an i,fiat cataplaſma ad forman pultisſatis liquide. a- nother,r, farinehord. iij, farine ſem. lini & fenugreci, an: i, coquanturin aqāa communi, ad- dendoſub finempul, mirtillorum, roſarum & chamemelian, ſ, axungie anſeri, & oleiroſaruman; i, miſce, fiat cataplaſma. - - but in the ſtate the repercuſſives,and diſcuſſives ought to be alike with ſome anodyne, or mitigating medicines,if it be painful,asr,rad. althee; iiijmalve,parietaranam.ij.coquantur ſub cineribus, addendofarin. fabarum & lentium am. ij pulveri, chamem.&meliloti an: ſ,olei (hamem. &roſar...an. i. axungiegal.; if, flat cataplaſma. another, r, micepanis triticciaqua ſalida mace- ratiftſ, pulveri, roſar. rub. & abſinth. and vi, olei aneth. & melli, com.am. iſ, miſre omnia ſi- mul & fiat cataplaſma ad formampultis ſatis liquide; which is ofchief uſe when there is º but when the violence of pain and other ſymptomes are affwaged, it is likely that the plegmon is come to determination.wherefore then we muſt uſemore powerfull and ſtrong diſcuſſives,and only then beginning with the moregentle,leſt the ſubtiler part of the humor being diſſolved, the groſſer, remaining in the part, ſhould grow hard, as r, mal. biſmal. an. m. iij. coquantur, addendo }.} ij, melli, com. i, ol. chame. & melilot. an: ſ, fiat ( - taplaſma. or r, radicum brion. & cucumer, agreft. an. iſ, forum chamem. & melilot, ana.m. iij, coquantur in hydromelite addendo farine, ſem. lini & fenugrec.am. iſ. ol. ameth. axungie anjer, & - mat, am. i.fiat cataplaſma. and this plaiſter following may here find place. r, diachylmag. ; ij, empl. demelilot. i,olei aneth. chamemel, an. ſ, diſſolve them all to- gether and make a medicine for your uſe. or r, empl.de mucagº oxycran. ii. empl.diachyl, ireat. i, oleililiorum & chamemel, quantum ſati, eſt,and make thereof a ſoftemplaiſter. the fourth ſcope of curing a phlegmon conſiſts in correótion of the accidents which ac- company it; of which pain is the principall. - wherefore the chirurgeon muſt be diligent to aſſwage it;for beſides, that it weakens the ſtrength, and debilitates and depraves the à. alſo cauſes defluxions by drawing the bloud and ſpirits to the . - according to the variety of pain there muſt be variety of medicines, as r, micrpaniº albi in latie tepidomacerati th [ , vitell, ovorum iii, ol. roſar. iſ, crociºſ, fiat cataplaſma. or r, florum chaman. melilan.p. iijjarineſem. lini. fenugrec.an. i, fiat cataflaſmapultis ſati, liquide. or rºmuragin.rad, altbee & fenugreci an: ; iij ol-roſar, anethan ifarin. jem.lini, quantum ſatis, at indeformefur cataplaſma ſatis mole. - but how to divert the defluxion of humors. the pain muſi be affwaged. when we muſt uſe repercuſ- ſives. what locall medicines we muſt uſe in the cncreafe. what in the ſtate, what in the declination. the correài. on of the acci- dents, the diſcom- modities of pain. medicines aſſwaging pain. .” - o of tumors againſt nature ingenerall. lie. . narcotickme- but if the pain remain,and yecla not to theſe remedies, we muſt flie to ſtronger, making dicines, of narcoticks, or ſtupefactives, but with care left we benum, or dead the part; as r., fl. hyoſcyani & papaver. jub. cineribu, cotiorum an ; iii, adipiº juille & al. roſ. an: i, croci bij, fiat cataplaſma : or r, fol. cicute & ſolani furioſ. an: ; iiij, coquantur ſub cineribus, piſtentur, & traji- riantur addendo unguent. fºſul. & ol. roſar, an. i, farin. fenugrec. quantum ſati, eritut inde forme- tur cataplaſma adjormam pultis liquids. chap. x. the cure of an ulcerated phlegmon. the ſignsofa sn!lit it often happens that the humor is ſo impaët in the part,that it cannot be re- º: an preſſed, and ſo groſs,that it cannot be diſcuſſed ; which we may know by the abſceſs. greatneſs of the heat and ſwelling,by the bitterneſs of the pricking pain, the % feaver,and pulſation,and heavineſs. - lib. ad glan. wherefore laying aſide all hope of diſcuſſing, we muſt come to the ſuppu- cap. . ratives. for which purpoſe galen foments the ſwollen part with water,or oil being warm, - or with both of them ; and then applies this following cataplaſm. .." r., farine triº, vel mice pani, iiij, ol. com. iij. aque com. quantum ſufficit, fiat cataplaſma; or r, rad. lilior. alb, & alther, an. iij, fol. malve, parietar. & ſenecioni, anam, i. coquantur in by- dromelite, piſſentur trajeúis adde farin. ſem. lini iſ, axumige ſuille, ol, liliorum an: ſ, fiat cata- plaſma; or r, malve, biſmalv. violar...an. m. i. caricarumping, n. x, paſſal. ii, coquantur in aq. com.tufts, & traječič, adde melli, com. iſ, ung, baſilicon. & butyri recent. ana i, fiat cataplaſma. you may profitably uſe for the ſame purpoſe empl. diachylon magnum, or baſilicon. or r, empl. diachyl. mag. iij, ung, baſilicon. i. ol, liliorum ſ. of theſe mixed together make a medicine for the foreſaid uſe. the ſigns of . when the . , and other accidents ſhall remit, when the tumor hath a pu, or matter, ſharpehead, when by the preſſing of your finger you find the humor to flow as it were to ‘and fro, then you may know that it is ripe. - wherefore without any further delay the tumor muſt be opened,leſt the matter too long ſhut up, corrode the adjacent parts, and the ulcerbecome ſinuous and fiſtulous. for this uſually happens, eſpecially then, when the matter is venenate or malign, or when the ſwelling is near a joint,or at the fundamennt,or ſuch like hot and moiſt places. #. lib. de fi. for by the decree of hippocrates we ſhould anticipate thematuration of ſuch tumors by mlá, opening. the ña, be opened with an inciſion knife or cauſtick,and that either attuall or poten- tiall. for if the patient ſhall be heartleſs and leſs confident, ſo that he either cannot, or will not indure any inſtrument,you muſt make way for the matterby a potentiall cautery. you may alſo do the buſineſs by another ſlight, as thus. - thruſt the point of a ſharpe knife or lancet, through a braſs counter that it may ſtand faſt in the j. thereof; then coverit diligently with ſome emplaiſter or ‘. m, that neither the patient nor ſtanders by perceive the deceit: then laying on the plaiſter as that you would make a paſſage for thematter by that means,but when you have fitted the point to the part,where it is fit to open the tumor, ſo guide the counter with your fingers, that you may preſently make an impreſſion into the tumor, ſufficient for excluding the matter. i have here expreſſed three delineations of ſuch inſtruments that you may uſe theſe, either bigger, leſſer or indifferent,as occaſion ſhall ſerve. counters with the points of knives or launces put b through them. a. ſhews the counter or peece of silver. b. ſhews the point of the lancet. but there are ſeven things which muſtbe diligently confidered in opening all ſorts ºf impoſtumes. the firſt is, that you put your knife to that part of the abſceſs which is the ſofter, and yeclás to the impreſſion of your fingers, and where it riſes into a head. : point, lis... of tumors againſt nature ingeneral point. the ſecond is, that you make choiſe of that place for diſkétion which is the iowaſt, that ſo the contained impuritic may the more readily flow out, and not ſtay in the paſſage. the third is, that it be made according to the wrincles of the skin, and the right #bers of the muſcles lying next under the skin. the fourth is that you turn your knife from the larger veſſels and nerves worth ſpeaking of the fifth is, that the matter con- tained in them be not evacuated too 㺠at once in great abſceſſes, left thereby the firength be dejećted, the ſpirits being much waſted together with the unprofitable humor. the ſixthis,that the affected part be handled as gently as '. can. the ſeventh is, that af- ter the opening when the matter is evacuated, the abſceſsbecleanſed, filled with fleſh, and laſtly, conſolidated and cicatrized. but ſeeing that commonly after ſuch ſettions ſome part of the tumor remains, all the contained humor being not wholly ſuppurated, the chir- urgeon may perceive that this is an implicite affeit, that is, a tumor and ulcer. but the cure thereof muſt be ſo, that you take away the tumor before the ulcer; for the ulcer cannot be healed before the part be reſtored to its nature. therefore the ſuppuratives for- merly preſcribed muſt be uſed, and the ulcer muſt be dreſſed for two or three dayes with this following medicine. " r. vitelium unius ovi, terebinth. venete, & ol. rojar. an: ſ, fiat medicamentum. then you muſt ſeek to cleanſe it by this following medicine. - f: melis roſar. i, syrupi roſar. & tereb. venet.an. iſ, far. hordei iſ, fiat medicamentum ad uſum. for this very purpoſe there is a ſingular deterfive made of appium or smallage of which this is the deſcription. - r. succi aſpii, plantag beton, an: i, mellis commun, v, terebint. venet. iiij, farin. hordei & orobi,an. iſ fulveris aloes, rad. ireos florent, myrrhean. i,coquaturmelcum ſuccis quibus conſump- tis addamtur fariº & pulveres, & miſceantar omnia ad forman unguenti. but if you would cleanſe it more powerfully, you may uſe vnguentum apoſtolorum, or vnguentum aureum and Æyptia- cum mixed according to the ſcope you conceive in your minds;when the uilcer ſhall ſeem ſufficiently clenſed, it ſhall be filled with fleſh and cicatrized after the manner we ſhall de- clare in the proper treatiſt of the cure of ulcers. other inſtruments for opening abſceſſes. rings in which little knives lyá bid, fit for to ºpen alſº ſers the delineation of a traské gy hollow inſtrument going g’ with a ſpring. a. shews the thicker pipe. - b. shews another which enters and is faſtened in the other by a ſcrue. c.. the point of the inſtrument p"; iºnaireuel , the ſori ich forces the ins a. * * what the caré muſt be after the opening ofthe abſceſ: deterſive medicines. pºngwenism de appiº o . of tmors againſt nature in generall. lie. . - cha p. xi. of feavers, and the cures of theſe feavers which accompany phlegmons. the fewer of a phlegmon. what a fraver ăse $º mongſt the symptoms which moſt uſually accompany phlegmons,and afflićt all the § & body of the patient, feavers are the chief; that is,hot, and dry diſtenipers kindled $ in the heart, and thence by the artery is ſent overall the body; yet theſe which uſually follow this kind of tumors are ephemere,that is,diary, unputrid synochi, of whoſe nature and order of cure i will here briefly relate what i have learnt from my maſters, that is, doğtors of phyſick, as i have been converſant with them in the practiſe of my art. wºr the ephemera, or diary [that is, ofcne day] is a hpt and dry diſemperature kindled in is. the vitall ſpirits. it hath that name,becauſe by its owinature it tarries not above the ſpace of one day or twenty four houres,by reaſon it is kindled in a ſubtile eaſily diſſipable matter. the cauſes the efficient cauſes of this feaver are wearines,hunger,and drunkenneſs,anger,ſury,ſor- thereof. row.watching great & piercing cold,aduſtion.bathes,and manner of living inclining more to heat then ordinary,applying uſing or drinking of acrid medicines, as poyſons,or of hot meats, or drinks; to conclude all the efficient cauſes common to all feavers, putrefaction -- only excepted wheh properly appertains to putrid feavers. - apherifin, . for a bubo alſo,which is a phlegmon of the glandules,cauſes a diary,as hippocrates ſhews. dib. . all feavers proceeding from the tumors of the glandules are evill, the diary excepted. which aphoriſm muſt be underſtood warily and with that diſtinition which gálen gives in his commentary,where he faith; it is only to be underſtood of tumors riſing in the glan- dules without occaſion, that is, without any evident and manifeſt cauſe; for otherwiſe feavers that thence take their originall,though not diary,yet are not all cvillas we learn by buboes in children, and the venereous buboes,which § en without inflammation,or corruption of the liver;for ſuch commonly have no malign feaver accompanying them, which thing is worthy a chirurgeons obſervation. - §: ſigns of a the common ſigns of a diary are, a moderate and vaporous heat feeling gentle to the lary. hand, a pulſe ſwift and frequent,ſometimes great and ſtrong, as when the diary is cauſed by anger; ſometimes little; if the feaver proceed from ſorrow,hunger,cold,crudity; for o- ther reſpećts equalland ordinary. the moſt certain figns are, if the feavercome upon one not by little and little but ſo- dainly and that from ſome externall and evident cauſe, no loathing of meat, no cauſleſs wearineſs, no deep ſleep,yawning,great pain,reſtleſneſs, ſhaking nor cold going before,and laſtly, no other troubleſome ſymptome º we here make no mention of the why in a dia- urine, becauſe moſt frequently they reſemble the urines of ſound bodies; for in ſo ſhort ºtheuſines, a time as diaries endure, there cannot ſo great a perturbation be raiſed in the bloud that º: *" there may be fignes thereof found in the urine. a diary is ended in one fit, which by the iſle proper nature of this feaverlaſts but one day,although ſometimes, otherwiſe it is extended to three, or four dayes ſpace; and then it eaſily degenerates into a putrid, eſpecially any error of the patient, phyſitian, or thoſe which attend him concurring therewith, or if the ... externall things be not rightly fitted. : º the unputrid . . this feaver is terminated either by inſenſible tranſpiration, or by the moiſture of the synochih, . skin, or by a ſweat naturall, gentle, and not ill ſmelling; to this diary we may refer the unputrid synochu, generated of bloud not putrid, but only heated beyond meaſure. for uſually there ariſes a great heat over all the body, by means of the bloud immoderately heated; whence the veins become more tumid, the †: appears fiery the eyes red and burning, the breath hot, and to conculde, the whole habit of the j, more full,by reaſon of that ebullition of the bloud, and the diffuſion of the vapours thence ariſing over all the body: whence it is, that this kind of synochus may be called, a vaporous feaver. to this *i. are incident as alſo all ſanguine bodies, which have no ill humors. the cure of this and the ephemera or diary is the ſame; becauſe it may ſcarſe, ſeem different from the ephemera in any other thing,than that it may be prolonged for *. or four dayes.where- fore whatſoever we ſhall ſay for the cure of the ephemera, may be applyed to the synochus, bloud-letting excepted, which in an unputrid synochu is very neceſſary. the cureofa now thccure of a diary feaver conſiſts in the decent uſe of things fiot natural,contrary play” to the cauſe of the diſeaſe; wherefore bathes of warm and naturall water arevery pro- fitable ; ſo that the patient be not plethorick, nor ſtuft with excrements,nor obnoxious to catarrhes and defluxions, becauſe a catarrh is caſily cauſed and augmented by the hu- mors diffuſed and diſſolved by the heat of bath; ſherefore in this caſe we muſt eſchew frićtions,and anointing with warmoil, which things notwithſtänding are thought very uſefull in theſe kinds of feavers,eſpecially when they have their originall from extreme la- bour, by aſtriótion of the skin or a bubo. let this be a generall rule, that to every cauſe, whence this feaver proceeded,you oppoſe the contrary for a remedy; as to labour, reſt; to watching, ſleep; to anger and ſorrow, gratefull ſociety of friends, and all things . pleniſhe linz. of tumors againſt nature in generall. o --- -- pleniſhed with plealant good will and to a bullº, the proper cure thereof. wine moderately tempered with water according to the cuſtome of the ſick, patient, is good and profitable in all cauſes of this feaver, except he be pained in his head;or that the #eaver drew its originall from anger, or a bubo ; for in this laſt caſe eſpecially, the paticnt muſt abſtain wholly from wine, untill the inflammation come to the ſtate, and begins to decline. this kind of feaver often troubles infants; and then you muſt preſcribe ſuch me- the uſe of wine in a diás i yº dicines to their nurſes, as if they were ſick, that ſo by this means their milk may become mºdicinable. alſo it will be good to put the infant himſelf into a bath of naturall and warm water,and preſently after the bath to anoint the ridge of the back and breſt with oyl of violets. but if a phlegmon poſſeſs any inward part, or otherwiſe by its nature be great, or ſeated near any principall bowel,ſo that it may continually ſend from it either a putrid matter or exhalation to the hcart, and not only affect it by a quality or §.". heat by the continuity of the parts,thence wil ariſe the putrid synochia,if the blood by contagi- on put .# in the greater veſſels,confiſts of one equall mixture of the four humors.this fewer is thus chiefly known, it hath no exacerbations, or remiſſions, but much leſs inter- miſſions; it is extended beyond the ſpace of twenty four houres,ncither doth it then (nd in vomit,ſweat,moiſture,or by little and littleby inſenſible tranſpiration;aficr the manner of intermitting feavers, or agucs; but remains conſtant, untill it leaves the patient for alto- gether; it commonly happens not unleſs to theſe of a good temper and complexion, which abound with much bloud,and that tempered by an equall mixture of the four humors. it commonly indures not long becauſe the blood by ſome peculiar putrefation degencrating into choléror melancholy,will preſently bring forth another kind of feaver, to wit, a tertian or continued quartain. - - - * ~ * - the cure of this feaver (as i have heard of moſt learned phyſtians) chiefly conſiſts in bloodletting. forby letting of blood the fulneſs is diminiſhed,and therefore the obſtrućti- on is taken away, and laſtly, the putrefaction. and ſeeing that in this kind of feaver there is not only a fault of the matter.by the putrefaction of the blood, but alſo of the temper by exceſs of heat; certainly phlebotomy helps not only, as we ſaid, the putrefastion,but aíſo the hot diſemper. for the blood in which all the heat of the creature is contained, whilſt it is taken away, the acrid and fuliginous excrements, exhale and vaniſh away with it, which kept in,éncreaſed the feaveriſh heat. moreover,the veins,to ſhun emptincſs, which nature abhors, are filled with much cold air in ſtead of the hot blood which was drawn away, which follows a cooling of the habit of the whole body yeaznd many by means of phlebotomy have their bellies looſed, and ſweat, both which are much to be de- fired in this kind of feaver. - this moved the ancient phyſitians, to write, that we muſt draw blood in this diſeaſe, even to the fainting of the patient. : yet becauſe thus not a few have poured out their lives together with their blood, it will be better and ſafer to divide the evacuations, and draw ſo much blood at ſevc- rall times, as the greatneſs of the diſeaſe ſhall require, and the ſtrength of the patient may bear. - r hen you have drawn blood, forthwith injećt an emollient and refrigerative clyſter; leſt that the veins emptied by phlebotomy may draw into them the impurity of the guts; but theſe clyſters which cool too much, rather bind the belly, than looſe it. the following day the morbifick matter muſt be partly evacuated by a gentle purge, as a bole of caſſia, or catholicon; then muſt you appoint syrups, which have not only a refrigerative quality, but alſo to reſiſt putrefaëtion, ſuch as the syrup of lemmons, berberries, of the juice of citrons, of pomgranats, sorrell and vineger; let his dict be abſolutely cooling and humetting,and alſo ſlender; for the native heat much debilitated by º of a great quantity of blood cannot equall a full diet. therefore it ſhall ſuf- fice to feed the patient with chicken and veal broths made with cooling herbs, as sor- rell, lettuce, and purſlain...let his drink be barly water, syrup of violets mixed with ſome pretty quantity of boiled water, julºpum alexandrinum,eſpecially if he be trou- bled with ſcouring, or laske. but the phyſitian muſt chiefly have regard to the fourth day, for if then there appear any ſigns of concoëtion in the excrements, the criffs muſt be ex- pećted on the eventh day,and that either by a looſneſs of the belly, or an aboundance of urine, by vomits, ſweats, or bleeding. therefore we muſt then do nothing but commit the whole buſineſs to nature. - - but for drinking cold water, which is ſo much commended by galen in this kind of feaver, it is not to be ſuffered before there appear ſigns of concoëtion; morcover in Å. declining of the diſeaſe the uſe of wine will not . unprofitable to help forwards weats. - t . e hap: flow a putſid synoba, is cauſed. phlebotomy nºceſſiry in a ‘’ putrid giucchiº: what benefit we may reap b drawing blood cven to fainting: why wenuſ: give a cyſter . . reſently after is: letting: what syrupi profitable in this caſe. . . why a ſlender diet muſt be uſed after ſet: : ting much blood, when dritis. king of water. is to be permit- ted in a puttid. syncchh. - - - - - * r * v--- of tumor, againſt n.ature in generall. lib. . - the definition of an eryſipe- laſ. gal. capiz, lib. , meth.med. cy . d glin. two kinds of eryſipelº, gal, lib. , d lauc. hip. apho, . seò. . aph.* . seč, . aph, . set} . c h a p. xii. of an eryſipelas, or inflammation. aºaving declared the cure of a phlegmon,cauſed by laudable blood, we muſt * now treat of theſe tumors which acknowledgcholer the materiall cauſe of § their generation, by reaſon of that affinity which intercedes between cho- # ler and blood. therefore the tumors cauſed by naturall choler, are called § eryſipelata, or inflammations; theſe contain a great heat in them, which chiefly poſſeſſes the skin,as alſo oftentimes ſome portion of the fleſh lying under it. for they are made by moſt thin and ſubtle blood º: upon any occaſion of inflammation eaſily becomescholerick)or by blood and choler,hotter than is requiſit, and ſometimes of choler mixed with an acrid ſerous humor. that which is made by ſincere and pure choler, is called by galen,a true and perfeót ery- §: but there ariſe three differences of eryſipelaes by the admixture of choler with the ree other kinds of humors. for if itbeing predominant be mixed with blood, it ſhall be termed eryſipela phlegmonodes ; if with phlegm, eryſipelas a dematodes; if with melancholy, eryſipelas scirrhodes. so that the former and ābāºse wordfiews the humor bearing do- minion, but the latter or adjećtive that which is inferior in mixture. but if they concur in ; quantity,there will be thereupon made eryſfel's phlegmone; eryſipelu adema, eryſipels c ryl)ſuſ. - galen acknowledges two kinds of eryſipelaes,one ſimple and without an ulcer, the other ulcerated. for cholar drawn & ſevered from the warmnes of the blood, running by its ſub- tlety and acrimony unto the skin, ulcerates it;but reſtrained by the gentle heat of ū. blood, as a bridle, it is hindered from piercing to the top of the skin,and makes a tumor without an ulcer. but of unnaturall choler are cauſed many other kinds of cholerick tumors, as the herpes exedems,and miliari,and laſtly,all ſorts of tumors which come between the herpes and cancer. you may know eryſipelae; chiefly by three ſigns,as by their colour, which is a yellowiſh red;by their quick ſliding back into the body at the leaſt compreſſion of the skin (the cauſe of which is the ſubtlety of the humorand the outward ſite of it under the skin, whereupon by ſome an eryſipela, is calleda diſeaſe of the skin; ) laſtly, by the number of the symptoms,as heat, pulſation,pain. the heat of an eryſipela is far greater than that of a phlegmon,but the pulſation is much les;for as the heat of the blood is not ſo great,as that of choler,ſo it far exceeds choler in quantity and thickneſs, which may cauſe compreſſion and obſtrućtion of the adjacent muſcle. - for choler eaſily diſſipableby reaſon of its ſubtlety quickly vaniſhes, neither doth it ſuffer itſelf to be long ...?in the empty ſpaces between the muſcles; neither doth an #; agree with a phlegmon in the propriety of the i. for that of an eryſipelin is pricking and biting without tenſion, or heavineſs, yet the primitive, antecedent and con: junét cauſes are ... of both the tumors. although an eryſipelu may be incident to all parts, yet principally it affails the face,by reaſon of the º of the skin of that place,and the lightneſs of the § humor flying upwards. it is ill when an eryſipelº comes up- on a wound,or ulcer,and although it may come to ſuppuration, yet it is not good; for it ſhews that there is obſtrućtion by the admixture of a groſs humor, whence there is ſome danger of eroſion in the parts next under the skin. - rt is good when an eryſipels comes from within outwards ; but ill when from with- out it retires inward. but if an eryſipela, poſſeſs the womb it is deadly, and in like man- tº if it ſpread too far over the face, by reaſon of the ſympathy of the membranes of the tālil. c. h. a. p. xiii. of the cure of an eryſipelas. §or the cure of an eryſipelas wenuſt procure two things,to wit,evacuation and } refrigeration. but becauſe there is more need of cooling, than in a phleg- mon,the chief ſcope muſt be for refrigeration. which being done, the con- jº tained matter muſt be taken away and evacuated with moderately reſolving medicines. we muſt do four things to attain unto theſe forementioned ends. firſt of all we muſt appoint a convenient manner of diet, in the uſe of the ſix things not naturall that is, we muſt incraſſate, refrigerate and moiſten as much as the nature of the diſeaſe and patient will ſuffer, much more than in a phlegmon ; then we will evacuate the antecedent mattersby opening a vein,andby medicines purging cholºr.and that by cutting the cephalick vein,if there be a portion of the blood mixed with choler, if the eryſipelas poſſeſs the face,and if it be º nuch overit. but if it ſhall invade another part,although itſhall proceed of pure choler, phlebotomy gal. . methed. things to be performed in cutting an Æryſipelas. in what eryſipelts it is convenient to let blood, in what not. will º l m. of tumors againſt nature ingenerall. will not be ſo neceſſary,becauſe the bloud which is as a bridle to the choler being taken away,there may be danger;left it become more fierce; yet if the body be plethorick,it will be expedient to let bloud,becauſe this, as galen teacheth, is of times the cauſe of an ery- ſpels.it wil be expedient to give a clyſter of refrigerating and humcºting things before you open a vein ; but it belongs to a learned and prudent phyſitian to preſcribe medicines, purging choler. - - - - - - - - the third care muſt be taken for topick, or locall medicines, which in the beginning and encreaſe muſt be cold and moiſt,without any either dryneſs or aſtrićtion, becauſe the more acrid matter by uſe of aſtringent things being driven in, would ulcerate and fret the diacent particle. . º . avicenniuch commend this kind of remedy; take fair water vi,ofthe ſharp- eſt vinegarż i, make an oxycrate,in which. may wet linnen clothes and apply to the affečted part and the circumjacent places,and renew them often. or r. succi ſolani, plantag. & ſempervivi, an. iſ, aceti ſ, mugagina ſem. pylii iſ, ſucci hyoſcyami i, miſte. but if the eryſipelº be upon the face, you muſt uſe the medicine following. - - #, vnguent. roſ. iiij, ſucci plantagin, & ſempervivi, an: i, iroſhiſºde camphora ſ, aceti parum; let then be mixed together and make a lininent. but if the heat and pain be into- lerable, we muſt come to narcotick medicines. as r, ſuccihyoſcyami, ſolani, titute, án. i, album. overumn. ii, aceti ſ, opii & câmphor. an:gra. , roci ſ, mucagini, ſem. pſyll. & femigr. extrađe in aq. roſ. &§. an.; i,olde fapaw; iſ fiat liminentum,addendo ung, refrigeranti, gal. camphor. . ſati, fit. yet we muſt not uſe ſuch like medicines too long,leſt they cauſe an ex- tinëtion of the native heat and mortification of the part. wherefore ſuch narcotick medicines muſt be uſed with regard of place, time and ſuch other circumſtances. therefore we may three manner of wayes underſtand when to defiſt from uſing narcotick or ſtupefačtive medicines. the firſt is when the patient in the af- fećted part feels not ſo much heat, pricking and pain, as before ; the ſecond is when the art feels more gentle to the touch than before ; the third when the fiery, and pallid co- }. begins by little and little to waxe livid and black;for then muſt we abſtain from nar- cotick, and uſe reſolving and ſtrengthening things, whereby the part may be revived and ſtrengthened by recalling the native heat; as r, farine bordei & orobi, an: ; if, farine ſºm. lini iſ, coquantur in hydromelite veloxycrato, addendº pulv.roſarum & chamemel, an ſ, ol. ane- thi & ſhamem. an. i, fiat cataplaſma. or you may uſe this following fomentation, re, rad. alther iſ, fol. malve, bijmal pariet. abſinthii, ſalvie, an. m. i., flor. chamem. meliloti, roſar. rub. an.m. iſ, coquantur in equi, partibus vini & aque, & fiat fotu, cum ſpongia. after the fomentation what topick medicines are fit to be uſed in the beginning. ofan eryſipelaſ. what caution muſt be had in the uſe of nar- cotick medi- cines, reſolving and ſtrengthening mediciness you may apply an emplaiſter of diachylon ireatum, or diapalma diſſolved in oil of chamo- . mile and melilote, and ſuch other like. the fourth intention which is of the corre&ion of accidents, we will perform by . which we mentioned in curing a phleg- mon, by varying the medicaments, according to the judgment of him which undertakes the cure. w c. h. a. p. xiii i. of the herpes; that is, teaters, or ringwormes, or ſuch like. ºf erpes is a tumor cauſed by pure choler ſeparated from the reſt of the humors, that is carryed by its naturall lightneſs and tenuity even to the outer or & ſcarfe skin, and is diffuſed over the ſurface hereof. galen makes three ſorts of this tumor. ... for if perfeót choler of an indifferent ſubſtance, that is, not "...verythick, cauſe this tumor, then the ſimple herpes is generated, obtainin the name of the genus but if the humor be not ſo thin, but compounded with ſome ſmal mixture of phlegm it will raiſe little bliſters over the skin like to the ſeeds of millet, whence it was that the ancients called this tumor the herpes miliariº. but if it have any admixture of melancholy, it will be an herpes exeden, terrible by reaſon of the eroſion or eating into the skin and muſcles lying under it. theſe are abſolutely three intentions of curing; the firſt is to appoint a dict juſt like that we mentioned in the cure of an eryſipela ; the ſecond is to evacuate the antecedent cauſe, by medicines purging the peccant humor, for which purpoſe oft-times clyſters will ſuffice, eſpecially if the patient be ſomewhat eaſie by nature, and if the urine flow accor- ing to your deſire; forby this a great part of the humor may be carryed into the bladder, the third ſhall be to take away the conjunct cauſe by locall medicines ordained for the fwelling and ulcer: therefore the chirurgeon ſhall have regard to two things, that is the reſolving of the tumor, and the drying up of the ulcer; for every ulcer requires drying, which can neverbe attained unto, unleſs the ſwelling be taken away. therefore becauſé the chiefeſt care muſt be to take away the tumor, which unleſs it be performed there can be no hope to healthe ulcer,he ſhall lay this kind of medicine to diſſolve and dry,as r. ceruſe what a herpet is, what be the kinds thereof, gal. , ad glauconem, what the herpes miliari, se what the extdens, three intenti- ons in curing herpes. a rule for healing ulcers conjoyned with tumor . ** - & tuthie prepar. an. i, ol. roſ. & adipi, º: an. iſ, cortici, pini uſti, & lociáſ, cere quan- thm ſatis, fiat unguentum. or r, farin. hordei & * an. iſ, coquantur in decodio cortici, - - - mali . of tumors againſt nature in generall. li * . the force of wngueurum emulatºn cmm mercurio. medicines fit for reſtraining eating and ſpreading ulcers. a vulgar de- ſcription of an intermitting tertian feaver. the cauſes of tertian fea- wcrs. the ſigns of an intermitting tertian. the symp- tonnes why tertians have an abſo- lute ceſſation of the feaver at the end of cach fir, the diet of ſuch as have a tertian. when ſuch as have a tertian may uſc wine. the time of feeding the patiºnſ. mali granati,balauſt.plantag.addendofulveri, roſar.ſub-abſinth.an. ſ, olei. myrtillor. & melli, com. an.svi, fiat unguintum.ºf artis eff.but for an herpes miliari; theſe muſt chiefly be uſed, r.pulv. gallarum, maliturii, balauſt.boli armenian. i, aque roſ. iij, ºti aterrini i, axungie anjer. & olei myrtillor. an. iſ, terebinth. isfiat niguntum adºſum. i have often found moſt certain help in unguntum emulatum cum mercurio,for it kills the puſtules,and partly waſts the humor contained in them. yet if the ulcer, not yet neither yields, but every day diffuſes it ſelf further and further, you ſhall touch the edges and lips thereof with ſome acrid medicine, as aqua ſortigoyl of vitriole,or ſuch like, for by this kind of remedy,i have ofttimes heal- ed fretting ulcers, which ſeemed altogether incurable. chap. xv. of feavers, which happen upon eryſipelous tumors. vour of the humor whereofthey proceed that is choler. therefore ſeeing it is ; peculiar to choler,to move every third day, it is no marvailif great inflam- § mations bring with them tertian feavers,or agues, which have their fit eve- ** ry third day;for it is called an intermitting tertian which comes every other day. . . the primitive cauſes in generall are ſtrong exerciſes, eſpecially in the hot sun,the uſe of heating,and drying either meats or medicines, great abſtinence joyned with great labour, care,ſorrow; the antecedent cauſes are the plenty of choler in the body,an hot and dry diſ. temperature either of the wholebody,or of the liver only: the conjună cauſe is the putre- faćtion of the cholerick humor lying in ſome plenty without the greater veſſels, in the ha- bit of the body. the ſigns,a ſhaking or ſhivering like as when we have made water in a cold wintermor- ning a great pricking ſtretching.or ſtiffneſs,as if there were pins thruſt into us overall our bodies by reaſon of the acrimony of the cholerick humor driven uncertainly and violently over all the body, and the ſenſible membranous and nervous particles at the beginning of the fit; then preſently the heat becomes acrid, the feaverkindled,like a fire in dry ſtraw;the pulſe is great,quick and equal;the tongue dry;the urine yellowiſh,red and thin.the symp- tomes are watchings, . talking idlely, anger, . and toſſing the body at i. leaſt noiſe or whiſpering. theſe feayers are terminated by great ſweats. they are incident to cholerick young men,ſuch as are lean,and in summer;after the fit oft times follow cho- lerick vomiting and yellowiſh ſtools.after the fit there follows an abſolute intermiſſion re- taining no reliques of the feaver, untill the approach of the following fit, becauſe all the cholerick matter by the force of that fit and nature is eaſily caſt out of the body, by reaſon of its naturall levity and facility ; whereas in quotidians there is no ſuch thing, as which after the fit alwayes leave in the body a ſenſe and feeling of a certain inequality by reaſon of the ſtubborneſs of the phlegmatick humor,and dulnes to motion.the fit commonly uſes to endure , , or houres,although at ſome time it may be extended to or . this feaver is ended at fits,and uſually is not dangerous,unleſs there be ſome error committed by the phyſitian,patient,or ſuch as attend him.tertians in ſummer are ſhorter,in winter longer. wherefore the beginning of the fit is accompanied with ſtifileſs,or ſtretching, the ſtate with ſweat, whereupon if the noſe, lips or mouth break forth into piniples or ſcabs, it is a ſign of the end of the feaver,and of the power of nature which is able to drive the con- junét cauſe of the diſeaſe from the center to the habit of the body ; yet theſe pimples ap- pear not in the declining of all tertians,but only then, when the cholerick humor cauſin the feaverſhall reſide in the ſtomach,or is driven thither from ſome other part of the .# region of the liver. for hence the ſubtler portion thereof carryed by the continuation of the inner coat to the mouth and noſe,by its acrimony eaſily cauſes pimples in theſe places. the cure is performed by diet,and pharmacy. . - therefore let the diet be ſo ordered for the ſix things not naturall, that it may incline to refrigeration and hume&tion,as much as the digeſtive faculty will permit,as lettuce,sor- rel,gourds,cowcumbers,mallows,barly creams, wine much allaid with water,thin,ſmall, and that ſparingly and not before ſigns of concoëtion ſhall . in the urine; for at the beginning he may not uſe wine, nor in the declining,bnt with theſe conditions, which we have preſcribed. but for the time offeeding the patient,on that day the fit is º cat nothing for three houres before the fit, left the aguiſh heat lighting on ſuch meats as yet crude, may corrupt and putrefie them ; whence the matter of the feaver may be increaſed, (becauſe it is as proper to that heat to corrupt all things, as to the native to preſerve and vindicate from putrefa&ion)the fit lengthened,and nature called away from the concoëtion and ex- cretion of the morbifick humor; yet we may temper the ſeverity of this law by having re- gard to the ſtrength of the patient; for it will be convenient to feed a weak patient not only before the fit,but alſo in the fit itſelf.but that only ſparingly,lºſt the ſtrength ſhould be too much impaired. . now lie. . of tumors againſt nature ingenerall. -* and neceſſary now for pharmacy ; it muſt be conſidered, whether the ſtrength of the patient be ſuffici- ent, if the humors abound; for then you may preſcribe diaprunum ſimplex,caſsia newly ex- traćted, the decočtion of violets, ..? citrin myrobalanes; syrups of violets, roſes, of pomegranats and vineger. but if the powers of the patient languiſh, he muſt not onl not be purged, but alſo muſt not draw blood too plenteouſly, becauſe cholerick men ſoon faint, by reaſon of the facile and eaſie diſſipation of the ſubtle humors and ſpirits; beſides ſuch as are ſubjećt to tertian feavers do not commonly abound with blood, unleſs it be with cholerick bloud, which muſtrather be renued, or amended by cooling and hume&ting things, than evacuated. yea verily, when it is both commodious ſuch things as work by inſenſible tranſpiration, which provoke ſweats, vomit or urine by reaſon of the ſubtlety of the cholerick humor,than by any other. alſo the frequent uſe of emollient, glyſters made with a decočtion of prunes, jujubes, violets, brah to evacuate the body, it may bee attempted with far more ſafety by . when to purge the patient. and barley, will profit much. . if the patient fall into a delirium or talk idlely by rea- fon of the heat and dryneſs of the head, with a particular exceſs of the cholerick hu- mor, the head muſt be cooled by applying to the temples and forehead and puttin into the noſe oyl of violets, roſes, or womans milk. let the feet and legs be bathed in #. and warm water, and the ſoles of the feet be anointed with oyl of violets and ſuch ike. - in the declining, a bath made of the branches of vines, the leaves of willowes, lettuce and other refrigerating things boiled in fair water, may be profitably uſed three houres after meat eaten ſparingly. - but i would have you ſo to underſtand the declination or declining not of one parti- cular fit, but of the º in generall, that the humors already conco&ed, allured to the skin by the warmneſs of the bath, may more eaſily and readily breath forth: he which o- therwiſe ordains abath at the beginning of the diſeaſe, will cauſe a conſtipation in the skiri and habit of the body, by drawing thither the humors peradventure tough and groſs,no e- vacuation going before. - -- alſo it will be good after generall purgations to cauſe ſweat by drinking white wine thin and well tempered with water;buturine by a decoètion of smallage and dill;certain- ly ſweat is very laudable in every putrid feaver, becauſe it evacuates the conjunét matter ofthe diſeaſe,but chiefly in a tertian, by reaſon that choler by its inbred levity eaſily takes that way,and by its ſubtilty is eaſily reſolved into ſweat.but that the ſweat may be lauda- ble it is fit it be upon a criticall day,and be foreſhewed by ſigns of concoëtion agreeable to the time andmanner of the diſeaſe. sweats when as they flow more ſlowly are forwarded by things taken inwardly and applied outwardly; by things taken inwardly, as with white wine, with a decoètion o Éigs, raiſins ſtoned, graſſe roots and the like, opening things; but by things outwardly applied, and ſpunges #: in a decoötion of hot herbs (as roſmary, time, lavander, marjeromand the like) applied to the groins, armholes, and ridge of the back. • * . . . . [... --, - . . . . you may for the ſame purpoſe, fill two swines bladders with the ſame decočtion, or elſe ſtone bottles, and put them to the feet, fides, and between the thighes. then let this be the bound of .# when the patient begins to waxe cold,that is, when the ſweat feels no more hot, but cold. - . . . . . . * ... but by the conſºntofall,bloud muſt not be letten after the third fit, but preſently at the beginningofthe faver,according to the opinion and preſcription of galen; for ſeeing this faverfor the moſt part is terminated at ſeven fits, if you ſtay untill the third fit bee fº the feayer will now become to its ſtate; but hippocrates forbids us to move anything n thegº. left nature then buſied in conco&ing the #. be called from its begun en- terpriſe. - j . . a. . . . . - chap. xvi. of an oedema or cold phlegmatick tumor. * ----- … ຠitherto wehave treated of hot tumors, now wenuſ ſpeak of cold; cold tu- fºlſ) mors are only two, an oedema and a scirrhuſ; and for all that hippocrates and §§ the ancients uſed the word oedema for all ſorts of tumor, in generall ; yet º by galen and theſe phyſitians, which ſucceeded him, it hath been drawn from matick humor. outlikºmi. practer natºrſ, - that large and general ſignification, to a more ſtrait and ſpeciall,only to defigh a certain ſpecies, or #. of tumor. > - - - - real,” y g". whereforean oedema is a ſoft,laxe and painleſſe tumor,cauſed by colle&ion of a phleg- whatan . . . . . . . - oedemail. - when the time is fit to uſe a bath, what kind, dº cvacuations are moſt fit in a tertian. \ . sudoisk. - when blood muſt be let. .. , aphºray. -- seči. . - “a - * * ------- * the ancients made eight differences of tumors proceeding of phlegm, the firſt they rheader' tºrmed a true, and lawfull oedema proceeding from naturall phlegmº from unnaturaſi. - ... of oedemé phlegm by admixtion of anotherhumor they wº havethree ſorts of tumors to ariſe, i. ces o - - - - - -º that . *— io . by how many waies phlegm becomes not naturall. the cauſes, the ſigns. the progno- aſticks, - how oedema's are terminated, the intentions of curing oede- ºna's, the diet. of tumors againſt nature in generall. li b. . that by mixture of blood, ſhould be made an oedema phlegmonodes, and ſo of thereſt. beſides,when they perceived unnaturall phlegm eitherpuffed up by flatulency,or to flow with a wateriſh moiſture, they called ſome oedemats flatulent, others wateriſh; but alſo when they ſaw this ſame phlegm often to turn into a certain plaiſter-like ſubſtance, they thought that hence proceeded another kind of oedema, which they expreſſed one while by the name of atheroma, anotherwhile by steatoma,and ſometimes by melicerides, as laſtly,they called that kind of oedema which is cauſed by putrid and corrupt flegm,scrºphule. #. wc muſt obſerve that phlegm ſometimes is naturall, and offends only in quantity,whence the * true oedema proceeds ; otherwhiles it is not naturall; and it becomes not naturall, either by admixtion of a ſtrange ſubſtance,as bloud,choler or melancholy,whence ariſe the three kinds of oedema's rioted formerly by the way; or by the putridneſs and corruptions of its proper ſubſtance,whence the strume and scrophule proceed;or by concretion, whence kernels and all kinds of wens, ganglia and knots; or by reſolution, whence all flatulent and wa- teriſhtumors,as the hydrocele,pneumatocele and all kinds of dropſies. - the cauſes of all oedema's are the defluxion of a phlegmatick or flatulent humor into a- ny part,or the congeſtion of the ſame made by little . imbecillity thereof in concoëting the nouriſhment,and expelling the excrement. } . the ſigns are a colour whitiſh and like unto the skin,a ſofttumor, rare and laxe by rea- ſon of the plentifull moiſture with which it abounds, and without pain, by reaſon this humor infers no ſenſe of heat nor manifeſt cold; when you preſs it with your finger the print thereof remains, becauſe of the groſneſs of the humor and ſlowneſs to motion. oe- dema's breed rather in winter than in ſummer, becauſe winter is fitter to heap up phlegm ; they chiefly poſſeſs the nervous and glandulous parts, becauſe they are bloudleſs, and ſo cold and more fit by reaſon of their looſneſs to receive a defluxion; for the ſame cauſe º: full of ill humors, ancient, and not exerciſed, are chiefly troubled with this kind of tumor. - - - an oelma is terminated ſometimes by reſolution, but oftnerby concretion,ſºldomer by ſuppuration,by reaſon of the ſmall quantity of heat in that humor. º symptomaticall oedema,as that which follows upon a dropſie or conſumption, ad- mits no cure unleſs the diſeaſe be firſt taken away. . the generall cure is placed in two things, that is, in evacuation of the conjuna matter prohibiting the generation of the antecedent. we attaine to both . four nieans. the firſt truly by ordaining a fit manner of living and preſcribing moderation in the uſe of the ſix things not naturall. wherefore we muſt make choiſe of ſuch air as is hot, and ſubtile; we muſt preſcribe wine of a middle nature for his drink; let the bread be we exerciſe. what to be obſerved in the uſe of venery. . epidſº. . ſen. , lib. d glauc. tap. . a rowler, baked; let meats be appointed which may generate good bloud, and theſe rather roſted than boyled. let all fruits be forbidden, as alſo broths and milk-meats; let him cat ſuch fiſhasare takenin ſtony rivers; the paticut ſhall obſerve mediocrity in feeding, but prin- cipally ſobriety in drinking, for fear of crudities; after meat let him uſe digeſtive pow- ders,or common drige powder; if his belly be not naturally looſe,]et it be made ſo by art;. lºt the patient uſe exerciſe before meat, ſo by little and #. to ſpend this humor, and reſtore the native heat. let him ſleep little, becauſ; much ſleep breedºth cold humors; let him avoid gricfand ſadneſs. and if hebeofa weak body, let him abſtain from venery, leſ: by another weakning by the uſe of venery added to his preſent infirmity, he fall into an uncurable coldneſs,from whence a greater meaſure of crudity will ariſe. otherwiſe, if body be ſtrong and luſty,by ſuch exerciſes and the moderate uſe of venery it will be the more dryed and heatcd. . . . . . . . . . . . . . for ſo that ſentence of hiſtocrates is to be underſtood; that venery is a cure for phlºgº matick diſeaſes,as galen in his commentaries tels us. the phyfitian may perform the ſecond intention by turning his counſell to that part from whence the ſpring of this phlegmatick humor flows. for if the infirmity ariſe from the ſtomach, or from any other part,the from whence it comes muſt be ſtrengthened; if from the whole habit of the body, let atte- nuating,penetrating and opening medicines be preſtribed. we perform the third intention º evacuating the humer impač in the part with locall medicines varied according to t * - - - * * ~ * * * e four times of the tümor. “ for galen in the beginning and encreaſe preſcribeth a fomentation of qxycratum uſed with a ſpunge. but if ſo be that the oedema beupon the r. or leg, a repellingrowler is very good, that is, ſuch an one as is brought from below upwards. so theſe medicines following are very fit for the ſame purpoſe, r, lixivilex timeribus ſarmentºrum, & taulium, an; ; iiij, tartari & alumini, an: ſ, *: iſ, mixe all together and make a deco&ion, whereinwet ſponges and foment the place. aſſo you may uſe the following cataplaſm. . r, farine bordei iii, coquantur in lixivio communi, addendºfulveri mºti; #; corticum gra- natorun, balauſti, am. i, myrihe, aloes, alºn. an. ſ, olei myrtill. iſ, fiat cataplaſma. in the flate and declination you unuſt uſe drying and reſolving medicines, as r, nicum tupieſii, grandt.ſunach. balduſti, an: ; i, salvia, origan, calamient. hyſſi, meliſſe an. m. i, abſinthii, plan- tag. caude equ-tapſ, barb, cºntinod, an m. ſ: alum.tartar. & ſali cºm.am. i, coquantur cum lixi- *iº foment it with a ſpunge, them preſently apply this following cataplaſm. r, rad. ~ * * brionie little in any part,by reaſon of the li . • " of tumorſ againſt nature ———z---— if * -" - - ingenerall. brionie iſ, abſinth. plantag. centin. chamem. meliloti, pelºg. *.m. ſ. coquantur in hydromelite, pi. ſtentur,trafficiantur, addendo pulveris roſ. rub. chamem. melil, an i,fiat cataplaſma. laſily, you may here with good ſucceſs uſe reſolving emplaiſters and ointments, firſt, - heating of chafing the part by frićtion or fomentations, as well moiſt as dry; otherwiſe emplaiſters will ſcarfly do their duty, by reaſon of the great coldneſs of the part,being not #. of itſelf to aſſimilate the nouriſhment, or to expell the ſuperfluous and unprofi- table humor.let a fomentation be made with whitewine,in which sage,roſemary, time, lavander, chamomile and melilote flowers, red roſes, orris roots, stechas and ſuch like have been boyled, with a little vinegar added thereunto. quench hotbricks in the ſame deco&tion, and apply them wrapped in linnen clothes to the affected part, for ſo a vapour will breath forth which hath an º piercing, eſolving and ſtrengthening faculty. but you may in ſtead of the bricks fitly apply hogs or qxe bladders, filled half full with the foreſaid decočtion,and that hot. the frićtions muſt be made of hot linnen clothes, for fo the native heat together with the bloud and ſpirits is recalled to the part, and fuligi- nous humors contained under the skin are reſolved, whereby the ſtrength of the partisin ſome part recovered. c. h. a. p. xvi i. of the cure of flatulent and wateriſh tumors. ºs formerly declared that not only flatulent and wateriſh tumors were compre- sº § hended under this word oedema, but alſo ſuch as are bred of congealed phlegm, º: § as atheromata,steatomata and melicerides. flatulent or windy tumors are cauſed by * vapour and wind kept in or contained ſometimes under the skin,ſomewhiles un- der the membranes, as the perioſteum and pericranium, whereupon inſues cruell torment by s which are endued with moſt exquiſite ſenſe. some- reaſon of the diſtention of theſe . times the entrails, as the ſtomach and guts are ſwollen and ſtretched out with wind,as in a tympany. - hey in this differ from a true and ligitimate oedema,that when you lay your finger up- on them and take it off again,there remains no fign of the preſſure thereof, becauſe they are diſtent by vapour and not by humor, for the vapour being preſſed returns ſpeedily again,as you may perceive by balls or bladders filled with wind. - - - - - - . the cauſe of ſuch tumors is the weakneſs of the native heat, not being able eaſily to re- ſolve and waſte the phlegm by which the windy tumors are raiſed,for ſo the morning sun (which in ſome ſort reſembles our native heat)cannot reſolve the miſts diſperſed in the air; which at noon it eaſily reſolves into pure air. alſo after the ſame manner our weaker heat ſtirs up vapours from that phlegm it could not diſſolve, which vapours are the matter of inflamations, or ſwellings. but oft times although the native heat be ſufficiently power- "full,yet becauſe the humor lyeth deep, r is kept by the thickneſs of ſome membrane, ten- donor ligament,the ſtirred up vapour cannot exhale, whereby it comes to paſs, that en- creaſed by little and little it cauſes a tumor. the ſigns of ſuch a tumor are a certain renitency or reſiſtance perceived by preſſing it with your finger, and ſometimes a noiſe as if you ſmite upon a drum, eſpecially if much wind be contained therein, ſuch as are often gathered together in the hollowneſs of the belly;and in the ſpaces between the larger muſcles. the tumor is neither red nor hot, but rather cold and white as in an oedema.it often poſſeſſeth the joints,and eſpecially the knees, and it is very difficult to be reſolved. if ſuch flatulency be gathered together in the guts, it cauſeth the wind colick, in which ſometimes the diſtention is ſo great that death en- ſues by reaſon of the renting or tearing the coats of the guts. - w y – chap. xviii. * . . . of the cure of a flatulent and wateriſh tumor. º; e ſhall chiefly and principally cure flatulent and wateriſh tumors by three means, *wx/. firſt,by the ſame diet which we preſcribed in an qedama; then by ſtrengthening ºf the parts appointed for concoëtions as the ſtomach and liver, chiefly by the tem: *** perate uſe of aromatick things,as diaruminum, diacalamentha, aromaticum cary hyl- lºtum, aromatitum roſarum,and the like, to be preſcribed according to good liking ºfthe phyſitian which overſees the cure; laſtly, by taking away of the conjun&matter by hot, dying and attenuating medicines which they call carminative, that ſo the part beingra. rified the humor and flatulency therein contained may be diſcuſſed and diſſipated. but re- #ledies of this nature muſt be varied according to the variety of the parts; for ſome things are fit to be applyed to the ſtomach, others to the guts,others to the joints, and others to the fleſhy parts; for the colick you muſt injećt carminative lyſters, let reſolving sacculi or bagsbc applicd, and cupping-glaſſes faſtened to the naveſ; if an outward part be at. , , --~ , whar caution to be had in application of emplaiſers, in what places flatulencies may be gathes red, * iu what flatus lent tumore differ from a true oedems. the cauſes of flatulent tu-. mors, the ſigns of ſuch tumors, diet, - things ſtrengthning the parts. medicines eva." cuating the conjund ma" ter. $tº - º i off.umors againſt nature in generall. lib. . galent fomen. tation. corroborating medicines, the figns of a wateriſh tu- mor. why a wate- riſh tumor muſt be opened with an inſtru. ment. a hiſtory. affected, we uſe fomentations,liniments,chiefly if pain torment; as alſo cataplaſmes and emplaiſters,as r. florum cham&m.melil.roriſmarini, roſar. rub. an. p.j.abſinthii ji, byſſºpi,an.m. let them be boiled in lye,adding a little vineger for a fomentation to be uſed with ſpunges. galen foments the part with . and a little ſalt put thereto, and would have a ſpunge dipped therein to lye ſomewhat long upon the part. r olei chamem., aneth. rut. & liliorum, an ſ, cere albe vi. aq. vite .j, let them all be mixed together and make a lini- ment,with which anoint the part after the fomentation. r. farine fabar, orobi, an. iíj, co- quanutur in decoãopulegii, origami, calamenth. ſalvie, addita pulverum chamem. & melilot.an. m.ſ , furfur. farine fab. & orobi, an. ij, cºquantur cum lixivio communi, addendo terebinth. iij, oleor. aneth, &rut. an: ;ij.make an emplaiſter for the foreſaid uſe. , the emplaiſter of vigo with mercury,and without,is very good for the ſame purpoſe. but you muſt note, that ſuch medicines muſt be applied to the part ačtually hot, and the ſame heat muſt be contained and renewcô by putting about it linnen clothes, bricks, bot- tles and ſuch like hot things. the humorand flatulency which were kept ſhut up in the part being reſolved, the part muſt be ſtrengthned,leſt now and then it receive or generate the like matter. that may be done by the following fomentation and cataplaſme.r. nucum cupreſſ, corticum granat, ſumach. berberi, balauſt. an. .ſaude equin.arnogloſs.tupſ barb. abſinth.ſalvie, roriſm.lavendul. an. m.ſ. for. chamem. melil.roſar. anthof, an.p. j. alum. ſali, com.an. .j, bulliant omnia in equi, partibus aque fa- brorum & vini aufferi,make bags for a fomentation, or uſe the decočtion for the ſame pur- poſe with a ſpunge.r. farine fab. bordei & lupin. an $ij.terebinth. cum. iiij. pulver.raditi ireos, maſtic, an. ſ., mellis com. ijſ, of the foreſaid decoötion as much as ſhall ſuffice,ſo to make a cataplaime to the form of a poultis liquid enough, let it be applied hot to the affected part having uſed the fomentation before. - the ſigns of a wateriſh tumor are the ſame as of a flatulent;but over and beſides it ſhines, and at the preſſing with your fingers, there is heard a noiſe or murmur as of a bladder half filled with water. therfore the wateriſh tumor if it ſhal notyeeld to the forementioned reſolving medicines, the way muſt be opened with an inciſion knife, after the ſame manner, as we mentioned in a phlegmon. for oftentimes this kind of remedy muſt be neceſſarily uſed,not only by rea- ſon of the contumacie of the humor which gives no place to the reſolving medicines, but alſo becauſe it is ſhut up in its proper ciſt or bag, the thickneſſe of which fruſtrates the force of the reſolving medicines, neither ſuffers it to penetrate into the humor. as i ſome years ago: found by experience in a maid of years old;which troubled with a hydrocele or wateriſh rupture,to whom when i had raſhly applyed to diſſolve it reſolving medicines of all ſorts,at length i was forc’t to open it with my knife;not only to evacuate the con- tained matter,but alſo that i might pluck out thebag, which unleſſe it were cut up b the root, would be a mean to cauſe a relapſe. john altine dočtor of phyſick called me to this buſineſſe. james guilemeau the kings chirurgeon overſaw the cure. in what an atheroma, steatoma,and meliceris dif. ſer, of chirurgery to be uſed to theſe tumors. * \ c h a p. xix. of an atheroma, steatoma, and meliteriſ. tº lthough theſe tumors may be thought comprehended under one genus with other $ oedematou tumors, yet they differ as thus:that is, their matter is ſhut up in its zººs bladder orbag, as it were in a pecular cell. but their difference amongſt them- tº ſelves is thus; the matter of the steatoma,as the name fignifieth, is like unto tal- low [for *i-sin greek fignifieth tallow,or ſtam]yet it oft-times is found ſtuffed with other divers hard bodies,ſtony, bony or callous like unto the claws of an hen.for philoxe- * reports that he ſometimes ſaw flyes in a steatona at the opening thereof,and ſuch other like things wholly diſſenting from the common matter of timor. the matter contained in an atheroma is like to pap,with which they feed little children.a meliteriº containsmat- ter, reſembling honey in cóíour and conſiſtence; theſe tumors appear and riſe without any inflamation going before them.thus you ſhal know theſe tumors;a steatoma is harder than the other two, neitherycelds it to the preſſure of your finger,but when it onceyeelds, it doth not ſpeedily and eaſily return to its former figure,becauſe the matter is more groſs; it is of the ſame colour as the skin, without pain,and of a longiſh figure.the meliceri, yeelds to the touch, as being a looſe and ſoftbody, and as it is eaſily diſpoſed and diffuſed,ſo it guickly returns to its former place and tumor. it differs from the atheroma in figure and ſubſtance. for it is more glóbous and of a ſubtiler and more ſhining matter, beſides alſo it takes up a large ſpace, and is more obſequious to the touch, and for the reſt, without pain. as for the manuall operation of the chirurgeon in their cure, it ſeems to be of no É. conſequence of what ſort the matter is,whether reſtmbling tallow, honey, or pape or there is one ſimplemanner of operation, which is, that you pluck away the contain: humor, as alſo the receptacle in which it is contained. yet you muſt note ſuch tumors, ſometimes as it were hanging in the ſurface of the skin, are eaſily to be moved this way. and l p. . oftumor, againſ nature ingeneral. --- - and that way; but otherſome again deeper faſtned firmly cohere with the adjacent bodies, and theſe require an exquiſit hand and alſo induſtry for fear of a great flux of blood and convulſion by cutting a vein.there are many other kinds of tumors,as the teſtudo or mole, the nata, the glamdula, nodu, botium, lupia,which as in matter (for they are all of a thick, clammy and viſcous phlegmatick humor) ſo alſo in kind they agree with an atheroma,stea- toma, and meliteris.but alſo in theſe for the moſt part, when they are opened, you may ſee bodies of all ſorts far different from the common matter of tumors, as ſtones, chalk, ſand, what the cauſe coals,ſnails, ſtraws;or awneſs of corn, hey, horn, hairs, fleſh both hard and ſpongeous, may bºthai wº griſtles,bones, whole creatures as well living as dead. ſo ; the generation of which things(by the corruption and alteration of humors)ſhall not #. make us much to admire it, if we confider, that as nature of all the ſeeds and elements of the whole great world,hath made man the microcoſme or little world,that he might be, as it were, the lively image of that greater world; ſo in him, it being never idle in us, would have all the {. of all motions and aftions to ſhew themſelves, as long as matter for generation is not wanting. but becauſe there is little, or rather no mention of theſe tu- mors amongſt the ancients, we will briefly ſhew the opinions of the later writers concer- ning them. now they ſay, the teſtudo is a tumor contrary to nature, ſoft,diffuſed, or vaulted,or ar- it the te- º * #. it ariſts in the head inform of mole and theni is ailed }; º: a [wioie. - ria is. the nata is a great and fleſhy tumor, not in ſhape unlike a melon, or rather the fleſh of what the wata a mans buttocks, whence it may ſeem to have had the name, unleſs we had rather ſay it is. . it, becauſe it more uſually breeds upon the buttocks,than upon any other part of the ody. - - the glandula takes its denomination from an acorn,called glans in latine, the which whata ganda. it ſomewhat reſembles in the compaſſe and form of the tumor;or elſe becauſe it moſt com- la: - monly breeds in the glandules, or emun&ories of mans body. ... : º: nodu, or knot, is a round tumor,hard and immoveable, named from a rope tied on what mºd”. a knot. - - guido cauliacenſis affirms knots commonly to grow in nervous bodies; but at this time they more uſually ariſe on the bones offiich as have the french diſeaſe. - - c h a p. xx. •' --. of the cure ºf lupie, that u, wen, or ganglion. wen or ganglion is a tumor ſometimes hard,ſometimes ſoft, yet alwaies round, % uſing to breed in dry, hard,and nervous parts.and ſeeing that ſome of the tu- % mors mentioned before in the former chapter,ſtick immoveable to the part to “... . . .) which they grow,becauſe they are contained in no ciſt, or bag;otherſome are . . . . . . * moved up and down by the touch of your fingers, becauſe they are contained - - - in abag or bladder,it commonly comes to paſſe that wenshave their bladder wherein to contain them,and therefore we think fit,the rather more º , and particularly to treat of their cure,becauſe they are more difficultly cured, eſpecially where they are inveterate and of long ſtanding. --- - - - - - . the primitive cauſes of theſe are dull blows,failings from high places, ſtrains, and other thecauſes; ſuch like occaſions. but the antecedent and conjunét cauſes are the ſame with thoſe of an atheroma, meliteri, and steatona. - " . the deſcription formerly ſet down, will furniſh you with the ſigns by which you may signe” know when they are preſent;certainly from very ſmall beginnings they grow by little and little to a great bigneſs,in the ſpace of fix or ſeven yeers,ſome of them yeeld much to the touch,and almoſt all of them are without pain. you may hinder ſuch as are beginning and firſt growing, from encreaſe by ſomewhat a thircure st ſtrong and frequent rubbing with your fingers.for ſo their big orbladder, together with he beginning, the skin wax thin,and the contained humor grows hot,is attenuated and .. but if ſo you nothing prevail, you muſt lieupon them with your whole hand, or a flatted peece of wood as heavy as you can untill ſuch time as the ciſt or bag be broken by your impreſ: . ſion;then apply and ºl. unto it a plate of lead,tubbed over with Öuick-fiver; paºlº, - y experience,that it hath a wonderfull force to reſolve and ; º waſt the ſubjećthumor.but if the §. be in ſuch a place in which you can make no "...# Ş...; in preſſion,as in the face,cheſtbelly,& throat,let there be applied an emplaiſter which hath plaiae. - a reſolving force,ſuch as this . hath; r gummi ammon.bd-liigalban, an: Žilj.liquefiant. thing to waº in acetº, & trajicianturper ſetaceum,addendo oleililiorum & lauri, an:#. aqu, vite pārum, fukieri. º: * ireeſ, ſali, ammon.ſulphur. vivi, vitrioli romani, an. ſ. let them be all incorporated together, the bag. and make an emplaiſter according to art. but if the tumor cannot be thus reſolved, it muſt be opened with a knife or cautery.and after the eſcharis removed,and the bag waſted by afgyptiacum, mercury,and the like,the ulcer muſt be cleanſed, repleniſhed with fleſh, and cicatrized. Šome what a glaii. glion is, for i have many times found , c , , , , ºr - - - of tumors againſt nature in generall. linz. the manner to take away wens, a hiſtory. what wens to be cured by ligature. which dange. rous rocure. a hiſtory. . . the matter of a wen is ſome. times taken for a cancer. another hiſtory. how you may know a wen from a cancer. what a gan- #. properly o called is. the cauſes, sometimes wens grow to ſo great a maſſe, that they cannot be cured by the deſcribed remedies,wherefore they muſt be taken away by the root,by your hand and inſtrument, if ſo be that there be no ãº: by reaſon of their greatneſs,and ſo that they adhere not too cloſely to the adjacent parts,and if they be not too nigh to the greater veins and arteries; for it will be better in Å. a cauſe to let them alone.this ſhall be your way to cut them off,or take them away. a ſmall inciſion muſt be made,even to the bladder,or º which thruſtin a probe of a fingers thickneſs,hollowed in the midſt, round at the end,and as long as necd ſhal require;then draw it many times about between the skin & the bag,even to the root of the wen,that ſo the skin may be divided long waies, then it will be requiſite to make another inciſion overthwart, ſo that they may interſečt each other like a croſs; then preſently draw the skin from the bladder,from the corners of the wen,towards the root, and that with your finger covered with a fine linnen cloth, or elſe with a razor if need recruite. - ‘. yon muſt obſerve that in a wen there are alwaies certain veſſels, which are ſmall in the beginning, but much encreaſed in proceſſe of time, according to the encreaſe of the wen, whereof they are as it were the roots;wherefore if any hemorrhagie or flux of bloud happen, let it be ſtopped by binding the veſſels at their heads and roots,or make a ſtrait li- gature at the roots of the wen, with a peece of whipcord,or with a many times doubled thred, and let the ends hangforth until it fallaway of its own accord. neither will it bee ſufficient to have cut away all this tumor,but alſo it will be fit to cut away a portion of the skin, wherewith the tumor was covered,and only to leave ſo much as ſhall ſuffice to co- yer the part,then with a needle and thred draw together the lips of the inciſion,but in the interim let tents be put into the bottome of the ulcer untill it be perfe&ly cleanſed,and the reſtofthe curebeworkmanlike performed,even to the cicatrizing thereof. the chirurgeon collo and i uſing this method,in the preſence of maſter dr.violanius the kings phyſitian,took away a wen from martiall colard,the major of burbon; it hanged at his neck,as big as a mans head,and it weighed eight pounds;which made it ſo troubleſome and burdenſome to him, that he was forced to carry it bouud up in a towell, as in a ſcrip. verily if theſe kind of tumors have a ſlender root and broad top, they muſt be ſtraitly tied and ſo cut off. but it is very difficult and full of dangerous chance to take away ſuch wens as are ſeated in theneck,neer unto the jugular veins,theſe under the jº. in the groins, and ſuch as are under the ham;by reaſon of the deadly force of ſuch ſymp- tomes, as may thence ariſe. we can only conjećture, not certainly ſay, what kind of mat- ter may be contained in them. we can only know of what ſort it is, when by inciſion it is preſented to our ſight. yet in ſuch as are very hard and do much reſiſt the touch, there are often found matters, which in conſiſtence may be reſembled to little ſtones or pibles. i being on a time called to open the body of a great lady, found in one of herbreſts a body which might equal the bigneſs of an hens egg hard, and compačt like a rough pible; it was held, whilſt ſhe lived,both º the phyfitians and chirurgeons,to be a cance?,becauſe this hardneſs was very painfull to her, when it was but gently preſſed down. , but alſo ſome few yeers agon,i being called to the cure of a very"honeſt woman, which was troubled with the ſame diſeaſe, ſtrongly withſtood the phyſitians and chirurgeons affirming it to be acancer, for the tumor had taken no deep root,the habit of the part was not changed from the native colour,the veins about it were not ſwollen,neither was there any other convincing ſign of a cancer.for this ſame woman had her courſes at their due and uſuall time, and was well liking,and had a good colour in her face and body, was free from all ſort of pain, unleſſe when you preſſed down the part affečted. beſides thence for- ward the tumor grew not at all;no other evill accident befel her,yeaverily ſhe lives merri- !y,and well bothin body and mind. c. h. a. p. xxi. of a ganglion more particularly ſº called. *here are alſo certain ſmall tumors of the kind of lupie or wens, which grow on § § divers parts of the body,but chiefly on the wriſts of the hands,and ankles of the ºf feet,being called by amóre particular name ganglia;they . on the top of the - " skin, neither do they ever lie deep.the cauſe of them is either the imbecillity of a nerve or tendon got by wreſting, extenſion, a blow, labour, or other ſuch like cauſe. through which occaſion the alimentary juice which flowed to theſe parts, ſeeing it can neither be concoëted, nor aſſimilated into the proper ſubſtance, is converted into an hu- what ganglia may not be cured with iron inſtruments, mor of the like nature cold,and groſs, which in continuance of time heaping itſelf up by little and little about the fibers,and the very ſubſtance of the tendon, concretes into a tu- inor. ... it is not fit to uſe any iron inſtrument to theſe gunglia which poſſeſs the tendons and joints, but only apply ammoniacum and galbanum diſſolved in vinegar and aquavite: as r. gamm --- - li b. . of tumors againſ nature ingeneral. gumi ammon.é ſagapeni in aqua vite diſſolutorum, an. .j, toguantur ſuper cineres, tulido; adforman emplaſtri,ſub finem adde ſulphuri, vivi ſubtiliter pulveriſati ſ, fiat empl. ad uſum.alſo the emplai- fler of vigo with double mercury would be good for the ſame purpoſe. - the timor ſoftned by theſe remedies,muſt be wrought,rubbed, or preſſed,ſo longjuntill the bladder or bag be broken under your fingers,which i have divers times done; then it will be expedient preſently to apply and bind hard thereunto a plate of lead rubbed with quick-filver,which may waſ and conſume the remainder of the tumor. sometimes there are ganglia ſeen hanging by a ſmall root,as it were a ſtring; wherefore they muſt be tied with a ſtring at the root,and every day twitched harder and harder, till º º: as they fall off. the reſt of the cure may be eaſily performed by the common rules of art. -w - t c h a p. xxii. - of the strum or scrophula,that it,the kings-evil. sº he scrºphule are a dematous tumors ariſing in the glandulous parts, as the §§ breſts,armholes, groins, butchiefly in the glandules of the neck. they appear & either one or many,according to the quantity of that matter from whence they proceed,commonly contained in their proper ciſt,or bag, as atheronaes, steatomaes, and melicerides are. - they are made of a groſſe,cold, viſcid,and phlegmatick matter with ſome admixture of melancholy.they differ from other glandulous tumors;firſt in number, for moſt uſually there appear many of them united together,ſpringing from ſomewhat a deeper root than glandulous tumors doe;ſome of them are moveable,otherſome woven with the neighbou- ring nerves,remaining unremovable. , ganglie appear fewer in number,and are without pain; but scrophule oftten timesare painfull, eſpecially when they wax hot by putrefaction;ſo that ſometimes they degenerate into cancerous ulcers, not to be touched by inſtrunients nor acrid medicines. phlegmatick, melancholick, and gluttonous perſons,and ſuch as are accuſtomed to feed on cold and moiſt nouriſhments, as fiſh and cold water, and lead a ſedentarie and idle life,’ are ſubjećt to the scrophule.they are cured by a moſt ſlender diet, for ſo the native heat by want of nouriſhment turned upon the material cauſe of ſuch like tumors,waſts it. and they are cured by purging of the ſuperfluous humors, and alſo by application of emollient reſolving,and fº topick medicines,after this following manner.r. mu- cagini, alth fenugróficuumping, an: ij, leililiorum, & chamen.an.jpinguedini, anſeri, & axum- gie forci Şſ, terebinth. ven. iſ, ammoniaci, & galbani in aceto diſſolutorum an $j.ceremove quan- tum ſatis,fiat cerotum ſecundum artem ad modum diachyli magni. the ointment for the french diſeaſe,and the emplaiſter of vigo with mercury, are excel- lent for this purpoſe,eſpecially if we continue ſo long untill the patient come to salivati- on,for ſo nature will disburden itſelf of the humor, generating the scrophule, which i have ſometimes tried with happy ſucceſſe.r. emplaſtri diachyl, alb. mag.ceroti aſ fi #. oni, philagrii, an. §erebinth, clare .j. olei liliorum parum, fiat emplaſtrum ſatis mole. but if the scrºphule cannot by this meansbe reſolved,but as it oft-times happens, tend to ſuppurati- on, you muſt uſe ſuppuratives,as r. rad.alth, & liliorum,an. iij.coquantur in aqua communi, pi- ſtentur, traječis adde capituin alliorum ſub cineribus coãorum iij,alei liliorum,éºping.anjeri, & anat. an. %farine ſemini, lini quantum ſatis,formerur cataplaſma. here we muſt admoniſh the chirurgeon, that he open not the scrophule before that all the contained humor befully and perfeótly turned into pu, or matter;otherwiſe the reſidue of the humor will remain crude, and will ſcarſe in a long time be brought to maturation; which precept muſt be principally obſerved in the scrºphule, and alſo ſometimes in other abſceſks,which come to ſuppuration. for we inuſt not as ſoon as any portion of the con- tained humors appears converted into put, procure and haſten the apertion. for that por- on of the ſuppurated humor,cauſes the reſtſooner to turn into put, which you may obſerve in inanimatebodies.for fruits which begin to periſh and rot, unleſs we preſently cutaway the putrefying part,the reſidue quickly becomes rotten;there is alſo another reaſon; the native heat is the efficient cauſe of ſuppuration; it therefore (the ſore being opened) di- miniſhed and weakned by reaſon of the diſſipation of the ſpirits, evacuated together with the humor, will cauſe the remaining portion of the humor not to ſuppurate, or that very hardly, and with much difficulty. yet if the tumified part be j its own nature,to corruption and putrefaction, as the fundament;if thc contained matter be malign, or criti- call,it will be far better to haſten the apertion. - - there is alſo another way of curing the scrºphule,which is performed by the hand. for ſuch as are in theneck;and have no deep roots,by making inciſion through the skin, are pulled and cut away from theſe parts with which they were intangled. but in the perfor- mance of this work, we take ſpeciall care,that we doc not violate or hurt with our inſtru- ment,the jugular veins, the ſleepy arteries, or recurrent nerves. ifat any timethere bed-n- £ck `- - what the scrophule of kings-evil is. their materialſ cauſe. how they dif. fer from other glandulous luginotso - their cure by diet. emollient and reſolving me- dicines: suppuratives; a note to be obſerved in opening scré- philous tuners: naturall heat . the cauſe of ſuppuration; the chirurgiº call manner of curing, scro- phule. of tumors againſt nature in generall. lip. . ger of any great efflux of bloud,after they are plucked from the skin, they muſt be, tied at their roots, by thruſting through a needle and thred,and then binding the thred ſtrait on both fides, that ſo bound they fall off by themſelvesby little and little without any dan- ger. the remainder of the cure may be performed according to the common rules of art. c h a p. xxiii. of the feaver which happens upon an adematous tumor. - - - - how an inter- - Žaying ſhewed all the differences of a dematous tumors,it remains that we brief. mitting quoti- } ly treat of the symptomatical feaver,which is ſometimes ſeen to happen upon :": : them.this therefore retaining the motion of the humor by which it is mºd. tosstumors. " aş is commonly of their kind,which they name intermitting quotidians. now, the cauſe of a * the fit of a quotidian comes ºvery day, and in that repetition continues the quotidian ſpace of eighteen hours;the reſidue of the day it hath manifeſtintermiſſion. feaver, the primitive cauſes of this feaver are the coldneſſ and humidity ofthe air encompaſ- ſing us, the long uſe of cold meats and drinks,and of all ſuch things as are eaſily corrup- ted as summer fruits,crude fiſhes,and laſtly,the omiſſion of our accuſtomed exerciſe. the antecedent cauſes are a great repletion of tumors,and theſe eſpecially phlegmatick. * - the conjunét cauſe, is phlegmputrefying in the habit of the body, and firſºgion ther of ``s without the greater veins. - the signs, the ſigns of this feaver are drawn from three things;as firſt naturall;for this feaver or ague chiefly ſeizes upon theſe which are of a cold and moiſt temperas old-men, women children, eunuches,becauſe they have abundance of phlegm; . it invades old men b; its own nature becauſe their native heat being weak, they cannot convert their meats,then howehildren taken in a ſmall quantity.into laudable blood,and the ſubſtance of the º it takes come to be children by accident, not of its ſelf and the own nature,for children are hot and moiſt but ſ. to by reaſon of their voracity,or greedineſs,and their violent,inordinate,aud continuallmo- quotidian tion after their plentifull feeding,they heap up a great quantity ofcrude humors fit mat- feavers. terfor this feaver;whereby it comes to paſſe, that fat children are chiefly troubled with this kind of feaver, becauſe they have the paſſages of their bodies ſtrait and ſtopped, or becauſe they are ſubjećt to worms, they are troubled with pain, by corruption of their meat; whence ariſetha hot diſemper by putrefaction,and the elevation of putrid vapors, by which the heart being moleſted,is eaſily taken by this kind of feaver. from things not naturall,the figns of this feaver are thus drawn.it chiefly takes one in winter, and the spring,in a cold and moiſt region,in a ſedentary and idle life, by the uſe ofmeats,not only cold and moiſt,but alſo hot and dry,if they be devoured in ſuch plenty, that they overwhelm the native heat. how phlegma- forthus wine,although it be by faculty and nature,hot, and dry, yet taken too inimo- tick humors, derately,it accumulates phlegmatick humors, and cauſes cold diſeaſes.therefore drunken- *:::::...” neſs,gluttony,crudity bathcs and exerciſes preſently after meat,being they draw the meats for and dry as yet crude into the body and veins;and to conclude, all things cauſing much phlegm in incatse us, may begeta quotidian feaver. but by things contrary to nature, becauſe this feaver uſually follows cold diſeaſes,the center, circumference,and habit of the body being re- frigerated. the ſymptoms #. ſymptoms ofthis feaver are the pain of the mouth of the ſtomack, becauſe that of quotidians, phlegm is . heaped up in this place, whence follows a vomiting, or caſting up of phlegm;the face looks pale and the mouth is moiſt, without any thirſt, ofttentimes in the fit itſelf becauſe the ſtomack flowing with phlegm,the watery and thinner portion there- of continually flows up into the mouth and tongue,by the contiuuity of the inner coat of the j. common to the gullet and mouth. remanner of . it takes one with coldneſs of the extreme parts,a ſmall and deep pulſe which notwith- jºiná ſtanding in the vigour of the fit becomes more ſtrong, great, full,and quick. juſt after the hearin a qgo- ſame manner,as the heat of this feaver at the firſt touch appears mild, gentle,moiſt and va- tidian, porous;but at the length it is felt more acrid, no otherwiſe than fire kindled in green wood,which is ſmall, weak,and ſmoakie at the firſt, but at the length when the moiſture - being overcome,doth no more hinder its ačtion, it burns and flames freely. critical ſweats. the patients are freed from th:ir fits with ſmall ſweats, which at the firſt fits break forth the urin, very ſparingly,but more plentifully when the criſis is at hand;the urin at the firſt is pale and thick,and ſometimes thin,that is, when there is obſtrućtion. but when the matter is conco&t,as in the ſtate,it is red;if at the begiuning of the fit they caſt up any quantity of phlegm by vomit,and that fit be terminated in a plentifull ſweat, it ſhºws the favºr will why quotidi. not long laſt;for it argues the ſtrength of nature, the yeelding and tenuitie of the matter ansate ofttimes flying up,and the excretion of the conjun't cauſe of the feaver. long- - a quotidian feaver is commonly long,becauſe the phlegmatick humor being cold, and, ºl.” moiſt by nature,is heavy and unapt for motion;neither is it without fear of a greater diſ- jº eaſe,becauſe oft-times it changes into a burning, or quartain feaver,cſpecially if it be bred changes. of lib. . of tumors againſt nature ingenerall . --- ** of alt phlegme;for altnels hath affinity with bitternels,wherefore by aduſtion it eaſily de- enerates into it,ſo that,it need not ſeem very ſtrange, if ſalt phlegm by aduſtion turn into choler, r melancholy.thoſe who recover of a quotidian feaver,have their digeſtive facul- ty very weak; wherefore they muſt not be nouriſhed with ſtore of meats, rior with ſuch as are hard to digeſt. in a quotidian the whole body is filled with crude humors, where- - by it comes to paſſ that this feaver oft-times laſts ſixty daies. but have a care, you be howie diffia not deceived,and take a double tertian for a quotidian, becauſe it takes the patient every jº. º day as a quotidian doth, verily it will be very eaſie to diſtinguiſh theſe feavers by the jian from a kind ofthe humor, and the propriety of the ſymptomes and accidents; beſide, quotidians double tertiań. commonly take one in the evening, or the midſt of the night,as then when our bodies are refrigerated by the coldneſs of the air cauſed by the abſence of the sun.wherefore then the cold huniors are moved in us, which were bridled a little beforeby the preſence and heat w of the sun. but on the contrary, double tertians take one about noon. the ſhortneſs and - gentleneſs of the fit, the plentifull ſweat breaking forth,the matter being conco&ted, cau- ſes us to think the quotidian ſhort and ſalutary. . . . . . . . . . . . . the cure is performed by two means; to wit, dict, and pharmacy.let the dict be ſlen- diet: der and attenuating,let the patient breath in a cleer air moderately hot and dry; let his meats be bread well baked,cock or chickenbroths in which have been boiled the roots of parſly, sorrell and the like. . - neither at ſometimes will the uſe of hot meats,as thoſe which are ſpiced and ſalted, be when the uſe unprofitable,eſpecially to ſuch as have their ſtomachaud liver much cooled. let him eat of ſpiced and chickens, mutton, partridge and ſmall birds, river fiſhes and ſuch as live in ſtony ſalted meatsate waters fryed or boiled, rear egs and ſuch like. theſe fruits are alſo good for him, * raiſons, fiewed prunes,almonds and d. tis. let his drinkº be ſmall, white wine mixed with boiled, water. moderate exerciſes will be, good, as alſo frićtions of the whole body : ſleep taken at a fitting time, and proportioned to waking, ſo that the - - time of ſleep fall not upon the time of the fit; for then it hurts very much; for calling when fleep is the heat to the inner parts, it doubles the raging of the feaveriſh heat inwardly in the hurtfull, bowels. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . - y for the paſſions of the mind, the patient muſt be merry, and comforted with a hope ſhortly to recover his health. it ſeems not amiſſe to ſome, at the coming of the fit to put the feet and legs into hot water, in which chamomill, dill,melilot,marjerom, sage, and roſemary have been boiled. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . - ~~~~ ... the medicines ſhall be ſuch ſyrups as are called digeſtive and aperitive, as ſyrup of medicine: wormwood, mints, ofthe five opening roots, oxymelyith a decoğion of chamomill, - calamint, melilot, dill, and the like or with common decoğions. the purgatives, ſhall. be diaphenicon, elºğuarium diacºſthºmi, hiera picra, agarick, turbith, of which you ſhall, make potions with the water of mints,balm, hyſſop, sage, fennell, endive or the like, . . pillaleauree are alſo good.theſe purgatives ſhall ſometimes be given inform of a bole with ſugar,as the phyfitian being preſent ſhall thinkmoſt fit and agreeable to the nature of the patient. . - - -, . - about the ſtate of the diſeaſe, you muſt have a care of the ſtomach and principally of the care muſite, mouth thereof, as being the chief ſeat of phlegm; whereforeit will be good to anoint it had of the every other day with oil of chamomill mixed with a little white wine, as alſo to unlade *...* it by taking a vomit of the juice of radiſh, and much oxymel, or with the decoètion of "" theſeeds and roots of aſarum and chamomill; and ſyrup of vinegar will be very good, ** eſpecially at the beginning of the fit, when nature and the humors begin to moye, for an hºuſe ºf inveterate quotidian,though you can cure º other remedy, nothing is thought to treacle in and conduceſo much as one dramofold treacle taken with ſugar in form of a bole, or to †. - drink it diſſolved in aqua vite. . . . . . . . . . . . . * - . * * *, chap. xxiv. . . . . . . . . * * * * * º -- -- - - ºr ºf * . . . ; t - - - - - - . . . . . . º - - tº . . . º "." ", , , ºn ºf of a scirrhus, or an hard tumor prºceeding of melandidly. º 'º. sº aving ſhewed the nature of tumors' . blood, choler and phlegm, # §§lſº remains we ſpeak of theſe which are bred of a melancholick humor; of theſe . § there are ſaid to be four differences. the firſt is of a true and legitimate witat r ! stirrhuſ, that is of anhard tumor endued with little ſenſe, and ſocommonly . . * without pain, generated of anattitallmelanchºlick humor.the ſecond is, of. ;* an illegitimate scirrhus, that is of an hard tumor inſenſible, and without pain, of a wharinitiegå a melanchclick humor concrete by too much reſolving and refrigerating. thetthird is mate stirrhus of a cancrous scirrhus bred by the corruption and aduſtion of the melancholick humor. " the fourth of a phlegmonous, eryſipelous or oedematou, scirrhus, cauſed by melancholy mixed with ſome other humor. the cauſe of all theſe kinds of tumors is a groſſé, tough and tenacious humor concrete in any part. but the generation of ſuch an hu- mor in the body happens either of an ill andgºlº diet, or of the unnaturall affº, * q . _ of tumors againſt nature in generall. – l i b. . ºw- of the liver or ſpleen,as obſtrućtion; or by ſuppreſſion of the hemorrhoids or courſes. * . the ſigns are hardneſs,renitency, a blackiſh colour, and a dilation of the veins of the affe&ted part with blackiſhneſs, by reaſon of the abundance of the groſs humor. the ille- gitimate or baſtard scirrhus which is wholly without pain and fenſe,and alſo the cancerous prognoſtick, admit no cure,and the true legitimate ſcarce yeeld to any. thoſe which are brought to ſuppuration,eaſily turn into cancers and fiſtulacs; theſe tumors though in the beginning they appear little, yet in proceſs of time they grow to a great bigneſs. the signs. - chap. xxv. . of the cure ºf a scirrhus. i *she cure of a scirrhus chiefly conſiſts of three heads. firſt, the phyſitian ſhall ºğ preſcribe a convenient diet, that is ſober and moderate in feeding, tending to º sº j and indifferent heat ; for his manner of life, let it be quiet and free from all perturbation of anger, grief and ſadneſs, as alſo abhorring the uſe of venery. the ſecond is placed in the evacuation of the antecedent matter,as by phle- botomy, if need require, and by purging, . the hemorrhoids in men, and the courſes in women; let purgations be preſcribedoſ diacatholicon, hiera, diaſenna,polypody, epythymum according to the mind of the learned phyſitian. the third conſiſts in the convenient uſe of topick medicines, that is, emollient at thebeginning, and then pre- ſently reſolving, or rather ſuch as are mixed both of reſolving and emollient faculties, as galen teaches; for by the uſe of only emollient things there is danger of putrefattion and a cancer, and only ofreſolving there is fear of concretion, the ſubtiler part being re- - ſolved,and the groſſer ſubſiding. - emollients. the emollient ſhall be thus: r. rad, alth, lib.ſ. ſad, liliorum giij. coquantur in aqua com. piſſentar, trajiciantur per ſetaceum, addendo olei chamem. & lilior...an. ij.aſpi humide ſ. emplaſiri diachyl alb. (moleo liliorian diſſolutifiij, cere albe quantum ſit ſatis, fiat ceratum. or r gunmi ammoniaci, galb.bdellii, ſyraciº liquide in aceto diffelutorungan. .j, diachyl mag. ſ, olei liliarum, € xungie anſeriº,an. #. aſp. deſcriptione philagr. # liqueſtant omnia ſimul, cere quantum ſt ſatis, ut indefiat ceratum ſatiº mole. when you have ſufficiently uſed emollient things, fume the tumor with ſtrong vinegarahdajua wité poured upon a piece of a milſtone,flint or brick heated very hotsfor the ſo mollified humor will be rarified, attenuated and reſol- ved; then ſome while after renewyour emollients, and then again apply your reſolvers to waſ that which remains, which could not be performed together and at once; for thus galen healed a ſcirrhus in certiliu, his ſon. goats dung is very good to diſcuſſe Öict, lib. . d glauconem, lib. ad glan, #:*: scirrhous tumors; but the emplaiſter of vigº with a double quantity of mercury w." is effectuall above the reſt, as that which mollifies, reſolves andwańs all tumors of this mercury. kind. . . - -, * * -----. " - - - , chap. xxvi. • - º º . ; º: of a cancer already generated. - arº j. - it. - - - ſ. - - - whe acancer (ºa canter is anhard tumor rough and unequal,round immoveable,of an aſh or li- º º, vidcolour, horrid by reaſon of theyeins on every fide, ſwollen with black ºr blood,and ſpred abroad to the fimilitude of the ſtretched out legs and claws \ of a crab. it is a tumor hard to be knewn at the firſt, as that which ſcarce equalls the bigneſs of a chick, or cicer, after a little time it willcome to the greatneſſe of a haſell nut, unleſs peradventure provoked by ſomewhat too acrid medicins it ſodainly encreaſ:being growābigger,according to the meaſure of the encreaſe it torments the patient with º: pain, with acrid heat, the groſſe blood reſiding in the veins growing hot , and inferring a ſenſe like the pricking of needles, from which . ºature of notwithſtandi . patient hath oft-times ſome reſt.but becauſe this kind of tumor by # . •f the veins extended and ſpred about it like claws and feet,being of a hvid and aſh colour, them...” aſſociated with a roughneſs of the skin and tenacity of the humor, repreſents, as it were * ... the toothed claws of the crab, therefore i thought it not amiſe here to inſert the figur: of the crab, that ſo the reaſon both of the name and thing might be more perſpicuous." the lib. . of tumors againſt nature ingenerall. . the figure of the crab, called cancer in latin. * chap. xxvii. of the cauſes, kind, and prºgnoſticks of a cancer. ºre we acknowledge two cauſes of a cancer, the antecedent, and conjunét. the the cauſesú º antecedent cauſe depends upon the default of irregular diet, .#. a cancer, º heaping up groſſe and feculent blood;by the morbifick affection of the liver "...º.º. sº †. to the generation of that blood;by the infirmity or weakneſs of the ſpleen in attraćting and purging the blood; by the ſuppreſſion of the courſes or harmor- rhoids, or any ſuch accuſtomed evacuation. the conjunét cauſe is that groſs and melan- cholick humor ſticking and ſhut in the affected part as in a ſtrait. that melan- the cauſes of cholick blood which is more mild, and leſs malign, only increaſed by a degree of more anot ukera” fervid heat, breeds a not ulcerated cancer, but the more malign and acrid cauſes, an ulcera- “” ted. for ſo the humor which generated carbuncles, when it hath acquired great heat, acrimony, and malignity, corrodes, and ulcerates the part upon which it alights.a cancer is made more fierce and raging by meats inflaming the blood, by perturbations of the mind, anger,heat,and j too acrid,oily, and emplaſtick,unfitly applied, both for time and place. - - - amongſt the ſorts or kinds of cancers,therebe two chieflyeminent, that is,the ulcera- rheton,and ted or manifeſt cancer, and the not ulcerated or occult. but of cancers ſome poſſeſs the differences of internall parts, as the guts, womb, fundament; others the externall,as the breſts; alſo cancert, . there is a recent,or late bred cancer,and alſo an inveterate one.there is one ſmall,another great one raging and malignanother more mild. every cancer is held almoſt incurable, of very difficult to be cured, for it is a diſeaſe altogethermalign, to wit, a particular le- profie. thereforeſaith aetius,a cancer is not eaſily ſtaied untill it hath eaten even to the aetius lib, . innermoſt of the É. which it poſſeſſes.it invades women more frequently than men, and tº parts moſt thoſe parts which are lax, rare, fungous,and glandulous,and therefore opportune to re- ſubjeate can: ceive a defluxion of agroſs humor, ſuch are the breſis and all the emunětories of the no- cert. ble parts.when it poſſeſſes the breſts, it often cauſes inflammation to the armholes, and ſends the ſwelling ever to the glandules thereof; whereupon the patients do complain that a pricking pain, even pierces to their hearts. but this ſame pain alſo runs to the clavicles, and even to the inner fide of the ſhoulder-blades and ſhoulders. when it is increaſed, and covers the noble parts, it admits no cure but by the hand; but in decay- cd bodies, whoſe ſtrength fail, eſpecially if the cancers be inveterate, we muſt not at- . - tempt the cure,neither with inſtrument, nor with fire,neither by too acrid medicines, as what caneer potentiall cauteries:but we muſt only ſeek to keep them from growingmore violent, and j, º from ſpreading further,by gentle medicines,and a palliative cure.for thus many troubled unders. with a cancer.have attained even to old age. therefore hippocrates admoniſhes is, that it truely to sures is better not to cureoccult,or hidden cancers; for the patients cured(ſaith he do quickly die,but ſuch as are not cured live longer. ui chap. ſ o of tumors againſt nature in generall. l i b. . lib.a. adola. diet: how to handle the cancerous part. antidotes. aſſes milk. the signs, how & where a cancer may be cut away. what to be obſerved in curring away a Čancer. the benefit of applying a cautery after amputation of the cancer. signs that a cancer is well taken away. º c h ap, xxviii. of the cure of a cancer beginning,and not yet ulcerated. !cancer beginning is oft hindred from encreaſing before it faſten its roots,but when it hath once encreaſed,it admits no cure but by iron,as that which contemns,by reaſon of the malignity & contumacy,the force of all medicines. galen affirms,he * cured a cancer not ulcerated. now that cure is performed by medicines purging melancholy, by phlebotomy, when the ſtrength and age of the patient may well endure it, by ſhunning all things which may breed ilandfæculent blood. the diffemper of the liver muſt firſtbe correàed, the spleen ned,as * the part affected; in men the hamorrhoides, in women their courſes muſt be rocult cºl. p therefore thick and muddy wines, vinegar,brown bread,cold herbs,old cheeſe,old and ſalted fleſh, beef, veniſon, goat, hare,garlick, onions and muſtard;and laſtly all acrid, acid and other ſalt things, which may by any means incraſſate the blood, and inflame the hu- mors,muſt be eſchewed. a cooling and humeding diet muſt be preſcribed, faſting eſchewed, as alſo watchings, immoderate #. cares,and mournings;let him uſe ptiſans, and in his broths boil mallowa, spinace, lettuce, sorrell,purſlain, succory, hops, vio- lets, borrage and the four .#. but let him feed on mutton, veal, kid, capon, pul- let, |. harcs, partridges,fiſhes of ſtony rivers,rear egs;and uſe white wine but mode- rately for his drink. the part affečted with the cancer muſt be gently handled, and not overburdened by overhard or heavy things, or by too ſolid or fat emplaiſters;on the contrary gentle and mitigating medicines muſt be uſed; applying alſo at certain times ſuch things as reſiſt venome or poyſon, as treacle and mithridate. aſſes milk is exceeding fit to aſ- ſwage the acrimony of the cancerons humor. therefore it muſt not only be taken in- wardly, but alſo applyed outwardly to the cancerous ulcer, making thereof a fomen- tation. cha p.xxix. of the cure of an ulcerated cancer. rºn ulcerated cancer hath many figns common with that which is not ulcera- ºf ted, as the roundneſſe of the tumor the inequality, roughneſs, and pain; to § the judgment of the eye, the tumor ſeems ſoft, but it is hard to the touch; ! the ulcer is filthy,with lips,thick,ſwoln,hard, knotty,turned out, and ſtan- ding up,having a ãorrid aſpect,and caſting forth ichorous, filthy, and carion- like filth,ſometimes black,ſometimes mixed with rotten filth, and otherwhiles with much bloud. this kind of ulcer is malign, rebellious, and untraćtable, as that which contemns mild remedies, and becomes more fierce, § acrid and ſtrong; the pain, feaver, and all the ſymptoms being increaſed from whence the powers are dejećted the waſting and conſum tion of the body follows and laſtly death. yet if it be ſmall,and in a part which may ſuffer amputation,the body being firſt purged, and blood drawn,the ſtrength of the patient not §. will be convenient to uſe the hand, and to take hold of, and cutaway whatſoever is corrupt,even to the quick,that no fear of contagion may remain, or be left behind. the amputation finiſhed, the bloud muſt not be preſently ſtopped, but permitted to flow out in ſome meaſure, yeaverily preſſed forth all about it,that ſo the veins ſwoln with black and melancholy bloud may be disburdened. when you have taken a ſufficient quantity of blood, the place muſt be ſearcd with an actuall cºutery: for that will ſtrengthen the part affected, draw forth the venenate quality, and alſo ſtay the defluxion. then muſt you apply mitigating medicines, and procure the falling away of the eſchar. to conclude, that which remains, muſt be performed according to the cure of other ulcers. now we know and underſtand that all the cancer is cut away, and all the malignity thereof extinét, when the ulcer caſts forth laudable matter, when that good fleſh egins to grow by little and little, like to the grains of a pomegranat, the pricking pain, and all the ſymptoms being affwaged. yet the cure of an ulcerated cancer which ſhall poſſeſs the É. may be more happily and mildly performed no call- ſtick medicine being applyed after ſection, ſo alſo that ſcarce any deformity will be left, when it is cicatrized. which new and never formerly tried, or written of way, as far as i know, i found and performed in a man of fifty years old. doğtor john altine, a moſt learned phyſitian being called to counſell, james guillémeau, and maſter euſtachiu, the kings chirurgeons, an john le ieune the duke of guiſe his moſt worthy chirurgeon * preſent. - the way is this; the cancer muſt be thruſt through the lips on both fides, above and below lisz. of tumors againſt nature in general e i below with a needleand thred,that to you may rule and govern the cancer with your left hand, by the benefit of the thred (leſt any portion thereofſhouldſcape the inſtrument in cutting)and then with your sizers in the righthand,you may cut it off all at ontºyet it muſt bºſo done,that ſome ſubſtance of the inher part of the lip, which is next to the teeth may remain,(if ſo be that the cancer be not #. quite through ) which may ſerve as it were for a foundation to generate fleſh to fill up the hollowneſs . when it hath bled ſufficiently, the fides and brinks of the wound muſt be ſcarified on the right and left fides within,and without,with ſomewhat a deep ſcarification, that ſo (when we would draw together the fides and lips of the wound,by that manner of ſtitching, which is uſed in an hare lip)wenay have the fleſhmore pliant aud traćtable to the needle and thred. the reſidue of the cure muſt be performed juſt after the ſame manner as we uſe in hare lips; of which we ſhall treat . - - - chap. xxx, of the tºpicke medicines to be applied to an ulcerated, and not ulcerated cancer. sº eat the beginning uſe repercuſſive medicines, ſuch as are the juices of night- § ſhade;plantain,hénbane, lettuce,sorrell, houſeleck, water lentill or ducks vºf meat, knotgraſſe, pomegranates,and the like.alſo olium roſarum omphatinum,the yºº powders of sumach, berberies, litharge,ceruſe, burnt lead tatia,qsickſilver, * and the like, of which you may compoſe fomen ; ... liniments, qint- ºf; diacalcitheos diſſolved with juice of nightſhade, and oil of roſes is very fit for not ulcerated cancert. pompholix, or tutia, waſhed in juice of nightſhade,of plantain,is very good for ulcerated canters.beſides this following medicine is very commendable. ---, ríythag. & ceruſ an , terantur in mortarioplumb, cum oleo roſar, doneſ reducantur ad con- ſentiºn liminentivelunguenti; , and theremay be uſeofa reſolving and repercuſſive oint- ment, as r. plumbiufti loti pompholthuri,an. ijſ, abſinth. pontic. % oleiroſarum i), cers yj, *::::::: quantum ſufficit adunguenti craftudinem. they very much commend theºdoricker laiſter to aſſwage the pain of ulcerated cancers. ... " - - - § oleiroſ. cereal an:#ijſ, ſucci granat. & ſolani, an. ij, ceruſe late ), plumbiuſt, loti, & tuthieprzpar an. ſ., thuri, maſtich, am. ij, fiat empl. mole. this following ointment i have often uſed with good ſucceſſe. . . - - r. theriac. veter, .j, ſucci cancrorum ſ, ſucci lattuce & olei roſar. an. iſ, vitel, ovorum ſub cinerib.coči. ii, camphor. ſ. piſtentur omnia in mortario #". & fiat unguentum. - r spum. argent, axungie porci recentis, cere alb. an: fēſ, oleiboni žviij, vitel, ovorum aſſat. iiij, #. unguent. ſervetur uſui. and when you will uſe it, mix it with a little ointment of roſes. have alſo mitigated great pain by applying leaches to an unulcerated cancer,in that part where the torment was moſt vehement,by disburdening the part of ſome portion of the malign humor;which ſame thing i have done by application of yong wij. kitlings, or pidgeons,or chickens cut long waies,and preſently applied to the ulcer, and now and then . ſoon as their heat ſeems diſſolved;an . applied for the naturall heat in an anodyne or mitigating medicine...john baptiſta theodoſius in his epiſtles,writes,that a cataplaſme of the herb eryſimum or cadlock,being beaten, is very good to be applied to a canter not ulcerated;but if the cancer be ulcerated,he boils this ſame herb in hydromel, and ſo by injections and lotions clenſes the ulcer,and mitigates the pain. . if the cancer affe& the womb, the patient feels the pricking of the pain in the groins above the pećien, and in the kidneyes, and is often troubled with a difficulty of making water; but when it is ulcerated it poures forth filth or matter exceeding flinking and carion-like, and that in great plenty; the filthy vapour of which ed up to the heart and brain cauſes often .# now to mitigate the pains of ſuch like places,the following medicines are of good uſe. * * - - - r macag, ſemin, lini; fenugr, extraff, in aqua roſar. & plantagină quod ſatiº ºff; of this being warm make a fomentation. - - - - - r rad. atheefbſ . coquatur in hydromelite, piſtetur & trajiciatur, addend olei roſar, parum, fiat cataplaſma. alſo you ſhall make divers peſſaries according to the different kinds of pain; alſo make injećtions of the juice of plantain, knotgraſſalettuce,purſlain mixed together, and agitated or laboured in a leaden mortar with a little oil of roſes;for this kind of me- dicine is commended by galen in every kind of ulcerated cancers.alſo this following wa- ter is very profitable,and often approved by me.r. sterrori, bubulifbiiijherbe robertiplantag. ſempervivi, byſyami,fortulac. lačiuc, indiv. anºmj cancras fluviatiles, num. xij. let them be aſl beaten together and diſtilled in a leaden alembick, keep the liquor for uſe and with it make often inještion into the part; or if the ſite of the part .# permit, let the cancerous ulcers be waſhed therewith,and pledgets of lint ſteeped therein, be applyed and renewed u gveſ - - a new and of ſetvable way of taking away a cancer from the lip- repelling inte dicines. theodoritki emplaiſief, teaches. the applicatiº on of whelps; chickens, &c. epiff; at. the eſtate of eryſimmm. the figus of the cancer in "he womb. lib. . £impl; i | l of tamorragainſt nature in generall. l b. . £ibºde temp. med, ſtrandum €the zib. .fmp. plates of lead. ahiſtory. - - ever and anon;for ſo the acrimony and force of the inflammation is retunded,and the pain aſſwaged.galenbeats into powder river crabsburnt;the powder mixed with ointment of roſes is moſt profitably applied upon lint to cancerous ulcers. . it will be very convenient to put into the neck of the womb the following inſtrument made of goldor silver,whereby the cancerous filth may have free and ſafe paſſage forth, and the filthy and putredinous vapors may more eaſily breath forth. therefore let it be hollow quite through, ſome five or ſix fingers long,and about the bigneſs of ones thumb, at the upper end,perforated with many holes whereby the filth may have paſſage forth. let the outer or lowerend be ſome two fingers thick in the circumference, make it with a heat ſpring,that may hold that end open more,or leſs according to the phyſitians mind;let therebe two ſtrings or laces put unto it, by which being tyed before and behind to the rowler, with which the woman ſhall girtherloins,the device may be kept from falling,as you may ſee in the following figure. a vent made like a peſſary for the womb affeded with a cancerourulcer. . ss- º % º * º - ºxy/ ºf u. ſ % /|ſm º / - | ſi Ž /. a. shews the upper end perforated with five or ſix holes. b. the lower end. - - - c. that part of the end which is ºpened by the ſpring, which is marked with the letter d. ee. the firing; or laces. opene hº k - - neither is that remedy for not alcerated can to be contemned, which confiſts of a plate of lead beſmeared with quick-filver; for galen himſelf teſtifies that lead is a good medicine for malign and inveterate ulcers. but guido cauliacenſis is a witneſs of ancient creditand learning, that ſuch plates of lead rubbed over with quick-filver, to ſuch malign ulcers as contemn the force of other medicines, are as it were anti- dotes, to waſ and overcome their malignity and evill nature. this kind of remedy, when it was preſcribed by that moſt excellent phyſitian hollerius, who commanded me to apply, it to the lady of mºntigni maid of honour to the queen mother, troubled with a cancer in her left breſt, which equalled the bigneſs of a wallnut, did not truely throughly heal it, yet notwithſtanding kept it from further growth. wherefore at the length growing weary of it, when ſhe had committed herſelf to a cer- tain phyſitian boldly . quick help,ſhe tryed with loſſe of her life, how dan- §. diſadvantagious the cure of cancer was, which is undertaken according to the manner of healing other ulcers; for this phyſitian, when he had caſt away this our medicine,and had begun the cure with mollifying heating and attra(tive things, the pain, inflammation and aſ the other ſymptomes encreaſing the tumor grew to that bigneſſe,that being the humor drawn thither could not be contained in the part it ſelf, it ſtretched the breſt forth ſomuch,that it broke it in the middle.juſt as a pomgranat cleaves when itcomes to its full maturity; whereupon an immoderate flux of blood following, for ſtaying whereof he was forc’t to ſtrew cauſtick powders thereon;but by this means the inflamma- tion and pain becoming more raging, and ſwoundings coming upon her, ſhe poor soul in ſtead of her promiſed health, yeelded upher ghoſt in the phyſitiansboſome. : chap. lib. . of tumors againſt nature ingenerall. cha p. xxxi. of the feaverwhich happenethin scirrhou, tumors. ſ - §ºuch a feaver is a quartain,or certainly coming near unto the nature oſ a quar- §§§ tain,by reaſon of the nature of the melancholick humor of which it is bred for }} this ſhut up in a certain ſeat in which it makes the tumor, by communication of º putrid vapours heats the heart above meaſure, & en flames the humors contained therein, whence ariſes a feaver. now therefore a quartain is a feaver coming every fourth day,and having two dayes intermiſſion. -the primitive cauſes thereof are theſe things which encreaſemelancholick humors in the body,ſuch as the long eating of pulſe, of courſe and burnt bread, of ſalt fleſh and fiſh, of groſs meats;as beef,goat,veniſon,old hares, old cheeſe,cabbage, thick and muddy wines and other ſuch things of the ſame kind. the antecedent cauſes are aheaped up plenty of melancholick humors abounding over all the body. but the conjunét cauſes are melancholick humors putrefying without the greater veſſels, in the ſmall veins and habit of the body. we may gather the figns of a quartain feaverfrom things which they call naturall,not naturall,and againſt nature; from things naturall.for a cold and dry temper, old age, cold and fat men,having their veins finall,and lying hid,their ſpleen ſwollen and weak are uſu- ally troubled with quartain feayers. - - - Öf things not naturall; this feaver, or ague is frequent in autumnenot only becauſe, for that it is cold and º: it is fit to heap up melancholick humors; but chiefly by rea- ſon that the humors by the heat of the preceding summer are eaſily converted into a- duſt melancholy, whence far worſer and more dangerous quartains ariſe, than of the fim- le melancholick humor; to conclude through any cold or dry ſeaſon in a region cold and dry, men that have the like . eafily fall into quartains; if to theſe a painfull kind of #; of danger and ſorrow doth accrew. of things contrary to nature; becauſe the fits take one with painfull ſhaking, inferring as it were the ſenſe of breaking or ſhaking the bones; furtherit taketh one every fourth day with an itching over the whole body, and oft-times with a thin skurſe and puflales,eſpeci- ally on the legs; the pulſe at the beginning is little, ſlow, and deep, and the urine : is then white and wateriſh,inclining to ſomewhat a dark colour. in the declination when the matteris concoëted the urine becomes black,not occaſioned by any malign symptome ºf preternaturall exceſs of heat,(for ſo it ſhould be deadly) but by excretion ofthe conjunét matter. the fit of the quartain continues houres, but the intermiſſion is houres. it often takes its originall from an obſtrućtion,pain,and stirrhus of the spleen,and of the £º of the courſes and hæmorrhoides. quartainstaken in the summer are for themoſt part ſhort, but in the autumn long, e- ſpecially ſuch as continue till winter.thoſe which come by ſucceſſion of any diſeaſe of the liver, §: or any other precedent diſeaſe are worſe than ſuch as are bred of themſelves, and commonly end in a dropſie.but thoſe which happen withom the fault of any bowels, and to ſuch apatient, as wilſbegoverned by the phyſtian in his diet, infer no greater harm,but free him from more grievous and long diſeaſes, as melancholy, the falling ſick- neſs, convulſions, madneſs, becauſe the melancholy humor, the author of ſuch diſeaſes is expelled every fourthday by the force of the fit of the quartain. - a quartain feaver, if there be no error committed, commonly exceeds not a year, for otherwiſe ſome quartains have been found to laſt to the twelfth year according to the o- pinion of avicen: the quartain beginning in autumn is oft-times ended in the following why aquaf: tain happens upon ſcirrhods tumors; / the ſigns, why they are frequent in autumnts prognoſički front what diſeaſes a quartainfrceſ oſlº -- ſpring; the quartain which is cauſed by aduſtblood,or choler, or saltflegm, is more eaſi- lyand ſooner cured,than that which proceeds from an aduſt melancholy humor;becauſe the melancholy humor, terreſtriall of its own nature,and harder to be diſcuſſed than any'o- ther humor, is again made by aduſtion (the º being diſſolved and the groſſºr fubſiding) more ſtubborn groſs, malign, and acrid. the cure is wholly abſolved by two means, that is, by diet and medicines. the diet ought to be preſcribed contrery to the cauſe of the feaver in the uſe of the fixthings not naturall, as much as lyes in our power. ...wherefore the patient ſhalleſchew swines fleſh, flatulent, viſcid and glutinous meats, fen- myfowls, ſalt meats and veniſon, and all things of hard digeſtion. the uſe of white wine indifferent hot and thin, is convenient to attenuate and incide the groſs humor, and to move urine and ſweat; yea verily at the beginning of the fit a draught of ſuch wine will cauſe vomiting, which is a thing of ſo greatmoment, that by this one remedy many have been cured. §. if we may take occaſion and opportunity to provoke vomit there is no timethought fitter for that purpoſe then preſently aftermeat; for then it is the ſooner provoked, the fibers of the ſtomachbeing humcéted and relaxed,and the flomach is ſooner turned to ..º. follows a more plentiful,happy & eaſie evacuation of the phlegmatique and cholerick humor, and leſs troubleſometó nature; and of all the cru- - - * - dities bich miting pre- vails to curt & quartains - of tumors againſt nature in generall. lie. . --~ medicines. what quare tains muſt be cured with refrigerating things. what baſtard agues are, and how they muſt becured. what it is, in what parts they chiefly bappen, their be dities with which the mouth of the ventricle abounds in a quartane, by reaſon of the more copious afflux of the melancholick humor, which by his qualities cold and dry, di- ſturbes all the aëtions and naturall faculties. moreover exerciſes and frićtions are goodbe- fore meat; ſuch paſſions of the mind as are contrary to the cauſe from which this feaver takes his originall, are fit to be cheriſhed by the patients, as laughter, jefling,muſick,and all ſuch like things full of pleaſure and mirth. at the beginning the patientmáſ be gentl handled and dealt withall, and we muſt abſtain from all very ſtrong medicines .# ſuch time, as the diſeaſe hath been of ſome continuance. for this humor, contumacious at the beginning when as yet nature hath attempted nothing,is again made more ſtubborn, terreſtriall and dry, by the almoſt fiery heat of acrid medicines. if the body abound with blood, ſome part thereofmuſt be taken away by opening the median or bafilik vein of the left arm with this caution,that if it appear more groſs and black, we ſuffer it to flow more lentifially;ifmore thin and intured with a laudable redcolour that we preſently flay it. he matter of this feaver muſt be ºf. and diminiſhed with the syrups of epi- thymum, of ... mayden hair,agrimony, withthe waters of hops, bugloſs,borage and the like.i §. unto god, i have cured very many quartains by giving a p. of a littletreakle diſſolved in about ſome two ounces of aquavite, alſo ſometimes y two or three grains of musk diſſolved in muskadine given at the beginning of a parti- cular fit towards the generall declination of the diſeaſºafter generall purgations the hu- morandbody being prepared,and the powers ſtrong; and certainly an inveterate quar- tain can ſcarce ever bee diſcuſſed unleſs the body be much heated with meats and mºdi- cines. therefore it is not altogether to be diſproved which many ſay, that they have dri- ven away a quartain by taking a draught of wine every day as ſoon as they came forth of { in which ſome leaves of sage had been infuſed all the night. alſo it is good ali:- tle before the fit to anoint all the ſpine of the back with †. all the nervous parts, ſuch as are the oyl of rue, walnuts, ofthe peppers, mixing there with a little aqua vite, but for this purpoſe theoyl of caſtoreum which hath been boyled in an apple ofci. quintida, the kerneſs taken out, upon hot coles to the conſumption of the halfpart, mixing therewith ſome little quantity of the powders of pepper, pelitory of spain and euphorbium, is excellent. certainly ſuch like inundtions are good not only to mitigate the vehemency of the terrible ſhaking, but alſo to provoke ſweats; for becauſe by their humid heat they diſcuſs this humor being dull and rebellious to the expulſive faculty,for the melancholy is as it were the droſs and mud of the blood. thereforeifon the contrary the quartain feayer ſhall be cauſed by aduſt choler wee muſt hope for and expe&acure by refrigerating and humcétive medicines, ſuch as sorrell, let- tuce, purſlane, broths of the decoštion of cowcumbers,gourds, mellons and pompions. for in this caſe if any uſe hot medicines, he ſhall make this humor moſt obſtinate by there- ſolving of the ſubtiler parts.thus italianus boaſts that he hath cured theſe kinds of quar- tane feaver by the only uſe of refrigerating epithemaes being often repeated a little before the beginning of the fit. and this is the ſum of the cure of true and legitimate intermit- ting feavers. that is, of thoſe which are cauſed by one fimple humor, whereby the cure of thoſe which they callbaſtard intermitting feavers, may be eaſily gathered and under- ſtood; as which are bred by a humor impure and not of one kind, but mixt or compoſed by admixture of ſome other matter ; for example,according to the mixture of divers hu- mors phlegmatick and cholerick,themedicines muſt alſo be mixt, as if it were a confuſed kind of feaverofaggotidian and tertianitmuſt becured by a medicine compoſed of things evacuating flegm and choler. mr- chap, xxxii. of an aneuriſma, that is, the dilatation, or ſpringing ºf an artery,vein,or sinew. ºn aneuriſna is a ſoft tumoryeelding to the touch,made by the blood and ſpirit - §§ powred forth under the fleſh and muſcles, by the dilatation or relaxation of an sy/ras - - - - tº artery. yet the author of the definitions ſeems to call any dilatation of any * venous veſſell by the name of an aneuriſma. galen calls an aneuriſma an opening made of the anaſtomaſis, of an artery. alſo an aneuriſma is made when an artery that is wounded cloſeth too ſlowly, the ſubſtance which is above it being in the mean time ag- glutinated, filled with fleſh and cicatrized, which doth not ſeldome happen in opening of arteries unskilfully performed and negligently cured; therefore aneuriſmats are abſolute- ly made by the anaſtomaſ's,ſpringing, breaking, eroſion,and wounding of the arteries. theſe appen in all parts of the body, but more frequently in the throat, eſpecially in women after a painfull travail. for when as they more ſtrongly ſtrive to hold their breath, for the morepowerfull expulſion of the birth, it happens that the artery is dilated and bro- ken, whence follows an effuſion of blood and ſpirits under the skin. the ſigns are, a ſwelling one while great, another ſmall, with a pulſation and a colour not varying from the native conſtitution of the skin. it is a ſoft tumor, and ſoyeelding to the imprº q ** d n lib. . of tumors againſ.nature ingenerall. - —- of the fingers that if it peradventure be ſmall, it wholly vaniſheth,the arterious blood and ſpirits flying back into the body of the artery, but preſently aſſoon as you take your fin- gers away, they return again with like celerity. some aneuriſmae; do not only when they are preſſed, but alſo of themſelves make a ſenſible hiſſing, if you lay your ear near to them, by reaſon of the motion of the vitall ſpirit ruſhing with great violence through the fraitneſs of the paſſage. > - wherefore in aneuriſmaes in which there is a great rupture of the artery, ſuch a noiſe is prognoſtick, not heard, becauſe the ſpirit is carryed through a larger paſſage. great aneuriſmaes under the arm pits, in the groins and other partt wherein there are large veſſels,admit no cure, becauſe ſo great an eruption of blood and ſpirit often follows upon ſuch an inciſion, th - death prevents both art and cure. which i obſerved a few years ago in a certain pricſ of a hiſtory. . saint andrews of the arches,mr. john maillet, dwelling with a chief preſident chriſtºpherde - thou. who having an aneuriſma at the ſetting on of the ſhoulder about the bignéſs of a awiſ wall-nut, i charged him, he ſhould not let it be opened, for if he did it would bring him tºº. into manifeſt danger of his life, and that it would be more ſafe for him to break the vio- jº. opened, lence thereof with double clothes ſteeped in the juyce of night-ſhade & houſleek,with new - and wheyey cheeſe mixt therewith: or with vnguentum de bolo or emplaſtrum contra rupturam and ſuch other refrigerating and aſtringent medicines, if he would lay upon it a thin plate of lead,and wonld uſe ſhorterbrecches that his doublet might ſerve to hold it too to which he might faſten his breeches in ſtead of a ſwath, & in the mean timel's ſhould eſchew all things which attenuate and inflame the blood, but eſpecially he ſhould keep himſelf from aligreat ſtraining of his voice, although he had uſed his dict for a yeer, yet he could not ſo handle the matter but that the tumor increaſed which he obſerving goes to a parter, who ſuppoſing the tumor to be of the kind of vulgar *pehunksyapplies ſo it in the evening a cauſtick cauſing an eſchar ſo to open it. in the morning ſuch an abundance of blood flowed forth from the tumor being ... therewith aſtoniſhed,implores all poſſible ayd, and bids that i ſhould becalled to ſtay this his great blºcking, and he re- pented that he had not followed my direétions. wherefore ham called, but when i was icarce over the threſhold, he gave up his ghoſt with his blood.wherefore i diligent] yad- moniſh the youngchirurgeon that he do not raſhly open aneuriſmae, unleſs ji. ſmal in how they muſi an ignoble part, and not indued with large veſſels, but rather let him perform the curcaſ- becuied. ter this manner. cut the skin which lyes over it untill the artery appear, and then ſpa- rate it with your knife from the particles about it,then thruſt a blunt and crooked needle with a thred in it under it, bindit,then cut it off and ſo expect the falling off of the thred . of itſelf whiles nature covers the orifices of the cut artery with new fleſh, then the reſidue of the cure may be performed after the manner offimple wounds. the aneuriſmaes which rhetºoths happen in the internall parts are incurable. such as frequently happen to thoſe who have inwardſ. often had the unition and ſweat for the cure of the french diſeaſe, becauſe the blood being incurabic, , ſo attenuated and heated therewith that it cannot be contained in the receptacles of the artery, it diſiends it to that largneſs as to hold a mans fiſt; which i have obſerved in the dead body of a certain taylor, who by an aneuriſma of the arterious vein ſuddenly whilſt he was playing at tennis fell down dead,the veſſel beingbroken: his body being opened a hiſtory, i found agréat quantity of blood powred forth into the capacity of the cheſt, but the l body of the artery was dilated to that largneſs i formerly mentioned, and the inner coat thereof was boay. for which cauſe within a while after i ſhewed it to the great admira- tion of the beholders in the phyſitians school whilſt i publiquely diſſeåted a body there; the whilſt he lived ſaid he felt a beating and a great heat over all his body by the force of the pulſation of all the artsries, by occaſion whereof he often ſwounded. dočtor syluiu the kings profeſſor of phyſick at that time forbad him the uſe of wine,and wiſhed him to uſe §: water for his drink, and curds and new cheeſes for his meat, and to apply them in form of cataplaſms upon the grieved and ſwoln part. at night he uſed aptiſan of barly meal and poppy-ſeeds, and was purged now and then with a clyfter of refrigerating and emollient things, or with caſſia alone, by which medicines he ſaid he found himſelf much better. the cauſe of ſuch a bony conſtitution of the arteries by aneuriſmaes is, for that the hot and ſervid blood firſt dilates the coats of an artery, then breaks them; which when it happens, it then borrows from the neighbouring bodies a fit matter to reſtore the looſed continuity thereof. this matter whilſt by little and little it is dryed and hardened, it degenerates into a fº or clſe a bony ſubſtance, juſt by the force of the ſame materialland efficient cauſes, y which ſtones are generated in the reins and bladder.for the more terreſtriall portion of the blood is dryed and condenſed by the power of the unnaturall heat contained in the part affected with an aneuriſma; whereby it comes to paſs that the ſubſtance added to the dilated and broken artery is turned into a body of a bony conſiſtence. in which the fin- gular providence of nature, the handmaid of god is ſhewed, as that which, as it were by making and oppoſing a new wall or bank, would hinder and break the violence of the raging blood ſwelling with the abundance of the vitall ſpirits; unleſs any had rather to re- fºr the cauſe of that hardneſs to the continuall application of refrigerating and aſtringent - medicine? of tumors againſt nature in generall. lie. . - medicines. which have power to condenſate and harden,as may not obſcurely be gather- lib. . p, whº ed by the writings of galen. but beware you be not deceived by the forementioned figns; #!*** for ſometimesiſ large aneuriſmaes you can perceive no pulſation, neither can you force acantion in the blood into the artery by the preſſure of your fingers, either becauſe the quantity of the knowing of ſuch blood is greater than which can be contained in the ancient receptacles of the artery, *iftwº orbecauſe it is condenſate and concrete into clods, whereupon wanting the benefit of ven- tilation from the heart, it preſently putrefics; thence enſue great pain, a gangren, and mortification of the part,and laſtly the death of the creature. *. the end of the seventh book. zº->~~~~ 's t- * f. •+- o partigu lar agains+"ºrvre: º tha e anr book. º the preface. s$ºscº ecauſe the cure of diſeaſes muſt be varied according to the variety of n ºy the temper, not only of the body in generall, but alſo of each part thereof; the ſtrength, figure, form, fite, and ſenſe thereof being taken into confideration: i think it worth my pains, having al- ready ſpoken of tumors in generall, if i ſhall treat of them in - particular which affe& each part of the body, beginning with §§ thoſe which affail the head. therefore the tumor either affe&s n vºy. ears, noſ., gum and the like. let the hydrocephaloſ, and phyſocephalos be examples of c. h. a. p. i. of an hydrocephalos or watry tumor which commonly affei, the heads of infants. aces he greeks call this diſeaſe hydrocephaloſ, as it were a dropſie of the & head, by a wateriſh humor; being a diſeaſe almoſt peculiar to in- fants newly born. it hath for an externall cauſe the violent com- n reſſion of the headby the hand of the midwife or otherwiſe at the ^, É. or by a fall, contuſion and the like. for hence comes a º breaking of a vein, or artery,andan effuſion of the blood under the tº skin..which by corruption becomingwhayiſh, laſtly degenerateth in- § to a certainwateriſh humor.it hath alſo an inward cauſe,which is the - aboundance of ſerous and acrid blood;which by its tenuity and heat ſweats through the pores of the veſſels, ſometimes between the muſculous skin of the head differences by and the pericranium, ſometimes between the pericranium and the skull, and ſometimesbe- reaſon of place, §. the skulland the membrane called duramater, and otherwhiles in the ventricles of Č ordin. - the what it is, the cauſes, º, * l i b. . ofparticular tumors againſ nair. - the figns ofit, contained in the ſpace between the muſculous skin and the pericranium, signs. are a manifeſttumor without pain,ſoft,and muchycºlding to the preſſure of the fingers.the , signs when it remaineth between the pericranium and the skull,are for the moſt part like the . . forenamed, unleſs it be that the tumor is a little harder, and not ſoytelding to the finger, by reaſon of the parts between it and the finger; and alſo there is ſomewhat more ſenſe of pain. but when it is in the ſpace between the skull and dura mater, or in the ventri- cles of the brain or the whole ſubſtance thereof, there is a dulneſs of the ſenſes as of the fight and hearing; the tumor doth not yeekd to the touch, unleſs you uſe ſtrong impreſ- fion,for then it linketh ſomewhat down, eſpecially in infants newly born; who have their º skulls almoſt as ſoft as waxe, and the junětures of their sutures laxe, both by nature, as al- ſoby accident, by reaſon of the humor contained therein moiſtening and relaxing all the adjacent parts; the humor contained here lifts up the skull ſomewhat more high, eſpecial- ly at the meetings of the sutures, which you may thus know, becauſe the tumor being preſſed, the humor flies back into the ſecret paſſage of the brain. to conclude,the pain is more vehement, the whole head more ſwollen, the forehead flands fomewhat further out, the eye is fixt and immoveable, and alſo weeps by reaſon of the ſerous humor ſweating out of the brain. veſalius writes that he ſaw a girl of two yeers old, whoſe head was thicker than any a hiſtory. manshead by this kind of tumor,and the º not bony,but membranous, as it uſeth to be in abortivebirths,and that there was nine pound of water ran out of it. - abucrafts tels that he ſaw a child whoſe head grew every day bigger by reaſon of the watery moiſture contained therein, till at length the tumor became ſo great,that his neck could not bear it neither ſtanding nor fitting, ſo that he died in a ſhort time. i have ob- ſerved and had in cure four children troubled with this diſeaſe, one of which being diſſe&- cd after it died,had a brain no bigger than a tennis ball. but of a tumor humor contained within under the cranium, or skull, i have ſecm none recover, but they are caſily healed of an externall tumor. therefore whether the humor lye under the pericranium, or under the muſculous skin of the head, it muſt firſt be affayled with reſolving medicines, but if it cannot be thus o- vercome, youmuſt make an inciſion, takingheed of the temporall muſcle and thence preſs out all the humor, whether it reſemble the waſhingoffleſh newly killed, or blackiſh blood, or congealed or knotted blood,as when the tumor bath been cauſed by contuſion;then the wound muſt be filled withdry lint,and covered with double boulflers, and laſtly, bound with a fitting ligature, c. h. a. p. ii. of a polypus being an eating diſeaſe in the nºſe. sºle polypus is a tumor of the noſe againſt nature, commonly ariſing from the o. thereaſon of §§ ethmaides or ſpongy bone. it is ſo called,becauſe it reſembles the feet of a sea “* §: polypus in figure,and the fleſh thereof in conſiſtences.this tumor º: the noſe, nº intercepting and hindering the liberty of ſpeaking and blowing the noſe cel- lib. .cup.º. - ſus faith the polypus is a caruncle of excreſcence one while white another while reddiſh, which adheres to the bone of the noſe, and ſometimes fills the noſtrils hanging towards the lips, ſometimes it deſcends back through that hole, by which the ſpirit deſcends from the noſe to the throttle; it grows ſo that it may bee ſeen behind the wvulva, and often ſtrangles anian by flopping his breath. there are five kinds thereof, the firſt is, a ſoft membrane, long and thin #. the relaxed and †. wvulva, hanging the differentºt from the middle griſtle of the noſe,being filled with a phlegmatick and viſcid humor.this hºrtef in exſpiration hangs out ofthenoſe,but is drawn in and hid by inſpiration ; it makes one. ſnaffle in their ſpeech and ſhort in their ſleep. the ſecond hath hard fleſh, bred of melan- choly blood without aduſtion, which obſtrućting the noſtrils intercepts the reſpiration made by that part. the third, is fleſh hanging from the griſtleround, and ſoft, being the off-ſpring of phlegmatick blood. the fourth is an hard tumor, like fleſh, which when it is touched yeelds a ſound like a ſtone; it is generated of melancholy blood dryed, being formewhat of the nature of a scirrhus confirmed and without pain, ſº. fifth is as it were compoſed ofmany cancrous ulcers ſpred over the tranſverſe ſurface of the griſtle. qfall theſe ſorts of polypiſome are not ulcerated, others ulcerated, which ſend forth a - alº..."jº º have alivid,or leaden color, muſt not be touched with the hand,becauſe they ſavour of the miliopeiai. nature of a cancer,as into which they oft degenerate; yet by reaſon of the pain which op- on. preſks more violently,you may uſe the anodyne medicines formerly deſcribed in a cancer, füch as this following. r. olei de vitell. ovorum ii, lytharg. auri, & tuthie prepan. ; i, ſucci plat. ſolani an: iſ, la: an anodyne: pidhematit, & camphore, an ſ. let them be wrought a long time in a leaden mortar, and ſo make a medicine to be put into the noſtrills. thoſe which are ſoft, looſe and with- - qift of particular tumors againſt nature l ib. • why it muſt be taken clear away. what it is. the differen. ces. their ſigns and symptomes. prognoſtick. the cure. lib. . de comp. med ſee. locey. hip.aph. i. lib. is gentle reſol- wing medicines, stronger re- ſolvers. a ripening medicine, out pain, are ſometimes curable, being plucked away with an inſtrument made for that purpoſe, or clfe waſted by ačtuall cauteries put in through a pipe, ſo that they touch nº the found part or by potentiall cauteries, as egyptiacum compoſed of equall parts of all. the ſimples with vitríoil which hath a faculty to waſte ſuch like fleſh. aqua fortà and oyl of vitrioll have the ſame faculty, for theſe take away a polypus by the roots; for if any part thereof remain it will breed again. but cauteries and . medicines muſt be put into the noſtrills with this caution, that in the mean time cold repelling and aſtringent medicines be applyed to the noſe and parts about it to aſſwage the pain,and hinder the in- flammation. such as are vnguentum de bolo,and vnguentum nutritum,whites of eggs beat with roſe leaves,and many other things of the like nature. - c hap. iii. of the parotides, that is, certain ſwellings about the ears. he parºtis is a tumor againſt nature, affe&ting the glandules and thoſe parts ſeated behind and about the ears, which are called the emunčtories of the brain ; for theſe becauſe they are looſe and ſpongy, are fit to receive the ex- crements thereof. of theſe ſome are criticall, the matter of the diſeaſe ſome- what digeſted, being ſent thither by the force of nature others symptoma- *ticall, the excrements of the brain increaſed in quantity or quality ruſhing thither of their own accord. such abſceſſes often have great inflammation joymed with them, be- cauſe the biting humor which flows thither is more vitiated in quality than in quan- tity. , beſides alſo they often cauſe great pain, by reaſon of the diſtention of the parts indued with moſt exquiſite ſenſe, as alſo by reaſon of a nerve of the fifth conjugation ſpred over theſe parts as alſo of the neighbouring membrancs of the brain, by which means the patient is troubled with the head-ach and all his face becomes ſwoln. yet many times this kind of tumor uſeth to be raiſed by a tough, viſcous, and groſs humor. this diſeaſe doth more grievouſly afflićt young men than old; it commonly brings a feaver and watching. it is difficult to be cured, eſpecially when it is cauſed by a groſs, tough, and viſcid humor, ſent thither by the criſis. the cure muſt be performed by diet, which muſt be contrary to the quality of the hu- mor in the temper and conſiſtence of the meats. if the inflammation and redneſs be great, which indicate aboundance of blood, phlebotomy will be profitable, yea very neceſſary. but here we muſt not uſe the like judgment in application of locall medicines as we .# º other tumors, as galen admoniſheth us ; that is, we muſt not uſe repercuſſives at the begin- ning,eſpecially if the abſceſs be criticall ; for ſo we ſhould infringe or foreſlow the indea- vors of nature forcibly freeing it ſelf from the morbifique matter. but we muſt much leſs re- pell or drive it back if thematter which hath flowed thither bevenenate, for ſo the reflow thereof to the noble parts would prove mortall. wherefore the chirurgeon ſhall rather aſſiſt nature in attraćting and drawing forth that humor. yet if the defluxion ſhall be ſo violent, if the pain ſo fierce that thence there may be fear of watchings and a feaver, which may dejećt the powers, galen thinks it will be expedient with many reſolvi medicines to mix ſome repelling. wherefore at the beginning let ſuch a cataplaſm be applyed. - - - - - º r. far.hord. & ſem. lin, ana; ij, coquantur cum mulſo aut decoão ſham, addendo but recen, & - leiſham, ana; i, fatcataplaſma. and the following oyntment will alſo be good. . . - r. but, recen. iſ, olei cham. & lilior.an, i, unguen.de althea ſ,cereparam; make an oynt- ment to be applyed with moiſt and greaſie wooll,to mitigate the pain:alſo ſomewhat more ſtrong diſcuſſing and reſolving medicines will be profitable, as: * - r. rad. althee & bryon, am. iſ, fol. rute, puleg, orig, an m.j, fo. chamam. melil. an. p. j. cºquantur in hydromelite, piſtentur, trajiciantur, addendo farin. fenugrec. orobi. an. i, ful. ireof, cham. melilot, an. iſ, oleianeth. rutac, an, i, fiat cataplaſma. but if you determine to reſolve it any more, you may uſe emplaſtrum oxycroceum & melilot-plaiſter. if the humor doth there concrete and grow hard,you muſt betake you to the medicines which were preſcribed in the chapter of the scirrhus; but if it tend to ſuppuration, you ſhall apply the fol- lowing medicine. r. rad. liliorum & ceparum ſub cineribu, coã. an. iij, vitell, over, mum. ii. xung, ſuille & un- ghent, baſilicon, an. is fari, ſemilini iſ, §: cataflaſma. butifthe matter do ſo require, let the tumor be opened as we have formerly preſcribed. chap, lib. . of particular timor, againſt nature. c hap. iii i. of the epulis, or overgrowing ºf the fleſh of the gums. he it. is a fleſhy excreſcence of the gums between the teeth,which is by little whiti. ; and little oft-times encreaſed to the bigneſs of an egge, ſo that it both hin- ders the ſpeech and eating; it caſts forth ſalvious and ſtinking filth, and not ſeldome §: into a cºncer,which you may underſtandby the propriety the symp. of the colour, pain and other accidents; for then you muſt by no means tomes. touch it with your hand. but that which doth not torment the patient with pain,may be pluckt away; and let this be the manner thereof. letit betyed with a double thred,which muſt be ſtraiter twitched untill ſuch time as it fall off; when it ſhall fall away,the place muſt be burnt with a cautery put through a trunk the chirurge- or pipe,or with aqua fºrti, or oyſ of vitriol, but with great care that the ſound parts ad- aſ ājº joyning thereto be not hurt,for if ſo be that it be not burnt,it uſually returns. i have often by this means taken away ſuch large tumors of this kind, that they hung out of the mouth in no ſmall bigneſs,to the great disfiguring of the face, which when as no chirurgeon durſt touch,becauſe the fleſh looked livid,i ventured . becauſe they were free from pain; and by taking them away and cauterizing the place, i perfeótly healed them; not truly ſodainly,and at once; for although i burnt the place after diſſettion; yet nevertheleſs they ſprung up again, becauſe a certain portion of the bone and ſockets in which the teeth ſtand faſtened, were become rotten..i have often obſerved ſuch like fleſh by continuance of time to have turned into a griſtly and bony ſubſtance. wherefore the cure muſt be begun as i. as may be; for being but little, and having faſtened no deep roots,it is more eaſily taken away, being then only filled with a viſcid humor, which in ſucceſs of time is hardened,and makes the taking away thereof more difficult. l- c h a p. v. of the ranula. here isoft-times a tumor under the tongue,which takes away the liberty of pro- nuntiation or ſpeech; wherefore the greeks call it batrachium,the latins kanu- la, becauſe ſuch as have this diſeaſe of the tongue, ſeem to expreſs their minds by croak # rather than by ſpeaking. - - it is cauſed by the falling down of a cold moiſt groſs,tough, viſcid and phlegmatick mat- ter.from the brain upon the tongue,which matter in colour and confiſtence reſembles the white of an egge,yet ſometimes it looks of citrin or yellowiſh colour. that you may ſafely perform the cure, youniuſ open the tumor rather with a cautery sofhot iron than with a knife,for otherwiſe it wil return again.the manner of opening of it muſt be thus:you ſhall get a bended hollow and perforated iron plate with a hole in the midſt, and making the patient to hold open his mouth, you ſhall ſo fit it, that the hole may be upon the part which muſt be opened. then there you muſt open it with an hot iron, for ſo you ſhall hurt no part of the mouth which is whole; but when you are ready to burn it, by thruſting your thumb under the patients chin, you may ſomewhat elevate the tumor whereby you may open it with more certainty; when it is opened you muſt thruſt out the matter contained therein, and then waſh the patients mouth with ſºme barly water,hony,and sugar of roſes; for ſo the ulcer will be ſafely and quickly healed. the delineation of the ironplate and crooked afinallcautery. *= n n - w - why the cure muſt not be " deſerted. the reaſon why it is ſo called. the cauſe: the cure! . . - - of particular tumors againſt nature. lib. . ch a p. v. i. * of the ſwelling of the glandules, or almonds of the throat. \ why the glan- ñº *; ature at the jaws near the roots of the tongue,hath placed two glandules op- *. * : nº poſite to one another; in figure and magnitude like to almond; whence alſº t º º, hºne they have their name;their office is to receive theſpittle falling down from the brain, both left that the too violent falling down of the humor ſhould hinder *~ the tongue in ſpeaking as alſo that the tongue might alway.cs have moiſture, as it were laid up in ſtore, left by continuall º it ſhould grow dry and fail.for thus this ſpittle being conſumed º feaveriſh heats, the patients are ſcarſe able to ſpeak, unleſs they firſt moiſten their tongue by much waſhing of their mouth. the cauſe of #. glandules becauſe they are ſtated in a hot and moiſt place, are very ſubjećt to in- their tumor, flammations; for there flows into theſe oft-times together with the blood,á great quantity of crude,phlegmatick and viſcous humors, whence ariſes a tumor; which is not ſeldome occaſioned by drinking much and thatvaporous wine, by too much gluttony,and ſtaying abroad in the open air. symptom:s, swallowing is painfull and troubleſome to the patient,and commonly he hath a feaver. oft-times the neighbouring muſcles of the throttle and neck are ſo ſwoln together with theſe glandules,(that as it uſually happens in the squinzy)the paſſage of the breath and air is ſtopped,and the patient ſtrangled. - - cut wºreſiſt this imminent danger by purging and blood-letting by applying cupping- life, glaſſes to the neck and ſhoulders, by triáions and ligatures of the extreme parts, and by waſhing and gargling the mouth and throat with aſtringent gargariſms. but if they come to ſuppuration,you muſt with your inciſion knifemake way for the evacuation of the puſ, r matter; but if on the contrary, theſe things performed according to art, defluxion be ºr mediſ increaſed, and there is preſent danger of death by ſtopping and intercepting the breath,ſor i. ... the ſhunning ſo great and imminent danger, the top or upper part of the aſpera arteria, j. * or weazon muſt e opened, in that place where it uſes to ſtand moſt out; and it may be done ſo much the ſafer, becauſe the jugular veins, and arteries are furtheſt diſtant from this place, and for that this place hath commonly little fleſh upon it. , and that the inciſion may bethe fitlier made, the patient muſt be wiſhed to bend his head back,that ſo the artery : º: *ſº be the more eaſily come to by the inſtrument ; then you ſhall make an inciſion overthwart weazon. way with a crooked knife between two rings (not hurting nor touchiug the griſtly ſub- ſtance) that is to ſay, the membrane which tyes together the griſtly rings being only cut; you ſhall then judg that you have made the inciſion large enough,when you ſhall perceive the breath to break out by the wound;the wound muſtbe kept open ſo long, untill the dan- ger of ſuffocation be paſt; and then it muſt be ſowed up not touching the griſtle: but if the lips of the º ſhall be hard and callous; they muſt be lightly ſcarified,that ſo they may become bloody for their eaſier agglutination an union,as we ſhall ſhew more at large in the cure of hare lips. i have had many in cure, who have recovered,that have had their weazon together with the griſly rings thereofcut with a great wound, as we ſhall note when we ſhall come to treat of the cure of the wounds of that part. —— chap. w ii. of the inflammation and relaxation in the wvula or columella. whatthews ºn shevvula is a little body, ſpongy and ſomewhat ſharpened to the form of a pine la is,and what ($ n - h di f the palat, ſo to break the uſe there-' § apple,hanging even down from the u per and inner part of the palatio to bre of. . ºf the force of the airdrawn in,in breathing,and carryed to the lungs, and to be as the cauſe of a quill to form and tune the voyce. it often grows above meaſure by receiving the ſwelling moiſture falling down from the brain, becoming ſharpe by little and little from abroa- thereof. , der and more ſwoln baſis. which thing cauſes many symptomes; for by the continuall bymptomes. irritation of the diſtilling humor the cough is cauſed which alſo hinders the ſleep and in- tercepts the liberty of ſpeech; but alſo by hindering reſpiration the patients cannot ſleep unleſs with open mouth: they are exerciſed with a vain indeavouring to ſwallow (having - as it were anorſºll flicking in their jaws) and are in danger of being ſtrangled. the cure, this diſeaſe muſt be refifted and affailed by purging, bleeding, cupping, taking of cly- ſters,aſing aſtringent gargles,aad a convenient diet; but if it cannot thus be overcome, the the cure b cure muſt be trycd by a caſtičk of aquafortu, which i have divers times done with i. chirurº ſucces.but if it cannot be ſo done,it wil be better to put toyour band,than through idlenes to ſuffer the patient to remain in imminent and deadly danger of ſtrangling yet in this there muſt very great caution be uſed; for the chirurgeon ſhall not judg the wvula fit to be tºuched with an inſtrumentor cauſtick,which is ſwoln with much inflamed,or blackblood after the manner of a cancer; but he ſhall boldly put to his hand if it be longiſh, grow ſmall lib. . of particular tumors againſt nature. , —- finall by little and little into a ſharpe, loole and tort point ; if it be neither exceeding red, neither ſwolne with too much blood, but whitiſh and without pain. therefore that you may more eaſily and ſafely cut away, that which redounds and is ſuperfluous, deſire the pa- - tient to fit in a light place,and hold his mouth open ; then take hold of the top of the . wvula with your ſizers, & cutaway as much thereof as ſhal be thought unprofitable.other- wiſe you ſhall bind it with the inſtrument here-under deſcribed; the invention of this in- ſtrument is to be aſcribed to honoratus taſtellanus that diligent and learned man, the kings § ordinary, and the chief phyſitan of the queen mother; which alſo may be uſe in binding of polyfi and warts in the neck of the womb. the delineatiºn of conſtrićtory ring; fit to twitch, or bind the ** " - § aiwiſted thred, a. shews the ring whoſe upper part is ſomewhat hollow. b. a double waxed thred, which is couched in the hollowneſs of thering,and hath a running, or looſekoot upon it: - # an iron rod, into the eye whereof the fore- mentioned double thred is put, and it is to twitch the columella when as much thereof is taken hold of, as is unprofitable, and ſo to take it away without any flux of blood.when you would ſtraiten the thred, draw it again through this iron rod,and ſo ſtrain it as much as you ſhall think good, letting the end of the thred, hang out of the mouth. but every day it muſt be twitched harder than o- ther, untill it fall away by means thereof, and ſo the partand patientbe reſtored to health. i have delineated three of theſe inſtruments,that |. may uſe which you will, as occaſionſhall offered, figure of the speculumoris, by which the mouth a held and kept ºpen , whilſt the chirurgeon is buſied in the cutting away or binding the wvula, but if heating ulcerſhall aſſociate this relaxation of the wvula, together with a flux of blood, then it muſt be burntandſcared with an hot iron,ſo thruſt intº a trunk.orpipe with an hole init,that ſono ſound part of themouth may be offended therewith, x a – --- - __ - of particular tumors againſt nature. li b. . - what it is. the differen- ces. the firſt kind, the symp- forms, the ſecond • kind. ' the third. the cauſes. hip-ſeº, . prog. . .d- phor. io ſò. diet, hollow trunk with a hole in the ſide, with the hot iron inſerted, ºr put therein. - eſſº illinunitſ chap. viii. of the angina, or squinzy. / he squinancy,or squincy is a ſwelling of the jaws, which hinders the entring of the ambient air into the weazon, and the vapours and the ſpirit from paſt ſage forth, and the meat alſo from being ſwallowed. there are three differ- rºſ ences thereof. the firſt torments the patient with great pain, noſwelling be- \º ing outwardly apparent, by reaſon the morbifick humor lyes hidbehind the almondsor glandules at the vertebre of the neck,ſo that it cannot be perceived,unleſs you hold down the tongue with a ſpatula or the speculum oria, for ſo you may ſee the redneſs and tumor there lying hid. the patient cannot draw his breath,nor ſwallow down meat, nor drink; his tongue, (like a gray-hounds after a courſe ) hangs out of his mouth, and he holds his mouth open that ſo hemay the more eaſily draw his breath; to conclude, his voyce is as it were drownd in his jaws and noſe; he cannot lye upon his back, but lying is forced to fit, ſo to breath more freely , and becauſe the paſſage is ſtopt, the drink flies out at his noſe; the eyes are fiery and ſwollen, and ſtanding out of their orb. thoſe which are thus affected are often ſodainly ſufocated, a foam riſmg about their mouths. - - : the ſecond difference is ſaid to be that,in which the tumor appears inwardly, but little or ſcarſe any thing at all outwardly, the tongue, glandules, and jaws appearing ſomewhat ſwollen. . . . the third being leaſt dangerous of them all,cauſes a great ſwelling outwardly,but little inwardlv. - the &uſe are either internall, or externall. the externall are a ſtroak, ſplinter or the like thing ſticking in the throat, or the exceſs of extreme cold,or heat. the internall cauſes are a more plentifull defluxion of the humors either from the whole body of the brain, which participate of the nature either of blood, choler or flegm, but ſeldome of melancholy. the ſigns by which the kind and commixture may be known, have been declared in the generall treatiſe of tumors. the squincy it more dangerous, by how much the humor is leſs apparent within and without. that is leſs dangerous which ſhews itſelf outwardly,becauſe ſuch an one ſhuts not up the wayes of the meat, nor breath.some dye of a squincy in twelve houres, other in two, four or ſeven daycs. thoſe (ſaith hippocrates) which ſcape the squincy, the diſeaſe paſſes to the lungs, and they dye within ſeven dayes; but if they ſcape theſe dayes, they are ſuppurated; but alſo often- times this kind of diſeaſe is terminated by diſappearing, that is,by an obſcure reflux of the humor into ſome noble part,as into the lungs (whence the empyema proceeds)aud into o- ther principall parts,whoſe violatingbrings inevitable death; ſometimes by reſolution,o- therwiſe by ſuppuration. - • * the way of reſolution is the more to be deſired; it happens when the matter is ſmall, and that ſubtle, eſpecially if the phyfitian ſhall draw blood by opening a vein,and the pa- tient uſe fitting gargariſms. a criticall squincy divers time; proves deadly by reaſon of the great falling down of the humor upon the throttle,by which the paſſage of the breath is ſodainly ſhut up. broths muſt be uſed made with capons, and vcal ſeaſoned with let- tuce, purſlain,sorrell,and the cold ſeeds. ifthe patient ſhall be ſomewhat weak, let him have potched egges, and barly creams, the barly being ſomewhatboyled with raiſons in water and sugar,and other meats of this kind. let . forbidden wine, inſtead whereof he may uſe hydromelita, and hydroſachara that is,drinks made of water and hony, or water and sugar as alſo the syrups of dryed roſes, of violets, sorrell and lemmons, and others of this kind. let him avoid too much ſleep. but in the mean time the phyſitian muſt be carefull of all, kau;*: cair ln . of particular timor, againſt nimr. - º dueae is of their kind, which brook no delayes. wherefore let the baſilica be preſently opened, on that fide the tumor is the greater; then within a ſhort time after the ſame days for evacuation of the conjunét matter, let the vein under the tongue be opened; let cupping-glaſſes be applyed, ſometimes with, ſcarification, ſometimes without, to the neck and ſhoulders,and let frićtions and painfull ligatures be uſed to the extreme parts.but let the humor impačtin the part be drawn away by clyſters and ſharp ſuppoſitories. whilſt the matter is in defluxion, i. the mouth without delay be waſhed with aſtringent garga- repelling e riſmes to hinder the defluxion of the humor, left by its ſodain falling down it kill the gargatſms. patient, as it often happens, all the phyſitians care and diligence hotwithſtanding. therefore let the mouth befrequently waſhed with oxycrate, or ſuch a §. : - r. pomorum ſilveſt. nu. iiij, ſumach, roſar. rub, am. m. ſ. berber. | let them be alſboyled -- with ſufficient quantity of water to the conſumption of the half, adding thereunto of the wine of ſoure pomgranats, iiij, of diamoron iſ, let it be a little more boyled and make a gargle according to art. and there may be other º made of the waters of plantain, night-ſhade, verjuice, julep of roſes and the like. but if the matter of the defluxion ſhallbe phlegmatick, alum, pomgranat pill, .. nuts, and a little vine- ger may be ſafely added. but on the contrary,repercuſſives muſt not be outwardly f lyed, but rather lenities, whereby the externall parts may be relaxed and ratified, and ſo the way be open either for the diffuſing or re º: the portion of the humor. you ſhall know the humor to begin to be j, if the feaver leave the patient, if he ſwallow, ſpeak and breath more freely, if he ſleep ‘...; and the pain begin to be much aſſwaged. herefore then natures endeavour muſt be helped by applying reſolved medicines, or elſe by uſing ſuppuratives inwardly and outwardly, if the matter ſeem to turn into pus. there- ripening fore let gargariſmsbemade ofthe roots of march-mallows,figs, jujubes, damask prunes, gaſtºriſis. dates, perfečtly boyled in water.the like benefit may be had by gargariſms of cows milk with sugar, by oyl of ſweet almonds,or violets warm for ſuch things help forward ſup- puration and affwage pain; let ſuppurating cataplaſms be applyed outwardly to the neck and throat,and the parts be wrapped with wooll moiſtened with oyſ of lillies. when the phyſitian ſhall perceive that the humor is perfeótly turned into pu, letthe patients mouth be opened with the speculum ori, and the abſceſs opened with a crooked and long inciſion knife; then let the mouth be now and then waſhed with cleanſing gargles; as r.aquebor- dei lib.ſ...mellis roſé ſyr. roſar.ſc.au. i, fiat gargariſma.alſo the uſe #anomel,that is, wine and gagºſº hony, will befit for this purpoſe. the §. clenſed by theſe means, let it be cica- -- trized with a little roch-aſum added to the former gargariſms. cure, detergent the figure of an inciſion knife ºpened ºut ºf the haft, which ſerves for aſheath theretº. --- chap. ix. of the bronchocele, or rupture ºf the throat. - eten pºat which the french call goetra, that the greeks call bronchacele, the latins gut- thereaſonor nº. * hººie, that is,the rupture of the throat. for it is a round tumor of the themme. - throat the matter whereof coming from within outwards, is contained between ...the skin and weazon; it proceeds in women from the ſameaugasam aneuriſmá. but this generall name of bronchºrel undergoes many differences;for ſometimes it retains the diſºrs; the nature of melicerides, other whiles of steatona', theoroma's or aneuriſma's,in ſome there * : *, i:foundaffeſhy ſubſtance having ſome finali pain; ſome of theſe are ſmall, others ſo great . . . that they ſºn, almoſt to coverall the throat; ſome have a cin , or bag, others have nº ſuch thing; all how many ſo ever they be, and what end they ſhall have may be known by *proper figns; theſe which ſhall begurable, maybe opiniºn. poten- the curs : §: with an . knife. hence if it be poſſible, let thematter be prºſently ****annot be done at once, let it be performed at divers times,and diſcu by fit remedies,and laſtly,let the ulcer be :::::::::: cicatrized, gan ſºd p as, chap: º of particular tumors againſt nature. lººs. chap. x. - of the pleuriſie. what it is, § he pleurific is an inflammation of the membrane, inveſting the ribs, cauſed by at it , ſubtile and cholerick blood, ſpringing upwards with great violence from the ofa pleuriſie hollow vein into the azygos, and thence into the intercoſtall veins, and is at coming to ſup- tº length powred forth into the emptie ſpaces of the intercoſtall muſcles, and the putation. mentioned membrane. being contained there,if it tend to ſuppuration,it commonly infers a pricking pain,a feaver and difficulty ofbreathing. this ſuppurated blood is purged and evacuated one while by the mouth; the lungs ſucking it,and ſo caſting it into the waazon, and ſo into the mouth,otherwhiles by urine,and ſometimes by ſtool. of the change but if nature being too weak, cannot expectorate the purulent blood poured forth in- thereofiato an to the capacity of the cheſt, the diſeaſe is turned into an empyema, wherefore the chirurge- #. it on muſt then be called:who beginning to reckon from below upwards, may make a vent on of the #. . between the third and fourth true and legitimate ribs; and that muſt be done either with an in emptma," ačtual or potentiall cautery, or with a ſharpe knife drawn upwards, towards the back, but not downwards,leſt the veſſels ſhould be violated which are diſſeminated under the rib. this apertion may be ſafely and eaſily performed by this ačtuall cautery ; it is perforated with four holes, through one whereofthere is a pin put higher or lower according to the depth andmanner of your inciſion;then the point thereof is thruſt through a plate of iron perfo- rated alſo in the midſt,into the part deſigned by the phyſitian, leſt the wavering hand might peradventure touch,and ſo hurt the other parts not to be medled withall. this ſame plate muſt be ſomewhat hollowed, that ſo it might be more eaſily fitted to the gibbous fide, and bound by the corners on the contrary fide with four ſtrings.wherefore i have thought good here to expreſs the figures thereof. - the figure of an dullºut: with its plate fit to be uſed in a pleuriſe. j. : : *: but if the patient ſhall have a large body, cheſt and ribs, you may divide and perforate the ribs themſelves with a trepan;howſoever the apertion be made, the pu, or matter muſt be evacuated by little and little at ſeverall times; and the capacity of the cheſt cleanſed from the º: matter by a detergent injećtion of viounces of barley water,and iſ,ho- ny of roſes,and other the like things mentioned at large in our cure of wounds. ºch a p. xi. - - . of the dropſie. . . . . ºf he dropſie is a tumor againſt nature by the aboundance of wateriſh humor, of : flatulencies,or phlegm, gathered one while in all the habit of the body, other- sºlº - whiles in ſome jº in the .g. of the belly between the *:::::::: pºritoneum and intrails. from this diſtinčion of plººsand matters there ariſe * divers kinds of dropſies. firſt, that dropſewhich fils that ſpace of the belly, the differen- is either moiſt or dry.the moiſtiscalled the aſcites,by reaſon of the fimilitude it hath with ** aleather bottle,or £orachi,becauſe the wateriſh humor is contained in that capacity, as it were in ſuch a veſſell. the dry is called the tympanites, or tympany, . reaſon the belly ſwollen with wind ſounds like a tympanum, that is,a drum.but when the whole habit of the body is diffended with what the dropſie is, lib. , of particular tumors againſt nature. with a phlegmatick humor,it is called anaſarca or leucophlegmatia. in this laſt kind of - dropſie the lower parts firſt ſwell, as which by reaſon of their ſite are more ſubjećt to re- ceive defluxions, and more remote from the fountain of the native heat; wherefore if you reſſe them down the print of your finger will remain ſometime after;the patients face will i. pale and puffed up, whereby it may be diſtinguiſhed from the two other kinds of dropſie. for in them firſt the belly, then by a certain conſequence the thighs and fect do ſwell. there are beſides alſo particular dropſies,contained in the ſtrait bounds of certain places, ſuch are the hydrocephalos in the hcad, the bronchacele in the throat; the pleuro- cele in the cheſt; the hydroccle in the scrotum, or cod; and ſo of the reſt. yet they all ariſe from the ſame cauſe; that is, the weakneſs or defečt of the altering or concoëting faculties, eſpecially of the liver, which hath been cauſed by a scirrhus, or any kind ofgreat diſtem- per, chiefly cold, whether it happen primarily, or ſecondarily by reaſon of ſome hot diſ- ſtemper diſſipating the native and inbred heat, ſuch a dropſie is uncurable; or elſe it comes by conſent of ſome other higher or lower part;for if in the lungs, midriff, or reins there be any diſtemper,or diſeaſe bred,it is eaſily communicated to the gibbous part of the li- ver, by the branches of the hollow vein, which run thither. but if the miſchief proceed from the spleen, stomach,meſentery guts,eſpecially the jejunum and ileum, it creeps into the hollow fide of the liver by the meſeraick veins,and other branches of the vena forta or gate vein. for thus ſuch as are troubled with the aſthma,ptiſick,spleen,jaundiſe,and al- ſo the phrenſie,fall into a dropſie. laſtly,all ſuch as have the menſtruall or ha:morrhoidall blood ſuppreſſed or too im- moderately flowing contrary to their cuſtome, either overwhelms, diminiſheth or extin- guiſheth the native heat; no otherwiſe than fire, which is ſuffocated by too great a quan- tity of wood ; or dieth and is extinguiſhed for want thereof. we muſt look for the ſame from the excrements of the belly or bladder, caſt forth either too ſparingly or too immo- derately : or by too large quantity of meats too cold and raſhly devoured without any order; to conclude,by every default of externall cauſes, through which occaſion,error may happen in diet or exerciſe. - * . . . . ; the aſcite is diſtinguiſhed from the two other kinds of dropſies, both by themagni- tude of the efficient cauſe,as alſo by the violence of the symptoms,as the dejećted appetite, thirſt,and ſweling of the abdomen.and alſo when the body is moved or turned upon either fide you may hear a ſound as of the jogging of water in a veſſell half full. i. , the hu- mor is diverſly driven upwards or |. according to the turning of the body and compreſſion of the abdomen; it alſo cauſeth various symptoms by preſſure of the parts the symp- tones. the cauſes, how divers diſeaſes turn into dropſies, the ſigns of an aſtites. the symp- ºr tofriº, - to which it floweth. for it cauſeth difficulty of breathing and the cough by preſſing the . midriffe; by ſweating through into the capacity of the cheſt it cauſeth like symptoms as the empyema, beſides alſo the patients often ſeem, as it were, by the ebbing and flowing of the wateriſh humor, one while to be carried to the skies, and another whiles to be drowned in the water, which i have learnt not by reading of any author, but by the re- port of the patients themſelves. but if theſe wateriſh humors befallen down to the lower parts, they ſuppreſs the excrements of the guts and bladder by preſſing and ſtraitning the aſſages. when the patient lies on his back the tumor ſeems leſſe, becauſe it is ſpread on e. ſides;on the contrary when he ſtands or fits, it ſeems greater.for that all the humor is forced or driven into the lower belly,whence he feels a heavineſs in the peden or ſhare. the upper parts of the body fall away by defe& of the blood fit for nouriſhment in quality and conſiſtence,but the lower parts ſwel by the flowing down of the ſerous and wateriſh humor to them.the pulſe is little,quick,and hard with tention. - this diſeaſe is of the kind of chronicall or long diſeaſes;wherefore it is ſcarce,or never cured, eſpecially in thoſe who have it from their mothers womb, who have the a&ion of their ſtomach depraved,and thoſe who are cache&tick, old; and laſtly, all ſuch as have the naturall faculty languiſhing and faulty. on the contrary, young and ſtrongmen,eſpecially if they have no feaver,and finally all who can endure labour, and thoſe exerciſes which are fit for curing this diſeaſe, eafily re- cover principally if they uſe a phyfitian before the water which is gathered together do º: and infečt the bowels by its contagion. - — — chap. xii. of the cure of the dropſic. *he beginning of the cure muſt be with gentle and mild medicines; neither muſt §§ we come to a paracenteſts unleſs we have formely uſed and tried theſe. there- º § fore it ſhal be the part of the phyſitian to preſcribe a drying diet,and ſuch me- dicines as carry away water, both by ſtool and urine.hippocrates ordains this powder for hydropick perſons. r. canthar, ablati, capitib. & ali, ſ. combu- rentur infurno, cº-fiat pulvis; of which adminiſter two grains in white wine, for nature hel- ped by this, and the like remedies hath not ſeldome been ſeen to have cured the droſº ult prognoſticks, hip. lib' de acut. cy lib.de intern, of particular tumors againſ nature li b. . - - bags. bathes. [iniments. emplaiſers, veſicatories” gal. lib.de fa- cal.natur. is divers opini- ons of para- centeſs, or ope- ning of the belly. reaſons' - gainſ its eraſſtrans his reaſons againſt it, reaſons for it. liº. cap; . but that we may haſten the cure, it will be available to ſtir up the native heat of the part by appplication of thoſe medicines which have a diſcuſſing force;as bags,baths.ointments, and emplaiſters. letbags be made of dry and harſh bran, oats,salt,sulphur, being made hot, or for want of them, of sander, or aſhes often heated. the more effečtuall baths are ſalt, nitrous, and ſulphurous waters, whether by nature or art, that is, prepared by the diſſolution of ſalt, niter, and sulphur; to which if rue, marjorom, the leaves of fºnnell, and tops of dill, of stacha, and the like be added, the bufineſs will goe, better forwards. let the ointments be made of the oyl of rue, dill, baies, and squills, in which ſome euphorbium,pellitory of spain,or pepper have been boiled. let plaiſters be made of frankincenſe, myrrh, turpentine, coſtu, bayberries, engliſh galengall, hony, the dung of oxen, pigeons, goats, horſes, and the like, which alſo may be applied by themſelves. if the diſeaſe continue, we muſt come to sinapiſmes and phanigmeſ,that is, to rubrifying and veſicatory medicines. when the bliſters are raiſed,they muſt be anointed again, that ſo the water may by little and little flow ſo long untill all the humor be exhauſted, and the patient reſtored to health. galen writes,the husbandmen in affa, when they carried wheat out of the country into the city in cars,when they wil ſteal away and not be taken,hide ſome ſtone jugs fill'd with water in the midſt of the wheat; for that will draw the moiſture through the jugs into it ſelf, and encreaſe both the quantity and weight. when certain pragmaticall phyſitians had read this,they thought that wheat had force to draw out the water, ſo that if any ſick of the dropſie ſhould be buried in a heap of wheat,it would draw out all the water. but if the phyſitian ſhall profit nothing by theſe means, he muſt come to the exquiſitly chief remedy,that is, to paracenteſts. of whith becauſe the opinions of the ancient phyſiti- ans have been divers, we will produce and explain them. - thoſe therefore which #. paracenteſts, conclude it dangerous for three reaſons. the firſt is becauſe by pouring out the contained water, together with it you diſſipate and reſolve the ſpirits, and conſequently the naturall, vitall, and animall faculties. another opinion is becauſe the liver wanting the water by which formerly it was born up;thence forward hanging down by its weight,depreſſeth and draweth downwards the midriffe and the whole § whence a dry cough, and a difficulty of breathing proceed. the third is,becauſe the ſubſtance of the peritoneum, as that which is nervous, cannot be pricked or cut without danger, neither can that which is §. or cut be eaſily aggluti- nated and united, by reaſon of the ſpermatick and moved by theſe reaſons condemned paracenteſt, as deadly : alſo he perſwaded that it was unprofitable for theſe following reaſons, viz.becauſe the water powred forth, doth not take away with it the cauſe of the dropſie,and the diſtemper and hardneſs of the liver,and of the other bowels, whereby it comes to paſs that by breeding new waters they may eaſily againfall into the dropſie. and then the feaver, thirſt,the hot and driediſtemper of the bowels, all which were mitigated by the touch of the included water,are aggravated by the abſence thereof,being powred forth:which thing ſeemeth to have moved avicen and gordonius that he ſaid none; the other ſaid very few lived after the paratenteſis:but the refu- tation of all ſuch reaſons is very eaſie. - for, for the firſt galen infers, that harmfull diſſipation of ſpirits, aud reſolving the fa- culties happens,when the paracenteſi, is not diligently, and artificially performed. as in which the water is preſently powred forth; truly if that reaſon have any validity,phlebo- my muſt ſeem to be removed far from the number of wholſome remedies, as whereby the blood is poured forth, which hath far more pure and ſubtil ſpirits,than thoſe which are ſaid to be diffuſed and mixed with the É. waters. but that danger which the ſecond reaſon threatens ſhall eaſily be avoided ; the patient being defired to lieupon his back in his bed, for ſo the liver wiſl not hang dawn. but for the third reaſon, the fear of pricking the peritoneum,is childiſh:for thoſe evils which follow upon wounds of the nervous parts,happen by reaſon of the exquiſit ſenſe of the part, which in the peritoneum ill affe&ted & .#by the contained water,is either none or . ſmal.but reaſon and expe- rience teach many nervous parts, alſo the very membranest emſelves being far removed from a fleſhy ſubſtance,being wounded admit cure;certainly much more the peritoneum, as that which adheres ſoſtraitſy to the muſcles of the abdomen that the diſſºtor cannot ſepa- rate it from the fleſh,but with much labor.but the reaſon which ſeems to argue the unpro- fitableneſs of the paracenteſt, is refelled by the authority of celſus.i ſaith he, am not igno- rant that eraſſtratus did not like paracenteſts;for he thought the dropſie to be a diſeaſe of the liver, and ſo that it muſt be cured,and that the water was in vain let forth,which the liver being vitiated, might grow again. but firſt this is not the fault of this bowel alone, and then although the water had his originall from the liver yet unleſs the water which fayeth there contrary to nature being evacuated,it hurteth both the liver,and the reſt of the inner parts,whilſt it either encreaſ:th their hardneſs,or at the leaſt keepeth it hard,and yet notwithſtanding it is fit the body becured. and although the once etting forth of the humor profit nothing yet it makes way for medicines, which while it was there con- tained,it hindered. but this ſerous,ſalt,and corrupt humor is ſo far from being abi: , mitigate loudleſſe nature thereof.” eraſſtratus lie. , of particular tumors - ------------- nature. - againſt mitigate a feaver and thirſt, that on the contrary it increaſeth them. and alſo it augmen- ºth the cold diſemper, whilſt by its abundance it overwhelms and extinguiſheth the na- tive heat. but the authority of celius aurelianus that moſt noble phyſitian, though a me- thodick, may ſatisfie avicen and gordonius.they faith he, which dare avouch that all ſuch as have the water let out by opening their be } have died, do lie;for we have ſeen many recover by this kind of remedy: but ifany died,it happened either by the default of the ſlow or negligent adminiſtration of the paracenteſt. i will add this on thing which may take all error of controverfics : we unwiſely doubt of the remedy when the patient is brought to that neceſſity,that we can only help him by that means. now muſt we ſhew how the belly ought to be opened. if the dropſie happen by fault of the liver,the ſcăion muſt be made on the left ſide;but if of the spleen,in the right...for if the patient ſhould lie upon the ſide which is opened, the pain of the wound would continua ly. trouble him, and the water running into that part where the ſection, is, would continually drop, whence would follow a diſſolution of the facultics. the scétion muſt be made three fingers bredth below the navell, to wit, at the ſide of the right muſcle,but not upon that which they call the linea alba;neither upon the nervous parts of the reſt of the muſcles of the epigaſtrium;that ſo we may prevent pain and difficulty of healing. therefore we muſt have a care that the patient lieupon his right fide, if the inciſion be made in the left, or on the left, if on the right. then the chirurgeon both with his own hand, as alſo with the handofhis ſervantaſſiſting him muſt take up the skin of the belly with the fleſhy pan: nicle lying under it,and ſeparate them from the reſt;then let him dividethem ſo ſeparated with a scâion even to the fleſh lying under them which being done, let him force as much as hee can the dividedskin upwards towards the ſtomach; , that when the wound, which muſt preſently be made in the fleſh lying there-under,ſhall be conſolidated,the skin by its falling therein,may ſerve for that purpoſe: then therefore let him divide the muſculous fleſh and peritoneum with a ſmall wound,not hurting the call or guts. then put into the wound a trunk, or golden, or ſilver crooked pipe, of the thickneſs of a gooſes-quill,and of the length of ſome halfa finger. , let that part of it which goes into the capacity of the belly have ſomething a broadhead,and that perforated with two ſmall holes,by which a ſtring being faſtened, it may be bound ſo about the body, that it cannot be moved, unleſs at the chirurgeons pleaſure; let a ſpunge be put into the pipe, which may receive the dropping humor: and let it be taken out when you would evacu- ate the water: but let it not be poured out all together,but . little and little for fear of diſſipation of the ſpirits,and reſolution of the faculties, which i once ſaw happen to one ſick of the dropſie. hebeing impatient of the diſeaſe and cure thereof, thruſt a bodkin into his belly,and did much rejoice at the pouring forth of the water, as if he had been freed from the humor and the diſeaſe, but died within a few houres, becauſe the force of the water running forth, could by no means be ſtaied, for the inciſion was not artificially made. but it will not be ſufficient to have made way for the humor by the means afore. mentioned,but alſo the external orifice of the pipe muſt be º: & ſtrengthned by dou- ble cloaths, and a ſtrong ligature, leſt any of the water flow forth againſt our wils. but we muſt note that the pipe is not to be drawn out of the wound, before as much water ſhall be iſſued forth as we 㺠the tumor requireth;for once drawn forth, it cannot eaſily be put in again,and without force and pain be fitted to the lips of the wound,becauſe the skin and fleſhy pannicle cover it by their falling into the wound of the fleſh or muſcle. but whilſt the water is in evacuation, we muſt have a diligent care offeeding the patient, as alſo of his ſtrength, for if that fail,and he ſeem to be debilitated, the effuſion of the water muſt be ſtaied for ſome daies, which at the length performed acccording to our deſire, the :* muſt be ſo conſolidated that the chirurgeon beware it degenerate not into a fi- ſtula. the figure of a pipe in form of a guill, to evacuate the water in dropſies. others performe this buſineſs after another man- ner; for making an inciſion, they thruſt through the lips of the wound with a needle and thred; but they take up much of the fleſhie ſubſtance with the necdlé, left that which is taken up ſhould be rent and torn by the forcible drawing ofthe lips together.therthe thred itſelf is wrapped up and down over both ends of the needle,ſo thruſt through,as is uſually done in a hare-lip.that ſo the lips of the wound may ſo cloſely cohere; that not a drºp of water may get out againſt the chirurgeons wil.sometimes ſuch as are cured and - - healed of the dropſie;fall into the jaundiſe, whom i uſually cure after this maner. rºſterc. anſer, ij,diſſolve it in iij, vinial. colºtur, make a potion, and let it be given two houres before meat. chap. lib. de mºrb, ch cap, de hydrope. the places of the apertion muſt be divers, according to the parts chiefly affeded. the manner of making apetri- one a hiſtory, a caution for " taking out the pipo. another thiſ: ner of evacua- ting the water after the aper. tions a medicine.” the jaundi" of particular tumors againſt nature * the divers cauſes thereof, signs hereof occaſioned by the kall. by the guts. by fleſh. by wind. by a wateriſh humor. by bruiſed blood. which may be cured by chi- rurgery, which in or. the cure by chirurgery. theſe are only .ſorts of ruptures. bubonocele, enteroceleand epiplocele, hydracele. °hyſocele. sarcocele. cirſocele. the cauſes, the signs, c. h.a.p. xiii. of the tumor and relaxation of the navel. he exomphalos or ſwelling of the navel,is cauſed by the peritoneum,either relaxed rºor broken:for by this occaſion oft-times the guts,and oft-times the kal,fal in- rö to the ſeat of the navell, and ſometimes ſuperfluous fleſh is there generated; otherwiſe this tumor is as an aneuriſma by too great a quantity of #. pou- red forth in that place: otherwiſe by a flatulent matter, and ſometimes by a wateriſh humor. if the humor be occaſioned by the kall, the part it ſelf will retain his proper colour, that is, the colour of the skin; the tumor will be ſoft and almoſt without pain, and which will reſide without noiſe, either by the preſſure of your fingirs, or of it ſelf when the patient lieth on his back;but tumor cauſed by the guts, is more unequall, and when it is forced in by the preſſure of your fingers,there is ſuch a noiſe heard,as in the enterocele;but if the tumor proceed of ſuperfluous fleſh it will be harder and more ſtubborn, not eaſily retiring into the body, although the patient lieupon his back,and you preſſe it with your fingers. - the tumor is ſofter which proceeds of wind,but which wil not retire into the body,& ſounds under your nail like a taber. if the ſwelling becauſed by a wateriſh humor,it hath all things common with the flatuous tumor, except that it is not ſo viſible, and without noiſe. if it be from effuſion of blood, it is of a livid colour,but if the effuſed blood ſhall be arteriall,then there are the ſigns of an aneuriſma.wherefore when the tumor is cauſed by the guts, kall, wind or a wateriſh humor, it is cured by chirurgery: but notif it proceed . from a fleſhy excreſcence or ſuffuſion of blood. the tumor of the navell proceeding from the kall and guts, the patient muſt lie upon his back to be cured, and then the kall; and guts,muſt with your fingers be forced into their due place:then the skin with which the tumor is circumſcribed muſt be taken up with your fingers, and thruſt through with a needle,drawing after it a double twined and ſtrong thred,then it muſt be ſcarified about the fides,that ſo it may be the eaſieragglutinated. then muſt it be thruſt through with a needle three or four times, according to the manner and condition of the diſtenti- on and tumor.and ſo twitch it ſtrongly with a thred,that the skin which is ſo bound may at length fall offtogether with the ligatures. but alſo you may cut off the skin ſo diſten- ded even to the ligature,and then cicatrize it, as ſhall be fit. a flatulent tumor of the na- well ſhall be cured with the ſame remedies, as we ſhall hereafter mention in the cure of a windy rupture, but the watery may be poured forth by making a ſmall inciſion.and the wound ſhall be kept open, ſo long, untill all the water be drained forth. c h a p. xiiii. of the tumors ºf the greins and coll called hernia, that it, ruptureſ. a he ancient phyſicians have made many kinds of ruptures, yet indeed there are º, only three to be called by that name,that is the inteſtinalis,or that of theguts, , % the zirbali, or that of the kall,and that which is mixed of them both. the zºº other kinds of ruptures have come into this order, rather by ſimilitude, than ** any truth of the thing : for in them the gut or kall doc not forſake their laces. r the greeks have given to all theſe ſeverall names, both from the ſeat of the tumor, as alſo from their matter.for thus they have called an unperfeót rupture which deſcends not beyond the groins,nor falls down into the cods, bubonocele : but the compleat which pe- netrates into the cod, if it be by falling down of the gut, enterocele : if from the kall, epi- plottle: if from them both together,they name it enteroepiplocele : but if the tumor proceed from a wateriſh humor, they termit hydrocele : if from wind, phyſocele; if from both, hy- drºphydoceleşifa fleſhy excreſcence ſhall grow about the teſticle, or in the ſubſtance thereof, it is named sarcocelé. if the veins interwoven,and divaricated diverswayes ſhall be ſwoln in the cod and teſticles,the tumor obtains the name of a cirſocele. but if the humors ſhall be ſhut up or ſent thither, the name is impoſed upon the tumor, from the predominant humor,as we have noted in the beginning of our traćtate of tumors. the cauſes are many, as all too violent motions, a ſtroak,a fall from a high place, vomiting, a cough, lea- ping, riding upon a trotting horſe, the ſounding of trumpets.or ſackbuts, the carrying, or lifting up of a heavy burden, racking,alſo the too immoderate uſe of viſcid and flatulent mcats; for all ſuch things may either relax or break the peritoneum, as that which is a thin and extended membrane. the ſigns of a bubonocele are a round tumor in the groin, which preſſed, is eaſily foc.cdin. the ſigns of an enterocele are a hard tumor in the cod, which forced, returneth back and departeth with a certain murmur and pain; but the tumor proceeding of the kall,is lax and feels ſoft like wool,and which is more difficultly forced in, { lib. . of particular tumors againſ: nature. . in,than that which proceeds from the guts, but yet without murmuring and pain: for the ſubſtance of the guts, ſeeing it is one, and continued to itſelf they doe not only mutually ſucceed each other,hut by a certain conſequence doe,as in a dance draw each other, ſo to avoid diſtention, which in their membranous body cannot be without pain, by reaſon of their change of place from that which is naturall, into that againſt nature ; none of all which . the kall, ſeeing it is a ſtupid .. almoſt without ſenſe, heavy, dull, and immoveable.the ſigns that the peritoneum is broken, are the ſudden increaſe of the tu- mor, and a ſharp and cutting pain; for when the peritoneum is only relaxed, the tumor groweth by little and little,and ſo conſequently, with ſmall pain; yet ſuch pain returns à often, as the tumor is renewed by the falling down of the gut, or kall, which º. not the peritoneum being broken : for the way being once open,and paſſable to the fallin body, the tumor it renewed without any diſtention, and ſo without any pain to ſpeak of. thereſt of the ſigns ſhall be handled in their places. sometimes it happens that the guts, . and kali,do firmly adhere to the proceſſe of the peritoneum,that they cannot be driven back into their proper ſeat. this ſtubborn adheſion happens by the intervention of the viſcid matter, or by means of ſome excoriation cauſed by the rude hand of a chirurgeon,in too violently forcing of the gut, or kall,into their place. but alſº too longſlay of the gut in the cod,and the negle&t of wearing a truſſe, may give occaſion to ſuch adheſion.a per- fra and inveterate rupture by the breaking of the proceſs of the peritoneum in men of full growth,never, or very ſeldome admits ofture. but you muſt note, that by great ruptures fthe pritoneum, the guts may fall into the cod,to the bigneſs of a mans head, without much pain and danger of life,becauſe the excrements,as they may eaſily enter,hy reaſon of the largneſs of the place and rupture,ſo alſo they may eaſily return. c. h. a. p. xv. - - of the cure of ruptures. . . . . . - - mºecauſe children are very ſubject to ruptures but thoſe truly not fleſhy or vari- § cous,but watry, windy, and eſpecially of the guts, by reaſon of continuall and . iſ painfull crying and coughing; therefore in the firſt place we will treat of § r} ). their cure. wherefore the chirurgeon,called to reſtore the gut which is faln *** down,ſhall place the child, either on a table, or in a bed, ſo that his head ſhall be low, but his buttocks and thighes higher;then ſhall he force with his hands by little and little, and gently,the gut into his r place;and ſhall fonient the #." with the aſtringent fomentation,deſcribed in the falling down of the womb. then let him apply this remedy. r. preſcript. decodionis quantum ſufficit, farine bordei & faburungam.fjpulver. aloes, maſtiches, mynyll. : sarcoco.an, ſ., boli armeni žij. lettheinbé incorporated and made a cataplaſme according to art. for the ſame purpoſe he may apply explaſtrum contra ruptu- ram:but the chiefoſthecure confiſts in folded clothes,and truſſes,and ligatures artificially made,that thereſtored gut may be contained in its place for which purpoſe he ſhall keep. the child ſeated in his cradle for o or dayes, as we mentioned before; and keep him from crying,ſhouting,and coughing. aetius bids ſteep paper dayes in water, and apply it made into aball to the groin,the gut being firſt put up;for that remedy by days É. will keep it from falling down. but it will be, as i *. effe&uall,if the paperbe ſteeped not in common, but in the aſtringent waters deſcribed in the falling down of the womb. truly i have healed many by the help of ſudh remedies, and have delivered them from the hands of gelders, which are greedy of childrens teſticles,by reaſon of the great ain they receive from thence. they by a ..., cozenage, perſwade the parents, that the falling down of the gut into the cod, is uncurable: which thing notwithſtanding experi- ence convinceth to be falſe, if ſo be the cure be performed according to the forementioned manner, when the peritoneum is only relaxed, and not broken: for the proceſs thereof by which the gut doth fall as in a ſteep way, in progreſs of time and age is ſtraitried and knit together,whilſt alſo in the mean time the guts grow thicker. * -- a certain chirurgeon who deſºrveth credit,hath told me that he hath cured many chil- dren as thus:he bcats a loadſtone into fine powder,and gives it in pap,and then he anoints with hony the groin,by which the gut came out,and then ſtrewed it over with fine filings of iron. he adminiſtred this kind #: forten of twelvedayes: the part, for other things being bound up with a ligature and truſſe as was fitting.the efficacy of this . feemethto conſiſt in i. the loadſtone by a natural deſire of...}. whic is ſtrewed upon the groin, joins to it the fleſhy and fatty particles interpoſed between them, by a certain violent impetuoſity,which on every fidepreſſing and bending the looſ- neſs of the peritoneum, yeaverily adjoining themſelves to it, in proceſs of time by a firm adheſion intercept the paſſage and falling down of the gutor kall; which may ſeem no more abhorring from reaſon, than that we behold the loadſtone itſelf through the thick- neſs of a table,to draw iron after it any way. the ſame chirurgeon º: that he fre- quently and happily uſed the following ºftii, burnt into aſhes in an oven red ſnails, ſhut up in an earthen pot, and gave the powder of them to little children in pap, but to thoſe which were bigger,in broth. ! but - what rupture is uncurable, re what rup; tures children are ſubječ. an iflingent tº: ; ser. i.e. p. : the craft and coverouſneſs of gelders. another way to cure rt pa …” tures, - the reaſon of this cure. ano ther ** citic, - of priºr tumors againſt nature l in . a notable hiſtory, we muſt never deſpair in diſ- eaſes if ſo be nature be aſſo- ciated by art, * - * - - - - - ". -*. •? - --- - - but we muſt deſpair of nothing in this diſeaſe, for the cure may happily proceed in men of full growth,as of fortie year old, who have filled the three dimenſions of the body, as this following relation teſtifies. there was a certain prieſt in the pariſh of st. andrewſ,called john moret, whoſe office it was to ſing an epiſtle with a loud voice as often as the ſolemnity of the day,and the thing required. wherefore ſeeing he was troubled with the enter cele, he came to me, requiring help, ſaying, he was troubled with a grievous pain,eſpecially then, when he ſtretched his voice in the epiſtle. when i had ſeen the bigneſs ofthe enterocele, i perſwaded him to get another to ſerve in his place;ſo having gotten leave of m.curio clerk,and deacon of divinity, he committed himſelf unto me: thandled him according unto art, and commanded him he ſhould never go without a truſſe;and he followed my direétions.when i met him ſome five or ſix years after, i asked him how hedid,he anſwered very wel,for he was wholly freed from the diſeas. with which he was formerly troubled;which i could not perſwademy ſelf of, before that i had found that he had told me the truth, y the diligent obſervation of his genitals. but ſome fix moneths after,he dying of a pleuriſie. i came to curio's houſe where he died, and defired leave to open his body, that i might obſerve whether nature had done anything at all in the paſſage through which the gut fell down: call god to witneſs, that i found a certain fatty ſubſtance about the proceſſe of the peritoneum about the bigneſs of a little eg, and it did ſtick ſo hard to that place, that i could ſcarce pull it away without the rending of the neighbouring parts. and this was the ſpeedy cauſe of his cure. but it is moſt wor- thy of obſervation,and admiration, that nature but a little helped by art,healeth diſeaſes which are thought incurable.the chief of the cure conſiſts in this,that wee firmly ſtay the gut in its place,after the ſame manner as theſe two figuresſhew. £ , the figure of a man broken on one ſide, & wearing a truſſe, whoſe bolſter muſt have three tuberoſities, two on the upper, and one on the lower part ; and there muſt be a hollowneſs be- tween them in the midſt, that they may not too ſtraitly preſ; the ſhare- bone,and ſo cauſe pain.the mamer of ſuch a truſſe; i fºund out not long agº,and it ſeemed better and ſafer than the reſt for to hinder the falling down of the gut and kall. a. shew; the ſhoulderband which is tied before and behind to the girdle of the truſe. b.thetruſ. c. the cavity left in the midſt of the tuberoſities. in the mean time we muſt notomit diet.we muſt forbid the uſe of all things, which may either relax, dilate, or break the proceſs of the peritoneum, of which i have already treated ſufficiently. sometimes,but eſpecially in old men, the guts cannot be reſtored into their place,by reaſon of the quantity of the excrements hardned in them: in this caſe they muſt not be too violently forced, but the patient muſt be kept in his bed,and lying with this head low,and his knees higher up;let the following cataplaſmes be applied. h - another lis. . of particular tumors againſt nature. w another figure of a man having a rupture on both ſider, ſhewing by what means, what kind ºf truſſe, and what ſhoulder-band he muſt be bound on each groin. a. sheweth the ſhoulder-band divided in the midſt fºr the putting through of the head. b.thetruſt, with twebolſters,between which is a holefor putting through the yard. the form of both bolſters *ght to be the ſºme with theformer, b. rad.alth. & lil, and ij, ſemini, lini e fenugr, an. ſ.,ſol. malve, violò pariet.am.m.ſ . let them be boiled infair water,afterwards beaten,and drawn through a ſearſe,adding thereto of new butter without ſalt,and oil of lillies, as much as ſhall ſuffice. make a cataplaſme in the form of a liquid pultis.let it be applied hot to the cod,and bottome of the belly; by the help of this remedy when it § been applied all night, the guts have not ſeldome been ſeen of themſelves, without the hand of a chirurgeon, to have returned into their proper place. the windineſs being reſolved, which hindered the goingback of the excre- ments into another gut, whereby they might be evacuated and expelled. but if the excrements will not goe back thus, the flatulencies, yet reſiſting and undiſcuſſed, an emollient and carminative clyfter is to be admitted, with a little chymicall oyl of turpentine, dill, juniperor fennill. clyſers of muſcadine, oyl of wallnuts,and aqua * , and a ſmall quantity of any the aforeſaid oyls, are good for the ſame ultſ)o c. p #. happens that the guts cannot yet be reflored becauſe the proceſs of the peritone- um is not wide enough. for when the excrements are fallen down with the gut into the god, they grow hard by little and little, and encreaſe by the acceſs of flatulencies cauſed by reſolution, which cauſe ſuch a tumor as cannot be put up through that hole, by which a little before itſell down:whereby it happens that by putrefation of the matter there con- tained,come inflammations,and a new acceſs of pain;and . a vomiting and evacuation of the excrements by themouth being hindered from the othe ratheraſſay extreme remedies, than ſuffer the patient to die by ſo filthy and loathſome a :a.we muſt cure it by chirurgery after this manner following.we wilbind the pa- tient lying on his back, upon a table or bench;then preſently make an inciſion in the upper part ofthe cod, not touc ing the ſubſtance of the guts; then we muſt have a ſilver cane or pipe, of thethickneſs of a gooſe quill, round,and gibbous in one part thereof,but ſome- what hollowed in the other, as isſfiewed by this following figure. y : the * * r paſſage of the fundament. . they vulgarly call this affe&miſerere mei. that you may help this ſymptome, you muſt a cataplaſmé to ſoften the excrementse chymicall oy! of particular tumors againſt nature. l i b. . the figure of the pipe or cane. frºntrº***** itiiiſ. “aaaaa* siiil iii we muſt put it into the place of the inciſion, and put it under the produćtion of the peritoneum being cut together with the cod,all the length of the º: ſo with a ſharp knife we may divide the proceſs of the peritoneum,according to that cavity ſeparated from the guts there contained by the benefit of the cane in a right line not hurting the É. when you have made an indifferent inciſion, the guts muſt gently be put up into the lly with your fingers,and then ſo much of the cut peritoneum muſt be ſowed up, as ſhall meem ſufficient,that by that paſſage made more ſtrait, nothing may fall into the cod after it is cicatrized. - but if there be ſuch abundance of excrements hardned,either by the ſtay or heat of in- flammation,that that inciſion is not ſufficient to force the excrements into their place,the inciſion muſt be made longer,your cane being thruſt up towards the belly: ſo that it may be ſufficient for the free regreſs of the guts into the belly. then ſow it up as is fit,and the .. will be ſhut up againſt the falling down of the gut or kall;the º of the peritone- um being made more ſtrait, by reaſon of the ſuture; for the reſt,the wound ſhall be cured according to art.but before you undertake this work, conſider diligently whether the ſtrength of the patient be ſufficient, neither attempt any thing before you have foretold, and declared the danger to the patients friends. chap. xvi. the chirurgis of the golden ligature, r the punétus aureus, as they call it. rurºls º: sº f the rupture will not be cured by all theſe means,by reaſon of the great ſoluti- the golden tie, nº on of the continuity of the relax'd or brºken peritoneum,and the patient by the conſent of his friends there preſent,is ready to undergoe the danger in hope of * recovery;the cure ſhall be attempted by that which they call the puntius aureuſ, or golden tie. for which purpoſe a chirurgeon which hath a skilful and ſure hand,is to be imployed. he ſhall make an inciſion about the ſhare bone, into which he ſhall thruſt a probe like to the cane,a little before deſcribed;and thruſt it longwayes under the proceſs of the perito- neum,and by lifting it up, ſeparate it from the adjoining fibrous,and nervous bodies, to - - which it adheres;then preſently draw aſide the ſpermatick veſſels, with the cremaſter, or | hanging muſcle of the teſticle; which being done, he ſhall draw aſide the proceſſe it ;, alone by itſelf. : and hc ſhall take as much thereof, as is too lax, with ſmall and entlemullets,perforated in the midſt,and ſhal with a necdle,having five or ſix threds, j it through as neer as he can to the ſpermatick veſſels, and cremaſter muſcles. but the needle alſo muſt bee drawn again in to the midſt of the remnantof the proceſs, taking up with it the lips of the wound;then the thred muſt be tied on a ſtrait knot,and ſo much thereof muſt be left after the ſe&tion,as may be ſufficient to hangout of the wound. this thred will of itſelfbe diſſolved by little aud little by putrefaction : neither muſt it be drawn out before that nature ſhall regenerate and reſtore fleſh into the place of the liga- ture,otherwiſe allour labour ſhall be ſpent in vain. and laſtly, let the wound be clenſed,filled with fleſh, and cicatrized, whoſe callous hardneſs may withſtand the falling of the gutor kall. - anºther man. there are ſome chirurgeons who would perform this golden ligature after another * thereof, manner.they cut the skin above the ſhare bone where the falling down commonly is,even to the proceſs of the peritoneum,and they wrap once or twice about it, being uncovered, a ſmall golden wire,and only ſtraiten the paſſage as much as may ſuffice to amend the looſ- neſs of this proceſs, leaving the ſpermatick veſſels at liberty;then they twiſt the ends of the wire twice or thrice with ſmall mullets,and cut off the remnant thereof; that which re- mains after the cutting,they turn in, leſt with the ſharpneſs it ſhould prick the fleſh grow- ing upon it. then leaving the golden wire there, they cure the wound like to other fim- £, wounds, and they keep the patient ſome fifteen or twenty daies in his bed, with his nºes ſomething higher, and his head ſomething lower. º are healed by this means,others have fallen again into the diſeaſe by reaſon of the ill twiſting of the wire. there lia. . r of particular tumors againſt nature. º —ll- there is alſo anothermanner of this golden tie,which i judginore quick and ſafe, even for that there is no externall body left in that part after the cure. wherefore they wrap a. leaden wire in ſtead of the golden, which comes but once about the proceſs of the peritoneum, i he third ulaunct theré- q then they twine it as much as need requires;that is, not too looſly, leſt it ſhould leave way. for the falling down of the body, neither too ſtraitly, left a gangrene ſhould come by hin- dring the º: of the ſpirits and nouriſhment.the ends thereofare ſuffered to hang out; when in proceſs of time,this contraćtion of the peritoneum ſeems callous, then the wire is untwiſted and gently drawn out. and the reſt of the cure performed according to art. butlet not the chirurgeon thruſt himſelf upon his work raſhly, without the advice of the phyſitian, for it diverſe times comes to paſs, that the teſticles are not as yet fallen down into the cod by the too great ſluggiſhneſs of nature, in ſome of a pretty growth, but re- mains long in the groins, cauſing a tumor with pain, which thing may make a good chirurgeon beleeve that it is an enterocele. therefore whilſt he labors by repelling medi- cines and truſſes to force back this tumor, he encreaſeth the pain, and hinders the falling down of the teſticles into the cod. i obſerved this not long agoe in a boy, which an un- skilful chirurgeon had long,and grievouſly troubled,as it he had had a rupture:for when i had obſerved that there was but one ſtone in the cod,and knew the boy was never gelt, i bid them caſt away the plaiſters and truſſes,and wiſht his parents that they ſhould ſuffer him to run and leap,that ſo the idlingſtone might be drawn into the cod, which thing by little and little,and without pain, had the event,as i foretold. ". a. shewe, a aska nell, having an ºf nºt far from the faints, through which you may put the golden wire. b. b. the gun wire put through the eye ºf the needle. c.. the mullets or pinters, to cut away the waſ or ſuperfluous ends of the wire. d. theftring of the multi. e. the mullets to twiſt the ends of the wire together. that the reaſon of this affett may be underſtood, we muſt know a man differs from a woman,only in efficacy of heat;but it is the nature of ſtrong heat to drive forth,as of cold to keepin. hence it is that the ſtones in men hang forth in the cod, but in women they lie hid in the lower belly. therefore it happens that in ſome males more cold by nature, the teſticles are ſhut up ſome certain time,untill at length they are forc’t down into the cod by youthfull heat.but that we may return to our former treatiſe of the cod,although that way of curing ruptures wants not pain and danger yet it is ſafer than that which is performed by gelding,which by the cruelty thereof expoſes the patient to manifeſt danger of death. for the gelders whilſt they fear leſt when the cure is finiſhed, the relaxation may remain, pull with violence the proceſs of the peritoneum from the parts to which it - y adherts, a thingto be noted, a hiſtory, of particular tumorſ againſt nature. li b. . lib.de arte medica. lib.deſtin, º adheres, and together with it a nerve of the ſixth conjugation which runs to the ſtones; they offer the ſame violence to the ſpermatick veſſels; by which things enſue great pain, convulſion, efflux of blood, inflammation, putrefaātion, and laſtly, death;as i have obſer- ved in many whom i have diffe&ed,having died a few daies after their gelding. although ſome eſcape theſe dangers, yet they are deprived of the faculty of generation for all their life after, for performance whereof, nature hath beſtowcd the teſticles, as parts principally neceſſary for the conſervation of mankind. through which occaſion galen hath not fea- red to prefer them before the heart; becauſe the heart is the beginning of life,but the teſti- clcs of a better life; for it is far more noble to live well, than ſimply and abſolutely to live; therefore eunuches degenerate into a womaniſh nature, for they remain without beards their voice is weak,their courage fails them,and they turn cowards;and ſeeing they are unfit for all humane ačtions, their life cannot butbe miſerable. wherefore i wil never ſubſcribe to the cutting out of the ſtones,unleſs a sarcocele or gangrene invade them. but that the way of performing the punius aureus may be better known, i have thought good here to ſet the inſtruments,by which this operation is performed,before your view. lit, . cap. . what a hydro. cele is, the ſigns. the cure, a medicine to draw forth the contained mat- ter. the ſubſtance of the teſticles, the skean of thred muſt be left there, or removed twice another more eaſe and ſafe way to refore the gut and kal. tº: and guido have invented another way of performing this operation. they put back into their places the gut and kall being fallen down, the patient being ſo laced, that his thighs are high and his head is ſomewhat low; then they draw aſide the |. portion of the production of the peritoneum,and alſo the ſpermatick veſſels,and cre- maſter muſcle to the iſºbium;then by applying a cauſtick fitted to the age and diſeaſe, they burn the other part of the ...; perpendicular to the ſhare bone, where the gut did fall down.then they pull off the eſchar thus made with a knife even to the quick,then they apply another cauſtick in the ſame place,which may go even to the bone, then pro- cure the falling of this eſchar made on the foreſaid proceſs. and afterwards they heal the ulcer which remains which preſently contračting ſomewhat a thick callu, ſo keeps up the guts and kall,that it binds them from falling down into the cod. this way of reſtoring the gut and kall,though it be ſafer andmore facile; yet the chirurgeon º: not attempt it,if the guts or kall ſtick ſo faſt,agglutinated to the proceſs of the peritoneum, that they cannot be ſevered, nor put back into their places (for i. the guts ſo burnt and viola- ted,greater miſchief would enſue) if by the broken and too much dilated proceſs,thebo- dies thereby reſtrained.make an exceeding great tumor by their falling down;if the teſticle yet lying in the § as in a bubonocele,a kind of enterocek, being not yet deſcended into the scrotum or cod; if the patients be not come to ſuch age as they can keep themſelves from ſtirring, or hold their excrements whiles the operationis performed. \ , * - * ! . º * - a * º • . * chap. xviii. ; : \ ! º - | . - - of the cure f other kind of ruſtres. .. \ 㺠piplocele is the falling down of the kall into the groin, or cod, it hath the º ſame cauſes as an enteroceſe. the ſigns have been explained. it is not ſo dangerous,nor infers a conſequence of ſo many cvill ſymptomes,as the ente- -lº. rocell doth, yet the cure is the ſame with the other. - * hº- : hydroele is a wateriſh tumor in the cod;which is gathered by little and little between the membranes encompaſſing the teſticles,eſpecially the dartes & erythroides; it may be called a particular dropſie,for it proceeds from the ſame cauſes, but chiefly from the de- fººt of native heat.the ſigns are a tumorºncreaſing ſlowly without much pain, heavy.and almoſt of a glaſſie clearneſs,which you may perceive b ding a candle on the other ſide, by preſſing the cod above,the water flows down, and by preſſing it below,it riſes upwards, unleſs perádventure in too great a quantity it fills up the whole capacity of the cod,yet it can nºver beforced or put up into the belly as the kall or É. may for oft-times it is con- tained in a ciſt or bag; “it is diſtinguiſhed from a sarcotele, by the ſmoothneſs and cquality thereof. the cure muſt firſt be tried with reſolving-drying and diſcuſſing medicines,repea- ted often before,and in the chapter ofthe dropſie;this which followes i have often tried and with good ſucceſs. - r vng comitiſe, & deſiccat.rub. an. ij. malaxentur ſimul, and make a medicine for your eaſe. the water by this kind of remedy is digeſted and reſolved, r rather dried up, eſpeci- ally if it be not in too great quantity. but if the ſwelling, by reaſon of the great quantity of water, will not yeeld to thoſe remedies, there is need of chirurgery the cod and membranes wherein the water is contained, muſt be thruſt through with a seton, that is, with a large three-ſquare pointed needle, thred with a skean ºf ſilk, you muſt thruſtyout needle preſently through the holes of the mullcts made for that purpoſe, not touching q - -- lib. . of particular tumors againſt nature. *- - or thrice a day,that the humor may dro down,and be evacuated by little and little. but if the pain be more vehement by reaſon of the seton, and inflammation come upon it,it muſt be taken away, and neglečting the proper cure of the diſeaſe, we muſt reſiſt the ſymp- torºll.s. * * . . * * * * - - - - - - some praditioners uſe not a seton,but with a razor, or inciſion knife, they open the lower part of the cod, making an inciſion ſome halffingers bredth long,penetrating even to the contained water;alwaies leaving untouched the ſubſtance of the teſticles and veſſels, , and they keep the wound open, untill all the water ſeems evacuated; truly by this only way the cure of a watery rupture whoſematter is contained in a ciſt, is ſafe, and to be ex- peáed;as we have ſaid in our treatiſe of tumors in generall. - the pneumatocele,is a flatulent tumor in the cod;generated by the imbecillity of heatre- fiding in the part. - - * * • - - - * - - it is known by the roundneſs,lenity, renitency and ſhining. it is cured by preſcribing a convenient diet,by the application of medicines which reſolve and diſcuſſe flatulencies, as the ſeeds of annis, fennell, fanugreek, agnus caſtuſ;rue, riganum, other things ſet down by avicenin his treatiſe of ruptures. have often uſed with good ſucceſs for this purpoſe, emplaſtrum vigonis cum mercurio; and emplaſtrum diacalcitheo; ;diſſolved in ſome good wine,as muſcadine,with oyl of bayes. * . . - -- - - asarcoſtle is a tumor againſt nature, which is generated about the ſtones by a ſcir- rhous fleſh. groſſe and viſcid humors breed ſuch kind of fleſh;which the part could not o- vercome and aſſimilate to itſelf; whence this over-abundance of fleſh proceeds like as warts do. varices, or ſwoln veins often aſſociate this tumor;and it increaſes with pain.it is known by the hardneſs,aſperity, inequality; and roughneſs. it cannot be cured but by amputation or cutting it away;but you muſt . obſerve,that the fleſh be not grown too high,and have already ſeized upon the groin,ſor ſo nothing can be attempted without the danger of life. - but ifany may think, that he in ſuch a caſe may ſomewhat eaſt the patient by the cut- ting away of ſome portion of this ſame ſoft fleſh,he is deceived. for a fungus will grow,if the leaſt portion thereof be but left,being an evill fure worſe than the former; but if the tumor beeither ſmall or indifferent, the chirurgeon taking the whole tumor,that is, the teſticle tunified through the whole ſubſtance,with the proceſs incompaſſing it, and adhe- ring theretoon every ſide,and make an inciſion in the cod, even to the tumor;then ſeparate all the tumid body, that is, the teſticle from the cod; then let him thruſt a needle with a ſtrong thred in it, through the midſt of the proceſs,above the region of the ſwoln teſticle; and then preſently let him thruſt it the ſºond time through the ſame part of the pro- ceſs; then ſhall both the ends of the thred be tied on a knot,the other middle portion of the peritoneum being ... in the ſame knot. this being done, he muſt cit away the whole proceſs with the teſticlecomprehended therein.but the ends of the thred, . which the upper part ofthe proceſs was bound, muſt be ſuffered to hang ſome length out of the wound.orinciſion of the cod. then a repercuſſive medicine ſhall be applied to the wound,and the neighbouring parts with a convenient ligature. and the cure muſt be per- formed as we have formerly mentioned. - - the cirſocele is a tumor of veins dilated, and woven with a various and mutuall impli- cation about the teſticle and cod,and ſwelling with a groſſe and melancholy bloud. the cauſes are the ſame as thoſe of the varices.but the figns are manifeſt. to healthis tumor, you muſt make an inciſion in the cod,the bredth of two fingers to the varix.then you muſtput under the varicous vein, a needle having a double thred in it, as high as you can,that you may bind the roots thereof: then let the needle be again ut after the ſame manner about the lower part ofthe ſame vein, leaving the ſpace of two fingers between the ligatures.but before§. bind the thred of this loweſt ligature,the va- rix muſt be opened in the midſt,almoſt after the ſame manner as you open a vein in the arm to let bloud: that ſo this groſſeblood cauſing a tumor in the cod, may be evacuated as is uſually done in the cure of the varices.the wound that remains ſhall be cured by the rules of art after the manner of other wounds: leaving the threds in it, which preſently fall away of themſelves. to conclude then,it being grown callous, eſpecially in the upper part thereof, where the vein was bound,it muſt be cicatrized,for ſo afterwards the bloud cannot be ſtrained or run that way. - - hernia humorali, is a tumor generated by the confuſed mixture of many humors in the cod, or between the tunicles which involve the teſticles, often alſo in the pro- per ſubſtance of the teſticles. it hath like cauſes, figns and cure as other tumors.while º is in hand, reſt, truſſes, and fit rowlers to ſuſtain and bear up the teſticles, are to be tlićcl, y - chap, _ whatapnel. matocele is, the cure. what a sarco: cele is. the signs, prognoſticks, the cure: what a cir; cele is, the care; hernia häni, - ~ ralis, of particular tumors againſ nature. l i b. . the cauſes. c hap. xviii. of the falling down of the fundament. | " 'º, tºº ... ºr " "... ºhen the muſcle called the sphinier which ingirts the fundament is relaxed,then it comes to paſſe that it cannot ſuſtain the right gut. this diſeaſe is very fre- - uent to children by reaſon of the too much humidity of the belly; which ... ." … wº i. down upon that muſcle mollifieth and relaxeth it or preſſeth it down by an unaccuſtomed weight,ſo that the muſcles called levatores ani, or the lifters up of the fundament, are not #. to bear up any longer. a great bloudy flux gives occaſion to this effečt. a ſtrong endevour to expell hard excrements,the hemorrhoids, which ſuppreſ- . º ſed do over-load the right gut, but flowing relax it: cold,as in thoſe which go without the cure, hippocrater his cºrce what the pa. enychia is, lib. cap. . trađ. - by reaſon of the fearfulneſs of the patient, or unskilfulneſſe of the chirurgeon, breeches in winter,or fit a longtime upon a cold ſtone,a ſtroak or falupon the holy-bone, a palfie of nerves which go from the holy-bone to the muſcles the lifters up of the funda- ment: the weight of the ſtone being in the bladder. that this diſeaſe may be healed, we muſt forbid the patient too much drinking,too often eating of broth,and from feeding on cold fruits.for locall medicines the part muſt befo- mented with an aſtringent decoétion made of the rinds of pomegranats, galls, myrtles, knotgraſſe, ſhepherds purſe, cypreſs nuts, alum, and common ſaltboiled in ſmiths water or . wine. after the fomentation,let the gut be anointed with oyl of roſes or myrtles, and then let it be gently put by little and little into its place,charging the child if he can underſtand your meaning, to hold his breath.when the gut ſhall be reſtored,the part muſt be diligently wiped leſt the gut fall down again by reaſon of the ſlipperineſs of the unéti- on. then let the powder preſcribed for the falling down of the womb be put into the fundament as far as you can: then you muſt ſtraitly bind the loins with aſwath, to the midſt whereofbehind let another be faſtned which may be tied at the pubes coming along the perineam', ſo to hold up the fundament;the better to contain it in its place, a ſpunge dipt in the aſtringent decoètion.the patient if hebe offlufficientage to have care of ; ſhall be wiſhed when he goes to ſtool that he fit upon two pieces of wood being ſet ſome inch a ſunder, left by his ſtraining he thruſt forth the gut together with the excrement; but if he can do it ſtanding,he ſhall never by ſtrayning thruſt forth the gut. but if the gut cannot by the preſcribed means be reſtored to its place, hippocrates bids that the patient hanging § the heels be ſhaken,for ſo the gut by that ſhaking will return to his place: but the ſame hippocrates wiſheth to anoint the fundament, becauſe that reme- dy having a drying faculty,hath alſo power to reſolve the flatulent humors without any acrimony, by reaſon of which the gut was the leſs able to be contained in his place. - cha p.xix. of the paronychia. asashe paranychia or panari, is a tumor in the ends of the fingers with greatinflam- §§ mation coming of a malign and venemous humor, which from the bones b p& the perioſteum is communicated to the tendons and nerves of that part whic º it affecteth, whereofcruell ſymptoms do follow,as pulſifique pain, a feaver, - reſtleſneſs, ſo that thea through impatiency of the pain are variouſly agitated like thoſe tormented with carbuncles: for which cauſeguide and johanne de wi- gjudge this diſeaſe to be mortall;wherefore youmuſt provide a skilfull ... for the cure of this diſeaſe,which may appoint convenient diet, purging and bl : in the meantime the chirurgeon ſhal make way for the virulent and venenate matter by ma- king inciſion in the inner part of the finger,eventº the bone alongſ! the firſt joint thereof; for vigo ſaith there is not preſenter remedy,if ſo be that it be quickly done and before the maturation of the matter; for it vindicates the finger from the corruption of the bone and nerves, and aſſwages pain, which i have often and happily tried immediately at the begin- ning before the perie& impreſſion of the virulencie. but the wound being madeyou muſt ſuffer it to bleedwell, then preſently let him dip his finger in ſtrong and warm vinegar, in which ſometreakle being diſſºlved may draw forth the virulencie. but to appeaſe the pain, the ſame remedies muſt be applyed to the affe&ted part as are uſed in carbuncles, as the leaves of sorrell, henbane, hemlock, man- drake roaſted under the embers and beaten in a morter with new vnguentum popu- leon, or oyl of roſes or new butter without ſalt : for ſuch like medicines alſo j t ºrward ſuppuration ; whilſt by their coldneſs, they repreſs the extraneous heart ... &ing the part; and ſo ſtrengthen the native heat being the author of ſuppuration: which reaſon moved the ancient phyfitians to uſe ſuch medicines in a carbuncle : but if he l i r. . - of particular tumors againſt nature. i no inciſion being made a gangren and . ſhall poſſeſs the part, it remains that you cut off with your cutting mullets as much of the part as ſhall be corrupt, and perform the reſt of the cure according to art. yet it doth not ſeldome happen that there may be no need to cut off ſuch afinger, becauſe it being corrupted together with the boneby little and lit- tle diſſolve into a purulent or rather ſanious or much ſtinking fifth. but in this afteå there is often cauſed an eſchar by the aduſtion of putredinous heat, and ſuperfluous fleſh indued with moſt exquiſite ſenſe groweth underneath it which muſtín like manner be cutoffwith the mullets that the partmay receive comfort,the pain being aſſwaged by the copious effuſion of blood. chap. xx. ofthe ſwelling of the knees. - - º fter long and rous diſeaſes there oftentimes ariſe tumors in the knees, and allon,dſhi, & alſo in plethorick bodies and ſuch as have evilljuyce after labours and exerciſe. if….."; §n: this kind of diſeaſe is frequent becauſe the humor eaſily falls into the part hpiāgal. * which hathbeen heated by labour. but if ſuch tumors follow long diſeaſes, they £ºdſent: , aredangerous and difficult to cure and therefore not to be negleted,forbitter pain accom- **** panieth them,becauſe the humor falling thither diſtends the membranes,which being many involve the part beſides that this humor participateth of a certain virulent aud malign quality whetherit be cold or hot, when it hath ſetled into thoſe parts,being ſuch as we find in the pains of the joynts,and in the bitings of venenious creatures. for the cure if the tumor becauſed by blood,let a ſlender and a refrigerating diet be ap- the curu pointed,and phlebotomy for the revulſion of the antecedent cauſe divers locall medicines ſhall be uſed according to the variety of the four times.but for to aſſwage the pain, anodyne, or mitigating medicines ſhall be appointed:of all which we have ſufficiently treated in the chapter of the cure of a phlegmon. and becauſe theſe parts are of exağ ſenſe,if there be neceſſity to open the tumor,yet muſt wenot do it raſhly or unconfiderately for fear of pain and evill accidents. this kind of tumor is oft-times raiſed by wind contained there; in which caſe the chir- urgeon muſtbevery provident, that hebe not deceived with the ſhew of flowing of the humor, which he ſeems to perceive by the preſſure of his fingers, as if there were matter and humor contained therein,and ſo be brought to open the tumor. for the windbreak- ing forth inſtead of the humor, cauſeth evill ſymptomes by reaſon of the ſºčtion raſhly made in a part ſo ſºnſible. - but if wateriſh humors ſhall tumefie the part,the body ſhall firſt be purged with medicines -- purgingflegm : and then inciding, attenuating, rarifying, diſcuſſing and very drying lo- call medicines ſhall be uſed. of which we have abundantly ſpoken in the chapter of the oedema. yet this humor divers times lyes deep between the whirl bone and the joint, which cauſeth it that it can- be diſcuſſed and reſolved by reaſon of the weakneſs of theÉ. and defe&t of heat, ſo that the adventitious humor often moves and excludes the bones from their ſeat. as i have obſerved it to have happened to many. in which cauſe irrigations of red wine falling ſomething high, whereby the force ºf the medicine may enter and more eaſily penetrate,are much commended. chap. xxi. of the dracunculus, §§ cannotchuſe, but explain in this place thoſe things which ma be ſpoken of itis not as yet §º that kind of tumor againſt nature, which by the ancients is called draunculu. ºfficiently pºlº the matter & reaſon of theſe hath been variouſly handled by divers authors, ºwn what sº ſo that hitherto we have nothing written of them to which wemay by righ: "**** - and with good reaſon adhereas a firm foundation of their effence. for firſt, for galens opinion, lib. . de loc. affei, cap. . the generation,ſaith he, ofthoſe hairs which are evacuated by the urine is worthy no leſs admiration than the dracunculi, which as they ſay,in a certain place of arabia breed in the legs of men being of a nervouſ nature and like worms in colour and thickneſs. therefore ſeeing haveheard many who have ſaid they have ſeen them, but my ſelf i. ſaw them, i cannot conjećture anything exactly neither of their originall nor eſ: cince. - paulus agineta writes that the dracunculi are bred in india, and the higherparts of º liº capults al- - , like worms in the muſculous parts of mans body that is,the arms, thighs,and legs, a ſo creep . the . muſcles i.: with a i. motion. 'but whether they becreatures indeed,or only have the ſhapeof creatures, they muſt be the cure o cured with a hot fomentation, by which the dracunculu, . to a juſt ...'. put of ::t forth itſelf,and be plucktaway perce-meal with the fingers: alſo ſuppurating &º: - - may _ of particular tumors againſt nature lib. . may be applyed,compoſed of water, hony,wheat and barly meal. - cap. .lib. . aviceh §. various,having no certainty whereon to reſt, inclineth one while to this, jen'- traš. , and another while to that opinion : for now he ſpeaketh of the dracunculi as of creatures, then preſently of a matter and humor ſhut up in a certain place; for the reſt he rightly de- livers the cure and eſſence of this diſeaſe,as we ſhall afterwards ſhew. aetius ſaith, the dracunculi are like worms, and that they are found ſometimes great, ſometimes ſmall,and that their generation is not unlike to that of flat worms, which are bred in the guts,for they move under the skin, without any trouble,but in proceſs of time, the place becomes ſuppurate about the end of the dracunculus. the skin openeth, and the head thereof is thruſt forth. but if the dracunculus be pulled it cauſeth great grief; eſpecially if it be broken by too violent pulling. for that which is left cauſeth moſt vehement pain. wherefore that the the cure out creature may not run back,the arm muſt bebound with a ſtrong thred, and this muſt be of aetius. ilone every day, that the dracunculus going forward by little and little,may be intercepted by this binding,but not broken off. the place muſt be bathed with aqua mulſa and oyl in which wormwood or ſouthern- wood hathbeen boyled,or ſome other of thoſe medicines which are preſcribed for the worms of the belly. - but if the dracunculus going forward of its one accord, may be eaſily drawn forth, we muſt do nothing elſe; but if it be turned to ſuppuration we muſt not leave off the cata- plaſms, the aqua mulſa and anointing with oyſ: it was uſuall with him after the taking away of the cataplaſms,to apply emplaſtrum e bacci, lauri : but when it is come to ſuppu- ration the skin muſt be opened long wayes,and the dracunculu, ſo laid open muſt be taken away, but the skin muſt be filled with lint, and the reſt of the ſuppurative cure uſed, ſo . creature being ſuppurated and drawn forth, the wound may be incarnated and ci- - câtrl zcci. - :::::: rhaſis writeth,that when the part is lifted up into abliſter,and the vein haſtneth its e- thºreout of greſs,it is good for the patient to drink the firſt day half a dram of alves, the next day a rbaſiſ, whole dram,the third day two drams; and in like manner the place affečted muſt be fo- mented with "aloes, for ſo that which lies hid will break forth: that which ſhall come forth muſt be rolled in a pipe of lead,which may cqual the weight of a dram ſo that it ma hang down,for the vein drawn by the weight will come more forth; and when that . ſhall come forth is grown much and long, it muſt be cut off, but not by the root, but ſo that a portion thereof may remain and hang forth,to which the leaden [. may be faſten- ed,for otherwiſe it would withdraw itſelf into it skin and its lurking hole, and ſo cauſe a putrid and malign ulcer. therefore we muſt gently meet with this diſeaſe, and the vein muſt be drawn by little and little out of the body untill it be all come forth that no worſe thing happen: but if by chance it ſhall happen that as much of the vein as ſhall be come forth ſhall be cut off b the roots, then the ulcer muſt be opened long wayes with an inciſion knife, and that ſo that whatſoever remains thereof may be wholly taken away. then for ſome dayes the part muſt be anointed with butter untill whatſoever of ſuch a ſubſtance adheres,being conſumed with putrefaction ſhall flow away.then the ulcer muſt becured with ſarcotick things. his opinion of therefore rhaft; thus in the ſame text expreſſ th the ſame thing by divers names, and them. armed with iron and lead,he comes to the cure thereof, as if he meant to encounter with ſome fierce beaſt. soranº his o- soranus the phyſitian,who lived in the times of galen,was of a quite contrary opinion,as pinion, paulus afgineta in the place being before cited, relates of him;as who denies the dracunculus to be a living creature,but only a condenſation of a certain ſmall nerve,which ſeems both to the phyſitians and patients to have ſome motion under the skin. wherefore soranu, ſeems to have come neerer the truth than the reſt, but yet not ſo, as ºl, to underſtand,and know the eſſence of this diſeaſe, as we ſhall demonſtrate here- aſtct. *piff.””” manardus writes, that the dracunculi are generated of evilland unlaudable blood, groſs, hot,and melanchoſick, or of aduſ: phlegm very much dryed. gorreus a moſt learned phyſitian of our time, lib. de definitionib. medic. denyes any of our phyſitians to be able to ſay any thing of the dracunculi,becauſe it is a diſeaſe ſo unfrequent in theſe our regions, that it is ſcarſe ever met withall in praćtice. the author of the introdućtion,and medicinall definitious defines the dracunculus to be a diſeaſe very like the varices; then cau fing great pain, when increaſing by little,and little, it begins to be moved : therefore to be cured after the ſame manner, and by the ſame me. thod of sečtion and inciſion,as the varices are. which thing chiefly ſeems to have moved guido to refer this kind of diſeaſe to the varices in his tračtate of impoſtumes, becauſe it hath the ſame cauſt,and is healed with the ſame remedy as the varices. but ſeeing that divers names have been impoſed upon this diſeaſe by ſeverall writers,yet they have all expreſſed it by the name of a vein, for it is called by avicemand guid, ſºn, meden,becauſe it is a diſeaſe frequent in the city medina; by albucrafts,vena civilis. halidia, hath lib, .capoult. l lib. . of particular tumors againſ nature. hath called it vena famoſa; others have called it vena cruri, or the leg vein. truly the con- trariety of ſo many opinions repugnant not only amongſt themſelves, but alſo with themſelves, eaſily argueth how little certainty they had of the eſſence of this diſeaſe, who, have written of it unto us: to which alſo this may be added, that none of the latter phy- fitians have written any things thereof. for althoughjacobus dalethampiu, a man moſt con- verſant in every part of phyſick, hath written much of this matter in his book of the french surgery which he ſet forth ſome years ago: yet he hath left us no amplier teſti- mony of his induſtry,than that he was very diligent in collećting the writings of the an- cients concerning this thing,interpoſing no judgment of his own, the better to aſſure; tış of a thing ſo controverted. - * , , but my modeſty cannot ſo contain me,but that i ſhallchuſe rather to undergoe the cen: ſure of being thought too daring, than (as much as in me lyeth ) to ſuffer this queſtion of the dracunculi to remain longer ambiguous and undecided. therefore for the preſent, i, will thus order it,that refuting the opinions of the ancients i may ſtrengthen by certain reaſons,my opinion of the effence ..fcure of this diſeaſe. . . ; for firſt,that dracunculi are no living things,nor like unto worms, nor of like generati- on as the flat worms of the belly,which was the opinion of aetius, is eaſie to diſprove both by his writings,as alſo by reaſon itſelf. for he writes that the broadworm which he cals tenia,is as it were a certain metamorphoſis or tranſmutation of the inner tunicle of the final guts into a quick living and movable body. j - . . . . . . ; but no man ever ſaid, neitherwill he confeſs that the dracunculi hath the material cauſes of their beginning from the tunicle of the vein,in which they are cloſed, or from the fibers of a nervous body,to which often they are adjoined; but mnch leſs from the skin unded which they lye,may they draw their materiall cauſes of their originall. ". . . . . .'; ;) morcover,neither can there be any generation of worms,nor of any other living creatures whatſoever, who have their originall from putrefation,unleſs by the corruption of ſome matter,of whoſe better and more benign part, nature by the force of the vitall heat,produ- ceth ſome animate body,as ariſtotle teacheth. wherefore to produce this effect, it is fit the matter ſhould have ſuch a diſpoſition to putrefaction as is required for the generation of fuch a creature as they would make the dracunculu to be: it is fit the helping cauſes ſhould coucur as aſſiſtants to the principals in theačtion.and it is meet the place ſhould be oppor- tune or fit. . . . - . . * but there may be many cauſes found which may give life to the dracumculi, for by the common conſent of all thoſe who have written of them, their generation proceeds from an humor melancholick.terreſtriall and groſs, which by its qualities both by the firſt cold- neſs and dryneſs, as alſo by the ſecond, that is acidity, is not only thought moſt unfit of all others for putrefaction, but alſo is judged to refiftputrefaction, as that which is cauſed by heat and ſuperfluous heat humidity. beſides if the materiall cauſe of this diſeaſe ſhould be from an humor putrefying and turning by putrefaction into ſome hiving creature,it was fit there ſhould be ſtench alſo, as being an unſeparable accident of putrefaction,for thus the excrements in the guts of which the worms are generated, do ſmelſ or ſtink. therefore that which exhales from theirbodies which are troubled with the dracunauli, ſhould be ſtinking, as it happens to thoſe fick of the pthiriaſis or lowfie-evil. but none of thoſe who have delivered the accidents or ſymptomes of the dracunculi are found to have made mention hereof. but for the efficient cauſe whereby ſo great heat may be raiſed in the places next under the skin, by the efficacy whereof ſuch a creature may be formed of a mat- termelancholick and moſt unapt to putrefie,as they make the dracunculus to be who fain our bodies to be fruitfull º ; eſpecially ſeeing the ſurface of the body is continually ventilated by the ſmall arteries ſº skin, as alſo by the benefit of inſenſible tranſpiration, and breathed with the coolneſs of the air incompaſſing us. but now the matctiall and efficient cauſes being defe&tive,or certainly very weak, for the generation of fo laborious an effcºt: what coadjutory cauſe can yeeld aſſiſtance can the humidity of mcats? for thoſe bodies which are fed with warm and moiſt meats, as milk,cheeſe,summer fruits,uſually breed worms,as we are taught by experience in children.” . . ; : ...! but on the contrary avicem in the place before cited writeth,that meats of a hot and dry temper chiefly breed this kind of diſeaſe,and that it is not ſo frequent to moiſt bodies and ſuch as are accuſtomed to the bath, moiſt meats and wine moderately taken. but whether may the condition of the air of thoſe regions in which it is as it were an endemiall diſeaſe, conſer any thing to the generation of ſuch creatures .certainly for this purpoſe a cloudy, warm and thick air ſuch as uſeth to be at the beginning of the spring when all the places reſound with frogs,toads and the like creatures breed of putrefaction. but on the contrary jacobus dalechampiu, by the opinion of all the phyſitians that have written of the dracunduli,writes that this diſeaſe breeds in the dry and sūn burnt regions of india and arabia, but if at the leaſt that part of our body which is next under the skin ſhould have any opportunity to ingender and nouriſh ſuth creatures,they may be judged to have written that the dracunculus is a living creature with ſome probability.but if there be no opportunity for generation in that place,nor capacity for the nouriſhment of ſuch like -- * * * aetius opinion conſated. . . trađ. .ſºrmes' i cup, . - . meteorolog; naturall me- lancholikhus mors is moſt unapt to pue trefie. - stink an unſe: parable com- panion to purefattion. : , , --- what things uſually breed worms, cap. . chiri gallis. Çiº- of particular tumors againſt nature lib. ; ~ º - why they are talled racan- culi. the cure. $othe malu's pilare in ari- ſtotle tap.m. . lib. . ift, ani- mal. creatures as in the guts,if that region of the body be breathed upon with no warmneſs and ſmothering heat, if it be defiled with none of thoſe groſs excrements, as the guts uſually are, but only by the ſubtiller exhalation, which have an eaſie and inſenſible tranſpiration by the pores of the skin, which may ſeem to be a juſt cauſe of ſo monſtrous and prodigious an effe&; but we ſhall little profit with theſe engines of reaſon unleſs we caſt down at i. all the bulwarkes,with which this old opinion of the dracunculi may ſtand and be de- ended. * for firſt they ſay, why have the ancients expreſſed this kind of diſeaſe by the name of a living thing that is, of a dracunculuſ or little serpent? i anſwer,becauſe in phyſicknames are often impoſed upon diſeaſes rather by ſimilitude than from the truth of the thing; for the confirmation whereof;the examples of three diſeaſes may ſuffice,that of the cancer, poly- pus,and elepha. for theſe have thoſe names not becauſe any crab,polypus, or living ele- phant may breed in the body by ſuch like diſeaſes, but becauſe this by its propagation in- to the adjacents parts repreſents the feet and claws of a crab; the other repreſents the fleſh of the sea-polypus in its ſubſtance; and the third becauſe ſuch as have the leproſe have their skin wrinckled, rough, and horrid with ſcales and knots, as the skin of a living e- lephant. so truly" this diſeaſe of which we now enquire ſeems by good right to have de- ſºryed the name dracunculus becauſe in its whole conformation, colour, quality and pro- dućtion into length and thickneſs it expreſſeth the image of a serpent. but whence, will they ſay,(if it be without life)is that manifeſt motion in the matter? we reply that the hu- mor the cauſe of this diſeaſe is ſubtill and hot, and ſo runs with violence into the part whence it may ſeem to move. but when the dracunculi are ſeparated,why do they put their heads as it were out of their holes? we anſwer,in this the ancients have been very much deceived, becauſe after the # uration the ulcer being opened,ſome nervous body be- ing laidbare, thruſt forth and ſubjećted itſelf to the fight, which by the convulſive and ſhaking motion might expreſſe the crooked creeping of a serpent. but they will ſay,pain happens not unleſs to things inducd with ſenſe&life,but this dracunculus when he is drawn too violently, eſpecially if he bebroken, thereby will cauſe extream pain: we do anſwer, that the concluſion doth not follow & is of no conſequence,for theſe pains happen not un- leſſe when the unprovident surgeon draws or puls in ſtead of the dracunculus ſome nervous or membranous body ſwoln and repleat with an aduſthumor, whence there cannot but be great pain that partbeing puld . is the author of ſenſe.but it is childiſh to ſay that the iracunculus feels, for that it cauſeth ſharp pains to the living body in which it is.therefore that at laſt we may determin ſomething of the nature, eſſence and generation of theſe dracunculi,i dare boldly affirm it is nothing elſe but a tumor and abſceſsbred from the heat of the blood in a venenate kind. such blood driven by the expulfive faculty through the veins to the externall parts, eſpecially the limits,that is,the arms and legs, cauſeth a tu- mor round and long often ſtretched from the joyntof the ſhoulder even to the wriſt, or from the groin even to one of the ankles with tenſion, heat, renitency.pricking pain, and a feaver. but this tumor is ſome while ſtretched forth ſtreight, otherwhiles into oblique and crooked tumors, which hath been the cauſe that many taken with this kind of diſeaſe, . and having their limbs ſo infolded as with the twinings of a serpent, would ſay they had a serpent. #. thus much to ſay of the dracunculi,eſpecially of thoſe of our own country. for the cure, it is not unlike to the cure of a phlegmon ariſing from a defluxion, º: here alſo in like manner the remedies muſt be varied according to the four times of the diſeaſe and the ſame rule of diet phlebotomy and purging muſt be obſerved, which is before preſcribed in the cure of a phlegmon. themention of the dracunculicals to my memory another kind of abſceſſe, altogether *śrar: this our french men name cridones, i think a crinibuſ. i. from hayrs: it chiefly trou- blºs children and pricks their backs like thorns. they toſs up and down being notable to take any rºſt. this diſeaſe ariſeth from finall hairs which are ſcarſe of a pins length, but thoſe thick & ſtrong. it is cured with a fomentation of water more than warm,after which }. muſt preſently apply an oyntment made of hony and wheaten flower; for ſo theſe airs lying under the skin are allured and drawn forth; and being thus drawn, they muſt be plucked out with ſmall mullets. i imagine this kind ofdiſeaſe was not known to the ancient phyſitians. - the end of the eighth book. l i b. . i parts of the body; but according to the diverſity of parts, it hath di- fiñíř; §§§§§§§ • *nsyººn &a ºxºn &e. - taunusualeeetitiatithetitttttttttttttttttttiiihindiganaſiudugapuana d ºl - ing e n e r a ll. * t iſ a n s r h b o o k. cha p. \i. what a wound it, what the kind; and differences thereofare, and from whence they may be drawn, r derived. wound is a ſolution of continuity, cauſed by a ſtroak, fall, orbite, what newly done, bloody and with putrefaction and filth. they alſo call w. prot it a new ſimple ulcer; for the ſolution of continuity happens to all perly is. n - - - - - §º vers names amongſt the greeks. for in the fleſh it is called helcos,in % the bone catagma, in the nerve spaſma, in the ligament thlaſma, in the diversiappel. & veſſels apoſpaſma,in the muſcles rºgma;and that ſolution ofcontinui- lation of . ty, which happens in the veſſels theirmouths being open, is termed .º. anaſtomaſ, that which happensby eroſion, aneuroſis ; that which is ping to the vas rieties of the generated by ſweating out and tranſcolation tiapedeſii. that theſe may be the more eaſil underſtood, i have thought good to deſcribe them in the following table. y parts, a table ofthe differences of wounds. *from the nature of the parts in which they are made or happen. but theſe parts are the differences ſ p of wounds are dram's or taken milar,and theſe, º or organi- call,and lºſ ei- ther landules. (filhºff, ; - as the marrow. ''. . . . or hard, as % ºft. - , , membranes %#º ligaments º fence, as fibers, veſſels, ...” nerves,weins, - a r teries. (principall, ſºain,heart, as the liver,to which ſome addthe womb and te- | ſticles. orſerving [the weaſon, the princi: ; lungº,gnker, paſſ,as l; uts, bladder. the ears,noſe feet,hands,an or neither other of the uſame kind. from lib. : of wounds ingenerall. divers deno- minations from their &auſes, * a caution for making re- . ports of wounds, a jagling cheating chi- rurgeon, &ib. . meth. tape, . i. wounds are called great out cf. three reſpºës, f- when there is no complication from their propereſ. |- . wounds ºf any other diſeaſe or ſymptome ſence, from whence Ž. they are called, when there is a complication of or compound, ſome one or more diſeaſes, which unleſſe they be taken away, wee § muſt not hope for to cure the wound. -º-º < jº- - f long, broad, deep. short, narrow, superficiary. - º - ... agreat, from their quantity indifferent according to which)...” . -> they are called, from their figure, streight, according ta which soblique, *they arenamed, cornered. chap. ii. of the cauſes of wounds. bell things which may outwardly aſſail the º with force and violence, may º be counted the cauſes of wounds; which are called green,and properly bloody. sº theſe things are either animate,or inanimate. the animate, as the bitings, and * prickings ofbeaſts. the inanimate, as the ſtroak of an arrow, ſword,club, gun, ſtone,a dagger,and all ſuch like things. - f. variety of ſuch like cauſes, they have divers names: for thoſe which are made by ſharp and pricking things are called punétures:thoſe cauſed by cutting things,are called wounds orgaſhes; and thoſe which are made by heavy and obtuſe things arenamed con- rufions,or wounds with contuſions. c. h. a. p. ii. i. of the ſigns ºf wºunds. nºs ounds are firſt known by fight, and by the ſigns drawn from thence. the chir- na tº v § urgeon ought firſt and chiefly,to confider, what wounds are curable, and what § not; what wounds will ſcarſe admit of cure, and what may be eaſily cured; for * it is not the part of a prudent chirurgeon, to promiſe cure in a deadly or dangerous and difficult wound; left he . ſeem to have killed him, whom not the un- ſufficiency of the art, but the greatneſſe of the wound hath ſlain. but when the wound is dangerous, but yet without deſpair of recovery, it belongs to him to admoniſh the patients friends which are by, of the preſent danger, and doubtfull ſtate of the wound, that if art ſhall be overcome by the greatneſſe thereof, he ſhall not be thought ignorant of the art, neither to have deceived them. - - - - but as §: is the part and duty of a good and prudent chirurgeon, ſo it is the trick of a cheating and juglingknaye, to enlargeſmall wounds,that ſo hemay ſeem to have done a great cure, when it is nothing ſo. - - - but it is agreeable to reaſon, that the chirurgeon profeſſing the diſeaſe eaſie to be cured,will think himſelf in credit bound by ſuch promiſes and his duty, and therefore ſeek all means for the quick recovery of the patient;left that which was of its own natureſmal, may by his negligence become great. therefore it is expedient, he ſhould know what wounds are to be accounted great. - - this (as galen ſaith) is threewayes to be known ; the firſt is by the magnitude and principality of the part affeóted;for thus the wounds of the brain, heart,and of the greater veſſels though ſmall of themſelves, yet are thoughtgreat. then from the greatneſs of thc" ſolution of continuity ; for which cauſe wounds may be judged great, in which much of the ſubſtance of the part is loſt in every dimenſion,though the part be one of theſe which are accounted ſervile. then from the malignity; through which occaſion the wounds of the joints are accounted great, becauſe for the moſt part,they are ill conditioned. c. h. a. p. l p. . of wound; in generall. chap. iiii. of prognoſtick to be made in wounds. sº hoſe wounds are thought dangerous, wherein any large nerve, vein, or artery s º are hurt. from the firſt there is fear of convulſion,but from the other large ef- & fuſion of the veinous, or arterious blood, whence the powers are debilitated; ºf alſo theſe are judged evill,which art upon the armpits,groins,lesks,joynts and * between the fingers; and likewiſe thoſe which hurt the head or tail of a muſcle. they are leſt dangerous of all other which wound only the º ſubſtance. but they are deadly which are inflićted upon the bladder, brain, heart,liver,lungs, stomach and ſmall guts. but if any bone,griſtle,nerve or portion of the cheek or prepuce,ſhall be cut away,they cannot be reſtored. contuſed wounds are more difficult to cure, than thoſe which are ...', from a fimple ſolution of continuity; for before you muſt think to heal them up, you muſt ſuppurate and clenſe them; which cannot be done in a ſhort time. wounds which are round and circular are ſo much the worſe; for there can be no unity unleſſe by an angle, that is, a meeting together of two lines, which can have no place in round %: a circular figure confiſts of one oblique line. beſides, wounds are by ſo much thought the greater, by how much their extreams and lips are the further diſ- joyned, which happens to round wºº. to theſe are cornered wounds or ſuch as are made alongſt the fibers, as ſuch as may be eaſily healed. wounds º: more eaſily healed in young men, than in old, becauſe in them nature is more vigorous, and there is a greater plenty of fruitfull, or good blood, by which the loſſe of the fleſhmay be the better and more readily reſtored, which is ſlowlier done in an old body, by reaſon their blood is ſmaller in quantity and more dry, and the ſtrength of nature more languid. - - wounds received in the º are not altogether ſo difficult to heal as thoſe taken in winter or summer. for all exceſſe of heat and cold is hurtfull to them, it is ill for a con- vulſion to happen upon a wound, for it is a ſign that ſome nervous body is hurt; the braine ſuffering together therewith, as that which is the originall of the nerves. a tumor comming upon great wounds is good ; for it ſhews the force of nature is able to expell. that which is harmfull,and to eaſe the wounded part. the i. parts wholly cut off cannot again be united:becauſe a vitall part once ſevered and plucked from the trunk of the body cannot any more receive influence from the hearta; from a root without which there can {. no life. the looſed continuity of the nerves,weins, arteries, and alſo the bones, is mometimes reſtored,not truly, and as they ſay,according to the firſt intention,but by the ſecond,that is,by repoſition of the like, but not of the ſame ſubſtance. the firſt intention takes place in the fleſhy parts by converting the alimentary bloud into the proper ſub- ſtance of the wounded part. but the ſecond,in the ſpermatique parts in which the ſoft ſub- ſtance may be repaired by interpoſition of ſome heterogeneous body, which nature,diligent for its own preſervation,ſubſtitutes in place of that which is loſt:for thus the body, which reſtores and agglutinates,is no bone but a callus,whoſe originall matter is from an humor ſomewhat groſſer than that from whence the bones have their originall and beginning. this humor, when it ſhall come to the place of the fraćture, agglutinateth the ends of the bones together, which otherwiſe could never be ſo knit by reaſon of their hardneſs. the bones of children are more eaſily and ſpeedily united by reaſon of the pliantneſs of their ſoft and tender ſubſtance.laſtly we muſt here admoniſh the chirurgeon, that ſmall wounds and ſuch as no artiſan .#judg deadly, do divers times kill by reaſon of a cer- tain occult and illdiſpoſition of the wounded, and incompaſſing bodies; for which cauſe we read it obſerved by hippocrates,that it is not ſufficient for the phyſitian to performe his duty, but alſo externall things muſt be rightly prepared,and fitted. , - • * --- chap. v. ofthe cure of wound, in generall. iſ: he chirurgeon ought for the right cure of wounds to propoſe unto himſelf the common and generall indication: that is,the uniting of the divided parts, which indication in ſuch a caſe is thought upon and known even by the vulgar: for that which is diſ-joyned deſires to be united,becauſe union is contrary to diviſi- on. but by what means ſuch union may be procured, is only known to the skilfull arti- ſan. therefore we attain unto this chief.# rincipall indication by the benefit of nature as it were the chief agent,and the work of the chirurgeon as the ſervant of nature. and ‘unleſs nature ſhall be ſtrong,the chirurgeon ſhall never attain to his conceived,and wiſhed for end; therefore that hemay attain hereto, he muſt perform five things; the firſt is, that if there be any ſtrange bodies,aspeeces of wood,iron,bones,bruiſed fleſh.congealed blood, or the like, whether they have come from without, or from within the body, and ſhall be by accident faſtened or ſtuck in the wound, he muſt take them away, for otherwiſe there is no union to be expected. - - z - ano- what wound; are dangerous. what leaſt . dangerous. what deadly, hip-apbor. . lib. . why round wounds ale difficult to heal, kiplid, i. cer. hip.aph, whata caſui is and whence it procecds. small and con: temptible wounds often prove mortall. aphor.i.ſtä. ry the geietali indication of wounds, ---. five things. neceſſary for unitiag wounds, of wounds ingenerall. lib. . – ligatutes and sutures for to conjoyn and hold together the lips of younds. three ſorts of ligatures. whatan incar- native ligature ass another is,that he join together the lips of the wound for they cannot otherwiſe be ag- fl. and united.the third is that he keep cloſe together the joined lips. the fourth, that he preſerve the temper of the wounded part for the diſtemper remaining, it is impoſſible to reſtore it to its unity.the fifth is that he correót the accidents,if any ſhall happen,becauſe theſe urging,the phyſitian is often forced to change the order of the cure. all ſtrange and externall bodies muſt be taken away as ſpecdily as is poſſible becauſe they hinder the aëtion of nature intending unity, eſpecially if they preſs or prick any nervous body, or tendon, whence pain or an abſceſs may breed in any principall part,or other ſer- ving the principall. yet if by the quick and too haſty taking forth of ſuch like bodies there be fear of cruell pain or greateffuſion of blood, it will be far better to commit the whole work to nature than to exaſperate the wound by too violent haſtening. for nature by little and little will exclude,as contrary to it, or clfe together with the pus,what ſtrange body ſoever ſhall be contained in the wounded part. but if there ſhall be danger in delay.it will be fit the chirurgeon fall to work quickly,ſafely, and as mildly as the thing will ſuffer: for effuſion ofbloodſwooning, convulſion and other horrid ſymp- tomes,follow upon the too rough and boyſtrous handling of wounds, whereby the pa- tient ſhall be brought into greater danger than by the wound itſelf. therefore he may pull out the ſtrangebodies, either with his fingers,or with inſtruments, fit for that purpoſe; but they are ſometimes more eaſily and ſometimes more hardly pulled forth,according as the body infixed is either hard or eaſie to be found or pulled out.which thing happens according to the variety of the figure of ſuch like bodies, according to the condition of the part itſelf ſoft,hard,or deep,in which theſe bodies are faſtened more ſtrait- ly or more looſly: and then for fear of inferring any worſe harm,as the breaking of ſome veſſell: but how we may perform this firſt intention, and alſo the expreſſion of the inſtru- ments neceſſary for this purpoſe, ſhall be ſhown in the particular treaties of wounds made by gun-ſhot,arrows and the like. but the surgeon ſhal attain to the ſecond and third ſcope of curingwounds by two and the ſame means,that is,by º: & futures:which notwithſtanding before he uſe he muſt well obſerve whether there be any great flux of blood preſent,for he ſhall ſtop it if it be too violent;but provoke it,if too ſlow,(unleſs by chance it ſhall be powred out into any ca- pacity or belly)that ſo the part freed from the ſuperfluous quantity of blood may be leſs iubjećt to inflammation.therefore the lips of the wound ſhall be put together,and ſhall be kept ſo joined by ſuture and ligatures: not truly of all, but only of thoſe which both by their nature,and magnitude,as alſo by the condition of the parts in which they are, are worthy and capable of both the remedies. for a ſimple and ſmall ſolution of continuity, ſtands only in need of the ligature which we cal incarnative,eſpecially,if it be in the arms or legs,but that which divides the muſcles tranverſly,ſtands in need of both suture and ligature; that ſo the lips which are ſomewhat far diſtant from each other, and as it were drawn towards their beginning, and ends may be conjoyned. if any portion of a fleſhy ſubſtance by reaſon of ſome great cut ſhall hang down, it muſt neceſſarily be adjoyncd and kept in thek. by suture. the more notable and large wounds of all the parts,ſtand in need of suture,which do not eaſily admit a ligature, by reaſon of the figure and fire of the partin which they are, as the ears, noſe, hairy-ſcalp, eye-lids,lips, belly and throat. there are three ſorts of ligatures,by the joint conſent of all the ancients. they com- monly call the firſt, a glutinative, or incarnative; the ſecond expulfive, the third reten- tive. the glutinative or incarnative is fit for ſimple,green and yet bloody wounds. this conſiſts of two ends, and muſt ſo be drawn, that beginning on the contrary part of the wound, we may ſo go upwards,partly croſſing it, and going downwards again, we may cloſely joyn together the lips of the wound. butlet the ligature be neither too ſtrait, leſt what an ex- pulſive. what the re. tentive. what the row- lers muſt be made of. it may cauſe inflammation or pain; nor too looſe, left it be of no uſe, and may not well contain it. - the expulſive ligature is fit for ſanious and fiſtulous iilcers,to preſs out the filth con- tained in them. this is performed with one rowler, having one fimple head; the begin- ning of binding muſtbe taken from the botome of the sinuſ, or boſome thereof; and there itmuſt be bound more ſtraihgtly, and ſo by little and little going higher, you muſt remit ſome thing of that rigour, even to the mouth of the ulcer, that ſo (as we have ſaid) the fanious matter may be preſſed forth. - . the retentive ligature is fit for ſuch parts as cannot ſuffer ſtrait binding, ſuch are the throat,belly,as alſo all parts oppreſſed with pain; for the part vexed with pain, ab- horreth binding.the uſe thereof, is to hold to locall medicines. it is performed with a rowler,which conſiſts ſomewhiles of one, ſome whiles of more heads. all theſe rowlers ought to be of linnen,and ſuch as is neither too new.nor too old, neither too courſe, nor ... too fine.their breadth muſt be proportionable to the parts to which they ſhal be applyed; the indication of their largeneſs, being taken from their magnitude, figure and ſite. as we ſhall ſhew more at large in our traćtates of fraćtures and diſlocations. th e l i b. . of wound; in generall. - -—r—— ** = -- * -- the chirurgeon ſhall perform the firſt ſcope of curing wounds, which is of preſerving the temper of the woun ed part,by †. a good order of diet by the preſcript of a phyſitian,by uſing univerſall and local medicines. a ſlender.cold and moiſt diet muſt be obſerved untill that time be paſſed, wherein the patient may be ſafe and free from accidents which are uſually feared. therefore let him be fed ſparingly, eſpecially if he be plethorick; he ſhall abſtain from ſalt and ſpiced fleſh,and alſo from wine; it he ſhall be of a cholerick or ſanguine nature: in ſtead of wine he ſhall uſe the decoètion of barly or liquorice,or wa- terand sugar. he ſhall keep himſelf quiet; for reſtis (in celſus opinion)the very beſt medi- cine. he ſhall avoid venery, contentions, brawls, anger, and other perturbations of the mind.when he ſhall ſeem to be paſt danger,it will be time to fall by little and little to his accuſtomed manner and diet of life. univerſall remedies are phlebotomics and purging, which have force to divert and hinder the defluxion, whereby the temper of the part might be in danger of change. - - for phlebotomy it is not alwayes neceſſary,as in ſmall wounds and bodies, which are neither troubled with ill humors, or plethorick: but it is only required in great wounds, where there is fear of defluxion, pain, delirium,raving and unquietneſs;and laſtly in a bo- dy that is plethorick,and when the joynts,tendons,or nerves arewounded. gentle purga- tions muſt be appointed, becauſe the humors are moved and inraged by ſtronger; whence there is danger of defluxion and inflammation:wherefore nothing is to be attempted in this caſe, without the advice of a phyſitian. - fº the topick and particular medicines are agglutinative, which ought to be indued with º and aſtriótive quality, whereby they may hold together the lips of the wound,and drive away defluxion,having alwayes regard to the nature of the part and the greatneſs of the diſeaſe. the simple medicines are olibanum, aloeſ, sarcocola, bole-armenick, ierraſgillata, sangui, draconi, common and venice, turpentine; gum, elemni, plantane, horſe-tail, the greater comfery,parina volatili, and many other things of this kind, which we ſhall ſpeak of hereafter in our antidotary. - the fifth ſcope of healing wounds, is the correčtion of thoſe symptomes or accidents which are accuſtomed to ji. wounds, which thing verily makes the chirurgeon have much to do;for he is often forced to onlit the proper cure of the diſeaſe,ſo to reſiſt the ac- cidents and ſymptomes,as bleeedin j. feaver,convulſion,palſie, talking idly,or diſtraćtion,and the like. of which weſhall treatbriefly and j after we have firſt ſpoken of sutures as much as we ſhall think fitting for this place. c. h. a. p. w i. of sutures. £hen wounds are made alongſt the thighes, legs, and arms, they may eaſily want sutures,becauſe the ſolution of continuity is eaſily reſtored by ligatures, but when they are made overthwart,they require a suture, becauſe the fleſh and all - * ſuch like parts,being cut are drawn towards the ſound parts; whereby it comes to paſs that they part the further each from other; wherefore that they may be joyned and ſo kept, they muſt be ſowed, and ifthe wound be deep, you muſt take . much fleſh with your needle; for if you only takehold of the upper part, the wound is only ſuper- ficially healed:but the matter ſhut up,and gathered together in the bottome of the wound, will cauſe abſceſſes and hollow ulcers: wherefore now we muſt treat of making of sutures. - - the firſt,called interpunius,leaves the diſtance of a fingers breadth, and therefore is fit for the green wounds of the fleſhy parts,which cannot be cured with a ligature,and in which no heterogeneous or ſtrange body remains; it is performed after this manner.you muſt have a ſmooth needle with a thred in it,having a three ſquare point that ſo it may the betteren- ter the skin,with the head of it ſomewhat hollowed,that the thred may lie therein; for ſo the needlewill the better go through.you muſt alſo have a little pipe with a hole or win- dow in the end,which you muſthold and thruſt againſt the lip of the wound,that it be not moved to the one ſide or other, whilſt you thruſt through the needle; and that we may ſee through that window when the needle is thruſt through, and alſo draw it together with the thred,and withall hold the lip of the wound in more firmly, that it follow not at the drawing forth of the needle and thred. having thus pierced the lips of the wound, tie a knot, neer to which cut off the thred; leſt that if any of it be left below the knot, it may ſo ſtick to the emplaſters that it cannot be plucked and ſeparated from them with- out pain, when they are taken off. but you muſt note the firſt ſtitch muſt be thruſt through the midſt of the wound, and then the ſecond muſt be in that ſpace which is be- tween the midſt and one of the ends; but when you have made your ſtitches, the lips of the wound muſt not bee too cloſely joined, but a little ſpace muſt be left open between them, that the matter may have free paſſage forth, and inflammation and pain may be avoided: otherwiſe if they ſhall be cloſely joined together without any diſtance be- tween, a tumor after ariſing when the *; ſhall come to ſuppuration, the lips will … why and how the temper of ttle wounded part muſt be preſerved. in what wound blood- letting is not neceſſarys what medis cines are to be judged aggluti: native. - what wouñds ſtand in no need of a ful ture. the firſt man ner of ſuture." the fetm of yotir needle. the form of ' ' the pipe withs window in ir, of woundingeneral, lie.g. the z. means of suture, the third manner of suture. the kind of suture termed gaſtroraphia. the .kind called the dry $uture. beformuch diffended that they may eaſily bebroken by the ſtifieſ of the thred. but you muſt neither take hold of too much nor too little fleſh with your needle, for too little will not hold, and too much cauſeth pain and inflammation. and beſides leaves an ill favoured ſcar.yet in deep wounds, ſuch as are thoſe which are made in the thicker muſcles, the necdle muſt be thruſt home,that ſo it may comprehend more of the fleſhy ſubſtance; left the thred drawn away by the weight of the fleſh not taken hold of, ma t broken. but oft-times wounds are ſeen made in ſuch places as it would be needfull, the chirurgeon ſhould have a crooked needle and pipe, otherwiſe the suture will not ſucceed according to his deſire. wherefore i have thought good to ſet forth both their figures, that you may uſe eitheras occaſion ſhalll ſerve. the figure of pipes with feneſſels in them,and needlesfit for sutures. w - the ſecond suture is made juſt after the ſame manner as the skinner ſows their fºls or furs. and the guts muſt be ſowed with this kind of suture, (if they ſhall be at any time wounded) that the excrements come not forth by the wound. the third suture is made by one or more needles having thred in them, thruſt through the wound, the thred being wrapped to and sº at the head and the point of the needle, as boyes uſe to faſten their needle, for fear of loſing it, in their caps, or clothes. this kind of suture is fit in the curing and healing of hare-lips, as we ſhall ſhew you hereafter ex- preſſed by a figure. the fourth kind of suture is termed gaſtroraphia, invented for the reſtoring and uniting the great muſcles of the epigaſtrium, or lower belly.cut with a great wound together with the peritoneum lying under them. the manner whereof we ſhall ſhew in due place. the fifth kind is called the dry suture, which we uſe only in the wounds of the face, which alſo we will deſcribe in its proper place. c. h. a. p. w ii. of the flux of blood, which uſually haſ pens in wounds. ºft-times great bleeding follows upon wounds,by reaſon of ſome veſſel cut,bro- º ken, or torn,which there is need to heal and help diligently,becauſe the blood §q º is the treaſure of nature,without which life cannot conſiſt. the blood which fº: £ . floweth from an artery,is thus known. it is more ſubtile, it runs forth as it ** were leaping,by reaſon of the vitall ſpirit contained together with it in the arteries. on the contrary that which floweth from a vein is more groſs, black, and ſlow. now there are many wayes of ſtanching blood, the firſt and moſt uſuallis that, by which the lips of the wound are cloſed, and unleſs it be ſomewhat deep, are contained by medicines which have an aſtringent, cooling, dry- ing,and glutinous faculty; as terre ſigill. boli armeni,ana ſº, thuri, maſtichi,myrrhe, aloes, and iſ, farine volat. molend. j, fiat pulvi, qui albumine ovi excipiatur, or r. thuria & aloes, ana paries equales. let them be mixt with the white of an egge, and the down of a hare,and- let the pledgets be dipped in theſe mcdicines,as well thoſe which are put unto the wound as thoſe which are applycd about it. then let the wound beboundup with a double clop and fit ligature, and the part be ſo ſeated as may ſeem the leaſt trombleſome and moſt free from pain. º if the blood cannot be ſtayed by this means,when you have taken of all that cover- eth it,you ſhall preſs the wound and the orifice of the veſſell with your thumb, ſo long untill the blood ſhall be concrete about it,into ſo thick a clot as may ſtop the paſſage. but if it cannot be thus ſtayed,then the suture (if any º: opened, and the mouth of the veſſell towards the originall or root,muſt be taken hold of, and bound with your needle and thred, with as great a portion of the fleſh as the condition of the part will permit. for thus, l have ſtaid great bleedings, even in the amputation of members, as i ſhall ſhºw in fit place. to perform this work, we are often forced to divide the skin the figns of blood flowing fioman artery. the firſt way of ſtaying blºeding. the . manuer cf fianching it. º, he .way by binding of the veſſels, which ----------------- -—--—--> --——- * li b. . of ounds in generall. - which covereth the wounded veſſell. for if the jugular vein,or artery be cut, it will con- trač and with draw it ſelf upwards and downwards.then the skin it ſelf muſt be laido- n under which it lyeth,and thruſting a needle and thred under it, it muſt be bound as i have often done. but before you looſe the knot,it is fit the fleſh ſhould be grown up, that it may flopt the mouth of the veſſell,leſt it ſhould then bleed; - - but if the condition of the part ſhall be ſuch as may forbid this comprehenſion; and binding of the veſſell, we muſt come to eſcharoticks, ſuch as are the powder ofburnt vitriol, the powder of mercury, with a ſmall quantity of burnt allum ; and cauſticks which cauſe an eſcar. the i. away of which muſt be left to nature, and not procured by art, leſt it . fall away before that the orifice of the veſſell ſhall be flopt with the fleſ. or clotted blood. - º - - but ſometimes it happens that the chirurgeon is forced wholly to cut offthe veſſell it ſelf, that thus the ends of the cut veſſell withdrawing themſelves,and ſhrincking upwards and downwards, being hidden by the quantity of the adjacent and incompañng parts, the flux of the blood, which was before not to be ſtaid, may be ſtopped with leſſe #. yet this is an extream remedy and not to be uſed, unleſſe you have in vain attempted the former. c h a p. w ii i. ofthe pain which happen; upon wounds. a hepains which follow upon wounds ought to be quickly affwaged, becauſe º nothing ſo quickly . the powers, and it alwayes cauſes a defluxion, of % how goodſoever a habit and temper the bºdy be of for nature ready toy eld sº aſſiſtance to the wounded part,alwayes ſends more humors to it,than are need- *** full for the nouriſhment thereof,whereby it conies to paſſe that the defluxion is eaſily increaſed, either by the quantity,or i. by both. * - - - - therefore to take away this pain, the author of defluxion,let ſuch medicines be applyed to the part as have a repelling and mitigating faculty ; as r.olei myrtill,& roſarum,and ij, cereali.; i, farine hordei, ſ, bali armeni;&terrefigilatººna vſ. melt the wax in the oyls, then incorporate all the reſt, and according to art, make a medicine to be applyed about the part: or r. emplºft. diacalcith. iv, ole. roſar. . ceti, ana ſ, liquifiant ſimul, and let a medicinebemade for the fore mentioned uſe, irrigations of oyſ of röſes and myrtiles, with the white of an egge, or a whole egge added thereto,may ſerve for lenitives, if there be no greatinflammation; rowlers and doublecloaths moyſened in oxycrate, will be al- ſo convenient for the ſame purpoſe. but the force of ſuch medicines muſt be often renewed, for when they are dryed,they *. the pain.but if the pain yeeld not to theſe, we muſi come to narcotick medicines,ſuch as are the oyl of poppy, of mandrake, a cataplaſm of henbane and sorrell,adding thereto mallows and marſh-mallows,of which we ſpoke for: merly in treating of a phlegmon. . " . . - laſtly, we muſt give heed to the cauſe of the pain, to the kind and nature of the humor that flows down,and to the way which nature affects: for accordiug to the variety of theſe things,the medicines muſt be varied,as if heat cauſe pain,it will be aſſwaged by application an admonition - the . way b #.” the .way by cutting off the veſſels. * pain weakens the body,and cauſes de- fluxions. diversano: dynes of mediº cins to aſſwage pain, of cooling things; and the like reaſon obſerved in the contrary; if nature intend ſuppura. tion,youmuſt help forwards its indeavours with ſuppurating medicines. chap. ix. of convulſion by reaſon of a wound. - §§§ convulſion is an unvoluntary contration of the muſcles (as of parts movable wºº at our pleaſure)towards their originall, that is, the brain and spinall marrow, ĺ for by this the convulſed member or the whole body (if the convulſion be uni- .#jcannot be moved at our pleaſure.yet motion is not loſt in a convulfion as it is in a palſie, but it is only depraved: and becauſe ſometimes the convulſion poſſeſſeth the whole body, otherwhiles ſome part thereof.you muſt note that there are three kinds of convulſions in generall. - - - - the firſt is called by the greeks tetanos, when as the whole body grows ſtiffe like a ſtake that it cannot be moved anyway. - . . the ſecond is called opiffhotonoſ, which is when the whole body is drawn backwards. the third is termed emprofthotonos which is when the whole body is bended or crooked forwards.a particular convulſion is, when as the muſcle of the eye, tongue,and the like parts which is furniſhed with a nerve, is taken with a convulſion. repletion or inanition, sympathy or conſent of pain cauſe a convulſion. aboundance of humors cauſe repletion, dulling the body by immoderate eating and drinking and omiſſion of ex- erciſe, or any accuſtomed evacuation, as ſuppreſſion of the hemorrhoides, and courſes: for hence are ſuch like excrementitious humors drawn into the nerves, with which they being replete and filled, are dilated more than is fit, whence neceſſarily becoming z more whata cons vulſion iss three kinds of an univerſall convulſion. . three cauſes of a convulfion. cauſes of re-i pletion. * > - r: - of wound in generall. lie. . - - - more ſhort, they ſufferconvulſion. examples whereof appear in leather and lute or viol-ſtrings,which ſwoln with moiſture in a wet ſeaſon are broken by repletion. cauſes of immoderate vomitings, fluxes bleedings,cauſe inanition or emptineſs whereforea con- inanitions vulſion cauſed by a wound, is deadly: as alſo by burning feavers. forby theſe and the like cauſes the inbred&primogeneous humidity of the nerves is waſted,ſo that they are contra- &ed like leather which is ſhrunk up,by being held too neer the fire,or as fidle ſtrings which dryed with summers heat,are broken with violence,ſuch a convulſion is incurable:for it is better a feaver follow a convulſion,than a convulſion a feaver;as we are taught by hip- ** °-ſea, focrates,ſo that ſuch a feaverbºproportionall to the ſtrength of the convulſifiquecauſe aid the convulſion proceed from repletion; for the abundant and groſs humor cauſing the convulſion is digeſted and ... by the feaveriſh heat. ‘. * . thecauſes of a convulſion by reaſon of pain,are either the pun&ure of a nerve, whether . º it be by a thing animal,as by the biting of a venemous beaſt;or by a thing inanimate,as by pain. the prick of aneedle,thorn or pen-knife; or É. & piercing cold,which is hurtfull to the wounds,principally of the nervous parts; whereby it comes to paſs,that by cauſing great and bitter pain in the nerves they are contraćted towards their originall,that is,the brain as if they would crave ſuccour from their parents in their diſtreſſed eſtate. beſides alſo, an ill vapour carried to the brain from ſome putrefaction ſo vellicateth it,that con tracting it ſelfit alſo contraćteth together with it al the nerves and muſcles,as we ſee it happeneth in thoſe which have the falling ſickneſs. by which it appears that not only the brain it ſelf ſuffereth together with the newes,but alſo the nerves with the brain.the ſigns of a con- †. vulſion are difficult, painfull and depraved motions,either of ſome part or of the wholebo- dy,turning aſide of the eyes and whole face,a contraćtion of the ips, a drawing in of the cheeks,as if one laughed,and an univerſall ſweat. c h a p. x. the cure of a convulſion. the taufeof a he cure of a convulſion,is to be varied according to the variety of the convul- sonvulſion by five cauſe, for that which proceeds from repletion muſt be otherwiſe cured, #. sº than that which is cauſed by an inanition; and that which proceeds of pain, he cure of otherwiſe than either of them. for that which is cauſed by repletion is cured by diſcuſſing and evacuating medicines; as by diet conveniently appointed,by purging,bleeding, digeſtive locall medicines, exerciſe, frićtions, ſulphurious baths and o. ther things appointed by the preſcription of ſome learned phyfitian which ſhall overſee the .# may conſume the ſuperfluous and excrementitious humors that poſſeſs the ſubſtance ofthe nerves,and habit of the body.the locall remedies are oyls, unguents and liniments,with which the neck,back-bone and all the contraćted parts ſhall be anointed. the oyls are,the oyſ of foxes,bayes,cammomill,worms,turpentine, of coſtu, ofcaſtore- um: the oyntments are vnguentum arragon, agrippe, de althea, martiatum. this may be the form of a liniment; r. olei chamam. & laurin. and iſ, olei vulp. i, vnguenti de althea & marti.am. ſ, axungie vulpit, i, aque vita, iſ, cere quantum ſufficit. . make a liniment for your uſe,or r.olei lumbric de spita & de gaſtored,an iij, xunghum.; i,sulphuri, vivi, .. . cere quantum ſufficit.make a liniment, or r. viguenti martiati, agrip. an: iij. oleide tere- binth. i ſã, lei salvie, ſ, aquavite i, cere iſs, flat limimentum. but this diſeaſe is cured by ſlender diet,and ſweating with the decoötions of guiacum,becauſe by theſe remedies the groſs,tough,and viſcid excrements,which are in fault,are digeſted. the eure of a a convulſion proceeding of inanition is to be cured by the uſe of thoſe things,which do convulſion wholeſomly and moderately nouriſh.and therefore you muſt preſcribe a diet confifting of ****by ina" meats full of a good nouriſhment,as broaths and cullices of capons,pigeons, veal, & mut- fººtion, ton boyling therein violet and mallow leaves. conſerves i be ordained, which may j the debilitated powers,and humeå the habit of the body, ſuch as are, the con- ſerves of bugloſs,violets,borage and water lillies. the following broath will be profita- ble,r.lattuce,bugloſ. & portulan mi, quatuor ſeminum frigid, major. ºn ſ, ſemini, barberi, i. let them all be boyled with a chicken,and let him take the broath every morning. if thirſt oppreſs him,the following julep will begood r.aqueroſaráiy, que viol.f ſ, saccari albiſ- ſimi; vi.fiat iulip,utatur inſti.if the patientbebound in his body.emollient and humºting clyſers ſhall be appointed, made of the decočtion of a ſheeps head and feet, mallows, marſh mallows,pellitory of the wall,violet leaves,and other things of the like faculty; or that the remedy may be more ready and quickly made: let the clyffers be of oyl and an emollient milk.topick remedies ſhall be liniments and baths.let this be the example of a liniment. liniment for r. olei viol. . amygdal. dulc. an. iſ, olei lilior. & lumbric. an. is axungie#: recenti, any convulſion $iij, ceremove quantum ſufficit, fiat linimentum, with which let the whole ſpine and part affeóted be anointed: this ſhall be the form of an emollient and hume&ting bath. anemenºn, r. fol. malve, bi, male, parist. *myi, sºlii, lini & fenug, and fê ſó. caquantur in : *::: aqua communi, addendo olei, lilior: fēvij. make a bath; into which let the patient º eiter when it is warm. when he ſhall come forth of the bath, let him be º w t lis. . of wonnds ingenerall. with warm jones or reſt in his bed avoiding ſweat. but if the patient be able to under- go the charge, it will be good to ordain a bath of milk, or oyl alone, or of them equally mixttogether. - c h a p. xi. of the cure of a convulſion, by ſympathy and pain. nº the affečt, is cured by remedies which are contrary to the dolorifick & cauſe. for thus if it proceed from a punéture or venemous bite, the wound §§§ muſt be dilated and inlarged by cutting the skin, that ſo the venenate matter *** may flow forth more freely, for which purpoſe alſo medicines which are of a thin and liquid confiſtence,but of a drying and digeſtive faculty ſhall be powred in, to call forth and diſſolve the virulency, as treacle and mithridate,diſſolved in aqua vite with a little of ſome mercuriall powder: for this is a noble antidote. alſo cupping glaſſes and ſcarifications will begood. laſtly, the condition of all dolorifick cauſes, ſhall be oppug- ned by ths oppoſition of contrary remedies,as if pain by reaſon of a pricked nerve or ten- don,ſhall cauſea convulſion,it muſt preſently be refifted by #. remedies, as oyl of turpentine, of euphorbium,mixt with aquavite,and alſo with other remedies appropriated to pun&ures of the nerves. if the pain proceed from exceſs of cold, becauſe cold is hurt- full to the brain, the ſpinall marrow, andnerves; the patient ſhall be placed in a hot air, ſuch as that of a hot-houſe,or floave,all the ſpine of his back and convulſed parts, muſt be anointed with the hot liniments above mentioned: for that is much better, than ſud- denly to expoſe him from the conceived convulfifick cauſe to a moſt hot fire or warm bath. in the mean time the chirurgeon muſt take diligent heed,that as ſoon as the ſigns of the convulſion to come, or already preſent,or at hand, do ſhew themſelves, that he put a flick between the patients teeth, left they be faſt locked by the pertinacious contraćtion of the jaws: for many in ſuch a caſe have º: off their tongues,for which purpoſe he ſhall be pro- vided of an inſtrument called speculum oriº, which may be dilated and contraćted accor- ding to your mind by the means of a ſcrew,as the figures underneath demonſtrate, the one preſenting it open and ſomewhat twined up, and the other as it is ſhut. the figure of a speculum oris, to ºpen the teeth when they are lºcked or heldfaſſ together. c h a p. xii. of the palſie. he palſie is the reſolving or mollification of the nerves, with privation of ſenſe and motion, not truly of the whole body,but of the one part thereofas of the right or left fide. and ſuch is properly named the palfie : for otherwiſe and sº convulſion which is cauſed both by cºnſent of pain and communication of the cus ºf * convulſion by a punčture, or bite, a worthy a. liºpharmucum or antidote. you muſt hin- der the locking of the teeth, what a paſſié is. - the differen- leſs properly the reſolution of ſome one member is alſo called the palfie : for ces thereof. when the whole body is reſolved,it is an apoplexy. therefore the palfie ſometimes takes half the body, otherwhiles the upper parts which are between the navell and the head, o- therwhile o of womlyn generall. l i ºy. how it differs from a con- vulſion. the cauſes. it is good for a feaver to hap- pen upon a palſie. the decottion of guaiacum is good for a palfe, things ačual. ly hot good for to be applied to paralytick members. leon. faveſtº, his ointment. an approved ointment for the paſſie. therwhiles the lower which are from the navell to the feet; ſometimes the tongue, gullet, bladder, yard,eyes; and laſtly,any of the particles of the body. - it differs from a convulſion in its whole nature. for in a convulſion,there is a conten- tion and contraćtion of the part,but in this a .# and relaxation thereof.beſides, it commonly happeneth that the ſenſe is either aboliſhed or very dull, which uſually remains perfeót in a convulſion. there are ſome which have a pricking,and as it were great pain in the part. -- #iº, are internall or externall, the internall are humors obſtrućting one of the ventricles of the brain,or one fide of the ſpinall marrow,ſo that the animall faculty, the worker of ſenſe and motion,cannot by the nerves come to the part to perform its aćtion. the externall cauſes area fall, blow,and the like injuries, by which oft-times the joints are diſlocated,the ſpinall marrow wreſted aſide,and conſtrićtions and compreſſions of the vertebre ariſe, which are cauſes that the animall ſpirit cannot come to the organs in its whole ſubſtance. but it is eaſy by skill in anatomy perfeótly to underſtand by the reſol- ved part the ſeat of the morbifick cauſe for when there is a palfie properly ſo called,that is, when the right or left ſide is wholly ſeized upon, then you may know that the obſtrućti- on is in the brain,or ſpinall marrow;but if the parts of the head being untoucht,either of the fides being wholly reſolved,the fault remains in the originall of the ſpinallmarrow; if the armes be taken with this diſeaſe, we may certainly # that the matter of the diſeaſe lies hid in the fifth, ſixth,and ſeventh vertebra of the neck. but if the lower members lan- guiſh, we muſtjudge the paralytick cauſe to be contained in the vertebre of the loins and holy bone.which thing the chirurgeon muſt diligently obſerve that he may alwaies have recourſe to the originall of the diſeaſe.the palſie which proceeds from a nerve cut, or exceedingly bruiſed, is incurable,becauſe the way to the part by that means is ſhut againſt the animall ſpirit.old men ſcarce or never recover of the palfie,becauſe their native heat is languid, and they are oppreſſed with abundance of excrementitious humors; nei- ther doth an inveterate pälſie which hath long poſſeſt the part, neither that which ſuc- ceeds an apoplexy,yeeld us any better hope of cure. it is good for a feaver to come upon a palfie,for it makes the diſſipation of the reſolving and relaxing humor, to be hoped for. when the member affected with the palfie,is much waſted,and the oppoſite on the contrary, much encreaſed in quantity, heat and colour,it is ill ; for this is a figne of the extream weakneſs of the afflićted part, which ſuffers itſelf to be defrauded of its nouriſhment, all the proviſion flowing to the ſound or oppoſite ſide. - chap, xiii. - of the cure of the palſe. -- mººn thecure of the ralfie we muſt not *f; anything, unleſs we have firſt uſed ຠgenerall remedies;diet and purging; alſ which care lyeth upon the learned § and prudent phyſitian. the decočtion of guaiacum is very fit for this pur- ss poſe for it prºcureş ſweat and attenuates,digeſts aud driethup all the humi- - * dity which relaxeth the nerves: but when ſweatdoth not flow it ſhall not be unprofitable to put about the reſolved members, bricks heated red hot in the fire and uénched in a decoötion of wine, vinegar, and reſolving herbs, or alſo ſtone bottles, or §. and swine bladders;half filled with the ſame decočtion; for ſuch heat which is ačtuall reſuſcitateth and ſtrengthneth the heat of the part, which in this diſeaſe is commonly very languid: then the patient .#. into a bathing-tub, which is vailed or covered over juſt as we have deſcribed in our treatiſe of baths, that ſo he may receive the vapour of the following decočtion. r fol. salvie, lavend. lauri, major. abſinth. thym. angelice, rate,ana m.ſ . florum chamam. melil. anethi, anthoſ.ama pij. baccar. laur. & ianiper. :#. and j. caryophyl. ij.aquefontaneº vini albi,and ſhiv.let them be all put in theyeſſel men- tioned in the treatiſe lately deſcribed for uſe. the patient ſhall keep himſelfe in that ba- thing-tub,as long as his ſtrength will give him leave, then let him be put into his bedwel covered,where he ſhall ſweat again, be dried and reſt. then let him be preſently anointed with the followingointment, which leonelius faventius much commends, r. olei laurini dº de terebinth.ana iij.olei nardini & petrolei, and jºini malvatici, iv.aquavite ij. pyre- thri, piperu,sinap.granor.junip.gummi hedere,anacard. ladani puri,an. .teramtur &miſceantur ºmnia cum Ólei, & vinobuliant invaſe duplici uſque ad vini conſumptionem facia forti expreſſione, adde galbani, bdellii, euphorbii,myrrhe,caſtorei, adipiº urſ, anatiº,ciconie,an. ij.make an ointment in form of a liniment,adding a little wax if necd ſhall require.or you ſhall uſe the following remedy approved by many phyſitians.r. myrrheº aloes,spice nardi,sanguini, draconia,thuri, opponaciº, bdellii, cºrpobalſami,amomi ſarcocolle, rotismaſtic. gummi arabici, ſyrac, liquide, ladimi, cafforei, and ij. moſchi, . aqua vite, j. terebinthine venete, ad pondus omnium, pulverabuntur pulveriſanda & gummi eliquabuntur cum aqua vite & aceti tantillo. and let them all be put in fit veſſels, that may be diſtilled in balneo marie, and let the ſpine of the back, and paralytick limbs be anointed with the liquor which comes from thence. i have often .# the force of this following medicine.r. rad. angel, ireoi, floren, gentian.cyperi, and }.calami aromat. ci- n …” - ? ??, lib. . of wounds ingenerall. —" - nam.caryophil. nuciº moſch. mach, and ij. salvie major.iue arthritice,lavend.roriſm. jatkreic,fu- leg. calament.mentaſtri, and m ſº, florum chamºm. melil. hyperic. anthor, ſtachad, and p.j. conciſa ºm- mia contundantur. & in aquavit, & vinimalvat, an fbij.infundantur.and let them be diſtilled in balneo marie, like the former let the affected partsbenoiſtned with the diſtilled liquor, of which alſo you may give the patient a ſpoon full to drink in the morning with ſome sugar. for thus the ſtomach will be heated, and much phlegm contained therein as the fuel of this diſcaſe, will be conſumed. - you muſt alſo appoint exerciſes of the affetted parts, and frequent and hard frićtions, with hot linnen clothes,that the native heat may be recalled and the excrements contained in the parts digeſted : you may alſo uſe the chymicall oyls of roſemary, tyme,lavander, cloves, nutmegs;and laſtly, of all ſpices,the manner of xtraćting whereof we ſhall here- after declare in a peculiar treatiſe. .c h. a. p. xiv. of sowning. ºowning is a ſodain and pertinacious deſtà of all the powers,but eſpecially the º, vitallin this the patients lie without motion and ſenſe, ſo that the ancients thought that it differed from death only in continuance of time. the cauſe of ſowning,which lº. to thoſe that are wounded is bleeding, which cau- ſeth a diſſipation of the ſpirits: or fear,which cauſeth a ſodain and joint re- tirement of the ſpirits to the heart. w. follows an intermiſſion of the proper duty, as alſo of the reſt of the faculties, whilſt they being thus troubled,are at a ſtand.alſo sowning happens by a putridand venenate vapour,carried to the heart by the arteries, and to the brain by the nerves;by which you may gather, that all ſowning happens by three cauſes. the firſt is,by diſſipation of the ſpirits and native heat,as in great bleeding. and then by the oppreſſion of theſe ſpirits by obſtruštion, or compreſſion, as in fear, or tumult; for thus the ſpirits fly back haſtily from the ſurface and habit of the body, unto the heart and center. laſtly, by corruption, as in bodies filled with humours, and in poyſonous wounds. %. ſigns of ſowning are paleneſs, a dewy and ſodain ſweat liftº: failing of the }. a ſodain falling of the e. upon the ground with- ... outſenſe and motion,a coldneſs poſſeſſing the whole body, ſo that the patient may ſeem rather dead,than alive. for many of theſe who fall into a ſown die unleſs they have pre- ſent help. - º - #or. you ſhall help them,if when they are ready to fall, you ſprinkle much cold water in their face,if that the ſowning happen by diſſipation of the ſpirits,or if they ſhal be ſet with their faces upwards,upon abcd or on the ground, as gently as may be; and if you give them breaddipt in wine to hold and chew in their mouths. but if it be cauſed by a putrid vapour and poyſonous air, you ſhall give them a little mithridate or treacle in aqua vite with a ſpoon,as i uſually do to thoſe which have the plague,or any part affe&ed with a gangrene, or ſpacell. but if the patients cannot be raiſed out of their ſownes, by reaſon of the pertinacious oppreſſion and compreſſion of the ſpirits about the heart, you muſt give them all ſuch things as have power to diffinſe,cal forth and reſuſcitate the ſpirits, ſuch as are,ſtrong wines to drink, ſweet perſumes to ſmell: you muſt call them by their own name lowd in their eare,and you muſt pluck them ſomewhat hard by the hairs of the temples,and neck. alſo rub the temples, noſtrils, wriſts and palms ofthe hands with aqua vite, wherein cloves, nutmegs,and ginger have been ſteeped. c h a p. xv. of delirium (i.) raving, talking idly or doting. - #&oting or talking idly,here is uſed for a ſymptome which commonly happeneth tº º |sº º --- a. phantaſie,and funétion of the mind,not long induring. wherefore ſuch a do- # ting happens upon wounds,by reaſon of vehement pain, and a feaver, when as the nervous parts as the joints,ſtomach,and midriffe,ſhall be violated. . . for the ancients did thereforecall the middriffe phrena,becauſe when this is hurt, as if the mind itſelf were hurt,a certain phreniſie enſues;that is, a perturbation of the animall faculty, which is imployed in ratiocination;by reaſon of the community which the dia- phragma hath with the brain, by the nerves,ſent from the ſixth conjugation,which are car- ricd to the ſtomach. therefore doting happens by too much much bleeding, which cau- ſeth a diſſipation of the ſpirits, whereby it happens that the motions and thoughts of the minderre as weſte it happens to thoſe who have bled much in the amputation of a mem- ber. and it happens by the puněture of a veſſemous beaſt,or from ſeed retained or corrup- ted in the womb, or from a gangrene or *::::::. a venenate and putrid air carried up to the brain,or from a ſodain tuniult & fear.laſtly,what things ſoever with any diſtem- per eſpecially hot, do hurt and debilitats the mind. theſe may cauſe doting by the afflux. *{ in feavers cauſed by a wound,and inflammation; and it is a perturbation of the - a diſtilled w” tet good to waſh them outwardly, : tofirink in- wardly. exerciſes and frićtions. chytnical oyts, whit ſowning s. three cauſcs of fowning. the cure of , ſowning cauſe by diſſipation of ſpirits. the cure of ſowning cauſed by a venenatc air. the cure oſ. ſowning cauſe by oppreſſion & obſtrućtic n, what a ſymp- totmaticall delirium is. tbe cauſes thereof. why the braid ſuffers with the midrifle,... . * - the curs, * of womdºm generall. l i b. . the differen- ses of a brokenhead, the kinds of a broken skull out of hippo. crates. differences from their quantiy. differences from their figure. from their complication, of humors,ſpecially cholerick by diſſipation,oppreſſion or corruption of the ſpirits.there- fore if it ſhall proceed from the inflammation of the brain, and meninges or membranes thereof;after purging and blood-letting by the preſcription of a phyſitian, the hair being ſhaved or cut off, the head ſhall be fomented with roſe vinegar,and then an emplaiſter of tiacalcitheos diſſolved in oyl and vinegar of roſes,ſhall be laid thereupon. sleep ſhall be rocured with barly creams,wherein the ſeeds of white poppy have been boiled, with É. made of the deco&tion of the cold ſeeds of lettuce, purſlain, sorrell,and ſuch like. cold things ſhall be applyed to his noſtrills, as the ſeeds of poppy gently beaten with roſe water and a little vinegar.let him have merry and pleaſant companions that may divert his mind from all cogitation of ſorrowful things,and may eaſe and free him of carés,and with their ſweet intreaties may bring him to himſelf again. but if it happen by default of the ſpirits, you muſt ſeek remedy from theſe things which have been ſet down in the chapter of sowning: the end of the ninth book. ht lidindieeeleddiſºrdºndºrſinº diſtand nº spensuddensing of the greene and bloody vvovnds of each part, the t = n r h b o ox. chap. i. of the kinds or differences of a broken skull. , w that we have briefly treated of wounds in generall, that is, of their | differences,ſigns, cauſes, prognoſticks and cure, and alſo ſhewed the reaſon of the accidents and ſymptoms which uſually follow and accom- pany them, it remains that we treat of them as they are incident to each part,becauſe the cure of wounds muſt be diverſly performed according to the diverſity of the parts. now we will begin with the wounds of the head.therefore the head hath the hairy ſcalp lightly bruiſed with- out any wound, otherwhiles it is wounded without a contuſ- on, and ſometimes it is both contuſed and wounded : but a fraćture made in the skull,is ſometimes ſuperficiary,ſometimes it deſcends even to the diploe, ſometimes it penetrates through the tables,and the meninges into the very ſubſtance of thebrain;be- fides,the brain is oft-times moved and ſhaken with breaking of the internall veins, and divers ſymptoms happen when there appears no wound at all in the head: of all and eve- ry of which we will ſpeak in order, and add their cure,eſpecially according to the opini- on of the divine hippocrates.he in his book of the wounds of the head, ſeems to have made or kinds of fraćtures of the skull. the firſt is called a fiſſure or fraćture,the a contu- ſion or collifion,the is termed effragiura,the is named sedes,or a ſeat;the (if you pleaſe to add it) you may call a counterfiſſure, or as the interpreter of paulus cals it, a reſomitus. as when the bone is cleft on the contrary ſide,to that which received the ſtroak.there are many differences of theſe kinds of a broken skul. for ſome fraćtures are great,ſome ſmall, and others indifferent;ſome run out to a greater length or bredth ; others are more con- tračted; ſome reſide only in the ſuperficies; others deſcend to the diploe, or elſe pierce through both the tables of the skull;ſome run in a right line, others in an oblique and circular;ſome are complicated amongſt themſelves,as a fiſſure is neceſſarily and alwaies ac- companied with a colliſion or contuſion;and others are aſſociated with divers accidents, as pain,heat,ſwelling, bleeding and the like.sometimes the skull is ſo broken, that the membrane lying under it, is preſſed with ſhivers of the bone, as with pricking needles. somewhiles none of the bones falls off. all which differences are diligently to be obſer- ved becauſe they force us to vary the cure,and therefore for the help of memory, i have thought good to deſcribe them in the following table, lib. io. wonnds of each part. ----- r --f - a table of the fraðures of the skull. & either ma-c toyour ſight; nifeſt, and ).toyour feeling, apparent, dor inſtrument. iſ that is - | ſon the ſide; as for || | ſº when the . right ſide of the ſº the ſame ºof% ſº. w - , - iſ bone...and ead is ſtruckens ſ: b . ſº ſº the left is cleft. | or obſcure || / / / " - - - ;:* and º . ſwayes, as |orfrom above to . foontuſion, ºff. each (nifeſt, when | below, as when not - that is, a lºth; as met the the fir table .. | colliſion of winterro-lt" whichſ. - - - - whic received the | a thing ... }, received, j |* * *left, but º: ... lfračure of the º - !"ich is ando' | hard, heav wounded , ! ?? • -- | and ſº *#| but the con- , , , , , , , - which ſhall [...i. a fiſ. trary there. | in diver, frºm the right , fall or bee iſure, which |te,and that bones towit |ſide to the left,and afraffure, ſmitten a- ...” happens inſuch men ſo on the contrary, or ſolution gainſt the tither las want ſu- as when the right of continui- head, or . * - tures, ºr bregma isſtruck, ty º the º || *:::: |and the left cleft. skull is cau- which the | very cloſe, ſed either head ſhall || arläiſpoſed. from before to be: £y be knocked, | - || ºtherwies hind, and the con- ſo that the - |thea is fit, trary, as when the tº sº broken | and this forehead is finit; • * * * bones are : '''' ºppoſition | ten, the nowle is | divided, or i - l; either lcleft. - - s |or between both,that is the obſcure and mani- º: |fft,as that which is termed a capillary fiſſure, and is manifeſted by ſmearing it ºver with '', oyl,and writing ink." - ſºhollyſothai the particles of the broken tone' j {remºved from their ſeat, and falling down, . . |prºſ; themembrane,whence proceeds that kind. | º or lºſe |ºf effračure which retains a kind of attrition, | - their£º imhen as the bone ſtruck upon is broken as it **. and f/ / were into many agments,ſhivers andſcales, . ither either apparent or hid in the ſoundbone, fö' 'a'. - that it is preſſed down. - - - | for in ſomeſort, is when the broken bone is in - - | ſomepart ſeparated, but in others adheres to . .." the wholebºne, whence another kind of ef. | or by inci- fračure ariſes; you may call it arched , when : |ſion of a as the #.ſo ſwels up,that it leaves an empty i ! i ſharp, or ". té belºny. . . . *. !. succiſion;when the bone is ſº cut, that in ſome part it yet adheres * thing, but tº the ſºund bone. * . . . , - - |that inciſ- reſiſſion, when the fragment falls down wholy broken ºff. . . . . . lon is made or * ºften the mark of the weapon remaims imprinted in the veither by º * the wound is of no more length nor bredth thin the weapon [*. whºſe - another of granand $loody. l i b. —a the extetnall cauſes, rationalſ caus (es, apher. , ſec. . lib, .capº. another table of the differences of afra&ured skull. simple, as when they are foundſolitary and by themſelves. tmutually with themſelves, as a contuſion, or colliſion with inciſion,a fiſſure with an #. th f or * with other ſymptomes, as ſwelling, pain, heat, ºff. convulſion and the like. r *their nature, ac-. cording to which compound fraćtures are and that cald, l - - their quantity,whence they are called, great, indifferent and ſmall, the differences according to the triple dimenſion of length, breadth and profun- offračures ditie. £ ????? % to right, theſe of allo- - #:#. are their fgure, from º:% f drawn, either whence they ré + r nſ. ſ from " called |rºund, triangular, their ſite, whence they are termed on the fore or back, or the right or left, ºr the upper or lower part, orſuperficiary and profound. the part, whence it is called a fracture of the foreheid, nowl, breg- \!. and stony bones; and hence it is judged, what may be deadly or \hºpefull of recovery, eaſe or difficult to cure. chap. i i. of the cauſes and ſigns of a broken skull. shecauſes of a broken skull are externallas a falla blow or ſtroak with any kind ºš of weapon, ſharp, º bitings of beaſts and many other things & of the like kind. but the figns by which we come to know that the skull is bro- * ken, are of two kinds; for ſome of them are found out by the reaſoning and diſ- courſe of the mind, other by the ſenſe,as thoſe which lay open the wound to the ey & hand. the rationall ſigns ſhew by theſe things which have happened ". the thing it ſelf, whether it be,and of what ſort it is. for you may know the skull is broken, if the patient fhall fall down with the ſtroak, or if he ſhal falheadlong from a high place upon ſome hard thing. if for ſometime after the ſtroak,he ſhall lie without ſpeaking,fight and hearing, if he ſhall have felt and feel much pain,ſo that he is often forced to put his hand to the wound. but alſo the weapon is to be confidered,that is, whether if it be heavy, obtuſe, pricking or ſharp. alſo we muſt conſider with what and how great º the ſtroak was given, and with how great anger and from what diſtance the weapon fell.alſo he muſt confider whe- ther the patient received the blow;with his headunarmed and naked; whether he fell into a ſown preſently after the blow;whetherwhen he came tohimſelf,he was in his rightſenſes; whether his eys were blinded, whether he were troubled with a giddineſs ordizines, and whether he bled at the noſe,mouth,ears,or eyes,and laſtly whether he vomited. for hippo- crates wriees,that thoſe who have their brain cut, muſt neceſſarily have a feaver and vomi- ting ofcholer to enſue thereupon, which galen confirming in his commentary faith, that the ſame happens alſo when the wound comes to the membranes of the brain. alſo a dull ſound as from abroken veſſell coming from the skull, (the hairy ſcalp and pericranium being taken off ) and it being lightly ſmitten upon with an iron probe,is ſaid to be a ſign of a fračure thereofas it is recorded by paulu agineta. , truly all theſe figns make a great conjećture or rather aſſuredneſs that the skulis wounded,and the brain hurt, as which cannot happen unleſs the bonebe broken, as celſus hath written. yet many have had their skulls broken,who had no ſuch ſign immediately after the blow, but this is ve- ry ſeldome.but i do not think fit amongſt ſo many ſigns, here tº omit that which is ſet down by guido. ifany(ſaith he)will know in what place the skull is broke, let the patient hold faſtbetween his fore teeth, one end of a lute ſtring or thread, and the chirurgeon hold the other in his hand; then let him lightly touch or play upon the ſtring with his †. for in the very inſtant of the ſound or ſtroke, the patient will be certainly admo- niſhed, or perfeótly perceive the part of the skull that is broken, and as orecome and *. - £-- y lºr -—----------—--- ºo: - - wounds of each part." º . - by this ſenſe of pain ;wiltby lifting shishand make demonſtration thereof. as yet i have not been able to find the truth hereo fby experience, although i have made tryall of it in many.wherefore i cannot ſay anythingºertainly of this ſign, as neither of that which is mentioned by hippocrates in chair preſ. in ſuch as you doubt, whether the bones of the skull tº broken, or fiot, you muſtjudg by giving them the ſtalk of the aſphodill,to chaw on both fides of their jaws.but ſo that youbid them withall obſerve, whether they perceive any bone to crackle, or make a noiſe in their heads; for theſe which are broken ſeem to make a noiſe. but paſſing over theſe things,now let us come to theſe ſigns, which may be obvious to our ſenſes. - * - * * * * * * *- - - **** ****----, -- ~ *---- - - - - à "... [...] chap. iii. * of ſhifths of a broken ſkull, which are manifeſt to ourſenſe. sesses heſe ſigns are here ſaid to be manifeſt to ſenſe, which when the bone is bared, ma- - - - nifeſt the wound to our eyes, fingers and probe. but if the hairs ſtand upon one end in the wound you may know the bone is broke, becauſe the hair, which * yelds to the violence of the blow, cannot be ſo cut, the bone which reſiſts the ſtroak being not violated, as it is obſerved by hippocrate: ; wherefore we may by the fight of this one thing, before any inſpe&tion of the wound itſelf ſuſpect by a probable con- jeaure that the skullis broken,and perfwade the beholders or ſtanders by ſo much.… moreover we may before wehave cut the skin acroſs-or laid bare the bone, give a gueſs by our feeling,whether the skull be broken, or no, if weby preſſing down our fingersneer the wound ſhall perceive the bone either to ſtand up, or be preſſed down otherwiſe than it ſhould naturally be. . . . . . . . ." - -- - - - - - the skin being cut croſwiſe and the bone laid bare,if the fraćture be not obvious to the eye, you muſt try with your probe, which muſt neither betoothin for too ſharp, leſt by falling into ſome naturall cranies, it may cauſe us to ſuſpećt without any cauſe that the bone is broken; neither let it be too thick, left the little clifts may deceive you. if when your probe comes to the bone,it mects with nothing but that which is ſmooth and ſlippe- - - ** r - ? - º ry,it is a ſign that it is whole. . . . . ſ - : '... " . . ; but on the contrary if you find it anything rough, ſpecially where there is noſtiture, is ſhºws the bone is broken.butlet the chirurgeon confider, that the fraćtures are not ſeldom upon the futures; and that the futures have not alwayes one and their naturall fite;as alſo it often comes to paſs that the broken cleft, or cut bone can neither be perceived by yout fight,nor inſtru inent wherefore if you think there is any ſuch thing by thcrationallfigns above mentioned;anoint the place with writing ink, and oyl, .#. you ſhall find the crack or cliſt; by the means we ſhall ſhew you hereafter. . . fi : , "t . . . . . j : " ' . when you are certain of the fraćture,then you muſt diligently conſider the greatneſs of the diſeaſe,and apply medicines ſpeedily. verily when a fraćture chances to light upon any future,the diſeaſe is hard to be known unleſs the fraćture be very great, becauſe the ſutures by their clifts and roughneſs reſemble fraćtures; wherefore hippocrates ſaith that he was de- ceived by thein.now havingbriefly delivered the differences and ſigns of a broken skull, it is time to come to the ſeverall kinds thereof;with a fiſſure. * - º ~ -- – — + ... . . . * . . º . . . chap. i i i i. s "...' of a fiſure,being the firſt kind of a brºken skull. - gº fº the chirurgeon by the forementioned ſigns ſhall know that the skull is bro- §º fºsſiken;or crackt, and if the wound made in the muſculous skin ſhall not be - ... thought ſufficient for ordering the fiſſure, then muſt he ſhave off the hair, and $ºj tº 'cut with a razour, or inciſion knife, the muſculous skin with the pericranium * lying underit,in a triangular of quadrangular figure to a proportionable big- neſs;alwayes ſhunning as uſuch as in him lyes,the ſutures and temples; neither muſt he fºr any harm to enſue hereof; for it is far better to bare the bone by cutting the skin, then to fuffer the kind & nature of the fraćture to remain unknown, y a too religious preſervation of the skin; forthe skin is cured without any great adosthough plucktoff to no purpoſe. 'foritis much more ºr. (in hippocrates opinion)to cure diſeaſes ſafely and ſecure. ly,though not ſpeedily, than to do it in a ſhorter time with fear of relapſe and greater in- conveniencies, }. this diſſºtion be made with a razour.or ſharp knife and if there beany wound made in the skin by the weapon, let one of your inciſions be made agreeable thereto. . . . . . . . . . . . . a razour, or inciſion knife. º, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . * † . . . . . . . . . . . . . r" ' ' ' . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .'; º - .. cº, j - hippºcratc. and guidoes, conjećturall ſigns of a bro! ken skull, senſible ſigni of a broken skull before the dividingol the skin. - lib. de vulner; cape nº ºr ... ." what a probe muſt be uſed in ſearching ſcr fraćture. lib. epid. in autºnomus of, omilum hipps. crates was de- ceived by the ſutures. . ) : "... º. . . - - - - - upon what . occaſion the hairy ſcalpe, muff becutº: , * * * * . . . . . . celſiu, hippocratel; j + -- io; ofthe greene and bloody lib, --~ --- the manner how to pull º the hairy ſcalp from the bro- ken skull. - * - -- - - - … ...": *- : the manner to bind a veſ- ſell in caſe of too much bleeding. * hiſtory, now therefore the muſculous skin together with the pericranium muſt be divided and cut with a ſharpe razour preſſed and guided with a ſtrong and ſteddy hand;then it muſtbe ſo luckt from the bone,or skull lying under it,that nonethereof remain upon the bone; for if itſhould be rent or torn with the trepan,it would cauſe vehement pain with inflamma- tions. you muſtbegin to pull it back at the corners of the lines croſſing each other with right angles, with this chiſſell whoſe figure you ſee here expreſſed. - a cliſt or inſtrument to pull back ºr or ſtart: the pericranium from the skull. *(·(, then you muſt fill all the wound with boulſters offine ſoft lint, that ſo the lips "maybe kept further a ſunder. but you ſhall apply upon it medicines fit to ſtanch blood. but if it come ſo to paſs that the blood flows forth ſo violently,that it can be ſtayed by no means, the veſſell itſelf muſt be bound, after this manner. firſt thruſt through the muſculous skin on the outſide with a needle and thred, then thruſt the needleback again; then tye the thred ºn a knot on the outſide, but firſt put ſome lintrolled up to the bigneſs of a gooſe quill between the thred and the hairy ſcalp on both fides thereof, leaſt the ſtrait twitching of of the thred which may ſerve to ſtay the bleeding, may cut and tear the skin, or cauſe pain: then muſt you raiſe his head ſomewhat her. his have lately tried,and performed this upon a certain coach-man,who thrown from the coach upon his head on a pavement of free ſtone, exceedingly bruiſed the hind part of the bregma, for which cauſe it was fit to open the muſculous skin, with a croſs inciſion, both w • * ". : : - away to find tafraćture in the skull, when it pre- ſents not it ſelf to the view at the firſt, a fign that both the tae bles are bro- kch, the blood and sanies may paſs and be drawn forth, left that matter $foumayuſe the trepan ºfter the tenth §ays that the congealed blood might be º: out, as alſo that the frature (if there were any) might be obſerved. but an artery being cut in performance hereof, when as the chirur. geon who was there preſent could not ſtay the blood leaping out with violence; and the coachman already had loſt ſo great a quantity thereof, that his ſtrength was ſo much de- cayed,that he could not ſtir himſelfin his bed, or ſcarſe ſpeak: ibeing called,ſhewed them by experience, that whereas aſtringent medicines wereuſed before to no purpoſe,it was bet- terto ſtay the bleeding by binding the veſſell,than to let the patient dye for a childiſh ſean of pricking him. * * * * ~s - but that we may return to our formermatter,the chirurgeon ſhall the next day conſider with what kind of fraćture the bone is hurt; and ifno ſigns of hurt appear to the eyes, nor be perceived with your fingers and probe, yet ſome of the rationall ſigns may cauſe one to have a conjećture that there is a fraëure: then you muſt anoint as we told you before,the bared donewith writing ink, and a little oyl of roſes; that the cleft or crack may be dyed or coloured therewith, if that therebe any there. then the next dreſſing you muſt dry the bone with a linnen cloth,and ſcrape off the ink, and oyl, with ſcraping inſtruments made for the oſe, if any part thereofſhall be ſunk into the bone; for if there be any crack, it will be black; wherefore you muſt continue ſcraping untill no fign of the fiſſure re- main, or elſe untill you come even to the dura mater. but that he may be more certain whether the fiſſure pierce through both the tables of the skull,he muſt bid the patient,that {topping his noſe and mouth.he ſtrive to breath with a great indeavour. for then bloody matter or ſanies will ſweat through the fiſſure: for º driven forth of the clieſt,and prohibited paſſage forth, ſwells and lifts up the ſubſtance of the brain,and the meninges, whereupon that frothy humidity and sanies ſweats forth. therefore then the bone muſt be cut even to the dura mater,with radula and other ſcraping inſtruments,fit for that purpoſe, yet ſo as you hurt not the membrane; but if the fiſſure ſhall be ſomewhat long, it will not be convenient to follow it all the extent thereof: for nature will repair and reſtore the remnant of the fiflure, by generating a callus; beſides alſo the chirurgeon according to celſus opinion muſt take . little of the bone as he can, becauſeihars: is nothing ſo fit to cover the brain, as the s ng ſuppreſſ: may corrupt the bone, and cauſe, an inflammation in the brain. but the broken bone muſt be taken forth within three dayes if it be poſſible, eſpecially in summer, for fear of inflammation. yet i have often taken forth with a trepan and with the bones of the skull, after the ſeventeenth day, both in winter and summer; and that with happy ſucceſs. which h, have the rather noted, left any ſhould at any time, ſuffer the wounded to be left deſtitute of remedy: for it is better to try a doubt- full remedy than none : yet the by-ſtanders—ſhall be admeniſhed and told of the danger, for many more dye who have not the broken bones of th; skull taken out, than thoſe thathaye, w. - . . * . - but ull. therefore it ſhall ſuffice to make a tº .# l ib. io. - *-* - wom, of each pin. —- but the inſtruments,with which the wounded or cleft bones may be cus out are cañºſ scalºri or radule.of which i have cauſed divers ſorts to be here decyphered, that every one might take his choice,according to his mind,and as ſhall be beſt for his purpoſe.but tof them may be ſcrued into one handle,the figure whereof i have exhibitcd. radula or scalpri,(i) shavers or scrapers. - ~ | :| i | &_az to conclude when the skull ſhall be wounded orbroken with a ſimple fiſſure,the chir- urgeon muſt think he hath done ſufficient to the patient, and in his art,if he ſhall divide the bone and dilate the fiſſure or cleft with the deſcribed inſtruments, though he have uſed no trepan,although the fiſſure pierce through both the tables. but if it doth not exceed the firſt table you muſt ſtay your ſcrapers as ſoon as you come to the ſecond, according to the opinion of paulue:but if the bone ſhal be broken & ſhivered into many peects,they ſhall be taken forth with fit inſtruments,uſing alſo aſſrepan if ficed ſhall require after the ſame manner as we ſhallſhew you hereafter. " - - - chap. v. of a contuſion, which is the ſecond ſort ºf frailure. n ecchymoſis,that is,effuſion of blood, preſently concreting under the muſculous skin,without any wound,is oft cauſed by a violent contuſion. this contuſion | if it ſhall be great,ſo that the skin be divided from the skull,it is expedient,that - you may make an inciſion,whereby the blood maybe cvacuated and emptica.for in this caſe you muſt wholly deſiſt from ſuppurative medicifies(which otherwiſe would be ofgood uſe in a fleſhy part)by feaſon that all the moiſt things are hurtfull to the bones.as ſhall be ſhown hereafter. . tº . . . . . . . . . . such like contuſions more frequently happen in children,being eaſily perceived by the ſoftneſs,and inundation of the contuſed part: forth of which oft-times when have open- ed them with my inciſion j and blackiſh blood hath iſſued. the reſidue of the cure is perfeóted by moderate compreſſion ofthe part,and drying medicines. more- over the skul of a child,may be preſſed down,by a great contuſion even as we ſee it happens in thin veſſels ofbraſs, lead,or pewter,for oft-times by the preſſure of your finger, they are ſo dented in,that the print thereof remains; yet ſometimes they fly back of themſelves,and ildren wonien and ſuch as are ſoft,humid,&phſegmatick. but if the bones do not ſpring back of themſelves, you muſt apply acupping-glaſs with a great flame; withall command the patient,to force his breath up as powerfully as he can, keeping his mouth and noſe - - - a . - cloſe it is ſtifficient in a ſimple fiſ- ſure to dilate it with your scalpri only and not to . trepan it, what an Ét. dynoſis is, how a contu. fion of the skii! muſt be cured, different cures of a depreſſed skull. - § acquire their former plainneſs and equability, which alſo happens in the bones of c - - of green and bloody l i b.io. cloſeſhut; for thus there will be hope, to reſtore the depreſſed bone to its place, by the ſpi- - rits forc’d upwards to the brain and skull,by the powerfull at- tračtion of the cupping-glaſs. but if ſo be that the bone can- not by this means be reſtored, then you muſt make an inciſion in the skin, and faſten ſuch a trepan, as you ſee here delineated, into the depreſt,or ſetled part of the bone,and ſo pull it dire&ly upwards, juſt as we ſee coopers raiſe the ſtaves of their cask, when they are ſunk too i in." ' * but if the bone ſhall be too ſtrong, thick,and denſe, ſo that this inſtrument will not ſerve to pluck it forth; then you muſt perforate the skull, in the very center of the depreſſion, and with this threefold inſtrument, or lºvatory put into the hole, lift up and reſtore the bone to its naturall ſite; for this ſame inſtrument is of ſtrength ſufficient; for that f. it is made with three feet, that ſo it may be applyed f to any part of the head which is round; but divers heads may be fitted to the end thereofaccording as the buſineſs ſhall require, as the figure here placed doth ſhew. . ; ; : - - a three footed levatory. but if at any time it comes to paſs,that the bone is not totally broken or depreſt,but on- ly on one fidésit will befit ſo to lift it up as alſº to make a vent for the iſſuing out of the filth, to divide the skul with little ſaws like theſe which yet ſcºhere cypreſſed; for thus ſo much of the bone,as ſhall be thought needfull,may be cut off without compreſſion, neither will there be any danger of hurting the brain or membrane with the broken bone. the figures of saws fit to divide the skul. but lin. io. wonnds of each part. - but if by ſuch ſigns as are preſent,and ſhall appear, we perceive or judg that the contufi- on goes but to the ſecond table,or ſcarſe ſo far;the baring or taking away of the bone, muſt go no further than the contuſion reaches;for that will be ſufficient to eſchew and di. yert inflammations and divers other ſymptomes. and this ſhall be done with a ſcaling or e. trepan,(as they termit) with which you may eaſily take up as much of the bone,as you ſhall think expedient: and i have here given you the figure thereof. adeſquanatory or scaling trepan. - a a: shews the foint or tongue of the levatory, which muft be ſomewhat dull;that ſo it may be the more gently, and ea- fly put betwe nthe dura mater and the skull,and this part thereaf may be lifted up ſo much by the head or handle taken in your hand, is the neceſſity of the preſent operation ſhall require. b. jºr the body of the levatory, which muſt be four ſquare, left the point ortongue put thereon ſhould not ſtand faſt, but the end of this body muſt reſt upon the ſound bone, as on aſure foundation. - the uſe thereof it, thus; put the point or tongue under the broken or depreſſed bone,then lift the handle ap with your hand, that ſo the depreſſed bone may be elevated. . . c. shews the firſt arm of the other levatory, whoſe crooked a end muſt begently put under the depreſſed bone. * --- d. shews the other arm, which muſt reſt on the º: bone, § --- that by the firm ſtanding thereof, it may lift up the depreſſed \º bone. - w * - - - .. * - - * ---- cha p. w i. - of an effračiure, depreſſion of the bone, being the third kind of fračiure. efore i come to ſpeak of an effračture, i think it uot amiſs to crave pardon of the curteous º underſtanding reader, for this reaſon eſpecially, that as in the former chapter, when i had determined and appointed to ſpeak of a } contuſion,i inſerted many things of a depreſſion;ſo alſo in this chapter of an effračture, i intend to intermixe ſomething of a contuſion; we do not this through any ignorance of the thing it ſelf; for wee know that it is called a con- tuſion, when the bone is depreſt and cruſht, but falls not down. but an effračture is when the bone falls down and is broken by a moſt violent blow. but it can ſcarſe come to paſs, but that the things themſelves muſt be confounded and mixt, both as they are done; and alſo when they are ſpoken of: ſo that you ſhall ſcarſe ſee a contuſion without an effraćture, or this without that. therefore the bones are often broken off and driven down with great and forcible blows,with clubs whether round or ſquare, or by falling from a high place dire&ly down, more or leſſe according to the force of the blow.kind of weapon, and condition of the part receiving the ſame : wherefore you muſt be provided with diverſity of remedies and inſtruments to cncounter therewith.wherefore admit the bone is preſſed down,and ſhivered into many pieces, now for that theſe ſplinters necd not be taken out with a trepan, you may do the buſineſs with levatorics made and neatly faſhioned for that purpoſe; ſuch as theſe, which are here expreſt. a a a nns-$º ºf sº- s what a contu, fion is, what an efe facture is." the cauſe of effºatures. the are - aſo - of green and flº - l i b. o a levatorie. but we muſt have ſpeciall care, leſt that in pulling and taking out of theſe ſcales and ſplinters,we hurt the membranes. theſe ſcales are ſometimes very rough and prickly, ſo - that they cannot touch the meninges without offence;but ſomewhiles the buſineſs is ſo in- tricate, that they cannot be taken out unleſs by enlarging the fraćture. wherefore in this caſe, if there be a ſpace ſo large, as that the ends of theſe mullets may enter, you may eaſily ſhear off ſo much of the bone as ſhal be neceſſary and requiſite for the taking away of theſe {cales, without any aſſiſtance of the trepan,which i have done very often and with good ſucceſs;for the operation performed by theſe mullets is far more ſpeedy and ſafe, than that with the trepan;and in the performance ofevery operation, the chief commendation is given to ſafeneſs and celerity. cutting mullets, commonly called roſtra pſittaci, or parrots beak. e --- || moreover i have thought good here to give you the figures of chiffels,ſcrapers, pincers, together with a leaden mallet,becauſe ſuch inſtruments are not only very neceſſary to take forth the ſcales of bones which are broken, but alſo to plain and ſmooth thoſe which re- main whole. the figures of sº pincers,a leaden mallet, &c. - - uthere you muſt note,that a trepan,nor levato- rie-muſt never be applyed to a bone quite broken, leſt the membranes lying under it be hurt by the com- preſſion thereof. therefore you muſt apply them to a ſound bone,but as neer as you can to the fraćture, ſo that you take away as little of the skull as is poſſible, left the brain deſpoiled of its bony cover, º: ſome harm thereby. neither cffraćtures, nor yet fiſſures, if they be of ſome length , muſt be followed to their ends, but think your ſelf well,if you have made a paſ- ſage for the iſſuing forth of the sanies or filth,& have drawn forth that bone,which pricked the membranes. for nature is accuſtomed by generating a cahus to ſoulder, or unite the bones of the skul,as it alſo doth theſeof the other parts;as we have read it written by hippocrates and galen;for which purpoſe it hath by ſingular providence repleniſhed both the tables of the skull, with a certain alimentary and bloody matter, that with this as with marrow it might repair the loſs and defečt of the bone, . the hip.lib.de vuln" esp.gal-lib . meth.cap, ult. ºº _________------——---------—— -- - li.io. ound of each part. the truth hereof was lately manifeſted in the ſervant of maſter grolo, who had an effra- &ure on the coronall bone,by a grievous blow,given him with the foot of a mule which when funderſtood, i divided the muſculous skin with a three cornered ſection in that place, with an intent to apply a trepan there; wherefore the day following, the bone being bo- red,and when i thought to draw it forth, yeaverily endeavoured to pluck it forth, being already divided with the trepan, i perceived afearefull produćtion of an effračture; by the moveableneſs of the bone ſhaking under my hand; for it reached from the midſt of the forehead,to the leſſer corner f the eye. wherefore omitting both my determination and endeavour to pull it forth, i thought i ſhould do ſufficiently for the patient,if i ſhould on- ly raiſe up thebone which was &preſſor ſo it did not trouble the craſſa meninx by preſ- ing jº the matter,and filth, were let forth by a paſſagenade with a ſaw.so that in con- cluſion he recovered perfeótly,but that he loſt one of his eyes which was adjoyning to the fraćture. c. h. a. p. vii. of a scat,being the fourth kind of a broken scull. reſpocrates calls a seat that kind of fra(ture of the ſcull, when the weapon ſo falls §ſºlº upon the ſcull,that the fraćture retaining the print thereof,is neither ſtretched - ÉÉ forth any further, nor contraćted to any leſſe ſpace. tº and ſeeing there be many forms hereof they all whether they ſhall be ſuper- *ficiary,or ſhall pierce even to the diploe,or elſe paſs through both the tables, whether it be with any loſs of the bony ſubſtance,whether it run long wayes, or elſe be but ſhort; or otherwife are dilated to ſome breadth,or elſe be but narrow ; whether they ſhall be done with a cut,or with a prick with adagger, ſtyletto, lance or other kind of weapon, whether they ſhall have this or that accident joined with them, ſay all of them, how ma- ny and various ſoever they be, ought and muſt be cured by ſome of the formerly deſcribed inſtruments and means. yet this muſt be noted, which as yet we have not remembred, that if it happen by a violent ſtroak,& great wound,that a portion of the bone is wholly ſo cut off, that it is clean ſevered from the reſt of the ſcull, and hang only by the pericranium and muſculous skin;yetyou muſt not pluck it from the pericranium, and caſt it away as unpro- fitable, but reſtore it to its proper ſeat and place, ſo by the force of nature,to be glewed by a callus,as celſus hath obſerved. i have tryed the truth of this experiment,in captain hydron, not very long agoe.he had the middle part of the : coronale, of the bredth, and length of three fingers, ſo cut with a ſharpſword,that it ſtuck not to the reſt of the bone;but ſcarſe adhering to the pericranium and muſculous skin;but lay turned down over his face, ſo that the dura mater was plainly ſeen;wherefore i prepared to pluck it from the skin, and caſt it away,but that i remembred hippocrates precept,where he bids,that the brain ſhould not be robbed of its cover and left bare. wherefore firſt of all i wiped away the blood which was fallen upon the dara mater, whoſe motion you might plainly ſee, then i reſtored the portion of the bone to its place, and faſtned it on the upper ſide with a ſuture conſiſting of three ſtitches; and that the refi- due of the matter might have paſſage forth, i filled the places between each ſtitch with lint, by this means,he . the mercie of god recovered,though at the ſame time he received many other large wounds in his body; which is a certain experiment, that we muſt caſt away no part of the ſcull,nor of the pericranium,no not of the muſculous skin, unleſs neceſſity urge; therefore much leſs to leave the brain naked and deſpoiled of its coverings. c. h. a. p. viii. ofa reſonitus,or counter-fiſſure, being the fifth kind of fračiure. º:ometimes the fraćture is made in the part oppoſite to that which received the *\sºft blow;as if the right ſide be ſtruck, the left is cloven; this kind of fraćture is very dangerous,becauſe we cannot find it out by any certain fign, as it is written by * hippocrates lib.de vuln.capiti. wherefore if at any time the patient dye of ſuch a fraćture,the chirurgeon muſt be pardoned. and although paulus agineta laugh at this kind of fraćture and thinks that it cannot happen to a mans head,as that which is hard and full,as it happens in empty glaſs bottles, yet ibave ſometimes ſeen and obſerved it. neitheris their reaſon of any validity,who think nature therefore to haveframed the head of many bones knit together by ſutures,leſt the fraćture of the one fide,ſhould be ſtretch- cd to the other. forpºradventure this may take place.in ſuch as have expreſs ſutures,ſeated and framed according to mature. but it takes no place in ſuch as either want them, or have them not ſeated according to nature, or have them very cloſe and ſo defaced that it may ſeem one bone growne together of many;this ſhall be made manifeſt by recitall of the fol- lowing hiſtorie. - - - - - - a ſervant of maſu, the poſt-maſter had a gricvous blow with a ſtone, upon the right bregma, a hiſt ory, what aseatit; thécure; lib. , cap. . a hiſłoty. - what a roeſs. nitus is, . lib. , cap . in whom this fraðure may take place in divers bones of the ſculls a hiſtory, of the greene and bloody lib, io. ſe a reſºmituſ, *– -- –----- bregma,which made but a ſmall wound,yet a great contuſion and tumor. wherefore that it might more plainly appear,whether the bone had received any harme, and alſo that the congealed blood . preſſed forth,the wound was dilated, the skin being opened by theodore hereu,the chirurgeon, who as he was a skilfull workman and an honeſt man,omit- ted nothing which art might do for his cure. when he had divided the skin, the bone was found whole,although it was much to be feared,that it was broken, becauſe he fell preſent- ly to the ground with the blow, vomited and ſhewed other ſignes of a fačtured ſcull ; ſo it happened that he dyed on the one and twentieth day of his ſicknes. but i being called to learn,and ſearch how he came by his death,dividing the ſcul with a ſaw,found in the part oppoſite to the blow,a great quantity of sanies or bloody matter, and an abſceſs in the criſſameninx, and alſo in the ſubſtance of the very brain, but no ſutures, but the two ſcaly ones. therefore that is certain which is now confirmed by the authority of hippocrates; as alſo by reaſon and experience,that a blow may be received on the one ſide, and the bone may be fraćtured on the oppoſite, eſpecially in ſuch as have either no ſutures,or elſe ſo firm- ly united and cloſed,that they are ſcarſe apparent. - the reſoninus neither is it abſurd,that the part, oppoſite to that which received the ſtroak, f the ſame may be in the bone and not of divers boncs may be cloven,and in thoſe men who have their ſculs well *ºne of , made,and naturally diſtinguiſhed and compoſed with ſutures; and this both was, and is, ** the true meaning of himºre. that this may be the better underſtood we muffmote that the oppoſite part of the ſame bone maybe ii. two manner of wayes. firſt, when the fraćture is in the ſame ſurface of the ſmitten bone,as if that part of one of the bones of the bregma which is next to the lambdall ſuture be ſmitten, and the other part next to the coronall ſuture be cloven.secondly, when as not the ſame ſuperficies and table which re- ceives the blow, ut that which lyes under it is cleft, which kind of fraćture i obſerved, ‘in a certain gentleman a horſman of captain stempany troop hein defending the breach ofthewall of the caſtle of hiſdin was ſtruck with a musket bullet upon the bregma,but had his helmet on his head; the bullet dented in the helmet but did not break it, no nor the muſculous skin,nor ſcull,for as much as could be diſcerned,yet notwithſtanding he dicda- poplećtick upon the ſixt day after. but ibeing very deſirous to know,what might be the true cauſe of his death,dividing his fºull;obſerved that the ſecond table was broken, and caftoff ſcales and ſplinters, where- with as with needles the ſubſtance of the brain was continually pricked, the firſt and upper table being whole, for all this: afterwards ſhewed the like example to capellanus and Ča- ſtellanus the king and queens chief phyſtians in the expedition of roane. whyhippserai . but hippocrates preſcribes no method of curing this fifth kind of fraćture, by reaſon he * ſetdowne thinks it cannot be found out by any circumſtance, whence it happens that it is for the ºcure moſt part deadly : yet muſt we endeavour to have ſome knowledg and conjećture of ſuch a fraćture,if it ſhallatany time happen. wherefore having firſt diligently ſhaven away the the manner haire, we muſt apply an emplaiſter of pitch, tar, wax, turpentine, the powder of iri,or *know when flower deluce roots,and maſtich;now if any place of the head ſhall appeare more moiſt,ſoft *:::: * fia: and ſwoln, it is ſomewhat likely that the bone is cleft in that place, ſo that the patient, *. d though thinking of no ſuch thing,is now and then forcd to put his hand to that part ofthe - o ſcull. confirmed with theſe and other ſigns formerly mentioned, let him call a counſell of learned phyſitians;and foretell the danger to the patients friends which are there preſent, that there may no occaſion of calumnic remain,then let himboldly perforate the ſcull; for that is far better,than forſake the patient ready toyeeld to the greatneſs of the hidden diſ- eaſt, and ſo conſequently to dye within a ſhort while after.there are fourt ſorts, or condi- £ions of fraćtures,by which the chirurgeon may be ſo deceived,that when the ſcull is bro- * ken indecd, yet hé may think there is no fračure. the firſt is when the bone is ſo depreſſed, that it preiently riſes up into its true place, and native equability. the ſecond is when the fiſſure is only capillary. the third is when the bone is ſhaken on the inſide, the utter ſur- face neverthéleſs remaining whole, foraſmuch as can be diſcerned. the fourth is, when the bone is ſtricken on the one ſide and cleft on the other. " . a hiſtory, c h a p. ix. of the moving,or concuſſion,ºf the brain. #efides thementioned kinds of fraćtures by which the brain alſo ſuffers; there is gal.lib. .d - tº - - * - - - comp. i. º: § another kind of affe&t beſides nature,which alſo affailes it by the yiolent il cullº- ºf; & com, tº fion of a cauſe,inlike manner,externall; they call it the commotion or ſhaking f# . -- of the brain,whence symptomes like thoſe of a broken ſcull enſue. falling from aloftupon a ſolid and hard body,dull and . blows,as with ſtones clubs, ſtaves,the re- port of a peece of ordnance, or crack of thunder,and alſo a blow with ones hand. lik . epidem. thus as hippocrates tells,that beautifull damoſell the daughter of nerius, when ſhe was twenty yeeres old,was ſmitten by a woman,afriend of hers, playing with her,with her flat hand upon the fore part of the had and then ſhe was taken with a giddines, and lay with- out breathing,and when ſhe came home, ſhe fell preſently into a great feaver, her head - aked, l s.io. wounds of each part.” * ~ aked, and her face grew red.the ſeventh day after there came forth ſome two or three ounces of ſtinking and bloody matter about her right eare, and ſhe ſeemed ſomewhat betttrand to be at ſomewhat more eaſe. the feaver encreaſed again,and ſhe fell into a hea- vy ſleepineſs,and loſt her ſpeech,and the rightſide of her face was drawn up,and ſhe breath- cá with difficulty,ſhe had alſo a convulſion and trembling;both her tongue failed her,and her eyes grew dull,on the ninth day ſhe died...but you muſt note, that though the head be armed with a helmet, yet by the violence of a blow,the veines,and arteries may be broken, not only theſe which .# through the ſutures, but alſo thoſe which are diſperſed be- tween the two tables in the diploe, both that they might bind the craſſa menix to the skull, that ſo the brain might move more freely, as alſo that they might carry the alimen- tary juyce to the brain wanting marrow,that is, blood to nouriſh it, as we have formerly ſhewed in our anatomie. - - - - - but from hence proceeds the efflux of blood running between the skull, and membranes, or elſe between the membranes and brain ; the blood congealing there, cauſeth vehement pain,and the eyes becomeblind, vomiting is cauſed,the mouth of the ſtomach ſuffering to- ether with the brain, by reaſon of the nerves of the fixt conjugation, which run from the É. thither,and from thence are ſpread over all the capacity of the ventricle; whence be- coming a partaker of the offence it contraćts it ſelf,and is preſently as it were overturned; the veſſels of the brain bid. ken by the commotion thereof. signes. celſia. the cauſe of whence firſt, theſe things that are contained therein are expelled, and thcn ſuch as may vomiting flow, or come thither from the neighbouring and conmon i. as the liver and gall; from all which choler, by reaſon of its naturall levity and velocity, is firſt expelled and that in greateſt plenty ; and this is the true reaſon of that vomiting, which is cauſed and aſually followes upon fraćtures of the skull and concuſſions of the brain. .. within a ſhort while after inflammation ſeizes upon the membranes and brain it ſelf, which is cauſed by corrupt and putrid blood proceeding from the veſſels, broken by the violence of the blow, and ſo § over the ſubſtance of the brain. such inflammation communicated to the heart, and whole body by the continuation of the parts, cauſes a feaver. but a feaver, by altering the brain cauſes doting; to which if ſtupidity ſuc- ceed, the patient is in very ill caſe,according to that of hippocrater stupidity,and doting, areii in a wound, or blow upon the head. but if to theſe evills, a ſphacell, and corrupti- on of the brain enſue, togethe, with a great difficulty of breathing, by reaſon of the di- ſturbance of the animall faculty,which from the brain imparts the power of moving to the muſcles of the cheſt, the inſtruments of reſpiration, then death muſt neceſſarily follow. a greatpart of theſe accidents appeared in king henry of happy memory,a little before he dyed. he having ſet in order the affaires of france, and entred into amitie with the neighbouring princes, deſirous to honour the º of his daughter,andfiſter, with the famous and 'noble exerciſe of tilting, and he himſelf running in the tilt-yard, with a blunt lance received ſo great a ſtroak upon his breſt, that with the violence of the blow, the viſour of his helmet flew up,and the trunchion of the broken lance hit him above the left eye-brow,and the muſculous skin of the forehead was torn even to the leſſer corner of the left eye, many ſplinters of the ſame; trunchion º: ſtruck into the ſubſtance of the fore mentioned eye the bones being not touched or broken ; but the brain was fo moved andſhaken, that he dyed the eleaventh day after the hurt. his skull being opened after his death,there was a great deal of blood found between the dura,and pia mater, poured forth in the part oppoſite to the blow,at the middle of the ſuture of the hind part of the head; & there appeared ſigns by the native colour turned yellow, that the ſubſtance of the brain was corrupted,as much as one might cover with , ones thumb. which things cauſed the death of the moſt chriſtian king, and not only the wounding of the eye, as many have falſly thought.for we have ſeen many others, who have not dyed of farremore grievous wounds in the eye. - - the hiſtory of the lord saint iohns is of late memory:he in the tilt-yard, made for that time before the duke of guiſes houſe, was wounded with a ſplinter of a broken lance, of a fingers length and thickneſſe,through the viſour of his helmet,it entring into the orbe under the eye,and piercing ſome three fingersbredth deep into the head |by my help and gods favour he recovered, waleranu, and duretu, the kings phyſitians and fame; the kings chirurgeon aſſiſting me. - - - what ſhall i ſay of that great and very memorable wound of francis of loraine the duke ofcuiſe? he in the fight of the city of bolºgne had his head ſo thruſt through with a lance, that the point entring under his right eye . his noſe,came out at his neck between his ear and the vertebre,the head or iron being broken and left in by the violence of the ſtroak, when the head is wounded. aph, jeff. ; a hiſtory what was the neceſſary cauſe of the death of king henry the ſcoond of france, - a hiſtory; hiſtory which ſtuck there ſo firmly,that it could not be drawn or plucked forth, without a pair of ſmiths pincers.but although the ſtrength and violence of the blow was ſo great, that it could not be without a fraćture of the bones,a tearing and breaking of the nº. - arteries and other parts;yet the generous prince by the favour of god recovered. by which you may learn,thatmany dye of ſmall wounds; and other recover of great, yeavery large and deſperate ones. the cauſe of which events ischiefly and primarily to be attributed to god, the author and preſerver of mankind; but ſecondarily to the - variety why ſome dis of ſmall wounds and c- thers recºver of gºtº, ------------ -- ------ - hip, de whl.cap, whether the wounds of children,or old pcople are bet, itr to heal. pb, ſº, i. aphor, . ſº. , aph, ,ſº .] wounds which are dry rough, livid and black are evilſ, the ſigns of a a feaver cauſed by an eryſipelis. of the greene and bloody lib.io. - - - variety and condition of temperaments.and thus much of the commotion or concuſſion of the brain;whereby it happens that although all the bone remains perfeótly whole, yet ſome veins j. by the ſtroak,may caſt forth ſome blood upon the membranes of the brain, which being there concrete may cauſe great pain,by reaſon whereofit blinds the eys; if ſo be that the place can be found againſt which the pain is,and when the skin is opened, the bone look pale,it muſt preſently be cut out,as celia hath written. now it remains that we tell you how to make your prognoſticks,in all the forementioned fračtures of the skul. c h a p. x. of prºſofticks to be made, in frađures ºfthe ſkull. ... emuſt not negled any wounds in the head, no not theſe which cut or bruiſe but § º only the hairly ſcalp; but certainly much leſs,theſe which are accompanied by a Č. º fra‘ture in the skull;for oft-times all horrid ſymptomes follow upon them, and * conſequently death it ſelf.eſpecially in bodies ful of ill humors,or of an ill habit, ſuch as are theſe which are aficéted with the lues venerea,leproſe,dropſie, pthifick, conſum- tion,for in theſe, ſimplewounds are hardly or never cured for union is the cure of wounds, i. is not performed, unleſs by the ſtrength of nature, and ſufficient ſtore of laudable blood: but thoſe which are ſick of he&tick feavers and conſumptions, want ſtore of blood, and thoſe bodies which are replcat with ill humors, and of an ill habit,have no afflux or plenty of laudable blood; but all of them want the ſtrength of nature,the reaſon is almoſt the ſame in thoſe alſo which are lately recovercă of ſome diſeaſe. - thoſe wounds which are bruiſed are more difficult to cure, than thoſe which are cut, when the skull is broken, then the continuity of the fleſhlying overit muſt neceſſarily be hurt and broken, unleſs it be in a rejonitus. the bones of children are more ſoft, thin, and repleniſhed with a ſanguine humidity,than thoſe of old men, and therefore more ſubjećt to putrefaction . wherefore the wounds which happen to the bones of children, though of themſelves,and their own nature they may be more eaſily healed,(becauſe they are more ſoft, whereby it comes to paſs, that they may be more § agglutinated, neither is there fit matter wanting for their agglutination by reaſon of the plenty of blood laudable both in conſiſtence and quality) than in old men,whoſe bones are dryer and harder, and ſo reſiſt union,which comes by mixture,and their blood is ſerous, and conſequently a more unfit bond of unity and agglutination; yet oft-times through occaſion of the ſymptomes which follow upon j is, putrefačtion and corruption, which ſooner ariſe in a hot and moiſt §. and are more ſpeedily encreaſed in a ſoft and tender, they uſually are more ſuſpe&ted and difficult to heal. the patient lives longer of a deadly fraćture in the skull,in winter than in summer,for that the native heat is more vigorous in that time than in this; beſides,alſo the humors pu- trefie ſooner in summer,becauſe unnaturall heat is then eaſily inflamed and more predomi- nant,as many have obſerved out of hippocrates. - the wounds of the brain and of the meninges or membranes thereof are moſt commonly deadly, becauſe the aëtion of the muſcles of the cheſt,and others ſerving for reſpiration, is divers times diſturbed and intercepted,whence death inſucs. if a ſwelling happening upon a wound of the head preſently vaniſh away.it is an ill ſign,unleſs there be ſome good reaſon therefore,as blood-lºtting purging, or the uſe of reſolving locall medicines, as may bega- thered by hippocrates in his §. if a feaver inſue preſently after the beginning of a wound of the head, that is, upon the fourth or ſeventh day, which uſually happens, you muſt judgit to be occaſioned by the generating of pus or matter, as it is recited by hippo- crates. neither is ſuch a feaver ſo much to be feared,as that which happens after the ſeventh day.in which time it ought to be terminated,but if it happen upon the tenth or fourteenth gay with cold or ſhaking,it is dangerous,becauſe it makes us conjećture that there is putre- fačtion in the brain,the menings,or skul,through which occaſion it may ariſe,chiefly if other ſigns ſhall alſo coneur,which may ſhew any putrefaātion,as if the wound ſhall be pallid and of a faint yellowiſh colour, as fleſh looks aſter it is waſhed. - - - - for as it is in hippocrate: aphoriſ. .ſtd. . it is an ill ſign if the fleſh look livid,when the bone is affe&ted; for that colour portends the extinction of the heat, through which oc- cafion,the lively,or indifferently red colour of the part,faints and dyes,and the fleſh there- about is diſſolved into a viſcid pu, or filth. - commonly another worſe affe&t follows hereon, whercin the wound becoming wither- cd and dry,looks like ſalted fleſh, ſends forth no matter,is livid and black,whence you may conjećture,that the bone is corrupted,eſpecially if it become rough,whereas it was formcrº. ly ſmooth and plain; for it is made rough when caries or corruption invades it; but as the Çaries increaſes, it becomes livid and black,ſanious matter with all ſweating out of the di- * i have obſerved in many: all which are ſigns that the native heat is decayed, and therefore death at hand, but if ſuch a feaver be occaſioned from an eryſpelu, which is either prºnt or at hand,it is uſually leſs terrible. but you ſhall know by theſe ſigns,that the fea- *** cauſed by an eryſipela and conflux of cholerick matter; if it keep the form of a ter- - tian * lis.io. º- *~s. w.ounds ofeach part. \ * tian,if the fit take them with coldneſs and end in a ſweat; if it be not terminated before the cholerick matteriscither converted into pu, or elſe reſolved;if the lips of the wound be ſomewhatſowin,as alſo all the face; if the eyes be red and fiery; if the neck and chaps beſo #iffe,that he can ſcarſe bend the one,or open the other;if there begreat exceſs ofbiting and pricking pain,and heat, and that far greater than in a phlegmon. for ſuch an eryſipelous diſ- poſition generated of thin and hot blood,chiefly affails the face,and that for two cauſes. . the firſt is by reaſon of the naturall levity of the cholerick humor;the other becauſe of the rarity of the skin of theſe parts. - - . the cure of ſuch an affect muſt be performed by two means,that is, evacuation;and cool- ing with humectation. if choler alone, cauſe this tumor, we muſt eaſily be induced to let blood,but we muſt purge him with medicines evacuating choler. if it be an eryſipela, phlºg- monodes,youmuſt draw blood from the cephalick vein of that ſide, which is moſt affečted, alwayes uſing adviſe of a phyſician.having uſed theſe generall means,you muſt apply refri- gerating and hume&ting things, ſuch as are the juyce of night-ſhade, houſleek, purſlane, lettuce, navell wort, water lentill, or ducks-meat, gourds; a lininent made of two handfuls of sorrellboyled in fair water,thenbeaten or drawn through a ſºarſe, with oynt- ment of roſes,or ſome unguent. populeon, added thereto,will be very commodious. such and the like remedies muſt be often and ſo long renewed untill the unnaturall heat be extin- guiſhed. but we muſt be carefull to abſtain from all unétuous and oyly things, becauſe they may eaſily be inflamed,and ſo increaſe the diſeaſe. . next wenuſt come to reſolving medi- cines;but itis good when any thing comes from within, to without; but on the contrary it is ill,when it returns from without inwards, as experience and the authority of hippo- crates teſtifie:if when the bone ſhall become purulent puſtules ſhall breakout on the tongue, by the dropping down of the acrid filth or matter by the koles of the palat upon the tongue,which lyes under. now when this ſymptom . few eſcape. alſo it is dead- ly when one becomes dumb and ſtupid, that is,apopleſtick by a ſtroak or wound on the head; for it is a fign that not ou!y the bone,but alſo the brain itſelf is hurt. but oft-times the hurt of the brain proceeds ſofar,that from corruption it turns to a sphacell, in which caſe,they all have not only puſtules on their tongues,but ſome of them dye ſtupid and mute, otherſome with a convulſion of the oppoſite part;neither as yet have i obſerved any which have dyed with either of theſe ſymptomes, by reaſon of a wound in the head,who have not had the ſubſtance of their braintainted with a sphacell, as it hath appeared when their skulls have been opened after their death. * - - — chap. xi. —r- j * why when the braini, hurtly a wound ºf the head there mayflow a convulſion of the oppoſite part. jsºftany have ºthiiday enquired, but as yet as far as i know it hath not been ſuffici. † §§ ently explained why a convulſion in wounds of the head ſeizcs on the part oppo- |sºlº ſite to the blow. therefore i have thought good to end that controverfic in this place. my reaſon is this, that kind of symptom happens in the ſound part by reaſon of mptineſs and dryneſs; but there is a twofold cauſe,and that wholly in the wount. ded part of this emptineſs and dryneſs of the ſound or oppoſite part;to wit, pain and the concourſe of the ſpirits and humors thither by the occaſion of the wound,and by reaſon of “º drawing and natures violently ſendinghelp to the afflićted part. c he º part exhauſted by this means both of the ſpirits and humors,eaſily falls into a uaoiawulli . for thus galen writes; god the creator of nature,hath ſo knit together,the triple ſpiri- tuous ſubſtance of our bodies, with that tye, and league of concord,by the produćtions of the paſſages;towit of nerves,weins,and arteries,that ifone of theſe forſake any part, the # preſently neglect it,whereby it languiſheth; and by little and little dyes, through de- fe&of nouriſhment. but if any objećt #. nature hath made the body double,for this pur- poſe that when one part is hurt,the other remaining ſafe and ſound, might ſuffice for life indneſſeſſity; but i ſay,this axiom hath no truth in the veſſels and pañges of the body. for it hath not every where doubled the veſſels,for thereisbutone only vein, appointed for the nouriſhment of the brain,and the membranes thereof, which is that they call the tºrſular,by which when the left part is wounded, it may exhauſt thenouriſhment of the right and ſound part,and though that occaſion cauſe it to have a convulſion,by too much * - why in eryſ. pelas chiefly aſſails the face, the cure of at eryſipelas of the face, why oyly things muſt not be uſed iri an eryſipelas of the face, aph. ſtä. , deadly figatin wounds of the head. a convulſönić cauſed by diy- neſs. a twofold cauſe of con- vulfifickdry- neſs. lib. denſi partium. idryneſs;verily it is true,that when in the §. parts,the muſcles of one kind are equall . in ..º. number,the reſolution of one part makes the convulſion of the other by accident;but it is not ſo in the brain. º forth; two parts ofthe brain the right and left, each by its ſelf performs that which belongs hºreto,without the conſent, conſpiration or commerce of theoppoſite part; for a hºwife it ſhould follow, that the palfie properly ſocalled, that is of ; the body; which happensby reſolution cauſed either by moſſification or obſtration reſiding in tither part of hºbrain ſhould infer together with it a convulſion of the oppoſite part. *which notwithſtanding dayly ºxperience cºnvincesas falſe. wherefore we muſt *::: - - . . . . . ſinks - - -- of green and floody l tºo: think, that in wounds of the head wherein the brain is hurt, that inanition and want of mouriſhment are the cauſts,that the ſound and oppoſite part ſuffers a convulſion. . . franciſ dalethampius in his french chirurgery renders another reaſon of this queſtion; that (faith he) the truth of this propoſition may ſtand firm and ratificq,wemuſt ſuppoſe, that the convulſion of the oppoſite partmentioned by hippocrates, doth then only happen, when by reaſon of the greatneſs of the inflammation in the hurt part of the brain, which ... . . . hath already inferred corruption, and a gangrene to the brain and men brancs thereof, º and within a ſhort time is ready to cauſe a ſphacell in the skull,ſo that the diſeaſe muſt be terminated by death; for in this defined ſtate of the diſeaſe,and theſe conditions, the ſenſe and motion muſt neceſſarily periſh in the affe&ted part,as we ſee it happens in other gan- grºns, through the extinëtion of the native heat. beſides,the paſſages of the animall ſpirit muſt neceſſarily be ſo obſtrućted by the greatneſs of ſuch an inflammation or phlegmon, that it cannotflow from thence to the parts of the ſame fide lying there under and to the neighbouring parts of the brain ; and if it ſhould flow thither, it will be tººl. to carry the ſtrength and faculty of ſenſe and motion, as that which is infected and changed by admixture of putrid and gangrenous vapours. whereby it cometh to paſs, that the wounded part deſtitute offenſe.is not ſtirred up to expell that which would be trouble- fonic to it...if it had ſenſe wherefore neither are the nerves thence ariſing ſciſed upon, or opinion of lechampiu, contraad by a convulſion. it furthermore comes to paſs that becauſe theſe ſame nerves are deprived of the preſence and comfort of the animall ſpirit,and in like manner the parts of the ſame ſide, drawing from thence theirſchfe and motion are poſſeſſed with a palſie ; for a palſie is cauſed either by the cutting or obſtrućtion of a nerve, or the nº. mollification thereof by a thin and watry humor, or ſo affèted by ſome vehement diſtemper, that it cannot receive the animall ſpirit. - .. but for the oppoſite part and the convulſion thereof, it is known and granted by all, that a convulſion is cauſed citherby repletion which ſhortens the nerves by liſtending them into bredth,orby inamitich,when as the native and prinitive heat of the nerves be: ing waſted, their proper ſubſtance becoming, dry is wrinckled up and contraćted; or elſe it proceeds from the wellication,and acrimonie of ſome vapour, or ſanious and biting hu- mor, or from vehemency of pain.so we have known the falling ſickneſs cauſed by a vene- nate exhalation carricq from the foot to the brain. alſo we know that a convulſion, is cauſed in the puněture of the nerves when as any acrid and ſanious humor is ſhut up there- in,the orifice thereof being cloſed ; but in wounds of the nerves when any nerve is half cut,there happens a convulſion by the bitterneſs of the pain. - but verily in the oppoſite part;there are manifeſtly two of theſe cauſes of a convulſion; that is to ſay,aputrid and carionlikeyapour exhaling from the hurt,and gangrenate part of the brain;and alſo a virulent, atrid and biting sanies,or filth, ſweating into the oppo- ſite ſound part, from the affected and gangrenous; the malignity of which sanies, hippo- crates deſirous to decipher, in reckoning up the deadly ſigns of a wounded head, hath ex- preſſed it by the word ichor;and in his book of fratures he hath called this humor dacry- ide; at non pºnſ that is weeping and not igeſted.] therefore it is nomalyail if the oppoſite and ſound part endued with exquiſite and perfeót ſenſe, and offended by the flowing thereto of both the vaporous and ſanious matter,uſing its owne force,contend and labour as much as it can,for the expulſion of that which is troubleſome thercto. this labouring or con- cuſſion is followed (as we ſee in the falling ſickneſs)by a convulſion as that which is un- dertaken in vain, death being now at hand ; and nature over-ruled by the diſeaſe. thus (ſaith dalechampius) muſt we in my judgement determine of that propoſition of hippotra- tes and avicen. - - but he addes further,in wounds of the head, which are not deadly, praëtitioners obſerve that ſometimes the hurt part is taken with the palſie,and the ſound with a convulſion; or therwhiles on the contrary,the wounded part is ſeiſed by a convulſion and the ſound by a palfie;otherwhiles both of them by a convulſion or palſie, and ſomewhiles the one of them by a convulſion or palſie, the other being free from both affects; the cauſes of all which belong not to this place to explain. thus much dalechampius. - c. h. a. p. xii. a concluſion of the deadly ſigns in the wounds ofthe head. . . ow that wenay returne to our former diſcourſe you may . foretell the *** - - :* of §: patient will dye; when his reaſon and judgement being perverted, e ſhall talks tºom *n* idly;when his memory fails him; when he cannot governs his tongue: when his the depraved * fightgrowes dark and dim, his cars deaſ, when he would caſt himſelf headlong ficulties ofths from his bºor elſe lyestherein without any motion , when he hath a continuall feaver minde. with ailirim, when the tongue breaks out in puſtles,whenitis chopt,and become black, - by reaſon of too much dryneſs;when the wound grows dry, and caſts forth little or no $rom habite matter whºmas the colour of the wound which was formerly freſh, it now become lik: ef the body. .. * ſaltcd l tºro. - - wounds of each part. — ſalted fleſh yellow and pale; when the lirine,and otherexcrements ſuppreſt; when the palſie,convulſi- on, apoplexie, and laſtly,often ſowning, with a ſmall and unequall pulſe, invade him. all ſuch ſigns from the ſometimes appear preſently after the wound, otherwhiles ſome few dayes after; therefore when as time ſhar the brain is hurt and wounded by the violence of the inciſion,or fiſſure,of the contuſion, compreſ- ſuch figas ſon,puněture,concuſſion,or any other fraćture,the forementioned ſigns appear preſently in the firſt appear, dayés;but when they do not appear til many dayes after the blow.you may know that they riſe and appear,by reaſon of an inflammation and phlegmon in the brain, occaſioned by the putrefačtion of the bloud poured forth upon it. -- : ". : . - but we muſt obſerve this by the way,which alſo belongs to the prognoſticks,that fleſhis eaſily re-cºlºnths enerated,and reſtored in all parts of the head,except in that part of the forehead,which is a little a- cap....” É. that which lies between the eye-brows,ſo that it will be ulcerated ever after,and muſt be cover- ed with a plaiſter.l believe that in that place there is an internall cavity in the bone,full of air,which oes to the five-like bones of the noſe,by which the growth of fleſh may behindered;or elſe that the one is very denſe or compaët in that place,ſo that there can ſcarſe ſufficient juice ſweat forth, which may ſuffice for the regeneration of fleſh; add hereunto a great conflux of excrements flowing to this ulcer,which ſhould otherwiſe be evacuated by the eyes and noſe,which hinder by that means the dry- neſs of the ulcer,and conſequently the healing thereof. - hence certainly it comes to paſs,that if you deſire the patient thus affečted to breath,ſhutting his mouth and noſe,the air or breath will come forth of the ulcer with ſuch force,as it will eaſily blow forth a lighted candle of an indifferent bigneſs held thereto. which thing i proteſt, i obſerved in a certain man,whom i was forced to trepan in that place, by reaſon the bone of the forehead was broken and depreſſed. cha p. xiii. of ſalutary ſigns in wounds of the head. , sslit on the contrary theſe are ſalutary ſigns, when the patient hath no feaver,is in his right º] mind,is well at the application or taking of anything,ſleeps well,hath his belly ſoluble, - º) the wound looks with a freſh and lively colour, caſts forth digeſted and laudable matter, lº, the craſſa meninx hath its motion free and no way hindred. - yet we muſt note, which alſo is obſerved by the ancients and confirmed by experience, that vwhen the we muſt think none paſt danger,and free from all chance, untill the hundreth day be paſt.wherefore ...” the phyſitian ought ſo long to have a care of his patient, that is, to conſider how he behaves and ...” atº- governs himſelf in meat, drink, ſleep, venery and other things. - butlet the patient diligently avoid and ſhun cold,formany when they have been cured of wounds the patieht of the head, y careleſs taking cold have been brought into {j oftheir lives.alſo you muſt know nºwa's that the callu, whereby the bones of the skull are knit together requires almoſt the ſpace of forty or of cold- fifty dayes to its perfeó coagmentation and concretion.though in very deed one cannot ſet down a certain number of dayes,by reaſon of the variety ofbodies, or tempers: for it is ſooner finiſhed in young men,and more ſlowly in old;and thus much may ſerve for prognoſticks.now will we treat as briefly and perſpicuouſly as we can of the cure both in generall and particular;wherefore beginning withi generall we will firſt preſcribe a convenient diet by the º: uſe of the ſix things not tll i'd ii. cha p. xiii . of the generall cure of a broken skull,and of the symptomes uſually happening thereºfon. - hºhe firſt cure muſt be,to keep the patient in a temperate air;and if ſo be,that it be not ſuch ºf , l §§ of itſelfand its own proper nature,it muſt be corrected by art. as in winter he muſt .” " § have a clear fire made in his chamber, leſt the ſmoak cauſe ſneeſing and other accidents; tº and the windows and doors muſt be kept ſhut to hinder the approach of the cold air and wind. all the time the wound is kept open to be dreſt, ſome body ſtanding by ſhall hold a chafendiſh ful of coals or a heated iron bar over the wound,at ſuch a diſtance,that a mo- derate heat may paſs thence to the wound;and the frigidity of the encompaſſing air may be correóted by the breathing of the diffuſed heat.for cold .#. to the opinion of hiſpocrates, is an enemy aphor. . to the brain, bones,nerves,and ſpinall marrow; it is alſo hurtfull to ulcers, by ſuppreſſing their ex-gã . crements,which ſuppreſt do not only hinder ſuppuration,but alſo by corroſion makes them ſinuous. therefore galen rightly admoniſhethus,to keep cold from the brain,not only in the time of trepan- ing,but alſo afterwards.for there can be no greater,nor more certain harm befall the fraćtured skul; lib. s. de than by admitting the air,by ſuch as are unskilfull. for if the airſhould be hotter than the brain,then uſapart. it could not thence be refrigerated;but if the brain ſhould belaid open to the air,in the midſt of ſum- p. f. mer.when it is at the hotteſt,yet would it be refrigerated;and'unleſs it were relieved with hot things, . in take harm; this is the opinion of galen, whereby you may underſtand that many who have their ; is skulls broken, dye more through default of skill in the curing,than by the greatneſs of the fraćture. colder than but (when the wound is bound up with the pledgets,cloths,and rowlers,as is fit) if the air chance the brain, to be more hot,than the patient can well indure, let it be amended by ſprinkling, and ſtrawing the chamber with cold water,oxycrate,the branches of willows and vine.neither is it ſufficient to ſhun the too cold air, unleſs alſo you take heed of the over light,chiefly untill ſuch time as the moſt fear- cd and malign ſymptomes are paſt. for a too greatlight diſſipates the ſpirits, increaſes pain, ſtrengthens the feaver and ſymptomes. the diſ. hippocrates wholly forbids wine,therefore the patient inſtead thereof muſt drink barly water, fair commodi- water boyled and tempered with julep of roſes, ſyrup of violets,vinegar and the like:water where--. - - b b - in much lights of green and bloody lib. . - what his in bread crums have been ſteeped, water and ſugar with a little juyce of lemons,or pomecitron ad- drink muſt ded thereto,and ſuch like as the ability and taſte of the patient ſhall require. let him continue ſuch be. drinks untill he be free from malign ſymptoms,which uſually happen within fourteen dayes. almonds his meat ſhall be pap, ptiſan,ſhunning almond milks:(for almonds are ſaid to fil the head with increaſe the vapours and cauſe ºft. damask prunes, raiſons and currants.ſeaſoned with ſugar, and a little pain of the cinnamon(which hath a wonderfull power to comfort the ſtomach, and revive and exhilarate the head. ſpirits) chickens, pidgeons,véal,kid,leverets,birds of the fields,pheaſons,black-birds,turtles,par- tridges,thruſhes,larks and ſuch like meats of good digeſtion, boiled with lettuce,purſlain,ſorrell, borage,bugloſs,ſuccory, ndive and the like,are thought very convenient in this caſe.if he defire at any time to feed on theſe meats roſted, he may only dipping them in verjuice, in the acid juices of . oranges,citrons,lemons, or pomegranats, ſometimes in one, and ſometimes in another, according to his taſt and ability.if any have a deſire to eat fiſh, he muſt mak choyce of trouts,gudgeons,pikes and the like,which live in running and clear waters,and not in muddy;he ſhall eſchew all cold ſal- lets and pulſe,becauſe they fly up and trouble the head:it will be convenient after meat to uſe com- mon dridgpowder,or aniſted,fennellſced or coriander comfits, alſo conſerve of roſes,or marmi- late of quinces to ſhut up the orifice ofthe ventricle, lºſt the head ſhould be offended with vapours ariſing from thence. aphºr. . children muſt eat often,but ſparingly;for children cannot faſt ſo long as thoſe which are elder, **ſ" becauſe their naturall heat is more ſtrong wherefore they ſtand in need of more nouriſhmentſoalſ. is in winter all ſorts of people require more plentifull nouriſhment, for that then their ſtomachs are r more hot than in summer. - ** . when the foureteenth day is paſt,if neither a fraver, nor anything elſe forbid,he may drink wine ſeil. . moderately,& by little and little,ºncreaſe his diet,but that reſpe&tively to each ones nature,ſtrength and cuſtome.he ſhall ſhun,as much as in him lyes,ſleep on the day time, unleſs it happen that a phleg- why ſleep monſtiſe upon the brain or meninges.for in this caſe it will be expedient to ſleep on the day time, e- upon the ſpecially from morning till noon,for in this ſeaſon of the day, as alſo in the ſpringblood is predo-- day ". “minant in the body, according to the opinion of. hippocrates. for it is ſo vulgarly known, that it *... need not be ſpoken,that the blood when we are awake is carried into the habit and ſurface of the being in- body; but on the contrary by ſleep it is called into the noble parts,the heart and liver.wherefore if . flamed. . that the blood by the force of the sun caſting his beams upon the earth at his riſing is carryed into +iº.” fpi- the habit of the body, ſhould again be more and more diffuſed by the ſtrength & motion of watch- what fiſh he may car, dem. ing,the inflammation in the brain and meninges would be much encreaſed.wherefore it will be bet- ... ter, eſpecially then to ſtay by ſleep the violence of the blood running into the habit of the body, . : when it ſhalſ ſeem to rage and more violently to affečt that way. watching muſt in like manner be j moderate for too much depraves the temperof the brain and of the habit of the whole body;it cau- immº ſcs crudities,pains and heavineſs of the head,and makes the wounds dry and maligne. watching. but if the patient cannot ſleep by reaſon of the vehemency of the inflammation of the brain and cºlºmeth. meninges, galen wiſhes,to waſh, §: and anoint the head, noſe, temples and ears with refrigera- . ting and hume'?ing things,for theſe ſtupefie,and make drowſie the brain and membranes thereof,be- medicine, ing more hot than they ought to be. wherefore for this purpoſe let the temples be anointed with procuring vnguentum populeon,orlºnguentum roſatum with a little roſevinegar, or oxycrate;let a ſpunge moiſtened fleep, in the decočtion of white or black poppie ſeed,of the rinds of the roots of mandrages,oftheſteds of henbane, ettuce,purſlane,plantain, night-ſhade and the like. he may alſo have a broath or, barly cream, into which you may put an emulſion made of the ſeeds of white poppy, or let him have a potion made with i,or iſ,of the ſyrup of poppy, with iſ,of lettuce water;let the patient uſe thecom, theſe things -houres aftermeat,to procure ſleep. for ſleep doth much help concoëtion, it repairs modities of the efflux of the triple ſubſtance cauſed by watching aſſwageth pain, refreſheth the weary, mitigates ſleep. anger and ſorrow, reſtores the deprayed reaſon, ſo that for theſe reſpc&s it is abſolutely neceſſary that the patient take his naturall reſt. if the patient ſhall be plethorick, letthe plenitude be leſſeried by blood-letting, purging and a ſlender diet, according to the diſertion of the phyſitian who ſhall overſee the cure. but we muſt take heed of ſtrong purgations,in theſe kinds of wounds,eſpecially at the beginning, leſt the feaver, inflammation,pain,and other ſuch like ſymptoms be increaſed by ſtirring up the humors. lib, -meth. . . phlebotomy,according to galens opinion, muſt not only be made reſpectively to the plenty of blood,but alſo agreeable to the greatneſs of the e. diſeaſe, or that which is to come,to divert, and draw back that humor which flows down, by away contrary to that which is impaët in the part; and which muſt be there evacuated, or drawn to the next. wherefore for example,if the right ſide of the head be wounded,the cephalick vein of the right arm ſhall be opened, unleſs a great ple- thora or plenitude cauſe us to open the baſilica,or median,yet if neither of them can be fitly opened, the baſilica may be opened,although the body is not plethorick. the like courſe muſt be obſerved in wounds of the left ſide of the head;for that is far better by reaſon of the ſtraitneſs of the fibers, than to draw blood on the oppoſite ſide;in performance whereof you muſt have diligent care of the ſtrength of the patient, ſtill feelinghis pulſe, unleſs a phyſitian be preſent,to whoſe judgment you muſt then commit all that buſineſs. for the pulſe is, in galens opinion, the certaineſt ſhewer of the lib.de ºut ſtrength. wherefore we muſt conſider the changes and inequalities thereof,for as ſoon as we find it ºff” to become leſſer and more ſlow,when the forehead begins to ſweat a little, when he feels a pain at miſſ. his heart when he is taken with a deſire to vomit,or go to ſtool,or with yawning,and when he ſhall change his colour and his lips look pale,then you muſt ſtop the blood as ſpeedily as you can;other- wiſe there will be danger lºſt he poure forth }. life together with his blood. then he muſt be re- freſhed with bread ſteeped in wine,and put into his mouth,and by rubbing his temples and noſtrils with ~~ *- - -- - _- ------- - - l i b.io. wounds of each part. with ſtrong vinegar, and by lying upon his back. . but the part ſhall be eaſed and freed from ſome portion of the impačt and conjunéthumor by gently ſcarifying the lips of the wound, or applying of leeches. but it ſhall be diverted,by opening theſe veins which are nigheſt to the wounded part, as the venapuppie, or that in the midſt of the forehead, or of the temples, or theſe which are under the tongue; beſides alſo cupping-glaſſes ſhall alſo be applyed to the ſhoulder ſometimes, with ſca- the uſe of rification,ſometimes withoutineither muſt ſtrong and long frićtions,with courſe clothes, of all the fraaures, whole body,the head excepted,be omitted during the whole time of the cure,for theſe will be avail- able, though but for this;that is to draw back and diſſipate by inſenſible tranſpiration the vapours which otherwiſe would aſcend into the head, which matters certainly in abody that lyes ſtill and wants both the uſe and benefit of accuſtomed exerciſe,are much increaſed. - - but it ſhall be made maniſºft by his following and notable example, how powerfull blood-let, attºº, ting is,to leſſen and mitigate the inflammation of the brain,or the membranes thereof in wounds of - the head.i was lately called into the ſuburbs of saint german, there to viſit a young man twenty eight yeeres old, who lodged there in the houſe of iohn martiall, at the ſign of saint michaelſ. this youngman,was one of the houſhold ſervants of maſter doucador,the ſteward of the lady admirall of brion.hefell down headlong upon the left bregma, upon a marble pavement, whence he received a contuſed wound,without any fraćture of the skull, and being he was of a ſanguin temperature, by occaſion of this wound,a feaver tooke him on the ſeaventh day with a continuall delirium and in- flamation of f. tumor of the wounded pericranium.this ſame tumor poſſeſſing his whole head and neck by continuation and ſympathy of the parts,was grown to ſuch *... his vi- ſage was ſo much altered,that his friends knew him not; neither could he ſpeak, heare, or ſwallow anything but what was very liquid. which i obſerving, although i knew,that the day paſt, which was the eight day of his diſeaſe,he had foure ſaucers of blood taken from him by germaine agate barber-ſurgeon of the ſame ſuburbs; yet confidering the integrity and conſtancy of the ſtrength of the patient, i thought good to bleed him again;wherefore i drew from him fourteen ſaucers at that one time; when i came to him the day after,& ſaw that neither the feaver,nor any of the fore menti- oned ſymptomes were any whit remitted,or aſſwaged,i forthwith took from him fouré ſaucers more, which in all made two and twenty;the day following when i had obſerved, that the ſymptomes were no whit leſſened, i durſt not preſume § my own only advice,to let him the fourth time blood as i deſired.wherefore i brought unto him,that moſt famous phyfitian dočtor violene,who asſoon as he felt his pulſe, knowing by the vehemency thereof, the ſtrength of the patient, and moreover confidering the greatneſs of the inflammation & tumor which offered itſelf to his fight,he bid me reſently take out my lancet and open avein. but i lingred on ſet purpoſe, and told him, that he É. already twenty two ſaucers of blood taken from him:then ſaid he, grant it be ſo, and though more have been drawn, yet muſt we not therefore deſiſt from our enterpriſe, eſpecially ſeeing the two chiefe indications of blood-letting yet remain,that is,the greatneſs of the diſeaſe, and the con- the two ſtant ſtrength of the patient. i being glad of this,tooke three ſaucers more of blood, he ſtanding by, chiefindi. and was ready to take more but that he wiſhed me to defer it untill theaſterneon;wherefore retur- catlons in ning after dinner i filled two ſaucers more,ſo that in all, this young man to his great benefit, loſt blººd-lºº- twenty ſcaven ſaucers ofblood at five times,within the ſpace offouredayes. now the enſuing night "º was very pleaſing to him,the feaver left him about noon, the tumor grew much leſſe, the heat of the inflammation was aſſwaged inal parts,except in his eyelids,and the laps of his ears,which beingul- cerated caſt forth a great quantity of pu, or matter. i have recited this hiſtory †. to take a- way the childiſh feare which many have to draw blood in the conſtant º:#. the patient, and that it might appear how ſpeedy and certain a remedy it is in inflammations of the head and brain. now to return from whence we digreſſed, you muſt note that nothing is ſo hurtfull in fraćtures and wounds of the head,as venery;not only at that time the diſeaſe is preſent, but alſo long after . the cure thereof. for great plenty of ſpirits are contained in a ſmall quantity of ſeed, and the grea. .. teſt part thereofflowes from the brain; hence therefore all the faculties, but chiefly the animall,are ty in . i have divers times obſerved death to enſue inſmall wounds ofthe head, yea when wounds of they have been agglutinated and united. all paſſions ofthe mind muſtin like ſort be avoided,becauſe *** they by contračtion and diſſipation of the ſpirits cauſe great trouble in the body and mind. let a how hurt. lace be choſen for the patient as far from noiſe as can be,as from the ringing ofbells, beatings and fail noſe nockings of smiths, coopers, and carpenters, and from high-wayes through which they uſe to is to the drive coaches;for noiſe encreaſes pain,cauſes a feaver,and brings many other ſymptomes. fračtures of i remember when i was at hiſdin at the time that it was befieged by the forces of charles the fifth, the ºl. that when the wall wasbeaten with the cannon,the noiſe of the ordnance cauſed grievous torment a hiſtory; to all thoſe which were ſick,but eſpecially thoſe that were wounded on their heads, ſo that they would ſay;that they thought at the diſcharging of every cannon that they were cruelly ſtrucken with ſlaves on that part which was wounded,and verily their wounds were ſo angred herewith, that they bled much,and by their pain and feavers encreaſed, were forced with much fighing to breath their laſt. thus much may ſerve to be ſpoken of the cure in generall, now we will out of the monuments of the ancients,treat of the particular. cha p.xv. of the particular cure of wounds of the head,and of ºmſºn, ſkin. º º: º º º |et us begin with a fimple wound,for whoſecure the chirurgeon muſt propoſe one only of, fin: tº ſcope,to wit,union;for unleſſe the wound pierce to the skull, it is cured like other cle wound -* * ... º: wounds of the fleſhy parts of our bodies. but if it be compound, as many wayes as it is ºf the fleſh º 'omplicate,ſo many indications ſhew themſelves.in theſe the chiefeſtcar muſt be had of *** * the more urgent order and cauſe, - skin, bb therefore o - of green and flºody lib, . - - therefore if the wound ſhall be ſimple and ſuperficiary,then the haire muſt firſt be ſhaven away, then a plaiſter applyed made of the white of an egge, bole armenick and aloes.the following day you muſt apply emplaſtrum de ianua or elſe degratia dei, untill the wound be perfeótly healed. Éut if it be deeper and penetrate even to the pericranium,the chirurgeon ſhall not do amiſs, if at the ſecond a digeſtive dreſſing he apply a digeſtive medicine (as § call it) which may be made of veniceturpentine, the : yolks of egges,oyl of roſes, and a little saffron, and that ſhall be uſed ſo long,untill the wound come tomaturation;for then you muſt add honey of roſes and barly floure to the digeſtive. hence muſt we paſs to theſe medicines,into whoſe compoſition no oyly or unétuous bodie enters, ſuch as aſarcotick this, r terebinth.wenete, iſ ſyrupi roſar. jpulaloes,myrthe, maſtich.an. ſº.let them all be incorpora- jºine, ted and made into an unguent, which ſhall be perſcètly regenerated, then it muſt be cicatrized an epulo- with this following powder. r. alumini, combuſti,cortici, granatorum combuſt. ian .j, miſceantur ſimul - tick, fiat fulvis - but if the wound be ſo large that it require a ſuture,it ſhall have ſo many ſtitchcs with a needle, as need ſhall ſeem to require. a hiſtory. whilſt i was at hiſdin,a certain ſouldier,by falling of the earth whilſt he undermined, had the hairy ſcalp ſo preſſed down even to the periºranium,and ſo wholly ſeparated from the beginning of the hind part of his head,even to his forehead,that it hung over his face. i went about the curé in this manner; i firſt waſht all the wound with wine, a little warmed, that ſo imight waſh away the congealedblood mixed with the earth; then i dryed it with a ſoft linnen cloth, and laid upon it what venice-turpentine mixed with a little aqua-vite wherein i had diſſolved ſome sangua dracona,ma- things we ſtick aad aloes;then i reſtored the hanging skin to its former place, and there ſtaied it with ſome mºoh ſtitches,being neither too ſtrait,nor too cloſe together, for fear of pain and inflammation, (which ſerve in , two chiefly happen whilſt the wound comes to ſuppuration) but only as much as ſhould ſerve to *"b" ſtay it on every ſide,and to keep forth the air,which by its entrance doth much harm to wounds:the lower fides of the wound,i filled with ſomewhat long and broad tents,that the matter might have paſſage forth.then i applyed this following cataplaim to all the head. r, farine hord. & fabaruman. viºlei roſati, iij, acetiquantum ſufficitºffat cataplaſma ad formanpultis; this hath a faculty to dry,cool, repell, mitigate pain and inflammation and ſtay bleeding. when we i did not let him blood.becauſe he hadbled much,eſpecially at certain arteries which were bro- mufi not let ken neer his temples; he being dreſſed after this manner grew well in a ſhort time. but if the wound . bemade by the biting of a wild beaſt,it muſt be handled after another manner, as ſhall appearby * aº. this following hiſtory. as many people on a time ſtood looking upon the kings lyons,who were kept in the tilt-yard at paris, for the delight of king henry the ſecond,and at his charges: it hap- pened that one of the fierceſt of them broke the things wherein he was tyed, and leaping amongſt the company,he with his paws threw to the ground a girl of ſome twelve yeers old,and taking her head in his mouth, with his teeth wounded the muſculous skin in many places, yet hurt not the skul. she ſcarſe at length delivered by the maſter of the lyons from the jaws of death and the lyon, was committed to the cure of rowland claret chirurgeon; who was there preſent by chance at the ſame time; ſome few dayes after,i was called to viſit her;ſhe was in a feaverherhead,ſhoulders,breſt, and all the places where the lyon had ſet his teeth,or nails, were ſwoln,all the edges of the wound were livid,and did flow with a wateriſh;acrid,virulent, cadaverous,dark green and ſtinking matter, ſo that i could ſcarſe indure the ſmell thereof;ſhe was alſo oppreſt with pricking, biting and very the biting, great pain; which i obſerving,that old ſaying came into my mind, which is: that all wounds : made by the bitings of beaſts, or of men alſo,do ſomewhat participate of poyſon. wherefore there ... muſt principally great care be had of the venenate impreſſion left in the woundsby the nails & teeth, and therefore ſuch things muſt be applyed,as have power to overcome poyſon. wherefore i ſcarified the lips of the wounds in divers places,and applyed leeches to ſuck out the venenate blood, and caſe the inflammation of the parts,then i made a lotion of Ægyptiacum treacle and mithridate after the followingmanner. - **- -- . therican b.mithrid. § ij, gyptiac ſ, diſſolvantur omnia cum aqua wité, é cardui ben. let the ... me. wounds be fomented and waſhed with it warm; beſides alſo treacle and mithridate were put in all dicines, the medicines which were either applyed or put into the wound,and alſo of the ſame with the con- ſerves of roſes and bugloſs diſſolved in the water of sorrell and carduus benedičiuſ, potions were made to ſtrengthen the heart and vindicate it from malign vapors. a cordian for which purpoſe alſo this following epithema was applyed to the region of her heart.r.aque re- epithema, ſarò nenuphar,an. iiij,acetiſcillitici żj,coralorum,ſantalorum alborum & rubrorum,toſar, rub-fulveriºſpodii. an. j,mithridatiijheriacean. iſ, flo. cordial. pulveriſatorum, p. ], croci .j, diſſolve them all together, make an epitheme and apply it to the heart with a ſcarlet cloth or ſpunge, and let it be often renu- ed. verily ſhe dreſt after this manner,and the former remedies but once uſed, pain,inflammation and all the malign ſymptomes were much leſſened; to conclude,ſhee recovered,but lingred and was lean ſome two years after,yet at length ſhe was perfeótly reſtored to her health and former nature. by which you may underſtand,that ſimple wounds muſt be handled after another manner, than theſe which have any touch of poiſon. - the cure of . but now that we may proſecute the other affečts of the hairy ſcalp; ſay that it is contuſed with #. thiſ a blow without a wound,that which muſt be firſt and alwayes done, (that ſo the affeót may better º º: appearand the remedies which are applyed nay take more effečt)the hair muſt be ſhaven away, and ſcd- at the firſt dreſſing a repelling medicine applyed,ſuch as this following oxyrh olinum, r. ºlºroſ. iij, album ovorum nu. iſ fulveri, nucum cypreſſ,balauſt..alumin, ratheroſar.ſub-an. j. let them be all incorpo- a “pºlling rated,and make a medicine for the former uſe,or in ſtead thereof you may apply the cataplaſhi pre- medicine, ſcribed before conſiſting of farina bordeifabarum, aceto & olco roſaceo.but ſuch medicines muſt be often renued. when the pain and defluxion areappeaſed, we muſt uſe diſcuſſing medicines for intº of that - - | l i b.io. wounds of each part. _--→ that humor which remains impacted in the part;r. emplaſtri de mucilagin. ij.oxicrotei, emp.de melilo-aliſºnſ, to,angjolei chamam.cº anethi,an malaxenturſinulet fiat emplaſtrum aduum dičium. such a fomentation º * will alſo be good.r. vini rub.lib.iiij lixivii.com.lib.ijinutes §: contuſ.nu.x:pul, myrtillorum .roſar.rub. - abſinth folſalvie, majoraneſechadoºſiorum chamem.melilan.m.ſ .alumini, ºtheraditiº ºperi,calami aromatici an. ſ;.bulliant omnia ſimuland make a decoštion to foment the grieved part. after ſomewhat a long fomenting it,whereby it may the better diſcuſſe,dry and exhauſt the concrete humors the headmuſt be dryed and more diſcuſſing things apply ed, ſuch as the cerate deſcribed by vigo called de minio; t which hath an emollient and digeſtive facultie in this form.r olei cham&mililior.an. xolei maſtich. ij.gººn. finguedini, vervedi, libjlitbarg.aurišvijminii#ijivini boni gathºm unum, bulliant omni, ſimul baculoggi- de minic. tando primum quidem lento igneºmox verb luculentiore.donec º: colºrem nigrum velſubnigrum contrahat; adde infine coãure terebinth.lib.ſ.pulveri, maſtich. ij.gum.eleni i: ºre quantum ſufficitºbulliant rurſus una cbullitione & fiat empl. mole. but if the humor be not thus diſcuſſed,but onely grow ſoft, then the tu- mor muſt be quickly opened,for when the fleſh is inflamed and putrefied through occaſion of the - - contained humor,the bone under it putrefies alſo by the contagion of the inflamation and the acri- deterfive mony ofthe matter fallingupon the bone.when you have openedit, waſh away the filth of the ul-ºr-le". cer with this following deterfive .# roſé abſinth.an i. terebinth. ſ fulirewºlves, ma- º fiſhi, myrrhefarinehordei an: ſ. inſtead hereofiftherebe great putrefaction, Ægyptia either by it.” ſelfe,or mixtuith an equall quantity of vnguentum apoſtulorum may be put into the ulcer. when the ulcer is clenſed it will be time to uſe ſcarcotick and Čičatrizing medicines. - chap. xvi. of the particular cure of afrailure or brºkenſkyll. - - , , - § the ſkull be broken,ſo that it be needfull to trepan it,or to elevate and liftitup.or ſcraps why the it away,themuſculous skin being cut as we formerly noted, the pericranium ſhall be pluck- pericrani. ed from the skull, as we ſaid before; which becauſe it can hardly be done without great ... pain,by reaſon of its exquiſite ſenſe and connexion with the membranes of the braine,wee .." muſt labour to mitigate the paine for feare of inflammation and other accidents. therefore the firſt ſº. dreſſingended & the corners of the wound drawn each from other;at the ſecond dreſſing put to the - wounda digeſtive (as they termeit)niade of the yolk of an egge,and oyle of roſes, but you muſt galºmeth. ly no humid thing to the bone becauſe we deſire to keep it ſound and whole.for galent opini-hº .." on is, thatbared bones muſt not be touched with untiuous shings; but rather on the contrary all jº dry things muſt be applycó to them, which may, conſume the ſuperfluous humidity. therefore we application muſt lay ſome lint and the cephalick powders which we ſhall hereafter deſcribe, upon the bone we of humid intend to preſerve,and iš. - - - - humid medicines.you muſt in trepaning have .. care of the craſa mininz. for i have often obſerved a great quantity of blood to have flowed from ſome broken veſſell, which adhered to the ſecond table:neither muſt we preſently and forthwith, ſtay ſuch bleeding, but ſuffer it to flow ac- cording to the plenitude and ſtrength of the patient; for hus the feaver, and together therewith . . . thereſt of the ſymptomes are diminiſhed. for the opinion of hippocrates,in every green wound it is lib.deula; good to cauſe often bleeding, except in the bellies;for thus the vehemency of pain,inflamation and - other accidents will be leſs troubleſome; alſo it is not amiſſ too for old ulcers to bleed much, for ſo they arefreed from theburden of the impačthumors. when you think it hath bled ſufficiently, it may be ſtanched with this following medicine deſcribed by galen. '-º'- b. pulveris aloes ij.thuri, maſtiches, an ſ.albumina ovorum º itentur ſimulcum piliº_liporini mi- gal.émüh nutim inciſis fiat meditamentum.when the bleeding is ſtayed you ſhalfforthéaſſwaging of pain, drop “” . upon the menin: ſome pigeons bloodyet warmeby opening a vein under the wing then it ſhall b firewed over with this following powder,r. aloes,thuri,myrrheſanguini, draconi, º: pulvis ſubtilis. alſo you may make an irrigation with roſe vinegar, or ſome repelling medicine; ſuch as is a cataplaſme exfarini,' okoroſaceo.which may be applyed untill the fourthday to affwage and mitigate pain. - ". - - - * . vigºrate willbe ofgood uſe in this caſe,as that which in my opinioh is moſtfit for fraðures ºf:ré- of the skull,becauſe it draws powerfully,reſolves and dryes moderately, and by reaſon of the ſmellº." refreſhes the animall ſpirits,and ſtrengthens the brain º: thereofas you may eaſily per- ſkuſi. ceive by things which enter into the compoſition thereof. p. olei roſ. *::::: pini, gummi {}. -- an. ij maſtiches iſ; pinguedini, vervecil caſtratišijſ foliorum beton.caprifºlianthas an mj. º horum tinčiºrum x liquatafinguedin eterenda terantur, & ammoniatum ſimulciſm aceto-ſcillitico, eliquetur; exprimantur cum expreſſione addantur terebinth. ven. §iiij. cert albe quantum ſufficit, fiat eerotum mol- . . . . lead uuſm preditium. alſo let the neck, and all the ſpine of the back be ahointed with a liniment, a ſinimani which hath force of mollifing the nerves, eſt they ſhould ſuffer convulfion;ſuch is this. goods- . r rute marrubii, roriſmartbulor ſalvie,berb paralyſan. mſ. radireoſ,cyperi, baccatum lauri,an. . forum *:::::: thame melilihyperici,an.mjpiſtentur & macerentur omnia in vino albiper noãem,deinde toquantur invaſe duplici cum oleo lumbricorum,iilioram,de terebinthina,axungie,anſeriº &bum.an. ij.uſgue ad º deinde bulliant omnia ſimul in lib. ii. vini boni, lento igne uſque ad †: vini, deinde. . . . ." ave diligent care that it be not offended either by the †. touch of thing's moniaci ſ.gra- umptiomen vini, poſtes cée ºf colenturº intolatura addeterebinth.venet.giijaque wit. ſ. cere quantum ſufficitifia: limentum ſemilus ºº te???. * wound become ſordid and malign, and putrefie the adjacent parts, and conſequently the craſe meninx and skull;for the integrity of all parts may bepreſerved by their like, and #. aredry things in a fraćture of the skull. wherefore .# humid and oyly things muſt be ſhunned in the cure there- of unleſsperadventure there ſhal be ſome need to mitigate pain & bring the humor to ſuppuration. for according to galen, we are oftforc'd for a time to omit ; proper cure of the diſeaſe, ſo # galamº. , - . * - tº º - - but when the pain is aſſwaged, we muſt abſtain from all ſuchunétuous . left they make the "... . a s of green and bloody lib. . | how ſate reſiſt the ſymptomes ; furthermore hippocrates would have us not to foment the skull,no not humid with wine,but if we do,to let it be but with very little.vidiuſ interprets that little to be,when there ...i. is fear of inflamation;for wine if it bered,tart and aſtringent,hath a repreſſing, refrigerating and dry- faāured ing faculty:for otherwiſe all wine although it heats and dryes by its †. it ačtually humečts skull, and cools,both which are very hurtfull in wounds of the head,or a fraćtured skull, eſpecially when the bone is bare;for from too much cooling of the brain there is fear of a convulſion, or ſome other evill ſymptome. wherefore let this bc ratified,that is,we muſt not uſe humid and unétuous medi- º ! cines in wounds of the head, except for curing of an inflamation, or the mitigation of pain cauſed h thereby.therefore let the bared skull be ſtrewed with catagmatick and cephalick powders,(being ſo why ce- called by the ancients, for that they are convenient and good in fraćtures of the skull and the reſt h phaſick or of the bones) for by their dryneſs they conſume the ſuperfluous humidity, and by that means help calagma- nature in the ſeparating of the broken bones, and the regenerating of fleſh. such powders uſually ſt : ſº- conſiſt of ſuch things as theſe enſuing.thus,radix iridos florent farina hordei & ervi, pulvi, alge; hepatice, k good. ſanguis draconis, ºś gentiane:and generally all ſuch ſimples as have a dry- º h ing and an abſtergent faculty withoutbiting;but you muſt not uſe theſe things before the pain,in- tº when to flamation and apoſtumation be paſt;that is then, when the membrancs muſt be clenſed, the bones ſca- w ºf uſed. ... led,and the fleſh generated. for the skul by how much it is the dryer,by ſo much it requires and more - ...; be eaſily endures more powerfull and dryer medicines than the dura mater or pericranium,as that which when they in quickneſs of ſenſe comes far ſhort of theſe two.wherefore when you would apply the forementi- are to be oned cephalick powders to the meninges,they muſt be aſſociated and mixed with É. of roſes plyed to or of wormwood and ſuch other like,that ź. their too violently drying faculty may be allayed and the me- tempered. - winger. til chap. xvii. why we uſe trepaning, in the frailures of the skull. th ihere are four cauſes of this remedy: the firſt is, to raiſe up the depreſt bones,and take forth & § their fragments,which preſs upon the meninges, or alſo upon the ſubſtance of the brain. § the ſecond is, that the sanies or matter may be evacuated,clenſed, waſted,and dryed up, ſ: which by the breaking of any veſſell is poured forth upon the membranes, whereby they . . . are, and not they only,but the brain alſo is in great danger of corruption.the third is,for the fitter w application of medicines,convenient for the wound and fraćture. the fourth is,that ſo we may have ot ſomething whereby we may ſupply the defeatofa repelling ligature, & ſuch an one as may hinder is why are defluxions; for ſuch a ligature cannot take place here as it may in the other parts of the body,by * pellingii- reaſon of the sphaericall or round figure of the head,which doth not eaſily admit binding; & then gature the denſity and hardneſs of the interpoſed skull is a means that the veſſels lying under #, which all branes and brain; when pain,inflammation, a fea- ver,abſceſs, convulſion, palfie, apoplexicand laſt- ly, death itſelf would inſue. - - - and theſe are the chief cauſes, that trepaning is neceſſary in fraćtures of the skull, and not ſo in the | fraćtures of otherbones. - but before you apply or put to your trºpan, ºf . i. }. uſually the defluxion i. eaſily bebound with a rowler ſufficiently to repell the runni i nº i...?" blood.and the czternall veſſels, (to whom the force of the ligature may come) cannot be boun i. the skull, without great pain, and danger of inflamation. for by ſuch a compreſſion the pulſation of the iſ: arteries would be intercepted, and the efflux ofthe fuliginous excrements which uſeth to paſs k through the ſutures of the skull, would be fi º reaſon of the conſtrićton of theſe ſutures. th the ſhape of this inſtrument is not much different from a gimblet,but that the point is three- b iſquare, and not twined like a ſcrew ; as you may º; by this following figure. - d gimblet or piercer to perforate the skull,before theſetting tº fibe trºgin. - •. ſ --- - ...e. beſides alſo,the blood would thus be forced from \ - | the wounded part without, to within into the mem- ſ .." º patient muſt be fitly placed or ſeated, and a. double fº cloth muſt be many times wrapped about his head, placed ‘. … and then his head muſt be ſo laid, or preſſed upon when you … cuſhion orpillow,that when you come to yº - *: pan ºperation, it may notfinkdown any furthº- º inain firm and fedy. then you muſt flºp the pati- º - ents ears with cotten-wooll, that ſo he may not -- º hear the noiſe made by the trepan or any other ln- - ſtrument. . - º - but before you put to your trepan,the bone muſt .º: * - be pierced with an inſtrument,having a three ſquare . º: * point, that ſo it may be the in otc ºf". ‘. tion of the fainly perforated. the point ther of nº + trepan. biggerthen the pin of a trºpan, that ſo th: i pan which is forthwith to be applyed may ſtand ºthemore firmer, and not play to and again ** wide a hole. k . shemihelandle, , the point, which mºleſtrºwdandfundini, he handle. chap. __- | lis.io, woºdrofºrm. –-º- - - - - ------- - - - - - - - - -, -- - chap. xviii. a deſcription of trºpans. #rºpanº, which ºut,the bone circularly more or leg accordine eir | greatneſs;they muſt have a #. ſtanding in the middle a little further out than º, ſo to ſtay and hold faſt the trºpan that it ſtir neither to this fidenoºth. . enj tred and you have cut through the firſt table at the feaſt: then you muſt . the pin, f gh left going uite through the bone,it may prick or hurt the graſſa meninº. wherefore when you have taken forth the pin, yog may ſafely turn it about unfill you have cut thrº both the tables;your trepans º, have a cap,or ſomewhat to ingirt or incompaş them, leſt no way. hindred they cut more of the bone than we would,and in concluſion run into the mºniz.they muſt alſo be anointed with oyl,that ſo they may cut the more readily and gently;fºr thus carpenters uſe togreaſe their ſaws. but you muſt during the time of the operation,often dip them in cóld water left the bone by attritiºn become tºo hot for all hard ſolidbodies by quick and dften turning a: - bout,become hot;but the bone made more hot and dry,is altered and º its nature,ſo that af. ...is ter it is cut, more of it ſcales and falls away. now you muſt know that the bone,which is touched . with the trepan,or the air,alwayes caſts off ſcales,for the ſpeedier helping forwards whereof, you being : muſt ſtrew upon it powders made of rocket, briony,wild coucumber & ariſtoloſhia roots whºm the ted with bone is ſufficiently ſcakd,let this ºft. *hich hath a faculty to coºr hºrrºpan: the bone with fleſh,and and to harden it with dryneſs convenient to its kind. r. pulver. iſeo, illyrice, y. º aloes, mannethuri-mºrrhºſiſſolºſhie an. j. fleſh being by this means generated, let it tº cicatfized j ſtrewing upon it the rinds of pomegranatsand alumburnt. the bone. neitherſhall the chirurgeon forcibly takeaway theſe ſcales,but commit that whole work tona- thebone ture, which uſeth not to caſt them off before that it hath generated fleſh under them. for o- muſt not be therwiſe ifhe do anything raſhly,he brings new corruption to the bone, as we ſhall more at large ºily declare, when we come to treat of caries or rottenneſs of bones. - - * kaled, he whichuſeth the trºpan, muſt conſider this,that the head is of a round figure,and alſo the tre- pan cuts circularly and thereforeit is unpoſſible to cut the bone ſo equally on every fide,as if it were performeduponaplainbody; furthermore the thickneſs of the skulí is not afiki.i. places, wherefore you muſt loºk; and mark whether the trepango not more deep on on fidj. on the other,which you may do by meaſuring it now and then with a pin or needle, and ifyce find that it is cut deeper on one ſide,than on the other you muſt preſs down the trepan more powerfully upon the op ſite part. - . . ~. - - * … - - . *but ſeeing ther; arºmany ſorts of trºpans invented and expreſſed by many nºn-yºtifyou weigh afikºnd and rightly conſider them all-you ſhall find none more ſafe,than that ſinvented aſſhº. here deli-convenient .#or it cannot pierce onejot further into the skull,than he pleaſes that uſes it, and therefore trºpas, it cannot hurt cither the ºil. the brain. an iron head or cover ſtayes it as a bar:that it can stratepºhºrthºyouſhall think it requiſite. this head or cover is to bed. up and - - . higher and lower as he which uſes it ſhall thinkgood, and ſº it will ſtay the tºepan . . - that it ſhall not gº a hairs bredth beyond your intended depth. so that henceforwards thereſali, , , , beno chirurgeon,howſoever ignorant in the rformance of his art, which by the benefit of ſuch . . . . . a trºpanmºy nºt perfºrm this operation withoutany danger or fear of danger oftouching the du. ru mater,the hurting whereof, puts the liſtinjeopardy, -- . . . . . . . . . . . * * * * * * - - - - - - the figure fºur trºpanºpened and the figure of the ſame trepan fitted and put together. - - - - taken in pieces. .. . . . * , , . . . . . ... ." . . " - ºne. “. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . *...* while handle or brace ºfthe - - - - ºf "º " - repan. ríº b. the cover ºr cap ºf the trpan, fº c. the ferule. . ** - in |dp. the ſcrew pins which hold and ſay |# the ferule and irºpan, |# e.the trepan without his pin. - h. f. the tripanfurniſhed with its pin. a.shews the brace and irepan fitted in severy poinfº º bºheptaſe into which the trepani, put # and fifted. # c.c.c.the upper end of the trepan which # , is to beftted and put into the brain. † d. the trpan with its ºver or cap up. acautionin trepaning. * - e. the fºrule, f. a ſcrewpin by the twining whereºf the ... ... trepan is faſtened in the brace. g. another ſcrew pin which faſten, the ~ fºrul, cloſer to the trpan. # the three ſquare point, ** - • - ſt of green and bloody l . . in ſtead of the other trepan ſet forth by the author.i have thought fit to give you the figure of that trepan that is here moſt in uſe,and the fitteſt therefore,as it is ſet forth by mr.dočtor crook. terebellum or gimblet conſiſting ºf three branches, all theſe particulars of the trepan takeninſunder, you may ſce united and fitted together in the other figure.but when you cannot bring out the bone which you have cut off with your tre- pan.then you may take it forth with the terebellum or gimblet, here expreſt, that is, ſcrewing the point thereof into the hole made by the threeſquare pin ; the handle of this inſtrument may alſo ſerve in ſtead of a levatory. when with the gimblet you have drawn or taken forth that part of the skull which was cut away by the trepan; ifthere ſhall be any ſharp ſplinters in the ſecond table, which may hurt and prick the meninx, when it is heaved up by the motion of the brain, they muſt be ſhaved away and planed with this ſentill faſhioned ſcraper, beingſo called, becauſe it hath the head thereof faſhioned and ſmooth like a lentill,leſt being ſharpe it ſhould hurt and prick the mem- t brane in the ſmoothing thereof. - - --- - - a !....” but if by reaſon of the thickneſs,the skull cannot be cut with this lentill-like ſcraper, you may m..." uſe the cutting ſcrapers and a mallet.the mallet muſt bºoflead, that ſº it may ſhake the brain as little as may be.but you muſt diligently with your mullets take forth the ſharp ſplinters, and pee- ces of the bone.but if the fraćtured part of the skulbe ſuch,that it will not admit that ſe&ion which vwhy a is requiſite for the bared bone,as when the fračure is upon the temporall muſcle,or at the ſutures; tiºn then in the ſtead ofone trepan,two or three muſt be applyed, if the neceſſity of the preſent caſe ſo: muſ not be require,and that within a very ſmall . but they muſt not be applyed to the fraëureed part, º'.” but nigh thereto,as we ſhallſhew more at large in the . but the trepans ſhall wºº. be applyed ſo meer to each other,that the ring of the ſecond may be joymed with the ring of the firſt #. and third. but if a fraćture ſhall . to light upon a ſuture,then you muſt not apply a trepanº are to be to it,but uſe two thereto on each ſide;he that ſhall do otherwiſe,ſhall tear inſunder the nervous and, uſed to a fraćtured ſuture, membranous fibers,and alſo the veins and arteries by which the dura mater is faſtened to the skull, and yeelds matter to the pericranium.he which ſhall apply one tr: an;that is,but upon one fide of the ſuture,he ſhall not be able to get forth all the ſanies which is fallen down on both fides by rea- ſon of the partition of the craſa meninx, which lies between and riſes up by the ſuture of the skull. to conclude,when for what cauſe ſoever we cannot make uſe of a trepanºwe ma imploy this in- * ſtrument, if ſo be as much of the bonebebared as is needfull.it is made in form o *: of com- . . . . paſſes, and by means of a ſcrew maybe opened more or leſs as you pleaſe. you as need ſhall require * * may change the points and put other into their places ;for they may be fitted to one ſide of the com- paſs with a ſcrew. . - * : * , ºn - - afair ºf cutting campa cutfarth the skull. --- a. shews the one leg g compaſſes to cutfarth the skull. ! the cutting '...}} -- which as you carry it a- § bºut ºntº the ſkull. " ; ; b. the ſcrew which f-, ſºn the point to the lºg * ; : - - of the compaſſes. º ; : " . c.c.two different points : # which may be ſcrewed to ! the leg of the compaſſes, - * need ſhall require. d. a great ſcrew which fºſtens upon an iron ſtring, longſ which the one of the legſ of the con- paſs running,may be wi- denedèſrnitned as you . pleaſe. & - more- º lib. o. - wounds ofeach part. º - to ſuffain and holdſteddy one leg ºf the compaſ, upon the head. a crooked in plate fit to ſuff paſ - - moreover it is ~. o. o o o ° ºff | fit that the one n o ) wno o o o o o | leg of ſuch cut- r \? o o º ° | | ting... compaſſes §§w."o " . . . o |||| ſhould ſtand firm o o “ | d andſteddy, whilſt q o o o º ſ | d d |||||| the other is . o wº gºw *"l | º | - | | drawn circularly sº º | | | to cut.wherefore sº *|| it is fit you have another pair of compaſſet ºf the like nature and ſºwhich may bewidened and ſtrainedly a ſºrºw. *of É. holes, wherein mº you may firmly - ſtay that leg o the compaſs, it waver againſt your will ; it is requiſite that this, plate be crooked, (becauſe the head. is round) that ſo it may be fitted to any part thert- of." - - - -: , - chap. xix. of the places of the ſkull whereto you may not apply a trpan. #irſt of all,you ſhall not apply a trepan, to a bone that is ſo broken that it is wholly,or in a > º; the greater part thereofdivided from the skull by the violence of the ſtroak, left by your º#: ºlº weight & preſſing of the trepan,you force it down upon themembrane.secondly, you muſt ºftoniº. not apply one to the fraćtured sutures, for the reaſons mentioned in the former chapter, skull muſt . thirdly, nor to that part of the forehead which is a little above the eye-browes, for theſe reaſons ºf trº- we gave you beforein the twelfth chapter.for there is in that place under the firſt table of the skull paned. \ itſelfea large cavity repleniſhed with a certain white and tough humor, as alſo with a certain ſpi- . b rituous and ayricſubſtance placed thereby nature,to prepare the aire which aſcends to the brain by . * the noſtrins: unleſſe the chirurgeon obſerve and be mindfull hereof, he may be deceived, ſuppo- he #: ſing this cavity to be an effraćture of the bone and a depreſſion thereof. fourthly, neither in the head bone, loweſt parts of the skull,leſt the marrowy ſubſtance of the brain,by reaſon of its weight,ſhould ſlide through the hole made by the trepan. fifthly, neither to the bregma bones of children, as thoſe which as yet have not acquired juſt ſolidity,to endure the impreſſion of a trepan.sixtly, nor to the lib.de pul; temples by reaſon of the temporall muſcle,the cutting whereof in the opinion of hippocrates cauſes convulſion of the oppoſite part.for being cut athwart it loſes its properaćtion,that is,to move and lift up the lower law; but then the ºr. temporall muſcle being whole and perfeót,uſing its ſtrength,(his antagoniſt ſuffering it,and not refifting or labouring anything at alto the contrary) it draws the ſame ſaw to it,whereupon the mouth and all the parts of the face are drawn awry,and, fuffer a convulſion towards the ſound part, the other being reſolved according to hippocrates his arule out rule. for as often as the muſcles of one kind are equall in number,magnitude . ſtrength on each ºrº ſide,the reſolution of the one part, cauſes the convulſion of the other. -- . *... neither doth this dangeralone ariſe from the cutting ofthe temporall muſcle,but alſo another, what'ſ which is,that this muſcle when we eat and ſpeak,is in perpetuall motion, whereby it comes to paſs, º - that . cut it is ſcarſtever united again,beſides alſo the commiſſure or joyning together of #ºing the ſtony bones lye under it. but by the ſecond caution we are forbid to trepan upon the ſutures; the tempo: , moreover alſo many veins,arteries and nerves are ſpred over the ſubſtance thereof, ſo that by cut-rallmuſºlº ting of them,there is danger of many and malign ź. pain, inflamation,a feaver,a convul-, fion not only of the part itſelf but alſo of the wholebody,whence laſtly death inſues.wherefore let -- no chirurgeon be ſo foolhardy as to attempt the cutting of this muſcle ſo to trepan the bone which lies under it;rather let him apply his trepan above it,or on the ſide thereof, or as neer to the affected part as he can,as i did in a gentleman called monſieur dela breteſche.he in the triumphant ºn- a hiſtory, trance of king henry the ſecond,into the city of paris,was ſo hurt with a ſtone,that the o. petroſum or ſcaly bone,was broken with the violence of the blow, and the temporall muſcle was vehemently contuſcdyet without any wound.i being called the next day(viewing the manner of the hurt, .the condition of the wounded part) thought good to bring ſome phyſitians,and chirurgeons with me to conſult hereof.of whom when ſome thought it ; reſently to divide the temporal muſcle that baring the bone we might apply a trepan,and ſo take forth the broken bones: i on the con- trary begun earneſtly to withſtand that opinion,citing that ſaying of#. libro de vulneri- ribu, capiti,wherein chirurgeons are forbidden to cut ſuch muſcles, for fear of the forementioned i ſymptomes, alſo i cited experience,how that i had often obſerved all thoſe which had this muſcle - -- - - - - - - - - - - l - - cult. : - of green and bloody l i b. . a hiſtory. the gene. ration of a *wngº, why when º i º the skull is broken the ºr bones ſome- times be- rotten. him to hold down his head,to put forth his breath)much ſanious matter came forth, which was gathered between the skulſ and cut,dyed with a convulſion;but that it ſhould be far better, that neer above the fraćture the bone ſhould be trepaned, not touching the temporall muſcle at all if he could. when all of them at the laſt had inclined to my opinion, i preſently divided the muſculous skin which was over the upper part of the fraćture with a three cornered ſe&ion: the day following which was the third of his diſeaſe, i trepaned him, and after i had done,ſome few dayes after, i took out ſome four ſplinters of the broken bone;and i put in a plain leaden pipe,by which(i wiſhing the patient ever when i dreſt Å. his mouth and his noſe,and then ſtrive as much as in him lay to craſſa meninx...other filth which ſtuck more faſt, i waſhed outwith a detergent decočtion, injećted with ſuch a ſyringe as is here expreſt; and i did ſo much, god bleſſing my indeavours,that at length he recovercq. a plaine leaden pipe fºr to carry forth the sanies a littleſ ringe fit to make inješions withall. gathered under the ukull. - º º *hºº §ºlºminiminimitrill"/º sºº - a ----- " - lººs the like chance and fortune.befell monſieur de pienne at the ſiege of mets. for he as he fought at the breach of the wall,had the bone of his temples broken with a ſtone ſtruck out of the adjacent wall,by a pecce of ordinance ſhot from the emperours campe,he .# fel down with the blow, and caſt blood out of his mouth,noſe and ears, with much vomiting,and remained dumb and as it were ſenſleſs almoſt fourteen dayes, ſo that he knew none of the by-ſtanders. heliad often palpita- tions ; and convulſive twitchings,and his face was ſwoln. his forehead bone was trepaned at the fide of the temporall muſcle by the hand of peter aubert the kings chirurgeon; and although on the -day,ſoft fleſh endued with exquiſite ſenſe grew out of the hole made with the trepan, whoſe growth could not be hindered by cathzretick pouders,yet at the length he recovered. the anci- . ents called this kind of growing fleſh a fungus [ia muſhrome] for that it is ſoft, and grows with a ſmall root and broad top like a muſhrome:butit increaſes and decreaſes,according to the plenty of the flowing matter, and induſtry of the chirurgeon hindering by art the growth thereof. this fleſh ſtinks exceedingly,they commonly call itficus ſančii fiacrii #. fig of s. fiacrye.jthis diſeaſe commonly hath its original after this manner.even as in the bodics of trees from the excrements of nouriſhment,a certain half putrid,groſs and viſcous humor ſweats through the bark, and gathered together by little and little grows into a muſhrom,ſo blood melancholy both in temper and con- ſiſtence,ſprings from the broken veſſells of the skull and craſſa meninx, which alſo is ſent ſometimes by nature for the neceſſary repairing of the fleſh in theſe parts, whereupon a certain fungus breeds, which in galens opinion,ſavors or partakes of the nature & conditionof the parts to which it grows though in generall it be of the nature of malign warts, or excreſcences. but for to take away ſuch fungi,youmuſt apply medicines which have a ſpecifick faculty to waſt ſuperfluous fleſh; ſuch are theſe which ſtrongly i. ,and gently waſ and eat,ſuch as this which follows.b. sabine iſ.ocree .jpulveri- ſenturſinul, aftergatur caro excreſcens. or elſe r. hermodactylorum combuſterum ſ., make a pouder for the fameuſe. but if ſo be that this fungous fleſh come to ſuch growth,(as it often happens)as to equall - the bigneſs of an egg, it muſt be tied and ſtrait twitched, cloſe to the root with a ſilken thred;and when it ſhall fall away by reaſon of this binding,the place muſt be ſtrewed with the forementioned pouders, for ſo it will be more certainly cured,than with more acrid catharcticks. chap. xx. of the corruption and caries, or rottenneſ of the bones of the head. |here ſometimes follows a corruption and sphacell of the fraćtured bones of the skull upon § wounds of the head;which happens either becauſe they are touched by the air,which they are not ſenſible of; or for that the sanies putrefying and detained under them,hath infect- ed them with like putrefaction;or by the cure unskilfully handled,they by the raſh appli- cation of ſuppurating and oyly medicines becoming more moiſt,and ſoundergoing an unnaturall comeſoul or change of their. complexion and native temper,as we ſhall ſhew more at . when we ſhall treat of the reaſon of the caries in the lues venered. we ſhall know this unnatural the ſigns of foulneſs of the bone. sorrupt bones are ſometimes hard. change and cor- ruption,partly by ſight,that is,when from white they become to be yellowiſh, livid and black;part- y'alſo by putting down a probe,when as it meets with nothing ſmooth and ſlippery, but feels rough in many places,and beſides alſo when it enters and i. penetrates with a ſmall thruſting down into their ſubſtance,as if it were fungous. yet this laſt ſign may often deceive you,for i have divers times obſerved rotten bones, which being bare had long ſuffered the injury of the air, tobe- come ſo hard that a trepan would ſcarſe pierce them; for it is putrid humidity which makes the bones ſoft and fungous; but the air by jº them exhauſts this humidity, and laſtly dryes it, whence follows ſuch contumacious harndeſs.this ſign will be far more certain, if the fleſh which is grown upon thcbone be more ſoft than is fit,looſe and have little or no ſenſe offeeling. you may correótandamend this corruption of the bone with cauteries as well ačtuall,as potentiall,or with the powders of aloes, gentian, ariſtolochia,centaury, cortex pini, as r, radic.ireos, flor, ariſtolochie an. j. centaur. iſ,cortici, pini ſ, miſce & fiat pulvi, ſubtiliſimus oſſi inſpergendus. but if it be much cor- rupted,it muſt be ſcraped forth with your scalpra.and you muſt expećt the falling or ſcaling of the corruptbone from the ſound,and not forcibly procure it; for otherwiſe the ſoundbone,which lics under it,being as yet covered with no fleſh growing over it, would be corrupted by the appulſe, or touch of the air. yet you ſhall by little and little gently move and ſhake rotten bones with your probe, liaio. - wound; of eachpart. - º probe,that ſo they may more eaſily ſcale and with leſs trouble to nature.but note by the way, that the ſcaling of the bone which hath invironed the trepan,is commonly performed in the ſpace of forty or fifty dayes.so long alſo will that cauſed by the unuſuallappulſe or touch of the air or ap- plication of a cautery,or the aſperſion of the cephalick pouders; beſides alſo in the ſame number of dayesbroken bones may be united and joyned together by a callus, which is to them as a ſcar, yet ſometimes ſooner,ſomewhiles later, according to the variety of the ages,tempers and habits of di- wers men. but if the caries or rottenneſ can neither by theſe fore-mentioned remedies be orecome and amended, neither the looſed continuity agglutinated nor united, you mnſt give the patient a vulnerary potion,for hence ihaye found happy ſucceſs in many. but ſometimes not only a certain the bent- portion of the bonesis taken with a carieſ,but alſo the whole is often ſeiſed upon with ſphacell,and h. . . all fals out. for in hippocrates opinion, lib.de vulneriºus capiti,the bone of the skull being broken netary po- falls from the ſound more or leſs,according to the violence of the blow;which alſo is confirmed by tion. experience. for which i. i think good in this place to recite a hiſtory, whereof i was an a tin ory eye-witneſs,whilſt i ſerved as chirurgeon in piment under the marſhall de montejan (who was the - kings lieſtenant there.) it happened that a lackey of monſieur de goulaines came to me to be cured; he had the bregma bone of the left ſide broken with a ſword, neither yet did the fraćture come to the ſecond table; a few dayes after his recovery the bone being agglutinated and united, it came to paſs that a company of gaſcoine ſouldiers his countrymen came to turin,with whom one morning he eat plentifully tripe fryed with onions and ſpices,and drunk a great quantity of ſtrong wine.where: tipon he preſently fell into a continual feayer, and loſt his ſpeech and underſtanding; his head ſwelled,his eyes looked red and fiery ańd as though they would have ſtarted out of his head.which things being confidered, let him blood,having firſt (by the phyſitians advice)given him a glyffer, and applyed to his head ſuch things as were fit;and alſo i laboured with frićtions and ligatures of the extream parts to draw the humors downwards; yet for all this the part of the head which was formerly afféâted begun to impoſtamate; which being opened, there came forth a great quantity ofmattérand at the ſength the muſculous skin and periºranium ſinking down, both the tables of the skull became putrefied and rotten as you might know by their blackneſs and ſtench. now to take away this corruption,i applyed at certaintimes aëtuall cauteries,both to amend the corruption and ſeparate that which was altered; but mark,after ſome months ſpace,a great number of worms came forth by the holes of the rotten bones from underneath the putrefied skull; which moved me to ha- fien the ſeparation andfalling away ofthe putrid bones.which being done, upon the very crºſſa me-, . minx which is more ſtrange,in that place,which nature had covered with fleſh.i obſerved three cavi- #. % ties ofthe largeneſs of ones thumb filled with worms about the bigneſs of a points tag, with black. . . - heads, diverſy wrapped amongſt themſelves. the bone which nature ſeparated was of the bigneſs son.” ofthe palm of ones hand,ſo that it was ſtrange that ſo large a portion ofthe skullſhould be caſt off by nature,and yet the patient not dye thereof; for ht recovered yet beyond allmens expe&tation, aph . but after the agglutination of the wound the ſcar remained very hollow according to the decree settº, of hippocrates. for fleſh doth not eaſily grow upon a callu,becauſe it is a thing ſtrange and ſuppo- ſtitious by nature;beſides,as a ſcaris a thing more denſe than the skin,ſo is a callus than the bone,ſo that through the more compačt ſubſtance thereofthe blood can neither freely nor plentifully ſweat through for matter to regenerate fleſh.hence it is that whereſocyer any portion of the skullis wan- ting you may there by putting to of your hand perceive and feel the beating of the brain, where- * fore the skull muſt needs be much weaker in that place. now to help this infirmity, i wiſhed this lacky to were a capmade of thickleather ſo more eaſily to withſtand externall injuries:and verily the cové. thereby he grew much better. now i think good in this place to lay open the deceit and craft of.”. ſome impoſtors falſly ſtiling themſelves chirurgeons, who when they are called to cure wounds of ºps the head wherein any part of the skull is loſt, perſwade the patient and his friends, that they muſt ſers. put a plate of gold in the place of the skull which is wanting. wherefore they hammer it, in the reſence of the patient,&turne it divers wayes & apply it to the part,the betterto fit it;but preſent- i. after they ſlily convey it into their purſes, and ſo leave the patient thus couſened. others brag that they are able to put the dryed rind ofagourd into , the place of the loſtbone, and faſten it on to defend the part;and thus they groſſely abuſe thoſe which are ignorant in the art. for this is ſo far from being done that nature will not ſuffernor endure ſo much as an haire, or any other ſmall body to be ſhut up in a wound when it is cicatrized; neither is the reaſon alike of a leaden bullet which ſhot into the body lies there for many years without any harm to the patient;for al- though lead have a certain familiarity with mans body,yet is it at length(unleſs the denſity of the oppoſed fleſh,igament,tendon,or ſome other ſuch like ſubſtancehinder) thruſt forth by nature im- patient of all ſtrange bodies. and thus much of the rottenneſs and corruption of fraðured bones; . º we ſpeak of the diſcommodities which befall the meninges by wounds whereby the skulk s broken. - - --- chap. xxi. ofthe diſcommodities which happen to the craſſ, meninx by frašures of the ſkull. jº any diſcommoditics chiefly happen to the craſa meninx by a fraćture of the skull and { § raſh trepaning thereof, for it ſometimes chances to be cut and torn. a lutination is a wº § remedy for this diſeaſe, which hippocrates wiſhes to be procured with the juice of nepeta lººk [that is,of that calamint,which ſmells like penny-royall l. with barly floure. in ſtead whereof this following powder having the like faculty may take place. remedies b. colºphon. iij,myrrhexaloes; maſticheſ,ſanguini, dracom.an, ]. croci, ſarcocolle an. ſ. miſce & fiat pulvi, ºnjº- ſubtilis.but to purge the blood and matter which is gathered and lyes between the craſſa meninz and cerated skull,you § put in a tent made of a rag twined up ſome foure or five double,and ſteeped in ſy- m'nine, ftºp of green and bloody lipio. w rup of roſes or wormwood and a little aqua vite;for thus you ſhal preſs down both the craſſa me- ninx, leſ lifted up by the accuſtomed and native pulſation of the brain,it ſhould be hurt by the edges of the skull, yet rough by reaſon of the ſharp ſplinters of the bone lately ticpaned, and give freer paſſage forth for the matter there contained. but as oft as you ſhall dreſs the patient, you ſhall re- nue . forementioned tent,untill all the matter be purged forth. and ſo often alſo you ſhall preſs down with the following inſtrument the dura mater, and bid the patient to ſtrive to put forth his breath,ſtopping his mouth and noſe, that ſo the matter may more eaſily be evacuated. this inſtru- ment wherewith you ſhall hold down the dura mater,muſt have the end round, poliſht and ſmooth as it is here expreſt. a fit inſtrument to preſ; and hold down the dura mater,ſo to make way for the paſſage forth ºf the sanies or matter. - and let there be laid upon the dura º mater ſtrewed over with the former- rºl lymentioned powder, a ſpunge moi- ſ ſtened and wrung forth of a drying decočtion made of aromatick and ce- - phalick things, ſuch as this which followes. r. fol. ſalvie, majoran.betonice, roſar.ſub-abſinth.myrtil..forum chamem. melil. ſtachad.utriuſque an. miij.ſ .rad.cyperi,galam. aromat.ireos, caryophyllate, angelice, an: ſ...bulliant omnia ſecundum artem cum aqua fabrorum & vino rubro,fiat decoãio ad uſum dičium. and in ſtead hereof you may uſe claret with a little aſpungefit aqua vite,that ſo the contained matter may be evacuated and dryed up. a ſpunge is fitter for this to foment É. to draw than a linnen rag or any other thing,both becauſe it is good of it ſelf to draw "*" forth the humidity,as alſo for that by its ſoftnes it yecids to the pulſation of the brain.then apply to the wound & all the adjoining parts,an emplaſter of diacalcitheos diſſolved with vinegar, or wine, lib.devalh, or oyl of roſes,that ſo the plaſter may be the more cold and ſoft. for in hippocrates opinion, no- cap. thing which is ..". thing heavy or hard muſt be applyed to wounds of the head, neither muſt it be bound with too ſtrait,or hard aligature,for fear of pain and inflammation. lib.de for galen tells (as he had it from mantias) that a certain man had loſt his eyes by inflammation faſciii. and impoſtumation ariſing, for that an apothecary had uſed too ſtrait a ligature to his head and the dif., face;for this ſtrait ligature ſo preſſed the ſutures, that the fuliginous vapours, which uſed to paſs commodi through them and the pores of the skull, were ſtopped from paſſing that way;beſides, the beating of #: the arteries was intercepted and hindered;by which means the pain and inflammation ſo encreaſed, j. that his eyes were rent and broke in ſunder and fell forth of their orb. wherefore hippocrates right- head, ly commends an indifferent ligature: alſo he fitly wiſheth us to let the emplaſters be ſoft which are what applyed to the head,as alſo the cloaths wherewith it is bound up, to be of ſoft and thin linnen, or cloaches we of cotton,or wooll.when the patient is in dreſſing, if there come much matter out of the wound, muſt uſe. you ſhall wiſh him if he can, tolye upon the wound, and now and then by fits to ſtrive to breath, how the ſtopping his mouth and noſe, that ſo the brain lifted and ſwoln upwards, the matter may be the patientmuſt more readily caſt forth;otherwiſe ſuffer him to lye ſo in his bed,as he ſhall beſt like of,& ſhall be leaſt §." * troubleſome to him. you may with good ſucceſs put upon the craſſa meninz oyl of turpentine “ with a ſmall quantity of aqua vite and a little aloes and saffron finely powdred, to clenſe or draw - forth the sanies,or matter. or elſe, r. mellis roſar. ijfarine hord.pulver.aloes, maſtich. ireof florent.an. ſ.aquavite parum;let them be incorporated together & make a deterfive medicine for the foreſaid uſe. paulus lib. sometimes alſo the craſſa meninz is inflamed after trepaning,and ſwoln by a phlegmon, that im- .cap.go. patient of its place,it riſes out of the hole made % the trepan, and lifts it ſelf much higher then the skull, whence grievous ſymptoms follow. w to be afraid, we muſt inlarge the former hole with our cutting mullets,that the matter contained un- der the skull,by reaſon of whoſe quantity the membrane ſwells,may the more freely breath and paſs forth;and then we muſt goe about by the preſcript of the phyſitian to let himbleed again,to purge and diet him.the inflammation ſhall be reſiſted by the application of contrary remedics,as this fol- remedies lowing fomentation. r. sem.lini,althe,fan. {{#if: m.j.bulliant in aquate- #: *** pida communi,ex qua fiat fotu.anodyne and repelling medicines ſhalfbe dropped into his eares, when *:... it is exceedingly ſwoln, that the tumor may ſubſide you ſhall caſtupon it the meal or floure of len- gaj, re- tills,or vine leaves beaten with gooſe greaſe. with all which remedies if the tumor doe not vaniſh, minx. and withall you conjećture that there is pu or matter contained therein, then you muſt open the how we dura mater with your inciſion knife,holding the point upwards & outwards, for ſo the matter will muſt open be poured forth and the ſubſtance of the brain not hurt nor touched.many other chirurgeons, and *ºſº i myſelf have done this in many patients with various ſucceſs. for it is betwr in deſperate cauſes ". , to try a doubtfull remedy then none at all ; alſo it oft-times happens,whether by the violence of iºn. the contuſion and blow, or concretion or clotting of the blood which is ſhed, or the appulſe of the mate, cold ayre,or the raſh application of medicines agreeing neither in tempernor complexion with the the cauſe, craſſ, meninx, or alſo by the putrefačtion of the proper ſubſtance,that the dura mater it ſelf becomes and reme- black. of which ſymptome a. chirurgeon muſt have a great and ſpeciallcare. *ºfthe therefore that thou mayſ take away the blackneſs, cauſed by the vehemency ofthe contuſion, :::::::: ... you ſhall put upon itoylofegges with a little aqua vite, and a ſmall quantity of saffron and or- j."" ris roots in fine powder;you ſhall alſo make a fomentation of diſcuſſing and aromatick things boy- remedies led in water and wine;and vigoes ceratformerly deſcribed ſhall be applycé. but if the harm come ºr coat- from congealed blood you ſhall withſtand it with this following remedić. r. aqua vite ij'granor. fion. tinčiorum intenuempulverein tritorum ijſł.croci, . melli, roſat. jſ ſarcocol. iij. leviter & ſimul bulliant for cºns omnia, de colatura infundatur, quouſºu migrities fuerit obliterata. if this affe&t come by the touch of the tº: ayre,it ſhall be helped with this following remcdy. r tereb.ven. iij. melli, roſ. ij. vitellum ovi u- - - ??? erefore to prevent death,of which then we ought l b, io. wounds of each part. num farin.bordeisiijeroci siſarcocol. ijaq.vite ij.infoſporentur ſimul;&bulliant faululum. this remedy forthe ſhalfbeuſed untill the blackneſs be taken away,and the membrane recover its priſtine colour. º: but if this affečt proceeds from the raſh uſe of medicines, it muſt be helped by application of ayre. y the things contrary. for thus the offence cauſed by the too long uſe of moiſt and oyly medicines, may what me- be amended by uſing catagmatick and cephalick powders ; but the heat and biting of acrid medi- hiºke cines,ſhall be mitigated by the contrary uſe of gentle things ; for both humid and acrid things }.º ſomewhat long uſed make the part look black, that truly by generating and heaping up filth, but j this by the burning and hardening heat. but when ſuch blackneſs proceeds from putrefaction, iohn. de vigº commends the following remedy. , raqua vite ijm-llä roºt: . but if the affečt be grown medicin; ſo contumacious that it will notyceld to this gentle remedy,then this following will be conveni- . that ent. r. aq.vitz iij.mellis roſ . i pulver. mercur. ij. unica ebullitione bulliant ſimul ad uſum dičium. or r. . . aqua vit.}}}.yrup abſinth. & melli, roat.an. ij. unguentiagyſtiaci ,ſ}. ſarcocol, myrrhe, aloes,an. .} winſ albi menix, boni & odoriferi,j.bulliant lºviter omnia ſimulcolentur ad uſam dičium.but if the force of the putrefaction . be ſo ſtubborn,that it will not yeeld to theſe remedies, it will be helped with Ægyptiacum ( made with plantain water in ſtead of vinegar) uſed alone by it ſelf, or with the powder of mercury a- lone by itſelf or mixt with the powder of alome. neither muſt we be afraid to uſe ſuch remedies eſpecially in this extream diſeaſe of the dura mater; for in galens opinion the craſſa meninz after the skull is trepancd delights in medicines that are acrid,that is, ſtrong and very drying, eſpecially if it have no phlegmon; and this for two reaſons ; the firſt is, for that hard and dry bodies, ſuch as . ſil membranous bodies are,be not eaſily affected unleſs by ſtrong medicines; the other is, which muſt . º be the chiefe and prime care of the phyſitian,to preſerve and reſtore the native temper of the part cid medi. by things of like temper to it. but if the auditory paſſage not onely reaching to the hard mem- cins, branes of the brain,but alſo touching the nerve which deſcends into it from the brain, ſuffer moſt vehement medicins,though it be placca ſo neer certainly the craſſa menins will cndure them far more eaſily and without harm. but if by theſe means the putrefaction be not reſtrained, and the tumor be encreaſed ſo much, that the dura mater riſing far above the skull, remains unmoveable, black and dry,and the patients eyes look fiery, ſtand forth of his head and rowl up and down with signs of unquietneſs and a phrenſie,and theſe ſo many ill accidents be not fugitive,but conſtant; then know deathat that death is at hand,both by reaſon of the corruption of the gangraºn of a noble part, as alſo by hand. extinétion of the native heat. chap. xxii. of the cure of the brain beingſhaken, or moved. e have formerly declared the cauſes.ſignes and ſymptomes of the concuſſion, or ſhaking of what the , § the brain,without any wound of the muſculous skin, or fraćture of the bone; wherefore ºuſtion %; for the preſent will treat of the cure. therefore in this caſe, for that there is fear that ğ. - *ſome veſſell is broken under the skull,it is fit preſently to open the cephalick vein.and let "“” blood be plentifully taken according to the ſtrength of the patient,as alſo reſpectively to the diſ caſe both which is preſent,and like to enſue, taking the advice of a phyſitian. then when you º have ſhaven away the haire,you ſhall apply to the whole head and often renue the forementioned cataplaſme, ex farini,oleo roſaceo, xymelite and other like cold and moiſt repelling medicins. but you muſt eſchew dry,and too aſtringent medicins muſt be ſhunned, ſuch as are vnguentum de bolo and the like;for they obſtrućt too vehemently,and hinder the paſſage forth of the vapours both by the ſu- tures and the hidden pores of the skull.wherefore they doenot only not hinder the inflammation, but fetch it when it is abſent,or encrcaſe it, when preſent. the belly ſhall be looſed with a clyſter, and the acrid vapours drawne from the head ; for which purpoſe alſo it will be good, to make frićtions from above downwards, to make ſtraight ligatures on the extream parts, to faſtenlarge cupping-glaſſes with much flame to the ſhoulders and the originall of the ſpinall marrow,that ſo the revulſion of the blood running violently upwards to the brain,aud ready to cauſe a phlegmon, t may be the greater.the following day it wiſ! be convenient to open the vena puppi,which is ſeated . *:::: upon the lambdall ſuture,by reaſon of the community it hath with the veins of the brain, & ſhut-'º. p: ting the mouth and noſe to ſtrive powerfully to breath.for thus the membranes ſwell up, and the pil, blood gathered between them and the skull is thruſt forth; but not that which which is ſhut up in . - the brain and membranes,of which if there be any great quantity,the caſe is almoſt deſperate, unleſs nature aſſiſted with ſtronger force, caſt it forth turned into pue. but alſo after a few dayes the vena fronti, or forehead vein may be opened,as alſo the temporall arteries and veins under the tongue, that the conjunét mattermay be drawn forth by ſo many open paſſages. in the mean ſpace the pati- ent muſt keep a ſpare diet,and abſtain from wine, eſpecially untill the fourteenth day,for that untill that time the fearfull ſymptomes commonly reign. but repelling medicins muſt be uſed untill the fourteenth day be paſt,then we muſt come to diſcuſſing medicins, beginning with the more milde, . . . . ſuch as is this following decočtion.r rad. alth. vj.ireos,cyperi,calami arom.an. ijfolſalvie,majoran.beto- diſcuſſing nic.for cham&m.melil.roſ. rub.ſtachad.an. m.ſ .jali, com. iij.bulliant omnia ſimulſecundum artem cum vinorub. . * aqua fabrorum, fiat decodio.let the head be waſhed therewith twice a day with a ſpunge. but yet when aution you do this, ſee that the head be not too much heated by ſuch a fomentation,or any ſuch like thing, infomen- for fear of pain and inflammation. then you ſhall apply the cerate of vigo which hath power to finghe diſcuſſe indifferently,to dry, and draw forth the humors which are under the skull, and by its a-" romatick force and power to confirme and ſtrengthen the brain; it is thus deſcribed. r. furfuri, be-adeſcripti. me trituratiºtijfarin.ientium ij. roſ. myrtillor. foliorum & granorum ejus, ah. . calam, aromat. %.cbama-on of wise: mel.melil.m.ſ .nutes curreff num.vjoleiroſaceió chameman. iij.cere albe iiſ,thuri,maſtichi,an. iij.myr-cera". . rhe ij. in fulvercm queredigi debent radačii, liquefaāis olei, cum cera ºmnia miſreanfar fimul, ºftat mix- fura, que erit inter formam emplaiiri & ceroti. c g vigº vvhythe craſſa me-, słºśs / z - - o of green and bloody - lib. o. a hiſtory, vigo ſaith,that one of the duke of urbins gentlemen found the urine hereof to his great good.he fel from his horſe with his head downwards upon hard marble, he lay as if he had been dead,the blood guſht out of his noſe,mouth and cars,and all his face was ſwollen and of a lividcolour;he remained dumb twenty dayes,taking no meat but diſſolved gellies, and chicken and capon broths withful. gariyet he recovered,but loſt his memory,and faultercq in his ſpeech all his life after.to which pur- aph. .ſº poſe is that aphoriſm in hippºcrates; thoſe which have their brain ſhaken by what cauſe ſo:ver, . muſt of neceſſity become dumbiyea alſo as galen obſerves in his commentary, loſe both their ſºnſ: and ...h. cerat is not of ſmall efficacy but of marvellous and admirable force, which could hinder the generating of an abſceſs,which was incident to the brain by reaſon of the fall. yet there that there be many men ſofar from yelding to reaſon, that they ſtifly deny,that any impoſtumation can be in my be in the brain;and augmenting this errour with another,they deny that any who have a portion of the ºf...ſ, in brain cut off can recover, or riſe again; but the authority of ancient writers and experience do a- the brain, bundantly refell the vanity of the reaſons whereon . rely. now for the firſt,in the opinion of aph, . hippocrates ; if thoſe which have great pain in their heads have either pu, water or blood flowing ſ” frºm their noſºmouth or ears, it helps their diſeaſe. - gal.lib.de but galen, rhaft,and avicen affirm that saries generated in the brain disburdens it ſelf by the inºulin-noſe,mouth or ears; and i myſelf have obſerved many who had the like happen to them. temp rhºſ. i was told by prothais coulen, chirurgeon to monſieur de langey,that he ſaw a certain young man : ... in the town of mans, who often uſed to §: great bell; he once hanging in ſport upon the rope; º: º., was ſnatcht up therewith and fell with his head full upon the pavement: he lay mute was depriſed fºliº. of his ſenſes and underſtanding, & was beſides hard bound in his belly.wherefore preſently a feaver rap. . and delirium with other horrid ſymptomes aſſayled him, for he was not trepaned becauſe there ap- ****)- peared no ſign of fraćture in the skull; on the ſeaventh day he fell into a great ſweat with oftºn Íheefing,by violence whereof a great quantity of matter and puflowed forth of his ears, mouth and noſe,then he was eaſed of all his ſymptomes,and recovered his health. now for the ſecond,galen affirms that he ſaw a boy in smyrna of ionia that recovered of a great lib. denſ, wound of the brain,but ſuch an one as did not penetrate to any of the ventricles. but guii, of paſtº gº. cauliac ſaith,he ſaw one which lived and recovered after a great portion of the brain fell out b # reaſon of a wound received on the hind part of his head. . in the year of our lord . whilst ſº. . was chirurgeon to the marſhall of montjan at turin, i had one of his pages in cure,whô playing at quoits received a wound with a ſtone upon the § bregma with a fraćture, and ſo great an effra- &ure of the bone,that the quantity of halfa haſell nut of the brain came forth thereat.which job- ſerving, preſently pronounced the wound to be deadly; a phyfitian which was preſent contradia- ed my opinion, affirming that ſubſtance was no portion of the brain, but a certain fatty body. but i with reaſon and experience in preſence of a great company of gentlemen, convinced the perti- nacy of the man, with reaſon;for that fat cannot be generated under the skull,for although the parts why ſº there contained be cold, yet becauſe they are heated by the abundance of the moſt hot and ſºbtle cannot . animall ſpirits,and the heat of vapours riſing thither from all the body, they do not ſuffer fat to i. concreat about them. but with experience,for that in the diſſetting of dead bodies,there was never skull. any fat obſerved there; beſides alſo fat will ſwim on the top of water; but this ſubſtance as mar- signs of a rowy,caſt into the water preſently ſunk to the bottome. fatty ſub- láſtly,ſat put to the fire becomes liquid and melts;but this ſubſtance being laid upon a hot iron, ſtance. became dry, ſhrunkup and contračted it ſelf like a perce of leather;but diſſolved not at all. where: fore all thoſe which were preſent cryed out,that my judgment was right of that ſubſtance that came forth of the skull.yet though it was cut away,the page recovercd perfeótly, but that he continued deaf all his life after. chap. xxiii. of the wounds of the face. §ºaving treated of the wounds of the headby their cauſes,figns and cure, it follows that we yº... | now ſpeak of the wounds of the face, if but for this, that when they are careleſly hand- liaia of . jºlº led,they leave deformed ſcars in the moſt ſpecious and beautifull part of the body. the wounds of sº * cauſes are the ſame which are incident to the skull,that is,externall. but this may be ad- ded to the kinds and differences of the wounds, that the life may be out of danger though any one whole part of the face,(as the ear,eye,noſe, lip)may be cut away by a wound,but not ſo in the head or skull.wherefore beginning at the wounds of the eye-brows, we will proſecute in order the wounds of the other parts of the face. athing” this is chiefly to be obſerved in wounds of the eye-brows,that they are oft-times cut ſo over- ...:" thwart,that themuſcles,and fleſhy pannicle which move and lift them up,are wholly rent and torn. .#. in which caſe the eye-lids cannot be opened,and the eyes remain ...; and as it were futſup in brows, the caſes of their lids;ſo that even after the agglutination of the wound, if the patient would i. upon anything,he is forc'd to hold up the eye-lids with his hand; with which infirmity i have ſeen many troubled, yet oft-times not ſo much by the violence of the wound,as by the unskilfulneſs of the chirurgeon who cured them;that is by the negligent application of the boulſters, an unfit ligature and more unfit ſuture. in this caſe the skilfull chirurgeon which is called to the patient ſhall cut off as much of the skin and fleſhy pannicle as ſhall ſerve the eye-lids, that ſo they may by - their own ſtrength hold and keep open,without the help of the hand: then he ſhall ſow the wound as is fit,with ſuch a ſtitch as the furriers,and glovers uſe; and then he ſhall pour thereon ſome of the balſome of my deſcription,and ſhall lay ſuch a medicine to the neighbouring parts. r oleiro- ſar. he face. t li jo. - w.and, of each part. - : ſar. ſ.,album.ovor.nu.ijbeli armeni ſanguini, dracon-maſtich.am. .j, agitentur ſimuhſia; meditamentum.then let the part be bound with a fitting ligature. afterwards you ſhalluſ: emplaſt. degratia dei, empl. de betonica, diacalcitheos, or ſome other like, untill the wound be cicatrized. but ſuch like and all other wounds of the face may be eaſily healed, unleſs they either be aſſociated with ſome malign ſymp- tomes,or the patients body be repleat with ill humors. . . . . . . . . - there ſometimes happens a quite contrary accident in wounds of the eye-brows, that is, when lagophthal; the eye-lids ſtand ſo up that the patient is forc'd to ſleep with eyes open, wherefore thoſe which are miti; a ſo affºted are called by the greeks lagºphthalmi.the cauſe of this affect is often internall, as a car-j : buncle or other kind of abſceſs,as a blow or ſtroak. it ſhall be cured by a crooked or ſemicircular in-º." ciſion . the eye-lids,but ſo that the extreams of the ſemicircle bend downwards,that they dowº of the may be preſſed down and joyncd as much as is needfull to amend the ſtifneſs of the eye-lid. but you eye-lids, muſt not violate the griſtle with your inſtrument,for ſo they could no more be lifted up; the reſidue " of the cure muſt be performed asis fit. . . . - chap. xxiii i. of the wounds of the eyeſ. \ounds of the eyes are made by the violence of . ... cutting, bruiſing, or o- § therwiſe loofing the continuity. but the cure muſt alwayes be varied according to the vºf variety of the cauſes and differences. the firſt head of the cure is,that if any ſtrange and mº heterogeneous body ſhall befallen into the eyes, let it be taken forth as ſoon as you * can,iiſting and turning up the eyelid with the end of a ſpatula. but if you cannot diſ- cern this moat or little body,then put three or four ſeeds of clary, or qculu, chriſti into the pained eye.for theſe ſeeds are thought to have a . to cleanſe the eyes and take out the moats, which are not faſtened deep in, nor do too ſtubbornly adhere to the membranes. for in this caſe, you' ſhall uſe this following inſtrument, for herewith we open the eye-lids the further, putting it be- tween them and the eye,and alſo . the eye ſteddy by gently preſſing it,that ſo with our mal- lets we may pull out the extraneous body. ; this is the #. of ſi..., an inſtrument. - ſandkeep the eyeſteddy,it iſ made,that it may be dilated thedelineation ºf a speculum sculi.fit to dilate and hºldaſunder tº °-li and contrated according to the greatneſſ ºf the eyes. all ſtrange bodies ta- repºrcuſ. ken out, let this . º: be put into the eye. take .ſtrains of a dozen cgs, the eye, let them be beaten in a . leaden mortar, with alit- tle roſe water, and ſo É. into the eve º; . sº this cuillwe *!" divers re. . . . . - upon the eye and the : neighbouring parts. r. albumin overnu.iiij pulver.alumini, roſhe combuſti: iſ ſinguini, draconi. ), ique tºp- reſorº plantagan; iſ agitentur ſimulmake a repercuſſive,which you may frequently uſe.orelſº apply pºethe chéeſe curds well wrung,mixed with roſewater,the white of an cgge,and as much acacia as ſhall ſuf. * fice.this which followeth doth more powerfully ſtay the flowing humor. b. gum arab. & tragac, an: iſ.pſilii.ºydon.ſemin.portulplant.ſumachian. ij-fiat mutag, cum aquaplantag.ſolan. roſar. contimetur colly- rium, of which you may drop ſome both within and about the eye. . but note,that all ſuch remedies muſt be applyed warm,both #. they may the betterpenetratºby rº - their moderate heat, as alſo for that all aduall cold things are hurtfull to the eyes and fight, be-j. . cauſe they dull the fight by incruſtating the viſive ſpirits.for i have known many who have become j. . dull of ſight by the frequent uſing of medicines ačtually cold to the eyes. i have on the contrary hartfull to ſeen not a few who have recovered with the fit uſe of ſuch like medicines,who have had any part of the eyes. their eye (ſo it were not the pupilla or apple of the eye) ſo pricked with a needle or bodkin, that much of the wateriſh humor ran forth thereat. - - ** - the milk of a woman which ſuckles a girl (for that is reputed the cooler) mitigates pain and anim clenſes,if it be milked out of the dug into the ey; to which purpoſe alſo the blood of turtle s,pig * medicines ons or chickens much conduces:being dropt into the eye by opening a vein under their wings. º for the eyes; ſo this following cataplaſm aſſwageth pain and inflammation,and hinders defluxion,being applyed to the eye and the adjacent parts.r. carni, pomorum ſub cinere calido decodiorum v. vitelos ovorum num. iij.caffe fiftule recenter extraje ſ, mucagini, pſilii, althea & cydon.an. j. ſ: parum,incorporentºr •mnia ſimul, fiat cataplaſma. alſo ſheeps lungs boyled in milk and applyed warm, and changed as they grow cold, aregood to aſſwage pain.but if the too violent heat and pain, ſhall not yeeld to - ſuch medicines,but require more vehement,then foliorum hyoſcyami,m.jjub, cineribus coquatur, atque in ºrco; wortario run mutagine ſeminirpfilii.ºgdunior extrati.in aquifºlinić plantagfiſktur.then let this medicine.* tº in a ſinnen cloth and applyed to the eyes and temples. the mucilages of pſilium, or flea: wort,and quince ſeeds extraćted in a decoètion of poppy heads and mixed with a little opium and, roſe water are uſed for the ſame purpoſe. but when there is need of detergent and ſarcotick medi- diegº cines, then r, ſyrup.roſº. ſcºr? jaq.fenic. rute an. ij aloes lote, olibanian. ſ. mix them for the medicines. foreſaid uſe.the galls of scates, hares, and partridges diſſolved in eye-bright, and fennill water, ... ..., arefit for clenſing ſuch wounds; as alſo this following collyrium. raque bordei . melli, deſpumati, ...; { ijalvester late in aquaplantagini, & ſacchari (and, an .j, fiat colytium. alſo this inſuing medicine is .: c very ſarcotick. b. mutagingummiolibani, arabici, tragacanth. & ſarcocol, in , bordei extrač, an. % - -- - c c . - | - -: * . % of green and bloody lia.io. - aloes ter lote in aq. roſarum. .j. ceruſ, uſe& lote, tutie prefar, an: ſº. fiat collyrium. but here you muſt note;that the coat adnata often ſwells ſo much by reaſon of a wound or ſonle other injury,and ſtands ſo forth by the falling down of humors, acceſs and mixture of flatulencies, that it hides the whole pupilla, and hangs forth of the eye-lids, like as if it were an unnaturall fleſhy excreſcence, and it looſes the native colour,and looks very red,ſo that the eye can neither be ſhut nor opened. . whertwith a young chirurgeon being deceived, determined to cut away this protuberancy of the adnata,as though it had been ſome ſuperfluous fleſh, and then to waſ it with catha retick pow- ders,had inot forbidden him,telling him ofthe certain danger ofblindneſs which would thereup- on befall the patient. wherefore i preſcribed a fomentation of chamomile, melilote, roſe leaves, wormwood,tue,fennill,and aniſeeds boyled in milk with the roots of orris and marigolds.then i a drying preſently added this following fomentation,being more powerfull and drying. . r. nuci, cupreſsi, * gallar.balauſt.an. ).plantag.abſinth. ºft flo. chamam.roſ. rub.an. mſ. bulliant ſimulcum aqua fabrorum,& ofle fat decodium-profitu cum ſpongia.beſides alſo you may apply a cataplaſm made of barly and bean flowre, the powders of maſtick, myrrheand aloes, and ſome of the laſt deſcribed decoètion. the tumorbe- ginning to decline, i dropt the flowing liquor into the eye, which hath avery aſtringent, drying and ...; roaſt a new laidegge in embersuntill it be hard,then i off the ſhel, take forth the yolk,and in place thereof put a ſcruple of roman vitrioll in fine powder, then put it in a linnen cloth andwring it hard forth into ſome clean thing, and drop thereof for ſome dayes into the eye, with a little smiths water wherein sumach and roſe leaves have been boyled. i have foundbyexperience the certain force of this remedy; but if notwithſtanding there be a true a medicine fleſhy excreſcence upon the coat adnata, it may betaken away by this following powder. r offs ſe- to conſume pie, & teſte ovorum calcinate an jfiat pulvu.calcined vitriol, burnt alum and the like may be com- a flºº" modiouſly uſed to this purpoſe. yet you muſtwarily make uſe of all ſuch things, and alwayes lay ci :- repercuſſives about the eye,that no harm inſue thereof. for divers times acrid humors fall down º into the †. with ſuch violence,that they break the horny coat, whereupon the humors of the eye are poured out. remember alſo, that in diſeaſes of the eyes, the patient lye with his head ſome- what high, and that he keep ſhut not only the pained,but alſo the ſound eye, becauſe reſt is alwayes neceſſary for the grieved part.but one eye cannot be moved without ſome motion of the other by reaſon of the connexion they have by their optick and moving nerves, both the meninges and the pericranium,weins and arteries;which is the cauſe that when the one ſuffers, the other in ſome ſort partakes therewith. º aºi... but if we cannot prevailby all theſe formerly preſcribed medicines fit to ſay the defluxion,then . .* it remains that weapply a seton to the neck;for it is a fingularremedy againſtinveterated fluxions j into the eyes.for we know by dayly experience,that many who have had their fight dulled by a deflexions long and great defluxion,ſo that they were almoſłblind, have by little and little recovered their into the former ſplendour and ſharpneſs of fight,when matter once begun to be evacuated by the seton. Žin the truth hereof appeared in paul the italian goldſmith,who dwelt neer the auſtine friers.for he ory. § uſed many medicines of divers phyſtians, and chirurgeons in vain; when he was almoſt blind,he * ing a seton, by mine advice,began by little and littleto ſee better according to the quantity of the matter which was evacuated, untill at length he perfe&ly recovered his fight.but at laſt growing weary ofthe seton which he had worn for a year º matter came dayly forth thereof) yet he would have it taken forth,and healed up;but this way of e vacuation being ſhut up, and the humor again beginning to flow into his eyes,ſo that he was in danger to becomeblind, he called me and made me again to apply the seton in his neck.whereby recovering his former found- neſs and perfeótion of fight,he yet wears the seton. a eten . i alſo once freed by this kind of remedy,by the appointment of the moſt learned phyfitian hole- good a- - pp :... ººrtinyºungman oftwenty years old, from thefallingfickneſs, who before hadmany fits falling fick- . ; the . * feeders of this diſeaſe, being É; this means,as it is moſt probable, neſs. rawn away and evacuated. . - figure of the pincers ll caiſt - - - *** - - the º: figure of erºsačiual cautery and needle uſed in making a seton. wherefore reing à j scton is of this uſe, i : have thought good in this place to ſet down in writing and by figure, the manner \ of ºf thereof, u for the behoof of pyoung praëtitioners: sºwiſh the patient to fit º on a low ſtool,and to © bend down his head, wº that ſo the skin and nº fleſhy pannicle may v be relaxed; then muſt you with your fingers .rº pluck up and ſever the skin from the muſcles,and takeholdofas much hereof; you can with your - - £ºnot touching the muſcles of the neck for fear of a convulſion and other ſymptomes ; you ſhall then twitch the skin which is held in the pincers, moſt hard,when you ſhall thruff the hot ſºon - through lºo. wounds of each prº - :. through the holes made in the midſt of them; that alſo the nerves being ſo twitched, the dolori- fick ſºnſe may the leſs come to the part. the wound muſt be made or burnt in long wayes, and not twharting,that ſo the matters may be the better evacuated by the ſtrait fibers. but the cautery or hot iron muſt have a three or elſe a four-ſquare point & that ſharp,that ſo it º the more eaſily and ſpeedily enter. then keeping the pincers immoveable, let him draw through the paſſage made b the cautery a needle .with a three or four doubled thred of cotton [or rather a skean of ſilk moiſtened in the white of an egge and oyl of roſes ; then after you have applyed plcdgets dip- d in the ſame medicine,bind up the part with a convenient ligature. the day followiug the neck muſt be anointed with oyl of röſes, and the pledgets dipped in the former medicine applyed for fone dayes after. but it will be convenient to moiſten the seton with a digeſtive made §. yolk of an egge and oyl of roſes, untill the ulcer caſt forth much matter; then you ſhall anoint the cotton thred with this following remedy. rterebinthine ven. iiij.ſyrupi roſat. & ab- ſinthiian, ſº pulveri, ireof,diacrydii,agarici trochiſcati,é rhei,an. ſ.incorporentur omnia ſimuléfiat medi- camentum. which you ſhall uſe ſo long, as you intend to keep open the ulcer. for it hath a faculty to draw the humors from the face,and clenſe withoutbiting. - - i have found not long ſince by experience,that the apertion made with a long thick triangular needle of a good length like to a large pack-needle, is leſs painfull than that which is performed with the aëtuall cautery, which i formerly mentioned.wherefore i would advice the young chirur- geon,that he no more uſe the foreſaid ačtuall cautery.i have here given you the figure of the needle. - - - the figure of a triangular needle. n- azºº s$sssss - (ſº wwww j Şss ſº - Ž///zzzzzzzzzz- - s's sss Ş s nssss tº - *, * -- ...! ch a p. xxv. of wound of the cheek. §). # ny,as to women who are highly pleaſed with their beauties. therefore you ſhall ſpread" two preces of new cloath of an indifferent fineneſs,and proportionable bigneſs with this inſuing medicine...r. pulveri, mºſtithini,ſanguini, draconi,thuri, farine volutili,tragaganthe contuſe gypſi, how to fººbeing a wound of the cheek ſeems to require a future,it muſt have a dry ſuture(as they term the uſe of §º it) left that the ſcar ſhould becomedeformed. for that deformity is very grievous to ma- a dry ſu- piciº,ſarcocolle º ijficiº migre iſ albumina ovorum queſufficiant fiat medicamentum. apply the perces makes dy of cloth ſpread with this on each ſide ofthe wound one ſome fingers breadth aſunder and let ita- auts. lone till it be hard dryed to the skin. then you ſhall ſo draw them together with your needle and ºr : s thred,that the fleſh by their ſticking may . . . §§ alſo follow,and be mutually adjoined, ºt ... as you may ſee it here expreſt. the wound ſhall be agglutinated by this means,together with the uſe of fit medi- . . . . . eines,pledgets,ligatures.but all the liga- ----tures and ſtayes which ſhall be uſed for º that purpoſe muſt be faſtened to the pa- ~ zºº tients night-lap. º . ... but when the wound is great; and - ----- ** ...t- , , ~ / as - - j- a sature fit ( s. deep, and the lips thereof are much di for hare- - - - º %/ . . . . ; fiant the one frºm the other, there ran . -" :----, -, §§§ j. "the no uſe of ſuch a dry ſuture.wherefore - - - ---> º: ||||w – you muſt uſe athree or four ſquareneedle the man- ... ". . . . .”: : - . a º n (that ſo it may the more readily and her therdſ %|\ ‘. … eaſily enter into the fleſh ) being thred - * - with a waxed thred; and with this you muſt thruſt through the lips of the wound, and leave the needle ſticking in the wound,&then wrap the thred to and times,iuſ after that manner which wo- men uſe to faſten a needle with thred in it, upon their ſleeves, or tailors to their ... hats or caps, that they may not loſe them. - " . . . the needle thus faſtened, ſhall be -- * º there untill the perfeót agglutina- . * - . . . . . . . . - - - - , tion of the wound; this kind of future is uſed in the wounds of the lips, as alſo in hare-lips, for ſo we commonly call lips which what are cleft from the firſt conformation in the wombe by the error of the forming faculty. bit ſuch a hirºps ſuture will help nothing to agglutination,if there lye or remain any skin between the lips of the are: . . . . . * ...' . - cc - wound again over the ends thereof eight or tenº. , - of green and bloody - lib. io. ... .ºngue. ritch it above and below;when he thinks he hath ſufficiently ſow wound;wherefore you ſhall cut away whatſoever thereof ſhall be there, otherwiſe you muſt ex- & no union.other kind of ſutures are of no great uſe in wounds of theſe parts, for out of thene- ceſſity of eating and ſpeaking,they are in perpetuall motion; wherefore a third would cut the fleſh; for which reaſon you ſhall take up much fleſh with ſuch needles mentioned in this laſt deſcribed kind of suture as this following figure ſhewes. - the figure of the ſuture fit for cloven or hare lip;aſ alſº the dilineation of the needle about whºſe end the thred is wrapped ºver and under, to and again. to this purpoſe i will recite a hiſtory, to the end,that iſ a- a hiſtory. - ny ſuch thing happen to cone to your hands.you may do the like. a certain gaſcoin in the battell at saint laurence had his upper jaw cut overthwart even to his mouth,to the great dis- figuring of his face. the wound had many wormes in it and ſtank exceedingly,becauſe he could get no chirurgeon untill adecodion three dayes after he was hurt. wherefore i waſhed it with ade- good to cočtion of wormwood, aloes,and a little agyptiacum, both to waſh away kill the wormes,and to fetch away all the putrid matter;i diſ- putrefatti- cuſſed the tumor with a diſſolvingfomentation and cataplaſm, on. i joyned together the lips of the wound with the laſt deſcri- bed ſuture.but i applyed this following medicine to the whole part. r. terebinth.venete v.jgummielemi. ij.pulveri, boli arme- ni, ſan, drac. maſtiches, myrrhe, aloeſ,an. ſ. incorporentur ſimulfiat medicamentum.the wound was agglutinated within a few dayes, a ſmallhole but that there remained a certain little hole at the joyning remaining of the lower jaw with the upper, wherein you could ſcarſe after º put the head of the pin;out whereof nevertheleſſe much ſerous and thin moyſiure flowed, eſpecially : when he either eat or ſpake;which i have alſo obſerved in many others. but for ſtaying of this wa- wounds, teriſh humidity i dropped aqua forth into the bottome of the ulcer, and divers times put therein a little of the powder ofburnt vitriol. thus by gods grace he recovered and became whole. chap. xxvi. ofteward fibenſ. -- how many ºle noſe many wayes ſuffers ſolution of continuity;as by a wound,fraćture and contuſion, wayes the ºº and it is ſometimes battered & broken on the upper part; which when it happens,you ſhall º ºğ. sº reſtore the depreſt bones to their native ſeat and figure, with the end of a ſpatula or fit flick - wrapped about with towe.cotton or a linnen rag.then with pledgets dipped in an aſtrin- the care gent medicine compoſed ex albumine aviynaſtich.bolo armeno, janguin.drac. & alumine uſic, and applyed to ifa bro: , the fide of the noſe,he ſhall labour to ſtrengthen the !. then bind them with a con- ***, venient ligature,which may not preſſe them too much,icſ: the noſe ſhould become flatas it happens to many through the unskilfulneſs of chirurgeons. … the uſe of the figure of pipes to be put into the noſtrils. then muſt you put little pipes into the no- pipes in - ſtrills, and theſe not exačtly round,but ſomewhat .." flat and depreſt,tyed to the night-cap on each fide s. with a thred, left they ſhould fall out. by the help of theſe pipes the bones of the noſe will i. kept in their place, and there will be paſſage forth for the matter, and for inſpiration and exſpiration. but if all the noſe, or ſome portion thereof ſhall be wholly cut off we muſt not hope to reſtore it. but if the noſe be ſo cut, that as yet it adheres to much of the adjacent fleſh, from whence it may re- - - - --- - ceive life and nouriſhment,then ſow it up. for the : lower part of the noſe it may be ſhaken, depreſt and wreſted aſide, ſeeing it is griſtly; but it cannot be broken as the other which is of a bony nature. -- . - - - *m. | |º]|||||p. chap. xxvii. ofthe ſºund fºrge. --- ºs he tongue may be ſo wounded, that either it may be wholly ºut of and lº rived of ſome ..., º, §§ . of . ſubſtance, or only ſlit longwayes or atwhart.the loſe of jº. can- of the ºlº hotbe repaired becauſe every part ſeparated and pluckt from the living body from whence tongue ” it had life,ſpirit and º dyes.for as the philoſophers ſay, aprivatione ad ha- how many: may b ". . - - - - - - !... bitum non ºff regreſſiºbut when it is cut of ſlit longwayes or ſidewayes,it is eaſily reſtored by future, if ſo be that the cloven part yet adhere living body from whence it may draw both matter the cure and form of life.therefore a carefull ſervant ſhall traitly hold with a ſoft and cleanlinnen cloth of a cloven the body of the tongue, leſt it ſhould ſlip away by reaſon of its º whilſt the chirurgeon dit, let him cut off the thred as neer to the knot as he can, leſt being left too long it might be tangled with the teeth as he cats,and . ... ſo cauſe a hurtfull laceration or rending of the ſowed parts. in the mean time let the patient eat ** ... barly creams.almond milks, gellyes, culliſes and broths, and the yolks ofegs;and let him often e hold in his mouth sugar of roſes and ſyrup of quinces; for ſuch things beſides their nouriſhing faculty perform the part of an agglutinating and detergent medicine. i have learned theſe thiºngs i have here ſet down, neither from my maſters whom i have heard with attention, nor by reading of º --- ſ § . f. ſº º lisio. wounds of each part. - — of books,but they have been ſuch as i have tryed with happy ſucceſs in many; as in the ſon of mon- fieur de marigny preſident of the inquiſition,in iohn pietà carpenter dweſling in the ſuburbs of saint german. - - - - - - - - but moſt apparently in a child of three years old,the ſon of the great lawyer monſieur covet, who ahiſtory. fell with his chin upon a ſtone,and ſo cut off a large peece of the end of his tongue, which chanced nature oft. to be between his teeth,it hung but at a very finalſ fiber of fleſh,ſo that i had very little or no hope ººlºgº to agglutinate and unite it which thing almoſt made me to pluck it quite away; yet i changed that .. determination by confidering the loſs of the moſt noble ačtion of ſpeaking, which would lº of ſeaſes. on enſue,and weighing the providence of nature often working wonders and ſuch things as exce the expe&tation of the phyfitian in curing diſeaſes. . i alſo thought thus with my ſelf, the fleſh of the tongue is ſoft, looſe,fungous and ſpungy,neither is it altogether obvious to the externall inju- rics of the ayr; wherefore after that i had once or twice thruſt through the needle and thred up- wards and downwards,and for the reſt ordered the child to be uſed and dieted after the manner i lately mentioned,he grew well within a ſhort time,and yet remains ſo,ſpeaking well and diſtinétly. - cha p.xxviii. of the wounds of the eares. - - - - §: cares are ſometimes wholly cut off, ſometimes but in part, otherwhiles they are only ºf ſlit,ſo that the rent portion as yet adhering to the reſt, is joyncd with it in communi- : on of life. in this laſt caſe it is fit to uſe a ſuture; but yet ſo that you touch not the griſtle ºnly be with your needle;for thence there would be in danger of a gangraene which happens to violated. many by fooliſh curing ; therefore you ſhall take up and comprehend with your needle only the how to skin,and that little fleſh which encompaſſes the griffle. you ſhall perform the reſt of the cure with ſow a - -- - - - - wounded pledgets and ligatures artificially fitted,and ſhall reſiſt inflammation and other ſymptomes with fit e. medicins. but you muſt take ſpeciall care that no ſuperfluous fleſh grow in the auditory paſſage, which may hinder the hearing; wherefore you ſhall keep that paſſage free by ſtopping it with a peece of ſpunge. but you ſhall procure agglutination and conſolidation of the griſtly part ( and therefore next to a bone moſtdry) with dry medicins. but thoſe who have their ears quite cut off, can do nothing but hide the deformity of their miſ-hap with a cap.ſtuffed with cotton on that ſide. cha p.xxix. of the wound ºf the nºn throat. ;he wounds of the neck and throat are ſomewhiles ſimple, as thoſe which only uſe the ... § continuity of the muſcles;ótherwhiles compound, ſuch as thoſe which have conjoyned ... º, ſ- . ſº with them a fračture of the bones, as of the vertebre or hurt of the internall and exter- ºf ººl mall º weins,or ſleepy arteries;ſometimes the trachea arteria, or weazon, and the the neck & aſphagus or gullet are wounded;ſometimes wholly cut off, whence preſent death enſues. wherefore throat. let not the chirurgeon nicddle with ſuch wounds, unleſs he firſt foretell the danger of death, or the paſſie the loſsofſome mºtion to thoſe that arepreſent. for it oftenhappens that ſome notable nervºor.” tendon is violated by a wound in theneck,whence a palſie enſucs, and that abſolutely incurable, if wººd, of the wound ſhall penetrate to the ſpinall marrow, alſo hurt therewith. wounds of the gullet and the neck. weazon are difficultly cured becauſe they are in perpetuah motion; and chiefly of the latter by rea-signes that ſon it is griſtly and without blood.the wounds of the gullet are known, by ſpitting of blood.by the galler. the breaking forth of meat & drink by the wound;but if the § be quite cut aſunder,the patient ºn- cannot ſwallow at all. for the cut parts are both contraćted in themſelves, the one upwards, and ..." the other downwards. but we know the weazon is hurt, by caſting up blood at the mouth with ...; a continuall cough, and by the coming forth of the breath or winde by the wound.the wounds *::::::: of i. veins and ſleepy arteries if they be great, are uſually deadly, becauſe they cannot be ... ſtraitly undu ;for you cannot bind the throat hard without danger of choaking or ſtrangling ſleepy ar- the patient.but for §:a ſtrait ligature in this caſe the flux of blood proves deadly. if the re-ºri; a.º. current nerve ofeither ſide be cut,it makes the voice hoarſe;if cut on both ſides it takes away the º by uſe of ſpeech,by hurting theſe inſtruments which impart motion to the muſcles of the larinx. for fºr the cure if the wound be ſmall, and not aſſociated with the hurt of any notable veſſel, nor of the therecur. weazon †. and eaſily cured; and if there ſhall be necd you ſhall uſe a ſuture, rent nerve then you ſhall put therein a ſufficient quantity of venice turpentine mixed with bole-armenick; "...” or elſe ſome of my balſam of which this is the receipt. § terebinth. vente fêſ, gum. elemișiiij, olei #. hypericoni śiijboli armeni, ſang.draconi, an }. aqua vite ijiliquefiantſmal omnia lento igne, -fiat bal- ſcription of ſamum ut arti, eſt,addendo pulveri, irºof florent.a ::::::::::::::: an. ).i'have done wº with this the au. balſame in the agglutination offimple wounds,wherein no ſtrangebody hath bech. now when you lººk have put it in, lay upon it aplaiſer of diacaltitheus diſſolved in oyl of roſes & vinegar,as that which ºtel, hath power to repreſs the flowing down of humors, and hinder inflammation, or in ſtead thereof ºf ºi. you may apply emp.de gratid dei, or empile ianua. but if the jugular veins and ſleepy arteries be ſilhºol. cut, let the bleeding be ſtayed,as we have ſhewed in a chapter,treating thereof.when the weazon or tºnie gullet arewoundgithe chirurgeon ſhall ſow them up is neatly ashscanand the patient ſhall not... . endeavour to ſwallow any bar thing but be content to be fed with gºlyes and broths. when a w. gargariſme is needfull this following is very good. khorki mjjirumºr.fjjail mund.jujuba-jºkri run an .ſ .glycyrhize .bulliant omnia ſimuladdendo mella roſé iulºp.roſam. ij.fiat gargariſma, ut artis eſt. *e*** * with which being warm the patient ſhall moyſken his mouth,and throat,for it will mitigate the ſº: --- harſhneſs of the part.aſſwage pain,cleanſe and agglutinate, and make him breath more freely. but fjä ºn- that the chirurgeon may not deſpaire of, or leave anything unattempted in ſuch like wounds, i thercoti have thought good to demonſtrate by ſome examples how wonderfull the works of nature are: if they be aſſiſted by art, - , a. - of green and bloody liaio. a hiſtory. acertain ſervant of monſieur de champaigne, a gentleman of anjou, was wounded in the throat with a ſword,whereby one of the jugular veins was cut together with his weazon. he bled much and could not . theſe ſymptomes remained, untill ſuch time as the wound was ſºw.jº and covered with medicines.but if the medicins at any tims were more liquid, he as it were 㺠them by the wound and ſpaces between the ſtitches,and preſently put forth at his mouth that which he had ſucked or drawn in. wherefore more exačtly conſidering with myſelf, the greatneſs of the wound,the ſpermatick, and therefore dry and bloodleſs nature unapt to agglutination, oftheaf- fetted part,but chiefly of the weazon and jugular vein;as alſo for that the rººh artery i. obnoxi- ous to theſe motions which the gullet performs in ſwallowing, by reaſon of the inner coat which is continued to the coat of the gullet,by which means theſe parts mutually ſerve each other with a reciprocall motion,even as the ropes, which run to the wheel of a pulley; furthermore weighin that the artery was neceſſary for the breathing, and tempering the heat of the heart,as the . veins ſerved for the nouriſhment of the upper parts; and laſtly weighing with my ſelf the great i. . he had º º it were the treaſure of nature, i told thoſe which were preſent,that death was neer and certainly at hand. and yet beyond ex - - - - *g. then our art,he recovered his jº. y y pećtation, rather by divine aſtrange qually admirable is this hiſtory following,two engliſhmen walked out of the ci - *y ris for their recreation to the wood of }. one #. lying in wait to ..".: his money and a maſſie chain of gold which he wore ſet upon hima: unawares, cut his throat and robbed him,and ſo left him amongſt the vines which were in the way, ſuppoſing he had kill’d him,having with his dagger cut the weazon and gullet. this murderer came .# to the city;the other half dead,crawled with much adoe to a certain peaſants houſe,and being dreſſed with ſuch medicines as were preſent and at hand,he was brought to the city, and by his acquaintance com- mitted to my cure to be cured. i at the firſt,as diligently as i couſi, ſowed up the weazon which was cut quiteaſunder, and put the lips of the wound as cloſe together as i could; i could not get hold of the gullet becauſe it was fallen down into the ſtomach, then i bound up the wound with medicins pledgets and fit ligatures. after he was thus dreſt he begun to ſpeak, and tell the name of the villain the author of this faët,ſo that he was taken and faſtened to the wheel, and having his limbs broken loſt his wretched life,for the life of the innocent wounded man who dyed the fourth day after he was hurt. - * ~. another the like hurt befell acertain germane,who lay at the houſe of one perots in the firect of nuts; he hiſtory. being frantick,in the night ºut his throat with a ſword:ibeing called in the morning by his friends' who went to ſee him,dreſt him juſt after the ſame manner as i dreſſed the engliſhman.wherefore he preſently recovered his ſpeech,which before could not utter one ſyllable, freed from ſuſpition of the crime and priſon the ſervant, who lying in the ſame chamber with him, was upon ſuſpition. committed to priſon,and confeſſing the thing as it was done, lived foure dayes after the wouñd be. ing nouriſhed with broths put into his fundament like clyſters, and with the gratefull vapour of comfortable things,asbread newly drawn out of the oven and ſoaked in ſtrong wine. having thus by art of chirurgery made thedumb ſpeak for the ſpace of foure dayes. chap. xxx. of the wounds of the cheſt... . ºome wounds of the cheſtart ºn thefore ſide ſome behind, ſome penetrate more deep,o- ºthers enter not into the capacity thereof, other ſome pierce even to the parts contained therein,as the mediaftinum,lungs,heart, midrifle, hollow vein, and aſcendent artery; o- § ther ſome paſſe quite through the body;whereby it happens that ſome are deadly, ſome - not. theſsneº. you ſhalſthus know that the wound penetrates into the capacity of the cheſt, if that when the patients mouth and noſe be ſhut the breath, or windbreaks through the wound with noiſe, ſo that it may diſſipate, or blow out a lighted candle being held neer it. if the patient can ſcarſe either draw.orput forth his breath, which alſo is a figne that there is ſome blood fallen down upon the diaphragma. -- signes that . ... ſignes you may know that the heart is wounded : ifa great quantity of blood guſh out, the hear is if a trembling poſſeſſe all the members of the body; if the pulſebe little and faint,if the colourbe- "*** come paleif, cold ſweat and frequent ſowning affail him, and the extream parts become cold, then death's at hand. - a hiſtory. yet when i was at turin i ſaw a certain gentleman who fighting a duell with another, received a wound under his left breſt which pierced into the ſubſtance of his heart, yet for all that he ſtruck ſome blowes afterwards,and followed his flying enemy ſome two hundred paces untill he fell down dead upon the ground;having opened his body, i found a wound in the ſubſtance of the heart, ſo large as would contain ones finger; there was only much blood poured forth upon the midriffe. signes that . theſe are the fignes that the lungs are wounded, for the blood comes foamy or frothy out of the lungs the wounds,the patient is troubled with a cough,he is alſo troubled with a great difficulty of brea- º, woun: thing and a pain in his ſide, which he formerly had not,he lyes moſt at eaſe when he lyes upon the ded, wound,and ſometimes it comes ſo to paſs, that lying ſo he ſpeaks more freely and eaſily,but turn- the diffe- fº rences of wounds of . the cheſt. -> ed on the contrary fide,he preſently cannot ſpeak. - - *gneº: when the diaphragma, or midriffe is wounded,the party affected is troubled with a weight or ºº heavineſs in that place,he is taken with a delirium, or raving by reaſon of the ſympathy of the ...” nerves of the fixth conjugation which are ſpread over themidriffe; difficulty of breathing,a cough & ſharp paintroubles the patient,the guts are drawn upwards;ſo that it ſometimes happens by º: * * * * * , - - - - - - - - - weincº- | lib.io. - in woundrofeuchpart. - wºmency ofbreathing,that the ſtomach and guts are drawn through the wound into the capacity of the cheft, which thingſ obſerved in two. - - - - - - the one of theſe was a maſon,who was thruſt through the midſt of the midriffewhere it is nervous, ahiſtory: and dyed the third day following. i opening his lowerbelly, and not finding his ſtomach, thought it a monſtrous thing; but at length ſearching diligently, i found it was drawn into the cheſt, through the wound which was ſcarſtan inch broad. but the ſtomach was full of wind,but little humidity in it. the other was called captain franciº d’alona native of xantº gne,who before rochell was ſhot with a . . musket bullet.entring by the breaſt-bone neer to the ſword-like griſtle, and paſſing through thº. fleſhy part ofthe midriffe went out at the ſpace between the fifth and fixth baffard ribs. the wound ſtory. ...hāledup on the out fide yet for all that there remained a weakneſs ofthe ſtomach, whereupon a pain of the guts like to the colick took him, eſpecially in the evening, and on the night; for which :auſe he duſtnot ſup but very ſparingly; . but on the eighth month after,the pain raging morevio- lently in his belly then it was accuſtomed,he dyed;though for the ...; of the vehemency there- ºf simºn malmed, and anthony du valboth learned phyſitians omitted no kind of remedy. the body of the diſeaſed was opened by the skilfull chirurgeon james guillencau, who found a great portion of th.colick gut ſwelled with much windgotten into the cheſt, through the wound of the diaphragma, fºr all it was ſo ſmall that you could ſcarſe put your littlefinger in thereat but nowletus return from whence we digreſſed. - - - - - - we underſtand that there is blood poured forth into the capacity of the cheſt by the difficulty of º breathing,theychemency of the increaſing feayer the ſtinking ofthe breath, the caſting up of blood at j" the mouth and other ſymptomes which uſually happen to theſe who have putrefied and clotted blood poured into poured out of the veſſels into the belly,infetting with the filthy vapour of the ...; ſubſtance, the the capaciº arts to which itſhall cone. but alſo, unleſs the patient cannot lyeupon his back, he is troubledº” *ith a defire to vomit,and covets now and then to riſe whence he often falls into a ſwound,the vitall - faculty which ſuſtains the body being broken and debilitated both by reaſon of the wound, and con-. ºat ºr clotted blood;for ſo putting on the quality of poyſon, it greatly diſſipates and diſſolves the firength of the heart. - • - - - - - is a ſign the ſpinall marrow is hurt, when a convulſion or palfie, that is, a ſodain loſs of ſºnſ: j. andmotion in the parts thereunder an unvoluntary excretion of the lirine and other excrements or a º totall ſuppreſſion of them.ſeiſes upon the patient.when the hollow vein and great artery are wºun- did the patient will dye in aſhort time, by reaſon of the ſodain and aboundant effuſion of theblood and ſpirits,which intercepts the motion of the lungs and heart, whence the party dyes ſuffocated. chap. xxx. of the cure of the wounds of the cheſt. ºf have read in iohn de vigo, that it is diſputedamongſt chirurgeons concerning the conſolº º º#. \º dation of wounds of the gheſt for ſomethink that ſuch wounds muſtbe cloſed up, and; ...; º catrized with all poſſible ſpeed, left the cold air come to the heart, and the vitall ſpirits fly" º * away and be diſſipated. others on the contrary think that ſuch wounds ought to be long kept open;and alſo if they be not ſufficiently large of themſelves, that then they muſt be inlarged by chirurgery,that ſo the blood poured forth into the capacity of the cheſt may have paſſage forth, which otherwiſe by delay would putrefic, whence †. an increaſe of the feaver,a fiſtulous ul- cer,and other pernicious accidents. the firſt opinion is grounded upon reaſon and truth, if ſo, be that there is little or no blood poured forth into the capacity of the cheſt ; but the latter, takes place where there is much more blood contained in the empty ſpaces of the cheſt. which, leſt i may feemraſhly to determin, i think it notaniſs to ratifie'each opinion with a hiſtory thereto agreeable, ..., whilſt i was at turin, chirurgeon to the marſhall of montejan, the king of france his generall, ahiaoyi had in cure a souldier of paris,whoſe name was leveſque,he ſerved under captain renovart.he had three wounds,but onemore grievous than the reſt, went under the rightbreſt,ſomewhat deep into the . ity of the cheſt,whence much blood was poured forth upon the midriffe,which cauſed ſuch difficulty of . breathing,that it even took . the liberty of his ſpeech; beſides through this occaſion he had a ve- . .''. lement feaver,coughed upblood,and a ſharp pain on the wounded ſide. the chirurgeon which firſt dreſt him,had ſo boundup the wound with a ſtrait and thick ſuture,that º: flow out there- t.but ibeing called the day after,and weighing the preſent ſymptomes which threatned ſpeedy death, judged that the ſowing of the wound muſt ſtraight be i."which being done there inſtantly ap- yeared a clot of blood at the orifice thereof which made me to cauſe the patient to lye half out of his |bed,with his head downwards, and to ſay his hands on a ſettle which was lower than thebed, and 'keeping himſelf in this poſture,to ſhut his mouth and noſe that ſo his lungs ſhould ſwell,the midrift be ſtretched forth,and the intercoſtall muſcles and thoſe of the abdomen ſhould be compreſſed, that the bloodi. into the cheſt might be evacuated by the wound; but alſo that this excretion might ſucceedmore happily,i tºruſt my finger ſomewhat deep into the wound that ſo i might open the ori- fice thereofbeing ſtopped up with the congealed blood;and certainly i drew out ſome ſeven oreight ounces of putrefied & flinking blood by this means. when he was laid in his bed, i cauſed frequent in- jećtions to be made into the wound ofa decoètion of barly with honey of roſes and red sugar,which being injećted i wiſhthim to turn firſt on the one,and then on the other ſide,and then,again to lye out of his bed as before:for thus he evacuated ſmal,but very many clots of blood,together with the liquor lately, injećted; which being done,the ſymptomes were mitigated, left him by little and little.the why bite, next day i made another more detergent injećtion,adding thereto wormwood,centaury,and aloes;but ſhing muſt ſuch a bitternes did riſe up to his mouth together with a deſire to caſt,that he could not longer indure not be caſt it.then it came into my mind thatformerly i had obſerved the like effect of the like remedy in *: Ém *. * - - - pi - - - - of green and bloody l i b. . ſpitall of paris, in one who had a fiſtulous ulcer in his cheſt.therefore when i had conſidered with my ſelf that ſuch bitter things may caſily paſs into the lungs,and ſo may from thence riſe into the wea- zon and mouth,i determined that thenceforwards i would never uſe ſuch bitter things to my patients, for the uſe of them is much more troubleſome than any way good and advantagious.but at the length this patient by this and the like means recovered his health beyond my expe&tation. read the but on the contrary, i was called on a time to a certain germain gentleman who was run with a §.f ſword into the capacity of his cheſt, the neighbouring chirurgeon had put a great tent into the mayilu. in wound at the firſt dreſſing, which i made to be taken forth,for that i ...; underſtood there was no galeºlib. blood powrcd forth into the capacity of the cheſt becauſe the patient had no feaver, no weight upon : ** the diaphragma,nor ſpitted forth any blood.wherefore i cured him in few dayes by only dropping in miniſtra ºn...: my balſame and laying a plaiſter of diacalcitheos upon the wound. the like cure i have ha pily performed in many others. to conclude, this i dareboldly affirm, that wounds of the cheſt by will.i.am the too long uſe of tents degenerate into fiſtula's. wherefore if you at any time ſhall undertake *:::::: the cure of wounds which penetrate into the capacity of the cheſt, you ſhall not preſently ſhut them ofen.” up at the firſt dreſſing,but keep them open for two or three dayes;but when you ſhall find that the pa- tient is troubled with none or very little pain, and that the midriffe is preſſed down with no weight, nomi and that he breaths freely,then let the ten be taken forth,and the wound healed up as ſpeedily as you mºna can by covering it only with lint dipped in ſome balſame which hath a glutinative faculty, and laid be uſed in ſomewhat broader than the wound;never apply liniments to wounds of this kind,leſt the patient by wounds of breathing draw them into the capacity of the cheſt.wherefore alſo . muſt have a care that the tent **** put into thoſe kinds of wounds may be faſtened to the pledgets, and alſo have ſomewhat a largehead, É. they ſhould be drawn as we ſaid into the capacity of the cheſt, for if they fall in, they will cauſe putrefačtion and death. . let emplaſt. decalcitheos or ſome ſuch likebe applyed to the wound. but if on the contrary, you know by proper, and certain ſigns,that there is much blood fallen into the ſpaces of the cheſt,then let the orifice of the wound be kept open with larger tents, untill all the sanies or bloody matter, wherein the blood hath degenerated,ſhall be exhauſted.but if it happen at any time, as .#. it ſometimes doth,that notwithſtanding the art and care of the phyſitians, the wound dege- nerates into a fiſtula,then the former evill is become much worſe. for fiſtula's of the cheſt,are ſcarſe wound, of cured at any time,and that for divers cauſes.the firſt is,for that the muſcles of the cheſt are in perpetu- the chen all motion; auother is,becauſe they on the contrary inſide are covered only with the membrane in- eaſily dege- veſting the ribs, which is without blood. the third is for that the wound hath no ſtay, by means ...” whereofit may be compreſſed,ſowed,and bound,whereby thclips being joyned together, the wound a fiſtula. may at length be repleniſhed with fleſh and cicatrized. . - but the reaſon why wounds of the cheſt do every day heap up and pour forth ſo great a quantity vwhy there of matter,ſeems to be their vicinity to the heart, which being the fountain of blood, there is a perpe- - . º tualleflux thereof from thence to the part affected. for this is natures care in preſerving the #. #. arts,that continually and aboundantly withoutmeaſure or mean it ſends all its ſupplyes, that is, of wounds É. and ſpirits to the aid. add hereto,that the affetted parts . pain,beat,and continuall-motion of of the the lungs and midriffe, draw and allure much blood to themſelves. such like blood defiled by the cheſt, malignity and filth of the wound,is ſpeedily corrupted; whence it is that from the perpetuall afflux of blood, there is a continuall efflux of matter or filth which at the laſtbrings a man to a conſump- tion; becauſe the ulcerated part like a ravenous wolf conſumes more bloodby the pain,heat and mo- tion than can be miniſtred ſº by the heart.yet if there be any hope to cure and heal the fiftula, it ſhall be performed, (after the uſe .#. jº. the preſcript of the phyſitian) by a vulnerary potion, which you ſhall find deſcribed when we treal of the garies or rottenneſs of thecure of the tº: you ſhall make frequent injećtions therewith into the fiſtula, adding and mixing #:ſºn with it ſyrupu, deroſºftccu and mel roſarum.neither do if the utrefačtion be great, fear to mix there- §. ". with Ægyptiacum. bút you muſt have a care to remember & obſerve the quantity of the injećted liquor, ºpiniºn that you may know whether it all come forth again after it hath. performed its detergent office. for muſt be put if any thereof remain behind in the corners and crooked paſſages,it hurts the part, as corrupted with: *:::::" the contagion thereof, jcótions, - * : - - - - - the fºrm of a syringe fit to make injećion,when a / - - …....s.º.º.º.º.º.º.º. - alsº - ºrnrºdanºuvnºwnwinnºva antity of liquor is to be inječied into any part. . . aftcr the injićtcd li- quor is come torth, a pipe vofº; or lead, ſhall be put into - the fiſtulous ulcer; and it muſt have many holes in it,that ſo the filth may paſs forth at them; it muſt be faſt tyrd with ſtrings,that it may not fall into the capacity of the cheſt. a gº. ſpunge ſkeped in aquavite, and wrung forth again,ſhall be laid hot to the end or orifice thereof, both to hinder the entrance of the air into the fiſtulous ulcer,as alſo to draw forth the filth thereby its gentle heat,the which thing the patient ſhall much furtherif often times both day and night he hold his breath, ſtopping his mouth and noſtandlying upon the diſeaſed ſide that ſo the sºnic may be the mºreforcibly evacuated; neither muſt we'leave the putting in the pipe,before that this fiſtulous ulcer ſhall be almoſt dry,that , whole as when it yeelds little, or no matter at all;then it muſt be cicatrized. but if the orific of this fiſtulous ulcer being in the upper part hinder the healing thereof, then by achirurgicall scētion, a … paſſage ſhall be made in the bottome;as we ſaid before in an empema. the - lib,io, wounds of each part. - the delineation of the pipes with their ſtring, and funger. the reader muſt note that the pipe; which are fit for thi, uſe, need not have ſo many holes as theſe bere expreſt but only two or three in their ends : for the fleſh grºwing and getting into the reſt, make them that they cannot be pluckedforth with- out much pain. a wound made in the lungs admits cure, unleſs it what be very large,if it be without inflammation; if it be wounds of on the skirts of the lungs, and not on their upper the lungº parts; if the patient contain himſelf from coughing" * much,and contentious ſpeaking,and great breathing: for the wound is inlarged by coughing, and thence alſo ariſes inflammation; the pu and sanies whereof, the harm whilſt the lungs again indeavour to expell by cough. ..." ing.by which means they are only able to expell that . i. in - which is hurtfull and troubleſome to them, the ulcer ‘...; is dilated,the inflammation augmented,the patient waſtes away and the diſeaſe becomes incurable, the lungs. there have bin many eclºgma's deſcribed by phyſitians for to clenſe the ulcer;which when the patientº i. uſeth, he ſhall lye on his back, to keep them long in his mouth,ſo to relax the muſcles of the larinx; j . for thus the medicine will fall by little and little alongſt the coats of the weazon, for if it ſhould fall - down in geeat quantity,it would be in danger to cauſe º: or goats milk with a º littlehony, eſtthey ſhould corrupt in the ſtomach;are very fit remedies for this purpoſe; but womans milk exceeds the reſt. - - - - - - . --- butsugar of roſes is to be preferred before all other medicines,in the opinion of aviºn, for that . ..., it hatha detergent,and alſo an aſtriótive and ſtrengthening faculty, than which . is more to be ***. - i - - - - ſes in ul- deſired in curing of ulcers. when you ſhall think it time to agglutinate the clenſed ulcer, you muſt . or command the patient to uſe emplaſtick,auſtere,and aſtringent medicines, ſuch as are terra ſigillata, bolus wounded armenia,hypocyſts,plantain, not-graſs,sumach, racia and the like, which the patient ſhall uſe in his!” broaths and Écijma's, mixing therewith honey of roſes, which ſerving for a vehicle to the reſt, may carry away the impačed filth which hindersägglutination. but ſeeing an hetive ſeawer eaſily follows upon theſe kinds of wounds,andalſo upon the affe&s of the cheſt and lungs, it will not be amiſs to tº down ſomewhat concerning the cure thereof.that ſo the chirurgeon may know to adminiſterſome help to his patient,whilſt a phyſitian is ſent for, to overcome this diſeaſe with more powerfull and certain remedies. chap. xxx ii. ofthe differences, cauſes, ſigns and care of an hetfive feaver. & heative ſeawer is ſo called,either for that it is ſtubborn and hard to cure and looſe,as things the reaſon nº which have contraćted a habit for hexi, in greek ſignifies a habit; or elſe for that it ſeiſes of the name. Žº upon the ſolid parts of ourbodies called by j hexei'; both which the latin word - habitus doth ſignific. - º • * * there are three kindsor rather degrees of this feaver. the firſt is when the he&ick heat conſumes. ... the humidity oftheſolid parts.the ſecond is when it feeds upon the fleſhy ſubſtance. the third and "“ uncurable is, when it deſtroyes the ſolid parts themſelves. for thus the flame of a lampfirſt waſtes the " oyl,then the proper moiſture of the weik. which being done there is no hope of lighting it again what ſtore of oyl ſoever you poureupon it.this feaver very ſeldomebreeds . ſelf, but commonly follows after ſome other. ** - wherefore the cauſes of a heftive feaver are ſharp and burning feavers not well cured, eſpecially if thºuſe: their heat were not repreſſed with cooling epithemes applyed to the heart and hypochondria. if cold water was not fitly drunk.it may alſo ſucceed a diary feaver which hath been cauſed and begun by ſome long great and vehement grief oranger,or ſome too violent labour, which any of a ſlender and dry body hath performed in the hot ſun. it is alſo oft-times cauſed by an ulcer or inflammation of the lungs,an empyema of the cheſt,by any great and long continuing phlegmon of the liver, ſtomach, meſentery,wombe, kidneys,bladder, of the guts iejunum and colon, and alſo of the other guts, if the phlegmon ſucceed ſome long diarrhaea,licnteria or bloody flux, whence a conſumption of the wholebo- dy,and at laſt aheaick feaver,the heat becoming more acrid,the moiſture of . being conſumed. - this kind of feaver as it is moſt eaſily to be known, ſo is it moſt difficult to cure; the pulſe in this the signs: feawer is hard,by reaſon of the dryneſs of the artery which is a ſolid part; and it is weak by reaſon of the debility of the vitall faculty,the ſubſtance of the heartbeing aſſaulted. but it is little and frequent becauſe of the diſtemper and heat of the heart, which for that it cannot by reaſon of its weakneſs cauſe a great pulſe to . ſelf, it labours by the oftenneſs to ſupply that defe&. - but for the pulſe,it is a proper fign of this feaver,that one or two houres after meat the pulſe feels why in fic- ſtronger than uſuall; and then alſo there is a more acrid heat overall the patients body. the heat of tick hº this flame laſts untill the nouriſhment be diſtributed over all the patients body; in which time the :* dryneſs of the heart in ſome ſort tempered and recreated by the appulſe of moiſt nouriſhment,the heat. increaſes no otherwiſe than lime which a little before ſeened cold to the touch, but ſprinkled and meat. moiſtened with water grows ſo hot,as it ſmoaks and boyls up.at other times there is a perpetualle- - quality of heat & pulſe in ſmalneſs, faintneſs.obſcurity,frequency,and hardneſs,without any exacerba- tion,ſo that the patient cannot think himſelfto have a feaver,yeaſhe cannot complain of anything,he feels no pain, which is another proper ſign of an heótick feaver. the cauſe that the heat doth ſº - cw of green and bloody lipio. things to be taken the ſigne, ſhew its ſelfis,it doth not poſſeſſe the ſurface of the body, that is, the ſpirits and humors,but lyes as of a he buried in the earthy groſsneſſe of the ſolid parts. yet if you hold your hand ſomewhat long, you ſhal ‘hºk ſº- at laſt perceive the heat niore acrid and biting,the way being opened thereto by the skin rarify.cd by ned #: the gentle touch of the warm and temperate hand. whereforeifat any time in theſe kind of feavers the !...” patient feelany pain,and perceive himſelf troubled with an inequality and exceſe of heat, it is a ſign º that the he&tick ſcaver is not ſimple,but conjoined with a putrid feaver, which cauſeth ſuch inequali- ty,as the heat doth more or leſſe ſeiſe upon matter ſubjcét to putrefačtion; for a hºćtick feaver of it '... ſelf is void of all equality, unleſſe it proceed from ſome external cauſe, as from mcat ; certainly if an hippocratique face may {: found in any diſeaſe, it may in this,by rºaſon of the colliquation, or wa- the ºne ſting away the triple ſubſtance.in the cure of this diſeaſe,you muſt diligently obſerve with what affºts it is entangled,and whence it was cauſed.wherefore firſt you muſt know whether this feaver be a diſ- a ſympto- caſe; or elſe a ſymptome.for if it be ſymptomaticall, it cannot be cured, as long as the diſeaſe the cauſe ºf call he thereof.remains uncured;as if an ulcer of the guts occaſioned by a bloody flix ſhall have cauſed it,or &tick, elſe a fiſtulous ulcer in the cheſt cauſed by ſome wound received on that part, it will never admit of cure, unleſſe firſt the fiſtulous or dyſenterick ulcer ſhall be cured; becauſe the diſeaſe fecds the ſymp- aneſſenti- tomes,as the cauſe the effect. but if it be a ſimple and eſſentiall he&tick feaver, for that it hath its eſſence *** conſiſting in an hot and dry diffemper, which is not fixed in the humors,but in the ſolid parts, all the counſell of the phyſitian muſt be to renue the body,but not to purge it; for only the humors require purging, and not the defaults of the ſolid parts.therefore the ſolid parts muſt be refrigerated and hu- mećted; which we may doe by medicins taken inwardly and applycó outwardly. the things which may with good ſucceſs be taken inwardly into the body for this purpoſe, are medicinall nouriſhments.for hence we ſhall find more certain and manifeſt good, than from altering *y. medicins,that is,wholly refrigerating and hume&ting without any manner of nouriſhment. the benefits. for by reaſon of that portion fit for nutriment which is therewith mixed they are drawn and cari- of medici.” ed'more powerfully to the parts, and alſo converted into their ſubſtance: whereby it comes to paſſe malſ nou- that they do not hume&t and coole them lightly and ſuperficially, like the medicins which have only *nº power to alter and change the body, but they carry their qualities more throughly even into the in- the choice nermoſt ſubſtance. of theſe things ſome are herbs,as violets, purſlain,bugloſs, endive,duckſ-meat, or water lentill, mallowes, eſpecially when the belly ſhall be bound. some are fruits,as gourds,cowcum- bers,apples,prunes,raiſons, ſweet almonds,and freſh or ncw pine-apple kernells; in thenumber of ſeeds are the foure greater and leſſer cold ſecos,and theſe new,for their native humidity, the ſeeds of pop- pycs,berberies, quinces. the flowers of bugloſs, violets, waterlillies, are alſo convenient;of all theſe things let broth be made with a chicken,to be taken in the morning for eight or nine dayes, after the firſt concoëtion. formeats;in the beginning of the diſeaſe, when the faculties are not too much debilitated, he ſhall of meals, uſe ſuch as nouriſh much and long,though of hard digeſtion; ſuch as the extream parts of beaſts,as the feet of calves, hogs feet not ſalted, the flaſh of a tortois, which hath lived ſo long in a garden, as may ſuffice to digeſ; the excrementitious humidity;the fleſh of white snails, and ſuch as have been ga- thered in a vineyard,of frogs,river crabs, eelstaken in clear waters, and well cooked,hard egs eaten with the juyce of sorrell without ſpices; whitings and ſtockfiſh. for all ſuch things becauſe they have a tough and glutinous juice, are eaſily put and glutinated to the parts of our body, neither are they ſo eaſily diffipated by the feaveriſh heat. but when the patient languiſheth of a long he&tick, he muſt fecd upon meats of eaſie digeſtion,and theſe boyled rather than roaſted; for boyled meats humečt more,& roaſted more eaſily turn into choler.wherefore he may uſe to eat weal,kid,capon,pullet,boi- led with refrigerating and hume&ting hearbs; he may alſo uſe barly creams, almond milks, as alſo bread crummed and moiſtencd with roſe water and boyled in a decoètion of the foure cold ſeeds with ſugar of roſes; for ſuch a panada cools the liver,and the habit of the whole body,& nouriſheth with- alſ. the teſtices, wings, and livers of young cocks, as alſo figs and raiſons. but if the patient at length begin to loath and grow weary of boyled meats,then let him uſe roaſt,but ſo that he cut away the burnt & dryed part thereof,and feed only on the inner part thereof.& that moiſtned in roſe water, the juice of citrons,oranges or pomegranats. let him abſtain from ſalt and dry fiſhes, and chuſe ſuch fiſhes as live in ſtony waters, for the exerciſe they are forc’d to undergoein ſhunning the rocks bea- hºw * ten upon by the waves.aſſes milk newly milked and ſeaſoned with a little ſalt, ſugar,honey, or fen- *"... nell,that it may not corrupt,nor grow ſowre in the ſtomach;or womans milk ſucked from the dug by be uſed in the patient,to the quantity of halfe af'; much commended;verily womans milk is the more whol- a heółick, ſome,as that which is more ſweet and familiar to our ſubſtance, if ſo be that the nurſe be of a good vyomans temper and habit of body.for ſo it is very good againſt the gnawings of the ſtomach, and ulcers of . the tings,from whence a conſumption often proceeds. let your milch aſie be fed with barly,oats, .."... oakleaves; but if the patient chance to be troubled with the flux of the belly, you ſhall make the milk homewhat aſtringent by gently boiling it,and quenching therein pebble ſtones heated red hot. but ſhings to for that all natures cannot away with aſſes milk,ſuch ſhall abſtain from it, as it makes to have acrid belchings,difficulty ºf breathing,a heat and rumbling in the hypochondria,and pain of the head.let the patient temper his wine with a little of the waters of lettuce, purſlain and water-lillies,but with much. bugloſs water,both for that it moyſtems very much,as alſo for that it hath a ſpecifick power to recreate j ſolid ſubſtance in this kind ofdiſeaſe is grievouſly afflićted. and thus much of things. to be taken inwardly. theſe things which are to be outwardly applyed, are inundtuous, baths, epithemes, clyſers. in- |c cent-- - - - - - ſarayan- unétions are divers,according to the various indication of the parts whereto they are ; lyrd. for ga- il łyed. in anoints all the ſpine with cooling and moderate aſtringent things,as which may ſuffice to ſtreng- then - - lib, io, - wound oftach part. - - oi - then the parts,and hinder their waſting,& not let the tranſpiration;for if itſhould be letted, the heat would become more acrid,by ſuppreſſing the vapours.oyl of roſes, water lillies, quinces, the muci- lages of gum tragacanth and arabick extracted into water of nightſhade, with ſome ſmall quantity of camphire,and a little wax if need require;but on the contrary, the parts of the breaſt muſt be annoin- ted with refrigerating and relaxing thingsby refrigerating i mean things which moderately cool,for cold is hurtfull to the breaſt. but aſtringent things would hinder the motion of the muſcles of the ºf and cauſe a difficulty of breathing. such inun'tions may be made of oyl of violets, willowes, of the fieds of lettuce,poppies water-lillies, mixing with them the oyl of ſweet almonds to temper the a. aſtriðion which they may have by their coldneſs. but you muſt have great care that the apothecary a * for covetouſneſs in ſtead of theſe oyls newly made give you not old, rancid and ſalted oyls, for ſo in º: of ficadofrefrigerating you ſhall heat the part;for wine,honey and oyl acquire moreheat by age; in de oyler. fºof convenient oyſs, we may uſe butter well waſhed in violet and nightſhade water.the uſe of ſuch - inunaions,is to cool,humett and comfort the parts whereto they are uſed; they muſt be uſed evening and morning,chiefly after a bath, - now for Éaths, we preſcribe them either only to moiſten, and then plain warm water wherein the the diffe. flowers of violets and water lillies, willow leaves and barly have beed boyled, will be ſufficient; or renº of elſenot only to moiſten,but alſo to acquire them a fairer and fuller habit, and then you may adde to baths. your bath the decoètion of a ſheepshead and gather,with ſome butter. but the patient ſhall not enter into the bath faſting, but after the firſt concoëtion of the ſtomach, that ſo the nouriſhnient may be vvhy the drawn by the warmneſs, of the bath into the wholehabit of the body; for otherwiſe he which is ſick patients of a conſumption and ſhallenter the bath with his ſtomach empty, ſhall ſuffer a greater diſſipation of muſt nºt the triple ſubſtance,by the heat of the bath, then his ſtrength is well able to endure. wherefore it is fit §: thus to prepare the body, before you put it into the bath.the day before in the morning let him take i. a- an emollient clyſter, to evacuate the excrements baked in the guts by the he&ick dryneſs; then let him s eat to his dinner ſome ſolid meats about nine of the clock; and let him about foure of the clock eat º: thic ſomewhat ſparingly meats of eafie digeſtion to his ſupper. a littleafter midnight let him ſtip off ſome body for chickenbroth orbărly cream,or elſe two rearegs tempered with ſome roſe water and ſugar of roſes in the bath. ſtead of ſalt.some or hourts after,let him enterinto the bath,theſe things which i have ſet down, being obſerved.when he comes out of the bath, lethim be dryed and gently rubbed, with ſoft linnen cloaths,and anointed as i formerly preſcribed, then lethin ſleepithe can for two or three houres in his bed:when he wakes let him take ſome ptiſan,or ſome ſuch like thing, and then repeat his bath af- ter the foreſaid manner.he ſhall uſe this bath thrice in ten dayes;but if the patient be ſubjećtto crudi-thing: ties of the ſtomach,ſo that he cannot fit in the bath without fear of ſowning and ſuch ſymptomes,his firengthen- ſtomach muſt be ſtrengthned withoyl of quinces,wormwood and maſtich,or elſewith a cruſt of breading the - toſted,and ſteeped in muskadine,and ſtrewed over with the powders of roſes, sanders, and ſo laid to *** the ſtomach,or behind neer to the thirteenth vertebra of the §: which place,anatomy teaches, rºd...: that the mouth of the ſtomach lyes. epithemes ſhall be applyed to the liver and heart, to temper the epithemes too acrid heat of theſe. corrett the immoderate dryneſs by their moderate humidity. now they ſhall be made of refrigerating and humetting things,but chiefly hume&ting; for too great coldneſs would hinder the penetration ofthehumidity into the part lying within. the waters of bugloſs,and violets,of cach a quartern with a little white wine is convenient for this purpoſe.but that which is made of french barly,the ſeeds ofgourds, pompions, or cowcumbers of each three drams in the de- cočtion,and mixed with much tempering withoyl of violets, or of ſweet almonds,is moſt excellent of all other.let cloaths be dipped and ſteeped in ſuch epithemes, and laid upon the part, and renued as oft as they become hot by the heat of the part.andbecauſe inhe&ick bodies by reaſon of the weak- . neſs of the digeſtive faculty many excrements are uſually heaped up, and dryed in the guts, it will b: convenientiall the time of the diſeaſe to uſe frequently dyſlers made of the decočtion of cooling and huneéting herbs,flowers,and ſeeds wherein you ſhall diſſolve cafta with ſugar and oyl of violets, or hat a water-lillies.but becauſe there often happen very dangerous fluxes in a confirmed he&tick feaver, ãº. which ſhew the decay of all; the facultics of the body, and waſting of the corporeall ſubſtance, you pening in a ſhall reſiſt them with refrigerating and aſſiſting medicins; and meats of groſſer nouriſhment, as rice, he tickſº: and cicers; and application of aſtringent and ſtrengthening remedics; .# uſing the decoãion of oats.” or parched barly for drink.let the patient be kept quiet and ſleeping as much as may be, eſpecially if he “* .. be a child. for this feaverfrequently invades children by anger, great and long fear, or the two hot ...i. milk of the nurſe,overheating in the sun,the uſe of wine and other ſuch like cauſes; they ſhall be kept º: in a hot and moiſt ayre,have another nurſe,and be anointed with oyl of violets;to conclude,you ſhall apply medicins which are contrary to the morbifick cauſe, - - chap. xxxiii. of the wounds of the epigaſtrium and ºf the whollowerbelly. º he wounds of the lower belly are ſometimes before, ſometimes behind, ſome only touch thº theird - - - - - - eir dif- sº ſurface thereof others enter in ſome paſſe quite through the body,ſo that they often leave the ºnce. aºi weapon therein;ſome happen without hurting the contained parts; others grievouſly offend - tº theſe parts, the liver, ſpleen, ſtomach, guts,kidneys,womb, É. ureters, and great veſ-signs ºf ſells,ſo that oft-times a great portion of the rail, falls forth. we know the liver is ...; when a wounde" #. quantity of blood comes forth of the wound, when a º pain reaches even to the ſword- liver, - - - - - - - * signs that ike griſtle to which the liver adheres.oft-times more choler is caff up by vomit, and the patient lycs ; ſło- on his belly with more eaſe and content. - , mach and when the ſtomach or any of the ſmallguts are wounded,the meat & drink break out at the wound, .." the ilia or flanks ſwell and become hard,thchicket troubles the patient,and oft-times he caſts up more. - - d d choſer, ded. of green and bloody l i b. signs to choleraud grievous pain wrings his belly, and he is taken with cold ſweats, and his extream parts knowwhen wax cold. the greater ifany of the greater guts ſhall be hurt,the excrements come forth at the wound:when the spleen is *...a wounded there flows out thick and black blood,the patient is oppreſſed with thirſt, and there are al- signs that ſo the other ſigns, which we ſaid uſe to accompany the wounded liver. a difficulty of making water ºkiä" troubles the patient whoſe reins are wounded, blood is piſſed forth with the lirine, and he hath a neyes are pain ſtretched to his groins and the regions of the bladder and teſticles. ; that the bladder or ureters being wounded,the flanks are pained, and there is a tenſion of the peden or §.... ſhare, blood is made in ſtead of urine, or elſe the urine is yery bloody, which alſo divers times comes - forth at the wound.when the wombe is wounded, the blood breaks forth by the privities, and the is woun- ded. symptomes are like thoſe of the bladder. signs that the wounds of the liver are deadly,for this part is the work-houſe of the blood, wherefore neceſſa- º: ry for life;beſides by wounds of the liver the º oftiegateo hollow veins are clito º: º: .." ſues a great flux of blood not only inwardly, but alſo outwardly, and conſequently a diſſipation of progno- the ſpirits and ſtrength. - *::: but the blood which is ſhed inwardly amongſt the bowels putrefies and corrupts, whence followes ºp'ss. {. feaver,inflammation,and laſtly death. yºtpaulº agineta writes, that the lobe of the liver ma cutaway without neceſſary conſequence of death.alſo the wounds of the ventricle and of the ſmaſı guts,but chiefly of the iejunum are deadly;for many veſſells run to the jejunum or empty gut,and it is of a very nervous and ſlender ſubſtance,and beſides it receives the cholerick humor from the bladder of the gall.so alſo the wounds of the spleen, kidneys, uireters, bladder,womb and gall,are conmon- ly deadly,but alwayes ill,for that the a,étions . ſuch parts are neceſſary for life; beſides, divers of theſe are without blood and nervous others of them receive the moiſt, excrements of the whole body,and lye in the innermoſt part of the body,ſo that they do not eaſily admit of medicins. further- more,all wounds which penetrate into the capacity of the belly, are judged very dangerous, though they do not touch the contained bowels; for the encompaſſing and new ayr entring in amongſt the bowels.greatly hurts them, as never uſed to the feeling thereof;adde hereto the diſſipation of the ſpi- rits which much weakens the ſtrength. neither can the filth of ſuch wounds be waſted away accor- sing to the mind of the chirurgeon, whereby it happens, they divers times turn into fiſtula's, as we ſaid of wounds of the cheſt,and ſo at length by collečtion of matter cauſe death. yet i have dreſſed many who by gods aſſiſtance & favour have recovered of wounds paſſing quite through their bodies. a hiſtory... i can bring as a witneſs the ſteward of the portingall embaſſadour, whom i cured at melun,of a - wound made with a ſword ſo running through his body, that a great quantity of excrements came forth of the wounded guts,as he was a dreſſing:yet he recovered. another not long agoe giles le maiſire a gentleman of paris was run quite through the body with a rapi- hiſtory. er,ſo that he voided much blood at his mouth and fundament divers dayes together, whereby you know the guts were wounded; and yet he was healed in twenty dayts. in like fort the wounds of the greater veſſels are mortall,by reaſon of the greateffuſion of blood and ſpirits which enſues thereupon. ----- -- –— —---- - ch a p. xxxiii. the cure of wn, of the lower belly. tº. he firſt cogitation incuring of theſe wounds ought to be whether they pierce into the capaci- |ºty ofthe bellysſor thoſe which paſſ no further than the peritoneum ſhall be cured like ſim- - red after another manner. for oft times the kałł or guts, or both fall forth at them. theate of a gut which is wounded muſt be ſowed up with ſuch a ſeam as furriers or glovers uſe, as we for- ... merly told you;and then you muſt put upon it a powder made of maſtich, myrrh, aloes and bole.be- gut. ingſöwed up,it muſt not be put up boyſterouſly together and at once into it; place, but by little and little the patientlying on the fide oppoſite to the wound. as for example, the right ſide of the guts being wounded and falling out by the wound,the patient ſhall lye on his left ſide, for the more eaſy reſtoring of the faln down gut,and ſo on the contrary. if the lower part of the guts being wounded ſlide through the wound,then the patient ſhall lye with his head low dºwn, & his buttocks raiſed up by putting ai. under them;if the upper part be hurt, then muſt he lye quite contrary, that the gutsällingáownwards by ſuch a ſite,may giveway to theſe which are fall out through the wound. but often in this caſt,the gatshaving taken coldby the encompaſſing ayre, ſwell up and are diſtended with wind,the which you muſt diſcuſs before you put them into their place, with a fomentation of the decoation of camomill, melilot, aniſeeds and fennell applyed with a ſpunge, or contained in a bladder or elſewith chickens,or whelps cut alive in the midſ and laid upon the ſwelling ; for thus they do not only diſcuſs the flatulency,but alſo comfort the afflićted part. but if the inflation cannot thus be diſcuſſed the wound ſhalbedilated,that ſo the guts may return the more freely to their place. the cure if the kali ſhall fall out, it muſt be ſpeedily reſtored to its place, for it is yºry, ſubjećt to putrefie; when the for the fat whereofforthe moſt part it confiſts,being expoſed to the ayre, eaſily loſs its nºtiyºheat, kall falls which is finalland weak,whence amortification enſues. hence is that of hiſpocrateſ;if the rall fall out: out. it neceſſarily putrefits. the chirurgeon ſhall know whether it putrefie, or not by the blackneſſe and ºff. the coldneſ; you may perceiveby touching it;neithermuſt you when it putrºfits preſently reſtore it to * its place,torſo the contagion of the putreaftion would ſpread to the reſt of the parts: but whatſoe- verthereofisputrefied ſhall be twitched and bound hard with a ſtring and ſo cut off and the reſt re- ſtored to his proper place:but it's good after cutting of it away to lev: the ſtring ſtill hangiº there- at that ſo you may pluck and draw forth whatſoeverthereof may by being too ſtrait bºund fall away into the capacity of the belly. somethink it to be better to let the kall thus bound to hangforth 'i ple wounds which only require union. but thoſe which entºr intº the capacity muſt be cu- linio. - wound, oftach part. till that portion thereof which is putrefied fall away of itſelf and not to cut it off.but they are much deceived for it hanging thus would not cover the guts, which is the proper place. the guts and kall being put up, if the wound be great and worth ſpeaking of it muſt be ſowed with that ſuture which is termed gaſtroraphia ; but this kind of ſuture is thus made. the needle at the firſt putting in muſt only takehold of the peritoneum,and then on the oppoſite fide only of the fleſh, letting the perito- neum alone,& ſo É. along putting the needle from without inwards,and from within outwards,but ſo that you only take the muſculcus fleſh & skin over it,& then only the peritoneum, until you have ſowed up all the wound.he which doth otherwiſe ſhall . this danger,that whereas the coat peritoneumi is of itſelf without blood,it being divided, or wounded cannot . ſelf beunited to it ſelf, therefore it requires an intercourſe offleſh: otherwiſe unleſs it be thus united by the benefit of the fleſh inter- mixed therewith,there would remain an uncurable tumor after the wound is cicatrized on the outſide. - - - but that which we ſaid before according to galens mind,that all the wounds muſt be ſowed,it is not ſo liś. mºss, to be taken as if that the wound muſt be ſowed up to the very end;for in the lower part of the wound cap. . there muſt be left a certain ſmall vent by which the quitture may paſs forth, which being wholly cleanſed and exhauſted,the wound muſt be quite healed up.but the wounds which ſhall penetrate into the ſubſtance of the liver,ſpleen, ventricles,and other bowells,the chirurgeon ſhall not ſuffer them to be without medicines as if they were deſperate, but here ſhall ſpare neither labour nor care to dreſs them diligently. for doubtfull hope is better then certain deſpair.the bladder,womb.& right gut be- ing wounded,detergent and agglutinative injećtions ſhal be put up by their proper paſſages.i have read nothing as yet in any author of the wounds of the fat,foral of them refer the cure therofto the wounds of the muſcles.yet i wil ſay this by the way,that wounds of the fat how deep ſoever they be, if they be thecure of only fimple,may be dreſſed wihout putting in of any tent, but only dropping in ſome of my balſam, the wound: and then laying upon it a plaiſter of gratia dei,or ſome ſuch like, for ſo they will heal in a ſhort time, ed fat. - chap. xxxv. of the wounds of the groins, yard and teſticles. - - $ en the groins and neighbouring parts arewounded, we muſt firſt confider whether they §§ & pierce to within ; and if they do penetrate, to what inward parts they come, whether ſº to the bladder, the wombs, or right gut: for theſe parts are ſuch neer neighbours that oft- sº times they are all wounded with one blow.but for the wounds of the teſticles, and genitall parts,becauſe they are neceſſary inſtruments for the preſerving the ſpecies by generation, or a ſucceſſion of individualls,and to keep all things quict at home, therefore the chirurgeon ought to be very dili- gent and carefull for their preſervation. wherefore if they ſhould chance at any time to be wounded, rhey ſhall be dreſſed as we have formerly delivered, themedicines being varied according to the ſtate so; the wound, and the appearing and happening ſymptoms;for it would be a thing of immenſe la- bour to handle all things in particular. chap. xxxvi. of the wound, of the thighes and legſ. fººcunds which have been received on the inſide of the thighes, have often cauſed ſodain wvhy º dº :// death.if they have come to the vein saphena,or the great artery, or the nerves, the aſſoci- º ºf ates of theſe veſſels.but when they are ſimple,there is nothing which may alter the uſuall of the high manner of cure. yet the patient muſt be carefull to lye in his bed: for the vulgar italian are of. - - - … nº. w jº. is true : la mano alpetto, la gamba al letto, [that is, the hand on the breaſt, and the times dead. hegon thebed.] but when they penetrate more deeply into the ſubſtance of the part,they . ly. and fearfull ſymptomes,as an inflammation,an . , from whence oft-times ſuch aboundance of matter iſſues forth,that the patient falls into an atrophia and conſumption. wherefore ſuch wounds and ulcers require a carefull & induſtrious chirurgeón, who may fitly make inciſions neceſſary for the corrupt parts,& callofity of the fiſtulous ulcer.some chirurgeons have beenfobold as to ſow together the end of the tendons of the ham,and of other joints,when they have been quite cut aſunder. but i durſt never attempt it for fear of pain, convulſions and the like horrid symptoms.for the wounds of that large tendon which is compoſed in the calf of the leg by the concourſe of three muſcles,and goes rºl. to the heel, i have obſerved that when it hath been cut with the ſword, that the wounds have been #:#’ſ long and hard to care; and befides when at the laſt they have been healed,as ſoon as the patient hath ºn. got out of his bed,and indeavoured to go, they have grown ill and broke open again. wherefore in hard tº łuch like wounds let the patient have a care that he begin not to go or too boldly to uſe his hurtleg conſolidates before it be perfectly cicatrized and the ſcar grown hard. therefore that the patient may be in more ſafety,i judgit altogether neceſſary,that he uſe to go with crutches,for a good while after the wound is perfeótly healed up. - - - - -- c hap. xxxvii. of the wounds of the nerves and nervous parts. ... . . . . . . . . . . . §he continuity of the nervous parts is divers wayes looſed by the violent incurſion of exter- differences, t. malthings;asby things which contuſe,batter and grind in funder,as by the blow of a ſtone, : º a cudgell,hammer,ſance bullet out of a gun, r croſsbow;by thebiting of greater teeth;or the †ed. pricking of ſome ſharpe thing,as a needle,bodkin,penknife,arrrow, ſplinter; or the punèture - of ſome venemous thing,as of a sea dragon;or the edg of ſome cutting thing as a ſword or rapier; or of ſtretching things which violently tear aſunder the nervous bodies.hence therefore it is,that of ſuch wounds ſome are ſimple others compound,and the compound,ſome more compound than other. for of theſe ſome are ſuperficiary and ſhort,others deep and long, ſome run alongſt the nervous body, or . . . thers run broadwayes;ſome cut the part quite aſunder,others only a portion thereof. the ſymptoms; their. which follow upon ſuch wounds are vehement pain,and defluxion,inflammationabſceſs,feaver.de". ſymptomes, s d d . - o . of green and bloody l i b. -- um, ſowning, convulſion, gangrene, ſphacell; whence often death inſues by reaſon of that ſympathy, which all the nervous parts have with the brain. amongſt all the wounds of the nervous parts,there is punaure of none more tº be feared then a ". prick, nor any which cauſeth more cruell and dangerous ... ." ſymptomes.for by reaſon of the ſtraitneſs of the wound, medicines can neither be put in, nor the ſani- deadly. ousmatter paſs forth; now the ſanious matter by long ſtay acquires virulency, whereby the nervous parts are tainted and ſwoln,ſuffer pain,inflammation, convulſions, and infinite other ſymptomes of theſe the wounds are moſt dangerous,by which the nervous and membranous bodies are but half cuta- funder.for the portion thereof which remains whole,by its drawing & contraćting it ſelf towards the originall,cauſeth great pain and convulſion by ſympathy. the truth hereof is evident in wounds of the head,as when the pericranium is half cut, r when it is cut to apply a trepan.for the cutting thereof infers far greater pain,than when it is cut quite aſunder.wherefore it is ſafer to have the nervous body quite cut off for ſo it hath no community,nor conſent with the upper parts,neither doth it labour, or ſtrive to reſiſt the contraćtion of its ſelf; now this contrariety, and as it were fight, is the cauſe of pain,yet there ariſes another miſery from ſuch a wound,for the part whereinto the nerve which is thus cut inſunder paſſes,thence forwards loſeth its ačtion. why a - chap. xxxviii. of the cure of wounds ºf the nervous parts. a wound of t is the ancient doćtrine of the antient phyſitians, that the woulids of the nervous parts . . ſhould not p. be agglutinated(which notwithſtanding the generall and firſt indica- : tion uſually taken from the ſolution of continuity requires) but rather, chiefly if they be contrary to too ſtrait,that the punětures ſhould be dilated, by cutting the parts which are above them, the general and let them be kept long open that the filth may paſs freely forth,and the medicine enter well in yet º, i in many cures have not followed this counſel,but rather that which the common indication requires. xingy. thatºuri is in freſhmenory which i performed upon monſieur le cocq, a pročtor of the ſpirituall court, who dwelt in our ladies ſtreet;he gathering and binding up ſome looſe papers, run a penknife which was hid amongſt them, through his hand.alſo one of his neighbours who went to ſpit a piece of beef,thruſt the ſpit through the midſt of his hand; but i preſently agglutinated both their wounds, without any danger,dropping preſently in at the firſt dreſſing a little of my balſam warm,and putting about it a repelling and aſtringent medicine,and by this means they were both of them healed in a ſhort time,no ſymptome thereupon happening.yet i would not have the young chirurgeon to run this ha- zard, for firſt he muſt be well praćtiſed and accuſtomed to know the tempers and habits of men;for this manner of curing would not do well in a plethorick body, or in abody replete with ill humors, or inducd with exquiſite ſenſe.therefore in #. a caſe it will be ſafer to follow the courſe here ſet down. for wounds of the nerves do not only differ from otherwounds, but alſo among themſelves in man- ner of curing. for although all medicines which draw from far,and waſte ſanious humors,may be re- puted good for the .# of the nerves; yet thoſe which muſt be applyed to punčtures and to thoſe nerves which are not wholly laid jº to be far more powerful,ſharp & drying,yet ſo that they be notwithout biting,that ſo penetrating more deep they may draw forth the matter,or elſe conſume mcdicins and diſcuſs that which either lies about the nerves,or moiſtens their ſubſtance.on the contrary, when j." the finews arebared from fleſh and adjoyning particles,they ſtand in need but of medicines,which may wound, of only dry. here you may furniſh yourſelves with ſufficient ſtore of medicines good for the nerves how- the nerves, ſoever pricked.as r. tºrebinth.ven. olei veteri, an. j.aque viteparum. or r. olei terebinth. j aque vite j. euphor. ſº.or r. radices dracontie, brionie, valeriane, gentiane exſiccatº, & infulverem redatiº...ºniſe cum devotiocentaurii,aut alco, aut exungia veteri; drop hercof warm into the wound as much as ſhall ſuf- fice.or elſe put ſome hogs,gooſe, capons,or bearsgreaſe, old oil, oil of lillies or the like, to galba- num,pure rozin, popanax diſſolved in aqua vite and ſtrong vinegar.or kºkihypericoni, ſambati, & de eu- phorbio an:; jjulphuri, vivi ſubtiliter pulveriſati ſ.gumni ammoni.bdellii an: iſ afetiboni ... terreſt. preparat: jibulliant omnia ſimulad cºnſumptionem aceti. let as much hereofas ſhall ſuffice be dropped in- to the wound;then apply this following cerate,which draws very powerfully. r. oleiſupraſcripti j. terebinth.venet. ſº.diachylonis albi cum gummi, x.ammoniac.bdellii in aceto diſſolutorum, ºn ij.reſin. pini, gum. elemiſpiciº navali, an: v. cere quod ſufficit,fiat ceratum ſati, mole.we muſt uſe ſome whiles one, ſomewhiles - another of theſe medicines in punčtures of the nerves with choiſe and judgment, according to their vvhat j. the temperaments and habit of the wounded bodies. but if the pain yº. .. yeeld not to ſuch remedies,but rather increaſe, with the inflammation of the affe&ted part, a ſwelling ºn .” of the lips of the wound,and ſweating forth of a ſerous, thin and virulent, matter or filth, then you; burnt. ſhallpoure into it ſcalding oil, and ſhall touch three or four times not only the ſurface of the wound but the bottom thereof with a ragdipped therein and tyed to the end of a ſatula.for this will take a- aarº way the ſenſe from the nerve tendon,or membranelikeas if they were burnt with a cautey, and ſo a... the pain will be caſed.so in the moſtgrievous pains of rotten teeth,the thruſting of an hot iron into in pain of their roots,or ſtopping them with cotten dipped in oyl of vitrioll, or aqua vite, gives moſt certain the teeth, caſe; for by burning the nerve which is inſerted into their roots,the ſenſe and ſo conſequently the pain vvi, e. * taken away.so alſo in malignant-gnawing,eating, and ſpreading ulcers which are alwaits aſſocia- }..... ted with much pain,the pain ceaſes by applying an eſcharotick,as the powder of alum;or mercury, ºr mº gyptiacum made ſomewhat more ſtrong than uſuall. that the young chirurgeon may be more ready, *ſed to for this practiſe and theuſe of the former medicines, i have thought good to infºrt the following hi- ſpreading ſtory both for the lateneſs of the thing and the pleaſing memory of the moſt laudable prince. - ...ou charles the ninth,the french king, being ſick of a feaver,monſieur chapellan and cºffelan his phyſiti- ſº.” ans thought it fit he ſhould be let blood; for the performance whereofthere was called a chirurgeºn. wondrous famous for that buſineſs;but when as heby chance had prickeda nerve in ſtead of a º: - ; dg r r r / lib, io, wounds of each part. - king cryed out,that he felt a mighty pain in that place. then i bid, that the ligature ſhould ſtraight- waits belooſed,otherwiſe the arm would É. emuch ſwelled. but he going ſlowly about it,behold the arm began to ſwel with ſuch contračtion that he could not bend it,nor put it forth,and cruel pain moleſted not only the pricked particle, but all the whole member beſides. i forthwith laid upon the wounda plaiſter of baſilicon,to hinder the agglutination thereof.& then i wrapped althearm in a double linnen cloth dipped in oxycrate, putting upon it an expulſive ligature,which beginning at the wriſt and ending at the top of the ſhoulder,might keep the blood and ſpirits from fear of defluxion and in- flammation.this being thus performed, we went aſide to conſult what was neceſſary to be done, both to aſſwage the pain,as alſo to divert the other ſymptoms, which uſually happen upon punčtures of the nerves. i being deſired, thus delivered my opinion,that in my mind, there were nothing better, then preſently to drop into the wound ſome oyl of turpentine warmed and mixed with a little aqua vite.and them all the arm ſhould be covered with a plaiſter of diacalcitheat diſſolved in vinegar and oyl of roſes,bound over and beſides with the expulſive ligature,which we formerly mentioned. for the oyland aqua vite have a faculty to penetrate into the bottome of the wound, and to exhauſt and dry up the ſerous and virulent humor, which ſweats from the ſubſtance of the pricked nerve; and alſo to mitigate the pain by its aćtuall heat. furthermore the emplaiſter diacalcitheos hath a faculty to diſſolve the humor which hath already fallen down into the arm,and to hinder the entrance and defluxion of any new matter. and the ligature is ſuch as by its moderate aſtriótion would ſerve to ſtrengthen the muſcles,and to preſs out and repell the humors which were fallen down into the upper part, and to prohibit that which is ready to fall down.mine advice being approved of the phylitians both in word and decd,the pain was mitigated. but the humor ſtayed in the part, for the diſſolving and dryin§ whereof, this following remedy was uſed. r, far, bordei & orobi an: iſ for.chamem.&melilot.am.p.ij. a diſaffin : butyr. recenti, fine ſale i #. harbitonſori, quod ſufficit fiat cataplaſma adjarmam pultiº. by theſe remedies indº.” the king at the laſt after : months ſpace was perfeótly healed,ſo that there remained no ſign of the de-cataplaſm. prayed ačtion in the part.but ifat any time there ſhall be ſo great contumacy,that it will not yeeld to theſe means,but that there is imminent danger of a convulſion; it will be better to cut it in ſunder whether nerve, tendon or membrane,than to expoſe the patient to the danger of a deadly convulſion; for thus indeed the peculiar ačtion of that part will be loſt, but the whole body preſerved thereby; for ſo we had determined by common conſent, that if the pain which afflićted the king would, not yeeld to the preſcribed remedics,either to poure in ſcalding oylor elſe to cut the finew quite aſunder. - for the late and ſad memory of miſtris courtin dwelling in the ſtreet of the holy-croſs was in our a hiſory. minds, who of a vein not well opencd in her arm fell into a gangrene and totallmortification of that whole part,of which ſhe dyed,becauſe ſhe was not dreſſed with the formerly mentioned medicins. yetwe : muſt abſtain from theſe too powerfull remedies,when the pricked nerve ſhall lye bare, for elſe the pain fwould be increaſed,& more grievous ſymptoms follow.wherefore as fº. mild me- --- dicins muſt be applyed,which may dry up the ſerous humor without biting or acrimony, as r. tere--..., ‘binth.venet.in aqrojlota iſ boli armeni ſubtiliter pulveriſati, iſ, incorporentur ſimul. our balſam alſo is ex- cellent in this caſe,and this of vigoes whech follows.b. oleiroſar.omphaſini .jſ.olei deterebinth. iij, ſucci an ano, plantag. ſ. ſemin, hypericoni, aliquantulum contritism.ſ.tutieprepar. iij calciº decies late cum aquaplantagin: ºne and iſ. antimonii j, ſevi hircini, & vitalini,an. v.vermium terreſtrium cum vino lotorum .jſ, bulliant omnia ſimul #;" demptatutia in cyatho decoãionis hurdºi,ad conſumptionem aque & vini,colentur,rurſumq;igni admoveantur, addendo allam, tutiam, & fiat limimentum cum cera'alba, - ſ.troci.this lininent aſſwages pains,& covers the bared nerves with fiſh this cure of punétured nerves,may with choiſe and judgment and obſerving the proportion of the parts be transferred to the pricked tendons and membranes.but take this as a generall & com- - mon rule,that all nervous bodies howſoever hurt, are to be comforted by ...; them with hot a general oyls,ſuch as the oyls of bayes,lillics,of worms,sage,or ſome other ſuch like remedy being applyed rule for all. to their originalls and more notable paſſages;as to the originall of the ſpinall marrow, the armpits ºdºt. and groins. neither do i think it fit in this place to omitan affect which ſometimes happens to the ..." large tendon of the heel,of which we formerly made mention. for it oft-times is rent or torn by a parts, ſmall occaſion without any ſign of injury or ſolution of continuity apparent on the outſide as by a little jump,the ſlipping aſide of the foot,the too nimble getting on horſeback, or the ſlipping of the foot out of the ſtirrop in mounting into the ſaddle. when this chance happensit will give a crack like a coachmans whip; above the heel, where the tendon is broken,the depreſſed cavity may be felt with your finger, there is great pain in the part;and the party is notable to go. this miſchance may be a- mended by long lying and reſting in bed, and repelling medicins applyed to the part affected in the be- ginning of the diſeaſe,for fear . grievous ſymptomes, and then applying the black plaiſter, or iliacalcitheos or ſome other ſuch,as need ſhall require;neither muſt we hereupon promiſe to our 'ſelves or the patient certain or abſolute health.but on the contrary at the beginning of the diſeaſe we muſt foretell that it will never be ſo cured but that ſome reliques may remain, as the depreſſion of the art affetted and depravation ofthe aëtion and going ; for the ends of this broken or relaxed tendon {. reaſon of its thickneſs and contumacy cannot eaſily be adjoincd,nor being adjoined united. - cha p.xxxix. ofthewound; ºf the joynts. - - . . * * "ecauſe the wounds of the joynts have ſomething ğ. and peculiar to themſelves, beſides". - ºr ºn -- - - - ds of the common nature of wounds of the nerves,therefore i intend to treat of them in (...". º s. o - cular.indeed they are alwayes very dangerous,and for the moſt part deadly by reaſon of arcºalig. tº the nervous produćtions and membranous tendons wherewith they arebound and ingirt nant. and into which the nerves are inſerted: whereby it comes to paſs, that the exquiſite ſenſe of ſuch like sparts will eaſily bring malign ſymptomes,eſpecially if the wound poſſeſs an internall, or as they term it;a domeſtique part of them;as for example,the armpits,the bending of the arm, the inner part of º - d d wt * * of green and bloody lib. o wriſt,and ham,hy reaſon of the notable veins, arteries,and nerves of theſe parts,the looſed continui: ty of all which brings a great flux of bloodſharpe pain and other malignant ſymptomes; all which we muſt reſiſt according to their nature and condition,as a fiux of bloud with things ſtaying, bleed- *** ing;pain with anodynes.if the wound be large and wide,the ſevered parts ſhall be joined with a ſu- ture, leaving an orifice in the lower part,by which the quitture may paſs forth.this following pow- der of vigoes deſcription muſt be ſtrewed upon the ſuture. r. thuri, ſang.draconia,holi armen.terreſigilan. iſ, alocynaſtich.am. j-fiat fulvi, ſubtilis. and then the joynt muſt be wrapped about with a repercuſ- five medicine compoſed of the whites of egs,a little oil of roſes,bole,maſtich,and barly flowre. if it be needfull to uſe a tent, let it be ſhort,and according to the wound thick,leſt it cauſe pain:and more- over let it be anointed with the yolk of an eg,oil of roſes, waſhed turpentine and a little ſaffron. but if the wound be more ſhort & narrow,it ſhal be dilated, if there be occaſion,that ſo the humor may paſs away more freely.you muſt reſt the part,andbeware of uſing cold,relaxing,mollifying.humecting, and unétuous medicines, unleſs peradventure the ſharpneſs of the pain muſt be mitigated. for on the con- anaſtin- trary,aſtringent and deſiccant medicins are good,as this following cataplaſm. r. ſurfur. macri, farin, gent and bordei,& fabarum.an. iiij.forum chame.& melilan.m.ſ .terebinth. iijmelli, communis? iſol, myrtin. ; j. oxyr dying ca: melitis, veloxycrativellixivil com.guantum ſufficit fat cataplaſma ad formam puitiº.or you may compoſe one'd plaſm. the lees of wine, wheat bran,the powder of oaken bark, cypreſs nuts,galls and turpentine, and ſuch like,that have an aſtringent,ſtrengthening and drying quality,and thereby aſſwaging pain, and hin- dering the defluxion of humors. this following medicine is aſtringent and agglutinative.r. terebinth. venet. iſ aq.vite farum,pulveri, maſtich.aloes,myrrheboli armen.am. ij and alſo our balſam wil be good in this caſe, if ſo be that you add hereto ſo much powder which dryes without acrimony,as occaſion ſhal ſerve.i admoniſhed you before to take heed of cold, and now again ; for it is hurtfull to all wounds and ulcers,but eſpecially to theſe of the nervous parts;hence it is that many dye of ſmal wounds in the aphor winter,who might recover of the ſame wounds though greater in the summer.for cold according to £, º hippocrates is ". ulcers,hardens the skin, and hinders them from ſuppuration, extinguiſheth naturall heat,cauſes blackneſs,cold aguiſh fits,convulſions,and diſtentions.now divers excrements are vvhat caſt forth of wounds of the joynts,but chiefly albugineous,that is,reſembling the white of an eg, and *...* mucous,and ſometimes averythin water,all which ſavour of the nature of that humor which nouriſh- ; * ºth theſe parts.for to every part there is appropriate for his nouriſhment and conſervation, a peculiar torn balſam, which by the wound flows out of the ſame part.as out of the branches of the vine,when they are wounds of dallam, y t ws out me part, o y the joynts, pruned,their radicall moiſture orjuyce flows; whence alſo a calluſ proceeds in broken bones,now this ſame mucous,& albugineous humor,ſlow & as it were frozen flowing from the wounded joynts,ſhews hings ačiu- the cold diſtemper of the parts,which cauſe pain,not to be orecome by medicins only potentially hot. ...' * wherefore to correót that we muſt apply things ačtually hot,as beaſts and ſwines bladder half full of muſt be ap- * diſcuſſing decočtion,or hot bricks quenched in wines.such attuall heat helps nature to concoët and plyed to the diſcuſs the ſuperfluous humor impač in the joynts,and ſtrengthens them;both which are very neceſſa- *d ry;becauſe the naturall heat of the joyntsis ſo infirm that it can ſcare a&uate the medicin unleſs it be &#f. helped with medicins ačtually hot. neither muſt the chirurgeon have the leaſt care of the figure and and º: poſture of the part, for a vicious poſture increaſes ill ſymptomes,uſes to bring to the very part though ofwounded the wound be cured,diſtortion, numneſs, incurable contračtion;which fault left he ſhould run into, ſet joints, him obſerve what i ſhall now ſay;if the forepart of the ſhoulder be wounded, a great boulſter muſt be under the armpit,and you muſt carry your arm in a ſcarf, ſo that it may bear up the lower part of the arm,that ſo the top .#. ſhouldermay be elevated ſomewhat higher, and that ſo it maybe º more ſpeedily and happily agglutinated and conſolidated.if the lower part be wounded, when fle begins to be gencrated and the lips of the wound to meet,you muſt bid the patient to move and ſtir his arms divers wayesever & anon,for if that be omitted or negligently done,when it is cicatrized,then it will bemore ſtiffe and leſs pliable to every motion; and yet there is a further danger leſt the arm ſhould totally loſe its motien.if the wound be upon the joynt of the elbow,the armſhal be placed and ſwathed in a middle poſture,that is,which neither too ſtraitly bows it,nor holds it too ſtiffly out; for otherwiſe when it is cicatrized,there will be an impediment either in the contraćtion or extention. when the wound is in the wriſt, or joints of the fingers either externally or internally.thehand muſt be kept half ſhut,continually moving a ball therein.for if the fingers be held ſtraight ſtretched forthaf- ter it is cicatrized,they will be unapt to take up or hold anything;which is their proper faculty.but if after it is healed, it remain half ſhut, no great inconveniency will follow thereon;for ſo he may uſe his hand divers wayes to his ſword, pike, bridle and in anything elſe. if the joints of the hip be wounded,you muſt ſo place the patient that the thigh bone may be kept in the cavity of the huckle- bone,and may not part a hairs breadth there from which ſhall be done with linnen boulſters and liga- tures applyed as is fitting,and lying full upon his back.when the wound ſhall begin to cicatrize, the patient ſhall uſe to move his thigh every way, lºſt the head of the thigh-bone ſick in the cavity of the huckle-bone without motion.in a wound of the knee,the leg muſt be i. ſtraight out, if the pa- tient deſire not to be lame.when the joints of the feet and toes are wounded,theſe parts ſhall neither be bended in nor out,for otherwiſe he will not be able to go. to conclude,the ſite of the foot and leg, is quite contrary to that of the arm and hand. - c. h. a. p. xl. of the wounds of the ligaments. §he wounds of the ligaments,beſides the common manner of curing theſe of the nerves, º § have nothing peculiar,but that they require more º medicins, for their agglutina- vvhy ligaments more £ry than % tion,deſiccation and conſolidating;both becauſe the ligamentall parts are harder and dry - *...* ser, and alſo for that they are void of ſenſe. therefore the foreſaid cure of nerves,and joints ſenſe. may be uſed for theſe wounds:for the medicins in both are of the ſame kind, ut here they º to be ronger lºio. wounds of each part. º ſtronger and more powerfully drying.the theory and cure of all the ſymptomes which ſhall happen thereupon have been expreſſed in the chapter of curing the wounds of the nervous parts, ſo that here weſhall need to ſpeak nothing of them, for there you may find as much as you will. wherefore here letus make an end of wounds, and give thankes to god the author and giver of all good for the hap- py proceſe of our labours,and let us pray that that which remaines may be brought to a happy end, and ſecure for the health and ſafety of good people. , the end of the tenth booke. +++++++++++++++++++tº+tº+tº++++++ of wounds made by gunſhot, other fiery engines, and all ſorts of weapons. t h e e l e w e n t h b o o k. - n the preface. |have thought good here to premiſe my opinion of the originall,encreaſe,and hurt of fiery engines, for that i hope it will be an ornament and grace to this my whole treatiſe:as alſo to intice my reader, as it were with theſe junckets, to our following banquet ſo much ſavouring of gunpowder. for thus it ſhall be known to all whence guns had their originall and how many habits and ſhapes they have acquired from poore and obſcure beginnings; & laſtly how hurtfull to mankind the uſe of them is. . polydore virgill writes that a germane of:obſcure birth and condition was the in- lib: , in- ventor of this new engin which we term a gun,being induced thereto by this occaſion. he kept in a *” mortar covered with a tyle,or ſlate,for ſome other certain uſes a powder(which ſince that time for its chief and new known faculty,is named gunpowder.)now it chanced as he ſtruck fire with a ſteel and flint, a ſpark thereof,by accident fell into the mortar, whereupon the powder ſuddainly catching fire, caſts the ſtone or tyle which covered the mortar up on high ; he ſtood amazed at the novelty & ſtrange effeót of the thing,and withall obſerved the formerly unknown faculty of the powder; ſo that he thought good to make experiment thereof in a ſmall iron trunk framed for that purpoſe according to the intention of his mind. when all things were correſpondent to his expettation, he firſt ſhewed the cºsº, uſe of his engine to the venetians, when they warred with the genoveſes about foſſa clodia, in the #.... ift. year of our lord .yet in the opinion of peter meſa, their invention muſt have been of greater - antiquity;for it is read in the chronicles of alphonſu, the eleaventh king of gaſtile, who ſubdued the iſles argezires, that when he beſieged the chiefe town in the year of our lord . thebeſieged moores ſhot as it were thunder againſt the aſſailants, out of iron mortars. but we have read in the chronicles written by peter biſhop of leons of that alphonſu who conquered toledo, that in a certain . . . ſea fight fought by the king of tuniſ,againſt the mooriſh king of sivil whoſe part king alphonſuefa- - voured,the tunetans caſt lightning out of certain hollow engins or trunks with much noiſe. which : be . other,than our guns,though not attained to that perfection of art and execution which they now have. - - - . the deviſer of this deadly engin hath this for his recompence, that his name ſhould be hid- den by the darkneſs offerpetuall ignorance,as not meriting for this his moſt pernicious invention,a- ... . . . ny mention from poſterity.yct andrew thevet in his coſmography publiſhed ſome few years agone, wwho the when he comes to treat of the suevi, the inhabitants of germany, brings upon the authority and crº- ..." of dit of a certain old manuſcript,that the germane the inventer of this warlike engine was by profeſ- º ſ fion a monk and philoſopher or alchimiſt,born at friburg, and named conſtantine anclzen. howſoe-ji. wer it was,this kind of engine was called bombarda (i) a gun, from that noiſe it makes, which the """ greeks and latines according to the ſound call bombus;then in the following ages, time,art andmans maliciouſneſs added much to this rude and unpoliſht invention. for firſt for the matter, braſſe and copper, metalls farre more traćtable, fuſible and leſſe ſubjećt to ruſt, came as ſupplies to iron. then for the form,that rude and undigeſted barrell,or mortar-like maſſe, hath undergone many formes and faſhions,even ſo far as it is gotten upon wheels,that ſo it might run not only from the higher ground, but alſo with more rapid violence to the ruin of mankind;when as the firſt and rude mortars ſeemed not to be ſo nimbly traverſed,nor ſufficiently cruell for our deſtrućtion by the only caſting forth of iron and fire. henceſprung theſe horrible monſters of canons,double canons,baſtards,muſquits, field pecces; hence theſe cruell and furious beaſts,culverins, serpentines,baſiliſques,sackers, fakons, falco- nets,and divers other names not only drawn from their figure and making but alſo from the effects of their cruelty. wherefore certainly i canãot ſufficiently admire the wiſdome of our anceſtors, who have ſo rightly accommodated them with names agreeable to their natures;as thoſe who have not on- ly taken them from the ſwifteſt birds of prey,as i. alſo from things moſt harmfull and hate- full to mankind,ſuch as serpents,snakes and baſiliſques. that ſo wenight clearly diſcern, that theſe engines were made for no other purpoſe, nor with other intent,but only to be imployed for the ſpee- dy and cruell ſlaughter of men;and that by only hearing them named we might deteſ and abhor them, as pernicious enemies of our lives. i let paſſe other engines of this of pring, being for their quantity ſmall but ſo much the more pernicious & harmeſull, for that they necrer aſſail our lives, may traitº rouſly and forthwith ſeiſe upon us not thinking nor fearing any ſuch thing; ſo that we can *::: - of wounds made by gunſhot, lºri the danger have any means of eſcape;ſuch are piſtols and other ſmall hand-guns, which for ſhortneſs you may of piſtols, carry in your pocket,and ſo privily and ſuddainly taking them forth oppreſs the careleſs and ſecure. fowling peeces which men uſually carry upon their ſhoulders,are of the middle rank of theſe crgines, as alſo muskets and calcevers, which you cannot wel diſcharge unleſs lying upon a reſt, which thcre- fore may be called breaſt-guns for that they are not laid to the check, but againſt the breaft by reaſon of their weight and ſhortneſs: all which have been invented for the commodity of footnjen, and light horſemen. this middle ſort of ºngine we call in lating by a gencrall names clfur, in imitation of the found,and the ltalians who tein its clºſeteresthe french call it hatſutluſe, a word likewiſe borrowed from the italians,by reaſon of the the touch-hole by which you give fire to the piece,for the italians call a hole fuzio. it is tearmed argus (i) a bow,for that at this preſent it holds the ſame place in mar- tiall affaires,as the bow did of old; and as the archers formerly, ſo at this day the mūſquetiers are placca in front. from the ſame wretched ſhop and magazine of cruelty, are all ſorts of minds, coun- termines, pots of fire,trains,ficry arrowes, lances, croſsbowes.barrels, balls of fire, burning faggots, granats;and all ſuch fiery cngines and inventions, which ...} ſtuffed with fucl! and matter for fire, and caſt by the defendants upon the bodies and tents of the affailants, caſily take fire by the violence of their motion. certainly a moſt miſerable and pernicious kind of invention, whereby we often ſce a thouſand of hecdleſe men blown up with a mine by the force of gunpowder; otherwhiles in the very heat of the conflićt you may ſee the ſtouteſt ſouldiers ſeiſed upon with ſome of theſe fiery engines, to burn in their harneſſe, no waters being ſufficiently powerfull to reſtrain and quench the raging and waſting violence of ſuch fire cruelly ſpreading over the body and bowells. so it was not ſufficient to have armes,iron and fire to mans deſtruction, unleſſe alſo that the ſtroak might be more ſpeedy, we had furniſhed them,as it were with wings, ſo to fly more haſtily to our own perdition, furniſhing ſithe- bearing death with wings ſo more ſpeedily to oppreſs man for whoſe preſervation,all things contai- ned in the world were created by god. verily when i conſider with my ſelf all the ſorts of warlike a compº: engines,which the ancients uſed whether in the field in ſet battlls,as bowes,darts,croſsbowes,slings; ºiſon of the or in the aſſault of citics,& ſhaking or overturning their walls,as rams,horſes,woodden towres,ſlings wºn. and ſuch like: they ſeem to me certain childiſh ſports & games made only in imitation of the former. with. for theſe modern inventions are ſuch as eaſily exceed all the beſt appointed and cruell engines which modern, can be mentioned or thought upon,in the ſhape, cruelty and appearance of their operations. for what in the world is thought more horridor fearfull than thunder and lightning?and yet the hurtfulneſs of thunder is almoſt nothing to the cruelty of theſe infernall engines; which may eaſily appear by ºliº. comparing together both their effects. man alone offill creatures is not alwayes killed by being tou. * ' ched with thunder; but it immediatly killeth all other things which are ſubjećt to be toucht there. with. nature beſtowing this honour upon him,ſeeing ſo many creatures exceed him in ſtrength: for all things ly contrary to man;and man, unleſs he be overthrown with it, doth not dye thereof. but theſe fire-ſpitting engines do no more ſpare man, then they do other creatures, and kill without dif- ference from whence ſoever they come, whither ſoever they are carryed, and howſoever they touch. there are many,but more are ſaid to be the remedies againſt thunder; for beſide the charms whereby the ancient romans did ſuppoſe they might be driven away, they never penetrate deeper into the ground than five foot,therefore ſuch as was fearfull thought the deeper caves moſt ſafe. of thoſe things which grow out of the earth,they do not touch the bay tree,and that was the cauſe that it was coun- sueton in ted a ſign of vićtory both in ancient and moderne times. wherefore tiberius ceſar otherwiſe a con- tiberi, temner of god and religion, as he who, indued with the mathematicall ſciences thought all things governed by fate,yet becauſe he exceedingly farcd thunder, he alwayes carried a lawrell wreatha- -bout his neck when the aire was troubled,for that this kind of leaſe is reported not to be touched by thunder. some report that he made him tents of seales skinnes, becauſe it toucheth not this kinde of the won- ºat"" of all theſe things that live in the sea, as neither the eagle amongſt birds, which for that is . fained to be ives ſquire. but on the contrary,charmes,the vićtorious bay, the scale or sea-calfe, the of great eagle or any ſuch thing profits nothing againſt the violence of theſe fiery engines: no not a wall of ordnance, ten foot thick will advantage. laſtly, this argues the immenſe violence of braſen cannons above thunder,for that thunder may be diſperſed and driven away with the noiſe and ringing of bells, the founding of trumpets,the tinkling of braſen kettles:yea alſo by the ſhooting of ſuch great qrdnance; to wit,the clouds,by whoſe colliſion and fight the thunder is cauſed, being diſperſed by this violent agatation of the air or elſe driven further to more remote parts of the skies. but their fury once pro- voked,is ſtayed by no oppoſition, appeaſed by no remedy. as there are certain ſeaſons of the year, ſo alſo there are certain regions of the earth, wherein thunder is ſeldome or never heard. thunders are rare in winter and summer,and that for contrary cauſcs; for that in winter the denſe air is thickned with a thicker coat of clouds,and the froſty and cold exhalation of the earth extinguiſheth what fiel vapours ſo ever it receives;which thing keeps scythia and the cold countries abºut it free from thun- plin.lib. , der.and on the contrary,too much heat preſerves fºyt. for hot and dry exhalations of the earth are cap. , condenſed into verythin ſubtile and weak clouds. but as the invention, ſo alſº the harm and tempeſt of great ordnance, like a contagious peſtilence is ſpread and rages over all the earth, and the skies at all times ſound again with their reports. the thunder and lightning commonly gives but one blow, or ſtroke,and that commonly ſtrikes but one man of a multitude. but one great cannon at one ſhot may ſpoil and kill a hundred men. thunder,as a thing naturall,falls by chance,one while upon a high oak,another while upon the top of a mountain,and fomewhiles on ſome lofty towre,but ſeldom upon man but this helliſh engine tempered by the malice and guidance of man, affailes man only,and takes him for his only mark,and direéts his bullets againſt him. the thunder by its noiſe as a met: ſenger ſent before,foretells the ſtorm at hand; but, which is the chief miſchief, this infernall engine i'oaſs plin. lib. . cap, . ------------- l i b. . and other fiery engins,and alſorts of weapons. juyce therein:then he ſtrained it through a towell without much preſſing; and added the turpentine roars as it ſtrikes, and ſtrikes as it roars, ſending at one and the ſame time the deadly bullet into the breaſt,and the horrible noiſe into the ear.wherefore we all of us rightfully curſe the author of ſo per- nicious an engine; on the contrary praiſe thoſe to the skies, who endeavour by words and pious ex- hortations to dehort kings from their uſe,or elſe labour by writing and operation to apply fit medi- cins to wounds made by theſe engins. which hath moved me, that i have written hereof almoſt with the firſt of the french.but before i ſhall do this, it ſeemeth not amiſſe, ſo to facilitate the way to the treatiſe i intend to write of wounds made by gunſhot,to premiſe two diſcourſes,by which i may con- fute and take away certain erroneous opinions which have poſſeſſed the mindes of divers; for that un- leſs theſe be taken away,the eſſence and nature of the whole diſeaſe cannot be underſtood, nor a fitting remedy applyed by him which is ignorant of the diſeaſe. the firſt diſcourſe which is dedicated to the reader,reſells and condemnes by reaſons and examples the agº. the method of curing preſcribed by iohn de vigo,whereby he cauterizeth the wounds made by gunſhot, ments of ſuppoſing them venenate;and on the contrary proves that order of curing which is performed by ſup- the follow- puratives,to be ſo ſalutary and gentle, as that preſcribed by vigo is full of errour and cruelty. the . diſcourſ; frcond dedicated to the king,teaches that the ſame wounds are of themſelves void of all poiſon, and “ therefore that all their malignity depends upon the fault of the air,and ill humors predominant in the bodies of the patients. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++*************** the firſt diſcourſe wherein wounds made by gunſhot, are freed from being burnt,or cauterized according to vigoes method, -qn the year of our lord . francis the french king for his ads in war and peace ſtiled q the great, ſentapuiſſant army beyond the alpes, under the government and leading of . anna of mommorancy high conſtable of france,both that he might relieve turin with rs'. - -- sº * (yvićtualls,ſouldiers,and all things needſtill, as alſo to recover the cities of that province taken by the marquis of guaſt generall of the emperours forces. i was in the kings ar- my the chirurgeon of monſieur of montjan generall of the foot. the imperialiſts had taken the ſtraits of suze,the caſtle of villane, and all the other paſſages;ſo that the kings army was notable to drive them from their fortifications but by fight. in this conflićt there were many wounded on both ſides with all ſorts of weapons,but chiefly with bullets. i will tell the truth, i was not very cºpert at that libi de vut. time in matters of º was i uſed to dreſs wounds made by gunſhot. now i had read nºr:ºp.º. in iohn de vigo that wounds made by gunſhot were venenate or poiſoned, and that by reaſon of the gunpowder;wherefore for their cure,it was expedient to burn or cauterize them with oil of elders fealding hot,with a little treacle mixed therewith. . but for that i gave no great credit neither to the author, nor remedy becauſe i knew that cauſticks could notbe powred into wounds, without ex- ceſſive pain; i, before i would run a hazard, determined to ſee whether the chirurgeons, who went with me in the army,uſed any other manner of dreſſing to theſe wounds. i obſerved and ſaw that all of them uſed that method of dreſſing which vigo preſcribes; and that they filled as full as they could, the wounds made by gunſhot with tents and pledgets dipped in this ſcalding oil,at the firſt dreſſings; which encouraged me to do the like to thoſe, who came to be dreſſed of me.it chanced on a time, that by reaſon of the multitude that were hurt, i wanted this oil. now becauſe there were ſome few left ... - töbe dreſſed, was forced that i might ſeem to want nothing,and that i might not leave them undreſ, ...” to apply a digeſtive made of the . of an egge, oil of roſes, and turpentine. i could not ſleep all ingout of that night,for i was troubled in mind,and the dreſſing of the precedent day, (which fjudged unfit) remedies, , troubled my thoughts;and i feared that the next day i ſhould find them dead,or at the poiut of death by the poiſon of the wound,whom i had not dreſſed with the ſcalding oil. therefore i roſe early in the morning,i viſited my patients, and beyond expećtation, i found ſuch as i had dreſſed with a di- #. only frce from vehemency of pain to have had good reſt, and that their wounds were not in- - lamed nor turnifyed;but on the contrary the others that were burnt with the ſcalding oil were feave- riſh,tormented with much pain,and the parts about their wounds were ſwolne. when i had many - - times tryed this in divers others,i thought thus much, that neither i nor any other ſhould ever caute- * --> rize any wounded with gunſhot.when we firſt came to turin, there was there a chirurgeon far more famous than all the reſt in artificially and happily curing wounds made by gunſhot; wherefore i la- boured with all diligence for two yeers time to gain his favour and love, that ſo at the length, i might learn of him, what kind of medicine that was, which he honoured with the glorious title of balſan, which was ſo highly cſiccmed by him, and ſo happy and ſuccesfull to his patients;yet could i not ob- tain it.it fell out a ſmall while after that the marſhall of montejan the kings lieſtenant,generall there - - in piemont dyed,wherefore i went unto my chirurgeon,and told him j. take no pleaſure in . . living there,the favourer and mecenus of my ãº, taken away; and that i intended forthwith to return to park,and that it would neither hinder, nor diſcredit him to teach his remedy to me, who the de- ſhould be ſo far remote from him. when he heard this,he made no delay, but preſently wiſhed me to £riptiºn of provide two whelpes, pound of carthwormes, pounds of oil of lillies, ſix ounces of venice tur- º: pºntine and one once of aqua vicinimy preſencehºboyled the whelps put alive into that oil, un-" till the fleſh came from the bones,then preſently he put in the wormes, which he had firſt killed in white wine, that they might ſo be cleanſed from the earthy droſſe wherewith they are uſually re- pleat,and then he boiled them in the ſame oil ſo long, till they became dry, and had ſpent all their juice of wound, made by gunſhot, lib. º to it,and laſtly the aqua vite.calling god to witneſs,that he had no other balſam, wherewith to cure wounds made with gunſhot,and bring them to ſuppuration.thus he ſent me away as rewardcd with a moſt precious gift, requeſting me to keep it as a great ſecret,and not to reveal it to any. when i came to paris,i went to viſit silvius the kings profeſſor of phyſick, wel known by name to all ſcholars for his great learning;he kept me long that ſo i might dine with him,and diligently enquires of me,if i had obſerved any new method of curing wounds made by gunſhot,and combuſtions occaſioned by gun- gunponder pouder.then i affirmed to him that gunpouderdid not participate any thing of poyſon, for that not poyſon: none of theſe things whereof it is compounded are poyſonous;which reaſon ought to free the whole ous. compoſition from ſuſpition of poyſon. and that experience confirmed this reaſon,for i had ſeen ma- ny ſouldiers, who would drink a great quantity of this pouder with wine, becauſe they were perſwa- ded,that this drink would free them from malign ſymptomes when they were wounded; yet i give no credit to this perſwaſion;and laſtly,for thatmany without any harm,ſtrew this ponder upon rebelli- bullets ſhot ous ulcers.for the bullets,i affirm, that they cannot conceive ſuch heat,as to become cauſtick. for if out of a !. ſhoot them out of a gun againſt a hard ſtone, yet you may preſently take them up without any gun do not harm in your hands,though by ſtriking upon the ſtone,they # become more hot.for the combu- burn. ſtions cauſed by gunpouder, i obſerved no ſpeciall nor peculiar remedy,which might make their cure different from other combuſtions. to which purpoſe i related this inſuing hiſtory. *hi!ory. . one of the marſhall of montejan his kitchin boyes,fell by chance into a caldron of oil being even almoſt boyling hot;i ºf called to dreſs him, went to the next apothecaries to fetch refrigerating medicines commonly uſed in this caſe: there was preſent by chance a certain old countrey woman, who hearing that i deſired medicins for a burn,perſwaded me at the firſt dreſſing,that i ſhould lay two a medicine raw onions beaten with a little ſalt; for ſo i ſhould hinder the breaking out fbliſters or puſtules, as *...ºring ſhe had found by certain and frequent experience. wherefore i thought good to try the force of her º medicine upon this greaſie ſcullion.i the next day found thoſe places of his body whereto the onions jº" lay to be free from bliſters,but the other parts which they had not touched,to be allbliſtered. a hiſtory. . it fell out a while after,that a german of montejan his guard had his flaſque full of gunpouder ſet on fire, whereby his hands and face were grievouſly i. : ibeing called,laid the onions beaten as i for- merly told you,to the middle of his face, and to the reſt i laid medicins uſually applyed to burns. at the ſecond dreſſing i obſerved the part dreſſed with the onions quite free from bſiſters & excoriation, the other being troubled with both;wherby i gave credit to the medicin.beſides alſo, i laſtly told him this,that i had obſerved,that that was the readieſt to draw forth bullets ſhot into the body, which ſets ," the patient in the ſame poſture and ſite,as he was when he received his hurt.which things when i had told him,together with many other handled at large in this work,the good old man requeſted me to publiſh in print my opinions concerning theſe things,that ſo the erroneous and hurtfulſ opinion of wigo might be taken out of mens minds. to whoſe earneſt intreaty when i had aſſented, i firſt of all cauſed to be drawn and carved many inſtruments fit to draw forth bullets and other ſtrange bodies; then a ſhort while after i firſt publiſhed this work in the year of our lord . which when i found to be well liked and approved by many,i thought good to ſet it forth the ſecond time ſomewhat a- mended in the year . and the third time augmented in many particulars in the year . for i having followed º wars, land detained as chirurgeon in beſieged cities, as mets and heſdin, had obſerved many things under five kings, whom i ſerved with diligence and content. i had learnt many things from moſt expert chirurgeons, but more from all learned phyſitians, whoſe familiarity and favour for that purpoſe i alwayes laboured to acquire with all diligence and honeſt arts; that ſo i might become more learned and skilfull by their familiarity, and diſcourſe, if there was any thing j. in this matter and kind of wounds, which was hid from wounds me,or whereof i was not well aſſured.cf which number i have known very few, who any thing ſeen *:::: in this kind efoperation either by ſtudy, or experience in wars,who have not thought that wounds ... made by gunſhot ought to be dreſſed at the firſt with ſuppurative medicins,and not with ſcalding and jedwith cauſtick oil. for this i affirm,which then alſo i teſtifica to this good man,that i have found very ma- ſuppura- ny wounds made in the fleſhy parts by gunſhot as eaſily cured as other wounds, which be made by rives. sº in the parts of the body where the bullet meets with bones and nervous parti- !". cles,both becauſe it tears and rends into ſmall peeces thoſe things which reſiſt,not only where it tou- . ..." ches.but further alſo through the violence ofthe blow,therefore it cauſthmany andgrievous ſymp; cuſ c. tomes,which are ſtubborn and difficult,and oft-times impoſſible to cure,eſpecially in bodies replete with - ill humors,in an ill conſtitution of the heaven and air,ſuch as is hot, moiſt and foggy weather, which therefore is ſubjećt to putrefaction; & in like manner a freezing and cold ſeaſon, which uſes to mortifie the wounded parts not only of thoſe that are hurt with bullets, but in like ſort with any other wea- pon;not only in bony and nervous particles,but alſo in muſculous.whereby'you may underſtand,that the difficulty of curing proceeds not from the venenate quality of the wounds; northecombuſtion made by the gunpouder,but the foulneſs of the patients bodies and the unſeaſonableneſs of the air. a hiſtory. forproof whereof. i will ſet down,that which i not long agone, obſerved in a scottiſh nobleman the earl of gordon.lord of achindon, whom i cured at the appointment of the queen-mother. he was ſhot through both his thighes with a piſtoll,the bone being not hurt nor touched;and yet the .day after the wound he was perfečtly healed, ſo that he had neither feayer nor any other ſymptom which came upon the wound.whereof there are worthy witneſſes,the archbiſhop of glaſco, the scottiſh em- baſſadour,francis brigart,and john altine dočtors of phyſick,as alſo iames guillemeau the kings chirur- geon,and giles buzet a scottiſh chirurgeon,who all of them wondred that this gentleman was ſo ſoon healed, no acrid medicin being applyed. this i have thought good to recite and ſet down, that the readers may underſtand,that i for years ago had found the way to cure wounds made by gunſhot, º with- l i b. , and other fiery enginſ,and alſorts of weapons. ii ſon, but chicfly the brimſtone,(which notwithſtanding is more ſuſpe&ted than the reſt.)for dioſcorides without ſcalding oil or any other, more acrid medicin ; unleſs by accident the ilneſs of the patients whº - bodies and of the air cauſed any malign ſymptomes, which might require ſuch remedics beſides the ºººh" regular and ordinary way ofcuring,which ſhall beniore amply treated of in the following diſcourſe. ... uſe cauſticks $$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$: - - - - . - made by another diſcourſe oftheſe things, which king charles the ninth,” returning from the expedition and taking of roven, inquired of me concerning wounds made by gunſhot. §sºcr that it pleaſed your majeſty one day, together with the queen mother, the prince of rheosa- § the rock upon ton,and many other noble men,and gentlemen,to inquire of me, what was fin of wi: º, the cauſe that the far greater part of the gentlemen and common souldiers which were ling this §§ wounded with guns, and other warlike engines, all remedies uſed in vain, either dy-diſcourſe. ed, or ſcarſe and that with much difficulty recovered of their hurts, though in appea- rance they were not very great,and though the chirurgeons diligently performed all things requiſite in their art: i have made bold to premiſe this diſcourſe to that tračtate which i determin to pub- liſh concerning wounds made by gunſhot; both to ſatisfie the deſires of the princes and of many gen- tlemen,as alſo the expe&tation they have of me,as being the kings chief chirurgeon, (which place be- ing given me by henry the second,charles the ninth,a son moſt worthy of ſuch a father,had confirm- ed)neither make i any queſtion,but that ". who too much inſiſt upon their own judgment,and not throughly conſider the things themſelves, will marvail,and think it far from reaſon; that i departing the argue from the ſteps of my anceſtors, and diſſenting wholly from the formerly received opinions, and far mºnt ºf from their tcnents,who lay the cauſe of the malignity of wounds made by gunſhot, upon the poyſon ... brought into the body by the gunpouder, or mixed with the bullets whilſt they are tempered or caſt. “ yet for all this,if they will curteouſly and patiently weigh my reaſons,they ſhall cither think as i do, or at leaſt ſhall judg this my indeavour and pains taken for the publike good, not to be condemned nor contemned. for iſhall make it evident by moſt ſtrong reaſons drawn out of the writings of the ancients both philoſophers and phyſitians, and alſo by certain experiments of my own, and other chirurgeons,that the malignity and contumacy which we frequently meet withall in curing wounds made by gunſhot,is not to be attributed either to the poyſon carryed into the body by the gunpouder or bullet,nortoburning imprinted in theyounded part by the gunpouder.wherefore to come to our gunpowde: purpoſe,that opinion muſt firſt be confuted,which accuſeth wounds made by gunſhot of poyſon; and is not poſſ- we muſt teach,that there is neither any venenate ſubſtance,nor quality in günpouder, neither if there *s. ſhould be any, could it impoyſon the bodies of ſuch as are wounded.which that we may the more ea- ſily perform, we muſt examin the compoſition of ſuch pouder,and make a particular inquiry of each jº. ſimples, whereof this compoſition conſiſts, what effence they have, what ſtrength and faculties, and laſtly, what effečts they may produce. for thus by knowing the ſimples,the whole nature of the compoſition conſiſting of them, will be apparently manifeſt. the ſimples which cnter the compoſition of gunpouder are only three, charcoals of sallow or of what it willow, or of hempſtalks,brimſtone,and salt-peter,andſometimes a little aquavite. you ſhall find * * each of theſe,if conſidered in particular, void of allpoyſon and venenate quality. for firſt in the char- coal you ſhall obſerve nothing but dryneſs, & a certain ſubtlety of ſubſtance,by means whereof it fires ſo ſodainly, even as tinder. sulphur or brimſtone is hot and dry,but not in the higheſt degree,it is offin oily & viſcid ſubſtance,yet ſo that it doth not ſo ſpeedily catch fire as the coal,though it retain it lon- ger being once kindled.neither may it be ſo ſpeedily extinguiſhed. salt-peter is ſuch, that many uſe it for ſalt, whereby it is evidently apparent that the nature of ſuch ſimples is abolutely free from all poy- v. lib. %ap. gives brimſtone to be drunk, or ſupped out of arear egg to ſuch as are aſhmatick troubled with the #: #;" cough, ſpit up purulent matter, and are troubled with the yellow jaundiſc.)but galen applyes it out- !!! .caps wardly to ſuch as are bitten by venemous beaſts,to ſcabs,teaters,& leproſies.for the aqua vite,it is of ſo tenuous a ſubſtance that it preſently vaniſheth into air,and alſo very many drink it,and it is without any harm uſed infrićtions of the exteriour parts of the body.whence you may gather, that this pou- der is free fiom all manner of poyſon,ſeeing theſe things whereofit conſiſts and is compoſed, want all ſuſpition thereof. therefore the germane horſemen,when they are wounded with ſhot, fear not to drink off cheerfully half an ounce of gunpouder diſſolved in wine; hence perſwading themſelves freed from ſuch malign ſymptomes as uſually happen upon ſuch wounds;wherein whether they do right or wrong i do not here determin;the ſame thing many french ſouldiers forced by no neceſſity,but only to ſhew themſelves more courageous,alſo do without any harm; but divers with good ſucceſs uſe to ſtrew it upon ulcers,ſo to dry them. now to come to theſe who think that the venenate quality of wounds bullets cad: made by gunſhot,ſprings not from the pouder,but from the bullet wherewith ſome poyſon hath been ºf º poy: commixt ôj. which hath been tempered or ſteeped in ſome poyſonous liquor. this may “"“” ſufficiently ſerve for a reply; that the fire is iº, powerfull to diſſipate all the ſtrength of the poyſon,if any ſhould be poured upon or added to the bullet. this much confirms my opinion which every one knows;the büllets which the kings souldiers uſed to ſhoot againſt the townſemen in the ſiege of roven, were free from all poyſon;and yet for all that they of the town thought that thay were all poyſoned,when they found the wounds made by them,to be uncurable and deadly.now - - . of of wounds made by gunſhot, lib. n on the other ſide the townſmen were falſly ſuſpećted guilty of the ſame crime by the kings army, when as they perceived all the chirucgrons labour in curing wounds made by the bullets ſhot from roven,to be fruſtrated by their contumacy and malign nature;each ſide judging of the magnitude and malignity of the cauſe from the unhappy ſucceſs of the effečt in curing. even as amongſt phyſitians ac- as galen cording to hippocrates;all diſeaſes are termed peſtilent,which ariſing from whatſoever common cauſe, notes ad kill many people;ſo alſo wounds made by gunſhot, may in ſome reſpećt be called peſtilent, for that fºnt. . % they are more refraćtory,and difficult to cure than others, and not becauſe they partake of any poy- - #ſº ſonous quality,but by default of ſome common cauſe, as the ill complexions of the patients, the in- • . , feations of the air,& the corruption of meats and drinks.for by theſe cauſes wounds acquirean evilna- ture,and become leſs yeelding to medicins.now we have by theſe reaſons convinced of error that opi- nion which held wounds made by gunſhot for poyſonous; let us now come to overthrow that which is held concerning their combuſtion. - º wounds firſt, it can ſcarſe be underſtood howbullets which are commonly made of lead,can attain to ſuch sº . heat,but that they muſt be melted,and yet they are ſofar from melting,that being ſhot out of a mus- ...” ket they wil pierce through an armour and the whole body beſides,yet remain whole or but a little di- burnt. miniſht.beſides alſo,if you ſhoot them againſt a ſtonewall,you may preſently take them up in your hand without any harm,and alſo without any manifeſt ſenſe of heat;though their heat by the ſtriking upon the ſtone ſhould be rather increaſed if they had any. furthermore,a bullet ſhot into a barrell of gunpouder,would preſently ſet it all onfire;if the bullet ſhould acquire ſuch heat by the ſhooting, but it is not ſo.for if at any time the pouder be fired by ſuch an .. we muſt not imagine that * * it is done by the bullet bringing fire with it,but by the ſtriking and colliſion thereof againſt ſome iron, or ſtone that oppoſes or meets therewith, whence º, of fire proceeding as from a flint,the ouder is fired in a moment. the like opinion we have of thatched houſes,for they are not fired by the |. which is ſhot, but rather by ſome other thing as linnen rags, brown paper and the like, which rogues and wicked perſons faſten to their bullets. there is another thing which more confirms me in this opinion, which is;take a bullet of waxe, and keep it from the fire, É. otherwiſe it would melt,and ſhoot it againſt an inch board,and it will go through it; whereby you may underſtand that the ſea. bullets cannot become ſo hot by ſhooting,to burn like a cautery. but the orifices (may ſome ſay) of ſon why ſuch wounds are alwayes black.this indeed is true,but it is not from the effe& of heat brought thi- ... ther by the bullet,but the force of the contuſion. now the contuſion is exceeding great, both be- {... cauſe the bullet is round,and enters the body with incredible violence.of which thoſe that are woun- look black. ded will give you ſufficient teſtimony,for there is none of them, which thinks not preſently upon the blow,that as it were ſome poſt,or thing of the like weight,falls upon the affected member,whence great pain and ſtupidity poſſeſs the part, whereby the native heat and ſpirits are ſo much diſſipated, that a gangrene may follow. but for the eſchar which they affirm is madeby the blow, and falls away af. terwards,they are much miſtaken.for certain particles of the membranes and fleſh contuſed and torn by the violence of the bullet beguiles jº preſently putrefying are ſevered from the ſound . parts by the power of nature and the ſeparating heat, which thing uſually happens in all great con- tuſions. but for all that theſe ſo many and weighty reaſons may free the pouder from all ſuſpition of poiſon,and the bullet from all thought of burning; yet there arc many who inſiſting upon philoſo- }.} arguments raiſe new ſtirs.for (ſay they)the diſcharging a peice of ordinance is abſolutely ike thunder and lightning,which the rent and torn clouds caſtfrom the middle region upon the earth;wherefore the iron bullet which is ſhot out of the cannon muſt needs have a venenate and burn- the ſº... ing faculty. i am not ignorant that lightning generated of a groſs and viſcous exhalation, breaking ... the cloud wherewith it is incompaſſed, never fals upon the earth,but brings fire with it,one while more z ... ſubtile,another while moregroſs,according to the various condition of the matter whence the exhala- ausſina. tion hath ariſºn for seneca writes that there are three ſeverall kinds of lightning differing in burning, lib- .cap. condition and plenty.one of them penetrates or rather perforates by the tenuity of the matter of the . objećt which it touches.the other with a violent impetuoſity breaks in ſunder and diſſipates the ob- jećts,by reaſon it hath a more denſe,compačt & forcible matter,like as whirlwinds have.the third, for that it conſiſts of a more terreſtriall matter, burns what it touches,leaving behind it the impreſſion of the flink: the burning.alſo i know that lightning is of a peſtilent & ſtinking nature, occaſioned by the groſneſs ºg ſnºll of and viſcidity of the matter whereof it is; which matter taking fire ſends forth ſolothſome & odious a *"& ſmel,that the very wild beafiscannot indureit,but leave their dens,if they chance to be touched with ſuch a lightning.beſides alſo we have read in the northern hiſtory of olaus magnuſ,that in ſome places after a lightning,you ſhall find a whole plain ſpread over with brimſtone,which brimſtone notwith- ſtanding is extinguiſhed, unprofitable, and of no efficacy. but grant theſe things be thus, yet muſt we not therefore conclude,that the bullets of the great ordnance carry poyſon and fire with them into the wounds.for though there be many things like in lightning .#diſcharging great ordnance, yet they have no ſimilitude cither in matter or ſubſtance,but only in effe&ts,whereby they ſhake, break in ſunder and diſperſe the bodies which withſtand them; for lightning and thunder do it by means of fire,& oft-times of a ſtone generated in them, which is therefore tearmed,a thunderbolt; but ordnance by the bullet carried by the force of the air,more violently driving and forcing it forwards. neither if any ſhould by more powerful arguments force me to yeeld that the matter of the lightning and ſhoot- ...cº. ing of qrdnance are alike, yet will i not therefore beforced to confeſs that wounds made by gunſhot . are combuſt.for according to pliny,there are ſome lightnings which conſiſting of a moſt dry matter,do ihe won ſhattter in ſunder all that withſtands them, but do not burn at all ; others which are of ſomewhat a dºrſulina: more humid nature,burn no more than the former,but only black ſuch things as they touch;laſtly,o- .*.*... therſome of a more ſubtile and tenuous matter,whoſe nature(as seneca faith)we muſt not doubt to be ſomc light- ******** - - - .." divine,ifbut for this reaſon,that they will melt gold & ſilver,not harming the purſe;a ſword,hot hurt- ing —t- lºri, and other fiery enging and alſorts of weapons. - ing the purſe;a ſword, not hurting the ſcabbard;the head of a lance, not burning the wood, and ſhed wine not breaking the veſſell. according to which decree i can grant, that theſe lightnings which break in ſunder, melt and diſſipate,and performe other effects ſo full of admiration,are like in ſubſtance to the ſhot of i. ordnance; but not theſe which carry with them fire and flame. - in proofewhereofthere comes into my mind the hiſtory of a certain souldier, out of whoſe thigh a hiſtory. i remember i drew forth a bullet wrapped in the taffety of his breeches,which had not any ſign of tea- - ring or burning.beſides, have ſeen many who not wounded, nor ſo much as touched, yet notwith- finding have with the very report andwind of a cannon bullet,ſliding cloſe by their ears,ſain down . º for dead,ſo that their members becomming livid and black, they have dyed by a gangrene enſuing . e º, thereupon.theſe and ſuch effe&ts are like the effetts of lightnings which we lately mentioned, and yet gunſhot they bear no ſign nor mark of poiſon. from whence i dare now boldly conclude, that wounds made ſºme few by gunſhot are neither poiſoned, nor burnt. but ſccing the danger of ſuch wounds in theſe laſt civill yº" wars hath been ſo great, univerſall and deadly to ſo many worthy perſonages and valiant men, what i. ſo then may have been the cauſe thereof, if it were neither combuſtion, nor the venenate quality of the ady. wound? this muſt we therefore now inſiſt upon and ſomewhat hardily explain. thoſe who have the cauſe ſpent all their time in the learning and ſearching out the myſterics of naturall philoſophy, would of the have all men think and beleeve,that the foure elements have ſuch mutuall ſympathy,that they may be ...; changed each into other; ſo that they not only undergoe the alterations of the firſt qualitics which are alºnga. heat.coldneſſe,dryneſſe and noiſture,but alſo the mutation of their proper ſubſtances by rarefattion theſe and condenſation. for thus the fire is frequently changed into air, the air into water, the water into hºllowes air,and the water into earth;and on thccontrary,the earth into water,the water into air, the air into here mºn- fire becauſe theſe : firſt bodies have in their common matter enjoyed the contrary and fighting, yet º * firſt and principall qualitics of all. thor,are whereof we have an example in the * ball-bellowes brought out of germany, which are made of bals made braſſº,hollow and round;and have a very ſmall hole in them, whereby the water is put in, and ſo put ºf bºi" to the fire;the water by the aëtion thereof is rarified into air,and ſo they ſend forth wind with a great form * noiſe,and blow ſtrongly as ſoon as they grow throughly hot. you may try the ſame with cheſnuts, f: ſmal which caſt whole and undivided into the fire,preſently fly aſunder with a great crack;becauſe the wa- hole in try and innate humidity turned into wind by the force of the fire, forcibly breaks his paſſage forth. their lºſſer for the air or wind raiſed from the waterby rariſaćtion,requires a larger place, neither can it now be tº contained in the narrow filmes, or skins of the cheſnut, wherein it was formerly kept. luſt after the º ſame manner gunpouder being fiered, turnes into a far greater proportion of air, according to the with ºte: truth of that philoſophicall propoſition, which ſaith, of one part of earth, there are made ten of wa- you muſt ter;ofone of water,ten of air;and of one of air are made ten offire.now this fire)not poſſible to be pent hºt, hºm in the narrow ſpace of the pcice, wherein the pouder was formerly contained, endeavours to force its ... paſſage with violence,and ſo caſts forth the bullet lying in the way, yet ſo that it preſently vaniſhes : º into air,and doth not accompany the bullet to the mark, or objećt, which it batters,ſpoiles and breaks contained . aſunder. yet the bullet may drive the obvious air with ſuch violence, that men are often ſooner tou- in them wil ched therewith than with the bullet,and dyeby having their bones ſhattered and broken without any ... hurton the fleſh which covers them; which as we formerly noted, it hath common with lightning. ...; we find the like in mincs,when the pouder is once fiercd.it removes & ſhakes even mountains of earth. by pring - in the year of our lord . a quantity of this pouder which was not very great taking fire by then pre- accident in the arcenall of paris, cauſed ſuch a tempeſt, that the whole city ſhooke therewith, but it ºnly inº quite overturned divers ofthe neighbouring houſes,and ſhook off the tyles and broke the windowes . : afthoſe which were further off;&to conclude, lika formeoflightning it laid many here and there?..." for dead,ſome loſt their fight,'others their hearing, and ... their limbs torn aſunder as if much,and they had been rent with wild horſes;and all this was done by the only agitation of the air into which ſo wil the fired gunpouder was turned:iuſ after the ſame manner as windes pent up in hollow places of the ... the earth which want vents.for in ſeeking paſſage forth, they vehemently ſhake the fides of the earth,and ...”in raging with a great noiſeabout the cavities, they make all the ſurface thereof to tremble; ſo that by #. . the various agitation one while up, another down, it overturnes or carries it to another place. for tur vacuum. thus we have read that mºgara and aegina anciently moſt famous cities of greece were ſwallowed up then put and quite overturned by an earthquake;i omit the great bluſterings of the windes ſtriving in the cavi- §: l tics of the earth, which repreſent to ſuch as heare them at ſome diſtance, the fierce affailing of cities, agains. the bellowing of bullets,the horrid roarings of lions, neither are they much unlike to the roaring rifying the reports of cannons. theſe things being thus premiſed letus come to the thing we have in hand. a-water into alongſt things neceſſary for liſe,there is none cauſes greater changes in us than the air; which is conti- i. ill, nually drawn into the bowells appointed by nature, and whether we ſleep, wake, or what elſe ſoever . him. we do, we continuall draw in,and breath it out. through which occaſion hippºcrates calls it divine, arongcon- for that breathing through this mundane orbe, it embraces, nouriſhes, ğ. and keeps in quiet ſinued and peace all things contained therein,friendly conſpiring with the ſtars from whom a divine vertue is in-º. fuſed therein. for the air diverfly changed and affečted by the ſtars, doth in like manner produce va- *:::::. rious changes in theſe lowermundane bodies.and hence it is that philoſophers and phyſitians do ſo ºper ind ſeriouſly wiſh us to behold and conſider the culture and habit of places, and conſtitution of the air, blow of a when they treat of preſerving of health,or curing diſeaſes. for in thºſe the great power and dominion º bf the air is very apparent asiyou may gather by the foure ſeaſons of the year; for in ſummer the air *...; being hot and dry,heats and dryes our bodies ; but in winter it produceth in us the effe&ts of winters siºn qualitics,that is, of cold and moiſture;yet by ſuch order and providence of nature, that although ac- earth- cording to the varietics of ſeaſons our bodies may be †, altered, yet ſhall they receive no de-q"* - e e triment ____ i . of wounds made by gunſhot, lib. . how the air becomes hurtfull, aphor. . ſeii. . fleſla quickly pu- trefies in maritime places, in what bodies ul- cers and wounds are not eaſily cured, an argu- ment of great putte- faôtion of the humors. triment thereby,ifſo be that the ſeaſons retain their ſeaſonableneſs;from whence ifthey happen to di- greſs,they raiſe and ſtir up great perturbations both in our bodies and minds; whoſe malice we can ſcarſe ſhun, becauſe they encompaſs us on every hand,and by the law of nature enter together with the air into the ſecret cabinets of our bodies both by occult and manifeſt paſſages. for who is he,that doth not by experience find both for the commodity and diſcommodity of his health,the various effects of winds, (wherewith the air is commixt)according as they blow from this or that º or quarter of the world.wherefore ſeeing that the south wind is hot and moiſt;the north wind cold and dry; the eaſt wind clearand freſh;the weſt wind cloudy; it is no doubt but that the air which we draw in by inſpiration carries together therewith into the bowells the qualities of that wind which is then prevalent.when we read in hippocrates,that changes of times,whether they happen by different winds, or viciſlitude of ſeaſons,chiefly bring diſeaſes;for northerly winds do condenſe,and ſtrengthen ourbo- dies,and make them ačtive, well coloured and daring,by reſuſcitating and vigorating the native heat. but ſouthern winds reſolve and moiſten our bodies, make us heavy headed, dull the hearing, cauſe gid- dineſs,and make the eyes and body leſs agile;as the inhabitants of narbon find to their great harme, who are otherwiſe ranked among the moſt ačtive people of france. but if we would make a compari- ſon of the ſeaſons and conſtitutions of a year, by hippocrates decree, droughts are more wholeſome afid leſs deadly than rains:i judgfor that too much humidity is the mother of putrefaction, as you learnby theſe countries which are blown upon by a wind from sea. for in theſe fleſh which is kept for food putrefies in the ſpace of an houre;and ſuch ulcers as in other places are eaſily and quickly healed, do there by the conflux and collečtion of matter become inveterate & contumacious.therefore as when the ſeaſons ofthe year ſucceſſively fall out agreeable to their nature,& when each ſeaſon is ſea- ſonable,then either we are not fick at all, or aſſuredly with leſs, danger. so on the contrary the per- fećt conſtitution and health of our bodies becomes worſe and decaies,when the ſeaſons of the year are depraved and perverted in time and temper. now ſeeing that theſe many years the four ſeaſons of the year have wanted their ſeaſonableneſs, the ſummer wanting his uſuall heat, and the winter its cold, and all things by moiſture and the dominion of the ſouthern winds have been humid and languid, h think there is none ſo ignorant in naturall philoſophy and aſtrology, who will not think that the cauſes of the malignitie and contumacy of thoſe diſeaſes which have ſo long afflićted all france, are not to be attributed to the air and heavens. for otherwiſe, whence have ſo many peſtilent and conta- gious diſeaſes tyrannized over ſo many people of every age,ſex and condition ? whence have ſo many catarrhes,coughs and heavineſſes of the head,ſo . plurifies,tumors,ſmall poxes, meazells,and itches not admitting of digeſtion and remedies preſcribed by art? whence have we had ſo º: venemous creatures, as #. ars,spiders, waſpes,hornets, beetles,snailes,vipers, snakes, lizards,scorpions and efts or nutes, unleſs from exceſſivei. which the humidity ofthe air, our native heat being liquid and dull,hath cauſed inus,and the whole kingdome of france?hence alſo proceeds the infirmity of our native heat, and the corruption of the blood and humors whereof we confiſt, which the rainy southwind hath cauſed with its ſultry heat. wherefore in theſe laſt years i have drawn little blood, which hath not preſently ſhewed the corruption of its ſubſtance by the black or greeniſh colour,as i have diligently obſerved in all ſuch as i have bled by the direétion of phyſiti- ans,either for prevention of future, or cure of preſent diſeaſes. whence it comes to paſſe that the fleſhy ſubſtance of our bodics could not but be faulty both in temper and conſiſtence; ſeeing that the blood whence it is generated had drawn the ſeeds of corruption from the defiled air. whence it fell out, that the wounds which happend with loſſe of ſubſtance could be ſcarſ: healed or united, becauſe of the de- praved nature of the blood. for ſo the wounds and ulcers of theſe which are troubled with the drop- iie, whoſe blood is more cold or wholly wateriſh; ſº of leprous perſons,whoſe blood is corrupt, and laſtly of all ſuch as have their bodies replete with ill juice, or elſe are cachettick, will not eaſily ad- mit of cure. yea aſſuredly if but the very part which is hurt ſwerve from its native temper, the wound will not eaſily be cured. therefore ſeeing all theſe things both the putrefaction of the air, and deprayed humors ofthe body,and alſo the diſtemper of the affected parts conſpired together to the deſtrućtion of the wounded,what marvail was it if in theſe late civill warres, the wounds which were for their quantitieſmall,for the condition of the wounded parts but little, have cauſed ſo many and grievous accidents and laſily death itſelf? eſpecially,ſºcing that the air which encompaſſeth us, tainted with putrefaction corrápts and defiles the woundsby inſpiratiºn and expiration, the body and humors being already diſpoſed,or inclined to putrefaction. now there came ſuch a ſtink,which is a moſt aſſured ſign ofputre aion from theſe wounds, when they were dreſſed,that ſuch as ſtood by could ſcarſe endure it, neither could this ſtink be attributed to the want of dreſſing, or fault of the chi- rurgeon;for the wounds of the princes and nobility ſtunk as ill as theſe of the common souldiers. and the corruption was ſuch,that if any chanced to be undreſt for one day, which ſometimes happen- cd amongſt ſuch a multitude of wounded perſons, the next day the wound would be full of wormes. beſides alſo,which furthermore argues a great putrefaction of humors,many had abſceſſes in parts op- poſite to their wounds,as in the lºft knee when as the right ſhoulder was wounded ; in the left arm, when as the right leg was hurt. which i remember befell the king of navarre, the duke of never, the lord rendan and divers others. for all men had nature ſo overcharged with abundance of vicious hu- mors, that if it expelled not part thereof by impoſtumes to th; habit of the body, it certainly other- wiſe diſpoſed of it amongſt the inner parts of the body;for in diſſe&ing dead bodies, we obſerved that the spleen,liver,lungs,and other bowells were purulent,and hence it was that the patients by reaſon of vapours ſent from them to the heart were troubled with continuall feavers. but the liver and all theveinous parts beiugpolluted,&ſo the generation of the laudable blood hindred,theylanguiſhed for want of fitting nouriſhment. but when the brain by vapours was drawn in to ſympathize with the - - reſt, ; i l i b.i.i. and other fiery engins,and alſorts y weapons. going with mighty violence, pierces the body like a thunderbolt. receiving of the wound the pain and inflammation are not ſo great, as they will reſt,they were moleſted with ravenings and convulſions. wherefore ifany thing ſucceeded nnproſper- ouſly in ſo great malignancy of wounds,the chirurgeon was not to be blamed for that it were a crime to fight againſt god and the air, wherein the hidden ſcourges of the divine juſtice lye hid. therefore ... if according to the mind of the great hippocrates, who commands to bring all contuſed wounds to ſuppuration,that ſo they maybe healed, we indeavoured to cure with ſuch medicins wounds made with gunſhot,and therefore contuſed;who can rightly be angry with us, if we performed it not ſo well,by reaſon of theſe putrefactions,gangrenes,and mortifications which proceeded from thccorrupt alicentured air, for all that we uſed not only ſuppuratives,but were oft-times forced to uſe other medicins ; ſo wounds long turning aſide from the cure of the diſeaſe, untill we had orecome the ſymptomes which much in- ºut be danger the patient,and cuſtomarily happen upon ſuch wounds, as alſo upon thoſe which are made brought to with a ſword or any other kind of weapon; as ſhall plainly appear in the following treatiſe,to which ſuppuration it now ſeems high time that we betake our ſelves. . chap. i. a diviſion of wound; drawn from the variety of the wounded party, and the bullets which wound. #ll wounds which are made in mans body by gunſhot, whether ſimple or compound, are ac- companied with contuſion, dilaceration,diſtemper and ſwelling.i ſay,all theſe poſſeſs either adiviſion * the noble parts, or ignoble, the fleſhy, nervous or bony, ſomewhiles with rending and ** tearing aſunder the larger veſſells,ſometimes without harming them.now theſe wounds are . . only ſuperficiary,or elſe piercedeep and paſs quite through the body.but there is alſo another diviſion th: ". of theſe wounds taken from the variety of the bullets wherewith they are rhade. for ſonie bullets are ded part. bigger,ſome leſs,ſome between both,they are uſually made of lead yet ſometimes of ſteel,iron,braſs,tin, ººm the yearſe any of silver, much leſs of gold.there ariſes no difference from their figure;for almoſt all kinds #. of wounds of this nature are *.rom theſe differences,the chirurgeon muſt take his indications w.” what to do,and what medicins to apply.the firſt care muſt be,that he think not theſe horrid and ma- made by lign ſymptoms, which uſually happen upon theſe kinds of wounds,to ariſe from combuſtion,or poy- gunſhot are ſon carried with the bullet into the wounded part,and that for theſe reaſons we have formerly hand- ºf.." w led at large. but rather let º they proceed from the vehemency of the contuſion, dilaceration”" and fraćture cauſed by the bullets too yiolent entry into the nervous and bony bodies. for if at any time the bullet ſhall only light upon the fleſhy parts, the wounds will be as eafily cured,as any other wound uſually is, which is made with a contuſing and round kind of weapon, as i have often found , . by frequent experience,whilſt i have followed the wars, and performed the part of a chirurgeon to many noblemen and commón souldiers,according to the counſell of ſuch phyſitians as were thereo- verſeers of the cure. ſº . - - — —- —— — ghap...] i. . of the ſigns of wounds made by gunſhot. f §§ounds made by gunſhot are known by their figure,which is uſually round; by their colour, signs of % as when the native colour of the part de cayes and in ſtead thereof a livid, greeniſh, violet or wºund, §§ other colour ſucceeds;by the feeling or ſenſe of the ſtroke,when in the very inſtant of the re-from their * ceiving thereof.ht feels a heavy § as if ſome great ſtone,or piece oftimber,or ſome ſuch o-Égure. . . ther weighty thing had fain upon it;by the ſmall quantity of bloud which iſſues out thereat,for when i. their the parts are contuſed, within ſome ſmall while after the ſtroak they ſwell up, ſo that they will ſcarſe . i. admit a tent,whence it is that the blood is ſtopped,which otherwiſe "...ºfflow forth of the orifice ſeeing. of the wound;by heat, which happens either by the violentneſs ofthe motion,or the vehement impul-blow. fion of the air, or the attrition of the contuſed parts,as the fleſh and nerves. alſo you may conjcture tº the . that the wounds have been made by gunſhot,if the bones ſhall be broken,and the ſplinters thereof by *...* - pricking theneighbouring bodies cauſe defluxion and inflammation. but the cauſe that the bullet tº. makes ſo great a contuſion is for that it enters the body not with any points or corners,but with its wound." round .# ſphericall body, which cannot penetrate but with mighty force; whence it cometh to paſs wwhence that the wound looks black,& the adjacent parts livid:hence alſo proceed ſo many grievousſymptoms, * as pain,defluxion,inflammation, apoſtumation,convulſion,phrenfie,palſie, gangrene and mortifica- º, att tion, whence laſtly death enſues. now the wounds do often caſt forth virulent and very much ſtinck-...- ing filth, by reaſon of the great contuſion,and the rending and tearing of the neighbouring particles. a great abundance of humors flow from the whole body,and fall down upon the affeited parts, which , , the native heat thereof being diminiſhed,forſakes, and preſently an unnaturall heat ſeiſes upon it. hi- . ther alſo tend an univerſall or particular repletion of ill humors, chiefly if the wounds poſſeſs the nervous parts as the joints. verily neither a stag with his horn, nor a flint out of a ſling can give ſo great abſow,or make ſo large a wound,as a leaden or iron bullet ſhot out of a gun, as that which – _a - —" chap. iii. how theſe wound muſt be ordered at the firſt dreſſing. *he wound muſt forthwith be inlarged, unleſs the eondition of the part reſiſt, that ſo there ..º. es in may be free paſſage forth both for the sanies,or matter, as alſo for ſuch things as are farced, firſt be pul- § or ... contained therein; ſuch as are pieces of their cloaths, bombaſt, linnen, paper, ... i. pieces of mail or armour,bullets,hail-ſhot ſplinters of bones,bruiſed fleſh and the like, all which muſt be plucked forth with as much celerity and gentleneſs as may be. for [. * the within a ſhort the manner tient juſt in how to draw and turn-them ſouth, ing time after.this is the principall thing in performance of this work,that you place the pa ſuch a poſture as he was in at the receiving of the wound;for otherwiſe the various motion e e a- of wounds made by gunſhot, lib. . ing of the muſcles will either hinder or ſtraiten the paſſage forth of the contained bodies.you ſhall if it be poſſible,ſearch for theſebodies with your finger;that ſo you may the more certainly and exaëtly perceive them.yet if the bullet be entred ſomewhat deep in,then you ſhall ſearch for it with a round and blunt probe, leſt you put the patient to pain; yet oftentimes you ſhall ſcarce by this means find the bullet.as it happened to the marſhall of briſac in the fiege of parpignan,who was wounded in his right ſhoulder with a bullet, which the chirurgeons thought to have entered into the capacity of his body. ! but i, wiſhing the patient to ſtand juſt in the ſame manner as he did when he received the wound, found at length the place where the bullet lay, by gently preſſing with my fingers, the parts near the wound,and the reſt which i ſuſpe&ted;as alſo by the ſwelling, hardneſs, pain and blackneſs of the part, . which was in the lower part of the ſhoulder near unto the eight or ninth ſpondill of the back.where- fore the bullet being taken forth by making inciſion in the place,the wound was quickly healed, and the gentleman recovered.you ſhall obſerve this,and rather . the judgment of your fingers, than of your probe. - chap. iil i. a deſcription of fit inſtruments to draw forth bullets and other ſtrange bodies. Şoth the magnitude and figure of inſtruments fit for drawing forth of bullets and other º ſtrange bodiº; are various according to the diverſity of the incident occaſions. for ſome are toothed, ºthers ſmooth,others of another figure and bigneſs; of all which ſorts the - # * chirurgeon muſt have divers in a readineſs, that he may fit them to the bodies and wound,and not the wounds and bodies to his inſtruments. - the delineation of ſuch like inſtruments. the crooked cranes-bill with teeth like a saw. the ſtraight cranes-bill being alſo toothed,fit for drawing forth hail-ſhot, pieces of ar- .* , mour, ſplinters of bones, and - ſuch things as lye deep within. the duck-bill. j º t - this duck-bill hath a large round and too- thed cavity in the - for ſo-it-more eaſily taketh hold of the bullet when it lies amongſt much fleſh. . .” ---frº . another inſtrument fit for drawing forth of bullets, which " be tearmed a catch-bullet. -- (wn a. shew; the trunk. #% b. shews the rod, or É. ſtring which opens § and ſhuts the joint. c. the joint. - - º y sº - º - - iſiúñez. w another lºn. º and otherfiery enginº,and alſorts of weapons. – - - - - - * . . ºn- th ther catch-bullet called a li- the parrot-beak; made for draw the swans bill opens with a ſcrew.you may with *:::::: made for drawing out ingforth pietes of mail thruſt into the dilate the jwounds,and ſo put in a ſtraight of bullets which are ſomewhat the fleſh, or bones; and this is the cranes-billºpincers to pluckforth ſtrange ho- flatted,by ſtriking upon a bone; figure thereof. dies. the figure of both are here expreſt. §º e a.Şhews the ſcrew pin.b. the hollow. edpart whith receives,the round part º –––. . . "i'll tºm noted with. c. which is opened and - -* - . . . . . nd ſhut by the ſcrew.d.d.falls, or - . . . . . . , - . . . . ſº, whith govern the running but if theſe ſtrange bodies, e- - branch. ſpecially bullets and hail-ſhot, - - - be not toº deep in the wound, they may be taken forth with your levatory, or elſe by the help of theſe gimblets. theſe gimblets are ſcrewed into their ipºs,orcants, and enter with their ſcrewed points into the bullets,ifthat they be of leador #.}of no harder metall, and ſo being faſtened in them,bring them outwith them. - - ; : * { ... . . . " the figure of the gimblet with his pipe or canc. beſides the swans-bill which we lately mentioned, ** * there are alſo other inſtruments fit to dilate and open the wounds,therefore called dilaters,by whoſe help the wound may be held open,that ſo the hidden bodics may beſtºn; for when you preſs together the two ends of this inſtrument, the other two open and dilate them- ſelves. you may alſo uſe them in dilating divers other É. of the body,as the noſtrils, fundament, and ſuch - ike, º dilaters. - the inſtruments which follow are ºiled seton *dles,ºr probes;whoſeuſ is to draw through a flamu- *ſo to keep the wound open, that you may the better tak; forthány ſtrangebody.beſides aſſº wººij. ... to . oras it were to ſound the deepneſs of - - *woºnds,and to find out the bullets.for they cannot p**to much pain becauſe they have finji and round ends. so alſo all probes ºil we e e ſearch . of wounds made by gunſhot, lib. . —º wha ſearch for bullets, muſt have ſome- probes for to put flamulae; through a wound withall. t ... fit what large, ſmooth, and round to ſearch ends. for ſeeing that the verges of the ſc the wound meet together preſent- ºvanº wounds, ly after the hurt, if the probes be º too ſmalor ſlender,they wilflick in , theinequality of the fleſh, neither - will they be able to come to the bullet.but if they be ſharp & poin- ted,they will cauſe and renew the pain by pricking the fleſh they meet withall,&ſo hinder your intention of finding the bullet; now you r muſt be furniſhed with theſe inſtru- / ments of a different length, accor- - ding to the various thickneſſe of the parts;for you cannot º any through the thigh but ſuch as are of good length. - chap. ix. what dreſſing muſt firſt be uſed, after the ſtrange bodies are pluck: or drawn out ºf the mand. §hen the ſtrange bodies are drawn or pluckt out of the wound, by theſe means we have for- º/; merly recited the chief of the cure muſt be to heal the contuſion, and amend the diſemper of §§§ the air if it be hot and moiſt,that is, ſubjećt to putrefaātion. this ſhall be done by medicins a caution in the uſe cins,(unleſs from the preſent conſtitution of the air,the condition of the wounded part,or from ſome of ſuppu- other cauſe there be danger of a gangrene) you muſt uſe |. as you uſually do in contufi- raº, ons;ſuch as are oil of whelpes and that which we call a digeſtive; you muſt chiefly forbear ſuppura- tives,when as the wounded part is of a nervous nature. for all nervous parts require dryer medicins why eſ- than fleſhy,as we have formerly delivered ſpeaking of wounds of the joints; wherefore in wounds of shºck; the joints and nervous parts you ſhall uſe more venice turpentine than oil. laurentiu iºbertu, the . f kings phyſitian & chancellour of the uiniverſity of mompelier,in a treatiſe which he writuſ wounds º, made with gunſhot,forbids the uſe of eſcharoticks both ačtuall and potentiall, in theſe wounds, iſ ifthey be ſimple;for that they induce pain, inflammation, a feaver, gangrene and other deadly ſymptomes. be- fimple, fides alſo an eſchar will hinder ſuppuration, which is to be deſired in this kind of wounds, that ſo the contuſed fleſh may be ſevered from the ſound, lºſt it be drawn to putrefaëtion by contagion. . * which eaſily happens when an eſcharis drawn, as a bar overit for then the excrementitious humor cauſe . remains longer in the part,and the putredinous vapours hindred from paſſing forth, are encreaſed, and ºfadion, carryed from the leſſer veſſels to the bigger, and ſo over all the body. wherefore, when you ſuſpect putrefattion,letting alone ſuppuratives uſe in the firſt place ſuch things as reſiſ putrefaction, as this the di- followingointment.r. pulver.alumin.roche, viridi, eriºvitrioli rºmanismelli, roſt, an: ij, aceti boni quantum ſcriptionof ſufficit,bulliant omnia ſimulſecundum artem,& fiat medicamentum ad formammellit. this by reaſon of the heat *...* and ſubtlety of the ſubſtance,hath a faculty to induce and attenuate the humors, as alſo to call forth “" the native heat drawn in & diſſipated by the violent and forcible entrance of the bullet into the body; furthermore alſo it corre&s the venemous contagion of the virulenthumor. now this medicine ſhall uſed, diſſolved in venegar or aqua vite,and be put into the wound with tents, or pledgets. the tents which ſhall be uſed at the firſt dreſſing muſt be ſomewhat long and thick, that by dilating the wound, they may make way for application of other remedics; otherwiſeypu pay make inještion with a ſy- ringe,that ſo it may penetrate the more powerfully.but this deſcribed #gyptiacum ſhal be tempered ac- how and cording to the condition of the affected parts,for the nervous parts will be offended with it as being .º, toº agrid;but it may be qualificd by admixture of oil of turpentine & saint iohn-wort. alſo wenay %; well be without this aegyptiacum when there is no ſuch peſtilent con itution ofthe air, as was ſeen in cklſº the late civill wars.after the uſe of aegyptiacum you ſhall with emolight & lenitive medicins procure the falling away of the eſchar, & ſuch a medicine is this following bil, being ſomewhat more than the oil of warm. r olei violati lib.iiij.inquibu, coquantur catelli duomuper natiºnſ he addiſſolutionem offium,addendo vermi- wvhelpes ºn terreſtrium, ut decet preparatorum,ib.j. coquantur ſimul lento ignº, deinde it expreſſoad uſum, addends terebinth. a digeſtive, venet. ijaquevite ; this oil hath a wonderfull force to aſſwage pain;to bring the wound to ſuppu- ..". ration,&cauſe the falling away of the eſchar.this enſuing oil is made more eaſily. r. olei ſeminis lini,d). .e . ;: lilior,an. iij.unguent.baſilic. . liquefiant ſimulcº fiat medicamentum ; pit bf this a ſufficient quantity into cure rhe the wound;for this beingapplyed indifferent hot, hath power to affwage pain, to ſoften and humeat iſing the orifice of the woundan help forwards ſuppuration,which is the truemanner of curing theſe kind way of an of wounds,according to the rule of hippocrats, which wiſhes every confuſed wound to be preſently #. !- brought to ſuppuration;for ſo it will be leſſe ſubjećt to a phlegmon;and befides,all the rent & bruiſed *** fleſhmuſt putrefle,diſſolve and turn to quitture, that new and goºd fleſh may be generated in flead the facul- thereof, laurentius iaubertus much commends this following medicine of whoſe efficacy,as yet, i have ... made no triall. r. pulver.mercur.bi, calcinati, }. adipi, porci recentiºclbutyri recentā, śviij. camphore in aqua powder of vite diſſolute ijmiſcegmnia ſimuladdend, tanfillum oleililiorum, ºutlini. experience taught him, and reaſon ***) alſo ſhºwcs,that this kind of remedy is very commendable ; for the powder of mercury, ifimixed with . taken inwardly,applied outwardly,and put into the wound. things to be inwardly uſed in diet and pharmacy i leave to the judgment of learned phyſitians; for the particular and topick medi- lib.m. and other fiery enginesandallſorts ofweaponſ. - - *--— - a groſſe and hume{ting matter doth in a ſhort ſpace turn the bruiſed fleſh intopuſ, without cauſing a- - ny great pain. for the camphire, whetherit be hot or cold,in temper, it much conduces to that pur- ‘. . . poſe,by reaſon of the ſubtlety of the parts,whereofit conſiſts. forby means of this quality the medi- the É. cines enter with more facility into the affected bodies,and perform their parts; beſides alſo caniphire of calcine reſiſts putrefaction.some drop into the wound aqua vite, wherein they have diſſolved ſome calcined .. vitrioſl.which kind of remedy is not ſuppurative, but yet much reſiſts putrefaction, ſo that we may wounds uſe it with good ſucceſs,when the weather is hot,moiſt,andfoggie. but when the wound is made ve-made by ry neer at hand,it cannot but be burnt by the flame of the powder; in which remedies uſed for burns, sumº will be uſefull,not omiting ſuch as arefit for contuſions.but for theſe parts which lye next the wound, º, you ſhall not unleſs at the firſt dreſſing:apply refrigerating and aſtringent things,but rather emollient and ſuppurative.for thoſe things which have a refrigerating faculty,weaken the part,and hinder ſup: uration. for aſtringents conſtipate the skin, which is the cauſe,that the putrid vapours ſhut up and satified: #. from tranſpiration and paſſage forth, a gangrene and mortification eaſily foiſe upon the part, on. but if the contuſion be great and diffuſe it ſelf more largely over the fleſh, the part muſt be much ſca- rified;that ſo the contuſed and concreat blood,and therefore ſubjećt to putrefačtion,may be evacuated. - " - but for theſe parts,which ſomewhat further diſtant from the wound encompaſſe the contuſed fleſh, an . they require refrigerating and ſtrengthening medicins,ſo to hinder the falling down and ſetling of the i. §: humor in that part which is this enſuing medicine.r. pulboli.armen.ſanguin. dracon. myrrhe, an: ;. ſucci cine. ſolam.jiàº. iiijºvorum.oxyrhodin.guantum ſufficit; fiat linimentum,at detet. you may ..., , , , , uſe this.& the like untill the ſuſpećted ſymptome be paſt fear. neither muſt you have leſs care,of bind: the bind: ing up and rolling the part,than of your medicins;for it doth not a little conduce to the cure,to bindº"... it ſo fitly up as it may be without pain. the wound at the beginning of the cure, muſt be dreſſed. f the but once in houres that is untill the wound come to ſuppuration,but when the quitturebegins to . flow from it,and conſequently the pain and feaver are encreaſed, it ſhall be dreſt twice a day, that is, dreſſina every twelve hourcs. and when the quitture flowes more abundantly than uſuall, ſo that the colle&i- day. on thereof is very troubleſome to the patient, it will be requiſite to dreſſe it every houres; that is thrice a day. now when as this abundant efflux is ſomewhat ſlaked, and begins to decreaſe, it will ſº fice to dreſſe it twice a day. but when the ulcer is filled with fleſh, and conſequently caſts forth but lit- tle matter,it will ſerve to dreſſe it once a day,as you did at the firſt, - cha p. vi. how you ſhall wºrn a the ſecond dreſſing. mºt the ſecond and following dreſſings, unleſs you ſuſpect putrefaāion, and a gangrene, you why. \}/\ ſhall only put into the wound ſome of the oils formerly deſcribed,adding to them the yolks wº. § of ſomeces and a little ſaffron; and uſe this medicin, untill the wound come to perfeót ſup- . * puration. here you muſt note this,that theſe kinds of wounds are longer before they come ºrolong to ſuppuration,than other wounds made by any other ſort of weapon; both for that the bullet,as al- before they fo the air which it violently carries before it,by much bruiſing the fleſh,on every fide,diſſipates the na-someº. tive heat,and exhauſts the ſpirits of the part.which things hinder digeſtion,and often cauſe the matter "pp” to ſtink,as alſo many other pernicious ſymptomes. yet moſt uſually pu, or quitture appears within oſas three or four dayes,ſooner and later according to the various complexion,and temperament of the pa- tients bodies,and the condition of the ambient air in heat and .#. by little and little you muſt come to deterfives,adding to the former medicin ſome turpentinewaſhed in roſe, barly, or ſome o- ther ſuch like water,which may waſh away the biting thereof. if the incompaſſing air bevery cold, you - may to good purpoſe,add ſome aquavite,for by galent preſcript, we muſt not uſe hot medićins in win-º". ter, & leſs hot in ſummer.then in the next place uſe deterſives,as r. aque decoilioni, bordei quantum ſuff- fº cit, ſucciplantaginia,apii, grimon, centaurei minori,an. i.bulliant omnia ſimul;infine decočimit adde terebinthine wººd, venate iij. melli, roſat. § ijfarin.bordei iij croci sj. let them be all well mixed together and make a gallib. . mundificative of an indifferent conſiſtence. or b. ſucci clymeni, plantag. alſinth. apii,an. iſ tereb.venet.*... iiij.ſyrup.abſinth. melli, roſan iſ bulliant omnia ſecundum attempoffºa tolentur,in colutura addepulver., - *...* loes, maſtiches, ireas florent, far.hordan. jffat mundificativum ad uſum diium. orelſe r. terebinth. venet. late - in aq. roſ. v.oleiroſ, j.mellis roſ. iij. myrrha,aloeſ, maſtich. ariſtoloth, rotunde, an: iſ far. hord.; iij miſce. r makea mundificative,which you may put into the wound with tents, but ſuch as are neither too whyena. long, nor thick,left they hinder the evacuation of the quitture and vapours, whence the wounded part ºff §: will be troubled with eroſion,pain, defluxion, inflammation, abſceſs, putrefaction; all which ſeverally neither too of themſelves,as alſo by infeóting the noble parts, are troubleſome both to the part affected, as alſo to ſºnor the whole body beſides.whereforeyou ſhall put into the wound no tents,unleſs ſmall ones,and of an * indifferent conſiſtence, lºſt (as i ſaid) you hinder the paſſing forth of the matter,or by their hard preſ- ſing of the part, cauſe pain,and ſo draw on malign ſymptomes. but ſeeing tents are uſed both to - keep open a wound ſo long,untill all the ſtrange bodies be taken forth,as alſo to carry the medicins, wwhen wherewithall they are anointed: even to the bottom of the wound. now if the wound be finuous;... ºn and deep,that ſo the medicin cannot by that means arrive at the bottom and all the parts thereof.you ºf injedi. muſt do yourbuſineſs by injections made of the following decoétion. r. aq. hord.lib.º. agrimon centºr on...a. minor pimpinelle abſinth plantag.m. ſº fiat decodio ad lib.j. in colatura expreſa diſſºlve a-..." inječf. lºes hepatice; iij melli, roſ. iſ bulliant modicum. injećt ſome of this deco&tion three or four times into on , the wound,as often as you à the patient; and if this ſhall not be ſufficient to clenſe the filth; rºund. and waſ the ſpongious putrid and dead fleſhyou ſhall diſſolve therein as much agyptiacum as you ſhall ty . think fit for the preſent neceſſity; but commonly you ſhall diſſolve an ounce of Ægyptiacum in a pint #aamrºte of the decoètion, verily aegyptiacum doth powerfully conſume the proud flaſh which lies in the ca- uſed in an º pacity injećtion. º o of wounds made by gunſhot, l i b. . pacity of the wound; beſides alſo it º works upon ſuch #ind offleſh. for this purpoſe i have alſo made triall of the powder of mercury,and burnt alum equally mixed together, and found them very powerfull,even almoſt as ſublimate,ór arſenick, (but that theſe cauſe not ſuch pain in their operati- vyhy none on.) . i certainly much wonder at the largeneſs of the eſchar which ariſes by the aſperſion of theſe *... powders. many praćtitioners would have a great quantity of the injećtion to be left in the cavities of º ſinuous ulcers,or wounds;which thing i could never allow of. for this contained humor cauſeth an ſhe wound. unnatural tenſion in theſe parts,and taints them with ſuperfluous moiſture,whereby the regeneration of fleſh is hindered; for that every ulcer as it is an ulcer, requires to be dryed,in hippocrates opinion.many hollow alſo offend in the too frequent uſe of tents; for as they change them every houre, they touch the ſides unts or of the wound,cauſe pain,and renew other malign ſymptomes;wherefore ſuch ulcers as caſt forth more pipts. abundance of matter, i could wiſh rather to be dreſſed with hollow tents, like thoſe i formerly deſcri- .." bed to be put into wounds of the cheſt. you ſhall alſo preſs a linnen boulſter to the bottom of the ... "* wound, that ſo the parts themſelves may be mutually condenſed by that preſſure and the quitture wound, thruſt forth; neitherwill it be amiſs to let this boulſter have a large hole fitted.to the orifice of the wound and end ofthehollow tent and pipe,that ſo you may apply a ſpunge for to receive the quit- ture,ſor ſo the matter will be more j evacuated and ſpent, eſpecially if it be bound up º an expulſive ligature,beginning at the bottom of the ulcer,and ſo rapping it up to the top. all the boul- ſters and rowlers,whichſhall be applycé to theſe kinds of wounds,ſhall be dipped in Öxycrate or red wine,ſo to ſtrengthen the º: hinderidefluxion. but you muſt have a ſpeciall care, that you do not bind the wound too hard,ſor hence will ariſe pain,hindering the paſſage forth of the putredinous vapours and excrements, which the contuſ d fleſh caſts forth; and alſo fear of an atrºphia,or want of nouriſhment, the alimentary juyces being hindered from coming to the part. chap. vii. by what means ſtrange bodies,eſt in at the firſt dreſſing, maybe drawn forth. two cauſes t divers times happens,that certain ſplinters of bones, broken and ſhattered aſunderby the h. . violence of the ſtroak, cannot be pulled forth at the firſt dreſſing,for that they either do not di ... jº yceld or fall away,or elſe cannot be found by the formerly deſcribed inſtruments.for which be taken- purpoſe this is an approved medicinto draw forth that which is left behind. r radic. ireas forth. floren.panac. & capparan. iij.ariſtoloch.ſotund. manne,thura,an, j, in pollinem redağa incorporchtur cum mele roſar.&terebinth, venet, an ; iſ or r reſis. finiſce iij pumici, combuſti & extinii in vino albo, radic. ireaſ, ariſtolochi,an. ſ, thuri, .jjquame criº, iſ in polinem redigantur,incorporemtur cum mele roſato, fiat medica- merituth, - - - - - - - --- s cha p. viii. of indications to be obſerved in this kind of wounds. * he ulcer being clenſed and purged, and all ſtrange bodies taken forth;natures indeavours to ºlº regenerate fleſh,and cicatrize it, muſt be helped forwards with convenient remedies, both ta- £º keninwardly, and applyed outwardly.to which things we may becafily and ſafely carry- w edby indications drawn,irſt from the effence of the diſeaſe, then from the cauſe ; if as yet preſent it nouriſh the diſeaſe for that which galenſayes, lib. -meth. that no indication may be taken from the primitive cauſe and times muſt be underſtood of the time paſt, and the cauſe which is abſent. and then from the principal times of the diſeaſe the beginning, increaſe,ſtate,and declination;foreach of theſe four require their remedics. others are taken from the temperament of the patient, ſo that no chirurgeon need doubt,that ſome mcdicins are fit for cholerick, otherſome for phlegmatick bodies. hither refer the indication taken from the age of the patient; alſo it is drawn from his diet, for no man muſt preſcribe any ſlender diet to one who is alwayes fecding,as to him who is accuſtomed to eat once, or twice a day. hence it is that a diet conſiſting only of panada's is more fit for italians than for french men;for we muſt give ſomewhat to cuſtome,which is as it were another nature; vocations and dayly exerciſes,are referred to diet, for other things befit husbandmen & labourers,whoſe fleſh is denſe the indi and skin hardened by much labour,than idle and delicate perſons.but of all other,have diligent regard caſiº. of that indication which is drawn from the ſtrength of the patient; for we muſt preſently, (all elſe . ;om being neglected) ſuccor the fainting,or º rength; wherefore if it be needfull to cut off a mem- the ſtrength bert i. putrefied,the operation muſt be deferred if the ſtrength of the patient be ſo dejećted, that he of the pati- cannot have it performed without manifeſt danger of his life. alſo indication may be drawn from º, the incompaſſing air,under which alſo is comprehended that, which is taken from the ſeaſon of the ºf ycer,region the ſtate of the air and ſoil, and the particular condition of the preſent and lately by-paſt a time.hence it is we read in guido,that wounds of the head are cured with far more difficulty at paris, vvhy than at avigrion; where notwithſtanding on the contrary,the wounds ofthe legs are cured with more wounds of trouble,than at paris;the cauſe is,the air is cold and moiſt at paris;which conſtitution ſeeing it is hurt- the head a full to the brain and head,it cannot, but muſt be offenſive to the wounds of theſe parts. but the heat *** of the anbient air at avignion,attenuates and diſſolves the humors, and makes them flow from above º:* downwards.but if any objećt that experience contradićts this opinion of guidº, and ſay,that wounds ...fºto of the head are more frequently deadly in hot countries ; let him underſtand that this muſt notbeat- becured, tributed to the manifeſt and naturall heat of the air; but to a certain malign and venenate humor, or vapor diſperſed through the air,and raiſed out of the seas;as you may eaſily obſerve in thoſe places of france and italy which border upon the mediterranean sea. an indication may alſo be drawn from the peculiar temper of the wounded parts , for the muſculous parts muſt be dreſſed after one, and the bony parts after another manuer. the different ſenſe of the parts, indicates and requires - - - the - lib. , and other fiery engines,and allſorts ofweaponr. the like variety of remedies; for you ſhall not apply ſo acrid medicins to the nerves and tendons, as anindicas to the ligaments which aredeſtitute of ſenſe. the like reaſon alſo for the dignity andfunètion of the . sneedfull for the preſervation of life; for oft-times wounds of the brain, or of ſome other of the º haturall & vitall parts,for this very reaſon that they are defixed in theſe parts,divert the whole manner and ājī of the cure,which is uſually and generally performed in wounds.neither that without good cauſe, for ſenſe of the 'oft-times from the condition of the parts, we may certainly pronounce the whole ſucceſs of the diſeaſe; wºnded. for wounds which penetrate into the ventricles of the brain, into the heart,the large veſſels, the cheſt, * the nervous parts ofthe midriffe,the liver, ventricle ſmall guts,bladder;if ſomewhat large are deadly;as alſo theſe which light upon a joynt in a body repleat with ilhumors, as we have formerly noted.nei- ºthermuſt you negleå that indication which is drawn from the fituation of the part and the commerce -it hath with the adjacent parts, or from the figure thereof; ſeeing that galen himſelf would not have it negleåed. but we muſt conſider in taking theſe forementioned indications, whether therebe a compo-galli. . fition,or complication of the diſeaſes; for as there is one and that a ſimple indication,of one and that "º . a ſimple diſeaſe,ſo muſt the indication be various of a compound and complicate diſeaſe. but there glauc. is obſerved to be a triple compoſition,or complication of affects beſides nature; for either a diſeaſe is compounded with a #. a wound, or a phlegmon with a fraćture of a bone; or a diſeaſe with a cauſt,as an ulcer with a defluxion;or a diſeaſe with a ſymptome as a wound with pain, or bleeding: . it ſometimes comes to paſs,that theſe three,the diſeaſe, cauſe, and ſymptome, concur in one caſe or af- . fe&. in artificially handling of which , we muſt follow galens counſell, who wiſhes in complica-gal.lib. . ted and compounded affe&s that we reſiſt the more urgent;then letus withſtand the cauſe of the diſ- meth. eaſt,and laſtly that affe&without which the reſt cannot becured...which counſell muſt well be ob- ſerved;for in this compoſure of affe&s, which diſtraćts the emperick; but on the contrary, the ratio- mall phyſtian hathaway preſcribed in a few & theſe excellent words, which if he follow in his order ofcure he can ſcarſemifs to heal the patient symptomes truly as . are ſymptomes,yeeld no indica- . tion of curing neither change the order of the cure;for when the diſeaſe is healed, the ſymptome va-how and niſhes,as that which follows the diſeaſe;as a ſhadow follows the body. but ſymptomes do oftentimes whº we ſo urge and preſs,that perverting the whole order of the cure, we are forced to reſiſt them in the firſt . º, : place as thoſe which would otherwiſe increaſe the diſeaſe.nowal the formerly mentioned indications. *::: - may bedrawn to two heads; the firſt is, to reſtore the part to its native temper; the other is, that the from " blood offend not either in quantity or quality;for when thoſe two are preſent,there is nothing which ſymptotie, : may hinder the repletion,or union of wounds norulcers. - - chap. ix. what remains for the chirurgeonto do in thiſ kind of wounds. ºº: he chirurgeon muſt firſtofall be skilfull and labour to affwage pain,hinder defluxions, pre- º º ſcribe a diet in theſe fix things we call not naturall,forbidding the uſe of hot & acrid things, § . º as alſo of wine;for ſuch attenuateth humors and make them more apt for defluxion. there- - .* fore at the firſtlet his diet be ſlender, that ſo the courſe of the humors may be diverted from why ſuch the affe&ed part;for the ſtomach being empty and not well filled, draws from the parts about it,where- as are., by it conſequently follows,that the utmoſt and remoteſt parts are at the length evacuated;which is the ... d cauſe,that ſuch as are wounded, muſt keep ſo ſpars a diet for the next dayes following. venery is very ...º. ºpernicious, for that it inflames the ſpirits and humors far beyond other motions; whereby it happens et, that the humors waxing hot,are too plentifully carried to the wounded and over heated part. the bleeding muſt not be ſtanched preſently upon receiving of the wound, for by the more plentifull cf. - flux thereof the part is freed from danger of inflammation andfulneſs. wherefore if the wound bleed why we , not ſufficiently at the firſt you ſhall the next day open a vein,and take blood according to the ſtrength ºn and plenitude of the patient; forthere uſually flows no great ſtore of blood from wounds of this na- i.º: ture; for that by the greatneſs of the contuſion and vehemency of the moved air,the ſpirits are forced jingº in,as alſo i have obſerved in thoſe who have one of their limbs taken away with a cannon bullet.for by gunſhot; in the time when the wound is received, there flows no great quantity of blood, although there be large veins and arteries torn in ſunder thereby. but on the , , . or ſome more dayes after, the blood flows in greater abundance,and with more violence,the native heat and ſpirits returning into the part. the belly muſt be ſo qualified, that he may have at the leaſt one ſtoola day,either by nature, or art;and if by art,than rather with a clyſter than purging medicins taken by the mouth, for that the agitation of humors, chiefly in the firſt dayes .# the diſeaſe, is to be ſuſpected, left we increaſe the defluxion falling down upon the wounded part. yet galen writes that both the evacuations are here needfull,that is,blood-letting and purging;though the patient be neither plethorick,nor repleat with il humors.but the care hereof muſt becommitted to the judgment of the learned phyſitian;pain,if joyned with inflamation ſhall be mitigated by anointing the parts neerunto the wound with unguent. gaiti;, i. nutritum, compoſed with the juyge of plantain,houſleek,nightſhade,and the like. wnguentum diacalcithe-à. comp." of deſcribed by galen diſſolved with vinegar, oil of poppyes and roſes is of no leſs efficacy;nor ungurnt. med ſºund; de bolo,nor divers other things of the ſam&faculty though properly no anodynes,as thoſe which are not **** hot andmoiſt in the firſt degree, but rather cold,but yet not ſo as to have any narcotick faculty.now theſe forementioned things aſſwage pain for that they correót the hot diſtemper,and ſtay the acrid and cholerick defluxions,whoſe violence is more than cold. after the uſe of repercuſſives, it will be good, ... dine to apply this following cataplaſm. r. mice fami, º: inladie vaccino ºbjſ. bullianſparum addendo olei an anodine gal. lib. . meth.cap,á. - - --- " -- - - - -- " --> - ---- - - - - - -- - and ripe- violacti, roſar.am.; iij vitello; ovorum nu.iiij pulver.toſarrub. for.chamem.& meliloti, an. # #ſºft. &ming ºrs. bordeian. j. miſce fiat cataplaſma ſecundum artem. alſo in this caſe you may º make a medicin, of plaſm; breadcrums boyled in oxycrate and oil of roſes.the cure of tumorsifany aſſociate the woº. - of wounds made by gunſhot, l i b. . - be found in their proper place.natures motion, whether to ſuppuration,or any ſuch thing, muſt ſtill be obſerved,and helped by the phyſitian and chirurgeon,as the miniſters and ſervants thereof. –– c hap. x. of bullets which remain in the body, for along time after the wound is healed up. }. i. #|eaden bullets lye in ſome parts of the body, ſome whiles ſaven,eight or more years, ſo tha" º: they neither hinder the agglutination of the wound, neither doth any other ſymptome hap- body ſo pen thereupon,as i have divers times obſerved; untill at length by the ſtrength of nature many years forcing them, and their proper weightineſsbearing them downwards, they ſhew themſelves . in ſome lower part,by their ſwelling or bunching forth,and ſo muſt be taken forth by the hand of the i.” chirurgeon.for they ſay leadhath a certain ſympathy and familiarity with mans body, chiefly the - fleſhy parts thereof. wherefore it neither putrefies it ſelf, nor cauſeth the fleſh to h. beſides it hathan excellent faculty in cicatrizingold ulcers. but bullets of ſtone,iron and of any other metall, are of another nature,for they cannot remain any long time in the body without hurt; for iron will É. ruſty,and ſo corrode the neighbouringbodies,and bring other malign ſymptomes.yet a leaden ullet cannot remain any long time in nervous,or noble parts without danger. cha p.xi. how to correà the conſtitution of the air,ſ that the noble parts may be ſtrengthened,and the whole body beſides. § utbecauſe as we have formerly told you,there are ſome times wherein even ſmall wounds ſº made by gunſhot prove deadly,not by their own fault, but the fault of the air; therefore † alſo the chirurgeon muſt have this care,that he correct the aire with all diligence,& reduce º; it to a certain quality and moderation of ſubſtance, and ſtrengthen the noble parts and * whole body beſides, which may be performed by the following medicins, which are to be taken inwardly and applyed outwardly.in the morning three houres before meat let the patient take ſome certain quantity as the phyſitian ſhall think fit of the eleētuary diarrhodon abbati, or aromaticum roſatum,triaſantalon,biamoſchum,etificans galenior ſome ſuch other like. and you ſhall apply ſome ſuch epitheme as is here deſcribed to the heart and liver. raque roſar: iiij,aque bugloſſe,aceti ioni,an. ij.co- riandri preparati ſ. caryºphill.cortic.citrian. ).ſant.rub. ſ.coralli j.º.º. .croci ſ. pulver. diarrhºdabbat. ij, theriace & mithrillatii an:#ful flaſhamamé, melilanjiij miſcº, fit epithema. let it be applyed warmby dipping a ſcarlet cloath therein.you ſhall frequently put odoriferous and refrigera- ting things to the patients noſe,to ſtrengthen the animall faculty,as;r ue raſar. & acetibonian, iij. caryophyllorum,nuci, moſchat.cinamomi conquaſatorum, & theriate galeni,an. ). leta linnen rag dipped here- in,be now and then put to the patients noſe;for the ſame purpoſe he ſhall carry a ponlander about him, and often ſmell there. as r. roſrub.violar.am. iijbaccarum myrtijuniperiſantal. rab.am. ijſs.ſbraci, calamit. ijaq.roſarum.guantum ſati, eff: liquefiat ſimulcum cere alba quod ſufficit fat ceratum ad comprehendendos ſupra- dićies pulveres cum piſtillo calido,cº. ducatur in femum.or r rad. ireas flºrent majºran.talam aromatladani,benzoi- girad operi,garigºylan. ij moſhi gra. :ffat pulvi, cumgºnitrºgatanth, gued ſufficit. or elſe. r ladani puri j.benzoini .ſyraci, calamit. vjirco, flor: ſ.taryºphyll. iijmajoran.roſ. rub. calami aromat.an. ſ, in pºlli- nem redigantur omnia,&bulliant cum aqua roſauantum ſufficit;colentur, calata liquefiant can juſta cere albe quan- ºntalls to titateſyracu liquide, },fiat ad modum teratiº cumpiſillo fiat pomum,additamoſchi .alſo you may corrobo- .# ... rate the animall facility by application of frontalls, as alſo procurºſcºpand eaſºthº pain of the head; then ºt- as r aq.reſ. ij.olei roſ.º. papavan. ſ.aceti boni, }.trochiſ.de camphora, ſ. fiat frontale. linnen rags dipped animalia. herein may be applyed to the temples of the forehead,and often renewed;otherwiſe by their eat,dry- culty. neſſe,and {...}. they will cauſe .# inſtead of ſleep. neither muſt you in the mean time bind the head too hard, left by intercepting and hindring the pulſation of the temporall artery, you en- creaſe the pain of the head.you ſhallmake a fire,in the patients chamber of odºriferous woods, as iu- niper,bay-tree the prunings or cuttings of vines, roſemary, and orris roots. for the ſame purpoſe, you may ſprinkle the floore with ſweetwater;if the patient be able to undergoe ſuch coſt. as, r. majo- a feet wa- rane,mentheradic. peri,calami aromat.ſalvie, avendule feniculthymi,ſtachad for thanemºmelilot-ſatureie,bacca- cordials to . ſtrengthen the noble rarts. cordiall e. pithem. pomanders. ter. rum lauri, juniperi,an.m.iij pulv.caryºphyll. nuci, miſchat.an:#j.aqua roſar. vite, ºn libij vini albi boni & perfumes to odorifici.f .x, bulliant omnia in balneo marie ad uſum dićium. you may alſo make perfumes to burn in his burn, chamber,as thus;r. carboni, ſalici, viij.ladanipuri ij.thuri, maſculi,ligni & baccarum iuniperi,an. #j. xyloa- lotſ,benjoiniſtrati, calamitan nucis moſthat...ſantal.citrin.an. iij ſayºphyllſbracis liquide, am. ijzedoarie calami aromat.am. .jgummi rººm.au, rºutiquid ſit ſatis; make hereof perfumes in what faſhion you pleaſe.for the rottennes and corruption of bones we will treat thereof hereafter in its due place. chap. xii. certain memorable hiſtories. §§ºre i thinke good for the benefit ofyoung praëtitioners,to illuſtrate by examples the former- #| ly preſcribed method ofcuring wounds made º gunſhot. the famous and moſt valiant rhematiºn º count of mansfelt, governour of the dutchy of luxembourg, knight of the order of bur- #: º-fº gundy,comming to the aide of the french king,was at the battell of moncontour, where in which uſu- the conflićthe received ſo great a wound at the joint of the left arme with a piſtoll bullet, that the ºlyhappens bones were ſhivered and broken in ſo many perces,as if they had been laid upon an anvill and ſtruck upon with an hammer:hence proceeded many malign ſymptomes; as cruell and tormenting pain,inflamma- wounds - learm ev he fin d.and a certai made b tion,a feaver,an oedematous and flatulent tumor of the whole arm even to t gers end,and a certain gunnº. inclination to a gangraene:which to reſiſt, nicoln lambert, and richard hubert the kings chirurgeons, had liaii. and other fiery engines,and alſorts ofweaponr. can truly affirm and profeſs,that during the time of the cure, took out above threeſcore ſplinters of t ~ - had made many and deep ſcarifications. but when i came to viſit and dreſs him,by the kings appoint- ment,and had obſerved the great ſtench,and putrefačtion,i wiſhed that they would uſe lotions of Æ- gyptiacum made ſomewhat ſtronger than ordinary,and diſſolved in vinegar and guavite, and do other things more largely ſpoken of in the chapter of a gangraine. for the patient had alſo a diarrhºa or flux whereby he evacuated the purulent,and ſtinking filth which flowed from his wound.which how it might come to paſs we will ſhow at large when we come to treat of the ſuppreſſion of the urine.º.º.º. for this ſeemed very abſurd to many,bccauſe that if this purulent humor flowed out of the arm into . - the belly,it muſt needs flow back into the veins, be mixed with the blood, and by its pernicious and delimbs contagious paſſage through the heart and liver,cauſe exceeding ill ſymptomes,and laſtly death. indeed into the he often ſwounded by the aſcent of the filthy vapours raiſed from the ulcer to the noble parts;which belly. to reſiſt, i wiſhed him to take a ſpoonfull of aqua vite with ſome treacle diſſolved therein. i endea- voured to repreſs the cºdematous and flatulent tumor poſſeſſing all the arme with ſtoups dipped in oxycrate,to which was put a little ſalt, and aquavite ; theſe ſtoups i ſtayed and held to the part with double cloaths,ſowed as ſtrait as i could. such a compreſſion held the broken boncs in their places, preſſed their sanies from the ulcers,and forcedback thc humors flowing to the part into the center of the body. ifat any time i omitted this compreſſion,the tumor was ſo encreaſed, that i was in a great deal offear,lºſt the native heat of the part ſhould be ſuffocated. neither could i otherwiſe bind up the arm by reaſon of the exceſſive pain which moleſted the patient upon the leaſt ſtirring of the arm.there were alſo many abceſſes about his elbow and over all his arm beſides. for the letting forth of whoſe matter i was forced,to make new inciſions, which he endured very ſtoutly. at length i curcd him with uſing avulnerary potion,and by cleanſing the ulcers,and correóting the putrefattion with Ægyptia: abieſele. cum diſſolved in wine or honey of roſes,and ſo poured into the ulcers, and repreſſing the growth of cital ofth: proudfleſh,with the powder ofburnt alum, drying it after the deterſion with lininents. now this i . bones,and thoſe neceſſarily,amongſt which there was one ofthe length of ones finger; yet by gods aſ- fiſtance at length he became ſound in all things,but that he could not put forth, or draw in his arm. not long afterby the kings command i went to ſee charles philip of croy, lord of auret, the duke of aſchos brother,not far from mounts a city of henalt.he kept his bed ſeaven months by reaſon of a wound made by a bullet the ſpace of three fingers above his knee. when i came to him, he was affli- horrid &ed with theſe ſymptomes, intolerable pain,a continuall feaver, cold ſweats, watchings, excoriation ſymptomes of the hippes by reaſon of his long lying upon them, his appetite dejećted with much thirſt. he oft ºccaſioned ſunk down as if he had the falling fickneſs,hadadeſire to vomit, and a continuall trembling or ſha-º.” d king ſo that he could not put one hand to hismouth without theaſſiſtance of the other: he wounded., frequently by reaſon of the vapours aſcending to the noble parts.for the thighbone was broken long- gunſhºt. wayes and fidewayes with many ſplinters of bones,whereof ſome were plucked iout and others remai- ...? ſticking faſtin. he beſides alſo had an ulcer in his groin which reached to the midſt of his thigh,& many other finuous ulcers about his knee.all the muſcles of his thigh and leg were ſwoln with a #: matick, cold and flatulent humor.ſo that almoſt all the native heat of thoſe parts ſeemed extinë. all which things being confidered, i had ſcarſe any hope to recoverhim, ſo that i repented my coming thither.yet at length putting ſome confidence in his ſtrength,and prime of youth, ibegan to have bet- ter hopes.therefore with his good liking,firſt of all i make two inciſions, ſo to let forth the matter, incifica, which lying about the bone did humed the ſubſtance of the muſcles. this had happy ſucceſs,and drew wherefore out a great quantity ofnlatter;then i with a ſyrings injećted much aegyptiacum diſſolved in wine,and a ". little aquavite into theſe inciſions,ſo to reſtrainandamend the putrefačtion,repreſſe the ſpungie, looſe - and : fleſh,reſolve the oldematous and flatulent tumor,aſſwage the pain, and ſtir up and ſtrengthen the native heat almoſt oppreſt by the aboundance of excrementitious humors, ſo that it could . ſcarſely aſſimilate any nouriſhment and adjoin it to the parts. then i fomented the affetted part wherefore with sage,roſe-mary,time, lavander,chamomile and ji. flowers and red-roſe leaves boyled in infeaſe. white wine,and lye made of oake-aſhes,adding thereto as much ſalt and vinegar as i judged requiſite. mentations; this fomentation did attenuate & draw forth the morbfiick humor.now we uſed them long & often, ſo to waſ the humor more by drying up and breathing thorow the paſſages of the skin, more thereof than fell into the part.for this ſame purpoſe, we ordained that he ſhould uſe frićtions with hotlinnen mixed or clothes,and that theſe ſhould be made from above downwards, from below upwards, and ſo on every round triai. ſide,and ſomewhat long withall:for a ſhort frićtion drawes more humor into the part than it can re-ons,as they'r folve:hºwiſhed that each other day they ſhould lay bricks heated hot in the fire about his leg,thigh, & ſoal of his foot;but they were to be ſomewhat quenched,and ſprinkled with wine and vinegar, with a thrm. fmall quantity of aqua vite. much watriſh moiſture by this moiſtheat, did ſweat out of theſe parts, the tumor was leſſened,and the native heat by little and little reſtored.then ſtoups dipped in lye made of amedia. oake aſhes,wherein sage,roſemary,lavander,ſalt,and cloves, were boyled,ſome aqua vite added, were ted lys. apply'd thereto;but the rowlers were ſo gently, and artificially wrapped about, that he did eaſily en- dure them without any pain,and that with ſuch happy ſucceſs, that if they were omitted but for one day,the tumor became very great.but thick linnenboulſters were laid upon the lower cavities of the . ulcers; that ſo i. or filth might be more eaſily preſſed forth. but i had alwayes a ſpeciall card that the orifices of the ulcers ſhould be kept open with hollow tents or pipes put therein and ſome- times this following cataplaſm was applyed to reſolve the tumor.r. fariñord fabar.º. robi,an. #vj. mel-adiº. lis com.é:tereb.an. ijffo.chaniem:melil.cº roſnub.an. pulvirad. ireas,flor. cyper. maft. an: iij, oxymel. fim? º quantum ſufficit;fat cataplaſma ad formam pultis ſati; liquide. andemplaffrum de vigº without mercury was “ ! applyed thereto,whereby the pain was much aſſwaged,and the tumor º: : yet were they not %. plyed before the parts were throughly heated by the fomentation, frićtions, and aspor. : otherwayes of wounds made by gunſhot, l i b. . otherwayes this emplaſter could never have been ačtivated,by reaſon of the txceſſive coldneſs of the af. fe&cd parts. neither did we cºmit categmatick powdors,fit for the taking,& drawing forth of broken bones. he uſed a vulnerary potion for dayes. alſo beſides the particular frićtions of the affe&ed arts, appointed other generall frićtions of the whole body, which was become very lean;for by theſe, lood together with the ſpirit was drawn to , the parts, and the acrid, and fuliginous vapours were breathed forth. . to conclude, his feaver and pains being aſſwaged, his appetite reſtored, by feeding e. upon good meats according to his ſtrength,he in a ſhort time became more luſty; and laſtly y the ſingular mercy of god, recovered his health perfeótly, but that he could not very well bend his knee.i thought good to recite theſe things,not to glory or brag of the happy ſucceſſe of thoſe patients, which have recovered by my means,and the favour of god;but that thus i may more fully and per- ſettly by familiar examples inſtrućt young praćtitioners,in the operations of chirurgery. cha p. xiii. an apologie concerning wounds made by gunſhot. §here lately came to my hands abook written by a certain phyſitian,whereby he endeavours thº' 'ºlº to diſprove and overthrow,that which i have hitherto writ, ofthecure of wound, 'made .." º by gunſhot,aſſuredly if there were no other harm,but the loſs of my credit enſuing there. apologie. #on,i would willingly hold my peace and ſtophismouth by modeſt ſilence. but ſcing the "ſafety of ſo many men, lyes upon the judgement of this point, i have thought good to withſtand this errour,leſt it,to the great deſtrućtion of mankind,ſpread and diffuſe it ſelf any further. th; chiefe the uſe(ſaith hey!of ſuppurative medicins, have killed many who have been but lightly wounded *::... with gunſhot,butacrid medicins, as Ægyptiacum;have killed more. neither is the counſell of hippo- ' our adver- - - - - - - - i. . trates to be obſerved in curing this ſort of wounds,who bids that every contuſed wound be brought tiſc. to ſuppuration. for ſeeing this is a new kind of wound,it requires new,and not anciently uſed mºdi- cines.now the temper of i. air changed from the naturall conſtitution ought not to indicate change of medicines;but much leſſe muſt thunder and lightning be compared to the ſhooting of great ordi- nance.theſe are the chief heads of this his book, which becauſe they diſſent from the truth, and theſe allwounds things i have formerly delivered, i have thought good here to confute.firſt,ſeeing leaden bullets which *a*by are uſually ſhot out of guns are round, obtuſe and weighty, they cannot wound the body without ..". contuſion and attrition;now no contuſion can be cured without ſuppuration, not only according to i. “ the opinion of hippocrates,but alſo of galen and all others who have written of phyſick. neither muſt we invent new remedies,for theſe new kinds of wounds; for the lawes of the ſacred and divine art of . fick are not obnoxious to . ſubjećt to the humor of men or times,as the decrees of kings and emperours are. for theſe are ſtabliſhed with immutable neceſſity, which conſtancy neither con- ſuming time, nor age,nor tyranny can pervert.wherefore neither theſe who with great praiſe are phy- fitians to kings and princes,i mean ioubert and potallu, think it lawfull for them to depart from t rules of hippocrates.and this they not only do and follow in curing and doing the j of art, but much and highly commend,confirm and propound to be diligently obſerved by all, in their books which they have publiſhed concerning the cure of theſe kinds of wounds. and yet theſe phyſitians are {uch,as dayly converſant in armies and kings houſes have healed and dayly cure as many wounded by gunſhot as this phyſitian our antagoniſt hath ſeen in all his life. neither only do theſe whom i have named thus cure theſe wounds,but almoſt all that dreſſe ſuch kind of wounds do the like, ſo that if therebe nothing which may hinder,or indicate to the contrary, they preſently apply ſuppuratives. a ſuppura. and i wonder that he hath not obſerved how his neighbour doublet the emperick cures deſperate ...; wounds of this nature,with no other than a ſuppurative medicine,compoſed of lard, the yolk of an ... egge:turpentine and a little saffron. in the year , there was at turin whilºſºl was chirur- ?' geon there to the marſhall of montejan the kings lieutenant generall in piemont a certain chirurgeon wondrous famous for curing theſe wounds,and yet he uſed nothing elſe but the oil of whelpes, (the deſcription whereof i at length obtained of him with much intreaty and expence) and he uſed it not ſcalding hot,as ſome have imagined,but powred it ſcarſe warm into their wounds, and ſo did mitigate their pain,and happily bring them to ſuppuration. which afterwards almoſt all chirurgeons, after happy ſucceſſe. - the force but in contenning and condemning Ægyptiacum, i think he hath no partaker;ſteing there as yet hath of Ægypti. been found no medicine more ſpeedy and powerfull to hinder putrefaction,if beginning; or correót it, **- : if preſent. now theſe wounds often degenerate into virulent, rating, ſpreading, and maligne ulcers, . º, which caſt forth a ſtinking and carion-like filth;whence the part . unleſs you withſtand “” them with Ægyptiacum and other acrid medicins,being greatly approved by the formerly named phy- ... fitians and all chirurgeons.but (ſaith he this unguent is poyſonous, and therefore hath been the death of many who have been wounded by gunſhot.verily if any diligently enquire into the compo- ſition of this ointment, and confider the nature of all and every the ingredients thereof, he ſhall un- derſtand that this kind of línguent is ſo far from poyſon, that on the contrary it dire&ly oppoſes and reſiſts all poyſon and putrefaction which may happen to a fleſhy part,through occaſion of any wound. the force - it is moſt falſe and diſſonant from the doćtrine of hippocrates to affirm, that the ſeaſons of the year of the air ſwerving from the law of nature,and the air, not truly the ſimple and elementary,but that which .*.*.* is defiled and polluted by the various mixture of putrid and peſtilent vapours, either raiſed from the ºl. earth,or ſent from above, make not wounds more malign and hard to cure at ſome times than they ring di- are at otherſome. for the air eithtryery hot, or cold, drawn into the body by inſpiration or tran- caſcs, ſpiration, generates a condition in us like its qualitics. thcrefore why may it not, when defiled with . the they had got the deſcription hereof,when i firſt publiſhed this work, have uſed and daily docuſe with lig. . and other fiery engines,and allſorts ofw.eaponſ. the putredinous vapours of bodies lying unburied aftergreatbattails,and ſhipwracks of great arma- does infe& with the like quality our bodies and wounds? . in the year . when the civil wars concerning religion firſt begun in france, at pene a caſtle a.hiſtory. lying upon the river lot,many ſlain bodies were caſt into a well,ſome hundred cubits deep, ſo flink- ing and peſtilent a vapour aroſe from hence ſome two months after, that many, thouſand of people º all over the province of agenoir,as if the plague had been amongſt them, the pernicious conta- gion being ſpread twenty milesin compaſs, which noneought to think ſtrange, eſpecially ſeeing the the putridexhalations by the force of the winds may be driven and carried into divers and moſt re- mote regions,diſperſed like the ſeeds of the pºſtilence, whence proceeds a deadly corruption of the ſpi- rits.humors,and wounds,not to be attributed to the proper malignity,or perverſecure of wounds,but to be the fault of the air. therefore francis daleſchampe in his french chirurgery, in reckoning u theſe things which hinder the healing of ulcers,hath not omitted that common cauſe which . from the air defiled or tainted with the ſeeds of the peſtilence. for he had learnt from his maſter hip-hºp aphi: focrates that the mutations of times chiefly bring diſeaſes,and he had read in guido, that this was the ſºft, . chief occaſion,that wounds of the head at paris,and of the legs at avignion, were more difficultly heal- ed. laſtly,even barbers and ſuch as have leaſt skillin chirurgery know,that wounds eaſily turn into a gangrene in hot and moiſt conſtitutions of the air. wherefore when the wind is ſoutherly,the but- chers will kill no more fleſh than to ſerve them for one day. i have formerly declared the malignity in curſes of the wounds occaſioned by the air in the ſiege of roven, which ſpared none, no not the princes of the cond diſ. blood,who had all things which were requiſite for their health.which cauſed me,made at length more courſe. skilfull by experience,to uſe vnguentum aegyptiacum and medicins of the like faculty in ſtead of ſuppu- ratives,to wounds during all that ſeaſon, that ſo i might withſtand the putrefaction and gangrene which ſo commonly affailed them. but if the various motion of the ſtars, can by their influx ſend a the" plague into the air,why then . it not by depravation of their qualities infect,and as by poyſoning ºf he'. corrupt both wounds and woun ed bodies obnoxious to their changes and that of the air? we learnt upon the air long ſince by experience, that all pains but principally of wounds, grow worſe in a rainy and moiſt and ourbo- ſeaſon,ſpecially becauſe in that ſoutherly conſtitution the air replete with thick and ; vapours,” cauſes the humors to abound in the body, which forthwith eaſily fall upon the affe&ed parts, and cauſe increaſe of pain. but ſaith our adverſary, in the battell at dreux, and at s. denni, which were fought in winter,there dyed a great number of men who were wounded by gunſhot: this i confeſs is true,but this i deny,that it was occaſioned ... corroſives,but ratherby the vc- hemency and largeneſs oftheir wounds, ; the ſpoil the bullet made in their members,but above all by reaſon of the cold. for cold is moſtdhurtfull to wounds and ulcers, (as hippocrates teſtifies) it hardens pharao, the skin and cauſes a gangrene. if this my gentleman had been with me in the ſiege of metz, he might ºff. have ſeen the legs of many ſouldiers to have rotted, and preſently taken with a gangrene to have faln away,by the only extremity of cold; if he will notbeleeveme, let him make tryall himſelf; and go in winter to the chappell at mount seni, one of the alpinehills,where the bodies of ſuch as were : frozen to death in paſſing that way are buried,and he ſhall learn and feel, how true i ſpeak.in themean time i thinkit fit to confute the laſt point of his reprehenſion. he cavills for that i compared thunder and lightning with the diſcharging peeces of ordnance. the finiſt. firſt he cannót deny but that they are alike in effects.foritis certain that the flame ariſing from gun-ſºº tº powder ſet on fire, reſembles lightning; in this alſo that you may ſee it before you hear the crack or tween report. i judg for that the eye almoſt in amoment perceives its objećts; but the ear cannot but in thº. ſome certain ſpace of time,and by diſtinét gradations.but the rumbling noiſe is like in both, and cer- :..., tnantained. tainly the report of great ordnance may be heard ſometimes at forty miles diſtance, whilſt they make any greatbattery in the beſieging of cities. befides alſo,iron bullets caſt forth with incredible cele- rity by the fired gunpouder, throw down all things with a horrid force,and that more ſpeedily and violently by how much they reſiſ themore powerfully by their hardneſs.they report that lightning melts the mony not hurting the purſe; now many by the only viblence of the air * and vehe- mently movedby ſhooting a perce of ordnance,as touched with lightning have dy * their bones being ſhivered and broken,no ſign of hurt º: in the skin. the ſmell of gunpou- der when it is fired,is hurtfull, firy and ſulphurous, ſuſt like that which exhales or comes from bodies, killed with lightning.for men †. only ſhun this ſmell, but alſo wild beaſts leave their dens if touched with lightnings.now the cruelty of great ordnance makes no leſs ſpoil amongſt buildings, nor ſlaughter amongſt men and beaſts;than lightnings do, as we have formerly ſhown by examples, not only horrid to ſee,but even to hear reported,as of mines,the arcenall of pariſ,the city of malignes. theſe may ſeem ſufficient to teach,that thunder and lightning have a great ſimilitude with the ſhoot- ing of great ordnance,which notwithſtanding i would not have alike in all things. for they neither agree in ſubſtance, normatter,but only in the manner of violent breaking aſunder the objećts. . . . in a moment,’ - - • ' - now letus ſee and examin what manner of cure of wounds made by gunſhot our adverſary ſubſti- our adver: tutes for ours.for he would have ſuppuratives uſed and applyed,yet ſuch as ſhould not be hot & moiſt ſaries me. . of an emplaſtick conſiſtence,but hot and dry things. for (faith he) here is not the ſame thod, and on as in abſceſſes, where the phyſitian intends nothing but ſuppuration.but here becauſe a contu- *::::. . preſent with the wound,this requires to be ripened with ſuppuratives, but the wound to be ryea. -- … . . . .'; . . . . . . . t --- now to anſwer this objeåion, will refer him to galen, who will teach him the nature of ſuppu- gal lib. . ratives;from whom alſo hemay learn that great regard is to be had of the cauſe and more urgent order tº: in the cure of compound diſeaſes;then would i willingly learn of him, whether he can heaf a wound ** made by gunſhot not firſt bringing that which is contuſed to perfeit maturity. if he affirm he can, .. f f - *w " ved. of wounds made by gunſhot, l i -w b. . will be judged by whatſoever pračtitioners he will,to judgh w obſcure theſe things are.whereby you may the better underſtand there is nothing more commodious than our baſilicon and oil of whelps to . ripen wounds made by gunſhot, if ſo be that putrefaction, corruption, a gangrene or ſome other thing do not hinder. then would he have oxycrate poured into theſe wounds to ſtay their bleeding, which if it cannot ſo be ſtayed, he would have a medicin applyed conſiſting of the whiteof an egg. bole armenick, il of roſes and ſalt.but i leave it to other mens judgment, whether theſe medicin. have powcr to ſtay bleeding if put into the wound;certainly they will make it bleed the more.for vi- vinegar - - - - - - - - - - - ineg negar ſeeing it is of a tenuious ſubſtance and biting,it is no doubt but that it will cauſe pain, defluxi- put into a wound doth on and inflammation. to which purpoſe i remember i put to ſtanch bleeding, for want of another re- not ſlay but medie,a medicin wherein was ſome vinegar,into a wound received by a moor, an attendant of the º: * earl of roiſſy, hurt with a lance, run through his arm before bologne by an engliſh horſeman.but ain ory, he comes again to me a little after,complaining and crying out that all his arm burnt like fire; where- fore i was glad to dreſs him again,and put another medicin into his wound,and laid an aſtringent me- dicin upon the wound,bnt poured it not therein. and then above all other remedies he extols his balſam compoſed of oil of wax, and myrrhbeaten together with the white of an egge; which he ſaith is equall in operation to the naturall balſam of peru. for he affirms that this hath a faculty to con- ſume the excrementitious humidity of wounds, and ſo ſtrengthens the part that no ſymptom af. balmare terwards troubles them. yet he faith, this doth not ſo well healand agglutinate theſe wounds, as it fit to heal doth others which are cut. verily it is ridiculous to think that contuſed wounds can be healed after hºple” the ſame manner as fimple wounds may which only require the uniting of the looſed continuity. j. therefore neither can thºſe balſams befit remedies to heal wounds made by gunſhot, ſeeing by “reaſon of their dryneſs they hinder ſuppuration, which unleſs it be procured the patient cannot be healed.wherefore ſuch things ought not be put into wounds of this nature, before they be ripened, waſhed and clenſed from their §. can iſcarſe conceive, where we ſhall be able to find out ſoma. ºny chymiſts which may furniſh us with theſe things ſufficiently to dreſs ſo many wounded ſouldiers as uſually are in an army, or whence the ſouldiers have ſufficient means to bear the charge thereof..al- ſo that which he ſaith is abſurd,that theſe balſams muſt be put into the wounds without tents; and preſently forgetting himſelf,he ſaith,it will not be amiſs, if there be a little and ſlender tent put in- to the wound,which may only ſerve to hinder the agglutination thereof. but how can theſe balſams come to the bottomes of wounds without tents,when as it is their chief property to carry medicins cycn to the innermoſt parts of the wounds,andalwayes keep open a free º, the evacuation of the quitture? but it is not worthy,that after he hath reje&cdºnguentum aegyptiacum,he nevertheleſs bids ... to apply it, from the beginning untill the contuſion come to perfeót maturation, diſſolving it º in a decočtion of the tops of wormwood,s-labn wurt,the leſſer centory and plantain, and ſo injećting owſoever -- . . . - - - - :-- -l - - .." it into the wound. beſides alſo a little after he gives another way of uſing it, which is, to boil a quan: cenſe, not a tity of hony of roſes in plantain water,carefully skimming it, untill it be boiled to the confiſtence of ſuppurative. hony,and then to add as much agyptiacum thereto,and ſo to nake an ointment moſt fit to bring theſe wounds to ſuppuration.but i leave it for any skilful in chirurgery to judg;whether ſuch medicins can be ſuppuratives,or whether they be not rather deterfives. laſt of all he writes, that theſe wounds muſt be dreſt but every fourth day.' and if there beafraćture ofthe bone joymed with the wound, then to move nothing after the firſt dreſſing untill the eighth day after; then preſently in another place he ſaith,it will be good,and expedient,to drop tenor twelve drops of the formerly deſcribed baſſam eve- ry day into the wound. verily ſuch daćtrin which neither agrees with its ſelf nor the truth, cannot but much puſk a novice and young pračtitioner in chirurgery, who is not yet in verſed the art, or ... , the operations thereof. , , , . . . . . . * * : ****, * : * - --- == —t-h-------------------------~~~~. --> another º; thoſe who have labºured with new reaſºns to prove that wound, made by gunſhot are poyſºned. - - - - - - the occaſi. ºone few months agone, viſited a patient together with fome learned phyſtians andskilfull chap. xiiii. on of this * chirurgeons. now they,as it oft-times happens,in way of diſcourſe, begun to argue of the apology. : condition & quality of wounds made by gunſhot, & indeavoured to prove that they might be poyſoned by five reaſons. not truly through the occaſion of the gunpouder, for they all confeſſed that it was free from º. whether you have regard to its effence,or to its compoſition po thereaſon but by the bullet,into which t yſon may be transfuſed and incorporated.the firſt reaſon is, that of onrad- lead ſeeing it is of a rare and ſpongious nature,which the eafineſs of melting and ſoftneſs argues, is § º very fit to drink and ſoak in what liquors ſo ever you pleaſe. but methinks this concluſion is very º: º, .* weak;for in all mixtures made by art ſuch as this is whereof we ſpeak,there are two things to be con- rºyº, fidered; that is to ſay, the matter of the things which enter into themixture, and the form: for the ſet down matter,ſuch bodies muſt be either liquid,or ſoft, or friable;and laſtly ſuch as may be broken and divi- . °onº- ded into ſmall particles,that ſo they may eaſily in all parts concur and be conjoyned and united. but cg, for their form,there ought to be a certain affinity,conſent and ſympathy.you may perceive this by wa- ter and oil;for each of them though of a liquid ſubſtance, and ſuch as may eaſily be mixed with divors other things,yet cannot they be mixed the one with the other by reaſon of their antipathy of forms. for thus gold and ſilver are ſo agreeing with lead, that as oft as they are molten lead is mixed with them. but braſs ſhuns leadas much as gold and ſilverfly tin and white lead. if therefore braſs and lead being melted cannot be mixed together,though contained under the ſame genus,and common na- ture of metalls; how then can it becommixt with another thing diſtinét in the whole kind, much more in ſpecieſ,and form,to wit, poyſon their ſecond reaſon is this; iron, ſay they, which is more. denſe, lib.ii. and other fiery enginer,and alſorts ofweaponi. --- -------------- denſe,ſolid, and leſs porous, may receive ſome venenate ſubſtance and quality,as the arrows of the ancients which were dipped in poyſon,teſtifie; therefore muſt lead much more be capable thereof. i anſwer,that the ſurface of iron may be poyſoned,but not the inner part or ſubſtance by mixture there- with. but here the queſtion is of #. not of anointing or inunčtion. the third reaſon is thus, framed; though(ſay they)lead caſt off and purges itſelf from the droſs and unpure parts,yet that is no argument that it will not commix, or ſoak itſelfin ſome ſtrangeliquor or body; for thus steel,being the moſt ſolid iron,receives the temper which hardens it by the artificial pouring upon it or quench- ing it in liquors contrary thereto in their whole kind. i anſwer, that steel admits into it i. that quenching and tempering, none of the juyces or liquors wherewith it is watered or quenched. for if that were neceſſary.it might be better & more eaſily performed, when the metall is firſtcaſt,than when it is beaten into plates or bars;which anſwer ſhal ſerve to confute their fourth reaſon;wherin they ſay, that bullets may be made ſo poyſonous by the commixture of the juyces of muncks-hood, oleander, - - crow-foot, and other ſuch like things which in their whole ſubſtance are contrary to ours, that the - - wound wºh is made with them cannot but be poyſoned. but i on the contrary affirm,that mixture is on ly of theſe things,which may not only be put but alſo ſtick thereto, . be mutually united but how can water orany other liquid juice ſo much as only ſtick to lead,as that which is a ſolid & firm body, it is ſo far from §: united,therewith?you may givenore certain judgment hereof by experience,than by reaſon;wherefore let melted lead be put into the foreſaidjuices or the like; then when the lead is cold, weigheach ofthem ſeverally and you ſhal find,that both of them retain the ſame weight they formerly had.which is a moſt certain argument that neither the lead hath mixed or united itſelf with the juices, nor the juices loſt any part of their ſubſtance. their fifth reaſon is thus:abullet ſhot out of a gun - gainſt ſome hard ſtone grows not ſo hot,but that you may preſently without any harm take it . - your hand.therefore it is falſe,that the poyſon commixt& united with the bullet can be diſſipated by the fireand flaſh of gunpouder.the anſwer to this objećtion is eaſie. for when we ſay, that although the bullet maybe infrèted by poyſon perfeótly commixt with the lead,yet all the force of the poyſon would be diſſipated by the fire; we would have you thus to underſtand us,that we do not mean this of that fire which is made by the pouder at the diſcharging of the peice,but of that by force whereof the molten lead is mixed and conjoined with the venenate juice,ſo to make one of many.for this fire ex- erciſing its force upon the venenate juices hindered by the intercourſe of no medium, and that for ſome ſpace of time,and not for an inſtant,it may,if not conſume yet much weaken their ſtrength. ... if there " ... be any, who wil not beſatisfied by theſe reaſons,let him conſult, & read mathiolus. there are(ſaith he in §:- ſome of theſe later times wholly ignorant of things, who(if we may ſay the the truth) have been ſo pººl madly fooliſh,that they ſaid it was fit and requiſite to put treacle and mithridate and ſuch like anti- rdotes amongſt gold and filver that was melted to make cups,that ſo receiving the faculties of the an- tidote they might reſiſt poyſon.but how abſurd and ridiculous their opinion is, let them judg (for it needs no clearer reproof) who havebut a little knowledgin naturall things, but chiefly in metalls. *theſe are my reaſons,theſe the authorities of men j learning&judgment,that confirm me in *my ancient & former opinion,that wounds made by gun holde not partake ofany venenate quality. - chap. x v. howwoundinal, by arrows differ frºm ſuch as are made by gunſhºt. wound. º wº qunds made by arrows and bolts ſhot out of croſs-bows and ſuch like things,differ chiefly "ide whº wº in two things,from theſe which are madeby gunſhºt. the firſt is, for that they are oft-times É.:nd & without contuſion, which the other never are. the other is, for that they oft-times are poy- things,are ſoned.in both theſe reſpeas,their cure is different from the other.butthecureoftheſe wounds often with: made by arrows is different in it ſelf by reaſon of the variety aſid divers ſorts of darts or arrows. . ..". - - - - - - - - - - - - on. ut. the figure of divers ſorts of arrows. c.h.a.p. xvi. iofibe diverſities ºf airw and pair. - .fºr: ... .º *rrows and darts are dif- ſoned. , w º º ferent amongſt themſelves the diffeen: §º both in matter and in ºf “- t- form or figure, in num-" a ber, making,faculty or ſtrength; in ſ: matter,ſofthat ſome of them are of inmaters ' ' wood,ſome of recds,ſome are blunt * h headed, othefs have piles or heads of iron,braſs,lead,tin, horn, glaſſe, h bone. in figure, for that ſome are infigº. iſ round; others cornered, ſome are ſharpe pointed, ſome barbed, with. ... ſtanding either to the point,or ſhafts, or elſe acroſſe, or É. wayes,but ſome are brºad and and cut like a chiſſºll. for their inbigueſ. bigneſſ, ſome are three foot long, ſome ift . for their mümber, they in number. differ in that, becauſe ſome have on? ... " head,others more.but they vary in ºn making; in making, for that ſome of them - f f . have . {# | - | | | s § of wounds made by gunſhot, lib. , have the ſhaft put into the head, others the head into the ſhaft ; ſome have their heads nailed to th. "* ſhaft,others not but have their head, ſo looſly ſet on that by gentle plucking the ſhaft, they leave their heads behind them, whence dangerous wounds proceed. but they differ in force, or that ſome hurt by their iron only,others beſides that,by poyſon, wherewith they are infected.you may ſee the other vari. ous ſhapes repreſented to you in the preceding figure. chap. xvii. of the difference of the wounded parts. - i. s' he wounded parts are either fleſhy orbony; ſome are neer the joints, others ſeated upon the very joints; ſome are principall,others ſerve them;ſome are externali,others internall. now in wounds where deadly ſigns appear, it's fit you give an abſolute judgment to that effett; you muſ. "i leſt you make the art to be ſcandalled by the ignorant. but it is an inhumane part, and . ... much digreſſing from art,to leave the iron in the wound;it is ſometimes difficult to take it out, yet a .*" charitable and artificiall work.for it is much better to try a doubtfull remedy,than none at all. wound. - – chap. xvi i i. of drawing forth arrows. . the manner ºgu muſtin drawing forth arrows ſhun inciſions and dilacerations of veins and arteries, jºins &n º nerves and tendons. for it is a ſhamefull and bungling part to do more harm with your . : º hand,than the iron hath done. now arrows are drawn forth two wayes, that is, either by ſuch wº. tt" extračtion,or impulſion. now you muſt preſently at the firſt dreſſing pull forth all ſtrange pons. bodies,which that you may more eaſily and happily perform,you ſhallſet the patient in the ſame po- ſture,as he ſtood when he received his wound ; and he muſt have alſo his inſtruments in a readineſſe, chiefly that which hath a ſlit pipe and toothed without,into which there is put a ſharpe iron ſtyle,like. the gimblets we formerly mentioned for the taking forth of bullets; but that it hath no ſcrue at the end, but is larger and thicker, ſo to widen the pipe, that ſo widened it may fill up the hole of the arrows head whereinto the ſhaft was put,and ſo fi. it forth with it, both out of the fleſhy as alſo out of the bony parts, if ſo be that the end of the ſhaft be not broken, and left in the hole of the head. that alſo is a fit inſtrument for this purpoſe, which opens the other end toothed on the out- ſide,by preſſing together of the handle. you ſhall find the iron or head that lies hid by theſe figns, there will be a certain roughneſſe and inequality obſervable on that partifyou feel it up and down with your hand; the fleſh there will be bruiſed,livid, or black, and there is heavineſſe and pain felt by the patient both there and in the wound. a delineation of inſtruments fit to drawforth the head of ar- row, -dartſ,which are left in the wound withºut their ſhafts, rººfſ - lºw ºut ºn - maºzººlººſalſ, sºul. /'liſſuuuuuuuuuunºſſº - but if by chance either arrows.darts or lances, or any winged head of any otherweapon,be run through a hooked inſtrument fit for to draw forth ſtrange bodies, as pieces of male,and ſuch other things as it can catch hold of which may alſo be uſed in wounds made by gunſhot. and left ſticking in any part of the body,as the thigh, with a portion of the ſhaft or ſtaffe ſlivered in pieces, or broken off; then it is fit the chirurgeon with his cutting mullets ſhould cut off the end of the ſtaffe or ſhaft, and then with his other mullets pluck forth the head, as you may ſteby this figure. chap. - - ----- ------ -––––– --- - - - lion, and other fiery engines,and alſorts of weaponr. chap. xix. how arrowes broken in a wound may be drawn forth. §§§ if it chance that the weapon is ſo broken in the wound, that it cannot be taken hold on *...*º by the formerly mentioned mullets,then muſt ou draw, rpluck it out with your crane, - º: # or crows bill,and otherformerly deſcribed inſtruments. but if the ſhaft be broken neer v o pºs the head.ſo that you cannot take hold thereof with your cranes bill, then you ſhall draw ... orth with your gimblet which we deſcribed before to draw forth bullets; for if ſuch a gimblet can the weapºn tº affned in bullets, it mayfarbetter takehold of wood.but if the headbebarbed,as uſual ly the eng- on the on- a delater hollowed ºn the inſide; with , crane- liſh arrowes are, then if it may be conveniently") ſide- bill to take bold of the barbed head. done,it will be very fitting to thruſt them through - : , the parts.for if they ſhould be drawn out the ſame way they went in,there would be no ſmall danger ofbreaking ºr tearing the veſſells and nerves by theſe hooked barbes. wherefore it is better to make aſºtion on the other ſide whither the head tended, and ſo give it paſſage forth if it may be eaſily done ; for ſo the wound will be the more eaſily clenſed and ... . . conſolidated. but on the contrary,if the point tend wwhen by to any bone, or have many muſcles or thick fleſh a- . ſame , gainſt the head thereof, as it happens ſometimes in º it went the thighs,legs and armes;then you muſt not thruſt the head through, but rather draw it out the fame way it came in, dilating the wound with fit inſtruments, and by skill in anatomie ſhunning the larger nerves and veſſells.therefore for this purpoſe put a hollow dilater into the wound,and there- with take hold ofboth the barbs or wings ofthehead;and then take faſt hold of the head with yout cranes-bill,and ſo draw them forth all three together, - w chap. xx. what to be done,when an arrow is left faſtned or ſticking in a bone. lit if the weapon be ſo depačt and faſtned in a bone that you cannot drive it forth on the |º]} other ſide, neither get it forth by any other way than that it entred in by ; you muſt firſt . § ºf gently move it up and down,if it ſtick very faſt in, but have aſpeciall care that you do not a caution. alſº break it,& ſolcave fome fragment thereof in the bone;then take it forth with your crowes the benefit bill of ſome other fit inſtrument formerly deſcribed. then preſs forth the blood,and º: it to bleed of bleeding iſomewhat largely,yet according to the ſtrength of the patient and nature of the wounded part. for inw". thus the part § be eaſed of the fulneſs and ilneſs of humors, and leſs moleſted with inflammation, putrefaction and other ſymptomes which are cuſtomarily feared.when the weapon is drawn forth,and the wound once dreſſed,handle it,if ſimple,as you do ſimple wounds; if compound,then according to the condition and manner of the complication of the effečts; certainly the oil of whelpes formerly deſcribed is very good to aſſwage pain. to conclude,you ſhall cure the reſt of the symptomes accor- ding to the method preſcribed in our treatiſe of wounds in generall, and to that we haveformerly de- livered concerning wounds made by gunſhot. - - . : chap. xxi. of payſoned wounds. - - - > f theſe wounds at any time prove poyſoned, they have it from their primitive cauſe,to wit, the fighs . k; the empoiſoned arrowes,or darts of theirenemies.you may find it out both by the pro-ºpº" ºperty of the pain,ifthat it be great and pricking as if continually flung with bees,for ſuch wounds, . s. spain uſually enſues in wounds poyſoned with hotpoyſon, as arrowes uſually are; alſo * you ſhall know it by the condition of the wounded fleſh;for it will become pale and grow livid,with ſº ſigns of mortification.to conclude,therehappen many and malign ſymptomes upon wounds which are empoyſoned, being ſuch as happen not in the common nature of uſuall wounds., , thereforepreſently . you have plucked forth the ſtrange bodies, encompaſs the wound with ma-. . - inedies my and deepſcarifications apply ventoſes with much flame that ſo the poyſon may be more powerful..." ſo- ly drawn forth;to which purpoſe the ſucking of the wound,performed by one whoſe mouth hath no wounds. #. therein,but is filled with oil,that ſo the poiſon which he ſucks may not ſtick, nor adhere to the part,will much conduce. laſtly,it muſt bedrawn forth by rubefying, veſicatory and cauſtick medi- £ins,and aſſailcd by oyntments,cataplaſmes, emplaiſters,and all ſorts of locall medicins, - the end of the eleventh book, - ff; of o - - l i b. . ***************$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$. of contuſions and gangrenes. the twelfth boo k. c. h. a. p. i. Şı contuſion according to galen,is a ſolution of continuity in the fleſh or bone,cauſed by the ſtroak of ſome heavy and obtuſe º: a fall from an high. the ſymptome of this nt \ diſeaſe is by hippocrates called pelioſis,and melaſma,that is to ſay,blackneſs and blewneſs; sh...lib. the latins termit sugillatum. there are divers ſorts of theſe sugillations or blackneſſes, defaşaris. wºº according as the blood is poured forth into the more inward or outward part of the gal, lib.de artis conſti- cauſes of body.the blood is poured forth into the body, when any (for example) falls from an º high, r hath any heavyweightfalls upon him,as it often happens to ſuch as work in mines, or are qūs. extreamly racked or tortured;and ſometimes by too loud and forcible exclamation. beſides alſo by a bullet ſhot through the body blood is poured forth into the bellic, and ſo often evacuated by the paſſages of the guts and bladder. the ſame may happen by the more violent and obtuſe blowes of a #. trunchion,club,stone,and all things which may bruiſe and preſs the blood out of the veſſells either by extending or breaking them. for which cauſes alſo the exteriour parts are contuſed, or bruiſed ſometimes with a wound,ſometimes without,ſo that the skin being whole, and as far as one can diſcern untoucht,the blood poures it ſelf forth into the empty ſpaces of the muſcles, and between stºł. .lib. the skin and muſcles;which affe& the ancients have tearmed ecchymoſis ; hippocrates calls it by a pecu- . }. liar name nauſioſis,for that in this affe& the ſwoln veins ſeem as it were to vomit, and verily do vomit or caſt forth the ſuperfluous blood which is contained in them. from theſe differences of contuſions are drawn the indications of curing,as ſhall appear by the enſuing diſcourſe. * c. h. a.p. l i. ofthe generall cure of great and enormous contuſions. sº heblood poured forth into the body, muſtbe evacuated by viſible and not viſible evacuati- on. the viſible evacuation may be performed by blood-letting, cupping-glaſſes,horns,ſca- rification,horſleeches and fit purgative medicins;if ſo be the patient have not a ſtrong and continuall feaver;the not viſible evacuation is performed by reſolving and #j po- adſºnſen, tions baths,and a ſlender diet.concerning blood-letting galens opinion is plain, where he bids,in a fall *::ſ:# . from an high place,and generally for bruiſes upon what part ſoever they be, to open a vein, though º * the parties affe&ed are not of a full conſtitution;for thatunleſs you draw blood by opening a vein, clitº. there may inflammations ariſe from the concreat blood, from whence without doubt evill accidents may enſue. after you have drawn blood . him foure ounces of oxycrate to drink; for that by the tenuity of its ſubſtance hinders the coagulation of the bloodin the belly, or in ſtead thereof you may a pationto uſe this following potion. b. rad.gentiane iij.bulliant in oxycrato;incolatura diſſolve rhei elečii. i fiat potio- diſſolve and theſe medicins diffolve,and caſt forth by ſpitting and vomit the congealed blood, if any thereof be * contained in the ventricle or lungs; it will be expedient to wrap the patient preſently in a ſheeps skin, . being hot and newly taken from the ſheep,and ſprinkled over with a little myrrhe,creſſes and ſalt,and anot foto put himpreſently in his bed, then cover him ſo that he may ſweat plentifully.the next day take ‘heeps skin. away the ſheeps-skin, and anoint the body with the following anodyne and reſolving ungnent.b. un- a diſcuſſin guent.de . lumbric.chamem.anethian.ºij.terebinth.veneteşiiijfarine frnugeroſar. º: :* fulmyrtillorum,an i.fiat litus at digium eff.then give this potion which is ſudorifick and diſſolves the auton congealed bloodr ligni guaiaciºviij radici, emule camp.conſolid majori,ireoflorent folypodguerni, ſemini co- *k, potion riandrianiſ,anºſ; glycyrhizºij.njets,centauree,caryºphyl, cardui bºn.verbent,an, miſºgue fontane lib.xij. let **ſolve thembe all beaten and infuſed for the ſpace of twelve houres,then let them boil over a gentle fire un- sº till the one halfbe conſumedlet the patient drink ſome half pinte of this drink in the morning, and - m - - - * then ſweat ſomehour upon it in his bed, and doe this for ſeavenor eight dayes. if any poor man light upon ſuch a miſchance who for want of means cannot be at ſuch coſt, it will be good, having syrups hin- wrapped him in a ſheet,to bury him up to the chin in dung mixed with ſome hay or ſtraw,and there * dº... to keep him,untill he have ſweat ſufficiently. i have done thus to many with very good ſucceſs. you - trefation & ſhall alſo give the patient potions made with ſyrups which have power to hinder the coagulation and cºaling putrefaction of the blood ſuch as ſyrup of vinegar, r lemons,o the juice of citrons and ſuch others ''. to the quantitie of an ounce diſſolved in ſcabius, or carduus water. you may alſo preſently after the lº" fall give this drink,which hath power to hinder the coagulation of the blood, and ſtrengthen the purpoſe, bowells. r. rheieleå.inful.redadi ),aque rubie majori, plantagin.an. .jſberiace ſ.ſyrupi deroſis fictiº %f at rºtus.let him take it in the morning for foure or five dayes.ln ſtead hereof you may make a po- a rowds º ofone dram of spermaceti diſſolved in bugloſs or ſome other of the waters formerly mentioned, É... and half an ounce of ſyrup of maiden-hair;if the diſeaſeycºld not at all to theſe formerly preſcribed the diſul- medicins,it will be good to give the patient for nine dayes, three or fourehoures before meat ſome of tº hetollowing powder.r, ſhei torreja'iyad.rub majoriºſentaureisgentiºns, ariſtolº, rotunds, an. . give i. ºrnwal- hereof, with ſyrup of winegar and carduswater. they ſay that the water of green walnuts,diſtilled nºts. by an alembick, is good to diſſolve congealed and . blood.alſo you may uſe baths made of bahs, the decoètion of the roots of orris elecampane,sorrell, fennell, marſhmallowes, water-fern, or oſ- mund l i b. . of contuſions and gangrenes. — mund the waterman,the greater comfrey, the ſeeds offa nugreek, the leaves of sage, marjerum; the flowres of camomile,melilote,and the like. for a warm bath hath power to rarific the skin, to diſ- ſolve the clotted blood, by cutting the tough and mitigating the acrid humors, by calling them forth into the ſurface of the body, and relaxing the paſſages thereof; ſo that the rebellious qualities being orecome, there inſues an eaſie evacuation of the matterby vomit,or expectoration,if it flote in the flo- mach,or be contained in the cheſt;but by ſtool & urin, if it lye in the f. parts; by ſweats and tran- ſpiration,if it lye next under the skin.wherefore bathes are good for thoſe who have a peripneumonia . . . ; or inflammation of their lungs, or a plurific,according to the mind of hippocrates,if ſo be that they be lib. ,ée , uſed,when the feaver begins to be aſſwaged;for ſo they mitigate pain, help forwards ſu ppuration, and #. & haſten the ſpitting up of the purulent matter. but we would not have the patient enter into the bath, º: unleſs he have firſt uſed generall remedies,as . purging;for otherwiſe there will be no - ſmall danger, leſt the humors diffiiſed by the heat of the bath,cauſe a new defluxion into the parts af- fe&ted. wherefore do not thou by any means attempt, to uſe this or the like remedy,having not firſt had the advice of a phyſitian. - chap. iii. how we muſt handle contuſions,when they are joyned with a wound. §wery great contuſion forthwith requires blood-letting,or purging.orboth; and theſe either - |## for evacuation,or revulſion.for thus hippocrate; in a contuſion of the heel, gives a vomitory sºlii, , º º ſame day,or elſe the next day after the heel is broken. and then ifthe contuſion fail, , * have a wound aſſociating it, the defluxion muſt be ſtayed at the beginning with an oint- ment made of bole armenick,the whites of egs,and oil of roſes,and myrtles, with the pouders of red roſes,allome and maſtich. at the ſecond dreſſing apply a digeſtive made of the yoalkofaneg, oil of violets and turpentine. this following cataplaſm ſhall be applyed to the near parts to help #: a ſuppura- ſuppuration. r. rad. althee, lilii,an.; iiijjol.malv.violarſenecionis,an.m.ſ.coquantur complete, -paſſentur ive data. per ſetaceum,addendo butyri recentis & olei ; iij. farine volatilis quant, ſufficit; fiat cataplaſma ad formam plaſm. fultis liquide. yet have a care in uſing of cataplaſms,that you do not too much exceed; for too frequent ſº. crwccls and immoderate uſe of them makes wounds phlegmonous, ſordid and putrid. wherefore the wound after it is come to ſuppuration muſtbe clenſed,filled with fleſh and cicatrized;unleſſehappily the con- tuſed fleſh ſhall be very much torn,ſo that the native heat forſake it,for then it muſt be cutaway.but if how contu. therebe any hope to agglutinate it,ſet it be ſowed,and other things performed according to art; but ſed wounds the ſtitches º not be made ſo cloſe together,as when the wound is ſimple, and without contuſion; . he for ſuch wounds are eaſily inflamed and ſwell up, which would occaſion either the breaking of the owed; thred or fleſh, or tearing of the skin. - -mſ - ...? chap. iv. of theſe contuſions which are without a wound, f the skin being whole and not hurt as far as can be diſcerned, the fleſh which lies under it be contuſed,and the bloud poured forth under the skin make an ecchymoſis,then the patient muſt be governed according to art untill the malign ſymptomes which commonly happen, , , , , , , be no more to be feared. wherefore in the beginning draw bloud on the oppoſite ſide, both **m; forevacuation and revulſion.the contuſºq part ſhall be ſcarified with equall ſcarifications; then ſhall salibi, you apply cupping-glaſſes or horns,both for evacuation of the bloud which cauſes the tumor and ten- cup º: fion in the part; as alſo to ventilate and refrigerate the heat of the part, lºſt it turn into an abſceſſe. glaſſ. neither muſt we in the meanwhile omit gentle purging of the belly.the firſt topick medicins ought flºitive; to be aſtriðives,which muſtlye ſome ſhort while upon the part,that ſo the veins, and arteries may be .: as it were ſtraitncd and cloſed up; and ſo the defluxion hindred; as alſo that the part it ſelf may be ºn.” ſtrengthened.this may be the form of ſuch a remedy, r. albumina ovarum nu. iij olei myrtini & roſacei, afer afiri: an. .j. boli armeni, & ſanguindracon.an. ſ nucum ºgallarum, ful. alumini uſti, an. iſ, incorporentur omnia º: muſt addendo atetiparum,fiat medicamentum. then you ſhall reſolve it with a fomentation, cataplaſm and diſ- º cuffingemplaiſters. chap. v. by what means the contuſed part may befreed from the fear and imminent danger ºf a gangrene, reat contuſions are dangerous even for this cauſe, for that a gangrene and mortification seiz.iit. §§§ ſometimes follows them; which hippocrates teacheth to happen, when as the affe&ted part is defrai. - § grown very hard and liquid. wherefore when the part grows livid and black, and the na-tºſº of tive colour thereof by reaſon of the efflux of the concreat bloud,is almoſt extinë;chiefly to **** ºf the part ofthat burden,cupping-glaſſes and horns ſhal be applyed to the part it ſelf being firſt ſcº- ified with a lancet,or elſe the following inſtrument termed a scarificator,which hath , little wheels the uſe of: ſharp and cutting likearazour,which may be ſtraitened and ſlacked by the pins noted by dand p.this scarificator. inſtrument is to becommended for that it performs the operation quickly andgently,for it makes inciſions in the ſpace that you make one with a lancet of knife. , - - - - - then ſhall you fonient the part with ſtrong vinegar wherein the roots of radiſh or of ptagons, fomenta; cuckow-pint,salomons seal, auripigmentum and the like have been boiled; for ſuch acrid things do ion to diſ- powerfully heat,reſolve and draw the concreat blood from the inner part of the body unto the skin, i.". th; which by its ſetling in the part affe&ed,prohibits the entrance of the vitall ſpirits,the preſervers ºf its *: integrity; yea alſo extinguiſheth the native heat of the ſame part. now we muſt not uſe theſe things” but with great diſcretion, leſt ſo we draw not only that blood which is poured ºf the y* of contuſions and gangrenes. lib. . - ... but alſo the other which is contained in the veſſels.moreover alſo we - |#. the defluxion is ſtayed. for ſmall contuſions (which galen judgeth º:§ a scarificator. part) it will be ſufficient to º -- - to diſcuſſe them,virgins wax jić ſolved and mixed with cummin ſºdº, cloves, the root of black briony, (which hath a wonder. full faculty to diſcuſſe all black- .fº neſſes and ſugillations: ) for the ºf nāś ſame purpoſe, you may alſo apply wormwood bruiſed and ſo waiti in a diſh and ſprinkled over with a little white wine. alſo fr worm- wood with oil of camomiſi, brafi the powder of cloves, and nut: i ºf - negs, adding thereto a little aqua º)#q ºf: º f. all in a linnen cloth & t-s - - and apply it hot to the part. - a. shew, the cover. b. the box,"r caſ. following emplaiſter . jºr ſtaffing r. pit, migre iſ ; : : - - - - . . fully diſcuſſe congealed bloºd. - - gº iſ g#m-ekmi iſ ſyraci, liquide & terebinth. * - - - -t-. * * * - . plaiſter. fimulfiat emplaſtrum;and let it be #. #: ºr- ſ. ſulphuri, vivi j. liquefiant w chap. vi. of that ſtrange kind of ſymptome which happens upon contuſions of the ribs. hºſa. . #he fleſh contuſ d ſometimes by great violence becomes mucous and ſwol ff - lib.de aft. § veal, which the butchers blow up,the skin remaining whole.this is .jś ſ: . . . § §§ ly in that fleſh which is about the ribs; for this being bruiſed either by a blow, r fall,or re- nitency,or any other ſuch like cauſe; if you preſs it with your hand,ácertain wind; - eth out thereof : a ſmall whizzing,which may i. º the # of your fingers ºfº - in a dema's. unleſs you quickly make fit proviſion againſt this ſymptome,there is gathered in that ſpace - which thefleſh departing from the bones,leaves empty,a certain purulent ſanies,which divers times fºuls and corrupts the ribs.it will be cured,if the mucous tumor be preſently preſſed,& ſtraitly bound with remedie, ligatures, yet ſo that you hinder not the breathing,when as the affect happens upon the ribs and parts for amº of the cheſt. then apply to the part a plaiſter of oxycroceum ordiachylon freatum with the cmplaiſter cousand de meliloto; alſo diſcuſſing fomentations ſhall be uſed. the cauſe of ſuch a tumor is a certain mucous *** firgin; ſeeing that nature is ſo weak that it cannot well digeſt the nouriſhment, and aſſimilate it to the .. of the part, but leaves ſomething as it were half concoëted. no otherwiſe than the conjunctive coat of the the cauſe. eye is ſometime ſo lifted up and ſwoln by a ſtroak, that it ſtarts as it were out of the orb of the eye leaving ſuch filth or matter as we ſee thoſe which are blear eyed to be troubled withall; becauſº force and naturall ſtrength of the eyes is become more weak, either by the fault of the proper diſtem- perature,or the abundance of moiſture which flows thither, as it happens in thoſe tumors which are againſt nature.for flatulencies are eaſily raiſed from a wateriſh and phlegmatick humor wrought upon by weak heat, which mixed with the reſt of the humor,the tumor becomes higher. cha p. vii. a diſcourſe of mumia,or mummy. $ºradventure it may ſeem ſtrange what may be the cauſe,why in thistreatiſe of curing contuſ- §§)} ons,or bruiſes.i have made no mention of giving mummy either in bole,or potion to ſuch as mummie a § have faln from high places,or have been otherwiſe bruiſed, eſpecially ſeeing it is ſo common frequent ” and uſual,yeathe very firſt and laſt medicin of almoſt all our praćtitioners at this day in ſuch ... a caſe.but ſeeing i underſtood,and had learnt from learned phyſitians, that in uſing remedics, the in- º, dication muſt alwayes be taken from that which is contrary to the diſeaſe,how could i? how can any thereaſon other give mummie in this kind of diſeaſe, ſeeing we cannot as yet know what mummie is, or what is that the the nature and eſſence thereof. so that it cannot certainly be judged ; whether it have a certain pro- *hº perty contrary to the nature and effects of contuſions. this how it may have,i have thought good to ...” relate ſomewhat at large; neither do the phyſitians who preſcribe mummie, nor the authors that have jº, written of it,nor the apothecaries that ſell it,know any certainty thereof. for if you read the more monga his ancient serapio and avicen or the modern matthioluſ and thevet,you ſhall find quite different opinions. ºdicini. ask the merchants who bring it to us,ask the apothecaries who buy it of them, to ſell it to us, and .* you ſhall hear them ſpeak diverſly hereofthat in ſuch variety of opinions,there is nothing certain and ... manifeſt.serapio and avicem have judged mummie to be nothing elſe but piſſaphaltbum; now piſaſphal- concerning thum is a certain froth or foam riſing from the sea,or sea waters; this ſame foam as long as it ſwims upon the water is ſoft and in ſome ſort liquid: but being driven upon the ſhore by force of tempeſt, and working of the ſea,and ſticking in the cavities of the rocks, it concreats into ſomewhat a harder ** cºp. ſubſtance than dryed pitch,as dioſcorides ſaith. belonius ſaith, that mummie is only known to Ægypt and * greece.others write that it is mans fleſh, taken from the carcaſes of ſuch as are dead,and covered over ... of in the ſands in the deſerts of arabia; in which country they ſay the sands are ſometimes carryed and mummie, raiſed up with ſuch force and violence of the winds,that they overthrow and ſuffocate ſuch paſſengers as it. lºn. - of contuſions and gangrenes. - - r as they meet withall;the fleſh of theſe dryed by the ſand and wind they affirm to be mummie. mathic- - - lu following the more uſualſ and common opinion writes, that mummie is nothingºlſethan ali- * uor flowing from the aromatick embalments of dead bodies, which becomes dry and hard. forun- . whereof you muſt know from allmanner of anitiquity, that the #gyptians have been moſt ſtudious in burying and embalming their dead;not for that end that they ſhould become medicins for fuch as live,for they did not ſo much as reſpečt or imagin ſo horrida wickednes;but either for that they held an opinion .the generall reſurreàion,or that in theſe monuments they might have ſomething, whereby they might keep their dead friends in perpetuall remembrance. thevet not much diſſenting from his own opinion,writes that the true mummie is taken from the monuments and ſtony tombs of the anciently dead in egypt, the chinks of which tombs were cloſed,and cimented with ſuch diligence; but the incloſed bodies embaleled with pretious ſpices with ſuch art for eternity,that the linnenye- ... . ſtures which were wrapt about them preſently after their death, may be ſecn whole even to this day;but . the bodies themſelves,are ſo freſh that you would judg them ſcarſe to have been three daies buried.and sº yet in thoſe sepulchers and vaults from whence theſe bodies are taken, there have been ſome corps of two thouſands years old. the ſame, or their broken members are brought to venice from syria & egypt, and thence diſperſ over all chriſtendom. but according to the different condition of men,the matter ºf their embalments were divers; for the bodies of the nobility or gentry are embalmed with myrrh, aloes,saffron,and other precious ſpices,and drugs;but the bodies of the common ſort whoſe poverty and want of means could not undergo ſuch coſt were embalnied with affhaltun or #. … . . . now mathioluſaith that all the mummie which is brought into theſe parts is of this laſt kind & coat whatour. dition.for the noblemen and chief of the province ſo religiouſly addićted to the monuments of their mummie. anceſtors,would never ſuffer the bodies of their friends,and kindred to betranſported hither for filthy "ſºº". gain,and ſuch deteſted uſe,as we ſhall ſhew more at large at the end ofthis work. which thing ſome. times moved certain of our french apothecaries, men wondrous audacious,and covetous, to ſteal by * - - - night the bodies oſſuch as were hanged,and embalming them with salt and drugs they dryed them * * in an oven,ſo to ſºl them thus adulterated inſtead of true mummie.wherefore weare thus compell both fooliſhly and . to devoure the mangled and putrid particles of the carkaſſes of the baſeſt i. ple of egypt, or of ſuch as are hanged as though there were no other way to help or recover one ruiſed with a fall from a high place,than to bury man by an horrid inſertion in their,that is, in mans guts. now if this drug were any way powerfull for that they require, they might perhaps have ſome . . . . retence for this their more than barbarous inhumanity... but the caſe ſands thus, that this wicked ** #. of drug, doth nothing help the diſeaſed,in that caſe, wherefore and whereinitis adminiſtred,as no way i have . an hundred times, & as thevet witneſſes,ht tryºdin himſelf when as he took ſome thereof tºº. by the advice of a certain iewiſh phyſitian in egypt, from whence it is brought;but it alſo infers many - troubleſome ſymptomes,as the pain of the heart or ſtomath, vomiting and ſtink of the mouth. § ºf . . . .", . i perſwaded by theſe reaſons, do not only myſelf preſcribe any hereof;to my patients, but alſo in buhurtfull, conſultations, endeavour what i may, that it be not preſcribed by others. it is far better according and how? to galens opinion in methodºned. to drink ſome oxycrate, "which by its frigidity reſtrains the flowing . sº blood,and by its tenuity of ſubſtance diſſolves and diſcuſſes the congealed clots thereof. many reaſons . §. of learned phyſitians (from whom i have learned this hiſtory of mummie) drawn from philo- on, - - ſophy, whereby they make it apparent,that there can be no uſe of this or that mummie in contuſions, or againſt flowing or congealed blood, i willingly omit, for that i think it not much beneficiall to chirurgeons to inſert them here.wherefore ijudgit better to begin to treat of combuſtions,or burns. = . c h ap. viii. of combuſtions and their differences. - - - - - º: º sº ll combuſtions whether occaſioned by gunpouder, or by ſcalding oil,water, ſome metall the ſeaſon s. or what thingsſoever elſe,differ only in magnitude.theſe firſt cauſe pain in the part, and ºr - imprintin it an unnaturall heat.which ſavouring of the fire, leaves that impreſſion, which .sº the greeks;all empyreuna.there are more or leſſ: ſigns of this impreſſion, according to the :*y ºf the thingburning, the condition of the part burned, and ſtay upon the ſame.ifthe come buſtion be ſuperficiary,the skin riſes into puſtules and bliſters,unleſſ: it be ſpeedily prevented. if it be low.or deep in,it is covered with an eſchar or cruſt,the burnt fleſh by the force of the fire turning in- to that cruſty hardneſſe.the burning force of the fire, upon whatſoever part it falls, leaves a hot di- the ºnſe of ftempertherein,condenſates,contračis,and thickens the skin, whence pain proceeds; from pain there ...". somes an attraction ofbumors, from the adjacent and remote parts. theſe humors preſently turned . upon into wateriſh or ſerous moiſture,whilſt they ſeek to paſſéforth, and are hindred thereof by the skin " condenſated by the aëtion of the fire,they lift it up higher, and raiſe the bliſters which weſte. hence diversindications are drawn, whence proceeds the variety of medicins for burns. for ſome takeaway *e*ptºms that is,the heat of the fire (as we termit)&aſſwage the pain;other hinder therifing of bliters,otherſome arefit to cure the ulcer, firſt to procure the fallingaway of the eſchar,then to clenſe, É. fleſh and cicatrize it. remedics fit to aſſwage pain, and take away the fiery heat, are of two variety of indººr ſome do itby a cooling faculty,by which they extinguiſh the preternaturall heat,and repreſs medicins to ºrk: płºck the blood and humors,which flow into the parts by reaſon of heat and pain othersen ºf ducd with . faculties,are hot and attraëtive; as which by relaxing the skin, and opening the the heat and pores,reſolve and #. the ſerous humors,which yeeld both beginning,and matter to the puſtules, :* the, and q by accident aſſwage the pain and heat. ...; things are cold water,the water of plan- -- isin;night-ſhade:henbane, hemlock; the juyces of cooling hearbs, as purſlane, lettuce, plantain, houſkºk,poppy,mandrake and the like, ‘gſ theſe ſome may be compounded, as ſome of the fore. named of contuſions and gangrenes. — linº named juices beaten with the white of an #. clay beaten and diſſolved in ſtrong vinegarºroch a- how firc may aſ. ſwage the pain of burning. beaten o- nions good for burns and how, iii. /mºl. how often in a day theſe muſt bèndreſſed, medicins for an eſ. char. a deſcrip- tion of nu- trinum, a remedy for burns commonly uſed in the hoſpitall of pariſ. lome diſſolved in water,with the whites of egs beaten therein; writing ink mixed with vinegar, a little camphire;vnguentum nutritum,and alſo populeon newly made.theſe and the like ſhall be now and then renewed chiefly at the firſt, untill the heat and pain be gone.but theſe ſame remedies muſt be ap- plyed warm,for if they ſhould be laid,or put to cold,they would cauſe pain, and conſequently defluxi- on;beſides alſo their ſtrength could not paſſe,or enter into the part, or be brought into ačtion; but ſo applyed they aſſwage pain,hinder inflammation and the riſingofbliſters. chap. ix. of hot and attrađive medicins to be applyed to burnes. § mongſt the hot and attractive things which by rarifying,drawing out,and diſſolving,aſſwage the pain and heat of combuſtions, the fire challenges the firſt place, eſpecially when the bur- ning is but ſmall.for the very common people know and findby dayly experience, that the heat of the lightly burnt part vaniſhes away, and the pain is º: if they hold the part which is burnt ſome prety while to the heat of a lighted candle, or burning coals; for the ſimilitude cauſeth attraction. thus the externallfire whileſt it draws forth the fire which is internall and inuſt into the part,is a remedy º the diſeaſe it cauſed and bred.it is alſo an eaſily made and approved remedy,if they preſently after the burn apply to the grieved part raw onions beaten with ſome ſalt: now you muſt note,that this medicine takes no place, if it be once gone into an ulcer, for it would increaſe the pain and inflammation;but if it be applyed when the skin is yet whole and not excoria- ted,it doth no ſuch thing,but hinders the riſing of puſtles and bliſters. hippocrates for this cauſe alſo uſes this kind of remedy in procuring the fall of the eſchar.ifany endeavour to gainſay the uſe of this remedy by that principle in phyſick, which ſayes,that contraries are cured by contraries,and therefore affirm that onions according to the authority of galen,being hot in the fourth degree, are not good for combuſtions;let him know that onions are indeed potentially hot, and ačtually moiſt, therefore they rarific by their hot quality, and ſoften the skin by their ačtuall moiſture, whereby it comes to paſs that they attraćt,draw forth,and diſſipate the imprinted heat, and ſo hinder the breaking forth of puſtles.to conclude,the fire,as we formerly noted,is a remedy againſt the fire. but neither are diſeaſes alwayes healed by their contraries(ſaith galen)but ſometimes by their like;although all healing pro- ceed from the contrary,this word contrary,being more largely and ſtrićtly taken,for ſo alſo a phlegmon is often cured by reſo .# medicins,which healeth it by diſſipating the matter thereof. therefore o- nions are very profitable for the burnt parts, which are not yet exulcerated or excoriated. but there are alſo many other medicins good to hinder the riſing of bliſters;ſuch as new horſe-dung fryed in oil of wal-nuts or roſes,and applyed to the parts.in like manner the leaves of elder or dane-wort boi- led in oil of nuts,and beaten with a little łº, uenched lime powdered and mixed with vngaen- tum roſatum.orelſe the leaves of cuckow-pint and sage beaten together with a little ſalt. alſo car- nters glue diſſolved in water and anointed upon the part with a feather, is good for the ſame pur- poſe. alſo thick verniſh which poliſhers or ſword cutlers uſe. but if the pain be more vehement, theſe medicins muſtbe renewed or times in a day and a night, ſo to mitigate the bitternes of this pain. but if ſo be we cannot by theſe remedies hinder the riſing of bliſters, then we muſt preſently cut them as ſoon as they riſe,for that the humor contained in them,not having paſſage forth, acquires ſuch acri- mony that it eats the fleſh which lyeth under it,and ſo cauſeth hollow ulcers: so by the multitude of cauſes and increaſe of matter the inflammation groweth greater,not only for nine dayes(as thecommon people prattle)but for far longer time;alſo ſome whiles for leſs time, if the body be neither ºf: with ill humors,nor plethorick,and you have ſpeedily reſiſted the pain and heat by fit remedies. the combuſtion ſhall be ſo great as to cauſe an eſchar, the falling away muſt be procured by the uſe of emollient and hume&tive medicins,as of greaſes, oils,butter, with a little baſilicon, or the following oint- ment, r macaginºpfillii. -cydon.an. iiijgumi tragišij.extrabantur cum aqua parietarie, olei liliorum#ijſ . cere nove q.ſ.fiat unguentum mole. for ulcers and excoriations you ſhall apply fit remedies, which are thoſe that are without acrimony,ſuch as unguentum album campheratum,deſiccativum rubrum.ºnguentum rºſe- tum,made without venegar, or nutritum compoſed after this manner.r. lithargyri auri iiijol, roſat: iij.ol. de papaver. ijſłung. opuleon iiij.camphore .j.fiat unguentum in mortario plumbeo ſecundum artem. or oil of egs tempered in a leaden mortar. alſo unquenched ime many times waſhed and mixed with unguentum roſatum, or freſh butter without i. ſome yolks ofcgs hard roaſted. or r. butyri recent.fine ſale, uſu- lati, colati v.j. vitelovor.iiij.ceruſ.late in aquaplantag. velroſar.jſ tuthie ſimiliter lote, iij plumbi ºfti, loti, ij,miſceantur omnia ſimulfiatlininentum ut decet orelſe,r cort.jambuc.viridis,tº ºleiroſat. andik.j.bulliantſ- mullento igne.foffea colentur, '-adde olei ovorum iiij pulceruſ. tuthierreparam. j.cere albe quantum ſufficit, fiat unguent, molle ſecundum artem.but the quantity of drying medicins may alwayes be encreaſed or di- miniſhed according as the condition of the ulcer ſhall ſeem to require. the following remedies,are fit. to aſſwage pain,as the mucilages of lineſeeds, of the ſeeds of pſillium, or flea-wort, and quinces ex- traćted in roſewater,or fair water,with the addition of a little camphire; and left that it dry too ſpee- dily,adde thereto ſome oil of roſes. alſo five or ſix yolks of egs mixed with the mucilages of line ſeed,the ſeed of pſilium,and quinces often renewed, are very powerfull to aſſwage pain. the women which attend upon the people in the hoſpitall in paris,do happily uſe this medicin againſt burns. r. lard.conſciſ libram unam;let it be diſſolved in roſewater,then ſtrained through a linnen cloath, then waſh it foure times with the water of hen-bane or ſome other of that kind,then let it be incorporated with eight yolks of new laid egs,and ſo make an ointment. if the ſmart be great, as uſually it is in theſe kinds of wounds,the ulcer or ſores ſhall be covered over with a piece of tiffany, leſtyou hurt them,by wiping them with ſumº what a courſe cloth, and ſo alſo the matter may eaſily come *::: - . l i b. . ofcontuſions and gangrenes. dilatation,by which their native heat is preſerved and i. but then the gangrene is chiefly un- and the mcdicins eaſily enter in.alſo you muſt have a care when the eyelids, lips, ſides of the fingers, neck, the armpits,hams,and bending of the elbow are burnt, that you ſuffer not the parts to touch one the other without the interpoſition of ſome thing; otherwiſe in continuance of time they would grow and ſtick together.therefore you ſhall provide for this, by fit placing the parts,and putting ſoft linnen rags between them.but you muſt note,that deep combuſtions,and ſuch as cauſea thicker eſſbar, why deep are leſs painfull than ſuch as are but only ſuperficiary.the truth hereof you may perceive by the ex- º: ſ: ample of ſuch as have their limbs cut off and feared of cauteriſed with an hot iron; for preſently after painfull cls the cauteriſing is performed they feel little pain.for this great combuſtion takes away the ſenſe, the then ſuper- vehemency of the ſenſory or thing affečting the ſenſe, depriving the ſenſitive parts of their ſenſe as ficiary. we have formerly noted when we treated of wounds and pains of the nerves. the falling away of fuch eſchars iſ. procured by ſomewhat a deep ſcarification which may pierce even to the quick, that ſo the humors which lye under it may enjoy freer perſpiration, and emollient medicins may the freelier enter in,ſo to ſoak,moiſten and ſoften the eſchar that it may at length fall away. the reſt of the cure ſhall be performed by detergent and ſarcotick medicins, adding to the former oint- ments metalline powders,when the preſent neceſſity ſhall ſeem ſo to require. but we cannot juſtly ſay in what proportion and quantity each of theſe may be mixed,by reaſon of that variety which is in the temper and conſiſtence of bodies, and the ſtubborneſs and gentleneſs of diſeaſes. after a burn the ſcar which remaineth is commonly rough, unequall,and ill favoured:thereforewe will tell you in our trea” . tiſe of the plague how it muſt be ſmoothed,and made even. marks or i muſt nothere omit to tell you,that gunpowder ſet on firedoth often ſo penetrate into the fleſh, ſpºnde not ulcerating nor taking off the skin,and ſo infinuate and throughly faſten itſelfe into the fleſhby . "..., its tenuity,that it cannot be taken or drawn out thence by any remedies, no not by pha-nigmes nor ve- & º:der ficatories, nor ſcarification,nor ventoſts,nor horns,ſo that the prints thereofalwayes remain,no other- cannot be wiſe than the marks which the barbarians burn in their ſlaves which cannot afterwards be taken a- taken away. way or deſtroyed by any art. - chap. x. of a gangrene and mortification. ertainly the malign ſymptomes which happen upon wounds,and the ſolutions of continuity ($º are many,cauſed either by the ignoranee or negligence of the chirurgeon; or by the patient, $º or ſuch as are about him;or by the malignity and violence of the diſeaſe: but there can hap- * pen no greater then a gangrens,as that which may cauſe the mortification and death of the part,and ofttimes of the whole body;wherefore i have thought good in this place to treat of a gan- grene,firſt giving you the definition, then ſhewing you the cauſes, figns, prognoſticks, and laſtly the manner ofcure.now a º is a certain diſpoſition, and way to the mortification of the part, galºad which it ſeiſeth upon,dying by little and little. for when there is a perſe&mortification, it is called "*"; by the greeks sphacelos,by the latines syderatio, our countrymen terme it the fire of saint anthony or - saint marcellus. - º - – l - º * - chap. xi. of the generall andfarticular cauſes of a gangſene. - - ... . . . . . - - - §§§ he moſt generall cauſe of a gangrene is,when by the diſſolution of the harmony and joint the gene: : º temper of the fourt firſt qualities,the partis made unapt to receive the faculties,the naturall, rall cauſe of § º: 'vitall,and animall ſpirits, by which it is nouriſhed,lives, feels, and moves. for a part de **** * prived by any chance of theſe as of the light.languiſhes and preſently dyes. now the parti-the paid- cular cauſes are many:and theſe either primitive, or antecedent.the primitive or externall are combu- aliardº ſtions cauſed by thingseitheraðually or potentially º y,as by fire,ſcalding oil or water, . . ." gunpowder fired and the like. but potentially by acrid medicins; as sublimate, vitrioll, potentiall cold cau- cauteries and other things of the ſame nature: for all theſe cauſe a great inflammation in the part. but ſeth a gan: the ambient air may cauſe great refrigerations, and alſo a gangrene, which cauſed hippocrates lib.de g”. air. to call great refrigerarions of the brain sphaceliſme.therefore the unadviſed and unfit application of cold and narcotick things,afraćture, luxation and great contuſion,too ſtrait bandages,the §. of beaſts,eſpecially of ſuch as are venemous,a punéture ofthe nerves and tendons,the wounds of the ner- vous parts and joints,eſpecially in bodies, which are plethorick and repleat with ill humors, great - wounds whereby the veſſels which carry life are much cut,whence an aneuriſma,and laſtly many other - cauſcs, which perturb that harmony of the foure prime qualitics which we formerly mentioned, and - a - pº ſo infer a gangrene. - chap. xii. ofthe antecedent cauſe: of a gangrene. § w the anteccdºpt or internall and corporeall cauſes of a gangrene, are plentifull and abun- how deſig- jdant defluxions of humors,hot or cold,falling into any part.for ſeeing the faculty of the part ºuts is unapt and unable to ſuſtain and govern ſuch plenty of humors, it comes to paſſe that the * gingers. native heatofthe part is ſuffocated and extinét for want of tranſpiration. for the arterics anuncuies' are hereby ſo ſhut or pent up in a ſtrait, that they cannot perform their motions of contraëtion and iºn. - grene. lib.de tw- mor-prate; natur, cureable when the influx of humors firſt takes hold of the bones, and inflammation hath its be- ginning from them.for in the opinion of galen,all theſe kind of affečts which may befall the fleſh, are alſo incident to the bones.neither only a phlegmon or inflammation, but alſo a rottenneſſe and cur- - ruption of contuſions and gangrenes. lib. . –" ruption doth oft-times firſt invade and begin at the bones; for thus you may ſee many who are trou- bled with the leprofie and french diſeaſe, to have their skin and fleſh whole and fair to look on, whoſe bones notwithſtanding are corrupt and rotten, and oft-times are much decayed in their proper ſubſtance.this miſchief is cauſed by a venemous matter, whoſe occult qualitie we can ſºarſe expreſſe º any other name than poyſon inwardly generated. oft-times alſo there is a certain acrid and ſinking aph.*.* filth generated in fleſh with a malign and old ulcer, with which if the bones chance to be moiſtened ſ:# §s they become foul and at length mortified:of which this ſaying of hippocrates is extant, ulcers of a - years continuance or longer,muſt neceſſarily foul the bone, and make the ſcars hollow. whither alſo belongs this ſaying of the ſame party;an eriſpell, is ill in the laying bare of a bone. but this flowin agangrene p. y - - - - - , ºf venenate and gangrenous matter is ſomewhiles hot, as in peſtilent carbuncles, which in the ſpace of scold mat-four and twenty hours by cauſing an eſchar, . the part to mortification : otherwhiles cold, as we tºre ſee it divers times happens in parts which are poſſeſt with a gangrene, no pain,tumor,blackneſs, nor a- ny other precedent ſign of a gangrene going before.for iohn de vigo ſaith, that happened to a certain gentlewoman of genoa under his cure. § .* i remember the ſame . to a certainman in paris,who ſupping merrily and without any ſenſe "*" of pain, went to bed,and ſuddainly in the night time a gangrene iciſed on both his legs, cauſedimor- tification without tumor, without inflammation; only his legs were in ſome places ſpred over with livid, black and green ſpots,the reſt of the ſubſtance retaining his native colour: yet the ſenſe of theſe parts was quite dead,they felt cold to the touch, and if you thruſt your lancet into the skin no blood came forth. a councell of phyſitians being called, they thought good to cut the skin, and fleſh ly- ing under it,with many decp ſcarifications; which when i had done, there came forth a little §, thick and as it were congealed blood;wherefore this remedy, as alſo divers other, proved to no pur- poſe,for in concluſion a blackiſh colour comming into his face,and the reſt of his body, he dyed #: tick. i leave it to the readers judgement,whetherſo ſpeedy,and ſuddainly cruell a miſchief could pro- ceed from any other than a venenate matter;yet the hurt of this venenate matter is not peculiar, or by simple cold its ſelf. for oft-times the force of cold, whether of the encompaſſing air, or the too immoderate uſe *...** of narcotick medicins,is ſo great,that in a few hours it takes away life from ſome of the members, * and divers times from the whole body,as we may learn by their example,who travell in great ſnowes, and over mountains congealed,and horrd with froſt and ice. hence alſo is the extinétion of the native heat and the ſpirits reſiding in the part,and the ſhutting forth of that which is ſent by nature to aid or defend it.for when as the part is bound with rigid cold,and as it were frozen,they cannot get nor enter therefn.neither if they ſhould enter into the part, can they ſtay long there, becauſe they can there finde no fit habitation,the whole frame and government of nature being ſpoiled,and the harmo- ny of thefour prime qualities deſtroyed,by the offenſive dominion of predominant cold their enemy, whereby it cometh to paſſe that flying back from whence they firſt came; they leave the part deſtitute and deprived of the benefit of nouriſhment,life, ſenſe and motion, ahaory. . a certain briton an hoſtler in paris,having drunk ſoundly after ſupper, caſt himſelf upon abed; the cold air coming in at a window left open,ſo took hold upon one of his legs,that when he wa- ked forth of his ſleep,he could neither ſtand nor goe.wherefore thinking only that his legwas numb, they made him ſtand to the fire;butputting it very nigh, he burnt the ſole of his foot without any ſenſe of pain,ſome fingers thickneſs,for a mortification had already poſſeſſed more than halfe his leg. wherefore after he was carryed to the hoſpitall,the chirurgeon who belonged thereto, endeavoured by cutting away of the mortified leg to deliver the reſt ofthe body from imminent death; but it pro- ved in vain;for the mortification taking hold upon the upper parts, he dyed within three dayes, with troubleſome belching and hicketting, raving.cold ſweat, and often ſwounding. verily all that ſame whº winter,the cold was ſo vehement that many in the hoſpitall of paris loſt the wings or ſides of their *:::::: noſtrills,ſeiſed upon by a mortification without any putrefaction. but you muſt note, that the gan- *:::::: grene which is cauſed by cold, doth firſt and principally ſeiſe upon the parts moſtdiſtant from the heart, occaſioned the fountain of heat,to wit,the feet and legs;as alſo ſuch as are cold by nature, as griſtly parts, ſuch by cold, as the noſe and eares. - …” _ chap. xiii. of the ſigns of a gangrene. - kºheſigns of a gangrene which inflammation or a phlegmon hath cauſed, are pain and pul: sett.s.lib. - - - - - - - - - .#. ſation without manifeſt cauſe, the ſudden changing of the fiery and red colour into a livid vvh º, . black,as hippocrates ſhewes where he ſpeaks of the gangrene of a broken heel. i would 'hat a º 'º. - have you here to underſtand the pulſifick pain not only to be that which is cauſed by the ºº: * quicker motion of the arteries,but that heavy and pricking º the contention of the naturall heat pain is. j. roduce by raiſing a thick cloud of vapours from theſe humors which the gangrene ſets upon. . signs of a the ſigns of a gangrenecauſed by cold, arc, if ſuddainly a ſharp pricking and burning pain affaileth cºngº... the part;for penetrabile frigus adurit,(i)piercing cold doth burn;if a ſhining redneſs as if you had handled º ſnow.preſently turn into a livid colour;if in ſtead of the accidentall heat which was in the part, pre- *** ſently cold and numbneſs ſhall poſſeſsitas if it were ſhook with a quartain feaver. such cold if it signs of ſhall proceed ſo far as to extinguiſh the native heat, bringeth a mortification upon the gangrene;alſo gangſenes oft-times convulſions & violent ſhaking of the wholebody, wondrous troubleſome to the brain & the fº fountains of life.but you ſhall know gangrenes cauſed by too ſtrait bandages, by fraćture, luxation, º: and contuſion, by the hardneſs which the attraćtion and flowing down of the humors hath cauſed, iſsuº, little pimples orbliſters ſpreading or riſing upon the skin by reaſon of the great heat,as in a combuſti- on;by the weight of the part occaſioned through the defe&t of the ſpirits not now ſuſtaining the ‘. - cia lº . of contuſions and gangrenes. t-- den of the member;and laſtly from this,the preſſing of your finger upon the part,it will leave the prin. thereof as in an adema; and alſo rom this,that the #. . #. the #. without any j cauſe. - now you ſhall know gangrenes ariſing from a bite,punětire,aneuriſma, r wound in plethorick and ill bodies,and in a part indued with moſt exquiſite ſenſe, almoſt by the ſame ſigns as that which was . - cauſed by inflammation. forby theſe and the like cauſes,there is a far greater defluxion and attraction : of a of the humors than is fit, when the perſpiration being intercepted and the paſſages flopt,the native hºt. is oppreſſed and ſuffocated. but this i would admoniſh the young chirurgeon,that when by the fore- by a bite, mentioned ſigns he ſhall find the gangrene preſent, that he do not defer the amputation for that he pundure, finds ſome ſenſe, or ſmall motion yet reſiding in the part. for oft-times the affečted parts are in this *. caſe moved not by the motion of the whole muſcle,but only by means, that the head of the muſcle is not yet taken with the gangrene: with moving it ſelf by its one ſtrength, alſo moves its proper an continued tendon and tail though dead already; wherefore it is ill to make any delay in ſuch cauſes.d cha p. xii ii. of the prognoſtickſ in gangrenes. ºaving given you the ſigns and cauſes to know a gangrene ; it is fit we we alſo give you the rognoſtick. the fierceneſſe and malignity thereof is ſo great, that unleſſe it be moſt ſpeedi- a ly withſtood the part itſelf will dye,and alſo take hold of the neighbouring parts by the * contagion of its mortification: which hath been the cauſe that a gangrene by many hath - been termed an eſthiomenos. for ſuch corruption creeps out like poyſon,and like fire eats, gnaws, and why, . deſtroyes all the neighbouring parts, untill it hath ſpread over the whole body. for as hippocrates ...; writes.i.ib.de vulner capiti, ; mariui &viventi, nulla eſt prºportio, (i) there is no proportion between the jº" dead aud living.wherefore it is fit preſently to ſeparate the dead from the living ; for unleſſe that be done,the living wildye,by the contagion of the j. ſuch as are at the point of death a cold ſweat the quick flows over all theirbodies: they are troubled with ravings, and watchings, belchings and hicketing ºpiºnſ of moleſt them; and often ſwoundings invade them,by reaſon of the vapours abundantly and continual: *** ly raiſed from the corruption of the humors and fleſh, and ſo carried to the bowells and principall parts,by the veins,nerves,and arteries.wherefore when you have foretold theſe things to the friends of the patient, then make haſtto fall to your work. - - — *— chap. xv. ofthe general cure of a gangrene. weas he indications ofcuring gangrenesare to be drawn from their differences,for the cure muff yaſiºu. in: tºº bediverſy inſtituted according to the effence and magnitude. for ſome gangrenes poſſeſ.º of *z tº the whole member; others only ſome portion thereof;ſome are deep; otherſome ſuperficiall gangiene; * only.alſo you muſt have regard to the temper of the body.for ſoft and delicate bodies,as of children, women,eunuches,and idle perſons,require much milder medicins, than thoſe who by nature and cuſtome,or vocation of life,are more ſtrong and hardy, ſuch as husbandmen, labourers, mariners, huntſmen, porters,and men of the like nature who live ſparingly and hardly. neither muſt you have reſpećt to the body in generall,but alſo to the parts # ; for the fleſhy and muſculous parts, are what parts different from the É. the nerves and joints, or more ſolid,as the vertebre. now the hot and moiſt ſooneſia. parts,as the privities, mouth,womb,and fundament,are eaſilyer and ſooner taken hold of by putrefačti-kenhold by on,wherefore wenuſtuſe more ſpeedy means to help them.wherefore if the gangrene be chiefly occa-' "g” fioned from an internall cauſe, he muſt have a dyet preſcribed for the decent and fitting uſe of the fix things not naturall. if the body be plethorick, r § of ill humors;you muſt purge, or let blood by the advice of a phyſitian. againſt the aſcending up of vapours to the noble parts,the heart muſt chief- ly be ſtrengthened with treacle diſſolved in sorrell, or carduus water; with a bole of mithridate, the conſerves of roſes and bugloſſe; and with opiates made for the preſent purpoſ; according to art; - this following apozeme ſhall be outwardly applyed to the region of the heart. r. aque roſar. & menu- acordialſ pharan. iiij aceti ſtilitici żj.coralorum, ſantalorum alborum & rubrorum,toſar. rub. inpulver, redačiarum, & friſéem. ſpodii,an. j. mithrid. theriace,an. ijſł. trochiſcorum de caphºra ij. flor:cardial. in pollin. redačiarum, p. ii. croci j.ex omnibus in pollinemredačiū, fiat epithema. which may be applyed upon the region of the heart with a ſcarlet cloth or ſpunge.theſe are uſually ſuch as happen in the cure of every gangrene. chap. xvi. of the particular cure facingrene, §§§he cure of a gangrene,cauſed by the too plentifull and violent defluxion of humors ſuffo- ... cating the native heat by reaſon of great phlegmons,is performed by evacuating and dry: theate of ingup the humors,which putrefie by delay and colle&ion iſ the part. for this purpºſe ºn § ſcarifications and inciſions,great,indifferent,ſmall,deep and ſuperficiary according to the made by * condition of the gangrene are much commended; that ſo the burdened part may injoy infºrm" the benefit of perſpiration;and the contained humors,of difflation, or evacuation of their ſooty ºrº" . . ments. let intifionsbenade when the affe&is great, deep in,and neer to mortification. but ſtarifica- tions may be uſed when the part firſt begins to putrefie, for the i. of the remedy muſt anſwerin proportion to that of the diſeaſº.wherefore ifit penetrate to the bones.it will be fit, to cut she skin and fleſh with many and deep inciſions,with an inciſion knife made for that purpoſe; yet take i. of cutting the larger nerves and veſſels, unleſſe they be wholly putrefied, for if they bºnºt yet pºi ed. you ſhall make your inciſions in the ſpaces between them& *cºr- be leſſe, vº; of contiſſions and gangreneſ. l i b. ; ſatisfied with only ſcarifying it. when the ſcarifications and inciſions are made, we muſt ſuffer much blood to flow forth,that ſo the conjunét matter may be evacuated.then muſt we º and put upon it ſuch medicins as may by heating, drying, reſolving, clenſing and opening amend and correćt the putre- fačtion,and by piercing to the bottom may have power to overcome the virulencie already impačt in the part. for this purpoſe lotions made of the lye of the aſhes of fig-tree or oak wherein lupins, have been throughly boyled are good or you may with leſſe trouble make a medicin with ſalt water, - wherein you may diſſolve aloes and Ægyptiacum,adding in the concluſion a little aqua vite; for aqua *... vºte and calcincávitriollare ſingular medicins for a gangrene. or b. acet.cſimi ſbjmelroſ. iiij, ſyrup. :#. afetoft iijjali comáv.bulliant ſimulaude aqua vite,fb.ſ. let the part be frequently waſhed with this medi- lººr cin,for it hath much force to repreſſe gangrenes. after your lotion, lay argyptiacum for a liniment, and put it into the inciſions;for there is no medicin, more powerfull againſt putrefaction, for by cau- ſing an eſchar, it ſeparates the putrid fleſh from thcſound. but we muſt not in this kind of affect ex- pe&t that the #fleſh may of itſelf fall from the ſound;but rather cut off with your inciſion knife or fiſſers,whatſoever thereof you can, and then put to it Ægyptiacum as oft as nced ſhall require. the knowledg hereof may be acquired from the colour,ſmell,and ſenſibleneſſe of the fleſh it ſelf. the de- ſcription of the Ægyptiacum,whoſe wondrous effects i have often tryed in theſe cauſes, is this. r. flori e- riſ,alumini, roch.mella com.an. iijaceti acerrimi v.ſali, com. .j.vitrioli rom. ſ.ſublimatipul: ij.bulliant omnia ſimuladigmen,fiat unguent. if the force of the putrefaction in the part be not ſo great, a weaker Ægyptia- cum may ſerve. when you have put in the Ægyptiacum, then preſently lay the following cataplaſm thereupon. for it hinders putrefaction,reſolves,clenſes and dryes up the virulent ſanieſ,and by the d amringents ſubtlety of the parts penetrates into the member,ſtrengthens it,and aſſwages the pain.k. farin fabar.hor- that may be dei orebi,lent.lupin.an.f .j.ſal.com.melli, roat.am. iiij ſucci abſinth.marrub.am. iiſ&aloes, maſtichtºmyrrhe, & aque ***** vitan. ij.oxymelitiſ ſimpliquantum ſufficit;fiat cataplaſma male ſecundum artem; somewhat higher than the tº- part affected,apply this following aſtringent,or defenſitive,to hinder the flowing down of the humors grenc. into the part,and the riſing up of the vapours from the putrid part into the whole body. r olei roſa- ti, & myrtill.an. iiij.ſucci plantag. ſolani,ſempervivi,an. ij-album avorum . boli armeni, terre ſigilate ſubtiliter fulveriſatorum,an. ).oxycrati quantum ſufficit,miſce adulum dičium. but theſe medicins muſt be often renew- ed.if the grief be ſo ſtubborn,that it will not yeeld to the deſcribed remedies, we muſt come to ſtronger, gal...ad to wit,cauteries,after whoſe application,galen bids to put upon it the juice of a leek with ſaltbeaten glauconem, and diſſolved therewith, for that this medicin hath a piercing and drying faculty, and conſequently to hinder putrefačtion. but if you prevail nothing with cauteries, then muſt you come to the laſt re- medy and refuge,that is,the amputation of the part . for according to hippocrates,to extream diſeaſes aphor. . exquiſitely extream remedies are beſt to be applyed. yet firſt be certain of the mortification of the part; ſ” for it is no little or ſmall matter to cut off a member without a cauſe. therefore i have thought it fit to ſet down the ſigns, whereby you make know a perfeół and abſo- lute mortification. chap. xvii. the ſigns of a perfei necroſis or mortification. #ou ſhall certainly know that a gangrene is turned into a sphacell,or mortification and that & the part is wholly and throughly dead,if it look of a black colour,and be colder than ſtone § to your touch,the cauſe of which coldneſſe is not occaſioned by the frigidity of the air; if there be a great ſoftneſſe of the part, ſo that if you preſſe it with your finger it riſes not a- . gain,but retains the print of the impreſſion. . if the skin come from the fleſh lying under it; if ſo great and ſtrong a ſmell exhale (eſpecially in an ulcerated sº the ſtanders by cannot indure or ſuffer it; if a ſanious moiſture, viſcid,green or blackiſh flow from thence;if it be quite deſtitute of ſenſe and motion, whether it be pulled,beaten,cruſhed, pricked,burnt,or cut off. here i muſt admoniſh the young chirurgeon,that he be not deceived concerning the loſſe or privation of the ſenſe of the part. anoteson. for i know very many deceived as thus ; the patients pricked on that part would ſay they felt ... much pain there.but that feeling is oft deceitfull, as that which proceeds rather from the ſtrong ap- : prehenſion of great pain which formerly raigned in the part, than from any faculty of feeling as yet part. remaining. a moſt clear and manifeſt argument of this falſe and deceitfull ſenſe appears after the ampu- tation of the member; for a long while after they will complain of the part which is cutaway. a won- verily it is a thing wondrous ſtrange and prodigious, and which will ſcarſe be credited, unleſſ: by drous ſymp, ſuch as have ſeen with their eyes,and heard with their ears the patients who have many months after tonne. the cutting away of the leggrievouſly complained that they yet felt exceeding great pain of that leg ſo cut off. wherefore have a ſpeciall care left this hinder your intended amputation; a thing pitifuli, yet abſolutely neceſſary for to preſerve the life of the patient and all the reſt of his body,by cutting a- way of that member which hath all the ſigns of a sphacell and perfeótmortification; for otherwiſe the neglected fire will in a moment ſpread overall the body, and take away all hope of remedy; for sº, lib, thus hiſpocrate wiſheth: that scótions,tiflions,and terebrations muſt be performed as ſoon as need .epidem, requires. - - - cha p. xviii. where amputation muſt be made. the contro- t is not ſufficient to know that amputation is neceſſary: but alſo you muſt learn in what verſy deci- place of the dead part,it muſt be done, and herein the wiſdom and judgment of the chirur- ded, º geon is moſt apparent.art bids to takehold of the quick, and to cut off the member in the found fleſh; but the ſame art wiſheth us,to preſerve whole that which is ſound, as much as in us lics. i will ſhew theeby a familiar example how thoumaiſt carry thy ſelf in theſe difficulties. let - us * * - —l * - - - - - - - lin. i , of contuſions and gangrenes. - t-- - ; * * hat the foot is mortified even to the anckle; here yoº muſt attentively mark in what place :. it off for unleſſeyou take hold of the quick fléſh in the amputation,or if you |...}any putrefaction, you profit nothing by amputation,for it will creep and ſpread over the reſt of the body. it befits phyſick ordained for the preſervation of mankind,to defend frºm theſiºn or inſtrument & al manner of injury,that which injoyes life and health.wherefore you ſhall cut off as little of that which is found as you poſſibly can; yet ſo that you rather cut † that which is quick,than leave behind a- ny thing that is periſhed,according to the advice of celſuſ: et oft-times the .# of the aëtion liê. , cap. of the reſt of the part,and as it were a certain ornament thereof, changes this counſell. for if you take - theſe twº things into your confideration they will induce you in th; f. caſe and example, to cut off the leg ſome five fingers breadth under the knee. for ſo the atient may more fitly uſe the reſt of his leg and with leſſe trouble,that is,he may the better go on a woj. lºg for otherwiſe, if according to the common rules of art,you cut it off cloſe to that which is periſhed, the patient will be forced with trouble to uſe three legs in ſtead of two. - ‘. . . . . for i ſo knew captain francis clerk, when as his foot was ſtrucken off with an iron bullet ſhot an obſer- forth of a man of war, and afterwards *covered and healed up, he was much troubled and wearied vable hiſto- with the heavy and unprofitable burden of the reſt of his hºg, wherefore though whole and rºund ty. he cauſed the reſt thereof to be cut off,ſome five fingers breadth below his knee; and verily he uſeth it with much more eaſe and facility than before in performance of .. mºtion. we muſt do otherwiſe if any ſuch thing happen in the arm; that is you muſt cut off as little of the ſound part as you can. for -l the aëtion of the legs much differ from theſe of the arms, and chiefly in this that thebody reſts not, - neither is carried upon the arms,as it is upon the feet and legs --> -: , - * —s chap. xi x. how the ſeſſion or *mputation muſt be performed. $he firſt care muſt be of the patients ſtrength, wherefore let him benouriſhed with meats of " . . . . . §§ good nutriment,eafie digeſtion,and ſuch as, nºtate many ſpirits; as with the yolks of egs, - § & and bread roſted and dipped in sack or muskadine. then let him be placed, as is fit, and sºs drawing the muſcles upwards towards the ſound partº, let them be tyed with a ſtrait liga- ture a little above that place of the member which is to be *off with a ſtrong and broad fillet fixe that which women uſually bind up their hair withall. this ligature hath a threefold uſe; the firſt is, - that it hold the muſcles drawn up together with the skin, ſo that *iring back preſently after the the liga: performance of the work,they may cover the ends of the cut bones,and ſerve them in ſtead ofboulſters rule of he or pillows when they are healed up,& ſo ſuffer with leſſe pain the compreſſion in ſuſtaining the reſt of p* the body;beſides alſo by this means the wounds are the ſoonerhealed aid cicatrized;for by how much more fleſh or skin is left upon the ends of the bones,by ſo much they are the ſoonerhealed and cicatri, -zed.the ſecondis,for that it prohibits the flux ofbſolid by preſſing and †.; the veins and arte- ºries.the third is for that it dulls the ſenſe of the part by ſtupefying it, the animal ſpirits by the ſtrait compreſſing being hindred from paſāhgin by the nerves. wherefore when you have made your liga- ºur; ºut the fleſh even to the bone with a ſharpe andwell cutting inciſion knife, or with a crooked knife,ſuch as is here expreſſed. • *. - - - - a crookedknifefit for diſmembring;or a diſmembring knife. the figure of ſuch a saw, ºſſº ...? º {{ |ſ iſiſ. tº • ?: . &ºº: --- ws - . . - * a portion of certain muſcles. which you cannot eaſily cut with a large inciſion or diſmembring knife; wherefore yºu muſt carefully di- a caution tº - - - " . º, made neatly like a crookedinºffibe obſerved. knife-thought good to advertiſe the herº. if thouſhouldeſt leave any thing befides the bone to be divided by the saw.you would . the patient to exceſſive pain; - - pain in the performance thereof, for oft things, as fleſh, tendons and mem **, cannot be eaſily cut with a saw. therefore when you ſhall come to the baredbone,all the other parts being wholly cut aſunder and divided,you ſhall mini- bly divide it with a little saw about ſome footaniſh. inches long, and that as near tº: ſound w fleſhas you can.and then youmuſt ſmooth the front of the bone which the saw hath made rough. - - s - . . . . . . . . cha p. xx. how to ſtanch the bleeding when the member is taken off. - . §hen you have cutoff and taken away themember,let it bleed a little according to the ſtrength wx} ‘ofthe patient,that ſo the reſt of the part may afterwards be leſſe obnoxious to inflammation º nyº and other ſymptomes;then lettheweins and arteries bebound up as ſpeedily and ſtraitly as "tº you can ; that . the courſe of the flowing blood may be ſtºpped and wholly ſtayed. which may be done by takinghold of the veſſels with your crows beak,whereofthe figure follºws. g g ºv. the - of contuſions and gangreneſ. li b. . the crowes beak fit for to draw the veſſell, forth of the fleſh wherein they lyc bid, hat ſo they may be tyed or bound faff. ~ º - the ends of the veſ. gº. . . . – sº-j ſells lying hid in the how to º - - - - * * , &sº fleſh, muſt be taken hold draw forth of and drawn with this º .." inſtrument forth of the º muſcles whereinto they preſently after the amputation withdrew º <s themſelves, as all parts \}; Ž are ſtill uſed to with- --- - - - - - ... draw themſelves to- wards their originalls. in performance of this work,you need take no great care.if you together with the veſſells comprehend ſome portion of the neighbouring parts, as of the fleſh, for hereof will enſue no harmebut the veſſells will ſo be conſolidated with the more eaſe, than if they being bloodleſſ: parts ſhould grow together by themſelves. to conclude, when you have ſo drawn them forth, bind them with a ſtrong double thred. - - - - - * ". . . cha p.xxi. how after the blood is ſtanched, you maft dreſſ: the wounded member. . §:hen you have tyed the veſſells,looſe your ligature which you made, above the place of am- lº. putation;then draw together the lips of the wound with four ſtitches made acroſſe, having bred part taken good hold of the fleſh;for thus you ſhall draw over the bones that part of the skin and . are to be cut muſcles drawn upwards before the amputation, and cover them as cloſe as you can, that . ** ſo the air may the leſſe come at them,and that ſo the wound nay be the more ſpeedily agglutinated. but when we ſay,draw together the lips of the wound with four ſtitches, you muſt not ſo underſtand it as that you muſt endeavour, to draw them ſo cloſe as to touch each ºther for that is impoſſible; for the ſtitches would ſooner break out,and ſo the part wouldly bare. wherefore it will be ſufficient to draw them indifferent cloſe together,that ſo you may ſuffer the skin and fleſh thereunder to enjoy its former liberty which it poſeſt before the drawing up, and ſo in fine by natures aſſiſtance, the wound may be the more eaſily agglutinated. - ** “” chap. xxii. how you muſiſº the bleeding, fan, of the bound up veſſell, chance toget looſe. ilhe buſineſs hitherto being performed as we ſaid,ifperadventure it happen that any bandage ºof any ofthe veſſels be unlooſed,then muſ' you againbind the member with that kind of li- § gature which you didbefore the ºr. thereof orelſº, which is better,more eaſieand #ieſe painfull,ſet your ſervant take hold of the member with both his hands, preſſing his -- fingers ſtrait,ſtop the paſſage of the looſed veſſell,forſo he may ſtanch the bleeding. then lct the work-maſter take a needleſome four fingers long,ſquare;and having ſharp edges,drawing after it a three or four doubled ſtrong thred. with this let him bind the veſſell after the following manner. let him thruſt his needle on the outſide into the fleſh,ſome half fingers breadth from the looſed veſſell untill he come to the cnd thereof then let him put it about it,and bring it back again,but ſo that there be no more than the ſpace of a fingers breadth between the going in, and coming forth of the needle. in this ſpace let him put a limen rag three or four times doubled,and thereupon bind ſomewhat ſtrait - the two ends of the thred together. for ſo he ſhall hinder the knot from hurting the fleſh which lies | the hz. under it in the bindings,and alſo addſtrength thereto. for ſo the bound-up orifice of the veſſell morhige, will in ſhort ſpace be agglutinated to the adjoyning fleſh,and that ſo firmly,that there hath never been ºº: ſeen any one drop of blood to have flowed from a veſſell ſo bound up. but if the blood which flows ſels is ... forth proceed from any ſmall veſſell, you muſt not uſe this future and ligature, nor make any be regarded. ſuch great matter thereof; for it will quickly be ſtanched by the only application of aſtringents pre- ſently to be mentioned. . . . . . . tº - . . . --- * r c. hap. xxiii. how t perform the reſidue of the cure of the amputated member. º §ow muſt we ſhew what medicins are fitting to be applyed after the amputation of a member; an empla - - - aickmédi- # which are emplaſticks,as theſe which exceedingly conduce to greenwounds. as r. boli arm. cine. ºlºš #iftinºpl;ijpiciºrefine,wn; ij. ulveriſentur omnia ſubtiliſ.&ſimulmixth fiat fulvis; herewith * let the wound be ſtrewed,and lay thereupon dry lint; but let the following repercuſſive or º º p* defenſitive be applyed to the member. r. album ovorumvjboli arm.ſang draggypſiterreſgillaloes, maſtiches, wca gallar.combuſt,anjijin pollinem redigantur omnia, bene agitentur, addendo oleiroſarum &myrtil, an i.fiat defen- fitivum ad formam mella. this ointment muſt be applyed upon ſtoops dipped in gxycrate, and that ſo that it may not only cover the cut member; but alſo be ſpread further and cover the neighbouring parts;as when the legis cutoff it muſt belaid upon the joint, and ſpread higher than the nee,ſome how to fourfingers upon the thigh;for ithath not only a repercuſſive faculty but it alſo ſtrengthens the part, *...*good to moiſten your doublecloths and bandages in oxycrate; then muſt you place the member in an . indifferent poſture upon a pillow ſtuffed with oaten huskes or chaffe, stags hair, or wheat bran. it muſt not be ſtirred after the firſt dreſſing (unleſs great neceſſity urge) for four dayes in winter, but place the hinders defluxion by tempering the blood,aſſwaging pain,and hindring inflammation, it will alſo be . ſomewhat - lib. . of contuſions and gangrenes. - . ſomewhat ſooner in ſummer.for the ligatures wherewith the veſſells are bound,they muſt not be loo- ſed,or otherwiſe taken away,before the mouthes of the veſſells are covered with their glue or fleſh, leſt by too much haſt you cauſe anew flux of blood. this agglutination will be performed by applying refrigerating,aſtringent,and emplaſtick medicins,ſuch as this following powder. r.boli armfarinhord. an empla- picisreſ gypſi,an:#iiij aloes, mucum cup.cort granat,an; j, incorporentur omnia ſimulfiat pulvi, ſultilit: herewith flick pow- let the whole ulcer be ſtrewed over for three or four dayes ſpace; which being ended, ſet onl y the ſeats der. of the veſſells be powdred therewith,and that for eight or tendayes,ſo that we need no further doubt of the agglutination of the veſſells. in the mean ſpace let the digeſtive be applyed to the reſt of the ulcer untill it be come to ſuppuration ; for then you ſhall give over your digeſtive, and be- take you to deterfive and mundificative medicins : as r. tºrebinth. ven. late in aqua vite .j. deterfive. mellis roſ. colati #iiij. ſucci plantag. apii, centaur, minoriº, am. ij. bulliant cmnia ſimul uſque ad con- ſumptionem ſuccorum, auferantur ab igne, addendofarinefab. &hord, an. #. therist.gal: ſ...alocs, myrrhe, ariſto-vvhy after inchangiij croci bjfiat mundificativum. but ſeeing the caſe ſtands ſo that the patients imagin they have diſmembring their members yet entire,and yet do complain thereof (which i imagin to come to paſs, for that the tº ºn” cut nerves retire theniſelves towards their originall, and thereby cauſe a pain like to convulſions; for º if as galen writes in his book, de mºtu muſtulorum, that contraćtion is the true and properaćtion of a ºº: s nerve and muſcle:and again, extenſion is not ſo much an ačtion as a motion:) now we muſt indeavour wer:yet to give remedy to this ſymptome.which may be done by anointing the ſpine of the back and all the remaining affected part with the following liniment, which is very powerful againſt convulſions,the palſie,num- * , meſs and all cold effects of the nervous bodies. r ſalvie,champytheosºmajerane, roriſmar, menth. rute, la- : º: wendule,an, nj,for thanemelmelilot.ſummit aneth.é. hyperician pij baccarum laurić juniperian.gij.raditispy- #: of rethrižijimaffic.aſe odoratanáiſ; tirebinth.venet.fbj, olei lumbraneth. catell, an #vji olei jº. the back a- hum ijkroti .vini albiodoriferi lib.j.cere quantum ſufficit,contundenda contundantur, pulveriſandapulveriſentur, gainſ all. deinde maceremtur ºmnia in vine per notiem poſted coquantuſ cum oleis & axungia predidis in vaſe duplici,fatlini- affetts ofthe mentum ſecundum artem.infine adde aquevite iiij. beſides, in dreſſing theſe wounds, the chirurgeon muſt º uſediligence to procur; the falling away of the ends or ſcales of the bones, which the ſaw and the ap- procure the pulſe of the air never before coming hereto, havetainted; which may be done by applying to their fallinga- *nds ačtuall cauteries,that is, hot irons,in uſing of which you muſt have a ſpeciall care that you touch way of the not the ſenſible parts with fire neither muſt the bones themſelves be forcibly pluckt off, ; gently i. st the moved by little and little,ſo that you ſhall think you and the patient have exceedingly well perfor- oncs, 'med your parts if they fall away at the thirtieth day after the amputation. all theſe things being per-cathere. formed,you ſhall hinder the growth of proud fleſh with the catha reticks, ſuch as are burnt vitrioll,the tick." ' owder of mercury,and other things,amongſt which is alum, burnt and powdered, which is excel- i. in theſe kind of wounds, whether by it ſelf or mixed with others. you ſhall uſe theſe and ſuch like even unto the perfºr agglutination and cicatrization of the wound, and you may of your ſelf deviſe other things,ſuch as theſe;as occaſion ſhall offer its ſelf. - chap. xxiiii. what juſt occaſion moved the author to deviſe this new form fremedy,to ſtanch the blood ºf. ter the amputation of a member, and to forſake the common way uſed almoſt by all chirurge- - wns; which is, by application of ačiuall cauteries, - §erily iconſeſ,i formerly have uſed to ſtanch the bleeding ofnembers after amputation, after º another manner than that i have a little before mentioned. whereof i am aſhamed, and a-hot irons §§§ grieved;but what ſhould i do? i have obſerved my maſters whoſe method i intended to fol-". be * low,alwaies to do the like;who thought themſelves, ſingularly well appointed to ſtanch a “ flux of blood, when they were furniſhed with various ſtore of hot irons and cauſtick medicins,which they would uſe to the diſmembred part,now one,then another,as they themſelves thought meet.which thing cannot be ſpoken,orbut thought upon without great horror, much leſſèačted.for this kind of remedy could not but bring great and tormenting pain to the patient, ſeeing ſuch freſh wounds made in the quick and ſound fleſh are endued with exquiſite ſenſe. neither can any cauſtick be applyed to nervous bodies,but that this horrid impreſſion of the fire will be preſently communicated to the in- ward parts,whence horrid ſymptomes enſue,& oft-times death itſelf. andyerily of ſuch as were burnt, the third partſcarſe ever recovered,and that with much adoe,for that combuſt wounds difficultly come to cicatrization for by this burning are cauſed cruell pains,whence a feaver, convulſion,and oft- times other accidents worſe than theſe. adde hereunto,that when the eſchar fell away, oft-times a new hanlorrhage enſued, for ſtanching whereof they were forced to uſe other cauſtick and burning inſtru- ments.neither did theſe good men know any other courſe ; ſo by this repetition there was great loſſe and waſ made of the fleſhy andnervous ſubſtance of the part. through which occaſion the bones were laidbare, whence many were out of hope of cicatrization, being forced for the remainder of their wretched life to carry about an ulcer upon that part which was diſmembred; which alſo took away the opportunity of fitting or putting to of an artificiall leg or arm in ſtead of that which was taken off. wherefore i muſt earneſtly entreat all chirurgeons, that leaving this old,and too too cruell way of healing,they would embrace this new,which i think was taught me by the ſpeciall favour of the ſacred deity,for i learnt it not of my maſters,nor of ny other, neither have iatany time found it uſed - by any.only i have readingalen, that there was no ſpeedier remedy for ſtanching of blood, than to libjº, bind the veſſells through which it flowed towards their roots, to wit,the liver and heart. this pre- cept of galen, ofbinding and ſowing the veins and arteries in the new wounds,when as i thought it *: be drawn to theſe which are made by the amputation of members,i attempted it in mary; yet ſo that at firſt in my budding praćtiſe thereof, i alwayes had my cauteries and hot irons in a *::: . - - g § that, of contuſions and gangreneſ. l i b. . that if any thing happened otherwiſe then i expected in this my new work, i might fetch ſuccour from the ancient pračtice, untill at length confirmed by the happy experience of almoſt an infinite number of particulars,i bid etcrnally adieu,to all hot irons and cauterics which were commonly uſed in this work.and i think it fit that chirurgeons do the like. for antiquity and cuſtone in ſuch things as are i. by art, ought not to have any ſway,authority or place contrary to reaſon,as they oft-times ave in iſjº. let no man ſay unto us,that the ancients have alwayes done thus. - cha p. xxv. the praiſe of the former frecepts it declared, together with a memorable hiſtory of a certain ſouldier,whoſe arm was taken off at the elbow. ºé, sº think it fit to confirm by an example the preſcribed method of curing a gangrene and 㺠mortification. whilſt i was chirurgeon to the marſhall of montejan at turin, a certain à common ſouldier received a wound on his wrift with a musket bullet,by which the bones ) and tendons being much broken, and the nervous bodies cruelly torn, there followed a * gangrene and at length a mortification even to the elbow; beſides alſo an inflammation ſtiſed upon the middle part of his cheſt, and there was as it were a certain diſpoſition to a gangrene, whereby it followed that he was painfully and dangerouſly troubled with belchings, hickettings, watchings, unquietneſſe and frequent aj occaſioned many chirurgeons to leave him as deſperate. but it ſo fell out, that i orecome by his friends intreaty, undertook the cure of this wretched perſon,deſtitute of all humane help. wherefore knowing the mortification by its figns, i cut off the arm by the clbow as ſpeedily as i ſcould, making firſt the ligature, whereofi made mention; biſmem. i ſay i took it off not with a ſaw, but only with an inciſion knife, cutting in ſunder the ligaments *ing ** which held the bones together,becauſe the ſphacell was not paſſed the joint of the elbow. neither '..." ... ought this ſe&tion to be counted ſtrange,which is made in a joint; for hippocrates much commends it, #. and faith that it is eaſily healed,& that there is nothing to be feared therein beſides wounding,by rea- " ſon of the pain cauſed by cutting the common tendons & ligaments. but ſuch inciſion being made,the former ligature could not hinder,but much blood muſt flow from thence,by reaſon of the large veſſels that run that way.wherefore i let the blood to flow plentifully ſo to disburden the part,and ſo after- wards to fee it from the danger and fear of inflammation and a gangrene; then preſently i ſtanched the blood with an hot iron,for as yet i knew no other courſe.then gently loofing the ligature i ſcari- fie that part of the brawn of the arm which was gangrenated, with many and deep inciſions, ſhunning and not touching the inner part,by reaſon of the multitude ofthe large veſſels and nerves which run that way;then i preſently appl ºa cautery to ſome of the inciſions, both to flanch the bleeding, and draw forth the virulent %. which remained in the part. and then i affailed and overcame the ſprea- ding putrefiğion by putting and applying the formerly preſcribed medicins ; iuſed all ſorts of re- frićtive medicins,to ſtay the inflammation ofthe cheſt; i alſo applyed epithema's to the region of the heart,and gave him cordial potions and boles,neitheir did i deſiſt from uſing them untill ſuch time as his belching, hicketting and ſwoundings had left him. whilſt i more attentively intended theſe things,another miſchief . my patient to wit,convulſions and that not through any fault of him or me,but by the naughtineſſe of the place wherein he lay, which was in a barn every where full of chinks and open on every ſide, and then alſo it was in the midſt of winter raging with froſt and ſnow and all ſorts ofcold;neither had he any fire or other thingneceſſal for preſervation of life, to leſſºn theſe injuries of the air and place; now his joints were contrated, his tecth ſet, and his mouth and face were drawn awry, when as i pitying his caſemade him to be carried into the neighbouring sta- ble which ſmoaked with much horſe dung,and bringing in fire in two chaſendiſhes, i preſently anoin. ted his neck and all the ſpine of hisback,ſhunning the parts of the cheſt with liniments formerly de- burying in ſcribed for convulſions; then ſtraight way i wrapped him in a warmlinnen cloth, and buried him nºhºe" even to the neck in hot dung, putting a little freſh ſtraw about him; when he had ſtayed there fome sung helps three dayes, having at length a gentle ſcouring or flux of his belly, and plentifull ſweat,he begun by $ººl. little and little to open his mouth and teeth which before were ſet and cloſe ſhut. having got by this oils. means ſome opportunity betterto domy buſineſſe,i opened hismouth as much as i pleaſed, by putting this following inſtrument between his teeth. a dilater made for to ºpen the mouth and teeth by the means of a ſcrew in the end thereof. now drawing out the imſtrument i kept \his mouth, open by / putting in a willow ſtick on each fide therofthat ſo i might the more eafily feed him with meats ſoon made, as with cows milk and rearegs,un- till he had recovered power to eat,the con- vulſion having left him.he by this means freed from the con- vulſion, i then again. begun the cure of his arm,and with an attuall cautery ſºar the end of the bone, ſo to dry up the perſ. * petuall a hiſtory. —l lib. - ------ - - . w ſl d |- * petuall afflux of corrupt matter. it is not altogether unworthy of your knowledg;that he ſaid,how that he was wondrouſly delighted by the application of ſuch ačtuall cauterics, a certain tickling running the whole length of the arm by reaſon of the gentlediffuſion of the heat by the applying the cauſtick;which ſame thing i have obſerved in many others; eſpecially in ſuch as lay tipon the like oc- caſion in the hoſpitall of paris. . after this cauterizing there fell away many and large ſcales of the bone,the freer appulſe of the air than was fit making much thereto; befides when there was place for atomen fomentation, with the decoštion of red roſe leaves,wormwood,sage, bay leaves, flowers of camomil, tion for a melilote, dill, i ſo comforted the part that i alſo at the ſame time by the ſame means drew and took convul- away the virulent sanies, which firmly adhered to the fleſh and bones. laſtly, it came to paſſe, that by ſion, gods aſſiſtance,theſe means i uſed,and my carefull diligence,he at length recovered.wherefore i would admoniſh the young chirurgeon,that he never account any ſo deſperate,as to give him for loſt.content monſers to have let him go with prognoſticks; for as an ancient dočtor writes; that as in nature,ſo in diſeaſes ºles there are alſo monſters. the end of the twelfth book. diſeaſes. +++++++************************** of olcers, fiſtular, and hemorrhoides. * —a the thirteent h b o o k. ch a p. h. ofthe manº, cauſes and difference ºf plzerº. § aving already handled and treated of the nature, differences, cauſes, ſigns and the divers a ſº careoffreſh and bloody wounds,reaſon and order ſeem to require that we now acceptions #|ſº ſpeak of ulcers; taking our beginning from the ambiguity of the name.for ac- ; ulcer. * {{cording to hippocrates the name of ulcer moſt generally taken may ſignific all #ſº ſº orany ſolution of continuity; in which ſenſe it is read that all pain is an u -#. Ç }}} cer. generally,for a wound and ülcer properly, ſo called; as appears by his . %) tº book, de vºceribu. properly, as when he faith,it is a ſign of death when an iii- sº. prog. *ś& cer is dryed up through an atrºphia,or defeat of neuriſhment. we have here de-_ termined to ſpeak of an ulcer in this laſt and proper ſignification.and according theretowedefine an what in iilcer to be £º of continuity in .# part,and that not bloody, but ſordid and tinpure, º pro- flowing with quittire, §anieſ or any fueli like corruption,aſſociated with one or more affºls againſt '. . f nature, which hinder the healing and †† thereof; or that we may §: you it in fewer ſºn, words according to gakh opinion; aniſcer is a ſolution of continuity,cauſed by eroſion.the cau-ºº. ." gºofulcers are eitherinternal orexternail. the internalſ are through the default of humors peccant he gem: inquality rather than in quantity,or elſeinboth, and ſo making eroſion in the skin º{bſºrparts *. by their acrimony and mºlignity; now theſe things happen either by naughty and irregular diet, or by the ill diſpoſition of thºntails ſending fortſ and implying into the #. of the body this their - iſidiſpoſure. the externall cauſes are the exceſſ of cold kiling upon any part, eſpecially more re; the exteia: mote from the fountain officat,whence follows pain,whereunto ſucceeds an attraćtion of humors and allºuſe". ſpirits into the part and the corruption oftheſeſ, drawn thitherby reaſon of the debility or extinéti- on of the native heat in that part, whence laſtly ulceration . in this number of externall cauſes may be rangºda ſtroak.contuſion,the application of ſharp and acrid medicins, as cauſticks, burns ; as - alſo impure contagion as appears by the virulent ulcers acquired by the filthy copulation or too fa- - miliar converſation offich as have the french diſeaſº. how many and what the differences of llícers . . .” are, you may ſee here deſcribed in this following scheme. a table of the differences of ulcers. anyteriº animpure ſºlutiºn ºf continuity in a ſºft part, flowing with filth and matter or other tomºtin, whereºf there are two chiefdifferences; for one joſt part, flowing with fi fi, ſimple andſºlitary without cºmplication of any other aft&againſt nature, and this varieſ in differenceſ, either prºper, which are uſually drawn from three thing, ; towit, r - - - rºund or circular. º - | figure whenaconryker.ºhiºlvariºuſly frtad. t iſ called ight or oblique. cornered aſ triangular. - - ºf ylength; whence an?/lter is lºng,ſºrt indººrºnt. º - i. | §ºjº. || | g prºfundity, whence anºker tº depºſperſºndjº, ; : . . sinthºſe difference ºfflininſon; whereºfweſºłº!ſºil a k equality or inequality’sſength, readth andprºfundity,whereinthºyº * gr * -whith cºnſifts the ſame manner, reſe unlike andſº ºf a different mººr. ©r . of olcers,fiſtulas, and hemorrhoides. lib. . d b or common and accidentall, and theſe drawn, either * [from their time; whence an ulcer is tearmed new; old, of ſhort or long cure and duration. from their appearance; whence one is called as apparent ulcer;another a hidden and occult ulcer. | from their manner of generation; as if it be made by a heavy, braiſing, cutting, fricking or corroding thing; whence a cut,torn and mixt 'olcer. from their ſite; whence an ulcer before,behind,abºve,below,in the head,tail,or belly of a muſcle. - frºm that part it ſeiſes upon, whence an ulcer in the fleſh and ſkin,ºr feeding upon the griſtle; or bones, ſuch as theſe of the noſe,the palat of the mouth, and ears. from other common accidents; whence a telephian ulcer; that is,ſuch an ulcer as telephu had.a chi- | ronian, which needs the band and art of chiron. a cancktou,which reſembles a cancer. ſmith the cauſe, when % cacochymick, catarrhoickor venenate, that it, which a an 'olcer cachochymia or repletion of ill buºnors, a catarrh, ºr poiſon | cheriſhes or feeds. het. is compound *_. cold. | and many and pºiº ſimple or compound, wºme dry. : | various wayes . :- -* -- t complicated, as phlegmºnous lºt. - -- - eryſipelou, --- with the diſeaſe, as swelling or tumor, whence a-qºdematou, xvker. *from - scirrbowſ l cancroma solution ºf continuity, or any other diſcommodity, whence a rough, allous fiſtulous,cavernou,ſinuous ulcer, with luxati- lon fračiure, c. h'ith the symptome, whence, a corroding,eating painful ſordid and virulent vlcer. with the cauſe and diſeaſe, with the cauſe and symptome, examples whereafmay be taken from with the diſeaſe and symptome, that we have formerly delivered. with the cauſe,diſeaſe, and symptome. chap. ii. of the ſigns of vicers. º; here areyarious ſigns of ulcers according to their differences. for it is the ſign of aputrid §º ulcer;if it exhale anoyſome grievous,ſtinking and carion-like vapour,together with filthy ſº. a sºari -> - matter. an eating lilcer is known by the eating in, hollowneſſe and wearing away of the É. wherein it reſides,together with the adjoining parts. a ſordid ulcer may be known by the groſneffe and viſcidity of the excrements itſends .#by the looſe and ſpongy ſoftneſſe,or the cruſted inequality of the fleſh which grows over it. a cavernous iilcer, by the ſtraitneſſe of the orifice, and largentſ: and deepneſſe of the windings within. a fiſtulous ulcer, if to the laſt mentioned ſigns there accrew a callous hardneſſe of the lips or ſides of the lilcer. a cancrous lilcer is horrible to behold with the lips turned back,hard and ſwoln, flowing with virulent and ſinking corruption,and ſome- times alſo with bloody matter,together with the ſwelling and lifting up of the adjacent veins.an un- temperate,or as they term it,a diſtempered ulcer, is ſuch as is nouriſhed by ſome great diſtemper whe- galeap. . ther hot or cold,móiſtor dry,or compounded of theſe. an ill” natured or malign ulcer is known by i...ºb, the difficulty of curing and rebellious contumacy to remedies appointed according to art and reaſon. ºlºuſes. we know a catarrhous ulcer, if the matter which feeds it flow to it from ſome varices thereunto ad- *ther. joining.oráilated,ſwollen and broken veins,or from ſome entrail, or from the whole body being ill affe'ted. an apoſtumatous ulcer is perceived by the preſence of any tumor againſt nature, whoſe kind may be found out by ſight and handling, telephian ulcers,are ſuch as affe&ted telephuſ, and chiro- nian (in whoſe cure chron excelled) are ulcers which may be known by their magnitude not much utrid,and conſequently not ſending forth any ill ſmell,not eating, not tormenting with pain, but #. their lips ſwoln and hard,and therefore ill to be healed. for although they may be ſometimes cicatrized yet it being but ſlender may eaſily be broken,and the ulcer renewed. they are almoſt like an ulcerated cancer.but that they are accompanied with ſwelling in the adjacent parts; they are alſo worſe than theſe which are termed catoethe,that is,ill natured, or malign; whence it is that fernelius comads: thought they had a hidden cauſe of malignity, befides the common default of the humor, and that phºſ. . ſuch as can ſcarſebt driven away;ſuch commonly are felt after the plague.wherefore galen thinks ſuch ſ”. " to be malign as will not ſuppurate oryeeld any quitture. chap. i i i. of the prognoſticks of vicers. #: fis: he bone muſt neceſſarily ſcale, and hollow ſcars be left by malign ulcers of a years conti- | x. jºii nuance or longer,and rebellious to medicins fitly applyca. the bone muſt ſcale by reaſon # ſº of the continuall afflux,and wearing by the acrimony of the humor, which looſes the |k|&| compoſure and glue by which the parts thereofarejoined together. but the ſcars muſt be- va * come hollow, for that the bº. all the fleſh takes its firſt originall) or ſome por- tion thereof, being taken ãom under the fleſh, as the foundation thereof, ſo much of the bulk of the - - - - fleſh lib. . of olcers,fiſtula's,and hemorrhoides, - fleſh muſt neceſſarily ſink down,as the magnitude of the portion of the waſted bone comes unto. you may know that death is at hand,when the ulcers that ariſe in or before diſeaſes, are ſuddainly hip.progn" either livid or dryed,or pale and withered. for ſuch drineſs ſheweth the defeót of nature, which is not "ſº ſº; able to ſend the familiar and accuſtomed nutriment to the part ulcerated. but the livid or pale colour aph. .ſ:#! is not only an argument of the overabundance of choler and melancholy, but alſo of the extinëtion of * the native heat.in ulcers where tumors appear,the patients ſuffer no convulſions, neither are frantick; for the tumor being in the habit of the body .# with an ulcer, argues that the nervous parts and their originallare free from the noxious humors. but theſe tumors ſuddainly vaniſhing and with- out manifeſt cauſe,as without application of a diſcuſſing medicin,or bleeding, thoſe who have them on their backs have convulſions ºfdiſtenſions, for that the ſpine of the back is almoſt wholly nervous; but ſuch as have them on their fore parts,become either frantick, or have a ſharp pain of their ſide, or pleuriſie,or clſº a dyſentery if the tumors be reddiſh ; for the forepart of the body is repleniſhed and overſpread with many and large veſſells,into whoſe paſſages the morbifick matter being tranſlated is aph.oz. . preſently carryed to theſe parts which are the ſeats of ſuch diſeaſes. soft and looſe tumors in ull- ; . ! cers are good, for they ſhew amildneſs and gentleneſs of the humors, but crude and hard ſwellings are " naught;for all digeſtion in ſome meaſure reſembles elixation. lilcers which are ſmooth and ſhining are ill,for they ſhew that there reſides an humor malign by its acrimony, which frets aſunder the roots as: of the hairs,and depraves the naturall conſtrućtion of the pores of the skin; whence it is that ſuch as º: - are troubled with quartainagues,the leproſie or lues venerea, have their hair fall off. a livid fleſh is ill in ulcers which cauſe a rottenneſs or corruption of the bones lying under the fleſh; for it is an argument of the dying heat and corruption of the bone,whence the fleſh hath its originall & integrity. theſe ulcers which happen by occaſion of any diſcaſe, as a dropſie, are hard to É. cured as alſo hi-lib de” thoſe whereinto a varix or ſwoln veſſell continually caſts in matter; which a preſent diſtemper fo- i.gilcº. ments;which have ſwoln,hard and callous lips;and ſuch as arc circular or round. an hyperºróſis, or ºl". fieſhy excreſcence uſually happens to ulcers not diligently mundified; and if they polists the arms or *** legs,they cauſe a phlegmon or ſome other tumor in the groins chiefly if the body be full of ill humors, as avicen hath noted. for theſe parts by reaſon of their rarity and weakneſs are fit and ſubjećt to de- fluxions. albucrafts writes that for ninecauſes ulcers are difficultly repleniſhed with fleſh and cicatri- zed. the firſt for want of blood,in a bloodleſſe body;the ſecond by reaſon of ill humors and the im- f*i. purity of the blood;the third by the unfit application of unconvºnicnt nicdicins;the fourth by rea- ºr fon of the ſordidneſs of the lilcer;the fifth by the putrefaction of the ſoft and carion-like fleſh encom-hard to paſſing the ulcer;the ſixth when they take their originall from a common cauſe which every where heal. rages with fury,ſuch as are thoſe which are left by the peſtilence; the ſcaventh by reaſon of the callous hardneſs of the lips of the lilcer. the eighth when the heavens and air are of ſuch condition as nini- ſters fuell to the continuance of the ulcer,as at sarogoza in aragon; the ninth when the bones which lye under it are waſted by rottenneſs. an ulcer that caſts forth white, ſmooth, equall quitture, and little or no ſtinking,is eaſily healed;for it argues the vićtory of the native heat, and the integrity of the ſolid parts.we terme that ſmooth quitture which is abſolutely conco&ed, neither yeelds any aſpe- - rity to the touch,whereby we might ſuſpeșt that as yetany portion of the humor remains crude; we ... call that equallyherein you cannote no diverſity of parts;&white not that which is perfectly ſo, but quaſi and that which is of an aſh colour,as galen obſerves. but it is ill,if when the cure is #: forward, white. a flux of blood ſuddainly break forth in thoſe ulcers which beat ſtrongly by reaſon of the greatin- ºnt, flammation adjoyned therewith. for as hippocrates obſerves, an effuſion of blood happening upon a ;ſº ſtrong pulſation in lilcers is evill; for the blood breaking out of an artery cannot §: ſtayed but by 'ºir. force and alſo this blood is ſo furious by reaſon of the heat and inflammation the nouriſhers of this ſº. . ulcer that itbreaks its receptacles,and hence enſues the extinčtion of the native heat, whence the de- yeſºrts fećt of ſuppuration and a gangreneenſues. now for that there flowes two ſorts of excrements from : malign ulcers,the more thin is tearmed ichor or ſanies,but the more groſſe is named ſorder; that is viºl- tº . †: lent and flowes from pricked nerves, and the perioſea when they are evillaffºted,but the other uſually ignülzer; flowes from the lilcers of the joints, and it is the worſer if it be black, reddiſh, aſh-coloured,if muddy or unequall likewine lees,if it ſtink.sanies is like the water wherein fleſh hath been waſhed ; it argue; . pºll heat of the part, but when it is pale coloured, it is ſaid to ſhew the extinction of the beat. - - - what put of r w chap. iv. of the generaliture of vlcers. - #n ulcer is either ſimple or compound.a ſimple ulcer,as an ulcer hath one and that a ſimple the curing indication, that is, exſiccation;and that more than in a wound, by how much an ulcer is i. flºº. ?moiſter thana wound there are many indications propoſed for the cure of a compoundul: ; sº * cer, in reſpea of which galen would have us to keep this order, that we have the firſt regard ºn. 'of the moſturgent then ofthecauſt,then ofthat, which unleſſe it be taken away;the ulcer cannot be gºlºmeth; healed. by giving you an example you may eaſily underſtand the meaning hereof. imagin on the inſide tºp: : of the lºgălittle above the anclean ulcer very painfull, hollow, putridgaſſociated with the rottºn- ºneſe of the bone.circular,having hard and ſwoln lips, and engirt with the inflammation and varice: of the neighbouring parts.if you take this to cure, before you do any thing about the ulcer, unleſſe you be called upon by that which urges,as by vehemency of pain,yoi muſt firſt uſe generall means by . ... º, talling and adviſing with a phyſician for in galent opinion if the whole, body, requiºa preparº ...," then muſt that be done in the firſt place;for in ſome ulcers plirgation only will be ſufficient ; in ſome ſº blood-letting others are betterby uſing both means,which is as the cauſe of the ulcer proceeds from a ºlition of olcers,fiftular, and hemorrhoider. linº. repletion or ilneſſe of humors.now by theſe means having taken away the cauſe of the ulcer, you muſt come to the particular cure thereof, beginning with that which is moſt urgent. wherefore you muſt firſt aſſwage the pain by application of things contrary to the cauſe thereofas if it proceed from a phlegmonous diſtemper, which hath long poſſeſt, diſtanded and hardned the part, it muſt be eaſed by evacuation.firſt, bathing it with warm water,to mollific and relax the skin, that ſo you may the more eaſily evacuate the contained humors; thcn ſhall you draw away portion of the matter cau- fing the ſwelling and pain by ſcarification,if the patient ſhall be of ſufficient courage, or elſe by appli- cation of horſe-leaches if he be more faint-hearted ; and then you ſhall temper the heat thereof by ap- lying vnguentum refrigerans galeni. to conclude,you ſhall attempt all things which we have former- i. delivered (in our treatiſe of tumors) to take away the ſwelling thereof. when you have brought this to that paſſe you deſire,you ſhall come to thoſe which are ſuch, that it cannot be taken away or healed without them, which ſhall be done by orderly helping the defe&ts againſt nature which were conjoined with the ulcer,to wit,the rottenneſſc of the bone,which you ſhall help by ačtuall cauteries; and in the mean while you ſhall draw the lflcer into another form,to wit,cornered, and you ſhall cut away the callous hardneſſe, and help the rottenneſſe. then muſt you procure the falling away of the . eſchar,and then provide for the ſcaling of the bone by the means formerly preſcribed,laſtly the mun- ...; dificd ulcer muſt be filled with fleſh. for generating of fleſh two cauſes muſt concur, the efficient,and . .* materiall;the efficient is,the good temper both of the whole body, as alſo of the ulcerated part. for nerating of this prevailing,there will be an attraćtion, digeſtion,oppoſition and aſſimilation of the laudable juice fleſh. to the part affected;verily the laudable temper is preſerved by like things.but the vicious is amended by contraries.the matter to be ſpent upon fleſh is laudable blood,which offends neither in quality,nor quantity. in this regeneration of the fleſh there appear two kinds of cxcrements, the one more thin and humid called sanieſ,the other more groſſe termed sordes. both of theſe for that they are contrary to nature, do therefore hinder the regeneration of fleſh,and therefore muſt be taken away by applying their contraries, as by things drying in the firſt degree, and more ſtrongly or weakly detergent, accor- ding to the complexion of the part and the whole body,and the plenay and quality of the excremen- titious humor,and the uncleanneſs of the ulcer. for the part muſt be preſerved º the uſe of the like, but the lilcer orecome by application of things, contrary thereto. after that by natures endeavour and the chirurgeons help the ulcer is replete with fleſh, it muſt be cicatrized, that is,covered with a callous skin in ſtead of the true and native skin. it may be cicatrized by ſtrewing of very drying pow- , dershaving very little or no agrimony. thus alum and vitrioll being burnt& made into powder, and thing, thinly ſtrewed upon the part do quickly cicatrize the former fleſhy work. to this purpoſe alſo ſerve, cauſing ci- the rôot of ariſtolochia, alots, burnt lead, pomegranat pills burnt, litharge,tutia, and alſo plates of catrization. lead beſmeared with quickſilver, whoſe efficacy for this purpoſe chirurgeons ſometimes find more certain and powerfull than any other remedies. whatascar chap. v. of a diffempered vlcer. - §§ efore we ſpeak of adiſempered ulcer,it is meet, lºſt that the chirurgeon take one diſtemper #: § for another,briefly to relate the ſigns of each. you may know that an ulcer is aſſociated with red ulcer. }\; a dry diſtemper by your fight,as if the ulcer be as it were wrinkled,if it ſend forth little or no moiſture;alſo it is known by touch,ifit feel rough and hard. you ſhall correct this diſemper ** by hume&ing medicins,as fomenting it with warm water according to galen, opinion,or elſe with º: hydreleum (i.) oil and water mixt,but alwayes you muſt firſt purge, if the body ſhall abound with ill red j humors, or uſe phlebotomic if the body be plethorick ; otherwiſe you ſhall draw more humors into the f. than it can bear.now you ſhall ſo long foment it, untill the fleſh which is about it begin to look red, wax ſoft and moiſt,and the part it ſelf be a little ſwoln. if you proceed further, you will re- ſolve all the humor which you have 㺠thither,and ſo your labour is in vaine. after the fomenta- tion apply ſuch a remedy to the ulcerated part. r. cremori, bordei žijfolmalve in aq.coã. jpingued forci iſ meliºm, ſºmiſce in mortario & fiat urguentum. signs oft you ſhall know a moiſt diſtemper aſſociates the ulcer by the plenty of the excrementitious humor, ... which the ulcer ſends forth, by .. ſpongy and fungous ſoftneſſe and growth of the fleſh about it.you cct * ſhal amend this by drying remedics,ſuch as theſe are which we tearm ſarcoticks,having alwayes regard to the plenty of the humor,the proper temper of the part,and other indications formerly mentioned. 'º. amongſt other remedies galen much commends alum water,for it dries,clenſes and corroborates the ſimpºp. , affede part. alſo this enſuing fomentation may be applyed to good purpoſe. r.roſar.rub.abſinth. be- ton, tapſ barbatian m.jgallarum,nucum cupreſi,an. ij,aluminu roche $jifiat decoãio in vino auſtero,inſtituaturf- $ign ºf a tu. then let empl.de teruſa or de minio be applyed to the ulcer. alſo i have found by experience that ho . the powder of burnt alum lightly ſtrewed upon the ulcer is very effečtuall in this caſe.you ſhal know *“ that an hot diffemper aſſociates the ulcer by redneſs,or yellowneſſe thereof.by the heatmanifeſt to your touch,and the propriety of your pain.then muſt you have recourſe to refrigerating things, ſuch as ung. roſatum meſ. refrigeran; gal. pºuleon; ſtoops and clothed dipped in plantain water, night-ſhade water,or oxycrate.i have oft found by experience that ſcarification, or leaches being applyed, did more conduce than any other remedy. forío the chafed blood,which by that means is apt to corrupt, is drawn away,and the part it ſelf is alſo freed of that burden. signs of, we know a cold diffemperby the whitiſh or pale colour,by the touch ofthe chirurgeon,and ſpeach gºld di- ofthe patient complaining of the coldneſſe of the ulcerated part. you ſhall correå this by applying ºpered and putting bottles filled with water about the part,or elſe ſwines bladders half filled with the fol: ulcer, lowing deco&tion. r. origami-pulegii, (hamam ********"…g. fiat. - eco&#io - lib. . of olcers,fiftulis,and h emorrhoides, decodio in vino generoſo,addendo aqueviteqnod ſufficit. alſo the ulcer may be conveniently fomented wit? ſpunges dipped in the ſame deco&ion,and let there be applyed thereto empl. xycroceum;emp. de melilºto; de vigo ſummercurio,and fine mercurio.but if a mixt and compound diſtemperbejoined to the ulcer, the medicins muſt in like manner be mixt and compoſed. the reſidue of the chirurgeons care and pains muſt be ſpent upon the proper and peculiar cure of the ulcer,as it is an ulcer ; which we ſaid in the former chapter was contained in deterſion,regenerating fleſh and cicatrization thereof. c hap. vi. of an ulcer with pain. #! here oft-times ſo great pain accompanieth ulcers, that it calls thereto the counſell of the § phyſitian. wherefore if it proceed from any diſemper, it ſhallbe taken away by remedics º proper againſt that diſtemper,ſuch as we mentioned in the former chapter. but it it do not * ſo ceaſe, we muſt go on to narcoticks.such are cataplaſms of the leaves of mandrakes, water lillies.henbane,nightſhade,hemlock,the ſeeds of poppy and oils of the ſame to which alſo may bead- the same ded opium,pºpulcon,and other things of like faculties.but ifa malign acrimony and virulency of an hu- of niji mor corroding and eating the fleſhlying under it and the lips about it,cauſe and make the pain, you tick cata, ſhall neither'affwage it by anodynes, nor narcoticks; for by application of gentle medicins it will be-plaſms. come worſe and worſe.wherefore you muſtbetakeyou to cathºreticks;for ſtrong medicins are fitteſt cºhere. for ſtrong diſeaſes.wherefore let a º: dipped in ſtrong and more than ordinarily powerfull ae- tº have gyptiacum, or in a little oil of vitrioll,be applyed to the ulcer;for theſe have power to tame this ra-power to aſ. ging pain,and virulent humors.in the mean ſeaſon let refrigerating things be put about the ulcer, "agº pan- kft the veheniency of acrid medicins cauſe a defluxion. --> * * cha p. vii. of vlcers with overgrowing or proudneſſ of fleſh. lcers have oft-times proud or overgrowing fleſh in them, either by the negligence of the things was . chirurgeon,or fault of the patient. againſt this,drying and gently eating or conſuming me- ſing ſuper- dicins muſt be applyed, ſuch as are gälls, onex bufu,aloes, futi, antimony, pompbelix, vi-** trioll,lead,all of them burnt and waſht if need require. of theſe powders younay alſo make ointments with a little oil and wax but if the proud fleſh,as that which is hard and denſe,yeeld not to : theſe remedies, we muſt come to cauſticks,or elſe to iron,ſo to cut it off. for in galens opinion, the ta- lib. , mebº king away of proud fleſh is no work of nature, (as the generating reſtoring and agglutinating of the ***. fleſh is but it is performed by medicins which dry vehemently or elſe by the hand of the chirurgeon; wherefore amongſt the remedies fit for this operation,the powder of mercury with ſome ſmall quanti- - ty ofburnt alum, or burnt vitriol aloneſcem very effeituall to me.now for the hard and callous lipsºº- of the ulcer, they muſt be mollified with medicins which have ſuch a faculty,as with calves, gooſe, §. lips of capons or ducks greaſe,the oils of lillies,ſweet almonds,worms, whelps, oeſºpus, the mucilages of * marſh-mallows, linſeed, fanugreek ſeed, gum ammoniacum, galbanum, bdellium.of which being mixed may be made emplaiſters,unguents,and liniments: or you ſhall uſe empl. diachylon, or de mucilaginibus, te vigo cummercurio. to conclude after we have for ſome few dayes uſed ſuch like remedies, you may apply to the ulcer a plate of lead rubbed over with quickſilver; for this is very effectuall to ſmooth an ulcer and depreſſe the lips:ifyou ſhall prevail nothing by this means, you muſt come to the caſu- ſticks,by which if you ſtill prevail nothing, for that the lips of the ulcer are ſo callous that the cau- ſticks cannot pierce into them,you muſt cleave them with a gentle ſcarification,or elſe cut them to the guick,ſo to make way, or as it were open a window for the medicinto enter in, according to galen. . . . . neither in the interim muſt you onlit hippocrates his advice,which is, that by the ſame operation we # mºhº reduce the lilcer if round,into another figure,to wit, long or triangular. - cap, . - - -------- chap. viii. of an ulcer putrid and breeding worms. - - ºšounds are divers times bred in ulcers, whence they are called wormy ulcers ; the cauſt hereof the cauſe of $ is the too greatexcrementitious humidity prepared to putrefs by unnaturall and immode- i. - rate heat.which happens, either for that the ulcer is neglečted , or elſe by reaſon of the di- *:::: ", ſtemper and depraved humors of all thebody, or the affected part or elſe for that the excre- “” mentitious humor colleåed in the ulcer,hath not open and free paſſage forth; as it happens to the ul- cers of the cars,noſe,fundament, neck of the womb,and laſtly,to all finuous & cuniculous ulcers. yet it doth not neceſſarily follow that all putridulcers muſt haveworms in them; as you may perceive by the definition of a putrid ulcer which we gave you before. for the cure of ſuch ulcers after generall means,the worms muſt firſt be taken forth, then the excrementitious humor muſt be drawn away, whence they take their originall. therefore you ſhall foment the ulcer with the enſuing decoštion, which is of force to kill them;for if any labour to take forth all that are quick he will be much de-. ceived;for they oft times do ſo tenaciouſly adhere to the ulcerated part, that you cannot pluck them - away without much force and pain. r. abſinth.centaur-majoris, marrubii, an m.jjat decoãio ad ib.ſ. in qua aſomer- diſſºlve aloes ( .unguenti egyptiaci . let the ulcer beformented and waſhed with this medicin,and let tºº pledgets dipped herein be put into the ulcer; or elſe if the ulcer be cuniculous or full of windings, : : make injećtion therewith which may go into all parts thereof. - . achigenes much commends this following medicin. r. ceruſe polii montani,an. : pick navali, liquide gal...some quantum ſufficit, mif in "... linimento. if the putrefaëtion be ſuch that theſe medicins will not ſuf-med. fice for the amendment thereof,you muſt come to more powerfull,or to cauteries alſo, or hot irons, or £o. of olcers,fiftular, and hemorrhoider. lib. . to ſe&ion; yet you muſt ſtill begin with the more gentle, ſuch as this of galens deſcription. r. cere, #ij ceruſe#joleiroſ::ijſali, amnon. .ſquam eriº ij.thur,alum erug militar.calci, vive,an.&j. fiat emplaſtrum. or r.terebinth.lete ij.cere alb, .liquefiant ſimuladdendo ſublimati, ſ; ſali, torreſaffi, -vitrioli calcinati,an. jfiat mundificativum. or you muſt uſe our aegyptiacum alone,which hath sublimate entring into the compoſition thereoſ; but in the interim the circuit of the ulcer muſt be defended with refrigerating and defenſative things for fear of pain. c h a p. ix. of a ſordidºlcer. §§§ sordid ulcer after the cure of the body in generall,ſhall be healed with detergent medicins; # the indication being drawn from the groſſe and tough excrement,which with the excremen- Øsº titious janies,Ås it were beſieging,andblocking up the ulcerated parts,weakens and as it were a detergent dulls the force of medicins though powerfull, which cauſethus to begin the cure with ſo- lotion. mentations and lotions, as thus. r. lixivil com.fb.j. abſinth.marrub. apii,centaur.utriuſque,hypericoni, an. miſceguantur,colature, ue ſufficiat,adde melli, roſati .unguenti egyptiati ſ fiat fatus.then uſe the following deterſive medicin: r. ſucci affii, plantag, an:#ij. meli, com. jferebinth. iſ ful.ireo, florent.&aloes an . fiat medicamentum. the chirurgeon muſt well conſider, at how many dreſſings he ſhall be able to waſh away the groſſe ſordes or filth ſticking cloſe to the ulcer,and dry up the excrementitious ſanies.for oft- times theſe things may be done at one dreſſing;but in others who have more quick ſenſe or feeling,not ſo ſoon.but when the ulcer is freed of ſuch groſſe sorder or filth, you muſt forbear to uſe more acrid things for fear of pain, defluxion, inflammation,and eroſion, whereby the ulcer would become more detergent edici - - - - ... - ny that we may ſo help natures indeavours in generating fleſh.such remedies are the pouders of aloes, crimony. maſtich,myrrh, orris, litharge,antimony, roots of gentian,barly flower,and the like, which being itrewed upon the ulcer,you ſhall cover it with lint,and put over that a plate of lead, rubbed over - with quickfilver; and you ſhall put on theſe deterfives and deſiccatives more or leſſe º: you ſhall a .."." find it requiſite and neceſſary.for the too plentifill uſe of drying and deterfive things, doth in time }... hollow the ulcers, whereby it comes to paſſe that in ſhort time in like ſort.” #. quantity of sa- uſe of deter. nies flows from the ulcer, the proper ſubſtance of the fleſh being diſſo ved by the force or sent things, acrimony of deterfive medicin; as alſo the proper alimentary humor, which flowed to the part, being in the like ſort, a greater quantity of sanies flowed from the ulcer, the proper ſubſtance of the fleſh being diſſolved by the force or acrimony of the deterfive medicine, as alſo the proper alimentary humor, which flowed to the part, being in like ſort de- filed : which diº beguiles the unskilfull chirurgeon. for by how much he ſees the ulcer flow more'plentifully with sanies, he endeavours by ſo much the more to exhauſt and dry up with more acrid medicins theſe humidities as if they were excrementitious;but galen hath long ago admo- niſhed us to take heed hereof, ſetting forth a hiſtory of a certain emperick who dreſſing a ſordid uil- cer with agreen,acrid and eating medicin, diſſolved the fleſh,and ſo conſequently made the ulcer more a diffindi- hollow,and cauſed more pain and defluxion; whereby it lº. that continually adding more acrid on to be medicins,he continually by his ignorance and unskilfulneſſe increaſed the colliquation of the fleſh, . the largeneſſe of the ulcer and excrementitious humidity.wherefore wenuſt take ſpeciall care whether jº the ſordid ulcer grow each day worſe by its proper fault and the impurity ofthe wholebody beſides, yofalcers, or elſe by the colliquation of the fleſh and corruption of the benign and alimentary humor ſent thi- * ther for the nutrition of the part,by the too frequent and unskilful uſe of too acrid amedicin.you may - conjećture this by the increaſe of the pain without reaſon, and by the heat and redneſſe of the lips of pilº" the ulcer.therefore you muſt principally have regard to this,that you give each of your patients his fº. fit meaſure,that is, a convenient and agreeable medicinto each of their ſtrengths, taking indication the patients from the ſtrength,diſtemper,and conſiſtence of the whole body and affečted part; for there is a great bodies and deal of difference whether you apply a medicin to a plowman or labourer, or to an eunuch and wo- the *** man,or whether to the leg,or eyes. for theſe medicins which to a denſe and hard body and part are part, only detergent and drying the ſame are to delicate and tenderbodics and parts catha retick and eating, by colliquation of the fleſh,and corruption of the nouriſhment, making an increaſe of sordes or filth; on the contrary thoſe things which do laudably and ſufficiently clenſe the fleſh in a ſoft body, and dry up the sanies,theſe ſame things applyed to a hard body encreaſe the sordes and sanies by ſuffering them to breed, neither are they of #. power to waſh away the tenacious impurity of a denſe body. wherefore the skilfull chirurgeon will ſee when he muſt betake himſelf from too ſtrongly cleanſing and eating medicins,to theſe which are more milde. how stu- c h a p. x. of a virulent,eating andmalign ulcer which is tearmed cacoethes,and of a chironian ulcer. dea- - - - - - - - - - ſent and ca. & irulent and eating ulcers differ not unleſſe in magi, and minus, for we tearm it a virulent º:|cris ulcer, which ſends forth a virulent ſanies,which isf. called virus.this virus,or vi- gal.lib. de y. §, rulency,when it becomes more malign:gnawes and feeds upon the parts which lye under, comp med. § and are adjoyning to the ulcer,and makes an eating ulcer.such ulcers are by galen called {...,thi. tylºpulatica,that is,difficultly to be cicatrized;for,ſaith he,it happens that the ulcer is dy- º ..., ſepulotick, either for that the part affečted may be vitiated either in the habit or temper thereof, ſo differs from that it may corrupt the humor which flows thither; ſuch an ulcer is by a particular name tearmed anººg, cacoethel ; or for that by reaſon of the evill quality of the blood flowing thither and eating º the part, the part affečted being too moiſt cannot heal up. he further adds that a chirº - • * * u cc- hollow.wherefore then we ſhall be content to apply remedies which dry and clenſe without acrimo- lin. , of olcers,fiftula's and hemorrhoider. – ulcer is far more malign than theſe ulcers which are termed cacoethe. for the cure; by rea- ſon that all theſe ulcers have a large extent, for ſome are more malign and ill to be cicatri- zed than otherſome ; it is alſo neceſſary to have divers medicins ready and at hand diſtinčt both in their faculties and the degrees thereof.ſo that it is no marvail if they oft fail of their purpoſe, who with the ſame medicin dreſſe and think they ſhall heale all malign ulcers.this following medicin de- ſcribed by aſclepiades is much commended by galen. . r. ſquame aris, ºriginia, raſe,an. ).cere ſh.ſ; refine ſee gen laricº. ig. que liquaripoſſunt aridi, affundantur,and make an emplaſter to be laid only upon the ulcer;for .apº you mūſīlay a defenſitive about the ulcer for fear of inflammation.but galen faith.that the followin epulotick of primion excels the reſt,as that which to deſperate ulcers(which many have taken in .# gallib. . and left as uncurable, )was of certain and approved uſe. r foreos iij.alumini, ſciſſilis;calci, vine, an. ij, de comp. thuri, gallarum,an. iiij. cere.fb.jó. $iijſevi witulini ſtj.&#vijolei veteri, quantum ſufficit,fiat emplaffrum. :. . chap. xi. an advertiſement to theyoung chirurgeon touching the diſtance oftimes wherein malign ulcers are to be dreſſed. wºoſhew the uſe of aſclepiades his medicins deſcribed in the former chapter,and convince the . * º error of theſe chirurgeons, who think they do well for their patients, if they twice or §.É. o & thrice on a day dreſſe malign ulcers; i have here thought good to digreſſe a little from my cºr.º. * purpoſe and to interpoſe galent authority. rightly (faith galen) hath aſclepiades added theſe words to the i. deſcribed medicin; and looſe this after three dayes, and fo- ment the ulcer,and faſten the ſame emplaiſter being waſhed,and apply it again; for unleſſe the medicin adhere long to the skin,it will do no good-which thing notwithſtanding many phyſitians have been ignorant of thinking if they wiped away the ſanies from the ulcer thrice on a day,they ſhould do bet- tºrthan thoſe who did the ſamebut twice a day. but thoſe who dreſſe it but once a day, are reproved by the patients as negligent.but they are much miſtaken; for you muſt remember,as we have delivered in moſt of our writings.that the qualities of al neighbouring bodies do mutual ačtuate and affe& each other in ſome degree,although the one thereof be much º for by this reaſon in ſpace of time they become ſomewhat alike,though they otherwiſe differ much ; but when the quality of the medicin ſhall be like the ſpecies to the body to be cured,there follows the better ſucceſſe. wherefore he which moved by theſe reaſons firſt .." ted to uſe the emplaiſter formerly applyed, is worthy of commendations;and we ought to follow him much the rather,ſeeing that º he found out by rea- ſon,is approved by experience.neither did he º command to foment the wound every third day,that is,every dreſſing;for ſeeing it is a powerfull medicin,therefore it ſtands in need of mitigation. thus much galen,whoſe opinion grounded on reaſon,he can again confirm with another reaſon. it is galens rea, already ſufficiently known,that medicins can do nothing in us unk'ſſe by the force of the native heat, ſon farther which ſtirs up the faculty of the medicin to operation.but in ulcers which are abſolutely malign, the **** native heat of the affected part is very languid,being broken and debilitated by the preſence of the pre- ternaturall heat; ſo that it flands in need of a great ſpace of time to ačtuate the vertue and faculty of the medicin.wherefore, if in that time,when as the native heat hath much moved and ſtirred up the fa- culty of the medicin, the ulcer be looſed or opened, and that enplaiſter caſt away which was laid upon the part,and a freſh one laid in ſtead thereof;the heat implanted in the part is cither diſſipated by the conta& ofthe air, or is weakened and driven in;and that endeavour which was made by the em- laiſter was to no purpoſe,being as it were ſtopped in the midſt of the courſe.but a new cmplaiſter be- ing laidon,the heat of the part muſt undergo a new labour,ſo to ſtir up the faculty to bring it to ačt. for all medicins are, what they are in faculty.equall to this is their error, who by too oft renew-medicine ing their emplaiſers on the ſame day;do too powerfully clenſe;for ſo they do not only take away the . i. excrementitious humors,both ſordes and ſanies,but alſo the alimentary juice;to wit, the rob, cambium, º a- and gluten,which are the next matter for procreating of laudible fleſh. wherefore it is not good to," dreſſe ulcers ſo often in one day, and to looſe them to apply new emplaiſters, unleſſe ſome greivous iſymptome(as pain)forceus to do it, which requires to be aſſwaged and mitigated by the often change- ing and renewing of anodyne medicins. —º- º º p ch a p. xii. how to bindup ulcers. . the begin. *. • #. the binding up of ulcers,you muſt alwayes begin your bandage at the ulcer. now the ling ºf rowler muſt be ſo large that it may not only cover and comprehend the ulcer, but alſo. : . - - - gmu ſome portion of the adjacent parts above and below ; and let it preſſe the ulcer with that ºth. moderation,that it may only preſſe out the excrementition humors. for ſo the ulcer will ulcer. become dry,and conſequently more neer to healing as it is obſerved by hippocrates. let this be the airlib.d. meaſure of your binding,that it be neither too ſtrait for hence would eñſue pain and defluxion; nor” too lax,for ſuch is of no uſe. you may moiſten your boulſters and rowlers in oxycrate or in red and aſtringent wine, eſpecially in summer; when you have bound it up the part muſt be kept . for according to hippocrates, thoſe who have an ulcer in the leg, ought neither to ſtand, norfit, but to lye on abed.wherefore when the legs are ulcerated the arms muſt be exerciſed,by handling, lifting up and caſting downe of divers things.but on the contrary if thearms be ulcerated the legs muſt be exerciſed revulſion with walking,or frićtions from above downwards, if the patient cannot endure to walk. so the hu-in” mors and ſpirits which with more violence and greater plenty run down to the part affected, may be 'j pºº" drawn back and diverted. - . . h h chap. - - o of olcers,fiftula's and hemorrhoides. . lib. . chap. xiii. of the cure of particular ulcer,and firſt of thoſe of the eyes. * ::$or that(in galens opinion) the divers indication in curing diſeaſes is drawn from the condi- §§§ tion of the part,to wit,the temper,complexion,ſite,figure,uſe,dull or quick ſenſe; therefore § havingbriefly handled the generall cure both of ſimple and compound and implicit ulcers,i * think it fit to treat of them now as they are diſtinguiſhed by the parts, beginning with theſe of the eyes.theſe according to celſus,are ſometimes cauſcd by puſtules,or a ſharp defuxion which frets or eats in ſunder the coats thereofor elſe by a ſtroak. hiš. . cap. paulus ſets down theſe differences of the ulcers of the eyes;lf (ſaith he ja ſmall,little and hollow ul- #: cer be upon the horny coat,it is by the greeks tearmed botryon; but if it be broader and leſſe deep,it is £º. termed Čeloma;about the circle of the iris or rainbow, it is called argemon. if it be cruſty and ſordid, argemºn. it is termed epicauma. theſe in generall require the ſame cure as the former, that is,to be mundified, ericauma. incarnated, dryed and cicatrized;but the part affe&ted indicatcs more gentle medicins. wherefore ha- the care, wing purged §: patient and taken ſome blood both from his arm, as alſo from his veins and tempo- rall arteries,and bathed him if it be needfull;to divert the defluxion you ſhall to his ſhoulders apply * ºri cupping glaſſes with ſcarification;or elſe bread newly drawn out of the oven,and ſprinkled with aqua wn to vite or ſome good wine ſhall be applyed to the originall of the ſpinall marrow. but you ſhall apply elenſe the to the forehead and temples an aſtringent emplaiſter made of emplaffrum contra rupturan, ung. comitiſe, ulcers of and reſiccativum rubrum mixed together. but this enſuing collyrium deſcribed by celſus and approved by *** helleriu,ſhall be dropped into the eye. reru uſi, admie uſe & late, an. ; ex aquafingatur callyrium quad liquore ovi diſſolvatur. but in the mean time you muſt diligently obſerve whether you put the eye to any great pain.wherefore now and then by putting anodyne medicins thereto,it will be good to comfort it. alſo you may make tollyria of the decoètion of plantain, fa:nugreek, wormwood, with a little quantity of sugar-candy, tutta.gum tragacanth, myrrh and vitrioll diſſolved therein. when the ulcer is aſarco; mundified,the following ſarcotick will be of good uſe. rºſarcocolle in lačie muliebri nutrite, iij pul. . *" diaireos ſimplici, gum.arabici tragacanthan. ſ.mucilagini, fenugrati quantum ſufficit ut indefiat collyrium. but ºre. you muſt note that for moiſtulcers, powders are more convenient than collyria. when the ulcer is tick cº. plained or filled with its proper fleſh,it may be cicatrized with the following collyrium. r.tutié, cadmie rium. ut decet preparate, ceruſe,antimonii, olibani,an. ſ;.myrrhe,ſarcocolle, ſanguini, draconi, aloes,ºpii,an, ſ. cum - # . .cap. qua plantaginia fiat collyrium; or the powder only may be conveniently ſtrewed thereon. a colºri. celſus hath noted that the cicatrizing of the eyes is incident to two dangers, that is, lºſt they be ...'...l. too hollow, or elſe too thick. if too hollow, they muſt be filled by the following remedy,r papaveris low ſcars. lachryme, ſ;.ſagapeni,ºpopanaciºn; ſ.<rugini, ) fumini .# piperiº ij.cadmie lots & ceruſe, an: jſł. cuma- the ſcars quapluviali fiat collyrium. but if the ſcars be thick or groſſe,the following remedy will extenuate them. : ea, rºſinamom."ºtiºn; ſ?.cadmie elote,croci,myrrhe-papaveris lathryme gum.arabici,an. ). piperiº albi,thuri, an. :::::::: iſ.<ri, combuſti, iijºum aquapluvialifiat collyrium. but if the ſcar be upon the cornea or horny coat, ſo and here that it cover the pupilla or fight,the fight will be intercepted by the denſeneſs of the membrane. here of the you muſt alſo obſerve,that the ſcars that are on the cornea are white, but theſe on the adnata are red, aptarca. £º. this is ſpred over with more little veins than that. chap. xiiii. of the ozana and vlcers of the noſe. he ozema is a deep and ſinking ulcer in the inſide of the noſe,ſending forth many cruſty and lib. cap. º ; flinking excrements.celſus ſaith that ſuch ulcers can ſcarſly be healed.it is cauſed (as galen ;:- : ºft faith)by the diſtillation of acrid and putrid humors from the head into the noſtrills about ºf comp. º. med.ſecund. tº the mammillary proceſſes.for the cure, the patient muſt eat º: and his meat muſt %. neither be ſharp nor ſtrong;the humor being prepared muſtbe purged;the head dryed and ſtrengthened, the uſe. that ſo it may neither admit the excrementitious humors,nor ſend them down; then muſt we come to the part affected with the ulcer.the ulcer muſt be dryed with a repelling medicine, ſuch as is the juice of pomegranats boiled to the half in a braſſe veſſell;the powder of calamint, creſſes,white hellebore, the juice of creſſes with alum and other things which you may read in celſus. galen out of archigenes wiſhes,to draw up into the noſtrills the juice of calamint,or that the calamint itſelf being dryed, and made into powder,may be blown with a quill into the noſe. others uſe this following powder. lib. e. rrofºrub-mint.calam.arom.rad.angelice gentian.macis,cariop.an. ſ.camph.ambre,an.gr.iiij-moſch. gr. vſ. fiat pul- §: e- vir ultilijimu manardu, writes that the urine of an aſſe,though a naſty medicine,is an excellent reme- ãºn dy in this affect.but if the inveterate and contumacious evilldo not yeclá to theſe remedies,then you joºn, muſt have recourſe to coproſe, verdigreece, ſalammoniacum, and alum with vinegar. it divers times ſhall come happens that the ulcer ſpreading on, comes to take hold of the oſſa ethmoidea or five-like bones; in tº ſ, which caſe you muſt not forciblypſuck them out,but refer the whole buſineſs to nature, and ex ethnºidea when they ſhall come away ofthemſelves, making in the mean while injećtions into the noſtrills of aqua vitz, wherein cephalick powders have been ſteeped for the greater drying. cha p.xv. ofthe vlcers of the mouth. §§f this tribe are the aphtheulcers familiar to little children, according to hippocrates. they º, . § oft-times begin at the gums,and by the palat of the mouth creep into the uvula,throtle, and ſº.g. yºº overall the mouth,as celſue ſaith. galen makes two kinds of aphtha's ; the one of eafie cure, cap. gal. * ſuch as that which uſually troubles children by reaſon of the acrimony of the nurſes milk ; º:#. the other is malign by reaſon of an afflux of an evill humor (that is, venenate and malign ) into the mouth. lib. . of olcers,fiftular and hemorrhoides. - - st ° mouth. for the cure,it ſhall be good to abſtain from all acrid things, and if it be a ſucking child, it will not beamiſe to temper the nurſes milk with refrigerating meats, bathing the whole body, and ** fomenting the dugs with warm water;for all the members in children are moſt tender, and as it were mucous,and their mouths are unaccuſtomed to meats and drinks. for topick medicins, you muſt make choice of ſuch which may quickly and readily work the effe&t;for here the condition of the affetted artis ſuch,that they cannot long remain and adherethereto.therefore if the ulcer be malign, it muſt É. lightly touched with aqua forti, which hath been uſed in ſeparating metalls and which beſides is tempered with ſix parts of common water. you may for the ſame purpoſe uſe the oils of vitrioll,sull. phur,antimony, mercury water and the like. aetius wiſhes you to touch and correót ſuch ulcers with a lock of wooll dipped in ſcalding oil,and ſo faſtned to the end of a probe, antill they wax white and become ſmooth or plain.for ſo their cating and ſpreading force will at length be bridled, and lauda- ble fleſh grow up in place of that which is eaten. after ſuch burning it will be good to waſh the mouth with the following gargariſm,which alſo of its ſelf alone will ſerve to cure aphtha's, which are not malign. b. bordei integrip.jplantag.ceterach, piloſelle,agrimonie;an.m.jfat decojio ad Îb.j. in qua diſſolve mel-agatzariſt lis rojati žj.diamoronáſ fiat gargariſma. you may alſo make other gargles,of pomegranate pills, balau-º ſtics,sumach,berberies,red roſes being boyled, and diſſolving in the ſtrained liquor diamoron and dia- #:eth nuſum with a little alum, for galen writes, that ſimple ulcers of the mouth are healed with things.” which dry with moderation;now diamoron and dianuſcum are ſuch. but others ſtand in need of ſtrong uſers of medicins, with ſuch like.if the palat be ſeiſed upon, we muſt uſe the more diligence and care; for the palat there is danger, lºſt being the part is hot and moiſt, the bone which lyes under which is rare and hu- . d mide,may be corrupted by the contagion and fall away,and the voice or ſpeech be ſpoiled. if the ulcer *:::::" be pocky,omitting the common remedies of ulcers, you muſt ſpeedily betake your ſelf to the proper dºeſ. antidote of that diſeaſe,to wit, uick-ſilver. fiſtulous ulcers often takehold on the gums, whence aetiu lit. the root of the next tooth becomes rotten,and ſo far that the acrimony of the sanies oft-times makes éºp. , its ſelfa paſſage forth on the outſide under the chin;which thing puts many into a falſe conceit of the ..is lib, fºr phul.orkings evill, and conſequently of an uncurable diſafe. in figh a caſe aetiu, and ceifu, **** counſell is,to take out the rotten tooth, for ſo the fiftula will be taken away, the gum preſſing and thruſting its ſelf into the place of the tooth which was taken forth; and ſo the cauſe nouriſhing the putrefaëtion being taken away,(that is,the tooth) the reſt of the cure will be more eaſy. the ulcers of the tongue may be cured by the ſame remedies by which the reſt of the mouth; yet thoſe which breed on the fide thereofendure very long,and you muſt look whether or nothere be not ſome ſha tooth over againſt it,which will not ſuffer the ulcer in that place to heal; which if there be, then muſt you take it away with a file. - chap. xvi. of the vlcers of the ears. lcers are bred in the auditory paſſageboth by an externall cauſe, as a ſtroak, or fall, as alſo their cat- by an intermall, as an abſceſs there generated. they oft-times flow with much matter, not ſcs. there generated,for ſuch ulcers are uſually but ſmall and beſides in a ſpernatick part,but for - & that the brain doth that way disburden its ſelf. for the cure, the chief regard muſt be had of the antecedent cauſe,which feeds the ulcer,and it muſt the curs. be diverted by purging medicins,maſticatories, and errhines. this is the form of a maſticatory.r. a mańica, maffich. j.ſtaſhiſagr.cºpyreth. an. ).cinam. caryºph.am, ſ. fiant maſticatºria, uttur mane & veſperi. buttory. this is the form of an Érrhin. r. ſucci betonic. mercurial ºmeliſſa, an: ſ; vini albi žj. miſce & frequenter naribus attrahatur. for topick medicins we muſt ſhun all fatty and oily things,as galen ſet down in me- an errhin, thod.medendi,where he finds fault with a certain follower of theſſal, who by uſing tetrapharmacum, º.º. made the ulcer in the ear grow each day more filthy than other;which galen healed with the trochi-poſition ºf ſces of andronius diſſolved in vinegar,whoſe compoſure is as followeth.b. balauff. ijalumin. jatrament. andromiu. ſator. ij.myrrh, thur.ariſtoloch gallarum,an. ijjali ammon. ).excifiantur omnia meliºrate, -fiant trochiſti. his trochiſ- the figure of a pyoulcus,or matter-drawer. galen in the ſame place wit- $º. of m wº-wayº neſſeth, that he hath healed iron. inveterate ulcers & of two years old of this kind, with wa the ſcales of iron made into º º' powder, and then boiled in % º : ſharp vinegar untill it ac- - honey : m º º: * d quired the . of . . #. *y* moreover an oxes gall diſſolved in ſtrong vine nd dropped in warm, amends and dryes “tº *p*putrefaction wherewith theſe ulcers flow. §ſ. . Å. of . made into powderboyled in makesmen- w º rion ad *pvinegardryed and ſtrewed upon them.but if the ſtraitneſs of the paſſages ſhould not give leave to giºcºnen. the matter coint ſtrumei h ained in the windings of the ears to paſſe forth,thin muſt it be drawn out with an in- **reupon called a pyoulcuſ,or matter-drawer, whereof this is the figure. rº chap. xvii. ofthe ulcers ºf the windpipe,weazon,ſomath and guti. tº heſe parts are ulcerated either by an externall cauſe, as an acrid medicine, or poyſon ſwal- the cau- § lowed down;or by an internalſ cauſe,as a malign fretting humor which may equall the forceſes. º of poy ſon generated in the body, and reſtrained in theſe parts. if the pain be encreaſed by sign” ºwallowing orbreathing it is the ſign of an ulcer in the wazonor windpipe joining ther:- *the pain is moſt ſenſibly felt when as that which is fºllow disitier four of acrid, or . h h - w of olcers.fiftula, and hemorrhoides. lib. . airbreathed in,is more hot or cold than ordinary. but if the cauſe of pain lye faſtned in the ſtomach, more grievous ſymptomes urge; for ſometimes they ſwound, have a nauſeous diſpoſition and vomit- ing, convulſions, gnawings,and pain almoſt intolerable,& the coldneſs of the extream parts;all which when preſent at once,few ſcape unleſs ſuch as are young,and have very ſtrong bodies. the ſame affed. may befall the whole ſtomach,but becauſe both for the bitterneſs of pain,and greatneſs of danger,that ulcer is far more grievous which takeshold of the mouth of the ventricle, honoured by the ancients with the name of the heart;therefore phyſitians do not make ſo great a reckoning of that which hap- Çakliº, pens in the lower part of the flomach.now we know that the guts are j if puſ, or much pu- ***# rulent matter come forth by ſtool;if blood come that way with much griping; for by the pu, ſaying cap. . and as it were gathered together in that place,there is as it were a certain continuall teneſinus, or de- lib. . , . fire to goc to ſtool.now all ſuch ulcers are cured by meats and drinks,rather than by medicins,accor- methºd ding to galen.therefore you muſt make choice of all ſuch meats and drinks as are gentle, and have a le- ** nitive faculty, ſhunning acrid things;for tutia,lytharge, ceruſe,verdigreece& the like, have no place here,as they have in other ulcers. but when as the ulcer ſhall be in the gullet or weazon, you muſt have a care that ſuch things may have ſome viſcidity or toughneſſe,and be ſwallowed by little and little,and at divers times;otherwiſe they will not much avail, becauſe they cannot make any ſtay,in theſe commune wayes of breath and meat;therefore they preſently ſlip down and flow away where- hoºke fore all ſuch things ſhall be uſed in form of an egligma,to be taken lying on the back, and ſwallowed . of down by little and little,opening the muſcles of the throat, leſt the medicin paſſing down ſuddainly j and in great quantity,cauſe a cough,a thing exceeding hurtfull to theſe kinds of ulcers. when they - muſt beclenſed,you ſhall have crude honey,which hath a ſingular faculty, above all other detergent things,in theſe kind of ulcers. but when they can conveniently ſwallow, you ſhall mix gum traga- why acrid canth diſſolved in ſome aſtringent deco&ion. in ulcers of the ſtomach all acrid things (as i have ****** formerly adviſed)muſt be ſhunned,as thoſe which may cauſe pain,inflammation and vomit,and beſides º hinder the digeſtion of the meat.therefore let them frequently uſe aptiſan,and ſugred ; where- ccrs. in gum tragacanth,and bole armenick have been put,the decoètion of prunes, dates, figs, raiſons, honey,cowes milk boyled with the yolks of egs, and a little common honey. when they are tº be agglutinated,it will be convenient to make uſe of auſtereºaſtringent, and *...; things which want allacrimony,and ungratefull taſ,ſuch as are hypotiſti, pomegranate flowres and pills,ferraſ.gil- lata,ſumach,acacia,a decoètion of quinces,the lentisk wood,the tops ºf viişof brambles, myrtles, made in affingent wine, unleſſ, there be feare of inflammation.their drink ſhall be hydrºmel water with su- how pow-gar,ſyrup of violets and iujubes. honey mixed with other medicius is a very fitting remedy for ul- erfullāo cers of the guts and other partsmore remote from the ſtomach ; for ifyou ſhall uſe aſtringent medi- ney is tº cins alone of themſelves,they will ſtick to the ſtomach; neither will they carry their ſtrength any fur- i. ther;but honey mixed with them,beſides that it diſtributes them to the reſt of the body, and helps ...”" them forwards to the affected parts,alſo clenſes the ulcers themſelves. here alſo aſſes milk may with ood ſucceſs be uſed in ſtead of goats or cowes milk.the uſe of avulnerary potion is alſo commen- i #. be that it be made of ſuch hearbes and ſimples,as by a certain tacit familiarity have reſpeſt | to the parts affected. but the ulcers of the guts have this difference amongſt themſelves, that if the | tie- greatergutsbe affected,you may heal them with a clyſter and injećtions, made alſo ſharp to corrett | zºod the putrefaction;ſuch as are thoſe which are made of barly water, or wine with Ægyptiacum. but if the for the ul- ſmall guts be ulcerated,they muſt be rather healed by potions and other things taken at the mouth, *.*.*... for that(as galen faith) theſe things which are put up into the body by the fundament, do not com- #... monly alºlºſheſ allºr ſeniºr guts, but ſuch as are taken at the mouth cannot come unleſs with the loſſe of their faculty,ſo far as the great guts. cha p.xviii. of the vlcers ºf the kidneys and bladder. º rºš alcers are cauſed in the kidneys and bladder,either by the uſe of acrid meats,drinks, or me- cauſes. §: dicins,as cantharides;or elſe by the colle&ion of an acrid humor bred in that place, ſent $ignes. § or faln thither;or elſe by the rupture of ſome veſſell,or an abſceſe broken and degenerated ºf into an ulcer,as it ſometimes comes to paſſe. they are diſcerned by their ſite, for the pain ** and heavineſe of ulcers of the reins comes to the loins,and the pu, or matter is evacuated well and throughly mixed with the lprine. hip aphor. neither doth the pus which flows from the reins ſtink ſo ill, as that which is caſt forth of the ºſºl. bladder;the reaſon is,for that the bladder being a bloodleſſe, fleſhlºſſe and membranous part,hath not flºº. ſuch power to reſiſt putrefaction.that pus which flowes from the kidneys never flowes without wa- #. zz. ter;and although by long keeping in an iirinall,it at length ſubfides or falls to the bottome.and may fºil. . be ſeen ſeparated;yet when it is firſt made,you may ſee it perfeótly mixed with the lirine; but that pus which flowes from the bladder is oft-times made alone without lºrine; and uſually it comes to paſſe that the pus,or matter which flowes from the ulcerated kidneys,hath in it certain caruncles, or as it were haires,according to the rule of hiſpocrates.thoſe who in a thick lirine have little caruncles,and as it were hairs come forth together therewith, they come from their kidneys; but on the contrary thoſe who have certain bran-like ſcales come from them in a thick lirine, their bladder is ſcabby or the cure. troubled with a ſcabby ulcer. why we for the cure;it is expedient that the belly be ſoluble either by nature or art, and the uſe of molli- #." ſying clyſers.and it is good to yomit ſometimes, ſo to draw back the humors by whoſe conflux in: º, to the affeded part the ulcer might be fed and made more ſordid and filthy. you muſt beware of ſtrong purgations,leſt the humors being moved and too much agitated, the matter fitto *: ill cºr * --—— - - - —l lib. . of olcers,fiftular, and hemorrhoider. ulcer may falldown upon the kidnies or bladder.the enſuing potion is very effeaual to mundifie thoſe kind of ulcers. r. hordei integri, mij.glºrrhize raſ. &contuſ. ſ.rad. acetoſe & petroſellan. vj. fiat deco-thin gs to ãi, ad föj. in colatura diſſolve melli, diſpum. ij. let him take every morning the quantity of four ounces. clenſ: theſe gordoniu, exceedingly commends the following trochiſces. kauatuor ſºmfrig majmundatorum,ſºmpa- h.; averi, albi, ſem. malve, portml.gdon.baccarum myrti, tragacanth, gum.arab.mucumpinearum º: #º rbiza mund.musaginia ſem.pſilii, amyg .dule.hordei mundan. ijibularmeni ſang dracºſpodii,zoſarum, myrrha,an. cers of the excipianur hydromelite, & fingentur trochiſei ſingulipanderi, ij. let him take one thereof in the morn-kidnies and igdiſſolved in barley water or goats milk: gºlen bidstomize honey and diuretick things with medi-ºº: cines made for the ulcers of the reins and bladder, for that they gently move uſine, and areas vehicles to “ method. carry the medicines to the part affečted. ulcers of the bladder are either in the bottomethereof, or at the neck and urinary paſſage. if they be in the bottome, the pain is almoſt continuall; if in the neck, the signs to painthen pricks and is moſt terrible when they make water and preſently after.the ulcer which is in the . what hotteme ſends forth certain ſcaly or skinny excrements together with the urine; but that which is in the part of the neck, cauſes almoſt a continuall tentigº. thoſe which are in the bottome are for the moſt part incura. ..." ble, both by reaſon of the bloodleſs and nervous nature of the part, as alſo for that the ulcer is continu- wi. & ally chaſed and troubledby the acrimony of the urine, ſo that it can hardly be cicatrized. for even after in # . making of water ſome reliques of the urine alwayes remain in the bottome of the bladder, which could amºof the not therefore paſs forth together with the reſt of the urine; for that for the paſſing forth of the urine, bladder are the bladder being diffended before, fals and is complicated in its ſelfe. ulcers of the bladder are healed uncurable. with the ſame medicins as thoſe of the reins are; but theſe not only taken by the mouth but alſo inje- àed by the urinary paſſage. theſe injećtions maybe made of gordinius his trochiſces formerly preſcri- bed, being diſſolved in ſome convenientliquor ; but becauſe ulcers of the bladder cauſe greater and more ſharpe pain than thoſe of the kidnies,therefore the chirurgeon muſt be more diligent in uſing anodynes. for this purpoſe, i have often by experience found,that the oil of henbane made by cypreſſion gives cer. tain help. he ſhall do the ſame with cataplaſmsandliniments applyed to the parts about the pºtten and Æopriatum all the lower belly and perineum,as alſo by caſting in of clyſters. if that they ſtink,it will not be amiſe for the ul- to make inje&ion of a little aegyptiacum diſſolved in wine, plantain, or roſe water. for i have often uſed: "ºſ" this remedy in ſuch a caſe with very proſperousſucceſ. bladder. - -- chap, xix. of the ulcers oftbe womb. yºlcers are bred in the womb either by the conflux of an acrid, orbiting humour, fretting the the cauſe: \% coatsthereof, or by a tumour againſt nature degenerating into an abſceſſe, or by a difficult caules, ºš and hard labour; they are known by pain at the perineum, and the efflux of pu, and saniel by the privity. all of them in the opinion of avicem are either putrid, when as the sanies break- lib. , ſº: ingforth is of a ſinking ſmell, and in colour reſembles the water whereinfieſh hath been waſhed; or elſe .traš. . ſordid,when asthey flow with many virulent and rudehumours , ºr elſe are eating or ſpreading ulcers, . when as they caſt forth black sanieſ, and have pulſatioń joined with much paine. beſides they differ a- ignes, . mongſt themſelves in ſite, for either they poſſeſ; the neck and are known by the fight, by putting in a ſpeculum, or elſe are in the bottome, and are manifeſted by the condition of the more liquid and ſerous ºxcrements, and the fite ofthe pain. they are cured with the ſame remedies wherewith the ulcers of the theats w mouth, to wit,with aquaforth, the oil of vitrioland antimony,and other things made ſomewhat more ture milde, and correàed with that moderation, that the ulcerated parts of the womb maybe ſafely touched with them; it is requiſite that the remedies which are applyed to the ulcers of the womb, do in a no- ment that which is expe&ed of them, for they cannot long adhere or ſtick in the wonib, as neither to the mouth. galuſiith that very drying medicins are exceedingfit for the ulcers of the womb,that ſo the pu-...... . treſſionmay behindred or reſtrained, whereto this part㺠being hot and moiſt is very ſabjeſt; beſides wºong that the whole body unto this part as unto a ſink ſends downe its excrements. if an ulcer take hold of #."; the bottome of the womb,it ſhall be cleanſed and the part alſo ſtrengthened by making this following in- jº:!- jeaion. r. bordei integrip.ijgaajari .radirect abſinth-plant-centaurautriuſque, an m.j-fiat decodina-cers of the quafabrarum ad Îbj, in quibu, diſſolve melli, roſati, & º de abſinthio, an: ijfiat inješio. for amending womb. . theſinkingſmell i have often had certaine experience ofthis enſuing remedy. r. vini rub.f .j. ungueni. *.jetti- egyptiaciłijbulliantparum. thus the putrefałion may becorrested,and the painfull maliciouſneſs of the nice, iºns humourabated. ulcers when they are cleanſed muſt preſently be cicatriced; that may be done with a- bottome of tumwater, the water of plantain wherein a little vitriolor alum have been diſſolved. laſtly, if reme-º ºbs: dies nothing availing, the ulcer turn into a cancer,it muſt be dreſſed with anodynes and remedies proper §. ºn for a cancer, which you may finde ſet down in the proper treatiſe of cancers. the cure of ulcers of the ºi- fundament was to be joined to the cure of theſe ofthewomb, but i have thought good to referre it to the or treatiſt of fiftula's, as i do the cure of theſe of the urinary paſſage to the treatile ofthe lnet ventred. chap. xx. of the varices and their cure by cutting. varix is the dilatation of a vein, ſome whiles of one and that afimple branch, other whiles of .º ſº & many. every variº is either freight or crooked, and asitwereinfolded into certaine windings ºne § within its ſelfe. many parts are ſubje& to varices, as the temples, the region of the belly under differences * the navill, the teſticles, womb, fundament, but principally the thighs and legs. the matter of hº them is uſually melancholy bloud, for varices often grow in men of a melancholy temper, and which the mate uſually feed on groſs meats, or ſuch asbreedgroſs and melancholy humours. alſo women with child ters are commonly troubled with them, by reaſon ofthe heaping together oftheir ſuppreſſed menſtruall ºva- - hh - cuation. of olcers, fiſtula's and hemorrhoider. lib. . | the cauſe cuation. the precedent cauſes are avehement concuſſion of the body, leaping,funning,a painful jour- signes. . ney on foot, a fall, the carrying of a heavy burden, torture or racking. this kind of diſeaſe gives ma- the cure, nifeſt ſigns therof by the lageneſs, thickneſs, ſwelling and colour of the veines. it is beſt not to meddle with ſuch as are inveterate; for of ſuch being cured there is to be feared a reflux of the melancholly bloud to the noble parts, whence there may be imminent danger of malign ulcers, a cancer,madneſs or ſuffoca- tion...when as many varices and diverſly implicit are in the legs, they often ſwell with congealed and the cutting dryed bloud, and cauſe pain which is increaſed by going and compreſſion. such like varices are to be o- ot'arict, pened by dividing the veine with a lancet, and then the bloud muſt be preſſed out, and evacuated by preſ: fing it upwards and downwards; which i have oft-times done, and that with happy ſucceſs to the pati- ents, whom i have made to reſt for ſome few dayes, and have applyed convenient medicins. a varix is often cut in the inſide of the leg a little below the knee, in which place commonly the originall thereof is ſeen. he which goes about to intercept a varix downwards from the firſt originall and as it were fountain thereof, makes the cure far more difficult. for hence it is divided as it were into many rive- lets, all which the chirurgeon is forced to follow. for what a varix is therefore cut or taken away ſo to intetcept the paſſage ofthe blood and humours mixed to- intention gether therewith, flowing to an ulcer ſeated beneath; or elſe leſt that by the too great quantity of blood, £.. "the veſſel ſhould be broken,and deathbe occaſioned by a ſizmorrhagie proceeding from thence.now this f., is the manner of cutting it. let the patientlye upon his back on a bench or table, then make aliga- . iii. . ture upon the leg in two places the diſtance of ſome four fingers each from other, wherein the exciſion the manner may be made, for ſo the vein will ſwellup and come more in ſight,and beſides you may alſo mark it with .." ** inke; then taking the skin up between your fingers cut it long wayes according as you have marked it, le then free the bared vein from the adjacent bodies, and put thereunder a bluntpointed needle (leſt you prick the vein) thred with along double thred, and ſo bind it faſt; and then let it be opened with a lan- cet in the middle under the ligature juſt as you open a vein, and draw as much therehence as ſhall be fit. then ſtraight make a ligature in the lower part of the forementioned vein, and then ºut away as much of the ſaid vein as is convenient between theſigatures, and ſolet the ends thereofwithdraw themſelves into the fieſh above and below; let theſe ligatures alone untill ſuch time as they fall away of themſelves. the operation being performed, let an aſtringent medicine be applyed to the wound and the neighbouring parts ; neither muſt you ſtir the woundanymore for the ſpace of three dayes.then do all other things as are fitto be done to other ſuch affićts. *::::- chap. xxi. of fiftulsºr. what a fi- % § fiſtula is a ſinuous, white, narrow, callous, and not ſeldome unperceivable ulcer. it took its ſºula is. &# denomination from the fimilitude of a reeden(fiſtula) that is, a pipe, like whoſe hollowners Ž. §§ it is. a fiſtula is bredin fundry parts of the body, and commonly followes upon abſceſſes or ** ulcers not well cured. - - what a cal. a cadou is a certain fleſhy ſubſtance, white, ſolid, or denſe and hard, dry and without pain, generated jº" by heaping up of dryed excrementitiousphlegnie, or elſe aduſt melancholy encompaſſing the circuit of the diſe. the ulcer,and ſubſtituting itſelfe into the place of laudable fleſh. the sinº or cavity of a fiſtula is ſome- fences of times dry, and other while drops with continuall moiſture: ſometimes the dropping of the matter ſo- *** dainly ceaſes, and the orifice thereofisſhut up, that ſo it may deceive both the chirurgeon and the pati- ent with a falſeſhew of an abſolute cure; for within a while after it will open again and run as formerly it did. some fiſtula's are bred by the corruption of a bone, others of a nerve, others of membranes,and others of other parts of the body.some run ſtraightin,others and that the greater part,have turning, and windings;ſome have one, others have more orifices and windings,ſome are at the joints,others penetrate into ſome capacity of the body,as into the cheſt,belly, guts, womb, bladder; ſome are eaſily, others diffi- cultly cured,andſomewholly uncurable.there are divers ſigns of fiſtula's according to the variety of the parts they poſſeſs; for if that which youtouch with the end of your probe make reſiſtance, and reſound, then you may know that it is come to the bone; and then if the end ofthe probeſlip up and down as on a ſmooth and polite ſuperficies,it is a ſign that the bone is yet ſound;but if it ſtop and ſtay in any place as in the figme * rough way,then know that the bone is eaten, rough and periſhed;ſometimes the bone lies bare,and then that .* you need not uſe the probe. beſides alſo it is a ſign that the bone is affe&ed, if there be apurulent efflux bonºbare of an unétuous or oily matter,not much unlike that marrow wherewith the bone is nouriſhed. for eve from the excrement ſhewes the condition of the nouriſhment of the part whence it is ſens; in a fiſtula whic sºon. penetrates to a nerve, the patient is troubled with a pricking paine, eſpecially when you come to . ſearch with a probe, eſpecially if the matter which flowes down [. more acrid. oft-times if it be cold, anºth, the member is ſtupified the motion being weakened; beſides alſo the matter which flowes from thence is . aetius ttir, more ſubtle, and ſomewhat like unto that which flowes from the bones, yet not oily nor fat, but ſani- ſº.”? ous and viſcout,teſtmbling the condition of the alimentary humour of the nerves. the ſame uſually ap- . pears and happens in fiſtula's which penetrate to the tendons and thoſe membrancs which involve the muſcles. if the fiſtula be within the fleſh, the matterflowing thence is more thick and plentiful,ſmooth, white, and equall. if it deſcend into the veins or arteries, the ſamehappen as in thoſe of the nerves;but ourias. that thereisho ſuch great pain in ſearching with your prºbe, nor no offence or impediment in the uſ: la's it...a of any member: yet if the matter of the fiſtulous ulcer be ſo acrid, as that it corrode the veſſels, blood tº will flow forth; and that more thick if it be from a vein, but more ſubtle and with ſome murmuring if wall, from an artery. old fiſtula's and ſuch as have run for many years, ifſuddainly ſhut up, cauſe death, eſpecially in an ancient and weakbody. chap the fignes. lin . of ulcers,fiftular, and hemorrhoider. - chap. xx ii. of the cure of fiſtula's. or the cure; in the firſt place it will be expedient to ſearch the fiſtula;and that either with howtofind a wax ſize, a probe of lead, gold or ſilver, to find out the depth and windings or corners out the thereof. but if the fiſtula be hollowed with two or more orifices,and thoſe caniculous, ſo ...”. sil that you cannot poſſibly and certainly ſearch or find them all out with your probe; then #. muſt yºaſt an injećtion into ſome one of theſe holes, and ſo obſerve the places where it comes forth for ſo you may learn how many,and how deep or ſuperficiary cavities therebe; then by making inciſions you muſt lay open and cut away the callous parts. you muſt make inciſions with an inciſion knife or razour, or elſe apply ačtuall or potentiall cauteries;formature cannot unleſſ: the callous ſub- ſtance be firſt taken away;reſtore or generate fleſh or agglutinate the diſtant bodies. for hard things cannot grow together, unleſſe by the interpoſition of glue, ſuch as is laudable blood; but a callous body on all fides poſſeſſing the ſurface of the ulcerated fleſh, hinders the flowing of the blood out of the capillary veins for the reſtoring of the loſt ſubſtance and uniting of the disjoined parts. if you at . any time máke cauſtick injećtions into the fiſtula,you muſt preſently ſtop the orifice thereof..that ſo cauſlick. they may have time to worke the cfie&for which they are intended. which thing wenay conjećture injećtions.; by the tumor of the part,the digeſture of the flowing matter, and its leſſer quantity. then you muſt haſten the falling away of the eſchar,and then the ulcer muſt be dreſſed like other ulcers.but oft-times the calous which poſſeſſes the ſinuous eavity of a fiſtula,overcome by the power ofagrid and eſcarcq- tick medicins comes whole forth,and falls out like a . and ſo leaves a pure ulcer underneath it. which i obſerved in a certain gentleman, when i ha waſhed with ſtrong Ægyptiacum divers times a fiſtulous ulcer in his thigh ſhot through with a bullet; then preſently by putting in my balſam for- merly deſcribed,he grew well in a ſhort time. fiſtula's which are nºt greatycicils,nerves or princi- pallintrailes, muſt not bemedled with unleſs with great caution.when a fiſtula proceedsby the fault ofa corruptbone,it is to be conſidered whether that fault º your bone be ſupe ciary.or deeper in,or remedies whether it is wholly rotten and periſhed.for if the default be ſuperficiary it may eaſily be taken away #. a pittu. with a deſquammatory trepan;but if it penetrate even to the marrow, it muſt be taken forth with †. cutting mullets,firſt having made way with a terebellum. but if the bone be quite rotten and periſhed, corrupt it muſt be wholly taken away,which may be fitly done, in the joints of the fingers, the radius of the bone. cubit and leg;but no ſuch thing may be attempted in the ſocket of the hucklebone,the head of the thigh bone,or any of the rackbones when they are mortified, neither in thoſe fiſtula's, which are of their own nature uncurable;but you ſhall think you have diſcharged your duty and done ſufficient- , y for the patientifyou leave it with a prognoſtick. of this nature are fiſtula's which penetrate e-the caſe of ven to the bowells,which come into the parts oreſpread with large veſſells or nerves, which happen º: º: to effeminate and tender perſons,who had rather § by much, then to ſuffer the pain and torment.º of the operation. like caution muſt be uſed,when by the cutting of a fiſtula there is fear of greater and . danger,as ofconvulſion if the diſeaſº be in a nervous part.in theſe and the like caſes the chirurgeon may not. ſhall not ſet upon the perfe&cure of the diſeaſe,but ſhall think it better to prevent by all means poſſi- a palliative ble that the diſeaſe by freſh ſupplies become no worſe, which may be done if he prevent the falling #." down of any new defluxion into the part; if by an artificiall dict he have a care that excrementiti- unula. . ous humors be not too plentifully generated in the body;or ſo order it, that being generated they may be evacuated at certain times,or elſe diverted from the more noble to the baſe parts. but in the mean ſpace it ſhall be requiſite to waſt the faulty fleſh;which growes up more then is fitting in the ul- ...] to clenſe theſordes or filth,with medicins, which may do it without biting or acrimony and putrefaëion. celſia lib.;; - chap, xxiii. of the fiftula's in the fundament. riflula's in the fundament are bred of the ſame cauſes as other kinds of fiſtula's are;to wit, the cauſe: §§ of a wound or abſceſſe not well cured,or of a hamorrhoid which is ſuppurated. such as . . # are occult,may be known by dropping down of the ſanions and purulent humor by the sign". # fundament and the pain of the adjacent parts. but ſuch as are manifeſt by the help of "your probe you may find whither they goe and how far they reach. for this purpoſe the chirurgeon ſhall put his ſinger into the fundament of the patient, and then put a leaden probe into . the orifice of the fiſtula,which if it come to the finger without interpoſition of any medium,it is a ſign it penetrates into the capacity ofthe gut.beſides alſo then there flowes not only by the fundament but alſo by the orifice which thenialign humor hath opened by its acrimony, much matter,ſomewhiles ſanious,and oft-times alſo breeding worms. fiſtula's may be judged cuniculous, and running into many turnings andwindings,if the probe do not enter far in, and yet notwithſtanding more matter flowes therehence then reaſon requires ſhould proceed from ſo ſmall an ulcer. you may in the ori- snag. fices of all fiſtula's perceive a certain callous wart, which the common chirurgeons tearm a henstoms. arſe. many ſymptomes accompany fiſtula's which are in the fundament,as a teneſmus, ſtrangury and … • falling down of the fundament. if the fiſtula muſt be cured by manuall operation, let the patient lye theatref ſo upon his back,that lifting up his legs, his thighs may preſſe his belly, then let the ghirurgeon. - having his nail pared put his finger beſmeared with ſome ointment into the patients fundament;then ...; let him thruſt in at the orifice of the fiſtula a thick leaden needle drawing after it a thread conſiſting the funda, of thread and horſe hairs woven together,and then with his finger takinghold thereof and ſomewhat ment. crooking it,draw it forth at the fundament,together with the end of the thread.then let him knit the two ends of the thread with a draw or looſe knot, that ſo he may ſtraiten them at his pleaſure. buğ of olcerſfiſſula; and hemorrhoides. lib, . - but before you bind them you ſhall draw the thread ſomewhat roughly towards you as though you ... meant to ſaw the fleſh therein contained,that you may by this means cut the fiflula without any fear of an hamorrhage, or flux of blood. it ſometimes happens that ſuch fiſtula's penetrate not into the gut; ſo that the finger by interpoſition of ſome callous body cannot meet with the needle orprobe. - then it is convenient to put in a hollow iron or ſilver probe ſo through the cavity thereof to thruſt - a ſharp pointed needle,& that by pricking and cutting may deſtroy the callus; which thing you cannot perform with the formerly deſcribed leaden probe, which hatha blunt point, unleſs with great pain. the deſcription of a hollow ſilver probe to be uſed with a needle, is alo a leaden probe. a.shewes the nee- p. dle. b.the hollow probc. c. the needle with the probe. - d.the leadennee- dle drawing a thread after it. the callus be- ing waſted, the fiſtula ſhall be a bound as we for- *a merly mentio- ned. that which is ſuperficia needs . . ding, onely it muſt be cut with - - a crooked ſcal- . frum,and the callus being conſumed,the reſt of the cure muſt be performed after the manner of other ulcers. but you muſt note,that if any parcell of the callous body remain untoucht by the medicin or inſtrument,the fiſtula reviving again will cauſe a relapſe. - - chap. xxiiii. of hemorrhoides. wu: they s §§ emorrhoides, as the word is uſually taken, are tumors at the extreamities of the veins crl- * , ºſ compaſſing the fundament, cauſed by the defluxion of an humor commonly melancholick, their diffe-jūjū and repreſenting a certain kind of varices.some of theſe run at an hole being opened, which ‘rences. * ſometimes in ſpace of time contraćts a callus ; others only ſwell,and caſt forth no moiſture; ſome are manifeſt;other lye only hid within. thoſe which run, commonly caſt forth blood mixed with yellowiſh ſerous moiſture,which ſtimulates the blood to break forth,and by its acrimony opens the mouths of the veins.but ſuch as do not run, are either like bliſters,ſuch as happen in burns, and by pračtitioners are uſually called veſicales,and are cauſed by the defluxion of a phlegmatick and ſº- rous humor;or elſe repreſent a grape, whence they are called .#. by the afflux of blood laudable in quality,but overabundant in quantity;or elſe they expreſſe the manner of a diſeaſe,whence they are termed morales,proceeding from the ſuppreſſion of melancholick blood; or elſe they repreſent warts,whence they are ſtiled verrucaleſ,enjoying the ſame materiall cauſe of the generation as the mo- symptomes. rales do. this affect is cauſe of many accidents in men;for the perpetuall efflux of blood extinguiſh- eth the vivid and lively colour of the face, calls on a dropſie, overthrows the ſtrength of the whole body. the flux of haemorrhoides is commonly every moneth, ſometimes only foure times in a yeare. great pain,inflammation,an abſceſſe which may at length end in a fiſtula,unleſſe it be reſiſted by con- • venient remedics,do oft-times forerun the evacuation of the haºmorrhoides. but if the hamorrhoides flow in a moderate quantity,if the patients brook it well,they ought not to be ſtayed, for that they jºi. free the patients from the fear of iminent evills,as melancholy,leproſe,ſtrangury and the like.beſides, epid. if they be ſtopped without a cauſe,they by their reflux into the lungs cauſe their inflammation, or elſe break the veſſells thereof,and by flowing to the liver cauſe a dropſic by the ſuffocation of the na- the heat;they cauſe a dropſie and univerſall leanneſſe on the contrary, if they flow immoderately,by a remed refrigerating the liver by loſſe of too much blood; wherefore when as they flow too immoderately, #... they muſt be ſtayed with a pledget of hares down dipped in the enſuing medicin. r. pulalºes,thuri, ba- nois. lauſt. ſang, dracona, an. ſ. incorporentur ſimul cum ovi albumine, fiat medicamentum aduum. when they are flowing of “ſtretched out and ſwoln without bleeding,it is convenient to beat an onion roaſted in the embers . ºrmor with an oxcs gall; and apply this medicinto the ſwoln places, and renew it every five hourts. this . . kind of remedy is very prº §. for internall haºmorrhoides; but ſuch as are manifeſt .. be opened rºle, with horſleaches,or a lancet.the juice or maſſe of the hearb called commonly dead-nettle or ark- morrhoides angell,applyed to the ſwoln hæmorrhoides opens them,and makes the congealed blood flow there- hence.the fungus and thymus being diſeaſes #. the fundament are cured by the ſame remedy. if acrimony,hcat and pain do too cruelly afflićt the patient, you muſt make him enter into a bath, and preſently after apply to the ulcers (if any ſuch be) this following remedy. r oleiroſłiiij.ceruſe i.li- iharg. ſ.ceremove, vjopii jfiat unguent.ſecundum artem.or elſe,r thurisynyrrhe, croci, an. .j. opii . fiat unguentum cum leo roſarum & mucagineſempfillii,addendo vitellum unius ovi, you may eaſily proſecute the reſidue of the cure according to the generall rules of art. - -- - the end ofthe thirteenth booke, for ſo they ſhalikeºpmore firm and ſtrong that which they bind, º: hips thighs, ºgs,ſcet and toº. funiculous,caſting forth great ſtore of sanitºhen muſ you begin the ligature and binding from the . . º lib. - - - '- - . - sº ********************************* of band a g e s. º or, ; : . - l i g at v re s. the fourteenth book chap. i. of the differences ºf bandages. - - |andageswhº with weuſºtºbindºornuch differ amongſ themſelves. but their ºf: ayº differences (in galen, opinion) are º drawn from f: things; to wit, their #. fift y ) t matter figure, length, readth,mak *g, and parts whereof they conſiſt. now the | mattºo: bandagºsi thrºfºld;membrandusor of kins whiſhi, accommodated peculiarly tº thºrºdºiſk. fth; noſe ºf woollen, properto inflat tsas thoſe which hayenced of no affrićtion;of linnen,as w len anything is to ſº :=rgº-ºº: j innen cloaths,ſome are made . otherſome of hemp, as fºres.but bandages dº this differ a.f. thºſºin ſtrušture, for that ſomethºr:# ; *ºnfiftofia matter which is ſufficiently sloſe and ſtrong of it ſºlſ,ſuch are themembranous ; r chir.offic. thers are woven as the linnenonºbutºhatºniºbººk choić offorthis uſe and judgedº wheast ..º.º.º.º.º.º. º::::::: other uſes that ſo the bandages made hºrrofºlay be themore ſoft and pliable:yet muſt they be º: rawlers. frºnghºffat they may notbreak with ſtretching,&that º jº. ready to flow down,and ſo hinderit fro j the part. theſe, beſides, muſt not bºhemºnor *::::::: have no lace nor ſeam; for! ems an #. their hardneſs preſſ: into, and hurt #: - fiſh that lyss under them.lacºwhether in the midſtoredges ofthe rowler, makes the #: : une- gºal. for the mºmber wher;itiºhºd withhºlacºthat which williotyceli, isºmore hard;but with the cloth in the middle more ; that which is more it. É. li- gaurs mºſthººfskanºkºharifoºftºnbºy may be moiſºned oftºpsin liquº: priate tºtheºſtaſ and that hymaynººp', ººke wºrſe that liquor by their moiſ; therein.now the bandages which are made of linnen smuſt ºš #::::::::: - des, they will h aies like,and notbroader in one place then in another.but th thus differ in figure . that É. * are rowled up,to which not f muſt beſowed,for that they ought to be fa ău. # to bind up themember others are cut or divided, which truely confiſt of one piece, but that divided in the ºf (ſuch are uſuall . ... ..º. º: º: are ſowed together, which conſiſt of many branches ſowed together,and ending in divers heads, and repreſenting divers figures, ſuch are the ban jºi to the head. but they thus differin length; for #. ſome †: are ſhorter,others longer.ſo in like ſort for breadth; for ſome are broader, others narrower. yet we cannot certainly define nor ſet down neither the length, norbreadth of rowlers,for that they muſt be various,according to the different length and thickneſs of the members orpºisºnerally they ought: both in length .# breadth to fit the parts, whereunto they are uſed. for theſe parts require a bin- j.º.º.º.º.º.º.º. or the parts of i. we tearm one part their body, another th: comadſº, - ſº. .de th;but their ends, whether they run long-wayes effechtr. heads.by the body wenean their due length and brea - dra-croſſe, weaccording to galen,term them their heads. t-t- itht tt -- - chap. ii. sheweth the indications and generatiºn, offiting ofrºuge, and itaru. §§§earºn hºfºte, opinion, two indications of fitting bandages or ligatures; the one ºffi. ºw i; # whereºfistaken from the part affºrd;the other from .. it #i. part #: h% #: . $º ſo the kg.if you at anyºneºind it up, muſt bebound long-wayas, for ifyou bindit over- ... "thwart,the binding will looſen as ſoon as the patient begins to go, and put forth his fºr ºn the muſcles take upon them another figure. on the conſºry th: Årººf pºndºphending in and turned to the breaſt,for otherwiſe at the firſt bending,ifit be bound when it is ſtretched forth the ligature will be ſlacked for that (as we former y ſaid ) the figure of the muſclºs #. fººd now for this indication,letºach one perſwade himſelf thus much, this the part muſt be boºndup in that figure whergin we would have it remain." " : - . . . . . . . . . nººrindication which is drawn from the diſeaſe, ifthere be a hollow ulcer, finuous and }: ,- ottom ofthe finus and end at the orifice of the ulcer,and this miſt you always; obſerve, whe-j . h: thºſinº be ſealed in the top bottom, middle, or fides of . º the filth therein ºn-É. botto: ºined ſhall be emptied and caſt forth,and the lips of the ulcertoo far ſeparated, ſhall be joined toge-of-ſºº's, ther;otherwiſe the contained filth will cat into all that lyes neer it, increaſe the ulcer, and make it - - - ' ' ' ' ºn- * - concerning bandages, or ligaturer. lib. . uncurable by rotting the bones which lye under it with this acrid ſanies or filth. but ſome ligatures § ** are femedies of themſelves,as thoſe which perform their duties of themſelves,and whereto the cure is & ** offic. committed,as are theſe which reſtore their native unitie, thoſe parts which are disjoined: others are "j" ſº not uſed for their own ſakes,but only to ſerve to hold faſt ſuch medicins as have a curative facultie. au- this kind of ligature is either yet a doing,and is termed by hippocrates deligatio operans; or elſe done and finiſhed,and is called,deligatio ºperata;for the firſt,that the ligature may be well made, it is fit that it be cloſe rowled together and beſides,that the surgeon, hold it ſtiffe and ſtrait in his hand, and not careleſly for ſo he ſhall bind up the member the better. alſo he muſt in the binding obſerve, that the ends of the rowler,and . their faſtning may not fall to be on the affečted or grieved part for it is better that they comc above or below, or elſe on the ſide: beſides alſo, he muſt have a ſpeciali care that there be no knottyed upon the ſame place,or upon the region of the back, buttocks, ſides joints,or back part of the head,or to conclude in any other part upon which the patient uſes tºlean. reſt or lye. alſo on that part where we intend to ſow or failen the rowlers.you muſt doublein their ends,that ſo the faſtning or future may be the ſtronger,otherwiſe how cloſe ſoever they ſhall be wrap- ed or rowled about the member, yet will they not remain firm,eſpecially if they be of a great breadth. - §. the ſecond kind of ligature,to wit,that which is already dene and #: surgeon, the per- ligº... former thereof, muſt conſider to what end it was done,and whether he hath performed it weſi and fiti - º ly,as alſo neatly and elegantly,to the ſatisfačtion both of himſelf and the j. for it is the part ...” of a skilfull workman every where handſomely and rightly to perform that which may ſo be done. neatly per. in fraćtures and luxations and all diſlocations of bones,as alſo in wounds and contu fions,you muſt formed, begin your bandage with two or three windings or wraps about upon the place,and that(if you can) more ſtraitly than in other places,that ſo the ſet bones may be the betterkept in their places,and that the humors,if any be already fallen thither,may by this ſtrait compreſſion be preſſed forth, as alſo to hinder and prevent the entrance in of any other § may be ready to fall down. but in fraćtures (as thoſe which never happen without contuſion)the blood flowes,and is preſſed forth of its properveſ. £lºas thoſe which are violently battered and, torn, which cauſes ſugillation in the neighbourin fleſh, which firſt looks red, but afterwards black and blue by reaſon of the corruption of the .# poured forth under the skin. wherefore after theſe firſt windings, which i formerly mentioned, you muſt continue your rowling a great way from the broken or luxated part; he which does otherºiſ. will more and more draw the §. and humors into the affected part,and cauſe impoſtumes, and o: ther malign accidents.now the blood which flowes, goes but one way downwards, but that which is reſſed is carryed as it were in two paths,to wit, from above downwards, and from below upwards. ſºft * etyou muſt have a care that you rather drive it back into the body and bowels, then towards the fº. extremitics thereofas being parts which are uncapable of ſo much matter,and not furniſhed with ſuf- ficient ſtrength to ſuffer that burden, which threatens to fall upon it, without danger and the increaſe of prenaturall accidents. but when this maſſe and burden of humors is thruſt back into the body,it is then ruled and kept from doing harm by the ſtrength and benefit of the faculties remai- ning in the bowels and the native heat. - - galeom.ad chap. iii. of the three kinds of bandages neceſſary in failure. tººwo ſºrts of ligature ar; principally neceſſary for the surgeon, according to hippocrates, sent. . §by which the bones aſwell broken as diſlocated may be held firm when they are reſtored ſt . . offic - - - jto their naturall place. - hypodeſmi. | of theſe ſome are called hypodeſmides, that is, under-binders; others, epideſmi, that is, deſ, * over-binders. there are ſometimes but two under-binders uſed, but more commonly three. the firſt muſt firſt of all be caſt over the fraćture,and wrapped there ſome three or foure times about,then the surgeon muſt mark and obſerve the figure of the fraćture;for as that ſhall be, ſo muſt he vary the manner of his binding for the ligature muſt be drawn ſtrait upon the fide oppoſite to that whereto the luxation or fraćture moſt inclines, that ſo the bone which ſtands forth may befor- ced into its ſeat,and ſo forced may be the more firmly there contained. therefore if the right ſide be the more prominent or ſtanding forth, thence muſt {. begin your ligation,and ſo draw your liga- ture to the left ſide. on the contrary,if the left fide be more prominent,beginning there, you ſhall goe towards the oppoſite ſide in binding and rowling it. here therefore would i require a surgeon to be ambidexter,(.i.) having both his hands at command, that ſo he, ma the more exquiſitely perform ſuch variety of ligations but let him in rowling,bend or move this irſt ligature upwards, that is, to- wards the body,for the former reaſons. but neither is this manner of ligation peculiar to fraćtures, but common to them with luxations:for,into what part ſoever the luxated bone flew, then when it is reſtored;that ſide muſt be bound the more looſly and gently whence it departed, and that on the contrary more hard unto which it went. therefore the ligature muſt be drawn from the ſide where- unto the bone went; ſo that on this ſide it be more looſe and ſoft,and not ſtraitly preſſed with boul- ſters or rowlers,that ſo it may be more inclined to the ſide oppoſite to the luxation. if the ligation be otherwiſe performed,it ſucceeds not well,for the part is relaxed,and moved out of its natural ſeat: wherefore there will be no ſmall danger,leſt the bone be forced out again,and removed from its place, whereinto it was reſtored by art and the hand. which thing hippocrates ſo much feared, that on the contrary he willed that the ſet bone ſhould be drawn ſomewhat more unto the part contrary to that whereunto it was driven by force,than the naturall and proper ſite thereof ſhould require.but to re- turn to our former diſcourſe of the three ligatures:the firſt underbinder being put on, we then take the ſecond,with which we in like ſort begin at the fraćture,but having wrapped it once or wi.a- ut lib, . concerning bindigº, of ligaturer. --. bout there,for that,as we formerly ſaid, we muſt not force back, and preſſe ſo much blood towards the extremities, as we muſt do towards the body and bowels. wherefore this ligature ſhall be drawn from abovedownwards, gently ſtraining it to preſſe forth the blood contained in the wounded part: when by rowling you ſhall come to the end of the part,then you ſhall carry back again that which remains thereof,to wit, upwards;but otherwiſe you may take the third under-binder, wherewith you may be- when the gintorowle,whereasyou leftwith the ſecond, & you may carry it thus,rowling it from below upwards higan. theſe under-bindings thus finiſhed,apply your boulſters, after then your over or upper-bindings,which der-binder are oft-times two,but ſometimes three. the firſt hath two heads, and is wrapped both from the right ... nece" hand and theleſt, for the preſervation of the firſt under-binder and the boulſters, and reſtoring the mu-º, id:ſmi, ſcles to their native figure. the two other which remain,conſiſt of one head, and the one of them muſt p be rowled from below upwards,the other from above downwards,after ſuch a manner, that they may be dire&ly contrary to the under-binders;as if they were rowled from the right hand, then theſe muſt be from the left.now this is the manner of hippocrates his ligation, which, for that it is now grown out of uſe, we muſt here ſet down that which is incommon uſe.they do not at this time uſe any over-binders, the mans but that which we termed the third under-binder ſerves our surgeons in ſtead of the three forementio º of ned over-binders. wherefore they carry this third under-binder, wrapped from below upwards (as we binding. formerly ſaid)contrary to the firſt and ſecond under-bindertas if theſe begun on the right ſide, this ſhall """ be rowſed from the left,and ſhallend whereas the firſt under-binder ended.and you muſt not only draw: it indifferently hard,but alſo make the ſpires andwindings more rare. this third rowler is of this uſe in this manner of ligation,that is,it reſtores the muſcles to their native figure,from whence they were ſome- what altered by the drawing and rowlingofthe two former ligatures. but you muſt alwayes have re-what gard,that you obſerve that meaſure in wrappingyour ligatures,which reaſon, with the ſenſe of the pati- j ent,and . infaffering,preſcribes;having regard that the tumor become not inflamed. alſo the habit of º the body ought to preſcribe a meaſure in ligation:for tender bodies cannot away with ſo hard binding wrapping as hard. verily,in fraëtures and luxations,the humors by too ſtrait binding are preſſed into the extreme the liºn parts of thebody;whence grievous and oft-times enormous oedema's proceed; for healing whereof the tare". iigature muſt be looſed,and then the tumified parts preſſedby a new rowling, which muſtbe performed from below upwards,and ſo by forcing the matterofthe tumor thither, it may be helped; for there is no other hope or way to drive à: humor back again.he whichdoth this,forſakes the proper cure of the diſ: ..., eaſe, ſo to refift the ſymptome,which the surgeon ſhall never refuſe to do, as often as any neceſſary cauſe %. ſhalfrequire it.for this cauſe hippocrates bids.that the bandages belooſed every three dayes, and then to #. forment the part with hot water that ſo the humors,which (drawne thither by the vehemency of painq looſe the have ſetled in the ;. bediffolved and diſperſed;and itching and other ſuch like ſymptomes pre: ligatures vented.the fear of all accidents being paſt, let the ligation be ſooner or later looſed, and more ſlacked ºvery thirº thenit formerly was accuſtomed; that ſo the blood and laudable matter, whereofa callus may enſue, day. mayflow more freely to the affe&ed part. chap. iiii. ofthe binding up of frađures aſſociated with a wound. yºst ſometimeshappensºhatafraºurs is aſſociated by a wound, andy; fºr all this it is fitto. § bind the part with aligature,otherwiſe there will be no ſmall danger of ſwelling, inflammati jº tº on,and otherill accidents,by reaſon of the too plentifull afflux of humors from the neigbou- with: ring parts.but it is not fit to endeavour to uſe that kind of binding which is performed with wound. many circumvolutions or wrappings about for ſeeing the wound muſt be dreſſed every day, the part muſtead day neceſſarilybeſtirred,and theligature,conſiſting of ſo many windings.looſed:which thing willcauſe pain,andconſequently hinder the knitting and uniting which is performed by reſt. therefore this kind of binding may be performed by one only rowling about the wound, and that with a rowler which conſiſts of a twice or thricedoubled cloth,made in manner of aboulſter, and ſewed with as much conveniency asyou can,that it may be ſo large as to encompaſſe and cover all the wound, for theſe rea- ſons, which º be delivered at large in our treatiſe of fºa&ures. but if the wound run long-wayes, let the boulſters and ſplints be applyed to the ſides of the wound, that ſo the lips of the wound may be adſºnºrs; preſſed together,and the contained filth preſſed forth. but if it be made overthwart, we muſt abſtain ſºld-faā, from boulſters and ſplints:for that,in galent opinion, they would dilate the wound, and the purulent matter would be preſſed out,and caſt backinto the wound. - chap. v. certain commonprecept of the binding "poffrailurer and and luxations, §nevery fraćture and luxation,the depreſſed,hollow and extenuated parts,ſuch as are neer unto §§§ the joints,ought to be filled up with boulſters,or clothesput about them, ſo to make the part §§§ equall,that ſo they may be equally and on every ſide preſſed by the ſplints, and the bones more *** firmly contained in their ſeats. so when the knee is bound up,you muſt fill the ham or that ca- vity which is there,that ſo the ligation may be the better and ſpeedilier performed. the ſame muſt be hippſº; done under the arm-pits,above the heel,in the arm neer the wriſt; and, to conclude, in all other parts § - which have a conſpicious inequality by reaſon of ſome manifflawiti, when you have finiſhed yourº." binding,then cnquire of the patient,whether the member ſeem not to bebound too ſtrait. for if he ſay, the figns that he is unable to endure it ſo hard bound,then muſt the binding be ſomewhat ſlackned. for too ſtrait of too binding cauſes pain,heat, defluxion,a gangrene, and laſtly, a ſphacell or mortification:but too looſe is ". º unprofitable,for that it doth not contain the parts in that ſtate we deſire. it is a fign of a juſt ligatiºn *::: º that is neither too ſtrait nor too looſe,if the enſuing day the part be ſwoln with an oedematous .# º caulle r- ' concerning bandages, or ligaturer. lin. a. cauſed by the blood preſſed forth ofthe broken place; but of too ſtraitligation,if the part be hard ſwoln; and of too looſe,ifit be no whit ſwoln as that which hath preſſed no blood out of the affe&ed part. now ifa hard tumor,cauſed by too ſtrait binding, trouble the patient, it muſt preſently be looſed, for fear of more grievons ſymptomes,and the part muſt befomented with warme hydrºleum, and another indiffe- rent,yeaverily, more looſe ligature muſtbemade in ſtead thereof, at long as the pain and inflammation ſhalſ continue;in which time and for which cauſe you ſhall lay nothing upon the part which is anythi burdenſome. when the patient begins to recoversfor three or four dayes ſpace, eſpecially if you find him of a more compa&habitanda ſtrongman,the ligature muſt be kept firm and not looſed. ifon the third day,and ſountill the ſeventh;the ſpires or winding; be found more looſe,and the part affe&ed more ſlen- der then we muſt judge it to be for the better. for hence you may gather,that there is an expreſſion and digeſtion of the humors,cauſing the tumor made by force of the ligation.verily, broken bones fitly bound . up,are better ſet,and more firmly agglutinated,which is the cauſe why in the place of the fraðure the li- yº ... gation muſt be made the ſtraiter;in ºther places more looſly. if the fraćtured bone ſtand forth in any part, a. *. it muſt there be more ſtraitly preſſed with boulflers and ſplints. to conclud, the ſeventh day being paſt, jion on we muſtbind the part moreſtraitly then before for thai then inflammation, pain and the like accidents, the broken are not to be feared. but theſe things which we have hitherto ſpoken of the three kinds of ligatures, can. part. not take place in each fraðured part of the body,as in the chaplºcollar-bones, head, noſe,tibs.for,ſeeing ſuch parts are not round and long, a ligature cannot be wrapped about them, as it may on the arms, thighs,and legs,but only be put on their outſides. - ---- - --- chap. vi. the uſer for whibb ligature, ſerve. hºy that which we have formerly delivered you may underſtand that ligatures are of uſe to re- the flºº. §§ ſtore thoſe things which are ſeparated and moved forth of their places,and join together thoſe . li- |º which gape;asin fra&ures,wounds,contuſions,ſinewout ulcers, and otherlike affe&iagainſt na- * * ture,in which the ſolution of continuity ſtands in need of the help of bandages, forth. repara- theſecond, tion thereof. beſides alſo,by the help of bandages theſe things are kept aſunder or ſeparated, which o- therwiſe would grow together againſt nature ; as in burns, wherein the fingers and the hams would the third, mutually grow together; as alſo the arm-pits to the cheſt, the chin to the breaſt, unleſſe they be hindred by due ligation. bandages do alſo conduce to refreſh emaciated parts: wherefore if the right leg waſtfor want of nouriſhment, the left leg, beginning at the foot, may be conveniently rowled up even to the groin. if the right arm conſume, bind the left with a ſtrait ligature, beginning at the hand,and ending at the arm-pit.for thus a greatportion of blood from the bound-up part is ſent back into the vena cava,from whence it regurgitates into the almoſt empty veſſels of the emaciated part. . but i would have the ſound part to be ſo bound,that thereby itbecome not painfull;for a dolorifickliga- the fourth, tion cauſes a greater attraëtation of blood and ſpirits,as alſo exerciſe: wherefore i would have it during that time to be at reſt,and keep holy-day. ligatures alſo conducc to the ſtopping of bleedings: which the fiſh, you may perceive by this,that when you open avein with your lancet,the blood is preſently ſtayed,lay- ing on a boulſter and making a ligature. alſo ligatures,are uſefull for women preſently after their de- the fixth livery;for their womb being bound about with ligatures, the blood wherewith their womb was too much moiſtened,is expelled, the ſtrength of the expulſive faculty being by this means ſtirred up to the expulſion thereof;and it alſo hinders the empty womb from beingſwoln up with wind, which other- wiſe would preſently enterthereinto.this ſame ligature is a help to ſuch as are with child,for the more eafie carrying of their burden;eſpecially thoſe whoſe child lyes ſofar down-wards, that lying as it were thereventh in the den of the hips,it hangsbetween the thigh sandſohinders the free going of the mother.therefore the eighth, the woman with childis not only eaſed by this binding of her womb with this ligature, which is com- the particu monly termed,the navill ligature;but alſo,her child being held up higher in her womb,ſhe hath freer and laruſºf, more liberty to walk.ligatures are in like ſort good for revulſion and derivation: as alſo for holding of *::::. medicins which are laid to apart,as the neck,breaſt or belly. laſtly, there is a triple uſe of ligatures in tion o amputation of members,as arms and legs.the firſt to draw and hold upwards the skin and muſcles lying members, under it,that the operation being performed;they may by their falling down again, cover the ends of the cut-off bones;and ſo by that means help forwards the agglutination and cicatrization and when it is healed up, cauſe the lame member to move more freely, and with leſſe pain;and alſo to performe the for- meraćtions,this,as it were.cuſhion or boulſter of muſculous fleſhlying thereunder. the ſecond is, they hinder the bleeding by preſſing together the veins and arteries. the third is,they by ſtrait binding inter- cept the free paſſage of the animall ſpirits,and ſo deprive the part which lyes thereunder of the ſenſe of feeling,by making it,as it were, ſtupid or num. -t chap. vii of boulſier, or compreſſes. &oulſters have a double uſe;the firſt is to fill up the cavities and thoſe parts which are not of an equall thickneſs to their end. we have examples of cavities in the arm-pits, clavicles,hams § and groins;and of parts which grow ſmall towards their ends, in the arms towards the § wreſts,in the legs towards the feet,inthe thighs towards the knees. therefore you muſt fill * theſe parts with boulſters & linnen cloths,that ſo they may be al of one bigneſs to their ends. the ſecond the ſeconduſe of boulſters,is to defend and preſerve the firſt two or three rowlers or under-binders, uſe ofthem. the which we ſaidbefore muſt be applyed immediately to the fraćtured part, boulſters, according to this twofold uſe,differ amongſt themſelves,for that when they are uſed in the firſt mentioned kind,they muſt the thi be applyed athwart;but when in the latter,long-wayes or down-right. º: ounlay alſo uſe boulſters,leſt the too ſtrait binding of the ligatures cauſe pain and trouble to the new the firſt uſe of boulſiºrs newſabones. a thrºor four times doubled cloth will greſorthe nickneſs of your boulſters, but the length and breadth muſt be more or leſs, according to the condition of the parts and diſeaſe for which they muſt be applyca. . . . . … ', a - º ºf ---- chap. viii, ofthewſ fsplit, jºinciſº: . . rºe aving delivered the uſes of ligatures and boulſters, it remains that we ſay ſomewhat of the other things, which ſerve to hold the bones in their places; as splints, junks, caſes; §and ſuch other like. splints are made and compoſed of paſt-bord, of thin ſplinters of rhe harte, §§ wood,of leather ſuch as ſhoo-ſoalsaremade with of the rinds ºf trº, or plates of latin, fºr." - * or lead,and ſuch other like,which have agentle and yeelding: ſtifneſs; yet would i have them made as light as may beleſt they by their weight become troubleſome to the affetted part. but, for their length breadth ind numberlet them be fitted agreeable to the part whereto they muſt be uſed.let alſo their figure be ſtreight or crooked according to the condition of the member whereto they muſtbe applyed. you muſt have a ſpeciall care, that they run not ſo far as the ſwellings out, or eminencies of the bones;as the ancles,knees,elbows, and the like, left they hurt them by their preſſure: * * * alſo you muſt have a care,that they be ſmaller at their ends,and thicker in their middles, whereas they * . iyeupon the broken bone.the uſe of ſplints is to holdfaſt and firm, that they may ſtir ho way the theiruſ, broken and luxated bones,after they be ſet and reſtored to their places. that they performe; this uſe, . . . . . it is fit therebc nothickboulſters under them,nor over many rowlers;for ſo through ſº thická ſpace. a they would not ſo ſtraitly preſſe the part. junks are made of ſticks thebigneſs of onesfinger;wrapped vvist. about with ruſhes,and then with linnen cloth: they are principally uſed. in fraćtures of the thighs junkº are: and legs.caſes are made of plates of latin, or elſe of ſome lightwood;their uſe is to contain the bones. the matter in their due figure, when the patient is to be carried out of one bed or chamber into another, or elſ; and uſe of hath need to go to ſtool:laſtly,if we muſt reſt ſomewhat moreſtrongly upon the broken or luxated “ members,theſe caſes will hinder the bones from º or flying out on the right ſide or left,above: orbelow.we ſleeping or waking,being willing or unwilling;and in like ſortleſtbeing riot as yet well . knit,or more . up for fear of pain, inflammation,or a gangrene they hang downe, fall, or gloſsomi. fly in ſunderby reaſon of the inequalities of the bed.such caſes, junks,and the like, which ſerve for umāgene. réſtoring and faſt holding of broken and luxated bones, we may,according to hippocrates his mind,call º them in generall gloſſoſomia. all whichthings,theyoung surgeon, which is not as yet exerciſed in i. the works of art,can ſcarce tell what they are.but in the mean time, whileſt that he may come to be exerciſed therein,or ſee others perform theſe operations,i, as plainly as poſſibly i could,ſlave in words given him their portraiture or ſhape. - - - - - - . . . . - - -- ~ * " . . . . . . . ; º - * - "...t. : , ; : . ." the end ºfthe fºurteenth books. - -----' ' sº of fract v r.e. s. the fifteenth. book. ... gº ********************************* º sº... . c h a p.i. jºhat a frailure is, and what the differences thereof are, ſº fraćture, in galens opinion, is the ſolution of continuity in a bone, which by the hib. * - Ž. greeks is called categma.there are many ſorts of hurting or offending the bonesias the * £º drawing them aſunder,luxation,or putting them out of joint; their unnaturall grow- n ingtogether,their cutting or dividing aſunder; contuſion,abſceſſe, putrefaëtion,rotten- *sº neſſe, laying bare the perioſteum being violated or loſt; and laſtly, that whereof we now treat,a fračure. again,the varieties of fraëtures are almoſt infinite.for one is complete and perfeół,another imperfe&;one runs long-wiſe,another tranſverſe,another oblique; one while it is broken into great pieces,another while into little and ſmall ſcales, which have either a blunt, or elſe a ſharp end,and prick the adjacent bodies of the muſcles, nerves, veins or arteries. it ſometimes hap- what it is pens,that the bone is not broken into ſplinters,that is, long-wayes, but together, and at once into for a bone two peeces overthwart, which fraćture is called raphanedon,that is,after the manner of a radiſh. to be bio- a fraćture is made caryedon,or like a nut, when as the bone flyes into many ſmall peeces, ſevered :*h - each from other,as when a nut is broken with a hammer, or mallet upon an anvile:which fraðure is wºc. alſo termed alphitidon,by reaſon of the reſemblance it hath to meal or flour; and ſuch is often ſeen in pedon,or fračures made by bullets,ſhot out of guns and ſuch fiery engins.contrary to theſe are thoſe fraćtures alphilidºn. which are called schidacidon,as rent into ſplinters,or after the manner of a boord or peece of timber, what schi. - - - :-------. - - at schiº that is, right-down,and alongſt the bone ; and theſe fraćtures are either apparent to the eye,or elſ: j not apparent,and therefore called capillarie,being ſo ſmall, as that they cannot be perceived by the - eye,unleſſe you put ink upon them,and then ſhave them with your scrapers. sometimes the bone is only preſſed down with the ſtroke,ſometimes in the contrary it flyes up, as if it were vaulted. they call it attrition, when the bone is broken into many ſmall fragments, and as it were ſcales or chips. . . the fragments of fraðured dones are ſometimes ſmooth and poliſhed, otherywhiles unequall, and as it concerning fračiures. - lib. . were ſharp and rough with little teeth,or pricks.some fraćtures touch only the ſurface of the bone, fetching off only a ſcale;otherſome change not the fite of fraćtured bones, but only cleaves them length-wayes,without the plucking away of any fragment; otherſome penetrate even to their mar- row. furthermore ſome fraćtures are ſimple and alone by themſelves; otherſome are accompanied with a troop of other affečts and ſymptomes;as a wound,hºmorrhagie, inflammation, gangrene, and the like.hereunto you may alſo adde the differences drawn from the parts which the fraćtures poſ. ſeſſe;as from the head, ribs, limbs.joints,and other members of the body:adde alſo theſe which are ta- ºn from the habit of bodies, aged, young,full of ill humors,well tempered; almoſt all which have the cauſes their proper and peculiar indications for curing. now the cauſes of fraćtures, are the too violent aſ- offailures, ſaults or ſtroaks of all externall things,which may cut,hruiſe,break, or ſhake.in this number of cauſes may alſo be reckoned fals from high places,and infinite other things, which would be long and tedi- ousto reckon up. - * , º, chap. ii., ofthe ſºn ºf a frailure. . . the firſt rºº § #e may know by evident figns that a bone is broken: the firſt whereof and moſt certain,is, fign of a § º when by handling the part which we ſuſpećt to the broken, we feel peeces of the bone ſeve- broken :- º red aſunder,and hear a certain crackling of theſe peeces under our hands, cauſed by the attri- bone. *t*"tion of the ſhattered bones. another ſign is taken from the impotency of the part, which *** chiefly bewayesit ſelf, when both the bones,the leg, and brace-bones, the ell and wandare broken. ahid, for if only thebrace-bone or wand be broken,the patient may go on his leg, and flir his arm: for the " brace-bone ſerves for the ſuſtaining of the muſtles,and not of the body,as the leg bone doth.the third º figh is drawn from the figure of the part changed beſides nature: for it is there hollow, from whence ***the bone is flown or gone,but gibbous or bunching out whither it is run. great pain in the interim “’ torments the patient by reaſon of the wronged perioſteum, and that membrane § involves the mar- row and the ſympathy of the adjacent parts which are compreſſed or pricked. - - --- - - chap. iii. ofprognoſtick to be made in fračiares. §§§ e muſt prognoſticate in fraëtures whether they are to end in the deſtruction or welfare of % % the patient;or whether their cure ſhall be long or ſhort,eaſie, or elſe difficult and dange- §van/º rous;and laſtly, what accidents & ſymptomes may happen thereupon.he ſhalleaſily attain §§ to the knowledg of all theſethings,who is not only well ſeen in the anatomicall deſcrip- **tion of the bones,but alſo in the temper,compoſition and complexion of the whole body. wº: wherefore in the firſt place, think good to admoniſh the surgeon of this, that in winter when all is jº, ſtiffe with cold,by a little fall.or ſome ſuch ſleight occaſion, the bones may be quickly and readily fromiewea, broken.for then the bones,being dried,by the dryneſs of the air encompaſſing us, become more brit- ther. tle;which every one of the vulgar uſually obſerve to happen both in waxen and tallow candles: but vvhy the when the ſeaſon is moiſt,the bones are alſo more moiſt, and therefore more flexible and yeelding to hº ºf the violence of the obvious and offending body. wherefore alſo you may gather this to the framin jatinuity of your prognoſticks, that bones by reaſon of their naturall drineſs are not ſo eaſily jºi in bones is and . as fleſh;though in children,according to galen,by reaſon of the abundance of their not ſo . humidity,the loſt ſubſtance may be repaired,according (as they term it) to the firſt intention, that is, Ž... by .# of the ſame kind of ſubſtance or matter. but in others, about the fraćtures a certain hard par. ſubſtance uſually concreats,of that nouriſhment of the broken bone which abounds, which glues to- gether the fragments thereof,being fitly put together. this ſubſtance is then termed a callus, and it is ſorhardcned in time,that the bone thereafter in the broken part is ſeen to be more firm and hard than it is in any other:therefore that uſuall ſaying in phyſick is not without reaſon; that reſt is neceſſary for the uniting of broken bones. for the callus is caſily diſſolved, if they be moved before their perfeót and ſolid agglutination. the matter of a callus ought to be indifferent and laudable in quan- wvhybone, tity and quality, even as blood which flowes for the regeneration of the loſt fleſh in wounds. it is fit, fooner knit that there alay be ſufficient matter for ſuch a cahu, that the part have a laudable temper, otherwiſe in young there either will be no callus,or certainly it will grow more ſlowly. fraćtures are far more eaſily re- bodies. aired in young bodies than in old:for in theſe there is plenty of the primigenious and radicallinoi- jº. is laudably holding and glutinous;and in the other there is . of watriſh and excremen- titious.by this you may eaſily conjcóture, that you cannot certainly ſet down a time neceſſary for the generating a callus:for in ſome it happens later,in ſome ſooner:the cauſe of which variety is alſo to be referred to the conſtitution of the year and region,the temper and dict of the patient, and man- ner of ligation.for thoſe patients whoſe powers are weak,and blood watriſh and thin, in theſe the - generation of a callus uſes to be more ſlow:on the contrary, ſtrong powers haſten to agglutinate the meas of, bones,if there be º of groſſe and viſcous matter;whereby it comes to º: that meats of groſſer ***... nutriment are to be uſed,and medicins applyed which may helpforwards the endeavour of nature, as tough nour pply y - - - ...” we ſhall declare hereafter. when the bones are broken near unto the joints, the motion afterwards conduce to uſes to be more difficult,eſpecially if the callu, which is ſubſtituted, be ſomewhat thick and bunching the genera- forth.but if together with the yiolence and force of the fraćture,the joints ſhall be broken and brui- *** ſed,the motion will not only be loſt,but the life brought in danger, by reaſon of the greatneſs of the * inflammation,which uſually happens in ſuch affects, and the exceſſ of pain in a tendinous body. *** theſe fraćtures wherein both the bones of the arm or leg are broken, are more difficult to cure, than :* thoſe which happen but to one of them. for they are handled and kept in their places with º *. - culty, =––––––– ==== ** –- - - lib. . concerning fradiures. . - moreover,there is longer time required to ſubſtitute a callus to a great bone,than to a little one. again hippſtä. theſe bones which are more rare and ſpungie,are ſooner glucd together by the in terpoſition of a cal- :cŞ. . lus,than theſe which are denſe and ſolid. a callu, ſooner growes in ſanguin,than in cholerick bodies. #: fººtbroken bones cannot be ſo happily agglutinated,nor reſtored in any body,but that alwayes ſome” ..ſperity or unequall protuberancy may be ſeen on that part where the callu, is generated. wherefore the surgeon ought to make artificiall ligations, that the callu may not ſtand out too far, nor ſink down too low.that fraćture is leaſt troubleſome which is ſimple;on the contrary,that is more trou- ligations bleſome which is made into ſplinters;but that is noſt troubleſome and worſt of āſī which is in ſmall conduce to and ſharp fragments,becauſe there is dangerofconvulſion by pricking a nerve,or the perioſteum. some he hand. times the fragments of a broken bone keep themſelves in their due place:they alſo oft-times fly forth ſºmnes of: thereof,ſo that one of them gets above another;which when it happens,you may perceive an inequali- callus. ty by the depreſſion of the one part and the bunching forth of the other, as alſo pain by the pricking: #: alſo the member is made ſhorter than it was,and than the ſound member on the oppoſiteſide is,and more ſwoln by the contraćtion of the nuſcles towards their originall.wherefore when a bone is broken,ifyou perceive any thing ſo depreſſed preſently putting your handon both fides above and ſ! below, ſtretch forth the bone as forcibly as you can ; for otherwiſe, the muſcles and nerves, ſtretched º;º and contračted,will never of their own accord ſuffer the bones to be reſtored to their proper ſeat and madéºfºr themſelves.this extenſion muſt be performed in the firſt dayes, for afterwards there will happenin- he bone is flammation:which being preſent,it is dangerous to draw the nerves and tendons too violently; for broken. hence would enſue an impoſtume, convulſion,gangrene and mortification. therefore hippocrates for- bids you to defer ſuch extenſion untill the third, or fourth day; fraćtures are thought dangerous, .ſ.º. whoſe fragments are great,and fly out,eſpecially in theſe bones which are filled with marrow on the ; #&#. inſide.when broken or diſlocated bones cannot bereſtored to themſelves and their naturall lace, the .áe.fráčf. part waſts for want of nouriſhment;both for that the naturall ſite of the veins, arteries º nerves is rverted,as alſo becauſe the part it ſelflies immovable, or ſcarce movable: whereby it concth to in inflam- paſſe,that the ſpirits do not freely flow thereto,as neither the nutritive juice cometh thither in ſuf. ſºns ficient plenty.when the diſlocated or broken member is troubled with any great inflammation, it is refloring of doubtfull whether or no a convulſion will happen, if we attempt to reſtore it,or the parts thereofto the bone. their ſeat:therefore it is better,it it may be done,to defer the º, thereofſo long, untill the hu. "..." ...; mor which poſſeſſes the part be diſſolved,the tumor abated, and the bitterneſs of pain mitigated. attempte ficulty, becauſe that which remains whole, ſerves the other for a reſt or ſtay to which it may lean. , - extention chap. iv. the giral cure of broken and diſºned bones. i. -* . j -- ** . . - i. ºocure abroken and diſlocated bone,istoreſtore it to itsformer figure and ſite. for the per: º º formance whereofthe surgeon muſt propoſe three things to himſelf: the firſt is, to jº . to be º § the bone to its place: the ſecond is,that he contain or ſtay it being ſo reſtored: the third º: * is,that he hinder the increaſe of malign ſymptomes and accidents; or elſe if they do happen, ºuringbrº that then hetemper and corre& their preſent malignity.such accidents are pain, inflammation, a ſea-ken and diſ. ver,abſceſſe gangrene and ſphacell. for the firſt intention,you may eaſily reſtore a broken ordiſlocated . bone,ifpreſently,as ſoon as the miſchance is got or elſe the ſame day, you eudeavour to reſtore it:for * the bitterneſs .pain or inflammation, which may trouble the patient, is not as yet very great, nei- ther is the contračtion of the muſcles upwards as yet very much or ſtubborn. therefore firſt of all, the patient with his whole bodybut eſpecially with the broken or diſlocated part,as alſo the surgeon, how to be muſt be in ſome place which hath good and ſtificient light.then let truſty and skilfull attendants be ... there, good ligatures,and alſo,if need ſo require, good engins.his friends which are preſent, let them their places. £ce and hold their peace,neither ſay,nor do anything which may hinder the work of the surgeon. - then putting one . above,that is,towards the center of the body, and the other below, as neer as he can to the part affe&ted,lethin ſtretch forth the member: for if you lay your hand any diſtance from the part affečted,you will hurt the ſound part by too much compreſſion, neither will you much avail your ſelf by ſtretching it at ſuch a diſtance. but if you only endeavour below with your hippſºnſ: band or ligature aſſiſting to make extenſion thereof, it will be dangerous if there be nothing §: ſeat. .de which may withſtand or hold,left that you draw the wholebody to you.this being done, according faë. as hhave delivered,it is fit the surgeon make a right or ſtreight extcnfion of the part affeited:for when the bone is either broken or out of joint, there is a contraćtion of the muſcles towards their origi- nall,and conſequently of the bones by them,as it is obſerved by galen. wherefore it is impoſſible to aaſai.i. reſtore the bones to their former ſeat,without the extenſion of the muſcles.but the part being thus ex-ſºde tended,the broken bones will ſooner and more eaſily be reſtored to their former ſeat.which being re-fań. forcd.you ſhall preſently with your hand preſſe it down,if there be any thing that bunches or ſtands out. and laſtly you ſhall bind it up,by applying boulſters and ſplints as ſhall be fit. but if the bone be diſlocated or forth of joint,then preſently after the extenſion thereof, it will be requiſite to bend it ſomewhat about,and ſo to draw it in.the surgeon is ſometimes forced to uſe engins for this work, whenia: eſpecially if the luxation be inveterate, if the broken or luxated bones be great; and that in ſtrong firements or and ruſtickbodies,and ſuch as have large joints:for that then there is need of greater ſtrength, than is ºngº in the hand of the surgeon alone. forby how much the muſcles ofthe patient are the ſtronger, by ſo *** much will they be contra&ed more powerfully upwards towards their originals.yit have a care that you extend them not . by rending and breaking aſunder the muſcles and nerves, you cauſe the forementioned ſymptomes,pain,convulſion,a parſie and gangrene : all which ſooner happen to ſtrong and aged bodies,than to children,eunuches, women,youths,and generally all moiſt tº: - * r * i i - - - for concerning fraſiurer. lib what bo. for that they are leſs hurt by violent extenſion and pulling, by reaſon of their native and much hu- . º midity and ſoftneſs.for thus skins of leather, moiſtened with any liquor,are eaſily retched,and drawn tº: out as one pleaſeth:but ſuch as are dry and hard,being leſſe tračtable, will ſooner rend and tear, than extenſion, ſtretch further out.therefore the surgeon ſhall uſe a mean in extending and drawing forth of mem- signs of a bers,as ſhall bemoſt agreeable to the habits of the bodies.you may know the bone is ſet, and the ſet- *** well ting performed as is fit,if the pain be aſſwaged;to wit,the fibres of the muſcles,and the other parts be- frt. ing reſtored to their former ſite,and all compreſſion, which the bones moved out of their placcs have made,being taken away;if to your feeling there be nothingbunching out,nor rugged, but the ſurface of the member remain ſmooth and equall; and laſtly, if the broken or diſlocated member comparcs with its oppoſite in the compoſure of the joints, as the knces and ancles anſwer juſtly and equally in length and thickneſs.for which purpoſe it muſt not ſuffice the surgeon to view it once, but even as cauſe, and often as he ſhall dreſſe it. for it may happen,that the bone which is well ſet, may by ſome chance, as *gns ofthe by the patients unconſiderate turning himſelf in his bed,or as it were a convulſive, twitching of the . ** member or joints whilſt he ſleeps,the muſcles of their own accord contraćting themſelves towards rt bone. - - - - - - - - - - - their originals,that the member may again fall out;and it will give manifeſt ſigns thereof by renew- ; the pain,by preſſing or pricking the adjacent bodies : which pain will not ceaſe, before it be reſto- red to its place:and hereof the surgeon ought to have diligent care.for if whilſt the callus is in grow- ing, one bone ride over another,the bone it ſelf will afterwards be ſo much the ſhorter, and conſe- quently the whole member;ſo that if this errour ſhall happen in a broken leg, the patient will halt ever after,to his great grief,and the surgeons ſhame.wherefore the patient ſhall take heed, as much as in him lyes,that he ſtir not the broken member, before that the callus be hardned. such diligent care needs not be had in diſlocations. for theſe once ſet, and artificially bound up, do not afterwards ſo eaſily fall forth as broken bones. the ſecond ſcope is, that the bones wich ſhall be reſtored may be firmly kept in their ſtate and place. that ſhall be done by bandages; as ligatures, boulſters, and other things,whereof hereafter we ſhall make particular mention. hither tend proper and fit medicins, to wit,applying of oil of roſes with the whites of egs,and the like repelling things; and then reſolving medicins,as the preſent neceſſity ſhall require.it will be convenient,to moiſten your rowlers & boul- ſters in oxycrate for this purpoſe,or elſe in roſe vinegar,if the fraćture be finiple, or with red wine, ad ſent, or the like liquor warm (in galens opinion)ifa wound be joined to the fraćture; and it will be fit to *ſºhi de moiſten fraćtures oftner in summer:for ſo the part is ſtrengthened, the defluxion being repelled, frađ. whereby the inflammation and pain are hindred. you muſt defiſt from humcéting and watering the art when the ſymptomes are paſt, left you retard the generating of a callus ; for which you muſt la- É. by theſe means which we ſhall hereafter declare. to this purpoſe alſo conduces the reſt and ly- ing of the part in its proper figure and fite accuſtomed in health, that ſo it may the longer remain in the ſame place unſtirred.beſides alſo it is expedient then only to dreſſe the part, when it is needfull, vwhat the and with thoſe things that are requiſiteſhunning,as much as may be, inflammation and pain. that º figure is thought the beſt, which is the middle,that is,which contains the muſcles in their ſite, which gurei, and is without pain;ſo that the patient may long endure it without labour or trouble. all theſe things why befl. being performed,the patient muſt be asked,whether the member be bound up too ſtrait? if he anſwer, fit timef no, (unleſſe peradventure a little upon the fraćture or luxation, for there it is fit it ſhould be more i j" ſtraitly bound) then may you know that the binding is moderate. and this ſame firſt ligation is to i., be kept in fraćtures without looſing for three or four º: ſpace, unleſſeperadventure pain urge you infratures to the contrary.in diſlocations the ſame binding may be kept for ſeven or eight dayes, unleſs by chance and diſlo. “ſome ſymptomemay happen, which may force us to open it before that time:for the surgeon muſt with * all his art have a care to prohibit the happening of evillaccidents and ſymptomes,which,how he may bring to paſſe,ſhall be declared in the following chapter. chap. v. by what means you may perform the third intention in curing fraîures and diſlotations, \ . which is, the bindring and corrtäion of accidents and ſymptomes. fººlhat we may attain unto this third ſcope, it is requiſite we handle as gently and without four choice f - § i. *... " § pain;as we may,the broken or diſlocated member, we drive away the defluxion ready to . . “ºil ºf ll down upon the part by medicins,repelling the humor;and ſtrengthening the part;we, º §by appointing a good diet.hinder the begetting of excrements in the body, and divert the cauſes * .. y purging and phlebotomy. but if theſe accidents be already preſent, we muſt cure and diffe: them according to the .#and nature of each of them:for they are various.amongſt which is recko- . * neditching,which in the beginning torments the patient: this ariſeth from a colle&tion and ſuppreſ- “"* fion of ſubăcrid vapours,aring from the blood, and other humors under the skin. whence a light adºm.a. biting which cauſeth a finiple itch, or elſe amore grievous and acrid one from whence (in galens opi- ſå.i.d." nion)proceeds a painfull itching.wherefore ſuch matter,as the cauſe,being evacuated, all itching cea- faff, ſeth.but this cannot eaſily and freely be evacuated and breathed out, becauſe the pores of the part are ſhut up,and as it were oppreſſed with the burden of the emplaiſters boulſters, and ligatures, which are put about the part. hereuntomaybe added, that the part its ſelf doth not ſo perfeótly perform and remedies enjoy its wonted faculties and ačtions:by which it commeth to paſſe, that the heat thereof is more againſt the languid than may ſuffice to diſcuſſe the fuliginous matter there collečted. wherefore it will be con- iºning, venient to looſe the ligatures every third day,that as by looſing their tycs, their ſanious and fuligi- > nous excrements,ſhut up under the skin, may freely paſſe forth, leſtin continuance they ſhould fret and ulcerate it;as it happenste moſt of thoſe who provide not for it by looſing their ligatures. beſides al- ſo,the part muſt belong fomented with hot water alone, r clfe with a deco&tion of agº: - - to &se . lin . - concerning fraîures. - . roſes,and melilot made in wine and water : for long fomenting attenuates and evacuates, but ſhorter fils and mollifies,as it is delivered º hippocrates. alſo gentle frićtions, performed with your hand, or awarm linnen cloth upwards, to the right fide and left, and circularly to every ſide, are good. but if the skin be already riſen into bliſters,they muſt be cut, left the matter contained thereunder may cor- ...dulcerate the skin:then muſt the skin be anointed with ſome cooling and drying medicin; as,ung.album c.amphoratum rhaſis.teſiccativum rubrum, unguentum roſatum fine aceto;adding thereto the pow- hippſºnſ. ...ttºn poſt,or prepared tatia,or the like other accidents more grievous than theſe, do often fºſſ." happen,but we will trea: of them hereafter.but if the ſcales of the bone underneath be quite ſevered from the whole,then muſt they be preſently taken forth,eſpecially if they prick the muſcles:but if the bonebe broken into ſplinters,and ſo prominent out of the wounded fleſh as that it cannot be reſto- ...into its ſeat,it muſt be cut off with your cutting mallets, or parrats beak, as occaſion ſhall offer its ſºlfin the interim you muſt have a care that the part cºoy perſpiration, and by change of place ..ijing now and then it may beas it wereventilated ; alſo yo; muſt ſee that it be not over-burde- ned, neither too ſtrait bound, otherwiſe it will be apt to inflammation. thus much concerning fºures and diſlocations in generall: now we muſt deſcend to particulars, beginning with the fra- &ure of the noſe. l— cha p. vi. of the frađure of the noſe. ºhe noſe is griſly in its lower part,but bony in the upper. wherefore it ſuffers no fraćture hippſw. tº in the griſtly part(unleſsperadventure a sedes)but only a depreſſion,diſtortion or contuſ- ſº. % §on.but afračure oftenhappens to the bony part,and ſo great a depreſſion to the innerſide, “” tº that unleſs it be provided for by diligent reſtoring it, the noſe will become flat, or wre- -- #i fled aſide whence there will be difficulty of breathing. that this kind of fraćture may be º: * reflored,thatbone which ſtands too far out, muſt be preſſed down; but that which is depreſt, muſt be noſe into . lifted ap with a ſpathernor little ſtick handſomely faſhioned and wrapped about with cotten or a its natura" linnenrag,ſo to avoid pain. therefore you ſhall hold the ſpathern in one hand, and reduce and or-º" jº the other.the bone being reſtored, dire&ories or tents of a convenient bigneſs ſhall be put into the noſe,which tenºs ſhall be made of ſpunge, or flax, or a perce of abeaſts or ſheeps lungs. for theſe things are ſoft,and do not only hinder the bones of the noſe that they fall no more, but iſ, jiàºhºmºp higher. and then the noſe ſhallbeinfomeſort ſtayed with boulſtºrs on each fide; even untill the perfeſt agglutination of the bones,leſt the figure and ſtraitneſs ſhould be vitiated and fpoiled. i have ofttimes put golden,filver and leaden pipes into fraćtured noſes, and faſtned them ºith a thred to the patients night-cap, which, by one and the ſame means, kept the bones from be- ing again depreſt.gave thematter free paſſage forth,and nothing hindred the breathing. in the mean time we muſt ſee that wedo not preſſe the noſe with too ſtrait binding, unleſſe peradventure ſome o- ther thing perſwade-left they become either too wide,too flat,or crooked. if any wound accompany thefracture,that ſhall be cured after the ſame manner,as the wounds of the head. the fraćture reſtored, the following medicin, which hath a faculty to repel and repreſſe the defluxion, to ſtrengthen and keep the part in its due poſture,and to dry up and waſ the matter which hath already fallen down, ſhall - * be applyed to the noſtandall the other dry parts, ºthuri, ºftheºliºmenia, ſançºini, draconi, ºn- an. alumini, rockereſne piniºn: i. fulveriſentur ſubtiliſime : or clſe, r farine volutili, . albuminum § :e- avorum quantum ſufficit,incorporentur ſimul, -fiat medicamentum. . . . . . . i. - neither ſhall you uſe any other art to cure the cartilagineous part of the noſe being fratured. sent: ,ſº wherefore hippocratsºerges that ſolution of continuity that there happens, afraćture, as if it were . de * inabone;becauſe he could find no other name more fitly to expreſſe it:for a griſtle, next to a bone,is ºakimº"; the hardeſt of all the parts of our body. a callu uſes to grow in fraćtured noſes, unleſſe ſomething hinder within the ſpace of twelve or fifteen dayes. --- - - º chap. vii. ofthefrailure of the lower jaw. - - º ºhe lower jaw runnes into two,as it were,horns or tops: the one whereof ends ſharp, and a deſcripti- receives a tendon from the tempo rall muſcle ; the other ends blunt and round under . of the the mammillary proceſs,and it is there implanted in a ſmall cavity;it is joined together in #..." # the middle of the chin by symphyſis, and is marrowie within.the fraćture,which happens nerofleho. thereto,is reſtored by putting your fingers into the patients mouth, and preſſing them on the infide; ºr and outſide,that ſo the fraćtured bones put together may be finoºked ić . .# *: . ken jaw. ken wholly athwart,ſo that the bones lye over each other, extenſion muſt be made on both ſides on contrary parts,upwards and downwards, whereby the bones may be compoſed and joined more ea- fily to one another. the teethin the mean while, if they be either ſhaken or removed out of their ſockets,muſtbe reſtored to their former places, and tyed with a gold or filver wyer, or elſe an rdinar thred, to the next firm teeth, untill ſuch time as they ſhall be faſtened,and the bones perfºr- - ly knit by a gallus. to which purpoſed the ordered fragments of the fraćtured boneſhall be ſtayed, by the ge. putting a ſplinton the outſide made of ſuch leather as ſhoe ſoals are made ; the midſt thereof being ;: of divided at the chinand of ſuch length and breadth as may ſerve the jaw : then you ſhall make liga afts. tion with a ligature two fingers broad, and of ſuch length as ſhall be difficient, divided at both theº.º." ends;and cut ſongwayes in the midſt ther of that ſo it may engirt the chin on both fides. then there der jaws will be four heads.of ſuch a ligature ſo divided at the ends;the two lower whereof being brought to the crown of the head,ſhall be there faſtned and ſowed to the patients night-cap, the two upper - concerning fračurres. lin . ! drawn athwartſhall likewiſe be ſowed as artificially as may be,to the cap in the nape of the neck. it is a moſt certain ſign,that the jaw is reſtored and well ſet,if the teeth faſtened therein ſtand in their due rank and order. the patient ſhall not lye down upon his broken jaw, leſt the fragments of the bones ſhould a- gain fal out,and cauſe a greater defluxion.unleſſe inflammation, or ſome other grievous ſymptome ſhall happen,it is ſtrengthened with a calluſ within twenty dayes;for that it is ſpungious,hollow, and full of tºº" ... marrow,eſpecially in the midſt thereof:yet ſometimes, it heals more ſlowly, according as the temper of ...” the patient is, which takes alſo place in other fraćtured bones. the agglutinating and repelling medi- cin,deſcribed in the former chapter,ſhall be uſed;as alſo others, as occaſion ſhall offer itſelf. thepatient muſt be fed with liquid meats, which ſtand not in need of chewing, untill ſuch time as the callus ſhall row hard, leſt the ſcarce or ill-jointed fragments ſhould fly in ſunder with the labour of chewing. herefore ſhall he be nouriſhed with water-grewell, ponadoes, cullaſſes, barley creams, gellies, broths, rear egs, reſtaurative liquors,and other things of the like nature. chap. viii. of the fračiure of the clavicle or collar-bone. ºppſºnſ, º s the nature and kind of the fra&ured clavicleſhall be, ſo muſt the cure and reſtoring thereof :* . ^)/\@s be performed. but howſoever this bone ſhall be broken,alwayes the end faſtned to the ſhoulder £ f. - and ſhoulderblade,is lower than that which is joined to the cheſt for that the arm drawes it downwards.the collar-bone,if broken athwart, is more eaſily reſtored and healed, than if it be cloven long-wayes. for, everybone broken athwart doth more eaſily return into its former ſtate or ſeat, whiles you liſt it upon this or that ſide with yourfingers.but that which is broken ſchidacidon, or into ſplinters,or long-wayes,is more difficultly joined and united to the ends and fragments: for thoſe how to re. perces which were ſet,will be pluckedaſunder,even by the leaſt motion ofthe arms; and that which was njº" knit with the ſhoulder,will fall downto the lower part ofthe breaſt. the reaſon of which is, the collar- fratured bone is not moved of its ſelf.hut conſents in motion with the arm.in reſtoring this or any other fračure, sºlº you muſt have a care that the bones ride not one over another, neither be drawn nor depart too farrein zsº vºs º: * funder:therefore it will be here convenient,that one ſervant draw the arm backwards, and another pull y. the ſhoulder towards him the contrary way,for ſothere willbe made,as i may ſo termit, a counter-ex- tenſion.while which is in doing,the surgeon with his fingers ſhall reſtore the fraëture, preſſing down the ſecond that which ſtood up too high, and lifting up that which ispreſſed down too low. some, that they may way. “more eaſily reſtore this kind of fraðure,putaclew of yarn under the patients arm-pit; ſo to fill up the cavity thereofthen they forcibly preſſe the elbow to the ribs,and then force the bone into its former ſeat. the third but if it happen,that the ends ofthe broken bones ſhall be ſo depreſethat they cannotbedrawn upwards by the forementioned meansithen muſt the patient be laid with his back, juſt between the ſhoulders, upon a pillow hardſtuffed,or a tray turned with the bottome upwards, and covered with a rug or ſome ſuch thing. then the ſervantſhallſö long preſſe down the patients ſhoulders with his hands, untill the ends of the bones,lyinghid and preſſed down, fly out and ſhow themſelves. which beingdone, the sur- geon may eaſily refore or ſet the fraćtured bone. but if the bone be broken ſo into ſplinters that it can- not be reſtored,and any of the ſplinters prick and wound the fleſh, and ſocauſe difficuty of breathing, you then muſt cut the skin even againſt them;and with your inſtrument liftup all the depreſſed ſplinters, and cut off their ſharp points;ſo to prevent all deadly accidents, which thereupon may be feared. if there be any fragments,they after they are ſet, ſhall be covered with a knitting medicin made of wheat floure, frankincenſe,bole armenick,ſangni, draconi, reſinapini,made into powder, and mixed with the whites of egº,putting upon it ſplints,covered with ſoft, worn linnen rags; covered over likewiſe with the ſame how to medicin,and then three boulſters dipped in the ſame two whereof ſhall be led on the fides, but the bind up the third and thickeſt upon the #. fraćture,ſo to repreſſe it and hold it in. for thus the fragments ñº. ſhall not be able to ſtir or lift themſelves up further than they ſhould, either to theright ſide or left.now clavicle, theſe boulſters muſt be of a convenient thickneſs and breadth, ſufficient to fill up the cavities which are above and below that bone. then ſhall you make fit ligation with a rowler, having a double head caſt croſſe-wiſe,ofa handsbreadth,and ſome two ells and a half long,more or leſs, according to the patients body.now he ſhall beſorowled up,as it may draw his arme ſomewhat backwards, and in the interim his armpitsſhall be filled with boulſters,eſpecially that next the broken bone for ſo the patient may more na, dia, eaſily ſuffer the binding. alſo you ſhall wiſhthe patient,that he of himſelf bend his arm backwards,and cuſtº ſet his hand upon his hip,as the country clownes uſe to do,when they play at leap-frog. but how great perſealy to diligence ſoever you uſe in curing this ſort of fraćture, yet can it ſcarce be ſo performed, but that there *** will ſome deformity remain in the part:for that a ligature cannot be rowled about the collar-bone,as it way. *::: may about a leg or an arms. a calluroſt-times growes on thisbone,within the ſpace of twenty dayes, becauſe it is rare and ſpongious. - chap. ix. of the frađure of the ſhoulder-blade. an amato- §he greeks call that omoplata, which the latines terme scºpula, or scapule patella,that is, the micall de - r. ſhoulder-blade.it is faſtned on the back to the ribs,nowle, the pertebra of the cheſt and neck; ſcription of . § the ſhoul- ſº dº, &§§ but not by articulation,but only by the interpoſition of muſcles, of which we have ſpoken in our anatomie. but on the forepartitis articulated after the manner of other bones with tº the collar-bone,the ſhoulder, or arm-bone:for with its proceſſe, which repreſents a prick or thorn,andby ſome, for that it is more long and prominent,is called aeromion;(that is asyou would ſay, the top or ſpireofthe ſaid ſhoulder-bladej it receives the collar-bone. therefore ſome anatomiſts, ac- cording to hippocrater,as they ſuppoſe,call all this articulation ofthecollar-bone with the hollowed ; - celle l ib, . concerning fračiures. \ ceſsofthe ſhoulder-blade, aeromion. there is another proceſs of the ſaidblade-bone, called cervix e- moplate,or the neck of the ſhoulder-blade; this truly is very ſhort,but ending in a broad infinuated head provided for the receiving of the ſhoulder or arm bone. not far from this proceſs is another,called co. ...ides, for that the end thereof is crooked likea crows beak. this keeps the ſhoulderbone inits place, and conducesto the ſtrength of that part. the ſhoulder blade may befraćtured in any part thereof, that how many is, either on the ridge, which runs like a hill, alongſt the midſt thereof for its ſafety, as we ſee in the ver-wayes the mºre of the back. so alſo in the broader part thereof it may bethruſtin and depreſt; and alſo in that ar- ſhoulder ticulation, whereby the top ofthe ſhoulder is knit to it. according to this variety of theſe fraðured parts, *... the happening accidents are more grievous or gentle. w - we know the ſpine or ridge of the ſhoulder-blade to be broken, when a dolorificke inequality is per- ceived by touching or feeling it. but you may know, that the broader or thinner part thereof is de- preſſed, ifyou feeſacavity, and a pricking paine moleſ the part, and if a numneſſetrouble the arme, be- ing ſtretched forth. the fragments, if they yet flick to their bones and do not prick the fleſh, muſt be the cure. refloredto their ſtate and place, and there kept with agglutinative medicines, and ſuch as generate a - giul, as alſo with boulſters and rowlersfitted to the place. but if they do not adhere to the bone, or pricke the fleſh lying under them, then muſt you make inciſion in the fleſh over againſt them, that ſo you imay take them out with your crows beak. but although they ſtir up and down, yet if they flill adhere to the perieſteum and ligaments, ( if ſo be that they trouble not the muſcles by pricking them) then muſt they not be taken forth : for i have oftner than once obſerved, that they have within ſome ſhort time after grown to the adjacentbones. but if they being wholly ſeparated, do not ſo much as adhere to the periffeum,then muſt they neceſſarily be plucked away;otherwiſe within ſome ſhort ſpace aſter,they willbédriven forth by the ſtrength of nature, for that they participate not any more in life with the whole. for that which is quick, ſaith hippoºrºº uſes to expell that which is dead far from it. the lib.de vul. ºuth whereof was manifeſted in the marques of willar, who at the battell of dreux was wounded in capiti. his ſhoulder with a piſtoll bullet, certainſplinters of the broken bone were plucked forth with the pieces * hiſtory. of his harneffe, and of the leadenbullet and within ſome ſhort ſpace after, the wound was cicatrized, andfully and perſe&lyhealed. but more than ſºven years after, a defluxion and inflammation ariſingins. that place by reaſon of his labourin arms, and the heavineſs of his armour at the battell of mont-contour, . of • the woundbroke open again; ſo thatmany ſhivers of thebone, with the reſidue of the leaden bullet. came forth of themſelves. but if the frature ſhall happen in the neck of the ſhoulder-blade ordearticu. itſelf way lation of the ſhoulder, there isſcarce anyhope ofrecovery; as i have obſerved in anthony of burton, king to caſſorſh of navarre; francis of lorrain, duke of guiſei, the count rhingrave philibert, and many other in theft ºngºº latecivil wars. for there are many large veſſels about this dearticulation,to wit, the axillary veinand . artery,thenerves arifing from the vertebre of the neck,which are thencediſſeminated into all the muſcles wi. ſſ. of the arm. beſides, alſo inflammation and putrefaëion ariſing there are eaſily communicated by reaſon duré in the oftheir neighbourhood to theheart and other principal parts,whence grievous ſymptoms,and oft-times jºinºfºº - ihoulder is death it ſelfe enſues. deadly, - _ chap. x. of the fračiure and depreſſion of the sternon, or breaſt-bone. s he sternum is ſometimes broken, other whilesonely thruſt in without a fraúture. the inequa-signs that lity perceivable by your feeling, ſhewes a fraćture, as alſo the going in with a thruſt with your hºſternum finger, and the ſound or noiſe of the bones cracklingunder yourfingers. buta manifeſt cavity ºn . in the part, a cough,ſpitting ofblond,and difficulty of breathingby compreſſion of the mem- #. brane inveſting theribs and the lungs, argue the depreſſion thereof. for the reſtoring of this bone,whe-hº º: • ther broken or depreſt,the patientmuſt be laid on his back with a cuſhion ſtuffed with tow or hay under the vertebre of the back, as we ſet down in the ſetting of the collarbone.then a ſervant ſhall lie ſtrongly with both his hands on his ſhoulders, as if he would preſs them down, whileſt the surgeon, in the mean time preſſing the ribs oneach fide, ſhall reſtore and ſet the bone with his hand; and then the formerly deſcribed medicines ſhall be applyed for to hinder inflammation, and aſſwage pain; boulſters ſhall be fitted thereto, and aligature ſhall be made croſſewayes above the ſhoulders, but that not too ſtrait, left it hinder the patients breathing. i by theſe means, at the appointment of anthony of burban king of wa-ahiſtory, war, cured anthony benanda knight of the order, who had his breaſt-plate bended and drivenin, with an iron bullet ſhot out of a field-peece,as alſo his ſternum together therewith, and he fell down as dead with theblow; he did ſpit bloud for three months after i had ſet the bone; yet for all this helives at this day in perfe&health. chap. xi, ofileñadure filerii. *she true ribs, for that they are bony, may be broken in any part of them. but the baſtard ribs. in what ſºlº cannot be truly broken unleſſe at the back bone, becauſe they are only bony in that part, but place the ºf griſtly on the foreſide toward the breaſtbone;wherefore there they can only be folded or croo-ſhoº” *ked in.theſe which are ſubje&to fraðures, may be broken inwards and outwards.but oft-times . itcomes to paſs,that they are not abſolutely broken,but cleft into ſplinters,and that ſometimes inwards, - but not outwards. thus the fiſſure doth oft-times not exceed the middle ſubſtance of the rib, but ſome- times it ſo breaks through it all, that the fragments and ſplinters do prick and wound the membrane, which inveſts and lines them on the infide, and then there is great danger. but when the frature is ſim- ple without a wound, compreſſion, punčture of the membrane, and laſtly, without any other ſymptome; then the danger is leſſe. therefore hippocrater wiſheth, that theſe, who are thus affe&ed,fill themſelves - tº ore - concerning fraţiures. lib. . sº. more freely with meat; for that moderate repletion of thebelly, is (as it were) a certain propor ſtay for ſtä. . de the ribs, keeping them well in their place and ſtate; which rule chiefly takes place in fraćtures of the ba- ff. ſtard ribs. for ſuch as have them broken, uſually feel themſelves better after, than before meat. for em- vwhy an ptineſs of meat,or of the ſtomach, makes a ſuſpenſion of the tibs, as not underproppedby the meat. now intº... that frature which is cutwardly,is far more eaſie to heal,than that which is inwardly;for that this prick- dure ofthe eth the membrane or pleura, and cauſeth inflammation, which may eaſily end in an empyema. adde here- ribs is unto, that this is not ſo eaſily to be handled ordealt withall, as the other: whereby it commeth to paſs, ** that it cannot be ſo eaſily reſtored; for that theſe things cannot be ſo fully and freely performed in this kinde of fraðure, which are neceſſary to the ſetting of the bone, as to draw it cut, hold it and join it the ſignes, together. it is therefore healed within twenty dayes, if nothing elſe hinder. the ſigns of fraćtured ribs are not obſcure; for by feeling the grieved part with yeur fingers, you may eaſily perceive the frattureby the inequality of the bones, and their noiſe or crackling, eſpecially if they be quite broke aſunder. but if a ribbe broken on the inſide, a pricking pain, far more grievous then in a pluriſt,troubles the patient; becauſe the ſharpe ſplinters prick the coſtall membrane: whence great difficulty in breathing, a cough, the cauſe and ſpitting of bloud enſue. for bloud, flowing from the veſſels broken by the violence of the thing cau- fſpitting fing the fraćture, is (as it were) ſucked up by the lungs,and ſo by a dry cough carryed into the weazond, ... and at length ſpit out of the mouth. some, to pullup the bone that is quite broken and depreſt, ap- º: “ ply a cupping glaſſe, and that is ill done; for there is cauſed greater attraćtion of humours, and exceſs of pain by the preſſure and contraćtion of the adjacent parts, by the cupping glaſs, wherefore hippocrater stat. ; ſº, alſo forbids it. therefore it is better to endeavour to reſtore it after this following manner. let the deart. patient lye upon his ſound fide, and lettherebelaid upon the fraćtured ſide an emplaiſter made of tur- paulus | pentine, rofin, black pitch, wheat flour, maſtick, and aloes, and ſpread upon a ſtrong and new cloth. *::::: when it hath ſtuck there ſome time,then pluckitſuddenly with great violence from below upwards; for tij ſo the rib willfollow together therewith, and be plucked and drawn upwards. it is not ſufficient to have done this once, but you muſt do it often, untill ſuch time as the patient ſhall finde himſelfe better, and to breath more eaſily. there will be much more hope of reſtitution, if, whileſt the surgeon do this dili- gently, the patient forbeare coughing, and hold his breath. otherwiſe if neceſſity urge,as if ſharp ſplin- ters with moſt bitter tormenting pain prick the coſtall membraneoverſpread with many nerves, veins, and arteries, which run under ;: ribs, whence difficulty ofbreathing, ſpitting efbloud,a cough and fe- ver enſue; then the only way to deliver the patient from danger of imminent death, is to make inciſion on the part where the rib is broken, that ſo laying it bare, you may diſcern the pricking fragments, and take them out with your inſtrument, or elſe cut them off. andifyou make a great woundby inciſion,then ſhall you ſew it up, and cure it according to the common rules of ºuring wounds. now diet,phlebotomy, º : and purgation, which (as hippºcrete, ſaith)are not very needfull in a ſimple fraćture, for that there are ...” no ſymptomes which may require ſuch remedies; yet they by reaſon of the complicated ſymptomes, as a only by convulſion, feaver, empyema, and the like, muſt here be preſcribed by the advice of the phyſician which or " surgery, verſees the cure. a cerate, and other remedies fitting the occaſion, ſhall be applyed to the grieved part: no other ligatures can be uſed, than ſuch as are fit to hold faſt and ſtay the locall medicins. there is no other rule of ſite and lying, than ſuch as is taken from the will and content of the patient. _ chap. xii. of certain preternaturall affè, which enſue upon broken ribſ. *any ſymptomes enſue upon fraćtured and contuſed ribs;but amongſt the reſt,there are two which |na|} are not common, whereof we will treat in this place. the firſt is, the inflation, or riſing up of aſ the contuſed fleſh, which alſo enſues upon light affe&ts of the bone,which have been neglećted *at the beginning. but the fleſh is not meerly puffed up of itſelfe, but alſo with a certain phleg- the cauſe, matick, glutinousand viſcous humour gathering thereinto. the cauſe hereof is, the weakneſs of the di- geſtive faculty ofthe part, occaſioned by theſtroak and diſtemper; which therefore cannot aſſimilate the nouriſhment flowing more plentifully than it was wont, either drawn thither by means of the pain, or ſent thither by a blinde violence of nature, ſtirred thereto by a deſire of its own preſervation.wherefore this halſe crude humor remaining there, raiſeth much flatuling from its ſelfe, or elſe wrought upon by the weaker heat, it is reſolved into cloudy vapours; whence it cometh to paſs, that the fleſh is ſwoln up the fights in that place, and the skin on the contrary grows ſoft, as if it were blown up with a quil. therefore lay- ing your hand thereon, you may hearthe noiſe of the winde going forth thereof, and ſee a cavity leſtin the part, as it is uſually ſeen in ordematous tumors. unleſs you remedy this inflation, there will enſue an inflammation, feaver,abſceſs, difficulty of breathing;and laſtly,that ſecond kind of affečwhereof we have determined to treat in this chapter,to wit,the putrefačtion, corruption, or blaſting of the ribs. an abſceſſe, and the ſeparation of the fleſh from the bone is the cauſe hereof; for hence it cometh to paſs that the bone, deſpoiled of its naturall and fleſhly cloathing wherewith it was cheriſhed,is eaſily offend- edby the touch of the entring air, which it never formerly felt, and ſo at length it becometh (as it were) blaſted:which when it happens,they ſpit upfilth,and ſo fall into a conſumption,and at length die. the cure. to withſtand all theſe inconveniencies, you muſt as ſpeedily as you can, reſtore the fraćturedbones by the former delivered means. and then this mucous tumor muſt be reſolved by properheating and diſ- cuſſing medicins, and kept down by boulſters and rowlers; that ſo the fleſh may touch the bone, and co- veritas it uſually did. but the ligature ſhall not be made ſo ſtrait,as to hinder the ribs from their wonted motion inexpiration and inſpiration.if the tumor degenerate into an abſceſs,it ſhall be ſpeedily opened, leſt thematter, keptin too long, corrupt the bone which lyes under it, by the contagion of its putrefa- &ion. the ulcer being opened, the matter ſhall be evacuated by putting a pipe into the ulcer; the end whereofſhall bebound about with a thred, leſt it fallinto the capacity of the cheſt, and that it may be drawn forth at your pleaſure. \ chap. | lib. . concerning fratures. – - ---, chap. xiii. ofthe fračiure of theºrtebre, or rackbone of the back, and of their proceſſºr. §§§he writºre are ſome whilesbroken, otherwhilesbruiſed,or ſtrained on the inſide, whereby it hiº, §º cometh to paſs, that the membranes which inveſt the ſpinall marrow, as alſo the ſpinall of the ver- §t § marrow it ſelf, are compreſſed and ſtraitned, which cauſe many malign accidents; which, tebræ, º § § whether they be curable or not, may be certainly foretold by their magnitude. amongſt * theſe ſymptomes, are the ſtupidity, or numneſs and palfie of the arms, legs, fundament, and bladder, which diminiſh, or elſe take away from them the faculty of ſenſe and motion; ſo that their u- rine and excrements.come from them againſt their wils and knowledg.or elſe are wholly ſuppreſt.which sa... when they happen (ſaith hippocrateſ) you may foretell that death is at hand, by reaſon that the ſpinall j." marrow is hurt. having made ſuch a prognoſtick, you may make an incifion, ſo to take forth the ſplin- the are of ters of the broken vertebre, which driven in, preſs the ſpinall marrow,and the nerves thereof.ifyou can-fratured not do this, at leaſt you ſhall apply ſuch medicinsas may aſſwage pain, and hinder inflammation; and ** then the broken bones ſhall be reſtored to their places, and contained therein by thoſe means which we ſhall mention when we come to treat of the luxation of the ſpine. but if that the proceſſes only of the the cure of vertebre be broken, the fragments ſhall be put in their places, unleſs they be quite ſevered from their peri- the proceſ; ofteum.but if they be ſevered, you ſhall open the skin and take them forth, and then dreſs the wounds as . isfit. we underſtand that only the proceſſes of the vertebre are broken, if in the abſence of the fore- **** mentioned ſymptoms of numneſs and the palfie-you laying yourfinger upon the grieved part,feel ſome- ...: thing,as a bony fragment,ſhaking and moving thereunder;with a certain crackling noiſe,and cavity,and are fraau, depreſſion;and then,if when the patientholds down his head, and bends his back, he feel far more pain, red. - than when he ſtands upſtreight . his feet. for in ſtooping, the skin of the back is ſomewhat ſtretch- ed forth, and extended, and alſo forced upon the ſharp ſplinters of the fragments, whence proceeds ado- lorifick ſolution of continuity, and a pricking: in handingſtreight up, on the contrary, the ſtretched skin is relaxed, and conſequently leſs moleſted by the ſharpfragments. the fraćtured proceſſes ofthe ver- tebre eaſily heal, unleſs they be aſſociated with ſome other more grievous ſymptomewhich may hinder; ſuch as is a certain great contuſion, and the like. foras we formerly ſaid out of hippocrates, all rare and ſpongy bones are knit by a caius within a few dayes. * cha p.xiv. of the fračure of the body-bone. & alſo the holybone in acertainpart thereof, which may beeaſily healed, maybe broken by the . fra. §§blow of bruiſing things, as by a bulletſhooutofa musket,as i have obſerved in many. but if . º: - § the fraćture violate, together with the vertebre thereof, the ſpinall marrow contained therein, *::: then the patient can ſcarce ſcape death, for thereaſons ſhewed in the former chapter. what act. - chap. xv. of the fračiure of the rump. - tº he bumpis compoſed of four bones; the firſt whereof hatha cavity, wherein it receives the . de- f ſºfloweſºmetre of the holybone the other three ºrejºined togetherby sympºſitor coalition, ...". £ at the end of theſe hang acertainſmall griſtle. the frature of theſe bones ſhall be cured by the art, - * putting your finger into the patients fundament,and ſo thruſting it even to the fraëured place. for, thus you may thruſt the fragment forth, and fit and reſtore it to the reſt of the bones by your other hand lying upon the back. but that it may bethe ſooner healed, itisfit the patient keep his bed, during all the time ofthecure. but if there bea neceſſity to riſe,he ſhall ſo fitin a perforated ſeat, that there may be nothing which may preſs the broken part;and fitting remedies for healing fratures ſhall be applyed as occaſion ſhall offer it ſelfe. - - - . . . . . . . chap. xvi, oftheftainrºfile hip, or osilium. - ºhehip conſiſts of threebones:the firſt is named . ilium,the haunchbone, the other, s iſchion, the de- - inti £, the huckle bone;the third pubiº,the ſhare bone. theſe threebones in men of full growth are . of -º-n & ſofaſt knit and joined together,that they can by no means be ſeparated;butin children they may "...be ſeparated without much adoſhisbone may bebroken in any part thereofither by a ſtroak, or by a fall from high upon any hardbody, youſhall know the fraſture by the ſamekind offigns,as you ſº know others, to wit, pain, pričking, adepreſſed cavity, and inequality, and alſo a numneſs ofthe leg of the cure. the ſame fide. the ſplinters ofthe bones (if quite broke off) muſtby making incifion be taken away at the firſt dreſſing; in performance of which operation, you muſthave a care that you hurtnotwith your inſtrument the heads of the muſcles, nor any veſſels,eſpecially which are great; nor laſtly,that large nerve which is ſent into the muſcles of the thigh and leg. on the contrary, ſuch fragments as are not broken or 'ſºvered from their perioſeum, ſhall be ſmoothed and ſet in order with your fingers, as is fitting. other -- thing ſhall be done according as art and neceſſity ſhall perſwade and require. - " —- i- - - - - - - -- º .. º chap: xvii. ofafaāure ºfthe ſhoulder, or arm bone." ' < * ãºhe armbone is round,hollow, full of marrow,rifing up with an indifferent neck, and ending the des º on the ºpper part into ſomewhata thick head.on the lowerpart it hath two proceſſes,the one ſºlº ºf ºbefºre,the other behinde, between which there is(as it werejan halfcircle, or theravity of a *::::: o: *pulley,•ach end whereof leads into its cavity, of which one is interior, another exterior; that ..." by theſe (as it were) hollow ſtops, the bending and extenſion ofthe arm might be limited, leſt *. * - ne - - - - - - - o concerning frađurer. lib. . bone of the cubit, if the circle ſhould have been perfeót, ſliding equally this way and that way, might, by its turning, have gone quite round, as a rope runs in a pulley; which thing would much have con- fuſed the motion of the cubit.for ſo the extenſion, or bending it back, would have been equall to thene- ceſſary bendingitinwards. it is very expedient that a surgeon know theſe things, that ſo he may the the cure. better know how to reſtore the fraćtures and luxations of this part. if one of the fragments of this broken bone ſhall lye much over the other, and the patient have a good ſtrong body,then the arm ſhall be much extended, the patient being ſo ſet upon a low ſeat, that he may not riſe, when the fraćture ſhall be a ſet- ting, and ſo hinder the begun work; and alſo, that ſo the surgeon may the more eaſily perform his o- É. upon the patient ſeated under him; yet hippocrate regarding another thing, would have the atient to fit higher. but you muſt have a care that the ſhoulderbone itſelfbe drawn dire&lydownwards, and the cubit ſo bended as when you put it into a ſcarſ. for if anyone ſet this bone, lifting the arm up- wards, or otherwiſe extending it, then muſt it be kept in that poſture; for otherwiſe, if the figure be changed, the ſetting will quickly be ſpoiled, when as you come to put the arm in a ſcarf. wherefore the ... surgeon muſt diligently and carefully obſerve that in ſetting abroken arm, he put it in ſuch apoſture, º: that reſting on the breaſt, it look down towards the girdle. youmuſt havea care inlaying the ſplints, the boneſi, and rowling your ligatures, that they hurt not, nor preſs too hard upon the joints. for, in the opinion ſet. of hippocrateſ,by the preſſure of parts which are nervous,fleſhleſs,and conſequently endued with exquiſite § ºff ſenſe, by the ſplintsthere is danger of moſt grievous pain, inflammation, denudation both of the bone # * andnerve; butchiefly, if ſuch compreſſion hurt the inner part towards which the armisbended,where- ----- fore the ſplints made for this place muſt be the ſhorter. therefore after the arm-bone is ſet,the arm ſhall be laid upon the breaſt in a right angle, and therebound up in a ſcarf, leſt that the patient, when he hath in what need to ſtir, ſpoil and undo the ſetting, and figure of the broken bone.but the arm muſt be kept in quiet, time it will untill ſuch time as the fragments ſhall be confirmed with a callu, which uſually is in forty dayes, ſooner knit. or later, according to the different conſtitutions of bodies, —l cha p.xviii. of the frađure of the cubit, or the él, and wand. ºt ſometimes happeneth,that the cubit and wand are brokentogether and at once,and other- º, whiles that but the one of them isfraćtured. now they are broken either in their midſt or ºf ends, their ends (i ſay) which are either towards the elbow, or elſe towards the wriſt. that sº fraćture is worſt of all, wherein both the bones are broken, for then the member is made " wholly impotent to performany ſort of a&ion, and the cure is alſo more difficult; for the member cannot ſo eaſily be contained in its ſtate; for that bone which remains whole, ſerves for a ſtay to the arm, and hinders the muſcles from being drawn back, which uſually draw back and ſhrink up themſelves, whenſoever both bones are broken. hence it is, that that frature isjudged the worſt, where. the cure. in the cubit or ellbone is broken. but that is eaſieſ of all, wherein only the wandisbroken, for ſo the fraëured partisſuſtained by the ell bone:when both the bones are broken there muſt be made a ſtronger extenfion, for that the muſcles are the more contračted. therefore; whenſoºver either of them remains whole, it doth more ſervice in ſuſtaining the other, then any either ligatures or ſplints, for that it keeps | the diffe- rtricts, the muſcles rightin their places. wherefore, after the bones ſhall beſet and rowled upwith ligatures and ſplints,the arm muſt be ſocarryed upinaſcarf put about the neck,that the handmay not be much higher than the elbow, leſt the blood and other humours may fall down thereinto. but the handſhall be ſet in that poſture which is between prone and ſupine, for ſo the wand ſhall lye direaly under the ell, as we sºſº have read it obſerved by hippocrates.the reaſonis, for that by a ſlipinº figure ºr ſituation, both the bone **f" and muſcles areperverted "for firſt,for the bone, the apophyſiºſºlºideſ and oletºnum ofthe cubit.ought | to bein an equall plain, and to be ſtated each againſt other; which is not ſo in a ſupine figure,as wherein the proceſu ſtyloides of the cubit is ſet againſt the haner proceſs of the armbone. but in muſcles,for that, like as the inſtition and ſite of the head of a muſcle is,ſuch alſo is the fite ofthebelly thereof, and laſtly, ſuch the inſertion ofthe tail thereof; but by a ſupinefigure, the muſcles ariſing from the inner proceſs of the arm bone and bending the cubit,ſhall have the tail placed in an higher and moreczteriourfite.in the interim,you muſt not omit,but that thepatients arm may, with . º: %oul i. . - and extended now and then, left by the too the figure of aſº artn, with a wound bound up, sº hong reſt of the tyed uppart,and . inter- h and ſeated, as is fit. miſſion of its proper funètion,the bones of the joint may beſowdred together by the interpoſition, and as it were glue ef the defluxion which falsabundantly into the joint of the elbows, and neighbouring parts, whence the ſtifneſs and unmoves. leneſs thereof, as if there were a callur grown there: from whence it may happen that the arm thereafter may neither be bended, norextended, which i have ob- ſerved to have happened to many. where- --~ * rºw, - y), ofalſo galen makes mention, and cals this kind of vitiated.conformation.anole and anglofts.if a woundalſo aſſociate a fraćtureofthe arri,then ſee that you put aboutit plates of latin, or paſt-bord, and make a convenient ligature, and that the frag- ments of the bones be kept in the ſame ſtate wherein they were ſet and reſtored. moreover,let him lay his armupon a ſoftpillow, or cuſhion, as the precedent figureſhewes you, - - - chap. com.in lib. de wi. liais º concerning fraúures. -* chap. xix. of the fraðure of a hand. - * tº hebones of the wriſt,and after-wriſt, may be broken but,in hippocrate opinion, chiefly by seii. .de § that kind offračture which is called a sedº;nowif they ſhall happen to be broken,this ſhall failſºntº. §be the manner of reſtoring them. let the patient lay forth his hand upon ſome even and ; ſmooth table,then let your ſervant ſtretch forth the broken bones, and the workmaſter re- the cure. * ſtore them thus extended,and put them in their proper ſeats. but being reſtored, they muſt be kept in their places by ſuch remedies as are uſed in other fraćtures to wit,cerates, compreſſes, linnen cloths,and ſplints. now the fraćtured º: ſhall be tyed or bound to their neighbours, that ſo they may the more eaſily,as bound to a flake.bekept in that ſtate wherein they have been put by the hand of rewis the workman, but theſe bones,ſeeing they are of a rare and ſpongie nature, are in a ſhort time and ea- purpoſe the fily ſtrengthened,or knit by a callus. theſe thingsbeing done,the hollowneſs or palm of the hand ſhall carryingofs be filled with a tennis ball,for thus the broken bones ſhall not only be more eaſily kept in their places, ballin. but alſo the fingers themſelves ſhall be kept in a middle poſture,that is, not wholly open, nor quite ſhut. . - if they be kept in any other figure,the enſuing callu will either deprave or quite aboliſh that ačtion of naierves: the hand,whereby we takehold of anything. the caſe ſtands otherwiſe with the fra&ured toes; for they ſhall be kept ſtreight and even out,ieſt they ſhould hinder our going or ſtanding. cha p.xx. of the fračiure of the tbigh, s$º t is a hard thingtobring the fragments of the broken thigh together to be ſet, by reaſon of the § large and ſtrong .. of that part, which whileft they are drawn back towards their origi- ºnall,by a motion both naturall and convulſive, they carry together with them the fragment of the bone,whereinto they are inſerted.therefore, when as the fra&ure of this bone ſhall be why the reſtored,the patient muſt lyeupon his back with his leg ſtretched forth, and the surgeon muſt ſtrongly one of . and with great force extend the thigh;but if he alone ſhall not be able ſufficiently to extend it, he ſhall the º imploy two other ſtrong attendants,by whoſe joint-help the fragments may be fitted and ſet each againſt j, * other.for this purpoſe when as the ſtrength of the hand was not ſufficient, the ancients uſed an inſtru- • ment,called a gloſſ-comium,whereof this is the figure. - - the figure of a gloſſocomium, or extender. in flead of this gloſocomium, sent. . - you may make uſe of my pul- $ . sat ley;for hippocrates in thisbone fraß, when it is broken, doth ap- prove of extenſion ſo great, that although by the great- neſs of the extenſion the ends of the fragments be ſomewhat diſtant aſunder, an empty ſpace being left between yet notwithſtanding would he , º' º- º z/ % % = % have ligature made. for it %fºliº - % % º % is not here as it is in the ex- ||||rºſſilſ". tºlºlºlºlill tenſions of other bones, w nºvºvivºvºvº º whereas the caſting about of p ligatures keeps the muſcles unmoveable: but here, in the , extended thighs, the deligati- - on is not of ſuch force,as that it may ſtay and keep the bones and muſcles in that ſtate,wherein the surgeon hath placed them. for,ſce- ing that the muſcles of the thigh are large and ſtrong,they overcome the ligation, and are not keptun- derby it.the surgeon,in ſetting it,ſhall alſo confider that the thigh-bone is hollowed on the inner fide, but gibbous on the outſide,therefore it muſt beſet in its native figure. otherwiſe, if any, unmindfull of thematº- this conſideration, would have it ſtreight,he ſhall make his patient halt all his life after : wherefore this rail and in: inner and native hollowneſs muſt be filled up and preſerved by putting in a compreſſe or boulſter ſpread ternal over with ungaentum roſatum, or the like glutinous thing that it may not fall off:for thus alſo the ligati- : on ſhall the more faithfully keep the fragments of the bone in their places. moreover, compreſſes ſhall . º. be applyed to the more ſlender and leſs protuberating parts of the thigh, as thoſe which are next the wed inſet. ham and knee,that ſo the whole ligation may be alike, and conſequently the more firm. now ligatures, ting the as we formerly noted,are ordained for three things. the firſt is,that the bones may be kept in that ſtate ºne. whereinthey were ſet, untill they be ſtrengthened by a callur. the ſecond is, to hinder defluxion, which !...” eaſily fals into the broken and luxated parts both by reaſon of pain,as alſo by weakneſs. the third is, to jee ſtay and hold faſt the ſplints and medicins which are applyed. inflammation is hindred by repreſſing made plain and hindring the blood and other humors, ready to fiowdown,from entring into the part,and by preſ-siº fing thoſe humors,which are preternaturally contained in the part,into the neighbouring parts above & “** below. wherefore there muſt no ſmall carebe had of preparing ligatures, to wit, that they be made of choice and well woven cloth,yet not courſe or rough;and let them be of ſuch length and breadth, as the surgeon,perſwaded by an artificiall conjećture, ſhall judge to be fit for the thickneſs and length of the member,and greatneſs of the fra&are:for ligatures ought to be of breadth to involve and cover all the fračtured part, : a great part of that which is ſound,but ſeeing that in my book of bandages, have : -- jºn ºš- … *, - -- - concerning fragme. l in . med chiefly to ſet down and approve the manner of binding uſed by hippocrates, now i thin good here the man- in this place to deſcribe that which is in common uſe amongſt our surgeons. our surgöns there- netofºil. fore at this day require three ligatures for fraćtures,the firſt whereofthey preſently caſt upon the hurt º part, whetherbroken or diſlocated,or only ſtrained, making the firſt wrappings upon it ſo that they ...;i." moſt and ſtraitlieſt bindit there but leſſe and more looſly on both ſides thereof. such circumvolutions, or wrappings,are drawn upwards,and there ended. they muſt be rowled thick, and not wide, for ſo if vvhy the they preſently follow,and tye one upon another, they will hold the bones more firmly, and more far widing of and widepreſſe forth and repreſſe the ſuperfiuous blood from the ſound part. they preſently in like ſort the upper caſt the ſecond ligature upon the very fraćture, giving it two wraps, then going downwards ; yet ſo, as ... that they are openeror wider,andfather diſtant each from other, and not ſo cloſe together, as their. . and cumvolūtions of the firſt ligature;that ſo they may preſs the humors the leſſe to the extremities of the name than part,as thoſe which cannot receive and bear, without inflammation and danger of a gangrene, ſuch a- the lower. ſº of humors,for that they are not ſufficiently ſpatious;as alſo more remote from the fountain of native heat, which is greater in the center than in the circumference. at the lower end of the hurt part vvhy the the circumvolutions either end,orelſe are twined thenceback again. they caſt on the third ligature in ºft. that lower end of the hurt part,androwl, it ſmºothly and gently upwards, the windings being made ture mabe contrary to the windings of the firſt and ſecond ligatures;that they may ſo draw back into their natu. rowledcon rall ſtate the muſcles,which peradventure have been drawn aſide by the force of the former wrappings. º * theſe ligations finiſhed,they apply three ſplints of paſt-bord,or ſome ſuch matter, the firſtbelow the ſº &ure,and that truely morebroad,and of ſufficient length; and then two others, one on each ſide, diſtant each from other ſome fingersbreadth;to the end to keep the bone that it do not ſtir to this fide or that, the surge-being wrapped about with tow or cotton.then they think of placing or laying the part to which pur- onmºbº, poſe they propound to themſelves three ſcopes. the firſtis,that the partmaylye ſoft,the ſecond ſmooth, - :... or even the third,ſomewhat high. the hurt partought truely to lye ſoft,for that hard lying preſſes it, in j and cauſes pain and inflammation; which whiles the patient cannot patiently endure, he is forced to themember, change his place,whilſt he every way ſeekseaſe for his pain:and thus he now and then moves the fraau- - red part,which ought to be kept quiet withoutany motion. it muſt lye ſmooth or even, becauſe an une- quall or uneven ſite diſtorts or drawsawry the part, whilſt one portion of the hurtpart is born up,and ſuſtained by that which lyes under it; but the other hanging down hath nothing thereunder, where- scitade upon it may reſt.therefore hippocrates bids us diligently to take heed that the heel do not hang down, jrabº. nor the foot remain without a pillow,for hence pain and a troubleſome defluxion of humors is to be feared. but the part ought tolye ſomewhat high,that the defluxion maybe hindred, which is eaſily ſtir- redup by a prone and decliningfite:ſorifthe foot ſhal be placed in a lower figure,the blood which flowes thither from the leg, will cauſe inflammation. but on the contrary, if it be higher, nothing can flow down thereinto. therefore abſolutely not only thefoot but alſo the thigh andleg,are to be placed high- er than the reſt of the body:yet keeping ſuch a means that the part may not be too much diſtended, as hipperate admoniſheth us. in the mean time, this hurtleg or ſide, ught to be of equalllength with the ſound,and for that purpoſe it muſt be ſtayed on both ſides with junks, as we ſhall ifiew you hereafter, when we come to ſpeak of abroken leg. the bandage being performed as we have ſaid, the following night,and the next day the patient feels the membermore ſtraitly bound, than when it was firſt wrap- dyeaverily the knee is lifted up into a ſoft tumor by the expreſſion of the humor.from the woun- when he ded part.but on the contrary, the enſuing day the ligation is ſlackned and relaxed, ſomeportion ofthe º humor contained in the part being digeſted. alſo the next day all things are perceived more looſe, there j being made a larger reſolution of the humor. then therefore the bandages muſt be looſed, and that not - only left that the fragments ofthe bones ſhould fall forth of their place, but alſo that we may gratifie the fatient by that alteration or change of place,and beſides that we may avoid itching, which uſually happens to parts toolong bound up, by reaſon of the ſuppreſſion of acrid and fuliginous excrements, which uſe to be gathered in great quantity in a part at reſt and boundup, both from the excrementiti- ous humors,wherewith the partismoiſtened,and the alimentary humors, in a part which is idle and at quiet by reaſon the difflation and tranſpiration are hindred by want of exerciſe, and the pores of the skin ſhut up by the abundance of the ligatures:ſo that by the ſuppreſſion thereof, many have not only an itching.but alſo the skin beingbrokeby the acrimony of theſe,as well vapours as humors, which are kept ſhut and pent up,have ulcers break forth. therefore when ſuch accidents ſhall be feared, the part ſhillſo long beformented with warm water and oil,as you ſhall think fit:for, ſuch fomenting aſſwageth pain, relaxeth that which was too much ſtraitned by the binding, and amends the refrigeration of the part cauſed by the repercuſſion and expreſſion of the blood and ſpirits,the native and internall heatbe- ingby this means revived. if together with the tumor, therebe a contuſion and ſugillation, it muſt be the longer fomented,that the excrementitious humor reſiding in the part may be digeſted. but if this quantity oftimeſhall not ſuffice,then muſt you uſe ſtronger digeſtives: yet have a care you uſe them not too long;forſo you ſhould hinderthe generation of a callus. therefore that ſaying of hippocrate muſt here be remembred,which ſaith, that a weak fomentation,and the ſhort time of uſing one doth attraćt, but not diſcuſſe;but a longer and ſtronger waſts the fleſh. beſides alſo you muſt have regard to the tem- per and habit of the patient;for fomentations,uſedtoplethorick bodies draw ſuperfiuous humors tothe sm. ſ. part.the ancients bid,that the ligatures be looſed every third day untill their ſeventh day; but after the sºft, ſeventh,on every ſeventh day:but hereof nothing can be certainly and perpetually decreed for, accor- ding to the accidents the patients muſt bedreſſed ſooner or later, more often or ſeldome; renuing theli- gatures,and thereſt of the dreſſing.therefore, if no ſymptomeurge, would have none of theſe things, which are dyne to thepatient at the firſt dreſſing,to be moved, unleſſeas ſlowly and ſeldome as youmay- far you hinder the knitting of the bone,ifyou never ſo little move the ends of the fragments thereof; for, sent. . . ..ſº&l. , de fraff, - - - "... - lib. . concerning frailures. - for, as you ſee º isjoined together by glue, and pewter with ſowder; ſo the fragments of bones are, by a providence of nature, glued and ſowdred together by a callu. wherefore broken bones have very reń neceſ. much need of reſt, to the generating of a calta ; otherwiſe, the matter thereof flowing down, quickly ſary for the flowes away, and nothing is done. you may much kelp forwards the generation of a caller,which is be knjing of gun about the thirteenth or fifteenth day.by applying an emplaiſter made with the white of an eg,having ſet bones. the powder of red roſe leaves, and wheat figur mixed therewith, and other catagmatick plaillers, which ſhall hereafter be deſcribed in ſpeaking of the fraćture of a g. - - - –-t * * - - chap. xxi. of the fračiure of the thigh nigh to the joint, or the upper or lower head of the bone. º fraćture ſometimes happens at the joint of the hip in the neck of the thigh bone,as i once ob- a hinor. # ſerved in an honeſt matron. i being called to her, when i had obſerved the hurt thigh to be ` - ſhorter than the whole, with the outward prominency of the iſchium, which at the firſt ſight i * ſuppoſed to proceed from the head of the thigh bone, i preſently perſwaded my ſºlf it was a " diſlocation and no fraćture:i then therefore extended the bone,and forced(as i thought)the head there- of into its cavity. the equality of both the legs inbigueſs which followed upon this extenſion,encreaſed my perſwaſion that it was a diſlocation. the next day i viſited her the ſecond time, and found her in greatpain, her hurtleg the ſhorter, and her foot wreſted inwards. then i looſed all her ligatures, and perceived ſuch a prominency as i did formerly. wherefore ſendeavoured again to force in the head of the bone, as i formerly did. butas i was buſied therein, i heard a little crackling, and alſo conſidered, that there was no cavity nor depreſſion in the joint, by which figns i certainly perſwaded my ſelf, that the bone was broken; and not diſlocated. neither only ſuch kind of fraćtures, but alſo the ſeparation of another the appendix or head of this bone from its place, may induce one to think it a diſlocation; which thing ºf of hath ſometimes deceived ſome heedleſs surgeons, who have not dreamt of the divulſion or ſeparation !. ofthe appendix from the top of the thigh bone,but have judged it only a diſlocation.then therefore (that . . i may return to my former narration) iſºtthebone, andjoined the fragments together, laid thereupon ſplints with compreſſes, made ligations with a rowler, having two heads wrapped about the joint, and thebody croſs-wiſe,and i defended her foot with a caſe,that none of the cloths might preſs it..i faſtned a rope to a poſt, and ſo let it come down into the midſt of the bed, and tyed many knots thereon,for the better takinghold and lifting up her ſelf; therwhich thing you muſt alwayes do in fračtures and diſlo. cations of the thigh and leg, that ſo your patients may have ſome ſtay, whereby they may ſuccourthen- ſºlves with their hands, as oft as they deſire to riſe, or lift themſelves up in their beds, or go to ſtool, as ' alſo, that they may give perſpiration, and as it were ventilation to the loins, buttocks, rump, and other parts, compreſſed and wearied with longlying; for want whereofthey are moleſted with heat and pain, whence ulcers ariſe, which oft-times torment the patient with ſuch tormenting heat and pain, that he is even conſumed by a feaver, watchings, and want of reſt. this opportunity of raiſing the body out of why the the bed, is by ſo much the more needfull in this place, by how much the fraćture is nearer the joint; for . of a there it is more dangerous than in the midſt of the thigh, and conſequently more difficult to dreſs and º heal, for that the part is bloodleſs, and by reaſon of the multitude of the nerves,tendons and ligaments, motºr- which are obnoxious to many malign ſymptomes. but the surgeon muſt have diligent care in this kind gerous. of fraćture, and muſt look often that the bone, which is ſet, do not fall forth again, which eaſily hap- pens here by any light flirring of the body, and the like occaſion, for that the thigh hath but one only bone. therefore, as oftas the bandages ſhall be looſed,and the fraćture dreſſed, he ſhall attentively view the figure of the bone, and the magnitude of the affe&ed part, comparing it with the ſound; for the ſet andcompoſed fragments of the broken bone, can ſcarcefall aſunder, but that the one muſt lye upon the other. but before it be knit, the part muſt be extended and reſtored to its ſtate, that ſo the patient may not halt during the reſidue of his life. for i have read it written in avicem,that ſcarce any do ſo well re- , , cover a fraćtured thigh, that they do not halt thereof;therefore the patient muſt be carefull,that he move º:º himſelf, or his body as little as he can. many of the ancients have ſet downe the time of the conſolida-. - a - tion of this bone to be fifty dayes : but (as i formerly ſaid) there can be no certain or determinate time in what hereof. but in what time ſoever this bone ſhall be knit, the patient muſt not ſtand or go thereon pre- ſº the ſently upon it; for that there remains a weakneſs in the part a long time after, ſo that the patients are .. one forced to uſe crutches to go withall, in the mean ſpace while they recover more ſtrength. . chap. xxii. of the fatiureofthe patella, or whirl bºne of the knee, - - ;he whirl bone of the knee isoft-times contuſed, but not ſo frequently broken; yetwben that the dºº- §º happens, it goes into two or three pieces, ſºmetimes long-wiſe, ſometimes athwart. some- iences. mºjtimes it isbroken in the midſt, and ſomewhiles ſhivered into many ſplinters, and all theſect. §ther with, or without a wound. the ſigns are, impotency in going, a hollowneſs in that signs. place, and a ſºnſible ſeparation of the fragments of the hurtpart, and the crackling of theſe parts under your hand. it is ſet after this manner; wiſh the patient to ſtretch forth his leg, yea, he muſt care. keep it extended all the while, untill it be knit; and thereforeleſt he ſhould bend it unawares,the hollow- neſs ofthe hamſhall be filled with aboulſter; for by bending of the knee,theſet fragments of the whirl- bonewould againfly in ſunder. this beingdone, the fragments ſhall by the hand of the surgeon be ſet as is fitting, and be kept ſo ſet by the application ofconvenient remedies, making ligatures, and applying junks, as we ſaid muſt be done in the fraćture of the thigh bone. and laſtly, you mud obſerve and do in this as in the fraćture of a leg. for the prognoſtick this i affirm,that i havéſzen none of thoſe who have had this bone fraćtured, who have not halted during the reſt oftheir lives. the cauſe hereofis, the knit- - ting , concerning fraffures. - lib. . why thoſe ting by the concretion of a callu hinders the free bending ofthe knee;going,eſpecially oneven ground, ... is more eaſie to the patient but an aſcent is far more difficult, and abſolutely painfulíthe patºniº *** neceſſaril y for this kinde of fraćture lye or keep his bed, at the leaſt for forty dayes. this bone fračurcd. chap. xxiii. of a broken leg. ºhitkind of frature issured after the ſºmemanneras that of the arm or cubit. hippeares, ºadmoniſhethus, that the tibia, or leg bone is more dangerous robe broken , and more diffi- ºf cult and ſlow to be healed than the fibºla, or ſhin bone; becauſe that is the thicker, and as it were the upholder of the whole bulke of the body; but this other is but as it were a certain *additament or aſſiſtant, provided for the ſtaying or bearing up of the muſcles of the leg, by which the footis moved. the leg bone being only broken, the ſigns thereofare perceived only in the inner part ofthe leg; for that the ſhin bonebeing whole, ſuffers it not to throw or caſt forthi ſãfºom the contrary, when the ſhin bºne only is broken, the figns thereof appear only in the external part of the leg; becauſe the leg bone, being oppoſed thereto,doth not ſuffer it to caſtinits ſelf and with its frag- sigºhai ments to turninwards. but when both thebone; are broken, the ſigns of the frađure may equally apa both the arboth here and there. but when only one oftheſe bones are broken, the fraðure is far more eaſiº . “ dreſſe and heal, becauſe that which remains whole, is a much more firm ſtay to that whichi, hurt, than foken, any ſplints can be. but that i may the better inſtructand make ready the surgeon for the reſtoring ºf this fraćture, i will illuſtrate the matter by an example from my ſelf. john neffor,dodorofphyſick, ri- *** chard hubert, and i, went together to viſita patient at the place of the frier minorites. wherefoºin- tending to paſs over the sein withinſight of the place, lendeavoured to make my horſe take boat, and therefore ſwitched him over the buttocks. the jade, madded herewith,ſo ſtruck at me with his heels,that he brake both the bones of my left leg, ſome fourfingers breadth abovemy ancle. then i, fearing ſome worſe miſchief, and leſt the jade ſhould double his blow, flew back; and as i fledback,the broken bones flew in ſunder; and breaking through the fleſh, ſtocking, and boot, ſhewed themſelves, whereby i feltas much pain, as it is credible aman was able to endure. wherefore i was preſently carried into the boat, that ſo i might be carryed to the other fide ofthe water to be dreſſed; but the ſtirring of the boat as they rowed, almoſt killed me with bitterneſs of pain, for that the ſharp fragments of the bones were rubbed againſt the fleſh which lay next them. beingferried over,as i was conveyed into the next houſes, my pain was much increaſed, whileſ lifted by the hands ofdivers perſons,one whileup;another down, ſometimes to the left ſide, other whiles to the right with my whole body,and all the parts thereof. when at the length i was laid upon a bed, was ſomewhat freed from the bitterneſs of my pain,and had time to wipe ſoone off the ſweat, which ran down over all my body. then was i dreſſed with ſuch a medicine, as the time .* and place would afford, we compoſed it of the white of an egge, wheat fiour, ſoo: of a chimny,and mel- wija deted butter. for the reſt, i entreated richard hubert, that he would handle me, as if he knew mºnot , nei- when the ther that, moved for love of me,heſhould remit anything of the ſºyerity of art,but chiefly,that he would lºgis bro ſtretch my footſtraight out, and ifthe wound were not ſufficiently wide, that he would enlarge it with ken. his inciſion knife, that ſo he might the more caſily ſet the broken bones in their due place; that he would with his fingers (whoſe judgmentisfar more certain than the beſt made inſtruments) ſearch, whetherº. ſplinters which were in the wound were quite ſevered from the bone, and therefore to be taken forth;that he would with his hand preſs forth the blood, and the clods of blood which were in agreat quantity concrete at the mouth of the wound; that he weuld bind up and place my leg in that ſite and manner, as he thought beſt: which is that he ſhould have three rowlers in a readineſs, the firſt whereofhe ſhould caſt dire&ly upon the wound,ſo that he ſhould begin his ligation at the woundialſo he ſhould put ſplints about it; ſome three, but others two fingersbredth, of the length of half a foot, ſomewhat depreſſed and hollowed, whereby they might beth: more eaſily put about the leg, more ſtraitly at their ends, and a fingers diſtance each from other;which at the laſt he ſhould bind with fillets,like thoſe wherewithºvomºn uſe to bind up their hair;yet ſo that the binding mightbemore ſtrait upon the wound:and that he would fill the cavity of the ham, and of the ancles with boulſters made of flaxe wrapped in linnen clothes: that he would fortifie the fides of my leg with junks made of bents or little ſticks,and lined with linnen cloth, ſtretched from my heel to my groin, and bound over in four places; ſo that the ſtrait figure of the leg might ſcarcely be perverted by any force: that he would gently, and ſmoothly, liſt up my leg to an in- different height and laſtly, that he ſhould armit from the violence of externall injuries, by putting it the figure of a leg fračived with a wound, in a box or caſe, but you muſt note, that the fit and bonnd up. placing or laying of the leg is a matter of ſuch - mºnent, that if any error be here committed, it will cauſe no leſs than lameneſs. for if it belif. ted up higher than is fit, the cafu will be hol- sº low on the foreſide; it lower,then it will be gib- bous or bunching forth. neither alſo do they commit a ſmallerror, who do not fill up the ca. vities at the ancles after the aforementioned man- ner: for, hereupon the heel will be much afflićted, whileſt it is forced to ſuſtain a tedious and pain. full compreſſion, which at length brings a hot dittemper, becauſe the ſpirits cannot freely flow thereto; which i finding by experience, not knowing the cauſe, wiſhed them evernow and then to lift up my heel, whereby it might enjoy the benefit of perſpiration, and the ſpirits havefree entrance thereinto, and |w lib. . concerning fraine. " -- - and the contained vapours paſſing forth. to conclude, my hurt leg was laid upon a cuſhion after the manner you ſee deſcribed in the page precedent. chap. xxiv. ofſomething to be obſerved in ligation, whenaſračínre is aſſociated with a wound, a sº his taken out of the doarine of the ancients, ºughtto be kept firmand ratified,that ligati that:ht i. ºğ on muſt be made upon the wound;otherwiſe the wounded part will preſently lift itſelf up gaticn muſt gº into a great tumor, receiving the humors preſſed thitherby the force of the ligation made ...” Š on this & that fide,above and below,whence enſuemany malign ſymptoms.you nay make #. ޺ tryall hereof upon a ſound fleſhy part; for if you bind it above and below, not touching whº that which is in the nidſt, it will be litted up into a great tumor, and change the flouriſh promes en- ing and native colour, into a livid or blackiſh hue, by reaſon of the fiowing and abundance ofthe hu. º: want mors preſſed forth on every fidefrom the neighbouring parts. therefore ſuch things will happen much ;: the rather in a wounded or ulcerated part. but for this cauſe, the ulcer will remain unſuppurated and j weeping, crude and liquidſanies flowing there-hence, like unto that which uſually flowes from inflamed part. eyes. such ſanieſ,if it fall upon the bones, and make any ſtay there, it, with the touch thereof,burns and corruptsthem, and ſo much the more, if they be rare and ſoft. theſe will be the ſigns of ſuch corruption signs of th of the bones; ifagreater quantity,and that motº filthy ſanieſ,flow from the ulcer, than was accuſtomed, . j or the nature of a ſimpletilter requires; if the lips of the ulcer be inverted, if the fleſh be more ſoft and ºf. flaccidabout them; if a ſorrowſull ſenſe of a beating, and alſo deep pain torment the patient by fits; if, bones: by ſearching with your probe, you perceive the bone to be ſpoiled of its perioſteum; and laſtly,ifyou find it ſcaly and rough; or alſo if your probe be put down ſomewhat hard, it run into the ſubſtance of the bone. but we have treated ſufficiently hereofin our particular treatiſe of the rottenneſs of the bones.but certainly ſuch rottenneſs will never happen to the bone, it the hurt part be boundup, as is fit,and accor- ding to art. wherefore ijudgeitnotamiſºagain? admoniſh the surgeon of this,that as far as the thing when the ſhall ſuffer, he make his rowlings upon the wound; unleſs by chance there be ſuch exceſſive pain and ºndº great inflammation, that, through occaſion of ſuch ſymptomes and accidents, he be diverted from this º: properand legitimatecure of the diſeaſe. therefore then, becauſe nothing more can be done, let him on- ligation. iy do this, which maybe done without offence; thati,let himſupply the defe&ofligation and rowlers, ºith a ſinnen cloth, not too weak, nor too much worn, being twice or thrice doubled, and which may ſerve to compaſs the wound and neighbouring parts once about: let him ſew the edges thereof atthe fides ofthewound, left he be forced to ſtir thefragments of the bones (which onceſ.teught to be keptunmo- wed) as often as the woundcomes to be dreſſed. for,broken bones do not require ſuch frequent dreſſ, ng, as wounds and ulcers do. by this it appears, that as want of binding, and too much looſneſs in abſence ofpain and a phlegmon, ſº alſº toº ſtrait ligation, when pain is preſent, brings a phlegmon and ab- reſs to the wound. therefore let all things here,according to the forementioned rules and circumſtan- res, beindifferent, i have for this purpoſe thought good to reiterate theſe things, becauſe you ſhall as yet find many, who follow the pra&iſe of pauluſ,and make many circumvolutions here and there,above and belew the weund, which preſently they carry croſs-wiſe. but this croſs or lattice-like kind of ligation lattice-like is wholly to be diſliked, and that only to be uſed which wehave deſcribed, according to the mind of hip-hindingto. crane, now it is time that ireturne to the former hiſtory of my miſhap, and declare what was done to **nºd: me after that firſt dreſſing, which i have formerly mentioned. chap. xxv. what waſ uſed to the author kg after the firſt dreſſing: being brought home tomine own houſe in paris in the afternoone, they took from the, out of the baſilica of the left arm, ſome fix ounces of blood. and then at the ſecond dreſſing the lips or edges of the wound and places thereabout were annointed with ungmentumºroſatum,which by ungneniam. ajoint conſent of the ancients, is much commended in the beginnings of fraëtures: for it will . . aſſwagepain, and hinder inflammation,by repelling the humors far from the wounded part:for it is cold, :* aſtringent and repelling, as the compoſition thereofſhewes ; for it is made exoleo ompbacino, aqua roſates, º, pauco actto, & cera alba. therefore i uſed this ointment for ſix dayes; i dipped the compreſſes and rowlers ſomewhiles in oxycrate, otherwhiles in thick and aſtringent red wine, for the ſtrengthening of the part, and repreſſing the humors; which two things we muſt have a care of in hippocrater opinion, in fraćtures eſpecially with a wound. whereforeifat any time the compreſſes or rowlers ſeemed to dry, i now and you muſt then moiſtned them with the oxycrate, or roſe vineger: for, by their too much drineſs, pain and inflām- have a care, mation happen; and if they bind the part ſomewhat more ſtrait, they hurt it alſo by their hard-º. º neſs. youſhall ſee many surgeons, who in this kind of affett, from the beginning to the end, uſe only . affringent and emplaſtick medicins, wholly contrary to the method ſet down by hippocrates, and com-grow not mended by galen. for, by the continued uſe of ſuch things, the pores, and breathing places of the skin hard by are ſhut up; whence the fuliginous excrement being ſuppreſt, the externall heat is increaſed, and itching” cauſed, and at length an ulcer by the fretting of the acrid and ſerous humour long ſuppreſt.whereby you may learn, that aſtringent and emplaſtickmedicins muſt not be uſed above ſix dayes. inſteadhereof you ſhall uſe the emplaiſters, which i ſhall preſently deſcribe. in the beginning of my diſeaſe i uſed ſo ſpare a diet, that for nine dayes i ate nothingeach day, but twelve ſtewed prunes, and fix morſels of bread, and - dranke a paris pint of ſugred water,of which water this was the compoſition. r.ſace.albiſłxijaque font. ** º: - fbxljeinam, üjibulliant fimulſecundum artem: otherwhiles i uſed ſyrup of maidens-hair with boiled wa- ; wa- ser: otherwhiles, the divine drink (as they termit) whereofthis is the compoſition. raque coče fêvji º - ſace,albiſłiv.ſºcclim. .j, agitentur & tranſveſinſurſepius in vaft, vitreis. i was purged when need º - kk wit concerning frađurer. - lib. . ! - with a bole of caſſia with rubarb. i uſed alſo ſuppoſitories of caſtle ſoap to make me go to ſtoole; for,if at any time i wanted due evacuation, a preternaturall heat preſently ſciſed upon my kidnies. with this, though exquiſite manner of diet, i could not prevail,but that a fever took me upon the eleventh day of the cauſes my diſeaſe, and a defluxion, which turned into an abſceſs, long flowing with much matter. i think the of a fever occaſion hereof was ſome portion of the humorſuppreſt in the bottome of the wound;as alſo by too looſe *** binding, by reaſon that i could not endure juſt or more ſtrait binding; and laſtly, ſcales or ſhivers of enſuing"p-bones quite broke off, and therefore unapt to be agglutinated: for theſe therefore putrefying, drew by on a ta- - - - - - Čture. conſent the proper nouriſhment of the part into putrefaction,and by the putredinous heat thence ariſing, did plentifully adminiſter the materiall and efficient cauſe to the defluxion and inflammation. i was signs of moved to think they were ſcales ſevered from their bone, by the thin and crude ſaniel flowing from the ...” wound, the much ſwoln ſides of the wound, and the more looſe and ſpongy fleſh thereabouts, to theſe ºr. cauſes, this alſo did accrew, one night amongſt the reſt, as iſlept, the muſcles ſo contraćted themſelves by a violent motion, that they drew my whole leg upwards; ſo that the bones, by the vehemency of the convulsion,were diſplaced,’’ preſſed the ſides of the wound;neither could they be perfe&ly compoſed or ſet, unleſs by a new extenſion and impulſion, which was much more painfull to me than the former. my feaver when it had laſted with me ſeven dayes,at length enjoyed a criſiſ and end, partly by the eruption of matter, and partly by ſweat, flowing from me in a plenteous manner. chap. xxvi. what may be the cauſe of the convulſive twitching of broken memberſ, vwhy the iſ: contraćtion, and (as it were) convulſive twitching, uſually happens to fraćtured members ºxtream in the time of ſleep. i think the cauſe thereofis, for that the native heat withdraws its ſelf .º while we ſleep,into the center of the body;whereby it commeth to paſs,that the extream parts * n grow cold. in the mean while, nature, by its accuſtomed providence, ſends ſpirits to the ſup- ply of the hurt part. butbecauſe they are not received of the part evill affected and unapt thereto, they betake themſelves together, and ſuddenly, according to their wonted celerity, thither from whence they came, the muſcles follow their motion: with the muſcles, the bones, whereinto they are inſerted, are together drawn; whereby it comes to paſs, that they are againe diſplaced, and with great torment of pain, fall from their former ſeat. this contraćtion of the muſclesis towards their originall. — we ſecp. --" — t- - chap. xxvii. certain documentſ concerning the part, mberesn the patient muſt neceſſarily \ reſ, whileft belxes in his bed. rena, ºs hoſe who have their leg orthelikebone broken, becauſe they are hindered by the bitterneſ, of. ral faculties \ § pain, and alſo wiſh for their cure or conſolidation, are forced to keep themſelves without ſtir- ingºſ, in §§ ring, and upon theirbacks in their beds for a longtime together. in the meanſpace, the parts the parts by * whereupon they muſt neceſſarily lye, as the heelback holy-bone, ump,the muſcles of the bro- º, ken thigh or leg remain ſtretched forth and unmovable ſet at liberty from their uſual funètions.where- nºn. by it comes to paſs, that all their ſtrength decaies, and grows dull by little a nd little. moreover alſo, by tº the ſuppreſſion ofthe fuliginous and acrid extrements, and want of perſpiration,they grow preternatu- on. rally hot, whence defluxion, an abſceſ; and ulcers happen to them, but principally to the holy bone,the how and rump,and heel: to the former, for that they are defended with ſmall ſtore of fleſh; to the latter;for that it *h" alcºts is of more exquiſite ſenſe.now the ulcers of theſe parts are difficultly healed,yea,and oft-times they cauſe happen ºp- a gangrene in the fleſh,and a rottenneſs and mortification in the bones there-under,and for the moſt part on the fra- - - > -- - - ture of the - the figure of a caffè. - a continued feaver, deli. leg, to f *. ..". and rump an tha hccl. ( y that which generallyaccom- a panies ſuch affects ) a à hicketing. for the heel and ſtomach are two * very nervous parts, the à latter in the whole bo. dy thereof, and by a à large portion of the # nerves of the ſixth con- jugation; but the other # by the great tendon paſſing under it, the # which is produced by the resting, and as it § s | - s re. É. wºº growing together - litti . ||" =: º muſcles of -- w. - * the calf of the leg. all sº which are dº. | ;ii: ' ' -- by diſſinati - * mi y diſſipation of the - native ſcat by the fea- aa.shen the bottome or belly of the caſe. bb. he wingſ or ſider to £e opened and veriſh,and that which is ºut at pleaſure.c.the end of the wingſ, wherto the ſole or arch is fitted. dd.t be preternaturall; as alſo arch. ee.the ſole.ff. an open ſpace, whereat the heelbargº forth ºf the caffè, by the infection ºf the - ble lºis. oncerning fºirº. º º – - noble parts, whoſe uſethelife cannot want, by carrion-like vapours. when as i conſidered all theſ: . things with myſelf, and (become more skilfullby the example of others) underſtood how d angerous rehedics they were, i wiſhed them now and thento lift my heel up out of the bed; and taking hold of throps for theºre. which hurgover my head, i heaved up my ſelf, that ſo the parts, preſſed with continuall lying, might ºf tranſpire, and be ventilated. moreover alſo i reſted theſe parts upon a round cuſhion, being open in the . ºu middle,and ſuffed with ſoft feathers;and laid undermy rump and heel,that they might be refreſhed by the cctse benefit and gentlebreathing of the air and i did oft-times apply linnen clothes ſpredover with unguinium - roſatum, for the aſſwaging of the pain and heat. beſides alſo, i deviſed a caſſe of lattin, wherein the bro. the uſe of ken legbeinglaid, is kept inits place,far more ſurely and certainly than by any junks;and moreover alſo, a ºn it may all be moved to and again at the patients pleaſure.this caſs will alſo hinder the heel from lying e. with all its body and weight upon the bed, putting a ſoft and thick boulſter under the calf, in that place where the caſsis hollow: beſides alſo, it arms and defends it againſt the falling down and weight of the bed clothes, having a little arch made over and above of the ſame matter. all which ſhall be made manifeſt unto youby the precedent figure. now it remains, that i tell you what remedies i applyed to theabſceſs which happened upon my wound. when therefore i perceived an abſceſs to breed,f compos a ſuppur; feda ſuppurative medicin of the yolks of egº common oil, turpentine, and a little wheat flour, and i *::: ree- uſedit untill it was opened; then to clenſei: i uſed this following remedy. r. ſyrupi roſati & ºrebinth. aºifive, senate, an ijpulveri, radici, irtos florentie, alºe, maficheſ,farine bºrdei, an .ſ. incorporentºr omnia fimul & - atmundificativum; but i had a care, that the place, whereat i conjećtured the quite ſevered ſcales of the catagma* {. muſtbreak forth, ſhould be filled with tents made of ſponge or flax,that ſo,by this means, i might tick pow- keep the ulcer open at my pleaſure. but i put into the bottome of the ulcer catagmatick and cephalick ... . wders, with a littleburntalum,to procure theºgreſs of the formerly mentioned ſcales.theſe at len gth .. º taſt forth, icicatrized the ulcer with burnt alum. for, this having a drying and aſtringent faculty, con- i. *:::: of firms and hardens the fleſh, which is looſandſpongy, and flowing with liquidſºnieſ, and helpsforward bone.” natures endeavorin cicatrisation. for the fragments ofthe bones, they,by reaſon of their naturall dri. meſsand hardneſs,cannotbejoined and knittogether by themſelves without a medium: but they need a certain ſubſtance, which, thickning and concreting at their ends, doth at length glue them together,and , (as it were) faſten them with ſoder. this ſubſtance hath its matter of the proper ſubſtance and marrow the cauſe: of thebones; but the former from the native heat,andemplaſtick medicine,which moderately heat.for, both ºffici. on the contrary, theſe medicins, which, by their too much heat,do diſcuſs and attenuate,do(as it were . i.ma- melt and diſſolve the matter ofthe gallur, and ſo hinder the knitting. wherefore for this purpoſe, } :* would wiſh youto make uſe of the following emplaſters, of whoſe efficacy i have had experience; for; . hence they are called knitting or conſolidating plsifiers. rºlei myrtill & roſarumoupbacan, fb.ſ; rad. medicins whbeefbij, radfraxial,&follºjuſden,ſad.cºnſºlide majoriº &fel, juſdºm falſalicº,an.mjjiai decºtti, in ſuff-...; . cientiguantitate wininigri, & aquafebrºrum, ed mºdittath conſumptionem, adde in calatara pulveri, myrrhe dº ration º a aburianºſ. adipikirei, fb.ſ .arebinth.late iv meſticket ijlithargyri asri & argenti,an:#ij. veli armenia,& calin. werre figiliate,an. ; ſºminii vj.cere albe quantuºſºficit: fiat emplaffrum, at arti, ºft.in ſtead hereof you may uſe the black emplaiſter, whereofthis is the deſcription. rºlitbargyri auri ſãjolei & acetiſbjøquantur .* fimullenteige dones migram ºffendent reddalarºplaſtrum,& non adherest digiti. qr elſe, r. ski roſat. & plaiſter, ºyrtillan. ijnacum cupreſſ, oldermenſinguini, draspalveriſatarumaná.ſ..emplaſtridiachaleitheor:#iv. liquefa- giant ſimul, & fistemplaſtrºmſecºndum artem. in defe&of theſe, youmayuſea cere-cloth,ortela gºalteri, - whereofthis is the deſcription. rºpsheri, thuri farine volatili,meſichº, boiarm, refinepini, nucan cu...?” pº, reff, rubietinësram,an. .jſºviarietini & cere albean.f .ſ .jat emplafrnm: into which(whileſt it is hot) :º: ; a warmlinnencloth, for the forementioned uſe. emplaſtram diacalcitheeſ, by the common conſent ; º, ofall the ancients, is much commended for fraëtures; but it muſt undergo different preparations, ace core-cloth, cordingtothecondition of the time; for in the ſummerit muſtbe diſſolved in the juice of plantain and * - night-ſhade; left it flould heat more than is fit. it is convenient in the interim to have regard to the tem-, " º proftheaffe&ed bodies; for neither are the bodies of children to be ſo much dried as theſe of old mem:: * * otherwiſe if ſuch drying medicins ſhould be applyed to young bodies as to old, the matter of the callur. " would be diſſolved, it would be ſofar from concreting; wherefore the surgeon muſt take great heed in media the choice ofhis medicine. for, oftentimesremedies good of themſelves,are by uſe made not go od.be-good º cauſe they are uſed and applyed without judgement: which is the cauſe that oft-times pernicious themſelves; accidents happen, or elſe theſºallu becomes more ſoft, hard, ſlender, crooked, or laſtly, concretesmore ºf good ſlowly by the greaterror, and to the greatſhame of the surgeon. : …: ºf by event, - - —l º — --- º ºc hap. xxviii. by what meant we may know the callu, **ding º §§§ heni knew that my legbegun to knit, when as leſs matter than was uſuallcame from the ul- when the ſº cer, when the pain ſlackened, and laſtly, when as the convulfivetwitchings ceaſed; which Çalºis § cauſedmetojadge it fit to dreſs it ſeldomerthani was uſed to do. for, by the frequent de-ºns §§§ terfion in dreſſing an ulcer, whileſta callurisbreeding, the matters whereofit is to be made; ºt.i yºº are drawn away and ſpent, which are (as they term them) roi, cambium, and gluta, which ºn, # the proper and genuine nouriſhments both of the bony, as alſo of the fleſhy ſubſtance.iby other ſigns. - alſo conještured the breeding of the calluſ, to wit, by the ſweating of a certain dewie blood out of the edges and ports of the wound, which gently dyed and bedswed the boulſters and ligatures, proceeding from the efflux ofthe ſubtler and gentler portion of that matter, which plenteouſly flowed down for hipp.ſent. the breeding ofa callus. as alſo, by a tickling and pleaſing ſenſe of a certain vapour, continually creep- ſº; . ing, with a moderate and gentle heat, from the upper partsevento the place of the wound. wherefore ºf". thenºforwards iſomewharloeſsned the ligation, leſ, by *f; too ſtrait, iſhould hinder from . . . . . - y k entring , , "ºº- concerning fračiures. - - lib. s i. to the fragments of the bones,the matter of the gallu, which is a portion of the blood,temperate meats fit in quality, and moderatein quantity.then therefore i thought good, to uſe nouriſhments fit to generate i tº more gºthiº. and tenacious blood, and ſufficient for generatinga caliuſ; ſuch as are the extremities, ing a galla dinous, and griftly part ofbeats, as the heads, feet, legs, and ears of högs, oxen, sheep, kids; all - § i boiled with rice, french barley,and the like,aſing ſomewhiles one ſome whiles another,to pleaſe ** my º and palate. i alſo ſometimes fed uponfrumity, or wheat ſodden in capon broth with the ; s of egs, i drank red, thick and aſtringent wine, indifferently tempered with water. for my ſecond * . . . courſe,i ate cheſnuts and medlars; neither do i without ſome reaſon,thus particularize my diet: for that . . . groſsnouriſhments, eſpecially if they befriable and fragil, asbeef is, are alike hurtfall (for as much as pertains to the generating of a callus)as light meats are for that makes the callus too dry,theſe tooten- lib. meth, der.wherefore galen pronounces theſe meats only fit forgeneratinga callu, , which are neither fragil, cºp. . lor friable, neither ſerous and thin, nor too dry; but indifferent groſs, and alſo viſcid, fat and tough. #. meat, digeſted by the ſtomach into rhylus, are ſent into the guts, and from hence, by the meſara- . veins, into the gate-vein, and the hollow part of the liver, thence into the hollow vein, and ſointo - * the veins §: over all the body and the parts thereof. there are alſo ſome of theſe veins which car- ry blood into the bones; but in the large cavities of the bonesis marrow contained,as in the ſmall acer- tain marrowy .#. thereto, being their proper nouriſhment. the generation of marrow is from the groſſer portion ofthe blood; which flowes into the greater cavitiesofthe bones by larger veins and arteries, but into the leſsby leſſºr, which end in their pores and ſmallpaſſages. for, in large bones you may obſerve large and apparent paſſages,by which the veins and arteries enter for the wºº forementioned uſe. by the ſamewayes the nerves alſo inſinate themſelves,from whence proceedsamem. ...'. , brane which involves the narrow of the bones, the which by that means is endued with moſt exquiſite .." ſenſe, as experience teacheth; which is the cauſe that makes many beleeve, that the marrow hath ſenſe of ſenſe of feeling, becauſe the membranesthereof being hurt cauſe moſt bitter pain. therefore out of the marrow *"g and the proper ſubſtance of the bone, there ſweats a certain groſs and terreſtriallyuice, whereof, by the power of the aſſimilating faculty, which ſerves inſtead of the formative, a callus growes andknits.sisºr * whº ple fraëtures # the leg are uſually knit infifty daies,but through the occaſion of the wound and the ſcales §. uite broke off, and other accidents which befell me, it was three whole months before the fragments of ºn." the boneswere perfºly knit,andi was alſº anothermonth-beforeſ cºuld gº upon my leg without the "º help of a crutch going was painfull to me for ſome few dayes, becauſe the callum had taken up ſome place of the muſcles; for, beforemy former freedome of motion cºuld return again to the broken and knit part, it was neceſſary,that the tendonsand membrancº ſhould ſeparate themſelvesby little and little from the ſcar. in the performanceoſal]thºſe thing...i had the diligent and fithfull aſſiſtance amongſt the - surgeons, to omit phyſitiani, of anthºfºrmal the kings surgeon. ~r c ha p. xx ix. of thºſe * which may bindir whe enrain of•cºllus, and hº i. and ''. tº . . . . . . . . ºf whitrºfifth iſºma. . . . . . . aºaving already ſpoken of the ſignsofa callºw beginning to concrete,ofits generationand the fºllº mannerthereof; itnow remains, that we treatofthoſe things which hinder the generation # ºthertoſandwhaton the contrary help forwards the conformation and concretion thereof; ºf now theſe things which either wholly hinder, or elſe retard the generation of a calw, jº. ***tº have a ſtrong and powerfull diſcuſſive and attenuating faculty;or elſ: they are unsuous,orly; j andmoiſt. forbyſºthºjº, whereofthecalºongºiºiºmºn ºf *hº growes ſoft, and is relaxed. but on the contrary, thoſ: things which help forwards a calhu muſt be ...” drying, incraſhting, thickening hardning and emplaſtick, moderately hot and aſtringent bitformoiſt .." and relaxing medicias, they ought to have no place here,inleſs whenithappens that the galluris ill far- whathelps med, that is, toothick, or crooked, or otherwiſeillſhapen, whereby it maybe waſted and broken, ſota forward the be reſtored again after a better manner. yet notwithſtanding, ſuch things are not to be attempted, un- * leſs when the callu, is yet green,andſo . the fault thereofdoth very much pervert the native ..' . . . . - thereof * conformation of the part, and exceedingly offend the aëion. then therefore in ſuch a caſe, the place muſt be fomented with a decoãion of a sheepshead andguts,whereinſhall beboiled the roots of marſh- mallowes, of briony, theſeeds of line, of finugreek, pigeons dang, bayberries, and the like. youſhah alſo uſe this followingointment and plaiſter. fºungeniidealthesºivokililiarum,&axangie anſºrian. i.aque vitaparum,'iquefiant ſimulſiet linimentumqaaliniaturpart. then apply this fellowingemplaiſter, ºjº.º.º. fiant omnia ſimulfiat emplaſirun; let itbeſprèdupon leather for the #. aid uſe. when %. whitcaill, the callus ſhall ſtem to be ſufficiently mollified,it ſhall be broken;and the bones reſtored to their natura mannot be ſtate, and the cure of the fraúure to be followed as at the beginning. if the callas be become too hard. broken, ... through age, it is betternottobreakit, buttoleritalone, lºſt ſome worſe accident befall the patient shoºtº ... for it may ſo fallout, that by your labouringtobreak it.thebone may breakinſome other part,before :::::: itbreakin that which is knit by the callu. therefore the diſtreet patient had rather live lame, than for ºntº. eſchewing it,to undergo the hazard of his life. ifthecalls betoogroſs,it ſhall be diminiſhed(if it beas - yet freſh) with emollient reſolving, and powerfully aſtringentmedicine, which have force to diſſolve, dry and exhauſt. it will alſo be goodſtrongly torubthe ºtius with oil of bayes, j º … ſome other kind of salt hathbeen diſſolved thenwrapped about with a rowler to bind it very ſtraitly, t rts atºputting a leaden plate thereon, whereby the flowingdown ofthenouriſhinghumorinto the part; may sººn beforbidden; that thusby little and littlethe calw may decay and diminiſh. ifon the cºntrary it any is scalawayes happen that the gallurbeniorethinaidſlender, and grows more ſlowly for thatiristoo º, '. * * * - bound, orbecauſe the idle part is longer kept in quiet than isfit, without exerciſingofits proper fun&i- on, (which cauſe is to be reckoned amongſt the chiefcauſes of the leanneſs, ºven for this reaſon,#. that exerciſeſtirs up the native heatofthe part, the worker ofdigeſtion and nutrition) or elſe for tha they fied uponfuch nouriſhments as offendin quality,or quantity, crboth, or for that the ligature, uſed to the part,istoo often looſed, orbecauſe the part its ſelf is toohaſtily and before the time put to undergo e. ſolid offices and motions. according to the variety of cauſes, medicins ſhall be applyed. for if the ligiº. tureofthe part be too ſtrait, it ſhall be looſed, yeaverily the fratured place; the tigature being taken' crºfore: away, ſhall be quite freed from ligation, and a new kind of ligature muſtbe made, which muſt be rowled down from the root of the veſſels, that is, from the armpits, if the arm; or from the groin, if the leg be broken, to the fraëture; yet ſo, as that you may leave it untouched or taken in, for thus the bloud is preſſed from the fountain and ſpring, and forced into the affºrd part, by a way quite contrarytothai, whereby we have formerly taught in fear of inflammation, to hinder it fröm entralice into the affeae: part. aiſogenile frièions and ſomentations with warm water may be profitably made, from which you muſt then defift when i. ſhallbegin to grow hot and ſwell. if any toblong continue theſe friáions wvish wd and fomentations, he ſhall reſolve that which he hath drawn thither, for this we have bftentifies ob: muſt defit ſerved, that fríðions and fomentations have contrary effe&s,according to the ſhortheſ; and continúand from ſo-, oftime. pications will alſo conduce to this purpoſe,and other things which cuſtomarily are uſed to heiß .# - bers troubled with an atrºphia, or want of nouriſhment, - and friði. . ... ons. º chap. xxx, offmentations which buſidio broken bone. - elvirafomentations arºuſ dto broken bones for ſeverall.cauſes. when we uſe warm water for vyans #a ſomentation, we meanthat which is juſt between hot and cold, that is, which feels lukewarni . |rothebandofthe phyſitian and patient. a fomentation of ſuch water uſed for ſome ſhort the effects # = ſpacedoth moderately heat, attenuate and prepare for reſolution, the humor which is in the thereof. ſurface ofthe body, it draws blood and an alimentary humor to the part labouring of an atrophia; it aſ- ſwages pain, relaxes that which is too much extended, and moderately heats the member refrigerated through occaſion of too ſtrait: binding, orby any other means. on the contrary, too hotfomenting cools by accident, digeſting and diſcuſſing the hothumor which was contained in the member.we mean ". a ſhore time is ſpentinfomanting, when the part begins to grow redaid fivell; a juſt ſpace, wheti the notes of, partismanifeſtyred and ſwalh, but we conjeaure, that much'ortog much time is ſpent thereon, if the ſhºt, juſti redneſs, whidsformerly appeared, go away and the tumor, which hiſtèdupthe part, ſubſide. alſo info- !. º: menting, younuºhave regardtothebody whereto it is uſed. for ifié be plethoričkan indifferent for º: mentationwill diffendthe part with plenty offuperfluoushumbri; but if it be lean and ſpare, it wift foºlis make the partmore fleſhy and ſucculent. now it remaint; that we ſay ſomewhat of the fia&uré of the one hurt lariº - ..., , plethorick bºotless "bodies, ºf . . . ; ----- - -, * * * * * * * * * * * *-* * *-*_* * * - - ºr chap. xxxt of ºff-dunºfºrºſºft, ſº ==hebonesofthe inſtep, back and toes of the feet, maybe fratüred as the bones of the handsywhy the - ; º: smay. wherefore theſe ſhallbecured like them, but that the bones of the toes muſt not be faſhird- º ºg hºh kept in acrooked poſture, as the bones of the fingers thuſt, leſłtheir attion ſhould periſh . ". º §§ jorbedeprazed. foras weuſe our legs to walk, ſowe uſéoùr feet to ſtand. befides alſo jº £ºlshepºntihi keep his bedamilithey be khit . . . .” - - - - keft ins’’ :... . . . . . . . ºf. Ł t, º ºf - tº flièight … ... sº “. . . . . . . thetºfthefſtrºnibbook: . . . . . . . . . . . . . . º, - ... dº ſº, ..., tº ºr º - ---, - º -- - - -- ...” .. a- :: - º . i. *************************** of dislocations, or lvxations. ºf . . . º ; : *. *** * * * ºf ºf: ... " { º . . . . . . . . -. • * * -- ºf . - - ::, ºf -- --- - the sixteenth book, , , , , * . – — --- - - a – –a ... = -ri— - - - - —liair-la- – ---- - chap. i. of the kind, and manner of difficatiº. * * : i. ſº diſlocation is the departure or falling out of the head of a bone from its proper cavity, vyhs , zºº into an accuſtomed placebeſides nature, hindring yoluntary motion. there is another luxation s tº kind of luxation, which is cauſed by a violent diſtinti ;and as it were a certain divari. prºperly ſo mºrº. |cation, and dilatation, or extenſion into length and bredth ofthe ligaments, andall the ºt ºnervous bodies, which contain, ſtrengthen, and bind together the joints.thus thoſe whé *::: tº have been topmented and racked, have that thickligament which is in theinner cavity of neºproper: the hucklebonetooviolently extended. thoſe who have ſuffered the strappado, have the ligherits lyſosºlº encompaſſing the articulation of thearm bone,with the ſhoulder blade forcibly andviolently diſtended, is.” such alſo is their affe&, whoſe foot is ſtrained by ſlipping. thereis a third .laxation, when as the third thoſe bones which are joined contiguous, and one (asic were)bound to the fides of anotheraga. fly kind of diſ. aſunder: as in thearm; wheatheeliparis from the wand, in the leg, when the one focile flyºs from the lºc". other: yet this maybe referred to the ſecondſorsofdiſlocations, becauſe it happens notwithºut ". t - in - - o concerning diſlocations,or luxations. lib. . tion,or elſe the breaking of the ligaments.there is alſo a fourth added to theſe,as when the epiphyſer and theº" heads of bones are plucked from the bone whereon they were placed orfaſtned:which unproperly called kind of luxation,hath place chiefly in the bones of young people, and it is known by the impotency of the part,andby the noiſe and grating together of the cracklingbones when they are handled. now the bones of young folks are alſo incident to another caſualty:for as the bones of old people are broken by violence by reaſon of their drineſs and hardneſs,thus the bones of children are bended or crooked in by reaſon of their naturall ſoftneſs and humidity. - - chap. ii, of the differences of diſlocationſ. - - - - º ome diſlocations are ſimple,others compound. we term themſimple which have noother pre- ternaturall affºtjoined with them and ſuch compound,as are complicated with one or more preternaturall affeasia; when a diſlocation is aſſociatedwith a woundſraëture great pain.in- what corn- flammation,and an abſceſ.for through occaſion of theſe we are often compelled ſo long to let pound." alone the luxation,until theſeberemitted of themſelves,orby our art.some diſlocations are complete and perfeó, as when the bone wholly falsºut of its cavity:otherſome are unperfºaswhenitis only lightly .* moved,&not wholly fallen out;wherefore we only cal them ſubluxations or ſtraint,differences of iux- lu . is, tions are alſo drawn from the pla ce for ſometimesthe bone is wreſted forwards,otherwhiles backwards ww..." upwards, downwards; ſomewhilesit mayºr wreſted,according to all theſe differences offite, and other: hºion whiles only according to ſomeofthem. differences are alſo taken from the condition of the diſlocated or firin. joint in greatneſſe andlittleneſs, from the ſuperficiary or deep excavation of the finus or hollowneg; and laſtly from the time, asifitbelately done, or of ſome long continuance. i have judged it fit to: down all theſe,for that there are ſeverallindications ofcuring,according to the varietie as we ſhall teach hereafter. - - what lux- ºr ations are § § ſimple. fº * - - - -- - ! —— -- - chap. iii. of the cauſe of diſlocations. -- - w internall hºhere are three generall cauſes of luxations,internall,externall,and herediate the internall . jare excrementitious humors and flatulencies,which, ſetling into the joints with great force on . # and plentie, do ſo make ſlippery, ſoften and relax the ligaments which bind; together the § bones,that they eaſily ſal out of their cavities,or elſe they ſo fil& diſtend theſe ligaments,and — * make them ſo ſhort,that being contrated,they alſo contraćt the appendiceſ of the bones from whence they ariſe,and ſo pluck them from thebone whereon they are placed, oralſe draw the heads of the bones out of their cavities,chiefly ifthe violence of a noxious humor doth alſo concur, which poſſ- ſiſſing and fillingup the cavities ofthe joints puts them from their ſeats, as it oſt-times happens to the joint of the hip by sciaticies,and to the vertebre of the ſpine, by whoſe luxation people become gib- external bous,or otherwiſe crooked.but externallcauſes of diſlocations are, fals from high, bruiſing and heavy ... " blowes,the rack,ſtrappadosſlipping in going and all ſuch like things,which may force the heads of the bones to fly out of their ſeats, or cavities,which alſo happens ſometimes to infants in their birth, when - as they are too careleſly and violently drawn forth by the midwife, ſo that either their arms or hereditarie legs are put out of joint hereditarie cauſes are ſuch as the parents transfuſe into their off-ſpring: hence cauſes." it is,that crooked not neceſſarily,but oftentimes are generated by crooked,and lame bylaine. the truth sº. . ſent, whereof isevident by daily experience. beſides alſo hippocrates himſelf avers, that infants in the very ºr wombmay have their joints diſlocated by a fall,blow and compreſſion, and by the too muchhumidity ſº. and looſneſs of the joints:whence alſo we ſeemany crooklegg'dand footed from their nativity; ſo that º, none need marvellor make any doubt hereof. we havereid it obſerved by galen in librum de artisthat §: children may have impoſtumes in their mothers wombs,which may caſt forth quitture, the ulcers being may have ; : of their own accord, and be cicatrized by the only benefit of nature. it alſo happens to many impo- - ro fluiaº that their verges are more dilated than they ought to be; whereby it happens that the heads of the * bones can the leſſe enter into them. it falls o §. sº #: appointed by nature jºbs. for faſtning together the bones of the joint,whether inſerted or placed about, ſo weak, that from their firſt originall they are not of ſufficient ſtrength,or elſe abound with much phlegm, eitherbred together with them, or flowing from ſome other place;ſo that by their too much ſlipperineſs they leſſe faithful- ly contain the knittings or articulations of the bones. in all theſe as the bones are eaſily diſlocated, ſo they may preſently be eaſily reſtored without the aſſiſtance of a surgeon, as i have ſometimes obſerved º * . . ºs in ſome. r - * — ; : * : - ſ: - ; ºn * - . —? - chap. iiii. the fight ofdiſlocations. - the com- yº me of theſigns whereby we come to the knowledg of aluxated bone,are common to all diſloº mon fign of §cations;others are proper only to ſeverall luxations. it is a common fign,that there is alwales all diffoca- zºº a tumor in that part wheretothebone runs, and a hollowneſs on that'fide from whence itis tions. --- *fiown. now the proper ſigns ſhall be ſhewed, when as werome to treat of the particular kindes of luxations. we know a perfe& diſlocation by the loſt ačion of the part;that is to ſay, the loft motiº on;pain alſo breeds a ſuſpicion of a diſlocation:for the head of the bone, which c moved out of its place) is forced into another preſſes the fleſh,and diſtends the nerves alſo moved out of their place. here? alſº conduces the comparing of the ſoundjoint with that which is hurt,in which collation,it is fit the found part, which is compared with the hurt, beno waies, neither by nature nor any accident, were: . * . . cror- each oftheſe, m their firſt conformation,that the cavities oftheir joints are leſſe depreſt than they ſhould be, and lib. . concerning diſlocations,or luxations. . deformed,nor withered or decayed,nor ſwoln above meaſure,otherwiſe it may cozen and deceive you, if youbeleſſe warie. labour and difficulty of ačtion in moving is a ſign of an uncomplete luxation, or signs of an itrain. now we thus know, that the ligaments, ſerving to the connexion of the articulations, are exten- unpºrted ded and relaxed,if the head of the bone-preſſed with your fingers,be eaſily driven unto the contrary part diſlocation, and ſodainly fly thence back again; if thruſting your finger intº the joint, it eaſily cnter, bothing re: fifling it,as though all were empty within;ifthe motion be difficult,or none at all. -- - -- - - c. h. a. p. v. of prognoſtick, to be made upon luxationſ. ll joints may be perverted or luxated,but all of them cannot in like manner be reſtored. for ... . nºš the head may be diſlocated, but thereupon preſent death enſues, by reaſon of the compreſſion vwhitlex: wº of the whole ſpinall marrow preſently at the originall thereof; ſuch alſo is the diſlocation of a : ** vertebra of the ſpine,and of the jaw-bone,which, ſlipped forth on both ſides, hath cauſed in- uſable. flammation,and agreat tumor before that it be ſet. the bones of other joints, as they are more or ºffe vvhy diſlocated,and moved out of their ſeats.ſo may they be more eaſily or difficultly reſtored. for, by how º bones much they are the leſſe moved out of their places, by ſo much they are the more quickly, and by how i. i. much they are the further by ſo much they are the more ſlowly and difficultly ſet. alſo an indićation, loºd. taken from the figure of the luxated bone;gives a ſign of the eaſie or hard reſtoring of the diſlocation ; hardto be as in the arm,by how much the bonesbethe more eaſily diſlocated, by ſo much once luxated they ar: *. the more eaſily reſtored. bones do not eaſily fall out of jointin fleſhy bodies; but when they chance to be put out,they are not eaſily got in again. for in ſuch the articulationis ſtraitly on every ſide held in by the thickneſs of the muſcles and the plenty of the fat lying thereabouts. on the contrarie, ſuch as are lean,eſpecially thoſe who formerly have been more fat;have their joints more lax, whereby it comes to paſſe,that their bones may eaſily be putforth of joint: beſides alſo, through the default of the digeſtive facultie,they have their joints replete with mucous humors, whence it is, that the heads of the bones, as - ſtanding in a ſlippery place;are the leſſe ſtable.as it is recorded by hippºcrateſ. but ſlender bodies, which $ ... are naturally dry.compač and denſºhave their muſcle" and ligaments more ſtrong and dry; wherefore j. s their bones are the more difficultly diſplaced;and diſplaced, the more difficultly ſet. some bones,foine amongſt themſelves,do ſometimes fly aſunder,as when the ſhoulder blade flyes from the collar-bone at celſus lib. ; the aeronium,and in the arm the ell from the wand,and in the leg the one focile from the other, and cºin. the heel-bone from the ancle. bones thus ſeparated will never be joined together again, will never reco-..." vertheir former comely figure, never their ſtrength of a&tion. for, then it moſt uſually happens, that the t ligaments are either broke aſunder or elſe reſolved and becomelax. thoſe whoſe bones are diſlocated by . an externalıçauſe,they,after they be ſet may eaſily fall out again for that the ligaments, moiſtened º bedeved with an excrementitious humor, cannot firmly hold them: oft-times the ligaments are not wholly broken,but only in ſomeportion thereof; and hence the aëtion of the part either periſhes, or is debilitated.alſo that diſlocation is uncurable, when as the ligaments, ſteeped and ſwoln up with an ex: crementitious hnmidity, are ſo much ſhortened and contraćted in their length, as they have acquired in - their breadth; and thus they drawaway and pluck of the appendiceſ ofthe bones from whence they ariſ, why the and by reaſon the bone and the appendix do eater and receive each other by many cavities and promi plucking of nencies,therefore they cannot by how skilfull handſoever they be handled, beagain fitly placed and put in ºppºdiz together. old and inveterate diſlocations, wherein a tough humor poſſeſſing the cavity is concrete in from a bone --- flead of the head of the bone,are not to be reſtored; as neither when the heads of the luxated bones have * .. by continuallattrition made themſelves a new cavity in the neighbouringbone;neither if they be reſtored, ". . . . is the reſtitution firm and of continuance;becauſe the naturall cavity is poſſeſſed by another matter;and t the new made aear thereto cannot well and faithfully contain the received head of the bone. thoſe who have their ſhoulder diſlocated, may uſe their hand for many ačtions, as well as the oppoſite ſound hand, for the weight of the body is not ſuſtained by the hands as it is by the legs, and by how much the hand is the more exerciſed by ſo much the arm becomes the more corpulent.contrarily,if the thigh- bone be diſlocated, eſpecially if itbe wreſted inwards, the whole leg quickly decayes by an atrºphia, c-. cauſe the part doth abſolutely loſe all motiontforby the opinion of hippocrater, the performance of the hi properaćtion encreaſes ſtrength;and makes the partin better plight;but idleneſs debilitates and makes §.e itlean.if a great wound and fraćture be joined with a luxation,there is danger, leſ, while we uſe extenti- ºn, on for reſtoring the part, we draw the nerves too violently; and ſo break the nerves, veins and arteries, whence would enſue fear of inflammation,convulſion,and other malign ſymptomes. wherefore hippo- sext. , crates judges it better in ſuch a concourſe and complication of preternaturall affects, abſolutely not to ſº. :lib. . meddie at all with the ſetting of the diſlocated bone:for,by attempting the reſtitution, certain death, but º & ſº. by omitting it only lameneſs is to be feared. every diſlocation muſt be reſtored before inflammation Å. -> comebut if it be already preſent you muſt preſently be carefull to take it away. for other things, let'you muſt the patient reſt, leſt if the affiét be irritated, the increaſe and exceſſe of pain cauſe a convulſion, not ende- gangrene,and laſtly death,as i remember i have ſometimes obſerved.therefore when inflammation, and º.i. ſet, othermalign ſymptonies ſhall be mitigated and correóted,then may you endevour to reſtore the luxati- º arºccº on,eſpecially if the habit of the body and member affected may admit it. for if the body be ſlender deli- "" cate and tender,then the reſtitution will be more ſpeedy and facile. but on the contrary, more difficult,if it be groſſe and compa&and let thus much ſuffice forprognoſticks in luxations. - ºr chap. // - ~ concerning diſlocationſ,or luxationſ. lib. . - | --" - chap. vi. f the generall cure of diſlocationſ. five inven- § all that i have heretoforº delivered the generall method of curingfraćtures and diſlocations, tions in cu. yet it ſhall not be unprofitable to repeathere in this place, thoſe things which may be accom- º: o- § modated to this treatiſe of curing i:". beth twiligure #. * have re- gard to five intentions, which it will be fitting to perform in order. the firſt is, of holding; the ſecond, of drawing or extending; the third, of forcing in;the fourth, of placing in convenient figure and fite; the fifth, ofcorreóting the concomitant, or following ſymptomes. rushenes, . the firſt ſcope, which we ſaid was of holding, is meant either of the whole body, or elſe of ſomepart of hºli. thereofonly. the whole body muſt beholden by the ſtrongembracement of your ſervant or attendant, the mem-" when as the ſhoulder, the vertebre,or the thigh bones are diſlocated. but in the diſlocation of the collar- be in diſlo bone, elbow, hand, knee, or foot and leg, it is ſufficient only to hold the part ſtraitly in your hands. * there is neceſſity of holding either the body, or elſe ſome part thereof, leſſ, while the diſlocated bone is extended, the whole body follow by continuance of parts, if there be nothing which may hinder: for ifthe body ſhould follow him that draws or extends, all the work-maſters labour and endeavour to re- ſtore it, is to no purpoſe. the uſe of theſecond ſcope,that is, of drawing or extending,is,that there may be a free ſpace and diſtance between the luxated bones, by which diſtance the diſlocated bone may the more freely be forced into its cavity. but the manner of drawing or extending is different in quantity and manner, according to the various ſtrength of the muſcles and ligaments,and diſlocation of the bones to this or that part. therefore this work is almoſt alwayes performed by the hands; which when they cannot ſuffice, we muſt uſe the aſſiſtance of inſtruments and engins,whoſe figures you ſhall ſee hereafter de- lineated. but that you may not do amiſs, you may ſo far uſe extenſion, untill the head of the bone be the nºn brought juſt againſt its cavity. when the surgeon hath brought it to this paſs,then muſt he haſten to the . * third intention, which is, to put the head of the bone firſt moved and gently bended, into its cavity. for º: he muſt have a ſpeciall care,that he force it no other way than into its preper cavity: for it would be dan- into its gerous, leſt he ſhould turn it from one extream into another, and the bone, for examples ſake, of the place. thigh, which was diſlocated into the fore-part by too violent forcing, by exceeding the middle cavity, may be driven and diſlocated into the hinder part. toſhān this,the bone ſhall be putback the ſame way signs that that it fellout, which may be eaſily done in freſh and late happening diſlocations. we underſtand that *** the bone is ſet by the noiſe, or as it were a popp, or ſound like that,which ſolid and ſounding bodies,be- ſct. ing fully and forcibly thruſt into their cavities,domake;by the finilitude & conſent in figure, magnitude and all conformation of the affected part with the ſound, and laſtly, by the mitigation of the pain. the the benefit fourth ſcope,which is ofthe convenient ſite of the part,muſt be ſo fulfilled,that the bone afteritis ſet may of fit placing be keptin its cavity,and not fly forth again.wherefore if the arm be diſlocated,it ſhall be carryed bound *** up in a ſcarf; if the thigh, knee-leg or footbe luxated, they ſhall be fitly laid in a bed; but in the interim the surgeon, preſently after he hath ſet them, ſhall have a care, that the affected joint be wrapped about with ſtoups and clothes, or compreſſes ſteeped in roſe vinegar, and ſpred with convenient medicins, then let it be bound with an artificiall deligation,rowling the ligatures untò the part contrary to that whereto the man- the diſlocated bone flew. for the which purpoſe thicker boulflers ſhall be there applied whence the bone nºr of bin: came out, otherwiſe there will be ſome danger, leſt it ſhould be again diſplaced: when theſe things are *"...* done, he ſhallforfour or five daies ſpace meddle with nothing about the diſlocation,anleſs pain,or ſome ** ſuch likeſymptome happen. for then the fifth ſcope will calius from that ceſſation and reſt, which is, to corre& the ſymptomes and complicate affe&ions, as pain.inflammation, a wound,fračture,and others, the cure of whereof we have ſpoken abundantly in our treatiſe of fraðures. before we attempt to ſet inve- inveterate teratediſlocations, we muſt endeavour to hume& the ligaments, tendons and muſcles by fomentations, *ation cataplaſms, emplaſters, liniments, and other remedies, that ſo theſe parts may be more obedient to the surgeons hand; then muſt the diſlocated bones be moved with a gentlemotion up and down, to and again,that by this meant the excrementitious humour,which by continuance of time hath floweddown, may wax hot, be attenuated, reſolved or made ſlippery, and alſo the fibres of the muſcles, ligaments,and nervous bodies, placed about the joint for the defence thereof, may be looſed, that ſo they may preſently be more freely extended. but if a great ſwelling, pain, and inflammation urge, we muſt firſt think of aſ- ſwaging and curing them, then of the reſtoring the diſlocation. the uſe of extchfion. --- chap. vii. the deſcription of certain engineſ, ſerving for thereſtoring ºf diſlocationſ. the delineation ofthe three ligatures. sº Ö § efore i come in a- §§§ to the parti- ... º & cular #. of for deliga- *diſlocations, i | tion, but think it not amiſs to } saienſion. deſcribe three ſorts of - / • bandages, and give you their figures, as thoſe which are moſt fit to j hold and extend diſlo- cations. the firſt liga- ture, deſigned by this \ letter , is made for § holding the member. the ſecond, marked with the letter b, is fit for = lib. . concerning diſlocations,or luxationſ. º for drawingor extenſion, and conſiſts of one knot. the third, wh ereto the letter c is put, conſiſting of two knots, is to hold or bind more ſtraitly. - - - - a pullºy. -- i have thought - good alſo to de- lineate the fol- lowing engine, made for to drawandextend more powerful- ly, when the hand will not ſerve. it is made like a pulley, marked with theſe lettersbd. within this there lye hid . --- wheels, through whoſe furrowes runs the rope which is to be drawn, marked with this letter h.at the ends ofthe pulley are hook: faſtned, the one of which is to fa- ſtenthe pulley to a poſt, the otheristo draw the ligature faſtned to the parº the boxes or caſs where- , - . in the pulley is kept, is marked with b.b. their covers are marked with . a ſcrew pin . be twined, and ſo faſtned to a poſt, thatſo one ofthecnds of the pulley may be hooked theretosis fig all withic. kgimlet (marked by f.jto make a hole in a poſt, ſo toletin theſcrew pin. you may ſee theſe things expreſtin the precedent figure. s. É. - - - - - . some pračtitio- manubrium verſatile, or, haavia. ners inſtead of this pulley,make uſe of - this deſcribed in- * -.' . - - ſtrument, which they terme mana- brium verſatile, or a handvice. the end thereof is faſhion- ed like a gimblet, and is to be twined into a poſt. with- in that handle lies a ſtrew with a hooked end , whereto the ſtring º - - --- - - * . . ." or ligature muſt be # faſtned. now the - - ſcrew.rod or male. ſcrew runs into the female by twining about of the handlejand thus the ligature is drawn as much as wilf fuffiée, for the ſetting the diſlocated bone. having delivered theſe things thus in generall, now i come to treat of the luxations of each part, from the jawbone evento the toes of the feet, n ==| ||||| * sº |||||| º * e. i n chap. viii. ofth diſlocation file jaw bow. gºhe jawbone is diſlocated by many occaſions, and not ſeldome by, yawning, and riºt- º § other more ſtrong openings of the mouth. it is more frequently luxated into the differences tº fore, than into the hinderpart, by reaſon of the mammillary additaments, which hin-signs that *ś derit from fallingbackwards.the diſlocation is ſometimes but on one fide,otherwhiles º iſ, sºon both, ifthe one ſide only be luxated, it (together with the chin) is drawn awry unto i. tle * the contrary ſide which is not diſlocated; the place is hollow from whence it is flown, - but ſwoln whitherit is É. patient cannot ſhut his mouth, but is forc’t to gape, ſo that he cannot sign" that eat; the jaw, together wit tº teeth therein, hangs ſomewhat forwards, neither dothe teeth anſwer fit: **** ly to one another, but th teeth are under the ſhearers. but if both fides bediſlocated,all the jaw and . †- chin hang forwards and towards the breaſt; beſides alſo, the temporall muſcles appear diſtended, calcu. ſpittle runs out of the patientsmouth againſt his will, the lower teethſtand further forth than the upper, progno- which is the occaſion that the mouth cannot be ſhut, neither the tongue have free volubility to ſpeak,the ºk" patient ſtammering in his ſpeech. when it is diſlocated on both ſides, it is more difficultly reſtored, and wº altheſymptomes are more vehement, whereforeit muſt beft with all ſpeed, otherwiſe the patient . : •will preſently have grievous pain about his throat, inflammation, a feaver, whereupon oft times death the diſlocº- enſues within ten dayes,by reaſon of the five branches of nerves, which,ariſing from the ſecond and fifth lion of É. conjugation of the brain, are diſtributed into the moving muſcles thereof, which too violently extended, º' of the brings jº". ------------- - - - -- - --- concerning diſlocations,or luxationſ. lib. . bring the forementioned ſymptomes. praštitioners affirm, that the jaw twelve dayes after it is ſet,is free from the danger of relapſe. if it have been diſlocated ſome few dayes before you go about to reſtore it, you muſt uſe ſoftning and relaxing medicins to it; but when it is put in the joint, apply a medicine made of the whites of egs, and oil of roſes to aſſwage pain, and apply cloths dipped in oxycrate. at the ſecond dreſſing you ſhall apply ſuch things as have power to agglutinate and ſtrengthen the ligaments and other relaxed parts, and alſo to keep it being reſtored in its place. this ſhall be the form of ſuch a medi- anaſtin cine. r. pulv.boli armeni,ſang, draconi,firine volat. maſtich.pi is, reſive,an .ſ . albumini ovorum .ſfia pre- . * dictmentum, afterwards you may uſe emplaſt. diacalcitheoſ diſſolved in oil of roſes and vinegar, and other things, as occaſion ſhall be. * -- - “a r r- chap. ix. hirºſath jaw diſemafºrwardinbul ſk. ºof fºrſt of all the patient muſt be placed upon the ground, or ſome low feat with his fice upwards, ſetting a * § and his head muſt be firmlyheld by your ſervant,that ſqit may be the more immoveable:then the jaw bone. 㺠surgeon ſhall put both his thumbs, wrapped in cloths (left he hurt them by rubbing them upon ... " the patients teeth, as alſo to keep them fron ſlipping) into the patients mouth, and preſs with then the larger teeth of the luxatedjaw, but put his other fingers without under his chin, and ſo lift up * the whole jaw with them.but if the operation cannot be thus done, for that the mouth on the inſide is fo ſhut and cloſed that the thumbs cannot be put thereinto, then muſt you thruſt in woodden wedges made of ſoft wood, as hazle or firre, being cut ſquare, and of ſome fingers thickneſs.theſe ſhall be wedg- edin on each ſide above the grinders;then caſt aligature under his chin whoſe ends yourſervant ſhal hold in his hands, and ſetting his knees upon the patients ſhoulders,ſhall pull them upwards; then at the ſame time the surgeon ſhall preſs downwards the woodden wedges. thejawbones thus reſtored,ſhall be kept dºct ſo by convenient ligation, and dreſſed with medicins, as it is fitting; and in the meanſpace you muſt for- bid the patient to ſpeak, or needleſly to open his mouth. wherefore he muſt abſtain from hard meats, and ſuch as require much chewing, untill his pain be quite paſſed, and uſe only ſpoon meats, as barley- creams, ponadoes, jellies,cullaffes, broths, and the like. º º --- --- - - - - --— --- -------------------—- chap. x, of reſtoring the jaw diſlºcated fºrward, but on oneſide. . the he patient muſt be placed on a low ſeat, ſo that he may be under the surgeon;then your ſer- "sºon id, vant, ſtanding at his back, ſhall hold his head firm and ſteddy, that it may not follow the %| surgeon drawing, extending, and doing other things neceſſary for reſtoring it. then the n Śl surgeon, putting his thumb between the grinders, ſhall preſs down the jaw, and gently what th **={!! drawing it aſide, force it into its cavity; in the mean, while alſo the patient, as much as in }. him lyes, ſhall helpforwards the surgeons endeavour, in opening his mouth as little as he can, left the jo do muſcles ſhould be extended; and he ſhall only gapeſo wide as to admit the surgeons thumb, for ſo the temporall muſcles ſhall be reſtored to their place and favour the reſtitution. if he open his mouth as wide as he can,they will be extended after a convulſive manner; if on the contrary he ſhut his teeth too cloſe, signs that there will be no paſſage forthe surgeons thumbunto his grinding teeth.some therebe which affirm,that hºlawi, the jawbone may ſometimes bediſlocated towards the hind part,and that then the mouth is ſo cloſeſhut, tº: that the patient cannot open itnorgape, and that the lower rank of teeth ſtands further in, and nearer . the throat than the upper. now for reſtoring it, the patients head muſt be ſtraitly holden behind,whilſt the surgeon, the mean while putting both his thumbs into the patients mouth,holding his other fingers without under the patients chin, he ſhall, by ſhaking it, draw it to him, or forwards, and ſo reſtore it to its place. for my own part, i confeſs i never ſaw this kind of luxation, and i eaſily perſwade my ſelf that it can ſcarce ever happen, for the reaſon i gave in the former chapter. but nevertheleſs, if it by any means chance to happen, yet can it not be a perfeótluxation, but an imperfeótone, the jaw being only, but a little thruſt back to the throat to thoſe mammillary additaments. and then it may eaſily be reſto- red by lifting or drawing forth the jaw,and ſuddenly forcing it from below upwards. - chap. xi. ofth. laxation of the collar bone." . tº: sthe collar bones may be broken, wreſted and crooked, ſo alſo they may be diſlocated. now . ... % k$ they are diſlocated, either againſt the fernum, or againſt the ſhoulderblade, or acromion thereof: boneš. % ºf yet both theſe kinds of diſlocations are very rare, by reaſon of the ſtrait and firm connexion - which the collarbone hath with the foreſaid parts,but chiefly where it is joined to the ſternum, the cure' it can ſcarce be depreſt, for that it is as it were underpropt with the firſt rib. but it may be diſlocated in- wardly, outwardly, and fide-wiſe, and according to this variety there muſt be diverswayes to reſtore it; yet generally the collarbone is put into its place by moving or extending the arm. but if need require, the patient ſhall be laid upon the ground with his face upwards, a tray with the bottome upwards, a. hard ſtuffed cuſhion,or the like thing being put under his ſhoulders, for thus it will ſo come to paſs,that the ſhoulder and cheſ will ſtand ſo forth,that preſently by liftingup,by preſſing down, or drawing forth the arm forwards or backwards, as the bone ſhall be flown out to this or that part, you may reſtore it; for thus the prominency may be forced into its cavity. but it will be requiſite to bind it up and lay boul- º: º ſters thereon, and to give it reſt, as if it were fra‘tured. galen writes, that when he was five and thirty ...” years old, whilſt he exerciſed himſelf in the place of exerciſe, his collar bone was ſo far ſeparated from the acronion, that there was the ſpace ofthree fingers between them. and that this luxation was reſtored - - i] . -- * l b. . concerning diſlocations,or luxations. in forty dayes ſpace, by ſo ſtrait and ſtrong aligation, that he perceived the motion of the beatingarteries under the bone.but you ſhall find very few who will ſuffer ſuch ſtrait ligation ſo long, though it benever ſo neceſſary.verily,this kind of luxation is hard to be known,but far more difficult to be healed. i have known many surgeons deceived, who have taken the luxation of the collarbone for the diſlocation of the top of the ſhoulder. for then the époni, or top of the ſhoulder ſwels,and the place from whence the collarbone is flown,is depreſſed with a manifeſt cavity,with vehement pain, inflammation,andimpotency of liftingup, or o- therwiſe moving the arm, or performing other attions which are done by the help of the ſhoulder. certainly, if this bone,when it is diſlocated, be not ſet,the patient ſhall be lame du- - ring his life, ſo that he ſhall not be able, neither to put his hand to his head nor nuouth.' - chap. xii, ofthe luxation of the spin, or backbone. ºhe backbone conſiſts of many bony vertebré, like rowls or wheelsmutuallyjoin- an anatoesicall ºted or knit together, by their ſmoothneſs and circular form conſpiring to an apt-ºpion of ºneſs of moving or bending forwards. for if it ſhould conſiſt of one bone, we “ spine. kºſhould ſtand continually with the trunk of our bodies immoveable, as thruſt * through with a ſtake. the vertebre have a hole paſſing through themidſt of them, whereby the marrow, paſſing this way out from the brain as by a pipe, may ſerve for the ge- neration of theſenſitive andmotive nerves, and their diſtribution into all parts beneath the head. for which purpoſe it isperforated with many holes on theſides,through each whereof certain conjugations of the nerves paſs forth into the reſt of the body, and veins and arteries paſsin for the propagation of nouriſhment and life...the whole exterior face of the spine is the view. rough, and as it were armed with four ſorts of pophyſet, or proceſſes, whereof ſome ſtand up, tº º ; othersdown;ſome dire&,others tranſverſe. wherefore from theſe thorny and ſharp proceſſes, the spin. the whole hath acquired the name of the spina. the vertebre the further from the neck they - are, the greater they grow, ſo that thoſe which are the loweſt, are the largeſt; for it is agreea- ble to reaſon, that that which bears, ſhould be bigger than that which is born. hence we ſee, - that the holy bone is placed under the reſt as a foundation.theſide proceſſes of the rackbones galapºlis: ofthecheſt,beſides the benefit of defending the ſpinall marrow ſhut up therein from externall . denſ, par- injuries, have alſo another, which is,they firm and faſten the bones ofthe ribs by a ſtrong tye.” therelyes a griſtle, and a tough, and (as it were) albuminous humor between the vertebre, which makes them, as alſo all the other joints of the body, º and fit for mo- tion: the ſpine is flexible with notable agility forwards only, but not backwards, for that ſo there would be continuall danger of º hollow aſcendent vein,and the great deſcen- ding artery running thereunder.therefore the dearticulations ofthe vertebre, mutually ſtreng- thened with ſtrongligaments, do look more backwards.i have thought good to premiſe theſe - things of the nature of the ſpine, before i come to diſlocations happening thereto:i wil. lib. .deuſ, º omit divers other things which are moſt copiouſly delivered by galen,content only to partiºn. adde thus much;that there is nothing to be found in the whole ſtrušture of mansbones,which more clearly manifeſts the induſtry ofgods great workmanſhip, than this compoſure ofthe ſpine and the vertebra thereof. - - - chap. xiii. of the diſlocation ofthehead. the connexi- lº behead ſtands upon the neck knit by dearticulation to the firſt vertebrethereof;by on of the head the interpoſition of two proceſſes which ariſe from the baft thereof, near the hole ºf. through which the marrow of the brain paſſes down into the back bone,and they rackbone of arereceived by fit cavities,hollowed in this firſt vertebra.theſe proceſſes ſometimes the neck. ** fºllout of their cavities, and cauſe a diſlocation behind, whereby the ſpinall marrow is too.” violently and hard compreſſed,bruiſed and extended, the chin is faſtned to the breaſt,and the patient can neither drink nor ſpeak:wherefore death ſpeedily follows upon this kind of ſuxa- tion,not through any fault ofthe surgeon,but by the greatneſs of the diſeaſe, refuſing all cure. sy chap. xiv. of the diſlocation of the vertebræ, or rackboneſ of the neck he other vertebra of theneckmay be both diſlocated and ſtrained. diſlocation verily, rae dange: §º unleſs it be ſpeedilyhelped,brings ſudden death;for,bythis means the ſpinal marrow jº" § is preſently oppreſt at the very originall thereof, and the nerves, therehence ariſing, - ſuffer alſo together therewith, and principally thoſe which ſerve for reſpirations whereby it cometh to paſs, that the animal ſpirit cannot come and diſperſe its ſelf into the reſt of the body lying thereunder; hence proceed ſudden inflammation, the ſquinfie, and a dif- ... " - ficulty, or rather a defe&ofbreathing. but aſtrain or incompleat luxation brings not the ... - like &lamity by this the vertebre,a littlenloved out of their ſeats,are turned a little to the hind tigºnºſº: •r fore part, then the neckis wreſted aſide, the facelooksblack,and there is difficulty of ſpeak-º.:* ing and breathing. such, whether diſlocation or ſtrain, is thus reſtored. the patient muſt be jº" ſet upon a low ſeat,and then one muſt lean andly: ": his whole weight upon his ſhow.ld º - anº - ( ) concerning diſlocation or luxationſ. lib. . signs of their reſtitution. differences and figmes. cauſes. and the meanwhile the surgeon muſt takethe, patients head, about his ears,betwixthis hands and ſo ſhake and moveit to every part, untill the vertebra be reſtored to its place. we may knowit is ſet by the ſudden cºafing of the pain, which before grievouſly affliáed the patien: and by the free turning and moving his head andneck every way.after the reſtoring it th: head muſt be inclined to the part oppoſite to the luxation,and the neckmuſt be bound up a- bout the dearticulation of the ſhoulder.but yet ſo, that the ligature be not too ſtrait, left by preſſing the weazon and gullet,it ſtraiten the paſſages of breathing and ſwallowing. § chap. xv. of the diſlocated vertebrz of the back. he rackbones of the back maybe diſlocated inwards, outwards to the right fide and to the left.we know they are diſlocated inwards, when as they leave a ºf depreſſed cavity in the ſpine;outwardly,when they make abunch on the back; . and we know they are luxated to the right or left fide, whenas they oblique- l", tº . vº ly bunch forth to this or that fide. the vertebre are diſlocated by a cauſe ei- - ºn ther internall, or externall, as is common to all ether luxations;the internall is either the defluxion of humors from the wholebody,or any part to them and their liga- ments;or elſea congeſtion proceeding from the proper and native weakneſs of theſe parts;or an attraćtion ariſing from pain and heat.the externalſis a fall from high upon ſome hard body,a heavie and bruiſing blow, much and often flooping,as in dreſſers and lookers to vineyards, and paviers,decrepit old men;and alſo ſuch,as through an incurable diſlocation of the thigh- bone,are forced in walking to ſtoop down,and hold their hand upon their thigh. but a ver- the danger of tebra cannot be forced or thruſt inwards,unleſſe by a great deal of violence; and if it at any •vertebradiſº-time happen,it is not but with the breaking of the tyes and ligaments, for they will breakra- cated inwards. hipp.ſent. . ther than ſuffer ſo greatextenſion. such a diſlocation is deadly,for that the ſpinall marrow is exceedingly violated by too ſtrait compreſſion, whence proceeds dulneſs, and loſſe of ſenſe jºã de ºrić in the members lying thereunder.neither is reſtitution to be hoped for, becauſe we cannot gal. in tem. through the belly force it into its place: the urine is then ſuppreſt,as alſo the excrements of the beſly;ſometimes on the contrary, both of them break forth againſt the patients minde, the knees and legs grow cold, their ſenſe and motion being loſt. such things happen more fre- quently,when the ſpine is luxated inwards, than when it is diſlocated outwards, for that the nerves,thence ariſing, run and are carryed more inwardly into the body, beſides the preſſed spinall marrow becomes inflamed,and that being inflamed,the parts of the ſame kind;& ſuch asarejoined thereto, arealſo inflamed by cenſent,whence it happeneth,that the bladdercan- notcaſt forth the urine.now where the finews are preſſed,they can no more receive the irra- diation of the animal faculty.hencefollowes the deprivation of the ſenſe and motion in the parts whereto they are carryed, therefore the contained excrements do no more provoke to expulſion by their troubleſome ſenſe, neither are preſſed to keep them in thence proceeds their ſuppreſſion,and hence their breaking forth ji their wils.but the ſpine outwardly diſloca- ted,ſcarce cauſes any compreſfion º the marrow or nerves. chap. xvi. how to refore the spine outwardly diſlocated. lay and ſtretchforth the patient upon atable,with his face downwards,and ſtraitly to bindhimabout with towelsunder the arm-pits, and about the fianksand thighs. and then to draw and extend, as much as we can, upwards and downwards, yet another man- without violenceſſoranleſs ſuch extenſion be made, reſtitution is not to be hoped for, by rea- ſon of the proceſſes and hollowed cavities of the vertebre, whereby, for the faſter knitting, ###!ºtº- - - they mutu- net of cure. ally receive º each other. tº then muſt Çſº * |youlye with º your hands §§|upon the ex- n \ ^s tuberancyes, and force in the promi- nentvertebra. but if it can- notbethusre, ſtored, then wilitbe con- venient to wrappe two peeces of wood , of ifour .*. - lib. . concerning diſlocations,or luxations. - four fingerslong and one thickmore or leſſe inlinnen cloths, and ſo to apply one on each fide of the diſlocated vertebre;and ſo with your hands to preſs them againſt the bunching forth vertebre. untill you force them back into their ſeats, juſt after the manner you ſee it before delineated. . in themean while have a care,that you touch not the proceſſes which ſtand up in the ridg howt - o kee of the spine,for they are eafily broken. you may know that the vertebre are reſtored by the e- the refloref quall ſmoothneſs of the wholespine.it is fit,after you have reſtored it, to bind up the part, and ºftebra in lay ſplintsor plates of lead nearly made for that purpoſeupon it; but ſo, that they may not their places, preſ; the criſts or middle proceſſes of the vertºre, which i formerly mentioned, but only the ides:then the patient ſhall be laid upon his back in his bed, and the ſplints long kept on left the vertebre ſhould fall out again. c h a p.xviii. a more particular inquirie of the diſlocation ºf the vertebræ, - - proceeding from an internal cauſ. gºihevertebre are in like ſortluxated by the antecedent cauſe, as we have formerly ſaid - - sº, which is cauſed by the naturall imbecilitie of the parts, principally of the ner: - * vousligament, by which all the vertebre are bound each to other; this ligament ºs comes not to the ſpinall marrow, but only bindes together the virtebre on their * outſides. for, beſides the two membranes proceeding from the two mening, ofthe brain, wherewith the marrowiscovered, there is a third ſtrong and nervous coat put upon i to left, whilſt the ſpine is diverſly bended, the bended marrow ſhould be broken. this third coat w ariſes from the pericranium, as ſoon as it arrives at the firſt vertebra of the neck. now that liga- - - ment, wherewith we ſaid the joints of the vertebre were mutually knit and faſtried, is encom- paſſed with a tough and glutinous humor for thefreer motion of the vertebre. sometimes a- nother cold,crude, groſs and viſcid humor, confuſed and mixed herewith by great defluxions and catarrhs, begets a tumor, which doth not only diffend the nerves proceeding forth of the holes of the vertebre, but alſo diſtends the ligaments wherewith they arebound together: which ſo diſtended, and (as it were) drawn aſide, do draw together with them the vertebra, one while towards the right ſide,another while to the left, ſomewhiles inwards, otherwhiles outwards,and thus move them out of their ſeats, and diſlocate them. a diſlocated vertebra, ſtanding forth and making a bunch, is termed in greek cypbofit, (thoſe thus affe&ed we may e fat, ºft-back. but when it isãpreſid, it is named fºráfiºsuch we may term, said:#; backt.) but when the ſame is luxated to the right or left fide,it maketha scºlioſi ( or crooked-sºft. ºft, which wreſtingtheſpine, draws itinto the fimilitudeofthis letters. galen adds afourth cºllanº, §eſult of the vertebre, which is, when their joints are moved by reaſon ofthe looſeneſs of their). ; *i ligaments, the vertebre yet remaining in their places, and he cals it a seiſº (or ſhaking.) they seiff. alſo note another defea peculiar to the ſpinall marrow, which is, when as it (the vertebre being hiſ paration not moved whereto it adheres) is plucked and ſevered from themithis diſeaſe is occaſioned by .p." a fall from on high, y a great ſtroak,and by all occaſions which may much ſhake, and conſe- #. quently depreſſe the ſpinallmarrow, orby any other means remove, or put it forth of its fing . place. scarce any recovers of this diſeaſe, for many reaſons, which any exerciſed in the art, - may eaſily think upon : butlet as return to the internall cauſe of luxations. fluid and ſoft bodies, ſuch as childrens, uſually are very ſubje to generate thisinternall cauſe of defluxion. festernal occaſions ſhall concur with theſe internall cauſes, the vertebrewill ſooner be diſ nº error of located. thus nurſes, whilſt they too ſtraitly lace the breaſts and fides of girles, ſo to make niñº. them ſlender, cauſe the breaſt-bone to caſt its ſelf in forwards or backwards, or elſe the one dinºnº." ſhoulder to be bigger or fuller,the other more ſpare and lean. the ſame error is committed, if ‘ing of chil- they lay children more frequently and long upon their fides, than upon their backs; or if,ta- * king them up when they wake, they take them only by the feet or legs, and never put their o- ther hand under their backs, never ſo much as thinking that children grow moſt towards their heads. - chap. xviii. prognoſtickſ of the thiſ cated vertebræ of the back. º #. fia infancy it happen that the vertebre ofthe back ſhall be diſlocated, the ribs will |. grow little or nothing inbreadth, but run outwards before; therefore the cheſt lo- hipp.ſent. . § ſethits naturall latitude, and ſtands out with a ſharp point, hence they become aſh-fººd, nº matick, the lungs and muſcles which ſerve for breathing, being preſſed together and ſtraitned; and that they may the eaſilier breath, they are forced to hold up their heads, whence alſo they ſeem to have great throats. now becauſe the weazen being thus preſſed, the breath is carryed through a ſtritpaſſage; therefore they wheaſt as they breath,and ſhort in their ſleep, for that their lungs, which receive and ſend forth the breath or air,be of leſſe bigneſs:beſides alſo, they are ſubje&to great diſtillations upon their lungs, whereby it cometh to paſs, that they are ſhorterlived.but ſuch as are bunch-backedbelow the midriffe, are incident to diſeaſes of the kidneys and bladder, and have ſmaller and ſlenderer thighs and legs, and they more flowly and ſparingly caſt forth hair and have beards; to conclude, they are leſſe fruitfull, and more ſubje&to barrenneſs, than ſuch as have their crookedneſs above their midriffe. the bunches which proceed from external cauſes are oft-times curable; but ſuch as have their original from an inward cauſe,are abſolutely uncurable, unleſs they be wº at the firſt with great i & -- -------- concerning diſlocations,or luxationſ. lib. . vwhy, when and induſtry. wherefore ſuch as have it by kind, never are helped. such as, whilſt they are yet º he ſ... children, before theirbodies become to perfeº growth, have their ſpine crooked and bunching º:... gut, their bodies uſe not togrow at the ſpinº, but their legs and arms come to their perſºč and in oth ºf full growth; yet the parts belonging to their breaftsandback, become more ſlender. neither is it are nouriſhed any wonder, for ſeeing the veins,arteries,and nerves are not in their places,the ſpirits do neither ****** freely, nor the alimentary juices plenteouſly flow by theſe ſtraitened paſſages, whence leanneſs leſs. muſt needs enſue: but the limbs ſhall thence have no wrong, for that not the whole body, but the neighbouring parts only are infected with the contagion of this evil. when divers vertebre, following each other in order,are together and at one time diſlocated, the diſlacation is leſs dangerous, than if one alone were luxated for, when one only vertebra is diſlocated, it carries vwhy the lax the ſpinallmarrew ſo away with it, that it forces it almoſt into a ſharpangle; wherefore being *ion ºf ºne more ſtraitly preſſed, it muſt neceſſarily be either broken or hurt, which is abſolutely deadly for :. e- that it is the brains ſubſtitute. but when divers vertebre are diſlocated at once,it muſt of neceſſity rous jº be forced only into an obtuſe angle, or rather a ſemicircle; by which compreſſion it certainly many. ſuffers, but not ſo, as that death muſt neceſſarily enſuethereof. hereto may ſeem to belong that * ſºlº, which is pronounced by hippocrateſ; a circular moving ofthe vertebre out of their places is leſs *** dangerous than an angular. º chap. xix. of the diſlocation of the rump. - §§herump oft-times is after a ſort diſlocated inwards by a violent fall upon the but- the ſigns. tocks, or a great blow; in this affect the patient cannotbringhis heel to his buttocks, º neither, unleſs with much force, bend his knee. going to ſtool is painfull to him,nei- §§§ ther can he fit unleſs in a hollow chair. that this (as it were) diſlocation maybe the cure. reſtored, you muſt thruſtyour finger in by the fundament,evento the place affećted, as we have ſaid in a fraćture; then muſt you ſtrongly raiſe up the bone, and with your other hand at the ſame time join it rightly on the outfide with the neighbouring parts; laſtly, it muſt be ſtrengthened with the formerly mentionedremedies, and kept in its place. now it will be reco- vered about the twentieth day after it is ſet. during all which time the patient muſt not go to ſtool, unleſs fitting upon a hollow feat, leſt the bone, as yet ſcarcewell recovered, ſhould fall a- gain out ofits place. - * * * chap. xx. of the luxation of the ribſ. cauſes, he ribs may by a great and bruiſing ſtroak be diſlocated, and fall from the vertebre whereto they are articulated, and they may be driven inwards, or fidewaies. of which kind of luxation, though there be no particular mention made by the ancients, yet * they confeſs, that all the bones may fall, or be removed from their ſeats or cavities, signs, wherein they are received and articulated. the ſign of a rib diſlocated and ſlipped on one ſide, is, a manifeſtinequality; which here makes a hollowneſs, and there a bunching forth; but it is a fign that it is driven in, when as there is only a depreſſed cavity where it is knit and faſtned to the vertebre. such diſlocations cauſe divers ſymptoms, as difficulty of breathing, the hurt rib ſhin- dring the free moving ofthe cheſt; a painfulneſs in bowing down, or lifting up the body, occa- ſioned by a pain counterfeiting a pleurifie; the riſing or puffing up of the muſculous fleſh about the rib, by a mucousand flatulent humor there generated: the reaſons whereof we formerly men- Ül tioned in our treatiſe of fraćtures.to withſtand all theſe,the diſlocation muſt be forthwith re- urc. ſtored,then the puffingup of the fleſh muſtbehelped.wherefore,ifthe diſlocated ribſhall fall upon the upper fide of the vertebra,the patient ſhall be ſet upright,hanging by his arms upon the top of ſome high door or window:then the head of the rib, where it ſtands forth, ſhall be preſſed down untill it be put into its cavity. again, if the rib ſhall fall out upon the lower ſide of the virtebra,it wil be requifite,that thepatient bend his face downwards,ſetting his hands upon his knees;then the diſlocation maybe reſtored by preſſing or thruſting in the knot orbunch which ſtands forth. *lººdſºn. but if the luxated rib fallinwards, it can no more be reſtored or drawn forthby the hand ofthe /* surgeon,than a vertebra which is diſlocated towards the infide,forthereaſons formerly delivered. cha p. xxi. of a diſlocated ſhoulder. he ſhoulder is eaſily diſlocated, becauſe the ligaments of its dearticulation are ſoft and looſe, as alſo for that the cavity of the ſhoulderblade is not very deep; and beſides,it is wvhy herº is * everywhere ſmooth and polite, no otherwiſe than that of the ſhoulder bone, for that : .i. it is herein received. adde hereunto, that there is no internall ligament from bone to #. bone,which may ſtrengthen hard articulation, as is in the legand knee. wherein notwithian- to the ſhoulder ding, we muſt not think nature defe&ive, but rather admire gods providence in this thing; for blade. that this articulation ſerves not only for extenſion and bending,as that of the elbow,but beſides, for a round or circular motion, as that which carries the arm roundabout, now up, then down, differences of a according to each difference of fite. the ſhoulder bone, which hippºcrater cals the arm bone, * ſhoul- maybe diſlocated four manner of wayes upwards, downwards,or into the arm-pit,forwards and - outwards, but neverbackwards, or to the hind part.for ſeeing that there the cavity of the blade sent.i.ſ.º. . bone, which receives the head of the arm-bone, which hippocrates cals a joint, lyes and ſtands lib.de ºf againſt it; who isit that can but imagin any ſuch diſlocation? in like ſort it is never diſlocated inwardly lib. -º-, - , concerning diſlocations.or luxations. ( t inwardly, for on this part it hath the fleſh of a ſtrong muſcle, termed deltoideſ,ſying over it, be: ſides alſo the back and acromion of the blade, and laſtly, the anker-like, or beak-like proceſs, all which four hinder this joint from ſlipping inwards. now hippºcrateſ faith, that he hath only ſeen one kind of diſlocation of this bone, to wit, that which is downwards or to the arm-pit: and certainly it is the moſt uſuall and frequent; wherefore we intend to handle it in the firſt place.when the ſhoulder is diſlocated downwards into the arm-fit, a depreſſed cavity may be perceived in the upperpart of the joint; theatreminof the bladeſhewes more ſharp and ſtanding sºmetic forth than ordinary,ſor that the head of theſhoulderbone is ſlipt down,and hid under the arm- i.io. pit,cauſing a ſwelling forthin that place; the elbow alſo caſts itſelf (as it were) outwards, and cated down. flands further off from the ribs; and though you force it, yet can younot make it to touch them; wards. the patient cannot lift up his hand to his car on that ſide, neither to his mouth, nor ſhoulder. which ſign is not peculiar to the luxated ſhoulder, but common to it, affèted with a contuſion, fra&ure,inflammation, wound, abſceſs, ſchirruſ,or any defluxion upon the nerves,ariſing out of the vertebre of the neck, and ſent into the arm: alſo this arm is longer than the other. laſtly, (which alſo is common to each difference of a luxated ſhoulder) the patient can move his arm by no kind of motion without ſenſe of pain,by reaſon of the extended and preſſed muſcles,ſome alſo of their fibres beingbroken. there are ſix wayes to reſtore the ſhoulder luxated downwards the ways to into the arm-pit. the firſt is, when it is performed with ones fiſt, or a towel; the ſecond,with a reflore it. clew of yarn, which put under the arm-pit,ſhall be thruſt up with ones heel;the third,with ones ſhoulder put under the arm hole, which manner, together with the firſt, is moſt fit for new and eaſily to be reſtored luxations, as in thoſe who have looſe fleſh, and effeminate perſons, as chil- dren, eunuches, and women;the fourth,with a ball put under the arm pit,and then the arm caſt overa piece of wood held upon two mens ſhoulders,or two ſtanding poſts;the fifth, with a lad- der; the fixth,with an inſtrument,called an ambi. we will deſcribe theſe ſix waies, and preſent - them to your view. chap. xxii. of the firſt manner offetting a ſhoulder, which iſ with one,fift. ºft irſt, let one of ſufficient ſtrength, placed on the oppoſiteſide, firmly hold the patient { ãº, upon the joint of the ſhoulder, leſt he move up and down with his whole body, at º; the neceſſary extenſion, working& putting it in:then let another,taking hold of his aºs’arm above the elbow,ſo draw andextendit downwards,that the head thereof maybe ſet juſt againſt its cavity,hollowed in the blade bone.then at laſt let the surgeon lift galºmadſent. - - - - and force up -ſtö, .deart. an expreſſion ofthe firſt manner of putting a ſhoulder into joint. with his fift the head ofthe bone into its cavity. rere this is chiefly to be ob- ſerved, that in freſh luxations, eſpecially in a body ſoft, effe- minate, moiſt, and not over corpulent, that it ſometimes comes to paſs, that by the only means of juſt §kxtenſion, the head of the bone alfrced from the nlmuſcles and o- ther particles wherewith it was, at it were,entangled,will betake it ſelf into its proper cavity;the muſcles being by this means reſtored to their place and figure, and drawing the bone with them, as they draw themſelves towards their heads as it were with a ſudden gird or twitch:wherefore in , many, whilſt we thought noſuch thing, it ſufficed for reſtitution only to have extended the arm. a pºſsi. but if the luxation be inveterate, and the hand cannot ſerve, then muſt the patients ſhoulder be ſº ...'. faſtned to a poſt with the forementioned ligature, or elſe committed to ones charge, who may j .. ſtandathis back and hold him faſt.then the arm ſhall preſently be tyed about, a little above the elbow, with a fillet, whereto a cord ſhall be faſtned;which being put or faſtned to the pulley, ſhal be drawn or ſtretched forth, as much as needſhall require. laſtly the surgeon, with a towel, or ſuch likeligature, faſtned about his neck and hanging down, and ſo put under the patients arm- pit near to the luxation, ſhall, raiſing himſelfe upon his feet with the whole ſtrength of his neck, lift upthe ſhoulder, and alſo at the ſame time bringing his arm to the patients breaft, ſhall ſet the head of the ſhoulder bone, forced with both his hands into its cavity, as you may ſee by the precedent figure. then muſt you cover all the adjacent parts with a medicine made ºx farina vo- latili, bolo armenia, myrtilis, pice,ſeſins & alumine, beaten into powder, and mixed with the white º º s º§ º º s º § º § s s n rºl r & ; k of * * * * * concerning diſlocations,or luxations. lib. . of an eg.then muſt the hollowneſs under the arm be filled with a clew of wooll or a linnen cloth ſpredover with a little oil of roſes or myrtles, a little . i: rºſatum, or infrigidant galeni, leſt it ſtick to the hairs, if there be any there. the part muſt after- wards be boundup with a ligature, conſiſting of two heads, of ſome five fingers bredth, and two els long; more or leſs, according as the body ſhall require. the midſt thereof ſhall be pºt imme- diately under the arm pit, and then croſſed over the lame ſhoulder, and ſo croſſing it as much as ſhall be fit, it ſhall be wrapped under the oppoſite arm. and laſtly,the arm ſhall belaid upon the breaſt, and put in a ſcarf, in a middle figure almoſt to rightangles, ſo that by liftingup the hand he may almoſt touch his ſound ſhoulder, left the bone newly ſet, may fall out again; neither ſhall the firſt dreſſing be ſtirred, untill four or five dayes be paſt, unleſs th ſ: - ſymptome divertus from this our purpoſe. yes be paſt, unleſs the greatneſs of ſome happening chap. x . of theſend manner of reſtoring aſboulder, that is, with the heel; when as the patient by reaſon of pain can neitherfit, nor ſtand. ..ient. he patient - ##. i. ſt : .d— the expreſſion of the ſecond manner of reſtoring a ſhowlder. i.de art. § with his º º * back on the ground upon a cover-lid, or mat, and a clew of yarn of leathern ball, ſtuffed with tow or cotten, of ſuch big- neſs as may ſerve to fill up the cavity, muſt be put un- der his arm-pit, that ſo the bonemay ſtraight waies the more eaſily be forced by the heel into its cavity. then let the surgeon fit beſide him lº even over againſt the luxated; ſhoulder; and if his right|*|| ſhoulderbeluxated, he ſhall h º - =w= put his right º the ball, \ which filledup the arm-pit, w but if the left, then the left | [−. -\-a \ \ \ - heel;then let him forthwith - ...towards him the patients armytakinghold thereof with both his hands, and at the ſame inſtant of time frongly preſs the arm pit with his heel. whilſt thisis indoing, one ſhall fland at the patients back, whoſhall iſſºup his ſhoulder with a towel, or ſome ſuch thingfitted for that purpoſe, and alſo with his heel preſs down thetop ofthe ſhoulder blade;another alſo ſhalfit on the other fide of the patient,who,holding him,ſhal hinder i.g.his way or that way at the neceſſary extenſion in ſetting it, asyou may ſee it expreſt by the precedent figure. chap. xxiv. of the third manner the figure of the thirdmanner oſputtings of reſtoring a ſhoulder. ſhºulder intojoint. tº ome one who is of a competent ºś height and ſtrength ſhall put theſharp : part of the top of his ſhoulder un- der the patients arm-pit, and alſo at the ſame time ſhall ſomewhat violently draw his arme towards his owne breaft, ſo that the patients whole body may (as #| were)hang thereby.in the mean time another, for the greater impreſſion, ſhall lay his weight on the luxated ſhoulder, ſhaking it with his whole body. thus the ſhoulder, drawn down- wards by the one which ſtands under the arm- hole, and moved and ſhaken by the other, who hangs upon it, may be reſtored into its ſeat,by the help ofthe surgeon concurring therewith, and with his hand governing theſe violent motions, as this figureſhewes. chap. lib. . concerning diſlocations,or luxations. chap. xxv. oſtbe furth manner of reſtoring a diſlºcated ſhoulder. the figure of the furth manner ºf reſoring theſhoulder. $º piece of wood (ſomewhat reſembling that which the jº, water-bearers of paris uſe je to put on their ſhoulders) - ſome two inches broad,and ſome ſix foot long; in the midſt hereof let therebe faſtned a clew of yarn, or ball of arm-hole. let there be two pins put in, oneoneach ſide of the ball, each alike di- ſtant therefrom, with which,as with ſtaies, ball, that it ſlip not away from it. let two ſtrong men, taller than the patient, either by nature or art, put thisperchupon their ſhoulders; then let the patient put his arm- pit upon that place where the ball ſtands up; the surgeon muſt be ready to pull his | hanging arm downwards. thus the pati- ent ſhall (as it were) hang on the perch with his ſhoulder, and ſo the head of the bone ſhall be forced into its cavity,as this figure declares, wherein you may ſee the perch or yoak, with the two woodden pins and ball faſtned in the midſt, deline- ated by its ſelf. chap. xxvi. of the fifth manner the delineation of the fifth manner of reſtoring a ſhoulder. {{}}". ºf pºtting the ſhoulder into joint, which is performed by a ladder. &oumay alſo reſtore a ſhoulder diſloca. ºted into the armpit, by the help of a § ladder, after this manner. let ſome roundbody, as a ball, or clew of yarn, which (as weformerly ſaid) may ſervetofiñ the arm-pit be faſtned upon one of the upper ſteps of a ladder; at the foot of the ladder ſet a low flook whereupon let the patient mount; then bind both his legs, and alſo his ſound arm be- hind his back, left, when you are about your o- peration, he hinder and ſpoil all you do, by layinghis hand, or ſetting his foot upon the ladder. then let his arm be preſently put over the flepofthe ladder, and his armpit put upon the there faſtned ball, the patient in the mean while being wiſhed to come with his whole bo- dyas near unto the ſteps of the ladder as he is able; for otherwiſe, befides that there is no o- ther hope of reſtoringthe luxation, there would be no ſmall danger of breaking the ſhoulder bone. alſo let him take heed, that he his head between the fleps. then his arm,bound above the elbow with filletting, or ſome other ligature fit forthatpurpoſe,ſhalfbedrawn down by the hand of ſome that aſſiſt you, and at the ſame time let the ſtool be plucked from under his feet, ſothat he may hang upon the ladder. thusby this means the head of the ſhoulder will be reſtored by its ſelf, the endeavour of the sur- geon aſſiſting, and preſſing down the ſhoulder blade, and moving it to and again. the: #ou muſt take a perch, or ſufficientbigneſs to fill up the cavity of the . theſhoulder may be kept in, and upon the º º % f tº- aae / a eºs #ſº % eing t not w ( ) concerning diſlocationſ,or luxationſ. lib. . being ſet, the ſtool, which a little before was plucked from under the patients feet, ſhall be put there again, that he may, with the more eaſe and leſs pain,pull back his arm from the ſtep of the ladder. for if he ſhould lift it high up to draw it over, there would be danger, leſt being newly ſet, and not wellſtaid, the head of thebone mightfall out again. i have thought good to have all theſe things here expreſſed, that you may learn this, operation, as if you ſee it done before you. i have not thought fit in this place to omit the induſtry of nicholas picart, the duke of guiſe his surgeon; who being called to a certain country-man to ſet his ſhoulder being out of joint, and finding none in the placebeſides the patient and his wife, who might aſſiſt him in this work, he put the patient, bound after the forementioned manner, to a ladder; then immediate- iy he tyed a ſtaffe at the lower end of the ligature, which was faſtned about the patients arm above his elbow; then put it ſo tyrd under one ofthe ſteps of the ladder, as low as he could, and got aſtride thereupon andfate thereon with his whole weight, and at the ſame inflant made his wife to pluck the ſtool from under his feet:which being done, the bone preſently came into its place, as you may ſee by the following figure. anºther figure expreſſing the fourth manner of reflo- another figure to the ſame purpoſe. ring a diſlocated jhoulder. ſ fg ſame purpo, if you have nevera ladder, you may uſe a peece of wood, laid acroſs upon two poſts. alſo you may uſe a door, as the other figure ſhewes, wherein you muſt obſerve a flatpiece of wood or ſpatula with ſtrings thereat, whoſe uſe ſhallbeſhown in the following chapter. chap, xxvii. the fixth manner of reſtoring “ſhoulder, luxated into the arm-pit. - - *śippocrater writes, that this is the beſt way of all to reſtore a diſlocated ſhoulder. you § muſt takeawoodden ſpatule of ſome four or five fingers bredth, and ſome two fin- $gers thickneſs or leſs, but ſome yard orthereupon long; the one end thereof muſt § . sº be narrow and thin, with a round head ſtanding up and lightly hollowed, that put ss under the arm-pit, it may receive part of the head of the ſhoulder bone, the which for that purpoſe muſt not bend towards the ribs, but to the top of the ſhoulder. this upperpart the deſcripti- of the ſpatula muſt be wrapped about with a linnen or woollen rag, or ſome ſuch ſoft thing, that ºn of the gleft it may be the ſofter, and hurt the leſs, and then it muſt be ſo thruſt under the arm-pit,that it may ſº * throughly penetrate into the inner part between the ribs, and the head of the ſhoulder bone. ned mm. ther: muſi, beſides in this ſpatula, be two holes in three ſeverall places, each alike diſtant from other, through which let ſoft ſtrings be put, whereby it may betyed to the arm, ſtretched all the length thereof even to the fingers, in one place a little below the head of the ſhoulder bone, in another stë. .lib. . de § arºſent. . sº lib. . concerning diſlºcation.or luxation. ( d another a little above the elbow,and the third at the wriſt,that ſo they may hold it firm. th fore letthediſtances of the holes be fitted to this purpoſe; but º muſt tº: of this,that the upper part of theſpatula, reaching beyond the head of the arm, enter even to the :::::::: the arm.pi;then acroſſe pin or piece of wood muſt be made faſt through tw of-a-fraſſle, and weittiſrnčifth-rºto, and thercºldc n-the-arm. it muſt be ſo º the pin may be under the arm-pit, the body weighing *::::the arm a- nother:which being done,the arm muffbe drawn down one-way:-and-the-body another about the pin. now this croſſe pin muſt be put on ſuch a height that the patient may ſtand on tip- toes. now this is the very beſt way of reſtoring a ſhoulder. in ſtead of two poſts or a frame you may makeſhift with a ladder,doore,beds poſts, and ſuch like things as ſhall-be-there preſtint. i have heard henry arveºavery good surgeon of orºwn, ſay,that he never-attampted this # ner of pattingiātejºint aſhoulder diſlocated into the arm-pit without good ſucceſſe, unleſ: b chance (which alſo is noted by hippocratel)that ºgrown .. ity and the .# seth, .de art. of the bone hath made itſelf another cavity in the place whereinto it is filleniſof in this caäthe"“” hip-crum is gloſocomium tem. ambi. bone will either not be reſtored, or elſe no re- * : ſº main in its place, but fall; back notwithſtanding - - - fºr into the new hollowed cavity, which ſerves it in ſtead of its naturall ſocket or tavity. but i muſt here admoniſh, young surgeons, that if the bone be not reſtored at the firſt endiavour and qmſet, that they doe not deſpairand p y defiſt from their intended operation, but they muſt wind about, and gently move the joint: for ſo at the kngth it will be more eaſily moved,and enter into the raturall cavity. when it is in...itmuſt be bound up withºom- preſſes and rowlers after the forementioned manner. to the former figures i have thought goºd to adde this, which expreſſeth the manner of feſto- . ; d º luxated º the arm pit with a º zººut patula after the manner of hippocrater. this ſpa- hippſºn. : % kºsº inla faſtned with an iron pinto the ſtanding #: º z// zºº may be turned, lifted up, and preſſed down at n- ºf your pleaſure. a. ſhewes the wooden ſpatula, b. > * * * the frame or ſtanding poſts. *** * , . . . the figure ºf an ambifitted to a diſlocatedſhawlder. for the more certain uſe of this in- how to make - º - ſtrument the patient muſt fit upon a rºof. —l : º . . . . ſeat which muſt be ſomewhat lower ambi, than the ſtanding frame, that ſo the ſpatula which is thruſt into the arm-pit may be the more forcibly depreſt, ſo to force in the head of the ſhoulder bone; the patients feet muſt alſo be tyed,that he may not raiſe himſelf up whileſt the sup- eon endevours to reſtore it.now he ſhall É. endevour to reſtore it when he ſhall. the diſlocated ſhoulder unto the ſpatula, and thruſt the one end thereof under the ſlipped forth head of the ſhoulder bone, as we have formerly ſhewed; for then by preſſing down the other end of theſpatula which goes to the hand, the bone is for- cedinto its cavity. you muſt diligently obſerve the wooden ſpatula, which there- fore i have cauſed to be expreſſed by it ſelf,which hippocrates calleth ambi,whoſe head is a littlehollowed where it is noted with this letter b. the whole ſpatula is marked with this letter a. with three ſtringshanging thereat, provided for the binding of the arm, that it may be kept -* ſteddy, as you may perceive by the air - nexed figure. - have bound the ſtretched forth arm of . ** there…” . .” : ( ) concerning diſlocations,or luxationſ. lib. . there are other additions to this ambi,whoſe figure i now exhibited to your view, by the in- vention of nichola, picart the duke of lorrain’s surgeon,the uſe and knowledgwhereof,beſtow- edupon me by the inventor himſelf, i would not envie the ſtudious reader. another figure of an ambi with the additaments. º § s $ s § § rs § § § § § º § § s zºº ſº =s/s ſ | aa. shew the two eares,as it were ſtops made to hold and keep in the top of the ſhoulder,leſt it ſhould ſlip out when it is put into the frame or ſupporter. - º bb. the frame or ſupporter whereon the ambi reſts. ^. s cc. the pin or axeltree which faſtens the ambi to the ſupporter. dd.screw-pins to faſten the foot of the ſupporter that it ſtir not in the operation. ee.the holes in the footofthe ſupporter,whereby you may faſtentheſcrew-pinsto the floor. chap. xxviii. how to reſtore a ſhoulder diſtacated forwards. gº tisſeldome that the ſhoulder is luxated towards the foreſide; yet there is nothing ſo tº ſtable andfirmin our bodies which may not be violated by a violent aſſault; ſo that ºlº thoſe bonesdo alſo fall out of joint,whoſe articulations are ſtrengthned for the firmer * connexion with fleſhly, nervous griſtly and bony ſtayes,or bars. this you may per- ceive by this kind of diſlocated ſhoulder, ſtrengthned as it were with a ſtrong wall on every hand;to wit,the acromium and the end of the collar-bone,ſeeming to hinder it, as alſo the great and ſtrong muſcles, eponiº,and *†. hippocrates, ſhut up within the ſtrait bounds of the leſ- - s s §:º, ſerafts,never ſaw this kind of diſlocation, which was obſerved five times by galen. i profeſſel *iº, “ have ſeen it but once,and that was in acertain nun, which weary of the nunnery, caſt her ſelf down out of a window, and bore the fall and weight of her body upon her elbow, ſo that her signs. ſhoulder was diſlocated forwards.this kind of diſlocation is known by the depravation of the conformation or figure of the member, by the head of the ſhoulder wreſted out towards the cure. breaſt,asalſo the patient cannotbend his elbow. it is reſtored by the ſame meanes as other luxa- tions of other parts,to wit,by ſtrait holding,extending, and forcing in. therefore the patient muſt be placed upon the ground with his face upwards, and then you muſt extend the ſhoulder otherwiſe than you do when it is luxated into the arm-pit. for when it falleth into the arm- hole,it is firſt drawn forwards,then forced upwards, untill it be brought juſt againſt the cavity whereinto it muſt enter.but in this kind of luxation,becauſe the top of the ſhoulder is in the fore parts of the dearticulation ſhut up with muſcles,opened both to the outer, as alſo to the inner part, you muſt worke to the contrary; to wit, to the hinde part. but firſt of all you muſt lace a ſervant at the back of the patient, who may draw back a ſtrong&broad bandage caſta- {. the arm-piſſuch as is the cardheſiuſ,which confills of two contrary and continued ſtrings) left that when the arm ſhall be extended, theſhoulder follow:alſo you muſt put a clew of yarn to fill up the arm-pit. then muſt you extend the arm, caſting another ligature a little above the elbow,and in the interim have acare that the head thereoffall not into the arm-pit, which may &m. %. , be done both by putting the forementioned clew under the arm, and drawing the head another & art, way:then muſt you permit, by ſlacking your extenſion,the joint freed from the encompaſſing muſcles,to be drawn and forced into its cavity by the muſcles forcible recoiling, as with an un- animous conſent,into themſelves and their originals, for thus it will eaſily be reſtored, and ſuch extenſion only is ſufficient thereto, chap. lib. . concerning diſlocations,or luxations. r chap. xxix. of theſboulder laxated outwardly. - *shediſlocation alſo of the ſhoulder to the outward partsfeldome happens,but yet, if it signs. ºğ may at any time happen,the extenſion of the arm will be very difficult, but yet more £º difficult towards the outward part than towards the inward; there is a depreſſed cavi- * typerceived towards the cheſt;but externally abunching forth, to wit, in that part from whence the head of the ſhoulder-bone is fled. for the reſtoring hereof, the patient muſt be the cure laid flaton hisbelly,and the elbow muſt beforcibly drawn contrary to that whereto it is fled, o to wit, inwardly to the breaſt;and alſo the ſtanding forth head of the arm-bone muſt be forced into its cavity, for thus it ſhall be eaſily reſtored. but into what partſoever the ſhoulder bone is diſlocated, the arm muſt be extended and drawn directly downwards. after the reſtitution fit- vwhat to be ting medicins ſhall be put about the joint. let there be ſomewhat put into the arm-pit which done tº hold mayflit up, and letcompreſſes orboulſtersbe applyed to that part to which the luxated boneſel; . the ſhoulder then all theſe things ſhall be ſtrengthened and § faſt with a ſtrong and broadtwoheaded liga- . it is reſto: ture put under the arm-pit, and ſo brought acroſs upon the joint of the ſhoulder,and thencecar- ryed unto the oppoſite arm-pit by ſo many windings as ſhall be judged requiſite. then thearm muſtbe put and carried in a ſcarf to rightangles, which figuremuſt be obſerved not only in every luxation of the ſhoulder, but in each fraëure of the arm alſo, for that it is leſs painfull and con. ſequently, ſuch as the arm may ſtand the longeſt therein withoutmoving. --------- tchap. xxx. ofthe ſhoulder diſlocated "pºrd. º: he head of the ſhoulderalſo may ſometimes be luxatedinto the upper part. which sºng when it happens, itſhewes itſelf by bunching forth at the end of the collar bone, gns. the hollowneſs of the .# is found larger than uſuall, the elbow flyes further tº from the ribs than when it fell downwards, now the arm is wholly unable to per- * form the uſualiations. it is fit for the reſtitution offich a luxation, that the sur-one geon ſtoop down, and put his ſhoulder under the patients arm, and then ſtand up as high as "" he can upon his feet, and therewithall preſs down the head of the ſhoulder bone into the cavity, or elſe make ſome other to do it. otherwiſe it is fit to lay the patient upon his back on the gro nd, and whilſt ſomeone extends the affetted armby drawing it downwards, the surgeon É. his own hand may force down the head of the bone into its cavity. the operation perfor- med, the ſame things ſhall be done as in other luxations, compreſſes being applyed to that part whereto the bone flew, and it being alſo bound up with ligatures. now you may underſtandin theſe four forementioned kinds of diſlocations, that the bone which was luxated is reſtored, by the ſound which ſhall be heard as you force it in, by the reſtitution of the accuſtomed ačions, which are perceived by the bending, extending, and lifting it up, by the mitigation of the pain, and laſtly, by the collation and comparing of the affeded arm with the ſound, and by its fimi- litude and equality therewith. chap. xxxi. of the diſlocation of the elbow. ;he elbow may alſo be fourmanner of wayes diſlocated, towit,inwardly, outwardly, the author supwards, and downwards. by the part which is inwards, i mean that which looks ſeems norto a: # towardsthecenter of the body, when as the armisplaced in a naturall ſite, to wit,in . . § ºša middle º: between prone and ſupine; i make the outward part, that which is fia. £; tºº" contrary thereto. by the upper part i mean that which is towards the heaven, and in the ſeniº. by the lower that which is next to the earth; and by how much the joint of the elbow conſiſts of ºwn the kinds more heads and cavities then that of the ſhoulder, by ſomuch when it is luxated it is the more i. diſlocated difficultly ſet, anditis alſo more ſubjetto inflammation, and to grow hardthereupon, as hip-º.autho pocrates ſaith. now the jointoftheelbow is more difficultly diſlocated than that of the ſhoulder, doth not º and more hardly ſet, for that the bones ofthe cubit and arm do receive and enter each other by with hippº. that manner of articulation which is termed ginglymuſ, as we haveformerly more at large treat- . celfth, in edin our anatomy, and a little before in our treatiſe of fraćtures. the elbow is therefore diſlo- . - s of cated, for that the proceſſes thereof are not turned about the ſhoulder bone in a full orb, and by theſºn...i. an abſolute turning. whereforeifat any time the cubit be bended more ſtraitly and cloſely than onsforthoſ.” that the inner proceſs can retain its place and ſtation in the bottom of its ſinuſ, the hind proceſs **which, falleth out and is diſlocated backwards. but when as the fore proceſs is extended more violent- :i. attri- ly, and forced againſt the bottom of its cavity, it flyes and departs out of its place asbeaten or º; :d ;: thence, and this kind of luxation is far more difficultly reſtored than the former: adde inward in. hereunto that the utter extremity of the cubit, which is called olecranum, is the higher, but the ºtheſe other inner is the lower; whence it is thatevery one can better and more eaſily bend than extend ºth, . their cubits. therefore ſuch a diſlocation is cauſed by a more violent force, than that which is §. i.d made to the inner ſide. *the ſign of this luxation is,the arm remains extended, neither can it be toward. . bended, for the innner proceſſe ſtayes in the externall cavity which is hollowed in the bottom fore and our ofthe ſhoulder bone,which formerly was poſſeſſed by the inner part of the okaranam;which thing .º: a makes the reſtitution difficult,for that this proceſe is kept asit were,impriſoned there.but when . it falleth out diſlocated to the fore part, the arm is crooked, neither is it extended,and it is alſo the elbow dić. ſhorter than the other. but if the elbow be fallen out of its place according to the other manner located up- of diſlocations, to wit, upwards or downwards, the naturall figure thereof is perverted, for the ".ds: thoſe celſia hath attributed to a diſlocation to the out and inſide's alſº - • * -- . . ( ) hindets repoli- tion. $igne. cure, a caution.' concerning diſlocations,or luxationſ. lib. . arm is ſtretched forth, but little notwithſtanding bended towards that part from whence the bone went, that is, figured after a middlemanner between bending and extending thereof. what kindſoever of diſlocation ſhall befall it, the aëion of the elbow will either not beat all, or cer- tainly not well untill that it be reſtored to its former place; there is a ſwelling in the part where- into it is flown, and a cavity there from whence it is fled, which alſo happens in the diſlocati- ons of all other parts. furthermore, one diſlocation of the elbow is compleat and perfeót, a- nother imperfeót. the latter as it eaſily happens, and through a ſmall occaſion, ſo it is eaſily reſtored; but on the contrary a perfeót, as it hardly happens, and not unleſſe with great vio- lence, ſo it is not ſo eaſily reſtored again, eſpecially if that you do not prevent inflammation, for being inflamed it makes the reſtitution either difficult, or wholly impoſſible, principally that which falleth outwards. chap. xxxii. how to reſtore the elbow, diſlocated outwardly. ºzº ou may know that theelbow is diſlocated outwardly, ifat any time you ſhall º, g #. obſerve the arm to be diſtended, and not able to be bended. wherefore you muſt ºf yiğ's forthwith undertake the reſtitution thereof, for fear ofdefluxion andiuflamma- º g; §ition which the bitterneſſe of pain uſually cauſeth, upon what partſoever the º ſº| luxation happen. there is one manner of reſtoring it, which is, you muſt cauſe iº one to hold hard and ſteddy the patients arm a little under the joint of the ſhoul- der, and in the meanwhile let the surgeon draw the arm, taking hold thereof with his hand,and alſo force the ſhoulder bone outwards, and the eminency of the cubitinwards, but let him by little and little draw and extend the arm, wreſting it gently this way and that way, that he may bring back the bone which fell out into its cavity. i have thus expreſſely delivered this, that the youngsurgeon may underſtand, that the arm muſt notbe bended for the reſtoring of this kind ofdiſlocation; for reſtitution cannot ſobe hoped for, becauſe by this kind of luxation the inner proceſſeof the cubit poſſeſſeth the place ofthe exteriour proceſſein the cavity of the ſhoulderbone. wherefore whilſt the armisbended or crooked, the cubit is only lifted up, and not drawn into its ſeat. but if we cannot attain to the reſtitution thereof with our hands alone, you muſt cauſe the diſlocated arm lightly bended to embrace a poſte, then muſt the end of the cu- bit called olecranum be tyed or bound about with a ſtrong ligature or line, and then wreſted into its cavity by putting a battoon or ſtaff into the ligature,as is demonſtrated by this enſuing figure. a figure whichfiews the waſ bow to reſtorethe elbow, a figure whichſhºeſ bow to refore the elbow by putting it about a poſt, with a battoos. &y only caſting a line about it. } == |es- there is alſo another more exquiſite way off: reſtoring it, which is expreſſed by the latter figure wherein a line of ſome inch bredth is caſt about|f etº'º wº the okcranum of the army embracing a poſt orºž-e== pillar, and it is drawn ſo long, until the diſlocated bone be brought into its ſeat. now we know that the bone is returned into its place, and reſtored, when the pain ceaſeth, and the figure and whole naturall conformation is reſtored to the arm, and the bending and extending thereof is eaſie, and not painfull. chap, lib. . concerning diſlocations,or luxations. g ) - c. h. a.p. xxxiii. of the diſlocation of the elbow to the inſide, and of a compleat and uncompleat euxation. f the elbow be diſlocated to the inner part, the arme muſt bee ſtrongly and powerfully extended, then bended quickly and with ſudden violences ſo that his hand may ſmite upon his ſhoulder, yº yº some put ſome round thing into the bought of the elbow, and § upon that do ſuddenly force the elbow to the floulder, as wee § q º have formerly ſaid. if the cubit boneſbee onely lightly moved sºlº) out of its place into the upper or lower place, it is eaſily reſtored by drawing and forcing it into its cavity, after this following manner, let two extend the arme, taking hold thereof at the ſhoulder and wriſt, and each draw towards himſelfe; and alſo the surgeon (who ſhall there be preſent) ſhall force the bone which is diſlocated from that part whereunto it is bended, unto the contrary : after he ſhall thus have reſtored it, hee ſhall lay the arme in a ſtrait angle, and ſo binde it up, and apply fit medicins formerly meationed, and ſolet him carry it in a ſcarfe É. about his neck, as we ſaid in the diſlocation of the ſhoulder. hippocrateſ bids,that the viºrs.º * atient, after it is ſet, ſhall often endeavour to bend his hand upwards and down- wards, and alſo extend and bend his arme, yea, and alſo to attempt to liſt up ſome heavy thing with his hand; for ſo it will come to paſſe, that the ligaments of this joint may become more ſoft, ready, and able to performe their accuſtomed funètions, and alſo the bones of the cubit and ſhoulder ſhall be freed from the affººt termed an- cyloſiſ, whereto they, * taine preternaturall agglutinations coagmentation, and as it were union of ſundry and ſeverallbones in the ſame joint, which afterwards hindersthe bending and extenſion thereof. now, a callu, is generated in the elbow ſooner than in any other articulation, whetherit remaineth out, or be º into joint, by reaſon,that by reſt and ceſſation from the accuſtomed ačtions, a viſcide humor, which is placed naturally in the joints, as alſo another which is preternaturall, drawne thither by paine, floweth downe, and is hard- ned, and gleweth the bonestogether, as i have obſerved in many, by reaſon of the idleneſſ: and too long reſt of this part. wherefore, that we may withſtand this affea, the whole ligation muſt be looſed ſooner and oftner than otherwiſe, that is to ſay, every third day, and then the patients arme muſt be gently moved every way. within the ſpace of twenty, or twenty five dayes, theſe reſtored bones recover their ſtrength, ſooner or later, according to the happening accidents. it is neceſſary alſo that the surgeon know that the radius, or wand, ſometimes falleth out when the cubit or eil is wholly diſlocated; wherefore hee muſt bee mindfull in ſetting the cubit, that hee alſo reſtore the wand to its places in the upper part it hath a round proceſſe light- ly hollowed, wherein it receiveth the ſhoulder bone; it hath alſo an eminency which ad- mitteth the two headed muſcle, - . . . . . .x: ºr." - . - • ? *" -: , - - - " - -- - :*::, º - ... º aſ - *—- —— — -, * , , in s :- tºorºº: . . . * * * * **, ºu lº : ". . . . . . . . - ... ... is rºom... . . .- :o chap. xxxiv, ºil ºf . . . . . . . . . hºban: - , i. ºd tº -", i <! . .” and v. . . . . . . .h h * * # º - - tº - -º-' ſ r. rºl, ºr .x: * * ºr *.* * * * * --- tº i. of the diſlºcation ºf the styliforni, triedkin-like * * *…* r * * */ e ...!! [..." – . ... • *: -- * * * ~ * - - * *-*. - - - * . - -- . . ſ. if * - ºf t , , ", prºſºfthe ºth ºff. ". . . . . . . . . au-----tº yº - “....”. º, t , . . . . . . . . .” ‘’.a., jº he prºſe of the Élicalled sºliº, beingºstitulated to the wriſt by ºpirbraft, by which it is trººved in a ſmall cavity, is diſlocated, \si and falleth out ſometimes inwards, ſomewhiles outwards; the pauſe # uſually is the falling of the body from high upon the hands. it is re- ſtored, if that you force it into its ſeat, diligently binde it, and ap- * ply thereto very aſtringent and drying medicines. but yet, though you gently performe all things which may bee done in diſlocations, yet you ſhall never ſo bring it to paſſethat this boneſhall bee perfe&ly reſtored; and abſolutely put into the place where hence it went : which thing wee have read, obſerved by hip- pocrate i when (ſaith hee) the greater bone, to wit, the ell, is removed from the o- ther, that is, the wand, it is not eaſily º, º its owne nature *inº - that, the cue. - * * sent: ſºli, de frači. are incident by the luxations of this part. now zºloft, is a cer why theslºw is moſt ſubject to angleſi. - º, ... .") º -- differences and cauſcs; - cure, sent. . ſett. , & ſent, ult ſº, defra', ( ) concerning diſlocations,or luxationſ. lib. . that, ſeeing that neither any other common connexion of two bones, which they call symphyſiſ or union, when it is drawne aſunder and deſtroyed, may be reduced into its former nature, by reaſon theſe ligaments wherewith they were formerly contained, and as it were continued, are too violently diffended and relaxed, whence it happens, that i º! theſe caſes often obſerved, that the diligence and care of the surgeon hath nothing valled, * chap. xxxv. . . . of the diſlocation of the wrift. º # ee underſtandby the wriff, a certaine bony body, conſiſting of a hereyas befors * * *ap- , he '...a compoſure of eight bones knit to the whole cubit by diari&roft. *::::" º for the wriſt confidered wholly in its ſºlfe, is knit and articu- and hippocrát. º s/awa lated with the ell and wand: with that, againſt the littlefinger; ** * expºſing ºys º with this, againſt the thumb: for thus as it were by two con- the names and lº figns of theſe nexions, the joint is made more firme. yet may it be diſlocated . inwardly, outwardly, and towards the fides. wee ſay it is lux- * - * diſlocations: ated inwardly when the hand ſtands upwards, but outwardly, when it is crookt in bigne. cure. and cannot be extended. but if it chance to be diſlocated fidewayes, it ſtands awry , , eiºt towards the littlefinger; or elſe towards the thumbe, as the luxation befals t or that ſide. the cauſe hereof may ſeeme to depend upon the different dear- ticulation of the ell and wand with the hand or wriſt. for the wand, which is articulated on the lower part with the wriſt at the thumbe, by its upper part, whilſt it receives the outward ſwelling or condyle of the ellis its cavity, performes the circular motions of the hands. but the cubit or ell, which in like ſort is conneéted on the lower part by diartbroń, at the little finger with the wriſt, being articulated on the upper part with the ſhoulder bone bends and extends, or ſtretches forth the hand. there is one way to refore the formerly mentioned diſlocations. the arme on one fide and the hand on another muſt be extended upon a hard reſiſting and ſmooth place, to that it may lye flat ; and you muſt have a care that the part whence the diſlocated bone ſell, be the lower in its fite and place , and the part whither, it is gone, the higher. then to conclude, the prominencies of the bones muſt be preſſed down by the hand of the surgeon,untill by the force of compreſſion and fite the luxated bones be thruſt and forced into their places and cavities, , , , ºr * --- - - *** * * - - *: -- * * ---, -a, -i > * ... -- ** - t ‘. . . chap. xxxvi. .* - * ~ * * * of the diſlocated hones of the wrift. > ſº lan he wriſt conſiſts of eight bones, which cannot, unleſſe by extraordi- y nary violence, be put or fall out of their places. yet if they ſhall at * any time fall out, they will ſhew it by the tumour of the part where- to they are gone, and by the depreſſion of that wherefrom they are fled. they may bee reſtored, if the diſeaſed hand be extended upon a table; and if the bones ſhall be diſlocated inwards, the hand ſhall bee placed with the palme upwards, then the surgeon ſhall, with the palme of his hand, preſſe downe the eminències of the bones, and force each bone into its place. but if the luxation bee outwards, hee ſhall lay the palme next to the table, and preſſe it after the ſame manner. to conclude, if the luxation ſhall be to. ward either fide, the luxated bones ſhall be thruſt towards the contrary, and the reſtoa redbones ſhall be preſently contained in their places with fit remedies, binding, rowling, and carrying the handin a ſtarfe.' ' - r lib. . concerning diſlocation, or luxation. c h"a p. xxxvii. * > of le diſcaled bones of the after-wrift. - - - - - > --> - - - ) - tºº, & tº . . . . *here are four bones in the palm or after-wreſt, the two middlemoſt where- * (# § ofcannot bee diſlocated fide-waies, becauſ they are hindred and kept from tºp. . •. falling afide by the oppoſition of the parts, as it were reſiſting them. nei- ‘’’ ºther can that which anſwereth to the littlefinger, nor that whereon the fore--- - finger reſt's, bee diſlocated towards that ſide which is next the middlebones, “ ”’ whereofweenow ſpake, but onely on the other fide, freed from the neighbor-hood of the - bones: but all of them may bee #: inwardly and outwardly. they may bee reſto- red as thoſe of the wreſt. - ºf: -, - . ºf f. xi, *, *, *, * . . . . . . . . . . . . . . - —— — - - - - - - - rº, º º - - - - - - - - - * - - - - - - - - z º.º. ºf tº ºut: ' ' - - * - : . c. h. a. p. x xxviii, - * * * ----- - ... . . . . .''t * : . - * * * - \ ºr - - * - - * | "... " , rººt :... - º , tº . . nº . ~ * * * | -- - - - - -- - -: ; ; ; *… . . .*... . . . tº º' of the diſlocated finger. º º * - a * - º, ) ; , . " - † nºlſo the bones ofthe fingers maybee fourſeveral waies diſlocated, inwardly, out-wlythe diac- º § wardly, and at each fide. to reſtore them, they muſt bee laid ſtraight upon atá- cated fingers' n.y., ble, and ſo put into joint again. for thus they may bee eaſily reſtored, by reaſon maybe; affly * their ſockets are not deep, and their joints are ſhorter, and ligaments leſs ſtrong. : in twelvdaies ſpace they will recovertheir ſtrength, as alſo thoſe diſlocations thathappen to the wreſt and after-wreſt. ... . tº ºr . - -, -: , ! . . . . . ; ſº, º . . . . . l _ − - — tt– - . . . of a diſlocated thigh, or hip. º ch ap. xxxix. º' - -- ºr ºf , ºf he thigh or hip may bee diſlocated, andfall forth towards all the four parts hipſºn. s. butmoſt frequently inwards, next to that outwards, but verieſeldom either ſtå, -deº. forwards or backwards. a ſubluxation cannot º in thisjoint, as neiº ther in the ſhoulder, eſpecially from an external cauſ, contrarie to which it : uſually happen's in the elbow, hand, knee, and foot. the cauſhereof is, for that the heads of the thigh and ſhoulder-bone are exačtly round, and the ſockets which re-gai.am.au ceiv them have certain borders and edges encompaſſing them: hereunto maybee added,that ſºft. ſtrong muſcles encompaſs each dearticulation, ſo that it cannot com to paſs that part of deaut. the heads of ſuch bones may bee conteined in the cavitie, and other parts ſtandor falforth; but that they will quickly §: reſtored totheir places by the motion and wheeling about of the joint, and the ſtrength of the encompaſſing muſcles. but a ſubluxation may ſeem to ſubluxation happen in theſe parts from an internal cauſ. for then the ligaments and ties being ſoft- º . : ned and relaxed, cannot draw and carrieback the head of the bone ſtanding forth ſo far º, an as the edges of the ſocket. if the hipbee diſlocated towards the inner part, that leg bee" internal cauſ. com's longer and larger then the ... but the knee appear's ſomwhat lower, andlook's outwardly with the whole foot, neither can the patient ſtandupon his leg. to conclude: phe head of the thigh-bone bewray's itſelflying in the groin, with a ſwelling manifeſt both to the eie and hand; now the legislonger then that which is ſound, for that the head of the thigh is out of it's ſocket or cavitie, and fituated lower, to wit, in the groin, therefore the leg is made by ſo much the larger. now the knee ſtand's forth, becauſneceſ. ſarily the lowerhead of the thigh-bone ſtand's contrarie to the ſocket. for this is com- monto all diſlocated bones, that when as the diſlocation happen's to the one ſide, theo- therend ofthe bone flie's out to the contrarie. whence it is, that if the tipper-head of the thigh-bone ſhall fallinwards, then the otherhead, which is at the knee, muſt neceſſarily lookoutwards. the like happen's in other diſlocations. the leg cannot bec bended to- wards the groin, forthat the diſlocated bone hold's the extending muſcles of the ſame ſo ſtiffly ſtretched out, that they cannot yeeld, or applie themſelvs to the benders. - * i ºr . or flexion or bending ought to precede extenſion, and extenſion, flexion. ' ' ". . . .” . . . . . . - -- . . . . . . ºººoºººººººº -º - . - * - - - tº ºne;” . . ſº ºf º - - " * * *----- - ll, . . . . . . 'mº', " ... . . ." chap. t - - - - - - -: * * - -- i - . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . tº ſi ºr º: "º -- * ~ * ºr cº-ºff, ºr . . " . . . - - - --- * -- * -- ~ : * ~ *-ijº º, u ∈ . . . . . . - -- - - - ... a tº concerning diſlocation, or luxation. lib. . chap. xl. - prognoſticks belonging to a diſlocated hip. - hºhere is this danger in the diſlocations of the hip, that either the bone cannot why the thigh- diſl ºbee put into the place again, at leaſt unleſs with very much trouble, orelſ bee- . ... *" ingputin, that it mayf. fall out again. for if the tendons of the muſ- isºtorºo: ' ' " cles, the ligaments,and other nervous parts ofthe member beehard and ſtrong, reflored, eaſily. ... they, by reaſon of their contumacie and ſtiffneſs will hardly ſuffer the bone to fall's out a return to its place. if that they bee ſoft, looſ, effeminate and weak, they will not contain gain. the reſtoredbone in its place. neitherwill it bee any better contained, if that ſhort, but -yet ſtrong and round ligament, which faſten's the head of the thigh-bone on theinfide in the socket or cavitie of the huckle-bone, beebroken or relaxed. now it may beebroken by ſomviolent ſhock or accident, it may bee relaxed by the congeſtion and long ſlayof the breaking fomexcrementitious, tough andviſauous humor lying about the joint, through which and relaxation meansitwaxeth ſoft. but if it bee broken, how often ſoever the bone bee reſtored, it will fthe internal É. fall out again. if itbee relaxed, there is onely this hope to contain the reſtored ligament. ne,that is, to conſume and draw away the heaped up humiditieby application of me- dicines and cauteries of both kindes, for which purpoſe thoſe are more effe&ual which do ... actuallyburn, for that they drie and ſtrengthen more powerfully. leanneſs of the bodie, gal, toº, d and the want of aponeuroſet,that is, ofbroad tendontandexternalligaments, whereofma- ſºſº nyencompaſs the knee, encreaſe's the difficultie of containing it in the place. but the parts deart. adjoining to the diſlocated and not-ſet-bone fall away by #. and little, and conſume with an airophia or want of nouriſhment; both becauſ the part it ſelf is forced to defiſt from the accuſtomedaćtions and funètions, as alſo for that the veins, arteries and nervs beeing more ſtraitned and put out of their places, hinder the ſpirits and nouriſhment from flowing ſo freely as they ought, to the part: whence it com's to paſs, that the partitſelf is made more weak, the native heatbeeing debilitated through idleneſs, it can neither at- tratt the alimentarie juice, neither can it digeſt and aſſimilate that little thereof which flow's and falleth thereto. verily the thigh-bone, as long as it is forth of the cavitie, #. no more after the manner as the other bones of the bodie do, and therefore in ſom ſpace of time you may perceivit to beeſhorter then the ſoundbone. notwithſtanding the tº bones of the lºg andfoot are not hindered of their growth, for that they are not out of their proper places. now for that the whole leg appear's more ſlender, you muſt think that happen's onely by the extenuation and leanneſs of the proper muſcles thereof. the ſame thing happen's to the whole hand, in the largeſt acception, when as the ſhoulder is - out of oint, unleſs that the calamitieand loſs hereofis the leſs. for the ſhoulder beeing , forth of joint you may do ſomthing with your hand, whereby it will com to paſs that no …, ſmal portion of nouriſhent may flow down into theſe parts. but the thigh-bone beeing diſlocated, eſpecially inwards in a childe unborn, orian infant, much leſs alimentarienou. riſhment flow's to that part, becauſit can much leſs uſe the foot and leg by reaſon of the diſlocation of the hip, then it can do the handby a luxation of the ſhoulder. but now hippºtraits ex-wee muſt thus underſtand that which is ſaid by hippotrates . that diſlocated bones and not pºſº.º. reſtoreddodecreaſ or are hindered from their juſtgrowth, to be onely inthoſe who have ena* notyet attained otheir fullandnaturally-appointed growth in every dimenſion. for in - men of full growth, the bones which are not reſtored,becom more ſlender, but yet no ſhor- ter, as appear's by that which hee hath delivered of the ſhoulder. . . . . chap. xll. * : * , - * of the ſigns af the hip diſlocated outwardly or inwardly. ºl. he thigh-bone or hip when it is diſlocated outwardly, and not reſtored, after º; ; ſomtime the pain is aſſwaged, and fleſh grow’s about it, the head of the bone ** [*** wear's itſelf a new cavitie in the adjoining hip, whereinto it betake's itſelf, nº ſo that at the length the patients may go without a ſtaff, neither ſo deformed a leanneſswillwaſte their leg. but if the luxation happeninwards, a greaterleanneſswillbe- fal m, by reaſon that the veſſels naturally run more inwardly, as galen obſerv's in the - diſlocation of the vertebre to the inſide; : it com’s to paſs that they are more # # rievouſly oppreſſed: beſides the thigh-bone cannot wag or once ſtir againſt the ſhare- *** bone; whereforeifthe bone thus diſlocated beenot reſtored to its joint again, then they muſicaſt their leg about as they walk, juſt as wee ſee oxen do. wherefore the ſound leg whil'ſ they go,take's much leſs ſpacethen the lame,becauſthis, whil'ſtit ſtirreth or moow: eths, muſt neceſſarily fetch a compaſs about but that performeth its motion in a right line. bºi. whil'ſt the patients ſtand upon their lame leg to put forwards the ſound,they are #. to flandcrooked, whereupon they are forced to ſtay themſelvs with a ſtaff that they imot, further- º lib. . concerning tiſlocations, or luxations. --- furthermore thoſe who have this bone diſlocatedeither backwards or outwards,ſo that sigº ºf th:... it cannot beereſtored, have the part it ſelf grow ſtiff and hard ; which is the cauſwhy the .* ham may beebended without great pain, and they may ſtand, and go upon the tops of.” their toes; beſides alſo, when they deſire to go faſter, they are forced to ſtoop, and ſtreng- : themſelvs by laying their hand on their lame thigh at every ſtep; both for that their lame leg is the ſhorter, as alſo becauſthe whole weight of the bodie ſhould not lie wholly or perpendicularly upon the joint or head of the thigh-bone. yet in continuance oftime, when they are uſed to it, they may go without any ſtaff in their hands. yet in the inte- rim, the ſound leg becom's more deformed in the compoſure and figure, becauſ, whilſt it ſuccor's the oppoſite andlame legby the firm ſtanding on the ground, it bear's the weight of the whole bodie, in performance whereof the ham muſt neceſſarily now and then bend. but on the contrarie, when as the head of the thigh beeing diſlocated inwards is not put into the joint, if the patient bee arrived at his full growth, after that the head of the bone hath made it ſelf a cavitie in the neighboring bone wherein it may reſt, hee may bee able to walk without a ſtaff, becauſ the diſlocated leg cannot eaſily bee bended toward the groin or ham, and hee will ſooner reſt upon his heel then upon his toes. this kinde of diſlocation if itbee inveterate, can neverbee reſtored. and theſe things happen,when as the thigh-bone is diſlocated inwards, or when the internal ligament which faſten's the dearti- ticulation ſhall bee broken or relaxed. but the contrarie ſhall plainly appear if the diſlo- cation ſhall happen to bee outwards; for then the lame leg becom's the ſhorter, becauſthe head of the thigh flie's into a place higher then its cavitie, and the muſcles of that part are contraćted towards their original, and couvulſively draw the bone upward together with them. the whole leg, together with the knee and footlooketh inwards, they cannot go upon their heels, but upon the ſetting on of the toes. the leg may bee bended, which it cannot bee in a diſlocation of the thigh inwards, as paulus ſhew's. therfore wee muſt di- paul **g.lib. ligently obſerv that ſentence of hippocrates which is read with a negative, in theſe words: ...shiji. sedneque confleåere quemadmodumſanum crus poſſunt, that they ought to bee read with an af-ſºft. lib.de ar. firmative after this manner: sed confletiere &c. quin & cruſ ipſum &c. but now the lame leg tie. will better ſuſtain the weight of the bodie in an external, then in an internal diſlocation; for then the head of the thigh is more perpendicularly ſubjećt to the whole weight of the bodie. therefore when in the ſucceſs of time it ſhall by wearing have made it ſelf a cavitie in the neighboring bone, which in time willbee confirmed, ſo that there will remain no hope of reſtoring the diſlocation, nevertheleſs the patient ſhall bee able to go without a ſtaff, for that then no ſenſofpain will trouble him; whence it follow’s, that the whole leg alſo will becom leſs lean, for that going is leſs painful, neither are the veſſels ſo much preſ: ſed as in that diſlocation which is made inwardly. chap xl ii. of the thigh-bone diſlocated forewards. *&t ſeldom happeneth that the thigh is diſlocated forwards; yet when as it wº) ſhall happen, it is by theſe ſigns. the head of the thigh lieth towards the §ſ ſhare; whence the groins ſwell up, and the buttock on the contrarie is tº wrinkled and extenuated by reaſon of the contraćtion of the muſcles; the §§§ patient cannot extend his leg without pain, noverily, not ſo much as bend * it towards the groin, for the fore-muſcle which ariſeth from the hanch-bone is ſo preſſed by the head of the thigh, that it cannot bee diſtended; neither can the hambee bended with out very much paine.but the ſame legis equall at the heel with the other leg, yet the patient cannot ſlandupon the ſetting on of the toes; therefore when heeis forced to goshee toucheth the ground with his heel only,yeaverily the ſole of his foot is leſs incli- ned to the fore fide, neither doth it ſeldom happen, that the urine, by this accident, is ſup- stopping of u- preſt;becauſe the head of the thigh oppreſſe's the greater nerves from whence thoſe ariſe in: [. reaſon which are carried to the bladder, which through the occaſion of this compreſſion is pain- of an interns, ed and inflamed by conſent: now when inflammation ſhall ſeiz upon the sphind-muſcle, diflººtiºn ºf the urine can ſcarcely flow out, for that it is hindered by the ſwelling. thethigh-bone. ( chap. xl . of the thigh-bone diſlocated backwards. . º eldom alſo isthethighbone diſlocated backwards, becauſ the hind-part of the . ºğavitie of the huckle-bone is deeper and moredepreſſed than the fore; whence n /º; that the diſlocation of the thigh to the inner part is more frequent then the fºreſt. the patient can neitherextend nor bend his leg by reaſon of the much compreſſion and tenfion of the muſcles which º the head of the thigh by this hiº i, l - - - o | signs: - . concerning diſlocations, or luxations. lib. . of kuxation. but the pain is encreaſed when hee would bend his ham, for that then the muſcles are more ſtrongly extended. the lame leg is ſhorter than the ſound: when the buttocks are preſſed, the head of the thigh is perceived hid amongſt the muſcles of that part, but the oppoſite groin is lax, ſoft, and depreſt with a manifeſt cavitie. the heel tou- che's not the ground, for that the head of the thigh is plucked back again by the muſcles of the buttocks amongſt which it lieth hid, but principally by that which is the larger,and which is ſaid to make as it were the pillow or cuſhion of the buttocks; for this is much more preſſed in this kinde of diſlocation then the reſt: whence it is, that the patient can- not bend his knee, becauſthe extenſion of the nervous produćtion or large tendon which covers's the knee is ſo great. but if the patient will ſtand upon the foot of his luxated leg without a ſtaff, heeſhall fall down backwards, for that the bodie is inclined to that part, the head of the thigh being not direétly underneath for the propping or bearing up of the bodie; whereforehee is forced to ſuſtain himſelf upon a crutch on his lame ſide. haveing premiſed theſe things of the differences, figns,ſymptoms and prognoſticks, it now remaineth, that weebriefly deſcribe the different waies of reſtoreing them, according to the the gentral difference ofthe parts whitherit is fallen. firſt, you muſt place the patient upon a bench cuſca or table, groveling, or with his face upwards, or upon one fide, laying ſom ſoft quilt or coverlid under him, that hee may lie the eaſier. now you muſt place him ſo, that the part unto which the bone is flown, maybe higher,but from whence it is fled,the lower.for if the thigh-bone bee diſlocated outwards or backwards, then muſt the patient bee laid grove- ling; if inwardly, upon his back; if forwards,then upon his ſide. then muſt extenſion and impulſion bee made towards the cavitie, that ſo it may bee forced thereinto: but if the diſlocation bee freſh, and in a ſoft bodie, as a woman, childe, and ſuch like, whoſe joints are more lax, it ſhall not bee any waies needful to make great extenſion with ſtrong liga- tures for the reforeing it; the surgeon's hand ſhall ſuffice, or a liſt or towel caſt about it. in the interim the bone ſhallbee kep’t faſt with compreſſes applied about the joint: then the surgeon ſhall extend the thigh, takeing hold thereof above the knee, in a ſtraight line, and ſo ſet it dire&ly againſt the cavitie, and then preſently thruſt it thereinto. for thus ſhall heereſtore it, if ſobee that in thruſtingithee lift up the head thereof ſomwhat higher, left the lips of the cavitie force it back, and hinder it from entring. now becauſunleſs there bee juſt extenſion, there can bee no reſtitution hoped for, it is far better in that part, that is, to extend it ſomwhat more than is neceſſarie, yet ſo, that you do not en- danger the breaking of any muſcles, tendon or other nervous bodie. for that as hippocra- tes write's, when as the muſcles are ſtrong and large, you may ſafely extend them, if ſo bee that you diſplace nothing by the force of the extenſion. if your hand will not ſuffice to make juſt extenſion, you muſt uſe the help of an engine; ſuch as is our pulley, faſt- ned to two poſts, ſo much of the rope beeing let forth, and drawn f again as ſhall ſuffice for the buſineſs in hand; in the performance whereof, it is fit that the patients friends ab- ſent themſevs from this ſad ſpe&tacle, and that the surgeon bec reſolute, and not deterred from his buſineſs by the lamentation, neither of the patient nor his friends. but for that wee write theſe things chiefly for the benefit of young praćticioners, it ſºcmeth meet, that haveing delivered theſe things in general, of reſtoring the thigh-bone, that wee run over theſe generalities in each particular, begining with that diſlocation which is made inwardly. - self. .lib.de faſt. --- chap. xliv. of reforeing the thigh-bone diſlocated inwards. *:t isfit to place the patient after the foreſaid manner, upon a table or bench, in the § i # mid'ſt whereof ſhall ſtand faſtneda woodden pin of a foot's length, audas thick as # % the handle of a ſpadenſeth to bee; but it muſt bee wrapped about with ſom ſoft * cloth, left the hardneſs hurt the buttocks, betwixt which it muſt ſtand, as wee seff...it is read that hippocrates did in the extenſion of a broken leg the wooden pin hath this uſe,to faſt. hold the bodie that it may not follow him that draweth or extendeth it;and that the exten- fion beeing made as much as is requiſite,it may go between the pertoneum and the head of the diſlocated thigh. for thus there is no great need of counter-extenſion towards the upper parts; and beſides it helpeth to force back the bone into its cavitie, the help of the surgeon concurring, who twining ſomwhiles to this, and otherwhiles to that ſide, how to make doth direét the whole work. but when the extenſion hath need of counter-extenſion,then extenſion and it is needful you have ſuch ligatures at hand, as wee have mentioned in the reſtoreing of a gº." diſlocated ſhoulder, to bee drawn above the ſhoulder. one of theſe ſhall bee faſtned above *..."... the joint of the hip, and extended by a ſtrongman; another ſhall bee caſt above theknee by another with the like force. but ifyou cannot have a woodden pin, another ſtrong and like ligatureſhall beeput upon the joint diretly at the *; and held ſtiff by the hands of a ſtrongman, yet ſo that it my not touch the head of the thigh by preſſing it, for ſoit - would &ure, lib. . concerning diſlocationſ, or luxationſ. would hinder the reſtoring thereof. this manner of extenſion is common to four kindes of luxation of the thigh-bone. but the manner offorcing the bone into its cavitie muſt bee varied in each, according to the different condition of the parts whereunto the head incli. neth; to wit it muſt bee forced outwards if it beefallen inwards, and contrarie in the reſt, as the kinde of the diſlocation ſhall bee. somtoo clowniſh and ignorant knot-knitters fa- ſten the lower ligature below the ankle, and thus the joints of the foot and knee are more extended then that of hip or huckle-bone, for they are neerer to the ligature, and conſe- quently to the aëtive force: but they ought to do otherwiſe; therefore in a diſlocated ſhoulder you ſhall not faſten the ligatures to the hand or wreſt, but above the elbow. but ligatures if the hands ſhall notbee ſufficient for this work,then muſt you makeuſe ofengines. where-ºº ºf tenſion muſt fore then the patient being placed as is fit, and affected part firmly held, ſom round thin ſhall bee put #. the groin, and the patient's knee, to º: with %. whole leg ſhall .# *:::::, drawn violently inwards, towards the otherleg. and in the mean while the head of the to beeexten- thigh ſhall bee ſtrongly forced towards the cavitie of the huckle-bone, and ſo at length re-ded. ſtored, as the followingfigureſhew's. a figure which manifeſteth the way of refioring the thigh-bäne diſlocated inwards. --- - when the head of the thighby juſt extenſion is freed from the muſcles wherewith it ateneral was infolded, and the muſcles alſo extended that they may give way and yeeld themſelvs pºrt. more pliant, then muſt the rope bee ſomwhat ſlacked,and then you muſt alſo deſiſt from ex- tending, otherwiſe the reſtitution cannot bee performed, for that the ſtronger extenſion of the engine will reſiſt the hand of the surgeon, thruſting and forceing it into the cavitie. this preceptmuſt beeobſerved in the reſtoring of this and other diſlocations. you ſhall know that the thigh is reſtored by the equalitie of the legs, by the free and painleſs extenſion and infleštion of the lame leg. laſtly, by the application of agglutinative medicines (whereof wee have formerly ſpoken) the reſtored bone ſhallbee confirmed in its place; to which pur- poſe ligation ſhall bee made, the ligature beeing firſt caſt upon the place whereinto the head of the thigh fell, and thence brought to the oppoſite or ſound ſide by the belly and loins. in the mean while the cavitie of the groin muſt bee filled with ſomwhat a thick bolſter which may keep the head ofthe bone in the cavitie. neither muſt you omit junks ſtretched down even to the ankles, as wee have obſerved in the fraćture of the thigh. then muſt both the thighs beebound together, whereby the diſlocated member may bee unmoovable, and more and more ſtrengthned. neither muſt this dreſſing bee looſed, untill four or five daies bee paſſed, unleſsperadventure the ſudden happening of ſom other more grievous ſym- ptom ſhall perſwade otherwiſe. to conclude, the patient muſt bee kept in his bed for the ſpace of month, that therelaxed muſcles, nervs, and ligaments may have ſpace to recover their former ſtrength, otherwiſe, there is danger leſt the bone may againfall out by the too forward and ſpeedy walking upon it. for the ſite of the thigh it muſt be placed and kept in a middle figure, yet this middle figure confiſt's in the extenſion, not in the flexion, as it is sº. . lib.d. demonſtrated by hippocrates,for that ſuch a figure is accuſtomable to the leg. frati. ; : . . .” - chap. xlv. . . . . . ; º of reforeing the thigh diſlocated outwardly. . . . . . . . . he patient muſtbeeplacedgroveling upon a table in this kinde ofdiſlocation alſo, and ligatures as before, caſt upon the hip and * part of the thigh, then extenſion ": ll * . w concerning tiſlocations, or luxationſ. lib. . beenade downwards, and counter-extenſion upwards; then preſently the head of the bone muſt bee forced by the hand of the surgeon into its place. if the hand beenot ſufficient for this purpoſe, our pulley muſt beeuſed, as the followingfigure ſheweth. afigure which expreſſeth the manner of reſtoreing the thigh luxated outwards. - =º : ºré | x , when it isthat this kinde of diſlocation is the eaſilieſt reſtored of all theſe which happen in the thigh onely extenon ſervs for the reſtoring the diſlocated thigh. or hip, ſo that i have diverſtimes obſerved the headof the thigh to have been drawn back into its cavitie by the onely regreſs of the extended muſcles into themſelvs towards their o- riginals, ſomwhiles with a noiſorpop, otherwhiles without, which beeing don, laying . .# reſs upon the joint, you ſhall performall other drumſtances as before in an inter- nal diſlocation. . . y - - ----- - ,-- - — chap. xlvi. \ of reſtoreing the thighdiſlocated forwards. hen the thigh is luxated forwards, the patient muſt bee laid upon his ſound % fide, and tied as wee have formerly delivered. then the surgeon ſhall lay a \} bolſter upon the prominent head of the bone, and have acare that his ſervant váš firmly holdit: then immediately juſt extenſion beeing made, hee ſhall with his hand force the bone into the cavitie; but if his hand will not ſerv, hee ſhall attempt it with his knee. then to conclude, heeſhall uſe the reſt of the things former- ly mentioned to contain the reſtored bone. ** chap. xlvii. of reſtoreing the thigh diſlocated backwards. he patientſhallbee placedgroveling upon a table or bench, and the memberex- |º tended, as in the reſt, one ligature ſtretched from the groin, another from the §ſº knee; then the surgeon ſhall endeavor to force back with his hand that which wºº' ſtand's up, and alſo to draw away the knee from the ſound leg. the bone thus placed and reſtored, the cure require's nothingelſ than to beebound up and kept long in bed, left that the thigh, if it ſhould bee moved, the nervs"beeing yet more looſ, might again fallout. forthe thigh is in great danger of relapſ, for that the cavitie of the hucle- bone is onely depreſt, as far as it goe's in, and the burden of the hanging or adjoining thigh is heavie. • * chap, xlviii. of the diſlocation of the whirl-bone of the knee. he whirl-bone of the knee may fall forth into the inner, outer, upper and lower part; but never to the hind-part, becauſthe bones which it cover's do not ſuffer it. to reſtore it, the patient muſt ſtand with his foot firmly upon ſomeven place,and then the surgeon muſt force and reduce it with his hands from the part into which it ††, - - - - - naturally * - lib. . concerning tiſlocationſ, or luxations. idden. when it ſhall beereſtored, the cavitieoftheham ſhall beefilled up with º: heemay not bend his leg, for if it bee bended, there is no ſmal danger of the , falling back ofthe whirl-bone. then a caſe or boxſhallbee put about it, on the ſide eſpe- cially whereto it fell,beeing madeſomwhat flat and round reſembling the whirl-bone itſelf, - andít ſhall bee bound on with ligatures, and medicines ſo faſt that it may not ſtirajot. af- º terthe partſhall ſeem to have had ſufficient reſt, it is fit that the patient trie and accuſtom % little and little to bend his knee, until at length hee ſhall finde that hee may eaſily and afe … . - - - ly mooy that joint. " . . . * . . . . . . . . . . . . ri" . . . . . . j. ji, . - -- º º c. h. a. p." xlix. tº *: , , : ; ; ; , , ... . . of the diſlocated knee. . . . ºf i. - = 㺠he knee alſo maybee diſlocated three manner of waies, that is, into the inner, the diffe- | ||outer, and hind part, but very ſeldom towards the fore ſide, and that not ... § § without ſom grievous and forcible violence; for the whirl-bone lying upon it, sº hinder's it from ſlipping out, and holds it in. theother waies are eaſie becauſ **the cavitieofthe leg-bone is ſuperficiarie aud, very ſmooth, but the cavitie of the lower end of the thigh-bone is made in the manner of a ſpout orgutter, and beſides the head thereof is verie ſmooth and flipperie; but the whole joint is much morelax than the joint of the elbow; ſo that as it may bee the more eaſily diſlocated, ſamay it the beterbee reſtored; and as it may bee the more eaſily, ſo may it bee the more ſafely diſlocated, for that inflammation is leſs to bee feared here, as it is obſerved by hippocrates. falls from high, ad fintº ſº. leaping, and too violent runing are the cauſes of this diſlocation. the fign thereof is the &fras. ;: of ...i. lifting up the leg to the thigh, ſo that the patient cannot touch his buttock with his heel. the diſlocation of the knee which is inwardly and outwardly,is reſtored with indifferent extenſion and forceing of the bones into their ſeats from thoſe parts whereunto they have fallen. but to reſtorea diſlocation madebackwards, the patient how to re- ſhallbee placedupon a bench of an indifferent height, ſo that the surgeon may bee behindefºreaknee him who may bend with both his hands and bring to his buttocks the patients leg put be-diſlºcated tween his legs. but if thereſtitution do not thus ſucceed, you muſt make a clewofyarn, backward” and faſten it upon the midſtofa ſtaff, let one put this into the cavitie of his ham, upon the place whereas the bone ſtand's out,and ſo force it forwards;then let another caſt aligature of ſom threefingers bredth upon his knee, & draw it upwards with his hands,then preſently & at once they ſhalſo bend & crook the lame leg that the heel thereofmay touch his buttocks. cha p. l. - -: * : of a knee diſlocated forwards. - lit if the kneebee diſlocated forwards (which ſeldom happen's) the patientſhall the cur § bee placedupon a table and aconvenient #. made aboov, and another cloſe *** m beneath the ſ: then the surgeon ſhall ſolong preſs down with both his hands the bone which is out of joint, until itſhall return to its place again. to which purpoſeifthe ſtrength of the handwil not ſerv to make juſt extenſion each way you may make uſe of our engine, as youmay perceiv by this following figure. " * - h== &e.-- º---- gº nº h - n s et s - - § "ºlulullû, s s belºfsº $ |e|\º tº: § nº s . º - lº ſº f/z g --~~ *~~ - ==º x - youſhall know harshebonºreſtored by the free and paneſ ºftonof the leg; - the ------ concerning tiſlocation, or luxation. lir. . º thcnwill there bee place formedicines, bolſters and ſtrengthening ligatures. in the mean • ſpace the patient ſhall forbear going ſo long as the part ſhall ſeem to require, a chap. l.i. * … : : . of the ſparation of the greater aud leſſer focile. he fibula or leſſer focile is faſtned and adhere's to the tibia, leg-bone, or greater - focile without any cavitie, above at the knee and below at the ankle. but it may beepluck’t or drawn aſide three manner of waies, that is, forwards, and to each ſide : this chance happen's when in going wee take no ſure footing, ſo that wee ſlip with our feet this way and à. way as in a ſlipperie place, and ſo wreſt it inwards or * ... outwards; for then the weight of ourbodie lying open upon it, draw's the leg, as it were, ..., , , in ſunder, ſo that the one focile is diſlocated #. from the other. the ſame may happen by a fall from an high place, or ſom grievous and bruiſing blow: beſides alſo,their the cure appendices are ſomtimes ſeparated from them. for the reſtoreing of all theſe into their pro- per places, it is fit they bee drawn and forced by the hand of the surgeon into their ſeats: then ſhall they bee ſtraitly bound up, putting compreſſes to that part unto which the fibula flew ; beginning alſo your ligation at the very luxation, for the fore-mentioned reaſons. the patient ſhall reſt fortie daies, to wit, as long as ſhallbee ſufficient for the ſtrengthen- ing of the ligaments. the joining of t. the leg and ". ſhin-bones. chap. lii. of the leg-bone or greatºr focile diſlocated and divided from the paſtern-bone. §lſo the leg-bone is ſomtimes diſlocated and divided from the paſtern-bone, as §§§ wel inwardly, as outwardly; which maybee known by the ſwellingoutofthe | bone to this or that part; if itbee onely a ſubluxation or ſtrain, it may bee eaſily reſtored, by gently forceing it into the place again. after the bone ſhal bee reſtored,it ſhall bee kept ſo by . and fit deligation,by croſs and contrariebindeing to the ſide oppoſite to that towards which the bone fell, that ſo alſo in ſom meaſure it may bee more and more forced into its place. in themean time you muſt have a care that you do not too ſtraitly preſs the great and º tendon which is at the heel.this : of diſlocation is reſtored in fortie daies, unleſs ſom accident happen which may inder it. - ** - - - - - - --> -- - * differences and figns. - - - chap. liii. * . . - of the diſlocation of the heel. - j . \ § hoſoever leaping from an high place have fallen very heavie upon their heel, have y: their heel diſlocated and divided from the paſtern-bone.this diſlocation happen's º more frequently inwardly than outwardly, becauſ the prominencie of the ſeſſer focile embrace's the paſtern-bone; whence it is, that there it is more ſtraitly and firmly knit. it is reſtored by extenſion and forceing it in, which will bee no very difficult the cure, matter, unleſs ſom great defluxion or inflammation hinderit. for the bindeing up, it muſt beee ſtraiteſt in the part affetted, that ſo the blood may bee preſſed from thence iuto the neighboring parts; yet uſing ſuch a moderation, that it may not bee painful, nor preſs more ſtraitly than is fit, the nervs and groſs tendon which run's to the heel. this diſlocati- on is not confirmed before the fortieth day, though nothing happen which may hinder it. yet uſually it happeneth that many ſymptoms enſue by the vehemencie of the contuſion. wherefore it i. be amiſs to handle them in aparticular chapter. cauſes and differences. chap. liv. of the symptoms which follow upon the contuſion of the heel. thappeneth by the vehemencie of this contuſion, that the veins and arteries do as it were vomitup blood both through the ſecret paſſages of their coats, as alſo by their ie in the f ends or orifices, whence an ecchymoſis or blackneſs over all the heel, pain, ſwelling, a. audother the like enſue,which implore remedies and the surgeon's help,towit,convenient éture of a heel. . - pio - - --- * - diet, and drawing of blood by opening avein, (of whichthough hippocrates make's no hiſtºs. de mention, yetitis here requiſite by reaſon of the feaver and inflammation) and if need re- f* quire, purgation; principally ſuch as may divert the matter by cauſing vomit, and laſtly, - - -- - the why blood- letting neceſſa- -- - - *** --> -- lib. . concerning tiſlocations, or luxations. the application of local medicines, chiefly ſuch as may ſoften and rarifiethe skin under the heel; otherwiſe uſually hard and thick (ſuch as are fomentations of warm water and oil) ſo that divers times wee are forced to ſcarifie it with a lancet, ſhunning the quick fleſh. for foat length the blood poured forth into the part, and there heaped up, is more eaſily atte- nuated,and at length reſolved. but theſe things muſt all be performed before the inflamma- tion ſeiz upon the part, otherwiſe there will be danger of a convulſion.for the blood,when why the heel it fall's out of the veſſels,readily putrefies,by reaſon the denſitie of this part hinder's it from is ſºjºsº, ventilation & diſperfing to the adjacent parts.hereto maybe added, that the large and great inflammation: tendon which cover's the heel,is endued with exquiſite ſenſ,& alſo the part it ſelf is on eve- ric ſide ſpredover with many nervs. beſides alſo there is further danger of inflammation by lying upon the back and heel, as wee before admoniſhed you in the fraćture of a leg. there- §. i would have the surgeon to bee heer moſt attentive and diligent to perform theſe things which we have mentioned, leſt by inflammation a gangrene and mortification (for hcer the ſanious fleſh preſently fall's upon the bone) happen together with a continued and ſharp fever, with trembling, hicketting and raveing. for the corruption of this part firſt by contagion affail's the next, and thence a fever affail's the heart by the arteries preſſed and growing hotby the putrid heat, and by the nervs and that great and notable tendon galaſent: , made by the concourſ of the three muſcles of the calf of the leg, the muſcles, brain and jºiba, . ſtomach are evilly affected and drawn into conſent, and ſo cauſ convulſions, raveing and faii," a deadlie hicketting. - - - chap. l.v. of the diſaard paſtern, or ancle-bone, fºl he affragalus or paſtern bone may bee diſlocated and fall out of its place toe-sign. § very ſide. wherefore when it fall's out towards the inner part, the ſole of the § foot is turned outwards, when it file's out to the contrarie, the º is alſo con- trarie; if it bee diſlocated to the foreſide, on the hinde ſide the broad tendon *"coming under the heel is hardened and diſtended, but if bee luxated backwards, the whole heel is as it were hid in the foot: neither doth this kinde, of diſlocation happen without much violence. it is reſtored by extending it with the hands, and forcing it into cure, the contrary part to that from whence it fell. beeing reſtored it is kept ſo by application of medicines and fit ligation. the patient muſt keep his bed long in this caſe, left that bone which ſuſtain's and bear's up the whole bodie, may again ſink under the burden, and break out, the ſinews beeing not well knit and ſtrengthened. - - * chap. lw i. of the diſlocation of the in-fiep and back of the foot. @ he bones alſo of the in-ſtep and back of the foot may bee luxated, and that ei- §tº ther upwards or downwards,or to one fide,though ſeldom fidewiſe, for therea- *||\º ſon formerly rendred, ſpeaking of the diſlocation of the like bones of the hand. * if that they ſtand upwards,then muſt the patient tread hard upon ſom plain or cure, "" even place and then the surgeonby preſſing them with his handſhall force them into their places; on the contrary, if they ſtand out of the ſole of the foot, then muſt you preſs them thence upwards, and reſtore each bone to its place. they may bee reſtored after the ſame mannerifthey bee flown out to either ſide. but you muſt note, that although the ligatures conſiſt but of one head in other diſlocations,yet here hippocrates would have ſuch sent. .ſta.s. uſed as have two heads, for that the diſlocation happen's more from below upwards, or lib.dºſº, from above downwards, then ſidewiſe. ... . . . . . . . . . . º - * . . . . . - _ h — chap. lvii. tº of the diſlocation of the toes: º * . . . jow the toes may bee four waies diſlocated,even as the fingers of the hand; the differen: # , and they ...; bee reſtored juſt after the ſame manner, that is, extend them * |a direétly forth, and then force each joint into its place,and laſtly,binde them n up as is fitting. the reſtitution of all them is eaſie, for that they cannot far cure, tranſgreſs their bounds. to conclude, the bones of the feet are diſlocated . . .t.t. and reſtored by the ſame means as thoſe of the hands, but that when as an thing is diſlocated in the foot, the patient muſt keep his bed; but when anything is ami in the hand; hºe muſt carrie it in a ſcarf. the patient muſt reſt twenty daics, that is, until hee can firmly ſtand upon his feet. - - - chap. concerning diſlocationſ, or luxationſ. lib. . | chap. l viii. of the ſymptoms, aud other accidentſ which may befal a broken or diſlocated member. anie things may befal broken or diſlocated members by the means of the fra- a\%\;&ture or diſlocation; ſuch as are bruiſes, great pain, inflammation, a fever, in- wຠpoſtume, gangrene, mortification, ulcer, fiſtula, and atrophia, all which require §§a skilfull and diligent surgeon for their cure. a contuſion happen's by the fall "of ſom heavie thing upon the part, orby a fall from high, whence follow's the effuſion of blood poured out under the skin: which if it bee poured forth in great plentie, muſt bee ſpeedily evacuated by ſcarification, and the part eaſed of that burthen, leſt it ſhould thence gangrenate. and by how much the blood ſhall appear more thick,and the skin more denſ, by ſo much the ſcarification ſhall be made more deep. you may alſo for the ſame pur- poſe applie leeches. - whatmyhlp'. concerning pain wee formerly ſaid, that it uſually happen's by reaſon that the bones are pen by pain. mooved out of their places,whence it happeneth that they becom troubleſom to the muſcles and nervs, by pricking and preſſing them. hence enſue inflammations, as alſo impoſtumati- on and a fever, ofttimes a gangrene, and in concluſion a mortification corrupting and rot- ting the bones; otherwhiles a finuous ulcer or fiſtula. but an atrophia and leanneſs ariſeth by theſloth and idleneſs of the member decaying all the ſtrength thereof,and by too ſtraight ligation intercepting the paſſages of the blood, otherwiſe readie to fall and flow thither. remedies for now the leanneſs which is occaſioned by too ſtraight ligation receive's cure by the ſlack- the leanneſs ning of the ligatures wherewith the member was bound. that which proceeds from idle- ** ºf neſs is helped by moderate exerciſe, by extending, bending, lifting up, and depreſſing the *** member, if ſobé that heecan away with exerciſe. otherwiſe heeſhall uſe frićtions and for mentations with warm water. the frićtions muſt be moderate in hardneſs and gentleneſs,in what meaſure length and ſhortneſs. the ſame moderation ſhall be obſerved in the warmneſs of the wa- **in ter; and in the time of fomenting. for too long fomenting reſolv’s the blood that is remedies for . a contuſion. fomenting. drawn. but that which is too little or ſhort a ſpace draw's little or nothing at all : after the fomentation, hot and emplaſtick medicines made of pitch, turpentine, euphorbium, pel- litorie of spain, ſulphur, and the like, ſhallbee applied. they ſhall bec renued everie day more often or ſeldom, as the thing it ſelf ſhall ſeem to require. - a dropax. theſe medicines are termed dropaces, whoſe form is thus : r piciº migre, ammoniaci, bilelii, gummi elemi in aquà vite diſſolutorum an ii. olei laurini i. pulveri, piperiº, zinziberi, granorum paradiſ, baccarum lauri & juniperi, an: ii fiat emplaſtrum ſecundium artem, extendatur ſuper alutam. bindeing of it is alſo good to binde about the oppoſite ſound part with a ligature, yet without pain; as theſound part if the right arm ſhall decay for want of nouriſhment, the left ſhall bee bound, beginning oppoſite . * your ligation at the hand, and continuing it to the arm-pit. if this miſchance ſhall ſeſ. cii]. c tcde upon the right leg, then the left ſhall be: ſwathed up from the ſole of the foot to the groin. for thus a great portion of the blood is forced back into the vena cava, or hollow vein, and from this being diſtended and over full,into the part affected and gapeing with the veſſels al- moſt emptie; beſide alſo it is convenient to keep the ſound part in reſt,that ſo it may draw the leſs nouriſhment,andby that means there will bee more ſtore to refreſh the weak part. how to binde . som wiſh alſo to binde up the decaying member with moderate ligation for thus, ſay up the emaci they, the blood is drawn thither: for when as wee intend to let blood by opening a vein ted part. with a lancet, wee binde the arm. alſo it is good to dip it into water ſomwhat more then warm, and hold it there until it grow red, and ſwell; for thus blood is drawn into the veins, as they finde, which uſe to draw blood of the ſphena and ſalvatella. now, if when as theſe things and the like bee don, the lame part grow's hot, red and ſwollen, then know that health is to bee hoped for; but if the contrarie happen, the caſe is deſperate: wherefore you need attempt nothing further. signs that an furthermore, there is ſomtimes hardneſs left in the joints, after fratures and diſlocati- atrºphia is ons are reſtored. it is fit to ſoften this,by reſolving the contained hauor by fomentations, curtable. liniments, cataplaſms, emplaſters made of the roots of marſh-mallows, brionie, lillies, line ſeed, fenugreek ſeed, and the like, and alſo of gums diſſolved in ſtrong vineger, as ammonia- cum,bdelium, opopanax, labdanum, ſagapenum, ſtyrax liquida, and adept anſerinus, gallinaceus, buma- mus, oleum liliorum, and the like. alſo you muſt wiſh the patient to moow the partever now and then, everie day, yet ſo, that itbee not painful to him, that ſo the pent up humor may grow hot, bee attenuated, and at length diſcuſſed, and laſtly, the part it ſelf reſtored as far as art can perform it; for oft-times it cannot bee helped anything at all. for ifthe mem- berbee weak and lame,by reaſon that the fraćture happened neer the joint, for the reſidue of his life the motion thereof uſeth to bee painful and difficult, and oft-times none at all, eſpecially if the callus, which grow's there, bee ſomwhat thick and great; and laſtly, if the joint itſelf ſhall bee contuſed and broken by the ſtroke, as it oft-times happen's in wounds made by gun-ſhot. of of other preter-natural affects, "" whoſecureis commonly performed by surgerie. t h e s r v b n r n = n t h book. chap, l. º of an alopecia, or the fallingaway of the hairs ºf the head. = . n alopecia is the falling away of the hair of the head, and ſomtimes al- ſo ; eie-brows, chin and other parts; the french commmonly galt.z.lib. , call it the pelade: phyſicians termit the alperia,ſor old foxes(ſubječ,”: ſt- by reaſon of their age to have the ſcab)are troubled oft-times with this.” diſeaſ. this affe&is cauſed either through defea of nouriſhment fit to the cauſ nouriſh the hairs, as in old age through want of the radical humiditie, - or by the corruption of the alimentarie matter of the ſame, as after long fevers, in the lues venerea,leproſe, the corruption of the whole bodie and all the humors, whence follow's acorruption of the vapors and fuliginous ex- crements; or elſby the vitious conſtitution of pores in the skin in raritie, and conſtrióti- on ordenſitie, as by the too much uſe of hot ointments made for coloring the hair, or ſuch as are uſed to take off hair, therefore called depilatoria, or by the burning of the skin,or loſs thereof, haveing a ſcarin ſtead thereof, by reaſon of whoſe denſitie the hair cannot ſpring out; as by too much laxitie the fuliginous matter of the hair ſtaie's not, but preſently va- niſheth away. the alpeciawhich com'sby old age, a conſumption, burn-baldneſs, le-wis alopedia profie, a ſcaldhead,is incureable: that which admit's of cure, the cauſbeeing taken away, is ºbſ. helped. wherefore if it proceed from the corruption of humors, let a phyſician beecalled, wharcureable, who, ashee ſhall think it fit, ſhall appoint diet, pur º: phlebotomie. then the sur- and how. geon ſhall ſhave off the hair which is remaining, .# ſhall firſt uſe reſolving fomentations, applie leeches and horns to digeſt the vitioushumor which is under the skin, then ſhall hee waſh the head to takeaway the filth with a lee wherein the roots of orris and aloés have been boiled. laſtly, hee ſhall uſe both attractive fomentations and medicines for to draw forth the humor which is becom laudable in the whole bodie by the benefit of diet ; ap- pointed. but if the alopecia ſhall happen through defe&t of nouriſhment, the part ſhallbee rubbed ſo long with a courſlinnen cloth, or a fig-leaf, or onions until it wax red; befides alſo the skin ſhall bee pricked in many places with a needle, and then ointments applied made of labdanum, pigeons dung, ſtaves-acre, oyl of bayes,turpentine and wax, to draw the "suck &ysia blood and matter of the hairs. if the hair bee loſt by the laes venerea, the patient ſhall bee anointed with quick-filver to ſufficient ſalivation. #. couclude, as the cauſes of this diſeaſ ſhall bee, ſomuſt the remedies bee fitted which are uſed. - chap. ii. of the tinea, or scald-head. - - § he tinea (let mee ſo term itin latine, whilſt a fitterword may bee found) or , , §§§ a scald-head, is a diſeaſpoſſeſſing the muſculous skin of the head or the hairie library. #sºft ſcalp, and eating thereinto like a moth. there are three differences thereof; the midſtålæss. ** firſt is called by galen ſcalie or bran-like, for that whil'ſ it is ſcratched it caſt's . . . manie bran-like ſcales: ſom pračtitioners termit a drieſtall, becauſ of the great aduſion of the humor cauſingit. another is called ficoſa, a fig-like ſtall; becauſwhen it is deſpoil- ed of the cruit or ſcab which is yellow; there appear's grains of quick and red fleſh, like to the innerſ-eds orgrains of figs, and caſting out a bloodie matter. galen name's the third acher, and it is alſo vulgarly termed the corroſive or ulcerous ſtall, for that the many ul- - gers -oo of diverſpreternaturale affetts. l b- . cers wherewith it abound's are open with manie ſmall holes flowing with liquid ſanies like the waſhing of fleſh, ſtinking, corrupt and carrion-like, ſomwhiles livid, ſomwhiles yel- lowiſh. theſe holes, if they bee ſomwhat larger, make another difference which is called cap.s.l.ital. cerion or favoſa, (that is, like a honic-comb) becauſas galen think's, the matter which floweth from theſe, reſembleth honie in colorand conſiſtence. they all proceed of an hu- more which is more or leſs vitious,for a leſs corrupt humor cauſeth a ſcalie, a more corrupt; the fig-like, but the moſt corrupt produceth the ulcerous. if it ſhall happen to an infantby reaſon of the fault and contagion of the nurſ, or elſ preſently after it is born, it ſcarce ad- mit's of cure; neither muſt wee attempt that, before the childe.com to that age that hee may beeable to endure the cure and medicines. but you may in the mean while applie the leavs of colworts or beets beſmeared with freſh butter, or other gentle medicine haveing a the cure, facultie to mollifie and open the paſſage for the ſhut-up matter. thoſe who are of ſufficient age to away with medicine, may bleed, purge bathe according to art by the advice of a phy- foraſalie fician. for local medicines in aſcalieſcall, ſoftening and diſcuſſing fomentations ſhall bee ſtall. appointed, made of the roots of marſh-mällows, lillies, docks, sorrel boiled in lee with a littlevineger added thereto. the head ſhall beetwice in a day fomented with ſuch a deco- &ion, and on the ſixth day the hair beeingſhaven off, it ſhall bee ſcarified, and then leeches & hornsput to it ſo ſcarified.then itſhalbee forthwith anointed with oyl of ſtaves-acremi- *ed with blackſope,both to draw and repreſs the malignitie of the humorimpa'ét in the part. you may alſo uſe the following medicine even to the perfe& cure ofthe diſeaſ, as that which is much commended in this kinde of diſeaſby vigo, gordonius and guido; it is thus made. r cleb. albić nigri, atramentauripigmenti, lithargyri auri, calciº wive, vitriolalum galla. º .." fulig.cinerfecis vini uſii, an ſ.argenti vivi extinii, Žiii erugini, eriº ii.fiat pulvis qui incor- :* * fortur runſucco boraginis, ſºlidſ, fumaric, oxylapathi,aceti, in quarticlei antiquilibi tuliant -** uſquead conſumptſuccorum, infine decoãionis cinere; pomantur, addendo piciº liquide § cere quan- tum ſufficit, fiat unguentum : theſe autors teſtifie that this will heal any kinde of ſcall. cer- tainly nonecan diſ-allow of it who well conſidereth the ingredients and compoſure thereof. the are of, acruſticalſo or fig-like ſcall ſhallbee ſo longfomented with the preſcribed fomentation, ..." until the cruſts or ſcabs fall off, yet there is nothing ſo good and effečtual as creſſes beaten a poultis of . fried with hog's ſuet. for it will make it fall offin the ſpace of four and twentie hours; Č.” beſides, if it bee continued it will heal them throughly, as i have known by experience, and lib. .ſimpl. , reaſon alſo ſtand's therewith ; for according to galen, creſſes are hot and drie. when the ” cruſts ſhall beefallen away, the parts affeded ſhallbee anointed with the formerly preſcrl- bedointment. i have cured manie with a little oyl of vitriol, and ſomtimes alſo with Æ- gyptiacum made ſomwhat more ſtrong then ordinarie. but if the root ofthehairs appear rotten, they ſhallbee plucked out oneby one yet if ſuch putrefation ſhall poſſeſs the whole hairie ſcalp, and j. all the roots ofthe hair, that you may pluck them out the more readily, and with leſs pain, you may beſmear a cotten-cloth on the rougherfide with this arlainerto following medicine. rpici; nigre vi figi, reſ. ii. pul. viridis eris, tº vitriol romanáive! pluckaway the ſ, ſulphur.viv. ſ. coquantur omnia ſimul in aceti, acerrimi quantitate ſufficiente, fiat medicamen- hair at once ium aduſam ; let it bee applied to the head; and remain on for two daies; then let it bee quickly and forcibly plucked away againſt the hair,that ſo the hairs ſticking to the plaiſter may by that means bee plucked away therewith: you ſhall uſe this medicine ſo long as need ſhall ſeem to require. - for the third kinde of scall which is termeda corroſive or lilcerous, the firſt indica- .." tion is to cleanſ the ulcers with this following ointment, r. unguentienulaticum mercurio du- plicato, egyptiaci,an. iii. vitrial. albi in pulzerem redatii i. incorporentur ſimul, fiat ungaentum ad uſum; alſo you may uſe the formerly deſcribed ointment. but ifany pain or other accident - fall out, you muſt withſtand it by theaffiliance and direétion of ſomgood phyſician; verily * . . . theſe following medicines againſt all kindes of scalls have been found out § reaſon, and approoved by uſe. r campbur, ſ. alum.roch.vitriol.vir.eris, ſulph.vivi, fulig forman. vi olei amygd. dulcium & axungie porci, an. ii. ºſimul in mortario, fiat unguentum. som take the dung which lieth rotting in a ſheep-fold; they uſe that which is liquid, and rubit upon the ulcerated places,and lay a double cloth dipped in that liquor upon it. but if the patient cannot beecured with all theſe medicines, and that you finde his bodie in ſom parts thereof troubled in like ſort with cruſtie ulcers, i would wiſh that his head might bee anointed with an ointment made of axungia, argentum vivum, and a little sulphur, and then fit ſom a continº; emplaſtrum vigonis cummercurio into the faſhion of a cap; alſo ſom plaiſters of the ſame may : .†: ‘ bee applied to the ſhoulders,thighs and legs,and ſo lethimbee kept in a veriewarm chamber, . ... and all thingsdon as if hee had the lue; venerea. this kinde of cure was firſt (that i know fºres, of ) attempted by simon blanch the king's surgeon, upon a certain young man, when as hee in vain had diligently triedall other uſual medicines. a ſcalled head oft-times appeareth yerieloathſom to the eie, caſting forth virulent and ſinking ſanies; at the firſt it is hardly cured, but being old, far more difficultly. for diverſ times itbreaketh out afreſh, when you think it kill'd, by reaſon of the impreſſion of the malign putrefation remaining in the part, which wholly corrupt's the temper thereof.moreover,oft-times beeing healed,it hath º: all - alopecia * - - - lib. . whoſe cure is performed by surgerie. -ol alopecia behinde it, a great ſhame to the surgeons, which is the reaſon, that moſt of them judg it beſt to leavthe curethereof to empericks and women. chap. iii. of the vertigo, or giddineſ. |he wertigo is a ſudden darkning of the eies and fight by a vaporousand hot ſpirit whºthº- - which aſſoendeth to the head by the ſleepie arteries, and fil's the brain, diſtur- #: hºbing the humors and ſpirits which are contained there, and toſſing them unequal- ly, as if one ran round, or had drunk too much wine. this hot ſpirit oft-times riſeth from the heart upwards by the internal ſleepie arteries to the kete mirabile, or wonder- fulnet; otherwhiles it is generated in the brain itſelf, beeing more hot then is fitting ; al- . ſoitoft-times ariſeth from the ſtomack, ſpleen, liver and other entrals beeing too hot. the the signs. ſign of this diſeaſe is the ſudden darkning of the fight, and the cloſing up as it were of the eies, the bodie beeing lightly turned about, or by looking upon wheels runing round, or whirle-pits inwaters,'or by looking down anie deep or ſleep places. if the original of the diſeaſproceed from the brain, the patients are troubled with the head-ach, heavineſs of the head, and noiſin the ears, and oft-times they loſe their ſmell. paulus aegineta for the cure lib. . bid's us to open the arteries of the temples. but if the matter of the diſeaſariſe from ſomo- ther place,as from ſom of the lower entrals,ſuch opening of an arterie little availeth.where- fore thenſomskilful phyſitian muſt bee conſulted with, who may give directions for phle- botomie, if the original of the diſeaſproceed from the heatofthe entrals; by purging, if occaſioned by the foulneſs of the ſtomack. but if ſuch a wertigobee a critical ſymptom of a critical pºr. ſom acnte diſeaſaffečting the criſis by vomit or bleeding, then the whole buſineſs offireeing tire. the patient thereof muſtbee committed to nature. . . chap. iv. - - of the hemicrania, ºr megrim. †: he megrim is properly a diſeaſ affecting the one fide of the head, right, or left. it ſomtimes paſſeth no higher then the temporal muſcles,otherwhiles it reacheth to the top of the crown. the cauſof ſuch pain proceedeth either from the veins andexter- nal arteries, or from the meninges, or from the verieſubſtance of the brain or from the peri- cranium, or the hairie ſcalp covering the pericranium, or laſtly, from putrid vapors ariſing to the head from the ventricle, womb, or other inferior member.yet an external cauſmay bring this affett, to wit, the too hot or cold conſtitution of the encompaſſing air, drunkenneſs, gluttonie, the uſe of hot and vaporous meats, ſom noiſom vapor or ſmoak,asof antimonie, quick-ſilver, r the like,drawn up by the noſe,which is the reaſon that gold-ſmiths,and ſuch as guild metals are commonly troubled with this diſeaſ.but whenceſoever the cauſof the evil proceedeth,it is eithera ſimple diſtemper,or with matter: with matter, ſay, which again is the differen- either fimple or compound. now, this affect is either alone, or accompanied with other ces. affe&s, as inflammation and tenſion. the heavineſs of head argue's plentie of humor; " pricking, beating and tenſion ſhew's that there is a plentie of vapors mixed with the hu- mors, and ſhut up in the nervous, arterious, or membranous bodie of the head. if the pain proceed from the inflamed meninger, a fever followeth thereon, eſpecially, if the humor cauſing pain do putrefie. if the [. bee ſuperficiarie, it is ſeated in the pericranium. if pro- found, ſº and piercing to the bottom of the cies, it is an argument that the meninges are affected, and a feaver enſue's, if there bee inflammation, and the matter putrefle; and then oft-times the tormenting pain is ſo great and grievous, that the patient is afraid to have his head touched, if itbee but with your finger, neither can hee away with anie noiſ, or ſmall murmuring, nor light, nor ſmels however ſweet, no nor the fume of wine. the pain. in whit kinde is ſomtimes continual, otherwhiles by fits. if the cauſof the pain proceed from hot, thin ºf *s*.* and vaporous blood, which will yeld to no medicines, a verie neceſſarie, profitable and . ſº ſpeedie remedie may bee hadby opening an arterie in the temples, whether the diſeaſ pro- : s ceed from the internal or external veſſels. for, hence alwaits enſueth an evacuation of the - conjunét matter, blood and ſpirits. i have experimented this in manie, but eſpecially in the prince dela roche-ſur-you. his phyſicians, when hee was troubled with this grievous me-a hiſtoric. grim, were chaplain, the king's, and caſtellane the queen's chief phyſicians, and lewes paret, who notwithſtanding could help him nothing by blood-letting, cupping, bathes, frićtions, diet or anie other kindeof remedie either taken inwardly or applied outwardly. i beeing called, ſaid, that there was onely hope one way to recover his health, which was to ºpen the arterie oftbe temple in the ſame fide that the pain was ; for i thought it probable, that the cauſof his pain was not contained in the veins, but in the * º m m whic . . of diverſpreternaturale/fetis, lib. . no danger in opening an ar- terie. differences. paulºgialib. .asp. . the cauſ. the cure. which caſe by the teſtimonie of the antients, there was nothing better then the opening or bleeding of an arterie, whereof ibave made trial upon my ſelf to my great good. when as the phyſicians had approoved of this my advice, i preſently betake my ſelf to the work, and chooſout the arterie in the pained temple, which was both the more ſwoln and beat more vehemently then the reſt. open this,as wee uſe to do in the bleeding of a vein, with one in- ciſion, and take more then two ſawcers of blood flying out with great violence, and leap- ing; the pain preſently ceaſed, neither did it ever moleſt him again. yet this opening of an arterie is ſuſpečted by manie, for that it is troubleſomto ſtay the guſhing forth blood, and cicatrize the place, by reaſon of the denſitie, hardneſs and continual pulſation of the arte- rie; and laſtly, for that when it is cicatrized there may bee danger of an aneuriſma. where- fore they think it better firſt to divide the skin, then to ſeparate the arterie from all the ad- jacent particles, and then to binde it in two places; and laſtly divide it, as weebave formerly told you muſt beee don in varices.but this is the opinion of men who fear all things where there is no cauſ; for i have learn’t by frequent experience that the apertion of an arterie, which is performed with a lancet, as wee doin opening a vein, is not at all dangerous; and the conſolidation or healing is ſomhat ſlower then in a vein, but yet will bee don at length; but that no flux of bloodwill happen, if ſo bee that the ligation be fitly perform- ed, and remain ſo for four daies with fitting pledgets. . - chap. v. , of certain affeis of the eies, and firſt of ſtaying up the upper tie-lid whenit is too lax. *f the diſeaſes which befal the eies, ſom poſſeſs the whole ſubſtance thereof, as º, º the ophthalmia, a phlegmon thereof; others are proper and peculiar to ſom parts aºthereof, as that which is termed guita ſerena to the optick nerv. whence galen #º made a threefold difference of the diſeaſes of the eies, as thatſom happened to the eie by hurting or offending the chief organ thereof; that is the cryſtalline humor; others by hindering the animal facultie, the chief cauſer of ſight, from entring into them; and laſtly,other ſom by offending the parts ſubſervient to the prime organ or inſtrument. now of all theſe diſeaſes, the eie hath ſom of them common with the other parts of the bodie, ſuch as are an ulcer, wound, phlegmon, contuſion and the like: other ſom are peculiar and roper to the eie, ſuch as are the egilops, cataraćia,glaucoma, and diverſothers of this kinde. §. have their upper eie-lid fall down, by reaſon that the upper skin thereof is relaxed more then is ſufficient to cover the eie, the griſtle in the meanwhile not relaxing itſelf to- gether therewith. hence proceed's a double trouble; the firſt, for that the ciecannot bee eaſily opened; the other, becauſthe hairs ofthe relaxedeie-lid run in towards the eie, and becom troubleſom thereto by pricking it. the cauſof ſuch relaxation is either aparticular palſie of that part, which is frequent in old people, or the defluxion or fallingdown of a wateriſh humor, and that not acrid or biteing; which appear's by this, that thoſe who are thus affected have a rank of hairs growing under the natural rank, by reaſon of aboun- dance of heaped-up humor, as it is moſt probable. for thus a wet and mariſh groundhath the greateſt plenty of graſs. now if this ſame humor were acrid, it would cauſan itching, and conſequetly becom 'troubleſom to the patient, and it would alſo fret in ſunder and deſtroy the roots of the other hairs, ſo farre it is fromyeelding matterfor the preternatural generation of new. it is fit before you do any thing for the cure, that you mark withink the portion there of which is ſuperfluous, and therefore to bee cut away,leaſt if you ſhould cut off more then is requiſite, the eye-lid ſhould remain turned up, and ſo cauſanother kinde of affect,which the antients have called eäropion.then the eiebeeing co- yered, take and lift up with your fingers the middle part of the skin of the eie-lid, not take- inghold of the griſtlebeneath it, and then cut it athwart,takeing away juſt ſo much as ſhall beeneceſſarie to make it as it were natural; laſtly, join the lips of the wound together with a ſimple ſuture of three or four ſtitches, that ſo it may bee cicatrized ; for the cicatrization. reſtrain's the eie-lid from falling down ſo looſly,at leaſt ſom part thereof beeing taken away. there ought to beeſom meaſure and heed taken in the amputation, otherwiſe you muſt neceſſarily run into the one or other inconvenience, as if too much bee cut away, then the eie will notbee covered;iftoo little: then you have don nothing, and the patient is trou- bledto no purpoſe. if there ſhallbee manie hairs grown preternaturally, you ſhall pluck them away with an inſtrument made for the ſame purpoſe ; then their roots ſhall beeburned with a gentle cauterie, the eie beeing left untouch’t,for aſcar preſently ariſting will hinder them from growing again. - c. h. a. p. - lib. . whoſe cure is performed by surgerie. -ox chap. vi. of lagophthalmus, or the hare-eie. uch as have their eie-lids too ſhort, ſleep with their eies open, for that they cannot bee covered by the too ſhort skin of the eie-lids, the greeks term this affett, a&yºps&nug'. the cauſ is either internal or external: internal, as § § by a garbuncle, impoſtumºor ilcer; external, as by a wound made by a & ſword, burn, fall, and the like. if this miſhap proceed by reaſon of a cicatri- zation, it is cureable, if ſo that the ſhort eie-lid bee of an indifferent thickneſs. but if it have been from the firſt conformation, or by ſom other means, whereby much of the ſub- ſtance is loſt, as that which happen's by burning, and a carbuncle, then it is uncureable. , for the cure, you ſhall uſe relaxing and amollient fomentations, then the skin ſhall bee di- the cure. vided above the whole ſcar, in figure of an half moon, with the horns looking downwards. then the edges of the inciſion ſhall bee opened, and lint put into the middle thereof, that ſo it may hinder the lips from joyning together again. then ſhall you apply a plaſter upon the lint, and ſo bindeup the part with a fitting ligature,that may ſomwhat preſs upon the whole cie, left it ſhould lift itſelf ſomwhat upwards again, and ſo return into its anci- ent, but not natural figure. but in cutting the skin; you muſt take care that your inciſion harm not the griſtle; for if it bee cut, the eie-lid fall's down, neither can it bee afterwards liſted up. but now for the lower eie-lid: it is ſubjećt to ſundrie diſeaſes, amongſt which there is one which anſwereth in proportion to that, which wee late mentioned, which is, - when as it is lifted upwards little or nothing, but hang's and gape's, and cannotbee joyned ettropian, or - - i.e. - - --- h - with the upper, and therefore it doth not cover the eie, which affed is familiar to old peo- ...t ple; it is called eäropion, and it may beehelped by means formerly delivered. the eie-lid. paulus *gin. lib. .cap. io. chap. w ii. of the chalazion, or hail-ſione, and the hordeolum, or barly-corn of the eie-lids. § . he chalazion is a round and cleer pimple, which grow's upon the upper eie-ºº!“pé. sº lid; it is alſo moovable, and may bee ſtirred this way and that way with your * . . . fingers. the latines call it grando, for that it reſemble's a hail-ſtone. another imple not much like this grow's ſomtimes upon the verges of the eie-lids a- ve the place of the hairs. it is termed hordeolum, by reaſon of the fimilitude it hath with a barlie-corn. the matter of theſe is contained in its proper ciſt or skin, and the cur. therefore is hardly brought to ſuppuration. at the firſt begining it may bee reſolved and diſcuſſed. but when as it is once grown and concrete into a plaſter or ſtone-like hardneſs, it is ſcarce cureable. wherefore it is beſt to perform the cure by opening them, that ſo the contained matter may flow, or bee preſſed forth. if the pimple or ſwellingbee ſmall, then thruſt it through with a needle and thread, and leav the thread therein of ſuch length, that you may faſten the ends thereof with a little of the emplaſter called gratia dei, like glue to the fore-head, if it be on the upper eie-lid; or to the cheeks,if on the lower.you muſt draw through a freſhone every ſecond daie, as is uſually done in chirurgicall ſetons. for thus at length the ſwelling will bee deſtroied, and made plain. * chap. viii. of the hydatis, or fatneſs of the eie-lids. - he hydatiº is a certain fattie ſubſtance, like a piece of fat ſeated and lying under what hyds- a the skin of the upper eie-lid. it is a diſeaſ incident to children, who are of a this nº more humid nature: wherefore it is aſoft and looſtumor, making the whole eie-lid, which it poſſeſſeth, ordematous; ſo that as if depreſſed with a weight, it cannot bee liſted up. it hath its name, for that it hath as it were a bladder di- ſtended with a whayiſh humor, which kinde of fault is obſerved by galen in the liver. conºdaphor. thoſe, who are thus affe&ed, have their eies look red, and flow with tears, neither can they -ſºº.” behold the ſun, or endure the light. the cure is performed by cutting off the ſuperfluous the cure. ſubſtance, not hurting the neighbouring parts ; and then preſently put ſom ſalt into the place whence it was taken out (unleſs the vehemencie of pain hinder) that ſo the placema beedried and ſtrengthened, and the reſt of the matter (if anie ſuch bee)may bee conſumed, and hindred from growing again. laſtly, you ſhall tower the whole eie with the white of anegg diſſolved in roſe-water, or ſom other repercuſſive. mm * chap. -o - of diverſpreternatural affetti, lib’ . paulu, cap. i . i lib. . the cauſ. the cure. a diſeaſ ſub- jećt to relapſ. a detergent collyrium. you need not fear to uſe a- crid medi- cines in the itching of the ; lub, ..tap.g. #.” chap. ix. of the eie-lid, faſtened or glºwed together. # omtimes it cometh to paſs that the upper eie-lid is glewed or faſtened to the under, ſo that the eie cannot bee opened, or ſo that the one of them may ſtick or ſº bee faſtened to the white coat of the eie, or to the hornie. this fault is ſom- tº times drawn from the firſt originall, that is, by the default of the forming fa- cultie in the womb (for thus manie infants are born with their fingers faſtened together, with their fundaments, privities and ears unperforated) the eie in all other reſpeºs beeing well compoſed.the cauſof this affect ſomtimes proceed's from a wound, otherwhiles from a burn, ſcald or impoſtumation, as the breaking of the ſmallpox. it is cured by putting in a fit inſtrument, and ſo opening them; but with ſuch moderation, that you touch not the hornie coat, for otherwiſe it would fall out. therefore you muſt put the end or point of your probe under the eie-lids, and ſo lifting them up (that you hurt not the ſubſtance of the eie) divide them with a crooked inciſion-knife. the inciſion made, let the white of an eggbeaten with ſom roſe-water bee put into the eie, let the eie-lids beekept open; yea let the patient himſelf bee careful that hee often turn it upwards, and lift it u i. fingers, notonely that the medicine may bee applied to the ulcer, but alſo that they may not grow together again. in the night time let a little É. dipped in water, and that either ſimple, or wherein ſom vitriol hath been diſſolved, laid thereon. for thus you ſhall hinder the eie-lids from joyning together again. then on the third daie the parts or edges of the eie-lids ſhall bee touched with waters drying withoutbiting or acrimonie, that ſo they may be cicatrized. but if the cie-lid adhere to the hornie coat at the pupilla or apple of the eie, the patient will either bee quite blinde, or verie ill of fight. for the ſcar which enſue's will hinder the ſhapes of things from entring to the chryſtaline humor, and the viſive ſpirits from paſſing forth to the objećts. for prognoſticks, you may learn out of celſus,that this cure is ſubjećt to a relapſ,ſo that it may bee ſhunned nei- ther by diligence nor induſtrie,but that the eie-lid will alwaics adhere and cleav to the eie. chap. x. of the itching of the eie-lids. ºf anie have their eie-lids itch vehemently by reaſon of ſalt phlegm,which often- |\º times excoriating and exulcerating the parts themſelvs, yeeld's a ſanies, which }\}joyn's together the eie-lids in the nighttime as if they were glewed together, \} and make's them watrie and bleared. this affed doth ſo torment the patients, iºs that it oft-times make's them require the phyſicians help. wherefore general medicines beeing premiſed, the ulcers ſhall bee waſhed with the following collyrium. raque melli, in balneo marie diſtillate iii. ſaccarii candi i, aloes late & in pollinem redatie / fiat col- lyrium. which if it do no good, you may uſe this which follow's. r.ung. aegyptiaé. i, diſſol- vein aque plantagini, quantitate ſufficienti. let the ulcerated tie-lids bee touched with a ſoft linnen rag dipped therein, but with care that none thereof fall upºn the cie. but when the patient goe's to bed, let him cauſthem to bee anointed with the following ointment, verie effe&uai in this caſe. r.axungie porci & butyri recentis, anºſ tuth, prepar- ſ antimon, in aqua euphraſe preparati, ii, camphore gra.iiii. miſce,& in mortario plumbeo ducantur per tre, horas,con- flatum inde unguentum, ſervetur in pyxide lumbeå. som commend and uſe certain waters fit to cleanſ, drie, binde, ſtrengthen, and abſolutely free the eic-lids from itching and redneſs; of which this is one. k. aque euphrag frniculi, chelidon.an; ſ ſarcocal nutrite biivitriol.rom i, miſſeantur ſimul, & bulliant unicàebuilitione; poſtea coletur liquor, & ſervetur ad uſum dičium. or elſ;r.aque roſó'vi- mi all bonian iiii. tuth preparaloes an. i.floreni ii.camphor:graii. let them bee boiled ac- cording to art, and kept in a glaſs to waſh the eie-lids. or elſ, r. vini alli ibſ. ſali, com. i. let them bee put into a clean barbar's baſon and covered,and kept there five or ſix daies,and bee ſtirred once a daie, and let the eie-lids bee touched with this liquor. som wiſh that the patients urine bee kept all night in a barbar's baſon,and ſo the patients eie-lids bee waſhed therewith. verely in this . wee muſt not fear the uſe of acrid medicines, for i once ſaw a woman of fiftie years of age,who waſhed her eie-lids when they itched with the ſharpeſt vinegar ſhee could get, and affirmed that ſhee foundbetter ſucceſs of this then of anie other medicine. ligo preſcribe's a water, whoſe efficacie above other medicines in this affect, hee ſaith, hath been proved; and that it is to bee eſteemed moreworth then gold, the deſcripti- on thereof is thus: raq.roſvini albi odoriferi mediocri, vinoſitatis an iiii. myrobalan.citriniirit. iſ.thuri, ii-bulliant omnia ſimul uſque ad conſumptionen tertie parti, deinde immediatº addantur fores eri siiramph.gr.ii. let the liquorbekept in a glaſs well ſtopped for the fore-ſaid uſe. c h a p. lib. . whoſe cure is performed surgerie. -o'ſ chap. xi. of lippitudo, or blear-ties. sº. here are manie whoſe eies are never drie, but alwaies flow with a thin, acrid, §§§ and hot humor, which cauſethroughneſs, and upon ſmal occaſions, inflammati- lons, blear orblood-ſhoteies, and at . alſo strabiſmus or ſquinting. lip- º pitudo is nothingelſ but a certain whitefilth flowing from the eies, which oft- times agglutinate's or join's together the eie-lids. this diſeaſ often trouble's all the life- time, and is to beecuredby no remedie; in ſomit is cureable. such as have this diſeaſfrom their infancie, are not to bee cured,for it remain's with them till their dying day. for large heads, and ſuch as are repleat with acridor much excrementitious phlegm, ſcarce yeeldto medicines. there is much difference whether the phlegm flow down by the internal veſſels under the ſoul,or by the external which are betweeen the skull and the skin, or by both. for if the internal veins caſt forth this matter, it will bee difficultly cured; if it bee cured at all. but if the external veſſels caſt forth, that cure is not unprofitable, which haveing uſed medicines reſpecting the whole bodie, applie's, aſtringent medicines to the ſhaved crown, as empl. contra rupturam, which may ſtreighten the veins, and as it were ſuſpend the phlegm, uſeth cupping, and command's friðions to bee made towards the hindepart of the head, and laſtly, maketh a seton in the neck. there are ſom who cauterize the top of the crown with an hot iron, even to the bone, ſo that it may caſt a ſcale, thus to divert and ſtaie the defluxion. for local medicines, a collyrium made with a good quantitie of roſe-a collyrium of whatlippitude is. water, with a little vitriol diſſolved therein, may ſerv for all. vitriol to ſtay the defluxions of the eics. c. h. a. p. xii. of the opthalmia, or inflammation of the eies. º nophthalmia is an inflammation of the coat adnata and conſequently of the what opthal- ãº, whole eie, beeing troubleſom by the heat, redneſs, beating, renitencie, and; is, and the § laſtly pain. it hath its original either by ſom primitive cauſor occaſion, as a cauſes thereof. 'º fall, ſtroke,duſt,or ſmall ſand flying into the eies.for the eie is a ſmooth part, *ść § ſo that it iseaſily offended by rough things,as ſaith hippocrates,lib. de carnibus. *śº or by anantecedent cauſ, as a deflaxion falling upon the eies. the ſigns fol-signs. low the nature of the material cauſ, for from blood eſpecially cholerick and thin, it is full of heat, redneſs and pain; from the ſame allaied with phlegm all of them are more re- miſs. but if a heavineſs poſſeſsthewhole head, the original of the diſeaſ proceeds there- from.but if a hot pain trouble the forehead, the diſeaſmay beethought to proceed from ſom hot diſtemper of the duramater, or the pericranium; but if in the verie time of the rageing of the diſtaſthe patient vomit, the matter of the diſeaſproceed's from the ſtomack. but from whenceſaever it cometh there is ſcarce that pain of any part of the bodie, which may bee compared to the pain of the inflamed eies. w. the greatneſs of the inflammation hath forced the cies out of their orb, and broken them aſunder in diverſ. therefore there is no part of phyſickmore blazed abroad then for fore eies.forthe cure, the surgeon ſhall confi. the cure. der and intend three things; diet, the evacuation of the antecedent and conjună cauſ, and the overcoming it by topick remedies. the diet ſhallbee moderate, eſchewing all things that may fill the head with vapors; and thoſe things uſed that by aſtrićtion may ſtrengthen hºrifice ofthe ventricle, and prohibit the vapors from flying up to the head; the patient ſhall be forbidden the uſe of wines, unleſs peradventure the #.may proceed from a groſs and viſcid humor, as galen deliver's it. the evacuation of the matter flowing into the ele, ſhall be performed by purgeing medicines.phlebotomie in the arm, cupping the ſhoulders com.adaphor. indneck with ſcarification, and without: and laſtly, by friaions, as the phyſician that ºff. hathundertaken the cureſhall think fit. galen after univerſal remedies for old inflammati- lib. -meth ns ofthecies,commends the opening of the veins and arteries in the forehead and temples, ſº - becauſfor the moſt part the veſſels thereabouts diſtended with acrid , hot and vaporous blood, cauſgreat and vehement pains in the eie. for theimpugning of the conjun't cauſ, diverſtopick medicines ſhallbee applied,accord- ing to the four ſundrietimes or ſeaſons that everić phlegmon uſually hath. for in the ining when as the acrid matterflow's down with much violence, repercuſſives do much cºnduce; and tempred with reſolving medicines, are good alſo in the encreaſ: r. **ſ arreraſive *plantag-an. ſ. mucagin, gum. tragacanth. ii. album. o.º. quod ſufficit, fiat collyrium, let it bee medicine, dropped warm into the eie, and let a doublecloth dipped in the ſame collyrium bee put upon it. r. rºmutag, ſºm.pſil & cydon, extraſie in aq.plantan. ſ; aq. ſolan. & latiis muliebris, fln- tº hiſ all tha. fiat colºrium, uſethis like theformer the veins of the temples ; bº freightned by the following medicine. r. bol, am. ſang, drac. et maſt, an . - alb. ºvi, aqueroſ et acet, an: i, terth, lot, et al. cidon. an. i'ſ. fiat fift. you may alſo uſe †. m m /ng. ofdºveſpreternatural &/ffcffs, lt. .i. . £"gº hºlºmplical or contra rupturam diſſolved in oyl of myrtles, and a little vineger ... but if the bitterneſs of pain bee intolerable, the follówing cataplaſm ſhall bee applied. an . r. medul. pºmºr-ſub, ciner.cºiorum iii. laii; muliebri, ſ, let it bee applied to the cie, the for- *p* merly preſcribed colºrfumbecing firſt dropped in. or, bºmutag, ſem, pſil. & cidon.angſ, mi- ce panis albi in lačie ... ii.aqueroſ. ſ., fiat cataplaſma. the blood ofa turtle-dove, pi-, geon or hen drawn by opening a vein under the wings, dropped into the eie, aſſwageth º... pain. baths are not onely anodine, but alſo alſo ſtay the defluxion by diverting the matter jºi. thereofby ſweats; therefore galen much commends them in ſuch défluxions ºfthecies as eics. cºmby fit. in the ſtate when as the pain is either quite taken away or aliwaged, you may mayhorſed... uſe the fºllowing medicines. r. ſarcºcol. in laiemuirbrinutritesi dies loi, in aq.roſar.. ii. trochiſ alb. rha. ſ ſacchar. cand. ii. aque roſłiii. fiat collyrium. or, r. ſem. frniculi, & fang. petergent cok ºn iifo, chame. & melil, an m. ſ. coquantu in aq. com. ad iii, colature adde luthie prep.cº. lyria. ſacrºc. nutrite in laie muliebri. anxi. g. ſacchari cand. , fiat collyrium ut artiſ eff. in the decli- natiºn the eie ſhallbee fomented with a carminative deco&ion, and then this collyrium drop- ped thereinto. r. ſacroc. nutrite ii, aloé & myrrh..an. siaq roſ.cº. euphrag an. ii, fiat collyri- um, ut artis eſt. - - cha p. xiii. of the proptóſis, that is the falling or ſtarting forth of the tie, and of the - phthiſis and chemoſis of the ſame. , - .) he geerks call that affe&t proptºſis,the latines procidentia or exitus oculi, when } as the eie ſtand's, and is caſt out of the orb, by the occaſion of a matter filling yº and lifting up the eie into a great bigneſs, and largeneſs of ſubſtance. the cauſ of this diſeaſis ſomtimes external, as by too violent ſtraining to vomit,by hard labor in child-birth, by exceſſive and wondrous violent ſhouting, or crying out. it ſomtimes happeneth that a great and cruel pain of the head, or the too ſtrait bindeing of the forehead and temples for the eaſing thereof, or the palſie of the muſcles of the eie, give beginning to this diſeaſ. certainly ſomtimes the eie is ſo much diſtended by the defluxion of humors, that it break's in ſunder, and the humors thereof are ſhed, and blindeneſsen- ſue's thereof, as i remember befel the ſiſter of lewis de billy merchant, dwelling at paris neer s. michiel's bridg. the cure ſhallbee diverſified according to the cauſes. therefore univer- ſal medicines beeing premiſed, cupping-glaſſes ſhall be applied to the original of the ſpinal marrow, and the ſhoulders; as alſo gauteries, or setons: the eie ſhall bee preſſed or held down with cloths doubled and ſteeped in an aſtringent decočtion made of the juice of acacia, redroſes, the leaves of poppie,henbane, roſes and pomgranat pills:of which things poultiſ, ſes maybeemade by addition of barlie-meal and the like. - the atrophie there is ſomtimes to bee ſeen in the eie an affečt contrarie to this, and it is termed atrº- of the cir. ſ: by this the whole ſubſtance of the eie grow's lank and decay's, and the apple it ſelf becom's much leſs. but if the conſumption and emaciation take hold of the pupil onely, the phthiſ, the greeks, by a peculiar name and different from the general, term it a phthifts, as paulus thereof. teacheth. contrarie cauſes ſhall bee oppoſed to each affe&;hot and attraćtive fomentations * **** ſhallbee applied; frićtions ſhallbee uſed in the neighboring parts, and laſtly all things ſhall bee applied which may withoutdanger be uſed to attraćt the blood and ſpirits into the parts. there is another affe&t of the eie, of affinitie to the proptºſis, which by the greeks is ... termed chemoſis. now this is nothing elſthen when when both the eie-lids are turned up ... by a great inflammation, ſo that they can ſcarce cover the eies, and the white of the eie is ***** liſted much higher up then the black. somtimes the adnata changeing his wontº looketh red; beſides alſo, this affe′t may take its original from external cauſes, as a wound, contu- ſion and the like. but according to the varietie of the cauſes, and the condition of the pre- ſent affe&t fixed and remaining in the part,diverſ remedies ſhall bee appointed. . . - the cauſ. the cure. chap. xiv. of the ungula, or web. |heºngula, pterygion or web is the growth of a certain fibrous and membranous fleſh upon the uppercoat of the eie called adnata, ariſcing more frequently in the bigger, but ſomtimes in the leſſer corner towards the temples. when it is § negléed, it cover's not onely the adnata, but alſo ſom portion of the corneº, ** and coming to the pupil itſelf hurt's the fight thereofsuch a webſomtimes ad- here's not at all to the adnata,but is onely ſtretched over it from the corners of the sie.ſo that you may thruſt a probe between it and the almata: it is of ſeveral colors, ſon whilºs rºd, ſomwhilesyellow, ſomwhiles duskiſh, and otherwhiles white. it hath its original i. - - tonlı - lib. . whoſe cure is performed by surgerie. from external cauſes, as a blow, fall, and the like or from internal, as the defluxion of humors into the eies. the ungula which is inveterate, and that hath acquired much thick-what web cu- neſs and bredth, and beſides doth difficultly adhere to the adnata, is difficultly taken away, ºblº. neither may itbee helped by medicines whereby ſcars in the eies are extenuated. but that . incure- which covereth the whole pupil muſt not beetouched by the surgeon, for beeing cut away, the ſcar which is left by its denſitie hindereth the entrance of objećts to the cryſtalline hu- mor, and the egreſs of the animal ſpirit to them. but oftentimes it is accompanied with an inflammation of the eies, a burning, itching, weeping defluxion,andſwelling of the eie- lids. that the cure may rightly and happily proceed, hee muſt firſt uſe aſparediet. thecure. purgeing medicines ſhall bee given, and blood taken away by opening a vein, eſpecially, if there bee great inflammation. for particular remedies,this excreſcence ſhall bee eaten away, or at leaſt kept from growth, by dropping into the eie collyrium of vitriol deſcribed in wounds of the eies. but if that wee profit nothing by this means, it remaineth, that wee take it away with the hand after the following manner. you ſhall ſet the patient upon a fourm or ſtool, and make him lean much back, and bee the cutting of ſo held firmly, that hee may not fall nor ſtir, then muſt you open his ſore eie,putting there the web. in a ſpeculum oculi formerly deſcribed in treating of the wounds of this part, and then muſt you lift up the web itſelf with a ſharp little hook, with the point turned a little in, and put under the mid'ſt of the web;when you have lifted it a little up, thruſt a needle threded with a ſmooth thred between it and the adnata, then takeing hold of the hook, and the two ends of the thred drawn through with the needle, and lifting up the web by them, you ſhall gently begin to ſeparate it from the ſubſtance of the eie lying there-under, beginning at the original thereofwith a crooked inciſion-knife, and ſo proſecuteit even to the end, yet ſo as you hurt no part of the adnata, nor cornea. -- - - - - the figures of little book, a needle, and crookd inviſiºn ºff. little books. aneedle. acrooked inciſion-knife. ~ then muſt it bee cut off with a pair of ſciſſers, and the white of an egg beaten with ſom roſe-water laid thereon, and often renewed. afterwards the eie muſt everie day bee opened, leaſt coming to cicatrization, the eie-lids ſhallbee glewed together in that part whereas the web is taken away, which alſo ſhallbee hindered by putting of common ſalt, ſage and cum- min-ſeeds into the eie, beeing firſt champed and chawed in the mouth. there are ſom who in ſtead of the crookedknife ſeparate the web from the adnata with a horſe's hair, others do it with agooſquil made readie for the ſame purpoſe, takeing heed that they hurt not the caruncle at the corner by the noſe, for it will follow if that you draw the web away too violently; and if itbee cut, there will remain a hole, through which dureing the reſt of the life a weeping humor will continually flow,a diſeaſby the greeks termed rhyas. if after the cutting therebee fear of inflammation,linnen rags moiſtned in repelling medicines,formerly. preſcribed in wounds of the eie, ſhall bee laid thereupon. - - chap. xv. - of the egilops, fiſtula, lacrymoſa, or weeping fiſhlaf the eie. the uſe of:fe a. the greater corner of the cie there is a glandule, made for the receiving and con- glanduleat the *ining the moiſture which ſerveth forthelubricatingandhumråing the eye, leaſt it jºin. ſhould of the cis, . of diverſpreternaturale/ffetts, lib. . ſhould drie by continual motion. this glandule ſomtimes by a ſanguin or pituitous de- fluxion falling violenrly from the brain, ſwel's, impoſtumate's and ulcerate's with an ul- cer, not ſeldom degenerateing into a fiſtula, ſo that in ſucceſs of time it rotteth the bone that lieth underit: of ſuch fiſtulae's,ſom are open outwardly, and theſe uſually have their original from a phlegmon; other ſomare inwardly, and thoſe are ſuch as at firſt ſwelled by the defluxion or congeſtion of a phlegmatick matter, ſo that there appeareth no hole out- wardly, but onely a tumor of the bigneſs of a peaſ, this tumorbeeing preſſed, floweth with a ſanious, ſerous and red or otherwiſe with a white and viſcid matter, audthat eitherby paiodial and the cºrn" of the eie, or by the inſide of the noſe. som have this matterflowing continual- tjºin ly, others have it only monethly,which is proper alſo to ſom fiſtulae's. such weeping fiſtu- lars. lae's if they becom old, cauſan airspbia of the eie, and ſomtimes blindeneſs and a ſtinking breath. therefore wee muſt diligently and ſpeedily by phyſical and chirurgical means reſiſt the breeding diſeaſ.wherefore,haveing uſed general medicines,weemaſtcom to particulars, therefore if the ulcer bee not ſufficiently wide, it ſhall bee enlarged by putting tents of ſpunge therein.the fleſh of the glandule encreaſing more then is fit, ſhall bee correted by putting therein the catheretick pouders of mercurie, calcined vitriol, or ſom aqua fortis, or oil of vitriol, and laſtly, by a potential cauterie. if you cannot prevail by theſe means, and the efficacie that the bonebegin's to rot, and the patientbee ſtout i. then uſe an ačtual cauterie ... ." whoſe uſe is far more effectual, readie, certain and execellent, thena potential cauterie, as i cauteric. have tried in manie with happie ſucceſs. in my opinion it make's no matter, whether the cauterie bee of gold, filver or iron; for the efficacie it hath, proceedeth not from the matter, but from the fire. yet if wee muſt religiouſly obſerv and make choice of metals, i had rather have it of iron, as that which hath a far more drying and aſtringent facultie then gold, for that the element of earth beareth the chiefſway therein, as appeareth by the waters which flow through iron-mines. wherefore you ſhall cauſto bee made atriangular iron, ſharp at the end, that it may the more ſpeedily penetrate. and then the ſound tie and adjacent parts being well covered and defended,and the patien'ts head firmly holden in one's hand,leaſt the patient beeing frighted, ſtir himſelf inthe verie inſtant of the operation. but a plate of iron ſomwhat depreſſed in the midſt, for the cavitie of the greater corner, ſhallbee applied and fitted to the painedeie. this plate ſhallbee perforated that the hot iron may paſs thereby to the fiſtula lying there-under,and ſo may onely touch that which is to bee cauterized. the figure of a cauterie, f a plate with a bole therein. the differen- cete the cure. - - - m w * n w \ - w - - º n n\, n yn \ oº * . after the bone is burnt with the cauterie, a colºri" mad; ofthewhites of eggs beaten in things to bee plantain and night-ſhade waters muſt beepoured into the hole it ſelf, the eie and all the donaſter the neighboring parts; but the patient ſhallbee laid in bed, with his head ſomwhat high, and * †...i. bºnued is often and as ſoon as you ſhall perceivit to grow drie. then the fall of the eſcharſhall bee procured by anointing it with freſh butter ; when it is fallen away,the ulcerſhallbee cleanſºd, filled with fleſh, and laſtly cicatrized. ' - c. h. a. p. xvi. j of the staphyloma, or grape-like ſwelling. ſº taphyloma is the ſwelling of the hornie and grape-like coat, bred through the º occaſion of an humor flowing down upon the eie.orby an ulcer,the hornie coat sº º becing relaxed, or thru'ſt forth by the violence of the puſtule generated beneath. ºlt in ſhape reſembleth a grape, whence the greeks ſtyle it staphyloma. this tumor is ſomtimes blackiſh, otherwhiles whitiſh. for if the hörnie coat bee ulcerated and fretted inſunder, ſo that the grapiecoatſhew itſelf, and fall through the ulcer,then the staphyloma will look black like a ripe grape, for the utter part of the uvea is blackiſh. but ifthe cornea bee onely relaxed and not broken,then the ſwelling appear's of a whitiſh color pauluſ and like an unripe grape. . the antients have made manie kindes or differences thereof. attiuſ an for if it bee but a ſmall hole of the broken cºrnea by which the uvea ſheweth - or thruſteth forth its ſelf, they then termed it myocephalon, that is , like the whar a staphy- §ſ. º loma is, and the lºº cauſes thereof. i lib. . whoſe cure is performed by surgerie. . the head of a flie. but if the hole were large, and alſo callous, they called it clavu, or a - nail; if it were yet larger, then they termed it acinus, or a grape. but in what ſhape or fi- #: º: gure ſoever this diſeaſhall happen, it bringeth two diſcommodities, the one of blindeneſs, ... • the other of deformitie. wherefore here is no place for surgerie to reſtore the fight,which . n is already loſt, but onely to amend the deformitie of the eie; which is by cutting off that which is prominent. but you muſt take heed that you cut away no more then is fit, for ſo there would bee danger of pouring out the humors of the eie. chap. xvii. • ofthe hypopyon, that is the ſuppurate or putrefied eie. **ś z/s, or quitture is ſomtimes gathered between the hornie and grapie coat from the cauſ. p & an internal or external cauſ: from an internal, as by a great defiakion, and oft- jºº times after an inflammation; but externally, by a ſtroke, through which occaſion, a vein beeing opened hath poured forth blood thither, which may preſently beeturned in- to quitture. for the cure, univerſal remedies beeing premiſed, cupping-glaſſes ſhall bee applied, with ſcarifications and frićtions uſed. anodine and digeſtive collyria ſhallbee pour- edfrom above downwards. galen write's that hee hath ſomtimes evacuated this matter, the lib. methºd. cornea beeing opened at the iris, in which place all the coats meet, concur and are termi-capul. nated. i have don the like, and that with good ſucceſs, james guillemeau the kings surgeon beeing preſent, the quitture beeing expreſſed and evacuated after the apertion, the ulcer ſhallbee claenſed with hydromel,or ſom other other ſuch like medicine. chap. xviii. oğthe mydriaſis, or dilatation of the pupil of the eie. fºrdriaſis is the ditatation of the pupil ofthecie, and this happeneth either by the ciuſ. nature or chance: the former proceedeth from the default º the firſt confor- mation, neither is it cureable; but the other is of ſorts; for it is either from an internal cauſ, the off-ſpring of an humor flowing down from the brain, = wherefore phyſical means muſt beeuſed for the cure thereof. now that which the cure. cometh by anie external occaſion, as a blow, fall, or contuſion upon the eie, muſt bee cured bypreſently applying repercuſſive and anodine medicines, the defluxion muſt bee hindered by diet skilfully appointed, phlebolomie, cupping, ſcarification, friðtions and other reme- dies which may seem convenient. then muſt you com to reſolving medicines, as the blood of a turtle-dove, pigeon, orchickenreeking-hot out of the vein, beeing poured up- on the eie and the neighboring parts.then this following cataplaſm ſhallbee applied there- to r, farinefabar. & bordei an:#iii. ol. rºſar. & myrtillor, an i, ſºul, ireo; for ii. cum ſapa aa ſti fiat cataplaſma. you may alſo uſe the following fomentation. r. roſar.ſub. & myrtylanni.i. . forum melil. & chameman.p.i.nucum cupreſſ.;i. vini auſteri ft.ſ .aq.roſar. & plantag, an: iii. - make a decočtion of them all for a fomementation to bee uſed with a ſponge. cha p. xix. - of a cataraći. cataraćt is called alſo by the greeks hypochima, by the latines ſuffuſio. how- a catana. §: ſoever you term it, it is nothing elſ but the concretion of an humor into º º a certain thin skin under the hornie coat, juſt againſt the apple or pupil, and § as it were ſwimming upon the waterie humor; and whereas the place ought to bee emptie, oppoſing it ſelf to the internal facultie of ſeeing,whereby it differ- the di eth from ſpots and ſcars growingupon the hornie coat and adnata. it ſomtimes covereth . differen- the whole pupil, otherwhiles but the one half thereof, and ſomwhiles but a ſmal portion thereof. according to this varietie the fight is either quite loſt, weak, or ſomwhat de- praved, becauſthe animal viſive ſpirit cannot in its entire ſubſtance paſs through the den- fitie thereof. the defluxion of the humor whence it proceed's, is either cauſed by an exter- nal occaſion, as a ſtroke, fall, or by the heat or coldneſs of the encompaſſing air, trouble- ſom both to the head and eies; or elſit is by an internal means, as the multitude, or elſthe acrid hot and thin qualisie of the humors. this diſeaſ alſo ſomtimes taketh its original from groſs and fumid humors ſent from a crude ſtomack, or from vaporous meats or drinks, up to the brain, and ſo it falleth into the eies, where, by the coldneſs, ſtraitneſs and tarry- ing in the place, they turn intomoiſture, and at length into that concretion or film which wee ſee: the ſigns may beeeaſily drawn, from that weebave alreadie delivered. for when signes. the cataraćtisformed and ripe, it reſembleth acertain thin membraneſpred over the p". n §§ cauſes. . o of diverſpreternaturale affetts, lib. . r and appeareth of a different color, according to the varietie of the humor whereof it conſi- ſteth, one while white, another while black, blue, aſh-colored, livid, citrine, green. it ſom- times reſembleth quick-ſilver,which is verie trembling and fugitive, more then the reſt. at the firſt when it beginneth to breed, they ſeem to ſee manie things, as flies flying up and down, hares, nets, and the like, as if they were careleſly toſſed up and down before their eies: ſomtimes everie thing appeareth two,and ſomwhiles leſs then they are; becauſ the vi- five ſpirit is hindered from paſſing to the objećts by the denſitie of the skin, like as a cloud ſhadowing the light of the sun.whence it is that the patients are dullerſighted about noon, and ſurer and quicker ſighted in the morning and evening, for that the little vifive ſpirit diffuſed through the air, is diſperſed by the greater light, but contraćted by the leſs. now if this film cover half the pupil, then all things ſhew §. by halfs; but if the mid'ſt thereof bee covered, and as it were the centre of the chryſtaline humor, then they ſeem as if th had holes or windows; but if it cover it all, then can hee ſee nothing at all, but onely the ſhadows of viſible bodies, and of the sun, moon, stars, lighted candles, and the like ſumi- nous things,and that but confuſedly, and as by conjećture. -: chap. xx. of the phyſical cure of a beginning cataraći. begining catarağ is hindered from growing and concretion by diet conveni- * ently and artificially preſcribed, by the abſtinence from wine, eſpecially more ! ſtrong and vaporous, and forbearing the uſe of meats, which yeld a phlegma- tick juice and vaporous: as peaſ, beans, turneps, cheſnuts, and,laſtly,all ſuch things as have the facultie of ſtirring up the humors, and cauſing defluxion in the bodie, ſuch as are all ſalt and ſpiced meats, as alſo garlike, onions, muſtard. the immo- derate uſe of venerie hurts more then all the reſt, for that it more violently exagitate's the breadſeaſoned whole bodie, weaken's the brain and head, and beget's crude humors. let his bread bee ſea- *: femnºk ſoned with ſom fennel ſeeds, for it is thought to have a facultie of helping the fight, and eeds. clearing the eies, and diſſipating the miſtievapors in the ſtomack before they can aſcend to the brain. wherefore by the ſame reaſon it is good to uſe marmelade of quinces, conſery of roſes,and common drige powder, or anie ſuch like compoſed of things good to break winde, or corroborate the ventricle. phlebotomie and purging,if they bee requifite, ſhall beefitly appointed: ventoſes ſhallbee †: to the ſhoulders and neck; and phlegmatick matter ſhallbee diverted and evacuated by the mouth with uſing maſticatories in the morn- ing. there bee ſom which beleev, that a begining cataraćt may bee diſſipated and diſcuſſed by often rubbing the eie-lids with his fingers, and in like ſort by the . and earneſt be- holding of the stars, and the moon when it is at the full, looking-glaſſes, diamonds, and how bright all other ſuch likebright ſhining things. i beleev, that by beams plentifully and ſuddenly ſhining things brought and diffuſed over the eie, dire&ly oppoſite againſt ſome bright ſhining thing, it diet for ſuch as are troubled with a cata- raćt. ºy liffrate may ſeem to have a penetrating, dividing, diſſolving, as alſo a conſuming and drying fa- ; cultie. beſides, alſo the hot breath of him who holdeth in his mouth, and chaweth fennel ſeeds, aniſ-ſeeds, coriander ſeeds, nutmeg, cinnamon,cloves, and the like, hath a great fa- cultie, the eies beeing firſt gently rubbed with the finger, it beeing breathed in neer at hand, and often received, to heat, attenuate, reſolv, diget and diffuſe the humor which is readie to concrete. moreover, this collyrium of john vigo is thought verie powerful to clear the eies, ſtrengthen the fight, hinder ſuffuſions, and diſcuſs them, if at anie time they con- acolºnium crete, and begin to gather. rhepati, bircini ſani & recenti, fbii, alomi aromatici & mellis ºn. diſſipating a ſ. ſucci rule, iii. aque chelidonie, frniculi, verbenie euphoſie, an:iii. piperis longi, nuci, moſcha- begining ca- te, caryophyllorum anxii. croci bi.floris roriſmarini aliquantum contriti, m.ſ . ſarcocolle, aloér hepa- tarağ. tice, anxiii.fellis rate, leporis & perditiº, an i. terantur omnia, tritiſque addeſacchari albi ii.mel- lis roſati vi conjicianſur in alembicum vitreum, & diſtillentur in balneo marie; let this diſtilled liquor bee often dropped into the eies. but if you prevail nothing by all theſe medicines, and that the cloudie and heaped up humor doth daily increaſand thicken; then muſt you abſtain from remedies, and expett until it bee no more heaped up, but thickned, yea until it ſeem to beegrown ſomwhat hard. for ſo it may bee couched with a needle; otherwiſe,if this ſame skin ſhall not bee ripe, but more tender then is fitting, when you ſhall com to the operation, it will bee broken and thruſt through with the needle, and not couched. on the contrarie, if it bee too hard, it will reſiſt the needle, neither will it ſuffer it ſelf to bee a catarağ eaſily couched. wherefore it is requiſite that the surgeon know when it is ripe, and hee muſt nºt bee muſt diligently obſerv the figns whereby hee may diſcern a ripe qatarağ from an unripe; ; "... and that which is cureable,from that which is uncureable.for that onely which is ripe and *** cureable is to be couched; that which is unripe,that is, ſuch anoneasis moretender,and as it were crude, and that which is more hard and denſ, and laſtly, that is uncureable muſt not bee attempted at all. - chap. lib. . whoſe cure is performed by surgerie. -ii chap. xxi. by what ſigns ripe and cureable cataraćis maybee diſcerned from unripe and uncureable ones. f the ſoundeie beeing ſhut, the pupil of the ſore or ſuffiiſed eie, after it ſhall bee rubbed with your thumb,bee preſently dilated & diffuſed,and with the like celeritie - return into the place, figure, color and ſtate,it is thought by ſom to ſhewa ripe and confirmed cataraćt. but an unripe, and not to bee couched, if the pupil remain dilated and diffuſed for a long while after. but it is a common ſign of a ripe, as alſo more denſ, and conſequently uncureable ſuffuſions to bee able to ſee nor diſtinguiſh no viſible thing befidelight and brightneſs; for to diſcern other objećts ſheweth that it is not yet ripe: therefore the ſoundeie beeing ſhut and preſſed, the pupil of the other rubbed with your thumb, is dilated, enlarged, ſwelleth, and is more diffuſed; the viſive ſpirits by this compreſſion beeing as it were forced from the ſound into the ſore eie. but theſe following cataraćts are judgeduncureable, that is, ſuch as are great, ſuch as when the eie-lid is rub- bed are nothing dilated or diffuſed,whoſe pupil becometh no broader by this rubbing: for hence youmay gather, that the ſtopping or obſtrućtion is in the optick nerv, ſo that how ºn cunningly and well ſoever the cataraćt bee couched, yet will the patient continue blinde; you ſhall do no moregood in couching a cataraćt, which is in an eie conſumed and waſted with a phthifts. alſo thatcataraćt is uncureable, which is occaſioned by a moſt grievous ºneurºle diſeaſ, to wit, by moſt bitter and cruel pains of the head, or by a violent blow. such as are cataraćts. of a plaiſter-like, green, black, livid, citrine and quick-filver-like color,are uſually uncure- able. on the contrarie, ſuch as are of a cheſnut color, or of a skie or ſea-water color, with ‘...." ca- ſom little whiteneſs, yeeld great hope of a happie and ſucceſsful cure. taracºa º . . chap. xx ii. - , of the couching a catarai. gº fteryon ſhall know by the fore-mentioned figns that the cataraa is cureable, when to wº. it remainsthat you attempt the couching thereof,but ſo,that therebee nothing coucha cata- which may hinder. for if the pain of the head,cough,nauſeouſneſs or vomiting caº. at that time trouble the patient, you ſhall then beſtow your labor in vain: * wherefore you muſt exſpea until theſe ſymptoms begon. then make choice of a ſeaſon fitting for that purpoſe, that is, in the decreaſ of the moon, when the air is not troubled with thundernor lightning, and when as the sun is not in aries, becauſthat - w fign hath dominion over the head.then let the surgeon conſult a phyſician whether purg-, - . ingor bloºd-lettingbee convenient for the patient, ſo to refiſt plethorick ſymptoms,other- . . . waiºreadiº to yeºld matter for relapſ. two daies after you muſt make choice of a place the place. furniſhed with indifferent or competent light, and the patient being faſting ſhall beeplaced in a ſtraight chair.ſo that the light may not fall with the beams dire&ly upon him, but fide- wiſe. the eie which ſhall beecured muſt beenade more ſteddie, by laying and bindeing woollupon the other: then the surgeon ſhall ſeat and place himſelf dire&ly againſt the patient upon aſ at ſomwhat º: and bidding the patient put his handsdown to his gir- dle, hee ſhall hold the patient's legs between his knees. one ſhall ſtandat the patient's back, whoſhall holdhis head, and keep it from ſtirring; for by a little ſtirring hee may loſe his fight for ever. then muſt you prepare and make readie your needle, and thruſt it often into the needle. ſom ſtrong thick cloth, that it may beeas it were ſmooth by this motion, and for the per- formance of the workin hand with the leſs pain ſomwhat warmediºmuſ beenlade of iron º-, ºr or ſteel, and not of gold or filver, it muſt bee alſo flatted on the fides , and ſharp-pointed. - that ſo it may the better. pierce into the eie, and wholly couch the catara&once taken hold f; and leaſt it ſhould ſlip in the surgeon's hand, and Éce leſs ſteddie, it ſhall bee put into a handle, as you may ſee by the following figure. , , , eº; ſº, . . . . ; - - - - tº; , º ... • * * aneedle inſerted in a handlefor the couching of cataraćis. ** º º , . * t . a * * -- - * : *; ; ; ; * * el, ſº - ; :: n. * : * > . . ; - - * , * * ***. . x all things beeing thus in a readineſs,you muſt bid the patient tourntle fight of hissie towardshis noſe,& the needle muſt beeboldly thruſt(for it is received in a . that is void, & onely filled with ſpirits)directly by the coat adnata, in the middle ſpace betweentheleſſer r corner - of diverſpreternatural caffeds, lib. . # corner and the hornie coat, juſt againſt the mid'ſt of the cataraćt,yet ſo,as that you hurt no gal.lib. .de vein of the adnata, and then by ſtirring it as it werediverſly until it com to the midſt of the **** pupil and ſuffuſion. when it is comthither,the needle muſt bee inclined from above down- * wards to the ſuffuſion, and there to bee ſtirred gently until by little and little it couch or bring down the cataraćt as whole as may bee beneath the compaſs of the pupil; let him ſtill follow it though couched with his needle, and ſomwhat violently depreſs and keep it down for ſom ſhort ſpace, that ſo it may reſt and ſtay in that lower place whether it is de- the figs of, preſſed. the surgeon ſhall trie whetheritfirmly remain ther: or no, bidding the patient catarº well preſently to move his eie; for if it remain conſtantly ſo, and do not return again, the cure couched. is perfeót. then muſt the needlebee lifted up by little and little, neither muſt it preſently bee taken forth, that if the catara&ſhould bear up, or riſe again, that it might again, and ſo often (whilſt the work is yet hot, and all things in a readineſs)bee couched towards the leſſer corner, until it bee fully and ſurely hid. then muſt you draw back the needlegently, and after the ſame manner as you put it in ; leſt if you uſe not moderation, you bring back the cataraćt from whence you couched it, or grievouſly offend the cryſtalline humor, the prime inſtrument of fight, or the pupil with danger of dilateing thereof. som asſoon as the lt. gap... work is don, give the patient ſomthing in his hand to look upon; but paulus approov's not thereof, for hee fear's leſt his endeavoring or ſtriveing to ſee, may drawback the cataraët. whattobee wherefore it is more wiſedom and better, preſently after the drawing forth of the needle, donaſter the to put on a foſt rag the white of an eggbeaten in roſt-water with alittle choice alum, and ºuching of” ſo applie it to the eie and neighboring parts for to binde and hinder the inflammation; then * alſo you muſt together therewith binde upthe ſoundeie, let by ſtirring to ſee, it might to- - gethertherewith draw and move the ſoreeie, by reaſon of the ſympathie and conſent they -- mutually have by the optick nervs. after all things are thus performed, the patient ſhall bee laid in a ſoftbed, and ſo placed, that his head may lie ſomwhat high ; let himbee laid far from noiſ, let him not ſpeak, nor eat anie hard thing that may trouble his jaws, where- fore lethim feedupon liquid meats, as panado, barly cream, culliſſes,gellies, rear-eggs, and other meats of the like nature. at the end of eight daies the ligature that binde's up the eies ſhall bee looſed, and his eies waſhed with roſe-water, and putting on ſpectacles, or ſomtaf- a fatie, the patient ſhall by little and little accuſtom himſelf to the light, left heeſhould bee . . . . . gº offended by the ſudden meetingwth light but if the ſuffuſion,after ſom ſhort while after,lift *-itſelf up again, it muſt bee couched again,but through a new hole, for the eie is pained and tender in the former place. it ſomtimes happen's by the touch of the needle that the cataraćt is not couched whole, but is broken into manie pieces; then therefore each of them muſt bee followed, and couched ſeverally: if there bee anie verie ſmall particle which ſcape's the needle, it muſt beeletalone, for there is no doubt but that in proceſs of time it maybee diſ- of a catara& ſolved by the force of the native heat. there are alſo ſom cataraës which at the firſt touch jºr, ofthe needle are diffuſed and turn into aſubſtance like to milk or troubled water, for that jº, are not throghly ripe, yet theſe put usin good hope of recoverie,and it beebut for this.that they can neverafterwards concrete into one bodie as before. wherefore at the length they are alſo diſcuſſed by the ſtrength of the native heat, and then the eie recover's its former ſplendor. if that anie other ſymptoms com unlooked for, they ſhall bee helped by new counſels and remedies. º, - chap. . xxi . * , * - i . of the ſtopping of the paſſage of the ears, and the falling of things thereinto. the cauſ. tſomtimes happeneth that children are born without anie, holes in their ears, a certain fleſhly or membranous ſubſtance growing in their bottom or firſt entrance. * the ſame may alſo happen afterwards by accident, they beeing ulcerated by ſomim- poſtume or wound, and the ear ſhut up by ſom fleſhly excreſcence or ſcar. when as the ſtop- ping is in the bottom of the cavitie, the cure is more difficult then if it were in the firſt en- trance, but there is a double way of cure; for this ſubſtance, whatſoever it bee, muſt ei- therbee cut out,or elſeaten away and conſumed by acrid and catheretick medicines; in per- formance of which there is need of great moderation of the minde and hand. foritis a part endued with moſt exquiſite ſence and near the brain, wherefore by handling it too roughly, there is fear of diſtention of the nerve, and conſequently of death. somtimes alſo the preternatual falling of ſom ſtrange bodies into this paſſage maketh a ſtopping of the ears, ſuch as are fragments ofſtone, gold, filver, iron and the like metals, pearls, cherrie-ſtones, or kernels, peaſandether ſuch tike, putſ. now ſolid and boniebo. dies ſtill retain the ſame magnitude; but peaſ, ſeeds and kernels,by drawing the moiſture there implanted into them, ſwell up, and cauſvehement pain by the diſtention of the neigh- boring parts, wherefore the ſooner they are drawn forth, the better it is for the patient. this ſhallbee don with ſmall pincers and inſtruments made in the ſhape of ear-picks. but if you profit nothing thus, then muſt you uſe ſuch gimblets as are made for the drawing forth - of the cure, lib. . whoſe cure is performed by surgerie. - of bullets ſhot deep into the bodie, little ſtones and bodies of the like ſtonie hardneſs ſhall beeforced forth by the brain, provoked to concuſſion by ſneeſing, and by dropping ſom oil the concuſ. of almonds firſt into the paſſage of the ear, that the way maybee the more ſlipperie; for it five force of willcom to paſs by this ſheefing, or violence of the internal air forcibly ſeeking paſſage"finº out, that at length they may bee caſt forth, the mouth and noſtrils beeing ſtopped with the hand. but if wee cannot thus prevail, it remain's, that wee cut open the paſſage with an in- cifion-knife, ſo much as ſhallbee ſufficient for the putting in and uſing of an inſtrument for to extraćt them. if anie creeping things of little creatures, as fleas, ticks, piſmires,gnats and the like, which ſomtimes happeneth, ſhall get therein, you may kill them by droppin in a little oil and vinegar. there is a certain little creeping thing, which for piercing an getting into the ears, the french call perſe-oreille (wee an ear-wig.) this, if it chance to get into the ear, maybee killed by the foreſaid means,you may alſo catch it, or draw it forth by laying half an apple to your ear, as a bait for it. chap. xxiv. * . of getting of little bones and ſuch like things out of the jaws and throat. omtimes littlebones and ſuch like things in eating greedily uſe to ſtick, or as ; it were faſtenthemſelvs in the jaws or throat. such bodies if you can com to the cure dif: the fight of them, ſhall bee taken out with long, ſlender and crooked mallets frºnt . § § made like a craneſ-beak. if they do not appear, northere beeno means to . § & sº, take them forth, they ſhall bee caſt forth by cauſing vomit, or with ſwallow- tº ing a cruſt of bread, or a drie fig gently chawed, and ſo ſwallowed; or elſ they ſhall bee "" thruſt down into the ſtomack, or plucked back with a leek, or ſom other ſuch long and ſtiff crooked bodie anointed with oil, and thruſt down the throat. if anie ſuch like thing ſhall get into the weazon, you muſt cauſcoughing, by taking ſharp things, or elſſneeſing, ſo to caſt forth whatſoever is there troubleſom. - - chap. xxv. of the tooth-ache. qf all pains, there is none which more cruelly tormenteth the patients then the the tooth- * tooth-ache. for wee ſee them oft-times after the manner of other bones to ach; moſt [º]} ſufferinflammation, which will quickly ſuppurate, and they becom rotten,and cruel pain, nº at length fall away piece-meal; for wee ſee them by daily experience to bee * eaten and hollowed, and to breed worms, ſom portion of them putrefying. the cauſof ſuch pain is eitherinternal, or external and primitive. the internal is a hot the cauſ or cold defluxion of humors upon them, filling their ſockets, and thence conſequently thereof. driving out the teeth; which is the reaſon that they ſtand ſomtimes ſofar forth, that the patient neither dare's, nor can make uſe of them to chawfor fear of pain: for that they are looſ in their ſockets by the relaxation of the gums, cauſed by the falling down of the defluxion. when as they are rotten and perforated even to the roots, if anie portion ºf the liquor in drinking, fall into them, they are pained as if you thruſt in a pin or bod- kin, the bitterneſs of the pain is ſuch. the ſigns of a hot defluxionareſharp and prick- the figns of ing pain, as if needles were thruſt into them, a great pulſation in the root of the hior that pained tooth and the temples, and ſom eaſ by the uſe of cold things. now the figns “*ion. ºf a cold defluxion are a great heavineſs of the head, much and frequent ſpitting, fom mitigation by the uſe of hot remedies. in the bitterneſs of pain wee muſt not preſently run to tooth-drawers, or cauſ them preſently to go in hand to pluck them out. firſt conſult a phyſician, who may preſcribe remedies according to the varietie of the cauſes now heer are three intenſions of cureing. the firſt is con- three ſcorts cºrning diet; the other for the evacuation of the defluxion or antecedent cauſ; the of curring. third for the application of proper remedies for the aſſwageing of pain. the two former ſcopes, to wit, of diet, and diverting the defluxion by purgeing, phlebotomie, application of ºf. to the neck and ſhoulders, and ſcarification, do abſo- lutely belong to the phyſician. now, for proper and topick medicines they ſhall bre choſen contrarie to the cauſ. wherefore in a hot cauſ, it is good waſhing the acolà and re- - mouth with the juice of pomgranats, plantain-water, a little vinegar wherein roſes, ba- perciſivºlºr y lºftie.ºnd ſumach have been bºiled. but ſuch things as ſhall bee applied for the mitiga ..." mouth: ting of the pain of the teeth, ought to bee things of verie ſubtlé parts, for that the teeth. are parts ofdenſconfiſtence. therefore the ancients have alwaits mixed vinegar in fuch kind of remedies. r.roſar.ſubſumach.bordei, an.m.ſ . ſeminis byoſcyami conquaſati ii.ſan- talºrum an ilaike ſummitatum rubi, ſolani, plantaginianmſ, builian omnia in aque ſhiiii. - n n & pauco . . of diverſpreternatural cºffetts, lib. . trochiſees for a hot defluxi- one narcoticks. hot fumes. veficatories. cauſticks. cauſes of looſ. neſs of the teeth. & pauco areto ad bordei crepaturam. waſh the mouth with ſuch a decočtion beeing warm. you may alſo make trochiſces for the ſame purpoſe after this manner. k. ſem.hyoſciami, ſandarache, coriandri,orii an: ſºleraniuſ & cum actio incorporentur, formentºrque trochiſei apponen. di dentibus dolentibns. or elf, r. ſeminis portulace, hyoſcyami, coriandri, lentium, corticis ſanta- li citrini, roſar. rub. pyrethri, camphora, an: ſ let them allbee beaten together with ſtrongvi- neger, and made into trochiſces, with which beeing diſſolved in roſe-water, let the gums and whole mouth bee waſhed when need requireth. but if the pain bee not aſſwaged with theſe, you ſhall com to narcoticks, which may ſtupefie the nerv ; as, b. ſeminishyoſcyami albi, opii, camphore, papaveris albi, an quantum ſufficit, coquantur cum ſapá, & denti applicentur. beſides, you muſt alſo put this following medicine into the ear ofthe pained fide. r. opii & cafforei, an Đi.miſceantur cum oleo roſato : it hath ſomtimes availed in ſwoln and diſtended gums, beeing firſt lightly ſcarified, to have applied leeches, for the evacuation of the con- junét matter, as alſo to have opened the veins under the tongue, or theſe which are behinde the ears. for i remember that i,by theſe three kindes of remedies, aſſwaged great pains of the teeth. yet there bee ſom who in this affect open not theſe veins which are behinde the ears, but thoſe which are conſpicuous in the hole of the ear in the upper part thereof. pain of the teeth ariſeing from a cold cauſand defluxion, may bee helped by theſe reme- dies; boil roſemarie, ſage, and pellitorie of spain in wine and vineger, and add thereto a little aqua vite, in this liquor diſſolv a little treacle, and waſh your teeth therewith. others minglegum ammoniacum diſſolved in aquavite with a little ſandarachaand myrrh,and lay it to the pained tooth, after vigoe's counſel. meſne think's that beaten garlick carried in the right or left hand,affwage's the pain,as the teeth ake upon the right or left fide. but beeing once troubled with grievous pain in this kinde,followed the counſel of a certain old woman,and laid garlick roſted under the embers to my pained tooth, and the pain forthwith ceaſed. the ſame remedieuſed to others troubled with the like affe&t, had like ſucceſs. moreover, ſom think it available if it bee put into the auditorie paſſage. others drop into the ears oil of caſtoreum, or of cloves, or ſom ſuch other chymical oil. it is good alſo to waſh the teeth with the following deco&tion. r. rad. pyrethri ſ. mentbe rule an. p.i. bulliant in aceto, and with this decočtion beeing warm, waſh the teeth. som like fumes better, and they make them of the ſeeds of colloquintida and muſtard, and other like; they take the ſmoak by hold- ing their mouths over a funnel. other ſomboil pellitorie of spain, ginger cinnamon, a- lum, common ſalt, nutmegs, cypreſs-nuts, aniſand muſtard ſeeds, and euphorbium in oxy- crate, and in the end of the decoötion add a little aqua vite, and receiv the vapor thereof through a funnel; as alſo they waſh their teeth with the decotion, and put cotton dipped therein into the ear, firſt dropping in a little thereof. som there are which affirm, that to waſh the teeth with a decočtion of spurge is a verie good and anodine medicine in the tooth- ach. i have oft-times aſſawaged intolerable pains of the teeth,by applying veſicatories under the ear, to wit, in that cavitie whereas the lower jaw is articulated with the upper: for the vein, arterie and finew which are diſtributed to the roots of the teeth, lie thereunder.where- fore the bliſters beeing opened, a thin liquor run's out, which doth not onely cauſ, but alſo nouriſh or feed the diſeaſ. but if the tooth bee hollowed, and that the patient will not have it pull'd out, there is no ſpeedier remedie, then to put in cauſtick medicines, as oil of vitri- ol, aquafortis, audalſo a hot iron; for thus the nervis burn't in ſunder, and loſeth it's ſenſ. yet ſom affirm that the milkiejuice that flow's from spurge made into a paſte with olibanum and amylum, and put into the hollowed tooth,will make it preſently to fall away in pieces. when the gums and cheeks are ſwoln with a manifeſt tumor, then the patient begin's to beeſomwhat better and more at eaſ. for ſo by the ſtrength of nature, the tumor cauſing the pain is carried from within outwards. but of what nature ſoever the matter which cauſeth the pain bee, it is convenient to intercept the courſ thereof with empl.contra rupturam, made with pitch and maſtick, and applied to the temple on that ſide where the tooth asketh. - chap. xxvi. of other affeit of the teeth. ºil he teeth are alſo troubled with other preternatural affects. for ſomtimes they à ſhake by relaxation of the gums, or elſbeecom corrupt and rotten, or have º worms in them, or elſ are ſet on edg|for the firſt,the gums are relaxed either by § $º an external or primitive cauſ, as a fall or blow; or elſby an internal oran- ** tecedent,as by the defluxion of acidor wateriſh humors from the brain, or through want of nouriſhment in old bodies. if the teeth grow looſ by the means of the de- caying gums,the diſeaſis then incureable; but you may withſland the other cauſes by the uſe of ſuch things as faſten the teeth, ſhunning on the contrarie ſuch as myko,º: - crº- *- lib. . whoſe cure is performed by surgerie. . - therefore the patient muſt not ſpeak too earneſtly, neither chaw hard things. if they be- com looſby a fall or blow,they muſt not bee taken forth; but reſtored and faſtened to the next that remain firm,for in time they will bee confirmed in their ſockets, as i tried in an- tonie de la rue a tailor,who had his jaw broken with the pommel of a dagger, and three of ahiſtorie. , his teeth looſened, and almoſt ſhaken out of their ſockets; the jaw becing reſtored, the teeth were alſo put in their places, and bound to the reſt with a double waxed thred; for the reſt, i fed the patient with broths, gellies,and the like,and i made *: gargariſms of cypreſs-nuts, myrtle-berries, and a little alom boil'd in oxycrate, and l wiſhed him to hold it a good while in his mouth : by theſe means i brought it ſo to paſs, that hee within a while after could chaw as eaſily upon thoſe teeth, as upon the other. i heard it reported by acredible perſon, that hee ſaw a ladie of the prime nobilitie, who inſtead of a rotten tooth ſhee drew, made a ſound tooth, drawn from one of her waiting-maids at the ſame time, to bee ſubſtituted and inſerted, which tooth in proceſs of time,as it were taking root, ºc ºr - . grew ſo firm, as that ſhee could chaw upon it as well as upon anie of thereſt. but as i for *** * * merly ſaid, have this but by hear-ſay. - :::::: now the teeth are corroded or eaten in by an acrid and thin humor penetrating by a º: : plenteous and frequent defiuxion even to their roots, and beeing there contained, it putre-”* fie's, and becoming more acrid, it doth not onely draw the teeth into the contagion of its putrefaction, but alſo perforate's and corrode's them. º: the putrefaction may bee corre&ed, if after general medicines, you put oil of vitriol or the cure. aqua fortis into the hole of the eaten tooth: orelſ, if you burn the tooth itſelf to the root with a ſmall iron wier beeing red hot: you ſhall thruſt this hot iron thorow a pipe or cane made for the ſame purpoſe, leaſt it ſhould harmany ſound part by the touch thereof,and thua the putrefaction,the cauſof the arroſion, may bee ſtaied. but if the hole bee on the one ſide between two teeth,then ſhall you file away ſo much of the ſound tooth, as that you may have ſufficient libertie to thruſt in your wier without doing anie harm. * the forms of files made for fileing the teeth. |/// . z//º | mms - º w - € wº ×sºrrºm wormsbreeding by putrefaion in the roots ofthe teeth,ſhall bee killed by the uſe of ºf he cauſticks,by gargles of ſotions made of vineger,wherein eitherpellitorie of spain hath been ..." ſteeped, or treacle diſſolved; alſo aloës and garlick are good to bee uſed for this purpoſe. setting the teeth on edg happen's to them by the immoderate eating of acridor tart things, cauſe of ſet: or by the continual aſſcent of vapors endued with the ſame qualitie, from the orifice of the º teeth ventricle to the mouth, or by a cold defluxion, eſpecially of acrid phlegm, falling from the *** brain upon the teeth, or elſby the too exceſſive uſe of cold or ſtupifying liquors. this aſ: feet is taken away, if after general medicines and ſhunning thoſe things thatcheriſh the diſ- eaſ, the teeth bee often waſhed with aqua vite, or good wine,wherein ſage, roſemarie, clovs, nutmegs, and other things of the like nature have been boiled. º -**** º #: a chap. xxvii. - * - of drawing ºf teeth. fºſſ, eeth are drawn, either for that they cauſintolerable pains,which will not yeld §§§ to medicines, or efforthat they are rotten and hollowed, ſo that they cauſthe ºfºº breath to ſmell; or elſ, for that they infect the ſound and whole teeth, and draw sº them into the like corruption, or becauſthey ſtandout of order. beſides, when they are too deep and ſtrongly rooted, ſo that they cannot bee pluck'd out, they muſt oft-times bee broken of neceſſitie, that ſo you may drop ſom cauſtick thing - - into their roots, which may take away the ſenſ, and conſequently the pain. the hand #:* muſt bee uſed with much moderation in the drawing out of a tooth; for the jaw is ſom-º. ſº times diſlocated by the too violent drawing out of the lower teeth. but the temples, eies and brain are ſhaken with greater danger by the too rude drawing of the upper teeth. wherefore they muſt firſt bee cut about, that the * may bee looſed from them, i: il g - "ofdiverſpreternaturale affett, lib. . lib. .cap. . ſhake them with your fingers,and do this until they begin to bee looſ; for a tooth which is faſt in, and is plucked out with one pull, oft-times break's the jaw, and bring's forth the piece together therewith,whence follow's a fever and a greatflux of blood not eaſily to bee ſtaied (for blood or pus flowing out in great plentie is,in celſus's opinion, the fign of abro- ken bone) and manie other malign and deadlie ſymptoms: som have had their mouths drawn ſo awrie,during the reſt of their lives, ſo that they could ſcarce gape. befides, if the toothbee much eaten, the hole thereof muſt beefilled either with lint, or a cork, or a piece of lead well fitted thereto, left it bee broken under your forceps, when it is twitched more ſtraightly to bee plucked out, and the root remain, readie in a ſhort time to cauſmore grie- vous pain. but judgment muſt bee uſed, and you muſt take ſpecial care, leaſt you †: . ſound tooth for a pained one; for oft-times the patient cannot tell, for that the bitterneſs of pain by neighborhood is equally diffuſed over all the jaw.therefore for the better pluck- the manºr ºf ing out a tooth, obſerving theſe things which i have mentioned,the patient ſhall beeplaced drawing teeth in a low ..º. his headbetween the tooth-drawer's legs; then the tooth-drawer ... ſhall deeply ſcarifie a out the tooth, ſeparating the gums there-from with the inſtruments * ºmarked with this letter a. and then if ſpoiled as it were of the wall of the gums, it grow -** ***** what to bee don when the tooth is pluck’t out. -- looſ,it muſt bee ſhaken and thruſt out,by forceing it with the three-pointed levatorienoted with this letter b. but if it ſtick in too faſt, and will not ſtirat all, then muſt the tooth bee taken hold of with ſom of theſe toothed forcipes marked with theſe letters c.d.e.now one, º: then another, as the greatneſs, figure,and fite ſhall ſeem to require. i would have a tooth- drawer expert and diligent in the uſe of ſuch toothed mullets; for unleſs one know readily and cunningly how to uſe them, hee can ſcarce ſo carrie himſelf, but that hee will force out three teeth at once, oft-times leaving that untouch’t which cauſed the pain. inſtruments for ſcrapeing the teeth, and the effigies of forcipes, or mullets a three-pointed levatorie. for the drawing of teeth. *%ºº | c h º h . - § ( . Ǻ l, º º º t - º/ º - º after the tooth is drawn, let the blood flow freely, that ſo the part inay bee freed from pain,and the matter of the tumor diſcharged. then let the tooth-drawer preſs the fleſh of the gums on both ſides with his fingers whereas heetook out the tooth, that ſo the ſocket that was too much dilated,and oft-times torn by the violence of the pluck, may bee cloſeda- gain. laſtly,the mouth ſhall bee waſhed with oxycrate; and if the weather bee cold, the pa- tient ſhall take heed of going much in the open air, leaſt it cauſa new defluxion upon his teeth. cha p. - lib. . whoſe cure is performed by surgerie. . c. h. a. p. xxviii. of cleanſing the teeth. # ieces of meatin eating ſomtimes ſtick between the teeth, and becoming cor- cauſes of foul ); rupt by long ſtaying there, do alſo hurt the teeth themſelvs, and ſpoil the or ruſtic teeth. # ſweetneſs of the breath. hee that would eſchue this, ought preſently after tº meat to waſh his mouth with wine mixed with water, or oxycrate, and well - § to cleanſ his teeth, that no flimie matter adhere to them. manie folks teeth by their own default gather an earthie filth of a yellowiſh color, which eat's into them by little and little, as ruſt eat's into iron. this ruſtie filthineſs,or as it were mouldineſs of the teeth, doth alſo oft-times growby the omitting of their proper dutie, that is, of chawing. whence ſoever this ſlimie filth proceed's, wee muſt get dentifices to fetch it off withall, the cure. and then the teeth muſt bee preſently rubbed with aqua forti, and aqua vite mixed together, that if there bee anie thing that hath ſcaped the dentiffices, it may bee all fetched off; yet ſuch acrid waſhings are hurtful to the ſound teeth, for that they by little and little conſume a caution in and waſte the fleſh of the gums. i uſe of acrid ings. dentiffices ſhallbee made of the root of marſh-mallows boiled in white wine and allom; and,as when the teeth are looſ, wee muſt abſtain from ſuch things as are hard to bee eaten & chawed, but much more from breaking of ſuch things as are of abonie conſiſtence, ſo alſo heer wee muſt ſhun all things that by their toughneſs ſtick to the teeth. manie for the cleanſing of the teeth, commend a powder made . ſcuttle-bones, purple-ſhells, pumice- ſtone, burnt allom, and hart's-horn, and a little cinnamon, which is ... remedie for the teeth howſoever affe&ted. manie other are content with bread onely toſted and beaten; but this following water is verie effectuall to whiten the teeth. r. ſalammon & gemmei, an. a water to i alum.roch. ſ.aque roſquod ſufficit, diffillentur. and let the teeth bee cleanſed with this di- ...” the ſtilled liquor. - chap. xx x. of the impediment and contratiion of the tongue. @he tongue is ſomtimes tied and ſhort from the nativitie; as when the libertie of the cauſof ſº the tongue is reſtrained by the ſubjećt and neighboring, as well membranes as bºeing tongue: # muſcles, being either too ſhort or too hard. somtimes this diſeaſ happen's at- tied. º ter they are born by ſomaccident or preternatural affett, as by too hard a ſcar º left by the healing of an ulcer under the tongue. the patient at his begining to ſpeak, is too ſlow in ſpeaking,but preſently leaving his ſlowneſs,hee becom's too quick, ſo that hee ſtammer's. if the diſeaſproceed from the aſtriótion and ſhortneſs of the ligamen- the cure; tal membrane lying under the tongue, then the inciſion ſhallbee made broad-wiſe, having - great care that the veins and arteries which are there, bee not violated, for fear leaſt they ſhould cauſan hemorrhagie, not eaſily to bee ſtaied: then the mouth ſhall bee preſently waſhed with oxycrate, and ſomlint dipped in ſyrup of dried roſes, or honie of roſes put into the midſt of the inciſion, leaſt the part of the ligament, eſpecially on the night time when the tongue is ſilent and at reſt, ſhould grow to the reſt of the ligament. for the ſame purpoſe the finger ſhallbee often thruſt this way, and the tongue more violently rowll'd up and down, and thruſt out of the mouth. yet ſomtimes this ligament is ſo thick and ſhort, and therefore hold's down the tongue ſo cloſe, that you cannot com to cut it with a knife or lancet without great and manifeſt danger of death by bleeding. therefore in ſuch a caſe a needle and thred ſhall bee thruſt through it, and ſo the thred ſhall bee tied another way ſtraighter and ſtraighter everie day, until by little and little this ligamental tie of the to cut it. . tongue, which by its immoderate ſhortneſs intercept's the libertie of the motion ſhall bee conſumed and broken. - * chap. xxx. º, of ſuperfluous fingers, and ſuch as ſtick together. §§achhand hath naturally five fingers onely; whatſoever is more or leſs is a- the differen- }% gainſt nature: and if therebee fewer, it is a fault not to bee helped by art, ces. º but if there bee more,that for the moſt part may bee helped by art: iº. ěšć fingers uſually growby the thumb, or i. little finger, but, ſeldom otherwiſe. theſe are either wholly fleſhie, or have bones of their kinde and nails upon them. thoſe which are of a bonic nature doe either ariſe from the joints of the natural fingers, and are jointed like them, and ſo are oft-times moovable, or elſ from ſom mid- - dle ſpace of a joint, and theſe have not power to ſtir or moov. now they are ſomtimes - - n n equal s . of diverſpreternatural affett, lib. . equall in magnitude to the natural fingers to which they grow, yet more frequently they are ſhorter. thoſe which are onely fleſhie, are eaſily amputated and made even with a razor; but ſuch as are alſo bonie cannot bee cut off, unleſs with the cutting mullets hereafter de- ſcribed, and this is a diſeaſof the fingers in number. there is alſo another diſeaſ in fingers, for they ſomtimes ſtick together, and otherwhiles they are verie little ſeparated. this fault happen's either from the firſt original, by the error of the formative facultie; or elſ it hap- - pen's afterwards by accident, as by a wound,or burn ill cured. for neighboring fingers bee- ing ulcerated do eaſily grow together, unleſs they bee kept aſunderby a linnen rag. and if they by chance ſhall grow together by a little and thin skin and fleſh, they ſhall forthwith bee divided with a ſharp razor; but if they bee joined by the interpolition of a more groſs and denſſubſtance, to wit, the nervs, tendons, and veſſels, being knit together on each ſide, it will bee beſt not to meddle at all with the divideing them. - *. cutting mullets neatly made for the cutting off ſuperflous fingers. v. . - *** º ºr " the cure of neither muſt wee omit, that manie have their nails run with ſuch bonie º into nails running the fleſh of their fingers lying under them, that they cauſmoſt cruel pain; neither com- into the flºº, monly do you availanie thing by pareing them; for growing up within a while after, they of the "b" preſs downwards again with the more violence. therefore the surgeon is oftenforced tº cut away all the fleſh whereinto the ſharpneſs of the nail run's. which i have don in manie with happie ſucceſs. manie have corns growing upon their fingers in divers faſhions: they how to take are taken off by paring away by little and little the callous hardneſs,and then laying a head off the corns of garlick beaten thereon. yet the cure is more quick and certain, which is performed by ofthe fing" cauſticks, as aquafortiº, or oil of vitriol. - t º . . chap. xxxi. of the too ſhort a prºpuce, and of ſuch as have been grandſ. - ãº; hen as the prepuce or fore-skin is too ſhort, it cannot cover the glans.this hap- §§ pen's either by nature, to wit, by the firſt conformation, or afterwards by ſom £ yº accident, as to thoſe whom religion and the cuſtom of their nation bid's to bee the cure. circumciſed. the cure is thus: the prepuce is turned up, and then the inner membranethereofis cut round, and great care is had, that the vein and arterie which are there between the two membranes of the prepuce bee not cut in ſunder. hence it is drawn downward by extenſion, until it cover the glans, a deſiccative emplaſter beeing firſt put be- tween it and the glans, leaſt they ſhould grow together. then a pipe being firſt put into the urinarie paſſage, the prepuce ſhällbee there bound until the inciſion bee cicatrized. this cure is uſed to the jews, when having abjured their religion full of ſuperſtitions, for hand- º º they would cover the nut of their yard with a prepuce, and ſo recover their cut offs-kln. - - the cauſ. . . . . chap. xxxii. of phimoſis and paraphimoſis, that it,ſ great a conſtition ºf the prepute about the glans . . . or nut, that it cannot bee barred or uncovered at pleaſure. he prepuce is ſtraightened about the glan two waies; for it either cover's the whole nut,and ſo ſtraightly encompaſſe's the end thereof, that it cannot bee drawn upwards, - ... : : - - and lib. . whoſe cure is performed by surger. and conſequently the nut cannot bee uncovered; or elſit leav's the glan, bare under it, be- ing faſtned ſo ſtiffly to the roots thereof, that it cannotbee turned up, nor drawn down, - or over the glans. the firſt manner of confirićtion is termed phimoſis,the later paraphimoſis. the cauſes. the phimoſis happen's either by the fault of the firſt conformation,or elſ by a ſcar,through - which occaſion the prepuce hath grown leſler, as by the growing of warts. now paraphi- moſis is often occaſioned by the inflammation of the yard,by impure copulation ; for hence ulcers breed between the prepuce and glans,with ſwelling, and ſo great inflammation,that the prepuce cannot bee turned back. whence it is that they cannot bee handled and cured the cure. as you would, and a gangrene of the partmay follow, which may by the contagion bring death to all the bodie, unleſs it beehindered and prevented by amputation: but if a ſcar bee the cauſof the conſtrićtion of the prepuce, the patient beeing plac'd in a convenient fite, letthe prepuce bee drawn forth and extended, and as much as may bee ſtretched and enlar- ged, then let the ſcarbee gently cut in three or four places on the inner ſide with a crook- ed knife,but ſo, that the ; com not to the outſide, and let them bee an equal diſtance eachfrom other. but if a fleſhlie excreſcence or a wart ſhall bee the occaſion of this ſtrait- neſs and conſtrićtion, it ſhall bee conſumed by the ſame remedies, by which the warts of the womb and yard are conſumed or taken off. but when as the prepuce doth cloſely adhereto the glans on everie fide, the cure is not to bee hoped for, much leſs to bee attempted. chap. xxxiii. of thoſe whoſe glans is not rightly perforated,and of the too ſhort or ſtrait - ligament, bridle, or cord of the yard. º: om at their birth, by evil conformation, have not their glans perforated in the the aut. º § middle, but have onely a ſmall holeunderneath; toward the bridle and ligament. º § of theyard, called the cord. which is the cauſ, that they do not make water in ºf a ſtrait line, unleſs they turn up their yard toward their bellie, neither by the ſame reaſon can they beget children, becauſthrough this fault of conformation, the ſeedishindered from beeing caſt direétly into the womb. the cure is wholly chirurgi- cal, and is thus performed. the prepuce is taken hold of and extended with the left hand, the cure. but with the right hand, the extremitie thereof, with the end of the glans, is cut even to that hole which is underneath. but ſuch as have thebridle or ligament of the yardtoo ſhort, ſo that theyard cannot ſtand ſtraight, but crooked, and as it were turned downwards; in theſe alſo the generation ofchildren is hindered, becauſthe ſeed cannot bee caſt directly and plentifially into the womb. therefore this ligament muſt bee cut with much dexteritie, and the wound cured after the manner of other wounds, haveing regard to the part. - - children alſo are ſomtimes born into the world with their fundaments unperforated, for such as a skin preternaturally covering the part, hinder's the paſſage forth of the excrement; thoſe . : muſt have a paſſage made by art withan inſtrument,for ſo at length the excrements willcom a hole inhir forth : yetlhave foundbyexperience, that ſuch children are not naturally long lived, nei- fundament are ther to #. manie daies after ſuch ſe&tion. . . . . . . . - tº not long lived. chap. xxx v. . . . . . of the cauſes of the stone. : . - nº hestones which are in the bladderhave for the moſt part had their firſt origi- why children ;s_nal in the reins or kidnies, to wit, falling down from thence by the ureters in- are ſubjećt to $% to the bladder.the cauſof theſe is twofold, that is,material and efficient.groſs, ***in tough,and viſcid humors, which crudities produce by the diſtempers of the the bladder. "…" bowels and immoderate exerciſes,chiefly and immediately aftetmeat, yeeld mat- ter for the ſtone; whence it is that children are more ſubjećt to this diſeaſthen thoſe of other ages. but the efficient cauſis either the immoderate heat of the kidnies, by means whereof the cauſ the ſubtler part of the humors is reſolved, but the groſſer and more earthlie ſubſide's, and is - hardned as wee ſee bricks hardned by the ſun and fire;or the more remiſsheat of the bladder, ſufficient to bake into a ſtone the feces or dregs ofthe urine gathered in great plentie in the capacitie of the bladder. the ſtraightneſs of the ureters and urenarie paſſage maybee accoun- ted as an affiſtant cauſ. for by this means the thinner portion of the urine flowgth forth, but that which is more feculent and muddie being ſtaied behinde, groweth as by ſcale upon ſcale, by addition and colle&ion of new matter into a ſtonie maſs. and as a wieke often- times dipped by the chandler into melted tallow, by the copious adheſion of the tallowie ſubſtance preſently becom's a large candle; ſo the more groſs and viſcid fecis of the urine ſtay as it were at thebars of the gathered gravel,and by their continual appulſare at length wrought and faſhioned into a true ſtone. ' ' '. “ - - - - - - - - - * chap. o of diverſpreternaturale affed, lib. . * chap. xxxv. of the ſigns ºf the stone in the kidnies and bladder. why he high ºf " ſigns of the stone in the reins,are the ſubſideing of red or yellow ſand in the is #: . ... ºurine, a certain obſcure ..i. the kidnies, and the ſenſ of a weight or heavi- ºf the ºf ineſs at the loins,a ſharp and pricking pain in mooving or bending the bodie,a num- reins. *neſs of the thigh of the ſame fide, byreaſon of the compreſſion cauſed by the ſtone, signs of the of the nervs deſcending out of the vertebre of the loins of the thigh. but when the ſtone is flººn the in the bladder, the fundament and whole perineum is preſſed as it were with aheavieweight, bladder. eſpecially if the ſtonebee of aniebigneſs, a troubleſom and pricking pain run's to the verie end of the yard, and there is a continual itching of that part, with a deſire to ſcratch it: hence alſo by the pain and heat there is a tenſion of the yard, and a ſrequent and needleſs deſire to make water, and ſomtimes their urine cometh from them drop by drop. amoſt grievous pain torment's the patientin makeingwater, which hee is forced to ſhewhy ſtamp- why such ing with his feet, bending of his wholebodie,and the .# of his teeth. hee is oft-times nº. in ſo tormented with exceſs of pain; that the sphinier being relaxed, the right gut falleth ...tº are down, accompanied with the ſwelling heat and pain of the hemorboid veins of that place. troubled with the cauſof ſuch torment is, the frequent ſtriveing of the bladder to expel the ſtone wholly the falling of contrarie to the naturethereof, whereto by ſympathie the expulſive facultie ofthe guts and ** all their parts of the bellie comas it were for ſupplie. the ſediment of the urineisgroſs and . viſcid, and oft-times like the whites of eggs, which argueth the weakneſs of the native heat not attenuateing the juices. the patient looketh of a pale and yellowiſh complexion and hollow-eied, by reaſon of the almoſt continual watching which is cauſed by the bitterneſs how to ſearch of pain; yet may it morc certainly bee known by putting in or ſearching with a catheter. for thefton: w#. to do, the patient ſhall bee wiſhed to ſtand with his bodieſomwhat ſtooping,leaning : º: againſt ſomwhat with his back, and holding his knees ſomfoot aſunder. then the catheter with a ‘beeing bigger or leſſer as the bodie ſhall require, and anointed with oil or butter ſhall bee thruſt with a skilful handinto the paſſages of the urine, and ſo into the capacitieof the blad- der. but if the catheter cannot com to that capacitie, the patient ſhall bee placed in ſuch a ſture; then ſhall heebee laid upon his back on a bench,or the feet of a bed, with his knees ded, and his heels drawn to his buttocks, after which manner hee muſt almoſt lie when hee is to bee cut for the ſtone, as ſhall bee ſhew’n hereafter. for thus the catheter is more eaſily thruſt into the bladder, and ſhew's there is a ſtone by the meeting and obſcure ſound of the obvious, hard and reſiſting bodie. you muſt have ſundrie catheters, that they may ſerv for everie bodie bigger and leſſer, and theſe muſt bee crooked, ſmooth and hollow. when being thruſt into the urinariepaſſage(which before unawaresl omitted) they comto the neck of the bladder, they muſt notbee thruſt ſtraightinto the bladder; but takeinghold of theyard with the left hand, they muſt bee gently thruſt with the right dire&ly into the bladder,eſpecially in men,by reaſon of the length and crookedneſs of the way,which tend's the figure of in the form of this letter s. it is not ſo in women by reaſon of the ſhortneſs and ſtraitneſs theºgº of the neck of the bladder. it is fit your catheters beehollow or fiſtulousin manner of a pipe, . isdiº that they may receiva filverwiar or ſtring, that may hinder the groſs and viſcid humor, clot- i." ted blood, or the like, from ſtopping the further end of the catheter, through which the ſuppreſſedurine ought to paſs and beenade. but now aſſºon as wee i. that the catbes teriscom into the capacitie of the bladder, the wiar muſt bee drawn forth, that ſo the urine may the freelierflow outby the hollowneſs of the catheter, you may perceiv the ſhapes of theſe inſtruments by this following figure. the figure of catheters, and of a ſilver ſtring or wiar. vvvº - º lib. . whoſe cure is performed by surgerie. - i chap. xxxvi. prognoſticks in the stone. - -- jºſº hen the stone is caſt forth of the kidnie (whereas it bred by little and little) § and is ſo driven into one of the ureters, that it wholly ſtop it, yet thereupon # there followeth no ſuppreſſion of the urine; for ſeeing nature hath made diverſ parts of our bodie double, all the urine floweth into the other ureter. but if they ſhallbee both ſtopped with ſtones, there is no doubt but the urine will bee wholly ſuppreſt, and death enſue by the ſuffocation and extinëtion of the native heat, how death by the urine flowing backby the rivelets of the veins over all the whole bodie. such as have ºnſuºy a ſmall ſtone caſt forth of their reins into the cavitie of the uterers,theſe, untill this ſtonebee ºis fallen into the bladder, have cruel pain with gripeings, with often deſire to go to ſtool and inte make water, but oft-times do neither. for ſuch oft-times have their bellies diſtended with flatulencies: an argument hereof is their continual belching or breaking of winde. but by ſneeſing and coughing, or anie other concuſſion of the wholebodie,a pricking pain is forth- with felt, whereas the ſtone ſtop's, eſpecially if it bee either rough, or have ſharp points like horns. this pain is communicated to the hip and thigh by ſympathie, and ſom have the ſtones drawn up as it were with great violence...to theſe may bee added the colick, cholerickvomiting, and almoſt a general ſweat. the ſtone in the kidnies is moſt common. ly bred in ſuch as are antient, by reaſon of the weakneſs of the expulſive facultie. but the ſtone in the bladder happeneth to ſuch as are more young, becauſ the native heat is more vigorous in ſuch, and ſtrong and inordinate motions encreaſ the ſtrength of the expulſive facultie. when the ſtone is in the bladder, and the urine appeareth bloodie, it is the fign of a ſmall, as alſo a pricklie and rough ſtone, for thus it more eaſily entreth into the neck of the bladder, and exulcerateth it beeing fleſhie, whence the blood cometh away with the u- rine, andmoſt cruel pain as of needles thruſt into the fleſh, eſpecially after labor and much exerciſe: on the contrarie, a larger and more ſmooth ſtone will not cauſſuch tormenting pain, and it cauſeth a milkie water. the ſhapes ofſtonesin the kidnies are various, accor: whyſions, of ding to the varietie of the ſtrainers through which they paſs whilſt they are bred. verily i the kidnis have ſeen ſtones which repreſented the figure of grayhounds, hogs and other creatures, and haveſundrie things wholly contrarie to man's nature,by the produćtion of their prickles and as it were ſhºp: . branches. som are four ſquare, others longiſh andlike a finger,other ſom of a round figure with manie protuberancies like a pine-apple kernel; neither is the varietie leſs in magnitude, number and color: for ſom are yellowiſh, others whitiſh, red, aſh-colored or ſom other like, according to the various temper of the affe&ted bodies. the ſtones of cholerick and lean men vſually concrete by preternatural heat and drieneſs; but thoſe of phlegmatick or fat bodies, of a certain congelation as it were and obſtruction of the paſſages.a ſtone falling ſomtimes from the bottom of the bladder into the paſſages of the urine quite ſtop'situp,and thence followeth a total ſuppreſſing of the urine. therefore then the patient ſhallbee placed upon his back and his legs beeing lifted upon high, heeſhallbee ſhaken and toſſed up and down, juſt as one would ſhake up a ſack to fill it; for thus it is forced back into the bladder from whence it came, from the paſſage of the urine whereinto it was got; yet it may alſo bee forcedback by thruſting in a catheter. the pain which afflićteth ſuch as have the ſtone is ſomwhiles continual,yet more frequently it cometh by fits and returns, ſomtimesmonth- ly, otherwhiles yearly.such as have the ſtone in the kidnies make for the moſt part wateriſh urine. women are not ſo ſubjećt to the ſtoneas men, for they have the neck of their blad- whymenare der more ſhort and broad, as alſo more ſtraight; wherefore the matter of the ſtone by more ſubjeato reaſon of the ſhortneſs of the paſſage is evacuated in gravel, before it can bee gathered and “ſtonethen grow into a ſtone of a juſt magnitude; yet ſtones breedinſom women and thoſe equally as "*** big as in men, and therefore they are to bee cured by ſe&ion and the like remedies. when the ſtone exceedeth the bigneſs of an egg, it can ſarcebee taken away without tearing of the bladder, whence happeneth an unvoluntarieſhedding of the water, cureable by noart, be- cauſthe bladder, ſeeing it is nervous and withoutblood,beeing oncetorn admitteth no con- ſolidation, add hereto that inflamation and a gangrene,often following the rending of the bladder,bring inevitable death. the patient run's the ſame hazzard, if a long ſtonebee pul- what ſt led outſidewiſe with your inſtrument, or if itbee incloſed in a membrane (which kinde of cannot tº. ſtone can ſcarcebee found with a catheter) and ſo bee faſtned to the bladder, or otherwiſe jof. if the ſtone itſelf bee faſtned into the ſubſtance of the bladder, or laſtly if by anie chance bladderwith- the surgeon beeing about to pluck out the ſtone ſhall hurt the bodie of the bladder with his out killing the inſtruments. yet ſtones of a more indifferent bigneſs are more ſafely extraºted out of the pºº" bladder then thoſe which are leſs, and the patient more frequently and happily recovereth. forthey do not ſcape from the inſtrument, and the patient beeing uſed along while to en- dure pain, as that which hathbeen alongtime a growingdoth more eaſily and conſtantly away with the inflamation, pain and other ſymptoms which happen after cutting: yea in cutting. haveing thus ſpoken of the cauſes, figns, places, ſymptoms and pro- - - ” of diverſpreternaturale/ffeås, lib. prognoſticks, wee muſt com to the cure, begining with that part which is termed prophyla- Čiice, that is the preventing part. c. h.a.p. xxxvii. what cure is to bee uſed when wee fear the stone. whatdietſuch ºsºlet muſt firſt bee appointed, which by the convenient uſe of the fixthings not |º natural (as they term them) may heap upſmall ſtore of groſs, tough andvi- |n| ſcid humors in our bodies. therfore cold and cloudie air is to bee ſhunned. *sº they muſt abſtain from fiſh, beef, pork, water-foul, pulſ, cheeſ, milk-meats, - % fried and hardeggs, rice, cakes and all paſtrie, unlevenedbread, and laſtly, all manner of obſtrućting meats. alſo garlik, onions, leeks, muſtard, i. - laſtly, all things which over-heat the blood and humors muſt bee ſhunned, eſpecially if you fear that the ſtone is concrete by the heat of the reins. standing and muddie waters, thick and troubled wines,beer,aud ſuch kinde of liquors muſt bee eſchewed. satietie in meats and drinks is to bee ſhunned, as that which breed's crudities. alſo long watching and continu- al labor becauſthey inflame the blood, cauſcrudities, and preternatural heat muſt careful- lybee eſchewed, as alſo more vehement paſſions of the minde. if the bodie bee plethorick, then it muſt bee evacuated by phlebotomie, purgeing and vomiting, which is accounted for a ſingular remedie for the prevention of this diſeaſ. for the performance of all which things a phyſician ſhallbee conſulted with. but becauſphyſicians are not in everie place and alwaies as hand, i have thought good to ſet down theſe following medicines; yet wee lib. -methºd muſt firſt remember this counſel of galen; the uſe of diureticks, and ſtrong purgeing medi- cines is hurtful, as often as there is inflammation in the reins and bladder, for ſo the conflux of the humors to the affected parts is the greater, whence the inflammation and in are increaſed. - wherefore firſt uſeing relaxing medicines, as fix drams of caffa newly drawn, with iv. of rubarbin º: mixed therewith; then lenitive and refrigerating medicines ſhall alenitive and bee inwardly and outwardly uſed, ſuch as is this following ſyrrupe. r. jummitatum malv. lubriº”é biſnal. & violar-anim.ſ.fad, alth. i, glycyr. ſ. -ſem. frigid, major, an i. fiat decodio. r. pre- ſyrrupt. dići. decoãionis it ſº. in calaturá #: albiſſ. ii. mellir albi iſ. fiat #: ſecund. artem; let the patient uſe this often. this followingapozeme is alſo verie effectual for the ſame pur- a diuretick poſe. r. rad.aſpar. gramin.polyp. quercini, poſſulmund, an: ſ.betonic. berniar. egrimon, omnium apozeme, capill. & pimpinel anim.ſ. . ſem.frigid major. & ſem, frnic. an: i folior, ſen. vifiat decoã, ad fb.ſ...in colaturádiſſolve ſyrupi de althea & de berniar, an:#iſs., make a clear apozeme and let it bee aromatized with a little cinnamon, for two doſes; let him take the firſt doſis in the mor- ning two hours before meat, and the other at four of the clock in the afternoon. moreover adiutºriºk this following broth hath an excellent and certain power to prevent the ſtone. r. bordein- .* tegrp.i. radic petroſelini, acetoſ. frnic. cichor, bruſcian. i. ſºm.frigidorm conquaſatorum an . roºll, fol. acetoſ. portul. ladiuce, ſummitatum malve, & violar. an.m.ſ . bulliant in ... fluviatili cum gallo gallinaceo & crure witulino ; let the broth beekept, andlet the patient take thereof ſix ounces for four daics; in the morning two hours before meat, with an ounce of the juice of ci- trons gently warmed with the ſame broth at the takeing thereof; for thus, much urine will bee made in a ſhort while after, full of a ſandie ſediment and agroſs viſcid humor. where- by you may certainly gather, that this kinde of broth is verie effettual to cleanſthe paſſages of the urine, neither in the interim, doth it anie harm to the ſtómack and other .# which it paſſeth: ſothat it may bee rightly termed amedicinalnouriſhment. you may alſo a diuretick profitably uſe this following powder. r. nucleorum meſºilorum i: pul, eleå. diamarg, frig. ii. powder. ſºm.frigid, majorum mund glycyrhize raze, iſemſaxifrag, iiſen milii ſolis, geniff. pintin. bruſci & aſparagan. í. ſºmalilee, .ſ. ſarch.albiff. vi. ſ: pulvis; let him take a ſpoonful in the lee made the morning three hours before meat. alſoſom think that lee made of the ſtalks and husks of the aſhes of ofbeans is agood preſervative againſt this diſeaſ. beſides the uſe of this following glyſter i. * hath done good to manie. r. fol. lačiuc. ſcariol, portul, an mi: for viol. nenupb.. an.p.i.fiat . gy- derotiio ad libi. in colaturá diſſolve caffe fiſtule i. melli, viol & ſacr. rub, an. iſ. olei viol. iiii. fºnth.” fiat clyffer. this which followeth is the fitter to aſſwage the pain. r. flor:cham. melil. ſum- ftone. mitat anºth, berulan.pii.fia decodio in laie vaccino; in colatură diſſolve caſe fiftul. & ſaccar. f alb, an: i. vitelos ovorum num, ii oleianethini, & chamem.an. ii.fiat clyſter. in the interimlet the kidnicsbee anointed on the outſide with unguenium roſatum, refrigerani galen, and popule- on uſed ſeverally, or mixed together, laying a double linnencloth dipped in oxycrate. butif remediesa- the concretion of the ſtonebºe of acold cauſ, the remedies muſt bee varied, as follow's : r. gainſt theſtone terebeinth. venet. i, cort. citri ii. aque coči. ii. fiat potio. or elſ; r. caſe recent.extrađ. vi. of the h. benedići.lax. iii.aq. fenic. ii. aq.aſparag. :* otio let him take it three hours before .." dinner: this followingapozemeisalſógood. k. radº pet bardan. &gam, an iii.bijn. cum toto, beton. an m.ſ. ſem. milii ſoliº, bardan. artic. ºn i. ſem melon, glycyrhiz: raſ, an:iiſ. fi- cus num, -fiat decºf, ad quart. iii. in expreſſà collaturé, diſſolve ſirup, decapham. & oxymilitis ſtyl- - litici the ſtone. lib. . whoſe cure is performed byswgerie. - - litician. i. ( .ſacchar. alliſ. iji fiat apozema pro tribus doſibus, clarificetur & aromatiz. cum i. cinam. & ſ;. ſant citrin. let him take four ounces three hours before dinner. r. rad. petroſel. fenicul, an: i. ſaxifrag, pimp. gram. & bardan...an. m.ſ . quatuor ſºminum frig, major mundat. & milii. ſilis an, ii fiat decotiio, § de colaturá Íb.ſ . in qué diſſolve ſacch, rub.& ſyrup.capill, venan. i.ſ . letit bee taken at three doſes, two hours beforemeat. the following powder is verie effečtual to diſſolv the matter of the ſtone. r. ſem. petroſel. & rad. ejuſdem mundat, an ſ ſem. cardui, quem colcitrapam vocant, i.let them beedried in an oven or ſtone with agentle fire, af- terwards let them bee beaten ſeverally and make a powder,whereof let the patient take i.ſ. or two ſcruples with white wine, or chicken-broth faſting in the morning by the ſpace of three daies. or, r.coriand.prep. iv. aniſ, marathri,ganor, alkakengi, milii ſolis, an. ii. zinzib. & cinam, an. ii, turbith, eleái xi. cari ii, galang: nucis moſchat. & lapid.judiaci an. si, fol. ſenne mund. ad duplum omnium, diacrydii ; at pulvis: the doſis is about i. with white wine three hours before meat. againſt the flatulencies which much diſtend the guts in this kinde of diſeaſ, glyfiers ſhall beethus made ; r. malu, biſmal. !. origami, calament, for chamem. carminative ſumitat amethi, anim.ſ. aniſi, carvi. cumini,frnic. an: ſ; baccar, laur. iii. ſem. rute ii.fiat de-gliſters. coăio, in colatură, diſſolve bened. lax. vel diaphenic. ſ., conſe&i. bac. lauri iii, ſacchar. rub. i. olei aneth, chament-dº. rutar. an i fiat clyſter. or, r. olei nucum & vini mal. an ib.ſ . aq. viie / . fiat clyſter; let it bee kept long, that ſo it may have the more power to diſcuſs the winde. chap. xxxviii. what is to bee don, when the ſtone falleth out of the kidnie into the ureter. º, ft-times it falleth out that the reins uſeing their expulſive facultie force down s; # the ſtone (whoſe concretion and generation the phyſiciansby the formerly pre-É. ; *. ſ}} ſcribed means could not hinder) from themſelvs into the ureters ; but it ſtaieth . º g §§ .É there either by reaſon of the ſtraightneſs of the place, or the debilitie of the ex- pulſive facultie. therefore then cruel pain tormenteth the patient in that place whereas the ſtone ſticketh, which alſo by conſent may bee communicated to the hip, bladder, teſticles andyard, with a continual deſire to make water and go to ſtool. hu this caſe it behooveth the phyſician that hee ſupplie the defečt of nature, and aſſiſt the weak indeavors. therefore let the patient if heebee able mount upon a trotting horſ, and ride upon remedies to him the ſpace of ſom two miles, or if hee can have no opportunitie to do ſo, then let him fºrce ºwn the run up and down a pair of ſtairs untill hee bee wearie, and even ſweat again ; for the ſtone . ...; by this exerciſe isoft-times ſhaken into the bladder; then preſently ſhall bee given or taken “"“” by the mouth ſuch things as have a lenitive and relaxing facultie, as oil of ſweet almonds newly drawn and that without fire, and mixed with the water of pellitorie of the wall and white wine. let frićtions of the whole bodie bee made from above downwards with hot clothes; let ventoſes with a great flame bee applied one while to the loins, and another while to the bottom of the bellie, a little below the grieved place; and unleſs the patient vo- mit of his own accord, or by the bitterneſs of his pain, let vomiting bee procured with a draught of water and oil luke-warm;for vomiting hath much force to drive down the ſtone by reaſon of the compreſſiom of the parts, which is cauſed by ſuch an endeavor: laſtly,if the ſtone deſcend not by the power of theſe remedies, then the patient muſt bee put into a semi- cupium, that is a half-bath, made of the following decoètion. r. malve, biſmal. cum toto an a decodion. m, ii, beton, naffurt. ſaxifrag. beruliparietar. violar, anim.iii ſem. melonum, milii ſolis, alkekengi an for a bath. vi. cicer, rub. ſbi. rad, appii, gram. feniculi, &eringii.am. iiii. in ſufficienti quantitate aque pro inceſſu; coquanturiſta omnia incluſa #: herein let the patient ſit up to the navel: neither is it fit that the patient tarrie longerin ſuch a bath then is requiſite, for the ſpirits are diffipa- ted, and the powers reſolved by too long ſtay therein. but on the contrarie, if the patient remain as long as is ſufficient in theſe rightly made, the pain is mitigated,the extended parts relaxed, and the paſſages of the urine opened and à. and thus the ſtone deſcendeth in- to the bladder. but if it beenot mooved by this means any thing at all out of the place,and that the ſame total ſuppreſſion of urine do as yet remain, neither before the patient entred into the bath the putting of a catheter into the bladder did anything avail, yet notwith- ſtanding hee ſhall trie the ſame again after the patient is com out of the bath, that hee may bee throughly ſatisfied whether peradventure there may bee anie other thing in theſe firſt paſſages of the yard and neck of the bladder, which may with-hold the urine; for the ca- theter will enter far more eaſily, the parts beeing relaxed by the warmneſs of the bath: then injeº ſom oil of ſweet almonds with a ſyringe into the urethra or paſſage of the yard; whil'ſ all theſe things are in doing, let not the patient com into the cold air. but heer i have thought good to deſcribe a chair for a bath, wherein the patient may fitly fit. .." . . - - the r - . ofdiverſpreternaturale affeit, lib. . * an anodine cataplaſm. signs of the ſtons fallen the figure of a chair for a semicupium. l º v. *- lºſſ, ºl -e---> - -- ſº | - ~~ ii. eºº- a. shereth the whole frame of the chair. b. the bole wherein the patient muſt ſit. c. the ciſtern that bold's the water. d. a cock to emptie the water when it groweth cold. e. a funnel wherely topour in warm w ttr, ſ º º: --~~~~ there may alſo bee another decotion made for the bath, as thus: rºradraph alth.an. ibii, rad ruſt, petroſelë affaragan. ft. i. cumin frnicul, ameo an iiii.ſºm. lini, fenug, an vi. foll marub. parietar. florum chamem. melilanethi, an. m. ii.bulliant omnia ſecundºm arten in aque ſufficienti, & vini albi odoriferi exiguà quantitate ad conſumptionem tertie partis pro semicupie. al- ſo the ſame decočtion may bee uſed for f; adding thereto two yolks of eggs, aud four ounces of oil of lillies, with . ofoil of juniper, which hath a certain force to aſſwage the pain of the ſtone and collick. but a far leſs quantitie of the decočtion in a gliſter muſt bee uſed in theſe diſeaſes, than uſually is appointed in other diſeaſes; otherwiſe there will bee danger left the guts beeing diſtended ſhould more preſs upon the kidnies and ureters, troubled in ſom ſort with inflammation, and ſo increaſthepain and other ſymptoms. this following cataplaſm ſhall bee profitably applied to the grieved place, to wit, the loins or flanks and bottom of the bellie, for it is verie powerful to aſſwage pain, and held forwards the falling down of the ſtone. r. rad, alth, &raphani, an:#iiii. pariet frnic. ſenecionis, naffurt. berul.an. m.i. berniarie m.ſ . omnibus in aquà ſufficienti decoãi, & deinde contritis, adde oleianeth. chamem. & pingued, cuniculian. ii.farin. cicer, quantum ſufficit,#: cataplaſma ad uſum preditium. after, by theſe means, the ſtone forced out ofthe ureter is fallen into the bladder, the pain preſently (ifthere bee but one ſtone, forſomtimes more with much gravel do againfallin- *...*.* to the ureter) is mitigated, and then *:::::: is troubled with an itching and pricking into the blad- der. at the end of hisyard and fundament. therefore then unleſs hee bee verie weak, it is fit that hee ride and walk a foot, and take iv. of ſpecies lithontribon in four doſes with white wine, or the broth of red cicers three hours before dinner and ſupper. beſides, let him lentifully drink goodwine, and after heehath drunk, let him hold in his urine as longas cºcºn , that ſo it beeing gatheredin great plentie, it may preſently thruſt the ſtone ºut of the bladder with the more force; for which purpoſe you may alſo injećt the following li- quor into the bladder. r. ſyrupi capill. ven. i, aque alkºkengi .iii. olei ſcorpionum. ſ. letit bec injected into the bladder with a ſyringe. chap. xxxix. what muſt bee don the ione beeing fallen into the neck of the bladder, or paſſage of the yard. ºf fter the ſtone is fallen out of the capacitie of the bladder,and ſtop's in the neck º nº. thereof, or paſſage of the yard, the ‘. ſhall have a ºcial care that hee / §§ do not force orthruſt bad; the ſtone from whence it came, but rather that he $ºf preſsiºgently with his fingers to the end of the yard, the paſſage beeing firſt made ſli perie by injećting ſom oil of ſweet almonds. but if it flop in the end of the glanſ,it muſt bee plucked out withſom crooked inſtrument; to which if it will not - - - - yeeld * ... ". . z *-*. . lib. . whoſe cure is performed by surgerie. yeeld, a gimblet with a pipe or caſe thereto, ſhall bee put into the paſſage of the yard, and fo it ſhall bee gotten out, or elſ broken to pieces by the turning or twining about of the gimblet, which i remember i have divers times attempted and don; for ſuch gimblets are made with ſharp ſcrues, like ordinarie gimblets. the delineation of a gimblet made to break the finº, in the paſſage of the yard, together with its pipe, or caſe. verily what gimblets ſoever are made for this buſineſs, their bodie or point muſt bee no thicker then a ſmall probe; leaſt whil'ſt they are forced or thruſt in- * to the urethra, or urinarie paſſage, they might hurt the bodies next unto them by x their violent entrance. chap. xl. mºhat courſ muſ bee taken, if the ſtone ſº in the urethra, or urinarie paſſage, cannot t bee gotten out by the fore-meutioned arts. - º is ut if the ſtone bee more thick, hard, rough and remote from the end of the º º §§): lx^ yard, then that it may bee gotten out by the means formerly mentioned in the | precedent chapter, and if that the urine bee wholly ſuppreſt therewith then #| muſt you cut the yard upon the ſide with a ſtraight wound: for you muſt not make inciſion on the upper part, for fear of a flux of blood, for a large vein and arterie lieth there-under; nor in the lower part, for ſo it would ſcarce ever heal again, for that it is a bloodleſs part, and beſides, the continual and acrid falling of the urine would hinder the agglutination: wherefore the inciſion muſt bee made on the fide, on that part whereas the ſtone moſt refiſt's and ſwell's out. for that part is the more fleſhie; yet firſt the end of the skin of the prepuce muſt bee much drawn up ſo to cover the glans; which beeingdon, the urethra ſhall bee tied with a thred a little above the ſtone,that ſo the ſtone may bee ſtaied there, and may not fallback again. therefore then, inciſion beeing made, the ſtone muſt beetaken forth, and the skin which was drawn more violently to cover the glan, is to bee let go back again; for ſo it will com to paſ; that a wholepart of the skin may, over the cut-yard, and ſo it may bee the more ſpeedily united, and the urine may na- i. #: º i have by this means oft-times taken forth the ſtone with the inſtruments cct clellneated. inſtruments fit to take the *:::::: of the gº uirethra, or urinarie pa * age of the yar - ini • - g= - • * tº tº - * . . . . . . . ...c. . . … tº . º, . - - - - ... " - º - ...'. - - - ...: '…'" ' ' ... *, *, *.do, i. º. : x - º h. : : qo then \ •. - - - ---, *** - - -- * . when the yard may bee ſafely cute - º - - - ---- of diverſpreternaturale affeºf, lib. . ... then for the agglutination, if need require, it will bee requifite to ſew up the lips of an agglutina- the wound,and applie this agglutinative medicine following.r.fereb.venet, iiii. gum.elemi, tive medicine, ſm, dracon. & maſtican. fiat meditamentumut dišum ºff then the whole yard muſt bec covered over with a repercuſſive medicine made of the whites of eggs, with the powder of bole armenick, algés, farina volatilº and oil of roſes. laſtly, if need ſo require, a wax- how to haſten candle, or leaden º anointed with venice turpentine ſhall bee thruſt into the urethra, ... to haſten the agglutination, and retain thematural ſmoothneſs and ſtraightneſs of the uri- tion- narie paſſage, leaſt peradventure a caruncle grow therein. " . . . - - - --- chap. xli. what manner of fetion is to bee made when a ſtone is in a boy's bladder. , itherto wee have ſhewed,by what means it is convenient to draw ſmall ſtones paſ& out of the ureter.bladder and paſſage of the urine; now will weebriefly ſhew º § the manner of takeing of greater ſtones out of the bladder, which is per- sº [º formed by inciſion and iron inſtruments,and i will deliver the pračice there- why the bo #} of firſt in children, then in men, and laſtly in women. firſt therefore let the muſt bee y surgeon take the boy (upon whom it is determined the work ſhall bee per- ſhaken before formed) under the arm-holes, and ſo give him five or fix ſhakes, that ſo the ſtone may de- cutting. ſcend the more downwards to the neck of the bladder. then muſt you cauſa ſtrong man, how tº place fitting upon an high ſeat, to lay the childe upon his back with his face from him-ward, . . bº haveing his hips lying upon his knees. the childe muſt lie ſomwhat high, that hee may ** breath ºne freier, andler not the nervous parts bee too much ſtretched; butlet all parts bee looſand free for the drawing forth of º: ſtone. furthermore, it is fit that this ſtrong man,the childe's legs beefng bended back,wiſh the childe,that puttings his legs to his hams, that hee draw them up as much as hee can, and let the other bee ſure hee keep them ſo; for this fite of the childe much conduceth to well performing of the work. then let the sur- geon thruſt two of the fingers of his left hand as far into the childe's fundament as hee is a- ble; but let him with his other hand preſs the lower bellie, firſt wrapping a cloth about his hand, that ſo the compreſſion may bee the leſs troubleſom, and leaſt inflammation ſhould happen rather by this means then by the inciſion. now the compreſſion hath this uſe, to cauſthe ſtone to deſcend out of the §: of the bladder into the neck thereof under the of pubis, whither after it is arrived, it muſt bee there kept, and as it were governed by the com- mand of youthand, leaſt it ſhouldſlide from that place whereto you have brought it. theſe things thus don, nothing now remaineth, but that the surgeon, with a wound ſom two wheretodi. ; breadth diſtant from the fundament,cut through all the fleſh even to the ſtone on the §: ... left ſide of the perineum. but in the interim, let him beware that hee hurt not the inteſtinum neum, relium; for it may, and uſually doth ha , that whil'ſ the flone is brought out of the bottom of the bladder to the neck thereof, this gut is doubled in: now, if it bee cut with your inciſion-knife, it cometh to paſs that the excrements may ſomtimes com out at the wound, and the urine by the fundament, which thing hath in maniehindred the agglutina- nature verie tion and conſolidation of the wound; yet in ſom others it hach don littleharm, becauſin powerful in this tender age manie §. happen, which may ſeem to exceed nature: the inciſion beeing children, made, the ſtone muſt beef º the inſtrument heer expreſſed. . . . . . . hoºk to pulſione, fºrth of thildren's bladderſ. ". . . . . . . . . . . tº . f. -- * *---- - - - - - - - ------ the ſtone beeing drawn out, aſimallpipe ſhall bee put into the wound, and there kept for ſom ſpace after, for reaſons heerafter to bee delivered; then his knees ſhall beeboundtº- esneral rule, ºther, fºr thus the wound will the ſooner cloſe and bee agglutinated. the reſidue of the ... cure ſhallbee performed by reduceing the general cure ºf wounds, to the particular temper adºri. of the childe's age, and the peculiar nature of the childe incure. - lar bodies. --- - arbook. -- o cº cha p. -* - lib. . whoſe cure is performed by surgerie. ----- chap. xlii. how to cut men, for the takeing out of tleſtone in the bladder. eeing wee cannot otherwiſe help ſuch men as have ſtones in theirbladders, wee whittebee § muſicom to the extreme remedie, to wit, cutting. but the patient muſt firſt bee ºre s}º purged, and if the caſe require, draw ſom blood; yet muſt you not immediately cêion. #### after this, or the day following haſten to the work: for the patient cannot but bee weakned by purgeing and bleeding. alſo it is expedient for ſom daies before to foment the privities with ſuch things as relax and ſoften, that by their yeelding, the ſtone may the - more eaſily bee extra&ed. now the cure is thus to bee performed: the patient hiſ bee how to lay placed upon a firm table or bench with a cloth manie times doubled under his buttocks, and the patient. a pillow under his loins and back, ſo that hee may lie half upright with his thighs lifted up, and his legs and heels drawn back to his buttocks. then ſhall his feet beebound with a ligature of three fingers breadth caſt about his ankles, and with the heads thereof beein drawn upwards to his neck, and caſt about it, and ſo brought downwards, both his hands ſhall bee bound to his knees, as the following figure ſheweth. * the figure of a man lying readie to bee cut for the ſtone. el the patient thus bound, it is fit ...a.a)| you have four ſtrong men at hand; § that is,two to hold his arms,and other two whomay ſo firmly and ſtraightly aſ hold the knee with one hand, and the | foot with the other,that hee may nei- ther moov his limbs, nor flir his but- tocks, but bee forced to keep in the ſame poſture with his whole bodie. then the surgeon ſhall thruſt into why the probe the urenarie paſſage even to the blad- muſt bee ſlit |der, a ſilver or iron and hollow probe, ºh' " anointed with oil, and openedèrſit” on the out-ſide, that the point of the knife may enter thereinto, and that |it may guide the handof the work- man, and keep the knife from pierce- ing anie farther into the bodies lying there-under. the figure of this probe is heerexpreſt, º º " . . . . . . . : , , ºr ºf ºf rººt ***, * * - * - . . ; = x . . . . . . . ); * * * * * * * * * * * - ... probes with ſlits in their endſ. it “y . . . . . ------ - ------ - - *} - - ---- … : x hee ſhall gently wreſt the probe, beeing ſo thruſt in, towards the left fide, and alſo hee why the ſeam who ſtandeth on the patient's right hand, ſhall with his left hand gently lift up his cods, ºf bºº. that ſo in the free and open ſpace of the left ſide of the perineum, the §. may have the : º no: more libertie to make the indifion upon the probe, which is thruſt in and turned that way.” [. but in making this inciſion, the surgeon muſt bee careful that hee hurt not the ſeam of the perineum and fundament. for if that ſeam bee cut, it will not bee eaſily conſolidated, for that it is callous and bloodleſs, therefore the urine would continually drop, forth this way...but if the wound bee made to near the fundament, there is danger, leaſt by forcible plucking forth of the ſtonehee maybreak ſomof the hemorrhoidveins, whence a bleeding may enſue,which is ſcarce to beeſtoppedby aniemians, or that heemay rend the ſphinster- oo muſcle, of diverſpreternatural caffetts, lib. . muſcle, or bodie of the bladder, ſo that it can never bee repaired. therefore it muſt bee where to made the ſpace of two fingers from the fundament, according to the ſtraightneſs of the fi- make the , , , bres, that ſo it may bee the more eaſily reſtored afterwards. neither muſt the inciſion thus . * made, exceed the bigneſs of onesthumb, for that it is afterwards enlarged by putting in the .* crow'sbeak and the dilater, but more by the ſtone as it is plucked forth. but that which that which is is cut, is neither ſo ſpeedily nor eafily healed up, as that which is torn. then preſently put torn is ſooner into the wound ſom one of theſe ſilver inſtruments delineated heer below, and called by the healed then name of guiders, for that they ſervas guides to the other inſtruments which are to bee put *** into the bladder; theſe are made with a roundandprominent head, whereby it may beeput cut, into the deſcribed cavitie of the probe, and they are noted by theſe letters, a.a. then there are others marked with the letters, b.b. and called by the like name, and are to bee put un- der the former, beeing made forked at the end, that ſo it may, as it were, embrace the end of the former. the figures of guiders of two ſorts. now the probe is to bee drawn forth, and the guiders to bee thruſt and turned up and down in the bladder, and at length to bee ſtaied there by putting in the pin; yet ſuch guid- ers as want a pin are fitter for the hand, and are by ſom called ſºdibe. then muſt they bee held betwixt the surgeon's fingers. it will bee alſo neceſſarie for the surgeon to put an- other inſtrument called the duckſ-bill between the two guiders into the capacitie of the bladdershee muſt thruſt it in ſomwhat violently, and dilate it ſº thruſt in with both his hands, turning it everieway to enlargethe wound as much as ſhallbee ſufficient for the ad- mitting the other inſtruments which are to bee put into the bladder; yet it is far better for the patient, if that the wound may with this on; inſtrument bee ſufficiently dilated, and the ſtone pulled forth with the ſame without the help of anie other. the effigies of an inſtrument called a duck-bill. % % º zº - sº sn nºw n º "_- which if you have not in a readineſs, and the largeneſs of the ſtone require more dilata- tion, then muſt you put in this dilater; for beeing put into the bladder, and the hanjie preſſed together, it will dilate the inciſion as much as you defire. the lib. . whoſe cure is performed by surgerie. : the figure of a dilater ſhut and opened. º º- - n n - alluvian imºr-ºwn awawwwyº- hºº-º-º: revº z-z-z-zºrra º the wound by the help of this inſtrument beeing dilated as much as is ſufficient,then put in the ſtraight duckſ-bill before deſcribed, or the crooked heer expreſt. - crooked forcipes's like a duck-bill. the ſtone may bee ſought and taken hold of with theſe inſtruments, and beeing taken hold on, the branches of the inſtrument ſhall bee tied together, leaſt they ſhould ſuffer that to ſlide away which they have once taken hold of neither ſhall the ſtonebee ſuddenly plucked out, but eaſily ſhaken to and again, and at length gently drawn forth. yet you muſt beware that you do not preſs it too º in the forceps,leaſt you ſhould break it in pieces: som, leaſt it ſhould ſlip away, when they have once taken hold thereof, put their two fingers into the fundament, and put them above the ſtone that it may not fall out, nor ſlip back again, which i think conduceth much to the eaſie extraćtion of the ſtone. there are others who ſtrengthen this comprehenſion by putting in on each-ſide above and below theſe winged inſtruments, ſo that the ſtone can ſlip forth on no fide. o o - winged of diverſ preternatural affed, lib. iſinged inſtruments to hold the ſtone with the ducks-beak. º - it. º º º - º ºº s Ø * ;s lummºn www.wºw.' w º: s&nwsl/z/zz .*. * - z ---. - – - -- --- - - * * * * *-- --> * ; the figure of another winged inſtrument, the end ºf whoſe handle is faſtened by a ſºrus, as alſº a i bended iron-plate,which is marked with this letter a.for the firmer holding thereof. s n –sº ſ\ º § stniihim. iiittinº. \! \ w mºtºw } ^{-ih- º - - x - a note of after the ſtone is by theſe means drawn forth, obſerv diligently whether it bee worn on more fonts anie ſide, and as it were levigated; for that happeneth by the wearing or rubbing of one or then one, more ſtones upon it; yet there is no ſurer way to know this, then by ſearching with a c - theter.the one end of the following inſtrument may ſupplie the want of a catheter or probe, and the other may ſerv for aſcoop or cleanſer, - - acleanſer lib. . - whoſe crº is performed by surgerie. a cleanſer or ſcoop whereby you may ſearch whether there bee anie more ſtones behinde, as alſº cleanſ or purge the bladder from gravel, clots of blood, and other ſuch bodies, as uſe to remain behinde after the drawing forth of the ſtone. x for if other ſtones remain behinde, they ſhallbee drawn forth as the former, which bec-how toºleant ingdon, the end of the inſtrument, which is crooked and hollowed like a ſcoop or ſpoon, the bladder. ſhall bee thruſt by the wound into the bladder, and therewith you ſhall gather together and take out what gravel ſoever, clotted blood, and the like .# as ſhall bee there, for that they mayyeeld matter for another ſtone. but if you finde that the ſtone which is in the blad- º: to*:eak derbee too great, ſo that it may notbee plucked forth without great and fearful j º: tº- the bladder, it will bee better to take hold thereof with this crows bill and ſo breakitºnomºiºs to peeces. ### and at once. i.the effigies of atoothed crow’s-billmade neatly to break greater ſtones, with a ſcrew to force it together. u § w wº \ n n w w %| //// // f iſ * f : º //// f / ſ ſ - l f :^ :a:/ uy up *a*//// al/////// - º | º §§ - ſ | ſh ſº muhl *\ | ll º *sº ) § \,\\)]] x. this crows-bill hath onely three teeth, and thoſe ſharp ones on the inſide, of which two are placed above, and one below, which is the middle-moſt, ſo that it falleth between the two upper. when the ſtone is broken, all the perces thereof muſt bee taken forth, and wee muſt have a ſpecial care, leſt any peece thereof lie hid; for that in times increaſed by the acceſs of a tough and viſcuous matter, or conjoined with other fragments by the interpoſi- tion of the like matter as glew, may riſe to a ſtone of a largebigneſs. º - chap. xliii. what cure muſt bee uſed to the wound, when the ſtone is taken forth. º have one or two ſtitches with a needle and threed, leaving onely ſo much ſp º º as ſhallbee ſufficient to put in a pipe for the uſe weeſhall hereafter ſhew sy sº threed muſt bee of crimſon ſilk waxed, and let it not beetoo ſmall, leaſt it bindeing ſhould cut aſunder the fleſhie lips of the wound, or rot in a ſhort time, either by the moiſture of the urine, or matterflowing from the ulcer. therefore you > {ll | % gº he ſtone beeing drawn out, if the greatneſs of the wound ſo require, it ſhall of ſewings ace wound whe out. the tone is by ken forth. - . of diverſpreternaturale/fetis, lib. ſhall take up much fleſh with the skin in ...; it, leaſt the lips of the wound beeing torn, your labor proov in vain, and ſo you are forced to trouble the patient with makeing a new one. things beeing thus performed, a ſilver pipe ſhall bee putthrough the wound into the bladder,whereof i have here given you divers forms,that you may take your choice, & ſo fit them to the wounds, and not the wounds to them, which oft-times in want of inſtruments the surgeons are forced to do, to the great harm of the patient. silver pipes to bee put into the bladder when the ſome is drawn out. theſe muſt have no holes in their fides (as thoſe here expreſſed) but onely in a ºn their ends, that all the matter of the tº wound, and the filth gathered and con- nº crete in the bladder may flow and bee carried forth this way. when cleer urine ſhall begin to flow out of the wound, there ſhall bee no more needof a pipe; therefore if you continue it and keep it longer in the wound, there isſom dan- ger i. nature accuſtomed to that way, =sº may afterwards negle&t to ſend the water % through the urethra, or urinarie paſſage. neither muſt you forget to defend the parts near to the wound with the following repercuſſive medicine, to hinder the defluxion arºpercuſſive and hſiammation, which are incident by reaſon of the pain. r. album ovorum nuiii. pul, boli ** armeni, ſanguini, dracon, an: iii. oleiroſ. i.pilorum leporinorum quantum ſufficit, make a medi- cine of the conſiſtence of honey. c h a p. xliv. how to lay the patient after the ſtone is taken away. º, ll things which wee have recited beeing faithfully and diligently performed, the º f. ſhall be placed in his bed, laying under him as it were a pillow filled with \{bran, or oat chaff, to drink up the urine which floweth from him. you muſt have remedies for divers of theſe pillows, that they . bee changed as need ſhall require. somtimes the cojºsa after the drawing forth of the ſtone,the bloodin great quantitie falleth into the cod,which it gangrenate, unleſs you bee careful to provide againſt, with º drying and conſumeing medicines, it is to bee feared that it may gangrenate. wherefore if anie accidents happen in cureing theſe kinde of wounds, you muſt diligently withſtand them. after ſom few daies awarm injećtion ſhall beecaſt into the bladder by the wound, conſiſting of the waters of plantain, night-ſhade and roſes, with a little ſyrup of dried roſes. it will help to temper the heat of the bladder cauſed both by the woundand contuſion, as alſo by the violent thruſting in of the inſtruments. alſo it ſomtimes happen's, that after the drawing forth of the ſtone, clots of blood and other impuritie may #. the urinaric paſſage, and ſo ſtop the urine that it cannot flow forth. therefore you muſt in like ſort put a hollow probe for ſom daies into the urethra, that keeping the paſſage open, all the groſſer filth may flow out together with the urine. chap. xlv. - how to cure the wound made by the inciſion. - ... i- nº ou muſt cure this wound after the manner of other bloodie wounds, to wit, oſl. "|nº||by agglutination and cicatrization,the filth,or ſuch things as may hinder,beeing º ºltaken away by detergent medicines.the patient ſhall haſten the agglutination if ºl lºº. - fºº sºhee lie croſs-legged, & keepa ſlender diet until the ſeventh or ninth day bee paſt. fºlº hee muſt wiś iñº. wine, unleſs it bee verie weak; in ſtead i: let him uſe a deco&ion of barlie and licoriſh, or mead, or water and ſugar, or boiled water mixed with ſyrrups ofdried roſes, maidenhair, and the like. let his meatbee panado, rai- ſons, ſtewed prunes, chickens boiled with the cold ſeeds, purſlain, ſorrel, borage, ſ inage, and the like. if heebeebound in his bellie, a phyſician ſhallbee called, who may helpit, by appointing either caffa, a glyſter, or ſom other kinde of medicine as hee ſhallthink good. c. h. a. p. lib. . whoſe cure is performed by surgerie. chap. xlvi. - --- what cure is to bue uſed to ulcers, when as the urine flow's through them, long after the ſtone is drawn out. sal anie, after the ſtone is drawn out, cannot have the ulcer conſolidated,there- alfore the urine flow's out this way continually by little & little,and againſt the patient's will dureing the reſto his life, unleſs the surgeon helpit. therefore hostomake ºthecallous lips of the wound muſt bee amputated, ſo to make agreenwound of afreſh wound. - hanoidulcer thenmuſ they beetied up. bound with the inſtrument wee term **** a retinaculum or ſtay; this muſt bee perforated with three holes, anſwering to three other on the other ſide; needles ſhall bee #. through theſe holes, takeing hold of much fleſh, and ſhall beeknit aboutit, then glutinative medicines ſhall bee applied, ſuch as are venice turpentine, gum elemi, ſinguis draconis, bole armenick and the like; after five or fix.daiºs the needles ſhall beetaken out, and alſo the ſtay taken away. for then you ſhall finde the wound almoſt glewed, and there will nothing remain but onely to cicatrize it. the figure of a retinaculum, or ſtay. º wº- a. ſhew's the greater. b. the leſſºr, that you may know that you muſt uſe diverſ according to the different bigneſ of the wound. ifa reinaculum or ſtaybee wanting, you may conjoin the lipsofthe wound after this whitto do in followingmanner. put two quills ſomwhat longer then the wound, oneach ſide one, and want of affay. then preſently thruſt them through with needles haveing thred in them, takeing hold of the fleſh between, as often as need ſhall require, then tying the thredupon them. for thus the woundſhallbee agglutinated, and the fleſhie lips of the wound kept from beeing torn, which would bee in danger if the needle and thred wereonely uſed. chap. xlvii. how to takeſtones out of women's bladders. tº eeknow by the ſame figns that the ſtone is in a woman's bladder as wee do in a how to ſearch nº. man's, yet it is far more eaſily ſearched by a catheter, for that the neck of the blad-forthertone %yº deris the ſhorter, broader and themore ſtreight. wherefore it may notonely bee in women. found by a catheter put into the bladder, but alſo by the fingers thruſt into the neck of the womb, turning them up towards the inner fide of the or pubis, and placeing the fickwomanin the ſame poſture as wee mentioned in the cure of men. yet you muſt obſerv that maids j then ſeven yeers old, that are troubled with the ſtone, cannotbee ſear- ched by the neck of the womb, without great violence. therefore the ſtone muſt bee drawn from them by the ſame means as from boies, towit, by thruſting the fingers into thefunda- ment; for thus the ſtonebeeing found out, and the lower bellie alſo preſſed with the other hand, it muſt bee brought to the neck of the bladder, and then drawn forth by the foremen- tioned means. yet if the riper yeers of the patient permit it to bee don without violence,the whole workſhallbee more eaſily and happily performed, by putting the fingers into the neck of the womb, forthat the bladder is nearer theneck of the womb, then it is totheright gut. wherefore the fingers thus thruſt in, a catheter ſhall bee preſently put into the neck of the bladder: this catheter muſt bee hollow, or ſlit on the outſide like thoſe before de- ſcribed but notcrooked,but ſtraight, as you may perceiv by the following figure. - - a cathe- - ofdiverſ preternatural affed, lib. -- gº -- . z a catheter, upon which, beeing put into the bladder, the neck thereof may bee cut, to draw out a ſtone from a woman. upon this inſtrument the neck of the bladder maybee cut, and then with the dilater made for the ſame purpoſe, the inciſion ſhall bee dilated as much as need require's yet with this caution, that ſeeing the neck of a womans bladder is the ſhorter,it admit's not ſo great dilatation as a mans, for otherwiſe there is danger that it maycom to the bodie of the bladder, whence an involuntarie ſhedding of the water may enſue and continue thereafter. the inciſion beeing dilated, the surgeon putting one or two of his fingers into the neck of the womb, ſhall preſs the bottom of the bladder, and then thruſt his crooked inſtruments or forcipes in by the wound, and with theſe hee ſhall eaſily pluck out the ſtone, which hee ſhall keep with his fingers from ſlipping back again. yet laurence collo the king's surgeon, and both his ſons (then whom l do not know whether ever there were better cutters for the ſtone) do otherwiſe perform this operation for they do not thruſt their fingers into the fundament or neck of the womb, but contenting themſelvs with putting in onely the guid- ers (whereof wee formerly made mention) into the paſſage of the urine, they preſently thereupon make a ſtraight inciſion direétly at the mouth º the neck of the bladder,and not on the ſide, as is uſually don in men. then they gently by the ſame way thruſt the forcipes hollowed on the out-ſide formerly delineated,and ſo dilate the woundby tearing it as much as ſhall bee ſufficient for the drawing of the ſtone forth of the bladder. the reſidue of the cure is the ſame with that formerly mentioned in men: yet this is to bee added, that if an ulcer grow in the neck of the bladder by reaſon of the rending it, you may by putting in §: ſeculum matricis, dilate the neck of the womb, that fitting remedies may bee applied with the more eaſ. - w - - chap. xlviii. - of the ſuppreſſion of the urine by internal cauſes. - Ş. eſides the fore-mentioned cauſes of ſuppreſſed urine,or difficultie of making of wa- #. § ter, there are manie other, leaſt anie may think that the urine is ſtop’t onely by ºn : tº the ſtone or gravel, as surgeons think, who in this caſe preſently uſe diureticks. wet muſt not therefore the urine is ſuppreſt by external and internal cauſes. the internal caul- preſently fift ſis are clotted blood,tough phlegm,warts,caruncles bred in the paſſages of the urine,ſtones, to diureticks, and gravel; the urine is ſomtimes ſuppreſt, becauſthe matter thereof, to wit, the ſerous or whayiſh part of the blood, is either conſumed by the feveriſh heat,or carried other waies by ſweats of a ſcouring; ſomtimes alſo the flatulencie there contained,or inflammation ariſing in the parts made for the urine and the neighboring members, ſuppreſſe's the urine. for the right gut, if it bee inflamed, intercept's the paſſage of the urine, either by a tumor where it preſſeth upon the bladder, or by the communication of the inflammation. thus by the default of an ill-affe&ed liver, the urine is oft-times ſuppreſt in ſuch as have the dropfie; or elſby dulneſs or decay of the attraćtive, or ſeparative facultie of the reins by ſom great di- ftemper, or by the default of the animal-facultie, as in ſuch as are in a phrenfie, lethargie, convulſion, apoplexie. beſides alſo a tough and viſcid humor falling from the whole bodie into the paſſages of the urine, obſtruä's and ſhut's up the paſſage. alſo too long holding - the water ſomtimes cauſe's this affect. for when the bladder is diſtended above meaſure, the why the too paſſage thereof is drawn together,and made more ſtraight: heerto may bee added, that the lºngholding too great diſtenſion of the bladder is a hinderance that it cannot uſe the expulſive facultie, *"...".” and ſtraiten itſelf about the urine to the excluſion thereof; heerto alſo pain ſucceeds,which º tºº. preſently dejećt's all the faculties of the part which it ſeizeth upon. thus of late a certain of. youngman, riding on horſ:back before his miſtreſs, and therefore not dareing to make wa- an hiſtorie. ter, when hee had great need ſo to do, had his urine ſo ſuppreſt, that returning from his journie home into the citie, hee could by no means poſſible make water. in the mean time hee had grievous pain in the bottom of his bellie and the perineum, with gripeings, and a {weat all over his bodie, ſo that hee almoſt ſwooned. i beeing called, when i had procured him to make water by putting in an hollow catheter, and preſſing the bottom of his bellie, whereof hee forthwith made two pintes;i told them that it was not occaſioned by the ſtone, which notwithſtanding the ſtanders by imagined to bee the occaſion of that ſuppreſſion of * urine. lºº. whoſe cure is performed by surgerie, s ; - -- - - - - - – - - urine. fº thence forward there appeared no figns of the ſtone in the youth, neither was hee afterwards troubled with the flopping offiisurine. - . . . - chap. xlix, adigreſſion concerning the purgeing ºf ſuch thing, as are unprofitable *: in the whole bodie by the the urine, w/º. think it not amiſs to teſtifieby the following hiſtories,the providence of na- tº ture in expellingby urine ſuch thing as are unprofitable in the wholebodie. § mounſeur sarret the king's ſecretarie was wounded in the right arm witha an hiſtorie, º piſtol-bullet; manie and malign ſymptoms happened thereupon, but princi- §º pally great inflammations, flowing with much ſanies and pus or quitture: it *s*sº ſomtimes happened that without anie reaſon this purulent and ſanious efflux of matter was ſtaied in inflammation; whereof while wee ſolicitouſly inquired the cauſ, wee found both his ſtools and water commixed with much purulent filth, and this through the whole courſofthe diſeaſ, whereof notwithſtanding by god's aſſiſtance het recovered, and remain's whole and ſound; wee obſerved that as long as his arm flowed with this filthie matter, ſo long were his excrements of the bellie aud bladder free from the ſanious and pu- rulent matter: as long on the contrarie as the ulcers of the arm were drie, ſo long were ex- crements ºf theguts and bladder, ſanious and purulent. th;ſame accident belela gentle- anhiasis man called mounſieur de lacroix,who received a deadlie wound with a ſword on the left arm, s though german chaval and maſter raſ, moſt expert surgeons, and others, who together withmete had him in cure, thought it was not ſo for this reaſon, becauſthe pus cannot run ſolong away in the bodie, neither if it it were ſo, could that beedon without the infº&i- on and corruption of the whole maſs of blood, whil'ſ it flow's through the veins; there. fore to bee more probable that this quantitieoffilthymixed with excrements & urine, flow- ed out by the default of the liver, or of ſom other bowel, rather then from the wounded arm: i was of a contrarie opinion for theſe following reaſons. firſt for that which was ap: how the pus parently ſeen in the patient; for as long as the excrement and urine were free from this pu-ºy flow from rulent natter, ſº long his arm plentifully flowedthºrewith; this on the contrariebeing. drie, much purulent was voidedboth by floolandurine. another was, that as our whole; excre- bodie is perſpirable, ſo it is alſo (if i may ſo termit) confluxible. the third was an exam-ments. - ple taken from the glaſſes which the french term monte-wing (that is, mount-wines) for if a -- tº glaſs that is full of wine bee ſet under another that is fill'd with water, you may ſee the wine raiſ itſelf out ofthe lower veſſel to the upper through the midſt of the water, and ſo the water deſcend through the mid'ſt of the wine, yet ſo, that they do not mix themſelvs, but the one take and poſſeſs the place of the other. if this may bee don º art, by things onely natural; and to bee diſcerned by our eies, what may bee don in our bodies, in which by reaſon of the preſence of a more noble ſoul, all the works of nature are far more perſe& what is it which weemay deſpair to bee done in the like caſe ? for doth not the laudable blood flow to the guts, kidnies, ſpleen, bladder of the gall, by the impulſofnature together with the excrements, which preſently the parts themſelvs ſeparate from their nutriment? doth not milk from the breaſis flow ſomtimes forth of the wombs of women lately delive- red? yet that cannot bee carried down thither, unleſs by the paſſages of the mammillarie - “…a veins and arteriers, which meet with the mouths of the veſſels of the womb in the middle of - the ſtraight muſcles of the epigraftium.therefore nomarvel if according to galtn the put un-lib.de locaff:c. mix't with the blood flowing #. the whole bodie by the veins and arteries into the kid- tap. . nies and bladder,bee caſt forth together with the urine.theſe and the like things are don by nature, not taught by anie counſel or reaſon,but onely aſſiſted by the ſtrength of the ſegre- gateing andexpulſive facultie; and certainly weepreſently diſſe&ting the deadbodie, obſer- ved that it all, as alſo all the bowels thereof, were free from inflammation and ulceration, neither was there anie ſign of impreſſion of aniepurulent matter in anie part thereof. chap. l. . . . . . - by what external cauſes the urine is ſuppreſi; and prognoſticks concerning the ſuppreſſion thereof...; * . º here are alſo manie external cauſes, through whoſe occaſion the urine may bee. . " & ſº ſuppreſt. such are batheing and ſwimming in cold water; the too long conr. º tinued application of narcotick medicines upon the reins, perineum and ſhare; -- à the uſe *cold meats and drinks, and ſuch other like. moreover, the diſloca- why she diflo- tion of ſom vertebra of the loins to the inſide, for that it preſſeth the nervºcation ºf wº- diſſºminated thence into the bladder; therefore it cauſeth a ſtupiditie or numneſs of . of the * thebladder. whence it is, that it cannot perceiv it ſelf to bee vellicated by the acrimonie .#." ofthe urine, and conſequently it is not ſtirreduptotheexpulſion thereof. but from . of urine. ocvct of diverſpreternatural eaffects, lib. . why the ſup- ſoever cauſthe oppreſſion ofthe urine proceeds, if it perſevere for ſom daies, death is to #. bee feared, unleſs either a feverwhich may conſume the matter of the urine, or a ſcouring j or flux, which may divert it,ſhall happen thereupon. for thus by ſtay it acquireth an acrid deadly. and venenate qualitie, which flowing by the veins readily infe&eth the maſs of blood, and carried to the brain, much moleſt'sitby reaſon of that fimilitude and ſympathie of conditi- - on which the bladder hath with the meninges. but nature, if prevalent, eaſily free’th it ſelf ... from this danger by a manifeſt evacuation by ſtool, otherwiſe it muſt neceſſarily call as it º: #.ſ were to its aid, a feveriſh heat, which may ſend the abounding matter of this ſeroushu- . miditie out through the skin, either by a ſenſible evacuation asby ſweat; becauſ ſweat and urine have one common matter: orelſ diſperſ and breath it out by tranſpiration, which is an inſenſible excretion. º - a fever fol- - - chap. l. i. of bloodie urine. wºº om piſs pure blood, others mix't, and that either with urine, and then that ºs which is expelled reſemble's the waſhing offleſh newly killed; or elſ with pus, or matter, and that either alone or mixed with the urine: there may beediverſ | cauſes of this ſymptom, as the too great quantitie of bloodgathered in the bo- t. die, which by the ſuppreſſion of the accuſtomed and periodical evacuation,by the courſes or hemorrhoids, now turn's its courſ to the reins and bladder: the fretting aſun- der of ſomveſſel by an acrid humor, or the breaking thereof by carrying or lifting of ſom heavie burden, by leaping, falling from high, a greatblow, the falling of ſomweight upon the loins, rideing poſt too violently, the too immoderate uſe of venerie, and laſtly, from anie kindeofpainful and more violent exerciſe, by a rough and ſharp ſtone in the kidnies, by the weakneſs of the retentive facultie of the kidnies, by a wound of ſom of the partsbe- longing to the urine, by the too frequentuſe of diuretick and hot meats and medicines, or elſ of things in their whole nature contrarie to the urinarie parts; for by theſe and the like cauſes, the reins are oft-times ſo inflamed, that they neceſſarily impoſtumate, and at length theimpoſtume beeingbroken it turn's iuto an ulcer, caſting forth quitture by the urine. signs of what in ſo great varietie of the cauſes of bloodie urine, wee may gather whence the cauſes of this cauſes they ſymptom may ariſe, by the depraved ačtion of this, or that part, by the condition of the proceed. owing blood, to wit, pure or mix't, and that either with the urine alone, or with pus. for example, if this bloodie matter flow from the lungs, liver, kidnies, diſlocated vertebræ, the firaight gut, or other the like part: you may diſcern it by the ſeat of the pain and ſym- ptoms, as a fever: and the proprietie of the pain, and other things which have preceded, or are yet preſent. and wee may gather the ſame by the plentie and qualitie, for if, for ex- ample, the pus flow from an ulcer of the arm, the purulent matter will flow by turns, one whileby the urine, ſo that little is caſt forth by the ulcer; then preſently on the contrarie theurine becom's more cleer. thatpurulent matter which flow's from the lungs by reaſon of an empiema, or from the liver, or any other bowel placed above the midriff,the pu, which is caſt forth with the urine, is both in greater plentie and more exačtly mixed with the urine, then that which flow's from the kidnies and bladder. it neither belong's to our º: . c surgeon's office, either toundertake, or deliver the cure of this affect. it ſhall ſuffice onely uſe, to note that the cure of this ſymptom is not to bee hoped for ſo long as the cauſremain's. and if this blood flow by the opening of a veſſel,it ſhallbee ſtaied by aſtringent medicines; if broken, by agglutinative; if corroded or fretted aſunder, by ſarcotick. the differen- | ces. cauſes. chap. l ii. of the ſigns of the ulcerated kidnies. had not determined to follow or particularly handle the cauſes of bloodie urines, yet becauſ that which is occaſioned by the ulcerated reins or bladder more fre- quently happen's, therefore i have thought good briefly to ſpeak thereof inthis why the mat- place. the figns of an ulcer of the reins are, pain in the loins, matter bowſoever ºr which mix't with the urine, never evacuated by itſelf, but alwaies flowing forth with the urine, . *... and reſideing in thešottom of the chamber-pot, with a finious and red diment, fleſhi: leſs i. and as it were bloodie fibres ſwimming up and down in the urine, the ſmell of the filth s then that not ſo great as that which which flow's from the ulcerated bladder, for that the kidnies, which flows, ſeeing they are of a fleſhie ſubſtance, dofarbetter ripen and digeſt the purulent matter then º the blad the bladder which is nervousandbloodleſs. - - -: - - - -- " - . . . . . chap. , - - - . . . .” - . - hºt . . . . - - - lib. . whoſe cºre is performed by surgerie. cha p. l iii. of the ſigns of the ulcerated bladder. zeºlcers are in the bottom of the bladder, and the neck thereof. the figns of an differences. . . º ulcer in the bladder are, a deep pain at the ſhare-bones; the great ſtench of } %, the matter flowing there-from,white and thin skins ſwimmingup and down § in the water. but when the ulcer poſſeſſeth the †: the bladder, the pain * is more gentle, neither doth it trouble before the patientcom to make wa- * ter, but in the verie making thereof, and a little while after, a but it is common both to the one and the other, that the yard is extended in makeing of - water, to wit, by reaſon of the pain cauſed by the urine fretting of the ulcerated part in the paſſage by : neither is thematter ſeen mixed with the urine, as is uſual in an ulcer of the upper parts, becauſit is poured forth not together with the urine, but after it. chap. l. w. prognoſticks ºf the ulcerated reins and bladder. ºg lcers of the kidnies are more eaſily and readily healed then thoſe of the blad-whyulcers of º der; for fleſhie parts more ſpeedily heal and knit, then bloodleſs and nervous the bladder. }|\ parts. ulcers which are in the bottom of the bladder, are uncureable, or cer- ::::::: º, tainly moſt difficult to heal; for beſides that they are in a bloodleſs part, they . - ** are daily vellicated and exaſperated by the continual afflux of the containedu- rine; for all the urine is never evacuated: now that which remaine's aftermakeing water, becom's more acrid by the diſtemper and heat of the part, for that the bladder is alwaiesga- thered about it, and dilated and ſtraightned according to the quantitie of the contained u- rine: therefore in the iſthuria, that is, the ſuppreſſion or difficultie of makeing water, you may ſomtimes ſee a quart of water made at once. thoſe which have their legs fall away, haveing an ulcer in their bladder, are near their deaths. ulcers ariſing in theſe parts, un- leſs they bee conſolidated in a ſhort time, remain uncureable. chap. l.v. what cure muſt bee uſed in the ſuppreſſion of the urine. . . . . . . . . " º n cureing the ſuppreſſion of the urine, the indication muſt bee taken from scopes of “ * the nature of the diſeaſ, and cauſthereof, if it beeyet preſent or not. but the cursing. . #( diverſitie of the parts, by which beeing hurt, the iſºburia happen's, intimate's sº the varietie of medicines, neither muſt wee preſently run to diureticks, and §§§ things breaking the ſtone, which manie empericks do. for hence grievous towhat ſup. *ś and malign ſymptoms often ariſe,eſpecially if this ſuppreſſion proceed from preſſion of the an acrid humor, or blood preſſed out by a bruiſe, immoderate venerie, and all more vehe- i. ment exerciſe, a hot and acrid potion, as of caniharides,by too long abſtaining from make-i. not ing water, by a phlegmon, or ulcer of the urinarie parts. for thus the pain and inflammati-tt on are increaſed, whence follow's a gangrene, and at length death. wherefore ...; in o- thing in this caſe without the advice of a phyſician, no not when you muſt com to surge- rie. for diureticks can ſcarce have place in another caſe, then when the urinarie paſſages towhich and are obſtrućted % gravel, or a groſs and viſcid humor, or elſinſom cold countrie, or in the when to be application of narcoticks to the loins, although wee muſt not heer uſe theſe before wee uſed. have firſt made uſe of general medicines: now diureticks may bee adminiſtred ſandrie waies, as heerafter ſhall appear. - * r. agrimon urtic parietar. ſurculos rubros babentis, anmi, radaffarag. mundat. iiii, gran alke- kengi, nu.kx.ſem, malve ſ. rad.acor. i. bulliant omnia ſimul in ſex libri, aque dulci, ad fertias, de- . - inde coletur. let the patient take iiii. hereof with i. of ſugar candie, and drink it warm . . . . . faſting in a morning, three hours before meat. thirtie or fortie ivie-berries beaten in white wine, and given the patient to drink ſom two hours before meat, are good for the ſame purpoſe. alſo i. of nettle-ſeeds made into fine powder, and drunk in chicken-broth, is good for the ſame purpoſe. a decočtion alſo of grummel, goat's-ſaxifrage, pellitorie of the wall, white ſaxifrage, the roots of parſlie, affaragus, acorus, bruſcu, and orris drunk in the quantitie of ſom three or four ounces, is profitable alſo for the ſame purpoſe. yet this following water is commended above the reſt to provokeurine, and open the paſſages thereof, from what cauſiſoever the ſtopping thereof proceed. rºradicoſmundregal cyphiſ. adiaritick, malgram petroſelfenic.an. ii. raph.craffor. in taleol: iiii, macerenturper nodem in aceto alboſacer-water, ". rimo, bulliant poſtea in aque fluvialis fêx. ſaxifrag. * milii ſolis, *:::: … " - p ! iºals > º ofdiverſ preternatural affeds, lib. i biſmallan. p.ii. berul.cicer, rub.an. pi. ſem. melon citrulan. ii.ſ .alkekengi, i. glycyrhiz. .i. bulliant omnia ſimulad tertius in colaturâ infunde per notiem folſen.oriental,fb.ſ . fiat iterum parv ebullitio, in expreſſione colatá infunde cinam. eleå. vicolentury iterum colatura injiciatur in alembi- cum vitreum, poſtca tereb venet.lucid.fb.ii. aq.vite vi. agitentur omnia ſimul diligentiffmé. lutetur alembicum luloſapientie, fiat diſtillatio lento igne in balneo marie. uſe it after the following manner: kag, ſtillatitie preſciple ii. autiii. according to the operation which it ſhall per- form, let the patient take it four hours before meat. alſo radiſh-water diſtilled in balneo marie is given in the quantitie of iiii. with ſugar, and that with good ſucceſs. baths and ſemicupia, or half baths are articificially made, relax, ſoften, dilate, and open all the bodie; whytheuſe of therefore the preſcribed diureticks mixed with half a dram of treacle may bee fitly given at . * the going forth of the bath. theſe medicines following are judged fit to cleanſ the ulcers .* of the kidnies and bladder. syrup of maiden-hair, of roſes, taken in the quantitie of i. ºrde with bydromel, or barlie-water. aſesorgoat'-milk are alſº much commended in this: ulcers of the fe&, becauſthey cleanſ the ulcers by their ſerous or whayiſh portion, and agglutinateb kidnies and their cheeſ-like. they muſt bee taken warm from the dug, with honie of roſes, or a little bladder. ſalt, leaſt they corrupt in the ſtomach; and that to the quantitie of four ounces, drinking or eating nothing preſently upon it. the following trochiſces are alſo good for the ſame trºchiſtºto purpoſe, r.quatuor ſemfrigidmajorſeminis papaveri, albi, partula, plantag.cydon, myrtil, gum. tra- †:*gacanth. & arub.pinear-glycyrrhi.mund.bordei mund.macag.pſilii, amygdal:dulcium, an i. boli armen. *** ſanguin.draconſºodii, roſar. mafiichterre, ſigil myrrhe, .# cum oxymelite, conficiantur ſecundian artem trochiſei. let the patient take ſ, diſſolved in whay, ptiſan, barlie-water,and the like; º, they may alſo bee . diſſolved in plantain-water, and injećted into the bladder. let pink inăud the patient abſtain from wine, and inſtead thereof let him uſe barlie-water, or hydromel, or of wine. aptiſan made of an ounce of raiſins of the sun, ſtoned and boiled in five pintes of fair wa- ter, in an earthen pipkin well leaded, or in a glaſs, until one pintebee conſumed, adding thereto of liquorice ſcraped and beaten i. of the cold ſeeds likewiſe beaten two drams. let it, after it hath boiled a little more, bee ſtrained through an hypocrasbag, with a quar- º º and two drams of choice cinnamon added thereto, and ſo let itbee kept for uſual drink. - chap. lv i. of the diabete, or inabilitie to bold the urine. he diabete is a diſeaſ, wherein preſently after one hath drunk, the urine is pre- ſently made in great plentie, by the diſſolution of the retentive facultie of the reins, and the depravation of immoderation of the attraćtive facultie. the ex- ternal cauſes are the unſeaſonable and immoderate uſe of hot and diuretick things, and all more violent and vehement exerciſes. the internal cauſes are the - inflammation of the liver, lungs, ſpleen, but eſpecially of the kidnies and bladder. this af. ''''''. fe& muſt bee diligently diſtinguiſhed from the excretion of the morbifick cauſes by urine. signs. . . . the loins in this diſeaſare moleſted with a pricking and biteing pain, and there is a con- . tinual and unquenchable thirſt: and although this diſeaſ proceed from a hot diſtemper, yet why thºu- the urine is not colored, red, troubled, or thick, but thin, and white or wateriſh, by rea- .**** ſon the matter thereof make's verie ſmall ſtay in the ſtomach, liver, and hollow vein, bee- triſh. ing preſently drawn away by the heat of the kidnies or bladder. if the affect long endure, the patient for want of nouriſhment falleth away, whence certain death enſue's. for the -*.*.*.* cure of ſo great a diſeaſ, the matter muſtbee purged, which cauſe's or feed's the inflamma- the cure, ion or phlºmon, and conſequently blood muſt bee let wee muſt abſtain from four cold "ſºls, for although they may profit by their firſt qualitie, yet will they hurt by their diure- tick facultie refrigerateing and aſtringent nouriſhments muſt beeuſed, and uch as generate groſs humors; as rice, thick and aſtringent wine mixed with much water. exceeding cold, narcotick yeararcotick things ſhallbee applied to the loins, for otherwiſe by reaſon of the thickneſs thingsrobee of the muſcles of thoſe parts, the force, unleſs of exceeding 'refrigerateing things, will not what diabete is. . - ... " - ºc - the ciules. ~ ºpplied to the bee able to arrive at the reins; of this kinde are oil of white poppie, henbane, opium, pur- loins, ſlain, and lettuce-ſeed, mandrage, vineger, and the like : of which, cataplaſms, plaſters, and ointments, may bee madefit to corroborate the parts, and correà and heat. chap. lvii. . of the strangarie. what the "the strangurie is an affect haveing ſom affinitie with the diabete, as that wherein the strangurie is, water is involuntarily made, but not together at once, but by drops, continually the cauſes, and with pain. the external cauſes of a ſtrangurie are, the too abundant drinking of colá water, lib. . whoſe cure is performed by surgerie. water, and all too long ſtay in a cold place. the internal cauſes are, the defluxion of cold §.... º ; for ††, are reſolved by a certain palſie,and the ſphin- tier of the bladder is relaxed, ſo that hee cannot hold his water according to his deſire: in- fiammation alſo and all diſemper cauſeth this affº, and whatſoever in ſomfort obſtrućt's the paſſage of the urine; as clotted blood, thick phlegm, gravel, and the like. and becauſ, - according to galen's opinion, all forts of diſtemper may cauſ this diſeaſ, diverſmedicines com.adaphor. ſhallbee appointed according to the difference of the diſtemper. therefore againſt a cold º:t; *. diſtemperfomentations ſhall É. rovided of a decoötion of mallows, roſes, origanum, cala- - mint, and the like, and ſo applied to the privities: then preſently after,let them bee anoint- ed with oil of bays, and of caſtoreum, and the like. strong and pure wine ſhall bee preſcri- bed for his drink, and that not onely in this cauſ, but alſo when the ſtrangurie happen's º by the occaſion of obſtrućtion, cauſed by a groſs and cold humor, if ſo bee that the bodie : * bee not plethorick.but if inflammation,together with a plethora or fulneſs,hath cauſed this wº affe&, wee may, according to galen's advice, healitby blood-letting. but if obſtrućtion bee ad º * , in fault, that ſhallbee taken away by diureticks either hot or cold, according to the condi..'” tion of the matter obſtrućting. wee heer omit to ſpeak of the dyſuria, or difficultiegf makeing water, becauſthe remedies are in general the ſame with thoſe which are uſed in the iſthuria, or ſuppreſſion of urine. - - - ** chap, lviii. - of the colick: - - tº henſoever the guts beeing obſtruđed, or otherwiſe affeited, the excrements are w. %; hindred from paſſing forth,and if the fault bee in the ſmall guts,the affe&t is term- yº ed volvulus, ileos, and miſerere mei; but if it bee in the greater guts, it is called the what ll * colick, from the part affected, which is the colon, that is, the continuitie of the iliaº: greater guts; but eſpecially that portion of the greater guts, which is properly and eſpeci-whatóli. ally named colon, or the colick-gut. therefore avicen rightly define's the colick, a pain paſsic, or the of the guts, wherein the excrements are difficultly evacuated by the fundament. paulus ae- golick is: gineta reduceth all the cauſes of the colick, how various ſoever, to four heads: to wit, to * . the groſneſs, or toughneſs of the humors impačt in the coats of the guts : flatulencies hin- lib. . . dred from paſſage forth: the inflammation of the guts; and laſtly, the colle&ion of acrid and biteing humors. now wee will treat of each of theſe in particular. almoſt the ſame cauſes produce the groſneſs of humors, and flatulencies in the guts, to wit, the uſe of flatu- lent and phlegmatick, tough and viſcid meats yea alſo of ſuch as are of good nouriſh- ment, if ſundrie thereof, and of ſundrie kindes bee eaten at the ſame meal, and in greater w uantitie then is fit. for hence cruditie and obſtrućtion, and at length the colle&ion of iºn a tenſive pain enſue's. this kinde of colick is alſo cauſed by the uſe ... . . . of crude fruits, and too cold drink, drunken eſpecially when anie is too hot by exerciſe, or ... tº . . . anie other way : for thus the ſtomach and the guts continued thereto, are refrigerated, and the humors and excrements therein contained are congealed, and, as it were bound up.' the colick which is cauſed by the inflammation of the kidnies, happen's by the ſyn : the manner pathie of the reins pained or troubled with the ſtone or gravel contained in them or the of the ſtone- areters. therefore then alſo pain troubles the patient at his hip; and ſoils, becauſthe “” nervs, which ariſing from the vertebre of the loins, are jºi by the weight of the ſtones and gravel, about the joint of the hip are diffeminated into the muſcles of the loins. • ‘i: ) -.. " and thigh. alſo the ureters are pained (for they ſeem nothing elſbut certaili hollow: **** nervs) and alſo the cremaſter muſcles, ſo that the patient's teſticles may ſeemiröbee drawn. upwards with much violence. hence great, phlegmatick, and cholerick vomiting ...and, ſweat of the whole bodie, all which do not ſurceaf before that the ſtone, or gravel ſhallbee' forced down into the bladder. now vomiting happen's in this affečt, for that the ventri- cle, by reaſon of its continuitie and neighborhood which it hath with the guts, ſtiffer'sb # conſent or ſympathie. for the ſtomach is of the ſame kinde or matter as the guts are, ſo that the guts ſeem nothing elſbut a certain produćtion of the ſtomach. †. if at anie ... . . . . time nature endeavor to expel anie thing that is troubleſom in the kidnies, ureters, coats of -º-, … the guts, meſenterie, pancreas, and hypochondries, it cauſeth a colick with pain and vomit- ing. an hot and driediſemperalſo cauſeth the colick, produceing a pricking and biteing how a hot di. pain, by drying the excrements ſhut up in the guts, as alſo by .# as it were the radiº ſtemper cauſ. * cal humors of that place provided for the lubricating of the guts. acrid,viſºid, and tough **** phlegm cauſeth the ſame. there is alſo another .of the colick which is not ſo com- - mon; to wit, the twineing of the guts, that is, when they are ſo twined, folded, and ... doubled, that the excrements, as it were, bound in their knots, cannot bee expelled, as it. manifeſtly happen's in the rupture called enterocele, by the falling of the guts into the cod.colick. likewiſe alſo worms generated in the colick-gut, whil'ſtthat they mutually fold or twine - i pp , - .. * themſelvs - of diverſpretermaturale afftāş, lib. . themſelvs up, do alſo twine the colon itſelf,and fold it with them. alſo the too long ſtay of the excrements in the guts, whether it ſhall happen the peculiar default of the too hot and drie bodie of the patient, or by his diet, that is, the uſe of too drie meats, or exer- ciſes and pains taken in the heat of the fan, or by the greatneſs of buſineſs, the minde bee- ing carried away, cauſeth the colick, with head-ach, and plentie of vapors flying upwards. an hiſtorie. i remember once diſſetted the bodie of aboy of ſom twelvyears old, who had his guts folded with manie as it were ties or knots of the reſtrained, too hard and drie excrements, the which hee caſt out by his mouth a little before his death, which brought him to his end, beeing not helped in time by fitting medicines. now theſe are the cauſes of the colick, according to the opinion of the ancient and modern phyſicians, of whoſe figns i judgit not signs whereby amiſs heer to treatin particular. you ſhall know the patient is troubled with the ſtone- wºeknºw that colick by the pain which is fixed, and as it were kept in one place, to wit,of the kidnics; the . by his former manner of life, as if the patient hath formerly voided ſtones or gravel toge- É.” ther with his urine; by the pain of the hips and teſticlesfor the formerly mentioned ºn- cauſ. ſes, and laſtly, by that the patient caſt's forth by ſtone or urine,for that the great and labo- rious endevor of nature to caſt forth the ſtone which is in the kidnies, is propagated by a certain . and like ſtudie of the neighboring parts, ſtirring up the expulſive facul- ties each to his work. the ſigns of a flatulent colick are, a tenſive pain, ſuch as if the guts were rent or torn in É. together with a noiſe or rumbling in the bellie. the force of the ſhut-up windº is ſomtimes ſo great, that it rendeth or tearóth the guts in ſunder, no o- therwiſe then a ſwine's bladder too hard blown up. which when it happen's, the patient die's with much vomiting, becauſthe ſtomack oppreſt with winde,can contain nor imbrace no meat. the colick whith is occaſioned by the too long keeping in of the excrements, is accompanied with the weight and pain of the bellie, the tenſion of the guts, head-ach, ap- parent hardneſs of the bellie, .#the complaint of the patient that hee hath not gon to ſtool in a long time. that which proceeds from a cholerick inflammation, yeeld's a ſenſ of great heat and pulſation in the midſt of the bellie, by reaſon of the veins and arteries which are in the pancreas and coats of the guts, and there are the other ſigns of a phlegmon, . . although alſo this as it were inflammation may ariſe alſo from ſalt, acrid and viſcous . . . phlegm, which nature can neither expel upwards by vomit, nor downwardsby ſtool; this ... ſundrie times is aſſociated with a difficultie of makeing water,for that when as the right gut . . . is inflamed, the bladder is preſſed by reaſon of their ſocietie or neighborhood. the collick which proceed's from the contorſion of the guts, ſhew's itſelf by the exceſſive crueltie of the pain ariſing, for that the guts are not in their due ſite and place, and becauſthe excrements by their too long detenſion acquire a preternatural heat; and this is the cauſof the death \ of manie ſuch as i. ruptures, for that the gut falling down from the natural place into the cod, beeing a preternatural place, is redoubled, and kept there as it werebound,whereby the excrements beeing baked,becoming more acridly hot, cauſinflammation, and by raiſing up flatulencies, increafthe diſtenſion through all the guts, until at length a deadly ileos or ſº. colick ariſing, they comforth at the mouth. for prognoſtids sit is better to have the #.” pain in the colick to wander up and down, then to bee fixed; it is good alſo that the ex- crements are not wholly ſuppreſt. but the evil ſigns that are heer pronounce the affettei- ... ther difficult or deadly. now theſe ſhew that it is deadlie, intolerable tormenting pain,con- , 'tinual vomiting, cold ſweat, coldneſs of the extreme parts, hicketing by reaſon of the ſym- pathic the ſtomack hath with the guts, a phrenfe by the conſent of the brain with the flo- mach, and oft-times a convulſion, by drawing the matter into the nervs. but ſuch as have gripeing and pain about their navil and loins, which can neither bee helped by medicine the cure, nor otherwiſe, it end's in a dropſie. the cure muſt bee diverſified according to the varietie of the cauſes, for the ſtone-collick is cured by medicines proper to the ſtone; that which is cauſed by an enterocele, is cured by the onely reſtoreing the gut to its place; that which is occaſioned by worms, require's medicines fit to kill and caſt forth the worms. but that which proceed's from the weakneſs and refrigeration of the guts and ſtomack, is cured by heating and ſtrengthening medicines as well applied outwardly, as taken in inwardly by the mouth, or .. the beginning of the cure of that which is occaſioned by tough phlegm and flatulencies, is by the mitigation of the pain, ſeeing there is nothing which bathsºndanº more dejećt's the powers then pain. to this purpoſe ſhallyou provide baths, semirupia, for dine fomen” mentations of mallows, marſh-mallows, violet leavs, penie-royal fennel, origanum, the ſeeds tions. of time and fenugreek, flowers of camomil, melilote, and other ſuch like,which have power to heat, drie, attenuate, and rarifie the skin, ſo to diſſipate the winde. but all ſuch muſt bee an ointment. aëtually hot. alſo the bellie may bee anointed with this following ointment. r.olei cha- mamaneth.butyr.netent.angi. ſemapii, petroſ & galangan- ſ °ite, ol,ſalvie aut thymi chimic; , ºr extratiºſ. the following ſiniment'is much commended by holeria. rolei rute hardian. vigalbani,cum aq.vit.diſſºluti:ii. liquefatii, ſimuladde ºiktegrilii.ºroriºgrwiftat linimentum. * alſo littlebags made with miſlet, oats and ſalt fried with a little white wine in a frying- pan, ſhall bee applied hot upon the bellie and flanks, and renewed before they grow cold. you may, in itead of theſe bags, uſe ox-bladders half filled with a decodion of reſolving things; .*** lib. . whoſe cure isperformed by surgerie. - - - * * things; as ſalt, roſemarie, time, lavander, bay-berries,and the like: then injećt a glyſter bee. why glyffers ing thus made. r.guatuor remol, anmi, orig.pulºg.calamenth, anmſ, amiſ, arui animºſ. for. . anºthampi, bulliant in hydromele ad ſhi, in qué diſſolve bened. laxatmelli, anthoſati, ſaccrubanái. º. given wºmemanáiſ;. let agłyſterbeemade to be injeºed at twice; for the guts be-j" ing ſtretched out cannot contain the accuſtomed doſis of a glyſter: alſo this following gly- ſter is much approoved.r. vinimalvatº olei nurum, an iii.aqua vite, ái oleijaniperi, & rut. per quintain eſſent extrañanziii. let thisbee injeºted as hot as the patient can endure, i have oft-times as by miracle helped intolerable pain cauſed by the winde-collick and phlegm with this glyſer. aviren preſcribe's a carminative glyfter made of hyſſop, ºriganum, acarus, aniſ-ſeeds, and engliſh galengal. let the patient feed upon meats of goodjuice and eaſie di- geſtion, asbroths made with the yolks of eggs, ſaffron, hot herbs and a nutmeg; let him . drink good wine, as muskadine, or hypocras made with goodwine ſo to heat the ſtomach and guts. for in galen's opinion, all windineſs is generated by a remiſs heat. but if the pain ſhall continue, a large cupping-glaſs ſhall bee applied to the navel, to draw and diſſi- pate the windineſs; the bellieſhallbee bound with ſtrong and broad ligatures, to ſtrengthen . . . . . the guts, and diſcuſs the matter of flatulencies. the patients taught by nature, uſe this re- . . . . . * * medie, whilſt none admoniſhing them, they preſs the bellie with their hands in the bitter- * * * neſs of pain. but if the pain cannot beethus appeaſed wee muſt com to ſuch medicines as specifickme- work by an occult propertie, as the dried gut of a wolf, fora dramthereofmade into pow-dicine” der it given in wine with good ſucceſs. that colick which is cauſed by a cholerick in- the cure of a flammation require's contrarie medicines, to wit, blood-letting, and a refrigerateing diet; hºlerick col- potions made of diacatholicon and caſa diſſolved in barlie-water, alſo cooling glyſers. a "* witen preſcribe's narcoticks, for that beeing cold, they are contrarie to the morbifick cauſ . . . . which is hot and drie; ſuch are pills of philonium. alſo pills of hyera picra in the quantitie ... . . . . of iv.with opium and ſaffron, of each one grain, may beeuſed. alſo baths are appointed, - made of water wherein mallows, marſh-mallows, violet-leavs, flowers of white lilies, let- tuce, purſlain have been boiled, to corrett the acrimonie of the cholerick and hot humors, whence the diſeaſand ſymptom ariſeth. that colick which is like to this, and proceed's from ſalt, acrid, thick and tough phlegm, is cured, the humor beeing firſt attenuated and diffuſed, and at length evacuated by medicines taken by the mouth and otherwiſe, accord- ing to the preſcription of the learned phyſician. but avicen cure's that which is occaſioned by the ſuppreſſion of the hardened excrements, and twineing of them by meats which have an emollient facultie, ſuch as hume&ting broths, as that which is made of an old cock tired with running, and threſhed to death, and ſo boiled with dill, polypodie, and a little ſalt, until the fleſh fall from the bones; alſo hee uſeth detergent glyſters, ſuch as this which fol- low's. r.bete,m.i.furfuriº, pi.ficus, nuck, alth.mi.fiat decoãio ad fö.i. in qué diſſolve nitri & murie an ii.ſacc: i: ol ſeſamini, ii. but if the obſtruðion beenore contumacious,you muſt uſe more powerful ones made ex cyclamin.centaurio, & hiera diacolacinth.ad ii. but if the ob- ſtrućtion do notwithſtanding remain, ſo that the excrements comforth at the mouth, ma- rianus santius wiſheth(by the counſel of manie who have ſo free'd themſelvs from this dead- lie ſymptom) to drink three pounds of quick-filver with water onely. for the doubled,and the force of as it twined up-gut is unfolded by the weight of the quick-filver, and the excrements are de- quick-filver in preſt and thruſt forth, and the worms are killed which gave occaſion to this affed. john of the unfolding s.germans, that moſt worthie apothecarie, hath told mee that heeſaw a gentleman, who of #. when as hee could not bee freed from the pain of the colick by anie means preſcribed an hiſtorie. learned phyſicians, at length by the counſel of a certain german his friend, drink three ounces of oil of ſweet almonds drawn withoutfire, and mixed with ſom white wine and pellitorie-water, and ſwallowed a leadenbullet beſmeared with quick-filver, and that bullet coming preſently out by his fundament, hee was wholly freed from his colick. “. . . . . . . chap. l x. of phlebotomie, or blood-kiing. - -- § hlebotomie is the opening of a vein, evacuating the blood with the reſt of what phlebo. # the humors; thus arteritomie, is the opening of an arterie. the firſt ſcope tomie is. ; of phlebotomie is the evacuation of the blood offending in quantitie, al-theuſ. though oft-times the phyfician's intention is to draw forth the blood which iº offend's in qualitic; or either way by opening a vein. repletion, which is repletion - by the quantitie, is two-fold; the one advires, that is, to the ſtrength, the veinsbee- two-fold. ingotherwiſe not veriemuch ſwelled; this make's men infirm and weak, ºature notableto ºr his humor, of what kindeſoeverit bee. the otheristermedad vaſa, that is, to the veſ. fels, the which is ſo called comparatively to the plentie of blood, although the ſtrength ... . may verie well away therewith. the veſſels are §: broke by this kindedf repletion, ' ' ' . **the patient aſs and ſpit’s upblood,oreifengarºsitby thenoſ womb, hemo: rhoids, or varices. therepletion which is advires, is known by the heavineſs and weari-the figns. pp. ſomneſs - º ofdiverſpreternatural affetts, lib. . “”. “º ſomneſs of the whole bodie; but that which is advaſa, is perceived by their diſtenfion and five ſcop's in fulneſs, both of them ſtand in need of evacuation. but blood is onely to bee let by opening letting blood, a vein, for five reſpe&s: the firſt is to leſſen the abundance of blood, as in phletorickbo- dies, and thoſe who are troubled with inflammation without anie plenitude. the ſecond is for diverſion, or revulſion, as when a vein of the right is opened to ſtay the bleeding of the left noſtril. the third is, to allure or draw down: as when the ſaphena is opened in the ankle, to draw down the courſes in women. the fourth is for alteration or introdućtion ofanother qualitie; as when in ſharp fevers wee open a vein to breath out that blood which is heated in the veſſels, and cooling the reſidue which remain's behinde. the fifth, is to prevent imminent diſeaſes; as when in the spring and autumn wee draw blood by opening a vein in ſuch as are ſubjećt to ſpitting of blood, the ſquinancie, plurifie, falling- ſickneſs, apoplexie, madneſs, gout, or in ſuch as are wounded, for to prevent the inflam- mation which is to bee feared. before blood-letting, if therebee anie old excrements in the guts, they ſhall bee evacuated by a gentle glyſter, or ſuppoſitorie, leaſt the meſaraick veins from whence ſhould thence draw unto them anie impuritie. bloud muſt not bee drawn from ancient peo- . ** ple, unleſs ſom preſent neceſſitie require it, leaſt the native heat, which is but languid in them, ** ſhould bed brought to extreme j. and their ſubſtance decay; neither muſt anie in like ſortbee taken from children, for fear of reſolving their powers by reaſon of the ten- derneſs of their ſubſtance, and rareneſs of their habit. the quantitie of blood which is to . . . . . . . bee let, muſt bee conſidered by the ſtrength of the patient,and greatneſs of the diſeaſ: there- * * ... fore if the patient bee weak, and the diſeaſ require large evacuation, it will bee convenient when and for to part the letting of blood, yea by the interpoſition of ſom daies. the vein of the fore- what it is ne- head beeing opened is good for the pain of the hind part of the head; yet firſt wee foment ce flarie. the part with warm water, that ſo the skin may bee ſofter, and the blood drawn into the veins in greater plentie. in the ſquinancie, the veins which are under the tongue muſt bee opened aſlant, withoutputting anie ligatures about the neck, for fear of ſtrangling. phle- botomie is neceſſarie in all diſeaſes which ſtop or hinder the breathing, or take away the voice or ſpeech, as likewiſe in all contuſions by a heavie ſtroke, or fall from high, in an a- poplexie, ſquinancie, and burning fever, though the ſtrength bee not great, nor the blood faultie in quantitie or qualitie, blood muſt not bee let in the height of a fever. moſt . it fit to draw blood from the veins moſt remote from the affečted and inflamed part, for that thus the courſ of the humors may bee diverted,the next veins on the contrarie #. ed, the humors may bee the more drawn into the affected part, and ſo increaſ the burden and pain. but this opinion of theirs is verie erroneous, for an opened vein alwaies evacu- ate's and burden's the next part. for i have ſundrie times opened the veins and arteries of the affected part, as of the hands and feet in the gout of theſe parts; of the temples in the megrims whereupon the pain alwaies was ſomwhat aſſwaged, for that together with the e- vacuated blood, the malignitie of the gout, and the hot ſpirits (the cauſers of the head-ach nthap, or megrim) were evacuated. for thus galen wiſhºth to open the arteries of the temples in a ult, great and contumacious defiuxion falling upon the cies, or in the megrim, or head-ach. c h a p. l x. how to open a vein, or draw blood from thence. how to place ahe firſt thing is, to ſeat or place the patient in as good apoſture as you can, the patient. sº to wit, in his bed, if heebee weak; but in a chair, if ſtrong; yet ſo, that the, § light may fall dire&ly upon the vein which you intend to open. then the rubbing the § surgeon ſhall rub the arm with his hand, or a warmlinnen cloth; that the arta- *** blood mayflow the more plentifially into the vein. then hee ſhall binde the bindeing it vein with a ligature a ſittle above the place appointed to bee opened, and hee ſhall draw before wee o- back the blood upwards towards the ligature from the lower part; and if it bee the right pºnths "sin arm, hee ſhall takehold thereof with his left hand; but if the left,then with his right hand, prelling the vein in the mean time with his thumb a little below the place where you mean tº to open it, leaſt it ſhould ſlip away; and that it may bee the more ſwoln by forcing up the blood. then with his nail heeſhåll mark or deſign the place to bee opened, and ſhallanoint . . . it, beeing ſo marked, with butter or oil, whereby the skin may bee relaxed, and the lancet enter more eaſily,and therefore the ſe&ion may bee the leſs painful. hee ſhall hold his lan- . . . ºet between his thumb and fore-finger, neither too near, nor too far from the point; hee ſhall reſt his other three fingers upon the patient's arm, thatſo his hand may bee the more ſteddie, and leſs trembling. then ſhall hee open the vein with an inciſion agreeable to the why the baff. magnitude of the veſſel, and the indifferent thickneſs of the contained blood, ſomwhata- lica and medi ſlant, diligently avoiding the arterie which lie's under the baſilica, and the nerv, or tendon an may nºt of the two-headed muſcle, which lie's under the median vein. but for the cepha- ...” lick, it maybee opened without danger. as much blood as is ſufficient beeing drawn, ac- §: cording to the minde of the phyſician, heeſhall looſthe ligature, and laying littlebolſter under *** - - lib. . whoſe cure is performed by surgerie. - . - . under, hee ſhall with a ligature binde up the wounded part to ſtay the º the liga- * ture ſhall bee neither too ſtraight; nor looſ, but ſo that the patient may freely bend and the bindeing extend his arm; wherefore whil'ſt that is in doing, hee muſt not holdhisarm ſtraight out, .. j - but gently bended, otherwiſe hee cannot freely bendit: * * * * lood-letting- - the figure of a lancel to let blood withall. # , --~ t fºr; chap. exi. a - - . - º - - º f of cupping-glaſſes, or ventoſer. "…-- §upping-glaſs are applied eſpecially when the matter conjunét and impact in the uſe of n: anie part is to bee evacuated, and then chiefly there is place for ſcarification cupping- § after the cuppin -glaſſes: yet .#. applied for revulſion and diverfi-glaſſes. tº . --> y flow's down into the eies, they may bee § on for when an humor continu kºśi applied to the ſhoulders with a great flame, for ſo they draw more ſtrongly and effe&ually. they are alſo applied underwomen's breaſts, for to ſtop the courſes flow: ing too immoderately, but to their thighs, for tº provoke them. they are alſo applied to fuch as are bit by venemous beaſis, as alſo to . poſſeſſed by a peſtiferous bubo or car- buncle, ſo to draw the poiſon from within outwards. for (as celſus ſaith) a qupping-glaſs lib. oup.i. where it is faſtned on, if the skin beefirſt ſcarified, draw's forth blood; but if it beeviole, then it draw's ſpirit. alſo they are applied to the bellie, when anie groſs or thick windi. neſs ſhut up in the guts, f membranes of the muſtles of the epigaſtrium, or lowerbelliean- fing the colick, is to bee diſcuſſed. alſo they are faſtned to the hypocondrie's, when as flatu- lencie in the liver, ºr ſpleen, ſwell's up the entrail lying there unders, or in too great a bleeding at the noſe. alſo they are ſet againſt the reins in the bottom of the bellie, whereas the ureters run down to draw down the ſtone into the bladder, when as it ſtop's in the mid- dle or entrance of the ureter. you ſhall make chºice of greater and leſſer cupping-glaſſes, according to the condition of the part, and the contained matter. but to thoſ parts wheretotheſe cannotby reaſon of their greatneſs bee applied, you may fit horns for the ſame purpoſe. ... . . º. r. i t ************************************************* *.*.*.*.*.*.* *...*, *.*.*.*.*.*, *, * : *.* * * * * * * *::: *** {:}}{{+**::::::::: *** ; ; ; ; ; ; ; ; ; - ---- -- - . - - - ***** - ofdiverſprºminal affetis, lib. . * the figures ºf cupping-glaſſes of different bigneſs, with little bales in their bottoms, which ſhall ſº ſtepped with wax, when you apply them to the part; but opened when you would ſh take them off, that ſo the air may enter in with the more eaſ. - …~ - * , º, . ºf `--- - - rº t - * - - --- {{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{******************** : - heru --- º - -- - --------- * lib. . whoſe cure is performed by surgerie. - - horns which wºn fº. by onely ſucking at the upper hole, draw from the part … ... lying under them from the par - (ºf - - _ – i – wr chap. lxii. of leeches, and their uſe. - - i n'thoſe parts of the bodie whereto cupping-glaſſes and horns cannot bee tº “ j applied, to thoſe leeches may for the moſt part bee put, as to the funda- leeches. sº ment,to open the coat of the hemorrhoid veins, to the mouth of the womb, ºf the gums, lips, noſe, fingers. after the leech, being filled with blood,ſhall zºſ' fall off, if the diſeaſrequire alarge evacuation of blood, and the part affetted ** ) may endure it,cupping-glaſſes,or horns, or other leeches ſhallbee ſubſtitu- li ted. if the leeches bee handled with the bare hand, they are angred,and becom ſo ſtomach- : ** ful, as that they will not bite; wherefore you ſhall hold them in a white and clean linnen" cloth, and applie them to the skin, beeing firſt lightly ſcarified,orbeſmeared with the blood of ſom other creature; for thus th .#takehold of the fleſh,t er with the skin more greedily and fully. to cauſthem fall off, you ſhall put ſompowder of aloes, ſalt or aſhes hoººº; upon their heads. if anie deſire to know how much blood they have drawn, let him ſprinkle ** fall them with ſalt made into powder, as ſoon as they are com off; for thus they will vomit up * what blood ſoever they have ſucked. if you deſire they ſhould ſuck more blood then they are able to contain, cut off their tails as they ſuck, for thus they will make no end of ſuck- ing, for that it run's out as they ſuck it. the leeches, by ſº. draw the blood not onely from the affected part whereto they are applied, but alſo from the adjacent and di- fant parts. alſo ſomtimes the part bleed's a good while after the leeches beefallen away, which happen's not by ſcarification after the application of cupping-glaſſes or horns. if i. cannot ſtop the bleeding after the falling away of the leeches, then preſs the half of a ºn upon the wound, until it ſtick of itſelf, for thus it will ſtay; alſo a burnt rag may bee titly applied with a bólfier and fit ligature. - the end of the ſeventeenth book. - sm- - . . . . . . . . . . . lib. . what it is. particular gouts- lib, i atºp. . º: the reſem- blance of the gout to the epilepſie. the ſtrange varietie of the gout. **g §§ º £ ; º; of the gouit. the tighteenth boºk. ################################################# chap. i. - the deſcription of the gout. * he gout is a diſeaſoccupying and harming the ſubſtance of the joints by the fal- ling down and colle&ion of a virulent matter accompanied by four humors. this §: tº word arthritiſ or gout, is general for everie joint ſo affeted; yet it enjoie's di- verſ particular names inſundrie joints of the bodie : as that which falleth upon the joint of the jaw, is termed siagonagra, for that the greeks call the jaw siagon; that which affeit's the neck is termed trachelagra,for that the neck is termed trachelos: that which trouble's the back-bone is called rhaciſagra, for the ſpine is termed rhacis . that which moleſt's the ſhoulders omagra, fortheſoint of the ſhoulder is called omos: that which af. fe&’s the joint of the collar-bones cleiſagra, for that the greeks call this bone cleis: that in the elbow, pechyagra, for pechys fignifieth the elbow: the gout in the hand is called chi- ragra, in the hip iſchias, in the knee gonagra, in the feet podagra, for that the hand, hip, knee, and foot are in greek termed, cheir, iſchion, gony, and pous. when as there is great abundance of humors in a bodie, and the patient lead's a ſedentarie life, not ſom one, but all the joints of the bodie are at once troubled with the gout. chap. ii. of the occult cauſes of the gout. . he humor cauſing the gout is not of a more known, or eaſily expreſt nature > then that which cauſeth the plague, lues venerea, or falling ſickneſs. for it is sº of a kinde and nature clean different from that which cauſa phlegmon, a dema, eryſipelas, or scirrhus; for, as aëtius ſaith, it never cometh to ſuppuration like other humors, not for that, as i think, becauſit happen's in bloodleſs parts,but through the occaſion of ſom occult malignitie. hereto may bee added that the humors which cauſthe fore-mentioned tumors, when as they fall down upon anie part, not then truly when they are turned into pus or matter, do they cauſſo ſharp pains as that which cauſeth the gout, for the pain thereof is far more ſharp, then of that humor which cauſeth an ulcerated cancer. beſides theſe humors, when they 'i upon the joints through anie o- ther occaſion, never turn into knots, onely that which cauſeth the gout in the joints, af. terit hath fallen thither, is at length hardned into a certain knottie and as it were plaſter- like ſubſtance to bee amended by no remedies. but ſeeing it offend's not the parts by which it flow's down, (no more then the matter which creeping upwards from the lowerparts to the brain,cauſeth the epilepſie) as ſoon as it falleth into the ſpaces of the joints it cauſſeth cruel pain, one while with heat, another while with cold. for you may ſeeſom troubled with the gout, who complain that their pained joints are burnt; there are others to whom they ſeem colder then anie ice, ſo that they cannot bee ſufficiently heated to their heart's de- ſire; verily you may ſomtimes ſeein the ſame bodie troubled with the gout,that the joints of the right ſide wiſ! as it were burn with heat, but on the left ſide will bee ſtiff with cold; or which is more, the knee in the ſame fide to bee tormented with a hot diſtemper, and the ancle troubled with a cold. laſtly, there ſomtimes . a ſucceſſion of pain in a ſucceſ. fion of daies, as the ſame joints will bee this day troubled with a hot, to morrow with a cold diſtemper, ſo that weeneed not marvel to ſee phyſicians preſcribe one while hot, ano- ther while cold medicines againſt the ſame diſeaſ of the ſame part and bodie. alſo it ſom- times happen's that the malignitie of this humor doth not onely not yeeld to medicines,but it is rather made worſ, ſo that the patients affirm that they are far better when they have none, then when they have anie remedies applied. for all things beeing rightly don, and according to reaſon, yet the diſeaſwillcom again at certain ſeaſons by fits; and hereupon it is ſaid by horace: &# ſupit, autmetuit, juvat illum fic domus autres, - - - &: lippum pitie tabulº, fomentapodagram. riches the covetous, and º ſo do pleaſ, as piðures ſore eies, bathes the goutdo eaſ, certain- ~ lib. . concerning the gout. - - - * f cranly ſuch as have this diſeaſ hereditarily, can no more bee helped and throughly freed therefrom, then thoſe in whom the matter of the diſeaſ is becom knottie, whereof ovid thus ſpeaketh : * ~ * - tollere nodoſam neſtitmedicina podagram. y • * phyſick the knottie gout it cannot heal. - - theſe reaſons have inducedmanie to believ that the eſſence of this diſeaſis unknown, for there is a certain occult and inexplicable virulencie, the autor of ſo great malignitie and contumacie. which avicenſeem's to acknowledg, when hee write's that there is a certain lib .ſett.nz. kinde of gout whoſe matter is ſo acute and malign, that if it at anie time bee augmented by trººp. the force of anger, it may ſuffice to kill the partie by ſudden death. therefore galen him- pilºther ad ſelfwrite's that treacle muſt bee uſed in all arthritical andgoutieaffe&s,and as i think, for ****** no other reaſon, then for that it drie's, waſt's and weaken's the malignitie thereof. gordoni- us is of the ſame opinion, but addeth withall, that the bodie muſt bee prepared and purged before weepſe treacle. therefore the matter of the gout is athin and virulent humor, yet. not contagious, offending in qualitierather then quantitie, cauſing extreme pains, and .. therefore inſtigateing the humors together with the caliginous and flatulent ſpirits prepared cult maligni- or readie for defluxion upon the affected parts. therefore as the biteings of aſps, and ſting-tie. ing of waſps cauſcruel pain with ſudden ſwelling and bliſtering,which is by the heat of the humors which the poiſon hath tainted, and not by the ſimple ſolution of continuitie, ſee- ing that weedaily ſee shoo-makers and tailors pricking their fleſh with aules and needles without haveing anie ſuch ſymptom; so the virulencie of the gout cauſeth intolerable tormenting pain, not by theabundance, becauſ it happen's to manie who have the gout, no ſign ofi. appearingin the joints,but onely by amalign and inexplicable qualitie, by reaſon whereoftheſe pains do not ceaſunleſs abated by the help of medicines, or nature, or both. the recital of the following hiſtories will give much light to that inexplicable and virulent malignitie of the matter cauſing the gout. whilſt king charls the the ninth anhiſtoric, of happie memorie, was at burdeaux, there was brought to chappellain and cañellan the king's phyſicians, and taſte a phyſician of burdeaux, nicolás lambert and my ſelfsu ons, a certain gentlewoman ſomfortie yeers old, exceedingly troubled formanieyeers by reaſon of a tumor ſcarce equalling the bigneſs of a peaſ, on the outſide of the joint of the the matter of left hip: one of her tormenting fits took her in my preſence; ſhee preſently began to crie atemible fit. and roar, and raſhly and violently to throw her bodie this way and that way, with moti- ons and geſtures above a woman's, yea a man's nature. for ſhee thruſt her head between her legs, laid her feet upon her ſhoulders, you would have ſaid ſhee had been poſſeſſed of the divel. this fit held herſom quarter of an hour; dureing all which time i heedfully obſer- ved whether the grieved partſwelled aniebigger then it was acuſtomed, whether there hap- ned anie new inflammation; but there was no alteration as far as i could gather by ſight or feeling, but onely that ſhee cried out more loudly when as i touched it. the fit paſſed, a greatheat took her, all her bodie ran down with ſweat, with ſo great wearineſs and weakneſs of all her members, that ſhee could not ſo much as ſtir her little finger. there could bee no ſuſpicion of an epileptick, for this woman all the time of heragonie did per- h - fećtly make uſe of all her ſenſis, did ſpeak, diſcourſ, and had no convulſion. neither did ſhee i. ſpare anie coſt ordiligence, whereby ſhee might bee cured of her diſeaſby the help of phy-fift, fº. #. or famous surgeons; ſhee conſulted alſo with witches, wizzards and charmers, ſo gout. that ſheehad left nothing unattempted, but all art was exceeded by the greatneſs of the diſ. eaſ. when i had ſhewed all theſe things atour conſultation, wee all with one conſent were of this opinion, to applie a potential cauterie to the grieved part, or the tumor.i my ſelfap- plied it: after the ; of the eſcharverie black and virulent }. flowed out, which free’d the woman of her pain and diſeaſ for ever after. whence you may gather, that the cauſof ſo great evil was a certain venenate malignitie, hurting rather by an inexplicable qualitie then quantitie; which beeing overcom and evacutated by the cauterie, all pain abſolutely ceaſed. upon the like occaſion, but on the rightarm, the wife of the queen's coach-man at amboiſ conſulted chappellain, caſtellan and mee, earneſtly craveing eaſ of her pain, for ſhee was ſo grievouſly tormented by fits, that through impatiencie, beeing careleſs of her ſelf, ſheeendeavored to caſt her ſelf headlong out of her chamber window, for fear where- of ſhee had a guard put upon her. wee judged that the like monſter was to bee aſſaulted with the like weapon, neither were wee deceived, for uſeing a potential cauterie, this had like ſucceſs as the former. wherefore the bitterneſs of the pain of the gout is not occaſio- ned by the onely weakneſs of the joints; for thus the pain ſhould bee continual, and alwaies like itſelf; neither is it from the diſtemper of a ſimple humor, fornoſuch thing happen's in other tumors of what kindeſoever they bee of; but it proceeds from a venenate, malign, occult and inexplicable qualitie of the matter: wherefore this diſeaſſtand's in need of adi- ligent phyſician and a painful surgeon. - - : * > * char. concerning the gout. lib. . chap. iil of the manifeſt cauſes of the gout. .ºf a sºº lthough theſethings may beetrue which wee have delivered of the occult cauſ. the gout. º wº: of the gout, yet there bee and are vulgarly aſſigned others, of which a pro- º:nº bable reaſon may bee rendred,wherein this malignitie,whereofwee have º, lie's hid and is ſeated. therefore as of manie other diſeaſes, ſo alſo of the gout there are aſſigned three cauſes; that is, the primitive, antecedent,and con- jun& : the primitive is twofold, one drawn from their firſt original and their mother's womb, which happen's to ſuch as are#. of goutieparents, chiefly if whil'ſt they were conceived, this goutie matter did adually abound and fall upon the joints. for the razºna, ſeed fall's from all the parts ofthe bodie, asſaith hippocrate, and ariſtotle affirm's lib.dºgen. ...” animal. yet this cauſes not an inevitable neceſſitieofhaveing the gout, for as maniebegot lib.i.ap. . of ſound and healthful parents ase taken g the goutby their proper and primarie default; ſomanielive free from this diſeaſ, whoſe fathers notwithſtanding were troubled therewith. it is probable that they have this benefit and priviledg by the goodneſs of their mother's ſeed, and the laudable temper of the womb; whereof the one by the mixture and the other by the gentle heat, may amend and corrett the faults of the paternal ſeed; for otherwiſe . diſeaſwould becom hereditarie, and goutie perſons would neceſſarily generategoutie; for the ſeed followeth the temper and complexion of the partie generateing, as it is ſhewed by avicen. another primitive cauſis frominordinate diet,eſpecially in the uſe of meat,drink, lib. fuzz. exerciſe and venerie. laſtly, by unprofitable humors which are generated and heaped up ****** in the bodie, which in proceſs of time acquire a virulent malignitie; for theſe fill the head *:::::::: with vapors raiſed up from them, whence themembranes, nervs and tendons, and conſe- j" “quently theſointsbecommore lax and weak. they offend in feeding who eat much meat, and that of ſundriekindes at the ſame meal, who drink ſtrong wine without anie mixture, whoſleep reſently aftermeat, and which uſe not moderateexerciſes; for hence a plenitude, an ... of the veſſels, cruditites, and the encreaſ of excrements, eſpecially ſerous. which if they flow down unto the joints, without doubt they cauſ this diſeaſ; for the joints are weak either by nature or accident in compariſon of the other parts of thebodie: y nature, as if they be looſ: ſoft from their firſt original:by accident, as by a blow, fall,hard travelling, .# in the ſun by day, in the cold by night; racking, too frequent venerie, eſpecially ſuddenly aftermeat; for thus the heat is diſſolved by reaſon of the diſſipation of the ſpirits cauſed in the effuſion of ſeed, whence manie crude humors, which by an unſea- ſonable motion are ſent into the finews and joints. through this occaſion old men, becauſ, their native heat is the more weak, are commonly troubled with the gout. beſides alſo the ſuppreſſion of excrements accuſtomed to beeavoided at certain times, as the courſes, hemor- pb. .stä. . hoids, vomit, ſcouring, cauſeth this diſeaſ. hence it is, that in the opinion of hippocrates, a woman is not troubled with the gout, unleſs her courſes failher. they are in the ſame caſe who have old and runing ulcers ſuddenly healed, or varices cut and healed, unleſs by a ſtriæ courſofdiet they hinder the generation and encreaſof accuſtomed excrements .alſo thoſe which recover of great and long diſeaſes, unleſs they bee fully and perfectly purged, either by nature or art,theſe humorsfalling into the joints,wº are the reliques of the diſeaſ, the antecº- make them to becom goutie : and thus much for the primitivecauſ. the internal or antece- dent cauſof dent cauſis, the abundance of humors, the largeneſs of the veſſels and paſſages which run the gºut to the joints, the ſtrength of theamandatingbowels, the looſneſs, ſoftneſs and imbecilitie the conjuna, ofthe receivingjonits. the conjun't cauſis the bumor it ſelf impact and ſhut up in the capacities and cavities of theſoints. now the unprofitable humor, on everie fide ſent down by the ſtrength of the expulfive facultie, ſooney linger's about the joints, for that they are of a cold nature and denſ, ſo that once impact in that place, it cannot bee eaſily digeſted and five cauſes of reſolved. this humor then cauſeth pain by reaſon of diſtention or ſolution of continuitie, the pain of the diſtemper, and beſides the virulencie and malignitie which it acquire's. but it ſavor's of gout. the nature ſomtimes of one, ſomtimes of more humors; whence the gout is either phle- gº?nºus; or eryſipilatous, edematous, or mix't. the concourſ of flatulencies, together with the flowing down humors, and as it were tumult by the hinderance of tranſpiration, encreaſºth the dolorifick diſtention in the membranes, tendons, ligaments and other bodies wherein the joint confifts. - chap. w. º out of what part the matter of the gout mayflow down upon the joints. §:.." he matºr of the goutcometh for the moſt part fom the liver, or brain; that which the gout.com's deſcend's from the brain is phlegmatick, ſerous, thin and clear, ſuch as uſually drop's joºn from the out of the noſe, endued with amalign and venenate qualitie. now it paſſeth out by the brain. - muſcu- lib. . - concerning the gout. - º muſculous skin and pericranium, as alſo through that large hole by which the ſpinal mar- row, the brain's ſubſtitute, is propagated into the ſpine, by the coats and tendons of the nervs into the ſpaces of the joints, and it is commonly cold. that which proceed's from the liver is diffuſed by the great vein and arteries filled and puffed up, and participate's of the nature of the four humors, of which the maſs of the blood conſiſt's, more frequentl accompanied with an hot diſemper, together with a goutie malignitie. beſides this manner goutby con- of the gout, which is cauſed by defluxion,there is another which is by congeſtion; as,when gººn. the too weak digeſtive facultie of the joints cannotaſſimilate the juices ſent to them. . * - - - , * : * > . . . . -- - - - - *** 'º - . c h.a. p. v. - - l . . the ſigns of the arthritick humor flowing from the brain. . . . mºſº hen the defluxion is at hand, there is an heavineſs of the head, a deſire to reſt, " " ' ". ºft and a dulneſs with the pain of the outer parts, then chiefly...” when º sº the hairs are turned up, orbackwards; moreover, the muſculous skin of the tº head is puffed up as ſwoln with a certain oedematous tumor; the patients ſeem to beenuch different from themſelvsby reaſon of the funètions of the minde hurt by thema- lignitie of the humor, from whence the natural faculties are not frce; as the crudities of the ſtomach, and the frequent and acridbelchings may teſtifie. * c h a p. vi. ; : . . . ." the ſigns ºfagoutie humor, proceeding from the liver. . . . . he right hypocondrie is hot in ſuch goutie perſons, yea the inner parts are when the §§§ much heated by the bowel; blood and choler carrie the ſway, the veins are gout, which ... } large and ſwoln, a defluxion ſuddenly fall's down, eſpecially if there bee a #. ... greater quantitie of choler then of other humors in the maſs of the blood. ...:i. but if, as it often fall's out, the whole blood, by means of crudities degene-ji.' " rate into phlegm and awhayiſh humor; then will it com to paſs, that the gout alſo,which atº's the nº- proceed's from the liver, maybee pituitous or phlegmatick, and participate of the nature of ture of an ânizdema, like that which proceed's from the brain. as if the ſame maſs of blood decline adema. towards melancholie, the gout which thence ariſeth, reſembles the nature of a ſtirrhus; yet why the gout that can ſcarce happen, that melancholie by reaſon of the thickneſs and ſlowneſs to motion ſeldom pro- may fall upon the joints. yet notwithſtanding, becauſe wee ſpeak of that which may becº's from of theſe, it will not beeunprofitable briefly to diſtinguiſh the ſº ofeach humor, and the melancholie. differences of gouts to beededuced from thence. chap. vii. by what ſigns wee may underſtand this or that bumor to accompanie the goutie malignitie. raſº ou may give a gueſs hereat by the patient's age, temper, ſeaſon of theyear, nº. | .# of É. countrie º: i: live's, # diet . condition of #. the º increaſof the pain in the morning, noon, evening or night, by the proprietie - tº of the beating, pricking, ſharp or dull pain; by numneſs, as in a melancholic - ºn goutor itching; as in that which is cauſed by tough phlegm, by the ſenſible - appearance of the partin ſhape and color (as for exampleſake in a phlegmatick gout, the j. of the affetted part is verie little changed from its ſelf and the neighboringwell parts, in a ſanguine gout it look's red, in a cholerick it is fierie or pale, in a melancholie livid or blackiſh) by the heat and bigneſs which is greater in a ſanguine and phlegmatick then in the reſt, by the change: and laſtly, by things helping and hurting. and there beeſom, who for the knowledg of theſe differences, wiſh us to view the patient's urine, and feel their - - ulſ, and confider theſe excrements, which in each particular nature are accuſtomed to a- §: or flow, and are now ſuddenly and unaccuſtomarily ſuppreſt. for hence may bee taken the ſigns of the dominion of this or that humor. but amore ample ſº of theſe things may bee drawn from the humors predominant in each perſon, and the figns of tumors formerly delivered. onely this is to bee noted by the way, that the gout which is cataſſed by melancholie, is rare to bee found. q_q chap. wo concerning the gout. lis. . chap. viii. prognoſtick in the gout. gºy the writeings of phyſicians the pains of the goutare accounted amongſt the § moſt grievous and acute; ſo that through vehemencie of pain manie are almoſt | mad, ..". themſelvs dead. they have certain periods and fits, according º to the matter and condition of the humor wherin this malign and inexplica- - ble goutie virulencie reſide's. yet they more . invade in the spring the goutfre- and autumn; ſuch as have it hereditarie are ſcarce ever throughly free therfrom, as neither $ºints, ſuch as have it knottie: for in the former it was born with them, and implanted, and as it tººl were fixed in the original of life; but in the other, the matterisbecom after-like, ſo that uncºrestle, it can neitherbee . nor ripened. that which proceeds from a cold and pituitous mat- ter, cauſeth not ſuch cruel tormenting pain, as that which is of an hot, ſanguine or chole- id: cauſ, neither is it ſo ſpeedily healed, for that the hot and thin matter is more readily diſſolved; therfore commonly it ceaſerh not until fortie daies beepaſt: befides alſo, by how much the ſubſtance of the affetted part is more denſ, and the expulſive facultie more weak, by ſo much the pain is more tedious. hence it is, that thoſe goutie pains which moleſt the knee, heel and huckle-bone, are more contumacious the gout which proceeds of an hot "ºº" matter, reſt's not before the fourteenth or twentieth daie. that which is occaſioned by a- * crid choler, by the bitterneſtofthe inflammation and pain cauſtha difficulticoſ brºth- ing, raveing, and ſundrie times a gangrene of the affetted part, and laſtly death; and healed, why the sci- it often leav's a palfie behinde it. amongſt all the goutie pains, the §. challengeth tica cauſeth the prime place, by the greatneſs of the pain and multitude of ſymptoms; it bring's un- * quietneſs and watching, a fever,diſlocation, perpetual lameneſs, and the decaie ofthe whole leg, yea and often-times of the whole bodie. now lameneſs and leanneſs, or decaie of the part are thus occaſioned, for that the decurrent humor forceth the head of the thigh-bone out of the cavitie of the huckle-bone; this beeing forced out preſſeth the muſcles, veins, ar- , . teries, and that notable and large nerv which run's along the thigh, even to the furtheſt joints of the toes, and by the waie is diverſly diſperſed over the muſcles of the whole leg: therfore becauſthe head of the thigh is put out of its place, the patient is forced to halt; becauſthe veſſels and nervs are oppreſſed, the nouriſhment and ſpirits do not freely flow into the parts ther-under, whence proceeds their decaie. yet itſundrie times happen's, that the head of the thigh beeing not diſplaced, manie halt becauſthe viſcid humor, which is naturally implanted in that place, and continually flow's thither, both for the nutri- . . . . , tion of theſe parts, and the lubrication of the joint for quicker motion, is hardened by heat and idleneſs, and the other unprofitable humors which flow down do there concrete, and ſo intercept the libertie of motion. a groſs and viſcid humor into what jointſoever it falleth and ſtaieth, doth the ſame. for by concretion it turn's into a plaſter-like nature at or near the joint, poſſeſſing the cavities therof, and it depraveth the figure of the part, makeing it crooked and knotted, which formerly was ſtraight and ſmooth. furthermore, everie diſemperature cauſed by the defluxion of humors; if it ſhall lie long upon anie art, deprave's all the aëions, and oft-times wholly aboliſheth them; ſo that there may thee cauſes three cauſes of the leanneſs or decaie of the joint by the gout, the obſtrućtion or com" ****... preſſion of the veſſels, idleneſs and an he&tick diſemper; but two of lameneſs, diſlocati- †. ºn and the concretion of an adventitious humor impačt in the joint. if contrarie to cu, * ſtom and reaſon the pains of the gout do not go away, or return at their accuſtomed periods, moſt grievous and dangerous diſeaſes theron follow ; for the matter accuſtomed to flow down into the joints, if it ſeizupon the ſubſtance of the liver, cauſe's a phlegmon; if it ſtaie in the larger veins, a continual fever: if it flow in the membrane inveſting the ribs, a plurifie; if it betake it ſelf to the guts, and adhere to their coats, the colicks or ilia a paſſio and to conclude, it produceth divers other ſymptoms, according to the di- verſitie of the parts whereto it flow's and abide’s. for thus ſundrie that have been trou- how the gout bled with the gout, becom paralytick, becauſthe matter, which formerly flowed down ºrn” into the into the joints, ſtaie's in the ſubſtance and pores of the nervs, and ſo hinder's the ſpirit palſie. that it cannot freely in its whole ſubſtance paſs through them: hence therfore com's the reſolution of the part , whereinto the nerv is inſerted. qld men can neverbee quite or abſolutely cured of the gout, for that the maſs of their blood is ſo departed from its primarie and native goodneſs, that it can no more bee reſtored, then dead or ſowned wine. the gout, which proceed's from a cold cauſ, invadeth ſlowly, and by little and little, and is helped by the uſe of hot things; that which is from an hot matter,guickly wºº" ſhew's itſelf, and is helped by the uſe of cold things. now, although the gout more fré. :je quently return's in the spring and fall,yet it com’s in the midſt of winter, the nervsbeeing ... weakned by the exceſs of cold, and the humors preſſed out; otherwhiles in the midſt of incſ, summer,the ſame beeing diffuſed and diſſipated. laſtly, it com’s at anie time or ſeaſon of the year, if thoſe who are ſubject to this diſeaſ feed plenteouſly, and do all things accord- ing - - lººs. - whoſe cure is perfºrmed by surgerie. ing to their own mindes and deſire. thoſe who are troubled with the gout, feel and per- ceiv change of weather, ſtorms, rains, ſhows, windes, and ſuch like, before they com. a southerlie conſtitution of the air, for example, fill's the bodie with humidities, and ſtir's up the humors that lie quiet in the bodie; and therefore cauſdefluxions upon the weaker parts, ſuch as the joints, both by nature, as beeing without blood and fleſh, as alſo by accident, for that they along time have been accuſtomed to bee ſo tormented ; therefore their pains are increaſed in a wet ſeaſon. manie of theſe that are troubled with the gout, deſire ve- why ſuch as nerie in the bitterneſs of their pain, becauſthe internal heat wherewith they then are in- have the gout flamed, doth not diſſipate into ſpirits and air, as the feveriſh heat doth, but diſſolv's, and upon them, do as it were melt's down the ſeminal humor, which diſſolved, flow's to the genitals, filleth ºft-times de- and diſtend's them. the ſame thing befall's carriage and running horſes, for in theſe by fire venerie. labor, much heat ſend's flatulencies to the bottom of the bellie. yet venerie is verie hurtful veneric hurt- to ſuch as are troubled with the gout, becauſit diſſipate's the ſpirits and native heat, and ful in the . . encreaſeth the unnatural heat; whereby it comethp paſs, that the nervous parts are weak- ". . . . ned, and the pain exaſperated. richmen, that is, ſtich as feed riotouſly on varietie of dain- - ties, and in the meanſpace live idlely and lazily are more frequently and cruelly tormented with the gout then poor people, who live ſpareingly and hardly:wherefore there have been ſeen not a few of ſuch rich and riotous perſons, who haveing ſpent their eſtates, have there- with changed their health, together with their fortune and diet, and ſo have been wholly freed from the gout. - - ** * , , -- * - * chap. ix. the general method of preventing and curting the gout. - hoſe who deſireto prevent the gout,muſt not glut themſelvs with meat,muſt bee quick to labor,and abſtain from wine & venerie, or certainly muſt not uſe them, ºf unleſsfor their healths ſake, muſt vomit and purge at certain times. hippocrate: * °ſ” ºsº write's,that boies are not troubled with the goutbefore the uſe of venerie, yet at this day manie eunuchs are ſeen to have the gout,but eſpecially thoſe who abound with * > idleneſs and pleaſure; yet theſe wee have heretoforementioned are verie effe&ual, notonely for the prevention,but alſo for the cure of the preſent diſeaſ. yetweenuſt diligently diſtin- guiſh the cauſes,what they bee,and whence they may proceed, and oppoſe thereto remedies contrarie in quantitie and qualitie.there are abſolutely three diſtinét cauſes of the gout:a tainture from the parents; a corruption of the humorsby diet and air; a native,or adventi- tious weakneſs of the joints. againſt theſe there is a two-fold indication: the firſt is the eva-two general cuation and alteration of the peccanthumors,the other the ſtrengthning of the weak joints, . % cure- theſe two ſhallbee performed by diet conveniently appointed, purgeing, blood-letting,"*** provocation of the hemorrhoids, courſes, vomit, ſweat, urine, and fit application of local medicines. therefore, when the time ſhall com, wherein the gout accuſtometh to return by courſ, the patient ſhall have a care of himſelf by a diligent manner of diet, hee ſhall leſſen the matter of the diſeaſ by phlebotomie (if that the gout ſhall ariſe from the blood) from whence blood the oppoſite part, that by the ſame means revulſion and evacuation may bee made; as muſt bee let in if the upper parts bee inflamed, blood ſhallbee drawn from the lower; if on the contrarie “qout. the lower, out of the upper, alwaies obſerving the ſtraightneſs of the fibres. thus the right armbecing troubled with a goutie inflammation, the sapheia of the right leg ſhallbee open- ed, and ſo on the contrarie; but if this general blood-letting beeing premiſed, the pain ſhall not ceaſ, it willbee requiſite to open the vein next to the pain, which i have often per- formed with happie ſucceſs. yet phlebotomie hath not the like effett in all, for it is not available to ſuch as are con-what goutie tinually and uncertainly troubled with goutie pains, or whoſe bodies are weak and cold, pºmº. wherein phlegmonely is predominant. wee may ſay the ſame of purgeing, for though it *:: by bee oft-times neceſſarie, yet too frequently re-iterated it prove's hurtful; furthermore nei-" ther of theſe remedies is uſually verie profitable to ſuch as obſerv no order in meat & drink, which uſe venerie too intemperately, who abound with crude and contumacious humors; whoſe joints by long vexation of the diſeaſ,have contraćted an he&ick diſtemper and weak- neſs, ſo that they are departed from their natural conſtitution, and ſuffered a great change of their properſubſtance. wherefore as often as theſe greater remedies ſhallbee uſed a phy- in what sout fician ſhallbee called who according to hisjudgment may determine thereof. foroſt-times . fää. diet proveth more available then medicines: therefore the patient(if the matter of the gout : u: bee hot) ſhall either drink no wine at all, or elſ verie much allaied, that is, as much as his cines. suſtom and the conſtitution of his ſtomach can endure. a fit time for purgeing and bleeding is the spring and autumn, becauſ, according to the opinion of hippocra- phy; ſtá. . tes, gouts reign chiefly in theſe ſeaſon ; in autumn, for that the heat of the pre- cedent summer debilitateth the digeſtive facultie, the native heat beeing diſſipated : as alſo the eating of summer-fruits hath heaped up plentie of crude humors in the q_q a bodie, . concerning the gout. lib. . bodie, which eafily flow down into the paſſages of the joints opened and dilated by the summer's heat: add heerunto, that the inequalitic or variableneſs of autumn weakneth all nervous parts, and conſequently the joints. but in the spring, for that the humors forced inward, by the coldneſs of the winter, are drawn forth from the centre to the circumfe- rence of the bodie, and bering attenuated, fall into the joints upon a verie ſmall occaſion, therfore theer is great both neceſſitie and opportunitie for evacuation, which if itſhall not avert the accuſtomed fit, yet it will make it more gentle and eaſie. , -- ... . . , chap. x. . . . . . of vomiting. to "hºgou: rºžomiting is by all the antients exceedingly commended, notonely for the pre- .**** nº º vention, but alſo for the cutº, eſpecially when as the matterfloweth from the ce uſed. Ş zºº brain and ſtomach; for the phlegmatick, ſerous and cholerick humors; which bºžº uſually flow from the joints, are excluded and diverted by vomit, and alſo theer is attenuation of that phlegm, which beeing more thick and viſcid, adhereth to the roots of the ſtomach: yet you muſt conſider and ſee, that the patientbee not of too weak a ſto- - mach and brain, for in this caſe vomiting is to bee ſuſpeãed. for the time, ſuch as have º: . * excrementitious humors flowing down to the ſtomach through anie occaſion, as by exer- º “ ciſe andmotion, muſt vomit before they eat; on the contrarie,ſuch as are over-charged with - an old congeſtion of humors, muſt vomit after they have eaten ſomthing, certainly, it is ſafer vomiting after meat, then it is before. for the drie ſtomach cannot, unleſs with great contention and ſtraining, free it ſelf from the viſcid humors impačt in the coats thereof; and hence there is no ſmall danger of breaking a vein or arterie in the cheſt or lungs, eſpe- cially if the patient bee ſtraight-cheſted, and long-necked, the ſeaſon cold, and hee unaccu- ſtomed to ſuch evacuation. i remember that with this kinde of remedie i cured a certain gentleman of geneva, grievouſly moleſted with a cruel pain in his ſhoulder, and therby im- potent to uſe his left arm; the É. and surgeone of lions ſeemed to omit nothing elſ for his cure. for they had uſed purgeing, phlebotomie, hunger, a diet-drink of gudia. cum and china (although his diſeaſwas not occaſioned by the lues venerea) and diverſ o- ther topick medicines, neither yet did they anie thing avail. now learning by him that hee was not apt to vomit, but that it was difficult to him, i wiſhed him to feed more how to make plentifully, ifthat of manie and fundrie meats; as fat meat, onions, leeks: with ſundrie i. “ drinks; as beer, ptiſan, ſweet and ſharp wine, and that hee ſhould as it were over-charge - his ſtomach at his meal, and preſently after get him to his bed; for ſo it would happº, that nature not endureing ſo great confuſion and perturbation of meats and drinks, wherof ſon weer corrupted alreadie in the ſtomach, and other-ſom ſcarce altered at all, nature not endureing this confuſion and perturbation, would eaſily, and of its own accord provoke the ſtomach to vomit'; which that it might the beteer ſucceed, hee ſhould help forward na- ture's endeavor, by thruſting his finger or a feather into his throat, that ſo the thick and tenacious phlegmmight by the ſame means bee evacuated; and not content to do thus once, i wiſhed him to do the like the ſecond and thirddaie following; for ſoit verifieth that ſay: libérativi. ing of hippocrates, the ſecond and third daie exclude the reliques of the firſt: afterwards, that hee Čtis. ſhould vomit twice a month, chaw maſtick faſting, rub his neck and the pained part with aqua vite, ſtrengthened by infuſing therin lavander, roſemarie, and cloves groſly beaten, confirm his arm by indifferent exerciſe: hee performed all this, and ſo became free from his pain, and recovered the uſe of hisarm. thoſe who do not like ſuch plentiful feeding, ſhall drink a great quantitie of warm water, wherin radiſh roots have been boiled, and they ſhall have a care leaſt by uſing their ſtomachs to this excretion by vomit, they weaken the digeſtive and retentive facultietherof. wherfore ſuch as can naturally, ſhall think it ſufficient to vomit twice a month. an hiſtorie. chap. xi. - the other general remedies for the gout. . . . ** he defluxion of ſerous humors is verie fitly diverted from the joints by the urine º: diure- º' by the uſe of diuretick medicines. therfore the roots of ſorrel, parſlie, ruſu, i. ... º º affaragus, and graſs, and the like, ſhall bee boiled in broth, and given to ſuch as # ; have the gout: for when the urine floweth much and thick, the pain is leſſ- iſſues or fon- ned. manie have found benefit by iſſues; for the arthritick malignitie flow's tanels. forth of theſe, as by rivelets; experience ſhew's it in ſuch as are troubled with the lues ve- nerea, for in thoſe that you cannot overcom the malignitie by the proper antidote, that is, quick-filver,they feel no greater eaſof the pain, then by application of cauſticks,and make- ing of iſſues.they ſhall bee made in ſundrie places,according to the difference of the pained - - - joints, lººs. whoſe cure is performed by surgerie. joints, to wit, in the beginning of the neck; if the defluxion proceed from the brain, and where to bee fall into the joints of the collar-bones or ſhoulder; if into the elbow or hand, under the made. muſcle epomi, ; if into the hip, knees and feet, ſom three fingers breadth under the knee, on the in-ſide: for thus theer will follow more plentiful evacuation, by reaſon that the sapheia runneth down that way. yet if the patientbee troubled with much buſineſs, and muſt tra-anaëual vel much on horſ-back, then ſhall they bee made on the out-ſide of the leg.between the two “” bones thereof, that ſo they may trouble him the leſs in rideing. if anie had rather uſe an a- &tual cauterie, let him take ſuch an one as is triangular and ſharp, that ſo hee may with more ſpeed and leſs pain perform that which hee intends, and let him thruſt it through a plate of iron which hathan hole therein, and let the place beemarked,leaſt hee ſhould err; the ulcer ſhall bee kept open, by putting in a pill of gold, filver, lint, of the root of orris, hermodaćtiſes, gentian, wax, wherwith ſom powder of vitriol, mercurie or alum ſhall bee incorporated, leaſt it ſhould fill up with fleſh ſooner then the phyſician ſhall think fit. in the mean ſpace, the head, oft-times the original of the evil, ſhall bee evacuated by takeing in the winter the pils cochie, and de aſſajereth; but in ſummer fine quibus, or imperiales, be-pils. fore the full of the moon. r.pulhyere ſimp. i. agar recent. troch. & rhei an. ii. myrobal. che- bul. ſ?. tamarind. ii, cum infuſione ſene, fiat maſſa de quá formentur pill.vi. pro drachmā; let the patient take two before ſupper everie eighth daie; the daie after hee ſhall drink ſombroth of the decočtion of cicers, and the diuretick roots. alſo theſe following pils will bee good to purge the phlegmatick and ſerous humor. r.pillular. frtid. & de hermodačiilan. ſ. formentur cum ſucco vel ſyrup.roſar.ſolut. orelſ, r.aloes iii, agarici trochiſ. & rhei, anxi. maſſe pilular- thrit, & de hermodaći.am. ii, diacrid, ... cum melle roſato fiat maſſa, capiat pondus, i. as the phyſi- cian ſhall think fit, by whoſe advice theſe ſhallbee uſed and changed as occaſion ſhall offer itſelf, and the nature of the humor cauſing the diſeaſ. the day after the purgeing, the pa- tient ſhall take three hours before meat half a dram of treacle, to ſtrengthen the entrails: s. fils pils are preferred before liquid medicines, for that by their long ſtaie in the ſtomach they . . eaſily attraët the noxious humor from the brain, and the othermore diſtant parts. i have. known ſom phyſicians, who mixing with ordinarie pils a good quantitie of ſcamonie, as treacle,how ſeven or eight grains, with a little ginger, leaſt it ſhould hurt the ſtomach, have purged by uſeful in the Ítool a great quantitie of ſerous humors; the daie following they gave barlie cream to cor-gout. reët the harm which the ſcamonie may have don to the ſtomach. others for the ſame pur- oſe give treacle, which doth not onely ſtrengthen the entrails, but alſo weaken's the viru- cephalick fu: É. of the goutie malignitie; the orifice of the ventricle muſt bee ſhut after meat, that ſo migations. the vapors aſcending to the brain may bee reſtrained: for this purpoſe common drige-pow- der, marmelate, or conſerv of roſes are good. in a wet ſeaſon uſe cephalick perfumes thus - made : r.thuri, verniciº, maſtich, an i.granorum juniperi, baccarum lauri, an ſ. ligni aloés ii. aſſe odorate i.ſ . let them bee groſly beaten; let the fume bee received in tow, or card- w ed cotton, and ſo applied to the head. alſo the excrementitious humors ſhall bee dried - up by the following powderſtrowed on the patient's head for fifteen daies. r.fol. roſ. rub. ſene, ſtechad. utriuſque animſ. milii, iiii. furfuriº loti in vino albo, iii.forum chamam..melilan. p.i.ſemaniſ, i. ſali, comáii.fiat omnium pulvi. let it bee put into linnenbags,with which, sephalick being warmed at the fire in a frying-pan, and kept with ſtirring, the head ſhall bec rub” bed. let the following medicine beechawed, and kept in themouth in the form of a ma- ſticatorie, in the time of the falling down of the defluxion. r. cubelarum, nuci moſhat. a maſticato- glycyrrhizaniſan. i. pyrethri, ii, maſtichrad. ſtaphiſagr. eryngii, an: ii. let them all bee made tie. - into powder, and mixed together, and tied up in a little taffatie to the bigneſs of a ha- ſel-nut, and let them bee rowled up and down the mouth with the tongue to cauſ ſpit- ting or ſalivation. working with the hands, and frićtions of the arms, eſpecially in the morning after the evacuation of the excrements, are good for ſuch as are troubled with the gout in the feet, for ſo, it not onely cauſſeth revulſion from the feet, but alſo the re- ſolution of that which is unprofitable. -chap. xii. what diet is convenient for ſuch as have the gout. §§ºfter the bodie is once fed, they muſt not return to meat before that the conco&ion . . tº § bee perfeóted in the ſtomach, leaſt the liverbee forced to draw by the meſaraick . . . . ." § veins that which is yet crude and ill digeſted, and as it were forced thence. • * *** whence the depravation of the nutriment of the whole bodie; for the following the full of decoètions doe not amend the default of the firſt. let them make choice of meat of hiſ on: good juice and eaſie digeſtion, roſted for ſuch as are phlegmatick, but boiled for ſuch codiºn, is not as are cholerick: as they ſhall ſhun much varietie one meal, ſo muſt they echue the uſe of mººd in a pulſes, milk-meats, ſallads, and ſharp things; as verjuice, vineger, the juiceoforanges, and * after. citrons.they ſhal not eat unleſs they bee hungrie,& ſhall deſiſt ther-from before they beeful- ly ſatisfied;ifitbee but for this, that whil'ſt the native heatisbufied in the digeſtion of meat q q plenteouſly . concerning the gout. lib. . plenteouſly eaten, it is diverted from the conco&ion of the noxious humors. the fleſh of great fowl, as ſwans, cranes, peacocks are not of laudable juice, and are with more difficul- sºons ſub- tie digeſted in the ſtomach. som of the ancients have diſallowed of the eating of capons,and **** the likebirds, becauſthey are ſubjećt to bee troubled with the gout in the feet. fiſhes are gout. to bee ſhunned, for that they heap up excrementitious humors, and are eaſily corrupted in the ſtomach, yeaznd relaxit by continual uſe. of the fleſh of beaſts,veal is moſt to bee com- mended, for that it breed's temperate blood, and laudablejuice, and is eaſily digeſted. nei- ther in the mean time is mutton to bee found fault withall. but the like hunger or abſti- nence muſt not bee appointed to all men troubled with the gout, for ſuch as are of a ſan- sholerick per-guine and cholerick complexion, becauſthey are endued with much, and much waſteing ſons cannot a-heat, are to bee refreſhed with more plentiful nouriſhment; for hunger ſharpen's choler,and § *long ſo augment's their pains; neither in the interim muſt they beefed with too much moiſt meats, alting. for too much moiſture, beſides that it is the autor of putrefaëtion, will cauſdefluxions,and draw down the matter to the joints. therefore the cholerick humor muſt bee incraſſated and refrigerated by takeing things inwardly, and applying things outwardly, leaſt by its tenuitie it ſhould fall down into the grieved parts. to this purpoſe conduce broths altered with lettuce, purſlain, ſorel, and the like herbs, and barlie creams made with a decočtion of phlegmatick the four cold ſeeds, phlegmatick bodies, by reaſon that they have not ſo vigorous heat, do bodies in faſt- as it were carrie their provant about them, wherefore they muſt not beefed, neither with *gº upon manie, nor with moiſt meats. all that are troubled with the gout, muſt ſhun thoſe things * which are hard ofdigeſtion, and which are ſoon corrupted, for they all have a certain re- miſs fever, which diminiſheth the native heat, and make's the meats apt to putrefie. too p. drinking not onely of wine, but alſo of anie other liquor, is to bee avoided. for y too great a quantitie of moiſture the meat float's in the ſtomach, and the native heat is . . . in ſom ſort extinguiſhed, whence proceed crudities. som phyſicians commend the uſe of "º wine white wine, for that it provoke's urine, which is not altogether to bee diſallowed, if ſobee º: :. * that the bodie beefree from excrements, otherwiſe by this, as it were a vehicle, eſpecially if gout. the temperature of the bodie bee ſomwhat more hot, they ſhall bee carried down into the claret may joints. therefore in ſuch a caſe i ſhould rather adviſe them to uſe claret, which is ſomwhat bee the fifelier weak and aſtringent, for that it doth not ſo much offend the head norjoints, and it ſhut's drunk. and ſtrengthen's the orifices of the veſſels. yet it will beenore convenient wholly to ab- hydromet moſt ſtain therefrom, and inſtead thereof to drinkan hydromel made after this manner: raque ſafely. fb iiii. melli, opt q.i. bulliant ad conſumptionem fö.i. bene diffumando, addead finem, ſalvie p.i. imb fieger ſit pituitoſus, cinnamomi autºcaryophillorum momentum. for cholerick perſons make a ſu- an hydrºſac- gred water thus: raque fonti, fb.iiii.ſaccari ſhſ}.colentur per manicam fine ebullitione, addendo $# %, in fine cinnamomi ii. for thus the ſtomach ſhall alſo bee ſtrengthened; alſo hee may drink ptiſan, wherein at the end of the decočtion ſhall bee boiled ſom dried roſes, or elſ fom ſyrup of pomegranates added thereto, leaſt it ſhould offend the ſtomach; as ſoon as it come's from off the fire, let it ſtand and ſettle, and then ſtrain it through an hypocras-bag, or cleanlin- nen cloth. chap. xiil. how to ſtrengthen the joints. t is a matter of much conſequence for the prevention of this evil, to ſtrengthen the joints, whereby they jº able to reſiſt the humors preternaturally falling down upon them. wherfore it is good morning and evening to rub them with oleum omphacinum, that is, oil made of olives not com to their perfeół maturitie; or with oil of roſes mixed with common ſalt finely powdered. it may alſo bee mixed with common oil, adding thereto the powder of hart's-horn, as that which hath an aſtringent a fomentati- and drying facultie. alſo it is good to bathe them in this following lee: r. cort.granatinucum \ ºn to firchg- (hpreſgallarum, ſumach.cortic querni, an ii. ſali, comalumin, roch. an: i ſalvie, roriſmar. lavendul. then the lauri, ive arthretic.anmi, roſar.ſubmſ, bulliant omnia in ſex b.vini craft & aftringentis, & lixi- joints. tio parato ex aquà chalibeatá, & cinere querno. then foment the part with ſponges or cotton- cloths; after,this fomentation ſhall bee carefully wiped and dried with hot linnen cloths, the juice of takeing heed of cold. the juice of unripe haws tempered with oxycrate is a fingular thing haws with for this purpoſe. but if you deſire to ſtrengthen the joints weakned by a cold cauſ, then, xycrate. rºſalvie, roriſm, thymi, lavendul. laur, abſinth. anmi. caryophylzinzib piperiº, conquaſatorum an: i infundantur in aquà vite & vini rubri aſtringentis, an.fb.iiii. bulliant leniter in balneo marie. with this liquor foment the joints morning and evening. som think it good to ſtrengthen the joints, to tread grapes in vintage-time, which if they bee notable to do, then let them bugs. waſh their feet in the muſt or new preſſed wine. alſo bags may bee thus made for the ſame purpoſe. r.ſali, comalum.roch.cort granatſumach.berberis, nucan chºreſh,an iiiifolſalvie, roriſm. rºſarrab.anim.ſ . let them bee all put in linnenbags, and boiled in lee, and ſo makeade- cočtion for to foment the joints. ... " ch a p. lib. . concerning the gout. - chap. xiv. of the palliative cure of the gout and the material cauſes thereof. eer alſo muſt wee conſider the cauſes whence this diſeaſ proceed's, the tem-theſiopact £) per of the diſeaſed bodie, the parts affeited, and thoſe from whence it pro-cutting * ceeds. for as theſe are notalwaies alike, ſo neither can one and the like re- mediebee uſeful ineverie gout. for firſt thoſe which proceed of acoldcauſ require other remedies, then thoſe which ariſe from a hot, and that which *t proceed's from anieone ſimple humor,then that fromwch ariſeth diverſ mix- cd together.for choler alone cauſeth cruel pains,but tempered by the admixture of phlegm, itbecom's more gentle. furthermore ſom remedies are good in the beginning, ſom in the encreaſ, and ſomat othertimes. neither may wee uſe repercuſſives in the sciatica, as wee may in the gout of the feet and other joints; unleſsperadventure the part beefearfully in- flamed. takeing theſe things to conſideration wee muſt obſerv that the palliative cure of repticuſſives that gout, which cannot abſolutely bee helped, as that which is hereditarie and inveterate, "ºº" is performed by four ſcopes. the firſtisby appointing a convenient diet in theſix things web #. : are termed not-natural. the ſecond by evacuateing & diverting the antecedent matter, both º : by purgeing and phlebotomie.the third by topick medicines according to the condition of by four ſcopes. the morbifick humor and nature.the fourth by correóting the ſymptoms, but eſpecially the pain, whereof in theſe affeds there is oft-times ſo greatexceſs by reaſon of the inexplicable and invincible malignitie of the virulent qualitie aſſociateing the humor that it alone is oft-times ſufficient to kill the patient. andbecauſthe varietie of morbifick cauſes, bring's a varietie of remedies, fitted to theſe four intentions, therefore it behoov's a phyſician to beemoſt attentive in the diſtinétion of the cauſes. for hee may bee eaſily deceived andmi- a. * flake one for anothers for arthritick pains proceeding from a cold matter, if they beemi-º. tigated by the application of narcotick and cold medicines, it may induceus to believ that helpeth ort- the material cauſ is hot, though really it beenotſo; for nº. aſſwage pain, not for veth eaſ, is not that they are contrarie to the cauſthereof, but becauſthey take away the ſºnſ by induceing ºwniesºta. a numneſs; on the contrarie, the material cauſ may ſomtimes ſeem cold, which notwith- º º ſtanding is hot, for that it becom's better by application of hot medicines, that is,by take- º, i. ing an argument from that which help's, becauſcontraries are cured by contraries, and the and hoºkyhoº like preſerved by the like. butherein confiſt's the error, for that hot medicines profit notby medicines. their contrarietie, but by the attenuation of the groſs matter, by the rarefaction of the skin t - and diſſipateing them into air. whence you may gather, that an argument drawn from . * that which helps and hurt's, is verie deceitful: moreover it may happen that a large quan-j ... titie of cold matter fiowing down from the brain, may cauſgreat pain by reaſon of the wi-an. - rulencie, and a ſmall quantitie of choler mixed therewith, which ſerv's for a vehicle to carrie down the tough and ſlow phlegm into thejoints, whence the patient becom's thirſtie and feveriſh by reaſon of the heat and inflammation of theſe parts, wherby ſuch as are leſs caute- lous and heedie will eaſily bee induced to beleew that ſom hot matter is the occaſion of this gout. now when as not ſom one ſimple humor but different by reaſon of mixture, cau- the ſecond. ſeth the gout, theyellowiſh color of the part may deceiv one, as, if the evil matter ſhould proceed from choler onely, which by the tenuitie of its ſubſtance leaving the center, eatily poſſeſſeth the circumference of the bodie or part: and notwithſtanding much phlegmbeeing as it were enraged by the admixtion of a little choler, maybee the chief cauſof the diſeaſend may peradventure bee diſcovered by the encreaſ of pain in the night ſeaſon. a fewer ariſcing the third. by means of pain and watching may encreaſ the conceived opinion of choler, which at- tenuateing and diffuſeing the humors, drive's them into the joints, and cauſeth fierieurines, tinétured with much choler, and a quick pulſ. yet notwithſtanding the phyſician ſhall the fourth. bee in an error, if deceived with theſe appearances,hee attempt the cure of this goutsas ariſe- ing from a hot, and not from a cold cauſ: yet i am not ignorant that the cure of the pro- per diſeaſmuſt bee negle&ted for the cure of the ſymptoms. beſides alſo it may com to paſs the fiſh. that choler may bee the cauſof the gout, aud notwithſtanding no ſigns thereof may appear in the skin and ſurface of the affected part, becauſ the coldneſs of the ambient air, and the force of applied narcoticks may have deſtroied the color of the juices lying therunder, and as it were imprinted a certain blackneſs. it alſo happen's, that the bodie beeing over-char-the gxth. ged with a great quantitie of groſs and viſcid humors, the expulſive facultie may diſcharge ſom portion thereof unto the joints, but leav the reſt impact in the cavitie of ſomentrail, where cauſing obſtrućtion and putrefaction may preſently cauſa fever, and that intermit- ting, if it bee ſmall, and obſtrućt onely the leſſer veins, and theſe of the habit of the bodie. . . wherfore then it is not ſufficient that the phyſician employ himſelf in the cure of the gout, but it behoov's him much more to attend the cure of the fever, which if itbee con- , , i. tinual, it diſcredit’s the phyſician, and endanger's the patient; if it bee intermitting,it eaſi- ºr ly becom's continual, unleſs it bee withſtood with fit remedies, that is, unleſs you tº letblood,the bellie beeing firſt gently purged, and nature bee preſently freedby aſtronger . yºurgº concerning the gout. lib. . why ſtrong " " of the troubleſom burden of humors. now it is convenient, the purge bee ſomwhat jºbs ſtronger then ordinarie, for if it ſhould bee toº weak, it will ſtir up the humors, but given to ſuch not carrie them away, and they thus agitated will fall into the pained and weak joints,and as have the cauſthe gout to encreaſ. by this it appear's how deceitful that conjećture is, which relie's gout. and is grounded on one ſign, as often as wee muſt pronounce judgment of morbifick cauſes. that judº. wherfore to conclude, weemuſt think that opinion moſt certain concerningthe matter of ment inofficer the diſeaſ, which is ſtrengthened with multiplicitie offigns, as thoſe which are drawn from tain which the color of the part, the heat or coldneſsmanifeſt to the touch, thoſe things that help and º: hurt, the patient's familiar and uſual diet, temper, age, region, ſeaſon of the yeer, propri- #" etie of pain, the exacerbation or exceſs thereof, in what daies, and in what hours of the daie, the length of theſe fits, the urine and other excrements coming from the patient's bodie. but for that not a few are in that hereſie, that they think that wee muſt neither purge nor why weemus letbloodin the gout, weee muſt heer convince that opinion. for ſeeing that phyſick is uſe purgeing the addition of that which want's, and the takeing of thoſe things that are ſuperfluous, and blººding and the gout is a diſeaſvhich hath its eſſence from the plentie of abounding humors, cer. ** tainly, without the evacuation of them by purgeing and bleeding, wee cannot hopetocure, either it, or the pain which accompanie's it. metrius, in his treatiſe of the gout write's, **śul; that it muſt bee cured by purgeing, uſed not onely in the declination, but alſo in the height ** * of the diſeaſ, which wee have found true by experience; and it is conſonant to this ſaying adº. . of hippocrates ; in pains wee muſt purge by the ſtool. beſides alſo, galen profeſſeth that in feół. . great inflammations, fevers and pains, hee knew no greater nor ſurer remedie then to let ziºde turper blood, even to the fainting of the patient. if thoſe which are in this caſe ſhall not becom ſ”ftime" better by purgeing and phlebotomie conveniently preſcribed, then it happen's by the means ofj gluttonie, and the like diſtemper. for hence abundance of crude humors are heaped up, which by thir contumacieyeeld themſelvs leſs obedient to medicines. there- fore ſuch goutie perſons as are intemperate and giv'n togluttonie and venerie, may hope for no health by uſe of medicines. c h a p. xv. t of local medicine, which may bee uſed to a cold gout. it is not ſafe ſº ittle do topick medicines avail, unleſs the bodie of the goutie patient ſhall bee to uſerepercuſ (& ſº urged from excrementitious humors;beſides alſo there is danger leaſt by the uſe fives in the w of repelling medicines, the virulencie of the humor may bee driv'n into theen- gourbefore trails, which thing hath been the cauſof ſudden death, to manie. now in the purgeing, firſt place wee will ſpeak of local medicines which are thought meet for a phle- atick juice, becauſthis is more frequent, then that which is from a hot cauſ. at the be- ining in everie gout, the sciatica excepted, wee muſt uſe aſtringent things which have a fa- cultie to binde or ſtrengthen the joints, *: to º: #. waſte the .#. º: - as, r. fol. ſahine m.ſ . mucum cupreff iii. aluminiſ roch. i-gum, tragacanthe iiii. mucagini; pſi- gº /ii º ::::::::ft. ;º. or, r. ſtercoris bubuli recenti, fb. i. melli, roſ. iiii. oleiroſ. & acetian. ii, bulliant ſimulparkm. fiat cataplaſma. orelſ, r. olei roſar. & myrtill an. ii. pulverif myrrheº aloes an i acacie iiſ;...incorporentur cum aquà gallarum coiarum, & fiat a diſcuſſi anguentum. som boil ſage, camomile and melilote flowers, wormwood and dane-wort, of j, each a handful in a ſufficient quantitie of vineger, then they put the grieved part into this decočtion beeing warm; and by frequent uſeing this medicine, it hath been found to repel and conſume the noxious humor, not onely cold, but alſo cholerick; and alſo to ſtreng- then the part. the freſh feces of olives laid to the part, aſſwage pain : dried oranges boil- one, partly a- ed in vineger, beaten and applied, do the ſame. or, r. medii corticis ulmiſtſ, caude equin. firing nºd ſtachad conſolid majoris, an. m.ſ .aluminis roch. thuris an. iii, farin. bordei v. lixivil com. quan- part; diſcuſ tum ſºftcit, fat cataplaſma ad formam pultis ſatis liquide. commonly then when as the part ſing. ſwelleth up, the pain is leſſned, for that the expullive facultie driveth the humor from the centerinto the circumference of the part, that is, from within outward; for in like ſort, fach as have the tooth-ache have leſs pain when their cheeks begin to ſwell. after repercuſſives, wee muſt com to thoſe which evacuate the conteined humor by evacu- ateing or reſolving it. for everie defluxion of humors remaining in anie part require's eva- cuation. neither muſt wee marvel thereat, if the digeſted humor doth not vaniſh at the firſt time; forwee muſt have regard to the cold phlegm which is thick and viſcid, as alſo of the part which is ligamentous, membranous and nervous, and conſequently more denſ then why the gou- fleſhie parts. r. rad. bryon.ſgi/; beat. marie...an. iv. bulliant in lixivia, poſtca terantur, & colen- ric humor:oth turper fetaceum, addendo farin. bordei & fabarum an i. olei chamem. iii.fiat cataplaſma. or, r. not preſently hordei & lupin, ag. šiii. ſulphuri, vivi & ſali, com.an. i. melli, com: v. pul aloes & myrrhean. ſ. yººn the aq. vit. i, cum lixivio flat cataplaſma. or, r. ſucci calium rub. aceti boni, an:#iiii.farin. bordei uſe of reper- iſ pul. hermodačiyl. ſ. viteſ, ovorum nu. iii. olei chamem iii., croci bii, ſom burn the roots .. dig and ſtalks of coleworts,and mix the aſhes with hog's greaſ and the powder of orris, and ſo rufſes lib. . concerning the gout. - - - - - - -- } ſo make a pultis. or, r. latiis vaccini ibii, mice paniº albi quantum jafficit, bulliant ſimul, ad- a cataplaſm dendo pulveritſubtili, florum chamem. *melilotian. m.ſ.. croci sivitelº ovorum nu; iiii.ol. roſ. ... anie iii, butyri recentis i. terebinth. #ii, fiat cataplaſma ad formam paltis .ſatif liquide. this cata- º plaſm may be applied withgoodſucceſs, not onely to phlegmatick and cold, but alſo to time, aniegout, at anie time to mitigate the extremitieofthe pain in men of anie temper, and it ºr muſt beechanged twice orthrice a dale. alſo triacle diſſolved in wine, and anointed on . . the part, is ſaid to affwage this pain. you may for the ſame purpoſe make and applie em- plaſterrs, unguents, cerats and liniments: this maybee the form ºf an emplaſter. bºgan-diſcuſſingem: ini ammoniaci, bdelii, ſtyracis, an ii.rum aceto è amºvii, diſſolve & adds frin fenugr. ſ. plei plaſters. chamam. &aneth. anºii, cere quantum ſufficit, fiat empaſtrum mole. or, r. rad. bryonfigil, beat marie.an. v. bulliant in lixivio completé, écolenturper ſetaceum,addendovki cham. iiii. jewi bir- cini žiiii, cere nov. quantum ſufficit, fiat emplaſtrum mole. or, rºgam, ammon, ºpopaucis galba- ni. an. ii, diſſolvanur in aceto, pºffea tolentur, adde olei liliorum, terebinth, venet.an, i. piciº na- valis, & cer. nov. auantum ſufficit, fiat emplairum mole. orelſ, b. ſucci rad, enal camp. & ebuli an. iii.rad, alth.fb. ſ. coquantur & colentur perpetaceum, addendoforam cham, melil ſambuchi, re- riſmar. & hyperician p. ii. nucum cupreſſ, nu. iiii. ol, cham, aneth, hyper, liliorum, deſpitãan, ii. pingwedini: anati, gallin. anſeritan. ſ. ranº virida, vivarnuvitatellor duo, naper matus, bulliant omnia ſimul, in fb. ii. ſ. vini oderiferi & unéaque vit. ad conſumptionem ſuctorum & vini, & oft- º um caſellorum diſſolutionem, & fortiter exprimantur & expreſſionis adde fºrebinth. iii.cer. quan- “” turn ſº fia emplaſtrum molle. alſo, emp, de vigo. oxicroceum, de mucilaginibus; de meliloto -- and theikemixed together, and ſoftned with a little oil or axungia, are of the like facultie, and good for the ſame purpoſe. - - * . . . . let thisbeethe form of an ointment. r. anſerem?inguem, & imple catelli, duobus, dequibu, ointment. deme cutem, viſcera, caput & pedeſ; item accipe rana, nu.x, colubros detratia cate infruſtra diſſetios nu. iv. mithridat. & theriac. an .ſ. folſalvie, roriſmar, thymi, rule, an in. ſ?, baccaram lauri, . juniperi, conquaſat. anºi. pulveris nuc, moſchat. zinzib. caryophyll & piper...an. i, deed quod ſtil- labar fiat unguentum vellinimentum cum cerå &terebinth. venetà, pauté aquà vite additä; this mar- velouſly aſſwageth the pain of the goutariſeing from a cold cauſ. another, r. gummi pini, & lodani, an Živ. gammielemić piſci, naval. an. .terebinth, venet, clare vi chamem. & lilio- ruman. vivini rub. ſb, i.ſ .aq.vii. & ſalv.an. vi. diſſolvantar omnia ſimullento igne, baculoſem- per agitando, deinde addepul: irtos. for baccarum lauriet bermodafyl, an:#iſ maſtiches, myrrheet olibanian. ii.farine fabar: iv. incorporentur omnia ſimul, fiat unguenim mille. orelſ, r. mutag. § fenugr, in aceto extrati, quantum voluerit, cui miſce mellis quantum §. let them bee oiled together until they acquire the conſiſtence of an ointment. theſe things ſhall bee changed, as often as need ſhall ſeem to require. alſo an anodine and diſcuſſing fomentati- diſcuſſing ſo- ons are good to reſolv; as this, r. fol. rute, ſalv.roriſmar, an mi, bulliant cum aceto vino, mentations. and ſo make a decočtion for a fomentation, which you may uſe not onely in a cold gout, but alſo in a hot, becauſit reſolveth and ſtrengtheneth the part by aſtriótion, and freeth it ºr from the defluxion: you muſt have a care that the medicines which are uſed to pains of the remedits muſt gout bee changed now and then. for in this kinde ofdiſeaſ that remedie which did good bee often chan- a little before,and now availeth, will in aſhort time becom hurtful. gºdin the gout. but if the contumacieandexeſs of the pain bee ſo great, that it will not yeeld to the de- ſcribed medicines; then it is fit, becauſthe diſeaſis extreme, touſe (according to hippocra- tes's counſel) extreme, ſuch as are thoſe which follow. r. axungie galline, oleilaurini maſtic. a great diſ- & euphorban. i. pulveuphorb. & pyrethan. i. É at litu; herewith let the part bee rubbede-cuffer. verie daie,for it is a verieeffe&ual medicine. for euphorbium and pellitorie by their heat at- tenuate and reſolv, the capon's greaſand oil of baies relax, the oil of maſtich ſtrengthen- eth the part and hindereth a new defluxion. alſo there is made a verie anodine ointment of an anodine. oil of #. wheerin earth-worms,the roots of elecampane and bryonie have been boiled, with a little turpentine and wax; this ſoften's, attenuate's and reſolv's the cold humorim- pač in the joints. orelſ r. ſeminis finapi pulviſerati, & acetoacerrimo diſſoluti, iii, melitang. cardani šii. aque vite i: ſalis com. ii. let them bee all mixed together, and applied to the ". . . . pained part. or, k.ficiº migrešiii terebinth, venetežii, ſulphuris vivi ſubtiliter pulveriſatigiii. º. olei quantum ſufficit, liquefiantſimul, fiat emplaſtrum; let itbee ſpread upon lether, and ſai on the part for two or three daie's ſpace,if the patient perceivanie eaſtherby; if ...: let it bee changed as wee ſaid before. somfor the ſame purpoſe applie netties therto, a preſently afterwaſh the part in the ſea or ſaltwater. others foment the part with vineger wherin pigeons hath been boiled. a veſicatorie made of verieſower leaven;cantharides,and a veſicutorie a little aqua vite is verie powerful to evcauate the conjuna matter. forthus the malign and º †. virulent ſerum.orwhayiſh humor is let out, whence follow'sſom eaſofthe pain. now there majº are ſomgoutie pains, which cannot bee leſſned or aſſwaged unleſs by remedies more power-conjuna mat- ful then the diſemper, therfore veſicatories ought not to bee reječed, ſeeing that the an-ter. cients in this affe′t have alſo made uſe of a tual cauteries,as wee ſhall ſhew heeraſter. chriſta- £ber ndrea in his book termed oscoitarie [that is, domeſtick phyſick] much commend's ox-dung wrapped in cabbage orvine-leavs, and roaſted in the embers, and ſo applied hot too the grieved part. - - - - chap. --- concerning the gout. lib. . chap. xvi. of local medicines to bee applied to bot or ſanguin gout. * eremuſt wee in the begining make uſe of repercuſſives, ſuch as are coldand | drie, that they may contend with the morbifick matter by both their quali- & rººf §§ ties; alſo let them bec aſtriëtive, ſo to addſtrength to the part. but i would º º s have you alwaies to underſtand that you muſt firſt premiſegeneral medi- º s .svº what repercuſ-n-hº fives are here required. - ** cines. r. albuminanovorum nu.iv, ſucci lačiuce & ſolanian. i.aq.roſar. ii. in- **corporentur ſimul, & fiat lininentum ſepius renovandum. others take the meal of barlie, lentils, acatia, oil of roſes, myrtles, and with a little vineger they make a cataplaſm; or, r.ſumach. myrtillorum, boli arm. n. ſ., acatie, corticum granat. baluſt, an: i. aq. plantag.é. roſar, an iii. ol. roſati iſ. †: farine bordei & lentium quantum ſatis erit, fiat cataplaſma. this is verie excellent and effettual to ſtay or hinder phlegmonous and erifipelatous tu- mors. alſo you may make a cataplaſm ex mucagine cydoniorum in aquà roſarum extraffā, caſtie fiſtula, oleo roſato, & aceto: or, r. pampinorum vitis viridum, m.ii, terantur & bulliant in oxycra- to ex aquà fabrorum, cui adde ſumach, conquaſai. i. olei roſai. ii, farine bordei quantum ſufficit, * *nt fiat cataplaſma, orelſ, b. ſucci ſempervivi, byoſcyami, portulace an. iv. corticum mali granatí . ...” #iſ farine bordeišv. vini aufferiquantum ſufficit, fiat cataplaſma; this is much commended, for p it hath entring thereinto wine and the pomgranate pill, which both are verie great aſtri- Čtives; and the juices are exceeding cooling, the meal alſo hinder's and thicken's the ſan- guin humors that are readie to flow down, and make the medicine of a good conſiſtence. another: r.folbyoſcyami & acetoſe an. mi. involvantur papyro, & ſub cineribus coquantur, mox cum unguento populeon aut roſat. ii. incorporentur, and then lay this cataplaſm thus made warmunto the part. another: r. florum byoſciami ib.ii. penantur in phialávitreatá, & reconde infimo equino done: putruerint, accipe exputredine ii. inquibus diſſolve olei de junipero ſ fiat lini- mentumaduſum. othersbeat pulp of a gourd or citrulin a mortar, and ſo applie it. ano- ther: r. mucag. ſem. pſilii, & cyton. exteači, in aq. roſar. & ſolani an iiii. olei roſati ompbacini .iii. vinigranat. i. vitellos ovo. cum albumine nu. iii, camphore i. encorporentur ſimul, fiat lini- mentum. orelſ, r. ol.roſat, omphacini iv. album. ovorum cum vitellis nuvi. ſucci plantag. et ſo- lanian i. farine bordei žiii, incorporentur ſimul, fial cataplaſma. or, r. farine fabarum etbordei an. iii. oleiroſati, ii oxycrati quantum ſufficit, coquantur ſimul, fiat cataplaſma. another; r. - mucag. ſem. pſilii#iiii.ol.roſati;ii. acet i vitellos ovorum, nu. iii, croci i. miſce. plinie report- ****p. . eth that sextus pomponius the governor of the hither-spain, as hee overlooked the winow- ing of his corn, was taken by the pain of the goutin his feet, wherfore hee cover'd himſelf with the wheat above his knees, and ſo was eaſed, his feet beeing wonderfully dried ; and . hee afterwards uſed this kinde of remedie. it is note-worthie, which often happeneth, phlebºtomieto that the pain cannot bee altogethereaſed by ſuch remedies, by reaſon of the abundance of .*... blood impatin the part; wherefore it muſt bee evacuated: which i havedon in manie with . º: good ſucceſs, opening the vein which was moſt ſwelled and nigh to the affeded part; for plin. *the painwas preſently aſſwaged. neither muſt weetoo long make uſe of repercuſſives; leaſt the matter becom ſo hardned, that it can ſcarce bee afterwards reſolved, as when it ſhallbee concrete into knots and plaſter-like ſtones: reſolving medicines are to bee mixed with re- ſſives conveniently applied, ſo to diſcuſs the humor remaining as yet in the part, whereof ſhallbee ſpoken in the following chapter. - chap. xvi . of local medicines for a cholerick gout. = , ººl he repercuſſives that muſt firſt bee uſed in this kinde of gout ought to bee cold .*rººf ſºlº andmoiſt, that ſo they may reſiſt both the qualities of choler; ſuch are the ives are heer jº leavs of night-ſhade, purſlain, houſ-leek, henbane,ſorrel, plantain, poppie, coldwater and the like, whereofmay bee made diverſcompoſitions. as,r.jur. ci byoſcyami, ſempervivilačiuc.an ii, farin, bordei i. oleiroſaii#ii. agitandoſimul fiat medicamentum; let it bee applied and often changed, for ſo at length it will affwage the in- flammation. somthink the brain of a hog mixed with white ſtarch, or barlie-meal and oil of roſes, an excellent medicine. the leavs of mallows boiled in water, and beaten with apeſtil, and applied, aſſwage pain. r. mucag.ſem. pſilii extrati. in aq:ſolani, vel roſarum ii. - . farinhordei i. acetiq.ſ. fiat linimentum. orelſ, r. unguent. roſat. meſne, populeian iii.jur- ci melonum ii. alb. ovorum, nu.iii. miſceanturſinul pro litu. alſo a ſpunge dipped in oxycrate, and preſſed out again and applied thereto doth the ſame. orelſ. r. ful, caulium rub.m. ii.co- quantur in oxycrato & terantur, adde ovorum vitellos tres,oleiroſati iii. farine bordei quantum ſuf- ficit, fingatur cataplaſma. alſo you may take the crude juice of cole-worts, dane-weed, and roſes beaten and preſſed out, and of theſe incorporated with oil of roſes and barlie-meal make a cataplaſm. in winter-time, when as theſe things cannot bee had green, you may uſe unguent. required. lib. . concerning the gou. - anguenium infrigidans galeni & populeon. orelſ, r. cere albeii, crºci bi, opii biiii oleiroſati accrats with quantum ſufficit, marcerentur opium & crocas in aceto, deindeteranturet incºrporentarcumcerāet ºpius. alep, fatteratum; ſpread it upon a cloth, and lay it upon the part, and all about it, and let . it bee often renewed. som cut frogs open and applie them to the grieved part. it is con- firmed by fundrie men's experience, that pain of the sciatica, when it wouldyeeld to no o- ther remedie, to have been aſſwaged by anointing the affe&ed with the mucous water or gelliegfsnails, beeing uſed for theſpace of ſeven or eight daies; the truth whereof was the water of iſſured meeby the worthie gentleman the lord of longman, a man of great honeſtie and ** credit, who himſelf was troubled for ſix month's ſpace with the sciatica. this water is thus made, take fiftie or fixtiered snails, put them in a copper-pot or kettle,andſprinkle them over with common ſalt, and keep them ſo for the ſpace of a daie; then preſs them in a courſ or hair-cloth; in the expreſſed liquor diplinnen rags and applie them ſo dipped to the part affeited, and renew them often. but if there bee great inflammation, the snails ſhall bee boiled in vineger and roſe-water. they ſay that citrons or oranges boiled in vineger, andbeaten in a mortar, and incorporated with a little barlie or bean flower, are good a- gainſt theſe pains. orelſ, r. pomorum cočiarum in latiefbi, butyri i.vitelos ºvorum, nu. ii. ace- ii#i.fiat cataplaſma. there are ſom who take cheeſ-curd newly made, and mix it in a mor- tar with oil of roſes andbarlie-meal, and ſo applie it; it repreſſeth inflammation and aſ: ſwageth pain. others mix caffa newly extraćted forth of the cane, with the juice of gourds or melons. others applieto the part the leavs of coleworts, and dane-weed or ſhallage, or all three mixed together and beaten with a little wineger. others macerate or ſleep an ounce of linſeed in wurt, and make the mucilage extraćted therefrom into a cataplaſm with ſom oil of roſes and barlie-meal. somput oil of poppies to the pulp of citrulls or gourds beeing beaten,and ſo incorporate them together, and * it. * - - this following medicine hath its credit from a certain gaſcoin of baſas that was anhiaoli. throughly cured therewith, when as hee had been vexed long and much with gogtie pains,” above the common cuſtom of ſuch as are troubled with that diſeaſ. thus it is; take a aparticular great ridg-tile thick and ſtrong, and heat it red hot in the fire, then put it into ſuch another flowe. tile of the ſame bigneſs, but cold, leaſt it ſhould burn the bed-clothes, then forthwith fill the hot one with ſo manie dane-wurt-leavs, that the patient may ſafely lay the affetted part therein without anie danger of burning it. then let thepatient endure the heat that com's therefrom, and by ſweat receiv the fruit thereof, for the ſpace of an hour, ſubſtituteing freſh dane-wurt-leavs, if the former becom too drie, as alſo another hot tile, if the former fhall grow too cold before the hour bee ended. this beeingdon, let the partbee dried with warm and drie linnen clothes. uſe this particular ſtove for the ſpace of fifteen anointment . daies, and that in the morning faſting ; afterward annoint the part with this of the juice of following ointment. r. ſucci ebuli ib. i. ſſ., oleicom.fb. i. miſceantur ſimul, and let them bee dane wurt. utinto a ſtrait mouthed glaſs, and well luted up; then let it boil in balneo marie, becing rſt mixed with ſom wine, untill the half thereof bee conſumed, for the ſpace often or twelvhours, then let it cool, and ſo keep for uſe, adding thereto in the time of anoint- ing, ſom few drops of aqua vite. it may bee anointed twice or thriče in a daie, long after meat. moreover,the roots and leavs of dane-wurtboiled in water, beaten and applied aſ- ſwage pain; the oil thereof chimically extraćted perform's the ſame. - but if the contumacious pain cannot bee mitigated by the deſcribed remedies, and becom- when touſ: ing intolerably hot and rageing, make the patient almoſt to ſwoun, then muſt wee flie to narcoticks. narcoticks. for although the temper of the part may bee weakned by theſe, the native heat diminiſhed or rather extinguiſhed; yet this is a far leſs inconvenience then to let the wholebodie bee waſted by pain. theſe things have a powerful refrigerateing and dryin facultie, takeing away the ſenſof the pain, and furthermore, incraſſate, thin acrid an biteing humors, ſuch as cholerick humors are. wherefore if the matter which cauſeth the aataplaſm in bee thick, wee muſt abſtain from narcoticks, or certainly uſe them with greatcaution. with opism. . mice panis ſecalini parim cočii in lačie, ii. vitellos ovorum, eu.ii. ſ: i. ſuccorum ſalani, by- oſyami, mandragore, fortulace, ſempervivi, an. i. let them bee mixed together and applied,and often changed. orelſ, r. fol. byoſcyami cicuſe, acetoſ an. m. i. bulliant in oxycrato & contun- dantur, cºmque vitelli, ovorum crudorum nu.ii. & olei roſat. ii, farin, bordei quod ſatis ſat, incorpº- remur fat cataplaſms; with the uſe thereof; am accuſtomed to aſſwage greatpains. orelſ, r. opii iii. camphor. ſ olet menuph. i. laii. ii. unguent, roſ. galeni živ.incorporentur ſimul in mor- tario, applicentur. moreover, cold water applied and dropped upon the part drop by drop, is narcotick and ſtupefaative, as hippotrates affirmeth, aphor. . seii. . for a moderate numneſºmitigateth pain. there is alſo another reaſon why it may bee profitably uſed in all pains oftheoout, for that by repelling the humors, it hindereth their defluxion into the rt. mandrag-apples boiled in milk, and beaten, do the ſame thing; alſo the leavs of hen- ne, hemlock, lettuce, purſlain, beeing ſo boiled, do the ſame. if anie deſire to uſe theſe more cold, heemuſt applie them crude,and not boiled. - - but the exceſ of pain beeing mitigated, wee muſt defiſt from the uſe of ſuch narcoticks, ... . . . . . . . and they muſt ratherbeeſtrengthened with hot and digerateing things; otherwiſe ". - * : * wi concerning the gout. - ling. will beedanger leſt it beetoo much weakned, the temper thereof beeing deſtroied, and ſo i. to ". afterwards it maybee ſubjećt to everie kindeofdefluxion.wherefore itſhall beeſtrengthened §n: with the formerly diſcuſſing fomentations, and theſe enſuing remedies. as, r. gum, ammo- niaci &bdeliianji, diſſolvanur in acets,&paſſenturperſetaceum, addendoſyracis liquid. & farin. diſcuſſers, frnugr, an. ſ. pulv. ireos iiii. olei chamen. ii. #. pyrethri ii. cum cerá, fiat em- plaſtrum mole. &. elſ,r. rad emule, ebuli alibee an fö.ſ. ſem, lini, frnugr, an: ii.ficuumping. amean to beenu. xx, coquantur complete & trafficianturperſetaceum, addendo ful euphorb. ii.oleichsmem.aneth. ...in diſcuſ & rulacei, an iii. medule cervi #. fiat cataplaſma. yet you muſt uſe moderation in diſcuſ- "* . ſing, left the ſubtler part of the impathumor beeing diſcuſſed, the groſſer part may turn into a ſtonie confiſtence, which alſo is to bee feared in uſeing repercuſſives. , *:::::::::: i alſo omitted, that according to the opinion of the antients, bathes offreſhwater, - . * wherein cooling herbs have beenboiled, uſed three hours after meat, conduce much to the aſſwageing of pain; for ſouſed, they are more convenient in cholerick natures, and ſpare bodies, for that they humed the more, and quickly digeſt the thin andcholerick, and conſe- quently acridvapors, the pores beeing opened, and the humors diſſipated by the gentle warmneſs ofthe bath. afterthe bath,the bodie muſt bee anointed with hydrelium, or oil and ::::::: ºf water tempered together, left the native heat exhale and the bodie becom more weak. ;ofit*fe * meats of more groſsjuice are more convenient, as beef, ſheeps-fret, and the like, if ſobee that the patient can digeſt them, for theſe inſpiſſatethe cholerickblood, and make it more unfit for defiuxion. chap. xviii. what remedies muſt bee uſed in pains of the joint proceteding of a diffemper antly, without matter. - - ains alſo happen in the joints by diſtemper without anie matter, which though rare, yet becauſſ happened once to feel them, i have thought good to ſhew what remedies i uſed againſt them. i once earneſtly buſied in ſtudie, .." and therefore not ſenſible of ſuch external injuries as might befall mee; a little | winde coming ſecretly in by the crannies of my ſtudie, fell upon my left hip; at length wearied with #. aſſoon as i roſe up to go my way, i could not hip ºp. , ſland upon my feet, i felt ſuch bitter pain without anieſwelling or humor which might bee ſelf. diſcerned. therefore i was forced to go to bed, and calling to minde, that cold, which was #. ...; abſolutely hurtful to the nervs, had bred mee that pain, i attempted to drive it away by the ...... frequent application of verie hotclothes; which, though they ſcorched and bliſtered the cºdifiempº ſound parts adjoining thereto, yet did they ſcarce make anie impreſſion upon the partywhere without mat- the pain was ſettled, the diſtemper was ſo great, and ſo firmly fixed therein. and i laied eff, thereto bags filled with fried oats and millet, and dipped in hot red wine; as alſo ox-blad- ders half filled with a deco&ion of hot herbs. and laſtly, a wooden diſh almoſt filled with hot aſhes, covered over with ſage, roſmarie and rue lightly bruiſed, and ſo covered with a cloth, which, ſprinkled over with aqua vite, ſent forth a j. which aſſwaged the pain. alſo brown bread newly drawn out of the oven, and ſprinkled over with roſe-water, and applied, did verie much good. and that i might more fully expel this hurtful cold, i ut ſtone-bottles filled with hot water, to the ſoals of my feet, that the brain might bee cated by the ſtraightneſs and continuitie of the nervs. at length, by the help of theſe re- medies, j was verie well freed from this contumacious diſtemper, when it had held mee for a fligious * †: of four and twentie hours. . - - • - vaporiom- there is another kinde of goutie pain ſomtimes cauſed by a certain excrementitious mat- tº becauſ ter; but ſo thin and ſubtle that it cannot bee diſcerned by the eies. it is a certain fuliginous of the gout, or ſootie vapor, like to that which paſſeth from burning candles or lamps, which adhere's and concrete's to anie thing that is oppoſed thereto; which beeing infected by the mixture of a virulent ſerous humor whitherſoever it runneth, cauſeth extreme pain, ſomwhiles in theſe, and otherwhiles in other joints, unleſs you make a way therefore, when as it ſeeketh paſſage forth, wich muſt bee don by horns, cupping-glaſſes, veſicatories, cauteries, or other the like art. an hiſtorie. chap. xix. what it to bee don after the fit of gout is over. hew to ſtreng- tis convenient when the pain is aſſwag'd, that you ſtrengthen the joints. now, to then the joints. ſtrengthen them is not onely to binde and drie, §: wholly to amend the weakneſs remedies for - left in the part by the #. that is to diſcuſs the humor, if anie ſuperfluitie thereof j, remain; but to humea the part, if the moiſture bee exhauſted and dried up. but ſuch as are left in the troubled with the gout, after they are freed from their pain, have notwithſtanding ſuch #: : * impotencie of theirjoints that they cannot go of a long time after; for that the ". tendon s lºgº. anºmingº gº." tendons which are in great number in the feet, .# moiſtned with much phlegm, are ſo relaxed, that they can no more ſuſtain or bear themſelvs upon their feet, then paper when it is wet can bee made to ſtand. wherefore, that they may recover the uſe of their feet, the impaſted humor muſt by all means bee diſcuſſed, and i. with fomentations, cataplaſms, drying and aſtringent emplaſters. you may uſe the formerly deſcribed fomentation, en- creaſing the quaintitie of alum and faſt, and adding thereto a like quantitie of ſulphur wi-, … vum: then the following emplaſter ſhallbee applied thereto. #:emplaſt fºntra rupturami” . iiii. terebäii. pulviraſrub. nurum cupreſgallarum, granmyrtiléºfoliuſdem, thurii, maſtich, ºt-º º yophylan:i. malaxentur omnia ſimul, manibus inundis oleo myrtino & maſtiching, flat emplaſtº. . . . ºf ict it bee ſpread upon leather to a juſt bigneſs, and applied to the top and ſole of the foot. * * * * * draw over the plaſter, and the whole lega ſtocking made of a tanned-dog's-skin; thisemi- plaſter ſtrengtheneth the nerys, draweth forth the humor impié: therein, and intercept's the benefit of the defluxion.but the dog-skin-ſtocking preſerveth the native heat of the part, and for that ºn it bindeth, hindreth the defluxion into the feet. . . . . . . flocking. * , , --> — - - • * - t *- : . . . . ! . . . chap. xx. , , , * * of the tophi, or knots which grow at the joint of ſuch as are troubled with the gout. ” % cs - som that are troubled with the gout, have knottie bunches growing in their x. the º joints, which by the antients were called toſhi. theſe are generated by the : ge- & congeſtion of groſs, viſcidand crude phlegm, with a little admixtion of an a- § º i crid and cholerick humor. theſe matters remain ſettled in the part, for that Žiša it beeing too weak cannot digeſt and depreſs them; wherefore beeing there impačt, they eaſily concrete into a certain plaſter-like or chalk-like ſubſtance, whileft by the adventitious and burning heat cauſed by º: and the goutie malignitie, their more ſubtle - part is diſperſed,but the groſſer ſubſide's. yet ſomtimes the unfit application of repercuſſive the unfit ºp- or diſcuſſive medicines is a cauſof the generation of theſe tophi. for % the former, theim- ... of d pa&matter is incraſſated and gathered together; but by the later, the ſubtle part beeng diſ- .#. cuſſed, the remnant that ſubſide's, concrete's into tophi. thoſe medicines which are made jºines to mollifie, ought to have a moderately heating, and humeding facultie, that they may cauſthe tophi. diffuſe, and as it were diſſolv the impačt matter; ſuch is warm water, the decočtion of é-mollifying mollient herbs, the decočtion of calv’s or ſheep's entrails, heads and feet: after theſe or the * like fomentations, you ſhall uſe the following medicine. raxungie, buman. anſeriº & galli- ne, medulcervin. an: ii. tereb.ven. i.aq.vite parum, cere quantum ſufficit, flat unguentum molle. then this which followeth will bee good. r.rad, alth, liliorum, bryon, lapath, acuti, an:iiii. coquantur completé, é" trajicianturperſetaceum; adde gum, ammon.bdel, gall, opopanaciº in aceto diſſolutorum imedul.cervináiſ; incorporentur ſimul, & applicentur. or elſ; rolei liliorum, a- mygdøulmedulle cruri, cer,an. iiſ, mucag.ſem.lini, º: an. . cere quantum ſufficit; fiat ceratum. orelſ, rempláe vigo cum mercurio, & cerat de aſſpo humidā deſcript. philagrii, anáii. malaxentur ſimul cum oleo lilior fiat maſſa. or elſ, r.gumammon.opopangalb. bdel diſſolutorum in aceto, an Žii. panno lineo colatiº, adde pulv. ſulph, nitr. finapi, pyrethri, an ſ ſtyracis, ſº. axung. humanºi, reſpini, tereb.ven.an. cere quantumſº fiat ceratum molle. this which follow's .. is thought moſt effe&ual in the opinion of galen and avicen. rpedes forcel.bene ſalſas, º; - nu.iiii.veterem permam, cum illis coque; addendo ſub finem, radici, bryonie, lapath.acut. an£iii.axun- ::::::::::: gie tauri, & medul. cervin an:#i. cum caſeo putrefatio fiat emplmollead uſum. this which fol-" low's is alſo moſt effectual. r.caſei acris & putrefaāi, iiii. pulvſulph.vivi euphorb.&pyrethan. iii. decoãionis veteris #. & porcellorum quod ſufficit ad incorporandum, ducantur in mortario, & fiat emplad uſum. orelſ, rºſſume nitri, vi, : olei veteris, lixivii, quo lane pileorum la- vantur, & cere quantum ſufficit, fiat ceratum ſatis molle. after the uſe of emollients, a fumiga- a. tion ſhallbee made in this manner: heat a cogle-ſtone, mill-ſtone orbrick redſhot in the * fire, take it forth, and caſt upon it a ſufficient quantitie of verie ſharp vineger, and aqua vi- te, the riſing vapor ſhallbee diligently received by the affečted member, for this hath a fa- cultie to attenuate and cut groſs, viſcid, and plaſter-like matter, yea alſo, and to break the skin; yet that is broken oftime of its own accord, without the help of either medicine or inſtrument. to conclude, theſe medicines which are good to mollifieſcirrhous tumors,the ſame are alſo good to ſoften the goutie knots and tophi. but wee muſt note that theſe knot- tie bunches are ſomtimes ſuppurated, not truly by the impač and plaſter-like matter,butby a new defluxion comming on a ſudden, and then it is neceſſarie to make way for the con- tained matter, which beeingdon, firſt there commeth forth an humor like milk, then a plaſter-like matter; then it leav's behinde it an ulcer to bee cured by applying thereto emplgratié dei, and others as the surgeon ſhall think fit. r. r chap. concerning the gout. lib. . tº . . . . - chap. xxi. tº of flatulencies contained in the joints, and counterfeiting true gouts, and of the cº º * c remedies to bee uſed thereto. #$$)ftimes there is ſmall quantitie of humor, which move's the pain of the gout; # but much flatulenciemixed therewith, eſpecially in great joints, as in the huc- kle or hip-bone, and the knees; they ſomtimes cauſſo great diſtention, that nerated. - ; they drive the heads of the bones forth of their places. you may partly signs of flatu-y underſtanditis ſo, if a tenſive pain afflićt the patient with anie ſenſ of hea- lencies. vineſs; if when you preſs the tumor with your fingers, the place retain no mark orim- ; : ; ºr preſſion thereof, as happen's in an adema; but on the contrarie, a flatulent ſpirit lift's it up ºr as it were by renitencie, as if one ſhould thruſt a pair of bellows, which are filled with ºf winde: hence the part cannot perform its dutie, for that the ſpaces of the joints are poſſeſ- ſed with abundance of flatulencies,ſo that the libertie of motionisintercepted,and the mem- how flatulen-beriskept as it were boundup. manie no verie skilful surgeons, putting their fingers to sººymake theſe kinde of tumors, ſo that lifting up the one,they preſs down the other, when as they #.§. perceive the flatulencie, as it were, riſing between their fingers, ſuppoſing it to bee the mo- imātter. p**tion of pus, or matter alreadie generated & flowing up and down, as is uſual in impoſtumes, they have opened it by inciſion; but when as nothing flowed forth, it appeared how much º they were deceived, yet in the interim, by this their raſhneſs they have cauſed manie dange- * rous ſymptoms: as increaſ of pain, defluxion of humors, by force whereof the bones have been diſlocated,and brought to the patient an uncureable lameneſs.but theſe flatulent gouts are ſeldom without ſom phlegmatick matter, which is neither too crude, nor viſcid. such why hard to like flatulencies are not eaſily diſcuſſed, nor at the firſt endeavor,by reaſon of a cold diſtem- curf, per which they bring to the part, and the denſitie of the membranes and ligaments, by º, which the articulation is knit and faſtened, ſo that ſcarce anie part of that which is there ſhut up can breathe forth of ſuch ſtraight paſſages. therefore the cure muſt bee undertaken with reſolving, diſcuſſing, and drying fomentations; as for example, with a decočtion of * fennel, aniſ-ſeeds, rue,chamomil, melilote,ſage, roſemarie, origanum, calamints,hore-hound, and the like, boiled in wine with a little lee, roſe-vineger, and common ſalt. this follow- ... ingointment ſhall bee uſed after the fomentation. b.olei chamam.anetbrut.lauri, an: ii, cum cerá albá, flat linimentum, addendo aq.vite param. after you have annointed it, applie thereto this following cataplaſm. bºffor.chammelilaneth roſrub pulvan.mifol malv.& abſintham.m.ſ . furfur, m i. builiant omnia ſimul cum lixivio, & vino rubro, deinde piſtentur cum medulápaniº,é"fa- ring fabarum, quantum ſufficit, fiat cataplaſma, addendo olroſar. & myrtinian:ii. som highly ap- proov of this following medicine for the waſteing of flatulencies. raxung ſuiláiv. calci, vi- ve, iſ terantur diligenter in mortario, & incorporata applicentur. or elſ, r,ſtercor, caprar.co.ii cum vino & aceto, an rſ.tereb.venet.& mel.com.an. iiaq.vite, .pulrad. ireof florent.&ſabin.am. iii. oleirut.é anethan ifarin. fabarum quantum ſufficit. make a cataplaſm to the form of a ltis. alſo ſtoups dipped in oxycrate, and wrung out, ſhall bee applied: in this oxycrate ſhall bee boiled wormwood, origanum, chamomil, melilote, rue, common ſalt, adding there- to ſom aqua vite. then the part ſhallbee bound up as ſtraight as the patient can endure it; in concluſion, that the native ſtrength may by little and little bee reſtored to the part, it ſhall bee fomented with lee made of the aſhes of oak-wood, and the cuttings of vines, wherein ſhallbee boiled ſalt, ſulphur, choice alum, and wetting linnen-clothes, or ſtoups therein, and applying them, it ſhall bee ſtraightly ſwathed up. yet if great pain ſhall more cruelly vex the part, then neglečting for a time the proper cure of the diſeaſ, you ſhall with- fland the ſymptom by rubbing the part, and annointing it with ſom diſcuſſing oil, laying thereon ſom moiſt wooll, and other anodyne things. in what joints | flatulencies ºl are chiefly ge- c h a p. xx ii. of the iſchias, hip-gout, or sciatica. t: or that the hip-gout in the greatneſs of the cauſes, bitterneſs of pain, and veher why it hath sº mencie of other ſymptoms, eaſily exceed's the other kindes of gout, therefore i the moſtgic. wºº have thought good to treat thereof in particular.the pain of the sciatica is there- vous ſym- , fore the moſt bitter, and the ſymptoms moſt violent, for that the dearticulation ptoms, of the huckle-bone, with the head of the thigh-bone, is more deep then the reſt; becauſ alſo the phlegmatick humor which cauſeth it, is commonly more plenteous, cold, groß, and viſcid, that flow's down into this joint: and laſtly, becauſthe sciatica com: the cauſ monly ſucceed's ſom other chronical diſeaſ, reaſon of the tranſlation and falling the hº of down thither of the matter, becommalign and corrupt by the long continuance of the for: ſpreading of . diſeaſ. but the pain not onely trouble's the hip, but entring deep, is extended to the the pain muſcles of the buttocks, the gróins, knees, and verie ends of the toes, yea often times it - vexeth lib. . concerning the gout. - . vexeth the patient with a ſenſ of pain in the verie vertebra of the loins, ſo that it make's the patients, and alſo oftimes the verie phyſicians and surgeons to think it the winde or ſtone- - colick. the cauſe of ſuch wandering and diſperſed pain is to bee referred to the manifold diſtribution of the nervs which comto that joint from the loins and belie-bone, for are ſent into the muſcles of the buttocks, and ſo diſperſed over the whole leg to the verie ends of the toes, as it is ſhewed in our anatomie. therefore the pain is largely extended, that is, to what part ſoever a nerv run's which com’s from the affected hip. often times there is no ſwelling, no redneſs, nordiſemper manifeſt to the eie, by reaſon that the veins are veriefew which riſe into the ſurface and skin of this part, and the humor lies,as it were, funkin' which is the cauſthat diverſtimes the excrementitious humors mixed with flatu- endie, run ſo violently into the cavitie of this joints that relaxing the ligaments, as well properas common, the head of the thigh-bone is eaſily driven out from hence, ſo that it . may never bee reſtored again, if it remain ſo for anie ſpace of time; for that in this time the . ed humor falling down into this cavitie, by delaie concrete's as it were into a ſtonic bodie,and jº the head of the thigh-bone wear's it ſelf another cavitie in the neighboringbone; but the - -lips of the true cavitie, which are griſtlie, becommore ſtraight and depreſt: and laſtly, all -the ligamentous bodies moiſºned with this excrementitious humor becom more looſ and - weak,whence ſucceed manie and moſt grievous ſymptoms; as lameneſs, and the decaie not onely of the thigh and leg, but at length of the whole bodie; and laſtly, a ſlow and heatick a. fever, which in continuance of time will conſume the patient for the cauſes formerly men- tioned. therefore let phyſicians and surgeons have a care that they refiſt it at the firſt,and, * : : with ſuch powerful remedies as are mentioned in the following chapter,hinder the ſpring- “ . ing up and growth of the formerly mentioned ſymptoms. ". - * chap, xxiii. . . . . . . . * l the tire of the sciatica. . " ' ". - º hough the sciatica bee commonly occaſioned by tough phle et if the da- fº . bee ſtrong,and abound with blood,and # j elſ. ſhall ſº. good to draw É. by opening a vein; for phlebotomie equally evacuate's why weenuſ: ...all humors: therefore the falling down of the humors into the part affeded, j a vein in ºxu is thereby hindered or retarded. verily, i have known no ſpeedier remedie to * sºistica. aſſwage the pain of inflammation, then blood-letting, beeing firſt made on the baſilica of the grieved fide for revulſion's ſake; and then for evacuation of the conjuna matter on the wena iſchiadica, which is at the out-ſide of the ankle; if the pain of the Ściatica bee moreon when the was the out-ſide; or elſon the sapheia, which is on the in-fide of the ankle,if the inner partsbee ſtºica and more pained. the quantitie of blood which is to bee drawn, muſt bee left to the judgment i. ... of the phyſician, without whoſe advice i would attempt nothing in this caſe. alſo acrid the :* glyſters are good,if there bee nothing which may hinder; as ulcers of the guts, or hemor- rhoids. r.rad.acor. ii.centaur.ſut, ſalvºroriſm.calam origan pulegan m.ſºſtechadarabic flo chamme- lila, ethan p.i.ſemaniſ & frnican.ºſ. fiat decoãio ad Îbi, in colatură diſſolve biere & diaphenan. ſºmeli, antboſſacc. rub anºi, olei liliorum #ifiatelyfier.strongpurgations are alſo here uſe: strong purgº- #. as of pilulfatidarthritic. aſſajereth.de hermudačiyli, and others uſed in phlegmatick cauſtions intº iſes. eleá'uarium diacarthami purgeth choler and phlegm. often vomitings do not onely eva-sistics. cuate the humors, but alſo make revulſion, as wee have formerly delivered. baths & ſweats rofit no otherwiſe then a decoètion of guaicum or ſarſaparilla. if heat moleſt the part, then fomentitwith oil of roſes and vineger, eſpecially if the painbee deep in, for vineger by its tenuitiepierceth to the bottom, and make's way for the oil, which of its own nature is ano- dyne. after the uſe of general medicines you ſhall applie attraćtive and reſolving things: emplaſters of pitch and ſulphur, or of ammoniacum, euphorbium, terebinthina, propoli,gallanum, hdelium, opupanax, draw the humor from within to the ſurface or skin. as in like ſort alſo the chymical oil of ſage, roſemarie, pellitorie of spain, and ſuch other like do the ſame, which by reaſon of the tenuitie of their ſubſtance, and their ſeparation from earthie impu- ritie, have far more powerful and expeditefaculties to penetrate and diſcuſs. yet muſt you uſe none of all theſe without verie good judgment and deliberation, otherwiſe there will beedanger of inflammation. there may alſo beenade fomentations ofdiſcuſſing and reſolving herbs,as the roots and leavs of dane-weeds, orris, bay and juniper-berries, the ſeeds of fenugreek, aniſ, fennel,the leavs of ſage, roſemarie, chamomile, melilote, elder, and the like, boiled in wine and oil: the following plaſteris much commended by the antients to digeſt, or reſolv and aſſwage the pain, with this which draw's forth thorns, ſplinters, and rotten bones. rºſemartic. mundat, ſpume borac, ſali, ammoniaci, radariſtoloch. rotund colocynth. terebinth, venet.am. .x.frnag- piperiº longi. aylshalſam.thur. myrrhe, adipis cap. gun-pini, an $v. cere, fbſ.latiis ficus ſylv. # ex omnibus ſecundian artem preparatis cum oleoliliarum, & vini generoſ quantitate ſufficiente fiat emplaſtrum. let it bee applied to the hip. ,rºſinapiacerrimo aceto diſſoluti, ii.fermenti - - i acrif, concerning the gout. lib. . black brionie diſcuſſeth. º --- *--- ** a ſtrong veſ- catotic. the inner rinde of tra- vellers-joy a veſicatorie. aep.alt.ſett.é. lib. .caf. . the uſe of cauteries in the sciatica. what the cramp is. the cauſ thereof. who ſubječ thereto. the cure. acra, -pullhermodatiºil melli, comáiii. tereb. iv olei laur. & deſºirá, an iifarfanngºiſ.terre formi . cum ovis, ibi fol.laur ſalvirut, roriſm anm.ſ. werinium-terreſt prepar. # #.carth with the eggs andworms ſhallbee boiled apart with the white wine,and herbs cut in pieces, and theſe beeing ſtrained out,the reſt of the things ſhall bee added according to art, and then it ſhall bee applied to the hip. orelſ, bradlenultampſgil ſalem.bryon bifinalanjii cº- quantur complete & teraniur, trajiriamtur per ſetaceum, addendo farin fenugº bordei, anái.ºkili- liorum, & chantman:iii. tereb. iv, cere quantum §§ cataplaſma. it reſolv's, affwagºth pain, and calleth forth the humors to the skin. orelſ. kradſgil, beate marie, #vi. emplaia- chyl albi, iv. troci in aqua vite diſſoluti, ii.tºrebinth. i oldeſhiºnardi quantum ſufficit, fiat empl. let it bee ſpreadupon leather, and applied warm. i have oftentimes ſuddenly º: pain of the sciatica, by putting to the pained hip the root of black brioniecutinto ſlices, and applied,when the matter was cold orelſ,r.cºre citrin. terebabielanjii liquefiant ſimul in vaſe duplici, ubirefixerint, adds pulvihermodališſ-for-chanemirid for anxiii.fice hardi, for..thymi, an: ii. interiori, cinamomi eled. & ſeminimaſturban-bii, croci, biv.malaxantin ſimulma- nibus axungiā porcivetere nonſalità untiis, fiat maſſa empl. but if the painbee not by this means aſſwaged, then muſtweecomto more powerful medicines, as to uſe great cupping- glaſſes applied with much flame, and to veſicatories: as, ricantharid, quibu, detratie ſuntaiº, ii. ºf;..." arerrimi ſ incorporentur ſimul, & fiat veſſcatorium. alſo bliſters may bee raiſed by applying the inner rinde of travellers-joy to the weight of ſom two drams, a little beneath the grieved part: you muſt have a care that the ulcers that re- main after the skin of the bliſtersistaken off, do run, and bee kept open for ſom time aſ- ter, that ſo more of the humor contained in the part may bee drawn away. but if wee can- not avail by theſe means, wee muſt, according to hippocrates his counſel, comtothe laſt and extremeſt remedie. such gº hee) as are troubled with a long pain of the sciatica, have their bip fall out of joint, their leg conſume's, and they becom lame, unleſ, they bee burnt. wee have alſo read the ſame approved by celſus. it is the laſt (faith hee) and moſt effetiual medicine in longer diſeaſes, to casterize with bot irons the skin of the hip in three or four places; and then not to beal up theſe ul- cers or fontenels as ſoon as may bee, but to § them open, by putting thereinto bullets of gold, or filver, or pills of gentian, or wax melted and wrought up with the powder fvitriol, mercurie, and the like ca- thereticks, until the affed againſt which wee uſe this remedie bee helped, for by this means manie have been belied. therefore three or four adual cauteries, or hot irons ſhallbee ſo thruſt in about the joint of the hip, that they may enter into the fleſh ſom fingers breadth, yet ſo that you ſhun the nervs. cauteries here do good, for that by heating the part, they heat and diſſolv the cold humors, they cut, attenuate, and draw forth the groſs and viſcid, ſo that they flow out by the ulcers, together with the quitture. over and beſides, the ligaments are ſtrength- ned by their cicatrization, and their looſneſs helped; and by this means the whole part is notably corroborated. chap. xxiiii. of the flatulent convulſion, or convulſive contration, which is commonly called by the french, goute grampe, and by the engliſh, the cramp. ºil. hat which the french call goute grampe, wee here intend to treat of, induced gº is thereto rather by the affinitie of the name, then of the thing; for if one ſpeak ºf sº truly, it is a certain kinde of convulſion generated by a flatulent matter, by the ºf sº, violence of whoſe running down or motion, oftimes the neck, arms, and legs are either extended, or contraćted into themſelvs with great pain, but that for a ſhort time. the cauſthereof is a groſs and tough vapor, infinuating it ſelf into the branches of the nervs, and the membranes of the muſcles. it take's one on the night, rather then on the day, for that then the heat and ſpirits uſually retire themſelvs into the entrails and centre of the bodie; whence it is that flatulencies may bee generated,which will fill up, diſtendand pull the part whereinto they run, juſt as wee ſee lute-ſtrings are extended. this affett often take's ſuch as ſwim in cold water, and cauſſeth manie to bee drowned, though excellent ſwimmers, their members by this means beeing ſo ſtraightly contraćted,that they cannot by anie means bee extended. for the skin, by the coldneſs of the water is contrated and con- denſed, and the pores thereof ſhut, ſo that the engendered flatulencies have no paſſage forth. such as give themſelvs to drunkenneſs and gluttonie, or ſloth and idleneſs, are uſu- ally more frequently troubled with this diſeaſ, by reaſon of their heaping up of crudities. therefore it is cured by moderate diet, and ordering of the bodie, and exerciſe of each part thereof; for thus they gather ſtrength,and the generation of the flatulent matter is hindred. in the verie time when it take's one, the patient ſhall bee cured by long rubbing with warm clothes, and aquà vite, wherein the leavs of ſage, roſemarie, thyme, favorie, lavander, clows: #. and the like diſcuſſing and reſolving things have been infuſed. the extenſion and exion of the members or joints, and walking, are alſo good. the end of the eighteenth boºk. t lºy. - - - ſº tº £ºś lºº, of the lues venerea, and thoſe sººn which happen by means thereof. the nineteenth ſook. chat, i. he french call the lues venerea the neapolitan diſeaſ; the italians and what the luts germans (as alſo the engliſh) termit the french diſeaſ; the latines call pentrea is. it pudendagra : others name it otherwiſe, but it make's no great matter how it bee called, if the thing it ſelf bee underſtood: therefore the * lues venerea is a diſeaſ gotten or taken by touch, but chiefly that which is in unclean copulation; and it partake's of an occult qualitie, com- monly takeing its original from ulcers of the privie parts, and then further manifeſting its ſelf by puſtles of the head, and other external parts; and laſtly, infetting the entrails and inner parts with cruel and noğurnal torment- ing pain of the head, ſhoulders, joints, and other parts. in proceſs of time,it cauſeth knots what hurt it and i. tophi; and laſtly, corrupt's and foul's the bones, diſſolving them, the fleſh about ºn to the them beeing ofttimes not hurt; but it corrupteth and weakneth the ſubſtance of other parts, bodie. according to the condition of each of them, the diſtemper and evil habit of the affected bo- dies, and the inveteration or continuance of the morbiſick cauſ. for ſom loſe one of their eies, others both : somloſe a great portion of the eie-lids, other-ſon, look verie gaſtly, and not like themſelvs, and ſom becom ſquint-eied. somloſe their hearing, others have their noſes fall flat, the palat of their mouths perforated with the loſs of the bone ethmoi- des, ſo that inſtead of free and perfe&utterance, they faulter and fumble in their ſpeech. som have their mouths drawn awry, others their yards cut off, and women a great part of their privities tainted with corruption. therebee ſom, who have the urethra or paſſage of the yard obſtrućted by budding caruncles, or inflamed puſtles, ſo that they cannot make water without the help of a catheter, readieto die within a ſhort time, either by the ſuppreſſion of the urine, or by agangrene ariſing in theſe parts, unleſs you ſuccor them by the ampu- tation of their yards. others becom lame of their arms, and other-ſom of their legs, and a third ſort grow ſtiff by the contraćtion of all their members; ſo that they have nothing left them ſound but their voice, which ſerveth for no other purpoſe but to bewail their mi- - ſeries, for which it is ſcantly ſufficient. wherefore ſhould i trouble you with mention of thoſe that can ſcantly draw their breath by reaſon of an aſthma : or thoſe whoſe bodies waſte with an he tickfever, and ſlow conſumption? it fare's far worſ with theſe, who have the leproſe all their bodies deformed by a leprofie ariſeing there—hence, and have all their throttles and ſomtime; the throats eaten with putrid and cancrous ulcers; their hair falling off from their heads, their off-ſpring of hands and feet cleft with tetters and ſcalie chinks: neither is their caſe much better, who, the "pº- haveing their brains tainted with this diſeaſ, have their whole bodies ſhaken by fits of * falling-fickneſs; who troubled with a filthie and curſed flux of the bellie, do continu- ally caſt forth ſlinking and bloodie filth. laſtly, there are no kindes of diſeaſes, no ſorts of ſymptons, wherewith this diſeaſ is not complicate, never to bee taken away, unleſs the virulencie of this murrain bee wholly taken away, and impugned by its proper anti- dote, that is, argentum vivum. - - chap. ii. of the cauſes of the lus venerea. §here are two efficient cauſes of the lues venerea; the firſt is, a certain occult the le pe- Ş. and ſpecifick qualitie, which cannot bee demonſtrated; yet it may bee referred mere, the ºl to god, as by whoſe command this hath affailed mankinde, as a ſoourge or ſcourge of §§ puniſhment to reſtrain the too wanton and laſcivious luſts of unpure whore-wºº" tº mongers. the other is an impure touch or contagion, and principally, that * which happeneth in copulation. whether the manor woman have their phivities troubled with virulent ulcers,orbee moleſted with a virulent ſtrangurie (which diſeaſcraftie whores colorby the name of the whites) the malignitiecatchethhold of the other; thus a woman r r taketh . concerning the lues venerea. lib. . - taketh this diſeaſ by a man, caſting it in her hot, open and moiſt womb; but a man taketh it from a woman, which, for example ſake, hath ſom ſmall while before received the viru- lent ſeed of a whore-maſter polluted with this diſeaſ, the mucous ſanies whereof remaining in the wrinckles of the woman's womb, maybee drawn in by the pores of the ſtanding and open yard, whence ſucceed malign ulcers, and a virulent ſtrangurie. this virulencie, like a torch or candle ſet on fire, will by little and little bee propagated and ſent by the veins, arteries and nervs to the noble parts; whoſe malignitie a ſtrong liver not endureing, by the ſtrength of the natural expulfive facultie, will ſend it into the groins, whereon follow venereal bu- abſceſſes, therefore called venereal bubo's. theſe, if they return in again, and caſt not bo's returning forth matter by beeing opened, they will, by their falling back into the veins and arteries, in agiº.” infect the maſs of the blood by the like tainture, and thence will enſue the lues venerea. yet º: * this diſeaſmay bee got by a more occult manner of touch, as by breathing onely. for it is - not altogether beſides reaſon and experience, that a woman long troubled with this diſeaſ, the lues ve- may by importunate and often kiſſing, transfuſe malignitie into a childe; for the tender here maybee and ſoft ſubſtance of a little childe may bee altered, infe&ed, and by little and little cor- £º... rupted by receiving of filthie, and in their wholekinde malign vapors. for it is known, . ...” " and now vulgarly beleeved, that mid-wives, by receiving the childe of a woman infe&ed vapor. with this diſeaſ, to have got this affet, the malignitie beeing taken and drawn into their bodies through the pores of their hands by the paſſages of the veins and arteries. neither doth it ſpare anie condition, ſex, nor age of men: for, not onely whoſoever uſe copulati- on, but § as onely lie with them, may bee taken by this virulencie; yeaverily, if they onely lie in the ſheets or coverings which retain his ſweat, or the virulencie caſt forth by an ulcer. the ſame danger may aſſail thoſe who ſhall drink in the ſame veſſel after ſuch as are troubled with this diſeaſ. for by the impure touch of their lips, they leav a virulent ſanies and ſpittle upon the edges of the cup, which is no leſs contagious in its kinde then the virulencie of leprous perſons, or the fomeofmad dogs. wherefore it is no marvel if chil- how nurſes dren nurſed by an infected nurſ, draw in the ſeeds of this diſeaſ together with the milk, may infeat , which is onely blood whitened in the breaſts; or infe&tedſucking children by their hot and . * ulcerated mouths, may transfuſe this malignitie into the bodie ofthe nurſ, by the rare,oof. ;: eir nur- and porous ſubſtance of the dugs which it frequently ſucketh. an hiſtoric, this following hiſtorie is veriememorable to this purpoſe. a certain verie good citti- zen of this cittie of paris granted to his wife, beeing a verie chaſte woman, that conditio- nally ſhee ſhould nurſher own childe, of which ſhee was lately delivered, ſhee ſhould have a nurſin the houſto eaſ her of ſom part of the labor:by ill hap, the nurſ they took was troubled with this diſeaſ; wherfore ſhee f. infeaed the childe,the childe the mother, the mother her husband, and hee two of his children, who frequently accompanied him at bed & board,beeing ignorant of that malignitie wherewith hee was inwardly tainted.in the meanwhile the mother when ſhee obſerved that her nurſ-childe came not forward,but cried almoſt perpetually, ſhee asked my counſel to tell her the cauſ of the diſeaſ; which was not hard to bee don,for the wholebodie thereof was repleniſhed with venereal ſcabs and puſtles, - the hired nurſes and the mother's nipples were eaten in with virulent ulcers;alſo the father's, and the two other children's bodies, whereof the one was three, the other four years old, were troubled with the like puſtles and ſcabs. told them, that they had all the lues ve- nerea, which took its original and firſt off-ſpring by malign contagion from the hired nurſ. i had them in cure, and by god's help healed them all, except the ſucking-childe, which died in the cure. but the hired nurſ was ſoundly laſhed in the priſon, and ſhould have been whipped through all the ſtreets of the cittie, but that the magiſtrate had a care to pre- ſerv the credit of the unfortunate familie. - c hap. iii. in what humor the malignitie of the lues venerea reſide's. hough in the opinion of manie the antecedent cauſof this diſeaſbee the maſ; of blood containing the four humors, yet i had rather place the matter; and primarie, and chief ſeat thereof in groſs and viſcid phlegm infečted with the imalign qualitie of the venereous venom, and from this beginning and founda- - tion, ithink by a certain contagious growth it ſooner or later infett's the o- ther humors, as each of them is diſpoſed orapt to ſuffer. of which my opinion there are manie arguments, but this chiefly, that by the evacuation of a phlegmatick humor, whe- ther by the mouth and ſalivation, or by ſtool, urine, or ſweat in men of what temper - ſoever, whether cholerick, ſanguine or melancholick, the diſeaſis helped or cured. se- why the pain condly, for that the exceſs of pain is more by night then # day, becauſ then the phlegm i.. bearing ſway, ſever's the perioſium from the bone, or elſ offend’s it and the reſtofthement º º branous and nervous bodies by the acrimonie of its malignitie. thirdly, becauſthe patiºn's * are hurt by heuſeofoldding. butually findebºidabyhormedicine,white". / b. . concerning the lues venerea. . bee ointments, plaſters fumigations, or whatſoeverelſ, inwardly taken, or outwardly ap- plied. fourthly, for that in venereous puſtles there is found a certain hardneſs at the root, though outwardly they make ſhew of choler or blood. forbeeing opened, you ſhall finde them ſuffed with a certain plaſter-like andtophous matter, or elſwith rough phlegm, or viſcous pus; whenceariſe theſe hard tophi, or bonie excreſcences upon the bones, if not from phlegmatick humors there heaped up and concrete. fifthly, for that the ſpermatick aud cold partsdo primarily and principally feel the harm of this diſeaſ. sixthly,for that the ulcers which over-ſpread the bodie by reaſon of this diſeaſ, admit of no cure, unleſs you cauſſweats. therefore if the matter of the diſeaſ, and ſuch ulcers as accompanie it, were hot and drie, it would grow worſ, and beerather increaſed by a decoºtion of guajarum, the roots of china, or ſarſaparilla. seventhly, becauſoftimes this diſeaſ, the ſeed thereof being riadier taken or drawn into thebodie, ſo lieth hid for the ſpace of a yeer, that it ſhew's no fign #:le, thereof, which happen's not indiſeaſes proceeding from an hot matter,which cauſſeth quick ſong hidin the w and violent motions. by this it appeareth that the laſts and foundation of the lues venerea bodie before it is placed or ſeated in a phlegmatick humor; yet may not denie, but that other humors con- ſhºw itſelf. fuſed therewith may bee alſo in fault, and defiled with the like contagion. for there are ſcarce anie tumors which proceed from a fimple humor, and that of one kinde, but as in tumors, ſo here the denomination is to bee taken from that humor which carrieth the chief ſway. - " . . . . chap. . . i v. of the ſigns ºf the lues venerea. . . hen the luet veneraislately taken, malign ulcers appear in the privities, ſwel- lings in the groins,a virulent ſtrangurie runneth ofttimes with filthie ſanies,which roceed's either from the proſtate, or the ulcers of urethra; the patient is trou- led with pains in hisjoints, head, and ſhoulders,and as it were breakings of his arms, legsandall his members, they are wearie without a cauſ, ſo that heither the footnor hand can eaſily perform his dutie; their mouths are inflamed, aſ welling trouble's their throats, which take's away their freedom of ſpeaking and ſwallowing, yea of their verie ſpittle; puſtles riſe over º their bodies, but chiefly certain garlands of them engirt their temples and heads; the ſhedding or loſs of the hair, diſgraceth the head and chin; and leanneſs deformeth thereſt of the bodie; yet all of theſe uſe not to appear in all bodies, but ſom of them in ſom. but the moſt certain figns of this diſeaſare, a callous ulcer in the pri- the moſt cer- vities, hard and ill conditioned, and this ſame isjudged to have the ſame force in a progno- inſigns of ſtick, if after it bee cicatrized, it retain the ſame callous hardneſs; the bubo's or five- the tº vene- lings in the groins to return backinto the bodie without coming to ſuppuration or other" manifeſt cauſ: theſe two ſigns, if they concur in the ſame patient, you may judg or foretel that the lue'venerea is either preſent, or at hand; yet this diſeaſ happeneth to manie with- out the concourſ of theſe two figns, which alſo bewraieth it ſelf by other manifeſt ſigns, as ulcers and puſtles in the reſt of the bodie, rebellious againſt medicines though power- ful, and diſcreetly applied, unleſs the whole bodie bee anointed with argentum vivum. but when as the diſeaſ becometh inveterate, manie becom impotent to venerie, and the mali- gnitie and number of the ſymptoms encreaſ, their pains remain fixed and ſtable, verie hard and knotted topbi grow upon the bones, and oftimes they becom rotten and foul, as alſo the hands and feet by the corruption of ſaltphlegmare troubled with chops or clefts, and their heads are ſeazed upon by an ophiafts and alapecia; whitiſh tumors with roots deep faſt- ned in, ariſe in ſundrie parts of the bodie, filled with a matter like the meat of a cheſnut, or like a tendon; if they bee opened they degenerate into diverſ ulcers, asputrid, eating, - and other ſuch, according to the nature and conditon of the affected bodies. but why the two - - - - othercau- pains are more grievous on the night ſeaſon, this may bee added to the true reaſon wee ren- ſºft. dred in the precedent chapter, firſt for that the venereous virulencie lying as it were aſleep of pain in the is ſtirredup and enraged by the warmneſs of the bed and coverings thereof; secondly, by night. reaſon of the patient's thoughts which on the night ſeaſon are wholly turned and fixed upon the onely objećt of pain. - º chap. v. -, *- of prognoſiick. ºf the diſeaſbee lately taken, aſſociated by a few ſymptoms, as with ſom ſmal num- mºr ber of puſtles,and little and wandring pains,and the bodie beſides beeyoung and the ſigns of a in good caſe, and the conſtitution of the ſeaſon bee good and . ... the curable lut: - sring, then the cure is eaſie, and may beehappily performed. but on the contra- rie, that whichisinveterate and enraged by the fellowſhip of manie and malign ſymptoms, as r wntre+. *- . concerning the lues venerea. lib. . as a fixed pain of the head, knots and rottenneſs of the bones, ill-natur'd ulcers in a bodie verie much fallen away and weak, and whereof the cure hath been alreadie ſundrie times undertaken by empyricks, but in vain; or elf by learned phyſicians, but to whoſe reme- dies, approved by reaſon and experience, the malignitie of the diſeaſ and the rebellious vi- the ſigns of rulencie hath refuſed toyeeld, is to bee thought incureable, eſpecially, ifto theſe ſo manie an incureable evils, this bee added, that the patient bee almoſt waſted with a conſumption and hečtick note leanneſs, by reaſon of the decaie of the native moiſture. wherefore you muſt onely attempt ſuch by a palliative cure; yetbee warie here in makeing your prognoſtick: for many have been accounted in a deſperate caſe, who have recovered; for by the benefit of god and na- ture, wonders oftimes happen in diſeaſes. young men who are of a rare or lax habit of bodie are more ſubjećt to this diſeaſ, then ſuch as are of a contrarie habit and complexion. for as not all who are converſant with ſuch as have the plague, or live in a peſtilent air, are alike affected; ſo neither all who lie or accompanie with ſuch as have the lues venerea, are how theſe alike infected ortainted. the pains of ſuch as have this diſeaſ are far different from the pains . . f of the gout. for thoſe of the gout return and torment by certain periods and fits,but the .** other are continual and almoſt alwaies like themſelys; goutie painspoſſeſs the joints, and gout. in theſe condenſ a plaſter-like matter into knots; but thoſe of the pocks are rather faſt- ned in the mid'ſt of the bones, and at length diſſolv them by rottenneſs and putrefaction. venereous ulcers which are upon the yard are hard to cure, but if beeing healed, they ſhall remain hard and callous, they are ſigns of the diſeaſ lying hid in the bodie. the lusº- generally, the lues venerea j now reigneth is far more milde and eaſie to bee cured nerea becom's then that which was in former times, when as it firſt began amongſt us : beſides, each day more gentle, it ſeemeth to bee milder then other. aſtrologers think the cauſ hereof to bee this, for that *"formerly the celeſtial influences which firſt brought in this diſeaſ, in ſucceſs of time by the contrarie it was. revolutions of the stars, loſe their power and becom weak; ſo that it may ſeem ſomwhat likely, that at length after ſom few yeers it may wholly ceaſ; no otherwiſe then the diſeaf termed mentagra, which was verie º: this in manie ſymptoms, and troubled manie of the romans in the reign of tiberius; and the lichen, which in the time of claudius (who ſuc- ceeded tiberius) vexed not onely italie, but all europe beſides. yet phyſicians had rather take to themſelvs the glorie of this leſs rageing diſeaſ, and to refer it to the manie and wholſom means, which have been invented, uſed and oppoſed thereto by the moſt happie - labors of noble wits. c. h.a. p. vi. how manie, and what means there are to oppugn this diſeaſ. § this diſeaſ. yet at this daie there are onely four which are principally uſed. *...* º § the firſt is by a decoètion of guaicum; the ſecond by unétion; the third by ſufficient to nº. emplaſters, and the fourthby fumigation; all of them by hydrargyrum, the impugn the º he firſt excepted. yet that is not ſufficiently ſtrong and powerful; for experience diſeaſ. hath taught, that the deco&ion of guaicum hath not ſufficient trength to extinguiſh the ve- nom of the venereous virulencie, but onely to give it eaf for a time; for becauſ it heat's, attenuate's, provoke's ſweat and urine, waſt's the excrementitious humors by drying them, it ſeemeth to cure the diſeaſ, for that thereupon, for ſom time, the pain and all other ſym- ptoms ſeem more remiſs ; but theſe endeavors are weak and deceitful, as whereby that onely which is more ſubtle in the humors in fault, is exhauſted and diſperſed by ſweat. but hy- hydrºgyrum is drargyrum, is a certain higher power, contain's therein all the power of guaicum, yet much ſufficient to more excellent and efficacious; for beſides that it heat's,attenuate's, cut's, reſolv's and drie's, ...” * it provoke's ſwearandurine,and beſides it expel's noxious humors upwards and downwards, diſeaſ. by the mouth and ſtvol. by which evacuations not onely the more ſubtle,but alſo the more groſs and feculentexcrements,wherein the ſeat of this diſeaſ is properly fixed, are diſperſed and evacuated; by which the phyſician maybee bold to aſſure himſelf of certain vićtorie o- verthe diſeaſ. but after the uſe of the decočtion of guairum, freſh pains audknots ariſe by the reliques of the more groſs and viſcous humors left in the cavities of the entrails; but hydrargyrum leav's no reliques behinde it. c. h. a. p. vii. how to make choice of the wood guaicum. hat is preferred before the reſt, which is of a great logs of a duskie color, new, gum- l, mie, with a freſh ſtrong ſmell, an acrid and ſºmwhat bitting taſte, the bark cleaving the facultic. verie cloſe to the wood. it hath a facultieto heat, rarifie, attenuates attract, to cauſ ſweat, - and move urine, and beſides by aſpecifick propertie to weaken the virulencie of the lue, we trfa. - lib. . --- concerning the lues venerea. - º nerea, there are three ſubſtances taken notice of in this wood: the firſt is the bark,the other is a whitiſh wood which is next to the bark, the third is the heart of the wood, that is the the pºrts. inner, blackiſh, and more duskie part thereof. the bark is the more drie, wherefore you the hot and ſhall uſe it when asyou would drie more powerfully; the midle ſubſtance is more moiſt, fierieſacultie becauſitis more ſucculent and fat; that which lieth between both, is of a milde temper, ofthe bark. wherefore the two laſt are more convenient for delicate natures and rare bodies, which re- - quire leſs drying. furthermore, the bark muſt bee given to denſ and ſtrong natures, that * by the more fierie force thereof, the humors may bee made more fluid, and the paſſages of - the bodie more paſſable. but i would here beeunderſtood to mean ſuch bark as not putrid & rotten with age,to which faultitis verieſúbjeº,for that long beforeitbee ſhipped by our people, the woodlieth in heaps upon the ſhore in the open air, until they can findechap- men for it; which when it is brought aboard, it is flowed in the hold or bottom ofthe ſhip, where beneath by the ſea through the the chinks of the boards, and above by the mariners, it uſually gathereth much dirt. when it is brought hithertous, it is bought and ſold by weight, wherefore, that it may keep the weight, the druggiſts lay it up in vaults and cellars underground, where the ſurface thereof bedeved with much moiſture, can ſcarce eſcape mouldineſs and rottenneſs. wherefore, i do not like to give the deco&ion either of the bark or wood which is next thereto to fick people. - chap. viii. - of the preparation of the decotiion of guaicum. wft|,irſt you muſt have your guaicum ſhaved into ſmall pieces, and to everie pound the propºrt: ofthe ſhaveings, add offair water eight, ten, or twelvpintes, moreorleſs as "nº the nature of the partie, and condition of the diſtaſ ſhall ſtem to require, ac-.” thews- l cording to the rule ofthe formerly mentioned indications. let the water bee reſ. - - hot or warm, eſpecially if it bee in winter, that ſo it may the more eaſily and throughly enter into the bodie of the wood, and draw into it ſelf the faculties thereof in the ſpace of twentie four hours, wherein it is macerated; thenboil it in in balneo, to avoid why hedº- empyreuma, or taſte of fire, which it will contračt by boiling it over a hot fire. yet ſom, no-&ion ought to thing regard this, but think the patient ſufficiently ſerved, if they make a decoction in an bec performed earthen-pot wellglazed, over agentle fire, ſo that no part of the liquor may run over the with “drie mouth oftheweſel for that thusſo much of the ſtrength ofthedecodion mightwaniſh away.” howſoeveritbee made, let it bee boiled to the conſumption of half, a third,or fourth part, as the nature of the patient,and diſeaſſhall ſeem to require. there bee ſom who mix diverſ ſim- ples therwith, which have an occult and proper ſympathie with that part of the bodie which is principally hurt by the diſeaſ, which at the leaſt may ſervin ſlead of a vehicle to carrie the - faculties of the decoètion thitherwhere the diſeaſ moſt reigneth others add thereto purge-whether it bee ing medicines,whoſe judgment i cannot approve of for that i think it is not for the patient's fit to add pur- good to attempt two evacuations at once; that is to expell the humors by ſweat, by the ...” #: habit of the bodie, and by purgeing by the bellie; for that as much urine, ſo alſo much :* ghai- ſweat ſhew's little evacuation by ſtool. for theſe two motions are contrarie, which na-." ture cannot brook at once. for purgeing draw's from the circumference to the center, but hip.spbut. ſweat run's a quite contrarie courſ, and this is the opinion of manie and great phyſicians, ſti. . this firſt decočtion beeingboiled out and ſtrained, the like quantitie of water ſºbee put to the ſtuff, or maſs, that ſo beeing boiled again without anie further infuſion, and ſtrain- ed, with the addition of a littlecinnamon for the ſtrengthening of the ſtomack, the patient may uſe it at his meals, and between his meals, if heebee drie, for his ordinariedrink. the how, and in quantitie of the firſt decoötion to bee taken at once, ought to beeſom five or ſix ounces,and what quantitie it ſhallbee drunk warm, that ſo it may bee the ſooner brought into ačtion, and left the a-thºrošion &tual coldneſs ſhould offend the ſtomach; and then the patient beeing well covered, ſhall muſtbeetaken. keep himſelfin bed,and there expet ſweat which if it comiſlowly on,it ſhall bee helped for- wards with ſtone-bottles filled full of water, and put to the ſoles of the feet. if anie parts how todie in the interimſhall beenuch pained, they ſhallbee comforted by applying of ſwines-blad-theſweat of the ders half filled with the ſame deco&tion heated. neither will it bee unprofitable before the bodie. decoètion bee drunk, to rub over all the bodie with warmlinnen clothes,that by this means the humors may bee attenuated, and the pores of the skin opened. when heeſhall have ſwet ſom two hours, the parts oppoſite to the grieved places, ſhall firſt bee wiped, then pre- ſently, but more gently the grieved parts themſelvs, leſt agreater conflux of humors flow thereto. theſe things beeingdon, hee ſhall keep himſelf in bed, ſhunning the cold air until heebee cooledandcom to himſelfagain, ſom two hours after hee ſhallfödine, as the giſeaſ and his former cuſtom ſhall ſeem to require; fix hours after, betakeing himſelf to his bed, heeſhall drink the like quantitie ofthedeco&ion, and order himſelf as before. but if heebee either weak, or wearie of his bed, itſhallbee ſufficient to keep the houſwithout lying down; for although heeſhall not ſweat, yet there will bee a great diſſipation of the vapors - concerning the Łties venerea. li . . * vapors, and venenate ſpirits, by inſenſible tranſpiration; for the lues venera by the onely communication of theſe, often times catchethhold,and propagates it ſelf in lying with a bedfellow tainted therewith. but as it is requiſite to have let blood, and purged the bodie by the advice of a phyſician, before the takeing of the decočtion of guaicum ; ſo whil'ſ hee doth take it, it much conduceth to keep the bellie ſoluble (which is much bound by the heat and drieneſs of ſuch adrink) and to preſerv the puritie of the firſt veins by a glyfter, how longshi, or laxative medicine taken everie fifth, or fixthday. but for the uſe of it, wee mºſtwaril decodieſinº obſerv, takeing indication, not onely from the malignitie, and contumacie of the : bre uſed, but alſo from the particular nature of the patient; for ſuch as have their bodie waſted by heat & leanneſs, & their skin drie and ſcalie(whence you may gathera great aduſtion of the humors,&,as it were a certain incineration of the habit of the bodie)muſt more ſpareingly make uſe of theſe things, but rather temper the bodie by humetting things takeninwardly, and applied outwardly, as bathes, ointments without quick-filver, and other ſuch #: the mannerofthings. and then a verie weak deco&ion of guaicum ſhall bee uſed for a few daies before diet. your unétion with quick-ſilver. a more plentiful diet, as it draw's forth the diſeaſ which of its own nature is long, ſo a more ſpareing and ſlender diet make's the ulcers more rebel- liousand contumacious,by a heatick drieneſs, • *. therefore a middle courſmuſt bee kept, and meats made choice of which are fit, and na- turally engender good and laudablejuice in the bodie. for it is not onely greatignorance, but much more crueltie, to go about to contein all patients without anie difference, within the ſtrait allowance of four ounces of ship-bisket, & twelv damask prunes: for ijudgit far better to diet the patient with lamb, veal, kid, pullets,fat larks, and black-birds, as thoſe which have a greater familiaritie with our bodies, then prunes and the like junkets. let his bread bee made of white wheat, well levened, neither too new, or tough, neither too old to whom,and ot hard. - let his drinkbee made of the maſs, or ſtrainings ofthe firſt deco&ion of guaicum wºº boiled with morewater, as was formerly mentioned; yet if there ariſe anie great weakneſs of wine my ‘of the faculties, you may permit the uſe of ſom little wine, drinking eſpecially before each bee allowed a cup of the laſt mentioned deco&tion. let him avoid ſleep preſently after meat, for ſo the head is filled with groſs vapors. paſſions, or perturbations of the mindemuſt alſo bee avoi- ded, for thatby theſe the ſpirits are inflamed and diſſipated; all the delights of honeſt plea- - ſure are to bee deſired, but venerie wholly avoided, as that which weaken's all the nervous the deſcripti. parts. manie in ſtead of a deco&ion of guaitun, uſe a decodion of china. now this china on of chini is the root of a certain ruſh, knottie, rare,and heavie, when it is freſh, but light when it is waxed old; it is alſo without ſmell,whence manie judgit void of anie effectual qualitie,it is brought into uſe out of india;it it thus prepard,it is cut into thin round ſlices, boil'din foun- tain or river water, and is given to patients to drink morning & evening after this manner. the preparat. r. rad chin. in talcol, ſettiii. ue fºnt, fºxii.infundantur her bor. xii. & coquantur ad conſum- oth, ption, tertie partis. let him take vi, in the morning, and ſo much at night; let him expe& a ſweat in his bed: a ſecond deco&ion maybee made of the maſs remaining of the firſt, but with a leſs quantitie of water ſº thereto, which alſo by longer boiling may draw forth the ſtrength remaining in the maſs, and beeuſed at meals for ordinarie drink. there are ſom oſseſarpilla, who make a third decottion thereof;but thatis wholly unprofitable & unuſeful. sarſaparilla is prepared alſo juſt after the ſame manner. - /* - ch a p. l x. of the ſecºnd manner fºurting the lues venerea, which is perfºrmed by ſtition or union. &aſº hecure of the lues venerea which is performed by unétion and friðtion is more when the bo- $º & certain, yet not in everie kinde, condition and ſeaſon thereof. for if the dieaſ die muſt bee & § bee inveterate from an humor, tough, groſs, viſcous, and more tenaciouſly fi- pºpas" with º xed in the ſolid parts, as you may gather by the knottie tumors of the bones; *::::::: for then wee are ſofar from doing anie good with affition uſed at the firſt, ºn . . that on the contrarie wee bring the patient in danger of his life,unleſs wee ſhal have firſt pre- pared the humor to expulſion,by emollient and digeſting things firſt uſed but ifitbee lately taken with moveable pains, puſtles,and ulcers in the jaws, throat and privie parts,then may it bee eaſily cured without ſuch preparatives, eſpecially if the humor bee ſufficiently obedi- ent; and as it were preparedof itſelf, and its own nature. therefore firſt uſing general medicines, you may afterwards.com to uſe the undion with hydrargyrum. ----------→ z=- chap. x- , oftbe choice preparation andmixing ºf hydrargyrum. tdrargyrºm which is cleer, thin, white and fluid, is the beſt; on the contrarie, th - -> which isłivid, audnot ſofluid, is thought ******ś - lib. . concerning the lues venerea. lead. that it may bee the purer, ſtrainit through ſom ſheeps-leather,for by preſſing it,when it is bound up, it paſſeth through by its ſubtiltie, and leav's the filth and leaden droſs behinde it on the inſide. then it may bee boil'd in vineger with ſage, roſemariesthyme, ca- momile, melilote, and ſtrained again, that ſo manie waies cleanſed, it may enter into oint- ments and plaſters: to kill it more ſurely, it ſhallbee long wrought, and as it were ground how to killer- in a mortar,that it may bee broken and ſeparated into moſt ſmall particles,that by this means gºntum vivum. it may not beeable to gatheritſelf into the former bodie: to which purpoſe you may alſo add ſom ſulphur, or ſublimate, as wee ſhall ſhew hereafter. it is moſt uſually mixed with hogs- greaſ, adding thereto ſow oil of turpentine, nutmegs, cloves, ſage, and galen's treacle. if a leucophlegmatia together with the lues ventrea affed the bodie, then hot, attenuateing, cut- whatºmix ting and dying things ſhall becadded to the medicine,which ſhallbee provided foruñáion; *. the ſame ſhall bee don when as wee would have it to enter into the ſubſtance of the bones. but if the patientbee of acholerick temper, and, his blood eaſie to bee inflamed, you ſhall make choice of leſs hot, attraćtive and diſcuſſing things. as when the bodieſhallbee reple- niſhed with knottie and ſcirrhous tumors,or ſqualid by exceſſive drineſs,then ſhallemollient and humetting things mixed therewith. but that ſuch ointments may have abetter conſi- ſtence, i uſe to add to each pound thereof, four, five, or ſix yolks of hard eggs. therefore this ſhallbee the form of the ointment called vigoes. r. axung, porti,fbi, olei chamem. aneth. an unétion maſtich. &laurini, an i ſyrac, liquid. x. rad enule, camp. parim trite, & ebuli,an. iii. pul. eu- withºgºntun phorb. . vini odorif. ri.bulliant omnia ſimuluſque ad conſumptionem vini, deinde colentury colature” adde lythargyre auri, vi, thuri, maſtich, an: vi.reſ, pini iſ tereb. venet. i, argenti vivišiv, cere albe;iſ liquefatii, oleis, tum cerá incorporentur omnia ſimul, fiat linimentum ad uſum. orelſ, r. *. argenti vivi preparatiévi, ſublimiti, ſ ſulpuri; vivi, axung porci, ſali, expertis, ibi. vitelos ovorum ſub cineribus codiorum, nu. iii. olei terebinth. & laurini, an Žii, theriac. vet. & methridat: ſ. fiat linimentum ut artis eff. you ſhall compoſe it thus, firſt the ſublimatum and ſulphur ſhallbee how to make finely poudred, then ſom part of the argentum vivum and hog-greaſput to them [then pre-it- n . ſently after, ſom of the hard yolks of eggs, continually and diligently ſtirring and mixing ... /* c & (/ ... y “ them all together. all theſe beeing well incorporate, add ſom more argentum vivum, hogs- aºſ. ... -- : ſº greaſ, and yolks of eggs,and incorporate them with the former; at the laſt add the oils,then y ' k z z treacle, and methridate, and ſo let them all bee beaten together for a whole daies ſpace, and ‘’ ye,' thus you ſhall make anoinment of a good conſiſtence, which i have often uſed with good ſucceſs. yet the hogs-greaſ ſhall bee firſt boiled with the hot herbs good for the finews, as how to pre- ſage, roſemarie, thyme, marjerom, lavander and others which the ſeaſon afford's. for ſo pare the hog's- the axungia acquire's a more attenuating facultie,and conſolidateing of thoſe parts which the greaſbefºre luerpentrea affliºt's. beſides, when unguents are made for this purpoſe, that ſuch virulencieſ. the ar. maybee drawn from within outwards, by ſweats and tranſpiration . the pores of the #. skin, no man need doubt, but that they ought to bee furniſhed with relaxing,and rarifying, and attračtive faculties. but axungia, beſides that it verie fitro kill the argentum vivum, it º ſo relaxeth and mollifieth. now oleum laurinum, de ſpică, rutaceum, rarifie, digeſt and aſſwage pain, turpentine alſo extinguiſheth and bridleth the argentum vivum, moderately heat's, reſolv's and ſtrengthen's the nervous parts. but argentum vivum is the proper antidote of the luer venerea, as that which cure's it howſoever uſed, drying by the ſubtiltieofthe parts,and provokeingſweat. verily treacle and methridate ſomwhat conduce to retund the virulen- cie of this diſeaſ,but unleſs argentum vivum aſſiſt as a ferret to hunt, and an alexiterium to impugn the diſeaſ,they can do no great matter - chap. xi. how to uſe the unāion. - º ºrrº. he bodie and humors apt to cauſor nouriſh a plethora orinflammation, beeing - º prepared by digeſtive ſirups, and evacuated by purgeing and bleeding as is fit- - et, ºw *... " º §§ ting,according to the direétion of ſom phyſitian,the patientſhallbee ſhut upin a º parloror chamber, hot either by nature or art, and free from cold blaſts of winde. for cold is moſt pernitious in this diſeaſ, both for that it hurt's the nervous parts, cold moſt alreadieill affectedby reaſon of the diſeaſ as alſo for that it leſſen's the efficacie of medicines, hºtºſuch wherefore manic do ill in this, who, whether in winter or ſummer, annoint their patients asareroubled in a large room, expoſed on everie ſide to the windes. they deal ſomwhat more wiſely, with he tº . whº put a cloth faſhed like halfatent preſently behinde the patient, though annointed by * the fire-ſide, ſo to keep away the cold airfrom him. yet it is ſafeſt to ſet, and annointthe patient cither in a little room, or elſinfom corner of a large room, ſeparated from the reſt f the room by ſomhangings, and building a ſtove, or makeing ſom fire therein, forſohee heemay ſtand or ſit as heebeſt like's, the longer, and with the leſs offence, and bee equally heated on everie ſide, whereas ſuch as are annointed in achimney by a fire's fide cannot but bee heated unequally, beeing readie toburn on the one ſide,whilſt the other is cold, which motions are contrarie and hurtful to that wee require: beſides,if the patient ſhallbee weak, - her concerning the lues venerea. lib. hee cannot ſtand and endure the heat of the fire. or if hee bee ſhamefact, hee willbee un- willing to ſhew all his bodie at once naked to the surgeon, but hee may without anie harm; and with modeſtie, lying on a bed in a little room, wherein a ſtove is made, have all his lims annointedabout theioints, and preſently boundup, either with floups, or carded cotton, or brown paper. - * * * * * * * * - - , ſº chap. xii. - t. c. :: * , what cautions to bee obſerved in rubbing or annointing the patient. * - •ºr the patient, if § it may bee con- veniently don, § muſt bee an- % nointed faſt- § ing. º ee ſhallbee annointed or rubbed over with the ointment in themorning, the º º: concoëtion and diſtribution of the meatbeeing perfe&ed, which funèions o- tº therwiſe would not bee well performed, the powers of nature beeing diſtra- Šted into ſeveral operations. yet if the patient ſhall bee weak, you may ſom hour before the unětion, give him ſom gellie, the yolk of an egg, or ſom broth made of meat, boiled topieces, but verie ſpareingly, left nature, intent in whº places ** the conco&tion of ſolid meats, or in great quantitie, ſhould bee drawn away from that lººd: a which wee intend. at firſt, let onely theſoints of the lims bee annointed,as about the wreſts, be annuinº. clbows, knees, anckles, ſhoulders. but afterward, if the patient ſhall bee more ſtrong, and a greater commotion of the humors and bodie ſeem neceſſarie, the emunétories of the prin- cipal parts may alſo beeannointed, and the whole ſpine of the back; yet haveing much care, and alwaies ſhunning the principal and noble parts, left wee ſhould do asthof: butcherlie empericks do, who i. , and in like manner daub and rub over all the bodie, from the ſoles of the feet, to the crown of the head: moreover, diligent regard muſt bee had of thoſe * . parts, which are ſeazedupon by the ſymptoms of this diſeaeſ, that they may beenore an- noin º that it maybee more throughly rubbed in. yet you muſt alwaies begin your an- where to begin nointing rrubbing at thoſe parts which are leſs offended,leſt the humors ſhould bee drawn the unéti º: in greater meaſure to the grieved part. and as gentlefrications do not ſufficiently open the pores of the skin, ſo more ſtrong and hard ones ſhut them up, cauſ pain, and more plenti- fully attract the morbifick matter. wherefore it will bee more couvenient to uſe mode- rate frićtions, takeing indication from the ſtrength of the patient, as that whereto weemuſt ſtill have the chief regard. there is alſo another thing whereto the phyſician and surgeon … . . . . . muſt diligently attend, as that, which if it bee not carefully prevented,will either haſten the death of the patient, or make him ſubjećt to a relapſ; that is,the quantitie of the remedies and un'tions, and the number of the frićtions. which confideration, together with that which is of the degrees of the temperaments of the whole bodie, and each part thereof, much trou- ble's the mindcs of goodphyſicians, and maketh the art conjećtural, it is far from beeing at- waii, that tained to by empericks. yetweenuſt endeavorby method and reaſon, that by the rule of ºf the ar, indications ſo frequently mentioned, wee may attain to the knowledg thereof; as near as of phyſickcºn- may bee.for to have perfeółknowledg hereof,and to ſay that thoſe need onely four, others jcótural. five, and otherſom fix, more or fewer frićtions at the beginning, which empericks common- ly do, is a thing both impoſſible and vain. all theſe muſt bee changed and ordered accord- ing to the malignitie and continuance of the diſeaſ, and the condition of the affetted bodies. verily wee muſt ſo long uſe frićtions and undions, until the virulent humorsbee perfeótly evacuated by ſpitting and ſalivation, by ſtool, urine, ſweat, or inſenſible tranſpiration. which you may underſtand by the falling away and drying up of the ſº. and ulcers, and the ceaſing of the pains and other ſymptons proper to this diſeaſ. in manie, by reaſon of who muſt bºº the more denſand compačt habit of the bodie nature is more ſlow in excretion. yet i have rubbed "“ learnt by lo iênce, that it is beſt to annoint and chafe ſuch twice in a daie,to wit once, who by long experience; - . ...isis, morning and evening, ſix hours aftermeat. for ſo you ſhall profit more in one daie, then and who but c. by the ſingle frićtion of three daies. but on the contraie, i have often,and with good ſucceſs, veric other rubbed over but each other day more rare and delicate bodies, giveing them one or two daies daie. reſt to recolle& their ſtrength, which by the too much diſſolution of their ſpirits becomming too weak, were not ſufficient to expell the reliques of the morbifick matter. and certainly about the end of the appointed friðion, eſpecially when as the patient begin's to fluxatthe mouth, the bodies, together with the noxious humors are made ſo fluid by the means of the - precedent frićtion,that onefrićtion is then more efficacious then two were at the beginning. tº devºn. therefore as galen bid's, when as the diſeaſ is great, and the ſtrength of the patient infirm, ſtół. that wee ſhould part our blood-lettings, and draw a little and a little at once; ſo alſo here when as weeſhall obſerv nature ſtirred up, and readie bent to anie kinde of evacuation by the mouth, ſtool, or other like; you ought not to uſe anie unétion or frićtion oftner then once in a daie; yea, certainly it will bee better to intermit for ſom few daies. for thus maſ- ſº report's, that there was a certain man who almoſt waſted with a conſumption beeing con- tinually afflićted with the moſt grievous pains of this diſeaſ, and reputed in a deſperate caſe by other phyſicians, was notwithſtanding at length recovered by him, when as heehadan- nointed him thirtie ſeven times, putting ſom timebetween for the recoverie of his ſtrength. - - - i my lib. . concerning the lues venerea. i myſelf have obſerved others, who thus, by the interpoſition of one or two daies, beeing rubbed over ſom fifteen or ſeventeen times, have perfe&ly recovered. wherefore you muſt take this courſin reſolved and weak bodies, yet in the interim muſt you have a care, that the friðions bee not too weak, and ſo few, that the morbifick cauſmay not bee touched to the quick: for in this kinde of diſeaſnature doth not of itſelf endeavour anie criſis, or nºnot excretion; it require's the auxiliarie forces of medicines, by whoſe aſſiſtance it may expell *:::::::: all the malignitie. theſe are ſigns of ſuch a criſis, either at hand, or alreadie preſent, if the *::::::: patient bee ſo reſtleſs, ſo loath all things, that hee cannot remain in one place either matter. itanding or lying, hee can neither éat, nor drink, if heebee oppreſſed with a continual signs that the wearineſs, almoſt readie to ſwound, yet have a good and equal pulſ, and gripeings in his ºf iºnish. bellie afflićt him with bloodie and viſcous dejećtions, until at length nature after one or two daies portion of the morbifick matter beeing ſpent, bee ſomwhat free’d, and all pains and ſymptoms ſo much abated, as the excretions have proceeded. but whereas medicines are not ſufficient in number or ſtrength, there follow's an imperfeit criſis, which leav's be- hinde it ſom reliques of the morbifick matter, which like leaven do ſo by little and little infe& the whole maſs of the humors, that oftimes after ten years ſpace, the diſeaſ riſeth as out of an ambuſh, or lurking-hole, and becom's far worſthen before. but wee muſtin like incºniºn: manner have a careleaſt theſe medicines, that are either given inwardly; or applied out: . . wardly, beenot too ſtrong: for by cauſing ſuch colliquation of the radical moiſture and . ſolid parts, manie have been brought into an incureable conſumption. in others ſordid and trid ulcers have thence ariſen in the mouth, which having eaten a great part of the pal- ate and tongue, have degenerated into a deadly cancer. in others hereupon the tongue hath ſo ſwelled up, that it hath filled the whole capacitie of the mouth, ſo that it could not bee bended to anie part of the mouth for chawing, whereupon they have by little and lit- tle been famiſhed. in other ſom there hath been cauſed ſo great colliquation of humors, that for a whole moneth after, tough and filthie ſlaver hath continually flowed out of their mouths. other ſom have the muſcles of their jaws relaxed; others troubled with a con- vulfion, ſo that dureing the reſt of their lives they can ſcarce gape. others, by loſing a portion of their jaw, have loſt ſom of their teeth. but you muſt not alwaies ſo longan- noint and chaſe the bodie, until a flux of the mouth or bellie appear. for you may finde ſundrie perſons, who, if you ſhould annoint or rub them to death, you cannot bring them to flux at the mouth; yet theſe will recover notwithſtanding, excretion beeing made ei- ther by inſenſible tranſpiration, or evacuation of urine, or ſom gentle flux of the bellie either procured by art, or comming of itſelf. in which caſe i have obſerved that mni: : what per- have received much good by a purgeing decočtion of guaicum, adminiſtred according to the jº. quantitie of the peccant humor, and given for ſom daies in the morning, adding thereto ºguaicum is white wine, if the bodie abounded with tough and viſcid humors. dyſenteries, or good. bloodie fluxes cauſed by unétions, may bee helped by glyſters, wherein much hogſ-greaſººf”. is diſſolved to rotund the acrimonie cauſed by the medicine and humor which nouriſheth p.” the dyſenterie. alſo new treacle diſſolved in new milk, is thought wonderfully to miti- j i. gate this ſymptom. frićtion. chap. xiii. of the third manner of cure, which is performed by cerates, and emplaſters, is ſubſtitutes of unčiions. or that ſundrie by reaſon of the name abhor the uſe of frićtion, which is per- r § formed by the fore-mentioned ointments, therefore there is foundoutan- mother manner of cure by cerates and emplaſters, as ſubſtitutes of frićtions, as a but that uſually is ſomwhat ſlower; for which purpoſe it is not needful *:::: by |onely to uſe the things which are deſcribed by vigo, but you may alſo deviſe. i. * other,which are more or leſs anodyne,emollient, attenuating,diſcuſſing, or - drying,according to the condition of the preſent diſeaſ, ſymptoms,humors and patient, ne- ver omitting hydrargyrum, the onely antidote of this diſeaſ. such emplaſters mitigate pains and knots, and reſolv all hardneſs, and are abſolutely verie effečtual, for continually ſtick- ing to the bodie they continually operate. wherfore they are of prime uſe in relapſes of this inwhat caſe, diſeaſ.or when the humors are thick and viſcous, or otherwiſe lie deep in the bodie,and ve-º-thirty rie difficult to root out. but for that they work more ſlowly oftimes, ſuch as uſe them are" forced at length to uſe ſomfrićtions to ſtimulate nature,and cauſthe ſpeedier excretion.yet in ſom whoſe bodies and humors have been fluid, either by nature or art, the applied em- plaſters have in three daies ſpace procuredevacuation ſufficient for the diſeaſ, ſo †. if they had notbeen taken away, they would have cauſed a colliquation,like that which wee lately mentioned in too violent frićtion. wherefore you ſhall uſe the like diſcretion in takeing of " - theſe,as you uſe in your unétions and frićtion. in ſtead of emp.de vigo,this following maybee .irº fitly uſed. rimaſſe emp.de meliló. **** vivi extin: vi, oleo laurino, & f ſºică, ;" ſ rººkſ/ſa/fºr - . concerning the lues venerea. lib. . reducantur adforman emplaſtri. theſe plaſters muſt bee equally ſpread upon lether, and laid upon the ſame places of the joints, as were formerly mentioned in the cure by frićtions. yet ſom therebee, who cover with the plaſter all the arm, from the hand even to the ſhoul- der, and all the leg from the top of theknee, even to the ends of the toes, which thing i do not diſallow of, if ſo beethat the places of the joints bee covered over with a #. plaſter. they muſt bee left ſticking there ſo long, until nature bee flirred up and provoked ... to cauſexcretion of the virulent humors. yet if in the interim greatitching ſhallariſe in : the parts, you may take them off ſo long until the parts ſhallbee fomented with a decočtion of the flowers of camomile, melilote, red roſes, and the like made in wine, to diſcuſs that which eauſed the itching, and then you may lay them on again. som, to hinder the riſeing of anie itch, lay not the bare plaſter to the part, but cover it over with ſarcenet, ſo to keep it from ſticking, and thus interceptthe tranſpiration of the part, the cauſof itching.they ſhall bee ſtronger or weaker, and lie to the part a longer or ſhorter ſpace, as long as the indica- tions, ſo often formerly mentioned, ſhall ſeem to require. the effects of emplaſters are the ſame as of frićtions; for they cauſexcretion, one while by inſenſible tranſpiration, other- whilesby a diarrhea, or flux of thebellie; ſomtimes by urines, but moſt frequently (which criſis is alſo moſt certain)by ſalivation.sordidand virulent ulcers often breed in the mouth, whitezatti. “...” pallate and gums by ſalivation, by reaſon of the acrimonie of the virulent humors j. adhering to the fides of the mouth; to hinder thc growth of theſe, manie injećt glyffers diſeaſ. made ofemollient things, eſpecially at the beginning of the ſalivation, ſo to draw down- wards the humors forceibly flying up in greater quantitie then is fit, although the partit ſelf may endure them. - there are alſo ſom, who to the ſame end givea purgeing medicine at the verie time when to avoid the as the hnmors are readie to move upwards, the which i think is not a ſafe courſ. the cure ulcers of the of ſuch ulcers is far different from the cure of others. for they ought by no means to bee re- mouth. percuſſed or repelled, how inflamed ſoever they bee, but onely to bee mitigated by garga- to cure them. riſins, ſoonely to leſſen the heat,and that by this frequent waſhing of the mouth, you may hinder the ſticking or furring of viſcid humors to ſuch like ulcers. a decočtion of barlie, eow'ſ milk warm,held and gargled in the mouth, the mucilages of the ſeeds of mallows, marſh-mallows, pſilium, lettuce, line extračted in the water of barlie, mallows, and pellito- rie of wall, are good for this purpoſe; for thus the ulcers becom more milde, and the tena- citie of the adherenthumors is looſed. you muſt at the firſt beware of ſtrong detergent me- ... dicines, for almoſt all ſuch have acrimoniejoined with them, which will encreaſ the pain, but chiefly in the ſtate of the diſeaſ: for ſo, the ulcers gently cleanſed by frequent gargling, would becom worſby the uſe of acrid things. therefore it ſhallbee ſufficient to make uſe of the fore-mentioned medicines, ſo to hinder the encreaſof the filth, and inflammation of the ulcers, if ſo beethat ſuch ulcers bee not too exceeding malign and burning. for if it ſhall happeneither by the powerful efficacie of the applied plaſters, or by the violence of na- ture in its motion of the ill humors upward, that ſuch ſtore of viſcous and groſs humors are carried to the mouth, that it want's little, but that the É. itſelf is over-ruled by the mor- bifick matter, ſo that by the violence and continuance of the flux,the mouth and jaws becom ſo ſwelled, that agangrene is to bee feared, by hindering the entrance of the ſpirits, and ex- tinguiſhing of the native heat of theſe parts. in this caſe wee are forced to leav the proper cure for to withſtand the accidents, and for this purpoſe wee uſe reſtriótive and repelling reſtriaive things, ſuch as are barlie water, plantain, night-ſhadº, knot-graſs, ſhepherds-purſ; and the and repelling like, with ſyrup of roſts, violets, quinces, berberies, pomegranates and the like; alſo gºrgºriſmº. ſuch are the mucilages and decočtions ofthe ſeeds of lettuce,ffilium,quinces, plantain,night- ſhade, water-lillies, wood-bine,&c. alſo it is convenient to procure ſweats by ſtoves,or the application of anie hot and drie things; for thus the humors which run forth of the veſſels ... into all the ſurface of the bodie are diverted. but when as the courſ of the humors running to the mouth, is beginning to ſtop, and the tumors and ulcers begin to leſſen, then to drie the ul- nothing hinder's, but that wee may uſe gently detergent things, as, ſyrup. roſarum **the ſiccarum, mel roſatum, diamoron, dianucum, and the like. but when it is time to drie mouth. the ulcers, they may bee lightly touched with alum-water, or with aqua fortis, ſuch as gold-ſmiths have uſed for the ſeparation of metals. they may alſo frequently uſe drying gargariſms made with aſtrićtion of the waters of roſes, plantain, night-ſhade, ſhepherd's-purſ, knot-graſs, and dog's-tongue, boiling therein balau- ſtia, roſ. rub. myrtil. jumach. alumen. acacia, berber... galle , malicor... and the like. purcing the time of fluxing or ſalivation you muſt diet and feed the patient with liquid meats, and thoſe of good juice,, and eaſie digeſtion, for that then hee can neither chaw, ſwallow, nor digeſt hard things. for nature wholly intent upon the excretion of the noxious and peccant humors, as alſo weakned by the bitterneſs of pain, watchings, and unquietneſs, and conſequently a great reſolu- manner of, tion of the ſpirits, cannot inſiſt powerfully upon the work of conco&ion. diet . i. -thereforehee inall bee fed with rear new-laideggs, candles of the fame, barlie-creams, : ** culleſſes made of a decottion of knuckles of veal, and a capon, and gellies, and - with lib. . concerning the lues venerea. - - with theſe in ſmall quantitie,but frequently adminiſtred,alwaies gargling his mouth before hee eat. for his drink heeſhall uſe a decočtion of guaicum aromatized with a little cinna- - *. - mon; but if aniedeſire that the drink ſhall becom nouriſhment, for that the patients cannot to make their feedon more ſolid meats, you may give them old wine, claret and thin, mixed with ſom drinkmouriſh- barlie-water. som there are who ſteep ſom crums of pure manchet in the foreſaid wine,and ** then preſs it out, but yet ſo, that there may ſom part of the bread remain therein, which may make it more nouriſhing, andleſs ſharp or acrid. others ſteep breaſſhot out of the oven,in wine, for the ſpace of a night, then they diſtil it all over in balneo marie; the liquor which firſt com's over is more ſtrong and hot, but that which flow's out #fterwards, more milde, and ſuch as the patient may uſe to mix with his wine without anie danger, for his better nouriſhment, and the recoverie of his ſtrength. - - - for to refreſh the ſpirits in fear of fainting, muskedine, hippocras, roſe-vineger, and the like, put to the noſe to ſmell to, will bee ſufficient, unleſs peradventure the patient ſhould naturally abhor ſuch things,for ſo they would rather dejećt the powers and ſpirits.in the in- terim,you muſt have care of the bellie,that you keep it open by gentle andemollient glyſters. chap. xii ii. of the fourth manner of curting the lues venerea. ºg om have deviſed a fourth manner of cureing the lugº venerea, which is by ſuff- §§º tus, or fumigations. i do not much approov hereof, by reaſon of ſundrie ma- *, * : * lign ſymptoms which thence ariſe, . they infect and corrupt by their vene- bº mous contagion, the brain and lungs, by whom they are primarily and fully received, whence the patients dureing the reſidue of their lives have ſtinking breaths. yea manie while they have been thus handled, have been taken hold of by a convulſion, and a i. hurtthat trembling of their heads, hands, and legs, with a deaſheſs, *:::::::: and laſtly, miſerable .." death, by reaſon of the malign vapors of ſulphur and quick-filver, whereof cinnabari, con- gations. fiſt's, drawn in by their mouth, noſe, and all the reſt of the bodie.wherefore i can never ap- proov the uſe of ſuch fumigations which are to bee received in funes by the mouth and no- itrils for to work upon the whole bodie; yet i do not diſlike of that, which is undertaken what fumiga- for ſom one part onely, as to drie upill-conditioned ulcers, which ſo affect it, that they º .* cannot bee overcom by anie other means, or for to diſperſor digeſt knots, or to reſolv fixed - pains, otherwiſe unmoveable. theſe fumigations, by reaſon of the admixture of argentum º vivum, have an attenuating, cutting, reſolving, and colliquating facultie. thoſe who pre- pare theſe fumigations for the cure of the whole diſeaſ and bodie, take this courſ. the put the patient under a tent or canopie made cloſe on everie ſide, left anie thing ſhould ex-the common pire, and they put in unto him a veſſel filled with hot coles, whereupon they plentifully manner of throw cinnabari, that ſo they may on everie ſide enjoy the riſeing fume, juſt after the ſame uſinstem. manner as farriers uſe to ſmoak their horſes for the glaunders: they repeat this everie ſo long, until they begin to flux at the mouth. the principal matter or baſis of ſuch fumi- gations, as wee have alreadie noted, is cinnabaris conſiſting of ſulphur and argentum vivum mixed together; there is added alſo, radix ireos for, thus, olibanum. myrrha, juncus odoratus, aſſa . matter of odorata, maſtiche, terebinthina, & theriaca, all which have a facultieto reſolv and ſtrengthen the “ ſpirits, and nature, and correót the ſtinch and evil qualitie of the argentum vivum.there are * alſo other fumigations made after anothermanner,but that alſo when as the argentum vivum is extinë,andas it were fix after this manner; let ſom leadbee melted,& let therebee poured or put theretoſomargentum vivum, then let it all bee powdred, adding thereto antimonie, a- loés, maſtich, copreſs, orpiment,and benjamin made into powder, and framed into trochi- ſces with ſom turpentine. orelſ, b. cinnabaris, iſtyracis rub.& calamite, nucis moſchatan. iii. trochiſces for benzoini, ſ.excipe terebinth fiant trochiſei ponderis ii.for the fore-ſaid uſe. the terebinthina is fumigations. added to . the drie things, and the gums are added to yield matter to the fume. but virulent ulcers of the lues venereaſhall not bee fumigated before they bee cleanſed; alſo this following fumigation is good. r.cinnab i. benzoini, myrrhe, ſyracis, olibani, opopanaciº, an. ſ maſtiches, macis, thuris, an ii.excipiantur terebinthina, & fial ſuffumigium. chap. xv. the cure of the ſymptoms, or ſymptomatick affe'ís of the lues venerea: and firſt, of the ulcers of the yard. wallous and malign ulcers in this diſeaſmay grow all over the yard; but theſe the ulcers of are far more malign which ariſe on the prepuce, then thoſe that grow on the the prºpuº &t) glans, or nut of the yard. now they are rebellious to the common medicines . . of ulcers which happen other-waies, and they are alſo ſubjećt to turn into a ...” - - - e glans. a gangrene, ſo that ſundrie, who have not in time provided for themſelvsby s ſ the . concerning the lues venerea. lib. . the uſe of argentum vivum, are forced for their negligence to ſuffer the loſs of their glans, and oftimes of their whole yard. yet i am of opinion, that i think weemuſt begin the cure of allulcers of the yard with the general remedies of ulcers. for all ulcers ariſing in theſe ***** - parts by reaſon of copulation, are not virulent. but when as wee ſhall finde that wee doe “no good by this means, and that the diſeaſ notwithſtanding grow's worſ and worſ, then muſt wee com to make uſe of ſuch things as receiv argentum vivum, that by theſe wee may re- fiſt the virulencie which is readie to diſperſit ſelf over all the bodie, yet it is abſolutely né- ceſſarie that all theſe things bee endued with ſuch faculties as may retund the malignacris lanfranck's monie of this venom, ſuch an one is this following collyrium of lamfanck, r. vini albi, fbi. tollyrium. aq-roſ. & planag. anguart. . j. viridi, eris, i, aloes, myrrhe, an: ii. heramtur ſubtiliff- mé, fiat collyrium. alſo theſe ulcers may bee profitably touched with mercurie-water, or aqua forti, which the gold-ſmiths have uſed, or elf mercurie in powder, or our egyptiacum : but the falling away of the eſchar ſhall bee procured with baſilicon, or freſh butter. yet i think it not fit to uſe theſe acrid things without verie great caution, for fear of a gangrene, which eaſily happen's to this part. but if ſuch ulcers are ſo ſtubborn, that they will not yeild to theſe remedies, then muſt we com to the frićtion or unétion of the groins, perine- um, and ulcers, with the ointments formerly preſcribed for the general frićtion. alſo fumi- gations may bee made, as wee mentioned in the former chapter. for thus at length the ma- lignitie of the virulent humor will bee overcom, and the callous hardneſs mollified; and laſtly, the ulcers themſelvs cleanſed, and beeing cleanſed, conſolidated. somtimes after the perfect cure of ſuch ulcers, there will appear manifeſt ſigns of the lues venerea in manie, which ſhewed not themſelvs before, for that the virulencie flowed forth of the running ul- cers, and now this vent beeing £opt, it flow's back into the bodie, and ſhew's figns thereof in other parts; and theſe men have need of a general unětion. - *this which by our autor is here termed §:… - " - c h a p. xvi. lenta, and in , . - - french chaudepiſ- how a gonorrhoea differelh from a “virulent strangurie. fe, is the ſame - - ven to this day verie manie have thought that the virulent strangurie hath which by other autors is uſual- ly termed gonor. rhad virulenta, that which follow's, that they are much different. for a gonorrhaa is an un- and by us vulgar- - ly in engliſh, ſhe #| voluntarie effuſion of ſeed running from the whole bodie to the genitals, by running of the reaſon of the reſolution and palſie of the retentive facultie of theſe parts, as it repºſe is delivered by galen, lib.de locaffei. this diſeaſ befalleth others by the collection of the blood and ſeminal matter by the veſſels of the whole bodie, which not turning into fat and - good fleſh, take's it courſ to the genitals; but on the contrarie, a virulent strangurie is a whiaviru running, or rather dropping out of the urinarie paſſage, of a yellowiſh, livid, bloodie, fil- !".”g" thie ſame, like to pu, or matter not well concoëted, oftentimes fretting and exulcerating r t s. the paſſage with the acrimonie, and cauſing a painful erection of the yard, and diſtenfion of all the genital parts. for in this erection there is cauſed as it were a convulſive con- the cauſof tračtion of theſe parts. and hence it is that the patients complain, that they feel as it were hºonvulſive aſtring ſtretched ſtiff in that part, which draw's the yard as it were downwards. the cauſ ;" * hereof is a groſs and fiatulent ſpirit, filling and diffending by its plentie, the whole chan- c yard. nel or hollow nerv ; yeaverily, the whole porous ſubſtance of the yard. if to theſe ſym- ptoms this bee added, that the urinarie paſſage bee exulcerated, a grievous pain afflićt's the patient, whilſt hee make's water, for that the ulcers are irritated by the ſharp urine paſſing that way. such a virulent ſtrangurie or running of the reins oftimes continueth for two or three years ſpace: but the gonorrhea, or running of the ſeed cannot endure ſo long, but that it will bring the bodie to an extreme and deadlie leanneſs, for that the matter of the feed is of the more benign and laudable portion of the blood, as you may perceiv by thoſe - who have too immoderately uſed copulation but the ſpace of one night. for ſuch have their *# faces more lean and lank, and the reſt of their bodies enervated, languiſheth and becom- gº." p* meth dull. by this wee have delivered, it may bee perceived that the running of a virulent whº kinde of ſtrangurie, is not the running of a ſeniinal humor, fit for generation of iſſue, but rather of matter floweth a viſcous and acrid filth, which hath acquired a venenate malignitie by the corruption of forthin a viru- the whole ſubſtance. lent ſtrangu- ric, -- ſ chap. xvii. of the cauſes and differences of the ſcalding, or ſharpneſ of the urine. fº: he heat or ſcalding of the water, which is one kinde of the virulent ſtrangurie, # ariſeth from ſom one of theſe three cauſes; to wit, repletion, inanition. and : contagion. that which proceeds from repletion • proceed's either from too & great abundance of blood, or by a painful and tedious journie in the hot ſun, or the cauſof a gº particular re- pletion of the ºl privic parts. ſom affinitie with the gonorrhaa of the antients, but you ſhall underſtand by lib. . concerning the lues venerea. or by feeding upon hot, acrid, diuretick and flatulent meats cauſing tenſion and heat in the urinarie parts, whence proceed's the inflammation of them and the genital parts, whence it happen's that not onely a ſeminal,but alſo much other moiſture may flow unto theſe parts, but principally to the proffate, which are glandules fituate at the roots, or beginning of the neck of the bladder, in which place the ſpermatick veſſels end; alſo abſtinence from venerie cauſeth this plenitude in ſom who have uſually had to do with women, eſpecially the ex- pulſive facultie of the ſeminal and urinarie parts beeing weak, ſo that they are not of them- iſelvs able to free themſelvs from this burden. for then the ſuppreſſed matter is corrupted, and by its acrimonie contraćted, by an adventitious and putredinous heat, it cauſſeth heat and pain in the º forth. the profiate ſwelling with ſuch inflamed matter, in proceſs of time becom ulcerated, the abſceſs beeingbroken. the purulent ſanies dropping and flow- ing hence alongſt the urinarie paſſage cauſes ulcers by the acrimonie, which the urine fal- ling upon,exaſperate's; whence ſharp pain, which alſo continueth for ſom ſhort time after makeing of water, and together therewith by reaſon of the inflammation, the pain's attra- &tion, and the vaporous ſpirit's diſtenſion, the yard ſtand's, and is contraćted with pain, as . . wee noted in the formed §: but that which happen's through inanition, is acquired ſhºº of by the immoderate and unfit uſe of venerie, for hereby the oilie and radical moiſture of the : forementioned glandules is exhauſted, which waſted and ſpent, the urine cannot but bee. geni troubleſom and ſharp by the way to the whole urethra. from which ſenſof ſharp pain, the ſcalding of the urine hath its denomination. that which com's by contagion, is cauſed by impure copulation with an unclean perſon, or with a woman, which ſom-ſhort while before hath received the tainted ſeed of a virulent perſon, or elſhath the whites, or her pri- vities troubled with hidden and ſecret ulcers, or carrieth a virulent ſpirit ſhutup or hidden there, which heated and reſuſcitated by copulation, preſently infett's the whole bodie with the like contagion,no otherwiſe then the ſting of a scorpion or phalangium, by caſting a lit- tle poiſon into the skin, preſently infeå's the whole bodie, the force of the poiſon ſpread- ing further then one would believ, ſo that the partie fall's down dead in a ſhort while after. thus therefore the ſeminal humor contained in the proſtate, is corrupted by the tainture of the reaſon of the ill drawn thence by the yard,and the contagion infect's the part itſelf; whence follow's a contagious an abſceſs, which caſting forth the virulencie by the urinarie paſſage, cauſeth a virulent trangwrie. ſtrangurie and the malign vapor carried up with ſom portion of the humor unto the en- trails and principal parts, cauſthe lues venerea, - chap. xviii. prognoſticks in a virulent strangurie. #ee qught nottobee negligent or careleſs in cureing this affe&, for of it pro-a virulent % ceedpernicious accidents,as weebave formerly told you, and negle&ted, it be- ſtrangurie g com's uncureable, ſo that ſom have it run out of their urinarie paſſage durcing continue's yºo their lives; oftimes to their former miſerie is added a ſuppreſſion of the urine, tºº. the proſtate and neck of the bladder beeing inflamed and unmeaſurably ſwelled. copulatiº." r on, and the uſe of acrid or flatulent meats increaſ this inflammation, and alſo together" therewith cauſan iſºburia, or ſtoppage of the urine; they are worſ at the change of the moon: certain death follow's upon ſuch a ſtoppage; as i obſerved in a certain man, who an hiſtorie. troubled for ten years ſpace with a virulent ſtrangurie, at length died by the ſtoppage of his water. hee uſed to bee taken with a ſtopping of his urine, as often ashee uſed anie vio- lent exerciſe, and then hee helped himſelf by putting up a filver catheter, which for that purpoſe hee ſtill carried about him ; it happened on a certain time, that hee could not thruſt it up into his bladder, wherefore heeſent for mee, that i might help him to make water, for which purpoſe when l had uſed all my skill, it proved in vain: when hee was dead, and his bodie opened, his bladder was found full, and verie much diſtended with u- rine, but the proſtate preternaturally ſwelled, ulcerated, and fill of matter reſembling that from what which formerly uſed to run out of his yard, whereby you may gather, that this virulencie ºn- flow's from the proſtate, which run's forth of the yard in a virulent ſtrangurie,and not from ... #: the reins, as manie have imagined. certainly, a virulent ſtrangurie, if it bee of anie long . * continuance, is to bee judged a certain particular lues venerea, ſo that it cannot bee cured unleſs by frićtions with hydrargyrum. but the ulcers which poſſeſs the neck of the bladder are eaſily diſcerned from theſe which are in the bodie or capacitie thereof. for in the later the filth com’s away as the patient make's water, and is found mixed with the urine, with certain ſtrings or membranous bodies comming forthin the urine: to theſe may bee added, the far greater ſtinch of this filth which iſſueth out of the capacitie of the bladder. now muſt wee treat of the cure of both theſe diſeaſes, that is, the gonorrhaa and virulent stran- gurie; but firſt of the former. sſ chap, concerning the lues venerea. lºy chap. xix. the chief beads of cureing a gonorrhoea. jº eta phyſicianbee called, who may give diretion for purgeing, bleeding and j£º diet, if the affe& proceed from a fulneſs and abundance of blood and ſeminal §§§ matter; all things ſhallbee ſhunned which breed more blood in the bodie,which &# increaſſeed, and ſtir to venerie. whereforehee muſt abſtain from wine, unleſs for a ſtrangu- it bee weak and aſtringent, and hee muſt not onely eſchue familiaritie with women, but tiºned their verie pićtures, and all things which may call them to his remembrance, eſpecially if *p* heelove them dearly; ſtrong exerciſes do good, as the carrying of heavie burdenseventin- til they ſweat, ſwimming in cold water, little ſleep, refrigerations of the loins and genital parts, by annointing them with unguentum roſarum refrigerans galeni & nutritum, putting thereupon a double cloth i. in oxycrate, and often renewed. but if the reſolution or for the decaic weakneſs of the retentive facultie of theſe parts bee the cauſof this diſeaſ, contraćted by too of the reten- much uſe of venerie before they arrive at an age fit to perform ſuch exerciſe; in this caſe tive facultic ſtrengthning and aſtringent things muſt both bee taken inwardly, and applied outwardly. but now i haſten to treat of the virulent strangurie, which is more proper to my purpoſe. diet. c h a p. xx. the general cure both of the ſcalding of the water, and the virulent strangurie. #ee muſt diverſly order the cure of this diſeaſ,according to the varietie of the cauſ. ' § ſes and accidents thereof. firſt, care muſt bee had of the diet, and all ſuch things . ſhunned as inflame the blood, or cauſ windineſs; of which nature are all diure- - tick and flatulent things; as alſo ſtrong and virulent exerciſes. purgeing and bleeding are convenient, eſpecially, iffuſneſs cauſtheaffect. womens companies muſt bee ſhunned and thoughts of venereous matters; the patient ought not to lie upon a ſoft bed, but upon a quilt or matterice, and never, if hee can help it, upon his back: boiled meats are better then roſted, eſpecially boil'd with ſorrel, lettuce, purſlain, cleanſed barlie,and the four cold ſeeds beaten : for ſauce, let him uſe none, unleſs the juice of an orange, pome- granate, or verjuice; let him ſhun wine, and in ſtead thereof uſe a decoétion of barlie and liquorice, an hydromel, or hydroſaccarum with a little cinnamon, or that which is termed potuſ divinus. in the morning let him ſup of a barlie cream, wherein hath been boiled a no- dulus of the four cold ſeeds beaten together with the ſeeds of white poppie ; for thus it refri- gerateth, mitigateth and cleanſeth; alſo the ſyrups of marſh-mallows and maiden-hair are good. alſo purgeing the bellie with half an ounce of caffa, ſomtimes alone, otherwhiles with a dram or half a dram of rubarb in powder put thereto, is good. and theſe follow- pills. ing pills are alſo convenient. r.maſſe pilulºſine quibu, bi, rhei eleå ºſſaphure griiii. cum te- rebinthiná formentur# ; let them bee taken after the firſt ſleep. venice turpentine alone, the force of or adding thereto ſom ruburb in powder, with oil of ſweet almonds newly drawn with- venice-tur-, outfire, or ſom ſyrup of maiden-hair,is a fingular medicine in this caſe, for it hath an ex- pºntine in this cellent lenitive and cleanſing facultie, as alſo to º: the ºl. facultie, to caſt diſeaſ. forth the virulent matter contained in the proſtate. you may by the bitterneſs perceiv how it reſiſt’s putrefaštion, and you may gather how it perform's its office in the reins and uri- narie parts, by the ſmell it leav's in the urine after the uſe thereof. but if there bee anie who how to be cannot take it in form of a bole, you may eaſily make it potable, by diſſolving it in a mor- made potable tar with the yolk of an egg, and ſome white wine, as i learned of a certain apothecarie, who kept it as a great ſecret. if the diſeaſcom by inanition or º: it ſhallbee helped by fattie injećtions, oilie and emollient potions, and inwardly takeing and applying theſe things which have the like facultie, and ſhunning theſe things which cauſed the diſ- eaſ. how to cure that which happen's by contagion, or unpure copulation, it ſhall bee a- bundantly ſhewed in the enſuing chapter. diet. chap. xxi. . the proper cure of a virulent strangurie. irſt, wee muſt begin with the mitigation of pain, and ſtaying the inflammati- on, which ſhallbee performed by makeing injećtion into the urethra, with this following deco&tion warm. rºſem. iſilii, lačiuce, papav. albi, plantag, cydon, lini, hyoſcyami albi, an: ii detrahanur mucores in aqui, ſolini & roſar. ad quantitatem ſuf- ficientem, adde trochiſe.alborum rhafts camphoratorum in pollinem redačiorum, i.miſce ſimul, & fiat inječilo frequeni. for this becauſit hath a refrigerateing facultie, will help the inflamma- *:: rječion to tº inflam- ºat on. lib. . concerning the lues venerea. w inflammation, mitigate pain, and by the mucilaginous facultielenifie the roughneſs of the urethra, and defendit by covering it with the ſlimie ſubſtance, againſt the acrimonie of the urine and virulent humors. in ſtead hereof you may uſe cow's milk newly milked or warm- ediat the fire. milk doth notonely conduce hereto, beeing thus injeſted, but alſo drunk, the faculties for it hath a refrigerateing and cleanſing facultie, and by the ſubtiltie of the parts it quick-ofmilk againſt ly arrive's at the urinarie paſſages. furthermore, it will beegood to annoint with ceratre-ixiºlen; figer galeni addita camphora, or with ceratum centalinum, ung comitiſe, or nutritum, upon the re- ſtrangurie. gion of the kidnies, loins and perineum, as alſo to annoint the codsandyard. but before you uſe the foreſaid ointments or the like, let them bee melted over the fire, but have a care that you make them not too hot, leaſt they ſhould loſs their refrigerateing qualitie,which is théthing wee chiefly deſire in them. haveing uſed the foreſaid ointment,it willbee con-how to make venient to applie thereupon ſomlinnen clothes moiſtened in oxycrate, compoſed ex aqui, water without plantagini, ſolani, ſemperviviroſarum, and the like. if the patient bee tormented with into- p^*. lerable pain in makeing water, and alſo ſom ſmall time after, as it commonly commeth to paſs, i would wiſh him that hee ſhould make water; putting his yard into a chamber-pot filled with milk or water warmed. the pain by this means beeing aſſwaged, wee muſt com to the cleanſing of the ulcers by this or the like injetion; bºdromelili ſymptºv.ſºrderoſ, daesentia- ficti,é deal finihan ſ.fiat inječilo. but if there bee need of more powerful deterſion,you ješions. inay ſafely add, as i have frequently tried,a little egyptiacum, i have alſo found this follow- ing decoãion to bee-verie good for this purpoſe...r.?ini albi odoriferi, ibſ. aquar:plantage. rojanóii.auripigmenti, ſ.viridi, eriº, bialoes ºpt: ſ fulveriſentur pulveriſanda,e,bulliant ſimul. keep the decóðion for to make injećtion withall. you may increaſor diminiſh the quan- titie and force of the ingredients . into this compoſition, as the patient and diſeaſ ſhall ſeem to require. the ulcers beeing thus cleanſed, wee muſt haſten to drie them, ſo that how the wee may at length cicatrize them.this may beedon by drying up the ſuperfluous moiſture, . . and firefighning the parts that are moiſhed and relaxed by the continual defluxion, for *** which purpoſe this following decoétion is verie profitable. raq.fabrorum, bipſidiarum, ba- laußnitum cupreſconquaſatorum, an: iſ ſemin. ſumâché-berberan; ii ſyrup. roſar. & de abſinth. an?ifiat decoãio. you may keep it for an injection to bee often injećted into the urethra with a ſyringe, ſo long as that there ſhall no matter or filth flow over thereat, for then there is certain hope of the cure. - - - - - - - - - - ſ - chap. xxii. º. º - . ‘. . . . -- • * * * * - - - of caruncles, or fleſhie excreſcences whichſmtimes happen td grow in the urethra, - - * by the beat or ſtalding of the urine. ſº tº .** & sharp humor which flow's from the glandules, termed proſtate, and continu- how cruncle, ally run's alongſt the urinarie paſſage, in ſom places by the way it fret's, and com to grow tº exulcerate's by the acrimonie the urethra in men, but the neck of the womb in upon the ul- ; women. in theſe, as alſo is uſual in other ulcers, there ſomtimes grow's up a . i. ge- ſuperflous fleſh, which oftimes hinder's the caſting or comming forth of the ** ſeed and urine by their appropriate and common paſſage, whence manie miſchiefs ariſe; whence it is that ſuch ulcers as have caruncles growing upon them muſt bee diligently cured. but firſt wee muſt know whether they bee new or old. for the later are more difficultly to callous carun. bee cured then the former, becauſthe caruncles that grow upon them becom callous and cles hard to hard, beeing oftimes cicatrized. weeknow that there are caruncles, if the catheter cannot ſure. freely paſs alongſt the paſſage of the urine, but finde's ſo manie ſtops in the way,as it meet's "b" with caruncles that ſtop the paſſage; if the patient can hardly make water, or if his water rnn in a verie ſmall ſtream, or two ſtreams, or crookedly, or onely by drop and drop, with ſuch tormenting pain, that hee is readie to let go his excrements, yea and oftimes doth ſo, after the ſame manner as ſuch as are troubled with the ſtone in the bladder. after makeing water, as alſo after copulation, ſom portion of the urine and ſeed ſtaie's at the rough places of the caruncles, ſo that the patient is forced to preſs his yard, to preſs forth ſuch reliques. somtimes the urine is wholly ſtopped, whence proceed's ſuch diſtenſion of the bladder, the ſuppreſt that it cauſſeth inflammation, and the urine flowingback into the bodie, haſten's the death º: : of the patient. yet ſomtimes the urine thus ſuppreſſ, ſweats forth preternaturally in ſun-j drie places, as at the fundament, perineum, cod, yard, groins. as ſoon as wee, by anie of the fore-mentioned figns, ſhall ſuſpect that there is a caruncle about to grow, it is expedient forthwith to uſe means for the cure thereof; for a caruncle from a verie little beginning doth in a ſhort time grow ſo big, that at the length it becom's incureable: verily, you may eaſily É. at the difficultie of the cure by that wee have formerly delivered of the eſſence the fitten hereof, beſides, medicines can verie hardly arrive thereat. the fitteſt ſeaſon for the under- i.e.: takeing hereof is the spring, and the next thereto is winter; yet if it bee verie troubleſom, cure. you muſt delaie no time. whileſt the cure is in hand, the patient ought wholly to abſtain why yenerie - from venerie, for by the uſe thereof, the kidnies, ſpermatick veſſels, proſtate, and the : : - o concerning the lues venerea. lib. . yard, ſwell up and wax hot, and conſequently draw to them from the neighboring and up- per parts, whence abundance of excrements in the affe&ed parts, much hindering the cure. you muſt beware of acrid and corrodeing things in the uſe of detergent injećtions, for that thus the urethra beeing endued with moſt exquiſite ſenſ, may bee eaſily offended, whence might enſue manieill accidents. neither muſt wee bee frighted, if at ſom times wee ſee blood flow forth of ſecret or hidden caruncles. for this help's to ſhorten the cure, becauſ the diſeaſis hindered from growth, by takeing away portion of the conjunét matter, the part alſo it ſelf is eaſed from the oppreſſingburden, for the material cauſof caruncles is ſu- the paticular perfluous blood. wherefore unleſs ſuch bleeding happen of itſelf, it is not amiſs to procure caree it by thruſting in a catheter ſomwhat hard, yet with good advice. if the caruncles bee inve- - - terate, and callous, then muſt they bee mollified by fomentations, ointments, cataplaſms, afomentation plaſters, and fumigations; you may thus make a fomentation, r.radalib.& lilioralbanáiv. rad.bryonie, & frnic.an. iſ fol malvar. violarum, parietar. & mercur.an.m.ſ . ſem. lini, frnugran. ſ.carica, ping.nu.xii.forum chamam. melilan.p.icomtundantur contundenda,incidenda incidantur, bulliant omnia in aquà communi: make a fomentation, and applie it with ſoft ſponges. of the maſs of the ſtrained-out things, you may make a cataplaſm after this manner. rpredićia materialia, terantur, & trajiciantur, adde axungie porci, unguenti baſiliconiº, an ii.fiat cataplaſma : let it bee applied preſently after the fomentation. you may uſe this following liniment aliniment, whil'ſt the cataplaſm is providing. r. unguenti alth & agrippe an iſ, aſpi humide, & xung. bumanian i.butyri recentis, olei lilior. chamam. an: vi. liquefiant ſimul, addendo aque vite i fiat linimentum: let it bee applied outwardly upon the part wherein the caruncles are. for the ſame purpoſe plaſters ſhallbee applied, which may bee diverſified, and fitted as you ſhall pigo's empla- think good; yet emplaſtrum de vigo truly made, exceſſieth all the reſt in a mollifying facul- fle ºffeauxl tie, and in waſteing ſuch callous hardneſs. the follºwing fumigation is alſo good for the to .." *** ſame purpoſe; take ſom pieces of a mill-ſtone (for this weeuſe in ſtead of the pyrites men- funclee tioned by the antients) or elſ ſome bricks of large ſize, after they are heated hot in the fire, let them bee put into a pan, and ſet under a cloſe ſtool, then cauſ the patient to fit thereon, aſuffumigium, as if hee were going to ſtool, then pour upon the hot ſtones equal parts of verie ſharpvine- ger, and verie good aquavite, and caſting clothes about him, that nothing may exhale in vain: let him receiv the aſſcending vapor at his fundament, perineum, ſcrotum, and urethra. moreover, that this medicine may work the better effect, you may put the patient naked in- to the barrel noted with this letter a. ſo that hee may fit upon a ſeat or board perforated "a on that part, whereas his genitals are, then place the pan, holding the hot ſtones between his legs, then preſently ſprinkle the ſtones with the fore-mentioned liquor, by the door marked with the letter b. thus the patient ſhall eaſily receiv the fume that exhale's there- , from, and nonethereof bee loſt, hee covering and wailing himſelf on everie ſide. such a fu- ad glaut.lib.n. migation in galen's opinion, hatha facultie to penetrate, cut, reſolv, ſoften and digeſt ſcir- cap.f. rhous hardneſſes. a cataplaſm. a barrel fitted to receiv the fume in. chap. º lºy. concerning the lues venerea, . . . . . . . chap, xxiii. - what other remedies ſhall be uſed to caruncles occaſioned by the lues venerea. º utifyou ſuſpect that theſe caruncles.com or are occaſioned by a virulent hu-partialards tº gº: tº . : mor, or the malignitie of the lues venerea, it is meet that the patient obſerv ſuch injº § É); a diet as uſually is preſcribed to ſuch as are troubled with the lues venerea; let lesºners, º himuſe a decoètion of guaicum, and let the perineum and the wholeyard bee an- not to beecu- "nointed with ointment made for the lues venerea; otherwiſe the surgeon will dunkſ by loſe his labor. in the interim, whilſthee ſhall ſweatin his bed, hee ſhall bee wiſhed to hold ::::::: º between his legs a ſtone-bottlefilled with hot water, or elſ a hot brick ..º. in linnen".” cloaths, moiſtened in vineger and aquavite; for thus the heat and vapor will aſſcend to the jº. with the help of the applied ointment, will diſſolv the matter of the caruncles, if haruncles, and being thus ſoftehed, they muſt bee conſumed with convenient medicines, alºmº wherefore firfifth;becom allous.orgicatrized (whichyoumayfiſpräifthey cafforth.”. no excrementitious humiditie) they ſhallbeeexaſperated, excoriated and torn with a leaden “ catheter haveing a rough button at the end like a round file. hee ſhall ſo long uſe the cathe- ter ſº into the urethra, thruſting it up and down the ſame way ſo long and often ashee ſhall think fit for the breaking and tearing the caruncles, heeſhall permit them thus torn to bleed freely,ſo to eaſtheaffected part, you may alſo for the ſame purpoſe put into the ure. thrathe catheter marked with this letter b whereinto putting a ſilver wier ſharp at the up- per end, that by often thruſting it in and out it may wear and make plain the reſiſting ca- runcles. verily, by this means i have helped manie much perplexed with the fearful danger of this diſeaſ. som better like of the catheter marked with this letter a, beeing thus uſed: it is thruſt into the urethra with the prominent cutting fides downwards, and then preſſing - the yard on the outſide cloſe with your hand to the catheter in the place where the carun- cles are, it is drawn forth again. … º, - catheters fitto wear aſunder, or tear caruncles. aſbeweth the catheter with the inſerted ſilver wier, but not banging forth thereat. bſheweth the catheter with the inſerted ſilver wiar hanging forth at the end. the caruncle thus torn ſhallbee ſtrowed over with the following powder, beeing verie effečtual to waſte ard conſume all caruncles of the privities without much pain. b. berb. apowderto ſahin, in umbră exſiccat. ii. ocre, antimon, tuth, preparatamºſ .fat pulv.ſubtiliſimus, let itbee ap-watecarun- plied in the following manner. put the powder into the pipé or Čabeter haveing holes in cks. theſides thereof, the which is the lowermoſt of the laſt deſcribed. then put the catheter into the urinarie paſſage until the ſlit or openneſs of the fide.com to the caruncle,then into the hollowneſs of the catheter put a filver wier, wrapped about the end with a little linnen - rag, which as it is thruſt up, will alſo thruſt up the powder therewith, until it ſhall comto how to applić the ſlit againſt the caruncle, then will it adhere to the caruncle, bloodie, by reaſon of the" - late attrition. then ſhall you draw forth the catheter, firſt twineing it about,that ſo it ma not ſcrape off the powder again. if intolerable pain hereupon happen,it ſhall bee *::: and the inflammation reſtrained by the following injećtion. r.ſuccorum portulace, plantag. ſºlani, & ſempervivi, an ſ. album ovorum.nu.vi. agitentur'diu in mortario plumbeo; let it bee in- jºted warm into the urethra with a ſyringe. in ſtead hereof you may alſo make uſe of ano- ther injection, which is formerly preſcribed. neither will it bee unprofitable to applie re- percuſſives to the genitals, to hinder pain and inflammation. you may alſo uſe other medi- cines, haveing a facultie to conſume the caruncle, amongſt which theſe following i cx- - - cciicints an injećtion to hinder in- flammation. . - concerning the lues venerea. lib. . an emplaſtcr uſed by the surgeons of mountpelier for caruncles. cellent. r. viridi, eris, auripigmenti, vitriol. rom, alumini, roch, anáii. infundanur main aret. acerrino, atque inter duo marmora in follinem redigantur: then let it bee expoſed to the ſummer's ſun, and dried, again infuſed in ſharp vineger, and then as before ground upon a marble, ſo that you finde nothing ſharp with your ſingers; laſtly, let it bee oppoſed to the ſun until it may beemade into moſt ſubtil powder,andall the acrimoniebee vaniſhed, which willbee commonly in eight daies ſpace. then, rollroſat: iv.lythargyráii.coquanturadigmen, quouſ we coièrint in emplaſt.ſalide conſentie, ab igne tum ſemotif, adde º, predići. ii. let them. bee mixed with a ſpatula, and put it upon the fire until it comto ſo hard a confiſtence, that ** it will ſtick faſt to awax candle, or lead wier, ſo that it may not com off by handling with --- another em- plafler. ... * how to applie it. a caution in makcing wa- tºr. "... your hands. the surgeons of montpelier uſe this medicne: this following is another,r. tutbie preparat. vi. antimonii, iii. trochiſt, allorum, rhaſ camphorat: i, carticis granati, aluminis ufti, an iſ-ſpongie uſe, bii.let them bee all made iuto powder: then, r. ung diapompholigos, & alb. khafts, an Žii. miſceaninricum preditii, pulveribus in mortario plumbeo, & dia, agiteniur: let averie fine ragbee ſpread over with this ointment, and wrapped about a wax candle,and ſo thruſt into the urethra,and then draw forth the candleby twineing it a contrarie way; ſo let the end of the raghang out of the yard, ſo to pluck ir forth again, when as you ſhall think it hathdon what it can to the caruncle, which is, when it hath covered it with the medicine with which it was ſpread.som alſo make wax candles with a ſlender, but ſtiff wick, whoſe end, which is to bee put to wear and conſume the caruncle, is compoſed of the fol- lowing medicine. r. dmpl.ſtri nigri, vel diatbylonis irea i, ii. pulv.ſabine, ocre, viriol rom. calcin. pulmer. an. ſ. amnia liqueſtant ſimuladditium uſum. whil'ſ the cure ſhall bee in hand, by theſe following medicins; let the patientbee careful that hee ſo ſhake hityard after make- ing water, that hee may ſhake forth all the reliques of the urine which may chance to ſtop * at the caruncles; for if but one dropſhould ſtay there, it would bee ſufficient to ſpoil the signs that the caruncle is worn away. an epulotick injećtion. quick-ſilver by dryingcau- ſeth cicatriza- tion. the efficient and material cauſes of vene- reous bubo's. whole operation of the applied medicines. after that the caruncle ſhallbee worn awey and wholly conſumed by the deſcribed medicines, which you may know by the urine flowing forth freely, and in a full ſtream, and by thruſting up a catheter into the bladder without anie ſtoppage; then it remain's that the ulcers bee dried and cicatrized; for which purpoſe the following injećtion is verie powerful and eff&ual, and without anie acrimonie. r. aq. fabrorum, ſh;ſ nuc. cupreſ, gallar. cort.granatan. iſ alum, rvch. ſ. bulliant omnia ſimul ſecundari. ſo make a decoètion for an injećtion, which you ſhall uſe ſo long, until no excrementitious humiditie diſtill out of the yard. the following powder drie's more powerfully, and con- ſequently haſten's forwards cicatrization, and it is alſo without acrimonie. r. lapidem cala- min. lotum, teſtas ovorum uſtaas, corallum rubrum, corticemgranat. comminue omnia in pollinem; let this powderbe uſed to the ulcers, with a wax candlejoined to ſomunguentum deſiccativum ru- brum, or ſom ſuch like thing. alſo ſtrings or rods of lead thruſt into the urethra as thick as the paſſage will ſuffer, even to the ulcers, beeing firſt beſmeared with quickſilver, and kept indaieand night as long as the patient can endure, are good to bee uſed. for they drieby their touch and cicatrize, they dilate the urinarie paſſage without pain, and laſtly hinder the fides of the ulcers from corrupting one another. • * º ... -- c. h.a.p. xxiv. of venereal buboes, or ſwelling in the groins. he virulencie of the lues venerea is ſomtimes communicated to the liver, which ea if it have a powerful expulſive facultie, it expell's it into the groins,as the pro- *nº peremunāories thereof, whence proceedvenereal buboes. the matter of theſe ºf forthe moſt part is abundance of cold, tough, and viſcous humors, as you may gather by the hardneſs and whiteneſs of the tumor, the pravitieofthe pain, and , contumacie of cureing; which alſo is another reaſon, befides theſe that wee formerly menti- oned,why the virulencie of this diſeaſ may bee thought commonly to faſten itſelfin a phle- what bubo's forctel the luts venerca - gmatick humor.yet ſomtimes venereal buboes proceed from a hot, acrid and cholerick hu- mor, aſſociated with great pain and heat, and which thereupon often degenerate into viru- lent and corroding ulcers. som venereous buboes are ſuch conjoined accidents of the lues venerea, that they foretel it; ſuch are theſe which for a ſmall while ſhew a manifeſt tumor, and ſuddenly, without aniemanifeſt occaſion hide themſelvs again, and return back to the noble parts. others are diſtinét from the lues venerea though they have a fimilitude of eſ- ſence and matter therewith, and which therefore may bee healed, the lues venerea lyet re- maining uncured. such are theſe which are uſually ſeen, and which therefore compared with the former, may bee termed ſimple and not implicit. for the cure, you muſt notuſ: diſcuſſing medicines,leſt reſolving the more ſubtil part, the groſſer dregs becominpaët and concrete there; but much leſs muſt wee uſe repercuſſives, É. that the matter is virulent. wherefore onely attraćtive and ſuppurateing medicines are here to bee uſed agreeable to the humor predominant and cauſing the the tumor, as more hot things in edematous and ſcir- rhous tumors,then in thoſe which reſemble the nature of aphlegmon or eryſipela; ; the indica- - - tioſ] lib. . concerning the lues venerea. - tion taken from the raritie and denſitie of bodies infinuate's the ſame varietie. the apply-, ... ing of cupping glaſſes is verie effe?ual to drawit forth. but when as it is drawn forth you “p” . ſhall forthwith applie on emplaſtick medicine, and then you ſhall com to ſuppuratives. when the tumorisripeit ſhall bee opened with a potential cauterie,if it peoceed from a cold a potential cauſ; for by the induceing of heat the reſidue of the crude matter is more eafily conco&ed; cauterie. beſides when asan ulcer of this kinde is opened, the matter will bee more eaſily evacuated, neither ſhall it bee fit to uſe anietent, but onely to applie pledgets. the reſidue of the cure ſhallbee performed by detergent medicines, and then if need require, the patient ſhall bee let blood, and the humors evacacuated by a purgeing medicine, but not before the perfett maturitie thereof. - - chap. xxv. - º of the exoſtoſis, bunches or knots growing upon the bones by reaſon of the lues venerea, , }º ard tumors, exoſtoſes and knots have their matter from thick and tough the matter of # phlegm, which cannot bee diſſolved, unleſs by hot medicines, which have a . º: * ſº mollifying and diſſolving facultie. for which purpoſe, beſides thoſe medi.” . cines which uſually areapplied to ſcirrhous humors, you muſt alſo make uſe , , aſt of arg, viv. commonly after this manner. r. empl. filii zach.cº. ceronel, an iii. †: er euphorb. ſ., emplaii, de vigo .ii, cerat, aftp. deſcript, philagr. i, argent. viviex-ji.u. tinči. vi.fiat emplaſtrum. spread it upon leather for your uſe. in the mean ſpace let the pati- of hebones. ent obſerva ſparcing diet; for thus hee ſhall bee helped, if ſobee that the ſubſtance of the bones beeyet unperiſhed. for if it bee putrified and rotten, then deſcribed medicines are of no uſe, but you muſt of neceſſitie lay bare the bone, either by inciſion, or elſby an ačtualor: potential cauterie; but i had rather do it with an ačtual, for that it extraćt's the virulencie impač in the bones, as alſo it haſten's the abſceſs, or falling away of the corrupted bone. it ſhall bee of a convenient figure to cauterize the bone, as round, ſquare, or long. luſually, before the application of ſuch a cauſtick, firſt divide the fleſh that lie's overit with an inci- ſion-knife, that ſo the pain may beetheleſs, becauſthe fleſh cannot burn't through but in a long time, by which the fire may come to the bone. but it will not bee amiſs, before wee treat of this art, firſt to conſider the nature of the rottenneſs of the bones. — ch a p. xxv l. iwly the bones becom rotten, and by what ſigns it may bee perceived. hat ſolution of coutinuitie which is in the bones, is called by galen, catagina. galmeth. . § this uſually is the cauſof rottenneſs; for bones that are grated, bruiſed, rent, a perforated, broken, luxated, inflamed and deſpoiled of the fleſh and skin are ºf eaſily corrupted; for diſpoiled of their covering, they are altered by the appulſ of the air, wrh they formerly never felt,whence alſo their blood & proper nou- riſhment is dried up& exhauſted. beſides alſo,the ſanies running down by reaſon of wounds ...; uent & old ulcers, in proceſs of time faſten's it ſelf into their ſubſtance, and putrefie's by little ...; rot- and little; this putrefačtion is encreaſed and cauſed by the too much uſe of oilie and fattie bones, medicines, as moiſt audſuppurate things; for hence the ulcer becommeth more ſilthie and malign, the fleſh of the neighboring parts groweth hot, is turned into pus, which preſently fallingupon the bonelying under it, inflame's it. laſtly, the bones are ſubjećt to the ſame hip.lib.de wit. #. as the fleſh that lieth under themis; beſides alſo according to galen, the beginning ſaff, of inflammation oftimes proceeds from thebones;but they beat not,becauſ;according to the ººt". opinion of the ancients,pulſation is a dolorifick motion of the arteries,but the bones want” fenſ. which verily i cannot denie, but alſo wee muſt confeſs that the membrane that en- compaſſeth them, and the arteries that enter into theirbodie, are endued with moſt exquiſite fenſ. wherefore the arteries compreſſed and waxing hot by reaſon of the inflamed bone, cauſa ſenſof pain in the perioſtium, ſo that the patients complain of a dulland deep pain,as it were ſunk into the ſubſtance of the bones. the rottenneſs or corruption is oftimes manifeſt signs of the to the eie,as when the bone is laidbare,for then it varieth from the natural color, and be-rottenneſs. com's livid, yellowiſh or black. otherwiſe you may perceiv it by touch, as by ſearching it with a probe, as when you meet with anie inequalitie or roughneſs, or but gently touching it, your probe run's into the ſubſtance of the boneas into rotten wood; for a bone - - is naturally hard, but beging rotten,becom's ſoft. yet hardneſs is not an infallible ſign of a hardneſs is no ſoundbone. for i have ſeen rotten and bared bones, to have ſomtimes grown ſo hard, by . the appulſof the air, that a trepan could not, without a ſtrong endeavor, enter them. Ålſo **** the rottenneſs of the bone is known by the condition of the filth which ſlow's forth of the ulcer, for it is notonely more thin and liquid, but alſo more ſtinking. furthermore, ſuch ulcers have a ſoft, looſandwaterie fleſh; §: alſo, they are untoward and rebellious . ſarcotic concerning the lues venerea. lib. . the cure of a rotten bone. a catagmatick powder. a deſquama- torie or ſcale- ing plaſter. ſarcotick and epulotick medicines; to which if they chance toyeeld and bee cicatrized, yet within a ſhort while after the ſcar will relent of its own accord, for that nature, deſtitute of the firm and ſound foundation of the bones, cannot build up a laudable and conſtant fleſh. neither is it ſufficient that the surgeon know certainly that the bone is rotten and corrupt, it is furthermore fithee know, whether this corruption bee ſuperficiarie, or pierce deep into the ſubſtance of the bone, that hee may know how much of the bone muſt bee ſca- led. for ſcaleing is the onely cure of that which is corrupted; now it is ſcaled by that which drie's excedingly,&draw's forth all the humiditie,aſwell the excrementitious,the au- tor of the rotenneſs, as the alimentarie. for thus it remain's without blood and nouriſh- ment, and conſequently life alſo; whence it muſt of neceſſitie ſcale or fall off, beeing deſti- tute of the glue or moiſture which joined it to the ſound parts in vicinitie and communi- on of life, like as leavs which fall away from the trees, the humiditie beeing exhauſted, by which, as by glue, they adhered to the boughs. for this purpoſe catagmatick powders are prepared to amend the corruption which is onely ſuperficiarie. r. pullaloes, crete combu- ſte, pompholygos, an: ii, ireos for ariſtoloch. rot. myrrh. ceruſſe,an i. pul, ofteor, combuſt. ſ. teran- tur ſubtiliſ. fiat pulviº let it bee applied either alone by itſelf, or elſ with honie and a little aqua vite. alſo the followiugemplaſterbeeing applied, ſtir'sup nature to the excluſion of . the broken bones, and cleanſeth the ulcers from the more groſs and viſcid ſanies. r. cer. nov, reſpini, gum.ammon, & elemi,an. vi. tereb. iii. pulmaſtich, myrrhan , ariſſol rot.ireos flor. aloes, opopan, euphorban. i olei roſati quantum ſufficit, fiat emplaſt, ſecundum artem. euphorbium, diſºb. cºp." according to dioſcorides take's off the ſcales of bones in one daie. hereto alſo conduceth , signs that the rottenneſs is taken away. emp. de betonică. or, r. olei caryophyl- ſ camph. ii. miſceantur ſimul in mortario, & utere. but if that part of the bone which is corrupt cannot thus bee taken away, then muſt you uſe the ſcaleing trepans and scrapers deſcribed formerly in wounds of the head; eſpecially if anie more great or ſolid bone bee foul. furthermore the here-deſcribed trepan willbee good to perforate the rotten bone in manie places where it is corrupted, until, as it were, a cer- tain bloodie moiſture iſſue forth at the holes; for thus it more freely enjoie's the air, and al- ſo the force ofthe medicines admitted by theſe holes work's morepowerfully. atrepan with two triangular bits and apin to hold them in the ſtock as alſº another trepan haveing four-ſquare and ſix-quare bits convenient for to bee uſed in the rottenneſ of greater bones. but if the rottenneſs beenore deep,and the bone more hard, either by nature or accident, as by the occaſion of the too long admiſſion of the air,then the rotten ſcales ſhallbee cut off by the inſtruments deſcribed in wounds of the head, driveing them into the bone with lea- den mallets, leſt the part ſhould bee too much offended or ſhaken with the blow. the ſcales and fragments ſhallbee taken forth with mullets, the ſigns that all the rottenneſs is taken a- . • are the ſolidneſs of the bone thereunder, and the bloodie moiſture ſweating out thercat. chap, | lib. . concerning the lues venerea. w chap. xxvii. of aliual and potential cauteries. ºf uit if the deſcribed remedies cannot take place, by reaſon of the malignitie or Ö) magnitude of the rottenneſs, then muſt wee com to ağual and potential caute- | ries. but i ſhould rather approov of a&ual, becauſby ſtrengthening the part, ağual caute- they conſume the excrementitious humors wherewith it is over-charged, to jºbº pº wit, the matter of the caries ; which is not ſo effectually performed by poten- ...” tial cauteries. yet are wee oftimes forced to uſe theſe, to pleaſthe patients which are ter-” - rified at, and affraid of hot irons. potential cauteries are aqua fortiº, aqua vitrioli, ſcalding potential cau- oil,melted ſulphur and boiling, and the like; in pouring on of which i would have the sur- tetics. - geon to bee [. and induſtious, leſt hee ſhould raſhly violate the neighboring ſound parts by the burning touch of theſe things; which his temeritie would cauſvehement pains, inflammations, and other horrid ſymptoms. for ačtual cauteries, their varietie in figure is ſo great, that it cannot bee defined, much leſs ſet down in writeing; for they muſt bee va- ried according to the largeneſs of the rottenneſs, and the figure and conformation of the fouled bones. such as are more uſual i have thought good here to delineate unto you,con- tent onely to admoniſh you thus much, that ſom of theſe work by pricking, ſom by cut- ting, ſom flat-wiſe, and other-ſom with their points made to the ź. of an olive-leaf. sundrie forms of ačiual cauleries fit in all neceſſarie caſes of all parts. / |tfe h - ' - pº- > aº ºss n ºft ( n º \ ell º º º Ömillſº ... ." . " - - ... . . - * , - ! - & . . . . - - - , '' . . . . . . . “ . . . . * . . . t t other concerning the lues venerea. lib. . other cauleries. the following figure of a cauterie is fit for virulent knots that ariſe in the ſºull, when you deſire to take away the fleſh that cover's the bone; for this purpoſe it is made hollow and ſharp in a triangular and quadrangular form, divided as it were into three branches, that you may ſomake uſe of which you pleaſ lib. . concerning the lues venerea, the figure of an hollow and culting caulerie, the cauteries, whoſe forms are hereafter expreſt, take place in rotten bones that lie deep in, wherein you cannot make uſe of the formerly deſcribed, without touching of the neigh- boring ſound parts. to avoid which danger, you ſhall put your cauterie even to the bone through an iron pipe, which may keep the neighboring and fleſhie parts from burning. aïual cauteries with their pipes. great diſcommodities enſue upon too raſh, that is, too frequently applied cauteries, or too long adhering to the bone; for by this immode- rate and fierie heat not onely the excrementiti- ous humiditie of the rotten bone is conſumed, but alſo the radical and ſubſtantial moiſture of ©w the part is exhauſted; wherein alone nature en- % deavouring to caſt off the corrupt ſcales, and ſe- - ver theÉ. º the . bone, and .. (*ſ- - -:) } ſtitute fleſh, ſtand's and conſiſt's. whereof, the x meaſure of applying of cauteries ought tº be º taken from the greatneſs of the rottenneſs, and cautics. the excrementitious, or after a manner, foaming humiditieſweating through the pores of the bone. but before you preſs your cauterie into the rotten bone which lie's verie deep in,as that which happen's in the thigh-bone,and upon other verie fleſhie parts, you muſt diligently defend the neighboring ſound and fleſhie part, as it were with a covering, for that the humor diffuſed by the touch of the fire,burn's the other places whereunto it diffuſeth itſelf like ſcalding oil. after the cauterization,you muſt help forwards the falling away of the ſcales, by ſomtimes dropping in our oil of , whelps, beeing made ſcalding hot. this oil, though verie fit for this purpoſe, yet do i not º jºr judge it fit to uſe it too often, it may ſuffice to have dropped it in,ſom twice of thrice, for . at length it may violate the ſoundbone, that lie's under the rotten, by the oilie, ſubtil and caſting off of moiſt ſubſtance. furthermore, a bone is the moſt drie part of the bodie, therefore unětuous ſcales. and moiſt medicines are contrarie to its temper and conſiſtence. but it conduceth often and gently to moov the ſcales alreadie beginning to ſeparate themſelvs, and it haſten's the ſlack- neſs of nature in caſting them off. yet may you not uſe force, unleſsperadventure when as they hang as it wereby a ſlender thred ; otherwiſe if the unwarie surgeon forcibly pluck acaution in away the ſcales before that nature hath put a cover upon the ſoundbone, hee ſhall give way mooving the to a new alteration and fowlneſs by the appulſ of the air. furthermore, after the corrupt ſºlº of bur" ſcale is falling off by the force of nature expelling it, you muſt have diligent heed that you “ pütnot eating or corroding medicines upon the bone that is under it; for thus thou ſhalt conſume or waſte the fleſh which nature hath generated thereupon, which compoſed of newly concreted blood, is like in ſoftneſs to newly crudled milk, which otherwiſe in time would grow into amore ſolid and hard conſiſtence. this under-growing fleſh by little and little thruſt's the rotten bone above it, out of its place, and is the cauſ of the ſcaling ther:- - of; it is at the firſt gathered together like the grants of a pomegranate,with a red,ſmooth & § º, equal ſanies, and not ſtinking, and at length it caſt's forth a white matter. therefore then . tº- weemuſt rather ſtraw, therconcephalick powder compoſed of ſuch things as have a facultic ſºd. t tº to cºncerning the lues venerea. lºy. to drie withoutbiteing, ſuch as are orriſ-roots,waſhed aloés,maſtich, myrrh, barlie-flowr, and the like. laſtly, it muſt bee cicatrized; it is better that ſcales of bones fall away of themſelvs by the onely force of nature,then to bee plucked away by the force of medicines or inſtruments;becauſ,ſuch as are too violently and forcibly plucked away,leavcorners like to fiſtulous ulcers. neither ought the corrupted membranes when they are turned into pus to bee plucked away too violently, or to bee touched by too acrid medicines; for pain here- upon ariſeing hath divers times cauſed inflammation, convulſion and other pernicious ſymptoms. therefore it is better to commit this buſineſs to nature, which in ſucceſs of time, by makeing uſe of the expulſive faculties will eaſily free itſelf from this rotten ſub- ſtance; for that which is quick as far as it is able, will ſtill put away that which is dead from it. chap. xxviii. of a vulnerarie potion. uit if the contumacious rottenneſs of the bone, and alſo a rebellious ulcerſhall not yield to the deſcribed remedies, it will bee convenient to preſcribe a vulne- § rarie potion to the patient. for nature helped by ſuch a potion, hath to my # knowledgſundrie times don wondrous things, in the amendmento corrupt bones, and conſolidation of ulcers. for theſe potions though they do not the uſe of purge the noxious humors away by ſtool, yet are they wondrous effetual to cleanſ ulcers, vulnerarie po- and free them from the exceſs of excrementitious humors, to cleanſ the blood, and purge it tions. from all impuritie, to agglutinate broken bones, and knit the finews. i have here thought good to ſpeak of them, and chiefly; for that they were much commended by the antients, but neglećted by the modern phyſicians and surgeons. but if the cure of wounds and old ulcers bee performed by deterſion, and the repoſition of the loſt ſubſtance, what medicine can ſooner or rather do it then that, which by its admirable and almoſt divine force ſo purgeth the blood, that thereof, as from a fit and laudable matter, the fleſh oranie other loſt fübſtance may bee fitly reſtored, and the part recover its former union? but if fiſtulous lil- cers, cancers, gouts, and the like diſeaſes bee offended by the uſe of ſalt,ſpiced,acrid meats, and others which are of ſubtil parts, as muſtard, onions, and garlike, or anie other exceſs in meat or drink; why may they not becom milde and gentle by medicated and contrarie meats and drinks, or at leaſt bee rednced to a more equal temper? therefore that surgeons may know of what things ſuch compoſitions may ariſe, have here thought good to reckon them up, that you may learn what they are: scabious. the capillaries. sanicle. herb-robert. bugle. dove's-foot. mouſ-ear. dog'ſ-tongue. burnet. avenes. * ..." madder. prunella. tanſe. oſmund. tops of hemp. clarie. tops of brambles. gentian. sow's-bread. ' hermiaria. comforic the greater and leſſer. agrimonie. red cole-wurt, r cabbage. wervine. scordium. biſtort. cat's-mint. mug-wurt. cinque-foil. periwincle. river-crabs. centaurie. mace. - adder'ſ-tongue. bole-armenick: betonie. petum, or tobacco carduus benedičius. mead-ſweet. the cordial flowers. colt's-foot. ariſtolochia, or birth-wurts. dandelion. speed-well. plantane. s. john's-wurt. of all theſe the surgeon ſhall make choice according to the minde and judgment of the phyſician, ſuch as hee ſhall think fit and proper to everie ulcer or wound,orto each wound- ed and ulcerated part, according to the condition of the time, the temper of the patient, and kinde or nature of the diſeaſ. you may make drinks not onely of the decočtions of theſe, but alſo of their juices in white wine, or anomel, which are good not onely to purific the lºy. concerning the lues venera.t - º – -- - the maſs of the blood, to cleanſ ſanious, virulent,filthie and dyſſenterious ulcers,but alſo to drive away putrefaëtion, ſcale-bones, diſſolv clotted blood in bruiſes, to draw, pluckout and exterminate all ſtrange bodies, as i have often obſerved to my great admiration. they are compoſed uſually after this manner. rºſavic. bugul, ſcabioſbeton ſcord, nepet, anm.ſ .uvar. the form of a mundſem.byper.& card.benan. i.trium flor:cird.an.p.ii. coquantur complete in aq.communi; poſted in vulneratic po- ne adde vini alb. mel. roſ. & cinnam. quod ſuff ºat decodiio, coleturper manicam. let him drink.” #. in the morning .hours before dinner, you may alſo with good ſucceſs make injećti- ons with the ſame liquor into fiſtulous and finuous ulcers, as alſo to waſh the ſordidulcers therewith. you may alſo boil the ſame ſimples, as herbs, flowers, and ſeeds in the patient's broths, that ſo they may acquire a medicinable and nouriſhing facultie. for the time of the affett, wherein you may with good ſucceſs make uſe of theſe, wee have read in guido, that hee uſed not to preſcribe theſe potions to his patients when as they were newly wounded, for that they commonly are compoſed of things, hot and opening, which heat and attenu- - ate the blood, whence there would bee danger of a defluxion, upon the affected part.where- º: fore when the matter is com to ſuppuration, when as there nothing remain's, but to cleanſthey are in y the ulcer, and fill it with fleſh, no inflammation as now remaining in the part, i judgtheſe ºccuſed. potions may then bee uſed with good ſucceſs. - - y. **t. chap. xxix. v. - - - - - - - - - of tetters, ring-worms, or chops occaſioned by the lues venerea. º:pon the cure of the lues venerea, uſually tetters and chops happen thereupon, º § which make furrows in the palms of the hands and ſoles of the feet. they ac- j : quire their matter from ſalt phlegm, or adult choler, or the reliques of the ve- # nereous virulencie ſent thither.the cure,eſpecially when as the diſeaſis grown *** old, is difficult; by reaſon that the humor hath long accuſtomed to flow that way,and for that it hath corrupted the habit of the part by the continual defiuxion; but the cure is more eaſie, if the diſeaſ bee newly bred. now you may know it is newly bred by sign; ofthe. the redneſs, accompanied by a great itching, and notonely a drineſs of the skin, but alſo a nº-" * thickneſs and denſneſs thereof.that which is old,beſides theſe fore-recited ſigns,have ſcale- caſ, lie and bran-like hardneſſes conjoyned therewith, which by ſcratching and rubbing caſt off ſcales. for general medicines, the diſtemper of the liver, and habit of the bodie muſt bee the cure of corre&ed, which by the occaſion of the former diſeaſand remedies apt to inflame the blood, newly com cannot but much ſwerv from their native temper. this may bee don by diet conveniently * appointed, by purgeing and altering medicines, bleeding, batheing, applying of cupping- glaſſes and horns. for topick or particular medicines, waſh ſuch as are newly or ij; bred - with the following water which drie's and is of ſubtil tiºf.aq.roſe parietanºi, aq.alum. aware: dry- gii.calc. ii, alum iiipul ſubl:sivºffat lent & ...; limºr. this waterſhall beenade #: virulent more or leſs forcible, according to the condition of the diſeaſ. or, rollart: iiſp.comżiv. ** miſc.fiat ungaent.ad uſum. if the phyſician ſhall think good, ſº the patient uſe a deco&tion of thecure of guaicum, but that verie weak. but old tetters and #. muſt bee ſoftned with emollient, old tetters. attenuating and inciding decoètions, as alſo with liniments,ointments and plaſters haveing the ſame effe&. then let the reſidue of the cure bee performed by fumigations, ſuch as this. - which follow's. ripulcinab ii. ladaſſodor ſtirac.cal.an. §: tart.c , theriac. a fumigatiº q.ſfiant trochiſci; uſe at each time ſom ſ of them, andletonely the affe&ed parts receiv the * ſmoak. som commend the rubbing of the hands with the following medicine. take the aſhes of wine-lees, make thereof a lee, and ſtrain it through an hypocraſs-bag, then put theretoſom rennet, let them bee well mixed together in a mortar, and herewith let the . . . - - hands bee rubbed or waſhed. or, runguentenuláiii.fugit: ii. orelſ, r.reſpinigi. ceruſ# . a **** argent.viv. iii.ſucci citri & lapath acutanºſ. let them bee incorporated, and make a lini- / ment to bee uſed to the part. if to this you add ſublimate ſo waſhed and prepared, as wo- men uſe for their faces, you ſhall make it more effectuall. others take burnt alummade in- to powder, and incorporated with the yolk of an egg, the juice of citrons, and a little a- loés diſſolved in oxymel ſciliticum. c. h.a.p. xxx. ofcureing the lues venerea in infants and little children. * nfants oftimes conceiv the ſeeds of this diſeaſ in the wombs of their mothers, and are born infected there-withall, puſtles preſently ariſting over all the bodies, in- fečting with the like diſeaſ as manie nurſes as give them ſuck; they ſcarce ever re- cover thereof, for that they contračted the diſeaſ from their firſt confirmation. but . ſuch as are ſomwhat bigger,if they chance to catch the diſeaſafter they are born by ſucking ſominfected nurſ, or by anie other occaſion or kinde#.contagion, often times receiv ‘. - t of tºnºming the lues venerea. lib. . i the cure. for firſt, you ſhall cauſthe nurſ to uſe the aquatberiacalir here-under deſcribed, for the ſpace: of twentie or more daies, that ſo ſhee may the better arm her ſelf againſt the contagion of this diſeaſ, and yield milk which may have the facultieboth of meat and medicine; ſheeſhall. bee careful as often as ſhee giv's the childeſuck, to waſh and drie her teat or pap, leſt the virulencie that the childebreath’es out at his mouth, bee impač in the little holes of the teat through which the milk flow's out. now the puſtles of little children ſhall bee an- nointed with ſom ointment that receive's argentum vivum inſom ſmall quantitie, as unguen- tümenalatum cum mercurio, or the like. thenſhall itbee ſwathed orbound up in ſwathes and clothes aired with the formerly deſcribed fumigations.for the reſt, it ſhallbeekeptaswarm as you can in ſomwarm place. theſe and the like muſt beedon not in one continuedcourſ, but at ſeveral ſeaſons; otherwiſe it is to bee feared, that it would cauſulcers to ariſe in the: mouth, or eiſſalivation. if anie ulcersariſe in the mouth, and ſpread therein, they ſhallbee. touched with the formerly deſcribed waters, but made ſomwhat weaker, haveingregard to the tender age of the patient; if the infantſhall get this diſeaſofits nurſ, let the nurſ bee: preſently changed; for it beeing otherwiſe nouriſhed with tainted and virulent blood, can hieverbee healed. manie have by theſe means recovered; but ſuch as have periſh't, have not periſh't by the default of medicines, but by the malignitie and vehemencie of the diſeaſ. a deſcription of the aqua theriacalis, or reacle-waterfºrmerly mentioned. ," a treacle- r raſor.interior.ligni ſančii gummoſ, fbii. polypodiguerni, iv. vini albi dulcedini, expertis ſhii. watcr. aque fontan puriſtbviii.aquarcichor.º. fumaranživ.ſemjunipheder.&baccar.lauri an: ii. caryo- phylè' mari,an.}{ cort, citri ſaccaro'condit, confroſanthos, cichor. bugloſ. boragan?ſ.conſenule camp,theriac.vet.&mithridan Žii. diſtil them all in balneo marie, after the following manner. the manner. let the guaicumbee infuſed inequal parts of wine, and the fore-mentioned waters for the ***** ſpace of twelv hours, and thereidue of the things in that which remain's of the ſame wine and waters for fix hours ſpace, beating ſuch things as may require it, then let them beenix- - ed altogether, that ſo the liquor may bee endued with all their faculties. which that it * * * * º: the more effºtually performed, let them bee boiled, put up in glaſs-bottles, cloſe- ly ſtopped for ſom three or four hours ſpace, in a large kettlefilled with boilingwater,then let them bee put into a glaſs alembick, and ſo diſtilled. give iv. of this diſtilled liquor at - once, beeing aromatized with i. of cinnamon, and biof diamargariton, and ſ.of ſugar, to give it a pleaſing taſte. such a drink doth not onely retund the virulencie of the lues ve. nerea, but ſtrengthen's the noble parts. rondeletius make's an aqua theriatali, after this man- rºndiktiu his ner. r.theriac vettiatefoſniii.rad gram. iiipuleg cardben animiifforthamampii temperen- **k-water, tur chinia in vino albo, & diſtillemur in ºaſe vitrio: reſerv the water for uſe; whereof i. ºr in takeši, withºlii.of ſorrel and bºſs water; hee with thºs to beedon when he: * ſhall inter into bedſor a ſtove; forfö this diſtilled liquor will canſ ſweat more eaſily, and mitigate pain, whether given by itſelf, or with a decóðion of grommel, or of dynaſorbur- - ... dock-roºts; yet if the patient £ofāphſégmatick conſtitution,heeſhall uſe a decoètion of *::::: guaicum in ičić: à decočtion ºf chyma, for it penetrate's more ſpeedily, by reaſon of its ſubtiltie of parts, and alſo expélfs the dolorifickmatter. the end of the nineteenth book. - * the twinneth bºk. chap. i. of the cauſes of the small pock, and meazles. s or that the ſmall podks and meazles are diſeaſes, which uſually are fore- $º runners and fore-tellers of the plague, not onely by the corruption of hur. §§§ times generated in the plague, i have thought good to write of theſe things, alº to the end that by this treatiſe the young surgeon may bee more amply and tº j perfºly inſtructed in that peſtilent diſeaſ. alſol have thought good to treat of the leproſeas beeing the off-ſpring of the higheſt corruption of humors in the bodie. now the ſmall pocks are puſtles, and the meazles ſpots,which ariſe in the top of the skinby reaſon of the impuritie of the corrupt blood ſent thither by the force of nature. moſt of the antients have delivered that this impuritie is the reliques of the menſtruous blood remain- ing in the bodie of the infant, beeing of that matter from whence it drew nouriſhment in the womb, which lying ſtill or quiet for ſom ſpace oftime, but ſtirred up at the firſt oppor- tunitie of a hotter summer, or a ſoutherlie or rainie ſeaſon, or a hidden malignitie in the air, and boiling up, or working with the whole maſs of the blood, ſpreador ſhew themſelvs upon the whole ſurface of the bodie. an argument hereof is, there are few or none who have notbeen troubled with this diſeaſ, at leaſt once in their lives, which when it begins to ſhewitſelf, not content to ſet upon ſom one, it commonly ſeazeth upon more : now com- monly there is as much difference between the ſmall pocks and meazles, as there is between a carbuncle and a peſtilent bubo. for the ſmall pocks ariſe of a more groſs and viſcous matter, to wit,of a phlegmatick humor. but the meazles of a more ſubtil and hot; that is, a cholerick matter, therefore this yeeld's no marks thereof, but certain ſmall ſpots without anie tumor, and theſe either red, purple, or black. but the ſmall pocks are extuberateing puffles,white in themid'ſ,but redințhe circumference, an argument of blood mixed with choler, yet they are ſcarce known at the beginning,that is on the firſt or ſecond daie they ap- pear; but on the third and fourth daiethey bunch out and riſe up into a tumor, becom- mors, but oftimes by default ofthe air; moreover, for that worms are oft- what the ſmal pocks and meizles are. their matter. ining white before they turn into a ſcab; but the meazles remain ſtill the ſame. further-why the mea more the ſmall pocks prick like needlesby reaſon of a certain acrimonie,and cauſanitching; the meazles do neither, either becauſ thematter is not ſo acrid and biteing, or elf for that it is more ſubtil, it eaſily exhale's, neither is it kept ſhut up under the skin. the patients often ſneez when as theſe matters ſeek paſſage out, by reaſon of the putrid vapors aſcending from the lower parts upwards to the brain. they are held with a continual fever, with pains in their backs, itching oftheir noſe, head-ach, and avertiginous heavineſs, and with a kinde of ſwounding or fainting, a nauſeous diſpoſition, and vomiting, a hoarſ. neſs, difficult and frequent breathing; an inclination to ſleep, aheavineſs of all the mem- bers, theireies are fierie and ſwollen, their urine red and troubled. for prognoſticks, wee may truely ſay thus much, that the matter whence this affe& take's its original, partake's of ſomalign, peſtilent and contagiousa qualitie, that not content to mangle and ſpoil the fleſhie part, it alſo eat's and corrupt's the bones like the lues venerea, as i obſerved not one- ly in anno dom. , but alſo in diverſother yeers, whereof i think it not amiſs to ſet own this notable example. - the daughter of claude piqué a book-ſeller,dwelling in s.james his ſtreet at paris,beein ſom four or five yeers old,haveing been ſick of the ſmallpocks for the ſpace of a month, j nature could not overcom the malignitie of the diſeaſ, there roſe abſceſſes upon the ſternon and the joints of the ſhoulders,whoſe eating and virulent matter,corroded the bones of the fernon, and divided them in ſunder; alſo it conſumed a great part of the top of the ſhoulder- bone, and the head of the blade-bone: of this thing i had witneſſes with me, marcus myron phyſician of paris, and at this preſent the king's chief phyſician,john doreau surgeon to the conte de bryane, the bodie being diſſetted in their preſence. alſo you may obſervin manie killed by the malignitie of this diſeaſ, and diffeded, that it cauſeth ſuch impreſſion ofcor- - - - - ruption zles do not itch, prognoſticks, an hiſtorie. . concerning the small pock, lib. . ruption in theprincipall parts, as bring's the dropſie, priſick, a hoarſneſs, afthma, bloody what grievous flux ulcerating the guts, and at length j death, as the puſtles have raged or raigned ... overtheſe or theſe entrails, as you ſee them to do over the ſurface of the body; for they do ſymptoms º happen by the ; pocks. the childc not onely moleſt the external parts, by leaving the impreſſions & ſcars of the puſtlesandul- cers,rooting themſelvs deep in the fleſh,but alſo ofttimes they takeaway the facultie of mo- tion, eating aſunder, and weakning the joints of the elbow, wreſt, knee and ancle. more- overſundry have been deprived of their fight by them, as the lord guymenay, others have loſt their hearing, and otherſom their ſmelling, a fleſhy excreſcence growing in the paſſages of the noſe and ears. but if anie reliques of the diſeaſ remain, and that the whole matter thereof bee not jā’; the i. of nature, then ſymptoms afterwards ariſe, which ſavor of the malignitie of the humor yeaznd equall the harm of the ſymptoms of the lueſ venerea. - - c h.a. p. l i. of the cure of the small pock, and meazler. . he cure of this diſeaſuſeth to bee divers,according to the condition of the humor nº free from, or partaker of the venenate qualitie. for if it partake of malignitie,and | tº the childebee a ſucking childe, ſuch things ſhall bee given to the nurſas may in- fringe and overcom the ſtrength of the malignitie,as wee ſhall ſhew more at large, when wee com to treat of the cure of children which are ſick of the plague;howſoever it bee, the childe muſt bee kept in a warm room free from winde, and muſt be wrapped and covered with ſcarlet cloaths, untill the pocks comforth. there ſhall bee provided for the nurſme- dicated broths with purſlain, lettuce, ſorrell, ſuccory,borage, and french barly bound up in a cloth. shee ſhall ſhun all ſalt, ſpiced and baked meats, and in ſtead of wine drink adé- cočtion of liquorice, raiſons and ſorrel roots. shee ſhall alſo take purgeing medicins, as if ſhee were ſick of the ſame diſeaſ, that ſo her milk may becom medicinable. laſtly,ſhee ſhall obſerv the ſame dict as is uſually preſcribed to ſuch as have the plague. you ſhall give the childe no pap, or if you give it anie, let it be verie little. but if the childebee weaned, let him mºno abſtain from fleſh, until the feaver have left him, and the pocksbee fully comforth: inſtead pap. how ſound ſleep doth harm in this diſeaſ. - of purgeing, bleeding and ſudorificks an hiſtoric, a ſudorifick decodion. when it is beſt to procure ſwcat. of fleſh let him feed on barly and almond creames, chicken broths, wherein the fore-named herbs have been boyled, panadoes, gellies, culaſſes, prunes andraiſons. let his drink beea ptiſan made of french barlie, graſs & ſorrel roots,or with a nodula céntaining the four cold ſeeds,the pulp of prunes and raiſons,with the ſhayeings of ivorieand hartſ-horn; between meals the ſame decočtion may bee mixed with ſom ſyrup of violets, but not of roſes or a- ny other aſtringent ſyrup,leſt wee hinder the courſ and inclination of the humor outwards. let his ſleep bee moderate, for too ſound ſleep draws back the matter to the center, and in- creaſºth the fever; you muſt neither purge, nor draw blood the diſeaſ increaſing or beeing at the height, unleſs paradventure there bee a great plenitude, or elſe the diſeaſcomplicate with other, as with a pleurifie,inflammation ofthe eyes, oran ſquinancie which require it, left the motion of nature ſhould be diſturbed; but you ſhall think it ſufficient to looſe the bellie. with a gentle glyfier: but when the height of the diſeaſ is over, and in the declenſion thereof, you may with caſſia or ſom ſtronger medicine evacuate part of the humors and the reliques of the diſeaſ. but in the ſtate and increaſ it is better to uſe ſudorificks, which by attenuating the humors and relaxing the pores of the skin may drive the cauſof the diſ- eaſ fom the center to the circumference, which otherwiſe reſideing in the bodie might bee a cauſ of death; as i and richard hubert obſerved in two maids, whereof one was four, and the other ſeventeen yeers old; for wee diffe&ing them both beeing dead, found their en- trails covered with ſcabbie or cruited puſtles, like thoſe thatbreak forth upon the skin. wee muſt not think that a bleeding at noſe at the beginning of the diſeaſ, or in the firſt four or five daics ſhould carrie away the matter and original of the diſeaſ, for nevertheleſs the pocks will comforth ; but for that this is a true and natural criſis of this diſeaſ, as that which is carried to the ſurface & circumference of the bodie,ſuch bleeding muſt not be: ſtopped, unleſs you fear it will cauſ ſwounding. the matter ſhall bee drawn out with a decottion of figs, husked lentils, citron-ſeeds, the ſeeds of fennel,parſlie, ſmallage, roots of graſs, raiſons and dates. for ſuch a deco&tion, certainly if it have power to cauſſweat, hath alſo a facultie to ſend forth unto the skin the morbifick humor; the ſeeds of fennel and the like opening things relax and open the pores of the skin;figs lenifie the acrimonie of the matter,andgent- ly cleanſ, the lentiis keep the jaws and throat, and all the inward parts from puſtles, and hinder a flux by reaſon of their moderate aſtriëtion, but haveing their husks on, they would binde more then is required in the diſeaſ; dates are thought to comfort the ſtomach;and ci- tron-ſeeds to defend the heart from malignitie, licoriſh to ſmooth the throat, and hinder hoarſneſs and cauſſweat. but theſe things ſhallbee given long after meat, for it is not fitto ſwcat preſently after meat; ſom therebee who would have the childe wrapped in linnen clothes ſteep'd in this decočtion beeing hot, and afterwards hard wrung forth. yet º - rather lib. . e eagles and w.orms,dºc. . rathertouſe bladders or ſpunges, or hotbricks for the ſame purpoſe; certainly a decočtion of millet, figs and raiſons, with ſom ſugar, cauſeth ſweat powerfully. neither is it amiſs whil'ſt the patient is covered in all other parts of the bodie, and ſweat's, to fan his face, for thus the native heat is kept in and ſo ſtrengthned, and fainting hindred, and a greater excre- tion of excrementitious humors cauſed. to which purpoſe you may alſo put now and then to the patient's noſe a nodulus made with a little vineger and water of roſes, camphire, the powder of ſanders, and other odoriferous things which have a cooling facultie, this alſo will keep the noſe from puſtles. chap. iii. what parts muſt bee armed againſi, and preſerved from the pock. a. he eies, noſe, throat, lungs and inward parts ought to bee kept freer from the º eruption of puſtles then the other parts; for that their nature and conſiſtence is º more obnoxious to the malignitie of this virulencie, and they are eaſilyer cor- rupted and blemiſhed. therefore left the eies ſhould bee hurt, you muſt defend how to defend them when you firſt begin to ſuſpect the diſeaſ, with the eie-lids, alſo moiſtning ** them with roſe-water, verjuce or vineger, and a little camphire. there are ſom alſo who for this purpoſe alſo make a decočtion of sumach,berberie-ſeeds, pomgranate-pills, aloés, and a little ſafiron; the juice of ſowrpomgranates, and the water of the whites of eggs drop- ped in with roſe-water are good for the ſame purpoſe ; alſo woman's milk mixed with roſe-water and often renewed; and laſtly all ſuch things or have a repercuſſive when the eits qualitie. yet if the ties bee much ſwoln and red, you ſhall not uſe repercuſſives alone, but muſt not bee mix therewith diſcuſſers and cleanſers, ſuch as are fit by a familaritie of nature to ſtrengthen . re- the fight; and let theſe bee tempered with ſom fennelóreie-bright water. then the patientſ.” ſhall not look upon the light or red things for fear of pain and inflammation; wherefore in the ſtate of the diſeaſ, when the pain and inflammation of the eies are at their height, gently drying and diſcuſſive things properly conduceing to the cies are moſt convenient, as waſhed how to defend aloes, tuttie and antimonie in the water of fennel, eie-bright and roſes. the formerly the noſe. mentioned nodulus wiłł preſerv the noſe,and linnen clothes dipped in the fore-ſaid aſtringent how the decoãion, put into the notºrils and outwardly applied. wee ſhall defend the jaws,throat, mouth. and throtle, and preſery, the integritie of the voice by a gargle of oxycrate, or the juice of ſowrpomgranates, holding alſo the grains of them in their mouths,and often rouling them º up and down therein; as alſo by nodula's of the ſeeds of pſilium,quinces and the like cold and altringent things. wee muſt provide for the lungs and reſpiration by ſyrups of jubes,violets, how the lungs roſes, white poppies, pomgranates, water-lillies,and the like. now when as the pocks are throughly comforth, then may you permit the patient to uſe ſomwhat a free'r diet, and you muſt wholly buſie your ſelf in ripening and evacuateing the matter, drying and ſcaleing them. but for the meazles, they are cured by reſolution onely, and not by ſuppuration; the pocks may bee ripened by annointing them with freſhbutter, by fomenting them with a decočtion of the roots of mallows, lillies, figs, line-ſeeds and the like. after they are ri they ſhall have their heads clipped off with a pair of ſciſſers, or elſbee opened with a golde or ſilver-needle,leſt the matter contained in them, ſhould corrode the fleſh that lie's thereun- der, and after the cure, leav the prints or pock-holes behinde it, which would cauſſom de- formitie; the pus, or matterbeeing evacuated, they ſhall bee dried up with unguent. roſat, ad- ding thereto ceruſs, litharge, aloes and a little ſaffron in powder; for theſe have not onely a facultie to drie, but alſo to regenerate fleſh;for the ſame purpoſe the flowr of barlie and lu- pines are diſſolved and mixed with roſe-water, and the affected parts annointed therewith with a fine linnen rag;ſom annoint them with the ſward of bacon boiled in water and wine, then preſently ſtrow upon them the ſlowr of barlie or lupines, or both of them. others mix crude honie newly taken from the comb, with barlie-flowr, and therewithall annoint the puſtles ſo to drie them; beeing dried up like a ſcurf or ſcab, they annoint them with oil of roſes, violets, almonds, or elſwith ſomcream, that they may the ſooner fall away, the puſtles beeingbroken ; tedious itchings ſollicit the patients to ſcratch, whence happen's ex- coriation and filthie ulcers, for ſcratching is the occaſion of greater attraction. wherefore you ſhall binde the ſick childe's hand, and foment the itching parts with a decočtion of marſh-mallows, barlie and lupines, with the addition of ſom ſalt. but if it bee alreadie ex-remedies for coriated, then ſhall you healit with unguent. album camphorat, adding thereto a little powder ºriation. of aloës or cinnabaris, or a little deſiccativum rubrum. but if notwithſtanding all your appli- cation of repelling medicines, puſtles nevertheleſs break forth at the eies, then muſt they beediligently cured with all manner of collyria,haveing a care that the inflammation of that part grow not to that bigneſs, as to break the eies, and that which ſomtimes happen's to how to pre- ventpock-arrs. n drive them forth of their properorbs.if anie cruſtie ulcers ariſe in the noſtrils, they may bee dried and cauſed to fall away by putting up of ointments. such as ariſe in the mouth, ſº - * tc - - . concerning the small pock, linzo. late and throat, with hoarſneſs and difficultieofſwallowing, may bee helped by gargariſms for the ulcers made with barlie-water,the waters of plantain and chervil, with ſom ſyrup of roſes, or di- of the mouth amorondiſſolved therein; the patient ſhall hold in his mouth ſugar of roſes or the tablets of ***". elei.diatragacanth frigid. the pock-arrs left inthe face, if they bunch out undecently,ſhall to . bee clipped away with a pair of ſciſſers, and then annointed with freſh ungnent. citrin, or elſ . i. “with this liniment. r. amyli triticti, & amygdalarum excorticatarum,an. iſ gum.tragacanth. ſ. ſeminis melomum, fabarum ſiccarum excorticat-farine bordei,an iiii., let them all bee made into fine powder, and then incorporated with roſe-water,and ſo make a liniment, wherewith an- noint the face with a feather; let it bee wipedaway in the morning, waſhing the face with ſom water and wheat-bran; hereto alſo conduceth lar virginale; gooſ, duck’s and capon's - greaſ are good to ſmooth the roughneſs of the skin, as alſo oil of lillies hares-blood of one newly killed and hot, is good to fill and plain, as alſo whiten the pock-holes,if they bee of. ten rubbed therewith. inſtead hereof manie uſe the ſward of bacon rubbed warm thereon; alſo the diſtilled waters of bean flowers, lillie-roots, reed-roots, egg-ſhels, and oil of eggs are thought verie prevalent to waſte and ſmooth the pock-arrs.” - a tiſcourſ of certain monſtrous creatures which breed againſt nature intbe bodies of men, wo- men, and little children, which may ſerv as an induáion to the enſuing diſcourſ of worms. - as in the macrocoſmos or bigger world, ſo in the microcoſmos or leſſerworld there are a..." windes, thunders, earth-quakes, ſhowrs, inundations of waters,ſterilities,fertilities, ſtones, §: iſ mountains & ſundrie ſorts of fruits & creatures thence ariſe.for whocan denie but that there fºoid. is winde contained ſhut up in flatulent abſceſſes, and in the guts of thoſe that are troubled the generati- will the colick?flatulencies make ſo great a noiſin diverſ women's bellies,if ſobee you ſtand on of windein near them, that you would think you hearda great number of frogs croaking on the night- . º: time:that water is contained in waterie abſceſſes, & the bellie of ſuch as have the j. "“ manifeſted by that cure which is performed by theſettingforth of the water; in fits of Ågues the whole bodie is no otherwiſe ſhaken & tremble's,then the earth when it is heard to bel- of ſtones low, and felt to ſhake under our feet. hee which ſhall ſee the ſtones which are taken out of the bladder, and comfrom the kidnies and diverſother parts of the bodie, cannot deniebut offinits from that ſtones are generated in ourbodies. furthermore wee ſee both men and women who in the firſt con- their face or ſom other parts, ſhew the impreſſion, or imprinted figure of a cherrie, plumb, formation, ſervice, fig-mulberrie and the like fruit; the cauſhereof is thought to bee the power of the imagination concurring with the formative facultie, and the tenderneſs of theyeelding and wax-like embryon, eaſie to bee brought intoanie form or figure by reaſon of the proper and native humiditie. for you ſhall finde that all their mothers whilſt they went with them have earneſtly deſired or longed for ſuch things, which, whil'ſt they have too earneſtly agi- tated in their mindes, they have tranſferred the ſhape unto the childe, whilſt that they could not enjoy the things themſelvs. now who can deniebut that the bunches ofthe back and large wens reſemble mountains? who can gain-ſay, but that ſqualid ſterilitie may bee aſſimilated to the he&tick drineſs of waſted and conſumed perſons? and fertilitie deciphered by the bodie diſtended with much fleſh and fat, ſo that the legs can ſcarce ſtand under the burden of the bellie? but that diverſcreatures are generated in one creature, that is in man, and that in ſundrie parts of him, the following hiſtories ſhall make it evident. lib.de morb. hollerius tell's that a certain italian by frequent ſmelling to the herb baſil,had a scorpion intº bred in his brain, which cauſed long & vehement pain,and at length death;therefore i have here expreſt the figure of that scorpion, found, whenas hisbrain was opened. the figure of a scorpion. it make's hollerius conjećture of the cauſ and original of this scorpion, probable for that chryſippus, dyophanes and plinie write, that of baſil beaten between two ſtones, and laidin the ſun, there willcomscorpions. fernelius write's that in a certain ſouldier, who was flat noſed, upon the too long reſtraint or ſtoppage of a certain filthie matter that flowed out ofthe noſe, that there were generated two hairie worms of the bigneſs of ones finger, which at length made him mad, hee had no manifeſt fever,and heedied about the twentieth day: this was their ſhape, by as much as wee can gather by fernelius's his words, lib. .départ, morbis cap. . the * lib. . - sºvſeaxles and worms,dºc. the effigies of worms mentioned by fernelius. lewis duret, aman of great learning & credit,told me that he had comforth anhitorie. with hisurine, after a long and diiſi- cult diſeaſ, a quick creature, of color red, but otherwiſe like in ſhape a mil- lepes, that is,a cheſlop, or hog-louf. the ſhape of a millepes cali forth by urine. - - - - count charls of mansfieldt, laſt summer troubled with a grievous and continual fever, an hiſtories in the duke of guiſes place caſt forth a filthie matter at his yard, in the ſhape of alivething - almoſt juſt in this form. f : - ~ . | theſape-failingtaff fribly uſine. : . - *- o • monſtrous creatures alſo of ſundrie forms are alſo generated in wombs of women; ſom- whiles alone, otherwhiles with amola, and ſomtime with a childe naturally and well made; as frogs, toads,ſerpents, lizzards which therefore the antients have termed thelumbards brethren, for that it was uſual with their women, that together with their natural and per- fečt iſſue they brought into the world worms, ſerpents, and monſtrous creatures of that kindegenerated in their wombs, for that they alwaies more reſpected the decking of their bodies, then they did their diet. for it happened whileſt they fed on fruits,weeds and traſh, and ſuch things as were of ill juice, they generated a putrid matter, or certainly verie ſub- jećt to putrefaction and corruption, and conſequently opportune to generate ſuchun- .. erfeót creatures. jouberta, telleth that there were two italian women, that in one month lººr"?” . ɺ forth each of them a monſtrous birth; the one that married a tailor,brought forth a thing ſo little, that it reſembled a rat without a tail; but the other a gentlewoman, brought forth a larger, for it was of the bigneſs of a cat; both of them were black, and as ſoon as they came out of the womb, they ran up high on the wall, and held faſt thereon with their nails. lycoſthenes write's that in anno dom. . a woman at cracovia, in the {treet which taketh name from the holie ghoſt, was delivered of a dead childe, who had a ſerpent faſtned upon his back, which fed upon this dead childe, as you perceiv by this fol- - lowing figure. - - n nicolaus flor. god.lib. . , . the figure afa ſerpent faſtned to a childe. - - - - * * *- * *º- levinus lemnius tell's averie ſtrange hiſtorieto this purpoſe. som few yeers agone (ſaith lib.deºut. hee)a certain woman of the iſlein flanders,whichbering with childeby a saloº ... mat.mir.cap. . - - welled concerning the small pock, lib. . ſwelled up ſo ſpeedily, that it ſeemed ſhee would not bee able to carrie her burden to the term preſcribed by nature; her ninth month beeing ended ſhee call's amidwife, and preſent- ly after ſtrong throws and pains, ſhee firſt broughtforth a deformed lump of fleſh, haveing as it were two handles on the fides, ſtretched forth to the length and manner of arms, and it moved and panted with a certain vital motion,after the manner of ſpunges and ſea-nettles; but afterwards there came forth of her womb a monſter with a crooked noſe, a long and roundneck, terrible eies, a ſharp tail, and wonderful quick of the feet, it was ſhaped much after this manner. - the ſhape of a monſter that came forth of a woman's womb. “wº www. "ºu zº nº. "w)?, ? fwhnw , % zºd Øé w % n asſoon as it came into the light it filled the whole room with a noiſe & hiſſing, running to everie ſide to finde out alurking hole wherein to hide its head,but the women which were preſent, with a joint conſent fell upon it, and ſmothered it with cuſhions, at length the rwoman wearied with long travel, was delivered of aboie, but ſo evilly entreated and andled by this monſter, that it died as ſoon as it was chriſtened. liba, divini, cornelius gemma a phyſician of lovain, telleth that there were manie verie monſtrous and natu.charait-ſtrange things caſt forth both upwards and downwards outof the bellie of a certain maid of riſmis. lovain, of the age of fifteen years. amongſt the reſt, ſhee caſt forth at her fundament, toge- ther with her excrements,a liveing creature ſom foot & half long, thicker then ones thumb, verie like an eel, but that it had a veriehairie tail; i have here given you the figure of the monſter as it was expreſſed by him. the figure of a monſter that came forth of a maid’s belie. (\ n - j's nijº's an hiſtorie. maſter peter barque and claudelegrand, surgeons of verdun, lately affirmed to mee that they cured the wife of a certain citizen of verdun, which out of an abſceſs broken in the bellie, caſt forth a great number of worms, together with the quittur and theſe were of the thickneſs of ones finger, with ſharp heads, which ſo gnawed her guts, that the excrements for a long time came forth at the ulcer, but now ſhee is perfectly recovered. an hiſtorie. anthonie benenius a phyſician of florence telleth; that one john menuſieru, a man of fortie yers of age, troubled with continual pains at his ſtomach, was often at the point of death, neither found heeanie help by the counſels of manie phyſicians which hee uſed. at length comming to have his advice, hee gave him a vomit, by means whereof hee caſt up a great quantitie of corrupt and putrid matter, yet washeenot thereby eaſed of his pain. therefore hce gave him another vomit, by force whereof hee caſt up much matter like to the former, and together therewith a worm of four fingers long, haveing ared round head, of the big- neſs of a great peaſ covered over the bodie with a ſoft downineſ with a forked tail, in man- ner of an half moon ;going upon four feet,two before,and two behinde. , the figure fawomcaſfºrth b vomit. lib.o. sºakes and worms,ºc. why ſhould i mention the prodigious bodies which are found in ºbſceſſes; as flones; ſºciº chalk,ſand, coles, ſnail-ſhels, ſtrawes, hay, horns, hairs, andmanie kindes of living and . dadºrºsºforthere is nothing in thºgeneration of theſethings (cauſed by corrupti jº - - ---- - : tnings as are , on, preceded by much alteration)which may makeus admire or holdus infuſpence, eſpeci-ji. ally if weeſhaſ confider that nature,the fruitful parent of all things,hathput divers portions iſ generardin and particles of the univerſal matter whereof the greaterworldiscompoſed into this micro- ourbodies. . coſmºs, or little world, man; whereby heemight the ratherſeem to beenade to the reſem- ** ** blance and form of the greater. whereforeitſddeſport's itſelf here, that it may counter. feit and reſemble all theations andmotions which it uſeth to perform in the ſcene of the º 'º greater world, in this little one; if ſobee ** bee not wanting. - - - ºr a tº wºn tº "… . " - " - - *— -ºs- -ttttt tº “ , , --------. . . . . chap, “ih i. . . . . . .” ". . . . . . . it. :) . : - - - ---.…; "...; tº: ; -- " of the worms which iſ to breedin thegut. ------ groſs, viſcid and crude humor is the material cauſof worms, which haveing how worms tº got the beginning of corruption in the ſtomach, is quickly carried into the are generated. :nº guts, and there it putrefie's, haveing not acquired the form of laudable chylus in ºf the firſt concoëtion. this, for that it is viſcid, tenaciouſly adhere's to the guts; neither is it eaſily evacuated with the other excrements; therefore by delay it ‘. . further putrefies, and by the efficacie of heat, it turn's into the matter and nouriſhment for the reaſon worms. this alimentarie humorbeeing conſumed, unleſs ſomfreſh,ſupplie the want there- ºther ſom- of, which may eaſtheir hunger, they mooy themſelvs in the guts with great violence, they º, *: cauſgrievous and great pains, yea, and oftimes they creep up to the ſtomach, and ſo com jº g forth by the mouth, and ſomtimes they aſſoend into the holes of the palate, and comforth at the noſe. worms are of three ſorts; for ſom are round and long, others broad and long, others ſhort and ſlender. the firſt are called by the antients teretes,that is, round; for that the differen: they are long and round. the ſecondare named tenie, for that their bodies are long and ccs of worms, broad, like a rowler or ſwathe. the third are termed aſcarides, for that they commonl wrap themſelvs up round. other differences of worms are taken from their colors, as red, white, black, aſh-colored, yellowiſh. somialſo are hairie, with a great head like the little fiſh which the french call chabetwee, a miller's-ſhimb; inſom diſeaſes manieworms are ge- nerated and caſt forth by the fundament, as ſmall as hairs, and uſually of color white, and theſe are they which are called aſcarides. the diverſitie of colors in worms proceedeth not from the like diſtină diverſitie of humors whereof they are generated. for the melancho- lick and cholerick humor by their qualities are wholly unfit to generate worms. but this manifold varietie in color, isby reaſon of the different corruption of the chylous or phleg- matick humor whereof they are bred. the long and broad worms are oftentimes ſtretch- ed alongſt all the guts, . like to a mucous or albuminous ſubſtance; and verily i ſaw an hiſtoric: , one voided by a woman, which was like to a ſerpent, and ſom fix foot long, which ought not to ſeem ſtrange, ſeeing it is noted by the antients, that they have ſeen worms ſo long, as the length of the whole guts, that is, ſeven times the length of ones bodie. wieru, write's. an hiſtories that hee ſaw a countrie-man who voided a worm eightfoot and one inch long, in head and mouth reſembling a duck, which therefore i have thought good here to expreſs. the figure of a worm, generated in, and cafforth of the guts. --- nw ---- - ---- ami z sº waleſiola affirmeth, that heeſaw a worm above nine foot long. now as worms differin isºſºrus. ſhape, ſo are their places of generation alſo different. forthe round and long worms are commonly generated in the ſmallerguts, thereſtin the **, but eſpecially the aſcarides: inoſlº concerning the worms, &c. lib. . in what pla: none breed in the ſtomach, as that which is the place of the firſt concoëtion. there truly tes of the bel: the matter which breedeth theſe worms, get’s the firſt rudiment of corruption, but com’s lie .* to perſe&ion onely in the guts; they breed in ſom infants in their mothers bellies, by the generated. pravitie and corrupt nature of the humor flowing from the mother for the nouriſhment of . . . . . . ; the childe, which for that then they do not typell it by ſiege, it by delay putrefieth the d fºr lib. , more, and yield's fit matter for the breeding of worms, as ſom have obſerved out of hippo- *** crates. laſtly, worms breed in people of anie age that are bellie-gods, and given to glutto- nie, as alſo in ſuch as feed upon meats of ill juice, and apt to corrupt, as crude ſummer- signs of fruits, cheeſ, and milk-meats. but to know in what part of the guts the worms do lurk, wºrms in the you muſt note, that when they are in the ſmallguts, the patients complain of a pain in their * * ſtoniach, with a dog-like appetite, whereby they require manie and ſeveral things without reaſon, a great part of the nouriſhment beeing conſumed by the worms lying there; they are alſo ſubjećtto often fainting, by reaſon of the ſympathie which the ſtomach, beeing a part of moſt exquiſite ſenſ, hath with the heart, the noſe itches, the breath ſtink's, by reaſon of the exhalations ſent up from the meat corrupting in the ſtomach; through which occa- fion they are alſo given to ſleep, but are now and then waked there-from by ſudden ſtart- - " ings and fears; they are held with a continued and ſlow fever, a drie cough, a winking signs of with their eie-lids, and often changeing of the color of their faces. but long and broad worms in the worms, beeing the innates of the greater guts, ſhew themſelvs by ſtools repleniſhed with gºat gºs., manie ſloughs,here and there reſembling the ſeeds of a musk-melon or cucumber. aſcarider ; ** are known by theitching they cauſin the fundament, cauſing a ſenſas if it were ants run- ". . ning up and down; cauſfing alſo a tenaſmus, and falling down of the fundament. this is the cauſofall theſe ſymptoms; their ſleep is turbulent and often clamorous, when as hot, acrid and ſubtil vapors, raiſed by the worms from the like humor and their food,areſent up to the head; but ſound ſleep by the contrarie, as when a miſtievaporis ſent up from a groſs and cold matter. they dream they eat their ſleep, for that while the worms do more greedily conſume the chylous matter in the guts, they ſtir up the ſenſof the like ačtion in the phantafie. they grate or gnaſh their teeth by reaſon of a certain convulfifick repletion, the muſcles of the temples and jaws beeing diſtended by plentie of vapors. a drie cough com's by the conſent of the vital parts ſerving for reſpiration, which the natural, to wit, the diaphragma, or midriff, ſmit upon by acrid vapors, and irritated as though there were ſom humor to bee expelled by coughing. theſe ſame acrid fumes aſſailing the orifice of the ventricle, cauſeither an hicketting, or elſa fainting, according to the condition of their conſiſtence, groſs or thin; theſe carried up to the parts of the face cauſan itching of the noſe, a darkneſs of the fight, and a #: of the color in the cheeks. great worms are worſthen little ones, red then white, living then dead, manie then few, variega- ted then thoſe of one color, as thoſe which are figns of a greater corruption. such as are whº worms caſt forth bloodie and ſprinkled with blood, are deadlie, for they ſhew that the ſubſtance jof theguts is eaten aſunder; for oftimes they corrode and perforate the bodie of the gut *...* wherein they are contained, and thence penetrate into divers parts of the bellie, ſo that : - ºr . . - dangerous. they have comforth fomtimes at the navel, haveing eaten themſelvs a paſſage forth, as ha!- lerius affirmeth. when as children troubled with the worms draw their breath with diffi- cultie, and wax moiſt over all their bodies, it is a fign that death is at hand. if at the begin- ning of ſharp fevers, round worms comforth alives, it is a fign of a peſtilent fever, the malignitie of whoſe matter they could not endure, but were forced to comforth. but if they bee caſt forth dead, they are figns ofgreater corruption in the humors, and of a more venenate malignitie. - . . . . . c. h. a. p. v. … º what cure to bee uſed for the worms. . . the general * = n this diſeaſthere is but one indication,that is, the excluſion or caſting out indications of sº º of the worms, either alive or dead, forth of the bodie, as beeing ſuch that curcing the ſº fº in their whole kinde are againſt nature; all things muſt bee ſhunned which wortus, --~~ ºjº - are apt to heap u putrefaction in the bodie by their corruption, ſuch as º!" are crude fruits, §: milk-meats, fiſhes, and laſtly, ſuch things as are of a º difficult and hard digeſtion, but prone to corruption. pap is fit for chil- dren, for that they require moiſt things.but theſe ought to anſwerina certain fimilitude to the conſiſtence and thickneſs of milk, that ſo they may the more eaſily bee concoºted and aſ: | ſimilated, and ſuch onely is that pap which is made with wheatflower.not crude,butbaked in an oven, that the pap made there with may not bee too viſcid northick, if it ſhould onely bee boiled in a pan as much as the milk would require; or elſthe milk would beetooterre- ſtrial, or too wateriſh, all the fattie portion thereof beeing reſolved, the cheeſe andwhayiſh- portion remaining if itſhould boilſo much as were neceſſarie for the ful boiling of the crude - inč t lib. . meazles, and worms, &c. - theſe ſuppoſitories are chiefly to bee uſed meat; they whichuſemeal otherwiſe in papyeeldmatter for the generateing of groſs and viſcid humors in the ſtomach, whence happen's obſtrućtion in the firſt veins and ſubſtance of the liver; by obſtrućtion wormsbreed in the guts, and the ſtone in the kidnies and bladder. the patient muſt beefed often, and with meats of good juice, left the worms through want of nouriſhment, ſhould gnaw the ſubſtance of the guts. now when as ſuch things i. ot aputridmatter, the patient ſhallbee purged, and the putrefation ºpreſtby medicines then- - º tioned in our treatiſe ofthe plague. for the quick killing and ºfting of them forth, ſyrup whº fore, and officcorie, or of lemmons with rubarb, a little treacle or mºthridate is a ſingular medicine, whº ifthere beenp ſever; youmay alſo for the ſame purpoſeuſ:this following medicine.r.cornu as have the cervi, pilºtaſar.eboriº,angiſ.ſen tanaget, & contra verman i fiat dºtiio prº parvādoſ,in cola- j." turáinfunderhei optimići cinam. i diſſolve ſyrupi de abſinthio; | . makea potion, give it in the *p** . morning three hours before anie broth. oil of olivesdrunk, kill's worms; as alſo water of ... - knot-graſs drunk with milk; and in like manner all bitter thing. yet, i could firſt wiſh them to give aglyſter made of milk, honie and ſugar, withºut oils and bitter things, leſt ſhunning f, they leav the lower guts, and comupwards;for this is natural to worms, to ſhun bitter things, and followſweet things. whence you may learns that to the bitter. things which yougiyeby the mouth, youmaſtalwalesmix ſwee; things, that allured by the ſwºrne.they may devºurthºmºlor:greedily.thatſothey mayºilhem.therefºrel would mºtiºn with milk and ſuger, mix theſeeds of centaurie, rue,wormwood, aloés and th;like:hartſ. jºin - horn is verie effečtual againſt worms, wherefore you may infuſe the ſhavsings thereof in the ºw. water or drink that the patient drink's,as alſo to boil ſomthereof in his ..i. trea- - . . . cle ; in broth,killeth the worms; purſlain boiled in broths, and drunk, is diſtilled and ſog, inſt the worms; as alſo ſuccorieandmints; alſo a decotion of the leſ. ſerhoufleck : given with ſuger before meat; it isnoleſ; effºual to put worm- ſeeds in their pap, and in roſted apples, and ſo to give them it. alſo you may make suppoſitotice ſuppoſitories #: this manner, and put them up into the fundament. r. corali ſub- ºinº ". , raſreeboris, cornu cerviuſti,ireos an sii. meliº albišiiſ, aque centinodie . ſad omniaton- ſ" ... corporanda, fiant glandes : let one bee put up everie daie, of the weight of ii, for children; . . . . . - for aſ'arides, as thoſe which adhere to the right gut.to ſuch children as can take nothing by the mouth.youſhall applie cataplaſms to their " navels made of the powder of cummin-ſeeds, the flow of lupines, worm-wood, ſouthern- ; wood, fanſie, the leavs of artichokes, rue, the powder of coloquintida, citron-ſeeds, aloés, . . . . arſ-ſmart,horſ-mint.peach-leaviſoftuſamarº.zed,aria,ſope and ºx-gall. such cataplaſms are oftimes ſpredover all the bellie, mixing therewith aſtringent things for the ſtrengthen- ing of the part, as oilo cs, quinces . you may alſo applie a great onior j #. the mid'ſt, andfilled with aloës and treacle, and ſo ro º: #. beaten with bitter almonds,and an ox-gall. alſo you may make emplaſters of bitter things, a plaſter a: as this which follow's, r. felli, bubuli, ſucri abſinthii,anáii, calotyn. i terantur &miſceaniumſ, sainſt the mul,incorporentur cum farinálnpinorum: make hereofan emplaſter to bee laid upon the navel." " ; liniments and ointments may bee alſo made for the ſame purpoſe to annoint the bellie, you may alſo make plaſters for the navel of pilule ruf, annointing in the mean time the film. dament withhonie and ſuger, that they may bee dºmºwith bitter things, and allured downwards with ſweet jº. worms that have been caſt forth,drie them in an iron-pan over the fire, then powder them, and give them with wine or ſom other li- quor to bedrunk, for ſo they are thought quickly to kill the reſt ofthe worms. hereto al- ſº condicºth the juice of citrons, drunk with the oil of bitter almonds, or ſallet-oil. alſo ſom make bathes againſt this afteå of worm-wood, galls, peach-leavsboiled in water,and then j. . . . .'; . . . . ſº tº: ----- . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . but in curting the worms, yon muſt obſervithat this diſeaſis oftimesentangled with h. ther moregrievous diſeaſ, as an acute and burning fever, a flux or ſcouring, and the li i in which (as for exampleſake) a feverbeeing preſent and conjoined therewith, ifyou ſha give worm-ſeeds, oldtreacle, myrrh, aloés, you iſ...}thefever and flux,for that bit- ter things are verie contrarie §. affeºs. butif, on the contrarie, in a flux whereby the wormsāºxcluded, you ſhall give corral, and the flowr of lentils, you ſhall augment the a ſever ſom. fºyer-makingthematter more contumacious by drie and aſtringent things. therefore the timesaſyº- phyſicianſhallbee careful in conſidering whether the fiver bee a ſymptom of the worms, or pºnſoºr on the contrarie it bºſºnial, and noºmptomatick; that this bººing known, he may ***** :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: principally inſiſtin the uſe of ſuch medi ſt both affets, as purgeing and in a fever and worms, but bitter and ſomwhataſtriáive things in the worms and flux. . . . . . - - ºn :* - . ... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .*i; ; ; , , . . . . . . . * * * * * * ... * * tº ºr . . . . tº : ... tº it. ºilº ºiº-j-. - , -/- " - . . . . . . . . . . . º. v, viz.: ºf ºz º.º. º. º. chap, . . . . * * * . . . .” -- * : * ~ *ivijs::... . . . . . . . . . . . .e.” ----> .. --. - - - *- oo concerning the leproſe, "c. linzo. *** c. h.a.p. vi. - a ſhort deſcription of the elephantiafis or leproſe, and of the cauſes thereof. sºsº his diſeaſis termed elephantiafts, becauf the skin of ſuch as are troubled there- § with is rough, ſcabious, wrinkled and unequal, like the skin of an elephant. ºù yet this name may ſeem to bee impoſed thereon by reaſon of the greatneſs of tº the diſeaſ. som from the opinion of the arabians havetermed it lºpra, or le- .." profie (but unproperly, for the leprais a kinde of ſcab and diſeaſ of the skin, which is vul- - garly called malum ſanāi manis) which word for the preſent wee will uſe, as that which pre- ****, r* vail'sby cuſtom and antiquitie. now the leprofie (according to paulu) is a cancer of the lié-x.tºp. . whole bodie, the which (as avicen add's) corrupt's the complexion, form and figure of the members. galen think's the cauſariſeth from the error of the ſanguifying facultie,through - whoſe default the aſſimilation in the fleſh and habit of the bodie is depraved, and much changed from itſelf, and the rule of nature. butad glauconem, hee define's this diſeaſ, an effuſion of troubled or groſs blood into the veins and habit of the whole bodie. this diſ- - eaſis judged great,for that it partake's of a certainvenenate virulencie,depraveing the mem- tº ºbers and comlineſs of the whole bodie. now it appears, that the leproſe partake's of a ...certainvenematºvirulencie by this, thatſudhasarºmelantholid; in the wholºhibitoftheir #."“bodies, are not leprous. now this diſtaſis compoſed ofthree differences ofdiſeaſº: firſt,it conſiſt's of a diſtemper againſt nature, as that which at the beginning is hot and drie, and at length the ebullition of the humors ceaſing, and the heat diſperſed, it becom's cold and drie, which is the conjun&cauſof this ſymptom. alſo it conſiſts of an evil compoſition os conformation, for that it deprave's the figure and beautie of the parts. alſo it confiſt's of a ſolution of continuities, when as the fleſh and skin are cleft in divers parts with ulcers and . . chops. the leprofie hath for the moſt part three general cauſes, that is, the primitive, an- . * tecedent, and conjunětive: the primitive cauſis either from the firſt conformation, or : ** com’s to them after they areboni. it is thought to be in him from the firſt conformation, how they may who was conceived of ved and menſtrucus blood, and ſuch as inclined to melancholie; besipº" who was begot of the leprous ſeed of one or both his parents, for leprous perſons generate from their firſt leprous, becauſthe principal parts beengtainted and corrupted with a melancholick and “nºrmation venenate juice, it muſt neceſſarily follow, that the whole maſs of blood and ſeed that fall's from it, and the whole bodie ſhould alſo bee vitiated. this cauſ happen's to thoſe that are alreadie born, by long ſtaying and inhabiting in maritime countries,whereas the groſs and miſtie air, in ſucceſ; #. induceth the like fault into the humors of the bodie; for that, according to hippotrates, ſuch as the airis, ſuch is the ſpirit, and ſuch the humors. alſo long abideing in verie hot places, becauſthe blood is torrified by heat, but in cold places, for that they incrafate, and congealing the ſpirits do after a manner ſtupifies may bee thought the primitive cauſes of this diſtaſ. thus inſon, places of germanie there are di. vers leprous perſons; but they are more frequent in spain, and over all africa, then in all the world beſide, and in languedoc, provence and guyenne, are more then in whole france beſides. familiaritie, copulation, and cobabitation with leprous perſons may bee reckoned amongſt the cauſes thereof becauſ . this diſaſto their familiars by their breath, ſweat and ſpittle left on the edges of the pots or cups. this diſeaſis alſo cauſed by the too frequent uſe of ſalt, ſpiced, acrid and groſs meats; as the fleſh of swine, aſſes, bears, pulſ, i. ; ſo alſo groſs and ſtrong wines, drunkenneſs, gluttonie; a laborious life, full of ſorrow and cares, for that they incraffate, and as it were burn the blood. but the retenti- on of melancholick excrements, as the ſuppreſſion of the hemorrhoids, courſes, ſmall pocks and meazles, as alſo a quartain ſever accuſtomed to comat ſet-times; the drying upofold ulcers, for that they defile the maſs of the blood with a melancholickdroſsandfilth. now you muſt underſtand, that the cauſofthe leproſe by the retention of the ſuperfluities, hap- pen's, becauſthe corrupt blood is not evacuated, but regurgitate's over the whole bodie,and corrupt's the blood that ſhould nouriſh all the members; wherefore the affimilative facul- tie cannot well aſſimilate by reaſon of the corruption and default of the juice; and thus in the intº concluſion the leproſe is tauffed. the antecedent cauſes are the humors diſpoſed to adu- dent ºf: {tien and corruption into melancholie,by the torrid heat; for in bodies td with ſuch leprofit. heat, the humors by aduſtion eaſily turn into melancholie, which in time acquiring the ma- lignitie and corruption of avirulent andvenenate qualities yield'sabeginning and effence the conjuna to the leprofie. the conjunct cauſes are the melancholick humors, which are now par- cauſ. takers of a venenate and malign qualitie, and ſpread over the whole habit of the bodie, cor- rupting and deſtroying it firſt by an hot and drie diſtemper, and then by a cold and drie, howitcom's contº to the beginnings of fife. for hence inevitable death muſt enſue, becauſ our life to bee deadlie, conſiſt's in the moderation of heat and moiſture. - - -, chap. lib. . maxies, nd worm, – or --------- ºc. cha p. vii. the ſigns of a leproſe, breeding, preſent, and alreadie confirmed. he diſpoſition of the bodie and humors to a leprofie is ſhewed by the change § of the native and freſh color of the face, by that affect of the face, which is commonly called guttaroſacea, red and blackiſh ſuffuſions and puſtles, the ſº falling away of the hairs, and a great thirſt, and a drineſs of the mouth both - - by night and day, a flinkingbreath, little ulcers in the mouth, the change of the voice to hoarſneſs, a deſire of venerie above nature and cuſtom. now there are four times of this diſeaſ, the beginning, increaſ, ſtate and declenſion. the beginning is, when as thebegio- the malignitiehath not gon further then the inner parts and bowels, wherupon the ſtrength ºf " " muſt need's beenore languid. the increaſis, when as the virulencie com’s forth, and the #. aut figns and ſymptoms are everie day increaſed in number and ſtrength. the ſtate is, when as thº. the members are exulcerated. the declenſion is, when as the aſpećt of the face is horrid,the the declenſ. extreme parts fall away by the profunditie and malignitie of the ulcers, ſo that none,nonoton- of the common ſort of people, can doubt of the diſeaſ. according to the doćtrine of the antients, wee muſt in ſearching out of the ſigns of this diſeaſ beeing preſent, have chiefre- d to the head. for the ſigns of diſeaſes more properly and truly ſhew themſelvs in the : by reaſon of the ſoftneſs and raritie of the ſubſtance thereof, and the tenuitie of the skin that cover's it; wherefore a black and aduſt humor diffuſed there-under, eafily ſhew's itſelf, and that not onely by the mutation of the color, but alſo of the chara&er and bulk, and oftimes by manifeſt hurting it. wherefore you muſt obſerv in the head whether it have ſauls, and whether in the place of thoſe hairs that are fallen away, others more tender, ſhort and rare grow up, which is likely to happen through defečt of fit nouriſhment to pre- ſerv and generate hairs, through corruption of the hairie ſcalp that ſhould bee ſtored with ſuch nouriſhment, and of the habit it ſelf, and through the unfitneſs thereofto contain hairs: laſtly,by the acrimonie of the vapors ſent up from the adult humors and entrails,fret- - ting aſunder the roots of the hairs. but if not onely the hair, but alſo ſom portion of the the firſt ſign skin and fleſh about the roots of the hair, comaway by pulling, it is an argument of per- of the lepto: feat corruption: let this therefore be the firſt ſign of a leproſie. a ſecond and verie certain ſº, ſign is, a numerous and manifeſt ci ... of round and hard puſhes or puſtles under the eie-brows,and behinde the ears,and in ſeveral places of the face, reſembling round and hard kernels, occaſioned by the default of the aſſimulating facultie. the cauſof this default is the groſneſs of the flowing nouriſhment, by which means it beeing impačt, and ſtopping , in the ſtraitneſs of the way, it grow's round,as it were compaſſed about in the place whereas - it ſtick's, and by the means of the cruditie, for that it is not aſſimulated, and by delay, it is further hºl the third ſign is, the more contračt and exačt roundneſs of the ears,their iii. groſneſs, and as it were grainie ſpiffitude or denſneſs; the cauſof their roundneſs is the con- ſumption of the flaps and fleſhie part through want of nouriſhment, and exceſs of heat; but - the occaſion of their grainie ſpiffitude is the groſneſs of the earthie nouriſhment flowing - thither. the fourth ſign is a lion-like wrinkling of the fore-head,which is the reaſon that...i.v.,. ſom term this diſeaſ morbus leoninus; the cauſhereof is the f. drineſs of the habit of the whytºcºl- º z.a. º bodie, which alſo is the reaſon that the bark of an old oak is rough and wrinkled. the led marius leo. fifth is, the exačtroundneſs of the eies, and their fix't and immoovable ſleddineſs; verily *:: the eies are naturally almoſt round, yet they appear obtuſe, and ſomwhat broad on the fore- ſide, but end in a conus on the hind part,by reaſon of the concourſ and figure of the muſcles. and fatinveſting them. therefore theſe beeing conſumed either through defeat of laudable. nouriſhment, or elſby the acrimonie of the flowing humor, they are reſtored to their proper figure and roundneſs. now the muſcles which mooved the eies beeing conſumed, and the fat which facilitated their motion waſted, it com’s to paſs that they ſtandſtiffandunmoov- able, beeing deſtitute of the partsyeelding motion, and the facilitie thereof. the fixth ſign w ł. is, the noſtrils flat outwardly, but inwardly ſtraight and contraćted, that is, an earthie and groſs humor forced from within outwards, which ſwels the fides or edges of the noſtrils; whence it is, that the paſſages of the noſe appear as it were obſtrućted by the thickneſs of this humor; but they are depreſſed and flatted by reaſon of thereſt of the face and all the neigh- boring parts ſwoln more then their wont; add hereto that the partition is conſumed by the acrimonie of the corrodeing and ulcerateing humor. the ſeventh is, the lifting up, thick- v . neſs and ſwelling of the lips, the filthineſs, ſtinch and corroſion of the gums by acridiva- rs riſeing to the mouth; but the lips of leprous perſons are more ſwoln by the internal i. burning and incraſſateing the humors, as the outward heat of the sun dothin the moors. the eighth ſign is, the ſwelling and blackneſs of the tongue, and as it were varicous v . . veins lying under it; becauſthetongue, beeing by nature ſpongeousand rare, is eaſily ſtored with excrementitious humors, ſent from the inner parts unto the habit of the bodie: which ſame is the cauſwhy the grandules placed about the tongue above and below,are ſwoln hard & round,no otherwiſe then ſcrophulous or meazled ſwine laſtly, all their face riſeth in red v v bunches o meazles and worms, &c. lib. . xi. x ii. xiii. xiv. xv. xv i. ſ. bunches or puſhes, and is over-ſpread with a duskie and obſcure redneſs; the eies are fierie, fierce and fixed, by a melancholick chachtétick diſpoſition of the whole bodie, manifeſt figns whereof appear in the face by reaſon of the fore-mentioned cauſes, yet ſom leprous perſons have theit faces tinëured with a yellowiſh, others with a whitiſh color, according to the condition of the humor, which ſerv's for a baſis to the leprous malignitie. for hence phyſicians affirm that there are three ſorts of leproſies; one of a reddiſh black color, con- fifting in amelancholick humor; another of a yellowiſh green, in a cholerick humor; ano- ther in a whitiſh yellow, grounded upon adult phlegm. the ninth ſign is a ſtinking of the breath, as alſo of all the excrements proceeding from leprous bodies, by reaſon of thema- lignitie conceived in the humors. the tenth is, a hoarſneſs, a ſhakeing, harſh and obſcure voice, comming as it were out of the noſe, by reaſon of the lungs, recurrent nervs, and mu- ſcles of the throttle tainted with the groſneſs of a virulent and aduſt humor; the fore- mentioned conſtriótion and obſtrućtion of the inner paſſage of the noſe; and laſtly, the aſperitieaud inequalitie of the weazon by immoderate drineſs, as it happen's to ſuch as have drunk plentifully of ſtrong wines without aniemixture. this immoderate drineſs of the muſcles ſerving for reſpiration makes them to bee troubled with a difficultie of breathe- ing. the eleventh ſign is verie obſervable, which is a morphew or defedation of all the skin, with a drie roughneſs and grainie inequalitie, ſuch as appears in the skins of plucked ; with manie tetters on everie ſide,a filthie ſcab,and ulcers not caſting off onely a brain- ike ſºurf, but alſo ſcales and cruſts. the cauſ of this drie ſcab is the heat of the burning bowels and humors unequally contraćting and wrinkling the skin, no otherwiſe then as leather is wrinkled by the heat of the ſun or fire. the cauſof the filthie ſcab and ſerpigi- nous ulcers, is the eating and corrodeing condition of the melancholick humor,and the ve- nenate corruption, it alſo beeing the autor of corruption, ſo that it may bee no marvell if the digeſtive facultie of the liverbeeing ſpoiled, the aſſimilative of a malign and unfit matter (ent into the habit of the bodie cannot well nor fitly perform that which may bee for the bodie's good. the twelfth is, the ſenſof a certain pricking, as it were of goads or needles over all the skin, cauſed by an acrid vapor hindred from palling forth, and intercepted by the thickneſs of the skin. the thirteenth is a conſumption and emaciation of the muſcles which are between the thumb and fore-finger, not onely by reaſon that the nouriſhing and aſſimilating faculties want fit matter wherewith they may repair the loſs of theſe parts, for that is common to theſe with the reſt of the bodie; but becauſtheſe muſcles j; riſeup unto a certain mountanous tumor,therfore their depreſſion is the more manifeſt.and this is the cauſthat the ſhoulders of leprous perſons ſtand out like wings;to wit,the emaciation of the inward part of the muſcle irapozites.the fourteenth fign is,the diminution of ſenſor a numneſs over all the bodie by reaſon that the nervs are obſtrućted by the thickneſs of the melancholick humor hindring the free paſſage of the animal ſpirit, that it cannot com to the parts that ſhould receiv'ſenſ, theſe in the interim remaining free which are ſent into the muſcles for motion's ſake,and by this note i chiefly make trial of eprous perſons,thruſting a ſom-what long and thick needle ſom-what deep into the great tendon endued with moſt exquiſite ſenſ, which run's to the heel, which, if they do not well feel, i conclude, that they are certainly leprous. now, for that they thus loſe their ſen ſ, their motion remaining en- tire, the cauſhereofis, that the nervs which are diſſeminated to the skin are more affe&ed, and thoſe that run into the muſcles are not ſo much ; and therefore when as you prick them ſomwhat deep, they feel the prick, which they do not in the ſurface of the skin. the fif- teenth is, the corruption of the extreme parts poſſeſſed by putrefačtion and a gangrene, by reaſon of the corruption of the humors ſent thither by the ſtrength of the bowels, infréting with the like tainture the parts wherein they remain : add hereto that the animal ſenſitive facultie is there decaied, and as often as anie facultie hath forſaken anie part, the reſt pre- ently after a manner neglečt it. the ſixteenth is, they are troubled with terrible dreams, for they ſeem in their ſleep to ſee divels, ſerpents, dungeons, graves, dead bodies, and the ilkesby reaſon of the black vapors of the melancholick humor troubling the phantaſie with x vii, x viii. black and diſmal viſions, by which reaſon alſo ſuch as are bitten of a mad dog fear the wa- ter. the ſeventeenth is, that at the beginning and increaſ of the diſeaſ they are ſubtil,craf- tie and furious by reaſon of the heat of the humors and blood; but at length in the ſtate and declenſion they becom craſtie and ſuſpicious, the beat and burning of the blood and en- trails decaying by little and little ; therefore then fearing all things whereofthere is no cauſand diſtruſting of their own ſtrength,they endeavor by craft maliciouſly to circumvent thoſe with whom they deal, for that they perceiv their powers to fail them. the eighteenth is, a deſire of venerie above their nature, both for that they are inwardly burned with a ſtrange heat, as alſo by the mixture of flatulencies therewith (for whoſe generation theme- lancholick humor is moſt fit) which are agitated, and violently carried through the veins and genital parts by the preternatural heat; but at length,when this heat is cooled, and that they are fallen into an hot and drie diſtemper, they mightily abhor venerie, which then would bee verie hurtful to them, as it alſo is at the beginning of the diſeaſ, becauſthey have x ix. ſmall ſtore of ſpirits and native heat, both which are diſſipated by venerie. the nineteenth is, lib. . • /ſearles and w.ormſ,( °c. is, the io great thickneſs of their groſs and livid blood, that if you waſh it, you may finde a ſandie matter therein, as ſom have found by experience, by reaſon of the great aduſtion º and aſſation thereof. the twentieth is,the languidneſs and weakneſs of the pulſ(by reaſon xx. of the oppreſſion of the vital and pulſifick facultie by a cloud of groſs vapors.) herewith alſo their urine ſomtimes is thick and troubled,like the urine of carriage-beaſts, if the uri- narie veſſels bee permeable and free; otherwiſe it is thin, if there bee obſtrućtion , which onely ſuffer's that which is thin to flow forth by the urinarie paſſages; now the urine is oftentimes of a pale aſh-color, and oftimes it ſmell's like as the other excrements do in this diſeaſ. verily there are manie other ſigns of the leproſie, as the ſlowneſs of the bellie by reaſon of the heat of the liver, often belchings by reaſon that the ſtomach is troubled by the reflux of a melancholick humor,frequent ſheefing by reaſon of the fulneſs of the brain; to - theſe, this may bee added moſt frequently, that the face and all the skin is unétuous or why the fº greaſie, ſo that water poured thereon, will not in anie place adhere thereto iconceivitis : ‘.... by the internal heat diſſolving the fat that lie's under the skin, which therefore alwaies “*” €e look's as if it were greaſed orannointed therewith in leprous perſons: now of theſe fore- mentioned ſigns, ſom are univocal, that is, which truly and neceſſarily ſhew the leprofie: other-ſom are equivocal or common, that is, which conduce as well to the knowledg of o- ther diſeaſes as this. to conclude, that aſſuredly is a leproſe which is accompanied with all, or certainly the moſt part of theſe fore-mentioned ſigns. ,” - - — c. h. a. p. v. l ii. of prºgnºſik in the leproſe; and how to provide fºr ſuch a ſtand in fear thereof. he leproſe is a diſeaſ which paſſeth to the iſſue, as contagious almoſt as the whythºlº- $º plague, ſcarce cureable at the beginning, incureable when as it is confirmed, pºº" tº becauſit is a cancer of the whole bodie; now if ſom one cancer of ſome one curtable. ... part ſhall take deep root therein, it is judged incureable. furthermore, the remedies which to this day have been found out againſt this diſeaſ, are judged inferior and unequal in ſtrength thereto. beſides, the ſigns of this diſeaſdo not outwardly ſhew themſelvs before that the bowels bee ſeized upon, poſſeſſed and corrupted by thema- lignitie of the humor, eſpecially in ſuch as have, the white leproſe, ſundrie of which you may ſte about burdeaux, and in little brittain, who notwithſtanding inwardly burn with ſo great heat, that it will ſuddenly wrinkle and wither an apple held a ſhort while in their hand, as if it had laid for manie daies in the ſun. there is another thing that increaſeth the difficultie of this diſeaſ, which is an equal pravitie of the three principal faculties whereby life is preſerved. the deceitful and terrible viſions in the ſleep, and numneſs in feeling,ar- gue the depravation of the animal facultie; now the weakneſs of the vital facultie is ſhewed by the weakneſs of the pulſ, the obſcuritie of the hoarſ and jarring voice, the difficultie of breatheing, and ſtinking breath; the decay of the natural is manifeſted by the depravation of the work ofthe liver in ſanguiñcation, whence the firſt and principal cauſof this harm - ariſeth. now becauſwee cannot promiſe cure to ſuch as have a confirmed leprolie; and the cure. that wee dare not do it to ſuch as have been troubled therewith but fora ſhort ſpace, it re- main's that wee briefly ſhew how to free ſuch as are readie to fall into ſo fearful a diſeaſ. such therefore muſt firſt of all ſhun all things in diet and courſof life, whereby the blood and humors may bee too vehemently heated, wherof wee have formerly made ſommention. - let them make choice of meats of: or indifferent juice, ſuch as wee ſhall deſcribe in the diet. treating of the diet of ſuch as are ſick of the plague; purgeing, bleeding, batheing, cupping, to evacuate the impuritie of the blood, and mitigate the heat of the liver, ſhallbee preſcri: , bed by ſom learned phyſician. valeſius de tarenta much commend's gelding in this caſe, nei-gelding good ther do i think it can bee diſliked. for men ſubject to this diſeaſmay bee effeminated by againſt the le- the amputation of their teſticles, and ſodegenerate into a womaniſh nature, and the heat proſe, of the liver boiling the blood, beeing extinguiſhed, they becomeold and moiſt, which tem. ris direétly contrarieto the hot and drie diſtemper of leprous perſons; beſides the leprous ing thus deprived of the facultie of generation, that contagion of this diſeaſis taken a- way which ſpreadeth, and is diffuſed amongſt mankinde by the propagation of their iſſue. * - - - - the end of the twentieth boºk. . lisa. ######################### §§§§§§ what is to bre accounted w poiſon. the differen- ces of poiſon. all poiſons have not a pe- culiar antipa- thie with the heart. tion of the of toiſons, and of the biteing of a mad dog, and the biteing and stingings of other venemous creatures. the one and twentieth book. chap. i. the cauſ of writeing this treatiſe of poiſons. |lve reaſons have principally mooved mee to undertake to write this trea- §|tiſe of poiſons, according to the opinion of the antients. the firſt is, that º! as are hurt by poiſons, in the interim whil'ſt greater means may bee expe- )|&ted from a phyſician.the ſecond is,that hee may know by certain ſigns& - notes ſuch as are poiſoned or hurt by poiſonous means, and ſo make report thereof to the judges, or to ſuch as it may concern.the third is, that thoſe gentlemen and others who live in the countrie, and far from cities, and ſtore of greater means, may learn ſomthing by my labors by which they may help their friends bitten by an adder,mad dog, or other poiſonous creature, in ſo dangerous, ſudden and uſuala caſe. the fourth is, that everie one may beware of poiſons, and know their ſymptoms when preſent, that beeing known, they may ſpeedily ſeek for a remedie. the fifth is, that by this my labor all men may know what my good willis, and how well minded i am towards the common-wealth in general, and each man in particular, to the glorie of god. i do nothere ſo much arm malicious andwicked perſons to hurt,as surgeons to provide to help and defendeach man's life againſt poiſon; which they did not underſtand, or at leaſt ſeemed not ſo to do, which takeing this my labor in evil part, have maliciouſly interpreted my meaning. but now at length, that wee may com to the matter; i will begin at the general diviſion of poiſons, and then handle each ſpecies thereof ſeverally; but firſt let us give this rule,that iſon is that which either outwardly applied or ſtruck in, or inwardly taken into the É. hath power to kill it, no otherwiſe, then meat well dreſt is apt to nouriſh it. for conciliator write's,that the properties of poiſon are contrarieto nouriſhments in their whole ſubſtance; for as nouriſhment is turned into blood, and in each part of the bodie whereto it is applied to nouriſh,by perfeº aſſimilation is ſubſtituted in the place of that portion which flow's away each moment. thus on the contrarie poiſon turn's our bodies into a nature like it ſelf and venenate, for as everie agent imprint's the force and qualities thereof in the ſubject patient, thus poiſon by the immoderation of faculties in their whole nature contra- rie to us, changeth our ſubſtance into its nature, no otherwiſe then fire turneth chaff in a moment into its own nature, and ſo conſume's it. therefore it is truly delivered by the an- tients, who have diligently pried into the faculties of natural things, that it is poiſon that may kill men by deſtroying and corrupting their temper, and the compoſureand conforma- º now all poiſons are ſaid to proceed either from the corrupt air, or from living creatures, plants and minerals, or by an artificial malignitie in diſtilling; ſub- liming and diverſly mixing of poiſonous and fuming things. hence ariſe ſundrie differen- ces of poiſons; neither do they all work after the ſame manner: for ſom corrupt our nature by the unmeaſureableneſs of the manifeſt and elementarie qualities whereof they confiſt, others from a ſpecifick and occult propertie. hence it is that ſom kill ſooner then other- ſom; neither is it true, that all of them preſently affail the heart,but others are naturally at deadlie ſtrife with other parts of the bodie, as cantharides with the bladder, the ſea-hare with the lungs, the torpedo with the hands, which it ſtupefieth, though the fiſhers rod bee betwixt them. thus of medicines, there are ſom which are apt preſently to comfort and ſtrengthen the heart; others the brain, as ſtechas; others the ſtomach; as cinnamon : alſo there are ſom poiſons which work both waies, that is, by manifeſt and occult qualities as euphorbium; for that both by the exceſſive heat and the whole ſubſtance, or the diſcord of the whole ſubſtance with ours, corrupt's our nature. an argumenthereof is, that treacle, which by its qualitie is manifeſtly hot, infringeth the force thereof, as alſo of all others of an occult propertie,poiſons which work by an occult and ſpecifick propertie, do not ". re lib. . concerning poiſons, &c. % * foredo it, beecauſthey are too immoderately hot, cold drie, moiſts but for that they are abſolutely ſuch, and have that eſſencefrom the ſtarrs and celeſtial influence, which is apt to diſſolv and deſtroie the ſtrength of man's bodie,becauſbeeing taken,but even in a ſmal quan- titie, yet are they of ſo perniciousa qualitie, that they kill almoſt in a moment. now poi- fons do not onely kill beeing taken into the bodie, but ſom . t or ... outward- ly; neither do venemous creatures onely harm by their ſtinging and biteing,but alſo by their excrements, as ſpittle, blood, the touch and breath. — — tº º chap. ii. " how pºiſºn, kingſnallinguantitiº, may by their only turbrauſſ great allerations. - ºf ſºmethſtrange tomanie, how it may comtopaſ, that poiſon taken or . . . . . ºw, admitted in a ſmall quantitie, may almoſt in a moment produceſo pernici. sº sº ous effects overall the bodie, and all the parts, faculties, and ačions, ſo that : * * * i ºf ou ºbeeingadmitted butina little quantitie, it ſwell's up the bodie into a great º º neither ought it to ſeemleſs ſtrange,how antidotes and counter- :º poiſons, which are oppoſed to .ſuddenly break and weaken the great and perflicious effetts thereof, beeing it is not likely that ſo ſmall aparticle of poiſon or antidote can divide itſelf into ſo manie, and ſofar ſever'd particles of our bodie. there areſbm(faith ‘....? who think that ſom things by touch onely,by the power of their qua-cap.s.lib. . litie, may alter thoſe things which are next to them; and that this appear's plainly in the deletaffºd. fiſh tºrpedo, as that which hath ſo powerfula qualitie, that it can ſendit alongſt the fiſher's rod to the hand, and ſo make it becom torpedor numb. but on the j teach, that accidents, ſuch as qualities are, cannot without their ſubjetts remove and diffuſe themſelvs into other ſubjects. therefore galen's other anſwer is more agreeabletoreaſon, that ſo manieandgreat affeºs of poiſons and remedies ariſe either from a certain ſpiritor the true rea- or ſubtilhumiditieſ; not truly, for that this ſpirit and ſubtil humiditie may bee diſperſed ſºnofºº overthewhole bodieandalſ heparts thereofwhich it affº's, butthat little, whichisen.” of tred the bodie, as caſtin by theſtroakofa spider, or the ſting of a scorpion, infº&’s and * * * corrupt's all the next parts by contagion with the like qualitie, theſe others that are next eg .*.* them, until front an exceeding ſmall portion of the blood, if the ſtroakſhaſ ight into the veins, it ſºil ſpread ever the whole maſs of blood; or of phlegm, if the poiſon ſhall chahta to comtºtheſlomath; and ſo the force thereof ſhallbee propagated and diffuſed over all the - humors and ºbwels. the doubt of antidotes is leſs, fortheſe beeing taken in greater quan- twº º title, when they ſhall.com into the ſtomach, warmed by the heat ; the place, they becom . º hot; and ſend forthvapors, which ſuddenly diffuſed over the bodie by the fabtiltiebftheir “"“” ſubſtance,do by their contrarie forces dulland weaken thenialignitie of the poiſon.where- fore you may often ſee when as antidotes are given in leſs quantitie then is fit, that they w are leſs prevalent,neither do they anſwer to our expettation in overcomming the malignitie w of the poiſon; ſo that it muſt neceſſarily follow that theſe muſt not onely in qualities, but alſo in quantitiebee ſuperior to poiſons. — — --- … , . ...: ''' ºf ºn tº *- — *}. ºr rººt chap. iii. - ( : * * * * * * : :o - - - - :*:: * >: º: . * * * * : - ---- … ." º a %hether there bee anieſach poiſºns as willkill at ſet time? / to . . . . ; ºq fºotherºpounded queſtions whether there maybeepoiſons which withina cer. neºiſ. ºtain and definitetime(put caſe amonth or year) jºi :*. †. ſtt ºğanſwer's; of poiſons;ſom more ſpeedily perform their parts,others more ſlowly; time. isºlyetnºy you findenoſuch as willkillin ſet limits oftime, according to the ºff anddeſireofmen.for thatſom kill ſooner or later then others;they donatiº of their ºwn or proper mature,as phyficians rightly judg,but becauſthe *:::::: włłičº they light, doth more or leſs refiſtoryeºld to their efficacie. experience fleweth thºtrºth howso hereof; for the ſame ſort of poiſon in the ſameweight and meaſure given to funèhºléſ, ... differeºsºndeompºsions, willkill one in an hour, anotherinfix hºrsºlīš. *and ºn theºartariº will not ſo much as hurt ſom third man. you may i the ſºmein º:. for the ſame purge given to diverſ men in theſ: poiºſill purgeºiſoner, ſom later, ſom more ſparingly, others more ple, anºtherſºn**all; alſo with ſomit will work gently, with otherſomº, pain gripeings. of which diverſitie, there canno other cairbº aſſigned, then men's ; zºd in nº *flexion and temper, whichneman can ſo exadly knºwanatomprehend. **** :*****nknowledgthereofas how much and how long themative heatºnd labor againſt the ſtrength ofthepoiſon, or how pervious or open the paſſages of the bodie maybe",whereby the poiſon may arrivéatthºfitart and prinºi .#. itſuch(forex- ample t- oë concerning poiſons, &c." lib. . xample ſake) as have the paſſages of their arteries more large, the poiſon may more readily & ſpeedily enter into the heart togetherwth the air that is continually drawn into thcbodie." - - - - ! - * . º * * º º ". . . . . º º ... chap. iv. • it nº * rºle; ſuch creatures as feed upon poiſonou, things bee alſº poiſºnous; and whether they may bee . eaten ſafely and without barm. ” - hucks, storks, herns, peacocks, turkies, and otherbirds, feed upon toads, ºriºsº §§ \|vipers, aſps, snakes, scorpions, spiders, caterpillers, and other venemous - §: w. it is . j ſuch like creatures such dinº, sºnouriſhed with ſuch food, can kill ºf poiſon ſuch perſons as ſhall afterward feed upon. wºº eat them matthiolus write's that all late autors, who have treated of poi- ſon maybe ſons, to beeabſolutely of this opinion, that men may ſafely and without anie danger feed ºn without upon ſuch creatures, for that they convert the beaſts into their nature after they have eaten danger. them, and on the contrarie are notchanged by them. this reaſon though verie probable, yetdoth it not make theſe beaſts to bee wholly harmleſs, eſpecially if they bee often eatenor fed upon. dioſcorides and galen ſeem to maintain this opinion, whereas they write, that the milk, which is nothing elſthen the relented blood of ſuch beaſts as feed upon ſcammonie, bellebore and ſpurge, purgeth yiolently. therefore phyſicians, deſireous to purge a ſucking . . . . . childe,give purges to the nurſes, whence the milk becomming purgeing, becom's both meat * * * * and medicine to the childe. the fleſh of thruſhes, which feed upon juniper-berries, ſavor's of juniper. birds that are fed with worm-wood or garlick, either taſte bitter, or have the ſtrong ſent of garlick. whiteings taken with garlick, ſo ſmell thereof, that they will not forego that ſmell or taſte by anieſalting, frying or boiling; for which ſole reaſon, manie who hate garlicksare forced to abſtain from theſe fiſhes, the fleſh of rabbits that feed upon -** : pennie-royal ... them; phyſicians wiſh that goats,cows and aſſes,whoſe i". *** milk they would uſe for conſumptions or other diſeaſes, ſhould beefed ſom ſpace before, ". . . . . and everiedaiewºh theſe or theſe herbs wrh they deem fit for the cureing of this or that diſeaſ. jº defnp. for galen affirm's that hee doubt's not, but that in ſucceſs of time the fleſh of creatures will feault. beechanged by the meats whereon they feed,and at length ſavor thereof. therefore i do not allow that the fleſh of ſuch things as feed upon venemous things, ſhould bee caten for food, unleſs it bee ſom longſpace after they have diſuſed ſuch repaſte, and that all the m bee digeſted and overcom by the efficacie of their proper heat, ſo that nothing thered tºmay re- the ºaſion main intaſte, ſmell or ſubſtance, but bee allvaniſhed away. for maniedieſuddely, the cauſ i. º: ... of whoſe deaths are unknown, which peradventure was from nothingelſ but the ſympathie ** and antipathie of bodies, for that theſe things cauſdeath and diſeaſtoſom, that nouriſho- therſon. eaccording to our vulgar engliſh proverb; that which is one man's meat, is another man's pai nj-i tº º, . . . . . .” “a tº sº ſº. ... . . . . ****** – ––º-º-º-º- -- - : ºz. … ::i . . . . . w ... º.º.º.º. tº it.”: , , , , , , , , - chap. v. º tº gº º ſº º º:... ', ºr - - ––– —the general ſigns of ſuch as are poiſoned—---— c , ee will firſt declare what the general ſigns of poiſon are, and then wee will deſcend ‘....” . to particulars, whereby wee may pronounce that one is poiſoned with this or that poiſoned. % poiſon. weecertainly know that a man is poiſoned, when as hee complain's of a ... a greathsavineſs ofbis wholebodie, ſo hatheiswearie of himſelf; when asſom horrid and ... ." § loathſon taſte ſweat's out from the orifice of the ſtomach to the mouth and tongue, wholly . mi, different from that taſte;thatmeat, howſoever corrupted, can ſend up: when as the color of the faciºhangºth ſuddenly, ſomwhiles to black, ſomtimes to yellow, or anie other color, uch differing from the common cuſtomofman; when nauſeouſneſs with frequent vomi- ting troubleihthe patient,and that hee is molefied with ſo great unquietneſs that all things - syſtem tº bee turned upſide down. weeknow that theº work's by the proper, and ºº:: whole ſubſtance, when as without anie manifeſt ſenſof great heator coldneſs, the º,r "... ſt ;ſwound's often with cold ſweats, for uſually ſuch poiſons have no-certain and di- --- - - #:ğ. *::::::: .. º . *::::::: . workby their whole ſubſtance, and an occult proprietie of form; ſo do ently diºlyaſſail the heart, our eſſence andlife, º: fortreſs and beginning of the vital.fa- ălție. now will wºeſhew the ſigns whereby poiſons, that work by manifeſtandelemen- sign of ho: ºy beeknown. thoſe who exceedin heat, burn or make an impreſſion of : heat, in the tongue: the mouth, throat, flomach, guts, and all the inner parts, with great thirſt, *. and perpetual ſweats. but if to their exceſs of heat they bee accompanied with, a corrºdeing and putreſying qualities, as arſenick, sullimate, roſ-iger or ratſbane, verdºgreace, orpiment, and the like, they then * in . cº- od c lib. . concerning toiſons, &c. , - - - so? — - ſtomachandguts intolerable pricking pains, rumblings in the bellie, and continual and in- tolerable thirſt. theſe are ſucceeded by vomitings, with ſweats ſomwhileshot, ſomwhiles cold, with ſwoundings, whence ſudden death . poiſons that kill by too great cold-signs ofcold neſs, induce a dull or heavie ſleep, or drowzineſs,from which you cannot eaſily rouz or wa- poiſonis ken them; ſomtimes they ſo trouble the brain, that the patients perform manie undecent geſtures and anticktricks with their mouths and eies,arms and legs, like as ſuch as are fran- tick; they are troubled with cold ſweats, their faces becom blackiſh or yellowiſh, alwaies ghaſtlie,áll their bodies are benummed, and they die in a ſhort time unleſs they beehelped; poiſons of this kinde are hemlock, poppie, night-ſhade, henbane, mandrag. drie poi-signs of drie ions are uſually accompanied by heat with moiſture, for although ſulphur bee hot and drie, pºº" yet hath it moiſture, to hold the parts together, as all things which have a confiſtence have; yet are they called drie, by reaſon that drineſs is predominant in them; ſuch things make the tongue and throat drigandrough, with unquenchable thirſt; the bellie isſo bound, that ſo much as the urine cannot have free paſſage forth; all the members grow ſqualid by drineſs; the patients cannot ſleep: poiſons of this kinde are lytharge, ceruſº, lime, ſales of braſs, fileings of lead, prepared antimonie. on the contrarie, moiſt poiſons induce a perpetual signsofmoiſt ſleep, a flux or ſcouring the reſolution of all the nervs andjoints,ſo that not ſo much as the poiſons. eies may bee faithfully contained in their orbs,but will hang as readie to fallout;the extreme parts, as the hands, feet,noſe and ears corrupt and putrefie, at which time they are alſo trou- bled with thirſt by reaſon of their ſtrong heat, alwaies the companion of putrefaātion, and oftimes the autor thereof: now when this commeth to paſs, death is at hand. verie manie denie that there can bee anie moiſt poiſons found, that is, ſuch as may kill by the efficacie of their humiditie, becauſthere are no ſuch things to bee found, as may com to the fourth de- gree of moiſture. yet there is an example that averr's the contrarie, which was of one, who ſleeping on the night, was bitten by a serpent, as gilbertus anglicus affirmeth; for dying anhiſtorie. thereof, when as É. ſervant,defirous to awaken his maſter out of his ſleep, took him by the arm, all the fleſhbeeing putrefied, fell off, and preſently, the bones alſo fell aſunder, beeing deprived of their fleſh, which could not happen, unleſs by exceſs of the venemous humiditie - which lay hidden in the teeth and ſpittle of the ſerpent. alſo wee have found it noted by sºlº hippocrates, that in a rainie, humid and ſoutherly conſtitution of the year, it happened by * the malign violence of the venenate and f. humidities that the fleſh of the arms and iegs becomming rotten, fell away by peece-meal, and the bones remained bare; yeazlſo and , the bones themſelvs in ſom putrefied and fell away; neither doth the lues ºvenerea kill by the lºetº- anie other means, then by a fretting and putrefying force of humiditie, by whoſe efficacie ºil'sby the ſoliditie of the bonesis diſſolved; then much more the fleſh may bee tainted and conſu- i. of moi- med by putrefačtion, - to theſe and ſuch poiſons which work by a manifeſt and elementarie facultie, when as they ſhall bee ºft. the bodie after what manner ſoever, you ſhall forthwith oppoſe their contraries, and if by chance it bee not manifeſt, what, and of what diſtinét kinde of poiſon that is, you muſt know that ſuch poiſons as workby occult properties, it is not by reaſon as yet found out how they will affed the bodie, but onely by experience. therefore to theſe you muſt oppoſe their like antidotes,which may by their whole ſubſtance ſtrengthen the heart and vital facultie, and withſtand the ſtrength of the poiſon. but to this our di- allpoiſonsard ſtinºtion of poiſons, working by amanifeſt and elementarie qualitie, their opinion is con-moºij. trarie, who affirm that the venom of all poiſonousbeaſts are therefore cold, for that ſuch as are bitten or flung with them, are forthwith felt to bee colder then a ſtone. and that ſer- pents for fear of cold,when as winter is at hand, keep themſelvs in holes and dens under / ground, or elſ;as vipers uſe to do, lie underſtones, under which, you may often finde them ſtiffand numb, and ſounapt for motion,that you may eaſily take them up in your hand but the coldneſs that is perceived or felt in ſuch as are bitten or ſtung, is not occaſioned by the coldneſs of the poiſon, but by the abſence of the natural heat, withdrawing itſelfin the ve- why ſuch as rie infant of the ſtroak, from the ſurface into the center of the bodie, both for the defence. º: or oftheheart, as the principal part; as alſo for that there is nothing which ſo much diſſipate's, ſtungarscold. * - or ſo much oppugn's the vital heat,as poiſon, of what kinde ſoever itbee, doth. - v c h a p. vi. how, or by what means to ſhun, or eſchew poiſons. * . - §. § t is amatter of much difficultie to avoid poiſons, becauſ ſuch as at this time §º temper them, are ſo throughly prepared for deceit and miſchief, that they will . § deceivewen the moſt warie and quick-fighted; for they ſo qualifie the ingrate § taſte and ſmell,by the admixture of ſweet and well-ſmelling things, that they what, ſuch as # cannot eaſilybee perceived even by the skilful. therefore ſuch as fearpoiſon-fºoning, a ° ings ought to take heed of meats cooked with much art, verieſweet,ſalt,ſowr, muſt obſervin or notably endued with anie other taſte, andwhen they are oppreſt with hunger or thirſt, their dist: they concerning poyſons, &c. lºzi. they muſt not eat nor drink too greedily, but have a diligent regard to the taſte of ſuch things as they eat or drink; beſides, before meat let them take ſuch things as may weaken the ſtrength of the poiſons; ſuch as is the fatbroth of good nouriſhing fleſh-meats; in the morning let them arm themſelvs, with treacle or mithridate, and conſerv of roſes, or the leavs of rue, a walnut and drie figs; beſides, let him preſently drinka little draught of muſ. kedine or ſom other good wine; when one ſuſpeas heehath taken any poiſon in meator why aspi, drink, let him forbearſleeping. forbeſides that the force of poiſon is ofttimes ſo rapid, hurtfull. that it conſume's our life in a ſhort ſpace, as fire doth ſtubble, as alſo for thatitis drawn - º, more inwardly into the ſecret paſſages of the bodie by ſleep. wherefore in ſuch a caſe it is . *. better to procure vomit by drinking hydreleum warm, or butter diſſolved in warm oil, or a pro . “decočtion of line, or fenugreek-ſeeds, or fat broth, for thus the received poiſon is alſo caſt forth therewith, or elſthe acrimonie thereof retunded, and the bellie looſed. ... you may ſee this by dailie experience, for cauſticks, veſicatories, and the like acrid things beeing applied to an anointed part, will not bliſternor exulcerate the part.neither doth the vomit conduce onely in this, that it excludeth the poiſon, but it ſhew's either by the taſte, ſmell, or color, the kinde of the taken-poiſon; ſo that then by uſeing the proper antidote, it may bee the more eaſily and ſpeedily reſiſted, yet notwithſtanding if you conceiv that the poiſon have deſcended deeper in the guts, you may with a glyſterdraw away the reſt there- of which adher's to the coats of the guts. but if the patient cannot vomit, then ſhall ſom when and purgeing medicine bee givenhimi orthwith,and ſuch as are thought more particularly to re- .", ſiſt poiſon, ſuch as are agarick, aloés, the leſſer centaurie, rubarb and other things, ac- pu i..** cording to the direétion of the learned phyſician. then ſhall you adminiſter glyſters made - with caffa, fattie decočtions, ſheep-ſuet, or butter or cowſ-milk, with the mucilages of line-ſeed, pſilium-ſeeds, quince-ſeeds,and other ſuch things as are uſually given in a dyſen- terie, or bloodie flux, that ſuch things may hinder the adheſion of the poiſon to the coats of the ºf the guts and by their unétuouſneſs retund the acrimonie of the poiſon,and mitigateifanie poiſoned thing ſhall alreadie bee ulcerated, and abſolutely defend the ſound parts from the malign ef- wounds. fećts of the poiſon. butlet this bee a perpetual rule, that the poiſon bee ſpeedily drawn “back by the ſame way it entred into the bodie; as, if it entred by ſmelling in at the noſtrils, let it bee drawn back by ſneeſing, if by the mouth into the ſtomach, let it bee excluded by vomit;if by the fundament into the bellie,then by glyſter; if by the privities into the womb, then by metrenchite, or injections made thereinto ; if by a bite, ſting or wound, let revulſion bee made by ſuch things as have a powerful attrađtive faculties for thus weemake diverſions, that by theſe wee may not onely hinder the poiſon from affailing the heart, but alſo that by this means wee may draw it from within outwards. wherefore ſtrong ligatures caſt a- bout the arms, thighs and legs, are good in this caſe. alſo large cupping glaſſes applied with flame to ſundrie parts of the bodie are good. alſo bathes of warm water, with a de- co&tion offuch things as reſiſt poiſon, ſouthern-wood, calamint, rue, betonie, horehound, pennie-royall, bayes, ſcordium, ſmallage, ſcabious, mints, valerian, and the like, are good in this caſe. alſo ſweats are good,beeing provoked ſo much as the ſtrength of the patient can endure. but if heebee verie wealthie, whom wee ſuſpett poiſoned, it will bee ſafer to put him into the bellie of an ox, horſ or mule, and then preſently into another aſſoon as the former is cold, that ſo the poiſon may bee drawn forth by the gentle and vaporous heat of the new killed beaſt; yet do none of theſe things without the advice of a phyſician,if it may conveniently bee had. chap. xiiii. - how the corrupt or venemous air may kill a man. by how manie, º he air is infe&ted and corrupted by the admixture of malign vapors, either and what § ſº ariſeing from the unburied bodies of ſuch as are ſlain in great confliás, or ex- . the air $º § haleing out of the earth after earth-quakes,for the air,long pent up in the ca- may bee in- º feóted. t º § ºvities and bowels of the earth, and deprived of the freedom & commerce of the **º open air, is corrupted,and acquires a malign qualitie,which it preſently trans- how hunder, "thunto ſuch as meet there with. alſo there is a certain malignitie of the air, which ac- and lightnings companieth thunders, and lightnings, which ſavours of a ſulphureous virulencie, ſo that may intº the whºſoever wilde beatisfaſidevour the creatures killed there with, they becommad, and alſo die immediately; for the fire of lightning hath a far more rapid, ſubtil, and greater force then other fires, ſo that it may rightly beetermed a fire of fires. an argument hereofis, thºſen the head of a ſpear, not harming the wood, and - §: and gold, not hurting the purſ wherein it is contained. alſo the air is infeated by * . . .# admitted into the bodie and bowels by themouth and noſe in . . . . . jº % ºndarteries in perſpiration, dotheaſily kilſtheſpirits and humors eing firſt in ºfted, and then within a ſhoºt ſpace after, the # ſubſtance of the principal parts, and chiefly oftheheart beeing turned into their nature, unleſs themanbee firſt }. w lib. . concerning toiſons, &c. provided for by ſneeſing, vomiting, ſweating, purgeing by the bellie, or ſom other excreti- on. for that poiſon which is carried into the bodie by ſmell, is the moſt rapid and effectu-whether the all, by ſo much as a vapor or exhalation is of more ſubtil and quicklier-piercing eſſence then vapor that a- an humor. yet notwithſtanding, wilt thou ſay, it is not credible, that anie bee kill'd by a- t eth . a nievapor raiſed by the force of fire, as of a torch, or a warming-pan, for that the venenate ...; qualitie of the thing that is burnt, is diſſipated and conſumed by the force of the fire-purge-on. ing and cleanſing all things. this reaſon is falſly feigned to the deſtrućtion of the lives of careleſs people; for ſulphureous brands kindled at a clear fire, donotwithſtanding caſt forth a ſulphureous vapor. whether do not lignum aloes and juniper, when they are burnt in a flame, ſmell leſs ſweetly - pope clement, the ſeventh of that name, the uncleofour kings mother, was poiſoned by an hiſtorie. the fume of a poiſonous torch that was carried lighted before him, and died i. ma- thiolus telleth, that there were two mountebanks in the market-place of sienna, the one of . but ſmelling to a poiſoned gillie-flower given him by the other, fell down dead pre- ently. a certainman not long ago, when hee had put to his noſe, and ſmelled a little unto apo- mander, which was ſecretly poiſoned, was preſently taken with a vertigo, and all his É. ſwelled, and unleſs that hee had gotten ſpeedie help by ſternutatories and other means, hee had died ſhortly after of the ſame kinde of death that pope clement did. the ſafeſt preſervative againſt ſuch poiſons is, not to ſmell to them : moreover, ſom af. firm, that there are prepared ſom poiſons of ſuch force, that beeing annointed but on the ſaddle, they will kill the rider, and others, that if you but annoint the ſtirrups therewith, they will ſend ſo deadlie poiſonous a qualitie into the rider, through his boots, that hee ſhall die thereof within a ſhort time after: which things, though they bee ſcarce credible, becauſ ſuch poiſons touch not the naked skin, yet have they an example innature,whereby they may .. themſelvs. for the torpedo ſend's a narcotick, and certainly deadly force in- to the arm, and ſo into the bodie of the fiſher, the cords of the net beeing between them. chap. viii. that everie kinde of poiſon bath its proper and peculiar signs and effetis. s poiſons are diſtinët inſpecies, ſo each ſpecies differ's in their ſigns and effects § neither is it poſſible to finde anie one kinde of poiſon, which may bee accom- # panied or produce all the ſigns and effºts of all poiſons, otherwiſe phyſici- §§§ ans ſhould in vain have written of the ſigns and effe&s of each of them, as alſo * of their proper remedies and antidotes. for what kinde of poiſon ſhall that ‘bee, which ſhall cauſa burning heat in the ſtomach,bellie, liver,bladder and kidnies,which ſhall cauſahicketting, which ſhall cauſthe whole bodie to tremble and ſhake, which ſhall take away the voice and ſpeech, which ſhall cauſ convulſions, ſhall weaken the pulfifick fa- cultie, which ſhall intercept the freedom of breathing, which ſhall ſtupefie and caſt into a dead ſleep, which ſhall together, and at once cauſa vertigo in the head, dimneſs in the fight, a ſtrangling, or ſtoppage of the breath, thirſt, bleeding, fever, ſtoppage of the urine, perpetual vomiting, redneſs, lividneſs, and paleneſs of the face, reſolutions of the powers, - and manie other things, all which are cauſed by all ſorts of poiſon. laſtly, no bodie will ;p. deniebut that hot poiſons may killmore ſpeedily then cold, for that they are more ſpeedily ..." aćtuated by the native heat. - - - r - • - ch a p. ix. the effetis of poiſons from particular renemous things, and what prognoſtick: may thence bee made. *ſº t is the opinion of cornelius celſus, and almoſt of all the antients, that the ñº, bite of everie beaſt had ſomvirulencie,but yet ſom more then other-ſom.they i Šºć are moſt virulent that are inflićted by venemous beaſts,as aſps, vipers, water- º § ſnakes,andall kindes of serpents, bafilisks, dragons, toads, mad dogs, .. ! ºš scorpions, spiders, bees, waſps, and the like. they are leſs malign, which #º: ** are ofcreatures wanting venom,as of horſes, apes, cats, dogs not mad, and *: ...” of manie other things,which though of their own nature they are without poiſon,yet in their bºaſt. viru- bites there is ſomthing more dolorifick and ill natured, then in common wounds inflićted lent. by other occaſions: ibeleev, that in their ſlaver or ſanies,there is ſomthing,iknow not how to termit,contrarie to our nature,which imprint's amalign qualitiein the ulcer,which alſo. you may obſervin the tearings and ſcratchings of ſuch creatures as have ſharp claws, as lions - and cats. moreover manie affirm,that they have found by experience, that the bites of men thºbººf" are not altogether without virulencie, eſpecially º as are red-haired & freckled, º: *::::i. nt. - - - / io concerning toiſons, &c. lib. . when as they are angred; it is probable that the bites of other perſons want this malignitie, ſeeing that their ſpittle will cure ſmall ulcerations. wherefore, if there ſhall happen difficul- tie of cure in a wound, cauſed by a man's biteing, which is neither red haired nor freckled, neither angric; this happen's not by means of the ſpittle, nor by anie malign qualitie, but by reaſon of the contuſion, cauſed by the bluntneſs of the teeth, not cutting, but bruiſing the part, forbering not ſharp, they cannot ſo eaſily enter the fleſh, unleſs by bruiſing and tearing, after the manner of heavie and blunt ſtrokes and weapons, wounds beeing occaſio- :aaned by ſuch are more hard to bee alred, then ſuch as are made by cutting and ſharp wea: .." pons. but of the fore-ſaidbittings of venemous creatures, there are few which do not kill fuch as are cut. in a ſhort ſpace, and almoſt in a moment, but principally if the poiſon bee ſent into the bo- die by a live creature, for in ſuch poiſon there is much heat; alſo there is therein a greater f tenuitie, which ſerv's as vehicles thereto into what place or partſoever of the bodie t tend, the which the poiſons taken from dead creatures are defeative of wherefore ſom of theſe kill a man in the ſpace of an hour, as the poiſon aſps, baſilisks and toads; others not unleſs in two or three daies ſpace, as of water-snakes; a spider, and scorpion require more time to kill, yet all of them admitted but in the leaſt quantitie, do in a ſhort ſpace cauſgreat and deadlie mutations in the bodie, as if they had breathed in a peſtiferous air, and with the like violence, taint and change into their own nature all the members and bowels, by which theſe ſame members doin the time of perfeót healthchange laudable meats into their nature and ſubſtance. the place whereas theſe poiſonous creatures live, and the time, conduce to the perniciouſneſs of the poiſon, for ſuch as live in drie, mountanous, and ſun-burnt places killmore ſpeedily then #. asbee in moiſt andmariſh grounds; alſo they are more hurtful in winter then in ſummer; and the poiſon is more deadly which proceed's from hungrie, angrie and faſting creatures,then that which com's from ſuch as are full and quiet; as alſo that which f. fromyoung things,chiefly when as they are ſtimulated to venerie, is more powerful then that which com’s from old and decrepit; from femals worſ then from males; from ſuch as have fed upon other venemous things, rather then from ſuch as have abſtained from them, as from ſnakes which have devoured toads, vipers which have fed upon ſcorpions, ſpiders and caterpillers. yet the reaſon of the efficacie of poiſons de- pend's from their proper, that is, their ſubtil or groſs conſiſtence, and the greater or leſs aptneſs of the affetted bodie to ſuffer. for hot men that have larger and more open veins and arteries, yeeld the poiſon freer paſſage to the heart. therefore they which have more cold and ſtraight veſſels, are longerere they die of the like poiſon; ſuch as are full, are not ſo ſoon harmed as thoſe that are faſting: for meats, beſides that by filling the veſſels, they give not the poiſon ſo free paſſage, they alſo ſtrengthen the heart by the multiplication of ſpirits, ſo that it more powerfully reſiſt's pernicious venom. ifthe poiſon work by an oc- cult and ſpecifick propertie, it cauſſeth the cure and prognoſtick to bee difficult, and then muſt wee have recourſ to antidotes, as theſe which in their whole ſubſtance reſiſt poiſons; but principally to treacle, becauſthere enter into the compoſition thereof medicines which . . are hot, cold, moiſt and drie: whence it is, that it retund's and withſtand's all poiſons, ... chiefly ſuch as conſiſt of a ſimple nature,ſuch as theſe which com from venemous creatures, ºpiºi. plants and minerals; and which are not prepared by the deteſtable art of empoiſoners. ſons. chap. x. / iwhat cure muff bee uſed to the biteings and ſtingings of venemous beaſts. £º ure muſt ſpeedily bee uſed without anie delaie to the bites and ſtingings of y venemous beaſts, which may by all means diſperſthe poiſon, and keep it from entering into the bodie; for when the principal parts are poſſeſſed, it # boot's nothing to uſe medicines afterwards. therefore the antients have {ns$º propounded a double indication to leadus to the findeing out of medicines inſuch a caſe, to wit, the evacuation ofthe virulent and venenate humor,and the change or adoublein. alteration of the ſame and the affected bodie. but ſeeing evacuation is of two ſorts, to wit, dication in the univerſal, which is by the inner parts ; and particular; which is by the outward parts. wee cure º: muſt begin at the particular, by ſuch to i! medicines as are fit to draw out, and retund ** the venom; for wee muſt not alwaies begin a cure with general things, as ſom think, eſ- pecially in external diſeaſes, as wounds, fraðures, diſlocations, venemous bites and pun- ðures. wherefore hereto as ſpeedily as you may, you ſhall applie remºdiº fiſſ for lotions fit for the bites and punčtures of venemous beaſts; as for example, the wounds ſhall bee ... “preſently waſhed with urine, with ſea-water, aqua vite, or wine; or vinºfer where- bites. in old treacle or muſtard ſhall bee diſſolved. let ſuch waſhing bee performed.verie . . hot, and ſtrongly chaſed in, and then leav upon the wound and round aboutit, linnen **.**ia: rags, or lint ſteeped in the ſame liquor. therebeeſom who think it not fit to lay tread" thereto, becauſ, as they ſay, it drive's the poiſon in. but the authoritic of galen convin- ceth that opinion, for hee writeth that if treacle bee applied to this kinde of wº: oi" - - lib. . concerning?oiſons, &c. ii before that the venom ſhal arrive at the nobleparts, it much conduceth.alſo reaſon confutes it; for viper's fleſhenters the compoſition of treacle which attraćts the venom by the ſimi- litude of ſubſtance, as the load-ſtone draweth iron, or amber ſtraws. moreover, the other ſimple medicines which enter this compoſitions reſolv and conſume the virulencie and ve- nom, and beeing inwardly taken, it defendeth the heart and other noble parts, and corro- borateth the ſpirits. experience teacheth that mithridate fitly given in the ſtead of treacle worketh the like effect. the medicines that are taken inwardly and applied outwardly for evacuation, muſt bee ofſubtil parts, that they may quickly infinuate themſelvs into everie treadeout: part to retund the malignitie ofthe poiſon; whereforegarlick, nions, leeks,are verie good wardly applied in this caſe, for that they are vaporous; alſo ſcordium,rue, didamnu, the leſſer centaurie, * *ly hore-hound, rocket,the milkiejuice of unripe figs, and the like, are good; there is a kinde : . à- ofwildebugloſs amongſtall other plants, which hathafingular force againſt venemous j bites, whence it is termed echium and viperinum, and that for two cauſes; the firſt is, becauſ - in the purple flowers that grow amongſt the leav's, there is a reſemblance to the head of the force of a viperor adder. another reaſon is, becauſit heal's the biting of aviper not onely applied ºthº. outwardly,but alſo helpeth ſuch as are bitten,beeing drunk in wine,yea,and will not ſuffer thoſe that have lately drunk thereof to bee bitten at all. wilde time hath the like effett; though theſe oft-times agree with the poiſon in qualitie as in heat, yet do they help in diſ. cuſſing and reſolving it; yet, as much as wee may, wee muſt labor to have evacuation and alteration together. it is moſt convenient, if the part affe&ted will permit, to applie large cupping-glaſſes with much flame and horns; alſo ſucking is good, the mouth beeing firſt waſhed in wine wherein ſome treacle is diſſolved, and with oil,leſt anything ſhould adhere thereto, for it will hinder it,if ſo bee the mouth bee nowhere ulcerated. it is good alſo to applie horſ leeches; ſom wiſh to applie to the wound, the fundaments of hens or turkies that lay egs, for that ſuch are opener behinde, firſt putting ſalt upon them that they may gape the wider, ſhutting their beaks and opening them now and then leſt they ſhould bee itified, and ever and anon to ſubſtitute others inſtead of ſuch as die or are ſuffocated; for thus it is thought the poiſon is drawn forth, and paſſeth into the bird by the fundament. therebee others ğ had rather applie to the wound live birds cut aſunderin the midſt, and ſo laid to hot, for that they gheſs theſe reſiſt poiſon by a natural diſcord. but certain- ly it is by their heat whereby they do not onely digeſt toads, aſps, wipers, ſcorpions and o- ther venemous things, but alſo wear aſunder and ſoften ſand, ſtones, and moſt drie and ſto- nie ſeeds in theirgizzards; wherefore wee muſt think them very good to draw out the poi- ſon and diſſipateit. but nothing isſo forcible to diſperſandrºund they nom, astheim-ri, f{i preſſion of cauteries, eſpecially adual, for a hot iron works more effectually and ſpeedily, jº and cauſeth an ulcer which will remain open alonger time. wherefore to cauſthe ſpeedier gainſt vene- falling away of the eſchar, you ſhall ſcarifie it to the quick, and then plentifully annoint mous bites. the place. for thus the poiſon will the ſooner paſs forth. but this muſt bee done before the poiſon enter's far into the bodie, for otherwiſe cauteries will not onely do no good, but further torment the patient, and weaken him to no purpoſe. let drawing plaſters bee laid to the wound and neighboring parts, made of galbanum, turpentine, black pitch,and other gummieandrefinous things. after the falling away of the eſchar, baſilicon ſhall bee the force of applied, quickned with a little precipitate, for it is very effe&ual in theſe caſes, for that it precipitate a- draweth forth the virulentſanies out ofthe bottomof the wound, neither doth it ſuffer the sº., wound to becloſed ſpeedily. to which purpoſe theyputinapiece of a ſpunge, or a root ** of gentian or hermodaćtyl, or ſom ...i. as egyptiacum, or precipitate mixed with the powder of alum, or a cauſtick beaten to powder. but you muſt alwaies obſerv this, that with yourointments you muſt alwaies mix ſom treacle or mithridate,or the juice of . bypericon, or the like, which have ſº to attračt and diſperſthe poiſon, and cleanſ the ul- when hot ºr; yet iſ tooyehement heat ſhallauſſuch pain as is likely tº bring agangren by the diſ ;... nº. fipation of the ſpirits, then neglecting the cure of the properdiſeaſfor a time, wee muſt la-convenient for bor to corre& the ſymptom. but in this caſe you muſt obſerv this rule, that you let no poiſoned blood, give no purgeing medicine, nor glyſter,nor vomit,nor uſe no bath, nor other thing wounds. that may procureſweat, untill three daiesbee paſt after the bite or ſting. in the mean ſpace let the patient ſhun all manner of labor, but chiefly venerie, left by cauſing an agitation of the humors, the poiſon get ſooner to the heart. therefore then it is time to uſe univer- ſal evacuations, when as youſhall ſuſpect that the poiſon is diffuſed over the veins and whole inner part of the bodie beſides. beſore you ſhall give nothing, unleſs medicines of treacle ormithridate and the like things,which have a facultie to reſiſt poiſon, and ſtreng- then the wholebodie by theirbenign and vital vapor, although their ſubſtance gono fur- ..., ther then the ſtomach. thuspills when they are ſwallowed, though they go no further amidors then the ſtomach, yet do they draw matter out of the joints and head; .#. glyfiers, muſt begiven though theyº no further then theguts, yet by their qualitie diffuſed further with the in great vapor, they draw from the moſt diſtant parts; yet youmuſt give an antidote, not onely quantities. more powerfullthen the poiſon in qualitie, but alſo greater in quantitie,that ſo it may the more eaſily overcom and expell the poiſon. wherefore you muſt give it twice in a daie, - x x and . concerning toſon, &c. — lisa - and continue it ſolong untill you ſhall know that the ſtrength of the poiſon is weakned and overcom by the remiſſion and decay of the malign ſymptoms. yet in the mean while, you muſt not neglcºt the diſtemper cauſed in the part by the poiſon,but muſt rather correà: it by the applicatiºn of the remedies contrarieto the diſemper, as by cold things, if great heat afflićt the affeded part and whole bodie; by hot things on the contrarie, if itſeºn as cold as a ſtone, which oft-times happen's. andlet thus much ſuffice for the general cure of poiſons: now will wee comto their particular cure. - chap. xi. why dºgs ſooner becom mad then other creatures, and what bee the ſigns thereof. dogs natural- lºsºft ogs becommad ſooner then other creatures,becauſnaturally they injoy that ly ſubjećt to s § wº temper and condition of humors which hath an eaſie inclination to that madneſs. * nº. wilkinde of diſeaſ, and as it were a certain diſpoſition, becauſthey feed upon ºlº carrion and corrupt, putridand flinking things, and lapwater of the like º % condition beſides the trouble and vexation of loſing their maſters, make's them to run everie waie, painfully ſearching and ſmelling to everie thing, and neglecting their meat. a heating of the blood enſue's upon this pain, and by this heat it is turned in- to a melancholie, whence they becom ºf but yet dogs do not alwaies becommad by means of heat, but alſo by occaſion of cold, that is, by contrarie cauſes; for they fall into this diſeaſnot onely in the dog-daies, but alſo in the depth of winter. for dogs abound dog, becom with melancholik humors, to wit cold and drie. but ſuch humors as in the ſummer madnot onely through exceſs of heat, ſo in the depth of winterby conſtipation and the ſuppreſſion offil- in the heat of liginous excrements, they eaſilie turn into melancholie. hence follow's averie burning and . * continual feaver, which cauſethor bringeth with it a madneſs. addhereto, that in the º: *depth of winterſhebeat which is contained within is redoubled,andinlikemanner as the ſcorching heat in ſummer, it breed's and turn's the humors into melancholie.alſo dogs be- commad by contagion, as ſuch as are bitten by another mad dog. amaddog hath ſpark- ling and fierieeies, with afixed look, cruel and a ſquint shee carrie's his head heavily, hanging down towards the ground, and ſomwhat on one ſide,hee gape's, and thruſt's forth his tongue, which is livid and blackiſh; and beeing ſhort breathed, caſt's forth much filth at his noſe,and much foaming matter at his mouth; in his gate, as if her ſuſpetted and fear- • . cd all things, hee keepeth no one or certain path, but run's one while to this ſide, another - while to that, and ſtumbling like onethat is drunk, hee oft-times falleth down on the ground; heeviolently affail's whatſoever hee meet's withall, whether itbee man, tree, wall, dog, or anything elſ; other dogs ſhun him, and preſently ſent him afar off. but if another unawars chance to fall foul on him, heeyeeld's himſelf to his mercy, fawn’s upon him, and privily labor's to get from him, though heebee the ſtronger and greater. hee is unmindful ofeating and drinking, heebark's not yet heebite's all hee meet's without anie difference, not ſpareing his maſter, as who at this timehee know's not from a ſtranger or enemie. for it is the propertie of melancholieto diſturb the underſtanding, ſo that ſuch perſons as are melancholick, do notonely rage againſt, and uſe violence to their friends and parents, but w. º: alſo upon themſelvs. but when ashee ſee's water, hee tremble's and ſhake's, and his haires fon:hºr:them ſtand up on end. ſelvs. -- ºf - chap. xii. . . .” - by what ſignes wee may know a man is bitten by a mad dog. the bite of a ºss t is not ſo eaſie at the firſt to know aman that is bitten with a mad dog;and maddog not | s principally for this reaſon, becauſthe wound madeby his teeth cauſieth no ...;º more pain then other wounds uſually do ; contrarie to the wounds made |by the ſting orbite of other poiſonous creatures, as thoſe which preſently º #|after they are inflićted, cauſtharp pain, great heat, ſwelling and abundance $ººl of other malign accidents, according to the nature of the poiſon; but the malignitie of the bite of a mad dog appear's not before that the venom ſhall invade the noble parts. yet when you are ſuſpicious of ſuch a wound, you may acquire a certain knowledg and experience thereof by putting a piece of bread into the quitture that come's from the wound. for if a hungrie dog negle&, yea more flie from it, and dare not ſo much signs of the as ſmell thereto, it is thought to bee a certain fign that the wound was inflićted by a mad ºr of a nad dog. others add, that if anie give this piece of bread to hens,that they will die the ſame dog, daie they have eaten it; yet this later, i makeing experiment thereof.failed, for devouring this virulent bread, they became not a jot the worſ. wherefore i think the former fign to bee the more certain, for dogs have a wonderful and ſure ſmelling facultie, whereby they ſent and perceiv the malignitie of the like creature. but when as the º virulencic "- - - lib. . concerning poiſons, &c. virulencie hath invaded the noble parts, then the patients,becomming ſilent and ſorrowful, signs, by think of manie things, and at the beginning make a noiſe with their teeth; they make no : you º anſwer to the purpoſe, they are more teſtie then ordinarie, and in their ſleeps they are trou- i. t º: bled with dreams, and ſtrange phantaſies, and fearful viſions; and laſtly, they becom affraid tº of the water. but after that the poiſon hath fixed it ſelf into the ſubſtance of the noble parts, then all their faculties are diſturbed, all the light of their memorie, ſenſes, reaſon and judgment is extinguiſhed. wherefore becomming ſtark mad, they know not ſuch as ſtand by them, nor their friends, no nor themſelvs, falling upon ſuch as they meet withall and themſelvs with their teeth, and nails, and feet. often twitchings like convulſions do ſud- denly riſe in their limbs; i judgthem occaſioned by extraordinariedrineſs, which hath as it were wholly drunk up all the humiditie of the nervous parts; there is a greatdrineſs of the mouth with intolerable thirſt, yet without anie deſire of drink, becauſ the minde beeing troubled, they becom unmindful and negligent of ſuch things as concern them, and are needful for them; the eies look fierie and red, and all the face is of the ſame color; they ſtill. think of dogs, and ſeem to ſee them, yea and deſire to bark and bite juſt after the manner of dogs: i conjećture, that the virulent humor hath changed all the humors and the whole wºº * bodie into the like nature, ſo that they think themſelvs alſo º ; whence their voice be- i. com's hoarſ by much endeavouring to bark, haveing forgot all decencie, like impudent dogs, to the great horror of the beholders. for their voice grow's hoarſ by reaſon of the great drineſs of the affera arteria; they ſhun the light, as that which is enemie to melancho- why they lie, wherewith the whole ſubſtance of the brain is repleniſhed: on the contrarie, they deſire ſhan the light. darkneſs, as that which is like and friendly to them. but they are affraid of the water why they are (though good to mitigate their great diſtemper of heat and ...? and they flie from affraid of the looking-glaſſes, becauſthey imagin they ſee dogs in them, whereof they are much affraid, water. by reaſon whereof they ſhun the water, and all polite and clear bodies which may ſupplie the uſe of a looking-glaſs; ſo that they throw themſelvs on the ground, as if they would hide themſelvs therein, leſt they ſhould beebitten again: for they affirm, that hee which is bitten by a mad dog, alwaies hath a dog in his mind, and ſo remain's fixed in that ſad cogi- tation. wherefore thinking that hee ſee's him in the water, hee tremble's for fear, and therefore ſhun's the water. others write, that the bodie by madneſs becommeth wondrous drie, wherefore they hate the water, as that which is contrarie thereto, beeing abſolutely the moiſteſt element, and ſo they ſay that this is the reaſon of their fearing the water. ruffus write's, that madneſs is a kinde of melancholie, and that fear is the proper ſymptom there- of, according to hippocrates; wherefore this or that kinde of melancholie beget's a fear of aphrºſtag. theſe or theſe things, but chiefly of bright things, ſuch as looking-glaſſes and water, by reaſon that melancholick perſons ſeek darkneſs and ſolitarineſs; by reaſon of the black cor- ruption of the humor wherewith they abound. they fall into cold ſweats, a fomie, ſtink- ing and greeniſh matter flow's from the ulcer, by reaſon of the heat of the antecedent cauſ and ulcerated part. the urine moſt commonl *. watriſh, by reaſon that the ſtrain- ers, as it were, of the kidnies, are ſtraightned by the heat and drineſs of the venom. yet ſomtimes alſo it appear's more thick and black, as when nature powerfully uſing the expul- five facultie, attempt's to drive forth by urine the melancholick humor, the ſeat of the ve- nom. alſo ſomtimes it is wholly ſuppreſt, beeing either incraſſated by hot drineſs, or elſri, bisof, the mindebering carried other-wales, and forgetful of its own duties intil at length the pa-ji. tients, vexed by the crueltie of ſomanie ſymptoms, and overcom by the bitterneſs of pain, in handin die frantick, by reaſon that medicines have not been ſpeedily and fitly applied. for few of time, is for the thoſe who have uſed remedies in time, have periſhed of this diſeaſ. º: part cure- chap. xiii. prognoſtickſ. - ee cannot ſo eaſily ſhun the danger wee are incident to by maddogs, as that ſº . of \; of otherbeaſts, by reaſon hee is a domeſtick creature, and houſed under the . ...: syºğ ſame roof with us. the virulencie that reſide's in his foam or ſlaver is hot and [. onely may q /\º drie, malign, venenate and contagious, ſo that it cauſſeth a diſtemper like to it cauſmadneſs. ſelf, in the bodie whereto it ſhall applie itſelf, and ſpread it ſelf over the whole bodie by the arteries; for it doth not onely É. when as it is taken in by a bite or punčture,but even applied to the skin, unleſs it bee forthwith waſhed away with ſalt water or urine. neither doth this venom hurt equally, or at all times alike, for it harm's more or leſs, according to the inclination of the air to heat or cold, the depth of the wound, the ſtrength of the pati- ent's bodie, and the ill humors thereof, and their diſpoſition to putrefa&ion, the freedom and largeneſs of the paſſages. now malign ſymptoms happen ſooner or later, as in ſoma- bout the fortieth day, in others about ſix moneths, and in others a year after. therebee Ş. - - pbema or ſom who thereupon are troubled with the falling-fickneſs, and at length grow mad: ſuch jº as fall into a fear of the water, never recover. yet* think's their caſe is not *; bee incurables x - * - concerning poiſons, &c. lib. . ** an hiſtorie. an hiſtorie. the force of sorrel. the force of docks. an hiſtorie. - if as yet they can know their face in a glaſs; for hence you may gather, that all the animal faculties are not yet overthrown, but that they ſtand in need of ſtrong purgations, as wee ſhall ſhew hereafter. aëtius tell's, that there was a certain philoſopher, who taken with this diſeaſ, and a fear of water, when as hee deſcended with a great courage unto the bath, and in the water beholding the ſhape of the dog that bit him, hee made a ſtand, but aſhamed thereof, hee forthwith cried out, guid cani cum balneo pi.e. what hath a dog to do with a bath? which words beeing uttered, hee threw himſelf forcibly into the bath, and fearleſly drank of the water ...; and ſo was freed from his diſeaſ together with his erroneous o- pinion. it is a deadlie ſign to tumble themſelvs on the ground, to have an hoarſ voice, for that is an argument that the weazon is becom rough by reaſon oftoo exceſſive drineſs. fi- nally the principal parts beeing poſſeſſed,there is no recoverie or life to bee hoped for. men may well fall º they beenot bit by a maddog. for as the humors are often in- flamed of themſelvs,and cauſa cancer or leprofie, ſo do they alſo madneſs in melancholick perſons. the bites of vipers and other venemous creatures cauſnot like ſymptoms to theſe that comby the biteing of amad dog; becauſthey die before ſuch can comforth or ſhew’ themſelvs.great wounds made by maddogs are not equally ſo dangerous as little, for from the former,great plentie of venemous matterflow's out but in the later,it is almoſt all keptin. chap. xiv. what care muff bee uſed to ſuch as are bitten by a mad dog. rºhis caſe alſo require's ſpeedie remedies; for ſuch things are in vain which com § long after the hurt. the lawyer baldus experienced this to his great harm ; for § ſº beeng by chance lightly bit in the lip by a little dog wherewith hee was de- : sº lighted, not knowing that hee was mad, and neglecting the wound, by reaſon * * of the ſmalneſs thereof, after ſomfour moneths ſpace, hee died mad, haveing then in vain aſſaied all manner of medicines. wherefore obſerving theſe things both for e- vacuation, as alſo for alteration, which wee have formerly mentioned in the general cure of wounds inflićted by the bite or ſting of venemous creatures, and by all the means there ſpecified, weemuſt draw forth the venom; and if the wound bee large,then ſuffer it to bleed long and much, for ſo ſom part of the poiſon will bee exhauſted; if it bee not great, it ſhall beeenlarged by ſcarification, or an occult cauterie, neither ſhall it bee healedor cloſed up at the ſooneſt, till fourtie daies bee paſſed. sorrel beaten and applied to the wound, and the deco&ion thereof takeninwardly, is verie effectual in this caſe, as aëtius affirm’s. to the ſame purpoſe you may with good ſucceſs make a lotion and frićtion with muſtard diſſolved in urine or vineger, leaving upon the wound a double cloth moiſtned in the ſame deco&i- on: laſtly, all acrid, biteing, and verie attractive medicines are convenient in this caſe. wherefore ſom applie rocket boiled and beaten with butter and ſalt; others take the flower of orobus, and temper it with honie, ſalt and vineger, and applie it hot. horſ-dung boiled in ſharpvineger, or brimſtone beaten to powder, and tempered with ones ſpittle, is good. alſo black pitch melted with ſom ſalt, and a little euphorbium mixed therewith, and ſo applied, is good. somwrite, that the hairs of the dog, whoſtbite cauſed the madneſs, applied by themſelvs, by their ſympathie or ſimilitude of ſubſtance draw the venom from within outwards; for ſo a scorpion beaten and applied to the place whereas it ſtung, by drawing out the poiſon that it ſentin, reſtore's the patient to health, both theſe by often experience are . to have certain event. others chawunground wheat, and lay it upon the wound, others roſte beans under hotembers, then husk them, and cleav them, and ſo applie them. alſo the wound may bee wholſomly waſhed and fomented with a de- coötion of docks, and then the herb beaten may bee applied thereto; alſo the patient may drink the decočtion; and by this one remedie aetius affirm's that heehath recovered divers; for thus it move's urine plentifully, which is thought much to conduce to the cure of this diſeaſ. therebee ſom who applie the leavs of betonie and nettles beaten with common ſalt; others make a medicine to the ſame purpoſe and after the ſame manner of an onion, the leavs of rue and ſalt. yet the reſt are exceeded by treacle diſſolved in aqua vite or ſtrong wine, and rubbed hard upon the part ſo that the bloodmay follow, laying upon the wound when you have wipedit,cloths dipped in the ſame medicine,then preſently applie garlick or onions beaten with common ſalt and turpentine: by this gnely remediel freed one of the daughters of madamoiſelle de gron from the ſymptoms of*::::: healed the wound,when as a maddog had bither grievouſly in the calf of the right leg. alto it is good preſently to eat garlick with bread,and then to drink after it a draught of good wine, for garlick by its ſpirituous heat will defend the noble parts from poiſon. there beeſom who wiſh to eat the roſted liver of the dog that hurt them, or elſthe liver of a goat, of which remedies as yet i have had no experience. others preſcribe a dram of the ſeeds of agnus caſus to bee drunk with wine and butter. others the powder of river-crabs,burntand drunk in wine. or,r.rad. gentsii, aftacorum flaviatinfumo combuſte-in pollinem redağ. üiterrefigil. ſ; miſce. give .of - cºlls lib. . concerning?oiſons, &c. this ſame powder in the decoºtion ofriver-crabs, and let them drink thereof oft at ſundrie * - times. māniehave caſt themſelvs into the ſea, neitherhave they thence had anie help againſt º: into madneſs, as ferrand pozet the cardinal teſtifieth in his book of poiſons; wherefore youmuſt :º: not relieupon upon that remedie, but ratheryou muſt have recourſ to ſuch things as are ſet gainſt madneſs. in the books of phyſicians, and approved by certain and manifold experience, but ſeeing that no poiſon can kill, unleſs itbee taken or admitted into the bodie, wee muſt not feara- nieharm by ſprinkling our bodies with the {. ofamad dog, viper, toad, or anie other ſuch like venºmous creature,if ſobee that itbee preſently wiped or waſhed clean away. chap, xv. . what cure muſtbee uſed to ſuch as fear the water, but yet are able to know themſelvs in a glaſs. pºuch as have not their animal facultie asyet o'recom by the malignitie of the the force of ºrageing venom, muſt have ſtrong purgations given them. wherefore, ifina-antimoniº: dinie .# antimoniebee uſeful, thenis it in this, as that which cauſeth ſweats, sº looſeth the bellie,and procure's vomiting. for it is apartofextreme and dan- §gerous madneſs to hope to overcom the cruel malignitie of this poiſon alrea- die admitted into thebowels, by£. purgeing medicines. aſſuredly, ſuch and ſo great danger is never overcom without danger. bathes alſo conduce, which maydi- ſperſand drawforth the poiſon by cauſing ſweats. alſo manie and frequent treacle-potions are good to retund the venom,and ſtrengthen the bowels;alſo it willbee fitting to give them waterandall other liquid things, which they ſo much abhor,in a cupwith a cover. alwaies let ſuch as are poiſoned,orbitten, or ſtungbyamad dog or other venemousbeaſt, keep them- ſelvs in ſom warm and light place, that the poiſon which by coldneſs is forced in, maybee the readilyer drawn outby the means of heat,and the ſpirits beerecreated by the brightneſs of the air, and therefore moov from the center to the circumference of the bodie, and letthe roombee perfumed with ſweet things. to eat verie hot and ſalt things preſently at the be- ginning, as onions, leeks, all ſpiced meats, and ſtrong wine not allaied, ſeem’ not to bee be- fides reaſon; becauſſuch things by their ſpirituous heat hinder the diffuſion of the poiſon over the bodie,and ſtrengthen the filled entrails. therebeeſom alſo that would have them to feed upon groſs and viſcous meats, which by obſtrućting the veſſels, may hinder the paſ- ſage ofthe poiſonto the heart and other parts; and by the ſame reaſon it willbee better to jº. wth meat to ſatietie then otherwiſe;becauſthemalignitie of humors is encreaſ. edby hunger,then which nothing can beenore harmful to venemous wounds. yet within a fhort while after, as within five or fix daies, they muſt return to a mediocritie, and uſe all things temperate, boiled meats rather then roſted,and that in a decodion of opening things, ſo to moovurine. laſtly, they muſt keep ſuch a diet as melancholick perſons ought to †: neither ſhall they let blood, left ſo the poiſon ſhould bee further drawn into the veins; but it is good that the patient's bodiebeeſoluble from the verie firſt. let their drink bee wine indifferently allaied with water, oxymelſimplex, or the ſyrup ofthe juice of citron with boi- led water; or elſthis following julip. r. ſucci limonum, & malorum citrian .ſ. ſºc.gran.acid. - ă. aque acetoſe, min. roſan i.aq.font.coči. auantum ſufficit, fiat julep, ut ariis ei. sleepis to why ſleep is avoided until the force of the poiſon is abated; for by ſleep the humors flow back into . . thebowels. all thingsthat refiſt poiſon muſt beegiven anie waiewhatſoever, as lemons, o-...} - - - - - - og, and ranges, angelica-roots, gentian, tormentil, burnet vervin;cardau beneditius, borºge, bugloſs, iſº: and the like letall things that are afterwards ſet before the patient bee meats of good juice, poiſoned. ſuch as are veal, kid, mutton, partridg, pullets, capons, and the like. chap. xvi. of the biteing of a viperor adder, and the ſymptoms and cure thereof. ºhe remedies that were formerly mentioned againſt the biteings of mad dogs,the a ſame may beeuſed againſt all venemous bites and ſting, yet nevertheleſs each - º [... hath his pecularantidote.vipers or adders(as weevulgarly term them). : ‘. kº have in theirgums, or the ſpaces between their teeth, littlebladders filled with .rs now w rulent. a virulent ſanies, which is preſſed out into the part that they bite with their teeth. thereforthwith ariſeth a pricking pain, the part at the firſt is much ſwollen, and the ſymptoms then theyhole bodie, unleſs it bee hindred : groſs and bloodie filth ſweat's out of the - wound, littlebliſters riſe round aboutit, as if it were burn’t, the wound gnaw's, and as it were feed's upon the fleſh, t inflammation poſſeſſeth the liver and the gums, and the • ? wholebºdie becom's veriedrie, becomming o apale or yelloweiſh color, with thirſt un- quenchable; the bellie is gººd by fits, a cholerick vomiting moleſteth them,the ſtomach is troubled with a hicketting, the patients are taken with often ſwoundings, with cold ſweat, thefore-runner ofdeath; unleſsyouprovide by fit medicines for the hoble parts, *:::: - - tile concerning poiſons, &c. lib. . the poiſon ſhall invade them. matthiolus tell's that heeſaw a countrie-man,who, as hee was an hiſtoric mowing a meadow, by chance cut an adder in two with his fithe,which when hee thought it was dead,hee took the one halfwhereon the head remained,without anie fear in his hand, - but the enraged creature,turning about herhead,cruelly bit him by one of his fingers,which finger, as menuſually do (eſpecially when as they think of no ſuch thing)hee put into his mouth, and ſucked out the blood and poiſon, and preſently fell down dead. when as charl; the ninth was at montpelier, went into the ſhop of one farges an apothe- carie, who then made a ſolemn diſpenſation of treacle, where not ſatisfying myſelf with the looking upon the vipers which were there in a glaſs, readie for the compoſition, thought to take one of them in my hands,but whil'ſt that itoo curiouſly and ſecurely hand- led her teeth which were in her upper jaw, covered with askin, as it were a caſe to keep the poiſon in, the beaſt catched hold of the verie end of my fore-finger, and bitmee in the ſpace which is between the nail and the fleſh; whence preſently there aroſe great pain, j reaſon of the part endued with moſt exquiſite ſenſe, as alſo by the malignitie of the poiſon: forthwith i exceeding ſtraitly bound my finger above the wound,that ſo i might preſs forth the blood and poiſon, leſt they ſhould diffuſe themſelvs further over the bodie. #. old treacle in aquavite, wherein i dipped and moiſtned cotton, and ſo put it to the wound, and within a few daies i throwly recovered by this onely medicine. you may uſe in ſtead of treacle, methridate and ſundrie other things, which by reaſon of their heat are powerful drawers, as a quill roſted in hotembers, garlick and leeks beaten and applied, barlie flowr tempered with vineger, honie, and goats-dung, and ſo applied like apultis. som think it ;. . to . *. É. º: with vineger, ſalt, and a little honie. - ... galen write's that the poiſon inflićt the bite of a viper,may bee drawn forth by applyin lib.de theriac. to the wound the jof a viper, but : applie #. §: viper beaten to º ying an hiſtorie. remedies for the bite of a viper. chap. xvii. of the serpent called hamorrhous. aßhe serpent hemorrbous is ſo called, becauſby biteing hee cauſeth blood to drop the h&mor- ſº out of all the paſſages of the wounded bodie; hee is of a ſmall bodie, of the big- º ſo sº neſs of a viper, with eies burning with a certain fieriebrightneſs,andamoſt beau- ağı tiful skin. the back of him(as avicenwrite's)is ſpotted with manieblack ſpots, - his neck little, and his tail verie ſmall : the part which hee bite's forthwith grow'sblackiſh, by reaſon of the extinúion of ofthe native heat, which is extinguiſhed by füchpoiſon whithis contrariethereto in its whole ſubſtance. then follow's a pain of the ſtomach and heart, theſe parts beeing touched with the peſtiferous qualitie of the poiſon. theſe pains are ſeconded by vomiting, the orifice ofthe ventricle beeng relaxed by a diar- rhea, the retentive facultie of all the parts of the bellie beeing weakned, and the veins which wandafºn are ſpred through the guts, not beeing able to retain the blood contained in them. for the bleedings. blood is ſeen to flow out, as in ſtreams, from the noſe, mouth, ears, fundament, privities, corners of the eies,roots of thenail, andgums, which putrefie,the teeth fallingoutofthem. moreover there happen's adifficultie of breathing, and ſtoppage of theurine, with a deadlie convulſion. r. the cure is forthwith to ſcarifie, and burn the bitten part, or elſto cut it quite off if that it may bee don without danger of life, and then touſe powerfullie drawing antidotes. chap. xviii. of the serpent called seps. rºhe serpent sps is ſo called, becauſit cauſºth the part which it,” forth- #: f º with to putrefie, by reaſon of the cruel malignitie of its poiſon. it is not much deſcription of sº unlike the hemorrhous,but that it curl’s or twine's up the tail in divers circles. the sept. ºf pauſania, write's that this ſerpentis of an aſh-colour, abroad head, ſmall neck, * bigbellie, writhen tail, and as her goes heerun's afidelike a crab. buthis skin is variegated and ſpotted with ſeveral colors,ike to tapiſtrie. by the crueltic offii, cauſtick and liezi, - concerning poiſonºr.) $ --- - and putrefying venom, heeburn's the part which hee hath bit, with moſt bitterpain; hee . ... of the hairs, and . addeth, the wound at the firit caſteth forth ..". manifeſt blood, but within a little while atter, itinking filth the putrelied affected parts ptoms. waxwhite,and the bodie all over becom's of the color of that ſcurf,which is termed alphos, ſo that by the wickedneſs of this putrefative potion, not on-ly the ipirits are reſolved, but alſo the whole bodie conſumed,as by fire,a peitilent carbuncle, and other putrid tumors, a- riſting from a hot and humid or ſuffocateing conſtitution of the air. now for the reme- dies, they muſtbee ſuch as are formerly preſcribed againſt the biteing: of a viper. the figure of the serpent seps. sº º - - sw n º: a sº yº &s §######## - s | % w sn ? ss sf £ sn &m - | ~ - - tºº- -- -- -s - -s --~ i z - =s-se \! x - chap x x. - … ". ...tº ... irºn - ºr --- * * * : * --. ºf º: -i.º. r *:: *, * of the baſilisk or cotkatrice. ". . . . . . . shebafflisk fºr exceeds allkindes of serpints in the curſineſ of its poiſon. there-ri. efficacie a fore it is affirmed by nicander,that into what place ſoever hee com's, other ve-. ºf nemous creatures do forthwith fliethence, for that none of them can ſo much as of ºaſiak, ºf it endure his hiſſing; for hee is thought to kill all things even with this, and not "' - with his biteing and touch onely; beſides, if anie of them haſten to get anie meat or drink, and perceiv that the baſilisk is not far from from thence, he file's back, and negleå's the get; ting of nouriſhment neceſſarie for life. galen write's,that the bañº is a yellowiſh ſerpent, libâtºria. with a ſharp head, and three riſeings diſtinguiſhed with white ſpots, and riſeing up inform . . . of a crown, by reaſon whereof heeis ſtiled the king of serpents: certainly the violence of why the baſi- his poiſoninkilling men is ſo great, thathee is therefore thought to kill men, and other liski, thought creatures by his fightonely. solinus affirm's,that the bodie of a dead baſiliskhath wondrous. º faculties. §. ore the inhabitants of pergamum, in antient times, gave a mightie price for * g * one, to hang upon the joiſts of the temple of apollo, ſo to drive away the spiders and birds, - leſt they ſhould there weav their webs, or the other build their neſts in that ſacred place. ve: rily no ravenous creature will touch their carkaſs; but if conſtrained by hunger they do touch it, then they forthwith fall down dead in the ſame place : and this º: one: ..., . . . ly by eating their É. but alſo by i. of the bodies of ſuch beaſts as are killed by . . . . . their biteings. they kill the trees and ſhrubs by which they paſs, not onely by their touch, ºff. *... but even with their breath. among the weſtern ethiopians is the fountain nigris, near *** * * which there is a ſerpent called catablepu.ſmall in bodie,and ſlow,haveing a greathead; weł the cºura. it ſcarce can carrie, but that it lie's alwaies upon the ground, otherwiſe it would kill abun- dance offeople,for it forthwith kil's all that ſee's the eiesthereof,the baſilisk hath the ſame force; hee is bred in the province of cyrene, of the length of ſom twelv fingers, with a white ſpot in his head, reſembling a crown; hee chaſeth away all ſerpents with his hiſs:weaſels are the deſtrućtion of ſuch monſters: thus it pleaſed nature, that nothing ſhould bee without its equal ; they aſſail them in their º: eaſily known by the barrenneſs or conſum- ... ption of the ſoil. theſe kill them alſo by their ſent, and they die, and the fight of nature nothing in is ended: thus nature to the magnanimous lion, laſt there i. bee nothing which hee nature with- might fear, hath oppoſed the weak creature the cock, by whoſe crowing onelyhee is terri- out its equal. fied and put to flight. eraſſtratus write's,that a golden yellowneſs affeº's the bitten of symptoms. ſuch as are hurt by a bafilisk,butablackneſs and tumor poſſeſſeth the reſt of the .. all the fleſh of the muſcles within a while after falling away peece-meal. an antidote againſt cure. this muſt bee madeofa dram of caſtoreum, diſſolved in wine and drunken, or in the juice of poppie. but aëtius think's it ſuperfluous to write remedies againſt the baſilisk, when as the tight and hearing onely kill's ſuch as either ſee or hear her. ... i -- - - . . . . -- . . .” --- . . . . . . . . . * . . . . . . . . * * ... v . . . - -- ! : ". ºfº, .*. º * - - - - : - , •]...'. the *** * * - - * * ! . * - ‘. . . . -- - - - . . . . t - ------- qi. i* * - ." : .. - - - - - º, i. concerning toiſons, &c. lib. . the figure of a baſilisk: / - - º o w" - ~ - - - - * t -- . . . …----- chap. xx. - - of the salamander. the maligni- he salamanderkill's not onely ſuch as it bite's, by makeing a venemous im- tie of a sala- preſſion, but it alſo infečt's the fruits and herbs over which it creep's, with a mander. ſpittle or groſs moiſture which ſweat's out of all the bodie, to the great dan- - ger of the health and life of ſuch as eat theſe things at unawares: wherefore it ºf ſº need not ſeem ſtrange, which is received by ſom ſate writers, that ſom fami- * ... lies have all died by drinking water out of the pits, whereinto a salamanderby accident was the temperof fallen. for if it ſhallcreep upon a tree, it . all the fruit with the qualities of cold her. and moiſt poiſon, wherein it yield's not to aconite. étius write's, that ſuch as are infeºted with the poiſon of a salamander, certain jº of ... ... their bodie grow livid, ſo that they fall away often, beeing putrefied. at the firſt there ap- symptoms. pear white ſpots over the bodie, then red, afterwards j with putrefaātion, and the fal- the cure, ling away of the hairs. the cure is, to procure vomit, to looſthe bellie with a glyſter, and to give them treacle and mithridate in potions. avicen preſcribe's the ſame things againſt this kinde of poiſon as againſt opium, by reaſon of the cold nature of them both; the pro- . . . . . . per antidote is turpentine, ſtyrax, nettle-ſeeds, and cypreſs-leavs. dioſcorides write's, that the ** . salamander is a kinde of lizard, dull, variegated, and which is falſly reputed not to bee burnt by fire. but plinie ſaith ſhee is ſo cold, that ſhee extinguiſheth the fireby her touch onely, beeing laied upon hot coals. on the contrarie, matthiolus faith, that caſt into a great flame, they are quickly conſumed. it is eaſie out of aëtius to reconcile theſe diſagree- how a sala- ingopinions. this creature, ſaith hee, paſſeth through a burning flame, and is not hurt, mander may the flame divideing it ſelf, and giveing her way, but if ſhee continue anie time in the fire, *ſaid to... the cold humorbeeing conſumed in her, ſhee is burnt. now the salamander is black, va- ****riegated, with yellow ſpots, far-faſhion. ...tº c --wºº - the figure of a salamander. ; : * * … \ –- lº º), m . ºn), - o o . *q a o xssss sº oc. ºoº-º-º- ºr ſ ºº:: *. zºſ \º: *… *_ s Ş) o chap. xxi. of the torpedo. - he torpedo hath his name from the effett, by reaſon that by his touch and power the the craft of members becom torpidand numb; in muddie ſhoars it live's upon fiſh, which ſhee catch- the torpeds, eth by craft. for lying in the mud,ſheeſo ſtupefie's thoſe that are nigh her, that ſhee eaſily his ſtupefying pºpon them; ſhee hath the ſame power over men, for ſhe #. a numneſs not onely force. into the arm of the fiſher-man,but alſo over all his bodie, although his fiſhers pole bee be- tween them. the liezi. concerning poiſons, &c. $ the effigies of a torpedo. v\lſº * w chap. xxii. of the biteings of aſps. ºil he wound which is made by an aſp is verie ſmall, as if a needle were thruſt into § the part, and without anieſwelling. theſe ſymptoms follow upon her bitesſud- symptoms. iden darkneſs cloud's their eies, much agitation in all their bodies, but gentle * . notwithſtanding;a moderate pain of the ſtomach trouble's them,their fore-heads * - are continually troubled with convulſive twitchings, their checks tremble, and . . theireie-lids fall gently to reſtand ſleep; the blood which flow's from the wound is little, but blacks death no longer deferred then the third part of a daie, will take them away by convulſions, unleſs you make reſiſtence with fitting remedies. the male-aſp make's two wounds, the female four, as it alſo happen's in the biteings of vipers. now for that that the curcing. poiſon of aſps congeal's the blood in the veins and arteries, therefore you muſt uſe againſt itſuch things as are hot and ſubtil of parts, as mithridate or treacle diſſolved in aquavite, and the ſame powred into the wound; the patient muſt bee warmed by baths, frićtions, walking, and the like. when as the hurt part becommeth purple, black or green, it is a ſign that the native heat is extinë and ſuffocated by the malignitie of the venom.therefore then it is beſt to amputate themember, if the partie beeable to endure its and there beenothing which may hinder. vigo write's, that hee ſaw a-mountebank at florence, who, that hee an hiſtories might ſell the more of his antidotes, and at the better rate; let an aſp to bite him by the - finger, but hee died thereof ſom four hours after. to the ſame purpoſe you may read mat-bywhatmeans thiolus,whereas hee write's that thoſe impoſtors or mountebanks to cozen the better,and de-aſps mayhee ceiv the people, uſe to hunt and take vipers and aſps long after the ſpring, that is,then when-ºdºleſ hurt" as they have caſt forth their moſt j poiſon;then they fººd them wºmeatsformerlyun-jaº anº. uſual to them, ſo that by longkeeping and care, at the length they bring it to paſt,that they jº" put off a great of their venemous nature;neitherbeeing thus ſatisfied,they make them often- - times to bite upon peects offleſh, that ſo they may caſt forth into them the venom which is contained in the membrane between their teeth and gums, laſtly, they force them to bite, lick and ſwallow downan aſtringent medicine, which they compoſe and carrie about for the ſame purpoſe,that ſo they may obſtruſt the paſſages by web the venom uſed to flow out, for thus as length their bites willbee harmleſs, or without great danger. this thereforeis their art, that ſo they may ſell their counterfeit treacle to the people at a high rate, as that which is a moſt ſafe remedie againſt all poiſonous bites, chriſtopher andrew in his book cal-againſt the led oicoiatria,write's that the iſlands of spain are everie where full and ſtor'd with ſerpents, ºf whº aſps, and all ſorts of venemous beaſts, againſt whoſe bites they never obſerved or found anie . benefit in treacle. but the efficacie of the following antidote isſo certainandexcellent,and “"“” approoved by ſo manifold experience,that in the confidence thereof they will notbreaffraid to let themſelvsbee bitten by an aſp, nowthis medicine is compoſed of the leavs of mullet, acertain re- avenes and red-ſtock-gilliflowrs in like quantitie, which they boil in ſharp vineger and the medie againſt urine of a ſound man, and therewith foment the wounded part. yet if hee have not taken the bitting of noruſed anie thing of a good while after the wound, it will bee better and more certian, if * the patient drink three ounces of this decoètion faſting two hours before meat. - - . . . ' — t- —r t chap. xxiii. of the bitting of a snake. have thought good in a true hiſtorie to deliver the virulent malignitieof the bite of a an hiſtorie. snake,& the remedies thereof.whenas kingclarly the ninth was at www.” lº eurt, o concerning poiſons, &c. lib. . the cure. the bites of toadshow harmful. an hiſtorie. . occaſioned by the poiſon of toads. fcure the king's phyſician,& i were called to cur: the cook of the ladie of caſtelpers.who gathering hops in a hedg to make a ſallet was bit on the handby a ſnake that there lay hid, hee putting his hand to his mouth, ſucked the wound to eaſ the pain by ſucking forth the venom. but his tongue forthwith ſwelled ſo big,that hee could not ſpeak his minde:beſides, his whole arm, even to his ſhoulder, was in like ſort much ſwelled, his pain was ſo vehe- ment, that it made him ſwoun twice in my preſente, his face was wan and livid like to a dead bodie; and though i deſpaired of his recoverie, yet not ſuffering him to beequite forſaken, i waſhed his mouth with treacle diſſolved in white wine,and gave him ſom thereof to drink, adding thereto ſomaquavite. i opened his ſwolnarm with manie and deep ſcarifications, e- ſpecially in the place where hee was hurt, iſuffered the blood which was wholly ſerous and ſanious, to flow more plentifully, i waſhed the wovnds with treacle and mithridate diſſol- yed in aqua vite, and then i put him exceeding warm in bed, procureing ſweat, and makeing him to lie awake, leſt ſleep ſhould draw the poiſon inwards to the entrails. i by theſe means ſo far prevailed, that on the day after hee was free'd from all his malign ſymptoms. there- fore ijudged, it onely remained for a perfect cure, that the wound ſhould bee long kept open and waſhed with treacle; neither was i deceived, for within a few daies hee was perfectly recovered. - chap. xxiv. *of the biteings of toads. ... ough toads want teeth, yet with their hard and rough gums they ſo ſtraitly a preſs or pinch the part which they ſhall takeholdon, that they will force their poiſon thereinto, and ſo over the wholebodie by the pores of the preſſed part. moreover they caſt forth their venom by urine, ſpittle and vomit upon herbs, but chiefly upon strawberries,the which they are reported greatly to affett hence manie ſuddenly and ignorantly catch their deaths. º * - i heard from a man of verie good credit, that there were two merchants not far from the citie tbolous, who whileſt dinner was provideing, walked into the garden that belonged to the inn, where they gathered ſom ſage leavs, and unwaſhed as they were put them into their wine. they had not as yet dined, when beeing taken with a ſudden vertigo, the whole inn h the º: ſeemed to run round, then loſing their fight, they fell into a ſwound, intermixed now and l then with convulſions. but they ſtammered with their lips and tongues becomming black; a froward and horrid look, with continual vomiting, and a cold ſweat, the fore-runner of death, which preſently ſeazed . them,theirbodies becomming exceedingly much ſwoln. but the juſtices of the place ſuſpe&ing that they were poiſoned, made the ſm-keeper and the gueſts to bee apprehended, beeeing examined they all conſtantly and with one voice an- ſwered, that the deadparties ate of the ſame meat and drink which the reſt did, but onely that they put ſage into their wine. a phyſician was asked the queſtion whether ſage might bee poiſoned; hee anſwered, it might : but to com to the purpoſe, it muſt appear may-frogs. . the cure, whether anie venemous creature hath poiſoned the plant with her ſpittle or venemous ſanies. this which was lightly pronounced,andonely by conjećture, was by the eie found to bee true.for at the root thereofthere was found a hole in the ground full of toads,who got out by putting in of warmwater, made it credible that the plant was poiſoned by their ſpittle and urine,whereby you may underſtand how unwiſely they do,who devour herbs and fruits newly gathered without waſhing. alſo wee muſt take heedleſt falling aſleep in the fields, wee lie not near the holes which toads or other venemous beaſts of the ſame nature have made their habitation. for thence avenemous or deadlie air may bee drawn into the lungs. for the ſame cauſwee muſt abſtain from eating of frogs in the month of may, becauſthen they engender with toads. oxen in feeding ſomtimes lick up ſmall toads together with the graſs, which preſently will breed their great harm, for thereupon the oxen ſwell ſo big,that they often burſt withall. neither is theyenom of toads deadly onely beeing taken inwardly, but even ſprinkled upon the skin, unleſs they forthwith wipe the place, and waſh it with u- rine, water and ſalt. such as are poiſoned by a toad turn yellow,ſwell over all theirbodies, are taken with an aſthmatick difficultie of breathing, a vertigo, convulſion, ſwounding,and laſtly by death it ſelf. theſe ſo horrid ſymptoms are judged inherent in the poiſon of toads, notonely by reaſon of the elementarie qualities thereof, coldneſs and moiſture, which are chiefly predominant therein; but much rather by the occult propertie which is apt to pu- trefie the humors of that bodie whereto it ſhall happen. therefore it will bee convenient toprocure vomit, eſpecially if the poiſon bee taken by the mouth, to give gliſters, and to weaken the ſtrength of the poiſon by hot and attenuateing antidotes, as treacle and me- thridate diſſolved in goodwine; but in concluſion to digeſt it by bathes, ſtoves, and much and greatexerciſe. rondeletin, in his book de piſtibus, affirm's the ſame things of the curſed venom of toads, as wee have formerly delivered: yet that they ſeldom bite, but that they caſt forth either their urine, the which they gather in a great quantitie in a large bladder, † t lib. i. concerning poiſons, &c. .É. elſ their venemous ſpittle or breath againſt ſuch as they meet withall, or aſſail; beſides, the herbs which are tainted by their poiſonous breath, but much more ſuch as are ſprinkled - with their ſpittle or urine, are ſufficient to kill ſuch as eat them, the antidotes are juice antidotes i. of betonie, plantane, mugwurt, as alſo the blood of tortoiſes made with flowerinto #.”. pills, and forthwith diſſolved in wine, and drunken. plinie write's , that the hearts and * #leens of toads reſiſt poiſon. the vulgar opinion is falſ, who think that the toad-ſtone is found in their heads, which is good againſt poiſon. - ºr -, * - - - - : - . . . . - " -- — -—-tº- t - - * - - - * - - - ! . . . . . . : , , , , , ; ; fl. . ", chap. xxv. " .. ". . of the ſinging ºf a scorpion.” qºş scorpion is a ſmall creature with a round bodie inform of an egg with mani: theºripi. §§ i. a i. conſiſting of manie ; laſt wher. †: and :* scor- # a little longer then the reſt, at the verie end thereofis a ſing inſom two hol-f: tail. " §§ low and replete with cold poiſon,the which by the ſting it caſt's into the ob- • *- : - *vious bodić; it hath five legs on each ſide forked with ſtrong claws, not unlike to a crabor lobſter, but the two foremoſt are bigger then the reſt; they are of a blackiſh or ſootie color, they go aſide, aſide; and oftimes . en themſelvs with their mouths and feet ſo faſt to men, that they can ſcarce bee plucked there-hence.there bee ſom who have wings winged scor: like the wings of locuſts, waſteing the corn, and all green things with their biteing and pions. - burning. such are unknown in france. theſe flie divers countries, like winged ants. this is likely to beetrue by that which matthiolus write's, that the husband-men in caſtile in spain, in digging the earth oftimes finde a ſwarm of scorpions,which betake themſelvsthi- ther againſt winter, plinie write's, that scorpions laid waſte a certain part of Æthiopia, by chaſeing away the inhabitants.the antients made divers kindes of scorpions,according to their varietie or difference of colors, ſom beeing yellow, others brown, reddiſh,aſh-colored, green,whitiſh, black, duskie; ſom have wings,and ſom are without. they are more or leſs deadlie, according to the countries they inhabit. in tuſcanie and scithia they are abſolute- ly deadlie, but at trent,and in the iland pharos their ſtinging is harmleſs. the place ſtung symptoms: by a scorpion preſently begin's to bee inflamed, it waxeth red, grow's hard, and ſwell's,and the patient is again pained, hee is one while hot, another while cold, labor preſently wea- rie's him, and his pain is ſom-whiles more, and ſom-whiles leſs, hee ſweat's and ſhake's as if hee had an ague, his hair ſtand's upright, paleneſs diſcolor's his members, and hee feel's a pain, as if hee were pricked with needles over all his skin, windeflieth out backwards, hee itrive's to vomit and go to ſtool, but doth nothing; hee is moleſted with a continual fever and ſwounding, which at length proov's deadlie, unleſs it bee remedied. dioſcorides writes, rit.,£ . o. that a scorpion beaten and laid to the place where hee is ſtung,is a remediethereto; as alſo gº. eaten roſted to the ſame purpoſe. it is an uſuall, but certain remedie to annoint the ſtung place with the oil of scorpions. there beeſom who drop into the wound the milkie juice of figs; others applie calamint beaten, other-ſom uſe barlie-meal mixed with a decočtion of rue. snails beaten together with their ſhells, and laid thereon, preſently aſſwage pain. sulphur vivum mixed with turpentine, and applied plaſter-wiſe, is good; as alſo the leavs, of kuebeaten, and laid thereto. in like ſort alſo the herb scorpioides, which thence took its name, is convenient, as alſo a bryonie-root boiled and mixed with a litile ſulphur and old - oil. dioſcorides affirm's, agarick in powder, or taken in wine to bee an antidote againſt lib+c+... poiſons, verily it is exceeding good againſt the ſtingings or biteings of ſerpents. yet the ‘’’. continual uſe of a bath ſtand's in ſtead of all theſe, as alſo ſweat, and drinking wine ſom- whatallai'd. now scorpions may bee chaſed away by a fumigation of sulphur and galba-scorpionscha- num; alſo oil of scorpions dropped into their j hinder's their comming forth. juice ºf * ~ * of addiſh doth the ſame. for they will never touch onethat is beſmeared with the juice of . radiſh orgarlick, yeaverily, they will not dare to commear him. radiſh. chap. xxvi. of the ſtinging of bees, waſps, &c. º ees, waſps, hornets and ſuch like, cauſgreat pain in the skin wounded by § § their flinging, by reaſon of the curſineſs of the venom which they ſend into the º ;|bodie by the wound, yet are they ſeldom deadlie, but yet if they ſet upon a man pºlby multitudes, they may com to kill him. for thus they haveſ&mtimes been the death of horſes. wherefore becauſſuch as are ſtung by theſe, by reaſon of the crueltie of pain, may think they arewounded by a more virulent and deadliecreature, i think it not amiſºtofººdown what fignes follow upon their ſtingings. great pain preſently ariſeth, symptoms. which continueth untill the ſting left in the partistaken forth, the part becom's red and ſwoln, and thereriſeth a puſh or little bliſter. tºº is, forthwithto ſuck the wound the cure; y verie . concerning poiſons, &c. lºzi. - verie hard, and thereby to draw forth the ſtings, which if they cannot thus bee gotten out, the place, ifnothing hinder, is to beecut, or elſtemper aſhes with leven or oil, and ſoap- - " " ' ' plie them : the part alſo may bee verie conveniently put into hot water, and there fomen- ºr ted for an houres ſpace, and at length waſhed in ſea-water. creſſes beaten and applied, aſ, - ſwage the pain and diſcuſs the humor cauſing the tumor. ox-dung macerated in oil and vineger, and applied hot, doth the ſame. there are ſom who applie to the part the ſame creatures beaten, as wee formerly ſaid of scorpions ; beans chawed and laid to the part aſ- ſwage pain. w. honie and ſalt applied exceeding hot, are good, if beſides, you dip a cloth therein, and lay it upon the place; ſulphur vivum tempered with ſpittle hath the ſame effect. the milkie juice of unripe #. incorporated with honie, is judged verie effečtual,but it is much the better, mixed with treacle.waſps will not ſting norbite ſuch as annoint their bodies with the juice of mallowsmixed with oil. they may bee quickly chaſed away with the fume of brimſtone and ſuch likethings. a waſp is ſaid, if ſheefinde à viper dead, to dip . . . her ſting in the others poiſon, and thence men learned to empoiſon the heads oftheir ar- **biº ºf rows. the rough and hairieworms, which are commonly called bear-worms, eſpecially ****, thoſe which breed about a pine-free, cauſ great itching, redneſs and ſwelling in the part which they bite, touch or grate upon verie hard. a remedie hereof is onions É. with vineger, and thereſt ofthe thingsformerly mentioned. - . - chap. xxvii. ºf of the bite of a spider. - ſº piders weavywebs with various art, yet in theſe they alwaies make a lurking- ſº hole, ſo to lie in wait to catch the intrapped flies, and ſo to prey upon them. nº|| there are manie ſorts of spiders; one is termed rhagium, round, and like a 'º black-berrie, whence it taketh the name; it hath a verie ſmall mouth under the mid'ſt of the bellie, and moſt ſhort feet, as if they were imperfeół, her bite is as painful as the ſting of a scorpion. another is called lupus, or the wolf-spider, becauſſhee doth not onely lie in wait to catch flies, but alſo bees and waſps, and all ſuch things as may flee into her web. the third is named myrmecion, it is larger then an ant, but headed like one, the bodie thereof is black, and hath white ſpots or ſtreaks running towards the back. the fourth kinde maybee called veffarium, in other things reſembling a waſp, but that it want's the wings; of a reddiſh color, and liveing onely on herbs. the antients have thought their biteings to bee venemous. now their poiſon is therefore thought to bee cold, becauſthe ſymptoms thence ariſting are winde in the bellie, refrigerations of the ex- - treme parts of the bodie, numneſs in the bitten part, with ſºnſ of cold and ſhakcing. the wound muſt forthwith bee waſhed with verie hotvineger; then muſt you lay thereto oni- ons, and ſuch like things beaten, then procure ſweatby art, as by baths and ſtoves, yet no- thing is more effe&ual then treacle and mithridate. ifferences of piders, º- chap. xxviii. of cantharides and bupreſtes. - the deſcripti- antharides ſhine as it were with a golden color, acceptable to the eie, by reaſon of the º § commixture of a blewiſh or greeniſh color therewith yet their ſmell is ungrateful. , , they are hot and drie in the fourth degree, and ſo cauſtick, corrofive and venemous, - not onely by reaſon of their cauſtick qualitie, but becauſof a ſecret antipathie which they enemiºło naturally have againſt the urinarie parts; which effečts they produce not onely if they bee ; bladder, taken by the mouth into the bodie,but even applied outwardly to raiſ bliſters. such as have * taken them inwardly,have the taſte of pitch,or ſom thing like cedria, ortheroſin of cedars in their mouths; it is likely that this taſte proceed's from the humors diſſolved by the pu- tredinous heat in the ſtomach, guts & liver,and the vapors that there-hence ariſe; #. #. inwardly,they gnaw,exulcerate and burn all parts from the mouth evento the bellie,whence enſueth a bloodie-flux, excrements flowing out, which reſemble the waſhings of new-killed fleſh. then follow's a burning fever, vertigo, madneſs, reſtleſneſs,the brain beeing diſturbed by the plentie of vapors lifted up from the corroded and burnt parts and humors, which therefore when as they appear, you may know the affect is uncureable. in the parts ap- pointed for the receiving and conveiance of the urine they cauſa burning inflammation, excoriation, ſtrong and continual erection of the yard, whence enſues a bloodie and painful ſtrangurie, in ſtead of which there oftimes happen's or ſucceed's an iſchurie, or floppage of the water, whence a gangrene and mortification of the part, and ſo in concluſion of the whole bodie beſides. when as cantharides are taken inwardly, the re- medie is vomiting drinking of cows-milk to corre& the heat and drineſs, good alſo to mi- tigate the ulcers, and ſtay the dyſenterie; it is good alſo to inječ it into the guts by glyſler. n - . º - - ---------- *w- lib. . concerning poiſons, &c., *. in ſtead thereof ſallet-oil, or oil of ſweet almond's is convenient to retund the acrimonie of t the poiſon faſtned to the fides of the ſtomach. the reſt and whole cureof this poiſon you ... -- may learn by the following hiſtorie. a certain whore,the better to enjoy the companie of . a young abbot who loved her, entertained him with abanquet, and ſprinkled divers of a hiſtorie. their cates with the powder of cantharides,to incite him the more to venerie. the next day, , - - - when as the abbot caſt forth pure blood at his fundament and yard which ſtood verie #. * - ---- hee called ſom phyſicians, who preſently by the fore-mentioned ſymptoms,which were all verie apparent in him, underſtood that hee had cantharides given him: wherefore they the cure. purged him upwards with vomits, and downwards by glyſters made with french-barlie, * \ rice, a decoètion of mallowes, ſeeds of line and fenugreek, oil of lillies, goats-ſuet: then preſently after they gave him a little treacle with a good quantitie of conſerv's of violets, which might draw the poiſon outwards, they gave him milk to drink, and cauſed him to to uſe injećtions into the urinarie paſſage and guts made ofrefrigerateing things,as the juice oflettuce, purſlaine, cucumbers, gourds, melons; oftough and viſcid things, that ſo they might ſtick the more eaſily and longer to the ulcerated parts,as the mucilages of pſilium, , mallows, quince-ſeeds, ſyrup of water-lillies, poppies and violets, freſh butter, and oil - of ſweet almonds, and they made him drink-onely barlie-water, or the common ptiſan ; they let him feed on veal, kid, and pork boiled with lettuce, purſlaine, barly and violet leaves, the which by their humiditie might relax the bellie, and by their toughneſs lenifie the roughneſs of aſperitie; they applied alſo refrigerateing things to the loines, ſhare and perineum to aſſwage the heat of theurine. at length they put him into a warm bath, and to * conclude, they left nothing unattempted to draw forth or weaken the poiſon. but all their . endeavors were in vain, for the abbot died, not beeing deſtitute of remedies conveniently preſcribed, but overcom by the contumacious malignitie of the poiſon. the phyſicians ahiſtorie. pains had far better ſucceſs in a certain gentlewoman againſt this kinde of affečt; her * wholeface was deformed with red, fierie and filthie puſtles, ſo that all ſhunned her compa- , , nie as if ſhee had been troubled with a leproſe, and, were readie to forbid her the ſocietie of men; ſhee came to paris, and calling hollerius and grealmus phyſicians, mee and caballus beeing surgeons, ſhee made agrievous complaint, and befought is earheſtly for ſomreme- dieagainſt ſo greata deformitie of her face; having diligently conſidered her caſe, weepro- nounced her freefrom a leproſe; but weejudged it fit to applie to her whole face avefica- torie of cantharides,three or four houres after the application whereof the medicines beeing cambria, ap- com to work its effect, her bladderbegan to burn exceedingly, and the neck of her womb plºt. toſwell, with gripings, continual vomiting, making of water and ſcowring, a troubleſom head, ulcerate agitation of the bodie and members, a burning and abſolutely fierie fever. forthwith the bladder. called the phyſicians, it was decreed that ſhee ſhould drink wine plentifully, and that it ſhouldbee injećted by the fundament into the guts, and by the urinarie paſſage into the bladder and the neck of the womb, and that ſhee ſhould keep her ſelf, untill the pain were mitigated, in a warm bath made of the decodion of line-ſeeds, the roots and leaves of mal- lowes, marſh-mallowes, violets, henbane, purſlain and lettuce; and her loines and geni- tals ſhould bee anointed with unguentum roſatum and populeon ſtirred and incorporated with oxycrate. by theſe means, all the ſymptoms were mitigated. her face in the interim roſe aremedie a- all in abliſter, and much purulent matter came out thereof, and ſo the deformitie, where-gaºl-prº with ſhee was formerly troubled, vaniſhed away for ever, ſo that within a while after ſhee puſtles. was married, and had manie children, and is yet living in perfett health, bupreſter alſo are of the kiride of cantharides, beeing like unto them in ſhape and facultie. if an ox or ſheep or anie other creature ſhall in feeding devour one of them, hee will pº the reaſon of ‘ently ſwellup like a tung whence alſo they take their name: ifamantake them inward-º. .." - ly;he ſhallendurethe like ſymptoms as in takeing cantharides, and over and befides both his” ſtomach and his whole bellieſhalſ bee j puffed up, asifhº had a dropſe. it is probable that this inflation likea º: happeneth by humors diffuſed and reſolved “” into vapors by the fierie acrimonie of the venom: they are to bee cured after the ſame . . . º manner as ſuch as have drunk cantharides, laſtly, as in aliother poiſons which are taken . º into the bodie, ſo alſo here, if the poiſon taken § the mouthbee thought as yet to bee in the ſtomach, you muſt then procurevomit. if it bee gotten into the guts, then muſt it bee drawn away by glyſters; if diffuſed over all the bodie, then muſtyou make uſe of ſuch • * * things as may drive the poiſon forth from the center to the circumference, ſuch as are *** : baths and ſtoves. " . . . . . . . , , , º, º ºr otºi º". . . . . . . . . . . . tº fºr 'i º ºr in º to ſº...tº a tº dº ºr . . . " , ' , ", , -º-h-. tº tº chap, xxix. ºn ºf ºs ºn tº ſº ºf º * * * * * * * * : *.*.*.*, *, *, * vºtiºn s - , -- * * * .*.*, " - ºf hºfkº-ji' ſ : . . wº. iorfleeches arealſovenemous eſpecially ſuch as live in muddie ſtinkin ide for leeches moſt h: are left hurtful which reſºnica and pure waters. wherefore, §: th; ...: y . to **** º ** - º . concerning poiſons, &c. lisa. z - to beeuſed in caſes of phyſick,they muſt bee kept for ſom daies ſpace in clean water, that ſo they may purge themſelvs; otherwiſe they may chance to leavulcers hard to cure in the places whereto they ſhallbee applied, and the rather, if theybee violently plucked off, be- - cauſthey by that means leav their teeth faſtned in the part. nowheewhich by chance hath divers reme- ſwallowed a horſleech, muſt bee asked in what parthee feeleth her, that is, the ſenſ of her dies according ſucking. for if ſhee ſtick in the top of the throator gullet, or in the midd'ſt thereof, the to º * part ſhall bee often waſhed with muſard diffolved in vineger. if ſhee beenear the orifice of .* the ventricle.itisfit that the patient by little and little fºllow downcil withalidewine. parts. ger. but if ſhee faſten to the ſtomach, or the bottom of the ventricle, the patient,by the plucking of the part, ſhall perceiva certain ſenſofſucking, the patient will ſpitblood, and will for fear becom melancholick. to force her thence, É. ſhall drink warm water with oil; but if ſhee cannot ſo bee looſed, then ſhall you mix aloës therewith, or ſom thingen- dued with the like bitterneſs,for ſhee will by that means leav her hold, and ſo bee caſt forth by vomit. you may perceiv this by ſuch as are applied to the skin, on the external parts, for by the aſperſion of bitter things,whether they beefull or emptie, they will forſake their hold. then ſhall the patient take aſtringent things, which may ſtop the blood flowing forth of the bitten part, ſuch is conſerv of roſes, with terra ſigilata, bole-armenick, and other more afiringent things, if need ſo require. for if they ſhall adhere to ſom greater branch ofſom vein or arterie, it willbee more difficult to ſtop the flowingblood. but for that not the earth onely, but the ſea alſo produceth venemous creatures, wee will in like ſort treat of them, as wee have alreadie j. of the other, beginning with the lampron. - chap. xxx. of the lampron. jºr- ºhe lampron, called in latine murena, is a ſea-fiſh ſomthing in ſhape reſembling ºù a lamprie, but ſhee is bigger and thicker, and hath a larger mouth, with teeth ºfºº long, ſharp and bending inwards, ſhee is of a duskie color, diſtinguiſhed with sº whitiſh ſpots, and ſom two cubits length; the antients had them in great eſteem, becauſthey yield goodnouriſhment,and may bee kept long alive, in pools or ponds, and ſo taken as the owners pleaſto ſerv their table, as it is ſufficiently known by the hiſto- , rie of the roman craſu. shee by her biteing induceth the ſame ſymptoms as the viper,and *: .. . it may bee helped by the ſame means. verily the lampron hath ſuch familiaritic with the $º. viper, that leaving her natural element the ſea, ſhee leapeth aſhoar, and ſeeketh out the wi- inivir.” per inherden to join with her in copulation, as it is writtenby Ælian and nicander. lampron. chap. xxxi. of the draco-marinus, or ſea-dragon, , , : he ſea-dragon, called by the french viva, for his vivacitie (andby the engliſh & a viver, or as ſom ſay, a gua-viver) becauſbeeing taken in fiſhing, and drawn º out of the ſea, ſhee is ſaid long to ſurvive. her pricks are poiſonous,but chiefly § thoſe that are at the edges of her gils. which is the reaſon that cooks cut off *** their heads before they ſerv them up to the table; and at roven the fiſher-men lay them not upon their ſtalls to ſell before they have cut off their heads. the wounded symptoms, part of ſuch as are hurt, pain's them much with inflammation, a fever, ſwounding, gan- grene and deadlie mortification, unleſs it bee quickly withſtood. not verie long ago the an hiſtorie, wife of monſieur fromaget,secretarie of the requeſts, was wounded with a prick of this fiſhin her middle-finger, there followed a ſwelling and redneſs of the part, without much pain; but perceiving the ſwelling to encreaſ, beeing made more warie by the miſchance of her neighbor the wife of monſieur bargelonne, lievtenant particular in the chaffelet of paris, who died not long before by the like accident beeing negle ed; ſent for mee; i under- ſtanding the cauſof her diſeaſ, laid to her pained finger and her whole hand, beſidesa pul- tismade of a great onion roſted under the coles, leaven, and a little treaclei. the next day i wiſhed her to dipher whole hand into warm water, ſo to draw forth the poiſon, then i di. vided the skin about it with much ſcarification, but onely ſuperficiarily; to the gaſhes iap- plied leeches, which by ſucking drawing a ſufficient quantitie oſblood, i put thereto trea- cle diſſolved in aqua vile. the next day the ſwelling was aſſwaged, and the pain eaſed, and the cute, within a few daies ſhee was perfe&ly well. dioſcorides write's, that this fiſh divided in the a midſt, and applied to the wound, will cure it.” " * y *, * - . . . º, ... ºf º' -- ~ - - k . . . . . . . . . º. chap. . . . - - - - - - - liszt. - concerning toiſons &pc. - chap. xxxii. . of the paſtinaca marina, or sting-ray, which ſm call the fierce-claw. - |uch as are ſtung by a sting-ray (as aëtius hath written) the place of the wound the ſym- sº doth manifeſtly appear; there enſue's thereon laſting pain and the numneſs of p* º the whole bodie. and ſeeing that it hath a ſharp and firm ſting, whereby the ºsº nervs by the deepneſs of the ſtroke may bee wounded, it ſo happen's that ſom die forthwith, their whole bodies ſuffering convulſions. moreover, it will kill even the ve- . rie trees into whoſe roots it is faſtned. yet plinie affirm's,that it is good againſt the pain of tºº.” the teeth, if the gums bee ſcarified therewith, yea, and it beeing made into powder with white hellebore, or of itſelf, will cauſteeth to fall out without anie pain, or anie violence offered to them. this fiſh is good meat, the head and tail excepted; ſom of them have two ſtings, other-ſom but one; theſe ſtings are ſharp like a ſaw with the teeth turned towards their heads. oppianus write's, that their ſtings are more poiſonous then the perſian's ar- the virulencie rows, for the force of the poiſon remaineth, the fiſhbeeing dead, which will kill notonely of her fling. living creatures, but plants alſo. fiſher-men, when they catch this fiſh, preſently ſpoil him of his ſting, leſt they ſhould bee hurt therewith. but if by chance they bee hurt therewith, then take they forth his liver, and lay it to the wound; furthermore, the fiſh beeingburnt and made into powder, is the true antidote of his wound. the sting-ray live's in muddie places near the ſhaar, upon the fiſhes that hee hunteth and cattheth with his *:: , haveing ** - i. . . . . . . . . ºil. … . -- the teeth thereof turned towards his head for the ſame purpoſe, hee is not u a ray, and i have here given you his figure. - - the figure of a sting-ray. \ sº n sºs n \ \ § º n - *sn w º *wwnº. rzzº. \ ...')" >u >)\º . º n --~~~~ w n ºzz www. º º zz x) \ w ººzzº zzzazz - º º / - tº ns ”; whº º \ - m % mnn sº chap. xxxiii. of the lepus marinus, or sea-bare. linie call's the sea-hare, a maſs or deformed piece offleſh. galen ſaith it is like the lºſºpsi- ); a snail taken forth ofthe ſhell. it is exceedingly poiſonous in the judgment. of the sea- # of the antients; wherefore it is notamiſs to ſet down the deſcription of it, “ * left wee might eat it at unawares, too earneſtly view it, or ſinell thereto,asal- º §§ ſo that wee may uſe it againſt the poiſon thereof; it is an inhabitant not - onely of the ſea, but alſo of lakes of ſea-water, eſpecially ſuch as are muddie; it is of the ſame coloras the hair of the land-hare is,it hath a hole in the head,out of which hee putteth h ſt a certain piece offleſh,andpuck it back again when as heisſºn. paulu, aetiu. plini, i. galen and nicander are of one opinion, and agree in this, that ifa woman big with childe ji' do too earneſtly look upon one, ſhee will vomit,and preſently after abort.they which have cauſabortion. drunk thisi. dioſcorides, are troubled with pain in the bellie, and their urine is ---- - - - ſtopped. if they do make water, then is it bloodie; they run down with ſtinking ſweat, which ſmell's of fiſh ſa cholerick vomiting ſomtimes mixed with bloodenſues thereon. the ſ atiu, write's, that all their bodies turn yellow, their faces ſwell, and their feet, but ..." chiefly their genital member, which is the cauſthey cannot make water freely. glenwrites, ..." . . that it is the propertie of the sea-hare to exulcerate the lungs. their antidote is aſſº's-milk. the antidote muskadine, or honied-wine continually drunken, or a deco&ion of the roots and leavs of * yy mallows. º i -- concerning toiſons, «»c. linzi. mallows. it is good for the falling away ofthehair. ihave here given youthe figurethere- of out of rondeletius his book of fiſhes. the figure of a sea-hare, * * … "… wº sº \ w | * * *. º!. | Ž %; * | - * * º |[ºſſ ns : |--|-- (ſ º s$* º - * wny >\sºft. “. -- : . \\ §: % q º *% º: nssrnº. - ſ - - - n - n as sº % - ‘. ss s; (« - . // , , ", , , , * " ** chap. xxxiv. . . , - of the poiſon of cats. - > < \ot onely the brain of a cat, beeing eaten, is poiſonous and deadlie to man nº|s. but alſo their hair, their breath, yeaznd their verie preſence to ſom prooy açaº's hair deadlie for although anie hair devoured unawares,may beeenoughtochoak . jećt one,by ſtopping the inſtruments of reſpiration, yet the hairs of a catby a certain occult propertie, are judged moſt da us in this caſe: befides alſo, their breath is infected with acertain hurtful malignitie.for matthiolus ſaith, that heeknew ſom, whobeeing ſo delighted with cats, that they could never go to bed tº breath of without them, have by ſo often drawing in the air with their breath, fallen into a con- i. * ſumption of the lungs, which occaſioned their death. moreover,it is manifeſt that the verie i. ** fight of their cies is hurtful, which appear's by this, that ſombut ſeeing or hearing them, preſently fall down in a ſwound; yet i would not judg that to jº. by the malicious vi- rulencie of the cat,but alſo by the peculiar nature of the partie,and a qualitiegenerated with anhiſtorie, him, and ſent from heaven. when as, ſaith matthiolus, a certain germane in winter-time, came with us into a ſtove to ſupper, whereas were divers of our acquaintance, a certain wo– man,knowing this man's nature, left that hee ſhould ſee her kitling which ſhee kept, and ſo ſhould go away in a chafe, ſhee ſhut her up in a cup-board in the ſame chamber. but for all a wonderful that hee did not ſee her, neither heard her crie,yet within a little ſpace,when hee had drawn anipulich- in the air, infeded with the breath of the cat, that qualitie of temperament, contrarie, or ...'é." enemie to cats, beeing provoked, heebegan to ſweat, to look pale and to crie out (all of us - admireing it) here lie's a cat in ſom corner or other; neither could hee bee quiet till the cat the antidote was taken away. but ſuch as have eaten the brains of a cat, are taken with often vertigo's, againſ tº and now and then becom fooliſh and mad: they are helped b procureing vomit, and take- bººins of ing the antidote againſt this poiſon, that is, half a ſcruple of musk, diſſolved and drunk in cat- wine. there bee ſom who preſcribe the confestion dºlmoſthum to bee taken everie morning, four hours before meat. by this you may gather,that it is not ſo fabulous that the common cats dan- ſort report,that cats will kill of harm children; for lying to their mouths with the weight i. of their whole bodies, they hinder the paſſage forth of the fuliginous yapors, and themoti: - on of the cheſt, and infect and ſtifle the ſpirits of tender infants, by the peſtiferous air and exhalation which they ſend forth. chap. xxxv. of certain poiſonous plants. aveing deſcribed the poiſons that comfrom living creatures, i com to ſpeak of ſuch apium riſks. asare from plants, beginning with the sardonian herb, which is alſo called apium riſis: this is a kinde of ranunculus, or crow-foot:(and,as it is thought,the round- leaved watercrow-foot,called marſh-crow-footor spear-wort) it taketh away the under- ſtanding of ſuch as eat thereof,and by a certain diſtention of the nervs,contrač'sthe cheeks, ſo that it make's them look as if they laughed;from this affea came that proverbial ſpeech of his antidote, the sardonian laughter, taken in evil part. his bezaar,as one may termit,is the juice of balm. napella, or the juice fruit,and ſubſtance of napellus taken inwardly, killeth a man the ſame day, or mönk-hood at the furtheſt in three daies: yea,and ſuch as eſcape the deadlie force thereof by the ſpeedie and convenient uſe of antidotes, fall into an heaick fever, or conſumption,and becom ſub- jećt to the falling-ſickneſs, as avicen affirmeth. and hence it is,that barbarous ople poiſon their arrows therewith. for the lips are forthwith inflamed, and the tongue ſo ſwell's, that by reaſon thereofit cannot bee contained in the mouth, but hang's out with great horror; their eies are inflamed, and ſtand forth of their head,and they are troubled with a vertigo and ſwounding, lib. . concerning poiſons, &c. --- ſwounding, they becom ſo weak that they cannot ſtir their legs, they are ſwoln and puf- fed in their bodies,the violence of the poiſon is ſo great.the an- “our autor is deceived by the arabians,who tidote thereof is a certain little creature like a*mouſ, which is (it maybre)mińook the greek worduña,and bred, and live's on the root of napºle, being died and drunkin . º: .# º - º: * . *::: owder, to the weight of two drams. inwant hereof, you may ...#. º: ºº uſe the ſeed of raddiſh or turnips to drink, and annoint the finjº jºij. bodie alſo with oil of scorpions. with them in lobel's stipadverſpaſ. . dorycinum and solanum manicum, or deadlie night-ſhade, are not much different in their dominum and mortal ſymptoms or effects. dorycinum beeing drunk, reſembleth milk in taſte, it cauſeth solanum mani- continual hicketting, it troubleth the tongue with the weight of the humor, it cauſeth ºliº blood to bee caſt forth of the mouth, and certain mucous matter out of the bellie, like that night-ſhade. which commeth away in the bloodie flux. a remedie hereto are all ſhell-fiſhes,as well crude as roſted, alſo sea-lobſters and crabs, and the broth or liquor wherein they are boiled,bee- ing drunk. now the root of solanum manicum drunk in the weight of one dram in wine, theſſ" cauſeth vain and not unpleaſing imaginations, but double this quantitie cauſeth a diſtra- " &tion or alienation of the minde for three daies but four times ſo much kill's. the reme- dies are the ſame as theſe preſcribed againſt dorycinum. tº - - hen-bane drunken, or otherwiſe taken inwardly by the mouth, cauſſeth an alienation of henbane. the minde like drunkenneſs; this alſo is accompanied with an agitation of the bodie, and exſolution of the ſpirits like ſwounding. but amongſt others, this is a notable ſymptom, that the patients ſo dote, that they think themſelvs to bee whipped; whence their voice becom's ſo various, that ſomtimes they bray like an aſsor mule, neigh like an horſ, as a- vicen write's. the antidote is piſtick nuts eaten in great plentie, treacle alſo and mithridate the antidote. diſſolved in ſack, alſo worm-wood, rue and milk. - of muſhroms, ſom are deadlie and hurtfull of their own kinde and nature, as thoſe, muſhroms. which broken, preſently becom of divers colours, and putrefie: (ſuch as avicen ſaith thoſe are which be found of a grayiſh or blewiſh colour)others though not hurtfull in qua- litie, yet eaten in greater meaſure then is fitting, becom deadlie; for ſeeing by nature they are verie cold and moiſt, and conſequently abound with no ſmall viſcoſitie, as the excre- , mentitious phlegm of the earth or trees whereon they grow, they ſuffocate and extinguiſh the heat of the bodie, as overcom by their quantitie, and ſtrangle as if one were hanged,and . laſtly kill. verily i cannot chuſe, but pittying gourmondizers, who though they know that muſhroms are the ſeminarie and gate of death, yet do they with a great deal of doo, moſt greedily devour them; i ſay, pittying them, i will ſhew them, and teach them the art, how they may feed upon this ſo much deſireddiſh, without the endangering of their health. know therefore that muſhroms may bee eaten without danger, if that they bee firſt their anti- boiled with wilde pears: but if you have no wilde pears,you may ſupplie that defečt with o-doº. thers which are the moſt harſh,either newly gathered,or dried in the ſun. the leavs,as alſo the bark of the ſame tree, are good, eſpecially of the wilde ; for pears are their antidote: et conciliator give's another, to wit, garlick eaten crude, whereto in like ſort vineger may É. fitly added,ſo to cut and attenuate the tough, viſcous and groſs humors, heaped up, and - - - in danger to ſtrangle one by the too plentiful eating oſmuſhroms,as it is delivered by galen. in tpidemi. ephemerum, which ſom call colchicum or bulbus ſylveſtris, that is, medow ſaffron, becing colchicum, or taken inwardly, cauſſeth an itching overall the bodie, no otherwiſe then thoſe that are net- medow- tled, or rubbed with the juice of a squill. inwardly they feel gnawings, their ſtomach is saffron. troubled with a great heavineſs, and the diſeaſencreaſing, there are ſtreaks of blood mixed with the excrements.the antidote thereof is womans milk, aſſes or cows-milk drunken the antidote. warm, and in a large quantitie. mandrag taken in great quantitie, either the root or fruit cauſeth great ſleepineſs, ſad-mandrag. neſs, reſolution and languiſhing of the bodie, ſo that after many ſcritches and gripeings, the patient fall's aſleep in the ſame poſture as hee was in, juſt as if hee was in a lethargie. wherefore in times paſt they gave mandrag to ſuch as were to bee diſmembred. the ap- ples, when as they are ripe,and their ſeeds taken forth, may bee ſafely eaten,for beeing green and with their ſeeds in them, are deadlie.for there ariſeth an intolerable heat, which burn's the wholeſurface of the bodie, the tongue and mouth wax drie, by reaſon whereof they gape continually, ſo to take in the cold air; in which caſe unleſs they bee preſently helped, they die with convulſions. but they may eaſily bee helped, if they ſhall preſently drink ſuch things as are convenient therefore. amongſt which, in conciliator's opinion,excell raddiſh- the cure. ſeeds eaten with ſalt and bread for the ſpace of three daics. sneeſing ſhall bee procured, if the former remedie do not quickly refreſh them, and a decočtion of coriander or pennie- royall in fair water ſhall bee given them to drink warm. . . . .” . the ungrateful taſte of the juice of black poppie, which is termed opium, as alſo of man- opium. drag, eaſily hinder's them from beeing put into meat or drink, but that they may bee di- why not uſed ſcerned, and chiefly for that neither of them can kill, unleſs they bee taken in a good quan- in poiſoning” titie. but becauſthere is danger, leſt they bee given in greater quantitie then is fitting by the ignorance of phyſicians, or apothecaries, you may by theſe figns finde the error. h - . . . .” there -- concerning ‘poiſons, &c. lib. . there enſut's heavit ſletp, with a vehementitching, ſo that the patient oftimes is for ced thereby to caſt of his dull ſleep wherein heelay, yet hee keep's his eie-lids ſhut, beeing unable to open them. but by this agitation there flow's out ſweat, which ſmel's of orium, the bodie waxeth pale, the º: burn, the jaw-bone is relaxed, they breath little and ſeldom. when as theireies wax livid, unleſs they bee drawn aſide, and that they are depreſſed from their orb, wee muſt know that death is at hand.the remedie againſt this is twodrams of the powder of caſtoreum given in wine. hemlock drunken, cauſeth vertigo's, troubleth the minde, ſo that the patients maybee taken formadmen; it darkneth the fight, cauſeth hicketting, and benum's the extreme the ſymptoms parts, and laſtly ſtrangle's with convulſions, by ſuppreſſing or ſtopping the breath of the ar- tºrie. wherefore at the firſt, as in other poiſons, you muſt endeavor to expellitby vomit; then injcót glyſters, to expell that which is got into the guts; then uſe wine without mi. xture, which is verie powerful in this caſe. peter aponenſis think's the bezoar or antidote thereof to bee a potion of two drams of treacle, with a decočtion of dičiamnus or gentian in wine. hee which further deſire's to enform himſelf of the effects of hemlock, let him in lib. .dioſ. read matthiolus his commentarie upon dieſcorides, where as hee treat's of theſame ſubject. aconitum called of aconi, a town of the periendines,where as it plentifully grow's. accor- dind to matthiolus, it kill's wolvs, foxes, dogs, cats, swine, panthers, leopards, and all wilde beaſts, mixed with fleſh, and ſo devoured by them, but it kill's miceby onely ſmelling thereto. scorpions, if touched by the root of aconite, grow numb and torpid, and ſo die thereof; arrows or darts dipped therein, make incureable wounds. thoſe who have drunk aconite, their tongue forthwith waxeth ſweet with a certain aſtrićtion, which within a while turneth to bitterneſs; it cauſeth a vertigo, and ſhedding of tears, and a heavineſ; or ſtraitneſs of the cheſt and parts about the heart; it make'sthem breakwinde downwards,and make's all the bodie to tremble. plinie attribute’s ſo great celeritie and violence to this poi- ſon, that if the genitals offemale creatures beetouched therewith, it will kill the ſame daie; there is no preſenter remedie then ſpeedie vomiting after the poiſon is taken. but conciliator think's ariſtolochia to bee the antidote thereof. yet ſom have made it uſeful forman by ex- aconies...a perimenting it againſt he ſinging of scorpions, besing º warm in wine. for it is of againſt . poi- ſuch a nature, that it killeth the partie unleſs it finde ſomthing in him to kill, for then it ſºnofs.o.º. ſtrive's thererwith as if it had foundan adverſarie. but this fight is onely when as it finde's ons. poiſon in the bodie;and this is marvelous that both the poiſons beeing of their own nature - deadlie, ſhould die together, that man may by that means live. there are divers ſorts there- ** of, one whereof hatha flowerlikeanhelmet, as ifit were armed to man's deſtruction, but cºs- the other here delineated hath leavs like to ſow's-bread, or a cucumber, and a root like the tail of a scorpion. the figure of a certain kinde ºf atonile, the ſym- ptoms. hemlock. the antidote. acomitum. lib. .tap. . the yew, • trees alſo are not without poiſon, as * this is true the yew and walnut tree may witneſs: inſom coun- cattel if they feed on the leavs of yew,are .* killed therewith. * but men, if they ...; . º under it, or ſit under the ſhadow thereof, jº are hurt therewith, and oftimes die there- with usin eng-of. but if they eat it, they are taken with land,as bºth a bloodie flux, and a coldneſs over all their #: . º bodies, and a kinde of ſtrangling or ſtop- can .." w. of their breath. all which things the ew cauſſeth, not ſo much by an elemen- tarie and cold qualitie, as by a certain oc- cult malignitie, whereby it corrupteth the the antidotº. humors, and ſhaveth the guts. the ſame things are good againſt this,as wee have ſet down againſt hemlock; nicander affirm's, that goodwine beeing drunken is a reme- m. the wall-nut die thereto. there is alſo malignitie in a º .."*" wall-nut-tree, which grevinu affirm's nºş - that hee found by experience, whil'ſthee -p unawares ſate under one and ſlept therein & the midſt of summer. for wakeing, hee 'ſº had a ſenſ of cold over all his bodie,a hea- vineſs of his head, and pain that laſted fix daies. the remedies are the ſame as againſt the yew. - ---------- — w | lºal. concerning poiſons, &c. - chap, xxxvi. of bezoar, and bezoartick medicines. - - or that wee have made mention of bezar, in treying of the remedies of whatrolºni. poiſons, ijudgi ſhall not do amiſº,if i ſhall explain, what the word mean's,and the reaſon thereof. poiſon abſolutely taken is that which kill's by a certain ſpecifickantipathie contrarieto our nature. so an antidote or counter-poi- - *. is by the arabians in their mother-tongue termed bedezahar, as the preſer- vers of life. this word is unknown to the greeks and latines, and in uſe onely with the arabians and perſians,becauſthething itſelffirſt came from them, as it is plainly ſhewed by carcia, abborte,phyſician to the vice-roy of the indies,in his hiſtorie of the spices and sim- ple, ofthe eaſt-indies. in perſia (ſaith hee) and a certain part of india is a certain kinde of goat called pazain (wherefore in proper ſpeaking, the ſtone ſhould beetermed pazar, of the word pazain, that ſignifie's a goat; but weecorruptly term it bezar or bezoar) the color of this beaſt is commonly reddiſh, the height thereof indifferent,in whoſe ſtomach concrete's - º the ſtonecalled bezaar; it grow's by little and little about a ſtraw or ſom ſuch like ſubſtance - in ſcales like to the ſcales of an onion, ſo that when as the firſt ſcale is taken off, the next appear's more ſmooth and ſhineing as you ſtill take them away, the which amongſt others is the ſign of good bezoar and notadulterate.this ſtone is found in ſundrieſhapes,butcom- - monly it reſemble's an acorn or date-ſtone; it is ſomtimes of a ſanguin color, and other- a ſign of true whiles of a honie-like or yellowiſh color,but moſt frequently of a blackiſh or darkgreen,re-bezoar. ſembling the color of mad apples, or elſofa civet-cat. this ſtone hath no heart norker- nel in the midſt, but powder in the cavitie thereof, which is alſo of the ſame facultie. now this ſtone is light and not verie hard, but ſo that it may eaſily bee ſcraped or raſped like ala- blaſter, ſo that it will diſſolv, beeing long macerated in water; at firſt it was common a- mongſt us, and of no veriegreat price, becauſour people who trafficked in perſia, bought it at an eafie rate. but after that the faculties thereof were found out, it began to be more rare the uſe of and dear, and it was prohibited by an edićt from the king of the countrie, that no bodie bºa. ſhould ſella goat to the ſtranger-merchants, unleſs hee firſt killed him and took forth the ſtone, and brought it to the king. of the notes by which the ſtone is tried, (for there are manie counterfeits brought hither) the firſt is alreadie declared; the other is, it may bee blown upby the j an oxe's hide; for if the winde break through, and do not ſtay in the denſitie thereof, it is accounted counterfeit. they uſe it, induced thereto by our ex- ample, notonely againſt poiſons, but alſo againſt the bites of venemous beaſts. the richer ſort of the countrie purge twice a year, to wit, in march and september; and then, five daies together they take the powder of this ſtone macerated in roſe-water, the weight of ten grains at a time: for by this remedie they think their youth is preſerved, as alſo the ſtrength of their members. there bee ſom who take the weight of thirtle drams; yet the more warie exceed not twelv grains. the ſame autor addeth that hee uſeth it with verie good ſucceſs in inveterate melancholick diſeaſes, as the itch, ſcab, tetters and leprofie; there- fore by the ſamereaſon it may well bee given again a quartane fever. beſides, hee affirmeth for certain that the powder contained in the mid'ſt of the ſtone, put upon the bites of vene- motis beaſts, preſently free’th the patient from the danger of the poiſon, as alſo applied to to peſtilent . when they are opened, it draw's forth the venom. but becauſthc fmall pocks and meazles are familiar in the indies, and oftimes dangerous, it is there given ... . with good ſucceſs, two grains each daie in roſe-water. matthiolus ſubſcribeth to this opi- likšin diºſa nion of garcia, #. that hee hath found it by frequent experience, that this ſtone by **** much exceeds not onely other ſimple medicines º kinde, but alſo ſuch as are termed theriacalia, and what other antidotes ſoever. hereto alſo conſent’s abdanalarach;wee (ſaith hee) have ſeen the ſtone which they call bezahar, with the ſons of almirama the obſerver of the º:of the god; with which ſtone heee bought a ſtately and almoſt princely houſ at corduba. , , , , - som years ago, a certain gentleman who had one of theſe ſtones which hee brought out an hiſtorie, of spain, bragged before king charls then beeing at clermount in avern, ofthe moſt certain efficacie of this ſtone againſtallmanner of poiſons. then the king asked of mee, whether … ." . there were anie antidote which was equally and in like manner prevalent againſt all poi- - ſons i anſwered, that nature could not admit it; for neither have all poiſons the like ef. no one thing fººts, neither do they ariſe from one cauſ; for ſom work from an occult and ſpecifick pro- can bee an air pertie of their whole nature, others from ſom elementarie qualitie which is predomi-ºla" nant. wherefore each muſt bee withſtoodwith its proper and contrarie antidote; as to the all poiſons. hot, that which is cold, and to that which affail's by an occult proprietie of form, another which by the ſame force to oppugn it, and that it was an eaſie matter to make trial hereof on ſuch as were jº hanged. the motion pleaſed the king, there was a cook brought by the jailor who was to have been hanged within a while after for ſtealiug two filver-diſhes out of his maſter's houſ. yet the king deſired firſt to know of him, whether - -- hee - * - o concerning poiſons, &c. libai. hee would take the poiſon on this condition, that if the antidote which was predicated to have ſingular power againſtallmanner of poiſons, which ſhould bee º given him aſ- ter the poiſon, ſhould free him from death, that then hee ſhould have his life ſaved. the cook anſwered chearfully,that hee was willing to undergo the hazard.yea,and greatermat. ters,notonely to ſave his life,butto ſhun the infamie of the death hee waslike to É. adjudged to.therefore hee then had poiſon given him by the apothecarie that then waited,&preſent- ly after the poiſon, ſom of the bedezabar brought from spain, which beeing taken down, within a while after hee began to vomit, and to avoid much by ſtool with grievous tor- ments, and to crie out that his inward parts were burnt with fire. wherefore beeing thir- ſlie, and deſireing water, they gave it him; an hour after, with the good leav of the jailor, i was admitted to him; i finde him on the ground going like abeaſt upon hands and feet, with his tongue thruſt forth of his mouth,hiseies fierie, vomiting, with ſtore of cold ſweats, and laſtly, the blood flowing forth by his ears, noſe, mouth, fundament and yard. i gave him eight ounces of oil to drink, but it did him no good, for it came too late. wherefore - at length hee died with great torment and exclamation, the ſeventh hour from the time that the cººk hee took the poiſon beeing ſcarcely paſſed. i opened his bodie in the preſence ofthe jailor **ſ” and four others, and i found the bottom of his ſtomach black and drie, asifithad been waff. burn'twith a cauterie; whereby iunderſtood hee had ſublimate given him; whoſe force the spaniſh bedezabar could not repreſs,wherefore the king commanded to burn it. chap. xxxvii. of mineral poiſons. Žº inerals or metals are either ſo taken forth of the bowels of the earth, or elſ & from fornaces. of theſe manie are poiſonous, as arſenick, ſublimate, plaſter, the ºr- § ceruſs, litharg, verdegreaſe, orpiment, filings of lron,braſs, the load-ſtone, of ſuch as have à \% lime and the like. such as have taken ſublimate, the tongue and jaws becom takenſublimate, º § ſtraightned & rough,as if they drunk the juice of unripe ſerviceſ:you cannota- mend this aſperitiewth lenitive gargariſms but wºhlabor & time; for aſſoon as it deſcend's into the ſtomach,it ſticketh to it.therfore preſently after it fret's& exulcerate's; it cauſeth unquenchable thirſt,and unexplicable torments; the tongue is ſwoln, the heart faint's,the urine is ſuppreſt,the cheſt can ſcarce perform the office of breathing, the bellie is griped, and ſo great pains happen to other extreme parts,that unleſs they bee helped, the tient will die; for preſently will grow upon them, unleſs it bee ſpeedily hindered, the de- vouring and fierie furie of the poiſon, rending or eating into the guts and ſtomach, as if they were ſºared with an hot iron, and blood floweth out of the ears, noſe, mouth, urinarie paſſage and fundament, and then their caſe is deſperate. theſe and who elſſoever ſhall take anie corrodeing poiſon, ſhall bee cured with the ſame remedies, as thoſe thathave taken cantharides. -- - verdegreaſ. verdegreaſ ſo ſtop's the inſtruments of reſpiration,that it ſtrangle's ſuch ashayetaken it. he cure is performed by the ſame remedies as help thoſe that have taken arſenick. litharge. litharge cauſeth a heavineſs in the ſtomach, ſuppreſſethurine, make's the bodie ſwelled and livid. wee remedie this, by giveing a vomit º then after it pigeons-dungmi- xed in ſtrong wine,and ſo drunken. peter aponenſis wiſheth to give oil of ſweet almonds and figs. alſo it is good to give relaxing and humedling glyſters, and to annoint the bellie with freſhbutter, or oil of lillies. the ſcales of º: ſcales of braſs drunk by troubling the ſtomach, cauſa caſting and ſcouring. the re- braſs. medie is, if the patient forthwith vomit, if her enter into a bath made of the decočtion of snails, if hee annoint his bellie and breſt with butter or oil of lillies, and inject laxative and humeding glyſters. - the load- the load-ſtone make's them mad that take it inwardly. the antidote thereof is the ſtone. powder of gold and an emerald drunk in ſtrong wine, and glyſters of milk and oil of ſweet onds. - fileings of the filings of lead, and the ſcales or refuſe of iron, cauſgreat torment to ſuch as take lºad and ſcale them down. the which wee help with much milk audfreſh butterdiſſolved therein,or with of iron. oil of ſweet almonds drawn without fire, with relaxing and hume&ting glyffers uſed until the painbee perfeótly aſſwaged. - - aſnick,roſ:- kiſagallum,roſe-aker or katſ-bane,becauſit is of a moſt hot and drie nature,induce's thirſt aker or ratſ and heat over all the bodie, and ſo great colliquation of all the humors, that although the bane, patient by medicines ſpeedily given eſcape death, yet can they not dureing the reſidue of their lives, uſe their members as they formerly did, beeing deſtitute of their ſtrength, by rea- ſon of the great drineſs and contračtion of the joints the antidote thereof is oil of pine- kernels ſpeedily given, and that to the quantitie of half a pinte; then procure vomit, then givenuch milk to drink, and glyſters of the ſame, and let them ſupupfat broths. unquench’t-lime and auripigmentum, or orpiment drunk, gnaw the ſtomach andguts - - - - . . . with lib. . concerning poiſons, &c. — º with great tormenting pain, and cauſunquenchable thirſt, an aſperitie of the jaws and .. difficultie of §º. . the urine, and a bloodie flux. they may bee *†. helped by all fat, humeding, and relaxing things which retund the acrimoniº by lenitive piment. potions, and ſuch things aslubricate the bellie; as alſo by creams, and the mucilagesofſon - feeds, as with a decočtion of the ſeeds of line, mallows, marſh-mallows and other ſuch *::::::: down at large in the cure of cantharides. • * theſe exceeding acrid and ſtrong waters wherewith gold-ſmiths and chymiſts ſparate aquafinis. É from ſilver beeing taken into the bodie,are hardtocure,becauſthey are forthwith dif- ſed over all the bodie, firſt burning the throat and ſtomach. yet it may bee helped by the means preſcribed againſt unquenched lime and orpiment. - - ceraſs cauſeth hickettyng and acough, make's i. tongue drie, and the extreme parts of ceraſ. thebodie numb with cold, the eiesheaviéto ſleep. thepatients verie often in the mid'ſto the . ſeeſom vain phantafie or apparition, which indeed is nothing;...they make ablack and oftimes bloodiewater, they dič ſtrangleåunleſs they bee helped. the antidote, inthe opinion of aëtius and avicen, is scammonie drunk in new wine, or honieand wine, and o- ther diuretick things, and ſuch things as procure vomit, and purge by ſtool. plaſter, becauſit concreteth and becommeth ſtonie in the ſtomach, cauſſeth ſtrangulati- plaſter. on, by ſtraitning and ſtopping the inſtruments that ſerv for breathing. the patients receiv cure by the ſame remedies, as thoſe who have eaten muſhorms, or drunk ceruſs: you muſt add gooſ-greaſ in the glyſters, and annoint the bellie with oil of lillies and butter. _ chap. xxxviii. of guickſilver. :*:::uick-filver is ſo called becauſitreſembleth filver in the color, and is in perpetual theretºn # motion, as if it had aſpirit or liveing ſoul. there is a great controverfie amongſt why i. #º:autors concerning it. for moſt of them affirm it hot, among whom is galen, haly-called. abus, rhaſes, ariſtotle, confiantine, iſack, platearius, nicolas maſſa ; they maintain lib. /ºp.i.a. their opinion by an argument drawn from things helping and hurting; beſides from this, prait. c. . that it is of ſuch ſubtil parts, that it penetrate's, diſſolv's andj. all the ačtions of .ad almm. . heat upon denſ and hard metals; to wit, it attenuateth, incideth, drieth, cauſeth ſalivati- ***. on by the mouth, purgeth by the ſtool, mooveth urine and ſweat over all the bodie, neither doth it ſtir np the thinner humors onely, but in like ſort the groſs, tough and viſcous, as thoſe which have the lues venerea finde by expeience, uſeing it either in ointments or plaſters. others affirm it verie cold and moiſt, for that put into emplaſters and ſoapplied, it aſ: ſwageth pain by ſtupefaction, hindering the acrimonie of puftles and cholerick inflamma- 'tions. but by its humiditie it ſofteneth ſcirrhous tumors, diſſolveth and diſſipateth knots and tophou, knobs; beſides,it cauſſeth thebreath of ſuch as are annointed therewith to ſtink, by no other reaſon, then that it putrefie's the obvious humor by its great humiditie.avicen's experiment confirm's this opinion, who affirmeth, that the blood of an ape that drunk uick-filver,was found concrete about the heart,the carcaſs beeing opened. matthiolus moo-inlé.diſc. ved by theſe reaſons, write's that quick-filver killeth men by the exceſſive cold and humid qualitie, if taken in a large quantitie, becauſit congeal's the blood and vital ſpirits, and at . length the verie ſubſtance of the heart, as may bee underſtood by the hiſtorie of a certain a- an hiſtorie. | pothecarie, ſet down by conciliator; who, for to quench his feveriſh heat, in ſtead of water, t drunk offa glaſof quick-ſilver,(for that came firſt to his hands;)he died within a few hours after, but firſt hee evacuated a good quantitie of the quick-filver by ſtool, the reſidue was found in his ſtomach beeing opened, and that to the weight of one pound; befides, the blood was found concrete about his heart. others uſe another argument to proovit cold, and that is drawn from the compoſition thereof, becauſit conſiſt's of lead and other cold metals. but this argument is verie weak. for unquench't lime is made of flints and ſtonie matter, which is cold, yet nevertheleſs it exceed's in heat. paracelſus affirmeth that quick- lib. .dºnat. filver is hot in the interior ſubſtance, but cold in the exterior, that is, cold as it com’s forth rerum. of the mine. but that coldneſs to bee loſt as it is prepared by art, and heat onely to appear and bee left therein, ſo that it may ſervin ſtead of a tinčture in the tranſ-mutation of metals. and verily it is taken for a rule amongſt chymiſts, that all metals are outwardly cold, by reaſon of the waterie ſubſtance that is predominant in them,but that inwardly they are verie hot, which then appear's when when as the coldneſs together with the moiſture is ſegrega- ted; for by calcination they becom cauſtick. moreover manie account quick-filver poiſon, yet experience denie's it. for marianus sančius boralitanus tell's that heeſaw a woman, who traft deaſ, for certain cauſes and effects, would at ſeveral times drink one pound and a half of quick-&offin. w ſilver, which came from her again by ſtool withoutanie harm. moreover hee affirmeththat heehath known ſundrie who in a deſperate colick (which they commonly call miſerere mei) have been freed from imminent death,by drinking threepound of quick-filver with wa- ter wº- concerning poiſons, &c. lib. . teronely. forby the weight it open's and unfold's the twined or bound up gut, and thruſt's forth the hard and ſtopping excrements; hee addeththat others have found this medicine ef. fečtual againſt j > drunk in the quantitie of three ounces. antonius muſa writes, that heeuſually giveth quick-ſilver to childrenreadie to die of the worms.avicenconfirmetà this, averring that manie have drunk quick-filver without anie harm, wherefore hee mixeth it in his ointments againſt ſcales and ſcabs in little children; whence came that common medicine amongſt countrie people to kill liceby annointing the head with quick-ſilver mi- quick-filver xed with butter oraxungia. matibiolus affirmeth that manie think it the laſt and chiefeſt re- good forwo- medie to give to women in travel that cannot bee delivered. i proteſt to ſatisfie myſelf con- menintravel cerning this matter, i gaveto a whelp a pound of quick-filver, which beeing drunk down, it voided without anie harm by the bellie. whereby you may underſtand that it is wholly without anie venemous qualitie. verily it is the onely and true antidote of the lues vene- rea, and alſo a verie fit medicine for all malign ulcers, as that which more powerfully im- pugn's their malignitie then anieother medicines that work onely by their firſt qualities. for the diſeaſ beſides, againſt that contumacious ſcab, which is vulgarly called malum ſanāi manis, there ºlº" is not aniemore ſpeedie or certain remedie. moreover guido writes, that if a plate of lead ſ” beebeſmeared or rubbed there with, and then forſom ſpace laid upon an ulcer, and conve- niently faſtned, that it will ſoften the callous hardneſs of the lips thereof, and bring it to cicatrization, which thing imy ſelf have oftimes found trueby experience. - certainly before guido,galen much commended quick-ſilver againſt malign ulcers and can- : de ºft. cers. neither doth galen affirm that lead is poiſonous(which manie affirm poiſonous,becauſ *:::::alin it conſiſt's of much quickſilver) but hee onely faith thus much,that water too long kept in ulcers. leaden pipes and ciſterns, by reaſon of the droſſineſs that it uſeth to gather in lead, cauſeth bloodie fluxes, which alſo is familiar to braſs and copper. otherwiſe manie could not with- out danger bear in their bodies leaden bullets dureing the ſpace of ſo manie years, as uſual- ly they do. it is reported. it is declared by theodoret herey in the following hiſtories, how powerful quick-ſilveristoreſolv and aſſwage pains and inflammations. not long ſince, againſt the (faith hee) a certain doğor of phyſick his boy was troubled with parotides, with great ſwel- parotides. ling, heat, pain and beating; to him by the common conſent of the phyſicians ther pre- ſent, i applied an anodine medicine, whoſe force was ſo great, that the tumor manifeeſtly ſubſided at the firſt dreſſing, and the pain was much aſſwaged. at the ſecond dreſſing all the ſymptoms were more mitigated. at the thirddreſſing, i wondring, at the ſo great effečt of an anodine cataplaſm, obſerved that there was quick-ſilver mixed there- with, and this happened through the negligence of the apothecarie, who mixed the ſimple anodine medicine preſcribed by us, in a mortar wherein but a while before hee had mixed an ointment wherinto quick-ſilver entred, whoſe reliqus, and ſom part thereof yet remain- ed theeein. this which once by chance ſucceeded well, i afterwards wittingly and willing- ly uſed to a certain gentle-woman troubled with the like diſeaſ, poſſeſſing all the region behinde the ears, much of the throat,and a great part of the cheek, when as nature helped by common remedies, could not evacuate neither by reſolution nor ſuppuration, the con- tained mattergreatly vexing her with pain and pulſation. i to the medicineformerly uſed, by the conſent of the phyſicians, put ſom quick-filver, ſo within a few daies, the tumor was digeſted and reſolved. but ſom will ſay, it reſolvesthe ſtrength of the nerves and limbs, as you may ſee by ſuch as have been annointed therewith for the lues venerea, who tremble in all their limbs dureing the reſt of their lives. this is true,if any uſe it too intemperately withoutmeaſure, and a diſeaſ that may require ſo great a remedie; for thus wee ſee the gil- ders, plumbers and ſuch as dig in mines,by the continual aſcent of the vapors of quick-fil- ver to thebrain, the fountain of the nervs, by reſolving the ſpirits, and diſſipating the ra- dicalland ſubſtantifick moiſture, maketh them ſubjećt to the trembling of their joints. ve- assinaike rily,if it bee killed and incºrporate with hogſ-greaſ and a liſt beſmeared therewith, which : #... may encompaſs thebodie like a girdle, it will drive away lice, fleas and timice; and an- the kindes nointed about the navel, it kill's the worms in the guts. there are two ſorts of quick-fil- thereof. ver, the one natural, the other artificial. the natural is found running or flowing in the veins and bowels of the earth, and amongſt metals,and in the fornaces offilver-mines. the artificial is made of minium (as it is in vitruvius) and of the powder of ivorie. alſo it is probable that by art it may beee extraćted out of all metals, but chiefly out of lead and cinnabaris. you may eaſily diſtinguiſh theſe kindes by the dull and blackiſh color, tough and groſs ſubſtance, which as it run's, leav's an impreſſion like melted greaſ, beeing as it were the excrement of lead. the beſt quick-filver of all is pure, clear,thin,and verie white: it may bee cleanſed with the droſs of lead, and becom's more then beeing boiled in ſharp vineger, with ſage, roſemarie, time, lavander, orelſgive it by a pound at a time to a whelp, to drink down, and beeing caſt forth by it, boil it again in vineger, for thus it hath won- drous faculties, and fitly given produceth marvelous effects; nothing is more contrarie thereto then fire. for qūick-ſilver, though of its own nature ponderous, flieth upwards y the forcé of the fire, and forſaketh gold by that means, then which nothing is more friend- lie to it. c hap how to puri- ficit. lib. . concerning ‘poiſons, Č -c. | chap. xxxix. - of the unicorn's born. &gaſº here are verie manie at this daie who think themſelvs excellently well armed a- § ríº gainſt poiſon and all contagion, if they bee provided with ſom powder of uni- Šº corns-horn, r ſom infuſion made therewith therefore i have thought it good - ſº to examine more diligently how much truth this inveterate,and grounded opi- **- "…, nion hath. the better to perform this task, i will propound three heads,where- to i will dire&my whole diſcourſ. the firſt ſhallbee of the ſignification of this word uni- corn. the ſecond, whether there bee anie ſuch thing really and truly ſo called, or whether it beenot rather imaginarie; like as the chimera and tragelaphus * the third, whether that which is ſaid to bee the horn of ſuchabeaſt,hath anie force or facultie againſt poiſons? for the firſt, that is, the name, it is ſomwhat more obſcure what the word (beeing licorn) in french may ſignifie, then what the latin or greek word is. for the french name is fur- what the name ther from the word and ſignification ; but it is ſo clear and manifeſt, that this word uni- imports. corni, amongſt the latines ſignifieth a beaſt haveing but one horn, as it is vulgarly known; the ſame thing is meant by the greek word monoceros. but now for the ſecond,i think that beaſt that is vulgarly called and taken for an unicorn, is rather a thing imaginarie then really in the world. i am chiefly induced to believ thus, by theſe conjećtures. becauſof thºthºi. . who have travelled over the world, there is not one that profeſſeth that ever hee did. º: ſee that creature. certainly the romans conquered the world, and beeing moſt diligent **** ſearchers after all things which were rare and ſo excellent, if anie where in anie corner of the world this beaſt could have been found, they would have found it out, and engraven it upon their coins, or arms, as they did crocodiles, elephants, eagles, panthers, lions, ti- gers, and other creatures unknown to theſe countries. for theſe that have written of the unicorn, either that they have heard, or that hath bren delivered by tradition, or what they in their own mindes and fancies have conceived, you ſhall ſcarce finde two that agree .. together, either in the deſcription of the bodie, or in the nature and condition of her. pli-ººp.” nie write's, that unicorns are for the faſhion of their bodies like to an horſ; that is,as car- dane interpret's it, of the bigneſs of an horſ, with the head of an hart, the feet of an ele- phant, the tail of a bore, with one black horn in the midſt of his fore-head, of the length of two cubits. munſter, who (as matthiolus jeſt's) never ſaw linicorns beſides painted ones, doth on the contrarie affirm them not to bee of the bigneſs of an horſ, but of an hinde-calf of three months old, not with feet like an elephant, but cleft like thoſe of goats, with an horn not onely of two, but oftimes of three cubits long, of a weazel-color, with a neck not verie long, nor verie hairie, but haveing few and ſhort hairs hanging to the one ſide of the neck, the legs are lean and ſmall, the buttocks high,but verie hairie. cardane diſſenting from both theſe, write's, that hee hath an horn in the mid'ſt of his fore-head, but that it is onely the length of three fingers. andrew thevet mention's an unicorn ſeen by a certain row. it turkiſh sangjach, which was of the bigneſs of a bull of five or ſix moneths old, and had cº.º. one horn, but that not in the mid'ſt of the fore-head, but upon the top of the crown of the * head; hee was legg'd and footed like an aſs, but longer haired, and had ears not much un- like the rangifer, a beaſt not unknown in the ſubpolare or northern countries. thus various therefore is the report concerning the ſhape of this beaſt. neither is thers leſs difference concerning her nature and conditions, for plinie write's, that the unicorn is a moſt fierce beaſt, and hath a greatbellowing voice, and that ſhee cannot therefore bee taken alive. cardane render's areaſon of this fierceneſs, becauſ(ſaith hee) it inhabit’s the de- ſerts of Æthiopia, a region ſqualid, and º: abounding with toads, and ſuch like venemous crea- tures. others on the contrarie affirm her to bee of a moſt milde, amiable, and gentle nature munſters opi- nion concern- ing tºnicºrns. of all others, unleſs one purpoſely offend her, or uſe her too harſhly for ſeeing ſhee feed's not by ſtooping her head to the ground, becauſſhee is hindered therefrom by the length of herhorn, ſhee muſt neceſſarily feed upon the fruit that hangeth upon trees; out of cratches or man's handſheefereleſly and harmleſly takes all manner of fruits, herbs, ſheaves of corn, apples, pears, oranges and pulſ. and herein they have proceeded ſo far, that they feign they will love virgins, entiſed by their beautie, ſo that ſtaied in the contemplation of them, and allured by their entiſements, they by this means are often taken by hunters. in this opinion is lewes wartoman, who denies that unicorns are wilde or fierce; for hee ſaith that hee ſaw pººna" two, which were ſent out of ethiopia to the sultan, who kept them ſhut up in penns, in .* mecha, a citie of arabia felix, renowned by the sepulcher of mahomet. thevet traveling thi- . ther,tel's that hee diligently inquired of the inhabitants, what there opinion was of ſuch a beaſt, !. could heenever hear anie tidings thereof. whence it is eaſie to diſcern, that ſuch beaſts have neither been in our, nor in vartoman's times. the ſo great varietie of diſſentin opinions, eaſily induceth mee to beleiv that this word, unicorn, is not the proper name o anie beaſt in the world, and that it is a thingonely feigned by painters, and writers of na- tural things, to delight the readers and beholders. ; as there is but one right waie, but - z iilanlg lib. . - - - - stºº § ;###$$$$$$$$$ºś of the plag lie. the twentie ſecond book. chap. i. the deſcription of the plague. spahe plague is a cruel and contagious diſeaſ, which everie where, like acom: what the : tº mon diſeaſ, invadeing man and beaſt, kill's verie manies being attended, and plague is. º as it were aſſociated with a continual fever, botches, carbuncleºſpots,nauſe- ouſneſs, vomitings, and other ſuch malign accidents. this diſeaſis not ſo * pernicious or hurtful, by anie elementarie qualitie, as from a certain poiſo- nous and venenate malignitie, the force whereof exceed's the condition of common putre- fa&ion. yet i will not denie, but that it is more hurtful in certain bodies, times and regi- ons, as alſo manie other diſeaſes, of which hippocrates make's mention. but from hence wee stºpher. can onely collećt, that the force and malignitie of the plague maybee sncreaſed, or dimini- ſhed, according to the condition of the elementarie qualities concurring with it; but not the whole nature and eſſence thereof to depend thereon. this peſtiferous poiſon principally affail's the vital ſpirit, the ſtore-houſand original whereof is the heart, ſo that if the vital ſpirit proov ſtronger, it drive's it far from the heart; but if weaker, it beeing overcom and weakned by the hoſtile aſſault, flie's back into the fortreſs of the heart, by the like contagion infečting the heart, and ſo the whole bodie, howitcom's beeing ſpread into it by the paſſages of the arteries. to kill. - hence it is, peſtilent fevers are ſomtime ſimple and ſolitarie; other-whiles aſſociated with a troop of other affects, as botches, carbuncles, blanes and ſpots, of one or more colors. it is probable ſuch affects have their original from the expulſive facultie, whether ſtrong the original or weak, provoked by the malignitie of the rageing matter: yet aſſuredly divers ſymptoms buboes, ar. and changes ariſe, according to the conſtitution of the bodie of the patient, and condition huncles,&c.in of the humor in which the virulencie of the plague is chiefly inherent, and laſtly, in the na-the plague, ture of the efficient cauſ. i thought good, by this deſcription, to expreſs the nature of the plague, at this my firſt entrance into this matter; for wee can ſcarce comprehend it in a proper definition. foral- though the force thereof bee definite, and certain in nature, yet it is not altogether cer- tain and manifeſt in mens mindes,becauſit never happen's after one ſort: ſo that in ſo great varietie, it is verie difficult to ſet down anie thing general and certain. - chap. ii. of the divine cauſes of an extraordinarie plague. t is a confirmed, conſtant, and received opinion in all ages amongſt chriſtians, that the plague and other diſeaſes, which violently affail the life of man, are often ſent by the juſt anger of god puniſhing our offences. the prophet amos hath long . . ſince taught it, ſaying, shall there bee afflićiion ſhall there bee evil in a citie, and the lord hath not affs . don it * on which truly wee ought daily to meditate, and that for two cauſes:the firſt is, that wee alwaies bear this in minde, that wee enjoy health, live,move, and have our beeings from god, and that it deſcend's from that father of light; and for this cauſwee are al- waies bound to give him great and exceeding thanks. the other is, that knowing the ca- lamities, by ſending whereof the divine anger proceed's to revenge, wee may at length re- i. and leaving the way of wickedneſs, walkin the paths of godlineſs. for thus weeſhall earn to ſee in god, ourſelvs, the heaven and earth, the true knowledg of the cauſes of the plague, and by a certain divine philoſophie teach, god to bee the beginning and cauſ f the ſecond cauſes, which cannot well without the firſt cauſgo about nor attempt, much the ſecond leſs perform anie thing. for from hence they borrow their force, order, and conſtancie of cauſes have order; ſo that they ſerv as inſtruments for god, who rule's and govern's us, and the whole heir ºw: world, to perform all his works, by that conſtant courſof order, which hee hath appoint- ‘.... *: edunchangeable from the beginning. wherefore all the cauſof a plague is not to bee at-“** tributed to theſe near and inferior cauſes or beginnings, as the É. and lucianiſts - za commonly concerning the plague. lib. . the general cauſes of the pl agut- lib. .deloc. affètiä. how the ſea- ſons of the year may bee ſaid to want their ſeaſona- bleneſs. how the air may bee cor- rupted. lib. biſ, anim. commonly do, who attributeing too much,yea all things to nature, have left nothing to god's providence. on the contrarie, wee ought to think,and beleev in all our things.that even as god by his omnipotent power hath created all things of nothing, ſo hee by his e- ternal wiſdom preſerv's and govern's the ſame, lead's and incline's them as hee pleaſeth, yeaverily at his pleaſure changeth their order, and the whole courſ of nature. this cauſof an extraordinarie plague, as wee confeſs and acknowledg, ſo here wee will not proſecute it anie further, but think fit to leav it to divines, becauſit exceed's the bounds of nature, in which i will now contain my ſelf. wherefore let us com to the na- tural cauſes of the plague. - - - chap. iii. of the natural cauſes of the plague, and chiefly of the seminarie of the plague - by the corruption of the air. prºhe general and natural cauſes of the plague are abſolutely two, that is, the in- º c § fečtion of corrupt air, and a preparation and fitneſs of corrupt humors to take %) that infe&ion; for it is noted before out of the doćtrine of galen, that our hu- sº mors may bee corrupted, and degenerate into ſuch an alienation which may c- qual the malignitie of poiſon. . the air is corrupted, when the four ſeaſons of the year have not their ſeaſonableneſs, or degenerate from themſelvs, either by alteration, or by alienation: as if the conſtitution of the whole year bee moiſt and rainie, by reaſon of groſs and black clouds; if the winterbee gentle and warm, without anie northerly winde, which is cold and drie,and by that means contrarieto putrefaction; if the spring, which ſhould bee temperate, ſhall bee faultie in anie exceſs of diſtemper; if the autumn ſhall bee ominous by fires in the air, with ſtars ſhooting, and as it were falling down, or terrible comets, never ſeen without ſom diſaſter; if the summer bee hot, cloudie and moiſt, and without windes, and the clouds flie from the south into the north. theſe and ſuch like unnatural conſtitutions of the ſeaſons of the year, were never better, or more excellently handled by anie, then by hippocrates in his books epidemion. therefore the air from hence draw's the ſeeds of corruption and the peſtilence, which at length, the like exceſs of qualities beeing brought in, it ſend's into the humors of our bodies, chiefly ſuch as are thin and ſerouſ. although the peſtilence doth not alwaies neceſſarily ariſe from hence, but ſom-whiles ſom other kinde of cruel and in- fećtious diſeaſ. but neither is the air onely corrupted by theſe ſuperior cauſes, but alſo by putrid and filthieſinking vapors ſpread abroad through the air encompaſſing us, from the bodies and carkaſſes of things not buried, gapeings and hollowneſſes of the earth, or finks and ſuch like places beeing opened: for the ſea often overflowing the land in ſom places, and leav- ing in the mud or hollowneſſes of the earth (cauſed by earth-quakes)the huge bodies of monſtrous fiſhes, which it hide's in its waters, hath given both the occaſion and matter of a plague. for thus in our time, a whale caſt upon the tuſcan ſhore, preſently cauſed a i. over all that countrie. but as fiſhes infe& and breed a plague in the air, ſo the air beeing corrupted often, cauſ- ſeth a peſtilence in the ſea among fiſhes, eſpecially when they either ſwim on the top of the water, or are infeded by the peſtilent vapors of the earth lying under them, and riſeing into the air through the bodie of the water, the later whereof ariſtotle faith, hapneth but ſeldom. but it often chanceth, that the plague rageing in anie countrie, manie fiſhes are caſt upon the coaſt, and may bee ſeen lying on great heaps. but ſulphureous vapors, or ſuch as partakeofanie othermalign qualitie, ſent forth from places under the ground, gapcings and gulfs opened by earth-quakes, not onely corrupt the air, but alſo infett and taint the ſeeds, plants, and all the fruits which wee eat, and ſo transfer the peſtilent cor- peſtiferous putrefaātion is far different from ordinarie putrefaction. ruption into us, and thoſe beaſis on which wee feed, together with our nouriſhment. the truth whereof Émpedocles made manifeſt, who by ſhutting up a great gulf of the earth, ope- ned in a vallie between two mountains,freed all sicilie from a plague cauſed from thence. if windes riſeing ſuddenly ſhall drive ſuch filthie exhalations from thoſe regions in which they were pe ſtiferous, into other places,they alſo will carrie the plague with them thither. if it bee thus, ſom will ſay, it ſhould ſeem that whereſoever ſtinking and putrid exha- lations ariſe, as aboutſtanding-pools, finks and ſhambles, there ſhould the plague reign, and ſtraight ſuffocate with its noiſom poiſon the people which work in ſuch places: but experience finde's this falſ. - wee do anſwer, that the putrefaction of the plague is far different, and of another kinde then this common, as that which partake's of a certain ſecret malignitie, and wholly con- trarie to our lives, and of which wee cannot eaſily give a plain and manifeſt reaſon. yet that vulgar putrefaction whereſoever it bee, doth eaſily and quickly entertain and welcom the peſtiferous contagion, as often as, and whenſoeveritcom's, as joined to it by a certain - amiliaritie, liszz. concerning the plague. . -- - familiaritie, and at length, it ſelf degenerateing into a peſtiferous malignitic, certainly no otherwiſe then thoſe diſeaſes which ariſe in the plague-time, the putrid diſeaſes in our bo- dies, which at the firſt wanted virulencie and contagion, as ulcers, putrid fevers,and other ſuch diſeaſes, raiſed by the peculiar default of the humors, eaſily degenerate into peſti- inapedilem: lence, preſently receiving the tainture of the plague to which they had before a cer-conſtitution tain preparation. wherefore in time of the plague, i would adviſe all men to ſhun ſuch ºf the air, all exceeding ſtinking places, as they would the plague itſelf: that there may bee no prepara- tº: becom tion in our bodies, or humors to catch that infection (without which, as galen teacheth, fºup, the agent hath no power over the subjeºt, for otherwiſe in a plague-time, the fickneſs ſº.” - wouldequally ſeizupon all) ſo that the impreſſion of the peſtiferous qualitic may preſent- ly follow that diſpoſition. - - - but when wee ſay the air is peſtilent,wee do not underſtand that ſincere,elementarie,and how the air ſimple as it is of its own nature, for ſuch is not ſubject to putrefaštion; but that which is may be ſaid polluted with ill vapors riſeing from the earth, ſtanding-waters, vaults, or ſea, and degene-" putrefies rate's, and is changed from its native puritie and fimplicitie. but certainly amongſt all the conſtitutions of the air, fit to receiva peſtilent corruption, there is none more fit then an hot, moiſt and ſtill ſeaſon; for the exceſs of ſuch qualities eaſily cauſſeth putrefaction. wherefore the south windereigning, which is hot and moiſt, and principally in places: . near the ſea, there fleſh cannot longbee kept, but it preſently is tainted and corrupted. i. . of further, weemuſt know, that the peſtilent malignitie which riſeth from the carkaſſes or ºf bodies of men, is more eaſily communicated to men; that which riſeth from oxen,to oxen; plague. and that which com’s from ſheep, to ſheep; by a certain ſympathie and familiaritie of na- ture: no otherwiſe then the plague which ſhall ſeiz upon ſom one in a familie, doth pre- ſently ſpread more quickly amongſt the reſt of that familie, by reaſon of the ſimilitude of temper, then amongſt others of another familie, diſagreeing in their whole . there- fore the air thus altered and eſtranged from its goodneſs of nature, neceſſarily drawn in by inſpiration and tranſpiration, bring's in the ſeeds of the plague, and ſo conſequently the plague itſelf, into bodies prepared and made readie to receiv it. --> chap. iv. " ... of the preparation of humors to putrefaāion, and admiſſion of peſtiferous impreſſions. aveing ſhewed the cauſes from which the air doth putrefie, becom corrupt, and is º made partaker of a peſtilent and poiſonous conſtitution; wee muſt now declare º what things may cauſthe humors to putrefie, and make them ſo apt to receiv and retain the peſtilent air and venenate qualitie. - th humors putrefie either from fulneſs, which breed's obſtrućtion; ºr by diſemperate ex-. * ceſs; or laſtly, by admixture of corrupt matter and evil juice,which ill feeding doth ſpecial- #; of hu- ly cauſ to abound in the bodie: for the plague often follow's the drinking of dead and mors, muſtie wines, muddie and ſtanding water, which receiv the finks and filth of a citie; and fruits and pulſeaten without diſcretion in ſcarcitie of other corn, as peaſ, beans, lentils, vetches, acorns, the roots of fern, and graſs made into bread. for ſuch meats obſtrućt, heap up ill humors in the bodie, and weaken the ſtrength of the faculties,from whence pro- ceed's aputrefaëtion of humors, and in that putrefattion a preparation and diſpoſition to receiv, conceiv,and bring forth the ſeeds of the plague: which the filthie ſcabs,malign ſores, rebellious ulcers, and putrid fevers, beeing all fore-runners of greater putrefaction and cor- ruption, do teſtifie. vehement paſſions of the minde, as anger, ſorrow, grief, vexation and . of fear, help forward this corruption of humors, all which hinder nature's diligence and care; ...;rd of concoëtion: for as in the dog-daies, the lees of wine ſubſideing to the bottom, are by †. the ſtrength and efficacie of heatdrawn up to the top, and mixed with the whole ſubſtance on ºfthehu- of the wine, as it wereby a certainebullition, or working; ſo melancholick humors, bec-mors. ing the dregs or lees of the blood, ſtirred up by the paſſions of the minde, defile or taint all the blood with their ſeculent impuritie. wee found that ſom years agon by experience, at the battel of s. dennis.for all wounds, by what weaponſoever they were made, degenerated into great and filthie putrefačtions and corruptions, with fevers of the like nature, and were commonly determined by death, what medicines, and how diligently ſoever they were applied; which cauſed manie to have a falſ ſuſpicion that the weaponson both fides were poiſoned. but there were manifeſt figns of corruption and putrefattion in the blood let the ſame day that anie were hurt, and - in the principal parts diſ-ſetted afterwards, that it was from no other cauſ,then an evil con- -- ſtitution of the air, and the mindes of the souldiers perverted by hate, anger and fear. - : ſ: z: tº , chap, concerning the plague. lib. . c h a p. w. what ſigns in the air and earth prognoſtitute a plague. aºſ; ee may know a plague to bee at hand and hang overus, if at anie time the air ºff and ſeaſons of the year ſwarv from their natural conſtitution, after thoſe waies º; i have mentioned before; if frequent and long continuing meteors,or ſulphu- - nº reous thunders infect the air; if fruits, ſeeds and pulſbee worm-eaten : if birds forſake their neſts, eggs or young, without anie manifeſt cauſ; if weeperceiv women ... commonly to aborºby continual brºthing in the vaporouſ air, being corrupted and º:;p- hurtful both to the embryon and original ofiife,andby which it being ſuffocated,is prº- ăilentſ…ſoſ. ſently caſt forth and expelled. yet notwithſtanding, thoſe airie impreſſions do not ſolely corrupt the air, but there may bee alſo others raiſed by the sun from the filthie exhalations and poiſonous vapors of the earth and waters, or of dead carkaſſes, which by their unna- tural mixture, eaſily corrupt the air, ſubjećt to alteration, as which is thin and moiſt, from ... whence divers epidemial diſeaſes, and ſuch as everie-where ſeizupon the common ſort, ac- .*cording to the ſºveral kindesofcorruptions, ſuch as that famous catarſh with difficulti: . bre: # of breathing, which in the year went almoſt over all the world, and raged over all ii..." the cities and towns of france, with f. heavineſs of the head (whereupon the french - named it cuculla) with a ſtraightneſs of the heart and lungs, and a cough, a continual fe- ver, and ſomtimes raveing. - this, although it ſeized upon manie more then it killed, yet becauſthey commonly died who were either let blood, or purged, it ſhewed it ſelf peſtilent by that violent and peculiar and unheard of kinde of malignitie. the engliſh such alſo was the engliſh, sweating-fitkneſs, or sweating-fever, which unuſual, with a **śkk great deal of terror invaded all the lower parts of germanie, and the low-countries, from meſs. theyear unto the year , and that chiefly in autumn. as ſoon as this peſtilent diſeaſentred into anie citie, ſuddenly two or three hundred fell fick on one day, then it departed thence to ſom other place.the people ſtrucken with it languiſhing, fell down in a #. and lying in their beds,ſweat continually, haveing a fever, a frequent, quick, and unequal pulſ; neither did they leav ſweating, till the diſeaſ left them, which was in one or two daies at the moſt: yet freed of it, they languiſhed long after, they all had a beating, or palpitation of the heart, which held ſom two or three years, and others all their life after. t at the firſt beginning it killed manie, before the force of it was known: but afterwards verie few, when it was found outby prattice and uſe, that thoſe who furthered and conti- nued their ſweats, and ſtrengthened themſelvs with cordials, were all reſtored. butat cer- tain times many other popular diſeaſesſ up, as putridfevers, fluxes,bloodie-fluxes,ta- tarrhs, coughs, phrenzies, ſquinances, plurifies, inflammations of the lungs, inflammations of the eies, apoplexies, lithargies, fina pocks and meazles, ſcabs, carbuncles, and malign the plague is puſtles. wherefore the plague is not alwaies, nor everie where of one and the ſame kinde, not the definite but of divers; which is the cauſthat divers names are impoſed upon it according to the va- ºfone rietie of the effe&s it bring's, and ſymptoms which accompanieit, and kindes of putrefatti- diſeaſ. on, and hidden qualities of the air. what ſigns in they affirm, when the plague is at hand, that muſhromsgrow in greater abundance out ***hfors of the earth, and upon the ſurface thereof manie kindes of poiſonous inſtäa creep in great **** numbers, as spiders, caterpillers, butterflies, graſshoppers, beetles, horners, waſps, flies, scorpions, snails, locuſts, toads, worms, and ſuch things as are the off-ſpring of putrefattion. and alſo wilde beaſis tired with the vaporous malignitie of their dens and caves in the earth, forſake them; and moles, toads, vipers, snakes, lizards, aſps and crocodiles are ſeen to flie away, and remoov, their habitations in great troops. for theſe, as alſo ſom other creatures, have a manifeſt power by the gift of god, and the inſtin& of nature, to preſage changes of weather, as rains, ſhowra, and fair weather; and ſea- ſons of theyear, as the spring; summer, autumn, winter, which they teſtifie by their ſing- ing, chirping, crying, flying, playing, and beating with their wings, and ſuch like figns: ſo rping, crying, flying, playing § alſo they have a perception of a plague at hand. and moreover, the carkaſſes of ſom of them which took leſ; heed of themſelvs, ſuffocated by the peſtiferous poiſon of the ill air contained in the earth, may bee everie-where found, not onely in their dens, but alſo in the plain fields. º, - how peºilers . theſe vapors corrupted not by a ſimple putrefation, but an occult malignitie, are vapors may , drawn out of the bowels of the earth into the air, by the force of the sun and start; and ***** thence condenſed into clouds, which by their falling upon corn, trees andgraſs, ºã and tretsº corrupt all things which the earth produceth, and alſo kill's thoſe creatures which feed them; yet brute beaſts ſooner then men, as which ſtoop and hold their heads down towards the ground (the maintainer and breeder of this poiſon) that they may get their food from thence.therefore at ſuch times, skilful husbandmen, taught by long experience, never drive their lib. . concerning the t'lague. . f ; their cattel or sheep to paſture, before that the sun, by the force of his beams, hath wa- fledanddiſſipated into air this peſtiferous dew hanging and abideing upon boughs and leavs of trees, herbs, corn and fruits, - but on the contrarie, that peſtilence which proceeds from ſom malign qualitie from a- bove, by reaſon of evil and certain conjunětion of the stars, is more hurtful to men and birds, as thoſe who are nearer to heaven. w chap. vi. by uſeing what cautions in air and diet, one may prevent the plague. *awing declared theſigns fore-ſhewing a peſſilence:now wemuſ ſhewby what changefels: º means wee may ſhun the imminent danger thereof, and defend ourſelvs from cºsth: ; - ºf it. no prevention ſeemed more certain to the antiens, then moſt ſpeedily to prevention of remoowinto places far diſtant from the infetted place, and to bee moſt ſlow in the plague. - their return thither again. but thoſe, who by reaſon of their bufineſs or em- ploiments, cannot change their habitation, muſt principally have a care of two things: the firſt is, that they ſtrengthen their bodies, and the principal parts thereof twº things of againſt the dailie imminent invaſions of the poiſon,or the peſtiferous and venenate air. the . other, that they abate the force of it, that it may not imprint its virulencie in the bodie; “"“” which may beedonby corretting the exceſs of the qualitie inclineing towards it, by the op- poſition of its contrarie. for if it bee hotter then is meet, it muſt bee tempered with cool- ing things; if too cold, with heating things: yet this will not ſuffice. for wee ought be- fides, to amendandpurge the corruptions of the venenate malignitiediffuſed through it, by ſmels and perfumes refifting the poiſon thereof. the bodie will bee ſtrengthened and more powerfully reſiſt the infected air, if it want excrementitious humors, which may beepro- cured by purgeing and bleeding; and for the reſt a convenient diet appointed, as ſhunning diet for pre- much varietieof meats,and hot and moiſt things,& all ſuch which are eaſily corrupted in the vention of the ſtomach, and cauſobſtrućtions, ſuch as thoſe things which bee made by comfit-makers; ** wee muſt ſhun ſatietie and drunkenneſs,for both of them weaken the powers, which are pre-, ſerved by the moderate uſe of meats of good juice let moderate excerciſes in a cleer air,and free from anie venemous tainture, precedeyour meals. *. - lºthebelliehavedueevacuation either by nature or art. let the heart, the ſeat of life, and the reſt of the bowels bee ſtrengthened with cordials and antidotes applied and taken (as wee ſhall hereafter ſhew)in the form of epithemes,oint- ments, emplaſters, waters, pils, powders, tablets, opiates, fumigations, and ſuch like. make choice of a pure air, and free from all pollution, and far remote from flinking pla- ces, for ſuch is moſt fit to preſervlife, to recreate and repair the ſpirits; whereas on the con- diſcommodi. trarie, a cloudie or miſtie air, and ſuch as is infetted with groſs and ſinking vapors, dull's ties of a clou- the ſpirits, dejeº's the appetite, makes the bodie faint and ill colored, oppreſſeth the heart, is or foggie and is the breeder of manie diſeaſes. air. the northern windeis healthful, becauſit is cold and drie. but on the contrarie, the why the south southern winde, becauſ it is hot and moiſt, weaken's the bodie by ſloth or dulneſs, open's windeis peſti. the ports, and make's them pervious to the peſtiferous malignitie. the weſtern winde is lent. alſo unwholſom, becauſitcom's near to the nature of the southern : wherefore the win- dows muſt bee ſhut up on thatfide ofthehouſon which they blow,but opened on the north ** and eaſt-fide, unleſs it happen the plague com from thence, - kindle a clear fire in all the lodging chambers of the houſ, and perfume the whole houſthe efficacie with aromatick things, as frankincenſ, myrrh, benzoin, ladanum, styrax, roſes, mirtle-ºff: againſt leavs, lavander, roſemarie, sage, savorie, wilde time, marjarum, broom, pine-apples, the plague, #." of firr, juniper-berries, cloves, perfume's: and let your cloaths bee aired in the there bee ſom, who think it a great preſervative againſt the peſtilent air, to keepa goat in their houſes, becauſthe capacitie of the houſes, filled with the ſtrong ſent which the geat ſend's forth, prohibit's the entrance of the venemous air: which ſame reaſon hath place al- ſo in ſweet finels; and beſides it argue's, that ſuch as are hungrieare apter to take the plague then thoſe who have eaten moderately: for thebodie is not onely ſtrengthened with meat, moderaters but all the paſſages thereofarefilled by the vapors diffuſed from thence, by which otherwiſe f. good the infected air would finde a more eaſie entrance to the heart. - - - for prevention. yet the common ſort of people yeeld another reaſon for the goat, which is, that one iſl ſent drive's away another, as one wedg drive's forth another; which calleth to my minde that which is recorded by alexander beneditiuſ, that there was a scythian ...; which cauſed a plague, ariſting from the infection ofthe air, to ceaſ, by cauſingałłthe dogs,cats, aſtrange art and ſuch likebeaſts which were in the cittie, to $ee killed, and caſt their carcaſſes up and ºdºº”y down the ſtreets, that ſo by the commingofthis new putsidyaporºsºfränger, the fºrmer” peſtiferous – - .o concerning the plague. lib. . peſtiferous infeótion,as an old gueſt, was putout of its lodging,and ſo the plague ceaſed. for iſons have notonely an antipathie with their antidotes,but alſo with ſomother poiſons. whilſt the plague is hot, it is not good to ſtir out of door before the riſeing of the sun: wherefore wee muſt have patience, until hee have cleanſed the air with the comfortable light of his beams, and diſperſed all the foggie and noãurnal pollutions, which commonly hang in the air in dirtie, and eſpecially in low places and vallies. _all publick and great meetings and aſſemblies muſt bee ſhunned. whether in the . if the plague begin in summer, and ſeem principally torage; being helped forward by. plague-time the summers-heat, it is beſt to perform a journie begun, or undertaken for neceſſarie affairs, enemuſ travel rather upon the night-time, then on the daie,becauſthe infection take's force, ſtrength and ºnight or by ſubtiltieofſubſtance, by which it may more eaſily permeate and enter in by the heat of the daie, sun; but by night men's bodies are more ſtrong,and all things are more groſs and denſ. but you muſt obſervaclean contrarie courſ if the malignitie ſeem to borrow ſtrength and cele- whyth: moon ritie from coldneſs. but you muſt alwaies eſchew the beams of the moon, but eſpecially at intº bee ſhun- the full for then our : are more languid and weak,and fuller of excrementitioushu- ned. mors. even as trees which for that cauſ muſt bee cut down in their ſeaſon of the moon,that is, in the decreaſ thereof. “, . . * * - after a little gentle walking in your chamber, you muſt preſently uſe ſom means that the principal parts may bee ſtrengthned by ſuſcitateing the heat and #. , and that the paſ- ſages to them may bee filled, that ſo the waiemay bee ſhut up from the infection commin gatlick good from without. such as by the uſe of garlickhave not their heads troubled, northeir inw :#inº the parts inflamed,as countrie-people and ſuch as are uſed to it; to ſuch there can bee no more plague. certain preſervative and antidote againſt the peſtiferous fogs or miſts, and the no&urnal ob- ſcurititie, then to take it in the morning with a draught of good wine; for it beeing abun- dantly diffuſed preſently overall the bodie, fill's up the paſſages thereof, and ſtrengthneth it in a moment. - what water to for water; if the plague proceed from the tainture of the air, wee muſt wholly ſhun and bºmºde:hoice avoid rain-water,becauſit cannot but bee infe&ed by the contagion of the air. wherefore ‘.”g” the water of springs and of the deepeſt wells are thoughtbeſt. but if the malignitieproceed time. from the vapors contained in the earth,you muſt make choice of rain-water. yetitismore ſafeto digeſt everie ſort of waterby boiling it, and to prefer that water before other, which is pure and clear to the fight, and without either taſte or ſmell, and which beſides ſuddenly †. the extremeſt mutation of heat and cold. theanti pathie of poiſons with poiſons. c. h.a.p. w ii. of the cordial remedies by which wee may preſervour bodies in fear of the plague, and cure thoſe already infetica therewith. . - ºld, as cannot eat without much labor, excerciſe and hunger, and who are no tº: lovers of break-faſts,haveing evacuated their excrements,before they go from -" º nº|| home muſt ſtrengthen the heart with ſom antidote againſt the virulencie of aquatberiacali, sº the infeation. amongſt which aqua theriacalit,or treacle-water, two ounces, goed againſt rºl with the like quantitie of sack, is much commended beeing drunk, and rub- ::::a; bing the noſtrils, mouth and ears with the ſame; for the treacle-water ſtreng- ... then's the heart, expell's poiſon, and is not onely good for a preſervative, but alſo to cure wºrdiyapplied, the diſeaſ it ſelf: forby ſweat it drive's forth the poiſon contained within. it ſhould bee made in june, at which time all fimple medicines, by the vital heat of the sun, are in their greateſt efficacie. - the compoſ- the compoſition whereof is thus: take the roots of gentian,ciperus,tormentil,diptam, tion thereof or fraxella,elecampane,of each one ounce;the leavs of mullet,carduus beneditius, divel’s-bit, burnet, scabious, sheeps-ſorrel, of each half a handful; of the tops of rue a little quanti- tie; mirtle-berries one ounce;ofred roſe-leavs,the flowers of bugloſs,borage and s.john's- wurt, of each one ounce: let them bee all cleanſed, dried and macerated for the ſpace of twentie-four hours in one pound of white wine or malmſle, and of roſe-water or sorrel- water; then let them bee put in a veſſel of glaſs, and add thereto of treacle and mithridates ofeach four ounces: then diſtill them in balneo marie, and letthe diſtilled waterbce received in a glaſs-vial, and let there bee added thereto of saffron two drams, of bole-armenick, terra ſigillata, yellow sanders, ſhaveings of ivorie and hartſ-horn, of each half an ounce; then let the glaſs bee well ſtopped, and ſet in the sun for the ſpace of eight or tendaies. let the preſcribed quantitiebee taken everie morning ſooft as ſhall beeneedful. it maybee given without hurt to ſucking children,& to women great with childe.butthat it may be the more pleaſant,it muſt be ſtrain'd through an hippocras-bag,adding theretoſomſuger &cinnamon. som think themſelvs ſufficiently defended with a root of elecampane, zedoarie, or an- gelica, rowled in their mouth, or chawed between their teeth. others drinkeverie morning one dram of the root of gentian bruiſed, beting ma. or lisa. - concerning the tigue. : for the ſpace of one night in two ounces of white wine. others take worm-wood-wine. others ſup up in a rere egg one dram of terra sigilata, or of hartſ-horn, with a little saffron, and drink two ounces of wine after it. there bee ſom that do infuſe bole-armenick, the roots of gentian, tormentil, diptam, the berries of juniper, cloves, mace, cinnamon, saffron, and ſuch hke, in aqua vite and ſtrong white wine, and ſo diſtill it in balneo marie. this cordial water that followeth is of great vertue. take of the roots ofthe long and a cordial round ariſtalochia, tormentil, diptam, of each threedrams, of zedoarietwo drams, lignum water, aloés, yellow sanders, of each one dram, of the leavs of scordium, st. |..." sorrel, rue, sage, of each half an ounce, of bay and juniper-berries, of each three drams, citron- ſeeds one dram, cloves, mace, nutmegs, of each two drams, of maſtich, olibanum, bole-ar- menick, terra sigilata, ſhaveings of hartſ-horn and ivorie, of each one ounce, of saffron one ſcruple, of the conſervs of roſes, bugloſs-flowers,water-lillies and old treacle, of each one ounce, ofcamphire half a dram, ºaqua vite half a pinte,of white wine two pintes and a half, make thereof a diſtillation in balneo marie, the uſe of this diſtilled water is even as treacle water is. the ele&uarie following is verie effectual. take of the beſt treacle three ounces, juni- acordaisle per-berries and carduus-ſeeds of each one dram and a half of bole-armenick prepared half . an ounce, of the power of the ele&uarie de gemini, and diomargariton frigidum, the powder of hartſ-horn, and red coral, of each one dram: mix them with the ſyrup of the rindes and juice of pome-citrons as much as ſhall ſuffice, and make thereof a liquid ele&uarie in the form of an opiate, let them take everie morning the quantitie of a filberd, drinking af. ter it two drams of the water of scabious, cherries,carduus benedičius, and of ſom ſuch like cordiall thing, or of ſtrong wine. - - the following opiate is alſoveric profitable, which alſo may bee made into tablets. anopist. take of the roots of angelica, gentian, zedoarie, elecampane, of eath two drams; of ci- tron and sorrel-ſeeds of each halfa dram; of the dried rindes of citrons, cinnamon, bay and juniper-berrie,and saffrom, of each one ſcruple; of conſervof roſes and bugloſs, of each one ounce; and fine hard suger as much as is ſufficient: make thereof tablets of the weight of half a dram, let him take one of them two hours before meat; or make thereofan opiate with equal parts of conſervs of bugloſs and mel anthoſatum,and ſo adding all the reſt drie and in powder. or take of the roots of valerian, tormentil, diptam, of the leavs of rue, of another. each half an ounce; of saffron, mace, nutmegs,of each half a dram; of bole-armenick pre. pared half an ounce; ofconſerv of roſes and ſyrup of lemmons as much as will bee ſufficient to make thereof an opiateliquid enough. or take of the roots of both the ariſtolochia's, of another: gentian, tormentil, diptam, of each one dram and an half; of ginger three drams; of the leavs of rue, sage, mints and pennie-royal,ofeach two drams; of bay and juniper-berries, citron-ſeeds, of each four ſcruples; of mace, nutmegs, cloves, cinnamon, of each two drams; of lignum aloes, and yellow sanders, of each one dram; of male-frankincenſ, i. oli- banam, maſtich, ſhaveings of hartſ:horn and ivorie, of each two ſcruple; of saffron halfa dram; of bole-armenick, terra sigillata, red coral, pearl, of each one dram; of conſervs of roſes, bugloſs-flowers, water-lillies and old treacle, of each one ounce; of loaf-ſuger one pound and a quarter: a little before the end of the makeing it up, add two drams of con- fetiio alkermes, and of camphire diſſolved in roſe-water one ſcruple; make thereofan opi- ate according to art,the doſe thereof is from half a dram to half a ſcruple. treacle and mithridate faithfully compounded, excell all cordial medicines, adding for everie halfounce of them, one ounce and an half of conſervi of roſes, or of bugloſs, or of violets, and three drams of bole-armenick prepared: of theſe beeing mix't with ſtirring, and incorporated together, make a conſerv. it muſt bee taken in the morning the quantitieof a filberd. you muſtchuſe that treacle that is not leſs then four years old, nor above twelv: that which is ſomwhat new, isjudged to bee moſt meet for cholerick perſons;but that which is old, for flegmatick and old men. for at the beginning the ſtrength of the opium that en- ter's into the compoſition thereof, remain's in its full virtue for a year : but afterwards the more years old it waxeth,the ſtrength thereof is more aboliſhed,ſo that at length the whole compoſition becommeth verie hot. the confection of alkermes is verie effečtual both for a preſervative againſt this diſeaſ;and alſo for the cure. - . the quantitie of a filberd of rubarb, with one clove chawed or rowled in the mouth, is º to repell the comming of the peſtilent air: as alſo this compoſition following: . take of preſerved citron and orange pils, of each one dram; of conſerv of roſes, and of a conſe&ion the roots of bugloſs, of each three drams, ofcitron-ſeeeds half an ounce; of anniſ-ſeeds tº be takenin and fennel-ſeeds,ofeach one dram;of angelica-roots four ſcruples;ſuger of roſes asmuch .# - as ſufficeth; make a confetion, and cover it with leavs of gold, and take a little of it up-f.” on aſpoon before you go abroad everie morning. ortake of pint-apple-kernels, and fiſtick-nuts, infuſed for the ſpace of fix hours ºº: a match-pane &uarie. . concerning the t'lague. lºz. pills of ruffu. other pills. water of scabious and roſes, of each two ounces; of almonds blanched in the fore-named waters half a pound: of preſerved citron and orange pills, of each one dram and an half: of angelica-roots four ſcruples: make them according to art, unto the form of march-pane, or of anie other ſuch like confedion, and hold a little piece thereof often in your mouth. the tablets following are moſt effectual in ſuch a caſe. take of the roots of diptam, tormentil, valerian, elecampane, eringoes, of each half a dram; of bole-armenick, ter- ra sigillata, of each one ſcruple; of camphir, cinnamon, sorrel-ſeeds, and zedoarie, of each one ſcruple; of theffecies of the electuarie diamargariton frigidum, two ſcruples; of con- ſerv of roſes, bugloſs, preſerved-citron-pills, mithridate, treacle, of each one dram; of fine suger diſſolved in scabious and carduus-water, as much as ſhall ſuffice: make thereof tablets, of the weight of a dram, or half a dram: take them in the morning before you eat. the pills oſ ruffus are accounted moſt effe&ual preſervatives,ſo that ruffus himſelf ſaith, that hee never knew anie to bee infected that uſed them: the compoſition of them is thus. take of the beſt aloés half a dram, of gum-ammoniacum two drams, of myrrh two drams and an half, of maſtich two drams, of safforn ſeven grains: put them all together, and incorporate them with the juice of citrons, or the ſyrup of limons, and make thereof a maſs, and let it bee kept in leather: let the patient take the weight of half a dram everie morning two or three hours before meat, and let him drink the water of sorrel after it, which through its tartneſs,and the thinneſs of its parts, doth infringe the force and power of the malignitie or putrefaction: for experience hath taught us, that sorrel beeing eaten or chawed in the mouth, doth make the pricking of scorpions unhurtful. and for thoſe ingredients which do enter into the compoſition of thoſe pills, aloés doth cleanſ and É. myrrh reſiſt’s putrefaction, maſtich ſtrengthen's, saffron exhilarate's and make's iveliethe ſpirits that govern the bodie, eſpecially the vital and animal. thoſe pills that follow are alſo much approoved. take of aloës one ounce, of myrrh . half an ounce, of saffron one ſcruple, of agarick in trochiſces two drams, of rubarb in powder one dram, of cinnamon two ſcruples, of maſtich one dram and an half, of ci- other pills, of what na- ture the medi- cines out- wardly uſed ought to bee. - thems and fomentations to the heart. tron-ſeeds twelve grains: powder them all as is requiſite; and make thereof a maſs with the ſyrup of maiden-hair: let it bee uſed as aforeſaid. if the maſs begin to wax hard, the pills that muſt preſently bee taken, muſt bee mollified with the ſyrup of limons. take of waſhed aloés two ounces, of saffron one dram, of myrrh half an ounce, of am- moniacum diſſolved in white wine one ounce, of honie of roſes, zedoarie, red sanders, of each one dram, of bole-armenick prepared two drams, of red coral half an ounce, of cam- phir half a ſcruple: make thereof pills according to art. but thoſe that are ſubjećt or apt to the hemorrhoids ought not at all, or verie ſeldom to uſe thoſe kindes of pills that do re- ceiv much aloës. - they ſay, that king mithridates affirmed by his own writeing, that whoſoever took the quantitie of an haſel-nut of the preſervative following, and drank a little wine after it, ń. bee free from poiſon that day. take two wah-nuts, thoſe that be verie drie, two figs, twentie leavs of rue, and three grains of salt: beat them, and incorporate them toge- ther, andlet them bee uſed as is aforeſaid. . this remedie is alſo ſaid to bee profitable for thoſe that are bitten or ſtungby ſom vene- mous beaſt, and for this onely, becauſit hath rae in the compoſition thereof.but you muſt forbid women that are with childe the uſe of this medicine; for rue is hot and drie in the third degree, and therefore it is ſaid to purge the womb, and provoke the flowers, whereby the nouriſhment is drawn away from the childe. of ſuch varietie of medicines, every one º make choice of that that is moſt agreeable to his taſte, and as much thereofas ſhall bee ſufficient. c h a p. viii. of local medicine, to bee applied outwardly. ºriº hoſe medicines that have proper and excellent virtues againſt the peſtilence,are ºlºs, not to bee negle&ed to bee applied outwardly, or carried in the hand. and ſuch º& are all aromatical, aſtringent, or ſpirituous things, which therefore are endued º, with virtue to repel the venemous and peſtiferous air from comming and en- tring into the bodie, and to ſtrengthen the heart and the brain. of this kinde are rue, balm; roſemarie, scordium, sage, worm-wood, cloves, nut-megs, saffron, the roots of angelica, and lovage, and ſuch like, which muſt bee macerated one night in ſharp wineger and aqua vite, and then tied in a knot as big as an egg: or rather let itbee carried in a ſponge made wet, or ſoaked in the ſaid infuſion. for there is nothing that doth ſooner and better hold the ſpirituous virtue and ſtrength of aromatick things, then a ſponge. where- fore it is of principal uſe either to keep or hold ſweet things to the noſe, or to applie epi- thoſe * lib. . - concerning the plague. - im- - , - thoſe ſweet things ought to bee hot or cold, as the ſeaſon of the year, and kinde of the peſilence is as forexample,in the summer you ought to infuſe and macerate cinnamori and cloves, beaten together, with a little saffron in equal parts, of vineger of roſes, and roſe-water,into which you muſt dip a ſponge, which rowled in a fairlinnen cloth, you may carrie in your hand, and often ſmell to. . . . . . take of worm-wood half a handful; ten cloves, of the roots of gentian and angelica, ofeach two drams; of vineger and roſt-water, of each two ounces; of treacle and mithri- date, of each one dram ; beat and mix them all well together, and let a ſpongebee dipped therein, and uſed as above-ſaid. they may alſo beeencloſed inboxes made of ſweet wood, as of juniper, cedar, or cypreſs, and ſo carried for the ſame purpoſe. but there is nothing more eaſieto bee carried then pomanders: the form of which is thus: take of yellow sanders, mace, citron-pills, roſe and mirtle-leavs, of each two drams; of benzoin, ladanum, storax,ofeach half a dram; of cinnamon and saffron,ofeach two ſcru- ples; of camphire and amber-greece,ofeach one ſcuple;of muskthree grains. make there- pomanders. of a pomander, with roſe-water,with the infuſion of tragacanth. ortake red-roſe-leavs, - the flowers of water-lillies and violets, of each one ounce;of the three sanders, coriander- feeds, citron-pills, of each half an ounce; of camphire,one dram; letthem all beenade in- to powder, and with water of roſes and tragacanth make apomander. n the winter it is to bee made thus. take of storax, benzoin, of each one dram and a half; of musk, half a ſcruple ; of cloves, lavander and ciperus, of each two drams; ofthe root of orris, i.e. flower-de-luce, and calamus aromaticus, of each two drams and a half; of amber-grece, three drams; of gum-tragacanth diſſolved in roſe-water and aqua vitae, as much as ſhall ſuffice: make thereof a pomander. and for the ſame purpoſe you may alſo uſeto carrie about with you ſweet powders made sweet-pow: of amber-greece, storax,c)rris,nutmegs,cinnamon, mace, cloves, saffron,benzoin,musk, ders. - | ‘camphire, roſes, violets, funcus odoratus, marjarum and ſuch like, of which beeing mixed together,powders may may bee compounded and made., take of the roots of orris two drams, of cyperus, calamus aromaticus, red roses, of each half an ounce; of cloves half a dram, of storax, one dram; of musk,eight grains: mix them, and make a powder for abag : or take the roots of orris two ounces; red-roſe-leavs, white sanders, storax, of each one dram; of cyperus,one ounce; of calamus aromaticus, one ounces of marjarum, half an ounce; of cloves, three drams; of lavander, half a dram; of corian- der-ſeeds, two drams; of good musk, half a ſcruple ; of ladanum and benzoin, of each a dram; of nutmegs and cinnamon, of each two drams: make thereof a fine powder, and ſow it in abag. - it will bee verie convenient alſo to applie to the region of the heart, a bag filled with yel-bags. low sanders, mace, cloves, cinnamon, saffron and treacle ſhaken together, and incorpo- rated, and ſprinkled over with ſtrong vineger and roſe-water in summer, and with ſtrong wine and muskadine in the winter. theſe ſweet aromatick things that are ſo full of ſpirits, ſmelling ſweetly and ſtrongly, have admirable virtues to ſtrengthen the principal parts of the bodie, and to ſtir up the ex- pulſive facultie to expel the poiſon. contrarie-wiſe, thoſe that are ſtinking and unſavorie, procure a defire to vomit, & diſſo-unſavorie iution of the powers,by which it is manifeſt how fooliſh and abſurd their perſwaſion is, that thingtober counſel ſuch as are in a peſtilent conſtitution of the air,to receivand take in the ſtinking and eſchewed. unſavorie vapors of ſink! and privies, and that eſpecially in the morning. but it will not ſuffice to carrie thoſe preſervatives alone, without the uſe of anie other thing, but it will bee alſo verie profitable towaſh all the whole bodie in vineger of the de- coètion of juniper and bay-berries, the roots of gentian, marigolds, s. john's-wurt, and ſuch like, with treacle or mithridate alſo diſſolved in it. for vineger is an enemie to all k. in general, whether they bee hotor cold: for it refiſteth and hindereth putrefation. either is it to bee feared, that it ſhould obſtrućt the pores, by reaſon of its coldneſs, if the bodie beebathed in it: for it is of ſubtil parts, and the ſpices boiled in it,have virtueto open. whoſoever accounteth it hurtful to waſh his whole bodie therewith, let him waſh onely his arm-holes, the .. of his heart, his temples, groins, parts of generation; as haveing great and marvelous ſympathie with the principal and noble parts. if anie miſlike batheing, let him annoint himſelf with the following unguent. take oil an unguent. of roſes, four ounces; oil of spike, two ounces; ofthe powder of cinnamon and cloves, of each,one ounce and a half of benzoin,half an ounce;of musk,ſix grains; of treacle, half a dram; of venice-turpentine,one dram and a half; of wax, as much as ſhall ſuffice: make thereof a ſoft uinguent. you may alſo drop a few drops of oil of maſtich, of sage,or of cloves, and ſuch like.in- to theears,with a little civetor musk. - | : c hap. -- º . concerning the plague. lib. . º chap. ix. of other things to bee obſerved for prevention, in fear of the plague. ... rerºz enerie is chiefly to bee eſchewed, for by it the powers are debilitated - - ...- ºffº diffipated, and the breathing places of the jº diminiſhed, and ; º: ned. &an/ºr ſtrength of nature weakned. a ſedentarie life is to bee ſhunned, as alſo &c.; in diet,for hence proceed's obſtruction,the corruption of the juices,and preparation of the bodie to putrefattion and the peſtilence. women muſt bee verie careful that they have their courſes duely, for ſtopping befides the cuſtom, they eaſily acquire corruption, and draw by contagion the reſt of the humors into running ul- their ſocietie. such as have fiſtulous, or otherwiſe old ulcers, muſt not heal them up in a cers good in peſtilent ſeaſon; for it is then more convenient rather to make new ones and theſe incon- time of peſti- venient and declineing places; that as by theſe channels, the ſink of the humors of the bo. lence. die may bee emptied. the hemorhoids,bleedings,and other the like accuſtomed evacuations, muſt not beeſto ped, unleſs they exceed meaſure. moreover, they muſt at ſuch times take heed that they touch or handle not anie of theſe things wherein the ſeeds or fuell of the peſtilence may lie" hid; ſuch as are hemp, flax, quilts and coverings wherein ſuch as have had the plague have . . * laid; skins and all lether-things,hangings and cloaths. you uuſt dwell far from church. hºle yards, eſpecially from thoſe wherein the corps of ſuch as have died of the plague are not bu- ried dead in the ground, as in the church of innocents in paris, in which place by the ſame reaſon it ſundrie times happen's that the bodies are plucked up, rent and torn by dogs. alſo let them dwell far from places of execution,ſhambles of fleſh and fiſh,from tan-flouſes,diars, tallow-chandlers, cloth-dreſſers, farriers, skinners, and from the places wherein metals are are caſt or wrought. the filth and dung, eſpecially of swine, privies, ſtanding and mud- die waters, and laſtly all things of the like evil ſmell, muſt beefarremote from your habi- tation; the bellie muſt not bee emptied into thoſe places, into which the excrements of ſuch what compa- as have the plague are caſt. the companie of ſuch as uſually viſite thoſe fickofthe plague, nie obce a muſt bee eſchewed, as of phyſicians, apothecaries, surgeons, nurſ-keepers, grave-makers voided. and bearers. for though they have not the plague, yet comming out of a peſtilent place, they may carrie with them lying in their garments, the ſeeds thereof. you may gather this by ſuch have for a little †. ſtaied in a perfumer's ſhop,for the perfume diffuſed in the air, beſtow's the ſmellupon the garments of ſuch perſons, #. that gon from thence,ſuch as meet yoº muſt do them, will judg them to carrieperfumes with them. they ſhall alſo ſhun long watchings ...; '... ſound ſleeping, all paſſions of the minde, eſpecially anger, hunger, thirſt, journying in the }. sun, for that hath oftimes occaſioned a diarie fever, which hath not ſeldom been ſeen to ſon whereby - - -- - - - - jw turn into apeſtilent one for by dilateing the pore of the skin; they have given entrance too hot. to the peſtilent air, which by that means hath eafily taken hold of the humor diſpoſed to putrefaction. - - chap. x. of the office of magiſtrates in the time of the plague. fºgiſtrates ought to have aſpecial care that no filth bee heaped up,either in pri: º 㺠vate or publick places: let all things beekept neat in everle houſ, and let all º §§ º the ſtreets bee kept clean, the dung and filth bee carried forth of the cittie : jº § as alſo the dead carcaſſes of killed dogs& cats,for becauſthey oftimes lick and § § devour the excrements of ſuch as have the sickneſs,therefore they may by their www.and familiar entrie into ſound houſes, there propagate the plague. wherefore they *. *...* muſt either bee driven forth of the citie,or killed, and ſobee carried forth and buried dee killed in a in the ground. wells, ſprings, and rivers themſelvs, muſt bee free’d and cleanſed from all plague-time. impuritie. care muſt beehad that muſtie corn, tainted fleſh, nor flinking fiſhbee not ſetto why baths ſale. publick baths and hot-houſes muſt bee prohibited, for that in theſe, men's bodies are and hot houſes weakned, and made more yeelding and pervious to the peſtiferous air. they ſhall commit are not then to the cure of ſuch as have the plague, to learned, skilful and honeſt phyſicians and apotheca- bet allowed, ries and surgeons. such as are known to have the plague,ſhall beeſeparated from ſuch as are free there-frºm, and bee ſent to ſuch fit places as ſhallbee provided for them; for this is better and more hi- manely don'then to ſhut up everie man in his own houſ. they ſhall provide and fore-ſe: that the houſhold-ſtuff of ſuch as have the plague beenot ſet to ſale. they ſhallſet figns and noted marks upon the houſes ſeazed upon by this diſeaſ, left they ſhould unawares run into danger. wherefore to the ſame purpoſe they ſhall procure that the surgeons and other: that viſit the ſick of the plague may bee known by ſom conſpicuous mark, that ſuch as paſ; by them may bee admoniſhed of the danger; they ſhall alſo take care that the bodies : - - tile lib. . concerning the plague. in th: in . "o li lit w: º: lſo th it) ſº t, |- ſº () ! ji º the dead bee buried as ſpeedily as may bee. for they ſooner and more grievouſly putrefie in such as die of a ſhort time, then the bodies of others of what death ſoever they die. wherefore, neither theºlºguedo birds, nor ravenous beaſts dare once touch their bodies, though unburied; for by taſteing * putre- them they ſhould quickly com to their deaths. the keepers of the gates of the cittie ſhall “ bee admoniſhed, that they take ſpecial care that ſuch as are infected, or com from a viſited place, do not enter into the cittie; for from one, the evil may com to ſpread itſelf further; for one ſpark may ſet a whole cittie on fire,and one ſcabbie ſheep infect a whole flock.and becauſthere is nothing which may more perfeó:ly purge the air,and cleanſit from all man- ner of noiſomneſs and infe&ion, then fire; they ſhall command that there bee kindled , and perpetually kept burning-fires, made with odoriferous and ſtrong-ſmelling things, as ju- niper, turpentine, broom, and the like. --- in ſtead hereof levinus tell's, that the souldiers of the garriſon of tornie uſed in a libad, west, plague-time to diſcharge their canons laded onely with powder, turning their mouths up-mat.mirac, on the cittie, and that morning and evening; that by the vehemencie of the mooved air, the peſtiferous fogs might bee chaſed away; and by the heat of the burned powder, the vene- nate and noiſom qualitie of the air might bee amended. laſtly, i judgitfit to admoniſh ma-the villanie giſtrates, that they have their eies and mindes attentive upon a murderous and impious of ſon baſe kinde of bearers and nurſ-keepers; which allured with a deſire of gain (which whilſt the pºp". plague reign's, they get abundaatly) annoint the walls, doors, threſholds, knockers of gates and locks with the filth and ointments taken from ſuch as have the plague, that the plague within a while after ſeizing upon theſe alſo, the maſters of them flying away,and the familie diſperſed, they may there reign alone, and freely and without puniſhment carrie thence what they pleaſ; oftimes ſtrangling ſuch as lie readie to die, leſt recovering, they might bee their accuſers. this i remember happened at lions, anno dom. . chap. xi. what caution muſt bee uſed in thuſing phyſicianſ, apothecaries and surgeon, who may have care of ſuch as are taken with the plague. §§ t is the part of magiſtrates in the ſo great neceſſitie of the afflićted common- - #: º wealth, to appoint learned, skilful, and honeſt phyſicians, surgeons, and † apothecaries, and ſuch as have more regard to the law of god then to gain, nºrf ; i : to have the care and cure of ſuch as are viſited. but principally let them not § gº take surgeons and apothecaries called by proclamation with ſound of trum- sºº pet, that if they will take this charge, they ſhall becom free without exami- nation or reward. butlet them rather bee allured by gifts and honeſt rewards, not onely then when as neceſſitie urgeth; but alſo after the plague is over. for ſuch ſervant-surgeons and apothecaries as are called by proclamation, ſo to gain freedom, are moſt commonly unskilful and unexperienced dunces, who, conſcious of their own ignorance, and fearing to undergo the examination of the maſters of their companies, refuſe no hazard, however dangerous, with deſire to obtain their freedom. - it is far worſ and more dangerous to fall into the hands of ſuch, then into the hands of theevs and murderers; for theſe, by providence or ſtrength, wee may chance to eſcape; but wee ſeek for and embrace the other, and haveing found them, lay our throats bare unto them,ſo by their unskilfulneſs to bee butchered.certainly by the fault of the times,and the neglećt of magiſtrates, it is almoſt cem to this paſs,that if anie honeſt and learned phyſici- ans and surgeons ſhall undertake this cure, they are commonly forced thereto by the ma- giſtrate for fear of baniſhment or fineing. therefore becauſthey do it againſt their wills, they ſhew themſelvs leſs vigilant, cheerful and painful about the ſick. they comunwil- lingly, and compelled hereto, becauſby the memorie of the fore-paſt time, they ſufficiently know, how ſordid and baſely magiſtrates, when the plague hath been over-paſt, have been in paying, the promiſed reward to men of their condition, who have ſtoutly run into dan- ger; for thence it happen's, that dureing the reſt of their lives, they may ſit idle at home, for that they are infamous, and feared by the people onely for this, that a while agon they viſited ſuch as had the plague. therefore i would have magiſtrates prudent, faithful, and free in chuſeing honeſt, learned and skilful men, who may undergo this ſo difficult and dangerous a charge. * g c h a p. xii. how ſuch as undertake the cure of the plague ought to arm themſelvs. - f. thymuſt think and hold for certain, that they are not called to this office by our lots are men, but by god, ſo direáing the counſels and ačtions of men asheethinketh fit. intº hands of therefore they ſhall confidently enter into the cure thereof, for that our lot, life and death **** - aa a - alſº - - lºz. t *— - cºncerning the tigue. — → • burned, and the outward parts are ſtiff with cold, the whole heat of the patient beeing drawn violently inward, after the manner of a cupping-glaſs, by the ſtrongburning of the their looks inner parts; then the eie-lids wax blew, as it were through ſom contuſion, all the whole tº ſuddenly face hath an horrid aſpe&t, and as it were the color of lead, the eies are burning red, and as changed. it were ſwoln, or puffed up with blood, or anie other humor, ſhed tears; and to conclude, the whole habit of the bodie is ſomwhat changed, and turned yellow. manie have a burning fever, which doth ſhew its ſelf by the patient's ulcerated jaws,un- uenchable thirſt, drineſs and blackneſs of the tongue, and it cauſeth fuch a phrenſie by in- #: the brain, that the patients, running naked out of their beds, ſeek to throw them- ſelvs out of windows into §: pits and rivers that are at hand. in ſom the joints of the bo. die are ſo weakned, that they cannot go nor ſtand; from the beginning they are as it were why ſomthat buried in a long ſwound and deep ſleep, by reaſon that the fever ſendeth up to the brain the are taken with groſs vapors from the crude and cold humors, as it were from green wood newly kindledºg" * to make a fire. ſleepie. such ſleeping doth hold him eſpecially while the matter of the ſore or carbuncle is drawn together, and beginneth to com to ſuppuration. oftentimes when they are awaked out of ſleep, there do ſpots and marks appear diſperſed over the skin, with a º: ſweat. but if thoſe vapors bee ſharp that are ſtirred up unto the head, inſtead of ſleep they cauſgreat wakeing, and alwaies there is much diverſitie of accidents in the urine of thoſe that are in- fe&ed with the plague,by reaſon of the divers temperature and condition of bodies: neither is the urine at all times,and in all men of the ſame conſiſtence and color: for ſomtimes th are like unto the urine of thoſe that are ſound and in health, that is to ſay, laudable in co- why their u- lor and ſubſtance; becauſthat when the heart is affected by the venemous air, that entreth einº are like in unto it, the ſpirits are more greatly grieved and moleſted then the humors: but thoſe,i.e. :* arc the ſpirits, are infected and corrupted when theſe do begin to corrupt. . but urines onely ſhew the diſpoſitions of the humors or parts in which they are made, f colle&ed together, and through which they paſs. - this reaſon ſeemeth truer to mee then theirs which ſay, that nature terrified with the malignities of the poiſon avoid's contention,and doth not reſiſt or labor to digeſt the mat- ter that cauſſeth the diſeaſ. - manie have their appetites ſo overthrown, that they can abſtain from meat for the ſpace of three daies together. - and to conclude, the varietie of accidents is almoſt infinite, which appear and ſpring up in this kinde of diſeaſ, by reaſon of the diverſitie of the poiſon, and condition of the bodies and grieved parts: but they do not all appear in each man; but ſom in one, and fom in another. - chap. xiv. what ſigns in the plague are mortal. t is a moſt deadlie ſign in the peſtilence, to have a continual and burning fe- ver, to have the tongue drie, rough, and black, to breathe with difficultie, and to draw in a great quantitie of breath,but breathe out little; to talk idlely; to have phrenfie and madneſs together, with unquenchable thirſt and greatwatching; to have convulſions, the hicket, heart-beating, and to ſwound verie often and vehemently: further, toſſing and turning in the bed, with a loathing of meats, and dailie vomits of a green, black, and bloodie color; and the face pale, § of an horrid and cruel aſpect, be- dewed with a cold ſweat, and verie mortal ſigns. - there are ſom which at the verie beginning have ulcerous and painful wearineſs, pric-anulcerous king under the skin, with great torment of pain ; the eies look cruelly and ſtareingly, the and pinºl voice waxeth hoarſ, the tongue rough and ſtutting, and the underſtanding decaying; the #: patient uttereth and talketh of frivolous things. truly thoſe are vºie dangerouſly. fick, no otherwiſe then thoſe whoſe urine is pale, black, and troubled like unto the u-āh ſhºplague rine of carriage-beaſts, or lee, with divers j clouds or contents; as blew, green, to bee deadlies black, fattie and oilie, as alſo reſembling in ſhew a spiders web, with a round bodie ſwim- - ming on the top. if the fleſh of the carbuncle bee drie and black, as it were ſºared with an hot iron, if the fleſh about it bee black and blew, if the matterdöflow back,and turn in, if they have a lask with greatly ſtinking, liquid, thin, clammie, black, green or blewiſh ordure; if they avoid worms by reaſon of the great corruption of the humors, and yet for all this the patient is never the better; if the eies wax often dim, if the noſtrilsbee contraćted or drawn together, if they have a grievous cramp, the mouth bee drawn aſide, the muſcles of the face beeing drawn or contračted equally or unequally; if the nails bee black; if they bee often º: a aa w t concerning the plague. lib. . &hy they have no ſores. with the hicket, or have a convulſion and reſolution over all the bodie, then you may certainly prognoſticate that death is at hand, and you may uſe cordial medicines onely,but it is too late to purge, or let blood. _ chap. xv. signs of the plague comming by contagion of the air without aniefault of the humorſ. ºou ſhall underſtand, that the peſtilence proceed's from the corruption of the §air, if it bee verie contagious,and diſperſeth it ſelf into ſundrie places in a mo- : ment. if it kill quickly and manie, ſo that whil'ſt ſundrie perſons go about ºf their uſual buſineſs, walk in the places of common reſort and through the ſtreets, they ſuddenly fall down and die, no ſign of the diſeaſ or harm appear- ing, nor anie pain oppreſſing them; for the malignitie of the corrupt air is quick and verie ſpeedie in infecting our ſpirits, overthrowing the ſtrength of the heart, and killing the pa- tient. the patients are not troubled with great agitation, becauſthe ſpirits diſſipated by the rapid malignitie of the poiſon, cannot endure that labor; beſides they are taken with frequent ſwoundings, few of them have bubo's, few have blains comforth; and by the ſame reaſon their urines are like to thoſe of ſound men. -_ chap. xvi. signs of the plague drawn into the bodie by the fault and putrefaſiion of humors. prºgdrmerly wee have reckoned up the cauſes of the corruption of humors §|from plenitude, obſtrućtion, diſtemper, and the ill juice of meats. now muſt wee deliver the ſigns of each corrupt humor which reign's in us, that it may bee reduced to ſoundneſs and perfeótion of nature by the oppoſition º of its contrarie, or elſbee evacuated by phyſick. therefore if the bodie rs*bee more yellow then uſual, it is a ſign .choler offending in quantitie and qualitie. if more black, then of melancholie; if more pale, then of phlegm if more red, with the veins ſwoln up and full, then of blood. alſo the color of the riſeing blains, tu- mors and ſpots, expreſs the color of the predominant humor, as alſo the excrements caſt forth by vomit, ſtool and otherwiſe; the heavineſs and cheerfulneſs of the affečted bodie; the manner of the preſent fever; the time of the year, age, region, diet. such things as have a cutting, penetrateing, attenuateing, and cleanſing facultie, take away obſtrućtion. by means of obſtrućtion fevers oftimes accompanie the plague, and theſe not onely continual, but alſo intermitting, like tertians or quartanes. therefore that plague that is fixed in the infection or corruption of a cholerick humor, ſhew's itſelf by the fore-mentioned ſigns of predominateing cholºr, to wit,the heat of the skin, blains, and excrements, as alſo in the quickneſs of killing, and vehemencie of the ſymptons, bitterneſs of the mouth, a painful and continual endeavour of going to ſtool,by reaſon of the acrimonie of choler ſtimulateing and rakeing the guts in thei. forth. that which reſide's in the corrupt ſubſtance of groſs humors, as of blood, ſheweth itſelf by manic and plentiful ſweats, by a ſcouring, by which are avoided manie and various humors; and oftimes alſo bloodie matter that pro- ceed's from corrupt phlegm, it invade's with more ſound ſleep, and cauſleſs wearineſs of all the members; when they are awakened out of their ſleep, they are not ſeldom troubled with a trembling over all their joints, the entrance and way of the ſpirits into the members bee- ing obſtrućted by the groſneſs of the humors. that which is ſeated in the corruption of a melancholick humor, is accompanied with heavineſs and pain of the head, much penfive- neſs; a deep and ſmallpuiſ. but the moſt certain fign of the plaguereſidcing in the cor- ruption of the humors, is to bee taken from the urine. for the figns of the vitiated humors cannot but ſhew themſelvs in the urines: therefore troubled urines, and ſuch as are like thoſe of carriage-beats , as alſo black and green, give certain notice thereof. but ſom are much troubled with thirſt, others not at all;becauſcholer or phlegm ſomtimes onely putre- fie in the ſtomach or orifice of the ventricle; ſomtimes beſides they will weaken the govern- ment of the natural faculties of the part, as of the appetite. but if the fever happen by the default and infečtion both of the air and humors; then will there bee a great confuſion of the fore-mentioned figns and ſymptoms. - signs of cho- ler, when the u- rine is to bee looked upon. why ſotn are much troubled with thirſt, o- thers not at all. c.h.a.p. lib. . concerning the plague. - - chap. xvii. of the prognoſtication that is to bee inſtituted in the plague. |ou may well fore-tell the future motions and events of diſeaſes, when you a throughly know the nature ofthe diſeaſ, and accidents thereof, and the condi- º "tion, funětion, and excellencie of the bodie and grieved parts: although that this may bee ſpoken in general, that there is no certain predićtion in peſtilent nocertainpre: diſeaſes, either to health or death,for they have verie unconſtant motions,ſom-dition in the times ſwift and quick, ſomtimes ſlow, and ſomtimes choaking or ſuffocateing in a moment, plague, - while onebreath's in the venemous air, as hee is going about anie of his neceſſarie affairs, haveing puſtles riſing in the skin with ſharp pain, and as though the whole bodie were pricked all over with needles, or the ſtings of bees. which i have ſeen with mine eies in the plague that was at lions when charls the french king lay there. it manie times commethto paſs that the accidents that were verie vehement and rageing a little before, arcſuddenly aſ fwaged,and the patients do think themſelvsbetter,oralmoſt perfeółly ſound.which happen's to marie one of the queen-mother her maids, in that notable peſtilent conſtitution of the an hiſtorie. air,that year when charl; the french-king lay atthe caſtle of roſſilion: for when ſhee was infe&ed, a greattumor or bubo aroſe in her groin, and ſuddenly it went in again, ſo that the thirdday of her ſickneſs, ſheeſaid ſhee was without anie grief or diſeaſ at all, but that ſhee was troubled with the difficultie of makeing water; and i think it was becauſthe the bladder was enflamed by the refiux of the matter; but ſhee was ſoundin minde and bodie, and wal- ked up and down the chamber on the ſame day that ſhee died.the ſtrangeneſs of which thing made the king ſo fearful,that hee haſted to depart thence. º - although this diſeaſdoth ſpare noman of what age, temperature, complexion, diet and why young condition ſoever, yet it aſſaulteth young men that are cholerick and ſanguine,more often men ſoon: then old men that are cold and drie, in whom the moiſture that is the nouriſher of putrefa-take the plague &ion by reaſon of their age is conſumed, and the waies,paſſages and pores of the skin, where- then old. by the venemous air ſhould enter and pierce in,are more ſtrait and narrow. and moreover, becauſold men do alwaies ſtay at home,but young men for their neceſſarie buſineſs,and alſo for their delight and pleaſure, are alwaies more abroad in the day-time, in the air, where- hence the j of the peſtilence commeth more often. - that peſtilence that com'sby the corruption of the humors, is not ſo contagiousas that what plague which commeth by the default of the air. but thoſe that are phlegmatick and melancholick, moſt contagi. are moſt commonly grieved with that kinde of peſtilence becauſin them the humors are ous. more clammie and groſs, and their bodies more cold and leſs perſpirable, for which cauſes. the humors ſooner and more ſpeedily putrefie. ~ men that are of an ill juice are alſo moſt apt to this kinde of peſtilence,for in the naughtie, qualitie of the juice there is a great preparation of the humors unto putrefaction: you may: know it by this, that when the peſtilence reigneth, there are no other diſeaſes among the ! -- * - common people, which have their original of anieill juice, but they all degenerate into the º º plague. therefore when they begin to appear and wander up and down, it is a token that . . . .” the peſtilence will ſhortly ceaſ, or is almoſt at an end. . . . . . . ºf .** : . buthere alſo i would have you to unerſtand thoſe to bee of an ill juice, which have no. pores in their skin, by which as it wereby rivers,the evil juice which is contrarieto nature, may bee evacuatedand purged. and i have noted and obſerved, that thoſe are leſs in danger wholeaſt ſub- of the peſtilence which have cancerous ulcers and ſtinking fores in their noſes, and ſuch asjºo takeths infected with the french pocks, have by reaſon thereof, tumors and rotten ulcers, or have plague. the king's-evil running upon them,the leprofie or the scab: and to conclude,all thoſe that have fiſtula's and running in their bodies. - º i think thoſe that have quartane fevers are the better priviledged for the ſame, becauſthat by the fit cauſing ſweat, that commeth everie fourth daie, they avoid much of the evil juice that was engendred. . . . - this is more like to bee truc, then to think that the poiſon that commeth fromwithout, as a n- may bee driv'n away by that which lurketh within. º, - - ... . o.: " : " : contrariwiſe, women that are great with childe, as i have noted, becauſthey have much who ſubjećt ill juice; beeing prohibited from their accuſtomedevacuations, are verie apt to take this diſ-thereto. eaſ, and ſo ſeldom recover after the are infected. -: . . . . . . black orblew impoſtumes, and ſpots and puffles of the ſame color, diſperſed overthe sign; the skin, argue that the diſeaſis altogether incureable and mortal. diſeaſisinsure- when the ſwelling or ſore goeth or commeth before the fever,itis a good fign;for it de- *: d fign. clareth that the . is verie weak and feeble, and that nature hath overcom it, which of itſelf is able to drive ſo great portion thereoffrom theinner parts. but if theſore or tu-a deadlie figa, mor com after the fever, it is a mortaland deadlie fign, for it is certain that it commeth of the venemous matter not tranſlated,but disº, by the vićtorie of nature,but through a a tile o concerning the plague. lisz. the multitude of the matter, with the weight whereof nature is overcom. when the moon decreaſeth,thoſe that are infe&ed with the peſtilence are in great doubt and danger of death, becauſthen the humors that were colle&ted and gathered together be- fore the full of the moon,through delay and abundance, do ſwell the more, and the facul- ties by which the bodie isgoverned,becommore weak and feeble, becauſof the imbecillitie of the native heat, which before was nouriſhed and augmented by the light, and ſo conſe- quently by the heat of the full-moon: for as it is noted by ariſtotle, the wainings of the moon are more cold and weak: and thenceit is that women have their menſtrual fluxes chiefly or moſt commonly at that time. - - - in what air in agroſs and cloudie air the peſtilentinfection is leſs vehement and contagious then in moſt contagi-athin and ſubtil air whether that thinneſs of the air proceed from the heat of the sun, ouş. or from the north winde and cold. therefore at paris, where naturally; and alſo through the abundance of filth that is about the citie,the airis dark andgroſs, the peſtilentinfecti- on is leſs fierce and contagious then it is in province, for the ſubtiltie of the air ſtimulates or helps forward the plague. but this diſeaſis mortal and pernicious whereſoeverit bee, becauſitſuddenly aſſaulteth the heart, which is the manſion, or as it were the fortreſs or caſtle of life: but commonl notbefore the ſigns and tokens of it appear on the bodie; and yet you ſhall ſcarce . anie man that thinketh of calling the phyſician to help to preſerv him from ſo great danger before the ſigns thereof bee evident to bee ſeen and felt: but then the heart is aſſaulted: and when the heart is ſo aſſaulted, what hope of life is there, or health to bee looked for. what effects. thereforebecauſmedicines com, oft-times too late, and this maladie is as it were a ſudden far and confi and winged meſſenger of our death, is commeth to paſs that ſo manie die thereof. and : º: moreover, becauſof the firſt ſuſpicion of this ſo dire and cruela diſeaſ, the imagination and * * * minde(whoſe force in the diverily much ſtirring up of the humors is great & almoſt incredi- º ble) is ſo troubled with fear of imminent death,and deſpair of health,that together with the . . . . . perturbed humors, all the ſtrength and power of nature falleth and finketh down. this you may perceiv and know, by reaſon that the keepers of ſuch as are fick, and the bearers which are not fearfull, but verie confident, although they do all the baſeſt offi- ces which may bee for the ſick, are commonly not infected, and ſeldom die thereof if infected. . . * * … . . . . . . chap. xviii. how apeſtilent fever com’s to bee bred in us. ; he plague oft-times findeth fuel in our bodies, and oftimes allurements, to wit 㺺l the putrefaction of humors, or aptneſs to putrefie: but it never thence hathits º § firſt originall, forthat com’s alwāies from the defiled air; therefore i. §§ fever is thus bred in us: the peſtilent air drawn by inſpiration into the lungs the original and tranſpiration into thºutmoſt mouths of the veines and arteries ſpread overtheskin,the of the pºgue blood or'elfthehumors alreadie putrefying or apt to putrefie therein, are infected and turn- alwales from edinto a certain kinde of malignitie reſembling the nature of the agent. theſe humors, the air. like unquench’t lime when it is firſt ſprinkled with water,ſºnd forth a putrid vapor, which carried to the principal parts and heart ºil; infºteth the ſpirituous bloodboiling in the ventricles thereof, and therewith alſo the vital ſpirits; and hence proceed's a certain sº. fiveriſh heat. this heat diffuſed over the bodie by thearteries tºgether with amalignqua- ...; litie, taint's all,even the ſolid parts of the bones with the peſtiferous venom; and beſides, caliſſºth divers ſymptoms, according to the nature thereof, and the condition of the bodie and the humors whereinitis. then is the conflićt of the malignitie affailing, and nature defending, manifeſt; in which if nature prevail, it, uſing the help of the expulfive facultie, will ſend and drive it far from the noble parts, eitherby ſweats, vomits, bleeding, evacuati- onby ſtool or urine,buboes,carbuncles,puſtles,ſpots,and other ſuch kindes ofbreakings out over the skin. but on the contrarie, if the malignitieprevail, and nature bee too weak, and yeclá, and that firſt heebee troubled with often panting or palpitation of the heart; then “preſently after with frequent faintings, the patient then at length will die. for this is a * * * great ſign of the plague orapeſtilent fever, if preſently at the firſt, with no labor.noranie evacuationworth the ſpeaking of their ſtrength fail them, and they becomexceeding faint. ...you may finde the other ſigns mentioned in our preceding diſcourſ - sº -- - signs that na- ture is ortcom. - ... • * * * - - * -º . . . . . . . . - . . . - - - - - - - j ſ:"... " " - " . . . . . . . - - s … • * * * * * * -- - - - - … ." - - - - . . . . . -, * : ::, . . chap. ** - - a . . . . º -- - - -- - - - - - - - -- • - - - , ſº * . - - - - - * , - * . . . . . . . . - - - in -- - - - - - - - lib. . - - - -- concerning toiſons, &c. chap. xix. into what place the patient ought to betake himſelf ſo ſoon as bee finde's bimſelf infeded. §§ eehave ſaid that the perpetual and firſt original of the peſtilence commeth of change of the § the air, therefore ſo ſoon as one is blaſted with the peſtiferous air, after hee airconducts hath taken ſom preſervative againſt themalignitiethereof, hee muſt withdraw . º cure of himſelf into ſom wholeſom air, that is, clean and pure from any venemous the plague. infe&ion or contagion;for there isgreat hope of health by the alteration of the air; for wee do moſt frequently and abundantly draw in the air of all things, ſo that wee cannot want it for a minute of time: therefore of the air that is drawn in dependeth the correótion, amendment, or increaſofthe poiſon or malignitie that is received, as the air is pure, fincere,or corrupted. there bee ſom that dothink it good to ſhut the patient in a cloſe chamber, ſhutting the windows to prohibit the entrance of the air as much as they are able: but i think it more convenient that thoſe windows ſhould bee open from whence that winde bloweth that is dire&ly contrarie unto that which brought in the venemous air:for although therebee no other cauſ;yet if the airbee not mooved,oragitated,but ſhut up in a cloſe place,it will ſoon airpentupi, bee corrupted. thereforein a cloſe and quiet place that is not ſubječt to the entrance of the apt to purific. air,i would wiſh the patient to make winde, or to procure air with a thick and great cloth dipped or macerated in water and vineger mixed together, and tied to a long ſtaff, that by toſſing it up and down the cloſe chamber,the winde or air thereofmay cool and recreate the patient. the patient muſt everie daie bee carried into a freſh chamber, and the beds and the linnen cloaths muſt bee changed:there muſt alwaiesbee a clear and bright fire in the patient's chamber, and eſpecially in the night, whereby the air may bee made more pure, clean, and void of nightly vapors, and of the filthie and peſtilent breath proceeding from the patient, or his excrements. in the meantime, leſt (if it bee in hot weather) the patient ſhould bee weakned or made more faintby reaſon that the heat of the fire doth diſperſand waſte his ſpi- rits, the floor or ground of his chamber muſt bee ſprinkled or watered with vineger and wa- ter, or ſtrowed with the branches of vines made moiſt in cold water, with the leavs and flowers of water-lillies, or poplar, rſuch like. in the fervent heat of summerheemuſt ab- ſtain from fumigations that do ſmell too ſtrongly, becauſ that by aſſaulting the head, they increaſ the pain. • ~ if the patient could to that coſt, it were good to hang all the chamber where hee lieth; and alſo the bed, with thickor courſ linnen cloaths moiſtned in vineger and water of ro- ſes. thoſe linnen cloaths ought not to bee verie white, but ſomwhat brown, becauſmuch and great whiteneſs doth diſperſ the fight, and by waiteing the ſpirits, doth increaſthepain of the head: for which cauſalſo the chamber ought not to bee verie lightſom. contrariwiſe, on the night ſeaſon thereought to bee fires and perfumes made, which by their moderate light,may moderately call forth the ſpirits. sweet fires may beenade of little perces of the wood of juniper, broom, aſh, tamarisk, the material of the rinde of oranges, limmons, cloves. benzoin, gum-arabick, orris-roots, myrrh, j . É beaten together, and laid on the burning coals put into a chafing-diſh. truly the reath or ſmoak of the wood or berries of juniper, is thought to drive ſerpents a great waie from the place where it is burn't. the virtue of the aſh-tree againſt venomis ſo great,as pli-lib. .ap. . .nie teſtifieth, that a ſerpent will not com under the ſhadow thereof, no,not in the morning, nor evening,when the ſhadow of anie thing is moſt great and long,but hee will run from it. i myſelf have prooved that if a circle or compaſsbee made with the boughs of an aſh-tree, and a fire made in the midſt thereof,and a ſerpent put within the compaſs of the boughs,that theſerpent will rather run into the fire then through the aſh-boughs. there is alſo another means to corre& the air. youmay ſprinkle vineger of the deco&l- on of rue, sage, roſemarie, bay-berries, juniper-berries, ciperus-nuts, and ſuch like, on ſtones or bricks red hot, and put in a pot or pan, that all the whole chamber where the pa- tientlieth may bee perfumed with the vaporthereof. alſo fumigations may bee made of ſommatter that is more groſs and clammie, that by pºrt mes. the force of the fire the fume may continue the longer,as of ladanum, myrrh, maſtich, rofin, €rluſº, turpentine, storax, libanum,benzoin,bay-berries, juniper-berries, cloves,sage,roſemarie, and marjarum, ſtamped together,and ſuch like. thoſe that are rich and wealthie may have candles and fumes made of wax, or tallów mixed with ſom ſweet things. a ſpongemacerated in vineger of roſes, and water of the ſame, and a little ofthe de- - co&ion of cloves, and of camphire added thereto, ought alwaies to bee readie at the patient's hand, that by often ſmelling unto it, the animal-ſpirits maybee recreated and ſtrengthned. . . - the water following is verie effectual for this matter. take of orris four ounces; of aſweetwater zedoarie, spikenard, of eaeh ſix drams; of storax, benzoin, cinnamon, nutmegs, cº to ſmellto. - o ağ. sweet candles. . concerning the plague. lib. . a nodula to ſmell to. why ſuch as have the plagu of each one ounce and a half; of old treacle, half an ounce: bruiſthem into groſs powder, and macerate them for the ſpace of twelv hours in four pound of white and ſtrong wine; then diſtill them in a limbeck of glaſs on hot aſhes, and in that liquor wet a ſponge, and then let it bee tied in alinnen cloth, or cloſed in a box, and ſo often put into the noſtrils. ortake of the vineger and water of roſes, of each four ounces; of camphire, ſix grains; of treacle, halfa dram: let them bee diſſolved together, and put into a vial of glaſs, which the patient may often put into his noſe. - this nodula following is more meet for this matter. take of roſe-leavs, two pugils; of orris, half an ounce; of calamus aromaticus, cinnamon, cloves, of each two drams; of *storax and benzoin, of each one dramanda half; of cyperus, half a dram; beat them into a groſs powder, make thereof a nodulabetween two peeces of cambrick or lawn of the big- neſs of an hand-ball, thenlet it bee moiſtned in eight ounces of roſe-water, and two oun- ces of roſe-vineger, and let the patient ſmell to it often. thoſe things muſt bee varied ac- cordrng to the time: for in the summer you muſt uſe neither musk nor civet, nor ſuch like hot things: and moreover women that are ſubjećt to fits of the mother, and thoſe that have fevers or the head-ach, ought not to uſe thoſe things that are ſo ſtrong ſmelling and hot,but you muſt make choice of things moregentle: therefore things that are made with a little camphire and cloves bruiſed and macerated together in roſe-water and vineger of roſes, ſhallbee ſufficient. chap. xx. jwhat dict ought to bee obſerved, and firſt of the choice of meat. w % . he order of dietin apeſtilent diſeaſought to bee cooling and drying; not ſlen- º der,but ſomwhat full;becauſby this kinde of diſeaſ there commeth waſteing of the ſpirits,and exſolution of the faculties, which inferreth often ſwounding, ºy nº. therefore that loſs muſt bee repaired as ſoon as may bee with more quantitie of c meats that are of eafie concoëtion and digeſtion.therefore i never ſaw anie bee- fºy feed more ing infeaed with the peſtilence that kept a ſlender diet, that recovered his health,but died; fully. pulſ muſt bee thunned. the manner of dict. and few that had a good ſtomach, and fed well, died. sweet, groſs, moiſt and clammie meats, and thoſe which are altogether, and exquiſitely of ſubtil parts, are to beeavoided; for the ſweet do eaſily take fire, and are ſoon inflamed; the moiſt will putrefie;the groſs and clammie očtſtrućt, and therefore engender putrefaction; thoſe meats that are ſubtil parts, over-much attenuate the humors, and inflame them; and do ſtir up hot and ſharp vapors into the brain, whereof commeth a fever. therefore wee muſt eſchew garlick and onions, muſtard, ſalted aud ſpiced meats, and all kinde of pulſ muſt alſo bee avoided, becauſthey engender groſs windes,which are the autors of obſtrućti- on: but the decoötion of them is not alwaies to bee refuſed, becauſit a provoker of urine. therefore let this bee their order of diet : let their bread bee of wheat or barlie, well wrought, well leavened and ſalted, ncither too new, nor too ſtale: let them beefed with ſuch meat as may bee eaſily concoëted and digeſted, and may engender much laudable juice, and verie little excremental, as are the fleſh of wether-lambs, kids, leverets, pullets, par- tridges, pigeons, thruſhes, larks, quails, black-birds, turtle-doves, moor-hens, phe- ſants,and ſuch like; avoiding water-fowls. let the fleſh bee moiſtned in ver-juice of un- ripe grapes, vineger, or the juice of limmons, oranges, citrons, tart-pomgranats, bar-. berries, gooſ-berries,or red currance, or of garden and wilde-ſorrel: for all theſe ſowr things are verie wholſom in this kinde of diſeaſ, for they do ſtir up the appetite, reſiſt the yenemous qualitie and putrefačtion of the humors, reſtrain the heatofthe fever, and pro- hibit the corruption of the meats in the ſtomach,although that thoſe that have amore weak ilomach, and are endued with a more exačt ſenſ, and are ſubjećt to the cough and diſeaſes of the lungs,muſt not uſe theſe, unleſs they beenixed with sugar and cinnamon. if the patientatanie time beefed with ſodden meats, let the brothes bee made with let- tuce,purſlain,succorie,borage, sorrel, hops, bugloſs: creſſes,burnet, marigolds, chervil, the cooling seeds, french-barlie and oat-meal, with a little saffron, for saffron dothen- gender manie ſpirits, and reſiſteth poiſon. to theſe opening roots may bee added toa- void obſtruction:yet much broth muſt bee refuſed by reaſon of moiſture.the fruit of capers eaten at the beginning of the meal provoke the appetite, and prohibit obſtrućtions;but they ought not to bee ſeaſoned with over-much oil and ſalt,that they may alſo with good ſucceſs bee put into broths. fiſhes are altogether to beeavoided,becauſthey ſoon corrupt in the stomach: but if the patient bee delighted with them, thoſe that livein ſtonie places muſt bee choſen; that is to ſay,thoſe that live in pure and ſandie water,and about rocks and ſtones,as are trouts, pikes, pearches, gudgeons and creviſes boiled in milk, wilks,and ſuch like and concerningsea- fiſh,he may bee fed with gillheads,gurnarts,with all the kindes of cod-fiſh,whiteings not ſeaſoned with ſalt,and turbuts. - eggs lib. . cºnn. the plague. ſ others that are uſed againſt the peſtilence. eggs potched and eaten with the juice of sorrel, are verie gºod. likewiſe barlie-water ſeaſoned with the grains of a tart pomgranat and ifthe fever bre vehement, with the ſeeds of white poppie. such barlie-water is eaſie to bee conco&ed and digeſted it cleanſeth great. ly, and moiſten's and mollifieth thebellie. but in ſomit {. an appetite to vomit,and pain of the head, and thoſe muſt abſtain from it. but in ſtead of barlie-water they may uſe pap, and bread crummed in the decoètion of a capon. - - for the ſecond courſ, let him have raiſins of the sun newly ſodden in roſe-water with for the ſecond sugar,ſowr damask-prunes, tart cherries, pippins and katharine-pears: , , , courſ. and in the later end of the meal, quinces roſted in the embers, marmalate of quinces. in the end of and conſervs of bugloſs or of roſes, and ſuch like, may bee taken : or elſ this powder the mtal. following. . . - take . coriander-ſeeds prepared, two drams: of pearl, roſe-leavs, ſhaveings of hartſ- horn and ivorie, of each halfa dram; of amber, two ºf: of cinnamon one * of unicorn's horn, and the bone in a stagg's heart, of each half a ſcruple; of sugar of ro- ſes, four ounces: make thereofa powder, and uſe it after meats. if the patientbee ſomwhat weak,hee muſt beefed with gellie made of the fleſh of a ca" pon, and veal ſodden together in the water of sorrel,carduus benedičius, with a little quan- of roſe-vineger, cinnamon, sugar, and other ſuch like, as the preſent neceſſitie ſhall ſeem to require. - i. night ſeaſon for all events and miſchances, thepatient muſt have readie-prepared broth of meats of good digeſtion,with a little of the juice of citrons or pomgranats. this reſtaurative that followeth may ſerv for all. take of the conſerv of bugloſs borage, areſtaurative violets, water-lillie, and succorie, of each two ounces; of the powder of the ele&uarie drink. diamargaritum frigidum,of the trochiſces of camphir, of each three drams; of citron-ſeeds, carduu-ſeeds, sorrel-ſeeds, the roots of dićiamnus, tormentil, of each two drams; of the broth of young capon,made with lettuce,purſlain, bugloſs and borage-boiled in it, fix pintes; put them in a limbeck of glaſs with the fleſh of two pullets, of ſo manie partridges, and with fifteen leavs of pure gold: make thereof a diſtillation over a ſoft fire. then take of the diſtilled liquor, half a pinte, ſtrain it through a woollen bag, with two ounces of white sugar, and halfa dram of cinnamon : let the patient uſe this when hee is thirſtie. orelſput the fleſh of one old capon,and of a leg of veal, two minced partridges, and two - drams of whole cinnamon without anieliquor, in a limbeck of glaſs,well luted and cove- red, and ſo let them boil in balneo marie unto the perfett concoëtion. for ſo the fleſhes willbeeboiled in their own juice, without anie hurt of the fire; then let the juice bee preſ. fed out there-hence with a preſs:give the patient for everie doſe,one ounce ofthe juice with fom cordial waters, ſom triſantalum, and diamargaritum frigidum. the preſervs of ſweet fruits are to bee avoided, becauſthat ſweet things turn into choler but the confedion of tart prunes, cherries, and ſuch like may bee fitly uſed. but becauſ there is no kinde of ſickneſs that ſo weaken's the ſtrength,as the plague; it is alwaies neceſ. ſarie, but yet ſparingly and often, to feed the patient, ſtill haveing reſpe&t unto his cuſtom, age, the region, and the time: for through emptineſs there is great danger, leſt that the ve- nemous matter that is driv'n out to the ſuperficiall parts of the bodie, ſhould bee calledback into the inward parts, by an hungrie ſtomach, and the ſtomach itſelf ſhould be filled with cholerick, hot, thin, and ſharp excremental humors, whereof commeth biteing of the ſto- mach,andgripeings in the guts. c. h.a.p. w ii. what drink the patient infelied ought to uſe. - * f the feverbee É. and burning, the patient muſt abſtain from wine, unleſs that heebee ſubjećt to ſwounding: and hee may drink the oxymel follow- ing in ſtead thereof. - take of fairwater, three quarts; wherein boil four ounces,of honie un- an oxymel. till the third part bee conſumed, ſcumming it continually; then ſtrain it, º and put it into a clean veſſel, and add thereto four ounces of vineger, and as much cinnamou as will ſuffice to give ita taſt. orelſa ſugredwater, as followeth. take * --- two quarts of fair watesofhard ſugar,ſix ounces;ofcinnamon,two ounces;ſtrain it through • * * a woollen bag or cloth without anie boiling; and when the patient will uſe it, put there- to a littleof the juice of citrons. the ſyrup of the juice of citrons excelleth amongſt all the uſe of the julip following is alſo verie wholſom. take of the juice of sorrel well ajulip. clarified,halfa pinte;ofthe juice of lettuce ſo clarified, four ounces; ofthe beſt hard ſugar, one pound;boil them together to a perfeótion;then let them beſtrained & clarified,adding a little before the end a little vineger,and ſolet it be uſed between meals with boiled water.or with equal portions of the water of sorrel, lettuce, scabious and bugloſs: or take of this - former . concerning the plague. lisa. the commo- dities of oxy- crate, to whom hurtfull. the drinking of cold water to whom and when profita- ble. lib. , . - for drieneſs or roughneſs of the mouth. for the ulcers thereof. mer deſcribed julip ſtrained and clarified four ounces; let it bee mixed with one pound of the fore-named cordial waters, and boil them together a little. and when they are taken from the fire, put thereto of yellow sanders one dram; of beaten cinnamon half a dram; ſtrain it through a cloth: when it is cold, let it beegiven the patient to drink with the juice of citrons. - - - thoſe that have been accuſtomed to drink ſider,pertiesbeer orale,ought to uſe that drink ſtill, ſo that it itbee clear, tranſparent,and thin, and made of thoſe fruits that are ſomwhat tart; for troubled and dreggiſh drink doth not onely engender groſs humors, but alſo cru- dities, windineſs, and obſtrućtions of the firſt region of thebodie, whereofcom's a fever. oxycrate beeing given in manner following, doth aſſwage the heat of the fever, and re- preſs the putrefaëtion of the humors, and the fierceneſs of the venom, and alſo expelleth the water through the veins, if ſobee that the patients are not troubled with ſpitting of blood, cough, yexing, and altogether weak of ſtomach: for ſuch muſt avoid tart things. take of fair water, one quart; of white or red vineger three ounces; offine ſugar, four ounces; of ſyrup of roſes, two ounces: boil them a little, and then give the patient there- of todrink. or take of the juice of limons and citrons, of each half an ounce; of the juice of ſowr pomgranats,two ounces; of the water of sorrel and roſes, of each an ounce; of fair water boiled, as much as ſhall ſuffice: make thereof a julip, and uſe it between meals. ortake the ſyrup of limmons and of red currance, of each one ounce; of the water of lil- lies, four ounces; of fair water boiled, half a pinte; make thereof a julip. or take of the ſyrups of water-lillies and vineger, of each half and ounce; diſſolvit in five ounces ofthe water of sorrel; offair water one pinte: make thereofa julip. but if the patient bee young,and have a ſtrong and good ſtomach, and cholerick by nature, i think it not unmeet for him to drink a full & large draught of fountain-water colá;for that is effectual to reſtrain and quench the heat of the fever; and contrariwiſe, they that drink coldwater often, and a verie ſmall quantitie at a time, as the smith doth ſprinkle water on the fireat his forge,doincreaſthe heat and burning, and thereby make it endure the longer. therefore by the judgment of celſus, when the diſeaſis in the chief increaſ, and the patient hath endured thirit for the ſpace of three or four daies,coldwater muſt bee given unto him in great quantitie, ſo that hee may drink paſt his ſatietie, that when his bellie and ſtomach are filled beyond meaſure, and ſufficiently cooled,hee may vomit. som do not drink ſo much thereofas may cauſ them to vomit, but do drink even unto ſatietie, and ſo uſe it for a cooling medicine; but when either of theſe is don, the patient muſt bee covered with manie cloaths,and ſo placed that hee may ſleep;and for the moſt part after long thirſt and watching, and after longfulneſs, and long,and great heat, ſound ſleep commeth; by which great ſweat is ſent out,and that is a preſent help, but thirſt muſt ſomtimes bee quenched with little pieces of melons, gourds, cucumbers, with the leav's of lettuce, sorreland purſlain,made moiſt or ſoaked in coldwater,or with a little ſquare picce of a citron,limmon, or qrange macerated in roſt-water, and ſprink- led with sugar, aud ſo held in the mouth, and then changed. but if the patient bee aged, his ſtrength weak, flegmatickby nature, and giv'n to wine, when the ſtate of the fever is ſomwhat paſt, and the chief heat beginning to aſſwage, hee may drink wineverie much allayed at his meat; for to reſtore his ſtrength, and to ſupplie the want of the waſted ſpirits. the patient ought not by anie means to ſuffer great thirſt but muſt mitigate it by drinking, or elſallay it by waſhing his mouth with oxycrate and ſuch like;and hee may therein alſo waſh his hands and his face for that doth recreate the ſtrength. if the flux or lask trouble him, hee may verie welluſe to drink ſteeled water, and alſo boiled milk, wherein manie ſtones comming red hot out of the fire have been manie times quench- ed. for the drineſs and roughneſs of the mouth, it is verie good to have a cooling, moi- ſtening & lenifying lotion of the mucilaginous water of the infuſion of the ſeeds of quin- ces; pſilium, ideſt, flea-wurt, adding thereto a little camphir, with the water of plantain and roſes; then cleanſ and wipe out the filth,and then moiſten the mouth,by holding there- in a little oil of ſweat almonds mixed with a little ſyrup of violets. if the roughneſs breed or degenerate into ulcers, they muſt bee touched with the water of the infuſion of ſub- limate, or aqua fortif. - - - - but becauſwee have formerly made frequent mention of drinking of water, i have here thought good to ſpeak ſomwhat of the choice and goodneſs of waters. the choice of wa- ters is not to bee negle&ed, becauſa great part of our diet depend's thereon; forbeſides that wee uſe it either alone, or mixed with wine for drink, wee alſo knead bread, boil meat,and the choice of make broths therewith. manie think that rain-water which falls in ſummer, and is kept waters, in a ciſtern well placed and made, is the wholeſomeſ of all. then next thereto they judge that ſpring water which run's out of the tops of mountains,through rocks, cliffs & ſtones: in the third place they put well-water, or that which riſeth from the foots of hils. alſo the river-water is good that is taken out of the mid'ſt or ſtream. lake or pond-water is the worſt, eſpecially if it ſtand ſtill for ſuch is fruitfull of and ſtored with manie venemous creatures, as snakes, toads, and the like. that which com’s by the - melting lisa. concerning the plgaue. : and that there bee nothing to bee feared. som ofthoſe antidotes confiſt of portions of ve- w melting of snow and ice is verie ill,by reaſon of the too refrigerateing facultie and earthlie nature. but of ſpring and well-waters theſe are to bee judged the beſt, which are inſipid, without ſmell, and colour; ſuch as are clear, warmiſh in winter,and cold in ſummer, which are quickly hot,and quickly cold,that is, which are moſt light,in which all manner of pulſ, hipſtä.;. | turnips, and the like, are eaſily and quickly boiled. laſtly, when as ſuch as uſually drink "phir. . : have clear voices and ſhrill, their cheſts ſound, and a livelie and freſh colour in their faces. chap. xxii. of antidotes to bee uſed in the plague. owwee muſt treat of the proper cure of this diſeaſ, which muſt bee uſed as =|$ ſoon as maybee poſſible, becauſthis kindeof poiſon in ſwiftneſs exceedeth . mºtheceleritié of the medicine. therefore it is better to err in this, that you ſhould think everie diſeaſtobee peſtilent in a peſtilent ſeaſon, and to cure it as the peſtilence : becauſthat ſo long as the air is polluted with the ſeeds of the peſtilence, the humors in the .# are ſoon infected with the vicinitie of ſuch an air, ſo that then there happeneth no diſeaſ void of the peſtilence, that is to ſay, which is not peſtilent from the beginning by his own nature, or which is not made ſtilent. - p. begin the cure with blood-letting, ſom with purgeing; and ſom with antidotes. thebegin. wee, takeing a confideration of the ſubſtance of that part that is aſſaulted, firſt of all begin *::: the cure with an antidote ; becauſthat by its ſpecifick propertie, it defends the heart from cure muſt bee poiſon, as much as it is offended therewith. although there are alſo other antidotes which by antidotes. preſerv and keep the heart and the patient from the danger of poiſon and the peſtilence,not onely becauſthey do infringe the power of the poiſon in their whole ſubſtance,but alſo be- cauſthey drive and expel it out of all the bodie by ſweat, vomiting, ſcouring, and ſuch o- ther kindes of evacuations. the antidote muſt bee given in ſuch a quantitie as maybeeſufficient to overcom the poi- in what quan- ſon; but becauſit is not good to uſe it in greater quantitie then needeth, leſt it ſhouldo- titleſhey’mua verthrow our nature, for whoſe preſervation onely it is uſed; therefore that which cannot beetaken. 'a' bee taken together at once, muſt bee taken at ſeveral times, that ſom portion thereof may - daily bee uſed ſo long, untill all the accidents,effets and impreſſions ofthe poiſon bee paſt; nemous things, beeing tempered together, and mixed in an apt proportion with otherme- i. things are dicines, whoſe power is contrarie to the venom ; as treacle, which hath for an ingredient put into anti- - the fleſh of vipers, that it beeing thereto mixed may ſervas a guide to bring all the antidote dotts. - | unto the place where the venenate malignitie hath made the chief impreſſion; becauſby the -- ſimilitude of nature and ſympathie, one poiſon is ſuddenly ſnatched and carried into ano- ther. there are other abſolutely poiſonous; which nevertheleſs are antidotes one unto another: as a scorpion himſelf cureth the pricks of a scorpion. but treacle and somºoiſons - mithridate excel all other antidotes: for by ſtrengthening the nobleſt part, and the .. to manſion of life, they repair and recreate the waſted spirits, and overcom the poiſon, * , not onely beeing taken inwardly, but alſo applied outwardly to the region of the º heart, botches and carbuncles : for by an hidden propertie they draw the poi- - ſonsunto them, as amber doth chaff, and digeſt it when it is drawn, and ſpoil and robit - of all its deadlie force; as it is declared at large by galen, in his book de theriacá ad piſonem, by moſt true reaſons and experiments. but you will ſay that theſe things are hot, and that "i the plague is often accompanied with a burning fever. but thereto i anſwer, there is not ſo !, great danger in the fever,as in the peſtilence, although in the giveing of treacle, i would + not altogether ſeem to negle& the fever,but think it good to miniſter or applie it mixed with cordial-cooling medicines, as with the trochiſces of camphir, ſyrup of limmons, of wa- ter-lillies, the water of sorrel, and ſuch like. and for the ſame cauſwee ought not to chuſe old treacle, but that which is of a middle age, as of one or two years old: to thoſe that are ſtrong, you may give half a dram; and to thoſe that are more weak, a dram. the patient ought to walk preſently after hee hath taken treacle, mithridate, or anie how to walk other antidote; but yet as moderately as hee can: not like unto manie, which when they after the take- i perceiv themſelvs robee infºted, do not ceaſto courſ and runup and down, until they have ingofan an- r no ſtrength to ſuſtain theirbodies; for ſo they diſſolv nature, ſo that it cannot ſuffice to o- “ vercom.the contagion. after moderate walking, the patient muſt bee put warm to bed, and º covered with manie cloaths, and warm brick-batsortiles applied to the ſolesofhis feet; or in ſtead thereof you may uſe ſwinesbladders filled with hot water, and applie them to the | groins and arm-holes, to provoke ſweat: for ſweating in this diſeaſ is a moſt excellent re- h º why poiſon- º | medie, both for to evacuate the humors in the fever, and alſo to drive forth the malignitie inthe peſtilence, although everie ſweat brings not forth the fruit of health. for george agricola | * ! + concerning the plague. lib. . agricolaſaith, that hee ſaw a woman at miſnia in germanie, that did ſweat ſo for the ſpace of three daies, that the blood came forth at her head and breaſt, and yet nevertheleſs ſhee died. a ſudorifick. this potion following will provoke ſweat. take the roots of china ſhaved in thin pie- potion. ces one ounce and half; of guaicum two ounces; of the bark of tamarisk one ounce; of angelica-roots two drams;of the ſhavings of hartſ-horn one ounce;of juniper-berries three drams; put them into a vial of glaſs that will contain ſix quarts, put thereto four quarts of running or river-water that is pure and clear, macerate them for the ſpace of one whole night on the aſhes: and in the morning boil them all in balneo marie, untill the half bee conſumed, which will bee don in the ſpace offix hours ; then let them bee ſtrained through a bag, and then ſtrained again, but let that beewith ſix ounces of ſugar of roſes, andalittle treacle: let the patient take eight ounces or fewer of that liquor,and it will provoke ſweat. a ſudorifick the powder following is alſo verie profitable. take of the leav's of dićiamnus, the roots powder. of tormentil, betonie, of each half an ounce; of bole-armenick prepared one ounce; of terra sigillata three drams; of aloës and myrrh,of each halfa dram; of saffron one dram; of maſtich two drams: powder them all according to art, and give one dram thereofdiſ- ſolved in roſe-water, or the water of wilde-ſorrel, and let the patient walk ſo ſoon as hee hath taken that powder; then lethimbee laid in his bed to ſweat as ihave ſhewedbefore. a diſtilledwa. the water following is greatly commended againſt poiſon. take the roots of gentian ter againſt the and cyperus, of each three drams; of carduus benedićius, burnet, of each onehandful; of sor- plague. rel-ſeeds and divels-bit, of each two pugils; of ivie and juniper-berries, of each half an ounce; of the flowers of bugloſs, violets,and red-roſes, of each two pugils: powder them fomwhat groſly;then ſoakorſteep them for a nightin white wine and roſe-water:then add thereto of bole–armenick one ounce, of treacle half an ounce;diſtill them all in balneo ma- riº, and keep the diſtilled liquor in a vial of glaſs well covered or cloſe ſtopped for your uſe : let the patient tak ſix ounces thereof with sugar and a little cinnamon and saffron: then let him walk, and then ſweat asis aforeſaid:the treacle and cordial-waterformerly pre- ſcribed, are verie profitble for this purpoſe. alſo the the water following is greatly com- another, mended. take of sorrel ſix hand-fuls;of rue one handful: drie them and macerate them in vineger for the ſpace offour and twentie hours,adding thereto four ounces of treacle:make thereof a diſtillation in balneo marie, and let the diſtilled water beekept for your uſe; and ſo ſoon as the patient doth think himſelf to bee infeóted; let him take four ounces of that whitmean to liquor, then lethin walk and ſweat. hee muſt leav ſweating when hee beginneth to wax her uſed in faint and weak; or when the humor that run's down his bodie begin's to wax cold, then ſweating. his bodie muſt bee wiped with warm cloaths, and dried. the patient ought not to ſweat with a full ſtomach; for ſo the heat is called away from performing the office of concoëtion: alſo hee muſt not ſleep when hee is in his ſweat; left the malignitie go inwardly with the heat and ſpirits unto the principal parts: but if the patient bee much inclined to ſleep, hee muſt bee kept from it with hard rubbing, and bands tied about the extreme parts of his bo- die,and with much noiſofthoſe that are about him, and let his friends comforthim with the good hope that they have of his recoverie; but if all this will not keep him from ſleep, diſſolv caſtoreum in tart vineger, and aqua vite, and let it bee injećted into his noſtrils; and let him bee kept continually wakeing the firſt day, and on the ſecond and third, even unto the fourth; that is to ſay, unto the perfeº expulſion of the venom; and let him not ſleep a- bove three or four hours on a daie and a night. in the mean time let the phyſician that ſhall bee preſent conſiderall things by his ſtrength: for it is to bee feared, that greatwatchings will diſſolvthe ſtrength, and make the patient weak: you muſt not let him eat within three hours after his ſweating; in the mean ſeaſon, as his ſtrength ſhall require, let him take the rinde of a preſerved citron, conſervof roſes, bread toſted and ſteeped in wine, the meat of preſerved myrabolane, or ſom ſuch like thing, chap. xxiii. of epithem to lee uſed for the ſtrengthening of the principal parts. whereofthey ſº here are alſo ſom topick medicines to bee reckoned amongſt antidotes, which muſt bremade, ſº muſt bee outwardly applied as ſpeedily as may bee, as cordial and hepatick epi- - - § thems for the ſafetie of the noble parts, and ſtrengthening of the faculties, as º, thoſe that drive the venenate air far from the bowels : they may bee made - - of cordial things not onely hot, but alſo cold, that they may, temper repercuſſives the heat, and more powerfully repercuſs. they muſtbee applied warm with ſcarlet, or a no fiºsº double linnen cloth, or a ſoft ſpunge dipped in them, if ſobee that a carbuncle donot poſ. applied to ſeſs the regions of the moſt noble parts; for it is not fit to uſe repercuſſives to a carbuncle. carbunºkº you may make epithems after the following forms; r. aquar. roſ. plantag. & ſolan, an. #y aque acetoſ winiganat. & aceti, an: iii.ſantal, rub. c. coral.'rub. pulveriſ.am. iii. theriac.vet. camph. ii, croci bi, carioph, ſ., miſce, fiat epithema. or elſ, b. aqu, roſ. & plantag, an: x. aceti concerning the plague. lib. . taketh new and for greater ſtrength; eſpecially as celſus admoniſheth us, where heeſaith, that, by how much the ſooner thoſe ſudden invaſions do happen, by ſo much the ſooner remedies muſtbee uſed, yea or rather raſhly applied; therefore if the veins ſwell, the face wax fierie red; if the arteries of the temples beat ſtrongly; if the patient can veriehardly breath by reaſon of a weight in his ſtomach; if his ſpittle bee bloodie; then ought hee to whybloºd bee let bloodwithout delaie,for the cauſes before-mentioned. it ſeen's beſt to open the li- . ºver-vein on the left arm, whereby the heart and ſpleen may beebetter diſchargedoftheira- §pi..." bundant matter; yet blood-letting is not good at all times, for it is notexpedient when the bodie beginneth to wax ſtiff by reaſon of the comming of a fever;for then by drawingback the heat and ſpirits inwardly, the outward parts beeing deſtitute of blood,wax ſtiffand cold; therefore blood cannot bee letten then without great loſs of the ſtrength, and perturbation of the humors. and it is to beenoted, that when thoſe plethorick cauſes are preſent, there is one indication of blood-letting in a ſimple peſtilent fever, and another in that which -º-º: hath a bubo, id eff, a botch or a carbuncle joined therewith. for in one or both of theſe, beeing joined with a vehement and ſtrong º fever, blood muſt bee letten by open- ing the vein that is neareſt unto the tumor or ſwelling againſt nature, keeping the ſtraight- ºneſs of the fibres, that this beeing open, the blood might bee drawn more direétly from the part affe&ted; for all and everie retration of putrefied blood unto the noble parts, is to bee avoided, becauſit is noiſomand hurtful to nature, and to the patient. therefore, forex- ample ſake, admit the patient bee plethorick by repletion; which is called ad vaſa, idef, unto the veſſels, and ad vires, id eff, unto the strength: and therewithal hee hath a tumor that is peſtilent in the parts belonging unto head or neck; the blood muſt bee let out of the cephalick or median vein, or out of one of their branches diſperſed in the arm on the grie- * - ºved ſide.but if through occaſion of fat, or anie other ſuch like cauſ, thoſe veins do notap- pear in the arm, there bee ſom that give counſel in ſuch a caſe to open the vein that is be- tween the fore-finger and the thumb, the hand beeing put into warmwater, whereby that vein may ſwell and beefilled with blood gathered thither by means of the heat. if the tumor bee under the arm-hole, or about thoſe places, the liver-vein, or the median muſt bee opened which runneth along'ſt the hand: if it bee in the groin, the vein of the hamm, or saphena, or anie other vein above the foot that appeareth well, but alwaies on the grieved ſide. and phlebotomie muſt bee [. before the third daie : for this diſeaſis of the kinde or nature of ſharp diſeaſes; becauſthat within four and twentie hours it run- neth paſt help. in letting of blood you muſt have conſideration of the ſtrength. you may perceiv that the patient is readie to ſwound, when that his forehead waxeth moiſt, with a ſmall ſweat ſuddenly ariſeing, by the akeing or pain at the ſtomach, with an appetite to vo- mit, and deſire to go to ſtool, gapeing, blackneſs of the lips, and ſudden alteration of the face unto paleneſs: and laſtly moſt certainly by a ſmall and ſlow pulſ; and then you muſt . lay your finger on the vein, and ſtop it until the patient com to himſelf again, either by na- ture, or elſreſtored by art; that is to ſay, by giveingunto him bread dipped in wine, or a- nie other ſuch like thing: then if you have not taken blood enough,youmuſt let it go again, and bleed ſo much as the greatneſs of the diſeaſ, or the ſtrength of the patient will permit or require: which beeing don ſom of the antidotes that are preſcribed beforewill bee •' i f. i profitable robee drunk, which may repair the ſtrength , and infringe the force of the malignitie. r cap. .lib. . ... - ! , , , chap. xxv. ofpurgeing medicines in a peſtilent diſeaſ. what purgesfit tº fyou call to minde the proper indications, purgeing ſhall ſeem neceſſarie in in the plague. yº º) this kinde of diſeaſ, and that muſt bee preſcribed as the preſent caſe and ne- - ń. i ºſ ceſſitierequireth; rightly confidering that the diſeaſis ſudden; and doſhºe- . . ." § % tº quiremedicines that may with all ſpeed drive out of the bodiethe hurtfulhu- &šš ; mor wherein the noiſom qualitie doth lurk and is hidden; which medicinº - conditi are divers by reaſon of the diverſitie of the kinde of the humor, and the ºr temperature of the patient. for this purpoſe fix gains of scammoniebeate, to powder, of eif ten grains are commonly miniſtred to the patient with one dramof pils, :: alſº pils may jº.º.º.º. of pils .*fºur vivum finely powdred halfadram;of diagridium four grains:make there- leborean§ **three drams of Åloss of myrrh and saffron of each one dram; ºf white hº ent take :"...º.each four .makethereofamaſs with old treacle, and let the path fitably gi. thereof foradoſe,threehours before meat ruffu, his pils maybºr £arick for this *. that are weak. the antient phyſicians have greatly commended a. ** becauſit doth draw thenºm humorºutofall the membersi an - lib. . - - cºncerning tºpºgº. - - - - and the virtues thereofare like unto thoſe of treacle; for it is thought to ſtrengthen the heart, and to draw out the malignitie by purgeing. to thoſe that are ſtrong, the weight of two drams may bee given, and to thoſe that aremore weak, half a dram. it is better to give the infuſion in a decoötion, then in ſubſtance; for beeing eleēted and prepared truly into trochiſces, it may bee called a divine kinde of medicine. antimonium is highly praiſed by the experience of manie; but becauſi know the uſe there- of is condemned by the councel and decree of the school of phyſicians at paris, i will here ceaſ to ſpeakofit. - --- thoſe medicines that cauſ ſweats are thought to excel all others, when the peſtilence commeth of the venemous air; among whom the efficacie of that which followeth hath been prooved, to the great good of manie in that peſtilence which was lately throughout all germanie, as matthias rodler chancellor to duke george the count palatine fignified unto mee by letters. they do take abundle of mugwurt, and of the aſhes thereofafter it is burn’t, they make aneflºatial a lee with fourpintes of water; then they do ſet it over the fire,andboil it in aveſſel of earth ſidorific and well leaded, until the liquorbee conſumed, the earthie dregs falling into the bottom like alſo purgeing unto ſalt, whereof they make trochiſces of the weight of a crown of gold : then they medicine. diſſolv one or two of theſe trochiſces, according to the ſtrength of the patient,in good muskadine, and give it the patient to drink,and let him walk after that heehath drunk it for the ſpace of half an hour; then lay him in his bed, and there ſweathim two or three hours, and then hee will vomit, and his bellie will bee looſed as if hee had taken an- timonie; and ſo they were all for the moſt part cured, eſpecially all thoſe that took that - remedie betimes: and before the diſeaſwent to their heart; as i my ſelf have prooved in §: virtues of ſom that were fick at paris, with moſt happie ſucceſs: truely mugwurt is highly commen- *" dedby the antient phyſicians, beeing taken andapplied inwardly or outwardly againſt the biteings of venemous creatures; ſo that it is not to bee doubted but that it hath great virtue againſt the peſtilence. i have heard it moſt certainly reported by gilbertus heroaldus phyſician of mompilier, that viderandslit. eightounces of the pickle of anchovis,drunk at one draught,is a moſt certain&approved re- lib. .defiſts. medie againſt the peſtilence, as hee and manie other have often found by experience for the plague is no other thing but averie great putrefačtion; for the corre&tion and amend- ment whereof,there is nothing more aptor fitthen this pickle or ſubſtance of anchovis,bee- ing melted by the sun and force of the ſalt thatis ſtrewed thereon.therebeeſom which infuſe one dram of walwurt-ſeed in white wine,and affirmthat it drunken wil perform the like ef. fe&t as antimonie. others diſſolva little weight of the ſeed of rue beeing bruiſed in muſ. kadine, with the quantitie of a bean of treacle, and ſo drink it. others beat or bruiſan handful of the leavsor tops of broom in half a pinte of white wine,and ſo give it to the pa- tient to drink, to cauſhimto vomit, looſ his bellie, and make him to ſweat. truly thoſe that are wounded orbit with venemous beaſts, if they binde broom above the wound, it will prohibit or hinder the venom from diſperfing itſelf, or going anie further: thereforea drink made thereof will prohibit the venom from going anie nearer the heart. som take of the root of elecampane, gentian, tormentil, kermes-berries and broom; of the powderof ivorie and hartſ-horn, of each half a dram: they dobruiſand beat all theſe, and infuſe them for the ſpace of four and twentie hours in white wine and aqua vite on the warmembers,and then ſtrain it, and give the patient three or four ounces thereof to drink; this provoke's iſweat, and infringeth the power of the poiſons: and the potion following hath the ſame vittue. take good muſtard half an ounce ; of treacle or mithridate the weight of a bean; diſ. apotion, ſolv them in white wine, and a little aqua vite, and let the patient drink it, and ſweat there- on with walking. you may alſo roſt a great onion made hollow, and filled with halfa dram of treacle and vineger under the embers; and then ſtrain it, and mix the juice that is preſſed out of it with the water of sorrel, carduus beneditius, oranie other cordial thing,and with ſtrong wine; and give the patient to drink thereof to provoke ſweat, and to repel the malignitie. orelſtake as much garlick as the quantitie of a big nuts of rue and celan- dine, of each twentie leavs; bruiſthem all in white wine and a little aqua vite; then ſtrain it, and give the patient thereofto drink. there beeſom that do drink the juice that is preſ- ſed out of celandine and mallows, with three ounces of vineger,and half an ounce of the oil of wall-nuts,and then by much walking dounburthen their ſtomachandbellie upwards and downwards, and ſo are helped. when the venemous airhath already crept into and in- fečted the humors,one dram of the dried leavs of the bay-treemacerated for the ſpace oftwo claiesin vineger and drunk, is thought to bee a moſt ſoveraign medicine to provoke ſweat, looſneſs of the bellie, and vomiting. - f - - - matthiolus in his treatiſe de morbogallico writeth, that the powder of mercurie, miniſtred unto the patient with the juice of carduus beneditius, or with the ele&uarie de gemmi, will drive away the peſtilence beforeitbee confirmed in .bodie, by provokeing vomit, lº; - - - b bb i) - ,o - - ---- - - cºncerning the plague. lib. . neſs of the bellie and ſeat: one dram of calchanthum or white copperas diſſolved in roſe-water, performeth the like effectin the ſame diſeaſ. som do give the patient a little guantitie of the oil of scorpions with white wine to expel the poiſon by vomit, and there- withal they annoint the region of the heart, thebreſt and the wriſts of the hands. i think theſe verie meet to bee uſed often in bodies that are ſtrong and well exerciſed, becauſweaker medicines doevacuate little or nothing at all, but onely moov the humors, whereby com- meth a fever. when a ſufficient quantitie of the malignitie is evacuated, then you muſt miniſter things that may ſtrengthen the bellie and ſtomach, and with-hold the agitation or working of the humors: and ſuch is the confettion of alkermes. - chap. xxvi. of manie symptoms which happen together with the plague : and firſt of the pain of the head. the ºur of f the malignitie bee carried into the brain, and nature bee not able to expel it,it phrenſie in the inflame's not onely it, but alſo the membranes that cover it: which inflammation plague. doth one while hurt, trouble,or aboliſh the imagination;another while theiudg- ment; and ſomtimes the memorie; according to the ſituation of the inflammation, whether it bee in the former,hinder,or middle part of the head;but hereof commeth alwaies a phrenfie, with fierie redneſs of the eies and face and heavineſs and burning of the whole head. if this will not bee amended with clyſters, and with opening the cephalick vein in the arm, the arteries of the temples muſt bee opened, takeing ſo much blood out of them, as the greatneſs of the symptoms and the ſtrength of the patient ſhall require and permit. tru- ly the inciſion that is made in opening of an arterie will cloſe and join together as readily, ***fit of and with as little difficultie, as the intifion of a vein. and of ſuch an incionofan arterie, .." " commeth preſent help; by reaſon that the tenſive and ſharp vapors do plentifully breath out - together with the arterious blood. it were alſo verie good to provoke a fiux of blood at the th roſtā. , noſe, if nature bee apt to exonerate herſelf that way. for as hippocrates faith, when the head is grieved, or generally aketh, if matter,water, or blood flow out at the noſtrils,mouth, or ears, it preſently cure's the diſeaſ. such bleeding is to bee provoked by ſtrong blowing, or ſtriveing to cleanſ the noſe, by ſcratching or picking of the inner fide of the noſtrils, by pricking with an hort-hair,and longholding down of the head. the lord of fontains, a knight of the order, when wee were at bayon, had a bleeding at an hiſtorie, the noſe, which came naturally for the ſpace of two daies,and thereby hee was freedofape- {tilent fever which hee had before, a great ſweatriſeing therewithal, and ſhortly after his carbuncles came to ſuppuration, and by god's gracehee recovered his health beeing under to ſay blee: "º if the blood do flow out and cannotbee ſtopped whenitought, the hands, arms, and legs muſt bee tied with bands; and ſponges wet in oxycrate muſt bee put under the arm-holes, cupping-glaſſes muſt bee applied unto the dugs; the region of the liver and spleen; and you muſt put into the noſtrils, the doun of the willow-tree, or anie other a- firingent medicine, incorporated with the hairs pluck’t from the flank, bellie or throat of an hare, bole-armenick, terra sigillata, the juice of plantane and knot-graſs mixed toge- ther; and furthermore the patient muſt bee placed or laied in a cool place.but if thepainbee nothing mitigated notwithſtanding all theſe fluxes of blood, wee muſt com to medicines that procure ſleep, whoſe forms are theſe. - medicine, to take of green lettuce one handful; flowrs of water-lillies and violets, of each two pu- procure ſleep. gils; one head of white-poppie bruiſed;of the four cold ſeeds,ofeach two drams; of liquo- rice and raiſins, of each one dram: make thereofadecoètion, and in the ſtraining diſſolv one ounce and a half of diacodion: make thereof a large potion to bee given when they go to reſt. alſo barlie-cream may bee prepared in the water of water-lillies and of sorrel, of each two ounces; adding thereto ſix or cightgrains of opium: of the four cold ſeeds, and of white-poppie ſeeds, of each half an ounce; and let the ſame bee boiled in broths with lettuce and purſlain; alſo the pills de cynogloſſo, i.e. hounds-tongue may bee given clyſters that provoke ſleep muſt beeuſed, which maybee thus prepared. take of barlie-water halfa pinte; oil of violets andwater-lillies, of each two ounces; of the water of plantain and purſlain, or rather of their juices, three ounces; of camphir feven grains,and the whites of three eggs:make thereofa clyſter. the head muſt bee fomen- ted with roſe-vineger, the hairbeeing firſt ſhaven away, leaving a double cloth wet therein on the ſame, and often renewed. sheeps-lungs taken warm out of the bodies, may bee plied to the head, as long as they are warm. cupping-glaſſes with and without ſcarification maybee applied to the neck and ſhoulder-blades. the arms and legs muſt bee ſtrongly bound, beeing firſt well rubbed to divert the ſharp vapors and humors from the head. frontais may alſo beenade on this manner. take of the eil of roſes andwater-lil- lies, of each two ounces; of the oil of poppie half an ounce ; of opium, one dram; of roſe-vineger, one ounce; of camphir halfa dram; mix them together. alſo nodules - - may ding. lib. . concerning the t’lague. ika t º h s : .. . int; . : - may bee made of the flowrs of poppies, henbane,water-lillies,mandrags beaten in roſe- water with a little vineger, and a little camphir, and let them bee often applied to the no- ſtrils: for this purpoſe cataplaſms alſo may bee laid to the forehead. as, take ofthe mu- cilage of the ſeeds of pſilium,ideſt, flea-wurt, and quince-ſeeds extraćted in roſe-water, three ounces; of barlie-meal four ounces; of the powder of roſe-leavs, the flowers of wa- ter-lillies and violets, of each half an ounce; of the ſeeds of poppies and purſlain,of each two ounces; of the water and vineger of roſes, of each three ounces: make thereofa ca- taplaſm, and applie it warm unto the head. ortake of the juice of lettuce, water-lillies, a.cataplaſm. henbane, É.i. of each half a pinte; of roſt-leavs in powder, the ſeeds of poppie, of each half an ounce; oil of roſes three ounces; of vineger two ounces; of barlie-meal as much as ſhall ſuffice: make thereof a cataplaſm in the form of a liquid pultis. when the heat of the head is mitigated by theſe medicines,and the inflammation of the brain aſſwaged, wee muſt comunto digeſting and reſolving fomentations, wich may diſperſ the matter of the vapors. but commonly in pain of the head, they do uſe to binde the forehead and hin- derpart of the head verie ſtrongly, which in this caſe muſt bee avoided. --- chap. xxvii. of the beat of the kidnies. % . he heat of the kidnies is ten pered by annointing with unguent, refrigerans galen §º newly made, adding thereto the whites of eggs well beaten, that ſo the oint- § ºf ment may keep moiſt the longer; let this liniment bee renewed everie quarter of % an hour, wipeing away the reliques of the old. or, r., aq. roſ, fbſ?...ſucci plant, iv. alb. ovorum iv. olei roſacei, & menuph. an:ii. aceti roſłiii, miſce ad uſum. when you have annointed the part, lay thereon the leavs of water-lillies or the like ſtold herbs, and then preſently thereupon a double linnen cloth dipped in oxycrate and wrung outa- gain, and often changed; the patient ſhall not lie upon a fether-bed, but on a quilt ſtuffed with the chaff of oats,or upon a mat with manie doubled cloaths or chamelet ſpread there- on. to the region of the heart may in the mean time bee applied a refrigerateing and alexite- . . . rial medicine,as this which followeth.r. ang. roſat. iii oleinenupharini, Žii, acet. roſ. & aq.roſ. anºment an. i, theriace, i. croci, ſ.of theſemelted and mixed together make a ſoft ointment, which for the heart. ſpredupon a ſcarlet cloth maybee applied to the region of the heart. or, r, theriace opt: iſ. ſucci citri acidi, & limoniº,av ſ coral rub. & ſemiroſar, ruban, ſ, caphure & croci, angra.iiii.let them bee all mixed together, and make an ointment or liniment. at the head of the patientas heelie's in his bed, ſhall bee ſet an ewr orcockwith a baſin the noiſof under it to receiv the water, which by dropping may reſemble rain. let the ſoles of the feet droppingwa- and palms of the handsbee gently ſcratched, and the patient lie far from noiſ, and ſo at ºr draw's on length hee may fall to ſom reſt. ſleep. an ointment for the reins. chap. xxviii. of the eruptionſ and spots, which commonly are called by the name of purples and tokens. gººhe skin,in peſtilent fevers,is marked and variegated in divers places with ſpots, tº like unto the biteings of fleas or gnats, which are not alwaies fimple,but ma- nº nie times ariſe in form like unto a grain of millet. the more ſpots appear, the ºf better it is for the patient: they are of divers colors according to the virulencie ofthe malignitie, aud condition of the matter, as red, yellow.brown,violet or purple, blewandblack, and becauſfor the moſt part they are of a purple color, therefore wee call them purples. others call them lenticule; becauſthey have the color and form of their ſeveral lentiles. they are alſo called papiliones, (i.) butterflies; becauſ they do ſuddenly ſeiz or names,and the fall upon divers regions of the bodie, like untowinged butterflies; ſomtimes the face, ſom-riſons of times the arms and legs, and ſomtimes all the whole bodie;oftentimes they do not onely af. fe&the upperpart of the skin, butgo deeper into the fleſh, ſpecially, when they proceed of the differen- ces of the ſpots in the plague: matter that is groſs and adult. they do ſomtimes appear great and broad, affe&ing the whole arm, leg or face, like unto an eryſipela : to conclude, they are divers according to the varietie of the humor that offend's in quantitie or qualitie. - if they are of a purple or black color, with often ſwounding, and ſinkin ſuddenly with- out aniemanifeſt cauſ, they fore-ſhew death. §: ſigns of the cauſof the breaking out of thoſe ſpots, is the working or heat of the blood, by rea-" ſon of the crueltie of the venom received, or admitted. they often ariſe at the beginning of a peſtilent fever: manie times before the breaking § of the sore,or botch or carbuncle b an concerning the plague. lib. . why they ſomtimes ap- pear after the death of the patient. they are to beecured by driveing forth. the indicat:- on of curring and manie times after : but then they ſhew ſo great a corruption of the humors in the bo. die, that neither the ſores nor carbuncles will ſuffice to receiv them; and therefore they ap- pear as fore-runners of death. somtimes they break out alone, without a botch or car- buncle,which if they bee red, and have no evil ſymptoms joyned with them, they are not wont to proov deadlie: they appear,for the moſt part, on the third or fourth daie of the diſeaſ, and ſomtimes later, and ſomtimes they appear not before the patientbee dead; be- cauſthe working or heat of the humors beeing the off-ſpring of putrefation, is not as yet reſtrained and ceaſed. - wherefore then principally the putrid heat, which is greateſt a little before the death of the patient, drive's the excremental humors, which are the matter of the ſpots unto the skin orelſ, becauſnature in the laſt conflićt hath contended with ſom greater endeavor then before (which is common to all things that are readie to die) a little before the in- ſtant time of death, the peſtilent humor beeing preſently driven unto the skin; and nature thus weakned by theſe extreme confliès falleth down proſtrate, and is quite overthrown by the remnant of the matter. chap. xxix. of the cure of eruptions and spots. |ou muſt firſt of all take heed, leſt you drive in the humor that is comming aſ outwards with repercuſſives: therefore beware of cold, all purgeing things, phlebotomie, and drowfie or ſound ſleeping. for all ſuch things do draw the § humors inwardly, and work contrarie to nature. but it is better to provoke * the motion of nature outwardly, by applying of drawing medicines outward- ly, and miniſtring medicines to provoke Å. inwardly ; for otherwiſe by repelling and ſtopping the matter of the eruptions, there will bee great danger, leſt the heartbee oppreſ- ſed with the abundance of the venom flowing back; or elſby turning into the bellie, it in- ferr's a mortal bloodie flux : which diſcommoditics that they may bee avoided, i have thought good to ſet down this remedie, whoſe efficacie i have known and prooved manie times, and on divers perſons, when by reaſon of the weakneſs of the expulſive facultie, and the thickneſs of the skin, the matter of the ſpots cannot break forth, but is conſtrained to lurk under the skin, lifting it up into bunches and knobs. - . i was brought unto the invention of this remedie, by compariſon of the like.for when i underſtood, that the eſſence of the french pocks (and likewiſe of the peſtilence) conſiſted in taken from the a certain hidden virulencie, and venemous qualitie, ſoon deſcended unto that opinion,that like. an ointment to draw them even as by the annointing of the bodie with the unguent compounded of quick-ſilver, the groſs and clammie humors which are fixed in the bones, and unmoovable, are diſſolved, relaxed, and drawn from the center into the ſuperficial parts of the bodie, by ſtreng- thening and ſtirring up the expulſive facultie, and evacuated by ſweating and fluxing at the mouth; that ſo it ſhould com to paſs in peſtilent fevers, that nature beeing ſtrengthened with the ſame kinde of unétion, might unload her ſelf of ſom portion of the venemous and peſtilent humor, by opening the pores and paſſages, and letting it break forth into ſpots and puſtles, and into all kinde of eruptions. therefore i have annointed manie in whom nature ſeemed to make paſſage for the venemous matter verie ſlowly, firſt looſing their bel- lie with a glyfier, and then giveing them treacle-water to drink, which might defend the vi- tal facultie of the heart, but yet not diſtend the ſtomach, as though they had the french pocks, and i obtained my expected purpoſe: in ſtead of the treacle-water you may uſe the decodion of guairnm, which doth heat, drie, provoke ſweat, and repel putrefaction, ad- ding thereto alſo vineger, that by the ſubtiltiethereof, it may pierce the better, and with- ſtand the putrefaction. this is the deſcription of the unguent. take of hogſ-greaſone pound, boil it a little with the leavs of sage, time, roſemarie, of each half an handfull, ſtrain it, and in the ſtraining extinguiſh five ounces of quick-filver, forth when as which hath been firſt boiled in vineger with the fore-mentioned herbs; of sal nitrum three they appear too ſlowly. drams; the yelks of three eggs boiled until they bee hard: of treacle and mithridate, of each half an ounce; of venice-turpentine, oil of scorpions and bays, of each three oun- ces; incorporate them altogether in a mortar, and make thereof an unguent, wherewith an- noint the patient's arm-holes and groins,avoiding the parts that belong to the head,treaſt, and ºf. : then let him bee laid in his bed,and covered warm, and let him ſweat there for the ſpace of two hours, and then let his bodie bee wiped and cleanſed; and if it may bee, let him bee laid in another bed, and there let him bee refreſhed with the broth of the decodion of a capon, reer eggs, and with ſuch like meats of good juice that are eaſie to bee conco&ted and digeſted; let him bee annointed the ſecond and third daie, unleſs the ſpots appear before. if the patient flux at the mouth, it muſt not be ſtopped: when the ſpots and puffles do all appear, and the patient hath made an end of ſweating, it ſhall bee convenient to uſe diuretick lib. . * concerning the plgaue. diuretick medicines,for by theſe the remnant of the matterofthe ſpot, which happily could not all breath forth, may eaſily bee purged and avoided by urine. ifanie noble or gentlemen refuſe to beeannointed with this unguent, let thember enclo- ſed in the bodiedfa mule or horſ that is newly killed, and when that is cold, letthem bee laied in another, until the puſtles and eruptions dobreak forth, beeing drawn by that natu-in pream.lib. . ral heat. for ſo matthiolus writeth that valentinus,the ſon of pope alexander the ſixt,was de-dieſ. livered from the danger of moſt deadlie poiſon which hee had drunk. . . . chap. xxx. of apeſtilent bubo, or plague-fore. ağ peſtilent bubo is a tumor at the beginning long and moveable, and in the ſtate, and whata peſti- §a. full perfeótion copped, and with a ſharp head, unmoveable and fixed deeply in the lent bubºis, §glandules, or kernels; by which the brain exonerate's itſelf of the venemous and peſtiferous matter into the kernels that are behinde the ears, and in the neck : the heart into thoſe that are in the arm-holes; and the liver, into thoſe that are in the groin that is, when all the matter is groſs and clammie,ſo that it cannot bee drawn out by ſpots and puſtles breaking out on the skin; and ſo the matter of a carbuncle is ſharp, and ſo fervent, that it maketh an eſchar on the place where it is fixed. in the beginning, while the bubo is breeding, it maketh the patient to feel, as it were, a cord or rope ſtretched out in the place, or a hardned nerv with pricking pain; and ſhortly after the matter is raiſed up as it were in- to knob, and by little and little it groweth bigger, and is inflamed, theſe accidents before mentioned accompanying it.lf the tumor be red,and increaſby little & little,it is a good and the ſigns of. ſalutarie ſign: but if it bee livid or black,and com verie ſlowly unto his juſt bigneſs, it is a :d ſalutarie deadlie fign:it is alſo a deadlie ſignifit increaſſuddenly,and comto his juſt bigneſs as it were * eadlie. with a ſwift violence, and as in a moment, have all the ſymptoms in the higheſt exceſs; as pain, ſwelling and burning. buboes or sores appear ſomtimes of a natural color, like un- to the skin, and in all other things like unto an ordematous tumor, which notwithſtanding will ſuddenly bring the patient to deſtrućtion; like thoſe that are livid and black,wherefore it is not good to truſt too much to thoſe kindes of tumors. - chap. xxxi. of the cure of buboes,or plague-ſores. #o ſoon as the bubo appear's, applie a cupping-glaſs with a great flame unto it § tº unleſs it bee that kinde of ɺ º É. have i the accidents º . it. #& º, burning and ſwelling in the higheſt nature; but firſt the skin muſt bee annoin- . º , -- ------- - curcing fººted with the oil of lillies, that ſo it becing made more looſ, the cupping-glaſs of sºn. may draw the ſtronger and more powerfully; it ought to ſtick to the part for the ſpace of a quarter of an hours, and bee renewed and applied again everie three quarters of an hour, for ſo at length the venom ſhall bee the better drawn forth from anie noble part that is weak, and the work of ſuppuration or reſolution, which ſoever nature hath affailed,will the better and ſooner bee abſolved and perfeóted: which may bee alſo don by the applica- tion of the following ointment. - take of uuguentum dialtbea one ounce and a half; oil of scorpions half an ounce; of mithridate diſſolved in aqua vite, half a dram; this liniment will verie well relax and looſen the skin, open the poresthereof, and ſpend forth portion of that matter which the cupping-glaſs hath drawn thither: in ſtead thereof mollifying fomentations may bee . and other drawing and ſuppurating medicines, which ſhall bee deſcribed here- after. a veſicatorie applied in a meet place below the bubo profit's them verie much but nota- bove; as for example. if the bubo bee in the throat, the veficatoriemuſt bee applied unto the ſhoulder-blade on the ſame ſide; if it bee in the arm-holes, it muſt bee applied in the mid'ſt of the arm, or of the ſhoulder-bone, on the inner ſide: if in the groin, in the mid'ſt of the thigh on the inner ſide, that by the double paſſage that is open for to draw out the matter, the part wherein the venom is gathered together, may bee the better exonerated. spurge, crow-foot, arſmart, bear-foot, brionie, the middlebark of travellers-joy, the rindes of mullet, flammula or upright virgins-bower, are fit for raiſingbliſters. if you cannot comby thoſe fimple medicines, you may applie this which followeth, which may bee prepared at all times. --- ake cantharides, pepper, euphorbium, pellitorieofspain, of each halfa dram; of ſower acom pound leaven, two drams; of muſtardonedram, and a littlevineger; the vineger is added there- veſicatoric, to to withhold or reſtrain the vehemencie of the cantharides; but in want of this medicine itſhall ſuffice to drop ſcalding oil or water, or a burning candle, or to lay a burning coal on a liniment. t concerning the plague. lib. . on the place: for ſo you may raiſ bliſters, which muſt preſently bee cut away, and you muſt ſee that youkeep the ulcers open & flowing as long as you can,by applying the leav's of red-colwurts, beets, or ivie dipped in warm water, and annointed with oil or freſh but- why veſicato. ter. som applie&auteries, but veſicatories work with more ſpeed: for before the eſchar of ries are better the cauteries will fall away, the patient may die: therefore the ulcersthat are made with then .." veficatories will ſuffice to evacuate the peſtilent venom, becauſthat doth work rather by its º * qualitiethen by its quantitie. let the abſceſs bee fomented as is ſhewed before: and then - let the medicine following, which hath vertue to draw, bee applied. strong draw. . fill gºat onion, beeing hollowed, with treacle and the leav's of rue, then roſtiture ingºplaſ: der the hot embers, beat it with alittle leaven, and a little swines-greaſ, and ſo applie it mcs. warm unto the abſceſs or ſore; let it bee changed everie ſix hours. ortake the roots of marſh-mallows and lillies, of each half a pound; of line, fenugreek, and muſtard-ſeeds,of each half an ounce; of treacle one dram; ten figs, andas much hogs-greaſ as ſhall ſuffice: make thereof a cataplaſm according to art. or, take of onions and garlick roſted in the embers, of each three ounces: bruiſ them with one ouncedf ſowr leaven, adding there- to unquentum baſilicon, one ounce; treacle one dram; mithridate half a dram; of old hogs-greaſon ounce; of cantharides in powder one ſcruple; of pigeons-dung two drams: beat them and mix them together into the form of a cataplaſm. hereunto old rennet is verie profitable, for it is hot, and therefore attractive,beeing mixed with old leaven and ba- filicon: you ought to uſe theſe until the abſceſs bee grown unto its full ripeneſs and big- neſs, but if preſently after the beginning therebee great inflammation, with ſharp pain, as it often happeneth, eſpecially when the abſceſſes bee of the kinde of carbuncles; wee muſt ab- ſtain from thoſe remedies that are hot and attraćtive, and alſo from thoſe that are verie em- plaſtick and clammie ; becauſthey do altogether cloſe the pores of the skin; or becauſthey reſolv the thinner part of the colle&ed matter, which if it might remain, would bring the other ſooner to ſuppuration: or elſbecauſthey may perchance draw more quantitie of the hot matter then the part can bear; whereof commeth rather corruption then maturation: and laſt of all becauſthey increaſ the fever and pain, which inferreth danger of a convulſi- on or mortal gangrene. thereforein ſuch acaſe it is beſt to uſe cold and temperate local medicines, as the leavs of henbane and sorrel roſted under the coales, galen's pul- tis, and ſuch like. - againſt ſuch there are manie that for fear of death, have with their own hands pulled away the bubo ... withapair of smiths-pincers; others have digged the fleſh round about it, and ſo gotten plague-ſorts, it wholly out. and to conclude others have becom ſo mad, that they have thruſt an hot i- ron into it with their own hand, that the venom might have a paſſage forth: of all which i do not allow one; for ſuch abſceſſes do notcom from without, as the biteings of virulent beaſts, but from within, and moreoverbecauſ pain is by theſe means increaſed, and the hu- mor is made more malign and fierce. therefore i think it ſufficient to uſe medicines that re- lax, open the pores of the skin, and digeſt portion of the venom by tranſpiration, as are adigeſtive ſo- theſe that follow. take the roots of marſh-mallows and lillies, of each ſix ounces; of mentation. camomil and melilot-flowers, of each half an handful ; of lin-ſeeds half an ounce; of the leav's of ruehalf an handful : boil them and ſtrain them, dip ſponges in the ſtraining, nod and therewith let the tumor bee fomented along time. or, take the crum of hot bread, and &: º ſprinkle it with treacle-water, or with aqua vite, and cows-milk or goats-milk, and the p yelks of threeegs, put them all on ſtupes or flax, and applie them warm unto the place. or, take of ſowr rie-leaven four ounces; of baſilicon two ouces; three yelks of egs; oil of lillies two ounces; treacle one dram: let bee received on ſtupes, and applied in like manner. or, take of diachylon and baſilicon, of each two ounces; oil of lillies one ounce and an half: letthem bee melted and mixed together, and let it bee applied as is aboveſaid. when you ſee, feel and know, according to reaſon, that the bubo is com to perfeót ſuppura- tion, it muſt bee opened with an inciſion-knife, or an adual or potential cauterie, but it - - is beſt to bee don with apotential cauterie,unleſs that happely therebee great inflammati- . * on, becauſitaoth draw the venom from beneath unto the ſuperficial parts, and maketh a pla ºre larger orifice for the matter that is contained therein:neither muſt it be looked for,that na- with a poten-ture ſhould open it of her ſelf, for then there were danger that left while nature doth work tial cauterie, ſlowly,avenemous vapor ſhould bee ſtirred up,which ſtrikeing the heart by the arteries,the brain by the nervs, and the liver by the veins, ſhould cauſa new increaſof the venemous in- fečtion. for fear whereofthere bee ſomthat will not exped the perfe&maturation and ſup- puration, but as it were in the mid'ſt ofthe cruditie and maturitie will make an orifice for it to paſs forth at: yet if it bee donebefore the tumor bee at his perfeót maturitie, pain, a fever, and all accidents are ſtirred up and enraged, whereof commeth a malign ulcer that often degenerat's into a gangrene. for the moſt part about the tenth or eleventh daie the work offuppuration ſeemeth perfeóted and finiſhed; but it may bee ſooner or later by rea- ſon of the application of medicines, the condition of the matter, and ſtate of the part: when the matter commeth forth, you muſt yet uſe ſuppurative and mollifying medicines, to ina- turate lipaz. concerning the plague, maturate the remains thereof; in the mean while cleanſing the ulcerby putting mundifica- tives into it, as wee ſhall declare in the cureof carbuncles. but if the tumor ſeem to fink how to draw in,or hide itſelf again, it muſt beerevoked and procured tº comforth again, by applying ºſo. of cupping-glaſſes with ſcarification, and with ſharp medicines, yea, and with cauteries i: $ to both ačtual and potential. … goinagain. ... when the cauteries are applied, it ſhall bee veriegood to applie a veſicatorie a little be- low it, that there might beeſompaſſage open for the venom while the eſcharis in falling away. for ſo they that are troubled with the french-pocks, ſo long as they have open and flowing ulcers, ſo long are they void of any pain that is worth the ſpeaking of; which ul- cers beeing cloſed and cicatrized, they do preſently complain of great pain. if you ſuſ: that the bubo is more malign by reaſon that it is of agreen, or black and inflamed color, as are thoſe that com of a melancholick humor by aduſtion, turned into a groſs and rebelli- ous melancholick humor.ſo that by the more copious influx thereofinto the part, there is - danger of a gangrene and mortification; then the places about the abſceſs muſt bee armed w. : with repercuſſives, but not the abſceſs itſelf; and this may bee the form of the repercuſſives: i. . take of the juice of houſ-leek,purſlain, sorrel, night-ſhade, of each two ounces; of vine- ger one ounce,the whites of three egs,ofoil of roſes and water-lillies, of each two ounces and a half: ſtir them together, and applie it about the bubo, and renew it often: or boil a pomgranatin vineger, beat it with unguentum roſatum, or populeon newly made,and applie it as is aforeſaid. if theſe things do not ſtop the influx of other humors, the abſceſs it ſelf and the places about it muſt beeſcarified round about, if the part will permit it; that the part exonerated of portion of the venom may not ſtand in danger of the extinétion of the proper and natural . by the greater quantitieand malignitie ofthe humors that flow unto it. in ſcarifying you muſt have care ofthe great veſſels, for fear of an i nable why too much flux of blood, which in this caſe is verie hard to bee ſtayed or reſiſted; both becauſ º part bleeding is to itſelfis greatly inflamed, and the humor verie fierce;for the expulſion whereof, nature,care. ** ful for the preſervation of the part and all the bodie beſi ſeemeth to labor and work. but yetyoumuſt ſuffer ſo much of the blood and humor to flow out as the patient is able to abide without the loſs of his ſtrength. moreover, you may ſpend forth the ſuperfluous portion ofthe malignitie, with relaxing, mollifying,and reſolving fomentations: as, take the roots of marſh-mallows, lillies and elecampane, of each one pound; f lin-ſeeds and tº fenugreek, of each one ounce;of fennel-ſeeds and aniſe-ſeeds, of each half an ounce;of the - leavs of kue, sage, roſemarie, of each one handfill, of camomil and melilot-flowrs, of each threehandfuls; boil them all together, and make thereofa decoötion for a fomenta- tion; uſe it with a ſponge according to art. alſo after the aforeſaid ſcarification, wee may put hens, or turkies that lay egs (which therefore have their fundaments morewide and open, and for the ſame purpoſe put alittle ſalt into their fundaments) upon the ſharp top of the bubo, that by ſhutting their bills at ſeveral times they may draw and ſuck theyenom into their bodies, farmore ſtrongly and better then cupping-glaſſes, becauſthey are endued with a natural propertie againſt poiſon, for they eat and concoët toads, efts, and ſuch like virulent beaſts: when one hen is killed with the poiſon that ſhee hath drawn into her bodie, you muſt applie another, and then the third, fourth, fift and ſixt within the ſpace of halfan hour. therebee ſomthat will rather cut them, or elſuſe whelps cut aſunder in the mid'ſ, and applied warm unto the place; that by the heat of the creature that is yet ſcarce - . dead, portion of the venom may bee diſſipated and exhaled. but if iº. there - “”, bceanie fear of a gangrene at hand, you muſt cut the fleſh with a deeper ſcarification, ------ notonely avoiding the greater veſſels, but alſo the nervs, for fear of convulſion ; andaf- ter the ſcarification and a ſufficient flux of blood, you muſt waſh it with Ægyptiacum, treas cle and mithridate diſſolved in ſea-water, aquavite and vineger. for ſuch a lotion hath vir- tue to ſtay putrefaëtion, repel the venom,and prohibit the blood from concretion: but if the grangrene cannot bee avoided ſo, cauteries may bee applied to the part: eſpecially ačtual, becauſthey do more effectually repel the force of the poiſon, and ſtrengthen the part. pre- ſently after the impreſſion of the hot iron, the eſchar muſt bee cut away even unto the guick-fleſh, that the venºmous vapors and the humors may have a free paſſage forth; for it ..., is not to beclooked for that they will comforth of themſelvs. with theſe inundtions they * §. are went to haſten the falling awayof the eſchar. takeofthe mucilage of marſh-mallows º: . and lin-ſeeds, of each two ounces; freſh butter, or hog's-greaſ one ounce; the yelks of the eſthetºry, thºreºgs; incorporate them together,and make thereofaabintment; butter,swines-greaſ, "...'..."? sºilof roſes, with the yelks of eggs, perform the ſelf ſame thing. when the eſcharisſal: , ... henawaywee muſt uſe digeſtives. as take of the juice of plantane, water-betonie, and ºf ºr smallage ofeach three ounces shonie of roſes four ounces; venice-turpentine five qua- cºs; barlie fower three drams;aloés two drams; oil of roſs fourounds; treaderſhalfa ..., ſteati ram; mºnºdificative according to art ortakeofwiniºtu peninefonºuncestº.” £yrup of died roſes and wormwood, of eachanounces of the powder of alois,maſtich, imyrrh, barlie-flower, of each onedram; of mithridate half an ounce; incorporate that together. this unguent that followethis vérie meet ***** * ake — concerning the tigue. - lib. . - takered orpiment one ounce; of unquenched lime, burnt alum, pomgranat-pills, of each ſix drams; of olibanum, galls, of each two drams; of wax and oil as much as ſhall ſuf- fice, make thereofanunguent. this doth mundifie ſtrongly, conſume putrefied fleſh, and drie up virulent humidities that engender gangrenes. but there is not a more exccellent unguent then Ægyptiacum increaſed in ſtrength,for beſides manie other virtues that it hath, it doth conſume and waſte the proud fleſh; for there is neither oil nor wax that goeth in: to the compoſition thereof, with which things the virtue of ſharp medicines convenient - for ſuch ulcers, is delaied, and as it were dulled and hindered from their perfe& operation - ſo longas the ulcer is kept open. there have been manie that beeing diſeaſed with this di. ſeaſ, have had much matter and venemous filth com out at their abſceſſes; ſo that it ſeemed ſufficient, and they have bin thought well recovered, yet have they died ſuddenly. in the meanwhile, when theſe things are in doing, cordial medicines are not to bee omitted to ſtrengthen the heart. and f. muſt bee renewed at certain ſeaſons, that nature may bee everie waie unloaded of the burthen of the venenate humors. the praiſof gyptiacum. c hap. xxxii. of the nature, cauſes and signes of a peſtilent carluncle. i peſtilent carbuncle is a ſmall tumor, or rather a malign puſtle, hot and rageing, º:º* a \; confiſting of blood vitiated by the corruption of the proper ſubſtance. it often \º commeth to paſs through the occaſion of this untameable malignitie, that the carbuncle cannot bee governed or contained within the dominion of nature. in the ſigns of the beginning it is ſcarce ſo big as a ſeed or grain of milletor peaſ, ſtickingfirmly unto the a cºnd- part and immoveable, ſo that the skin cannot bee pulled from the fleſh; but ſhortly after it increaſeth like unto a bubo unto around and ſharp head, with great heat, pricking pain, as if it were with needls, burning and intolerable, eſpecially a little before night, and while the meat is in conco&ting, more then when it is perfeótly concoëted. in the midſt thereof appeareth a bladder puffed up and filled with ſanious matter. if you cut this bladder, you , ſhall finde the fleſh under it parched, burned and black; as if there had bin a burning cole * *** laid there, whereby it ſeemeth that it took the name of carbuncle; but the fleſh that is about cd. the place is like a rain-bow, ofdivers colours, as red, dark,geen, É. and black; but yet alwaies with a ſhineing blackneſs,like unto ſtone-pitch, or likeunto the true preci. ous ſtone which they call a carbuncle, whereof ſom alſo ſay it took the name. som call it a nail, becauſit inferreth like pain as a nail driven into the fleſh. there are manie carbun- cles which take their beginning with a cruſtie ulcer without apuſtle, like tothe burning of symptoms of * hot iron: and theſe are of a black colour, they increaſquickly, according to the conditi- . on of the matter whereof they are made. all peſtilentcarbuncles have a feverjoined with them, and the grieved part ſeemeth to bee ſo heavie,as if it were covered or preſſed with lead tied hard with a ligature. there commeth mortal ſwounings, faintings, toſſing, turning, idle-talking, rageing, gangrens and mortifications; not onely to the part, but alſo to the whole bodie; by reaſon (as i think)of the oppreſſion of the ſpirits of the part, and the ſuf- . º focation of thematurall heat, as wee fee alſo in manie that have apeſtilent bubo. for a bulo i&: cle and carbuncle are tumors of a near affinitieſo that the one doth ſcarce com without the o- differ, ther, conſiſting of one kinde of matter, unleſs that which maketh the bubo is more groſs and clammie, and that which cauſeth the carbuncle more ſharp,burning andrageing, by reaſon t. greater ſubtiltie, ſo that it maketh an eſchar on the place where it is, as wee noted otc. - chap. xxxiii. what prognoſticks may bee made in peſſilent buboes and carbuncles. rºom haveing the peſtilence have but one carbuncle, and ſom more in divers *a parts of their bodie, and in manie it happeneth that they have the bubo and §: carbuncle before they have anie fever; which giveth betterhope of health, §§ if there bee no othermalign accident therewith: for it is †: that nature jº º is the vićtor, and hath gotten the upper-hand, which excluded the peſtilent ſore com after venom before it could com to aſſault the heart. but ifa carbuncle and bubo the fever, com after the fever, it is mortal; for it is a token that the heart is affetted, mooved and in- cenſed with the furious rage of the venom; whereof preſently commeth a feveriſh heat or burning, and corruption of the humors, ſent as it were from the center unto the ſuperficies of thebodie. it is a good fign when the patient's minde is not troubled from the beginning untill the ſeventh daie; but when the bubo or carbuncle finketh down again ſhortly after that it is riſºn, it is a mortall fign, eſpecially ifill accidents followit. if after they are brought to ſuppuration they preſently wax #. without anie reaſon thereof.itis an | i. hoſe - - ----- lib. . - concerning the t'lague. $ / thoſe carbuncles that are generated of blood have a greater eſchar then thoſe that are made of choler; becauſthat blood is of a groſs conſiſtence,and therefore occupieth a greater room in the fleſh: contrariwiſe, a cholerick humor is more ſmall inquantitie and thin, and it ta- keth little room in the vpperpart of the fleſh onely, as youmay ſeein an eryſipelin. and i have ſeen carbuncles whoſe eſchars were as broad and as large as half the back : alſo i have ſeen others, which going up by the ſhoulders to the throat, did ſo eat away the fleſh that was under them, that the rough arterie or winde-pipe might bee ſeen bare, when the eſchar was fallen away: thad once a carbuncle which wäs in the midſt of my bellie,ſo that when the eſchar was fallen away, i might verie plainly ſee the piritoneum or rim: and the cica- trice that remaineth is as broad as my hand: but they do not ſpread themſelvs ſo far with- out the great danger or death of the patient. there are alſo ſom carbuncles which begin- ning at the parts under the chin;diſperſthemſelves by little and little unto the pattel-bones, and ſo ſtrangle the patient. soin manie, the buboes in the groin ariſe above a great part of º - - - - * :. the muſcles of the epigaſtrium. truly of thoſe abſceſſes that are ſo large and great in quan-hu eptikº titie, and ſo terrible to bee ſeen, there is great danger of death to the patient, or at leaſt to abſºlſº the grived part. for after the conſolidation, the part remaineth as if it were leprous,which monly deadlies aboliſheth the aëtion of the part, as i have ſeen in manie. oftentimes alſo the corruption of the matter is ſo great,that the fleſh leaveth the bones bare: but carbuncles often leav the joints and ligaments quite reſolved through the occaſion of the moiſture that is ſoaked and ſunk in unto them; for they often caſt outputrefied and virulent ſanious matter: whereby eating and creeping ulcers arebred, manie bliſters and puſtles ariſing up in the parts round about it ; which ſhortly breaking into one, make a great ulcer. theſe com verie ſeldom and ſlowly unto ſuppuration, or at leaſt to caſt out laudable matter, eſpecially if they have their original of choler; becauſ the matter is ſooner burned with heat, then ſuppurated. therefore then, if they can bee brought to ſuppuration by no medicines; if the tumor ſtill remainblack; if when they areopened, nothing at all, or elſa verie littleſharpmoiſturedoth pedits cº- a comforth,they are altogether mortal; and there is ſcarce one of a thouſand who hath theſe bºni. accidents that recovereth health: diſperſed ſmallbliſters, comming of vapors ſtirredup by the matter that is under the skin, and are there ſtaied and kept from º: forth, do not neceſſarily fore-ſhew death in carbuncles. but if the part bee ſwoln or puffedup, if it bee of a green or black color, and if it feel neither pricking nor burning, it is a fign of a mortal gangren. buboes or carbuncles ſeldom or never com without a fever: but the fever is more vehement when they are in the emunčtories, or nervous parts, then when they are in the fleſhlieparts, yet it is leſs, and all symptoms are leſs, and more tolerable in a man that is ſtrong and of a good temperature: carbuncles not onely affect the outward, but alſo the inward parts, and oftentimes both together. if the heart bee vexed in ſuch ſort with a car- buncle that nothing thereof appeareth forth on the ſuperficial parts, all hope of life is paſt, and thoſe die ſuddenly, eating, drinking or walking, and not thinking anie thing of death. if the carbuncle bee in the middriffor lungs, they are ſoon ſuffocated: if it bee in the brain, the patient becommeth frantick, and ſo dieth. if it bee in the parts appointed for the paſſage of the urine,they die of the ſuppreſſion of their water, as it happened in the queen- mother's waiting maide at the caſtle of roffilion, of whom i ſpeak before. if it bee, in the - ſtomach, it inferreth the accidents that are ſhewed in this hiſtorie following. while i was surgeon in the hoſpital of paris, a young and ſtrong monk of the order an hawk. . . y of st. vićior, beeing overſeer of the woman that †: the fick people of that place, fell into a continual fever verieſuddenly, with histongueblack, drie, rough, (by reaſon of the pu- trefied and corrupted humors, and the vapors riſing from the whole bodie unto that place) and hanging out like unto an hound's, with unquenchable thirſt, oftch ſwounding and de- fire to vomit. hee hath convulſions over all his bodie through the vehemencie and malig- nitieofthe diſeaſ, and ſohee died the third day: wherefore thoſe that kept the fick people in the hoſpital, thought that hee had been poiſoned, for the certain knowledgwhereofthe governors of the hoſpital commanded his bodie to bee opened. - ... " i therefore calling to mee a phyſician and surgeon, wee found in the bottom of his ſto- mach a print or impreſſion, as if it had been with an hot iron or potential cauterie, with an eſcharor cruſt as broad as one's nail, all the reſt of his ſtomach was greatly contraćted and ſhrunk up together, and as it were hornie ; which wee confidering, and eſpecially the eſchar which was deep in the ſubſtance of the ſtomach, wee all ſaid with one voice that hee was poiſoned with sublimate or arſenick. but behold, while i was ſowing up his bellie, i perceived manieblack ſpots diſperſed diverſly throughout the skin: then i asked my com- anie what they thought of thoſe ſpots; truly (ſaid i) it ſeemeth unto meethat they are eunto the purple ſpots or marks that are in the peſtilence. the phyſician and the sur- - - - - - geon denied it, and ſaid that they were the biteings offleas. but i perſwaded them to conſi. . . . . - '. derthe number ofthem over all the whole bodie, and alſo of their great depth and depreſſ: on into the fleſh; for when wee had thruſt needls deep into the fleſh in the hiddeſt of hººdºº" them, and ſo cutaway the fleſh about the needle,wee found the fleſh about the needle to bee #.: black; moreover his noſtrils, nails,and ears were livid,andall the conſtitution of his bodie biteings. w s concerning the plague. lib. . was contrarie, and far unlike to the bodies of thoſe that died of other fickneſſes or diſ. eaſes. alſo it was credibly reported untous by thoſe that kept him, that his face was ſo al- tered a little before hee died, that his familiar friends could hardly know him. wee ſwaded by theſe proofs, revoked our former opinion and ſentence, and made a certificate to bee ſent unto the governors and maſters of the hoſpital, ſetting our hands and ſeals unto it, to certifie them that hee died of a peſtilentcarbuncle. chap. xxxiv. of the cure of a peſtilent carbuncle. why emplº- rºy the fore-named figns of a peſtilentcarbuncle, and eſpecially by the bitterneſs flick,weir hot, . § of the pain, malignitie of the venemous matter, and by the burning fever that ..• ?: § is therewithal annexed, i think it manifeſt, that verie hot, emplaſtick, and ... for a º drawing medicines ſhould not bee applied to this kinde of tumor; becauſthey carbuncle. rohibit or hinder the exhalation,or waſteing forth of the venenate malignitie; becauſthat by ſtopping the pores of the skin, they increaſand cauſa greater heat in the part then there was before.therefore it is better to uſe reſolving medicines, which may aſſwage heat, and reſolv the pores of the skin. therefore firſt the place muſt bee fomented with wa- ter and oil mixed together, wherein a little treacle hath been diſſolved, leaving thereon ſtupes wet therein: you may alſo uſe the decoötion of mallows, the roots of lillies, line- ſeeds, figs, with oil of hypericon, for to make the skin thin, and to draw forth the matter; and the day following you muſt applie the cataplaſm following. a cataplaſm . take the leavs of sorrel and hen-bane, roſt them under the hot aſhes; afterwards beat for a pºſtilent them with four yelks of eggs, two drams of treacle, oil of lillies, three ounces; barlie- carbºnde, meal as much as ſhall ſuffice: make thereofa cataplaſm in the form of a liquid pulli: ; this another, aſſwageth heat, and furthereth ſuppuration. or, take the roots of marſh-mallows and lil- lies, of each four ounces line-ſeeds half an ounce; boil them, beat them, and then ſtrain them through a cerſ, adding thereto of freſh butter one ounce and an half; of mithridate one dram; of barlie-meal as much as ſhall ſuffice: make thereofa cataplaſm according to art: thoſe cataplaſms that follow are moſt effectual to draw the venemous matter forth,and to make a perfeót ſuppuration, eſpecially when the flux of the matter is not ſo great, but other cata- that the part may bear it. take the roots of white lillies, onions, leaven, of each half an plaſms. ounce; muſtard-ſeeds, pigeon's dung, sope, of each one dram; fix snails in their ſhels; of fine sugar, treacle and mithridate, of each half a dram; beat them altogether, and incorpo- rate them with the yelks of eggs: make thereof a cataplaſm, and applie it warm. or, take the yelks offix eggs; of ſalt powdered one ounce; of oil of lillies and treacle, of each half a dram; barlie-meal as much as ſhall ſuffice: make thereof a cataplaſm. takeofordi- narie diachylon four ounces; of unguenium baſilicon two ounces; oil of violetshalfan ounce: the effea of make thereofa medicine. manie antient profeſſors greatly commendscabious groun'd, or scabious º brayed between two ſtones, and mixed with old hog's greaſ, the yelks of eggs, and a little #. ſalt; for it will cauſ ſuppuration in carbuncles: alſo an egg mixed with barlie-meal; and cle- oil of violets doth mitigate pain, and ſuppurate. a raddiſh-root cut in ſlices, and ſo the araddiſh ſlices laid one after one unto a carbuncle or peſtilent tumor, doth mightily draw out the root draw's poiſon. the juice of colt's-foot doth extinguiſh the heat of carbuncles. the herb called out they nom divel’s-bit, beeing bruiſed, worketh the like effe&. i have often uſed the medicine follow- p"* ingunto the heat ofcarbuncles, with verie goodſucceſs; it doth alſo affwage pain,and cauſ ſuppuration. take of the ſoot ſcraped from a chimnie four ounces, of common ſalt two ounces; beat them into ſmall powder, adding thereto the yelks of two eggs, and ſtir them well together until it com to have the conſiſtence of apultisand let itbee applied warm un- &: : * to the carbuncle. in the beginning, the point or head of the carbuncle muſt bee burned, if ºna it bee black; by dropping thereinto ſcalding hot oil, or aqua forti, ; forby ſuch a burning withºut to the venomis ſuffocated, as touched by lightening, and the pain is much leſſened, as i have bee burned prooved often times: neither is it to bee feared, left that this burning ſhould bee too pain- ful, for it toucheth nothing but the point of the carbuncle, which by reaſon of the eſchar that is there, is void of ſenſ. after this burning, you muſt go forward with the former-de- ſcribed medicines, until the eſchar ſeemeth to ſeparate it ſelf from the fleſh roundabout it, which is a token of the patient's recoverie ; for it ſignifieth that nature is ſtrong and able to the falling of reſiſt the poiſon. after the fall of the eſcharyou muſt uſe gentle mundificatives, as thoſe *:::::: which wee have preſcribed in a peſtilent bubo ; not omitting ſomtimes the uſe of ſuppura- c health tive and mollifying medicines, that while the groſs matteris cleanſed, that which is as yet a r ldi crude may bee brought to ſuppuration: for then the indication is twofold; the one to ſup- #.” purate that which remain's as yet crude and raw in the part, and the other to cleanſ that which remain's concoëted and perſealy digeſted in the ulcer. ºr chap. lib. . . . concerning the plague. chap. xxxv, i. of the itching and inflammation happening in peſtilent ulcers, and bow to cicatrize them. . . . . . - - - tº - •] . . filhe parts adjoyning to a peſtilent ulcer, oft-times are ſuperficiarily excoriated wºr $ by reaſon of ulcerous ... which fie and ther with burning and great. ºlitching º: and vellicate the part. the cauſmay happeneither externally oriji. sº internally; internally, by a thin and biteingſanies, which ſweating from the " " ' * ulcer, moiſten's the neighboring parts. but externally by the conſtipation of . . . the pores of the skin induced by the continual application of medicines. to remedie this, a fomentati-. the place muſt bee fomented with diſcuſſing and relaxing things, as aqua fortu, which the ºr thi" gold-ſmiths have uſed for ſeparateing of metals, alum-water, the water of lime, brine," and the like. but ulcers left by carbuncles and peſtilent bubo's, are difficultly cicatrized why theſe ul- by reaſon of the corrodeing ſanies, proceeding from the cholerick, or phlegmatick and ſalt cers are hard, blood, which beeing in fault by the corruption of the whole ſubſtance cauſeth the abſceſs, tºº “” beſides, ſuch ulcers are commonly round, and therefore hard to bee cicatrized, for that “... . . . the quitture hath no free paſſage forth ; ſo the ſanies, of its own nature acrid and corrode- ing, doth by delaie acquire greater acrimonie and introlitie; ſo by its burning touch diſ- ſolving the adjacent fleſh, it hinder's the conjunětion and unition of the lips of the ulcer: but in the interim, the lips of the ulcer becom callous, which, unleſs they bee helped by cutting, or eating medicines, the ulcer cannot bee healed; for that by their denſitie they hinder the ſweating out of a ſufficient quantitie of the dewie glue to heal up the ulcer. now the ulcer beeing plained and brought equal to the other fleſh, wee muſt uſe epulo-two ſorts of ticks, that is, ſuch things as have a facultie to cicatrize ulcers by condenſing and harden- epuloticks. ing the ſurface of the fleſh: of theſe there are two kindes; for ſom without much biteing. binde and drie: ſuch are pomegranat-pills, oak-bark, tutia, litharge,burn't bones, ſcales: of braſs, galls, cypreſs-nuts, minium, antimonie, bole-armenick, the burn't and waſhed . ſhels of oiſters, lime nine times waſhed, and manie metalline things. others are next to theſe, by which proud fleſh is conſumed; but ſuch muſt bee ſpareingly uſed: of this kinde is waſhed vitriol, burn’t alum, which excelleth other epuloticks, by reaſon of the excellent drying and aſtringent facultie conſolidateing the fleſh, which by beeing moiſtened by an • * excrementitious humor, grow's lank. for that the ſcar which is made, is commonly un- remedies a: ſightly in this kinde of ulcers, as red, livid, black, ſwoln, rough, by reaſon of the great a- º:* duſtion imprinted in the part, as by a burning cole: therefore i have thought good heretoſ. ſet down ſom means,by which this deformitie may bee corre&ed or amended. if the ſcar bee too big,or high,it ſhall bee plained by makeing convenient ligation and ſtraight bindeing to the part a plate of lead rubbed over with quick-ſilver; but you may whiten it,by annoint- ing it with lime nine times waſhed (that ſo it may bee more gentle,and loſe the acrimonie) and incorporated with oil of roſes. som take two pound of tartar or argole, burn it, and then powder it; put it in a cloth, and ſo let it hang in a moiſt vault or cellar, and ſet a veſſel under it to receiv the dropping of liquor, which is good to bee rubbed for a good ſpace upon the ſcar. the ſame facultie is thought to bee in that moiſture of eggs which ſweat's through the ſhell, whil'ſt they are roſted at the coles; as alſo unguenium citri- num, and emplaſt.de ceruſ& newly made. the three following compoſitions are much a prooved. raxungie ſuille monies lote in aceto acerrimoživ.cinab.ſucci litri, & alum.ufti, an . . ointments tº julphur.vivi ignem baud experti, ii, capb. ii.fiat pulviº, then let them all bee incorporated to- attenuate and gether, and make an ointment: it attenuate's the skin, and cleanſeth ſpots. rolei byoſ. olei . away jemin cucurbanáiolei tartar ſ.cere alb. iiiliquefiant ſimullento igne;deinde addeſpermat.ceti vi. car removeantur predićia ab igne donec infrigid poſtca adde troch.alb. rbaſis pul iii, capb. i, tandemicum mali ſirei ſucco omnia diligenter commiſce, fiat linimentum. orelſ, r.radiſerpent i, bulliar in aqua com.f iad dimiddeinde adde ſulph vivi ignem non experti, & alumarudi, pulveriſan. iſ.colent.pre- dići. addatur caph. i ſucci hyoſcyami § let this medicine bee kept in a lead or º and when you would uſe it, diplinnen cloaths therein, and lay them to the part. you may alſo uſe theſe medicines againſt the redneſs of the face; and you may fetch them off in the morning, by waſhing the face with warm water and bran. ch a p. xxxvi. of ſandrie kinder of evacuations, and firſt of sweating and vomiting. - §: º he peſtilent malignitie is not onely evacuated and ſent forth by the eruption of why the peſt- p. and ſpots, but alſo by ſweat, vomit, bleeding at noſe, at the hemorrhoids, lent malignitie § py the courſes, a flux of the bellie, and other waies; ſo that nature by everie isn't carried kinde of excretion may bee freed from the deadlie poiſon, eſpecially that which ...". º: is not asyet arrived at the heart. butchief regard muſt bee had to the inclination of na-..." y c cc - ture, t – - o concerning the plague. linz. wºe muſt have ture, and wee muſt attend what way it chiefly aim's at, and what kinde of excretion it aſ- i.. fett's. yet ſuch evacuations are not alwaies critical, but uſually ſymptomatical; for that nature. oft-times nature is ſo irritated by the untameable malignity of the matter, that it can no signs of future way digeſt it; but is forced by anie means to ſendit away crude as it is. wherefore, if na- ſweat. ture may ſeem by the moiſtneſs of the skin, the ſuppreſſion of urine, and other figns to affett a criſis and excretion by ſweat, you then ſhall procure it by the formerly mentioned means. it is delivered by the antients, that all ſweats in acute diſeaſes are ſalutarie, which happen upon a critical day, which are univerſal and hot, and ſignified before the critical a criff, muſt day. but in this rapid and deadlie diſeaſof the plague, wee muſt not expetta criſis, but *.*... as ſoon as wee can, and by what means weemay, to free nature from ſo dire and potent an pºints ... enemie. - . . * gue. but oft-times the tough and groſs excrementitious humors may bee purged by vomit, which could not bee evacuated by ſtrong purges. therefore alſo by this manner of excre. tion may wee hope for the cycluſion of the peſtilent venom; if there beenothing which may hinder; and nature by frequent nauſeouſneſs may ſeem to affect this way: the endea- h vor thereof ſhallbee helped by giveing ſom half a pinte of warm water to bee drunk with .." four ounces of common oil, an ounce of vineger, and a littlejuice of raddiſh: after the takeing of the potion, it is fit to thruſt into the throat a gooſ-quill dipped in the ſame oil, or elſa branch of roſemarie; or elſby thruſting in the fingers, ſo to procure vomit; alſo a potion of eight ounces of the mucilaginous water of the decoötion of line-ſeeds will procure vomit. or elſ, r.rad, raph. in taleol ſeii. vel ſem.ejus, & ſemantriplicit, an:iii. bulliant in aque com. quod ſufficit pro doff, in colatură diſſolve oxym.é ſyr.acetan. exhibeatur folio larga & tepida. orelſ, b.oxym. gal. vi. ol.com. ii. paretur potio tepid. but nature muſt not bee why vomit forct, unleſs of its own accord it undertake this motion ; for forced and violent vomiting, muſt not bee diſtends the nervous fibres of the ventricle, deječ's the ſtrength, break's the veſſels of the forced. lungs, whence proceed's a deadlieſpitting of blood. wherefore if the ſtomach ſhall trou- ble it ſelf with a vain and hurtful deſire to vomit, it ſhall rather bee ſtrengthened with bags of roſes, worm-wood, and sanders, uſeing inwardly the juice of quinces and berberies, | and broths made for the ſame purpoſe. chap. xxxvii. of spitting, salivation, snetſing, belching, hicketting, and makeing of water. |hat long evacuations may bee made by spitting and salivation, you may sº learn by the example of ſuch as have a plurifies for the matter of the plurifie iº beeing turned into pus, the purulent matter ſuck’t up by the rare and ſpon- § geous ſubſtance of the lungs, and thence drawn into the affera arteria, is laſt- *** lycaſt out by the mouth. the force of there is none ignorant, how much ſuch as have the lues venerea are helped by saliva- salivation, tion and spitting. but theſe ſhall bee procured by maſticatorie of the roots of ireos, pelli- torie of spain, maſtich, and the like; the mucilage of line-ſeeds held in the mouth will work the ſame effe&t. the force of that ſuch as have a moiſt brain may expel their ſuperfluous humors by ſheefing and snººſing blowing their noſes; the brain, by the ſtrength of the expulſive facultie, beeing ſtirredup to the excluſion of that which is harmful, may bee known by the example of old people and children which are daily purged by their noſes; the brain is ſtirred up to both kindes of ex- cretion from cauſes either internal or external: from the internal, as by a phlegmatick and vaporous matter, which contained in the brain, offend's it; externally, as by receiving the beams of the ſun in the noſtrils, or by tickling them with a feather, or blowing into them the powder of hellebore, euphorbium, pyrethrum, muſtard-ſeed, and the like ſternutamento- ries. for then the brain is ſtraightened by its own expulſive facultie, to the excretion of that which is troublous unto it. sneeſing breaketh forth with noiſ, for that the matter paſſeth through ſtraights, to wit, by the ſtraining paſſages of the oscribroſum, which is ſea- ted at the roots of the noſtrils. it is not fit to cauſſheefing in a bodie verie plethorick, un- leſs you have firſt premiſed general medicines, left the humors ſhould beemorepowerfully drawn into the brain, and ſo cauſan apoplexie, vertigo, or the like ſymptoms. the commo. by belching the flatulencies contained in the ventricle,beeing the off-ſpring of cruditie, dities ofbelch- or fiatulent meats, are expelled; theſe by their taſte and ſmell, pleaſing, ſtinking,ſweet,bit- ing. ter or tart, ſhew the condition and kinde of cruditie of the humors from whence they are raiſed: now vomiting free’th the ſtomach of crudities, but the diſtemper muſt bee correóted by contraries, as altering things to bee preſcribed by the phyſician. hicketting is a contračtion and extenſion of the nervous fibres of the ſtomach , to caſt forth ſuch things as are too contumaciouſly impačt in the coats thereof; yet repletion onely is not the cauſthereof,but ſomtimes inanition alſo; ſo oft-times a putrid vapor, from ſom other place, breaking into the ſtomach, as from a peſtilent bubo, or carbuncle; alſo : cl the effea of yº ſpitting in pe- užº . ſtilent diſeaſes. . % mºhº - ºr--> - --- — —– " " — tº “"“º- lib. . concerning the plague. - - aicq and acrid things; becauſthey pricksvellicate and provoke the tunicles of the ventricle, as vineger, ſpiced things, and the like; often and contumacious hicketting after purgeing, a wound or vomiting is ill; but if a convulſion preſently happen thereon, it is deadlie. several remedies muſt bee uſed according to the varietie of the cauſes: for repletion help's thathicketting that proceed's from inanition and evacuation, that which happen's . repletion; that which proceed's from aputrid and venemous vapor, is helped by #. º- e and antidotes; that which is º by acid and acrid things, is º: the uſe of groſs, fattie, and cold things. - - now the wholebodieis oft-times purged by urine, and by this way the ſeveriſh matteris the whole chiefly and properly accuſtomed to beeevacuated: not a few, beeing troubled with the lue, bodie purged venerea, when as they could not bee brought to ſalivation by unétion,have been cured by the by urine. largeevacuation of urine cauſed by diuretick medicines. diureticks, wherewithalſ you may mooyurine, are formerly deſcribed in treating of the ſtone.but wee muſt abſtain from when wee more acrid diureticks, eſpecially when as inflammation is in the bladder; for otherwiſe the ought to ab- noxious humors are ſent to the affetted part, whence there is danger of a deadlie gangrene. ſtain from di. therefore then it is better to uſe diverſion by ſweat. ureticks. chap. xxxvi i i. of the menſtrual and harmorrhoidal purgation. |ot onely reaſon, but alſo manifold experience induceth us to beleev, that # % women, by the benefit of their menſtrual purgation, eſcape, and are freed §§ſ from great, peſtilent, and abſolutely deadlie diſeaſes; wherefore it muſt bee | procured by remedies, both inwardly taken, and outwardly applied: theſe tiewers: § may bee taken inwardly with good ſucceſs, caſſia lignea, cinnamon, the º: * bark of the root of a mulberrie, safforn, agrick, nutmeg, savine, diagri- ſº, - dium, and divers others. but if the affeót require more vehement medicines, the roots of tithymel, antimonie, cantharides (taken in ſmall quantitie)mooy the courſes moſt power- fully; frićtions and ligatures made upon the thighs and legs conduce hereto, as alſo cup- ping in the inner and middle part of the thighs, the . of the vein i. leeches ap- plied to the orifice of the neck of the womb, peſſaries, nodula's, glyſters, baths, fomentati- how aroma- ons made of oderiferous things, which by the fragrancie of their odor, or rather by their º º: heat, may attenuate and cutgroſs humors, open the obſtručedorifices of the veins; ſuch are provoke the the roots of marſh-mallows, orris, parſlie, fennel, kneholn, the leavs and flowrs of saint courſes. ohn's-wurt, affaragus, rocket, balm, chervile, mug-wurt, mints, pennie-royal, savorie, oſemarie, rue, time, sage, bay-berries, broom, ginger, cloves, pepper, nutmegs, and the like ; the vapor of the boiling whereof, let the woman, ſitting upon a perforated ſeat, receiv by a funnel into the neck of her womb, covering herſelf warm on all fides, that ſo nothing may otherwiſe break forth. of the ſame things may bee made baths, as well general,as particular. alſo peſſaries are good made after this manner. rºtheriac.mithrid. peſſarieste an. ſ, cafforºgum, ammoniac.an. i. miſce cum bombace in ſucco mercarialis tinčio, fiat peſſarium. prºvºke the orelſ, r.radipetroſelin. & fenug ſub cineribu, cotias, deinde contuſa, cum pulſtaplyſºg pyreth, croco" , oleo liliorum, ſo make a peſſarie in the form of a ſuppoſitorie or nodula. or, ripulv. myrrh. aloés,an i.folſabin.nigel.artbewiſan ii.rad helleb.migr: icroci, i. cum ſucco mercur. & melle communi; make a peſſarie iucotton. this which follow's is more effečtual. r.ſucci rut. abſinth.an. iimyrrheuphorb.caffor-ſabin. diacridterebinth galban theriacan. i make a peſſarie ac- cording to art; let a thred hangout of the one end of the peſſaries, that ſo you may eaſily draw them forth as you pleaſ: - but if this menſtruous flux one provoked, flow too immoderately, it muſt bee ſtopped ...; by uſeing meats of grofler and more viſcid juice, by opening a vein in the arm, application #: º, of cupping-glaſſes under the dugs, frićtions and ligations of the upper parts, as the arms, immoderately. e. up of peſſaries, application of refrigerateing and aſtringent plaſters, to the lower ilie, ſhare and loins, laying the woman in a convenient place,and not º a feather-bed. this following injećtion ſtoppeth the blood flowing out of the womb. raque plant.& 'abror.an.fbi nucum cupreſgallarimmaturan. ii.berberſumach.balauſt, vitriol.romalum.rochan ii. bulliant omnia ſimul, & fiat decoãio; of this make injećtion into the womb. in the perfor- mance of all theſe things, i would have the surgeon depend upon the advice of a phyſician, as the occaſion and place ſhall permit. - but if nature endeavor to free it ſelf of the peſtilent matter by the hamorrhoides, you . º: may provoke them by frićtions and ſtrong ligatures in the lower parts, as if the thighs *:::: - or legs were broken, by ventoſes applied with great flame to the inner ſide of the thigh, - by .#. of hot and attraćtive things to the fundament, ſuch as are fomentations, emplatters; unguents; ſuch as is uſually made of an onion roſted under the embers, and in- corporated with treacle, and a little oil of rue: after the bamorrhoidveins, by theſe means, com to ſhew themſelvs, they ſhallbee rubbed with rough linnen clothes, or fig-leavs, c cc or *-i- - - - w concerning the plague. lib. . or a raw onion, or an ox-gall mixt with ſom powder of colloquintida. laſtly,you may ap- plie horſ-leeches, or you may open them with alancet, if they hang much forth of the fun- dament, and beeſwoln with much blood. but if they flow too immoderately, they maybee ſtaid by the ſame means as the courſes. - --> chap. xxxix. of procureing evacuation by ſtool, or a flux of the bellie. : ature often times, both by itſelf, of its own accord, as alſo helpedby laxa- jkštive and purgeing medicines, caſt's into the bellie and guts, as into the fink } of the bodie, the whole matter of a peſtilent diſeaſ, whence are cauſed diar- rhea's, lienteries, and dyſenteries ; you may diſtinguiſh theſe kindes of fluxes of the bellie, by the evacuated excrements. for if they beethin and ſincere, - that is, retain the nature of one, and that a ſimple humor, as of choler, me- lancholie, or phlegm; and if they bee caſt forthin a great quantitie, without the ulceration whata piº- or excoriation of the guts, vehement,or fretting pain, then it is a diarrhea, which ſom alſo rház is. call fluxus humoralia. it is called a lienteria, when as by the reſolved retentive facultie of the ſtomach and guts cauſed by ill humors, either there colle&ed, or flowing from ſom other place; or by a cold and moiſt diſtemper, the meat is caſt forth crude, and almoſt as it was what a dyſºn taken. a tyſenteria is, when as manie and different things,and oft-times mixt with blood, tºyla is. are caſt forth with pain, gripeings, and an ulcer of the guts, cauſed by acrid choler, fret- ting inſunder the coats of the veſſels. but if in anie kinde of diſeaſ, certainly in a peſtilent one, fluxes of the bellie happenim- moderate in quantitie, and horrible in the qualitie of their contents, as º viſcous, fro- thie, as from melted greaſ, yellow, red, purple, green, aſh-colored, black, and exceeding the cauſ of flinking. the caut is various, and manie ſorts of ill humors, which taken hold of by the pe- various and ſtilent malignitie, turn into divers fecies, differing in their whole kinde both from their flinking excre particular, as alſo from nature in general, by reaſon of the corruption of their proper ſub- º * ſtance, whoſe inſeparable ſign is ſinch, which is oft-times accompanied by worms. *...is. . in the camp at amiens, a peſtilent tyſenterie was over all the camp, in this the ſtrongeſt ſouldiers purged forth meer blood : i diffecting ſom of their dead bodies, obſerved the mouths of the meſaraick veins and arteries, opened and much (wollen ; and whereas they entered into the guts, were juſt like little cayledones, out of which as preſſed them, there fiowed blood. for both by the exceſſive heat of the summer's ſun, and the mindes of the enraged ſouldiers, great quantitie of acrid and cholerick humor was generated, and ſo flow- ed into the bellie: but you ſhall know whether the greater or leſſer gutsbee ulcerated, bet- ter by the mixture of the blood with the excrements, then by the ſite of the pain; therefore in the one you muſt rather work by glyſters; but in the other, by medicines taken by the mouth. therefore, if by gripeings, a teneſmus, the murmuring and working of the guts, you ſuſpect in a peſtilent diſeaſ, that nature endeavor's to disburden itſelf by the lower parts, neither in the mean while doth it ſucceed to your deſire,then muſt it bee helped forward by a potion, art, as by takeing a potion of ſ. of hiera ſimplex, and a dram of diaphemicon diſſolved in worm-wood water. alſo glyſters are good in this caſe, not onely for that they aſſwage the gripeings and pains,& draw by continuation or ſucceſſion from the whole bodie; but alſo becauſ they free the "... and guts from obſtrućtion and ſtuffing; ſo that by opening,and as it were unlocking of the paſſages, nature may afterwards more freely free it ſelf from the noxious humors. in ſuch glyfiers they alſo ſomtimes mix two or three drams of treacle, that by one and the ſame labor they may retund the venenate malignitie of the matter. there may alſo bee made for the ſame purpoſe suppoſitories of boiled honie, i. of bie- ra picra and common ſalt, of each ſ. or that they may bee the ſtronger, of honie iii. of ox-gall i, of scammonie, euphorbium, and coloquiniida powdred, of each ſ. the want of theſe may bee ſupplied by nadula': made in this form. r. vitell. ovor. ...ſ. bubuli, . melº, an ſali, com:ſ; let them bee ſtirred together, and well incorporated, and ſo parted into linnen rags, and then bound up into nodula's, of the bigneſs of a fil-berd, and ſo put up into the fundament; you may make them more acrid, by addingſom powder of eu- phorbium, or coloquintida. suppoſitories, -: * * c h a p. xl. --" " - of ſtopping the flux of the belie. iolent and immoderate ſcourings, for that they reſolv the facultie, andlead the pati- ent into a conſumption and death ; therefore if they ſhall appear to beeſuch,they muſt bee - * - - - - - - - - - lib. . cºnºming the tºgº. - - - : . - a.- . bee ſtaied in time by things taken and injećted by the mouth and fundament. to this pur- ſe may a pudding bee made of wheat-flowr boiled in the water of the decoètion of one a hiſtie pud. É. ranat, berberies, bole-armenick, terra ſigillata, and white poppie-ſeeds, of each i. ding tº ſtay the following almond-milk ſtrengthen's the ſtomach,and mitigate's the acrimonie of the ** cholerick humor, provoking the guts to excretion. take ſweet almonds boiled in the wa- ter of barlie, wherein ſteel or iron hath been quenched; beat them in amarble-mortar,and ſo with ſom of the ſame water make them into an almond-milk, whereto adding i. of diarhodon abbati, you may give it to the patient to drink. - this following medicine i learn’t of dr.chappelaine, the king's chief phyſician, who re- ceived it of his father, and held it as a great ſecret, and was wont to preſcribe it with hap- • * pie ſucceſ, to his patients. it is thus: r.boli armen. terre ſigil, lapidhemat. anºi, piciº navali, p.;hºppºlº's iſ.coral rub.marg.eleti.corn cervi uſt. & loti in aq.plant, an. iſaccar. roſłii.fiat pulviſc. of this i. º let the patient take a ſpoonful before meat, or with the yelk of an egg. #: cowl chriſtopher andrew in his a coiátria, much commendeth dog's-dung, when as the dog hath for three daies before been fedonely with bones. quinces roſted in embers, or boiled in a pot, the conſerv of cornelian-cherries, preſer- ved berberies and myrabalans,roſted nutmeg taken before meat, ſtrengthen the ſtomach,and ſtay the lask; the patient muſt feed upon good meats, and theſe rather roſted then boiled. his drink ſhall bee calibeate-water of the decoötion of a ſowr pomegranat beaten, or of drink. the decoötion of a quince, medlars, cervices, mulberries, bramble-berries, and the like things, endued with a facultie to binde and waſte the excrementitious humidities of the bo- die: theſe waters ſhall bee mixed with ſyrup of red currants, julip of roſes, and the like. let the region of the ſtomach and bellie bee annointed with oil of maſtich,moſchatelinum, ointments. myrtles, and quinces. alſo a cruſt of bread newly drawn forth of the oven, and ſteeped in vineger and roſe-water,may bee profitably applied; or elſa cataplaſm of red roſes,su- mach, berberies, myrtles, the pulp of quinces, maſtich, bean-flowr, and honie of roſes made up with calibeate-water. ariodyne,abſtergent,aſtringent, conſolidateing and nouriſhing glyſters ſhallbee injećted. theſe following retund the acrimonie of humors, and affwage pain. rfollatiuc. byoſ. ace-ºlyffer to toſportulan mi.fior.violar, & nenupb..anºiſ fiat clyffer. orelſ, rºroſ rub.bard.mund.jemplant.*** an.p.i.fiat decoãio, in colaturâ adde oleiroſłii.vitelovor.ii.fiat clyſter. or, r.decočiionis capi, crur. vitellin. capit. vervicin. una cum pelle, fb.ii. in quá coquantur foliviolar. malv. mercur, plantag, an. mi. bord.mund:#iquatuor ſem. frigid.major.an. ſ...in colature föſö. diſſolve caſrecenter extraći, i. oliviol. iv. vitellor.ovor.ii.ſaccrub. i. fiat clyſter. or, r.for chamem. melilaneth, anpi.rad.biſ- mal i fiat decotiio in latie; colature adde mucag.ſemºlin fenagr, extrači. in aquà malv. ii. ſaccarrub. i olei cham.é anethan iſ vitellor ovorii.fiat clyſter. such glyſters muſt bee long kept, that they may more readily mitigate pain.when ſhave- ings of the guts appear in the ſtools, it is an argument that there is an ulcer in the guts; therefore then wee muſt uſe detergent and conſolidateing glyſters, as this which follow's. r.bordei integrip.ii.roſrubforſhamam plantag-apii, anpi, fiat decočiio, in colatură diſſolve melli. a glyffer for roſat.é ſyride abſinthan iſ vitelovorii. this following glyſter conſolidateth. r.ſucci plan-ulcerated guts. tag.centinodeº portulac.nu. ii.bol armen.ſang, dracon. amylan. i.ſebi hircini diſſoluti, iii.fiat cly- ſter. alſo cow's-milk boiled with plantain, and mixed with ſyrup of roſes, is an excel- lent medicine for the ulcerated guts. this following glyſter binde's. r.candequin, plant polygon animi. fiat decodio inlade uſu-averitºrin- lato adguartiii. in colaturâ adde boli armen.ſigilſang draconanzii. albumina duor. ovor. fiat cly-gºn' glyſter. ſter. or elſ, r.ſutºlantarnogloſcentinodportulacreſidentia faāa depuratorum quantum ſufficit pro clyffere, addendo pul: buli armeni, terre ſigilſang draconan. i, almyrthin. roſat.an. ii.fiat clyſter. if pure blood flow forth of the guts, i could wiſh you to uſe ſtronger aſtriótives. to which purpoſe i much commend a deco&ion of pomegranat-pills, of cypreſs-nuts, red roſe leavs, sumach, and alum, and vitriol made with smith's water; and ſo made into glyſters, without anie oil. it will bee good with the ſame decočtion to foment the funda- ment, perineum, and the whole bellie. aſtringent glyſters ought not to bee uſed before that the noxious humors bee drawn a- way, and purged byſºns medicines, otherwiſe by the ſtoppage hereof, the bodie may chance to bee oppreſſed. lf the patientbee ſo weak, that hee cannot take or ſwallow anie thing by mouth, nutri- tive glyſters ſhall bee given him. ridecodionis capipinguis, crur. vitulini, coticum acetoſh,bu- gloſſo, boragine, pimpinellà, ladiuca, x vel»ii, in quibus diſſolve vitellos ovorum, nu.iii. ſaccari re- ſati, & aque vite, an: i, butyri recenti, non ſaliti, ii fiat clyffer. - - - - - a nouriſhing glyſter. - * - * - - - - - c cc . chap. . concerning the plague. lib. . c. h.a.p. xli. of evacuation by inſenſible tranſpiration. he peſtilent malignitie, as it is oftimes drawn by the pores, by tranſpiration tº into the bodie, ſo oftimes it is ſent forth inviſibly the ſame way again. for º: our native heat, that is never idle in us, diſperſeth thenoxious humors, atte- tumors are nuated into vapors and air through the unperceivable breathing-places of the oftimes diſ. - * skin. an argument hereof is, wee ſee that the tumors and abſceſſes againſt suffed by the nature, even when they are com to ſuppuration, are oftimes reſolved and diſcuſſed by the jº.nature onely efficacie of nature, and heat, without anie help of art. therefore there is no doubt, #. they* but that nature, beeing prevalent, may free it ſelf from the peſtilent malignitie by tranſpi- ** ration, ſom abſceſs, bubº, or carbuncle beeing comforth, and ſommattercolle&edinſom certain part of the bodie. for when as nature and the native heat are powerful and ſtrong, nothing is impoſſible to it, eſpecially when the paſſages are alſo in like manner free and open. chap. xlii. how to cure infants and children taken with the plague. f that it happen that ſucking or weaned children bee infected with the pc- ſtilence, they muſt bee cured after another order then is yet deſcribed. the sºut |º nurſ of the ſucking childe muſt govern her ſelf ſo in diet and the uſe of †. medicines, as if ſhee were infe&ed with the peſtilence her ſelf: her diet childe is ſick. conſiſteth in the uſe of the ſix things not natural. therefore let it beemo- derate; for the fruit or profit of that moderation in diet cannot chuſe but com unto the nurſes milk, and ſo unto the infant that liveth by the milk. and the infant it ſelf muſt keep the ſame diet as near as hee can in ſleep,wakeing, and expulſion, or avoid- ing of ſuperfluous humors and excrements of the bodie. let the nurſ beefed with thoſe things that mitigate the violence of the feveriſh heat: as cooling broths, cooling herbs, and meats of a moderate temperature: ſhee muſt wholly abſtain from wine, and annoint her nipples, as often as ſhee giveth the infant ſuck, with water, or juice of sorrel, tempered with sugar of roſes. but the infants heart muſt bee fortified againſt the violence of the in- creaſing venom, by giveing it one ſcruple of treacle in the nurſe's milk,the broth of a pul- let, or ſom other cordial water. it is alſo verie neceſſarieto annoint the region of the heart, the emunétories, and both the wriſts with the ſame medicine: neither were it unprofitable to ſmell often unto treacle diſſolved in roſe-water, vineger of roſes, and a little aqua. vite, that ſo nature may bee ſtrengtheued againſt the malignitie of the venom. when the medicines children are weaned, and ſomwhat well grown, they may take medicines by the mouth; maybee given for when they are able to concoët and turn into blood meats that are more groſs and firm tº ſuch as are then milk, they may eaſily aduate a gentle medicine. therefore a potion muſt bee prepa- weaned. red for them of twelv grains of treacle, diſſolved with a little of the ſyrup of succorie in - ſom cordial water, or the broth of a capon: unleſs that anie had rather give it with con- ſerv of roſes,in form of abole: but treacle muſt bee given to children in verie ſmall quan- title, for if it bee taken in anie large quantitie, there is great danger, left that by inflame- ing the humors, it infer a fever. furthermore, broth may bee prepared to bee taken often, made of a capon ſeaſoned with sorrel, lettuce, purſlain and cooling ſeeds, adding thereto bole–armenick, and terra ſigillata, of each one ounce, beeing tied in a rag , and ſomtimes preſſed out from the decočtion. for bole-armenick, whether it bee by its marvellous facul- tie of drying, or by ſom hidden propertie, hath this virtue,that beeng drunken (according lib. %mpta”, as galen witneſſeth) it cureth thoſe that are infečted with the peſtilence, if ſo bee that they may bee cured by phyſick; ſo that thoſe that cannot bee cured with bole-armenick, cannot the benefit of bee preſerved by anié other medicines. but becauſthe bodies of children are warm, moiſt children. and vaporous, they are eaſily delivered of ſom portion of the venenate matter through the pores of the skin by provokeing ſweat, with a decočtion of parſlie-ſeeds, prunes,figs, and the roots of sorrel, with a little of the powder of hart's-horn, or ivorie. but that the ſweat may bee more abundant and copious,applie ſponges dipped and preſſed out in the hot decočtion of sage, roſemarie, lavender, bays, cammomil, melilot and mallows, or elſ swine's bladders half filled with the ſame decočtion, to the arm-holes, and to the groins. in the time that they ſweat, let their faces bee fanned to cool them. alſo let a nodule of treacle, diſſolved in vineger and water of roſes, bee applied to the noſtrils; but alwaies uſe a moderation in ſweating,becauſthat children are of a ſubſtance that is eaſie to bee diff- pated and reſolved: ſo that oftentimes although they do not ſweat, yet they feel the com- modities lib. . concerning the plgaue. . modities of ſweating, the matter of the venom beeing diſſipated by the force of the heat through the É. of the skin. but in the ſweating, while the face is fanned, and ſweet and cordial things applied to the noſtrils,nature muſt beerecreated and ſtrengthened, which otherwiſe would bee debilitated through ſweating, that it may beebetter able to expel the venom. after that the ſweat is wiped away, it is verie profitable to take a potion of con- ſerv of roſes, with the powder of hart's-horn, or of ivorie diſſolved in the waters of bu- gloſs and sorrel, the better to cool and defend the heart. if there appear anie tumor un- der the arm-holes, or in the groin, let it bee brought to maturation with a mollifying, re- laxing, drawing, and then with a ſuppurative fomentation, or cataplaſm ; alwaies #. and handling it as gently as you may, confidering the tender age of the infant. if you have need to purge the patient, the purgation following may bee preſcribed with great profit. take of rubarb in powder one dram; infuſe it in the water of carduus benedičius, with one the formof a ſcruple of cinnamon; in the ſtraining diſſolv two drams of diacatholicon; of ſyrup of ro-ºº:::::" ſes laxative three drams; make thereof a ſmall potion. this is the cure of the peſtilence, and of the peſtilent fever, as far as i could learn from the moſt learned phyſicians, and have obſerved my ſelf by manifold experience by the grace and permiſſion of god: of whom alone, as the autor of all good things that mortal men enjoy, , the true and certain preſervatives againſt the peſtilence, are - to bee defired and hoped for. the end of the twentie ſecond boºk. . . ." . . . - - ... :: ;...? * : , - : ºf..." + -> . : : "… -- " - º * : , , , , , .."--> - - - '', . . . . . . . . ... tº a ": , “ . . . . ; *: tºº ºr i, º - . . . . ." … . . given to a hilde. : - - lib. . #º º - - - - - - - - of the means and manner to repair or ſupplie the na- tural or accidental defeats or wants in man's bodie. the twentie third book. . . . . chap. i. how the lſt of the natural or true eie may bee covered, hidden or ſhadowed. aveing at large treated in the former books of tumors, wounds, ulcers, fračtures and luxations, by what means things diſſolved and diſlocated might bee united, things united ſeparated, and ſuperfluities conſumed or a- the fourth bated: now it remain's, that wee ſpeak of the fourth office or dutie of the dutie of a sur- chirurgion, which is to ſupplie or repair thoſe things that are wanting by ' geon, is nature, through the default of the firſt conformation, or afterwards by ſom miſchance. therefore, if that through aniemiſchance, as by anie inflammation, anie man's eie happen to bee broken or put out, and the humors ſpilt or waſted; or if it bee ſtrucken out of his place or cavitie wherein it was naturally placed by anie violent ſtroke; or if it waſte or conſume by reaſon of a conſumption of the proper ſubſtance, then there is no hope to reſtore the ſight or funètion of the eie, yet you may cover the deformitie of the eie ſo loſt (which is all you can do in ſuch a caſe) by this means: if that when you have perfeótly cured and healed the ulcer, you may put anothereie artificially made of gold or ſilver,coun- terfeited and enamelled, ſo that it may ſeem to have the brightneſs, or gemmie decencie of the naturaleie, into the place of the eie that is ſo loſt. the formſ of eies artificially made of gold or ſilver, poliſhed and enameled,ſhºwing - both the inner and outer ſide. but if the patient bee unwilling, or by reaſon of ſom other means cannot wear this eie ſo prepared, in his head; you may make another on this wiſe. you muſt have a ſtring or wier of iron bowed or crooked,like unto women's ear-wiers,nade to binde the head harder or looſer, as it pleaſeth the patient, from the lower part of the head behinde above the ear, unto the greater corner of the eie; this rodor wier muſt bee covered with filk; and it muſt alſo bee ſomwhat broad at both ends, leſt that the ſharpneſs thereofſhould pierce or prick anie part that it commeth unto. but that end wherewith the emptie hollowneſs muſt bee covered, qught to bee broader then the others and covered with a thin piece of leather,that thereon the colors of the eie that is loſt maybeeſhadowed or counterfeited. herefolloweth the figure orportraiture offich a ſtring or wier. tbe - lib. . asupplie of the defed: of man's bodie. | - the fºrm of an ironwier wherewith the deformitie of an eie that is loſi may bee ſ ſhadowed or covered. - cha p. l i. by what means a part of the noſe that is cut off, may beereſtored; or how in ſtead of the noſe that º - is cut off, another counterfeit noſe may beefaſtened, or placed in the ſtead. ; hen the whole noſe is cutoff from the face, or portion of the noſtrils, from $ the noſe, it cannot bee reſtored or joyned again; for it is not in men, as it is - -- ºf in plants. for plants have a weak and feeble heat; and furthermore, it is e- why the parts º § qually diſperſed into all the ſubſtance of the plant or tree, neither is it eaſie of plants s to bee conſumed or waited: for when the boughs or branches of trees are broken, torn, or º: - cutaway, they live nevertheleſs, and will grow again when they are ſet and grafted nei-gain ºut thoſe ther is there anie ſeat for the heart rightly prepared in them from whence the heat muſt ne- oſman can- ceſſarily run, and diſperſitſelf continually into all the parts thereof. but contrariwiſe,the not. ſeparated parts of more perfect living creatures, as of men, are incontinently deprived of life; becauſthey have their nouriſhment, life ſenſ, and whole ſuſtentation not of themſelvs, by faculties flowing or comming unto them from ſom other parts; neither are they gover- ned by their own heat, as plants; but by a borrowed heat: ſo that above or beſide the natu- ral facultie of the liver, another vital facultie commeth unto it from the heart. wherefore in ſtead of the noſecutaway or conſumed, it is requifite to ſubſtitute ano- ther made by art; becauſ that nature cannot ſupplie that defe&: this noſe ſo artificially made, muſt bee of gold, filver, paper, or linnen clothes glewed together, it muſt bee ſo co- lored, counterfeited, and made both of faſhion, figure and bigneſs, that it may as aptly as is poſſible, reſemble the natural noſe: it muſt beebound or ſtayed with little threds or laces unto the hinder part part of the head or the hat. . alſo if there bee anie portion of the up- per lip cut off with the noſe,you may ſhadow it with annexing ſom ſuch thing that is want- ing unto the noſe, and cover it with the hair on his upper lip, that hee may not want anie thing that may adorn or beautifie the face. therefore i have thought it neceſſarie to ſet down the figure or form of both theſe kindes. eajºple ofº defed, in man's bodie. lib. . | a ſtrange cure for acut-off noſe. an hiſtoric, sett- .lib.de • &t ſº. ;. the form of a noſe artificially made, both alone by it ſelf, and alſo with the up- per-lip covered as it were with the bair of the beard, | n there was a surgeon of italie of late years which would reſtore or repair the portion of the noſe that was cut away after this manner. hee firſt ſcarified the callous edges of the maimed noſe round about, as is uſually don in the cure of hare-lips: then hee made a gaſh or cavitie in the muſcle of the arm, ºff. is called biceps, as large as the greatneſs of the |. of the noſe which was cut away did require: and into that gaſh or cavitieſo made, ee would put that part of the noſe ſo *:::: and binde the patient's head to his arm,as if it were to a poſt, ſo faſt that it might remain firm, ſtable and immoveable; and not leanor bow anie way; and about fortie daies after, or at that time when hee judged the fleſh of the noſe was perfe&ly agglutinated with the fleſh of the arm; heecutout as much of the fleſh of the arm, cleaving faſtunto the noſe,as was ſufficient to ſuppliethe defeat of that which was loſt, aud then hee would make it even, and bring it, as by licking, to the faſhion and form of a noſe, as near as art would permit; and in the mean while heedid feed his patient with panadoes, gellies and all ſuch things as were eaſie to bee ſwallowed and digeſted. and hee did this work of cureing the place where the fleſh was ſo cut out, onely with certain balms and agglutinative liquors. a younger brother of the familie of st. thoan, beeing wearie of a filver-noſe, it: artificially made, hee had worn in the place of his noſe that was cut off, went to this chirurgian into ltalie, and by the mean fore-named praćtice heere- covered a noſe of fleſh again, to the great admiration of all thoſe that knew him before.this thing truly is poſſible to beedon, cut it is verie difficult both to the patient ſuffering, and alſo to the chirurgian working. for that the fleſh that is taken out of the arm is not of the like temperature as the fleſh ofthe noſe is; alſo the holes of the reſtored noſe cannotbee made as the were before. chap. iii. of the placeing of teeth artificially made inſtead of thoſe that are loft or wanting. t oftentimes happeneth that the fore-teeth are mooved, broken or ſtricken out oftheir places by ſom violent blow, which cauſſeth deformitie of the mouth, and hinder's plain pronunciation. therefore when the jaw is re- ſtored (if it were luxated or fraëured) and the gums brought into their former hardneſs; other teeth artificially made of bone or ivorie may bee ...nº in the place ofthoſe that are wanting, and they muſt beejoined one'faſt this m º ; and alſo ſo faſtned unto the natural teeth adjoining, that are whole; and **śybee don with a thred of goldor ſilver, or for want ofeither, with a com- ;ºriesiiddrid':hºnºriºiºi, lºgº.ta/mºfºnºvanºvic. tº the figure of teeth bound or faſtned together. c. h. a. p. i iih. of filling the ballowneſ of the palat. - # anie times it happeneth that a portion or part of the bone of the palat, bee-theaff, #|\%\º ing broken with the ſhot of a gun, or corroded by the virulencie of the lues and hur, that § venerea, fall's away; which make's the patients, to whom this happeneth, that enſue's of the : they cannot pronounce their words diſtinétly, but obſcurely, and ſnuffling: loſt palat. * therefore i have thought it a thing worthie the labor to ſhew the means how it may bee helped by art. it muſt bee don by filling the cavitie of the palat with a plate of gold or filver, a little bigger then the cavitie it ſelf is. but it muſt bee as thick as a french crown, and made like unto a diſh in figure; and on the upper fide,which ſhallbee towards the brain, a little ſponge muſt bee faſtened, which, when it is moiſtened with the moiſture diſtilling from the brain, will becom more ſwoln, and puffed up; ſo that it will fill the concavitie of the palat, that the artificial palat cannot º down, but ſtand faſt and firm, as if it ſtood of itſelf. this is the true figure of thoſe inſtruments,whoſe certain uſe i have obſerved not by once or twice, but by manifold trials in the battels fought beyond the alps. the figure of plates to fill or ſupplie the defetis of the palat. §§ §§ \ | the figure of another plate for the palat, on whoſe upper ſide there it button, which may ber turned when it is put into the place, with a ſmall raven's bill, like this whoſe figure is here expreſſed. - w \ ~ | \\ \º \ n º / º º | | ºm t uniºn. mºtº www.wv. - º twtt|| ſº º, sº x |ko |||| |/l. u. in iſ is' , /|| ||||i'll §n mº %/..." chap, o a ſupplie of the defeſts in man'ſ bodie. lip. . chap. v. how to belp ſuch aſ cannot ſpeak by reaſon of the loſ of ſom part ofthe tongue, ..hance gave place and autoritie to this remedie, as to manie other in our art. a. by a certain man dwelling in a villagenamed ivoy le cheſteauberingſom twen- / accident. tie four miles from bourges, had a great piece of his tongue cut off; by which an hiſtorie. n $ % occaſion bee remain'd dumb ſom three years.it happen'd on a time that ashee (sºx was in the fields with reapers, hee drinking in a wooden diſh, was tickled by * ſom of the ſtanders by, not endureing the tickling, hee ſuddenly broke out into articulate and intelligible words. hee himſelf wondring thereat, and delighted with the noveltie of the thing, as amiracle, put the ſame diſh to his mouth juſt in the ſame man- ner as before, and then her ſpakeſo plainly and articulately, that hee might beeunderſtood by them all. wherefore a longtime following hee alwaies carried this diſh in his boſom, to utter his minde, until at length neceſſitie, the miſtreſs of arts, and giver of wit induceing him, hee cauſed a wooden inſtrument to beeneatly cut and made for him, like the which is here delineated, which hee alwaies carried hanging at his neck, as the onely interpreter of his minde, and the key of his ſpeech. an inſtrument made to ſupplie the defed of the ſpeech when the tongue is cut off. the uſe of the inſtrument is this. a. ſheweth the upper part of it which was of the thickneſs of a nine-pence, which hee did ſo hold between his cutting teeth, that it could not com out of his mouth nor bee ſeen. b. ſheweth the lower part, as thick as a ſix-pence, which hee did put hard to the reſt of his tongue, cloſe to the membranous ligament which is under the tongue. that place which is depreſt and ſomwhat hollowed, marked with the letter c. is the inner part of the inſtru- ment. d. ſheweth the outſide of the ſame. heehanged it about his neck with the ſtring that is tied thcreto. textor the phyſician of bourges ſhewed mee this inſtrument : and i my ſelf made trial thereof on a young man whoſe tongue was cut off, and it ſucceeded well, and took verie good effe&. andi think other surgeons in ſuch caſes may do the like. chap. vi. ofcovering or repairing certain defeas or defaults in the face. t oftentimes happeneth, that the face is deformed by the ſudden flaſhing of gun-powder, or by a peſſilent carbuncle, ſo that one cannot behold it without great horror. such perſons muſtbee ſo trimmed and ordered, that they may comin ſeemliemanner into the companie of others.the lips if they * §§§ beecither cutoff with a ſword, or deformed with the eroſion or eating of a *** peſtilent carbnncle or ulcerated cancer, ſo that the teeth may bee ſeen to lie bare with great deformitie. if the loſs or conſumption of the lipbeenot veriegreat, it may bee repaired by that waie which wee have preſcribed in the cure of hare-lips, or of an ulce- rated cancer. but if it bee great, then muſt there bee a lip of gold made for it, ſo ſhadowed and counterfeited, that it may not beemuch unlike in color to the natural lip, and it muſt beefaſtned and tied to the hat or cap that the patient weareth on his head, that ſo it may remain ſtable and firm. - - - - - - *** * * * * ~ * chap. lib. . a ſupplie of the defeffrin man, wº. - it: . of the defetis of the eart. ºuch as want their ears, either naturally or by misfortunes as through a wound, carbuncle, cancer, or the biteing of wildebeaſts; if ſo be that the farbee not wholly wanting, waſted,conſumed, or torn away; but that ſom portion thereof doth yet remain,then muſt it not bee neglečted, but muſt have manie holes made ithabodkin; and after that the holes are cicatrized, let ſom convenient thing, made like unto the piece of the ear that is loſt, bee tied or faſtned unto it by theſe holes. but if the earbee wholly wanting, another muſt bee made of paper artificially glewed together, or elſof leather, and ſo faſtened with laces, from the top or hinder part of the head, that it may ſtand in the appointed place; and ſo the hair muſt bee permitted to grow long, or elſſom cap worn under the hat, which may hide or cover the deformities unleſs you had rather have it to bee ſhadowed or counterfeited by ſom painter, that thereby it may reſemble the color of a natural ear; and ſo retain in it the place where it ought to ſtand, with a rod or wier comming from the top or hinder part of the head, as wee have ſpoken before in the loſs of the eie; and the form thereof is this. * . . . -- - - s n º - ; - ... -** - - - - - - - - - - - - - -, * : . (..". a -- - - - - - - - - - * * * * - - - s s º º f- chap. viii. of amending the deformitie of ſuch as are crook-back’t. ſº he bodies of manie, eſpecially young maids or girls (by reaſon that they are § more moiſt and tender then the bodies of boys) are made crooked ih proceſs º oftime, ..º. wrenching aſide and crookedneſs of the back-bone. a sº- - and afterwards by misfortune; as a eſpecially by the unhandſom and undecent fituation ºf their bodies, when they are young and tender, either in carrying, ſitting or ſtahding (and eſpecially, when they are taught to go too ſoon) ſaluting, ſewing, writeing, or in doing anie ſuch like thing, ºf in the mean while, that i may not omit the occaſion of crookedneſs, that happen's ſel- dom to the countrie-people, but is much incident to the inhabitants of great towns and cities,which is by reaſon of the ſtraightneſs and narrowneſs of the garments that are worn by them, which is occaſioned by the follie of mothers, who while they covet to have their oung daughters bodies ſo ſmall in the middle as may bee poſſible, pluck and draw their nesawrie, and make them crooked. for the ligaments of the back-bone beeing verie ten- der, ſoft and moiſt at that age, cannot ſtay it ſtraight, and ſtrongly; but beeing pliant, eaſily p. the ſpondels to ſlip awrie inwards, outwards, or ſide-wiſe, as they are thruſt or forced. - the remedie for this deformitie is to have breaſt-plates of iron, full of holesall over them whereby they may bee lighter to wear; and they muſtbee ſo lined with bombaſte, . that they may hurt no place of the bodie. everie three months new plates muſt bee made for thoſe that are not hi arrived at their full growth; for otherwiſe by the dailie afflux of more matter, they would becom worſ. but theſe plates will do themſmall good that areal- readie at their full growth. tºo ºr - - , , .." ddd the - gº. it hath manie cauſts, that is to ſay, in the firſt conformation in the womb, cauſes of hi , bruiſ, or anieſuch like accident; but crookedneſs. ea ſupplie of the defed, in man's bodie. lib. . the form ºf an iron breaſt-plate, to amend the crookedneſs of the bodie. … ." is . . . . . . . ; *-e hap. ix. nº. how to reliev ſuch as have their urine flow from them againſt their wils, and ſuch as want their yards. º, àn thoſe that have the strangurie, of what cauſ ſoever that maladie com meth, the urine paſſeth from them by drops, againſt their wils and conſent. º; this accident is verie grievous and troubleſom, eſpecially to men i. tra- - ſº well: and for their ſakes onely i have invented the inſtrument herebeneath a. * § deſcribed. it is made like unto a cloſe breech or hoſe; it muſt bee of latin, º: . d ɺ and to coatain ſom four ounces: it muſt bee put into º: hoſe, be- th... tween his thighs, unto which it muſt bee tied with a point by the ring. into the open and hollow mouth of this inſtrument, which is noted with the letter c, the patient muſt put his yard; and into this concavitie or hollowneſs goethaſtay ſomwhát deep, it is marked with the letter b. and made or placed there, both to hold or bear the end of the yard, and alſo by his cloſe joint that it muſt have unto the veſſel, to ſtay the urine from going back again, when it is once in. but the letters a and d. do ſignifie all the inſtrument; that the former part; and this the hinder part thereof. now this is the ſhape thereof. th. figure of an inſtrument, which jame call, a baſin, or receptacle for the urine. * thoſe that have their yards cusoff cloſe to their bellies, are greatly troubled in make- ing of urine, ſo that they are conſtrained to ſit downlike women, for their eaſ. i have de- viſed this pipe or conduit, haveing an hole through it as big as one finger, which maybee made of wood, or rather of latin. ". . . . .* . ; : - - ;a. and c. do ſhew the bigneſs and length of the pipe. biſheweth the brink on the broº- der end. d. ſheweth the out-ſide of the brink. this lnſtrument muſt bee applied to the *** b's ºl lower ----- ---- lower part of pedini, on the upper end it is compaſſed with abrink for the paſſage of the urine, for thereby it will receiv the urine better, and carrie it from the patient, as hee ſtandeth upright. ..! " * - - - - - - the deſcription of a pipe or ºnli, ſerving in ſead of the yard in making of water, which therefore wee may call an artificiall yard. bs § £ É in - eº . º e - % #. | -- Ž % - % * chap. x. by what means the periſhed funčion or aliion of a thumb or finger may bee correàed and amended. - § º/ hen a ſinew or tendon is cut cleanaſunder, the action in that part, whereofit a. ağ % was the author, is altogether aboliſhed; ſo that the member cannot bend or §§§ fire choºſiſ, units it be hopen by arºwninthing perform fina w w: certain gentleman belonging to annas of montmorencie, §; the french anhiſtotle. horſ-men, who in the battle of dreux received ſo great a wound with a back- ſword, upon the out-ſide of the wriſt of the right hand, that the tendons that did ere&t or draw up the thumb were cut clean in ſunder; and alſo, when the wound was throughly whole and conſolidated, the thumb was bowed inwards, and fell into the palm of the hand, ſo that hee could not extend or lift it up, unleſs it were by the help of the other hand, and then it would preſently fall down again; by reaſon whereofhee could hold nei- ther ſword; ſpear, nor javelin in his hand, ſo that hee was altogether unprofitable forwar, without which hee ſuppoſed there was no life. wherefore hee conſulted with mee about the cutting away of his thumb, which did hinder his gripeing, which i refuſed to do, and told him, that i. conceived a means, how it might bee remedied without cutting away. therefore i cauſed a caſe to bee made for it of latin, whereinto i put the thumb: this caſe was ſo artificially faſtened by two ſtrings that were put into two rings, made in it above the joint of the hand, that the thumb ſtood upright, and ſtraight out, by reaſon whereof hee was able afterwards to handle aniekinde of weapon. - the form of a thumb or finger-ſtall ºf iron or latin, to |;up '. º the thumb, or anie - it ſelf. other finger that cannot bee eretie % - \\ \ wyg §§ if that in anieman the finews or tendons, which hold the hand upright, beecutaſun- der with a wound, ſo that hee is not able to lift up his hand, it may eaſily bee erected or lifted up with this inſtrument that followeth, beeing made of an equal, ſtraight, thin, but yet ſtrong plate of latin, lined on the inner ſide with filk, or anie ſuch like ſoft thing, and ſo plac't in the wriſt of the hand, that it may com unto the palm, or the firſt joints of the did fingers; - - a ſupplie of the defeats in man's bodie. lib. . i- --------- what varm is. what p.algº is. a plaſter to § faſt reſto- redbones. fingers; and it muſt bee tied above with convenient ſlaies, and ſo the diſcommoditieofthe jº or hanging of the hand, may bec avoided: therefore this inſtrument may bee cd the ereğtor of the hand. - . the eretior of the hand. - w c.h.a.p. xi. of helping thoſe that are varior valgi, that is, crook-legged, or crook-footed, inwards or outwards. ºilº hoſe are ſaid to bee vari, whoſe feet or legs are bowed or crooked inwards. ºº: this default is either from the firſt conformation in the womb, through the de- ºfault in the mother, who hath her legs in like manner crooked; or becauſthat * tº in the time when ſhee is great with childe, ſhee commonly fit’s with her legs a- croſs: or elſ, after the childe is born, and that, either becauſ his legs bee not well ſwathed, when hee is lai'd into the cradle, or elſ, becauſtheybee not well pleaſed in carrying the in- fant; or if hee bee not well looked unto by the nurſ, when hee learneth to go: for the bones are verie tender, and almoſt as flexible as wax. but contrariwiſe, thoſe are called valgi,whoſe legs are crooked or bowed outwards. this maycom through the default of the firſt conformation, as well as the other; for by both,the feet alſo and the knees may bee made crooked; which thing, whoſoever will amend, muſt reſtore the bones into their proper and natural place ; ſo that in thoſe that are varous, hee muſt thruſt the bones outwards, as though hee would make them valgous : neither is it ſuf- ficient to thruſt them ſo, but they ought alſo to bee retained there in their places after they are ſo thruſt; for otherwiſe they beeing not well eſtabliſhed, would ſlip back again. they muſt bee ſtai'd in their places,by applying of collars and bolſterson that fidewhere- unto the bones do lean, and incline themſelvs; for the ſame purpoſe boots may bee made of leather, of the thickneſs of a teſtone, haveing a ſlit in the former part all along the bone of the leg, and alſo under the ſole of the foot, that beeing drawn together on both fides, they maybee the betterfitted, and fit cloſer to the leg. and let this medicine followingbee applied all about the leg. r.thuri, maſtich.aloes, boli armeni, anái.alumini, rotbirefine pinifice, ſubtiliſimépulveriſan. iii.farine volatāiſ album, ºvorqſ, make thereof a medicine. you may alſo add a little turpentine, leſt it ſhould drie ſooner, or more vehemently then is neceſſa- rie. but you muſt beware, and take great heed, leſt that ſuch as were of late varous or val- gous, ſhould attempt or ſtrain themſelvs to go,before that their joints bee confirmed; for ſo the bones that were lately ſet in their places, may ſlip aſide again.and moreover, until they are able to go without danger, let them wear high ſhoos tied cloſe to their feet, that the bones may . ſtaied the better, and more firmly in their places; but letthat ſide of the ſoal of the ſhoobee under-laid whither the foot did incline before it was reſtored. the - - → lisa. tmſimple of hedºn may, j.t.s, the form of little boots, whereofthe one is open, and the otherſhut. c h a p. xii. by what means arms, legs, and hands may bee made by art, and placed in ſtead of the natural arms, legs, or hands that are cut off and loſt. meceſſitie oftentimes conſtrain's us to finde out the meanes whereby wee may .É help and imitate nature, and ſupplie the defečt of members that are periſhed ºil and loſt.and hereofit commeth that wee may perform the funètions of go- ſh ing, ſtanding and handling with arms and hands made by art, and undergo s. our neceſſarie flexions and extenſions with both of them. i have gotten the forms of all thoſe members made ſo by art, and the proper names of all the engines and inſtruments whereby thoſe artificially made are j to my great coſt and charges, of a moſt ingenuous and excellent smith dwelling at paris, who is called of thoſe that know him, and alſo of ſtrangers, by no other name then the little lorain; and here i have cauſed them to bee portraied, or ſet down,that thoſe that ſtand in need of ſuch things, after the example of them, may cauſſom smith, or ſuch like work-man to ſerv them in the like caſe. they are not onely profitable for the neceſſitie of the bodie, but alſo for the de- cencie and comlineſs thereof. and here followeth their forms. - ddd the a ſupplie of the defeifs in man's bodie. lisa;: the form of an hand made artificially ºf iron. | º h it. § º£ yº §: ns- ſº *: º - º *a vº- - = - sºjº _- sy s s= =n*e=º º: §§ sn n - wºº y \, . ") º - ºv - ºlla º o nºw)"wºgº. this figure followingſbeweth the back-ſide of an hand artificially made, and ſo that it may bee tied to the arm or ſleev. * lib. . a ſupplie of the defed, in man's bodie. \ the form of an am made of iron verie artificial). ！！！！！！！）！！！！！！！--№ ---- z|- ſ)+\ğÉ№。<% Řky as§§ |no§ ！ the deſcription of legs made artificially of iron. the a ſupplie of the defects in man's bodie. lib. . the form of a woodden leg made for poor men. \ --- a. shºweth the flump or flock of the wooden leg. bb.sleweth the two ſtaie, which muſt bee ºn both ſides of the leg, the ſhorter of them muſt bee on the inner ſide. cc.sheweth the pillow ºr bolſter, ºſton the knee miff reſt in the bottom between the twº ſidies, that ſo it may reſt the ſºftº: dp.shºweth the things or girth, with their rºundbuckles, ful through the two ſtaie, on either ſide tº ſtay the knee in his place firm and immovable, that it ſlip not aſide. e. sheweth the thigh it elſ, that you may know after what faſhion it muſt ſtand. it happen's alſo manie times, that the patient, that had the nervs or tendons of his leg wounded, long after the wound is whole and conſolidated, cannot go but with verie great pain and torment, by reaſon that the foot cannot follow the muſcle, that ſhould draw it ºp. that this maladie may beeremedied, you ought to faſten a linnen band made verie ſtrong unto the ſhoo that the patient weareth on that his pained foot; and at the knee it muſt have a ſlit where the knee may comforth in bowing of the leg: and it muſt bee truſ- ſed up faſt unto the patient's middle, that it may the better lift up andered the foot in go- ing. this band is marked in the figure following with the letters aa. . chap. lib . . a ſupplie of the jºã, in may, bodie. . c h a p. xiii. - of amending or helping lameneſ, or balling. -- - - - - - - . . . . . . . ; ; ; ; ; *... ." g|alting is notonely a great deformitie, but alſo verie troubleſom and grievous. * therefore if that aniebee grieved therewith by reaſon that one of his legs is ſhorter then the other, it may beeholpen by putting under his ſhort foot this - | ſitting crutch, which, wee are now about to deſcribe. for by the help of this, * heeſhall not onely go upright, but alſo more eaſily and with littlelabororno- pain at all. it was taught meeby nicola piccard chirurgian to the duke of lorain. the form thereof is this. -- - -- - bjwº% l , , , * . . ºf - -- %: * . - - * - - : ^ º - - - - *w a. ------ \ - "- - tº = - s ~-er - - . . . ; i - . % º - x a. sheweth the ſtafforſtilt of this crutch, which muſt bee made of wood. b. sheweth the seat firm whereon the thigh reſteth, juſt under the buttock c. sheweth a prºp which iaieth up the ſeat whereon all the weight of the patient's bodie rºſteth. d. sheweth the ſtirrup, beeing made of iron, and bowing ºf , i. bºº ſº crooked upwards, that the foot may ſtand firm, and not ſlip off it when the patient goeth. e. shewa; the prop that ſaieth or boldeth up the flirtup to ſtrengthen it. f. sheweth the foot ºf the ſtill or crutch made ºf iron with maniepikº, and compaſſed with a ring or ferule, ſº to keep it from flipping. g. the croſs or head of the crutch which the patient muff put under bis arm-hole tolen upon, , it is to bee ſeen in the figure. the end of the twentie third book. . - j - * . lib. . m" # º of the g e n e r at o n of man. the twentiefourth book. r the pr e f a ce. the diſtinéti- ;ioi), the creator and maker of all things, immediately after the creation of the on of male and $| world, of his unſpeakable counſel and ineffimable wiſdom not onely diſtinguiſhed female. ; mankinde, but all other liveing creatures alſo into a double ſex, to wit, of male andfemale; that ſo they beeing moved and enticed by the allurements of luff might th deſire copulation, thence to have procreation. for this bountiful lord hath appoin- dº tedit as a ſolace unto everie liveing creature againſt the moſt certain andfatalne- s] ceſſitie of death: than for as much as each particular liveing creature cannot con- tinue for ever, yet they may endure by their ſpecies or kinde by propagation and ſucceſſion of creatures, which is by procreation, ſº long as the world endureth. in this conjunäion or copulation repleniſhed with ſuch deletiable pleaſure,(which godbath chiefly eſtabliſhed by the law of matrimonie) the male and female yeld forth their ſeeds, which preſently mixed and conjºined, are received and kep’t in the fe- what ſeedis. male'ſ womb. for the ſeed it a certain ſpumous or foamie bunor repleniſhed with vital ſpirit, by the benefit whereof, as it were by a certain ebullition or fermentation, it is puffed up, and ſwoln bigger, and both the ſeeds beeing ſeparated from the more pure blood of both the parents, are the material and for- mal beginning of the iſſue; for the ſeed of the male beeing caſt and received into the womb, is accounted the principal and efficient cauſ;but the ſeed of the female is reputed the ſubjacent matter, or the matter the conditi whereon it workerb. good and laudable ſeed ought to lee white, ſhining, clammie, knottie, ſmelling like ºn, oftood unto the elder or palm, delečiable to beer, and ſinking down in the bottom of water beeng put into it, for ſced. that which ſwimmeth on the water is eſteemed unfruitful; for a greatportion commetbfrom the brain, yet seed falleth ſom thereof fall's from the whole bodié, and from all the parts both firm and ſoft thereof. for unleſ; it fºſſie com from the whole bodie,and everie part thereofall and everie part of the iſſue cannot beeformed therely: arts of the , becauſlike things are engendred of their like: and therefore it commeth that the childe #: the pa- die. rents,not onely inſtature and favor,but alſo in the confºrmation and proportion of his lims and members, whereforema- and complexion and temperature of his inward parts, ſº that diſeaſº are oft-times hereditarie, the weak ... neſt of this or that entral beeing tranſlated from the parent to the childe. there are ſon which ſuppoſeibi, jarie." falling of the ſeed from the whole bodie not to to bee underſtood according to the weight and matter, ſº if it how ſeeds to were a certain portion of all the bloodſeparated from the reſt; but according to the power and form, that bºnº is to ſay, the animal, natural and vital ſpirits, leeing the framers of formation and life, and alſº the for- to. tº: the native facultie to fall downfrom all the parts into the ſeed, that is wrought or perfe'ied by the tºftitle; w * fºr proof and confirmation whereof, they alled; that manieperfei, ſound, abſºlute, and will proportioned children, are born of lame and decrepit parents. º ********{{###$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$ chap. i. why the generative parts are endued with great pleaſure. § certain great pleaſure accompanieth the funètion of the parts appointed for generation, and before it, in liveing creatures that are of a luſtie age, when wº matter aboundeth in thoſe parts, there goeth a certain fervent or furious de- § fire:the cauſes thereof manie,of which the chiefeſt is, that the kinde may bee preſerved and kept for ever,by the propagation and ſubſtitution of other live- ing creatures of the ſame kinde. for brute beaſts which want reaſon, and therefore cannot bee ſolicitous for the preſervation of their kinde, never com to carnal copulation, unleſs they beenooved thereunto by a certain vehement provocation of unbridled luſt, and as it were by the ſtimulation of venerie. but man, that is endued with reaſon, beeing a divine and moſt noble creature, would never yeeld nor make his minde ſubject to a thing ſo abje& and filthie as is carnal copulation,but that the venereous ticklings,raiſed in thoſe parts,relax the ſeveritie of his minde or reaſon admoniſheth him that the memorie of his name ought not to end with his life; but to be preſerved unto all generations,as far as maybee poſſible,by the propagation of his ſeedor iſſue.therefore by reaſon of this profit or commoditie, nature - hath what moveth a man to copu- lation. lib. . concerning the generation of evman. hath endued the gehital parts with a º more exact or exquiſite ſenſ then the other†. ſending the great finews unto them,and moreover ſhee hath cauſed them to beebe moiſtned with a certain whayiſh humor,not much unlike the ſeed ſent from the glandules or edwith awhay- kernels called proſtate, ſituated in men at the beginning of the neck of the bladder,but in wo-iſh moiſture. men at the bottom of the womb: this moiſture hath a certain ſharpneſs orbiteing, for that kinde of humors of all others can . parts to their funètion or office, and eeld them a dele&able pleaſure, while the iſhafid ſharp humors, when . gathered together under the skin, if they wax warm tickle with a certain pleaſantitching, and by their motion infer delight: but the nature ºf why the geni- the genital parts or members is not ſtirred up or provoked to the expulſion of the ſeed with, -- -- j rovocations of the humors, abounding either in quantitie or qualitie onely, but a . . . . certiſh great and hot ſpirit or breath contained in thoſe parts, doth begin to dilate it ſelf ... . . .” more and more, which cauſeth a certain incredible exceſs of pleaſure or voluptuouſneſs, - - wherewith the genitals beeing replete are ſpread forth ordiffended exeriewajeunto theirful". ". reatheſ. theyārdis given to men whereby they yº. out their ſeed directly or ſtraight. . y into the woman's womb, and the neck of the womb to women, whereby they may re- ceiv that ſeed ſo caſt forth, by the open or wide mouth of the ſame neck, and alſo that they - - - may affrth ſheltownſeed, ſºn:hrough heſpermaticky ſºls untº their ºfficles; theft. # veſſels, that is to ſay, the vein lying above,and the arterie lying below, do make ſperma f : manie flexions or windeings, yet one as minie as the other, like unto the tendriſs of vines; "“” diverſly platted or folded together,and in theſe folds or bendings the blood and ſpirit which • are carried unto the teſticles, are concoëted a longer time, and ſo converted into a white ſeminal ſubſtance. the lower oftheſe flexions or bowings do end in the ſtones arteſticles, but the teſticles, foraſmuch as they are looſ, thin, and ſpongeous or hollow, receiving the humor which was begun to bee conco&ed in the fore-named veſſels, concoët it again them- , ſelws: but the teſticles of men conco& the more h. for the procreation of the iſſue;and the teſticles of women more imperfeótly, becauſthey are moré cold, leſs, weak and feeble,but women's te: the ſeed becommeth white by the contað or touch of the teſticles, becauſ the ſubſtance offlicles more them is white. the male is ſuch as engendreth in another, and the female in her ſelf, by the imperfº. ſpermatick veſſels which are implanted in the inner º: of the womb. but out of all why manie doubt unleſs nature . ſo manie allurements, baits and provocations of pleaſure, mºnº-, there is ſcarcelanie man ſo hot ordelighted in venereous ačts, which conſidering and mark- men abhoºve. ing the place appointed for humane conception, the loathſomneſs of the filth which daily meteous copu- falſeth down unto it, and wherewithall it is humetted and moiſtned, and the vicinitie and "ſion. nearneſs of the º: gut under it, and of the bladdder above it, but would ſhun the embra- ces of women. nor would anie woman deſire the companie of man, which once premedi- tate's or fore-think's with her ſelf on the labor that ſhee ſhall ſuſtain in bearing the burthen of her childe nine months, and of the almoſt deadlie pains that ſhee ſhall ſuffer in fier deliverie. . - men that uſe too frequent copulation, oftentimes in ſtead of ſeed caſt forth a crude and why the fran- bloodie humor, and ſomtimes alſo meer blooditſelf; and oft-times they can hardly make gurie enſueth water but with great pain, by reaſon that the clammie and oiliemoiſture,which nature hath . placed in the glandules called proſtate, to make the paſſage of the urineſlipperie, and to de-“” fendit againſt the ſharpneſs of the urine that paſſeth through it, is waſted, ſo that afterward they ſhall ſtandin need of the help of a surgeon to cauſ them to make water with eaſ and without pain, by injeting of a little oil out of a syringe into the conduit of theyard. for what thing, in generation it is fit the man caſt forth his ſeed into the womb, with a certain impetuoſitie, jr. º, his yard beeing ſtiff and diſtended, and the woman to receiv the ſame without delay into generation. her womb, beeing wide open, leſt that through delay the ſeed wax cold, and ſo becomun- fruitful by reaſon that the ſpirits are diſſipated and conſumed. the yard is diſtended or made ſtiff,when the nervous,ſpongeous and hollow ſubſtance thereof is replete and puffedup wth a flatulentſpirit.the womb allure's or draw's the maſculine ſeed into itſelf by the mouth thereof,and it receiv's the woman's ſeed by the horns from the ſpermatick veſſels which com from the teſticles into the hollowneſs or concavitieofthe womb,that ſo it maybee tempered by conjunétion, commiſtion and confuſion with the man's ſeed, and ſo reduced or brought unto a certain equalitie:for generation or conception cannotfollow without the concourſof two ſeeds, j and perfeótly wrought in the verie ſame moment of time, nor without a lau- dable diſpoſition of the womb both in temperature and complexion : if in this mixture of ſeeds the man'sſeed in qualitie and quantitie exceed the woman's,it will bee a man-childe; why, male, if not, a woman-childe, although i. in either of the kindes there is both the man's and and why a fe- woman's ſeed; as you may ſeeby the dailie experience of thoſe men who by their firſt wives ***** have hadboies onely, and by their ſecond wives had girls onely: the like you may ſee in drcd. certain women, who by their firſt husbands have had males onely, and by their ſecond hus- bands females onely. moreover one and the ſame man is not alwaies like affected to geta man or a woman-childe; for by reaſon of his age, temperature and diet, hee doth ſom- times yeeld forth ſeedendued with a maſculine virtue, and ſomtimes with a feminine . wea !, - - ". . . . . . . ewed or tals are endu- . ey are in execution of the ſame. for even ſo whay- . . concerning the generation of man. lib. . º |- | weak virtue, ſo that it is no marvel if men get ſomtimes men, and ſomtimes women- children. . chap. ii. of what qualitie the ſeed it, whereof the male, and whereof the female is engendred. §ale children are engendred of a more hot and drie ſeed, and women of a more ſº cold and moiſt: for there is much leſs ſtrength in cold then in heat, andlike- § wiſe in moiſture then in drineſs; and that is the cauſwhy it will beelonger - ağ before a girl is formed in the womb then a boy. in the ſeed lieth both the pro- formed in the ?. -- - - p womb then }º creative and the formative power:as for example:in the power of melon-ſeed wornen. are ſituate the ſtalks, branches, leavs, fiowrs, fruit, the form, color, ſmel, taſte, ſeed and all. the ſeed isthat the like reaſon is of other ſeeds; ſo apple-grafts engrafted in the ſtock of a pear-tr in pºwºfºn apples; and wee do alwaies findeand ſee by experience, that the trec(by virtue of grafting) *:::: that is grafted, doth convert itſelf into the nature of the siens wherewith it is grafted. but .." although the childethat is born doth reſemble or is verie like unto the father or the mother, why the chil. as his or her ſeed exceedeth in the mixture; yet for the moſt part it happeneth that the chil- dren are moſt dren are more like unto the father then the mother, becauſthat in the time ofcopulation,the commºnly like minde of the woman is more fixed on her husband, then the minde of the husbandon, or " ºº:: * towards his wife: for intime of copulation or conception, the forms, or theikneſſes of - thoſe things that are conceived or kept in minde,are tranſported and impreſſed in the childe or iſſue; for ſo they affirm that there was a certain queen of the aethiopians who brought forth a white childe, the reaſon was (as ſhee confeſſed) that at the time of copulation with her king, ſhee thought on a marvelous white thing, with a verie ſtrong imagination. whenºhildren therefore heſiod advertiſeth all married people not to give themſelvs to carnal copulation ſhould beebe- when they return from burials, but when they com from feaſts and plaies, leſt that their gotten. ſad, heavie, and penſive cogitations, ſhould bee ſo transfuſed and engrafted in theiſſue, that ww.f.a. they ſhould contaminate orinſet the pleaſantjoifulneſs ºf his life with ſad, penſive or paſſ- tiºhild: onate thoughts. somtimes it happeneth, although verieſeldom,the childe is neither like the reſembleth the father nor the mother, but in favor reſembleth his grandfather, oranieother of his kindred, grandfather, by reafon that in theinward parts of the parents, the engrafted power and nature of the grandfather lieth hidden: which when it hath lurked there long, not working anie effect, at length break's forth by means of ſom hidden occaſion: wherein nature reſembleth the painter, makeing the lively portraiture of a thing, which as far as the ſubjećt matter will permit, doth form the iſſue likunto the parents in everiehabit; ſo that often-times the diſ- caſes of the parents are transferred or participated unto the children, as it were by a certain hereditarietitle: for thoſe that are crook-back’t get crook-back’t children, thoſe that are lame, lame; thoſe that are leprous, leprous; thoſe that have the ſtone, children haveing the ſtone; thoſe that have the ptilick.children haveing the ptifick; and thoſe that have the gout, , children haveing the gout: for the ſeed follow's the power, nature, temperature and com- wººin's plexion of him that engendereth it. therefore of thoſe that are in health and ſound, heal- ; *...thie and ſound; and of thoſe that are weak and diſeaſed, weak and diſeaſed children are be- o ºct - - ºilº, gotten, unleſs happily the ſeed of one of the parents that is ſound doth correót or amend the diſeaſed impreſſion ofthe other that is diſeaſed, or elſ the temperate and ſound womb as it were by the gentle and pleaſant breath thereof. dren are ſooner c hap. iii. what is the cauſwhy females of all brute beaſts, beeing great with young, do neither deſire, nor - admit the males, until they have brought forth their toung. why the ſºnſ ºf zaº. he cauſhereof is, foraſmuch as they are mooyed by ſenſonely,they º them- of venereous & ſelvs unto the thing that is preſent, verie little, or nothing at all perceiving aës is given to ſº; things that are paſt, and to com. therefore after they have conceived, they are brute beaſts. % ; unmindefill of the pleaſure that is paſt,and do abhor copulation: for the ſenſor feeling of luſt is given unto them by nature, onely for the preſervation of their why of brute kinde, and not for voluptuouſneſs, or deletation. but the males rageing, ſwelling; and as beaſt; the ... it were ſtimulated by the provocations of the heat, or fervencie of their luſt, do then run . ... unto them, follow ind deſire copulation, becauſa certain ſtrong odororſmºlºommºthin. lº. to the air from their ſecret or genital parts, which pierceth into their noſtrils, and unto females. theirbrain, and ſo inferreth an imagination, defire, and heat. contrariwiſe, the ſenſ and wherefore a feeling of venereous ačtions ſeemeth to bee given by nature to women, not onely for . when the propagation of iſſue and for the conſervation of mankinde, but alſo to mitigate and aſ: ...a ſwage:hemiſeries of man's life, as it wereby the entiſements of that pleaſur: ; alſº copulation, great ſtore of hotblood that is about the heart, wherewith men abound, maketh greatly to this —— —ºº.” #. this purpoſe, which by impulſion of imagination, which ruleth the humors, beeing driven lib. . concerning the generation of man. ~~~~ -º-º-ºr-, by the proper paſſages down from the heart and entrals into the genital parts, doth ſtirup - • * * * :*:: * : *: in them a new luſt. -. º; i tº ºf , -" ºn tº the males of brute beaſts, beeing provoked or mooved by the ſtimulations of luſt; iiage, ºvº. º. and are almoſt burſt with a tentigo or extenſion of the genital parts; and ſomtimesawax .ºr- mad; but after that they have ſatisfied their luft with the female of their kinde, they pre- ſently becom gentley arid leav off ſuch fierceneſs. tº . ºw "º" ºn tº º . . . . . . . ; . . . . . . . . ºf º nº ſº .º. tº tº - “... dºloti: - - - - - — -** * - - ----- ------ ++++ * — ---ºri, ...º.º. :.” * . . . . - - - - - - - " ... . ... - - - - - ºfiº º o żºłº, i. i*i; - ; : * > t > **, c - - ºf a - ------ - . . . . . ... lºgº. . . . . . ºf chap. iv.i. hºº! fir ºw º' tººls ºri - - - • *-* -* * ..? . -- - º . : ... . . ºffo rºl, *: … b. what things are to bee ºfferved, a neceſſarie anto generatiºn in the timéſ tfºliº; wed: * - " i iſ “ , ” “º ºt. !:ſ: - : : - - - *... . . . . . . . . . . . fºr tº º ºf jº'º ()'); tº : hen the husband commeth into his wive's chamber, ſhed muſt entertain her how women # with all kinde of dalliance, wanton behavior, and allurements to venerie; but maybee moº: {{\º if hee perceivher to bee ſlow, and more cold, hee muſt cheriſh, embrace, and g: wºo tickle her, and ſhall not abruptly, the nervs beeing ſuddenly diſtended, break prion. into the field of nature; but rather ſhallcreep in by little and little, inter- mixing more wanton kiſſes with wanton words and ſpeeches, handling her ſecret parts and dugs, that ſhee may take fire, and bee enflamed to venerie; for ſo at length the womb will ſtrive and wax fervent with a deſire of caſting forth its own ſeed; and receiving the man's ſeed to beenixed together therewith. but if all theſe things will not ſuffice to enflame the - woman; for women for the moſt part are more ſlow and ſlack unto the expulſion dryeeld- -ºº: ing forth of their ſeed, it ſhall bee neceſſarie firſt to foment her ſecret parts with §: - ". . . . coàion of hot herbs made with muſcadine, orboiled in anie other goodwine; and to put ... '" a little musk or civet into the neck or mouth of the womb : and when ſheeſhall perceiv., " ... the efflux of herſeed to approach, by reaſon of the tickling pleaſure, ſhee muſt advertiſe her ...is husband thereof, that at the verie inſtant time or moment, hee may alſo yeeld forth his. ſeed, that by the concourſor meeting of the ſeeds, conception may bee inade; and ſo atriº: genera: length a childeformed and born. and that it may have the better ſucceſs, the husband muſt tion. - not preſently ſeparate himſelf from his wive's embraces, left the air ſtrike into the open womb, and ſo corrupt the ſeeds before they are perfeótly mixed together. "when the man depart's, let the woman lie ſtill in quiet, laying her legs or her thighs acroſs, one upon an- other; and raiſing them up a little, leſt that by motion or downward fituation, the ſeed . - ſhould bee ſhed or ſpilt: which is the cauſwhy ſhee ought at that time not to talk, eſpecial- ". . . ly chidcing, nor to cough, nor ſneeſ, but give herſelf toreſt and quietneſs,ifitbeepoſſible, wn §§ *a* . º -- th º ºf “:::::: - • , - . c. r — .* *, * - - cha p. v. . . . ºf .... . . . . . . . . . . by what ſigns it may bee known, whether the woman have onceived, ºr not. if the ſeed in the time of copulation, or preſently after beenot ſpilt, if in . . . . . . . . | the meeting of the ſeeds the wholebodiedo ſomwhat ſhake, that is to ſay, . the womb drawing itſelftogether for the compreſſion and enterteinment “º thereof, ifa little feeling of pain doth run up and down the lowerbellie, ***** |and about the navel, if ſhee bee ſleepie, if ſhee loath the embraceings of a - ! man, and if her face bee pale, it is a token that ſhee hath conceived. i. in ſom, after conception ſpots or freckles ariſe in their face, theireies are depreſſed and spots of ſpecks ſunk in, the white of their eies waxeth pale, they wax giddie in the head, by reaſon that in the faces of the vapors are raiſed up from the menſtrual blood that is ſtopped, ſadneſs and heavineſs tº † arº griev their mindes, with loathing and waiwardneſs, by reaſºn that the ſpiritsarcovered "** with the ſmoakie darkneſs of the vapors: pains in the teeth and gums, and ſwounding of: ten-times commeth; the appetite is #: or overthrown, with aptneſs to vomit, and longing, whereby it happeneth, that they loath meats of good juice, and long for and de- why manſ fire illaudable meats, and thoſe that are contrarie to nature, is coles, dirt, aſhes, ſinking. ſalt-fiſh, ſowr, auſtere and tart fruits, pepper, vinegar, and ſuch like acridthings, and other, great with ng altogether contrarieto nature and uſe, by reaſon of the condition of the ſuppreſſed humor hide refuſe abounding and falling into the orifice of the ſtomach. this appetite ſo depravedor over-laudable thrown, endureth inſom until the time of childe-birth; in others it commeth in the third *:::::::::: inoneth after their conception, when hairs dogrow on the childe; and laſtly, it leaveth; them a little before the fourth moneth ; becauſthat the childe, beeing now greater and iºnº" ſtronger, conſume's a great part of the excremental and ſuperfluous humor. the ſuppreſſed to nature. or ſtopped terms in women that are great with childe, are divided into three parts: the more theſiºd pure portion maketh the nutriment for the childe, the ſecondaſcendeth by little and little ...º iuto the dugs, and the impureſt of all remainethin the womb about the infant, andmaketh . the ſecondine or after-birth, wherein theinfant lieth # in a ſoftbed.thoſe women *; c : (wiſ – a – —- concerning the generation of man. liszt. with childe, whoſe urine is more ſharp, fervent, audſomwhat bloodie,the bladder not one- ly waxing warm by the compreſſion of the womb; fervent, by reaſon of the blood contain- ed in it, but alſo the thinner portion of the ſame blood beeing expreſſed, and ſweating hip.i.d. mark, out into the bladder. a ſwelling and hardneſs of the dugs, and veins that are under the mal. dugs in the breſts and about them, and milk comming out when they are preſſed, with a certain ſtirring motion in the bellies are certain infallible ſigns of greatneſs with childe. neither in this greatneſs of childe-bearing, the veins of the dugs onely, but of all the whole bodie, appearfull and ſwelled up, eſpecially the veins º the thighs and legs; ſo pb. ſett.s. that by their manifold folding and knitting together, they do appear varicous, whereof commeth ſluggiſhneſs of the whole bodie, heavineſs and impotencie, or difficultieofgo- ing, eſpecially when the time of deliverance is at hand. laſtly, ifyou would know whether the woman have conceived or not, give unto her when ſhee goeth to ſleep, ſom meed or honied water to drink; and if ſhee have a gripeing in her guts or bellie, ſhee hath con- rºo's sº ceived; if not, ſhee hath not conceived. - - ! ! . . . . º, : * ... . - * - - -- * > . . " . * * - ... . . . ; ; ; ºr º, chap. vi. . that the wombſ ſºna, it ball received the ſºdi, preſently cºntraiti, . . or drawn together. rºº frer that the ſeeds of the male and female have both met, and are mixed toge- ºther in the capacitie of the womb, then the orifice thereofdoth draw itſelfcloſe why the fe- together, left the ſeeds ſhould fall out. there the female's ſeed goeth and turn- maleſced is jethinto nutriment, and the increaſ of the male's ſeed; becauſall things are nutriment for whº j , º, . . . nouriſhed, and do increaſby thoſe things that are moſt familiar, and like unto them. but the fimilitude and familiaritie of ſeed with ſeed is far greater then with blood; ſo that when they are perfeºly mixed and co-agulated together, and ſo wax warm by the ſtraight and narrow incloſure of the womb, a certain thin skin doth grow aboutit, like . . unto that that will bee over unſcimmed milk. moreover, this concretion or congealingofthe ſeed, is like unto an egg laiedbefore the time that it ſhould:that is to ſay, whoſe membrane or tunicle that compaſſeth it about,hath not as yet increaſed or grown into a ſhellie hardneſs about it;in folding-wiſe are ſeen manie ſmall threds divideing themſelvs, over-ſpread with a certain clammie, whitiſh or red ſub- ſtance, as it were with black blood. in the middeſt under it appeareth the navel, from a compendi- whence that ſmall skin is produced. but a man may underſtand manie things that appertain *yºu" unto the conception of mankinde by the obſervation of twentie egs, ſetting them to bee . hatchedunder an hen, and takeing one everie daie and breaking it, and diligently confider- ception. " ingit; for in ſo doing, on the twentieth daie you ſhall finde the chick perfºly formed with the navel. that little skin that ſo compaſſeth the infant in the womb is called the ſe- cundine or chorion, but commonly the after-birth. - this little skin is perfectly made within fixdaies, according to the judgment of hip- thanatpur, crates, as profitable and neceſſarienotonely to contain the ſeed; ſomixed together, but alſo to ſucknutriment through theorifices of the veſſels ending in the womb. thoſe orifices the what the cº- greeks do call cotyledones, and the latines acetabula, for they are as it were hollowed emi- ledants arc. nences, like unto thoſe, which may bee ſeen in the feet or ſnout of a cuttle-fiſhmanie times in a doubleorder, both for the working and holding of their meat. thoſeeminences called acetabula do not ſo greatly appear in women as in manie brutebeaſts. therefore by theſe . . . . . . the ſecundine jº on everieſide unto the womb, for the conſervation, nutrition, and - increaſ of the conceived ſeed. * :: * + . . * chap. vii. of the generation of the navel. *fter the woman hath conceived, to everie one of the aforeſaid eminencies rººſ. ºº § groweth preſently another veſſel, that is ſay: a vein to the vein, and an y: : º; arterie to the arterie: theſe ſoft, and yet thin veſſels, are framed with a little żº thin membrane, which beeing ſpread under, ſticketh to them; for to themitis *t in ſtead of a membrane, and a ligament, and a tunicle, or a defence; and it is doubled with the others, and made of the vein and arterie of the navel. theſe new ſmall veſſels of the infant, with their orifices, do anſwer direétly one to one to the co- tyledons or eminencies of the womb ; they are verie ſmall and little, as it were the hairie fibres that grow upon roots that are in the earth; and when they have continued ſo alonger time, they are combined together,that of two they are made one veſſel,until that by continual connexion,all thoſe .# go and degenerate into two other great veſſels, cal- led the umbilical veſſels, or the veſſels of the navel; becauſ they do make the navel, and do Čnter lib. . ancerning the generation of man. ; - - enºr into the childesbodie by the hole of the navel. here galen doth admire the fingular providence of god and nature; becauſthat in ſuch a multitude of veſſels, and in ſo long a the vein ne: paſſage or length that they go or are produced, the vein doth never confound itſelf, nor ºf join this iiidkºo the arterie, nor the arterie to the vein; but everie veſſeljoineth itſelf to the veſſelofº” its own kinde. but the umbilical vein, or navel-vein, entering into the bodie of the childe,” doth join it ſelf preſently to the hollow part of the liver; but the arterie is divided into two, which join themſelvs to the two iliack arteries along the fides of the bladder, and are preſently covered with the peritoneum; and by the benefit thereofare annexed unto the parts which it goe's unto. thoſe ſmall veins and arteries are as it were the roots of the childe; but the vein and arterie of the navel areas it werethe bodie of the tree, to bring down the nutriment to nouriſh the childe. for firſt, wee live in the womb the life of a plant, and then next the life of a ſenſitive creature: and, as the firſt tunicle of the childe is called cho- rion, or allantoides; ſo the other is called amnios, or agnina, which doth compaſs the ſeed or childe about on everie ſide. theſe membranes are moſt thin, yea for their thinneſs like un- hippocrates to the spider's web, woven one upon another; and alſo connexed in manie places by the ex-callethall the tremities of certain ſmall and hairie ſubſtances, which at length, by the adjunětion of their membranes like do get ſtrength; whereby you may underſtand, what is the cauſwhy by divers and vio- . . lent motions of the mother in going and dancing, or leaping, and alſo of the infant in the j ... womb, thoſe membranes are not almoſt broken. for they are ſo conjoined by the knots of cording ºthe thoſehairie ſubſtances,that between them nothing, neither the urine, nor the ſweat can com, judgment of as you may plainly and evidently perceiv in the diſſºtion of a woman's bodie that is great galin in his with childe, not depending on anie other man's opinion, bee it never ſo old or inveterate: . de uſu h yet the ſtrength of thoſe membranes is not ſo great, but that they may bee ſoon broken in pºrtium, by the the birth, by the kicking of the childe. .* ſe- chap. w iii. of the umbilical veſſels, or the veſſels belonging to the navel. ºf anie of the antient writers have written that there are five veſſels found in the an old opini- *a* navel. but yet in manie, nay all the bodies ſought in for them, i could never on confuted. aw;\º findebut three; that is to ſay, one vein, which is very large, ſo that in the paſ- ºr---- § § ſage thereofit will receiv the tag of a point, and two arteries, but not ſo large, w *nº but much narrower; becauſ the childe wanteth or ſtandeth in need of much more blood for his conformation, and the nutrimentor increaſof his parts, then of vital ſpirit- - *... veſſels makeing the bodie of the navel, which, as it is thought, is formed within towhat uſe nine or ten daies, by their doubling and folding, make knots like unto the knots of a fran-the-knots of ciſcan friers girdle, that ſtaying the runningbloodin thoſe their knottie windeings, they the childe's might more perfeótly conco& the ſame: as may bee ſeen in the ejaculatorie ſpermatick veſ- ...? the h. fels,for which uſe alſo the length of the navel is halfanell; ſo that in manie infants that are "**** ſomwhat grown, it is found three or four times doubled about their neck or thigh. as long as the childe is in his mother's womb, hee taketh his nutriment onely by thena- the childe in vel, and not by his mouth neither doth hee enjoy the uſe of eies, ears, noſtrils or funda-thººmbº- ment, neither needeth hee the funétions of the heart. for ſpirituous blood goeth unto it ... * by the arteries of the navel, and into the iliackarteries; and from the iliack arteries unto all. l b the other arteries ofthe whole bodie, for by the motion of theſe onely the infant doth jº º breathe. therefore it is not to bee ſuppoſed that the air is carried or drawn in by the lungs unto the heart,in the bodie of the childe; but contrariwiſe from the heart to the lungs.for hºº: neither the heart doth perform the generation or working ofblood, or of the vital ſpirits. :* breath- for the iſſue or infantis contented with them as they are made and wrought by his mother. “ which, until it hath obtained a full, perfett and whole deſcription of his parts and mem. bers, cannot bee calleda childe; but rather an embryon, oran imperſea ſubſtance. - -, -- chap. ix. º. of the thulition or ſwelling of the ſeedin the womb, and of the concretion of the bubbles `s or bladders, or the three principal entrals. . . n the ſix firſt daies of conception the new veſſels are thought to beenade and brought forth of the eminencies or cotylidons of the mother's veſſels, and diſperſºd into all the whole ſeed, as they were fibres, or hairie ſtrings. thoſe, as they pierce the womb, ſo do they equally and in like manner pe- netrate the tunicle chorion. and it is carried this way, beeing a paſſage not - ..onely neceſſarie for the nutriment and conformation of the parts, but alſo into the veins diverſy woven and diſperſed into theskinchorion. forthereby it commºth eee to / concerning the generation of man. lºº. to paſs, that theſeed itſelf boileth,and as it were fermenteth or ſwelleth,notonely through occaſion of the place, but alſo of the blood and vital ſpirits that flow unto it; and then it riſeth into three bubbles or bladders,like unto the bubbles which are occaſioned by the rain the three falling into a river or channel full of water. theſe three bubbles or bladders, are certain bladders. rude, or new forms, or concretions of the three principall entrals, that is to ſay, of the liver, heart and brain. all this former time it is called ſeed, and by no other name; but §: †: ** when thoſe bubbles ariſe, it is called anembryon,or the rude form of a bodie until theper- *::::::. fett conformation of all themembers: on the fourth day after that the vein of the navel is formed, it ſucketh groſſer blood, that is, of a more full nutriment out of the cotylidons. and this blood, becauſit is moregroſs,eaſily congeal's and curdle's in that place,where it ought to prepare the liver fully and abſolutely made. for then it is of a notable great bigneſsa- why the liver bove all the other parts; and therefore it is called parenchyma,becauſit is but onely a certain is cºlled?, congealing or concretion of blood brought together thither, or in that place. from the renchyma. gibbous part thereof ſpringeth the greater part of trunk of the hollow vein,called common- ly vena cava, which doth diſperſhis ſmall branches, which are like unto hairs, into alſo the ſubſtance thereof: and then it is divided into two branches, whereof the one goeth up- wards, the other downwards unto all the particular parts of the bodie. in the mean ſeaſon the arteries of the navel ſuck ſpirituous blood out of the eminencies or cotylidons of the mother's arteries, whereof, that is to ſay, of the more fervent and ſpiritu- ous blood, the heart is formed in the ſecond bladder or bubble, beeing endued with a more fleſhie, ſound, and thick ſubſtance, as it behooveth that veſſel to bee, which is the fountain from whence the heat floweth, and hath a continual motion. in this the virtue formative hath made two hollow places; one on the right fide, another on the left. in the right, the root of the hollow vein is infixed or ingraffed, carrying thi- ther neceſſarie nutriment for the heart: in the left is formed the ſtamp or root of an arterie, which preſently doth divide itſelf into two branches; the greater whereof goeth upwards to the upper parts, and the wider unto the lower parts, carrying unto all the parts of the bodie life and vital heat. n chap. x. of the third bubble or bladder, wherein the head and the brain is formed. §. far greater portion of the ſeed goeth into this third bubble, that is to ſay, why the grea sº § yeelding matter for the conformation of the brain, and all the head fora grea- y the grea- ($ ºv- a wº rtion o º ter quantitie of ſeed ought to go unto the conformation of the head and ſ:goeth into fi sº . brain; becauſtheſe parts are not ſanguine or bloodie, as the heart and liver; eneration of "ºº" but in a manner without blood, bonie, marrow, cartilaginous, nervous, and the head and membranous, whoſe parts, as the veins, arteries, nervs, ligaments, panicles, and skin, are brain. called fºrmatick parts; becauſthey obtain their firſt conformation almoſt of ſeed onely: although that afterwards they are nouriſhed with blood, as the other fleſhie and muſculous parts are. but yet the blood, when it is comunto thoſe parts,degenerateth, and turneth in- to a thing ſomwhat ſpermatick, by virtue of the aſſimulative facultie of thoſe parts. all the - other parts of the head, form and faſhion themſelvsunto the form of the brain, when it is - * * formed; and thoſe parts which are fituated and placed about it for defence eſ;pecially, are hardened into bones. why the head . the head, as the ſeat of the ſenſes, and manſion of the minde and reaſon, is fituated in is placedº, the higheſt place; that from thence, as it were from a loftie tower or turret, it might rule thrºp of the and govern all the other members, and their funètions and ačtions that are under it: for * , ther the ſoulſor life, which is there&reſsor governeſs, is ſituated; and from thence it flow- eth, and is diſperſed into all the whole bodie, nature hath framed theſe three principalen- trals, as props and ſuſtentations for the weight of all the reſt of the bodie: for which mat- ter alſo ſhee hath framed the bones. - the firſt bones that appear to beeformed,or arcſuppoſed to bee conformed,are the bones called offa ilium, connexed or united by ſpondyls that are betweenthem: then all the other members are framed and proportioned by their concavities and hollowneſſes, which gener- ally are ſeven, that is to ſay, two of the ears, two of the noſe, one of themouth;and in the rts beneath the head, one of the fundament, and another of the yard or conduit of the É. and furthermore in women, one of theneck of the womb,without the which they can neverbee made mothers or bear children. when all theſe are finiſhed, nature, that ſheemight poliſh her excellentwork in all ſorts, hath covered all the bodie and everie member thereof with skin.into this excellentwork or exod.zo. . microcoſmoſ ſo perfeited, god, the author of nature and all things, infuſeth ot ingrafteth a ſoul or life: which st. auguſtint prooveth by this ſentence of moſes: if anie manſnite awo- manylth child, ſo that therebyſhee bee delivered before her natural time, and the child be dead, leeing fift formed in the womblethin die the death ; but if the childbath notarye obtained theful rtº }} lib. . concerning the generation of jman. - and conformation of bis bodie and members, let him recompence it with monie. therefore it is not to bee thought that the life is derived, propagated or taken from adam or our parents,as it were an hereditarie thing diſtributed unto all mankinde by their parents; but wee muſt believit tobee immediately created of god, even at theyerie inſtant time when the childisabſolute- ly perfeóted in the lineaments of his bodie, and ſo given unto it by him. sotherefore the rude lumps of fleſh called mole that engender in women's wombs, and the main monſters of the like breeding and confuſed bigneſs, although by reaſon of a certain quake- the womb iv. ing and ſhivering motion,they ſeem to have life,yet they cannot bee ſuppoſed to beeendued ethnot as the with a life or a reaſonable ſoul: but they have their motion, nutriment and increaſ wholly childe. of the natural and infixed facultie of the womb, and of the generative or procreative ſpirit that is ingraffed naturally in the ſeed. but even as the infant in the womb obtaineth not perfeót conformation before the thir- tieth day, ſo likewiſe it doth not movebefore thoſixtieth day: at which time it is moſt com- monly not perceived by women, by reaſon of the ſmalneſs of the motion. but now let us ſpeak briefly of the life or ſoul, wherein conſiſteth the principal original of everie funètion - in the bodie, and likewiſe of generation. - - cha p. xi. of the life or ſoul. ºlh e ſoul entreth into the bodie, ſo ſoon as it hath obtaineda perfeº and abſo-the liſt goeth § lute diſtinčtion and conformation of the members in the womb, which in male- not into the children, by reaſon of the more ſtrong and forming heat which is ingraffed in maſsofſted them, is about the fortieth day, and in females about the fortiefifth day; in ſom".. cin- ſooner, and in ſomlater, by reaſon of the efficacie of the matter working, and #fºr. liantneſs or obedience of the matter whereon it worketh. neither doth the life or ſoul j ing thus inſpired into the bodie preſently execute or performall his funètions, becauſthe the childe and inſtruments that are placed about it cannot obtain a firm and hard conſiſtence neceſſarie for each pºrt the lively, but eſpecially for the more divine miniſteries of the life or ſoul, but in a long ...” proceſs of age or time. : and thoſe inſtruments of the ſoul are vitiated either in the firſt conformation, as when the foºm. formor faſhion of the head is ſhaped upwards or pyramidal, as was the head of therſites, why the life or that lived in the time of the trojan war, and of triboulet and tonin, that lived in later ſoul doth not years; or alſo by ſom caſualtie,as by the violent handling of the midwife,who by compreſſi- . . on, by reaſon that the ſcul is then tender and ſoft, hath cauſed the capacitieofthe ventri-fi.” cles that bee under thebrain to bee too narrow for them: or by a fall, ſtroak, diſorder in diet, as by drunkenneſs, or a fever, which inferreth a lithargie, exceſſive ſleepineſs, or hrenſie. - p preſently after the ſoul is entred the bodie,godendueth it with divers and ſundrie gifts: hereof it commeth that ſom are endued with wiſdom by the ſpirit; others with knowledg by the ſame ſpirit; others with the gift of healing by the ſame ſpirit; others with power, dominion and rule; others with propheſie; others with diverſities of tongues; and to o- thers other endowments, as it hath pleaſed the divine providence and bountie of god to beſtow upon them, againſt which no man ought to contend or ſpeak. for it is not meet that the thing formed ſhould ſay unto him that formed it, whybaſt thou made mee thus bath not the potter power to make of the ſame lump of claie one veſſel to honor and another to diſhonor it is not my purpoſe, neither belongeth it unto mee or anie other humane creature to ſearch out the reaſon of thoſe things, but onely to admire them with all humilitie, but yet i dare affirm this one thing,that a noble and excellent ſoul negle&ethelementarie and tranſitorie things,and is ra- viſhed and mooved with the contemplation of celeſtial,which it cannot freely enjoie before it bee º from this carthlie incloſure or priſon of the bodie,and bee reſtored unto its original. therefore the ſoul is the inward entelechia or perfeótion, or the primitive cauſof all mo- tions and funètions both natural and animal, and the true form of man. the antients have endevoured to expreſs the obſcureſence thereof by many deſcriptions. for they have called it a celeſtiall ſpirit, and a ſuperior, incorporal, inviſible, an immortal effence, which is to bee comprehended of its ſelf alone, that is, of the minde or underſtanding. others have not doubted but that weekave our ſouls inſpired by the univerſal divine minde, which rheutºnia as . are alive, ſo they do beſtow life on the bodies unto whom they are annexed or lº united. and although this lifebee diſperſed into all the whole bodie, and into everie bodie, and in portion of the ſame , yet is it j.of all corporal weight or mixtion , and it is everie portion wholly and alone in everie ſeveral part, beeing ſimple and inviſible , without all #. compoſition or mixture , yet endued with manie virtues and faculties ; which it . #e w eee oth and indiviſi- - ble i cor. t. . what the ſoul or life is. - concerning the generation of man. lib . doth utter in divers parts of the bodie: for it feeleth, imagineth, judgeth,remembrethan- derſtandeth, and ruleth all our deſires; pleaſures, and animal motions; it ſee'th, hear. divers names, ſmelleth, taſteth, toucheth: and it hath divers names of theſe ſo manie and ſo great finai. and the reaſon ons, which it performethin divers parts of the bodie. it is called the ſoul or life; becauſ it of ...; maketh the bodie live, which of itſelf is dead. it is called theffirit or breath; becauſi; in. º . * ſpireth our bodies. it is called reaſon; becauſit diſcerneth truth from falſhood , as it were informs, by a certain divine rule.it is termed the mind: ; becauſit is mindefill of things paſt, in recall ling and remembring them: and it is called the vigor or courage; becauſit giveth vigor and courage to the ſluggiſh weight, or maſs of the bodie. and laſtly, it is called the ſenſ and anderſtanding; becauſit comprehendeth things that are ſenſible and intelligible. becaufit is incorporeal, it cannot occupie a place by corporeal extenſion; although notwithſtanding it filleth the whole bodie. it is ſimple; becauſitis but one in effence, not increaſed, nor di. miniſhed; for it is no leſs in a dwarf then in a giant ; and it is like perfeół and greatinan infant as in a man, according to its own nature. three kindes . but there are three kindes of bodies informed by a ſoul whereby they live: the firſt bee- of liveingbo- ing the moſt imperfett, is of plants; the ſecond of brute beaſts; and the third of men. the *........ plants liveby a vegetative beaſts by a ſenſitive and men by an intelle&ive ſoul. and as ****, the ſenſitive ſoul ofbrute beaſts is endued with all the virtues ofthe vegetative; ſo the hu- ...;i. mane intelle&ive comprehendeth the virtues of all the inferior, not ſeparated by anie divi- powers of the fion, but by beeing indiviſibly united with reaſon and underſtanding, into one humane inferior. form and ſoul whereon they depend. but becauſwee have ſaid a little before, that divers funètions of the life are reſident, and appear in divers parts of the bodie here in this place, omitting all others, wee will proſecute thoſe onely which are accounted the principal. - the principal funètions of an humane ſoul, according to the opinion of manie, are four in number, proceeding from ſo manie faculties, and conſequently from one ſoul; they what the com- are theſe: the common senſ, imagination; reaſoning, and memorie. and they think imonſºnſ;... that the common or interior ſenſdoth receiv the forms and images of ſenſible things, bee- ; fuučtion ing carried by the ſpirit through the º: of the nervs, as an inſtrument of the external :º i. ſenſes, as it were a meſſenger to go between them; and it ſerv's notonely to receiv them, but alſo to know, perceiv,and diſcern them. for the eie, wherein the external ſenſoffee. ing conſiſteth, doth not know white or black. therefore it cannot diſcern the differences of colors, as neither the tonguetaſte's, nor the noſe favor's, nor the ears ſound, nor laſtly, the hands their touching qualitie: yea, the eie doth not of it ſelf perceiv that it ſee'th, nor the noſe that it ſmelleth, nor the ears that they hear, nor the tongue that it taſteth, nor the hands that they touch. for all theſe things are the offices and funètions of the common ſenſ; for this ſenſknoweth that the eie hath ſeen ſom thing, either white,black, red, a man, horſ, ſheep, or ſom ſuch like material thing; yea; even when the fight is gon and paſt; and ſo likewiſe the noſe to have ſmelled this or that favor, the ear to have heard this or that ſound, the tongue to have taſted this or that taſte, and the hand to have touched this or that thing, bee they never ſo divers. forall the external ſenſes, and all the funèions there- of do end, and are referred to the common ſºnſ, as it were the lines of a circle from the cir- cumference into the center, as it is expreſſed in this figure. for what cauſ for which cauſit is called the common or principal ſenſ; for that therein the primitive the internal, power of feeling or perceiving is ſituated, for it uſeth the miniſterie or ſervice of the exter- ºnfiscalled nal ſenſes, to know manie and divers things, whoſe differences it doth diſcern andjudg;but ºmmºn ſimple things, that are of themſelvs, and without anie compoſition and connexion, which †.common may conſtitute anie thing true or falſ, or anie argumentation, belongeth onely to the ſenfunderſtan minde, underſtanding, or reaſon. for this was the counſel of nature, that the external ſen- deth or know-ſes ſhould receiv the forms of things ſuperficially, lightly, and gently onely; like as a glaſs, *hthoſºhinjº not to anie other end, but that they ſhould preſently ſend them unto the common ſenſas it . *p* were unto their center and prince, which hee (that is to ſay, the common ſenſ) delivereth tly. to bee colle&ed unto the underſtanding or reaſoning facultie of the ſoul, which avicen and averrois have ſuppoſed to bee fituated in the former part of the brain. what imagi- next unto the common ſenſ followeth the phantafie or imagination, ſo called, be- nation is. cauſofitariſe the forms and idea's that are conceived in the minde, called of the greeks phantaſmata. lººſ. concerning the generation of man. - — ſ t l u º d l" º phantaſmata. this doth never reſt but in thoſe that ſleep; neither alwaies in them, for oft- times in them it cauſſeth dreams,and cauſeth them to ſuppoſe they ſee and perceiv ſuch things as were never perceived by the ſenſes, nor which the nature of things, nor the order of the worldwill permit. the power of this facultie of the minde is ſo great in us, that it often bringeth the whole bodie in ſubjećtion unto it. - - for it is recorded in hiſtorie, that alexander the great ſitting at table, and hearing ti- motheus the muſician fing a martial ſonnet unto his cythern,that heepreſently leaped from the table, and called for arms; but when again the muſician mollified his tune, hee return- ed to the table and ſate down as before. the power of imagination cauſed by muſical har- - monie, was ſo great, that it ſubjećted to it the courage of the world's conqueror, by whoſe j various motion, it would now as it were cauſhim to run headlong to arms, and then paci- - fie and quiet him, and ſo cauſhim to return to his chair and banquetting again. and there was one whoſoever it was, whoſom few years agon, ſeeing the turk dance on a rope on high, with both his feet faſtned in a baſin, turned his eies from ſo dangerous a ſight or ſpeãacle, although came of purpoſe to ſee it, and ſtricken with ſuch fear, that his bo- #. ſhook and heart quaked, for fear leſt that by ſudden falling down headlong heeſhould break his neck. manie looking down from an high and loftie place, are ſo ſtricken with fear, that ſuddenly they fall down headlong, beeing ſo overcom and bound with the ima- gination of the danger, that their own ſtrength is not able to ſuſtain them. therefore it manifeſtly appeareth that god hath dealt moſt graciouſly and loveingly with us,who unto this power of imagination, hath joined another, that is, the facultie or power of reaſon and underſtanding; which diſcerning falſdangers and perils from true,doth ſuſtain and hold up a man that heemay notbee overthrown by them. after this appeareth and approacheth to perform his funètion, the facultie of reaſon, what reaſon beeing the prince of all the principal faculties of the ſoul; which bringeth together, is compoſeth, joineth, and reduceth all the ſimple and divided forms or images of things into one heap, that by divideing, collečting, and reaſoning it might diſcern and trie truth from falſhood. ". - - - this facultieof underſtanding or reaſon is ſubjećt to no facultie or inſtrument of the the funāions bodie, but is free, and penetrateth into everie ſecret, intricate and hidden thing with an in- of reaſon. credible celeritie: by which a man ſee'th what will follow, perceiveth the originals and cauſes of things, is not ignorant of the proceedings of things; hee compareth things that are paſt with thoſe that are preſent and to com, decreeing what to follow, and what to a- void. this bridleth and with-holdeth the furious motions of the minde, bridleth the over- haſtie motions of the tongue, and admoniſheth the ſpeaker that before the words paſs out of his mouth, hee ought with diligence and diſcretion to ponder and conſider the thing where- of . is #: to º * - hi h ter reaſon and judgment followeth memorie , which keeping and conſerving all - forms and images #! it ... of the ſenſes, and which fº i. appoint, .#as a wa. inetmoric faithful keeper and conſerver, receiveth all things, and imprinteth and ſealeth them as well by their own virtue and power, as by the impulſion and adherence of thoſe things in thebo- e ofthe brain, without anie impreſſion of the matter; that when occaſion ſerveth,weemay bring them forth there-hence as out of a treaſurie or ſtore-houſ. for otherwiſe, to what purpoſe were it to read, hear, and note ſo maniethings, unleſs wee were able to keep and retain them in mindeby the care and cuſtodie of the memorie or brain : therefore aſſured- ly god hathgiven us this onely remedie and preſervative againſt the oblivion and ignorance of things, which although of it ſelf and of its own nature it bee of greater efficacie, yet by dailie and often meditation it is trimmed and made more exquiſite and perfect. and hence wiſdom the it was that the antients termed wiſdom the daughter of memorie and experience. manie daughter of have ſuppoſed that the manſion or ſeat of the memorie, is in the hinder part, or in the ven-memºrie and tricle of the cerebellum; by reaſon that it is apt to receiv the forms of things,becauſoftheen- “p” grafted drineſs and hardneſs thereof. - c. h.a.p. xii. of the natural excrements in general, and eſpecially of thoſe that the childe or infant beeing in the womb excludeth. efore i declare what excrements the infant excludeth in the womb and by what §§º paſſages, think it good to ſpeak of the excrements which all men do naturally tº void. all that is called an excrement which nature is accuſtomed to ſeparate and * caſt out from the laudable aud nouriſhing juice. there are manie kindes of relatiºnal. ° firit is ofthe firſt concoëtion, which is performed in the ſtomach, which beeing dri- - vendown into the inteſtines or guts, is j the fundament. > º: :s the ſecond commeth from the liverandit uſually is three-fold, or of three kindes; one. choler- rºº § rº: §: : what an ex- crement is. oo concerning the (jeneration of man. lib.: . - t cholerick, whereof a great portion is ſent into the bladder of the gall, that by ſweating necy crenn&nt - - * - - - - - .." out there-hence, it might ſtir up the expulſive facultie of the guts to expel and exclude the concºni, excrements. the other is like unto whay, which goeth with the blood into the veins, and triple. is as it were a vehicle thereto to bring it unto all the parts of the bodie, and into everie ca- pillar vein for to nouriſh the whole bodie; and after it hath performed that funètion, it is. partly expelled by ſweat, and partly ſent into the bladder, and ſo excluded with the urine. the third is the melancholick excrement which beeing drawn by the milt, the purer and thinner part thereof goeth into the nouriſhment of the milt, and after the remnant is part- ly purged out downwards by the hemorrhoidal veins, and partly ſent to the orifice of the the cºcrement ftomach, to inſtimulate and provoke the appetite. the laſt commeth of the laſt concoëtion, “f the third which is abſolved in the habit of the bodie, and breathed out, partly by inſenſible tranſpira- ‘....”is tion, is partly conſumed by ſweating, and partly floweth out by the evident and manifeſt triplc. paſſages that are proper to cverie part: as it happeneth in the brain before all other parts;for it doth unload it ſelf of this kinde of excrement by the paſſages of the noſe, mouth,ears,eles, palat-bone and ſutures of the ſºul. . . ... thereforeifanie of thoſe excrements bee ſtaiedaltogether, or anie longer then it is meet they ſhould,the default is to bee amended by diet and medicine. furthermore, there are o- ther ſorts of excrements not natural, of which wee have entreated at large in our book of the peſtilence. - the uſe ofthe when the infant is in the mother's womb, until hee is fully and abſolutely formed in all navel ſtring the lineaments of his bodie,hee ſend's forth his urine by the paſſage of the navel or urachus. but a little before the time of childe-birth, the urachus is cloſed, and then the man-childe voideth his urine by the conduit of the yard, and the woman-childe by the neck of the womb. this arine is gathered together and contained in the coat chorion or allantſide, to- gºther with the other excrements, that is to ſay,ſweat,and ſuch whayiſh ſuperfluities of the the ſigns of menſtrual matter, for the more eaſie bearing up of the floteing gr ſwimming childe. but in ſpeeds and ca: the time of childe-birth, when the infant by kicking breaketh the membranes, thoſe hu- *** mors run out, which when the midwives perceiv,they take it as a certain ſign that the childe is at hand. for if the infant comforth together with thoſe waters, the birth is like to bec more eaſie, and with the better ſucceſs; for the neck of the womb and all the genitals are ſo by their moiſture relaxed and made ſlipperie, that by the endevor and ſtirring of the infant the birth will bee more eaſie, and with the better ſucceſs: contrariwiſe, if the infant bee not excluded before all theſe humors bee wholly flowed out and gon, but remaineth as it were in a drie place, preſently through drineſs the neck of the womb and all the genitals will bee contračted and drawn together, ſo that the birth of the childe will bee verie dif- ficult and hard, unleſs the neck of the womb, to amend that default, beeaunointed with oil or ſom other relaxing liquor. moreover, when the childe is in the womb, hee voideth no excrements by the fundament, unleſsitbee when at the time of the birth, the proper mem- branes and receptacles are burſt by the ſtriyeing of the infant,for hee doth not take his meat at the mouth, wherefore the ſtomach is idle then, and doth not execute the office of turning the meats into chylus, nor of anie other concoëtion; wherefore nothing can go down from it into the guts. neither have i ſeldom ſeen infants born without anie hole in their funda- - ment, ſo that i have been conſtrained with a knife to cut in ſunder the membrane or tunicle without a paſ- o - i. in their that grew over and ſtopped it. and how can ſuch excrements bee engendred, when the fundament. childebeeing in the womb, is nouriſhed with the more laudable portion of the menſtrual blood? therefore the iſſue or childe is wont toyeeldor avoid two kindes or ſorts of excre- ments, ſo longas hee is in the womb, that is to ſay, ſweat and urine, in both which hee ſwim's; but they are ſeparated by themſelvs, by a certain tunicle called allantºides, as it may bee ſeen in kids, dogs, ſheep, and otherbrutebcaſts; for as much as in mankinde the tunicle aphai ſã. . charion and allantoides or farriminalis,bee all one membrane.if the woman bee great of a man- childe, ſhee is more merrie, ſtrong, and better colored, all the time of her childe-bearing;but ifoſa woman-childe, ſhee is ill colored, becauſthat women are not ſo hot as men. the males begin to ſtir within three months and an half, but females after : if a woman conceiva male-childe, ſhee hath all her right parts ſtronger to everie work: wherefore they do begin to ſet forwards their right foot firſt in going, and when they ariſe they lean on . ſ . , the right arm, the right dug will ſooner ſwell and wax hard: the male-children ſtir more * the right ſide then in the left, and the female-children rather in the left then in the right icic. - children born * chap: lib. . concerning the generation of sman. : : chap. xiii. --t- with what travail the childe is brought into the world, and of the cauſof this labor and travail. ; hen the natural prefixed and preſcribed time of childe-birth is com, the childe # beeing then grown greater, require's a greater quantitie of food: which when hee cannot receiv inſufficient meaſure by his navel, with great labor and ſtri- ving hee endeavoreth to get forth:therefore then hee is mooved with a ſtrong- - erviolence,and doth break the membranes wherein hee is contained. then the womb, becauſit is notable to endure ſuch violent motions,nor ſuſtain or hold up the childe anie longer, by reaſon that the conceptacles ofthe membranes are broken aſunder, is rela- xed. and then the childe purſuing the air which hee feeleth to enter in at the mouth of the why the infant womb, which then is verie wide andgapeing, is carried with his head downwards, and ſo is born ſºm. commethinto the world with great pain both unto itſelf, and alſo unto his mother, by i. . reaſon of the tenderneſs of his bodie, and alſo by reaſon of the nervous neck of his mo- “"“” ther's womb,and ſeparation ofthe bone called of ilium from the bone called os ſacrum. for in the time of unleſs thoſe bones were drawn in ſunder, how could not onely twins that cleav faſt toge- childe-birth the ther, but alſo one childe alone,comforth at ſo narrowa paſſage as the neck of the womb is bººſtium not onely reaſon, but alſo experience confirmeth it; for i opened the bodies of women pre- .#. facrumd ſently after they have died of travail in childe-birth, in whom have found the bones of ili-j um to bee drawn the bredth of ones finger from of ſacrum; and moreover, in manie unto from another. whom i have been called, beeing in greatextremitie of difficult and hard travail, i have not onely heard, but alſo felt the bones to cracle and make a noiſ, when i laid my hand upon the coccyxor rump,by the violence of the diſtention. alſo honeſt matrons have declared unto meethat they themſelvs, a few daies before the birth, have felt and heard the noiſ of thoſe bones ſeparateing themſelvs one from another with great pain. alſo a longtime after the birth manie do feel great pain and ach about the region of the coccyx and osſacrum, ſo that when nature is notable to repair the diſſolved continuitie of the bones of ilium, they are conſtrained to halt all the daies of their life after. but the bones of the ſhare called offapu- bit, i have never ſeen to bee ſeparated, as maniedo alſo affirm. it is reported that in italie an italiants. the coccyxor rump in all maidens, that when they com to bee married thee may bear chil-ble. dren with the leſſer travailin childe-birth; but this is a forged tale, for that bone beeing broken, is naturally and of its own accord repaired, and ioined together again with a callus, whereby the birth of the childe willbee more difficult and hard. chap. xiv. - of the ſituation of the infant in the womb. - ºs ºn - - - - §§): eaſon cannot ſhew the certain ſituation of the infant in the womb, for i have the ſituation n º found it altogether uncertain, variable and diverſboth in liveing and dead women: ºn ys § in the deadby opening their bodies preſently after they were dead; and in the live- the womb is ing by helping them by the induſtrie of my hand, when they have been in danger diverſ. of periſhingby travailof childe-birth: for byº: my hand into the womb, i have felt theinfant comming forth,ſomtimes with his feet forwards, ſomeimes with hishands, and ſomtimes with his hands and feet turned backwards, and ſomtimes forwards as the figure following plainly deſcribeth. i havcoften found them comming forthwith their knees forwards, and ſomtimes with meofhe fºandſomtimes with theirbellie forwards, their hand, andfeet beeing lifted upwards,as the former figure ſheweth at large. som- concerning the generation of man. lib. . somtimes i ºf: the infant con- one time i obſerved in the birth of ming with his feet downwards ſtrideinga- twins, that the one came with his bead for- wide,and ſomtimes headlong, ſtretching one wards, and the other with biºfeet, according of his arms downward out at length, and as here i have thought good to deſcribe that was an hermaphrodite, as the figure them. following plainly declareth. ; *wºź à sn z . in the bodies of women that died in travail of childe i have ſomtimes foundchildren no bigger then if they hadbeen but four months in the womb, ſituated in a round compaſslike a hoop, with their head bowed down to their knees, with both their hands under the knees, and their heels cloſe to their buttocks. and moreover, i proteſt before godthat i found a childebeeing yet alive in the bodie of his mother (whom i opened ſo ſoon as ſhee was dead) lying all along ſtretched out, with his face upwards, and the palms of his hands joined together, as if hee were at praier. chap. xv. which is the legitimate and natural, and which the illegitimate or unnatural time of childe-birth. o all liveing creatures, except man, the time of conception and bringing forth mankind d. - - - - - - - tº ai. sº their young is certain and definite; but the iſſue of man commeth into the - . - - • - - - - time of bring- º § world, ſomtimes in the ſeventh, ſomtimes in the eighth; and ſomtimes, which ingforthyoung º' tº is moſ. frequent, in the ninth month; ſomtimes in the tenth month; yeaſom- y times in the beginning of the eleventh month. maſſarinus report's that latius papyriuſ the pretor, the ſecondheir commencing a ſuit, gave the poſſeſſion of the goodsa- way from him, ſeeing the mother of the childe affirmed that ſhee went thirteen months therewith, beeing there is no certain definite time of childe-birth. the childe that is born in the fixt month cannot bee long-lived, becauſthat at that time all his bodie or members are not perfe&ly finiſhed, or *ś formed. in the ſeventh month it is prooved by reaſon why the childe and experience that the infantmay bee long-lived. but in the eighth month it is ſeldom or is ſcarce alive never long-lived: the reaſon thereof is, as the aſtronomers ſuppoſe, becauſthat at that time. in the eighth saturn ruleth, whoſe coldneſs and drineſs is contrarie to the original of life: butyet the month. phyſical reaſon is more true; for the phyſicians ſay that the childe in the womb doth often- times in the ſeventh month ſtrive to bee ſet at libertie from the incloſure of the womb, and therefore it contendeth and laboreth greatly, and ſo with laboring amd ſtriving it becom- meth weak, that all the time of the eighth month it cannot recover his ſtrength again, where- by it may renew his accuſtomed uſe of ſtriving, and that ſom by ſuch laboring and ſtriving ... hurt themſelvs, and ſo die. yet ſom ſtrong and luſtie women are thought to bring forth lib. debiſ, their children, beeing livelie and ſtrong, on the eighth month, as ariſtotle teſtifieth of the * egiptians, the poets of the inhabitants of the iſle of naxus, and manie of the spaniards. furthermore i cannot ſufficientiy marvel, that the womb,which all the time of childe-bear- ing is ſo cloſed together, that one can ſcarce put a probe intoit, unleſs it bee by ſuperfortati- on, or when it is open for a ſhort time to purge it ſelf, that preſently before the time of childe-birth, itſhould gape and wax ſo wide, that the infant may paſs through it, anp pre- ſently after it to cloſe again as if it had never been opened. but becauſ that the travail of the firſt time of childe-birth is wont to bee verie difficult and grievous, i think it not un- meet that all women, a littlebefore the time of their firſt travail, annoint and relax their privie parts with the unguent here deſcribed. r. ſper, teti, ii, oi, amigd, duljiv. ar. : - - mi, lib. . concerning the generation of man. medal. cervin, iii, axung anſ& gallin, an. i. tereb, venet: ii, make thereofan ointment to an- noint the thighs, ſhare, privie-parts and genitals. furthermore, it ſhall not bee unprofita- ble, to make atruſs or girdle of moſt thin and gentle dog-skin, which beeing alſo annoin- ted with the ſame unguent, may ſerv verie neceſſarily for the better carrying of the infantin the womb. alſo baths that are made of the deco&tion of mollifying herbs,are alſo verie fitable to relaxthe privie parts a little before the time of the birth. that is ſuppoſed to bee the natural a natural and ºafie birth, when the infant commeth forth with his head forwards, preſent-and-afictiid- ly following the flux of water; and that is more difficult, when the infant commeth with birth. his feet forwards: all the other waies are moſt difficult. therefore mid-wives are to beead- moniſhed that as often as they perceiv the childeto beecomining forth none of thoſe waies, but either with his bellie or his back forwards, as it weredouble; or elſwith his hands and feet together; or with his head forwards, and oneofhis hands ſtretched out, that they ſhould turn it, and drawit outby the feet; for the doing whereofifthey bee not ſufficient,ſet them crave the aſſiſtance and help of ſomexpert chirurgian. chap. xvi. signs of the birth at land. ..t.t.here will bee great pain under the navel, and at the groins, and ſpreading there- . k. jhence toward the vertebre of the loins, and then eſpecially when they are drawn “i "back from the osſacrum, the bones ilia and the coccyx are thruſt outward, the ge- * nitals ſwell with pain, and a certain fever-like ſhakeing invade's the bodie, the facewaxeth redby reaſon of the endeavor of nature, armed unto the expulfion of the infant. and when theſe figns appear, let all things bee prepared readie to the childe-birth. there-how the wo. for:firſt of all let the woman that is in travailbºeplacedin herbed conveniently, neither: that tra: with her face upwards, nor ſitting, but with herback upwards and ſomwhat high, that ſhee º maybreath atmore libertie, and have the more power or ſtrength to labor. therefore ſhee pº º ought to have her legs wide one from another, and crooked, or her heels ſomwhat bowed bed, up towards her buttocks, ſo that ſhee may lean on a ſtaff that muſt beee placed overthwart the bed. there are ſom that do travail in a ſtool or a chairmade for the ſame purpoſe:others ſtanding upright on their feet, and leaning on the poaſt or piller of the bed. but you muſt take diligent heed that you do not exhort or perſwade the woman in travail to ſtrive or la- bor to expel the birth before the fore-named ſigns thereof do manifeſtly ſhew that it is at hand. forby ſuch labor or pains ſhee might bee wearied or ſo weakned, that when ſhee ſhouldſtrive or labor, ſhee ſhall have no power or ſtrength ſo to do. if all theſe things do fall outwell in the childe-birth, the buſineſs is to be committed to nature, and to the mid- wife. and the woman with childe muſtonelybee admoniſhed that when ſhee feeleth verie ſtrong pain, that ſheepreſently therewith ſtrive with moſt ſtrong expreſſion, ſhutting her mouth and noſe if ſheepleaſ, and at the ſame time let the midwife with her hands force the infant from above downwards. but if the birth bee more difficult and painful, by reaſon an unétion to that the waters wherein the infant lay are flown out long before, and the womb bee drie, ſº he de- this ointment following is to bee prepared. r, butyri recentis ſineſale in aquà artenefteloti. ii. . :- mucagini, ficulum, ſemin. linić althee, cum aquàſabine extratie,an. .olei liliorum, i make there- ºn too of anointment, wherewith let the midwife often annoint the ſecret parts. alſo this pow- long before der following may bee prepared. r. cinnamon, cort. caſe fiful. dičiamnian iſ. jacch. albi ad the birth. pondus omnium: make thereof a moſt ſubtil and fine powder. let the woman that is in ex-a powder to tremitie by reaſon of difficult and painful travail in childe-birth, take half an ounce thereof i. ſpeedied- at a time, with the decočtion of lin-ſeed, or in white wine, for it will cauſmore ſpeedie and *::::::: eaſiedeliverance of the childe. - moreover let the midwife annoint her hands with this ointment following as often as ſheeputteth them into the neck of the womb, and therewith alſo annoint the parts about it. r. olei exſeminibus lini;iſ olei de caſtoreo;ſº.gallie moſchate, iii. ladani i. make thereof aph. .& . a liniment. moreover, you may provoke ſheefing, by putting a little pepper or white he-ºf-se - mebore in powder into the noſtrils. lin-ſeed beaten, and given in potion, with the water of mugwurt and savine, is ſuppoſed to cauſpeedie deliverance. alſo the medicine following - is commended for the ſame purpoſe. r. cortici, caffefiſtul, conquaſate ii. cicer. rubimſ, bulli- a potion cau- ant cum vino albw & aqué ſufficienti, ſubfinem addendoſabine ii, incolatură pro doſ adderinam. ſ ºngſpºdiºde. crocigr. vi. make thereofa potion, which beeing taken, let ſheefing bee provoked, as it is" above-ſaid, and lether ſhutor cloſe her mouth and noſtrils. - manie times it happeneth that theinfant commeth into the worldout of the womb,have ing his head covered or wrapped about with a portion of the ſecundine or tunicle wherein . . . . . it is incloſed, eſpecially, when by the much, ſtrong, and happie ſtriveing of the mother, hee ... . commeth forth together with the water wherein it fiethin the womb, and then the mid- wives propheſie or fore-tell that the childe ſhall bee ...; becauſhee is born as it were with a hood on his head. but i ſuppoſe that it dothbetoken health of bodie both to *: ant ! t * - o . concerning the generation of man. lie . * fant and alſo to his mother; for it is a token of eaſie deliverance. for when the birth is difficult and painful, the childe never bringeth that membrane out with him, but it remain- eth behinde in the paſſage of the gentitals or ſecret parts, becauſthey are narrow. for even ſo the snake or adder when ſhee ſhould caſt her skin thereby, to renew her age, creepeth whata womanthrough ſom narrow or ſtrait paſſage. preſently after birth, the woman ſo delivered muſt intravail muſt take two or three ſpoonfuls of the oil of ſweet almonds extraëted without fire, and tempe- . º red with ſugar.som will rather uſe the yelks of egs with ſugar,ſom the wine called hypocras, .* others culliſes or gellie: but alwales divers things are to beeuſed, according as the patient - or the woman in childe-bed ſhall bee grieved, and as the phyſician ſhall give counſel, both to eaſand aſſwage the furious torments and pain of the throws, to recover her ſtrength and nouriſh her. - ; : " ... . . . .'; ; ; the cauſofthe ... throws compreſently after the birth of the childe, becauſthat then the veines (nature ***" becing wholly converted to expulſion) caſt out the reliques of the menſtrual matter that hath been ſuppreſſed for the ſpace of nine months,into the womb with great violence,which becauſthey are groſs; ſlimie and dreggiſh, cannot comforth without great painboth to the veines from whence they com, and alſo unto the womb whereinto they go; alſo then by the converſion of that portion thereof that remaineth into winde, and by the undiſcreet ad- miſſion of the air in the time of the childe-birth, the womb and all the ſecret parts will ſwel, ºnleſsitbeeprevented with ſom digeſting, repelling or mollifying oil, or by artificial row. ling of the parts about the bellie. - i * chap, xv ii. - - - - what is to beed ently after the chille iſ born. º g.s (is- is to bee don preſently after the childe is born why the ſecun- & reſently after the childe is born, the midwife muſt draw away the ſecundine dine or after- birth muſt bee , or after-birth, as gently as ſhee can: but if ſhee cannot, let her put her hands taken away º § into the womb, and ſo draw it out, ſeparateing it from the otherparts; for o- jº . º therwiſe if it ſhould continue longer, it would bee more difficult to bee got- e birth of the nº. w hild * ten out, becauſthat preſently after the birth,the orifice of the womb is drawn childe, togetherandcloſed, and then all theſecundine muſt bee taken from the childe. therefore the bindºing the navel-ſtring muſt bee tied with a double thred an inch from the bellie. let not the knot th, hides bee too hard, leſt that part of thenavel-ſtring which is without the knot ſhould fall away ***"g, ſooner then it ought, neither too ſlack or looſ, leſt that an exceeding and mortal flux of after the birth. - - - - - blood ſhould follow after it is cutoff,andleſt that through it (that is to ſay the navel-ſtring) the cold air ſhould enter into childes-bodie. when the knot is ſo made, the navel-ſtring muſt beecutin ſunder the bredth of two fingers beneath it with a ſharp knife. upon theſe- &ion you muſt applie a double linnen cloth dipped in oil of roſes, or of ſweet almonds, to mitigate the pain; for ſo within a few daies after, that which is beneath the knot will fall away beeing deſtitute of life and nouriſhment, by reaſon that the vein and arterie are tied ſo . that no life nor nouriſhment can comunto it: commonly all midwives dolet it lie unto the barebellie of the infant, whereof commeth grievous pain and gripeing, by reaſon of the coldneſs thereof which dieth by little and little as deſtitute of vital heat. but it were far better to roul it in ſoft cotton or lint, until it bee mortified, and ſo fall away. - i thoſe midwives do unadviſedly, who ſo ſoon as the infant is born do preſently tie the . . navel-firing and cut it off, not looking firſt for the voiding of the ſecundine. when all theſe “. . . things aredon, the infant muſt bee wiped, cleanſed and rubbed from all filth and excrement * - - with oil of roſes or myrtles. for thereby the pores of the skin willbee better ſhut, and the ". ... habit of the bodie the more ſtrengthened. * * * - ** there bee ſom that waſh infants at that time in warm water and red wine,and afterwards annoint them with the fore-named oils. others waſh them not with wine alone, but boil therein red roſes and the leavs of myrtles, adding thereto a little ſalt; and then uſeing this lotion for the ſpace of five or ſix daies, they not onely waſh away the filth, but alſo re- ſok and digeſt, if there beeanie hard or contuſed place in the infant's tenderbodie, by reaſon of the hard travail and labor in childe-birth. their toes and fingers muſt beehandled, drawn aſunder and bowed, and the joints of the arms and legs, muſt bee extended and bowed for - ** the defaults that are com- jº manie daies and often ; that thereby that portion of the excremental humor that remaineth i.” in the joints,by motion may bee heated and reſolved.if there beeanie default in themembers, ** - eitherin conformation, conſtrućtion or ſocietie with thoſe that are adjoining to them, it muſt bee correóted or amended with ſpeed. moreover, you muſt look whetheranie of the th: defaults of natural paſſages bee ſtopped,or covered with a membrane, as it often happeneth. for if anie . ſuch cover ºr tºp the orifices of the ears, noſtrils, mouth, yard or womb, it muſt bee cut in dily *:::: ſunder by the chirurgion,and the paſſage muſt beekept †. by putting in oftents peſſaries or doſels,leſt otherwiſe they ſhould join together again after they are cut. if hee have one finger more then her ſhould naturally, if his his fingers do cleavčloſe together,like unto the fretofa goofor duck, if the ligamental membrane that is under the tongue bee more º an lib. . concerning the generation of awſan. -** * - and ſtiffer then it ought, that the infant cannot ſuck, nor in time to com, ſpeak, by reaſon thereof; and if there bee anie other thing contrarie to nature, it muſt bee all amended by the induſtrie of ſomexpert chirurgian. - - manie times in children newly born, there ſticketh on the inner ſide of their mouth and - on their tongue, a certain chalkie ſubſtance, both in color and in conſiſtence; this affect º roceeding from the diſtemperature of the mouth, the french-men call it the whitecancer. remedies fºr it will not permit the infant to ſuck, and will ſhortly breed and degenerate into ulcers that the cancer in will creepinto the jawes, and even unto the throat, and unleſs it bee cleanſed ſpeedily, will a childe's -bee their death. for remedie whereof, it muſt bee cleanſed by deterfives, as with a ſinnen” cloth bound to a little ſtick,and dipped in a medicine of an indifferent conſiſtence made with oil of ſweet almonds, honie and ſugar. for by rubbing this gently on it, the filth may bee . . mollified, and ſo cleanſed or waſhed awaie. - - moreoverit will beeverie meet and convenient to give the infant one ſpoonful of oil of almonds, to make his bellie looſandſlipperie, to aſſwage the roughneſs of the weaſon and gullet, and to diſſolv the tough phlegm, which cauſſeth a cough, and ſomtimes difficultie of breathing. if the eie-lids cleav together, or if they bee joined together, or agglutinated to the coats cornea or adnata; if the waterie tumor called bydrocephalor affect the head, then muſt they bee cured by the proper remedies formerly preſcribed , againſt each di- ſeaſ. . . - t manie from their birth have ſpots or marks, which the common people of france call signes, that is, marks or ſigns. som of theſe are plain and equal with the skin, others are raiſed up in little tumors, and like unto warts, ſom have hairs upon them, manie times th are ſmooth, black or pale; yet for themoſt partred. when they riſe in the face, they ſpread abroad thereon manie times with great deformitie. manie think the cauſthereof to bee a certain portion of the menſtrual matter cleaving to the ſides of the womb, comming of a freſh flux, if happily a mando yet uſe copulation with the woman, or elſ diſtilling out of the veins into the womb, mixed and concorporated with the ſeeds at that time when they are congealed, infecting this or that part of the iſſue; beeing drawn out of the ſeminal bo. die,with their own color. women refer the cauſthereofunto their longing when they are . with childe; which may imprint theimage of the thing they long for or deſire,in the childe or iſſue that is not as yet formed (as the force and power of imagination in humanebo- dies is verie great: ) but when the childe is formed, no imagination is able to leav theim- preſſion of aniething in it, no more then it could cauſ horns to grow on the head of king chypus as hee ſlept preſently after hee was returned from attentively beholding bulls fight- an old fable ing together. som of thoſe ſpots bee cureable, others not; as thoſe that are great, and thoſe of king chy. that are on the lips, noſtrils, and eie-lids. but thoſe that are like unto warts, becauſ, they pu, are partakers of a certain malignqualitieand melancholick matter, which may bee irritated. by indeavouring to cure them, are not to bee medled with at all, for beeing troubled and .hich uncure- angered, they ſoon turn into a cancer (which they call noli metangere). thoſe that are cureable are ſmall, and in ſuch parts as they may bee dealt withall without danger. there- which and fore they muſt bee pierced through by the roots with a needle and a thread, and ſo beeing i. they are lifted up by the ends of the thread, they muſt bee cut awaie, and the wound that remaineth curtable, muſt beecured according to the general method of wounds. there are ſom that ſuppoſe the red ſpots that are raiſed up into littleknobs and bunches, may bee waſhed awaie and conſumed by rubbing and annointing them often with menſtru- ‘. . . al blood, or the blood of the ſecundine or after-birth. thoſe that are hairie and ſomwhat raiſed up like unto a want or mouſ, muſt bee pierced through the roots in three or four - places, and ſtraightly bound, ſo that at length beeing deſtitute of life and nutriment, they - may fall awaie. after they are falnawaie, the ulcer that remaineth muſt beecured as other ulcers are. ifthere bee anie ſuperfluous fleſh remaining, it muſt bee taken awaie by applying aegyptiacum, or the powder of mercürie, and ſuch like: but if it bee doubted that it com: meth from the root of the tumor that may happily remain, it muſt bee burned awaie by the root with oil of vitriol or aqua fortiº. * - - - there is alſo an other kinde or ſort of ſpots, of a livid or violet-color,comming eſpecial- ly in the face about the lips, with a ſoft, ſlack,lax,thin, and unpainful tumor, and the veins as ifthey were varicous roundabout it. this kinde of tumor groweth greaterwhen it ariſ- eth on children that are wayward and crying, and in men of riper years that are cholerick and angrie,and then it willbee of a diverſcolor, like unto a lappet or flap of fleſh that hang- ethover the turkie-cock's bill. when they have don crying, or ceaſed their anger, the tu- moryill return to his own natural color again. but you muſt not attempt to cure it in peo- ple that are of theſeconditions. . . - * * - fff. * * * º - º - chap. | t - - - oo concerning the generation of man. lib. . • * chap. xviii. how to pull awaie the ſecundine or after-birth. why it is cal- ºsmººl suppoſe that they are called ſecundines, becauſthey do griev the woman . ſecun- sº - - that is with childe the ſecond time,as it were a ſecond birth: for if there int, | bee ſeveral children in the womb at once, and of different ſexes, ºf they then have everie onetheir ſeveral ſecundines,which thing is verieneceſ. ºf ſarie to bee known by all midwives. for they do manie times remain be- the cauſes of sº hinde in the womb when the childe is born, eitherby reaſon of the weak- the *::: neſs of the woman in travail, which by contending and laboring for the ºnline.birth of her childe, hath ſpent all her ſtrength: or elſby a tumorrifing ſuddenly in the neck of the womb, by reaſon of the long and difficult birth, and the cold air unadviſedly permitted to ſtrike into the orifice of the womb. for ſo the liberties of the waies or paſſa- ges are ſtopped and made more narrow, ſo that nothing can comforth: orelſ becauſthey are doubled and foulded in the womb, and the waters gon out from them with the infant, ſo that they remain as it were in a drie place: or elſbecauſthey yet ſtick in the womb by the knots oftheveins and arteries, which commonly happeneth in thoſe that are deliveredbe- fore their time. for even as apples which are not ripe, cannot bee pulled from the tree but by violence; but when they are ripe, they will fall offoſ their own accord: ſo the ſecun- dine before the natural time of the birth can hardly bee pulled awaiebut by violence; but at the prefixed natural time of the birth, it may eaſily beedrawn awaie. accidents that manieandgrievous accidents follow the ſtaying of the ſecundine; as ſuffocation of the follow the , womb, often ſwounding, by reaſon that groſs vapors ariſe from the putrefaction unto the j of the midriff, heart and brain; therefore they muſt bee pulled awaie with ſpeed from the womb, ecundines. gently handling the navel, if it may bee ſopoſſibly don. but if it cannotbee donſo, the wo. jº manmuſt bee placedarſhee was won; when that the childe will not comforth naturally,but out the ſe#.a muſtbee drawn forth by art. thereforethe midwife having her hand annointed with oil, dinºshare muſt put it gently into the womb, and finding out the navel-ſtring, muſt follow it untill it main after the com unto the ſecundine, and if it do as yet cleav to the womb by the cotylidons, ſhee muſt birth. ſhakeand move it gently up and down, that ſo when it is ſhaked and looſed, ſhee may draw it out gently; but if it ſhould bee drawn with violence, it were to bee feared leſt that the womb ſhould alſo follow; forby violent attraction ſom of the veſſels, and alſo ſom of the nervous ligaments, whereby the womb is faſtened on each fide, may bee rent, whereof fol- loweth corruption ofbloodſhed out of the veſſels, and thence commeth inflammation, an the cauſof abſceſsor a mortal gangrene. neither is there leſs danger of a convulfion by reaſon of the the falling breaking of the nervous bodies, neither is there anieleſs danger of the falling down of the down of the womb. if that there bee anie knots or clods of blood remaining together with the womb. ſecundine, the midwife muſt draw them out one by one, ſo that not anie may bee left behinde. som women have voided their ſecundine, when it could not bee drawn forth by anie *..."meanes, long after the birth ofthe childe, by the neck oftherwomb, piece-meal, rotten ... and corrupted,with manie grievous and painfull accidents.alſo itſhallbee verie requiſite to ºiling of the provoke the indeavor of the expulfivefacultieby ſternutatories, aromatick fomentations of womb, toge- the neck of the womb, by mollifying injećtions; and contrariwiſe,by applying ſuch things her with the to the noſtrils asyeelda rank ſavor or ſmell, with a potion made of mug-wort and bay-ber- * fies takeninhonie andwinemixed together, or with half a dram of the powder of ſavin,or with the hair of a womans head, burnt and beaten to powder, and given to drink; and to conclude, with all things that provoke the tearms or courſes. the accidents chap. xix. - what thing muſt bee given to the infant by the mouth, before hee bee permitted to ſuck the teal ordug. to draw twill bee verie profitable to ruball the inner fide of the childe's mouth and ::::::: palat gently with treacle and honie, or theoil of ſweetalmonds extrated º: e withoutfire, and if you can, to cauſit to ſwallow ſom of thoſe things: for thereby much flegmatick moiſture will bee drawn from the mouth, and alſo will beenooved or proveked to bee vomited upfrom the ſtomach; for if theſe excremental humors ſhould bee mixed with the milk that is ſuck- ed, they would corrupt it, and then the vapors that ariſe from the corrupted milk unto thebrain wºuld infermoſt pernicious accidents. and you may know that there are manic excremental things in the ſtomachandguts of children by this, becauſthat ſo ſoon asthey cominto the world, and often before they ſuck milk or take anie other thing, they void downwardsmanieºxcrements diverſly colored, as yellow, green,andblack. therefore ma- nie, that they may ſpeedily evacuate the matter that cauſeth thefretting ofthe guts, do . onely lia. . concerning the generation of sºfan. : - + - =le:- onely miniſterthoſe things fore-named, but alſo ſom laxative ſyrup, as that that is made of milk ſooncor- damask-roſes. but before the infant bee put to ſuck the mother, it is fitting to preſs ſom fº in a milk out of herbreſt into its mouth, that ſo the fibres of the ſtomach may by little and lit- lºss. tle accuſtom themſelvs to draw in the milk. - ºf . , º, tº chap. xx. that mothers ought to nurſ or give ſuck unto their wndildren. aehat all mothers would nurſtheir own children were y to bee wiſhed: for ºf the mother's milk is far more familiar nouriſhment for the infant then that of th; mothº's anie nurſ; for iriºnothingelſbut the ſame blood made whitein the duggs, ..." wherewith before it wasnouriſhed in the womb. for themother ought not tº. give the childeſtick for the ſpace of a few daies after thebirth, but firſt to expett the perfeół expurgation and avoiding of the excremental humors. and in the mean time let her cauſher breaſts to bee ſucked of another, or manie other children, or of ſom wholſom or ſober maid, whereby the milkmay bee drawn by little and little unto her breaſts, and al- ſo by little and little purified. - foracertain ſpace after the birth, the milk willbee troubled, and the humors of the bo- diemooved: ſo that by longſtaying in the duggs, it will ſeem to degenerate from its natur- algoodneſs, as the groſneſs ofit is ſomwhat congealed, the manifeſtheat in touching,and the yellow color thereofteſtifieth evidently. therefore it is neceſſarie that others ſhould comin place thereof when it is ſucked out, wherewith the infant may bee nouriſhed. but if the mother or the nurſchance to take anie diſeaſ, as a fever, scouring, oranie ſuch like, the diſeaſof: lether give the childe to another,to give it ſuck,leſt that the childe chance to take the nur- the nurſis ſes diſeaſes. and moreover, mothers . to nurſtheir own children,becauſfor the moſt participated part they are far more vigilant and careful in bringing up and attending their children,then .* hired and mercenarie nurſes, which do not ſo much regard the infant, as the gain they ſhal ce have by the keeping of it, for the moſt part. thoſe that do not nurſ their own children, cannot rightly bee termed mothers: for they do not abſolutely perform the dutie of amo- ther unto their childe, as marcus aurelius the roman emperor was wont to ſay. for it is a gellib. , . certain unnatural, imperfect and half kinde of a mother's dutie,to bear a childe, and preſent- - lyto abandon or put it awaieasif it were forſaken: to nouriſh and feeda thing in their womb (which they neither know nor ſee) with their own blood, and then not to nouriſh it when they ſee it in the world alive, a creature or reaſonable ſoul,now requireing the help and ſuſtentation of the mother. - z chap-xxi. of the choice ºf nurſes. ºanie husbands take ſuch pittie on their tender wives, that they provid. nurſes ſ ) for their children, that unto the paines that they have ſuſtainedin bearing (lày/y them, they may not alſo add the trouble of nurſing them: wherefore ſuch a ſº yº. wnurſmuſt bee choſen which hath had two or three children. for the duggs *=which have been alreadie ſucked and accuſtomed to beefilled, have the veines and arteries more large and capable to receiv the more milk. in the choice of a nurſ there is ten things to bee confidered veriediligently. as, her age, the habit of her bodie, herbe- haviour, the condition of hermilk, the form, notonely of herduggs or breaſts,but alſo of her teats or nipples, the time from her childe-birth, the ſex of her laſt infant or childe,that theebee not with childe, that ſheebeeſound and in perfeº health, asconcerningher age; thebes agº. ſhee ought not to bee under twentie five years, nor above thirtie five: the time that is : of a nurſ. tween is the time of ſtrength, more temperate, and more wholſom and healthie, and leſs a- bounding with excremental humors. and becauſher bodie doth not then grow or increaſ, º ſhee muſt of neceſſitiehave the more aboundance of blood. after thirtie five years in manie * ..." themenſtrual fluxes do ceaſ, and therefore it is tolbee ſuppoſed that they have the leſs nu- … tº triment forchildren. - --- º: , . . . the nurſmuſt alſo bee of a good habit, or ſquare or wel-ſetbodie, her breaſt broad, her thebeſ habi: color lively, not fat, nor lean, but well-made, her fleſh not ſoft and tender, but thick, and of bodiein a hard or ſtrong, whereby ſhee may bee the more able to indure watching and taking of pains" about the childe; ſheemuſt not have ared or freckled face, but brown or ſomwhat ſhadow- ed or mixed with redneſs: for truly ſuch women are more hot then thoſe that are red in the face, by reaſon whereof they muſt needs conco&andturn their meat the better into blood. - for according to the judgment of sextus channenft, as blackiſh or brown ground is more ºf " fertil then the white : even ſo a brown womatihath more floreofmilk. you muſt look wel * * on herhead, leſt ſhee ſhould have the ***** fee that her **; - - f£f * | º : } - -- o? concerning the generation. ofman. lib. . foul or rotten, nor her breath ſtinking, nor noulcernor ſore about her bodie, and that ſhee bee not born of goutieqr leprous parents. - of what beha: , shee ought to bee quick and diligent in keeping the childe neat and clean, chaſte, ſober, vior the nurſ merrie, alwaies laughing and ſmiling on her infant, often ſinging unto it, and ſpeaking di- muſtbce flinótly and plainly, for ſhee is the onely miſtreſs to teach the childe to ſpeak. let her bee wel-mannered, becauſ the manners of the nurſ are participated unto the infant together with the milk. for the whelps of dogs, if they do ſuck wolves or lioneſſes, will becom more fierce and cruel then otherwiſe they would. contrariwiſe, the lions whelps willeave their ſavagneneſs andfierceneſs, if that they bee brought up and nouriſhed with the milk of anie bitch, or other tamebeaſt. if a goat give a #. ſuck,the ſame lamb's-wooll will bee * * * * more hard then others: contrariewiſe, ifa sheep give a kidſuck, the ſame kids hair will * * bee more ſoft then another kid's-hair. sheeought tobe: ſober,and the ratherfor this cauſ, ' ' , "... becauſmanie nurſes beeing overloaden with wine and banqueting, often ſet their chil- : unto their breaſts to ſuck, and then fall aſleep, and ſo ſuddenly ſtrangle or shoak them. wº.*... sheemuſt abſtain from copulation: for copulation troublethand mooveth the humors from copulati- and the blood, and therefore the milk itſelf; and it diminiſhed the quantitieofmilk, be- cauſit provoketh the menſtruall flux, and cauſeth the milk to have a certain ſtrong and vir- ous qualitie, ſuch as wee may perceiv to breath from them that are incenſed with the fer- vent luſt and defire ofwenerie. and moreover, becauſthat thereby they may happen to bee with childe, whereof inſueth diſcommoditie both to her own childe that is within herbo- die, and alſo to the nurſ-childe : to the nurſ-childe, becauſthat the milk that it ſucketh willbee worſand more depraved then otherwiſe it would bee, by reaſon that the morelaud- , able blood after the conception remaineth about the womb, for the nutriment and increa- fing of the infant in the womb; and the more impure blood goeth into the dugs, which breedeth impure or unclean milk: but to the conceived childe, becauſit will cauſit to have ſcarcitie of food; for ſomuch as the ſucking-childe ſucketh, ſo much the childe conceived in the womb wanteth. what dugsa alſo ſhee ought to have abroad breaſt, and her dugs indifferently big, not ſlack or hang- nurſought toing, but of a middle conſiſtence, between ſoft and hard; for ſuch dugs will concoët the have. blood into milk the better,becauſthat in firmfleſh the heat is more ſtrong and compačt. you - may by ...; whether the fleſhbee ſolid and firm, as alſo by the diſperfing of the veines, eaſily to bee ſeen by reaſon of their ſwelling and blewneſs, through the dugs, as it were into manie ſtreams or littlerivelets; for in fleſh that is looſand ſlack, they lie hidden. thoſe dugs that are of a competentbigneſs, receiv or contain no more milk then is ſuffici- ent to nouriſh the infant. in thoſe dugs that are great and hard, the milk is as it were ſuffo- cated, ſtopped or bound in, ſo that the childe in ſucking can ſcarce draw it out. and more- over, if the dugs beehard, the childe putting his mouth to the breaſt, may ſtrike his noſe a- gainſtit,and ſo hurt it, whereby heemayeither refuſe to ſuck, rifhee doth proceed to ſuck, by continual ſucking, and placeing of his noſe on the hard breaſt,it may becom flat, and the noſtrils turned upwards, to his great deformitie, when heeſhall com to age. if the teates or nipples of the dugs do ſtand ſomwhat low or depreſſed inwards on the tops of the dugs, the childe can hardly take them between its lips, therefore his ſucking willbee verie labori- ous. if the nipples or teates bee veriebig,they will ſo fill all his mouth,that hee cannot well - uſe his tongue in ſucking or in ſwallowing the milk. “ - what is to bee gu --- - - ... weemayjudgofor know the nature and condition ofthemilk,by the quantitie, qualitie, milk. color, ſavor and taſte; when the quantitie ofthe milk is ſo little, that it will not ſuffice to nouriſh the infant, it cannot bee good and laudable; for it argueth ſom diſtemperature ei- ther of the wholebodie, or at leaſt of the dugs, eſpecially a hot and drie diſtemperature. but when it ſuperaboundeth, and is more then the infant can ſpend, it exhauſteth the juice of the nurſes bodie; and when it cannot allbee drawn out by the infant, it cluttereth, and congealeth or corruptethin the dugs. yet i would rather wiſh it to abound, then to bee di- . for the ſuperabounding quantitie may bee preſſed out before the childebee ſet to the laudable breaſt. ... of that milk that is of a mean conſiſtence between thick and thin, is eſteemed to bee the milk. beſt. for it betokeneth the ſtrength and vigor of the facultie that ingendereth it in the breaſts. therefore if one drop of the milkbee laid on the nail of ones thumb, being firſt made verie clean and fair, if the thumbbee not mooved, and it run off the nail, it fignifieth that it is waterie-milk : but if itſtick to the nail, although the end ofthe thumbbee bowed downwards, it ſheweth that it is too groſs and thick: but if it remain on the nailſo long as you hold it upright, and fall from it when you hold it a little aſide or downwards by lit. tle and little; it ſhºweth it isverie good milk. and that which is exquiſitely white, is beſt whythe milk of all. forthºſilk is no other thingthen blood made white. - to be." therefore, if it bee of anie other color, it argueth a default in the blood: ſo that if it bee verie white, brown, it betokºneth melancholick blood; if it beeyellow,it fignifieth cholerick blood; if it itbee wan andpaleitbetokeneth phlegmatick bloodifitbee ſomwhat red,it argueth the º º - weakneſs lib. . concerning the generation of man. º - weakneſs of the facultie that engendreth the milk. it ought to bee ſweet, fragrant, and plea- ſant in ſmell ; for if it ſtrike into the noſtrils with a certain ſharpneſs, as for the moſt part the milk of women that have red hair and little freckles on their faces doth, it prognoſti- cates a hot and cholerick nature: if with a certain ſowerneſs, it portendeth a cold and me- why a woman lancholick nature. in taſte it ought to bee ſweet,and as it were ſugered, for the bitter, ſaltiſh, that hathred ſharp, and ſtiptick,is naught. and here i cannot but admire the providence of nature,which : . hathcauſed the blood wherewith the childe ſhould bee nouriſhed to beeturned into milk: **** face cannot which unleſs it were ſo, who is hee that would not turn his face from, and abhor ſo griev-be a goºd ous and terrible a ſpectacle of the childes mouth ſo imbrued and beſmeared with blood? nurſ. what mother or nurſ would not bee amazedateveriemoment with the fear of the bloodſo often ſhed out, or ſucked by the infant for his nouriſhment? moreover, wee ſhould want two helps of ſuſtentation, that is to ſay, butter and cheeſ. neither ought the childe to bee permitted to ſuck within five or fixdaies after it is born, both for the reaſon before alledged, and alſo becauſhee hath need of ſo much time to reſt quiet, and eaſhimſelf after the pains hee hath ſuſtained in his birth: in the mean ſeaſon the mother muſt have her breaſts drawn by ſom maid that drinketh no wine, or elſſhee may ſuck or draw them her ſelf with an artificiallinſtrument which i will deſcribe hereafter. hat nurſ that nurſ that hath born a man childe is to bee preferred before another, becauſher wºº. milk is the better concoëted, the heat of the male-childe doubling the mother's heat. and . man-childe moreover, the women that are great with childe of a male-childe, are better colored, and ih is to be pre- better ſtrength, and better able to do anie thing all the time oftheir greatneſs,which proov- ferred before eth the ſame: and moreover the blood is more laudable,and the milk better. furthermore, another. it behooveth the nurſto beebrought on bed, or to travail at her juſt and prefixed or natural why ſhse cane time: for when the childe is born before his time of ſom inward cauſ, it argueth that.there no be a good is ſom default lurking and hidden in the bodie and humors thereof. nurſ whoſe childe was born before chap. xx ii. is time. w - - - - - - - * what diet the nurſ ought to uſe, and in what ſituation ſhee ought to place the infant in the cradle. §§§oth in eating, drinking, ſleeping, watching, excercifing and reſting, the nurſes a | diet muſt bee divers, according as the nature of the childe both in habit and tem-- a-- * * § É. ſhall bee: as for example, if the childe bee altogether of a more hotº rº. # blood, the nurſboth in feeding and ordering her ſelfought to follow a cool- " " ' " ... ing diet. in general, let her eatmeats of good juice, moderate in quantitie and ... ... ." ualitie, lether live in a pure and clear air, let her abſtain from all ſpices, and all ſalted and . . . . #. meats, and all ſharp things, wine, eſpecially that which is not allayed or mixed with . . . . . . water, and carnal copulation with a man, let her avoid all perturbations of the mindé, but ..." . . . ; anger eſpecially, lether uſe moderate exerciſe, unleſs it bee the exerciſe of her armes and up-angéºgreatly per parts, rather then the leggs and lowerparts,whereby the greaterattraëtion of the blood, §." the tº that muſt bee turned into milk, may beenade towards the dºgs. lether place her childe ſoº...asiſ. in the cradle that his head may bee higher then all the bodie, that ſo the excremental hu- ofthearinºis mors may bee the better ſent from the brain unto the paſſages that are beneath it. let her beſt for the ſwathe it ſo as the neck and all the back-bone maybee ſtraight and equal. as long as the nºhow childe ſucketh, and is not fed with ſtronger meat, it is better to lay him alwaie on his back, #: º then anie other waie, for the back is, as it were the keel in a ſhip, the ground-work andº. * foundation of all the whole bodie, whereon the infant may ſafely and eaſily reſt, but ifhee cºſ lie on the ſide, it were danger left that the bones of the ribs beeing ſoft and tender, not ****** ſtrong enough, and united with ſlack bands, ſhould bow under the weight of the reſt, and ſo wax crooked, whereby the infant might becom crook-backed. but when heebeginnedh -, -, *, or to breed teeth, and to beefed with more ſtrongmeat,and alſo the bones and contiexions of zºº them begin to wax more firm and hard, hee muſt bee laied one while one this fide, another º’”; while on that, and now and then alſo on his back. and the more hee groweth, the more let ... • * * himbee accuſtomed to lie on his ſides; and as hee lieth in the cradle, let him beeturned unto that place whereat the light commeth in, left that otherwiſe hee may become par-º, sº, blinde, for the eie of its own nature is bright and light-ſom, and therefore alwaies deſireth ºr ºf the light, andabhoreth darkneſs, for all things are moſt delighted with their like, and ſhün * --> --> their contraries. thereforevnleſs the light com's direétly into the childe’s face, heetaraeth himſelf everie waie beeing verie ſorrowful, and ſtriveth to turn his head and eigs that hee may have the light; and that often turning and rowling of his eies at length groweth into a cuſtom that cannot bee left: and ſo it commeth to paſs that the infant doth either becom pur-blind, if hee ſet his eies ſtedfaſtly on one thing, or elſhis eies do becom trembling, why anarch alwaies turning and unſtable, if hee caſt his eies on manie things that are round about him: of witkers which is the reaſon that nurſes,beeing º by experience,cauſover the head ofthe childe mº"; lying in the cradle, an arch or vault of wickers covered with cloath to beenade, thereby .: head to reſtrain, direct, and eſtabliſh the uncertain and wandering motions of the childe'scies. ... jºini. - - fff hº cradle. - io concerning the generation ofman. lib. . - º * - - why? ſquint- if the nurſbee ſquint-eied, ſhee cannot look upon the childebut ſide-waies, whereofit i. . iſ: commerh to paſs that the childebeeing moiſt, tender, flexible, and prone to anie thing with ... his bodie, and ſo likewiſe with his eie, by a long and dailie cuſtom unto his nurſe's fight, tied. q doth ſoon take the like cuſtom to look after that ſort alſo, which afterwards hee cannot leav or alter. for thoſe evil things that wee learn in our youth, do ſtick firmly by us; but the good qualities are eaſily changed into worſ. in the eies of thoſe that areſquint-eled, thoſe two muſcles which do draw the eies to the greater or leſſer corner, are chiefly or more frequently mooved. therefore either of theſe beeing confirmed in their turning aſide by languſt, as the exertiſe of their proper office increaſeth the ſtrength, ſoon overcom's the contrarie or withſtanding muſcles, called the antagoniſts, and bring's them into their ſub- jećtion, ſo that,will they, nill they, they bring the eie unto this or that corner as they liſt. how children sochildren becom left-handed,when they permit their right hand to languiſh with idleneſs becom left- and ſluggiſhneſs, and ſtrengthen their left hand with continual uſe and motion to do everie handed. attion therewithall, and ſobring by the exerciſe thereof more nutriment unto that part. but if men (asſom affirm)beeing of ripe years, and in their full growth, by dailie ſocietie and companie of thoſe that are lame and halt do alſo halt, not mindeing ſo to do, but it • commeth againſt their wills, and when they think nothing thereof, why ſhould not the like happen in children, whoſe ſoft and tender ſubſtance is as flexible and pliant as wax untoe- - yerie impreſſion? moreover, children, at they becom lame and crook-back’t; ſo do they alſo becom ſquint-eied by the hereditarie default of their parents. cha p. xxiii. - how to make pap for children. ap is a moſt meet food or meat for children; becauſthey require moiſt nou- jº riſhment, and it muſt bee anſwerable in thickneſs to the milk, that ſo it may s not bee difficult to bee concočted or digeſted. for pap hath theſe three con- ble conditions ſº ditions, ſo that it bee made with wheaten flower, and that not crude, but of pap - boiled; let it bee put into a new earthen pot or pipkin, and ſo ſet into an o- hºhe meal" ven at the time when bread is ſet thereinto to bee baked; and let it remain muſt bee pre--there until the bread bee baked and drawn out: for when it is ſo baked, it is leſs clammie pared tº make and crude. thoſe that mix the meal crude with the milk, are conſtrained to abide one of *p*p** theſe diſcommodities or other, either to give the meal groſs and clammie unto the childe, w, the meal if that the papbce onely firſt boiled over the fire in a pipkin or skellet, ſo long as ſhall bee whºrewith the neceſſarie for the milk; hence com obſtrućtions in the meſaraick veins, and in the ſmall pap muſt bee veins of the liver, fretting and worms in the guts, and the ſtone in the reins. orelſ they ºdº, maſt, , give the childe the milk, deſpoiled of its butteriſh and whayiſh portion, and the terreſtrial, firſt bee ** and cheeßlike, or curd-like remaining, if the pap bee boiled ſo long as is neceſſarie for the or bukcd. ! meal: for the milk requireth not ſo great, neither can itſuffer ſo long boiling as the meal. … ." thoſe that do uſe crude meal, and have no hurt by its are greatly bound tº nature for ſo titra, ſºmit. greata benefit. but galen willeth children to bee nouriſhed onely with the n urſ. s milk, ſo nº "long as the nurſ hath enough to nouriſh and feed it. and truly there are manie children wº: fºº that are contented with milk onely, and will receiv no pap until they are three months *''' tº old. if the childe at anie time bee coſtiye, and cannot ..fthe excrements, let him have a a airplan to cataplaſm made with one dram of aloés,of white and black hellebore,of each fifteen grains, relix the ... beeing all incorporated in as much of an ox gallas is ſufficient, and extended or ſpreadon childe's bºlº-cotton like unto a pulli, as broad as the palm of ones hand,and ſo applie it upon the navel iwarm: moreover, this cataplaſm hath alſo virtue to kill the worms in the bellie. manie for the fret- times children have fretting of the guts, that maketh them to crie , which commeth ofcru- ting of the ºditie. this muſt beecured by applying unto the bellie ſweatie or moiſt wooll,macerated in guts in chil- oil of camomil. - dren. if when the childe's teeth begin to grow,hee chance to bite the nipple of the nurſe'sbreaſt, ithere will bee an ulcer verie contumacious and hard to bee cured; becauſ that the ſucking for the ulcers of the childe, and the rubbing of the clothes do keep it alwaits raw it muſt bee aired of the nipples with fomenting it with alum-watºr, and then preſently after the fomentation putting or teats, ºthereupon a cover of lead, made like unto a hat, as they are here deſcribed,with manie holes in the top, whereat both the milk, and alſo the ſanious matter that commeth from the ul- cers may go out; for lead itſelf will cure ulcers. -- ſº. three lauda- º s. º * , , ºr “ , , , , - - * * . . . . - - - - * * *- - the : - - - lib. . concerning the generation of man. i . º the figure of leaden nipples to bee put upon the nipple ºr teat ºf the nurſ, when it is ulcerated. --a Ǻ children may bee cauſed to ceaſtheir crying four manner of waies, that is to ſay, by giveing them the teat, by rocking them in a cradle, by finging unto them,andby changeing the clothes and ſwathes wherein they are wrapped. they muſt notbee rocked too violently in the cradle, leſt that the milk that is ſucked ſhould bee.corrupted by the too violent mo- tion,by reaſon whereof they muſt not bee handled violently anie other way, and not alto- gether prohibited, or not ſuffered to crie. for by crying the breaſt and lungs are dilated, what mode- and made bigger and wider; the natural parts the ſtronger, and the brain, noſtrils, the eies . h and mouth are purged, by the tears and filth thatcom from the cies and noſtrils. but they...” muſt not bee permitted to crie long or fiercely, for fear of breaking the produćtion of the whº immo- peritoneum, and thereby cauſing the falling down of the guts into the cod, which rupture derate crying is called of the greeks enterocele; or of the caul,which the greeks call epiplocele. cauſſeth. chap. xxiv. of the weaning of children. sº anie are weaned in the eighteenth month, ſom in the twentieth; but all, or when children aºſ ; |the moſt part, in the ſecond year: for then their teeth appear, by whoſe pre-º # ſince nature ſeemeth to require ſom harder meat then º or pap, wherewith weaned. * children are delighted, and will feedmore earneſtly thereon. but there is no **= certain time of weaning of children. for the teeth of ſom will appearſooner, and ſom later; for they are prepared of nature for no other purpoſe then to chaw the meat. if children bee :before their teeth appear, and bee fed with meat that is ſomwhat why children hard and ſolid, according to the judgment of avicen, they are incident to manie diſeaſes muºnºbº comming through cruditie; becauſ the ſtomachis yet but weak, and wanteth that prepara- . tion of the meats which is made in the mouth by chawing; which men of ripeyears cannot.” want without offence: when the childe is two years old, and the teeth appear, if the childe how thildren more vehemently deſire harder meats, and doth feed on them with pleaſure and goodſuc-muſt bee ceſs, hee may bee ſafely weaned; for it cannot bee ſuppoſed that heehath this appetite of weaned. hard meats in vain, by the inſtinët of nature. yethee may not bee weaned without ſuch an appetite, if all other things bee correſpondent, that is to ſay, his teeth and age; for thoſe things are eaten without an appetite, cannot profit. but if the childebee weak,ſicklie, or feeble, hee ought not to bee weaned. andwhen the meet time of weaning commeth,the nurſmuſt now and then uſe him to the teat, whereby heemay leavit by little and little, and then let the teat bee annointed or rubbed with bitter things, as with aloés, water of theinfuſion of colocynthus, or wormwood, or with muſtard, or soot ſteeped in water, or ſuch like. children that are ſcabbie in their heads, and over all their bodies, and which what'children void much phlegm at their mouth and noſtrils, and manie excrements downwards, are like are .." tobee ſtrong and ſound of bodies for ſo they are purged of excremental humors: contrari-º"*** wiſe, thoſe that are clean and fair of bodie, gather the matter of manie diſeaſes in their bo- dies, which in proceſs of time will break forth and appear. certainly,by the ſudden falling an often cauſ of ſuch matters into the back-bone, may becom crook-back’t. of ſuddan . . " crookedneſs. chap. . t . concerning the generation of man. . lºº. - chap. xxv. $ --, by what ſigns it may bee known whether the childe in the womb bee dead or alive. §§ f neither the chirurgians hand, not the mother can perceiv the infant to ns): sºr, the arterie of the navel, and the breath is received by the cotyledon of the arte- *** ries of the womb, it muſt of neceſſitie com to paſs that when the ſecundine is ſeparated from the infant, no air nor breath can comunto it. wherefore ſo often as the whenth-childe ſecundine is excluded before the childe's you may take it for a certain token of the death idea in the thereof: when the childe is dead, it will beemore heavie to the mother then it was before womb hee is when it was alive, becauſit is now no more ſuſtained by the ſpirits and faculties where- more,heavie with before it was governed and ruled,for ſowee ſee dead men to bee heavier then thoſe that º: are alive, and men that are weak though hunger and faminto bee heavier then when they alive. are well refreſhed, and alſo when the mother encline's her bodie anie way, the infant falleth that way alſo even as it were a ſtone. the mother is alſo vexed with ſharp pain from the privities even to the navel, with a perpetual deſire of makeing water, and going to ſtool, becauſthat nature is wholly buſied in the expulſion or avoidance of that which is that which is dead: for that which is alive will expel the dead ſo far as it can from itſelf, becauſ the one alive will not is altogether different from the other , but likeneſs, if anie thing, conjoin's and unite's ſuffer that ..., things together ; the genitals are cold in touching, and the mother complaineth that ſhee *** *** feeleth a coldneſs in her womb, by reaſon that the heat of the infantis extinguiſhed, where- with before her heat was doubled: manie filthie excrements com from her, and alſo the mother's breath ſtinketh, ſhee ſwoundeth often, all which for the moſt part happen with- in three daies after the death of the childe: for the infant's bodie will ſooner corrupt in the mother's womb then it would in the open air, becauſthat, according to the judgment of lib.de tumºrº. galen, all hot and moiſt things, beeing in likemanner encloſed in a hot and moiſt place, e- ſpecially if by reaſon of the thickneſs or ſtraitneſs of the place they cannot receiv the air, will ſpeedily corrupt. now by the riſeing up of ſuch vapors from the dead unto the brain and heart, ſuch accidents may ſoon follow, her face will bee clean altered, ſeeming livid whythebellie and ghaſtly, her dugs fall and hang looſandlank, and her bellie will bee more-hard and of a woman ſwollen then it was before. in all bodies ſo putrefying, the natural heat vaniſheth away,and willbee mºre in place thereof ſucceedeth a preternatural, by the working whereof the putrefied and diſ- #. #:d ſolved humors are ſtirred up into vapors, and converted into winde, and thoſe vapors, be- ... cauſthey poſſeſs and fill more ſpace and room (for naturaliſts ſay that of one part of water i.º.º. ten parts of air are made) do ſopuff up the putrefied bodie into a greaterbigneſs. you may when it was note the ſame thing in bodies that are gangrenate, for they caſt forth manie ſharpvapors, yet alive. nevertheleſs they are ſwollen and puffed.up. - now ſo ſoon as the chirurgian ſhall know that the childeis deadby all theſe fore-named ſigns, hee ſhall with all diligence endeavor to ſave the mother ſo ſpeedily as hee can, and if the phyſicians cannot prevail with potions, baths, fumigations, ſternutatories, vomits,and ſiniments appointed to expel the infant, let him prepare himſelf to the work following; but the fighs of a firſt let him conſider the ſtrength of the woman, for if hee perceiv that ſheebee weak andfee- woman that is bleby the ſmalneſs of her pulſ, by her ſmall, ſeldom and cold breathing, and by the altered weak. and death-like color in her face,by her cold ſweats,and by the coldneſs of the extreme parts, let him abſtain from the work, and onely affirm that ſhee will die ſhortly; contrariwiſe, if her ſtrength bee yet good, let him with all confidence and induſtrie deliver her on this wiſe from the danger of death. - - — - ----- - - - – a moſt certain }º - - sº, moov, if the waters bee flowed out, and the ſecundine comforth, you ma º:º: in ºi i ºf { ºuily affirm that heinfant is deadin the womb, for this is the ić. infal- *** {}ºº lible ſign of all others; forbecauſthºchilde in the womb doth breath but by | ſº * - º º cha xxvi. . . . . . of the chirurgical extrations of the childe from the womb either dead or alive. herefore firſt of all the air of the chamber muſt bee made temperate, and reduced § -unto a certain mediocritie, ſo that it may neither bee too hotnor too cold. then {tival mºſt ºr ſhee muſt bee aptly placed, that is to ſay, overthwart the bed-fide, with her but- ºd tocks ſomwhat high, haveing a hard ſtuffed pillow or boulſter under them, ſo that been. ... ſhee maybee in a mean figure offituation, neither ſitting altogether upright, nor altogether herºmº lying along on her back; for ſo ſhee may reſt quietly, and draw her breath with eaſ, neither bredrawn on ſhall the higaments of the womb bee extended ſo as they would if ſhee lay upright on her how demua back, her heels muſt bee drawn up cloſe to herbuttocks, and there bound with broad and bestound." ſoft linnen rowlers. the rowler muſt firſt com about her neck, and then croſ-wiſe over her ſhoulders, and ſo to the feet, and there it muſt croſs again, and ſo bee rowled about the legs thighs, and then it muſt bee brought up to the neck again, and there made faſt, ſo that ſhee may lib. . concerning the generation . . -- º _ may notbee ableto moovher ſelf evenas oneſhould be tied whenheistobee cut of the ſtone but that ſhee may not bee wearied, or left that her bodie ſhould yeeld or ſink down as the chirurgian draweth the bodie of the infant from her, and ſo hinder the work, let him cauſhow the chi. her feet to bee ſet againſt the fide of the bed, and then let ſom of the ſtrong ſtandersby hold rurgian ought her faſt by the legs and ſhoulders. then that the air may not enter into the womb, and that ºp-rºbim- the work maybee don with the more decencie, her privie parts and thighs muſt bee covered . i. ** with a warm double linnen cloth.then muſt the chirurgian,haveing his nails cloſely pared, tient to t drawing out of and his rings (if hee wear anie)drawn off his fingers, and his arms naked,bare, and well an- the child from nointed with oil, gently draw the flaps of the neck of the womb aſunder, and then let him the womb. put his hand gently into the mouth of the womb, haveing firſt made it gentle and ſlipperie with much oil; and when his handis in , let him finde out the form and fituation of the how theinfant childe, whether it bee one or two, or whether it bee a mole or not. and when hee findeth º ls . * that he commethnaturally, with his head toward the mouth or orifice of the womb, heel. . muſt lift him up gently, and ſo turn him that his feet may comforwards, and when heehath bound and' brought his feet forwards, hee muſt draw one of them gently out at the neck of the womb, drawn out. and then hee muſt binde it with ſom broad and ſoft or filken band a little above the heel with an indifferentſick knot, and when hee hath ſo bound its hee muſt put it up again in- to the womb, then hee muſt put his hand in again, and finde out the other foot, and draw it alſo out of the womb, and when it is out ofthe womb, let him draw out the other again whereunto heehad before tied the one end of the band, and when hee hath them both out, let him join them both cloſe together, and ſo by by little and little let him draw all the whole bodie from the womb. alſo other women or midwives may help the endeavor of the chirurgian, by preſſing the patient's bellie with their hands downwards as the infant goeth out: and the woman herſelf by holding herbreath, and cloſeingher mouth and noſtrils,and by driveing her breath downmards with great violence, may verie much help the expulfion. i wiſh him to putback the foot into the womb again after hee hath tied it, becauſif that hee ſhould permit it to remain in the neck of the womb, it would hinder the entrance of his hand when hee putteth it in to draw out the other. but if there bee two children in the . womb at . the chirurgian take heed left that heetake not of either of them a leg, for by drawing them ſo, hee ſhall profit nothing at all, and yet exceedingly hurt the woman. therefore that hee may not beeſo deceived, when heehath drawn out one foot and tied it, andput it up again, let him with his hand follow the band wherewithall the foot is tied,and ſo go unto the foot, and then to the groin of the childe and then from thence hee may ſoon finde out the other foot of the ſame childe:for if it ſhould happen otherwiſe, hee might draw the legs and the thighs out: but it would com no further, neither is it meet that hee ſhould com out with his arms along by his fides, or bee drawn out on that ſort, but one of his arms muſt bee ſtretched out above his head, ond the other down by his fide, for otherwiſe acautiontos- the orifice of the womb when it were delivered of ſuch #. trunk, as it would bee when void franging his bodie ſhould bee drawn out with his arms along by his fides', would ſo ſhrink and draw ºf the infantin itſelf when the bodie ſhould comunto the neck, onely by the accord of nature requiring i. out: " - union, that it would ſtrangle and kill the infant, ſo that it cannot beedrawn ther-hen: "** unleſs it bee with a hook put under, or faſtned under his chin, in his mouth, or in the hol-wh the child lowneſs of his eie.” butifthe infant lieth as if hee would comwith his hands forwards, or .#. * if his handsbee forth alreadie, ſo that it may ſeem heemaybee drawn forth eaſily that way, dºwn…ith yet it muſt not bee ſodon; for ſo his head would double backwards over his ſhoulders, to his handsfor- the great danger of his mother. oncel was called unto the birth of an infant, whom the ºa. midwives had aſſaied to draw outby the arm, ſo that the arm had been ſolongforth that it an hiſtorie. was gangrenate,whereby thechilde died:i told thempreſently that his arm muſt bee put in a- gain, and heemuſt bee turned otherwiſe. but when it could not bee put back by reaſon of the great ſwelling thereof, and alſo ofthe mother's genitals, i determined to cut it off with an inciſion knife, cutting the muſcles as near as i could to he ſhoulder, yet drawing the fleſh upwards,that when i had taken offthe bone with a pair tof cutting pincers, it might com down again to cover the ſhivered end of the bone, leſt otherwiſe when it were thruſt in again into the womb, it might hurt the mother. which beeingdon, turned him with his feet forwards, and drew him out as is before ſaid. but if the tumor either naturally or by ſom accident, that, is to ſay, by putrefačtion, which may perchance com, bee ſo great that he cannºt be tarned according to the surgeon's intention, nor be drawn out r diminiſh according as hee i. the tumor muſt bee diminiſhed, . muſt bee drawn : . out as is afore-ſaid, and that mºſt bee don at once. as for example, if the dead whº the infant appear at the orifice of the womb, which our midwives call the garland, infant being when it gapeth, is open and dilated, but yet his head beeing more great and puffed deadiº ºf up with winde ſo that it cannot com forth, as cauſed tº bee ſo through that *:::::: f. diſeaſ which the greeks call mucrophiſ cephalos, the surgeon muſt faſten a hook un-j . .. der his chin, or in his mouth, or elſ in the hole of his ties or elſ, which is bet- annºt. ter and more expedient, in the hinderpart of his head. for when the ſcull isſo opened, ten out of the there will bee a paſſage whereat the winde may paſs out, and flºwhen the tumor falleth womb. • i -- ** - º ** . * , and --- º concerning the generation of man. lib. . how the head and decreaſeth, let him draw the infantout by little and little ; but not raſhly, leſthee ſhould break that whereon heehath taken hold: the figure of thoſe hooks is thus. the form of hook fºr drawing out the infantibati, deadin the wºmb. - wnº. a lºw www. | \! wº"? w §§ " ' ** \\ zºs wvw. wºwº "n. tº \º tº º %. ~ º nº. \ º! Šº ſ \ - 㺠º - but if the breaſt bee troubled with the like fault, the hooks muſt bee faſtned about the chanel-bone: if therebee a dropſie or a tympanie in the bellie, the hooks muſtbee faſtned either in the ſhort ribs, that is to ſay, in the muſcles that are between the ribs, or eſpecially, if the diſeaſ do alſo deſcend into the feet, about the bones that are above the groin; or elſ putting the crooked knife here e. into the womb with his left hand, let him make in- ciſion in the childe's bellie, and ſo get out all his entrals by the inciſion: for when hee is ſo bowelled, all the water that cauſed the dropſie will out. but the surgeon muſt donone of all theſe things but when the childe is dead, and the woman that travelleth in ſuch danger that ſhee cannot handſomly bee holpen. but if by any means it happeneth,that all the infant's membersbee cut away by little and -- •f the infºnsif little,and that the head onely remaineth behinde in the womb,which i have ſomtimes againſt it remain in the womb ſc- parated from my will, and with great ſorrow ſeen then the left hand, beeing annointed with oil of lil- lies, or freſh butter, muſt bee put into the womb, wherewith the surgeon muſt finde oftthe ºnay mouth, putting his finger into it; then with his right handhee muſtj. up the hook (ac- e beedrawnout.cording to the direction of the left hand) gently, andby little and lit , and ſo faſten it in the mouth, eie, or under the chin; and when heehath firmly fixed or faſtened it, hee muſt therewithdraw out the headby little and little, for fear of looſhing or breaking the part whereon heehath hold. in ſtead of this hook, you may uſe the inſtruments that are herede- ſcribed, which therefore i have taken out of the surgerie of francis dalechamps for they are ſomade,that they may eaſily takehold of a ſpherical and roundbodie with the branches, as with - gryphon's talons,that is to ſay, inſtruments made to draw out the head of a dead infant that is ſeparated in the womb from the reſt of the bodie. "ſº-nw lib. . concerning the generation of man. # * ºf º: # -- but it is not verieeafie to take hold on the head when it remaineth alone in the womb, by why the head reaſon ºfthe roundneſs thereºf, for it will ſligandſlide pºnd down, unleſsºhebelligbº. preſſed down, and on both fides, thereby to holdit unto theinſtrument, that it may with intº, more facilitie take hold thereon. is more diffi- - cult to bee out, chap. xxvii. j. what muſt bee don unto the woman in travail preſently afterber deliverance. aßhere is nothing ſo great an enemie to a woman in travail, eſpecially to her cold an ene: ; whoſe childe is drawn away by violence, as cold : wherefore with all care and mieto women a diligence ſhee muſt bee kept and defended from cold. for after the birth, her”. bodie beeing void and emptie, doth eaſily receiv the air that will enter into "r", everie thing that is emptie, and hence ſhee waxeth cold, her womb is diſtended and puffed up, and the orifices of the veſſels thereofare ſhut and cloſed, whereof commeth ſuppreſſion of the after-birth, or other after-purgations. and thereof commeth manie grie- whataccidents vous accidents, as hyſterical ſuffocation, painful fretting of the guts, ſevers, and othermor-follow the ta- tall diſeaſes. king of cold in what womanſoever willavoid that diſcommoditieletherhold her legs or thighs acroſs, i. ; for in ſo doing, thoſe parts that were ſeparated will beejoined and cloſe together again. let :* her bellie bee alſo bound or rowled with a ligature of an indifferent bredth and length, which may keep the cold air from the womb, and alſo preſs the blood out that is contain- ed in all #. ſubſtancethereof. then give her ſom capon-broth or caudle, with saffron, or with the powder called pulvi, duci, or elſbread toaſted and dipped in wine wherein ſpice is brewed, for to reſtore her ſtrength, and to keep away thc fretting of the guts.when e ſecundine is drawn out, and isyet hot from the womb, it muſt bee laid warm unto the secundines , region of the womb, eſpecially in the winter, but in the summer,the hot skin of a weather muſt bee laid newlie killed muſt bee laid unto the whole bellie, and unto the region of the loins. but tº regiºn then the curtains of the bed muſt bee kept dawn, and all the windows and doors of the *:::. chamber muſt bee keptſhut with all diligence, that no cold air com unto the woman ºn they that travaileth, but that ſhee may lie and take her reſt quietly. the weather's skin muſt betaken away after that it hathlien five or fix hours,and then all the region of her bellie muſt bee annointed with the ointment following. - rºffermatiº cetišiiolsiºnygdal dulcium & bypericonianáiſſevi birtiniși, oleimyrtillaráicere unruents fºr move quantum ſufficit;make thereof an ointment, wherewith letherbee annointed twice in the the woman in daie: let a plaſter of galbanumbee applied to the navel, in the mid'ſt whereof put ſom few travail that the grains of civet or musk, ſo that the ſmelofthe plaſter may not ſtrike up into hernoſtrils. ºnof the then let this medicine followingbee applied, commonly called tela gualterin. r. ceremove, : : º iv. ſpermatis ceti, iſ terebinth. venete in aquà roſaceælote:#ii. olei amygdal. dulcium & bypericoni, ºriº. an. i. olei maſtich. & myrtini,an. ſ. axungie cervišiſ melt them altogether, and when they called tea are melted, take it from the fire, and then dipalinnen cloth therein, as big as may ſerv to gualtrina. fit the region of the bellie, whereunto it is to bee applied. theſe remedies will keep the ex- ternal region of thcbellie from wrinkling. but of all other, themedicine followingexcelleth. r. limacum rub.ffii.forum anthos quart. iiii. let them bee cut all in ſmall peeces, and put into an earthen pot well nealed with lead, and cloſe ſtopped, then let it bee ſet in the dung of horſes for the ſpace of fortie daies, and then bee preſſed or ſtrained, and let the liquor that is ſtrained out bee kept in a glaſs well covered, and ſet in the sun for the ſpace of three or four daies, and therewith annoint the bellie of the woman that lieth in childe-bed. if ſheebee greatly tormented with throws, let the powder followingbee given unto her. r. aniff conditiºii nuci moſchat. cornu cerviuff...an. a pºwder for i. ſ?. nucleorum dailylor. iii.ligni aloés & cinnamomi,an ii, make thereof a moſt ſubtil powder, . fretting of ether take i. thereof at once with white wine warm. or, r. rad. conſolide major gift. nu: “*” cleerum perficorum, nuci moſchat, an ii, carab. ſ. ambre greca graiv, make thereofa powder, lether take one dram thereof at a time with white wine, or if ſhee have a fever, with the broth of a capon. let there bee hotbags applied to the genitals,bellie and reins; theſe bags muſt bee made of millet and oats friedina #: with a little white wine... * -- butifthrough the violence of the extraćtion the genital parts beetorn, as antient writers what muſt bee affirm it hath comtopaſs, ſo that the two holes, as the two holes of the privie-parts and ºn the of the fundament have been torn into one, then that which is rent muſt bee ſtitched up, groin is torn and the wound cured according to art. which is a moſt unfortunate chance for the mother in childe-birth afterwards, for when ſhee ſhall travail again, ſheecannot have her genital parts to extend and draw themſelvs in again by reaſon of the ſcar. so that then it will bee needful that the chirurgian ſhall again open theplace that was cicatrized, for otherwiſe ſheeſhall neverbee delivered, although ſhee ſtrive and contend never ſo much, i have don the like cure in two : , women that dwelt in paris. - ... " , - - º: . . . : chap. concerning the generation of man. - lib. . . . . chap. xxviii. . … - what cure muſt bee uſed to the dugs and teats of thoſe that are brought to bed. t. drive * .º.º. fgreat ſtore and abundance of milkbee in the breaſt,and the woman be not milk down- =# j willing to nurſher own childe, they muſt beeannointed with the unguent ward. ºf following, to repel the milk, and cauſit to bee expelled through the womb. ºf r, olei roſmyrtinian iii. aceti roſal. i.incorporate them together,and there- ||with annointing beſprinklethem with the powder of myrtils, and then ap- - ſº plie the plaſter following. r. pulv. maffichini nuti, moſthat, an: ii. nucis ſu- "... preſſ, iii, balauffmyrtil, an. iſ. ireos, florent. ſ., olei myrtini žiii. terebinth, veneſe ii, cere nove quantum ſufficit, make thereof a ſoft plaſter. • the leavs of brook-lime,creſſes and boxboiled together in urine and vineger,are thought a preſent remedie for this purpoſe, that is to ſay, todraw the milk from the breaſis. ando- thers take the clay that falleth down into the bottom of the trough wherein the grinde- "," ſtone, whereon ſwords are grownd, turneth,and mix it with oil of roſes,aud applie it warm unto the dugs, which in ſhort ſpace, as it is thought,will aſſwage the pain, ſtay the inflam- mation, and drive the milk out of the dugs. the decoètion of ground-ivie, peruwinkle, i sage, red roſes, and roach alum beeing prepared in oxycrate, and uſed in the form of a fomentation, is thought to perform the like effe&: the like virtue have the lees of redwine, applied to the dugs with vineger, or the diſtilled water of unripe pine-apples applied to the breaſts with linnen cloaths wet therein, or hemlock beaten and applied with the young and tender leavs of a gourd. - - - - - bywhatreaſon, this medicine following is approoved by uſe : take the leavs of sage, smallage, rue, and which way and chervil; and cut or chop them verie ſmall, and incorporate them in vineger and oil of ºupping-glaſ roſes, and ſo applie it warm to the breaſt, and renue it thrice a day. in the mean time let #. .* cupping-glaſſes beeapplied to the inner ſide of the thigh and groin, and alſo above the na- º: .... vel. for this is verieeffectual to draw the milk out of the breaſts into the womb by theytins jº whereby the womb communicateth with the breaſts. moreover, they may let children draw miſſiºn: or little whelps ſuck theirbreaſts, whereby they may draw out the milk that is fixed faſtin the ofbreaſts, their dugs, in ſteed whereofwee have invented this inſtrument of glaſs, wherewith, when the broader orifice is faſt'ned or placedon the breaſt or dug, and the pipe turned upwards to- wards her mouth, ſhee may ſuck her own breaſts her ſelf. " . . . . . . * - "...º. tk form of a little glaſ, which being put on the nipple, the woman º' - may ſuckber own breafts. - “ . . . . , ºr . * - * - - inſtead of this inſtrument, a viol of glaſs beeing firſt made warm, and the mouth there- ofapplied to the nipple or teat, by reaſon of the heat and wideneſs thereof will draw the milk forth into the bottom thereof, as it were by a certain ſucking. the after-purgations - beeing firſt evacuated, which is don for the moſt part within twentie daies after the birth, * . . if the woman bee not in danger of a fewer, nor have anie other accident, letherenterinto a * bath, made of marjerom, mint, ſage, roſemarie, mugwurt, agrimonie, penniroyal, the flowrs of camomil, melilote, dill, beeing boiled in moſt pure and clear running water. all the day following let another ſuch like bath bee prepared, whereunto let theſe things followingbee added. r.farinifabarum & avenan.ft.iii.farin orobi, lupinor. & gland, antbi. aluminisroch. iv. ſalis com.fbii, gallarum, nucum cupreff, anºlii, roſar, rub. m.wi, caryophylmurum . ..., moſchatam, iii. boil them all in common water, then ſew them all in a cleanlinnen cloth, " as it were in a bag, and caſt them therein into the bath whereinlronºred hot hath been ex- . . . . . tinguiſhed, and let the woman that hath lately travailed fit down therein ſo long as ſhee ſº pleaſeth, and when ſhee commeth outlet herbee laid warm in bed, and let her take ſom preſerved qrange-pill, or bread toaſted and dipped in hippocras,or in winebrewed with ſpi- ces,and then letherſweat,if the ſweat will comforth ofits own accord.” aaringentic- on the next day letaſtringent fomentations bee applied to the genitals on this wiſe pre- mºnations for pared. b. gallar nucum cupreff, corticum granat, anširoſar. tub.mi. thymi, majoran, an m.ſ. alu. the privieparts, minis roche, ſalis com; an: ii, boil them all together in red wine, and make thereof a deco- &ion for a fomentations for the fore-named uſe. the diſtilled liquor following is verie excellent lib . concerning the generation of man. excellent and effectual to confirm and to draw in the dugs, oranie other looſ parts. b. cary- a diſtilled li- ophyl. nuci moſchat. nucum cupreſſian. iſ. maſtich. ii. alumin, roch. iſ.glandium & corticis quer-luor for tº mi, an ibſ. roſar. rubrmi. cort.granat. ii. terreſgillat. i. cornu cervi uſtižſ?... myrtillor. ſanguinis : .." draconianji.boli armini. ii. ireos florent. i. ſumach.berber. hippuri,an. m.ſ . conquaſſentur omnia, . i.t maceremtur ſpatio duorum dierum, in ib.ſ aque roſarum fěii, prunorum ſyweir. meſſilorum, pomo-ſºck, rum quernsrum, & fib.ſ .aque fabrorum, aceti denique fortiſłiv. afterward diſtil it over agentle fire, and keep the diſtilled liquor for your uſe, wherewith let the parts bee fomented twice in a day. and after the fomentation, let wollen cloaths or ſtupes of linnen cloth bee dipped in the liquor, and then preſſed out out and laid to the place. when all theſe things are dom and paſt, the woman may again keep companie with her husband. chap. xxix. what the cauſes of difficult and painful travail in childe-birth are. ºhe fault dependeth ſomtimes on the mother, and ſomtimes on the infant or' the cauſe of tº childe within the womb. on the mother, if ſheebee more fat, if ſheebee given ...” º, to gormandize or great eating, if ſhºe bee too lean or young, as savanarola hilji, thinketh her to bee, that is great with childe at nine years of age, or unexpert, that are in the or more old, or weaker then ſhee ſhould bee either by nature orby ſom accident; woman that as by diſeaſes that ſheehath had a little before the time of childe-birth, or with a great flux travailed. of blood. but thoſe that fall in travailbefore the ful and prefixed time, are verie difficult to deliver, becauſthe fruit is yet unripe, and not rcadie or eaſie to bee delivered. if the neck or orifice of the womb beenarrow, either from the firſt conformation, or afterwards by ſom chance asby an ulcer cicatrized: or more hard and callous, by reaſon that it hath been torn before at the birth of ſom other childe, and ſo cicatrized again, ſo that if the cicatrized lace bee not cut even in the moment of the deliverance, both the childe and the mother will bee in danger of death; alſo the rude handling of the midwife may hinder the free de- liverance of the childe. oftentimes women are letted in travailby ſhamefactneſs, by reaſon of the preſence of ſom man, or hate to ſom woman there preſent. †. if the ſecundine bee pulled away ſooner then it is neceſſarie, it may cauſa great flux of . c blood to fill the womb, ſo that then it cannot perform his excluſive facultie, no otherwiſe ºrth, then the bladder when it is diſtended by reaſon of over-abundance of water that is therein, cannot caſt it forth, ſo that there is a ſtoppage of the urine. but the womb is much rather hindred, or the facultie of childe-birth is ſtopped or delaied, if together with the ſtopping of the ſecundine, there bee either a mole or ſom other bodie contrarie to nature in the womb. in the ſecundines of two women whom i delivered of two children that were dead in their bodies, i foundagreat quantitie of ſand like unto that which is found about the the banks of rivers, ſo that the gravel or ſand that was in each ſecundine was a full pound in weight. - #. the infant may bee the occaſion of difficult childe-birth, as, if too big, if it como-thecauſes of verthwart, if it.com with its face upwards, and its buttocks forwards, if it com with its difficult.child- feet and hands both forwards at once, if it bee dead and ſwoun by reaſon of corruption, if birth that are itbee monſtrous, ifit have two bodies or twoheads, if it beemanifold or ſeven-fold, as ak."“” bucrafts affirmeth he hath ſeen,if there bee a mole annexed thereto,if it beeverie weak,if when the waters are flowed out, it doth not moov or ſtir, or offer its ſelf to comforth. yet not-the external withſtanding, it happeneth ſomtimes that the fault is neither in the mother nor the childe, cauſes of diffi- but in the air, which beeing cold, doth ſo binde, congealand make ſtiff the genital parts, ºnlºhilds- that they cannot beerelaxed: or,beeing contrariwiſe too hot,it weakeneth the womanthat * is in travail, by reaſon that it waſteth the ſpirits, wherein all the ſtrength cenſiſteth: or in theignorantor unexpert midwife, who cannot artificially rule and govern the endeavors of the woman in travail. - - - - the birth is wont to bee eaſie, if it bee in the due and perfixed natural time, if the childe ..., , , , offer himſelfluſtily to comforth with his head forwards, preſently after the waters are com ... * forth, and the mother in like manner luſtie and ſtrong: thoſe which arewont to beetroub-.”". led with veriedifficult childe-birth, ought a little before the time of the birth, to go into an yº: gº half-tub filled with the decočtion of mollifying roots and ſeeds,to have their genitals,womb . and neck thereof to bee annointed, with much oil, and the inteſtines that are full and loa- * - ded muſt bee unburthened of the excrements, and then the expulſive facultie provoked with . . aſharp glyſter, that the tumors and ſwelling of the birth concurring therewith, the more ea- ſie excluſion may bee made. but i like it rather better, that the woman in travail ſhould bee placed in a chair that hath theback thereof leaning backwards, then in herbed,but the chair muſt have a hole in the bottom, whereby the bones that muſt beedilated in the birth, may have more freedom to cloſe themſelvs again. - - ºl º - : * ggg chap: concerning the generation of man. lib. . chap: xxx. the cauſof abortion or untimely birth, bortion or untimely birth is one thing, and effluxion another. they callabor- tion the ſudden excluſion of the childe alreadie formed and alive, before the per- #/.nº fed maturitie thereof. but that is called effluxion, which is the falling down ºf of ſeeds mixed together and coagulated but for the ſpace of a few daies, onely in the forms of membranes or tunicles, congealed blood,andofanun or de- whit effluxi formed piece of fleſh; the midwives of our countriecall it afalſbranchorbud. this efflux. on $. ion is the cauſof great pain and moſt bitter and cruel torment to the woman: leaving be- women are hinde it weakneſs of bodie far greater then if the childe were born at the due time. the in more pain cauſes of abortion or untimely birth, whereofthe childe is called an abortive, are manie, as by reaſon of a great ſcouring, a ſtrangurie joined with heat and inflammation, ſharp fretting of the guts, the effluxion a great and continual cough, exceeding vomiting, vehement labor in running, leaping, and then . dauncing, and by a great fall from on high, carrying of a great burthen, riding on a trot- #., ofting-horſ, or in a coach, by vehement, often ändårdent copulation with men, or by a abortion, great blow or ſtroke on the bellie. for all theſe and ſuch like vehement and inordinate mo- tions diſſolv the ligaments of the womb, and ſo cauſabortion or untinely birth. alſo whatſoever preſſeth or girdeth in the mothers bellie, and therewith alſo the womb that is within it, as are thoſt ivorie or whale-bone buskes, which women wear on their gilding of he bodies, thereby to keep down theirbellies; by theſe and ſuch like things the childe isletted bellie may or hindred from growing to his full ſtrength, ſo that by expreſſion, or as it wereby compul- ºuſ untimely ſon, hee is often forced to comforth before the legitimate and lawful time. thundering, birth. the noiſof the ſhooting of great ordnance, the ſound, and vehement noiſofthe ringing of bells conſtrain women to fall in travell before their time, eſpecially women that are young, whoſebodies are ſoft, ſlack and tenderer then thoſe that bec of riper years. long and great faſting, a great flux of blood, eſpecially when the infant is grown ſomwhat great: but if it bee but two moneths old, the danger is not ſo great, becauſthen hee needeth not ſo uantitie of nouriſhment, alſo a long diſeaſofthe mother,which conſumeth the blood, cauſ- }. the childe to com forth beeing deſtitute of ſtore of nouriſhment before the fit time. moreover, fulneſs, by reaſon of the cating great ſtore of meats, often maketh or cauſethun- timely birth; becauſit depraveth the ſtrength, and preſſeth down the childe: as likewiſe the uſe of meats that are of an evil juice, which they luſt or long for. but bath's, becauſthey re- lax the ligaments of the womb, and hot houſes, for that the ſervent and choaking air is re- ..., ceived into the bodie, provoke the infant to ſtrive to go forth to take the cold air, and ſo *... cauſabortion. * what women ſoever,beeing indifferently well in their bodies,trayall in the ſecond or third moneth without aniemanifeſt cauſ, thoſe have the cotylidones of their womb full of filth hipºph, -& and matter, and cannot holdup the infant,by reaſon of the weight thereof but are broken: ſº: moreover, ſudden or continual perturbations ofthe minde, whether they beethrough anger #º or fear, may cauſwomen to travail before their time,and are accounted as the cauſes of abor- • . tions,for #. they cauſgreat and vehement trouble in the bodie. thoſe womenthat are like to travailbefore their time,their dugs will wax little: therefore when a woman is great with childe, if herdugs ſuddenly wax ſmall or ſlender,it is a ſign that ſhse will travail beforeher time,thecauſoffich ſhrinking of the dugs is,that the matter of the milk is drawn backinto the womb,by reaſon that the infant wanteth nouriſhment to nouriſh & ſuccour it withall. which ſcarcitie the infant not long abiding,ſtriveth to go forth to ſeek that abroad which # * , hee cannot have within, for among the cauſes which do make the infant to com out of the jett. . womb,thoſe are moſt uſually named with hippocrates, the neceſſitie of amore large nutri- mentand air. therefore ifa woman that is with childe have one of her dugs ſmall,if ſhee have two chil- ... dren,ſhee is like to travail of one of them before the full and perfeóttime: ſo that if the right w.” dugbee ſmall, it is a man-childe, but if it bee the left dug it is a female. women are in far j morepain when they bringforth their children before the time then if it were at the filland birth then at due time; becauſthat whatſoever is contrarie to nature,is troubleſom, painfull,and alſo of. the due time of tentimes dangerous. if therebee anie error committed at the firſt time of the childe-birth, it birth. is commonly ſeen that it happeneth alwaits after at each time of childe-birth. therefore, to the ††. fiinde ºut the cauſes ofthat error, you muſt take the counſel of ſom phyſician, and after his :#.. counſelindeavour to amend the ſame. truly this plaſter followingfleeing applied to the : ... reines doth confirm the womb,and ſtay the infant therein rºladani iigalangănuţi, moſha, wards. nucis cupreſsi,boli armeni,terreſigil.ſanguindracon,balauſt.an. %acatie.pſdiorum, ipociſtidanºi. a plaſter ſtay- maſiich.myrrhean. ii-gummi arabić. i.terebinthvenet.giipići; naval. iſ cºre quantum ſufficit fiat in the inflat emplºftſchlum arºm:ſpread it for your uſeupon leather.if the part begin to itch,ſet the pla. in the womb, ſterbeetaken awai&inſtead thereofuſe ungent.roſator refrig. galen, or this that followah. ikolei myrtini.maſſichºlonior, an i.bypo. bolíarmen. ſang dracon acatiº,an. iſant.citrini. .cere quantſif, make thereof an ointment according unto art. there are women that star the childe what aborti- on is. tº: lib. . concerning the generation ofiſſ- º : º ; i childe in their womb ten or eleven whole moneths,and ſuch children have their conformati-whatchildren on of much quantitie of ſeed: wherefore they willbee more big great and ſtrong, and there-aº tººl. fore they require more time to com to their perfeótion and maturitiefor thoſe fruits that are º: in great will not bee ſo ſoon ripe as thoſe that are ſmall. but children that are ſmall and little - of bodiedo often comto their perfe&ion and maturitie in ſeven or nine moneths: if allo- ther things are correſpondent in greatneſs and bigneſs of bodie, it happeneth for the moſt º: the woman with childe is not delivered before the ninth monethbeedon,or atthe º aſtwiſ; in the ſame moneth. butamale dilde willbecommonly borna h;beginning.... or a little before the beginning of the ſame moneth, by reaſon of his engraffted heat which er . : cauſſeth maturitie and ripeneſs. furthermore, the infant is ſooner com to maturitie and male. perfeótion in a hot woman then in a cold, for it is the propertie of heat to ripen. - . . . . . . . chap. xxxi. howt, preſerv the infant in the womb, when the mother is dead. fºº fall the figns of death appear in the woman that lieth in travel, and cannot ź bee delivered,there muſt thenbee asurgeon readie and at hand, which mayo- #(ºpen herbodie ſo ſoon as ſhee is dead, whereby the infant may bee preſerved § in ſafetie;neither can it bee ſuppoſed ſufficient if the mother's mouth and pri- ޺ vie partsbee held open; for the infant being encloſed in his mother's womb, ſuffici * and compaſſed with themembranes,cannottake his breath.but by the contra-...a &tions and dilatations of the arterie of the navel. but when the mother is dead, the lungs the childers do not execute their office and finétion: therefore they cannot gather in the air thatcom-hold open the paſſeth thebodie by the mouth or aſpera arteria into their own ſubſtance, or into the arteries mouthanºpi. that are diſperſed throughout the bodie thereof, by reaſon whereof it cannot ſendit unto y. . . * the heartby theyeinie arterie which is called arteria venalis: for if the heartwant air, there. cannotbee anie in the great arterie which is called arteria aorta, whoſe funětion it is to draw anº it from the heart; as alſo by reaſon thereofit is wanting in the arteries of the womb,which alive in her are as it were the little conduits of the great arterie, whereinto the air that isbrought from bodie. the heartis derived, and floweth in unto theſe little ones of all the bodie, and likewiſe of the womb. wherefore it muſt of neceſſitie follow that the air is wanting to the cotyle- dons of the ſecundines, to the arterie of the infants navel, the iliack arteries alſo, and there- fore unto his heart,and ſounto his bodie: for the air being drawn by the the mother's - lungs, is accuſtomed to com to the infant by this continuation of paſſages. thereforebe-how the bel. cauſ death maketh all the motions of the mother's bodie to ceaſ, it is far better to open her lie of the wo. bodie ſo ſoon as ſhee is dead, . the inciſion at theºriage, xiphoides , or breaſt-man that dieth blade, and makeing it in a form ſemicircular, cutting the skin, muſcles and peritoneum, not in.” touching the guts; then the womb being lifted up, muſt firſt beecut, left that otherwiſe the . §: infantmight perchance bee touched or hurt with the knife, ºr ſº - †, , , tº ſave t ... you ſhall oftentimes finde the child unmoveable, as though hee were dead; but not be- cauſhee is dead indeed, but by reaſon that hee, beeing deſtitute of the acceſſe of the ſpirits • * . by the death of the mother, hath contrated agreat weakneſs; yetyou may know whether heebee dead indeed or not, by handling the arterie ºf themayel; for it will beat and pant if new heebee alive, otherwiſe not but if therebre anie life yet remaininginhim, ſhortly after ...". hee hath taken in the air, and is recreated with the acceſs thereof.hee will move all his mem-whether the bers, and alſo all his . in ſo great a weakneſs, or debilitie of the ſtrength of the infant brea- childe, by cutting the navel ſtring, but it muſt rather bee laid cloſe to the region of the bel-live or not. iºthere; that thereby the ºf thrºnic cºming) mayºffired upºn. but i cannot ſufficiently marvail at the inſolencie of thoſe that affirm that they have ſeen women whoſe bellies and womb have been more then once cut, and the infant taken out when it could no otherwiſebee gotten forth, audyer notwithſtandingalives which thing there is no man can perſwade ince can beedone, without the death of the mothersby reaſon of the neceſſarie greatneſs of the wound that muſt begmade in the muſcles of the beſie, and, ſubſtance of the womb, for the womb of a woman that is great with child, by reaſonsuas it ſwelleth, and is diſtended with much bloud, muſt needs yielda greatflux of bloud,which of neceffitiemuſt bee-mortal:-and to conclude; when that the wound or inciſion of the womb is cicatrized, it will not permit or ſuffer the womb to bee dilated or extended to re- ceiv or bear anewbirth. for theſe and ſuch like other cauſes, this kinde of cure, as deſpe- rate and dangerous, is not (in mine opinion) to be uſed.*.*** * * * why it is riot ..ºds. . . . , tort l: « », : … . . . . . .';.… " ' ' ' ... at lºw ºcº º * : , ?rº ..., ºi, so ºt, or is nº ºf ºut-,' iſ a cºat, “a is º : " ::: * * * º, + - - * > *- : tº ; . a crºſſ it 'ºw'st’. ow ºil in y, \, ... tº º' ºr s' *:::::::::::::: º, ... to , i. º.º.º. ºg gé oil tº . ~ * * * c. h. a.w. . - tº ºr , sºdi's ºi.… . . tº stiºn ºvº: a º 'º - * * , . . . . . . . . . . .” -, s: : . . . . * *... i tº d.º.º is . .'; ai l is...toº bid bºº. tº - . rº n o concerning the generation ofman. - lib. . chap. xxxii. - of ſuperfetation. t uperfetation is when a woman doth bear two or more children at one time in her womb, and they bee encloſed each in his ſeveral ſecundine: but thoſe that are included in the ſame ſecundine, are ſuppoſed to bee conceived at one and the ſame time of copulation, by reaſon of the great and copious abundance of ſeed, and theſe have no number of daies between their conce- ption and birth, but all at once. for as preſently aftermeat the ſtomach which is naturally of a good temper, is contraćted or drawn together about the meat,to comprehendit on eve- rie fide, though ſmall in quantitie, as it wereby both hands, ſo that it cannot rowl neither unto this or #. ſide; ſo the womb is drawn together unto the conception about both the ſeeds,aſſoon as they are brought into the capacitie thereof, andisſodrawn in unto it on eve- riefide, that it may comtogether into one bodie, not permitting anie portion thereofto go into anie other region or ſide, ſo that by one time of copulation the ſeed that is mixed - together, cannot engender more children then one, which are divided by their ſecundines. * *** and moreover, becauſthere are no ſuch cells in the wombs of women, as are ſuppoſed, or . º:d rather known to bee in the wombs ofbeaſts, which therefore bring forth manieatonecon- iitinguiſhe - - - - - º - - - - jº ception orbirth. but now if anie part of the woman's womb doth not applie and adjoin it cels. ſelf cloſely to the conception of the ſeed already received,left anie thing ſhould bee given by nature for no purpoſe, it muſt of neceſſitie follow that it muſt beefilled with air, which will thereaſon of alter and corrupt the ſeeds. therefore the generation of more then one infantata time, ſuperfºration haveing everie one his ſeveral ſecundine, is on this wiſe. if a woman conceivhycopulation with a man as this day, and if that for a few daies after the conception, the orifice of the womb beenot exačtly ſhut, but rather gape a little, and if ſhee do then uſe copulationa- gain, ſo that at both theſe times of copulation there may bee an effuſion or perfeót mixture of the fertile ſeed in the womb, there will follow a new conception, or ſuperfetation. for ſuperfetation is no other then a certain ſecond conception, when the woman already with childe, again uſeth copulation with a man, and ſo conceiveth again, according to theiudg- lib.de ſuper- ment of hippocrates. but there may beenanie cauſes alledged why the womb which did fastinibus. join and cloſe doth open and unlooſitſelf again.for therebee ſomthat ſuppoſe the wombto why, th:... bee open at certain times after the conception,that there may bee an iſſue outforcertain ex- ". * - cremental matters that are contained therein, and therefore that the woman that hath ſo *::::::" conceivedalreadie,and ſhall then uſe copulation with a man againſhall alſo conceivagain. ãº, many others ſay that the womb ofit ſelf, and ofits own nature is verie deſirous of ſeed or co- times after pulation, or elſbeeing heated orenflamed with the pleaſant motion of the man moovin wards open her thereto, doth at length uncloſe itſelf to receiv the man's feed: for likewiſeithappenet manie times that the orifice of the ſtomach beeing ſhut after eating, is preſently unlooſeda- gain, when other delicate meats are offered to beeeaten: even ſo may the womb uncloſe it ſelf again at certain ſeaſons, ‘. commanifold iſſues, whoſe time of birth and alſo of lib. , cap. . conception are different. for as plinie writeth; when there hath been a little ſpace between two conceptions, they are both haſtened, as it ap ared in hercules and his brother iphitle; and in her which having two children at a birth,broughtforth one like unto her husband, . . . and another like unto the adulterer. and alſo in the procomefian ſlave or bond-woman, - * * * * who, by copulation on the ſame day, broughtforth one. like unto her maſter, and another * like unto his ſteward; and in anotherywho brought forth one at the duetime ofchilde-birth, - * and another at five months end. and again in another, who bringing forth herburthen on the ſeventh month, brought forth two more in the months following. but this is a moſt manifeſt argument of ſuperfetation, that as manie children as are in the womb(unleſs they beetwins ofthe ſame ſex) ſo manie ſecundines are there, as i have often ſeen myſelf. andit is verie likely that if they were conceived in the ſame moment oftime, that they ſhould all bee included in oneſecundine. but when a woman hath more children then two at briebur. den,it ſeemethtobee amonſtrous thing, becauſthat nature hath given herbut two breaſts. what ſuperfe- tation iss although wee ſhall hereafter rtheaſanie examples of more numerous births." . : ... . . . . . . . . . . . . * ......tº . °t "...º. zi , , ſ: , " " ' ". . . . . — — -*—h-----— ſoil..... . . . . . . . . .” chap. xxxiii." : ' ' ' ' '… º.o. ºr a. . . . . . . . .” exiſ ſtoº º . . . . * * * b tº o v, a of the tumor called mola, or a malegrowing in the wºmb of women, ºi, º, #he reaſon of f the greek word myle, which fignifieth a mill-ſtone,this tumor called molahath the name. its name: for it is like unto a mill-fone both in the round or circular figure, and alſo in hard conſiſtence, for the which ſelf ſame reaſon the whirl-bone ºf ºf the knee is called of the latimes mola, and of the greeks myle. but the tumor w hat a mola .." called mola, whereof wee here entreat, is nothingelſ but a certain falſconcepti- st. on of deformedfleſhtound and hard,conceived in the wombas it were rude and unperfººt, and - s lib. . concerning the generation ofman. . `- not diſtinguiſhed into members, comming by corrupt, weak, and diſeaſed ſeed, and of the immoderate flux of the termes, as it is defined by hippocrates. this is incloſed in no ſecun- dine, but as it were in its own skin. - - : - - lib.deſteril. there are ſom that think the mola to bee ingendered of the concourſor mixture of the wo- * mans ſeed and menſtrual blood, without the communication of the mans ſeed. but the opi- ...t nion of galen is, that neveranie man ſaw a woman conceiv either a mola, or anie other ſuch ! thing, without copulation of man, as a hen haieth eggs without a cock: for the onely cap. .lib. de d cauſand original of that motion is in the mans ſeed, and the mans ſeed doth onely miniſter "ſh pºt. matter for the generation thereof. of the ſame opinion is avicen, who thinketh the mola to bee made by the confluxion ofthe mans ſeed that is unfertile, with the womans; when how the mºſa as it, becauſunfruitful,onely puff's up or make's the womans ſeed to ſwellas leaven into a **** greaterbigneſs, but not into anie perfeót ſhape or form. which is alſo of the opinion of fer- nelius, by the decrees of hippocrates, and avicen; for the immoderate fluxes of the courſes are conducing to the generation of the mola, which overwhelming the mans ſeed, beeing now unfruitful and weak, doth conſtrain it to defiſt from its interpriſe of conformation al- readie begun, as vanquiſhed or wholly overcom: for the generation of the mola, commeth not of a ſimple heat working upon a clammie and groſs humor, as worms are generated; but of both the ſeeds, by the efficacie of a certain ſpirit, after a ſort prolifical, as may bee under- ſtood by the membranes wherein the molais incloſed,by the ligaments whereby manie times it is faſtened or bound to the true conception or childe, engendered or begotten by ſuperſo- tation; and finally, by the increaſ, and great and ſluggiſh weight. if all men were not per- ſwaded that the conflux of a mans ſeed muſt of neceſſitie concur to the generation of the mo- la, it would bee no ſmall cloak or cover to women to avoid the ſhame and reproach of their light behavior. - - - r i. : m ‘. *- - ** - - - - - - * - chap. xxxiv. how to diſcern a true conception from a falſconception or mola. iſ !onception from a falſconcep the ſignes of hen the mola is incloſed in the womb, the ſame things appear as in the true and j lawful eonception. but the more proper ſignes of the miola are theſe: there is fed in the a certain pricking pain, which at the beginning troubleth the bellie as if it womb. . - ×gyº were the cholick, the belly will ſwel ſooner then it would if it were the true iſſue, and willbee diſtended with greater hardneſs, and is more difficult and troubleſom to carrie, becauſit is contrarie to nature, and void of ſoul or life. preſently after the concep- tion the dugs ſwel and puff ". but ſhortly they fall and becom lank and lax; for nature ſendeth milk thither in vain, becauſthere is no iſſue in the womb that may ſpend the ſame. by what f- the mola will move before the third month, although it bee obſcurely, but the true con- cultie the ception will not : but this motion of the mola is not of the intelle&tual ſoul, but of the fa- wºmb moov- cultie of the womb, and oftht ſpirit of the ſeed diſperſed through the ſubſtance of the mola; * for it is nouriſhed and increaſeth after the manner of plants, but not by reaſon of a ſoul or fpirit ſent from above, as the infant doth. moreover, that motion that the infant hath in º º, no- its due and appointed time, differeth much from the motion of the mola; for the childe is . * mooved to the right ſide, to the left ſide, and to everie ſide gently, but the mola, by reaſon from the of its heavineſs, is fixed, and rowleth in manner of a ſtone, carried by the weight thereof motion of the unto what fide ſoever the woman declineth her ſelf. the woman that hath a mola in her infant in the womb doth dalie wax leaner and leaner in all her members, but eſpecially in her leggs, al- womb. though notwithſtanding towards night they will ſwel, ſo that ſhee will bee verieſlow or the moudoth heavie in going, the natural heat forſakeing the parts remote from the heart by little and turn to each little: and moreover, her bellie ſwel's, by jeaſon that the menſtrual matter réſteth about ſide ºf the thoſe places, and is not conſumed in the nouriſhment of the mola; ſhee is ſwoln as if ſhee #. * had the dropfie, but that it is harder, and doth not riſe again when it is preſſed with the fin-j i. is. gers. the navel doth not ſtand out as it will do when the true iſſue is conteined in the womb, neither do the courſes flow as they ſomtimes do in the true conception; but ſomtimes greatfluxes happen, which eaſthe weight of the bellie. in manie when the mola doth cleav not verie faſt, it falleth awaie within three or four moneths, beeing not as yet com unto its juſt bigneſs;and manie times it cleaveth to the ſides of the womb & cotylidons verie firmly , ſothat ſom women carrie it in their wombs five or ſix yeers,and ſom as long as they live. the wife of guiliam roger pewterer, dwelling in st. vićiors ſtreet, bore a mola in her womb ſeventeen yeers, whobeeing of the age of fiftie yeers, died; and l haveing opened her a hiſtorie, found the bodie of her womb to bee almoſt looſed, and not tied or bound by its accuſtom- edligatures, but as it were hanging onely by the neck,and filrthermore cleaving to the kall adjoining to it, haveing but onely one teſticle, and that on the right ſide, and that ſomwhat broader and looſer then uſual: the hornes were not to bee ſeen except it were on that fide, -- the veſſels were on the neck onely, and thereverie manifeſt and puffed up, it was as big as a mans head. when i had taken it out of her bodie, i brought it home unto my houſ, that at ggg my --- . concerning the generation of man. lib. . -- my leaſure i might finde out what was conteined in it ſolong therefore,on a certain day.cal- ling together the chief phyſicians of paris, as maſſileus, alexit, vigor, de s.pont.feure, brovet, violais, grealmus, ravin, mareſcotius, milotus,hautin, riolan, luſſon; and surgeons,as brun, co- the lºſº- interel, guillemeau; all theſe beeing preſent, i opened the womb, and i found it in aſ the ***** bodie thereof, and in the proper tunicle, ſo ſchirrhous, and ſo hard, that i could hardly cut :::::::::: or make a knife to enterit; the bodie thereof was three fingers thick. in the midſt of the the womb. capacitie thereofi founda lump offleſh as big as both my fiſts : like unto a cow's udder, cleaving to the ſides of the womb but in certain placee, of a verie thick, unequal and clod: diſh ſubſtance, with manie bodies therein,even as are commonly found in wens and griſtles, diſperſed through it as if it were bones. the judgment of all that were preſent was, that this great tumor at the firſt was a mola, which in proceſs of time degenerated into a ſchir. rous bodie, together with the proper ſubſtance of the womb. moreover, in the middle of the neek of the womb, wee found a tumor as bigas a turkie's egg, of ſubſtance hard, cartil laginousandbonie filling all the whole neck,but eſpecially theinward orifice of the womb, which the common people of france do call the garland, ſo that by that paſſage nothing could go out, or enter into the womb: all that tumor weighed nine pounds and two oun: ces, which i, by reaſon of the noveltic of the thing, keepin my cloſer, and here i have de- ſcribed it. - the external form and deſcription of the fore-named womb. º - . º à ws º - - = (º a. sheweth the bodie of the womb. b. the teſticle. - c. the neck of the womb, wherein that little tumor was contained. d. sheweth the end of the neek of the womb that was plucked inſunder, and alſº the veſſels whereby it drew the nutriment unto it. e. sheweth the band. fff.the veſſels differſed throw the wºul, lib. . concerning the generation of man. - - the deſcription of the womb beeing ºpen, and ſhewing the mola contained therein. . ”n © zº . º - ( % &z a.a. shew the external and ſuperficial part of the womb. b.b.b.b. shew the thickneſs of the bodie, or proper ſubſtance of the womb. c. sheweth the mola. d.d. shew that concavitie wherein the mola was contained, or incloſed in the womb. as long as the woman carried this mola in her womb,ſhee felt moſt ſharp pain in herbel- lie, the region of her bellie was marvellous hard, diſtended and large, as if it were a wo- man that had manie children at once in her womb; ſo that manie phyſicians, when the time of childe-birth was paſt, ſuppoſed that ſwelling of the bellie to com of the dropſie, and aſſaied to cure it as they would the dropſie; but for all the medicines they could uſe, the bellie became never the leſſer. oftentimes the urine was ſtopped for the ſpace of three daics, and then the makeing of urine was verie painfull unto her, and manie times alſo her excrements were ſtopped for the ſpace of a week, by reaſon that the guts were preſſed by the weight of the mola. at certain ſeaſons, as everie third moneth, there came exceeding great fluxes, the matter thereof could not bee carried through the capacitie of the womb, as wee ſaid before, becamſit was exačtly ſhut and ſtopped, but through the veſſelsby which virgins, and alſo certain other women great with childe evacuate their menſtrual matter. if the mola bec expelled or caſt out in the ; or ſecond moneth, as manie times it ſo happeneth, it is called of women an unprofitable or falſe conception. somtimes there are found in one womb two or three moles ſeparated one from another, and ſomtimes bound or tied to the found and perfe&infant. as it happened in the wife of valleriola the phyſician, which was delivered of a mola which ſhee had carried in her womb twelve moneths, annexed with a the mala childe of four moneths old, which had deprived the infant both of its room and nutri-kill's the in- ment. for it is alwaies to bee certainly ſuppoſed,that the mola, as a cruel beaſt, by its ſocie- ºn intº tie,and keeping it from its nutriment and place, kil's the infant that is joined unto it. º º: i remember once i opened the bodie of a deadwoman, which had a mola in her womb, as . big as a gooſ-egg, which when nature had aſſaied by manie vain endevors to caſt out, re-" mained notwithſtanding, and at length putrefied, and therewith infected the whole womb, whereofſhee died. there bee ſom which judging themſelvs great with childe,doe about the ninth or tenth moneth expell no other thing but ſounding blaſts of winde ; whereby the womb ſuddenly falling down, and waxing more ſlender, they are ſaid in a mockerie to have been delivered of a fart. to conclude, whatſoever reſemble's beeing with childe, if it bee not excluded at the due and lawful time of childe-birth by its own accord,or by the ſtrength of nature, then muſt it bee expelled by art. a vain or un- profitable con- ion. c.h. a. p. xxxv. what cure muſt bee uſed to the mola. a. things that provoke the flowers and ſecundines,and exclude the infant,beeing dead, are to beepreſcribed, given inwardly,putup, and applied outwardly, as the º © . concerning the generation of man. lib. . s - i thoſe things of myrrha,hermodaćtyls,and ſuch like, firſt haveing fomentations that are relaxing and mol- dº. lifying alwaies applied to the places. you muſt uſe theſe medicines and phlebotomie, diet jor- and baths then and ſo long as itſhall ſeem neceſſarie to the phyſician that is preſent. but if cibly, do alſo it happen's that the mola is ſeparated or looſed from the womb, and nature cannot expel conſume or , it when it is ſo looſed, let the chirurgian place the woman in that ſituation that wee ſaid waſte the * ſhee was to bee put in, when the childe was to bee drawn from her. then opening her ge- the chirurgi- nital parts, let him take hold on it by putting an inſtrument into it, which by reaſon of cal extradion the likeneſs theredf is called a gryphon's talon, for it cannot bee taken hold on other. ofthewl. wiſe, by reaſon of the roundneſs thereof for it hath no place whereon it beenay taken hold of: therefore when one taketh hold on it with his hand, it cannot beeholden faſt by reaſon of the ſlipperineſs thereof, but will run audſlip back into the hollowneſs of the womb, like unto a bowl or greatball; but it maybee more eaſily taken holdon with the gryphon's ta- lon, if the bellie bee preſſed on both ſides that it may remain ſtill while the gryphon's ta- lon take's hold on it, for when it hath taken good {j on it, it may bee eaſily drawn out. when the molais drawn out, the ſame curemuſt bee uſed to the woman, as is uſed to a woman after that ſhee is delivered of childe. - - the figure of an an inſtrument called a gryphon's talon, to draw out the * mola when it is looſ in the womb. chap. xxxvi. of tumors or ſwellings happening to the pancreas or ſweet-bread, and the whole meſenterie. zºº he tumors of other places and parts in the bellie ought diligently to bee diſtin- Ça guiſhed from the mola, and other tumors of the womb. for when the tumors º ariſe in the glandula called pancreas, and in all the whole meſenterium, manie un- ºf skilfulchirurgians take them for mola's or ſcirrhous tumors ofthe womb,andſo y go erroneouſly about to cure them,as ſhall appearby theſe hiſtories following. iſabel rolant the wife of john bony dwelling in paris in the ſtreet moncey near to st. ger- an hiſtoric. viſe his church, beeing threeſcore years of age, departed this life in the year of our lord * , on the twentie ſecond daie of o&ober: and her bodie beeing opened in thepreſence of dočtor milot the phyſician, hee, when the meſenterie was taken out of the bodie,cauſed it to bee carried home to his houſ, that at his leaſure hee might finde out the cauſof this mortal diſeaſ, which was alwaies ſuſpećted to bee in the meſenterie. therefore on a time calling varadeus, brove, chappel, mareſcotius, arragonius, baillutius, reburtias, and riolan, all doğtors of phyſick, and mee and pineu, chirurgians, to his houſ to ſee the ſame. where wee found all the meſenterie and the pancreaſ in the meſenterie ſwoln and puffed up with a . . . . marvellous and almoſt incredible tumor, ſo that it weighed ten pound and a half, altoge- ther ſcirrhous on the outſide, cleaving on the hinder part onely to the vertebreſ of the loins: arafumes of but on the fore-part to the peritoneum being alſo ſcirrhousand wholly cartilaginous more- diverſ kindes over, there were infinite other abſceſſes in the ſame meſenterie, everie one cloſed in his ſeve- in the meſente- ral ciſt, ſom filled with a honie-like,ſom filled with a tallow-like, ſom with an albugineous, rººm. and ſom with a wateriſh liquor or humor, whereof ſom alſo were like untopap; and to conclude, look how manie abſceſſes there were, ſo manie kindes or differences of matters the accident, there were. it was then eight years ſince that tumor began to grow by little and little that com when wihout feeling and pain unto ſuch a greatneſs, becauſthat the meſenterieit ſelf was with- the meſenteri-, out pain in a manner. for the woman her ſeli could do all the faculties of nature almoſt as . º º well as if ſhee had been ſound and whole; except that two months beforeſhee died, ſhºe ies º was conſtrained to keep her bed, becauſ ſhee had a continual fever, which endured ſo j . iong as ſhee lived,and alſo becauſthat the meſenterie, beeng as it were ſeparated or torn from its roots or ſeat, did rowl up and down in the bellie, not without the fee. ling of grievous pain : for, as wee ſaid before, it did ſtick but onely to the vertebreſ : - - - - - - the lib. . concerning the generation of man. . iſ: ||| itſ. die thereof. : , ofthe cauſof barrenneſ in men. º * - |; here are manie cauſes of barrenneſs in men,that is to ſay, the too hot, cold, drie or º the loins and peritoneum,and nothing at all to the guts and other parts whereunto it is as it were naturally knit or joined. therefore becauſthe weight and heavineſs thereofdepreſſed the bladder,it cauſeda great difficultie in her making of water, and alſo becauſit reſted on the guts,it made it verie pain- ful for her to go to ſtool, ſo that the excrements would not com down except ſhee took a ſharp glyſter to cauſthem and as concerning glyſters,they could notbeeputup high enough . by reaſon of º: of the tumor which encloſed and ſhut the way; and ſuppoſitories did no good at all. it was alſo verie difficult for her to takebreath, by reaſon that the mid- riffordiaphragma was compreſſed with the tumor. there were ſom that did ſuſpettittobee the dtopſie a mola, others thought that it came by reaſon of the dropſie. aſſuredly this diſeaſ cauſed comming of a the dropſie to enſue; neither was the cauſthereof obſcure, for the funètion of the liver tumor of the was fruſtrated by reaſon that the conco&ion or the alteration ofthechylus was intercepted ** by occaſion of the tumor: and moreover, the liver itſelf had a proper diſeaſ for it was hard and ſcirrhous, and had manie abſceſſes both within and withoutit and all over it.themilt was ſcarce free from putrefaātion,the guts and kall were ſomwhat blew and ſpotted,and to beebrief there was nothing ſound in the lowerbellie. vº : . there is the like hiſtorie to bee read, written by philip ingraffin, in his book of tumors, tom. trai: of a certain moor that was hanged for theft, for(ſaith hee) when his bodie was publickly ap. . diſſe&ed, in the meſenterium were found ſeventie ſcrophulous tumors, and ſomanie abſceſ: fes were contained or encloſed in their ſeveral ciſts or skins, and ſticking to the external - tunicle, eſpecially of the greater guts: the matter contained in them was divers, for it was . hard, knottie, clammie, glutinous, liquid and wateriſh, ; but the entrails, eſpecially the li- ver and the milt, were found free from all manner of tainture,becauſ(as the #. author al- ledgeth)nature being ſtrong;had ſentall theevil juice,and the corruption of the entrals into the meſenterie:and verily this moor,ſo longas he lived, was in good & perfe&health.with- out doubt the corruption of ſuperfluous humors for the moſt partisſogreat (as is noted by . fernelius) that it cannot bee received in the receptacles that nature hath appointed for it; lib. part, nor. therefore then no ſmall portion thereoffalleth into the parts adjoining, and eſpecially into cap.". the meſenterie and pancreas, which are as it were theſink of the whole bodie. in .# bo-the mºnte- dies which through continual and dailie gluttonie abound with choler, melancholie and . fiak phlegm, if itbee not purged in time, nature being ſtrongandluſtie, doth depel and drive”“* it down into the pancreas and the meſenterie,which areas places of no great repute;and that eſpecially out of the liver and milt by thoſeveinsor branches of the vena º: which endor go not into the guts, but are terminated in the meſenterie and pancreas. in theſe places di- verſhumors are heaped together, which in proceſs of time turninto a kºoſandſoft tumor, and then if they grow bigger, into a ſtiff, hard and verieſcirrhous tumor." whereof ferne- lius affirmeth that in thoſe places hee hath found the cauſes of choler, melancholie, fluxes, dyſenteries,cachexia's,atrophia's,conſumptions, tedious and uncerttain fevers, and laſtly of manie hidden diſeaſes, by the takeing whereof ſom have received their health, that have - been thought paſt cure. moreover ingraſſius affirmethout of julius pollux that scrophulae's the scrophu. may bee engendred in the meſenterie, which nothing differ's from the minde, and opinion lºin the of galen, who ſaith that scrophulae's are nothing elf but indurate and ſcirrhous kernels. * but the meſenterium with his glandules beeing great and manie, makeing the pancreas, doth eſtabliſh, ſtrengthen and confirm the diviſions of the veſſels. alſo *. of the proper aſirhut of ſubſtance of the womb is to bee diſtinguiſhed from the mola: for in the bodies of ſom wo- thºs. men that i have opened, i have found the womb annoied with a ſcirrhous tumor as big as ... a man's head, in the cureing whereof phyſicians nothing prevailed, becauſthey ſuppoſed it to bee a mola contained in the capacitieof the womb,and not aſcirrhous tumor in the bo- * * **, . . . . . chap. xxxvii. - §§ moiſt diſtemper of theſeed,the more liquidand flexible conſiſtence thereof, ſo that it * cannot ſtay in theyomb,but will preſently flowoutagainsfor ſuch is the ſeed of old how the ſed men and ſtriplings,and of ſuch as uſe the act of generation too often andimmoderately: for ºf ºil. *thereby the ſeed becommeth crude and wateriſh, becauſit doth not remain his due and law- ful time in the teſticles,wherein it ſhould bee perfeótly wrought and conco&ted, but is eva- cuated by wanton j. at the ſeed maybee fertile,it muſt of neceſſitie bee copious in quantitie,but in qualitiewell conco&ted, moderately thick, clammie,& puffed with abundance of ſpirits;both theſe conditions are wanting in theſeed of them that uſe co- pulation too often:and moreover, becauſthe wives of thoſe men never gatherajuſt quanti- -tieoffeed laudable both in qualitieandconſiſtence in their teſticles, whereby it commethto paſs that they aretheleſ, provokedor delighted withvenereousations,andperform the a& with concerning the generation of man. lib. . - with leſs alacritie,ſo that they yeeld themſelvs leſs prone to conception. therefore letthoſe that would bee parents of manie children uſe a mediocritie in the uſe of venerie, - how the cut. the woman may perceiv that the man's ſeed hath ſom diſtemperature in it, if when ting of the ſhee hath received it into her womb, ſhee feeleth it ſharp, hot or cold, if the manbee more yººn behind quick or ſlow in the aët. manie becom barren after they have been cut for the ſtone, and ºt. likewiſe when they have had a woundbehinde the ears, whereby certain branches ofthe ju- icile incin ba gular veins and arteries have been cut, that are there, ſo that after thoſe veſſels have been ci- catrized, there followed an interception of the ſeminal matter downwards, and alſo ofthe º, communitie which ought of neceſſitie to bee between the brain and the teſticls,ſo that when ... . . . . the conduits crpaſſages are ſtopped, the ſtones or teſticles cannot anie more receiv, neither * : * matternor lively ſpirits from the brain in ſo great quantitie as it was wont, whereofit muſt of neceſſitie follow, that the ſeed muſt bee #: in quantitie,and weaker in qualitie. ... thoſe that have their teſticles cut off, or elſcompreſſed or contuſed by violence,cannot be- get children, becauſthat either they want that help the teſticles ſhould miniſter in the a&of generation, or elſ becauſthe paſſage of theſeminal matter is intercepted or ſtopped witha callus: by reaſon whereofthey cannotyeeld forth ſeed, but a certain clammie humor con- . . . . . tained in the glandales called proſtate (yet with ſomfeeling ofdelight). the defaults . moreover the defects or imperfections of the yard may cauſ barrenneſs: as, if it bee too of the yard. ſhort, or if it bec ſo unreaſonable great, that it renteth the privie parts of the woman, and ſo cauſeth a flux of blood, for then it is ſo painful to the woman,that ſhee cannot void ... her ſeed, for that cannot bee excluded without pleaſure and delight, alſo if the ſhortneſs of the ligatureligament that is under the yard doth make it to bee crooked, and violate the ſtiff ſtraightneſs thereof, ſo that it cannot bee put directly or ſtraightly into the woman's privie parts. therebee ſom that have not the orifice of the conduit of the yard rightly in the end thereof.but a little higher,ſo that they cannotejaculate or caſt out their ſeed into the womb. the fign ofthe . alſo the particular palſie of the yard is numbred among the cauſes of barrenneſs;and you palºs in the may prooy whether the palfiebee in the yard by dipping the genitals in cold water: for ex- yard. cept they do draw themſelvs together or ſhrink up after it,it is a token of the palfie; for mem- • *, bers that have the palfie, by the touching of coldwater, do not ſhrink up, bnt remainin their accuſtomed laxitie and looſneſs: but in this caſe the genitals are endued with ſmall ſenſ; the ſeed commethout without pleaſure or ſtiffneſs of theyard; the ſtones in touching are cold; and to conclude, thoſe that have their bodies daily waxing leanthrough a conſumpti- on, or that are vexed with an evil habit ordiſpoſition,or with the obſtrućtion of ſom of the entrals, are barren and unfertil, and likewiſe thoſe in whom ſom noble part neceſſarie to life and generation exceedeth the bounds of nature with ſom-great diſtemperature, andlaſtly thoſe who by aniemeans have their genital partsdeformed. . - magick bands here i omit thoſethat are withholden from theaët of generation by inchantment, magick, and enchanted witching and inchanted knots, bands and ligatures,for thoſe cauſes belong not to phyſick, knots. neither may they bee taken away by the remedies of our art. the doºtors of the canon . . . . . . sº laws have made mention of thoſe magick bands which may have power in them, in the par- ºr ticular title defrigidi,maleficiatiº, impotentibus & incantatiº alſo st. auguſt, hath made menti- • ***, *, on of them, irači. , in joan. . . . : ; chap. xxxviii. of the barrenneſ, or unfruitfulneſs of women, . . . woman may becombarren orunfruitful through the obſtrućtion of the paſ- hv º * - - . #. º ſage of the ſeed,or through ſtraitneſs and narrowneſs of theneck of the womb womb is nat- fººl comming either through the default of the formative facultie, or elſ after- tow. §§ wards by ſommiſchance, as by an abſceſs, ſtirrhuswarts, chaps,orby an ulcer, - which being cicatrized, doth make the way more narrow, ſo that the yard can- the mem. . not have free paſſage thereinto: moreover, the membrane calle hymen, when it groweth in brane called the mid'ſt or in the bottom of the neck of the womb, hinder's the receiving of the man's' hymen. ſeed. alſo if the womb bee over-ſlipperie, or more looſ or over wide,it maketh the woman to bee barren; ſodoth the ſuppreſſion of the menſtrual fluxes, or the too immoderate flow- ing of the courſes or whites: which commeth by the default of the womb, or ſom entral.or -- ofthe wholebodie,which conſumeth the menſtrual matter,& carrieth the ſeed away with it. the cauſ of the cold and moiſt diſtemperature of the womb, extinguiſhe’s and ſuffocate's the man's *** ſeed, and maketh it that it will not ſtay or cleav unto the womb, and ſay till it bee conco- women, &ed: but the more hot and drie doth corrupt for want of nouriſhment,for the ſeeds that are ſown either in a mariſh or ſandie ground cannot proſper well: alſo a mola contained in the womb, the falling down of the womb, the leanneſs of the woman's bodie, ill humors bred by eating crude and raw fruits, or great, or overmuch, whereof obſtruäions and crudities fállow which hinder her fruitfulneſs. furthermore, by the uſe of ſupefactive things, the ſeminal matter is congealed and reſtrained, and though it flow and bee caſtout, yet it is de- prived lie. . concerning the generation of e w am. ſecond yeer of herage, bear voluſius saturnius, who was conſul; va prived ofthe prolifick power, and of the lively heat and ſpirits, theorifices or cotylidones of the veins and arteries are ſtopped, and ſo the paſſage for the menſtrual matter into the womb, is ſtopped. when the kallisſofar that it girdethin the womb narrowly, it hinder- eth the fruitfulneſs of the woman, becauſit will not permit thenians ſeed to enter into the womb. moreover the fat and fleſhie habit of the manor woman hinder generation. for it. aph .ſtd.;. hindereth them that they cannot join their genital parts together: and by how much, the ;: more blood goeth into fat, by ſo much the leſs is remaining to beeturned into ſeed & men- *::::; . ſtrual blood, which two are the originals and principals of generation. thoſe women that fiſſiſi. are ſpeckled in the face, ſomwhat lean, and pale, becauſthey have their genitals moiſtned . . with a ſaltiſh, ſharp and tickling humor, are more given to venerie then thoſe that are red and fat. finally, hippocrates ſet's down four cauſes onely why women are barren and un- fruitful. the firſt is, becauſthey cannot receiv the mans ſeed, by reaſon ofthefault of the neck of the womb ; the ſecond, becauſwhen it is received into the womb, they cannot con- ceivit; the third is, becauſthey cannot nouriſh it; the fourth, becauſthey are not able to carriedrbear it untill the due and lawful time of birth. theſe things are neceſſarie to gener- ation, the object, will, facultie; concourſ of the ſeeds, and theremaining or abiding there- of in the womb, untill the due and appointed natural time. º- chap. xxxix. the ſignes of a diffempered wºmb. º hat woman isthought to have her wombtoohot, whoſe courſes comforth ſpar- theſ gnes of a §§ ingly and with pain,and exulcerate by reaſon of their heat,the ſuperfluous mat-hot wºmb. jº ter of the blood beeing diſſolved or turned into windeby the power of the heat: *º whereupon that menſtrual bloodthat floweth forth is more groſs and black.for it is the propertie of heat,by digeſting the thinner ſubſtance, to thicken thereſt, and by aduſtion to make it more black. furthermore, ſheethat hath, her genitals itching with the deſire ofcopulation, will ſoon exclude the ſeedin copulation, and ſhee ſhall feelit. more ſharp as it goeth throngh the paſſages. that woman hath too colda womb whoſe the fighes of flowers are eitherſtopped, or flowſparingly, and thoſe pale afid not well oolored. a cold womb. thoſe that have leſs deſire ofcopulation, have leſs delight therein, and their ſeed is more liquid and wateriſh, and not . linnen cloth by ſticking thereunto and it is ſparing- ly and ſlowly caſt forth. that womb is too moiſt that floweth continually with manieli. the fights of uidexcrements, which thereforewill not hold theſted, but preſently aftercopulation ſuf: a moiſt womb. reth it to fall out; which will eaſily cauſabortion. the #. of toºdrieºwomb ap-thºſenes of pear in the little quantitie of the courſes,in the profuſion of a ſmall quantitie of ſeed, by the drieºns. deſire of copulation, whereby it maybee made ſlipperie by the moiſture of theſeed, by the fiſſures in the neck thereof;by the sanditching for all things for want of moiſture will ſoon chap, even like unto the ground, which in the ſummerby reaſon of great drought or drineſs, will chap and chink this waie and that waie, and on the contraric with moiſture it will cloſe andjoin together again as it were with glow, a womanisth j have all opportunities unto conception when her courſes or flow- ers do ceaſ, for then the womb is voidofexcremental filth, and becauſit is yet open, it amatiºn, will the more eaſily receiv the mans ſeed , and when it hath received it, it willf. concepti- better retain it in the wrinkles of the cotylidones yet gaping as it were in rough and unequaloa. places. yet a woman will eaſily conceavalittle before the time that the flowers ought to flow : becauſ' that the menſtrual matter falling at firſt like dew into the womb, is verie meet and fit to nouriſh the ſeed, and not to drive it out again, or to ſuffocateit. thoſe which uſe copulation when their courſes fall down aboundantly, will veriehard- ly or ſeldom conceiv, and if they do conceiv, the childevvillbrevveak and diſeaſed, and eſpecially if the vvomansblood that flowv's out bee unſound; but ifthe bloodbee good and laudable, the childe will bee ſubjećt to all plethorick diſeaſes; there are ſom vwomen invvhom preſently after the flux of the termes, the orifice of the womb will bee clo- ſed, ſo that they muſt of neceſſitieuſe copulation wwith a man wwhen their menſtrual flux flowveth; if at leaſt they vvould conceiv at all. avvoman may bear children from the age. of fourteen untill fortie or fiftie; vyhich time whoſoever doth exceed, vvill bear untill threeſcore yeers, becauſthemenſtrual fluxes are kept, the prolifical facultie is alſo preſerved: therefore manie vvomen have brought forth children at that age,but after that time novvo- man can bear, as ariffotle vvriteth. ariºlºdºhiſt yet plinie faith that cornelia (who was of the houſof the º beelng in the ſixtic ****** eſcu de tarenta alſo aſ lib. .ca. . firmeth, that heeſaw a woman that bear a childe on the fixtie ſecond yeer of herage, have- lib. cap. . ingborn before on the ſixtieth and fixtie firſt yeer. therefore it is j #j that by reaſon ofthe varietie of the air, region, diet and temperament, the menſtrual flux and pro- creative facultieſeaſothinſom ſooner,in ſom later; which varietie taketh place alſo in men. - - for ccerning the generation of man. lib. . - íb. .de hift. e-for in them although the ſeed be genitable for the moſt part in the ſecond ſeventh yeer, yet nine- , , truly it is unfruitful untill the third ſeventh yeer. and whereas moſt menbºget children untill they bee threeſcore yeers old, which time if they paſs, they begettill ſeventie: yet there are ſom known that have begot children untill the eightieth yeer. moreover, plinie writeth that mafiniſſa the kingbegotaſon when hee was fourſcore and ſixyects of age, and liº. . “p. . alſo catothe cenſor after that hee was fourſcore. sº f e azrººk”. a - . foo: what is the falling down of the womb. the cauſes. arifi.lib. .de biſor. anim. cap. z. the ſignes. the prog- noſtications. chap. xl. of the falling down, or perverſion, or turning of the womb. |he womb is ſaid to fall down and bee perverted,when it is mooved out of its pro- per and natural place; as when the bands and ligatures thereof beeing looſed sº, and relaxed, it falleth down unto one ſide or other, or into its own neck, or elſ sº paſſeth further, ſo that it com's out at the neck, and a great portion thereofap. pear's without the privie parts. therefore what things ſoever reſolv, relax, or burſt the liga- ments orbands whereby the womb is tied,are ſuppoſed to bee the cauſes of this accident. it ſomtimes happen'sby vehement labor or travail in childe-birth, when the womb with vio- lence excluding the iſſue and the ſecundines, alſo follow's and fall's down, turning the in- nerſide thereof outward. and ſomtimes the fooliſh raſhneſs of the midwife,when ſhee draw- eth away the womb with the infant, or with the ſecundine cleaving faſt thereunto, and ſo drawing it down and turning the inner-fide outward. furthermore, a heavie bearing of the womb, the bearing or the carriage of a great burthen, holding or ſtretching of the hands or bodie upwards in the time of greatneſs with childe, a fall, contuſion, ſhakeing, or jogging by rideing, either in a waggon or coach; or on horſ-back, or leaping or dancing, the faſ- ling down of a more large and abundant humor, great gripeing, a ſtrong and continual cough, a teneſmuſ, or often deſire to go to ſtool, yet not voiding anie thing, heeſing, ama- nifold and great birth, difficult bearing of the womb, an aſtmatical and orthopnoical diff- cultie of breathing, whatſoeverdoth weightilie preſs down the diaphragma or midriff, or the muſcles of the epigaſtrium, the takeing of cold air in the time of travail with childe, or in the flowing of the menſtrual flux, fitting on a cold marble-ſtone, oranie other ſuch like cold thing, are thought often times to bee the occaſion of theſe accidents, becauſthey may bring the womb out of its place. * * * * it fall's down in manie(ſaith ariſtotle)by reaſon of the deſire of copulation that they have, eitherby reaſon of the luſtineſs of their youth,or elſbecauſ they have abſtained along time from it. - - . . . - you may know that the womb isfallen down by the pain of thoſe parts wherehence it is fallen, that is to ſay by the entrals, loines, os ſacrum, and by a traćtable tumor at the neck of the womb,and often with a viſible hanging out, of a diverſ greatneſs,according to the quan- titie that is fallen down. it is ſeen ſomtimes like unto a piece of red fleſh,hanging out at the neck of the womb, of the bigneſs and form of a gooſ-egg; if the woman ſtandupright,ſhee, feeleth the weight to lie on her privie parts,but if ſhee ſit or lie,then ſhee perceiveth it on her back, or goto the ſtool, the ſtraight gut called inteſtinum retium will bee preſſed or loaden as if it were with a burthen, if ſhee lie on herbellie,then her urine willbee ſtopped, ſo thatſhee ſhall fear to uſe copulation with a man. . . . when the womb is newly relaxed in a young woman, it may bee ſoon cured, but ifit hathbeen long down in an old woman, it is not to bee helped. ifthe palfie ofthe ligaments a hiſtorie. remedies for # the aſcenſion tº of the womb, § º thereof have occaſioned the falling,it ſcarce admit's of cure, but if it fall's downby means of putrefaction, it cannot poſſibly bee cured. if a great quantitie thereofhang out between the thighes, it can hardly beecured; but it is corrupted by takeing the air, and by the fallin #. of the urine and filth,and by the motions ofthe thighes in going it is ulcerated, oputrefie’s. : . . . * - i remember that once i cured a young voman vuho had her vvomb hanging out at her privie parts as big as an egg, and i did ſovvell perform and perfeót the cure thereof, that af. tervyards ſhee conceived, and bare children manie times,and her womb never fell down. c hap. xli. ' a ... the cure of the falling down of the womb. -- ---. ºr this vvord, falling dowvn of the vvomb, vvee underſtand everic motion of the ºwomb out of its placeorſeat; therefore if the womb aſcend upwards, vveemuſt juſ: the ſame medicinesas in ſtrangulation of the womb. if it beeturned towards ºcither fide, it muſt bee reſtored and drawvn back to its right place, by applying and uſing cupping-glaſſes. but if it deſcend and fall down into its ovyn neck, but yet not in great quantities the vvoman muſt bee placed ſo that her buttocks may bee verie high, and her legs acroſs; then cupping-glaſſes muſt bee applied to her navel and hirºgaśīrium, and when - - the lig. . concerning the generation of eºſan. #: :* l: º #" is: tij t, ſm: the womb is ſo brought into its place, inještions that binde and drie ſtrongly muſt bee in- jeded into the neck of the womb, ſtinking fumigations muſtbee uſed unto the privie parts, and ſweet things uſed to the mouth and noſe. but if the womb hangdown in great quan-forthealt titiebetween the thighs, it muſt be cured by placing the woman after another ſort, and by j uſing other kinde of medicines. firſt of all ſhee muſt beeſo laied on herback, herbuttocks womb, proper. and thighs ſo lifted up, and her legs ſo drawn back as when the childe or ſecundine are to ly :: - bee taken or drawn from her; then the neck of the womb, and whatſoever hangeth out thereat,muſt be anointed with oil of lillies, freſh butter, ºf: greaſ, and ſuch like,then it muſtbethruſt gently with the fingers up into its place, the fick, or pained woman in the meantime helpingör furthering the endeavour by drawing in of her breath as if ſhe did ſup, drawing up as it were that which is fallen down. after that the womb is reſtored unto its place,whatſoever is filled with the ointment muſt bee wiped with a ſoft and clean cloth, left that by the ſlipperineſs thereof the womb ſhould fall down again; the genitals muſt bee fomented with an aſtringent decoètion,made with pemegranate pils, cypreſs nuts, gals, roach allom, horſ-tail, ſumach, berberies, boiled in the water whereinsmiths quench their irons; of theſe materials make a powder, where- with let thoſe places bee ſprinkled: let a peſſarie of a competent bigneſs bee put in at the neck of the womb,but let itbee eight or nine fingers in length, according to the proportion of the grieved patient's bodie. let them beemade either with latin, or of cork covered with wax, of an oval form, haveing a thread at one end,whereby they may bee drawn back again. as need require's. the forms of oval peſſaries. a.ſheweth the bodie of the peſarie. biſbeweth the threadwhere- with it muſt be tied to the thigh. - when all this is don, letthe fick woman keep her ſelf quiet in herbed, with herbuttocks lying verie high,and her legs acroſs, for theſpace of eight or ten daies: in the meanwhile, the application of cupping glaſſes will ſtaiethe womb in the right place and ſeat after it is reſtored thereunto: k. if ſheehath taken any hurt by cold air, let the privie parts beefo- mented with a diſcuſſing and heating fomentation, on this wiſe. r, fol. alth, ſalv, lavend, rº-a diſcuſſing riſmar. artemiſ flor. chamam..melilot, an m ( .ſem. aniſ, fenugr, an: i.letthem basall well boi-ºndhearing led in water and wine, and make thereof a decottion for your uſe. give her alſo glyſters, * that when the guts are emptied of the excrements, the womb may the better bee received in- to the void and emptie capacitie of the bellie: for this reaſon the bladder is alſo to bee tied, for otherwiſe it were dangerous left that the womb lying between them both bee- ing ful, ſhould bee kept down and cannot bee put up into its own proper place by reaſon - thereof. alſo vomiting is ſuppoſed to bee a fingular remedie to draw up the womb that is ºw #.; fallen down; furthermore alſo it purgeth out the phlegm which did moiſten and relaxº.” the ligaments of the womb; for as the womb in the time ofcopulation at the beginning of ºwn .#. the conception is moved downwards to meet the ſeed, ſo the ſtomack, even of its own ac-womb. cord, is lifted upwards when it is provoked by the injurie of anie thing that is contrarie unto it,to caſt it out with greater violence, but when it is ſo raiſed up, it draw's up toge- ther therewith the peritoneum, the womb, and alſo the bodie or parts annexed unto it. if it cannotbee cured or reſtored unto its place by theſe preſcribed remedies, and that it beeul: the cutting, cerated and ſo putrefied that it cannot be reſtored unto his place again, we are commanded away of the by the . of art to cut it away, and then to cure the wombaccording to art, but firſtitº : ſhould be tied, and as much as is neceſſarie muſt bee cut off, and the reſt ſeared with a cau- #.** & terie. there are ſom women that have had almoſt all their womb cut off without anie dan-" - ger of their life,as paulus teſtifieth.”. epiff. .lib.a. john langius phyſician to the count radiº,that carpus the chirurgian took º: epiſt.med. h o concerning the generation of man. lin. a. - trac.de mirand. mºrb.tºuſ. an hiſtorie. “ the womb of a woman of bononia, heebcting preſent, and yet the woman lived and was ve- rie well after it. antoniuſ benivenius phyſician of florence, writeth that hee was called by u- goliu, the phyſician to the cure of a woman whoſe womb was corrupted and fell away from her by pieces, and yet ſhee lived ten years after it. - . . there was a certain woman, becing ſound ofbodie, of good repute, and about the age of thirtie years, in whom, ſhortly after ſhee had been married the ſecond time, which was in anno # .haveing no childeby her firſt husband,the lawful figns of aright conception did appear:yet in proceſs oftimethere aroſe about the lower part of her privities theſenſor feeling of a weight or heavineſ,bering ſo troubleſom unto herby reaſon that it was pain- ful,and alſo for that itſtopped herurine, that ſhee was conſtrained to diſcloſe her miſchance antimonium ta- kenina potion doth cauſ the womb to fall down. the ſigns of the ſubſtance of the womb drawn out, to chriſtopher mombeya surgeon her neighbor dwelling in the suburbs of s.germans; who haveing ſeen thetumor or ſwelling in her groin, affwaged the pain with mollifying, and anodyne fomentations and cataplaſms; but preſently after heehaddon this, hee found on the inner ſide of the lip of theorifice of the neck of the womb,animpoſtume rotten and run- ning, as if it had been out of an abſceſs newly broken, with ſanious matter, ſomwhatred, yellow,and pale, running alongtime. yet for all this the feelingofthe heavineſs orweight was nothing diminiſhed, but did rather sncreaſdaily, ſo that from the year of our lord . ſhee could not turn herſelfbering in her bed on this or that fide, unleſs ſhee laid her handon herbellie to bear and eaſ herſelfoſthe weight, and alſo ſhee ſaid when ſheeturned herſelf,ſhee ſeem to feel a thing like unto a bowle to rowle in herbodie unto theſidewhere- unto ſhee turned herſelf, neither could ſhergo to ſtool, or avoid her excrements ſtanding or fitting, unleſs ſhee lifted up that weight with her hands towards her ſtomach or midriff: when ſhee was about to go ſhee could ſcarce ſet forwards her as if there had ſomthing hanged between her thighs, that did hinder her going. at certain ſeaſons that rotten apo: ſtume would open or uncloſe of itſelf, and flow & run with it's wonted ſanious matter but then ſhee was grievouſly vexed with pain of the head, and all her members, ſwouning, loa- thing, vomiting, and almoſt choaking, ſo that by the perſwaſion of a fooliſh woman ſhee was induced and contented to take antimonium; the working and ſtrength thereof was ſo great and violent, that after manie vomits, with manie frettings of the guts andwatriedeje- &ions or ſtools,ſheethought her fundament fell down; but beeing certified by a woman that was a familiar friend of hers, unto whom ſhee ſhewed her ſelf, that there was nothing fallen down atorfrom her fundament, but it was from her womb, ſhee called, in the year of our lord . surgeons, as my ſelf, jamés guilleneau, and antonie vieux, that wee might help her in this extremitie. … " *---, * hen wee had diligently and with gobd confideration weighed the whole eſtate of her diſeaſºwee agree'd with one conſent, that that which was fallen down ſhould beecutaway, becauſthat by the black color, ſtinking, and other ſuch ſigns, it gave a teſtimonie of a pu- trefied and corrupted thing. therefore for two daies wee drew out the bodie by little and little, and piece-meal, which ſeemed unto the phyſicians that wee had called, as alexius, gaudinus, feureus, and violaneus, and alſo to our ſelvs, to bee the bodie of the womb, which thing wee prooved to bee ſo, becauſ one of the teſticles came out whole, and alſo a thick membrane or skin, beeing the relick of the mola, which beeing ſuppurated, and theabſceſs broken, came out by little and little in matter; after that all this bodie was ſo drawn away, the fick woman began to wax better and better, yet notwithſtanding for the ſpace of nine daies before it was taken away, ſhee voided nothing by ſiege,and her urine alſo was ſtopped for the ſpace of four daics, . after this all things became as they were before, and ſhee lived in good health three months after, and then died of a pleurifiethat came on her verieſuddenly, and i haveing opened her bodie, obſerving and marking everie thing verie diligently, could not findethe womb at all, but in ſtead thereofthere was a certain hard and callous bodie, which nature, who is never idle, had framed in ſtead thereof, to ſupplie the want thereof, or to fill the - hollowneſs of the bellie. whether there ºf bee a mem- brane called hymen. an hiſtorie. man, and ſhee knew nevertheleſs there was ſomthing in her privie parts that hindered her chap. xlii. of the tunicle or membrane called hymen. jº. n ſomvirgins or maidens in the orifice of theneck of the womb there is founda ſº ſº; certain tunicle or membrane called of antient writers hymen, which prohibiteth $º ſº the copulation of a man,and cauſeth a woman to be barren; this funicle isſup. º' poſed by manie, and they not of the commonſortonely, but alſo learned phyſi: - cians,to bee, as it were, the encloſure of the virginitié or maiden-head. but! could never finde it in anie., ſeeking of all ages from three to twelv, of all that i hadunder my hands in the hoſpital of paris. yet once i ſaw it in a virgin of ſeventeen yeers, whom her mother had contraded to a from . g lib. . --t- concerning the generation of man. from bearing of children, who deſired meeto ſee her; and i foundayeriethinnervous mem- branea littlebeueath the nymphe, neerunto the orifice ofthe neck of the womb; in the midſt there was a verie little hole whereout the terms might flow: i ſeeing the thickneſs thereof, cut it in ſunder with my ſciſſars, and told her mother what ſhee ſhould do afterwards: and . - truly ſhee married ſhortly after and bore children. realduſ columbus is of myopinion, and **** ſaith that this is ſeen verie ſeldom, for theſe are his words: under the nymphe in manie, but not in all virgins,there is another membrane,which when it is preſent (which is but ſeldom it ſtoppeth,ſo that the yard cannotbee put into the orifice of the vvomb; for it is veriethic aboovtovvards the bladder, it hathan hole by vyhich the courſes flovvout.” and hee alſoad- deth, that hee obſerved it in two young virgins, and in oneeldermaid.”.”... . . . . . . avicen writeth, that in virgins in the neck of the womb there are tunicles compoſed of lib.;. ſºm.ai, veins andligaments verie little, riſeing from each part of theneck whereof, which at the firſt traff.i.ap. . time of copulation are wont to becbroken,and the bloud to run out. almanſor writeth,that in virgins, the paſſage of the neck of the womb is verie wrinkled, or narrow and ſtraight, and thoſe wrinkles to be woven or ſtaied together with manie little veinsandarteries, which are broken at the firſt time of copulation. . . . ...theſe are the judgments of phyſitians of this membrane; midwives will certainly affirm the trifles of that they know a virgin from one that is defloured, by the breach of ſoundaeſs of that midwives membrane. but by their report too credulous judges are ſoon brought to commit an error. : lº for that midwives can ſpeak nothing certainly of this membrane, may bee proved by this... º: calº becauſ that one ſaith that the ſituation thereof is in the verie entrance of the privie parts, - others ſaie it is in the midſt of the neck of the womb, and others ſaie it is within at thein. ner orifice thereof,and ſoºn are of an opinion that they ſaic or ſuppoſe that it cannot beſeen. or perceived before the firſt birth. but truly of a thing ſo rare,and which is contrarietona- ture, there cannot be anie thing ſpoken for certaintie. therefore the blood that commeth “ out at the firſt time of copulation,come's not alwaies by the breaking of that membrane,but - by the breaking and violating or renting of the little veins which are woven and beſpread all over the ſuperficial and inward parts of the womb and neck thereof, deſcending into the . . . . . . wrinkles, which in thoſe that have not yetuſed theaſt of generation, are cloſed as if they.... . . . were glewed together: although that thoſe maids that are at their due time of marriage, what irgins feel no pain nor no flux of blood, eſpecially if the man's yard be anſwerable to the neck of : the ; time the womb; whereby it appear's evidently how greatly the inhabitants of fez, the metropo- . . t litan citie of mauritania, are deceived: for leo the #. writeth, that it is the cuſtom their privie among them, that ſo ſoon as the married man and his ſpouſe are returned home to their parts. houſ from the church where they have been married, they preſently ſhut themſelves into a tº - chamber, and make faſt the door, while the marriage dinner is preparing: in the mean while ſom old or grave matron ſtandeth waiting beforethe chamber door,to receivabloodie linnen cloth the new married husband is to delivet her there,which when ſheehath received, ſhee bring's it into the midſt of all the companie of gueſts, as a freſh ſpoiland teſtimonie of the married wives virginitie,and then for joiethereof they all fall tobanquetting ſolemnly... but if through evil fortune it happeneth that in this time of copulation the ſpouſ bleedeth not in the privie parts, ſhee is reſtored again unto her parents, which is averie great re- proach unto them,and all the gueſts depart home ſad,heavie,and without dinner. - moreover,there are ſom,that having learned the moſt filthie and infamous arts of bawderie, the filthiede. roſtitute common harlots to make gain thereof, making men that are naughtily given to ceit of bauds leev that they are pure virgins, making them to think that the aët of generation is verie and hºtloº. painful and grievous unto them, as if they had never uſed it before, although they are verie expert therein indeed; for they do cauſtheneck of the womb to be ſo wrinkled and ſhrunk together, ſo that the fides thereof ſhall even almoſt cloſe or meet together, then they put thereinto the bladders of fiſhes, or galls of beaſts filled full of blood, and ſo deceiv the igno- rant and young lecher, by the .# and deceit of their evil arts, and in the time of copula- tion they mix fighs with groanes,and womanlike cryings,and the crocodiles tears,that they may ſeem to be virgins, and never to have dealt with man before.. c. h. a. p. xliii. amemorable biflorie of the membrane called hymen. §ºohn wierus writeth that there was a maid at camburge, who in the middeſt of ris.a. preſſ. º the neck of the womb, had a thick and ſtrong membrane growing overthwart, i.º.º. § ; ſo that when the monethlie tearms ſhould come out, it would not permit them, §º ſo that . the menſtrual matter was ſtopped and flowed back again, ^* which cauſed a great tumor and diſtenſion in the bellie, with great tor- ment, as if ſhee had been in travell with childe: the midwives beeing called, and having ſeen and confidered all that had been don, and did appear, did all with one voice affirm, that ſhee ſuſtained the pains of childe-birth, although that the maid her ſelf de- nied that ſhee ever dealt with man. therefore then this foreſaid author was called, . hh h a wh . concerning the generation of man. lis...a. ; who, when the midwives were void of help and counſel, might help this wretched maid having alreadie had here urineſiopped now three whole weeks, and perplexed with great watchings,loſs of appetite;and loathing: and when hee had ſeen the grieved place,and mark, *d theórifice of the neck of the womb,hee ſaw it flopped with a thick membrane; hee knew . . . . . alſo that that ſuddenbreaking out of bloud into the womb and the veſſels thereof, and the -- . paſſage for thoſe matters that was ſtopped, was the cºuſ of her, grievous and tormenting pain. and thereforehee called a chyru lan preſently, and willed him to divide the mem: jāj. forth as much black congealed and putrefiedbloud as as waighed ſom eightpounds. in three daies after ſhee was well and void of all diſeaſ and pain. ihave thought it good to ſet down - *-* * * * § example here becauſit is notworthie to beenoted, and profitable to bee imitated, as ºº::::::"--~~~~~ ––air- – * * : *...* t - -- l- - – "º *__i = f ----t- t- - - - - . - - jºiº. !, its wº. ºf tº º ch a p. - xl ii ii. j.-. f* - º ...inc.; hºw ºil intº. t.t., tt t.t. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . of the ſtrangulation of the womb. • *- : *ra; , , * : ºf ºaº heſtrangulation of the womb, or that which commeth from the womb,is an in- whitish: , i. sºterceptión or ſtopping of the libertie in breathing or takeing winde,becauſthat . #!º the won b, ſwoln orpuffed up by reaſon of the acceſs of groſs vapors and hu- ofºrontº } |&# "hiðrs that are contained therein,and alſo ſnatched as it wereby a convulſive mo- - *y**tion, by reaſon that the veſſels and ligaments diffended with fulneſs, are ſo car- ried upwards againſt the midriffand parts of the breaſt, that it maketh the breath to bee ſhort; and often as if a thing lay upon the breaſt and preſſed it. wbythe womb - moreover; the womb ſwelleth', becauſthere is contained or incloſed in it a certain ſub- ſwcil.cth. ſtance, cauſed by the defluxion either of the ſeedorflowers, or of the womb or whites,or of ſomotherhumor,tumor,abſceſs;rotten apoſtume,or ſomill juice, putrefying, or getting, ºr ingendering an ill qualitie, and reſolved into groſs vapors. theſe, as they affed ſundry or the accident, divers places, infer'divers and ſundrie accidents,as rumbling and noiſin the bellie, if it bee that com of in the guts, deſire to vomit, after (with ſeldom vomiting) commeth wearineſs and loathing tº ºngºing of meat, if it trouble the ſtpmach. choaking with ſtrangulation, if it aſſail the breaſt and ot ** throat; ſwooning,ifit vex the heart; madneſs, or elſthat which is contrarie thereto, ſound ... . . ſleep or drouſineſs, if it griev the brain; all which oftentimes proov as malign as the biteing sº of a mad dog, of equal the ſtinging orbiteings of venemous beaſts. what the . . it hath been obſerved, that more grievous ſymptomes have proceeded from the corruption ſtangulation of the ſeed, then efthe menſtrual bloud. for by how much everie thing is more perfeš and that commºth and noble, while it is contained within the bounds ofthe integritie of it's own nature, by ſo of the º much it is the more grievous and perillous, when by corruption it hath once tranſgreſſed }. i. i. theławs thereof. but this kinde of accident doth verie ſeldom griev thoſe women which ... have their menſtrual flux well and orderly, and do uſe †† familiarly but verie often then hit that thoſe women that have not their menſtrual flux as they ſhould, and do want, and aredeſti- com's of the tite of husbands, eſpecially if they bee great eaters, and lead a ſolitarielife. when the veſ. ... *ſels and ligaments of the womb are ſwollen and diffended as we ſaid before, ſo much as is ad- #. ... of ded to their latitude or bredth,ſo much is wanting in their length; and therefore it hapmath ūji, ºr ºur-that the womb, beeing remooved out of it's ſeat, doth one while fall to the right fide to- ning of the wards the liver, ſomtimes to the left towards the milt, ſomtimes upwards unto the midriff' womb into ſº and ſtomach, ſomtimes downwards, and ſo forwards unto the bladder, whereof commethan ... * iſchurie and ſtrangurie; or backwards, whereofcommeth oppreſſion of the ſtraight gut, and ** and ſupprion ofthe excrements, and the tereſmus. but although wee . womb to decline to thoſe parts which wee named, yet it is not by accident onely, as when it is drawn by the proper and common ligaments and bands, when they are contračted or made ſhorter, beeing diſtended with fulneſs, but alſo of thwomb it's ſelf, as when it is forced or provoked through the grief of ſomthing contrarie to nature (. womb is ſ l that is contained therein: it wandreth ſomtimes unto one ſide, and ſomtimes unto another ... ..". part with a plain and evident natural motion, like unto the ſtomach which imbraceth anie accident,but . thing that is gentle andmilde, but avoidethanie thing that is offenſive and hurtful; yetwee by itſelf, denie that ſo great accidents may bee ſtirred up by the falling of it alone unto this or that whereºf com ſide; for then it might happen, that women that are great with childe, whoſe wombs are . º * ſo diffended by reaſon that the childe is great, that it doth preſs the midriff, º bee m.a troubled with a ſtrangulation like unto this; but much rather by a venºmous humor ofº., breathing out amalign and groſs vapor, not onely by the veins and arteries, but alſo by the pores that are inviſible, which pollute's the faculties of the parts which it toucheth with it's venomous malignitie and infection, and intercept's the funètions thereof. , nei- ther doth the varietie of the parts receiving onely, but alſo of the matter received, cauſ varietie of accidents. - for ſon, accidents comby ſuppreſſion of the terms, others com by corruption of the * -- “. . . . . - ". . . - * - ſeed, * *- j.--—-t- f : ; lig. . concerning the generation of sman. ſeed, but if the matter bee cold, it bringeth a drouſineſs, beeing lifted f unto the brain, the cauſof whereby the woman ſinketh down as if ſhee were aſtoniſhed, and lieth withoutmotion,and fleepineſ, in ſenſ or feeling, and the beating of the arteries,and the breathing are ſo ſmall,that ſomtimes . ſtrangula- it is thought they are not at all, but that the woman is altogether dead. if itbe more groſs, º it interreth a convulſion; if it participate of the nature of a groſs melancholick humor, it - bringeth ſuch heavineſs, fear,and ſorrowfulneſs,that the party that is vexed therewith ſhall ſhall think that hee ſhall die preſently, and cannot bee brought out of his mindeby anie means or reaſon: if of a cholerick humor, it cauſſeth the madneſs called furor uterinus, and the cauſof, ſuch apratling, that they ſpeak all things that are to bee concealed; and a giddineſs of the drouſe mid- head, by reaſon that the animal ſpirit is ſuddenly ſhaken by the admixtion of a putrefied va-neſs. - pour and hot ſpirit: but nothing is more admirable, then that this diſeaſtaketh the patient iomtimes with laughing, and ſomtimes with weeping, for ſom at the firſt will weep and then laugh in the ſame diſeaf and ſtate thereof. but it exceedeth all admiration which hollerius writeth uſually happened to two of the a hiſtorie. daughters of the provoſt of roven. for they were held with long laughter for an hour or two before the fit, which neither for fear, admonition, nor for any other means th could hold; and their parents chid them, and asked them wherefore they did ſo,they anſwe-th;affrention red, that they were notable to ſtay their laughter. the aſſcention of the womb is diligent- . #: is ly to bee diſtinguiſhed from the ſtrangulation thereof; for the accidents of the aſcention. and of the ſtrangulation are not one, but the woman is onely oppreſſed with a certain pain is anngul- of the heart, difficultie of breathing, or ſwouning, but yet without fear, without raveing tion. or idle talking, or any other greater accident. therefore oftentimes contrary cauſes infer the aſſcention: that is, overmuch drineſs of the womb, laboring through the defečt of moiſture, whereby it is forced after too violent and immoderate evacuations of the flowers, and in childe-bed, and ſuch like, and laborious and painful travel in childe-bed, through which occaſion it waxeth hot, contrary to nature, and withereth and turneth it ſelf with a certain violence unto the parts adjoining, that is to ſay, unto the liver, ſtomach and midriff: if haply it may draw ſom moiſture there- hence unto it. i omit that the womb may be brought unto it's place upwards by often ſmelling to aromatick things, yet in the mean while it infer's not the ſtrangulation that wee deſcribed before. chap. xlv. the ſigns of imminent ſtrangulation of the womb. efore that theſe fore-named accidents com, the womanthink's that a certain pain- full thing ariſeth from her womb unto the orifice of the ſtomach and heart, and : ſheethinketh her ſelf to bee oppreſſed and choaked, ſhee complaineth her ſelf to bee in great pain,and that a certain º: heavie thing clime's up from the low- er parts unto her throat, and ſtoppeth her winde, her heart burneth and panteth. and in - manie the womb and veſſels of #. womb ſo ſwell, that they cannot ſtandupright on their | legs, but are conſtrained to lie down flat on their bellies, that they may beetheleſs grieved the womb it with the pain, and to preſs that down ſtrongly with their hands, that ſeemeth to ariſe up- ſelf doth not ſo wards, although that not the womb itſelf, but the vapor aſſcendeth from the womb, as wee well make the ſaid before: but when the fitt is at hand, their faces are pale on a ſudden, their underſtand- . - ing is darkncd, they becomſlow and weak in the legs, with unableneſs to ſland. hereof.” commeth ſound ſleep, fooliſh talking, interception of the ſenſes, and breath as if they were - dead, loſs of ſpeech, the contraćtion of their legs, and the like. - chap. xlvi. how to know whether the woman bee dead in the firangulation of the womb, r not. | have thought it meet (becauſmanie women, not onely in ancient times, but in our women live: | own and our fathers memorie have been ſo taken with this kinde of ſymptome, that ing taken for they have been ſuppoſed and laid out for dead,although truly they were alive.) to ſet dº”. down the ſigns in ſuch a caſe which do argue life and death. therefore firſt of all it ma | be prooved, whether ſheebee alive or dead, by laying or holding a clear and à: | looking-glaſs before her mouth and noſtrils. for, if ſheebreath, although it beenever ſo obſcurely, the thin vapor that commeth out will ſtain or make the glaſs duskie. alſo a fine how women douniſh feather taken from under the wing of any bird, or elſ a fine flock beeing held that have the before the mouth,will by the trembling or ſhakeing motion thereof, ſhew that there is ſom . of breath, and therefore life remaining in the bodie. but you may proov moſt certainly whe- ::::::: ther therebee anie ſpark of life remaining in the bodie, by blowing ſom ſheeſing powders º: with- of pellitoric of spain,and elebore into the noſtrils.but º there no breath appear, . out breathing h h h iilº - . concerning the generation of man. lib. . muſt you not judg the woman for dead, for the ſmall vitaſheat by which,being drawnin. : , " . to the heart,ſhee yet liveth;is contented with tranſpiration onely,andrequire's not much at- traštion, which is performed by the contraćtion and dilatation ofthe breaſt andlungs unto how flies, ... the preſervation of it's ſelf. for ſo flies, gnats, piſmires and ſuch like, becauſ they are of a £ººpſ cold temperament, live unmoovably incloſed in the caves of the earth, no token of breath- i..., ing appearing in them, becauſ there is a little heat left in them, which may bee conſerved without y the office of thearteries and heart, that is to ſay, by perſpiration, without the motion of breathing. , the breaſt, becauſ the greateſt uſe of reſpiration is, that the inward heat may bee preſerved - by refrigeration and ventilation. thoſe that do not mark this, fall into that error which almoſt coſt the life of him who in our time firſt gave life to anotomical adminiſtration, that was almoſt decaied and neglećted. a h ſtorie. for hee beeing called in spain to open the bodie of a noblewoman which was ſuppoſed dead through ſtrangulation of the womb, behold, at the ſecond impreſſion of the inciſion knife, ſhee began ſudddenly to com to her ſelf, and by the mooving of her members andbo- die, which was ſuppoſed to bee altogether dead, and with crying, to ſhew manifeſt ſigns that there was ſom life remaining in her. which thing ſtrook ſuch an admiration and hor- ror into the hearts of all her friends that were preſent, that they accounted the phyſician, beeing before of a good fame and report,as infamous,odiousand deteſtable,ſo that it wanted but little but that they would have ſcratched out his eies preſently: wherefore hee thought there was no better waie for him,if hee would live ſafe,then to forſake the countrie.but nei- ther could hee ſo alſo avoid the horrible prick and inward wound of his conſcience (from whoſe judgment no offender can bee abſolved) for his inconſiderate dealing, but within few daics after, beeing conſumed with ſorrow,hee died,to the great loſs of the common-wealth, and the art of phyſick. - chap. xlvii. how to know whether the ſtrangulation of the womb com’s of the ſuppreſſion of he flowers, or the corruption of the ſeed. **@here are two chief cauſes eſpecially, as moſt frequently happening of the ſtran- the ſigns of sº § gulation of the womb : but when it proceedeth from the corruption of theſeed, ſuffocation of k. - - - - ºr- - - - the womb ºliº all the accidents are more grievous and violent: difficultie of breathing goes be- comming of £; § fore, and ſhortly after com's deprivation thereof; the whole habit of the bodie corrupt ſeed. ** ſeemeth more cold then a ſtone: the woman is a widow; or elſhath great ſtore the ſigns or abundance of ſeed, and hath been uſed to the companie of a man, by the abſence whereof when it com’s ſhee was before wont to be pained with heavineſs of the head, to loath her meat, and to bee gºeſ troubled with ſadneſs and fear,but chiefly with melancholie. moreoverwhen ſheehath ſatiſ. hº * fied, and everiewalefulfilled herºuſ, and then preſently on a ſuddenbegins to contain her - ſelf. it is verie likely that ſhee is ſuffocated by the ſuppreſſion of the flowers, which former ly had them well and ſufficiently, which formerly had been fed with hot , moiſt and manic- meats, and therefore engendring muchbloud, which ſitteth much;which is grieved with ſom weight and ſwelling in the region of thebellie, with pain in the ſtomach, and a deſire to vo- the ſigns ºf mit, and with ſuch other accidents as comby the ſuppreſſion of the flowers. thoſe who are . º: freed from the fit of the ſuffocation of the womb, either by nature orby art, in a ſhort time É... their color comethinto their faces by little and little, and the whole bodie beginneth to the womb, wax ſtrong,and the teeth,that were ſet and cloſed faſt together, begin (the jaws beeing looſ. ed) to open and uncloſe again, and laſtly, ſom moiſture floweth from the ſecret parts with a certain tickling pleaſure; but in ſom women, as in thoſe eſpecially in whom the neck of the womb is tickled with the midwives finger,inſtead of thatmoiſiurecom's thick and groſs fººd, which moiſture or feed when it is fallen, the womb being before as it were rageing is why the ſup- reſtored unto it's own proper nature and place, and by little and little all ſymptoms vaniſh preſſion of the *w*y. men by the ſuppreſſion of their ſeed have not the like ſymptomes as women have, be- fººd is not pº-taufmans feed is not ſo cold and moiſt, but far more perfeót and better digeſted, and there- filous ordeal for more meet to reſiſt putrefaction, and whiles it is brought or drawn together by little ly to me". and little, it is diſſipated y great and violentexerciſe. º chap. xlviii. - the pullin — of the cure of the strangulation of the womb. jof Žtº peing that the ſtrangulation of the womb is a ſudden and ſharp diſeaſ it therefore the lower parts ºf uireth a preſent and ſpeedie remedie,for if it bee neglected it manie times cauſ. *pººle ºſcih preſent death. therefore,when this maladie commeth,the ſick woman muſt . §: . tº preſentlybee placed on her back,haveing her breaſt and ſtomach looſ, and all her #.of cloaths & garments ſlack & looſabout her,whereby ſhee may take breath the more eaſily;and the ſame. ſhee w lib. . concerning the generation of aºſan. - º ſºlº º: id: º ougi: wº tº: in iſ six. bodie tº: attº tº: º ik iſ: #: !!!” º: º º: sº gº º: jº iſ: º º tle º : ſhee muſt becalledon by her own name,with a loudyoice inherears,and pulled hard by the hairs of the temples and neck, but yet eſpecially by the hairs of the ſecret parts, that by pro- vokeing or cauſing pain in the lower parts, the patient may notonely beebrought to her felfagain, but alſo that the ſharp and malign vapor aſcending upwards, maybee drawn downwards: the legs and arms muſt beebound and tied with painful ligatures, all the bodie muſt beerubbed over with rough linnen clothes beſprinkled with ſalt and vineger, until it bee veriefore and red, and let this peſſarie following beeput into the womb. r.ſucci mercu- rial artemiſan. ii. in quibu, diſſolve pul, bened, iii. pulradic, enule camp. galang, minor, an. . i. make thereofa peſſarie. then letthe ſoals of her feet bee annointed with oil of baies, or with ſom ſuch like oil, let a great cupping-glaſs with a great flame bee applied to the bellie belºw the navel, to the inner part of #. thigh, and to the groin, whereby both the matter that climes upwards, and alſo the womb itſelf running the ſame waie, may beebrought downwards or drawn back. there maybeemade a fumigation of ſpices to bee received up into the womb,which,that it may bee the eaſierdon,the womb may bee held open by putting in this inſtrumenthere deſcribed into the neck thereof. letit beenade of gold, ſilver or latin into the form of a peſſarie;at the one end thereofthat is to ſay,that end which goeth up into the neck of the womb, let therebee made manie holeson each fide,but at the lowerendlet it bee made with a ſpring, that it may open and ſhut as you will have it. alſo it muſt have two º: bandsby which it muſt beenlade faſt unto a ſwathe or girdle tied about the pa. tient's bellie. - the deſcription of a veſſel made with • funnel or t for to fumigate t e womb. f - - the form of a peſſarie to bee put in thenec of the wombto holdii open. k. the a peſſarie, concerning the generation ofman. lib. . the matterandingredients of ſweet and aromatick fumigations, are cinnamom, callam. . ºf aromatiigaloes,ladanum,benzoin,thyme pepper, cloves, lavander, calaminth, mugworth, .."” penniroyal, alepia moſhat. nutmegs, musk, amber, ſquinant, and ſuch like, which for their by what power iweet ſmell and ſympathie, allure or entice the womb downwards, by their heat conſume ſweet fumiga- and digeſt the thick vapors, and putrefied ill juice. contrariwiſe, let the noſtrilsbee perfu- *** med with fetid and rank ſmels, and let theſe beemade with gum.galhannºn, ſagapenum, ammo- ...” niacum, aſſa frtida, bitumen, oil of jeat, ſnuff of a tallow-candle when it is blown out, with jºi... the fume of bird's tethers, eſpecially of partridges and woodcocks, of man's hair or goat's stinking ſmels hair, of old lether, of horſhoofs, and ſuch like things burned, whoſe noiſomor offenſive to be applied ſavor the womb avoiding, doth return unto its own place or ſeat again. *** . moreover it ſhallbee verie neceſſarie to procure vomit by thruſting a gooſ fether down avicen's ſecret into the throat, or elſthe hairs of the patient's own head. shortly after ſhee muſt uſe apo- i., tion of fifteen grains of black pepper bruiſed and diſſolved in hydromel, or water and honie ºthºm, mixed together, or in ſom ſtrong wine, which remedie avicenholdeth for a ſecret. alſo in ſtead thereofthree hours before meat ſ...of treacle diſſolved. in i. of the water of wormwood may bee given her : alſo it is thought that one drop of the oil of jeat drop- ped on the tongue, is averie profitable remedie. there bee ſom that allow a potion of half cºſmundºun a dram of caſtoreum diſſolved in white wine, orin the brothofa capon; alſo it is profitable ken. not onely to give her treacle to drink, but alſo to injećt it into the womb, beeing firſt diſ. expreſſionsin- ſolved in aqua vite, and in the mean time to drop two drops of oil of sage, or ſom ſuch chi- **** mical oil, into the ears. if ſheebee drowfie or ſleepie, ſheemuſt bee awaked or kept wakeing with ſheefing powders, of white hellebore and pºllitorie, the matter of . it is alſo requiſite to injećt glyſters both into the fundameut and ſecret parts, which muſt peſſaries. bee made of the decoötion of things that diſcuſs winde, as of calamint, mugwort, lavander, ſº. melilot, and ſuch like; and let peſſaries or ſuppoſitories beenade of adanum, ginger, galliamoſchat. treacle, mithridate, civet and musk, of the oil of cloves, anni- ſeeds, ſage, roſemarie, and ſuch like, chymically drawn; this following is a convenient de- ag!yſter ſat- ſcription of a glyſler. r.radic.enule, amp ireof, ebuli, ariſtoloch.an. i.folabſyntbartemeſe, ma- teling groſs tricar.puleg. origami, an m.i. baccarum lauri,juniperi & ſambuc. anpi, ſemamios,cymini.rute,an. ii. vapors. forum ſtrebados,roriſmarin ſalvie.centaur:minorian piifiat decošiio, tape colatureſb.iin quádiſſolve mellis antboſatiſaccrubr. & bened an i.diacharth. ii olei anºth-mardan iſ make thereofa gly- ſter, and and applie this #. following to the bellie. r. maſs emploxycrocei, & melilot in. a quick certain iii oleinard.as much as ſhall ſuffice to make it conveniently ſoft, make thereofa plaſter, and ick, certat and a pleaſant ſpread it on leather, and applie it to the region of the bellie when the fit is ended: if ſheebee : º" married, lether forthwith uſe copulation, and bee ſtrongly encountered by her husband, for the ſuffocation there is no remedie more preſent then this. of the womb. let the midwife annointher fingers with oleum nardinum or moſthetalinum, or of cloves, or ticklºg ºf...elſ of ſpike mixed with musk, ambergreeſ, civet, and other ſweet powders, and with theſe the º ** jetherºus or tickle the topofthe neck ofthe womb which toucheth the inner orifice, but "* . , her ſecret parts muſt firſt bee warmed by the applying of warm linnen cloaths,for ſo at length the venomous matter contained in the womb, ſhallbee diſſolved and flow out, and themi- lign, ſharp and flatulent vapors, whereby the womb is driven as it were into a furie or rage, ſhalſbee reſolved and diſſipated, and ſo when the conjun't matter of the diſeaſ is ſcattered and waſted, the womb, and alſo the woman, ſhall bee reſored unto themſelvs again, som hold it for a ſecret to rub the navel with the juice of garlick boiled and mixed * with aloes. chap. xlix. of women's monthly flux or courſeſ. ğsually they call the flux of bloud, that iſſueth from the ſecret parts of women, º monthlieflowers or courſes, becauſit happenth to them everie month ſo long # as they are in health. there bee ſom which call then terms, becauſthey return at their uſual time. manie of the french men call it ſepmains, becauſin ſuch as *** fit much, and are given to plentifull feeding, it endureth almoſt for the ſpace of ſeven daies. somcalithem purgations, becauſthat by this flux all a woman's bodie is pur. ged of ſuperfluous humors. therebee ſom alſo that call thoſe fluxes the flowers,becauſthat as in plants the flower buddeth out before the fruits; ſo in women kinde this flux goeth be- fore the iſſue, or the conception thereof. for the courſes flow not before a woman bee able to conceiv; for how ſhould the ſeed beeing caſt into the womb have his nouriſhment and increaſ and how ſhould the childe have his nouriſhment when it is formed of the ſeed, if this neceſſarie humor were wanting in the what women womb? yet it may bee ſom women may conceiv without the flux of the courſes: but that is #. ...: in ſuch as have ſo much of the humor gathered together,as is wont to remain in thoſe which º: ... are purged, although it bee not ſo great a quantitie that it may flow out, as it is recorded by the reaſon of &º: the names of $ thcmonthlie º flux of women. § lib. . concerning the generation of man. *** º: by ariſutle. but as it is in ſom verie great, and in ſon verielittle,ſo it is in ſom ſeldom,and in ſom verie often. - there are ſom that are purged twice,and ſom thrice in a moneth, but it is altogether in what women thoſe who have a great liver, large veins, and are filled and fed with many and greatly nou- have this men- riſhing meats, which fit idlely at home all day, which haveing ſlept all night, do notwith-prual flux of: ſtanding lie in bed ſleeping a great part of the day alſo, which live in a hot, moiſt,rainie and ...", * foutherly air, which uſe warm baths of ſweet waters and gentle frićtions, which uſe and are #: ſpace greatly delighted with carnal copulation: in theſe and ſuch like women the courſes flow then others. in ſt frequently and abu adantly. * ... ." - - - but contrariwiſe, in thoſethat have ſmall and obſcure veins, in thoſe that have theirbo- what women dies more furniſhed and big either with fleſh or with fat, are more ſeldom purged, and alſo have this flux more ſparingly, becauſthat the ſuperfluous quantitie of blood uſeth to go into the habit of mºre ſºdom, the bodie. alſo tender, delicate and fair women are leſs purged than thoſe that are brown º: far - and endoed with a more compačfieſh, becauſthat by the raritieoftheir bodies,they ſuffer a ..." £reater wafting or diſſipation of their ſubſtance by tranſpiration. moreover, they are not others. ſo greatly purged with this kinde of purgation, which ſomother ſolemn or accuſtomed eva- cuation in anie other place of their bodie,as by the noſe or hemorrhoids. ... and as concerning their age, old women are purged when the moon is old, and young why young women when the moon is new, as it is thought. i think the cauſthereof is, for that the women are moon ruleth moiſt bodies, for by the variable motion thereof the sea floweth and ebbeth, º andbones, marrow and plants abound with their genital humor, . time therefore young people which have much blood, and more fluxible, and their bodies mors fluxible, are ſoon moved unto a flux, although it beeeyen in the firſt quarter of the why old wo. moon's riſing or increaſing: but the humors of old women, becauſthey wax ſtiff as it were men are purged with cold,and are not ſo abundant,and have more denſ bodies and ſtraighter veſſels, are not in th; want of foaptro afiux, nordo they ſo eaſily flow, except it bee in the full of the moon, or elſin ** the decreaf; that is to ſay, becauſthe blood that is gathered in the full of the moon fall's from the body even of its own weight, for that by reaſon of the decreaſing or wane of the moon this time of the moneth is more cold and moiſt. - - - - - c. h. a.p. l. * the cauſes of the monethly flux or courſes. ºf cauſ a woman is more cold, and therefore hath the digeſtive facultie more the material § ) § weak,itcºmethto paſs,that ſhee requireth and deſireth more meat or food than cauſe of the |- : * monethlie º jº ſhee can digeſt or concoët: and becauſthat ſuperfluous humor that remaineth'. º h § is not digeſted by exerciſe nor by the efficacie of firong and lively heat, there- §fore by the providence or benefit of nature it floweth out by the veins of the - - - - womb, by the power of the expulfive faculty, at its own certain and prefixed ſeaſon or time. but then eſpecially it beginneth to flow, and a certain crude portion of when the blood to bee expelled, being hurtfull and malign otherwiſe in no qualitie, when nature jºins hath laid her principal foundations of the increaſ of the bodie, ſo that in greatneſs of the begin's to flow. bodie,ſhee hath com as it were in a manner to the higheſt top, that is to ſay, from the thir- - teenth to the fiftieth yeer of ourage. - moreover, the childe.cannot bee formed in the womb, nor have his nutrimentorencreaſ without this flux: therefore this is another finall cauſ, of the monethly flux. manie are the final perſwaded that women do farmore abound with blood than men,conſidering how great an cauſ. abundance of blood they caſt forth of their ſecret parts everie moneth, from the thirteenth a woman ex- to the fiftieth year of their age: how much women great with childe, of whom alſo manie teed's a man in are menſtruallyeeld unto the nutriment and encreaſ of the childe in their wombs, and how * of much phyſicians take from women that are with childe by opening of a vein, which other- - wiſe would beedelivered before their naturall and prefixed time; how great a quantitie thereof they avoid in the birth of their children, and for ten or twelvdaies after, and how great a quantitie of milk they ſpend for the nouriſhment of the childe when they give ſuck, which milk is none other thing than blood made white by the power of the kernels that are in the dugs, which doth ſuffice to nouriſh the childe, bee hee great or little ; yet notwith- ſtanding manie nurſes in the meanwhile are menſtrual : and as that may be true, ſo certain- a - ly this is true, that one dram(that i may ſo ſpeak) of a mans blood, is of more efficacie to .. … nouriſh and encreaſ, than two pounds of woman's blood, becauſit is far more perfeót, more ºn in the concoëted, wrought,andbetter repleniſhed with abundance of ſpirits: whereby it commeth qualith of his - to paſs that a man endued with a more ſtrong heat, doth more eaſily convert what meat ſo-blood. . ever he satethunto the nouriſhment and ſubſtance of his bodie; and if that anie ſuperfluitie f . more remain's, he doth eaſily digeſt and ſcatter it by inſenſible tranſpiration. but a woman be-. ing more cold than a man, becauſ ſhee taketh more than ſhee can concoët, doth gº-ji. ther together more humors, which becauſ ſhee cannot diſperſ, by reaſon . ſtrual. unperfect- concerning the generation of man. lib. . º unperfe&neſs and weakneſs of her heat, it is neceſſarie that ſhee ſhould ſuffer, and have her monethly purgation, eſpecially when ſhee groweth unto ſom bigneſs; but there is no ſuch need in a man. c. h. a. p. l.i. the cauſes of the ſuppreſſion of the courſes or menſtrual flux. §§he courſes are ſuppreſſed or ſtopped by manie cauſes, asby ſharp, vehement, and º sº long diſeaſes,by fear, ſorrow, hunger, immoderate labors, watchings, fluxes of lºsſº the bellie, greatbleeding, hamorrhoids, fluxes of blood at the mouth, and eval * * * cuations in anie other part of the bodie whatſoever, often opening of avein, greatſweats, ulcers flowing much and long, ſcabbineſs of the wholeskin, immoderate groſſ neſs and clammineſs of the blood, and by eating of raw fruits, and drinking of cold water, by ſluggiſhneſs and thickneſs of the veſſels, and alſo the obſtrućtion of them by the default: and diſeaſes of the womb, by diſtemperature, an abſceſs, an ulcer, by the obſtruation of the inner orifice thereof, by the growing of a callus, caruncle,cicatrize of a wound or ulcer, or thºliſh membrane growing there, by injetting of aſtringent things into the neck of the womb, º: : which placemania womenendeavor fooliſhly to make narrow: i ſpeak nothing of age, jº. greatneſ; with childe, and nurſing of children, becauſtheſe cauſesare not befid: nature, womb narrow, neither do they require the help of the phyfitian. is rewarded manie women, when their flowers or tearms be ſtopped, degenerate after a manner into a withº, certain manly nature, whence they are called viragines, that is to ſay, ſtout, or manly wo- i.” men ; therefore their voice is more loudand big,likeunto a mans, and they becomebearded. ...'. in the citie abdera (ſaith, hippºcrates). phaethuſa the wife of pythea, at the firſt didbear what women children and was fruitful, but when her husband was exiled, her flowers were ſtopped for a are called longtime: but when theſe things happened,her bodiebecame manlike and rough,and had a beard, and her voice was great and ſhrill. the verie ſame thing happened to namyſia the fº. wife of gorgippus in thaſus. thoſe virgins that from the beginning have not their moneth- †emen ly flux, and yet nevertheleſs enjoy their perfect health,they muſt neceſſarily be hot and drie, that are called or rather of a manly heatand drineſs,that they may ſo diſperſand diſſipate by tranſpiration, viragines are as men do, the excrements that are gathered,but verily all ſuch are barren. - barren. c h a p. l ii. * ". what accidents follow the ſuppreſſion or ſtopping of the monethly flax or flowers. hen the flowers or monethly flux are ſtopped, diſeaſes affect the womb, and from thence paſs into all the whole bodie. for thereof commeth ſuffocation of the womb, headach, ſwouning, beating of the heart, and ſwelling of the breaſts and - ſecret parts,inflammation of the womb,an abſceſs, ulcer, cancer, a feaver, nauſeouſ- why . . neſs, vomitings, difficult and ſlow concoëtion, the dropfie, ſtrangurie, the full womb preſſin ... upon the orifice of the bladder, black and bloodie urine, by reaſon thatportion ofthºbi urine follow-, ſweateth out into the bladder. in manie women the ſtopped matter of the monethly flux is eth, the ſup-, excluded by vomiting, urine,and the harmorrhoids, in ſom it groweth into varices. in my gºon of the wife, when ſhee was a maid, the menſtrual matter was excluded and purged by the noſtrils. #., of thewife of peter feure of caffeaudun, was purged of her menſtrual matter by the dugseverie fºre moneth, and in ſuch abundance, that ſcarce three or four cloaths were able to drie it and purged of their fuck it up. - - - anenſtrual flux . in thoſe that have not the flux monethly to evacuate this plenitude by ſom part or place }. * of the bodie, there often follows difficultic of breathing, melancholie, madneſs, the gout, *nd dugº an ill diſpoſition of the whole bodie, diſſolution of the ſtrength of the whole bodie, want of#. a conſumption, the falling ſickneſs,an apoplexie. thoſe whoſe blood is laudable, yet not ſo abundant, do receiv no other diſcommoditie by the ſuppreſſion of the flowers, unleſs it be that the womb burn's oritcheth with the de- fire of copulation, by reaſon that the womb is diſtended with hot and itching blood, eſpeci- to what wo- ally if they lead a ſedentary life. thoſe women that have been accuſtomed to bearchil ren, *...theſºp; are not ſo grieved and evil at eaſe when their flowers are ſtoppedby anie chance contrarie to *: ‘. * nature, as thoſe women which did never conceiv, becauſ they have been uſed to be filled, moſt grievous. and the veſſels by reaſon of their cuſtomarie repletion and diſtention, are more large and ca- - pacious: when the courſes flow, the appetite is partly dejećted, for that nature, beeing then wholly applied to expulſion,cannot throughly conco& or digeſt, the facewaxeth pale, and without its lively color, becauſthat the heat with the ſpirits, go from without inwards,ſo to help and aid {: expulſive facultie. - - * chap. ---> __^- - f - *fice of the womb muſible fomented with white wine of the dºcation of pmniroyall or of the ſtopped orifice of the womb, orby inflammation, theſe maladies muſt firſt bee cured of the ſtopping – - –- lib. , concerning the generation of man. - - chap. liii. . . . - - - - - - of prºvºking the flowers or tourſes. ... . . . . . . . nºtaº he ſuppreſſion of the flower is aplethorick diſeaſ and thereforemuſ beecured sº v, ºs ". evacuation, which muſt bee don by opening the veincalled saphena, which why theria is at the ankle, but firſtlet the baſilike win of the arm bec opened, eſpecially call diffia *sº if the bodiebeeplethorick, left that there ſhoulda greater ...i. it: tº into the wºmb, and by ſº attºiano, owing in; herºſionid game a jº greatºr obſtrułion. when the veins of the womb are diffended with ſo great a ſwelling?..." they maybee ſeen, it willbºeveris profitable to applie horſ-letches to the neck thereočº. ſſaries for women may bee uſed; but fumigations of aromatick things are more meet horſleeches rmaids, becawſ they are baſhfull and ſhamefadd, unguents, lininents, emplaſters, cata: ºppº q sº plaſms, that ºr for hºmºtºr, rºbºſcribed and applied to the ºpiº, liga. ...“ fare andfision ºf the thigh and lºgºnºtº omij, ſomenºn.” _ tatories are to bee uſed, and cupping glaſſes are to bee applied to the groins, walking, - dancing, rideing, often and ºº:: with her husband, and ſuch like exerciſes, \ provoke the flowers. of plants, the flowers of st.john's- §: £nnel, and plantstha. aſparagus, bruſals orbatcher's brºomsofparſki bººklinºiſil, balm, befoniegatiº, º | onions, criſia marina, coſtmariº, the rindeorbark of caſia fiſtula calamint, origanum,pen flowers. iºnſ, mugwort, thyme,hyſſºp,ſºgºmarjºramisoſºmatiºhºrehºund, rue, ſavin, ſpurge, - ſaffron,agarick the flowers of elder, bai-berries, ſheberries of lyie,ſcammoniº, cantharides, - pyrethrum or pellitorie of spain, tuphºrbium. the aromatick things are ampmancinnamoa, sweetthing. £º. nutmegs, ºlamº arºmaticus, typeſº,gingº, cloves, galingal, pepper, cubibes, - amber,mask, ſpiknard, and ſuch like; of all which lºt fomenfitiºns, fumigations, baths, hº potions, pils, ſyrups, apozºmes, and opiates be made the phyſicians ſhall link good. - . - . . . . . iº cº, , , i.e : , ; * * : * * . “. . . . the apozeme that followeth is proved to bevºiseiðull #ftleiriºnºpiirim. an apozeme • pinel, m . ºmnium capillar: an pi artemiſ thymi, miſjºr, origénign:mſ, radruhtmajºr petraſºlin to prºvokº the fenicºlamä iſ, rad.peon-hifiertºn, ſ. citeranºſºm.pean:feriºd, an: &taake thereof a flowers. - *iºcoionina ſufficient quantitiegfwater, ding theretºcinºmonºiſſin one pintofthe - º decošion diſſolve (after it is ſtrained) ºf the ſyrup of mugwort, and *; an; ii, diarrhºd, abbat. i.let it be ſtrained through a bag, with ii. of the kernels of dates, andle; her take; iiii, in the morning, ...º ***'. . . . ... ." . . . let peſſariesbee mide with gallanum, ammoniarkº, and ſuch like mollifying things,beaten into a maſs in a mortar with a hot peſtel, and made into the form of a peſſarie, and then let them bee mixed with oil of jaſmine, euphorbium,an ox-gall,the juice of mugwurt, and other {uch like, wherein there is power to provoke the flowers, as with ſcammonie-in powder: º let them be as big as ones thumb,fix fingers long, and fowled in lawn, or ſom º: thin - f linnen cloth; of the ſame things nodula's maybee made. alſo peſſaries may bee prepared with honieboiled, adding thereto convenient powders as of ſºaquonie-rellitorie and ſuch - ! like. neither ought theſe to ſtaielongin the neck of the womb, left they ſhould exulcerate, and they muſt be pulledbackby a thread that muſkbetput thrºugh them, and then the ori- mother-wort, - ºn , ſº " . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . - . but it is to benoted, that if the ſuppreſſion of the flowers happeneth through the default what cauſes before we come unto thoſe things that of their proper ſtrength and virtue provoke the of the flowers flowers; as for example, if ſuch thingsbee made and given when the wombis ºlº. ! blood hering drawn into the grieved place and he humºrs ſharp'ned, and the bodie of the jí" º wombheated, the inflammation willbee increaſed, §o if there bºeanieſuperfluous fleſh, if t "" . ſ there beeaniecallus of a wound or ulcer, oriftherebºe aniemembraneſhaſting the orifice .* * * º of the womb, and ſo ſtopping the flux of the flowers,they muſt firſt bee conſumed and taken away before anie of thoſe things bee adminiſtred. but the opportunitie of takeing and the firſt. | applying of thingº, muſt beetaken from thetive wherein the ſick woman was wontºo-bee iº. . £urged before the ſtopping, or if ſhee never had the flowers, in the decreaſiof the moon; yoke the - for ſo wºeſhall have cuſtom, nature,and the external efficient cauſe to help art. when theſe flºº. *edicinesareuſed the women are not to be put into bathsorbot houſes;asmaniedo, except ſ º; hou- i. ºmaladieprocºdfrom the denſitieºfthe veſſels, and the gºoſneſs and clammineſs of she jº * - —- --- - - - - - - - - - w blood. for ſweats hinder themenſtrual flux, by diverting and turning the matter ano-ºffº' ; ther waie. , ' ' ' ) - : . . . . . . . f : . . . wºº' - ſº, are ; * — — ” | . . . . . . . . . . -c h a p ºf iiii ºn tº ºn '. . . . . . . . a the ſigns of the approaching of the menārual flux. - - - * w w when the monthlieflux firſt approacheth, the dugs itch and become more ſwoln and *- $ard then they were wont, the woman is more defirous of copulation, by reaſon ; thº o concerning the generation of man. lºai. what women the ebullition of the provoked blood, and the acrimonie of the blood that remaineth, her dº love and voice becommeth bigger, her ſecret parts itch, burn, ſwell, and wax red. if they ſtaie long, . ſheehath pain in her loins and head, nauſeouſneſs and vomiting troubleth the ſtomach. ... notwithſtanding, if thoſe matters which flow together in the womb, either of their own tion wºn the nature, rby corruption,bee cold,they loath the aët of generation,by reaſon that the womb months are waxeth feeble through ſluggiſhneſs and waterie humors filling the ſame, and it floweth by ſtop # the ſecret parts verie ſoftly. thoſe maids that are marriageable, although they have the §: ... menſtrual flux verie well, yet they are troubled with headach, nauſeouſneſs, anáoften wo. ... miting, want of appetite, longing, an ill habite of bodie,difficultie of breathing,trembling riageable and of the heart, ſwouning, melancholie, fearfull dreams, watching, with ſadneſs and heaviº are not mar-, neſs, becauſ that the genital parts burning and itching, they imagine thea&of generation, §. ** whereby it commeth to paſs that the ſeminal matter,either remaining in the teſtićies in great #.autoff, abundance,or elſpowred into the hollowneſs of the womb by the tickling of the genitals,is in..." corrupted,and acquireth a venemous qualitie, and cauſeth ſuch like accidents as happen's dents. in the ſuffocation of the womb. maids that live in the countrie are not ſo troubled with thoſe diſeaſes, becauſ there is no ſuch lying in wait for their maiden-heads,and alſo they live ſparingly and hardly,and ſpend their time in continual labor. you may ſee manie maids ſo full of juice, that it runneth in great abundance, as if they were not menſtrual, into their dugs, and is there converted into apb. ſta.s. milk,which they have in as great quantitieae, nurſes, as we read it recorded by hippocrates. lf a woman which is neither great with childe, nor hath born children, hath milk, ſhee wants the menſtrual fluxes; whereby you may underſtand that that concluſion is not good which affirmeth that a woman which hath milk in her breaſts, either to be delivered of lib. deſult, childe, or to be great with childe: for cardanus writeth that hee knew one antonie buzu, at genua, who beeing thirtie years of age, had ſo much milk in his breaſts as was ſufficient to the efficient nurſ a childe; for the breeding and efficient cauſe of milk proceed's not onely from the cauſ of the engrafted facultie of the glandulous ſubſtance,but much rather from the ačtion of theman's ***** ſeed; for proof whereofyou may ſee maniemen that have verie much milk in their breaſts, nored. and maniewomen that almoſt have no milk, unleſs they receiv man's ſeed. alſo women that are ſtrong and luſtie like unto men, which the latines call viragines, that is to ſay, whoſe ſeed commeth unto a manly nature, when theflowers are ſtopped, conco& the blood, and therefore when it wanteth paſſage forth, by the likeneſs of the ſubſtance it is drawn into the dugs, and becommeth perfeit milk; thoſe that have the flowers plentifully and continually for the ſpace offour or five daies, are better purged and with more happie ſucceſs then thoſe that have them for a longer time. c h a p. lv. what accidents follow immoderate fluxes of the flowers or courſes. f the menſtrual flux floweth immoderately, there alſo follow's manie accidents; for the conco&ion is fruſtrated, the appetite overthrown, then follow's coldneſs throughout all the bodie, exolution of all the faculties, an ill habit of all the bodie, leanneſs, the dropfie, an he&ick fever, convulſion, ſwouning, and often ſudden death: if a- nie have them too exceeding immoderatly,the blood is ſharp and burning, and alſo ſtinking, the fick woman is alſo troubled with a continual fever, and her tongue will bee drie, ulcers . i. ſº. ariſe in the gums and all the whole mouth. in women the flowers do flow by the veins and #: ...” arteries which riſe out of the ſpermatick veſſels, and ended in the bottomandſides of the *andina womb, but in virgins and in women great with childe, whoſe children are ſound and maid. healthful, by the branches of the hypogaſtrick vein and arterie, which are ſpred and diſper- the cauſes of ſed over the neck of the womb, the cauſ of this immoderate flux is in the quantitie or i. *...* qualitie of the blood, in both the fault is unreaſonable copulation, eſpecially with a man blood. that hath a yard of a monſtrous greatneſs,and the diſſolution of the retentivefacultie of the veſſels: oftentimes alſo the flowers flow immoderately by reaſon of a painful and a difficult the critical birth of the childeor the after-birth, beeing pulled by violence from the cotyledons of the flux of the womb,or by reaſon that the veins and arteries of the neck of the womb are tornby the com- #: f ming forth of the infant with great travel, and manie times by the uſe of ſharp medicines, tº... and exulcerating peſſaries. oft-times alſº nature avoids all the juice of he whole bºdie jº" critically by the womb after agreat diſeaſ, which flux is not raſhly or ſuddenly to be ſtop- womborned ped.that menſtrual bloodthat floweth from the womb is more groſs,black, and clottie, but ofthe womb. that which commeth from the neck of the womb is more clear,liquid and red. º . . ." *- -: * . . . . - chap. tºmºsºm- - → —º- : º - - - lºa. - _ concerning the generation of man. - i / chap. lvi. of ſtopping the immoderate flowing of the flowers or courſes. pou muſt make choice of ſuch meats and drinks as have power to incraſſate the v blood; for as the flowers are provoked with meats that are hot, and of ſubtil ºf parts, ſo they are ſtopped by ſuch meats as are cooling, thickning, aſtringent, and ſtiptick, asare barlie-waters, ſodden rice, the extreme parts of beaſts, as of ** oxen, calvs, ſheep, either fried or ſodden with ſorrel, purſlain, plantain, ſhep- herp's-purſ, ſumach, the buds of brambles, berberries, and ſuch like. it is ſuppoſed that a hart's-horn burned, waſhed,and taken in aſtringent water, will ſtop all immoderate fluxes; likewiſe ſangui, draconia,terraſſgillata, bolus armenus, lapis hematites, coral beaten into moſt ſub- til powder, and drunk in ſteeled water; alſo papmade with milk, wherein ſteel hath often- times been quenched, and the flowr of wheat, barlie, beans, or rice, is verie effettual for the fame. quinces, cervices, medlars, cornelian-berries, or cherries may likewiſe bee eaten at the ſecond courſ, julips are to bee uſed of ſteeled waters, with the ſyrup of drie roſes, pome- granats, ſorrel, myrtles, quinces, or old conſervs of red roſes, but wine is to bee avoided; but if the ſtrength bee ſo extenuated, that they require it, you muſt chuſegroſs and aſtringent wine tempered with ſteeled water; exerciſes are to bee ſhunned, eſpecially venereous exer- ciſes, anger is to bee avoided, a cold air is to bee choſen, which (if it bee not ſo naturally) muſt beenade ſo by ſprinkling cold things on the ground,eſpecially if the ſummer or heat bee then in his full ſtrength ; ſound ſleeping ſtaie's all evacuations, except ſweating. the opening of a vein in thearm, cupping-glaſſes faſtened on the breaſts, bands, and painful fri- &ions of the upper parts are greatly commended in this maladie. but if you perceiv that the cauſof this accident lieth in a cholerick ill juice mixed with purgsing. the blood, the bodie muſt bee purged with medicines that purge choler and water, as ru- barb, myrobalanes, tamarinds, sebeſtens, and the purgeing ſyrup of roſes. cha p. lw ii. of local medicines to bee uſed againſt the immoderate flowing of the courſes. §§lſo unguents are made to ſtay the immoderate flux of the terms, and likewiſe § injećtions and peſſaries. this or ſuch like may bee the form of an unguent. r.al mafiich. myrt.an. ii. nucum cupreſ. olibani, myrtilan. ii, ſucci roſar. rubr. i. pulvºmaffithin ii.boli armen.terre ſigilatan. ſ.cere quantum ſufficit, fiat inguen- *ium. an ºf: may bee thus made. raq plantagroſarrubrºburſe paſtor, ten- anaſtringent tinodii, anſbſ.corticis que - lumin.rochan. i. make thereof a decočtion, and injećt it in a ſyringe blunt-pointed into the womb, leſt if it ſhould beeſharp, it might hurt the fides of the neck of the womb; alſo snails beaten with their ſhells, and applied to the navel, are verie profitable. quinces roſted under the coles, and incorporated with the powder of myrtles, and *...} and put into the neck of the womb, are marvellous effectual for this matter. the form of a peſſarie may bee thus, rºgallar immaturar.combuſt. in aceto extinčiar ii. ammo. ſ ſang dracon pulv.rad. aftingent ſymphytſumachmaſtich ſucci acacie, cornu ceruff.colºphon, myrrhe, ſcorie ferri,an. i.caphur iimix peſſaries them,and incorporate them all together with the juice of knot-graſs, ſyngreen, night-ſhade, hen-bane,water-lillies,plantain,of each as much as is ſufficient,and make thereof a peſſarie. cooling things,as oxycrate, unguentum roſatum, and ſuch like, are with great profit uſed to the region of the loins, thighs, and genital parts: but if this immoderate flux do comby eroſion, ſo that the matter thereof continually exulcerateth the neck of the womb ; let the place bee annointed with the milk of a ſhee-aſs, with barlie-water,orbindeing and aſtrin- gent mucelages, as of pſilium, quinces,gum tragacanth, arabick, and ſuch like. cha p. lviii. ºr º: , , of women's fluxes, or the whites. / the inſtituti- on or order of an unguent. i, mucum cupreſſi, gallar.non maturarian. ii. berberis,ſumach. balauff. a- injećtion. s . gº efides the fore-named flux, which by the law of nature happeneth to women the reaſon of Élſº jº) monthly, there is alſo another called a woman's flux, becauſit is onely pro- ºname." we y., per and peculiar to them: this ſomtimes wearieth the woman with a long and the diff. # continual diſtillation from the womb, or through the womb, comming from rences the whole bodie without pain, no otherwiſe then when the whole ſuperfluous filth of the bodie is purged by the reins or urine; ſomtimes it returneth at uncertain ſea- ſons, and ſomtimes with pain and exulcerateing the places of the womb: it differeth from the menſtrual flux, becauſthat this for the ſpace of a few daies, as it ſhall ſeem convenient to nature, caſteth forth laudable blood; but this woman's flux yeeldeth impure ill juice, - iii ſomtimes *| . concerning the generation of man. lib. . - the cure of the whites. *- if the flux of a f the matter that floweth out in this diſeaſbee of a red color, it differeth from º wºmanbee the natural monthly flux in this onely, becauſit keep's no order or certain time º : . t in its returning. therefore phlebotomie and other remedies which wee have .." ſpoken of, as requiſite for the menſtrual flux, when it floweth ... > * flux, here neceſſarieto bee uſed. but if it bee white, or doth tellifie or argue the ill - ſomtimes ſanious, ſomtimes ſerous and livid, otherwhiles white and thick, like unto bar- lie-cream, proceeding from flegmatickblood : this laſt kinde thereof is moſt frequent. what women therefore wee ſee women that are flegmatick, and of a ſoft and looſhabit of bodie to bee **p*to this often troubled with this diſeaſ; and therefore they will ſay among themſelvsthat they have flux. thewhites. andas the matter is divers, ſo it will ſtain their ſmocks with a different color. truely, if it bee perfeſtly red and ſanguine, it is to bee thought it commeth by eroſion, or the exſolution of the ſubſtance of the veſſels of the womb, or of the neck thereof: therefore women's flux it commeth verie ſeldom of blood, and not at all except the woman beeeither great with ſeldom of blood there floweth a certain whayiſh excrement, which ſtaineth her cloaths with the color of wa- terwherein fleſhis waſhed: alſo itverieſeldom proceed's of melancholick humor,and then for the moſt partit cauſ. ſeth a cancer in the womb. but often-times the purulent and bloodie matter of an ulcer ly- inghidden in the womb, deceiveth the jº. or phyſician: but it is not ſo by what figns hard to know theſe diſeaſes one from the other; for the matter that floweth from an ulcer, an ulcer in the becauſ(as it is ſaid) it is purulent, it is alſo leſſer, groſſer, ſtinking, and more white. but *. . * thoſe that have ulcers in thoſe places, eſpecially in the neck of the womb,cannot have copu- .* lation with a man withoutpain. - flowers. cha p. lix. of the cauſes of the whites. s: omtimes the cauſof the whites conſiſteth in the proper weakneſs of the womb, * or elſ in the uncleanneſs thereof; and ſomtimes by the default of the principal parts. for if the brain or the ſtomach bee cooled, or the liver ſtopped or ſchir- rous, manie crudities are engendered, which if they run, or fall down into the womb that is weak by nature, they cauſthe flux of the womb, or whites: but how a wo: if this flux bee moderate,and not ſharp, it keepeth the bodie from malign diſeaſes; other- mºnºflux * wiſe it uſeth to infer a conſumption, leanneſs, paleneſs, and an ordematous ſwelling of the #:... legs, the falling down of the womb, the dejećtion of the appetite and all the faculties, and #... continual ſadneſs and ſorrowfulneſs; from which it is verie hard to perſwade the fickwo- man, becauſe that her minde and heart will bee almoſt broken, by reaſon of the ſhame that nº how it letteth ſhee taketh, becauſ ſuch filth floweth continually; it hindereth conception, becauſiteither : the concepti- corrupteth, or driveth out the ſeed when it is conceived. often-times, if it ſtoppeth fora s.x. - § on few months, the matter that ſtaieth there cauſſeth an abſceſs about the womb in the bodie [f * or neck thereof; and by the breaking of the abſceſs there followeth rotten and cancerous - ulcers, ſomtimes in the womb, ſomtimes in the groin, and often in the hips. $ why it is hirds. this diſeaſis hard to bee cured, not onely by reaſon of it ſelf, as becauſall the whole * § to beecured. filth and ſuperfluous excrements of a woman's bodie floweth down into the womb, as it so º were into a ſink; becauſit is naturally weak, hath an inferior fituation, manie veſſels end- ing therein; and laſt of all, becauſ the courſes arewont to com through it; as alſo by rea- ſon of the ſick woman, who often-times had rather die then to have that place ſeen, the an hiſtorie. diſeaſ known, or permit local medicines to bee applied thereto: for ſo faith montanus, that • on a time hee was called to a noble woman of italie, who was troubled with this diſeaſ, un- to whom hee gave counſel to have cleanſing deco&tions injećted into her womb, which when ſhee heard, ſhee fell into a ſwound, and deſired her husband never thereafter to uſe his counſel in anie thing. t s i& , chap. lx. juice of this or that humorby anie other color, a purgation muſt bee preſcribed of ſuch à woman'?, things as are proper to the humors that offend's; for it is not good to ſtop ſuch a flux ſud- *** denly;for it is neºſarie,that ſothebodieſhould beepurgedofüdhfilthorabundanceofhu- º denly to bee i. ſtopped. mors:for they that do haſten to ſtop it,cauſthe dropfie,by reaſon that this fink of humorsis turned back into the liver; or elſa cancer in the womb,becauſit is ſtaied there; or a fever;or other diſeaſes,according to the condition of the part that receiveth it.therforewºº muſt not whitbah. ... local deterſives, deficcatives,reſtriëtives, unleſs wee have firſt uſed univerſal remedies rc º: according to art. alum-baths, baths of brimſtone, and of bitumen, or iron, are convenient - - for ºystic dildº, or ceaſtobemenſtrual for ſomother cauſ; forthen in ſtead of themonthly flux -| wr - → s - w s º - s º * . ;: º : - lisa a. concerning the generation of man, for the whites that com of a phlegmatick humor; inſtead whereof baths may bee made of what baths the decoötion of herbs that are hot, drie, and indued with an aromatick power, with alom are profitable. andpebbls, or flint-ſtones red hot thrown into the ſame. let this bee the form of a clean- fing decočtion and injećtion. r. fol. abſynth, agrimon centinod, burſ-paſt, an: m ſ}. boil them. an aſtringent together, and make thereof a decočtion, in which diſſolv fº ii, aloés, myrrhe, ſº-inköion. lir nitri, an. i. make thereof an injećtion, the woman beeing ſo placed on a pillow under herbuttocks that the neck of the womb beeing more high, may bee wide open : when the injection is received, let the woman ſet her legs acroſs, and draw them up to her buttocks, andſoſhee may keep that which is injećted. they that indeavor to drie and binde more ſtrongly, add the juice of acatia, greengals, the rindes of pomegranates, roch-alome, ro- mane vitriol, and they boil them in smiths-water and red-wine; peſſaries may bee made of the like facultie. if the matter that commeth forthbee of an ill color or ſmell, it is like that there is a rot-the ſigns of a ten ulcer; therefore wee ought to injećt thoſe things that have power to corre& the putre- º faćtion: among which egyptiacum, diſſolved in lie or red-wine, excelleth. there are women “"“” which when they are troubled with a virulent gonorrhea,or an involuntarieflux ofthe ſeed, the virulent cloaking the fault with an honeſt name, do untruly ſay that they have the whites, becauſºmºrrhºsis that in É. theſe diſeaſes a great abundance of filth is avoided. but the chyrurgian may . . the eaſily perceivthat maladie by the rottenneſs of the matter that floweth out, and hee ſhall.” perſwade himſelfthat it will not bee cured without ſalivation or fluxing at the mouth, and t* ſweats. in the meanwhile let him put in an inſtrument made like unto a peſſarie, and cauſ the ſick woman to hold it there: this inſtrument muſt have manie holes in the upper end, - º through which the purulent matter may paſs, which by ſtaying, or ſtopping might get a ſharpneſs; as alſo that ſo the womb may breath the more freely,and may beekept more tem- perate and cool by receiving the air, by the benefit of a ſpring whereby this inſtrument, bee- ing made like unto a peſſarie, is opened and ſhut. the form of an inſtrument made like unto a peſſarie, whereby the - womb may bee ventilated. w a. sheweth the end of the inſtrument, which muſt have manie holes therein. - b. sheweth the bodie of - the inſtrument. c. sheweth the plate whereby the mouth of the in- : ſtrument is opened and ſhut, as wide and as cloſe as you . will, for to receiv the air more freely. d.shewethhe ſpring. ee. shew the laces and bands to tie about the pati- ent's bodie, that ſo the in- ſtrument may bee ſtaied and c kept faſt in big place. -- chap. lxi. º of the homorrhoides and warts of the neck of the womb. - n ike as in the fundament, foin the neckof the womb,there are hamorrhoides,and the differen- |as it were varicousveins, often-times flowing with much blood, or with a red cºofsheh- |and ſtinking whayiſh humor. som of theſe, by reaſon of their redneſs and great membºides of |- jinequalitie as it were of knobs, are like unripe mulberries, and are called vulgar-tººk of the - ly venºmºrales, that is to ſay, the veins or hamorrhoides like unto mulberries; others are like "*. unto grapes, and therefore are named uvales; other ſom are like unto warts, and therefore " * called vºne verrucales; ſom appear and ſhew themſelvs with a great tumor, others are lit. º tle, and in the bottom of the neck of the womb; others are in the fide or **her of whatanaas. thrºcordon is a kinde of wart with a callous bunch or knot, haveing a thin or ſlender root, §: * ºndº greaterhead, like unto the knot of a rope, hangingby a ſmall thred; it is called ofth: * ~ * arabians, verruca botoralia. | . there is alſo another kind; of wart, which becauſofhis great roughneſs and inequali- - ºis cºlled thymus, as reſembling the flower of thyme. aiſuch diſaſts are exaſperated what arº- audmade more grievous by anie exerciſe, eſpecial y by venereous ačts; manie times they "* i ii . ' have - º concerning the generation of man. lib. +. s. fiatrix, figs. have a certain malignitie, and an hidden virulencie joined with them, by occaſion whereof they are aggravated even by touchingonely; becauſthey have their matter of a rageing hu- mor:therefore to theſewee may not rightly uſe a true,but onely the palliative cure,as they termit : the latines call them onely ficus, but the french men name them with an adjunét, saint fiacriu figs. ------- chap. lxii. of the cure of the warts that are in the neck of the womb. he warts that grow in the neck of the womb, if they bee not malignant,are to bee tied h - what warts with a thred, and ſo cut off. thoſe that lie hid more deep in the womb, may bee ſeen of the womb muſt bee bound, and ſo - cut off. divers specula matricis, or dilaters for the infteåion of the matrix. g Éll n w \ \ º e § | e n § h. h. ºv ºilſ § h. e. - <l- aºal’s el % . jë º §: wif| |= alī w w º º -qn =s**e=>. another form of a dilater, or speculum matricis, wºmeſ the declaration followeth, , - \ and cured by opening the matrix with a dilater made for the purpoſe. a. sheweth the ſcrew, which ſhuneth and openeth the dilater of the matrix. bb shºw the arms or branches of the inſtrument, which ought to bee tighornine fingers long. but \. !? i ~ -- - - ------- lis...a. concerning the generation of man. but theſe dilaters of the matrix ought to bee of a bigneſs, correſpondent to the patient's bodie; let them bee put into the matrix, when the woman is placed as wee have ſaid, when the childe is to bee drawn out of her bodie. that inſtrument is moſt meet to tie the warts, which wee have deſcribed in the relaxation of the palate or uvula: let them bee tied harder and harder everie day until they fall away. therefore for the curcing of warts there are threeſcopes three chief ſcopes, as bands, ſe&ions, cauteries . left they grow up again, let oil of vi- ofthe ºur of triolbee dropped on the place, or aqua forti...or ſom of the lee whereof potential cauteries ..." the are made. this water following is moſt effe&ual to conſume and waſtewarts. raq.plan-x.aul tag. vi. virideri, ii. alum.roch. iii.ſal.com.ºſ.wit.rom ſublim.an. ſ-beat them all together, water to con. and boil them; let one or two drops of this water bee dropped on the grieved place, not ſume warts. touching anie place elſ; but if there bee an ulcer, it muſt bee cured as i have ſhewed before. - a certain man, ſtudious of phyſick, of late affirmed to mee, that ox-dung tempered with ungents to the leavs or powder of savine, would waſte the warts of the womb,ifit were applied there-º" to warm; º. whether it bee true or not, let experience, the miſtreſs of things, bee" judg. verily,cantharides put into unguents will do it, and (as it is likely) more effectually; for they will conſume the callouſneſs which groweth between the toes or fingers. i have prooved by experience, that the warts that grow on the hands, maybee cured by applying of purſlain beaten or ſtamp't in its own juice. the leavs and flowers of marigolds do cer- tainly perform the ſelf-ſame thing. - • ch a p. lxiii. - ofchapi, and thoſe wrinkled and hard excreſcences, which the greeks call condylomata. º §§n haps or fiſſures, are cleft and verie long little ulcers, with pain verie ſharp and : § burning, by reaſon of the biteing of an acrid, ſalt and drying humor, makeing what chaps º #º ſo great a contraćtion, and often-times narrowneſs in the fundament and the * § neck of the womb, that ſcarcely the top of one's finger may bee put into the * * * orifice thereof, like unto pieces of ii. or parchment, which are wrinkled andparched by holding of them to the fire. they riſe ſomtimes in the mouth, ſo that the patient can neither ſpeak, eat, noropen his mouth, ſo that the surgeon is conſtrained to cut it. in the curethereof, all ſharp things are to bee avoided, and thoſe which mollifie are to bee uſed, and the grieved place or partis to bee moiſtened with fomentations, liniments, cataplaſins, emplaſters; and if the maladie beeinthe womb, a dilater of thematrix or peſ- ſarie muſt bee put thereinto verie often, ſo to widen that which is over hard, and too much drawn together or narrow, and then the cleft little ulcers muſt bee cicatrized. condylomata h - are certain wrinkled and hard bunches, and as it were excreſcences of the fleſh, riſeing eſpe- wºº. cially in the wrinkled edges of the fundamentand neck of the womb. cooling and relaxin - medicines ought to bee uſed againſt this diſeaſ, ſuch as are oil of eggs,and oil of lin-ſeed. the are take of each of them two ounces, beat them together alongtime in a leaden mortar, and - therewith anoint the grieved part; but if there bee an inflammation, put thereto a little camphir. the cure. º chap. lxiv. - * - of the itching of the womb. , º - n women, eſpecially ſuch as are old, there often-times commeth an itch- ing in the neck of the womb, which doth ſo trouble them with pain, and a deſire to ſcratch, that it taketh away their ſleep. not long fince a wo- what the id, man asked my counſel, that was ſo troubled with this kinde of maladie, of the womb that ſlice was conſtrained to extinguiſh or ſtay the itching burning of her {ecret parts by ſprinkling cinders of fire, and rubbing them hard on the place. i counſelled her to take egypt, diffolved in ſea-water or lee, and injedit in her ſº. ahiſtoric, gret parts with a ſyringe, and to wet ſupes of flax in the ſame medicine, and put them up intº the womb, and ſo ſhee was cured. manie times this itch commethin the fundamentor the cauſef teſticles of aged men; by reaſon of the gathering together or conflux of ſalt flegm, which º . when it falleth into the ties, it cauſeth the patient to have much ado to refrain ſcratching: - when this matter hath diſperſed into the ºft. habit of the bodie, it cauſſethaburning or itchingſcab, which muſtbee curedby a cooling and a moiſtning diet, by phlebotomie and ... ." pººing of the ſalt humor, by baths and horns applied, with ſcarification and annointing " | *** wholºbodie with the unaion following. basing porcin recent fig.ſ.pnigºvci gaiti, the virtue of ſali, nitri, aſat, tartar.ſºapbiſag, an . ſulph.wiv .i.argent.viv. ii. acet. roſ. guartí, incorporate ºngºn, mulet. them all together, and make thereofa ſiniment according to art,and uſe it as is ſaid before: *gºnºmºnulatum cºmmercurio is thought to have great force,not without deſert,to affivage ii i the -t- - lib. . concerning the generation of jman. pain is the ſolution of the continuitie of the gums by the comming forth of the teeth. the cauſof the ſignes of that pain is an unaccuſtomed burning, or heat of the childe's mouth, which the pain in maybee perceived by the nurſthat giveth it ſuck, a ſwelling of the gums and cheeks, and ºing the childe's beeing more wayward and crying thenit was wont, and it will put its fingers teeth to its mouth; and it will rubthem on its gums as though it were about to ſcratch, and it ſlavereth much. that the phyſician may remedie this, hee muſt cure the nurſas if ſhee had the curs, the fever, and ſhee muſt not ſuffer the childe to ſuck ſo often, but make him cool and moiſt when hee thirſteth by giving him at certain timesſyrupus alexandrinus, ſyrup. de limonibus, or the ſyrup of pomegranats with boiled water yet the childe muſt not hold thoſe things that area&ually cold long in his mouth, for ſuch by bindeing the gums, do in ſom ſort ſtay the teeeth that are newly comming forth; but things that lenifie and mollifie are rather to bee the fins. uſed, that is to ſay ſuch things as do by little and little relax the looſfleſh of the gums, and alſo aſſwage the pain. therefore the nurſſhall often-times rub the childe's gums with her fingers, annointed or beſmeared with oil of ſweet almonds, freſh-butter, honie, ſugar, mu- cilage of the ſeeds of pſilium, or of the ſeeds of marſh-mallows extraëed in the water of pel- letorie ofthe wall. som think that the brain of a hare,or of ſucking pig roſted or ſodden, through a ſecret propertie, are effectual for the ſame: and on the outſide ſhall bee applied acataplaſm of barlie-meal, milk, oil of roſes, and the yelks of egs. alſo a ſtick of liquorice ſhaven and bruiſed and annointed with honie, or anie of the forenamed ſyrups, and often rubbed in the mouth or on the gums, is likewiſe profitable: ſo is alſo anie toie for the childe to plaiewithall, wherein a wolve's tooth isſºt, for this by ſcratching doth affwage what power the painfull itching, and rarifie the gums, and in ſom weareth them that the teeth appear ſcratchingof the ſooner. butmanie times it happeneth that all theſe and ſuch like medicines profit no-hºmºhath thing at all, by reaſon of the contumacie of the gums, by hardneſs or the weakneſs of the . the childe's nature: therefore in ſuch a cauſ, before the fore-named mortal accidents com, i pain of them. would perſwade the chirurgian to open the gums in ſuch places as the teeth bunch out with a little ſwelling, with a knife or lancet, ſo breaking and opening a waie for them,not- withſtanding that .# flux of blood will follow by the tenſion of the gums: of which kindeofremedie i have with proſperousand happie ſucceſs made trial in ſom of mine own children, in the preſence of feureus, altinus, and cortinus, doğors of phyſick, and guille- meau the king's chirurgian, which is much better and more ſafe then to do as ſom nurſes do, who taught onely by the inſtinét of nature, with their nails and ſcratching, break and tear, orrent the children's gums. the duke of nevers had a ſon of eight months old, anhiſtoric. which died of late, and when wee; with the phyſicians that were preſent, diligently ſought for the cauſof his death, wee could impute it unto nothingelſ, then to the contumacious hardneſs of the gums, which was greater then was convenient for a childe of that age; for therefore the teeth could not break forth, nor make a paſſage for themſelvs to comforth: of which our judgment this was the trial, that when wee cut his gums with a knife, wee foundall his teeth appearing as it were in an arraie, readie to comforth, which if it had beendon when hee lived, doubtleſshee might have been preſerved. ---- - * . - - - - - ". . . i i - - - - - - - - - - - - - . - . . . . . . . . . . ] tº . . . . w - * . . . . * * - - r º ºv'ſ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ºf:...' * . . .” ------ .*** * * : , , , , º, º 'º - - the twentie fifth bºk. t h e pr h f a c e. ee call monſters, what things ſoever are brought forth contrarie to the common decree andor- whº mon. wºj;"...º. bich is born with lone, or with ſter is. º e. so wee term that infantmonſtrouſ, which is born with one arm alone, or wit ׺º two beads. butweedefine prodigienthoſe thing, which happen contrarie to the whole courſ f nature, that is, altogether differing and diſſenting from nature ; as if a womanſhauld bee de- livered of a snake, or a dog. of the firſt ſort are thought all thoſe, in which anie of thoſe things, which ought, and are accuſtomed to bee, according to nature, is wanting, or doth abound, is changed, worn, cove- red or defended, hurt,or not put in his right place: for ſomtime; ſom areborn with morefingers then they ſhould, otherſon but with onefinger : ſom with thoſe parts divided which ſhould bee joined, others with thoſe parts joined which ſhould beedivided:ſom are born with the privities of both ſexes, male and female. . cm.ºnin. and ariſtotleſaw a goat with a horn upon berknee. no liveing treature was ºver born which wanted tºp. . the heart,but ſomhave been ſeen wanting the spleen, thers with two spleens,and ſomwanting one of the reins. and none have binknown to have wanted the whole liver,although ſomhave been found that had it not perfed and whole; and there have been thoſe which wanted the gall, when by nature they ſhould have had it: and beſides it bath been ſeen that the liver, contrarie to his natural ſite, hath lien on the left ſide, and the spleen on the right. som women alſo have had their privities cloſed,and notperforated, the membranous obſtacle, which they call the hymen,bindering. and men are ſomtimes born with their fundaments, ears,noſes,and the reſt of the paſſagesſbut, and are accounted monitrous, nature erring from its entended ſcope. but to conclude, thoſe monſters are thought to portendſom ill which are much differing from their nature. what a prodi- gic is. chap. i. of the cauſof monſters; and firſt of thoſe manffers which appear fºr the glºrie | of god, and the puniſhment of mens wickedneſs. #tº here ai. reckoned upmanie cauſes of monſters, the firſt whereof is the glorieof god, |º that his immenſ power may bee manifeſted to thoſe which are ignorantofit, º the * ſending of thoſe things which happen contrarieto nature: for thus our savior chriſt anſwered the diſciples (asking whether bee or his parents had offended, who beeingbºrn blinde, received his fight from him) that neither hee nor his parents had committed aniefault ſo great, but this to happened onely that the glorie and majeſtie of god ſhould bee divulged by that miracle, and #. great works. another cauſis, that godmay either puniſhmen's wickedneſs, or ſhew ſigns of puniſh- ment at hand,becauſparents ſomtimeslie andjoin themſelvs together withoutlaw and mea- ſures or luxuriouſly and beaſtly, or at ſuch times as they ought to forbear by the command º of godand the church, ſuch monſtrous, horrid and unnatural births do happen. - the figure ºf*cºlt with ama's fate. aº º 'º wº at verona anno dom. g i : a mare foaled a ſº colt with the perfe&face of a man, but all the reſt of the bodie likean horſ: a little after that, the war between the fioren. time; and piſans began, by which all ital; ºw in a combuſtion. it was £ º ºyſ lº • . of monſters and prodigier. w _*- the figure of a winged monſter. about the time that pope fulius the ſe- % cond raiſed up all italie, and the greateſt %, part of chriſtendom, againſt lewis the tº :* the king of france, in the year of º s of our lord . (in which year, upon s= eaſter daie, near ravenna was fought that §sº mortal battel, in which the pope's forces n §§ were overthrown) a monſter was born in nn ravenna, haveing a horn upon the crown of his head, and beſides, two wings, and one foot alone, moſt like to the feet of birds of prey,and in the kneethereof an eie, the pri- vities of male and female, the reſt of the bo- º - º, die like a man, as you may ſee by this fi- a . gure. º nm × . the third cauſis, an abundance of ſeed z - and overflowing matter. the fourth, the " / ſame in too little quantitie, and deficient. mºż%. % ...the fift, the force and efficacie of imaginati- º º# * #. }. . ... of . womb. - - §ºs e ſeventh, the diſorderly ſite of the partie === - * == with childe,and the º of the º: of the bodie. the eight; a fall, ſtrain or ſtroak, eſpecially upon the bellie of a woman with childe. the ninth, hereditaric diſeaſes, or affečts by anie other accident. the tenth, the confuſion and mingling together of theſeed. the eleventh, the craft and wickedneſs of the divel. there are ſom others which are accounted for monſters, becauſ their original or eſſence full of admiration, or do aſſume a certain prodigious form by the craft of ſom beg- ging companions; therefore wee will ſpeak briefly of them in their place in this our treatiſe of monſters. t - - chap. ii. of monſters cauſed by too great abundance of ſeed. ºeeing wee have already handled the two former and truly final cauſes of mon- siſters, wee muſt now com to thoſe which are material,corporeal and efficient cau- jºſes, takeing our beginning from that wee call the too great abundance of the wº matter of ſeed. it is the opinion of thoſe philoſophers which have written of monſters, that if atanie time a creature bearing one at once, as man, ſhall caſt forth more ſeed in copulation then is neceſſarieto the generation of one bodie, it cannot bee that one- ly one ſhould bee begot of all that; therefore from thence either two or more muſt ariſe: whereby it commethto paſs, that theſe are rather judged wonders, becauſ they happen ſel- dom, and contrarie to common cuſtom. superfluous parts happen by the ſame cauſ, that twins and manie at one birth, contrarie to nature's courſ, do i. that is, by a larger ef- fuſion of ſeed thenis required for the frameing of that part, that ſo it exceed's either in number orelſ in greatneſs. so auſtintell's that in his time in the eaſt an infant was born, haveing all the parts from the belliéupwards double, but from thence downwards ſingle and fimple: for it had two heads,foureies, two breaſts, four hands, in all the reſt like to a- nother childe, and it lived a littlewhile. celius rhodiginus ſaith hee ſaw two monſters in italie, the onemale, the other female, handſomly and neatly made through all their bodies, except their heads, which were double; the male died within a few daies after it was born; but the female (whoſe ſhapeishere delineated) lived twenty-five years, which is contrarie to the common cuſtom of monſters; for they for the moſt part are verie ſhort-liv'd, becauſ monſtersars they both live and areborn, as it were, againſt nature's conſent; to which maybee added, ſeldom long- they do not love themſelvs, by reaſon they are made a ſcorn to others, and by that means lived. lead a hatedlife. - - the - - - - o of sºſomſler; and prodigies. lººs. but it is moſt remarkable which lycoſthenes telleth of a * woman-monſter, for, exce- pting her two heads, ſhee was framed in the reſt of her bodie to an exaët perfeſtion: her two heads had the like deſire to eat and drink, to ſleep, to ſpeak,and to do everie thing; ſhee begged from door to door, everie one giveing to her freely. yet at length ſhee was baniſh't bavaria, left that by the frequent looking upon her, the imagination of women with childe, ſtrongly mooved, ſhould make the like impreſſion in the infants they barein their wombs. the effigies of a * maid with two heads. the effigies of two girl, wº back grew together. in the year of our lord . at verona in italie, two girls were born with their backs ſtičking together from the lower part of the ſhoulders untº the veriebuttocks. the noveltie and ſtrangeneſs of the thing mooved their parents, becingbut poor, to carrie them through all the chief towns in italie togetmonieofallſuch as came to ſee them. the figure ºf a man with anothergrowing ºut ºf him. - t in the year , there was amantober ſeen at paris, out of whoſe bellie another, perfeſtin all his members excepthead,hang. })." edforth as if hee had been grafted there. the &ºllº man was fortie years old, and hee carriedthe §. *"º"\, other implanted or growing out of him, in - º his arms, with ſuch admiration to the be- §: º holders, that manie ran verie earneſtly to ſee him. rº- § wzz | c =% - - % sºet = s- *>= se : - > lºg. - of monſºr, and tºrodigier. n } ibe effigies of a horned or booded monſter. t at£uier, a ſmallvillage ſomten miles from turine in savoy, in the year . upon the ſeventeenth daie of ja- nuarie, abouteight a clock at night, an honeſt matron broughtforth a childe haveing five horns, lik to ram's horns;ſet oppoſite toone another upon his head: hee had alſo a longpeece of fleſh, like in ſom ſort to a french- hood which women uſed to wear, hanging down from his foreheadby the nape of his neck almoſt the length of his back: two other offleſh, like the collar of a ſhirt, were wrapped about his neck: the finger's ends of both his hands ſomwhat reſembled a hawk's talons, and his knees ſeemed to bee in his hams: the right leg and the right foot were of a veriered color; the reſt of the bodie was of a tawnie color: it is ſaid hee gave ſo terrible a ſcritch when hee was broughtforth, that the midwives, and the reſt of the women that were at her labor, wereſó frighted that they preſently left the houſand ran away. when the duke of savoy heard of this monſter, hee com- manded it ſhould bee brought to him, which performed, one would hardly think what various cenſures the cour- tiers gave of it. `-- * º ; \ º * º * s l É . & % ** * włdi t w i * - -- * the monſter you ſee here delineated, was found in the middle and innermoſt part of an *. egg, with the face of a man; but hairsyeelding a horrid repreſentation of snakes; the chin had three other ſnakes ſtretched forth-like a beard. it was firſt ſeen at autun, at the houſofone bancherona lawyer, a maid breaking manie egs to butter : the white of this egg given a cat, preſently killed her. laſtly this monſter comming to the hands of the baron senecy, was brought to king charl; the ninth beeing then at metz. the ſhape of a monſter found in an * egg. ſ s y É . - º asº the effigies of a monſtrous b childe, haveing two heads,wo arms andfour legſ. in the year , a woman at paris in her ſixt month of her account, brought forth a childe haveing two heads, two arms and four legs : ], diſſºting the bodie of it, found but one heart,by which one may know it was but one - - infant. for you may know this from ariſtºtle, whether the monſtrous birth bee one or more joined together,by the principal part:for if the bodiehave but one heart,it is but one;if two,it is double by thajoining together in the * ception. -*** . ofswmonſters and prodigier. lib. . livered of " twinsjoined together famous chirurgian in the year . a certain woman of towers was de - with onehead,and mutually embraccing each other. renau, circuit” of thoſe parts,ſent meetheir sceleton. the portraiture of * twins joined toge- the effigies of two e girls hering twinſ. ther with one bead. joined together by their fire-heads. munſter write's that in the village briſtant, not far from wormſ, in the year . heeſaw two e girls perſed and entire in everie part of their bodies, but they had their foreheads ſo joined together that they could not bee parted or ſevered by anie art: they lived together ten years; then the one dying, it was needful to ſeparate the liveing from the dead: but ſhee did not long out-live her ſiſter, by reaſon of the malignitie of the wound made in parting them aſunder. *. - - *, in the year of our lord : the twentieth of julie, at paris, in the ſtreet gravilliers, at the fign of the bell, theſe two infants wer:born, differing in ſex, with that ſhape of bodie that you ſee here expreſſed in the figure. they werebaptized in the church of s. nicºla of the fields, and named ludovicus and ludºvica; their father was a maſon, his name was peter germane, his ſurname petit lieu (i.) little-god, his mother's name was mathea petronilla. º - - : º: : **** - - •. - - - - ; : * * * the ſhape of th infim, lately born at paris. * \ . ** - ; * : ... - - *-*. -- - - :: . * - - * º * - * * *. * - * - ". .. _º - §no wav - º in ^ ! ', _ - l ib. . of monſters and prodigies. in the year in pont de see, near angers a little town, were born upon the tenth daie of julie, two girls, perfeół in their ić. that they had but four fingers apiece on their left hands: they clave together in their fore parts,from their chin to their navel, which was but one, as their heart alſo but one; their liver was divided into four lobes: they lived half an hour, and werebaptized. - the figure of twº girls joined tºgether in the figure of a childe with twº beads, and - their breaſts and bellie. the bodie as big as one offour moneths old. º fº º -> celius rhodiginus tell's, that in a town of his countrie called sarzano, italiebeeing trou- bled with civil wars, there was born a monſter of unuſual bigneſs; for hee had two heads, having all his limbs anſwerable in greatneſs and tallneſs to a childe of four months old; be: tween his two heads, which were both alike, at the ſetting on ofthe ſhoulder, it had a third handput forth, which did not exceed the ears in length, for it was not all ſeen; it was born the .of the ides of march, . ~ --- the figure of one with four legs and the figure of a man out of whoſe bellie another aſ manie armſ. bead ſhewed it ſelf. * nº. § n k jovianus pontanus tell's in the year . in the year that franci, the firſt king of the ninth daie of januarie,there was a man france entered into league with the swiſſes, childe born in germanie, haveing four there was born a monſter in germanie, out arms, and as many legs. . the midſt of whoſebellie there ſtood a great head; it came to man's age, and his lower, and as it were inſerted head,was nouriſhed as much as the true and upper head. k k k in ſ- | asº. of monſters and prodigies. lºº; º**, iteſhips ºftwº monſtrous twins, beeing bui of out onely sex. " . . . . . ° º,” . tº "ºº" ſº * sns ; (; ; in the year. , the laſtdale of februarie, in the pariſh of vinban, in the waie as you go from carnuţăto pariſ, in a ſmall village called bord. one called cypriana giranda , the wife of james merchant a husbandman, brought forth this monſter whoſ: ſhape you ſee here delineated, which lived until the sundaie ºfollowing, beeing but of one onely ſex, which was the female. -sÉ- ºº- # §§ - in the year . on eaſter the ſhape ºf a monſtrus pig. mundaie at metz in lorain, in - .* sºlº & the inn whoſe ſign is the holie ghoſha sow pigped a pig, wch had eight legs, four ears, and the head of a dog; the hinder part from the bellie downward was parted in two as in twins, but the fore-parts grew into tº upper jaw, and as manie in the lower. the ſex was not to bee & diſtinguiſhed,whether it were a t/ . bore or sow pig, for there was one ſlit under the tail, and the hinderparts were all rent and open.the º ofthis monſter, as it is here ſet down, was ſent mee by borgeſtus the famous 'phyſician of metz. chap. l l l. of women bringing manie children at one birth. àº, oman is a creature bringing uſually but one at a birth; but there have been ſom § who who have brought forth two, ſom three, ſom four, ſom five, fix, or more at º § § one birth. empedocle; thought that the abundance of ſcºd was the cauſof ſuch nu- merous births: the stoiks affirm the diverſ cells or partitions of the womb to bee the cauſ; for the ſeedbeeing variouſly parted into theſe partitions , and the conception di- vided, there are more children brought forth; no º: then in rivers,the water beating *****in againſt the rocks, is turned into divers circles or rounds, ºut :ffelle faith there is no rea- cap. . ſon to think ſo, for in women that parting of the womb into celli, as in dogs and ſows, ta- keth no place; for women's wombs have but one qavitie, parted into two receſſes, the right and left, nothing comming between, except by chance diſtinguiſhed by a certaine line; for often twins lie in the ſame ſide of the womb. ariſtotle's opinionis, that a woman cannot bring forth more then five children at one birth. the maid of auguſtus ceſar brought forth five at a birth;and,aſhort while after,ſhe and her children died; in the year . at bearnin switzerland,the wife of dr. john gelengerbrought forth five children atone birth,three boies and two girls. allucrafts, affirm's a woman to have been the mother of ſeven children at one birth;and another,who by ſomexternal injurie did abort,broughtforth fifteen perfeótly ſha- ped in all their parts. plinie report's that it :: in the waiteings of phyſicians, that lib. .capi i. ºwelv children were born at onebirth;and that thºre was anºther in peloponneſs which four cap. . ºveral times was delivered of five children atone birth; and that the greater part of thoſe - ‘hildren lived. it is reported by palºchampiu, that sºnaventuratheſave of onešºil, a genº tleman of sena at one time brought forth ſeven children, of which four were baptized.in our time,between sarte and main, in the pariſh of seaux,not far from chambellay, there is a fami- lie and noble houſcalled maldemºure; the wife of the lord of maldemeure, the firſt year ſhee was married brought forth twins, the ſecond year ſhee had three children, the third year four, the fourth year five, the fifth year ſix, and of that birth ſhee died: of thoſe fixone is yet alive, and is lord of maldemeure. in the valley of beaufort, in the countie of anjou, a young woman the daughter of mace channiere, when at one perfeó birth ſhee had brought forth one childe,the tenth daie following ſhee fell in labor of another, but could not bee delivered untill it was pulled from her by force, and was the death of the mother. - martin, one; it had two tongues in the mouth, with four teeth in the lib . of monſters and tºrodigies. º the pičiure of dorothie, great with childe * with manie children. ! . * -- martin cromerus the autor of the poliſh hiſto- the ninth rie, writeth that one margaret, a woman book of the ſprung from a noble and ancient familieneer poliſh hito: Čracovia, and wife to count virboſlau, * brought forth at one birth thirtie five live children, upon the twentieth daie of fan. in the year . franciſcus picus mirandula writeth that one dorothie an italian had twentie children at two births; at the firſt nine, and at the ſecond eleven, and that ſhee was ſo big, that ſhee was forced to bear u herbellie, which laie upon her knees, wit abroad and large ſcarf tied about her neck,as you may ſee by this figure. fº jiàº) wº fº º - º - f- j and they are to bee reprehended here again, who affirm the cauſof numerous births to conſiſt in the varietie of the cels of the womb,for they feign a woman's womb to have ſeven cels or partitions; three on the right fide for males, three on the left ſide for femals,and one in the mid'ſt for hermophrodites or scrats: and this untruthhath gon ſo far,that there have been ſom that affirmed everie of theſe ſeven cels to have been divided into ten partitions,into which the ſeed diſperſed, doth bring forth a divers and numerous encreaſ according to the varietie of cels furniſhed with the matter of ſeed; which, though it may ſeem to have been the opinion of hippocrates,in his book de natura pueri, notwithſtanding it is repugnant to reaſon,and to thoſe things which are manifeſtly apparent to the eies and ſenſes. the opinion of ariſtotle is more probable,who faith twins and more atone birth, arebe- got and brought forth by the ſame cauſthat the fixth finger groweth on the hand.that is,by **** the abundant plentie of the ſeed,which is greater and more copious then can becall taken up ** in the natural framing of one bodie; for if it all bee forced into one,it maketh one with the ts encreaſed more then is fit,either ingreatneſs or number; but if it bee,as it were, cloven into divers parts,it cauſſeth more then one at one birth. - c h a p. i w. of hermophrodites, or scrats. tº nd here alſo wee muſt ſpeak of hermophrodites,becauſthey draw the cauſof their *generation and conformation from the abundance of ſeed,and are called ſo, becauſ tº they are of both ſexes,the woman yeelding as much ſeed as the man. for hereupon it commethto paſs that the forming facultie (which alwaies endeavor's to produce ſomthing like itſelf) doth labor both the matters almoſt with equal force,and is the cauſ that one bodie is of both ſexes. yet ſom make four differences of hermophrodites; the firſt of which is the male hermo- phrodite, who is a perfett and abſolute male,and hath onely a ſlit in the perineum not perfo- rated,and from which neither urine nor ſeed doth flow. the ſecondis the female, which be- fides her natural privitie,hath a fleſhie and skinnie fimilitude of a man's yard, butunapt for erection and ejaculation of ſeed, and wanteth the cod and ſtones; the third difference is of thoſe, which albeit they bear the expreſs figures of members belonging to-both ſexes, commonly ſet the one againſt the other, yet are found unapt for generation, the one of them onely ſerving for makeing of water: #: º difference is of thoſe who i. alole - - tºg o'f - monſters and prodigies, º lib. . flºº * , a : able in both ſexes, and throughly perform the part of both man and woman, becauſthey have the genitals of both ſexes complete and perfeół, and alſo the rightbreſt like a man, and the left like a woman; the laws command thoſe to chuſe the ſex which they will uſe, and in which they will remain and live, judging them to death ifthey bee found to have departed from the ſex they made choice of, for ſom are thought to have abuſed both, and promiſa- ouſly to have had their pleaſure with men and women. there are ſigns by which the phy- ficians may diſcern whether the hermophrodites are able in the male or female ſex, or whe- ther they are impotent in both; theſe ſigns are moſt apparent in the privities and face; for if the matrix bee exaët in all it's demenſions, and ſo perforated that it may admitāman's yard, if the courſes flow that waie, if the hair of the head bee long, ſlender and ſoft, and to ºn concludit to this tender habite of the bodie atimidand weak condition of the mindebee added, the femaleſex is predominant, and they are plainly to bee judged women. but if º, they have the perineum and fundament fill of hairs, (the which in women are comm -- ", i. :::: ... without aniº) if they have a yard of a convenient largeneſs, if it ſtand well andreadily, and ycºldſeed, the maleſexhath the prºheminence, and they are to beejudged men. but if the conformation of both the genitalsbee alike in figure, uantitie,and efficacie, it is thought to bee equally able in both ſexes: although by the opinion of ariſtotle, thoſe who have double lib. gener, genitals, the one of the male, the other of the female, the one of them is alwales perſed, anim, tap, . the other imperfeół. - * * the figure of hermaphrodite twins cleaving the effigies of an hermaphrodite baveing º four hands and feet. ...'... together with their backs. * - . - : º - - n - - - - ſº - > º the ſame day the venetians and genoeſes entred into league, there was a monſter born in italie anno dom. .in the palatinate, at the haveing four arms and feet, and but one head; it village robach, neer heidelberg, therewere lived alittle after it wasbaptized. james ruef a twins, both hermophrodites, born with helvetian chirurgian faith hee ſaw the like.but their backs ſticking together. which beſides had the privities of both ſexes, whoſe figure i have therefore ſet forth, pag. . chap. v. of the changeing of sex. matus luſitanus report's that in the village eſquina, there was a maid na- med maria pateca, who at the appointed age for her courſes to flow, had in ſtead of thema man's yard, laying before that time hid and covered, ſo that of a woman ſhee became a man, and therefore laying aſide her woman's habite, was cloathed in man's, and change- ing her name, was called emanuel; who, when hee had got much wealth by manie and great negotiations and commerce in india, returned into his countrie, and married a wife: but luſitanus faith hee did not certainly know whether hee had anie children, but that hee was certain he remained alwairs beardleſs. - anthonie loqueneux, the king's keeperor receiver of his rents of ::::::: at vernandoir, lately affirmed to meethat heeſaw a man at reimer, at the inn haveing the ſign of the swan, * > . ſt ºw - " ". ºn a$ . t.s. Ǻ º º lººs. - of monſtranſprodigº. \ º, t- - |tt th ſ: s in theyear .who was taken for a woman untill the fourteenth year ofhisage; for then it happened as he played ſomwhat wantonly with a maid which laie in the ſame bed with him, hismembers (hitherto lying hid) ſtarted-forth and unfolded themſelvs which when his parents knew (by help of the eccleſiaſtick power) they changed his name from joan to jºbn, and put him in man's apparel. - somyears agon, beging in the train of king charls the ninth,in the french glaſs-houſ, i was ſhewed a man called germane garnieru, but by ſom germane maria (becauſin former times when hee was a woman hee was called marie) hee was of an indifferent ſtature; and well ſet bodie, with a thick and fedbeard; hee was taken for a girl until the fifteenth year of his age, becauſthere was no figh of beeing a mafi ſeen in his bodie, and for that amongſt women, hee in like attire did thoſe things which pertain to women: in the fifteenth year of his age, whileſt hee ſomwhat earneſtly purſued hogs given. into his charge to bee kept, who .# into the torn, heeleaped violently over a ditch, wherebyſit came to paſs that the ſtaies and foldings beeingbroken, his hidden members ſuddenly broke forth, but not without pain; going home,hee weeping complained to his mºther that his guts came forth: with which his . amazed, calling phyſicians and surgeons to counſel, heard hee was turned into a man; therefore the whole buſineſs beeing brought to the cardinal the biſhop of lenuncure, an aſſembliebeeing called, hee received the name and habite of a man. plinie report's that the ſon ºcaſinus of a girl became aboy,liveing with his parents; but by the command of the sooth-ſaiershee was carried into a deſert iſle, becauſ they thought ſuch monſters did alwaies ſhew or portend ſom monſtrous thing. certainly women have formanie and like parts lying in their womb,as men have hanging forth;onely a ſtrong and livelie heat ſeem's to bee wanting,which may drive forth that which lie's hid within; there- fore in proceſs of time, the heat beeing increaſed and flouriſhing, and the humiditie (which is predominant in childe-hood) overcom, it is not impoſſible that the virile members, which hitherto ſluggiſh by defeat of heat, layhid, maybee put forth; eſpecially if to that ſtrength of the growing heat ſomvehement concuſſion or jačtation of the bodie beejoined. there- fore i think it manifeſt by theſe experiments and reaſons, that it is not fabulous that ſom women have been changed into men; but you ſhall finde, in no hiſtoric men, that have dege- nerated into women; for nature alwaies intend’s and goe's from the imperfett to the more perfe&, but not baſely from the moreperſea to the imperfect." " ' " " ' " - t - - - -, - ---, _ * …” * --- - ". j chap. v. i. / y * of monſters cauſed by the defed of seed. rººf, on the contrarie, theſeed bee anie thing deficient in quantitie, for the confor- ſº * mation of the infantor infants, ſomone or more members will bee wanting, or º moreſhort and decrepite. hereupon it happen's that nature intending twins, ºf a childe is born with two heads, and but one arm, or altogether lame in thereſt of his limbs. a ! - w zº º †: º º the effigies of a monitrous childe, by reaſon of the defed of the matter of ſeed. \ } º fº anno dam. . i ſaw at saint andrew's §§§º' . ha. church in paris, a boy nine years old, born in n wº- ağ the village parpavilla, fixmiles from guiſe; his n father's name was peter kenard, and his mother, *	º marquete: hee had but two fingers on his right lº jº hand, his arm was well proportioned from the % § top of his ſhoulder almoſt to his wriſt, but ºv/ . \ § l \,; à from thencetohistwo finger's ends it was verie \# §§ sº deformed, hee wanted his legs and thighs, al- %)\"º (\{{\s: s/na º - though from the right buttocka certain unper- }s. | \ fett figure, haveingonely four toes, ſeemed to º º †: put itſelf forth; from the midſt of the left but- s(\ºš ck ſprung out, th f which aş | e. tock two toes ſprung out; the one of w § | i. g *:: . : unlike a man's yard, as you may t § \| ce by the figure. … " s$º kkk in * - of onſters and prodigier. lib. . ºn the year in the calends of november, at villa franca in gaſconie, this monſter, a headleſs woman,whoſe figure thou here ſee'ſ, was born, which figure dr.john alinus the £hyfician gave to mee, when i went about this book of monſters, heehayeing receivedit £rom fontanus the phyſiciau of angoleſtre, who ſeriouſly affirmed heeſaw it. : j. i. | ºn itſ, . º.º. ): . . "º "the figure faminſtruwwnan without a bead, befºre and behind. . . . . .''” - . . . . . . tº sº - ; , ; * * -º . . . . . . - * - - :, . ºn . º - - - - - , , , : it! . ' ' | - - -- - x - l * * * * - !" º * . the #. of a man without arms, doing the effigies of a monſter with two head, all that is uſually don with bands. " " ' two legs, and but one arm. - h a few ;*** was a man offortie years old to beeſeen at paris, who although ºwanedº, notwithſtanding did indifferently perform all thoſe things which are uſually don with the hands; for with the top of his ſhoulder, head and neck, hee would ſtrike an axe or h atchet with as ſure,and ſtrong a blow into a poſt, as anie otherman cºuld dowith his hand; and hee would laſh acoºch-man's whip , that hee would make it £ive a great crack, by the ſtrong refraction of the air; but hee ate, drank, plaid at cards, and - ſuch ºf . . ~ lib. . of monier, and prodigies. cg º fia like, with his feet. but at laſt hee was taken for a thief and murderer, was hanged, and faſtened to a wheel. - alſo not long agothere was a woman at paris without arms,which nevertheleſs did cut, ſew, and do many other things, as if ſhee had her hands. wee read in hippocrate,that atlageni, his wife brought forth a childe all of fleſh with: out aniebone, and notwithſtanding it had all the parts well formed ºf tº -- ! . . . . t-t - -t — ºcha p. vii. . . . . . . . •-º- !. - of monſters, which take their cauſand ſhape by imagination. º he antients haveing diligently ſought into all the ſecrets of nature, have mark- the force of º sº ed and obſerved other cauſes of the generation of monſters: for, underſtanding imagination. §(ºft the force of imagination to bee ſo powerful in us,as for the moſt part,it may al- #: bodis terthebodie of hºmºhat imagine; they ſoon perſwaded themºs that the fa-". cultie which formeth the infant may bee led and governed f the firm and ſtrong cogitation of the parents begetting them (often deluded by noëurnal and deceitful apparitions) or by the mother conceiving them; and ſo that which is ſtrongly conceived in the minde, im- print's the force into the infant conceived in the womb; which ºf manie think to bee confirmed b ... becauſhee tell's that jacob encreaſed and bettered the part of the ſheep gandhºp. °, granted to him by laban, his wive's father, by putting rods, haveing the bark in part pul- led off, finely ſtreaked with white and green, in the places where they uſed to drink, eſpeci- ally at the time they engendred, that the repreſentation apprehended in the conception, ſhould bee preſently impreſſed in the young; for the force of imagination hath ſo much power over the infant, that it ſet's upon it the notes or charaćters of the thing conceived. wee have read in heliodorus, that perſina queen of : , by her husband hiduſſes, beeing alſo an ethiope, had a daughter of a white complexion; becauſin the embraces of her husband, by which ſhee proved with childe, ſhee earneſtly fixed hereie and minde upon the pièure of the fair andromeda ſtanding oppoſite to her. damaſtent report's, that heeſaw a maid hairie like a bear, which had that deformitie by no other cauſor occaſion then that her mother earneſtly beheld, in the verie inſtant of receiving and conceiving the ſeed, the image of s. john covered with a camel's skin, hanging upon the poſts of the bed. they ſay, hippocrates by this explication of the cauſes,freed a certain noblewoman from ſuſpition of adulterie, who beeing white her ſelf, and her husband alſo white, brought forth a childe as black as an ethiopian, becauſin copulation ſhee ſtrongly and continually had in her minde the piðure of the ethiope. * * * * * s tºº the effigies of a maid all hairie, and an infant that was black by the imagination of their parentſ. there o - of eºſomſters and prodigies. liga;. _- there are ſom who think the infant once formed in the womb, which is don at the ut- moſt within two and fortie daies after the conception, is in no danger of the mother's ima- gination, neither of the ſeed of the father which is caſt into the womb; becauſwhen it hath got a perfeót figure, it cannotbee altered with anie external form of things; which whether it bee true, or no, is nothere to bee inquired of: truly i think it beſt to keep the woman, all the time ſhee goeth with childe, from the fight of ſuch ſhapes and figures. - in stecquer a village of saxonie, they ſay, a monſter was born,with four fett,ties, mouth, and noſe like a calf, with a round and redexcreſcence of fleſh on the forehead, and alſo a piece offleſh like a hood hung from his neck upon his back, and it was deformed with its thighs torn and cut. mfant the figure of an infant with a face like a frog. the effigies of a hºrrid monſter, haveing feet fig f k vg hands and other parts like a calf. º - * * sºº --- anno dam. . in the pariſh kingſwood, in the forreſt biera, in the waieto fon- taiu-bleau, there was a monſterborn, with the face of a frog, beeing ſeen by john bellanger, chirurgian to the king's engineers, before the juſtices of the town of harmoy, principally ſ bn bribon the king's procurator in that place. the father's name was amadeus the little, his mother's magdalene sarbucata, who troubled with a fever, by a woman's perſwaſion, - held a quick frog in her hand until it died,ſhee came thus to bed with her husband and con- ceived; bellanger, a man of an acute wit, thought this was the cauſof the monſtrous defor- mitie of the childe. cha viii. of monſiers cauſed by the ſtraitneſs of the womb. : e eare conſtrained to confeſs by the event of things, that monſters are bred and that . º/ cauſed by the ſtraitneſs of the womb for ſo apples growing upon the trees, if be- #: %; fore they comtojuſt ripeneſs, they bee put into ſtrait veſſels, theirgrowth is hin- †: womb may dred. so ſom whelps which women take delightin, are hindred from anie further joccaſiº growth by the littleneſs of the place in which they are kept.who know's not that the plants ºn of monſters growing in the earth, are hindred from a longer progreſs and propagation of their roots,by the oppoſition of a flint, or anie other ſolidbodie, and therefore in ſuch places are crook- ed, ſlender and weak, but on the other part, where they havefree nouriſhment, to bee ſtrait and ſtrong? for ſeeing that by the opinion of naturaliſts, the place is the form of the thing placed ; it is nº eſſarie that thoſe things that are ſhut up in ſtraiterſpaces,prohibited office motion, ſhould be leſſened, depraved, and lamed. empedocleſ and diphilus acknowledged three cauſes of monſtrous births: the too great or ſmall matter of the ſeed the corruption of the ſeed; and depravation of growth by the ſtraitneſs or figure of the womb : which they thcught the chiefſ of alſ; becauſ: thought lib. . of manfiers and prodigier) tº ;: º º: th: liſ, º º º: § thought the caſe was ſuch in natural births, as informingof metals and fuſible things, of which ſtatues beeing made,do leſs expreſs the things they beenade for;if the molds or forms into which the matter is poured, bee rough, ſcabrous, too ſtrait,or otherwiſe faultie. - : * ::: , ~ * * : *. it -- " " " - ... a r. ‘. . . . . . . . . . * * * * . . . . . . . º chap. ix. . . . . . . . º * * : fmºnſter; cauſed by the ill placeing of the mother, in ſitting, lying down, ºr whitether *** * * * ſite ºf the bodie in the time ºf herbeeing with thide. " t * * : * > . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . jº §ſº ee often too negligently and careleſly corrupt the benefitsandcorporal en- §§§ dowments of nature in the comlineſs and dignitie of conformation: it is a # thing to beelamented and pitied in all, but eſpecially in women with childe, *qa/yº becauſthat fault doth not only hurt the mother,but deform's and pervert's the infant which is contained in her womb : for wee moowing aniemanner of waie, muſt neceſ. w. ſarilympov whatſoever is within us. therefore they which fit º at home all the time theirbeeing with childe, or croſs-legged, thoſe which holding their headsdown, do ſow or wºrk with the needle, or do any other labor, which preſs the bellie too hard with tloaths, breeches or fººthesdo produce children wrie-necked, ſtooping, crooked, and disfi- gired in their feet,hands,and thereſt of their joints, as youmay ſee in the following figure, -- - - - - - - . . . . . - - - - .* *- ' " the effigies of a childe, who from the firſt conception; by the ſite ºf the - º, mother, had his hand, and feet ſtanding crooked. tº tº - - ºv. . . : " . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . a . . . . . . . . . . . . .i. ". . . . .a. is . . . n. * * * * . . . . . . - tº . ; : - - " - ". . . . . . . . * t. . '* , , , ; ; ; , , , , . . . . . . . ; ºf , ” i ºf . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . - - - - - º , º, . . . . . . . . * . . . . . * * * - . . . . . . . . . . . . º ' ' ' ' ". . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . *.*. t * --- - - - - - , , n . . . . . . . . ; : - ... ." - - * -- - , ,, . " : *- chap. x. of nonſers cauſed by a ſtroke, fall, or the like occaſion. - º jº here is no doubt but ifanie injurie happen to a woman with childe, by rea- ſº \; * . - º tº ſon of aſtroke, fall from on high , dr the like occaſion, the hurt alſo may * º y. l. c; extend to the childe. therefore by theſe occaſions the tender bones may bee º &c broken, wreſted, ſtrained, or deprayed after ſom other monſtrous manner; ºrd and more, by the like violence of ſuch things, a vein is often opened or broken, or a flux of bloud, or great vomiting is cºuſſed by the vehement concuſſion of the whole bodies by which means the childe want's nquriſhment, and therefore will beeſmall and little, and altogethermonſtrous." c. h. a. p. of eºſomſters and todge. - lººs. - chap. xl. - of manffers which have their originally reaſºn of hereditarie diſeaſes. &y the injurie of hereditaris diſeaſes, infants grow monſtrous, that is, mon- ſtrouſly deformed: for crook’t-back’t produce crook-back’t, and often-times ! ſo crooked, thatbetween the bunch behinde and before, the headlie's hid, as a tortoiſ in her ſhell: ſo lame produce lame, flat-nos'd their like, dwarfs bring forth dwarfs, lean bring forth lean, andfat produce fat. * : * ~ * - * - - - . . . . chap. xii. of monſters by the confuſion of ſeed ºf divers kinder. . . - hat which followeth is a horrid thing to bee ſpoken; butthe chaſteminde of the reader will give met pardon, and conceive that, which not onely the stoicks, but all philoſophers, who are bufied about the ſearch of the cauſes of things, muſt hold,that there is nothing obſcene or filthie to bee ſpoken. thoſe things that are accounted obſcene maybee ſpoken withoutblame, but they cannotbee a&ed or perpetrated without great wickedneſs, furie and madneſs; therefore that ill which in obſcuritie confiſt's not in word, but wholly in the aa. therefore in timespaſt there have been ſom, who nothing fearing the deitie, neither the law, nor themſelvs, that is, their ſoul, have ſo abjeºed and proſtrated themſelvs. that they have thought themſelvs nothing different from beaſts: wherefore atheiſts, sodomites, out-laws, forgetſul of their ownex: cellencie and divinitie, and transformed by filthie luſt, have not doubted to have filthie and abominable copulation with beaſts. this ſo great, ſo horrid a crime, for whoſe expia- tion all the fires in the world are not ſufficient, though they too maliciouſly craftie, have concealed, and the conſcious beaſts could not utter, yet the generated miſ-ſhapen iſſue hath abundantly ſpoken and declared by the unſpeakable power of god, the revenger and puni- ſher of ſuch impious and horrible attions. for of this various and promiſcuous confuſion of ſeeds of .#. kinde, monſters have been generated and born, who have been partly men, andpartly beaſts. - the like : of iſſue is produced, if beaſts of a different ſpecies do copulate toge- ther, nature alwaies affetting togenerate ſomthing which may bee like it ſelf: for wheat grow's not but by ſowing of wheat, noran apricock but by the ſetting or grafting of an a- pricock; for nature is anioſt diligent preſerver of the ſpecies ofthings. * the effigies of a monſier half man and halfdog. - anno dom. , there was generated ofa woman and adog, an iſſue, which from the navel upwards perfeótly re- ſembled the ſhape of the mother, but therehence downwards the fire, that is, the dog. this monſter was ſent to the pope that then reigned, as volaterane writeth : alſo cardane mention's it; wherefore i have given you the figure thereof. cardº ab. . de war.neram cap. . vºn - " x ". celius lººs. of monſier, and tradigº, - , º ečís,a sow farrowed ſix pigs, the firſt whereof was a monſter repreſenting a man in the head, * - * the figure of a monſter in face reſembling man, bnt a goat in his other members. "... . . celius rhodoginus write's that at sibº- rif, a heardſ-man called chréthis fell in love with a goat, and accompanied with ... her, and of this deteſtable and brutiſh co- pulation an infant was born, which in legs reſembled the dam, but the face was like the father's. º- *. - *-*. - * * - tefia's fatig, while head, fºr hand, andfu finan. . . . . ; - . - anno dam. . in a certain town of liege (as ſaith lycoſthenes ) a sow farrowed a pig with the head, face, hands, and feet ofaman, but in the reſt of the bodie reſembling a ſwind. º º - - - face, fore-feet and ſhoulders, but in the reſt of the bodie another pig, for it had the genitals of a ſow-pig, and it ſucked like other pigs. but the ſecond dale after it was farrowed, it was killed of the people together with the ſow, by reaſon of the monſtrouſneſs ofthe thing here ºf - followeth the figure thereof. ºf -, ºr - . " - - - ; º: ** , , , , the effigies of a monſter half man and haſwi; º, - - --> are –- . of sºſomſters and prodigies. lib. . anno dom. . at antwerp, the wife of one michael a printer dwelling with one jobn molline a graveror carver, at the ſign of the golden foot, in the camiſtrate, on st. thomas his daie,at ten of the clock in the morning, brought forth a monſter wholly like adog, but that it had a ſhorter neck, and the headofabird, but without anie fethers on it. thismon- ſter was not alive,for that the mother was deliveredbefore her time;butſhee giveing a great ſtritch in the inſtant of her deliverance, the chimnie of the houſfelldown, yet hurt nobo- die, nonot ſo much as anie one offourlittlechildren that ſate by the fire-fide. - º thefºre famºniº likadº, lawiihakalikabird. "i ſº a - s w lewis gellius writeth that hee hath readin an approved autor, that an ew once broughtforth a lion, a beaſt of an unlike and adverſnatureto her. - anno dom. . in the town blan- y die, three miles from melon, there was lambeda lamb,haveing three heads,the middlemoſt of which was bigger then the reſt, when one bleated they all bleated. john bellanger the chirurgian of melon affirmed that hee ſaw this monſter,and hee got it drawn,and ſent Š the figure thereof to mee with that hu- mane monſter that had the head of a jº which wee have formerly deſcri- yº - §§º /. (, …” - ſ %;" /. §ºº:: s."&", . “.... . */$ | \ll," " wºllſ mv w. \ º w º w - % r there are ſom monſters in whoſe eneration by this there may ſeem to ſom divine cauſ, for that their be- innings cannot beederived or drawn rom the general cauſof monſters,that is, nature, or the errors thereof, by rea- ſon of ſom of the fore-mentioned par- ticular cauſes: ſuch are theſe monſters that are wholly again all nature, like º that which weeformerly mentioned,of - d º yº. by an ew. here ſhould --- - et aſtrologers ( leſt there - * ... = n*wwes º- ſeem to bee . #. which they are *-* sººh - ignorant of) refer the cauſes of theſe to certain conſtellations and aſpe&s of the plane; and stars, according to ariāotle's ſaying in his problems ; in confirmation whereofth: tell us this tale. it happened in the time of alberius magnus, that in a certain village, a cow broughtforth a calf, which was half aman: the townſmen apprehended the heardſ-man, and condemned him as guiltie offuch a crime,to bee preſently burnt together with the cow; but by good luck albertus was there, to whom they gave credit by reaſºn of his muchand certain experience in aſtrologie, that it was no occaſioned by aniehumane wickedneſs,but by the efficacie of a certain poſition of the ſtars, that this monſter wasborn. chap, . luº. of monſters and prodigies. - ſ. * . ſ _ - chap. xiii. of monſters occaſioned by the craft and ſubtiltie of the devil. n treating of ſuch monſters as are occaſioned by the craft of the devil, wee crave pardon of the courteous reader,ifperadventure going further from our purpoſe, wee may ſeem to ſpeak more freely and largely of theexiſtence, na- ture,& kindes of devils.therefore firſt it is manifeſt that there areconjurers, there are ſor: charmers, and witches, which whatſoever they do, perform it by an agree-cºrers,and how ** ment and compačtwith the devil, to whom they have addićted themſelvs: for they comſoto none can bee admitted into that ſocietie of witches, who hath not forſaken god the crea- tor,and his saviour,andhath not transferred the worſhip due to him above, upon the devil, to whom heehath obliged himſelf. and aſſuredly, whoſoever addićt's himſelf to theſe ma-what inductih gical vanities and witch-crafts, doth it, either becauſheedoubt's of god's power, promiſes, them thereto. Ítudieand great goodwill towards us: or elſfor that hee is madded with an earneſt defire of ‘knowing things to com; or elſbecauſdiſdaining povertie, hee affett's and defire's from a poor eſtate to becom rich on the ſudden. it is the conſtant opinion of all, both antient and modern, as well philoſophers as divines, that there are ſom ſuch men ; which when they have once addićted themſelvs to impious and diveliſh arts, can by the wondrous craft of the divel, do manie ſtrange things, and change and corrupt bodies, and the health and life of them, and the condition of all mundane things. alſo experience forceth us to confeſs the ſame, for puniſhments are ordained by the laws againſt the profeſſors and praétiſers of ſuch arts; but there are no laws again thoſe things which neither ever have been,nor never came into the knowledg of men: for ſuch things are rightly judged and accounted for impoſſi- bilities, which have never been ſeen nor heard of. before the birth of chriſt there have been manie ſuch people, for you may finde in exo- dus and leviticus laws made againſt ſuch perſonsby moſes, by whom god gave the law to his people. the lord gave the ſentence of death to ochawa, by his prophet, for that heeturned into theſe kinde of people. wee are taught by the scriptures that there are good and evil ſpirits, and that the former are termed angels, but the later devils; for the law is alſo ſaid hebr. . . to bee given by theminiſtrie of angels: and it is ſaid that our bodies ſhall riſe again at the gals. . ſound of a trumpet, and the voice of an arch-angel. chriſt ſaid that god would ſend his thºſt.*. angels to receivihe elect into the heavens. - 'he hiſtorie of job teſtifiethehatthe devil ſent fire from heaven, and killed his ſheep and cattel, and raiſed windes that ſhook the four corners of the houſ, and overwhelmed his chil- dren in the ruines thereof. the hiſtorie of achab mentioneth a certain lying ſpirit in the mouth of the falſprophets.sathan entring into judas, moved him to betraie chriſt. devils, fº. . who in a great number poſſeſſed the bodie of a man, were called and obtained of m*. . . chriſt that they might enter into swine, whom they carried headlong into the sea. - in the beginning god created a great number of angels,that thoſe divine and incorporeal fpirits might inhabitheaven, and as meſſengers, fignifie god's pleaſure tomen, and as mini- ſters or ſervants,perform his commands,who might bee as over-ſeers& protećtors of humane affairs. yet of this great number there were ſom who were blinded by pride,and thereby alſo caſt down from the preſence, and heavenlie habitation of god the creator. theſe harm- ful and craftie ſpirits delude men's mindes by divers jugling tricks,and are alwaies contri- the power of ving ſomthing to our harm, and would in a ſhort ſpace deſtroie mankinde, but that god re-evil ſpiritse: ſtrain's their furie; for they can onely do ſo much as is permitted them: expelled heaven, ºf mºnkinds. tom ofthem inhabit the air; others,thebowels of theearth; there to remain until god ſhaliº #. - com to judgthe world: and as you ſee the clouds in the air ſomwhiles to reſemble centaures, cººl of devils, otherwhiles ſerpents,rocks, towers, men, birds, fiſhes, and other ſhapes: ſo theſe ſpirits turn themſelve into all the ſhapes and wondrous forms of things; as oft-times into wilde- beaſts, into ſerpents, toads, owls, lapwings, crows or ravens, goats, aſſes, dogs,cats, wolvs, buls, and the like. moreover, they oft-times aſſume and enter humane bodies, as well dead as alive, whom they torment and puniſh,yeaalſo they transform themſelvs into angels of light. they ſign themſelvstobreſhut up and forced by magical rings,but that is onely their the diaſon, deceit and craft, they wiſh, fear, love, hate, and oft-times as by the appointment and decree of ºils. of god they puniſhmalefactors: for wee read that godſentevil angels into egypt, there to deſtroie. they houl on the night,they murmure and rattle,as if they were boundin chains, they move benches, tables, counters, props, cupboards, children in the cradles, plaie atta- bles and cheſs,turn over books,tell monie,walkup and down rooms and are heard to laugh, so open windows and doores, caſt ſounding veſſels, as braſs and the like, upon the ground, breakſtone-pots & glaſſes,&make other the like noiſes. yet none of all theſe things appear tous when as weariſe in the morning neither * r anie thing out of its place or *: - cy exadicap.a.s. levit.cap. . * - - of monſters and prodigies. lib. . * . rheitside they are called by diversnames, as devils, evil spirits, incubi, succuli, hobgoblins, fairies, and nam. robin-good-fellows, evil-angels, sathan, lucifer, the father of lies, prince ofdarkneſ; and of the world, legion, and other names agreeable to their offices and natures. - c h a p. xiv. of the ſubterrene devils, and ſuch as haunt mines. ºewis lavater write's, thatby the certain report of ſuch as work in mines, that in & $ ſom mines there are ſeen #. who in the ſhape and habitofmen, work there, §§§ and running up and down ſeem to do much work, when as notwithſtanding cºsº; they do nothing indeedbut in the meantime they hurt none of the by-ſtanders, unleſs they bee provoked thereto by words, or laughter. for then they will throw ſom heavie or hardthing upon him that hurt them, r injure them ſom other waie. the ſame autor affirm's that there is a ſilver mine in rhetia, out of which peter briot, the governor of the place, did in his time get much filver. in this minethere was a devil,who chiefly on fridaie, when as the miners put the mineral they had digged into tubs, kepta great quarter, and made himſelf exceeding buſie, and poured the mineral as hee liſted, out of one tubinto another. it happened one daie that hee was more buſie then it uſed to bee,ſo that one ºf the miners reviled him, and bad himbee gone on avengeance to the puniſhment appointed for him. the devil offended with his imprecation and ſcoff, ſo wreſted the mi. ner, takeing him by the head, twineing his neck about, hee ſet his face behinde him, yet . not the workman killed therewith, but lived,and was known by divers for manieyears after, what the de- vilsiu mines do. chap. xv. by what means the devils may deceiv us. *sºur mindes involved in the earthie habitation of our bodies, may beedeluded by the devils divers waies;for they excel in puritieand ſubtiltie of eſſence,andinth: | much uſe of things:beſides, they challengea great preheminence, as the princes ofthis world, overall ſublunariebodies. wherefore is is no marvel if they, the ** taachers and parents of lies, ſhould caſt clouds and miſts before oureias from the beginning, and turn themſelvs into a thouſandſhapes of things and bodies,that by theſe juglings and tricks they may ſhadow and darken men's mindes. devils are ſpi- rits,and fiom cternitic. - chap. xvi. of sucubi and incubi. s$&% owerful by theſe fore-mentioned arts and deceits, they have ſundrie timesac. nº); companied with men in copulation, whereupon ſuch as have had to do with men were called sucubi, . *. #. of m. incubi. verily st. the name. §§ §: auguſtineſeemeth not to bee altogether againſtit; but that they, takeing upon hºad. º § wº §: ſhape of man, may fill the genitals, as by the help of nature, to the pººp.” end that by this means they may draw aſide the unwarie, by the flames of luſt, from virtue & . and chaſtitie. - john ruef in his book of the conception and generation of man, write's that in his time, a certain woman of monſtrous luſt, and wondrous impudencie, had to do by nightwith a dive , that turned himſelf into a man, and that herbellieſwelled uppreſently after the aë; and when as ſhee thought ſhee was with childe, ſhee fell into ſo grievous a diſeaſ, that ſhee voided all her entrails by ſtool, medicines nothing at all prevailing. another. the like hiſtorieistold of the ſervant of a certain butcher, who thinking too attentive- ly on venereous matters, a devil appeared to him in the ſhape of a woman,with whom(ſup- poſing it to beeaawoman) when as hee had to do, his genitals ſoburned after the aë, that becomming enflamed hee died with a great deal of torment. neither doth peter paludanus, and martin arelatenſis think it abſurd to affirm that devils may beget children, if they ſhall ejaculate into the woman's womb ſeed taken from ſom man either dead or alive. yet this opinion is moſt abſurd and full offalitie, man's ſeed conſiſting of a ſeminal or ſanguineous matter, and much ſpirit: if it run otherwaies then into the womb from the teſticles, and ſtaienever ſo little awhile,it loſeth it ſtrength andeſ. ficacie, the heat and ſpirits vaniſhing away; foreven the too great length of aman's yard;is reckoned amongſ: the cauſes of barrenneſs, by reaſon that the ſeed is cooledby the length of the waie. if anie in copulation,after the ejaculation of the ſeed, preſently draw themſelvs from the woman's embraces, they are thought not to generate, by reaſon of the air entring - - - into the reaſon of an hiſtorie. an opinion confuted. mism” . lººs. of monſters and prodigies. * º into the yet open womb, which is thought to corrupt the ſeed, by which it appear's how averrois his hi- º: & £alſ that hiſtorie in averrois is, of a certain woman that ſaid ſtee conceived with childe by ſtoriº, convićt * aman's ſeed ſhed in a bath, and ſodrawn into her womb, ſhee entring thebath preſently aſ “”. `-- ter his departure forth. it is much leſs credible that divels can copulate with women, for they are of an abſolute ſpirituous nature, but bloud and fleſhare neceſſarie for the generati- on of man. what natural reaſon can allow that the incorporeal devils can love corporeal women? and how can weethink that they can generate, who want the inſtruments of ge- *... neration? how can they who neither eat nor drinkbee ſaid to ſwel with ſeed? now where º the propagation of the ſpecies is not neceſſarie to bee ſupplied by the ſucceſſion of individu- s als, nature hath given no deſire of venerie, neither hath it imparted the uſe of generation; s but the . once created were made immortal by god's appointment: if the facultie of the illuſion, : eneration ſhould bee granted to devils, long ſince all places had been full of them. where- ofthe devil, º: - É. if atanie time women with childe by the familiaritie of the devil, ſeem to travel, we s muſt #: it happen's by thoſe arts wee mentioned in the former chapter,to wit, they uſe to º #. the bodies of living women with old clouts, bones,pieces º iron, thorns, twiſted º airs, pieces of wood, ſerpents, and a world of ſuch trumperie, wholly diſſenting from a tº womans nature:who afterwards,the time,as it were,of their deliverie drawing nigh,through * { the womb of her that was fally judged with childe, before the blinded, and, as it were, º, boundup eies of the by-ſtanding women, they give vent to their impoſtures. the follow- ºf ing hiſtorie, recorded in the writings of maniemoſt credible authors, may give credit hereto. - º there was at conſtance a fair damoſel called margaret, who ſerved awealthie citizen: ſhee ahiflorie, º, ave it out everie where that ſhee was with childeby lying with the devil on a certain night. # wherefore the magiſtrates thought it fit ſhee ſhould bee kept in priſon, that it might bee apparent both to i. and others,what the end of this exploit would bee. the time of de- - liverance approching,ſhee felt pains like thoſe which women endure in travel; at length,af- termanie throws, by the midwive's help, in ſtead of a childe, ſhee brought forth iron nails, pieces of wood, of glaſs,bones,ſtones,hairs, tow,and the like things,as muchdifferent from each other, as from the nature of her that brought them forth, and which were formerly t–ll-le. thruſt in by the devil to delude the too credulous minds of men. º: the church acknowledgeth that devils, by the permiſſion and appointment of god pu-qur fini are ºn: niſhing our wickedneſs, may abuſe a certain ſhape, ſo to uſe copulation with mankinde. but hº . º: that an humane birth may thence ariſe, it not onely affirm's to bee falſ, but deteſt's as impi- . º lis a- ! * ous, as which believ's that there was neveranieman begot without the ſeedofman, our sa-** º: - viour chriſt excepted. now what confuſion and perturbation of creatures ſhould poſſeſs gº; this world (as caſtianus ſaith) if devils could conceiv by copulation with men? or if women ſhould proov with childeby accompanying them,how maniemonſters would the devils have -* brought forth from the beginning of the world? how manie prodigies by caſting their ſeed into the wombs of wilde and bruit beaſts? for by the opinion of philoſophers, as often as facultie and will concur, the effect muſt neceſſarily follow: now the j. never have wan- ted will to diſturb mankinde, and the order of this world: for the devil, as they ſay, is our enemiefrom the beginning; and as god is the autor of order, and beautie, ſo the devil, by ºº: pride, contrarie to god, is the cauſer of confuſion and wickedneſs. º whereforeif power ſhould accrew equall to his evil minde and nature,and his infinite de- , . ſire of miſchief and envie, who can j but a great confuſion of all things and ſpecies, and ' alſo great deformitie would invade the decent and comlie order of this univerſ, monſters a- º riſeing on everie fide: but ſeeing that devils are incorporeal, what reaſon can induceus to º:* believ that they can bee delighted with venereous ačtions; and what will can there bee where as there is no delight, nor anie decaie of the ſpecies to bee feared? ſeeing that by god's ap- rº. pointment they are immortal, ſo to remain for ever in puniſhment : ſo what need they ſuc- º ceſſion of individuals by generation? wherefore if they neither will nor can,it is a madneſs : to think that they do commix with man. ** º chap. xvii. *. of magick and ſupernatural diſeaſes and remedies. : bººhat i may refreſh the minde of the reader, invited to theſe hiſtories of monſters % yº raiſed up by the art of the devil, witches, and conjurers, his ſervants, i have º * thought good to add the following hiſtorie of certain diſeaſes, and remedies .. - * - gº ſupernatural,and vvholly magical out of fernelius. there are diſeaſes,which as it.” % they are ſent amongſt men by godbeeing offended, ſo they cannot expećt cure cauſ. cap. . º: ** otherwiſe then from god, from vwhence they are thought ſupernaturally to have theireſ. r: ſº ſence and cure. thus the air oft-times, yet chiefly in the time of king david, being defiled ºº: vvith the peſtilence, killed ſixtie odd thouſand perſons. - - * º thus exºchias was ſtruck with a grievous diſeaſ; job was defiled with filthieulcersby sº- º *...* than at god's command. andas the devil, the cruel enemie of mankinde, commonl *, - l l º uſet -- of e onſters and todge. lººs. witcheshurt uſeth by god's permiſſion to afflićt thoſe, ſo wicked perſons by the wondrous ſubtiltie of by the devil's the devil, offer violence and do harm to manie. som invoke i know not what ſpirits, and aſſiſtance. adjure them with herbs, exorciſms, imprecations,incantations, charms: others hangābout their necks, or otherwiſe carriecertain writings, chara&ers, rings, images, and other ſuch impious ſtuff. som uſe ſongs, ſounds or numbers: ſomtimes potions, perfumes, and finels; ſomitimesgeſtures andjugling.there bee ſom that make the portraiture of the abſent partiein wax, and É. that they can canſ orbring a diſeaſ into whatſoever part thereofthey prick, by the force of their words and ſtars, into the like part of the partie abſent; and they have no few other tricks to bring diſtaſes. we know for certain that magicians, witches, and conjurers, have by charms fobound ſom, that they could not have to do with their wives; and have made others ſo impotent,as if they had been gelt or made eunuchs. neither do wicked men onely ſend diſeaſes into man's bodie, but alſo devils themſelvs. theſe truely are ſoon diſtrated with a certain furie, but in this one thing they differ from ſimple madneſs,for that they ſpeak things ofgreat dif ficultie, tell things paſt and hid, diſcloſethe ſecrets of ſuch as are preſent, and revile them manie waies, j are terrified, tremble andgrow angrie by the power of divinewords. a hiſtorie. one not very long agon, beeing by reaſon of heat exceeding drie in the night time, riſe- ing out of jº. ,and not findeing drink, took an apple that heefoundby chance,and eat- ing it, hee thought his jaws were ſhut and held faſt as by ones hands, and thathee was al- moſt ſtrangled; and alſo, now poſſeſſed of a devil entring into him, hee ſeemed in the dark to bee devoured of a huge exceeding black dog, which hee, afterwards reſtored to his former health, orderly related to mee. there were #. who by his pulſ, heat and the roughneſs of his tongue, . him to bee in a fever, and by his watching, and the perturbation of his minde, thought him onely to rave. a hiſtorie. another young nobleman, ſom few years fince, was troubled at ſet times with a ſhaking of the bodie, and as it were, a convulſion, wherewith one while hee wouldmoovonely his left arm, another while the rightarm, and alſo ſom times but one finger onely, ſomwhiles but one leg, ſomtimes the other, and at other times the whole trunk º his bodie, with ſuch force and agilitie, that lying in his bed, hee could ſcarce bee held by four men; his head laie without anie ſhakeing, his tongue and ſpeech was free, his underſtanding ſound, andall his fenſes perfett even in the height of his fit. hee was taken at the leaſt ten times a daie, well in the ſpaces between, but wearied with labor: it might have been judged a true epilepſie, if the underſtanding and ſenſes had failed. the moſt judicious phyſitians who were called to him, judged it a convulſion, coſen-ger- mane to the falling ſickneſs, proceeding froma malign and venemous vapor impaëtin the ſpine of the back, whence a vapor diſperſed it ſelf over all the nervs, which º: from the |. every waie into the limbs, but not into thebrain. to remoow this, which they judged ecauſ, frequent glyſters are ordained, and ſtrong purges of all ſorts, cupping-glaſſes are applied to the beginnings of the nervs, fomentations, unétions, emplaſters, firſt to diſcuſs, then to ſtrengthen and wear away, the malign qualitie: theſe things doing little good,he was ſweated with bathes, ſtoves, and a decottion of guacum, which did no more good then the former, for that wee were all far from the knowledg of the true cauſe of his diſeaſ: for ... in the third month, a certain devil was found to bee the autor of all this ill, bewrayin ; : #: ſelf himſelf by voice, and unaccuſtomed words and ſentences, as well latin as gree º: ...(though the patient were ignorant of the greek tongue) : heelaied open manie ſecrets greek. of the by-ſtanders, and chiefly of the phyſicians, derideing them for that hee had abu- ſed them to the patients great harm, becauſthey had brought his bodie ſo low by needleſs purgations. " hen his father came to viſit him, hee would crie outlong beforehee came at him, or ſaw him, drive away this viſitant, and keep him from coming in here, orelſ pluck his chain from about his neck : for on this (as it is the cuſtom of the french order of knights) there hangs the image of st. michael. if holie and divine things were read before him, het ſhook - and trembled more violently. when his fit was over, hee remembred all that was don, and devils ... affirmed that heedid it againſt his will, and that hee was forrieſor it. the devil, forced by .#.jceremonies and exorciſms, denied that hee was damned for anie crime, and ſaid that he was vijing," a ſpirit: beeing asked who heewas, and by what means and power heedid theſe things, hee ſaid that hee had manie habitations into which hee could betake himſelf, and in the time of his reſt, hee could torment others: thathee was caſt into this bodie by a certain perſon whom hee would not name, and that hee entredby his feet up to his neck, and that hee would go forth again the ſame waie, when as his appointed time was com. hee ſpoke of fundrie other things, as others which are poſſeſſed uſe to do. now i ſpeak not theſe things as new or ſtrange, but that it may appear that devilsſom- times entring into the bodie, do ſomwhiles torment it by diverſ and uncough waies; other whiles they do not enterin, but either agitate the good humors of the bodie, or draw the ill into the principal parts, or with them obſtrućt the veins or other paſſages, or chang the frućture of the inſtruments, from which cauſes innumerable diſeaſes, proceed: of theſe,d:- vils tºmsºr ~ º º *:tº: º . s -> tº: º: * fºr: &: ſix. intº fºliº - ºft ºr º: lib. . of monſters and prodigies. - vils are the autors, and wretched and forlorn perſons the miniſters: and the reaſon of theſe things is beyond the ſearch of nature. plinie tel's that the emperor nero in his time, found magical arts moſt vain and falſ; but what need wee alledg . of the pithoniſs, of the woman ſpeaking in her bellie, of king nebuchodonozor, of the magi- tians of pharaoh, and other ſuch things not a few, proov that there both is, and hath been magick. plinie tel's of denarchus, that heetaſteing of the entrails of a ſacrificed childe,turn- ed himſelf into a wolf. wee reade in homer that circes, in the long wandring of ulyſſes, changed his companions into beaſts, with an inchanted cup or potion: and in virgil, that the growing corn may bee ſpoiled or carried away by inchantments: which things, unleſs they were approoved and witneſſed by maniemen's credits, the wiſdom of magiſtrates and lawyers, would not have made ſo manie laws againſt magicians, neither would there have been a mulêt impoſed upon their heads by the law of the twelv tables, who had inchanted o- ther men's corn. but as in magical arts the devil doth not exhibit things themſelvs, as thoſe which hee cannot make, but onely certain ſhews or appearances of things: ſo in theſe which are anie waies accomodated to the uſe of phyſick, the cure is neither certain, nor ſafe, but deceitful, captious, and dangerous. ne writers, when as thoſe things that are recorded in scripture- i have ſeen the jaundiſ, over the whole bodie, cured in one night, by a written ſcrou! it is buta de- hanged about the neck; alſo i have ſeen agues chaſed away by words and ſuch ceremonies, ceitfulºurethat but in a ſhort while after they returned again and became much worſ. now thereare ſom is performed vain things,and verily the fancies of old women, which becauſ they have long poſſeſſed the by the devil. mindes of men, weakned with too much ſuperſtition, we term them ſuperſtitious. theſe are ſuch as wee cannot truly ſay of them, wherefore and whence they have thefaculties aſſcribed to them; for they neither ariſe from the temperament, neither from theothermanifeſt quali- ties, neither from the whole ſubſtance, neither from a divine ormagical power, from which two laſt mentioned, all medicines beyond nature, and which are conſequently to beeuſed to diſeaſes,whoſe eſſence are ſupernatural,muſt proceed. such like oldwive's medicines & ſuper- ſtitions remedies are written figures and charaćters,rings,where neither the aſſiſtance of god or spirits is implored. let me ask you.as it not a ſuperſtitious medicine to healthe falling r old wive's ſu- perſtitious nº- ſickneſs, to carrie in writing the names of the three kings, gaſpar, melchior, and balthaſar, ºne, againſt who came to worſhip chriſt? to help the tooth ache;if one whil'ſt maſs is in ſaying,touch divers diſeaſes his teeth, ſaying theſe words, s noncomminuetis exeo . to ſtaie vomiting with certain cere- monies and words, which they abſent pronounce,thinking it ſufficient if that they but one- ly know the patient's name. i ſaw a certain fellow that with murmuring a few words, and touching the part, would ſtanch bloud out of what partſoever it flowed: there bee ſom who to that purpoſe ſaie this, de latere ejus exivit sanguis & aqua. how manie praiers or charms are carried about to cure agues? ſom takeing hold of the patient's hand,ſaie, Æquéfacilis tibi febris her fit, atque marie virgini chriſtipartus. another waſheth his hands with the patient before the fit, ſaying to himſelf that ſolemn pſalm, exaltabo te teus meus rex, &c. if one tell an aſs in his ear that hee is ſtung by a scorpion,they ſaie that the danger is immediately over. as there are manie ſuperſtitious words, ſo there are many ſuperſtitious writings alſo. to help ſore eies, a paperwherein the two greek letters, r and a, are written muſt bee tied in a thread,and hanged about the neck. and for the tooth ache this ridiculous ſaying, strigi- les, falcéique dentate, dentium dolorem perſanate. alſo ofttimes there is no ſmall ſuperſtition in things that are outwardly applied. such is that of apollonius in plinie, to ſcarifie the gums in the tooth-ach, with the tooth of one that died a violent death: to makepils of the skul of one hanged, againſt the bitings of a mad dog : to cure the falling ſickneſs by eating the fleſh of a wilde beaſt, killed with the ſame iron wherewith a man was killed: that heeſhall bee freed from a quartain ague who ſhall drink the wine whereinto the ſword that hath cut off a man's head,ſhallbee put; and hee, the parings of whoſe nails ſhallbee tied in a linnen cloth to the neck of a quick eel, and the eel let go into the water again. the pain of the milt to bee aſſwaged, if a beaſt's milt bee laid upon it, and the phyſician ſaie that hee cure's or make's a medicine for the milt. anie one to bee freed from the cough, who ſhall ſpit in the mouth of a toad, letting her go away alive. the halter wherein one hath been hanged put about the temples,to help the head-ach. this word abracadabra,written on a paper, af- ter the manner deſcribed by serenuſ, and hanged about the neck, to helpagues or fevers, e- ſpecially ſemitertians. what truth can bee in that which ſundrie affirm, that a leaf of lathy- ris, which is a kinde of spurge, if it bee plucked upwards, will cauſ vomit, but broken downwards, will moov to ſtool? you may alſo finde manie other ſuperſtitious fićtions concerning herbs, ſuch as galen report's that andreas and pamphilus writ, as incantations, likº” transformations, and herbs dedicated to conjurers and devils. i had thought never in this place to have mentioned theſe and the like, but that there may bee everywhere found ſuch wicked perſons, who leaving the arts and means, which are appointed by god to preſerv the health of man's bodie, flie to the ſuperſtitiousand ridicu- lous remedies of ſorcerers, or rather of devils, which notwithſtanding the devil ſomtimes l l l . make's o tofswſonſers and ºrodigier. - lºº. a make's to perform their wiſh't for effects, that ſo hee may ſtill keep them enſnared and ad- dićted to his ſervice. neither is it to bee approoved which manie ſay, that it is good to bee healed by anie art or means, for that healing is a good work. this ſaying is unworthy of a chriſtian,and ſavor's rather of him that truſt's more to the devil then in god.thoſe empe- ricks are not of the ſocietie of sorcerers and magitians, who heal fimplewounds with drie lint, or lint dipt in water: this cure is neither magical nor miraculous, as many ſuppoſe, but wholly natural proceeding from the healing fountains of nature, wounds and fraćtures, which the surgeon may heal by onely takeing away the impediments, that is pain, defluxi. on, inflammation, an abſceſs and gangrene, which retardandhinder the cure of ſuchdiſeaſes the following examples will ſufficiently make evident the devil's maliciouſneſs,alwaieswic-, kedly and craftily plotting againſt our ſafetie and life. libitpiff. .p., . a certain woman of florence (as langius write's)haveing amalign ulcer,and beeing trou- bled with intolerable pain at the ſtomach, ſo that the phyſitians could give her no eaſ: be- hold on a ſudden ſhee vomited uplong and crooked nails, and braſs needles, wrapped up with wax and hairs, and at length a great gobbet of fleſh, ſo big that a giants jaws could ſcarce ſwallow it. but that which happened in the year of our redemption . in a certain town called fugenſtal, in the biſhoprick of eiſter, exceed's all credit,unleſs there were eie-witneſſes of ap- prooved integritie yet living.in this town,one ulrich neuſeſſer an husbandman,wastorment- ed with grievous pain in the one ſide of his bellie,hee ſuddenly got hold of an ironkey with his handunder the skin, which was not hurt,the which the barbar-surgeon of the place cut outwith a razor:yet for all this the pain ceaſed not,but hee grew every daieworſthen other: wherefore expe&ting no other remediebut death, heegot a knife and cut his throat. his dead bodie was opened, and in his ſtomach were found around and loggiſhpiece of wood, four ſteel knives part ſharp,and part toothed like a ſaw,and two ſharp pieces of iron,each where- of exceeded the length of a ſpan, there was alſo as it were a ball of hair. all theſe things were put in by the craft and deceit of of the devil. thus far langiuſ. -t- chap. xviii. of the cozziº, and crafty trickſ of beggars. faveing treated of monſters, it follow's that wee ſpeak of thoſe things which ... either of themſelvs, by reaſon of their nature full of admiration, have ſom kind of monſtrouſneſs in them; or elſ from ſom other waies, as by the craft and cozenage of men. and becauſto the laſtmentioned cratts of the devil, the ſubtle devices of begging companions are ſomwhat alike,therefore i will handle them in the next place,that the surgeon bécing admoniſhed of them, may bee more cautious and cunning in diſcerning them when her meet's with them. an hiſtorie of . anno dom. . when i was at anjou, there ſtooda craftie beggar begging at the church a counterfeit door, who tying and hideing his own arm behindehis back, ſhewed in ſteed thereof, ne cut iii). from the bodie of one that was hanged, and this heeproped up and bound to hisbrell, and ſo laid it open to view, as if it had been allenflamed, ſo to mooy ſuch as paſſed by unto reater commiſeration of him. the cozenage lay hid, every one giving him monie,until at f: his counterfeit arm not beeing ſurely faſtened, fell upon the ground, many ſeeing and obſerving it: heebeeing apprehended and laid in priſon, by the appointment of the magi- ſtrate, was whipped through the town, with his falſarm hanging before him, and ſoba- niſhed. another of a i had a brother called john parey, a surgeon,who dwelt in vitre in britanie; hee once ob- ...jºs ſerved a young woman begging, who ſhewed herbreaſt, as if it had a cancrous ulcer there: on, looking fearfully by reaſon of much ſordid filth,wherewith it ſeemed to defile the cloth thatlay under it. but when as hee had more diligently beheld the woman's face,and the freſh color thereof, as alſo of the places about the ulcer, and the good habite of the whole bodie agreeable to that color (for ſhee was ſomwhat fat, and of avery good habit of bodie) hee was eaſily hereby induced to ſuſpečt ſom roguery and deceit. hee acquainted the magiſtrate with this his ſuſpicion,and got leav that heemight carrie her hometo his houſſo to ſearch her more narrowly. where opening herbreaſt, hee found under her arm-pit, a ſpongmoiſt- ned with a commixture of beaſt'sbloud and milk, and carried through an elder-pipe to the hidden holes of her counterfeit cancer. therefore hee foment's herbreaſt with warm water, and with the moiſture thereof looſeth the skins of black, green, and yellow frogs, laid up- onit, and ſtuck together withglew, made of bole armenick, the white of an egg, and flow- er; and theſe beeing thus fetched off, heefound her breaſt perfeółly ſound. thebeggarbeeing caſt for this into priſon, confeſſed that ſhee was taught this trick by a beggar that lay with her, who himſelf alſo, by putting about his legan oxes milt, and per- forating it in fundry places, that ſo the forementioned liquor might drop out, counterfeit- edanulcer of a monſtrous bigneſs and malignitie, covering the edges . the milt on every - ſide l, lib. . of monſters and prodigies. - tºne. *: y º º fºs, **** *::: * *:::: + fºr: º iii: tºt. ºt º:[ſ. ºric º:a: diº fide with a filthie cloth. this beggarwas diligently enquired after,but could notbee found; w and ſo ſhee was whipped and baniſhed. within leſs then a year after, there came into the ſame citie another notable craftie com- of one feign- panion, who preſently takeingupthe church doors, laid open his wares to wit, a ker-ing himſelf cher withſom ſmall pieces of monielying thereon, a wooden barrel, and cliquets,where- *::::: with her wouldeyernowandthen mikeºgreatnoiſ; his face was ſpread over with great gº." thick puſtles, becing of a blackiſh red color, and made with glue like thoſe that have the le-ſomºhºre. profie : this his ghaſtly look made him to bee pitied by all men, which was the cauſ that eve-ſembling a rie'one gave him monie. then my brother came ſomwhat nearer him, and asked him how ſmall woºl- long heehad been troubled with this ſo cruell diſeaſ; hee anſwered with an obſcure and .. horſyoice, that he was born a leper from from his mºther's wºmb, and that hisparents jet both died of this wicked diſeaſ, ſo that their members fell away piece-meal. now hee had boardif, faſt. a woollenſwatheabout his chaps, wherewith (haveing his left hand under his cloak)heeſoned together ſtraitned his chaps, that much blackbloudroſe intohis face, and made him ſo hoarſ that with leather: hee could ſcarce *:: ; yet hee could not contain himſelf, but that in ſpeaking hee ever now . will and then ſlackned the ſwathe with his hand, the freelier to draw his breath: which when .#. my brother had obſerved, ſuſpeding ſomcozenage, hee obtained leav of the magiſtrate to jº fearch and examinethe man whether hee were truly leprous, or no. firſt therefore hee uſed by the took away his ſwatheorrowler that was about his neck; then waſhed his face with warm french beg- water, ſo that the counterfeit glued puſtles were diſſolved, and his face (free from all tain-gars. ture) ſhewedit ſelf of agood and natural color and ſhape. then hee laid bare his whole body, and diligently viewed each part, and found no ſign of a leproſie, one or other. which when the magiſtrate once heard, hee made him to bee put in priſon, and to bee thrice whipped through the ſtreets of the citie, with his barrel hanging before him, and his cliquets behinde him, adding thereto the puniſhment of perpetual baniſhment. it hap'ned that as hee was whipped the third market-day, the peoplecried out to the hang-man in jeſt, that hee ſhould not fear to laſh him ſoundly, forbeeing leprous hee could not feel it: the execu- tioner incited by this crie of the people, did ſobelabor him; that the wretch died of his whipping within a ſhort while after, haveing a juſt reward for his wickedneſs. . for theſe impoſtors, beſides that they live like drones, feigning this or that diſeaſ, and ſo beeingidle, enjoy the fruits of others labors; they alſo divers times conſpireing together, take away the lives and goods of honeſt and ſubſtantial citizens, and other people: for there are ſom of them,that in an evening, as men that have no habitation, deſire lodging for a night, and it beeing granted them,they,when as the maſter of the houſand his familie areaſleep, open the doors to their comrades, men as wicked as themſelvs, and kill and carrie away all they can. certainly wee may juſtly affirm, that this craftiebegging is the mother and ſchool of all a multitude of diſhoneſtie: for how manie aas of bawdrie and poiſoning everie where corrupt the wells i. and publick fountains? how manie places have been burnt under the ſhew of begging? ſuſº, the citie. where can you getmore fit ſpies? where more fit undertakers and workers of all manner of villanie, then out of the crew of theſe beggers? - som of them there are, who beſmear their faces with ſoot laid in water, ſo to ſeem to how to diſco- have the jaundiſ. butyou may at the firſt fight findeout the deceit, by the native whiteneſs verſuch. of the utter coat of the eie, called adnata, which in ſuch as truly have the jaundiſ, uſeth to ... bee died and overcaſt with a yellowiſh color; alſo you may bee more certain thereof, if you “ - wet a cloth inwater or ſpittle, and ſo rub the face, for the adventitious yellowneſs will quickly vaniſh, and the true native color ſhew itſelf. - som there bee, who not content to have mangled, and filthily exulcerated their limbs with cauſtick herbs, and other cauteries; or to have made their bodies more ſwoln, or elſ lean, with medicated drinks; or to have deformed themſelvsſom other waie,but from good and honeſt citizens, who have charitably relieved them, they have ſtoln children, have bro- ken or diſlocated their arms and legs, have cut out their tongues, have depreſſed the cheſt, or whole breaſt; that with theſe, as their own children, begging up and down the countrie, they may get the more relief, pitifully complaining that they came by this miſchance by thunder, or lightning, or ſom other ſtrange accident. - laſtly, they part the kingdom amongſt themſelvs as into provinces, and communicateby letters one to auother,what news or new quaint deviſes there are to conceal or advance their roguerie: to which purpoſe they have invented a new language onely known to themſelvs, ſo to * together and not to bee underſtoodby others. [wee here vulgarly term it canting. •". . . . . . . . . dr. flecelle, a phyſician of paris, entreated meeto bear him companie to his countrie houſofone coun- at champigny, four miles from paris. where aſſoon as weearrived, and were walking in the terfeiting the court, there camepreſently to us a goodlnſtie well fleſh't manlie woman, begging alms for falling of the sº, fiacre ſake; and takeing up her coat and her ſmock, ſhee ſhewed a great gut hanging fundament. down ſom half a foot, which ſeemed as if it had hanged out of her fundament, whereout - there dropped filth like untopus, which had all ſtained her legs and ſmock, moſt beaſtly and filthie to lookupon. flecelle asked her how long ſhee had been troubled with this diſeaſ: ſhee lº. of monifers and prodigies. º; º: : : ". º ::::::: tº: º::::: * † :::::im ºfty riſing yºr **** cir. º: *i; *** zºº frºg :x: :: * ...::: :: º:* ---, º: c h a p. xix. of ſtrange or monſtrous accidents in diſeaſeſ. sº monſtrouſneſs ſoever was in the laſt mentioned parties, it was made up by the craft ofbeggars for filthie gain. but if there beeaniemonſtrouſheſ in the follow- ingnarrations, it is of nature, but working, as it were, miraculouſly, by ſom ſe- cret and occult means; for thus there are ofttimesmonſters indiſeaſes. before the monſºrshap: town of st. john de angeley, a ſouldier called francis, of the companie of captain maret, was #.: in wounded with a harquebuz-ſhot on the bellie, between his navel and ſides; the bullet was º: ſhot not taken out, becauſthe surgeons, who ſearched him diligently,tould not finde it: where-jī: fore hee was troubled with grievous and tormenting pains, until the ninth daie after hee re-cam fortha: ceived the wound, the bullet came forth at his fundament: wherefore within three weeks thefundament. after hee was perfe&ly whole. hee was healed by simon crinay, the surgeon of the french companies. - - james pope, lord of st. albans in dauphine, was wounded at the skirmiſh at chaſenay,have-abullet flick- ing three harquebuzbullets entring into his bodie, one whereof pierced under his throat, ing in the where itbuncheth out as with a knot, neer to the pipe of his longs, even to thebeginning of throat and pa- the vertebre of the neck,in which place the leadenbullet ſtuck, and as yet doth remain.here- . recover- upon hee was afflićted with manie and fearful ſymptoms,asa fever,and agreat ſwelling of his . whole neck, ſo that for ten whole daies hee could ſwallow nothing but broaths and liquid things. yet heerecovered, and remained well at this preſent, by the cure of james dalam the surgeon. - - -- . . ; - - £ . . alexander benedičius make's mention of a certain countrie-man, who, ſhot into the back acrookediron with a dart, drawing out the ſhaft, the head was left behinde, beeing in length about the ſhot into the bredth of two fingers, but hooked and ſharp on the fides. when as the surgeon had care- ºr came lib. . anatom. fully and diligently ſought for it, and could by no means finde it, heehealed up the wound, ;: but two months after this crooked head came #: at his fundament. a fºllowed the ſame author telleth that at venice a virgin ſwallowed a needle, which ſom two years needleyºd afterſhee voided by urine,covered over with a ſtoniematter, gathered about viſcous humors, by urine. catherine perlan, the wife of william guerrier, a draper of paris, dwelling in the jewrie, aneedle ºn- as ſhee rodeon horſ:backinto the countrie,a needle out of her pin-cuſhion, was got under †.: *: her by accident, ran ſo deep into her right buttock, that it could not by anie art or force bee forth at the plucked forth. four months after ſheeſent for meeto.com to her, and ſheetold meethat as goin. often as ſhee had to do with her husband, ſhee ſuffered extreme pricking pain in her right groin ; .# my hand thereto, as i felt it, my fingers met with ſomthing ſharp and hard: wherefore i uſed the matter ſo,that i drew forth the needle all ruſtie: this may bee accounted a miracle, that ſteel, naturally heavie, ſhould riſe upwards, from the buttock to the groin, and pierce the muſcles of the thigh, without cauſing an abſceſs. anno dom. , the two ſons of laurence collo (men excellent in cutting for the ſtone) aneedle in the took forth a ſtone of the bigneſs of a wall-nut, in the mid'ſt whereof was a needle, juſt like mid's of a thoſe that ſhoo-makers uſe; the patient's name was peter cocquin, dwelling in the ſtrret ga- ſtone taken land at the place called maubert at paris, and i think hee is yet living. this ſtone was ſhewed tºº i to king charlt the ninth, for the monſtrouſneſs of the thing, ibeeing then preſent, which cre, beeing given me by the surgeon, i preſervamongſt my other rarities. the figure of aſtone taken forth of the bladder of a confetiioner. anno dom. .the dut- cheſs of ferraraatparis, ſent for fohn collo,to take a ſtone out of a confettioner. this ſtone , though it weighed nine ounces, & was as thick as one's fiſt,yet was it happi- lie taken out, the patientre- covering, francis rouſſet,and §." the dutcheſs hyficians, beeing preſent. yet not long after this con- feationer died by the ſtop- page of his water, by reaſon of two other little ſtones, which about to deſcend from the kidnies to the blad- der, ſtaied in the mid-way of the ureters.the figure of the extracted ſtone was this." . of monſters and prodigies. lib. - anno dom. . laurence collo the younger, took three ſtones out of the bladder of one dwelling at marly, called commonly tire-vit: becauſbeeing troubled with the ſtone from the tenth year of his age, hee continually ſcratched his yard, each of the ſtones were as big as an hen's egg; of color white, they all together weighed twelv ounces. when they wer: preſented to king charls, then lying at saint maure des fauſſez, hee made one of them to be broken with a hammer, and in the middeſt thereof there was found another, of a cheſnut color, but otherwiſe much like a peach ſtone. theſe three ſtones beſtowed on mee by the brethren, i have here repreſented to the life. * ... -- the effigies of the three forementioned ſtones, whereof one is broken. s= zº º uss-eº i have in the diſſe&ing of dead bodies, obſerved divers ſtones, of various forms and fi- figures, as of pigs, whelps, and the like. dalechampius telleth that heeſawa man, which by an abſceſs of his loins, which turned to a fiſtula, voided manic ſtones out of his kidnies, and yet notwithſtanding could endure to ride on horſ-back, or in a coach. john magnus, the king's moſt learned and skilful phyſician, haveing in cure a woman, troubled with cruel torment and pains of the bellie and fundament, ſent for mee, that by putting aspe- culum into the fundament, hee might ſee if hee could perceiv anie diſcernable cauſ of ſo great and pertinacious pain: and when as hee could ſee nothing which might further him a ſton; by the in the findeing out of the cauſ of her pain (following reaſon as a guid) by giveing her fores º fºr often glyſters and purgations, hee brought it ſo to paſs, that ſhee at length voided . j a ſtone at her fundament of the bigneſs of a tennis-ball: which once avoided, all her i.am. pains ceaſed. . epid. hippocrates tell's that the ſervant of dyſeri; in lariſſa, when ſhee was young, in uſeingve- nerie was much pained, and yet ſomtimes without pain, yet ſhee never conceived. but when ** ſhee was fixtie years old, ſhee was pained in the after-noon as if ſhee had been in labor. aſtone * when as ſhee one daie before noon had eaten manie leeks, afterward ſhee was taken with a tºle moſt violent paiu, far exceeding all her former, and ſhee felt a certain rough thing riſeing up in the orifice of her womb. but ſhee falling into a ſwoun, another woman putting in b. wom her hand, got out aſharp ſtone of the bigneſs of a whirl, and then ſhee forthwith became - well, and remained ſo. - - lib. .cap.de in a certain woman, who, as hollerius tell's, for the ſpace of four months was troubled *** with an incredible pain inmakeing water, twoſtones were found in her heart, with manie abſceſſes, her kidnies and bladder beeing whole. : * * - , anno dom. . i opened in jobn bourlier a tailor, dwelling in the ſtreet of st. honoré, a watrie abſceſs in his knee, wherein i found a ſtone, white, hard, and ſmooth, of the thick- no part ofthe neſs of an almond; which beeing taken out, hee recovered. certainly there is no part of i: wherein the bodie wherein ſtones may notbreed and grow. . * anthonie benevenius a florentine phyſician write's,that a certain woman ſwallowed abraſs *...at needle without anie pain, and continued a year after without feelingor complaining of it: lowed. ... but at the end thereof ſhee was moleſted with great pains in herbellie; for helping of which forth at the ſhee asked the adviſe of all the phyſicians ſhee could, makeing, in the interim, no mention navelſom two of the ſwallowed needle. wherefore ſhee had no benefit by all the medicines ſhee took; and *** ſhee continued in pain for the ſpace oftwo years, until at length the needle came forth at a little hole by her navel, and ſheerecovered her health. • - a scholar s. º l, ~ º: º * º º, lib . of monſters and prodigies. a scholar named chambelantanative of bourges,a ſtudentin parisinthe colledgof preſſ, agusof, ſwallowed a ſtalk of graſs, which came afterwards whole out between two of his ribs, with ſw .# º the greatdanger of the ſcholar's life. for it could com there mnleſs by paſſing or breaking came forth through the lungs, the encompaſſing membrane, and the intercoſtal muſcles, yet heerecove whole again red, fernelius and haguet having him in cure. :* the cabrole chirurgian to mounſieur the marſhal of anville, toldmee that francis guillenet the '. iſe ſwal- chirurgian of sommiers,a ſmall village ſom eight miles from mompelier,hadin cure, and hea-icºs led a certain shepherd, who was forced by theevsto ſwallowaknife of the length of half a forth it anab. foot, with a horn handle of the thickneſs of ones thumb: hee kept it the ſpace of half a ſeeſ in the yeer, yet with great pain,andheefell much away, but yet was notin a conſumption, until " at length an abſceſs tiſting in his groin, with great ſtore of verie ſtinking quitture, the . there taken forthin the preſence of the juſtices, and left with joubert the phyſici- an of mompelier. º - ..." ; the duke of rohan had a fool called guido,who ſwallowed the pointofa ſword . i. of the length of threefingers,andheevoided itathis fundament on the twelfth daie follow-..." ing yet with much adoo: there areyet living maniegentlemen of britanie,who were eie-wit-fortha, the neſſes thereof. - fundament, there have been fundrie women with childe, who have ſo caſt forth piece-meal children wonderful that have died in their wombs, as that the boneshavebroke themſelvs a paſſage forth at the . : navel, but the fleſh, diſſolved as it were into quitture, flowed out º: neck of the womb." and the fundament, the mothers remaining alive, as )alechampius obſerv's out of albucrafts. - is it not verie ſtrange that there have bin women, who troubled with a fit of the mother, women trou- have lien three whole daies without motion,withoutbreathing, or pulſthat were anie waie . h. ith the apparent, and ſo have been carried out for dead? :. a certain young man, as fernelius tell's, by ſomwhat too vehement exerciſe, was taken a. impoſtume with ſuch a cough, that it left him not for a moment of time, until hee therewith had caſt ſpit out, ofthe forth a whole impoſtume of the bigneſs of a pigeon's egg, wherein, beeing opened, there was bigneſs of a found quitture exquiſitely white and equal. hee ſpitblood two daies after,had a great fever, ***gg. and was much diſtempered, yet ºniº, ce recovered his health. anno dom. . stephana chartier, dwelling at st. maure des fauſſex, a widow of fortie wormscaſt up in the fit of an yeers old, beeing ſick of a tertian fever, in the beginning of her fit vomited up a great ague, quantitie of choler, and together therewith three hairie worms,in figure, color, andma- nitude like the worms called bear-worms, yet ſomwhat blacker; they lived eight whole ies after without anie food: the chirurgian of thistown brought them to dr. milot,who ſhewed them to feure, le groſ, mareſcot and courtin phyſicians, and to mee alſo... this following hiſtorie, taken out of the chronicles of monfirele, exceed's all admiration. this narration a certain franck-archer of meudon, four miles from paris, was for robberie condemned to exceed's not beehanged: in the mean time it was told the king by the phyſicians, that manie in paris at ººlººk that time were troubled with the ſtone, and amongſt the reſt the lord of boſtage, and that it i." al- would bee for the good of manie, ifthey might view and diſcern with their eies the parts º themſelvs wherein ſo cruel a diſeaſqid breed, and that it might bee don much better in a li- ving then in a dead bodie, and that they might make trial upon the bodie of the franck-ar- cher, who had formerly been troubled with theſe pains. the king granted their requeſt; wherefore opening his bodie they viewed the breathing parts, and ſatisfied themſelvs as much as they deſired,and having diligently and exačtly reſtored each part to its proper place, the bodie by the king's command,was ſewed up again,and dreſſed and cured with great care. it came ſo to paſs, that this franck-archer recoverdina few daies, and getting his pardon, got good ſtore of monie beſides. alexander benedičius tell's that heeſaw a woman called vićioria, vvho having loſt all her teeth, and beeing bald, yet had others came upintheir places, vvhen as ſhee vvas fourſcore yeers old. - *. - { * * stephen tºfflera chirurgian of orleance told mee that notlong ago heecured one charlº prad.hts . perignel, a serjeant of orleance, of avvound received in his ham, whereby the two tendons ar. bending the ham, were quite cut in ſunder.hee took this order in the curesheecauſed the pa- tient to bend his leg,then heeſewed together the ends of the cut-tendons, then placed the member in that ſite, and handledvviththat art, that at length hee-healed the vvound, the §: tient not halting at all. truly this is a memorable thing,and carefully and heedfully to imitated by theyoung chirurgian. zºº, * - - how manie havel ſeen, vvho wounded and thruſt through the bodievvith ſwords, ar- rows, pikes, bullets, have had portion of the brain cut offby avvound of the head, an arm or legtaken avvaie by a cannon-bullet, yet have recovered? and howv manie on the contra- rie, have died of light and ſmall vounds, not vorth the ſpeaking of a certain man was ſhot in near to his groin with an arrow, vvhom vweenawe ſeen, ſaith . epidem hippocrates,andhee recoveredbeyond all men's expectation:the arrow's-headwasnot taken” º forth, for it was verie deepin, neither did the wound bleed verie much, neither did hee, halt ; but wee found the head, and took it forth ſix yeers after hee vvas §. owy - p- of esmonſters and prodigies. lib. . | now hippocrates gives no reaſon of it's ſolong ſtaie, but that hee ſaith it might bee ſuſpe" &edit laie hidbetween the nervs, and that no vein nor arterie was cut i. c. h. a. p. xx. of the wonderful original, or breeding of ſom creatures. raiffin hiſtor. ºff ee have readin boiſſey, that a certain work-man of avignion, when as hee rdiz. ſº lived in that cittie, opened a leaden coffin, wherein a deadbodielaie, that was praig - - - ſo cloſely ſaudered, that the air could not get in; and as hee opened it, it is a common cnº. hee was bitten by a ſerpent that laie therein, with ſo venomous and dead- thing for a fer- lie abite, that it hadneer to have coſt him his life. yet the original ofthis †.º creature is not ſo prodigious as hee º for it is an uſual thing for a serpent to breed ... ... ofanie putrefied carcaſ, but chiefly of man's. man, baptiſta leo write's, that in the time of pope martin the fifth, there was a live-serpent alive ſerpent found encloſed in a vaſte, but ſolid marble,no chink appearingin ſuch denſſoliditie,where- in a ſolid mar-by this living creature mightbreathe. ble. whileſtin my vine-yard,that is at meudon, i cauſed certain huge ſtones to bee broken to ieces, a toad was found in the mid'ſt of one of them. when as imuch admired thereat, É. there was no ſpace wherein this creature could bee generated, increaſ, or live; the stone-cutter wiſhed mee not tomarvel thereat, for it was a common thing, and that hee #: i.:- ſaw it almoſt everiedaie. certainly it maycom to paſs, that from the more moiſt portion ful generati- of ſtones, contained in §. moiſt and underground, and the celeſtial heat mixing and . diffuſeing it ſelf over the whole maſs of the world, the matter may bee animated for the generation of theſe creatures. cha p. xxi. ofthe wondrous nature of ſummarine things, and other living creatures. | he laſt mentioned creatures werewonderful in their original, or rather in their … º. >, wº º º & growth: but theſe which follow, though theybee not wonderful of themſelvs, as thoſe that conſiſt of their own proper nature, and that working well and af- teran ordinarie manner; yet they are wondrous to us, or rather monſtrous, for that they are not verie familiar to us. for the raritie and vaſtneſs of bodies, is in ſom ſort monſtrous. of this fort there are manie, eſpecially in the sea, whoſe ſecretcorners and receptacles are not pervious to men: as tritons, which from the middle upwards are reported to have the ſhape of men. and the strenes, neréides or mere- maids, who (according to plinie) have the faces of women, and ſcaliebodies; yea, wherea: they have the ſhape of man; neitheryet can the forementioned confuſion and conjunétion of ſeeds take anie place here, for as wee lately ſaid,they confiſt of their own proper nature. when mena was preſident of egypt, and walked on the banks of nilus, her ſaw a sea-mon- ſter in theſhape of a man, comming forth of the waters; his ſhape was juſt like to aman even to themiddle, with his countenance compoſed to gravitie, his hair yellow, yet intermixed with ſom graie,his ſtomach bonie, his arms orderly made and jointed, his other parts ended in a fiſh. three daies after in the morning, there was ſeen another sea-monſter, but with ſhape or countenanceofa woman, as appeared by her face,her longhair, and ſwolnbreaſt; both theſe monſters continued ſo long i. water,that anie one might view them verie well º º lib. .tºp. the effigies of the triton and siren of nilus. . : º: º: : º- . * | _*- lib. . of monſters and prodigies. t. in our times,ſaith rondeletius;in norway was a monſter taken in a tempeſtuous ſea,the which *mºnicasſawit.preſently termed a monk,by reaſon of the ſhape which you mayfeehºf. forth. the figure ºf afiſhin the babit or ſhape of a biſhop. - the figure of a fiſh reſembling a monk. ..., º * º § () sº ſy (; § Ü Ú º o §§ cŞ i Ú à # kx) a" ss - - º () #### & lſº ſº # el c&cºmåmě Š º àº'à º - anno dom. . there was ſeen a ſea-monſter in the habit of a biſhop, covered over with ſcails: rondoletins and geſner have deſcribed it. z geſner profeſſeth that heereceived from jeromcardane this monſter, having the head of a bear, the feet and hands of an ape. * * º the effigies of a sea-moſter beaded like a bear. º - w * - \ ſº |wººs iſſº ſ y º - % º §wwºº wººl \ * - = "allºw \ \ - ºdiºiſillſ not long before the death the effigies of a lion-like ſcalie sea-monſter. of pope paul the third, in - gº, ºs the mid'ſt of the tyrrhene ſea, a monſter was taken,& preſented to the ſucceſſor of of this paul: it was in ſhape exº~~ . : . &bigneſs like to a lion,but £ % all ſcalie;and the voice was #zzº&##### % like a man's voice. it was % brought to rome to the - §§§ § % great admiration of allmen, but it lived not long there, beeing deſtitute of it's own natural place and nouriſh- ment, as it is reported by fi philip forreſt. -- () º &ai. | - e.p i - - of eºſomſters and *rodigies. lib. . thebigneſs of a childe of five years old, like to a man even to the navel, except the cars; in the other parts it reſembled a fiſh. - the pope. *..this here fi- gured is the fea morſ,ta- ken common- ly by our men in their green- land voiages: and i judgthe ſea. bore and elephant to bee the ſame, but that the painter hath ſhe wedhis skil too much in the one : and the other is an old morſ, as this here figu- red is a young ºnce anno dom. . the third daie of november, there was ſeen at rome this ſea-monſter, of the effigies of a sea-monſter with a man's face. §§ º ww § \ n \% . \\ s # § # #rn *-i- s: nº-ea ºse; §§§n=g=\º •. s § --- =\ . , s. . sº - s'ſ, sº iºw (“ '- n v = ~az *\ º \ - \ nº - "sº-jº-s is sns===<= eºsí. - x geſner make's mention of this sea-monſter,and ſaith that hee had the figure thereof from a painter, who took it from theyerie fiſh, which hee ſaw at antwerp. the head look's veric ghaſtly, having two horns,prick-ears, and arms not much unlike a man, but in the other parts it was like a fiſh. it was taken in the illyrian sea, as it came a ſhore out of the water to catch a little childe: for being hurt by ſtones caſt by fiſher-men that ſaw it, it returned a while after to the ſhore from whence it fled, and there died. the effigies of a sea-devil. >as //\; s}\ geſner tel's that a sea-monſter with the head, mane, and breaſt of a horſ, and the reſt of his bodie like a fiſh, was ſeen and taken in the ocean-sea, brought to rome, and preſented to olaus magas tel's that a sea-monſtertaken at bergen, with the head and ſhape of a calf, was given him by a certain engliſh gentleman. the like of which was preſented lately to king charl; the ninth, and was long kept living in the waters at fountain-bleau, and it went oft-times a ſhore. this is much different from the common sea-calf or seal. the effigies of a monſtrous * sea-calf, º ** * ſ/|| | º ſº % j l, { this o of monſters and ‘prodigies. lib. . a crocodile is a vaſt creature, comming ſomtimes to bee fifteen cubites long, and ſeeing it is a creature that doth not bring forthyoung, but eggs,it uſeth at the moſt tolaieſom fix: tie eggs, no bigger then gooſe eggs, riſengto ſuch bigneſs from ſo ſmall beginnings (for the hatched young one is proportionable to the egg) ſhee is verielong-lived. it hath ſo ſmall and uſeleſsa tongue, that it may ſeem to have none at all. wherefore ſee- ing it live's both on land and water; as it live's on landitis to beetaken for a tongue, but as itlive's part of the life in the water it hath no uſe of a tongue, and therefore is not to bee re- thecrocodile putedone. for fiſhes either wholly want tongues, or elſhave them ſo impedite and bound, ºneymooy's that they ſerv for little uſe.thecrocodileonely of all other thingsmoow's the upperjaw,the the upper jaw. lower remaining unmovable: for her feet,they are neither goodto takenor hold aniething; ſheehath eies not unlike thoſe of ſwine, long teeth ſtanding forth of the mouth, moſt claws, aſcailieskin, ſo hard that no weapon can pierceit. of the land-crocodile (reſem- bling this both land and waterone) is made the medicine crocodilea, moſt fingular for ſore expende dili- eies, beeing annointed with the juice of leeks, it is good againſt ſuffuſions or dimneſs of the ji, fight; it take's away freckles,pulles,andſpots;the gall annointed on the cies help's cata- tum lib. . raćts, but the bloud clear's the fight. - - thevet ſaith they live in the fountains of the river nilus, or rather in a lake flowing from *:::pºtºm-the ſame fountains, and that hee ſaw ſom that were fixpaces long,and a yard croſs the back, #: alsº that their verie looks were formidable. they catch them thus; when as the water of nilus cº.; “fals, the egyptians let down a line, haveing thereto faſtened an iron hook of ſom three pound waight, made verie large and ſtrong, upon this hook they put a piece of fleſh of a ca- mel or ſomother beaſt; which when as hee ſee's, hee preſently fal's upon it, and devour's it hook and all, wherewith when hee finde's himſelf to bee cruelly pulled and pinched, it would delight you to ſee how hee fret's and leap's aloft; then they draw him thus hooked, by little and little to the ſhore, and faſten the rope ſurely to the next tree, leſt hee ſhould fall upon them that are about him; then with prongs,and ſuch things they ſobelabor his bellie, whereas his skin is ſoft and thin, that at length they kill him,and uncaſeing him,they make cap, io, readie his fleſh, and eat it for delicious food.john lereus, in his hiſtorie of braſíl, write's,that the salvages of that countrie willingly feed upon crocodiles, and that hee ſaw ſom who - brought into their houſes young ones, wherewith their children gathering about it, would plaie without receiving anie harm thereby. true (ſaith plinie) is that common opinion, whatſoever is brought forth in aniepart of nature, that alſo is in the ſea, and manie other things over and above, that are in no other place. you may perceiv that there are notonely the reſemblances of liveing creatures, but alſo ofcther things; if you look upon the ſword, ſaw, cucumber, like in ſmeland color to that of the earth, that you may leſs wonder at the sea-featherandgrape, whoſe figures i have here given you out of rondeletius. the ſea-feather is like thoſe feathers of birds, which are worn in hats ſor ornament,after they are trimmed and dreſt for that purpoſe. the fiſhermen call them ſea-pricks, for that one end of them reſembleth the end of a man's yard, when the prepuce is drawn offit. as long as it is alive it ſwel's, and becom's ſomtimes bigger and ſomtimes leſſer; but dead, it becom's verie flaccid and lank: it ſhine's brighton the night like a ſtar. you may by this gather, that this which wee here expreſs is the grape whereof plinie mak’s mention,becauſin the ſurface and upper part thereofit much reſemble's a fair bunch of grapes; it is ſomwhat longiſh, like a mis-ſhapen club, and hang's upon a long ſtalk. the inner parts are nothing but confuſion, ſomtimes diſtinguiſhed with little glandules,like that wee have here figured alone by itſelf. - the figures of the sea-feather and grape. : //////’% × º n <º h - - w wwww vº \ wº wº --~~~ lib. .asp. . in the sea near the iſland hiſpanni. in the weſt indies, there may bee ſeen maniemon- frous fiſhes, amongſt which thévet in his coſmographie thought this moſt rare and obſerv- able, which in the vulgar language of the natives is termed aloes. for it is juſt like a gºoſ, with along and ſtraightneck, with the head ending ſharp, or in a cone, not much º: . - - - ugar- of monſiers and trodigies. lib. . wº, - thefigure of * flying fiſh. ss-ss- - * } º - §i | . s- ~ st | | §ºw w \ -- x there are ſo manie and different ſorts of ſhels to bee found in the sea, that it maybee truely ſaid, that nature, the handmaid of the almightie,diſport's itſelf in the frameingof them. in ſo great diverſitic i have chiefly made choice of three to treat of here, as thoſe that are worthie of the greateſt admiration. in theſe lie hid certain little fiſhes, as ſnails in their .de hiſ anim, ſhels, which ariſtotle cal's cancelli, and hee affirmeth them to bee the common companions tap. . of the cruſted and ſhell fiſhes, as thoſe which in their ſpecies or kinde are like to lobſters, ****** and uſe to bee bred without ſhels; but as they creepinto ſhels,and there inhabit, they are like #.* to ſhell fiſhes. it is one of theſe that is termed the hermite. hee hath two ſomwhat lo shrimp. and and ſlender horns,under which are his eies, alwaies ſtanding out of his head, as thoſe whi ſuch like "hee cannot pluck and drawin, as crabs can. his fore-feet have claws upon them, where- the j. with heedefend's himſelf,and carrie's meat to his mouth.haveing; wo other on each fide,and oºfthe hºf- a third beeingleſſer, the which hee uſethingoing. the female laie's eggs, which hangforth mitecray-fiſh. at herback partas if they were put upon a thread, beeing joined together by certain little - membranes. laſtly, in the opinion of Ælian, the cancellus or ſmall craie-fiſh is born naked * °p- " and without a ſhell, but within a while after,ſhee of manie which ſhee finde's emptie, makes choice of a fit one, and when as grownbigger, ſhee cannot bee contained or dwell anielon- they dange #" therein, or elſbeeing ſtimulated with a natural deſire of copulation,ſhee remoov's into *... a more capacious and convenient one. theſe littlecraie-fiſhes oft-times fight together for ºn for two their habitation, and the ſtronger carrie's away the emptie ſhell,orelſ make's the weakerto cauſes. quit poſſeſſion. now the ſhell is either of a nerita, or turbo,and oft-times of a ſmall purple; and entring into poſſeſsion,ſheecarrie's it about,there feed's and grows, and then ſeek’s a more capacious one, as ariſtotle ſaith in the formerly-cited place. == - º nw vº r - - |wº \ss what the pin- - Šs - - - hoter,or iº. somthink that this bernard the hermit is thatkinde of cancellus which is by plinie ter- crab is. med pinnoter; but in truth the pinnoter is not a kinde of cancellus, or cray-fiſh, but of a lit- tle crab. now in ariāotle there is much difference between cancellus and cancer parvus, though plinie may ſeem to confound them; for hee is bred naked, haveing his cruſt onely, but without a ſhell: wherefore ſeeing that by nature hee want's it, hee diligently ſearches for it, and dwell's in it, when ashee hath found it: but the pinnoter is not bred by it ſelf alone, but in pinneandſom others, and hee changethnothis habitation, becauſ “... ink & s lººs. of monſters and prodigies. º ſº | . think's) beeing of the kindeofdwarf crabs, it never grow’s big, neither dwell's it in emptie ſhells. now the pinna, or pin is a kinde of ſhell-fiſh, it breed's in muddie places, and is al-what the pin- waies open, neither isit at anie time without a companion, which they therefore call the “is. pinnoter, or pinmophylax, (i.e.,)the pin-keeper, as plinie ſaith. verily †: theſe things are thus, you may plainly perceiv by theſe words of atheneus. chryſºppus solenſ's .de honeſ. lib. .capº. polupi, ſaith the pinna and pinnater aſſiſtand furthereach other, neither can they live aſunder, lib. . despnw. the pinna may bee referredto the kindes of oilers, but the pinnotºr is a dwarf-crub; the pin. the amitat na open's her ſhell for the littlefiſhes to enterthereinto; the pinnoterſtands by, obſerving if...; anie comin, which if they do, heegive's the pin notice thereof by biteing, who preſently the pinna and thereupon ſhut's her ſhell, and ſo they feed together upon that they catch by this means. pinmoter. thus atheneur. shee is alſo for this her craftmentioned by plutarch in his writeings. the pinnoter is ſomtimes called by plinie, cancer dapis aſſeåator... . but that which by theſe authors is attributed to the dwarf-crab, the ſame by cicero is aſ- ſcribed to the little ſhrimp; now the pinna (ſaith hee) opening her two large ſhells, enter's lib., nut, into confederacie with the little ſhrimp for getting of food, wherefore when little fiſhes deorum. ſwim into her gapeing ſhell, then the pinna, admoniſhed by the ſhrimp's biteing her, ſhut's her ſhell; thus two unlike creatures get their livings together. but plutarch ſeem's to make the pinna to beethe pearl-oilter, in that work of his, whereas hee inquireth whether the craft of water or land-beaſts bee the greater. - .. - -" the figure of bin out of his cell, sº . * -- - - the effigies of bernard the hermite bouſed in bis ſhell. - - - s$yºyº §§ nº. fº! § {\ y/º tºy) \ t }% # , - # º . % % . º § - n but amongſt the moſt miraculous fiſhes may fittly bee placed the nautilot, or sailer, of ſom called pompylos (it is thought to bee akinde of polypus) it com’s with the face upwards to the top of the sea, raiſingit ſelf by little and little, that caſting forth all the water by a pipe, as if it had a pump, it eaſily - - float's then putting the ſhape of nautilos, or sailer-fiſh back the two firſt ten- - drils or arms, it extend’s betweenthem a membrane of wondrous fineneſs or thinneſs,which gathering air like as a ſail, and ſhee rowing with the reſt of her arms, ſhee guid’s her ſelf with her tail in the mid'ſt, as a rudder. thus ); ſhee ſail's along in imita- & tion of pinnaces, aud if {{ . anie thing affright her, ſhee preſently take's in zºº<! - - prº-a jºe water,and fink's her ſelf. Šºº plin, lib. . c - , n \ . sa's - m|\ *amſſ||||||||||\\ §itim &z - -p, . of momſler; and frodige. lib. . how the whale may be reckoned a- mongſt mon, ſters. - . . . a whale bring's ſprih young, and ſuckle's them. - how they are caught. why the fe- males are more eaſily caught then the males. whale-bone. thebetter to ſtore this treatiſe of monſters, abuſing the name with the poèts, wee will reckon up the whale amongſt the sea-monſters, by reaſon of his monſtrous and wondrous magnitude. now the whale is the greateſt by much of all the fiſhes of the sea, for moſt commonly this beaſt is thirtie fix cubits long, eight high , the ſlit of his mouth is eigh- teen tootlong, teeth they have none, but in ſtead thereof in each jawhornieblack excreſ. cences or fins [which weevulgarly term whale-bones] which by little and little endin ſmall hairs like to a ſwine's briltles, which comming and ſtanding out of his mouth, are in ſtead of guides, leſt whileſt hee ſwim's with a blinde and rapid violence, hee might run againſt a rock. his eies are diſtant one from the other the ſpace of four ells, which outwardly appear ſmall, but inwardly they are bigger then a man's head; wherefore they are deceived that ſaie that they are no bigger then an ox's eies: his noſe is ſhort, but in the middle of his fore-head hee hath a pipe whereat heedraw's in the air, and caſt's forth a whole ſhower or river of water, that therewith hee will even fink the veſſels or boats of mariners; when heehathfilled himſelf beyond meaſure, heecrie's out or roar's with ſo great or ſtrong a voice, that hee may bee heard two miles off. hee hath two verie large fins upon his ſides wherewith heeſwim's, and under which in the time of danger hee hide's his young; heehath none upon his back. his tail in ſite is like to thetails of dol- phins, neither is it much unlike in ſhape, which when hee moov's, hee ſo toffeth the sea, that hee drown's and overturn's the boats that heetoucheth. you may by diſ. ſºčting them finde that a whale bring's forth live-young, and give's them ſuck; for the male hath teſticles and a yard, but the female a womb and dugs. they are taken in divers places about winter, but chiefly about the coaſt of aquitane, at a ſmall town which is vulgarly called biarris, ſom ſix miles diſtant from bayon: whereunto i beeing ſent by king charl, the ninth when hee was at bayon, to cure the prince of roche sur. tou, i was an eie-witneſſe how they are caught; and alſo i confirmed that which i had formerly read to that purpoſe, in that excellent and moſt true hiſtorie of fiſhes ſet forth by rondeletius. now at that town there is a little hill, in the top whereof there is a tower of verie great antiquitie, from which as from a watch-tower they keepwatch whether or noanie whales }. that waie. wherefore the watch-men from the tower, either ſeeing, or by the horrible noiſ hearing a whale to paſs that waie, they give war- ning thereof to the inhabitants by the beating of drums, and ringing a bell: which ſign once given, they all run forthwith , as to extinguiſh the cittie if it were on fire, bec- ing furniſhed with weapons and all things fitting for that purpoſe. for the people of that countrie are verie diligent and expert in catching the whale. wherefore in each of the boats furniſhed with all things either to affail or flie, there are put ten luſtie row- ers, and divers others furniſhed with harping irons to ſtrike the whale; which beeing caſt and faſtned in her, they loof out huge long ropes faſtned to them until ſuch time as hee bee dead, then together with the ropes; and aſſiſted by the waves of the ſea, they draw the whale (wearied with running and laboring, and fainting by reaſon of the magnitude and multitude of his wounds, beeing in the time of their conflićt dili. gently chaſed and driven toward the ſhore) a land; and merrily part the preie, each whereof hath his ſhare, according to the number of the irons thrown, the magnitude of the wound, and the neceſſitie and excellencie of the wounded part for life: each of their harping-irons are known by their peculiar marks. in the heat of the skirmiſh manie fland up and down in boats, onely for this purpoſe,to take up ſuch as chance to fallinto the sea, left they ſhould bee drowned. the males are caught with more difficultie, the females more eaſily, eſpecially if their young ones bee with them; for whil'ſt they linger to help and ſuccour them,they'loſe the occaſion of eſcaping. the fleſh is of no eſteem, the tongue onely is commendable; forbeeing verie large, and of a verie lax ſubſtance, it is poudered, and by moſt gentlemen accounted for a daintie. the lard is diſperſed over manie countries, to bee boiled and eaten with fiſh in the time of lent, that gourmandizers may have ſom- thingto ſerv them in ſtead of fleſh which is then forbidden. there is great ſtore of fatin them in the parts under the skin and bellie, which melted, concreet's not again, by reaſon of the ſubtiltie of the parts, they keep it to burn in lamps, and to uſe about theirſhips. the houſes of the fiſh-eaters are builded with their bones; alſo orchards in the coaſtof aquitant are fenced with theſe bones. the fins that ſtand forth oftheir mouths, which are commonly called whale-bones, beeing dried and poliſhed, ſerve to make busks for women, whip-ſtaves, and little ſtaves, as alſo to ſtiffen garments. maniemake ſeats or ſtools of the vertebre, or ſpondils of the back-bone. - the lib. . of onſters and prodigies. - - - - - # a | : anieone may eaſily ga- ther of what a prodigious magnitudean eſtrichis, by the greatneſs of his bones. three of *::: birds were kept at the king's charge jº. j de º: snewhereof dying, it was beſtowedupon mee, where. of i have with great dili- gence made a sceleton. º-|wº s e.| º --|swn # the delineation of the sceleton of ---...-a, the figure of an eſtrich. a : º z. z/ . % - an eſtrich. - i - - . . . . . . - '' . . ; - - * * f º . . ... - * . wt w - w - - sº www. - - y * > - t ſººn wn - % ºr º %. sººn - lº ſ/kn §º , n Ö | Ö - yºv, un ((ſº uſ \ { % l l) - - - n + -- º, º * - * , - : º - i. Ç x -n - n ;s . shew's the head •which was ſomwhatthicker then the head of a crane,ofthe length ºfone's hand, plain from the crown eventothebeakºthebar. being divided to the mid- **śion of the cic,beeingroundiſhat the end ther of b.the ; lib. . of monſters and prodigies. § b. the neck, a yard long, conſiſting of ſeventeen vertebre's, each whereof oneach fide is furniſhed with a tranſverſ proceſs looking downwards, of ſom fingers length, exce- pting the two which are next the head, as which want theſe, and are joined together by ginglymdr. c. theback is of a foot's length, conſiſting of ſeven vertebre. d. the holie-bone of two footlong, in whoſe top thereis a tranſverſ proceſs,under which there lie's a great hole. e. three more, but leſs. - f. g. h. after which there follow’s the cavitie or ſocket, whereinto the head of the thigh-bone is received and hid. this externally and on the fide produceth a perforated bone, noted with the letter i. perforated i ſaie at the beginning, for it is preſently united at the letter, k, then is it forked and divided into two other bones, whereof one is big- i. then the other. the leſs is noted with the letter, l. then are they both united at the :-letter m. each of them is half a foot and four inches long. but from that part whereas - they firſt begun to bee divided, to that whereas they are united, there is a hole ſom four fingers broad, but the length of one's hand, or more, and it is noted with the letter n. thereſidue of the bone is like to a pruning knife three inches broad, but fixin length: at the end whereunder is the letter, , it is joined by coalition. p. the rump conſiſting of nine vertebre's, like to a man's. the thigh-bones are two, whereof that which is noted with the letter q is of the length of a foot,and of thickneſs equal to a horſe's thigh. the other next under (which peradyenture you may call the lºg- bone) noted with r. is a foot and half long: it hath joined thereto the fibula, or leſſer focil of the length, but which grow's ſmaller as it com's lower. s. is the leg, to which the foot adhere's, being one foot and a half long, divided at the end into two claws,the one bigger,the other leſs,whereofeach confiſt's of three bones, t. eight ribs, which are inſerted into the sternon, the three middlemoſt of theſe have º abonie produćtion like to a hook. w - v. is the sternon, conſiſting of one bone of ſom foot's length, repreſenting a buckler,to this there isjoined another bone,which ſtretched over the three firſt ribs, is in ſtead of cla- vicles or collar-bones. x. the firſt bone of the wing, which is one foot and half long. - t. two bones under this, equivalent to the ell and wand, under which there are ſix o- ther bones compoſing the point of the wing, noted with z. - this whole sceleton is ſeven foot long,and ſo manie foot or more high from the feet to the beak : there are manie other obſervable things in his compoſure, but i have thought fit to omitt them for brevitie’s ſake. - jerom cardane in his books de ſubtilitate, write's, that in the ilands of the molucca's you the deſcripti- may fomtimes finde lying upon the ground, or take up in the waters, a dead bird called a on of the biºd manucodiata, that is in hebrew, the bird of god, it is never ſeen alive. it live's aloft in the of paradiſe. air, it is like a swallow in bodie and beak, yet diſtinguiſhed with divers colored feathers: for thoſe on the top of the head are of a golden color:thoſe of the neck like toa mallard, but the tail and wings like pe- the effigies of a manucodiata, or bird of paradiſe. "whoſºever acocks; * it want’s feet: - : s to wherefore if it becom º:..ºf wearie with flying, or de- this bird, let fire ſleep, it hangs up the him read clau- bodie by twineing the ſea- ſus in the au- thers about ſombough of § . . darium adlib.; atree. it paſſeth through gº º “. the air,wherein it muſt re- * . … main as long as it lives, with great celeritie, and live's by the air and dew onely. the cock hath a cavitie depreſt in theback, wherein the hen laie's and fit's upon her eggs, i ſaw one at paris which was - - - "nn - preſented to king charls \"\º the ninth. º - weehave read in thevet’s coſinographie, that hee ſaw abird in america, which in that tom.a. lxr. countrieſpeech is called touca, in this verie monſtrous and deformed, for that the beak “*”. in length and thickneſs, exceed's the bigneſsof the reſt of the bodie; it feed's on pepper,as the black-birds and felfares with us do upon ivie-berries, which are not leſs hot then pepper, a cer- of moſler; and prodigies. lisa;. tom. . cap. ii. tib. . thevet ton i. lib. .cap. . a certain gentleman of provence brought a bird of this kinde from that countrie, to pre- ſent it to king charl; the ninth, but dying in the waie hee could not preſent it alive whºre- fore the king wiſhed the mareſchal de retſ to give her to mee, that i might take forth her bowels and embalm her, that ſhee mightbeekept amongſt the king's rarities. idid what i could, yet not long after ſhee rotted: ſhee reſembled a crow in bodie and feathers, but hadā yellowiſhbeak, clear, ſmooth, and toothed like a ſaw, and of ſuch length and thickneſs as wee formerly mentioned. i keep it yet as a certain monſtrous thing, º thevet write's, that in the iſland zocoterathere is frequently found a certain wilde beaſt called hu'palia, of the the bigneſs of an ethiopian monkie. it is a veriemonſtrous creature, but in nothing more, then that it is thought to live upon the air onely; the skin,asifiewer. died ingrain: is of a ſcarlet color, yet itis in ſom places ſpotted and variegated: it hatha found-headlike to aboul, with feet round, broad,and wanting hurtful nails. the moors kill it and uſ to eat the fleſh of it, beeing firſt bruiſed,thatſo it may beethemore tender. in the realm of camota, of ahob, of benga, and other mountains of cangipa, plimatiq and Çatagºn, which are in the inner india, beyond the river of ganges, ſom fived grees beyond the tropick of canceſ, is foundabeaſt, which the weſtern german's call giraft. thiº. head, ears, and cloven feet, is not much unlike our do; it hath a verie ſlender neck, but it is ſomfix foot long, and there are few beaſts that exceed him in the length of their legs: his tail is round,but reacheth no further then his hams; his skin is exceeding beautiful,yet ſom- what rough,havinghair thereon ſomwhat longer then a cow,it is ſpotted and variegated in ſom places with ſpots of amiddle color, between white and cheſnut, ſo as leopards are: for which cauſby (omcreek. hiſtorians it is calleda cameleºpardal, it is ſowikiº. . taken, that with the good-will it will not ſo much asbee ſeen. therefore it inhabite's and live's onely in deſert and ſecret places, unknown to the reſt of the beaſts ofthat region. hee preſently flie's away at the fight of a man, yet is heetaken at length, for that hee is notveri: ſpeedie in running away; once taken, hee is as eaſily and ſpeedily tamed as anie wildebelſ whatſoever. hee hatha- bove his crown two the effigies of giraffa. ſtraight horns covered | with hairs, and of a Äſº º foot's length. when as hee hold's up his head and neck hee is as high as a lance. hee feed's upon herbs and the leavs and boughs of trees yea, hee is alſo delighted with bread, -> º lººs. of monſters and prodigieſ. - - º º such as ſail in the red ſea along the coaſt of arabia, meet with an iland called by the *lºg." arabians cademota; in that part thereof where the river plata run's, is found a wildebeaſt, º called by the barbarous inhabitants paraſoupi, beeing of the bigneſs of a mule, headed not ** º unlike one, yet rough and haired like to a bear, but not of ſodark a color, but inclineing **śs to yellow, with cloven feet like a hart: ſhee hath two long horns on her head, but not * * * branched, ſomwhat reſembling thoſe ſo much magnifiedhorns of unicorns. for the na- ºis, tive's of the place, bitten by the venemous tooth of either beaſt or fiſh, are preſently helped º and recover by drinking the water wherein ſuch horns have been infuſed for ſix or ſeven º daies ſpace, as thevet in his coſmographie report's. º: º: in one of the iſlands of the molucca's there is foundabeaſt living both on land and water º like as a crocodile; it is called campburch,it is of the bigneſs of an hart, it hath one horn º: in the fore-head, moovable after the faſhion of the noſe of a turkie-cock: it is ſom three *s foot and an half long, and never thicker then a man's arm; his neck is covered over with **** an aſh color, hee hath two feet like to a gooſ’s feet, wherewith hee ſwim's both in freſh º and ſalt waters. his fore-feet are liketo a ſtag's, hee live's upon fiſh. manie have perſwa- - 'ix: ded themſelvs that this beaſt is a kinde of unicorn, and that therefore his horn ſhould bee ºrig, good againſt poiſons. the king of the iſland love's to bee called by the name of this beaſt *::::: and ſo alſo other kings take to themſelvs the names of the wilde beaſts, fiſhes, or fruits, º: that are moſt precious and obſervable in their dominions, as thevet report's. *:::::::: mauritania and Æthiopia, and that part of africk that is beyond the deſerts and ſyrtes, ºf: , bring forth elephants; but thoſe of india are far larger. now although in the largeneſs the indian ºf: of their bodie they exceed all four-footed beaſts, yet may they bee more ſpeedily and eaſily elephants are ºn tamed then other beaſts. for they may bee taught to do manie things above the common bigger thea fº nature of beaſts. their skin is ſomwhat like to a buffles, with little hair upon it, but that the african, º: tº which is, is aſh colored, his head large, his neck ſhort, his ears two handfuls broad, his e ºil: noſe or trunk verie long, ahd hanging down almoſt to the ground, hollow like as a trum- pets the which hee uſeth in ſtead of an hand, his mouth is not far from his breaſt, not i much unlike a ſwine's, from the upper part whereof two large teeth thruſt forth themſelvs, his legs are thick and ſtrong, not conſiſting of one bone as manie formerly have falſly be- leeved (for they kneel to admit their rider, or to bee laden, and then riſe up again of them- ſºlvs) his feet are round like a quoitſom two or three hand's bredth, and divided into five clefts. hee hath a tail like a buffle, but not verie rough , ſom three hand's bredth long, : . wherefore they would bee much troubled with flies and waſps, but that nature hath reconº. º, penced the ſhortneſs of their tails by another waie; for when they finde themſelvs mole- ited, they contrað their skin ſo ſtrongly, that they ſuffocate and kill theſe little creatures taken in the wrinkles thereof; they over-take a man running by going only, for his legs are proportionable to the reſt of hisbodie. - they feed upon the leavs and fruits of trees, neither is anie tree ſo ſtrong or well rooted, which they cannot throw down and break. they grow to bee fixteen handfuls high, wherefore ſuch as ride upon an elephant are much troubled as if they went to ſea. they are of ſo unbridled a nature, that they cannot endure anie head-ſtall or reins, there- fore you muſt ſuffer them to take the courſ and waie they pleaſ. yet do they obey their countrie-men without anie great trouble; for they ſeem after ſom ſort to underſtand their ſpeech, wherefore they are eaſily governed by their known voices and words. they lib. , hiſt. throw down a man that anger's them, firſt taking him up with their trunk and lifting him animºp. . aloft,and then letting him fall, they thread him under foot, and leav him not before heebee clead. ariſtotle write's that elephants generate not before they bee twentie years old: they know not adulterie, neither touch they anie femalebut one, from which they alſo diligent-, , ly abſtain when they know ſheehath once conceived. . it cannot bee known how long they ; . o with young, the reaſon is for that theircopulation is not ſeen, for they never do it but in i. . ecret. the females bring forth reſting upon their hinde legs, and with pain like women, ph. go's they lick their young, and theſe preſently ſee and go, and ſuck with their mouths, and not with young. with their trunks. youmay ſee elephant's teeth of a monſtrous and ſtupendious bigneſs, at venice, rome, naples, and paris; they termit ivorie, and it is uſed for cabinets, harps, combs, and other ſuch like uſes. lººs. of monſters and prodigies. - t&t wee have read in thevet, that in florida there are great bulls, called in that countrie tow.z.lib. . tongue beautrol, they have horns of a foot long, a bunch on their back like a camel, their “” “ hair long and yellow, the tail of a lion; there is ſcarce anie creature more fierce or wilde, r. for it can neverbeetamed, unleſ; itbee taken from the dam. the salvages uſe their hideº. - - - - - - good againſt againſt the cold, and their horns as an antidote againſt poiſon. poiſon. the ſame author affirm's that whileſt hee ſailed in the red ſea, hee ſaw a monſterin the rººf... hands of certain indian merchants, which in the higheſ, and ſhape of his limbs was cºpio, not unlike a tiger, yet had the face of a man, but a verie # :noſe: beſides, his fore feet were like a man's hands, but the hinde like the feet-gfa tigre, hee had no tail, hee was of a dun color: to concludes#f head, cars, neckº, and face it reſembled a man, but in the blackiſh and curled hair, a moortforthe other parts they were like a ti- gre; they called it thamaāh, - gº ºs. º : sº º - this following monſter is ſo ſtrange that it will ſcarce bee believed, but by thoſe that have ſeen it; it is bred in america, and by the salvages called hait, of thebig- neſs of a monkie, with a greatbellie, almoſt touching the ground, and the head and face of a childe: beeing taken, it mourn's and ſigh's like to amanthat is troubled and per- plext; it is of an aſh-color, hath the feet divided into three claws, four fingers long, and ſharper then thoſe of a lion: it climbe's trees, and live's there more frequently then up- - on the ground, the tail is no longer then thebredth of three fingers. it is ſtrange and al- moſt monſtrous that theſe kinde of creatures have never been ſeen to feed upon,or eat anie \ thing: for the salvages have kept them longin their houſes to make trial thereof, where- fore they thinkthem to live by the air. * * | i - * - - r "it . . & - t - - .." . . . . . - - - - - — r- º- -* tº . . . . ; j - - i is ' ' ' ... " . . . . . . . -- - . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . a. • *, . . . . . . . & - * n n n the . of monſter; and tºrodigies. lib. . - the figure of the beai called hait. . >"> º ... . . . .'; . . . . | # (ºf - ". \) º, Žs. . i have taken this following monſter out of leº's african hiſtorie; it is verie deformedb. iſ ground after the manner of a tortoiſ, two yellow lines croſſing each other at right an: gles, divide his back;ateverie end of which heehath one eie, and alſo one ear, ſo thatſud * crºature may ſee on everie ſide with his four eies, as alſo hearby his ſo manle ears: yet hath hºbutone mouth, and one bellie to contain his meat, but his round bodie is encompaſſed with manie feet,by whoſe help heecan go aniewaie heepleaſ without turning of his bodie, blood as good his tail is ſomthing long and verie hairie at the end the inhabitants affirm, that his blood ** is more effe&uallin healing of wounds then aniebalſom. - saº yº º wº ch .j. º .aborn enemie to the elephant . . - fight, whereir §§ºy'; upon his noſe, upon the rocks, and ſoprepare's himſelf for plin. , . #. i. †.i. affails the bellie,as that which hee know. to bee the ſofteſt: ht: itisſtrange th - whet's his *::::::: rhinocer nt, but hisle are much ſhort - lo f box cº ſomwhatſpotted. f mpie was the i. that º:...” the color of box, y . - - • , -* - - tº lib . . of monſters and prodigies. : º &m * w : zº &: h % +. s!, =f °º-ºº: º % n/ à). n/ - - % &\, ź - % g, % zºº”. - y -ºº: - l, u.n. j */ cº. &.º ,- nº. =~~ -- - - | \ #~. se - ji=&s - & m. - r& -n - ( , ſº ses- wxºy, aºaſſ" / - - m - n - -- ſillſ jºwn ww - *iii ºf |ſſ - nwww i % ºf |..! . ill $. ric %\ % - \ w § - § º ſ clz (clºt icic c) *s w - \ w yº # * = # - - ſºftſ; ū)."! "ſ!" n § º } º-. % º s. % || || |Š } % ||| |; '%|| || ſ % | !" % , sº. ºa - - / | t § º º | & (ºr &º \ www º §§ - x º, - -- - - *. -- - -- - º - - - - º ; , , . . . . . - - - n n n -- - - - - ,- sis the -" - - - - - lib. . of monſters and prodigieſ. antiquitie hath not ſeen anie thing mor; prº thefigure of aftarful comet. digious then that comet which appeared with. bloodiehair in uverſtine, upon the ninth daie of % " oãober, , for it was ſo horrible and fearful º a ſpeatacle, that divers died with fear, and manieſ \ \ j grievous diſeaſes; going from the eaſt to the south, it endured no longer then one hours and aquarter; in the top whereof was ſeen a bºn- ding arm holding a great ſword in a threat'ning hand; at theend thereofappeared three ſtars, but that over which the point of the fivord directly hanged was more brightand clear then the reſt: on each ſide of this comet were ſeen manie s ſpears,ſwords, and other kindes of weapons died ri with blood, which were intermixt with men's fº heads, haveing long and terrible hair and beards, as you may ſee in this figure. alſo there have been ſeen great and thick bars ºasiº of iron to have faln from heaven, which have # preſently been turned into ſwords and rapiers. at sugglia in the borders of hungaria,a ſtone fell from heaven with a great noiſ, the ſeventh daie of september, anno dom. , it weighed two hun- dred and fiftie pound: the citizenshanged it up with a great iron-chain put through it, in the mid'ſt of the church of their cittie, and uſed to $ ſhew it, as a miracle, to travellers of better note that paſs'd that waiet plinie report's that claſhing $s:= of armour, and the ſound of a trumpet were ºs heard from heaven often, before and after the cimbrian war. the ſame author write's that in the third conſul-ſhip of marius, the ana-tº-ºff. rines and tudortines ſaw the heavenlie armies comming from eaſt and weſt and ſojoining, thoſe beeing vanquiſhed which came from the eaſt. which ſame thing was ſeen in luſalia,at a town called jubea two hours after mid-night, a dom. .but in adon. o. upon the .daie of julie, in saxonie, not far from wittenburg, there appeared in the air a great stag, incompaſſed with two armed hoſts, makeing a great noiſ in their conflićt, and at the ſame inſtant it rained bloodin great abundance, the ſun ſeemed to bee cloven in two pieces, and - . the one of them to fall . the earth. alittle before the takeing of conſtantinºple from the prºgs of chriſtians,there appeared a great armie in the air appointed to fight,attended on with a great the taking of companie of dogs and other wildbeaſts.julius obſequius report's that in adon, , it rain- ºftºntinºple. ed fleſh in italie, in greater and leſſer pieces, part of which were devoured by the birds before ºnſtrous they fell upon the earth: that which fell upon the earth kept longunputrefied, and unchan-" ged in color and ſmel. adom. .otho the third being emperor, it rained corn in italie-a.d. o. it rained milk and oil in great abundance, and j. trees brought forth corn. lycoſthenes tel's that in the time of charl; the fifth, whil'ſt maidenberg was beſieged, three ſuns firſt appeared about a clock in the morning, and then were ſeen for a whole daie whereof the middlemoſt was the brighteſt,the two others were reddiſh, and of a bloodie coloributin the night time there appeared three moons. the ſame appeared in bavaria, an. dom. - but if ſo prodigious and ſtrange things happen in the heavens beſides the common order earthquake of nature, ſhallwethink it incredible that the like may happen in the earth? an, dom. . quakes. the whole earthquaked, mount aetna caſt forth flames and ſparks of fire,with which manie houſes of the neighbouring villages wereburn'd. an. dom. . in portugal there was an earthquake for eight daies,and it quaked ſeven or eighttimes each daie; ſo that in lisbone a- lone it caſt down athouſand and fiftie houſes, and more then ſix hundred were ſpoiled. fer- rara lately was almoſt wholly demoliſh’d by a fearful earthquake. above all which ever have been heard is that prodigid which happened in the time of plinie, at the death of nero the , , - emperor in the marucine field, the whole olive-field of veiiius marcellus a romane knight liº, -ºp. . going over the high waie,and the fields which were againſt it comming into the place there: - of...why ſhould i mention themiracles of waters, from whoſe depth and ſtreams, fires and _- great flames have oftbroke forth they tell out of st. auguſtine,that the fire ofthe ſacrifice, which for thoſe ſeventie years of the babylonian captivitie endured under the water, was *tinguiſhed, antiochus ſelling the prieſt-hood to jaſºn. whatmiracle is this, that the fire *:::: ſhould livein the water, above its force and naturáléficacie,and that the water ſhould fºrgºt the extinguiſhing facultie,!. verily philoſophers truely affirm that the elements, which are ºf s\\ ſº \ n sº sº Ö Ş. - º - - º n & [[[ſtºrſ. re: q\, - %) */ºff, w. s º º º: º underſtºod to be contrarie, and to fight in varietie among themſelvs, are mutually joyned º and tied together by amarvellous confederacie. , º, * - the end of the twentie fifth book. &############################, of the faculties of simple medicines, as al so of their compoſition and uſe. the twentie ſixth book. - the pr e f a ce. &t mongſt the cauſes which wee term bealthful, and other remedies which pertain to the bealth of man, and the expelling of diſeaſes, medicines eaſily challenge the primeplace; the excel which (as it is delivered by solomon) godbath produced out of the earth, and they are ellen- - - - - * - tie of medi. not to bee abborred by a wiſe man; for there is nothing in the world, wich ſooner, and as cines. by a miracle, aſſwagetb the borrid torments of diſeaſes. therefore herophilus called them fittingly adminiſired,the hands of the gods. and hence it was that ſuch phyſicians as excelled in the rºwledg of medicines, have amongſ the antients acquired an opinion of divinitie. it cannot by words bee expreſſed what power they bave in healing. wherefore the knowledgof them is verie neceſſarie not onely for the prevention, but alſo for the driveing away of diſeaſes. chap. l. what a medicine is, and bow it differethfrom nouriſhment §: define a medicine to bee,that which hath power to change the bodie according , to one or more qualities; and that ſuch as cannot bee changed into our nature: Žº contrarie whereto wee term that nouriſhment which may bee converted into the ſubſtance of ourbodies. but wee define them by the word power, becauſ they have not an abſolute nature,but as by relation and depending upon the condition of the bodies by whom they are taken. for that which is medicine to one,is meat to another,and that which is meat to this, is medicine to that. thus for example, hellebore is nouriſhment to the quail, but a medicine to man: hemlock is nouriſtment to a sterling, but poiſon to a gooſ: the fe- rula is food to an aſs, but poiſon to other cattel. now this diverſitic is to bee attributed to the different natures of creatures. it is recorded in hiſtorie, that the ſame by long uſe may happen in men they report thata maid was preſented to alexander the great,who nouriſhed with napellni, and other poiſons, had by long uſe made them familiar to her,ſo that the verie breath ſhee breathed was deadlie to theby-ſtanders. therefore it ought to ſeem no marvail,if at anie time it happen, that me- dicines turn into the nature and nouriſhment of our bodies: for wee commonly may ſee birds and ſwine feed upon ſerpents and toads without anie harm; and laſtly, ---------serpenti ciconia pulloſ nutrit, & per devia rura laterta: illi cadem ſumptis querunt animalia pennis. the stork with serpents and with lizards caught, in waieleſs places nouriſheth her brood: and they the ſame purſue, when as they're taught touſe their wing, to get their wiſh'd-for food. chap. ii. the differences of medicines in their matter and ſubſtance. - ven as the concealed glorie of worldlie riches lieth hid in the bowels of the earth, . fri; ºftº "depths of the ſea and waters,as gold,ſilverandaliſors of metals, gemms and :* med. this a. ſtºnes,furniſh'd with admirable virtues; ſo wee may behold the ſuperficies may contº º with almoſt an infinite varietie of trees, ſhrubs, and herbs: where we gums j º **nd wonder at the innumerable diverſities of roots, leavs, flowers, fruits, ther-ºrth r º, pleaſant taſts and colors,but much more at their virtues. this ſame mo- rious in ū. . “breaſts,nouriſheth marvellous diſtina kinds of liveing creatures,va- great archi a. **aſ and ſtrength. wherein the immehſgoodneſs of god, the ubjećted . . ramer of all things, doth moſt clearly appear towardsman,as who hath our delighti "...apatrimonie, ſoample and plantiuſ proviſion of nature for n nouriſhment and neceſſitie of healing. therefore the antient phyſicianshave right- the earth the lº. . - of ſimple medicines, and their uſe. t-- - º *::::: º: *: ºº:::: ºf . *…* *:::::: ; ::::::: *:::: : : . ºntºſſº º cºſit sººn ºf jum: ºw tº arºld' ºrrºr º: º re: it tº tºº.” ſmº" h like, whole: but otherwhiles onely the roots of plants, their pith, wood, bark, ſhoots, man and cape de sete) aſhallum, which is found in the dead ſea. rightly delivered,that all ſorts of medicines maybee abundantly had from liveing creatures, plants, the earth, water and air. - medicinesaretaken from liveing creatures either whole and entire, or elſthe parts wharmed:- and excrements of them. wee ofttimes uſe in phyſick whole creatures, as foxes,whelps, cºstaken : hedg-hogs, frogs, ſnails, worms, crabs,and other living creatures. wee alſo makeuſe of ſom from liveins parts of them, as the liver of a wolf or goat,the lungs of the fox, the bone of the flags creature". heart, cranium humanum, fat, blood, fleſh, marrow, the cods of the caſior or beaver, which , is therefore termed caſtoreum, and ſuch other particles that are uſeful in phyſick.weeknow alſo that there are ſom medicines taken from excrements, as horns, nails,hairs,feathers, skin; as alſo from urine, dung, ſpittle, honie. eggs, wax, milk, wool, ſweat, and others of this kinde, under which wee may comprehend musk, civet, pearl, aſpus, and ſundrie others of this nature. s - - . . . . - - º weetake medicines from plants, both whole, and alſo from their parts, whether trees, what from ſhrubs; or herbs. for we oft-times uſeſúccorie, marſh-mallows, mallows, plantain, and the piants. ſtalks, leavs, flowers, ſeeds, fruits, juices, gums, roſines, moſſes, and the like. - things taken from the earth for the uſe and matter of medicine, are either earths,ſtones, what from or minerals. the ſorts of earth are bole–armenick, terra ſigillata,fuller's-earth, chalk, pot- the earth. ters claie, and ſuch like.stones, are the pumice, marchiſite of gold, ſilver, braſs, marble,the load-ſtone, plaiſter, chalk, ſulphur vivum, lapis ſpecularis, and others. metals and minerals are old, filver, tin, lead, braſs, iron, ſteel, antimonie, ceruſe, brimſtone, cinnaber, litharge of gold and ſilver, tuttie, true pompholix, verdigreece, alum, romanevitriol, copras white and green, ſalts of ſundrie kinds,both of arſenicks, and ſuch like. the followingmedicines are from freſhwater, rain-water, ſpring-water, river-water, and what from the all things thence ariſting, as water-lentile, common flags, water-lilies, water-mints, and water. all the creatures that live therein. from the ſalt-water are taken ſalt, alcyonium, all ſorts of coral, ſhels of fiſh, as alſo cuttle-bones, ſponges, and all creatures of the ſea. from waters mixt of ſalt and freſh, the herb androſace (which grow's in plentie in the marſhes at fontig- from the air proceed’s manna, therefore called mel-derium (i.e.) honie of the air,andal- what from the ſo all other kindes of dew that are uſeful in phyfick; by reaſon of the virtues they receiv * from the ſun which raiſeth them up; from the air, whereas they make ſom ſtaie, as alſo from the plants, whereupon they fall and reſide. - * * y c. h. a. p. iii. the differences of ſimples in their qualities and effetis. tº ll thementioned ſorts of fimples are indued with one or more of the four facul- ſº ties, whereofi now purpoſe to treat. the firſt facultie common to all the reſt,and as it were their foundation, flow's from the four firſt qualities of the prime bodies orelements, that is heat,coldneſs, drineſs, and moiſture, and this either fimple or compound, as one or two of theſe prime qualities exceed in the temper of the medicine, as may appearby this following. - the ſimple qualitie is either to heat, cool, i. . therompound, ariſting from two joined qualities, either heat's and drie's, heat's andmoi- ſten's, cool's and drie's, cool's and moiſten's, - heat moderate, heat's, attenuate's, rarifie's, open's the paſſages, digeſt's, suppurate's. immoderate, inflame's and burn's , bite's, whence follow’s violentattraction, rubrificati- on, conſumption, colliquation, an eſchar, mortification. m :moderate, cooleth, condenſeth, obſtrućteth. immoderate, congeal's, stupifie’s, ortifie's. - - - , moiſture moderate. humea's, lubricate's, levigate's and mitigate's, glue's. immode- ; - obſtrućts, lift's up into a flatulent tumor, eſpecially if it bee a vaporous hu- iillciſtic. º - . - primeſ moderate, drie's, rarifie’s, attenuate's. immoderate, binde's, contratt's or fhrink's, cauffeth chops and ſails. ' tº - - the ‘fººt of theſe qualities is diſtinguiſhed, and as galenobſerv's digeſted into theſe or- ºftºp. , **, which weeterm degrees, ſo that by a certain proportion and meaſure, they may ſervºo º " *ppugn diſeaſes, as the ſame galenaffirm’s. forto a diſeaſ (for example) hot in the ſecond ‘kgrº, no other medicine muſt beeuſed then that which is coldinth like degree: where- fore all fimplemedicines are hot, cold,moiſt,or drie; in the beginning,middle,or extreme, of #: §: *. third, or fourth degree. . . . . . - - - $heat, coldneſs, moiſture, drineſs, of th . . " . . . . . . . . . . . - urth degree; is ei- ther obſcure, manifeſt'vºntºive, he firſt, ſºn, third, fourth ‘gree; - t an * lib. . of ſimple medicines, and their uſe. y-sº- - — -ar.'. • *, *:::: :::::::: ::: ~ : : , attenuate, levigate, cleanſ. of cold, to condenſ, repercuſs, shut up, incraſſate, exa- ſperate, conſtipate. of moiſture, to soften, relax. of drineſs, to harden. stiffen. hence wee term that an attraćtive medicine, which hath an attraćtive facultie, as on the contrarie, that a repercuſſive, that repel's; a detergent, that which cleanſes viſcous matter. wee call that an emplaſtickmedicine, which notonely ſhut's up the pores of the bodie, but reduce's the liquid bodies therein contained to a certain equalitie and ſubſtance. thus alſo emollients, relaxers, and the reſt, have their denominations from their effects, as wee ſhall declare hereafter. c h a p. v. of the third faculties of medicines. tº he thirdfacultie of medicines depend's for the moſt partupon the firſt and ſecond º s. § faculties, ſomtimes conjoined, otherwhiles ſeparate. alſo ſomtimes it follow's ºſºft neither of theſe faculties, but a certain propertie and inexplicable qualitie, º which is onely known by experience. now the operations of this third facultie ºš are to agglutinate, to fill with fleſh , ,to cicatrize, to aſſwage pain; to moov or ſtaie the urine, milk, ſeed, the courſes, ſweats, vomits, and performſuch like operations in, or about the bodie. - thus the generation of fleſh is produced by the concourſ of two faculties, that is, of dry- ing and cleanſing. but drineſs and attriótion produce a glutinating and cicatrizing facultie. a hot and attenuating facultie cauſſeth ſweats, moov'surine, the courſes,and the like in the bodie; but contrarie faculties retard and ſtop the ſame. to mitigate pain, proceeds onely from the firſt facultie, to wit, from heat,or a moderate- ly heating facultie; to procure reſt, from cold onely, or coldneſs foined with ſommoiſture, but to procure vomit, proceed's neither from the firſt nor ſecond facultie, but from a cer- tain occult andeſſential propertie, which is naturally implanted in agarick, and other nauſeous and vomitorie medicines. - c h a p. vi. w of the fourth facultie of medicines. £he fourth facultie of medicines is not of the ſamecondition with thoſe that are for-thºrº fa- * merly mentioned; for it depend's not upon them, or anie other manifeſt or ele- culticofmei- bºimentarie qualitie, but on an occult propertie of the whole ſubſtance; by means cines depend's mor. wherefore phyſicians cannotby anie reaſon finde out this facultie, but onely by ex- perience, as wee have ſaid a little before of medicines procuringvomit. hence it is, that names are given to thoſe medicines from thoſe parts that they chiefly reſpect: for they are termed cephalicks, which reſpect the head; as, betonie, marjarom, sage, roſemarie, ste- chas. pneumonicks, which reſpect the lungs: as , liquorice, ſweet almonds, orris, ele- campane. cordials, that ſtrengthen the heart: as , as saffron, cinnamom, citrons; but chiefly their rindes, bugloſs, coral, ivorie. stomatical, which reſpett the ſtomach, and the orifice thereof: as, nutmegs, mint, aniſ, maſtick, jº. hepaticks, which reſpe& the liver : as , wormwood, agrimonie, spiknard, succorie, sanders. spleneticks, which have relation to the ſpleen; as , as time, epithymum, broom flowers. cetrach, capers, the bark of their roots, the bark of tamarisk. diureticks, ſuch as reſpe& the kidnies and urinarie paſſages: as, the roots of smallage, aſperagus, fennel, but- cher's broom, the four greater cold ſeeds, turpentine, plantain, saxifrage. arthni- ticks, or ſuch as ſtrengthen the joints: as cowſlips, chamepytis, elecampane, calamint, hermodaćtils, and the like. - to this rank may bee referred purging medicines, which, furniſhed with a ſpecifick propertie, ſhew their efficacie on one humor more then another humor, and that im- aćt more in one part then in another. for thus agrickchiefly draw's phlegm from the ead and joints, rubarb draw's choller chiefly from the liver, and hurt's the kidnies. but let us here forbear the conſideration of ſuch things, as not appertaining to sur- erie. but ſom medicines of this kinde are furniſhed with one #: facultie, other- om with more, and thoſe contrarie, whereof you taſte may give you ſufficient notice: for rubard at the firſt touch of the tongue is found acrid and hot; but when you com to chaw and throughly to taſte it, you ſhall finde it to partake of an earthlie aſtriëti- on. therefore becauſ taſtes give notice of the faculties of medicines, therefore i have thought good to treat of them briefly. chap. * whereof, it work's rather upon this then that part, upon this rather then that hu- onely uponan - t pro- c. f lib. . of ſimple medicines, and their uſe. . the inſipid is unproperly termed a taſte, as that which is rather a privation of taſtes, the inſpid. it is in ſomfort cold, and of a verie watriſh and groſs nature, it inſpiſſate's, conſtipate's, and ſtupifie's. this kinde of taſte is chiefly manifeſt in water, and next in gourds, ci- truls, and manie ſuch like things. | the oilie taſte is hot, humid, and aiérie; therefore it hume&t's, relaxate’s, mollifie's, lu- the oilie. º bricate's. of this kinde are oil, butter, fat which is not rauced by age, nor acrid by nature, 't as that of lions and foxes. h the ſweet taſte is made by a moderate and well conco&ting heat, conſiſting in a matter the ſweet. ht more tenuious and hot then the inſipid, but in ſomwhat more groſs then the oilie, from # . which in the firſt qualities it doth not differ; therefore it is of a hot, aiérie, and temperate s nature. therefore everie ſweet thing detergeth, levigate's, conco&’s, ripen's, relaxe's, and § aſſwageth pain. examples of this taſte may bee had in sugar, honie,manna, ſweetalmonds, º: milk, and other like. now letus.com to hot taſtes. º the ſalt taſte is hot and aſtringent, leſs earthie then the bitter, as that which reſide's as it "hºº" ſº were in a middle matter. for it proceed's from an earthie drineſs, which is formerly torri- i fied and attenuated by the force of heat in a watrie humiditie. wherefore that which is id ſalt contraćt's the pores, cut's, cleanſe's, digeſt's, or rather drie's up the humors by the dri- º! neſs thereof, without anie manifeſt ſenſ of heat, whence it is, that it vindicate's from putre- tº fačtion. linder this kinde are conteined all ſorts of ſalt; as ſalt-peter, niter, ſal ammonia- , e cum, ſal gemme, common-ſalt, ſea-water, and ſuch other like. ºt the bitter taſte is hot, earthie, and drying; for the matter thereof is groſs and earthie, the bitter." yº. which the abounding heat hath torrified and dried up. wherefore bitter things taken in- * wardly, purge and carrie away ſuperfluous humors : and outwardly applied, they mundifie it. and deterge ulcers, they open the mouths and paſſages of the veins oft-times by their ab- * ſtergent facultie; whence it is that they moov the courſes and harmorrhoides. the principal m! things indued with this taſte are aloés, gall, wormwood, gentian, the leſſer centaurie, ºf coloquintida, fumitorie, soot, and ſuch like. # the acrid taſte is hot, of a ſubtil and fiérie nature; for it is kindled of a hot, ſubtle, and the acrid, º drie matter, neither can it conſiſt in anie other. therefore that which is acrid, heat's, prick's ºl. or bite's the mouth by the acrimonie, it heat's, and oft-times burn's,it penearate's,open's the paſſages,attenuate's, attračt's and draw's forth groſs humors,evacuate's and ſend's forthurine, ſº the courſes,and ſweat: beſides it oft-times is ſeptick, bliſtering, and eſcharotick; and laſtly; º burning,and cauſtick.the ſeptick and putrefactive things are ſublimate,chamelen,the juice of ºft thapſia.the veſicatories are dittander,cantharides,crow-foot,muſtard,pellitorie of spain, euphorbium. but the cauſtick and eſcharotick are lime, oke-aſhes, and the like. ºt but wee know medicines not onely by the taſte, but alſo by our other ſenſes, as touch, º! fight, hearing, ſmell. and as by the taſte, ſo alſo by theſe wee judg of and trie the goodneſs of medicines, and diſtinguiſh the true legitimate from the adulterate. the touch judge's *:: what are hot and cold,moiſt and drie, rough and gentle, or ſmooth, hard and ſoft, brittle . or friable, glutinous and viſcid, drie or ſlipperie: wee approov of the goodneſs of medicines | w. by their color, brightneſs, or duskineſs,whereof the eie is judg; for wee commend that sen- º: na which is ſomwhat greeniſh, but diſlike the whitiſh: as alſo wee like well of ſuch caſſia i. as is black both within and without, ſhining and full, and not drie and ſhrunk up. yet the !. judgment of the firſt qualities, by the color is deceitful, or none at all; for ſuch things as º are white, or the color of snow, are not therefore coſd: for ſundrie of them are hot, as lime. tº: neither are red things to beetherefore judged hot; for roſes cool. alſo medicinesarecho- ſen by the ſmell; for ſuch as have a good, freſh, and natural ſmell, are commonly hot, and º in their perfeót vigor. on the contrarie, things that want ſmell are for the moſt part cold sº and evanid. by hearing wee diſtinguiſh things full from ſuch as are emptie: thus wee chuſe ſ caſſia, which ſhaken, make's no noiſ with the grains or ſeeds rattling in it. hitherto wee - have explained the firſt, ſecond, third, and fourth faculties of medicines in general,and have * ſhewed how they may bee found out: now muſt wee more particularly treat of their ſecond : and third faculties, becauſ by reaſon of theſe they chiefly cominto uſe in surgerie: yet let mee firſt briefly ſhew by what means and arts they may bee prepared. ºf r— — - - - —- * - c h a p. viii, ſ - - - - - . ." of the preparation of medicineſ. • * t! oprepare medicines,is nothing elſ, then by art to make them more commodious for º uſe and compoſition, whereby they are either made - - ! . . . more gentle. by bruiſing; as when medicines are broken by ſtriking and rubbing .grindcing in a mortar, and that either of braſs, iron, lead, glaſs, wood, marble, and # *her like. conſidering the thing which is to beebeaten. the ſtrength or force wherewith º: it muſt bee performed. #he time or ſpace. the fituation. the things to beeadded. the con- ſ fiſtence which the thing beaten muſt bee of o o o more of ſimple medicines, and their uſe. lib. . 's º aſtringents are underſtood nº. by the name of repellers. the differen- º ces of reper- cuſſives, more ſtrong by ſtarſing; whereby wee ſeparate the pure and finer from the more impure and groſ. -º: #. by fivs and ſearſes, made .wºjº. is to beenoted, that the ſame confideration is to bee had in ſtarſing,asin beating; therefor: füch things as are to beefinely powdered, muſt bee ſearſed in a finerſtarſ: ſuch as are more groſs, in a courſer. mºre pleaſant ... . by diſſolving or mollifying; which is nothingelſ but a diſſolving of a fimpleora compound medicine, of a thick or hardconfiſtence, either into a mean confiſtence, or a little moreli. uidor foſt, which is performed either by heatonely for by heatgums and hornsaremo- i. : or by liquor, asby vineger, water, wine, juiceof limmons, &c. more wholeſom by deſiccation or hardening; which is nothingelſ, but the conſuming of the ſuperfluous and hurtful moiſture; and this is performed, eitherby the sun, or by fire. by infuſion; which is nothing elſ but the tempering or macerating of a medicinea little beaten of cut, in ſom liquor appropriate and fit for our purpoſe; as in milk, vineger, water, oil, and the like, j the nature of the medicine require's. to infuſion, nutrition may beereduced, which is nothingelſ, but as it were a certain accretion of the medicine, becing moiſtened, macerated, rubbed, or ground with ſom moiſture, eſpecially with heat. by burning; that is, by conſuming the humiditie which is in them. #. cither that they may bee the better powdered,beeing otherwiſe too glutinous, or that th may laie . their groſs eſſence, and becom of a ſubtiler temper; or that they may putoff, or partly loſe ſomfieriequalitie, as acrimonie, gal.lib. -cap. .ſimplicium. or that they may acquire a new color.now all things are burnt tither alone; as ſuch things as have a fattie moiſture, as hairs,ſweatic wool,horns: orelſ with ſom combuſtible matter;asſulphur,alum,ſalt, barſie, &c. more fit for mixture by boiling or elixation ; which is performed by a humid heat ; as burning is by a drie, and '. either that wee § increaſ the weak faculties of ſuch medicines as are boiled, by boiling them with ſuch as are ſtronger or elſ to weaken ſuch as are too ſtrong, or elſwholly to diſſipate ſuch as are contrarie: or that one facultie may ariſeofſun- drie things of different faculties beeing boiled together or for the longer keeping them, or bringing them to a certain form or conſiſtence: all which aredon,by the fire, or sun.by waſhingor cleanſing; whereby the impuritie of the medicine is waffed away or cleanſed, and ſuch things are either hard:ās metals,ſtones parts of living creatures, condenſed juices, and otherlike: orſoft;as roſins, gums,fats,oils.and theſeought firſt to beefinely beaten...that the water may penetrate in all their ſubſtance ortobee diſſolved, and caſtinto a veſſel filled with water, and ſo ſtirred, and then ſuffered to ſubſide, ſo that the fat mayſwim aloft: and this muſt bee don ſo long that the water retain nothing thereof in color,ſmell, or taſte. c h a p. ix. of repelling, or repercuſſive medicines. nepelling or repercuſſive medicines are cold, and of groſs and earthieparts; by which name alſo aſtringent medicines are underſtood, becauſ they hinder the ! falling down of the humors upon the part. repercuſſives are ſuch, either of their nature, and of themſelvs, or elſ by accidents beeing not ſuch of their an - º own nature. theſe which of themſelvs are ſuch, are of two kindes; for ſom are watriſh and moiſt, without anie aſtriótive facultie, which almoſt wholly proceed's from an earthie eſſence; wherefore that facultieof repelling which they poſſeſs,they have it whol- ly from coldneſs. of this kinde are lettuce, purſlain, ſow-thiſtle, duck's-meat, kidnie-wurt, cucumbers, melons, gourds, houſ-leek, mandrag-apples, night-ſhade, henbane, and the like, which cool :. and unleſs they bee taken away before the part wax blackiſh, they extinguiſh the natural heat. other ſom are of an earthie eſſence, and therefore aſtriáive; but yet ſom of theſe are hot, other ſom cold. such things as are cold of temper, and of an earthie confiſtence, are properly and truly termed repellers. of theſe, ſomare fimple, other {om compound: the fimples are plaintain, vine-leavs, leavsof roſes, okes, brambles,cypreſs, berberies, ſumach, all unripe fruits, verjuice, vineger, red wine, the juice of ſower pomegra- mats, acacia, the juice of barberries, and quinces, hypociftiſ, pomegranate-pills, oke-bark, the flowers of wilde pomegranats, the meal of barlie, beans, panick, oats, millet, orobus mixed with juices in form of a pultis, bole-armenick, ſanguis draconis,cºruſs, litharge,terra ſigillata, fuller's-earth, chalk, marl, the load-ſtone, lead, corals, all marchifites, antimonie, ſpodium, true pomphylix, all ſorts of earth, and other things of the like nature. now compound things are oleum roſaceum, omphacinum, mirtillorum, papaveris, cidoniº- ºn, menupharis, unguentum roſatum, album rhaſis , camphoratum, emplaſtrum diacalcitheof, diſ. folved in vineger and oil of roſes, deſiccativum rubrun, populson, emplaſtrum nigrum ſeu tº: *pharmacum of galen's deſciption, empl. contrarupuram, de ceruſa, prº matrice. all ſuch i. º reperculuves r . offimple medicines,and their uſe. lº. and they make thoſe parts which are benummed and conſumed, to have life, they reſtorethe refrigerated parts by drawing thither the ſpirit; they drawforth theyiſcous filth of malign ulcers that lie's hidin the nervs, and hollow paſſages of them ; they alſo draw out ſcales of bones, ſplinters of wood, nails, thorns, arrows, and that matter which is impač in hard- ned inflammations. c. h. a. p. xi. of reſolving medicines. - hat is called a reſolving medicine, which by heat, and the tenuitie of his ſub- ſtance openeth the pores, attenuate's the humors, diſſipate's and diſcuſſeth tº by evaporating the unprofitable matter. there are two ſorts of theſe kindes º of medicines; the one is called areoticum or rarifying; the other is termed §º tiaphoreticum, or digeſting. - the areoticum by a mean heat, and not drie , and indued with a tenuitie of ſub- ſtance, openeth and relaxeth the skin , and draweth forth the matter ſhut up under it, whereby it may eaſ pain, like as anodynes, becauſit doth not much depart from a temperate heat. but the diaphoreticum beeing much hotter , whatſoever ſticketh in the part beeing there impačt, it doth by thin vapor inſenſibly diſſipate : therefore the acrid and hot things are in this caſe to bee made uſe of rather then then attraćtives,becauſ that cold and groſsneſs is more difficulty to bee digeſted, and the length and involution of the waies beeing to bee conſidered. the arzotick, which wee may call weak reſolvers, are either ſimple or compound. - - the ſimples are theſe, biſmalva tota, parietaria, adiantbum, mercurialis, ebulus, valeriana, roſmarinus, ſaivia, thymus, chamemelum, melilotum, anetbum, farina bordei, tritici, ſeminis lini, fenugreci, nigella, furfur, adep; galline, anſeris, anatis, cuniculi, vituli; almoſt all metals un- leſs ſuch as are acrid. the compounds are oleum chamemolinum, anethinum, liliaceum, catel- rum, lumbricorum, keirinum, de vitellis ovorum, de tritico, amygdalarum dulcium, unguentum de al- thea, empl. diachylum, ireatum. diaphoreticks or digeſtives, are alſo both ſimple and com- pound: the ſimple are ariſiolochia, enula campana, iriſ, cepa, ſcylla, ſigillum salomonis, ſigillum beate marie, bryonia, panis porcinus, dracunculus, aſphodeluſ, origanum, mentha, pulegium, ſabima, jerpillum, calamentha, byſſopus, urtica, arthemiſta, lavendula, chamepytis, aniſum , #: cumi- num, piper, nux moſchata, coriandrum, bacce lauri & juniperi, farina, fabarum, lupinorum, orobi, milii, frumenti, furfur, mica panis, acetum tepidum, oxycratum, vinum vetus aut aromaticum, mel, qua vite, muria, adeps tauri, equi, leonis, canis, birci, medulla cervi, cruris bovis & arieti, ammoniacum, galbanum , opºpanax, ſagapenum, myrrha > blelium, thus > terebinthina, pix migra, ladanum, ſtirax, calamita, benioinum, ſtercus caprinum, columbinum, caninum, bubulum, & alie ſtercorum ſpecies. compound diaphoreticks are oleum amygdalarum amararum, juniperinun, laurinum, de ſcortionibus, irinum, coſtinum, nardinum, de terebinthina, de croco, canabinum, raphaninum, cucumere agrefti, vulpinum, rutaceum, philoſophorum de lateribus, de euphorbio, de fartaro, de petroleo, de kerva, five ricininum, unguent. agrippe, aragon, martiatum, emulatum, empl. de vigº, without addition, and with addition, oxycroceum, diacalcitheos, diſſolved in a digeſting oil to the form of a cerat. aræoticks are profitably uſed in the increaſ and ſtate of ſuperficial tumors. the nº of dia- but diaphoreticks are not to bee uſed in the increaſ of tumors, unleſs ſom aſtringent bee phosticks added, leſt by their more ſtrong digeſtion, they ſhould draw and increaſ the defluxion: but when the tumors decline, they are then onely to bee uſed in the parts chiefly where the skin is denſ and hard, and when the humor is cold and groſs, and lying hid deep in the bodie, ſo that the virtue of medicaments can hardly com thereto; but confideration is to bee had of the parts to which reſolutives are to bee applied; for you may not applie relaxers or dia- phoreticks to the liver, ſpleen, ſtomach,orbowels, unleſs you add ſom aſtringents, of which a great part muſt bee aromaticks. - to the parts,where ſenſis more dull, may bee applied the ſtronger diaphoreticks, but thoſe parts which are indued with a more exquiſite ſºnſ, as the eie and thenerys, to them wee muſt applie weaker. when the matter is groſs and cold, things cutting and attenus: ting, and then emollient are to bee uſed, and ſo by degrees comto diaphoreticks; otherwiſe that onely is reſolved which is the moſt ſubtiſ of unprofitable matter, the groſſer becom- ming concrete and hardned. but if the part bee afflićted with a continual defluxion, fo that there may bee danger of a gangrené or ſphacel, it is not lawful then to make uſe of reſolvers, but you muſt in the place where the humor flow's, divide the skin by ſcarifi- cation, as it is moſt learnedly noted by hollerius in that profitablebook of his left topoſe- ritie, whoſe title is, de materia chirurgica, - chap / what a reſol- wing medicine s. the differen- ces thereof. lib. . of ſimple medicines, and their uſ. - ; - - - - - c h a p. xii. º of suppurativeſ. . . . . . ; : , ". . ‘. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . §§supparative medicine is ſaid to beethat, which ſhutting the pores, and pre- whataſars ağventing tranſpiration by his emplaſtick, conſiſtence, increaſeth the matter purative medi- an' lºof native heat, and therefore turneth the matter caſt out of the veſſels into cine is. ɺpus and ſanies. it is of nature hot and moiſt, and proportionable to the *t***ºnative heat of the part to which it is applied, and of an emplaſtick confi- ºffence, that ſo it may hinder the native heat from beeing exhaled; in which reſped it - differe:h from emollients and malaćticks, of which weeſhall ſpeak hereafter. there bee piº.” two kindes of ſuppuratives, for ſomdo it of themſelvs, and by their proper qualities* others by accident. thoſe things which by their own ſtrength do bring to ſuppuration, are either ſimples or compounds. * … . . . t \ simples are radix liliorum, cepa, allium, malvarum omnium folia & ſemina, bugloſſum, acantbus, ſenecio, viole, parietaria, crocuſ, cauler, ficus, paſſule mundate, with a decottion of theſe things, farina tritici,farina volatilis, farina bordei excortitati, lolii, ſeminis lini & fenugreci, galbannm, ammoniacum, ſtyrax pinguis, ladanum, viſcum aucupatorum, thus, pix, cera, reſina, colla, adept, ſuillus, vitulinus, vaccinus, caprinuſ, butyrum, vitellus ovi, aftpus humida, fiercia ſuillum, columbinum, capri- num, pueri. - ..sºs .. compounds areoleum liliorum, lumbricorum, de croco, unguent. baſilicum, emplaſt. diſſiºn c ?- mune, magnum, de mucilaginibus. º - & thoſe things do ſuppurate by accident which work it onely by the means º: suppuratives ſtick conſiſtence: for ſo often-times aſtringent}, becauſ they are of earthie and parts, by accident, are found to ſuppurate; ſuch are unguentum de bºlo nutritum,and ſuch like. such alſo are thoſe which by their coldneſs keep the heatin, and ſhut the pores. hence it is that the qualities of ſorrel are commended to generate pus: for whilſt it keepeth the heat within, it increaſeth his effe&s, to the thickning of the ſuppurable matter,and the overcomming other rebellious ualities. wee uſe things ripening in greatinflammations, whoſe growth wee cañnothin- er with repellers, or increaſ with reſolvers or diſcuſſers. *~ *s ºf - ~~~\ i ºf . , --> sº - _* ...-- c h a p. xiii. . . . .” of mollifying things, ” ” “ , hatis defined to bee a mollifying medicine, which by airanger heat then that gal. tap.” lib. § which is proper to ſuppuratives, without aniemanifeſt qualitie of drying or # º: ... moiſtning, again malaxeth or ſofteneth hardned bodies ; wherefore this diſ. . . ºfer's from that which ſuppurate's, becauſ that they bee hot in the firſt or ſe-ijiā. * . . cond degree, according to the ſeveral temperof the bodie, or part to which it is applied, working rather by the quantitie of heat, then the qualitie: contrariwiſe, that which mollifieth beeing indued with a greater heat, rather worketh by the qualitie of the heat, beeing otherwiſe in drineſs and moiſture temperate. * although as manie things agree together in ſom reſpects, though of a diverſ nature; ſo manie emollients are ſuch as are hot in the firſt degree, and drie in the ſecond and third, that ſo they may the better diſperſand diffuſe that which is congealed, by taking away a lit- tle of the humiditie,which is contained within the part affe&ed: but not by exhauſting it wholly by the violence of heat or drineſs: for hereon would follow a greater hardneſs, - things mollifying, are either ſimple or compound; and theſe again ſtrong or weak. the differen- the weak are, radix liliorum alborum, cucumeris agreftis, altbee , folia malve, biſmalve, li-º ofemolli- liorum, anetbi ſummitates, viola, branca urſina, ſemen malve, biſmalve, lini, fenugreci, carici pin- cin gues, paſſale mundate, pedum, capitum, inteſtinorum vervecinorum decodium, adept ex junioribus & caſtratii, domeſticis, feminis animalibus, adept ſuillus, vitulinus, bardinus, caprinus, bubulus, vulpinus, gallinaceus, anſerinus, anatinus, olorinus, efficaces. the weaker are things more gentle; as, buty- rum, lama ſºccida, cerapinguis, vitellus ovi, medulla ex offibus, cervina, ovilla, caprina. the com- pound are oil, wherein are boiled mollifying herbs; as, oleum liliorum, chamemelinum, amyg- dalarum dulcium. strongeremolliments are, acetum, adept taurinus, urſinus,cervinus,leoninus;par- dalinus, apri, equi ſevum, pinea, picea, abietina, terebenthina, ammoniacum, bdelium, ſtyrax, galbanum, ladanum, propolis, opopanax, ung, dealthea, emp, diacbylon commune & magnum, de mucilaginibus, ce- roneum, oxycroceum, foannis de vigo. - wee uſe emollients in ſcirrous tumors of the muſcles, or in the lips of ulcers, in anie of their wº the limbs, bellie, glandules, bowels, by reaſon of a groſs, cold, and viſcous matter, either phlegmatick, or melancholick. yet thoſe tumors which com of melancholie, commonly turn to cancers, which are exaſperated by mollifying things. on the contrarie, ſuch as pro- ceed from a phlegmatick matter,arebrought to an equalitie ofconſiſtence,by the uſe of emol- lients. furthermore, there are three things obſervable in the uſe of emollients: the firſt is, *. ooo duly º * -- " - ofſimple medicineſ,and their uſe. lib. , things obſer duly to conſider how much the affected parts differ's from his proper and naturall temper vable in the , and proportion, that ſo weemay applie an equivalent remedie. the ſecond is, that weed- uſe of emojli- ſtinguiſh the natures of the parts. the thirdis, that wee artificially gather after whatman- cints, ner this mollifying muſt bee performed; that is, whether wee ſhould mingle with theemolli- in . … ments, deterfive or diſcuſſing medicines. forthere are manie deſperate ſcirrous tumors,that ' ' ' ' ' ' is, ſuch as cannot beeovercombyanie emollient medicine, as thoſe which are grown ſo . . " hard, that they have loſt their ſenſ; and ºthereupon are becom ſmoothandwithout hairs. hereyoumuſt obſerv, that the part ſomtimes becom's cold in ſo great an exceſs, that the native heat plainly appear's to languiſh, ſo that it cannot aduate anie medicine. that this fanguiſhing heat may bee reſuſcitated, an iron-ſtove ſhall beeſat neer to the part, where- in a good thick piece of iron heated red hot ſhall breencloſed, forſo the flowe willkeep hota long time. ! - - - - - * * * * a º à a. the caſe of theftove, - . . " - º b. the iron-batto beeheated. º' --- - à c. the lid fo ſºul the #ºve, à * \ - x " ; . f : . • . - c h a p. xiv. " t. of deterſives, or mundificatives. ºdeterfive is defined to be that which doth deterge or cleanſan ulcer,and purge forth tº a double kinde of excrements of the which one is thicker, which is commonly cal- *\ledſordes, which is drawn forth from the bottom of the ulcer; by the edification: qualitie of the medicine, the other is more thin and waterie, which the greeks call ichor, the latins sanies, which is taken away by the drineſs of the medicine; and therefore deterſ. hippocrates hath well adviſed,that everie ulcer muſt beecleanſed and dried. Čtºrſives. of deterfives,ſomare fimple,ſom compound, ſomſtronger, ſom weaker. the fimple are either bitter, ſweet,or ſowr: the bitterare gentiana, ariſtolochia, iris, enula, ſtilla, ſerpentaria, centaurinum minas, abſinthium, marrubium, perforata, abrotonen, apium, chelidonian, rula, byſſºpus, ſcabioſa, arthemiſia, eupatorium, aloé, fumus terre, bedera terreſtris, a lixivium made with the albº of theſe things, lupihi, orobus, anygdalaamara,faba,terebinthina, myrrha, maſtiche,ſagºfenumgal. hanum, ammoniacum, the gals of beaſts, ſtercus caprinum, urina bene cotia, ſquammaeris, et ſum, erugo, ſcoria eris, antimonium, calx, chalcitis, miſy, ſory, alumen. the ſweet are viola, roſa, meli- totum, ficus pingues, dağyli, uve paſſe, glycyrrhiza, aqua bordei, aqua mulſa, vinum dulce, mel ſacca- rum, ſerum, lačiis, manna, thus. theſharp are all kinde of ſowrthings, capreoli vitium, acetum, and other acid things. the compound are syrupus de abſinthia, defunaria, de marrubio, de eu- patorio, deartbemiſia, acetoſus, lixivium, oleum de vitellis ovorum, de terebinthina, de lartaro, unguem. their uſ... ium mundiffrativum de apio, apoſtelorum, pulvis mercurialis. wee uſe ſuch things as deterge, that the ſuperfluous matterbeeing taken away, nature may the more conveniently regenerate fleſh to fill up the cavitie: but in the uſe of them, confideration is firſt to bee had of the whole bodie, whether it behealthie, plethorick, or ill diſpoſed, there is confideration to beehad of the part, which is moiſter and drier, indued with a more exquiſite or duller ſºnſ. but oftentimes accidents befal ulcers befides nature, as a callus, a defluxion of a hotor otherwiſe malign humor, and the like ſymptoms. laſtly, confiderationistobee had, whetherit beca iłęw lºg. of ſimple medicines, and their uſe. - º ºrº. *::::: :hº new or inveterate ulcer; for from hence, according to the indication, remedies are appoin- ted different in quantitieand qualitie:ſo that oftentimes wee are conſtrained to appoint the bitter remediein ſtead of the ſweet. neither truly with a painful and drieulcerdoth anie o- ther then a liquid deterfive agree: neitherto the moiſt anie other then that of a drie confi- ftence, as powders. . . . . - º º, º chap. xv. - - tº º - of sarcoticks. . - kºhat medicine is ſaid tobee ſarcotick, which by its drineſs help's nature to rege- nerate fleſh in an ulcer hollow, and diligently cleanſed from all excrements.but º º & this is properly don # bloodindifferent in qualitie and quantitie. wherefore,if no medicine wee muſt ſpeak accordi *** can properly and truly be called ſarcotick: for thoſe which vulgarly go under that name, are onely accidentally ſuch; as thoſe which without biting and eroſion do drie up and deterge the excrements of an ulcer,which hinder theendevour of nature in generat- ing ‘of fleſh. for as by the law of nature, from that nouriſhment which flow's to thenou- riſhing of the part, there is a remain, or a certainthin excrement, flowing from ſom other place, calledby the greeks ichor, and by the latines sanies: thus by the corruption of the part there concreet's another groſſer excrement, termed rypos by the greeks, and sordes by the latines. that make's the ulcer more moiſt, this more filthie. hence it is, that everie wound which require's reſtitution of the loſt ſubſtance, muſt bee cured with two ſorts of medicines, the one to drie up and waſte the ſuperfluous humiditie thereof, the other to fetch off the fifth; and by how much the wound is the deeper, by ſo much it require's more liquid medicines, that ſo they may the more eaſily enterinto everie part thereof. but diverſitie of things ſhallbee appointed according to the various temper of the part. for if the affečted partſhallbee moiſt by nature, ſuch things ſhallbee choſen as ſhallbee leſs drie: if on the contrariethe partbee drie, then ſuch things ſhall bee uſed asbee more drie ; but manie ſorts of medicines ſhall bee aſſociated with the ſarcoticks, according to the mani- fold complication of the effects poſſeſſing the ulcer.therefore nature onely is to bee accoun- ted the workmaſter, and the efficient cauſin the regenerating offleſh, and laudable blood the material cauſand the medicine the helping or aſſiſting cauſ,or rather the cauſwithout which it cannot bee: as,that by cleanſing and moderately drying without anie vehement heat,takes away all hinderances of incarnation and orders, and fit's the blood to receiv the form of fleſh. this kinde of medicine according to galen, ought to bedrie onely in the firſt degree, leſt,by too much drieneſs, it might drink up the blood and matter of the future fleſh, which notwithſtanding is to bee underſtood of ſarcoticks, which are to bee applied to a delicate and temperate bodie. for if the ulcerbee more moiſt,or the bodie more hard then is fit, wee may aſcend to ſuch things as are drie, even in the third degree. and hence itis that ſuch drieme- dicines may firſt bee called deterfives, and then preſently ſarcoticks. a ſarcotick medicine is either ſimple or compound, ſtronger or weaker. simple ſarcotick medicines are, #. to the truth of the thing, there is no medicine which truly ſarcotick utraque, iris, acorus, dracunculus, aſarum, ſymphyti omnia genera, betonica, ſanicula, millefolium, lin-simpleſarco- guatani, verbena,ſtabioſa pinpinella,hyperiºn ſcordium,plantagºrubia majoret minºr earumque ſucci.” terebinthina lota & nonlota, reſina pini, gummi arabicum, ſarcocolla, maſtiche, colophonia, manna thu- ris, cortex eiuſdem, aloé, olibanum, myrrha, mel, vinum, ſanguis draconiº, lythargyrosauri, ſpodium, pompholix,tutia, plumbum uſium lotum, ſcoria ferri. the compound ſarcoticks are, leum byperico- mis, ol, ovorum, maſtichinum, &cetera olea, que balſaminomine †. unguentum aureum, emp. de betonica, vigonis, dejanua, emp.gratia dei, emp. nigrum. wee uſe not ſarcoticks before that the ulcer bee cleanſed and free’d from pain, defluòtion, inflammation, hardneſs, and diſtem- per. in uſing theſe things wee confider the temper of the bodie, and the affeſted part: for oft-times a part otherwiſe leſs drie by nature, require's a more powerful drying medi- cine, and ſtronger ſarcotick, then another part which is more drie, and this for ſom other reaſon, which ought to cominto our conſideration: for example, theglans would bee more dried then the prepuce, although itbee of a temper leſs drie, becauſit is a paſſage of the u- rine. wherefore wee muſt diligently obſerv the condition of the affected parts, and thence taking indication, make choice of more ſtrongſarcoticks. for both that which is toolittle, and that which is too much ſarcotick, make's a ſordid ulcer: the firſt, becauſit drie's not ſufficiently; the later, for that by its acrimonie it cauſeth defluxion. therefore diligent care muſt bee uſed in the examination hereof. chap. xvi. - º of epuloticks, or skinning mecicines. - a nepulotick medicine is that which covereth the part with skin: it is ſaid to bee ſuch >{s by drieneſs and aſtrićtion without biting deficcate's,binde's and condenſate's the fleſh into a certain callous ſubſtance, like to the skin, which wee commonly call a dau; or car : pound sarcoticks, of ſimple medicines, and their uſe. lib. . ſcar: yet this, as the generating of fleſh, is the work of nature. a medicine therefore is ſaid to bee epulotick, for that it aſſiſt's nature in ſubſtituting and generating a ſcar, in flead of the true skin, whileſt it conſume's the ſuperfluoushumidities, condenſates, incraſates, and binde's the next adjacent fleſh; thereforeitought to drie more powerfully then aſarco. three ſorts of tick. epulotick medicines are of three kinds: the firſt is the true epulotick: which onely epuloticki, dries and bind's. the ſecond is an acridandbiting epulotick, which, for that it waſte's the roudfleſh,is called ſo and this muſt bee ſparingly uſed, and that onely to hard and ruſtick É. the third is that which onely dries without aſtriëtion. the things whereof they confiſt are theſe: ariſtolochia, utraque, gentiana, iris, centaurium majuſ, pentaphyllon, ſymphytum majus, chamedys, betonica, cauda equina, eupatorium, verbenaca, plantaginis & ſympbitifolia, galle, bacte myrii, glandes & earum calices, balauſtia, cupreſsi nuces, malicorium, cortex querºs, cortex ta. … maricis, cortex ligni aloes, acacia, colophonia, ſarcocolla, ſangui, draconis, ladanum, lithargyros, au- ri, argenti, ceruſa, plumbum uſium, alumen uſeum, ruthia, ſquamma eris & ferri, & eorum ſcoria, eru- go, flos eris, es uſium et lotum, ſulphur vivum, chryſocolla, corali, bolus armenus, terra ſigillata, cine- res buccenarum, íreorum, ſilicis, oſſa ºffa et ſiccata, caries lignorum, ung, diapompholygos, ung. alb. rhafts, deſiccativum rubrum, emp, deceruſa, debetonica, diacalcitheos, emp. nigrum. their uſe. weeuſe epuloticks when as the ulcer is almoſt filledup,and equal to the adjacent skin. in the uſe of theſe wee muſt alwaies have reſpect to the tenderneſs and hardneſs of the bodie; for ſuch things as are corroſives to tender and delicate bodies, are epulotick to hard and ru- ſlickbodies. alſo wee have much regard, whether the bodiebee plethorick or replete with ill humors, for ſuch do not eaſily admit cicatrization. alſo it is moſt worthie of your obſer- vation, to mark whether the ulcer that is to bee cicatrized, beefed or nouriſhed by the pre- ſent defect of aniepart, as the liver, ſpleen, lungs, or a varix lying about it. for it cannot bee cicatrized before theſe impediments (if anie ſuch bee) beetaken away. laſtly, the cal- louslips of an ulcer, unleſs they bee ſcarified or ſoftened, hinder cicatrization. therefore all ſuch defaults muſt beetaken away, and then ſuch an epulotick applied,as may notby the too much drieneſs leav the ſcartoo hollow, or the too little, leavittoo high. - - - ºn:- - - - - c. h. a. p. x w ii. of agglutinatives. glutinating, or agglutinative medicine is of a middle nature, between the sar- cotick and epulotick,more ſtrong then the former, and weaker then the later, for it is drie to the ſecond degree.it by the drying and aſtriëtive facultie,void of # all deterfion,conjoin's parts that are diſtant, or rather lend's helping hands to nature the principal agent in this work. glutinatives, whether they beeſtrongly or weakly ſuch, do agglutinate eitherby their properor accidental nature: of this ſort are agglutinative plantagini, omnes ſpecies, conſolida utraque, bugloſſa, millefolium, verbena, pimpinella, piloſella, cau- :cines, "º da equina, ſempervivum, telephium, ſanicula, atrađiliſ, folia querºs et dracunculi, #. cłuluſ, ſambucus, fentaphyllon, veronica, cortex pini, ulmi, palme querºs, aqua vitiſ, aq. a folliculi, ulmi, ſuccus calaminthe, vinum auſterum, terebinthina, myrrha, ſanguis draconi, bolus armenus, terraſigil- lata, omnia denique acerba. - - glutinatives by accident are thoſe that hinder defluêtion, and binde the part, as sutures, . bandages, reſt, rowlers, and the like. wee uſe glutinatives in green, and as yet bloodie *** wounds, whence the greeks calla glutinative medicine enema, although ſomtimes they are uſed to inveterate, malign, fiſtulous and finuous ulcers; for they hinder the deflučtion from comming to the lips of ulcers. you muſt conſider, when as you intend to applie them,whe- ther the skin bee wholeorno: for ulcersknit together, or heal more difficultly, if the skin beerubbed off, or cut, or otherwiſe loſt. neither ought you to bee unmindful of the fore- mentioned cautions and indications drawn from the ſex,the tenderneſs or hardneſs of theaf- fečted bodie, the continuance and magnitude of the ulcer; for hence indication muſt bee ta- ken, what the quantitie and qualitie of the medicine ought to bee. w . c. h. a. p. x viii. of pyroticks, or cauſtick medicines. #hat medicine is ſaid to bee pyrotick or cauſtick, which by its acrimonie and biting, three d §l º commonly conſiſting in an earthie conſiſtence,either ſuperficially corrode's, or more §§ * “” deeply eat's and putrifie's, or laſtly, burn's and conſume's the skin and fleſh, ſo that * iteven pierce's into callºusandhardbodies. therefore there are three degrees of pyroticks; for ſom are termed catha retick or corroding, for that they waſte the proudfleſh of an ulce- rated oranie other part, and theſe are judged the weaker ſort of pyroticks. otherſom are termed septick or putreſying,asthoſe which deſtroie and diſſolv the tender and new-ſprung- up fleſh, and raiſ bliſters in theskin, and theſe are more powerful then the chatha reticks. laſtly,there are otherſom termed moſt powerful eſcharoticks, which by their fieric º i reſtſià. | lig. . of ſimple medicines, and their uſe. . . q y º . º : * ~- º reſtrial qualitie cauſeſchars or cruſts; whereupon they are alſo termed ruſtoria, and poten- tial cauteries: now all theſe differences are taken from that they are more or leſs powerful. for it oft-times happen's,that according to the different temper and conſiſtence of the É. according to the longer or ſhorter ſtaie, a catha retick may penetrate as far as a septick,and on the contrarie, an eſcharotick may enter no farther then a septick. theſe are judged catha reticks, spongia uſta, alumen uſium & non uſium, vitriolum uſium, calx cathzricks, mediocriter lota, erugo, chalchanthum, *::: eriº, oleum de vitriolo, trochiſci andromis, phaſionis, aſphodelorum, ung. Ægipticum, apoſtolorum, pulvi, mercurii, arſenicum ſublimatum. septicks and velicatories are, radix ſtille, bryonie, ſigill. beate marie, bugloſſa, radix ran- septicksand nunculi, panis porcini, apium, riſus, lac tithymallorum, lacfici, euphorbium, anacardus, ſnapi, cantha-vicarories. rides, arſenicum ſublimatum: "for all theſe weaken the native temper and conſiſtence of the part, and draw thereunto humors plainly contrarie to nature. eſcharoticks or cauſticks are calx viva, fex vini cremata, & precipuš aceti, ignit, whereto are referred all cauteries, as well ačtual as potential, whereof wee ſhall treat hereafter. wee uſe catha reticks in tender bodies and diſeaſes not verie contumacious ; therefore their uſe. by how much they are leſs acrid and painful, by ſo much oft-times they penetrate the deep- er, for that they are leſs troubleſom by delaie; but wee uſe septicks, and ſomtimes eſcharo- ticks in ulcers that are callous, putrid, and of unexhauſted humiditie, but principally in cancers, carbuncles, and exceſſive harmorrhagies. when as wee make uſe of theſe, the pati- ent muſt have a convenient diet appointed, muſt abſtain from wine': laſtly, they muſt not . beeuſed but with great diſcretion; for otherwiſe they may cauſfevers, great inflammations, intolerable pains, ſwounings, gangreens, and ſphacels. cauteries heedfully uſed, ſtrengthen and drie the part, amend an untameable diſtemper, dull the force of poiſon, bridle putrefa- &ion and mortification, and bring ſundrie other benefits. eſcharoticks. c h a p. xix. of anodynes, or ſuch as mittigate or aſſwage pain. (efore wee treat of anodyne medicines, wee think it fit to ſpeak of the nature - *- } of pain. now pain is a ſorrowful and troubleſom ſenſ, cauſed by ſom ſudden what pain". diſtemper, or ſolution of continuitie. there are three things neceſſarie to cauſ pain; the efficient cauſ, that is, a ſodain departure from a natural temperor union: the ſenſibleneſs of the bodie receiving the dolorifick cauſ: laſtly, the apprehenſion of this induced change, cauſed either by diſtemper or union; for otherwiſe with how exquiſiteſoever ſenſ the bodie receiving the cauſis indued with , unleſs it appre- hend and mark it, there is no pain preſent. hence is that aphoriſm of hyppocrates guicunq; parte aliqué corporis dolentes dolorem omnino non ſentiunt, his mens egrotat, that is, whoſoever pained in anie part of their bodies do wholly feel no pain, their underſtanding is ill affečted and depraved. heat, cold, moiſture and drineſs, induce a ſodain change of temper; and heat and cold cauſ ſharp pain, drineſs moderate,but moiſture ſcarce anie at all: for moiſture cauſ- ſeth not pain ſomuch by its qualitie, as it doth by the quantitie. both the fore-mentioned qualities, eſpecially aſſociated with matter, as alſo certain external cauſes too violently aſ- ſailing ſuch as theſe that may cauſ contuſion, cut, prick, or too much extend. wherefore pain is a ſymptom of the touch, accompanying almoſt all diſeaſes; therefore oft-times leav- ing theſe, they turn the counſel of the phyſician to mitigate them, which is performed ei- ther by mitigating theeficient cauſes of pain, or dulling the ſenſ of the part. hereupon they make three differences of anodynes: for ſom ſerv to cure the diſeaſ, otherſon to mi- tigate it, otherſom ſtupifie, and are narcotick. we term ſuch curative of the diſeaſes, which reſiſt, and are contrarie to the cauſes of diſeaſes.thus pain, cauſed by a hot diſtemper,is ta- ken away by oil of roſes, oxycrate, and other ſuch like things, which amendand take a- way the cauſ of pain, to wit the exceſs of heat.pain cauſed by a cold diſtemper, is amended by oleum laurinum, nardinum, de caſtoreo. pain occaſioned by too much drineſs, is helped by hydrelium, a bath of freſh and warmwater. laſtly, by this word anodyne, taken in the largeſt ſenſ, we underſtandall purging medicines, phlebotomie, scarification, cauteries, cuppings, glyſters, and other ſuch like things as evacuate anie ſtore of the dolorifick mat- ter. but ſuch as are properly termed anodynes, are of two ſorts: for ſom are temperate,o- thers hot and moiſt in the firſt degree, and conſequently, near to thoſe that are temperate: what proper- theſe preſerv the native heat in the proper integritie, thus they amend all diſtemperatures; of yºrmed'aº this kinde are accounted sallad oil, oil of ſweet almonds, the yolks of eggs, and a few modyncs are: other ſuch like things, theſe ſtrengthen the native heat, that thus increaſed in ſubſtance, it may with the more facilitie or'ecom the cauſ of pain : beſides alſo, they rarifie, attenuate, qigeſt, and conſequently evacuate both groſs and viſcid humors, as alſo cloudie flatulencies hindred from paſſing forth : ſuch are flores chamemeli, meliloti, crocuſ, oleum chamemelinum.ane- thinum, oleumlini, oleum ex ſemine alibee, lumbricorum, ovorum, ex tritico, butyrum, lana ſaccida, y ſuillus adept, vitulinus, gallinaceus, anſerinus, humanus, ex anguilla,cunicula, & aliis. lac muliebre, - & vaccinum, mucago ſeminis lini, fenugreci, altbee, malve, velejuſmodiſeminum decočium: as alſo decočium liliorum, violarie, capiti,pedum, & inteſtinorum arietis ethadi, nar- io ofſimple medicines,and their uſe. lib. . narcoticks narcoticks,or ſtupefying medicines, improperly termed anodynes,are coldin the fourth *pººrly degree, thereforeby their exceſs of cold, they interceptorhinder the paſſage of the animal . * fpirit to the part, whence it is that they take away ſenſ: of this ſort are hyoſcyamus, cicula, ſolanum manicum, mandragora, papaver, ºpium, artiiſima winſula. - the uſe of you may make uſe of the firſt ſort of anodynes in all diſeaſes, which are cured by the them. oppoſition of their contraries: but of the ſecond, to expugn pains that are not verie con- tumacious, that by their application wee may reſiſt defluxion, inflammation, the fever, and other ſymptoms.but whereasthe bitterneſs of pain is ſo exceſſive-great that it will not ſtoop to other medicines, then at the length muſt wee com to the third ſort of anodynes. yetoft. times the bitterneſs of pain is ſo great that verie narcoticks muſt beeapplied in the firſtplace, if wee would have the part and the whole man to bee in ſafetie. yetthe two frequentuſ of, them, eſpecially alone without the addition of ſaffron, myrrh, caſtoreum, or ſom ſuch like thing, uſeth to bee verie dangerous: for they extinguiſh the nativeheat, and cauſ mortifi- cation, manifeſted by the blackneſs of the part. but intolerable pains, to wit, ſuch as are occaſioned by the exceſs of inflammation and gangrenes, may bee ſooner mitigated byo- pening a vein, purging and ſcarifying the part affeded, then either by properly-termed ano- dynes or narcoticks,to wit, that pain may bee the remedie offain. by purgers weehereun- tetrah. jºn. . derſtand not onely ſuch,as taken by the mouth, produce that effe&; but alſo ſuch as out- cºp- . wardly applied perform the ſame, as thoſe whereof aëtius make's mention, as, purgatives to r. pure ſeu medal. colocynib. ſemin, eruc. rut. ſylveſt, elaterii, gr. cindii, labyrid, expurgatar. bjºy galban, nitri, cere, ſingulorum, iiii opºpan, ii. terebinth, vi. terenda ſerito, ettauringfellefaul- applied. latim irrigato, done, afts imbibantur. then applie it about the navel even to the ſhare, forthus it will purge by ſtool ; if on the contrarie you applie it to the bottom of the ſtomach, it will cauſ vomit. another; r. elaterii, iii, colocynth. ſcammon, ſquamme cris, radic, cucumer. agreff. lathyridan. i.aut pro lathyrid, tithymal ſuccum terito et cribrato, at cum oleo plurimum ſali, babenſe the compoſi- ſubigito ; magnam ind: pilam & lana confertamboc medicamento illiam, umbilico aut lumbis applica- tion of sº ". or, r. fellis taurin. . i. gr. cindii virid. iv. ſucci lupinor. virid. ii. euphorb. i. pulp, colº- ging oil and cynth, tantundem edip. vulpin.recent. vi. adip, viper. iiſ, ſtercor, muris, iv ſucci pron.caffor. ointment, ſingulor. iv. ol, liguſtrin. . vi. ol. antiq. ifiat anguentum veloleum. it purgeth without trou- ble, and beſides the other commodities it alſo is good againſt diſtraćtion or madneſs. two ſpoonfuls is the greateſt quantitieto bee uſed atone time,for in ſom,one is ſufficient:annoint therewith the navel and thereabouts, and a juſt purgation will enſue thereupon, which if it ſhall flie outbeyond yourexſpe&tation,you may foment the bellie with a ſpongemoiſtenedin warm wine and preſſed forth again, it will bee preſently ſtaied. moreover fernelius lib, . methodi, make's mention of a laxative ointment. chap. xx. of the compoſition and uſe of medicines. titherto weehave ſpoken of the faculties of ſimple medicines, now wee think º good to ſaie ſomthing of the compounding of them: for ſo by the archite? are had and known everiething apart,and then hee ſettle's the workmentothe } building, the conceived form of which hath been in his mindeever fince heedid enterpriſe it. therefore the compoſition of divers medicaments with theirqui- lities and effe&s, is amingling appointed by the art of the phyſician. hence therefore rheum, cal, ſnr., alºroſa, alſynthium, although they have divers ſubſtances and faculties, yet arenotwithſtan. deſanit.turn. ding called ſimple medicines, becauſ they have that varietie from nature,not from art. but wee manie times call ſimple ſuch things as are compounded by art, as oxym, ſimpl. oxyſacch. ſimplex, as compared togreater compoſitions. and therefore oftentimes weeuſe compound the neceſſie medicines, becauſ alwaics the ſimple medicine alone, hath not ſtrength enough to oppugn, ot º the diſeaſ. formanie times the fick labor with manifold, and not ſimple effects, from which “ there beeing taken a various indication, wee gather contrarie fimple medicines, to applie to everie affeót, in one compoſition. but oftentimes the nature of the part of the patient, or of the bodie affe&ed,requireth another kinde of medicament which maybee proper for there- mooving that diſeaſ; wherefore it is ſo made to oppugn the diſeaſ and not offend thebo- die : and wee mingle manie other together, whoſe effe&s may temper one another. moreo- ver, the compoſition of medicines was neceſſarie, that becauſthoſe things which have not agood taſte, color, or ſmell,by art or compoſition, mightbee made more grateful compound medicines of which we intend to ſpeak, are glyſters, suppoſitories, noduli, peſſaries, oils, liniments, ointments, emplaſters, cerats, pultiſſes, cataplaſms, fomentations, embroca- tions, epithemates, veficatories, cauteries, collyria, errhina, sneeſing powders, maſtica- tories, gargariſms: dentifrices, bags, fumigations, semicupiums, baths. but firſt it is ex- pedient that! faieºntling of weights and meaſures, with their notes, by which medicines commonly are meaſured and noted by phyſicians, chap. ſ lib. . of ſimple medicines, and their uſe. . c. h. a. p. xxi. in £ . of weights and meaſures, and the notes of both of them. ºverie weight ariſºth from abeginning and foundation, as it were; for as ourbo- |% dies do ariſe of the four firſt fimple bodies or elements, into which they are often agrain the º: #º reſolved: ſo all weights do ariſe from the grain, which isasit were thebeginning bºnning of º, and end of the reſt. now j is underſtoodabarlie-corn orgrain, and that ſuch as is nei-all weight. tº thertoo drie, or overgrown with mouldineſs, or rancid, but well conditioned, and of an west, º indifferent bigneſs. by a g* * tengrains of theſemake an obolus; two oboli, or twentie grains make aſcruple, three - º, ſcruples, or fixtie grains make a dram, eightdrams make one ounce, twelv ounces make one”. º: , pound medicinal, which is for the moſt part the greateſt weight uſed by phyſicians, and º: º which they ſeldom exceed; and it is reſolved into ounces, drams, ſcruples, oboli and grains, a.e. º which is the leaſt weight. to expreſs theſe weights we uſe certain notes, the pound is ex-around. ist. preſſed by this note ; it. the ounce by this , the dram thus , the . thus , the obolus ſº with the beginning letter thus obol.thegrain with his beginning letter thus,g. but ſomtimes * weemeaſure the quantitie of medicines by meaſures and not alwaies by weights; and there- ºr fore weeexpreſsa handful by this note, m. a pugil thus,p. number thus, n.and the half part º ofeverleweight and meaſure is expreſſed by this note,ſ}. put after everie note of theaforeſaid - weights and meaſures of the ſame ſort,as #. halfpound, fbſ.the halfounce, and ſo of the reſt.moreover,in deſcribing the ſame medicament we uſe the notes ſomtimes of weights,ſom- times of meaſures;and thereforeit is to bee noted that herbs, green or drie, are ſigned with theſe notes, m.p.but thoſe which are drie and bee brought to powder with theſe notes, . , p. roots, by theſe notes, . p. m. barks, by theſe notes, . . seeds, by theſe notes, . . fruits, by theſe notes, an. p. . . . flowers, by theſe notes, p.m., . . pulſes, by theſe notes, p. . . º other medicaments either drie or liquid, are deſcribed with theſe notes, fb. . . o o - . - havingexpounded theſe things, letus come to the deſcription of compound medicines, beginning with glyſters firſt, as the remedie which is moſt common and familiar, and almoſt chiefly neceſſarie of all others. chap. xxlſ. - of glyffers. º glyfter is an injeation prepared firſt and properly for the groſs inteſtines and funda sº ment; for ſomtimes glyſters are uſed and made for the ſtomach, ſpleen, reins, blad whatagly: - * der, womb, meſenterie, and alſo for the head, from whence oftentimes by ſharp gly- der is, “’ ſters, the hurtfull matter is brought downwards, as wee ſee in *:::. therefore there is no part of the bodie which receiv's not ſombenefitby glyſters,but more or leſs according to the vicinitie they have with the bellie,and the ſtrength of the glyffer; for there are divers forts of glyſters, ſomemollients, other evacuating, ſom anodynes, ſomaſtringents, ſom differences of cleanſing, ſom ſarcotick, and epulotick, and ſom may beeſaid to nouriſh. they may bee all glyffers. made of the parts of plants or beaſts, with compound medicines either ſolutive, or alter- * ... ing, and others according to the adviſe of the phyſician. the parts of plants which are u-the mºtºrials º ſed to this purpoſe, are roots, ſeeds, leavs, flowers, fruits, ſhouts, juices, mucilages. parts of glyſters. lſº of beaſts are yolks of eggs and whites, honie, chickens, capons, old cocks well beaten, heads and feet of ſheep, the inteſtines, whey, milk, ſewet, axungia, and ſuch like in deco&i- *. º ons, wherein wee mingle and diſſolv firmple and compound medicines. wee ſomtimes uſe t º without anie other medicament, to make a glyſter with oil alone,as oil of nuts for the co- º lick, of whey alone, the decočtion of the head and feet of the ſheep alone, and of the deco- º &ion of cicers and barlie do weeprepare glyſters. sº the quantitie of a glyſter is ſomtimes leſs according to the divers diſpoſition of men and º their diſeaſes : for weak children the quantitie is leſs; for women with child, their quartlée : and in the colick, dyſenterie, lyenterie, or when much hardened excrement, is º within. but when we would abundantly moov the excrement, and there is nothing that º may hinder, the doſe of a glyſter for the moſt partis half a pound, one pound,or three quar- º ters of a pound. the glyſter muſt bee i; or hot, more or leſs, according to the ſº nature or condition of the fick: forbeeing cold it offend's the inteſtines, and the neighbor- ſtſ, ing nervous parts, which are cold of themſelvs. it muſt bee given by degrees, for beeing in- w jetted ſuddenly, the winde which is uſually in the guts will beat it back again, whence com's . intolerable pain. but this will beenore clearby that weeſhall teach concerning the differen- ¥ ces of glyfters, whereof there ſhallbee ſufficient examples. 'º r. malvº violar. biſmalv, acanth...an. mi.radic, alth, lilior. an. . i. paſſal. ficuumping. ſ. fiat anemolism: º decodio apfb i. in qua diſſolve caff, butyr. recent...an. # ol. viol. iii, fiat clyfter. ... glyffer. * glyſters, that do evacuate, are prepared by the counſel of the phyſician, and of divers simples,being boiled for ſeveralpurpoſes. therefore if the humors bee cold which *: - e s - - - / ". . . -t"- -s lib. . . . of ſimple medicines, and their uſe. "...wº, tº - º s ſomthing may flow without danger of the fick from the guts into the ſtomach. **;.. commonly they give glyſters anie hour of the daie, without anie reſpect of time, but it ſhould not bee don unleſs a great while after meals,otherwiſe the meat,being hindered from hº *:. digeſtion, will ::::::::: of the ſtomach by the glyſter. " ' ' ' - “. . . ; *ś glyſters are uſed to help the weaker expulfive facultie of the guts,and by conſequence al- - - - ‘s ſo of the other parts, both that ſuch as through want of age, .. old º: . ſuch as *::::::. is... . by reaſon of greatimbecilitieby fickneſs cannot admit of a purging medicine, may by this yiters. is means at leaſt eaſthemſelvs of the trouble and burden of hurtful humors. galen hath attri- º buted to storks the invention of glyſters, which with their bils, having drunk sea-water, º which from faitneſshath a purging qualitie, waſh themſelvsby that part, whereby they uſe º sº to bring away the excrements of their meats,and of the bodie. but a glyſter is fitly taken º after this manner: whileſt the syringe is expreſſed, let the patient hold open his mouth; º º for by this means all the muſcles of the abdomen, which help by compreſſion the excretion º of the guts are relaxed, let him wear nothingthat may gird in his bellie, let him lieupon º: his right fide, bending in a ſemicircular figure; and ſo the glyſter will the more eaſily paſs *-ºr to the upper guts, and (as it . by an overflowing, wet and waſh all the guts and excre- -- " - . ments. it hap'neth otherwiſe to thoſe who lieupon their left fide; for the glyſter beefng - £º ſo injećted, is conceived to abide, and (as it were) to ſtop in the inteſtinum retium, or colon, the fickha: *** becauſin this ſite theſe two inteſtines are oppreſſed, and as it were ſhut up with the weight wing received *: of the upper guts. a little whilehee may lieupon hisback after heehath received the gly- the glyfiers. -- ii, ſter, and preſently after hee may turn himſelf on either fide. and if therebee pain in anie º ſº. . . . part, ſo long as hee is ablehee may incline to thatfide. moreover, becauſthere are manie their fide grid- it:::::: who cannot by anie reaſon bee perſwaded to ſhew their buttocks to him that ſhould admi- wed. *… niſter the glyſter, a fooliſh ſhamefaſtneſs hindering them: therefore i thought good in zºº's this place to give the figure of an inſtrument, with which one may give a glyſter to himſelf, º: }.}. up the º: into the fundament,iftingthebuttocks a little up. the pipe is mar: rºx: : i. thisletter a. thebodie of the sºng, whereinto the glyſter muſtbee put,with this letter b. the figure of a glyfter pipe and syringe , by benefit wºrf . min mº - give himſelf a glyfter. º chap. xxiii. . of suppoſitories, noduleſ, and peſariet. - - t º nº suppoſitorieis a certain medicament, formed like unto a tent, orgobbet of - º * paſte, ſuch as is commonl uſed to fat fowl. it is put into the fundament, that º º it might excite the ſphináer-muſcle to ſend forth thoſe excrements whichºr: º knit in theguts. antiently it had the form of an acorn, whence it is called a to this daiºgians. the suppoſitories,weenow uſually make have the form ºf tº . . apeſarie, that is roundandlongiſh, in the form of a wax-candle. they are eitherwººk: * , ſtronger, or ſharp; the weak are made of the ſtalks or the roots of beets, of lard, boiled the differen- - º - honie with salt, or of caſtle-ſope. the ſtronger of purging powders; as, hiera with salt c. - º - and honie, .. scamonie, euphorbium, colequintida, and like things powdred, zº - and with honie, or theiuices of ſharp herbs, or mingled with the gals of beaſts. it is com- gºz monly made thus: as, r. melli, i. salis autpulveris alterius irritantis i. . the form, *** r. melli, codififul. colocynthido: pſ, sali, gemme. bi-fiat suppºſitorium. wee uſe su the uſ. º fitories,when the fickby his infirmitieis unwilling,or notable to bear or away with a gly- ule, wº ſter, as in ...; : or, whenas one beeing injeºted, isſlow, and reſtethin theguts. gº and weeuſe the ſharper suppoſitories in ſoporiferous affeºs of the head, that they might ... . provoke the dull facultie of the guts to expulſion. as *: when the condition of the º: - pºp & . - ofjºy. medicines,and their uſe. lib. , eaſis ſuch, that by the uſe of glyſters there is manifeſt hurt; as, in an enterocele,whereth: gutſoſwel's, that over and above it bee filled by the glyſterinfuſed,it would the more preſs the peritoneum, ſo that ſtraight-waies by the relaxed or broken part it might eaſily beed:- volved into the cod. - nodules have the ſame uſe with suppoſitories, and are oftentimes ſubſtituted inſtead of - glyſters. they are made of gentle medicines, as the yelks of eggs with a little salt and butter, or of galland honie tied up in a clothin the form of a filbert,theſtring of it may hang forth, whereby the nodule in the fundament may bee drawn forth. this deſcription §: *** may bee an example of nodules: r. vitellum unius ovi, cui addeſali, modicum, fella vervedi, * melli, an: , butyri iii. miſe, fiant noduli filo appenſ. - peſſaries. a peſſarie is groſſer than a suppoſitorie, and is appointed for the womb, beeing made with gºved or silk ſteeped in ſommedicament, and then put into the neck of the woiiib. - their uſe. a peſſarie is uſed eitherto ulcers of theneck of the womb, or for the procuringor flop. ing of the menſtrua, or againſtſordid and hurtful humors of the womb cauſing hyſterical paſſions, and therefore to bee waſted away and evacuated. therefore in the compoſition of peſſaries are uſed gums, juices, ſeeds of herbs, roots, and manie other things, according to the adviſe of the phyſician; they are alſo made of a ſolid confiſtence, the bigneſs of a fin. ger, that they may enter into the neck of the womb; theſe beeing tied with a ſtring, which muſt hangforth to pluck it out withal when evaſion ſerv’s. this following may bean example of their deſcription. r. myrrb, aloes, an: i, ſabin.ſemin. nigel, arthemiſ an iira- ... dic. ellebor, nig. i, croci, . cum ſucco mercurial tº mellefiat peſſus; let it bee tiedtothethigh with a thred. or thus, r. maffith...thurii, an. iii. alum, roſ. rub. nut, cupreſ an: iiſadan, by- poci... ſanach, myrtil, an:; iii.fiant peſ: cum& arnogloſ. & cotoniorum. according to this ex- ample others may bee made for to mollifie,to binde,to cleanſ, to incarnate, to cicatrize and i. the ulcers of the womb: they are to bee put up when the patient liethin bed,and to e kept all night. - - peſſaries ºalſo made of medicinable powders, notonely mixed with ſom juice,but al. ſo with thoſe powders alone beeing put into a littlebag of ſom thin matter, beeing ſtuffed with a little cotton that it might bee of a convenient ſtifneſs,and this kind of peſſaries may bee uſed profitably in the falling of the mother. an example of one mentioned by rondeletius in his book of inward medicineſ, is as followeth. againſt the ſuf. r. benicini, ſtyracis, caryoph, an igal, moſhi, gr. vi.fiat pulvis ; this beeing made up with *ion of the cotton may bee put up into the bodie. mother. - c h a p. x ill i. - of oils. - - hºoperly and commonly wee call oil that juice which is preſſed forth of . | lives; but the word is uſedmore largly, for wee call everie juice of a fluxi- ble,unčtuous, and airie ſubſtance, oil. there are three differences of theſe oleaginous juices: the firſt is of thoſe things which yield oil by expreſſion, as well fruits as ſeeds beeingbruiſed, that by beating the oiliejuice may bee preſſed forth;ſom are drawn withoutfire,as oil of ſweetandbitteralmonds, oil of nuts, of palma chriſti. qthers are made to run by the help of fire, by which means is gotten oil of baies,linſeed-oil, rape-oil, oil of hemp, and ſuch like: the manner of draw- - ing oil from ſeeds is ſet down by meſue in his third book. - -- * the makin the ſecond ſort of thoſe oils which are made by the infuſion of fimple medicinesin oil, jijion wherein they leavtheir qualities; and this is don threeſtyeral waies, the firſt is byboiling of roots, leavs, tops of flowers, fruits, ſeeds, gums, whole beaſts, with wine, water,or ſom other juice, with common oranie other oil, until the wine,water.juicebee conſumed, which you may perceiv to bee perfötly don, if you caſt a drop of the oil into the fire, and itma- łº, no noiſ but burneth. it is to bee remembred that ſomtimes the ſeeds or fruits are for a certain time to bee macerated before they are ſet to thefire; but it muſt beeboiled in a double veſſel, leſt the oil partake of the fire. - - - after this manneris made oleum cºſtinum, rutaceum, de croco, cydoniorum, myrtillºrum, maſthi- nºm, de euphorbio, vulpinum, deſcorpionibus, and manie others. the ſecondisby a certain time of maceration, ſomupon hot aſhes, others in horſ-dung,that by that moderate heat the oil might draw forth the effects of the infuſed medicines into itſelf. the third is by inſolation that is, when theſe or theſe flowers, beeing infuſed in oil, are expoſed to the #. that by the heat thºrºof the oil may change, and draw into him ſelf the facultie of the flowers which are infuſed: of this kinde are oil of roſes, camomil, (dill, lilies, of water-lilies, violets, and others, as you may ſee in meſue. the third kinde is properly that of the chimiſts, and is don by reſolution made after the manner of diversmanº and of this ſort there are divers admirable qualifies of divers oleaginous #. juices whether they beenade by theſin or fire,or putrefation as werſhall ſpeakinhisplace tion. hereafter. - wee lºad. tofſmº mäkineºnſºrſ. tº º:ºx. ºr rº ſº. . % :, wº &#ii - wee uſe oils when wee would have the virtue of the medicament to pierce deep, or the ſubſtance of the medicinesmingled with the oil to bee ſoft and gentle. moreover, when *prepare ºils that ſhouldbre of a cooling qualitie, the common oil of the unripe olive is to beeuſed: of that ſhould the oil of roſes beenade. - again when wee would prºpare oils of heating qualities, ſuch as are oleum philoſºphorum, or of tiles, ſweet and ripe oil is to beechoſen. c h a p. xxv. of liniments. . - • ‘. . . liniment is an external medicine of a mean confiſtence, between an oil and an oint what a lint. *ment, for it is thicker then an oil; for beſides oil it is compounded with butter, ax-ment is. ungia and ſuch like,which is the reaſon why a liniment is more efficacious in ripening and mitigating pain, then ſimple oil. the varieties of liniments are drawn from their effects,ſom cool, others heat, ſomhumed, ſom ripen, others by compoſition are made for divers uſes. the matterwhereof they are uſually made, is oil, axungia, ſuet, butter, all thoſe things which have an oilie ſubſtance or confiſtence, as ſtyrax liquida, turpentine, the mucilages of fenugreek, marſh-mallows, marrow, and other like. to theſe are ſomtimes added powders of roots, ſeeds, flowers, rindes, metals, but ſparingly, that the liniment may bee of a li- quid confiſtence. - an example of a liniment that is good to attenuate, beat, and digeſt, is this that followeth. r. olamygd amar, lilior. an. i.axung anat. gallin.an. ſ., butyrſal expert. i. mucag, ſºm.alth. w frnugr, extrati. in aq. hyſſopan. ſ. pulver, croci, ireds, an i fiat linimentum, * ---- this may bee an example of a liniment to bumeå and mollifie. - - r. ol. amygd dulc. ii, axung, human. ſ mucag. ſemin malv. extraśī. in aq, parietar. ſ, fiat lininentum: you may adda little ſaffron. there bee manie others like theſe which maybee made for divers affetts. they are eaſily applied to everie part of the bodie, becauſ they are not ſo liquid as oils: the reaſon is, they are more agreeable to anie of the parts. if they bee to enter into anie crooked narrow paſſage, ſuch as the ear, they muſt bee more liquid, and have more oil: if they beeto ſtick on the part, they will admit of more axungia and ſuet. they aredeceived who think that the difference between liniments and ointments is, that there is nowax in liniments as there is in unguents; for there beeſom unguents which ad: - mit notanie wax to bee added, as egyptiacum, and all ſuch as are uſed in gangreens, and all - ſorts of putrid ulcers ; becauſ to theſe kinds of diſeaſes all fattie things, as oils, fats, ro- fins, and wax, are enemies. therefore wee ſubſtitute in the place of them in egyptiacum,ho- nie and verdigreaſ; for of theſe it hath his conſiſtence, and his qualitie of cleanſing. chap. xxvi. of ointments. - - nintments are of a more ſolid conſiſtence then liniments, and are therefore of more . . force. their differences ate partly taken from their effects; for ſom heat, others mment. * cool, ſom drie, and ſom humed,ſomcleanſ, ſom corroborate, ſom waſte dead fleſh, i. their dif- - - - - - - fences. and others cicatrize, partly from the varietie of colors, partly from the firſt invertors, as albumrbaſis, deſiccativum rubrum: partly from the number of the ſimplemedicaments where- of they bee made, as, tetrapharmacum, tripharmacum, or nutritum: partly from that medica- ment which is principal in the compoſition, hence are they called, onguentum de lythargyro, de minis, diapompholigoſ, and ſuch like. they are compounded of herbs, roots, ſeeds, fruits, metals, and part of beaſts; the juices and other liquid things beeing conſumed away by boiling, as wee have ſaid in the chapter of compound oils. herbs, and the parts of them, if they bee drie, muſt bee powd’red,and alſo metals; but beeing green, they are boiled and ſtrained forth, and the juice ſo preſſed is waſted by boiling.gums and rofins ſom are pow- dred, others beeing put to ſom convenient liquor are diſſolved by fire: so wax is diſſolved in the oil. in the compoſition of unguents this proportion is uſually obſerved,that for one ounce of powder, two ounces of wax,and eight of oil is added: notwithſtandingfor that wax ſerveth onely to the conſiſtence of the ointment, it is better to leav the quantitie to to the will of the apothecarie; but heemay bee more ſparing in adding wax to the oint- ments in summerthen in winter, for the heat of summer, drying them, addeth to the * conſiſtence; by examples propounded, theſe common precepts will more plainly appear. r. oleiroſ. iv. pil. lepor bol, armen. terre ſigil.an. i. bal. gallar. an. ſ. tritis terendis, ºft-ºf” mulmixti, addiácer hod ſufficit, fiat unguentum. here wee muſt obſerv, that there bee three adfiringens. waies of making ointments: the firſt is of thoſe which are made onely by ſtirring or grindcing in the mortar without anie fire,and ſo is made unguentum nutritam. #. ſecond is, when wee diſſolv wax in oil, fat, or ſom ſuch ſubſtance with fire: and beeing all diſ- ſolved, weemingle thepowders according to the proportion wee noted before. after which manner are made unguenium aureum, baſilicon, diapompholigos, deſiccativum rubrum, - - t pp emulatum. | n - - - - - --- - º: - º lib. . of ſimple medicines, and their uſe. º - - --~~ –ez: -- - tº acinor, uvar. ſorbor. ſiccor immatur. meſpillor, immaturor. rad. chelidºn, folior. prunor, ſylveſ, an. ig. aque plantaginia, fb.viii, cer. nov. viiigoleimyrtillor, fb. iić. then theſe things which *: follow, beeing finely powdred, are to bee ſprinkled in. * , º r. pulveri, corticis mediani º: corticit mediani gland. cortic. median, arb, gland ideſ, guerc. ºft gallar, an: i. cineri, oſ. cruri, boviţ, myrtill acinor uvar. ſorbor, ſictor...an. . frochiſtorum de is: carabe, ii.fiat unguentum. firſt, make a decočtion corticis mediani arborif quercºſ, acini uvar. gºint. rad, chelid, meſpil.ſorbor, equiſ.#: myrtil..folior.pruniſylveſtri, cort. fabar.cortic. medianigland. º, cortic, caftan. & gallar. in the plantain water for the ſpace of two hours, then ſtrain it, and . . divide the liquor into nine parts, waſhing the wax, diſſolved with the oil of myrtils ſeven jº times; the liquorbeeing all ſpent, and the wax and oil beeing melted, then inſperge the lºſiſ, powders, crºris bovis, aſſium, cortic. median. querº median cortic. gland. caſtan. gallar ſorbor. me intº fpil. ſeminum myrtil, acinor. uvar. and at the laſt the trochiſces carab. after this mannerſhall isk you make this ointment. - - | r. olei abſinth, maſtich. deſpic. roſatan , pulver: abſinth. roſ. major menib, an i. caryopb. ong proſławi. tº, cinam. maſtich. galang.an. i. powder thoſe things which are to bee powdred, and with a ſuf-” ficient quantitie of waxmake a ſoftointment,whorewith let the ſtomach beannointed one º hour before meals continually. - *:: r. cerall, lb.ii, ceruſ, litbarg. auri, an lb.i. myrrh, medul. cervi, an Žii, thuris, i. olei, lb. a wng.ad morſus boil the litharge in the oil to a mean conſiſtence, then add to the wax and ceruſs, and *:::::: r ºù when it will not ſtick to the fingers, take it from the fire, and put in the medulla, when it ſºc.genera. º: beginneth to cool, the myrrha and thus, beeing finely powdred, muſt bee caſt in by little º: and little, and the ointment may bee put up for uſe. the chops of the fundament, and re- rº" mollient peſſaries are likewiſe made of it, and it is verie good againſt the bitings of mad tº: ; and the punétures of nervs and tendons, keeping wounds ſo that they do not ag- ult nate. $º r. piciº pinguis, lb.i. opopanacis in acetoforti, oleo liliorum, & veteri porciaxungia coãi, i: , decomp.med. º fiat ungºenium. oleum ex finapi is goodāgainſt thoſe bitings of mad beaſts and punit.edſtºn. jim nervs: for it doth open wounds when they are cicatrized. ointments are uſed to overcom the contumacie of a ſtubbornevilby their firm and cloſe ſticking to, eſpecially if there ſhall wa; need no medicine to go further into the bodie. - ſº º: c h a p. "xxvii. \}, of cerats and emplaſters. ajº, ºuch affinitie there is in the compoſition of a cerat and emplaſter, that often- hiſ | timestheonsistakenforth. other, as is uſually done in ointments and lini- what a cerut | ments. a ceratis a compoſition more ſolid and hard then an ointment, and # diſforta- º: ºsº ſofter then a plaſter, having his name from wax, which taking away the fluid-. “ gºtr- º neſs of the oil, bringeth him to his conſiſtence. the differences of cerats are taken ſom.” theſ from the parts by which they are called, as ceratum ſtomachicum : ſom from the effečts, as ce- º: ratum refrigerans galeni:others from the fimplemedicaments which are the chief in the com- iſ: poſition, as ceratum santalinum. the proper matter of ceratsis, new wax and oils.beeing - appropriated to the grief of theſe, or thoſe parts; ſo that liniments and ointments do rº ſcarce differ from cerats, if they admit of wax: for if ointment of roſes ſhould have wax added toit, it were no longer an ointment but a cerat. . . . * * * * . . º cerats, which are made with rolins, gums, and metals, do rather deſerv the names of º emplaſters then cerats. and therefore ceratum ad hernias, wee commonly call emplaſtrum º contra rupturam. if that pain or inflammation do griev anie part, wee make cerats of pla- º ſter, diſſolved with oil, leſt that the more hard and heavie conſiſtence of the emplaſter º: ſhould bee troubleſomto the part, and hinder perſpiration: and therefore laying aſide the º compoſition of cerats, let us ſpeak of emplaſters. . . - - - - a an emplaſter is a compoſition which is madeup of all kinde of medicines, eſpecially of emplaſters. º º fat and drie things, agreeing in one groſs, viſcous, ſolid, and hardbodie ſticking to the fin- º: gers. the differences of emplaſters are taken from thoſe things,which the varietie of oint- º ments are taken from. of thoſe things which go into the compoſition of an emplaſter, i ſomare onely uſed for their qualitie and facultie, as wine, vinegar, |. others to º make the conſiſtence, as litharge (which, according to galen, is the proper matter of º emplaſters) wax, oil, and roſin. . others bee uſeful for both, as gums, metals, . parts of beaſts, roſin, turpentine to digeſt, to cleanſ, and drie. of emplaſters, ſom º are madeby boiling, ſom are brought into a form without boiling; thoſe which bet made * without fire, do ſuddenly drie, nor are they viſcous: they are made with meal and pow- º der, with ſom juice, or with ſom humid matter mingled with them. but plaſters ofthis º kinde may ratherbee calledhard ointments, or cataplaſms : for plaſters properly ſo cal- * led are boiled, ſomof themlonger, ſom ſhorter, according to the nature of thoſe things º p pp which , * t ofſimple medicines, and their uſe, lib. . | which make up the compoſition of the emplaſter; therefore it will bee worth our le. bor to know what emplaſters do ask more, or which leſs boiling. for roots, woods, leavs, ſtalks, flowers, ſeeds, beeing dried, and brought into powder, are to bee added laſt, when the plaſterisboiled as it were, and taken from the fire, left the virtue of theſethings bec loſt. but if green things are to be uſed in a compoſition, they art to beeboiledi ſom liquor, and beeing preſſed forth, that which is ſtrained to bec mingled with the reſt of the compoſition or if there bee juice to bee uſed, it is to beebruiſed and preſſed - forth, which is ſo to bee boiled with the other things, that nothing for the qualitie is to remain with the mixture, as weeuſe to do in empl. de janua, ſtu bethnica, * gratia dei. the ſame istobee don with mucilages, but that by their clammineſsthey do more reſiſt the fire. but there doth much of oil and honie remain in their plaſters when they are made. thoſe juices which are hardened by concretion, as, alaei, hypºg- ſtil, acacia, when they are uſed in the compoſition of a plaſter, and bee yet new, they muſt bee macerated and diſſolved in ſom proper liquor, and then they are to beeboiled to the i. of that liquor. gums, as, opopanax, galbanum, sagapenum, ammºniacum, muſt bee diſſolved in wine, vinegar, or aquavitz, then ſtrained and boiled to the con- ſumption of the liquor, and then mixed with the reſt of the plaſter. and that they may have the exact quantitie of gums and pitch, it is neceſſarie that firſt they bee diſſolved, frained; and boiled, becauſ of the ſticks and ſordid matter which are mingled with them. .you muſt have reſpea alſo to the liquor you uſe to diſſolv them in ; for vin- §§ the beſt wine doth more powerfully penetrate, then that which is of weak and inc. - other gums,which are drier,are to bee powdred,and are to bee mingled with plaſiers laſt of all metals, as, aes uſium, chalcitis, magnes, bolu armenu, sulphur, auripigmmun,ando- thers, which may beebrought to powder, muſt bee mingled laſt, unleſs adviſe bee giveaby long boiling to dull the fierce qualities of them. the like confideration is to bee had of roſin, pitch, and turpentine,which muſt bee put in after the wax,and may notbee boiled but veriegently; but the fatsare mingled whilſt the other things areboiling. the lithagº is to beeboiled with the oil to ajuſt conſiſtence, if wee would have the plaſter drie without biting. ceruſs may endure as long boiling, but then the plaſterſhall not bee white, neither will the litharge of ſilver make a plaſter with ſo good a color as litharge of gold. more- over, this order muſt bee obſerved in boilingup of plaſters: the eitharge muſt beeboiled to his conſiſtence; juices or mucilages are to beeboiledaway,then add the fats,then the drie signs of a roſin, wax, gums, turpentine, and after them the powders: you ſhall know the plaſter ;: per- is boiled †. by his conſiſtence, groſs, hard, glutinous, and flicking to the fingers, bee- feaſy bºiled. ing cooled in the air, water, or upon a ſtone. alſo you ſhall know it by his exaëtmixtion, if that all the things becom one maſs hardtobee broken. .. thºmii. the quantitiegf things which are to beeput into aplaſter can hardly beedeſcribed, but tº:: an artificial conjećture may bee given, by confidering the medicaments, which make the . plaſter ſtiff, and of a conſiſtence,and the juſt hardneſs and ſoftneſs they make beeing boiled. wax is not put into ſuch plaflers whereinis labdanum; for that is in ſtead of wax. foriº there ſhallbee in the compoſition of a plaſter ſom emplaſtick medicaments, the wax ſhall bee the leſs: contrariwiſe, if they ſhallbee almoſt all liquid things, the wax ſhall bein- creaſed ſo much,as ſhall beeneceſſarie for the conſiſtence of the platter. “the quantitie of the wax alſo muſt bee altered according to the time, or the air; therefore itisfit to leavthis to the art and judgment of the apothecarie. emplaiters are ſomtimes made of ointments by the addition of wax, or drieroſin, or ſom otherhardor ſolidmatter. som wouldithat a handful of medicaments poudred, ſhould beemingled with one ounce, or mounteandan half of oil, or ſom ſuch liquor; but for this thing nothing cancertainlybredetermined: onely in plaſters deſcribed by the antients there muſt bee great care had, whereinheemuſ bee verie well verſed, who will noterrin the deſcribing the doſe of them; and therefore wre will here give you the more common forms of plaſters. : … . .”.” jº emplar vigº r, ol, chamen, aneth. deſpica, liliacei, an:#ii. ol. de crora, i.pingutd. pºrci, bipingued wi- with mercurie, tul, fb ſg. euphorb. v. thuri, .x. ol. lauri, iſ ranas, viv.nu. vi. fingned wifer. veleasilatitu- - man. ii fl. lumbricor. lotor, in vino, iiiſ& ſarciebuli, enal. ana. ii, ſºbrnanthi, flethadosymulti- tar an: m ii. vini oderiferi, fbii, litbargauri, fb i. erebinth. clare, ii. ſyracialiquid. iſs, ar- genti vivi exſtinčii,ſomuch as the preſent occaſion ſhall require, and theſick ſhallbeeableto bear, and make up the plaſter they do commonly add four ounces of quick-filver, yetfor the moſt part they do increaſ the doſe, as they defire the plaſter ſhould beeſtronger: the worms muſt bee waſhed with fair water, and then with a little wine to cleanſ them from their earthie filth, of which they are full, and ſo the frogs are to beevaſh't andma- cerated in wine, and ſo boiled together to the conſumption of a third part ; then the squinanth muſtbee bruiſed, the feverfew and the stăchas cut ſhall, and they bee- ing added, tobºeboiled to the conſumtion of onepint, and beeing boiled ſufficiently, the deco&ion beeing cooled ſhallbee ſtrained and kept; and the litharge is to bee infuſed for twelv hours in the oil of camomilºdill, lilies,saffron, and the axungia's above ſpoken of * , . " * - - then lib. . of ſimpºſedlame, and their uſe. thenboil them all with a gentle fire,by and by taking from it from the fire, and add one quart of the decotion above ſpoken of, then ſet it to the fire again that the deco&ion may bee conſumed, and then by degrees add to the reſt of the decoction: the oil of ſpike ſhall bee reſerved unto the laſt, which may give the plaſter a good ſmell. then are added the juices of walwurt and enula,which muſt bee boiled until they bee waſted away. afterwards it bee- ing taken from the fire, to the compoſition is added the frankincenſ and euphorbium, and white wax as much as ſhall ſuffice. when the whole maſs, ſhall cool, then at laſt is min- gled the quick-filver exſtinét, turpentine, oil of bitter almonds, baies, ſpike, of line, ſtyrax and axungia, beeing continually ſtirred, and it ſhall bee made up upon a ſtone into rolls. unleſs the quick-ſilver bee well extinguiſhed, it will run all into one place, and unleſs you tarrie until the compoſition cool, it will vapor away in fume. r. croci, ii. baelli, maſtich. ammonſtyrac, liquid, an ( . cere alb. ſbſ . tereb. vi. medal. cruris ceratum aſpi acce, adipiº anſerini, an i, aſpi, welft deſt, axung, gallin. ix, oleimard, quantum ſatis ad magda- tº philºrie. leoneſ formandas, expreſſionis ſtille, iſ. olibani, ſevi vitul. i. the aftpus, ſpum, adeps, medalla, cera, are to bee diſſolved together; when they cool, add the ammoniacum diſſolved in the de- coötion of fenugreek and camomil, half an ounce, and ſo much juice of ſquills, then put to the ſtyrax and turpentine, ſtirring them continually; then add the bdellium, olibanum, ma- ſtich, aloés, brought into fine powder,and when they are perfeótly incorporated into a maſs let them bee made up with oleum nardinum into rolls. - - rºttrebinth. it ſº refin, fbi, cer all. iv. maſtich. i.folverben.betonic, pimpinel, an. mi. the degratiadii. herbs beeing green, the tops are to bee cut and bruiſed in a ſtone-mortar, and boiled in red wine to the conſumption of one third part. to the ſtrained liquor add wax cut into ſmall pieces, and beeing diſſolved by the fire; the liquorbeeing conſumed put to the roſin, when it ſhall cool add the maſtich powdred, working it with your ... which it may bee in- corporated with the reſt of the things. - : r, ſucci beton plantag, apii, an. ibi, cere, piciº, reſin, tereb.am. fšſ. fiat empl. the juices are dejanuaſa to bee mingled with the waxbeeing diſſolved, and boiling them until three parts bee con- de Éetonica. ſumed, add the rofin and pitch, which beeing diſſolved and hot, muſt bee ſtrained, and then add the turpentine, and make up the plaſter. . . . . . . . . - - r. troci, piciº.com. (or rather piti nivals, becauſ this emplater is uſed to diſcuſs and emplºrum draw forth the matter which cauſeth the pain in the joints) coloph, cere, am. ii. tereb. galb. orjenaceum, anman, thurii, myrrhe, maiich, an vſ. the cera, pix, and colophonia areby littie and little to bee diſſolved, to which add the gums diſſolved according to art, and mingled with the tere- binth; and taking it from the fire add the bus, hyrrha, and at laſt the crocus in fine powder, and then make it up into rowls with oil of worms, ‘. . r. ol.com.fb ii. ceruſ ſubtiliſ.fb is boil them together with a gentle fire, ſtirring them up permia. continually until they com to the bodie of an emplaſter: if you would have the plaſter whiter, take but ix of the oil." , a - - - - - r. lytharg, iriti, acet, fortiſ an ibſ. ol...antiq. ft; i. fin emplaſtrum: let the ºil bee mingled triºmum, in the vineger by little and little; but you ſhall not take it from the fire until the vineger beequite waſted away. . . . ; º - - - - - - - - - * * with the litharge for the ſpace of twelv hours; thenboil them to a good confiſtence, puttingſ uniºram. r. al. vet. ſhiii. azang.vet.fine ſale,fbii. litharg.irit.ft, iiivinia: iv.let the oil bee mingled diapsins, ſº to theaxangia, flirring them continually with a ſpatter made of the palm-tree, reed, or wil- low,and beeing ſufficiently boiled, take it from the fire;and add the vitriolin fine powder. with the litharge for the ſpace of twelv hours; and boil them to a good conſiſtence,then add diathalileo, r. piciº naval. alves, an: iii, litharg, cere, coloph, galban ammoniº, an: ii. viſci querni, vi, contra ºwn. gypſiuff. atriuſque ariſtoloch, ana, iv, myrrhe, thºris, an vi. tereb. ii. pulveris vermium terreiri-ram. um, gahar: utriuſ, conſolid. bol. armian, iv. ſang humani,fbi fiat emplaſt. if you would have it of averie good conſiſtence, you may add of the oil of myrtils or miaſtich, fbſ, you ſhall make it thus: take the skin of a ram cut in pieces;andboil it in an hundred pintes of water and vineger until it comto a glue of ſtiff gelſie; in which you ſhalf diffolvthe viſt. quer: then add the pitch and wax broken into ſmall pieces, and if you will you may add the oil with them, afterwards the galban. and ammoniac. diſſolved in vineger, beeing mingled with the terebinth, may bee added. then add the litharge, gypſum,bol, ariſtoloch.conſolida, verme: -ſang. human. at laſt the myrrh,thus, colºphon and aloé, ſtirring them continually; and that they may bee the bettermingled, work the plaſter with a hôtpéâilin a mortar. - - - - - - - - - f - * * r. mutag.ſemºlini, radalth.frnighiediahºrtitiºulhi,an. iv oleililiacei, cham, anethan, Žiſ; am- de mutatinibu mºn of pºmac. ſagap, and ſ cracisficeremºv.ſbſ.cº. ſ. fiat empl. fernelius hath xx.of wax. the wax beeing cut ſmaſſ muſt bee mingled § the #!. the mucilages, ſtirring them continually with a wooden ſpattertilf the liquor bee conſumed.then thegums diffolved and mingled with the terebinthina,muſt bee added,and laſt of all the ſaffron º: - * i *::::::::::::::::::::::: wfinguedini; galih. i ſebiarietis caſtratiſpi vaccini, ºn penini, vi-fingued forci, x. litbargauri, argenti, an. iii, reruſ. iv, minii, iii.fereb. ivºrerº, -ſfiat emplaſtrum vel ceratum mole. the tº: reruſ, and minium are to bee brought into fine powder,ſeverallybeeing ſprinkled with a fittleröfewater,left the fineſt of itſhouldflie *::: * : *--> - - thcle -- ofſimple medicines,and their uſe. lib. . : theſe beeing mingled with the oil of roſes and myrtles, with a gentle fire may beeboiled un- til they comto the confiſtence of honie; then add the axungia's, and boil them till the whole grow black, after add the ſebum, and that becing diſſolved take it from the fire, and then add the unguentum populeon, and ſom wax if there beeneed, and ſo bring it to the form of a plaſter. - diachylen - rºnn pul: xii. olirin.chamemanethan viii. mutag.ſtm.iini, frnag-radalth.ficuum ping. magnum. uvar.paſar.ſucci ireos, ſcille, aftpi, ičihyocolle,an. vii ſtereh, ih, reſpini, cereftave.an. ii.fiat empliftium. the litharge is to be: mingled with the oilbefore it bee ſet to the fire, thenby a gentle fire it is to bee boiled to a juſt confiſtence; after the mucilage by degrees muſt bee put in, which beeing conſumed the juices muſt bee added and the iºthyocolla, and they be: waſted too, then put to the wax, roſin, then taking the whole from the fire, add the ocfipus and terebinthina. the uſe of weeuſe plaſters when wee would have the remedieſticklonger and firmer to the part, and pl" would not É. the ſtrength of the medicament to flie away or exhale too ſuddenly. - c h a p. xxviii. of cataplaſms and pultiſes. the matter of ataplaſms are not much unlike to emplaſters leſs properly ſo called, for they maybee cataplaſms. ſpreadupon linnen cloths and ſtoups like them, and ſo applied to the grieved parts. they are compoſed of roots, leavs, fruits, flowers, ſeeds,herbs.juices, oils, fatsmar- rows, meals, roſins. of theſe ſom muſt bee boiled, others crude. the boiled are made of herbs boiled tender, and ſo drawn forth an hair-ſearſ, adding oils and axungia's thereto.the crudeare made of herbsbeaten, or their juices mixed with oil and flower, or other powders appropiate to the part or diſeaſ, as the phyſician ſhall think fit. the quantitie of medicines entring theſe compoſitions can ſcarce bee defined, for that they muſt bee varied as wee would have the compoſition of a ſofter or harder bodie. verily they ought to bee more groſs and theirut, denſ when as weedeſire to ripen anie thing, but more ſoft and liquid when wee endevourto diſcuſs. weeuſe cataplaſms to aſſwage pain, digeſt, diſcuſs and reſolv unnatural tumors and flatulencies. they ought to bee moderately hot and of ſubtil parts, ſo to attra and draw forth; yet their uſe is ſuſpeted the bodie beeng not yet purged, for thus they draw down more matter into the affected part. neither muſt wee uſe theſe when as the matter that is to bee diſcuſſed is more groſs and earthie, for thus the ſubtler parts will bee onely diſcuſſed, lt... adglauc. and the groſs remain impačt in the part unleſs your cataplaſm bee made of an equal mixture ułideſtirrho. of things, not only diſcuſſing,but alſo emollient, as it is largely handled by galen. this ſhallbee largely illuſtrated by examples. as, r. medul. [... fêſ decoquantur in late an ºne pingui, adde olei chamem. ſ. axung galin i fiat cataplaſma. or, r. rad. alth iii.folmalv.ſene- *... cionis, an mi. ſem, lini, frnug, au. ii firms, ping.nu. vi. dequaquantar in aquà, per ſetaceum a ripening - - t --- - -- - - - - - - - ... tranſmittaniur, addendoclei lilior, i far hord ii.axung portin, iſ fiat cataplaſma. or, r.fr. a diſcuſſing fab.é wrob, an: ii. pulv, chamam. & melil, an iii. olirin. amygdamar, an i, ſucci rut. § cataplaſm... cataplaſma. pultifles differ not fromcataplaſms, but that . uſually conſiſt of meals boiled hºw pultiſts in oil, water,honie,or axungia. pultiſſes for the ripening of tumors are madeofthe flour of differ º: barlie, wheat, and milk, eſpecially in the affects of the entrals; orelſ to drie and binde, of “ the meal of rice, lentils, ororobu, with vineger; or to cleanſ, and they are made ofhonie,the flour of beans and lupines, adding theretoſom old oil, oranie other oil of hot qualitie, and a ripening ſo makea diſcuſſing pultis. alſo anodyne pultiſſes may bee made with milk; as thus for ex- ca "flaſm ample, rfarinitriticee, iimite panis pariſimi, iii decoquantur in lačie, & fiat pulticula.r.farin. bordei & fab, an ii.far orab. iii. detoquanturinhydromelete, addend, mellis quart. i. olei amyg., amar. ii.fiat pulticula. wee uſe #. for the ſame purpoſe as weedo cataplaſms, to the af. fečts both of the internal and external parts. wee ſomtimes uſe them for the killing of worms, and ſuch as are made of the meal of lupines boiled in vineger, with an ox's gall, or in a decočtion of wormwood, and other ſuch like bitter things. c. h. a. p. xxix. - of fomentations. ºfotu, or fomentation is an evaporation or hotlotion, chiefly uſed tomollifie, relax ağ and aſſwage pain, conſiſting of medicines having theſe faculties. a fomentation commonly uſeth to beenoiſt,beeing uſually made of the ſame things as embroca: - tions, towit,of roots,ſeeds,flowers,boiled inwater or wine. the roots here uſed are commonly of mallows, marſh-mallows, and lilies. the ſeeds are of mallows smaſh- mallows, paſſlie, ſmallage, line,fenugreek. flowers are of camomil, melilot, figs, raiſins, and the like: all which are to beeboiled in wine, water, or lee,theconſumption of the third part or the half: as, - - - r. radalibélil, angii. ſºmlini fenug cuminan. iiife, rham. melil & anthampiºſ”. ºrig, m.ſ.. bulliant in equi, partibus, aque & vini, ant indhabu, partibus aque, & ºné *:::. - ºxivia - lºng. - of ſimple medicines, and their uſe. - . lixivio cineris ſarmentorum, ad tertie partis conſumptionem, fiat fotus. in imitation hereof you may eaſily deſcribe other fomentations, as occaſion and neceſſitie ſhall require. wee uſe fomentations before wee applie cataplaſms, ointments or plaſters to the part, their uſe. that ſo wee may open the . or pores of the skin, relax the parts, attenuate the humor, that thus the waie may bee the more open to the following medicines. thebo- die beeing firſt purged, fomentations may bee uſed to what parts you pleaſ. they may bee ied with a female-ſpunge, for it is gentler and ſofter then the male; with felt, woollen oaths, or the like †: in the warm decoètion wrung out, and often renued; otherwiſe, you may fill a swine's bladder half full (eſpecially in pains of the fides) of the decočtion, orelſa ſtone-bottle, ſo to keep hot the longer yet ſo, that the bottle bee wrapped in cotton, wool, or the like ſoft thing, that ſo it may not by the hardneſs and roughneſs offend the part, according to hippocrates. . devičiu in ack!!!. - * - c h a p. xxx. - of embrocations. nºn embroche, or embrocation is a watering, when as from on high wee (as it were) &\ ſhowr down ſom moiſture upon anie part. this kinde of remedie is chiefly uſed in w. ºn the parts ofthe head, and it is uſed to the coronal ſuture, for that the skull is more al - thin in that part, ſo that by the ſpiracula or breathing places of this future, more open then thoſe of the other ſutures; the force of the medicine may more eaſily penetrate unto the me- ninges, or membranes of the brain. the matter of embrocations is roots,leavs,tiowers, ſeeds, fruits, and other things, according to the intention and will of the phyſician. they are boi- led in water and wine, to the half or third part. embrocations may allo bee made of lie or brine againſt the cold and humid affects of the brain. somtimes of oil and vineger, other- whiles of oilonely. rºſol plantag.é ſolahan mi-ſemportul & cucurban ii.myrul. i for nymph. & roſan p.ſ.fiat decoã. ad ibi cum aceti žii, ſī alté ſubeundum ſit, ex quáirrigerur pars inflammata. i." in affečts of the brain, when wee would repercuſs, wee often and with good ſucceſs uſe oil of roſes with a fourth part of vineger. - weeuſe embrotations, that togetherwith theairdrawn into the bodieby the diaffole of riºt. j the arteries, the ſubtler part of the humor may penetrate , and ſo cool the inflamed part: cirules for the chief uſe of embrocations is in hot affects. alſo wee uſe embrocations, when as for fear of an hanjorrhagie, or the flying aſunder of a broken or diſlocated member, wee dare not loof the bandages wherewith the member is bound. for then wee drop down ſom deco&ion or oil from high upon the bandages, that by theſe the force of the medicine may enter into theatre&ed member. . . . . . . - ºil-lii~--— — tº . . . . . . . º ,c h a p. xxxi. - . . . . . .” - . . . . - of epithemes. . " . - er and middlebellie, like to a fomentation, and not much unlike an embrocation. h.m.; - they are made of waters, juices, and powders, by means whereof they are uſed to the heart, cheſt, liver and other parts. wine is added to them for the more or leſs penetra- tion, as the condition of the hot or cold affect ſhall ſeem to require; for if you delire to heat, more wine muſt bee added, as in ſwooning by the clotting of blood, by the corruption of the ſeed, by drinking ſom cold poiſon: the contrarie is to bee don in a fainting by diſlipation of the ſpirits by feveriſh heats, alo vineger may bee added. the matter of medicines proper to - the entrails is formerly deſcribed,yetwee commonly uſe the ſpecies of eleētuaries,as theffecies in the fish elei triaſantali the liver beeing affeóted, and diamargariton in affeóts of the heart. the pro-chapter. portion of the juices or liquors to the powders, uſe's to bee this, to cverie pinte of them i.or iſ of theſe, of wine orelſof wineger i, you may gather this by the following example. r. aqu, roſ, bugl borag, an: iii, ſucci ſtabioſ. ii. pul, eleá. diamarg, frigid ii. cort, citri ſicci i. a cordial epi- coral raſ, ebor, an ºſ. ſem citri & card. ben, an iiſ. croci & moſſbian gra. . addendo vini albi theme. ii.fiat epithema pro corde. . . - epithemes are profitably applied in hetick and burning feverstotheliver.heart,andcheſt, thºuſe, if ſobee that they bee rather applied to the region of the lungs; then of the heart; for the “” leat of the lungs beeing by this means tempered, the drawn in air becom's leſs hot in peſti- lent and drying fevers. they are prepared of hume&ting, refrigerateing,and cordiall things, ſo to temper the heat, and recreate the vital facultie, somtimes alſo wee uſe epithemes to ſtrengthen the heart, and drive there-hence venenate exhalations, lifted or raiſed up from anie part which is gangrenate or ſphacelate. som cotton, or the like, ſteeped or moiſtened with ſuch liquors and powders warmed, is now and then to bee applied to the affected en- trail; this kinde of remedie, as alſo all other topick and particular medicines, ought not to beeuſed, unleſs you have firſt premiſed general things. - chap d - * : . . . . . . . . - - - - - tº: an epitheme, is a compoſition uſed in the diſeaſes of the parts of the low- what an epi- t. — offimple medicines,and their uſe. lº. - c h a p. xxxiv. - - - *of collyria. § collyrium is a medicine proper for the eies, made of powder finely ievigated ind what a collyri- § ağ ground into the form of alchehol, as the arabians and our aldymińºmi. this. ºf yet the word in a more general . is uſed for anie liquidmedicinemº. the differen- *y"; with liquors and powders, and applied or uſed to aniepart. wherefore &ly. ces of them. * are of three kindes, ſom are moiſt or liquid, which are properly called collyria; others drie, which are of the ſame confiſtence with trochiſces; others have the confiſºn: their uſe of honie, or a liniment. the liquid ſerv for the greater andleſſer corners of the cies; thoſ: of the conſiſtence of honie are meet for the apple of the eie; but the drie are to beenade into powder, and ſo blown into the cies: alſo ſomtimes they are to bee diſſolved in ſom juice, or other convenient liquor, that ſo they . beenade into a moiſt collyria. therefore collyria have diverſ uſes, and are applied to ſeveral parts according to the inten- tion and counſel of the phyſician; for liquid collyria put into the corners of the eies do more readily mitigate the heat of their inflammation, by reaſon they enter more eaſily by theº. nuitie of their ſubſtance,ſuch things as have a more firm confiſtence adheremore tenaciouſly and work more certainly. moiſt collyria are made of juices, mucilages, waters of herbs, floº: ers,ſeeds,metallinebodies,galls, and other ſuch like medicines, which are repercuſſives, reſol- vers,detergents,anodynes,and the like,according to the nature of the preſent diſeaſ. somtimes they are made of juices and diſtilled waters onely, otherwhilespowders, or drie collyria made into powder, are mixed with them,together with the white of an egg. powders are preſcribed to ii. and liquorsto iv or v. in medicines for the eies; but for other as when it is to bee injećted into the urinarie paſſage, they may bee preſcribed to the quan- titie of a pinte drie collyria are made of powders exceeding finely beaten or ground, and incorporated with ſom juice, whence it is that they differ little from trochiſces. where- fore the collyrium album rhaſis is now uſually termed a trochiſce, and kept with them. ca. theretick powders are not applied in the form of a moiſt collyrium, but in the form of a lini- ment, that is, incorporated with fat or oil. all theſe things ſhall bee made more plainly by the following examples. a repercuſſive . r. aq:plant& roſarian. ii album. ovi unum, bene agitatum, miſe, fiat callyrium. r. aq.roſar. & tollyrium. violan. iii. trochiſ, alb, rhaſ cum opio, ii.fiat collyrium. or, r. decoči.frnug. iii. mucag.ſen. ananodyne lini, ii, ſaccar. cand. i. croci, i fiat collyr. r.thurii, myrrh. ii. tut.prepar. & antimon lot...an. their mattºr. a detergent. ii, cum ſucco chelidon. fiat collyrium in umbră ſiccand. r. fellis perdic, antlepor: ſ. ſucci frniculxi. ſaccar, cand. ii. ſyrup. roſ. excipiantur,fiat collyrium. - tº: uſe collyria in wounds, ulcers, fiſtula's, ſuffuſions, inflammations, and other diſeaſºs of the eles, - t c h a p. xxxv. of errhiner aud sternutatorieſ. rrhines are medicines appointed to bee put into the noſe to purge the brain of . crs it's excrementitious humorsby the noſtrils,orto deterge ſuch excrements as are their diffe- therein, by reaſon of nozema, polypus, or the like diſeaſ. errhines are either li- icnces. # quid or drie, or elſhard and of the conſiſtence of an emplaſter. liquiderrhines, which uſually are to purge the head, are made of the juices of herbs; as beets, colewurts, marjoram, pimpernel, hyſſop or balm, or of their decottions taken alone,or mix- ed with wine, or ſyrup, as oxymel ſtilliticum, ſyrup of hyſſop, roſes, or mel anthoſatum; ſom- times powders are mixed with theſe liquors; as of .. , euphorbium, pellitorie of spain, hore-hound, nigella romana, caſtoreum, myrrh, white ellebore, ſow-bread, and other like, in a ſmall quantitie, to wit, to i.little more or leſs according to the vehemencie of the diſeaſ wee will make this more plain by examples. the form of r. ſucci bete, majoran, braſſic.an. i. depurentur, & modicé bulliant cum vini albi, ii. oxymelit. *inc, #. fiat errhinum. when asyou deſire to attraćtmore powerfully from the brain, you may diffolvin errhines ſom purging medicines; as agarick, diaphanicon, ſenna, carthamº, and the like: hence doth ariſe the diſtination of errhines into ſuch as are meet to purgephlegm, an errhine choler, and melancholie. this following example is ſet downby rondeletius, r. red pyreth. purging irid. an. i.puleg. calam. origon, an mi, agar. trochiſc. iii, for anthos & ſterhad, ºn pł. fiat de- phlegm. cºlio in colºur.ibi, diſſolvemellis anthoſaii & ſtillit, anxiii.fiat caput purgium. biriri. better to this purpoſe to makeuſe of purging fimples; as agarick, turbeth, coloquintidasanºbelike then of compoſitions; as diaphenicon, for theſe make the decočtion more thick, and leſs fit to enter the paſſages of the noſtrils, and the fiev-like bones, but apt rather there to cauſ ob- ſtrućtion, and intercept the freedom of reſpiration. - an errhine r. ſucci bete, i.aq.'ſalv. & beton.an. iiſ; pull caſtor. ſ. piper. & pyreth. an: bifat capº with powders. purgium. drieerrhines that are termed ſternutatories, for that they cauſ ſheefing, are nº of powders onely, to which purpoſe the laſt mentioned things are uſed; as alſo *: - -- - - – ºri- - - - - * - - l lib. . of ſimple mºrmºnd their uſe. things in a ſmall quantitie, as to ii at the moſt; as, r. major. nigel, caryoph. zinzil, an biacºr.º.º: preli.e. panis portinian. ſ euphorh iterantºrºin ºr mitºniuſ.” inſuffentur.errhines of the **** Žonſiſtence of emplaſters,by the latins vulgarly called naſalia.are made of the deſcribed pow- ...' ders or gums diſſolved in the juice of ſom of the forementioned herbs;incorporated with tur- º *s pentine and wax,that ſo they may the betterbeemade into a pyramidal form to bee f. **n. f j. !" the noſtrils. as, r. majoran ſalv. nigel. ii.fip. alb. caryºph. galang, an i. pyretheuphor ..an ſ., §: *: º, panis porcin, elebor-all. an: iteramtur, & in pulverem redigantur. and then with turpentine and - ºf . wax as much as ſhall beeſufficient, make them up into naſalia of a pyramidal or taper-faſhion. **s weeuſe errhines in inveterate diſeaſes of the brain; as the epilepſie, fear of blindeneſs,an apo: theiruſe. ºis; plexie, lethargie, convulſion, the loſt ſenſof ſmelling; yet wee firſt uſe general remediº and *::::::: evacuations,ieſt by ſneeſing and the like concuſſion of the brain for the excluſion of that º:::: which is offenſive thereto, there ſhould bee made a greater attration of impuritie from theriemmer of -- ſubjacent parts. liquid .g. bee drawn up into the noſtrils warm out of the palm of uſing them. tºx the hand, to the quantitie of , the mouthbeeing in the interim filled with water, left theat- º:::: traćted liquor ſhould fall upon the palat, and ſoupon the lungs: drie errhines are to bee *:::::... blown into the noſe with a pipe or quill: ſolid ones muſtbee faſtned to a thred, that they may sº beedrawn forth as need requires,when as they are put up into the noſtrils. the morning(the º: bellie beeing emptie) is the fitteſt times for the uſe of errhines. if by their force the noſe ſhall º: beetroubled with an itching,the pain thereof muſt beemitigated by woman's milk, or oil of --- *:: violets. the uſe of attračtive errhines is hurtful to ſuch as are troubled with diſeaſes of the towhom eies,or ulcers in the noſe,as it oft-times fall's out in the lues venerea; wherefore in this caſe it *:::: º: willbee beſt to uſe apophlegmatiſms,which may divert the matter from the noſe. : xxx; - - - — . :::::::::: - c. h. a. p. xxxvi. - - yº...?:...? of apophlegmatiſms, or maſticatories. cſ: ; • r" - - - - - - . * . . . - - tri---" pºphlegmatiſnoi in greek, and maſticatoria in latine, are medicines which kept or held in: ºriz: a the mouth and ſomwhat chawed, do draw by the mouth forth of the brain excrementiti-i. in ::::::: ous humors, eſpecially phlegm: now they are chiefly made four manner of waies; the firſt is. * zºº when as the medicines are received in honie or wax, and formed into pills, and ſo given to chaw upon. the ſecond is, when as the ſame things are boundup in a #. linnen-cloth, ſo to *::::: bee held in the mouth. the third is when as a deco&tion of acrid medicines is kept in the a £ºa mouth for a prettie ſpace. the fourth is when asſom acrid medicines, or otherwiſe drawing º: hlegm, as pellitorie of spain, maſtich, and the like, is taken of itſelf to the quantitie of a º É. and ſo chawed in the mouth for ſom ſpace. the matter of maſticatories is of the * * *- kinde of acrid medicines; as of pepper, muſtard, hyſſop, ginger, pellitorie of spain, and the zºº like;amongſt which you muſt make choicechiefly of ſuch as are not troubleſomby anie ingrate taſte, that ſo they may bee the longer kept in the mouth with the leſs offence and loathing. yet -t maſticatories are ſomtimes made of harſh or acerb medicines; as of berberies, the ſtones of prunes or cherries, which held for ſom ſpace in the mouth, draw no leſs ſtore of phlegm then acrid things; for the verie motion and rowling them up and down the mouth attract's, becauſ - it heat's, compreſſe's, and expreſſe's : the quantitie of the medicine ought to bee from ſ. to gº iſ?: as, r. pyreth. ſtaphiſag, an. iſ. maſtich. ſ. pulverentur & involventur modulis in maſticatoria. …” qr, r. xinzib.ſinap. an: i. euphorb. bii. piper, ſ, excipiantur melle, et fiant paſtillipro maſticatorii. tº r. byſſop. thym. origan. ſalv, an pi-boil them in water to waſh the mouth withall. or, r.zinzib. º º: caryoph. an i. pyreth. pip, an .ſtaphiſagr. ii. maffiches, . †† fiant paſtilli pro maſtica- º: ioriis. wee uſe maſticatories in old diſeaſes of the brain, dimneſs of the fight, deafneſs, puſtles #: ºe. º tº: : the º and face, and ſomtimes to divert the excrements which run to the noſe beeing” ** - ullccrated. - - *** º maſticatories are verie hurtful to ſuch as have their mouths or throats ulcerated, as alſo to rowhom º them whoſe longs are ſubje to inflammations, diſtillations and ulcers; for then errhines are * w ~…” more profitable to derive the matter of the diſeaſ by the noſtrils.for though the humor drawn º from the brain into the mouth by the means of the maſticatorie, may bee thence caſt forth by . % coughing and ſpitting, yet in the interim nature will bee ſo inured to that paſſage for the hu- . % mor, ſo that it will run that waie when as wee ſleep, and fall down upon the parts thereunder, : weak either by nature,or by accident. * * * – % the time fitteſ for the uſe of apophlegmatiſms is themorning, the bodie beeing firſt pur- *:::: ged; if anie ingrateful taſte remain in the mouth, or adhereto the tongue by uſing of ma- *** {ticatories, you ſhall take it away by waſhing the mouth with warm water, or a decočtion of :*:: . liquorice and barlie. ~ : - … sº — i- ++-------- * . . º - c h a p. ºxxxv ii. * a gargle -- . . . of gargariſms. *: gººglºor gargariſm is a liquid compoſition fit for towaſh the mouth and all the partswº.aºl. .*.*.* a thereof, to #. and #. , to heal the ulcers which are in º: * º *. parts, to aſſwage pain. their compoſition is two-fold,the firſt is of adecočtion of roots,leavs, : - °. q_q q flowers, w-sº- - - -- -t- t- x-> º #. ... s **** of ſimple medicines,and their uſe -- c h a p. xxxix. of bags or guilts. 'hyſicians term a bag or ſacculus, the compoſition or mixture of drie and powdred me- ºg % dicines put in a bag, therefore it is as it were adrie fomentation. their differences ###. sºlº are not drawn from anie other thing then from the varietie of the parts whereto “. . * they are applied: ſuch as are for the head muſt bee made into the faſhion of a cap, thoſe which bee for the whole ventricle muſt beenade into the form of a cithern ; thoſe for the ſpleen, like to an ox's tongue: laſtly, ſuch as are for the liver, heart, and other parts, muſt bee made according to the figure of thoſe parts. their matter is uſually taken from whole ſeeds fried in a frying-pan, or made into powder, there are ſomtimes added roots, flowers, fruits, rindes, cordial-powders, and other drie medicines, which may bee eaſily brought into pow- der, and conduce to the grieved parts; the quantitieis different according to the magnitude of the affe&ed parts: in the books of praćtiſers it is commonly found preſcribed fromżiii.to viſ; ſomtimes flowers, and drie herbs are preſcribed by handfuls and pugils: and here there is need of an artificial conjećture to conceiv and appoint a fit quantitie of powders: but let us give you ſom examples. - - r. roſar.tub. f i. maſtich. ſ; corali rub. iii. ſem, aniff, "fenic.am. ii. nuci, moſchat. i ſummitat. aquiliforth. abſinth, & menthan. mi. tritis omnibus, fiat ſacculus conſutus & compunčius pro ventriculo. ſtomach. r. furfuriº macri, pi. milii, i.ſalis, ii. roſar. rub.flor. roriſmarini, ſtechados, caryoph, an mii. a&r for: fl.beton & ſalv, an iii. tritis omnibus fiat cucupha, interſutaº calefatia fumo tºuri, & ſandarache” exufforum, capiti appomatur. - - - r. for borag.. bugloſ. & violar, an.pii, cortic. citri ſicci, macis, ligni aloes, raſure eboris, an: i, j." offs decorde cervi, croci, an. ii, fol. meliſmſ, pulveris diambre. ſ. contritis omnibus fiat ſacculus & jerico pro corde, irrorandus aqué ſcabioſe. *- wee uſe bags for the ſtrengthening of the noble parts; as the brain, heart, liver: as alſo their uſ’. for thoſe leſs noble; as the ſtomach: j for diſcuſſing flatulencies in what partſoever; as in the collick,and in a baſtard pleurifie proceeding from flatulencies. the powders muſt bee ſtraw- edupon carded bombaſt, that they run not together, and then they muſt bee ſewed up or quil- ted in a bag of linnen or taffatie. - wee often-times moiſten theſe bags in wine or diſtilled water, and ſomtimes not with the ſubſtance thereof, but by the vaporonely of ſuch liquorsput into a hot diſh: thus oft-times the bags are heated by the vapor onely, and oft-times at the fire in a diſh by often turning them. theſe, if intended for the heart, ought to bee of crimſon or scarlet filk,becauſthe ſcar- let-berrie, called by the arabians kermes, is ſaid to refreſh and recreate the heart. certainly they muſt alwaies bee made of ſom fine thing, whether it bee linnen or filk. lib. . c. h. a. p. xl. of fumigations. º suffitus or fumigation is an evaporation of medicines havingſom viſcous and fattie whit, fini. # moiſture: of fumigations ſom are drie, otherſom moiſt, the drie have the form of tro-gºtiºn i. §chiſesorpills their matter oughttobºe fattie and viſcous, ſo that it may ſend forth: a ſmokeby beeingburnt: fuch are ladanum, myrrh, maſtich, pitch, wax, roſin, turpen-mºtºr. tine, caſtoreum, flyrax, frankincenſ, olibanum, and other gums, which may bee mixed with con- venient powders: for they yeeld them a bodie and firm conſiſtence; the fumigations that are made of powders onely, yeeld neither ſo ſtrong nor long a fume. - the quantitie of the powders muſt beefrom ſ. tožiſ.but the gums to iias,b. ſandarache, acephalick maſtiches, roſar. an. i. benioini, galang, an. iii. terebinthina excipiantur, & fiant trochiſci, quibu, in-* cenſis ſuffumigentur tegumenta capiti. r. marchaſta, ii, bdellii, myrrhe, ſtyracis, an: iſ cere flave, for the hard &terebinth. quod ſufficit, fiant formule pro ſuffumigio. r. cinnabaris, ii ſyracis & benzoini, an: ii.;;.." cum terebinth, fiant trochiſcipro ſuffumigio per embotum. ſinews. wee uſefumigations in great obſtrućtions of the brain, ulcers of the longs, the aſthma, an - old cough, pains of the fides, womb, and the diſeaſes of ſom other parts; ſomtimes the wholeś" bodie is fumigated, as in the cure of the lues venerea to procure ſweat: ſomtimes onely ſom vººrea. one part whereto ſom relicks of the lues adhere's; ſuch fumigations are made of cinnabaris, wherein there is much bydrargyrum. the fume muſt bee received by a funnel, that ſo it may riemme, not beediſperſed, but may allbee carried unto the part affected, as is uſually don in the affečts offingtºn. of the womb and ears. in fumigations for the brain and cheſt, the vapor would bee received with open mouth; which thence may paſs by the weaſon into the cheſt, by the palat and noſtrils into the brain: but in the interim let the head beevailed, that none of the vapor may flie away. moiſt fu- migations are made ſomwhiles of the decottion of herbs, otherwhiles of ſom one fimple medicineboiled in oil, ſomtimes a hot fire-ſtone is quench't in vineger, wine, aqua vite, or the like liquor, ſo to raiſ a humid vapor. wee oft-times uſe this kinde of fumigation in overcomming ſcirrous affe&s, when as wee would cut, diſcuſs, penetrate deep, and drie: take this as an examplethereof. - --> q_q q r. larm o ofſimple medicines, and their vſ. - lib. . for a bath (in galen's opinion) is profitably uſed to diſeaſes when as the morbifickmatteris conco&ed. to this purpoſe is choſen rain-water,then liver-water,ſo that it beenot muddie,and then fountain-water; the water of ſtanding-lakes and fensismot approoved of, for it is fit that the water which is made choiſ of for abath of ſweetwater, ſhould bee light and of ſubtil parts, forbaths of waters which are more then immoderately hot or cold yeld no ſuch com. moditie; but verily they hurtin this,that they ſhut up or cloſe the pores of the bodie, and in the fuliginous excrements under the skin; other baths of ſweet or fieſh waterconſiſt of the ſame matter as fomentations do whence it is that ſom of them relaxsothersmitigatepain,others cleanſ, and otherſon procure the courſes, that is compounded of a decodion of ingredients or plants having ſuch operations. to theſe there is ſomtimes added wine, other whiles oil, ſom- times freſh butter or milk, as when the urine is ſtopped, when nephiritick pains are violent, when the nervs are contraćted, when the habit of the bodie waſte's and ºil. with a head. drineſs, for this corrugation is amended by relaxing things, but it is watred,and as it were fat- ted by humetting things, which may penetrate and transfuſe the oilie or fattie humiditieinto thebodie thus rarified and opened by the warmneſs of a bath. - anodyne baths are made of a decoètion of medicinesofa middle nature, ſuch as are tempe- rate and relaxing things, with which wee may alſo ſomtimes mix reſolving things; they are boiled in water and wine, eſpecially in pains of the colick proceeding from vitreous phlegm, .*or groſs and thick flatulencies conteined or ſhut up in the bellie, kidnies, or womb. initică in the bathtiubaths it is not fit to ſweat, but onely to fit in them ſo long until the bitterneſs of the pain bee ** aſſwaged or mitigated,leſt the powers,weakned by pain,ſhould bee more reſolved by the break- ing forth of ſweat: emollients are ſomtimemixed with gentle detergents, when as the skin is rough and cold,or when the ſcails or cruſt of ſcabs is more hard then uſual,then in concluſion, wee muſt comtoſtrong deterſives and driers;laſtly to drying and ſomwhat aſtrićtive medicines ſo to ſtrengthen the skin, that it may not yeeld itſelf ſo eafie and open to receiv defluxions. *... by givingyou one example the wholemanner of preſcribing a bath may appear. º: r. radlilior abborbiſmalv, an ibii. malv.pariet, violar, an: mſ ſem. lini, frnig. biſmalv.an.fbi, ** for. cham, melil, aneth, an: p vi. fiat decoãio inſufficientiaque quantitate,cui permiſcito olei liliorum & lini ana, fbii.fiat balneum in quo diutits natet eger. $. baths though noble remedies approoved by uſe and reaſon, yet unleſs they bee fitly and dif. ... creetly uſed in time, plentie, and qualitie, they do much harm; for they cauſ ſha ings and baths. chilneſs,pains,denſitie of the skin, artoo much rarefation thereof, and oft-times a reſolution of all the faculties. wherefore a man muſt beenindeful of theſe cautions before heeenter into a bath: firſt, that therebee noweakneſſe of anie noble and principalbowel,for the weak parts eaſily receiv the humors which the bath hath diffuſed and rarified, the waies lying open which tend from the whole bodie to the principal parts. neither muſt therebee anie plentie of crude humors in the firſt region, for ſo they ſhouldbee attraćted and diffuſed over all the bodie:there- fore it is not onely fitthat general purgations ſhould precede, but alſo particular by thebellie and urine: beſides; the patient ſhould bee ſtrong, that can faſting endure a bath as longas it is needful. laſtly, the bath ought to bee in a warm and filent place, leſt anie cold airby it's blowing, or the water by it's cold appulſ, cauſa ſhivering or ſhaking of the bodie whence a fever may enſue. ºft the morning is a fittime for bathing, the ſtomach beeing faſting and emptie, or fix hours me tor - - - - - - - - taining after meat, if it beerequiſite that the patient ſhould bathe twice a daie, otherwiſe the meat yet crude would bee ſnatched by the heat of the bath out of the ſtomach into the veins and habitor the bodie. manie, of all the ſeaſons of the year, make choiſof the ſpring and end of ſummer and in theſe times theychuſea clear daie, neither troubled with ſtormie windes, nor too ſharp an air. as longas the patient is in the bath, it is fit that hee take no meat, unleſsperadventure to comfort him hee talºa little bread moiſtenedin wine, or the juice of an orange, or ſomda- mask-prunes to quench his thirſt: his ſtrength will ſhew how long it is fit that heeſhould flaie in, for hee muſt not ſtaiethere to the reſolution of his powers, for in baths the humid and ſpi- ...” rituous ſubſtance is much diſſipated. comming forth of the bath,they muſt preſently get them :autobed, and bee well covered, that by ſweating, the excrements, drawn unto the skin by the ***h, heat of the bath, may break out: the ſweat cleanſed, let them uſe gentle frićtions, or º: then let him feed upon meat of good juice and eaſie digeſtion, by reaſon that the ſtomach can- not but bee weakned in ſom ſomſort by the bath. that quantitie of meat is judged moderate, the weight whereof ſhall not oppreſs the ſto- mach: venerie after bathing muſt not bee uſed, becauſto the reſolution of the ſpirit by the bath, it add's another new cauſof further ſpending or diſſipating them. som wiſh thoſe that uſe the bath by reaſon of ſom contračtion, pain, or other affe&s of the nervs, preſently after bathing, to dawbor beſmear the affetted nervous §. with the claie or mud ofthe bath,that by making it up as it were in this paſte, the virtue of the bath may work more effectually,and may more throughly enter into the affected part. theſe cautions beeing diligently obſerved, there is no doubt but the profit by bathes will bee great and wonderful:the ſame things are to bee obſerved in the uſe of ſtoves or hot-houſes, for the uſe and effect of baths and hot-houſes is almoſt the ſame, which the antients there- fore uſed by turn, ſo that comming forth of the bath they entreda flove and called it º - y lib. . of ſimple medicines, and their uſe. . . by the name of a bath, as you may gather from ſundrie places of galen in his methodus med, wherefore i think it fit in the next to ſpeak of them. . - chap. . xliii. of stoves or hot-houſes. ºtoves are either drieor moiſt: drie, by raiſing a hot and drie aérieuxhalation, ſo to . * imprint their faculties in the bodie, that it thereby waxeth hot, and the poresbeeing #.” # opened, run down with ſweat. there are divers waies to raiſ ſuch an exhalation: at paris, and whereſoever there are ſtoves or publick hot-houſes, they are raiſed by a clear fire put under a vaulted fornace, whence it beeing preſently diffuſed, heat's the whole room; yet everieone may make himſelf ſuch a ſtove as heeſhall judge beſt and fitteſt. alſo you may put red hot cogle-ſtones or bricks into a tub,having firſt laid the bottom there- of with bricks or iron-plates, and ſo ſet a ſeat in the mid'ſt thereof, wherein the patient fit- ting, well covered with a canopie drawn over him, may receiv the exhalation ariſing from the ſtones that are about him, and ſo have the benefit of ſweating: but in this caſe wee muſt oft look to and ſee the patient, for it ſomtimes happen's that ſom, neglected by their keeperso- therwiſe emploied, becoming faint, and their ſenſ failing them by the diſſipation of their ſpi- rits by the force of the hot exhalation, have ſunk down with all their bodies upon the ſtones lying under them, and ſo have been carried half dead and burn't into their beds.som alſo take the benefit of ſweating in a formace or oven, asſoon as breadis drawn out thereof. but i do not much approov of this kind of ſweating, becauf the patient cannot as hee will, much leſs ashee j lie or turn himſelf therein. humid ſtoves or ſudatories are thoſe wherein ſweatis cauſed by a vapor or moiſt heat: this avapourous vapor muſt bee raiſed from a decoètion of roots, leavs, flowers, and ſeeds, which are thought” fit for this purpoſe; the decoötion is to bee made in water or wine, or both together. there- fore let them allbee put into agreat veſſel well luted, from the top of whoſe cover iron or tin-pipes may com into the bathing-tub ſtanding near thereto,between the two bottoms there- of, by means whereof the hot vapor may enter thereinto, and diffuſe itſelf therein. now it is fit the bathing-tub ſhould bee furniſhed with a double bottom, the one below and whole, the other ſomwhat higher and perforated with manie holes, whereupon the patient fitting may re- ceiv a ſudorifick vapor over all his bodie: now this vapor, if at anie time it becom too hot, muſt bee tempered by opening the hole, which muſt for the ſame purpoſe bee made in the top of the pipe, that ſo it maybee opened and ſhut at pleaſure. in the interim the tub ſhall bee cloſely covered where- the delineation of a bathing tub, having a double bottom, with a veſſel near in the patient fit's, hee thereto, with pipes comming #. and entring between the putting forth onely two bottoms of the tub. his head, that ſo hee - may draw in the cool air. in defect of ſuch ipes, the herbs ſhall bee boiled by them- ſelvs in a caldron or kettle, and this ſhall bee ſet thus hot into the bathing-tub at the patient's feet, and ſo |by caſting into it hea- tedſtones, a great and ſudorifick vapor ſhall ńbee raiſed. =: (((((((((((((tº utºurnºurtrººm l - º º tº t º e-r- * at *- tººſe=jºe º e. eſſe t. *er ºtte ſtºº- eſº-" untºs- chap. xliv. of fuci, that is waſhes, and ſuch thing for the ſmoothing and beautifying of the skin. #his following diſcourſ is not intended for thoſe women which addicted to filthie luſt, ºf ſºcktobeautifietheir faces, as baits and allurements to filthie pleaſures: but it is inten- jed for thoſe onely, which the better to reſtrain the wandring luſts of their husbands, *yºndevourby art to take away thoſe ſpots and deformities which have happened to fall on their faces either by accidentorage. the color that appear's in iº, eitherlaudable orillaudable, abundantly ſhew's the tem- per both of the bodie, as alſo of thoſe humors that have the hief dominion º:§ therein : for everie humor die's the skin of the whole bodie, but chiefly of the face with the ºbiº- £olor. the cof * fºr holerbearingſwaiein the bodie, the face look's yellowiſh; phlegm ru-š. ling, it look’s whitiſh or pale; if melancholie exceed, then blackiſh or ſwarth; but iſ blood have - of ſimple medicines, and their uſe. lib. . have the dominion, the color is freſh and red. yet there is other things happening externally which change the native color of the face, as ſun-burning, cold, pleaſure, ſorrow, fear, watching, faſting, pain, old diſeaſes, the corruption of meats and drinks: for the flouriſhing color of the cheeks is not onely extinguiſhed by the immoderate uſe of vineger,hut by drink- ing of corrupt waters the facebecom's ſwoln and pale. w on the contrarie, laudable meats and drinks make the bodie to bee well colored and comly, for that they yield good juice, and conſequently agood habit. therefore if the ſpots of the face proceed from the plenitude and ill diſpoſition of humors, the bodie ſhallbee evacuated by blood-letting; if from the infirmitie of anie principal bowel, that muſt firſt of all bee ſtrengthened; but the care of all theſe things belongs to the phyſician: wee here onely ſeek after particular remedies which may ſmooth the face, and take away the ſpots, and otherde- fe&s thereof, and give it a laudable color. waterwhere. firſt the faceſhallbee waſhed with the water of lillie-flowrs,of bean-flowers, water-lillies, .* of diſtilled milk, or elſ with the water wherein ſombarlie or ſtard hathbeen ſteeped. the * dried face ſhallbee anointed with the ointments preſently to bee deſcribed; for ſuch waſhing cleanſeth and prepareth the face to receiv the force of the ointments, no otherwiſe thenana- lumed lee prepair's the hairs to drinkup and retein the color that wee defire. thereforethe face beeing thus cleanſed and prepared you may uſe the following medicines,as thoſe that have c . º: to beautifie, º and ſmooth the skin: as, . - gum, tragacanth: conquaſ. ii. diſtemperentur in vaſe vitrio cum thii. aque communis, ſicgami !...; diſſolventur, inde albeſcet aqua. or #r. lithargyri # ii. ceruſ. & #. an. ſ. teti aque º: in plantag, an: ii. caphur- ſ. macerentur lithargyros & ceruſa inaceio ſtorſim per tres autºguatuorhoras, **ſal veræ et camphora in aquaquaminſtitutotu, apiam delegeris: then filter them both ſeveral,and mix them togetherbeeing ſo filtred, when as you would uſe them. r. ladii vaccini,fbii.aranciorum et limonian, nu. iv. ſaccarialbiſimi, et alum, rach, anái, di- ſtillentur omnia ſimml: let the limmons and oranges bee cut into ſlices, and then beeinfuſed in milk, adding thereto the ſugar and alum; then let the mallbeediſtilled together in balneo ma- rie; the water that.com's thereof will make the faceſmooth and lovelie. therefore aboutbed- time it will bee good to cover the face with linnen-clothes dipped therein. awater alſo diſtil- led of ſnails gathered in a vine-yard, juice of limmons, the flowers of white mullain mixedto- gether inequal proportion with a like quantitie of the liquor contained in the bladders of elm-leavs, is verie good for the ſame purpoſe. alſo this, r. mice paniº albi, fb iv. for...fabar. roſar. alb, for menuph, lilior, & inireoſ, an ibii, ladiº vac- cini, fb vi ºva. nuviii. aceti opt. f i. diſtillentur omnia ſimul in alembico vitreo, & fiataqua adfaciti et manuum lotionem. or, r. oleide tartaro, iii, mucag.ſem. pſilii, i. ceruſ in aled roſdiſſolut. ić. borac. ſal. gem.an. i.fiat linimentum profacie. or, r. caponem vivum, et caſeum ex lačić caprimore- centur confesium, limon nu. iv. over. nu, iv.ceruſlot, in aq. roſar. ii. boracis, iſ camph. ii.a. for.fabar. ibiv. fiat omnium infuſioper xxiv.horas, poſſea diſtillenturiu alembico vitreo. the marrow there is a moſt excellent fucus made of the marrow of ſheeps-bones, which ſmooth's the tº roughneſs of the skin, beautifie's the face; now it muſt bee thus extraćted. take the bones, je ſevered from the fleſh by boiling,beat them,and ſo boil them in water,when they arewellboil. face. ed, take them from the fire, and when the wateriscold, gather the fat that ſwim's upon it, and therewith anoint your face when as you go to bed, and waſh it in the morning with thefor- merly preſcribed water. - howto make r. }. ceruſ. ii. ung, citrin. vel ſpermat. ceti, i. malaxentur ſimul, et fiat linimentum, addend, **, olei ovor. ii. the sal ceruſe is thus made, grinde ceruſs into verie fine powder, and infuſe fbi.thereof in a pottle of diſtilled vineger for four or five daies, then filterit, thenſit that you have filtred in a glaſed earthen veſſeſ over a gentle fire until it concrete into ſalt, juſt as you do the capitellum in making of cauteries. - r. extrementilacert, ofti, ſepie, tartari, vinialbi, raſur, torn, cerv.farin, wriz, an: partſ equale, fiat pulvis, infundalur in aquadiſtillata amygdalarum dulcium, limacum vinialium, for menuph.huica- dito melli, albipar pondus : let thenbee all incorporated in a marble mortar, andkept in aglaſs or filver veſſel, and at night anoint the face herewith; it wonderfully prevails againſt thered. neſs of the face, if after the annointing it you ſhall cover the face with a linnen cloth moiſten- cd in the former deſcribed water. - r. ſublim. i.argent. viv. ſaliv. extinii. ii.margarit.non perforat. i.caph. iſ, incorporenturſſ- mul in mortario marmoreo, cum piſtillo ligneo, per tres hora ducantur et fricenſur, reducanţărque in lens- iſſimum pulverem, confesius fulvi, abluatur aquàmyrti et deſiccelur, ſervenirque ad uſum, addefºliorum auri et agenti, nu: x. when as you would uſe this powder, put into the palm of your handa little oil of maſtic or of ſweet-almonds,then preſently in that oil diſſolvalittle º the deſcri- bed powder, andfowork it into an ointment,wherewith letthe face bee anointed at bed-time: but it is fitfirſt towaſh the face with the formerly deſcribed waters, and again in the morning when you riſe. . how to paint when the face is freed from wrincles and ſpots, then may you paint the cheeks with aroſe tºº." and flouriſhing color; for of the commixture of white and red ariſ-thanative and beautiful color: for this purpoſe take as much as you ſhall think fit of brafil, and alchunet; fleep them in alum-water, and therewith touch the cheeks and lips, and ſo ſuffer it to drie in: *: q lib. . of ſimple medicines,and their uſe . - alſo ſpaniſh red made for this purpoſe, others rub thementioned parts with a ſheep's-skin di- edred: moreover the frićtion that is made by the handonely, cauſſeth a pleafing redneſs in the face, by drawing thither the blood and ſpirits. - ---- *-*** - - ----- chap. xlv. of the gutta roſacea, or a fierie face. º is treatiſe of fuſiput's mee in minde to ſaie ſomthing in this place of helping the §: redneſs which poſſeſſeth the noſe and cheeks, and oft-times all the face - beſides,one while with atumor, therwhiles without,ſomtimes with puſtles and ſcabs, ºft by reaſon of the admixtion of a nitrous and aduſthumor. praditioners have termedit gutta;: rºſacea. this ſhew's both more and more uglie in winter theninſummer, becauſthe cold clo- - ſeth the pores of the skin, ſo that the matter contained thereunder is pentup for want of tran- ſpiration, whence it becom's acridandbiting, ſo that as it were boilingup, it lift's or raiſeth the skin into puſtles and ſcabs ; it is a contumacious diſeaſ, and oft-times not to bee helped by for the general methodof curing this diſeaſ, it is fit that the patient abſtein from wine, pie. and from all things in general that by their heat inflame the blood, and diffinſe it by their va- porous ſubſtance: heeſhall ſhun hot and verie coldplaces, and ſhall procure that his bellie maybeeſoluble, either by nature or art. let blood firſt bee drawn out of the baſilica; then from the vena fronti, and laſtly from the vein of the noſe. let leeches bee applied to ſundrie places of the face, and cupping-glaſſes with ſtarification to the ſhoulders. for particular or proper remedies, if the diſeaſ bee inveterate, the hardneſs ſhall firſtbee remedics. ſoft'ned with emollient things, then aſſaulted with the following ointments, which ſhall bee uſed or changed by the chirurgian as the phyſician ſhall think fit. r.ſucci citri, iii. teruſ quantum ſufficitadeum inſpiſſandum, argenti vivi cum ſaliva et ſulphure vi- *...* vo exſtinčii, % incorporentur ſimul, et fiat unguentum. b. boracis, ii.farincicer, etfabar, an iſ caph. i. cum melle et ſucco cepe fiant trochiſci: when you would uſe them, diſſolv them in roſe and plantain-water and ſpread them upon linnen clothes, and ſoapplie them on the night-time to the affected parts, and ſolet them oft times bee renued. ... r. unguenticitrini recenter diſpenſati, ii. ſulphuris vivi, ſ. cum modico olei ſºm. cucurb. et ſucci ºlimonum, fiat unguentum; with this let the face be anointed when you go to bed, in the morning let it bee waſhed away with roſe-water, beeing white by reaſon of bran infuſed therein: moreover, ſharpvineger boiled with bran and roſe-water, and applied as before, powerfully take's away the redneſs of the face. - r. ceruſ & litbarg, auri, ſulphuri, vivipulveriſati, an, . ponuntur, in phiala cum aceto & aqua roſarum: linnen cloths dipped herein ſhallbee applied to the face on the night, and it ſhall bee applied to the face on the night, and it ſhallbee waſhed in the morning with the water of the . of bran: this kind of medicine ſhall bee continued fora month. r. ſanguini, tauri, fbi, butyri retentii,fb .fiat diſtillatio, atatur. the liquor which is diſtilled for the ; daies is troubled and ſtinking,but theſe fº becometh clear and well ſmelling. somboilbran in vineger and the water of water-lilies, and in this decočtion they diſſolv of ſulphur and camphire afit proportion to the quantitie of the decočtion, and they applie cloths moiſtened in this medicineto the face in the evening. - b. album. ovor. nu. ii. queroſ. iſ ſucci plantag. lapath. acut, an. iſ ſublimati, i incorpo- pentur in mortario marmoreo. rºaxung, forci decies in acetolate;iv. argenti viviš i aluminis,ſulphu- ris vivi, au. ipiſtentur omniadiu in mortario plumbeo, & fiat unguenium ; argentum vivum non delet nift extremo loco affundi. r. rad, lapath. acut. & aſphodel. an. ii. coquantur in aceto ſtilitico, poſten tundantur, etſetaceo trajiciantºr, addendo auripigmenti, ii. ſulphuri, vivi, x.let them bee incorpo- rated and make an ointment to beeuſed to drie up the puſtles. r. rad. liliorum ſub cineribus coãorum, iv. piſtillo tufts, et ſetaceo traječiis, addebutyri recentis, et axung porri, lote in aceto, an. i. ſulphuris vivi, iii. camphor. iii. ſucci limonum quantumn ſufficit, ..., malaxentur ſimul etfiat unguenium. r. lačiis virginalis, it £. aluminis, g. ſulphuris vivi, i. ſucci § i. limonum, iv. ſali, com. . . letthem all bee diſtilled in a glaſs alembick,and the water kept for the forementioned uſes. r, lapath, acut. plantagin.et aſphodel, an: iſ olei vitel, ovor. i. terebinth. venet. , ſucci lime- num, iii. aluminis combuſt. i.argenti viviexftinë. i.oleililiorum, . tundantur omnia in morta- rio plumbeo, addendo ſubfinem argent, viv. nº mortario adhereſtat. the juice of onions beaten with ſalt, or theyelks of eggs are good for the ſame purpoſe. - forſtaying and killing of ring-worms and tetters, the leavs of helleborcbeaten with vi-rokita. neger are good, the milk of the fig-tree is good of it ſelf, as alſo that of the ſpurges, or mu-ºº. ſtarddiſſolved in ſtrong vineger with a little ſulphur. or, - r. ſulphuris, calcanthi, & aluminis, an i.macerentur inacetoforti, trajiriamtur per lineum, ap- plie the expreſſedjuice. others macerate an egginſharpvineger, with coperas and ſulphur wi- vumbeaten into fine powder, then they ſtrain or preſs if through a linnen cloth. but ſeeing the forementioned medicines are acrid, and for the moſt part eating and corro- dings . of ſimple &m edicine, and ther uſe. liao. ding, it cannot beebut that they muſt make the skin harſh andrough, therefore to ſmooth and levigate it again, you ſhall make uſe of the following ointment. . ...” r. tereb. ven. tam diulote, ut acrimonian nullam habeat, butyri ſalis expertiſ, an: iſ, olei vitel. *" ovor. i.axung porci in aquàroſarum lote, . cere parum, fiatlinimentum ad uſum. to the ſame purpoſe you may alſo make uſe of ſomof the foremeutioned medicines. chap. xli. to black the bair. what things § firſt the hairs, (to take the futus or tinëture, and to retain it) muſt bee prepared with º lie, wherein a littleroch-alum is diſſolved. thus the fattie ſcales may beewaſhed and taken away, which hinder, and (as it were) keep away the futuſ, that it cannot adhere or penetrate into the bodie of the hair. then muſt wee comtoparticular or proper and fitting medicines for this purpoſe. theſe ought to bee aromatick and cephalick, and ſomwhat flip- tick,that by their odoriferous &aſtringent power they may ſtrengthen the animal facultie. fur thermore,they muſt beof ſubtil parts,that they may enter even into the inner roots ofthe hairs. r. sulphuri, vitrioli, gallarum, calcis vive, lithargyri, an: ii. ſcorie ferri, fl. in pollinem re- du: ntur,et cumaq. communi incorporentural indefiat maſſa; with this at bedtime letthehairsbee rubbed, and in the morning letthem bee ſmoothed with the ſame. r; caki, late, ilitbargyri utriuſ; ſ. cum decoão gallarum, corticum, nucum, fiat maſſa, addend, ºleiºhamem. ii. r. lytharg. auri, Žii ciner clavellat. iſs, calcis viv. i diſſolve omnia cum urina bºmini, doner acquirant conſiſtentiamunguenti pro undione tapillorum. r. calculate, .ii. cumdºff. ſalv. et cort, granat. fiat paſta ad formam pulli, ſatis liquide: let the hair at bed-time beediedhere- with, and waſhed in the morning with wine and water. howe win. now the manner of waſhing lime is thus: infuſe in ten or twelv pints of fairwater one lime. pound oſlime, then pour out the waterby ſtooping the veſſel, putting more in the ſteadthere- of the third time in ſtead of common water pour thereon the water of the deco&ion of ſage and galls, let the limelie therein for ſo manie hours, then in like manner pour it off byſtoop- ing the veſſel; and thus you ſhall have your lime well waſhed. there is alſo found away how to die or black the hairby onely powring of ſom liquor thereon: as, r. argentipuriſtini, ii, awater to reducantur in tenuiftmas lamina, fonantur in ampulla vitrea cum ii. aque ſeparationi, aurietargenti, ***. et aque roſar. vi. the preparing of this water is thus, put into a viol . water of ſeparation and the filver, and ſet it upon hot coals ſo to diſſolv the filver, which beeingdon then take it from the fire, and when it is cold, add thereto the roſe-water but if you would black it more deeply, add more ſilver thereto, if leſs then a ſmaller quantities to uſe it, you muſt ſteep the comb wherewith you comb your head in this water. r. plumbiuſti, ii.gallarum nonperforat, cortiº, nucum, an: iii terre ſigilferret. biſpanianáii.vi- triol, rom. viſali, gem. iſ caryoph, nuci, moſch. an:#i ſali, ammon, aloes, an, fl. fiat palvi, ſub- tiliſimus: letthis powderbee macerated in vinegar for three daies ſpace, then diſtilitallihan alembick,the water that com’s therefrom is good for the foreſaid uſe. the following medi- to make the cine is good to make the hairs of a flaxen color. r. flor. geniſt. fierhad. ot cardamom.an. i. lupi- #jnor, conquaſat. raſur, buxi, cortici, citri, rad. gentian et berber, an. iſ cum aluanitrifial lenta det- encolor (iio herewith bathe and moiſten the hairs for maniedaies. c h a p. xlvii. of pfilothra, or depilatories : and alſo of ſweet-waters. edicines to fetch off hair, which by the greeks are termed pſilothra, and depilatoria in a depilatotie, latinevulgary, are made asyou may learn by theſe following examples. r. cali vivº, iii. auripigmenti; i.let the lime beequench'din fair water,and then the orpiment added with ſom aromatic thing: have a care that the medicine lie not too long upon the part, otherwiſe it will burn; and this medicine muſt bee made to the conſiſtence of apultis and applied warm, firſt fomenting the part with warmwater; for then the hair will fall off by gentlerubbingor waſhing it with warm water: but if there happen anie excoriation thereupon, you may help it by the uſe of unguenium roſatum, or ſomother of the like facultie. - %. calciº viv.aurip, citrin, anº; i.amyl.ſtume argent, an: , terantur et incorporentur cumaq.com. bulliantſimul: you ſhall certainly know that it is ſufficiently boiled, if putting thereinto ago - £s quill, the feathers compreſently of: ſom make into powder equal parts of unquench'd. lime and orpiment,they tie them up in a cloth,with which beeingſteepedin water they beſmear the part, and within a while after by gently ſtroaking the head, the hairs fal's away of itſelf sºs water. the following waters are verie fitting for to waſh the hands,face,and whole bodie, as alſo lin- nen, becauſ they yield a grateful ſmel: the firſt islavander-water thus to beenade. r, for, la- * vend.fbivalroſar.é vini alban. it ii.aq.vite, iv.miſceantur omnia ſimul, & fiat diſtillatio in balneº - marie : the ſame water may alſo bee had without diſtillation, if you put ſomlavander-flowers in fair water and ſo ſet them to ſun in a glaſs,or put them in balneo,adding a little oil of ſpike core.w... and musk cloye-water is thus made.r.caryºpháiiaq.roſar.ſbiimacerenturſatioxxiv.boratin,ti sweet-war, diſtillentur in balneºmarie sweet-water commonly ſo called,is made ofdivers odoriferous things put together; as thus, r. menthe,majorane,hyſpi,ſalvie,"oriſmarini,lavendule,anmii.radicisired, iitaryophyllorum,cinamonionuciº moº: §: limonum,nu.iv.macerentur omnia in aquaroſarum, ſtacio viginli quatuor brarum, diſillemur in balneo marie, addendo moſchi, sſ. the end of the twentie ſixth book, another, +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ of d is t i l l a t i o n s. the twentieſ wenth book. chap. i. {{aving finiſh'd the treatiſe of the faculties of medicines, it now ſeem's requiſite ... that wee ſpeak ſomwhat of chymiſtrie and ſuch medicines as are extračed by fire. theſe are ſuch as confiſt of a certain fifteffence ſeparated from theirear thie impuritieby diſtillation, in which there is a fingular, and almoſt divineef- ficacie in the cure of diſeaſes. so that of ſogreat an abundance of the medicines there is ſcarce anie which at this daie chymiſts do not diſtil, or otherwiſe make them more whº diſillain it, wakwmaiskakailerºſ ºr ki. frong and effectual then they were before. now diſtillation is a certain art or way by which what diffi. the liquor or humidpart of things, by the virtue and force of fire or ſom ſemblable heat (as lationis the matter ſhall ſeem to require) is extracted and drawn, beeing firſt reſolved into vapor and then condens'd again by cold. som call this art sublimation or ſubliming, which ſignifie's no- thingelſ, but to ſeparate the pure from the unpure; the parts that are more ſubtil and delicate from thoſe that are more corpulent, groſs and excrementious; as alſo to make thoſe matters whoſe ſubſtance is more groſs, to becom more pure and ſincere, either for that the terreſtrial ts are ill-united and conjoined, or otherwiſe confuſed into the whole and diſperſed by the eat and ſo carried up; the other groſſerparts remaining together in the bottom of the veſſel. oradiſtillation is the extraćtion or effuſion of moiſture diſtilling drop by drop, from the noſe of the alembeck or anieſach like veſſels. before this effuſion or falling down of the li- uor there goe's a certain concoëtion performed by the virtue of heat, which ſeparate's the §. of one kinde from thoſe . that were confuſedly mixed together in one bo- die, and ſobring's them into one certain form or bodie, which may bee good and profitable for divers diſeaſes. som things require the heat of a clear fire, others a flame; others the heat of the sun; others of aſhes,or ſand,or the filings of iron; others horſ dung, or boiling wa- four degrees ter, or the oilievapor or ſteam thereof. in all theſe kinds of fires, there are four confiderable ** degrees of heat. the firſt is conteined in the limits of warmth,and ſuch is warm water,or the vapor of hot water. the ſecond is a little hotter, but yet ſo as the hand may abide it, without anie harm, ſuch is the heat of aſhes. the third exceeds the vehemencie of the ſecond,where- fore the handcannot long endure this without hurt, and ſuch is the heat of ſand. the fourth is ſo violent, that it burneth anie thing that commeth near, and ſuch are the filings of iron. the firſt degree is moſt convenient to diſtil ſuch things as are ſubtil and moiſt as flowers. what heat the ſecond ſuch as are ſubtil and drie as thoſe things which are odoriferous and aromatical,as hº: cinnamom, ginger, cloves. the third is fitteſt to diſtil ſuch things as are of a more denſe whattung". ſubſtance and fuller of juice; ſuch as are ſom roots, and gums. the fourth is fit for metals and minerals, as allum,witriol, amber, jet, &c. in like manner you may diſtil withoutheat, as weeuſe to do in thoſe things which are diſtilled by ſtraining, as when the more pure is drawn audſeparated from that which is moſt unpure and earthie, as wee do in lac virginale, and other things which are ſtrained through an hypocras-bag, or with a piece of cloth cut in form of atongue, or by ſettling, or by a veſſel made of ivie wood: ſomtimes alſo ſomthings may bee diſtilled, by coldneſs and humiditie, and ſo wee make the oil of tartar, myrrh and vitriols, by laying them upon a marble in a cold and moiſt place. - c. h.a. p. ii. of the matter and form of fornaces. he matter andform of fornaces uſe's to beedivers. for ſom fornaces uſe to bee made of the matter i : bricks and claie, otherſom of claie onely, which are the better and more laſting, if ſo jº. caſions when there is preſent neceſſitie of diſtillation, fornaces may beenade of bricks, ſo bee the claie bee fat and well tempered with whites of eggs and hair. yet in ſudden oc- fornaces. laid together that the joints may not agree, but bee unequal; for ſo the ſtructure will bee the around fºrm ſtronger. the beſt and fitteſt form of a fornace for diſtillation is round; for ſo the heat of the .." fire carried up equally diffuſe's it ſelf everie waie,which happen's not in a fornace of another figure, as ſquare or triangular, for the corners diſperſ and ſeparate the force of the fire. their magnitude muſtbee ſuch as ſhall beefit for the receiving of the veſſel. for their thickneſs; ſo great;as neceſſitieſhall ſeem to requir. they muſt bee made with two bottoms,diſtinguiſh'd as it were into twoforges; one below which may receiv the aſhes of the coals or the like other fuel, fqinact of tiftillations. lib. . fuel, the other above to contein the burning coals or fire. the bottom of this upper muſt ei- ther be an iron-grate, or elſit muſt bee perforated with manie holes, that ſo the : may the more eaſily fall down into the bottom, which otherwiſe would extinguiſh the fire; yet ſom fornaces have three partitions, as the fornace for reverberation. in the firſt and loweſt the aſhes are received, in the ſecond the coals are put, and in the third the matter which is calcinºd or elſ diſtilled. the third ought to have a ſemicircular cover, that ſo the heatorflame may bee refleåed upon the conteined matter. the lower partition ſhall have one or more doors, by which the fallen-down aſhes may beetaken forth. but the upper muſt have but one, where: by the coals or wood may beeputin.but in the top or upper part of the fornace whereitſhall †. moſt fit, there ſhall {: two or three holes made, that by them you may blow the fire,and that the ſmoak may more freely paſs out, but theſe fore-mentioned doors muſt have their ſhutters, much like an oven's mouth. but in defe&of a formace or fit matter to build one with- all, wee may uſe a kettle, ſet upon a treefoot,after the manner that weeſhall preſently declare, when weecomtoſpeak of that diſtillation which is to bee made by balneum marie. chap. iii. of veſſels fit for diſtillation. * - - - - - *śeſſels for diſtillation conſiſt of different matter and form, for they are either of lead, tin, or braſs; or elſearthen veſſels and theſe are ſomtimes leaded, ſomtimes not; or elſ they are of gold,silver,or glaſs. now for leaden veſſels they are worſthen the reſt, and utterly to beerefuſed, eſpecially when as the liquors which are drawn by radarſºl, them are to bee taken into the bodieby the mouth,by reaſon of the malignant qualities which il. are ſaid to bee in lead; by which occaſion galen condemn's thoſe waters which run, and are conteined in leaden pipes, which by reaſon of their ſaltiſhneſs and acrimonie which ſavor's of uickſilver, they cauſ dyſenteries. therefore you may perceiv ſuch waters as are diſtilled through a leaden head to bee indued with a more acrid and violentp-iercing vapor, by reaſon the portion of that ſaltiſhneſs diſlolved in them, and as it were ſhaved from the alembeck or baſswort, head, defile's the diſtilled liquors, and whiten's and turn's them into amilkie ſubſtance: but nºt a cºpper or braſs-heads are more hurtfulthen lead, for they make the waters thatcom through ſº them to ſavor or participate of braſs. thoſe that are of gold and filver are leſs hurtful; but the lation. greatneſs of the coſt hinder's us from making heads of ſuch metals; therefore wee muſt have a care that our veſſels for diſtillation bee either of potters-metal leaded, or elſ of braſs, or of thatjug metal which is commonly called terrabetovacenſit, and theſe rather then of lead ora- nie other metal. verily glaſſes are thought the beſt; and next to them earthen veſſels leaded, then of jug-metal, and laſtly theſe of tin. there is great varietie of veſſels for diſtillation in form and figure; for ſom are of an oval or cylindrical figure, that is, of a round and longiſh . others are twined and crooked, others of other ſhapes, asyoumay ſee in the beaks of the chi- miſts. of this almoſt infinite varietie of figures will in fit place give you the delineation and uſe of ſuch as ſhall ſeem to bee moſt neceſſarie. chap. iii i. . * *- what things are to bee conſidered in diſtillation. filrſt make choiſ of a fit place in your houſ for the fornace, ſo that it may neither hin- der anie thing, norbee in danger of the falling of anie thing that ſhall liedverit. lº when you ſhall diſtil anie thing of a malign or venenate qualitie,yee ſhall ſtandby it as little as you may, left the vapor ſhould do you anie harm; when you provide ; for diſtillation, make choiſof ſuch, as are exquiſitely baked,withoutflaws or cracks,and ſuch as are everie where ſmooth. let not the fireat firſt bee verie violent, notonely for fear of brea- king the veſſels, but alſo for that the firſt fire in diſtillation muſtbee gentle, and ſo increaſed by little and little. the things to bee diſtilled, ought not to bee put in too great quantitie into the bodie of the still, left they ſhould riſe up or flie over. hot things that they may bee more effe&ual muſt bee twice or thriſe diſtilled, by powring upon them their own diſtilled wateror ºf other freſh materials, or elſby diſtilling them ſeverally and by themſelvs : of this kinde are ten diſtilled gums, wax, fats, or oils. but in each other repeated diſtillations you muſt ſomthing leſſen the force of the fire, for the matter attenuated by the former diſtillation cannot afterwardendure ſo greatheat; but a- romatick things, as cloves, cinnamom, ºc. as alſo the chimical oils of sage, roſemarie, tyme, dºc. ought not to bee diſtilled orreótified over again, for that wee muſt preſently after • b, *...the firſt diſtillation have a diligent care to ſeparate them from the phlegm,that is,the more wa- º, and trie ſubſtance of the whole liquor,to which purpoſe wee muſt have regard to that which is di- :::::" ſtilled, forthere are ſom things which ſend overtheir phlegm as vineger; others, wherein it ºn; nothing com’s laſt, as * aqua vite. #.” if you would give to things to bee diſtilled anothertaſe or finell then that which they have naturally, you may mix with themſomodoriferous thing, as cinnamom camphire, or musk, or the like, as you pleaſ, and ſo diſtil them together. the diſtilled liquors are drawn by* - caº - of tištillations. lib. . | | ! a. shew's the veſſelor glaſ-alembick b. a plate of lead whereinitiani, c. sirings that binde the alembick" the plate. d. rings through which the ſting are?”" faſten the alembick you may diſil the liquor of things ; the vapor or ſtream of boilingwº, * if ſobee that you beeprovided of wººls # and forms made after this following a. shew', the head of the alembºk b. the bodie thereof, placed inabraſ-veſſel made fºr impriſº. ". . . - c. abraſi-veſſel perforakdi, mamie places to retely the vapor of the water. this veſſel ſhall contein the alembickampºſed about with jaw-duſt, nºt onely thafii may the better and longer relein the best ºf the vapor, but alſo left it mitee broken by the hard touch ºf the braſen veſſel. d. shew'; the braſs veſſel containing the water as it is plac'd in the farnace. f s e.th. fornace, conteining the vºſºk, \ f. a funnel by which yºu may now and then poºr in l'a water, inſtead of that which is vaniſh'd and diſfift # , ted by the beat of the fire, , , ...) g. the recei º - i - -- . . sº ci t | tvº c É stºl t |- tº § lºl # t # fº à sº t t sº ſº § t h {{ -** * . - * * -- **** * - ... " ' " . . . . . .-- --, -- -- * - - - - -- * - § hh - - tº . .* - - - e. etff now for the faculties of diſtilledwa" it is certain, that thoſe which are drawn inhalt, mari, or a double veſſel, are farbº and efficacious, becauſ, they do not onely retrinº wº: . ſmell of the things which are diſtilled, but alſo the taſte, as acidities harſhneſs, ſweetneſs, bit- .*.* terneſs, and other qualities, ſo that they will neither ſavor of ſmoak nº burning; for the fºr in milde and gentle heat of a bath contein'sby his humid itie, the more ſubtil part; of the plants more of the - - "nº- - - i - #... that are diſtilled, that th ...diſpated and exhaled, coºl.” which it uſually gth o ed, that they may n º rning heat of woodor coals. for theſe have a things. happen's in thi hich are diſtilled by the ppe ngs which are di y ºfmoak of fire. beſides: they acquire amalign certain nitrous and acrid taſte, favoiº of th - - - - qualitie from the veſſels out of which they are diſtilled, eſpecially if they bee of lead,whence they contraćt qualities hurtful to the principal, vital, and natural parts. therefore the plants which are this diſtilled, if they bee bitter by nature, preſently becom inſipid, as you may perceiv bywormwood waſ. thus diffilled. thoſe things which arºdi . ſtilled in báneo marić are contained in a glaſs-veſſel, from which they can borrow?” malign qualitie. therefore the waters ſo drawn are "* effe&ual and pleaſing in taſte, ſmel, and . . fight. you may draw waters not onely from one kinde of plant, but alſo from manitcom" ounded and mixed together: of theſe ſom are alimentarie, others medicinal, yea and pur- £ing; others acquir'd for ſmell,others forwaſhing or ſmoothing of women's faces,as wº (hall ſhew hereafter. _--" cha p. vi. how the materials muſt bee prepared before diſtillation. #hings before they bee put into the alembick, muſt undergo a preparation, that is, they §§ muſt see cut ſmall, beaten and macerated, that is, ſteeped in ſom liquor, that ſo they may bee the more eaſily diſtilled and yield the more water, and retein their natiº º - * * aſı - of diſillatons. lib. . .. wi: there may beenade other reſtauratives in ſhorter time with leſs labor and coſt. to this tº purpoſe the fleſhmuſt bee beaten and cut thin, and ſo thruſt through with a double thred, ſo quors. that the pieces thereof may touch each other; then put them into a glaſs, and let the thred hang out; ſo ſtop up the glaſs cloſe with a linnen cloth, cotten or tow, and lute it up with paſte made of meal and the whites of eggs; then ſet it up to the neckinakettle of water,but ſo that it touch not the bottom but let itbeekept upright by the formerly-deſcribed means,then make a gentle fire there-under,until the conteined fleſh by long boilingſhallbee diſſolved into juice, and that will commonly bee in ſom four hours ſpace. this beeingdon, letthe fire bee taken from under the kettle, but take not forth the glaſs before the water bee cold, leſ, itbee- ing hot ſhould bee broken by the ſudden appulſ of the cold air. wherefore whenas it iscold, let it bee opened, and the thred with the pieces of fleſhbee drawn forth, ſothat onely the juice maybee left remaining; then ſtrain it through abag, and aromatize it with sugar and cinna- mom,adding a littlejuice of citron, verjuice or vineger,as it ſhall beſtlike the patient's palate. after this manner you may quickly, eaſily,and without great coſt have and prepare all ſorts ofreſtauratives aſwellmedicated as ſimple.but the force and facultie of purging medicinesis ex- trated after a clean contrarie manner then the oils andwaters which are drawn of aromatick things, as sage,roſemarie, tyme, aniſeeds,fennel,cloves,cinnamom,nutmegs,and the like. for the ſtrength of theſe as that which is ſubtil and aierie, flie's upwards in diſtiſlation butthe ſtrength of purging things, as turbith, agarick rubarb and the like, ſubſide in the bottom. for the purgative facultie of theſe purgers inſeparably adhere's to the bodies and ſubſtances. now for ſweetwaters and ſuch as ſerv to ſmooth the skin of the face, they may beediffil- led in balneo marie like as roſe-water. – - chap. viii. *-*-- * how to diſtil aqua vite or the ſpirits of wine. #tº ake of good white or claret-wine or sack which is not ſowr nor muſtie, nor other- * wiſe corrupt, or of the lees,that quantitie which may ſerv to fil the veſſel wherein you make the #. to a third part; then put on your head furniſhed with the noſtor spiritor is pipe, and ſo make your diſtillation in balneo marie. the oftner it is diſtilled, or (as they term £ventimes it) reëtified, the more noble and effectual it becom's. therefore ſom diſtil it ſeven times over. * . at the firſt diſtillation it may ſuffice to draw a fourth or third part of the whole; to wit, of twentie four pintes of wine or lees, draw fix or eight pintes of diſtilled liquor. at the ſecond time the half part of that is three or four pintes. at the third diſtillation the half part again, that is, two pints; ſo that the oftner you diſil it over, the leſs liquor you have, but it will bee a great deal the more efficacious. i do well like that the firſt diſtillation bee made in aſhes; the ſecond in balneum marie. to conclude, that aquavite is to bee approoved of, neither is it anie oftner to bee diſtilled,which put into aſpoon or ſaucer, and there ſet on fire,burn's wholly away and leav's no liquor;or moiſture in the bot- tomof the veſſel; if youdrop a drop of oil into this ſame water, it continually fal's to the bottom; or if you drop a drop into the palm of your hand,it will quickly vaniſh away,which nº tº are two other note; of the probation of this liquor. . . - - §. the faculties and effe&s of aquavite are innumerable, it is good againſt the epilepſie and all ofwine cold diſeaſes,it aſſwage's the pains of the teeth, it is good for punèures and wounds of the nervs, faintings, ſwoonings, gangroens and mortification, both of it's fleſh,as alſo put too- ther medicines for a vehicle. - there is this difference between the diſtilling of wine and vineger, wine beeing of anaie- rie and vaporous ſubſtance, that which is the beſt and moſt effectual in it, towit, the aierieand fierie liquor, com’s from it preſently at the firſt diſtillation.therefore the reſidue thatremain's in the bottom of the veſſel, is of a cold drie and acrid nature; on the contrarie,the water that com's firſt from vinegerbeeing diſtilled is inſipid and flegmatick. for vineger is made by * the corruption of wine, and the ſegregation of the fierie and aerie parts; wherefore the wine becoming ſowr, there remain's nothing of the former ſubſtance but phlegm; whereforeſte- ing phlegm is chiefly predominant in vineger, it firſt riſe's in diſtillation. wherefore heethat hope's to diſtil the ſpirit of vineger, hee muſt caſt away the phlegmatick ſubſtance,that firſt ſubſtance that firſt riſe's,and when by his taſte heeſhall perceiv the ſpirit of the vineger, hee ſhall keep the fire there-under,until the flowing liquor ſhall becom as thick as honie; thenmuſt the fire bee taken away, otherwiſe the burning of it will cauſa great ſtinch. the diſtilling the veſſels fit to diſtil aqua vile and vineger are divers, as an alembickor retort ſet in ſand a wº" or aſhes; a copper, or braſs-bottom of a stil, with a head thereto, having a pipe comming .." forth thereof which run's into a worm, or pipe faſt'ned in a barrel or veſſel filled with cold. water, and having the lower end commingforth thereof, whoſe figure wee ſhall give you when as wee com to ſpeak of the drawing of j. out of vegetables. - r - - * * * cha, lib. . of diſillations, _ … yº :::::::: ---tº: : y ::::: e:::::::: º: c. h. a. p. ix. - of the manner of retiifying,that is, how to increaſtheſtrength of waters,that have been once diſtilled. łºgo reëtifie the waters that have been diſtilled in balaeo marie, you muſt ſet them in *** ſº the sun in glaſſes well ſtopped and half filled, beeing ſet inſand to the third part $º of their height, that the water waxing hotby the heat of the sun may ſeparate it ºf ſelf from the phlegm mixed therewith, which will bee performed in . or . - daies, there is another better waieto do this, which is to diſtil them againin bal- neo with agentle fire,or if you will put them into a retort furniſhed with his receiver,and ſettlefºod. them upon chryſtal oriron-bowls, or in an iron-mortar direétly oppoſite to the beams of the sun, as you may learn by theſe enſuing ſigns. a retort with his receiver ſtanding upon chryſtal- another retort with his receiverſtanding inamar- bowls, juſt oppoſite to the sun-beams. ble or iron-mortar, direily oppoſite to the sun. sº §º - § º §: %= ſº ssº - zº - § a # = = nas * ſ se: e\ ne =slé ſ én a. shew's the retort. a. shew's the reſort. b. the receiver. b.the marble,or iron-mortar. c. the cryſtal bowls. c.the receiver. cº ---- cha p. x. of diſtillation by filtring. |ouſhall ſet three baſins or veſſels of convenient matter in that fite and order that yºº each may beehigher than others that which ſland's in the higheſt place, ſhalicon . nº º tein the liquor to bee diſtilled, and that which fiand's loweſt ſhall receiv the diſtil- *ś led liquor. out of the firſt and ſecond veſſel ſhall hangſhreds or pieces of cloth rcotten, with their broader ends in the liquor or upper veſſel; and the other ſharper ends "... the more ſubtil and defecate liquor may fall down by drops into the veſſel that ſland's under it, but the groſſer and more feculent part may ſubſide in the firſt and fºcond veſſel. you by this means may at the ſame time diſtil the ſame liquor diverstimes, if you placemanie veſſels one under another after the fore-mentioned manner,and ſo put ſhreds intº each of them, ſo that the loweſt veſſel may receiv the purified liquor. in ſtead of this di- ſtillation apothecaries oft-times uſebags. this manner of diſtillation was invented to make more clearandpure waters, and all jui-s cesand compoſitions,which are of ſuchaliquid confiſtence. you may take an example from -- - - ----- - - lac. virgini virgin's-mi ſide wºrlºis the deſcription ºf # to ; the diſtillation or which § *. §: ,ofia, right. ,------ ----- filtration byſhreds. r. litharg, auridiligenterpulveriſ. iii. macerentur in acetiboni žvi, tri- umburarum ſpatio, ſºorſmetiam in a- quaplantaginis, ſolani, roſarum, aut cºmmuni ſalinfundatur; then diffi! them both by ſhreds, then mixthe diſtilled liquors, and you ſhall. have that which for the milkie whiteneſs is termed virgin's milk, beeing good againſt the redneſs cºtt, ºf and pimples of the face, as weefsi. have noted in our antidotarie. a. shew's the veſſel. b. the cloths or ſhreds. - r r r cha. o -- . of tſiilations. lib. . c h a p. xi. what and how manie waies they are to make oil. rºž ou may by three means eſpecially draw to extract the oils that you defire. the firſtis oilsby ex- preſſion by expreſſion, and ſo are made the oils of olives, nuts, ſeeds, fruits and the like.un- der this is thought to bee conteined elixation, when as the beaten materials are boil- edin water, that ſo the oil may ſwim aloft, and by this means are made the oils of the ſeeds sy infilſon of elder and danewort, and of baie-berries. anotherisby infuſion, as that whichi by infil- ... fing the parts of plants and other things in oils.the third is by diſtillation,ſuch is that which : * is drawn by the heat of the fire, whetherby aſſcent or by deſcent, or by concourſ; the firſt waie is known by all; now it is thus, take almonds in their husks, beat them, work them into a maſs, then put them into a bagmade of hair, or elſ of ſtrong cloth firſt ſteeped in water or in white-wine,then put them into preſs and ſo extraćt their oil. you may dotheſame inpine- apple-kernels, hazel-nuts, coco-nuts, nutmegs, º -kernels, the ſeeds of gourds andal- clerº. cumbers, piſtick-nuts,andall ſuch oilie things. oil of baies maybee made of ripebait-barries tº” newly gathered let them beebeateninamortar and ſo boiled inadoubleveſ.landthinform. with put into preſs, ſo to extract oil as you do from almonds,unleſs you had rathergetitby boilingaswet have formerly noted. oile of fggs is made of the yelks of eggs boiled vs. richard when they are ſo, rubthem to pieces with your fingers, then frietiemina pano- ver agentle fire, continually ſtirring them with a ſpoon until they becomred, and theoilbre reſolved and flow from them; then put them into a hair-cloth, and ſopreſs forth theoil. the oils prepared by infuſion are thus made, make choiſ of good oil wherein let plants, or crea- tures, or the parts of them bee macerated for ſom convenient time, thatis, until they may ſeem to have transfuſed their faculties into the oil, then let them bee boiled, ſo ſtrainedor preſſed out. but if anie aquoſitieremain, let it beeevaporated by boiling. som incompoun- ding of oils add gums to them, of which though wee have formerly ſpoken in our antidota- rie, yet have i thought good to give you this one example. r. for byper. r gimmitlanlurinthi. ºil of s. alam cum flo, cent. & gum. elemi, an ii. oleicom.fb ii. let them bee expoſed all the heat of sūm- ” mertothesun. ifanie will add aqua vite whereinſom benzoin is diſſolved, he ſhali have a moſt excellent oil in this kind. oil of maſtich is made exoleiriſati xii, maſtich. iii. viniji. mi žviii. let them allbee boiled together to the conſumption of the wine, then ſtraintheoil and reſerv it in a veſſel. of eggs. w chap. xii. of extraffing ºf oils of vegetables by diſtillation. limoſtall herbs that carrie their flowers and ſeeds in an umble, have ſeeds of of a hot, ſubtil and alerieſúbſtance and conſequently dilie. now becauſthe oilieſ.b. yº: . § ſtance that is conteined in fimple bodiesis of two kindes; therefore the manneral- tºº. §§ ſo of extraćting is twofold. forfomis groſs, earthie, viſcous, and wholly conſu- *** ſedand mix with the bodies out of which they ought to bedrawn,as that which weehave ſaid is uſually extrated by expreſſion; thisbecauſit moſt tenaciouſly adhere'stothe groſſer ſubſtance, and part of the bodie,therefore it cannot by reaſon of this natural groſſneſs, bee lifted up, or aſcend. otherſom are of aſlender and aierieſubſtance,which is eaſily ſevered the firſt man. from theirbodie, whereforebeeing put to diſtillation it eaſily riſe's : ſuch is the onely ſub- ºf ſtance of aromatick things, as of juniper, aniſeeds, cloves, nutmegs, cinnamom, pepper, º: diſtil- ginger, and the likeodoriferous and ſpiciethings. this isthemanner of extraëting oils out of them; let your matterbee well beaten and infuſed in waterto that proportion, that fore- . verie pound of the material, there may bee ten pints of water; infuſe it in a ;: having a head thereto either tinned or filvered over, and furniſhed with a couller filled with cold-water. setyour veſſel upon a formacehaving a fire in it, or elſ in ſand, or aſhes. whena: the water conteined in the headſhall wax hot, you muſt draw it forth, and put in cold, that ſo the ſpirits may the betterbee condenſed, and may not ſlie away; you ſhall put a long-neckt. receiver to the noſe of the alembick,and you ſhall increaſthe fire, until the things contained in the alembick boil. ... there is another manner of performing this diſillation, the matter preſervedandinfuſed ** as week.ave formerly declared, ſhallbee put in abraſs or copper-bottom covered with his head, to which ſhall beefitted or well luted, a worm of tin, this worm wall run through a barrel filled with cold-water, that the liquor which flow's forth with the oil, maybee cooled in the flage forth; at the lowerend of this worm you ſhall ſet your receiver. the fire gentle at the firſt, ſhall bef increaſed by little and little, until the conteined matter, as weeformerly ſaid do boiſ; but takeheed that you make not too quick or vehementafire, for ſo the matterſwel- ingup by boiling may exceed the bounds of the conteining veſſel, and ſo violently file over. . ... obſerving theſe things, you ſhall preſently at the verie firſt ſee an oilie moiſture flowing forth together with the watfiſh. when the oil hath donowing which you may know by the color of the diſtilled º alſoby the conſiſtence and taſte, then put out the fire; and you may ſeparate the oil from the water by a little veſſel made like a thimble and tied to the end of a ſtick; lor, which isbetter, with a glaſs-funnel, or inſtrument made of glaſ for - the º % -> lib. . of tiſtillations, " * - - ---- . - - what oils fall f* the bottom the ſame purpoſe.]here you muſt alſo note that therebeeſon ºils that ſwim upon the top of the water; as oil of aniſeeds; otherſomon the contrarie, which fall to the bottom; as oil o cinnamom, mace, and cloves. - - moreover you muſt note, that the watriſh moiſture, or water that is diſtilled with oil of aniſted and cinnamom, is whitiſh, and in ſucceſs of time, will in ſom ſmall proportion turn into oil. alſo theſe waters muſt bee kept ſeveral,for they are far more excellent then thoſe that arºdiſtilled by falheum marie, eſpecially thoſe that firſt comforth together with the oil. oils are of the ſame faculties with the bodies from whence they are extraded, but much more eff:- àual, for the force which formerly was diffuſed in manie pounds of this, or that medicinºis after diſtillation contrated into a few drams. for example, the facultie that was diſperſed overi, pound of cloves, will bee contrated into two ounces of oil at the moſ; and that which was inapound of cinnamom will bee drawn into iſ. or ii. at the mºſt of oil. but jodraw the greater quantitiewith the leſſer charge, and without fear of breaking the veſſels, whereto glaſſes are ſubjećt, i like that you diſtil them in copper-veſſels, for you need not fear that the ºil which is diſtilled by them will contraćtan ill qualitie from the copper, for the wa; triſh moiſture that flow's forth togethertherewith will hinder it, eſpecially if the copper ſhall beetinnedor filvered over. i have thought good to deſcribe and ſet before your eyes, the whole manner of this operation. a fornace with ſet veſſels to extraći the chymical oils, or ſpirits of sage, roſemarie, tyme, lavander, aniſteds, fennel-ſeeds, cloves, nutmeg, cinnamom, pepper, ginger,and the like; ; alſo to diffil the ſpirit of wine, of vineger and aquavitz. in ſtead of the barrel and worm, you may uſe a head with a bucket or rowler about it. - w a. shew's the bottom, which ought to bee of copper and tinned on the in-ſide. b. the head. - / c. the barrel filled with coldwater to refrigerate and condenſate the water and oil that run through the pipe or worm that is put through it. - g d. a pipe of braſ, or lattin,or rather a worm of tin running through the barrel. e. the alembick ſet in the formace with the fire under it. j. now becauſweehave made mention of cinnamom, pepper, and other ſpices which grew nothere with us, i have thought good to deſcribe theſeout of thever's coſmographie, heeha- ving ſeen them growing pepper grow's upon ſhrubs in india, theſe ſhrubs ſend forth little bran- ches whereon hang cluſters of berries,like to ivie-berries, or bunches of ſmall black grapes, or currans the leavs are like thoſe of the citron-tree, but ſharpiſhand pricking. the indians gather thoſeberries with great diligence, and ſtow them up in large cellars, as ſoon as they comto perfeół maturitie. wherefore it oft-times happen's, that there are more then ſhips upon the coaſt of the leſſer iava an iſland of that countrie, to carrie thence pep- perand otherſpices. pepper is uſed in antidotes againſt poiſons, it provoke's urine, digeſts, ſº ſº. attract's, reſolv's, and cure's the bites of serpents. it is properly applied and taken inwardly * againſt a cold ſtomach; in ſauces it help's concoëtion and procure's appetite; you muſt make shoiſ of ſuch as is black, heavie, and not flaccid. the trees which bear, white, and thoſe that bear black pepper, are ſo like each other, that the natives themſelvs know not which is which, unleſs when they have their fruit hanging upon them, as the like happen's upon our vines which bear white and black grapes. -t . . . * * - - the frce that yeeld's cinnamom grow's in the mountain's of india.andhath leavāverie like reciº. " tobaie-leavsåbranches and ſhoots at certain times of the year are cut from this tree, by the ap-*. pointment of the king of that province, the bark of which is that weeterm cinnamom.this is ſold to noſtranger unleſs at the king's pleaſure and hee ſetting the price thereof, it is not lawful for others to cut thereof. -----.” * . . . . y -- galen - --- --- on of pepper. - - of tſillations. lib. . . ſimp, galenwrite's that cinnamom is of verie ſubtil parts, hot in the third degree, and partaking of ſom aſtrićtion; therefore it cut's and diſſolv's the excrements of the bodie, ſtrengthen's the parts, provoke's the courſes when as they ſtop by reaſon of the admixture of groſs humors; it ſweeten's the breath, and yeeld's a fine taſte and ſmell to medicines, hippocras, and ſauces. of cinnamon there is made an excellent water againſt all cold diſeaſes, & alſo againſt ſwoonings, an excellent the plague and poiſons. the compoſition thereof is this. take of the choiſeſt and beſt cinna- .* mom one pound, beat it groſly, and put thereto of roſe-water four pintes,of white-winehalf a pinte, beeing thus mixed, put them into a glaſs and ſo let them ſtand in infuſion hours, often ſtirring of them. then diſtil them in balneo marie, cloſely luting the receiver aridweſſels leſt the ſpirit ſhould flie away. - c h a p. xiii. avothermanner bow to draw the eſſence and ſpirits of herbs, flowers, ſeeds,andſpices; as alſº of ku- barb, agarick, turbith, hermodafiyli, and other purgers. |ou may extraët the eſſences and ſpirits of the things mentioned in the title of this chapter,as thus. take sugar, Å. cinnamom, or anie other material you º pleaſ; cut it ſmall, or elſbeat it, then put it into a glaſs with along neck, and § pourthereupon as much aquavite as ſhallbee ſufficient to cover the materials or * ingredients, and to over-top them ſomfingers bredth, then ſtop upthe glaſs verie cloſe that no air enter thereinto; thus ſuffer it to infuſe foreight daies in balne, with averie gentle heat; for thus the aqua vite will extračt the faculties of the ingredients, whid you ſhall know that it hath don, when as you ſhall ſee it perfe&ly tindtured with the color of the ingre- a ſigneuttle dients. the eight daies ended, you ſhall put this ſame aquavite into another veſſel filled with §... the like quantitieof the ſame materials prepared after the ſame manner, that it may alſo take tº forth the tinture thereof, and do thus three or fourtimes, untilitheaquavitebee deeply tin- jºº &ured with the color of the infuſed ingredients. - but if the materials from whence you deſire to extra&this ſpiritoreſſence,bee ofgreat prict, as lignum aloés, rubarb, &c. you muſt not think itſufficient to infuſe it once onely, butyou muſt go over it twice, or thrices until all the efficacie bee exſtraćted out thereof; you may know that it is all wholly inſipid. theſe things thus don,as is fitting,put all the liquor tinăured andfurniſhed with the color flººr. and ſtrength of the ingredients, into an alembick, fitted and cloſely luted to it's head, and ents ºvel'ſ ſo put into balneum marie, that ſo you may extrað or draw off the aqua vite, to keep for the their ſtrength, like purpoſe,and ſo you ſhallhave the ſpirit, and eſſence remaining in the bottom. now if you deſire to bring this extratt to the height of honie, ſet it in an earthen-pot well leaded, upon hot aſhes, ſo that the thin.. thereof maybee evaporated; for thus at length, you ſhall have a moſt noble and effectual eſſence of that thing which you have diſtilled,where- of one ſcruple willbee morepowerful in purging,then two or three drams of the thing its ſelf c h a p. xiv. … * how to extraći oil out of gums, condenſed juices, and roſins, as alſo out of ſºm woods. ll oils that are drawn out of gums,oilie-woods and metals, are extraćted by that veſſel which wee vulgarly term a retort. it muſt beenade of glaſs, or jugs-metal well leaded, and of ſuch bigneſs as ſhallbee convenient for the operation you intend, though commonly it ſhould beenade to hold ſom gallon and an half of water; the neck thereofmuſt beeafoot and a half, or at leaſt a foot long. the receiver is commonly avial whereinto the neck of the re- tortisfitted and inſerted. then the retort ſhall bee ſet in an earthenpan filled with aſhes, or ſand, and ſº ſet into a furnace, as you may ſee by thefollowing figure. . the figure of a furnace, with his earthen-pan and receiver. what a re- tortis, & ãºr ift: § htt ## - a. shew's the formace, § § u- ta) t fº # # º b. the earlberta, or veſſel tº ſettle rewriis c. the retort or cucurbite. d. the receiver. f e.i l e= e - §- of —------ . * . | e.tofdt. ; -* of gums, ſom are liquid, ſom ſolid; and of the ſolid; ſom are more ſolid then otherſom; ºr: ºdioſe that are ſolid are more troubleſomtodiſtil then the liquid, for they are not ſo eaſily diſ.” ſolved ormelted, neither do they yeeld ſo well to the fire, ſo that oft-times they are burnt be- ºfore they bee diſſolved; whence it is that ſomfor everie pound of ſolid gum add two or three,..., nds of moſt clear and liquid oil of turpentine. beſides, liquid things are alſo hard to beeš.j idiſtilled, becauf when as they com to bee throughly hot at the fire, they ſwellup ſomuch,that gums -they exceed,or run out of the retort, and ſo fall into the receiver, as they were put into the . . ..., -retort,eſpecially it ſo beethat the firebee too hot at the firſt manie to ſhun this inconvenience . . . add to the things put into the retort, ſom ſand, as it were, tobalaſt it withal. ºf - o:oil of rofinandturpentine is thus made;take two of three pounds of turpentifie;and put lººke it into a retort of ſuch largeneſs that three parts thereof might remainemptie, and for everie º ºut. pound of turpentine add three or four'ountes of ſand; then place the retortin an earthen- pan,filled with fifted aſhes, and ſet it upon the formaceasis fit; and to the meckthereof fit and * * cloſely lute a receiver. laſtly kindlethere-under a ſoft fireat the firſtyleſt the conteined ma- - terials ſhould run over; increaſ this fireby little and little, and take heed that the thingsbe- , , , commottoo hot on a ſudden. at the firſt, a clearandaciddiquor will drop out, whereinacer. * * tain ſediment uſe's to concrete; then will flow.forth a moſt clear oil, ſombatſ reſembling the watrie and phlegmatick liquor; then muſbthe firebeeſomwhat increaſed, that the third bilie, clear,thin and verie golden coſored liquor may riſe and diſtil; but then alſo a clearer and more violent fire muſt bee raiſed; that ſo you may extraët-an-oil that will beered like a carbºnele, andofa conſiſtence indifferently thick. thus therefore you may extraº-four kindes of li- quors our of turpentine, and receiv them beeing different in ſeveral receivers; yet i judg it better to recciv them all in one, that ſoby diſtilling them again afterwards you may ſeparate your deſired oil ; now there will ten or twelv ounces of oil flow from an ounce of tur- pentine. this kinde of oil is effectual againſt the palfie; convulſions, punčtures df the nervs, and wounds of all the nervous parts. -- ***, . . . . . . . " "... “but yourſhall thus extra&oilout of wax; take one pound of wax, ſhelf its and put it into hoytomke a glaſs-retort ſet in ſand, or aſhes, as weementioned a little before in drawingofoil of tur-" pentine, then diſtilit, by increaſing the fire by degrees. there diſtil's nothing forth of wax, beſides an oilie ſubſtance and a little phlegma; yet portion of this oilie ſubſtance preſently con- crete's into a certain butter-likematter, which therefore would bee diſtilled over again; you . . . . . -- . . . . . . . . . . . . may draw vi. or viii. of oil, from one pound of wax, this oil is effectual againſt contuſions, and alſo veriegood againſtcold affºls. . c; ºi * ...is — + " - * *, * : * º c h a. p. xv. . . . . . . . . . . . . * of extraffing of oil out of the harder ſºrts of gums; as myrrh, maſtich, frankincenſ, and the like. m there bee who extraćt theſe kindes of oils with the retort ſet in aſhes or ſand, as sºweenentioned in the former chapter of oils of more liquid gums, adding for everie. * pound of gumtwo pintes of aqud wite,and two or three ounces of oil of turpentine, then let them infuſe for eight or ten daics in balneo marie; or elſ in horſ-dung; then ſet it to diſtilina retort. now this is the truemanner of making of oils of myrrh; take, myrrh how tomake made into fine powder, and therewith fill hard eggs in ſtead of their yelks beeing taken out; **** then place the eggs upon a gridiron's or ſuch like grate in ſon, moiſt place as a cellar, and ſet under them a leaden-earthen-pan; the myrrh will diſſolv into an oilie-water, which beeing preſently put into a glaſs and well ſteppedº with an equal quantitie of re- &tified aquavite, and ſo ſet for three or four months in hòº horſ-dung, which paſt the veſſel ſhallbee taken forth, and ſo ſtopped that the conteined liquor may bee poured into an alembick, for there will certain groſs ſettling by this means remain in the bottom, then ſet your alembick in balneo and ſo draw off the agua vite and phlegmatick liquor, ºf and there will remain in the bottom a pure and clear oil; whereto you may give a curious coºl" lor by mixing therewith ſom alkanet, and a ſmell by dropping thereinto a little oil of sage,” cinnamom, or cloves. - - - “ . ... "..., zºrrº. - now letus ſhºw the compoſition and manner of making of balſañºs by º e ot two examples; the firſt of which is taken out of veſalius his surgerie; and is: #. º r. terebinth ºpt. fši. ol, laurini žiiii.gunſelem. iiiiſ, thurii, myrrha, gum. bered; ºil. à ºna-rºuti, --- - ºw º, ºr º joris, ligni aloes, an: iii. galange, caryophyll, conſolide majorii, cinnamºmi, nºir meſchafºxedºrie," zinzib. dičíamni albi, an: i olei vermium terreſtrium, #ii. aqua vite fibvi., , ; ; ; ii |l. the manner of making it is this; let all theſe things bee beaten and made º, d’ſo in: fuſed for thee daies ſpace in aqua vite, then diſtilled in a retort juſt as wee ſaid, you muſt diſtil oil of turpentine and wax. there will flow hence three ſorts of liquors; the firſt wa- triſh and clear, the other thin, and of pure golden color: the third of the color of a car- buncle, which is the true balſam. the firſt liquor is effečtual againſt the weakneſs of the ſtomach comming of a cold cauſ, for that it cut's phlegm and diſcuſſe's flatulencies; the ſº- cond help's freſh and hot bleeding wounds, as alſo the palſie. the third is chiefly effectual againſ; theſe ſame effects. the compoſition of the following balſamum is out of fallopius ; and pººl. his is this, ‘k, terebinth, clare, ib, ii. olei de ſemine lini ſb, i, refine fini, vii, thurii, myrrhe, º balſams maſticheſ, . of tiftillations. lib. . maſtiches, ſarcocolle, an: iii, macis, ligni aloes, an: ii. croti, . let them all bre putino aglaſ- retort, ſet in aſhes and ſo diſtilled firſt there will comforth a clear water, then preſenly after what fran- lfincenſ is. the faculties thereof, the ſign of perſectly calci. ned vitriot, a reddiſh oil, moſt profitable for wounds. - now you muſt know that by this means, wee may eaſily diſtil all axungia's, fats, parts of creatures, woods, all kindes of barks and ſeeds, if ſobee that they bee firſt macerated as they ought to bee, yet ſo that there will comforth more watrie then oilie humiditie.now for that wee formerly frequently mentioned ibus or frankingenſ, i have here thought good outofthe- vet's coſmographie to give you the deſcription of the tree from which it flow's the fran- kincenſ-tree (ſaith hee) grow's naturally in arabia, reſemble's a pine, yetldingamoiſturethat is preſently hardened, and it concrete's into whitiſh clear grains, fattie within, which caſtinto ... the fire, take flame. now frankincenſis adulerated with pine-roſin and gum, which is the cauſ that you ſhall ſeldom finde that with us, as it is here deſcribed}youmayfind out the de- ceit as thus, for that neither roſin noranieother gum take's flame, for rofinºf: w ſmoak, but frankincenſ preſently burn's. the ſmell alſo bewrait's the counterfeit,for it yeld's no grateful ſmell as frankincenſdoth. the arabians wound the tree that ſo the liquor may the more readily flow forth, whereof . make great gain. it fill's uphollow ulcers and cica- trize’s them wherefore it enter's as achief ingredient into artificial balſam; frankincºnſalon made into powder and applied, ſtanche's theblood that flow's out of the wounds. * ..., mathiolus ſaith, that it beeing mixed with fuller's-earth, and oil of roſes, is a ſingular re- medie againſt the inflammation of the breaſts of women lately delivered of childe. - c. h. a. p. xvi. - the making of oil of vitriol. tº aketen pounds of vitriol, which beeing made into powder.put itinto an earthin- º § pot, and ſet it upon hot coals, untill it bee calcined, which is when as it becom lºſº reddiſh; after ſom five or ſix hours, when as it ſhallbee throughly cold, breakth: º' pot, and let the vitriolbee again made into powder, that ſo it may be calcind again, and you ſhall do thus ſo often and long until it ſhall bee perfeótly calcined, which is when as it ſhallbee exačtly red; then let it bee made into powder, and put into an earthen-re- tort, like that wherein aqua fortà is uſually drawn, adding foreverie pound of your calcined vitriol of tile-ſhreds, or powdered-brick quarter; then put the retort furniſhed with it's re- ceiver into a fornace of reverberation, alwaies keeping a ſtrong fire, and that for the ſpace of . hours, more or leſs according to the manner and plentie of the diſtilling liquor. youſhall know the diſtillation is finiſhed when as the receiver ſhall begin to recover his native perſpi. cuitie,beeing not now filled with vaporous ſpirits, wherewith as long as the humor diſtil's itis repleniſhed and look's white. now for the receiverthere are two things to bee obſerved. the firſt is,that it beegreat and verie capacious, that it may not beediſtended and broken by the abundant flowing of vapo. rous ſpirits, as it doth oft-times happen; another thing is, that you ſet it in a veſſel filled with fold water, left it ſhould bee broken by beeing over hot; you may eaſily perceiv all this by the enſuing figure. w a fornace or reverberation furniſhed with his retort and receiver. a. shew's the fernace. b. the retort. c. the receiver. d. the veſſel filled with cºllweg, chap. lºº." of dillion. - º, **i. * *** tº it º tºº, º - d.º. ºf: i. im aſ ºr "illº. c h a p. xv ii. a table or catalogue of medicines and inſtruments ſerving for the cure of diſeaſes. mäjº and medicinal meats fit for the cure of diſeaſes, are taken from living ..] v creatures, plants and minerals. from living creatures are taken, horns. howvs. hairs. feathers. shells. sculls. scales. sweats. skins. fats. fleſh. blood. entrails. z/rine. bones. extreme parts. hearts. liver. lungs. brain. womb. secundine. teſticles. pizzle.bladder sperm. tail. coats of the ventricle.exſpirations. briſtles. silk. webs. tears. spittle. honie.wax.eggs. milk. butter, cheeſ. marrow. rennet. º - -- smells whether they bee ſtinking or ſweet,as alſo poiſons:whole creatures themſelve: as, foxes. whelps. hedg-hogs.frogs. worms.crabs.craie-fiſhes. scorpions.horſleeches. swallowſ:pungſ. -- from plants, that is, trees, shrubs, and herbs, are taken roots. moſs. pitb. siens. buds. stalks. leavs. flowers. cups. fibers, or hairie-threds. ears. seeds. bark. wood. meal.juices. tears. oils. gums. roſins. rottenneſs. maſ; or ſpiſſament. manna, which falling dºwn like dew upon plants, preſently concrete's. whole plants, as mallows. onions, &c. metals, or minerals, are taken either from the water, or earth, and are either kindes of earth, stones, or metals, &c. the kindes of earth are, - bole–armenick terra ſigillata. fuller's-earth. chaulk, okar. plaſter. lime. - now the kindes of stones are flints. lapis judaicus. lapis lyncis. the pumice. lap. hamatites. amiantus. galaćtites. spunge-ſtones. diamonds. saphire. chryſolite. topace. load-ſtone. the pyrites or fire-ſtone. alablaſter. marble. cryſtal, and manie other pretious ſtones. - . the kindes of salts as well natural as artificial are common ſalt sal nitrum. sal alkali. sal ammoniacum. salt of urine. salt of tartar and gene- rally all ſalts that may bee # anie kinde of plants. thoſe that are commonly called minerals are marchaſite. antimonie. muſcovic-glaſ, tuttie. afſnick. orpiment. lazure, or blue. roſe-agar. brim- ſtone. quick-ſilver. white-copras. chalcitis. pſorie. roman vitriol. colcother, vitriol, or green co- peras. alumen ſciſſile,common alum. alumen rotundum. round alum. alumen liquidum. alumen plumoſum. borax, or burrace. bitumen, naphtha. cinnabaris, or vermillion. lytharge of gold. lytharge of silver:chryſocolla.scandaracha. red-lead. white-lead, and divers other. now the metals themſelvs are gold, silver, iron, lead, tin, braſſ, copper, steel, lattin and ſuch as ariſe from theſe ; as the ſcales, verdigreaſ, ruſt, &c. . - * * * now from the waters; as the sea, riyers, lakes and fountains, and the mud of theſe wa- ters, are taken divers medicines, as white and red corral, pearls, and infinite other things which nature the hand-maid of the great architeå of this world, hath produced for the cure of diſeaſes; ſo that into what partſoever you turn your eies, whether to the ſurface of the earth, or the bowels thereof, a great multitude of remedies preſent themſelvsto your view.the choiſ of all which is taken from their ſubſtance, or quantitie, qualitie, ačtion, place, ſeaſon, ſmell,taſte,fite,figure,and weight,other circumſtances,as sylvius hath abundantly ſhewed in his book written upon this subjećts. of theſe simples are made diverſ compoſitions ; as, collyria. caputpurgia. eclegmata. dentifrices. dentiſcalpia. apophlegmatiſmi. gargariſmſ. pills. boles. potions. emplaſters. unguents. cerats. liniments. embrocations. fomentations. epithemes. attrađives. reſolvers. suppuratives. emollients. mundificatives. incarnatives.cicatrizers. putrifierſ. - corroſives. agglutinatives. anodynes. apozemes. julips. syrups. powders. tablets. opiatt. conſervº. preſervs. confe:iions. rowls. vomits. sternutatories. sudorificks. glyffers. peſſaries. suppoſitories.fu- migations. trochiſees. frontrals. caps. stomachers. bags. baths. half-baths. virgini-milk. fuci, pi- cations. depilatories, veſicatories. potential cauteries. noſe-gaies. fans. canopies, or extended cloths to make winde. artificial fountains, to diſtil or drop down liquors. - now theſe that are thought to beenouriſhing medicines, are, reſtauratives. culliſes. expreſſions. gellies. ptiſans. barlie-creams. panadoes.almond-milk; march- pains. wafers. hydroſacchar. hydromel, and ſuch other drinks. mucilages.oxymel. oxycrate. roſe- wineger. hydra:lium. metheglin. cider. drink of serviſes, ale. beer. vineger. verjuice. oil. steeled- water. water brewed with bread-crums. hippocras, perrie, and ſuch like. º waters and diſtilled oils, and divers other chymical extraćtions. - as the waters and oils of hot, drie and aromatick things, drawn in a copper-alembick,with acooler, with ten times as much water in weight as of herbs; now the herbs muſt bee drie,that the diſtillation may the better ſucceed. - - waters are extraćted out of flowers put into a retort, by the heat of the sun, or of dung; or of an heap of preſſed-outgrapes, orby balneo, if there bee a receiver put and cloſely luted thereto. ºf... of ſalt of things calcined, diſſolved in water, and twice or thrice filtred, that ſo they may becom more pure and fit to yeeld oil. other diſtillations are made eitherin cellars by the coldneſs or moiſture of the place, the things beeing laideither upon a marble, or elf hanged up in a bag; and thus is made oil of tartar, and of ſalts, and other things of an aluminous nature. - bones muſt bee diſtilled by deſcent, or by the joining together ofveſſels, all woods, §: rkº, of tiſtillatons. lib. . barks, ſhells of fiſhes, and ſeed, or grains; as of corn, broom, beans, and other things whoſe juice cannot bee got outby expreſſion, muſt bee diſtilled by deſcent, or by the joining together of veſſels in a reverberatorie fornace. - - metals calcined and having acquired the nature of ſalt, ought to bee diſſolved and filtred, and then evaporated till they bee drie; then let them.bee diſſolved in diſtilled vineger, and them evaporated and dried again; for ſo they will eaſily diſtil in a cellar upon a marble, or in a bag.orelſby putting them into a glaſſiehetort and ſetting it in ſand,and ſo giving fire thereto by degrees until all the waterie humiditiebee diſtilled; then change the receiver, and lute ano- ther cloſe to the retort,then increaſ the fire above and below, and thus there will flow forth an oil verie red colored: thus are all metalline things diſtilled, as alums, ſalts, &c. gums, axungie, and generally all rofins are diſtilled by retort ſet in an earthen veſſel filled with aſhes upon a fornace; now the fire muſt bee increaſedby little and little according to the different condition of the diſtilled matters. the veſſels and inſtruments ſerving for diſtillations are commonly theſe. bottoms of alembicks. the heads of them, from whence the liquors drop. refrigeratories. weſſels for ſublimation. for reverberation. for diſtilling by deſcent. crucibiles and other ſuch. veſſels for calcination. hair-ſtrainers. bags. earthen-platters. weſſels for circulati. on, as pelicanes. earthen-bafins for filtring. fornaces. the ſecret fornaces of philoſo- phers. the philoſopher's egg. cucurbites. retorts. bolt-heads. urinals. receivers. veſ. ſels ſo fittted together that the lowermoſt receiv's the mouth of the uppermoſt, whence they may bee termed conjoined veſſels: they are uſed in diſtilling per deſcenſºm. marbs exquiſitely ſmooth for diſtillations to bee made in cellars. pots to diſſolv calcined metalls in. acatalogue of the surgeon's inſtruments mentioned in this whole work ings wherein little lancets lie hid, to open impoſtumes. trunks or hollow inſtru- ſtruments going with ſprings. . avent, or cooler for the womb made like a peſſarie. § hollow tents. sundrie canteries; as flat, round, ſharp-pointed, cutting,&c. con- - t ſtrićtorie rings to twitch orbinde the columella. speculum oris. ocul, ani. vitri. a trunk or pipe with an adual cauterie in it. crooked knives. a pipe in form of a quill. divers truſſes, with one or more boulſters. a ſhoulder-band to bee put about the neck, to hold up a truſs. a needle to draw through a golden wier, &c. pipes with feneſtels, and needls fit for ſutures. cutting mullets. mullets onely to hold and not to cut. mullets to take forth ſplinters of bones. mullets to draw teeth. an inciſion-knife. scrapers to plain or ſmooth the bones, or elf to cut them. cutting or hollow scrapers. a leaden mallet to drive the scrapers or chizzels into the ſcull. a gimblet in ſhape and uſe reſembling that which coopers uſe to lift up the ſunk ſtaves of their cask withal. levatories, of which kinde is the three-footed one. old levatories, which taken by their handls, and their tongues put under the depreſt bones, lift them up. "saws. a deſguamatorie trepan. pliers to take forth ſplinters of bones. a gimblet to perforate the ſcull. a trepan fit to divide the ſcull, with the ſcrue,point,or piercer, brace, and cover or cap that keep's it from running in too far. a plate to ſet one foot of the compaſs upon. a cutting pair of compaſſes both open and ſhut. a fit inſtrument to depreſs the duramater without hurting thereof. a ſyringe to make inještion withal. a pair of pincers with holes through them to take up the skin for making a seton. setons as well drie,as moiſtned with ointments. the beaks of crows, parrats,swans,ducks, lizards,cranes, are either ſtraight,crooked,toothed,or ſmooth. catch-bullets, and pliers to draw forth pieces of mail,and ſplinters of bones that lie deep in. hollow and ſmooth dilaters diverſly made for the different wounds of the parts. probes fit for to putflamula's into wounds; and theſe are either ſtraight or crooked, perforated or unperforated. scrued mullets to draw forth barbed heads of arrows, and the like. lancets to let blood, and ſcarrifie as well ſtraight, as crooked. a pyulcos,or matter-drawer. ligatures,bands,ſwathes,thongs of leather,woollen, linnen, round, ſlit, ſown together; again ſom are upper-binders, others under-binders. again theſe are either expreſſing, or elſconteining,and that either the applied medicine,or the lips of wounds, or members put in a fit poſture,which therefore they call a ſarcotick ligature. thred. bottoms,or clews of thred,or yarn. pledgets,compreſſes, boulſters,doubled cloaths. ferule,or splints. caſſes. boxes. junks. gloſſocomies. ambia kinde of gloſſocomie. a pullie with it's wheels,and wooden and iron-pins,whereon the wheels may run. ropes as well to draw & extend,as hold up the member,&c. scrue-pins. a hand-vice. hooks. buttons or ſtaiesto fa- ſten to the skin to hold together the lips of the wounds. lint. cuſhions pillows,linnen-cloths. files. dentiſcalpia, dentifritia, dentiſpiſtia. catheters,guiders of the work. abathing chair or feat,bathing-tubs,half-tubs,caldrons funnels,with all other circumſtances belonging to a bath. stoves, or hot-houſes to ſweatin. cocks to turn and let out water. a gimblet to break the w - º §§ -> ſtone. hooks. hollow probes ſlit on the upper-fides. winged inſtrumentstodraw forth ſtones. an inſtrument to jº the bladder. spathula's ſtraight and crooked cupping-glaſſes. horns. pipes or catheters to wear caruncles. artificial members, as eies of goldenamelled, &c. an rinal, or caſe to ſave the water in. an artificial yard. crutches. nipples, or leaden covers for ſorebreaſis. griffins talons to draw forth a mola,out of the womb. a ſucking-glaſs to raw a breaſt withal. peſſaries, both longandoval. syringes to give glyſters,as alſo to make *jcótion into the ears and womb. - - the ln . - - *:::::: **:::: * ::s "rºus *:::: ºr tº: *** * º: º: -- nº ºr is: º: +++ tº sº *:::iii ºff. ºrs a ºr t. wrºfit. *:::::: sº zºu º gº! º …' ºntº exºcº ºf ſº- :wº **** º lizº the effigies of h p poc r a t e s of côof . the prince of phyſicians, : - - -- - - - - - - . . . . . . . . … ºvictum (hippocrates)auðdte potuere ſuperhe # eoinunquam federe regis opes, "'. * cecropidefrontiex aurofulgente coronam ºf ... promeritimemores impoſueretua, º, ºl. . . tº jº gratia fed levi, eit, adeistanius &m thenis ºf . c fuit hincuni quantibipartus honos. ..." amºu’d quarecreentlanguentia corpora. morbo. - wonias fueri, promere largus oper. ... ºf sº i' ºf * sedºutamfundiºnum magnimachinamund - ---, ------ r ** : ... --- . . . . .” “.. -ºš i : a atta, & inſignis tim tuaſama volat. ii, .tºs º - .*. - - -qº. cº º - * * : * ºrio ori- ºf-y-... :: * ~ vºtion ºf d. º. ºn - - - - - -º- - - - - - - - - - -- * ..., at . . ..ſº º cººr rºº ſº.º.º is a tºti i is . a … .º.º. ) bon. gra. paris, medic. s r s ſ ſ select p. sº-t - = ºr- t lº. . the effigies of g a l e n the prince of phyſi- cians next to h p p o c r a t e s, x- jquum erat hippocratem divinoë ſemine divām, § orbem mumeribus conciliare ſibi: bº scriptaſed involvittammulto a nigmate, verum º 'ut quamvis ſolers nullu haberequeat; “ ‘pergame auxilio nift ſint monimenta galeni, qui doſia ambages ſºftulit arte ſeni, ergº made eſto virtute, arcana reſolvens, que nulli fuerant nota (galene) priºr; obſiringénſque orhem aterno tibi munere totum, aetermis ſacra, te quoque temporibu, bon. gra, par s. medic. s ſſ . rules - liaº. **************śras tºº:::::::::::::::::::::: rules of surgerie by the autor. p. is an operation agreeable to the their legs, neitherto walk, ſtand norfit, but rules and laws of the theorie. to reſt themſelvs in bed. health is not received by words, but by all biting and acrid medicines are of. remedies fitly uſed. fenſive to clean ulcers. remedies known and approoved by uſe , for reſtoring of diſlocations you muſt and reaſon, are to bee preferred before ſuch as hold them faſt, ſtretch them out, and force are unknown, or but lately found out. them in. science without experience get's the a great gangrene admit's no cure, but phyſician no great credit with the patient. , cutting. hee that would j anie great and a monſteris a thing diſſenting from the notable work, muſt diligently applie himſelf laws of nature. to the knowledg of his ſubjećt. wounds of the cheſt preſently becom . it is the part of a good phyſician to heal ſaniousandpurulent. the diſeaſ, or certainly to bring it to a better the wounds made by all venemous crea- paſs, as nature ſhall give leav. . tures are dangerous. . thesurgeon muſt beeačtive, induſtrious, . the ſouth-winde blowing, wounded and well-handed, and not truſt too much to members eaſily becommortified. books. such as are wounded, and defire to bee hee that hath not been verſed in the ope- quickly whole, muſt keep a ſpare diet. rations of the art, nor a frequent auditor of untemperate bodies do not eaſily reco- the leôtures of ſuch as are learned therein, and ver of diſeaſes. ſet's forth himſelf for a brave surgeon for round ulcers,unleſs they bee drawn in- that hee hath readmuch, hee is either much de- to another figure, do not eafily heal up. ceived or impudent. - an eryſipelatous ulcer require's purga- heeſhall never do anie thing praiſ-wer-gation by .." thie, that hath got his maſterie in surgerie by crying is good for an infant,for itſerv's gold, not by uſe. inſtead of exerciſe and evacuation. o you ſhall comfort the patient with hope grief is good for none but ſuch as are of recoverie, even when as there is danger verie fat. - of death. idleneſs weaken's and exſtinguiſheth the tochange phyſicians and surgeons is native heat. troubleſom,but not good for the patient. . an ill-natured ulcer yeeld's not unleſs though the diſeaſ proov long, yet it is to a powerful remedie. not fit that the phyficians give over the patient a bath reſolv’s and diſcuſſes humors, great wounds of large veſſels are to bee and gently procure's ſweat. judged deadlie. cold diſeaſes are troubleſom to old everie contuſion muſt bee brought to people, and hard to bee helped; but in young ſuppuration. es they are neither ſo troubleſom, nor as the nature or kinde of the diſeaſ muſt contumacious. - bee known, ſo alſo muſt the remedie. exerciſed bodies are leſs ſubjećt to diſeaſes an abſceſs of the bone of the palat, is moiſt bodies though they need ſmall in danger to cauſa ſtinking-breath. nouriſhment, yet ſtand they in need of large . bleeding cauſed by heat muſt bee re-evacuation. preſt by cold. . sickpeople die ſooner of an hot diſtem- wounds of nervous parts require medi- per then of a cold, by reaſon of the quick and cines which by the ſubtiltie of the parts may aćtive operation of fire. enter in and draw from far. the quitture that flow's from an ulcer is it is not fit for ſuch as have ulcers in laudable,which is white, ſmooth and equal. the end of the twentie ſeventh book. lib. . - - - --- |||ſ: Ériº *** how to make reports, and to embalm the dead. the twentie eighth book. - - w it onely remain's that wee inſtrućt the surgeon in making and framing his re- º: port, or opinion, either of the death of anie perſon, or of the weakneſs, or depriva-jº. § vation of anie member in the funétion or execution of its proper office and dutie.º.of re. herein it is meet that heebee verie confiderate that is to ſaie, ingenious or wiſe in” making his report, becauſ the events of diſeaſes are often-times doubtful and uncertain, nei- ther can anie man fore-tel them certainly, whether they will bee for life or death, by reaſon of thenianifold nature of the ſubjet of which wee ſpeak, and alſo the uncertain condition of the humors both in their kinde and motion. which was the cauſ why hippocrates even in the what judg: firſt of his aphoriſms pronounceth, that judgment is difficult. but firſt of all, it is verie expe-j" diffi- dient that a surgeon bee of an honeſt minde, that hee may alwaies have before his eies a care- ful regard of true pietie; that is to ſaie, the fear of god and faith in chriſt, and love toward his neighbors, with hope of life everlaſting, leſt that hee beeing carried away by favor, or cor- rupted with monie or rewards, ſhould affirm or teſtifie thoſe wounds to beeſmall that are great, and thoſe great that are ſmall; for the report of the wound is received of the surgeon accord- ing to the civil law. it is recorded in the works of antient phyſicians that wounds may bee called great forwoºdstº: three reſpe&s. - :*.; the firſt is by reaſon of the greatneſs of the diſſolved unitie or reſolution of continuitie; and ſuch are theſe wounds which made by a violent ſtroke with a back-ſword have cut off the arm, or leg, or overthwart the breaſt. the ſecond is by reaſon of the dignitie or worthineſs of the part; now this dignitie dependeth on the excellencie of the aëtion; therefore thus anie little wound made with a bodkin, knife, in anie part whoſe ſubſtance is noble : as in brain, heart, liver or anie other part whoſe ačtion and funètion is neceſſarie to preſerv life, as in the weaſant, ſungs, or bladder, is judged great. the third is , by reaſon of the great- neſs and ill habit, or the abundance of ill humors or debilitie of all the wounded bodie; ſo thoſe wounds that are made in the nervous parts, and old decaied people, are ſaid to bee great. but in ſearching of wounds let the surgeon take heed that hee bee not deceived by his probe. for manie times it cannot go into the bottom of the wound but ſtoppeth, and ſticketh in the waie, either becauſ heehath not placed the patient in the ſame poſture, wherein hee was when hee received his hurt; or elſ for that the ſtroke beeing made down right, ſlipt aſide to the right or left hand, or elſ from below upwards, or from above downwards, and then hee may exſpeat that the wound is but little and will bee cured in a ſhort time, when it is like to bee long in curing, or elſmortal. therefore from the firſt daie it behoov-howlong a eth him to ſuſpend his judgment of the wound until the ninth, for in time the accidents ; º will ſhew themſelvs manifeſtly, whether they bee ſmall or great, according to the condition judgment in of the wound, or wounded bodies, and the ſtate of the air according to his primitive quali- ** ties, or venemous corruption. .* but generally the ſigns, whereby wee may judgof diſeaſes, whether they bee great or ſmall, cºlºr, of long or ſhort continuance, mortal or not mortal, are four. for they are drawn eitherwhereas by. from the nature and effence of the diſeaſ, or from the cauſor effe&s thereof, orelſ from the fi-º" militude, proportion, and compariſon of thoſe diſeaſes with the ſeaſon or preſent conſtitution of the times. therefore if wee are called to the cure of a green wound,whoſe nature and dan- ger is no other but a ſimple ſolution of continuitie in the muſculous fleſh, wee may preſent- ly pronounce that wound to bee of no danger, and that it will ſoon beecured. but if it have an ulcer annexed unto it,that is, if it bee ſanious, then wee may ſaie it will beenore difficult and long in curing; and ſo wee may pronounce of all diſeaſes,taking a ſign of their eſſence and nature. but of the ſigns that are taken of the cauſes, let this bee an example. a wound that is made with a ſharp-pointed and heavie weapon; as with an halberd beeing ſtricken with great violence muſt bee accounted great,yea and alſo mortal,if the accidents bee correſpondent. but if the patient fall to the ground through the violence of the ſtroke,if a cholerick vomit- ing follow thereon,if his fight fail him,together with a giddineſs, if blood comfor at his eies and noſtrils,if diſtraćtion follow with loſs of memorie and ſenſ of feeling: wee may ſaie, that all the hope of life remainethin one ſmall ſign which is to bee deduced from the effečts of the wound. but by the comparingitunto the ſeaſon that then is, and diſeaſes that then aſſault wondº. man's bodie, wee may ſaie, that all thoſe that are wounded with gun-ſhot are in danger of ºtherºis death, as it happened in the skirmiſhes at the fiege of roan, and at the battel of saint denis.” “” for at that time, whether it were by reaſon of the fault of the heavens, or air, º s ſ ſ th: . how to make reports, and to anbalm the dead, lºg the evil humors of man's bodie, and the diſturbance of them ; all wounds that were made by gun-ſhot, were for the moſt partmortal. so likewiſe at certain ſeaſons of theycar, wreſte the ſmall-pecke and meazels break forth in children, as it were by a certain peſtilent contagion to the deſtrućtion of children onely, inferring a moſt cruel vomit and lask; and in ſuch aſsaſon signsof, a the judgment of thoſe diſeaſes is not difficult. but you by the following figns may know aircd ſcull, what parts are wounded. if the patient fall down with the ſtroke, if hee lieſenſleſs, as it were aſleep, if hee avoid his excrements unwittingly, if hee bee taken with giddineſs, if blood com out at his ears, mouth, and noſe, and if hee vomit choler, you may underſtand that the ſcullis fratured, or pierced through, by the defeat in his underſtanding and diſcourſ: you alſo may know when the ſcullis red, by the judgment of your external ſenſes, as if by feeling it with your finger you finde it elevated or depreſſed beyond the natural limits, if by ſtriking it with the end of a probe, when the pericranium or nervous film that inve. ſteth the ſcull is cut croſs-wiſe; and ſo divided there from it, yetld a baſe and unperſº found like unto a pot-ſheard that is broken, or rather like unto an earthen-pitcher that hath sºmeº." cleft, or rent therein. :*:::::" . butweenay ſay, that death is at hand if his reaſon and underſtanding fail him, ifhebee on the had ſpeechleſs, if his fight forſake him, if hee would tumblehead-long out of his bed, bering not at all able to remoovthe other parts offiis bodie; if heehave a continual fever,if histonguebec black with drineſs,if the edges of the wound bee black or drie,andcaſt forth noſanious matter, st if they reſemble the color of ſalted-fleſh.if heehave an apoplexit phrenfie,convulſion or palfie, .* with an involuntarieexcretion, or abſoluteſuppreſſion of the urine and excrements. you may know that a man hath his throat, that is, his weaſon andwinde-pipe cut. firſt by the fight of his wound, and next by the aboliſhment of the funètion or office thereof both waies, forth patient can neither ſpeak nor ſwallowanie meat or drink; and the parts that are cutaſunder, divide themſelvs by retration upwards or downwards one from another, whereof commºth *iº füdden or preſent death. you may know that a wound hath pierced into the breaſt or cond- f. vitie of the bodie, if the air comforth at the wound making a certain whizzing noiſ.ifthe pi . tºica tient breathe with great difficultie, if hee feel a great heavineſs or weight on or about the midriff, whereby it may bee gathered, that a great quantitie of blood lieth on the place or midriff, and ſo cauſieth him to feel a weight or heavineſs, which by little and little, willbºt caſt up by vomiting. but a little after a fever commeth, and the breath is unſavorie, and ſlink- ing, by reaſon that the putrifying blood is turned into ſanieſ: the patient cannot lie but on his back, and heehathan often deſire to vomit, but if hee eſcape death, his wound will degent- seat, the ra's into a fiſtula, and at length will conſume him by little and little. #. wee may know that the lungs are wounded by the foaming and ſpumous blood comming woºd out both at the wound and caſt up by vomiting; hee is vexed with a grievous ſhortneſs of that he breath and with a pain in his ſides. wee may perceiv, the heart to bee wounded by the abun. ... dance of blood that commeth out at the wound by the trºmbling of all the whole bodie, by the faintand ſmall pulſ, paleneſs of the face, cold ſweat, with often ſwooning, coldneſs of the ... extreme parts, and ſudden death. - - - *** when the midriff (which the latines call diaphragma)is wounded,the patient feeletha great weight in that place,heeraveth and talketh idlely; hee is troubled with ſhortneſs of winde, a cough, and fit of greevous pain, and drawing of the intrals upwards. wherefore when all theſe accidents appear, wee may certainly pronounce that death is at hand. *** death a . ſuddenl a wound of the hollow wein, or the great arterie, by reaſon v and great ppe y y - - - - arterie, of the great and violent evacuation of blood and ſpirits, whereby the funètions of the heart - and lungs are ſtopped and hindered. - - - .." the marrow of the back bonebering pierced, the patient is aſſaulted with a palſieorcon- vulſion verie ſuddenly,and ſence and motion faileth in the parts beneath it, the excrements of the bladder are either evacuated againſt the patients will,or elſ are altogether ſtopped. when the liver is wounded much blood commeth out at the wound,and pricking-paindi: ſperſeth it ſelf even unto the ſword-like griſtle, which hath it's fituation at the lower end of the breaſt-bone called sternon : the blood that falleth from thence down into the inteſtines doth often-times infer moſt malign accidents, yea, and ſomtimes death. the stomich. when the ſtomach is wounded, the meat and drink.com out at the wound, there followeth a vomiting of pure choler, then commeth ſweating and coldneſs, of the extreme parts, an therefore wee ought to prognoſticate death to follow ſuch awound. - thespleen. when the milt or §. is wounded, black and groſs blood comethout at the wound, the patient will bee verie thirſtie, with pain on the left fide, and the blood break'sforth into the bellie, and there putrifying canſſeth moſt malign and greevous accidents, and oten-times death to follow. the guts, when the guts are wounded, the whole bodie is griped and pained, the extrements.com out at the wound, whereat alſo often-times the guts break forth with great violence. when the reinsor kidnies are wounded, the patient will have great pain in making his urine, and the blood commeth out together therewith ; the pain commºth down even unto the groin, yard, and teſticles. repaida. when the bladder and ureters are wounded, the pain goeth even unto the entrails;the parts signs that a wound hath the liver. the kidnies. how to make reports, and to &mbalm the dead. lib. . . ... whoſoever is found dead in the waters, you ſhall know whether they were throwninto the found dead in tha water came therein alive or dead. water alive or dead. for all the bellie of him that was thrown in alive, will bee ſwoln and puffed up by reaſon of the water that is conteined therein; certain clammie excrements.com out at his mouth and noſtrils, the ends of his fingers will bee worn and excoriated,becauſthat hee died ſtriving and digging or ſcraping in the ſand orbottom of the river,ſeeking ſomwhat whereonhee might takehold to ſave himſelf from drowning. contrariwiſeif heebee thrown into the waters,beeing dead before, his bellie will not bee ſwol’n, becauſ that in a dead man all the paſſages and conduits of the bodie do fall together, and are ſtopped and cloſed,and for that a dead man breathe's not,there appeareth no foamnor filthie matter about his mouth and noſe, and much leſs can the tops of his fingersbee worn and excoriated, for when amanisal- readie dead, hee cannot ſtrive againſt death. but as concerning the bodies of thoſe that are drowned, thoſe that ſwim on the upperpart of the waterbeeing ſwoln or puffed up, they are not ſo by reaſon of the water that is contei- ned in the bellie, but by reaſon of a certain vapor, into which a greatportion of the humors of the bodie are converted by the efficacie of the putrifying heat. therefore this ſwellingap- peareth not in all men which do periſh, or elſ are caſt out dead into the waters, but ontly in them which are corrupted with º: filthineſs or muddineſs of the water, longtime after they were drowned, and caſt on the ſhore. - offixhasare but now i will declare the accidents that com to thoſe that are ſuffocated and ſtifledorſino- ‘... *thered with theyapor of kindled or burning-charcoals, and how you may fore-tel thecauſes char thereof by the hiſtorie following. in the yeare of our lord god , the tenth daie of may, i with robert greauline doãor of phyſick,was ſent for by maſter hamelan advocate of the court of parlament of paris, to ſee and ſhew my opinion on two of his ſervants,of whom the one was his clerk, and the other his horſ-keeper. all his familieſuppoſed them dead, be: cauſ they could not perceiv or feel their arteries to beat, all the extreme parts of their bodies were cold, they jº. ſpeak nor moov, their faces were pale and wan, neither could they bee raiſed up with anie violent beating or plucking by the hair. therefore all men ac- counted them dead, and the queſtion was onely of what kinde of death they died, fortheir maſter ſuſpected that ſombodie had ſtrangled them, others thought that each of them had ſtopped one another's winde with their hands: and others judged that they were taken with a ſudden apoplexie. but i preſently inquired whether there had been anie firemade with coals in the houſ lately, whereunto their maſter giving ear, ſought about all the corners of the chamber(for the chamber was verie little and cloſe) and at laſt found an earthen-pan with charcoal half burned: which when wee once ſaw, wee all affirmed with one voice,that it was the cauſ of all this misfortune,&that it was the malign fume and venemous vapor, which had ſmothered them, as it were by ſtopping the paſſages of their breath. therefore i put my hand to theregions of their hearts, where i might perceiv that there was ſomlife remainingby the heat and pulſation that i felt though it were verie little, wherefore weethought it convenient to augment and increaſ it. therefore firſt of all, artificially opened their mouths, which were verie faſt cloſed, and ſticking obſtinately together ; and thereinto both with a ſpoon and al- ſo with a filver-pipe, wee put aqua vite often diſtilled with diſſolved hiera and triacle; when wee had injećted theſe medicines often into their mouths, they began to moov and to ſtretch themſelvs, and to caſt up and expel manie viſcous excremental and filthie humors at their mouth and noſtrils, and their lungs ſeemed to bee hot, as it were in their throats. therefore then wee gave them vomitories of a great quantitie of oxymel, and beat them often violently on the laſt ſpondil of the back, and firſt of the loins, both with the hand and knee (for unto this place the orifice of the ſtomach is turned) that by the power of the vo- mitorie medicine, and concuſſion of the ſtomach, they might bee conſtrained to vomit. nei- ther did our purpoſe falus, for preſently they voided clammie, yellow and ſpumous phlegm and blood. but wee not beeing content with all this, blowed up into their noſtrils, out of a gooſ, quil, the powder of euphorbium, that the expulſive facultie of the brain might bee ſtirred up to the expulſion of that which oppreſſed it; therefore preſently thebrain beeing ſhaken, or mooyed with ſheeling and inſtimulated thereunto by rubbing the chymical oil of mints on the * and on the cheeks, they expelled much viſcous and clammie matter at their noſtrils. - then wee uſed frićtions of their arms, legs, and back-bones; and miniſtred ſharp gly- ſters, by, whoſe efficacie the bellie beeing abundantly looſened, they began preſently to ſpeak and to take things that were miniſtredunto them of their own accord, and ſo came to them- ſelvs again. in the doing of all theſe things, james guillemeau surgeon unto the king, and of p . ris, and john of saint germanes the apothecarie, did much help and furtherus, in the afternoon that the matter beeing well begun might have good ſucceſs, jobn hautit, and lewis thibaut, both moſt learned phyſicians, were ſent for unto us, with whom wee might conſult on other things that were to bee don. they highly commended all things that wee had don alreadie, thought it verie convenient that cordials ſhould bee miniſtredun- them, which,by ingendring of laudable humors, might not onely generate new ſpirits, ; lib. . how to make reports,and to &mbalm the dead. alſo attenuate and purifie thoſe that were groſs and cloudie in their bodies. the reſt of our conſultation was ſpent in the inquirie of the cauſ of ſo dire a miſchance. for they ſaid it was no new or ſtrange thing, that men may bee ſmothered with the fume and cloudie vapor of burning-coals. . for weerade in the works of fulgoſu, volaterenus and egnatius, that as the emperor jo- lib. .cap. . *iniº, travelled in winter-time towards rome, hee beeing wearie in his journie, reſted atº. a village called didaftanes, which divideth bithynia from galatia, where hee laiein a cham-" bºr that was newly made, and plaiſtered with lime, wherein they burn'd manie coals, for to tirie the work or plaſtering, that was but as yet green on the walls or roof of the cham- ber. nowhee died the verie ſame night beeing ſmothered or ſtrangled with the deadlie and poiſonous vapor of the burned charcoal, in the mid'ſt of the night this happened to him in the eightmonth of his reign, the thirtieth year of his age, and on the twentieth daie of auguſt. but what need wee to amplifie this matter by the antient hiſtories, ſeeing that not manie years ſince three ſervants died in the houſ of jobn bigine goldſmith, who dwelleth at the turning of the bridge of the change, by reaſon of a fire made of coals in a cloſe cham- bºr, without achimnie where they laie. and as concerning thecauſes, theſe were alledged. manie were of opinion that it happened by the default of the vapor proceeding from the burned coals,which beeing in a place void of all air or winde, infer's ſuch like accidents as the vapor or muſt of new wine ... that is to ſaie, pain, and giddineſs of the head. for both theſe kinds of vapor beſides that they are crude, like unto thoſe things whereof they com, can alſo verie ſuddenly obſtruá the original of the nervs, and ſo cauſ a convulſion, by reaſon of the groſſneſs of their ſubſtance. for ſo hipocrates writing of thoſe accidents that happen by the vapor of new wine ſpeak-sa;...&t. eth. if anie man beeing drunken do ſuddenly becom ſpeechleſs and hath a convulſion, heedi- . eth unleſs hee have a fevertherewithal; or if hee recover nothis ſpeech again when his drun- kenneſs is over. even on the ſame manner the vapor of the coals aſſaulting the brain cauſed them to bee ſpeechleſs, unmoovable and void of all ſenſ, and had died ſhortly unleſs by miniſtring and applying warm medicines into the mouth and to the noſtrils, the groſſneſs of the vapor had been attenuated, and the expulſive faculties mooved or provoked to expel all thoſe things that were noiſom; and alſo although at the firſt fight the lungs appeared to bee grieved more then all the other parts, by reaſon that they drew the malignvapor into the bodie, yet when ou conſider them well, , it will manifeſtly appear that they are not grieved, unleſs it bee #. ſympathie or affinitie that they have with the brain when it is verie grievouſly af- ićted. the proof hereof is, becauſpreſently after, there followeth an interception or defeat of the voice, ſenſand motion : º: accidents could not bee unleſs the beginning or original of the nervs were intercepted or letted from performing its funètion, beeing burthened by ſom matter contrarie to nature. and even as thoſe that have an apoplexie do not die but for want of reſpiration, yet with-ºº: out anie offence of the lungs, even ſo theſe two young men's deaths were at hand, by reaſon §º: that their reſpiration orbreathing was in a manner altogether intercepted, not through anie.” default of the lungs, but of the brain and nervs diſtributing ſenſ andmotion to the whole” bodie and eſpecially to the inſtruments of reſpiration. others contrariwiſe contended and ſaid, that there was no default in the brain, but conjećtured the interception of the vi- tal ſpirits letted or hindered from going up into the brain from the heart, by reaſon that the paſſages of the lungs were ſtopped, to bee the occaſion that ſufficient matter could notbee afforded for to preſerv and feed the animal-ſpirit. which was the cauſ that thoſe }. men were in danger of death, for want of reſpiration, without which there can bee no life. for the heartbeeing in ſuch a caſe, cannot deliver it ſelf from the fuliginous vapor that encompaſs it, by reaſon that the lungs are obſtrućted by the groſſneſs of the vapor of the coals, whereby inſpiration cannot well bee made, for it is made by the compaſſing air drawn into our bodies: but the air that compaſſeth us doth that which nature endevoureth to do by inſpiration, for it moderateth the heat of the heart, and therefore it ought to bee endued with four qualities. the firſt is, that the quantitie that is drawn into the bodie bee ſufficient. the ſecondis, that it bee cold, or temperate in quantitie. the third is, that it bee of a thin and mean conſiſtence. the fourth is, that it bee of a gentle and benign ſubſtance. s - but theſe four conditions were wanting in the air which theſe two young men drew into their bodies beeing in a cloſe chamber. -- ... for firſt, it was little in quantitie, by reaſon that ſmall quantitie that was conteined in that conditions of little cloſe chamber, was partly conſumed by the fire of coals, no otherwiſe then the air tº: #. ºntº in a cupping-glaſs is conſumed in a moment by the flame ſo ſoon as it is to breathe in- indled' furthermore it was neither cold nor temperate but as it were inflamed with the burning fire of coals. thirdly, º - - t - w lib. . how to make tºports, and to eſſºm the dead. **tºº ſwound often; now all his thigh is ſwoln, livid, and give's occaſion to fear worſ ſymptoms, jº r. which is the cauſ that the health and ſafetie of the partie is to becqoubted of . k º by the juſtice's command i entred into the houſof james berley, to viſit his own brother; inteloſ, of ºn: sº h found him wounded in his right arm, with a wound of ſom four fingers bigneſs, with ** arº the cutting of the tendons bending the leg, and of the veins, arteries, and nervs. where- º fore i affirm that hee is in danger of his life, by reaſon of the malign ſymptoms that uſu- a: jº ally happen upon ſuch wounds, ſuch as are great pain; a fever, inflammation, abſceſs, con- º: vulſion, fº. and the like. wherefore hee ſtands of provident and careful dreſſing, ... *, * - by benefit whereof if hee eſcape death, without doubt hee, will continue lame, during jº , the remainder of his life, by reaſon of the impotencie of the wounded part. and this’i **::s, affirm under my hand. - ** sis weethe surgeons of paris, by the command of the senate, this twentieth daie of march, another in **::::: have viſited maſter lewis vertoman, whom wee found hurt with five wounds. the firſt infli- *::::::. &ed on his head, in the middle of his fore-head-bone, to the bigneſs of three fingers, and it." *::::: penetrate's even to the ſecondtable, ſo that wee were forced to pluck away three ſplinters of ** tº the ſame bone. the other was athwart his right cheek, and reacheth from his ear to the midſt -*::::: of his noſe, wherefore wee ſtitched it with four ſtitches. the third is on the mid'ſt of his bel- º: lie, of the bigneſs of two fingers, but ſo deep that it aſcend's into the capacitie of the bellie, ſo * === that wee were forced to cut away portion of the kall, comming out thereat, to the bigneſs of rºsº; a walnut, becauſ having loſt it's natural color, it grew black and putrified. the fourth was - “s: upon the back of his left hand, the bigneſs almoſt of four fingers, with the cutting of the ><”: veins, arteries, nervs, and part of the bones of that part; whence it is, that hee will bec lame º of that hand, howſoever carefully and diligently healed. º:::::::::: now becauſ by hurting the ſpinal marrow, men becom lame, ſomtimes of a leg; it is fit - you know that the ſpinal marrow deſcend's from the brain like a rivelet for the diſtribution ſ: of the nervs, who might diſtribute ſenſ and motion to all the parts under the head; where- * - ºr fore if by hurting the ſpinal marrow; the patient's arms or hands are reſolved or numb,or ºx::::::: wholly without ſenſ, it is a ſign theſe nervs are hurt which comforth of the fifth, fixth, ſº- º venth vertebre of the neck. but if the ſame accidents happen to the thigh leg or foot with cº-º refrigeration, ſo that the excrements flow voluntarily, without the patient's knowledg, orelf mºi-- are totally ſuppreſt, it is a ſign that the finews which proceed from the vertebre of the loins "—"...” and holic-bone are hurt, or in fault; ſo that the animal-facultie beſtowing ſenſ and motion --- º: on the whole bodie, and the benefit of opening and ſhutting to the ſphinéter-muſcle of the grº.aº bladder and fundament, cannot ſhew it's ſelf in theſe parts, by which means ſudden death hap- º pen's, eſpecially if there bee difficultie of breathing therewith. **** w beeing to make report of a childe killed with the mother, have a care that you make a diſ- f--- * arº creet report, whether the childe were perfett in all the parts and members thereof , that *::::::: º - the judgmay equally puniſh, the autor thereof. for hee meriteth far greater puniſhment, . wºmen tºº who hath j a childe perſettly ſhaped andmade in all the members; that is, hee which tºia zºº." hath killed a live-childe, then heewhich hath killed an embryon, that is, a certain concre." - . * if: - tion of the ſpermatick bodie. for moſes puniſheth the former with death, as that hee ºrzz” ſhould give life for life, but the other with a pecuniariemulét. but i judgitfit to exemplifie this report by a preſident. " ' ; : . . "º ºf ºyº - - - - º : .p. by the judges command viſited miſtris margaretvlinarie, whºmºfound fickihbed, “" :y having a ſtrong fever upon her, with a convulfion and effux of blood out of herwomb, by rea: - º: tº ſon of a woundin her lower bellie; below her navil on the right ſide, penetrating into the ca- ºr … tº pacitie of herbellie, and the woundtherein; whence it hathéom to paſs, that ſhee was delive- - º x:tº redbefore her time of a male thilde, perfe&in all his members but dead, beeing killed by the - - tº ſame wound piercing through his ſcull into the marrow of the brain. which in a ſhort time º . willbee the death of the mother alſo. in teſtimonie whereof, i have put my hand and ſeal. -: * ~ : " ": fir: *, '' ... ºn . ºz. . . . . . . . . . . . ºf . ºf , . . . . …” : … **, *hji it ; : * ~ **i. - . . . . . -— iº . * : * * * * * *the manner bow to embalm the dead. - ** … flat iſ notiºniº - ºtii:lº - iſ . . . . . . . - - ‘. . . . . . *..., haddetermined to fihiſh this my tedious work with the precedent treatiſ of re- * : . | f; ; but a betterthqught came into my head, which was, to bring man,whoſe cure …” - had undertaken, from his infancie, to his end, and even to his grave; ſo that no- , a." shing mightbee here defe&ive which the surgeon might by his profeſſion, perform about man's zzº bodie eitherialive, or dead. verily there hath ſcarce ever been a nation ſo barbarous, which º: hath not onely been careful for the burial, but alſo for the embalming or preſerving of their ** . dead bodies. for the vérie styrbians,who have ſeemed to exceed other nations in barbarouſ > *.cs: neſs and inhumanitie, have don this; for (according to herodotus) the scythians burie not the heareof **** corps of their king, before that beeing embowelled and ſtaffedfull ofbeaten cypreſs,frankin- #. º sºnſ, theſeeds of perſlie, and aniſ, heebee alſo wrapped in ſear-cloths. the like carejº" ºr ºthºlſo poſſeſſed the minds of the ethiºpians for having disburdened the corps of their jºi... …” friends, of their intrals and fleſh, they plaſtered them over, and then having thus rough-ºº: º caſt them, they painted them over with colors ſo to expreſs the dead to the life; they incloſed” ºxº to them lib. . - *- cº. - ~g *** -s; tº: -->iºn --ºº:: º - - - - *:::::: - *-* ºilº ºxº tº is: *exit ::::::::: ºriºus …rit cºrº. zºº.ºrgiº cºnd *::::::a; º — for thus the bodiebeeing over and above waſhed in ſtrong vinegar, or lee, ſhall bee kept a di y the bo- ies of our long time, if ſobee that a great diſſolving heat do not bear ſwaie, or if it beenotput in a hotºjºw and moiſt place. and this condition of time and place is the cauſwhy the deadbodies of prin- . ces and kings, though embalmed with art and coſt, within the ſpace of ſix or ſeven daies, inj. which they are kept to beeſhewed to the people after their embalming, do caſt forth ſo greevous few due” a ſent,that none can indure it; ſo that they are forced to bee put in a leaden coffin. for the air which incompaſſeth them groweth ſo hot by reaſon of the multitude of people flowing to : the ſpectacle,and the burning of lights night and daie, that the ſmall portion of the native heat which remaineth beeing diſſipated, they eaſily putrefie, eſpecially when as they are not firſt moiſtened and macerated in the liquor º things, as the aegyptians antiently uſed to do, ſleeping them in brine for o daies, as i formerly told you out of herodotus. i put in minde hereby, uſe, that ſo the embalming may becom the more durable, to ſteep the bodies (beeing embowelled, and pricked all over with ſharp bodkins, that ſo the liquor hindering putrefačti- on may penetrate the deeper into them ) in a wooden tub filled with ſtrong vinegar of the de- cočtion of aromatick and bitter things, as alóes, rue, wormwood, and coloquintida; and there keep them for twentie daies,pouring thereinto eleven or twelv pintes of aqua vite. then taking it forth, and ſetting it on the feet, i keepit in a clear and drie place. i have at home the bodie of one that was hanged,which i begged of the sheriff, : after this manner,which remaine's ſound for more then yeers, ſo that you may tell all the muſcles of the right ſide, (which i have cut up even to their heads, and plucked them from thoſe that are next them for diſtinétion's ſake,that ſo i mayview them with myeies, and handle them with my hands as of: ten as i pleaſ, that by renuing my memorieſ may work more certainly and ſurely, when as i have anie morecurious operation tobee performed) the left fide remain's whole,and the lungs heart, diaphragma, ſtomach, ſplene, ſkidnies, beard, haiers, yeaznd the nails, which beeing pared, i have often obſerved to grow again to their former bigneſs. - and let this bee the bound ofthis our immenſlabor's and by god's favor, our refl;to whom almightie, all-powerful,immortal and inviſible,bee aſcribed all honor and glorie for ever,and ºver, amen, - - - , ; ; - - * - labor improbus omnia vincit. • * the end of the treatiſ of reports, and embalming the dead. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ the apologie and treatiſ, conteining the voiages made into divers places. by ambroſe pare of laval in maine, counſellor and chief chirugion to the king. –º — → the twentieninth book. * * - - - n. ave impudently injured, taxed, and more through particilarhatred, diſgraced hºmee, then forzeal of love they bear to the publick good; which was concerning my ! --— -------— ––– of whethe - * - . . . . . -- … . . • , , , tº *** * " . j - . . . - - - - - - - . . . . . . - cu - - . ihad not put my hand to the pen, to write on ſuch a thing, were, iº hº * * manner oftying the veins and arteries, writing thus as followeth. the words of - - - - - ...:* - - - - - - - - the ad ſ - malº igilure mimim arroganter inconſultus & temerariusquidan, vaſºrum uſionem poſt emertui. alsº - ca membrireſetionema veteribus omnibus plurimim commendatam & ſemper probatam damnare auſu, ºft.no- vumquendam deligandivaſamudum, contra veteres omnes mediº ſhººtiº, experientiáčjudicio do- cere upiens, necanimadvertit majoramulº pericula exipſa vaſorsº deligion ſºlº"#: profund, tranſfigend, adminiſtrari vult, imminere quam exiſſa ºftiºne. nº ſiaru nervoſam aliquam partem, velnºrium ipſum pupugerit, dum ilanovo & inuſitato mode venºn abſurdèconaturconſtringere, nova inflammatio neceſſario conſequetur, a qua convulſio & convulſione citamº. guorum ſºmptomatum metu galenus non anie tranſverſa vulnera ſuere audebatſ quod tamen minº ºral periculoſum) quam muſ- culorum apoueuroſe; denudāſet. adde quid forcipes quibus poſtſ&ionem iſerumtamendilagrº, tim re-, ap ſ ſ q forcipe mon minorem adferan dolorem quam ignita ferra- tradia verſus originem vaſa ſe poſſe extrahere ſomniat, - - - - e/ f *:: . ſ #: :::::: evaleri, ipºlimºmaximº, º º; tiã crudelitae iſta & carnificiná liberatus eſt, maximº gratius habere ſemper j i et . . thus: ill then, and too arrogantly a certain indiſcreet andraſh perſon would blame and con- demn the cauterizing of veſſels after the amputation of a rottº praiſed and commended and alwaies approved by the n - - - - - - - eſſels, againſt the opinion ..., us without reaſon, judgment, and experience, a new wait to tie the veſſels, againſt p of t tº: nand corrupted member, much antients; deſiring to ſhew and teach wº - lib. . concerning diverſ voiages. ii. º jºin º! ;: º É::::: muſt alvvaies begin vvith moſt eaſie remedies, vvhich if they beenot ſufficient, vvee muſt then # ſº com to extreme, follovving the doğrine of hippocrates ? galen command's in the place before *:::::::: alledged to treatordreſs the diſeaſed quickly, ſafely, and with the leaſt pain that is poſſible. art of hippocrate, apho, the . book. . in the book of artepanva. let us com to reaſon. - nº. ſo it is,that one cannot applie hot ironsbutvwith extreme and vehement pain in a ſenſible part void of a gangrene,which would bee cauſofa convulſion,fever,yeaoft-times of death.moreover of what the it wwould bee along while aftervvards before the poor patientsvverecured, becauſthat by the **made ačtion of the fire there is made an eſchar,which proceed's from the ſubjećt fleſh,ywhich beeing fallen, nature muſt regenerate a nevvſleſh in ſtead of that which hath been burned; as alſo the bone re- main's diſcovered and bare; and by this means,for themoſt part there remain's an ulcer incurable. more- over there is yet another accident. it happeneth that oftentimes the cruſt beeing falm off, the fleſh not beeing vwell renued, the blood iſſueth out as it did before.but vwhen they ſhallbee tied,the ligature fal's not offuntil the firſt fleſh have verievvellcovered them again: vyhich is proved by galen in the .book of his meth.ſaying,that eſcharotickmedicines vvhich cauſa cruſt or eſcharvvhenſoever they fall offleav the part more bare then the natural habit require's.for the generation of a cruſt proceed's from the parts ſubjećt, and which are fituate round about it, beefng alſo burned,as l may ſaie: wherefore by how much woºd, orde the part is burnt, by ſo much it loſeth the natural heat.then tell mee when it is neceſſarieto adverfiriº uſe eſcarotick medicines, or cautering irons?"tis when the flux of bloodiscauſed by eroſion, or ſom gangrene or putrefaction. now is it thus? in freſh bleeding wounds there is neither gangrene, nor putrefaātion.therefore,the cauteries ought not to bee there applied. and when the antients com: manded to applie hot irons to the mouths of the veſſels,it hath not been onely to ſtaie the flux ofblood, but chiefly to correà the malignitie, or gangrenous putrefation which might ſpoil the neighboring parts.and it muſt bee here noted that if i had known ſuch accidents to happen,which you have declared in your book,in drawing and tying the veſſels, i had never been twice deceived;nor would] ever have left by my writings to poſteritie,ſuch a waie of ſtopping a flux of blood:butl writ it afterl had ſeen it don & did it verie often, with happie ſucceſs.see then what may happen through your inconſideratecounſel, of without examining, or ſtanding upon the facilitie of tying the ſaid veſſels.for ſee,heer's your mº " ſcope and propoſition,to tie the veſſels after amputation is a new remedie, ſaie you; then it muſt not bee uſed, it is an ill argument for a dočtor. but as for that (ſaie you)one muſt uſefire after the amputation of members, to conſume and drie the É. efaćtion, which is a common thing in gangrenes,and mortifications,that indeed hath no place here, cauſthe prattice is to amputate the part above that which is mortified, and corrupted, as celſus write's :: * and command's to make the amputation upon the ſecond part,rather then to leavanie whitof tº the corrupted. i would willingly ask you, if when avein is cut tranſverſ, and that it is verie mnch retraćted towards the original, whether you would make no conſcience to burn till that you had found the orifice of the vein,or arterie; and if it bee not more eaſie onely with a crow-bil to pinch and in the : draw the veſſel,and ſo tie it?in which you may openly ſhew your ignorance,and that you have º your mindeſiazed with much rancor and choler.wee dailieſee the ligature of the veſſels pra- &iſed with happie ſucceſs after the amputation of a part, which i will now verifieby experiences and hi- ſtories,of thoſe to whom the ſaid ligaturehath been made, and perſons yet living. experiences. tº: .of june . in the preſence of m.john liebauddoćtor in the facultie of phyfick fºur h. at paris,claud viard ſworn surgeon, m.mathurin huron,surgeon of monſieur de souvray, and i, john charbonel m.barber-surgeon of paris, well underſtanding the theorick,and pradick of surge- rie, did with good dexteritie amputate the left leg of a woman tormented the ſpace of three years with extreme pain,by reaſon of a great caries which was in the bone aſtragal, cyboides, great and little focil, and through all the nervous parts,through which ſhee felt extreme and intolerable pains night and daie: ſhee is called marie of hoſtelaged years, orthereabouts,wife of peter herve, eſquire of the kitchin to the ladie ducheſ of uzez,dwelling in the ſtreet of verbois on the other fide s.martin in the fields,dwel- ling at the ſign of the s.john's-head,where the ſaid charbonel cut off the ſaid leg, the bredth of large recreation fingers below the knee,& afterthat hee had inciſed the fleſh, & ſawed the bone, hee griped the of * vein with the crow-bil,then the arterie,then tied them;from whence i proteſt to god(which the companie that were there.can witneſs)that in all the operation that was ſuddenly don,there was not ſpilt one porrenger of blood; and ibid the ſaid charbonel to let it bleed more, following the precept of . º i: hippocrates,that it is good;in all wounds and alſo in inveterate ulcers,to let the blood run;by :: * this means,the part isleſs ſubject to inflammation.the ſaid charbonel continued the dreſſing of her,who was cured in two months,without anie flux of blood happening unto her, or other ill accident; and ſhee went to ſee you at your lodging beeing perfectly cured. another another hiſtorie of late memorie,of a #: ofour ladie's church named m. colt, who hiſtoric broke both the bones of his leg which were cruſht in divers pieces, inſomuch that there was no hope of cure,to vvithſtanda gangreneand mortification,and by conſequence death. monſieur helin do- &or regent in the facultie of phyſick,aman of honor and good knowwledg, claud viard, & simon peter, ſworn surgeons of paris, men well exerciſed in surgerie;and balthazar of leſhe,and leonard de leſchenal, . m.barber:surgeons, well experimented in the operations of surgerie, were all of opinion,ſo .”" withſtand the accidents aforeſaid,tomake entire amputation of the wholelegalittle above the broken & ſhiveredbones & the torn nervs,veins,arterie, the operation was nimbly don,by the ſaid viard and the blood ſtanch't by the ligature of the veſſels in the preſence ofthe ſaid helin, and m. tonſard great vicar of our ladie's church,and was continually dreſt by the ſaid leſchenal, and i went to ſee him other- whiles; hee was happily cured without the application of hot irons,and walketh luſtily on a wood- den leg. t tº in l lib. . conteining diverſ voiages. º ~ º i º e: º -- cº º ſ j n the cure of empyema, paul aeginet, albucrafts and celſus commanded to applie ſom thir- *::::::: i teen, others fifteen cauteriesto give iſſue to the matter conteined in the breſt, as the ſaid ***** celſus in the afore-ſaid place appointeth for aſthmatick people, which is a thing out of all reaſon (which reſpeat to their honorbee it ſpoken) that ſince the surgeon's ſcope is to give iſſue to the matter therein conteined, there is no other queſtion then to make apertion, to evacuate the matter in the moſt inferiour part, i have ſhewed the young surgeon the means to do it ſafely, without tormenting the patients for nothing. the ſouth. in paps that are too great, paul afginet and albucrafts commandstomake a croſs-inciſion, to .*.*.* i take out all the fat, and then join together the wound by ſtitch; in brief, it is to flea aman tº poºl alive, which i have never praćtiſed, nor counſel it to bee don by the young surgeon. :*p: “ booky; chap. .book . chap. . book .dap. . i - - Éa a. llucrafts and paul aeginet will cauterize the liver and the splene with hot irons, which book, ºp. aſ a-the moderns have never praćticed; for indeed reaſon is manifeſtly repugnant thereunto. ***** alſº inbook . dup, . books, dup. . and . - fº n the paracenteſs which is made in the third kinde of dropfie called aſcites, celius aureli- lookär.. i anus commandeth divers apertions to beenade in the bellie. albucrafts applie's nine ačtual *:::::::: cauteries, that is to ſaie, four about the navel, one upon the stomach, one upon the splene, ºup : oneupon the liver, two behinde theſpondyls, one of them near the breſt, the laſt near the : ; ſtomach. aetius is likewiſe of the ſame opinion, to open the bellie with divers cauteries. paul bººp. aeginet command's to applie five ačtual cauteries to make the ſaid paracenteſis. butabhorring §: ſuch akinde of burning of which you ſpeak much in your thirdbook, ſfiew another kinde & . of prattice, the which is don by making a fimple inciſion in the ſaid bellie, as may bee ſeen in my works, with happie ſucceſs.i do not teach young men in my works the manner of burning,which the antients have called infibulare, that is not in praćtice though celſus writeth of it. ºr tn the sciatick proceeding from an internal cauſand becauſthe viſcous humors diſplace in the .book - - - - - - - zºº. i the bones, paul command's to burn or cauterize the ſaid joint to the bone: diaſcorides com- g:... mands theſame, which i do not find expedient, taking indication from the ſubjacent parts: tº ... for there where one would burn,'tis in the place of four twin-muſcles, under which paſſeth :* the great nerv deſcending from the holie-bone; which beeingburnt, i leav it toyourgen- bºok of arts, ſure what might happen, as galenremarketh ſpeaking of the uſtion which muſt bee made in the ſhoulders called humerus. ; i. the outward laxation of the spondyls, hippocrates command's to binde the man right and -o ::... der to the tºp of atower, or the ridgof an houſ, with a great rope inspullie, thentolet § thepatient fall plumb down upon the hard pavement; which hippocrates ſaie's was don in his # tº time. but i do not ſhew of anieſuch waie of giving the ſtrapado to men, but i ſhew the sur- ”, geon,in my works,the waie to reduce them ſurely,and without great pain.moreover iſhould bee ſorrie to follow the ſaying of the ſaid hippocrates, in the third book de morbit, who command's in the diſeaſ called volvulus to cauſ the bellie to beeblown with a pair of bellows, putting the noſel of them into the inteſtinum retium, and thenblow there till the bellie bee much ſtretcht, afterwards to give an emollient glyſter, and to ſtop the fundament with a ſponge. such pračtice as this is not made now a daies,thereforewonder notif i have not ſpoken of it. and you not beeing contented to patch together the operations of the above-ſaid autors,you have alſo taken divers in my works, as everie man may know: which ſheweth manifeſtly that there is nothing of your own in your surgeon's guide.i leav out divers other unprofitable operations which you quote in yourbook, without knowing what beaſts they are,in never having ſeenthem pra&iſed; but becauſ you have found them written in the books of the antients, you have put them into your book. - moreover you ſaie that you will teach memy leſſon in the operations of surgerie, which i think you cannot do: becauſ] have notonely learned them in my ſtudie, and by the hearing of manie years the leſ: ſons of doğtors of phyſick: but as i have ſaid before in my epiſtle to the reader, i was refident the ſpace of years in the hoſpital of paris,where l had the means to ſee and learn divers works of surgerie, upon divers diſeaſes,together with the anatomie, upon a great number of dead bodies,as oftentimes i have § ficiently made trial publickly in the phyſicians ſchool at paris, and my good luckhath made mee ſeen much more.forbeeing called to the ſervice of the king of france (four of which i have ſerved) i have been in companie at battels,skirmiſhes, aſſaults, and beſtiging of citties and fortreſſes;as alſo i have been ſhut up in citties with thoſe that have been beſieged,having charge to dreſs thoſe that were hurt. alſo i have dwelt manie years in this great and famous cittie of paris,where, thanks bee to god, i have lived in verie good reputation amongſt all men,and have not been eſteemed the leaſt in ranck of men of my pro- feſſion, ſeeing there was not aniecure,were it never ſodifficult and great, where my hand and my counſel have not been required, as i make it appearin this my work. now dare you (theſe things beeing un- derſtood) ſaie you will teach meeto perform the works of surgerie, fince you never went further then your ſtudie? the operations of the ſame arefour in general (as wee have declared heretofore ) where you may make but three, that is to ſaie, ſoin that which is ſeparated, ſeparate that which was conjoin- ed, and to take awaie that which is ſuperfluous, and the fourth which i make, is as much neceſſarie as induſtrious invention,to add to nature that which is wanting, as i have ſhewed here above. alſo it is your will that the surgeon make but three operations above-ſaid without medling to ordain a fimple cata- plaſm, ſaying it is that which com’s to your part belonging to the phyſician : and that the an- tients (in the diſcourſ which you have made to the reader) have divided the practice of phyſick - t t t into upona ladder,the arms and legs tied and bound: then afterwards having raiſed the lad- ... an apologie or treatiſ, lib. . into three kindes, that is to ſay, diet, medicine and chirurgerie. but i would willingly demandof oll who hath made the partition, and where anie thing ſhould bee don, who are thoſe which are º: with their part, withoutanieenterprize upon the other? for hippocrates, galen, aetius, aviren, inbrief all the phyſicians, as well greeksand latins as arabians, have never ſo treated of the one, that. have not treated of the other, for the great affinitieand tie thatthere is between them two,and it i. bee verie difficult to dogtherwiſe. now when you willviliſechirurgerieſomuch, you peak againſt your ſelf; for in your epiſtle which you have dedicated to monſieur of martignes, you ſay, that chi- rurgerieisthºmaſºnable part ºf phyſick, as well by reaſon of the original antiquitieſ acceſſ. certaintie in heraðtions; for ſheework's luce apertà, as learnedly writeth celſus in the beginning of his ſeventh book; therefore it is to beebelieved younever went out of your ſtudie, but to teach t. rick (if yºº: been able to *:::::: i by th d by th afifinil. the operations of chirurgerie are learnt by the eie, and by the touch. i will a *** mºnºmise. yong lad of low britanie, º plump bº. where was ſtuff#:º: demanded leav of his father to com to paris,to take france; beeing arrived the organiſt of ouriº, church met with him at the pallace-gate, who took him to blow the organs, where hee was remain- ing three years: heeſaw hee could ſomwhat ſpeak french, bee return's to his father, and told him that heeſpake good french, and moreoverheeknew well, toplaie on the organs: his father received himse: irie joifully, for that he was ſo wiſe and learned in ſo ſhort a time. hee went to the organiſt of their great church, and praied him to permit his ſon to plaie on the organs, to the end be: might know whether his ſon was becomſøskilfula maſter, as hee ſaid hee was; which the qrganiſt agreed towerie .# beeing entred to the qrgans, heecaſt himſelf with a full leap to the bellows, the maſteror. ganiſtbid him plaie, and that hee would blow; then this good maſter anſwer's, let himplaiehimſelf on the organs if he would for him, her could do nothing but plaie on the bellows. i think alſo mylie. tlemaſter, that you know nothing elſ; butto prattle in a chair; but i will plaie upon the kees, and make the organs ſound (that is to ſay) i will do the operations of chirurgerie, that which you can- not in aniewiſe does becauſyou have not gon from your ſtudie or the ſchools, as i have ſaid before. but alſo as i have ſaid alreadie in the epiſtle to the reader, that the laborer doth little profit by talk- ſing of the ſeaſons, diſcourſ of the manner of tilling the earth, to ſhew what ſeeds are properto each foil; all which is nothing if heeput nothis hand to the plough, and couple the oxen together. so likewiſeisit no great matter if you do not know the praſiick, for aman may execute chirurgerie well, although hee have notongueatall. as corneliuſ celſus hath verie well remarked in his firſt book when heeſaith, marbus non eloquentiá, ſºdremedii curari. queſ, quitelinguis, uſadiſºnetus amenárit, buncaliquan- to majorem medicum futurum, quâmſ, ſine uſulingwam ſaw excoluerit; that is to ſay: diſeaſes are not to bee £ured by eloquence, but by remedies well and duely applied, whichifaniewiſe and diſcreetman though hee have notongue know well the uſe thereof, this man in time ſhallbecom the greater phyſician, than if without pra&iſe histongue were dip't with oratoriesthewhich youyourſelfconfeſsin your ſaidbook by a tetraſtick which is thus: - * + - to talk's not all in chirurgions art, - . . but working with the hands; . . . . . aptly to dreſs each grieved part, and guid, fire, knife, and bands. . . . . . , ariſtotle indefitbookof his metaphyſicks the firſt chapterſaith, experience is almoſt like unto ſcience,and by the ſame,artand ſcience have been invented. and indeed wee ſee theſe which are experi- mented,attain ſooner to that which they intend then thoſe which have reaſonand not experience,becauſ that the ſaid ºxperience is a knowledg of fingular and particular things, and ſcience on the contrarie is a knowledgof things univerſal.now that which is particularismore healable then that which is univerſal therefore thoſe which have experiendearemare wiſe and morecſkemed then thoſe which wantithyrea- ſon they know what theydo. moreover iſay,that ſcience withoutexperience bringethnogreat aſſurance. …alcial a doğor of milan, boaſted one º: of himſelf, that his gloric was greaterandmore famous then that of counſellors, preſidents, maſters of requeſt: becauſthat it was by his ſcience, and his in- ſtrućtions that they became ſuch: but hee was anſwered by a counſellor, that he was like unto a whet- fone, which made the knife ſharp and readie to cut, not beeing able ſo to do it ſelf, and alledgedthe verſes of horace that; ... fungebatur vice cotis, acutum . - . . . . . . . . . . . . reddere que ferrum valet, exºrs ipſa ſecandi. sººyºu now (my little maſter) my anſwers to your calumniations, and pray you, if you bearagood minde (tº the publick good) to reviewandcorre& your book, asſoon as you can, and not to hold young chirurgions in this error by the reading of theſame,where you teach them to uſe hot irons after theamputatiºn of members, to ſaie a flux of blood, ſeeing there is another means,and not ſo cruel and more ſure and eaſie. moreover if to daie after an aſſault of a citie, where diverſ souldiers have had *rms and leggs broken, and ſhot off by cannon-bullets, cutlas and other inſtruments of war; to ſtaie the flux of blood, if you ſhould uſehot irons, it would beenecdfill to have a forge, and much coals to beat them; and alſo the ſouldiers would hold you in ſuch horror forthis crueltic, that they wouldkill oulike a calfeven as in times paſt they did one of the chiefeſt chirurgions of rome, which may found writtenbefore in the third chapter of the introdu&ion of surgerie, the , book. now leſt the $ºtators ofygur writings ſhould fall into ſuch inconveniencie,i praie them to follow the methodafore- # the which i have ſhºwed to bee true and certain, and approoved by autoritie, reaſon ander lºſice. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . , - * . . . . . * : - the < * , i. w - . . . lib. . concerning divºrſ voiageſ. mºsºm- t- ~r ºf * ~ ***. º, a frû * - ºn *::::::: :*:::::::: º zſºr ºrºgº e-ºzº tºrtºt zºº zºº *** the voiage m. i will here ſhew to the readers the places where l have had means to learn the of thurin, art of surgerie. for the better inſtructing of the young surgeon: and firſt in the year - , the great king francis ſent agreat armie to thurin, to recover the cittie and caſtles, which the marqueſs of guaſt, lieutenant-general of the emperor had taken: where the high conſtable of france the great maſter,was lievtenant-general of the armie, and monfier de montain colonel-ge- neral of the foot, of which i was then surgeon. a great part of the armie arrived in the countrie of suze; wee found the enemie which ſtopt the paſſage, and had made certain forts, and trenches, inſo- much that to hunt them out and make them leavthe place, wee were forced to fight, where there were divers hurt and ſlain, as well of the one ſide as of the other! but the enemies were conſtrained to retire, nº and get into the caſtle, which was cauſed partly by one captain ratt, who climed with di- *:::::... vers of the ſouldiers of his companieupon a little mountain; there where hee ſhot dire&ly upon the enemies, hee received a ſhot upon the ankle of his rightfoot, wherewith preſently hee fell to the ground; and ſaid then, now is the rat taken. i dreſſed him, and god healed him. wee entred the throng in the citie, and paſſed over the dead bodies, and ſom which were not yet dead, wee heard them crie under our horſe's-feet, which made my heart relent to hear them. and truly irepented to have for- ſaken paris to ſee ſopitiful a ſpectacle. beeing in the citie, i entred into a ſtable thinking to lodg my own, and my man's horſ, where i found four dead ſouldiers, and three which were leaning againſt the hiſtorie wall, their faces wholly disfigured, and neither ſaw nor heard, nor ſpoke: ; and their clothes didyet flame with gun-powder which had burnt them. beholding them with pittie, there happened to com an old souldier, who asked mee if there were anie poſſible means to cure them, i told him no: hee ſently approached to them, and cut their throats without choler. seeing this great crueltie, i told É. hee was a wicked man, hee anſwered meethat hee praied to god, that whenſoever hee ſhould bee in ſuch a caſe, that hee mightfindeſom one that would doe as much to him, to the end that heemight not miſerably languiſh. and to return to our former diſcourſ, the enemie was ſummoned to render, which they ſoon did, and wentout, their lives onely ſaved, with a white ſtaff in their hands; the greateſt whereof went and got to the caſtle of villane, where there was about .co. spaniards; monſier the conſtable would not leav them behinde, to the end that the waie might bee made free. this caſtle is ſeated upon a little mountain, which gave great aſſurance to them within, that one could not plant the ordnance to beat upon it, and were ſummoned to render, or that they ſhould bee cut in pieces; which save use they flatly refuſed, making anſwer, that they were as good and faithful ſervants to the em- ºie ſoul peror, as mounfier the conſtable could beeto the king his maſter. their anſwer heard,they diers. made by force of arm,two great cannons to bee mounted in the night with cords and ropes, by the swiſſers and lanſquenets; when as the ill luck would have it, the two cannons beeing ſeated, a gunner by great negligence ſeton fire a greatbag of gun-powder; wherewith hee was burned together with ten or twelv ſouldiers; and moreover the flame of the powder was a cauſ of diſcovering the ar- tillerie, which made them,that all night they of the caſtle did nothing but ſhoot at that place where they diſcovered the two pieces of ordnance,wherewith they kil'd & hurt a great number of our people. the next daie early in the morning a batterie was made, which in a few hours made a breach, which beeing made, they demanded to parlie with us; but 'twas too late for them: for in the mean time our exemperie french foot ſeeing them amazed, mounted to the breach, and cut them all in pieces; except a puniſhment fair young luſtie maid of piedmount, which agreat lord would have kept and preſerved for him to .. companie in the night, for fear of the greedievolf. the captain and enſign were taken alive, but ſoon after were hanged upon the gate of the cittie, to the end they might give example and fear to the imperial ſouldiers not to bee ſo raſh and fooliſh, to bee willing to hold ſuch places againſt ſo great an armie. now all the ſaid ſouldiers of the caſtle, ſeeing our people comming with a moſt vio- lent furie, did all theirendevour to defend themſelvs, they kil'd and hurt a great companie of our ſoul- diers, with pikes, muskets, and ſtones,where the surgeons had good ſtore of workcutout. now at that time i was a freſhwater ſouldier, i had not yet ſeen wounds made by gun-ſhot at the firſt dreſſing. it is commof true, i had readin jobn de vigo, in the firſt book of wounds in general, the eighth chapter, * wicº. that wounds madeby weapons of fire did participate of venenoſitie, by reaſon of the powder, and for their cure command's to cauterize them with oil of elders ſcalding-hot, in which ſhould bee mingled a little treacle; and not to fail,before i would applie of the ſaid oil, knowing that ſuch a thing might bring to the patient great pain, i was willing to know firſt, before i applied it, how the other surgeons did for the firſt dreſſing, which was to applie the ſaid oil the hotteſt that was poſſible into the wounds, with tents and ſetons; inſomuch that i took courage to do as they did. at laſt i wanted oil, and was conſtrained in ſtead thereof, to applie a digeſtive of yelks of eggs, oil of roſes, and turpentine. in the night i could not ſleepinquiet, fearingſom default in not cauterizing, that i ſhould findethoſe to whom l had not uſed the burning-oil dead impoiſoned; which made mee riſe verie earlie to viſit them, rºof where beyond my expetation, i found thoſe towhom i had applied my digeſtive medicine, abold man's to feel little plain, and their wounds without inflammation or tumor, having reſted reafo- ** nable well that night: the other to whom was uſed theſaidburning-oil,l found them feve- riſh, with great pain and tumor about the edges of their wounds. and then i reſolved with my ſelf, nea wer ſo cruelly to burn poor men wounded with gun-ſhot. beeing at thurin, i found a surgeon,who had the fame above all others, for the curingof wounds of gun-ſhot, into whoſe favor i found means to in- finuate myſelf, to have the receit of his balm, as hee called it wherewith hee dreſſed wounds of that kinde, and hee heldmee of the ſpace of two years, before i could poſſible draw the receit from him. in the end by gifts and preſentshee gave it mee, which was this, to boil young whelps new pupped, o . - an oſpologie or treatiſ, lib. . *** --- him of all which had paſſed, and amongſt other things, told the king that i had greatly don my dutie in dreſſing thoſe that were wounded, and that i had ſhewed him eighteen bullets which i had tâkenor drawn out of the hurt bodies, and that there were divers more which i could neither finde, nordraw out, and told more good of meethen there was by half. then the king ſaid hee would have meeinto his ſervice, and commanded monſieur de goguier his chief phyſician to write mee down as entertained one of his surgeons in ordinarie, and that i ſhould go meet with him at rheimes within ten or twely daics; which i did, where hee did mee the honor to command mee that i would dwell near him , and that hee would do mee good. then i thank'd him moſthumbly for the honor it pleaſed him to do mee, in callingnee to his ſervice. the voiage of t; emperor having beſieged mets, and in the hardeſt time of winter, as each one know's §. of freſh memorie; and that there was in the cittie five or ſix thouſand men,and amongſt ãº.e the reſt ſeven princes; that is to ſaie, monſieur the duke of guiſe the king's lievtenant, ..." meſſieurs d'anguien, de conde, de montpenſter, de la roch uprm ſon, monſieur de nemours, and di- i.ºf vers other gentlemen, with a number of old captains of war, who often made ſallies forth - upon the enemies, (as wee ſhall ſpeak of hereafter) which was not don without ſlaying ma- nie, as well on the one ſideas the other. for the moſt part all our wounded people died, and it was thought the medicaments,wherewith they were dreſſed, were poiſoned; which cauſed monſieur de guiſe and other princes to ſend to the king for mee, and that hee would ſendmee with drogues to them, for they beleeved their's were poiſoned; ſeeing that of their hurt people few eſcaped. i do not beleev there was anie poiſon, but the great ſtrokes of the cutlaſſes, musket-ſhot, and the extremitie of cold was the cauſ. the king cauſed one to write to monſieur the marſhal of s. andrew which washis lievtenant at verdun, that hee found ſom means to make mee enter into metſ. the ſaid lord marſhal of s, andrew and monſieur the marſhal of old ville, got an italian captain, who promiſed them to make * meeenterin, which hee did, and for which he had fifteen hundred crowns: the king having heard of the promiſe which the italian captain had made, ſent for mee, and commanded meeto take of his apothecarie named daigue, ſuch, and as manie drogues as i ſhould think fit for the hurt who were beſieged, which i did, as much as a poſt-horſ could carrie. the king gavemee charge to ſpeak to monſieur de guiſe, and to the princes, and captains who were at mets. beeing arrived at verdun, a few cºmmiſſion daies after the monſieur the marſhal of s. andrew, cauſed horſes to bee given tomee, and my ofthe autor, man, and for the italian, who ſpake verie good high dutch, spaniſh,and wallon, with his own natural tongue. when wee were within eight or ten leagues of mets, wee went not but in the night, and beeing near the camp, i ſaw a league and a half off bright fires about the cittie, which ſeemed as if all the earth were on fire, and i thought wee could never paſs through thoſe fires without beeing diſco- vered, and by conſequent bee hanged and ſtrangled, or cut in pieces, or paie agreat ranſom. to ſpeak truth, i wiſhed my ; at paris,for the imminent danger which i fore-ſaw. god guided ſo well our af- fairs that wee entred into the cittie at midnight with a certain token , which the captain had with another captain of the companie of monſieur de guiſe: which lord! went to, and found him in bed, who receivedmee with great thanks, beeing joiful of my comming. i did my meſſage to him of all that the king had commanded meeto ſaieto him; i told him i had a little letter to give to him, and that the next daie i would not fail to deliverit him. thatdon, hee commanded mee a good lodging, and that i ſhould bee well uſed, and bid mee iſhould not fail to bee the next daie upon the breach, where i ſhould meet with all the princes, and divers captains, which i did; who received mee with great joie, who did mee the honor to imbrace mee, and tell mee i was verie welcom, adding withal, they did not fear to die if they ſhould chance to bee hurt. monſieur de la roch ğ. ton was the firſt that feaſted mee, and inqui- red of mee what they ſaid at the court concerning the cittie of mets; i told him what i thought good. then preſently hee defired meetogo ſee one of his gentlemen, named monſieur de magnane, at this pre- ſent knight of the king's order, and lievtenant of his majeſtie's guard; who had his leg broken by a cannon-ſhot. i found him in his bed, his leg bended and crooked, without anie dreſſing upon it; º: cauſ a gentleman promiſed him cure, having his name, and his girdle, with certain words. the poor an. gentleman wept, and cried with pain which hee felt, not ſleeping either night ordaie, in four "" daies: then i mock'tat this impoſture and falſ promiſe. preſently. i did ſo nimbly reſtore and drcſs his leg, that hee was without pain and ſlept all night, and ſince (thanksbee to god) was cured, and is yet at this preſent living, doing ſervice to the king...the ſaid lord of the roch upon yonſent meea tun of wine to my lodging, and bid tell mee, when it was drunken hee would ſend mee another. that don, monſieur de guiſe gave mee a liſt of certain captains and lords, and commanded mee to tell them what the king had given meein charge;vvhich did which vyas to do his commendations and a thankſ- giving for the dutie they had don, and did in the keeping ofthe cittie of mets, and that hee vvould ac- knowwledgit. ivvas more then eight daies in acquitting my charge, becauſtheyyvere manie; firſt to the princes and others; as the duke of horace, the count of martigues, and his brother, monſieur de bauge, the lords montmorancy, and d'anville,then marſhal of france, monſieur de la chapel, bonnivet cºroug novy governor of rohan, the º:chartres, the count of lade, monſieur de biron novv. marſhal of france, monſieur de randan the rochfoucaul, boxdaille d'erez, theyounger, monſieur de s. john in pok: phiny, and manie others which it would bee too long to recite; and chiefly to divers captains who had verievvell don their dutie in defenſof their lives and cittie. i demanded afterwards of monfieur de guiſ, what it pleaſed iſhould dovvith the drogues which i had brought, hee bid mee impart them to the surgeons and apothecaries, and chiefly to the poor hurt souldiers in the hoſpital vyhich were in great number; which i did, and can aſſure you, icould not do ſo much as go and ſee them, but #. - - -- cias * | eſsay. tºnºming tºſſang. tº ſent for meeto viſit and dreſs them. all the beſieged lords praied mee . to ſollicite above all the hurt of others monſieur de pienne who was hurt at the breach by a ſtone raiſ. a cannon-ſhot in monºur is the temple with a fraćture, and depreſſing of the bone. they told mee that preſently when :::::::::... heereceived the ſtroak, heefell to the earth as dead, and caſt blood out of his mouth, hoſt, red. and ears with great vomitings, and was fourteen daies without ſpeaking oneword, or having anie reaſon; there happened to him alſo ſtartings ſomwhat like convulſions, and had all his face ſwell'd and livid. hee was trepan'd on the ſide of the temporal muſcle upon the os coronale. i dreſt him with other surgeons, and god cured him; and is at this daie living, god bee thanked. the emperor cauſed batterie to beenade with fortie double cannons, where they ſpared no powder night nor daie. preſently when monſieur de guiſe ſaw the artillerie ſeated to make a breach, hee made the neareſt hou- ſes to bee pulled down to make ramparts, and the poſts and beams were ranged end to end, and be-, tween two clods of earth, beds and packs of wool, and then other poſts and beams were put again up- on them as before. now much wood of the houſes of the suburbs, which had been put to the ground for fearleſt the enemie ſhould bee lodged, cloſe covered, and that they ſhould not § themſelvs with aniewood) ſerved well to repair the breach. everie one was bufied to carried earth to make the ram: riceanied parts night and daie, meffere; the princes, lords and captains, lievtenants, enſigns, did the bukets, all carrie the basket,to give example to the souldiers and citizens to do the like,which they did: yea, both ladies and gentlewomen, and thoſe which had not baskets, helpt themſelvs with ket- tles, panniars, ſacks, ſheets, and with whatelſ they could to carrie earth; in ſo much that the enemie had no ſooner beaten down the wall, but hee found behinde it a rampart more ſtrong. the wallbee- ing faln, our souldiers cried to thoſe without, the fox, the fox, the fox, and ſpake a thouſand inju- ries one to another. monſieur de guiſe commanded upon pain of death that no man ſhould ſpeak to them without, for fearleſt there ſhould bee ſom traitor who would give them intelligence what was don in the cittie ; the command made, they tied living cats at the end of their pikes, and put them upon the wall, and cried with the cats, miau, miau. wº - - truly the emperialiſts were verie much vexed to have been ſo long making a breach, and at ſo great expenſ, which was the breach of fourſcore ſteps; to enter fiftie men in front, where they found a rampart more ſtrong then the wall; they fell upon the poor cats and ſhot at them with their muskets as they uſe to do at birds.our people did oftentimes make ſallies by the command of mon- fieur de guiſe. the daiebefore there was a great preſs to make themſelvs enrowled, who muſt make the ſallie, chiefly of the young nobilitie,leadby well experimented captains, inſomuch that it was a great favor to permit them to ſallie forth and run upon the enemie ; and they ſallied forth alwaies the num- ber of one hundred, or fixſcore armed men with cutlaſſes, muskets, piſtols, pikes, partiſans and hal- berds, which went even to their trenches to awaken them. where they preſently made an alarum throughout all their camp, and their drums ſounded, plan, plan, ra, ti,ta, ta, ta, ti,ta,tou, toufitouf: likewiſe their trumpets and cornets ſounded,to the #. to the ſaddle,te the ſaddle,to horſ,to horſ, to horſ, to the ſaddle, to horſ. andall their ſouldiers cri'd, arm, arm, arm, to arms, to arms,to arms, arm, to arms, arm,to arms, arm to arms, like the crie after wolvs, and all divers tongues, according to their nations: and they were ſeen to go out from their tents, and little lodgings, as thick as little bees, when their hive is diſcovered to ſuccor their fellows, who had their throats cut like ſheep. the horſ-men likewiſe came from all parts, a great gallop, patati, patata, patati, patata, ta, ta, patata, pa- tata, and tarried well, that they might not bee in the throng, where ſtroaks were imparted to give and receiv. and when our men ſaw they were forced, they returned into the citie, ſtill fighting, and thoſe who run after were beaten back with the artillerie which they had charged with flint-ſtones, and four-ſquare pieces of iron; and our ſouldiers who were upon the ſaid wall made a vollie of ſhot, and ſhowred down their bullets upon them like hail, to ſend them back to their lodging, where divers remained in the place of the combat, and alſo our men did not all.com with whole skins, and there ſtill remained ſom for the tithe, who were joiful to die in the bed of honor. and where there was a horſ hurt, hee was flaied, and eaten by the souldiers in ſtead of beef and bacon, and it was fit i muſt run to dreſs our hurt men. a few daies after other ſallies were made, which did much anger the enemies, becauſ they did not let them ſleep but little in ſafetie. monſieur de guiſe, made a war-like ſtratagem, which was, hee ſent a peſant who was none of the wiſeſt with two pair of letters toward the king, to whom hee gave ten crowns, and promiſed the kingſhould give him an hundred, provided hee gave him the letters. in the one, heeſent word that the enemie made no fign of retiring himſelf,and by all force made a great breach,which hee hoped to defend, yea,to the loſing of his life,and of all thoſe that were within; and that the enemie had ſo well placed his artillerie in a certain place which hee named, that with great difficultie was it kept that they had not entered into it, ſeeing it was a place the moſt weak of all the cittie; buthee hoped quickly to fill it up again in ſuch ſort, that they cannot bee able to enter. one of theſe letters was ſewed in the lining of his doublet, and hee was bid to take heed thathee told it not to anieman. and there was alſo another given to him; wherein the ſaid monfieur de guiſe ſent word to the king, that hee and all the beſieged did hope well to keep the citie, and other' matters which i ceaſ to ſpeak of they made the peſant go forthin the night, and preſently after hee was taken by one that ſtood sentinel, and carried to the duke of albe, to underſtand what was don in the cittie, and they asked him if hee had anie letters, hee ſaid, yes, and gave them one; and having ſeen it, hee was put to his oath, whether hee had anie other, and her ſwore, not; then they felt and ſearch't him,and found that which was fewed to his doubler, and the poor meſſenger was hanged. * * º the ſaidletters were communicated to ºrvº. cauſed his counſel to beecalled there,where y y it - . — an zººge or treatiſ, lib. . *~- it was reſolved, ſince they could do nothing at the firſt breach , that preſently the artillerieſhould bee drawn to the place which they thought the moſt weak,where they made #. attempts to make another breach, and dig'd and undermined the wall, and endevoured to take the tower of hell, yet they durſt not com to the aſſault. the duke of albe declared to the emperor that the ſouldiers died daily, yet more then the number of two hundred, and that there was but little hope to enter into the citie, ſeeing the ſeaſon, and the great quantitie of souldiersthat were there. the emperor demanded what pe they were that died, and if that they were gentlemen of remark or qualitie: anſwer was made, that they were all poor ſouldiers; then ſaid hee,it make's no matter if they die, comparing them to caterpillers and graſhoppers, which eat the buds of the earth. and if they were of anie faſhion, they would not bce in the camp for twelv ſhillings the month, and therefore no great harm if they died. moreoverhet ſaid,hee would never part from before that cittie, till her had taken itby force or famine, although hee ſhould loſe all his armie; by reaſon of the great number of princes which were therein, with the moſt part of the nobilitie of france. from whom hee . to draw double his expenſ, and that hee would go once again to paris,to viſit the pariſiens,and make himſelf king of all the kingdom of france, monſieur de guiſe with the princes, captains, and souldiers, and generally all the citizens of the cittie, having underſtood the intention of the emperor, which was to extirpate usall, they adviſed of all they had to do: and fince it was not i. the souldiers,nor citizens, no nor to the prin- ces, nor lords themſelvs to eateither freſh-fiſh, or veniſon,as likewiſe ſom partridges,woodcocks,larks, plovers, for fear leſt they had #. ſom peſtilential air which might give us anie contagion; but that they ſhould content themſelvs with the ammunition-fare; that is to ſaie, with biſquet, beef, pout dered-cows, lard, and gammons of bacon: likewiſe fiſh; as green-fiſh, ſalmon, ſurgeon, anchovies, pilchers and herrings, alſo peaſ, beans, riſe, garlike, onions, prunes, cheeſ, butter, oil, ſalt, pepper, inger, nutmegs, and other spiceries to put into pies, chiefly to horſ-fleſh, which without that would ave had a verieill taſte § divers Çittizens having gardensin the cittie ſowed therein great raddiſhes, turnips, carrots, and leeks, which they kept well and full dear, againſt the extremitie of hunger. now all theſe ammunition-vićtuals were diſtributed by weight, meaſure, and juſtice, accordingto the qualitie of the perſon, becauſ : not how long the ſiege would laſt. for having under- j from the mouth of the emperor, that hee would never part from before metſ, till hee had taken it by force or famine; the vićtuals were leſſened, for that which was wont to be diſtributed to three, was now ſhared amongſt four, and defenſ made they ſhould not ſell what remained after their dinner, but 'twas permitted to give it to the wenches that É. the camp , and roſe alwaies from table with an appetite, for fear they ſhould bee ſubjećt to take phyſick. and, before wee would yeºld our ſelvs to the mercie of our enemies, had reſolved to eat our aſſes, mules, horſes, dogs, cats and rats; yea, our boots and other skins which wee could ſoften and frie. all the beſieged did generally reſolv to defend themſelvs with all ſorts of inſtruments of war;that is toſsie, to rank, and chargethe ar- tillerie, at the entrie of the breach, with bullets, ſtones, cart-nails, bars, and chains of iron. alſo all kindes and differences of artificial fire; as boertes, bariquado's, granado's, ports, lances, torches, squibs, burning-faggots. moreover, ſcalding-water, melted-lead; powder of unquenched lime to blinde their eies. Älſo they were reſolved to have made holes through and through their houſes, there to lodg musketeers, there to batter in the flank and hallen them to go, or elſ make them lie for altogether. alſo there was order given to the women to unpave the ſtreets,and to caſt them out at theit windows, billets,tables,treſſles,forms,and ſtools, which would have troubled their brains: moreover, there was a little further, a ſtrong court of guard, fil'd with carts and palliſado's, pipes and hogſheads fil'd with earth for barriquado's to ſerv to interlaie with faulcons, faulconets, field-pieces, harquibu- zes, muskets, and piſtols, and wilde-fire, which would have broken legs and thighs, inſomuch that they had been beaten in head, in flank, and in tail and where they had forced this court of guard, there was others at the croſſing of the ſtreets, each diſtant an hundred paces, who had been as bad com- panions as the firſt, and would not have been without making a great manie widdows and orphans. and if fortune would have been ſo much againſt us, as to have broken our courts of guard, there was yet ſeven great baſtallions ordered in ſquare, and triangle, to combate altogether, each one accompa- nied with a prince to give themboldneſs, and encourage them to fight, even till the laſt gaſp, and todie altogether. moreover it was reſolved, that each one ſhould carrie his treaſure, rings and jewels, and their houſhold-ſtuff of the beſt, to burn them in the great place, and to put them into aſhes rather then the enemie ſhould prevail, and make trophies of their ſpoils ; likewiſe there was people appointed to put fire to the munition, and to beat out the heads of the wine-cask, others to put the fire in each houſ, to burn our enemies and us together: the cittizens had accorded it thus, rather then to ſee the bloodie knife upon their throat, and their wives and daughters violated, and to bee takenby force, by the cruel and inhumane spaniards. now wee had certain priſoners which monfieur de gaiſe ſent away upon their faith, to whom was ſecretly imparted our laſt reſolution, will, and deſperate mindes ; who beeing arrived in their camp, do not defer the publiſhing; which bridled the greati tuoſitie, and will of the ſouldiers to enteranie more into the cittie to cut our throats, and to enrich themſelves of our pillags. the emperor having underſtood this deliberation of the great warriour, the duke of guiſe put water in his wine, and reſtreined his great cholerand furie, ſaying, hee could not enterinto the cittie without making a great ſlaughter and butcherie, and ſpill much blood, as well of the defendents,as of the aſſailants,and that they ſhould bee dead together,and in the end could have no- thingelſbut a few aſhes,and that afterward it mightbee ſpoken of that as of the deſtrućtion jeruſalem al- readiemade by titus & veſpatian.the emperor then having underſtood our laſt reſolution,&ſeeing their little . lib. . conteining diverſ woiages. ; • little prevailing by their batterie and undermining,and the great plague which was in his whole armie, and the indiſpoſition of the time, and the want of vićtuals and monie, and that his ſouldiers forſook him,and went away in great companies; concluded in the end to retire themſelvs accompanied with the cavallerie ofhis vantgard, with the greateſt part of his artillerie, and the battalia: the marqueſs of brandeborg was the laſt which uncampt, mainteined by certain bands of spaniardi, bohemians, and his germane companies,and there remained one daie and a half after,to the great griefof monfieur de guiſe, who cauſed four pieces of artillerie to bee brought out of the cittie, which hee cauſed to bee diſchar- ged at him on one fide; and the other to haſten them to bee gon, which hee did full quickly,with all his troops. hee beeing a quarter of a league from mets was taken with a fear left our cavallerie ſhould fall upon him in the rere,which cauſed him to put fire to his munition-powder, and leav certain pieces of artillerie,and much baggage which hee could not carrie,becauſthe vantgard,and the battalia,andgreat cannons had too much broken the waie. our horſ-men would by all means have gonout of the cittie to have faln upon their breech.but monfieur de guiſe would never permit them, but on the contrarie wee ſhould rather make plain their waie, and make them bridges of gold and filver, and let them go, beeing like to a good ſhepherd, who will not loſe one of his ſheep. see now how our well-beloved imperialiſts went away from before the cittie of mets,which was the daie after chriſtmas daie, to the great content- ment of the beſieged, and honor of princes,captains,and souldiers, who hadendured the travels of this ſiege the ſpace of two months. notwithſtanding they did not all go, there wanted twentie thouſand who were dead, as well by artillerie,by the ſword,as alſo by the plague, cold, and hunger,and for ſpight they could notenter into the cittie to cut our throats, and have the pillage: and alſo a great number of their horſes died, of which they had eaten a great part in ſtead of beef and bacon. they went where they had been encamped, j found divers dead-bodies not yet buried, and the earth all digged like s. innocent's church-yard in the time of the plague. they did likewiſe leav in their lodgings, pavil- lions and tents, divers fickpeople: alſo bullets, arms, carts, waggons, and other baggage, with a great manie of munition-loavs, ſpoiled and rotten by the rain and ſhow,yet the ſouldiers had itbut by weight and meaſure; and likewiſe they left great proviſion of wood,oftheremainders of the houſes of the vil- lages which they had plucktdown two or three miles compaſs, likewiſe divers other houſes of pleaſure belonging to the citizens,accompanied with fair gardens, graſs-plats fil'd with fruit-trees, for without that they had been ſtarv'd with cold,and had been conſtreined to have rais'd the fiege ſooner. the said monfieur de guiſe cauſed the dead to beeburied, and dreſs their fick people; likewiſe the enemies left in the abbie of s. arnoul divers of their hurt ſouldiers which they could not lead with them: the said monſieur de guiſe ſent them all vićtuals enough, and commanded mee and other surgeons to go dreſs them and give themmedicines; which wee willingly did, and think they would not have don'the like toward others (becauſ the spaniard is moſt cruel, perfidious, and inhumane,andtherefore enemie to all nations) which is proved by lopeza spaniard, and benzo of milan, and others who have written the hi- ſtorie of america, and the weſt-indies,who have been conſtreined to confeſs, that the crueltie, avarice, blaſphemie, andwickedneſs of the spaniards, have altogether alienated the poor indians from the reli- gion which the said spaniards are ſaid to hold. andall write, they are leſs worth then the idolatrous indians, by the cruel uſagedon to the ſaid indians. anda few daies afterwee ſenta trumpet to thionville toward the enemie, that they ſhould ſend back for their wounded men in ſafetie, which they did with carts and waggons,but not enough. monſieur de guiſe,cauſed them to have carts and carters, to help to carrie them to the said tbionville. our said carters beeing returned back, brought us word that the waie was paved with dead bodies, and that they neverlead back the half for they died in their carts,and the spaniards ſeeing them at the point of death, before they had caſtout their laſt gaſp, caſt them out of their carts, and buried them in the mud and mire, ſaying, they had no order to bring back the dead. moreover our said carters ſaid, they met by the waie divers carts loaden with baggageſticking in the mire, which they durſt not ſend forback, for fear leſt thoſe of cmets ſhould fall upon them. i will again return to the cauſof their mortalitie, which was fij through hunger, plague, and cold for the ſhow was two foot thick upon the earth, and they were lodged in the caves of the earth, onely covered with a little ſtraw. notwithſtand- ing each souldier had his field-bed, and a covering ſtrewed with glittering ſtars, more bright then fine gold, and everie daie had white ſheets, and i. at the ſign of the moon, and made good cheer when they had it, and paid their hoſte ſo well over-night, that in the morning they went away quite, ſhaking their ears, and they needed no comb to take away the doun out of their hairs either of head or beard, and found alwaies a white table-cloth, loſing good meals for want of vićtuals. alſo the greateſt part of them had neither boots, nor buskins, ſlippers, hoſe, or ſhooes, and divers had rather have none then have them s becauſthey were alwaies in mud, half waie of the leg; and becauſ they went bare-leg'd , wee called them the emperor's apoſtles. after the camp was wholly broken, i diſtributed my patients into the hands of the surgeons of the cittie, to finiſh their cure: then i took leav of monſieur de guiſe, who came back toward the king , who received mee with a loving countenance, and demanded of niee how i did enter into the cittie of cmets. i recounted to him all that i had don', hee cauſed two hundred crowns to bee given mee, and one hundred i had at my going out , and told mee hee would not leav mee poor; then i thanked him moſt humbly for the good and the honor which hee pleaſed to do mee. theyoiage of c; the emperor cauſed the cittie of therokenne to beebeſieged, where monſieur, bedin, . the duke of savoy, was general of the whole armie: it was taken by aſſault where there v v v . w - an apologie or treatiſ, lib. . | was a great number of our men ſlain and priſoners. the king willing to prevent that the enemie ſhould not alſo comtobeſiege the cittie and caſtle of hedin, ſent meſſiers the duke bonillion, the duke horace, the marqueſs of villars, a number of captains, and about eighthundred ſouldiers, and during the ſiege of iberouenne,the said lords tortified the ſaid caſtle of hedin,in ſuch ſort that it ſeemed impreg- nable. the kingſent mee to the said lord to help them with my art, if there were anie need. now ſoon after the taking of therwienne, wee were beſieged with the armie: there was a quickclear fountain or spring, within cannon-ſhot, where there was about fourſcore whores, and wenches of the enemies, who were round about it to draw water. i was upon a rampart beholding the camp, and ſeeing ſo ma- nic idlers about the ſaid fountain, praied monlieur de poni commiſſarie of the artillerie, to make one cannon-ſhot at that roguiſh companie, hee made mee much denial, anſwering meethat ſuch kinde of people were not worth the powder they ſhould waſte. again i praied him to level the cannon, telling of him,the more dead,the fewer enemies; which hee did through my requeſt, and at that ſhot fifteen or fixteen were kil'd,and manie hurt, our ſouldiers ſallied forth upon the enemies, where there was manie kil'd and ſlain with musket-ſhot and ſwords, as well on the one fide, as of the other, and our ſouldiers did often make ſallies forth upon the enemies before their trenches were made; where i had much work cut out, ſo that i had no reſt night nor daiefor dreſſing the wounded. and i will tell this by the waie, that wee had put manie of them in a great tower,laid upon a little ſtraw,and their pillows were ſtones, their coverlets were their cloaks, of thoſe that had anie. whil'ſ the batterie was making,as manie ſhot as the cannons made, the patients ſaid they felt pain in their wounds, as if one had given them blows with a ſtaff the one cri’d his head,the other his arm,and ſo of otherparts;divers of their wounds bled a freſh yeafngreater quantitie then firſt when they were wounded,and then it was lmuſt run to ſtaie their bleeding. my little maſter,ifyou had been there you had been much troubled with your hot-irons,you hadneedto have had much charcoal to make them red hot, and beleev they would have ſlain you like a qalf for this crueltie. now through this diabolical tempeſt of the eccho from theſe thundering in- ſtruments, and by the great and vehement agitation of the colliſion of the air reſounding and reverbe- rating in the wounds of the hurt people, divers died, and others becauſ they could not reſt by reaſon of the groans and cries that they made night and daie; and alſo for want of goodnouriſhment, and ther good uſage neceſſarieto wounded people.now my littlemaſter, if you had been there you would hardly have given them gellie, reſtauratives, culliſes, preſſures, panado, cleanſed barlie, white meat, al- mond-milk, prunes, raiſins, and other proper meats for ſick º: : your ordinance would onely have been tº: in paper, but in effect they could have had nothing but old cow-bief, which was ta- ken about hedin for our munition, ſalted and half-boiled, in ſo much that who would have eatit, hee muſt pull it with the force of his teeth, as birds of preie do carrion. i will not forget their linnen wherewith they were dreſt, which was onely rewaſhed everie daie, and dried at the fire, and therefore drieandſtubborn like parchment, i leav you to think how their wounds could heal well. there were four luſtie whores to whom charge was given to waſh their linnen, who diſcharged their dutie under penaltic of the batoon,and alſo they wanted both ſope and water. seethen how the fick people died for want of nouriſhments and other neceſſarie things. one daie our enemies feigned to give us a general aſſault,to draw our souldiers upon the breach,to the end to know ourcountenance & behaviour:everſe one ran thither,weehad made great proviſion of artificial fire to defend the breach; a prieſt belonging to monſieur du boiſillon took a granado, thinking to throw it on the enemies, and ſet it on fire ſooner thenitought to have don: it brake aſunder, and the fire fell amongſt our fire-works; which were put into a houſnear the breach; which was tous a marvellous diſaſter, becauſit burned divers poor ſouldi- ers; it alſo took hold on the houſit ſelf, and wee had been all burned had not great helpbeen uſed forto quench it; there was but one well there wherein was water in our caſtle, which was almoſt quite dri- edup, and in ſtead of waterwee tookbeer and quenchedit: then afterwards wee had great ſcarcitie of water, and to drink the reſt that remained which weemuſt ſtrain through napkins. now the enemie ſeeing this ſmoak and tempeſt of the fire-works which caſt a verie great flame and claſhing noiſ, beleeved wee had put thefire on purpoſe for the defenſ of our breach, toburn them, and that weekad great ſtore of others. that made them to bee of another opinion, then to takeus by aſ- ſault; they did undermine, and dig into the greateſt part of our walls, ſo that it was the waie to over- throw wholl y the caſtle topſie-turvie, and when the mines were finiſht, and that their artillerie ſhot, the whole caſtle did ſhake under us likean earth-quake,which did much aſtoniſh us. moreoverhee had levelled five pieces of artillerie which they had ſeated upon a little hill, to plaie upon our backs when wee ſhould go to defend the breach. the duke horace had a cannon-ſhot upon one ſhoulder, which carried away his arm on one fide and the bodie on the other, without beeing able to ſpeak one onely word. his death was to us a great diſ- aſter for the rank which hee held in his place. likewiſe monſieur de amartigues had a ſtroak with abullet which pierc't through his lungs; i dreſt him, as ivvill declare hereafter. then wee demanded parl, and a trumpet was ſent towvard the prince of piedmont, to knowvvvhat compoſition it pleaſed him to make us: his anſwervyas, that all the chief, as gentlemen, captains, lievtenants, and enſigns, ſhould bee taken for ranſom, and the souldiers ſhould go out vvithout arms; and if they refuſed this fair and honeſt proffer, the next daievvee ought to bee aſſured they vvould have us by aſſault or othervviſe. counſel vyas held, where i vvas called to knowy if ivvould ſign as divers captains,gentlemen,and others,that the place ſhould bee rendered up. i made anſwver it was not poſſible to bee held,and that ivvould ſign it with my properblood,for the lit- tle hope that i had,that vvcecould reſiſt the enemies force,& alſo for the great deſire which ihad to bee * qut º lib. . conteining diverſ voiages. -- willing to embalm him,that hee would give this charge to another surgeon of the companie; hee made mee yet anſwer,that hee would it ſhould bee i,and if i would not do it, might hereafter repent it:know- ing this his affečtion,for fearhee ſhould not do mee anie diſpleaſure, took theraſor and preſented it to all inparticular, telling them] was not well practiſed to do ſuch operations which they all refuſed. . . the bodie beeing placed upon a table,truely i purpoſed to ſhew them that i was an anotomiſt, decla- ring to them divers things,which ſhould bee heretoo long to recite.i began to tell all the companie that i was ſure thebullet had broken too ribs,and that it had paſs'd through the lungs, and that they ſhould finde the wound much enlarged, becauſthey are in perpetual motion, ſleeping or waking, and by this motion the wound was the more dilacerated. alſo that there was great quantitie of blood ſpilt in the capacitie of the breſt, and upon the midriff, and ſplinters of the broken ribs which were beaten in at the entrance of the bullet,and the iſſuing forth of it,had carried out. indeed all which l had told them was found true in the dead bodie. - one of the phyſicians asked mee,which way the blood might paſs to bee caſt out by urine, beeing conteined in the thorax.i anſwered him that there was a manifeſt conduit,which is the vena azygos,who having nouriſh'd the ribs,the reſt of the blood deſcend's under the diaphragm,&on the left fide is conjoin- ed to the emulgent vein, which is the waieby which the matter infleurºſes and in empiema,domanifeſtly emptie themſelvsby urine and flool. as it is likewiſe ſeen, the pure milk of the breſts of women newly brought to bed,to deſcendby the mammillarie-veins, and to bee evacuated downwards by the neck of the womb without beeing mixt with the blood.and ſuch a thing is don (as it were by a miracle of na- —- ture)by her expulſive and ſequeſting virtue,which is ſeen by experience of two glaſs-veſſels called mount- butlying wine; let the one beefilled with water,and the other with claret-wine, and let thembee put the one up- on the other, that is to ſaie,that which ſhall beefilled with water, upon that which ſhall beefilled with wine; and you ſhall apparently ſee the wine mount up to the top of the veſſel quite through the water, and the water deſcend a traverſ the wine, and go to the bottom of the veſſel without mixture of both; and if ſuch a thing beedon ſo exteriorly and openly to the ſenſof our eie, by things without life: you muſt believ the ſame in our underſtanding. that nature can make matter and blood to paſs, having been out of their veſſels, yea,through the bones,without beeing mingled with the goodblood. " ~ : ourdiſcourſended:i embalmed the bodie,and put it into a coffin; after that the emperor's surgeon took mee apart,and told mee if i would remain with him that hee would uſe meeveriewell, and that hee would clothe mee anew, alſo that ſhould ride on horſ-back. i thank'd him verie kindely for the honor hee did mee,and told him that i had no deſire to do ſervice to ſtrangers, and enemies to my coun- trie; then hee told meel was a fool,and if heewere priſoner as i, hee would ſerv the devil to get his liber- tie, in the end i told him flat that i would not dwell at all with him. j the emperor's phyſician returned toward the ſaid lord of savoy,where hee declared the cauſ of the death of the ſaid lord of martigues,and told him that it was impoſſible for all the men in the world to have cured him; and confirmed again, that i had don what was neceſſarie to bee don, and praied him to win mee to his ſervice, and ſpake better of mee then i deſerved. having been perſwaded to take meeto his ſervice,hee gave charge to one of his ſtewards named mon- fieur du bºuchet, to tell mee,if i would dwelin his ſervice that hee would uſemee kindely, fanſwered him that i thank'd him moſthumbly,and that i had reſolved not to dwel with anie ſtranger. this my anſwer beeing heard by the duke of savoy,hee was ſomwhat in choler & ſaid,he would ſend meeto the gallies. monfieur de vaudeville,governor oſgravelin,and colonel of the ſeventeen enſigns of foot, praied him to give meeto him,to dreſs him of an ulcer which hee had in his leg this ſix or ſeven years; mon- fieur de savoy told him becauſ i was of worth, that hee was content, and if irankled his legit would bee well don; hee anſwered that if heeperceived anie thing,hee would cauſmythroat to bee cut. soon after,the ſaid lord of vaudeville ſent formeeby four germane halberdiers, which affrighted mee much, not knowing whither they led mee,they ſpake nomore french then i high dutch;beeing arrived at his lodging, hee told mee i was welcom, and that i was his; and as ſoon as ſhould have cured him of that ulcer in his leg, that hee would giveneeleav to beegon without taking anie ranſom of mee. i told him that i was notable to paieanieranſom. then hee made his phyſician and surgeons in ordinarieto ſhew meehis ulcerated leg having ſeen and confidered it, wee went apart into a chamber where i began to tell them, that the ſaidulcer was an- nual,not beeing ſimple but complicated: that is of a round figure and ſcahe, having the lips hard and callous, hollow and ſordid:accompanied with a great varicous vein which did perpetually feed it; be- ſides a great tumor,and a phlegmonous diflemperverie painful through the whole leg,in a bodie of cho- lerick complexion; as the hair of his face and beard demonſtrated. the method to cure it, (if cured it could bee) was to begin with univerſal things, that is,with purgation and bleeding,and with this order of diet,that heeſhould uot uſe anie wine at all,nor anie ſalt meats,or of great nouriſhment,chiefly theſe which did heat the blood: afterward the cure muſt begin with divers ſcarifications about the ulcer, and totally cutting away the callous edges or lips,and giving alongoratriangular figure,for theround vyill verie hardly cure, as the antients have left it invvriting, vvhich is ſeen by experience. that don, the filth muſt beenmundified,as alſo the corrupted fleſh, which ſhould bee don with unguenium aegyptiacum, and tipon itabolſter dipt injuice of plantain and nightſhade and oxycrate, and roul the leg beginning at the foot, and finiſhing at the knee, not forgetting a littlebolſter upon the varicous vein, to the end no ſuperfluities ſhould flow to the ulcer. moreover that hee ſhould take reſt in his bed, vvhich is comman- ded by hippocrates who faith,that thoſevvho have fore legs ſhould not uſe much ſtanding or fitting, ſº after theſe thingsdon and the ulcervyth mundified, a plate of lead ".. - quickſilver o an apologie or treatiſ, - lºw. quickfilver ſhould bee applied. ste then the means, by which the ſaid lord vaudeville might bee cured of the ſaid ulcer; all which they found good. then the phyſician left mee with the surgeon, and went to the lord vaudeville; to tell him that hee did aſſure him i would cure him,and told him that i had re- ſolved to do for the cure of his ulcer: whereof hee was veriejoyful. hee made meeto bee called to him, and asked mee if i was of the opinion that this ulcer could beecured,and i told him, yes, provided hee would beeobedient to what heeought. hee made mee a promiſe hee would perform all things which i would appoint; and as ſoon as hisulcerſhould bee cured, hee would give meelibertie to return without paying anie ranſom.then i beſeech'd him to com to a better compoſition with mee,telling him that the time would bee too long to bee in libertie, if i ſtaied till hee was perfeótly well,and that i hoped within fifteen daies the ulcer ſhouldbee diminiſhed more then one half, and it ſhould bee withoutpain,and that his phyſicians and surgeons would finiſh the reſt of the cure verie eaſily. to which hee agreed,and then i took a piece of paper, and cut it the largeneſs of the ulcer, which i gave him, and keptasmuch myſelf. ſpraied him to keep promiſe, when hee ſhould finde his buſineſs don: hee ſwore by the faith of a gen- tleman hee would doe it; then i reſolved to dreſs himwell according to the method of galen,which was, that after all ſtrange things were taken out of the ulcer, and that there wanted nothingbut filling up with fleſh, i dreſt him but oncea daie,andhee found that verie ſtrange.and likewiſe his phyſician which was but a freſh man in thoſe affairs,who would perſwademee with the patient,to dreſs him two or three times adaie, praied him to let mee do what] thought good; and that it was not to prolong the cure,but on the contrarie to haſten it, for the great deſire i had to bee in libertie. and that hee would look in galen in the fourthbook of the compoſition of medicaments ſecundum genera, who ſaith, that if a.medi- cine do not remain long upon the partit profit's not ſo much, as when it doth continue long; a thing which manie phyſicians have been ignorant of, and have thought it hath been better to change the pla- ſter often and this ill cuſtomis ſo inveterate and rooted, that the patients themſelve accuſe often-times the surgeons of negligence, becauſ they do not oftner remove their emplaſters; but they aredeceived. for as you have read in my works in divers places: thequalities of all bodies which mutually touch, operate one againſt another,and both of them ſuffer ſomthing, where one of them is much ſtronger then the other by means whereof the ſaid qualities areunited, they familiariſe with the time, although they aremuch differing from the manner, that the qualitie of the medicament doth unite, and ſomtimesbe- com's like to that of the bodie, which is a verie profitable thing. therefore they ſaie hee is to bee praiſ- ed much who firſt invented not to change the plaſter ſo often, becauſit is known by experience, this is a good invention. ~ moreover it is ſaid, great fault is committed to dreſs ulcers often in wiping of them hard, for one take's notawa onely the unprofitable excrement, which is the put or sanies of the ulcer, but thematter whereof the # is engendred ; wherefore for the reaſons aforeſaid it is not needful to dreſsulcers ſo often. the ſaid lord vaudeville, would ſee whether that which i alleged out of galen were true, and com- manded the ſaid phyſician to look there, for that hee would knowy it; her cauſed the book to bee brought upon the table, wheremy ſayingvvas found true, and then the phyſician was aſhamed, and i veriejoyful. so that the ſaid lord of vaudeville deſired not to bee dreſſedbut oncea daie, inſomuch that within fifteen daies the ulcer was almoſt cicatrized; the compoſition beeing made between us, ibegan to be merrie hee made mee eat & drink at his table, when there were not men of more great rank with him. hee gave met a greatred ſcarf,which hee commanded meeto wear. i may ſhiel was as glad of it as a dog that hath a clog, for fear hee ſhould go into the vineyard and eat the grapes. the phyſician and surgeon led meethrough the camp to viſit their hurt people, where i took notice what our enemies did; i perceived they had no more pieces of cannon,but onely thentie five or thirtiepieces for the field. monſieur de vaudeville held monfieur de bauge priſoner, the brother of monſieur de martigues who di- ed at hedin.the ſaid lord of bauge was priſoner in the caſtle of the heap of wood belonging to the emperor, who had been taken at iberokenne by two spaniſh souldiers. now the ſaid lord of vaudeville having looked well upon him, conceived hee muſt bee a gentleman of ſomgood houſ, and to bee the better aſſured, hee cauſed him to have his ſtockings pulled off and ſeeing his ſtockings and his feet clear and neat, together with his white fine ſock, it confirmed him the better in his opinion,that it was aman was able to paie ſom good ranſom. heedemand's of the souldiers if they would take thirtie crowns for their priſoner, and that hee would give it to them preſently, to which they agreed willingly,becauſ they had neither means to keep him, nor feed him; beſides they knew not his worth, thereſore they de- livered their priſoner into the hands of the ſaid lord of vaudeville, who preſently ſent him to the ca- ſile of the heap of wood with a guard of four souldiers with other gentlemenpriſoners of ours. the ſaid lord bauge would not diſcover himſelf, who hee was, and endured verie much beeing kept but with bread and water,and laie upon a little ſtraw. the ſaid lord of vaudeville after the taking of hedin, ſent word to the ſaid lord bauge and other priſoners, that the place of hedin was taken, and the liſt of thoſe that had been ſlain, and amongſt the reſt, monſieur de martigue - and when the ſaid lord of bauge heard the ſound of the death of his É. the lord martigues, hee began much to werp and lament; his keeper demanded of him,wwhy hee made ſo manie and ſo great lamentations? hee declared unto them that it was for monſieur de martigue; his brother's ſake. having underſtood that, the captain of the caſtle diſpatch'd alman avvaie quickly, to tell it to monſieur de vaudeville that hee had a good priſoner, vvho having received this good nevvs rejoiced greatly,and the next daie ſent mee wvith his phyſician and four souldiers to the wood-caſtle to knowv if his priſoner vvould give him fifteen thouſand crowns for a ranſom; hee would ſend him free to his ownhouſ, and for the preſent he defired but th: ſecuri- - [le lib. . concerning diverſ woiageſ. tie of two merchants of antwerp, that hee would name. the ſaid lord vaudeville perſwaded mee that i would make his agreement with his priſoner. see then why hee ſent meeto the wooden caſtle, and commanded the captain of the caſtle touſe him well, and to put him into a chamber hung with tape- ſtrie, and that they ſhould make the guard more ſtrong,and from that time they made him good chear at his expence. the anſwer of the said lord of bauge was, that to†. himſelf to ranſom hee was not able; and that, that depended upon monſieur d'eſtamps his uncle,and of miſtris de .. his aunt, and than hee had notanie means to paie ſuch aranſom. i returned with my keepers to the ſaid lord vaudeville, and told him the anſwer of his ſaid priſoner, who told mee,perhaps hee ſhould not out at ſo goodarate, which was true, for hee was diſcovered. and forthwith the queen of hungarie, and the duke of savoy ſent word to the lord vaudeville,that this morſel was too great for him, and that heemuſt ſend him to them, (which hee did) and that hee had enough priſoners beſides him:hee was put to fourtiethouſand crowns ranſom beſides other expenſes. k returning toward the said lord vaudevillel paſſed by s. omer, where i ſaw their great pieces of bat- terie,whereof the greateſt part was flawed and broken. i came back alſo by therouenne, where i did not ſee ſo much as ſtone upon ſtone, unleſs the mark of a great church. for the emperor gave command- ment to the countrie people within five or fix leagues about,that they ſhould emptie and carrie awaie the ſtones; inſomuch, that now one may drive a cartover the cittie, as is likewiſe don at hedin, without anie appearance of caſtle or fortreſs. see then themiſchief which com’s by the wars. and to return to my purpoſe, . after my ſaid lord vaudeville was verie well of his ulcer and little wanted of the entire cure,which was the cauſhee gavemee my leav, and made meebee condućted with a paſs-portby a trumpet to abbeville, where i took poſt, and went and found the king henriemy maſter at auſtmon, who received mee with joie, and a good countenance. º "- heeſent for the duke of guiſe the high conſtable of france, and monfieur d'eſtrex,to underſtand by mee what had paſt at the taking of hedin; and i made him a faithful report, and aſſured them i had ſeen the great pieces of batterie, which they had carried to s. omer. whereof the king was veriejoyful, be-, cauſhee feared left the enemieſhould.com furtherinto france. hee gave meetwo hundred crowns to retiremy ſelf tomy own houſ, and i was verie glad to bee in libertie and out of this great torment and noiſ of thunder from the diabolick artillerie, and far from the souldiers, blaſphemers and deniers of god. i will not omit to tell here that, after the taking of hedin, the king was advertiſed that i was not ſlain, but that i was a priſoner, which his majeſtie cauſed to bee written to my wife by monſieur du goguier his chief phyſician, and that ſhee ſhould not bee in anie trouble of minde for mee, for that i was ſafe andwell, and that hee would paie my ranſom. t - º *. of a.ter the battel of s. guintin, the kingſent for meetothe fere in tartemi, toward mon- *. ſieur the marſhal of bourdillon, to have a paſs-port by the duke of savoie to go to dreſs. monſieur the conſtable, who was grievouſly hurt with a piſtol-ſhot in the back, whereof hee was like to die,and remained a priſoner in his enemie's hands. but the duke of savoy would not give conſent that i ſhould go to the said lord conſtable,ſaying-hee ſhould not remain without a surgeon, and that hee doubtedl was not ſent onely to dreſs him, butto give him ſom advertiſement, and that hee knew i underſtood ſomthingelſbeſides surgerie, and that hee knew met to have been his priſoner at hedin. monſieur the marſhal of bourdillon advertiſed the king of the duke's denial, by which means the king writ to the ſaid lord of bourdillon,that if my ladie,the lord high conſtable's wife, did ſend anie bodie of her houſ, which was an able man, that i ſhould give him a letter,and that i ſhould alſo have told him by word ofmouth, what the king and monſieur the cardinal of lorrains had given mee in charge.two daies after therearrive's a ſervant of the lord conſtables chamber, who brought him ſhirts, and other linnen, for which the ſaid lord marſhal gave paſs-port,to go to the said lord conſtable ; i was verie glad thereof,and gave him my letter, and gave him his lefſon, of that which his maſter ſhould do,beeing riſoner. i had thought beeing diſcharged of my embaſſage to return toward the king. but the ſaid rd of bourdillon prai'd meeto ſtaie with him at the fere to dreſs a great number of people who were hurt, and werethither retired after the battel; and that hee vvould ſend vvord to the king, the cauſ of my flaie; vyhich i did. the vvounds of the hurt people were greatly flinking,and tull of vvorms with gangrene and putrefagion; ſo that ivvas conſtreined to com to my knife to amputate that wwhich vvas ſpoil'd,which was not without cutting off arms andlegs, as alſo to trepan divers. now there were not anie medicines to bee had at the fere,becauſthe surgeons of our camp had carriedall with them;i found out that the chariot of the artillerietarriedbehinde at the fere,norhadityet been touched i praid the lord marſhal that hee would cauſtom of the drogues to bee delivered to mee which were init;which hee did,and there was given to meeone half at a time : five or fix daies after was conſtreined to take the reſt, neither was there half enough to dreſs ſo great a number of the people, and to correà and flaiethe putrifaātion, and to kill the worms that were entred into their wounds; i waſhed them with Ægyptia- cum diſſolved in wineand aquavite, and did for them, all which i could poſſible, yet notwithſtanding all my diligence, verie manie of them died. - - there were gentlemen at the fere who had charge to finde out the dead bodie of monſieur de bois- dolphin the elder, who had been ſlain in the battel; they praied meeto accompanie them to the camp to finde him out amongſt the dead, if it were poſſible, which indeed was impoſſible; ſeeing that the bodies were all disfavoured and overwhelmed with putrefattion. wee ſaw more then half a league about us the earth covered with deadbodies, neither could wee abidelong there, for the cadaverous ſents, which did ariſe from the dead bodies, as well of men as of horſes. and i think wee were the cauſ, that ſo great a ſlumn- an apologie or treatiſ, lºy. | -i a number of flies,roſe from the dead bodies, which were procreated by their humiditie and the heat of the sun, having their tails green and blew that beeing up in the air made a ſhadow in the sun... wee heard them buz,or hum,which was much marvel to us, and i think it was enough to cauſthe plague, where they alighted. (my little maſter) i would you had been there as i was,to diſtinguiſh the ordures and alſo to make report to them which were never there.now beeing cloied and annoied in that coun- trie, prai'd monſieur the lord marſhal, to give meemy leav to bee gon, and that i was afraid i ſhould bee ſick, by reaſon of my too great pains,and the ſtinks which did ariſe from the wounded bodies,which did almoſt all die, for what diligence ſoever was uſed unto them. hee made other surgeons to comfiniſh the dreſſing of the ſaid hurt people, and i went away with his good grace and favor. hee wrote a letter to the king, of the pains hee had taken with the poor wounded. then i returned to paris, where i found yetmanie gentlemenwho had been hurt, and were there retired after the battel. h.; t. king ſent meeto dourlan, and made meebee condu&ed by captain govaſ with fiftie º men in arms,for fear i ſhould beetaken by the enemies. and ſeeing that in the waiewee were alwaies in alarms, i cauſed my man to alight, makinghim to bee my maſter for that time,and igot upon his horſ which carried my mail, and took his cloak and hat, and gave himmyambling mare. my man beeing put upon herback, one would have taken him for the maſter, and i for the ſervant.thoſe of dourlan ſeeingus far off, thought wee wereenemies, and let flie their cannon-ſhotatus.captain gavaſt my condućtor,made ſign with his hat, that weewere not enemies, ſo that they left ſhooting,andweeen- tred into dourlan with great joie. thoſe of dourlan made a ſallie forth, upon the enemics five or fixdaics before, who kil'd and hurtdivers of our captains, and good ſouldiers; and amongſt the reſt captain st.aubin valiant at the ſword, whom monſieur de guiſe loved verie well,and for whom chiefly the king ſent meethither, whobeeing in thefit of a quartan fever, would needs go out to command the greateſt part of his companie: a spaniardſeeing him that hee commanded, perceived hee was a captain, and ſhot a musket-bullet quite through his neck; my captain st. aubin thought with this ſtroakhee was dead, and with the fear (i proteit to god) heeloſt his quartan ague, and was altogether freed from it. i dreſſed him with antonie portal surgeon in ordinarie to the king, and divers other souldiers; ſom died, others eſcaped quite with the loſs of a leg, or an arm, or the loſsofaneie,and they ſaid they eſcaped good cheap, eſcape that can.when the enemie had broke their camp, returned to paris.here i hold my peace of my little maſter, who was more at eaſin his houſ, then i at the wars. jº" y; i will not omit to ſpeak of the voiage of the harbor of grace; then when they made grace, . the approches to plant the artillerie, the engliſh who were within it kil'dſomofour souldiers,and divers pioners,who undermined, who when were ſeen to bee ſo hurt that there was no hope of curing, their fellows ſtript them and putthemyet aſive in the mines,which ſerved them for ſo much filling earth.the engliſh ſeeing they could notwithſtand anaſſault, becauſthey were verie much attainted with diſeaſes,and chiefly with the plague, they yielded, their lives andjewels ſaved. the king cauſed them to have ſhips to return to england, becing glad to bee out of this place infetted with the plague: the greateſt part died, and carrid the plague into england.and ſince have not yet been exempted. captain sarlabou maſter of the camp, was lefthere in garriſon, with fix . on foot, who had no feat of the plague, and were veriejoiful to enter therein, hoping there tomake goodcheer. my little maſter had you been there you haddon as they. > the voiage to ow for the taking of rosen they kil'd divers of ours before theaſſault,and at the aſſault: rouen. *. n the daie after they entred into the cittie, ſtrepanedeight or nine, who were hurt at the breach with the ſtroaks of ſtones. there was ſomalignant an air, that divers died, yea of verie ſmall hurts, inſomuch that ſom thought they had poiſoned their bullets: thoſe within ſaid the likeby us for although they werevvell treated in their neceſſitiesyvithin the cittie, yet they died alſo as well as thoſe vvithout. the king of navarvvas hurtin the ſhoulder vyith a bulletſom few daics before the aſſault; i viſited and helpt to dreſs him, with his ovvn surgeon, named m. gilbertone of the chief of mºntpelier, and others.they could not finde the bullet,l ſearch'd foritverie exaëly, i perceived by conjećture,that it vvas entred by the head of the adjutorium, and that it had run into the cavitieof the ſaid bone, which vvas the cauſvvee could not finde it. the moſt part of them ſaid itvvas entred and loſt vithin the ca- vitie of the bodie monſieur the prince of the rock upon ton, vvho intimately loved the king of navar, drevvmee to oneſide,andasktmee if the vvound was mortal. i told him yea, becauſ allvvounds made in great joints, and principally contuſed vvounds, vvere mortal according to all autors who had writ- tºn of them. hee inquired of the others what they thought, and chiefly of the ſaid gilbert, who told him that hee had great hope that the king his maſter would bee cured, and the said prince was verie joyful. four daies after the king and the queen-mother, monſieur the cardinal of bourbon his brother, monſieur the prince of rock upon ton, monſieur de guiſe, and other great perſonages,afterwee haddreſ- ſed the king of navar, cauſeda conſultation to beenade in their preſences,wwheretherevveredivers phy- ſicians and surgeons: each man ſaid what ſeemed good unto him, and therevvas not one of them,who had not good hope of him,ſaying that the king would beecured, & i perfiſted alvvaies on the contrarie. monſieur the prince of the rock upon tonvvho loved mee, vvithdrew meeaſide, and ſaid ivvas onely againſt the opinion of all the reſt, and praied mee not to beeobſtinate againſt ſo manievworthie men. i anſvvered him, thatvwhen i ſavy anie goodſigns of cure, ivvould change my adviſe. divers conſultati- ons vvere made,where i never changed my vord, and prognoſtick, ſuch as i had made at the firſt dreſ. ſing and alvvaics ſaid that the armvwould fall into a gangrene,which it did,what diligence ſoever could bee had for the contrarie ; and gave up his ſoul to god the eighteenth daie of his hurt. monſieur the prince upon ton, having heard of the death of the said king, ſent his phyſician and surgeon toward mee, lig. . concerning diverſ voiageſ. --- * > * , ; nee, named feure now in ordinarie to the king, and to the queen-mother, to tell mee, that hee would #. j taken out, and that it ſhould bee look’t for in what place ſoever it could bee found: then i was verie joyful,and told them that was well aſſured to finde it quickly, which i did in their preſences, and divers gentlemen. it was lodged in the verie midſt of the cavitie of the adiutorie bone. my said princehaving it, ſhewed it to the king and the queen,who all ſaid my prognoſtick was found true.the bodie was laid to reſt in the caſtl-galliard, and treturned to paris where i found divers hurt men whq werehurt at the breach of kºńen, and chiefly italians, who deſired mee verie much to dreſs them, which i did willingly; there were divers that recovered, and others died. i believ (my littlemaſter) you were called to dreſsſom of them, for the greatnumber there was of them. ãº.f t; daie after the battel given at dreux, the king commanded mee, to go dreſs monſieur e.. i the count of eu, who had been hurt with a piſtol-ſhot in the right thigh,neer the joint of the ºf: which fraðured and broke the os femoris in divers places, from whence divers accidents did ariſ, and then death, which was to my great grief. the daie after my arrival i would go to the field, where the battel was given, to ſee the deadbodies; i ſaw a league about, all the earth covered; where there was by eſtimation five and twentiethouſand men and more.all which were diſpatch'd in the ſpace of two hours. i would (my littlemaſter) for the love ibear you, that you had been there to recount it to your ſcholars and to your children.now in the meantime while i was at dreux i viſited and dreſt a at number of gentlemen and poor ſouldiers, and amongſt the reſt manie swiſſer captains, i dreſſed #. in one chamber onely º: with piſtol-ſhot, and other inſtruments of diabolical fire, and not one of the fourteen died. monſieur the count of eubering dead, i made no long tarryingatí reux, there came surgeons from paris who performed well their dutie toward the hurtpeople, as pigray, coin: teret, hubert, and others; and i returned to paris, where i found diversgentlemen wounded, who had retired themſelvsthither after the battel to beedreſt of their hurts. . ." . $ºf wring the battel of moncontour king charli was at pleſi, the towers, where hec heard jº i./they had won it; a great number of hurt gentlemen and souldiers withdrew themſelve iséz. into the cittie and ſuburbs of towers, to bee dreſt and help'd, where the king and queen- mother commanded mec to ſhew my dutiewith the other surgeons,who were then in quarter, as pigray, du bois, portail, and one named siret, a surgeon of towerſ, a man verie skilful in surgerie, and at that time surgeon to the kings brother; and for the multitude of the wounded wee were but little in repoſe, nor the phyſicians likewiſe count mansfield governor of the duchie of luxembourg, knight of the king of spains order, was greatly hurt in the battel, in the left arm, with a piſtol-ſhot, which broke a great part of the joint of the elbow, and had retired himſelf to bourgutil neer towers; breing there heeſent ăgentleman to the king, affeitionately to beſeech him to ſendone of his surgeons to help him in his hurt, councel was held what surgeon ſhould bee ſent. monſieur the marſhal of mahmorency told the king and queen,that it were beſt to ſend him his chief surgeon,and declared to them that the said lord mansfield was one part of the cauſof winning the battel. the king ſaid flathee would not that i ſhould go, but would have mee remain cloſe to him.then the queen-mother ſaid, i ſhould butgoandcom,and that hee muſt confider it was a ſtrange lord, who was comfrom the king of spain's fide, to help and ſuccour him. and upon this hee permitted meetogo, provided that i ſhould return quickly. after this reſolution hee ſent for mee, and likewiſe the queen-mother, and commanded meeto go the said lord mansfield in the place, where i was to ſerv him in all i could, for the cure of his hurt; i wentand found him,having with mee a letter from their majeſties: havingſten it, hee received met with a good will,and from thenceforth diſcharged three other surgeons that dreſt him; which was to my greatgrief, becauſhis hurt ſeemed to mee uncurable. now at bourgmeil there were retired divers gentlemen, who had been hurt at the ſaid battel, knowing that monſieur de guiſe was there, who had been alſo veriemuch hurt with a piſtol-ſhot through one leg, well aſſured that hee would have good surgeons to dreſs him,and alſo thathee,beeing kinde and liberal, wouldaſsiſt them with a great part of their necesſities.and formy part, idiáhelp and aid them with all my art,as much as it was poſsible; ſomdied,ſom recovered accor. ding to their hurts. the count ringrave died, who had ſuch a ſhot in the ſhoulder, as the king of navar before rouen.monſieur de baſſompiere colonel oftwelvhundred horſ was hurt alſo in ſuch a like place as count mansfield, whom i dreſt and god cured. god ſo well bleſſed myvvork that within threevyeeks! led him back to paris, where i muſt as yet make ſominciſions in the arm of the said lord mansfield,to drawvout the bones vyhich vere greatly broken and caries'd: heevvascured by the grace of god, and gave mee an honeſt revvard, ſo that i vyas wwell contented with him,and heevvith mee,as heehath fince made it appear: hee vvrit a letter to the duke of aſcot hovv that hee vvas cured of his hurt, and alſo monſieur de baſſompiere of his, and divers others, wwhich i had dreſt after the battel of montrontour, and counſelled him to beſeech the king of france my good maſter to give mee leav to go ſee monfieur the the marqueſs of auret his brother. - - volage of m. the duke of aſcot did not fail to ſend a gentleman to the king vyith a letter, flººdws, humbly to beſeech him to do him ſo much good and honour,as to permit and command his chief surgeon to comto ſee the marqueſs of auret his brother, who had received a musket-ſhot near the knee, vvith fraðure of the bone, about ſeven months ſince, vvhich the phyſicians and surgeons in thoſe parts vvere much troubled to cure. the king ſent for mee and commanded mee to go ſee the said lord auret, and to help him in all that i could for the cure of his hurt; i told him lyvould emploieall all that littleknowledgewhich it hath pleaſed god to give mee. i vvent then condućted by two gen- tlemen to the caſtle of auret,which is a league and a half from mounts in hainaut,where the said mar- queſs vyasas ſoon as i arrived i viſited him,and told him theking had commanded meeto com to ſee º - an * _-t lib. . concerning diverſ voiages through the whole bodie to the mouth. for as wee ſaie in a common proverb, when the ovenis well heat, the throat feel's it. having diſcourſed of the cauſes and accidents, ſaid they muſt bee cured by their contraries, and firſt wee muſt appeaſ the pain, making apertions in the thigh to evacuate the matter re- teined, not evacuatingallata time for fear left by a ſudden great evacuation there might happen a great decaie of ſpirits which might much weaken the patient and ſhorten his daies. secondly, to look unto the great ſwelling and cold of his leg, fearing left it ſhould fall into a gangrene; and that ačtual heat muſ bee applied unto him, becauſ the potential could not reduce the intemperature de potentia adačium; for this cauſhot bricks muſt bee applied roundabout, on which ſhould bee caſt a decoãion of nerval herbs boiled in wine and vineger, then wraptupin ſom napkin, and to the feet an earthen bottle filled with the ſaid decoètion, floptand wraptup with ſomlinnen clothes; alſo that fomentations muſt bes made upon the thigh, and the whole leg, of a deco&ion made of sage, roſemarie, tyme, lavender, flowers of camomile, melilot, and red-roſes boiled in white-wine, and a lixivium made with oke- aſhes, with a little vineger, and half an handful of ſalt. this decottion hath virtue to attenuate,in- ciſt, reſolv and drie the groſs viſcoushumor. the ſaid fomentations muſtbee uſed a long while, to the end there may beeagreater reſolution; forbeeing ſodon alongtime together, more is reſolved then at- trathod, becauſ the humor conteined in the partis liquified, the skin and the fleſh of the muſcles is ra- rified. thirdly, that there muſt beeapplied upon the rump agreat emplaſter made of the red deficeative and ungººntºn comitiſe of each equal parts incorporated together, to theend to appeaſ his pain and drieup the ulcer, alſo to make him a little doun-pillow which might bear his rump aloft without lean- ing upon it. : to refreſh the heat of his kidnies one ſhould applie the unguent called refrige. rans &alºnifreſhly made, and upon that the leavs of water-lilies. then a napkin diptin oxycrate,wrung out and often renewed: and for the corroboration and ſtrengthening of his hearta refreſhing medicine ſhould bee applied made with oil of menuphar, and u of rotes and a little ſaffron diſſolved in roſe-vineger, and triacle ſpread upon a piece of scarlet: for the syncope which proceeded from the debilitation of the natural ſtrength troubling the brain. alſo hee muſt uſe good nouriſhment full of juice, as rere eggs, damask-prunes ſtewed in wine and ſugar, alſo panado made of the broth of the great pot (of which i have alreadie ſpoken) with the white fleſhie parts of ca and partridg-wings min- ced ſmall, and other roſt-meat eaſie of digeſtion, as veal, goat, pigeon,partridg,and the like. the ſauce ſhould bee orenges, verjuice, sorrel, ſharp pomgranats and that hee ſhould likewiſe eat of them beiled with good herbs; as sorrel, lettuce, purſlain, succorie, bugloſs, marigolds, and other the like. at nighthee might uſe cleanſed barlie with juice of nenºphar and sorrel, of each two ounces, with five or fix grains of opium and of the four cold ſeeds bruiſed, of each half an ounce, which is a remedie nouriſhing and medicinal, which will provoke him to ſleep: that his bread ſhould bee of meſlin, neither too new, nor too ſale; and for the great pain of his head, his hair muſt bee cut, and rub his head with oxirrhodinum luke-warm, and leava double-cloth wet therein'upon it; likewiſe ſhould beenade for him afrontal of oil of roſes, nenupbar, poppies, and a little opium and roſe-vi- neger, and a little camphir and to renew it ſomtimes. moreover one ſhould cauſhim to ſmel to the flowers of henbaneandnenupbar bruiſed with vineger,roſe-water and a little camphir wrapped in a handkercher, which ſhall beeoften and a long time held to his noſt, to the end that the if: bee communicated to the brain, and theſe things to bee continued, till that the great inflammation and pain bee paſt, for fear of cooling the brain too much. befides one may cauſ it to rain artificially in powring down from ſom high place into a kettle, and that it may make ſuch a noiſ that the patient may hear it, by theſe means flºp ſhall bee provoked on him. and as for the retration of hislegthat there was hope to redreſsit, when evacuation was made of the matter and other humors conteined in the thigh, which by their extention (made by repletion) have drawn back the leg, which mightbeeremedied in rubbing the whole joint of the knee with ungenium dialthea and oil of lilies, and a little aquavite, and upon it to bee laid, black-wool with the greaſ thereof. likewiſe putting in the ham of a feather-pillow fol- ded in double, and by little and little to make his leg to ſtretch out. all which my diſcourſ was well approoved of by the phyſicians and . , the conſultation ended wee went to the ſick patient, and imade him three apertions in histhigh, from whence iſſued out great quantitie of matter and sanies; and at the ſame time i drew out ſomfcales of bones, nor would i let out too much abundance of the ſaid matter for fear of too much decaying his ſtrength: then two or three hours after l cauſed abed to bee made near his own, where there were clean white ſheets,then aſtrong man lifted him into it, and rejoiced much in that hee was taken out of his foul ſtinking bed. soon after hee demanded to ſleep, which hee did almoſt four hours, where all the people of the houſ began to rejoice, chiefly monſieur the duke of aſcot his brother. the daies following i made injettions into the bottom of the cavities of the ulcer, made with egy- ptiacum, diſſolved ſomtimes in aqua vite, and ſomtimesin wine. i applied to mundifieand drie the ſpon- gie and looſ fleſh,bolſters; at the bottom of the finuofities, hollow tents of lead, that the sanies might have paſſage out ; and upon it agreat emplaſter of diacalcitbees diſſolved in wine : likewiſe i did rowl it with ſuch dexteritie, that heehad no pain, which beeing appeaſed the fever began much to diminiſh. then i made him drink wine moderately allaied with water,knowing that it reſtore's and quicken's the ſpirits: and all the things which wee reſted on in the conſultation were accompliſht, according to time andorder; and his pains and ſever ceaſed, heebegan to grow better and diſcharged two of his surgeons, and one of his phyſicians,ſo that wee werebut three with him.now i remained thereabout two months, which was not without ſeeing divers fick people, as wellrich as poor, which came to meethree or four leagues about. they gave meat and drink to the needie, all which hee recommended to mee, and praied x x x inte lºy. conteining diverſ voiageſ. - • s,desis, ... who were taken, whereof i dreſſed a great É. the king commanded mee by the requeſt of the ladie s my here.then the said lord conſtable ſaid this huguenot was a good musketeer, and pare a pittiful minde, for it was verielikelie if hee would have ſhot at his head, hee might have don it more eaſily then in the hand. i dreſs'd the ſaid cook who was verie fick, but at length was cured, but with lameneſs of his hand, and ever fince his companions call him huguenot; hee is living. the battel of a. as for the battel of saint denis there were divers ſlain as well on one ſide,as on the other: ours beeing hurt, went back to paris to bee dreſſed together with the priſoners high-conſtable, to goto her houſ to dre lord, who had received a piſtol-ſhot in the middle of the ſpondils of his back, whereby hee preſently loſt all ſenſ and motion of thighs and legs, with reten- tion of excrements, not beeing able to caſt out his urine, nor anie thingby the fundament, becauſ that the ſpinal marrow, (from whence proceed the finews to give ſenſ and motion to the inferiour parts,) was bruiſed, broken, and torn by the vehemence of the bullet. hee likewiſe loſt his reaſon,and under. ſtanding, and in a few daies hee died. the surgeons of paris were a long time troubled to dreſs the ſaid wounded people, believ ( my little maſter) that you ſaw ſom of them. i beſeech the great god of vićtories, that wee may never bee emploied in ſuch evilencounters and diſaſters. #. voiage of ow iſaie moreover, what i did in the voiage with the king to bayonne, where wee have iſ.” been two years and more to compaſs all this kingdom, where in divers citties and villages i have been called into conſultations for divers diſeaſes, with the deceaſed monſieur chaplain chief phyſician to the king and monſieur chaſtellan chief to the queen-mother, a man of great honor and knowledge in phyſick and surgerie: making this voiage i was alwaies inquiſitive of the surgeons if they had marked anie rarething of remark intheir praćtice,to the end to learn ſom new thing.beeing at bayonne there happened two things of remark for the young surgeons. the firſt was, that i dreſta spaniſh gentleman, who had a grievousgreat impoſtume in his throat: heecame to have been touched by the deceaſed king charl; for the evil. made inciſion in his apoſteme, where there was found great quantitie of creeping worms as bigasthe point of aſpindle, having a black head; and there was great uantitie of rotten fleſh.moreoverthere was under his tongue an impoſtume called ranula, which hin- i. him to utter forth his words,and toeat and ſwallow his meat:heepraied mee with his held up hands to open it for him if it could beedonwithout peril of his perſon, which i immediately did, and found under my lancet a ſolidbodie,which was five ſtones,like thoſe which are drawn from the bladder. the greateſt was as big as an almond and the other like little long beans,which were five in number; in this apoſteme was conteinedaſlimie humor of a yellow color which was more then four ſpoonfuls; i left him in the hands of a surgeon of the cittie to finiſh his cure. monſieur de funtain knight of the kings order, had a great continual peſtilent fever, accompanied with divers carboncles in divers parts of his bodie, who was two daies without ceaſing to i. t at noſe, nor could it beeſtanch'd; and by that means the fever ceaſed with averie greatſweat,and ſoon after the carboncles ripened and wereby mee dreſſed,and,by the grace of god, cured. i have publiſh'd this apologie to the end that each man may know, with what foot i have alwaies marched, and i think there is not anie man ſo tickliſh, which taketh not in good part what i have ſaid, ſeeing my diſcourſ is true, and that the effectſheweth the thing to the eie, reaſon beeing my warrant againſt all calumnies. - the end of the apolºgie and wigº. f i n i s. x x x the table. : : bones more brittle in froſtic weather, , ſoo- ner knit in young bodies, bit. their general cure beeingbroken or diſlocated, . how to help the ſymptoms happening thereon, . why they becom rotten in the lue veneres, and how it may bee perceived, . how help- » i&id. bonesſtricken in the throat or jaw, how to bee got out. trachiaus jmuſculur, brain and the hiſtoriethereof, . the ven- tricles thereof, . the mammillarie proceſ: ſes, - abid. brain, the mooving or concuſſion thereof, . how cured. breſts, . their magnitude, figure, &c, ibuſ. how they communicate with the womb, ibid. breſt-bone, the hiſtorie thereof. ibid. breſt-bone, the depreſſion or fraćture thereof, how helped, revi muſculus,.. bronchocele, the differences thereof, and the cure, bruiſes, ſee contuſions. bubo's by what means the humor that cauſº's them flow’s down, bubo's, venereal ones returning in again cauſes the lues venerea, . their efficient and material cauſes, . their cure ibid. bubo's in the plague, whence their original, . the deſcription,figns, and cure, . progno- ſticks, abid. ubonocele what, bullets ſhot out of guns donot burn, . they cannot beepoiſoned, . remain in the bodie after the healing of wounds, bupreſtes their poiſon and their cure, burns, how kept from bliſtering, o. see com- buſtions. biſhop-fiſh, c, cerats what, their differences, ceratum ocſypiex philagrio, ceruſ, the poiſonous qualitie thereof, and the cure, certificates in ſundrie caſes, chataxiom an effe of the eie-lid, chamelion his ſhape and nature, . . chance ſomtimes exceed's art, . finde’soutre- medies, change of native temper, bow it happen's, chaps, or chops occaſioned by the lºst venerea, and the cure, . in divers parts by other means, and their cure, charcoal cauſſeth ſuffocation, chemeſis an affea of the eie-lids, o cheſt and the parts thereof, ... why partly griſtly, partly bonitºid. the diviſion there- of, ibid. the wounds thereof , . their cure, ibid. they eaſily degenerate into a fiſtula childe, whether alive or dead in the wº. . if dead, then how to bee extraded , children why like their fathers, and grandfathers, . born without a paſſage in the funda- ment, . their ſite in the womb, o , when and how to bee weaned , . their pain in breeding teeth, . they may have impoſtumes in their mother's * > childe-birth and the cauſthereof, o . the na- tural and unnaturall time thereof, oz. wo- men have no certain time, ibid. signs it is at hand, . what's to bee don *::: o . china root, the preparation and uſe *:: chirurgerie, ſee surgerie. chirurgion, ſee surgeon, - . ºf . the nature con- fiſtence, color, taſte and uſe, to. . the effects thereof, . not natural, how bred and the kindes thereof, . . . . . ºld. cholerick perſons, their habit of bodie manners and diſeaſes, . they cannot long brookfa- ſting, . . theries what, io chylus, what, cifteele, a kinde of rupture, &c. .the cure, cinnamom and the waterthereof, chavicle, ſee collar-bone. " cleitoriº, oz. &yſter,when preſently to bee given after blood- letting, zo;. see glyſter. coats,common coat of the muſcles, theſubſtance, quantitie, &c. thereof, . of the eies, of the womb, ... c cocatrice, ſee baſilisk, .... cocks are kinglie and martial birds; .o celebrasm the poiſonous qualitie thereof, and the cure, colick, and the kindesthercoſ, &c. ; colon. i collar-bones, or clavicles, their hiſtorie; of, . their frağure, . how to help it, ibid. their diſlocation and cure, collyria what, their differences and uſe, . color is the bewraier of the temperament, -q columella, sec llvula, .. - combuſtions and their differences, .their ‘. id. common ſenſ what, - compariſon between the bigger and the leſſer world, - - complexus muſcular, compoſition of medicines,the neceſſitie thcreof, jmedehynia what, (acsm inteſtimum, calcaneum or, callaca arteria, falles what, and whence it proceed's, . bet- ter generated by meats of groſs nouriſhment, . made morehandſom by ligation, ibid. ihe material and efficient cauſes thereof, . medicines conducing to the generation there- of, ibid. how to know it is a breeding, ibid: what may hinder the generation thereof, and how to help it beeing ill formed, camels their kinds and condition, * cancer, the reaſon of the name , . cauſes thereof, jºid differences, . which not to bce cured, ibid. the cure if not ulcerated, ibid. cure if ulcerated, ºid. topick medi- cines to beethereto applied, t cancer or canker in a childe'smouth how to bee helped, cannons, ſee guns, cantharides, their malignitie and the help thereof, . applied to É. head they ulcerate the bladder, capons ſubje to the gout, . carbuncles whence their original, . why ſº called, together with their nature, cauſes, and ſigns, - prognoſticks, ibia, cure, *bid. Čaries oſsium, carpiflexores muſeuli ; carpttenſores muſculi, - ibid. cartilago ſcutifºrnis, velenſformis, of caruncles, their cauſes, figures, and cure, . other waies of cure, o caſes, their form and uſe, caſpilliea ſtrangefiſh, . catagmatick pouders, catalogue of medicines and inſtruments for their preparation, . &c. of surgical inſtru- ments, cataplaſms theirmatter and uſe,_ _ _ catarrass, wherebred, . their differences, cauſes, &c. . their cure at the beginning ibid. the touching of them, , , ... . catarſh ſomtimes maign, and killing manie, catharetick medicines. ; cats, their poiſonous qualitie, and the antipathie between ſm men and them, cauſtick medicines their nature and uſe, cauteries, ačtual ones preferred before potential, . their ſeveral forms, . their uſe, . their force againſt vencmous bites, ntial ones, cephale what, t cephalies vens. . cephalickpoudershow compoſed, compreſſes, ſee bolſters. - conco&ion, fault of the firſt concoëtion not men- ded in the after, , . × concuſſion of the brain, how helped, condylomata, what they are,and their cure, conformation, the faults thereof muſt bee ſperdi- ly helped. o congeſtion, two caaſſesthereof, contuſions what, their cauſes, . general cure, ibid. how to bee handled it joined with a wound, . how without a wound, . how kept from gangrening, ibid. contuſions of the ribs, their core, convulſion, the kindes and cauſes thereof, the cure, , ; why on the contrarie part in wounds of the hrad, convulſive twitching in broken members and the cauſ thereof, comics have taught the art of undermining, $o cornes runica, - i a corone,what, - coronalis vena, corroborating medicines. &tyte what, coryledones what, too. courſeshow to provokethem, , ... how to ſtop them, , . thereaſon of their name, . their cauſes bid. cauſes of their ſuppreſſion, .what ſymptomsfollow there- on, . ſymptoms that follow their immo- derate flowing, ibid". crabs, . cramp, the cauſand cure thereof. cranes obſerv order in flying and keep watch, i cremaſter muſcles, ; cridones what diſeaſ, and the cure, o crocodiles may beetamed, § crookedneſs how helped, .# crural vein, . arterie, &mrems muſculus, . trus how taken. cryſtallinus humor. - . cubit, the bones and thuſcles thercoſ, s cubit bones, the fraćture of them, ſubsiderer, cupping glaſſes and their uſe, . their uſe in §. º: bubo. , cures accidental and ſtrange, , , deceitful ? ibid. cuſtom how forcible, .# cuticle,the matter, uantitie, figure, &c. thereo cuttel-fiſh his craft, #. cyſtica: gemella, . *artor, death, the inevitable cauſthereof, o. how ſudden tomanie, definition of surgerie, i definition how different from a deſcription, defluxion of humors how diverted, i talizium, the cauſes thereof, . the cure, + - ibid. deliverance in childe-birth how furthered, . which difficult, . which cafie, ibid. deltoides muſculus, o dentitrices, their differences, matter, and form. - d-pilatories, derma pººrfires, sos. . theiruſe, išić. devils and their differences, . their titlesand names, . they are terrifica and angred by divers things, devil of the sea, tiabete what, the cauſes, ſigns, and cure, diaphoretick medicines, io . diphragms, ſee midriff, why called phrenes, i io diaphſ what, diafic fever, the cauſes and ſigns, . the cure, ibid. diarthroft, t die-bonº, diet fºre to alter or preſerv thetemperi- ment, -r diet convenient for ſuch as have the gout, for ſuch as fear the ſtone, . in prevention of the plague, . in the cure thereof, differences of muſcles, digitanflexºresnuſºuli, , % ‘digitum tenſºres muſculi, , tºploe what, i diſcaſ the definitionand diviſion thereof, o.cauſ. fes, ibid. diſeaſes ſtrange ºud monſtrous, diſeaſes incident to ſanguine, ãolakkº: tick and melancholick perſons, . wherefore ſom are bereditarie, . ſupernatural, monſtrous accidents in thern, diſlocations, their kindesand manner, . their differences, . cauſes, ibid. signs, ibid. prognoſticks, . the gºneral cure, . symptoms that may befala diſlocated member, diſlocation of the jaw, : the cure , . and ºbta. of the collar.bone, tºid of the ſpine, . qf the head, ibid., of the neck, %. of the rump, ſtia. qf the ribs, ibid. Öf the ſhoulder, ibid. of the elbow, . of the rylliformiproceſſºr, . of the wriſt . of the afterwriſt, % of the fingers, ºb. of the thigh cr hip, ibid. of the whirl. bone, . of the knee forwards, . of the greater and leſſºr focile, . of the heel it a . of the paſtern or anckle-bone, . of the inſtep and back of the foot, tº Öf' the toes, shtd. diſmembring, ſee amputation. - x x x dilempera- the t.all. - diñemperature and the diverſitie thercot, diºtillation and the kindes thereof, . for- naces and the veſſels therefore, . what to bee confidered therein, . how to pre- pare the materials therefore, . how to diſtiſ waters, . how aqua vitae, . how to retifiethem, . to diſt in the sen iºid. by filtring abid of oils, of spirits, . of oils out of gums, ibid. of oil of vitriol. docilitic of beatts. s their love to their maſters, . their doci- tie, . why they becom mad ſooner then o- ther creatures, siz. how their bitcs may bee known, ibid. prognoſticks, . the cure of ſuch as are bitten &tiºn, . dorycnium, the poiſonous qualitie thereof sº the cure, doves free from adulterie, tºro intrinº, the ſea-dragon his poiſonous pun- êurr, the ſymptoms and cure, draraneºlar what, . the cure, ibid. dragons their craft, dreams of the ſanguine,cholerick,phlegmatick and malandholick perſons, .not to be negkäed, droºfit what, .the differences,symptoms and cauſes, s. signs and prognoſticks ibid. the cure, ºbta. following upon a tumor of theme- ſenterie, dugs; their ſubſtance, magnitude,&c. . what to beedon to drie up milk, : duºdenum, the magnitude, &c. twº mater what, iai. thehurts thereofby tre- panning, and how helped, . remedies for the inflammation an ibid. why it eaſily endure’sacrid medicines. . e. e: parts and compoſure, . their wounds and cure . to ſupplie their deſetts, . their ulcers, § their ſtopping, and things falling into how helped, - fars of the heart, in bat-wax, for what uſe it ſerv's, earth a cold and dric element, . farthquakes, their cauſ, ecchomoſis what, and how cured, f-ho, the cauſthereof, w effeisof phlegm.o.of cholerand **tolº ejaculatorie veſſels in men gº. in women, elbow,the diſlocation thereof, .how toreſtore it diſlocated outwardly, ibid. totheinſide, why moſt ſubject to the and ylioſis, . . . . ii. elementshow underſtoºd, and their principal qua- lities, . what thoſe of generatiºn are, .what theſe of mixtbodies are,iºd. thecauſoftheir tranſmutation, elephants, their ſtrength, pietie, &c. . where bred, and their qualities, embalining the dead, . the manner how, embryon, when it take's that name, embrocation what, and how performed, ; emollient and reſolving medicines, : , emplaſters what, their differences, . sign, they are prºſtěly boiled, .their uſc, , cau- tions in their application, - i - frºplaſtrº devišocum jmeeurie, . terre- *ta dei, ibid. tº b,tºnics ſtue de janus, ibid. yererium, . de ceruſa,ibid. f. pharmacum. je” nigrum ibid. diacalms ſaw diresleithees, ib. {*tra reptaram, ibid. de muei'agistbus, ib. apoſtumation thereof, de minis, ibid. duachylum magnum, ibid. e”yewa what, . the cure thereof, ibid. emp ineſs, mulzens jarteria, , vºna, ewarthroſis, a kinie of articulation, t **terocele a kinde of rupture, ephemera ſºbris, . thecauſes and ſigns there- of, ibid. the cure, ibid. #. ferns's, pidydiasis, . epigaſtrium what, . the conteining parts there. ot, ikud. epigaffrica vrn', . £piglotti, what, fpipleen what. epiplºit vena, paºlozele, - - - fpithemestoſtrengthen the principal parts, ; their compoſition and uſe, : fpents muſt slus, - o epulºs what, the ſymptoms and cure, - . epulosick,or skinning medicines,their kindes and uí”, - - -- epphines their differences, deſcription and uſe, *. . erºſſbelau what, . what tumors referred there. to, , the differences thereof, . progno- ſtºcks, . their curº, ubiº. erythrois musica, - - eſchar how to haſten the falling awaie thereof, . medicinescauſing it eſcaroticks, . why nºt to ſpread ulcers, o o . eſtrich between a bird and a beaſt, . the ice- lcton of one, skid evacuation and the kindesthereof, * . what to bec obſerved therein, eunuches aſſimilated to women, - tº excrements of the firſt, ſecond, and third conco- &ion what, - - . exerciſe, the uſe and beſt time for it, . the qua- litiethereof, abad. exemphales, or ſtanding forth of the *::: epoſoft in lue venereº, experience without reaſon, of what *i; . eie brows, eic-lids, ibid. to ſtate them beeing too lax, oz to open them faſtned together, . to help their itching, - ibid. eiestheir fight and quickneſs, . figure, com: fº, c. *bid. their muſcle', coats, and , - their wounds, .to hide the loſs or dcfety of thern , ibid. their ulcers, . their cure, , their cfſeas, . &c. their inflammati tion, ; f. ace diſcloſer of affestions and paſſions ,the wounds thereof, . how to help the redneſs thereof, - - - - faculties what, t , their diviſion, falling down of the fundament the cauſes and cure thereof, fat, the ſubſtance, and cauſ, &c. thereof, why not generated under the skul, . how tobee diſtinguiſhed from the brain, ibia, the cure ãº: wounded, famers what, m faulcon her fight with the hern, - . faultsof conformation thuſ bee ſpeedily helped, of the firſt concoxon, not helped in the after, fear and the effeds thereof, - fever ſomtimes a ſymptom, otherwhiles a diſ- cal - fevets accompanying phlegmon; and their cure, zo. . happening upon eryſipelous tumors, zoº. upon atoustumors, , up schiroustumors, . the cure of baſardia- termitting fevers. - * feet and their bones, . their twofold uſe, - peirce clarea fiſh, females of what ſeed generated, fibraawi, what, #: fibuls, i lºt figures in anatomie, and firſt of the forepºrt of man, . of the backparts, . of the lower beſie, and parts thereof, , . of the ſtomach, o. of the veſſels of ſeed and u- rine, t, ofthe bladder and yard, . of the womb, . of ſom parts in women different from thoſe of men, ros. of the hollow vein, . of the arteries, . of therough arterie or weazon, . firſt and ſecond of the brain, . third of the •rebellum, . fourth and fifth of the in, , the ſixth of the brain, ibid. seventhſhewing the nervs of the brain, : the eighthof the brain, . of the ſpinal marrow, . of the eie, : , of the chief muſcles of the face, . of the lower jaw, ibid of the cars, . of the back- bone, . of the muſcles in ſundre parts of the bodie, , , , , °, . of the nervs, - . qf the bones in the hands, . of the thigh-bone, . of the bonesin the feet, . gſ the sceleton, , , figures of inſtruments uſed in surgerie, see in- itruments- - - figures of divers ſorts of javelinsandarrow-heads, figures of monſters, , . &c. of di- vers beaſts, &c. as of the succarath, . of the elephant, , . of the rhinode- ros, ; of the camel, ., of the croco- dile, , . of the crab, r . of the scorpion, &c. , $º of the serpent he- morrhous, . of serpent seps, , of the baſilisk, ; . of the salamander and torpedo, ibid. of the ſting raie, . of the sea-hare, . of the monk and biſhop- fiſh, . of the sea-divel, of the sea-mors, and bore, . of the fiſh hoga, . of a monſtrous flying-fiſh, & , Öf bernard the hermit, ; of the ſailing fiſh, its of the whale, . of an eſtrich, . of the birds of paradiſe, . of a girafa, : qf a beaſt called thanaah, . of the beaſt hait, and a monſtrous african- beaſt, . of a chameleon, figures of formucesand other things fit for diſtiſ- lation, , , , , *::: figure of a fraëured arm with a woundina fit- poſture, . of a leg fratured with a wound and up, . of ligature for extention, . how toreſtore the diſlocated ſpine, ić. of putting the ſhoulder into joint, , , . , , , . §: ** * the uſe thereof, , . of reſtoring the diſlocated elbow, . of the thigh-bone diſlocated inwards, : out: wards. . of refloring a knee diſlocated rºs of rº of a semirºpium . a tº: uſtd º: cure of a caruncle, . "of the helmet-flour, . of the ſite of the childe in the womb, . of leaden nip- ples, . of a glaſs to fuck *::: figures of artificial fies, . of noſes, . of § % palats, ibis. how to ſupplie the defrºof t . . qfthe ears, . iron breſt-plates, . of a urine baſin and artificial-yard, jºid. of an iron- -ſtall, , of an eredor of the hand, of floors for ſud as arecrook- legged, . of an artificial-hand, . of an arm andleg, , . of a pilings of lead, their harm takeninwardly, and cure, ° filtration the manner and uſe thereof, , ..., fingers and their parts, &c. . their on , why eaſily reſtored, ibid, how to takeawaie ſixhas bee ſuperfluous, and help thoſe that flick together, . how to ſup: plie their defeats, fire and †.” . theforcettere- of againſt the plague, fiſhes their †. they myºtº; pither a fiſh ſo called, : . flatulent tumors, their tauffº, ſigns, and cure, - - flatulencies about the joints counterfeiting the go s fiſtulaſarymºſa, ſee egil - ops fiſtula's what, their differences, figns, &c. their cure, ibid. in the tº, tºid, *: ture, ibid. upon the wounds of the deſt, and the cure, fleſhly pannicle, the hiſtorie thereof, fkſh quickly putrifie’s in maritime parts n flexore maſºli, tºo. sººni #; flux of blood in wounds helped, flux of the bellie how to bee flopped, §: flving fiſh of a monſtrousſhape, % feelſewhat, . how to cure the ſeparation of the greaterardleſſºr, . the £parationfom the paſtern-bone, , fomentations and their uſe, zo. for broken boºts, . they hurt pleborkk bodies, ibid. what to be obſerved in their uſe: ibide formaces,their matter and form, , , . º forms, foxes and their crafts, . q fraðure what, and the differences thereof, their cauſes, . signs and prognoſticks, ibid. their general cure, . how to he the ſymptoms, . why deadliein the joint of the ſhoulder, , why near a joint more dangerous, - fraňuresof the ſºul, their differences, :.” of 'the cauſes and ſigns, ºd. . sigmsmanifeſtto ſeaſ, . a fiſſure the firſt kind of fra- Čture, ibid. how to finde §: leſs mani- feſt, ibid. a contuſion the ſecond kinde of fra- &ure, . an effrºare the third kinds, . a seat the fourth kinde, . reſoni. tus the fifth kinde, tºid. the icks, general careof them andrbeit ſymptoms, . they are hurt by veneria, . by noiſ," ii. . the particular cure" ºt.why trepanned, fraćtres more particularly and firſt of the noſ: > .of the lower jaw,ibia. of the collarbon: $ ,ofthe ſhoulder-blade, rºid. of the breſt. bone, § .of the ribs.ºhid. of the vertebræor rºck-bones, . of the hoſiebone, ºil. qf the rump, ºid of the hip, itiº of the ſhoulder or arm-bone, ibid, of the cub: ot - ------ _^* ---. : f- the table, or ella wand, . of the hand, t. of the thigh, ibid. of the thigh near the joint, . of the patella or whirl-bone, ibid. of the leg, . of the bones of the feet. frºðures aſſociated with wounds, how to bee , bound up. , . french pox, ſee lues ventre+. fričtions º and uſc. º º fuci, how made. .. i fiº, their differences, matter and º: fundament, the falling downthereof. the cauſes and cures. fungus, an excreſcence ſomtimes happening in fraſtures of the ſcull. . jaless ics and praiſe. g gall º: bladderthereof,&c. . gººglion.what. properly ſocalled. ...ibid. gangrene what, . the general j. cauſes, ibid. that which is occaſioned by cold, upon what part it ſtaze’. .sigos,ibid. prog- noſticks, . the general cure, ibid. the par- ticular cure, tºid. areºg. :. their mitter and form. repellingripening and detergentones. garlick good againſt the plague. o gaſtrica vent. - - - jaſtrºpiploit vena, ibid. major. ibid. &eſ.their warineſs in flying over mount tauru. gemelli : : emini i. . . i wo §: what it is, .what neceſſariethcreto. generation of the navil. giddineſs, ſee vertigo. ginglzno, what. t giraffa a ſtrangebeaſt. glandula what ſort of tumor. glandula lacrymals. glandules in general , $o. at the root of the tongue, .their inflammarion and cure. o glan, penis, . not rightly perforated, how to bee helped. .. - glyſters, their differences, materials, &c. . several deſcriptions of them, ibid. they may nouriſh. . goat's dung is good to diſcuſs ſtirrous tumors. - : golden ligature, how made. gomploſis what. - gonorrhea, how different from a virulent ſtran- gurie, , the cure. gout, the names and kindes thereof, .theoccult cauſes thereof, ióid, the manifeſt cauſes there. of, . out of what parts it may flow, . ſigns that it flow's from the brain, or liver, ib. how to know this or that humor accompanying the goutie malignitie, ièud. prognoſtickss ;o. the general method to prevent and cure it, vomiting ſomtimes good, . other gene- ral remedies, ibid. diet convenient, . what wine not , . how to ſtrengthen the joints, ibid. the palliative cure thereof, . local medicinesina ; ;# f a hot or ſanguine gout, . ina cholerick gout, jºid. what is to bee don after the fit is over, o. tophiot knots how cauſed, . the hip-gout or ſtiatica, . the cure thereof. griſtles what, ios, of the noſe, f. of the la. yº. - * groins their wounds, . their tumors, ice b - guaiacum, the choiſ faculties and parts, . the preparation of the decodion thereof, . the uſe. o gullet and the hiſtorie thereof, .the wounds thereof - gums overgrown with fleſh, how to bee helped. - - r : guns, who their inventer, . their force, goš. the cauſof their reports. is gun-powder not poiſonous , . how made, ihrd. guttaroſłrea what, .the cure. ibid. guts, their ſubſtance, figure, and number. : their ſite and connexion, ibid. a&ion, . how to bee, taken forth, . signs that they ar. wounded, . their cure, i, . their mi. cers. hemorrhoidalts arteria, ſive meſentarica iſºft harmorrhousa serpenth's bite, the ſigns and ‘. hiiit, a ſtrangebeaſt. , hair, what the original and uſe , . how to make it black. . how to take it off. thid. hairie-ſtalp, the connexion and uſe, : . the wounds thereof not to bee neglected, thid. the curethereof beeing contuſed. o hand taken generally, what, . the fraëure thereof with the cure, . how to ſupplie the defect thereof. , hares how they provide for their young. . hare-lips what, . their cure ibid. harmonia what. t hawks - - - -- head, the general deſºrption thereof, . the conteining and conteined parts thereof thiſ. the muſculcus skin thercot, .why affeded when anie membranous part is hurt, %id. the watrictumor thereof, . the wounds there: of, aga. &c. the falling away of the hair and other affects thereof, . the diſlocation thereof. § hearing, the organ, obje , &c. thereof. . heart, and the hiſtorie thereof. . the ventri- cles thercoſ, . signs of the wounds *... heat, one and the ſame effizient cauſof all humors at the ſame time, io, three cauſes thereof . hedick fever with the differences, cauſes ſigns ºverwººd-rºw.” h s now t rovide for their young. ; ... . why a fracture thereof ſo dangerous, thid. the diſlocation thereof, symptoms following upon the contuſion thereof, ibud. why ſubject to inflam- mation- ſfe megri hernicransit, inn- hemlock the j qualitie thereof, and the cure. - - henbine the poiſonousqualitic and the cure. hermophrodites, zo. and . hern, his ſight, and the fakon. hernia and the kindes thereof, . "-": - herps and the kindesthereof, . the cure. ib. hip-gout, ſreſciatica. - hip, the diſlocation thereof. . prognoſticks, $ . signs that it is diſlocated outwardly or inwardly, c.d.ſlecated forwards, , back- wards, %id, how to reſtore the inward diſloca- tion, . the forward diſlocation, . the backward diſlocation. ibid. hippocrates his effigies. hoga, a monſtrous fiſh. holes of the innerbaſis of the ſcull, , of the external baſis thereof, thid, ſmall ones ſomtimes remain after the cure of great wounds. . holie.bone, his number of vertebra,and their uſe, . the frature thereof. . . hordiolum, an affe&of the eie-lids, o; horns uſed in ſtead of ventoſ's. ..., horſ-leeches, their application and uſe, ibid, their virulencie and cure. ihrd. hot-houſes how made. i i r hulpalu, a monſtrous beaſt. huneraria arteris, . vene, . humors, their temperaments, . the knowledg of them neceſſarie, . their definition and diviſion, ibid. serousand ſecundarie ias ros, cambuum, gluten, . an argument of their great putre- faction. humors of the eie. jaqurus. &#. iked. virrew, hydriis. - o hydrargyrum, the dhoiſ, preparation, and uſe thereof in the laes venerea- e hydrophaſia, whether uncurable, . what cure muſt becuſed thcrein. i hydrocºphalo, what, . the cauſes, differences, ſigns, &c. ibid. the cure. hydroceſe. , , hymen. - or whether anie or no. a hiſtorie thereof hvoides of, the reaſon of the name, compoſure, ſite, &c. thereof. hipocond-in, their ſite. hypochyma. hypogaſtrica wºma- hypopyon, hypothenar. i. àundiſ, amedicinetherefore. jawºtºbonesthºof ºtheir projadions. % h. - hæmorrhoids *t, their differencesandcure, . in theneck of the womb. **mºrrhoidali, interna, . externa, yo + the frasure of the low r jaw. how to help it. the diſlocation thercoſ. ; the cute. **, a bird, the inventer of glyſters. + ichneumon, jº to aſſail the crocodile. . jºleneſs, the diſcommodities thereof. ºutum inteſtinkm. t ilion. i&id. iliaca arteria. p vinz. - o ilium of. ill confermation. r imagination, and the forcethereof. impoſtors, their impudencie and craft. , impoſtume, what, their cauſes and di i signs of them in general. . prognoſticks. i what conſiſerable in opening of them. : inanition, ſee emptineſs. ncu. i , indication, whence to bee drawn, . of feeding, * , what, ” the kindes, ibid, table of them, obſervable in wouldsby gunſhot. as infant, what bee muſt take beforehee ſuck, gos. their crying what it doth. . how tobºe pre- ſerved in the wºmb when the mother is dead, jee childe. - inflammation of the almonds of the throat, and their cure, . of the voula, it d. of the pics. o inflammatiºn hinder's the repoſitionct putting diſlocated members into joint. . iººſſus, what, their manner, matter,and uſe. : imms uſed in surgerie for opening abſtet. es. *o a vent for the womb. , : an iron-plate and adual cauterie for the cure of the ranula. ºonſtriaoſiering to binde the columell. : speculum ºil. ibid. a trunk with cauterie to catterize the ºvní. : * an inciſion-knife. an ºhmicauterie with the plate, for the cure of the fºrms, of a pipe to evacuate the water in the dropſie, a .wherewith to make the golden ligature, , to ſtitch up wounds. sº a razºr or inciſion-knife, ;. a chizzel, : radilevel sealeri, * . a three-footed leva- *** , other irvatóries, . säwstodi. wide the ſcull, . a deſquamatorie trepan, ***, ºftºpſºraci, azo. scrapers, pincers, nd a leaden mullet, . a piercer to enter a tre- pan, . . trepans, agº. terebellum, . . * ºntºl-like scraper, iii. cutting-compaſſes, ** a conduit pipe, and ſyrirge, . to de. reſs the dura-mater, . . speculum oculi, or making a seton, pipes uſed in the wounds of the cheſt, to draw out bullets, iſ: *ç. diatºrs and probes to draw throu ºnmula's, . . to draw forth º ***, % aſarificator, . a diſſºr. knife and ſaw, tºy. adiſºto open the mouth. ***: a pyoukos, or matter-drawer. . agloſſaronium, . a lattin-caſe, . a pullie and hand vice, -the gloſſ-comiumc.l. led a*, .little hooks,needles, and an in- ciſion:knife to takeaway the web, , files for filing the teeth, .f. r cleanſing and draw- ing the teth, . cutting mullets"ro takeºff fuoerfluous finvers, . a catheter, , gimbleſ to break the ſtone in the paſſige of the yard, - :her inſtruments to take.º. the rone, iéid, uſed in cutting for the ſtone, , and . a lancet, and cupping-glaſſes, . horns tobre uſed for ventoºs, . cathº, to war away caruncks, . trepans ſorror. ten bones, ° .adual cauteries, . grºffin's tallon, . hooks to draw forth the childe, . sp cult matrici. º • wºrn neceſſrie inreſtoring broken "nes. : intercartºlºgindi muſculi. r .# inte, coſtals arreria. , *reſtle, muſculitzterni, . interni. " 'º. interoſſes muſculi. i” t-l inreſtinalis vena. , % infronwovente, muſculi. o oie, and the cffcºasthcroof. oints,their wounds, .how to ſtrengthen them, : how to mitigate ther pai ed by difiemper." " pains cauſed onely iſchitárcavº, . iſchium of. ::: iſſues, or fontanels. itching of the womb. s judgment, why difficult. º, junks, what, , their uſe, jázº. kall, the table, : k. ka), it's ſubſtance, &c. . what to beedom when it fall's out in wounds. oz. kºrnels of the tars" ;: kibes, where bred. kidnies, their ſubſtance, &c. ". ſigns that they are wounded, oz. ulcers, and their cure, ?” . their heat how trmpered. t kings-evil, what, the cauſ, x . the cure. ibid. knº diſlocated forward, how to reſtore it, i. jagophthalmia, what, . the cauſes and l cure. oz, . tameneſs how helped. . lampre, their careoftheir young. lampron, their poiſonous bite. , isiº hat meant thereby, . it's magnitude, figure, compoſure, &c. ibid. l º: muſculu. leeches,ſ•e horſ-letches: leg, taken in general, what, . the bone there: Öf, . the wounds, 㺠... the fraëure and cure, the cure of the auto's leg becing broken, , . ther crookedneſs how hel- red, . defect ſup lied. , leproſe, and the cauſº thereof, . the ſigns, $ol. &c. why called morºus lºgº ſtia, the frognoſticks, diet, cure, . it ſomtimes fol- low’s the lºwe, venezea. lepui marinu,the poiſon,the ſymptoms, and cure. levator muſculu, . i evtoreſ ani. . life, what, and it's effects, ° . . see soul. ligaments, their uſe, , why without ſenſ, their difference, ifid, their wounds. oč ligatures for wounds are of three ſorts, tºo hard hurtful, sº, they muſt bee neatly made, . for what uſes they chiefly ſerv , . in uſeat this daie for fračures, *...bow in fra- &ures joined with wounds, , which for ºx- tention. s . see bandages. iſ...i. the wonderful nature, and the flinking inclithereof, . how it may infed the : o lime unquencht, the hurtful qualiticand cure. liniments are not to bee uſed in wounds of the cheſt, . .their matterform, and uſe. i lion, his provident care in going. lion of the ſea. liºpitud. litharge, it's poiſonousqualitieandcure. o liver, what, , it’s ſubſtance, . ſigns of the wounds thereof, ol. why it is called paren: cłyma. lons, their nervs. lwn us muſculus. , . lues veacea, what, , the hurt it auſſ, ibid. the cauſſ's thereof, . in what humor the malignitic reſideth, , it cauſe's more pain in the night then in the daie, ibid. ſomtimes lic's long hid, , figns thereof, ibid.prºgno- ſticks, . how to bee oppugned, . tº whom wine may bee allowed, , the ſecond manner of cure, ibid, the third manner of cure, the fourth manner, how to cure it's ſymptoms, thid.it cauſe's buncheson the bones, . rotten bones, how perceived and cured ibid, tettar, and chaps occaſioned thºr:by, a their core, . how to cure ghildrºnof this diſeaſ, ibid, it kill'sby exceſs of moiſture. lumbaris regio, ſive lumbi , . arteria, . vena. lºmhrici muſeult. , lungs, their ſubſtance, &c. , , ſigns of their wounds, . which curable. . lºti.e. what, their cauſſ's and cure. luxation, , which incurable. lying in bed, how it muſt bre. - m. ad dog. see dog. - magick, and the power thereof. magiſtra'e' office in time º: males of what ſeed gencrated. maleolus, onc of the bones of the auditorie paſ tage. , mammillarie proceſſes, . their uſe. i mumm ºrt frteria. i man, his excellencie, . &c., the diviſion of his bodie . why diſtinguiſhed into male and tem, le. mandrag, i’s dangºr and cure. marrow', why it may ſeem to have the ſenſ of maſſeter muſcle. maſioideº muſculus. maſticatories, their form and uſe. matrix. see womb. - - mºjow-affron, the poiſonous qualitie ther of and cure. meat, the quantitic and qualitiethereof, * -ºº: ſtomedºnoregateful and nouriſhing ºf to bºobſerved in eating, ibid the time, *. fit togenerate a callu. mºcºwia, their matter, , why they idh not, thid. their cure. mediaſtinum, it’s ſubſtance, &c. medicines, their excellencie, , their definition and differerence in matter and ſubſtance, ibid. in qualities, and of their firſt faculties, . their ſecond, third, and fourth facultics, %, . the preparation, , the compoſition neceſſitie and uſe thereof. yio megrim, the cauſes, &c. thereof. t melancholie, the tempers thereof, . the nature conſiſtence, &c. .. the effeasthereof, to of it corrupted. i i meancholick perſons, theircomplexions, &c. . napellus, the poiſonous qualitieand cure. narcoticks, oz. cautions in their uſe, to . m- properly termed anodynes. to nira, what. nates. . i nature oft doth ſtrange things in curing icº. natural parts, and their diviſion. º, natural, see things, facultics, a ions. navel, what, the figure and compoſure, io;.. the generation thereof, , the relaxation there- of in children, , the ſwelling or ſtanding forth thereof, . the cure. i&id. nautiluſ, or ſailing-fiſh. ; neck, and the parts thereof, . the wounds ...thereof, ; the diſlocation thereof. ; necroſſi, or mortification. nervs what, . their diſtribution to the natural parts, of the ſixth conjugarion, and their diſtribution, . ramus coſtilis, ibid. recur- rens, ibid. ſtomachicus, ibid. their ſeven conju- gations. ? nervs of the neck, back, and arms, . of the loins, holic-bone, and thigh. netws and nervous parts, their wounds, . their cure. night-ſhade, the deadlie night-ſhade, his poiſo- nous qualitie,and the cure. nightingalesfingekcellently. $ . nipples. oz.how to belp their ſoreneſs. i modus, what. nodules, their formand uſe. nothern people how tempered. noſe, and the parts thereof, . the wounds thereof. : . their cure, ibid, how to ſupple the defeathereof, , the ulcers thereof. o their cure, ibid, the fraşure, nurſes, their error in ...; and lacing of chil. dren, , they may infº& children with the luet venered, and bee infeded by them, . participate their diſeaſes to their ſhildren, : the choiſ of them, it id. &c. of their diet, and othercircumſtances. . c. nutrition, what, , . nympha. - iob o. blique deſcendent muſcles, , aſcendent muſcles. ohliquator externus muſculus. obturatores muſculi. t feeling. why they hurt themſelvs. meliceri, what kinde of tumor. jmembranoſus muſculus. memorie, what- . mºnſtral flux, ſigns of the firſt approach thereºf, . see courſes. meninges,their number, &c., mercuric, ſublimate, it's cauſtick force, the cure. ibid. meremaid. meſenterie, it's ſubſtance, &c. , the tumors thereof, . the ſink of the bodie. midriff, it's ſubſtance, &c. o. ſigns of the wounds thereof. milk ſoon corrupt's in a phlegmatick ſtomidh, , the choif thereof, , how to drive it downwards. millipescaſt forthby urine. milt. see splccn- mola, the reaſon of the name, and how,bred o, : .how to bee diſcerned from a true concepti. ception, ibid, a hiſtore and, deſcription of a ſtrange one. ; the figurethereof, * . *: & cureto bee uſed thereto. mollifying medicines, of monk's bood, the poiſon and cure. monſtrous creatures bred in man . monſters what, their cauſes and deſºrpti- onsibid. &c. cauſed by defeat of ſeed, ° . by imagination, by ſtraitneſs of the womb, . by the ſite of the mother, . by a ſtroak, &c. iiid, by confuſion of the ſed, of divers kindes, by the craft of the *::: . of the ſea- morſ, sea-calf, or elephant. , mortification, and the ſigns thereof. mother. jee womb. - moºrers fitteſt to nurſ their own children,* their milk moſt familiarto them. bid. motion, which voluntarie, - taken for all m”: ner of excrciſe. mouth, and the parts thereof , . the ulcº; and their cure, , . how to preventand healthcm in cure of the lue wºre . mummie, frequently uſed in contuſions, ** therein. mundificatives' muſtles, what, . their differences, and whence taken, ibid. & . &c. their parts, . * fur- ther inquirie into the pºrts of them. iárd, muſcles of the º . of the funda- ment, . of the teſticles, ;"of the bladder, sº theyard, . the broad muſcle, " o that open and ſhut the eie, itd. of the cie, . of the noſe, ; of the face, . of the lower jaw, ibid. of the bone hvidº.” . of the tongue, . o of the larinx, .of the epi- glois, . of the ºk.' . of the cheſt and ion, , . . of the ſhoulder-blade, . of the arm, . of the cubit, o moving the hand, it . of the inſide of the hand, . moving the thigh,, .ofthe leg, ' roº tº . ; the toes, . an epitome or brief recital of all the muſcles. , muſſulous skin of the head, - the wounds thereof and their cure. . muſculoſe vens, go. ”; ,,, ... muñroºms, their hurtful and deadlie qualitic, and the cure. muſick, the power thereof. - myaifi,a diſeaſofthe eie,the cauſand cure, n. ails, why added to the fingers. why grow jºiniºwience *; oedema, what, zoo. which tumors referred there- to, : the differencesthereof, no. . thecauſ- ſes, . ſigns.prognoſticks,cure. ibid. oe’sphagus, or gullet, the ſubſtance, attriótive force, &c. thereof, . the magnitude, figure, ſite, temper, and aflion. ibid. oil of whelps, the deſcription, and uſe thereof, , .it help's forward the ſcaling of bones. -- oils, and the ſeveral making of them, . % by diſtillation,ióid, our of gums. . . , ointments, their differences, deſcriptions, and uſe. - - , , old-age, and the diviſion thereof, .it is a diſonſ: oldwive's medicines, & olecranum, what. - o omentum, or the kull, the ſubſtance, magnitude, figure, and compoſure thereof, .the conne- xion, temper, and two-fold uſe, ifid it ſom- times hinder's conception. ibid. operations of surger'e , of what nature, i. why ſom,which are mentioned by the antients, are omitted by the autor. opium,why not uſed in poiſoning, , the ſymp; toms cauſed bw it, and their cure. order to bee obſerved in rating our mcat, &c. . in lying to ſleep. organical parts, which , . what obſervable in each of them. . orifices of the heart - ii. . orpiment,the poiſonous qualitiethereof, and the curce . o, & off, occipitil, . baſiliare, sac-lºº, ibid. bigmuis, five parietalis, ibid. petroſa, ibid, cºiforme, frve ſphenoides, . frhººi- des, ariboſum, ſeu ſpongioſton, ibid. z'g”. fivºjigale, . hºoidº, jpſiloideº, º. : &c. sifanoid , . ilium, . lſº l - puhij. innominºtt. . see bones. of..., a filthieuker of the noſe, the cauſ, and s. o cllſ t. an, and the cauſesthºreof. p it muſt breadwaged #: the table, * *_ ring-worms. zo. r º genr. rough atterie. - rowlers, see bandages. rules of surgerie. rump, the factures thereof. the diſlocation thereof. the cure. ibid. ruptures. their kindes. ibid. their cure. , , s. s. muſºulst. sacre vene. saero-lumbus muſculu. salamander, the ſymptoms that enſue upon his poiſon, and the cure. salivatic n. - sanguine perſons, their manners and diſeaſes. japºeiavºna,when and where to bee opened. % jarroceſe. the prognoſticks and cure. ; sarcoticks, ſimple and compound. nonc truly ſuch. ibid. sabious, the effect thereof againſt a peſtilent car. buncle. stails, how known to bee ſevered from the bones. sails of braſs, their poiſonous qualitie and cure. o of iron, their hatm and cure. ibid. scal’d-head,the ſigns and cure thereof. scalenus muſcular. i o scalp, hairie-ſcalp. scaphoidal ot. scars, how to help their deformitic. jraruſ, a fiſh. o sceleton. , , . what. ibid. sciatica, the cauſ, &c. the cure. srirruſ, what. what tumors referred thereto. the differences,ſigns,and prognoſticks, cure. ibid. scorpion bred in the brain by ſmelling to baſil. o their deſcription, ſting, and cure. serophule, their cauſandſcure- i scull, and the bones thereof. the fratures thcreof. see fraćtures, depreſſions thereofhow helped. _wheretobretrepaned. . sea-feather and grape. . o sea hare, his ſºon , poiſon, and the cure thereof. seaſons ofthe year. secundine, why preſently to bee taken away after the birth of the childe. o. why ſo called. . . cauſes of the ſtaie, and ſymptoms that follow thereon. ibid seed-bones. - - - , seed,the condition ofthat which is good. the qualitics. w: . &c. feo" * w c portion thereofgo'stot . head and brain. l ; seeing, the inſtrument.obječ, &c. thereof. janicupium, the form, manner, and uſethereof, - &miſpinatus muſcular. - senſ, common ſenſ, and the fundions thereof. sepnin lucidum. o septick medicines, serpent hamotrous,his bite and cure. seps, bisbite and cure. baſilisk, his biteandcure. aſp, his bite and cure. snake, his bite and cure. , o saratuſ muſculse major, , poſterior & ſuperior, ibid. minor. stroushumor. # seſamoidia oſt. , seton, wherefore good, , the manner of maſ. king thereof. ibid. sex, what, and the difference thereof. o hiſtories of the change thereof. ; shame, and ſhamefactneſs, their effeas. so shin-bone. * shoulder blade, the fraćtures thereof, , the cure, , the diſlocation, the firſt man- her of reſtoring it, . the ſecond manner, . the third manner, ibid. the fourth manner, . the fifth, ibid. the ſixth, . how to re- flore it diſlocated forwards, . outwards, upwards. ibid. signs of ſanguine, cholerick, phlegmatick, and melancholick perſons, , signs in general whereby to judgof diſeaſes. silk-worms, their induſtrie. - similar parts, how manie, and which. t simple medicines, their differences in qualities and j .hot, cold, moiſt,drie in all degrees, ibid. their accidental qualities, ibid, their preparation. oi siren. - skin two-fold, the utmoſt or ſtarf-skin, , the true skin, ibid. the ſubſtance, magnitude, &c. thereof. ibid. sleep, what it is, .the fit time, the uſe and abuſe thereof, , when hurtful, . how to pro- cure it. smelling, the obje and medium thereof. snake, his bite, and the cure. $ , solanum manicum, the poiſonous qualitie, and cure. jo'ew muſculus. . . solution of continuitie, . why harder to repair in bones. sorrow, the effeºsthereof. soul, or life, what it perform's in plants, beaſts, and men, , when it enter's into a man'sbo- die, &c. sounds, whence the difference. , southern people how tempered. south-winde why peſtilent. sownning what,thecauſes and cure. - sparrows with what care they breed their young. . s spermatica arteia, . vena. , thid. spermatick veſſels in men, , in women, . ithe cauſ of their º: *:::: muſcle of the fundament, . of the ladder. spiders, their induſtrie, . their differences and bites. spinal-marrow, the coats, ſubſtance, uſe, &c. thereof, , ſigns of the wounds thereof. spinarks muſcula. . spine, the diſlocation thereof, , . how to reſtore it, . a further inquirie thereof, prognoſticks: - ibid. spirit, what, . three-fold, viz. animal, vital, and natural, . fixed, ibid. their uſe. o spiritshow to bee extraded out of herbs and flow. ers, &c. splene,the ſubſtance, magnitude, figure, &c.there. - &plenius muſculus. splints and their uſe. - s spring, the temper thereof. squinancie, the differences, ſymptoms, &c.thereof, . the care. ihtd. stapes, one of the bones of the auditoric paſſage. - , **, an effect of the cies, the cauſes there. or. stars, how they work upon the air. stearoma, what. - +i sternon, the aflatomical adminiſtration thereof. io sternutamentories, their deſcription and uſe. stinging of bees, waſps, scorpions, &c. jee bees, waſps, scorpions, &c. sing-raie, the ſymptoms that follow his ſting, and the cure. stink, an inſeparable companion of putrefaāion. stomach, the ſubſtance, magnitude, &c. thereof, .theorificesthereofibi. ſigns of the wounds thereof, , the ulcers thcreof. * stones. see teſticles. stone,thecauſes thereof, . ſigns of it in the kidnies and bladder, ibid. prognoſticks, . the prevention thereof, a. what to becdon when the ſtone fall's into the ureter, . ſigns it is falnout of the ureter into the bladder, . what to bee don when it is in the neck of the bladder, or the paſſage of the yard, ibid. how to cut for the ſtone in the bladder, , . :c. how to cure the wound, . to help the ulcer when the urine flow's out by it, . how to cut women for the ſtone, .divers ſtrange ones mentioned. - storks, their pietie. stoves, how to bee made. r strangurie, the cauſes, &c. thereof , a viru- lent one, what, . the cauſes and differences thereof, ibid. prognoſticks, , from what part the matter thereof flow's, ibid. the ral cure, . the proper cure, ibid why it ſuc- ceedeth immoderate copulation. . . . stringulation of the motherprwomb, ſigns of the approach thereof, , the cauſes and cure. - strengthening medicines. sa corroborating. strºme. see king's-evil. sublimate. see mercurie. subclavian. see artcrie and vein. subclavius muſculuſ. succarath, a beaſt of the weſt indies, suffuſio. see catarét. suggillations ste contuſions. summer, the temper thereof. y supinatore, muſculi. suppuration, the ſigns ther of , cauſed by natural heat. suppuratives, , arf, an effeaual one, , their differences, &c. ° , how they differſºom tmollients. tºid. superfortation what, o. the reaſon thereof. ib. suppoſitories, thrir differenceform, and uſe, yi; suppreſſion of urine. Śre urine. surgerie, what, i. the operation thereof. ibid. surgeons, what neceſſare for them, . their office, the choiſ of ſuch as ſhall have care of thoſe ſick of the plague, , they muſt bee rareful in making reports; :how long inſom caſes they muſt ſuſpend their judgments, . they muſt have acarºleſt they bring º in- to an error, , how to report, or make cer- tificates in diverscaſts. ibid. &c. sutures of the ſculi, their number, &c. .want. in ſom, ibid. why not to bee trepaned, , . sutures in wounds, their ſorts and manner how to bee performed, , & sweating fickneſs. t sweet-bread. sweet-waters. swine aſſiſt their fellows- o symptoms,their definition and diviſion. r sympathie and antipathie of living creatures. symphſ, a kinde of articulation.} º synº, symanthroſa, synchondrºſ, synºn- roſiſ. - ibid. *ynocus putrida, it's cauſand cure. : t. alparia, what.. . tarentula's poiſonous bite, and cure. tarſus, what. - . taſtes, what, their differences, yoo, their ſeveral denominations and natures. ibid. ot taſteing, what. teeth, their number, diviſion, and uſe, . wherein they differſºom other bones, .piia of them how helped, o . their affeas, : . how to draw them, . to cleanſ them, . how to ſupplie their deſtà, , to beip the pain inbreeding them. tº: muſcle, , what enſue's the cutting - temperament, what, the diviſion thereof, . : ponds, iº, ad juſtitiºn, - of a bone, lig- ment, griſtle, tendon, vein, arterie. º. ofagºs, ibid. of humors. y temper of the four ſeaſons.of the year, ifid. m. tive temperh - is temperatures in particular; as of the ſouthern, northern, &c. people. , tenſores muſculi. o tentigo. - or, tertian agues, or fewers, their cauſes, &c. . their cure. # id. &c. teſticles; their ſubſtance, . in women, , their wouncis. . o: tſtudo, what. tettars, their kindrs and cauſºs, zoz. their cure, . i*id. &c. , occaſioned by the lua vºnges, . their cure. d. thanaab, a ſtrangebeaſt. ::: . º: hereof. , thigh, the nervs thereof, . it's arts, ºš. and woundsthereof. proper r. thigh-bore, the appendices and proceſſes there- of, iº , , the tradure and cure, , nigh to the joint, . it's diſlocation, , ;. see hip. things natural, . not natural, . why ſo called, , ibid. againſt nature. o thorax, the cheſt and parts thereof. ro; thoracea arteria. - o throat, how to get out bones,and ſuch like things that ſtick therein. throttle, and the parts thereof, . thows, and their cauſ. c + thymns what. - * tibit. - : tikiauí anticu muſculu, pºſtics. iłm. tinea, what. - % toad, his bite, and cure. .os tongue, it's quantitie, &c. °. it's wounds, it'; cure, . it's impediments and contration and the cure, , to ſuppliei's deſcăș, toº- ſillº, o' their inflammations, and their º: rºta- tooh. the table. . : : º tooth-ach, the cauſes, ſigns, &c. tophi, cr knots at the joints in ſom that have the out, how cauſed, . the lue, vene ea how lped. ft, and ſtupefying f :*: do, his craft, an ingº force. i torpedo, his .fying :: tolching, how performed. toucha, a ſtrange bird. trapezuſ muſculse. - - umbilical veſſels, how manic and what. unºtion to bee uſed in the lusi venerea, , their tranſverſarius muſculse. tranſverſ muſcles of the epigaſhiºn. triacle, how uſeful in the gout, , how it dull's the force of ſimple poiſons. trepan, when to bee applied, . their deſcripti- on, . .where to bee applied. . trepaningwhy uſed, , how performed, tºid. - - ºnguearan adſbingens, . nutritum, . alt- a caution in performance thereof. triangulus muſculu- triton. trochanter • o truſſes, their form and uſe. - - o, tumors, their differences, .their general cauſ. good in time of the plague, .lulcers in parti- cular,and firſt of the eigs, o of the noſe ibid. of the mouth, bid.of the ears, .ot the winde- pipe,weazon,ſtomach,and guts,ib.of the kidnies and bladder, .of the womb. . that hip- n upon the fraćture, of the irg, rump, and , , how to prevent them, ,they muſt bee ſeldom dreſt when the callu, is breeding, bid. uſe, . cautions in their uſe, , and the in- conveniences following the immoderare uſe. vagula, or the web on the ele, the cauſes, prog- noſticks, and cure, oé.&c. reum. ibid. baſilicum, frve tetrapharmicum, ib. diapompholºgos, ibid. deſirequivum, rub. ibid. enulatum,ib, jalbum rhiſis,ib. althea, ib. po- puleon, ib. apoſtolorum, ib.com.uiſ, ib. proſto- macho, . ad morſuſ rabioſoſ. ibid. ſes, ſigns, , general cure, , which hardeſt unicorn, if anie ſuch beaſt, what the name im- to beecured, ibia, the four principal, , fla- tulent and watriſh, their figns and cure, . of the gums, ** . of the almonds of the port's, . what the ordinarie horns are, . not effectual againſt poiſon, abid, effcdualonel to drie, whid. in what caſes good. ibid. throat, . of the navel, . of the groin and voices, whence ſo various. cods, ibid. of the knees. turtles. - tympanites. jºe dropſie. v. jalves of the heart, their attion, ſite, &c. - i . varicous bodies. . varices, what, their cauſes, ſigns and cure. was breve,ſtu venºſum. vaſa ejaculateria. vaſli muſculi. - - vein, what, . gate-vein,and it's diſtribution, deſcendent hollow vein, and it's diſtribution, . aſcendent hollow vein,and it's diſtribution, vomits,their force, ag. their deſcription. vomiting, why it happen's in the colick, , the fitteſt time therefore, -to make it eaſie. ibid. voiages and other emploiments, wherein the au- to was preſent; of thurin, . of marolle and low britanie, . of perpignan, . of lan- dreſſe, ibul.of º o.of germanie,ittd. of danvillers, ibid. of caſtle of compt, . . of mets, . of hedin, . battelöf s. quin- tin, i. voiage of amiens, of harbour, of grace, ibid. to roven, ibid. battell of dreux, . of moncontour, ibid. voiage of flanders, ibid. of burges, , battel of s. dennis. ibid. voiage of baion. llrachus, . ureters, their ſubſtance, &c. . they are more then arteries. i . thoſe of urine ſtopt by diſlocation of the thigh-bone, the eies, . which tobe: opened in the in- flammation of the eies, ibid.the cephalick, . median, ióid diſtribution of the ſubclavian vein, ibid of the axillarie, abid. of the crural. wena porta, cava, . xterioſa, . phrenice, coronaleſ, aſygot, intercoſtalis, mammaria, cervicalis, muſculoſa, ibid. axillaris, humeralia, jugalºriº intermº & externa, . reta pupil, iſ: ſuppºſiºn:hºolhºdºdlººk p. pen's by internal cauſes, ,by external, . prognoſticks, ibid, things unprofitable in the whole bodie, purged thereby, ibid. bloodie, the differences and cauſes thereof, . the cure, . ſcalding thereof how helped, , a re- ceptacle for ſuch as cannot keep it, , urines . as have the plague ſomtimes like thoſe sić. cephalica, humeraria, mediana, , fºl. that are in health. vºtellº & plenica, .ſapheit, vel fishess, uteliſ, a ſtrange fiſh. * iſchisilica, , muſcula, poplutea, ſuralis, if yºea tunica. chiadica major. - - vulnarie potions, their uſe, . the names of the venerie, it's diſcommodities in wounds of the ſimples whereofthey are compoſed, ibid, their head. form,and when chiefly to bee uſed. venemous bites and ſtings how to beecured. venom of a mad dog, outwardly applied, cauſeth madneſs. ventoſe's their formand uſe. ventricle. see stomach. ventricles of the brain. verdegreaſ, it's poiſonous qualitie and cure. - to uvula,the fite and uſe thereof, .the inflimmati- on and relaxation thereof, . the cure. td. w’. alnut tree,and themalignitiethereof. o p warts of the neck of the womb, ;. vertebra, and their proceſſes, . of theneckºut their cure. of the holie-bone . . how different from waſhes to beautific the skin. thoſe of the loins, . tenth of the back.how waſps, their ſinging how helped. r to the middle of the ſpine, . their diſloca. watching, and the diſcommodities thereof. tion, . see spine. water,it'squalities, ,beſt intime of plague, . % rº's canºnd figns, s. the cure. iiid, wºośāſtiki . }. veſſels for diſtillation. , . t. warſh tumors,their ſigns and cure. . l i veſictories why better then cauteriesin cure of a peſtilent bubox; . whereof made e . their deſcription and uſe. viper. see adder. weapons, of the antients compared with thoſe of the modern times. weazon,the ſubſtance,&c.thereof." . how to bee opened in cztreme diſeaſes, . . the wounds virginitie the figns thereof. thereof, . the ulcers thereof. i vital parts which, . their diviſion. *weakneſs, two cauſes thereof. atreu humor. - - web on the eie, which curable, and which not, viver, or,as ſom term it, the weaver, a fiſh, his "the cure. ibid. poiſonous prick and the cure. weig-bone. ulcersconjoined with tumorshow cured, . .in weights and meaſures, with their notes. ri what bodies not eaſily cured, , their nature, cauſes, &c. . ſigns, prognoſticks, . their general cure, . ſigns of a diſtempered one, andthegure, $ , a painful one and the cure, with proud fleſh in them, bid, putrid and breedingworms, ibid. a ſordid one, . ama- lign, virulent, and eating one, ibid. advertiſe. ment concerning the time of dreſſing ulcers, .how to binic themup,ibid, ſuch as runaré wens,their cauſes and cure, .&c.how todiſtin É. them in the breſt from a cancer. whites, the reaſon of the name, differences, &c. , cauſes, , their cure. ibid. whitlows wine, which not good ingout. . windes, their tempers and qualities. , winter, and the trmper thereof, . how it increaſ. eth the native hear. - ibid. wiſdom the daughter of memorie and experience- witcheshurt by the divel’s aſſiſtance, wolvs, their deceits and ambuſhes. o womb, the ſubſtance, magnitude,&c. thereof, . the coats thereof, oz.ſigns of the wounds there of , ulcers thereof, and their cure, . when it hath received the ſeed it is ſhut up, , the falling down thereof how cauſed, . it is not diſtinguiſhed into cells, o. a ſtirrus there- of . figns of the diſtemper thereof, . which meet for conception, ibid. of the failing down, pervertion, or turning thereof, . the cure thereofibud it muſt beecutaway when it is putrefied, . the ſtrangulation or ſuffocation thereof, . see strangulation. women, their nature, zo. how to know whether they have conceived, . their travelin childe- § and the cauſ thereof, or.what muſt bec don to them preſently after their deliverance, .bearingmanie children at a birth. wonderfulneſ. wondrous original of ſom creatures, , nature of ſom marine things. ibid. worms in the teeth,their cauſes, and how killed, -bred in the held, . caſt forth by urine, .how generated and their differences. . of monſtrous length ibid.ſigns, .the curé. ib. wounds may bee cured onely with lint and wa- ter. - woundstermed great in three reſpºës, *::: wounds poiſoned how cured. wounds of the head at paris, and of the legs at avignon, why hard to bee cured. wounds, what, the diversappellationand diviſion of then, . their cauſes and ſigns, prog- roſticks, ſmall ones ſomtimes mortaliº. their cure in grneral,ibid.to ſtaie their bleeding, . to help pain. . why ſom die of ſimil ones, and others recover of great, . whether better to cure in children or in old people. ; wounds of the head, see fraëures.of the muſº. lous skin thereof, . their cure, o. of the façº, .of the eie-brows ibid.of the eies, . of the hºck, .of the noſe, of the tongue, iºid of the ears, .of the neck and throatº of the weazon and gullet, ibid of the cheft, bid. of the heart, lungs, and midriff, . of the ſpine, ifid, what wounds of the ſungs curable, * of the epigaſhium or lower bºis, so their cur, of the kall; ibid of the fat, . of the groins, yard, and teſticles, aid of the thighs and º ibid. of the nervs and ner. yous parts, iéid. of the joints, ibid. of the ligaments. os, wounds contuſed muſt bee brought to ſuppu- ration. i wounds made by gun-ſhot are not burnt, º: muſt they bee cauterized, . they may bee dreſſed with ſuppuratives, to. why hard to cure, bid. why they look black, .they have no eſchar, bid. why ſo deadlie, , in what bodies not eaſily cured, , their diviſion, ; ſigns, ibid, how to bee dreſt at the firſt, ibid. & is how the ſecond time, , they all are contuſed. wounds made by arrows how different from thoſe made by gun ſhot. wriſt, and the bones thereof, . the diſlocation thereof, and the cure. - r. - yº: and the parts thereof, . the wounds thereof, .to help the cort thereo!, . the malign ulcersthereof, . to ſupple the defia le,why reckonedamong monſters, . they thertof fºrmaking water. bring forth young and ſºckle them, ibid, how yew-tree, his malignitic.” . caught. thid. whalc bone. ibid. z. whirl-bone, the fraſture thereof and curc. . the diſlocation thereof. irbul, the kall, the ſubſtance, &c. thereof. white lime. & - | |- - --------· |-（~~" - --·---- |---… *----_ - -- --------|-|- -|- |- • • • •#|- .- -----· |-|-.*::- ſ -–|-· *---- |--- -* ：----|----- |-----------------|- |------· |--· -* …----→ · |- |----- ·----|-|- -·|-- ----· *· - - -*-… .” ----·---- |-----|--- -- ：-- - -·|- ·|-|- -·- |----- - |-- ---|------ |-_ |- - * !|-- ·|-|-|-|- + ··----|- ~. ·- |-|- --------|-|- |-|-|--------- |-|-|-... • •|-». .|- · *·- -·|-- |-- -· -|-·- +|- |- ~ ： ~~~~ ~ ~ ！， -- ----） ----- - - - =====：：= + -------------- ----- - - ---------- - - . … ） ----------- º . - _- tract, . a dºription oftbe veinſ. - - . º -- º i . ºº .y : º ſ ſ º . through the meſentery betwixt its two coats,are each of them cleft into an infinite num- ber of ſmallbranches, and they again into leſs twigs, which going to the guts make up thoſe veins ſo famous among phyfitians, that are called the meſaraick-veins. the firſt of theſe branches is called the right meſenterick vein from the right ſide, wherein it is the right me- placed, and is likewiſe twofold, whence it came to paſs, that veſalius, and almoſt all - ſentersk thers, who follow him,reckon three meſenterick veins. this branch is inſerted into the branch. jejunum or empty gut, the ileum, or circled glit, the cecum or blind gut, and the right ſide źthe colique gut,where it lies next to the reins, and liver; and although both its bran- ches ſhoot forth many propagations from themſelves,ſo that it is very hard to expreſſe any mumber of them, as well becauſe they vary much by reaſon bf their fubjećts, as alſo becauſe they do not obſerve the very ſame order and courſe, yet it hath been obſerved,that for the noſt part there are fourtzen,which afterwards are ſcattered into an infinite company of o- ther twigs.theſe when they are come to the guts, only gape with their little mouths into their coat,and enter not the cavity it ſelf,that being compaſſed about within with a certain cruſt. but as we have ſaid above,that in moſt parts of our body,the divarications or diviſi- ons of the veſſels are attended with certain glandules, partly that they may make the ſafer progreſſe,partly leaſt they ſhould fink down, and withall the flow and ebb of the blood ſo vcry ...}. behindered; ſo here alſo the diviſions of the veſſels, which are ſcattered through the meſentery, are bolſtered up with certain glandules, which with their pro- pagations obſerve ſuch an exačt proportion: that the greater glandules do ſuſtain the greater branches, and the leſs the leſſºr. when theſe glandules ſwell with a scirrhu, the veſſels being preſt cloſe together, and the diſtribution of the chylus through the veins, and conſequently of the bloud through the body being hindered; there follows a con- ſumption, and pining of the wholebody. the left meſenterick vein is divided into the -- middle part ofthe meſentery, and alſo t º of the colique gut, which runs from the loft me- the left region of the stomach as far as to the ſtrait gºit. the hemorrhoidali, interna, or ſenterick. inner emroid vein, of which we ſpake a little before, ſometimes ariſes from this vein, as veſalius hath obſerved, which affording ſome ſprigs to the colique gut, at laſt running forward through the whole length of the ſtraitgut, determins in the fundament.” but y before the meſenterick trunk be divided into theſe two branches, it firſt ſends forth two propagations propagations, one of which is called gaſtro-epiplois dextra,or the right stomach and kall- that ariſe be-, vein, which creeps through the right bottom of the stomach, before, and behind, as * ; : diviſi- alſo through the º membrane of the kall: the other called by others inteſtina-.ri . mc, lis, or the gut vein, by us the duodena, reaches to the middle of the gut duodenun; gº leis and the beginning of the empty gut or jejunum, and deſcends all along through pººr, p them. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . : * inteſtinalis. : the chiefuſe of the gate-vein is to nouriſh thoſe parts, which are ſeated in the loweſt ºuſe of belly, and need a thicker and more ſeculent bloud, ſuch as are all thoſe parts, which “ gate vein. ſerve for nutrition. for their blood ought to be thicker, that it might be hotter, when heat is alwayes more powerfull in a thicker body: ſo then the roots of the gate-vein nouriſh the liver,the trunk nouriſhes the pancreas or sweet-bread; of the twigs,the cy- ſitu, or gáll-twig nouriſhes the bladder ofthe gall; the spleen-branch,all the entrails, which ſerve for nutrition, except the meſentery,and the guts; the twig pyloricus, or of the lower mouth of the stomach, the gaſtriciu or stomach-branch,both the stomach and kall-veins, and the ſhort veſſell nouriſh the stomach. for i do not think that the ſhort veſſell was made by nature for the carrying back of melancholick humor to the stonach, but chiefly for its nouriſhments ſake; when that blood, which is generated in the spleen; is not melancholy, and excrementitious humor, but rather the beſt, although ſomewhat thicker then other bloud, and that becauſe the parts that are to be nouriſhed by the spleen branch, needed a thicker bloud, then they which are to be nouriſhed by the meſenterick. both the stomach and kall-veins nouriſhthe upper membrane of the kall ; the right and the hirider epiplois, or the kall-veins, the lower. the spleen is nouriſhed by thoſe two branches, into which the spleen-vein is cleft, and which enter its parenchyma, or fleſh through its middle line: the meſentery, and almoſt all the guts by the two meſen- terick branches; the gut duodenum by the propagations called duodena; but the enlpty. gut, the ileum or circled gut the blind gut, or the right fide of the collique or colon by: the right meſenterick-branch. the left fide of the colique, and all the ſtrait gutby, - the hºmorrhoidall vein; but the middle part which lies under the stomach, by the hin- ; ; ; ; der kall-vein. . the ſecond uſe is to attraćt the chylus, and carry it to the liver; whoſe the ſecºnd veins are moſt famous for the making ofbloud. Éut the ſame veins which nouriſh the * meſenterick branch, do alſo attraët the chyluſ, as we ſhall ſhew you hereafter; when we “ . . . ſhall infiſt upon the hiſtory of it. the third uſe is to empty out the excrements from the third uſe. the body through the guts. thus we ſee that the choleric {: is ſometimes poured. forth out of the liver through the meſenterick-branch in thebloudy flux, and cholerick, gº , looſneſs, and the melancholick dregs through the emroid-vein. the fourth uſe is to. the fourth. . help the concoëtion of the liver. thus weſte that the thicker part of the chylus, which is called melancholy, is attraćted by the * º not that the ſeat of melancholy; - b b is - st ta deſcription ofthe weins. traor. veins, which are diſtributed in this manner to the diſtances of the griſtics, ſome others very worthy of our notice do ariſe,which are diſſeminated both into the muſcles,that lye upon the breaſt, and into the paps. near to theſe a third [h] ariſes, and ſometimes al. mediaſtina, ſo grows out of the trunk, which is called mediaſtina, becauſe it ſpreads itſelf into the mediaſtinum, or membrane that cloſes up the cavity of the cheſt, being extended all a- long by it, with the left nerve of the midriffe. the fourth [i] commonly called cervi. calā, or the neck-vein,is a large vein of both ſides which running obliquely, upward,and backward, to the tranſverſe proceſſes of the rack-bones of the neck, and climbing up through their holes, ( from whence perhaps it might be better named vertebralis) affords ſprigs to the muſcles, that lye next upon the rack-bones. when this vein has got above the tranſverſe proceſſe of the ſeventh rack-bone, it derives a notable branch of the sinus or canale; in the neck, through the hole that is made for the outlet of the nerves; and then another, when it comes above the proceſe of the ſixt spondyll, or rack-bone, and again another, when it has left the fifth spondyll, untill at laſt it conics to the proceſſe of the firſt rack-bone, which notwithſtanding it does not touch, much leſſe does it paſſe into the skull, (as veſalius would have it) near which it goes partly to the ſame ſinus or canale, partly it is diſtributed into the hinder parts of the neck. for there are two long ſinus #. with bloud, which are made out of the hard membrane of the brain, one of each ſide, being placed at the fides of the marrow ofthe neck. from theſe littlebranches are diſtributed, which nouriſh the marrow of the back-bone, and the neighbouring parts; they begin about the junéture of the head with the firſt rack- bone, and end near to the ſeventh rack-bone of the neck. theſe two finuſ, of which one is ofthe right, the other on the left ſide, have ſome communion betwixt them- ſelves by a little pipe, and that a ſhort one, which is derived overthwart from the one to the other, for the moſt part about that region of the neck,which is betwixt the ſecond, and third rack-bones. at laſt there is a fift vein [ ] which ariſes from the hinder part, called muſcula inferior, or the lower muſcle-vein, which is diſtributed in many branches to the muſcles in the lower part of the neck, (and ſo extending the head and neck, from whence the vein might be rightlyer called Červicali,or the neck-vein) and alſo to propagations thoſe in the higher part of the cheſt near to the rack-bones. - - - . . from the upper part of the subclavian branches, whileſt the hollow-vein is yet in ºupper part the cheſt, three propagations iſſue forth, two of which do very well deſerve to be no- efthe Śukla ted, which take their way upward, under the muſcles that bend the head. the formes xianº" of the two looks more inwards, and is called jugulariº interna, the inner jugular vein:the !**" other inclines to the outer parts, and is commonly called jugularis externa, the outer ju- mºrn. gular vein. for both of them ariſe near to the jugulum, or hollow of the neck, and aſcend by that to the head. the inner is greater, and the outer leſſe in a man; but in brutes’tis contrary. but when almoſt all appellations are derived, and that beſt, not from the place, through which the veins paſſe, but from their inſertion; perhaps th might be rightlier named cephalice or capitales;head-veins. the inner jugular vein ſm takes its originall near to the joint,by which the clavicles or patel-bones are tyed to the cheſt, and as ſoon as it ariſes, is joined with the arteria carotis, or ſleepy artery, and a nerve of the ſixt pair, as companions in its journey, at the ſide of the rough artery, and climbing to the chops, about the middle of the way is parted into two branches, of which one is called the outer, the other the inner branch. the outer is ſo called, be- cauſe it comes not into the inner parts of the head, but being divided into two at the corner of the lower cheek, diſtributes one branch to the chops, and the other near to the ears, and face. the inner branch, all the way, is joyned to the arteria caroti,or ſleepy artery, even to the baſis of the skull, whither when it is arrived on the backſide, it is likewiſe cleft into two branches, but of unequallbigneſſe. for the firſt [n] is greater and more hinderly, being carried backward obliquely, which having propagated ſome twigs to the muſcles under the gullet, and in the forepart of the rack-bones of the r. through the ſecond hole of the occipitium or nowl-bone enters the skull with the leſſerbranch of the arteria carotiſ, through which ſaid hole the ſixt pair of the nerves de- foends: and thus this branch enters the firſt [ ] and ſecond [ ]ſinus of the thick mem- brane. the ſecond branch [p] being ſmaller, and more to the forepart, quite forſaking the arteria carotiſ, or ſleepy Å. goes to the forepart of the head, and after that by - the way it has beſtowed a circle not very notable upon the organ of hearing, it enters the skull through the ſeventh hole ofj or os cuneiforme. this is diſperſed through the baſis, and ſides of the thick membrane, with anumerous iſſue of branches, the prints whereof are obſerved in the inner ſurface of the bones of the forepart of the head, as we have ſaid above in the ſecond book. wee will call theſe two branches, be- weularit cauſe they go to the brain, encephalici, as if you ſhould ſay cerebrales, of the brain, and %. that ſhall be the greater encephalicus, this the leſſer. the externall jugular vein [g]a- ſcending under the skin, and the muſculus quadratus, or square-muſcle, that draws down - the cheeks, by the fides of the neck, when it comes to the ear, is cleft into two branches praſada, [r]one of which i call profundu, the deep one, becauſe it enters the muſcles, and retires - lſlºe cervicalis. tract. a deſcription of the veinſ. s : : skin,through the inſides of the thigh,& leg;and when it is now come to the inner ankle, it ſpreads itſelf into the upperpart of the foot, and ſcatters a branch overthwart,from which afterward many others ariſe, that are diſtributed in their order to every one of _- the toes.this vein ſcatters other propagations by the way,but which are ſeldom found four propaga- anſwerable one to another,either in number,or bigneſſe;as we have already more then once intimated,that nature is found to ſport in the veins, but eſpecially in thoſe of the joints. the firſt [ ] of theſe propagations,not far from the originall of the vein itſelf, is delt into thc upper skin jº. inner region of the thigh, in two branches; of which the outer, which is the thicker, creeps through the fore, and outſide of the thigh, under the skin; but the inner goes more inwardly, and ſpreads itſelf into the rim of the belly.the ſecond [ ] is propagated, when the vein has now attainca to the middle of the thigh. the third propagation [ ] ariſes about the knce,and brings forth two off-ſprings,one, which is diſſeminated into the skin of the forepart of the knee, by the patella or whirl. bone, but the other into the skin of the backfide, where the bending, or ham is, about which it is rowledoroicularly. the fourth lzo] is carried to the middle of the tibia or leg, with ſurcles forward, and backward. over againſt the saphana, another vein [ ] is brought forth from the outſide of the trunk, but ſhorter then the vein saphena is, and reaches outward, and overthwart into the skin, that covers the forepart of the hip-bone, as alſo into the muſcles of the ſame place, which the later anatomiſts call tions of the vein saphena. iſchia. theſe propagations being brought forth, the trunk afterwards is drenchtintoº/* the muſcles, that compaſſe the bone of the thigh, and ſets out a third propagation[ which they call muſcula the muſcle-vein; and there uſe to be two ºp outer,which is the leſſe, ſends ſhoots to the ſecond,and fourth, extending muſcles of the tibia or leg,together with the skin; the inner,and greater, affords twigs to the third ex- tender of the leg, and to almoſt all the muſcles about the thigh. after this the trunk turning to the backſide, and deſcending by degrees, ſcatters ſome other twigs into the membranes of the muſcles, and by and by ſends out a fourth vein, which runs into the them. for the muſtula. backſide of the thigh, and is called pºplitea, the ham-vein [ ] much ſpoken of by wri-poplitté, ters of phyſick, but eſpecially by hippocrates the chief of them, who . epidem. . . com- mends much the opening yit in diſeaſes in the kidneys. but it is oftentimes ſeated too deep to be cut without very great difficulty. i have learnt by frequent experience, that iſſues made in the sura or calf of the leg, to which this vein ſpreads itſelf, have done a great deal of good in many diſeaſes. this vein, when it is propagated, ſome- times receives the addition of a s º: from the inner branch of the muſcle-vein; often- times alſo two propagations iſſue from the trunk, one higher, and another lower,which afterward are united in their journey.but preſently after its riſe it ſcatters ſome branches into the skin of the thigh, about the higher and hinderf. of it; then it runs down direétly through the middle of the ham, or bending of the leg, into the calf, to which it j many surcles,that run on with an uncertain courſe, ſome direétly, ſome overthwart, and ſome obliquely. theſe little branches being thus diſſemina- ted, the vein paſſes on as far as to the talu , or cockall-bone, and there at length determins. and this is the progreſſe of the crurall-trunk, and theſe the propagations which it the diviſion ſcatters, before it be divided. forlying upon the bone of the thigh, it ſo deſcends, and of the trunk runs ſide-long near to it, that, when it has attained to the knee, it is carried betwixt tº the two loweſt, and hindmoſt heads of the thigh, in which place [a] it is cleft aſunder into two branches, an outer, and an inner one. but they are of unequall bigneſſe, the outer being the ſmaller, and the inner the greater, but both of them [e a] are ſcattered through the leg, and loweſt part of the foot. the inner.[e] in its deſcent ſends ſome propagations to the muſcles, that are placed on the backſide of the leg, and eſpecially thoſe which make the calf, but moſt of all to the inner part [ ] of the gafteronemius externus, or outward calf-muſcle, and ſo afterward continuing its courſe downward, when it is come to the lower appendix of the tibia or leg, and has beſtowed ſome ſhoots upon the skin, it is reflećted under the inner ankle [ ] and runs out as far as to the great toe. the outer [a] is preſently cleft into two leſſerbranches, that are likewiſe uncºuail, of which the inner [a] that is the greater, and lies deep, is wholly ſpent up- on the muſcles of the calf, running all along direétly betwixt the two heads of the ga- fieronemius externus, or firſt moving muſcle of the foot, as alſo betwixt the gaſteronemius internus, or inward calf-muſcle, and the tibieu, anticus or forward leg-muſcle, and at laſt betwixt the muſcles, that bend the toes,diſtributing ſome ſurcles every whereby the way to the muſcles, through which it paſſes. when it comes to the mid length of the leg, it is again ſubdivided into an inner,and an outer branch. the inner of theſe diſtributes a twig near to the joint of the tibia or greater leg-bone,and the bone called the cockall, deſcends with the tendons of the muſcles, and is divided into the great,the fore, and the middle toes. the outer paſſes on near to the fibula, or leſſerbone of the º and when it comes to the ligament, which tyes together the greater and leſſer bones of the leg, it branches. ſhoots forth a branch,whichjº. g the ligament runs into the foot, and is *: - into the muſcles; which bend the toes of the foot outward, a deſcription of the veins. tract.i. -- but the outer and leſſe branch [ii] of the crurall-vein goes from that diviſion of the outer branch, which is made near the ham, to the upper appendix of the fibula, as alſo to the outer,and hinder part of the tibia, where ſcattering many little branches, it goes to the outer ankle,and at laſt ends in the foot. - - and this is the univerſall hiſtory of the hollow and gate-veins, wherein we have perfečted the whole courſe of their diſtributions. it ſeems yet to remain, that we ſpeak" of the unibilicall, and arterious veins. but becauſe the uimbilicall vein is nothing elſe but a more notable propagation iſſuing out of the gate-vein; and in a man grown performs the office of a ligament, rather then a vein; becauſe it keeps the liver in its place; as the ſtories of them do witneſſe, who upon the cutting off, or wounding of the navill, have ſodainly dyed, their reſpiration being hindred by the weight of the liver falling out of its place, and putting down the diaphragma or midrifle with it; we thought it not worth our pains to make any more mention of it in this place. but if any one will obſtinately contend that it is a peculiar vein with arguments fetcht out of his own brain, we know no better counſell, that we can give him, then to conſult better with his ownſenſe, or if he will contend further, to purge his head with hellebore, that that dimneſſe of his eye-fight may be a little taken away. but we ſhall with more convenience makemention of the vena arterioſa, or arteriall-vein,in the following book, when we ſhall explain the hiſtory of the arteria venoja, or venall artery, :* ey are very like one another, and therefore the ſame pains may ſerve them oth. r tracr. , concerning the arterieſ. : : i c º º . : t - blade. the remaining }. of the axillary artcry paſſes on in company of the baſilick vcin to the arm, upon all which it is afterward ſpent,of jāj. we will ſpeak in the following chapter. . . . . . . . .” - that which remains yet of the aſcendent trunk [l] being ſuſtained with the thymu neer to the upper part of the breaſt-bone,is divided into two branches [mm jwhich they - call carotideſ, # the ſleepy arteries, becauſe they being obſtrućted, or any way the ſleepy ſtopt, we preſently fall aſleep, of which valuerda witneſſes in anatom. lib. . c. . that a**** realdus cºlumbus nude tryall in a young man, among a great company of men. they are unequall in bigneſſe, the right one being much thicker then the left, but they tend di- re&ly upward, being carried along by the fides of the neck, and faſtned to the rough ar- tery, and to the internall jugular veins, by the benefit of a membrane, and when they - ... tº are come to the cups, are divided into two §: [n] of which one is the outer, the the diviſion of other the inner one : that is the leſſe, this is the greater. the outer [o] ſends propa- º ter, of #. [+] to the checks and muſcles of the face; then when it is come to the car, it is jº. ivided in twain ; for one branch [r] of it goes to the backſide of the ear, from which face. two branches under the ear enter the neather jaw through the firſt hole of it, that is ſea- * , ted at its proceſſes, and throughout the length thereof are diſſeminated into the roots of all the . teeth; that which remains, going out at the ſecond hole; which is pla- ced at the chin, is ſcattered into the lip. the other branch [ qjcreeps through the tem- - £les and fore-head, and is ſpent upon the muſcles of the face. the inner branch [p]of the the inner; of ileepy artery, or arteria encephalica the brain-artery, is carried into the chops; and having branch of the ſcattered ſome propagations to the tongue and throttle, is divided about the baſis of the "" skull, into two unequall branches, to wit, a greater,and a leſſerone. the leſſer and hind- the diviſion moſt [s] is carried together with the greater encephalick branch of the internall jugular º: º: vcinto the back-ſide of the skull, enters through the ſecond hole of the occipitium or º: tºn nowl-bone, and goes into the ſinus or canale of the thick membrane. the greater and more forward[t]having entred the cavity of the skull through a hole made on purpoſe for it in the temple-bone, and attain'd to the ſaddle of the wedg-bone, going .. whereunder the hard membrane;firſt of all propagates a branch on both ſides into the ſide of the thick membrane, then in beaſts ſcattering an infinite number of ſurcles makes the rete mirabile or wonderfull net, which indeed may be found in a man too, but it is very little, and ſeems but a ſhadow in reſpe&t of that in beaſts.theſe ſurcles being thus placed it pierces through the thick membrane of the brain,and having got out of it,ſends another propagation out of the skull,through the ſcoond hole of the wedg-bone to the eye , and its muſcles, as alſo to the temple muſcle, that lifts up the lower jaw; and then going itraight up to theſide of the phlegmatickglandule, it is divided into two branches, an outer, and an inner. the inner is joined with its fellow of the other ſide, and being a ſubdiviſion joined they arewaſted into many little arteries, which are diſperſed through the thin oth greater. membrane, and the very ſubſtance of the brain, to the originallofthe optick nerves. the outer being refle&ed and ſuſtained with the thin membrane, goes into the forward ventri- * cle of the brain; beingdivided into many ſurcles, which are united with thoſe little arte- ries, which ariſe from the vertebralia,or artery of the rack-bones;ſome with thoſe which the vertebrall artery ſcatters through the baſis of the head under the brain, but others with thoſe which it deſſeminates through the thin membraneand ſubſtance of the brain, together with which they make theplexus-chorºideſ. r. ..chap. ii. declaresthe hiſtory of the axillary artery being - diſtributed through the arm. sºshe axillary artery therefore when it is come to the arm,taking the name of º the armstrunk [ff]is carried in one undivided ſtock, beyond the bent of brachial trans ºš. the cubit, through the infide of the arm, diſperſing ſome ſmall pro- #. trunk a § pagations on both ſides to the muſcles that lie on the infide of the upper part***". * of the arm. but it goes faſtby the inner ordeep branch of the baſilick vein, as an unſparable companion of it, whoſeconduëand ſteps it every where follows. but preſently falling down by the back-ſide of the upper part of the arme, where the muſcles which extend the cubit ſtick to it, it ſends forth two propagations [ &m j the lower. of which is a very notable one, and ſo it is writhed back toward the bent of the cubit, and havingattained thereunto it reaches out two ſurcles [n n]one of each ſide, ſo ma- • * ~ nifeſt, that the pulſe is there oftentimes evidently enqugh perceived. . then going underº. diviſion the bent of the cubit, through the inſide of it,and #. down betwixt the two muſcles ºº::.. that bend the ſecond and third bones of the four fingers, it is cutſg) into two notable the out.” branches, one of which is an outer, the other an inner one. the outer [h]is * , along §§ §º . concerning the arteries. = along the radius, or leſſer bone of the cubit (whence i call it radieu) and goes direály to the wriſt, in which place phyſitians feel the pulſe, it being very manifeſt, by reaſon that the artery lies next under the skin. but not far from the root of the wriſt it ſhootsout a little branch [o] which runs under the tendons of the muſcles, which extend the thumb, into the outſide of the hand, and is ſpent upon the muſcles, which are placed betwixt the firſtbone of the thumb, and that of the after-wriſt, which ſupports the fore-finger. this branch being propagated, going under the inner annular ligament of the wriſt, and the broad tendon ofthe palm-muſcle, it is divided into three branches [ppp. ike the vein, and nerve, that are its companions. the firſt of theſe goes to the inſide of the thumb, the ſecond to the inſide of the fore-finger, and the third to that of the middle.the firſt, and fºcond are each of them parted into two branches; the third is undivided. the inner branch of the trunk of the arm [i] runs ſtraight along the ulna or greater bone of the cubit ( and for that reaſon i call it cubiteau ) and is diſperſed into the palm of the hand. but it is ſo hidden among the muſcles, that it is hardly perceived to beat, unleſſe in lean folkes; and therefore phyſitians alwaies lay their hands upon the outer branch,when they feel the pulſº - in the wriſt. but itpaſſes on under the tranſverſeligament of the wriſt, and the tendon of the palm-muſcle, in company of a vein,and nerve, and ſcatters two branches intothelittle finger, as many into the ring-finger,and one into the outfide of the middle. the inner branch. *- _- - chap. iii, shewes the inferiour or deſcendent trunk of the great - artery, and the propagation thereaf through º the middle and loweſt bellies. tº ee have ſaid above, that the great artery [a] as ſoon as it has gotten above \}\}, the pericardian or purſe of the heart,is divided[b] into two branches; of which º one goes upward, ū. other deſcends to the partsbelow. we have alreadyhandled "tº the upper branch; it remains that wee explainthe other alſo. . p*- the deſcendent trunk therefore [q janſwering in proportion to the flockof a tree, is "* carried down to the fifth rack-hone of:hºcheſ,and .# ſomewhat to the left, cleaves * progº, to thatfide of the bod y of therack-bones, and ſo deſcends leiſurely. when it has now paſt the midriffe through that diviſion reſembling a ſemi-circle,which is betwixt the produêions of theſpium tranſverſumor midrifle.preſently it runs out by the rack-bones of the loins, lea- ningupon the middle of their body,til it cometo the laſt of them, where near to theor ſacrum * it is divided rjinto two notable branches(ssjwhich with other anatomiſts we wil callis. ci the iliacaſarteries from their fituation.in thisjourney it ſcatters many propagations from itſelf,which are very worthy to be diligently obſerved,becauſe from thence we mayeaſily give its propagati. areaſon of many accidents indiſeaſes. but they are in numbereight,the intercoſtal arteries, gns, the two phrenice or arteries of the midriffe, the coeliacall one,then the upper meſenterick,the two emulgents, as many ſpermaticall ones, atlaſt the lower meſenterick, and the lumbart, or arteries of the loins. of theſe the intercoſtalls are ſcattered,whilſt the trunk is yet in the cheſt,the reſt, whild it paſſes on through the loweſtbelly.but ſome ofthem accompany the branches of the gate-vein, as the coeliacall,and both the meſentericall arteries;others thoſe of the hollow vein, as the reſt. now we will treat of theſe in order, beginning from the intercoſtalls, or arteries between the ribs, which are placed uppermoff. preſently there- fore after the deſcendent trunk [q]is iſſued forth, from its back-ſide it ſends over little branches on both ſides to the diſtances of the eightlower ribs, which they call intercoſtalet intercoſtula is inferioreſ,the lower arteries between the ribsfuuujin reſpe&of the upper intercoſaſ, of fºrimºthe ar- which we have ſpoke above. theſe aſſociating themſelves with the veins and nerves of the j ... fime name, go traighton by the lower fide of the ribs, where peculiar ſinu, orchannell, *** are cutout for them. burasſheintercoſalvins reachin theirderibsonly to the griſis, but in the baſtard onesſomewhat farther, towit, to the ſides of the abdomen: ſo alſo the ar- teries end in them together with the bony part of the ribs, but in theſe run out a little far- ther. and theſe arteriesſend over ſome propagations through the holes of the nerves to the ſpinall marrow, and to the muſcles that lieupon the rack-bones of the back, juſt as we have their uſe. ſaid the intercoſtall veins were propagated. but the uſe of them is to diffuſe the vitallſpirit, and the blood to the muſcles betwixt the ribs, befides which they have alſo another notable office, towit, of carryingdown the water, and purulent matter, that is gathered togetherin the cheſt, into the great artery, and from thence by the emulgent branches to the bladder. although i am notignorant that the moſt learned fallopin, and others who have readbe- fore me in this moſt famous ū.of padus, have ſhewn another way to their audi- tors; by which either purulent matter, or water mightbecomweighed forth by help of the kidneys, te wit, the vein ſine pari, or without a companion, a littlebranch whereof in the - left tract. . concerning the arterieſ. , : : - eft ſide ga:; in:o th: en ilgent of the left kidney. but this way which we ſhew through the intercoſtall arteries, is by much the ſhorter; that i paſs by this, that any matter heaped together may be more eaſily diſpatcht away through the arteries then the veins.nor needs any onehere to be afraid, leſt the vital ſpirits ſhould be infe&ed from theſe excrementi- tious and ill humors,whereby the heaſt may incurre fearfull ſymptomes; when we willingly grant (which experience alſo hath often taught us) that whilſt the corrupt matter is empti- ed out by the urine, the ſick parties have often falo into fits of ſwounding, and otherdiſ. eaſes; ſometimes alſo have died ſuddenly, when the peccant humor has been of too great a quantity, or too bad a quality, and has offered ſo much violence tonature,that the heat,and ſpirits have been overcome therewith. . but here a certain place in hippecrate, calls upon me the explans: to explain it, which has long and often troubled my mind. the place is in coach preno-nºioſº. tionibuſ, where he ſays; they, who together with the heart have their whole lungs infla- : hip- med, ſo that it falls to the ſide, are deprived of motion all over; and the parties ſo diſeaſed p - lie cold, ſenſeleſſe, and diethe ſecond or third day. but if this happen to the lungs without the heart,they live not ſo long. yet ſome alſo are preſerved. i have often thought with my ſelf, what ſhould be that ſympathy of the heart and ...; with the brain and nerves, that from the inflammation of thoſe parts, the patient ſhould be ſo deprived of ſenſe and motion all . over, when the ſame hippocrate teacheth in the ſame place,that the diſeaſed ſtiffer ſuch depri- vation in that part, livid ſpots appear on the outſide about the rib, where-about the aorte (ſo he ſeems to call the lobes or diviſions of the lungs) being inflamed fall to the fide. but if they be not much inflamed, ſo that they fall not down to the fide; he ſayes that there is a ain indeed all over, but no deprivation of ſenſe or motion, nor any ſpots appear.having deliberated often with my ſelf, at length i came to be of this opinion; that there was no o- ther cauſe,but the ſympathy betwixt theſe intercoſtal arteries,and the marrow in the back- bone. this ſympathy ariſes from thoſe propagations,which we told youpaſt through the holes ofthe rack-bones of the cheſt into the backbone.wherefore if the lungs,and heart be ſo mightily inflamed,that great plenty of bloud ruſhinto the É. artery, whereupon it ſwells, as alſo theſe veſſels betwixt the ribs,and conſequently thoſe ſurcles which go to the marrow of the back-bone; truly it cannot be, but that both the marrow, and the nerves, which iſſue out of it,be compreſt; from whence what elſe can follow, but the reſolutions ofthoſe parts, into which thoſe nerves are implanted, and to which they impart the faculty of motion? this opinion ſeems to mee to bee wonderfully confirmed by a certain pretty obſervation, which the learned cornelin, gemma has in his book, de bemititreopeſtilenti. a certain ſtudi- ows youngman,ſayeshe, through the whole courſe of his diſeaſes had his left eye leſſe then the other. he was pain’d in the left ... all the time the fit raged; but about the criſis or change thereof, the artery of his left leg being ſwoln up was moved according to its length, that being to be ſeen by us it ſeemed to be turned upward and downward like a ropepul’d back. who will nothere willingly confeſſe,that this matterwas in the arteries, when the criſis was made by them? but from this that hath been ſaid areaſon may be alſo gi- ven of another obſervation of galen,which is deloci, affº.c .where he ſayes thus: in a cer- tain man, who wastroubled with a vehement inflammation of the lungs, as well the outer, / as the inner parts of his arm, from the cubit to the very ends of his fingers labour'd with difficulty of ſenſe, and their motion alſo was ſomewhat empair’d. in the ſame man alſo the nerves, which are in the firſt, and ſecond diſtancesbetwixt the ribs, ſuſtained harm. and a little after,this man was quickly reſtor'd to his health, to wit, a medicine being applyed to the place, from whence the nerves iſſue forth, near to the firſt, and ſecond ſpaces betwixt the ribs. by reaſon of the ſame branches betwixt the º. valeriola, the ſon of that phyſitian, whoſe obſervations we have, being yet aboy ſuffered convulfion-fits in a grie- vous pleuriſie. the arteries called phrenice of the midriffe, [xx are two; one ofeach fide, which ari- l. : . fingout of the trunk, preſently after it is come forth ofthe hollow of the cheſt,being divided ºf: *. into more branches, are ſcattered into the midriffe, but eſpecially into the lower fide of it, j ot i near to the rack-bones of the back.they ſprinkle ſome #. twigs alſo into the upper o part, which afterwards go to the pericardium or purſe of the heart, there where it growes to the midriffe. \ – the caliacaor stomach-artery is but one, ſo called, becauſe it ſends over branches to ...a...?" the zoniº, that is, the stomach. this, being moſt like to the ſpleenick branch of the caliáca. gate-vein, affords many branches to the stomach, liver, bladder of gall, kell, the gut duodenum, thebeginning of the jejunum or empty guba part of the colonor colique-gut, the sweet-bread, and spleen. but it ariſes out of the foreſide of the body of the trunk, and being ſtayed up all the way by the upper part of the lower membrane of the kall, is the two brai divided into two notable branches, but of unequallbigneſſe, one of which goes to the : . right, the other to the left: that is the leſſe, this the greater. the right branch therefore is rherºi. " ' joined with the deſcendent gate-vein in the pancrea or sweet-bread, that is placed under branch. the hinder part of the stomach, and leaning thereupon the membranes of the kalgoes to the liver;and its ſmalneſſe is worth the taking notice of if " look upon the largeneſs ºf the liver, which the ancients longſince, and many at this day have made the work- e houſe - concerning the arteries. tract, . houſe of the bloud.but it is inſerted in the hollow part, near to the trunk of the gate- vein, and is ſo ſmall, becauſe that part of the liver, which entertains the roots of the gate-véin, needed not a greater artery ; but the other part which hath the propagati- ons of the hollow-vein, receives great plenty of vitall ſpirit ſent over from the heart through the hollow-vein. yet before it enters into the liver, it diſſeminates in the propagations way many fuſcles,and thoſe partly from its upper ſide, partly from its lower: from the ºp- from its upper ºf two, firſt, that which i cali pyloricus, which ariſes in the mid-way, and being di- part. vided into many little branches is ſcattered into the back-ſide of the right orifice of the i • stonach. the other is called cyſtice gemelle, the twin-artcries of the bladder of gall, . which are two little branches, and go into the bladder of gall, and preſently are divided :º ** into many propagations. from the lower ſide likewiſe two ariſe. tºe firſt is epiplo, dex- tra or the right kall-artery, which is implanted into the right ſide of the lower mem- brane of the kall, and part of the colique-gut annexed thereunto. the other is cleft into two branches, of which one called inteſtinalis, the gut-artery paſſes on to the duo- denum, and beginning of the jejunum or empty gut: the other, named gaſtro-epiploi, dex- tra the right stomach and kall’artery, ſomewhat larger then the former, turns down to right ſide of the bottome of the stomach, and being ſupported by the upper membrane of the kall, iſſues out ſome ſhoots from the upper part to the fore and back-ſides of the sto- mach ; but from the lower to that membrane of the kall, upon which it leans. the left rhetº, brinth and greater branch is called atteria splenica the spleen artery, which ſticking to the lower cit membrane of the kall, and the glandules placed therein, paſſes on together with the spleen-vein, to which it is faſtened,and in like manner diſtributes its propagations to the spleen. but in the way likewiſe it diſtributes branches from both parts of it: from p ions the upper iſſues gaſtrica the stomach-artery, which reaches into the middle of the hinder ropagations f the stomach, or that, wherewith it l he back, and aſcending from from iſ: upper part of the stomach, or that, wherewith it leanes upon the back, and alc g part. thence it compaſſes the left orifice of the stomach round about like acrown, and diſperſes little twigs, partly upward to the end of the gullet, partly downward, and thoſe great- er, and more numerous,into the stomach,and ſo it makes the arteria coronaria or crown- artery,like to the crown-vein, which ariſes from the gate-vein, as we have ſaid in the fromit, lower fore-going treatiſe. but from its lower ſide the spleen-attery ſends out the epiploi, finiſtra, or paſt. left kall-artery, about that part, wherewith it now attains to the spleen, which runs out into the left ſide of the membrane of the lower part of the kall. this artery pre- ſently after its riſe is cleft into two branches, which part very far aſunder from each o- ther, from which many other arteries ariſe, that are all conſumed upon the ſaid mem- brane of the kall,and the coliquegut, that is tyed thereto... theſe branches being iſſued, the spleen-artery draws nearer to the spleen, and juſt like the vein of the ſame name, its diviſion, which accompanies it all the way,is cleft into two branches like the letter y,one of which may be called the upper, the other the lower, which afterward entring by the hollow part of the spleen are ſplintered into an infinite number of little ſprigs, ſo that there are five tinues more arteries there, then veins. whence it comes to paſſe, that in inflammations of the spleen, if you lay your hand to the left hypochondrium, or placeunder the griſtles of the baſtard-ribs, it ſeems to pant. but before this entry of the artery of the lower branch makes a notable anaſomoſis or inoculation with the lower branch of the vein, and propagates a twig to the lower membrane of the kall. but from the upper branch iſſues one called gaffro-epiplou finiſtra, the left stomach and kall-artery, which being faſtened to the upper membrane of the kalis derived into the left ſide of the bottom of the stomach, beſtowing little branches upon the fore and back-fides of it, or alſo upon the upper part of the ... iſſuing from the upper branch makes the v breve arterioſum or ſhort ar- teriall §. the vein its name-ſake,to the left ſide, and orifice of the stomach. the uſe of the the uſe of the rightbranch,which goes to the liver,beſides the common one,which it hath, right branch, is this, as often as the bladder of gall is obſtrućted, to carry down choler to the guts, wvhy ulcers and eſpecially to the colon, into which ſome of its branches are implanted. which is the are more ſº reaſon, that in bloudy flixes the ulcers are almoſt alwayes found in the great guts, and *...* eſpecially in the calm, very ſeldome in the ſmall ones. for this artery, when either the *** liver being over hot breeds abundance of choler, or the bladder of gaſſis obſtructed,tº- seiving into itſelf ſtore of choler carries it dire&ly over to the colon, or colique gut. in like manner the uſe of the left branch, or spleen artery, beſides the common one, i. to throw down choler, melancholy and i. humors, if at any time the spleen abound with them, to the guts. moreover by this ſame way the wateriſh humors in ſuch as have the dropſie, are ſometimes committed either to the guts, or to the kidneys and blad- tier. this ſame branch is that by which the drink paſſes ſo ſodainly through the whole body, and by which ill humors are caſt out by vomit. this ſame is the caulº, that upon a full stomach we make little water; but more when the concoëtion therein s finiſhed. for the stomach being much diſtended preſſes it; but that once empty, it can j.form its office. this ſame branch teaches us that a ſlender diet is to be preſcribed to thº, who are to take purges,that the way may be open for the medicins, as well that, by wi. the uſe of the 'deſt. tract. . concerning the arterieſ. º * > the excrements are ſent over to the stomach, as that, by which they are conveyed to the guts. this ſame branch alſo, if you adde the two meſentericks, is the ſeat of the hypo- chondriacall melancholy. for this diſeaſe ariſing from the obſtrućtion of the entrails; which are contained in the loweſt belly,it is neceſſary that the arteries here ſhould ſuffer ve- ry much,which the very symptomes,that happen in this diſeaſe, may ſufficiently inform us. mºtºrica ſuperiºr, the upper artery of the meſentery.[y] ariſes a littlebelow the co- liacall, being diſtributed like the meſcraick vein(which is its companion) with numerous propagations into the guts called ilium and jejunum,as alſo that region of the colon, which reaches from the hollow of the liver as far as the right kidney, and ſo for the moſt part into the upper part of the meſentery. in which place it is to be obſerved, that the artery. an obſervati. #. upon the vein, ſongtimes on the contrary the vein upon the artery, and on. ſo is carried betwixt both the membranes of the meſentery.but theſe }. in many pla- ces in the meſentery have glandules, which were made for the free perſpiration of the veſ- - ſels, and eſpecially of the arteries,whereby it comes to paſſe,that theſe glandules labour- - ing with a hard tumor, or scirrhus,the § are compreſt,and a pining away of the whole body follows thereupon. - - - - - - the emulgent arteries [ ] are two, one the right,another the leftone. both iſſue out :: * under the forementioned artery, where the firſt, and ſccond rack-bones of the loins are eaukiº coupled together by the ligament. but they ariſe out of either ſide of the trunk, al-t though not direétly over againſt one another,as alſo it is in the emulgent veins, the right one being lower then the left. theſe arteries,when they come to the kidney,are cleft into two branches, with which they are inſerted into the ſinu, or channels of the cavity of the kidneys, and like the veins are conſumed inan infinite number of little ſprigs upon their - ſubſtance. their uſe, beſides the common one,is to purge out the whey, which is found in their uſe. great plenty in the arterics, - - the ſpermaticall, or ſeed-arteries [a] are likewiſe two, which ariſe out of the fore- - part of the trunk of the great artery, their originals touching each other; for the left spermise, artery iſſues not from the emulgent, as the left ſpermaticall vein does. afterward in their deſcent they are made faſt to the veins of their own ſide, and in men are carried through the proceſſes of the peritoneum or rim of the belly to the teſticles:but in women, when they come ſomewhat near to the teſticles, they are divided into two parts, one of which is carried to the teſticles, the other to the bottom of the womb." but the arteries do ſo come to the womb, that they only water it at the fides, and pierce not at all into the inner parts of it.which truly came to paſſe by the great providence of wiſeſt nature,fince it had not been ſo ſafe to have brought them down to the inner ſurface of the womb, by reaſon that in the coming forth of the child very great iſſuings of bloud would becauſed to §: no ſmall danger of the woman in child-bed, if the arteries had been an- nexed to the womb on the inſide.hence alſo it is,that in the time of delivery they flow by little and little, not ruſhing down with violence. - meſenterica inferior,the lower artery of the meſentery [g]ariſes near to the osſacrum, or . ... great bone, a little above the diviſion of the trunk into the iliacall banches, and goes ºftnerica in: into the left fide of the colon, and into the ſtrait gut, deſcending with the hamorrhoidaliſt” veins to the very end of the fundament, and #. the ha:morrhoidall arteries. it is queſtioned concerning the uſe of both the meſentericks, whether befides the common,they have any peculiar one. for galen in his . of the uſe of the parts, ſeems to make mention. its uſe. of ſome other when he would have ſome part of the chylus to be attraćted by them. and in the book, whether bloud be contained in the arteries, in the fifth chapter, he ſayes: if we divide the loweſt belly, and the inner membrane, we ſhall plainly ſee the arteries in the meſentery filled with milk in kids newly yeaned, but in living creatures that are grown,full of ſomething elſe. in which words anatomicall experience teaches us,that not onely the meſaraick veins, but arteries alſo do manifeſtly draw the chylus to them. which being ſo indeed, it is altogether to be beleeved, that the chylus is either afterward tranſ- ported by them into the veins, or elſe turned into bloud by the arteries themſelves.nor will this ſeem wonderful to any one who ſhall conſideralſo that the mothers bloud is con- veyed through the jarteries to the child,whileſt it is yet ſhut up in the womb. but if the bloud which is received by the veins ought yet to be better worked, as any di- ligent inquirer into nature will conclude it ought ; truly that which is received by the arteries will require to be ſo much the more exa&ly laboured, by how much the better it is, then that of the veins. but it is ſo laboured in the arteries themſelves, and in the spleen, being haled into the coeliacall artery,and carried to the spleen. and this is an excellent uſe of the meſenterick arteries, whileſ a man enjoyes perfeót health, beſides which wee will adde another alſo, as often as he leaves to be in health. for theſe arteries take to them the excrements of the whole body, that they may car- them down to the guts, in like manner as the veins do, by which nature doth both attračt the chylus, and likewiſe expell the noiſome humors out of the body, as choler, phlegm, and melancholy. choler is thus expelled oftentimes in continuall and inter- mitting cholerick feavers, a ſolution whereof follows by a looſheſe: phlegm is ſo e e e c - expelled - meſenterica ſº- perior. - v.--" and inner [t]iſſues out two propagations, one from its outfide, the other from its infi tract. . concerning the arteries. eaſes at padua were epidemiall. yet the palfie is not alwayes a perfect one,but often (as i tt am wont tocallit) imperfeót, becauſe the power to walkis not wholly taken away, but the diſeaſed ſtand upon their feet with a great deal of difficulty. many at that time being deceived in the knowledge of the diſeaſe, miſtaking this for a great weakneſſedf body contraćted by their fickneſſe,endeavoured to take it away by eating and drinking largely,but in vain. this alſo is the cauſe, why the falling-ſickneſs,and lethargies too, as we have oft-times ſeen, follow after the colick, becauſe the matter being ſent over from the meſenterick arteries to thoſe* the loins, may eaſily go from them into rain, to which thoſe very veſſells are carſ cci. a l - butthe trunk of the great artery, when it is cºme othellſ rack-bone of the loins, ha- ving taken its journey all the way,which we have ſhewed, under the hollow vein, at the left ſide, here gets above the vein, left it ſhould be worn away in that continual motion by the hardneſs of the holy-bone. but it is divided, no otherwiſe then the hollow vein is,into two notable branches [s.s.] which are called by anatomiſts the iliacall arteries from their fituation, and being carried downward obliquely to the thigh reſemble the ºr of the greeks turned upſide down. but they alſo juſt like the iliacall veins, to which they are exačtly anſwering, before they be implanted into the thigh, ſhootout a pretty number of branches, but from the lower ſide qf the artery before the iliacallbranches be divided,iſſue forth ſacre sacre. the holy arteries [*] which are notable ones, and carried downward, leaning upon the holy-bone,paſſe through the holes thereof, and run to the marrow and backſide of the bone. and through theſe alſo there is a way for the matter, that makes the colick, to eauſe the palſie of the legs. - - - - after this a little below the diviſion of the trunk, the iliacall arteries are ſubdivided into the diviſion two branches, one of which is the inner and leſs; the other outer and greater. the | of the iliacal arteries in to an ", inſter and outer he outer[s]is commonly called muſeuls; by us more ſtrićtly glutea the muſcle of the but-brandh. tocks, becauſe it runsdown with its nameſake vein, betwixt the holy and hipbones,where propagations they part one from another, and ſcatters many twigs into the muſcles, which lye upon the :: of qu ilium, or hanch-bone, called glutei, or the muſcles of the buttocks; becauſe they are eſſe * the authors of them. - - - - - oute." the inner is called hypogaſtrica[ć] which is very notable, and large, and, being carried . direály down to the lowerfide of the holy-bone,it affords.certain . tions in men to hypºgaſtrice, the bottome, and neck of the bladder, as alſo to the ſtrait gut, "... alſo may bee called the hzmorrhoidall arteries; but in women, to whom this branch is ſomewhat larger, it di. gributes a great number of propagations, beſides thoſe to the fore-named parts, into the lower region alſo of the bottom of the womb,and likewiſe into its neck.hence wenay ga- ther the reaſon, why,if the womb reach to the middle of the hip, convulſions are cauſed as hippocrates witneſſeth, lib. de natura muliekri. as alſo if the womb fal down to the hip, why the monthly flowers are ſuppreſt,and a pain is cauſed in the ſoftneſs ofthe fides, and in the loweſt belly. for the blood which nature drives to the wombe, cannotbee laid in there, the arteries being preſt together by the fallingdown of it; ſo that neceſſarily flowing back, it fils the neighbouringveins and arteries, which ſwelling up cauſe theſe f. for wee have oft-times ſeen in diſſºtions theſe veinsſo ſwoln,that they have been ſeven foldbigger then themſelves. hence alſo areaſon may be given ofthe thirty ſecond aphoriſm of the fifth ſe&ion in the ſame hippocrateſ, where he witneſſes, that a woman vomiting blood is ridofherdiſeaſe, upon the iſſuing forth offier tearms. which happening by the conſent of all by revulſion or attraćtion of the humour to a contrary part, and that not by the benefit of the veins, becauſe the veins of the ſtomach ariſe out of the gate-vein, but they of the wombe from the hollow one; there is no other ſympathy to bee ſought for , then that which is cauſed by the arteries, eſpecially when the hypogaſtrick or artery of the tower part of the loweſt belly is not far diſtant from the coeliacall, or artery of the ſtomach. hence likewiſe a reaſon will be given of the aphoriſm that follows this, wherein he judgeth the jhamorrhagia or abundant iſſuing forth of bloodat the noſtrillstobºeprofitable whenthe monthly courſes do fail. the remaining part of the leſſer iliacall arte §. brings forth the umbilicall or navell artery [ºn],which is carried down near to the length of the arteriasmijº- great artery, and is tyed with ſtrong membranesto the fides of the bladder of urine. but it *. loſes its hollowneſſe in thoſe that are once out ofthe wombe. after this [ ] like the ili- acall vein which is joined to it,it goes through the hole of the ſhare bone, or of pubis, which before it be paſt,it takes to it a propagation iſſued from the outer iliacal branch,and ſo goes out of the hole,andbeing departed from it ſpends it ſelf, in like manner as the inner iliacall vein does,upon the muſcles;partly thoſe with which the hole is ſtopſ;and partly thoſe which ropagation, ariſe from the ſhare bone. at length being terminated at the middle almoſt ofthelength of º: ot the thigh, the endofit meets [ ], and is united with the ends of the branches [w] of the greater iliacau inner muſcle-artery ofthe leg, of which we ſhall . in the next chapter. anch. the greater or outer iliacall artery# w]produces likewiſe two propagations the fift of which sºngſ, e. [i]is called epigaſtrica,which ariſing from the outſide of it, "alittlébeforeitpaffesthrough #: the theperitoneum or rim of the belly is refleåedupward,andaſcends bythe infide of the ſtrait uppe, ºr of - -- muſcle the leweibr'p's – —- ~ - o concerning the arteries. trac . . muſcle til about the navel it be incculated with the deſcendent manimary artery.the other[a] pudends or ſhe is called pudenda,which is a little inner propagation,being not divided into ſo many branches, ºyºtº as the vein of that name is.butitariſes preſently after the artery is gone out of the peritoneum, ** * and being carried overthwart alongthécommiſſure or joyningtogether of the ſhare-boneſ: ſpent at the privy parts upon the skin of the yard. that which remains of this trunk goes into the crum [x], whereof we ſhall now ſpeak. – - ( chap. iv. the propagations ofthe outer iliacall branch,which are diſtributed through the crus orgreat foot, containing the thigh, leg, and foot. *fter that the outer branch [v] has propagated the fore-mentioned branches, § it departs cut of the peritoneum or rim of the belly, and at the groin is carried § into the crus, by the ſame way which the crurall vein takes, under which it goes, and is joined in company therewith every where, and ſo it makes the the trunk of ** trunk of the crurall arterie [x], (as we will alwaits call it). but pre- the crurall arte- - - - - - - p ry and its pro- ſently after it hath got beyond the peritoneum, it iſſues forth a propagation from the out- fide, which is called muſcula cruralia exterior, the outer muſcle-artery of the cru, which pagations ere - - - it bee divided. being carried downward is propagated into the muſcles that cover the foreſide of the i. bone of the thigh. sometimes over againſt this, but oftner a little below, yet of the inſide another is brought forth, called muſcula cruralis interna, the inner muſcle-artery . of the cru,[y] which is diſtributed in many branches through the third bending muſcle of the thigh, called triceps, and thoſe on the infide of the thigh, as far as the knee; " the ends of which branches are joined with the end of the inner iliacall artery, which we told you deſcends through the hole of the ſhare-bones to the crus. theſe propagati- ons being diſpatcht away; the crurall trunk deſcends from the groin, together with the crural vein;and is ſo bent backward near to the bone of the thigh,that when it is come to the ham, it ſtands betwixt the two hindmoſt heads of the thigh. for prudent nature does alwaies obſerve this, to carry down the veſſells about that ſide of the joint where the bending is, leſt if they ſhould go on that fide whereon the joint is extended, they ſhould be compreſt. but in the very mid-way as it were, as it runs down through the - thigh,it ſends out a propagation[r]which breaking into more ſurcles runs out through the muſcles that are ſeated on the backfide of the thigh, together with the ham-vein;and at length deſcending through the ham (whence it is called pºplitea the ham-artery) is di- ſtributed with many ſprigs into the calf of the leg.but whilſt it ſtayes in the ham, it ſends . out a propagation yt? jon each ſide, to the fides of the joint of the knee, which then finking deeper, are conſumed partly in the joint it ſelf, partly upon the muſcles called gafferemenii that make the calf; from whence they are called surales,the arteries of the calf. after that the crurall trunk lyes in the ham [y], it ſends forth a propagation from its outſideſ a twhich runs down near to the fibula or leſſºr bone of the leg, and is hid betwixt the muſcle, that moves the foot outward,and the ſecond bending muſcle cf the inſtep, and diſtributes it ſelf into the reſt, that lye on the forepart of the leg, as far as they arc à. and till they begin to be contorted by the outer ankle. a little under this ſame another artery [+] is brought forth out of the backfide of the trunk, which runs down as far to the mixing together of the tendons of the calf-muſcles. . then another #. out of the ſame i. of the trunk, but under the ſecond,which deſcending and paſſing through the tranſverſe ligament, runs down by the top of the foot, and is #. into the muſcles that move the toes outward.the ...] of the trunk is carryed down- ward by the backſide of the leg,and about the inner ankle offers a ſurcle [?] to the foot, which goes to the muſcle of the great toe,and creeps through the top of the foot.but the trunk itſelflying hid among the tendons of the muſcles of the toes is cut [x] into two branches; of which the inner [...] beſtowes two ſurcles upon the great toe; two upon the fore toe, and one upon the middle; the outer [a] two upon the little toº, and two upon the toes next to it, on the lower ſide. but although the progreſſe of the arteries be for the moſt part ſuch, as we have deſcribed, yet what we have ſaid formerly of the veins,that their diſtribution varies much, not only according to the diverſity ofbodies, but alſo of fides in the body of the ſame man, is true alſo of the arteries,which in divers men are diverſly diſtributed. an i --- the third treatiſe, - concerning the n e r v e s. *— -***----, - chap. i. of the nerves of the brain. kºsºſong thoſe eight conjugations, which ariſe from the marrow of the §º brain drawn outin length, whileſt it is yet contained within the - nº limits of the skull, that offers itſelf in the firſt place, which makes the the fift rai & q optick nerves, that are ſo famous among all the maſters of anatomy. of the brain. nº for theſe are not only the biggeſt, if you look upon their jº sº neſſe ; but alſo without doubt the § ofall the nerves of the bo- *\ºdy. but they ariſe out of the middle of the baſis of the brain,on the its originall, r forepart, according to the opinion of the ancients,but indeed, if the head be turned upſide downin'the diſſºtion (which is the proper º out of the beginning of the former trunks of the ſpinall marrow, that their origi- mall is as it were in the back part of the head, and preſently each of them by little and progreſſe: littlemaking towards its mate, they are united (not only joyned, as ſome would have it) over the ſaddle of the wedg-bone, and make one common ſquare body, the marrow within them being mixt together. after that preſently ſeparating again, each of them is carried obliquely into the eye of its own fide, entring the orb thereof through the firſt inſertion; hole of the wedg-bone, and ending at the very centre of the eye. in this pair we may eaſily ſhew thoſe two membranes, which arederived to the nerves from the two me- ninges of the brain, as alſo the very inner marrowy ſubſtance, which comes from the bo- dy of the brain. . yet the nerve itſelf is not cleft into more branches, (as the other are). . but lying hid makes the coats of the eye; and out of the thick membrane it forms that: . . .” coat, which is called cornea, the horny one;out of the thin membrane.that is called uvea, - the grapey one ; but out ofth ſubſºiceof the marrowth rain orcoat likeanet. for, as ſoon as it is arrived at the centre of the eye, theſe membranes are diſplayed, and making a ſphere contain the humors in them. theſe nerves convey the faculty of ſteing to the uſe, eyes; wherefore, they being obſtrućted, or compreſt, a blindneſſe inſues. , galen hath a- the holes of ſcribed holes to them, and herophilus for the ſame reaſon called them * : *rms, the tºi" paſſages ofthe fight, teaching that there is a ſenſible hollowneſſe plainly to be ſeen in." them, whom for all that almoſt all anatomiſts do contradiæ. but i have heretofore ſhewen in the univerſitie of padua, and in a great aſſembly of men, that there are certain paſſages continuing from the beginning of theſe nerves,as far as to the place, where they meet together, and preſently after that vaniſhing away toward the eye. and therefore i ſhewed that the ancients may not only be excuſed, but alſo that they writ the truth, eſpecially when none of them have § that theſe paſſages were great, but only ſuch, as did not altogether eſcape the fight, if one would make tryall thereof in a great living creature, and by a clear light, and preſently after it is killed. for galen himſelf requires theſe three conditions, . placit. . and lib. de oculu, that one may ſee them. but before, we depart hence, i will bring in ſome problemes, that, beſides the hiſtory itſelf, i may problemes. alſo ſhew the uſe of that, which i ſay, eſpecially when in our time they only for the moſt part follow the ſtudy of anatomy, who imploy their induſtry in the behalf of phy- ick. the firſt therefore ſhall be, what is the cauſe, that many upon ſneeſing often (eſpe-, . cially when they have provoked it for the nonce) have of a ſodain faln blind. this hap- pens, either becauſe the branchcs of the ſleepy arteries, which are ſo near to the optick nerves, that they touch, are filled, and being ſo, preſſe together thoſe nerves; or elſe be- ff f f . - - cauſe goncerning the nerver is act. . , ſea copious, and that a phlegmatick humor has faln out of the brain into the optick : : ºbāruard # º ſeen thoſe, that have been blind through º firſt cauſe, ſometimes cured by a seton; but i never remember, that any, in whom this a- roſe from phlegmatick humors,have recovered, except onehaving the french pox, who being anointed with quick-filver, all the humors melting away, was reſtored to health. but it is not the part of a good and pious phyſitian, to make uſe of thoſe things, which, being full of danger, may do more harm, if they prove hurtfull, then they can procure ood, if they be profitable. and truly it is better not to cure blindneſſe, then to cauſe eath; although oftentimes raſhneſſe helps them, whom reaſon helps not, as the moſt elegant of phyſitians celſurſayes elegantly.in the mean time in diſaſt $of the eyes, they who pra&iſe phyfick, may learn rather to adminiſter thoſe things, which bring the phlegm out by the palat, then to draw the noxious humors to the noſtrils. that j may conceal beſides the danger which they avoid, that more profitariſes from the medicins, that void the phlegm out of the head through the mouth; which both long czperience hath hitherto taught, and anatomy perſwades, when the optick, nerves in their origi- mall are not far diſtant from the palat; but farther from the ſpongy bone, and it is a pre- ternaturall way, by which the humors are carried, as hath been already demonſtrated by the learned veſalius. then it is diſputed, by what means the eye can fall out of its orb. the optick nerve not beingbroke, whereof we have very many hiſtories. . but it is not hard to give an anſwer, to wit, that the nerves maybe very much extended in length. whileſt therefore this nerve receives much moiſture in the inflammations of the eyes, it ea- fily comes to paſſe, that it is ſlackned; but the muſcles themſelves ſwelling very much, º they can no longer be contained in the orb, leap forth out of it. for this falling forth of the eyes moſt commonly proceeds from inflammations; ſuch as are the ſtories of the moſt learned vega, who ...! a woman in this caſe by procuring the flux of her terms, and a young man by digeſting ointments.but the queſtion is verywºrthy to be made men- tion of, and that gives me an occaſion to explain it, which i have readin ſome authors, the ſecond ir. i. originall. branches. i • - . : vſe. the third pair. its originalſ. banches, i. an obſerva- tion. that ſuch as were before blind, upon . a wound overthwart the fore- head, and ſome, upon a great looſneſſe of the belly ariſing on a ſodain, have re- ceived their fight, and that preſently. the eauſe of their blindneſſe was no other, then the compreſſion oftheſe nerves proceeding from the neighbour-veſſels,to wit,the veins,and arteries being ſwoln with bloud, which ſuch a wound preſently empryed. wherefore i alſo ſometimes,and not without ſucceſſe,in that ſpecies of blindneſſe, which the barbarians call gatta ſerena,open the middle vein of the fore-head, out of which i draw bloud ſo long, till it ceaſes to run of its one accord. the ſecond pair ariſes, as the ancient anatomiſts ſay, from the fides of the baſis of the forepart of the brain,near to the originall of the firſt pair.but the new diſſºtion ſhews,that it iſſues out at the infide of the beginning of the ſpinall marrow, and that they are ſo united in their originall, that they make one common angle,which is the cauſe why both the eyes are moved together to the ſanie fides. it is much ſmaller, if you compare it with the firſt pair, and harder, and goes out of the skull through the ſecond hole of the -bone, which is ſomewhat long, and ſo it enters the orb of the eye. by and by it is divided into many ſprigs, which goeto the muſcles ofthe eye; and the firſt climb-e ling up above the firſt pair, r the optick nerves, is diſpoſed of into the two muſcles,as well that, which lifts up the eye-lip, as that which lifts up the eye. another very conſpicuous one is #: in many ſurcles into the muſcle,which moves the eye inward.the third, * contemptible one neither,being divided firſt into two fibres,and by and by into more, is ſent into the muſcle,that draws down the eye; thefourth,into the loweror leſſºr of the oblique muſcles,that rowls the eye about toward the other angle. at length it iſſues out {omethin fibres,which being joined with the firſt pair are diſtributed to the outer mem: branes of the eye,ſo that this ſecond pair is propagated only to fourmuſcles ofthe eye,and to that, which lifts up the eye-lid. the uſe of this pair is,to impart the faculty of motion to the muſcles of the eyes. - the third pair ariſes with a very ſmall nerve out of the lower, and hinder part of the marrow of the brain, and runs direétly forwards under the baſis of the brain, being tyed to the ſecond conjugation, together with which it enters into the orb of the eye through the aidſecond holeofthe wedg-bone. by and by it is divided into four branches of which the firſt offers a little branch to the upper, and greater of the obliquemuſcles o the eye, or that called the muſcle of the pulley, and them falling out through the hole of the fore-head-bone above the orb of the eye, in the skin,and muſcle of the fore-head, which ought rather to be called the muſcle of the ey-brows.this branch is diligently to be taken notice of becauſe i have long ſince obſerved,that,it being hurt with a ſlight wound the eye-lid fell down, whileſt the muſcle of the eye-brów by reaſon thereof fell into a pal- fie. i have ſeen alſo the ſame palfie cauſed by cold,and narcotick medicicins,ſomewhatun- reaſonably applyed for the procuring of ſleep. but hence alſo a reaſon may be rendred, why hippocrates . prognoſtic. afti, it among the ſigns of death in acutediſeaſºs to ſkep with the eyes half open. for this is an iliign for that reaſon, becauſe it fe". that -- ""------------ --- --- º, * tract, . concerning the nerver. .i the ſecond pair ſtab. . . with its fore-branch [.. tab. . d,j (which is ſknder, then the the ſecond hinder one, though both of them ſeem ſmall ºnough) ariſing from the fore-part of the pair. marrow goes forth betwixt the firſt, and ſecond rack-bones at the fide of the tooth-like proceſſe, which branch is diſtributed into the muſcles, that lie upon the neck, as well as the fore-branch of the firſt pair,which is wrapped together with it ; and is almoſt wholly ſpent upon the skin of the face. . with its hinder branch | tab. . fig. . e.t. it ſlips out through the ſides of the backward proceſe of the ſecond rack-bone, but preſently is cleft into two branches of mºſbigneſſe, of which that which is the thickerſtab. .fi.i.f.] tands from the forepart to the hinder, where the muſcles ſtated on both fides of the hinder part of the neck do meet together,& there being mixt{t. .f. :g]with the third propagation of the third pair of the nerves,it runs out through the middle of the ſaid muſcles,return- ing from the hinder to the foreparts, and ſo is diſtributed into all the skin of the head, as far as to the top of the crown, [t. .f.i. ht as alſo to the ears. the other branch, which is the ſlenderer, is in erted into the greater ſtraight muſcles, and the lower oblique ones, that extend the head. galen .. mention of theſe branches lib. . de loci, affect. which place we ſhall not think much to tranſcribe hither, it making very much to the illuſtra- tion of the uſe of this kind of learning.not long ſince,ſayes he they ulcerated the head of a certain man, by laying on medicins vehemently heating:thinking by this means his ſenſe, that was greatly impaired, might be recovered. but we cured this very man, having found out the ſeat of the diſeaſe as well from other accidents, as from the primitive, or procatarótick cauſes. for we diligently examined him about everyone of them, and found that this was one; when he had walked in much rain cauſed by a violent wind; his cloak was wet about his neck, ſo that he felt himſelf affečted with a vehement cold in that part: ſo then if you know, that four nerves aſcend from the firſt racks of the back-bone to the head,from which the skin about it receives its ſenſe, you will eaſily find out the ſeat of the diſeaſe,that therefore being healed,the skin of the head was º alſo, as having no primary diſeaſe. - the third pair ſtab. . . iſſues out of the common hole in the fides, which is betwixt the rhethird pair. ſecond and third rack-bones, and preſently after it gets out, is cleft into two branches, of which the more forward one [tab.i.i.] is ſubdivided into four propagations. the firſt its fore-branch [t. .kj goes to the firſt bending muſcle of the neck, r the long one: the ſecond ſt. .l.t runs down,and being united with a ſprig of the fourth pair[tab.i.q_lends in the muſcles, that lye under the gullet. the third[fab.i.m.t climbs up, and joining with the thicker branch of the ſecond pair but now mentioned [tab. .f. .f] is ſpent upon the skin of the hinder part of the head. the fourth ſtab. . nj is imparted to the tranſverſe muſcles, or to the firſt pair of the extenders of the neck, and to that, which lifts up, the ſhoulder-blade, of which two muſcles that ends in the tranſverſe proceſſes of the neck, this begins therein; and at length it is digeſted into the ſquare muſcle, that draws down the cheeks, which is calledby &alen axiºuauvâns.the binder branch ſtab. .f.i. o]is implanted into the ſecond ishia” pair of muſcles,that extend the cheſt. branch. the fourth pair ſtab.i.numb. .]iſſues out of the common hole of the third, and fourth the fourth rack-bones,and like the third pair is divided into two unequallbranches. the more fºrward ºne- andgreater[tab.i.p.]is cleft into three other twigs,of which the firſt ſtab.i.q..] is joined with . another branch of the third † i.]and goes to the firſt long pair of muſcles, that its propaga, bend the neck. another ſtab.i.r.] goes to the tranſverſemuſcle, or firſt of thoſe, which ex-tions. tend the neck, and to the firſt of the ſhoulder-blade, called cucullaris,the cowl-muſcle. the ie third ſtab. .s] being ſmaller then the other, andjoyned with a ſurcle of the fifth pair,and . another branch of the fixth pair, near to the mediaſtinum or membrane that parts the cheſt . in the middle, and above the pericardium, paſſes on downward, that out of theſe three principles the nerve of the midriffe may be made up. the hinder branch ſtab. .f. ,t]goes to- ind ward the ſpine or ridge, under the muſcles, which are [. thereabout, to which alſo .." ef it affords a good number of branches,and from thence being led downward between the - nuſcles on both ſides of the neck, it is carried to the ſquare muſcle, that draws down the cheeks. in this place it is worth our labour to inquire what may be the reaſon, that they aqueſtion. who are troubled with a reſolution,ordeprivation of motion in the whole body,have ne- vertheleſſe the motion of their midriffe for a while free: ſomemake anſwer, that this hap- ens, becauſe although no ſpirits are ſent over from the brainyet they may be diffuſed out <>f the marrow of the back. but theſe men beg the queſtion, when we ſuppoſe, that no ſpi- rits come from hence,becauſe we ſee that all the muſcles of the whole body,to which nerves are ſent from the marrow of the back, are reſolved or deprived of motion. therefore i thought fit to ſeek out for another anſwer, and to ſay that the midriffe has two motions, one, that is voluntary,which we uſe, whilſt we breath ſtrongly; another naturall one, when the fibres are extended,and contraćted of themſelves. a man therefore is preſerved by this naturall motion, when we ſee that breathing is little, and weak, and as much as ſuffices, that the lungs may be moved a little. the fifth pair ſtab.i.numb. ] goes out betwixt the fourth and fifth rack-bones, and, like hºſh nerve; the two laſt fore-going, is left into two branches. the forwarder of them [tab.i.u) iſſues !. . gggg forth ** trac t. . - - concerning tº nºve. - - - - *-* chap. v. i. concerning the nerves which are diſtributed through the arms. - nº hoſe nerves being now enumerated, which are diſperſed throu h #. the nº.uſcles of º three bellyes, and the parts contained in them; it º . §. mains that we deſcribe thoſe alſo, which are propagated through the º: * **, or ºram part: of the body. here we meet with them firſt, - º which are diſtributed through the arms, whereof there are ſix pairs com- monly ſet down by anatomiſts ariſing from the fifth, fixth, and ſeventh pair of the nervºs, that come out of the marrow of the neck, and from the firſt, and ſecond of thoſe, which iſſue out of the cheſt. theſe nerves go out through the common holes of the rack-bones, on both ſides, and preſently after their going out are united one among another with their forwarder, and greater branches, £, and by are ſeparated one from another again, and joined again, and finally ſeparated, ſo that they ſeem to make out a certain net-like texture, which cannot be better likened then to thoſe ſtrings of cardinals hats. this implication of nerves goes forth under the clavicle, or coller- bone, about that place, where the axillary veins and arteries go out of the hollow of the cheſt, and from this all the nerves of the arm take their originall. but their riſe is very uncertain by reaſon of their being ſo knit together, wherefore wee in our relation of them will rather follow the footſteps of other men, then our own obſervations, leſt wee ſhould ſeem to affed new opinions raſhly, and without neceſſity. - •. ‘i he º nerve then ſtab. : el which is carried to the arm, is a double propagation, the firſt nerve namely the third, and fourth of the fore branch of the fifth pair of the neck. for the one oft” ". branch ſtab. . y) is carried to the ſecond muſcle of the upper part of the arm cal- led deltoideſ, and to the skin that lies upon it; the other [tal. ... bt goes toward the neck of the ſhoulder-blade, where it is cleft into two branches; the former of - which ſtab. . c] goes into the muſcle deltoides, where it ariſes from the collar- rº bone; the latter ſtab. . dj is inſerted into the fourth pair of the muſcles of the bone hyoides called coratohyoideum, and from thence affords, a little branch to the upper ſuperſcapular muſcle, and the deltoides, at what place it ariſes from the ſpine of the ſhoulder-blade. this nerve runs out through the higher fide of the arm; but the other five are carried through the arm-pit into the arm, and in the ſame are ſcattered into more branches. - - - the ſecondnerve [tab. ...] is thicker, and takes it originall from that net-like compli-the ſecond. cation, of which we ſpake, yet, from what nerve cannot be evident enough. this is its progreſs. carried down through the middle, and fore-part of the arm; into which it enters under the firſt bender of the cubit, or the double-headed muſcle, at that part, where its two heads are united one with the other, and where the †: are inſerted both of the pećtorall muſcle, that leads the arm forward to the breaſt, and of the delioides, that liſts it up. being hid then under this muſcle it ſends forth two propagations [tab. . n.) one - * of each fide, which enters into the two heads of the muſcle biceps; and after that about ..” garlº the middle of the length of the upper part of the arm, going under the ſame double- "' headed muſcle, it ſhoots forth another ſprig ſtab. . ) by means whereof it is joined with the third nerve ; and from thence deſcending it diſtributes in its progreſſe a ſurcle ſtab. . l from its outſide to the head of the longer of the two muſcles .#. radius or wand, that turns the palm of the hand downward. when it is now come to the ben- ding of the cubit, being led to the fleſhy membrane, near to the outſide of the tendon of . the ſaid double-headed muſcle, it is diſtributed into the skin, being divided into two branches,of which one is the outer,the other the inner;that is the ſlenderer,this the thick- er.the outer then ſtab. ...] being carried down a good way with abranch of the cepha-it. branches. lick-vein through the inſide of the cubit, is diſtributed [tab. ..?] to the ſecondbone of the ourer. the thumb. the inner branch ſtab. . x] is ſubdivided under the common vein of the the inne; arm, or the middle one, called mediana, into two branches, the outer whereof [tab. . going on obliquely under the skin leaving the vein goes away toward the radius as far as to the wreſt: but the inner ſtab. . v) being faſtened to the innerbranch of the cephalick- -vein,when it goes more obliquely, in the region of the cubit is cleft into two ſpecialſ branches,of which one ſtab. *] is diſtributed through the region of the leſſerbone of the , cubit,the other ſtab. . ] through the region of the greater bone to the wriſt, and from thence,that being paſt,into the skin of the inſide of the hand. . . . . . . . . . º the third nerve of the armſtab. + or the third, which is carried to the arm, lies next. the third.' under the ſecond, and in like manner with it ariſes from that net-like texture... this nerve, whilſt it paſſes through the arm-pit, before it has yet attained to the arm,brings q g g g - forth º, - - - - concerning the nerves. track. . inſide, after it has gone beyond the middle of the thigh. from hence alſo other ſurcles proceed, which are diſtributed into the skin on the backſide of the thigh. but the trunk itſelf proceeding farther on, at length attains to the knce betwixt the two heads of the - bone of the thigh, and imparts a ſmall branch [t. i. .] on each ſide into the firſt ex- its diviſion. tending muſcle of the foot, and the ſole muſcle, called flantaris, and by and by is divided, - [t. : . into the inner cavity of the knee, or in the ham into two unequail branches, which are diſtributed alone through the leg and foot. for there is not any nerve which runs out through the leg, beſides theſe two branches of the fourth; if you except onl that nótable propagation, which being derived from the ſecond nerve, as we have #. deſcends in company of the vein ſºphena,through the inner part of the crus.the outer branch [t. . .] is the ſmaller,and goes toward that part where the upper appendix of the fibula, or leſſer bone of the leg is joined with the tibia, or greater bone thereof, ſcattering a propagation[t. . .]in the way,which goes to the outer ancle under the skin diſtributing in the mean time, many ſprigs to the skin: . but the branch itſelfſta, . .] paſſes be: tween the muſcles ſtated on theforeſide of the leg and going through the long ligament of the tibia and fibula, or two bones of the .# paſſes together with the tendons of the muſcles that extend the toes, under the tranſverſe ligament, and diſperſes littlebranches to the fides of the upper part of the toes.the inner branchſt. . ; carried down through the backſide of the cru, lurking betwixt the muſcle of the ſole of the foot, and the firſt of them, that move thefoot . as alſo the long bending muſcles of the toes; and beingjoined afterward with the branch of the outer, which paſſes through the ligament, it goes to the ſole of the foot, and diſtributes propagations in i. fides of the lower part of the toes. fi ni s. an ----… ！！！！saessasº=~！-■ ■ ■ ■ ،----№s）， （uaeſſſſſſſſ ， urspriſutuſt, ， ‰ºſae ~№ĒĶĒ№ſºſìīÈ… ±：· -~*~№.~~<~，---- -&±±√≠√∞u'，…§§§iii， %%|-§Šè**，№.ae …，ſwffi←r→∞ -，*№tae-- ！n（n） ≡ tiÊn， № È， |-ſº -ſ ºn №----º！« ·± （…）± − × ± -t， *ſ, ſ. ‘ ’ .jſ|-№=№u• ！“.*） №ſſº * ， , ;）， ± ， ±，±，±,±），---- ----|-± ， ±∞）：，---- ！！!!！！!！!！?！！?！ №ſſv¿-?！?！?%c %，， -… -------|-·----！！！！∞~~~~ ，，tº~）}.**=\， ，ayº…“，©… �· -?? ， g，！！！！！！！！！№،- vrae|--|-*_y（y）/，*aeſaevae ***）\，s（\ſ*%?****śr： &º%�l№（）|- -！|×ĒÈ+ .！� ， || |--,（\，jaenae：،Źr： /e **，：=#</sºſ ： ●§§§§È№ſſaež$?=~<！<\！r\vyÈ |-q：ſk！:sĘ№， №Ėtur，■~\-^^. - ） ſå№Ķaſ|-----∞№ti----…！ ſ！h\}！！”ſı©… .…---- . a m n n r m tom turner collection bzs $ return this book on or before the latest date stamped below. university of illinois library l ~h the glass mender l \ lll|-\l l.h|\h .\y\l.\l')\|..\ h the glass'mender and other stories by maurice baring lounou james nisbet { ’ co., limited : berners street, w. printed by ballantyne, hanson ' co. in the ballantyne press, edinburgh \ < . q dedicated m. hi ’° :? mart and jubret fl\ ‘ '? { & ’ - “r” ii. ’ - l. i. contents the glass mender . the blue rose . the story of vox angelica and lieb- lich gedacht the vagabond the minstrel the hunchback, the pool, magic ring the silver mountain the ring the merchants daughter the cunning apprentice orestes and the dragon the wise princess . and the 'aoi i : = list of illustrations and as he galloped through the wood, the hoofs of his steed left behind them a trail of twinkling anemones . . . . . froniiupieu one evening he was playing his one-stringed instrument outside a dark wall . . . tofu“). ! as he said this he climbed on to the manuals and disappeared into the heart of the organ ,, and there stood before the throng a. wonderful shining figure with wings . . . . ,, and turning round she saw an old woman, bent and worn, who was muttering a supplication ,, i the sun was shining on the sea and a fresh breeze was blowing . . . . . ,, and towards the evening he emerged from the forest and saw the hill before him shining in the sunset . . . . . . ,, her mother, when she was walking in the garden of the palace, found a silver horse- shoe lying on one of the paths . . . ,, ! a garment on which the month of may, and all its flowers, was painted . . . . ,, no he changed himself into a. hawk . . . ,, xi xii list of illustrations the dragon appeared, and seizing the little princess with its tail, flew away . . . tofacep. she went out on to the step and called out in a. loud voice, “oh, you boisterous winds, bring hither that same carpet on which i used to sit in the house of my father" . . . ,, th e glass m en der the glass mender once upon a time there lived a king and a queen who had one daughter called rain- bow. when she was christened, the people of the city were gathered together outside the cathedral, and amongst them was an old gipsy woman. the gipsy wanted to go inside the cathedral, but the beadle would not let her, because he said there was no room. when the ceremony was over, and the king and queen walked out, followed by the head nurse who carried the baby, the gipsy called out to them : “ your daughter will be very beautiful, and as happy as the day is long, until she sees the spring l ” and then she disappeared in the crowd. the king and the queen took counsel to- gether and the king said: “ that gipsy was evidently a fairy, and what she said bodes no good.” the glass mender “ yes,” said the queen, “ there is only one thing to be done : rainbow must never see the spring, nor even hear that there is such a thing." so an order was issued to the whole city, that if any one should say the word “ spring ” in the presence of princess rainbow he would have his head cut off. moreover, it was settled that the princess should never be allowed to go outside the palace, and during the springtime she should be kept entirely indoors. the king and the queen lived in a city which was on the top of a hill, and had a wall round it, and the king’s palace was in the middle of it. in the springtime rainbow was taken to a high tower which looked on to the little round city, and from her window you could see the spires of the churches, the ramparts, and the broad green plain beyond. but a curtain made of canvas was fastened outside rainbow’s window, so that she could see nothing, and she was not allowed to go outside her tower until the springtime was over. the glass mender rainbow grew up into a most beautiful princess, with grey eyes and fair hair, and until she was sixteen all went well, and nothing happened to interfere with her happiness. it was on her sixteenth birthday, which was in april, and she was sitting alone in her room, looking at her birthday presents, when she began to wonder for the first time why she was shut up in her tower during three months of the year, and why a curtain was placed outside her window, so that she could see nothing outside. her mother and her nurse had told her that this was done so that she might not fall ill, and she had always believed it; but on that day, for the first time, she began to wonder whether there might be any other reason as well. it was a lovely spring day, and the sun shone through the canvas curtain which was stretched outside rainbow’s open window; - a breeze came into her room from the outside world, and rainbow felt a great longing to tear aside the curtain and to see what was happening out of doors. the glass mender at that very moment, a sound came into her room from the city : it was the sound of two or three notes played on some small reed or pipe, unlike those of any of the musical instruments she had heard in the palace, more tuneful and more artless and more gay. as she heard the few reedy notes of this little tune, she felt something which she had never known before. the whole room seemed to be full of a new sunshine, and she smelt the fragrance of the grass; she heard the blackbird whistling, and the lark singing; she saw the apple orchards in blossom, the violets peeping from under the leaves, the hedges covered with primroses, the daffodils fluttering in the wind, the fern un- crumpling her new leaves, the green slopes starred with crocuses ; fields of buttercups and marigolds; forests paved with bluebells; lilac bushes; the trailing gold of the labur- nums; and the sharp green of the awakening beech-trees ; and she heard the cuckoo’s note, and a thousand other unknown sounds of meadow, wood, and stream ; and before her passed the whole pageant of the spring, with the glass mender its joyous music and its thousand and one sights. the vision disappeared and she cried out : “ let me go into the world and let me taste and see this wonderful new thing i ” rainbow said nothing about her vision, either to her parents or to her nurses, but she resolved to steal out of the palace as soon as she could, and to see in the world what her vision had shown her ; but that very evening she fell ill, and she was obliged to go to bed. the next day she was no better, and a week passed and she was just as ill as ever. all the wisest physicians of the land examined her, but not one of them could say what was the matter with her ; some of them pre- scribed medicines, and others strange things to eat and drink ; but none of them did her the least good. the months went by, and rainbow was still lying in bed, suffering from a strange malady which nobody could even find a name for. when the spring was past, rainbow was borne on a couch into the garden of the palace ; but she got no better. at last the queen sent for a wise woman the glass mender who lived in a wood near the city, and asked her advice. the wise woman was told rainbow’s history and what the gipsy had said, and after she had looked at rainbow and spoken to her, she said to the queen : “ i understand quite well what has hap- pened. your daughter has seen the spring.” “ but that’s impossible,” said the queen, “ for during the whole of the spring months she has never left her room.” “ somehow or other the spring has reached her,” said the old woman, and then she asked rainbow some more questions, and the end of this was that rainbow told her about the tune she had heard on her birthday, and the vision she had seen. “ i knew it,” said the old woman, “ she heard somebody playing the spring’s own tune, and she won’t get well until she hears it again, and even then her troubles will be far from ended.” so saying the old woman went away. the king at once sent for the court musicians and told them to play the spring’s song. they fiddled, and they blew upon the glass mender every kind of pipe and flute ; they beat the cymbals and struck the harp; but none of these tunes kindled the slightest interest in rainbow or roused her from her listlessness. the king then issued a proclamation saying that whoever should play the song that cured rainbow would receive any reward he should ask for, and even, if he wished it, his daughter’s hand. the news was spread far and wide, and people came from the four corners of the world to play to the princess. first of all a lad came from the northern country, where he had slain a huge dragon in single combat, and he said that if any one knew the song of spring he did, for the birds themselves had taught it him; and when he was shown into the princess’s room he blew a blast on his horn, so strong that the rafters trembled, and so sweet that the palace seemed to be full of the scent of the northern forests. but rainbow paid no heed, and the lad went his way. then an uncouth minstrel came from greece; he had furry ears and a pointed the glass mender ii the song of spring if any one knows it, for i learnt it in the forests of tintage : ” and he sang the song that only those who dwell in the forests of the west know, and it was a song of love. but rainbow paid no heed, and the knight went his way. then prince charming came from the golden isles and said : “ i know the song of spring if any one knows it, for my fairy- godmother gave me a flute, and when i play on it the elves dance round me in a ring ”: and he played a tune on his flute, and the lights and rainbows of the golden islands seemed to twinkle in the room. but rainbow paid no heed, so prince charming went his way. then there came a prince who was a changeling and who had been brought up in fairyland itself, and he said: “ i know the song of spring if any one knows it, for proserpine, the queen of the fairies, herself taught me the song she heard in the vales of enna, when she was picking flowers in the spring.” and he sang of the sicilian fields, a song of the swallow and the corn; and the glass mender i the glass mender was a youth, and his eyes were blue and his cheeks fresh, and as he strode up the staircase to the princess’s room, he whistled on a small glass pipe the tune that glass menders have always whistled ever since the beginning of the world. directly rainbow heard this sound, she leaped from her bed and cried out: “ that is it! i hear it, the song of spring ” and as the glass mender came into the room with his basket and his tools, she said: “ at last you’ve come! you’ve cured me, and i am now quite well again.” there was no doubt about it. rainbow from that moment was cured, and the glass mender went to the king and claimed his reward. at first the king was vexed that his daughter should have to wed a humble glass mender, but he did not dare play any tricks with his daughter’s life after what had hap- pened, for fear she should fall ill again ; and besides, rainbow was determined to marry him, and as he was so young, so handsome, the glass mender and so well-spoken, the king told the queen that he was very likely a prince in disguise. but the glass mender made two condi- tions about his marriage: the first was that he was to continue to be a wandering glass mender who earned his living by going from city to city, and from village to village, mend— ing glass, and the second was that rainbow was never to ask him where he came from nor who were his parents, and that she should call him blue eyes, nor ever ask him whether he had another name. this convinced the king that blue eyes was a prince in disguise, and the conditions were readily agreed to, and rainbow and blue eyes were married without further delay. the king gave them each a white pony for a wedding present and they started off on their travels. they rode through the fields and the woods, from village to village, sleeping now in a house and now out of doors, and for the first time in her life rainbow tasted and saw the spring; and no words can tell how happy they were : all day long blue eyes played a the glass mender son who was called blue boy, who grew up just like his father, and talked with the birds and beasts directly he could speak, and they were all three of them together as happy as the day is long. one spring evening they arrived rather late in a wood, and after they had made a fire and cooked their supper, rainbow and blue boy went to sleep, and blue eyes sat by the fire for he said he wasn’t sleepy. after rainbow had been sleeping for a few hours she woke up with a start. the moon had risen and the camp-fire had not yet gone out, but the ashes were smouldering and there by the fire sat blue eyes. rainbow could see him distinctly, but he seemed to her to look different from usual; strange, beautiful, and more like a fairy prince than a glass mender. sitting with him by the fire was a lovely maiden with roses in her hair and some ears of wheat in her hand, and a silver sickle hanging from her girdle. they were talking together. rainbow was so sur- prised that she uttered a cry, and immediately the beautiful maiden vanished into the wood. the glass mender blue eyes at once went to rainbow, but she turned over on her side and pretended to be asleep. the next day blue eyes said nothing about the strange maiden, and rainbow began to be jealous and sad. she tried not to think of it, but she could not get rid of the thought that perhaps blue eyes loved somebody else. the next evening they again camped out in the wood, and rainbow said she was tired and lay down to sleep early; but she only pretended to go to sleep, and she was really wide awake. as soon as blue eyes thought that rainbow was asleep, he blew a note on his glass pipe, and once more the strange maiden came out of the wood, and she and blue eyes talked together in a whisper, and once more blue eyes seemed to look quite different, and not at all like a glass mender, only, as it was dark that night, rainbow could not see him distinctly. the next morning blue eyes again said nothing about the strange maiden, and rainbow was sadder than ever. if blue eyes b the glass mender would only explain, she said to herself, everything would be all right. so as they were riding through the wood, rainbow said to him : “ i saw you in the wood last night talking to a strange maiden; and, blue eyes, you looked different. i am sure now that you are not a glass mender ; and now that i have seen you talking to that strange maiden, i shall have no peace until you tell me who you are and who she is.” “alas, alas, alas! " said blue eyes. “oh; rainbow, why could you not trust me? i must tell you now, whether i wish it or no, but you have destroyed our happiness, and i shall have to leave you. my name is spring, and i was talking to my sister summer ; and now i shall have to leave you, for i can only take a mortal shape as long as nobody knows who i am.” then rainbow wept bitterly, and said : “ do you mean you must leave me for ever, and that i shall never see you again p ” “ there is one hope left,” said blue eyes. the glass mender “ we shall meet again if you are able to find me. you will have to search all over the world, and you will not find me until you recognise my look and my voice in the speech or the look of a human being ; and if you fail to recognise it, when it is there, you will never find me at all.” “ and when i recognise you either in the speech or the look of a human being,” said rainbow, “ what must i do then p ” “ then,” said blue eyes, “ you must say this : ‘ blue eyes, blue eyes, come back to me, over the hills and over the sea ; brother of summer, husband and friend, come and stay till the world shall end.’ " “ but what will happen,” asked rainbow, “if i make a mistake and say the rhyme to some one who seems to have your look and your speech, when really they are not there p ” “ if you make a mistake,” said blue eyes, “ you will never see me again.” rainbow again began to weep bitterly. she implored blue eyes to forgive her, but she no longer begged him to stay, for she the glass mender beasts of the forest, and rainbow thought if she talked to him she would perhaps hear the voice or see the look of blue eyes. but when she spoke to him she saw that he had forgotten what human beings were like, and he gave rainbow and blue boy some bread and milk just as though they were birds. then he opened his big book and began reading in it, and no longer noticed their presence. the months went by, and rainbow searched everywhere. she searched all through the summer, and although she met many kind faces, and saw many a happy smile, and heard many a young voice, nowhere did she meet any one who in the least reminded her of blue eyes. when the winter came, they went to a city,- and blue boy, who was growing up into a big boy, was apprenticed to a glass mender, and rainbow and he lived together in a little room in the glass mender’s house. the glass mender had a pretty daughter called joan, and she had a tame blackbird which she kept in a wicker cage. all through the winter the the glass mender city had been mufiied in snow, and it had been bitterly cold ; at last the snow melted,- and march came with his boisterous wind and his cold showers of sleet and rain. but one day the rain stopped; the sun shone in the blue sky, and joan cried out : “ this is the first spring day l ” she ran out of doors with her bird cage and hung it up on the wall outside the house, and although there were as yet no green leaves anywhere, the blackbird knew that the spring had come, and he began to sing. while joan was looking at the blackbird, rainbow was watching her from her window, and was thinking to herself. “ surely now i shall hear the voice of blue eyes or see his look i " she was on the point of calling out : “ blue eyes, blue eyes, come back to me,” when joan looked up at her and met her gaze; and laughed, and blushed, and ran away. rainbow knew that it was neither the voice nor the look of blue eyes; and she cried from disappointment. by the time the spring was over, blue boy the glass mender had learned his trade, and he was able to work on his own account and to support his mother, so they left the city together when the summer came, and they went from village to village and from city to city, mending broken window panes. the years went by. blue boy was almost a man, and still rainbow had not come across any one who had reminded her of blue eyes. she was sad, because she knew that in a year’s time blue boy would be a man, and that it would be time for him to marry, and that she would then be left all alone. she knew that this was the last year that she and blue boy would be together. one day they were walking through a grassy wood which was yellow with cow- slips. it was a lovely april morning, and in the wood a lot of children were playing, and making chains and wreaths with the cowslips. “ now, at last,” thought rainbow, “ i shall hear the voice of blue eyes.” she ran up to the children, but when the children saw her running towards them, they were the glass mender frightened, and they ran away into the wood, and although she called and called they would not come back. a little further on they came to a lovely village on a hill, overlooking a river which was a small arm of the sea. the hill was covered with orchards which were in full blossom, and in front of the little white straw- thatched cottages the neat flower-beds were full of sweet-smelling violets. rainbow and blue boy stayed in this village, and found plenty of work. one evening rainbow was strolling in a lane on the top of the hill; the steep lane had on each side of it two grassy banks, on the top of which bushes and brambles and nut-trees grew so thickly that the ends of their boughs almost met across the lane, and the banks were covered with primroses. walking along this lane, with their faces towards the sunset, rainbow met a youth and a maiden ; they were whispering to each other little broken words, with many sighs and smiles, and their talk was like the talk of two birds. the glass mender rainbow’s heart leapt as she heard them, and she was just going to cry out : “blue eyes, blue eyes, come back to me,” when they caught sight of her and stopped talking, and rainbow knew that blue eyes was not there. then came the month of may, and the woods grew green and the lilac blossomed, and rainbow grew sadder and sadder. one night she could not sleep, and she got up and walked through the moonlit village, right down to the quay by the river-side where the fishermen kept their boats and their nets. many of the fishermen were out fishing on the sea, and one of them, a young lad, was setting the brown sail of his boat on the river, and as he did so, he sang a song which was like this: “ i have a cottage i love well, in the sweet west countree : and there my love and i shall dwell, when i come back from sea. we’ll stow the sail and stow the car, and oh, how glad she’ll be to mend the nets upon the shore, when i come back from sea. the glass mender l have a cottage on the hill, just right for her and me, and she will say ‘ i love you still,’ when i come back from sea.” the fisherman’s voice was so glad and joyous as he sang this song, that rainbow thought blue eyes must be there, and she ran to the shore. at that moment the moon- light fell full upon the fisherman, so that rainbow could see his face, and she stopped herself calling out just in time, for she saw he was not at all like blue eyes. during that same month blue boy fell in love with a dairy maid called cherry-ripe, and it was arranged that they should be married at michaelmas. but as michaelmas drew near, rainbow grew sadder and sadder, because she could not bear to think what she would do without blue boy. september came, and the corn was carried, and the leaves began to turn gold. on michaelmas eve, rainbow was sitting in her garden watching the autumn sunset. not far from her garden, which was on the side of a steep hill, there was a quarry in which there was an old seat, and this was a the glass mender favourite spot for lovers, for from this place you could see the little river, all the village and the sea beyond, and the view was beauti- ful. rainbow thought she would walk to the quarry, so as to get a better view of the sunset. when she got there, she saw an old couple sitting on the seat. the man was a fisher- man; his face was bronzed and wrinkled by the wind and the waves, and the woman’s hair was grey and silvery. they did not notice rainbow coming, and the old woman said to the man : “ do you remember how we used to meet here in the days when you were courting me ? " and the old man said: “ it was in the spring, and the apple-trees were out.” and the old woman said : “ ah l i was a comely lass then. there was no one like me in the village. folks wouldn’t believe it now, what with my white hair and my wrinkles.” and the old man said : “ i see no difference in you, lassie. you’ve the same lovely blue the glass mender eyes as you always had, and if your hair has turned silver, it’s none the less fair for that.” and the old woman said: “ and i see no difference in you, sweetheart ; you’re just as strong and as brave as ever.” and the old man said: “ why, it’s forty years ago, but it makes nought to us, for as long as i’ve got you, and you’ve got me, we shan’t see any change in each other, for with us it has always been springtide and courting time, and it always will be.” and the old man looked at the old woman, and smiled and took her hand, and her eyes filled with tears. and when rainbow saw this, before she knew what happened, she had called out : “blue eyes, blue eyes, come back to me, over the hills and over the sea. brother of summer, husband and friend, come and stay till the world shall end.” as soon as she had said this, blue eyes stood before her just as he had been when he rode away, clothed in snowdrops and cow- slips, wearing the rainbow for a scarf, and carrying a branch of blossom in his hand. the glass mender rainbow was so glad to see blue eyes that she almost fainted. she led him to her cottage, and there she wept a long time for joy. then blue eyes told her that he would never leave her again, but that he could not live on the earth a second time in the guise of a glass mender. during the spring they would ride through the world, scattering sun- shine, laughter, and hope ; mortals would see them, but they would not know who they were. during the summer and the autumn they would be invisible to mortals, and during the winter they would slumber in the dia- mond palace of his mother, the snow queen. they waited to see blue boy and cherry- ripe married, and blue eyes gave them as a wedding present a little glass pipe, which, whenever he played it, brought the spring into the hearts of all who heard it. and blue eyes promised that whenever blue boy whistled on the pipe, he and rainbow would immediately answer his call and come to him. when the wedding was over, blue eyes gave rainbow his scarf, and they mounted the glass mender on two winged steeds and galloped off through the lanes. now if you ever meet in a wood or by a river a man with blue eyes, on a winged horse, with a crown of dew, and a tunic of snowdrops and cowslips, and by his side, on a white pony, a beautiful woman wearing the rainbow for a scarf, and holding a branch of blossom in her hand, you will know it is blue eyes and rainbow. and if ever you hear on a spring morning, in a city or a village, three little notes played on a pipe which make your heart dance for joy, you will know that blue boy is calling for his father and his mother; for he does this very often. the blue rose the blue rose once upon a time there lived in china a wise emperor, whose daughter was remark- able for her perfect beauty. her feet were the smallest in the world; her eyes were long and slanting, and as bright as brown onyxes, and when you heard her laugh it was like listening to a tinkling stream, or to the chimes of a silver bell. moreover, the emperor’s daughter was as wise as she was beautiful, and she chanted the verse of the great poets better than any one in the land. the emperor was old in years ; his son was married and had begotten a son; he was, therefore, quite happy about the succession to the throne, but he wished before he died to see his daughter wedded to some one who should be worthy of her. many suitors presented themselves at the c _ t ' ““-\-\~\._>-~_-_- the blue rose “well,” said ti-fun-ti, “ you must get one for me. i do not mind how much money it costs, but i must have a blue rose.” the shopkeeper said he would do his best, but he feared it would be an expensive article and difficult to procure. another of the suitors, whose name i have forgotten, was a warrior and extremely brave; he mounted his horse, and taking with him a hundred archers and a thousand horsemen he marched into the territory of the king of five rivers, whom he knew to be the richest king in the world and the possessor of the rarest treasures, and de- manded of him the blue rose, threatening him with a terrible doom should he be reluctant to give it up. the king of the five rivers, who dis- liked soldiers, and had a horror of noise, violence, and every kind of fuss (his body- guard was armed solely with fans and sun- shades), rose from the cushions on which he was lying when the demand was made, and, tinkling a small bell, said to the servant who the blue rose straightway appeared, “ fetch me the blue rose.” the servant retired and returned presently bearing on a silken cushion a large sapphire which was carved so as to imitate a full- blown rose with all its petals. “this,” said the king of the five rivers, “ is the blue rose. you are welcome to it.” the warrior took it, and after making brief, soldier-like thanks, he went straight back to the emperor’s palace, saying that he had lost no time in finding the blue rose. he was ushered into the presence of the emperor, who as soon as he heard the warrior’s story and saw the blue rose which had been brought, sent for his daughter and said to her : “ this intrepid warrior has brought you what he claims to be the blue rose. has he accom- plished the quest ? ” the princess took the precious object in her hands, and after examining it for a moment, said: “this is not a rose at all. it is a sapphire; i have no need of precious stones.” and she returned the stone to the warrior, with many elegantly-expressed the blue rose thanks. and the warrior went away in dis- comfiture. when ti-fun-ti, the merchant, heard of the warrior’s failure, he was all the more anxious to win the prize. he sought the shopkeeper and said to him: “ have you got me the blue rose ? i trust you have; because if not, i shall most assuredly be the means of your death. my brother-in-law is chief magistrate, and i am allied by marriage to all the chief officials in the kingdom.” the shopkeeper turned pale and said: “ sir, give me three days, and i will pro- cure you the blue rose without fail.” the merchant granted him the three days and went away. now the shopkeeper was at his wit’s end as to what to do, for he knew well there was no such thing as a blue rose. for two days he did nothing but moan and wring his hands, and on the third day he went to his wife and said: “ wife, we are ruined l ” but his wife, who was a sensible woman, said: “ nonsense! if there is no such thing as a blue rose we must make one. the blue rose go to the apothecary and ask him for a strong dye which will change a white rose into a blue one." so the shopkeeper went to the apothecary and asked him for a dye, and the chemist gave him a bottle of red liquid, telling him to pick a white rose and to dip its stalk into the liquid and the rose would turn blue. the shopkeeper did as he was told; the rose turned into a beautiful blue and the shop- keeper took it to the merchant, who at once went with it to the palace, saying that he had found the blue rose. he was ushered into the presence of the emperor, who as soon as he saw the blue rose sent for his daughter and said to her: “ this wealthy merchant has brought you what he claims to be the blue rose. has he accomplished the quest ? ” the princess took the flower in her hands, and after examining it for a moment said: “ this is a white rose; its stalk has been dipped in a poisonous dye and it has turned blue. were a butterfly to settle upon it, it would die of the potent fume. take it the blue rose back. i have no need of a dyed rose.” and she returned it to the merchant with many elegantly-expressed thanks. the other ninety-eight suitors all sought in various ways for the blue rose. some of them travelled all over the world seeking it ; some of them sought the aid of wizards and astrologers, and one did not hesitate to in- voke the help of the dwarfs that live under- ground. but all of them, whether they travelled in far countries, or took counsel with wizards and demons, or sat pondering in lonely places, failed to find the blue rose. at last they all abandoned the quest except the lord chief justice, who was the most skilful lawyer and statesman in the country. after thinking over the matter for several months, he sent for the most skilful artist in the country and said to him: “ make me a china cup. let it be milk-white in colour and perfect in shape, and paint on it a rose, a blue rose.” the artist made obeisance and withdrew, and worked for two months at the lord chief justice’s cup. in two months’ time the blue rose it was finished, and the world has never seen such a beautiful cup, so perfect in symmetry, so delicate in texture, and the rose on it, the blue rose, was a living flower, picked in fairyland and floating on the rare milky surface of the porcelain. when the lord chief justice saw it he gasped with surprise and pleasure, for he was a great lover of porcelain, and never in his life had he seen such a piece. he said to himself : “ without doubt the blue rose is here on this cup, and nowhere else.” so, after handsomely rewarding the artist, he went to the emperor’s palace and said that he had brought the blue rose. he was ushered into the emperor’s presence, who as he saw the cup sent for his daughter and said to her: “ this eminent lawyer has brought you what he claims to be the blue rose. has he accomplished the quest p ” the princess took the bowl in her hands, and after examining it for a moment, said: “ this bowl is the most beautiful piece of china i have ever seen. if you are kind enough to let me keep it i will put it aside until i receive the blue rose. for so beau- e. , ~ ~""‘h=.* -.£'.“ . i" “a, l w'.‘ oni". evening he \'.»\s playing his one-stringizi) instrument outside .\ i).\rk \'.-\i.i. v the blue rose tiful is it that no other flower is worthy to be put in it except the blue rose.” the lord chief justice thanked the princess for accepting the bowl with many elegantly- turned phrases, and he went away in dis- comfiture. after this there was no one in the whole country who ventured on the quest of the blue rose. it happened that not long after the lord chief justice’s attempt, a strolling minstrel visited the kingdom of the emperor. one evening he was playing his one-stringed instrument outside a dark wall. it was a summer’s evening, and the sun had sunk in a glory of dusty gold, and in the violet twilight one or two stars were twinkling like spear-heads. there was an incessant noise made by the croaking of frogs and the chatter of grasshoppers. the minstrel was singing a short song over and over again to a mono- tonous tune. the sense of it was something like this :— “ i watched beside the willow trees the river, as the evening fell; the twilight came and brought no breeze, n dew, no water for the well, the blue rose “ when from the tangled banks of grass, a bird across the water flew, and in the river's hard grey glass i saw a flash of azure blue." as he sang he heard a rustle on the wall, and looking up he saw a slight figure, white against the twilight, beckoning to him. he walked along under the wall until he came to a gate, and there some one was waiting for him, and he was gently led into the shadow of a dark cedar tree. in the twilight he saw two bright eyes looking at him, and he understood their message. in the twilight a thousand meaningless nothings were whis- pered in the light of the stars, and the hours fled swiftly. when the east began to grow light, the princess (for it was she) said it was time to go. “ but,” said the minstrel, “ to-morrow i shall come to the palace and ask for your hand.” “ alas l ” said the princess, “ i would that were possible, but my father has made a foolish condition that only he may wed me who finds the blue rose.” the blue rose “ that is simple,” said the minstrel, “ i will find it i ” and they said good-night to each other. the next morning the minstrel went to the palace, and on his way he picked a common white rose from a wayside garden. he was ushered into the emperor’s presence, who sent for his daughter and said to her: “ this penniless minstrel has brought you what he claims to be the blue rose. has he accomplished the quest ? ” the princess took the rose in her hands and said: “ yes, this is without doubt the blue rose.” but the lord chief justice and all who were present respectfully pointed out that the rose was a common white rose and not a blue one, and the objection was with many forms and phrases conveyed to the princess. “ i think the rose is blue,” said the. princess. “ it is, in fact, the blue rose. perhaps you are all colour blind.” the emperor, with whom the decision rested, decided that if the princess thought the blue rose the rose was blue, it was blue, for it was well known that her perception was more acute than that of any one else in the kingdom. so the minstrel married the princess, and they settled on the sea-coast in a little green house with a garden full of white roses, and they lived happily for ever afterwards. and the emperor, knowing that his daughter had made a good match, died in peace. the story of vox angelica and lieblich gedacht the story of vox angelica and lieblich gedacht once upon a time there was a poor tanner called hans who lived with his wife martha in a town in which there were two hundred churches, a hundred chapels, and a huge cathedral. hans lived in a wooden house opposite the gates of the cathedral. they had only one son and he was so delicate that they did not know what trade he could learn when he grew bigger. in the meantime they taught him how to read and write. the boy was christened johan ; for he was born on st. john’s day. when johan was quite a tiny little boy he liked listening to the sound of the organ in the big cathedral, and in the evenings he would sit for hours in the dark- ness, listening to the organist at his practice. the organist was an old man called doctor vox angelica and sebastian, and he wore a powdered wig and large tortoise-shell spectacles. when he played the organ, which was an immense instrument and had five keyboards, the windows trembled in all the houses which nestled round the cathedral. doctor sebastian soon noticed the little johan and allowed him to come up into the organ-loft.while he was playing, and johan used to sit as still as a mouse, and watch him pull out the stops, and play with his feet as skilfully as he did with his hands. doctor sebastian had a pupil called frantz, a lad with curly brown hair and large brown eyes. frantz used to practise on the organ every day ; but doctor sebastian was severe with him, and frantz was not allowed to play the organ at high mass on sundays. one day johan asked doctor sebastian whether this was because frantz played badly, and doctor sebastian said: “ frantz has much to learn and he must be trained, but one day, when he has learnt all that i can teach him, he will be able to teach me what i shall not be able to learn.” lieblich gedacht johan did not understand what this meant, but he guessed that doctor sebastian thought well of frantz, in spite of his being so severe with him. johan thought that frantz was the most wonderful player in the world, and whereas doctor sebastian only made the organ speak in deep single tones, and only used the open stops and the booming pedal bass-notes, frantz—when doctor sebastian was not there to listen—used to make the organ sigh and speak like a castle full of spirits, and johan thought this was wonderful. one day, it was in winter just before christmas, and johan was eight years old, doctor sebastian was laid up in bed with a bad cold, and he sent for frantz and said to him : “ i shall never rise from my bed again. i am going thither where i shall hear the music which we only guess at here on earth. you must play the organ on christmas day. i have taught you all i know. i have been severe and gruff with you; but being a musician, you know that if i had not thought you worthy of it, i should not have taken d o vox angelica and any trouble with you at all. i have been spared until you were ready to take my place, and now i can go in peace, for i know that i leave behind me a worthy successor. i have scolded you and pulled your ears, rapped your fingers and blamed your playing, but you have got that which i should never learn if i lived for two hundred years. you have the divine gift, and as a musician i am not worthy to unlatch the shoes of what you will be ; for you will play on earth the music that i am now going to hear in heaven ! ” after that doctor sebastian squeezed frantz’s hand and said no more. the next day he died. frantz was very sad, and he spent the whole day that the doctor died in the cathe- dral composing a requiem in memory of his dead master. little johan, in a corner of the aisle, listened to the music: he had never heard anything so beautiful ; some new power seemed to have come to frantz, and when he touched the keys the pipes spoke in a way they had never spoken before. _ _ z __- jz-‘ti lieblich gedacht frantz went on playing until late into the night, and johan had been carried so far away into dreamland by the music that he did not notice when frantz stopped, but all at once he became aware that he was alone in the cathedral and that the organ-loft was dark and no sound came from it. johan ran up the winding stair into the organ-loft, but frantz had gone, and johan knew that he was locked in the cathedral for the night. he made up his mind to sleep there where he was, and he was just taking one of frantz’s missals to use as a pillow when he became aware that he was no longer alone. sitting on the bench in front of the keys was a strange figure. it was an old man with a grey beard, twinkling eyes, and a deep voice like the buzzing of a hornet. he wore a brown coat and grey stockings, and a black three-cornered hat. “ who are you p ” asked johan. “ my name is quint,” said the little old man, “ and i live in one of the big wooden pipes of the organ.” “do you always live there p ” asked johani llprary umversity if [um vox angelica and “ no, not always,” said quint. “ we don’t live here as a rule, but some of them oblige us to come here and sing—-” “ i don’t understand,” said johan. “ well, i will explain it to you,” answered quint. “ it’s like this: every one of the stops of the organ has some one who belongs to it and to whom it belongs—but these people do not live in the stops ; they live in their own country, which is called musicland, and they only come to the organs when they are obliged to.” “ but who obliges them ? ” asked johan. quint thought for a moment, and then he said : “ those who have the gift.” “ but what is the gift ? ” asked johan. “ that i can’t tell you,” said quint. “ all i know is that some have it and others haven’t.” “ did doctor sebastian have the gift ?” asked johan. “ no,” said quint, “ he was a learned man and a very good man ; but he hadn’t got the gift. but young frantz : he’s got it. that’s why i am here to-day.” lieblich gedacht “ are the people of the other stops here too p ” asked johan, who was deeply in- terested in what quint told him. “ they’ve all gone home,” said quint. “ you see, as long as the player plays, we can stay here and not come out except just when we’re wanted ; but if we don’t get back into the pipes before the player has finished, we can’t go home. now just before frantz finished i crept out of my pipe because i wasn’t wanted, and i wished to look at the cathedral, and then suddenly he stopped playing, before i could get back into my pipe again, and if we are not in our pipes when the organist stops playing we can’t get home.” “ what will you do then p ” asked johan. “ i shall have to wait till he plays again to-morrow. i can get into a pipe of course, but i can’t go home.” “ to musicland ? ” asked johan. “ yes,” said quint, “ and it’s annoying, because i shall miss the end of the wedding festivities.” vox angelica and “ whose wedding p ” asked johan. “ vox angelica’s, of course,” said quint. “ she was married yesterday.” “ vox angelica is that lovely soft stop in the swell,” said johan. “ i suppose she's going to marry ‘ lieblich gedacht ’ p ” “ of course she is,” said quint, “ but it’s a long business. if you like i will tell you all about it.” “ oh, please do ! ” said johan. “ well,” began quint, “ vox angelica is the most beautiful person you have ever seen. her eyes are just like blue waters, grave and still, and her hair is long and as bright as the gold on a harp. and as for her voice, well, you can hear that whenever frantz plays the organ. she is as kind and gentle as she is beautiful, and everybody in our country loves her. she lives in that part of musicland where the hills and white mountains are. in the winter it is covered with snow which gleams in the sunshine, whiter and brighter than any snow you have ever seen, but when the spring comes the snow disappears and the slopes of the moun- lieblich gedacht tains are covered with millions and millions of flowers which are soft and white and glisten like stars. “ lieblich gedacht was the son of a forester, and he lives in the woods of melody, right in the heart of our country where the old oak forests grow, which are carpeted with blue- bells in the spring so that the enormous stems look as if they rose out of a blue sea, and in the spring and in the summer the woods are full of birds ; but no bird there has so sweet a note as lieblich gedacht when he sings in the wood. the birds stop singing to listen to him. he sings all the year round : when the woods are green, and in the autumn too, when they are gold and crimson like the tattered banners of our king, and in the winter, when the oak trees spread their bare arms across the clear cold sky. “ one day lieblich gedacht put on a green jerkin, a green cap, and taking with him a sword and a pipe he set out on his travels. he wandered through musicland until he came to a castle which was on the top of a mountain. this castle had a tower with w_ _‘ _-_\_ _ fl - _ vox angelica and one window in it, and from the window came the sound of a whisper which sounded so soft and wonderful that lieblich gedacht thought it must be the voice of a flower speaking to itself: the jessamine perhaps, or the briar rose. then he looked up and he saw leaning out of the window a maid with gold hair which fell from the window far down the tower, and she was as frail and as lovely as a gentian on the mountains. “ then lieblich gedacht sang a song. he sang of all the beautiful things he had ever dreamed of; he sang of the sun and the moon and the stars, of the spring, the grass, the great woods and their secret; he sang the song the leaves sing when they wake in the dawn, and the song the boughs sing in the evening when they lull the birds and the flowers to sleep. he sang of the love he felt for all the beautiful things in the world, and about how glad he was to be alive in a beau- tiful country like musicland. “ vox angelica heard him, and answered his song, and they sang a duet together, and lieblich gedacht’s part said, ‘ i love you,’ lieblich gedacht and vox angelica’s part said, ‘ i love you too.’ “ then lieblich gedacht asked vox angelica to marry him, and she said she would, and they settled they would start at once for the city of pleasant sounds and be married. they started at once. lieblich gedacht rode on a grey horse, and vox angelica rode on the saddle in front of him. now their way lay through a perilous wood called the forest of discord, which was in- fested by imps called chromatics, and by hundreds of gnomes who made a hideous noise, and in the middle of this wood lived bourdon, who is a wizard. “ when they reached the wood it was already dark, and from every bush and tree came sharp sounds, ugly cries, moans, groans, squeaks, wheezes, and in the distance they could hear a deep buzzing boom. “ vox angelica and lieblich gedacht were rather frightened, since it was dark and neither of them knew the way, for neither of them had ever been near the forest of discord before, and they knew none of the -\'~m_§ ... -. \ ‘_ ~_ _._. \__ .\ \ .. vox angelica and people who belonged to it. so they made up their minds not to go any farther but to sleep under the shade of an oak-tree. it was summer, so it was warm. they made themselves a bed of leaves and lay down; but the chromatics made such a noise that they could not go to sleep. at last they put moss into their ears so that they could not hear the ugly sounds, and they both fell asleep. “ in the middle of the night lieblich gedacht had a bad dream. he dreamed that the trees had come to life and had stretched out their arms and taken vox angelica away from him, and that when he tried to keep her they bound him down to the ground. “ when lieblich gedacht awoke, it was daylight and the sun was shining through the dark trees. but what was his grief and despair when he saw that vox angelica was no longer there ! she had gone, disappeared, and left no trace. he looked for her every- where ; he called out her name in a thousand ways till the ugly wood re-echoed with the w-m_{a~pw_i_._w. [‘ , a . lieblich gedacht sweetness of his song, but no vox angelica answered. she was nowhere to be found. lieblich gedacht was in despair. he did not know what to do nor where to look. ‘ but,’ he thought to himself, ‘ one thing is certain: it is no use wasting time in this forest, i must go and find some one who will be likely to help me.’ “ so he rode out of the forest of discord as quickly as he could, and crossed the plains which lie beyond it, and he rode on until he reached the wood of dreams, which is on the other side of the plains. “ in this wood there lives a hermit called sackbut, who is well known for his goodness and his wisdom, and lieblich gedacht made up his mind to go and ask him for his help and advice. sackbut lives in a cave under- ground. he is very old, and has a long white beard six times as long as mine. lieblich gedacht, after searching for some time in the wood, found a clear space in the thickets, and in the middle of it a circle of built bricks which looked like the top of a well. but when he looked down into what he thought vox angelica and was the well he saw there were steps in it which went down underground. he went boldly down the steps and into the dark, and when he had counted thirty-two of them they stopped and he came to the door. he knocked at this door, and he heard a hoarse voice saying : ‘ who is there ? ’ “ ‘ it is i, lieblich gedacht,’ he answered. ‘ i have come for advice.’ “ the door was opened at once, and lieblich gedacht found himself in a cell lit by a lantern, and in front of him, sitting at a table and reading a large book, which had nothing but notes in it, was sackbut the hermit. “ ‘well, what do you want ? ’ asked the hermit in a gruff voice. ‘ be quick and tell me, because i am busy and i have got no time to waste. i am learning a fugue by one of those new-tangled german musicians, and i must know it by next sunday, for there’s a man in one of their cities who has the gift, and i shall have to go.’ “ ‘ i have plighted my troth to vox angelica,’ said lieblich gedacht. ‘ we were lieblich gedacht travelling together to the city of pleasant sounds to be married, and we stopped on the way in the forest of discord.’ “ ‘ that was a silly thing to do,’ said sackbut. “ ‘ we slept the night there, and when i woke up in the morning vox angelica had disappeared.’ “ ‘ did you hear anything in the night p ’ asked sackbut. “ ‘ no,’ said lieblich gedacht, ‘ but i had a bad nightmare. i dreamed the trees were taking her away and strangling me.’ “ ‘ i see,’ said sackbut, ‘ it’s bourdon the wizard; he’s at his old tricks again. vox ,. angelica has been carried away by bourdon, and he has probably hidden her somewhere. he would not dare keep her in his castle, because the chromatics are such gossips that the whole kingdom would know it at once. she is a prisoner somewhere; of that you can be sure. but where i cannot tell you. all i can advise you is to go and ask echo : she hears everything.’ vox angelica and this staircase and he went on and on until he thought it would never end. at last he came to the top, and there, in a little room which had eight sides, sitting on a crystal throne, was echo. “ she was dressed in moonbeams and dew- drops and the fleece of a cloud, and she had wings made of gossamer like those of a dragon-fly, and on her head there trembled a star. “ ‘ i have come,’ said lieblich gedacht, ‘ to ask you to help me.’ and he told his story. “ ‘ two nights ago,’ said echo when he had finished, ‘ i heard bourdon start from his castle in his large rumbling coach. his horses were galloping. he left his castle and drove for some time through the forest of discord, and then he stopped. at that moment i heard a sigh which i am sure was vox angelica speaking. but the sigh was soon stifled, and bourdon drove off again in his coach. he drove right through the forest of dreams, over the plains, till he came to the sea, and there he got out and lieblich gedacht disappeared under the sea. after that i do not know what happened, because the winds cannot bring me any news of what happens underneath the sea ; but he probably crossed the sea and went to muteland, which is beyond it. but i advise you to go and ask unda maris, who lives under the sea. she will tell you.’ “ ‘but how shall i find unda maris?’ asked lieblich gedacht. “ ‘ all you have got to do is to go to the seashore,’ said echo; ‘ you must take this ring, and when you get there ’-and here she gave lieblich gedacht a silver ring with a strange blue stone in it--‘ you must throw it into the sea and sing- “ ring, ring, go home, to the fishes and the foam ; say the word and open the sea, come and show the way to me.” but remember this : if any one asks you to do them a service, however small, which might delay your journey, you must refuse, or evil will come of it. and you had better take this with you, and whenever you are in e a-w -- .._ .___~ _ms‘ -- ~~~¢ ~.- ‘—\‘ - ~~~ vox angelica and danger and want my help, open it.’ and she gave lieblich gedacht a little green egg. “ lieblich gedacht thanked echo and said good-bye, and then he rode as quickly as he could to the seashore. there he threw the ring into the sea and said— ‘ ring, ring, go home, to the fishes and the foam ; say the word and open the sea, come and show the way to me.’ no sooner had he said this than the sea opened wide, and he saw before him a stone staircase with a rope made of pearls for him to walk down by; and a silver fish with webbed feet and hands went in front of him and showed him the way. “ the fish led him a long walk right to the bottom of the sea, and when he got there, he found a place built of rocks and sea- weeds. inside it was green and dim like a summer night, and sounds echoed through its green corridors. the fish led lieblich gedacht through many halls to the central grotto, which was built of sapphires, where unda maris lived. she was lying on a lieblich gedacht - bed of purple seaweed when he entered the grotto, and she was touching the strings of a golden harp. she was almost hidden by a veil, and her face shone behind it, pale like the moon behind a cloud. she asked lieblich gedacht what he wanted, and he told his story. “ ‘ it is true,’ she said when he had finished. ‘ bourdon has carried away vox angelica out of musicland. he passed through the sea three days ago—passed through and took her to muteland beyond the sea, to the castle of silence that stands in the middle of the lake of sighs. you must go there if you wish to find her. you must cross the sea to get there in a boat, and you must be sure on no account to stop any- where on the way, or else evil will come of it. take this with you, and whenever you are in danger, and want my help, open it.’ so say- ing, she gave lieblich gedacht a pearly shell. “ so lieblich gedacht thanked unda maris and said good-bye, and walked back by the staircase to the seashore again. when he got there the first thing he did was to go to a fisherman’s but and ask him to lend him vox angelica and a boat to cross the sea in. while he was talking to the fisherman he saw three figures coming towards him. one was dressed in bright armour, and wore a gold cloak on his left shoulder, and a crimson cap with a crimson feather in it, and a sword. this was prince hautboy, and with him was his page, piccolo, a mischievous little boy with beady brown eyes, clothed entirely in silver ; and the second, who wore a scarlet tunic and who carried a broadsword and a bugle, was cornet the soldier; and the third was a tall figure with a handsome, melancholy face, dressed in black velvet and wearing a large black cap from which a proud white plume waved. this was viol d’amore, the brave nobleman who was a swordsman and who made beautiful verses and sang them. “ lieblich gedacht walked up to them, and taking off his green cap made obeisance to them. “ hautboy and viol d’amore asked him who he was. “ ‘ i am lieblich gedacht,’ he said, ‘the lieblich gedacht son of the forester. i live in the woods of melody, and i am betrothed to vox angelica. but bourdon has taken her away and locked her up in the castle of silence on the lake of sighs, and i am going to rescue her.’ “ ‘ then you can come with us,’ said hautboy, ‘for we are bound upon a like errand. i am betrothed to clarabella, and bourdon has taken her away; and viol d’amore is looking for dolce his betrothed, and cornet for muzette, who is pledged to him, and bourdon has taken them too.’ “ so viol d’amore, hautboy, cornet, and lieblich gedacht, and piccolo the page, got into the boat, hoisted the sail and set out to sea. they had a fair breeze, and for three days their voyage continued smoothly with- out any adventures; but on the fourth day they met a huge brass ship with a serpent at the prow which challenged them. “ ‘ this is bourdon’s doing,’ said hautboy; ‘ he has had wind of our adventure and sent his allies against us.’ “ in the brass ship there were two very fearsome warriors—tromba, who was a giant o vox angelica and mailed in brazen armour, like the vessel, and bassoon, who was as large as a barrel and who had a voice like thunder; and with them were fifty tin soldiers. as soon as the vessel approached, tromba cried out in a ringing voice— “ ‘ surrender, you are my prisoners l ’ “ ‘ in whose name ? ’ cried out hautboy. “ ‘in the name of bourdon, our king,’ answered tromba. “ ‘ we recognise no king save king diapason, our lawful sovereign,’ said hautboy unabashed. “ ‘ then if you won’t surrender we shall make you,’ said tromba; and he told his soldiers to ram the little boat. “ hautboy thought that all was lost ; and lieblich gedacht said, ‘ if only unda maris were here she could help us.’ then he re- membered the shell which she had given to him, and he opened it. there was nothing inside it except a tiny seed-pearl, and as he opened the shell the vessel gave a lurch and the seed-pearl fell into the sea. lieblich gedacht cried out in despair, but as he did lieblich gedacht so, a wave rose between them and the brazen vessel, and from out this wave came a gigantic sea~serpent, which at once attacked the brazen vessel. tromba and bassoon were frightened out of their wits, and setting all sail they fled as fast as they could, and their ship was soon out of sight. then the sea-serpent disappeared, and the sea at once became quite calm again. they journeyed on for two more days, and the weather grew warmer and finer every hour, and the sky turned to a softer azure, and the sea to a deeper blue; they were borne along by the lightest of breezes, and sometimes their sail flapped idly in the still air. “on the third day, they descried a speck of land on the horizon, and towards the evening they could see that it was an island with misty hills and lights on it. all round it on the sea, which the sunset had turned fiery, little white sails seemed to be scudding towards it, and when the sun set and the stars came out there came to them from the island a faint thread of wonderful sound. vox angelica and “ hautboy and cornet said they thought it would be a good thing to land at this island for the night, and lieblich gedacht was so curious to hear more of the lovely music that he forgot all about the warn- ing unda maris had given him not to stop anywhere on the way, and he con— sented. “ so they ran their boat into a sandy cove, ' hauled her up on to the beach, and landed. the island was overgrown with tall ferns; and shapes of trees, such as none of them had ever seen before, nodded to them from the hills. there appeared to be no birds, beasts, or any living creature on the island, but the thread of sopnd they had heard in the distance, was fuller now and more silvery, and they walked up along a grassy path towards the place where it seemed to come from. after they had climbed up the ground in front of them for some time, they reached a spot where the ground ceased to rise. lieblich ge- dacht turned round to have one last look at the sea before walking down into vox angelica and although there were myriads of small lights twinkling everywhere, the air remained dim and mysterious: but the sound was louder and clearer. they could not but follow it, and it led them beyond the dome up a flight of steps to a terrace which was open to the sky. the terrace was long and broad, and as unreal and unsubstantial as though it were built of moonshine. they walked on, straight in front of them, until they came to a transparent wall. they looked over this, and beneath them was a steep slope covered with grasses and ferns, trees and plants; down this slope, which was inter- rupted at intervals by the outline of smaller terraces and ledges, in which were sheets of light, like pools of water, they seemed to hear a hundred waterfalls rushing whis- pering down the slope; and far away in the darkness they saw the ghosts of white fountains rising and sobbing. on their left, the terrace overlooked the sea, and went sheer down to the beach; and on their right, tall shadows hid from their view the fern-forests of the island. in lieblich gedacht the air there was scent of flowers, and the whole terrace was overgrown with some sweet jessamine-like flower which they could not see, for both the terrace and the sloping garden beneath them were shrouded in a mist in which millions and millions of fireflies swarmed and glistened. and all this time the sound grew softer, clearer, and stronger. just as they were wonder- ing where it could be coming from, there came to them from out and through the filmy walls of the dwelling, a beautiful lady. her face was like a pale flower, and her hair, which fell to her feet, was dark as the night, and she was dressed in clinging folds of dewy silver, and she stretched out her white arms to them and said in a voice which seemed like that of the summer darkness— “ ‘ welcome! ’ then she led them into the house, up into a high room, built in the clouds and from which they could see the circle of the island and the sea beyond. “ they at once fell into a deep sleep, vox angelica and and in their dreams winged shapes fanned them and soft voices whispered to them. the next morning when they awoke, al- though the sun was shining the mists did not rise from the island; everything re- mained filmy, grey, and dim, shimmering like a bell of foam; lights twinkled and fountains and waterfalls plashed, and the island echoed with hidden voices and the same magical sound. “ ‘i suppose,’ said lieblich gedacht, ‘ we ought to go on with our journey ?’ “ ‘ yes,’ said hautboy, ‘ but where are we going to ? ’ “ ‘ yes, where are we going to p ’ repeated cornet. “ and lieblich gedacht thought and thought, and puzzled and puzzled; but neither he nor any of them could remember where they were going. presently hautboy said— “ ‘ why should we go anywhere ? what place could be better than this island p ’ “ ‘this is better than fighting,’ said cornet. lieblich gedacht “ ‘ and then making verses and singing them,’ said viol d’amore. “ ‘ and then piping all day,’ said piccolo. “ ‘ nobody asked your opinion,’ said haut- boy. “ and so they wandered about in this magical island, listening to the delicious sound and smelling flowers which they could not see; they were steeped in the mist of the place, and they could not remember what it was they had set out to do. they were captives to the dream and the spell of the place, and however much they tried they could not drive the mist from their minds and remember what they had set out to do. at sunset the beautiful lady appeared again and gave them fruits to eat and water in a crystal cup, and she sang to them a song, and never had they heard anything so lovely. when she had done singing, lieblich gedacht asked her who she was and what the island was called. “ she said: ‘i am the daughter of the moon, and this island is called the island ,__ _,_~.\_ _ _ vox angelica and of moon dew. i am very lonely, but you shall keep me company now.’ “ ‘ but,’ said lieblich gedacht, ‘ we must not stay here long. we are bound on a quest, only we can’t remember just now exactly what it is.’ “ ‘ we will talk of that later,’ said the lady, ‘ in the meantime i will sing you a song.’ and she sang them to sleep with her wonderful voice. “ a whole year passed, and every day was spent in the same way, in dream and song and sleep. cornet, hautboy, and vin d’amore had quite stopped worrying about their journey, and about what they should do in the future. but lieblich gedacht was sad because he knew there was some- thing he ought to do, but he could not re- member what it was. one day when he was wandering by himself in the gardens of the island, he sat down to rest on the grass beside some misty bushes. he was trying hard to remember, and he happened to take out of his pocket the little egg which echo had given him. he had quite for- lieblich gedacht gotten what it was, and he played with it, throwing it up and catching it; and then growing tired of this game, he put the egg on the grass next to the misty bushes so that it touched one of them. directly he did this a myrtle bush, which had not been there before, appeared out of the mist quite distinct, and it at once began to speak. “ ‘ who are you,’ it said, ‘ who have made me visible and given me the power to speak ? ’ “ ‘ i am lieblich gedacht,’ he answered. ‘ i have been here a year, and what i am doing i don’t know, because i can’t remember things.’ “ ‘ you are protected by some powerful spell,’ said the myrtle, ‘ or else you would have suffered my fate already. don’t you know where you are p ’ “ ‘ no,’ said lieblich gedacht, ‘ we came here in a boat one evening after sunset ; we have seen the lady of the island, but we do not know her name.’ “ ‘then i will tell you,’ said the myrtle. ‘ you are in the island of zauberflote the m--_.._—~' " ‘_ i q. \- . 'n-\_--__.. s-- ___ _ '-~'_'-'- \~_- --- vox angelica and i] ‘ l enchantress. all who come here lose their memory and forget their homes, their native country, and the faces that they love. and when they have been here a year, zauberflote puts them to the test. she bids them listen to the moon song, and if they can listen to it without falling asleep, they are free, but if they fall asleep, then they are hers for ever, and she changes them into ghostly shapes: plants, fountains, streams, water- falls, flowers, trees, ferns, or whatever she wishes.’ “ ‘ and who are you ? ’ asked lieblich gedacht. “ ‘ i,’ said the myrtle, ‘ am the youngest son of the sleeping beauty in the wood. i was on my way to musicland to seek ad- venture. i stopped at this island, although my fairy godmother had warned me not to, and after i had been here a year zauberflote sang me the moon song and i fell asleep, and she changed me into a myrtle bush. there are many, many people on this island who have suffered the same fate. from my country there are the marquis of carrabas, vox angelica and bind us; but if you don’t break the egg in time, you will sleep here for ever. now i must not talk any more or else we shall be discovered.’ “ lieblich gedacht thanked the myrtle and went away. that night there was a full moon, and never had the island looked so beautiful. zauberflote came on to the terrace, and called hautboy, cornet, viol d’amore, lieblich gedacht and piccolo, and said she would sing to them. “ she began to sing the moon song, and never had her voice been so silvery and never had they listened to such a song ; all the island was trembling with joy, and the moon and the stars seemed to be leaning out of the sky to listen. and just as lieblich gedacht was yielding to the spell and sinking into a delicious ocean of dreams he cracked the egg to pieces between his fingers. “ at that moment the song stopped, and lieblich gedacht heard the echo of vox angelica’s voice, which came from the egg, sighing: ‘ lieblich gedacht, my betrothed, have you forgotten me p ’ lieblich gedacht “ ‘ of course i haven’t,’ said lieblich gedacht. ‘ come, hautboy, viol d’amore, and cornet, we are bound for bourdon’s castle.’ at that moment viol d’amore, hautboy, and cornet remembered everything they had forgotten and whither they were bound. “ as lieblich gedacht said this, zauber- flote disappeared at once into her mysterious palace. the mists lifted and vanished and the garden appeared in its true shape, just like an ordinary garden, with stone terraces over- grown with jessamine, and trees and bushes, and flowers and grass and weeds, just like anywhere else, and the shadows on one side of the terrace were cypress trees, and zauber- flote’s palace was an ordinary palace built of marble. from the garden came prince myrtle, the marquis of carrabas, cinderella, and a hundred other knights and maidens who had been spellbound there for years; and they all thanked lieblich gedacht for setting them free. they started at once in their boats, which they found in the cove where they had left them. the marquis of vox angelica and carrabas, prince myrtle, and cinderella set out for musicland, and lieblich gedacht and his comrades started once more on their quest of rescue. “ they sailed for three more days and for three more nights, and they arrived at muteland. muteland is a flat country with no woods in it and very few trees, and those have no leaves on them. some people say this is so that they may not rustle. but they couldn’t rustle even if they had ‘ leaves, because there is no wind in muteland. there are no birds in muteland, and the only beasts there are dormice and salamanders. there are no streams and no rivers, and the people who live there only speak to each other by signs. in the middle of the country there is a large lake called the lake of sighs, because some people say that the sound of sighs is sometimes heard coming from it, and that these are the only sounds which have ever been heard in the country. “ as soon as hautboy, viol d’amore, cornet, piccolo, and lieblich gedacht landed on the coast of muteland, the first thing they lieblich gedacht did was to sing a song. this frightened the people there so much that they all ran into their holes ; for the inhabitants of muteland live underground. they walked for some hours over the barren plains until they came to an avenue of leafless willows. lieblich gedacht was walking on ahead, and as he passed one of these trees he stopped, for he thought he heard a human moan coming from one of the trees. he paused and listened, and again the sound was repeated. this time he heard it quite plainly. it was the piteous and musical moan of a human creature in pain. it trembled through the silence, and shook and quivered and touched lieblich gedacht’s kind heart. “ he walked up to the tree which was nearest to him to see if he could find out where the noise came from. then from above, coming from the heart of the tree, he heard the plaintive voice crying to him: ‘ release me. set me free. i am im— prisoned in the trunk of this tree.’ “ ‘ who are you p ’ asked lieblich gedacht. “ ‘ i am vox humana,’ said the voice, ‘ i vox angelica and was imprisoned in this tree by a wizard a hundred years ago, and nobody will set me free.’ “ ‘ but how can i set you free p ’ asked lieblich gedacht. “ ‘ all you have got to do is to touch the tree and say— “ willow-tree, willow-tree, hark to me, harkl set the poor captive free, open your bark.”’ “ lieblich gedacht in his distress quite forgot what echo had told him about not de- laying his journey to render any one a service, and he touched the tree and said the words. “ as soon as he had done this, the tree opened and vox humana came out of it, with tears of gratitude in her soft brown eyes; but the spell which the wizard had put on the tree was of such a kind that he who set free a prisoner from it became a prisoner himself, and vox humana did not know this. so directly she was set free, lieblich gedacht found himself in her place, a prisoner in the dark trunk of the willow- lieblich gedacht tree, and although vox humana, who was very unselfish, at once touched the tree, and said the magic rhyme, because she preferred to be imprisoned herself rather than to cause some one else to be a captive, the spell did not work a second time. indeed, like most spells, it could only be used once. “ presently hautboy, viol d’amore and cornet came up, and they found vox humana crying bitterly. she told them what had happened, and they did not know what to do, for they could not even hear lieblich gedacht’s voice; because it is only after years and years that a person who is im- prisoned in a tree can be heard by any one else. and that is the reason why vox humana has such a plaintive voice. they were all very sad, and they settled to go on to the lake of sighs and accomplish their quest, and then perhaps they would find some way of setting lieblich gedacht free again. they soon reached the lake of sighs, and in the middle of it, on a rocky island, stood the castle of silence. they found a boat on the shore of the lake, and lieblich gedacht “ to go back to lieblich gedacht: he was of course miserable, and he spent a whole month in the willow-tree, waiting for haut- boy and the others to come to set him free. but they never came. at last one day he remembered the walnut which sackbut had given him. he had quite forgotten it up to that moment. he took it out of his pocket and cracked it, and in it he found a tiny silver key and a hazel nut. he put the hazel nut in his pocket, and he looked every- where in the tree for a keyhole, and at last he found a tiny crack ; he put the key in the crack and it fitted exactly. the door of the tree opened and he was free once more. he set out for the lake at once, and reached it in a few hours. exactly the same things happened to him as to the others. the boat took him across the lake. he entered the empty castle and explored every nook and corner of it, but he found nothing. when he came into the banqueting-hall he saw the table spread by invisible hands; but he said to himself : ‘ i will not eat and drink till i have found vox angelica.’ so he did not lieblich gedacht gedacht, ‘ to file the bars of the window and set you free.’ “ so he went back to the castle to look for a file, but as he entered the gate bourdon’s three brothers fell upon him, and bound him, and cast him into the dungeon. “ ‘ alas l ’ said vox humana, ‘ we are all lost now.’ “ ‘ not at all i ’ said lieblich gedacht, ‘ we will soon be free. piccolo is so small he ought to be able to wriggle out of his chains, which are much too big for him.’ “ piccolo needed no further telling, and he soon managed to set himself free. “ ‘ now we are no better off than before,’ said vox humana, who was always inclined to take a gloomy view of things. but - piccolo was then told to look in lieblich gedacht’s pocket for a hazel nut, and when he found it to crack it. piccolo found the ‘ nut, cracked it, and inside the nut tightly rolled up was a silk cap. “ ‘ now,’ said lieblich gedacht, ‘ you must put the cap on my head.’ as soon as piccolo did this,‘ lieblich gedacht’s chains fell from .- - _ -~‘-\---~~ : ‘ ""‘*‘-‘ vox angelica and him and he was free. for the cap was of that kind which makes a man invisible, un- chainable, and as strong as ten. the next thing he did was to break the fetters of the eight other prisoners; then he pulled the bars from the window. they could not get out, but in front of the window were the waters of the lake, and they had no boat. “ ‘ perhaps,’ said lieblich gedacht, ‘ the hazel nut will help us again because it is fae'ry,’ and he took half the nutshell and threw it into the lake. it at once turned into a boat just big enough to hold vox humana, vox angelica, clarabella, dolce, muzette, hautboy, cornet, viol d’amore, piccolo, and himself. and they all got into it, and it took them across the lake without sail or oars. “ they} reached the seashore without further adventures and sailed back to music- land. on the way they passed the island of zauberflote, which was still trembling with lovely sound : but this time they knew better than to stop there. they went straight back to the city of pleasant sounds, lieblich gedacht to the palace of king diapason, and they told him the whole story. ' “ the king was angry with bourdon, and he sent his army, under the command of tuba mirabilis, who, helped by posaune, clarion, and cymbal, captured bourdon and his three brothers, bass, violone, and ophi- cleide, and put them in prison in the lake of sighs. they are there to this day. and they are never allowed to go free in their own country, but they have to come to your world when some one has the gift ; and that is why their voices are so gruff. bassoon and tromba were let off with a severe reprimand because they were sorry for what they had done. then king diapason ordered a great wedding to be held. and lieblich gedacht and vox angelica were married yesterday. it was the most gorgeous wedding ever seen. we were all of us there, and unda maris came from her home in the sea in a chariot drawn by sea-lions, and echo came from her high castle in a chariot drawn by zephyrs. tuba mirabilis, clarion, and the soldiers all wore their best armour and their brightest helmets. vox angelica and “ vox angelica’s bridesmaids were the seven daughters of echo, and her page was piccolo. lieblich gedacht’s best man was waldhorn. and voix céleste, who is a nun, came from her convent to sing in the choir. many of the fairies came to the wedding: prince myrtle was there, cin- derella, and the marquis of carrabas and his cat.” “ and did ‘ zauberflote come p ” asked johan. “ no,” said quint, “ she was not invited.” “ and what happened to hautboy, cornet, and viol d’amore p ” asked johan. “well,” said quint, “they were all to have been married on the same day; but muzette is very dainty and her wedding gown was not ready. it is being woven in fairyland by the elves, and it is to be made of the petals of forget-me-nots and pinks, and her veil is to be spun out of dewdrops caught in the new moon. all this takes such a long time that the elves could not finish it by yesterday, so the king arranged that hautboy and clarabella, viol d’amore w ~ _ ~ n " a r'l' u i hi _ l nto th l l) a a i \r a sai’p i. and di he manuals of the . . to n (ili m red v hi organ lieblich gedacht and dolce, and cornet and muzette should be married in a month’s time, all on the same day.” “ at any rate,” said johan, “ you will not miss that wedding. but where have vox angelica and lieblich gedacht gone to for their honeymoon ? ” “ they have gone to lieblich gedacht’s cottage in the woods of melody, and they will live there for the rest of their lives ; for all their lives will be one long honeymoon,” said quint. as he said this he climbed on to the manuals, and disappeared into the heart of the organ. and johan noticed that the sun had risen and that the sacristan was opening the cathedral for early mass. a few minutes later frantz walked up into the organ loft, and johan asked him to draw the stops of vox angelica and lieblich gedacht together and alone. frantz did this, and they blent their voices together in unison, and johan understood that they were happier than they had ever been before. the vagabond ;..de - the vagabond there was once upon a time a king and a queen who had three daughters. the eldest was called elsa, the second elfrida, and the third heartsease. all the fairies were in- vited to the christening of the two eldest daughters, and not one was left out. they came and showered gifts on the two babies, and promised them beauty, riches, pros- perity, happiness, and long life. but when heartsease was born, the king happened to be very busy drawing up a treaty with a neighbouring state, about the rights of pre- serving gold-fish in a certain pond which lay between the two kingdoms, so that when he invited the fairies to the christening he left out one of them: the fairy of the yellow mines, who was wicked and powerful. the other fairies came, and they said that heartsease should be the kindest and the cleverest princess ever seen : her eyes should the vagabond be as blue as forget-me-nots, her smile as bright as the morning, her hands as delicate as snowdrops, and her heart of pure gold. moreover, she should sing like a lark, and ride wild horses, and do needlework better than all other princesses. towards the end of the feast, the fairy of the yellow mines arrived in a chariot drawn by two snorting dragons. she was all yellow, and her face was dry as a piece of parchment, and pinched and wrinkled with spite and envy. “ so it appears i am not worthy to be invited to this feast,” she said. “ i know i am old-fashioned, but in my time kings used to take the trouble to be civil to fairies. but since i have come unbidden i must not depart without bestowing a gift. heartsease, in spite of her eyes the colour of forget-me- nots, in spite of her smile like the morning and her hands like snowdrops, shall not be pretty to look at, for her skin shall be marked with my special signature. and he who woos her will woo her for herself and for her heart, and not for her face.” so saying, the fairy of the yellow mines the vagabond chuckled, and flew away in her yellow chariot. the king and the queen were dreadfully vexed when this happened, and they at once asked heartsease’s godmother, who was none other than the fairy of the azure lake, whether she could not do anything to help them. “ alas! i cannot undo the mischief that has been done,” she answered, “ but never- theless heartsease shall be wooed and won, and her bridegroom shall be greater than that of her beautiful sisters.” and when she had said this, the fairy of the azure lake drove away in her chariot, which was made of honeysuckle, and driven by ten obedient bees. heartsease was the most beautiful little baby ever seen. her hair was curly, her skin as soft as that of a rose-leaf, with many dimples in it, and her smile made those who looked at her happy the whole day long. two years passed, and the king and the queen began to think that the wicked fairy’s words had only been a bad joke, when one day ‘ the vagabond heartsease began to cry, and it became clear that she was not well. she was put to bed, and the court doctor was sent for. he looked at her, and said that the case was a very serious one. during a whole month little heartsease was mortally sick, and she was given many nasty medicines which she drank without complaining. the king and the queen never left her bedside day and night. at last, at the end of the sixth week, the doctor said the turning-point had come, and that little heartsease would get well. from that day onwards she began to recover, and in a month’s time she was able to run about. but alas! her lovely soft skin had disap- peared. it was pitted all over with deep marks, so that it appeared to be shrivelled, and as yellow as the face of the fairy of the yellow mines; and nobody could recognise in this dried-up, wizened face the lovely little child that had once been heartsease. and in spite of her eyes, which were still as blue as forget-me-nots, and in spite of her smile, people could scarcely bear to look at the vagabond her, poor little thing, such a fright had she become. and this, of course, was the doing of the fairy of the yellow mines, who had cast a spell on heartsease’s face. the king ordered all the looking-glasses in the house to be broken, lest heartsease should catch sight of herself and be sad, and so she continued to play with her toys and ride on her white pony and be happy. but the king and the queen were sad, because they loved heartsease the best of all their daughters. one day, when heartsease was eight years old, she went out for a walk with her two sisters, and they met a vagabond in dark, tattered cloak who was playing a hurdy- gurdy, which is a thing like a big violin, with strings, and keys, and a handle at the end of it which you turn. the vagabond looked very poor and miserable, and he took off his cap and asked for a few pence, for he had not a penny to buy bread with. now elsa and elfrida, heartsease’s sisters, were very proud. they scowled at the vaga- bond, and told him to go about his business the vagabond l [l‘ quickly, or else they would send for the soldiers and have him locked up in gaol. but heartsease was sorry for him and said : “ i cannot give you any money, because i have not got any, but take this: perhaps it will make you happy, because i love it very much, and talk to it when i am alone.” and she took her favourite old doll which she always carried about with her, and gave it to him. it was not a pretty doll, and she had played with it so much that its clothes were frayed and torn ; but it had a beautiful crown made of gold paper, and a necklace of large blue beads. and heartsease loved it above all things, and it was her companion ; because elsa and elfrida never let her play with them, for they said she was too small. as soon as she had done this elsa and elfrida burst out laughing. “ fancy giving a beggar a doll! ” they said. “ we should like to know what he can do with it i ” “ thank you kindly, little princess,” said the vagabond. “ i shall never forget your kindness.” the vagabond “ a lot of good a beggar’s kindness will do her,” said elsa. “ perhaps he will bring her a bridegroom,” said elfrida. “ perhaps he will wed her himself,” said elsa, and they both laughed. “ nobody else will, for sure,” said elfrida. the vagabond then turned to the two sisters and said— “ a day will come when you will envy your sister her bridegroom.” and he hobbled away. elsa and elfrida burst into a fit of laughter. “ fancy,” said elsa, “our envying hearts- ease ! ” “ fancy,” said elfrida, “ her ever having a bridegroom ! ” now heartsease could not understand what they meant, for she did not know she was a fright; but their words made her thoughtful and sad, and she wondered what they were talking about. when she got home, she asked her father whether, when she grew up, she would find a bridegroom, and be married. the vagabond “ of course you will, dear little child,” he said, and he took her on his knee, but she noticed that his eyes were filled with tears. from that moment, heartsease began to suspect that there was something wrong about herself, and that she was not quite the same as other children. one summer night, after she had been put to bed, her nurse and the nurserymaid were sitting by the nursery window darning some stockings. they thought heartsease was asleep. “ princess elsa will be fifteen years old come michaelmas,” said the nurse. “ they’ll be looking for a bridegroom for her soon,” said the nurserymaid. “ she’s as tall as a grown-up lass already.” “ i pity her husband,” said the nurse; “ she’s a regular cross-patch she is, and as proud as a peacoc .” “ and as different from the little one as cloth from silk,” said the nurserymaid. “ ah!” sighed the nurse, “ poor little lambl they’ll have a hard task to find her a suitor, although she deserves the best in the land.” the vagabond heartsease wondered what this could mean, and the more she pondered over it, the sadder she became. the years passed by, and a great feast was held at court to celebrate princess elsa’s seventeenth birthday. all the princes of the land were invited, for the king and the queen thought that the time had come for elsa to be married. the three principal suitors were prince silvergilt, who pos- sessed immense riches and countless jewels; king sharpsword, who was a terrible fighter, and had slain two hundred knights in single combat ; and prince simple simon, who was the youngest son of a powerful king, and so simple that he was always laughed at by everybody. besides these there were a number of less important knights and princes. as soon as the prince silvergilt set eyes on princess elsa, he made up his mind that she would make just the right wife for him, because she was beautiful and haughty, and he was determined that the queen of his country should be the proudest woman in the world, and should the vagabond ‘l always be dressed in gold, and wear a heavy crown. the king’s feast was the most splendid that had ever been known, and it was followed by a display of fireworks and a ball. prince silvergilt danced with princess elsa, and king sharpsword danced with elfrida, and all the other princes and knights chose partners from among the crowd of beautiful princesses who were there; but nobody chose poor heartsease, who sat lonely and very sad in a corner by herself. at last, when the ball was nearly over, prince simple simon noticed that heartsease was all by herself, and he went up to her and asked her why she did not dance. “ because,” said heartsease, “ nobody has asked me to.” “ will you dance with me p ” asked simple simon. “ of course i will,” said heartsease, and he led her out. as he did this, heartsease noticed that the courtiers looked at each other and hid a smile. they danced round the room; but simple simon was so awkward the vagabond that although heartsease, who danced like the wind, steered him beautifully,he kept on catch- ing his sword in the trains of the princesses, and bumping up against them, so that all the courtiers tittered, although they tried to hide it, and heartsease was obliged to ask him to go back to the quiet corner where she had been sitting. “ they are laughing because i dance so awkwardly,” said simple simon. “ every- body laughs at me, except lizbeth.” “ who is lizbeth ? ” asked heartsease. “ lizbeth is the goose-girl in our village,” he answered. “ we are betrothed, and i am to wed her as soon as i have made my fortune.” “ it was at me they were smiling,” said heartsease. “ they always smile at me, and i do not know why. but perhaps you will tell me.” “ i do not know,” said simple simon. “ you see,” said heartsease, “ the courtiers here pay me extravagant compliments. they tell me i am beautiful and clever ; but i do not know whether it is true, because i have never seen my own face.” the vagabond this was true, because there was no such thing as a looking-glass in the whole king- dom, and poor heartsease had never been allowed to go near a river, a pond, a pool, or any place where she might have seen the reflection of her own face. “ i think,” said simple simon, “ your face is very beautiful. you have such nice, kind eyes. but then everybody says i am a bad judge. but haven’t you ever looked at yourself in a mirror ? ” “ what is a mirror ? ” asked heartsease. “ i will show you to-morrow morning,” said simple simon. at that moment a herald dressed in gold came into the ballroom, and blew a blast on his silver trumpet which meant that supper was ready. heartsease would have liked to have gone in to supper with simple simon, but the court etiquette did not allow it, and an old duke who was deaf came up, and gave her his arm. the next morning heartsease was feeding her tame birds in the garden when simple simon appeared before her. the vagabond her, but that he spoke the truth, and she told him that she hoped he would make his fortune soon, and marry lizbeth the goose- girl, and be happy ever afterwards. when simple simon rode off on his old grey mare, heartsease felt sad and lonely, for the only friend she had ever made was now leaving her for ever. the festivities went on all day long, because the prince silvergilt asked elsa to be his wife, and it was settled that they should be married without any delay. so in the evening there was another great state ball, but heartsease felt so sad at heart that she said she was not feeling well, and she went up to a little room where she kept her dolls, and all the treasures she had had when she was a child. this little room was in an attic in a side wing of the palace, and it looked over a narrow street, for the palace stood in the middle of the city. heartsease had made this room a hiding- place for herself as soon as she was big enough to leave the nursery. nobody knew it existed except her nurse, and she could go and play there when she wanted to be -,-” w- -_ -w. the vagabond ii alone. she liked to look out on to the street and see the people coming and going, the horses and the carts clattering over the cobblestones, instead of on to the big empty gardens on which all the state-rooms looked out, and where you saw no one except the sentry walking up and down, and the courtiers, strutting about like peacocks in their wigs and hoops. the room had a little bed in it, and sometimes she slept there; but this evening she was not at all sleepy, and she leant out of her window and watched the evening star shining in the summer twilight, which was still tinged with yellow in the west. faintly in the distance she heard the sounds of harps, cymbals, and drums coming from the banqueting-hall, where the king was holding a feast. the little street beneath her was quite empty and silent, the curfew had sounded, and the watchman had blown his horn and told all good people to put out their lights and go to bed, and in the jutting-out casements of the pointed red- gabled houses opposite her, which seemed to h the vagabond lean over the street, there was not a light left. suddenly she heard the sound of footsteps tramping on the cobblestones, and round the corner of the street she saw a dark figure coming along, which seemed to her to be a man. it was dark now, and the sky was a deep and wonderful blue. the moon had not risen, and only a few stars twinkled, very large and bright. the figure walked slowly along, keeping close to the walls of the houses opposite to her. when he was opposite the palace he stopped. she could not distinguish clearly who it was, but she saw at once it was a man. he was carrying something in his hand, and presently she became aware that it was a lute, or a musical instrument of some kind, for he began to play, and a thin thread of sound crept from the darkness and found a way straight into her heart. then it all at once came into her mind that she had seen this man before and heard these sounds already, and she remembered the vagabond who played a hurdy-gurdy, the vagabond ii and to whom she had given her favourite doll, long ago when she was little. but now his music sounded different. “ perhaps,” she thought, “it is because i am older and can understand it.” however that may be, never in her life had she heard or imagined anything so melodious and so sweet. for while the vagabond played, he sang, and although the words of his song were in some t ngue which was unknown to her, she seemed to under- stand every word of it. although she had never heard the vagabond’s voice before, it seemed familiar to her as if she had known it all her life. and there was something warm in it which gladdened you, and some- thing soft and lovely like the tender colours of summer dawn. but more than all things heartsease felt that the voice was the voice of a friend who would be kind to her and comfort her; and heartsease felt she could listen to it for ever. “ come away,” it seemed to say, “ from this palace and these unkind people, and i will give you freedom, and we will roam together over the wide world, and sleep ii the vagabond beneath the stars, and drink of the clear brooks and bathe in the streams; in the summer the sky shall be our tent, and the stars shall be our candles, and in the winter we will make ourselves snug and warm in the heart of the woods ; we will wander over hill and valley, and will float on a raft down the broad river till we come to the sea; and we will cross the great sea, and i will give you a little cottage of your own, all overgrown with honeysuckle, where the bees hum and boom, and there i will lull you to sleep with a song.” then all at once the music ceased, and heartsease wanted to call the minstrel, but he had vanished, and although he had sung quite loud, none of the people in the houses seemed to have noticed him. all night long heartsease dreamed of the vagabond and of his singing, and the next evening she waited at her window as soon as the sun set. but the vagabond did not come that evening, nor the next evening either, and weeks and months went by but he did not come again. the vagabond a year after this princess elsa was married. the king and the queen gave another great feast in honour of their second daughter, elfrida, and this time king sharpsword was betrothed to her, and the wedding was cele- brated with pomp and ceremony. as usual there were feasting and dances every night, and although all the princes of the land were there, nobody took any notice of poor heartsease except the old duke, who was obliged to lead her in to supper according to the etiquette of the court. and this time heartsease had no friend to talk to, for simple simon was not there, although she had news of him. he had made his fortune, much to everybody’s surprise, by capturing a cruel ogre, and he had married lizbeth the goose-girl, and they were as happy as the day is long. but although heartsease was' lonely and despised, she did not feel lonely any longer, for somewhere she felt she had a friend who would not forget her, and she remembered the marvellous song of the vagabond. the night elfrida was married, heartsease the vagabond again said she did not feel well, and she went to the little room in the attic, and waited by the window while the light faded from the twilight sky. and as soon as it grew dark, she heard the footsteps on the cobblestones, and soon the piercing notes of the sweet familiar voice echoed in the street, sighing, soothing, and binding her with a spell, heal- ing her heartache and taking away her homesickness, and calling her away to the valleys and the hills. for hours she seemed to listen to the deep, deep tones, and then, as the year before, the sound suddenly ceased and the vagabond had vanished. the next year heartsease herself was seventeen years old, the age at which it was the custom for the royal princesses to be married. but although the king and the queen made a great feast and invited all the princes of the land, not one of them asked the king for the hand of his daughter heartsease, because they all thought it was impossible to marry a wife who was such a fright. the king and the queen were miserable, the vagabond and they settled to wait another year, in case some kind prince might come who would be willing to marry heartsease. as for heartsease, she begged her father and mother not to worry about her. she told them she did not want to marry any one, and that she was quite happy living at home and taking care of them. and they did not know that she had looked at herself in a mirror and had seen her face. but although she said this, and pretended to be happy and cheerful, she was really sad at heart because she was such a fright, and she was sure nobody could love her, and the only thing which consoled her was the mysterious vagabond who came once a year and sang beneath her window. soon after heartsease’s seventeenth birth- day, her mother, the queen, went one day for a ride in the forest by herself, and the wicked fairy of the yellow mines carried her off in her chariot and locked her up in a castle. the people of the city searched for the queen everywhere, but no trace of her was to be found, so that everybody thought she must the vagabond have been eaten by wild beasts; but heartsease knew this was not true, because she saw her mother in her dreams every night. another year passed, and just before heartsease’s birthday came round, the old king married again. the new queen was the godchild of the fairy of the yellow mines. she was wicked, and owing to the spells which her godmother had taught her, she could make the king do anything she wished, and she made him believe the queen had been eaten by wild beasts. no sooner were they married than her wickedness and her cruelty, which she had hidden up to that moment, became plain to everybody. she hated heartsease, because heartsease was good and unhappy, and she tormented her in every possible way; and to crown all, on the day before heartsease’s birthday, she said she could not have a lazy, good-for- nothing slut about the house, but that heartsease must marry at once, and that since nobody would marry her of their own accord, she would find some one who should do so whether he liked it or not. __ r-- f.-~—~le" -—-- -- _" _- - the vagabond that very day the new queen sent a message by a rat to her godmother, and the fairy of the yellow mines arrived in her chariot drawn by two snorting dragons. “ it’s about that child,” said the queen, when her godmother had arrived and settled herself comfortably in an arm-chair. “ she bothers me. i want you to find her a husband—some one who will keep her in order and not stand any nonsense; at the same time i should like it to be a suitable and proper alliance—suitable for me too, that is to say.” “ i quite understand,” said the fairy. “ you see,” said the queen, “ the king won’t live long, and when he dies i shall be queen of the country, and i shall not want any of the king’s sons-in-law to come bother- ing or interfering, disputing my right to the kingdom, or any nonsense of that kind. i am quite at my ease about prince silver- gilt and king sharpsword; they are so busy beating their wives that they will not bother me.” now this was quite true, and elfrida and the vagabond elsa were both of them unhappy; because their husbands were unkind, and they were obliged to wear stiff robes all day, and heavy crowns, and they were beaten if they did not look happy and cheerful. “ i have got the very thing,” said the fairy; “my dear nephew crookedshanks is just what you want. he has been looking for a wife for a long time, but so far nobody has consented to marry him. he’s so beautiful, you know "—and here the fairy chuckled-“ he’s a dwarf and a hunchback, and he’s got such a sweet, sweet temper. he’ll keep the minx in order.” “ but,” said the queen, “ i hope he won’t interfere with me.” “ never fear,” said the fairy, “ he lives inside the copper mountain, deep down underground, like a mole among the gnomes, and he would not leave the treasures he hoards there for all the kingdoms of the earth.” thus it was settled that heartsease should marry crookedshanks, and the fairy of the yellow mines brought him to the palace the vagabond the next day, which was heartsease’s birth- day. crookedshanks was hideous to look at, and he was as spiteful as he was ugly. and when heartsease was brought to him, and told that this was to be her husband, she could not believe her eyes. she begged her father to save her ; but her father was now so completely spellbound by the wicked queen that he could not do anything, and so all preparations were made for heartsease’s wedding, which was to take place on the morrow. but in the evening, just before the feast began, heartsease escaped from the ban- queting-hall when no one was looking, and ran up to the little room in the attic. then she opened the windows wide and leaned out into the street. it was a lovely evening. there was a smell of sun-dried hay in the air, and the dust of the town made a golden cloud in the west which faded presently, and when the evening star lit its lamp the sky was soft and blue. in the palace everybody was the vagabond looking for heartsease. they were search- ing the halls and the gardens, but nobody thought of looking for her in that out-of- the-way attic, except her nurse, but she did not tell anybody. presently heartsease heard the well-known footstep of the vagabond, and her heart gave a great leap for joy. he walked right up to the house opposite her window, and began to sing. and this time his beautiful voice was louder and stronger than it had ever been. and heartsease leant out of the window and cried out — “ come, for i have heard and i am ready i ” the song ceased, but this time the vaga- bond did not vanish. he crossed the narrow street, and entered at one of the side doors of the palace which was just beneath heartsease’s window. heartsease heard him walking up the winding wooden stairway, and soon the vagabond entered her room and stood before her in his rags and tatters, poor, pale, ill-kempt, limping and miserable. and heartsease ran to him and cried out— the vagabond “ at last you have come, my lover, my lord and my bridegroom l ” ' “ do you really wish to come with me p ” he asked. “ my kingdom is the open field, and my palaces are the dark wood and the highway; my brothers and sisters are the cold winds, the rain, the snow, and the hail; my jewels are tears, and my wealth is sorrow.” and heartsease said: “ i will come with you to your kingdom and dwell in your palaces ; and your brothers and sisters shall be my brothers and sisters, and i will wear your jewels and share your wealth as long as i live i ” the vagabond gave heartsease a silver penny, which was all his wealth, and they climbed down the narrow staircase and went out into the night. in the king’s palace on the night of the banquet there was great commotion because heartsease could not be found anywhere. the courtiers searched high and low, in the palace and in the gardens, but all in vain, the vagabond until at last they gave it up and the banquet was begun without her. the queen was angry, and the old king was sad, and crookedshanks gnashed his teeth and pinched everything he met, out of spite. the next morning the nurse came to the king and told him hearts- ease could not be found anywhere. so the king issued a proclamation which was sent far and wide over the whole kingdom, saying that whoever should find his daughter heartsease would receive half of his kingdom. but although a great number of people set out to try and find heartsease, they none of them succeeded, and most of them gave up the quest after a time. now heartsease and the vagabond wandered far over hill and dale, north and south, east and west, earning their bread by songs, until they came to the grim castle in which heartsease’s mother had been imprisoned by the wicked fairy. the vagabond sang a song outside the castle, so that heartsease’s mother could hear him, and he told her that heartsease the vagabond was alive and had not forgotten her, and that one day the wicked fairy’s spell would be broken. and heartsease saw her mother’s hand waving through the thick bars of the narrow window of the castle. then they wandered on till they came to the kingdom of king silvergilt, and there, in a castle, were prince silvergilt and his wife elsa; and king sharpsword and his wife elfrida were staying with him. elsa and elfrida were both of them unhappy because their husbands were so unkind. the vagabond and heartsease went under elfrida’s window, and the vagabond sang a song, but no sooner had he begun than prince silvergilt sent out his soldiers, and told them to drive the vagabonds away. now elsa and elfrida were sad and sorry because the vagabond’s song had made them feel happier, but they dared not say a word. only when it grew dark they crept out of the castle, into the wood, which was next to it, to see if they could find the two vagabonds and give them alms. they wandered about in the forest, and they soon came to a little the vagabond hut where the vagabond and heartsease were lying fast asleep on a heap of leaves. “ here they are, poor, poor people ! ” said elsa ; “ they have got nothing to eat.” “ they must be very cold,” said elfrida, and she took off her cloak and laid it over them. “ do you remember a vagabond telling us we should one day envy heartsease her husband p ” said elsa. “ poor heartsease, she’ll never have a husband; but i’m sure we envy her now, wherever she is,” said elfrida. “ i would give worlds to see her again,” said elsa. “ poor, poor heartsease, to think how unkind we were to her i ” and elsa and elfrida began to cry bitterly, and their tears fell upon heartease’s face. then leaving behind them some bread and wine which they had brought with them, and a purse full of gold, and their cloaks, they went back to the castle; neither of them had recognised heartsease. the next morning when the vagabond and heartsease rose, they found the gifts that the vagabond the sisters had brought, and the vagabond told heartsease to go and look at herself in a pool which was hard by. when heartsease looked into the pool she gave a cry of sur- prise, because the ugly marks had gone from her face, and she looked like what she had been when she was a little girl—lovely, and fresh as a rose in the morning dew, and the loveliest princess in the world. “ now,” said the vagabond, “ we will go to your father’s castle.” so they started for the king’s castle, but it was far off, and they had to pass through many cities and villages; and when the people in the cities and the villages heard the vaga- bond singing in the street, and saw heartsease, they wondered at her great beauty, and when the vagabond sang they were afraid, and they thought he must be a wizard and that heartsease was a witch, and they often drove them away from their doors; so that heartsease and the vagabond with difliculty earned enough bread to keep them alive. at last they reached the city of the king, and there they read the king’s proclama- i l. _____.._._____,. the vagabond tion, which said that whoever should find heartsease would receive half the kingdom. the vagabond went straight to the king’s palace, and asked to see the king ; but the soldiers stopped him at the gate and said that beggars were not allowed to go into the palace. but when the vagabond said he had found princess heartsease they durst not forbid him to enter. so the vagabond was led to the king, and he told him that he had found his daughter. the king was overjoyed, but heartsease’s stepmother said it was not true, and the king told the vagabond to bring heartsease to the palace. he went to fetch her, and when he brought her to the palace everybody was dazzled by her beauty, but nobody recog- nised her, not even the king, for he could not understand how the heartsease whom he remembered could have turned into such a vision of beauty. but there were two people in the castle who said that they re- cognised her : one was her old nurse, and the other was simple simon, who happened to be there. simple simon said he saw no difference the vagabond on the day this was to happen the whole town gathered together to see the wizard; and the vagabond and heartsease were driven from the prison to the square, where a large pile of fagots had been prepared, in a cart. and when the people saw heartsease, a wave of pity went through the crowd, so lovely and so innocent was her face. the king and the queen, his daughters, and all the court were there, and when the vaga- bond got out of the cart he asked the king to grant him one last favour: and this was to allow him to sing a song before he died. and the king granted it him. the vagabond began to sing, and he sang the sweetest and most wonderful song that had ever been heard; he sang of the love that never dies, and the love which is stronger than death; and as he sang, the evil spells of the wicked queen died in the king’s heart, and he remembered his true wife, and the great love he bore her; and elsa and elfrida recognised the voice, and they cried out- “ it is the vagabond we heard when we 'l'lliiri-z stooi) before the tllrong a \'o.\'lllirful. shining figure \vitii \'l.\'gs the vagabond i were children, and it is heartsease after all i ” and the king cried out: “ yes, it is heartsease after all i ” and he ran to her, and took her in his arms, and covered her with kisses. then he said to the vagabond : “ you have brought me back my daughter. you shall be my son and you shall have half my kingdom.” but the wicked queen said: “ that is impossible! how can you give half your kingdom to a vagabond in rags and tatters ? ” but the king said: “ i do not care if he is a vagabond or not. he shall wed my daughter and have half my kingdom.” and as he said this the vagabond threw off his dark, tattered cloak, and there stood before the throng a wonderful shining figure with wings, and golden hair, and across his shoulder there was slung a silver bow with a quiver full of silver arrows, and he held a lyre in his hand, and all round him was a cloud of golden light like the fire of sunrise. and his face shone, and his eyes were like stars. but when the wicked queen saw this, the vagabond she was so angry that she burst with rage, and all her spells were undone. at the very same moment the fairy of the azure lake arrived in her chariot of honey- suckle drawn by ten bees, and she brought heartsease’s mother with her, and hearts- ease’s old nurse, whom she had released from prison. you can imagine their surprise, and how they all cried for joy! and how happy they all were i then the king said to the vagabond : “ you shall wed heartsease and receive half my kingdom ; but who are you, noble prince, and what is your name p ” and the vagabond answered : “ i will wed heartsease, but i have a kingdom of my own, and we must live there and nowhere else; and as for my name, it is love, the vagabond, but now i shall wander no more.” then crookedshanks was banished from the court, and the fairy of the azure lake changed prince silvergilt into a candlestick, and king sharpsword into a grindstone, and she found two kind new husbands for elsa and elfrida. and a great wedding was held, the vagabond and the day after it love the vagabond put heartsease on a snow-white steed, and they started for the kingdom of love the vaga- bond, and they galloped across the plains, down the valleys, and over the hills until they came to the sea, which is at the end of the world, and they rode over the sea as easily as if it had been a grassy meadow. and on the other side of the sea they came to a country of blue hills and green woods and golden cornfields, and there in a garden full of roses was a little cottage covered with honeysuckle, round which the bees hummed and boomed. “ this,” said the vagabond, “is my kingdom. here is our home where we shall live happily together.” and heartsease and the vagabond lived happily in this little cottage for ever after- wards; and the king and queen, and their sisters, and simple simon and lizbeth his wife, often paid them long visits. turning round she s:\' an ’ \voman the minstrel once upon a time, in a small village in the mountains, there lived a blacksmith and his wife. they were poor but they were happy ; the blacksmith had always plenty of work, and their only sorrow was that they had no children. one day the blacksmith’s wife walked from the village down into the valley to a farmhouse to buy some eggs from the farmer, whom she knew. on her way back, as it was a fine spring day and the snows had melted, she loitered on the mountain so as to gather some wild-flowers. as she was picking the flowers she heard some one muttering behind her, and turning round, she saw an old woman, bent and worn, who was muttering a supplication. “what can i do for you?” asked the blacksmith’s wife. i the minstrel “ give me the eggs you have in that basket,” said the old woman. the blacksmith’s wife, although she was afraid she would be scolded at home, durst not refuse, and gave the eggs to the old woman. “ thank you kindly,” said the old woman ; “in return for your kindness i will grant you a wish.” the blacksmith’s wife at once answered: “ i wish to have a daughter who shall be more beautiful than the queen’s daughter.” “ your wish shall be granted,” said the old woman. “ but take this charm, hang it up over your hearth, and never give it away, for if you do, you will give your daughter with it.” so saying the old woman gave the black- smith’s wife a small copper coin made in the shape of a heart, and as soon as she had done this she hobbled off into the wood. the blacksmith’s wife went home and told her husband about her adventure, and they hung the copper coin over their hearth and they laughed for joy. the minstrel they would not be back till late. snowflower was sitting outside in the street, watching the sunset—it was a warm summer’s eve-— when she heard some one singing a strange song. never had she heard anything so strange and so beautiful before: the voice was a man’s voice, deep and hoarse, and it seemed to come from very far away; the song he sang was soft and sad, but it had a piercing note in it, something that made you listen whether you wished to or no ; it was a voice which you felt must be obeyed. snowflower was lost in dreams, and when the singing stopped, she would have given worlds and worlds for it to begin again. while she was wondering who the singer could be, she suddenly became aware of a shadow across the street, and she saw before her a tall minstrel carrying a lute. his face was half muffled in a black cloak; and all that she could- see distinctly were two dark eyes, very sad, but bright as stars. the sun had set, the stars were coming out, and snowflower was afraid. nevertheless she the minstrel at once asked him whether it was he who had been singing. he said- ‘ yes, it was i.” “ shall i ever hear you again ? ” asked snowflower. “ yes, if you will give me a reward,” said the minstrel. “ what can i give you p ” asked snow- flower. “ i have no money, and my father and my mother have gone to the farm and they won’t be back till late.” “ all i want,” said the minstrel, “is the little copper coin in the shape of a heart that hangs over your hearth.” “ oh i you may have that with pleasure,” said snowflower, “ it is only a brass farthing.” and she ran indoors, and fetched it,and gave it to him. “ only now you must sing to me again,” she said. “ i promise to sing to you again, but not now,” said the minstrel, and he walked away into the darkness. when snowflower’s father and mother came home, they noticed at once that the little copper coin had gone, and snowflower the minstrel told them that she had given it to a wandering minstrel. her mother was vexed and cried'; but her father said— “ never mind, never mind, no harm ever came yet of giving alms to the poor.” the years passed by, and snowflower never once saw the mysterious minstrel again, and she soon forgot all about him. she grew up into a most beautiful maiden ; and when she was seventeen, there was no one to compare with her in the whole country. she was dazzling like the snow on the mountains, and soft as the blush that steals over them in the dawn, and her eyes were like the pools that reflect the sky in the hidden places of the hills. so beautiful was she that the fame of her spread far and wide, and the king thought that she would make an excellent wife for his only son, who was just old enough to marry. so he sent one of his courtiers in disguise to the village in the mountains; he was to find out whether what the people said about snowfiower was true or not. he came to the village and saw snowflower, -a__~_ the minstrel and when he returned to the palace once more, he told the king that snowflower was far more beautiful than what men told of her, and that it was indeed impossible to describe her, for she was more beautiful than all mortals, but like a fairy or a dream-child. when the king heard this, he set out with many of his courtiers for the village in the hills, and they found snowflower sitting and spinning at the door of the blacksmith’s shop. the blacksmith and his wife were astonished and frightened when they saw all these grand folk coming to their home, and when the king said that he wished his son to marry their daughter they could hardly speak for surprise. the king’s son was as fine and as brave a lad as any in the land, but it was settled that he was not to marry till h@ was twenty-one, and now he was only twenty. so the king said he would come back in a year’s time and fetch snowflower. the blacksmith was of course delighted at his good fortune; but snowflower said that she did not wish to leave her native k the minstrel village, and her father’s home, and that she was quite happy where she was. and her mother, remembering what the fairy had said, and how snowflower had given away the copper coin, was frightened, and she and snowflower cried bitterly together. but the blacksmith said this was nonsense, and laughed at the two women for being so silly. after a year had gone by, the king sent a whole train of courtiers to fetch snowflower, and they put her on a pony and they brought her to the city and the palace of the king. it was arranged that the wedding should be held a few days after her arrival. snowflower was given a gorgeous room in the palace looking out on to a wide court- yard, round which there were statues and colonnades ; and splendid preparations were made for her wedding ceremony. she was introduced to the prince directly, and he fell in love with her at first sight. as for snowfiower, she knew not whether she loved the prince or not, but she thought she had never seen so charming and handsome a person before, and she would have been the minstrel i quite happy but for a home-sickness which never left her, for she longed for the sight of the snowy mountains, the green valleys, and the little village where she was born; and she felt that she could not live for ever far away from the snows, and the streams, and the flowers of the great white hills. she had gone to bed early and fallen asleep at once, but towards midnight she was awakened by a sound which seemed to be familiar to her ; she ran to the window and looked out into the courtyard, whose pillars were gleaming in the moonlight. again she heard a sound, and then on the midnight wind there were borne into the room the notes of a song which she thought she had heard once before, long ago, in her home in the hills. it was a hoarse voice, which seemed to come from far away ; a mournful voice and sweet, but in spite of its sweetness there was a strange spell in it and something which called for and demanded submission. she listened, and now, although she knew she had heard it before, she could not tell when or where; it the minstrel was different from anything she remembered, and more beautiful ; and yet, as she listened, her heart beat fast, and she knew not whether it was the voice of a friend or an avenging foe who was singing that hoarse serenade. she withdrew from the window in fright, but the song grew louder ; it called her with sound like that of bugles on a field of battle in the evening when the fight is ended— silvery, manful, and triumphant. and then her heart beat faster than ever, for she knew that the voice was that of a lover; and she knew that she could not resist his song. and she looked once more out of the win- dow, and there in the courtyard, dark against one of the gleaming pillars, she saw a tall man muflied in a black cloak, a man whom she recognised. she ran back from the case- ment and called out in a great terror, but nobody answered her call. then across the cobblestones of the yard she heard the tramp of loud footsteps, as though a knight in armour were walking across it ; and presently she heard the same the hunchback, the pool and the magic ring the hunchback, the pool and the magic ring there was once upon a time a king and a queen who had three sons. the two eldest were big and strong, but the third was a cripple and a hunchback, because a wicked fairy, whom the queen had forgotten to invite to his christening, had cast a spell over him in his cradle. yet the king and the queen loved their third son best of all, and this made his brothers jealous. when the three brothers were grown up, the king fell sick, and he knew that he was going to die. and so he called his three sons to him on his deathbed. “ now that you are big and strong,” he said to the two eldest, “ it is time you went out into the world to seek your fortune. i will give to each of you a good horse, a suit of armour, a bag of gold, and a sharp sword ; and to you,” he said to the youngest, “ i will the hunchback, the pool give this castle, because you are not strong enough to go and seek your fortune for your- self. so you shall stay at home and look after your mother.” and soon after he had said this he died. now the two eldest brothers were very angry because the hunchback had been given the castle, and they said to each other: “ our father was old and feeble and did not know what he was doing: we will not give our brother the castle. indeed, it would be of no use to him, but we will keep it for ourselves, and we will get rid of him, because it is a disgrace to have a hunchback in the family.” so they told their mother that they were going to take their brother with them, to show him the world, and they promised to look after him carefully. they started the next day, early in the morning, and when they had reached a large forest, they told the hunchback that he must seek his fortune by himself, and they took away his horse from him and his sword and his cloak. and the next day they rode home to the castle and said that and the magic ring their brother had been eaten by a bear in the night, entirely owing to his own fault. when the young prince was left to himself, he was very sad, and did not know what to do, and he sat down by the side of a pool and cried bitterly. as he was crying, he heard a voice coming out of the pool and asking him what was the matter. “ i am crying,” he said, “ because i am a hunchback and i have been deserted by my two brothers,” and he told all his story. then he heard the voice laugh softly and say that everything could be put to rights. “ look into the pool,” said the voice, “ and tell me what you see at the bottom of it.” the hunchback looked, and said that he saw a gold ring. “ you must pull out the gold ring and put it on your finger,” said the voice. the hunchback thrust his arm into the pool and pulled out a gold ring, and no sooner had he put it on his finger than a beautiful woman stood in front of him. she had golden hair which fell to her feet, and large, soft eyes, and he thought she must be a fairy. and so she the hunchback, the pool was: but she had been imprisoned in the pool by the same wicked fairy who had not been invited to the christening of the young prince. “ you have done me a great service,” said the fairy, “ and i will not be ungrateful. look into the poo .” the hunchback looked into the pool and saw his own reflection. but something wonderful had happened, for he was no longer hunchbacked, but far taller and stronger than his brothers, and the hand- somest and most gallant-looking young prince that the world had ever seen. “now,” said the fairy, “all will be well with you. you have only to go into the world and you will make your fortune ; but you must remember carefully what i tell you now. you must not lose the ring which i have given you, and never take it off your finger ; and above all things you must never put it back into the pool. for whenever you take it off your finger, you will become a hunchback once more, and if you put it back into the pool, you will remain a hunchback for ever.” and so saying the fairy disappeared. and the magic ring , then the hunchback walked through the forest, whistling for joy; and at sunset he reached a large town. as soon as he reached the town, a large coach drawn by six cream- coloured horses passed him, and in the coach was a beautiful princess, driving with her father, who was king of the country. directly she caught sight of the prince she stopped the coach and begged him to get in, and they drove to the palace. “ at last,” she said to her father, “ i have found a man whom i will consent to marry.” and when the king, her father, learnt who the stranger was, he was very pleased, and offered him the hand of his daughter. and the prince learned that from far and wide suitors had come to seek the hand of the princess, but she had never been willing to look at any of them. and as the king was anxious that his daughter should marry, because she had a bad temper, he was very pleased at what had happened. the prince consented readily enough to marry so beautiful a princess; but when they were left alone he told her all his story. the hunchback, the pool and he fell in love with her at first sight. and she blushed and looked down, and although neither of them had spoken a word, they both knew that they would love each other for ever and ever. the next day the prince said good-bye to the fisherman’s daughter, and when he said good-bye her eyes filled with tears so that it hurt him to go away. the sun was shining on the sea and a fresh breeze was blowing, and many white sails were scudding in the distance through the foam, and some- thing stirred and leapt in the prince’s heart, and before he knew what he had done, he said: “ i love you, and i shall always love you, and i am going away.” “ take me with you,” said the fisherman’s daughter, and the prince smiled and lifted the fisherman's daughter on to his saddle, and they galloped away into the morning. they rode on and on, but the prince guided his horse to a dark forest. the thick grass underneath them was wet with dew, and the bushes and the undergrowth glistened in the sunlight. the blackbird was whistling, and the sun \vas sihning on the sea and a fresh breeze \vas lil.o\'l.\’g the hunchback, the pool daughter in his true shape: a hunchback and a cripple. he was so sad that he cried bitterly, just as he had done on the day when his brothers had deserted him. the fisherman’s daughter cried too, to see that he was sad; but she kissed away his tears, and she told him that she loved him more than ever, and he knew by the sound of her voice that it was true. then he heard a voice coming from the pool, which said : “ look into the pool.” and they both looked and saw the reflection of the prince. the hunchback had gone, and he was big, handsome, and strong, and just as he had been when the fisherman’s daughter had first seen him. and then they both laughed, and kissed each other over and over again. the prince had regained his splendid shape, which he was never to lose again; and he put the fisherman’s daughter on his horse, and they rode home to the castle where he had been born, and they found his mother looking out of the window in case he should come back that day; and they were married the next morning in great pomp, and and the magic ring his two brothers came back—everything had fared ill with them, and they were poor and miserable—and he forgave them, and the prince and the fisherman’s daughter lived happily for ever afterwards. fll-i— m‘m ~— the silver mountain the silver mountain there was once upon a time a king who lived in a golden palace on the top of a high hill. he was powerful, wise, and good; his reign had been a scroll of glory, and he had scattered happiness and plenty on the people of his kingdom. the king had three sons, and when he felt that his death was approaching, he grew troubled in his mind as to which of them should inherit his king- dom. in his country it had been the ever- lasting custom for the king to leave his kingdom not to his eldest son, but to that one of his family whom he considered to be fittest to rule. now the king’s eldest son was a soldier, a fine lad and a brave man ; indeed, he was said to be the strongest and bravest youth in the land. the second son was a scholar ; from his earliest youth he had pored over books, and he remembered what was in them the silver mountain even after he had finished reading them ; he knew all about the habits of animals, and he looked at the stars through a long telescope of his own invention. the third son was a fool. the king was perplexed as to which of these three should inherit his kingdom, for he reasoned thus: “ my eldest son is too wild, my second son is too clever, and my third son is too foolish.” so the king thought the best thing he could do would be to consult his fairy godmother, and he wrote her a long letter explaining the difficulty. his fairy godmother answered his letter directly. she said she was sorry she could not come and see him, but that she was kept indoors by a bad cold. she quite understood the difficulty of the choice, but she advised the king to send his sons to look for the silver mountain, and to leave his kingdom to him who should find it. the king said to himself, as soon as he had read this letter: “ of course; how ex- tremely stupid of me not to have thought of this before i ” so he sent for his sons, and i - the silver mountain then and there, which they did, and the king’s son was victorious. he overcame the stranger and killed him, and leaving the body to be picked by the crows, he went on his way. after many days, he came to a large town where the palace and chief buildings were all draped in black, and the people of the place were walking about with sad faces, talking in whispers. he asked some one what was the cause of all this grief, and he was told that the chief man of the country, who some time ago had set out upon some fantastic quest, had been killed by a robber in the woods, and that it was only now his bones had been brought home. “ it is for this reason we are sad,” said the man, “ for we are without a king.” on hearing this the king’s son said : “ there is no cause for grief. i will be your king.” and he rode straight to the palace, and dismounting from his horse walked'up the steps of the throne and placed the crown upon his head, and nobody durst say him nay. the silver mountain then the king’s son thought to himself: “ i have now solved the whole matter. it is needless for me to search all over the world for a silver mountain which i possibly may never find at all, or which my brothers may find sooner than i do, in order to inherit a kingdom, when i can thus gain almost as good a kingdom without any trouble at all.” so he thought no more about the silver mountain, or of his father, or of his ancient home, but he remained in this foreign country and married a wife, and ruled over it, and he lived in splendour and plenty. the first thing which the second son did when he started on his quest was to consult an old scholar who lived in a hermitage, and who was famous for being the most learned man in the whole world. the king’s second son went to him and said : “ i want to find the silver mountain in order that i may inherit my father’s kingdom.” the scholar said to him: “ it is a good thing that you came to me for advice. no- body in the world can help you as well as i can. there is no such thing as the silver the silver mountain to guide him to the place where it was likely to be. this they were willing to do, and after they had journeyed for many days, through forests and swamps, across large rivers, down steep valleys, and over wooded hills, they reached a wide plain ; and beyond this plain rose a great chain of mountains, and in the centre of this chain there towered one mountain higher than the rest, and it was covered with clouds. the people pointed to this mountain and said : “ without doubt, that is the silver mountain.” the king’s son said he would climb this mountain, and he took the people with him. the ascent was steep and perilous, and many a time those who were with him would have turned back, had he not encouraged them and led them on by his fiery words, and after many days of toil and hardship, they reached the summit of the mountain, whence they obtained a view over the whole country. then the king’s son said to them : “ this is the highest mountain in the whole of the land—the whole of the land is now revealed to the silver mountain he sought out all the highest mountains of the country, and convinced himself that none of them could be the silver mountain, and yet he was sure there was such a thing somewhere, and he persisted in believing this, and in saying it. he spent many years of fruitless search, but he never gave up the quest, nor did he ever lose hope that one day he should accomplish it. one evening, after he had been searching all day, he lay down, footsore and weary, and he said to himself aloud : “ if only the fairies would help me, i should find the mountain soon enough.” no sooner had he said this than a beautiful fairy stood before him and said: “ i will help you to find the silver mountain,” and she gave him a small mirror made of polished steel, whereupon she immediately vanished. the king’s youngest son took the mirror and looked into it, and there he saw very distinctly the image of his father lying ill, propped up by pillows, dying and lonely, without any of his children about him. and the king’s youngest son said to himself— the ring the ring keep it and wear it always, for as long as you keep it you will be sure of true love; but if you give it away you will give your heart and all its power away with it, and evil will come of this. and if you are blessed with a daughter you must give it to her before you die ; but if you have no daughter then you must cast the ring into the sea, for its work will be done.” when the queen had said this she kissed windflower and put the ring on her finger. then she sent for the king and bade him be a good father to their child, and after she had said farewell she fell asleep and never woke up again. two years after the queen died, the king married again. this second wife had already been married before, and she had a daughter of her own who was called emerald, and who was just the same age as windfiower. as the years rolled on the new queen became jealous of her step-daughter, because wind- flower grew up into the most lovely creature that had ever been seen. she was tall and slender, and her eyes were like dew and her the ring all the princes of the land, and of these the youngest and the handsomest was prince sweet- briar. as he was heir to a large kingdom, the queen was anxious that he should marry emerald. now it happened that as prince sweetbriar was riding to the palace in company with several other princes, he dropped behind his companions and lost his way, and presently he found himself in the forest where wind- flower lived, and he rode past just under the tower. just then windflower was leaning out of the window. her hair, which was like a golden mist, was hanging about her shoulders, and her face blushed like the dawn. sweet- briar looked up, and he fell in love with her at first sight, and windflower looked at him and smiled and fell in love with him too. then he rode on till he found the city and the palace. the queen paid every attention to him, and gave him the most gorgeous room in the palace. the banquet was held in the evening, and after it was over there was a state ball. sweetbriar looked everywhere for windflower, the ring but in vain. he asked one of the courtiers whether the kinghad notgot another daughter, and he was told that there was another called windflower, but nobody ever saw her because she was ill. but sweetbriar could think of nothing else but windflower’s face, and, in spite of all the queen did, he took no notice of emerald. when the ball was over he found out from his page, who had been gossiping in the kitchen, that windflower was none other than the beautiful maiden he had seen in the forest. so early next morning he set out for the forest, and he found the tower without difficulty. windflower looked even more beautiful than before, and sweetbriar declared his love and asked her to be his wife, and she answered “ yes,” and they spent the whole morning together, talking about how happy they would be. then sweetbriar rode back to the palace and asked the king for the hand of his daughter windflower, whom he had met in the forest. the queen, of course, tried to make objections, but sweetbriar would not the ring hear of them; so the king gave his con- sent, and the queen could do nothing more, and sweetbriar and windflower were married. for a year they were as happy as the day is long, and a little daughter was born to them whom they christened sundew ; but after a year had gone by the queen took counsel with her daughter emerald, and said-— “ all is not yet lost, and if you are skilful we may defeat the minx yet. you have only to persuade sweetbriar to make wind- flower give him the ring which her mother gave to her, and all will be we .” “ i will do it,” said emerald. so one day emerald said to sweetbriar: “ you have a very beautiful wife. i hope she is as devoted as she is beautiful.” “ of course she is ! ” said sweetbriar. “ do you think she would do anything you wished p ” asked emerald. “ of course,” answered sweetbriar. then emerald laughed, and said: “ i am sure she would not even give you the ring she wears on her finger.” the ring sweetbriar laughed, but emerald only said : “ try.” so that very same day sweetbriar said to windflower : “ emerald is so jealous of you that she says you would not even give me the ring which you wear on your finger, if i ask it of you.” windflower was distressed when she heard this, and she told sweetbriar of her mother’s warning, and sweetbriar said that she had much better not give him the ring, since he needed no ring to tell him that she loved him. but when be next saw emerald she mocked him, and said: “ what did i tell you .p she doesn’t even love you enough to give you a ring!” and every day emerald taunted him like this, and she said : “ i’ve no doubt she finds excellent excuses, but she will never give you the ring i ” at last one day sweetbriar could bear it no longer, and he said to windflower : “ what does it matter if you give your heart away to me? your heart belongs to me already, so there can be no harm in giving me the the ring “ i have got no money,” said windflower, “ but take this; you need it more than we do.” and she gave her the crust of bread. “ you are a good child,” said the old woman; “ keep your bread and ask for a gift and i will give it you.” “ the only gift i crave is what nobody can give,” said windflower. “ it is my husband’s love, which has been taken from me.” and she told the old woman her story. and the old woman said : “ there is only one way of winning back your husband’s love. you must earn the ring which you gave him, and he must give it you back and your heart with it in return for his life.” so saying the old woman disappeared. ‘ windflower at once set out for the king’s city, and when she got there she found every one in woe and trouble because prince sweet- briar was lying mortally sick and nobody could cure him. the king had offered half his kingdom to any one who should cure the prince, but nobody had even tried. windflower, who was in rags and quite unrecognisable, crept into the kitchen and the merchant’s daughter (a greek story) the merchant’s daughter once upon a time, long ago in greece, there was a merchant, who used to earn his living by trafficking with goods among the greek islands and along the coast of asia. some- times he used to go as far as persia and india. he possessed many argosies, and he used to take with him large bales of embroideries, silks and other stuffs, spikenard, and all kinds of rare scents and ointments, and these he used to sell for as much money as he could get for them. but although he was wealthy, he was a kind merchant; and although he considered trade to be important, and struck as good a bargain as he could, when the time for bargain- ing came, yet there was something that he con- sidered more important than merchandise and than bargaining, and that was his daughters. he had three daughters. the eldest was called heliodore, the second hermione, and the merchant’s daughter the third daphne. they were all three of them extremely beautiful. the eldest, heliodore, was tall like a lily; the second, hermione, was dark like a rose; and the third, daphne, was like a flower that grows in the springtime. - one day, when his daughters were grown up, it was necessary for the merchant to make a long journey to the east—a longer journey than he had ever made before. he was obliged to go to india in order to sell some vases cunningly worked, which indian princes were especially fond of. before he started he called his daughters to him and said good-bye to them. they each of them kissed him on both cheeks, and begged him to bring them back something from india. they knew that india was a marvellous country, full of rich and strange things. he promised to bring back something for each of them, and he asked them what they would like. heliodore said she would like a scarf woven of moonbeams, such as is only to be found in the mountains which are in the north of india. hermione said she would like a the merchant’s daughter necklace made of rubies, such as are only found in the mines of india, where little gnomes work all day and all night underground and never see the sky. but when he asked daphne what she would like, she answered: “ the only thing that i want is the golden ring.” and heliodore and hermione laughed at her, and said: “silly child! she could buy a golden ring in any shop in athens. what a foolish thing to ask for.” before the merchant started, heliodore, hermione, and daphne burnt a sacrifice on the altar of hermes, and they prayed that the winds and the waves might be favourable to their father, and they entreated him that he should remember his promise to them, and should not forget the gifts which they desired; and they said at the end of their prayer: “ if our father forgets to bring back these gifts which he has promised us, then grant us that his ship, swift hermes, may not stir from the shore.” and the merchant confirmed their prayer, and burnt incense on the altar himself. then he started for india. the merchant’s daughter king of the gnomes to sell him the necklace of rubies. the king of the gnomes said: “ what will you give me for it p ” and the merchant said : “ i will give you whatever you ask.” and the king of the gnomes said to him: “ i will have in exchange for a necklace of rubies the nightingale that sings in the thickets of daulis.” so the merchant gave him this nightingale, although he was sorry to part with it, and received the neck- lace of rubies in exchange. the merchant remembered these gifts, which were so difficult to get, but he quite forgot what he had promised to his third daughter, which was only a golden ring, and he started home without the golden ring. when he reached the coast, and embarked on his argosy, there was a fair breeze, and he was pleased because he thought his journey would be swift. but what was his surprise to find that the ship would not stir from the shore. many other ships belonging to other sailors were scudding fast through the waves, leaving behind them a trail of foam, and yet his ship, although she was an excellent sea- the merchant’s daughter the peasant said: “ that accounts for it all. if you have promised to bring back something to somebody who is dear to you and have forgotten it, it is quite impossible that you should sail back home." “ that is all very well,” said the merchant, “ but can you tell me where i can find the golden ring p you see, there are many golden rings everywhere, but my daughter daphne, who is my youngest daughter, asked me to bring her back the golden ring.” the peasant nodded and turned round, and then he said : “ you see this road running in front of you into the distance p walk along it, without looking to the right or to the left, and when you have walked for three hours you will reach a spot, and in that spot is the golden ring.” the merchant did what the peasant had told him, and he walked for three hours without looking to the right or to the left. when the three hours were over he reached a milestone, on which was written: “ to the coast, three hours; to the palace, one minute.” near the milestone an old man the merchant’s daughter with a long grey beard was sitting, so the merchant spoke to the old man, and said to him: “ sir, can you tell me where i can find the golden ring p ” the old man answered him: “ the golden ring is in the palace of the king. the palace of the king is a minute’s walk from here. you turn to the right, and before you you will find two golden gates. you must open these gates, walk through them, and you will find the palace of the king in front of you. in this palace there is a prince, who is the king’s son, and that prince is the golden ring.” the merchant did as he was told. he walked for a minute, and found in front of him two golden gates. here he stopped a moment, because he was afraid to walk into the house of somebody whom he did not know. nevertheless he took heart and opened the gates, and walked straight along a broad road until he reached the steps which led to the front door of the king’s palace. now the king’s palace was made entirely of red marble, and when the merchant saw it he the merchant’s daughter corridor into another room, which belonged to the prince. the prince was a young man, scarcely twenty-one years old. his hair was as bright as the rice-fields in winter, and his eyes were as blue as the sea. he was strong and nimble, and his voice was as tuneful as a bell. the prince said to the merchant: “ i am very glad to see you. i am always glad to see people who come from a far country; but what do you want of me p ” so the merchant told him all his story— how he had three daughters; how he had remembered to bring back the gifts which the two eldest had asked of him; and how he had forgotten the golden ring which he had promised to his youngest daughter, daphne. then the prince said: “ i quite understand. is your daughter daphne very beautiful p ” and the merchant said : “ all my daughters are beautiful. my eldest daughter, heliodore, is as beautiful as the day; and my second daughter, hermione, is as glorious as the the merchant’s daughter drawn the curtain from this picture he said to the merchant, “ is your daughter as beautiful as that p ” and the merchant answered, “ that is my daughter daphne.” then the prince said to him : “ i thought so. i will give you something to take back to her.” he took the merchant into another room, and gave him a letter written on parchment, a cup made of crystal, and a small golden ring of plain gold, and he said to the merchant: “ please do not forget to take these three gifts to your youngest daughter, daphne. farewe .” the prince said good-bye to the merchant, and the king said good-bye to him also, and a slave was sent with him to show him the way out of the palace, and the nearest road to the coast; and there he found his ship waiting for him, and directly he got on board and set sail, the ship answered to the breeze, and swiftly and surely he arrived in his native country. now no sooner had he got home than his daughters asked him: “father, have you the merchant’s daughter brought us back the presents which you promised us p ” “yes,” said the merchant, “i have. i have brought heliodore a veil woven of moonbeams, which i found in the northern hills of india, and it was very expensive. and i have brought hermione a necklace of rubies, in exchange for which i had to part with a precious nightingale. and i have brought daphne the gifts which she asked for.” so saying, he gave his daughters their various presents, and to daphne the letter, the cup, and the ring which the prince had given him. when heliodore and hermione saw what their father had brought daphne, they were very pleased, because they thought a piece of paper, a cup such as was to be seen in almost any shop in athens, and a golden ring worth at the most a few pieces of silver, were indeed shabby presents compared with the treasures which they had received, and they laughed at their sister. but daphne paid no heed to this. she took her gifts to her room, and locked herself ________._____-_j-|. . ‘ ~- \ m— w“. ....___...._-i._. the merchant’s daughter in, and there she unrolled the scroll of paper which her father had given her, and read what was written in it. it was written on the parchment that she was to pour water into the crystal cup, throw the golden ring into it, and call three times aloud: “ come hither, come hither, come hither, my golden ring i ” no sooner had she read this than she filled the crystal cup with water, threw the golden ring into it, and called out to the ring as she had been told to do; and as she called, and behold! a wood-pigeon flew into her room and alighted on the crystal cup, and dived and swam in the water ; and as soon as its body was completely immersed in the water, it changed into the very prince whom the merchant had seen in india. “ i am prince fortunate,” said the prince, “ and i live in india. i have seen you many times in my dreams, and the first time i saw you i made up my mind that you should be my wife, for you are the most beautiful woman in the world, and i love you with all my heart.” and daphne told the prince that she loved him too, although she had 'éi "t - >“*“~p*~'t”’cf“d the merchant’s daughter for an hour, and when the hour was over changed back into a pigeon again and flew away, leaving her a fig, which he told her to cut open, and to wear what she should find inside it. she cut open the fig, and inside it she found a dress on which the azure sea and all its white waves were painted. this dress was like the sea at dawn, when the wind ruflles it, and little waves of crested foam dance for joy in the morning air. daphne put it on, and went for a walk in her garden, and her sisters, who were leaning out of the window, were amazed at the lovely sight, and cried out in surprise— for at first they thought it was queen aphro- dite just fresh from the sea ; and they envied daphne sorely. the next day the same thing happened again. daphne threw the ring into the cup, and all happened as before; and when the pigeon flew away, he left her a hazel-nut, and told her to crack it and wear what she should find inside it. daphne cracked the hazel-nut, and inside it she found a garment on which the month a garment in \vhich the month of may in all its fl.o\'ers \vas pai ntei) the merchant’s daughter of may with all its flowers was painted. she put it on, and she again went for a walk in the garden, and her sisters, who were leaning out of the window, gave a great cry when they saw her—for beautiful as had been the dress on which the sun, the moon, and the stars were painted, and beautiful the dress on which were pictured the sea and all its waves, this one was far lovelier still, for it was as frail as blossom, and as soft, and fragrant exceedingly; and as daphne walked across the grass in it, her sisters thought that queen proserpine had left her dismal home and had come back to visit the earth once more, arrayed in the glory of may—and then they saw that it was only their sister daphne, whom they had always despised. this made heliodore and hermione so jealous that they took counsel one with the other how they might do daphne harm, and at last they settled on a plan. every morning, as soon as the sun rose, the three sisters used to go to the baths and bathe. so the morning after daphne had walked about in the garden, in the dress, on the merchant’s daughter which the month of may and all its flowers were painted, as they were walking together to the baths, heliodore took with her a bag full of seed-pearls, and all at once she pre- tended to slip, and in slipping scattered the pearls on to the path. then she said to hermione and daphne, “ you go on in front, whilst i pick up my pearls.” as soon as hermione and daphne were out of sight, she swept up the pearls with a small broom and put them all back into the bag, and then she returned to the house. there she took the key of daphne’s room—for she had noticed that daphne always hid this key in a crevice on the hearth—and she opened daphne’s door, went into her room, and searched in every corner to see what she might find; and there, at the back of the cupboard, she found the prince’s letter, the crystal cup, and the golden ring. she read the prince’s letter, filled the crystal cup with water, threw the golden ring into it, and called out the magic words. but it so happened that daphne had that day left her knife in the cup ; so when heliodore cried out, “ come hither, the merchant’s daughter them into the water of the spring, and made an ointment, as they had said. no sooner had she done this than a wandering minstrel passed her, and asked her whither she was going. “ i am looking,” said daphne, “ for the king’s palace, where prince fortunate lives, but i do not know where it is.” the minstrel said: “come with me, for i know the way. but what is your trade p ” “ i am a physician,” said daphne, “ and i have good medicine to sell.” so presently she reached the king’s palace, and called outside the windows: “ good medicine to sell. good medicine to sell.” when the king heard that there was a physician there, he sent for him and said: “ can you cure my son p ” daphne answered: “ in eight days i will make him so well that he will ride on his horse, and shoot with his bow and arrow.” the king was pleased ; but when the other doctors heard of this, they said that if this new physician cured the king’s son in a week, the king would be at liberty to cut off their heads. the merchant’s daughter tell the company.” the king gave orders, and every one was silent. then daphne told the whole of her story, as i have told it now, and she told everything except one thing— she did not say who she was, for she was keeping this to the end. but when she reached the end of the story and told how the merchant’s daughter had disguised herself as a doctor in order to cure the prince, she said— “ i am the merchant’s daughter. my name is daphne, and in the disguise of a doctor i cured the prince. i did it because i am betrothed to him, and because he will make me his wife; and i never did the prince any harm, but my sister did that evil thing from envy, because she was jealous of our happiness.” as soon as the prince heard this, he recog- nised daphne, and he embraced her and said_: “ it is true. this is daphne, my betrothed, and my bride that is to be.” and the king prepared a splendid wedding- feast, which lasted three days, and they were married in a temple of gold, and on the first the merchant’s daughter day of the feast daphne wore the dress on which the sun, the moon, and the stars were painted; and on the second day she wore the dress on which were pictured the sea and all its waves ; but on the third day she wore the dress which was adorned with the month of may and all its flowers, and on that day she was more beautiful than ever she had been before, for it was her wedding-day. and she lived with the prince happily for ever afterwards. . v i“ j'fifl‘mflfim; ' ‘ “m the cunning apprentice (a russian story) » ~ -—-.-‘ -...~~__._.___~ the cunning apprentice everywhere, and nobody will teach him for nothing, and i have no money.” “ well, give him to me,” said the stranger, “ and in three years i will teach him all the knowledge there is. and in three years’ time, on this same day and at the same hour, come and fetch your son. but take care that you are not late, for if you come in time and recognise him you shall receive your son back again, but if you are late he shall remain with me.” the old man was so pleased that he did not ask who the stranger was, where he lived, or how and what he would teach the lad. he left his son with him, and went home. he reached home in great joy, and told his wife all about it. now the stranger was a wizard. three years passed. the old man had long ago forgotten on what day and at what hour he had left his son with the stranger, and he did not know what to do. but the son, on the day before the appointed space of time came to an end, flew to him in the shape of a bird, and entered the cottage in ~‘n. c_--.a the cunning apprentice his true shape. he greeted his parents, and said : “ father, to-morrow my apprenticeship, which has lasted three years, comes to an end. do not forget to come and fetch me.” and he told him where to come and how to recognise him. “ i am not the only apprentice at my master’s: there are eleven more lads like myself, who remain with him for ever, and all because their parents did not know how to recognise them. and if you do not re- cognise me, i shall also stay with him for ever, and be the twelfth. to-morrow, when you come for me, my master will change us into twelve white pigeons, all alike, feather for feather, tail for tail, and head for head. now listen: all of us will fly high in the air, but i will fly higher than the rest. my master will ask, ‘ have you recognised your son?’ and you must then point to the pigeon which is flying higher than the others. after this he will bring to you twelve ponies, all of the same colour, and all with their manes on the same side, and just alike. when he takes you to these ponies they will all be the cunning apprentice standing still, but i shall give a kick with my right leg. my master will ask you, ‘ have you recognised your son p’ and you must then point me out. after this he will bring to you twelve lads, all of the same height, all alike, hair for hair and voice for voice, and all dressed alike. as soon as you see them look carefully ; on my right cheek there will be a little fly, so that you may recognise me.” he said good-bye to his parents, and went out of the house, changed into a bird and flew away to his master. the next morning his father got up, made ready and went to fetch his son. he arrived at the wizard’s. “ now, old man,” said the wizard, “ i have taught your son every- thing that is to be known, but if you don’t recognise him, he must stay with me for ever and ever.” he then let fly into the air twelve white pigeons, all alike, feather for feather, tail for tail, and head for head ; and he said: “ old man, do you recognise your son p ” the old man looked and looked, and when one pigeon flew higher than the rest, the cunning apprentice “ sell him to us.” “ buy it.” “ is it dear p” “ a hundred roubles.” the huntsmen did not bargain, but paid him the money and took the dog, and the old man took off its collar and its chain. “ why do you take off the collar and the chain p ” “i am a traveller,” said the old man, “ and the chain is necessary to me to bind up my cloth leggings.” “ all right, take it,” said the huntsmen, and they whipped their horses and rode off at a gallop. but the fox got away again ; they started their hounds after it ; the hounds ran but could not catch the fox. one of the huntsmen said: “ let us try the new hound.” they let it loose, and what did they see p the fox ran off in one direction, and the hound in another, and he caught up the old man and changed into a lad just as he had been before. the old man went on further with his son. they came to a lake where huntsmen were shooting geese, swans, and wild ducks. a the cunning apprentice “ and how shall i be able to lead the horse without a bridle p ” said the wizard. “ give me the bridle to lead him as far as my house, and then take it back, for i do not want it.” then the horse-dealers fell upon the old man and said: “ that is only fair; if you sell the horse you must sell the bridle.” what could he do p the old man gave up the bridle. the wizard led the horse to his house, put it in the stables, tied it fast to the ring, and pulled his head up high so that the horse stood on his hind legs, and his fore legs did not touch the ground. the wizard called his daughter and said : “ i have bought the cunning fellow.” “ where is be p ” asked his daughter. “ he is in the stables.” his daughter went to see, and she was sorry for the young lad. she loosened the bridle and made it longer, and the horse shook his head so that at last he freed himself from the bridle, and galloped away for several miles. the daughter ran to her father and said: “ father, forgive me, i have done a wicked thing. the horse has escaped.” orestes and the dragon (a greek story) orestes and the dragon there was once upon a time a king who had three sons and one daughter. not far from the king’s palace there was a large garden, and in this garden lived a dragon. the king told his children never to go into the garden lest they should be caught by the dragon, which had wings. but one evening the youngest of the king’s sons, whose name was orestes, went with his sister into the garden and began to play. no sooner had they begun to play than the dragon appeared, and seizing the little princess with its tail, flew away into the air and took her to a high mountain which no one could climb. when orestes went home and told of the misfortune, the king was very sad, and a black flag was hoisted on the top of the palace, and the whole court went into mourning. now orestes, since it had been through his fault that his sister had been lost, wished ! orestes and the dragon in the evening the dragon came home, and the princess asked him where his strength lay, and the dragon told her that he had three golden hairs on the top of his head, and with these hairs one could open a room in which there were. three doves; and were any one to kill the first dove, he would grow sick ; and were any one to kill the second dove, he would grow worse; and if any one were to kill the third dove, he would die. the next day, when the dragon had gone out on his daily business, which was to look for disobedient children in the country round and to catch them, the princess went to her brother and told him what the dragon had said. orestes told her that when the dragon came back in the evening and fell asleep, she was to take a pair of scissors and cut off the three golden hairs, and open the secret room and kill the doves which were in it. in the evening when the dragon came back and fell asleep, which he did at once, for he was tired, the princess took a pair of scissors, cut off his three golden hairs, opened orestes and the dragon out of orestes’ hands and left him on the top of the mountain. orestes was most sorrowful, and he went into the castle of the dragon and looked into all the rooms. now in one room, which was carpeted with green grass, he found a silken greyhound which was hunting a silken bare; and in another room he found a golden beaker and a golden jug; and in another he found a golden hen with golden chickens. then he went to the stables, and there in a stall he found three horses with golden wings, and one was white, and one was red, and one was green. “ by opening the doors of our stable,” said the horses, “ you have done us a great favour. what can we do for you in return p " “ i do not wish for anything,” said orestes, “ save to be taken to the foot of this moun- tain ! ” “ get on my back,” said the green horse; and orestes got on his back, and the horse flew in a moment to the bottom of the moun- tain. then each of the horses gave him two orestes and the dragon up in his room, and he looked through the . keyhole to see what he was doing. but the beggar did nothing at all ; he merely ate the chestnuts and drank the wine, so the gold- smith went to his bedroom and went to sleep. then the beggar took one of the hairs which the white horse had given him and burned it, and immediately the white horse appeared and said : “ what do you wish p ” “ i wish,” said the beggar, “ that you should bring me the silken greyhound and the silken hare.” the horse brought them immediately, and the beggar gave them to the goldsmith. the goldsmith went to the palace and sold them for much money to the eldest prince. on sunday the eldest brother married the eldest princess, and everybody went to a field and played quoits. and the beggar burned another golden hair, and immediately the green horse appeared and brought him a green garment. the beggar put it on, and went into the field and played quoits with the company. after he had played for a whole hour everybody had lost; he orestes and the dragon wedding, and the beggar burned another of the hairs, and immediately the red horse came to him and brought him a red garment, and when he put it on he went and played quoits. after he had played for a long time, all had lost save himself, and he went away, leaving the ground strewn with gold coins. on the following sunday the youngest princess was to be married to a brother of the king, but she did not wish to wed him, and she said that she would not, unless he brought her the golden hen and the golden chickens. once more the beggar obtained these, and on sunday, when the wedding was to be held, they went and played quoits, and the beggar went riding on a white horse and wearing a white garment ; and as he was playing he threw the quoit at his uncle who was to wed the youngest princess, and killed him. and they took him to the palace, and the king said to him : “ why have you killed my brother p ” and the prince told him everything that had happened, and as soon as the king heard drestes and the dragon the story he gave orders that the two eldest brothers should be put to death, and he gave the youngest princess to orestes for a wife. and they were married, and they lived happily for ever afterwards. the wise princess in an aneg voice: “fie, fie, fie! why have you come here, ivan-the-king’s-son p ” “ oh, you old woman,” he answered, “ before asking me questions you should give me something to eat and to drink, and you should prepare me a hot steam bath; and then you can ask me questions.” the old woman gave him food and drink, and a steam bath, and then the king’s son told her he was looking for his wife, the wise princess. “ my child,” said the old woman, “it is a pity you did not come before. in the first years, after her flight, she remembered you, but now she has ceased thinking of you. g at once to my second sister ; she knows more than i do.” ivan-the-king’s-son set out on his journey, and followed the ball. he walked and walked, and again there stood before him a cottage with chickens’ legs. “ cottage, cottage, stand still, as your mother placed you, with your back to the wood and your front to me.” the cottage turned round. ivan-the- ' r q q-..' i u - ‘ - "‘-"va’- --v ‘ ‘ ~~r~ -- u » . . aav ‘. a -_-» .> ' .\~-i..mii ...~..\¢ “ bo..- .n"“. |~<_ -‘."\ . ..~ “'.-..“ _'- "“"_‘r--' _ ‘ ‘- v. ~r -'\ ~ _ \__“ _ if $ j'i" - vgi; "( i n‘lsj‘q . , ' . ‘ | . a k . l"-"'" .l "j; ‘_ i. - r ’ ‘. "t q - ‘ "' \"- wm i ‘r. * #a 'j _ ' v-qp.“ “ - .' _ ‘ - _ - .n' l s " 'w '\ - i“ k d “ .! \ ‘ qidney baldwin s return this boo k on or before the latest date s tamped below. university of illinois library five plays and five pantomimes by sidney baldwin illustrations by mary rose donovan the penn publishing company philadelphia r ill-ll— \ te. !, -.‘\"£.'li n f ft. li/vlfiy'l-iz' lijnep'li f ' {$ . ill? blgf foreword the plays. these little plays are primarily designed to sup- ply the need for children’s dramas that may be worked out with out the necessity for long training, elaborate costuming or ex- pensive accessories. the undoubted benefit that a child derives from such plays is too often offset by the nervous wear and tear of long rehearsals and the strain and fret of over much prepara- tion. it is the aim of this book to develop the small actor’s ingenuity and imagination rather than to perfect his capacity for memor- izing by repetition. the most radical point of difference between this and other books of children’s plays is the substitution of dances where songs have ordinarily been usedi—simple dances for groups, individual pantomime dances for the separate char- acters. the superiority of the dance over the song is rapidly becoming recognized by modern child-educators everywhere, since the dance provides a proper outlet for a child’s natural energy, increases self-confidence, poise and ease of movement, and en- courages self-expression, none of which benefits can be claimed for songs. these little plays will appeal to the children because in plot and characters they belong to that border country between fact and fancy in which little folk love to wander. no useless tarletan fairies, these with tinsel wings and crowns, but kindly and gentle spirits of familiar things—beings who exist, not merely to flutter and posture like the conventional fairies of old fables, but to do tender services for helpless flowers, to ride the rain-drops to the foreword aid of dusty grass or to lift and caress a faded violet’s drooping head. the pantomimes. a pantomime, a play without words, is the skeleton of an idea that is to be filled out, given body and sub- stance by the interpretation of the performer. as children are quite incapable of fine self-analysis, only simple action is used in children‘s pantomime. in the five pantomimes in this book the responsibility for the action rests in large part upon the group rather than upon the individual performers; thus, the child who is slow of thought gains confidence and inspiration by the example of his neighbor, and is encouraged to develop a suggestion which he could never have originated by himself. " the child should never for one moment be allowed to forget that his every gesture is an important part of the whole story and that unless his own action be clearly understood by the audience, part of the story will be lost to them. the teacher should remember this point particularly as she will find that the child has a tendency to lessen the action until after repeated re- hearsals the meaning of the gesture is lost through carelessness. tangible objects give the children a better grasp of the situa- tion. a chair serves as a tree, or as a house. if a book is placed where the flower is supposed to grow the little pantomimist can gather honey much more realistically. the slower child goes to get honey from the blossoms that another child had just left, and finds satisfaction in repeating the action which it could not have created. they should be encouraged to add bits of action that they think suitable. it is much easier to cut down at the last than to build up. the idea should be over-emphasized rather than not brought out enough. it must be constantly urged on the children that the audience will not know what they are doing foreword that the children may learn to associate the action with the music. it is also better not to use music which has words that the chil- dren know, as fairies and popular songs are not in entire harmony. phonograph records that are already owned may be used, or others be borrowed, thus cutting down the expense of buying particular records, which might be out of stock. all records are too long for dances of this sort, but the music may be silenced at the proper time. the dances. the dances in this book, though short, are as long as it is wise to make them. longer ones with a more in- volved story- lose their clearness, and the interest of both the actor and the audience. once the idea is mastered, the children can build their own dances, and take great pleasure in planning and improving them. if the teacher desires, the dances may be taught at first as a part of the class-room work. “how would you dance if you were a fairy in the woods?” “how would you ask a fairy to dance with you if you were a butterfly?” it is then a simple matter to combine these dances in the regular pan- tomime. ' as mob scenes on the stage are given more rehearsing than any other part of the play, so the group dances, and especially the pantomime dances must be gone over and over until there is no .doubt in the last child's mind just what it is to do, both alone, and in connection with some one else. you are often safe in leaving little points to be decided by one child dancing alone; you are never justified in leaving anything to the judgment of a group. a simple action that almost any of them will perform easily alone, utterly vanishes from their brains when they are act- ing in concert, and as fear gradually spreads itself through a mob, foreword so will forgetfulness grow in a group of children until the whole action is lost, and their gestures turn into meaningless motions while the teacher stands watching the havoc and powerless to prevent it. rehearse, then, and again rehearse. go over the action at their seats so they will think it as well as do it. “james, what do you do first?” “i go and get a pick-axe.” “who else goes and gets a pick-axe when james does?” the hands go up. the teacher scrutinizes them to be sure that they are right. “what happens next?” and so on, until each child can repeat the story without a mistake. after a drilling like this, the teacher may feel reasonably safe. with children it is hard to be perfectly sure what may happen, but if the music is playing a strain which they associate with a certain action, and if their lesson has been well learned, the pantomime will go on uncon- sciously even after an unexpected interruption. i once saw a group of children playing a pantomime game in the course of which a cat walked out on the stage. the audience laughed; the children looked to see what they were laughing at. they were plainly disconcerted, and the pantomime stopped, but before any older person could spring to the rescue, one of the children said to the others, “don’t stop, don’t stop!” and carried the cat off the stage. . i congratulated the teacher on their self control, and she told me that the year before, a similar thing had happened and she had had to drop the curtain after the children had forgottenctheir entire action. “i made up my mind it wouldn’t happen again, if i could help it," she said, “and i have trained these children so that they can do the whole thing backward.” she had, for, the interruption removed, the play went on without any lessening of interest. contents plays the christmas spirit . . . . . christmas eve . . . . . . . marjorie’s garden . . . . . mother nature’s trumpeter . . . the enchanteo gate . . . . pantomimes the christmas elves . the indian camp . . the spirit or the frost . the quest of the butterfly page i the growth or the flowers iii ! the christmas spirit v in!“ m. all! ll yrill ‘ cast of characters the christmas angel spirit of the fir h h h h h u (l h h “ “ “ mountain h h h first shepherd second shepherd marca first wise man second “ “ third “ “ attendants villaoers the simplicity of this little play makes it especially fit for the over-crowded christmas time. no one character has many lines to learn, and the action is simple. if there is plenty of time, re- peated rehearsing will make the performance smoother. much more than in a play of the ordinary sort, the eerctiveness may be marred by wrong lighting. two-thirds of the lights should be shaded with royal blue paper, and the remaining third in golden brown. this gives a mysterious air, and at the same time lights up the scene so that the action can be followed. the the christmas spirit the christmas spirit prelude first scene, a field, bordered by trees. in the foreground three shep- herds lie asleep. chorus behind scenes sings “holy night.” as the song comes to its close, the christmas angel enters. she stands at center of stage far enough back so that the spirits, when they advance will be in front of her. el angel birchd el mou/vm m elmd [: rm streame] d ma pt tm: christmas angel. lo, all four winds waft happiness tonight! the silent earth lies waiting for the star to shine o’er manger mean in bethlehem. and i, the christmas angel, come before, to call the nature world to give its love to him who comes as saviour of the world. spirits of the mountains, fields and streams, i call you forthl (the spirits of the elm, the beech, the maple, the fir, the mountain, the stream and as many other tree spirits as the christmas spirit are needed to fill the scene, silently step out from behind the trees.) spirit of the stream (advancing slightly). dear christmas angel, has the time then come? spirit of the rock. we long have waited for thee, and thy call. angel. to-night is born the christ in bethlehem. when shines the star, we there must take our way to homage pay, and bear our living gifts that we his children lay before our lord. what have ye, spirits of the woods and fields? rock (kneels). i bring my store of rock. deep in my heart lie gold and silver. jewels too i hold. men seek them night and day for royal gems. these do i bring to lay before his feet. (rises) stream. my stream of water pure i bring to him. see how it sparkles! those are sunbeams caught! (bows head). to him who is the giver of all life i come to homage pay with living gift. angel. thy gifts are welcome. but what of the trees— why stand they silent? spirit of the birch, are thy hands empty on this night of nights? (advances). spirit of the birch. dear christmas angel, i have naught but twigs that yet are bare of bud. in three short months the tender green and white of my new leaves would be a fitting gift. but now i stand with empty hands. i cannot give my all. (retires.) the christmas spirit out at the end of the processional. as they rise, first vil- lager speaks.) first villager. how queer this is! he is no noble’s child! look how the light shines out about his head! the saviour can he be, in manger born? come, let us too pay reverence to the babe. (they go forward. marca, who has been watching, kneels where he stands, his head is bowed and he does not look up till the villagers have followed the rest. then, he rises, remembers the lamb under his arm. goes forward, puts the lamb gently in the cradle, and, overcome by his own daring, runs off stage after procession. the christmas angel comes forward, gathers up the gifts of the spirits and the wise men and with them in her arms comes to the front of stage.) angel. giving again the gifts i go from here— the christ child gifts that men and spirits gave. you catch a glimpse of me, now here, now there, in crowded street or pathway. then, your hearts are lighter with the thought that i am near. the christmas spirit, i am called by men. but in my heart are greater gifts than these. the angels sang of them when christ was born, and every christ-tide they are born anew: good will and peace and love that lasts alway i give to you throughout the whole wide world—- to you whose hearts are sad with many cares, to you whose lives are joyous through the years i bear the message, beautiful and new glory to god in the highest and on earth peace and good will to men. (angel slowly exits.) ali... . .. .. vv . . . .. .rr .... . . sillh. .. gjivmrvivelw christmas eve cape of light blue, covering her from shoulders to feet. elaborate crown on head, surmounted by star. cotton. dress of white canton flannel with rough side out. twisted cotton should be used for trimming the neck and sleeves. skirt is caught up over a white cord, and a twisted coronet of cotton is on her hair. tinsel. white greek costume, with tinsel trimming; costume heavily falling to feet. thread tinsel fastened at shoulders and falling loosely to hem of gown. crown of tinsel with thread tinsel falling through flowing hair. mistletoa. blouse of white, trousers of green; one green, one white stock- ing. cap made of mistletoe leaves of green cambric with white balls here and there. carries spray of mistletoe. holly. jester’s costume of red and green. cap trimmed with holly. carries spray of holly. christmas balls. boy. yellow costume to knee, strung all over with the smaller christmas balls of all colors. cornucopia. wears dress of grey cheesecloth to look like silver. carries big silver cornucopia. marshmallow. costume made by swinging cords of boxes over shoulders. black arms and legs. four sides to box. no hats. square hat boxes covered with white paper are the right size. christmas eve chocolate creams. round brown boxes. collar of brown cambric that reaches to edge of box, imitating top of candy. black arms and legs. pop-corn. white fluffy tarletan dress very full, five or six skirts each shorter than the last. chains of popcorn worn around neck and crown of pop-corn with strings hanging over the flowing hair. white stock. ings and shoes. cranberries. red skirts (or bloomers) and waists made like jumper blouses worn over skirts. strings of cranberries around neck. red stock- ings. frost fairies. loose white gowns of cheesecloth falling from neck to ankle, and cut in points from the knee down. big bag of frost hung over right shoulder by tinsel strap and carried on left side. small crown of silver paper heavily coated with mica. costume glitter- ing with mica shaken on wet glue spots. candy canes. white suits with red stripes running around. carry big wooden candy cane, striped red and white. christmas candle. yellow cap cut to look like a flame. grey blouse and knicker- bockers. carries pasteboard candle five feet high with flame at top. christmas eve tinsel (left center). i thought those people would never go to bed! if they had been five minutes longer, we should have lost our hour of revelry. candy cane i. (on front left of stage). i cannot walk. they broke off half my leg. i’ve been looking everywhere for it. now, i'm sure that that was what one of them was eating. candy cane ii. better that than your head! candy cane i. oh, that will go tomorrow when the children come. i want my leg tonight! (a crack is heard. cornucopia rushes forward.) cornucopia (back center; characters clear space in front of her). i knew my side would break. they bent it when they put me on the tree. and now my candy is all gone. (cor- nucopia comes to front left during dance.) (candy runs out from behind cornucopia, marshmallows, chocolate drops. dance. tableau at end.) dance of the christmas candles music: schottish. first figure: schottish in circle (eight measures). second figure: turn, schottish in circle opposite way (eight measures). third figure: chocolates stand still. marshmallows schottish around circle, weaving in and out around chocolates, reach partner (four measures). face partner; all 'silde lright four steps (fifth measure), slide left four times (sixth meas- christmas eve i are) ; turn around (se'venth measure) ; and bow (eighth meas- ure). fourth figure: chocolates schottish about marshmallows. repeat second half of third figure (eight measures). fifth figure: schottish in circle with partners (four measures) ; reverse and schottish four measures (fifth to eighth measure). sixth figure: chocolates on outside, schottish around circle four times. marshmallows on inside, face other way and schottish around circle four measures. re'uerse both, which brings them back to partners. seventh figure: facing partners schottish in and out around circle, marshmallows going one way, chocolates the other, and passing first on the inside of the circle and then the outside (weaving step). eighth figure: all schottish off in line. tinsel. who are those things? cane . (closing up space). those are candies. cornucopia here has lost them from her case. (tinsel goes up stage.) cornucopia. i wish my side hadn’t brokenl candy. never mind. you will be whole tomorrow, when we are smashed to bits for our contents. christmas balls (coming down center). i can just see the rest of me by standing on tiptoe at the window. the biggest mortal stepped backward on my box, and then hastily gathered the broken pieces and took them christmas eve out to wait for the ash-man. i wonder how he’d enjoy christmas day if half of him were thrown out! (goes back to window.) pop-corn (right center). you’re not half as badly off as we are. how would you like to be shaken over a hot fire till you burst in agony? and then after that, to have your heart pierced with a sharp needle? more than half my companions disap- peared in the process, vanishing down throats! i don’t think it is a merry christmas! lcranberry (with pop-corn). i sympathize with pop-corn. i was not roasted, but i was strung, and hanging by a thread is not pleasant! chocolate drop (front, left side). i’m sweeter than you are! marshmallow. you’re not. i’m pure sugar. chocolate. the children like me better. marshmallow. they do not. (chocolate and marshmallow fight. )‘ cornucopia. come, come; this will never do! i shall put you back in the case if you behave so! (cotton and tinsel come down, center front.) tinsel (to cotton). you are not very pretty, cotton, all dead white as you are. n ow, my glitter is much more effective! (mistletoe and holly draw near to listen.) cotton. i am pretty. mistletoe called me so just now! tinsel (sarcasticall y ) . oh !—mistletoe! christmas eve mistletoe. yes, i did, tinsel. that is, to be exact, holly said i was going to say so. and i ought to be a good judge of beauty. i see enough of it at holiday time. tinsel. oh! then, if you are such a judge, which of us two should hang higher on the tree? those stupid mortals have put a bit of cotton on the top-most limb—and that is my place. cotton. it is not. i belong there. mistletoe. but why quarrel? you have no power to get up there now! tinsel. no, but it would relieve the slight if it were acknowl- edged that it is my place. cotton. it is not your place! christmas tree (coming down center—all fall back). come come! what is this quarrel? cotton. tinsel says that she should be higher on your boughs than i am. i, who represent the snow which weighs down your branches in the winter! nothing could be higher than that! tinsel. but i am the frost-— chorus of frost fairies (scattered through crowd). no, no! you are not! ist frost fairy. we are the frost fairies, (coming forward). we who come in green boxes labelled diamond dust. we are the frost, tinsel. tinsel. (discomfited). true; i had forgotten you who never get higher than the floor. your fingers are too weak to cling to the tree, and christmas eve you fall off. but — , who am the water, sparkling from top toe in my frozcn splendor, hold so fast that the needles leave the boughs sooner than i. cotton (sarcastically) . but i who am still the snow, while tinsel changes from frost to water, i am in my rightful place, o’ertopping her. am i not, o tree? christmas candles. you! oh ho! we can make way with you in a second. but a touch of our flaming wick to your dress, and lady tinsel would reign supreme. oh! ho! (waves candle). (cotton shrinks. tinsel stands her ground as candle approaches.) tinsel. you can not harm me, christmas candle. come as close as you like! i can hold my own! christmas candle. shall we burn up cotton, lady tinsel? it will take but a spark. oh ho! cotton. keep your distance, sir! if there be talk of burning, the christmas tree, himself, could not stand against your mischief. burning is no test. tinsel. (to cotton): you are not beautiful! see how i sparkle in the candle-light! (turns to show costume. candle holds candle near.) frost fairies. lady cotton shall sparkle too! we will help her. she shall outshine you! (dance with cotton in center. fairies weave about her, showering her with diamond dust. at end, she gets up and preens herself.) christmas eve first figure: two lines. canes on one side. candles on the other; lines face. step right (one), cross left foot behind (two), step right (three) and hop (four), bringing left foot up in front of right foot, as the hop is taken. repeat left (second measure); repeat whole six times. second figure: face front. step on right foot (one), hop on right foot (two), step on left foot (three), hop on left foot (four). (first measure). repeat this step for eight measures, the leader turning outside of his line and leading hack to the back of the line. the first candy cane, and the first christmas candle cross their cane and candle, and the others pass through this arch, coming down to place. i‘ ’\ e @ {g 'i [ [bees bees third figure: repeat first figure with boys in new positions. fourth figure: repeat second figure. continue repeating this until the last couple is leading. these, instead of forming arch, turn in, and lead up the mid- dle, and they form the arch the other way, so that the boys go off stage through the arch, the fourth couple following last. christmas eve fourth figure: cranberries make the circle into a square and sit cross-legged. they sway their bodies from right to left all together, imitating the popper as it shakes over the fire. the pop-corns in the middle crouch, and at the first count of each measure, one pop-corn at a time, leaps up, and crouches again, as pop-corns do when they burst. only one girl jumps for each of the first three measures. for the fourth and fifth measure two jump, one on the first, and one on the third count. in the sixth and seventh measures three pop on the first three measures, and on the eighth, the pop-corns all pop and run to their places in the line. this action is 'very effective. the children must bob up and down suddenly, so that they are ready to bob again. the cranberries, being the popper, must keep their motion steady. fifth figure: pop-corns sit in circle and bow forward and back cranberries in a long line wind in and out the center of the circle, running two steps and turning two out of every meas- ure, to imitate the rolling of cranberries in a bowl. in the meantime, a ball of red cord is passed from hand to hand of the pop-corns, and on the eighth measure the cranberries run to their place between two pop-corms, and take their place on the cord (eight measures). sixth figure: all skip f, holding the red card close to their waists, as though they were strung on it. dance of the christmas angel, the christ- mas tree, cotton and mistletoe, holly and tinsel. alusic—llfinuet music. minuet step used all through. formation: christmas tree and angel in center at back. holly christmas eve and cotton on right of stage, mistletoe and tinsel on left. e] anoil /?!" # orr/vs £ coiioq one/on era: first figure: with minuet step, step right, tap with left toe twice (one measure) ; step left, tap with right toe twice, start- ing with the outside foot the partners advance toward center of stage, the christmas tree and the christmas angel going straight forward, the other two couples coming sidewise for- ward. they advance for six measures; on the seventh they face their partner and he makes a sweeping low bow, while the lady bends low in a curtsey (two measures). second figure: partners face each other. joining right hands high, they step on the right foot, and tap the left twice, look- ing at each other. step on left foot advancing to partner’s place, tap right twice. these steps are very small and six are taken before the opposite place is reached. the last two measures are taken up by the bow and curtsey. third figure: return to place, same step. fourth figure: form a circle. the christmas tree crosses right hand with cotton, the christmas angel with mistletoe, and holly with tinsel. with right hands they advance around this circle, letting go, and bowing directly across circle to partner on last two measures (eight measures). christmas eve i hivgel tr ee hol (- yb d tinsel. cotton iii/ fifth figure: forming circle with left hands in center, they re- peat step (eight measures). sixth figure: holly and cotton face mistletoe and tinsel. christmas angel faces christmas tree. for six measures holy and mistletoe and the christmas angel turn their part- ners in the center, finishing in two lines. they bout) low on last two measures. they all face up stage, back to audience, holly and cotton are behind the christmas angel; tinsel and mistletoe behind the christmas tree. the tree and the christmas angel lead off with step up stage, and before the bow the bell strikes, and the curtain falls quickly, as the last steps of the minuet sound on the stage. (clock, at end, strikes one.)' quick curtain (curtain rises again, showing real tree trimmed.) marjorie’s garden \ ' a r \ \ \ i i \‘ ~, ‘ i v ,' ..i-. \ . \'_ v d - i) i - .‘v ‘ o i v i v ‘ it .k v " iv ' i-sw‘ s t \ v .i. i i i! -. o , .. '. o e. l ,- t l t i o . r ‘ t l q . _ w-“ -, . d i ‘ , ca . - .- a ‘ i “its \‘ev' , ‘mq lkr ‘ n i q,’ , % _ _ a j'. ln.“ i. ‘ ‘ ‘i‘i‘i .i it ' ' he—bl in. \ i cl .l\. q i _‘_ii in j j cast of characters marjorie girl of ten. the fairy of the garden girl of twelve or fourteen. sun boy of ten. rain boy of ten. wesr wind boy of ten. south wind girl of ten. clouds girls of seven. flowers girls of seven to nine. music a soft, dreamy melody for south wind’s dance. a more spirited dance for rain. costumes marjorie. little girl’s dress, not too elaborate. the fairy of the garden. trailing gown of delicate blue, pink or lavender. carries a long flower wand, and wears a crown of tiny flowers. sun. bright yellow costume. halo or rays around his head. quiver on back filled with yellow paper darts. rain. all grey, with long deep-fringed sleeves, and waist fringed t knees. wears bag of raindrops. no cap. marjorie’s garden west wind. suit of dark green. south wind. . dress of white floating stuff, flowers caught here and there, and flowers in her long hair. clouds. grey dresses or suits with long grey scarves. butterfly. light yellow, with long gorgeous wings stenciled with a copy of butterfly spots. flowers in the garden. costumes simulating the flowers they represent. they may be all of one kind or may differ. marjorie’s lgarde'n scene, a garden. all along the side stand a double row of flowers. these have drooping heads. '(enter majorie with a watering can), marjorie. 'oh, my poor pretty flowers. i do wish that the hot sun wouldn’t shine so brightly. i am so afraid you will die before the rain can save you. i’ll give you all the water i can carry, but i am afraid that it won’t be enough. (holds water over flowers, going to fill can between each twa. when she has gone over all of them, she stands back 'and watches them anxiously, but they do not revive.) marjorie. i do wish i knew what to do for them. '(she stoops down and pats the ground at their feet. enter the fairy of the garden.) marjorie’s garden fairy (agitatedly). the sun! see, here comes the sun himself (enter sun, very proudly. without noticing either mar- jorie or the fairy, who stand watching him, he strides over to the bed, and lays his hand on the shoulder of one of the flowers.) sun. come away, little flower, come with me. you have been here quite long enough. i want to burn you up. (flower shrinks). oh, you need not turn to your companions. by this time tomorrow they will be gone too. i have let you live too long already. marjorie (running to him and shielding her face with one arm, tries to push him away from the flower, but stops, as if he were too hot for her). go away, sun. you shall not burn up all my flowers. (though she is not able to touch him, nevertheless he is so astonished that he lets the flower go, and retreats to the center of the stage). sun. and who are you, pray? marjorie. i am marjorie, the little girl who owns this garden, and you shall not have my flowers. (turns to fairy). oh, fairy, make him go away. he is too hot. i cannot touch him. fairy. he is too powerful for me, too, dear child. i am afraid we must let the poor flowers go. (flowers stretch out their arms pleadingly toward marjorie.) marjorie. no, no! i will not! i won’t let him have' them i (she runs in front of the garden bed, and stays between sun and the flowers, shielding her face, but preventing sun from getting near the bed. sun astonished makes several marjorie’s garden then she waves hands over flowers’ heads standing back of them, occasionally laying her finger on lips, to insure perfect quiet. when the last flower head has fallen forward, south wind slips from one to the other whispering in each flower ear. then she tiptoes away toward the fairy and marjorie, and watches the flower bed from where she stands before she speaks.) south wind. there, they are all fast asleep, and will sleep for a long time. they are very tired, those flowers. fairy. yes, sun has made up his mind he is going to have them. marjorie drove him away, but he will come back, and take them. south wind. sun is coming here? then i must go away. he and i are not friends at all. he makes the air so hot that i cannot breathe, and then he laughs at me. marjorie is very brave to dare to stand against him. i have done all i could for you, dear fairy. you will let me go now? fairy. yes, south wind, run away. marjorie. thank you so much, south wind, for putting the flowers to sleep. south wind. i will come and put them to sleep tomorrow, if sun does not take them away tonight. (south wind goes out). majorie. sun shall not have them. he might be kind. (enter sun; he goes straight for the garden, but mar- jorie gets in the way.) sun. (angrily). what, you here yet! i told you before, i mean to have those flowers. now, if you do not go, i' shall marjorie’s garden have to hurt you. (marjorie does not move; he darts to- ward her.) fairy. take care, sun! you know what will happen to you, if you hurt a mortal! sun. i do not mean to hurt this mortal, but she need not get in my way. marjorie. (still shielding her face.) you are dreadfully hot, but you shall not burn my flowers! (there is a battle between marjorie and sun. twice he tries to get at the garden, and twice she gets in his way. he does not dare touch her, but tries to get past her. each time he retreats, to make a new start. she does not advance to- ward him, but stands defiant, ready to block his path. the third time, he gets by her, and seizes one of the flowers. her cries awake the rest of the flowers, who shrink away from the spectacle of one of their number in the grasp of the sun.) marjorie. (holding flower’s other arm.) let my flower go! you shall not have her! (sun starts to drag flower away but drops her, at sight of rain who enters here. flower falls to her knees; marjorie drags her back to the garden, and plants her. she is so busy patting the earth around her feet, that she does not see the entrance of rain.) sun. how dare you come here! (sun and rain glare; rain comes down toward front.) marjorie. (clapping her hands, and running toward rain.) oh, how good of you to come! you will help my poor flowers. marjorie‘s garden fairy. (dragging her back.) come away, marjorie. you must not interfere. this will be a battle between two deadly enemies. (battle between sun and rain. sun starts to run rain of the stage, but rain dodges. sun has, for ammunition, yellow paper darts, which he uses sparingly, whenever he has a chance. rain has a bag full of tiny, round balls, peas, pith- balls or clay. they fight, slowly, never touching each other, always trying to see if one cannot drive the other of the stage. once rain is driven away, and sun starts for the garden, but rain returns and he forces him to fight again. finally, how- ever, he forces rain to the front of the stage. rain has used all his ammunition, and has no other resource, and sun slowly approaches him. suddenly, from the back, rush in the clouds. they surround sun, waving their scarfs in front of his eyes till he is blinded, and turns dizzin around. then they sur- round him in confusion, pulling him this way, pulling him that, blinding his eyes with a scarf, tying his hands, and finally pull- ing him off the stage utterly routed. west wind hovers around the edge of the group, urging them on, blowing them now here, now there. ds rain follows sun off in triumph, west wind turns to the fairy. west wind. i found rain and sent him here to try his skill with sun. fearing that sun would conquer, i brought along the first clouds i found, and they did good service. fairy. they did indeed, west wind. marjorie’s flowers havq reason to thank you. (enter rain.) rain. there’ll be no sunset tonight, i promise you. sun is go 'cast of characters daffodil a girl, from ten to twelve years. a good dancer. nature a larger girl. sun a girl or boy from nine to twelve. rain a girl same size as sun. wood-elves a number of boys from seven to nine. violets girls from ten to twelve. sweet peas girls from ten to twelve. apple blossoms girls from seven to nine. music dance of daffodil. some melody soft, yet joyous. this cannot be played too low. daffodil’s call. a chord of three or five notes, like a bugle call, which har- monizes with the dance, and can be recognized as a separate strain. the same chord is used always. dance or the violets. waltz. dance of the apple blossoms. polka. dance of the wood-elves. spirited music, suited to elves. mother nature's trumpeter dance or the sweet peas. waltz. ensemble dance. two-four time, skipping. costumes daffodil. dress of very soft, green material. waist falling in points from belt to hem of skirt. yellow hat, shaped like daflodil, with the opening for face. nature. dress of leaf green. long brown cloak, and brown mob cap white hair. sun. yellow dress. yellow paper rays on head. carries yellow paper darts. rain. grey dress, loose hair. grey veil. wood-elf. grey bloomers and jumper waist. leaves sewed or stenciled on edge. caps of leaves, green stockings. violets. five purple petals on green skirts. purple waists. purple caps made of five wired petals, violets shaped. green stem on top of cap. they carry long garlands of leaves. sweet peas. pastel shades of cheesecloth. one piece dresses. long green scarves over shoulders. sweet pea bonnets to match dresses. green stockings. mother nature’s trumpeter this is repeated three times, the ones on the side repeating their step and swing. fourth figure: the two on the side waltz around each side of the room to the center of the back. the center one goes down to meet them. she takes their hands and together they waltz up to the dias of nature and make a low bow. this will take about sixteen measures. sweet peas, who are watching, clap their hands. nature. was that hard? you have only to grow, and my two helpers, sun and rain (they come forward) will help you. (sweet peas dance of with sun and rain in center.) nature. daffodil, are the rest of the flowers ready? daffodil. quite ready. nature. then we must not delay longer. sound the call! (daffodil blows the call. then dances of the stage before nature who walks off slowly. the call sounds again, fainter.) scene (before the curtain rises the call sounds.) (the call sounds again of stage. it is midsummer day. the violets are sleeping in little groups by the side of the stage. the sweet peas come stealing in in a group.) first sweet pea. i’m sure that was the call. yet no one back in the garden heard it, and no one here is stirring. second sweet pea. are these the woods. i like them better than a garden. i wish we grew here. first sweet pea. we may dance here, at any rate. i have mother nature’s trum eter ! p second figure: lvith left hands across center, skip other way eight times. third figure: a and b go up to c and d with two marching steps (one two) a bows to c, and b bows to d (three four) c bows to a and d bows to b (one two) and joining a and b they all walk back two steps. the four are now stand- ing in a straight line (two measures). fourth figure: [vith the nearest group of fours. the first figure is repeated with partners. c and a are partners and b and d. they face right, and the a of one group crosses hands with b on the other side, and gives her other hatid to her partner. b does the same with a and d. fifth figure: second figure is repeated. hes bee @ eehheeibei sixth figure: c, a, b, and d of one group take two walking steps which bring them in front of c, a, b, and d of the other group. as in the third figure, one line bows, the other line i'd: luz “. ‘ the enchanted gate the enchanted gate sew-sweetewwiwgsi flowfp/ng . " v. . gate bus” scene. lane. across the middle of the stage, set end to the audience is a gate. one foot of wall is on the side toward the au- dience. on the other side, the wall makes a corner. out- side, the place is bare. the butshes around the entrances have neither leaves nor flowers. lvithin, the bushes are thick with blossoms, the wall is covered with “cines, and the whole place is beaultiful. on one of the bare bushes a scarf is caught. enter prince thardof, carrying the cap of the princess. prince. she came this way; i know she came this way. here is her cap which dropped along the path. (sees scarf) —and this (takes it and examines it) this is her scarf she wore to-day. (calls) what ho, hallo! hallo in there, hallo! (tries gate; shakes it. elf tiptoe: out of woods on inside of gate. without coming to gate, peers out to see who is there; looks for a minute and then runs back. prince waits impatiently to have him come.) hallo, come here (calls after him) i want to speak to you! he does not heed me! let me in, i say! the enchanted gate (shakes gate again. elf comes out again, runs into wood, returns with second elf and they stand there looking at him.) come here and open for me. do you hear? lota (the first elf) to holdun, (the second). he’s asking us to open it for him. holdun (chuckling). he wants to come in where the princess is! thardof. the princess! then she is here! she is found! open this gate i tell you! will you not? then i’ll climb over it, or pull it down! (attempts to climb over it, but fails. then, he shakes it violently. elves attend to the garden, paying no attention to him. the elf king enters.) elf-king (to elves, angrily. the elves are afraid of him.) what means this noise? how dare you touch the gate? lota. we have not touched it, master. holdun. (no, not we!) ’tis he who tries to break the lock and hinge because the gate swings not at his command. (elf king strides toward gate where prince is still stri'ving.) elf-king. what would you, sirrah! stop that deafening din! thardof. you call me sirrah? who dares call me that! elf-king. who dares to fumble at my gateway here. i’ll have no trespassing upon my ground! thardof. your ground! my ground! my father is the king. this country is his kingdom. turn this lock! some one has coaxed the princess from her play, and i am here to find her. let me in! the enchanted gate elf-king. wait, not so fast. i am the ruler here. go ask your father if this land is his. if he says aye, tell him to prove it here. if he can say to me, ‘give back the maid, and i pay homage,’ wide the gate will swing. prince. then she is safe. the princess is unharmed! oh, i will go to find him. he will come. you shall not hold her in your horrid place. the palace grounds are gay with flowers sweet; this place is bare and ugly. she will grieve if left for long where she has never been. you tempted her to wander by your tricks. she always was too trusting. i will go! (turns) (enter the king, his father, and his retinue.) king. have you learned of the princess, o my son? the heralds that we sent have failed us all. none find a trace of her. prince (eagerly). oh, i have found see here—her cap,—her scarf! she came this way! she is in there, but why i do not know. tell him to open to us this locked gate! elf-king. yes, tell me, king! command the lock be turned. the prince, your son, says you rule all this land. i wait your signal. will you say it me? (the king turns away, silent. the prince stands looking at him, wonderingly. the nobles of the retinue draw closer to comment on the situation, and the elf king stands in front of his gate, arms folded, defiant.) first noble. the king is silent. why does he not speak? the enchanted gate knothaire. he cannot! long ago, the story goes, this place was free from all the elfish band until the king, once—heedless—made a pact that he should give—for certain worthless work the elves could do—this land, and never rule again this bit of kingdom. ever since there has been strife. first noble. but can our king n’er gain his royal rule? must this barred gate stand here? that mocks him when he stops in front of it? knothaire. i do not know. i think there is a charm that must be broken. but ’tis long ago. my grandsire told the story. hush! the king! (they draw back to position as the king turns.) king. i must submit. here, i am powerless. this gate will never yield its lock to me. (turns to gate.) but this i ask you, not as royalty— but as a searcher who has lost his heart, for such the little maiden was to me a and would have been still more if she had stayed. i pray you tell me, is the princess there? elf-king. since you do not command, and since your son though yet impetuous, is daring brave to save his trials, i will answer you. now listen! (the stage is 'very still as the king and his followers strain their ears to listen. from the elf woods comes the sound of the princess’ voice. no words can be heard. no one moves till the song stops.) the enchanted gate prince. her voice; it is the princess—and she sings! she is not happy! no, she cannot be! why, she has none of us to play with her! how can she sing! king. hush, son. you do not know. the elfin ways. a trick that may have been. (the court listens again, and the song grows softer.) elf-king. no trick, king. the princess wanders here. we have her safe, and she shall not be harmed. she is our princess and we hold her dear, and she shall rule us, when she older grows. prince. no! no! my princess shall not be your queen! she came from far to us to learn our ways. oh, tell him, father! we must have her back! king. o elf king, though i know you do not hold our ways and customs more than thistledown which you may waft on any passing wind, still i beseech you. she is still so young naught does she know but flowers and blue skies, and when our prince, my son—our royal heir-— had grown to man’s estate, she was to be— prince. (breaking in) : ‘she is to be’ say, rather! (i will not) no, never! give her up! here will i stay. that gate must open some time. i will wait, and when it does, i’ll find my little maid. for she will grieve if she is left alone. this place is barren. she has naught to do. elf-king. you see your own side. ours is beautiful. the enchanted gate but still, to ease your minds, the gate shall swing, for one brief moment, while you look on us. (prince prepares to dash in, but is held back by an unseen force, with which he struggles. the gate swings inward toward elfland, then swings back, and clangs shut.) first noble. there flowers grow, and i saw butterflies. how difierent from this place. the palace yard is not so blossoming, or not so wide. king. come, my son. you may not linger here. our princess we have lost. you must not grieve. prince. is there no way to rescue her? no way? king. no way. the elves have done their scheming well. back to the palace drear to mourn for her! (the men stand in line while the king passes out. the prince also bows, and while his father's back is turned, goes to the end of the line. knothaire steps out of his place, and the line goes on without him. as the prince looks back at the gate, knothaire approaches him.) knothaire. your highness, i think there is yet a way. before my grandsire died, he often talked of olden tales in which these elves played parts. he babbled of a charm which power had to break the elfin spell and give the land back to the kingdom it was taken from. in some old book turned yellow, whose thin leaves are breaking with the weight of many years might not some mention of this charm be made? prince. in truth there might be. i will go and search, and you, good knothaire, stay you here and watch. - the enchanted gate princess wandering out of wood, her arms filled with flowers.) princess. \vhat lovely flowers. i may pick them all. yet here i have enough. i‘ll let them grow. now, i’ll make garlands for my hair and dress. (sits down; weaves flowers.) i need more green! (sees frog) i pray you, master frog, get me some leaves from off the bushes there. frog. i cannot, princess. i must guard the gate. princess. oh, dear! i’ve strewn my flowers all around. can you not leave the gate, good master frog? (frog shakes head. princess gathers flowers in her dress; goes over and gets her leaves. comes back and sits down under the wall, in front of gate. she weaves her garlands, humming as she works. prince enters from other side. he brings a huge book.) prince. i have found it. i have found the charm. it is so simple, yet so very hard— (reads) “if mortal maid may open gate to man, then elves must flee to ’scape the kingly ban." so says the book—’tis old, but very clear. look you! (he shows book—they read it). knothaire. the princess sits in there. i heard her come: and you may hear her humming if you will. (prince listens. says slowly.) “if mortal maid”—the princess mortal is— the enchanted gate knothaire (detaining him). oh, no, he is a wanderer. oft he sits for hours singing songs and chanting lays. he is not harmful. see, these slugs are big! (frog eats.) (princess, busy weaving half listens, dropping her work slowly as prince talks.) prince. my princess, can you hear? i pray you think how you and i—it was but yesterday— were playing in the courtyard in the sun. you said, “when i am queen, i will do thus l” do you remember? princess. am i dreaming now? prince. will you come back to courtyard games again. you are enchanted in the elf-king’s thrall. break off the spell that binds your memory; swing in the gate— frog. “the gate!” what says he now? knothaire. oh, he but dreams. shall i go in the wood? the slugs are thick. frog. would your friend guard the gate? knothaire. aye, that he would. frog. then i will go with you. i will return. prince. oh, princess, try the gate! princess. it seems as though i hear a voice i know. there are no people here. who can it be? . it i < i ll /. < ( . i f. at “i “janie os qt/jsv llf/f . {i uh . illh ...... . the christmas elves mother. dark house dress. santa. usual costume. dolls. white dresses, red sashes (cambric) red bows on hair—red stockings. soldiers. military clothes. cap and sword would be suflicient. the dolls must be very stiff-legged. sandman. brown doublet and knickerbockers—long feather in small brown cap. bug on hip—brown stockings. pointed tips to shoes if pos- sible. elves. red bloomers, green pinafore jerkins, red stockings. belt of red. small red pointed cap with sprig of holly in it and paper bell on end—larger paper bell on belt. (if the dolls are to be elves, the girls may wear red skirts over their dresses. the waists would be alike for girls or boys.) directions this pantomime may be very naturally done. the game of tag at the beginning must be spirited. the children go constantly from one part of the stage to the other. the boy never really catches the girl, but only follows her trying to get her, so she need not wait for his move, but must lead. the mother's part of the pan- tomime has nothing unusual in it. she should be at all times dig- nified. the christmas elves the sandman dance, like all the rest of the pantomime dances, must be constantly rehearsed. if it can be done often in front of a new audience who point out the first place the meaning is not clear, the dance will be more eflective. it is very easy to suit the music to the steps, omitting or rearranging a little. the dolls’ dance, and the first entrance of the elves are as simple as form dances can be made. the children find no trouble in fitting the motions to the music. it is harder for small children to keep stifl than an older person realizes, and these dances were made short for that reason. every elf, in the last part, must have his own work to do. some bring in the presents, some fill the stockings, some trim the tree. but every one must know just what he does, and just when he does it, and this order should never be changed in rehearsing unless it is final, else there will be moments when only one child is moving and others, a bit later, when there will be a mad scramble. the christmas elves ,f/re , i place“ r r / \ d /; bug tree ta . g setting—a nursery—two beds, two tables, fire-place in center back. back of fireplace hung with thick, full black curtain —divided in center to make entrance. the christmas elves plain what they dreamed. dance as dolls danced. point to fireplace. i mother points to bed. children run to bed and get in. mother tucks up. sleigh bells outside. children listen. mother pretends not to hear—children lie down. mother lea-ves room—- sleighbells. children sit up, shake heads. lie down. sleigh- bells. children sleep. schottish. santa peers through fireplace. enters. elves enter in two lines. prance around bed. santa goes to girl’s bed—writes list. to boy’s bed—repeat. hands one list to leader of each side as elves go out. elves return, bringing packages, tree, etc. some trim tree, others fill stockings. when work is finished, they leap to back of room. - elves exeunt—through fireplace—santa first, or hold tab- leau as curtain falls. _ _ .. %) l l-- the indian camp both hands straight above her head, as high as they will go (pose) ; then slowly lowers them to the side straight out from the shoulder, palms up (pose) brings them around to the front, palms still up (pose). then she drops them, and goes back to the tent. the warriors come out, bound for an early morning hunt. as they step out from the tent opening, they at once face the east, and give the ceremony of greeting, not together, but as they come, without paying any attention to each other. then they prepare for the hunt. they take down their bows from the side of the tent, where they hang, and try them to be sure that the strings are strong. one or two shoot a trial arrow into the sky. when all is ready, the chief steps from the wigwam. they stand still while he gives the cere- mony of greeting and then behind him, go off in the forest, single file. s they go, the women come out. they do not greet the sun, but go at once about the daily duties. these are por- tioned off, so that each knows just what she is to do. some of them go for water. at one side stands a big jar, made by covering the sides of a small hogshead with brown paper, and coloring it in imitation of the pottery. some of the women carry water in smaller jars to fill this. some of them build the fire, pretending to light it by twirling a stick in a gro'ved stone, or by blowing the ashes till they flame up. if matches are used they must be handled as inconspicuoust as possible. some grind the meal between stones, and go for the water which the others have brought in, to wash it. outdoors the washing can be done, but inside it must only be suggested. when the meal is ground and moistened, it is spread on flat the indian camp stones before the fire. the fire burning, one woman stays to watch it and the others go for short excursions into the wood bringing back a few sticks each time. it is to be impressed on the children that they are not to leave the stage for long. some of the women bring out the papooses in their papoose cradles, and hang them on the trees, or the sides of the tent. these places should be prepared beforehand. when the work is all done, the women fall to work at their manual work, baskets, bead work, pottery, etc. at no time must the stage be lacking motion, however. now, one crosses to fill a cup to moisten her day. now, another goes into her tent for more ra/fia. a good bit of action would be to have a smaller child tip over the mother’s bead box and be re- proved for it, while the mother tries to pick up the beads. suddenly, they all look off. the warriors are coming home. the women put their work away and stand at the back of the stage, out of the warriors’ way, waiting for them. first comes the chief, who goes directly to the entrance of his tepee, and stands there, arms folded, viewing the scene. next, come two of the warriors bearing a litter on which, under heaps of green leaves they carry the body of the deer which they have shot. this is so covered as not to be visible at all. after them, follow the rest of the band. one indian goes to the tom-t m(which may be a drum, with its bright col- ors concealed) which two of the women have carried to a place directly in front of the litter, in the center of the circle, he sits cross-legged before it, and waits till the warriors are all in a circle around him. then he commences to beat the tom- tom. the real indian dance is simply varying forms of rhythm. the spirit of the frost. its. . the spirit of the frost and so on till all six have passed. the sixth couple have passed under the arch made by the other five. this takes sixteen steps. third figure: when all are in their places, the sixth couple step forward and the ten other girls move directly out into a circle, stepping backward with same step point. at the same time, they swing their wands in toward the circle. each center girl holds five wands in her outside hand. this takes eight steps. ie eh ii! number twos pass on the inside of number ones, and on the outside going back. repeat this step, with number ones advancing and number twos retreating. repeat from the first of the second measure. fourth figure: dancers face with left hand in center. step left, posing body forward on left foot (as in first figure) (one measure) ; step back on right, pointing left foot in front, swinging garland in left hand across body (second measure); waltz twice beginning with the right foot (third and fourth measures); step right, swing left and repeat three times (fifth to eighth mealsures). the spirit of the frost i repeat three times, each time advancing a quarter way around the square. fifth figure: repeat second figure. as dance is nearing the close, summer looks down the path- way and hastily gathering her daisies about her departs. a few of these, as the dance ends, run to roses and try to pull them away. the roses stop, turn to look and, frightened, run of the stage, just as the autumn elves run on. these carry pots which are supposed to contain yellow and red paint and big brushes. they chase the flowers, brandishing their paint brushes, and rub these over one or two of the last flowers. when all the flowers have disappeared, they go to work to transform the scenery. they carry bunches of aa- tumn leaves, which they put on the bushes. some of them pull down the summer vines and put up autumn ones. this is done in such a manner that it appears that the elves are turning the green ones, not taking them down and putting others in its place. this work goes on busily, till all the scene has an autumn tinge and then one elf looks off, runs to his companions, pointing off. these turn and look of, point- ing and nodding to each other, showing in pantomime that some one is coming. they run to the very edge of the scenery, and sit cross-legged around the- scene, while autumn and her attendants come in. autumn comes in ahead of the attendants. she walks to the center of the throne, and takes her seat, while the golden- rods follow, standing in two lines each side of the throne. the chief of the elves brings up a heap of autumn leaves for her inspection, and shows her (in pantomime) that they have finished their work. autumn slowly looks around, then nods the spirit of the frost approval, and the elf retires. then, the goldenrod form a semicircle, in front of the throne and kneel, with hands out- stretched as if asking a favor. autumn bows her head as if granting it. the goldenrod bend their heads in obeisance and then rise. sixth figure: in circle, ten girls step point eight times, facing right. center girls turn as their wands turn. seventh figure: ten girls turn left and come back to places. eighth figure: the two center girls each go to a position be- hind the center girl f the five whose wands she holds. at elli] .- a---_-—.--‘ elm el el . . . ..onn.---q‘ .___ _____ e] the same time, the ten girls form in two straight lines of five girls, facing the audience. they carry their own wands. from the line formation the three center girls on each side step forward so that their final position is in a small circle with the center girl nearest the audience and the girl who held the wands opposite her. the circle is big enough so that there is plenty of room around them for jack frost. at close of goldenrod dance, jack frost runs to center characters big butterfly girl of twelve. second big butterfly girl of twelve. to fairies girls from to years. to wood-elves boys or girls from to . to . butterflies girls from to years. music for the fairies’ dance till the entrance of the wood-elves— waltz. for the wood-elves—skipping tune four-four time. for the butterflies—two-four or six-eight time. smooth music. costumes butterfly. white cheesecloth, stenciled around the edges like butterfly spots. soft wings fasten in the back, and reach to the fingers where they are held by threads. the two big butterflies have gorgeous wings. the rest of the flock are less elaborate. fairies. pastel shades of tarletan over white, or dainty colors, pink over lavender, lavender over blue, etc. flowers around the neck and sleeves and worn in the hair, also flowers dotting the dress. wood-elves. green bloomers and green jerkins trimmed with autumn leaves. tight green cap, edged with leaves. the quest of the butterfly times when a butterfly, who has been flying by, and who wishes to dance with them enters the ring. at once the dancing stops, while they wait for her to go away, because, they, being fairies, do not dance with any other folk. she asks first one, then another to dance, by raising her wings high and standing per- fectly still in front of her, but, though some of them try to get their neighbors to dance with her, by gently pushing them forward, they all refuse, and wait till she goes away before they continue. but the butterfly is rather stupid, and cannot see why she is left alone. one of the fairies has a brilliant idea. “if we pretend we are asleep, perhaps she will go away.” so she flies around the circle, whispering her thought to each, and as she passes, they drop down. the butterfly cannot understand it, because a moment ago they were up and dancing, and she curiously goes around to each fairy, peeping at her, as she lies asleep. they are very still while she looks at them, but as she passes on, they watch her from beneath their eyelids hoping that she will go away. but the butterfly is persistent. ,the fairies were dancing before, and they will dance again. she will wait. so she stands patiently in the center of the ring, and the fairies, see- ing that they cannot get rid of her. jump up and attempt to dance, but as she constantly gets in their way, they at last, as she approaches first one, then the other, fly away to the woods, leaving her alone. by this time the wood-elves have heard the music. they romp through their dance, paying not the slightest attention to the butterfly, who tries her best to play with them. when they too disappear in the forest, the butterfly is so sad that she hides her face. _ characters from twelve to twenty wood- elves eight to ten. ia third as many flowers as elves girls from six to eight. as many flower fairies a flowers lfrom ten to twelve. sun girls of twelve. rain girl same size. east wind west wind girls of twelve. south wind north wind music light quick music for the wood-elves, a skipping tune. this goes on through sun and rain’s pantomime. the music changes to a waltz as the flower fairies enter. this lasts till the end, unless the pianist wishes to introduce new themes for the winds. costumes wood-elves. green jumpers and blouses. they carry either a rake, a hoe or a' spade. the growth of the flowers flowers. dresses of pastel shades. long brown cloaks that cover them. square of brown cambric over their heads when they enter. flower fairies. dresses of leaf green, with flowers in their hair and here and there on their dresses. sun. yellow dress, with halo and darts in quiver. rain. grey dress with long grey veil that is caught on head and comes down to tips of arms. winds. grey floating dresses, with scarfs of different colors. south wind. white scarf with flowers caught on it. west wind. grey scarf. east wind. blue scarf. north wind. black scarf. the elves prepare the ground for the seeds, and plant the seeds. sun and rain do their part toward making them grow, and the flower fairies come in to take care that they learn their lessons well. they show them how to meet the advances of the winds which will blow on them, and finally, having taught the flowers their lessons, dance away, leaving the flowers gaily nodding and waving in the breeze. the growth of the flowers the space is clear. the growth of the flowers was joyous, she is more dignified and quiet. with a last wave of her cloud toward the stage, she leaves the stage going backward and waving her cloud as she goes. the flower fairies enter. they dance in and out, join- ing hands, dance in twos and threes around the seeds, three of them dancing around one seed, then dancing over to another. at last they break up and dance, each fairy directly to her own flower. they stoop down, and pull off the square over the flower head. the flower has her head in her lap, her face down, and her hands under her chin. the flower fairy stoops down and whispers in one ear (pose). she gets all the way up, and then stoops down and whispers in the other car (pose). then she stands quietly behind the flowers, while they very slowly raise their heads, and their arms, bringing them up like growing lea'ves. when their arms are in the air, the fairies dance around and sit down in front of them, but a little to the side, so that the audience sees the front, the flowers and the side back of the fairy. south wind comes in, and the flower fairies wa've their arms just a bit, in the air, to his soft breezes. the flowers do not do this, but just watch. then west wind comes, and the flower fairies wave harder, bending from their waists. then east wind comes, and the cutting blast reaches them, the flower fairies cower, their heads buried in their arms, to escape the blasts. then north wind comes, and the flower fairies freeze, falling on their sides. this is repeated, and the second time the flowers go through their lesson, the fairies also repeating it. again, it is repeated, i the growth of the flowers but the third time the flower fairies take their places be- hind their flower and only watch. after the north \vind has gone out for the last time, the fairies dance around to the front of their flowers, and giving them their hands, help them to their feet. then they dance before them and the flowers imitate their dancing. as soon as each flower is dancing alone, the flower fairies dance away into the forest, and leave the flowers swaying and dancing where they have grown. the end '—--‘- -, - st breaker and charles coddard sch as west sins. new yor. “the ghost breaker” all rights reserved especial notice should be taken that the possession of this book without a valid contract for production first having been obtained from the publisher, confers no right or license to professionals or amateurs to produce the play publicly or in private for gain or charity. in its present form this play is dedicated to the reading public only, and no performance, representation, produc- tion, recitation, public reading or radio broadcasting may be given by amateurs except by special arrangement with samuel french, west th street, new york. this play may be presented by amateurs upon payment of a royalty of twenty-five dollars for each performance, payable to samuel french, west th street, new york, one week before the date when the play is given. whenever the play is produced by amateurs the following notice must appear on all programs, printing and advertis- ing for the play: “produced by special arrangement with samuel french of new york.” attention is called to the penalty provided by law for any infringement of the author's rights, as follows: section :—any person publicly performing or rep- resenting any dramatic or musical composition for which copyright has been obtained, without the consent of the proprietor of said dramatic or musical composition, or his heirs and assigns, shall be liable for damages thereof, such damages, in all cases to be assessed at such sum, not less than one hundred dollars for the first and fifty dollars for every subsequent performance, as to the court shall appear to be just. if the unlawful performance and representation be wilful and for profit, such person or persons shall be guilty of a misdemeanor, and upon conviction shall be im- £ for a period not exceeding one year.”—u. s. evised statutes: title , chap. . the ghost breaker act i scene: room ii , manhattan hotel, new york city. at rise * dark. moonlight streams through the zwindow. small clock strikes five. pause. tower clock strikes. two gun-shots heard off stage right. door slams off stage. footsteps heard coming along corridor, growing hubbub and commotion. princess pokes head through curtains. r. door bursts open and warren jarvis enters hurriedly, in long coat over eve- ning dress, closing and bolting the door behind him. princess. madre de dios! (showing only her head.) (jarvis kicks in door, shuts it, and throws his shoulder against it.) who's there? jarvis. sh! don’t make any noise. princess. (winding her dressing gown closely about her and coming a little way into the room) what do you want? jarvis. silence! princess. (switches on lamp on right table) how dare you enter! jarvis. sh! not a sound—do you understand? the ghost breaker voice off. (r.) what's the row? second voice. (r.) somebody fired a pistol. princess. what right—? jarvis. quiet! voice. where'd he go? look on the fire-escape. second voice. no, he's on this floor. princess. what is it? what do you want here? what have you done? jarvis (turning to her) now, it's all right. i'm not going to harm you. if you will just keep quiet. is that clear to you? princess. is it money you want? all the money i have is on that dressing table. (pointing.) take it and go. jarvis. i'm not a burglar. i don’t want your money. princess. well, then, what do you want? (sound of running in corridor coming toward door r.) jarvis. listen (turns back to door.) they’re coming here. (to princess) they mustn't search this room, do you understand—you must put them off—i’m not what you think i am. (running dies away. jarvis turns to princess.) is there no way out through that door? (indicates door r.) princess. that is my maid's room. jarvis. the fire-escape—where is it? princess. in the hall opposite. jarvis. i thought that red light meant in here. hell! i beg your pardon. princess. well, why don’t you go? jarvis. i can’t go that way. (indicating door l.) they'll be waiting for me in the hall. princess. well, what do you expect me to do? jarvis. the light fooled me. i thought that door led to the fire-escape. - princess. you said that before. jarvis. ha! ha! the ghost breaker jarvis. (entering l.c.) thank you. would you mind bolting that door again? he might re- turn. (princess crosses to door and bolts it.) do you know what a feud is? princess. feud: spain is the home of feuds. jarvis. so is kentucky. that's where i came from. you're spanish? princess. yes. jarvis. then you'll understand—those shots you heard, that was the end of a feud. i was called home suddenly by the death of my father—shot in the back—feud—man after man—two families—the marcums and my own had shot each other down. then my dad fell and i was left to fight it out alone. princess. couldn't you? jarvis. couldn't i? god only knows what i’ve been through since. those two shots you heard— that was the finish. this morning when i got back to my hotel, there was a message waiting for me. it was signed jim marcum, head of the family, and proposed that, as we were out of kentucky, we meet and end the feud amicably. he asked me to meet him at this hotel in his room—no matter what hour —he would be waiting. he was leaving at six in the morning and wanted it settled. it was a pretty scheme. i knew the man and i saw the trap. i came over here prepared and went directly to his room. it was on this floor. i flung open the door and met jim marcum face to face. he was waiting. without a word he fired. i fired, and he dropped. now do you understand why the law would not give me justice? princess. did you kill him? jarvis. i don’t know—i didn’t wait. princess. what are you going to do? jarvis. i don’t know. do you know what it means to fight single-handed against fearful odds- to fight an endless fight alone? i the ghost breaker in here, and i can cut another hole from the inside if it gets too stuffy. princess. (takes revolver from dressing table and gives it to jarvis) and you better take this, too. jarvis. how do you know you can trust me? princess. i don't—i have to take that chance. jarvis. you must have a pretty good reason. princess. i have. jarvis. now, before i get in this, there's just one or two things i would like to know. what about the ghost? princess. are you afraid? jarvis. lord, no, i just wanted to know—that's all. princess. you'll know in time, mr. jarvis. jarvis. are you really—a sure thing—princess? princess. why did you say that? jarvis. oh, i don’t know. somehow you’re not quite like what i thought a princess would be. princess. i'm sorry. jarvis. oh, i didn’t mean it that way. i mean that you're different from the popular idea of a princess. you have more understanding—more sympathy—more heart. princess. (icily) in that respect, sir, you will find me quite like your popular idea. jarvis. (squelched) i wonder if that hole will let in enough air? princess. i hope so. (porter knocks.) it must be the men for the trunk. who is it, please? porter. trunks. jarvis. (getting into trunk) remember? this trunk must not go into the hold of the ship. you must have it marked “wanted” and “this side up.” you might add. “with care,” if vou’ve a mind to. princess. are you all right? jarvis. no. the ghost breaker princess. (shuts trunk, crosses and opens door) the trunk is ready. porter. (enter and cross with truck l. of trunk) very good, ma'am. princess. have the other trunks gone? porter. yes'm, last night. princess. this goes on the special wagon, por- "ter. (enter house detective and sees broken door.) porter. (setting trunk on end) yes, mum. i'll see that a special sticker is put on it. princess. (crosses left of trunk) have it marked “wanted” and “this end up.” porter. (putting trunk on truck) you'll find it in your room when you get down to the steamer. princess. and, porter, handle it gently. porter. shore, i never smashed one in my life. (starts off r.) i'll handle it like it had glass on the inside, so don’t worry one little bit. house detective. (stopping trunk c. to prin- cess) just a minute, porter. how did that lock get broken? princess. (frightened, but trying not to show it.) it was broken when i came. detective. how long have you been here? princess. we came yesterday. detective. how long are you going to stay? princess. we sail this morning for europe. detective. huh ! excuse me, madame, but the police are making an investigation and they would like to take in this room. do you mind? princess. no. detective. what time does your boat sail? princess. we are sailing at nine o'clock. detective. does this trunk go on board? o the ghost breaker steward, only anxious to get rid of him and nita so she may turn trunk over.) you don't anticipate a bad passage, steward? steward. (r., fussing about) rather uncertain at this season, but your location is good, madam, and you'll find she's as steady as a church. princess. (looking around as steward arranges things fussily) this is very pleasant. (nita ar- ranges bags and grips on window seat.) steward. quite the best suite on board, madam. here is the clothes press, and the other rooms are off there. (opening door l. and closing it again.) if you want anything—(points l.)—there is the telephone. (notices trunk in middle of room for first time. takes hold.) i'll place your trunk— (starts to move trunk and drags it to side.) princess. (quickly stopping him) never mind now, steward. you can place it later. (steward releases trunk, but does not set it down.) you might turn it right side up. steward. (noticing labels.) oh, i'm sorry! (turns trunk. princess sighs.) i hope the con- tents are not upset, madam. princess. i hope not. steward. anything more, madam? princess. (anxious to get him out of room) '', now, thank you, steward. how soon do we sail? steward. very soon now. (voices off calling, “all ashore!” four times; voice approaches and dies away.) they’re already calling “all ashore,” ma- dam. (exit and closes door.) nita. (l.c.) your highness has the key to this trunk? princess. (c.) yes—yes-—you may—leave this trunk as it is, nita, till later. (crosses to r.) go to your room and get settled; then unpack the other trunks. i'll call you when i want you. the ghost breaker that exalted cousin returns, i'll be all right. hm- ouch!—i wonder what the game is? (knock at door.) go away—we're all very ill. (jarvis, un- certain who it is, starts to hide. door opens very cautiously. enter rusty carrying bundle of trays taken in first act.) rusty (looking over shoulder) i knows where i'm goin', all right. jarvis. come on in, rusty. rusty. (crosses to back of trunk) how did you get on board? jarvis. i came in that trunk. rusty. you came in that trunk? jarvis. did you see any signs of the police? rusty. no, sir. jarvis. are you sure? rusty. yes, sir. jarvis. did you look? rusty. no, sir. (handle of door r. rattles. jarvis to open door. princessenters.) rusty. how de do, mrs. princess? | princess. how do you do, rusty? (exclama- tion c.r.) oh, there you are! you're all right, aren’t you? jarvis. (rubbing sore places) yes, i’m all right. princess. but your hand—you must have that attended to at once. jarv s. that's all right. i’ll see the ship's sur- geon. princess. do, please. jarvis. (r.) you can go now, rusty. oh, lis- ten | what is the number of your stateroom? rusty. number seven twenty-nine. jarvis. seven twenty-nine. now get this: go there, lock yourself in, and don't talk to anyone. you're deaf and dumb-understand?–deaf and dumb. rusty. i got you first. (exit upper deck.) the ghost breaker i robledo. wake up! what's the matter with you? pedro. one thousand pardons, senor. what can i do for you? robledo. my horse is outside; he has had a hard ride. wash him off, and don’t give him any water until he is cool. pedro. yes, senor, it shall be just as you say. (starting.) robledo. and leave the saddle on. i may want to use him again. pedro. yes, senor. yes, senor. (starts toward door c. robledo halts him.) robledo. where is your daughter? pedro. i will call her, senor. (he crosses to door r., calling.) dolores, dolores! she will come, senor. she will come. (cross to door l.c.) robledo. and, pedro— pedro. yes, senor robledo. if that rat-infested larder of yours is empty, get it filled before the duke arrives. pedro. the duke coming here, senor ! when? robledo. tonight! don't stand and stare. hurry up and see to my horse. pedro. yes, senor. yes, senor. (exit door l.c. dolores entering r.) dolores. yes, father? (sees robledo.) oh, it's you. robledo. (pause—cross toward her) well, well! can't you say you're glad to see me? dolores. i can, but i won’t. where's my father? robledo. never mind your father. i want to talk to you. dolores. you do? well, you won’t in that tone. (start to cross left.) robledo. (intercepting her c.) i won’t hey?- and why not? you little spit-fire! dolores. what do you want to say to me? the ghost breaker dolores. her highness! (calls) father! father | pedro. (entering) what is it, dolores? dolores. quick! her highness is here! pedro. her highness! (he bustles downstairs.) her highness! (calls off r.) her highness! (villagers enter door r. enter princess, nita and jose in motor clothes. princess comes c. jose door l. nita left center up stage. dolo- res l.c. pedro right center, c. villagers in door r., bowing low.) pedro. your highness does my humble inn great honor (villagers bow.) princess. thank you. (she nods to villag- ers, extends her hand to dolores, who carries it to her lips, curtseying.) dolores. your gracious highness, we are ill pre- pared for this great favor. your exalted cousin gave but short warning of your coming. princess. my child, any place to remove the dust of travel will do for the present. jose, i shall want the car later. nita. (l.c.) your highness is not thinking of going on to the castle tonight? princess. i must have news. nita. but you're all worn out. you're all un- strung. princess. when mr. warren comes, tell him i will be down directly. dolores. i will tell the senor american, your highness. princess. thank you. (exit princess and nita, pedro showing them upstairs.) (enter jarvis d.c., followed by rusty, both carry- ing suitcases. dolores bows. rusty comes to | the ghost breaker i jarvis. and where are you going to get the re- turns, duke? duke. unfortunately, i must leave at once. i have an urgent summons to madrid. jarvis. well, that's too bad. i'm sorry you're leaving us. won't you even be around at the finish, your excellency? duke.. i am sorry, mr. warren, but i must go. jarvis. well, i call that a shame. princess. (coming downstairs—to pedro enter- ing r.) pedro, this is mr. warren. attend to his wants. pedro. (bowing) yes, your highness! (prin- cess crosses l.c. pedro goes upstairs.) this way. (jarvis and rusty following pedro upstairs.) jarvis. your highness, i'd like a couple of good horses and two good lanterns. princess. pedro. pedro. yes, your highness. (pedro exits.) duke. lanterns? looking for an honest man, mr. warren? (c. lays hat on table c.) jarv s. (over banister) not in this neck of the woods, your excellency. (exit jarvis and rusty.) princess. carlos, what news of my brother have you heard? duke. (l.c.) nothing, maria. princess. and yet you are leaving for madrid. duke. the message is from his majesty. princess. but why must you go so soon? duke. you know my ride is a long one. princess. but, carlos, my brother may be dying, dead—and yet you have not the time and the cour- age to help me find him. duke. what need of me? you have your ghost breaker. princess. so, carlos, that is your excuse? duke.. i make no excuse, maria. i need none. that yankee adventurer stands between you and u. of ill- lib. the ghost breaker jarvis. let me go ahead and look over the ground. i will signal when it is safe to follow. princess. how can you signal? jarvis. with a light—(cross to window l.)— from one of those towers. you can see it from here. you won't have long to wait. it will shine within an hour. princess. (l.c.) but if you—if it does not shine? jarvis. well, then i'll be too busy swapping lead for brimstone with mr. spook to stop and hang a lantern. princess. oh, but you are brave! you must have the locket with the memorandum. (start to stairs.) jarvis. yes, of course, where is it? : princess. it's in my room. i won't be long. (on stairs.) jarvis. suppose you give me that, and we'll start at once. princess. very well. (exit upstairs and off.) jarv s. (calling) rusty oh, rusty | rusty. (off) yas, sir! yas, sir! jarvis. bring down my hat and coat. we're starting. rusty. yas, sir. jarvis. (l.c.) i wouldn't change places with that spook for all the gold—(enter rusty)—that she thinks is in that castle. (rusty comes down with hat and coat.) oh, don't hurry like that, rusty —i hate to see you hurry. rusty. (on bottom step) i smell something cooking—smells like a spanish pork chop. (gives hat and coat to jarvis.) princess. (calling from upstairs) mr. war- ren—mr. warren (darts up steps; is met half- way by princess.) mr. warren jarvis. well? the ghost breaker princess. the locket! jarvis. the locket gone? princess. yes. jarvis. and the memorandum? princess. gone, too. jarvis. quick, rusty | the horses! rusty. yas, sir. jarvis. we've no time to lose. rusty. yas, sir. (exits.) jarv s. (both on stairs) your highness, i’ve struck the first trail of the spook that is haunting your castle. princess. you think— jarvis. i think your cousin has not gone to ma- drid. time is everything now. princess. you know the way? jarvis. north road—second turn to the right. princess. yes, that leads to the postern gate. (enter robledo—stands in arch under stairs, re- volver drawn.) jarvis. i understand. (starting.) princess. wait! this little cross! will you wear it for me tonight? (slips chain over jarvis" head. robledo looks up and steps back in alcove.) jarvis. only for tonight? princess. you may never see tomorrow. jarvis. if i don’t see you tomorrow, forgive me for telling you tonight that i love you. (raises hand to stop her reply.) don’t rebuke me tonight. wait until tomorrow, if tomorrow ever comes. (pause.) and now your humble vassal goes forth in his lady's cause—and while all segura waits, ghosts and ghost breaker shall stalk those halls. your highness, within the hour i will hang your signal from the castle. (carries her hands to his lips.) princess. god be with you! (exits upstairs.) act iv scene: the hall of the knights, in the haunted castle. on walls a few old weapons, thick dust everywhere. moonlight streams through round window high in wall r., striking picture. cur- tain rises slowly while orchestra plays “i dreamed i dzvelt in marble halls.” wind moans through grated windows, rats squeal and £ moonlight on floor; light flickers on tower zvall. (enter jarvis from door l. with lantern unlit— turns and calls cautiously.) jarvis. come on in, rusty. (enter rusty with lighted lantern.) they’ve been in this room. do you smell that, rusty? (cross r.) rusty. (l.c.) marse warren, i'm so scared i can’t smell nothin’. jarvis. the room's full of it—somebody's been carrying a smoky lantern. (dull thud off left.) rusty. good god almighty, what's that? (jar- vis crosses r.c. over table, lights lantern and then stands looking around room.) i want to go home! (put lantern down c.) jarvis. (looking about) we've been in this room before. rusty. is this where that poundin’ came from? (cross c. to jarvis.) jarvis. i reckon that pounding and the smoky lanterns went together. (rusty sees armor on the ghost breaker jarvis. oh, don't cry! go on, then-cry-cry- cry some more. just forget you are a princess and cry, that's it. that's fine. i'll round up this spook tonight for good, and then the vassal's task is done. his fate is in your hands, highness. what's to be- come of him? (love scene.) don’t send me away. i’ve loved you from the first, and i shall always love you. i'm no prince or duke. i know i'm just a plain american citizen, a man—and all the man in me cries out that i love you! don't send me away. princess. you must go. jarvis. you're going to send me away? princess. yes, you must leave spain. your life would never be safe here. (duke sneezes from behind picture.) princess. what was that? (she goes to lower end of fireplace; jarvis r.c.) jarvis. oh, see, that—that's rusty. princess. that would frighten anyone. jarv s. i figured that i might need a ghost my- self, but rusty disobeyed orders. rusty, i told you not to sneeze. rusty. dat was somebody else, marse warren? i didn't sneezel - princess... mr. warren. - jarvis. don't move. your highness, i've got your ghost at last. (pointing gun at picture.) there is somebody behind that picture! come out, or i'll shoot you full of holes. - duke. (lights at window change to red. duke coming out) don't shoot. jarvis. (c.) your excellency, you're a long way from madrid. duke. madrid you fool, you have fallen right into the trap. (crosses c.) what i have done has been for your sake, maria. i purposely deceived him, so that i might get here ahead of him and the ghost breaker watch. see, there are his tools. (crosses r.) and you yourself interrupted him at his work. (points over mantel.) jarvis. that's an unlucky gesture. how did you know the treasure was there? duke. that's where you were working. jarvis. you forgot i have never seen the memo- randum. duke. until you stole it. can't you see, maria? princess. yes, one of you two stole the locket. jarvis. which one of us two? (walking over to duke.) you can't lie yourself out of this. twice tonight you tried to have me murdered. why didn't you have the nerve to come out in the open? i told you all ghosts were cowards—but you haven't got the courage of a rabbit. if it weren't for her, i'd blow your damned head off, and send you down after that other poor devil! you’ve got him to an- swer for, sooner or later. now, see here—give me that locket no, give her the locket—or, by the living god, i'll break your come on! princess. (light outside and first border and foots change to amber) carlos! duke. (cross to c. and princess; gives locket) you play a good game, mr. warren. are all amer- icans like you? - jarvis. they all play the game in kentucky. duke. (cross to door l.) and i thought all americans were fools. jarvis. i saw that from the first, and it helped. duke. mr. warren, take her advice, and return to kentucky. (exit l.) jarvis. say, hold on— princess. (stopping jarvis c.) what kind of a place is kentucky? jarvis. god's good country, lady. must go back alone? the ghost - breaker the best results in this play are obtained from a fast, snappy tempo throughout. carpenter’s plot act i- interior as per diagram. i horizon drop. backings. doors, down left and right. window back r. and l. center. act ii— ship's stateroom: doors, r.c., r.i and l. . i horizon ring. i backing. act iii— interior spanish inn: stairway c. leading into upper part of house. door to l. of staircase. door r.i leading to wine room. window left i. door left i. backings. stairs, platforms, and parallels. act iv— - interior old spanish castle: stone masonry in ruins. heavy stone windows with bars. fireplace r.i. stairway c. four steps with heavy balustrade leading through heavy door to armory. break-away picture immediately l. of stairway. door r.i l. c. backings. trap through stage c.r. above the middle line. the ghost breaker property plot act i- dressing table. i toilet set. i locket in case. i settee. armchairs. telephone. i canopy over bed. curtains and window shades. large flat trunk. steamer rugs with strap handles. small trays in trunk. scissors, knife, and trunk truck. act ii— i gold settee. gold armchairs. gold side chairs. i pedestal with silver tray and pitcher. long bench with cushions. telephone. small curtains. newspapers, magazines. knife. steamer rugs. hand baggage. locket and case. boat whistle (suggest compressed air auto stools. tables, old and heavy spanish. i set bench and arm. lunch basket. tray, with wine bottle and two glasses. hand baggage. the ghost breaker through window right. blue on back drop. fire glow, half up with lanterns on your foots and borders. - f. r. e. n. c. h. s. standard library edition includes plays by clyde fitch willian gillette augustus thomas george broadhurst edward e. kidder. percy mackaye sir arthur conan doyle louis n. parker r. c. carton alfred sutro richard harding davis sir arthur w. pinero anthony hope oscar wilde haddon chambers jerome k. jerome cosmo gordon lennox h. v. esmond mark swan grace l. furniss marguerite merrington hermann sudermann rida johnson young arthur law rachel crothers martha morton h. a. du souchet w. w. jacobs madeleine lucette ryley french's laternational copyrighted edition contains plays, comedies and farces of international reputation, also recent professional successes by famous ameri- can and english authors. send a four-cent stamp for our new catalogue booth tarkington j. hartley manner- - forbes james montgomery wm. c. de mille roi cooper megrue edward e. rose israel zangwill henry bernstein harold brighouse channing pollock harry durant winchell smith margaret mayo edward pepl.- a. e. w. mason charles klein henry arthur jones a. e. thomas fred. ballard cyril harcourt carlisle moore ernest denny laurence -o-an harry james smith edgar selwyn augustin mchugh robert hous urn charles kenyon c. m. s. mclellen describing thousands of plays. sa mu e. l. f. r. e. n. c. h. oldest play publisher in the world west th street new york, city / & º- / / . . . . ~~ - > * * \ > -t. -- in one thick volume, royal vo., price . s. d. cloth. the complete concordance to shakspeare, being a werbal index to all the passages in the dramatic works of the poet. by m a r y co w d e n c l a r k e. -- “order gave each thing view. sharspeare. -- - º - - º - zºº / º |kit bam's adventures; or, the yarns of an old mariner. by m a r y w d e n c l a r k e. author of the concordance to shakspeare. twere a pity to stint the wondrous to the known, and leave imagination not a world to conquer. we thus may welcome fresh true wonders, most sinbad-like, nor give up dear astonishment. i could hear such mixture of truth and fiction for a summer's day. leigh hunt. illustrated by george cruikshank. london : grant and gr iffith, successors to j. harris, corner of st. paul’s churchyard. . london : printed by s. & j. bentley, wilson, and flex, bangor house, shoe lane. - . c ſº £ this § w o l u m e o f a d w e n t u r es g is affectionately inscribed - to z j o h n a n d e m i l y r o l t, < -> by their friend, mary cowden clarke. ºi- º, c o n t e n t s. chapter i. prefatory and introductory. the swallow family : the younger ones’ love of fiction ; the elders' opinions of fancy and matter- of-fact; imagination and realities.—kit bam ; his first yarn : the island of false appearances . . . . chapter ii. kit's second yarn.—his ship-mate, john paul.— the rainbow and the golden key.--the rocky wal- ley.--the ocean of imagination.—the lone mother and child. • * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * chapter iii. continuation of kit's yarn of the lone mother and child.—her story. —kallisah.-felix.-new as- sociates. . . • * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * chapter iv. kit’s third yarn.—a peep into fable-land.— titta, the italian cabin-boy; stevkns, the mate.— the storm.–the decision of the dice.--the wreck. chapter v. the sequel of the wreck.—uberto and bion- dello ; the little barber ; king imbecilio, princess eudora, and lord ignorio; baron feroccio, and the lady ellena . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . page | iv contents. chapter wi. page kit gofs in search of uberto.--the mansion of old erudito.-quadrata.—the return to the city, —kit sets sail again.—the granite island.—the horse of brass.—the feast of the satyrs. . . . . . . chapter vii. the abode of subtilia ; drusilla; the enchanted fountain; erudito's gift ; the lake, and island retreat ; sir lionel ; the mystic rings. . . . . . . . ... chapter viii. the diamond merchant.-will wavelance's is- land.—scylla and charybdis.—the sirens.–poly- phemus.-egypt.--the mummy slave . . . . . . . . . . . . . . chapter ix. the pigeons of st. mark.—the phantom gondola, and the doomed man.—barbara.-the harz forest. the brocken mountain.—karl.-leopold. . . . . . . . . . . chapter x. lucerne.—lake of the four cantons.—the devil’s bridge.-genoa.--the singer and the prisoner.— titta's mother.—the lone house. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . chapter xi. the fire at sea.—the island of ombrosa.- welata. • * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * chapter xii. the northern seas.–the gigantic wanderer.— the kraken.- the sea serpent.- the albatros.– the mermaid,--the grotto.--the subterranean jour- ney. — the nation of the anthropophagi. — con- clusion. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . the strange adventures of kit ba m, mariner, chapter i. prefatory and introductory. the swallow family ; the younger ones’ love of fic- tion ; the elders' opinions of fancy and matter-of- fact, imagination and realities.—kit bam ; his first yarn ; the island of false appearances. “mamma,” said dick swallow to his mother one evening, during the holidays, “before the candles come, and fanny and i have our game of chess together, i wish you'd tell us one of your famous long stories, as you used to do.” “i fear, my dear boy,” replied his mother, “that you and your sister have exhausted my stock of “fa- mous stories' (as you are so polite as to call them) long ago; besides, you are too old now to care for stories, surely; you hope to go to college in a couple b the strange adventures of of years, and are very often quite a man already, you know, in your own opinion.” “and yet, mother, i really think i shall never be too old to like a good long story,” answered dick. “in the first place, listening instead of reading, is such pleasant, lazy work—such complete rest, after a day's fag at latin and greek. and then, when the stories are about fairies, and spirits, and strange ad- ventures, such as yours used to fell of, i feel as if they took me out of the horse-in-a-mill routine of books and study, which is all very right and useful, of course, and must be attended to, but which makes one long for amusement and rest—i mean rest for the thoughts and the head, as much as cricket, and iowing, and going to bed, are rest for the limbs after sitting many hours at lessons.” “i sometimes feel the same thing, mamma;” said his sister fanny; “i often wish i had one of your old stories of an evening to amuse me after lessons and my duty-walk are over; an interesting story is such pleasant rest; and, you know, i am not allowed to read novels yet—they are ‘too old’ for me, it is said.” “i know well your love of stories, my dears!" said their mother; “and i agree with you that there are few things afford so perfect a relaxation to the mind as fiction, and its pleasant appeals to the imagination. you, dick, will soon form an acquaintance with the fine old poets; their lovely classical stories, and beautiful fancies, will prove a grand resource for you as a relief from severer studies; and you, my dear kit bam, mariner. fanny, may, in a year or two, hope to enjoy with me those interesting fictions from the pen of some of our best authors, which have so well depicted the stage of human life, its various hopes, disappointments, aspira- tions, duties, and feelings; and which form a not inapt introduction to the world itself, where you will some day be called upon to act your part. but it is not well too early to anticipate the amusement and even instruction to be derived from such a course of reading; and, meantime, i will own that you are both deprived of a pleasant source of amusement, if it is decreed that you are ‘too old’ for the stories of your childhood, and that the poets and novelists are ‘too old’ for you. i have been thinking, therefore, that as my own story-telling powers are exhausted, i will endeavour to procure you another source of enter- tainment of the like kind, which may supply the want you feel; and that your favourite twilight hour may still be spent in the way you both love so well, in listening to a long story.” “capital, mamma!” exclaimed both the young swallows, joyfully, as they jumped up to give her a hearty kiss; for though dick had nearly attained the manly age of fourteen, and his sister fanny was but a year younger, yet they both frequently ex- pressed their joy in a burst of childish rapture, and were generally as gay as larks. the nature of their education had made our two young friends simple in their manners, though sensible in their heads; their hearts were young, though their minds were strong, active, and well-stored. they had been brought up . the strange adventures of under the superintendence of their mother, a woman of keen sensibilities, yet firm judgment. she had indulged their fancy, while she had secured solid instruction; and the result was, that, though dick could construe virgil, or work many of the problems in euclid, and fanny was a good modern linguist and an accomplished needlewoman and housekeeper, yet they both of them still loved a long twilight tale, and listened to it with all their old-young delight. they were child-like, though not childish, in taste and feeling; and their manners were unconven- tional, and unlike the little old men and women we now-a-days often meet with in young people of their age. “your father tells me he has invited his old ship- mate, kit bam, (of whom you have often heard him speak,) to come and spend the remainder of his days close by us,” resumed their mother; “the little cot- tage in the lane, just by the clump of beech trees, at the back of our grounds, has been prepared for him, and we expect that he will arrive from town to-day, and take possession of his new abode. indeed, i should not wonder if it is the reception of his old friend which detains papa at this very moment, for it is much after his usual hour of return from his walk. i dare say he is now at the cottage welcoming his favourite kit, and settling him in his new home. we will ask papa to go with us to-morrow morning to see his old friend, that we may make his acquaint- ance.” “that will be pleasant ' " said dick. kit bam, mariner. “if he is pleasant,” added fanny, in a lower tone. “do you know mr. kit bam, mamma " enquired she. “is he pleasant? is he good-natured * “very good-natured,” replied her mother; “and very pleasant—especially pleasant he will seem to you both; for he has seen a vast deal, and passed through a great many adventures in his time, so that he has plenty of long stories to tell—if you can coax him to relate them; and i know you have rather a knack in persuading those from whom you have hopes of a story, fanny.” next morning, forth the party sallied; the day was bright, the birds were singing cheerfully; the young people were in high spirits at the idea of the new acquaintance they were about to make; and their parents were happy in the thought that they had secured a comfortable asylum near them, and the enjoyment of complete repose in his old age, to one whose youth and maturer years had been faithfully employed in a course of active exertion, uncomplain- ing hardship, many perils, and ceaseless wandering. across the lawn, skirting the fishpond, between the flower-beds, by the arbour, down the gravel-walk, along the avenue, out at the little wicket-gate, into the lane, all flowery with hedgerow climbers and plants—the honeysuckle, the dogrose, the hawthorn, the briony; and all bowery with hedge-row trees— the maple, the oak, the elm, and the ash; on passed the four walkers, till they came to a cottage in a small garden, that was screened off from the lane by a quickset hedge. through a slight opening in this the strange adventures of hedge captain swallow looked, and beckoned to his wife that she should silently follow his example. “does not the dear old fellow look a perfect pic- ture of contented comfort?” asked he in a whisper. dick and fanny peeped too. sitting on a bench in the sun, they saw an old man with grey hair, a very brown face, and still browner hands, which were folded carelessly together round a thick knotty stick, that lay between his knees. he wore coarse dark blue clothes that looked too big for him; indeed so big and so loose, that they appeared as if they would have held an additional set of legs and arms without any inconvenience to the limbs already there. on his head was a shiny glazed hat; so shiny that it made our young friends wink as they looked at it sparkling and glistening in the bright sun; but as it was worn perched very forward, it shaded the old man's own eyes, without his suffering any apparent annoyance from the ends of black ribbon which dan- gled from its brim, and occasionally fluttered into the corner of one of them, as he gazed thoughtfully at a hive of bees that stood near him. “it's a home-loving though a wandering life,” they heard him murmur; “they range freely abroad in the pure air and sunshine, and collect stores of sweet and pleasant things to enjoy quietly in their wintry days. they’re strangely like men, those bees;–the flowery fields and the wide ocean—the warm hive, and the snug cottage—a wandering youth, and a tranquil old age, are each their portion; and then, the honey-juice of blossoms, and the pleasant hoard of sweet fancies kit bam, mariner. and recollections that the bee and the man both gather in their early rambles, are equally the gift of a boun- teous creator. and how well the little things manage it all! they're as orderly and as handy at their work, and get as little in each other's gangway as a ship's crew mustering ‘all hands' at the call of the boatswain's whistle. ay, ay, sir; this way, cap- tain;" added the old mariner a moment after, as he started up from his seat, on hearing his friend's voice saluting him with a hearty cheer, while the party ap- proached and entered the little garden-gate. “this way, madam; this way, my young lady,” continued he, as he bustled about to do the honours of his new house to his visitors. - he shewed them the straight rows of cabbages and potatoes, and carrots, and onions, in the orderly little garden, and gathered a posy of sweet-williams and bachelors'-buttons for fanny and her mamma. he shewed them the draw-well, with its bucket quite handy; and told them that the water was as fresh and bright as crystal; as a proof of which he took some up in the hollow of his hand, and let it fall in sparkling drops from his palm, which he once raised to his lips, as if willing to confirm his words by drinking some; though, on second thoughts, he let that handful fall too, sprinkling it over the flowers; remarking, with a sly smile at the captain, “that they liked it, poor things, it did them good! and yet i can remember times when i would have given more for that handful of fresh water than for all the wine that ever was crushed, either from grapes or in a jovial cup,” added he, with the strange adventures of a thoughtful look that often came over his weather- beaten countenance, giving a strange contradiction to his usual careless sailorlike manner and appearance. he shewed them the bees next, saying, “they were tight lads for work.” he took them into the snug cottage with its cozy sitting-room and comfortable bed-room, and said it was as warm a berth as heart could desire; and that it was just like his ship- mate's kind way, to think of getting it rigged for him to turn into in his old age. while kit was grasping their father warmly by the hand, and saying this in a hearty tone to their mother, dick whispered to fanny, “i wonder whether he'd tell us one of his stories now. i should like to hear some of his adventures.” “i think he must be too tired to-day to talk much, after his journey yesterday,” said fanny; “besides, he's busy and taken up with papa and mamma now, and i don't like to interrupt him.” soon after their parents took leave; and, as they walked home, their mother told fanny she had over- heard how considerate she had been towards their old friend; but that she and her brother should come and spend an hour or two every afternoon with him, if they pleased. accordingly, that very afternoon, the moment the cloth was removed, the young swallows were darting off, when their father cried out, “hallo! youngsters, whither so fast? i never saw you in such a hurry to run away from a dish of currants and cher- ries before '" dick and fanny both began in a breath to reply: kit bam, mariner. but their mother said, smiling, “never mind; take your dessert on some leaves, and away with you, and i'll explain to your father.” “they are off to renew their acquaintance with old kit, i suppose,” said captain swallow, when his chil- 'dren had vanished; “they appeared to be prodigiously taken with him this morning—as indeed he seemed to be with them. well, they'll amuse him, and help to make the dear old fellow's time pass pleasantly.” “they rather hope he will amuse them, i believe,” said their mother; “they have a passion for long sto- ries, and i should think he has plenty to tell them.” “yes, he has indeed; kit will spin you a yarn as long as a ship's cable, only once set him a talking," replied the captain. “but do you think all these strange adventures and wonderful histories of his are quite the sort of thing for the children to listen to, my dear! kit has a knack of relating marvels that i very much suspect never had any existence but in his own brain; for, though he's as true and honest a chap as ever lived, he has a spice of romance in him that, i've a notion, has led him to see all his adven- tures with a fanciful eye. you know, all we sailors have the reputation of being a superstitious set—our # naturally engenders strange beliefs and extraor- hary imaginings. while surrounded for the most part by grand natural objects, sky and ocean, the sun, the moon, the stars, yet we are, nevertheless, shut within a narrow limit, and confined in our daily intercourse, for days and weeks together. this cir- cumscribed life has, in kit's instance, been even the strange adventures of enhanced by many solitary wanderings. frequently thrown far apart from his own species, an indulgence in silent musing, and a habit of following his own whimsical thoughts, joined to a great taste for ima- ginative reading, and an originally contemplative disposition, have combined to make him unusually credulous—even for one of us sailors. don't you think, therefore, his yarns will be apt to set their wits a-wandering and a-wool-gathering, when maybe it would be better that they should be hove-to, steady, and brought alongside more useful things, safe in the harbour of knowledge (" “even during dick's holidays, they both work hard at their lessons in the morning,” replied his wife; “and while they work, i try to keep their young heads steady and attentive, and really intent upon storing up as much useful information as possible, that they may secure the all-important advantage of a solid education. but the more careful i am that they shall not think of anything else while they are at study, the more anxious i am that they should have plenty of amusement at other times—and no amusement do they like so well as what they call ‘a long story.’ while they work, let them work with their whole souls, and when they play, let it be as º the very nature of the narratives they will h from your old friend, too, will form a judicious con- trast to the matter-of-fact practical sort of acquire- ments i have endeavoured to lead them to cultivate, as being better fitted to their station in life than mere flimsy accomplishments; and as i think the kit bam, mariner. tendency of the present age (in which they will be called upon to act their part) is perhaps rather too strictly utilitarian in its nature, so this will be best counteracted by the appeals to the imagination and fancy that will be made by kit's stories, which may form a kind of introduction to the classical fictions they will read by-and-bye. we are too apt, i think, now-a-days, to heap upon bewildered childhood an accumulation of dry facts, scientific scraps, and hard information; which, ill-arranged, ill-digested, and unrelieved by lighter matter, only serve to render young people the prating, superficial, addle-brained little pragmatists which they too frequently are. let them have sterling knowledge, by all means, but let them have holiday of the mind too.” “i think you are right in the main, my love,” said the captain, smiling at his wife's warmth; “for though i've often regretted that my early love of the sea and a sailor's profession led me to neglect the opportunity of learning while young, and so have been compelled to blunder through life more of a dunce than you in your wifely partiality would perhaps be willing to allow, yet i have known some of the happiest mo- ments of my existance from an ardent enjoyment of nature, and a passionate love of the beautiful.” “and if we too strictly exclude the cultivation of the imagination and fancy in young people,” replied his wife, “i am sure we deprive them of these very sources of happiness you speak of “my mind to me a kingdom is!' and surely the region of idea is its most precious dominion. the poetry and ro- the strange adventures of mance of thought are the best solace for daily toil, and the surest refuge from the inevitable common- places of every-day existence. i feel sure we shall do well in permitting our children to take an interest in all the wild tales and travellers' wonders of old kit, while we are careful at the same time to instil sound principles, an earnest love of truth, and a veneration for the light of wisdom.” “very true,” said the captain. “besides, kit, though a sailor and a wanderer, is anything but a common man. his natural love of romance and ad- venture gave a tone of sentiment and imagination to his thoughts, and led him to observe and reflect upon what he saw. he was always noted among us for a lad extremely fond of reading, whenever he could find time, and get hold of a book; and this, joined to his naturally ardent fancy, his good simple heart, and his strict sense of honour and moral worth, gave him a cultivated and refined tone of mind very different from what his station in life might lead one to expect. therefore, on the whole, i do not know but what his society is the very thing we could desire for our chil- dren; for, at the same time that he amuses their fancy, and excites their love of the marvellous, he will lead them to reflect, and draw a moral from most of his narratives, wild and even mystical as they may be.” meantime, the young swallows reached the cot- tage of their new-old friend. they found him com- fortably seated in a wooden arm-chair near the hearth (though, the season being early, there was no kit bam, mariner, fire in the grate), with his legs stretched out at full length and crossed easily over one another, his arms folded, and his eyes glancing occasionally towards the model of a ship that stood on a table in the corner of the room, though they were more fre- quently employed in gazing through the little cot- tage-casement at the soft glories of the setting sun, in which he seemed to read and revolve innumerable memories of the past. between his lips rested a short pipe, from which he drew lazy puffs at long intervals, as if rather from habit than actual enjoy- ment; though now and then it became firmly clenched between his teeth, as he murmured a lengthened “ah! —'m " and shook his head slowly, and closed his eyes dreamily;-though when they were open, they were keen, grey, piercing eyes, and looked at the sunlight with as steady and un- winking a gaze as an eagle's. but they wore a kind and even tender expression as they suddenly fell upon the figures of our two young friends as they appeared at the open door, which was thrown back to admit the sweet breath of the evening air, rich with the odour of the flowers in the cottage garden. “i hope we don't disturb you,” said fanny, as she stole softly to the old man's side; “but we know you have some wonderful stories to tell, and we want you to tell them to us, if you please; and you have a good thinking face on now, and we hope you'll begin directly, if you could be so good as to remem- ber one—could you ? would you, do you think, mr. bam!” she said this with a childlike mixture of the strange adventures of eagerness and timidity, while she put her arms round his large blue sleeve, and hugged it close and win- ningly. the old mariner's face looked so pleasantly towards her, as she urged her entreaty, that she could not help letting her hand glide round his huge blue collar, and rest for an instant on the bald spot at the top of his head, and then drawing it caressingly down his silver hairs, and smoothing his withered cheek, marked with a thousand minute red lines, while her own round rosy one crept nearer to it, she whispered a repeated:—“could you be so very kind, do you think, mr. bam . " “to be sure i will, my lass—my dear young lady! disturb me ! that you don't, my dears! remember? of course i can—want of memory's not my failing. but i say, my dear lass,” continued the old mariner affectionately, “when you look in my eyes in that way, with a smile so like your father's (god bless him () just call me kit, plain kit, as he always does; and not mr. bam, which sounds formal, and is more- over a name i somehow never particularly liked. what's your name, my man " added he turning to her brother. “richard–dick,” answered he. “ay, dick that 's right ! your brave father's name. come and sit here in the corner, dick, my fine fellow; and you, my lass-what's your name : oh, fanny ; come and perch close to me on the other side.” “but the story, mr.—i mean, my darling old kit; won't you begin and tell us your story !” kit bam, mariner. he smiled at her eagerness:– “i should begin, i believe, by telling you, that though i was born in a quiet little inland village, never boy had greater hankering after a wandering life, or a more ardent desire to go to sea. my longing to behold other scenes, and take part in those active exertions that engaged my fellow-creatures in the world beyond, filled me with intolerable craving, and rendered the monotony of our simple village existence insupport- ably wearisome to me. often did my father check me for the repining spirit which this restless desire for change engendered in me, and would exclaim in the pity of a wiser experience: “poor lad! thou little know'st what thou wishest for l’ my mother had a brother living at a small sea-port town about forty miles' distance, on the nearest coast to the part of the country where our village was situated; and to this uncle's house i was once sent by my father, not without a hope, i believe, that the rough usage which he knew i should meet with there would have the desired effect of sickening me of a town life, and the wear and tear of the world, and so lead me to love and return to my own quiet home. for this uncle was a hard, money-loving man, and his wife was a hard, money-loving woman, and, moreover, a shrew, with a loud, shrill voice, fierce eyes, thin lips, and bony arms, who thought the chief virtue of the mis- tress of a house was to scold her servants for faults they might possibly commit some time or other, and to give them continual orders about work they were at the moment doing. the strange adventures of “my uncle had persuaded my father to send me to him, that he might “push my fortune, and give me a lift in the world, instead of letting me rot in an out- of-the-way village all my life,' as he expressed it; so he proceeded to shew his ideas of promotion and worldly advancement, by installing me, immediately on my arrival, in the honourable post of errand-boy, in which office were included the slight duties of clean- ing knives, brushing boots and shoes, washing dishes, chopping wood, drawing water, lighting fires, scrub- bing floors, cleaning windows, taking down and putting up the shop shutters, opening the door (which, as my thrifty aunt-mistress let lodgings, was a charge that kept me trotting up and down the kitchen stairs like a canary-bird incessantly hopping from perch to perch), carrying trays that were too heavy for the bit of a girl who passed for the maid of all-work to the establishment, running with letters, parcels, and messages for the lodgers, besides occa- sionally helping my uncle in his business, which was that of a shoemaker. “of all these various duties there were none i per- formed so willingly as those which in any way helped to save my poor little fellow-servant, ‘the bit of a girl' i spoke of she was a thin, hollow-eyed, pale- faced creature, bleached and smoke-dried with per- petual dwelling in a town air; and yet i thought her pretty, from a meek, patient look she had. she would fix her soft blue eyes with a sort of helpless fascination on the flashing fierce ones of her mistress, while she was giving her ‘a good set-down,' as she kit bam, mariner. called it; and with her quivering lips, and submissively imploring eyes, poor molly would stand there to be rated as “a good-for-nothing, idle slut,’ and ‘a bold- faced staring minx, till my blood boiled with a sense of wrong that all my own hardships failed to excite in the like degree. “and yet these hardships of my own were bad enough. coarse, and grudgingly-given food; in- cessant labour; want of the pure country air, to which i had been accustomed from infancy; brutal, unkind usage; violent, abusive language; little or no rest— for i was up early and down late: all these were but harsh substitutes for the peaceful existence i had hitherto led in my native village; where, if i worked hard, it was in the fresh free air, and with those who loved and fostered me. still, these, my first rude experiences of life from home, did not lead me to wish for a return to that home. i longed, it is true, to escape from this bondage, this miserable drudgery (so doubly irksome to one of my peculiar disposition), —but it was that i might wander forth to those scenes which my fancy still portrayed to me as full of joy, animation, and beauty. my only consolation during those ten dreary months that i spent at my uncle's were the few stolen opportunities i found of devouring a book now and then, or of creeping down to the sea-shore and indulging my visions about those far distant lands, that lay stretched away be- yond the ocean, and which my imagination painted in the most vivid and alluring colours, innumer- able castles in the air did my boyish fancy build, of c the strange adventures of taking my poor little gentle molly away from her thraldom, and of setting sail together for some de- lightful island, where we might live happy and free the livelong day, with no one to thwart or control us. in those charming day-dreams i pictured her to myself the queen of our beautiful solitude, wandering hand in hand with me through shady groves, and flowering thickets, and majestic woods, where the birds should be our sole companions; and there, i thought, her blue eyes would lose those dark rings that encircled them—there her cheeks would become dimpled and rosy, and her lips would smile instead of tremble. poor, meek, gentle molly!” here kit sighed and paused for a moment, then he resumed:—“one morning poor molly told me, with tears in her eyes, that her mistress had bid her clean the windows, and that she was afraid. “but i will do them, said i, ‘that's always my job.' but she re- minded me that i was going on an errand to a place at some little distance from the town that day for my uncle, and, therefore, her mistress insisted that as i could not do them, molly should; as nothing would induce her to put off the regular day for cleaning the windows. i comforted her as well as i could, assur- ing her that i would make the utmost haste, so that i might be back in time, to prevent her doing what she so much dreaded. but everything that unhappy day was fated to turn out in misery. i was detained late by my uncle before i set out—i was detained at the house to which i was sent—i was detained on my road back by an accident which nearly ended in a kit bam, mariner. child being run over. i had scarcely helped to rescue the infant from its dangerous vicinity to the wheels of the cart, and seen it safely placed in its mother's arms, when i resumed the quick pace which i hoped would still enable me to return in time. i reached the entrance to the town; i turned into the street where my uncle lived; but i had scarcely done so, when i perceived a large crowd assembled before his house, who surrounded something that lay upon the pavement. i will not pain your tender hearts, my dears, by dwelling upon the horror of that moment; suffice it to say, that on making my way through the crowd, i found my poor molly stretched upon the ground, bleeding and lifeless! her cruel mis- tress had insisted upon her getting outside the upper window to clean it; the poor girl had missed her footing; she fell, and was killed upon the spot. as i approached they were lifting her from the earth tenderly, and conveying her into the house. her cap had fallen off, and her comb dropped from her long hair upon the pavement. i picked it up mecha- nically, and followed those who were bearing the body like one in a fearful dream. i scarcely heard my uncle's voice, though he was storming loudly as i entered the shop. i found, a few minutes afterwards, that he was raving at me for my having loitered so long on my errand; but i stared at him, with dry eyes and a parched mouth, for some time without making out the sense of what he was talking about. at length he drew a letter from his pocket, saying:— “but here's what releases me from all farther care the strange adventures of of you, you lazy lout, you; your father's dying, and you are to go home to your mother; she sent me this letter to say so this morning; so pack up your alls, and begone ! off with you at once, and good rid- dance of bad rubbish! nothing but plagues and troubles in this world, i do think!’ as he finished speaking, he took up his work again; and i, merely repeating (in a tone which i could not think of afterwards without shuddering), ‘your father's dying, and you are to go home to your mother,' turned round, and went out of the shop. i re- member shivering, and feeling a sharp pain shoot through my limbs, as i passed close to the spot where my poor molly had lain dead so lately. i remember looking vacantly at her comb, which remained uncon- sciously clutched in my fingers; and i remember something of walking through the streets, and taking the road which led across the country towards my village home, and which happened to be the same i had traversed in the morning on my luckless errand; but i recollect nothing else till i found myself lean- ing heavily and faintly against the parapet of a little bridge that crossed the road near where the accident had happened to the child that morning. how long i remained thus i do not know, but the first thing i was conscious of, was a pair of little chubby bare arms clinging round my neck, and a voice saying: ‘ay, kiss him, and hug him, and love him, billy, for he saved your life this morning, that he did!' i looked up, and found it was the poor woman with her child, who was so nearly run over, and whom she was kit bam, mariner. holding close to me that he might thank me in his baby way. i verily believe the poor little infant re- turned me life for life at that moment, and was an instrument in the hands of providence for bringing relief to my overburthened heart, for i burst into tears, and thus found vent for the grief and sorrow that had struck me such cruel blows in the death of my poor molly, and my father's danger, and had made me unable to shed one tear until that time. “seeing me ill and sorrowful, the kind woman took me into her cottage, which was close by, where she gave me some food, and made me lie down upon her bed for a couple of hours, telling me that even if i could not sleep, it would be better to take some rest, as i should set out on my journey all the stronger for it. but heaven sent the blessing of sleep to support the poor boy in his early trouble, and i did not awake till the afternoon, when my kind friend told me she had thought of a good plan for me, which was no other than to get a lift in the waggon that would pass by, before evening, on its way to the part of the country where our village was situated. she knew the waggoner, she said, and she would speak to him for me, and tell him how well i de- served help. well, my dears, i reached home, but it was too late my father had died of the fever that he had taken suddenly, and i found that my poor mother was rapidly sinking under the same disease; which, joined to the fatigue and anxiety of nursing him, carried her off in three days after my return, so the strange adventures of that in the course of one week i followed both pa- rents to their graves. nothing consoled me so well under the grief i suffered for their loss, as the recol- lection that i had never yielded to my ardent desire to become a sailor while they lived; but now that they were gone, and i had no tie to bind me to home, my old longing for the sea returned with greater force than ever. to my desire for wandering, was now added a disgust towards the land that amounted to loathing. i thought that those who spoke of the perils and dangers of the ocean, strangely overlooked the equal risks that existed on the shore. had i not lost my dear and only friends by violent and painful deaths though they had never stirred abroad? as my thoughts dwelt in horror upon the mangled form of my poor molly, and the fevered sufferings of my dear parents, i asked myself whether winds, and waves, and stormy shipwrecks, could have worse ter- rors. again, the vision of the sea, the vast, the boundless ocean, arose to my imagination, as the only free and unlimited range for man's spirit, and i . yielded to my insatiable craving, by setting forth the very next day on my voyage of life. “i have already kept you so long, my dears, talk- ing of my early sorrows, that i shall not stay to tell you all the particulars of my difficulties in getting a berth on board a ship; suffice it to say, that i did at last contrive to obtain one, and was likewise so fortu- nate as to find my captain and shipmates as kind a master and as pleasant companions as ever fell to the lot of a poor cabin-boy on first going to sea. it will kit bam, mariner. frequently happen in the course of my after adven- tures, that i shall have to allude to the early friends i made among the crew, in that first cruise of mine, but i shall not stop to describe them now, as it is getting nearly time for you to return home, and i want to tell you a bit of a yarn before you go, that you mayn't think all my adventures are as melan- choly as those of my childhood were. “in one of my wanderings—it was some time after my first voyage—i was sent ashore, with another sailor and a young boy, by the captain, to get a sup- ply of fresh water. the latitudes we were in then, being very hot, and the atmosphere very stifling, we had been for some days greatly distressed on board ship for the want of this important provision, so that it became absolutely necessary to seek water, notwith- standing there was some risk in so doing. many of the men had demurred when the captain had first talked of landing—others had evaded the task—and all had muttered hints of dread and dislike of this place, though it was fair and inviting to all appearance,— saying it was as well to perish of thirst at sea, as to tempt a still more horrible fate on this shore, from which no one was ever known to return. my natural love of adventure, and my usual habit of obedience, however, made me at once accept the task, when the captain selected me for the purpose; and one of the least cowardly of the other sailors and the boy having been appointed to accompany me, we accordingly lowered the boat and rowed to land, which in itself certainly presented anything but a hostile aspect. . the strange adventures of trees, of the most beautiful shape and foliage, stretched forth their palmy branches with assurance of a cooling and luxurious shade; the sands, over which the waves rippled in gentle undulation, were of the most dazzling whiteness, and were strewed with innumerable shells of the most vivid colour and varied form; birds, of bright and glowing plumage, glanced from tree to tree, uttering melodious cooings, inter- mingled with gay outbursts of joyous thrilling song; and the grass, which lay like a soft green carpet be- neath the trees beyond the sands, was sown with a thousand many-coloured flowers; while a sparkling stream of clear water flowed like a silver thread through the brilliant landscape, affording the most delicious promise of the needed refreshment. my two companions, on beholding this rivulet, forgot their fears, and pushing the boat gently aground, sprang ashore, and ran to enjoy the desired draught, heedless of my earnest entreaties that they would stay to help me take the casks out of the boat. knowing the anxiety of the captain to secure the desired supply, and the extreme state of suffering to which the crew were reduced from its want, as well as having the habit of always punctually observing the old rule of ‘duty first and pleasure afterwards,' i remained stea- dily at my post; lifting out the casks and vessels we had brought with us, as well as i could by myself, though not without some impatience at my compa- nions' desertion. i have never in my life, my dears, had reason to repent my adherence to the rule i spoke of just now, which should form a chief one in the con- kit bam, mariner. duct of everybody, particularly in that of a sailor; but in the instance i am now relating, it was of singular service to me. just as i had succeeded in rolling one of the casks ashore, i raised my head towards my companions, with the intention of calling to them again to come and help me, when i was struck with terror and indescribable dismay at what i beheld. the sailor had gained considerably on the steps of the young boy, and had preceded him by some minutes in arriving at the brink of the beautiful streamlet. here he had thrown himself down in all the rash eagerness of ardent thirst, and had swallowed several long draughts of the tempting liquid, when, on rising from the ground with a gesture of luxurious satisfac- tion, and while i almost seemed to hear the sigh with which he yielded himself to the exquisite enjoyment of allayed thirst, i saw him no longer-he had va- nished entirely from my wondering eyes! i placed my hands involuntarily before them for an instant, and then again strained them in the endeavour to make out this marvellous disappearance. in vain the man had totally vanished from the scene. the spot where he had stood an instant before, and where he had intercepted my view of the fatal rivulet, was utterly vacant; and there was no oné to be seen but the advancing boy, who, struck like myself by the miraculous disappearance of his comrade, had halted for a moment in consternation, but was now hastening forward again. i shouted to him to return—i im- plored—i threatened; but to no purpose. goaded alike by his amazement, his curiosity, and his raging the strange adventures of thirst, he speeded on to the fatal brink, as if fasci- nated to his destruction; and, to my unspeakable horror, i beheld him share the same fate as his companion “whether they faded into the air, whether they merged into the shining water beside them, or whether they sunk into the earth beneath their feet, i was equally unable to determine, and all my efforts to discover the actual cause of their unhappy doom were unavailing. i could not, however, fail to con- nect their fate with the mysterious rivulet, and, though parched with thirst, and ready to sink with exhaustion,-the result of my terror and exposure to the noon-day sun, i firmly resolved i would not yield to the sort of fascination which i was sensible was fast creeping over me, and urging me to go and drink also ; but, turning my eyes resolutely away from the tempting shore and alluring stream, i looked in the direction of the ship, determining to row back to her immediately, while i had strength and courage left. these, however, had very nearly forsaken me altogether when i discovered that the ship was rapidly receding from my view, and that she was, in fact, making all sail away from this dangerous and dreaded place. giving myself up for lost, i uttered a cry of agony and sunk on the sands in despair; when, reflecting on the weakness and folly of such self-abandonment, i summoned sufficient energy to crawl beneath the shade of one of the spreading palm-trees, where, stretched on the velvet turf, i could yield with greater safety to the overwhelming kit bam, mariner. drowsiness and stupor which was stealing over my senses. my sleep, however, was fevered and rest- less. visions of delicious cool draughts tantalizingly held to my parched lips, and snatched away at the moment of enjoyment, tortured and disturbed my repose. i beheld translucent waves within an inch of bathing my feet; i saw showers of silver spray burst in a thousand sparkling drops just a hand's- breadth from my aching brow; i vainly struggled to plunge my burning hands into a crystal vase that seemed placed but a pace or two from the tree beneath which i lay; but, as i eagerly pressed forward to seize it, it eluded my grasp, and, assuming the form of the departing ship, seemed to vanish in a double mock- ery, which so stung and maddened me that i started and awoke with a deep groan. on unclosing my eyes, the first object they encountered was a human face hanging over me with an expression of interest and wonder; and, springing up to be on my guard, i found it belonged to a short queer little being about three feet high, who began making a series of sharp quick bows, strutting hither and thither, laying his hand on his breast, winking his eyes, and chattering very fast, though unintelligibly; but this, joined to his gestures, which were anything but uncourteous, inspired me with a feeling of the ludicrous rather than of the terrible, so that i soon concluded that i had nothing to fear, especially as the creature's size rendered him no very formidable antagonist, even should he prove himself to be one instead of a friend. “trusting, therefore, to these conclusions, i made the strange adventures of signs to him that i was perishing with thirst, and that i entreated him to help me to some means of allaying the fever that consumed me; when he stepped forward, and, nodding consequentially, twice or thrice, he took me by the hand,-which he con- trived to do with a very patronizing air, notwith- standing the difference in our height, and led me from the spot. but what was my consternation, when i found that he was leading me towards the fatal streamlet; and how quickly did all my first misgivings of him revive, when i found that this abominable little dwarf actually made signs to me that i should drink. i started back in abhorrence, and was just about to give way to my desire to punish him for his treachery, by pitching him into the water head foremost, when i reflected that, as he was the only creature i had met with in this apparently unin- habited region, i absolutely depended on him for assistance and relief, and that i had better not de- stroy him till i had tried whether i could not make him of use to me. “i accordingly made signs to him that he should drink first, which, however, he immediately declined by stepping back, laying his hand on his breast as before, with innumerable jerking bows, sharp twink- lings of his eyes, and a profusion of grimace and chattering. he then pointed to a tree at a little distance, on which grew several clusters of a ruddy juicy-looking fruit, and, perceiving that i hesitated, he ran towards it, and, making a sudden and agile spring, he succeeded in plucking down a branch, and kit bam, mariner. gathered three or four of the finest-looking, which he immediately proceeded to eat, nodding and smiling and winking at me all the while with a sly sagacious leer of triumph and encouragement. “the sight of this delicious fruit, which streamed with juice as the dwarf opened and sucked it, was irresistibly tempting to me; and, satisfied with the precaution i had taken, i recklessly seized some, and buried my dry, parched lips in the rosy refreshment. no bad effects, however, followed my rash act; on the contrary, the cool, pulpy repast quite invigorated me, and i felt not only my strength repaired and my spirits revived, but my confidence in my diminutive acquaintance was partially restored, by the pleasant meal he had been the means of procuring for me. “i accordingly advanced towards him, and shook him heartily by the hand, as the best means of ex- pressing to him my good faith; this salutation he received with his usual struts, shrugs, and grimaces, and ended by standing on tiptoe and endeavouring to hit me a smart slap on the back, which friendly effort falling short, only produced a feeble tap on the edge of my blue jacket. “however, he seemed to feel that amity was now re-established between us, and so, taking me by the hand again, which he did by placing his little fingers round mine, in the same style of protection and sus- taining care with which a nursery-maid would lead along her young charge, he conducted me under the trees, along the smooth grass, and then across a field or two, where, to my surprise, i saw wheat growing the strange adventures of with all the signs of cultivation and human care. beyond these fields, i beheld a hut rudely built, but surrounded by a garden and an orchard, and bearing marks of order and habitation. but what made me look at this hut with peculiar attention, was its re- markable size, and the large proportions of its doors, windows, and general dimensions. i had no sooner remarked this, and had concluded from that very cir- cumstance that it could not be the residence of my diminutive guide, than i perceived that he was conduct- ing me straight towards the garden-gate, through which we immediately passed, and soon after found ourselves standing before the tall door of the hut. the dwarf, still clutching my hand, stepped up upon the door-sill, stood on tiptoe, strained his little person to the utmost, and succeeded in lifting the huge knocker with the tips of his finger-nails, letting it drop again with a ponderous single knock, which somehow fell upon my heart like a note of evil warning. “i had hardly time to reflect upon this, and to entertain thoughts of extricating my hand from the dwarf's grasp, which, though small, was as tight as a vice, when the door was opened by a figure that made my heart quail with dread. “it was that of a monster some eight or nine feet high, who glared at us with red flaming eyes, set round with flaxen lashes, and brows that gave a strange, weak, silly look to his great features; and his wide nose and big mouth gaped horribly as he smiled a ghastly welcome, and displayed enormous gums, as red, and almost as thick, as beet-roots. kit bam, mariner. “i shuddered, and closed my eyes involuntarily; but when i opened them again, and would have re- treated, i found the door made fast behind me, and that i was in the hut with the malicious dwarf and the terrible giant. “the two were soon engaged in a vehement con- versation, of which i immediately guessed i was the object, from the frequent glances that they each directed towards me; but it was not long before i found i had more to dread from the polite attentions of the detestable little dwarf, with his eternal bowings and scrapings, than from the mighty arm of the giant, who had filled me with such terror by his frightful eyes and vast grinning gums. at one period of their conference, when the dwarf became exceeding wroth, and was making as if he would rush towards me, the giant suddenly and effectually stopped him by put- ting his forefinger on the top of his head; and at last, finding, i suppose, that it was hopeless arguing the point any longer with his obstinate little comrade, he ended the dispute by opening a door and poking me into a side room, where, upon recovering my breath from the force of the giant's push (which, though doubtless intended for a gentle one, was suffi- ciently powerful to fling me down upon my hands and knees into a corner), i found myself a close prisoner, without a hope of escape. the door was fast locked, and the window, being accommodated to the giant's height, was far above my head; and, moreover, there was no chair or table by which i could hope to climb up to it, and endeavour to make my way out. in- the strange adventures of deed, there was no furniture of any kind in the apart- ment, which seemed to be used as a sort of store-room to the farm—if farm the hut could be called,—for on all sides were ranged high shelves, on which lay pro- visions of many kinds, such as loaves, butter, cheese, eggs, and several sorts of fruits, among which i perceived some of those delicious, juicy, rosy-cheeks that i had enjoyed so much soon after my first meet- ing with the hated dwarf. “the peril of my situation, and the dread of in- censing still further those creatures in whose power i now so completely was, could not prevent my feeling the pangs of hunger and thirst to so violent a degree that the sight of these stores high above my reach filled me with insupportable longings, and made even my desire of escape yield to the immediate wish to obtain some of this tempting food. “inspired by this ardent craving, i seized off my hat and flung it up at one of the shelves, in the hope of sweeping down some of the good things with it : but alas! it only brought down one of the rosy- 'cheeks, and an egg, which latter, of course, was smashed to bits by the fall; and what was worse, my hat had pitched right on to the shelf, and remained there. however, i made the best of my misfortune, by devouring the fruit and draining every drop of the juice it contained; but i had hardly knelt down upon the floor, carefully endeavouring to sip a little of the yoke from the broken egg, before i heard the key turn softly in the door, and in an instant after beheld the broad round face of the grinning giant, kit bam, mariner. peering in at me. i was about to start up with a cry of alarm and entreaty, when i perceived that the big monster was making signs to me to be quiet; and at the same time pointing over his shoulder stealthily with the huge thumb of his other hand. “i remained perfectly still; upon which he ad- vanced into the room; and, coming towards me, he perceived the remains of the shattered egg, and then glancing up, he discovered on the shelf my unfortu- nate hat, which plainly betrayed the source of the accident. to my great surprise, however, and no less relief, he took up the offending missile with a smile of pity, as if he understood and commiserated the hunger which had driven me to this expedient for obtaining food; and then, placing it with would- be gentleness on my head-though the weight of his descending hand, as he playfully patted it on, nearly stunned me, he proceeded to break open two loaves, and placing a pat of butter and a lump of cheese within them, between the crumb, he thrust them hastily into my hands, and strode back to the door, beckoning me to follow him silently. this i did, of course, and entering the same room i had been in before, on first coming to the hut, i saw the remains of a repast spread on the table, at one end of which sat the dwarf, reclining in an arm-chair, with a half. emptied goblet of wine before him, his tooth-pick in his hand, his mouth open, his head thrown back, and his eyes closed in a profound slumber. the friendly giant led me past this sleeping enemy; and i had hard- ly time to wonder within myself at all this deferential d the strange adventures of observance on the part of this strong creature towards one whom one blow of his huge fist would have an- nihilated in an instant, when i found that we had proceeded through the door of the hut, and were making our way across the garden towards the orchard. i felt almost as much perplexity as gratitude at the conduct of the giant, for i could not account for his generosity towards me, and even doubted now that he was really aiding me to escape, so forbidding was his aspect, and so at variance was his terrible ap- pearance with his kind demeanour. but i soon had a convincing proof of the real goodness of his inten- tions towards me; for, seeing a brook running be- neath the hedge which formed the boundary between the garden and the orchard, i was stooping down to assuage the thirst which still tormented me, when the giant suddenly snatched me by the shoulder, and forcibly upheld me and prevented my drinking, while his vehement gestures and eager expression of coun- tenance warned me to forbear. in an instant the truth flashed upon me;—it was the fatal stream | the same rivulet whose pernicious waters had doomed my comrades to destruction before my eyes that very morning. i drew back in dismay; and, struck with the conviction of my friendly giant's genuine bene- volence, i seized his immense hand between both mine.and pressed it fervently to my lips. he seemed pleased with this token of my gratitude; then, lead- ing me back a few paces towards a well that stood in the garden, he drew for me a bucket of the delicious element, and watched me with grim benignity, while the strange adventures of in which i had been misled and deceived throughout by appearances, i could never recur in imagination to that spot without naming it in fancy the island of false appearances. but it is getting late, my dear young people,” said kit, interrupting himself; “and though it is very pleasant chatting away to you of old adventures, yet i must leave off now, lest we should not be allowed to spin yarns together any more.” “good-bye, then, dear kit,” said fanny, affection- ately; “we shall be sure to come again to-morrow evening for another story;—and you'll tell us one, won't you?” the old man nodded a smiling assent, and the two young folks returned home at a pace that betokened light and happy hearts. kit bam, mariner. chapter ii. kit's second yarn.— his ship-mate, john paul.— the rainbow and the golden key. —the rocky walley.- the ocean of imagination.--the lone mother and child. “now then, my dear kit!” exclaimed fanny, as she and her brother bounced into the old mariner's cottage on the following evening, “now then, for another yarn . but, in the first place, i want you to tell me all about the very first adventure you ever had. what was the first strange event that ever happened to you? and how old were you?” “oh, but first, fanny, i want kit to finish his yarn about the island of appearances,” said dick, “and to tell us how he managed after he had got away from the wicked dwarf and the amiable giant.” “well, but which of you am i to obey” said kit laughing, “i can't do what you both wish at once, can i ?” “then tell dick what he wishes,—he's the eldest;” “tell fanny what she wishes, she's the youngest;” exclaimed both the young swallows in a breath. “you are both good,” said the old man, smiling, “to be so willing to give up to each other; but per- haps “eldest’ or ‘youngest’ are bad reasons. if a the strange adventures of lad's given up to because he's the eldest, it's only adding another chance to the usual ones that he is made a selfish domineering man by the over-indul- gence of his mother and sisters; and if a girl is given up to because she's the youngest, it's only teaching her to be more exacting and whimsical than younger ones are apt to be. however, i'll give your sister her way this time, dick, my friend, for a reason that i don't know is much wiser than the one you thought of, but which will do for us two, because we’re gal- lant men, arn’t we ? we'll give fanny her wish, because she's a woman, eh? shall we ?” - the young folks laughed merrily, and then, kit, nodding and laughing too, began his second yarn. “my first strange adventure happened to me as i was returning from my first voyage with that plea- sant ship's company that i mentioned to you yester- day. it was a calm afternoon; the weather had been serene and beautiful for many days; we were sailing on a smooth sea, with only just breeze enough to send us merrily on. the captain was in his cabin enjoying his cigar and his glass of grog after mess; the sailors were all grouped lazily about, either chat- ting to each other in quiet talk, or lolling idly on different parts of the deck half dozing, or perhaps thinking, for there was nothing particular to do, and all hands were at ease. i was hanging listlessly over the side, watching the rippling waves as they danced and sparkled beneath my eyes, while my thoughts were in that state half idle, half employed, which i believe some people call musing. my fancy care- ºzz /~ —t /?, º kit bam, mariner. lessly wandered over some of the early scenes of my infancy, when, quite a child, i had toddled about the floor of our small cottage watching my mother en- gaged about some household work; insignificant trifles floated indistinctly to and fro before me; i saw the sanded hearth, and the deal tables and chairs snow-white with my mother's housewifely care; i heard the wooden clock tick, and the cat pur, and even the clatter of the tea-cups and saucers as they were ranged on the board for our evening meal. these slight home-fancies were succeeded, or rather crossed and chequered by curious things that had been told me at different times by some of my favo- rite ship-mates-will wavelance, geoffry tabard, john paul, edmund faery, and others, who would spin yarns by the hour together, when any one of them and i kept watch together. well, i can't tell how it was, i could not make it out at the time, and i can't even now say exactly how it happened, —but in the midst of this dreamy state, i suddenly found myself plunging and flouncing in the open sea, and buffeting with the waves for dear life. i suppose i must have lost my hold, and slipped over the side while i was wandering and wool-gathering among all that cross-fire of fancies and odd notions, —but however, there i was sure enough; and what was worse, i could not swim fast enough to gain upon the ship, and no one on board seemed to be aware of my having fallen overboard, nor could i make them hear my cries, shout and bawl as i would, and pretty lustily i did that, you may be sure. fortunately i the strange adventures of was a good swimmer; and, though my heart sank within me when i found that i could neither over- take the ship, nor make the crew hear me, yet still it did not fail me altogether, and i swam on with toler- able courage for some time, knowing that i could not be very far from land, which we had seen at in- tervals for some days past, as if it were the coast of some large continent. at length i became conscious that my power would soon be exhausted, and i cast about eagerly in my mind how i could best husband it, to enable me to reach land in safety. i remem- bered hearing, that if you could but hold yourself perfectly still in the water, and allow yourself to lie flat on your back, you might float with ease and safety. i contrived carefully to assume this position, and the weather being calm, and the tide flowing in, they favoured my endeavours, and it was not long before i found myself gently drifting right on to the desired land, which proved to be a shelving, sandy shore, and very convenient for my purpose. i had no sooner effected my safe landing than i threw my- self on my knees and returned heartfelt thanks to god for my preservation; and then, having allowed myself half an hour's rest after my toilsome swim- ming, i proceeded to explore the place where i was, and to find out whether it would not afford some means of satisfying the hunger, of which i began to feel sensible. “the country was fertile and beautiful, but there were no marks of habitation, and the few birds and animals i met with were so little alarmed by my ap- kit bam, mariner. pearance, that i felt convinced they had no human beings to dread. though this relieved me from fear of meeting with savages or other foes, yet it consi- derably lessened my hope of finding any means of assuaging my growing appetite for food. as i walked on, my attention was attracted by the ma- noeuvres of a bee, that was wrestling in the cup of a beautiful bell-shaped flower, and seemed to be almost unable to extricate himself, either clogged by the weight of wax he had collected, or detained by the sticky nature of the petals of the flower on which he walked, or rather stumbled along buzzingly. i stop- ped to help him out of his uncomfortable strait, and i soon had the pleasure of seeing him dart away in a hurried manner, as if he thought he had better return home in case of a change of weather. he did not fly far, however, for i saw him settle on a neighbouring tree, where he went straight to a small crevice in one of the lower branches, and crept in with his load. if i could but help myself to a little of that wild bee's store, thought i, in return for the service i have just rendered him! a feast of honey would be no bad thing ! i went towards the tree, and, with a little climbing, soon reached the branch; which, as i conjectured, contained the bee's nest, with a considerable store of honey. indeed, i was soon convinced that all this large collection was not owing to the industry of my little friend alone, for out flew a dozen or more of his hive-mates, as soon as i had helped myself to a handful of their store. whether my little friend, the bee, had prepossessed the strange adventures of his companions in my favour, by having informed them of the assistance i had just given him, or whether they were naturally hospitable, and willing that i should enjoy a share of their good things, i know not; but certain it is, that they left me per- fectly unmolested; and i, rejoiced to be spared an attack of their stings, sat at my ease in the tree, enjoying my feast, which was soon enhanced by my pulling off some of the cones or pods which grew on the boughs near me, and, finding that they contained a sort of floury substance very like wheat;-so that i do not know that i ever eat a better treat of bread and honey in all my life. “the scene was beautiful—my meal was pleasant, and seasoned by that best of sauces, hunger—my heart was light with the feeling of recent deliverance from peril–and i gave myself up to the pleasurable feeling of the moment, without suffering myself to be depressed by the thought of any coming evil that might possibly be in store for me. even the uncer- tainty of food and lodging for the night, i would not permit to interfere and perplex me then; and i have frequently had reason, my dears, to be thankful to the almighty for having blessed me with this happy temper of mine—a power of enjoying the passing good, without meeting a coming misfortune half way. “presently i had cause to admire that keen fore- knowledge of weather which my friend the bee had shewn himself to possess in common with all his. tribe; for, as i sat dangling my feet from my com- fortable perch on the branch, and enjoying myself as the strange adventures of the rainbow. it was john paul—i believe he had some other name — some surname — but i never heard him called anything but john paul among our crew. well, once when we stood together at the ship's prow admiring a majestic rainbow that lay across the heavens before us, john paul told me that he had heard it frequently affirmed in his native land, germany, that on the spot where the rainbow rises, a golden key is to be found. now, i thought of this; now that i felt in the very centre of the rainbow itself, as it were, i thought of this tale of the spot where it rises, and of the golden key, and i won- dered whether i was not actually on the very place indicated. “i looked vaguely on the ground, with certainly but a very faint idea of seeing my hope realized, when what was my astonishment to behold lying on the grass at a few paces from me, a golden key ! i started forward and seized my prize eagerly, and in- deed such was the joy that took possession of me as i gazed on it with wonder and admiration at its richness and beautiful shape, that i could scarcely forbear clasping it to my heart, or pressing it to my lips. it was a strange indescribable rapture that i felt as i examined this new-found treasure again and again. a sort of unaccountable transport glowed in my heart, and made my veins thrill with glad ecstasy. and yet i knew not why i should be so delighted with the discovery of this key ! i have said it was rich, and of a beautiful shape. it was so, for it was of gold, and its wards were formed of graceful lines kit bam, mariner. and curves, that delighted the eye by their variety and harmonious proportion. still, singular to say, it was extremely simple withal, and i believe that it was this extreme simplicity, joined to its magic beauty, that filled me with such wild and almost absurd admira- tion. my next feeling was one of wonder to what or to where it belonged. did it open some mysteri- ous castle : did it make fast some concealed trea- sure, of which i was to be the fortunate discoverer? did it close in some crime from the eye of day ! or did it withhold from the light some wondrous know- ledge “i was recalled from my reverie about the key by perceiving that the shades of evening were gradually stealing over the landscape, and that i must speedily make up my mind as to what i had best do for a berth to sleep in. not a trace of hut, cabin, or habitation of any kind was there to be seen, and the hills were too distant for me to hope to be able to reach them in time for me to find a cave to sleep in. at length i resolved to climb up again into my friendly tree which had already afforded me such excellent shelter; so after having sought about till i found some berries on a bush near at hand, i made a tolerably hearty supper on these, as i did not wish to tax the hospitality of my friends the bees too heavily, and then i went to bed, with the best cheer i might. i had no sooner fallen asleep, however, than my dreams took the colour of the events which had so lately occupied my waking thoughts, i fancied that i was still in the lonely spot where i the strange adventures of had found the golden key, and that i sat on a grassy mound intently gazing upon it, while i revolved all the questions concerning its shape and purpose which had recently perplexed me. “as i gazed, methought i was sensible of an in- creased brilliancy in the rainbow-tinted atmosphere that still suffused every surrounding object, and on raising my head to discover the cause, my eyes en- countered those of a being who was gazing on me with an aspect of benign encouragement. “its figure was that of a young seraph, and was robed in a garment of shining white. two curious wings, of vivid and varied hue, sprung from his shoul- ders; his limbs were of the most graceful mould, and bespoke strength and swiftness, combined with deli- cacy; while the exquisite features that composed his countenance shone with a radiant expression of good- ness, intelligence, and happiness, that were more than mortal. as i looked up to this lustrous stranger with respectful admiration and attention, his lips parted with a serene smile, and he spoke with a voice of silver sweetness. - “‘happy human being !” said the vision; ‘you hold in your hand the means of a beatitude seldom attained in perfection by your race. it is within the reach of almost all; and yet how few are the happy ones who resolutely stretch forth their hand to seize the blessings contained in its dominion. even you, mortal, are ignorant of its value; you know not how to use the means actually within your power—in your very grasp !’ kit bam, mariner. “the figure glanced at the key i held in my hand, and continued:—“that key, rightly used, conveys to the owner unbounded wealth, exhaustless treasures, in realms apart from the common haunts of men. but beware of seeking these riches sordidly, or with an unhallowed motive; the key will never turn, the lock will never yield. that key, in the hands of one with a pure heart and clear brain, renders him more po- tent than a monarch, more mighty than an emperor, and possessing more rule over his fellow-men than a conqueror at the head of a vast army. that key, truly applied, lets in the free light of heaven to the deepest and darkest dungeon that ever disgraced the earth, and leads forth the closest prisoner that ever pined for life and liberty. bright, and with honest mastery, that key discloses exalted and infinite bless- ings;–rusty, consigned to neglect, or, worse than all, misused, it becomes a blight and a withering curse to its possessor.” “i shuddered; the voice ceased; i recovered, and looked up; but, alas! the vision had departed, and left me uninstructed as to the way in which i was to set about gaining the requisite knowledge as owner of the key. the pang of disappointment i endured gave me such pain, that i awoke with a start. i found the dawn just breaking, and the chill of the morning air so benumbed my limbs, that i was glad to descend from my tree couch, and try what exercise would do towards restoring warmth and vigour to them. i walked sharply forward then, in the direc- tion of the hills, and soon i found the motion bring the strange adventures of not only elasticity to my frame, but comfort and animation to my spirits, which had been somewhat depressed by the baffling dream; so that by the time the sun rose in all his majesty, i was in a fit state of energetic resolve and buoyant hope, to pay him my morning salutation, and to offer up my devotions to the bountiful creator of all good, with a grateful and trusting spirit. by the time i reached the hills, my appetite, sharpened by early exercise, warned me that i was quite ready for breakfast, and bade me look keenly in search of something that might supply me with one. from a slight rift in a gentle eminence a little further on, all overhung with flowering shrubs and drooping brambles, and floating garlands of a kind of wild honeysuckle, i saw a little rill trickling forth; and i was just admiring this natural fountain, and congratulating myself on this pleasant substi- tute for tea or coffee after a long morning's walk, when, peering about in its neighbourhood for a seat where i might rest myself while i enjoyed a cool draught of the refreshing beverage, i suddenly found i had scared a flock of birds, something like our plo- vers. they rose in a body into the air at my abrupt appearance, though they evidently did not fear me much, as they settled again very shortly, and not far off. “on approaching the spot whence they had risen, and which was a sort of sheltered grassy nook not far from the fountain, i found to my great joy a number of eggs, scattered about in clusters here and there, which made me guess that these creatures used this kit bam, mariner. pleasant spot as a sort of general nest for their com- munity. you may imagine i did not scruple to help myself to some of their treasure, and a very excel- lent meal of eggs and spring-water did i make. after breakfast i resumed my journey, and about ten o'clock, as i guessed by the sun, i had surmounted the chain of hills. on descending the other side, i found myself in a rocky valley, wild and desolate beyond description. there was a sort of dull leaden atmosphere, too, that hung over this dreary spot, which rendered its sterile features still more gloomy and repulsive, though they were sufficiently austere in themselves. steep rocks of one uniform dull grey colour frowned in rude grandeur on every side, and seemed inaccessible to all human footsteps. stern, sullen, arid, and blank, the barren monotony of the scene struck a chill to the heart, and cast an oppres- sive weight on the spirits. i traversed the valley with listless, aimless steps, and with a jaded supine- ness of feeling that was more insupportably weari- some than the hardest labour, or the most irksome tasks could have been. i dragged my limbs along, and yet i seemed to have no object in proceeding. how was this inert. apathy changed, however, into joyful energy and thrilling expectation when i ar- rived on the other side of the dreary valley, and beheld in the granite wall of rock which formed its opposite boundary, a key-hole—a distinct, well- defined key-hole,_and one that instantly struck me as being of similar dimensions with my new-found treasure of the previous evening—the wondrous e the strange adventures of golden key ! i drew it forth from my bosom, where i had carefully secured it, and was about to apply it eagerly to the lock, when the words of the vision flashed upon my memory, and i hesitated with a timid doubt of my own unworthiness and inefficiency for the task before me. the key was to be ‘rightly used, “truly applied;’ did these require any pre- vious consideration or study ? it was to be directed by the hands of one who had a ‘pure heart and a clear brain;' did i possess either? i hardly knew, young and inexperienced as i was, how to resolve these questions. but i thought, ‘i do know that i shall use it without one sordid or unhallowed motive; for i do not particularly covet riches or power, and it is solely with a hope of strange adventure and new incidents that i feel urged to try the power of the golden key. besides, neglect and rusty disuse are equally to be avoided by its possessor; let me then endeavour to apply it honestly and trustfully. step- ping lightly forward, then, and breathing a short but fervent prayer to heaven that my enterprise might prosper, with a throbbing but resolute heart i placed the key in the lock. i had no sooner done so, than a strain of solemn music pealed forth as of a rich and deep-toned organ in some cathedral aisle; a soft and gracious perfume pervaded the atmo- sphere, and the granite rocks parted before me, and disclosed a scene of sublime beauty. i beheld a wide expanse of ocean steeped in the most gorgeous sunshine; the waves heaved and fell in glowing un- dulations of light; the sky blazed in noon-day splen- kit bam, mariner. dour, and reflected lustrous brilliancy on the grey rocks that surrounded the valley, gilding even their dullness. i stepped forth to meet this burst of ra- diance, when the granite gates of the rocky valley closed immediately behind me, and i then perceived that i had inadvertently left the key in the lock on the other side. i felt little temptation, it is true, to return to the dreary monotony of the rocky valley; the rather, as i reflected that the key had already done its office in having introduced me to this new and glowing region, so inviting and so full of promise. “i gazed with rapture on this grand expanse of ocean, and felt all my early love of the sea revive in full force, with an added sense of beauty that swelled my heart, and filled my eyes. mingled awe and admiration possessed my soul as i contemplated this ever-heaving bosom of mother nature, which conveys her children to behold all those distant wonders that fill the imagination, and dilate the heart with burning desire to wander forth and come face to face with their marvellous reality. i felt even physical effects of this yearning of the spirit; my chest expanded, my breathing was deep yet hurried, my fingers were clutched in impatient con- vulsion, and my feet curled and writhed with the vehemence of my longing to set forth at once. as i stood thus pantingly, and strained forth my eyes, i distinguished, amid the dazzling undulations of the waves, a small object, which proved to be a boat; it was not moored, but balanced lightly to and fro, as if tºry "fºsſiy of it, the strange adventures of beckoning me to put forth upon that glowing ocean. a few plunges enabled me to reach it, as it lay close in shore, and stepping in, i yielded myself up to the delight of finding myself launched upon the alluring waters, taking no thought of rudder, compass, or sails, but feeling a sort of lulling, though blind faith in the power of this slight vessel to convey me prosperously to some desirable haven. “i had proceeded thus some hours, feeling neither hunger nor thirst, so absorbed was i with the delight of this new world of waters, when towards evening i became sensible that i was approaching land. i folded my arms, and drooping my head a little, i closed my eyes, and yielded to a sort of dreamy re- pose between sleeping and waking, partly the result of the strong emotions i had felt during the day. as i sat thus, i was roused from my soothing composure by a something that pressed softly and warmly across my feet. i know not why, but i did not unclose my eyes immediately; when i was still more startled by feeling the warm soft object move, then followed a gentle cooing sound, and, on opening my eyes, i be- held, to my infinite astonishment, a little child crawling over my feet, and stretching forth its fat dimpled hand to my knee with a winning murmur of entreaty, as if it besought me to take it up and caress it. in the utmost amazement, i took it in my arms, and set it on my knee, and pressed its soft, blooming cheek to my bosom, while i kissed its fair, curly head, and uttered an incoherent exclamation of tenderness and surprise. the little creature only the strange adventures of then expanding a pair of curiously folded wings, as he remained hovering for a few seconds more, he suddenly darted away over the sea, and flew swiftly towards the land. the secret was now at once ex- plained—he had flown into my boat. yet a more perfectly human creature than the little fellow seemed, could hardly be. his flesh was mottled, firm, and dimpling, and yielded to the pressure of my fingers with the true elasticity yet smooth surface which distinguishes the limbs of childhood. “by this time i had arrived close to the shore, and as i prepared to land, i perceived a young woman standing near the water's edge, holding a child in her arms, which i soon discovered to be no other than my winged visitant. i stepped out of the boat, and ap- proached them, when i observed my little friend stretch forth his hands towards me, and in another mo- ment, he sprung out of his mother's arms, and flying towards me, fluttered against my breast, till i clasped him fondly to me. the woman uttered a cry of alarm, and springing after the child, exclaimed wildly, * felix! felix l’ “i was much surprised to hear her speak in eng- lish; but, anxious to relieve her alarm as speedily as possible, i said, cheerfully, ‘never fear, dear madam, your boy is as safe with me as in your own arms; he and i have made acquaintance before.' “her surprise at hearing me speak thus, equalled my own; but i went on endeavouring to reassure her, in which task i found some difficulty, for i think i never, in the whole course of my life, met with a per- kit bam, mariner. son so little within the control of reason when under the influence of her fear or anxiety. “when she had a little recovered from her terror, which i think was rather from beholding how con- tentedly her boy nestled still with me, than from any arguments of mine, she proposed our going to her habitation, that i might take some repose and refresh- ment, as well as relate to her by what strange acci- dent i had found my way thither. this made me recollect the boat in which i had arrived, and i looked towards the sea, in the hope of seeing it still near the shore. in vain, however; without moorings, without fastening of any kind, it had drifted away with the ebbing-tide, and i descried it in the distance lightly dancing to and fro on the waves, as i had first beheld it in the morning; but now each moment receding still further amid the world of waters, until it was entirely lost to view. “i turned with a half sigh to my guide, as she led me towards her habitation, which proved to be a kind of cavity, naturally formed in the rock—lofty, spa- cious, and commodious enough; but i soon ceased to feel any regret as i hugged the beautiful child in my arms, and thought of all the endearing ways of this new little friend of mine. “after i had made a hearty repast of some fruit, milk, and a kind of cake or bread which my hostess set before me, i was preparing to comply with the request she had previously made, that i would tell her how i came to this place; when she interrupted me, by telling me that she would hear my story on the the strange adventures of morrow, when i should be better recovered from my fatigue; and that she would now shew me where i could rest for the night. “the cave is so spacious, said she with a feeble smile, “that it would afford many spare bedrooms did we need them for numerous visitors; but as it is, you can take your choice of one of them, and i will arrange some skins in it as well as i can for your accommodation, hoping that you will enjoy a com- fortable night's rest.’ “her manner was quiet, and marked by a sort of apathetic indifference that chilled me, and forbade the warm thanks that sprung to my lips, and with which i was about to reply; indeed, she looked like one so lost to outward objects, and to be so wholly possessed by some absorbing inward sorrow, that all unnecessary words seemed an impertinence, and merely an intrusion on her melancholy. for some time after she had left me to repose, i was unable to sleep, from pondering on her singular manner and evident misery, as well as indulging in many con- jectures relative to her winged boy, and the strange histories which doubtless belonged to them both; but by degrees, her pale unhappy face blended its hues with the rosy ones of her little son's countenance— the mother's woe-stricken lines became confused with the chubby rounded cheeks of the infant—my thoughts faded into inaction, and i slept profoundly. “when i awoke the next morning the sun's rays were making their way through the crevices of the rock, and darting bright reproach into the part of the kit bam, mariner. cavern where i lay; for i had fully intended being up with the earliest dawn, in order to assist my hostess as much as possible by forwarding some of the household arrangements before she should herself get up. however, to the great relief of my con- science, i found that she was not yet stirring; for, like many people who give way to an overwhelming grief, she had acquired a habit of lying in bed—a very foolish habit, by-the-bye, my dear young friends; for there is an animating principle and a strengthen- ing stimulus in the fresh morning air which early rises alone know how to value properly. had this poor woman sought the healthful courage imparted by the custom of early rising, she would have per- haps been better able to meet and sustain her me- lancholy fate. but you will find, as i proceed to tell you all i afterwards learned of my unhappy hostess, that this was not the only point in which she dis- covered a want of wisdom and knowledge of what was best for her. - “to return to the first morning of my acquaint- ance with her. on issuing from the portion of the cavern where i had slept, i found to my joy, as i told you, that my hostess was not yet up. i passed through the principal space in the cave where i had supped on the previous evening, which might be called the dining-room; and after arranging matters here to the best of my power (for you must know that a sailor learns to turn his hand to anything, and can make a bed, or sew on a button, with any cham- bermaid or workwoman of them all), i went out into the strange adventures of a sort of enclosed space near the cave, which was surrounded by a neat paling, and where i observed a cow and two or three goats grazing, evidently ready to be milked; and having provided myself with a wooden vessel that lay near at hand, i prepared to perform this office as well as i could. considering that i had never learned to milk a cow, for my father had been far too poor to keep one, i managed pretty well on the present occasion; and i had already made good progress in my work, having finished with the cow, and was beginning with one of the goats, when i heard a little merry laugh not far from me, and looking up in the direction whence the sound proceeded, i perceived the winged boy perched on the paling close by. when he saw by my nod- ding and smiling that i had discovered him, he flew towards me, and settled on my shoulder; and there he stood fluttering and hovering, half on tip-toe, half held up by his quivering spread wings, while he tried to steady himself by clasping his dimpled arms round my head. ‘steady, felix steady, boy, steady!' cried i, while he laughed and crowed with delight; and thus his mother found us when she came soon after to summon us to breakfast. “she seemed reconciled now to the attachment which had evidently sprung up between her son and me, and bore to see him in my arms with a compla- cency very different from her wild alarm of the pre- vious evening, so we returned to the cave in very sociable style; the child frolicking about us, first fluttering to his mother, and then back to me again kit bam, mariner. —for he could evidently fly much better than he could walk. but though this poor woman made me welcome in the cave, and in her negligent fashion allowed me to feel that my arrival at this place was nowise disagreeable to her, yet it was long before her melancholy reserve yielded to my efforts at consola- tion: while my cheerful endeavours to draw her into conversation, and a more comfortable train of thought than the one which habitually engrossed her, were for some time met by a chilling apathy that was inex- pressibly discouraging. after the first morning, when she had heard my history of the account i gave of my adventure in reaching this shore, she had expressed no more curiosity, and appeared to take no further interest in my presence. she seemed to have made up her mind that i was a nowise dangerous associate for her child, and beyond this she appeared to have no thought about me, but remained absorbed in moody grief and wrapt in silence. the gaiety and cheer- fulness natural to my age, of course rendered me a more acceptable companion to little felix, than his poor young mother, with her pale face and moping ways, could be to him; and when she wandered away, as was her daily custom, to the sea-shore, where she would sit for hours gazing fixedly across the wide ocean, he would remain by my side and watch me while i worked, or gambol with me when i indulged him after the morning labour was done with a game of play. happy days were those i spent with this fascinating little being ! he was so beautiful, so graceful, so full of joy and innocent mirth, and the strange adventures of yet so gentle, and winningly affectionate! dear charming felix how my heart doted on your be- witching loveliness! and how i longed to make it a means of wiling your poor mother from her use- less, her pernicious indulgence in her hopeless grief. at length, with the courage inspired by this thought, i would follow her to the lonely seat among the rocks, where she was accustomed to remain buried in her melancholy musings; and, seeming merely to follow the lead of my young companion, i would induce him to frolic and play his pretty gambols where she might observe them, and become inspired by their cheering influence. for some time this went on, she scarcely appearing to notice us or our romping, till i almost despaired of ever winning her to a smile or a remark; when, one day we were returning to our noontide meal after a morning spent among the rocks, she gazing as usual drearily and silently over the sea, and felix and i having fairly worn ourselves out with a violent romping-bout, accompanied by roars of laughter; he had now fallen fast asleep in my arms as i bore him home; and she suddenly spoke to me of her own accord. - “you are a kind youth, kit,” she said, ‘and have been most patient and good with me and my sor- rows; bearing with my moody silence, forbearing to intrude upon my secrets, and yet gently and affec- tionately seeking to relieve me from the burthen of their solitary endurance. but it is too late | had i met with you sooner, could i have earlier learnt the lesson taught me by your wise cheerfulness, and kit bam, mariner. imitated the wholesome energy with which you meet your hardships by activity and courage, instead of yielding to despondence; had i not weakened my powers, and exhausted even my spring of hope by supine lamentation and unavailing regret, i might have profited by your friendly help, and have be- lieved that a future was still in store for me. but it is too late!' she repeated with a deep sigh. “why too late " exclaimed i eagerly. “with such a treasure in your possession as this dear child, —with such a motive to make life dear to you.- with darling little felix to keep a brave heart for- why despair why talk of its being too late : why should it be too late? “‘i am dying, said she, sadly, but quietly; “i am dying, kit, though your young, hopeful eyes cannot see it. i feel too surely that my unhappy lot, with my want of submission to the almighty's decree, and my unmindfulness of the blessings he has vouchsafed to me to relieve the misery of my fate, has worn away my existence, and as certainly brought my life to a close, as if i had deliberately drunk poison.’ “i was inexpressibly shocked, and could not utter a word in reply as she paused. “presently she resumed, ‘i should have no right to pain your young heart by this declaration, had i not a hope of interesting your sympathy, and inducing you to promise aid and protection to my poor felix, to my poor motherless boy, as i feel convinced he will shortly be. alas! in all probability, then entirely an orphan.’ - the strange adventures of “this last word seemed to excite her grief beyond the power of control, for she burst into a flood of tears, bitter, and frightfully vehement; but, after a few minutes, she made a strong and convulsive effort, and mastering her emotion with evident difficulty, she resumed:—‘it is your due, kit, that you should learn all the particulars of my sad story; you who have been so true a friend to me, and will, i hope, continue your loving-kindness to my boy hereafter; you, who have so considerately respected my grief hitherto, and restrained all expression of curiosity, ought to have nothing withheld from you; therefore, by to-morrow, i will endeavour to gain composure and courage to relate to you my history, and by what accident i arrived here.” “the next day, accordingly, when we were seated in the usual nook among the rocks, with felix play- ing at our feet, busily engaged in pouring out and replacing the shining contents of my purse, with which employment i had purposely provided him, to occupy his attention during his mother's relation, she began her story as follows:—but,” said kit, sud- denly breaking off, and interrupting himself; “i fear it is getting time for you two to be off home, so i'll tell you what she told me, when you come here to- morrow evening.” “well, dear kit, we'll go then,” replied fanny, leaving the old man's side reluctantly. “come along, dick; though i do long to hear the poor lady's story, and more about the little felix, with his curious wings, yet we must do as kit wishes, or, kit bam, mariner. perhaps, he’ll play the tyrant, and refuse to tell us any more of his wonderful stories.” “but, fanny, i must ask him one question before we go,” said her brother; “i want to know, kit, whether the golden key really did bring you riches, and wealth, and power, and all the grand things men- tioned by the vision ? did you ever find them after opening the gates of the rocky valley, and sailing across that bright sea " “my dear lad,” answered the old mariner thought- fully, “i have often asked myself the same question. and in pondering over the matter, i have come to this conclusion; that the key admitted me through those ponderous barriers from the desolate sterile valley, and led me to the shore of that resplendent sea, which i have always since named the ocean of imagination,-for it conducted me to the life i had always sighed for from earliest childhood—a life of adventure, of romantic incident, and of ever-shifting scenes of beauty and entrancing strangeness, worth more to me than sumless heaps of treasure, or mines of costliest gems. i have fancied that a hearty enjoyment of life, a power of abstracting my mind from the disagreeables and hardships of travel, while i dwelt with rapture on the ideas it conveyed, and the keen sense of gratification with which i was able to extract enjoyment from all my adventures under circumstances which might have depressed and discouraged a less ardent imagination than mine, was in fact, the sumptuous gift bestowed upon me by the possession of the key, and i do not know but that i the strange adventures of have had reason to receive it with more gratitude than any other treasure whatsoever.” the old mariner, at the conclusion of this speech, bidding his young friends gravely and affectionately farewell, they sped away home. kit bam, mariner. ( chapter iii. continuation of kit's yarn of the lone mother and child. – her story..—kallisah.-felix. - new associ- ates. the next evening when the two young swallows were comfortably ensconced in the old mariner's cot- tage, dick snugly crouching on one side of him, and fanny hugging his other arm as usual, kit thus re- sumed his yarn, where the lone mother was beginning to tell him her story. “my first misfortunes began,” she said, “with the loss of my poor mother, who was sickly and weak- spirited, and unable to contend with the grief of dis- covering that her husband was an habitual drunkard. he had contrived to deceive her with regard to this defect in his character until after their marriage, but when once he had gained his point in inducing her to become his wife, he had relapsed into his usual excesses, and brought her to an early grave with shame and regret before i had reached the age of six years. my second calamity was my father's marrying again, and giving me for a stepmother a hard cruel woman, who ill-used me, and made me little better than a servant to her own children, who were born in rapid succession after her union with f the strange adventures of my father. on this little family i had to wait from morning till night, endure all their caprices, and abide by their ill-tempers, their mother's exactions, and my father's injustice. i sunk into a mere abject drudge, and was so broken spirited, that when, at the age of eighteen, i found that i had engaged the at- tention and sympathy of a young midshipman who came to lodge at the house next door to that in which we lived, and that he often took occasion to talk to me and manifest an interest in my fate, i could only at first conclude that he was jeering at me, and mocking my suffering, by a pretended kind- ness and solicitude. soon, however, he contrived to convince me that his sympathy was sincere, and that it had produced an ardent attachment for me, which no time could weaken or destroy. “for one who had been from childhood the un- ceasing object of unkindness, neglect, and cruelty, to inspire such an affection was as the opening of new life—the disclosing of an earthly heaven. i yielded myself impetuously to this unexpected prospect of happiness; and finding my young lover impatient to make me his before his next voyage should take him away for an indefinite period, and, possibly, separate us for ever, i gave him my hand with a joy equal to his own at receiving it, and became the wife of felix morton. mere boy and girl as we both were, for my husband was scarcely twenty-we stayed not to calculate the importance of the step we had taken, or the consequences in which it would involve us; we loved with all the warmth and reck- kit bam, mariner. less ardour of youth; we married, and were for a time as happy as mortals could desire, notwithstand- ing the threatening event which marked the very first day of our clandestine union. too much in awe of my father and tyrannous step-mother to con- sult them in the affair, or to dream of asking their consent, we were married privately one morning, at a neighbouring church; and, returning to our re- spective homes, i learned by a singular chance in the course of the afternoon, that my felix's ship had sailing-orders, and that she was to leave port that very evening. in the utmost agitation i flew through the garden to my lover's lodging to learn the truth, and found a small hurried note, bidding me a dis- tracted adieu, and informing me of his having been compelled to obey his captain's orders, which were to execute some commission at a neighbouring town to our own, which was a sea-port; that he should thus be detained till a late hour in the evening— indeed until only within a short hour of the one fixed for the ship's weighing anchor; and that he, therefore, conjured me to meet him, if possible, on the quay at that hour, that he might assure me of his constant affection, his unshaken faith, and his firm hope of meeting again at some happier time, when he might claim his beloved bride, and make her all his own. i was absolutely stunned with this dread- ful news. the thought of parting with my new- made husband, whom i adored so passionately, was worse than death to me. this being, so frank and handsome, so generous, so brave yet so gentle,_ the strange adventures of so animated yet so tender —this being, who had first taught me the bliss of loving and being loved; who had raised and cherished the poor despised outcast, and inspired her with hope and self-respect; could it be that this being was to be torn from me just as i had learned to cling to him as my only earthly treasure ? buried in grief, i returned to my miserable home, and resumed my usual drudgery, de- vouring my sobs and tears of anguish, and concealing them as well as i could from observation. “towards evening, however, while i was endea- vouring to devise some means of stealing down to the quay unperceived, my father called me to him; and, after making some harsh remark upon my red eyes and sulky ways, he bade me go and fetch him some liquor from a public-house, at a tolerable distance from where we lived, but which had a name for sell- ing good spirits. i was preparing to obey him, when my stepmother employed me about something for one of the children, which detained me so long as to ex- asperate my father, who was subject, like most intem- perate men, to fits of violent passion. he took me by the shoulder, and bestowing a hearty curse upon me, turned me out of doors, bidding me begone, like a good-for-nothing lazy slut as i was, my heart was almost broken with this cruelty of my father's, com- ing in the midst of the grief from which i had been previously suffering, and i fled through the darkening streets with a sort of mad bewilderment. ‘begone !’ i exclaimed wildly, repeating my father's words; “ay, begone!—would i could be gone, indeed; and return kit bam, mariner, no more to this wretched home, where i have never known anything but injustice and ill-treatment! oh that i could be gone—gone far away with my own felix—my own dear husband!' i paused for an in- stant, struck with the recollection that this must be about the very hour he had spoken of as being the one when he had hoped to meet me previous to his departure. i hurried on, forgetful of aught but felix and my anxiety to see him; when just as i was emerging from a dark narrow street which led straight on to the quay, close to that part where i knew his vessel lay, and where the crew were busy finishing her last preparations for sea, he perceived me, and sprung forward to clasp me in his arms, drawing me as he did so within the shadow of the houses in the narrow street. here he earnestly repeated the passionate protestations of regret, constancy, and hope, which his note had expressed; and learnt in return from me my deep affliction, as well as the recent cause i had to dread and detest my home more than ever. “‘this shall not, must not be l’exclaimed he with a vehement burst of emotion; ‘she must not return to be trampled on and destroyed by her hateful rela- tions. who will protect her when i am away? she will sink and die before i can return to rescue her. she must be saved, and at once l’ “he paused for a few seconds in deep thought; and then, with the energetic decision which marked his character, strode a few paces up the narrow street, drawing me still with him, towards a small shop dimly lighted by a flaring tallow-candle, and in which the strange adventures of they sold slop-clothes and other ship's stores. enter- ing the shop, and bidding me wait close outside, felix purchased a suit of coarse dark-blue clothes, of a lad's size, and quickly returning to me, he whispered:— “there is still time for my project, nanny, if you will be a brave girl, and do as i would have you; but keep a stout heart, and lose not a moment.’ “i answered as boldly as i could (for his presence somehow always inspired me with greater courage than i could muster at any other time); and he then proceeded hurriedly to explain that he wished me to equip myself in the sailor-boy's suit he had just bought, and that in this disguise he hoped i should escape observation sufficiently for him to smuggle me on board ship, and carry me off with him. the hope of release from my bondage, but, far more, the thought of escape with my beloved husband, excited me to act with promptitude and resolution; and, ac- cordingly, i no sooner comprehended his design, than i retired quickly into a deserted yard or wharf not far from where we stood, and there, behind some broken casks and ship lumber, i effected an expeditious change of clothes, and returned to my lover, who de- clared that i now looked as trim a little cabin-boy as he would wish to see. it was by this time necessary to hasten back to the quay, and join those going on board. we were just in time; for a rough voice calling out, ‘now then, where are those lads! here, you boys, look alive there,' pushed me onwards with a group of young sailors who were loitering about, and among whom i had immediately mingled on kit bam, mariner. reaching the spot; and thus, amid the bustle and darkness, i found myself hurried on deck, whence felix soon contrived to convey me below unnoticed by any one. it was of course not very long that i could remain undiscovered; and the presence of a cabin-boy more than their number was perceived by the crew before many days had elapsed. however, a feigned story of my being a runaway lad whom love of the sea had rendered a truant from the home of his parents, and had induced him thus to steal a berth, found credit with the captain, who was the uncle of my felix; and probably not unwilling to connive at what he believed to be a scape-grace trick of his nephew's to introduce a favourite comrade or school- fellow on board his ship. the other officers and sailors were always jealous of felix, and of the fancied favouritism with which his captain treated him on the score of relationship; but it was some time before i discovered this enmity on their part, or indeed awoke to the perception of anything but the single all- engrossing fact of my being with my husband, and the constant object of his love and fond attention. while i was wrapped in this dream of happiness, i was the most enviable—the most blest of mortals; but, alas! the time came when i could no longer re- main blind to the murmurs of discontented feeling and vindictive jealousy that prevailed among my felix's shipmates against him; and my awakening from my dream of bliss was as abrupt and alarming, as my previous repose had been balmy and secure. the first thing which startled me to a sense of his the strange adventures of danger, were the rough taunts of one of the subordi- nates of the crew, in reply to some order which felix had given him as midshipman, and his superior offi- cer. the man ended by muttering—‘a pretty thing indeed, to be ordered about by a whipper-snapper of a boy, who is himself led in tow by a petticoat–or what ought by rights to be one, or to wear one, it's all the same thing.’ “‘this hint at the discovery of my sex and dis- guise, made me tremble for my secret, but still more for the safety of my husband, which i felt to be perilled by what might be considered an act of insu- bordination if represented to the captain malignantly, as the man's manner shewed it would be, if reported at all. “‘the next day i had fatal confirmation of all my worst fears. “‘while sitting below, each moment expecting felix, for he took every opportunity of stealing down to see me when his duty would permit, i heard loud voices, and tokens of vehement contention on deck; and, creeping up the companion with knocking knees and a beating heart, i beheld a scene of confusion and altercation of which i only too surely and at once comprehended the meaning. the sailor who had so brutally taunted felix on the previous day stood forward, loudly charging my husband with having secreted a woman on board, and taxing the captain with undue partiality and favoritism, in having connived at this breach of discipline on the part of his nephew. the man was warmly supported kit bam, mariner. in his accusations by the majority of the crew, and, as the captain scarcely repelled the charge, but pro- ceeded to rebuke them severely for their own insu- bordination and mutinous behaviour, in thus daring to dispute his justice and arraign his conduct, the remainder of the men gradually fell from him and left him standing side by side with felix alone together. i would have sprung forward to the spot where they stood, but i was so hemmed in and im- peded by the crowd of men who now all occupied the side of the deck where i was, that i could not force my way through them. “‘i should tell you that we had by this time been about six weeks or nearly two months at sea, and we were, at the period i speak of in the offing of a large continent that cannot, i feel sure, be far from where we at present are, and which i have always believed to be just visible from the point of rock on which we are seated.’ “the lone mother paused, and pointed with her trembling hand to a dim speck just perceptible on the horizon, which she believed to be the land she spoke of her pale face and quivering lips shewed what a severe restraint she had been putting on her feelings, in order to narrate her sad tale collectedly and intelligibly; but the effort evidently cost her dear, and was made at the expense of strength and even vitality. she resumed, however:- “‘the mutiny once begun, it increased rapidly, and all the long-concealed wrath and jealous doubts of the captain and his nephew, flamed forth in open . the strange adventures of rebellion and avowed threats of vengeance—threats which were cruelly and speedily fulfilled, and carried into fatal execution. finding all their menaces fail in subduing captain morton's inflexible notions of their respective duties, and that they could not make him yield one jot of his command, or promise one point of their manifold exactions, they suddenly agreed to end the dispute at once by placing him and his detested nephew in an open boat, cutting them adrift, and letting them find their way ashore as they best might, whilst they themselves would seize the ship and command her as they chose. on hearing this horrible sentence passed on my beloved husband, i staggered and reeled, as if struck by a heavy blow, and, as i gasped forth a shriek for mercy, felix heard me, and our eyes met in one mute expression of anguish. it was our farewell look—as brief and intense as our joys had been ;-i never beheld my felix more—i fainted. “‘would to heaven i had never recovered from that death-like swoon, which, at least, spared me the sense of my misery, resumed the poor young crea- ture after a pause of emotion such as seemed to deprive her of several hours—nay, days, of life, and bring her nearer to the grave, as it were, before my eyes; ‘but when i returned to consciousness, i heard remarks from the mutinous ruffians around me which evinced plainly their regret that, instead of having been left behind, a mere useless burden on their hands to remind them of their guilt, i had not been turned adrift with my friends. how fervently i echoed kit bam, mariner. their regret in the depths of my heart, you may easily imagine, kit; but i gave no token of hearing or seeing aught that passed; and at length, after various proposals for getting rid of so troublesome a witness of their misdeeds, some even going so far as to talk of knocking me on the head and pitching me overboard at once, i heard them determine upon putting me ashore on the first land we touched at. in the course of a few hours we neared this place. i felt them lift me up from the spot where i lay still apparently insensible; and, so utterly devoid was i of any thought or care of life, now i had lost all that rendered it of any value to me, that not one murmur of remonstrance did i utter, not one token of anima- tion did i give to prevent their consigning me to this living death. i remained in a kind of dumb stupor, almost like a corpse in their arms, as they lowered me into a small boat in which i was rowed to land, where they placed me on a ledge of rock just beyond the sands; the boat then returning to the ship, which set sail again immediately. not one sensation ap- proaching to regret or added horror, at thus finding myself abandoned on a lone shore to perish, was i conscious of feeling. my one great grief had swal- lowed up and effaced all lesser and merely personal considerations. if i felt anything at all, it was a kind of vague wonder (which i remember crossed my mind in the strange way that the like trivial fancies will wander into one's brain at such moments) that these ruffians, who could cold-bloodedly doom me to such a fate, should yet lift me gently and with an kit bam, mariner. now, with the clearer vision of approaching death, to this period, i feel how blameably ungrateful and unmindful i was of the boon accorded to me by a merciful creator, in the shape of this simple black girl, who would have been a comfort and support to any less wilfully repining spirit than mine. as it was, i rather yielded to, than accepted, her cherish- ing care; and permitted her attention and hospitality, instead of receiving them with the warmth of wel- come and mutual affection. from that first evening, when, finding me alone and perishing, she restored me to consciousness, and led me to her cave, her conduct was marked by one unceasing course of lavish solicitude and prodigal attachment; met on my part—i now shame to feel and avow—by un- thankful negligence, cold indifference, and mere sel- fish indulgence in my own sorrow. “‘day after day, week after week, month after month, did i yield to my absorbing misery; and, wandering away from her companionship, would sit brooding on this rocky point in solitary despair, gazing over the wide waters, fixing my eyes on the dim speck of the horizon which i believed to be the land that contained all i held dear—my beloved husband—from whom i had been so rudely torn, and so cruelly and eternally separated. “here would i sit for hours, absorbed in this one engrossing idea, delivering myself over to voluntary gloom and despair. not once did i seek help and courage from the society of kallisah, or by relieving her from part of her household duties, give wholesome the strange adventures of exertion to my frame, and, by using the body, endea- vour to strengthen the mind. equally unmindful of her feelings—wounded, as they must be by my cold, ungrateful neglect, as of my own moral health, i suffered myself to become a mere inert lump of uselessness, and the morbid victim of a diseased imagination. even the conviction that i was shortly to become a mother had scarce power to raise me from my lethargy, or turn my thoughts to any subject apart from the one which filled my soul with a single yearning desire, and kept my straining eyes fixed on that dimly-seen, far-away, coveted shore. some lines that i had once read in an old play-book, often wandered into my musing brain, and i would fre- quently mutter to myself, “like one that stands upon a promontory, and spies a far-off shore where he would tread, wishing his foot were equal with his eye; and chides the sea that sunders him from thence, saying—he'll lade it dry to have his way.” “but more than all—more than any hope of lading the sea dry, did i long for wings—for wings that i might skim the surface of the waters, and clear the space that held me from my felix. had i but wings! then would i soar over these relentless waves that rolled in ceaseless mockery of my anguish, raising eternal barriers between me and my beloved, and there would i find blessed peace in his arms. had i but the power of flight! this was the longing desire that haunted me ever, and ever, and ever. what wonder, then, that when my baby was kit bam, mariner. born, he was born with wings? an angel-token sent from heaven, of warning for past misused facul- ties, of hopeful strength for the future. “‘the advent of this cherub, truthfully read and rightly used, might have proved such a token to his poor mother, but, weakly passive by nature, and totally unskilled in mental discipline, she was regard- less of the blessed influence, and remained blind to the alleviations with which heaven had balanced the one great sorrow in her lot. but keenly, though tardily awake as i am, to my mistaken existence—an existence consumed rather than spent—i must not dwell upon my sad story longer than necessary, kit. you must have heard enough to learn a serious lesson of the folly and wickedness of allowing the mind to dwell unhealthfully upon one single thought, and of permitting the imagination to become diseased, and to destructively prey upon the body. i will merely tell you the events that succeeded the birth of my boy, during which period of pain and suffering i was waited upon and tended night and day by my gentle kallisah, the tenderest and most solicitous of nurses. the whole time i was thus confined to the cave, she would quietly sit by the side of my bed, heaping up the skins with which it was spread, arranging them beneath my weary head, and comfortably disposing them around my exhausted frame; her skill in herbal preparations, and cooling drinks from fruit and berry were inexhaustible; and they were administered to my fevered lips with tones of healing comfort and soothing encouragement. her affectionate nature the strange adtentures of inspired her with devices that supplied the place of experience and skill; and, as i gradually recovered, she would, with unwearied patience and inventive fancy, beguile the passing hours, in relating her history by means of emphatic tones and expressive gestures. i learned that she had been carried off by a slave-ship from her native country; that, in the course of the voyage, a british vessel had attacked the one in which she was; and that, with the cruelty frequently practised by slave-ships under pursuit, the captain had thrown her overboard, with many others of her wretched companions, into the sea, to lessen his freight to the prescribed number of victims, should he be overtaken and examined. young and active, she had contrived to swim on shore: alone, however; for whether taken up by the british ship, rescued by other means, or drowned in the sea, she could not tell, but not one of her unhappy companions had ever reached that land. hardy, and from childhood ac- customed to depend greatly on her own exertions for obtaining the means of existence, she readily found food in this fertile place, which abounded in fruit and vegetables of various kinds; the cave afforded her commodious shelter, and the pursuits of her early savage home had taught her skill sufficient to add many advantages to these natural ones of mere food and shelter. she fashioned rude tools, which enabled her to put a paling round the enclosed space in which she kept her cows and goats; a well-directed missile from her practised hand, and impelled by the strength of her youthful arm (the vigour of which no kit bam, mariner. enervating habits of civilized life had weakened and impaired), would frequently procure her the comfort and luxurious warmth of some wild animal's skin for her couch; and thus, when my destiny threw me on this shore, it came that she was so well provided with means for the hospitable welcome with which her kind nature prompted her to greet the poor wanderer. how was it that i could remain insensible to so much goodness as shone conspicuous in the gentle character of this child of nature, enshrined though it was in an ebon casket. but it was not the dark exterior, it was the mist of self-indulgence and uncontrolled passion that veiled my eyes, and shrouded the price- less gem from my view! but no more of this! suffice it, that not even her gentle tendance in my time of trouble effected the cure of my mental blind- ness. it was decreed that by her loss alone could i be brought to a sense of the invaluable treasure i possessed in her, with the consequent perception of my own previous ingratitude, and the perverse aid which it had afforded fate in my martyrdom. “one evening, not very long before your arrival here, kit, when felix was little more than a twelve- month old, i returned to the cave somewhat sur- prised that i had not been fetched home by the faith- ful kallisah, who used to bring felix to my rocky seat, and then return with us to the afternoon meal, which her own activity and skill had meanwhile pre- pared. i found my boy alone, restless, and almost fretful at the absence of his affectionate nurse and playfellow, who was nowhere to be seen. i com- g the strange adventures of forted the child, and taking him in my arms, we sought through all the recesses of the cave, through all the neighbouring nooks of the rock, in the pad- dock, every where around, but in vain—no kallisah! nor did she come that evening, or that night, through the dark hours of which, i kept restless vigil, listen- ing vainly for her approaching steps, and striving to still the moaning and plaintive wail of my little felix, who was uneasy at missing his kind and loving friend. “next morning, as soon as the sun had risen, taking my child in my arms (for he had now fallen into a heavy slumber, in which i dared not leave him, lest he should wake in my absence), i set forth in quest of my faithful companion, dreading some fatal accident had befallen her, as nothing else, i felt, would have prevented her returning to us before. my fears were too speedily verified. i had not pro- ceeded many hundred paces into the little wood which skirts the grassy plains adjoining the cave, before ibeheld my poor kallisah stretched beneath the trees, a disfigured lifeless corse ! her dark skin prevented the appearance of any discolouring marks of the poison, but the swollen flesh, the starting eye balls, the distorted mouth, told but too plainly the secret of her death, and gave distinct evidence of her having been attacked by a serpent, and mortally wounded by its deadly fang. the thought of sparing my child from the horror of this ghastly spectacle, gave me strength to dig a hasty shallow grave in the soil, which was fortunately of a light and crumbling kit bam, mariner. nature; and with the help of boughs and leaves i succeeded in concealing the body of my hapless friend, and affording it the respect of a slight though bowery tomb; so that by the time felix awoke, i had not only conveyed him from the spot, but had saved him from any risk of encountering so sad an object, in case his wings should by chance convey him to this neighbourhood. for, i should tell you, that his power of flight had preceded the ability to run alone, which generally begins to manifest itself. i believe, in children of about his age; and i often dreaded that this gift of winged strength in my boy might prove a source of anxiety to me, lest he should wander beyond my care, and inflict upon me the pang of losing a second felix. however, he has never hitherto been able to effect any long flight, and i suppose it was in attempting one of greater distance than usual, in the direction of the sea, that caused him to seek rest and protection in your boat when you were approaching this shore. if a mother's judgment may be trusted on such a point, his wings are an additional charm to the many beauties that render him one of the loveliest and most interesting beings that ever breathed; and his affectionate loving nature shews itself in every infantine caress, and tender fondling, which he lavishes on his poor mother, as well as in the constancy with which he long pined after his faithful nurse,_the lost kallisah! but it is this singular beauty of his, both in frame and nature, that makes me surpassingly anxious with respect to his future fate, and bids me secure your the strange adventures of friendship and protection for my orphan child.' the lone mother fixed her eyes wistfully on mine as she paused, and after i had in a few warm and fer- vent words assured her that my affection for the interesting little creature equalled, if possible, her own; and that nothing should henceforth part me from him while we both lived, she pressed my hand, and concluded her story in the following words: “for my own part, i shared the regret of my little one for the loss of kallisah, and mourned for her as per- severingly as he did; but her death first opened my eyes to the error of my past conduct, and awakened fears for the future. should my child be deprived of my care as he had been of hers, by any adverse and unforeseen accident, what was to become of him : these thoughts, and many other associated reflections, now shared my lonely musings with the one theme which had formerly been their only object; for so inveterate a thing is a habit of reverie, and an in- dulgence in solitude, that i still wandered daily to my rocky seat, and pursued my usual contemplation of the wide and ever-restless sea. in this state of awakened conscience and motherly solicitude you found me, kit, on your arrival; and i had not known you long, before your frank nature, your generous anxiety to win me from my sorrows, and above all, your evident attachment to my boy, led me to con- fide in you, and place all my hope for my boy's future welfare in your promise to adopt him. this hope is now realized by your assurances, in which i have full faith, and i have nothing now left to wish kit bam, mariner. for, but that i may be speedily called to meet my beloved husband in a happier and a better world.’ the poor young mother rose as she finished speaking, for the sun was declining from the meridian, and felix began to shew symptoms of hungry anxiety to return to the cave, that he might have his dinner, which had been delayed somewhat beyond his usual hour by the long narrative his mother had been giving ine. - “she was greatly exhausted, and did not rally at all after our meal; so that when i took leave of her for the night, my fears were joined to her own convic- tions that she was not destined long to remain on this earth, and they kept me some time awake in sorrowing sympathy for her fate. just as i was sinking into a feverish slumber, however, i thought i heard a stifled groan, followed by a feeble cry. i started up, and listened intently, as i hurried on some clothing, and prepared to hasten forth. as i listened, the cry was repeated, and i was not long in finding my way through the labyrinths of the cave towards the space occupied by my hostess as her own sleep- ing apartment. it was near the outer part of the cavern; and, through some fissures and chasms of the rock, the light of a southern moon streamed in rays of softened splendour, and revealed to me a scene which will never be effaced from my memory. the poor young mother lay lifeless on her couch, while her child had crawled along the bed towards her on his hands and knees, and was hanging over her in all the terror and grief of finding her insensible to his cries the strange adventures of and inarticulate entreaties. as he knelt there in the moonlight, looking at her motionless form, with his bent head, his drooping wings, and his little clasped hands extended towards the object of his infantine grief, they looked like a marble group of death, mourned by seraph innocence. but i re- covered from the spell by which i was held for a moment in contemplation of this touching picture, and soon rallied all my courage to soothe and com- fort my baby friend, and it was not very long before i succeeded in wiling him from the side of his dead mother. but though he was gentle, and yielded quietly to all my efforts to beguile his grief, i could perceive that he had not the usual facile spirits of childhood; he dwelt with a pertinacity foreign to his age, on the idea of his departed mother, and the remembrance of her pale face haunted his young imagination. he drooped visibly; and even after she had been removed (for i had taken the opportu- nity one night when he was in a profound sleep to pay her the last sad duties of interment) he would seek her still with wistful eyes, and evidently missed her in her accustomed seat and wonted places. i had buried her in a grassy spot of earth close to the nook among the rocks where she had spent so many lonely hours, and had pleased myself with the thought that it was in all probability the very spot she would herself have best approved. hither her little son would now frequently draw me, as if aware of the vicinity where his mother lay; but it was in all pro- bability from a fond clinging to the place where he kit bam, mariner. had so frequently beheld her—on the rocky seat commanding a view of the sea. “he and i were sitting here one day, he fluttering to and fro, taking short circling flights over the sea, and skimming lightly just above the surface of the waves, while i flattered myself with the pleasing hope of his reviving health and spirits; when sud- denly i heard voices at a little distance, and on lis- tening attentively i heard them again, and became more and more convinced that they were human tones, and proceeded from that part of the sea-shore beyond the rocks which lay between it and the spot where i had landed. i placed felix softly on the rocky seat, and, charging him to remain there till i came back, i hastened in the direction whence i had heard the voices. on arriving at the sea-shore, which formed a sort of miniature bay on the coast, i perceived a party of sailors who had just landed from a boat that lay to, and who were in evident quest of fresh water. i went towards them and offered my services to lead them to a spring which welled forth its delicious waters near to the cave which formed my habitation, as i could then provide them with rest, shelter, and food, with a draught of milk in addition to the water they sought, and which i knew would prove welcome refreshment to sea-faring men. they accepted my proposal with the same frankness with which it was made, and we returned in the direction i had come; this led across the rocks, as i have said, towards the spot where i myself had originally landed, and then to the cave itself close by. as we crossed the strange adventures of the rocky pass, i looked eagerly for felix, and approached the seat where i had left him, a few paces in advance of the party. an instant after, i heard the report of a gun close behind me, and the words: “by jove i saw a curious large bird fly up! i’ll have him ' " i sprung forward just in time to catch my little felix in my arms as he sunk bleeding on the grassy mound which covered the remains of his poor mother. an affectionate look— a fluttering sigh—an expiring breath—and the gen- tle spirit of this angel child had fled to its kindred heaven, leaving his mortal frame in my embrace, inanimate and motionless—winged though it was “the whole seemed like a dream, so quickly had it all passed; but, alas! it was too fatally true, and i had indeed lost the lovely cherub who had twined itself so closely about my heart, and engaged so powerfully my best affections. but a few moments since, instinct with life and beauty, and now, dead! gone for ever! “the sailors, awed by the accident which their heedless love of sport had occasioned, tendered me their rough but honest sympathy. aided by them, we soon dug a grave for my poor lost felix, and he was laid gently and reverently by the side of his dead mother in her grave; and, when they were covered with the grassy sod again, and hidden for ever from my view, my manhood failed me, and i wept bitter tears. i turned from the spot hallowed by so many mournful recollections; i was followed by the party of strangers; and the cares of hospi- kit bam, mariner. tality in which their presence necessarily involved me, did the usual part of unselfish exertion in form- ing a distraction for my thoughts, and aiding me to throw off my load of sorrow for a time. it was agreed among my guests, that they should spend a night on land with me; and that on the next day we should all set sail, they taking me away in their com- pany, as the thought of remaining in this place was now become insupportable, bereft as i was of all that endeared it to me. but when night came, and i was left alone, after having seen to the accommodation of all the party, the weight of my grief returned upon me again. i resolutely struggled against its oppressive ascendancy, and endeavoured to 'soothe myself with the reflection, that my little felix was now at rest with his mother, who had loved him so well; and that he was thus secured against the pos- sible evils that might have attended his future fate. singularly gifted as he was, might not his mother's fears have predicted truly that he was unfitted for an existence among the common run of human beings? and, as it was more than probable that my thirst for adventure and active life would lead me to quit this solitary shore, should i not then have ex- posed him to the risk of mingling with an uncon- genial race : somewhat consoled with these thoughts, i yielded to their composing influence, and slept. “a solemn apparition visited my slumbers, and inspired gracious comfort and elevating trust. me- thought i beheld the moonlit group of mother and child as i had witnessed it in the cavern, on the the strange adventures of night of her death; but in my present dream her marble countenance beamed with a heavenly joy, and her young boy's face reflected the hopeful smile which irradiated hers. the scene faded, and was re- placed by the outlines of the seat among the rocks, with the adjacent grassy mound that enclosed the remains of the lone mother and child; but as i gazed, and the traces of the well-known spot as- sumed distinctness, i beheld my sweet felix in his mother's arms, their countenances still wreathed in smiles; while close beside them stood a youthful manly form which i knew, methought, at once, for that of felix morton, the long-mourned husband. the figure pointed proudly and fondly to his wife and child, and bent his eyes with benignant approval upon myself;-then, while the group turned eyes of loving gratitude towards me in tender farewell, they expanded their wings (with which the parents were now furnished in common with their seraph child,) and all three floated gently away through the air across the sea, and soaring, were soon lost to view amid the realms of light beyond the sky. “next morning, invigorated and consoled by this beatific vision, i arose with new strength and spirits for my re-entrance into the world, and its various duties and pursuits; and i prepared to set forth with my new associates in quest of fresh adventures. i had not joined them long, however, before i found they were not companions greatly to my taste. the crew were not exactly bad men, but they were selfish, addicted to low tastes, coarse almost to brutality, and kit bam, mariner. ignorant; which last word, perhaps, accounts for all their other characteristics. the captain was vain, capricious, weak to a fault, and a glutton; and the mate, who had headed the party that landed for fresh water on the shore where i had lately sojourned, was a hard wiry man, with thin white lips, and eyes that never looked any one directly in the face who chanced to address him suddenly. “let me own that i early felt a prejudice against this man, when i learned that he was the person who had fired the unlucky shot which destroyed my little felix; but as i was conscious of my prejudice, i en- deavoured not to let it sway me unfairly, knowing that the accident was unintentional; and that, therefore, neither this, nor the man's mere looks, ought to war- rant my entertaining an actual dislike towards him, until i found more substantial reasons in his conduct and actions. “instead of the books and intelligent conversation that formed the chief delights of my earliest friends, the shipmates of my first voyage, these present asso- ciates took pleasure in games of hazard, betting, &c., and their usual consequences followed—idle habits, frequent bickerings, coarse language, with mutual ill- will and mistrust of each othre. i would not con- demn the use of harmless pastime for sailors, or banish amusement from among them, far from it; but let them, if they are wise, choose games of skill rather than of chance, and abjure all betting and laying of wagers, as breeders of discord and vice. i did all i could to dissuade my new acquaintances from con- kit bam, mariner. much leisure for making himself acquainted with the pursuits of his men during their hours of relaxation, or for endeavouring profitably to direct their tastes and amusements. “one day-but i declare,” said kit, interrupting himself, “it is getting late, so we must break off our yarn for this evening, good night, my dear young friends.” “i’m so sorry we must go,” said fanny. “i’m always fond of the words “one day' in a story, and so impatient to listen on ; because then i know there's something new going to happen.” “but you shall hear to-morrow what happened ‘one day, my lass,” said the old mariner; “and so once again, good night, and be off with you both, without another word ' " . the strange adventures of chapter iv. kit's third yarn.—a peep into fable-land.—titta, the italian cabin-boy ; stevens, the mate.--the storm.– the decision of the dice.--the wreck. “‘one day !"—well, kit, ‘one day!' exclaimed both the young swallows, as they flew breathlessly into the old mariner's cottage early the following evening; “now tell us all about what took place ‘one day, when you had joined your new ship's com- pany.” “why, ‘one day, when i had been among them about a fortnight,” said kit, “and had had time to make up my mind a little as to what kind of chaps they were, as i told you last evening, we neared the coast of a country that seemed flourishing and beau- tiful; and nothing would suit the captain but that one of the crew should go ashore and fetch him some game, and a pine-apple or two for his table. the men were most of them deeply engaged in a game of loo, i think they called it, and the others were as anxiously interested about the issue of some wager or other depending on a rat-hunt down in the hold of the vessel; so that i found it would be acceptable to all parties if i offered to undertake the execution of this commission myself. this suited me exactly; kit bam, mariner. for i felt no objection to a few hours absence from company so little congenial to me, as well as from my always being ready for any thing that promised change and novelty of adventure. “on landing, i found i was in the vicinity of a village, that seemed to form one of the suburbs to a large town that lay about a mile and a half distant from the spot where i then was, mindful of my commission, i looked everywhere about for pines, and pheasants, or partridges. none however, could i spy, though i looked diligently around. neat cot- tage gardens, trim orchards, paddocks, and meadows were there on all sides, much as in england, remind- ing me of my own lovely native village; and then i recollected that a simple country hamlet would not be so likely to afford the delicacies i sought, as a large town; so, in the direction of the one i per- ceived in the distance, i forthwith determined to proceed. as i walked through the village, i noticed that i met not a single human being, and just as this circumstance struck me, happening to glance in at a cottage window, i beheld a comely tortoiseshell cat busily engaged in frying some veal-cutlets that were hissing in a pan on the fire. as i watched her, i was amused to see the gravity and orderly manner in which she pursued her culinary avocations,—pressing the morsels now and then gently with a fork, and shifting them occasionally in the pan, that they might not burn. when they were nearly done to her satisfaction, she drew off the gloves she had worn to preserve her hands from the scorching effects the strange adventures of of the fire (which slight circumstance told me a once that she could be no mere common cook) and tying a meat white apron on, she proceeded to lay the cloth, and then drawing an arm-chair to that part of the dinner-table where she had placed the lemon and cayenne by the side of a plate and folded napkin, she quickly dished the cutlets, and, placing them on the table, ran towards a side door that led to a small parlour, and called to some one, saying:—‘dinner's quite ready, captain.' this was answered by a voice that said “and i’m quite ready for dinner, i can as- sure you, mrs. capsicum, my darling;' and then, in walked an old goat in faded regimentals, with his gouty legs swathed in flannels. he seemed to me to be a retired half-pay officer, who having been a rover in his youth, had settled down comfortably and soberly in his old age by marrying his housekeeper; who ap- peared indeed, to be quite a domestic animal, and to take excellent care of her lord and master. i left them cosily seated opposite each other, enjoying their meal, just as he had leaned across the table to chuck her under the chin, while he tossed off a glass of old madeira to her good health, with a playful wink. “a little further on, i came to a humble porch with a low plank placed across the door—and peep- ing in, i beheld, ranged along the sanded floor, half a dozen dwarf benches, on which were perched rows of tender fledglings, and almost callow nestlings, whose infant studies were superintended by a grave old owl, birch-rod in hand, who raised her spectacled eyes me a k) an lay the part of non and §§ º napki [º ºf lº hem on bºº | a small inner's a voice câm s- len, in th his me to towºr fº oberly º a nd to - ºft| | it iſ, ying | -- º - osc / c / ( . lwl - o_ z- º . _º%yzzz zºº. º cº /ºº º - - ----~--~~~~ kit bam, mariner. from the primer she held in the other, as she glanced towards me, to discover what intruder darkened the doors of her dame-school. “in a meadow just on the outskirts of the village, i saw a large party of grasshoppers enjoying a hearty game of cricket; and among them i observed a bat, who flitted about to and fro, doing great execu- tion, and taking a remarkably active part in the game. “as i hastened on, and entered the town, i over- took a demure-looking hen, a schoolmistress, mar- shalling her pretty chickens two by two, as they returned from a rural walk, and gathering them carefully under her protective wings at the least approach of danger. i saw her cast a very anxious and suspicious glance at a wolf, on the opposite side of the way, walking arm-in-arm with an innocent little lamb, whom he was luring to destruction, by leading her to a milliner's window, and pointing to a chip bonnet trimmed with orange blossoms and bridal veil, while he induced her to listen to his false vows. “i found i was now in the principal street of the town, for there was plenty of bustle and some very showy shops; but not one poulterer's or fruiterer's could i discover, where i could make the purchases i came for. as i stood on the pavement, irresolute what i had best do, a state carriage rolled by, in which sat a sleek and portly mare, whose gown and chain sufficiently bespoke the principal civil func- tionary, while, on the seat opposite sat a lively turtle, entertaining his friend with rich aldermanic h the strange adventures of jokes and fat unctuous jests, on their way to the hall of justice. “then came by a handsome chariot, in which re- clined a skilful leech, in a suit of shining black, with a neatly powdered wig and a gold-headed cane, as he drove towards the mansion of a graceful swan, celebrated for her beauty, her stately mien and aristocratic airs, who was one of his best lady- patients. “presently i was jostled as i stood on the pave- ment, by two friends who passed arm-in-arm, one of whom, a great boar, held the other tightly by the button-hole, and insisted upon inflicting an evidently unwelcome long story upon his companion, a hog, who remained as obstinate as a pig, and only replied by an occasional grunt of disgust, declaring it made him as sulky as a bear to be so badgered. “as i had made up my mind by this time, that i would not return to the ship with my errand unac- complished, i determined to wait where i was until the following morning in hopes of better success; and as it was now past five o'clock, i looked about in search of an hotel where i might dine and secure a bed for the night. i perceived a respectable-looking tavern at a little distance, bearing the sign of the ‘hook;’ and entering, i found in the hall the land- lord, a grinning fox, who bowed to the ground as he assured me i could have a well-aired bed, and that a dinner should be prepared for me immediately. he told me he would send a chambermaid to shew me to my room; and, while i awaited her coming, i per- kit bam, mariner. ceived a cormorant in a small private room on one side of the passage, gorging a profuse dinner, in- cluding “every delicacy of the season, all by himself; and on the opening of a door opposite i obtained a view of the commercial room, where two grinning spoonbills and a wagtail were enjoying a poor little lark between them, and cutting up a miserable snipe that seemed roasted to rags. “the chambermaid, a brisk busy little bee, now approached, and flitted up stairs before me; and i had not to wait very long for my dinner, which was served by a smart young dog of a waiter, who fetched and carried the several dishes to and fro with great fidelity and assiduity. he appeared to be a cross between a terrier and a poodle, though the next morning when i gave him my parting fee, he mani- fested tokens of being rather of the spaniel breed; for he fawned upon me prodigiously and almostlicked my hand. when the third course of the dinner was served, however, he proved himself an admirable - pointer, as the game came upon table, and through- out the meal was a faithful and attentive guide to the various tit-bits, when i was blind to my own gas- tronomic interests by selecting less excellent morsels than his practised scent enabled him to discover for me. he shewed great sagacity upon other points too; for, during dessert, meditating how i should pass the evening, i enquired of him what amuse- ments there were in the town, and what theatres were open, when he replied, that, if he were me he should endeavour to obtain a stall at the opera, as there was - the strange adventures of an excellent company here now. he was very elo- quent upon this subject, and, indeed, appeared to be quite a musical connoisseur, and well versed in all the opera cabals and theatrical tittle-tattle, for he pro- ceeded to say: “o yes, sir, you must go this even- ing. the celebrated prima donna, the nightingale, appears to-night in her favourite character of norma. there is also an excellent tenor—a fine game cock— who is known under the sobriquet of ‘chanticleer.’ he certainly is first-rate; but he has the defect of being a dreadful intriguer, getting up all sorts of shameful cabals in the theatre; trying to make the public believe that the nightingale is as hoarse as a raven, by getting his friend the puffin, who is the editor of our leading journal, to write all sorts of fibs about her; and he has even been known to send a flock of geese into the pit on the nights of her new characters. the fact is, chanticleer is never satis- fied unless he has all his own way in the theatre, and is made perfect cock of the walk. the right of crow- ing over the rest to this extent, is disputed with him by the leader of the band, a pert sparrow, who is never satisfied unless he is playing first fiddle wherever he is. it is rumoured,’ pursued my voluble informant, ‘that the great star-fish is expected down here shortly, to play a round of all his grandest tragic characters; but as they propose giving him the off-nights with the nightingale (who, in my opinion is a perfect duck), it is expected that he will decline the offered engage- ment. there was a foolish donkey who attempted to draw in comedy, about a month since, but he only kit bam, mariner. proved himself an ass, and not worth his salary of thistles.' the impudent dog, my waiter, rattled off all this theatrical scandal and chit-chat with a glib ease that took away my breath; but he was presently called away by the chambermaid, who rated him for a lazy hound, an idle cur, a contemptible mongrel, and i know not what offensive and discourteous names besides. not feeling much inclination to go and shut myself up in a hot theatre, for it was a lovely evening still, i strolled out for another lounge through the streets, feeling sure of meeting with plenty to amuse me till bed-time. “the first thing i saw were three or four old cats, with baskets and bags hanging on their arms full of worsted work, tatting and notting, netting and knit- ting needles; they were evidently going out to a tea- party, a dish of scandal, and a hand at cards. in their company there was a younger one, a playful little puss, who frisked hither and thither, and seemed immensely to disconcert her aunts, the old tabbies, by her kittenish tricks. later, i noticed a grave black tom, their footman, proceeding with a lantern, umbrella, several pairs of pattens and clogs, and a heap of calashes and cloaks for his mistresses, to fetch them home after their card-party. “my attention was attracted to the cab of an old lion, who was lolling back, driving easily and com- placently, with his eye-glass stuck in one eye; on the seat beside him, i perceived a roll of paper, so that i immediately guessed he was going out to read a new manuscript play to a circle of admiring friends. the strange adventures of at the back of the cab, swung a spruce young tiger in white knee-cords and top-boots. “i sauntered on, past a cigar shop, where i beheld three or four foolish young puppies, among whom i distinguished my impudent dog of a waiter, smartly dressed, and smoking with the rest; all evidently flattering themselves that they looked the height of fashion, and the supreme of gentlemanly elegance. i also passed a large well-lighted gaming-house, up the steps of which were flocking a crowd of gulls, rooks, pigeons, and geese, in company with several ponies. this was not the only place in the town where i met with gulls; on the contrary, they seemed to abound in most of the public thorough- fares; i noticed a group of them in red coats, loiter- ing near a barrack, or guard-house, while a few more in the guise of country clowns, stood gaping and staring at a kite, who wore the cap and many- coloured floating ribands of a recruiting-officer. others too, i observed peering earnestly in at a lot- tery-office window, where the prizes were displayed in large figures; and still larger numbers were ling- ering in the doorway of a railway share office, where they were joined by a herd of stags. out of one of the inns of court, i saw a shark issue forth dressed like a lawyer, and followed by a clerkly pike, who endeavoured to satisfy the numerous complaints of a shoal of client gudgeons, who glided swiftly in their wake, vainly endeavouring to snatch a few crumbs of comfort about some pending suit. “there was a mischievous monkey goading and kit bam, mariner. worrying a slow tortoise and an obstinate mule that he had harnessed together, in order that he might grin and chatter at this ill-assorted pair he was try- ing to drive; but not one creature of my own race did i perceive throughout my walk that evening. however, although i met no human inhabitant in this country, yet i saw traces which indicated that they were not unknown here; for, in one of the public squares of the town, i saw some monuments which appeared to be raised in honour of individuals of the species, who seemed to be renowned in this land. they were marble statues placed on pedestals which severally bore the names of phaedrus, la fon- taine, gellert, lessing, and gay; and it could not be for the beauty of their form that these statues were erected, for, among them, i noticed one of a little, crooked, hump-backed fellow, whose pedestal displayed the word aesop. “the next morning i rose betimes, determined to pursue my search for the game and pine desired by my captain, still more diligently than i had done on the previous evening; and, despairing of meeting with what i wanted in the town, as it contained neither of the shops that sold the articles i wanted, i sallied forth into the country again, only stopping for five minutes to look at a gay wedding-party that came trooping out of a church door as i passed. a pair of turtles came first (the bride all of a flutter), and were followed by a circle of attendant ring-doves, their relations; then the happy couple, mated for life, hopped into a travelling carriage with four . the strange adventures of horses, and set off on their wedding tour, that they might enjoy a short flight abroad before they settled down in their new cage, and prepared to build a nest for any young ones with whom they might hereafter be blest. - “i walked many miles before i discovered what i wanted. at last, about midday, to my great joy i approached a large preserve of game belonging to a fine estate; and here i doubted not i should suc- ceed, as i beheld some glorious pheasants, hanging their sleek tails from the branches, and flitting about in great numbers among the trees. i was just pre- paring to secure a brace, when i recollected that i had no right to help myself to these birds without asking leave of their owner, for, though they were wild creatures originally, they were evidently not so here, but fed and preserved carefully. i walked on towards the great house, which i observed at a little distance, in the hope of meeting some one who could grant me the permission i hoped to gain; when, on peeping over a park paling, i beheld a gentlemanly bull of prepossessing appearance, sauntering along beneath the shady trees at an easy pace, with his hands carelessly folded together behind his back beneath his coat tails. he was talking with two friends of his, neighhours; the one, an otter, a keen sportsman, and the other, a beaver, the owner of a fine estate containing both land and water. i found out these circumstances by their conversation, as well as that the gentlemanly bull was a large landed pro- prietor, and, indeed, master of the house, the park, kit bam, mariner. the preserves, and the whole domain around us. he and his friends were deep in talk about the country, the government, the rights of landlords, the game- laws, &c., and i heard the gentlemanly bull say—‘i never have stood for the county, and i never wish to be a member of parliament—i leave that for rats and cameleons; but i do say this—i will have my game respected, and i never will forgive a poacher.’ “‘why, now, you know, squire bull, replied the otter, ‘that your low is always worse than your gore; and as to “never forgiving a poacher, didn't you let that fellow off the other day that was found sneaking in your preserves, only because he told some whining excuse about his wife and family starving, which made you order him some good broth for them, and some bread and cheese for himself, telling him with a pretendedly gruff bellow, that they were far fitter food for such as he and his, than hares and pheasants?” “and when that farmer was brought up before your brother magistrate, added the beaver, ‘for carrying a gun in the shooting season, and the chap talked some shuffling palaver about its being very hard to have his grain devoured, and his young crops destroyed, didn't you burst out into a loud roar that startled the court, and declare that the man was in the right?' “the gentlemanly bull looked down and blushed deeply at these retorts from his friends, whose charges he could not deny, and, with a bashful admission of his weakness, owned that he did not mind giving his game, but that he hated to have it taken. the strange adventures of “on hearing this, i took courage, and stepping lightly over the paling, i presented myself before the three country gentlemen; and making a low obei- sance to squire bull, i presented my captain's com- pliments, and told him what i sought in his name. “the gentlemanly animal replied with a benevo- lent courtesy of manner that did not belie his agree- able aspect and bland expression of countenance; for, desiring i would offer his compliments in re- turn to my captain, he called to a hind who stood at a little distance in a countryman's frock, and bid him go with me up to the great house, and see that his orders were executed with regard to my having what game i chose, with a couple of the finest fruit his pinery could afford; ending all with requesting me to be sure and drink a large mug of home-brewed ale in his kitchen before i left the premises. having enjoyed his good cheer with extra relish for the hearty manner in which it was bestowed; and having drunk the gentlemanly bull's health, with sincere wishes for his continued prosperity (of which he made such excellent use), and long life to him, i quitted the estate, and made the best of my way to the sea-shore, and on board ship, delighted with my trip and pleasant peep into what i could conclude to be no other than the far-famed fable-land. contrary to my expectation, i escaped all reproach from the captain on the score of my delay and night's absence. he was too well satisfied with my success in procuring him the desired delicacies, to grudge the time spent in obtaining them. the kit bam, mariner. ship proceeded on her voyage, and the only cir- cumstance that relieved the disagreeable monotony of my existence among people so repugnant to me as her crew, was a sort of attachment that had sprung up between myself and a poor italian lad called titta, who had been picked up as an extra cabin-boy at genoa, some weeks since, when the ship was short of hands. . “it was from a feeling of sympathy for his forlorn condition, that first awakened this attachment on my part; for, from his speaking a different language from themselves, the men, who were too brutal to make any effort to understand or communicate with one so insignificant in their eyes, either jeered at his ‘foreign lingo,' or neglected and despised him altogether. my sympathy was afterwards heightened by indignation, when i found that titta (which is the abbreviation for battista, one of the commonest of italian christian- names) was the constant object of stevens's injustice and cruel tyranny. this stevens (the mate, whom i before mentioned as having excited an early pre- judice in my feelings towards him, by his ill-looking countenance, and by his having occasioned the death of my little felix) seemed to take a malicious plea- sure in heaping insult and contumely of all kinds upon young titta; besides savagely setting him tasks beyond his strength, subjecting him to needless hardships, and exposing him to continued damp and unduly protracted watches. “to all these injuries from his tyrant, would titta most frequently submit with patient resignation, and the strange adventures of a spirit of resolute endurance that might have touched a less vindictive villain than stevens. at other times he would suffer with an air of dogged sullen- ness and dull obedience to the mate's commands, as those of his superior officer, and as such to be impli- citly observed, however unjust or irksome; but there were moments when this usual bearing of poor titta's was exchanged for one of haughty reprisal, and then the italian lad's dark gleaming eyes would flash with proud disdain, reproach, and even defiance. “such instances, however, were rare, and evi- dently kept so by the ceaseless care and constant exertion of poor titta himself, who maintained a strong guard upon his temper. he would bite his lips till the blood sprung, to repress the escape of a bitter expression, i have seen him close his eyes to veil their bright flashes, and imprison the indignant tears; while his pale, sallow cheek would assume an almost livid tint with the effort to check the sobs that swelled his heart to bursting. “one night i had an early watch; after which, creeping below with the usual eagerness of a sailor for sleep, secure of being ‘as fast as a church' within two seconds of his head touching his pillow after turning into his hammock, i stumbled over a cabin-boy who lay stretched across some planks below decks, and which only just prevented his lying in a pool of water that saturated the place just there. perceiving it was titta, i asked him how he came to sleep in such a damp unwholesome spot; when, telling me it was appointed by stevens as his usual berth, he thanked kit bam, mariner. me, but said he did not much care about it, and only wished that was the worst he had to bear. “this drew more expressions of sympathy from me, with questions as to what could be the cause of so much ill-will and malice on the part of stevens, and if titta himself could assign any grounds for the determined enmity he had evidently excited. “but too well,” replied the cabin-boy, in a hoarse whisper. “i have observed the kind feeling you have for me and my sufferings, kit, and have fre- quently desired an opportunity of thanking you for it, and of giving you my confidence in return. no occasion has hitherto offered for speaking to you unheard, and i do not choose any one but my friend to be acquainted with my sufferings, and to give me their pity, continued the italian in a proud tone; ‘i cannot stoop to receive commiseration from such men as the rest of our crew—but from a kind heart like yours, kit, it will be a comfort and a joy to me; so, if you do not mind the damp, and the darkness, and the rats—i don't, they are my bed-fellows too often— you can creep down here beside me, where we shall be sure not to be overheard.’ he then proceeded to tell me his simple history: how he had lived happily all his days with his mother and his pretty sister pep- pina, in a little hut among the hills, not far from genoa; that they had never known any trouble but poverty, and had never felt that, as long as they could get polenta or risotto enough to eat, until peppina had reached sixteen years of age, when a young goatherd in the neighbourhood fell in love with her and she the strange adventures of with him, and that then they all for the first time re- gretted they were so poor as to prevent any hopes of marriage for the young couple. while things were in this state, and titta was earnestly desiring to hit upon some method of making a fortune, that he might give it all to his dear peppina and her lover, this ship had arrived in the port of genoa; and the captain offering the situation of cabin-boy to titta, he had eagerly closed with the proposal, as the desired means of obtaining money for his darling sister. mean- while this sister had been seen by stevens, and her beauty had made so strong an impression upon him, that he had left no course untried to pre- vail upon her to give up the young goatherd, and accept himself. “the evening before we set sail,' proceeded titta, and i could hear the gasping agita- tion of his voice through its whispered tones, as he clutched my hand in his feverish grasp, “that evening i overheard the villain endeavouring to persuade my peppina to break her faith with her young lover, gianni, to leave our fond mother and our humble cottage, and to go far away over the sea with him, where he would make her a princess of some beauti- ful island, and deck her in silks and satins, with bright jewels and a golden crown. peppina knew better than to trust to his white face and black heart; and she told him firmly that she would not give up those she loved, to be made queen of the world. this so exasperated him, that, muttering something about knowing what was for her good better than she did, and carrying her off whether she would or no, the kit bam, mariner. ruffian was just about to throw his arms about her, and lift her from the spot by force, when i stepped forward, and bid him release my sister at his peril, as i had a stiletto, and knew how to use it. he flung her from him with a sneer, muttered a deep curse, and, turning on his heel, left us abruptly. “eager to carry out my project of earning money, and thinking i was secure of the captain's protection from any ill-usage on the part of this man, should he hereafter resent the course i had taken in this scene, i hesitated not to fulfil my engagement, by sailing in the ship, as cabin-boy, on the following day. but, alas! i knew not how little reliance is to be placed on a weak master, too supinely devoted to his own luxuries to care whether justice is dealt among his subordinates; or how ingenious in torture a villain can be, who has to resent a by-gone injury inflicted on his victim by himself. by insinuation and example, he contrived to inspire his shipmates with contempt and dislike of me, and, by careful management, he conveyed enough of distrust and suspicion into the mind of his captain on my account, to cause him to issue an order that i should be closely searched and disarmed of my stiletto. after this, stevens pursued his malignant hatred towards me with impunity; and i, feeling myself in his power and totally defenceless, ceased to contend with my fate, and endeavoured to submit without murmur to what i could not resist. i am too proud to bewail what i cannot repel; be- sides, i feel that when i look at him indignantly, i recall to him the recollection of my sister, and i would the strange adventures of not have even her image come near him, to be sullied and polluted by his contemplation.’ “i could hear that my companion ground his teeth fiercely, as he gave utterance to the proud writhings of his wounded heart; but he added more softly—‘i have hoarded up all my scanty earnings, kit, in the hope of one day returning with them to the hut among the hills; but i have sometimes of late thought that i am never destined to see my loved home more—i have a presentiment that i shall never live to return, and i want you to promise that the task of taking this hard-earned money to the mother and sister—to secure whose happiness and prosperity i would encounter even worse suffering than mine has been—shall be yours—your task, for the sake of your poor friend titta. you will not refuse me, kit? you will grant my request—will you not, kit the poor lad uttered all this in his broken english (which i have repeated in distinct words that you might the better comprehend, my dear young friends), but with an earnestness of tone and a vehemence of gesture which won my assurances of interest and consent. at the same time, i endeavoured to dissuade him from entertaining any superstitious doubt of his sur- viving to execute his own wishes with regard to the money, but told him i hoped to come to see him in italy some day when he was cosily settled at home with his mother and sister in the hut among the hills. he only shook his head with a mournful smile, while he persisted in shewing me the small sum which he had secured in the corner of his neck- kit bam, mariner. handkerchief, and of which he made me again pro- mise to take charge, and convey as he desired, in case i should survive him. “after i had given him my solemn promise that nothing should prevent my fulfilling his wishes if i had life, we parted for the night; he, with an ap- pearance of greater calm and satisfaction than i ever witnessed in him before, and i, filled with compassion and sympathy for this hapless youth. these feel- ings caused me to encounter stevens the next morn- ing with increased disgust and aversion; but soon, all other thoughts gave way to anxiety about the threatened change of weather; for, towards the after- noon, there was every appearance of a coming storm, and all hands were now aloft to prepare everything closereefed and trim against the expected contest with the elements. the sun sunk in sullen majesty, surrounded by angry louring copper-coloured heaps and heavy masses of purple vapour, interlaced with green streaks; whilst across the heavens swept tracks of rose-coloured clouds, sinister in their very beauty of tint, and foretelling violent wind. night closed in with an awful calm, and a pause terrific in its very stillness; and then suddenly the tempest burst forth in all its fury, and raged incessantly for several hours. the billows rose mountain high on every side of us, the wind howled, and tore among the shrouds and rigging with boisterous force, the lightning darted its impetuous forked flames, the thunder rolled its solemn deep-toned wrath, and, in the midst, struggled our labouring vessel, the seeming victim of the sur- i . the strange adventures of rounding elements, and the disputed sacrifice of fire, air, and water. the scene was sublime in its awful peril; and, while my eyes swam, and my ears rung with the confusion of threatening sights and sounds that stunned and bewildered me, yet i was conscious of one added horror on that dreadful night apart from aught of storm or tempest. “about mid-watch i was startled by a piercing shriek, that thrilled high above the crash and din of the thunder-peals, and penetrated sharp athwart the keenest whistling of the storm-blast, claiming atten- tion by its shrill appeal of human agony. i made my way in the direction of the yell, but could perceive nothing in the dense obscurity which then shrouded every object. suddenly, a vivid flash of lightning revealed to me the figure of stevens, standing alone, trembling from head to foot, his face and lips of a livid pallor that glared a ghastly spot of white in the dark space around, while his eyes seemed starting from their sockets as they remained fixed on the foaming waters, boiling and surging beyond the ship's stern. “here his gaze seemed to be riveted, without any power of his to withdraw it; for, after having ac- costed him, asking whether he had called, if he had heard aught, or wanted help, a second flash again gave him to my view in precisely the same attitude, while he answered shortly that he had heard nothing, wanted nothing, and bade me roughly begone and not stand there watching him, waving me back with his arm, at the same time that his head and eyes main- tained the same position, and remained unswervingly kit bam, mariner. fixed in the exact direction i had first beheld them. i shrunk back, appalled, for the man looked like one spell-bound, and under the influence of some terror stronger than any arising from the storm and its perils. the whole of that dreadful night i kept fear- ful watch, alternately contemplating the tempest and musing on the strange trance of terror in which i had found stevens. as morning dawned the tem- pest abated, and the captain, with some negligent commendation of my exertions and active conduct during the past night, dismissed me to my hammock, where islept some hours profoundly. when i awoke, and rose to my usual avocations, i was surprised to see titta nowhere about, neither below, nor on deck, nor among the shrouds, nor, in short, in any part of the ship. i asked one of the men (who was some- what less brutal than the rest), where the boy was, and he answered that he feared he had been swept overboard in the storm during the night, for that none of them had seen anything of him since the previous evening. “poor lad!’ added the fellow with the remorse which too often seizes obtuse people only when too late, ‘i am sorry now i ever jeered him, and made game of his being a talian—for he couldn't help that, you know! i wish i hadn't teased him, now that he's drownded, poor lad!’ “that night, it so happened, that it was this same man's turn to keep the mid-watch; and, as he was ill, and i felt pleased with his expression of regret for poor titta, i offered to serve the watch in his stead. the strange adventures of “the weather was now clear and calm over head, though the sea still rolled with the heavy swell which always continues some time, after the turbulent com- motion of a storm; and, as i gazed into the dark-blue canopy of heaven, i offered heartfelt devotion and thanksgiving for my preservation through the late tempest. “as my thoughts thus ascended skyward, they were recalled abruptly by a singular hissing noise that sounded directly astern. i crept softly towards the spot, and there beheld stevens in the same rigid attitude of terror as i had seen him last night about the same hour. his eyes were still fixed with a stricken stare upon the tumbling billows that rolled in the wake of our ship; and his colourless cheeks and quivering bloodless lips still shaped the hideous patch of white in the centre of sombre midnight. my quiet approach, and my being screened from his view, by standing somewhat apart, caused my presence to be unperceived by him; and i could not help remaining rooted to the spot in a sort of fascination of horror, to observe this spell-bound man. there was a sort of faint singular gleam that seemed to proceed from the spot upon which his gaze was riveted, and which shed a dim reflection upon the brow of the figure before me, so that i was able to see him distinctly. i could perceive that his convulsed lips were flecked with foam, and that they could not repress his agitated breathings, which exhaled in a series of lingering, gasping, hissing utterances, which seemed as if they were impelled forth by a power not his own, and occa- kit bam, mariner. sionally seemed almost to form themselves into inco- herent and involuntary words. ‘thy sister! so, titta, sol” were the first intelligible sounds i distinguished; then followed, ‘that blackened throat witnesses against me!’ while the muttered sentences hissed forth in the articulation of the rattle-snake. his hands clenched, his eyes strained eagerly, his form writhing and dilat- ing, as ‘so, titta, so l’ again hissed from his frothed lips, and he looked more like a serpent than a human being. i recoiled in horror; but the next moment i perceived his limbs relax, his staring eyes close, his lips become mute; and as the singular gleam, for it could scarcely be called light, faded into dark- ness, i beheld him stagger along the deck, retreat towards his own cabin, and i saw him no more that night. “the horror of this scene, and the circumstances of its repetition, haunted me fearfully through that night and the next day; and i resolved to change watches with the man who had the coming midnight one, in order that i might have an opportunity of observing stevens again. a frightful surmise that had crossed my mind when i first heard of poor titta's disppearance, had recurred more forcibly since, and was now gaining the strength of conviction. as the mid- watch came on, i perceived that stevens was on deck also, walking about in a constrained manner, and as if acting under involuntary impulse. i purposely kept my station not far from the stern of the vessel, and this circumstance seemed to annoy and perplex him not a little. he seemed to be afraid of express- the strange adventures of ing openly his desire that i should avoid that vicinity, but he spared no efforts to draw me away by stra- tagem more towards the bow of the ship. as the time crept on, he grew evidently more and more un- easy, and even condescended to assume a familiar and almost friendly tone of conversation, in the hope of diverting my attention, and withdrawing me from the fatal spot. at length he feigned to remember some- thing that wanted attending to, or doing, at the head of the ship, and despatched me to look to it imme- diately. i went forward, but came back in a few seconds, as i knew that it must be just upon midnight. i shall never forget the black scowl with which he saw me return to his side again. i beheld it by the reflection of the faint gleam astern, which shone forth just as he seemed about to make some angry excla- mation; when, instead of uttering it, his figure became suddenly struck into rigidity, and assumed the atti- tude of intense horror, in which i had seen it twice previously. his foaming lips again hissed forth their terrible sounds—his eyeballs once more started from their sockets in that riveted gaze; but though he was powerless to avert his looks, he seemed to be con- scious of my presence, and waved his arms in furious token to me to be gone. but i was determined to abide by my purpose, and i nerved myself to watch steadily, through the whole time that this strange spell should endure. it held the stricken wretch for about the space of a quarter of an hour, during which period i saw and heard enough to convince me that i had done him no injustice in believing him to be kit bam, mariner. the murderer of poor titta; but when the trance ceased, and his limbs relaxed, and he was able to con- trol his strained vision, the first use he made of his restored powers was to spring upon me, with mingled reproaches and threats. i shook off the reptile, for i was stronger as well as younger than he, and the baffled miscreant shrunk away, muttering curses, and vows of vengeance. “the next morning, as i was casting about in my mind how best to state my accusation of the mur- derer to my captain, i was summoned to his presence to attend a charge of murder which was alleged against myself. i learned that stevens had been beforehand with me; finding that i had discovered his foul secret, and that i should probably not be long in revealing it, and publicly accusing him of the fatal deed, he deter- mined to have the advantage of precedence, and throw discredit on the tale i should relate of him, by previously staining my own reputation. “i found that he had ingeniously contrived to throw suspicion on the circumstance of a body having been found in the grave opened for the reception of my little felix's remains. he declared that he believed the buried female who was discovered there to have been the victim of my cruelty, and to have fallen by my hand; and such was the vehemence with which he declared that since this conviction had struck him, no- thing should prevail upon him to consort further with a murderer, and that therefore he demanded my imme- diate imprisonment, until i could be tried at the first civilized country we arrived at, that it was not very the strange adventures of long before he succeeded in bringing many of the crew round to his opinion, and several loudly de- clared that for their parts they did not like consorting with a murderer either. “the captain, in his weak inconclusive way, now declared that it was really very shocking, and that he positively could not tell what to think. “‘what is very shocking?' asked i indignantly; ‘nothing has been proved against me yet. is it very likely that if i had murdered a woman, i should lead strangers to her very grave, and bid them dig it open º' “stevens here reminded them that i was in such a state of grief at the time when i lost my little felix, that i probably had not reflected on the consequences of anything i then did. this allusion to my winged darling, together with the consciousness that it was to this very wretch himself that i owed his destruc- tion, joined to the abhorrence i felt for his recent deeds and present treachery, inspired me with such rage and loathing, that i hastily retorted his charge, and accused him of having murdered the cabin-boy, titta. an accusation thus rashly and abruptly made, of course brought with it rather the appearance of retaliation, than an honest detestation of crime; and looked more like a desire of revenge and a mean attempt to screen myself by attaching blame to another, than a simple disclosure of truth. i soon read the mischief i had done to my own cause in the countenances of those around me; and it is not the only time in my life, my dear young friends, that i kit bam, mariner. have observed how fatally a rash word, an impetuous action, or an ill-advised step, may injure a righteous cause. it is well, therefore, in emergencies of vital importance, to keep strict watch upon the temper, and hold the judgment cool and prepared. “had i acted with more moderation and wisdom on the present occasion, it might have been better for me; as it was, i found the men had not only made up their mind that my accusation of stevens was a mere false subterfuge, but that they were making a halfjesting proposal to the captain that the question of my guilt or innocence should be decided by throws of the dice, as it was impossible now to return to the shore we had so long quitted, to collect proofs of the murder with which i stood charged. “‘certainly not, it is out of the question to retrace our way,” said the captain, “that would be sad loss of time indeed;’ and with those words he dismissed the reconsideration of the cause until another day, as he declared himself quite tired and worn to death with so much talking. “i found myself now, however, an object of marked avoidance and detestation to my shipmates; and the proposal which had originated jestingly, was soon resumed and debated in earnest. there was a sort of novelty and excitement in the idea, which pos- sessed a certain charm for their betting souls; and, unable to withstand the temptation of a game, where the stake involved a fellow-creature's freedom or condemnation, nay, his very existence, they were not long in coming to a decision, and, as it was now near the strange adventures of noon, they made preparation for throwing the dice at midday. “i vainly entreated them to wait till night, when they should have an opportunity of beholding confir- mation of my words; but they jeeringly replied they would decide my fate first, and they would attend to the matter of stevens's alleged misdeeds afterwards. i glanced towards the mate as i uttered this allusion to the appalling vision in which his remorse held him nightly spell-bound; but he stood with his arms folded and his head bent, silently watching the ar- rangements the men were making for casting the dice; and it was only by a slight shudder, and a paling of the lip, that i discovered he had noticed what i said. it was a horrible mockery that was enacted in the full blaze of that noontide sun' the men stood round the board on which the dice were successively cast, their countenances agitated by bad passions, and absolutely void of one feeling of compunction for the deed they were about to perpe- trate, or for the victim who was its object. i gazed vacantly on the scene, unable to gather the results of their play, for i knew not so much as what throws, or combinations of throws, had been agreed upon to decide my fate; when, just as a loud brutal huzza from the men, and a glance of malignant triumph from the white face of stevens, had informed me of my doom, a tremendous shock was felt on board, so violent as to cast most of the crew prostrate, and a few minutes more sufficed to shew that the ship had struck upon a rock and was going to pieces, the strange adventures of chapter v. the sequel of the wreck.—uberto and biondello ; the little barber ; king imbecilio, princess eudora, and lord ignorio ; baron feroccio, and the lady ellena. “well, kit, what happened when the ship struck upon the rock and went to pieces?” asked dick, the next evening. “and how did you escape from the wreckº” added his sister. “immediately the nature of the disaster was as- certained,” replied kit, “for the crew had been so deeply engaged in their wicked pursuit that they had not kept a strict look-out enough to be aware of the rocks that lay a-head, and on which our ship struck with such fatal force, all hands were in requi- sition to provide for their safety; but, with the usual brutal selfishness which uniformly characterizes an inveterate gamester, they one and all devoted their efforts solely to securing their own individual rescue, losing sight of the general good, and forgetful that, in neglecting the salvation of the whole, they might probably involve their own risk of ultimate peril and loss. “and thus it proved; for, being at some distance from land, and the ship splitting and sinking more kit bam, mariner. rapidly than could have been believed, they all en- deavoured to seize the boats, and, crowding into them rashly as fast as they could, many were drowned in the very outset, and boat after boat were sunk and lost, with the weight of the numbers that overloaded them. the last that survived was the long-boat; but as i swam rapidly towards it, in the hope of being taken up, i beheld the white face of stevens glaring upon me, as he leaned forward, and hit me a smart blow on the hand (which i had placed on the side of the boat) with a cutlass; and i had hardly darted back with the pain of the wound, and a bitter feeling of de- spair, when i beheld the boat drawn towards the fast- sinking ship; and i had scarcely time to exert my utmost strength to swim beyond the whelming circle, when i beheld both ship and boat sucked into the dread- ful vortex, and plunged beneath the abyss of waters. “i struggled hard for my deliverance, and toiled with all my might to gain the land, which seemed to elude all my efforts to reach it, and to recede in pro- portion as i advanced. spent and exhausted, i did just contrive to make my way as far as the shallow water, through which i crawled wadingly, and then sunk down on the sands at the very brink, insensible. “the first thing of which i felt conscious, on re- turning to life, was being drawn from my perilous situation, and placed gently on the higher and drier part of the sand; and then of a sweet voice, which said, “oh no, dear uberto, he is not dead, he must not die; raise his head a little on to your knee; there—see, he opens his eyes!” the strange adventures of “i looked towards the gentle speaker, and saw a youth bending over me with soft kind eyes, in which i read anxiety for my recovery, and tender goodness of nature mingled with bright intelligence. “his hand is badly wounded, said the person who was supporting my head, as he raised the right wrist carefully to examine the cut cruelly inflicted by ste- vens, but which was in fact the means of my preser- vation. i perceived that the last person who spoke was a somewhat elder, taller, and more robust youth than the one i had first beheld; but while i gazed, his features swam indistinctly before me, i felt faint, and closed my eyes again. “i was not perfectly insensible, though, for i heard the sweet voice of the first youth utter a sorrowing exclamation; and then i heard the other reply, ‘i will lift him into the shadow of those bushes, out of the sun; and if you will stay and watch by the poor fel- low, biondello, i will run home for a cordial for him, which i hope will give him strength enough, with my assistance, to reach the cottage.' “‘do so, dear uberto,' answered the soft voice, ‘and i will take care of him meanwhile.’ “the elder youth having effected his purpose of placing me in the shade, ran off at a quick pace, and left me alone with the one whom he had called biondello, and who immediately set about binding my wounded hand with his handkerchief, which he tore into strips for the purpose, and applied with a lightness and deli- cacy of touch that a surgeon might have envied. the relief from pain which this dressing afforded me, and kit bam, mariner. the refreshment of the cool shady nook, caused me to revive; and it was not long before i was able to sit up and tender my acknowledgments to my young protector, for his share in my rescue from the waves, and for the relief his gentle care had since afforded me. “he received my thanks with modest grace, and yet with a noble air that well became his beautiful features and high-bred appearance; his look and car- riage were equally gracious and dignified, and i no- ticed that he wore a velvet riding-suit, rich, though of a dark sober hue, and simple fashion. “presently, there was the sound of approaching footsteps, and the voices of people in apparent quest of some one. biondello started up, and, after listening for an instant, he said rapidly to himself—"they seek me, they must not find him, or meet uberto;' then hurriedly addressing me, the youth added,—‘stranger, you will remain here; uberto will soon return, and lead you where you can have shelter and refreshment. farewell!—we may meet again; but, meanwhile, silence and discretion l’ “he placed his finger on his lips with a sweet, serious expression, and, waving his hand in graceful adieu, he glided away to meet those who approached, and seemed to lead them back the way they came; for i soon heard the receding steps of the whole party, while i merely caught the words, “alone! unattended! wandering by the sea-shore! these solitary rambles cause me great uneasiness, lest your highness should meet with any—.' here the voice died away, and i heard no more until i was roused by uberto, who the strange adventures of hurried towards me with the cordial, raised me from the reclining posture into which i had again sunk on the departure of biondello; and when i was suffi- ciently restored to be able to walk, conducted me towards his dwelling, and bade me welcome with a courtesy and good breeding that savoured of a higher station than the one indicated by his attire, which was that of a shepherd. “after he had set food before me, and congratu- lated me on my escape, waiving the thanks i earnestly proffered, with a hearty good-humoured warmth of manner, and a frank assurance that he had only aided his friend biondello to save me from the waves, and draw me ashore, he begged i would lie down and rest myself for an hour or two while he went to look after his flock, which he had somewhat neglected that morning while enjoying a ramble on the sea-shore. “he pointed to a large wooden settle that stretched across one side of the table towards the hearth; and, opening the door of the apartment which led im- mediately into the porch, he quitted the cottage with a friendly nod and an easy freedom of manner that made me feel at home at once, and as if i had known him for eighteen years at least-that is to say, all our life; for our respective ages each appeared to comprehend little more than that period of time. “when he left me, however, i was by no means inclined to sleep; my frame was too well inured to hardships not to be almost restored to its usual vigour by the refreshment and aid i had already received; and my mind was too busy revolving the circum- kit, bam, mariner. stances that had recently befallen me in the new acquaintance i had made with the two youths, to permit any indulgence in slumber before night should coine on. “the afternoon sun streamed through the flaunt- ing branches of roses and jasmine that embowered the cottage casement, and shewed me the room that i was in, to be no more like the abode of a simple shepherd, than the bearing of the youth himself assorted with the lowly calling which his dress be- spoke. the apartment, though humble in the ex- treme, looked far more like the closet of a student than the interior of a shepherd's hut; for around the walls on all sides were shelves closely packed with books, books, and books of all shapes and dimensions, from the thin tall folio to the compact duodecimo; from the portly quarto to the medium octavo; they were ranged in various groups from the historic mag- nificence of twelve, the biographic importance of four, the romantic interest of three, down to the precious single volume, with its quaint lore and con- densation of wisdom compressed into its few odd pages. but through all this profuse company of books, there was not one fine coat among them; their bindings were all homely, even unto shabbi- ness, though they looked worn with loving use, and not injured by slovenry or neglect. besides the one on which my repast had been served, there was another table, spread high and wide with more books, and which also bore materials for writing. even on the settle beside me were strewed one or two books, k the strange adventures of which, on examination, i knew enough to be aware were greek and latin classic poets. “in my eagerness to learn more of this shepherd- philosopher, i rose, and strolling through the cottage porch, all fragrant with the flowery bloom that dis- tilled its sweets, as it crept around door and window in rich profusion, i issued forth into the open air, and made my way across some meadows, in the direction i had seen taken by my host when seeking his flock. i found myself in a lovely, peaceful valley, undisturbed by sight or sound but those of nature in her serenest aspect of beauty; and, di- rected by the tinkle of a distant sheep-bell, i wan- dered on till i came to a grassy plain on the slope of a hill, where lay scattered the fleecy treasure of my host, cropping their evening meal beneath his watchful care; for he sat at a little distance under a shady tree enjoying a book, while his sheep enjoyed their meal, and his lambs their frisking, sportive game of play. “he rose to meet me when he observed my approach, and, closing his book, said he was glad to find i was sufficiently recovered to be able to take so long a walk. i replied by telling him of my admira- tion of his cottage-study, and of my longing to know more of its master. “he smiled, and said, my surprise at finding so many books in the possession of a poor scholar would cease when he informed me that they had been the gift of his uncle erudito, of whose vast library they formed but a slight portion. that his venerable kit bam, mariner. relation had spent one period of his life in that cottage, during which he had taken great pleasure in forming the mind of uberto and of infusing into his nephew's spirit the same earnest love of know- ledge that inspired his own, he himself being one of the most celebrated scholars in the country. that he had for the last three years gone to reside at a lone and romantic house he possessed among the mountains inland, where he could pursue his favorite study—that of the stars; giving the books and the cottage to uberto as his parting token of love and fatherly regard. ‘the flock, my sole parental in- heritance, supplies all my wants,’ said uberto, in conclusion, “and as long as i can enjoy my peaceful shepherd-life out-of-doors, and my treasury of books in-doors, my utmost desires of wealth are fulfilled.' “then collecting his flock, and wending homewards, he spoke of biondello, and asked me how it was that he had left me, before he himself could return. i told him, how biondello had been sought by some people whom i had not seen, and i was about to add what i had overheard, when biondello's last words, “mean- while, silence, and discretion!” echoed in my ears their soft tones, and i checked myself. “uberto, however, replied:—'i hardly wonder at his having quitted you abruptly. though i have known biondello myself a long time, and in some respects intimately, yet there has always been some- thing about him that i could not precisely fathom—a sort of mystery connected with him that i could not discover; but, indeed, i have never greatly cared, or the strange adventures of much sought to know what this mystery might be, but have contented myself with enjoying the pleasure of his society on his own terms, without seeking to inquire into what he evidently withholds. any allu- sion to his birth or station, or what he is at all beyond the engaging youth i know and see, appears to dis- tress and vex him; and i care not to trouble our calm and pleasant intercourse by any unseasonable ques- tions. it is now more than two years since i first beheld him, and the action in which i found him en- gaged, led me to love him as soon as i saw him. our friendship begun from that moment, and has continued ever since.” - “what were the circumstances under which you first beheld him '' asked i, ‘if i may indulge more curiosity than you have permitted yourself to exer- cise with regard to this interesting biondello,' i added with a smile. “there is a small brook, crossed by a plank and handrail, close to our cottage,' replied uberto. “one morning, on approaching this spot, i beheld a youth leading carefully my poor blind martha (the old wo- man who keeps my humble home in order for me), who it seems had missed her footing in crossing the frail bridge i mentioned, had fallen into the brook, and had been rescued thence by the youthful stranger, who was now soothing her with his gentle voice, and tenderly supporting her homewards. the youth (who you will guess was no other than biondello) continued to press her to lean upon him, though his slight figure seemed to afford but a slender hope of kit bam, mariner. much strength, and utterly regardless of his rich hunt- ing-suit, which might be soiled in the muddy contact of the old woman's dripping clothes. this humanity, and freedom from selfish fastidiousness (too rare among the class to which his dress bespoke him to belong) pre- possessed me at once in his favour. i addressed him with thanks for his care of my poor old dame, re- lieved him from her burden, and we proceeded towards my cottage together; for i then learned that he had originally been coming thither, when he met with the adventure of the blind woman. he told me that he had a great thirst for knowledge, with little or no means of acquiring any; that his mother had early inspired him with a veneration for learning, and had bid him seek it with unswerving diligence, when she should be no more; that she had often spoken to him of the profound wisdom and philosophic lore of my venerable uncle erudito, and had desired him to spare no entreaties to obtain his friendship, and secure his instruction; that accordingly, since the death of his mother, he had never ceased desiring to carry out her wishes; and that now, when he had some- what recovered the shock of his bereavement, he had hastened hither in obedience to her solemn injunctions. “‘he appeared struck with dismay when i informed him of the departure of my uncle. he gazed mourn- fully round upon the books, as if deploring this sud- den bar to his hope of becoming acquainted with their contents, and he looked so touching in his innocent sadness, as he sat with clasped hands and tearful eyes, , the strange adventures of that i bade him take courage, and said, that if he liked, i would help him in his difficulty. “‘you?” said he with his sweet voice—for you may have noticed that biondello has a remarkably sweet voice—as he looked up in my face with blushing eagerness and renewed hope. “i will: i shall not make you so good a master to be sure, as my clever uncle; but he has kindly taught me a good deal, and, if you like, i will teach it to you again; and we can, at any rate, go on until you know as much as i do. thus then our acquaintance began, and thus was our friendship established as master and pupil, continued uberto; “bionello comes to my cottage as often as he pleases for his lessons, which most frequently take place in the little study; but occasionally we carry our books into the open air, sometimes sitting under a tree in the vicinity of the flock, and sometimes wandering along the sea- shore, as we fortunately did this morning, when we discovered you on the sands. but though i cannot help fancying, from biondello's manners, appearance, and dress (for the dark hunting-dress he invariably wears, seems to be costly though simple), that he is of high rank and birth, yet he always comes alone and unattended, as if he dreaded observation; and i have noticed, that after our lessons, when i offer to walk with him part of the way on his road home, he never permits me to accompany him beyond a certain point; but always insists on my returning, when we have reached the furthest verge of the little wood which lies between this valley and the city, where i imagine kit bam, mariner. is his abode. i know little of the great city, seldom having occasion to quit this peaceful valley, which contains all i desire upon earth; and less of the court, which holds its state there; for even if my inclination led me to seek its glittering wonders, my humble sta- tion would preclude any hope of gaining admission to behold them. but sometimes i have imagined that my friend biondello is no other than the heir of lord ignorio, the prime minister, who i have heard has a son of that name; and from all i have ever heard of the father, he is the very man to render it necessary for a child of his to seek knowledge (if he have any thirst for it), with secrecy and mystery. however, if such be the enigma of my friend's incognito, i do not care to master its solution, while it is his whim to pre- serve it intact.' “we had by this time reached the cottage, and evening closing in, after a frugal but pleasant meal, rendered doubly so by my host's conversation and hearty manners, he shewed me to the room formerly occupied by his uncle as a bed-chamber, and left me to enjoy a sound night's rest, which i did, undisturbed, by one of the many reflections and cogitations that had doubtless frequently employed the brain of its former learned occupant. next morning, uberto playfully remarking that his solitary humour ought to be no guide for me, a stranger, who would doubt- less like to see some of the lions of the neighbouring metropolis, strongly advised my paying a visit to the great city beyond the wood; telling me i might bring home an account of all the wonders i had seen, to the strange adventures of amuse him after his morning ramble with his sheep. accordingly, soon after breakfast, i set forth, and en- tered the city long before mid-day. i found it like most other large cities i have ever seen; with grand streets and grand shops; plenty of wealth and plenty of squalor; large lofty houses, and poor lowly dwell- ings; luxurious carriages mingling with heavy-laden carts; and easy opulence everywhere neighboured by bustling commerce, labouring poverty, orneedybeggary. “i stopped for a moment to look into a jeweller's shop, my eye being caught by the dazzling heaps dis- played in the window; and then i passed on to the next, a bookseller's, thinking, at the moment, that if i had money, how much more welcome a present i could carry home to uberto from the second shop than the first; when a little dapper man, a barber, who had been observing me, stepped across the street, and pointing back to his shop on the other side of the way, asked me if i would not like to be shaved. “i put my hand to my smooth chin, which, it must be owned, advanced but small claims as yet to his services, and looked him smilingly in the face, shaking my head expressively as a sufficient answer. but, no- wise abashed, he smirked, and bowed, and said:— “‘but your hair, sir; perhaps you would like to have it cut $ its luxuriant growth would be improved by a liftle trimming, i venture to think, and may, perhaps, suggest— “while he was obsequiously uttering this speech, it occurred to me that a rest in his barber's chair would not be unwelcome to me after my sauntering kit bam, mariner. walk through the town, and that i might possibly pick up some amusing intelligence the while from this polite little man, whose calling proverbially in- cluded that of a newsmonger. “i accordingly suffered him to lead me across the way to his shop; and he had no sooner commenced operations on my head, than i began to question him a little concerning the current talk of the town, the state of politics there, the court gossip, and whether he knew anything of the lord ignorio. - “‘his right honourable lordship, the prime mi- nister? to be sure i do, replied the little man, con- sequentially; “his lordship is my excellent good friend and constant patron. i have not only his own right honourable beard under my hands every morn- ing, but i have the honour of dressing his daughter, the lady ellena's lovely curls, and his son, count biondello's hair; with the prospect of the future culture of the latter's moustachios and whiskers, when heaven shall, in its own good time, invest the youth with these insignia of manhood. indeed it is not from any want of zeal on the part of my right ho- nourable patron, lord ignorio, that i have not the beard and hair of majesty itself under my jurisdic- tion; but the fact is,'—and here the little barber dropped his voice to a confidential whisper- the fact is, there is much, very much, my dear sir, to be understood in these matters that does not appear on the surface; wheel within wheel, my dear sir, counteracting interests, cabals and intrigues with- out end,-considerations of policy, prudence, expe- the strange adventures of diency, and i know not what-prevent skill and peculiar fitness from receiving their due weight in court appointments. i name no names,’ added the little barber, almost breathless with the importance of his communication, and the mystery attached to it. “but this i will say, that, considering the high influence which lord ignorio doubtless possesses with the most illustrious personage in this kingdom, it must be some of the motives i have just alluded to, which caused a certain person's appointment to the post of court barber instead of your humble servant.” “then lord ignorio's influence with his majesty is very great º' asked i, as soon as i could edge a word into the midst of my barber's stream of talk. “‘his right honourable lordship's power near the throne is undoubted and enormous, replied the little man; ‘so undoubted and so enormous, indeed, that it does not fail to raise the jealousy and enmity of the base-minded populace, who contend that it is not well for their aged monarch to be so wholly led by a man who, they say, is well known to be an unlet- tered, ignorant, obstinate man, entertaining the great- est contempt for intellectual power, and believing the whole glory and greatness of a nation to consist in her military achievements and the extension of her dominions. these absurd slanders of my noble pa- tron (if indeed, i ought to call them slanders, when, for my part, i venture to think, and may perhaps suggest, that they are admirable principles for a prime minister)—but these opinions of the populace concerning my right honourable patron, have arisen kit bam, mariner. partly from the circumstance of his having betrothed his only daughter, the lady ellena, to the com- mander-in-chief and generalissimo of the forces, baron feroccio, and from his universally labouring to promote the military advantages of the country, to the neglect, and even prejudice, of her civil, commercial, artistic, and financial interests. count biondello, too, his lordship's son, seems to have inhe- rited his father's predilections, and to be a worthy successor in his views, for, notwithstanding it is whispered that he is rather a wild youth, and given to follow his own lordly will—which i venture to think, and may perhaps suggest, are very allowable indications of his high rank and aristocratic consci- ousness of privilege and impunity; but, notwith- standing these rumours, i say, it is believed that he has, at present, quitted the court with the intention of going to the wars, and joining baron feroccio, his sister's betrothed, under whom he will probably serve a few campaigns incog. this sudden disap- pearance of count biondello from court, was, by some, attributed to dread of a match which, it is understood, was contemplated by our venerable mon- arch, king imbecilio, who, in his partiality for his favourite minister, had thought of bestowing his only child, the princess eudora, on lord ignorio's son, count biondello, in marriage. now, sir, you must know—a little oil will, i venture to think, and may perhaps suggest, be an improvement to your hair, sir. no!—oh, very well—no oil—quite simply—as you please, of course. well, sir, as i was saying,' the strange adventures of continued the little barber, resuming the thread of his discourse, which he had abruptly snapped with a professional solicitude about my head, ‘as i was saying, you must know, that the princess eudora is a very peculiar person, if i may venture to think and suggest such a thing of a royal individual—very peculiar. she not only will never permit any one to touch her hair, which she always dresses and arranges herself, according to her own particular notions of grace and beauty, a thing which, i venture to think, and may perhaps suggest, is very unladylike, not to say unprincessly, savouring of plebeian in- dependence, and low, artist-like individuality of taste, wholly unbecoming her distinguished rank and sta- tion;–not only has she this peculiarity, but she is said to have a decided abhorrence for show and proper dignity, which she calls ostentation and pride; she despises homage and observance as servility and fawning, and talks of fashionable ease and courtly polish, as frivolity and folly; she has even been heard to censure war and conquest, as wasteful bur- thens on the state, and is well known to prefer study to amusement. no wonder poor count biondello should take fright at the proposal of a union with such a woman, even though she be a princess of the royal blood, and heir apparent to the throne,—for, i ven- ture to think, and may perhaps suggest, that a bookish, learned wife, is not formed to be a very eligible com- panion, or a very attractive mistress, to a gay soldier. poor young man! and poor old man, too, if all be true that i hear,’ pursued the little barber, ‘for i kit bam, mariner, understand, that the poor old king, her father, is sometimes perfectly desperate about her odd ways and whimsical notions, and is ready to run distracted, at the little sense she has of what is due to her posi- tion, when she avows her sympathy with the very poorest and most abject of the people, creatures that you would not touch with my pole, long as it is, and ragged and dirty as they are:-declaring that even their vices are more to be pitied than blamed, desiring the amelioration of their condition above all things, studying her own improvement for their sake, reading and thinking, instead of dressing and visit- ing, and, in short, committing a thousand eccentric absurdities, enough to break a father's heart, espe- cially a kingly father’s.’ “the little barber concluded his speech just as his officiation with my hair came to a close, so, rising from my seat and paying him, i took my leave, with many thanks for his entertaining gossip and court news. as i quitted his shop, and proceeded in the direction which i knew would lead me towards the part of the country where lay the valley and uber- to's cottage beyond the wood, a carriage drew up to the edge of the pavement, and, stopping near to where i stood, a person stepped out and addressed me. he had on a coat covered with gold lace, car- ried a gold stick in his hand, and looked like a court footman. making a low bow, he told me he was instructed to fetch me to the palace immediately, as his majesty, king imbecilio, desired to speak to me. i of course immediately obeyed, and was con- the strange adventures of veyed speedily to the very place concerning which, its doings, and some of the people who figured in its circle, i had just been hearing so much. “i was ushered straight into the presence-cham- ber, where sat an aged man, on a throne, whose coun- tenance seemed to be compounded of vacant insi- pidity and foolish wonder, and whose weak aspect and silly expression inspired but little respect, not- withstanding the grandeur of his position and the magnificence by which he was surrounded. on each side of the throne were ranged splendidly dressed guards, in brilliant uniforms, and around stood troops of jewelled noblemen, robed in rich velvets and silks, while snowy plumes waved from their caps, and gave animation and life to the scene. but what chiefly attracted my eyes, amid all this gorgeous array, was a figure that sat on a couch placed in close vicinity to the throne, and whom i immediately guessed to be the king's daughter, princess eudora. she was attired in simplest white, but, from the slight circlet that crowned her princely brow, a lustrous veil of golden hair fell in clustering profusion over shoulders, bosom, and waist, and made her the brightest object in that bright scene. “her face, too, was of surpassing beauty; the white polished temples shone with intellectual supremacy; her eyes beamed forth mingled softness and spiritual elevation; the roses of her mouth bloomed sensibility, and ever-fresh gentleness and gracious kindness; in- telligence and sweetness sparkled and played alter- mately, or blended harmoniously in every expressive kit bam, mariner. feature; and the brilliancy of her complexion, toge- ther with her radiant tresses, shed a sunshine around the spot, as if a youthful aurora had sat there to dazzle human vision. “i gazed entranced upon this beauteous figure, struck by some vaguely remembered impression, as well as by the present one, when my attention was recalled by the king's addressing me, and my eyes fell again upon the foolish wondering face of the old man, whose grey hairs were the sole thing in his ap- pearance that claimed genuine respect. i knelt to him, while he told me that having heard i was a stranger who had been cast ashore, the sole survivor from the vessel which was wrecked off that coast the previous day, he had sent for me to see what could be done to relieve the destitute condition to which i doubtless found myself reduced by this accident; and, as he was struck by my stalwart appearance, good height, and the athletic proportions of my frame (which promised great strength when i should reach maturity), he resolved to bestow upon me a post in his army, and would engage to give me the command of a troop on the first signal proof i should give of bravery and military ardour. “his majesty paused, evidently expecting that i should be transported with this mark of his bounty; but when i had a little recovered my amazement, i ventured to state, that so far from ever expecting to distinguish myself by military ardour, or zeal for a profession of which i had ever felt a scrupulous aver- sion, from its involving the necessity of putting a fel- the strange adventures of low-creature to death, i must beg respectfully to de- cline his majesty's intended boon, and to relinquish any claim upon his compassion from my late accident, as i hoped speedily to be in a condition to resume my sailor life; until when, i was contented to be obliged to a generous friend for the means of pre- sent subsistence. “king imbecilio appeared to be about to return some angry reply, when his daughter rose from her couch, and, laying her hand gently on her parent's arm, murmuring, ‘nay, dear father—." she went on to whisper something earnestly to him, while i started, struck once more by some vague remembrance sug- gested by those soft tones; then, turning towards me, she added—‘go, friend you are right, perhaps—but go now, and at once.' she waved her hand graci- ously but firmly—gentleness and dignity in every look—while i, dropping for an instant to her feet, and pressing the hem of her white garment to my lips, promptly withdrew from the royal presence. “i once again wended my steps towards the coun- try, pondering on my visit to court, and stopped not until i reached uberto's cottage, where i entertained my host with an account of all i had seen and heard on my visit to the great city. “he seemed to dwell most on what i had heard from the little barber concerning count biondello, lord ignorio's son; observing, that the circumstance of the youth's disappearance confirmed what he had some time suspected; and that what mere report had represented as wildness, wilfulness, and determination kit bam, mariner. to follow his own predilection for war, might in reality be a resolute determination to pursue the path of knowledge unthwarted by his unlettered father, and so render himself worthy of his promised bride, and of hereafter reigning with her. “and this promised bride, this beautiful princess herself, added uberto, after a moment's pause; “she must needs be a glorious creature, kit; and of all your wonders, the only one i should care to see.' “the next day i wandered down to the sea-shore, that i might see if there were any trace of my un- happy shipmates, or any portion of the wreck to be discovered on the sands; but not a vestige, not a token did i find: i was apparently the only one saved from that luckless crew; and, as i returned, i failed not to render fervent thanks for my preservation. “on entering the porch of the cottage, i heard the voice of uberto reading aloud, and, as i lingered for an instant to look into the little study ere i crossed the threshold, i saw him seated on the oaken settle with biondello by his side, who was looking up into his face, and drinking in every word that fell from his lips with avidity and devoted attention. the two youths made a nice picture, sitting thus; the eager pupil, with his soft eyes and rosy mobile lips, the very per- sonification of listening, earnest, docility; the grave master, with his high-minded look, his impressive delivery of the lofty theme, and his benign interest for the neophyte beside him, looked like the genius of instruction. the younger lad had cast aside his dark velvet cap, and wore a sort of crimson silk met, l the strange adventures of of spanish fashion, which contrasted well with his fair hair and still fairer skin; the elder one in his simple rustic guise, his glowing cheek embrowned by open air and healthful exercise, and his dark chestnut locks clustering close round his noble forehead, broad and high in the expanse of intellect, they looked two rare and exquisite specimens of youthful and manly beauty. “after i had indulged my fancy for a few moments by contemplating them thus in silence as they sat together, i advanced from the porch, and entered the little study just as uberto had concluded his period, and biondello had ejaculated—‘sublime wisdom '' the cadence of the voice struck me, as those soft tones fell again upon my ear, and i paused involun- tarily; while biondello, raising his eyes, met mine, and read something in their expression that caused a bright crimson blush to flash into his face, then to spread, until it suffused his very throat, that lay bare beneath the open collar of his hunting vest, thrown partially back on account of the heat. “but he also seemed to read in my face something that reassured him, for he recovered himself by the time uberto had said—‘you were so absorbed in the old philosopher's doctrines, biondello, and are, more- over, so unaccustomed to any one else's presence in this solitary study of ours, that you had forgotten i have a guest in the stranger whom i helped you to rescue from the waves the other morning.’ “so saying, he introduced us to each other with his usual ease and courteous freedom of manner, and the strange adventures of kit, you have discovered who i really am ; but i perceive also that you have respected my mystery, and have repaid the service i rendered you in saving your life, by strictly observing the injunction i gave you of “silence and discretion.’ could you but know how difficult has been my path hitherto—how beset with obstacles and impediments i have been through life in my endeavour to fulfil my duty honestly and conscientiously, you would not wonder at my having recourse to this disguise to obtain what i could not otherwise achieve. ignorance, prejudice, and parental authority injudiciously exercised, hemmed me in, and prevented my attaining what my soul thirsted for-knowledge and wisdom; but, feeling that on my freedom from the thraldom of narrow-minded views, depended not only my own enlightenment, but in that enlightenment the future welfare of thousands, i resolved to brave all risks and devote myself to study, reflection, and intellectual acquire- ment in the humble guise of an unknown youth; this secluded valley, the abode of the scholarly erudito and his nephew, apart from courtly trammels and screened from impertinent interference, has been the happy scene of my education, and i trust to your good faith, kit, in preserving my secret scrupulously, for the continuance of my scheme, and for the secu- rity of the results with which i hope to see it ulti- mately crowned. remember, to you and uberto i am biondello still. from him, particularly, guard my secret carefully. once more then—' farewell; and, silence and discretion!’ kit bam, mariner. . “a moment more, and i was left quite alone be- neath the trees; and, ruminating on what i had just heard, i returned slowly to the cottage. “next day, i hoped in vain to see biondello again; all the morning i could scarcely attend to the book which uberto was reading aloud to me, as we sat together beneath our favourite tree, for thinking of biondello and looking for his arrival. the subject of the volume was interesting to me, it was a book of voyages and travels, but my attention perpetually wandered, and at length uberto perceived it, and said—‘i don't wonder at your being interested in biondello, and longing to see more of him. he is certainly the most fascinating of human beings, and i myself am conscious of feeling that my old liking and affection for my gentle pupil has of late deep- ened and strengthened into an attachment that is becoming a part of my very existence. his presence is a joy and delight to me; his absence saddens and depresses me. i am haunted, when he is away, by the musical echo of his soft tones, and his gentle smile plays ever fitfully before me, making me pine to bask in its kindly warmth again, as if it were a vital principle. i reason with myself, and endeavour to wean myself from the fascination which this youth's society possesses for me; for if, as i suspect, he is indeed lord ignorio's son, how should i hope to retain for ever the companionship of one so high- born, and so remote in position from myself? count biondello, the mature nobleman, will forget his humble shepherd-master; and the instructor of the the strange adventures of gentle lad, biondello, will long in vain to see his old pupil.’ “uberto paused with a deep sigh and a troubled look, very different from the usual calm expression of his thoughtful, though frank and open countenance. but his brow cleared as i said energetically—‘do not think it, biondello will never forget the friend of his youth : his nature is too noble.’ “uberto grasped my hand with cordial warmth, as he replied:— “‘true; you do him better justice than i do in the selfishness of my exacting attachment.’ “he turned, as he spoke, to go homewards; and i saw that he too partook of my anxiety for the ar- rival of biondello. afternoon came, however, but still the youth did not appear; and i heard uberto repeat his deep sigh as he put away the books on the shelves, which he had spread on the study-table that morning, in the hope of his beloved pupil's advent— a hope that he now evidently relinquished, though with reluctance. “restless and uneasy, he then proposed our walk- ing forth again into the open air; and we naturally enough took the direction of the little wood. our thoughts being pre-occupied, we as naturally walked on in silence ; but the exclamation which burst from us both at the same moment, shewed plainly the subject which had employed them severally and alike. “‘there he is ' we suddenly ejaculated, as bion- dello emerged from the wood, and hurried towards us. “his manner and appearance filled us with alarm. kit bam, mariner. his dress was disordered, and his face was pale and agitated; he trembled violently, and looked back every now and then in the direction whence he came, as if he dreaded pursuit. “‘what is the matter, biondello ' asked uberto, forcing himself to be calm, that he might the better soothe his young friend's agitation.—‘what has hap- pened?—what has alarmed you?” “‘there has been a frightful scene there, gasped the youth, pointing in the direction of the city; “a popular tumult; the people have risen in defence of their rights; they have proclaimed their abhorrence of the late government—denounced the prime minis- ter as their chief enemy; attacked his house; re- quired him to surrender himself to their custody; and are preparing to dictate terms to the king.’ “biondello appeared to be about to add something more, as he looked appealingly into his friend's face; but at that moment he seemed to hear a noise in the wood that sounded to him like approaching pursuit; for, gasping faintly, and pointing in the direction of his fears, his limbs failed him, and he would have sunk to the ground had not uberto caught him in his arms and supported him from falling. “‘he has swooned; help me to bear him to the cottage, kit; and we will get old martha to help us to revive him,' said uberto, with the same deter- minately calm manner, as if he resolved not to let his anxiety master his power of being useful to his friend. “we bore biondello into the little study, and the strange adventures of placed him on the oaken settle; but in so doing, by some accident the crimson silk net became detached, and fell upon the floor. with it fell the bright gold tresses; they poured forth in their luxuriant abun- dance, like the sun's rays streaming in at the lattice of a morning chamber; and the beautiful woman lay revealed beyond all power of disguise. “i raised my eyes to uberto's countenance to see the effect of this sudden discovery upon him. it was electrical; all traces of his forced calmness had vanished, and his features worked with uncontrolable emotions of surprise and agitation; his lips were parted, and quivered sharply; his nostrils dilated, and his face was pale—then flushed abruptly; his eyes were fixed in passionate sadness upon the lovely prostrate figure before him; but i noticed that his appearance betokened, not so much sympathy and alarm for his young friend, as some powerful in- ward struggle of his own with which he was contend- ing. his emotion was so evident, and shook him so strongly, that i involuntarily exclaimed, “‘ uberto l' “he started; then, muttering something of seek- ing old martha's aid, he abruptly lifted one of the golden ringlets to his lips, with reverent fervour, for one instant, and sped from the room. the old blind woman soon after came to my assistance, and, with some cordial restorative and a glass of fair water, we tried every means to restore our sweet patient. “the fainting-fit was obstinate, however; pre- kit bam, mariner. vious anxiety and alarm, together with the fatigue of the long, hurried walk, had thrown her into a deep swoon, and it was long before it yielded to our joint efforts. at length tokens of returning conscious- ness manifested themselves; her eyes opened, and languidly sought those of her friend, her instructor, but perceiving no uberto, she closed them faintly, and leaned against poor blind martha, who knelt be- side her, and uttered soothing words to the gentle young creature who had once supported her feeble steps. the kindly heart that had never repressed its natural tenderness, or refused its sympathy to- wards the suffering poor, because they happened to be of inferior station, now drew comfort from this aged crone in return, and placing her arms round the old woman's neck, she suffered the tears to flow from her closed lids, and laid her young cheek against martha's withered one, in simple womanly claim of loving consolation. it was the true spark of nature asserting itself, and proclaiming equal kindred between prince and peasant, in the moment of mutual sorrow and kindliness. “i left them together, and withdrew to seek uberto, somewhat surprised at his absence during his guest's recovery, and not a little anxious con- cerning himself, when i recalled the state of struggle and agitation in which he had abruptly quitted the little study. but i could find him nowhere; i had soon been through the rooms in the cottage, and was preparing to set forth and search the valley in all his wonted places, when, on the table in my the strange adventures of chamber i perceived a paper, addressed to myself. i snatched it up, and read as follows:— “the struggle is over. i should be unworthy of the wise teaching of my venerable instructor, and more than father, did i not endeavour to prove my- self able to choose integrity and honour, when op- posed to selfish inclination. i could not see her, and refrain from uttering the new wild passion which has suddenly sprung from my old fond affection for my beloved pnpil. i now read the enigma; she has taken her brother's name, that she might gain the education of a man. to you, kit, i leave the charge of protecting and serving this noble creature, since so dear a privilege is denied to me by a fatal ob- stacle. shield her carefully from all harm, and con- ceal her from all eyes, in my humble cottage, as long as she may deem concealment necessary. should she inquire for her hapless friend, tell her that he is gone on an indispensable mission to old erudito's house; she need never know the motive which really banishes me thither, and imperatively bids me quit biondello for ever ! once more let me call her by that cherished name. farewell, biondello! fare- well, kind friend kit ! “‘uberto.” “as i gazed upon the paper and debated with my- self for a moment or two, whether i would preserve his secret or shew the letter at once, to account for his absence, it struck me forcibly that mystery is kit bam, mariner. always a bad thing, and to be avoided, if possible, and that, moreover, in the present case, it had already been productive of misunderstanding and suffering; so i quickly resolved that i would have no reserves, but at once give biondello the power of judging fully what was now best to be done. as i revolved these thoughts, i reflected that i must no longer use the old familiar name of biondello, but at once recognize the princess eudora, by treating her with the ob- servance due to her rank, since all disguise was now at an end. “i entered the little study, accordingly, with all the more homage in my heart, as well as in my out- ward bearing, for seeing her simply seated there, on the old oaken settle, in the dark hunting-suit, with blind martha, the object of her former kind help, as her sole attendant, instead of occupying a throne, crowned and robed, with a dazzling retinue around her. dependent, thus, on me alone for help and pro- tection, she inspired me with more respect and ho- nouring admiration than when i had beheld her the brilliant centre of that gorgeous presence-chamber. i approached then, deferentially, kneeling on one knee, but she smiled and raised me, observing, that a wandering princess should hold no state. she thanked me with earnestness for having been so true a knight to her, in guarding her secret with so much discretion, and then, with a playfulness which shewed that her spirits had revived with her recovery, yet with a blush that became her well, she added,— “but where is my other true knight and still older the strange adventures of friend, my dear master, uberto ? why is he not here to receive the thanks of his pupil, and to aid his new friend in her difficulties º' “for all answer, i placed his letter in her hands. her cheek heightened its bloom, when she began to read, but paled as she continued. “‘gone, and bids biondello farewell for ever !' she at length, exclaimed. “but this—' her brother's name!’—'a fatal obstacle!"—what may this mean º' added she. “i explained, that uberto had always believed his mysterious pupil to be no other than lord ignorio's son, count biondello, that he now, doubtless, con- cluded her to be the lady ellena, count biondello's sister, and that the well-known circumstance of the lady ellena's betrothment to baron feroccio was, most probably, the ‘fatal obstacle' to which he alluded. “fatal mystery !’ exclaimed eudora; ‘why did i not trust entirely one so virtuous and high-minded as the noble uberto? oh! my dear master, my kind instructor, why are you not here to save your poor biondello.' “the princess then told me that she had come hither that afternoon with the intention of seeking the aid of uberto and myself, and of asking his counsel and judgment, to assist her and her father in this emergency of the popular insurrection. “i bid her highness avail herself to the utmost of her true knight's poor services, which, though hum- ble, were heartily proffered; and she, with that kit bam, mariner. blended gentleness and dignity, sweetness and grace, which distinguished her, saying, that one faithful warm heart was of more value to a prince than a hundred lukewarm swords, it was agreed upon be- tween us, that i should, on the morrow, set forth to the mansion of old erudito, in search of uberto, and entreat his return in her name. “but it is very late, my young friends," said the old mariner, breaking off; “it is nearly time you were going to bed, as the princess eudora did, at- tended by old martha; and, though the roof was humble, and her attendant poor and blind, yet, had she not been kept awake by anxiety, it is probable that she would have enjoyed as sound sleep in the cottage, after the fatigues of the day, as she had ever done in her father's palace. the strange adventures of chapter vi. kit goes in search of uberto.--the mansion of old erudito.-quadrata.—the return to the city..—kit sets sail again.—the granite island.—the horse of brass.-the feast of the satyrs. “now for the disguised princess!” exclaimed fanny, as she and her brother took their usual places in kit's cottage, the next evening. “did you find uberto at his uncle's house, kit?' inquired dick. “the next morning,” answered the old man, “just as i was setting out from the cottage, to proceed in quest of him, i beheld a large troop of horsemen enter the valley, and by the time i had returned to inform the princess of their approach, they swelled into a large train, that, with much pomp and cere- mony, marshalled its way straightforwards in the rection of the cottage. “the princess, perceiving at once that they were aware of her presence there, and were, in all probability, envoys charged with some message to her, as their peaceful procession indicated no hostile approach, she bid me inquire their will, and, if it were as she supposed, to usher the heralds into her presence at once. when i had obeyed her instructions, i found * kit bam, mariner. . that she had divined truly the object of their coming. two reverend men, elders of the city, who headed the procession, dismounted from their horses, and entered the little study, where they found the prin- cess awaiting their approach with simple, unaffected dignity. they must have been well-pleased to have found her thus, surrounded by the books from which she had reaped such fruitful harvest and collected so manifold and valuable stores of knowledge ; for it proved that they came as representatives of their fellow-citizens' wishes that the princess eudora should assume the crown, and govern them in future by virtue of the wisdom she had acquired, and ac- cording to the dictates of her own discreet, virtuous, and gentle nature. it appeared, that her merits had gained her the hearts of the people, and that—when they had revolted against a military tyranny, and had refused longer submission to the ignorant and narrow-minded sway of lord ignorio, who, they felt, governed them in reality, through the medium of his influence over the weak old king, their nominal sovereign—they determined to enforce the minister's resignation, the foolish monarch's abdication, and to raise the princess eudora to the throne, secure of their rights beneath her mild rule and wise judg- ment. “but she asked them in reply, how they thought she would prove herself wise and virtuous in accept- ing a throne which her parent had just been com- pelled to abdicate or how she would be likely to confirm their partial opinion of her, were she to wear a kit bam, mariner. known, she led him to a window that overlooked a spacious square, which was now thronged by a vast concourse of the inhabitants; and here she addressed the people in behalf of her father, conjuring them to return to their allegiance, and not to force her to reign by an act of filial outrage, but to let her be still a faithful daughter and their loving princess. she repeated her proposal to elect a new minister, whose worthy counsels should inspire and aid their aged sovereign, and ended by proposing to them as a fit person to fill the important office of state counsellor and prime minister, the nephew of the well-known sage and philosopher, erudito. “when the shout of applause which rung through the multitude at the conclusion of the princess's ad- dress ceased, and the colour which had mounted to her cheek as she spoke, subsided also, she resumed with fresh energy, as if resolved that no private emo- tion should interfere with the public tribute due to the excellences of her friend and master, and she went on to say with modest firmness—‘we would have entreated the venerable erudito himself to come and aid us, my friends, had he been younger and more able to endure the fatigues of public life; as it is, his wise retirement and prudent devotion to study and quiet leisure plainly evince that such a sacrifice ought not to be asked at his hands; but his nephew, gifted by nature, educated by his learned relative, generous in heart, sound in principle, simple in conduct, in the full vigour of youthful manhood, and capable of highest self-devotion,-he is the very m the strange adventures of being of all others fitted to be your prime minister, the guardian of his country's welfare and honour, and the counsellor of your aged monarch.' “the princess eudora retired amid the acclama- tions of the people; and the news soon rung through the city that the old king was restored to his throne, —that erudito's nephew, uberto, was to be elected prime minister-and that their beloved eudora, by choosing to remain but a princess at present, was proving herself still more worthy to be a queen hereafter. “when she had a little recovered from her late excitement, i ventured to ask permission to approach the couch where she lay, and proffered what i guessed would be the best restorative to her spirits and in- ward hope. i offered my services to set out imme- diately to fetch uberto and inform him of what had happened. the princess smiled her old gentle smile, and said in those winning tones that i had so loved in biondello, “my true knight still ! to offer to depart even at this hour ! faithful, kind heart ' ' then she added in a lower voice—“tell him nothing, but of the call his countrymen make upon his services— that will suffice to rouse his noble heart, i know. once again,_silence and discretion.’ “no token from biondello not a word " en- quired i, wishing to take some comfort to my friend, and emboldened by the thought of his suffering letter. “eudora paused for an instant in maiden hesita- tion, then faltered—‘tell him that biondello is safely returned to his friends—and happy,+could he kit bam, mariner. but once see the old days again, when he sat by the side of his master in uberto's little study.' “i knelt to kiss her hand, and set forth imme- diately; for the afternoon was far advanced, and i feared that evening would close in before i could pro- ceed far on my journey; so that i should have to pass the night in the wild and desolate district which i had heard lay between the city and the place where old erudito had chosen his retirement. “at first my way was pleasant enough; it led across the peaceful valley that i knew so well, where uberto's cottage was situated, and where i had spent so many pleasant hours with that kind and noble friend. his flock were nibbling their green supper, as i passed, and i thought of their absent master, as i looked at the lad who had been left in charge of the fleecy creatures by the thoughtful provision of eudora; she had desired him to remain here, not only as shepherd, but in order that martha might have some one with her in the cottage at night, the faithful blind woman staying to take care of the home of her kind master, and arrange his books against his return, which she fondly hoped would not be long delayed. “when i reached the foot of the mountain range that rose abruptly on the opposite side of the valley, i turned to gaze once more on the tranquil spot, praying that i might be destined to return to it ere long with my friend; and, as my eye rested on the minarets and spires of the distant city beyond, that lay bathed in the last rich glow of the departing the strange adventures of western sun, i joined that other noble-hearted being in my aspirations, and blended their joint names in my prayers for their happiness. then turning to the east, which looked as if its dark blue sky had deep- ened many shades during the few moments that i had turned my gaze upon the splendours of the sun- set, i began my toilsome ascent, trusting to the active exertion requisite in attaining the summit for sufficient warmth to protect me against a sharp, chil- ling wind that was beginning to be perceptible in this mountainous region, and to spring up with the decline of day. my path became more rugged and difficult as it became more steep, but i knew i could not wander far from my right road, as i had heard uberto mention that his uncle's abode lay due east from the cottage, and after the sun set, i could guide my course by the stars, which fortunately shone out soon after. “as night came on, the way grew wilder and wilder; i could distinguish yawning caverns and deep rifts and chasms on either side of me, that spread wide their hollow jaws, as if they were gi- gantic animals standing ready to devour me; gloomy pine-trees waved their spiring bodies to and fro in the night-wind, as if mocking and beckoning to me; lofty, towering rocks sprung up sheer from the side of the narrowledge on which i sometimes had to make my way, and threatening cliffs overhung their mighty heads above me, as if nodding destruction from their stony sleep. ever and anon, i was star- tled by the sharp cry of some bird of prey, that kit bam, mariner. . flapped its powerful wings, and sailed across a neigh- bouring ravine, roused by my approach and the un- usual echo of a human footstep; and then, at in- tervals, i heard the prolonged howl of the wolf, the wailing, discordant yell of the hyaena, with its hor- rible mingling of weeping complaint and malicious laughter, and once i heard the deep roar of a distant lion. i looked up hopefully, beyond the crags and caverns, into the blue sky that covered all with its blessed canopy, and kept my heart firm, in the midst of that wild scene, by thinking of the friend who had so lately passed through it, sustained only by just principle and a consciousness of doing what he felt to be right and honourable. “and shall i, who possess hope of coming happiness for those i love, to support and encourage me, be less brave-hearted than he let me be worthy of his example, of his hospitable kindness to the shipwrecked mariner, and let me go boldly on to carry tidings of joy to his stranded hopes.’ “such thoughts as these elevated and strength- ened me, and led me trustfully on through the pe- rilous path of that lonely night, and, when morning dawned, i found myself but a few hours' journey from the mansion of old erudito. mayhap about eleven o'clock i reached his abode, which was a quaint, curious building, of irregular form, sur- mounted by a lofty observatory, and situated in the very heart of this remote and solitary region. i knocked at a small wicket that stood in one angle of the rough wall that enclosed the tenement, and, the strange adventures of after waiting a few moments, the gate was opened by an odd little figure, that looked singularly in keeping with the quaintness of all around. it was that of a little squat girl, with a square face, set upon square shoulders, which surmounted as square a skirt, terminated by two splay feet with square toes. her face looked as if it were covered with strained parchment, instead of skin, in the middle of which was stuck a small flat nose; her eyes looked like two pierced holes, and her mouth like a straight slit cut across the said parchment with a pair of scissors. i think i never beheld a more ugly little body in all my life, for, though she seemed not to be more than eighteen, she had none of the grace or beauty that mere youth itself bestows on the person. she bobbed a quick little ducking curtsey, in reply to my inquiries, and led me into the house, while she went to inform her old master of my arrival. she had not waddled away above two minutes, when i heard a quick firm step, and, in another moment, my hand was warmly grasped in that of uberto. he took me, at once, to his uncle's study, where the venerable sage greeted me with a cordiality and energetic kindness that contrasted well with the snows of age crowning his reverend head, and shewed how green and fresh philosophy keeps the hearts of her votaries. as vivid and as keen, too, did the feelings of this old man prove themselves still to be, when i disclosed the object of my mission, and told him of the universal call made by his coun- trymen upon the talents and virtues of his nephew ; the strange adventures of “‘and biondello ' “i repeated the precise words i had been bid to use as biondello's message, and uberto, uttering one deep sigh, merely said, “‘be it so | the good of my native land must be my hope now. in that i'll find my happiness and life.’ “once resolved, he lost no time in setting out, and, after taking a cordial leave of old erudito, who gave me a small volume, of curious worth, as a part- ing gift, we left his mansion on our way home. the path through the mountains, viewed by day- light, and in the company of a friend, seemed far less wild and perilous than it did in the lonely night- time, and uberto beguiled its tedium by cheerful conversation and animated discussion. he seemed to avoid, with peculiar care, all allusion to the agi- tating scene which had preceded his departure from his cottage home, as if he did not choose to trust himself with so interesting a subject; but he spoke frankly of his hopes of filling his new appointment worthily and beneficially, of his venerable relative, erudito, of the young heart and mind that dwelt in his old frame, and of his contented solitude, where he saw no human being but quadrata, the odd little damsel i had seen on my arrival. “i smiled involuntarily, as i recollected this quaint little fright, and uberto, observing it, said, “‘ay, to you, who know nothing of her but her strange ugliness, i don't wonder at your smiling at my uncle's choice of a handmaiden; but he, with kit bam, mariner. the eyes of true wisdom, can descry the loveliness of honesty, cheerful activity, faithful service, soft nurs- ing, thoughtful tendance, zealous care, watchful assi- duity, and constancy of attachment, beneath the parchment skin and angular figure of poor little quadrata.” “we reached the valley towards nightfall, and uberto resolved to remain at the cottage till morn- ing, when he might present himself to his sovereign, at the palace, and tender in person his required devo- tion and service. “accordingly, next day we proceeded to the court, and were at once ushered into the royal presence. all was precisely as i had beheld that brilliant scene on a former occasion; but the figure that occupied the couch by the side of the old king was now veiled not only by her luxuriant shining hair, but was covered from head to foot by a gauze of golden fabric that fell in bright folds to the very floor. uberto stood forth with firm manly dignity in that august assembly, his handsome intellectual head and simple attire forming no inapt contrast with the glittering crowd that stood around. it seemed as if the shepherd-god, apollo, had descended amidst mortals to assist and guide them with the glorious wisdom they lacked, “with noble yet modest words, uberto then knelt and tendered his services to his country and his sove- reign, and vowed to devote them zealously and faithfully in so righteous a behalf to his life's end. “the aged monarch raised him, accepting him as the strange adventures of the minister chosen by the voice of the people, and welcomed by himself; adding, that it had been further resolved, that the hand of the princess eudora, his daughter, should be conferred upon him in marriage, to strengthen his attachment to the throne and the interests of the kingdom, by an alliance with the heiress-apparent to the crown. “in choosing such a husband for my child,’ said the old king in conclusion, “my people secure to her a more congenial consort than i formerly meditated in the son of lord ignorio, and to themselves in future a wiser monarch than i fear i have made them; but i shall thus have the comfort, in my old age, of seeing the happiness of my daughter and of my people both ensured.’ “uberto paused, as if grieved to respond to these gracious words of his sovereign by aught but grateful acquiescence, but, collecting fortitude from a convic- tion of what was the only righteous course for the sake of all parties, he, in simple but firm words, avowed that he was compelled to decline the in- tended honour of the princess's alliance, for that his affections were irrevocably fixed upon another object. “‘let not your majesty or her highness reflect upon me for my sincerity, he said. “feeling as i do that my attachment, though hopeless, is eternal, i do not dare to outrage the princess by marrying her to a man with a dead heart. i have bid adieu for ever to love, and devote myself to patriotism alone.’ “he knelt, inclining lowly and reverently to the veiled princess, and withdrew from the presence. the strange adventures of blushing face of biondello–eudora, uberto's pupil, friend, and mistress, all revealed in one ! “he knelt to receive assurance of the delicious truth; while she, eager to reward his self-denying honour and loving constancy, told him all her story, from her early thirst for knowledge, feeling its neces- sity to enable her worthily to fulfil her high destiny; her seeking his cottage in obedience to her dying mother's injunctions; her assuming disguise that she might gain the sterling education of a man, the better to fit her for reigning hereafter; her adopting the name of him once destined for her husband; her studying so happily in the cottage under the tuition of her shepherd-master; her seeking his aid; her grief at his flight; her joy at his return doubled and trebled by his noble refusal of eudora for the sake of the lost biondello;-all, all was told, up to the very moment when she had prepared this blissful surprise for him in the very scene of their former happy pursuits. “‘i have had this room fitted up for my study, uberto, added she; “the very model, as you see, of our peaceful happy one in the cottage. here, when wearied with cares of state, or oppressed with the splendours and hollow grandeur of court life, will we repair to seek in quiet reading and placid contempla- tion, repose and refreshment. here, too, in this humble study, and from these well-worn books, may we gather wholesome lessons of modesty, self-scru- tiny, and gentle forbearance towards others, as well as comfort, hope, and gratitude towards the bounteous giver of all good.’ kit bam, mariner. i “it was not long before i had the pleasure of witnessing the completion of the happiness of my friend uberto in his marriage with the princess eudora. but, after the nuptials, which were cele- brated with great magnificence, and amid the uni- versal rejoicings of the people, my old love of wandering returned upon me with its usual force; and now that i could no longer hope to be of any use to my friends, i asked and obtained permission to leave the court, and once more go to sea. my generous friends would fain have loaded me with rich gifts and costly tokens of their remembrance; but i said that at my age, and with my wandering tastes, i could have no possible use for wealth; how- ever, i told the princess that there was one precious gift in her power to bestow upon me, if she would pardon the presumption of my solicitation in consi- deration of the reverential love which dictated the request. her gentle voice and smile then encou- raged me to beg for one of those shining tresses, as a memorial of the touching scenes with which they were so tenderly associated;—scenes in which i had once borne a part, and which would ever be remem- bered by me with affectionate interest and love for my two dear and honoured friends. “she turned with her usual dignity and winning grace towards her husband, saying—“those tresses are all uberto's now; but he shall sever one for you, and it shall be our joint gift.' and, when her hus- band divided the lock from her fair head, she placed it in a small crystal locket set round with large dia- the strange adventures of monds, which she took from her bosom, and, placing the chain which held it round my neck, she said— “the contents i know you will keep ever, for the sake of your loving friends; but promise me, kit, that, should you at any future time want money, you will convert these gems into a more available shape for use than they are at present, which will do well enough now as a small compass for a sailor's hoard, and permit of his carrying it always about his person. farewell; think sometimes of your friends, uberto and eudora, as they often will of their true knight, kit.” “the ship in which i now set sail, could boast of a very superior crew to those among whom i had last been in company. they were a light-hearted, excel- lent set of fellows, with a good-natured captain at their head, and i spent my time very easily and agreeably among them. indeed, on recalling to memory their many good qualities and sociable disposi- tion, i cannot reconcile their conduct in sailing away without me, with what i remember of their general behaviour. for it was this very ship that i told you of in my first yarn, that sailed away and left me on the island of false appearances. i can only account for it, by imagining that they thought i had fallen a victim to the fatal streamlet as well as my unfortu- nate companions.” “oh then, now we shall hear what you did when you got away from the malicious dwarf, by the help of the amiable giant,” said dick swallow. “yes," replied kit; “i may as well go on at once kit bam, mariner. from that period of my history; for no particular adventure happened to me in the interval of our leaving the country of king imbecilio, with the exception of the frightful drought from which we suf- fered for some days previous to our arriving at the island, where we landed in search of fresh water, as i mentioned to you. the remembrance of that dread- ful thirst, and its accompanying evils, even now comes over me with a horrible sense of pain whenever it crosses my mind. the sea and sky were of one lurid copper hue, and seemed to spread in scorching sheets of blazing metallic substance around us, re- flecting fierce unrelenting defiance upon our parched mouths and blistered skins. burning heat glowed above with intolerable fervour upon our aching heads and languid moistureless eyeballs, that sought relief in vain from the waters below, which seemed but a vast dazzling mirror, doubling and intensifying the sur- rounding furnace. fevered and exhausted by expo- sure to such sufferings, no wonder that my two comrades rashly sought relief at all risks, and em- braced even death in the shape of irresistible fresh, cool, delicious, spring water. “but, to resume the thread of my yarn, when i quitted the shore in the boat that afternoon, i had a notion that i was among a sort of cluster of islands, that did not lie very far apart from each other in those seas; so i rowed away for some time straight from the land i had just left, in the hope that i might reach some other before evening should close in. night, however, "came on while i was still in the the strange adventures of open sea, and nought could i see but water around me and sky above. the blue arch of heaven deep- ened and deepened the tone of its azure expanse, and then out came the blessed stars to cheer and revive me with their hopeful eyes. i gazed towards those countless orbs, and let my spirit take free range amid the firmament, where a supreme law appoints their mighty course, and bids them shed consoling radiance upon the humblest midnight wanderer. from the trackless paths of ocean, from the dreary waste of waters, as from the stifling crowds and most populous haunts of his fellow mortals, may the spirit of man ascend in yearning aspiration on a starry night; and seeking communion with those sublime creations of the almighty in their unfathomable remoteness, feel himself elevated as if to the presence of his god. “my soul strengthened and my arm nerved by this contemplation, i rowed stoutly on, till suddenly i became aware that i was nearing land, though it seemed to be sterile and unpromising, so far as i could discern by starlight. “the shore seemed to be composed of steep rocks; for, on approaching, i found that the sea rose in breakers against the masses of hard stony cliff that projected their inhospitable fronts, as if to bar my advance, and refuse any response to my hope of effecting a landing there. however, my exhausted frame and limbs, weary with so many hours' rowing, warned me not to be easily baffled in seeking repose and shelter; i, therefore, kept off shore as well as i could, while i endeavoured to coast round in search kit bam, mariner. of some favourable cavern, where i could creep in for the night, or succeed in finding some rather less rugged access than any which had hitherto presented itself. “at length i came to a kind of craggy inlet, on one side of which the rocks shelved down to the water's edge so low, that i believed i could climb up on to them from the boat, which with some difficulty i succeeded in doing. but i had no sooner attained this flat shelf of rock, than i perceived that i had quitted my little vessel without having taken the precaution of first landing the provisions that had been given me by the friendly giant, and which, from all that i could see around, was the only food i should be likely to procure that night. i was ac- cordingly compelled to leap back into the boat, though it was tossed about so by the surge that it was a narrow chance i did not plunge into the waves instead. however, i succeeded in securing the pre- cious keg of well-water, and the two loaves in which the giant had enclosed the butter and the cheese, and then i contrived to scramble up once more on to the shelving platform of rock beside them, though, the instant i had done so, the thought flashed across me that i had no means of mooring my little vessel. no bush, no tree, not even a stump or a jagged point of rock, to which i could lash the rope and se- cure the boat. even if it escaped uninjured by the breakers, i could scarcely expect that it would re- main in the bay where it now was; and, if it drifted away before morning, what chance of escape had i n the strange adventures of from this stony shore, where my first welcome had been so inhospitable and unpromising? but every spark of hope, with respect to the frail bark, was speedily destroyed by the boiling waves; they tossed it to and fro, and flung it against the savage rocks, that threw it contemptuously back: and thus, almost as i gazed, i beheld my sole means of retreat dashed to pieces before my very eyes. i comforted myself as well as i could with the only glimpse of consolation i had at that moment the heart to perceive; which was, my having fortunately preserved the food and water from perishing with the boat. so, determining to avail myself to the utmost of this alleviating circumstance in my situation, i made a hearty meal of one of the half loaves, some of the butter and cheese, and a draught from the keg. after this, feeling refreshed, i secured the remainder of my provisions, by placing them carefully on a sheltered ledge in a rift of the rock, and i determined to set out in search of some more comfortable shelter for the night than that barren flattened reef could afford. i walked on some time, in the hope of meeting with a more fertile spot inland; but not a vestige of a tree, shrub, or plant was to be seen. not only were there no trees, or so much as a ragged stunted bush any where about, but there was not even the least trace of verdure or vege- tation of any sort, to clothe the bare sterile rock which spread every where beneath my feet as far as the eye could reach. not a blade of grass, not a patch of moss, not a solitary slender lichen, sprung from the callous monotony around—all was sullen, kit bam, mariner. obdurate, unyielding granite. what was my dismay, when, after walking for about two hours, i found that i approached the sea-shore again,-a shore precisely like the one i had just quitted,—a mere flattened reef of rocks; and that, in fact, i was imprisoned in a small desert island, containing absolutely nothing to support nature, but was a mere huge granite slab, set in the midst of the ocean. i felt like one of those poor isolated insects i had noticed when a boy—some luckless ant, or beetle, that had by mischance strayed upon a floating leaf, and was carried away in strange waſtage along the current of a brook or pond. like that poor perplexed creature, i felt prompted to run hither and thither in mad bewilderment, and spend my strength in vain efforts to extricate myself from my hapless position. i checked these rash thoughts, however, as i best might, and lay down on the bare rock humbly and trustfully, grateful, at least, that there was the starry canopy above me, instead of a stormy and adverse sky. “with the first dawn of light i arose, and, forlorn as my situation undoubtedly was, i could not be in- sensible to the beauties of that early morning, rising in mid ocean, and shedding its glories upon one deso- late human being, apart from all his race in granite solitude. blessed prodigality of nature! that la- vishes its wonders on desert wastes where no eye may ever mark the marvellous beauty, content to work its own bounteous decrees in magnificent profusion. “roseate clouds replaced the grey dawn; golden kit bam, mariner. at any rate until another day should dawn and lend me its light. “the pangs of hunger, as well as the growing horrors of my situation, combined to keep me awake the greater part of that night, and i resumed my search the next day, exhausted as well as dispirited. i endeavoured to calculate on what side of the island the particular reef could lie, by recalling the position of the stars at the time i landed, as well as by the direction in which i had beheld the sun rise the previous day, which, of course, indicated to me the eastern quarter of the island; but i found the long fast i had sustained was beginning to have its effect upon my faculties, which, i felt, were becoming con- fused and indistinct in the process of thinking. an- other night darkened upon me, with the added horror of approaching illness, for i felt fevered and restless, besides being conscious of a sort of wandering in my mind. this last feeling increased to such a degree before morning, that next day i was in a strong fit of the seaman's disease, the calenture, or home- longing, that haunted me with terrible distinctness and pertinacity, for some hours. the granite island had faded completely from my sight, and i beheld the entire scene of my dear native village, with the vivid force of reality. there was the church spire against the background of an english sky, pale blue, flecked with light fleecy clouds; the church itself with its glistening windows reflecting the mild rays of the evening sun; the simple churchyard, with its green mounds and plain gravestones; there was the rº-> t- –––– - - the strange adventures of little wicket-gate, leading to the village green, with the humble cottages skirting its sides, and straggling towards the green lane that led away into the high road; there were the fields, dotted with sheep and grazing cattle, the neat orchards, the little gardens,— every well-known object was there, palpably, visibly. not only did i see these things actually before me, but my other senses aided the delusion, and i heard the gentle lowing of the kine, the bleating of the sheep, the barking of a distant watch-dog, the music of the church bells, and the murmur of children's voices, as they sported on the village green. my tears flowed, and my heart panted to be gone, that i might melt into this tranquil scene, and be for ever at rest. as i gazed, methought my mother issued from the door of our cottage home, and beck- oned, smilingly, to her sailor son. i followed, as i fancied, and saw her point towards the oaken cup- board that contained refreshment for her poor wan- derer. in my delirium i rose to my feet, and, pur- suing the direction of my mother's hand, i went for- ward, towards what seemed in my heated imagi- nation, to be the small cupboard in the cottage wall; when, on putting forth my hand to grasp the food i saw, i found that i held the very loaves that i had secreted on my first arrival, and that i, in fact, was guided, in my fevered vision, to the precise spot, the rift in the rock, which i had sought so long in vain. “you may imagine that, though very stale, never had bread tasted so deliciously to me before, and the keg, kept fresh and cool beneath the shelter of the kit bam, mariner. rock, poured forth its pure contents to my parched lips, with a refreshment that no wine, however rare, could have produced. i slept well and soundly that night, and, when i awoke in the morning, i found, to my inexpressible joy, that my fever had abated, and that i felt healthful and strong enough to form very energetic resolutions of revolving some means of escape from my granite prison. but how were these means to be found ! not a morsel of wood any- where, to make a raft—not a single stick to fasten my handkerchief to, that i might hoist it as a signal in case any ship should fortunately pass within hail. but not a vessel, not a sail, could i descry; the sea all round looked smooth and unruffled, and was as undisturbed and unproductive a monotony as the granite slab which formed my prison. “utterly baffled, and all my hopes of help by self. exertion thus reduced to nought, i stood mutely in- active, with folded arms, and a sort of dull resigna- tion to the inert neutrality that my fate forced upon me, when, suddenly, i was struck by observing a glit- tering object high in the air, which, as it advanced and gradually descended, i perceived to be a horse of burnished brass. it alighted not far from the spot where i was, and then stood as still as a stone, looking as immoveable as the granite island itself. i shaded my eyes with my hand, as i gazed at this wondrous horse, which dazzled like the unclouded sun, and i tried to recollect what i had heard one of my early shipmates, geoffrey tabard, once tell me about just such a horse of brass. the strange adventures of * “it was of fine proportions and of great breadth of chest, all formed for swiftness and endurance, just as geoffrey had described it to me; and i remem- bered that he told me of its possessing the power of conveying its master to whatever quarter of the earth he pleased to ride, within the compass of a day; or, if he desired to soar like an eagle, it would bear him, without danger, through the regions of birds, to the place of his destination, and that, in its progress, it was so staid and so soft, that its rider might sleep, without fear, upon its back. then, remembering how geoffrey had explained that in its management there required no other skill than the turning of a pin that was fixed in its ear, i deter- mined boldly to avail myself, if possible, of the means this brazen steed offered of quitting the gra- nite island. “i therefore approached resolutely, and laid my hand upon the rein, which was a bridle of curious workmanship, encrusted with jewels, and then the horse began to trample and caper, as if he recog- nized one who was acquainted with his nature. i mounted, turned the pin, and left it to the discretion of my charger to conduct me whithersoever he pleased, believing that, as he delivered me from peril, he would best know where to take me for my future good. we soared gently aloft, and he bore me through the air and across the sea, till we ap- proached land, when, stooping from his flight, the horse alighted in a grassy plain, where i dismounted. then, after remaining a few moments, as if rooted kit bam, mariner. to the ground, and quiet as a stone again, he sud- denly rose from the earth, and the horse of brass soared away, and vanished from my sight. “i waved a grateful farewell to him, and turned to look round upon the place in which he had left me. i found i was in the neighbourhood of a thick wood, and, as i felt the rays of the noontide sun some- what oppressive, i sought the refreshing shade of the trees, and wandered for some time beneath them, enjoying the cool air and the green luxurious repose of the bowery spot, affording such exquisite con- trast with the hard, barren monotony of the place i had just quitted, the dreadful granite island. i revelled in the sweet smell of the wood, a mingled odour of wild flowers, boughs, blossoms, mossy bark, and teeming earth; i, as it were, bathed my eyes in the verdant freshness of the overhanging leaves, the clear azure of the sky that peeped between the foliage, and the soft purple haze that appeared to suffuse the ground beneath the trees; i bared my brow to the pure breath of heaven, my senses seemed steeped in refreshment, and i felt as if i drank in reviving influence at every pore. “presently, i heard a sound of rural merriment; i looked up, and beheld a troop of fauns and satyrs. coming through one of the forest glades, shouting and singing a shepherd rhyme, and making the woods echo with their merry piping and gladsome revelry. on they came, wearing the ground with their horned feet and backward-bent knees, leaping like wanton kids in pleasant spring, and joyful as the the strange adventures of birds, while with them came dancing, hand in hand, nymphs and light-footed hamadryads, waving green branches, all just as i had heard edmund faery (an- other of the early friends of my first voyage), many and many a time, describe them to me, when he had told me of these wood-born people; his very words came into my memory, so vividly had he painted them. though they were rude-favoured, mis- shapen creatures, with their frowning foreheads sur- mounted by rough horns and their strange limbs hairy and hoofed, yet there was an air of natural goodness about them and guileless enjoyment, that inspired confidence and liking. the procession stopped in an open, grassy spot, where the glade widened, not far from the place in which i stood; and then i saw the merry busy crowd prepare for a rustic feast, by spreading the ground with boar's and kid's flesh, goodly fowls and birds, piles of rosy fruit, and heaps of green and purple grapes, intermingled with drinking-horns, flagons, and swollen wine-skins. “the jolly company were just about to seat them- selves around on the grass, when espying me, they sent up a boisterous shout that made the welkin ring, then, gently grinning, they, by grotesque becks and barbarous courtesy, signified to me that i should approach and share their repast, while two buxom nymphs sprang forward, and, playfully crowning my head with green coronals and wreathing me round with vine garlands, they led me towards their wood companions, and, with uproarious mirth, pressed me down upon a mossy seat in the midst of them. kit bam, mariner. “no-wise averse, i enjoyed their wild hospitality and shared their hearty merriment, eating and drink- ing my best, and mingling my voice with their joy- ous shouts and sportive songs; but, when i began to perceive that joviality was merging into mad ex- cess, and jocund hilarity was fast becoming mere tumult and noise, i bethought me that my human dis- cretion had best take means to withdraw from the company of these wild wood-gods, while i yet pre- served my senses. thanking them, therefore, for their courtesy and good cheer in one more rousing cup, which i resolved should be the last, i seized the opportunity, when their attention was occupied in pressing some vast bunches of grapes into a huge bowl and crowning it with garlands, that they might drink a loving cup round to the health of old syl- vanus, and quietly rising, i stealthily effected my escape among the neighbouring leafy coverts, and soon lost sight of the uproarious train, thinking how closely my situation resembled that of some tem- perate guests of whom i had heard in civilized life, who were compelled to abscond by stratagem from the indiscreet society of some too-hospitable human host. “i wandered on beneath the trees, until i came to the skirts of the wood, where i beheld a stately mansion. “but i must tell you to-morrow what adventures befel me there, my dears,” said the old mariner, “for it is too late to spin any more yarns to-night.” -- ~~~~ * ~ the strange adventures of chapter vii. the abode of subtilia ; drusilla; the” enchanted foun- tain ; erudito's gift ; the lake, and island retreat ; sir lionel ; the mystic rings. “you left off last evening just where you came in sight of a stately mansion, kit,” said both the young swallows in a breath, when they were next seated happily with their dear old friend the mariner. “i bent my steps towards it,” resumed kit, “and shortly approached the high bronze gates which formed the entrance to this lordly domain; they yielded to my hand, and i advanced through a long avenue that led straight to the flight of marble steps surmounted by the portal of the mansion. on each side of the avenue stretched a fine park, and, in the vicinity of the house i saw plantations and thick shrubberies, that bespoke beautiful pleasure-grounds and lovely gardens fit for voluptuous retirement. i ascended the flight of steps, and found that the portal, like the bronze gates, gave way at once beneath the pressure of my hand, and i entered a lofty hall of dazzling white marble, from the centre of which rose a staircase, that, after a short flight, diverged, and led to the rooms above. i went straight up to the first landing, where i found a magnificent suite of rooms, kit bam, mariner. draped with rich hangings, and ornamented with gilded mouldings and cornices; superb pictures deco- rated the walls, luxurious couches, soft carpets, mir- rors, candelabra, and vases, were every where around in costly profusion. but i saw no one; i met not a single person amid all this splendour; not one occu- pant in this stately household. i wandered on through many rooms, all grand, all betokening lordly habitation, but still not a soul could i see; through many more, above, around, and below, but all was silent and deserted, and i strayed on alone—quite alone, without a sound but my own echoing footsteps, or the sight of a human countenance, excepting an occasional glimpse of my own, as i passed some huge mirror that reflected my wandering figure, and startled me with its unexpected motion amidst this still and silent solitude. i descended again to the marble hall, where i perceived some windows reaching to the ground, that opened on to the broad terrace which occupied the back of the mansion, and com- manded a view of the gardens and pleasure grounds. i stepped forth, and stood for some time to admire the beauty of the scene that lay stretched before me, while i mused upon the strange desertion of a place so bountifully endowed. i gazed forth upon the lovely pleasaunce, the green alleys, the brilliant flower-beds, the bowery alcoves, the graceful statues, and silvery fountains, that diversified the tasteful ele- gance of the surrounding grounds, when, suddenly, my ear caught the sound of a plaintive voice uttering a low wailing lamentation. i looked hastily round, the strange adventures of but no one could i see; and, indeed, the sound was too stifled and distant for it to have proceeded from any one in the open air, or near to me. i listened, and, hearing the plaintive sound repeated, i crept softly in the direction whence it seemed to proceed. it led me to the end of the terrace, and then, de- scending a few steps, i heard it more distinctly, and found that it seemed to issue from a low angle of the building among some flowering shrubs, that grew in a cluster near to the foot of the terrace. as i stooped towards them i distinguished these words, uttered in the disconsolate tone which had before reached my ear—“ah me, unhappy drusilla! why bemoan thy miserable fate why indulge in useless complaint, when there is no one near to listen and console ! wretched, wretched maid : lost, aban- doned, deserted by all, cease to deplore thy cruel doom, but let grief do its work—break thy heart at once, and die!" much moved by this melancholy plaint, and by the touching voice of woe in which it was uttered, i strained my eyes eagerly through the slender branches which screened the portion of the building whence the voice seemed to issue, and i dis- covered a low grated window close to the ground; on looking still more intently, i could distinguish behind the bars the figure of a beautiful damsel, who was wringing her hands piteously, casting her weeping eyes up to heaven, while she gave way to those bitter lamentations which i had overheard. i no sooner perceived her, than i endeavoured to make her aware of my presence, and to offer my services kit bam, mariner. in aid of her distress. i cut away some of the branches of the flowering shrub that intervened, and, approaching as near to the grating as i could, i beg- ged her to believe that there was one near, anxious to assist and console her, would she but accept his services, and direct him how best they could be exerted in her behalf. the fair damsel, after the first blush of surprise at my sudden appearance, smiled graciously, and told me that she was an un- happy prisoner, confined in that lonely dungeon by the arts of a wicked enchantress, subtilia, whose abode was the luxurious mansion that reared its walls above the cell of her victim; and then the damsel, who told me that her own name was drusilla, asked me how i had contrived to escape the observation of subtilia, and gain access to the neighbourhood of her dungeon, so as to discover its situation. i informed her of my having entered the house, of my having wandered all over it without encountering any one, and of my subsequent visit to the terrace, whence i had been fortunately led by the sound of her voice to the discovery of her imprisonment, from which i now longed so eagerly to be the means of her deliver- ance. she thanked me warmly for my proffered aid, and then, recurring to the former portion of my speech, where i had recounted my having found the mansion empty, she said:—‘then subtilia is absent; she is doubtless gone on one of her errands, fraught with mischievous peril to knights and damsels who have unhappily provoked her admiration or her wrath; for her partiality towards the one sex is as fatal as the strange adventures of her malignant hatred of the other. had she seen you, gallant stranger, added drusilla, with a compli- mentary glance, “it is more than probable that you would never have been permitted to emerge from her abode, even so far as to the terraces and gardens. she is an avowed admirer of handsome youths, and loves to see bravery and beauty swell her train of followers.” “i felt abashed by this open flattery of drusilla's, and hastened to check its course, by leading the conversation back to her own misfortunes, asking her if she could account for the animosity which had led subtilia to cast her into the dungeon where she now languished. “‘alas, no!’ exclaimed the damsel, casting her eyes modestly down; ‘unless it be that these poor charms have excited her envy, and drawn her enmity upon their unhappy possessor.” “i looked at her as she stood there, in her blush- ing beauty, with the bright tears streaming over her glowing cheeks and glistening upon her coral lips, like dew-drops trembling in the cup of a rose, and, notwithstanding her consciousness and vanity, which revolted my better taste, i could not help admiring her loveliness, and permitting myself to be biassed in her favour by the irresistible attraction of youth, softness and distress. “i bade her command me ever, vowed to deliver and protect her, though at the peril of my life, and besought her to bestow some token of her regard and acceptance of my devotion to her cause. kit bam, mariner. “the damsel blushed and smiled, and then, press- ing one fair arm through the bars of her prison- window, she permitted me to kiss her white hand, on which i perceived a heart-shaped ruby ring. tran- sported with her condescending softness, i would fain have drawn this ring from her finger and placed it on my own, but she suddenly withdrew her hand, and, telling me the ring might perhaps be my guerdon, when i should have succeeded in delivering her from the power of subtilia, she told me that i had best avail myself of the enchantress's absence, by return- ing immediately to the house, seeking the way to the dungeon-door, and so freeing drusilla from pri- son before the return of her enemy should interfere with our plans. i agreed to the reasonableness of this proposal, and asking drusilla if she could afford me any indication of the direction in which the pas- sage leading to the dungeons lay within the house, she told me that she had been conveyed thither from the great hall of white marble blindfold, and that, therefore, she possessed no clue wherewith to guide me in my search. however, doubting not that i should be able easily to discover the way, and anxious to lose no more time in endeavouring to effect drusilla's escape, i bade her farewell, and hastened to retrace my steps along the terrace, and return to the house. “arrived once more in the marble hall, i paused a moment, to calculate, as well as i could, the pro- bable direction of the dungeon, when, opening a door to the right, i found myself in a long gallery, lead- ing to a beautiful conservatory, filled with rare o the strange adventures of flowers of every shape and hue. convinced that this could not form the approach to the subterranean range of prisons destined for the reception of sub- tilia's victims, i returned to the hall, where i again debated in what direction i had best proceed. i ob- observed that several doors stood ranged on the two opposite sides of this hall, leading into galleries right and left through the extensive wings of the mansion, so, as i had no means of deciding which of these galleries was the passage i sought, i deter- mined to go regularly through them all, in the hope of discovering the one i so ardently desired. the second door i opened admitted me into a gallery at the end of which i found myself in a spacious library, the third led to a superb aviary, another to a saloon of rarest sculpture, another to a well- proportioned music-room, each to various retreats of refined amusement and elegant leisure, but none that bore the remotest likelihood of conducting me to the range of dungeons beneath the building, which i longed as eagerly to find as others had probably desired to avoid. at length, at the end of one of the galleries, i beheld a staircase, that led down windingly to a dark vaulted passage, and, though evening was by this time closing in, i hesitated not to descend at once, hoping that i had at last dis- covered the way to the prison of the lovely drusilla. the passage was of stone, and echoed drearily be- neath my feet, as i proceeded, groping carefully on either side, to find the dungeon doors, which i con- cluded could not now be far distant. the strange adventures of of the building, and forming a secret means of egress from the mansion. i found that it had brought me out beneath the avenue in front of the edifice, and the brilliant moonshine which silvered the tops of the lofty trees, and shed soft lustre upon every surrounding object, enabled me to find my way readily to the principal entrance; and i once more returned to the marble hall. “before i resumed my search through the few doors that yet remained unopened by me, i deter- mined to repair to the grated window of drusilla's prison, that i might inform her of the fruitless search i had hitherto made, and, by assuring her that i meant immediately to return and prosecute it further, account for the suspense in which she had been detained, and revive her hope for future suc- cess. i hastened along the terrace, and was soon at the low grated window, but what was my dismay, when i received no reply to my reiterated calls upon the fair damsel's name. i urged her, by every ear- nest expression i could imagine, to take pity on my uneasiness, and to relieve the torture i suffered in her behalf; i conjured her to believe that the delay in her deliverance had been occasioned by no want of ardour on my part, and that if it was this circum- stance that offended her and kept her silent, i en- treated she would at least have compassion on my fears for her, and assure me of her presence by a single word. “but i pleaded in vain; no sound, not a sigh reached my ear, and i became convinced that the kit bam, mariner. dungeon no longer contained its fair tenant. in- deed, the moon shone so brightly, that i should have discovered the figure of the damsel, had drusilla still occupied her prison, but not a line, not a hint of her fair shape could i distinguish, to break the uniform darkness of the space into which i gazed. amazed and dispirited, l arose from the kneeling position i had assumed, the better to peer down through the dungeon window, and wandered on through the moon-lit gardens, musing vainly on the cause of my mistress's strange disappearance. the title i had given to drusilla, in my reverie, struck upon my fancy, and i paused to consider what reason i had to look upon her in the light of a lover. “i have seen her but a few hours, i know nothing of her qualities, and yet i talk of her as my love— my mistress—my future bride i do i love her? do i wish to pass my life with her ? do i really desire to devote my future existence to this damself —to the formation of her happiness and my own in our union ?” i asked myself these questions, and was surprised to find how the remembrance of her beauty was the sole response, and how that faded before the recollection of her evident coquetry and vanity, which had been thrown into shadow while my eyes were dazzled with her personal charms in the presence of the fair drusilla. “my own conduct, too, did not satisfy me, upon reviewal, any more than hers in the interview be- tween us. as i thought over these things, i drew kit bam, mariner. i looked round involuntarily, though i was so situ- ated that no one could possibly be standing in the position which had suggested itself to me; for, i had seated myself on the marble brink of a large vase- like basin, in the centre of which played a fountain that sent up its silver sparkles among the moon- beams, and fell again in graceful showers to the rippling water. “but the sigh was repeated, and i heard the plain- tive voice of drusilla murmur—“and is that my real picture ? are those my true colours? am i indeed the worthless vain coquette i there see depicted? ah, lionel, well art thou vindicated deeply, fatally, are thy wrongs avenged, by my present hope- less admission of the justice of my doom l’ “the voice ceased, and i heard nothing but the soft plashing of the fountain, and the thrilling notes of a nightingale in the neighbouring grove. “drusilla! speak again! drusilla! ‘where are you, lady ?' i exclaimed impetuously. “‘you see me not, gallant stranger, though i am close beside you,' replied her voice; ‘by the cruel sorceries of the enchantress subtilia, i am nightly transformed into this fountain; as evening closes in, i quit my dungeon, and with it my human shape, which i resume not until morning dawns, when i exchange one imprisonment for another. the free open air, the close cell, are equally thraldom for poor drusilla! listen, stranger, she continued, “for your magic volume has unsealed my eyes, and bids me value truth now above all things; listen, and i will the strange adventures of tell you the whole of my sad history, of which i allowed you to understand only a portion this morn- ing. i am a king's daughter, and my early years were spent in the midst of unbounded luxury, un- checked whims, unlimited praise of my beauty, and injudicious indulgence of all kinds. my natural defects were thus cherished into faults, and my ca- price, disdain, and tyranny, when i came to have suitors, were intolerable and incessant. of all of them, i only really loved sir lionel, but i never would permit him to feel sure of this, and scarcely treated him better than any of the others. still, . spite of all, he loved me fondly, faithfully; and his ardent affection roused the vindictive jealousy of subtilia, who had herself cast eyes of favour upon my handsome lover. one evening, i was pacing idly along one of the green alleys of the royal gar- dens, surrounded by a train of my admirers, one of whom i sent to catch a butterfly, another for a bunch of forget-me-nots, another for a riband for my dog's neck, a fourth for my pet monkey, and a fifth for i know not what, when i suddenly found myself alone with sir lionel, and, in the embarrassment of the moment, instead of despatching him like the rest upon some frivolous errand, i said—‘and you, sir knight, may give me that opal from your finger if you think fit to bestow it upon me: it will be a meet gift, you know, for one so changeable as you have frequently told me that i am.’ “‘be true to your own better nature, then, lady mine, said sir lionel, emboldened by the encourage- kit bam, mariner. ment i gave him in my request; ‘give me that ruby ring of yours in exchange for my opal, and tell me they shall bear witness of our mutual constancy.’ “when i do give you that heart-shaped ruby, sir knight, you may boast of my constancy,' i ex- claimed, haughtily drawing back. “‘he was incensed at the sudden change in my manner, which, an instant before had been all playful softness, and said, ‘then i part not with my opal, unless in exchange for the ruby.' “‘i would sooner exchange places with that foun- tain,’ said i, pointing carelessly to one that played near us, ‘than part with my ring to sir lionel.' “‘sir lionel will never submit his heart to your sway, fair tyrant, exclaimed my lover impetuously, ‘until you yield him your ruby ring, and own that you have used unworthily a heart hitherto but too willing to devote itself to your service.’ “‘he broke from me with these bitter words, and i have fatal reason to believe that these rash speeches of ours threw us both into the power of subtilia; for, that very night, her enchantments were put in force against myself, and i have no doubt my unfortunate lover is equally subject to her spells. there is a retired spot, towards the south, not far from hence, —a small island situated in the centre of a lake, where the enchantress devotes herself to pleasure, and to the society of those whom she has enwoven in her fatal snares. here, i fear, my dear knight, sir lionel, has been conveyed; and, alas! my own con- duct scarcely permits me to hope that his constancy the strange adventures of has been proof against the wiles doubtless employed to win him to her allegiance. it is but too probable that he has yielded to her blandishments, and has for ever abandoned all thought of the miserable drusilla!' “‘then you regret your false knight, and still love only sir lionel !' i exclaimed, in a tone which i vainly endeavoured to render free from reproach. “she understood me, and replied with new-born frankness, the offspring of her perusal of erudito's magic gift—‘my behaviour to you this morning, gallant stranger, warrants your rebuke. it was my old self then acting. it was the coquette—the vain thoughtless beauty—heedless of what pain she might inflict, while intent solely upon conquest and securing new worship. be generous as you are brave, kind stranger, and withdraw not your proffers of assist- ance from an unhappy damsel because she has the courage to own the truth. be content to think her candour renders her moreworthy of your help, though not of your love; and still benevolently strive to relieve her from distress, even when she honestly avows that she loves another better than yourself. above all, do not call sir lionel, false knight. he was ever true and kind, till i urged him beyond for- bearance. his further submission to my caprice and tyranny would have been scarcely manly; and if, in- deed, his constancy should have swerved in the trial to which i doubt not it has been subjected by the arts of subtilia, i may mourn his loss—as i must eternally—but i shall have only my own former self to blame for the cessation of his love.’ kit bam, mariner. “again the voice ceased with a plaintive cadence, and i heard nought but the nightingale's musical descant and the soft plashing of the fountain, which seemed faint echoes of drusilla's love and tears. “her contrition and her ingenuous self-blame, wrought their due effect upon me, and, after a mo- ment's pause, i burst forth in cordial expressions of my willingness to serve her, and to do all i could to restore the lovers to each other, unthoughtful of any more selfish reward than the happiness of promoting theirs. “‘'tis no more than i believed of you, generous stranger, she exclaimed; “your bearing is frank and noble; and think not now that i flatter you lightly, as i perhaps might have done before i beheld my two portraits truly depicted in your wondrous volume there. my abhorrence of my former self, and my hope of what my present self may eventually become through the meek teaching of an awakened con- science, authorize my telling you that i confide en- tirely in your friendly goodness, as expressed by your every look and manner. take, then, this ruby ring, find out my true knight, sir lionel, and give him the token, with drusilla's full avowal of her affec- tion, of her self-blame, and of her sole hope now consisting in his unaltered faith towards one, who will devote her whole life to prove worthy of his love.’ “as she ceased speaking, a small gold-fish swam towards the marble brink, holding in its mouth the heart-shaped ruby ring, which i immediately recog- the strange adventures of nized to be the one i had beheld that morning on drusilla's white hand. - “as i reached forth mine for the token, i renewed my assurances of fidelity to her service, and, bidding her be of good cheer as to the success of my enter- prize, i withdrew, determined to set forth in quest of her knight by earliest dawn on the morrow. “i slept in one of the sumptuous bed-chambers in the deserted abode of the enchantress, subtilia; but my dreams were calm, and my slumbers refreshing- mayhap none the less so, that my mind was free from any thoughts of a flirtation, and the thousand tor- menting solicitudes and misgivings of a growing, though fancied preference. “on the following morning i rose eagerly to my task, but, previous to my departure, i stole down to the low grating of the dungeon window, beyond the terrace, that i might say a parting word of hopeful comfort to the fair drusilla, if she should be returned thither, and awake to note me. “the morning sun was up in his glory, and dart- ing his kindly rays athwart the iron bars, shewed me the form of the fair drusilla stretched upon her prison-pallet, but with a smile of loving brightness and artless joy upon her countenance, that bespoke a pure renovated heart and dreams of a happy future. that her first waking thoughts might partake of their cheerful hue, i hastily gathered some wreaths of honeysuckle blossoms, emblems of hopeful constancy, and, twining them through the grating, i hurried away on my quest for her lover. remembering her the strange adventures of little time, drying my wet garments, and marking the beauty of the drooping boughs that dipped their pendant leaves into the waters, to meet and kiss their twin semblance; while the cool umbrageous reflec- tion seemed to shrink and tremble coyly, gliding away elusive from beneath their playful touch. “presently a delicious sound of music crept into my ears; a lulling harmony of blended wind instru- ments, that swelled and rose majestically from mur- muring softness into loud outpouring strains, then sunk again in soothing cadence; at one moment a tender passionate melody breathed alone its persua- sive accents in eloquent entreaty—then the impera- tive thrill of silver trumpets and loud-voiced clarions would ring forth, amid the impressive sway and deep- toned richness of trombones and bass-horns, and anon the lingering liquid notes of recurring gentleness and beauty would enchain the attention in stronger and more willing bondage. “drawn by the luscious strains to a nearer enjoy- ment of their sounds, i left my leafy covert and made my way through the grove that surrounded me; but, on approaching a thick-pleached hedge that seemed to encircle the spot whence the music proceeded, i looked through the close interstices of its branches, and beheld a scene that at once rivetted my attention, and drew it firmly towards the object i had in view, —the disenthralment of drusilla's lover, sir lionel. “on a rustic throne of moss and mingled flowers, reclined the enchantress subtilia. she was attired in gorgeous satin robes, of the hue which the phea- kit bam, mariner. sant's throat displays when the bird basks in rays of sunshine; on her arms and breast glowed gems of rarest water—the diamond, the sapphire, the ruby, and the emerald; and amid her raven hair lurked pearls of orient worth, like clusters of starry jasmin peeping from among their dark foliage. her beauty well became this attire—it was haughty and com- manding, and her eyes sparkled with conscious power and proud dominion. “on the grass at her feet lay a steel-clad knight, idly waving a fan of snowy feathers, the riband of which still clung round the wrist of its beauteous mistress; but i marked that his eyes seldom rose to meet those of the enchantress, which often sought his: i saw that they were not occupied with the light figures of the nymphs who were floating in a mazy dance before him, i could see that they were not even following the air-drawn circles which he was listlessly describing with the waving fan in his hand, but i perceived that they were most frequently fixed in sad abstracted gaze upon a ring which he wore on his finger—a lustrous opal. his continued abstrac- tion at length became apparent to subtilia, for, say- ing, ‘you are weary of this dancing and this music, dear knight; i will bid them begone, and you shall tell me what occupies your thoughts.' she waved the nymphs to retire, and the musicians to cease playing. then black pages, attired in white and scarlet, brought vases of gold, and flasks of crystal enriched with silver frost-work, from which they poured rubious and amber-tinted wines into goblets the strange adventures of encrusted with gems and crowned with flowers, and handed them, together with cool fruits heaped in tempting groups, upon chased salvers and chargers, to the enchantress and her guest. “but the wine brought no exhilaration, the fruits no refreshment to the satiated palate of the knight; he appeared rather to be overwhelmed than revived by the succession of voluptuous pleasures heaped upon him by his gracious entertainer, and i could perceive that the languid sigh he uttered was not so much one of enjoyment, as of oppression and palled appetite, while his thoughts were so evidently wan- dering from the scene before him, that subtilia again challenged them, and said, “you long for more stirring scenes; is it not so, dear knight? you weary of this soft repose and per- petual inaction. to-morrow we will repair to the main land, and enjoy all the vivacity and animation of the chase. my hunting-lodge shall be prepared, the fleetest hounds, the swiftest horses, shall be at our command, and we will rouse the stag or the ferocious boar, while our steeds bear us flying along to the spirited call of the bugles, and the far-re- sounding shouts of the hunters. come,’ added she, seeing that a light beamed in the eyes of sir lionel, at this mention of something in the shape of active pursuit, and relief from the round of insipid diver- sions and sensualities in which he had lately been steeped, ‘come, you shall give me some reward for my promised hunting-party; you shall give me that gem from your finger. i grudge the many thought- kit bam, mariner. ful looks you bestow on the senseless opal; when transferred to my hand, i shall better endure that it should attract your gaze; it will remind you that that little hand seeks no dearer employment than to confer benefits and endless happiness on its cherished friend, sir lionel.” “the enchantress extended her fair hand, as she spoke, with a smile full of blandishment, expecting that the knight would place the ring on her finger, fascinated by her encouraging condescension; but he merely raised the lady's hand to his lips, mutely declining to yield her the opal. “subtilia's dark eyes flashed fire at this refusal. “‘ungrateful knight!' she exclaimed, “no com- plaisance moves you, no generous confidence can win that stubborn heart of thine ! mock not my kindness, disdain not my affection, or learn to dread the animosity which may, ere long, replace in my bosom the too fond weakness with which i have hitherto regarded you.’ “so saying, the enchantress swept past, casting an angry glance towards him, and quitted the spot, sur- rounded by her train of pages and attendants. “the knight fell again into his abstracted gaze upon the ring. “‘too well she knows, he murmured, ‘that to yield her this, would be to relinquish the last slender tie which binds me to a better existence—the last slight defence i possess against becoming entirely the vic- tim of her power. no! not to her—not to her,’ he added, as he pressed the gem passionately to his p the strange adventures of lips. yet why should i cling to the vain hope that drusilla will ever free us from the spells that en- thrall us both, by uttering the humble words that would disenchant us. alas! capricious, imperious, as she is, spite of her bewitching loveliness, how can i hope that she even bears me in remembrance ' “on hearing these words of sir lionel, i stepped forth from my leafy screen, where i had hitherto concealed myself behind the hedge, and abruptly placed myself before him, confronting him, and hold- ing forth my hand, which bore the heart-shaped ruby ring. “he recoguized the token instantly; he started, and, springing to his feet, made as if he would seize me by the throat, while he exclaimed,— “‘caitiff! where did you obtain that ring º' “‘hold !” i cried; ‘let not the valiant sir lionel commit an injustice he may repent, and mistreat the messenger who bears him tidings of joy and deliver- ance. this ring is a token from the fair drusilla, sent to her true knight, with loving words and ac- knowledgement of error.’ “‘how! error!’ exclaimed he wildly, as he seized the heart-shaped ruby, and covered it with kisses and fond murmurs of delight. “i hastily explained to him the whole of dru- silla's adventure with myself, the revelation which the “book of self-disenchantment' had been the means of making to her, how it had opened her eyes to the frivolity of her past conduct, how deep was the regret she expressed, how fervent was her hope kit bam, mariner. of future improvement in her own nature, as well as of faith and constancy from him, and how she looked to him as her deliverer, her true knight, her fond lover, her long-beloved sir lionel; in fine, i deliver- ed to him the whole of her humble, loving message. “and can she deal thus generously by me ! error!’ again exclaimed the knight. “no, she was not so much in error, as it was i that was to blame for my petulance, my wilful rashness. but, let us go; let us hasten, kind stranger, to my beloved lady; let us lose not a moment in returning to free dru- silla from the toils in which the wicked subtilia has so long held us both.' “as we hurried towards the lake, i asked the knight how it was he could now escape from the bondage in which he had hitherto been detained on this island by the enchantress, and he explained to me that the words of his rash vow had placed him in her power, until the heart-shaped ruby ring should be yielded to him, with words of humility and ac- knowledgement of blame on the part of drusilla. that, therefore, the possession of her token, which i had happily brought him, freed himself from the thraldom to which he had till now been subjected, and that it only remained to effect a personal ex- change of the opal ring for the one she had sent him, with his lady, drusilla, as speedily as might be, in order to liberate them both, entirely and for ever, from the wicked arts of subtilia, who had no power to effect harm against two constant hearts bound by loving union. kit bam, mariner. subtilia's mansion, and i led sir lionel at once to the low grated window of the dungeon where his lovely mistress was confined. he knelt to receive the gentle greeting with which she flew to welcome him, but she had no sooner extended her hand to- wards him, to receive the opal which he placed with transport upon her slender finger, than the bars of her prison melted, and vanished into air, permitting drusilla to throw herself into the arms of her true knight, and give him rapturous assurance of her love, and her true repentance of her former coy caprice. “i left them to this blissful exchange of mutual forgiveness and tender vows, while i sauntered to and fro upon the terrace, until they should rejoin me to enter the mansion together, that we might seek refreshment after our day's anxiety and fatigue; for i, who had no lady-love to engage my thoughts, began to indulge in sundry visions of good cheer, and looked forward to the enjoyment of a comfort- able repast, which i felt would be extremely accept- able, and which i knew, from previous experience, the larder and cellar of subtilia's mansion could fur- nish in excellent abundance. “i was revolving these pleasant speculations, and endeavouring to pacify my growing appetite (which you may have perceived, my dears, on various occa- sions in the course of these yarns of mine, always led me to pay careful attention to its demands,--a sailor should always stow in good ballast, you know), by considering with what delicacy i should first assuage the strange adventures of its voracity, when my attention was attracted by the appearance of a glittering object in the distance, approaching from the same quarter whence sir lionel and myself had just arrived; that is to say, in the direction of the lake. “as it came nearer, i could distinguish the glit- tering object to be a golden car, in which sat the haughty subtilia, drawn by four fiery dragons. they ramped and tore up the ground before them, emit- ting flames and glowing sparks from their nostrils; but the fury and rage that shot their angry lightnings from the flashing eyes of the enchantress herself, shone with a far more terrible glare, and seemed to scorch and wither all that she looked upon. “i called loudly, to warn the lovers of the ap- proach of their enemy; and they had scarcely reached my side, to learn the cause of my alarm, when sub- tilia arrived at the steps of the terrace. but, ere the enchantress could descend from her car, two benignant forms were seen to emerge from the centre of a thickly clustering rose-bush near at hand; and, warning subtilia to advance no nearer, they pointed triumphantly to the mystic rings, which shone upon the lovers' fingers in loving exchange, as they stood hand in hand together. “‘thy spells are broken! thy power is at an end, vile sorceress!” said one of the good fairies. ‘against frivolity, vanity, petulance, and rashness, the blandishments of the voluptuary, the arts of the wicked may prevail; but against truth, modest worth, and the loving faith that is the offspring of self- kit bam, mariner. knowledge and generous forbearance, the shafts of envy and the snares of worldly pleasure fall pointless and ineffectual. begone, therefore, and seek no longer to disturb the union of two wedded hearts.' “the enchantress quailed beneath the virtuous rebuke, and, with a dark scowl, shrunk back, while the other fairy godmother, who had remained silent while her sister addressed subtilia, now advanced to where i stood with sir lionel and drusilla, and bidding us follow her, she led us from the terrace through the marble hall of the mansion, into the avenue in front, where we found a travelling equi- page with six cream-coloured horses awaiting us. then, bestowing a blessing on the two lovers, she bid us hasten our departure to the court of drusilla's father, where we should be welcomed by the good old king, who had long mourned his fair daughter's absence, and pined for her return. “before night closed in we reached the palace, where, you may imagine, great were the rejoicings which greeted the princess and her knightly lover on our arrival; and where, i assure you, i heartily enjoyed the sumptuous banquet which was served in celebration of their happy return. the royal house- hold, i have no doubt, exerted their utmost resources and used their best speed; but, i can tell you, after such long fasting as mine, the least delay of the meal seemed an age, and when it did appear on table, i made up amply for lost time, as you must now do, my dears; so off with you, lest you reach home too late for supper.” the strange adventures of chapter viii. the diamond merchant.-will wavelance’s island.— scylla and charybdis.–the sirens.-polyphemu.s.– egypt. next evening, the old mariner resumed his yarns as follows:— “i spent some time very merrily and happily at this court, my dears, in the pleasant society of my friends, sir lionel, drusilla, and the old king, her father, who all treated me most kindly “but, to tell the truth, i often found myself hankering after the company of the sea-faring men who visited the city, or, lounging down to the wharfs and quays, to gain what intelligence i could of the arriving and departing vessels. “one evening i was drinking some sherbet in a public garden much resorted to by ship-captains, merchants, and travellers, while i amused myself by listening to their talk, and their accounts of the differ- ent voyages they had made. my attention was more particularly directed to a small company who were assembled round a table in the neighbourhood of the one at which i sat, and who were highly diverted with the droll stories and adventures related for their entertainment by a jolly sea-captain, who kit bam, mariner. was drinking as hard as he was talking. on one side of him sat a quiet sly-looking youth, and on the other, a spare haggard man with restless eyes, and a nervous mouth, who, with the rest of the listeners seated round the table, were laughing at some exag- gerated account of the wondrous properties of a small telescope which the captain was holding in his hands, and which he declared had been given to him by the emperor of morocco. the telescope itself was or- dinary enough, being merely a glass set in brass and japan, but the case belonging to it, and which lay upon the table before him, close to his drinking gob- let, i perceived was inlaid with precious stones. in the midst of the mirth occasioned by the captain's rhodomontade, i observed that the eyes of the youth were fastened upon the case, and i could see that those restless ones of the other man very frequently wandered in the same direction. presently, the cap- tain raised his goblet to his lips, while the company exploded in a roar of merriment occasioned by the witticism with which he had concluded his story, and in that moment i saw the youth seize the case, and convey it, as he thought, unobserved, into his bosom. but the sea-captain, though a good deal intoxicated, instantly perceived the loss of his case, and, turning suddenly upon the spare man with the restless eyes, he seized him by the collar and loudly accused him of the theft. the man turned deadly pale, trembled violently, and exhibited all the marks of guilt; when the sea-captain, storming and raving, insisted that he should be searched upon the spot, and compelled to the strange adventures of give up the stolen case. i stepped forward, and, as soon as i could gain a hearing amidst the uproar and confusion that had arisen, ibade them detain the youth and search him, as the real culprit. the lad, who till then had kept his demure look, and had waited calmly on the spot, as if merely one of the spectators, now vehemently protested his innocence, and asked them, in piteous tones, if they would stand by and see a poor lad insulted by suspicion and slander. the tipsy captain, with the usual blindness and obstinacy of those in his condition, seemed inclined to believe him, and returned pertinaceously to his collaring and abusing the spare man, who trembled still and re- sisted anxiously the threatened search. i interfered between them, and calmly repeated my desire that the youth should be searched first, as i had actually beheld him commit the theft, and convey the jewelled case to his bosom. on this plain accusation the by- standers seized the lad; and, in a few moments, his guilt was made manifest by the production of the case from his breast-pocket. there was a universal expression of disgust at the depravity of the young sinner, who proved to be a common thief well-known in the city, haunting the public places and thorough- fares of most resort, and trading upon his demure ooks and his nimble fingers. as the crowd dispersed, and led him away, the captain made a sort of clumsy apology to the spare man for having wronged him by misplaced suspicion and rough usage, and then went away likewise, leaving the man and myself standing together on the scene of the late uproar. kit bam, mariner. we were no sooner alone, than the man with the restless eyes grasped me by the hand, and thanked me warmly for my interference, and for having saved him from being searched. besides the ignominy, he told me that he had reason to dread other con- sequences of a personal search; from which, he said, he could never sufficiently acknowledge my goodness, in having been the means of preserving him. he then explained to me that he was a diamond- merchant; that he was in the habit of trading largely in those precious stones, and that he, in fact, had an immense quantity concealed upon his per- son at that very time, which, if discovered in the presence of so many people as had been there assem- bled, would have caused him never-ceasing anxiety and alarm for the future. he said that his gaze had been attracted to the precious stones set in the stolen case, merely from his habit of judging of the compa- rative value of gems, and that he had looked at them only with the eye of a lapidary. he told me that he was to sail on the morrow for cairo, where he ex- pected to dispose of his diamonds to great adºtage ; that the captain of the vessel in which he was about to sail was his own cousin, but that, nevertheless, he should be very glad if i would engage to accompany him in his voyage, as the generous protection which i had already afforded him was a guarantee that i should be faithfully attached to his interests. as i was very anxious to form an engagement which should lead me to sea again, and throw me in the way of fresh adventures, i closed with his offer, and the strange adventures of promised to be ready to go with him on the following day. - “when i took leave of sir lionel and drusilla, they used many kind expressions of regard and gra- titude; and, forcing upon my acceptance a superb ring of blended opals and rubies, in commemoration of my adventure with them, they entreated me to bestow on them the precious volume given to me by erudito, which had been the means of conducing so greatly to bring about their present happiness, and which, they told me, should be handed down as a cherished heir-loom in honour and veneration to their children's children. “i had not sailed many days with my new acquain- tance, the diamond merchant, before i half repented that i had engaged to accompany him. the voyage itself was pleasant and smooth enough, but it made me melancholy to be with so spiritless, so uncom- fortable a companion as this man proved to be. he was rich, but he was miserable; his wealth, instead of bringing him enjoyment, was productive of nothing but . mistrust, and unhappiness. his gains were a fancied source of joy and pride to him, but they were in reality no other than a nest of scorpions and enemies, which repaid his love by disturbing his repose and embittering his life. his whole existence was a dreary mistake; he believed he was acquiring treasure, power, luxury, felicity, and he was hoarding up wasted health, careful days, wakeful nights, un- generous misgivings of his fellow-creatures, and the destruction of his own heart and mind. the man's kit bam, mariner. spirit, the very essence of his being, seemed concen- trated and contained in those bits of sparkling stone which he carried constantly about his person, en- closed in a small casket. the burning solicitude to obtain them, and to obtain them at the lowest pos- sible cost, in the first instance,—the gnawing rest- lessness that consumed his days in protecting them whilst in his possession,-the wearing anxiety and perpetual calculations as to what sums they would bring him when disposed of all combined to render his daily life a burthen and a constant fever, rather than the enjoyment of existence as vouchsafed by god to man. how is it that human beings will thus mis- use their dearest blessings, and convert them into curses by their own wilful and mistaken blindness? i pitied this man, but i could not like or respect him —for all his riches; and, had it not been for the engagement i had voluntarily entered into, to go with him as far as cairo, i should have sought the first opportunity of quitting his society and the vessel in which we sailed, on our next approaching land. as it was, i endeavoured as little as possible to note his defects, except as a warning to myself, should i ever detect a growing inclination for money, unac- companied by a careful consideration of its right uses. “others, i could perceive, were less conscientious with regard to him than i was; for his cousin, the captain of the ship, who, notwithstanding the relation- ship between them, could perceive the suspicions which he shared in the merchant's mind with all his other associates, did not scruple to play with his the strange adventures of cousin's fears, and amuse himself by exciting his alarm groundlessly and from mere love of mischief. he would make ill-timed allusions to the casket, which he said he knew was in his cousin's possession; he would banter him upon his expected gains, ask him where he kept his hoard of money, and torment him with all sorts of questions about his will, and about his own hopes of inheriting the major part of all these riches, which, he felt sure, were being amassed for him. “this captain was a wild thoughtless fellow, and excited his cousin's distrust and dislike, i verily be- lieve, almost as much by the character he had for- merly gained of being a spendthrift, with a careless disregard of money—a dissolute prodigal, a reckless lender, and a good-humoured, though poor man, al- most as much as he did by his teasing and vexing the merchant personally. “one evening, when we had been nearly three weeks at sea, the ship was sailing placidly on be- neath a sky of azure, when, of a sudden, a violent hurricane arose, and, in fewer moments than i could have thought it possible, the sea was dashing over the decks and sweeping all before them. i had but just time to mark where the diamond merchant stood, grasping anxiously at the beloved casket concealed within his bosom, while the captain cast a malicious look of scrutiny towards him, as he rushed past to de- liver orders to the crew, when i was caught by a huge wave, as it rolled over the deck, and was carried in the midst of its overwhelming waters into the sea. kit bam, mariner. “the suddenness of the accident, the stunning force of the blow, the wild rush of the surges, all combined to deprive me of my faculties, and i was conscious of nothing more until i found myself upon dry land, and quite alone. “my surprise was extreme when i discovered that i was lying upon soft grass, in a beautiful tranquil spot, and with a serene blue sky over my head; for, with returning consciousness, came the recollection of the cause of my accident, and i could not but re- member that there was a storm blowing violently at the time i was swept overboard. this could not have been so very long ago, for night had not yet closed in, and i knew that it was rather late in the afternoon when the hurricane arose. i raised myself on my elbow and gazed around. what i saw was singular beyond expression in its effect upon me— for i felt as if i had suddenly been transported to a spot well known to me, though i was equally certain that i had never visited it before. “there lay the familiar scene, all traced in vivid characters before me. i saw the simple cell, screened from the weather by a lime-grove; further on was a mantled pool, and around were scattered pines and cedars, crab-trees, clustering filberd-bushes, among which fluttered the jay and the nimble marmozet ; i recognized the shore, that bowed over its wave-worn basis, washed by the foaming brine; the very grass seemed known to me as it grew, lush and lusty, and green beneath my feet; and the air breathed upon me sweetly, as if i had been previously conversant kit bam, mariner. this very scene; when, hearing voices, i stepped aside to mark who might come. “there were two i knew well; the first was a savage freckled whelp, a thing most brutish, as dis- proportioned in his manners as in his shape, who bore under one arm a bottle made of the bark of a tree, and under the other a bowl full of water with berries in it, which he devoured ravenously, with low growls like an angry bison, while he taunted and reproached the airy being who was with him. this other was habited something like a nymph of the sea, though seeming more ideal still—but an air, a touch, a feeling; and, while he playfully replied to his com- panion's taunts, he flitted to and fro in glad buoy- ancy, half flying, half swimming—now sporting under the blossoms that hung from the boughs near—now emulating the bee in rifling sweets from the cow- slip's bell—and anon speeding back ere you could breathe twice, to answer his savage companion. i gathered from what passed between them, that the sudden hurricane had been raised by the malicious wickedness of the uncouth savage, and had been as suddenly allayed by the interference of the airy being, who had exerted his gentle spiriting in behalf of the freighting souls within our ship. “i learned that the savage was left to enjoy his desired sovereignty of the island by the airy sprite, who cared only to be as free as mountain winds, and to frolic hither and thither amid the elements, as his sportive liberty-loving nature dictated, only interfer- ing where his gentle influence might counteract the q the strange adventures of baneful one which the brutish malignant disposition of the other led him to exercise whenever he could, against wandering mariners and luckless vessels that approached the island. “abruptly their conference came to a close, for the sprite, as if weary of further intercourse with so uncongenial a nature, suddenly sprung upon the back of a bat as it flitted by, and then, riding on the curled clouds, was soon lost to view, leaving the savage muttering curses and threats in the impotent rage of baffled spite. “i, too, left the spot, determined to try and find my companions, whom i hoped to rejoin ere they should have quitted the safe harbour, where i had learned they had been conducted by the friendly sprite. as i passed the mouth of the cell, i looked in, and saw some scattered chess-men and the frag- ments of a broken staff, which looked as if it had been dug from its burial-place certain fathoms in the earth, by the loving labours of the delicate sprite, eager to preserve some relic of that noble master, whom he had once served without or grudge or grumblings in the old bygone times. “in an odd angle of the isle i found the ship in safe harbourage; the men all in a sort of sleepy stu- por, from which they awaked shortly after my ar- rival; then came the diamond-merchant and his cousin the captain, who, it seems, had suffered the same fate as myself; had been swept overboard dur- ing the tempest, and had been wandering ever since about the island, and had only just found their way kit bam, mariner. back to the vessel. they were anxious to set sail immediately; which we accordingly did, while they gave us a confused account of their having seen strange shapes, heard singular hollow noises, mingled with the hum of a thousand twangling instruments, and, at intervals, the sound of a pipe and tabor. “as for me, i sat for some time apart, gazing ear- nestly on the receding outline of the island as our ship sailed away, and the shore faded in the distant horizon. the names of ariel — caliban — flitted across my memory as being those of the free sprite and the uncouth savage, and made me feel that i had indeed beheld the island described in immortal words by my beloved friend will wavelance. i remember him well—indeed he was one of those men whom, once to have known, is never to forget. he would sit with me in the night watches; and, let him talk, or let him be silent, there was something in his very glance that made all nature seem more glorious and beautiful. the moon shed her rays more glowingly and more brilliantly for his presence; the heaving billows swelled more majestically, and their ripple shot forth more silvery sparkles, reflecting her light; the stars shone with more vivid scintillations; the blue heaven embraced all with a more intense depth —at least, they all appeared to do so, and to speak to me with a truer, a more divine eloquence of beauty, when will was with me. “i see, my dears, you wonder to hear me talk thus of him to you; but, should you ever become ac- quainted with such a spirit as this man's, you will not the strange adventures of wonder at my enthusiasm towards a being, a com- munion with whom, doubles and trebles all human enjoyment.” here kit for a few moments seemed to be lost in his recollections (a habit the old mariner sometimes had), and then resumed. “our voyage continued prosperously, though our course was driven slightly northwards, which thus brought us within the danger of the terrible monsters scylla and charybdis, who keep their deadly watch on either side the straits of messina, to seize unhappy mariners who too unskilfully guide their vessels between these perilous enemies. “we were fortunate enough to elude their fatal snares, but it was only by so near a chance, that most of us narrowly escaped the almost equally terrible lot of dying from fear. we heard the dismal baying of those fearful hounds that surround the person of scylla; we beheld the cruel six necks which this fell monster darts forth to seize her prey, while, on the opposite side yawned the black throat of cha- rybdis, sucking in, with her insatiate draught, the dark boiling waters, and then disgorging them again, roaring and tumbling, in search for human victims to whirl within the dread abyss. “scarcely had we, in awe-struck silence, made our way strictly between these two fiend-like monsters, and had barely found time tremblingly to congra- tulate ourselves upon having safely cleared their relentless rocks and whirlpool, than we beheld a bevy of fair forms floating round and round our kit bam, mariner, ship, making courteous gestures to us, and charming all the air with their fascinating music. the sounds they uttered were ravishingly sweet, and were min- gled in so celestial a harmony that i knew, at once, these potent musicians could be no other than the sirens. their singing and beckoning courtesy be- witched some of our crew into headlong self-aban- donment, so that the poor fellows cast themselves rashly into their white arms, which lured them but to destruction; others, however, of our company escaped their wiles, through firmer principle or greater callousness of nature. the diamond mer- chant was fenced from all attacks, through eye and ear, that came not in the idolized shape of proffered wealth; his cousin, the captain, was proof against allurements that were only a reflex of pleasures which he had revelled in to satiety, in his former luxurious and prodigal course of life; and, as for myself, i had learned too well the true nature of these enchanting sirens, from what i had gathered concerning them in my old conversations with the shipmates of my first voyage, to trust the seductive blandishments that now assailed my senses. in gazing upon their beauteous forms, i steadily kept in view the mead where i knew they sat encircled by dead men's bones, and through the entrancing strains which they sang, i listened perseveringly to the groans of their victims, ruthlessly slain, after being enticed by their treacherous music. “harassed by the dangers we had passed through, the poor remainder of our ship's company gave the strange adventures of themselves up to despondency and melancholy idle- ness, spending much of their time in sleep and list- less apathy, when not absolutely engaged in working the vessel. one evening, while still pursuing our course along this romantic coast, i happened to be almost alone on deck, the steersman occupied solely with the management of his helm, and the diamond merchant absorbed in his money-dreams, when, on casting my eyes towards the shore, i beheld a gi- gantic shepherd figure, seated on a huge mass of rock, piping in the calm sicilian sunshine, and gaz- ing vacantly and sadly over the sea beyond the vine- clad trees and the weedy shore. his notes were melodious, though mournful, and his broken sen- tences, which were borne to me across the waters, came in passionate cadence as of wasting tenderness. “‘o my white love, my galatea! why avoid me for my one rugged brow and single eye i cannot cease to love thee; my head and feet throb for very wretchedness! o galatea! my white love l’ “the sounds melted sorrowfully, as our ship held on her way, but my heart long afterwards yearned towards that poor giant shepherd and his lonely lamenting ugliness, “we landed at alexandria, and reached cairo without further adventure, and my acquaintance, the diamond merchant, was speedily engaged in the en- deavour to effect the most lucrative sale of his pre- cious stones. he expected to meet with a jew here, with whom he hoped to make a good bargain, but we had some difficulty in finding the precise part kit bam, mariner. of the city in which he dwelt, and, during the mer- chant's search for his abode, he used every means in his power to detain me with him, as a sort of aid and protection. “one morning, the merchant was pursuing his inquiries in a bazaar, and while he was cross-ques- tioning a jewish lad, whom he fancied could give him intelligence of the old israelite he sought, i entertained myself with examining the various rich stuffs, brocades, silks, jewels, and other articles ex- posed here for sale. while the merchant went on talking-for the lad seemed to hold back his in- formation, either through caution or some other mo- tive, and detained his questioner some time, i no- ticed a curious figure, crouched beneath a sort of counter just by, who was employed in watching the diamond merchant, stealthily, but intently. the figure was nearly concealed by a heap of bright- coloured stuffs that lay there, so that at first i only saw a pair of black beady eyes, staring earnestly from among the pile of goods; but, by degrees, as his eagerness became more and more uncontrollable, two high cheek-bones appeared, then a face was thrust forth, then two skinny hands, and, at length, i could distinguish the whole figure of a singularly hideous being attired in dusky, time-stained gar- ments, with a countenance as dingy as his apparel. presently, catching my eye, and perceiving that it was upon him, the shrivelled, dusky figure suddenly withdrew beneath the heap of stuffs, and remained motionless, i kept my eye fixed upon the heap the strange adventures of however, and quietly approaching the spot where it lay, i directed a sharp kick right into the centre of the pile of stuffs, hoping to expose the stealthy watcher to public view. the stuffs fell asunder, indeed, but no figure was there to be seen beneath them, and so completely had all traces of a recently hidden person disappeared, that i could almost have believed the whole of what had passed to have been a delusion of my senses. “finding that the diamond merchant had, by this time, concluded his parley with the jewish lad, i joined him, and we quitted the bazaar together. i was just about to mention the concealed figure i had remarked, when i recollected that it would only serve to alarm and agitate him needlessly, as there had been no harm done; but i determined within myself that i would redouble my own care, and keep upon my guard for him. he now told me that he had, at last, discovered the man of whom we were in search, and that, as his dwelling was situated at some distance, in one of the remote suburbs of the city, we would repair thither at once. he indulged himself in a few golden visions, as we went along, descanting to me at length upon his hopes of dis- posing of the casket advantageously, and the large sum he hoped to realize by the sale. he said not one word of the purchases he intended to make with this sum, or of the new enjoyments he intended to obtain from them, so that i could hardly refrain from the thought that he, in fact, did but exchange one hard substance for another, and that he might, kit bam, mariner. for all real benefit that it brought him, just as well hoard up his diamonds as his gold money. but, like most lovers of mere wealth, he lived upon meagre fancies, instead of enjoying solid advantages, and contented himself with the power of obtain- ing good things, instead of the good things them- selves. “the old jew's abode was in an obscure, filthy quarter, where squalor and wretchedness dwelt side by side with ignorance and vice. as we entered a miserable blind alley, and knocked at the low door- way of the dirty decaying hovel where the jew lived, i could not but feel this as another instance in point; here was a man, who probably possessed large store of riches, surrounding himself voluntarily with all the exteriors of poverty—darkness, filth, rags, and impure air. “the door was opened by a bending old man, with a long, grizly beard, and astute, twinkling eyes. he knew my companion at once, and bade him wel- come, extending the greeting to me, when the dia- mond merchant introduced me as his kind friend and a most safe person. he led us along a dusty, dark passage, into a dim room, for though there was broad egyptian sunshine out of doors, there was within the israelite's house, if not egyptian darkness, at least egyptian twilight, for all here was so obscure, that i could scarcely distinguish any of the objects, as i first entered. by degrees, however, my eyes became accustomed to this partial light, and i could perceive that there was great store of valuables, of many kinds, the strange adventures of in this miserable dim parlour, half sitting-room, half warehouse. the diamond merchant placed his pre- cious casket upon the table in the centre of the room; its contents were displayed and valued, and, while he and the jew pursued, in muttered whispers, their estimates, and calculations, and transacted the bargain between them, i had plenty of time to pursue my own thoughts, and to examine the various costly articles with which the room was thronged. here lay a sword, with its richly jewelled handle and its polished damascene blade, inlaid with many an ela- borate arabesque and filmy line of gold and blue steel; there were curiously wrought pistols, with silver mountings and inlayings; close to them was a fine set of cameos; and beyond lay an agate-headed dagger, a bracelet of carbuncles, and a girdle set with sapphires. bronze figures, marble groups, chased goblets, alabaster vases, ebony cabinets, ivory cru- cifixes, gemmed crescents, and beaded rosaries, were heaped around, in heterogeneous profusion. “my eyes were chiefly attracted, however, by a painting of the madonna and child, which hung im- mediately opposite to me, and which seemed to be the production of some rare old master of italy or spain. as i gazed upon the divine affection irra- diating that tender maternal face, and the infantine grace blended with grave intelligence and super- human thought in the sweet babe's countenance, i mused upon the strange chance which had brought that picture into the house of a jew, and wondered whether any thought of the subsequent anguish the strange adventures of the nile, and grinned a ghastly smile of derision and malice, that made his face look more hideous than ever; but we soon crossed the river, and passed the long causeways erected over the flat land against the inundations, and still i kept up with him, the same distance as before. i did not gain upon him, it is true, but i did not lose ground. “on we went, till we reached the burning plain of sand, where the pyramids raise their venerable forms in simple grandeur. their gigantic sides glowed in the rich light of the setting sun, which clearly de- fined their colossal outlines, and shed a deep blood- red hue upon the extensive scene; slowly the fierce glare faded into the softer prismatic tints of yellow, green, azure and purple, and then night stole over the vast expanse around, while still the dusky figure made on before me, and still i steadily maintained my pursuit. as the gloom deepened, i perceived that a strange light, like that of a mephitic vapour, seemed to proceed from the head of the mysterious’ being before me, and, as the darkness still increased, the light became a lambent flame, issuing distinctly from his forehead, resting there, and casting a bright reflection upon his hideous countenance, as he turned it several times now towards me, as if in rage at my pertinacious pursuit. each time that he turned it towards me, it seemed to assume additional hideous- ness, and to become more shrivelled, more brown, and less human; until, at last, as we rapidly approached close to the pyramids, his dreadful face glared upon me in the full undisguised horror of an exhumed kit bam, mariner. mummy! but i was not deterred from my resolve of following him by the frightful conviction that flashed upon me that he was no inhabitant of this earth; should he even lead me to the dismal abode where he and his buried companions lie entombed, yet still i determined i would not relinquish my hope of regaining what i considered as having been left in my especial charge. i believed i had a duty to perform, which no selfish fear ought to prevent me from endeavouring to accomplish, even at the risk of life; and, accordingly, when i beheld the mummy rush towards the entrance of one of the pyramids, i boldly nerved my heart, and dashed impetuously after him. the lambent flame which played on his fore- head sufficiently tracked his course, and i still pursued the still advancing dusky figure. through long gal- leries, labyrinthine passages, excavations both narrow and steep, flat landing-places, occasional square cham- bers, up rude steps, down others, and along wider and longer galleries, i followed the flame which indicated to me the flight of the spoliator, and we stopped not until we came to a portal of granite, which, after a moment's pause, opened, and disclosed a large apartment, in the centre of which stood a royal sarcophagus. i fol- lowed closely the dusky figure, who no sooner entered the apartment, than he knelt before the sarcophagus in which lay a mummy swathed in kingly robes, and depositing the stolen casket at the feet of his royal master, he dropped rigidly and mutely amid a range of recumbent mummies that surrounded the tomb of their sovereign. i was springing forward to possess the strange adventures of myself of the casket, when i was arrested by behold- ing the figure of the royal mummy slowly and ma- jestically arise, and then it spoke in a deep, sonorous voice, which echoed strangely through that palace of tombs:— “‘'tis not for the royal blood of egypt to detain treasure unjustly obtained, and justly reclaimed. it was the act of a devoted, though misguided, slave, to seize what might enrich the monument of his master; but that master disdains to reserve what is re- demanded by courage and fidelity. take, then, the casket; restore it to its rightful owner; and believe that cheops can admire bravery and firm adherence to duty beyond all the treasures of the universe. be it the task of my slave, in punishment of his misdeed, to guide thee, mortal, back to the light of day, and the realm of existence. farewell! . “the royal mummy sank back in the sarcophagus, and resumed his sleep of ages; whilst the dusky figure of the mummy-slave once more arose, and displayed the lambent flame to re-conduct me through the pyramid. that this complaisance was the mere result of obedience to the behest of his royal master i could perceive from the scowl which distorted his withered face as he turned to precede my steps. but i cared little for his displeasure while secure of his sovereign's protection. as i again threaded the long galleries and granite passages, i recalled to memory a legend of the royal cheops, which i had once heard recounted on board the ship in which i first sailed, by a mrs. jane flower, the wife of a great naturalist, kit bam, mariner. who was going abroad on a voyage of botanical dis- covery ; she had told us a strange story of a mummy, which my recent adventure brought into my mind; but while i was pondering over the circumstance, the lambent flame stood still. i found i was close to the door of egress, and as it opened, the dusky figure disappeared within the recesses of the pyramid, and i saw him no more. “morning dawned as i emerged from the aged edifice, and my spirit rose to meet the glorious freedom of the open air. i inhaled the gracious breath of heaven as it was wafted gently beneath the group of sycamores and palm trees, held sacred by the arabs, which cast their welcome shade near this spot. the leaves in their unscathed beauty, and vivid green colour, looked doubly welcome amid this sandy plain, and seemed part of the pleasant freshness of early day. my senses were excited by the de- licious feeling of liberty and successful exertion, and i could almost have fancied that i heard that ancient theban head breathing its morning music from lips of stone, and that the resonant hymn was waſted along the waters of old nile to the spot where i stood offering my own humble song of prayer and thanksgiving. “i made the best of my way to cairo, but it was some time past noon when i arrived at the cara- vansera, where the diamond merchant and i had taken up our abode. i hoped to find him in our apartment, but he was absent; and i learned shortly after, that he was busily engaged in seeking me, as kit bam, mariner. chapter ix. the pigeons of st. mark.—the phantom gondola, and the doomed man.—barbara.-the harz forest.--the brocken mountain•—karl--leopold, “well now, kit, tell us what you did first, when you got to venice;” said the young swallows, on the following evening. “why, the very first thing i did was to hire a boat, that i might row myself about wherever i wished in this wonderful city, where the streets are all water,” said kit; “for i was determined to give myself a holiday for a time, and see all that was to be seen. so i paddled my gondola about nearly all day long, soon getting practised in the use of the one oar that is used there, and becoming speedily accustomed to the narrow confined alleys of water between the houses, and the sharp corners round which i had to turn, uttering at the same time the low warning cry which i heard used by the gondoliers to prevent collision. “in these luxurious wanderings i saw many beau- tiful churches, adorned with all the richest splendour of art; i beheld the picturesque old palaces of the ancient nobles, with their marble steps leading from the stately portal into the very water; the busy, the strange adventures of close-thronged bridge of the rialto, ringing with many voices of eager buyers and sellers; the gay. and ever-shifting scene of the grand canal; the si- lent, shut-in, smaller ones, and the lonely waters of the lagunes. “i beheld venice under all her beauteous aspects; brilliant, sparkling, and animated, amid sunshine and daylight; calm, silent, and impressive, beneath the placid beams of the moon, as i rowed far out upon the still waters, and contemplated the fair city by night. “one sultry day, i sought relief from the glare of the noontide waters, and lounged on the shady side of the piazza of st. mark, indulging myself with that necessary italian luxury, an ice. i sat long idling on a wooden bench, belonging to one of the coffee- houses there, letting the cool fruity delicacy glide pleasantly over my palate, while i admired the bar- baric magnificence of the showy cathedral; and now and then amused myself with breaking off small morsels of the focaccia, or small bun, which is served with the ice, and throwing them to the pigeons, who flock in great numbers on that spot, and are regarded with veneration and traditional respect by the venetians. these birds are carefully fed daily at two o'clock precisely; and, at the very first stroke of the hour, as it peals from the neighbouring bell- tower, these sagacious little creatures congregate, and present themselves at the various windows of the surrounding houses, whence their quotidian meal is scattered to them. kit bam, mariner. which reminded me to return to the city and seek warmer repose. “just as this shudder crept over me, and i was preparing to obey its dictates by rowing back to venice, i perceived at a little distance from me upon the water, a small gondola, with its usual hearse-like black awning, gliding along slowly, though without a rower. “that there was some person in the boat, how- ever, i could not doubt, for a sound issued from the mournful awning as of one sitting beneath in bitter anguish. sobs and deep groans, as if wrested from the unwilling chest of manly sorrow, that ever seeks to forbid itself such feminine relief, burst forth in frightful vehemence, and reached my ear with a force that terrified me. i felt as though all human conso- lation must be unavailing to such profound grief and despair, and while i paused, awe-struck, i beheld a man spring out of the gondola and cast himself head- long into the lagune. reproaching myself for my hesitation, i prepared to row to his assistance, but, on casting my eyes once more in the direction where i had beheld him throw himself out of the boat, the gondola itself had disappeared, and no trace of man or bark was to be seen. all had vanished, like breath from a polished mirror, and i was entirely alone upon the broad lagune. “i felt my heart pause, and my breathing sus- pended, as i rowed towards land, and it was not until the return of next morning's sun, with the cheerful influences and reviving thoughts of awakened day, the strange adventures of that i could rally from the impression that had been left upon me by the mysterious vision of the past night. “i did not feel tempted to go upon the water that day; i strolled among the arcades of the piazza; i examined the shops and looked at the new prints; i saw the two bronze figures on the summit of the curious blue and gold clock that bears the signs of the zodiack, hammer each passing hour on their huge bell—and twice beheld the mimic procession of the three kings, preceded by a trumpeter dazzling in gold and red, who issue from a portion of this same won- derful clock every third hour, and pay their homage to the infant saviour and his mother, who sit there in effigy; i watched the flocking pigeons, as they varied their picking and feeding, with wheeling flights and aerial soarings; i saw them come punc- tually to their daily repast as the clock struck; i saw the pretty maiden fondle her favourite bird from the high window, and speed him away on his errand—if errand it really were; and, in short, i exhausted all the few land resources that venice possesses to a wanderer like myself. when night came, however, i could refrain no longer from the smooth water, the gliding boat, and the fresh cool air. but i did not row towards the lagune. i could not do that; so i guided myself to and fro through the narrow canals, musing upon the pride and magnificence of the old venetian nobles—their lordly sway—their merchant power—their maritime dominion—their patrician ty- ranny—their cruel policy—as i glided beneath the decaying walls of their ancient palaces, that spoke kit bam, mariner. eloquent truths of departed grandeur, and self-evident reasons for instability and downfall. “as i silently passed beneath the bridge of sighs, i looked up between the frowning walls of contiguous palace and prison, where so much wrong and suffer- ing had been inflicted and endured; i looked up to- wards the sky, intensely blue and gemmed with stars, and felt how hopefully a better future arose for italy over the blind and arrogant misrule of her past ages. at that moment i was struck by the same sounds of woe and anguish that had reached my ear on the pre- vious night amid the wide waters of the lagune, and close beside the low murky portal whence the bodies of strangled prisoners were wont to be carried forth, at dead of night, in the old bygone times, i beheld the black gondola with its solitary inmate uttering his heart-rending lamentation. “i would have approached; but the boat suddenly shot past me, and glided swiftly away in the distance. its motion was so abrupt as it darted close to my gondola, that i felt sure it must be shivered in the collision; but, as the swart bark rushed by, i was sensible of no greater shock than if a raven's wing had swept the side. “i was greatly appalled by this mysterious gon- dola, and would have given much to penetrate its dark secrets, as well as to learn the cause of its in- mate's anguish, and, if possible, to assuage his throes, —but how to effect this?—how to seek communion with a being who eluded all observation, and who baffled all conjecture as to his identity ? the strange adventures of “i felt haunted by the vision of this unhappy suf- ferer, and could not prevent my thoughts from hover- ing uneasily round the subject, though conscious that i could do little by harassing myself with surmises and fruitless anxiety. “on the following day, i threw myself into the society of the gondoliers and sea-faring men who usually congregate on the quay of the piazzetta, be- neath the granite pillar which supports the winged lion of st. mark; for i felt that company and cheerful intercourse with my fellow-man would do more than anything to dispel the haunting solicitude and un- wholesome dwelling upon one painful subject, which was fast taking possession of me, and might produce the ill effects of a diseased imagination. “i found these gondoliers a good-humoured, plea- sant set of fellows, with that frank cordiality of man- ner that distinguishes the poorer classes among italians. they laughed and chatted, and freely admit- ted me to their conversation, helping me out with my bad italian, and making light of the mistakes i made, with a genial courtesy which, i fear, is far rarer among us english, when foreigners speak our language badly. they were all, just then, bantering one of their com- panions, a handsome young gondolier, named antonio, about his being in love. they said they were sure he was, because he sighed often, was sometimes lost in thought, and tied on his neck handkerchief with a smart air. and yet, they said, the fellow was so sly, and kept his secret so carefully, that no one had ever seen his sweetheart. kit bam, mariner. “‘is it bianca, the pretty water-carrier? or cecchina, the grape-seller ? or maria? or nina ; or who'—they insisted on his naming her. “but antonio only shook his head and smilingly said— “‘none of them all; i love none but this bird,' he added, as one of the pigeons of st. mark flew down and settled upon his shoulder. his companions laughed loud and long, as he caressed and fondled the bird, joining in their laugh good-humouredly; while i could not help fancying i had found the solution of the enigma which had puzzled me about the girl and the bird, and that i had now discovered the object of the love-messages despatched by means of the pigeon. “not long after this, i found an opportunity of questioning antonio as to the truth of my suspicions, and he owned that they were correct. “the young girl was the daughter of a rich tradesman, who kept a jeweller's shop beneath one of the arcades of the piazza st. mark; the father of the maiden had forbidden the union of the lovers, until antonio should have earned a certain sum, and proved himself worthy of his mistress by constancy during a probationary term of separation; they had hit upon this expedient for lessening the pains of absence, and his mistress had taught the bird to fly to and fro between them, carrying the bliss of com- munion on its downy pinions. “in caressing its pretty plumage,’ antonio simply said, in conclusion, “i have the pleasure of passing kit bam, mariner. “suddenly i heard the anguished accents of the unhappy being i had twice before met during the night, and, raising my eyes, i beheld him seated on the uppermost steps of the giants' stair-case, with his face buried in his hands and his body bent for- ward upon his knees. again those piteous sobs and deep groans thrilled me with pity and terror; softly i approached the stair-case and began to ascend to- wards the sufferer; but when i reached the landing- place, half way up, he raised his head, and waving to me mournfully, he bade me remain there and come no nearer on peril of my life. “‘i know the motive which leads you to me— but all aid, all comfort, is of no avail,' said he, in deep unearthly tones; ‘i am beyond all human suc- cour, as i am beyond a higher mercy. consolation is not for grief like mine; and crimes such as i have committed deserve retribution, not forgiveness. con- demned as i am by heaven's justice, i submit though i deplore, too fortunate if submission and humility may in time win a mitigation of my doom. what this fearful doom is, you now shall know, for thrice have you crossed my path—thrice in your heart have offered sympathy—and generous sympathy is too precious to be thrice offered in vain. yours has won this much; i am permitted to tell you my fearful story, and inform you what is the punishment awarded to my guilt.' “i trembled with awe; the doomed man resumed— “in the time when venice had her doge and her council of ten; when the state prisons were throng- the strange adventures of ed, and the midnight death-dealing permitted; when the patricians were all-powerful, and no man was safe from the secret denunciation of his neighbour; at that time, in short, when the dread lion's mouth played its awful part in state policy, and none knew who next might be its victim,_i dwelt, a living venetian, and moved here in the flesh, as i now do in the spirit, among my fellow-citizens. i was poor, for i was improvident; i was base and selfish, for i pursued the dictates of my animal nature, at the sacrifice of all that was good and noble. to indulge my propensity for idle dissipation, i at first recklessly squandered the small means i carried with me from the paternal roof, which i quitted in disgust at its restraint and virtuous parsimony; and, when that little was gone, i resorted to vice to supply me with fresh indulgence. in fraudulent play, in treacherous theft, i was an adept; and not unfrequently has this hand been hired to plunge the assassin's poniard, and deal the deputed death-blow that was to feed my employer's revenge. a fruitful source of revenue, too, was found in stealthily dropping the secret de- nunciations of some timid but rich patron, into the fateful lion's mouth, which conveyed the alleged offence to the knowledge of the state. “one terrible day, i had deposited one of these accusing papers within the stone jaws, and was revelling in the purchase-money of my treachery, when i suddenly learned (by singular means, and doubtless through the interposition of wrathful pro- vidence, who willed that such crime should meet its the strange adventures of my former villany, and washing with repentant tears the traces of my past guilt. here, on this spot, in the neighbourhood of the lion's mouth, so long fanged by human venom, am i condemned to endure hours of torture in listening to the accusing murmurs that issue thence, to appal and overwhelm me with echoes of my victims' sufferings, their groans, their cries, and their appeals for vengeance. there, beneath the bridge of sighs, close beside that dismal arch- way, that disgorged its still warm corpse fresh from the strangling hands of the midnight executioner— there, where my innocent brother had his brave young spirit abruptly quenched, and his still quiver- ing limbs were thrust forth shrouded only by a sack, to be plunged ruthlessly into an unmarked watery grave, there, in that foul lurking-place must i linger, and annually recall the whole revolting circumstances of the cruel tragedy. and, yet more, at the still hour of new-born day, amid the lonely waste of waters of the wide lagune, it is my destiny again to madden fiercely with the sense of sharp remorse, to writhe beneath its unavailing pangs, and, stung by despair, once more to plunge into the eternal unrest of sui- cide.’ “the unhappy being wrung his hands wildly, and arose from his seat, as if summoned by some super- human power; then, gliding along the stone gallery, he disappeared at the angle of the building; and, though i could not help following quickly, yet, when i reached the outer balcony that leads from the gal- lery along which he had passed, i could see no traces kit bam, mariner. of the spectre—excepting that, out upon the waters of the lagune, beyond the quay, i could distinguish amid the silver ripples of the reflected moonbeams a solitary gondola, pursuing its phantom course unim- pelled, unsteered, while a mournful sound of lament- ation lingered faintly in its dark wake. “next day i bade adieu to venice, queen of earthly cities—lovelier in her decay than they in their flourishing prosperity, and wandered forth on my proposed land pilgrimage. i lingered in quiet, picturesque verona; indulged myself with a day's rest in charming terrace-built bergamo; loitered by the exquisite shores of lakes lecco and como; and spent some brilliant moonlight hours in the romantic old town of chiavenna among the mountains. but how may i find words to express my emotions on finding myself at sunrise among the lofty peaks of the alps! how was my heart thrilled with awe- stricken admiration, and my soul elevated towards the great creator, as i made my way through the natural aisles and transepts of this, his loftiest earthly temple! to how infinitely small a point did they cause all human temples to shrink in the com- parison. man has erected the noble cathedral of milan, resplendent with every conceivable decoration of art, and profuse in every effort of mortalingenuity —but what is even that superb edifice, raised in its marble brilliancy against the blue sky, compared with the eternal majesty of the snow-clad glaciers, rearing their sublime heights amid the solitude of nature, to- wards the azure presence of god himself? it was on s the strange adventures of the summit of the lofty splugen that i felt my spirit dilate in aspirations, such as no temple built by merely human hands had ever created within me, and i pursued my path, through the stupendous passes and gigantic ravines of the via mala, in adoration and heartfelt devotion towards the bene- ficent father who conducts the humblest of his creatures above the roaring torrent and beneath the thundering avalanche in safety and trusting gratitude. “i wandered through a great part of switzerland and germany, avoiding, as much as possible, popu- lous cities and the more beaten tracks of travellers, for scenes more congenial with my romantic and adventurous disposition, so that i am able to tell you little concerning the more prominent features of the countries i passed through on my continental pil- grimage. one evening, i found myself in the vici- nity of the brocken mountain, that lies on the borders of the harz forest, and among the mines, that there yield their abundant treasure of ore. i had been walking far that day, and had begun to feel very weary, when, just as i was thinking of asking a meal and a night's shelter at the next miner's hut i should come to, i heard a voice sing- ing, so softly and sweetly, that i involuntarily checked my steps, that i might not interrupt so gentle a strain. from the spot where istood, i could catch a glimpse of the singer, and i remained perfectly still to look at her and listen. she was a young girl of about sixteen or seventeen years of age, and kit bam, mariner. was seated at the door of a rude cottage, where she plied her knitting needles, that sparkled and glittered in the rays of the setting sun and twinkled beneath her active fingers. on her calm features and soft blue eyes there sat a modest expression of humility and sweetness that was touchingly beautiful, and, as she now and then raised the drooping lids, and cast her eyes upwards in the supplication of her song, which was a vesper hymn to the virgin, there was a fervour of ecstasy and a beaming rapture on her countenance, that irradiated her with a saint-like holy look, that made me feel as if i gazed upon a beatific vision. “her devout melody ceased; yet still i gazed, re- maining apart, as if my human presence were an intrusion; but the last faint echoes of her tones died away, and i heard the slight clicking sound of her busy needles, which recalled me to earth-born thoughts. i approached, quietly and reverentially raising my hat as i passed on, thinking merely to allow myself a nearer glance at her fair counte- nance, but she arose, and dropped me a little curtsey, with so artless a simplicity and a look of candour and kindness so winning in its frank unembarrassed cordiality, that i found courage to crave a draught of water. “she fetched me some, with the alacrity of youth and goodness, and, as she gave it to me, said she wished it had been gose,” for my sake. “but we are too poor to afford ourselves beer,' * the beer of that country, which is celebrated for its excellence. the strange adventures of she added with a smile; “and, by the blessed virgin's help, water refreshes the parched throat even better, i think.’ “i thanked her for her kind words, still more than for her refreshment, and entreated her to indulge me with yet another draught, that i might enjoy the pleasure of staying the longer near her gentle face and sweet voice. at length i withdrew, thinking of her beauty, and wondering that i had not ventured to beg hospitality at her cottage, instead of wending further on that night in search of a night's lodging. but, i know not how it was, she inspired me with more respect even than admiration, and i felt as if i could as soon have asked the queen of hanover for an apartment in her palace, as that simple girl for shelter, that might perhaps be inconvenient for her to bestow upon me. and so indeed it proved that it would have been; for the good miner and his wife who gave me leave to sleep in their hut that might, not very far distant from the cottage where i had seen the young girl, informed me that she and her brother lived with their father, a rough miner, who treated his children harshly, and would, in all probability, have rendered it impossible for his daughter to have given me the hospitality i sought. “next day, i could not refrain from lingering about the cottage, in the hope of again seeing the sweet girl who had interested me so powerfully. from the spot where i had stood listening to her hymn on the previous evening, i could see well, without myself being seen, and here i obtained kit bam, mariner. several glimpses of her during the morning, as she flitted to and fro in the cottage, attending to her various household duties, making the home of her father and brother neat and comfortable. in the evening, i had again the delight of listening to her lovely voice, pouring forth its exquisite tones in praise and thanksgiving, but there was something in her gentle purity that prevented my addressing her again, for i felt still that there was a sort of impertinence in intruding myself upon her, unsought and probably undesired. methought i wanted some occasion where my presence could be useful or my aid needful to this innocent saint-like being, to war- rant my approach. “this occasion presented itself sooner than i could have expected, or, indeed, wished, for i already learned to prefer her peace and happiness to my own gratification. “i ought to mention that i had made an agreement with the worthy miner and his wife that i should pay them for the use of the small room which they could afford to let me have out of the narrow space there was for themselves and their large family of children in the hut they inhabited, and, under pretence of wishing to explore the mines in the vicinity, i was enabled thus to linger in a spot so interesting to me. “one evening, i had been detained rather later than usual, by a visit i had paid to a neighbouring mine, in order to give colour to my pretext, and, on repairing to the nook where i pursued my concealed the strange adventures of watching, i found i had out-stayed the hour of the vesper hymn, and i had scarcely regretted this, ere i was seized with far deeper regret, on seeing the gentle singer herself issue from the cottage door, in tears. “she was accompanied by a coarse, ill-favoured man, whom, from all i had, heard from my host and hostess, i had no difficulty in guessing at once to be her father. from amidst the thick, grizzly mat of hair which formed his moustachios and beard there hung a pipe, that sent up clouds of smoke over his hard, disagreeable features, while he flung himself upon the seat his daughter had occupied the first evening i had seen her. she now stood meekly be- fore him, her hands folded on her breast and her tears falling fast, while he sat puffing away, and growling roughly, as he said, “‘listen to me, girl, and mark well my words. i am determined i will not be thwarted any longer by that idle, wilful young dog, your brother. he has too long had his own way, and lost his time with a parcel of idle fancies that are only fit to fill his head with nonsense and prevent his becoming a good hard-working miner, like his father and his grand- father before him. who's he who's karlº i should like to know, that he's to set himself up above his honest forefathers, and pretend to be a gentleman, forsooth '' “the soft voice of his daughter here interposed, with— “indeed, father, karl has no thought of becoming kit bam, mariner. a gentleman or desiring to be better than yourself, he only wishes—' “‘he only wishes—he only wishes, broke in the man with an angry growl; “don’t tell me, girl. i know very well that karl despises a miner's life, and sighs to go abroad and make a fool of himself; and i don't choose that he shall—do you hear, barbara! i choose that he shall stay at home and gain an honest livelihood by working in the mines by my side. i choose that he shall remain with me, as you are so soon to leave me, girl. so tell him that, bar- bara, and tell him that i will be obeyed,—do you mind,-or he shall rue it bitterly.’ “so saying, the man arose, and seizing his fur cap, he flung from his daughter, heedless of her sor- row, and walked away, muttering, growling, clenching his hands, and frowning fiercely. “poor barbara dropped upon the seat he had just quitted, and buried her face in her hands. “the sight of her distress and her sisterly sorrow, inspired me with boldness, in the hope of relieving them, so i crept to her side, and, gently drawing away the hand, wet with tears that crept through the slender fingers, i said, “‘tell me what i can do to help you, barbara.' “she looked surprised, but not so much so as might, perhaps, have been expected, for she only said, - “‘the blessed virgin sends me a kind voice to comfort me, and a manly arm to aid me. i remember you,' she added, gazing into my face with a simple . the strange adventures of earnestness as remote from freedom as it was from the usual bashful regard with which girls of her age usually meet a stranger's look; “you received a draught of water at my hands the other evening with a kindly warmth of thanks that bespoke your own grateful heart rather than the value of the gift.” “‘tell me if i can render you better than thanks, in the shape of help, barbara, i replied; for i felt suddenly relieved from my sense of respect and dis- tance, by her frank unembarrassed manner, as well as by my hope of being useful to her. “‘yes, i think you can help me,’ she said; “and it would be doing injustice to your generous kindness, no less than to the aid vouchsafed to me by the blessed mother of heaven, who has doubtless sent you to me in my distress, did i fail to unfold my griefs to you, or refuse to avail myself of your offered assistance.’ “barbara then related to me her little history. she told me how her brother had ever shewn a dis- inclination for a miner's drudgery, and had frequently exasperated their father by declaring his intention of quitting this life of slavery, as soon as he should be old enough to free himself. she said karl had early shewn a talent for drawing, and raved perpetually of his longing to become an artist, and of his deter- mination to wander some day to italy, that he might study there. that he spent all his leisure time in sketching and drawing on the walls of their huts with pieces of chalk or coloured earth, and that he incurred their father's frequent displeasure by losing the strange adventures of had been literally covered by her brother's hand, and from the little judgment i was able to form upon such a matter, they appeared to me to indicate great power and truth to nature. i was sorry that a lad who felt within himself a desire to rise above a sordid pursuit and a conviction of his own talent to carry into effect this aspiration, should be chained and withheld from his endeavour to soar. but my thoughts were suddenly recalled from the contem- plation of the young artist's productions, by the recollection of a few words that her father had uttered. “‘what did your father mean, barbara, by saying ‘that he chose karl to remain with him, as you were so soon to leave him : " asked i, abruptly. “‘when i was about a twelvemonth old,” an- swered barbara, “my mother had a dangerous illness, and she vowed that, if she were permitted to recover, she would dedicate her little daughter to the service of the virgin, in the convent of st. barbara close by, when the child should have reached the age of seventeen. my mother recovered from that illness, although she sunk beneath another which she had four years after; but my father adheres to the fulfil- ment of her vow, and knows that i am to enter my noviciate on my seventeenth birthday, which will fall in a week's time.' “i felt that i turned deadly pale; but i put a firm control on my emotion, when i perceived the calm, hopeful, saintlike expression on barbara's coun- tenance, which betokened how entirely her own de- the strange adventures of bouring village, where his rough companions will detain him drinking and laughing till daylight; he frequently stays until the time for next day's labour, and so returns not to our cottage until the following evening after one of these carousals; so we shall be able to follow my poor karl unobserved to his ap- pointment, which i cannot help dreading is of a fear- ful nature, for i saw his face as he uttered those words, and there was that in it which made me tremble with dismay.' i availed myself of the agita- tion that seized her as she merely recalled her brother's look, and urged her to let me follow him that night alone. i represented to her that it was more than probable her sisterly heart led her to exag- gerate the danger, and that she could confide in me to protect him to the utmost. i at length prevailed, and she promised to remain. “from my post of concealment, whence i had so often observed barbara in her innocent beauty, and listened to her liquid song, i watched the cottage far into the hours of darkness. just as the neighbouring convent clock chimed eleven, i saw a youth steal softly forth, and proceed with rapid steps in the di- rection of the forest. at first i carefully kept my- self screened within shadow, as i followed the track of the youth, lest he should by chance turn and per- ceive that he was watched; but he was far too deeply absorbed in his own thoughts, and the project which occupied him, to heed any thing or any body. he went eagerly and recklessly on, and scarcely seemed to note the familiar objects that met his eye, though the strange adventures of * equally ineffectual in checking his progress; on he went, and on i followed him. “suddenly amid the crash and din of the warring elements, came a strange sound as of the chase; discordant bugles, baying hounds, and trampling horses, mingled their noise in the air, and i beheld a train of skeleton hunters take their spectral way along a pale streak that glimmered athwart the dark turbid sky. - “karl shouted wildly—‘black huntsman of ro- denstein, descend! come to my succour!' “but the spectral train kept on, the men hallooing, the horses neighing and trampling, the dogs baying, and the lordly hunter cheering them on in their mad career through the air. “we too went on till we came to a waste hill- side, where, beneath the withered branches of a light- ning-scathed tree stood a gigantic hairy figure, his head and loins begirt with oak leaves, and in his hand an uprooted fir-tree, that served him as a club. “‘demon of the harz, i invoke thy aid!' gasped karl; ‘refuse not to help me ; remember thou hast ere now promised thy assistance, should i seek it with a determined spirit. i am now resolved.’ “the demon burst into a harsh derisive laugh. “‘i have yet another name, as thou well knowest! call upon me by that l’ yelled the fiend as he vanished. “but the last faint echo of his mocking peal of laughter had scarcely died away, and given place to the solemn stroke of midnight that reached us from kit bam, mariner. the distant convent bell, when a form in a succinct scholarly dress, with a single tapering feather depend- ing from his student's cap, stood confronting karl with folded arms, piercing look, and scornful attitude. “‘and yet it matters not that thou shouldst utter the word,' said the form, a malignant sneer curling his lip; ‘thou hast already repeated it many times in thy heart, when writhing beneath the perverseness of thy fate. and so thou art resolved, art thou? tell me how thou art resolved, and why thou hast hitherto disdained my assistance,—assistance offered more than once, ungrateful boy, in our forest meet- ings speak boldly, and tell me how, and why.’ “‘i am resolved no longer to submit to undue tyranny,' replied the unhappy youth, with the reck- lessness of one determined to abide all risks in the pursuance of a cherished hope; ‘as long as i believed that patience and submission would at last win me a fair hearing—as long as i fancied that a reasonable preference might gain attention, and a laudable am- bition be permitted to have its free course, i endea- voured calmly to await the time when parental authority would yield its prejudice and sanction my choice. i dreaded to disobey my father, and could not endure the thought of quitting my dear barbara, —my sweet, innocent sister.’ “‘name her not l’ hastily interrupted the frown- ing form. “‘but my dutiful passiveness has been trampled on,' continued karl, heedless of the interruption; ‘my aspirations have been scoffed at and forbidden; the strange adventures of i am irrationally and tyrannically doomed to per- petual slavery, instead of liberty, to a living burial beneath the earth, instead of free enjoyment of air and sunshine,—to a withering of my faculties, amid the drudgery of a mine, instead of their cultivation, their development, their crowning fruition in the study of a glorious art. goaded to desperation by so despotic a fate, i am resolved to elude its grasp and fly my native home for ever. give me the means!' - “‘and who art thou?—who am i?—that i should endow thee with means to pursue thy will ?” scof- fingly replied the swart spirit. ‘come—be honest— thou knowest me well, and what i would have in re- turn for these means—these golden wings that shall enable thee to escape thy fetters and seek artistic freedom and glory. thou canst doubtless write, as well as thou canst draw,' sneered he. “i will be plain—trace thy name simply here, and unlimited riches, to travel or to spend as thou wilt, shall be thine. sign, and be free l’ “‘enslaved rather, murmured the youth shudder- ing, as the spirit drew forth a tablet and a pen, in which lurked a ruddy drop, and held them towards karl. “‘think of the dark, deep mine, where, shrouded from the light of day, your limbs will waste in slavish toil, and your young spirit will be consumed in its own smothered ardour, urged the evil tempter; ‘think of italy and her illustrious artist-children, among whom your name may one day be enrolled as an adopted brother!' kit bam, mariner. “‘and thus win immortality among men, at the * peril of my own immortal soul!' faltered the un- happy youth. “what—what can i do?” “‘think of thy pure sister! think of thy heavenly father, and implore his almighty aid, i exclaimed aloud. “a sharp clap of thunder rent the air, and then rolled in deep reverberations along the hill-side, while the swart form vanished from the side of karl, who sank senseless into my arms, as i sprang from my lurking-place to sustain him. “a startled scream had mingled with the thunder- clap, and presently barbara came running towards me from the forest, and, flinging herself on her knees close to her brother, used every effort to assist me in recovering him from the deep swoon into which he had fallen. “upon his slowly regaining his senses, we all three entered into mutual questions and explanations, which tended to calm and restore the unhappy youth, after the excitement and violent revulsion of feeling that he had lately undergone. we found that barbara, unable to bear the suspense and anxiety that seized her upon remaining alone in the cottage after her brother had gone forth, had determined to follow us, and had succeeded in overtaking us, just as the sud- den thunder-clap had startled her, and she had beheld her brother fall into a swoon. i pressed karl's hand as a signal that he should mention nothing of the frightful interview that had preceded her arrival, though it was evident that she suspected something t kit bam, mariner. the safety and happiness of my dear brother, together with that of his brave and generous friend, whom, notwithstanding his difference of faith, i trust i may hereafter meet in heaven, to thank spiritually for his goodness to me and mine here on earth.' * “at first my spirit sickened to feel that this fair creature, whom i loved so deeply, was thus lost to me for ever in this world; but as i re- volved the misery which almost invariably attends a union between those who differ in religious creed, i learned to rejoice in her being so fully wedded to the vocation to which she had been devoted by her mother. she, at any rate, would be spared regret and suffering, and i resolved to find comfort in this thought, and to do my best towards reconciling myself to my own disappointment. besides, i thought, what right had i to expect that this gentle inland girl would ever have consented to become the wife of one who had an insatiable craving after a wandering life : why should i doom her to live with a hus- band who would feel a residence on land a perpetual chain, and perhaps come in time to regard her as the irksome link that rivetted his fetters; or condemn her to a companionship with one who probably might induce her to quit her native land, and incur the perils and hardships of an ocean life for his sake when i thought of these things, i felt self-rebuked, and contemplated with greater serenity my approach- ing separation from the sweet, saint-like barbara. you see, my dear young friends, the magic volume, the gift of old erudito, the book of self-disenchant- the strange adventures of ment had left some traces of the useful lessons i had read there, and that it had at any rate taught me the habit of conscientous discipline and self-examination; so that when, soon after, i was called upon to attend with karl the ceremonial of his sister's entering upon her noviciate in the convent of saint barbara, her patron saint, i was enabled to maintain a calm ex- terior, and to subdue any remaining pangs of selfish regret. “i beheld her installed among her sister novices, and led away in their train; their white garments and timid maiden steps, preceding the sober pro- cession of the black-clad nuns, as they paced round the chapel of the convent where the ceremony was performed, previous to admission within the interior precincts. i watched their floating veils, and their departing figures; and as the sad and solemn hymn was softly chanted by their united voices, i fancied i could distinguish the sweet, full tones that had so often thrilled me with their devotional purity, and which now seemed to reach me with the tender fare- well of a benignant angel in soft compassion for my human regret. “the very next day karl and i set off on our journey; he eager to reach the land of his long- desired studies, i anxious to quit a vicinity that had now lost all charm for me. “at hanover i converted another of my diamonds into cash; and though i did not make so good a bargain as i did with the jew at cairo, yet it sufficed for our travelling expenses, which were conducted on kit bam, mariner. the most frugal plan, in order to reserve as much money as possible to furnish funds for karl's resi- dence in rome, as well as to supply me with the sum which i had always determined to bestow on the mother of poor titta, the murdered cabin-boy, as the legacy left her by her son. i resolved to seek her as soon as we reached genoa, and to give her enough to render the latter days of her old age as comfortable as the small sum which went to the bottom of the sea in the poor lad's neck-kerchief would have made her, had it been quadrupled by the exertions, which he would never have remitted had he been spared to return to her. “at göttingen, also, we tarried for a day to call for a young student there, who had once been a neighbour of karl's, and who was as anxious to visit italy as barbara's brother. this young student, whose name was leopold, had parents who were not only much richer, but more indulgent than the father of my poor friend, and who had yielded to their son's desire to become a musician. after a period of general study, therefore, at the university at göt- tingen, he was about to prosecute his own favourite science in italy, the cradle of the fine arts; and he was as anxious to go in the society of his old friend and neighbour, as karl was to have his companion- ship. “cheerfully and happily did we trudge along day by day. my spirits rose with those of the two merry, good-humoured youths, who were full of pleasant anticipations and high romantic hopes of future fame the strange adventures of and success; and as we drew nearer and nearer to the goal of their wishes they were gayer and gayer and happier and happier. as i looked at karl's joyous face, and listened to his frank, free laugh, i asked myself whether i had not reaped a rich harvest in converting the agitated care-worn expression that had distorted his countenance that night upon the brocken into the smiling animated glance that now sparkled from his eyes. “i sighed as i thought of barbara; but i was consoled when i looked upon her brother, and saw his present happiness, in which i knew hers was so enwrapt.” “but here is the darkness coming on, my dears,” said the old mariner, interrupting his narrative; “i did not know it was so late.” “but you can talk in the dark, you know, kit, just as well as in the light, can't you?” asked fanny. “get along, do, you coaxer,” answered the old man, as he put her gently away from him, bidding god bless her, and wishing them both good night. kit bam, mariner. chapter x. lucern.e. — lake of the four cantons. — the devil’s bridge. — genoa. - the singer and the prisoner. — titta’s mother.—the lone house. the next evening fanny and her brother resumed their seats by the old mariner's side, and he his nar- rative, as follows:— “at lucerne a letter reached karl from his sister barbara. it represented her as the happiest of the happy in her new placid sphere of existence; it invoked blessings on her brother and their joint friend; and anticipated joyfully the period when karl should return to his native land, an artist of sufficient eminence to paint an altar-piece for the convent of saint barbara. “this letter conduced still farther to animate our spirits, and we embarked next morning on the bosom of the lake of the four cantons, as if wafted onward by seraphic guidance and protection. the misty vapours that ushered in the dawn settled like a thick veil upon the waters, shrouding the features of the surrounding scenery from our view; but when, at length, the sun arose in his strength, and the white folds rolled away, gradually lifting up and floating off in lengthening wreaths, chased by his resistless power, what a scene of grandeur and beauty was dis- kit bam, mariner. noticed at what point of the road he had joined our party, or whence he came, or who he was, or whither he was going; but he walked beside us at our pace, and mingled so easily in the talk, which we were by this time pursuing in loud-voiced earnestness, that it seemed a matter of course to let him go on walking and talking without farther question. he seemed to be, like ourselves, a traveller, in the modest garb of a student, and with no particular mark or pretension about his face or figure. he seemed to be well educated, and to have read a good deal, for with all the subjects touched upon in the course of our con- versation he seemed to be conversant, and able to express himself fluently, and even to afford informa- tion. but i noticed that there was a tinge of sarcasm in all he said, and a sort of unconscious malice, and involuntary power of depicting the evil side of every thing that came under discussion, which made me instinctively dread and dislike this stranger, while it checked the youthful spirits of my two companions, and made them each moment less gay and animated. in the midst of some trustful vision of the future, uttered in the hopeful spirit of youth by the musician, leopold, the stranger would throw in some chilling remark about the sanguine temperament of artists, and the ignorance and want of taste with which the public too frequently met their best efforts; and when karl, in the innocence of his heart, indulged in some dream of a historical picture that was to employ months, nay, years of happily devoted existence, the stranger would drop hints of the attachment which . the strange adventures of cardinals and english residents in rome proverbially cherished for their own portraits. all this was so artfully done, so subtly, though so securely intimated, that the two youths were unconscious of the effect produced upon their minds by the stranger's conver- sation, but i could perceive the venom he instilled through his apparently careless sentences, and marked well the gloom that crept into the conversation, and spread its shadow over the usually beaming counte- nances of karl and leopold. each time the stranger spoke, it was as if a deep shade were cast upon everything around, like that of a passing cloud cross- ing the blue heavens, and blotting earth's fair surface. “we had left the district of oaks, ashes, and other. trees, and had ascended to less cultivated regions, where pines and struggling shrubs were the only tokens of vegetation. leopold had lingered some- what behind, whilst i was rather in advance, when i came upon a bridge crossing a gigantic waterfall that hurled its foaming waters down with roaring vehemence, and dashed forth clouds of white spray amid a crash and din that almost deafened me. i stood to gaze upon the wild grandeur of the tumbling torrent, and waited until my companions should come up with me. i looked back to note how far off they were, and i could see, in one of the winding paths below, leopold toiling on, while in the intervening turning between him and myself, were karl and the stranger, apparently in deep conversation. from the spot where i stood, i gained a view of the path which wound, as i have mentioned, like a map be- kit bam, mariner. neath me; and i could thus perceive the approach- ing figures of each of my comrades. i could even distinguish the countenance of karl, which bore marks of strong agitation and terror; but though he was near enough for me distinctly to discern this, the deafening roar of the cataract prevented my hearing the words of their conversation. presently karl stopped, and i beheld the figure of the stranger as- sume an imperative attitude that reminded me of something i had seen before, and then karl drew back, and shook his head, and waved the stranger from him, while he in turn pressed forward, and eagerly urged some point upon the youth. but sud- denly i saw karl draw himself up, and stretching forth one arm firmly, with an air of indignant menace towards the stranger, he drew forth with his other hand his sister barbara's letter, which he kissed re- verentially, and then placed to his brow, to either side of his bosom, and to his heart, crossing himself devoutly, whilst he cast appealing eyes to heaven, and by the motion of his lips i could see that he called loudly upon the sacred name, for protection against the temptation of the evil spirit. a deep plunge, a discordant yell of defeated malice that rang sharp and high above the roar of the cataract, and then, far down amid the boiling waters of the torrent, i beheld for one moment the form of the arch-fiend himself, as i had beheld it in succinct dress and taperingly feathered student's cap on the brocken, one wild and well-remembered night. “on karl's overtaking me, his blanched lips and the strange adventures of pallid cheeks plainly betokened the awful struggle he had lately undergone; but his eyes sparkled with a triumphant lustre that equally betokened his sense of conquest, and determined me to make no allusion to the interview i had witnessed, or the disappear- ance of the mysterious stranger. “singularly enough, when leopold rejoined us, he also avoided all mention of our late travelling companion; as his presence had been unsolicited, so his absence was unnoticed, and we all seemed to be contented with the relief afforded by his withdrawal from our society, without indulging in any comment. but in my own heart, i could not help congratulating myself on the proof i had thus obtained of karl's having thrown off all subjugation to the influence of the fiend; i could not but rejoice to find he had es- caped the snares of temptation, and that henceforth he was able to protect himself. i resolved, therefore, that when we should reach italy, if an opportunity offered of my going to sea, i would relinquish the farther guidance of my young friends, by providing karl with the promised sum, and despatching him and leopold on their short journey to rome. we arrived in genoa without farther adventure, and after i had converted my diamonds into money, which i did very advantageously, i divided my little fortune into what i considered due proportions, giving the ma- jor part to karl, and reserving the remainder for tit- ta's mother. we spent a few days in this beautiful city, that my two young companions might enjoy some rest after our long journey; and in order that i might kit bam, mariner. give them a little treat before we parted company, i offered to take them to the carlo felice theatre, where there was an opera performing, in which the part of the prima donna was supported by a young english singer, then in the zenith of her fame, and turning the heads of all the italians. “before we went to the carlo felice, we were all three taking a turn upon the corso, when an english carriage rolled by, in which i beheld a fair face that attracted my attention, from its unaffected beauty and candid expression. such is the force of preju- dice, which commonly attaches a stigma to the name of actress, that i felt astonished when some one near me exclaimed : ‘that is anastasia, the english prima donna.' on the carriage repassing me, which it did on coming round the corso again, i once more raised my eyes to the countenance of my fair country- woman, and in my heart asked pardon for the insult i had tacitly offered her, in fancying that because a woman is an actress, her reputation must be injured, and in wondering to see her look good and pure. whether my face bore the expression of what i felt, i know not, but certain it is, that the lady looked earnestly upon me, and did not withdraw her eyes from me, until the carriage had borne her past the spot where i and my companions stood. fame had not exaggerated her talent; for in the evening we were entranced by the beauty of her singing, and the magic power of her acting, karl and i agreed that her voice excelled even barbara's in rich sweet- ness, and volume of tone, while her artistic cultiva- the strange adventures of tion rendered her singing infinitely superior. as for leopold, he was perfectly enchanted. during the first act of the opera, he was in a state of ecstasy, and while the divertissement (as they call the short dance which they give between the acts) occupied the stage, he deigned not to glance towards it; when the opera was concluded, he started up and quitted the theatre, declaring he could not drag down his thoughts, exalted to the seventh heaven by music, to the frivolous region of dancing, ballet, and pantomime, and left karl and me to stay by ourselves. just as we also were quitting the theatre, when the performances were all over, a girl darted through the crowd, and seizing my wrist, said: “follow me!' i hesitated; but she repeated more earnestly, ‘follow me, i tell you; the signora anastasia wants to say something to you of importance.' “curious to learn what this could mean, i bade karl hasten to our lodging, and sup with leopold without waiting for me, as i might be detained; then, following my conductress, she led me through the stage-door, along some dark passages, up some stairs, down others, across another passage, at the end of which i beheld a glimpse of the stage, the canvass backs and wooden frames of the side scenes, and some half-extinguished lamps; then up some more steps, where there was an open doorway screened by a dark curtain of maroon baize. this curtain was drawn aside by my conductress, and she ushered me into a room, bidding me wait there until the signora anastasia came to tell me what she had to say, and kit bam, mariner. then vanished without another word. i stood patiently for some time, expecting the approach of the prima donna in this apartment, which i supposed was her dressing-room. wax candles stood lighted upon a handsome toilette table strewed with all sorts of elegant knick-knacks, such as scent-bottles, caskets of jewellery, rouge-jars, a fan, a plume of feathers, heaps of bouquets, half-opened notes, verses, a tiara, a spangled veil, and a mask. the floor, too, was littered with various objects; here lay a white satin slipper, there a hastily drawn-off silk stocking; trail- ing from the tall dressing-glass, a crimson velvet robe spread its ample ermined folds, and on a sofa was flung a black mantle, worn for disguise in the first scene. but when i had looked at all these scattered indications of anastasia's profession, and had amused myself in recalling how i had seen them make their appearance on the stage that evening; these thoughts then recurring more than twice in succession, i began to wonder that anastasia did not come, and also to indulge a suspicion that there must be some mistake or some caprice. this latter notion was confirmed soon after by a man coming through the passages, in making his round of the theatre, to see that all the lights were properly put out; and by his exclaiming:— “‘that careless wench, laura, has never put away the prima donna's things, and here are the candles still in. and—why, what do you do here?" added he, addressing me, astonished to find a stranger there. “i explained, by telling him how i had been sent u kit bam, mariner. more than the sum devoted to defray his expenses at rome. words had passed,—a blow been given,_a fine exacted; unable to pay which, leopold had been at once thrown into prison; and he had sent to me, knowing he could rely upon me for advice and assistance. “i know, kit,” he concluded, “that i can have twice the money at any time from my indulgent parents, by writing to them for it; but think of the shame, the deep disgrace of letting them know that their son has not strength of mind sufficient to pre- vent him from risking the very sum which was to enable him to attain the highest aim he had—that of perfecting himself in a noble art. unworthy, de- graded wretch that i am! a gambler —a night- brawler | but listen to me, kit, while i here take a solemn oath never, never, while i live, to touch card or dice-box more.’ “‘fatal cards! fatal dice the bane of all that is worthy or noble in man! well do you to abjure them, good youth!' cried a voice near us. “it was that of a young man, a fellow-prisoner of leopold's; but i had not noticed him when first i entered the cell. he was extremely handsome, but so wan and thin, and his eyes looked so hollow, and shone with so wild a fire, that i felt at once interested in him; and as soon as i had consoled leopold as well as i could, by assuring him that means should be taken to secure his freedom, i entered into con- versation with this young stranger, and found that his story was indeed a sad one. he was an english- man, the son of a man richly connected, but who had the strange adventures of speculated largely, and had died suddenly on the failure of his hopes, leaving his widow and son totally unprovided for. the poor widow, anxious, nevertheless, to secure for her son the advantages of foreign travel, had solicited the requisite sum from her friends, and had sent him abroad inadequately informed of the real state of their affairs. the young man, unaccustomed to consider the true value of money, and reared in expensive habits, had been unable to withstand the temptations of the gaming- table, and had, on arriving in genoa, not only staked and lost all the money he possessed, but had incurred other debts for worthless toys and extravagant follies, and had been thrown into prison for the amount. but when he at length summoned courage to write to england for remittances, he had received a harsh, abrupt reply from his rich relations, informing him that his mother was dead, and that, for their part, they never desired to see so wicked a reprobate in ore. “‘i have often taken comfort in the thought,' said he, in conclusion, “that the blow which then struck me to the heart was my death-blow. but there are times when i could wish that i might be once more permitted to breathe the fresh air of heaven, and be granted a short period of probation on earth to redeem my former guilt.” “his fine eyes flashed eagerly as he spoke of liberty, and his wan cheek burnt with one bright spot, that made me long to bestow fresh air and freedom upon one who seemed too sorely punished for a , the strange adventures of among which bloomed a profusion of roses and other flowers. in a cool shady apartment overlook- ing the gardens, sat anastasia, who received me with a graceful apology, for having caused me to wait so long last evening expecting her. “‘it was owing to a mistake of the poor little dresser, laura, who attended me last night n the absence of my own maid,” said she; ‘and i am sure you will forgive the heedless monkey, as i did myself for the many blunders she made in robing me; for the truth is, her poor little head and heart were all the time occupied by thoughts of her mother, who is lying dangerously ill. the italians are famous for their filial attachment and loving care of their parents; and i have seen instances of this grateful affection, as well as of other kinds of self-denial and devotion to duty among the poor dancers and chorus- girls that would do honour to many a high-born young lady. our profession is sadly belied,—it pos- sesses brave and charitable hearts, with often a con- stancy in goodness perfectly marvellous, when we consider to what temptations its members are pecu- liary exposed, and by which they are generally surrounded and assailed. however, i must not allow myself to be run away with by a theme on which i own i feel somewhat warmly when i reflect upon the injustice that is frequently done us actresses and singers.' “i felt myself unconsciously rebuked as anas- tasia said this, for i recollected the thoughts i had allowed myself to entertain yesterday, when kit bam, mariner. she passed me for the first time. but she went on to say:— “i have sent to request your assistance in an affair of some delicacy, sir; for i have no friend here with whom i could entrust its execution, and seeing a countryman of mine, with a countenance whose frankness and pleasant open look warranted my confidence, i ventured to ask him to undertake the matter for me, secure of his kind help.' i bowed, and she continued:—‘it is this: i went yes- terday morning with a party of italian friends to visit the prison here, as one of the lions of the city, when i was struck with the appearance of a young englishman there, who interested me peculiarly. he gave me the idea of a chained eagle,_of one who longed to soar in mid-air, but who was fettered to earth, and who was pining to death for lack of sun- shine and liberty. i inquired his history, and found that it confirmed my idea. for a miserable sum, a few trifling hundreds, such as are thrown away frequently by the hand of vice or folly upon a shawl or a bracelet, this noble-looking being is to waste hopelessly away in despairing inaction, instead of being restored to light and life and liberty-and, what is still dearer, the chance of redemption from a sense of past error, by a virtuous future.' “‘you mean sydney vincent,' i cried, interrupting her; and then i explained how i came to know him, and how fully i shared her sympathy for the unhappy young man, as well as her anxiety that he should be ransomed. the strange adventures of “it is for this very purpose that i sent to request your assistance,” said anastasia, eagerly. ‘take this purse; it contains the amount of my poor countryman's debt. pay it, and set him free; but give me your solemn promise that you will never divulge to vincent himself, or to any living soul, who it was that furnished his ransom-money. i have a particular reason for this;–nay, why should i hesitate to tell you at once what it is, that you may guard my secret all the more carefully. the fact is, then, there is such a prejudice against all we ac- tresses do, that were it known i had given a few hundred pounds to redeem a prisoner, and that prisoner a handsome young man, poor anastasia would very probably lose her character; it would be said that his fine eyes and hair, his graceful figure and intellectual head, had been the motives of her com- passion, but that had he been an ugly old man, and fifty times her countryman, she would have left him to rot in gaol long enough. be secret then, and fulfil my commission faithfully, and as speedily as you possibly can; i know you long, as i do, to set him free.’ “i hastened at once to the prison, and enjoyed the delight of bringing away with me, not only leopold, but the young englishman, sydney vincent, who could scarcely credit his senses when i told him he was free, and that i begged him to accompany us from that den of misery. he looked so radiant with joy, and even his naturally very handsome features were so embellished by happiness and the rapturous ---------------- _ ~~~~~~~~ kit bam, mariner. thought of liberty, that i could not help a moment's wonder crossing my mind whether anastasia really did love this handsome englishman after all; though i checked myself for it the next instant as an in- justice to the candour with which she had treated ine. “i soon had convincing proof that her liberality had been inspired by no personal liking, but from a pure motive of charity and tender sympathy for an unfortunate captive, deprived of the dearest privilege to an english bosom—freedom; for i learned that very day, that she was on the eve of marriage with a young italian nobleman. after i had seen my two friends, karl and leopold, off on their journey to rome, and bade adieu to young vincent, who made many ineffectual attempts to urge me to reveal to him who was the benefactor that advanced the sum for his release, i repaired to anastasia's house to inform her of his delivery, of his happiness, and of his departure from genoa in new life and hope. “even had i not heard the fact of her approaching marriage, her manner when i told her of the young englishman's departure, would have convinced me she merely thought of him with kindness and com- passion, for she thanked me heartily and uncon- strainedly for the way in which i had conducted the affair for her. ‘i know you have yourself found too much pleasure in the execution of my wishes and the release of one of our countrymen, for me to offer you any token of my gratitude, kind friend,' she said, gracefully, and going to her instrument as the strange adventures of “how did you know so surely that titta was drowned?” asked i, seeing that she spoke so calmly. “‘before the fatal thunder-storm that came one evening among our hills, and struck the light for ever from these eyes, replied the blind woman, ‘i saw my poor titta's figure several times. i knew it was his apparition, come to warn me of his death; and the first time i beheld it, i felt afraid, and sore distressed; but, by degrees, i became accustomed to the truth, and i felt as if it were a blessed visitation sent by heaven to soften the grief of a mother's heart and wean her from the idea of a living son. i learned to welcome the figure of my poor drowned titta, and to watch for its appearance by the side of my arm-chair in the summer evenings; and, after i was struck with blindness, and could no longer look upon the form i had loved so well living, and che- rished so tenderly still, yet i often knew that it hovered near, and i frequently feel that it is close beside my arm-chair, while i console myself with the thought that his blest spirit is among the angels before the throne of god.” “i raised my eyes involuntarily as she spoke, and there, behind her chair, i beheld the well-known figure of poor titta, gazing upon me with happy eyes and a serene smile—how different from the expres- sion his face had worn that night i had seen him last, when he poured forth the writhings of his wounded heart. i suppose i uttered some exclama- tion of surprise and awe; for the blind woman said— kit bam, mariner. “‘you see him,-do you, sir? i knew he must be near—tell me how my boy looks.' “happy and peaceful, as a blessed spirit should look,' i whispered, sinking to my knee, and joining in the thanksgiving which was breathed by the be- reaved but resigned mother. - “i remained some time with her, talking in a cheerful strain, when we had each recovered ourselves from the solemn feeling that possessed us for some time after the vision had departed; and then she set milk and fruit before me, and thanked me earnestly for my coming so far to bring her the legacy of her beloved son, rendering her old age comfortable and contented through his means. i left her at length, with the pleasant conviction of her complete resig- nation and calm happiness, and pursued my moonlight path towards genoa; for evening had now quite closed in. my road wound through a solitary valley that lay beneath the hills, and i soon approached a lone and dismantled house that i had noticed on my way hither, and which looked as if it had been a country palace belonging to one of the noble genoese families in former times. i had inquired its history of titta's mother when i was chatting with her on indifferent subjects, and found that it had the repu- tation of being haunted. “it had been once upon a time in the possession of a certain count giulio, who was a renowned genoese warrior, and who possessed a very beautiful wife, of whom he was frightfully jealous—so jealous, that he had put her to death on bare suspicion of her the strange adventures of infidelity. so ran the legend, however; and the blind woman added, that it was said he had caused a beautiful full-length picture to be painted of his lovely countess; that after his death a marble statue had been sculptured of the warrior by order of his successor, and that both picture and statue were still to be seen in that old deserted palace, though it had been left to goto ruin by the descendants of the family, who had seen strange sights and heard strange noises, which had induced them to live there no longer. “i thought over all these things i had so lately heard, as i stood gazing on the grass-grown and moss-patched steps that led to the front entrance of the dilapidated mansion, and wished that i could obtain a sight of the picture, at least, as the countess had been such a celebrated beauty. but the hall- door resisted all attempts i made to open it, and i was retreating disappointed, when i perceived a little side-entrance, which i hoped would afford the means of my gaining admission. “it proved just as i could have wished; the little door opened readily, and i found myself in a narrow passage, at the end of which there was a winding stair. i went forward and ascended, till i found another door, which was covered with tapestry on the inside. i raised the drapery, and found myself in a large well-furnished study, but the books were mouldering on the shelves, the tapestry hung in rags from the walls in many places, the tables and chairs were covered with dust, which looked like the accumulation of centuries; and a pair of globes, that the strange adventures of itself, and glide away through an opposite door. i sprang after the receding form, and found myself in darkness, while the door through which i had rushed closed after me instantly, with a noise like that of a spring-lock snapping to. i groped my way forwards a pace or two, when i felt my extended hand firmly seized by a cold marble grasp, that i could by no effort shake off. i put forth my other hand, that i might ascertain what it was that held me, and i could not help a sickening shiver, as i plainly felt marble fingers clasping round my own living ones; and then a wrist and an arm as far as i could reach, convincing me that i was fast within the clutch of a statue ! at that moment a loose outside blind of the dilapidated mansion flapped back in the night breeze, and by the rays of the moon that streamed through the casement, i discovered that i was in a large hall hung round with grim ancestral portraits, that frowned upon me as i stood there in the grasp of their descendant. i turned my eyes towards this descendant himself, and found that it was indeed the statue of count giulio, just as i had heard it de- scribed. it was that of a tall portly man, in warrior attire; his countenance was stern, and looked doubly cold and inflexible in the pale moon-beams that lay full upon it; his left hand rested upon the hilt of his undrawn sword, and his right griped my unfor- tunate wrist, keeping me rooted to the spot. “i trembled to think of the horrible fate i must endure, detained prisoner thus, to starve gradually, and perish alone in a dismal place, abandoned by my *. º ſ º º º º º - º º - º º º * a º º º º // // /, r º ‘. … // z/z’ ///// s / . kit bam, mariner. fellow men, and in the power of this ghastly being; but soon i made an effort to shake off the terror that held me spell-bound almost as much as the marble grasp, and cast about in my mind for means to free myself, if possible. i writhed and twisted 'my hand to no purpose; i could not withdraw it from the cold fingers that maintained so strict a clasp; my contortions but served to strain my arm and exhaust my strength. suddenly a bold thought came into my head, as i perceived a group of ancient arms, among which was a heavy battle-axe, lying not far from me, and, stretching myself out as far as i could to reach it, i succeeded in seizing the weapon, exclaiming, as i wielded it on high, “i will be contented to wear a marble bracelet for the remainder of my days, if i can but mash signor count giulio's wrist off, in return for his squeezing mine so tight.' but ere the battle-axe could descend with the heavy blow, which i aimed with such hearty good will, a loud laugh rang in unearthly tones through the old hall, and i was arrested in my pur- pose by hearing the statue exclaim, ‘bravo, valiant englishman' i have often heard that few things can quell the stout hearts of your gallant countrymen, or deprive them of courage and presence of mind to free themselves from peril, however threatened, how- ever beset. i have beheld many a daring feat in my living martial days, and have ever been an admirer of intrepidity, so i am not likely now to resent a bold act, merely because it is directed against myself. thou art free, therefore, brave x the strange adventures of englishman,’ said he, relinquishing his marble grasp, ‘and thy undaunted behaviour has won that from count giulio, which no cringing solicitation, no pusillanimous dread of his power could have won from him. beneath this hall is a vaulted chamber, that contains evidence whether fawning or fear ever met favour from me; there lie the skeletons of those who fell victims to my marble grasp when they shrunk dastardly beneath the terror of its imprison- ment, and sought not, like thee, to free themselves by the exercise of mental and bodily energy. you may, if you choose, behold these skeletons. through yonder door you will find a staircase; you can satisfy yourself of the truth of my words, by de- scending among those heaps of worthless bones, and witnessing the effects of my loathing for all that is cowardly and base.' “i thanked him, but declined to avail myself of his polite offer, as i begged to assure him i could perfectly rely upon count giulio's word, without counting the skeletons of his victims; “yet,' i ven- tured to add, “there is one question i would fain ask—that picture— “hold!’ interrupted the statue, in a voice of thunder, while i could perceive his marble fingers clutch and quiver, as if scarcely able to refrain from seizing my wrist again; “carry not boldness into rashness—seek not to pry into secrets that concern thee not! away ! and thank thy stars that thou hast escaped the penalty of thy impertinent cu- riosity.’ kit bam, mariner. “i waited not to be twice bidden; i took such excellent advice as speedily as i could, by advancing to the hall door, and drawing back the rusty bolt; and when i found myself once more without the walls of the dismantled palazzo, i failed not to utter a devout thanksgiving, that instead of mouldering beneath its dreary vaults, i was hale and hearty in the flesh, and breathing the pure air of heaven, and trudging cheerily back to genoa, singing a blithe sea-ditty. not many hours more, and i was at sea once again, sailing away from the harbour of ‘genoa la superba;' and as i looked back upon the mag- nificent city, which rose like a vast amphitheatre of palaces against the stately range of maritime alps, i acknowledged the meetness of the surname which the italians had bestowed upon the beautiful birth- place of columbus, prince of mariners. “i felt my spirit rise, and my heart dance with buoyant delight, as i once more found myself bound- ing away over the element i loved so well. i exulted as i was borne aloft upon the crests of the waves, and darted like a bird over the bright clear waters, that heaved and swelled proudly, rolling their translucent length in ceaseless undulation. i felt as if i could gaze for ever into their green depths, and ponder upon their fathomless mysteries i was transported with a sense of freedom, of bound- less liberty, as i scanned the distant horizon, and bared my brow to the ocean breeze, and looked abroad into the vast expanse of sky—in short, my dears, i was an old sailor going to sea again, after the strange adventures of some months of wandering upon land—which suffi- ciently explains the state of rapture in which i found myself on quitting the shores of lovely italy. but we must think of new adventures to-morrow ; it is too late to-night for any more yarns.” kit bam, mariner. until you've made quite sure that you've got the best of it.’ “‘well, my toast, when i have my grog next, shall be —huzza for a sailor's life—may he long enjoy a light heart and a merry one !” said the young fellow. “‘and mine shall be — huzza for the sailor!— may he ever keep a watchful eye, a ready hand, and a brave heart!' replied the old seaman. “‘why, of course, every sailor has a brave heart, hasn't he, old neptune? i suppose we shall all be brave enough when danger comes, shan't we ?' “‘we shall see,' quietly rejoined the old helms- man; and there the conversation dropped. - “presently, there was a man came astern, who hurriedly said that smoke had been seen to issue from one of the hatchways. the mere thought of a fire on board ship in the open sea is sufficient to appal the stoutest heart, and very soon all betokened the consternation which followed the man's announce- ment. the captain gave immediate orders for seve- ral sails to be wetted and placed across the hatchways, to prevent, if possible, the air from penetrating into the hold; but it had already obtained a free passage thither, and caused a great volume of smoke to ascend, and the fire to gain considerable ground. all hands were busily employed in endeavouring to extinguish it; the pumps were kept at work; buckets were passed to and fro; even our fresh water was emptied from the tanks, sacrificed at once, and cast hastily upon the flames; they, how- kit bam, mariner. whom i before mentioned; he was standing close to his captain, urging him to save himself and quit the ship, while he shook off the red-hot cinders that poured around his own grey head. as he spoke, a portion of the burning wreck swept the captain over- board, and the old man, casting his eyes devoutly to heaven for one moment, threw himself resolutely into the sea, where i saw him seized in the clutch of a poor drowning wretch, who dragged him beneath the waters, and they both sunk together. the young fellow, who had boasted so loudly in the morning, had found his way, with a few other equally bold companions, to the spirit-store, where they had staved in a rum-cask, and died roaring drunk. the fate of the old seaman had taught me precaution; so that the first thing i did, upon leaping overboard myself, was carefully to shun the struggling wretches around, who would have seized and involved me in their own destruction. fortunately i escaped this, and all the other perils of the burning vessel, for i swam rapidly and steadily to windward, that i might avoid her dangerous proximity. i had not gained more than a couple of miles distance, when l heard a tremendous explosion, and, looking back, i per- ceived huge pieces of flaming wood hurled high into the air, amid a cloud of darkness: the fire must have reached the powder-room, and blown up the ship. with it, i suppose, perished all my unfortu- nate shipmates, for i never beheld one of them again, my heart wept with compassion for my lost friends, and my senses reeled with this crowning horror of kit bam, mariner. with the rays of a burning sun darting full upon my uncovered head, had combined to throw me into a severe fever, and i now began to sink under the first coming on of the attack. i dragged my heavy limbs through the grove, and made my way from beneath the trees, with the idea of seeking shelter in the solitary hut i had perceived near the entrance of the wood; but, though the distance was so slight, my strength was insufficient to bear me thither, and i sunk upon the grass just as i had reached the threshold. the tranquil island scene swam before my distempered vision, my head throbbed and reeled, my burning eyelids closed, a deep sigh fluttered from my parched lips, and i fell prostrate. “the first thing of which i was conscious, when i recovered, was a sense of delicious coolness; a balmy fragrance seemed to pervade the air, and a deep feel- ing of repose and healing was diffused throughout my languid frame, i heaved a sigh of placid content- ment—oh, how different from the one which had fluttered forth when i sunk to the earth last,-and i dreamily opened my eyes to discover where i was. i found that i was lying upon a couch of skins, in a wooden hut, which i soon concluded must be the interior of the one i had seen when i was attacked by fever. “but, though i was able to conclude thus far, i could form no guess as to how long i had lain there, or by whom i had been transported thither. and yet the suppleness of my skin, the moisture of my mouth, the relief of my aching head, having so en- the strange adventures of tirely replaced the feverish symptoms by which i was oppressed when i sunk beneath my illness, all con- firmed my impression that i must not only have had a serious illness, but that i had been carefully tended and nursed through it by some unknown friend. who could this kind friend be i gazed feebly round the small apartment—for i was still weak— and all i saw convinced me that it was a woman's hand which had been so benevolently extended to my relief. there were so many evidences of a feminine presence, even in that rude interior, that i could not doubt for a moment but that a woman had been my preserving angel. there was that general air of neatness which the cabin of the wildest savage almost instinctively assumes, in common with the boudoir of the lady of fashion; there was that grace- ful disposal of flowers around the window of the hut, which might have been arranged in a clusteringly heaped vase elsewhere; there was a smooth comfort in the piling of the skins around me, that would have been a judicious placing of pillows and downy quilts in a civilized bed; there was a cooling drink set close by my side—that was surely mingled by no other than a womanly hand, whether the vessel that contained it were formed of a cocoa-nut shell, or of elaborate dresden china. “i lay musing thus, pleasantly enough, while i watched the rays of the sun playing among the leaves and blossoms at the window, and casting twinkling shadows upon my couch, when suddenly i heard a low sweet womanly voice singing close outside of he kit bam, mariner. window, in that sort of gentle undertone, as if the singer were anxious not to disturb another, yet giv- ing vent to her own blithe feelings while she pur- sued her work. i could distinguish words; they seemed to be a sort of invocation for aid in garden- ing, and a eulogium on the beauty of the flowers she was doubtless employed in training and tending. i lay listening breathlessly. presently the song ended, and the door of the hut was pushed gently, as if some one were endeavouring to enter without noise. the door opened, but no object darkened the threshold. the sunshine streamed through the doorway in an uninterrupted flood of light, and i could distinctly see the beautiful landscape during the few seconds before the door was shut again softly by the same unseen hand. “my heart beat chokingly, and i closed my eyes. as i lay perfectly motionless, i felt a warm breath close to my cheek, as if some one leant over me. “‘he is better-surely better,” said a voice close to my ear. “i could not help starting violently, and i fancied the person withdrew as abruptly, while i gasped in irrepressible emotion— “for heaven's sake, who is there " “‘i,’ said the same sweet voice; “it is only i.’ “‘but who are you? and where are you?' ex- claimed i impatiently, for, though i strained my eyes in the direction of the voice, i could see nothing. “i am velata—i am here, close to your heap of skins; is it possible you do not see me? or is it kit bam, mariner. but when they found more than an hour elapse, and that i still gave no signs of returning to myself, they had tried to persuade her to leave me to my fate, as it was then time to return to their canoes. she explained to me that it was the habit of the young maidens of a neighbouring large island, to come hither in the spring season of the year, and celebrate a vernal festival with various sports and pastimes. it was a rule that no man should join this festival on any pretence whatever, and that therefore the canoes were conducted hither by the troops of young girls themselves, who steered and rowed with much expertness, and performed feats of great dexterity during their annual visit to this spot. the festival was looked forward to with delight, and was a source of great pride and enjoyment to its fair votaries. a sense of freedom and independence in the management of their miniature fleet, complete seclusion and liberty in their frolicsome games while dancing, singing, running, playing, gathering fruit, and sporting hither and thither uncontrolled through the lovely plains of this pleasant island, made the vernal festival a cherished privilege among them. great, then, was their dismay upon finding a male intruder suddenly make his appearance among them; and when they would have left the stranger to his fate, upon finding their benevolent attempts to restore him ineffectual, the approach of the hour when it was necessary for them to return to their own island in the canoes, they found they could not per- suade velata to accompany them. she said that y the strange adventures of nothing should induce her to leave an unfortunate be- ing to perish; that she had no particular ties to bind her to their own island; and that she felt it now to be her first duty to stay and protect the charge which chance had cast in her way. the hut, which was a sort of rustic temple, dedicated to the entertainment of the fair vestals during their resort to this spot, would suffice for a shelter for herself and her poor patient, and she bade them hesitate not to leave her where she herself preferred, and determined, to stay. on her repeated assurances to this effect, and finding that all their persuasions were vain, they quitted her, and returned to the canoes, not without some laugh- ing mockery at her quixotic devotion to self-imposed hospital duties. “‘i listened to their gay voices,’ said welata, in conclusion, “as they gradually receded; soon the last faint echoes of their rallying mirth died upon my ear, and i found myself alone with my poor patient, whose fevered breathing and restless twitch- ings soon occupied all my attention i have had sad teaching in the part of a nurse,' continued she, ‘ for my poor father lingered long of the fever and wounds of which he died, after fighting bravely for his country in one of the battles between ours and a neighbouring land; but i have had reason to rejoice in my experience, since it has been at length the means of restoring you to health. but you are not yet strong, and i have too long neglected my nurs- ing duties while i have been talking; so i will now go and prepare some of these herbs for you.’ . the strange adventures of soon my amusement merged into an intense wish to behold the fair motive power itself, and to feel again assured of her actual presence. “velata l' i exclaimed, ‘i wish you would speak; i cannot see you—and i want to hear you—to be certain you are there.' “she laughed a pleasant little musical laugh, and then chatted gaily about the herbs and the fruit she was arranging, and said, “she hoped i should soon be well enough to get up and walk out into the fresh air.’ “‘i think i am well enough already,' said i, mak- ing an effort to raise myself upon my elbow; but i soon found my strength was unequal to the task, for my arm gave way under me immediately, and i fell back upon the couch. “i heard a little hurried movement towards me, as if my nurse feared i was ill; but, perceiving how it was, she uttered her pleasant laugh again, and said— “you see you must still be content to be my patient for a while, and must not attempt to move, till i give you leave.’ “i soon saw by the motion of some of the articles in the hut, that velata was employed in little house- wifely duties, of arranging and disposing the order of the room; i took delight in watching her progress through them, and by constantly talking to her, and winning her to answer, i contrived very well to ascertain whereabouts she was. i then bethought me of asking her to bring me a branch of the flowery woodbine that threw its garlands around the kit bam, mariner. out in the open air, on a mossy seat, which my nurse had prepared for me beneath a tree that grew near to the hut. “she had been singing to me, and chatting cheer- fully, and devising various means to entertain her “impatient invalid, as she called me, declaring that she could by no means call me her ‘patient;' but i was restless, and, instead of being soothed by her voice, as i usually was when i listened to it, i felt my longing to behold her irritated and roused to an insupportable degree; i sighed more than once half unconsciously, as i yielded to a despondent feeling that crept over me, and that cast a gloom even upon the fair landscape, the bright sunshine, and the plea- sant free air. “‘you are worse to-day, i fear, my dear friend,' said velata tenderly, sitting down beside me; “and yet this lovely morning and pure air ought to make you better—nay, quite well.' “‘i used to long for my recovery, but i have learned to dread getting well,' said i, more sadly than i felt her kind care deserved from me; but i could not resist the depression of the moment. “indeed! then you are out of spirits as well as out of health. perhaps you are tired of this inactive life, and long to pursue the wanderings of which you have so often told me,’ added she tremulously. “but you know you must be well for that; you cannot go to sea until you are strong again.' “‘it is not i who wish to go away; i only fear that when my kind nurse finds her ‘impatient inva- the strange adventures of lid, quite recovered, that it is she who will be anxious to quit this place and return to her own country.' “‘i have nothing to lead me to wish to return thither,’ said she. “when my poor father died, i had no parent left, for my mother never loved me, and would scarcely ever bear me in her sight. i did not even live with her; for, when she bade me quit her presence, as one long loathed and only tolerated during my father's life, i took refuge with friends, the parents of a young companion of mine, who was one of those who came to this island on our late fes- tival here. i have no true home,’ added velata, in a tone as sad as my own had been. “but it was joyfully now, that i exclaimed: “then let us make one here, together! i desire no other home! i wish but for you—to stay with you, velata, ever!' “i passed my arm round the gentle being that sat on the moss beside me, as i added:—‘be mine, velata, and crown your generous kindness, by telling me you are as happy in remaining with me, as i am in vowing to live here for ever with you!” “a little quick-beating heart fluttered beneath the hand with which i held her to me, and a drooping head leant upon my bosom, as i heard her say: ‘you would have me be your wife, then º' “‘i desire nothing upon earth so fondly 'i replied. “i will tell you now, why i refused your garland, the other day, whispered velata, after a short pause. ‘it is the custom of our nation, when two people wish to become man and wife, for them to place a coronal the strange adventures of same time, i will own, that my yielding so utterly to my misery was weak and wicked; and the only cir- cumstance i can reflect upon with complacency in that period of my unhappiness was, that instead of looking upon the white dove with resentment, as the cause of my detention, and consequent misfortune, i cherished it carefully, binding its wounded wing, and endeavouring to extract some comfort from a deed of charity and tenderness. “after wandering restlessly, blindly, and vainly, about, everywhere in welata's wonted haunts, and taking a sort of fierce pains to prove to myself that i had really and hopelessly lost her, i sunk at length stunned and exhausted upon the mossy seat beneath the tree, where i had that very morning received the assurance that made me a happy husband, and had opened to me the blissful prospect of a life-long wedded existence. nature wore her loveliest aspect of beauty and serenity—the one star of evening shone forth mild and lustrous — the unclouded heavens embraced earth with their azure expanse—and all things seemed held in loving silent communion; what a contrast did this scene, in its holy tranquillity, present to the storm of tumultuous emotions that were contending within my own sore and troubled heart! “long i strove for a more submissive spirit; fer- vently did i pray for calm and resignation, that i might bear my trial as became a man, and the crea- ture of god's will. i bent myself prostrate to his decree, and humbly besought his mercy to the bruised kit bam, mariner. heart that laid itself trustfully open to his healing care. “the radiant hesperus shed its bland influence upon my upturned eyes, and i felt as if a gracious power had vouchsafed encouragement, protection, and consolation. i arose meekly, and went into the hut, with a calmer spirit, though without hope of rest. but as i flung myself upon my couch of skins, i found a half-blown rose, that lay upon the pillow. “i seized the precious token, as a harbinger of hope and comfort, for well i knew whose hand must have placed it there. i inhaled its delicious perfume, and steeped my senses in the ecstasy of the belief it conveyed that i was remembered and beloved, however inexplicably abandoned. “my rose lay close to my heart that night; it has lain there ever since, nor will it ever quit its place but with life,” said the old mariner, in a low voice, and covering his eyes for a moment with his wrinkled hand. “its once ruddy leaves are now colourless and withered, but the memories that hallow the slight fragments will be ever fresh and vivid, till the heart, close to which they lie, shall cease to beat.” after a short pause he resumed:—“the effort i had so strenuously made to endure my bereave- ment with becoming fortitude, was much strengthened by this circumstance, and i laboured hard to resist a recurrence of the despondency which had so completely overwhelmed and unmanned me at first. i strove by physical exertion to repel the attacks of mental the strange adventures of tial feast, she said, ‘when, from the opposite quarter, which you know is the slope that leads down to the sea-shore, i perceived two people of my own nation approaching the hut, whom i immediately recognised for my friend nascosta, and her lover, bruno. nas- costa is the young girl i mentioned to you with whose parents i lived after my father's death, and who was one of my companions when we came to this island on the occasion of the vernal festival. she was well acquainted with all the circumstances of the estrangement that existed between my mother and myself; indeed, it was owing to her and her parents' conviction of the injustice with which i was treated by my own surviving one, that led to their offering me an asylum after the loss of my father. but she told me that my mother had been seized with a sudden and violent illness, which was so dan- gerous in its nature, that there was no likelihood of her recovery. in the remorse and clearer-sighted conscience of a near prospect of death, she had raved incessantly of her former unkindness to her only child, and had vehemently petitioned that her daughter would return and forgive her before she quit- ted earth for ever. nascosta, knowing how bitterly i had always deplored the want of a mother's affection, felt that no time was to be lost in fetching me to her side; and, knowing where i was, had set out imme- diately to seek me in her lover's canoe. this now awaited my instant return, for my friend assured me that it was all we should be able to do, to reach our native island in time to forestal the fatal hand of kit bam, mariner. death. a mother's dying voice rung suppliant in my ears; it adjured me to fly without delay; every moment that elapsed seemed to sound a knell to my hopes of being able to lighten her departing hour with the assurance of my filial love, and to receive her last—and alas, almost only—blessing before she should be removed for ever. i could not hesitate— i would not trust myself to think of you, my husband, in that moment of contending duty; hastily gather- ing a rose, and placing it as a token of ever-constant wedded love, where i knew it must reach your hand, and (as i fervently trusted) convey comfort and assurance to your heart, i followed my friends to the boat. my courageous conquest over myself in this sharp struggle of conflicting feelings, met with its reward in my timely arrival at my mother's feet while she was yet alive. we exchanged consoling assurances, embraces, and words of loving-kindness, such as at one time i never hoped to receive from my mother; and i had the blessed conviction that my return had been the means of causing her to die happy and contented. but i had no sooner received her last sigh, than i flew back to the spot where a faithful heart awaited me—i feared, in anxiety and alarm at my unaccountable absence. in short, i am returned—your wife is returned—never more to part from her beloved husband.’ “her tender voice ceased, and i felt her kind arms steal round my neck, while i encircled her waist with mine, and drew her close to my heart. the shades of evening had quite closed in, and my passionate the strange adventures of wandered over our beautiful island together; we laboured together to lavish all kinds of luxuries and ornaments upon our homestead, the rustic hut; we sought together the needful provision for our daily repasts, which were plentifully supplied with game by means of velata's bow-and-arrows, with fish by nets of my making and casting, and with fruit and vegetables, the profuse production of this fertile island; and we even set about building a canoe together, which should transport us to velata's native island. it was one of her pleasant anticipations that we should proceed thither, in order that she might enjoy the triumph of presenting the husband she loved so well to her friends nascosta and bruno ; while she looked forward to the delight of watching my perplexity and amusement when i should be among a nation of invisible people. she indulged in a thousand whimsical fancies about my expected wonder to see numberless offices performed by unseen means, as well as to hear remarks, conversation, singing, and talking, all going on around me, without my being able to perceive the persons from whom the sounds proceeded. “but this airy castle-building of hers was destined never to be realised. one fatal morning, the very day we had fixed to set forth in our canoe, or rather raft, for it resembled the latter more, in its flat form, velata complained of unusual lassitude, and did not rise from her couch as early as was her wont. i hastened to compose some cooling draught of herbs under her direction, but her fever increased, and kit bam, mariner. before evening she was delirious. the whole of that miserable night i listened to her murmured wander- ings, and did my best to soothe her disturbed fancies, to moisten her parched lips, and to fan her burning brow. as the sun arose, her words suddenly grew more coherent, and i indulged a hope that she was recovering; but as i leaned over her, and softly whispered this hope, she replied in such a manner as to deprive me of any. “she spoke rationally, indeed, and calmly; but it was with the calmness of despair at the conviction that she was about to quit me for ever on this earth. she roused herself, however, to speak consoling words to me, and bade me trust that though we were forbidden to remain longer united here, yet that we should hereafter be permitted to meet in eternal bliss, if we encouraged that trust, and behaved con- sonantly with the virtuous fortitude it inspired. in short, in her last moments, as in all of those that had elapsed during our intercourse, did this admirable creature forget herself to minister to me and my comfort. “i controlled the transports of my grief as i best could, in order that i might spare her the anguish of witnessing mine; and i will not even sadden your young hearts, my dears, by dwelling upon the agony which wrung my soul, as i felt that beloved hand grow cold within my own, as i listened to the last deep- drawn breathings that fluttered from those lips, and as i counted the last flickering pulses that throbbed within that dear gentle bosom. suffice it, that she -tº-º-º- ––– kit bam, mariner. proach for a long indefinite period. i took no count of time, but merely dropped asleep during some of the hours of darkness, when my bruised heart sunk exhausted with watching its misery; and i took occasionally enough nourishment to keep life in me, when the natural pangs of hunger and thirst grew sufficiently importunate to press upon my attention. i should tell you, that the raft had been amply stock- ed with provision, in the prospect of our intended journey, which i mentioned to you as having been fixed for the very day on which i left ombrosa, so that, as it happened, i was well supplied in a particu- lar which otherwise i should have certainly failed in, had it depended on my own subsequent exertions. i had been wandering thus some time, when the tem- perature altered considerably; it became intensely cold, and the vast floating masses of ice that i now occasionally encountered, shewed that my frail vessel had been wafted towards the frozen regions of the north. indeed, it was singularly providential that i never came into collision with any of these icebergs, for if i had, or my raft had unhappily got between some of them, i might have perished helplessly. “showers of sleet, clinging fogs, and frequent hazy mists, varied by falling snow, and piercing winds, now daily beset my course among these dreary seas, and awoke me to a sense of extreme bodily discom- fort amid the oppression of my internal suffering. yet i scarcely made an effort to change the direction of my progress, but permitted myself to be conducted on, and on, and on, at the caprice of the winds and kit bam, mariner. passed like a terrible spectre, and left me with the conviction that i had seen the very creature once fashioned by the daring hand of a mortal, pre- sumptiously ambitious in its endeavour to wield a power reserved alone for the most high. i remem- bered how i had heard mary, the wife of one of my early shipmates, percy shelton, relate an affecting story of the fatal consequences of this intemperate ill-directed ambition on the part of a young student in the university of ingolstadt; and i could not but believe that i had just beheld the work of victor frankenstein's hands—at once his creature, his vic- tim, and the bane of his own existence. as i re- called the unhappy circumstances that marked the career of these two beings, the instruments of each other's misery, the mutual blighters of each other's hopes and aspirations, i received a certain consolation in the thought that remorse, that unappeasable, never-dying sting, had no share in the sufferings that consumed my heart, and i uttered the first fervent thanksgiving that i had been able to join with my prayers since i had lost my welata. “after i had pursued the course of the narrow channel, which seemed to me to be formed by a rift or strait chasm across a vast ice-field, i found that i emerged into an open sea, in which drifted many smaller icebergs, that occasionally menaced my raft, but fortunately never injured it. once i encoun- tered an object, which i at first took to be one of these floating masses, but on a nearer approach it proved to be a slumbering kraken, which, when i kit bam, mariner. the spot where the sleeping damsel couched. i snatched up my bow and arrows, and springing from my raft on to the shelvy rock, i aimed a shaft right at the animal's eye. fortunately i struck him pre- cisely where i intended, and the beast, uttering a savage yell, retreated, just as the damsel awoke. she shrieked piercingly, when she discovered the danger she had been in; but instead of rising from her half-recumbent position, she let herself gently slide away from the ledge against which she had been leaning; and to my great surprise, remained floating upright in the water, the surface of which reached her waist. she did not, however, leave the shore, but kept buoyantly still, like a graceful vessel at anchor; while, by expressive looks and gestures of gratitude, she seemed to acknowledge the share i had had in her preservation from the bear. i en- deavoured, by signs, to induce her to come on shore, but she smiled, shook her head, and beckoned to me in her turn. i now looked round for my raft, as a means of reaching her; but what was my dismay, on discovering that it had drifted away, when i had quitted it so suddenly to prevent the menaced attack upon the damsel. she seemed to divine the cause of my anxiety, but she only smiled as before, and then exchanged her beckoning for a waving motion of the hand, while she floated gently by the edge of the shore, pointing to me to proceed along it in the same direction. i obeyed her guidance, keeping my eyes on my singular conductress, who maintained her watery way, now wafted on in liquid ease, now cutting the strange adventures of imagined that my project would occupy me some time, so that i had taken care to let my supply of oil be ample; but i now began to be seriously un- easy when i found how far i was exceeding the length of time i had calculated upon for my absence. many hours elapsed, and i instinctively felt that i was still rambling away from the point i wished to gain, instead of recovering its right direction. my anxiety interfered to prevent my enjoying, as i should otherwise have done, the beauty and magnificence of the path i was traversing, but i could not be wholly insensible to its grandeur. the lamp i held in my hand shed its rays upon the sides of the caverns through which i passed, and shewed me that they were not less varied in their colour and structure, than they were fantastic and imposing in their form. “now the lamp-light would be reflected from huge masses of rock that blazed and sparkled with a thou- sand diamond points; anon it would be tinted with a pervading glow of red, as i entered a space that looked like a vault formed of an entire carbuncle; this would change to a brilliant green as i wandered through an arcade of emerald pillars; then flashes of golden light would burst upon my view, as i found myself in a stately hall of topaz; and next would appear a roof studded with sapphires, amethysts, and rubies. still, as i went on, i encountered lofty gal- leries, with polished marble walls—now of purest white, anon streaked and mottled, then of all the varied hues of green, yellow, and red;—then came a kit bam, mariner. narrower passage, fretted and bossed with silver, which widened and towered into a spacious granite chamber, smooth and unornate as a druidical monu- ment, piled together in primitive simplicity; and this was succeeded by groups of columns, surmounted by graceful arches, that sprang airily and symmetri- cally upwards, as if devised by architectural taste, while they supported a roof that dropped at intervals in pendant fretwork, looking as if sustained by the magic of skill alone. from this florid beauty, and regularity of conformation, i emerged upon rude heaps of primaval rock that led in shapeless uninter- esting monotony for some distance; and then my lamp suddenly reflected a lurid dun-red glare, and i felt as if i were entering a furnace, while the glowing copper-coloured hue struck upon my eyes with almost the effect of heat; this was succeeded by a cavern, gloomy, dull, and leaden in its aspect; then another, heavily and richly encrusted with gold; the next, shone bright and dazzling with polished brass; the next, and the next, frowned murkily in alternate blocks of sullen copper and wan lead; and these opened upon a space resplendent with the vivid blue of the lapis lazuli. “i stopped for a moment to admire the brilliant effect of this superb azure apartment: and also to relieve in a measure the sense of weariness and ex- haustion that had for some time been gaining upon me, and marking significantly the length of my wan- derings. as i paused and held the lamp above my head, the better to examine the beauty of the place, kit bam, mariner. “i staggered in the direction of the welcome cur- rent, and as i gazed through the surrounding obscurity i became aware of a small point of light that seemed to be at a great distance. i kept this in view, as my guiding star, and at length beheld it widen and widen, and brighten and brighten, until at length i found it proceed from an opening in the rock, which led me out upon a broad level country. i had not quite emerged from the shelter of the rocky entrance, when i paused to reconnoitre the scene in which i found myself. “i discovered that i was on the verge of a desert plain, that looked utterly desolate, wild, and sterile. not very far from the rocks beneath which i stood, there was a rude fire of sticks and logs, with a still ruder attempt at a spit, upon which seemed to be roasting some kind of joint. on the ground near, there crouched a heap of garments, as if some human being sat huddled beneath, engaged in watching the roast; while at a little distance lay strewed frag- ments of flesh and bones, that i could not help, with a shudder, believing to be those of a human being also. “i fancy i made some half-articulate exclamation of horror, as this belief crossed my mind; for the heap of garments stirred, rose up, and came towards me. this strange figure bore the appearance of a large cloak hung upon a prop, and moving of its own accord; but i could see legs beneath the drapery, and presently an arm protruded itself. then the hand belonging to the arm dived again for an instant successors to j. harris. miss m. fraser tytler. the wonder seeker: or, the history of charles douglas. by the author of “tales of the great and brave.” with illustra- tions by absolo n. second edition. fcap. vo. price s. d. cloth; s. d. coloured, gilt edges. “it is precisely the book that town boys would like, because it tells them of the country; and country boys cherish, because it teaches them to enjoy in the country what perhaps they never enjoyed before.”—art union. “books such as this are always delightful.”—athenaeum. “the moral tone of the book is bracing, and its spirit excellent; 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ОТ b /b contents page i mr. woodchuck..... ii bandit jim crow. iii prairie-dog town.. dec u of m bindery iv prince mud-turtle... v twinkle’s enchantment... vi sugar-loaf mountain. salvation army dec mrwwdchuck list of chapters page . . i the trap ii mr. woodchuck captures a girl iii mr. woodchuck scolds twinkle iv mrs. woodchuck and her family v mr. woodchuck argues the question . vi twinkle is taken to the judge vii twinkle is condemned viii twinkle remembers . chapter i the trap taide bill that is dating my red clover, here's a woodchuck over on the side hill that is eating my red clover,” said twinkle's father, who was a farmer. “why don't you set a trap for it?” " asked twinkle's mother. “i believe i will,” answered the man. so, when the midday dinner was over, the farmer went to the barn and got a steel trap, and carried it over to the clover-field on the hillside. twinkle wanted very much to go with him, but she had to help mamma wash the mister woodchuck dishes and put them away, and then brush up the dining-room and put it in order. but when the work was done, and she had all the rest of the afternoon to herself, she decided to go over to the woodchuck's hole and see how papa had set the trap, and also discover if the woodchuck had yet been caught. so the little girl took her blue-and-white sun-bonnet, and climbed over the garden fence and ran across the corn-field and through the rye until she came to the red- clover patch on the hill. she knew perfectly well where the wood- chuck's hole was, for she had looked at it curiously many times; so she approached it carefully and found the trap set just in front twinkle waits for the woodchuck mister woodchuck of the hole. if the woodchuck stepped on it, when he came out, it would grab his leg and hold him fast; and there was a chain fastened to the trap, and also to a stout post driven into the ground, so that when the woodchuck was caught he could n't run away with the trap. but although the day was bright and sun- shiny, and just the kind of day woodchucks like, the clover-eater had not yet walked out of his hole to get caught in the trap. so twinkle lay down in the clover-field, half hidden by a small bank in front of the woodchuck's hole, and began to watch for the little animal to come out. could see right into the hole, which seemed to slant upward into the hill instead of her eyes mister woodchuck downward; but of course she could n't see very far in, because the hole was n't straight, and grew black a little way from the open- ing. it was somewhat wearisome, waiting and watching so long, and the warm sun and the soft chirp of the crickets that hopped through the clover made twinkle drowsy. she did n't intend to go to sleep, because then she might miss the woodchuck; but there was no harm in closing her eyes just one little minute; so she allowed the long lashes to droop over her pretty pink cheeks — just because they felt so heavy, and there was no way to prop them up. then, with a start, she opened her eyes again, and saw the trap and the woodchuck mister woodchuck hole just as they were before. not quite, though, come to look carefully. the hole seemed to be bigger than at first; yes, strange as it might seem, the hole was grow- ing bigger every minute! she watched it with much surprise, and then looked at the trap, which remained the same size it had always been. and when she turned her eyes upon the hole once more it had not only become very big and high, but a stone arch appeared over it, and a fine, polished front door now shut it off from the outside world. she could even read a name upon the silver door-plate, and the name was this: mister woodchuck. iii telecas mr wood chaud titio gem po o mr. woodchuck receives a telegram chapter ii mister woodchuck captures a girl well hersell; how could all that ell, i declare!” whispered twinkle to herself; “how could all that have happened?” on each side of the door was a little green bench, big enough for two to sit upon, and between the benches was a doorstep of white marble, with a mat lying on it. on one side twinkle saw an electric door-bell. while she gazed at this astonishing sight a sound of rapid footsteps was heard, and a large jack-rabbit, almost as big as herself, and dressed in a messenger-boy's uniform, mister woodchuck ran up to the woodchuck's front door and rang the bell. almost at once the door opened inward, and a curious personage stepped out. twinkle saw at a glance that it was the woodchuck himself,—but what a big and queer woodchuck it was! he wore a swallow-tailed coat, with a waistcoat of white satin and fancy knee- breeches, and upon his feet were shoes with silver buckles. on his head was perched a tall silk hat that made him look just as high as twinkle's father, and in one paw he held a gold-headed cane. also he wore big spectacles over his eyes, which made him look more dignified than any other woodchuck twinkle had ever seen. mister woodchuck when this person opened the door and saw the jack-rabbit messenger-boy, he cried out: “well, what do you mean by ringing my bell so violently? i suppose you ’re half an hour late, and trying to make me think you 're in a hurry." the jack-rabbit took a telegram from its pocket and handed it to the woodchuck with- out a word in reply. at once the woodchuck tore open the envelope and read the telegram carefully. "thank you. there's no answer,” he said; and in an instant the jack-rabbit had whisked away and was gone. “well, well,” said the woodchuck, as if to himself, “the foolish farmer has set a trap d mr. woodchuck discovers twinkle mister woodchuck for me, seems, and it my friends have sent a telegram to warn me. let's see—where is the thing ?” he soon discovered the trap, and seizing hold of the chain he pulled the peg out of the ground and threw the whole thing far away into the field. “i must give that farmer a sound scold- ing,” he muttered, “for he's becoming so impudent lately that soon he will think he owns the whole country.” but now his eyes fell upon twinkle, who lay in the clover staring up at him; and the woodchuck gave a laugh and grabbed her fast by one arm. “oh ho!” he exclaimed; "you ’re spying upon me, are you?” mister woodchuck arm. “i'm just waiting to see you get caught in the trap," said the girl, standing up because the big creature pulled upon her she was n't much frightened, strange to say, because this woodchuck had a good- humored way about him that gave her con- fidence. “you would have to wait a long time for that,” he said, with a laugh that was a sort of low chuckle. “instead of seeing me caught, you've got caught yourself. that's turning the tables, sure enough; is n't it?” "i suppose it is,” said twinkle, regret- fully. “am i a prisoner?” “you might call it that; and then, again, you might n't,” answered the woodchuck. “to tell you the truth, i hardly know what to mister woodchuck do with you. but come inside, and we 'll we mus n't be seen out here talk it over. in the fields." ܕܕ still holding fast to her arm, the wood- chuck led her through the door, which he carefully closed and locked. then they passed through a kind of hallway, into which opened several handsomely furnished rooms, and out again into a beautiful garden at the back, all filled with flowers and brightly colored plants, and with a pretty fountain playing in the middle. a high stone wall was built around the garden, shutting it off from all the rest of the world. the woodchuck led his prisoner to a bench beside the fountain, and told her to sit down and make herself comfortable. no db & mr. woodchuck struts up and down chapter iii mister woodchuck scolds twinkle t winkle was much pleased with her surroundings, and soon discovered sev- eral gold-fishes swimming in the water at the foot of the fountain. “well, how does it strike you?” asked the woodchuck, strutting up and down the gravel walk before her and swinging his gold-headed cane rather gracefully. “it seems like a dream,” said twinkle. "to be sure,” he answered, nodding. you'd no business to fall asleep in the clover." mister woodchuck did i?" she asked, rather startled at the suggestion. • it stands to reason you did,” he replied. “you don't for a moment think this is real, do you?” “ it seems real,” she answered. “ aren't you the woodchuck?" “mister woodchuck, if you please. ad- dress me properly, young lady, or you 'll make me angry.” “well, then, are n't you mister wood- chuck?” “at present i am; but when but when you wake up, i won't be,” he said. “then you think i'm dreaming ?” you must figure that out for yourself,” said mister woodchuck. mister woodchuck “what do you suppose made me dream?” "i don't know." “do you think it's something i've eaten?” she asked anxiously. “i hardly think so. this is n't any night- mare, you know, because there's nothing at all horrible about it — so far. so far. you've probably been reading some of those creepy, sensational story-books." “i haven't read a book in a long time,” said twinkle. “dreams,” remarked mister woodchuck, thoughtfully, “are not always to be account- ed for. but this conversation is all wrong. when one is dreaming one does n't talk about it, or even know it's a dream. so let's speak of something else.” bacoa he “ do you think it's something i've eaten?” mister woodchuck race. “it's very pleasant in this garden,” said twinkle. “i don't mind being here a bit.” “but you can't stay here,” replied mister woodchuck, “and you ought to be very uncomfortable in my presence. you see, you ’re one of the deadliest enemies of my all you human beings live for or think of is how to torture and destroy woodchucks.” “oh, no!” she answered. - we have many more important things than that to think of. but when a woodchuck gets eat- ing our clover and the vegetables, and spoils a lot, we just have to do something to stop it. that's why my papa set the trap.” “you're selfish,” said mister woodchuck, “and you're cruel to poor little animals ܕܕ mister woodchuck that can't help themselves, and have to eat what they can find, or starve. there's enough for all of us growing in the broad fields." twinkle felt a little ashamed. “we have to sell the clover and the vege- tables to earn our living,” she explained; “and if the animals eat them up we can't sell them.” “we don't eat enough to rob you,” said the woodchuck, “and the land belonged to the wild creatures long before you people came here and began to farm. and really, there is no reason why you should be so cruel. it hurts dreadfully to be caught in a trap, and an animal captured in that way some- times has to suffer for many hours before mister woodchuck the man comes to kill it. we don't mind the killing so much. death does n't last but an instant. but every minute of suffer- ing seems to be an hour.” “that's true," said twinkle, feeling sorry and repentant. “i'll ask papa never to set another trap.” “that will be some help,” returned mister woodchuck, more cheerfully, “and i hope you 'll not forget the promise when you . but that is n't enough to settle the account for all our past sufferings, i assure you; so i am trying to think of a suitable way to punish you for the past wickedness of your father, and of all other men that have set traps.” · why, if you feel that way,” said the wake up mrs. woodchuck and her family mister woodchuck little girl, “you're just as bad as we are!” “how's that?" asked mister woodchuck, pausing in his walk to look at her. “it's as naughty to want revenge as it is to be selfish and cruel,” she said. “i believe you are right about that," answered the animal, taking off his silk hat and rubbing the fur smooth with his elbow. “but woodchucks are not perfect, any more than men are, so you 'll have to take us as you find us. and now i'll call my family, and exhibit you to them. . the children, especially, will enjoy seeing the wild human girl i've had the luck to capture.” “ wild!” she cried, indignantly. “if you 're not wild now, you will be before you wake up,” he said. chapter iv but mrs. woodchuck and her family ut mister woodchuck had no need to call his family, for just as he spoke a chatter of voices was heard and mrs. wood- chuck came walking down a path of the garden with several young woodchucks fol- lowing after her. the lady animal was very fussily dressed, with puffs and ruffles and laces all over her silk gown, and perched upon her head was-a broad white hat with long ostrich plumes. she was exceedingly fat, even for a wood- chuck, and her head fitted close to her body, mister woodchuck without any neck whatever to separate them. although it was shady in the garden, she held a lace parasol over her head, and her walk was so mincing and airy that twinkle almost laughed in her face. the young woodchucks were of several sizes and kinds. one little woodchuck girl rolled before her a doll's baby-cab, in which lay a woodchuck doll made of cloth, in quite a perfect imitation of a real woodchuck. it was stuffed with something soft to make it round and fat, and its eyes were two glass beads sewn upon the face. a big boy woodchuck wore knickerbockers and a tam o' shanter cap and rolled a hoop; and there were several smaller boy and girl wood- chucks, dressed quite as absurdly, who i marinel frighteenrig kt. twinkle and the young woodchucks mister woodchuck followed after their mother in a long train. “my dear,” said mister woodchuck to his wife, “ here is a human creature that i cap- tured just outside our front door.” “huh!” sneered the lady woodchuck, looking at twinkle in a very haughty way; why will you bring such an animal into our garden, leander? it makes me shiver just to look at the horrid thing!” oh, mommer!” yelled one of the chil- dren, “see how skinny the beast is !” “has n't any hair on its face at all,” said another, “or on its paws!” “and no sign of a tail!” cried the little woodchuck girl with the doll. “yes, it's a very strange and remarkable creature,” said the mother. "don't touch mister woodchuck it, my precious darlings. it might bite.' “you need n't worry,” said twinkle, rather provoked at these speeches. “i would n't bite a dirty, greasy woodchuck on any account!" “whoo! did you hear what she called us, mommer? she says we're greasy and dirty!" shouted the children, and some of them grabbed pebbles from the path in their paws, as if to throw them at twinkle. tut, tut! don't be cruel,” said mister woodchuck. “remember the poor creature is a prisoner, and is n't used to good society; and besides that, she's dreaming.” really?” exclaimed mrs. woodchuck, looking at the girl curiously. mister woodchuck “to be sure,” he answered. • otherwise she would n't see us dressed in such fancy clothes, nor would we be bigger than she is. the whole thing is unnatural, my dear, as you must admit." “but we're we're not dreaming; are we, daddy?” anxiously asked the boy with the hoop. “certainly not,” mister woodchuck an- swered; “so this is a fine opportunity for you to study one of those human animals who have always been our worst enemies. you will notice they are very curiously made. aside from their lack of hair in any place except the top of the head, their paws are formed in a strange manner. those long slits in them make what are called fingers, . oc “ you're a disagreeable creature!” mister woodchuck and their claws are flat and dull — not at all sharp and strong like ours." “i think the beast is ugly,” said mrs. woodchuck. “it would give me the shivers to touch its skinny flesh.” “i'm glad of that,” said twinkle, indig- nantly. “you would n't have all the shivers, i can tell you! and you're a disagreeable, ign'rant creature! if you had any manners at all, you'd treat strangers more politely.” “just listen to the thing!” said mrs. woodchuck, in a horrified tone. . is n't it wild, though!” i mister woodchuck “we don't have school here,” said mister woodchuck, as if proud of the fact. “don't you know any geography?” asked the child. “we have n't any use for it,” said mister woodchuck; "for we never get far from home, and don't care a rap what state bounds florida on the south. we don't travel much, and studying geography would be time wasted.” “but don't you study arithmetic?" she asked; “don't you know how to do sums?” why should we?” he returned. . the thing that bothers you humans most, and that’s money, is not used by us woodchucks. so we don't need to figure and do sums.' “i don't see how you get along without maginel wright enright you'd make a mighty poor woodchuck" mister woodchuck money,” said twinkle, wonderingly. “you must have to buy all your fine clothes." “you know very well that woodchucks don't wear clothes, under ordinary circum- stances,” mister woodchuck replied. “it's only because you are dreaming that you see us dressed in this way.” "perhaps that's true," said twinkle. . “but don't talk to me about not being intelli- gent, or not knowing things. if you have n't any schools it's certain i know more than your whole family put together!” about some things, perhaps,” ac- knowledged mister woodchuck. “but tell me: do you know which kind of red clover is the best to eat?" “no," she said. mister woodchuck “or how to dig a hole in the ground to live in, with different rooms and passages, so that it slants up hill and the rain won't come in and drown you?” no," said twinkle. “and could you tell, on the second day of february (which is woodchuck day, you know), whether it's going to be warm weather, or cold, during the next six weeks?" “i don't believe i could,” replied the girl. “then,” said mister woodchuck, “there are some things that we know that you don't; and although a woodchuck might not be of much account in one of rooms, you must forgive me for saying that i think you 'd make a mighty poor woodchuck.” your school- mister woodchuck "i think so, too!” said twinkle, laughing. “and now, little human," he resumed, after looking at his watch, "it's nearly time for you to wake up; so if we intend to pun- ish you for all the misery your people has inflicted on the woodchucks, we won't have a minute to spare.” “don't be in a hurry,” said twinkle. “i can wait. “she's trying to get out of it,” exclaimed mrs. woodchuck, scornfully. let her, leander.' “certainly not, my dear,” he replied; but i have n't decided how to punish her.” take her to judge stoneyheart,” said mrs. woodchuck. • he will know what to "don't you do with her.” lit the little woodchucks hooting with jot chapter vi twinkle is taken to the judge at t this the woodchuck children all hooted with joy, crying: “take her, daddy! take her to old stoneyheart! oh, my! won't he give it to her, though!” “who is judge stoneyheart?" asked twinkle, a little uneasily. “a highly respected and aged woodchuck who is cousin to my wife's grandfather,” was the reply. “we consider him the wisest and most intelligent of our race; but, while he is very just in all things, the judge ever shows any mercy to evil-doers." mister woodchuck “i have n't done anything wrong,” said the girl. “but your father has, and much wrong is done us by the other farmers around here. they fight my people without mercy, and kill every woodchuck they can possibly catch." twinkle was silent, for she knew this to be true. for my part,” continued mister wood- chuck, “i'm very soft-hearted, and would n't even step on an ant if i could help it. also i am sure you have a kind disposition. but you are a human, and i am a woodchuck; so i think i will take you to old stoney- heart and let him decide your fate.” “hooray!” yelled the young woodchucks, mister woodchuck and away they ran through the paths of the garden, followed slowly by their fat mother, who held the lace parasol over her head as if she feared she would be sunstruck. twinkle was glad to see them go. she did n't care much for the woodchuck chil- dren, they were so wild and ill-mannered, and their mother was even more disagreeable than they were. as for mister woodchuck, she did not object to him so much; in fact, she rather liked to talk to him, for his words were polite and his eyes pleasant and kindly. now, my dear,” he said, “as we are about to leave this garden, where you have been quite secure, i must try to prevent your running away when we are outside the judge stney-heart caila ti) oo ወo pe maon innicixt enright arriving at judge stoneyheart's mister woodchuck wall. i hope it won't hurt your feelings to become a real prisoner for a few minutes.' then mister woodchuck drew from his pocket a leather collar, very much like a dog-collar, twinkle thought, and proceeded to buckle it around the girl's neck. to the collar was attached a fine chain about six feet long, and the other end of the chain mister woodchuck held in his hand. now, then," said he, "please come along quietly, and don't make a fuss.” he led her to the end of the garden and opened a wooden gate in the wall, through which they passed. outside the garden the ground was nothing but hard, baked earth, without any grass or other green thing growing upon it, or any tree or shrub to mister woodchuck shade it from the hot sun. and not far away stood a round mound, also of baked earth, which twinkle at once decided to be a house, because it had a door and some windows in it. there was no living thing in sight — not even a woodchuck — and twinkle did n't care much for the baked-clay scenery. mister woodchuck, holding fast to the chain, led his prisoner across the barren space to the round mound, where he paused to rap softly upon the door. chapter vii twinkle is condemned come ome in!” called a voice. mister woodchuck pushed open th the door and entered, drawing twinkle after him by the chain. in the middle of the room sat a wood- chuck whose hair was grizzled with old age. he wore big spectacles upon his nose, and a round knitted cap, with a tassel dangling from the top, upon his head. upon his head. his only garment was an old and faded dressing- gown. when they entered, the old woodchuck law in new a goa weinlu wright cnrios judge stoneyheart at home mister woodchuck was busy playing a game with a number of baked-clay dominoes, which he shuffled and arranged upon a baked-mud table; nor did he look up for a long time, but continued to match the dominoes and to study their arrangement with intense interest. finally, however, he finished the game, and then he raised his head and looked sharply at his visitors. “good afternoon, judge,” said mister woodchuck, taking off his silk hat and bow- ing respectfully. the judge did not answer him, but con- tinued to stare at twinkle. “i have called to ask your advice,” con- tinued mister woodchuck. “by good chance i have been able to capture one of those mister woodchuck fierce humans that are the greatest enemies of peaceful woodchucks.” the judge nodded his gray head wisely, but still answered nothing. “but now that i've captured the creature, i don't know what to do with her," went on mister woodchuck; “although i believe, of course, she should be punished in some way, and made to feel as unhappy as her people have made us feel. yet i realize that it's a dreadful thing to hurt any living creature, and as far as i 'm concerned i'm quite willing to forgive her.” with these words he wiped his face with a red silk handkerchief, as if really distressed. she's dreaming,” said the judge, in a sharp, quick voice. mister woodchuck am i?” asked twinkle. “of course. you were probably lying on the wrong side when you went to sleep.” "oh!” she said. “i wondered what made it." “very disagreeable dream, is n't it?" con- tinued the judge. “not so very,” she answered. “it's in- teresting to see and hear woodchucks in their own homes, and mister woodchuck has shown me how cruel it is for us to set traps for you.” “good!” said the judge. " but some dreams are easily forgotten, so i'll teach you a lesson you'll be likely to remember. you shall be caught in a trap yourself.” “ me!” cried twinkle, in dismay, the judge fetches a trap mister woodchuck “yes, you. when you find how dread- fully it hurts you'll bear the traps in mind forever afterward. people don't remember dreams unless the dreams are unusually horrible. but i guess you guess you 'll remember this one.” he got up and opened a mud cupboard, from which he took a big steel trap. twinkle could see that it was just like the trap papa had set to catch the woodchucks, only it seemed much bigger and stronger. the judge got a mallet and with it pounded a stake into the mud floor. then he fastened the chain of the trap to the stake, and afterward opened the iron jaws of the cruel-looking thing and set them with a lever, so that the slightest touch mister woodchuck would spring the trap and make the strong jaws snap together. now, little girl," said he, “you must step in the trap and get caught." why, it would break my leg!” cried twinkle. “did your father care whether a wood- chuck got its leg broken or not?” asked the judge. “no," she answered, beginning to be greatly frightened. step!” cried the judge, sternly. “it will hurt awfully,” said mister wood- chuck; “but that can't be helped. traps are cruel things, at the best.” twinkle was now trembling with nervous- ness and fear. aumawag poo i cs waginal wright enrickt “ step!” cried the judge, sternly mister woodchuck “step!” called the judge, again. “dear me!” said mister woodchuck, just then, as he looked earnestly into twinkle's face, “i believe she's going to wake up!" “that's too bad," said the judge. - no, i'm glad of it,” replied mister woodchuck. and just then the girl gave a start and opened her eyes. she was lying in the clover, and before her was the opening of the woodchuck's hole, with the trap still set before it. est کیے chapter viii twinkle remembers papa" apa," said twinkle, when supper was over and she was nestled snugly in his lap, “i wish you would ’nt set any more traps for the woodchucks.' “why not, my darling?” he asked in surprise. “they're cruel," she cruel,” she answered. " it must hurt the poor animals dreadfully to be caught in them.” "i suppose it does,” said her father, thoughtfully. “but if i don't trap the wood- chucks they eat our clover and vegetables.” mister woodchuck “never mind that,” said twinkle, ear- nestly. “let's divide with them. god made the woodchucks, you know, just as he made us, and they can't plant and grow things as we do; so they have to take what they can get, or starve to death. and surely, papa, there's enough to eat in this big and beautiful world, for all of god's creatures. papa whistled softly, although his face was grave; and then he bent down and kissed his little girl's forehead. “i won't set any more traps, dear, ” he said. and that evening, after twinkle had been tucked snugly away in bed, her father walked slowly through the sweet-smelling mister woodchuck fields to the woodchuck's hole; there lay the trap, showing plainly in the bright moonlight. he picked it up and carried it back to the barn. it was never used again. the end bandit jim crow bandit jim crow list of chapters . page i jim crow becomes a pet . ii jim crow runs away iii jim crow finds a new home iv jim crow becomes a robber v jim crow meets policeman blue jay . vi jim crow fools the policeman . vii jim crow is punished . viii jim crow has time to repent his sins chapter i jim crow becomes a pet o the day wheta, men shots fais gruwat in ne day, when twinkle's father was in the corn-field, he shot his gun at a flock of crows that were busy digging up, with their long bills, the kernels of corn he had planted. but twinkle's father did n't aim very straight, for the birds screamed at the bang of the gun and quickly flew away —all except one young crow that fluttered its wings, but could n't rise into the air, and so began to run along the ground in an effort to escape. the man chased the young crow, and bandit jim crow caught it; and then he found that one of the little lead bullets had broken the right wing, although the bird seemed not to be hurt in any other way. it struggled hard, and tried to peck the hands that held it; but it was too young to hurt any one, so twinkle's father decided he would carry it home to his little girl. “here's a pet for you, twinkle,” he said, as he came into the house. “it can't fly, because its wing is broken; but don't let it get too near your eyes, or it may peck at them. it's very wild and fierce, you know.” twinkle was delighted with her pet, and at once got her mother to bandage the broken wing, so that it would heal quickly. the crow had jet black feathers, but there oo maginel wricht enricht twinkle and jim crow bandit jim crow was a pretty purplish and violet gloss, or sheen, on its back and wings, and its eyes were bright and had a knowing look in them. they were hazel-brown in color, and the bird had a queer way of turning his head on one side to look at twinkle with his right eye, and then twisting it the other side that he might see her with his she often wondered if she looked the same to both eyes, or if each one made her seem different. she named her pet “ jim crow” because papa said that all crows were called jim, although he never could find out the reason. but the name seemed to fit her pet as well as any, so twinkle never bothered about the reason. left eye. bandit jim crow having no cage to keep him in, and fear- ing he would run away, the girl tied a strong cord around one of jim crow's legs, and the other end of the cord she fastened to the round of a chair — or to the table-leg when they were in the house. the crow would run all around, as far as the string would let him go; but he could n't get away. and when they went out of doors twinkle held the end of the cord in her hand, as one leads a dog, and jim crow would run along in front of her, and then stop and wait. and when she came near he'd run on again, screaming “caw! caw!” at the top of his shrill little voice. he soon came to know he belonged to twinkle, and would often lie in her lap bandit jim crow or perch upon her shoulder. and whenever she entered the room where he was he would say, “caw — caw!” to her, in pleading tones, until she picked him up or took some notice of him. it was wonderful how quickly a bird that had always lived wild and free seemed to become tame and gentle. twinkle's father said that was because he was so young, and because his broken wing kept him from flying in the air and rejoining his fellows. but jim crow was n't as tame as he seemed, and he had a very wicked and ungrateful disposition, as you will presently learn. for a few weeks, however, he was as nice a pet as any little girl could wish for. he got into mischief occasionally, and caused - es •maginelwright. enriqni jim gets in mischief bandit jim crow mamma some annoyance when he waded into a pan of milk or jumped upon the dinner table and ate up papa's pumpkin pie before twinkle could stop him. but all pets are more or less trouble, at times, so jim crow escaped with a few severe scoldings from mamma, which never seemed to worry him in the least or make him a bit unhappy. chapter ii jim crow runs away at t last jim got so tame that twinkle took the cord off his leg and let him go free, wherever he pleased. so he wandered all over the house and out into the yard, where he chased the ducks and bothered the pigs and made himself generally disliked. he had a way of perching upon the back of old tom, papa's favorite horse, and chatter- ing away in tom's ear until the horse plunged and pranced in his stall to get rid of his unwelcome visitor. twinkle always kept the bandage on the bandit jim crow wounded wing, for she did n't know whether it was well yet, or not, and she thought it was better to be on the safe side. but the truth was, that jim crow's wing had healed long ago, and was now as strong as ever; and, as the weeks passed by, and he grew big and fat, a great longing came into his wild heart to fly again — far, far up into the air and away to the lands where there were forests of trees and brooks of running water. he did n't ever expect to rejoin his family again. they were far enough away by this time. and he did n't care much to associate with other crows. all he wanted was to be free, and do exactly as he pleased, and not have some one cuffing him a dozen times a day because he was doing wrong. eurz magined wright enright jim gets rid of his bandage bandit jim crow so one morning, before twinkle was up, or even awake, jim crow pecked at the bandage on his wing until he got the end unfastened, and then it was n't long before the entire strip of cloth was loosened and fell to the ground. now jim fluttered his feathers, and pruned them with his long bill where they had been pressed together, and presently he knew that the wing which had been injured was exactly as strong and well as the other one. he could fly away whenever he pleased. the crow had been well fed by twinkle and her mamma, and was in splendid health. but he was not at all grateful. with the knowledge of his freedom a fierce, cruel oy crept into his heart, and he resumed the bandit jim crow wild nature that crows are born with and never lay aside as long as they live. having forgotten in an instant that he had ever been tame, and the pet of a gentle little girl, jim crow had no thought of say- ing good-bye to twinkle. instead, he de- cided he would do something that would make these foolish humans remember him for a long time. so he dashed into a group of young chickens that had only been hatched a day or two before, and killed sev- en of them with his strong, curved claws and his wicked black beak. when the mother hen flew at him he pecked at her eyes; and then, screaming a defiance to all the world, jim crow flew into the air and sailed away to a new life in another part of the world. deus viim metnel waight exicit twinkle mourns for her chickens bandit jim crow in the mean time the runaway crow flew through the country, and when he was hun- gry he would stop at a farm-house and rob a hen's nest and eat the eggs. it was his knowledge of farm-houses that made him so bold; but the farmers shot at the thieving bird once or twice, and this frightened jim crow so badly that he decided to keep away from the farms and find a living in some less dangerous way. and one day he came to a fine forest, where there were big and little trees of all kinds, with several streams of water run- ning through the woods. “here,” said jim crow, “i will make my home; for surely this is the finest place i am ever likely to find.” bandit jim crow there were plenty of birds in this forest, for jim could hear them singing and twitter- ing everywhere among the trees; and their nests hung suspended from branches, or nestled in a fork made by two limbs, in almost every direction he might look. and the birds were of many kinds, too: robins, thrushes, bullfinches, mocking-birds, wrens, yellowtails and skylarks. even tiny hum- ming-birds fluttered around the wild flowers that grew in the glades; and in the waters of the brooks waded long-legged herons, while kingfishers sat upon overhanging branches and waited patiently to seize any careless fish that might swim too near them. jim crow decided this must be a real paradise for birds, because it was far away bandit jim crow from the houses of men. so he made up his mind to get acquainted with the in- habitants of the forest as soon as possible, and let them know who he was, and that he must be treated with proper respect. in a big fir-tree, whose branches reached nearly to the ground, he saw a large gather- ing of the birds, who sat chattering and gossiping pleasantly together. so he flew down and joined them. “good morning, folks,” he said; and his voice sounded to them like a harsh croak, because it had become much deeper in tone since he had grown to his full size. the birds looked at him curiously, and one or two fluttered their wings in a timid and nervous way; but none of them, little “good morning, folks ” bandit jim crow “what do i care about my own folks ?” asked jim, with a laugh that made the little thrush shudder. “i prefer to live alone. “have n't you a mate?” asked a robin, speaking in a very polite tone. no; and i don't want any,” said jim crow. “i'm going to live all by myself. there's plenty of room in this forest, i guess.” certainly,” replied the bullfinch. "there is plenty of room for you here if you behave yourself and obey the laws." “who's going to make me?” he asked, angrily. “ any decent person, even if he's a crow, is bound to respect the law," answered the bullfinch, calmly. bandit jim jim crow jim crow was a little ashamed, for he did n't wish to acknowledge he was n't decent. so he said: “what are your laws?” “ the same as those in all other forests. you must respect the nests and the property of all other birds, and not interfere with them when they ’re hunting for food. and you must warn your fellow-birds whenever there is danger, and assist them to protect their young from prowling beasts. if you obey these laws, and do not steal from or interfere with your neighbors, you have a right to a nest in our forest.” “ to be quite frank with you, though,” said the robin, “we prefer your room to your company." aadre ind surah, wang w wa mojnel wright snright! jim finds a home bandit jim crow “i'm going to stay,” said the crow. "i guess i'm as good as the rest of you; so you fellows just mind your own business and i 'll mind mine." with these words he left them, and when he had mounted to a position above the trees he saw that one tall, slim pine was higher than all the rest, and that at its very top was a big deserted nest. chapter iv jim crow becomes a robber ihled toward the pine tree and the t looked like a crow's nest to jim, so he flew toward the pine tree and lit upon a branch close by. one glance told him that at some time it really must have been the home of birds of his kind, who for some reason had abandoned it long ago. the nest was large and bulky, being made of strong sticks woven together with fine roots and grasses. it was rough outside, but smooth inside, and when jim crow had kicked out the dead leaves and twigs that had fallen into it, he decided it bandit jim crow was nearly as good as new, and plenty good enough for a solitary crow like him to live in. so with his bill he made a mark on the nest, that every bird might know it belonged to him, and felt that at last he had found a home. during the next few days he made several attempts to get acquainted with the other birds, but they were cold and distant, though very polite to him; and none of them seemed to care for his society. no bird ever came near his nest, but he often flew down to the lower trees and perched upon one or another of them, so gradually the birds of the forest got used to seeing him around, and paid very little attention to his actions. maginel wright cnricht mrs. wren is heart-broken bandit jim crow one day mrs. wren missed two brown eggs from her nest, and her little heart was nearly broken with grief. it took the mock- ing bird and the bullfinch a whole afternoon to comfort her, while mr. wren hopped around in nearly as much distress as his wife. no animals had been seen in the forest who would do this evil thing, so no one could imagine who the thief might be. such an outrage was almost unknown in this pleasant forest, and it made all the birds nervous and fearful. a few days later a still greater horror came upon them, for the helpless young children of mrs. linnet were seized one morning from their nest, while their parents were absent in search of food, and were carried away bandit jim crow bodily. mr. linnet declared that on his way back to his nest he had seen a big black monster leaving it, but had been too frightened to notice just what the creature looked like. but the lark, who had been up very early that morning, stated that he had seen no one near that part of the forest except jim crow, who had flown swiftly to his nest in the tall pine-tree. this was enough to make all the birds look upon jim crow with grave suspicion, and robin redbreast called a secret meeting of all the birds to discuss the question and decide what must be done to preserve their nests from the robber. jim crow was so much bigger and fiercer than any of the others that none dared accuse him openly bandit jim crow or venture to quarrel with him ; but they had a good friend living not far away who was not afraid of jim crow or any one else, so they finally decided to send for him and ask his assistance. the starling undertook to be the messen- ger, and as soon as the meeting was over he flew away upon his errand. “what were all you folks talking about?” asked the crow, flying down and alighting upon a limb near to those who had not yet left the place of meeting. “we were talking about you,” said the thrush, boldly; “and you would n't care at all to know what we said, mister jim crow.” jim looked a trifle guilty and ashamed at hearing this, but knowing they were all л. maginea waight enri gost “caw! caw! caw! what do i care?” bandit jim crow afraid of him he burst out into a rude laugh. “caw! caw! caw!” he chuckled hoarsely; “what do i care what you say about me? but don't you get saucy, my pretty thrush, or your friends will miss you some fine morning, and never see you again.” this awful threat made them all silent, for they remembered the fate of poor mrs. linnet's children, and very few of the birds now had any doubt but that jim crow knew more about the death of those helpless little ones than he cared to tell. finding they would not talk with him, the crow flew back to his tree, where he sat sullenly perched upon a branch near his nest. and they were very glad to get rid of him so easily. chapter v n jim crow meets policeman blue jay ext morning jim crow woke up hungry, and as he sat lazily in his big nest, he remembered that he had seen four pretty brown eggs, speckled with white, in the nest of the oriole that lived at the edge of the forest. “those eggs will taste very good for breakfast,” he thought. “i'll go at once and get them; and if old mammy oriole makes a fuss, i 'll eat her, too." he hopped out of his nest and on to a branch, and the first thing his sharp eye saw bandit jim jim crow was a big and strange bird sitting upon the tree just opposite him and looking steadily in his direction. never having lived among other birds until now, the crow did not know what kind of bird this was, but as he faced the new-comer he had a sort of shiver in his heart that warned him to beware an enemy. indeed, it was none other than the blue jay that had appeared so suddenly, and he had arrived that morning because the star- ling had told him of the thefts that had taken place, and the blue jay is well known as the policeman of the forest and a terror to all evil-doers. in size he was nearly as big as jim crow himself, and he had a large crest of feathers bandit jim crow them up. on the top of his head that made him look even more fierce — especially when he ruffled his body was purplish blue color on the back and purplish gray below, and there was a collar of black feathers running all around his neck. but his wings and tail were a beautiful rich blue, as de- lightful in color as the sky on a fine may morning; so in personal appearance police- man blue jay was much handsomer than jim crow. but it was the sharp, stout beak that most alarmed the crow, and had jim been wiser he would have known that before him was the most deadly foe of his race, and that the greatest pleasure a blue jay finds in life is to fight with and punish a crow. bandit jim crow but jim was not very wise; and so he imagined, after his first terror had passed away, that he could bully this bird as he had the others, and make it fear him. “well, what are you doing here?” he called out, in his crossest voice, for he was anxious to get away and rob the oriole's nest. the blue jay gave a scornful, chattering laugh as he answered: “that's none of your business, jim crow." " take care!" warned the crow; “you 'll be sorry if you don't treat me with proper respect.” the blue jay winked solemnly, in a way that would have been very comical to any observer other than the angry crow. bandit jim crow “don't hurt me — please don't!” he said, fluttering on the branch as if greatly frightened. “my mother would feel dread- ful bad if anything happened to me.” well, then, behave yourself,” returned the crow, strutting proudly along a limb and flopping his broad wings in an im- pressive manner. for he was foolish enough to think he had made the other afraid. but no sooner had he taken flight and soared into the air than the blue jay darted at him like an arrow from a bow, and before jim crow could turn to defend himself the bill of his enemy struck him full in the breast. then, with a shriek of shrill laughter, the policeman darted nan darted away and disappeared •maginel' wright. fariert: policeman blue jay punishes jim bandit jim crow in the forest, leaving the crow to whirl around in the air once or twice and then sink slowly down, with some of his own torn feathers floating near him as witnesses to his defeat. the attack had dazed and astonished him beyond measure; but he found he was not much hurt, after all. . crows are tougher than most birds. jim managed to reach one of the brooks, where he bathed his breast in the cool water, and soon he felt much refreshed and more like his old self again. but he decided not to go to the oriole's nest that morning, but to search for grubs and beetles amongst the mosses beneath the oak-trees. s chapter vi jim crow fools the policeman f rom that time on policeman blue jay made his home in the forest, keeping a sharp eye upon the actions of jim crow. and one day he flew away to the southward and returned with mrs. blue jay, who was even more beautiful than her mate. to- gether they built a fine nest in a tree that stood near to the crow's tall pine, and soon after they had settled down to housekeeping mrs. blue jay began to lay eggs of a pretty brown color mottled with darker brown specks. bandit jim crow had jim crow known what was best for him he would have flown away from this forest and found himself a new home. within a short flight were many bits of woodland where a crow might get a good living and not be bothered by blue jays. but jim was obstinate and foolish, and had made up his mind that he never would again be happy until he had been revenged upon his enemy. he dared no longer rob the nests so boldly as he had before, so he became sly and cunning. he soon found out that the blue jay could not fly as high as he could, nor as fast; so, if he kept a sharp lookout for the approach of his foe, he had no trouble in escaping. but if he went near to the o maginek wrightenright. jim disguises himself bandit jim crow nests of the smaller birds, there was the blue policeman standing guard, and ready and anxious to fight at a moment's notice. it was really no place for a robber at all, unless the robber was clever. one day jim crow discovered a chalk- pit among the rocks at the north of the forest, just beyond the edge of trees. the chalk was soft and in some places crumbled to a fine powder, so that when he had rolled himself for a few minutes in the dust all his feathers became as white as snow. this fact gave to jim crow a bright idea. no longer black, but white as a dôve, he flew away to the forest and passed right by policeman blue jay, who only noticed that a big white bird had flown amongst the bandit jim crow trees, and did not suspect it was the thiev- ing crow in a clever disguise. jim found a robin's nest that was not protected, both the robin and his wife being away in search of food. so he ate up the eggs and kicked the nest to pieces and then flew away again, passing the blue jay a second time all unnoticed. when he reached a brook he washed all the chalk away from his feathers and then returned to his nest as black as ever. all the birds were angry and dismayed when they found what had happened, but none could imagine who had robbed the robins. mrs. robin, who was not easily discouraged, built another nest and laid more eggs in it; but the next day a second bandit jim crow nest in the forest was robbed, and then another and another, until the birds com- plained that policeman blue jay did not protect them at all. “i can't understand it in the least,” said the policeman, “for i have watched care- fully, and i know jim crow has never dared to come near to your trees.” “then some one else is the robber,'' declared the thrush fussily. “the only stranger i have noticed around here is a big white bird,” replied the blue jay, “and white birds never rob nests or eat eggs, as you all know very well." so they were no nearer the truth than before, and the thefts continued; for each day jim crow would make himself white ľ, policeman blue jay discovers the culprit bandit jim crow in the chalk-pit, fly into the forest and destroy the precious eggs of some innocent little bird, and afterward wash himself in some far-away brook, and return to his nest chuckling with glee to think he had fooled the blue jay so nicely. but the blue jay, although stupid and unsuspecting at first, presently began to get a little wisdom. he remembered that all this trouble had commenced when the strange white bird first arrived in the forest; and although it was doubtless true that white birds never eat eggs and have honest reputations, he decided to watch this stranger and make sure that it was innocent of the frightful crimes that had so aroused the dwellers in the forest. chapter vii jim crow is punished s o one day policeman blue jay hid him- self in some thick bushes until he saw the big white bird fly by, and then he fol- lowed quietly after it, flitting from tree to tree and keeping out of sight as much as possible, until at last he saw the white bird alight near a bullfinch's nest and eat up all the eggs it contained. then, ruffling his crest angrily, police- man blue jay flew to attack the big white robber, and was astonished to find he could not catch it. for the white bird the birds of the forest" ds یا maqincl. wright. enrions. are revenged on jim bandit jim crow flew higher into the air than he could, and also flew much faster, so that it soon escaped and passed out of sight. “it must be a white crow," thought the blue jay; “for only a crow can beat me at flying, and some of that race are said to be white, although i have never seen one.” so he called together all the birds, and told them what he had seen, and they all agreed to hide themselves the next day and lie in wait for the thief. by this time jim crow thought himself perfectly safe, and success had made him as bold as he was wicked. therefore he sus- pected nothing when, after rolling himself in -the chalk, he flew down the next day into the forest to feast upon birds' eggs. he soon . bandit jim crow came to a pretty nest, and was just about to rob it, when a chorus of shrill cries arose on every side of him and hundreds of birds — so many that they quite filled the air flew straight at the white one, pecking him with their bills and striking him with their wings; for anger had made even the most timid of the little birds fierce, and there were so many of them that they gave each other courage. jim crow tried to escape, but whichever way he might fly his foes clustered all around him, getting in his way so that he could not use his big wings properly. and all the time they were pecking at him and fighting him as hard as they could. also, the chalk was brushed from his feathers, by bandit jim crow degrees, and soon the birds were able to recognize their old enemy the crow, and then, indeed, they became more furious than ever. policeman blue jay was especially angry at the deception practiced upon him, and if he could have got at the crow just then he would have killed it instantly. but the little birds were all in his way, so he was forced to hold aloof. filled with terror and smarting with pain, jim crow had only one thought: to get to the shelter of his nest in the pine-tree. in some way he managed to do this, and to sink exhausted into the hollow of his nest. but many of his enemies followed him, and although the thick feathers of his back house the birds bear water to jim bandit jim crow and wings protected his body, jim's head and eyes were at the mercy of the sharp bills of the vengeful birds. when at last they left him, thinking he had been sufficiently punished, jim crow was as nearly dead as a bird could be. but crows are tough, and this one was unlucky enough to remain alive. for when his wounds had healed he had become totally blind, and day after day he sat in his nest, helpless and alone, and dared not leave it. chapter viii jim crow has time to repent his sins w! here are you going, my dear?” asked the blue jay of his wife. “i'm going to carry some grubs to jim crow,” she answered. "i'll be back in a minute.” “ jim crow is a robber and a murderer!” said the policeman, harshly. i know,” she replied, in a sweet voice; " but he is blind." “well, fly along,” said her husband; “but hurry back again.” and the robin-redbreast and his wife bandit jim crow filled a cup-shaped flower with water from the brook, and then carried it in their bills to the pine-tree, without spilling a drop. “where are you going?” asked the oriole, as they passed. "we 're just taking some water to jim crow,” replied mrs. robin. “he's a thief and a scoundrel!” cried the oriole, indignantly. “that is true.” said mrs. robin, in a soft, pitiful voice; “but he is blind.” “let me help you.” exclaimed the oriole. “i'll carry this side of the cup, so it can't tip.” so jim crow, blind and helpless, sat in his nest day after day and week after week, while the little birds he had so cruelly bandit jim crow wronged brought him food and water and cared for him as generously as they could. and i wonder what his thoughts were don't you? r prairie-dog town prairie-dog town list of chapters . i the picnic ii prairie-dog town iii mr. bowko, the mayor iv presto digi, the magician v the home of the puff-pudgys vi teenty and weenty vii the mayor gives a luncheon viii on top of the earth again page . . . . . . . chapter i the picnic on n the great western prairies of dakota is a little town called edgeley, be- cause it is on the edge of civilization -- a very big word which means some folks have found a better way to live than other folks. the edgeley people have a good way to live, for there are almost seventeen wooden houses there, and among them is a school-house, a church, a store and a black- smith-shop. if people walked out their front doors they were upon the little street; if they walked out the back doors they were prairie-dog town on the broad prairies. that was why twinkle, who was a farmer's little girl, lived so near the town that she could easily walk to school. she was a pretty, rosy-cheeked little thing, with long, fluffy hair, and big round eyes that everybody smiled into when they saw them. it was hard to keep that fluffy hair from getting tangled; so mamma used to tie it in the back with a big, broad ribbon. and twinkle wore calico slips for school days and gingham dresses when she wanted to “dress up” or look especially nice. and to keep the sun from spotting her face with freckles, she wore sunbonnets made of the same goods as her dresses. twinkle's best chum was a little boy chubbins prairie-dog town called chubbins, who was the only child of the tired-faced school-teacher. chubbins was about as old as twinkle; but he was n't so tall and slender for his age as she was, being short and rather fat. the hair on his little round head was cut close, and he usu- ally wore a shirt-waist and “knickers,” with a wide straw hat on the back of his head. chubbins's face was very solemn. he never said many words when grown folks were around, but he could talk fast enough when he and twinkle were playing together alone. well, one saturday the school had a pic- nic, and twinkle and chubbins both went. on the dakota prairies there are no shade- trees at all, and very little water except what they they get by boring deep holes prairie-dog town in the ground; so you may wonder where the people could possibly have a picnic. but about three miles from the town a little stream of water (which they called a “river,” but we would call only a brook) ran slow and muddy across the prairie; and where the road crossed it a flat bridge had been built. if you climbed down the banks of the river you would find a nice shady place under the wooden bridge; and so here it was that the picnics were held. all the village went to the picnic, and they started bright and early in the morning, with horses and farm-wagons, and baskets full of good things to eat, and soon arrived at the bridge. there was room enough in its shade for prairie-dog town all to be comfortable; so they unhitched the horses and carried the baskets to the river bank, and began to laugh and be as merry as they could. twinkle and chubbins, however, did n't care much for the shade of the bridge. this was a strange place to them, so they decided to explore it and see if it was any different from any other part of the prairie. without telling anybody where they were going, they took hold of hands and trotted across the bridge and away into the plains on the other side. the ground here was n't flat, but had long rolls to it, like big waves on the ocean, so that as soon as the little girl and boy had climbed over the top of the first wave, or twinkle and chubbins start to explore prairie-dog town hill, those by the river lost sight of them. they saw nothing but grass in the first hollow, but there was another hill just be- yond, so they kept going, and climbed over that too. and now they found, lying in the second hollow, one of the most curious sights that the western prairies afford. what is it?" asked chubbins, wonder- ingly. “why, it's a prairie-dog town,” said twinkle. chapter ii prairie-dog town l ying in every direction, and quite filling the little hollow, were round mounds of earth, each one having a hole in the center. the mounds were about two feet high and as big around as a wash- tub, and the edges of the holes were pounded hard and smooth by the pattering feet of the little creatures that lived within. “is n't it funny!” said chubbins, staring at the mounds. “awful,” replied twinkle, staring too. “do you know, chub, there are an'mals prairie-dog town living in every single one of those holes ?” • what kind ?" asked chubbins. "well, they're something like squirrels, only they are n't squirrels,” she explained. “they're prairie-dogs." “don't like dogs," said the boy, looking a bit uneasy. “oh, they 're not dogs at all,” said twinkle; "they ’re soft and fluffy, and gentle.” “do they bark?” he asked. “yes; but they don't bite." “how d' you know, twink?" • papa has told me about them, lots of times. he says they're so shy that they run into their holes when anybody 's around; but if you keep quiet and watch, they'll wricht magined watching prairie-dog town stick their heads out in a few minutes." “let's watch," said chubbins. · all right,” she agreed. very near to some of the mounds was a raised bank, covered with soft grass; so the children stole softly up to this bank and lay down upon it in such a way that their heads just stuck over the top of it, while their bodies were hidden from the eyes of any of the folks of prairie-dog town. “are you comferble, chub?" asked the little girl. “yes.” “then lie still and don't talk, and keep your eyes open, and perhaps the an'mals will stick their heads up.” “all right,” says chubbins. prairie-dog town so they kept quiet and waited, and it seemed a long time to both the boy and the girl before a soft, furry head popped out of a near-by hole, and two big, gentle brown eyes looked at them curiously. withers chapter iii mr. bowko, the mayor d ear me!” said the prairie-dog, speak- ing almost in a whisper; “here are some of those queer humans from the village.” • let me see! let me see!” cried two shrill little voices, and the wee heads of two small creatures popped out of the hole and fixed their bright eyes upon the heads of twinkle and chubbins. . go down at once!” said the mother prairie-dog. “do you want to get hurt, you naughty little things?” da cinel ridhi " go down at oncei” prairie-dog town “oh, they won't get hurt,” said another deeper voice, and the children turned their eyes toward a second mound, on top of which sat a plump prairie-dog whose reddish fur was tipped with white on the end of each hair. he seemed to be quite old, or at least well along in years, and he had a wise and thoughtful look on his face. they're humans,” said the mother. “true enough; but they 're only human children, and would n't hurt your for the world,” the old one said. “that's so!” called twinkle. "all we want, is to get acquainted.” "why, in that case,” replied the old prai- rie-dog, "you are very welcome in our town, and we're glad to see you.” little ones prairie-dog town “thank you," said twinkle, gratefully. it did n't occur to her just then that it was wonderful to be talking to the little prairie- dogs just as if they were people. it seemed very natural they should speak with each other and be friendly. as if attracted by the sound of voices, little heads began to pop out of the other mounds—one here and one there—until the town was alive with the pretty creatures, all squatting near the edges of their holes and eyeing chubbins and twinkle with grave and curious looks. “let me introduce myself,” said the old one that had first proved friendly. “my name is bowko, and i'm the mayor and high chief of prairie-dog town.” prairie-dog town “don't you have a king?” asked twinkle. “not in this town,” he answered. “there seems to be no place for kings in this free united states. and a mayor and high chief is just as good as a king, any day.” “i think so, too,” answered the girl. “better!” declared chubbins. the mayor smiled, as if pleased. “i see you've been properly brought up,” he continued; “and now let me introduce to you some of my fellow-citizens. this,” pointing with one little paw to the hole where the mother and her two children were sitting, “is mrs. puff-pudgy and her family —teenty and weenty. mr. puff-pudgy, i regret to say, was recently chased out of town for saying his prayers backwards.' wagon right enrights mr. puff-pudgy would say his prayers backward prairie-dog town “how could he?" asked chubbins, much surprised. “he was always contrary,” answered the mayor, with a sigh, “and would n't do things the same way that others did. his good wife, mrs. puff-pudgy, had to scold him all day long; so we finally made him leave the town, and i don't know where he's gone to." “won't he be sorry not to have his little children any more?” asked twinkle, regret- fully. “i suppose so; but if people are contrary, and won't behave, they must take the conse- quences. this is mr. chuckledorf,” con- tinued the mayor, and a very fat prairie-dog bowed to them most politely; "and here is prairie-dog town mrs. fuzcum; and mrs. chatterby; and mr. sneezeley, and doctor dosem." all these folks bowed gravely and politely, and chubbins and twinkle bobbed their heads in return until their necks ached, for it seemed as if the mayor would never get through introducing the hundreds of prairie- dogs that were squatting around. "i'll never be able to tell one from the other,” whispered the girl; “'cause they all look exactly alike.” “some of 'em 's fatter,” observed chub- bins; “but i don't know which.” chapter iv presto digi, the magician a nd now, if you like, we will be pleased to have you visit some of our houses,” said mr. bowko, the mayor, in a friendly tone. “but we can't!” exclaimed twinkle. “we 're too big,” and she got up and sat the bank, to show him how big she really was when compared with the prai- rie-dogs. “oh, that does n't matter in the least," the mayor replied. “i'll have presto digi, our magician, reduce you to our size." down upon mr. bowko, the mayor prairie-dog town “can he?" asked twinkle, doubtfully. “our magician can do anything," de clared the mayor. then he sat up and put both his front paws to his mouth and made a curious sound that was something like a bark and something like a whistle, but not exactly like either one. then everybody waited in silence until a queer old prairie-dog slowly put his head out of a big mound near the center of the village. “good morning, mr. presto digi,” said the mayor. “morning!” answered the magician, blinking his eyes as if he had just awak- ened from sleep twinkle nearly laughed at this scrawny, prairie-dog town skinny personage; but by good fortune, for she did n't wish to offend him, she kept her face straight and did not even smile. “we have two guests here, this morn- ing,” continued the mayor, addressing the magician, “who are a little too large to get into our houses. so, as they are invited to stay to luncheon, it would please us all you would kindly reduce them to fit our underground rooms." “is that all you want?" asked mr. presto digi, bobbing his head at the children. “it seems to me a great deal,” answered twinkle. “i'm afraid you never could do it.” “wow!” said the magician, in a scornful voice that was almost a bark. “i can do if prairie-dog town that with one paw. come here to me, and don't step on any of our mounds while you 're so big and clumsy.” so twinkle and chubbins got up and walked slowly toward the magician, taking great care where they stepped. teenty and weenty were frightened, and ducked their heads with little squeals as the big children passed their mound; but they bobbed up again the next moment, being curious to see what would happen. when the boy and girl stopped before mr. presto digi's mound, he began waving one of his thin, scraggy paws and at the same time made a gurgling noise that was deep down in his throat. and his eyes rolled and twisted around in a very odd way. | mr. presto digi works magic prairie-dog town neither twinkle nor chubbins felt any effect from the magic, nor any different from ordinary; but they knew they were grow- ing smaller, because their eyes were getting closer to the magician. “is that enough ?” asked mr. presto, after a while. “just a little more, please," replied the mayor; i don't want them to bump their heads against the doorways." so the magician again waved his paw and chuckled and gurgled and blinked, until twinkle suddenly found she had to look up at him as he squatted on his mound. “stop!” she screamed; “if you keep on, we won't be anything at all!” “you're just about the right size," said prairie-dog town the mayor, looking them over with much pleasure, and when the girl turned around she found mr. bowko and mrs. puff-pudgy standing beside her, and she could easily see that chubbins was no bigger than they, and she was no bigger than chubbins. “kindly follow me,” said mrs. puff- pudgy, "for my little darlings are anxious to make your acquaintance, and as i was the first to discover you, you are to be my guests first of all, and afterward go to the mayor's to luncheon.” chapter v s° the home of the puff-pudgys twinkle and chubbins, still holding hands, trotted along to the puff- pudgy mound, and it was strange how rough the ground now seemed to their tiny feet. they climbed up the slope of the mound rather clumsily, and when they came to the hole it seemed to them as big as a well. then they saw that it was n't a deep hole, but a sort of tunnel leading down hill into the mound, and twinkle knew if they were careful they were not likely to slip or tumble down. ained wright png the ground now seemed rough to their tiny feet prairie-dog town mrs. puff-pudgy popped into the hole like a flash, for she was used to it, and waited just below the opening to guide them. so, twinkle slipped down to the floor of the tunnel and chubbins followed close after her, and then they began to go downward. “it's a little dark right here,” said mrs. puff-pudgy; but i've ordered the 'maid to light the candles for you, so you 'll see well enough when you 're in the rooms. ' ” said twinkle, walking along the hall and feeling her way by keeping her hand upon the smooth sides of the passage. “i hope you won't go to any trouble, or put on airs, just because we've come to visit you.” “thank you, prairie-dog town “if i do,” replied mrs. puffy-pudgy, “it's because i know the right way to treat com- pany. we've always belonged to the 'four hundred,' you know. some folks never know what to do, or how to do it, but that is n't the way with the puff-pudgys. hi! you, teenty and weenty-get out of here and behave yourselves! you 'll soon have a good look at our visitors." and now they came into a room so com- fortable and even splendid that twinkle's eyes opened wide with amazement. it was big, and of a round shape, and on the walls were painted very handsome por- traits of different prairie-dogs of the puff- pudgy family. the furniture was made of white clay, baked hard in the sun and dec- prairie-dog town orated with paints made from blue clay and l'ed clay and yellow clay. this gave it a gorgeous appearance. there was a round table in the middle of the room, and several comfortable chairs and sofas. around the walls were little brackets with candles in them, lighting the place very pleasantly. “sit down, please,” said mrs. puff-pudgy. “you 'll want to rest a minute before i show you around.” so twinkle and chubbins sat upon the pretty clay chairs, and teenty and weenty sat opposite them and stared with their mischievous round eyes as hard as they could. “what nice furniture,” exclaimed the girl. “yes,” replied mrs. puff-pudgy, looking mr. puff-pudgy's portrait prairie-dog town up at the picture of a sad-faced prairie-dog; “mr. puff-pudgy made it all himself. he was very handy at such things. it's a shame he turned out so obstinate." “ did he build the house too?” why, he dug it out, if that's what you mean. but i advised him how to do it, so i deserve some credit for it myself. next to the mayor's, it's the best house in town, which accounts for our high social standing. weenty! take your paw out of you're biting your claws again.” “i'm not!” said weenty. “and now," continued mrs. puff-pudgy, “if you are rested, i'll show you through the rest of our house." your mouth. prairie-dog town so, they got up and followed her, and she led the children through an archway into the dining-room. here was a cupboard full of the cunningest little dishes twinkle had ever seen. they were all made of clay, baked hard in the sun, and were of grace- ful shapes, and nearly as smooth and perfect as our own dishes. chapter vi a onwere po kids of bine , in teenty and weenty ll around the sides of the dining- room were pockets, or bins, in the wall; and these were full of those things the prairie-dogs are most fond of eating. clover-seeds filled one bin, and sweet roots another; dried mulberry leaves— that must have come from a long distance-- were in another bin, and even kernels of yellow field corn were heaped in one place. the puff-pudgys were surely in no danger of starving for some time to come. “ teenty! put back that grain of wheat,” the children examine the dining-room prairie-dog town commanded the mother, in a severe voice. instead of obeying, teenty put the wheat in his mouth and ate it as quickly as pos- sible. “the little dears are so restless,” mrs. puff-pudgy said to twinkle, “ that it is hard to manage them.” “they don't behave,” remarked chub- bins, staring hard at the children. · no, they have a share of their father's obstinate nature,” replied mrs. puff-pudgy. “excuse me a minute and i'll cuff them; it'll do them good.” but before their mother could reach them, the children found trouble of their own. teenty sprang at weenty and began to fight, because his brother had pinched him, prairie-dog town and weenty fought back with all his might and main. they scratched with their claws and bit with their teeth, and rolled over and over upon the floor, bumping into the wall and upsetting the chairs, and snarling and growling all the while like two puppies. mrs. puff-pudgy sat down and watched them, but did not interfere. “won't they hurt themselves?” asked twinkle, anxiously. "perhaps so," said the mother; “but if they do, it will punish them for being so naughty. i always let them fight it out, because they are so sore for a day or two afterward that they have to keep quiet, and then i get a little rest.' weenty set up a great howling, just then, prairie-dog town and teenty drew away from his defeated brother and looked at him closely. the fur on both of them was badly mussed up, and weenty had a long scratch on his nose, that must have hurt him, or he would n't have howled so. teenty's left eye was closed tight, but if it hurt him he bore the pain in silence. mrs. puff-pudgy now pushed them both into a little room and shut them up, saying they must stay there until bedtime; and then she led twinkle and chubbins into the kitchen and showed them a pool of clear water, in a big clay basin, that had been caught during the last rain and saved for drinking purposes. the children drank of it, and found it cool and refreshing. the quarrel chapter vii the mayor gives a luncheon dº on’t we have to go upstairs and out of doors?” asked twinkle. “oh, no,” replied the prairie-dog, “we have halls connecting all the different houses of importance. just follow me, and you can't get lost.” they might easily have been lost with- out their guide, the little girl thought, after they had gone through several winding passages. they turned this way and that, in quite a bewildering manner, and there were so many underground tunnels going prairie-dog town in every direction that it was a wonder mrs. puff-pudgy knew which way to go. you ought to have sign-posts,” said chubbins, who had once been in a city. “why, as for that, every one in the town knows which way to go," answered their guide; "and it is n't often we have visitors. last week a gray owl stopped with us for a couple of days, and we had a fine ball in her honor. but you are the first humans that have ever been entertained in our town, so it's quite an event with us. А few minutes later she said: “here we are, at the mayor's house,” and as they passed under a broad archway she blew out her candle, because the mayor's house was so brilliantly lighted. , ܕܕ aud the luncheon at the mayor's prairie-dog town “welcome!” said mr. bowko, greeting the children with polite bows. “you are just in time, for luncheon is about ready and my guests are waiting for you.” he led them at once into a big dining- room that was so magnificently painted with colored clays that the walls were as bright as a june rainbow. "how pretty!” cried twinkle, clapping her hands together in delight. “i'm glad you like it,” said the mayor, much pleased. “some people, who are lacking in good taste, think it 's a little overdone, but a mayor's house should be gorgeous, i think, so as to be a credit to the community. my grandfather, who de- signed and painted this house, was a very prairie-dog town fine artist. but luncheon is ready, so pray be seated." they sat down on little clay chairs that were placed at the round table. the mayor sat on one side of twinkle and mrs. puff- pudgy on the other, and chubbins was be- tween the skinny old magician and mr. sneezeley. also, in other chairs sat dr. dosem, and mrs. chatterby, and mrs. fuz- cum, and several others. it was a large com- pany, indeed, which showed that the mayor considered this a very important occasion. they were waited upon by several sleek prairie-dog maids in white aprons and white caps, who looked neat and respectable, and were very graceful in their motions. neither twinkle nor chubbins was very prairie-dog town hungry, but they were curious to know what kind of food the prairie-dogs ate, so they watched carefully when the different dishes were passed around. only grains and vegetables were used, for prairie-dogs do not eat meat. there was a milk-weed soup at first; and then yellow corn, boiled and sliced thin. afterward they had a salad of thistle leaves, and some bread made of barley. the dessert was a dish of the sweet, dark honey made by prairie-bees, and some cakes flavored with sweet and spicy roots that only prairie-dogs know how to find. the children tasted of several dishes, just to show their politeness; but they could n't eat much. chubbins spent most of his time watching mr. presto digi, who ate up prairie-dog town everything that was near him and seemed to be as hungry after the luncheon as he had been before. mrs. puff-pudgy talked so much about the social standing and dignity of the puff- pudgys that she could n't find time to eat much, although she asked for the recipe of the milk-weed soup. but most of the others present paid strict attention to the meal and ate with very good appetites. chapter viii on top of the earth again a fterward they all went into the big drawing-room, where mrs. fuz- cum sang a song for them in a very shrill voice, and mr. sneezeley and mrs. chatterby danced a graceful minuet that was much admired by all present. “we ought to be going home,” said twinkle, after this entertainment was “i'm afraid our folks will worry about us." “we regret to part with you,” replied the mayor; “but, if you really think you over. prairie-dog town > ought to go, we will not be so impolite as to urge you to stay.” “you 'll find we have excellent manners, added mrs. puff-pudgy. “i want to get big again,” said chubbins. “very well; please step this way,” said the mayor. so they all followed him through a long passage until they began to go upward, as if climbing a hill. and then a gleam of daylight showed just ahead of them, and a few more steps brought them to the hole in the middle of the mound. the mayor and mrs. puff-pudgy jumped up first, and then they helped twinkle and chubbins to scramble out. the strong sun- light made them blink their eyes for a 两 ​watan do you think we've been asleep?” prairie-dog town time, but when they were able to look around they found one or more heads of prairie-dogs sticking from every mound. . “now, mr. presto digi," said the mayor, when all the party were standing on the ground, "please enlarge our friends to their natural sizes again.” “that is very easy,” said the magician, with a sigh. “i really wish, mr. mayor, that you would find something for me to do that is difficult.” “i will, some time,” promised the mayor. just now, this is all i can require of you.” so the magician waved his paw and gurgled, much in the same way he had done before, and twinkle and chubbins began to grow and swell out until they were as large prairie-dog town as ever, and the prairie-dogs again seemed very small beside them. good-bye,” said the little girl, “and thank you all, very much, for your kind- ness to us.” “good-bye!” answered a chorus of small voices, and then all the prairie-dogs popped into their holes and quickly disappeared. twinkle and chubbins found they were sitting on the green bank again, at the edge of prairie-dog town. you think we've been asleep, chub?" asked the girl. “ 'course not,” replied chubbins, with a big yawn. “it's easy 'nough to know that, twink, 'cause i'm sleepy now!” "do the end prince mud-turtle list of chapters page i twinkle captures the turtle ii twinkle discovers the turtle talk iii the turtle tells of the corrugated can . giant . . iv prince turtle remembers his magic v twinkle promises to be brave vi twinkle meets the corrugated giant vii prince mud-turtle becomes prince melga . viii twinkle receives a medal chapter i twinkle captures the turtle ome ne hot summer day twinkle went down into the meadow to where the brook ran tinkling over its stones or rushed and whirled around the curves of the banks or floated lazily through the more wide and shallow parts. it was n't much of a brook, to tell the facts, for there were many places where an active child could leap across it. but it was the only brook for miles around, and to twinkle it was a never-ending source of delight. nothing amused or refreshed the magine wist ennight twinkle prepares to go wading prince mud-turtle just where the rickety wooden bridge crossed the brook, and at once sat down upon the grassy bank and took off her shoes and stockings. then, wearing her sun-bonnet to shield her face from the sun, she stepped softly into the brook and stood watching the cool water rush by her legs. it was very nice and pleasant; but twinkle never could stand still for very long, so she began to wade slowly down the stream, keeping in the middle of the brook, and being able to see through the clear water all the best places to put her feet. pretty soon she had to duck her head to pass under the fence that separated prince mud-turtle the meadow from the pasture lot; but she got through all right, and then kept on down the stream, until she came close to the deep pool. she could n't wade through this, as i have explained; so she got on dry land and crept on her hands and knees up to the edge of the bank, so as not to scare the fishes, if any were swimming in the pool. by good luck there were several fishes in the pool to-day, and they did n't seem to notice that twinkle was looking at them, so quiet had she been. one little fellow shone like silver when the sunshine caught his glossy sides, and the little girl watched him wiggling here and there with much delight. there was also a big, mud-colored prince mud-turtle fish that lay a long time upon the bottom without moving anything except his fins and the tip of his tail, and twinkle also discovered a group of several small fishes not over an inch long, that always swam together in a bunch, as if they belonged to one family. the girl watched these little creatures long and earnestly. the pool was all of the world these simple fishes would ever know. they were born here, and would die here, without ever getting away from the place, or even knowing there was a much bigger world outside of it. after a time the child noticed that the water had become a little muddy near the edge of the bank where she lay, and as prince mud-turtle it slowly grew clear again she saw a beau- tiful turtle lying just under her head and against the side of the bank. it was a little bigger around than a silver dollar, and instead of its shell being of a dull brown color, like that of all other mud- turtles she had seen, this one's back was streaked with brilliant patches of yellow and red. “i must get that lovely turtle!” thought twinkle; and as the water was shallow where it lay she suddenly plunged in her hand, grabbed the turtle, and flung it out of the water on to the bank, where it fell upon its back, wiggling its four fat legs desperately in an attempt to turn over. chapter ii twinkle discovers the turtle can talk a? t this sudden commotion in their water, the fishes darted away and disappeared in a flash. but twinkle did n't mind that, for all her interest was now centered in the struggling turtle. she knelt upon the grass and bent over to watch it, and just then she thought she heard a small voice say: “it's no use; i can't do it!" and then the turtle drew its head and legs between the shells and remained still. “good gracious!” said twinkle, much her mainkl. wright. zkright twinkle watching the turtle prince mud-turtle the tub to where it was dry, whichever he pleased. she did this because mamma said that turtles sometimes liked to stay in the water and sometimes on land, and twinkle's turtle could now take his choice. he could n't climb up the steep sides of the tub and so get away, and the little girl thoughtfully placed crumbs of bread and fine bits of meat, where the turtle could get them whenever he felt hungry. after that, twinkle often sat for hours watching the turtle, which would crawl around the bottom of the tub, and swim in the little pool of water and eat the food placed before him in an eager and amus- ing way. at times she took him in her hand and prince mud-turtle examined him closely, and then the mud- turtle would put out its little head and look at her with its bright eyes as curiously, as the girl looked at him. she had owned her turtle just a week, when she came to the tub one afternoon and held him in her hand, intending to feed her pet some scraps of meat she had brought with her. but as but as soon turtle put out its head it said to her, in a small but distinct voice: “good morning, twinkle.' she was so surprised that the meat dropped from her hand, and she nearly dropped the turtle, too. but she managed to control her astonishment, and asked, in a voice that trembled a little: as the prince mud-turtle “can you talk ?” “to be sure,” replied the turtle; “ but only on every seventh day – which of course is every saturday. on other days i cannot talk at all." “ then i really must have heard you speak when i caught you; did n't i?" i believe you did. i was so startled at being captured that i spoke before i thought, which is a bad habit to get into. but afterward i resolved not to answer when you questioned me, for i did n't know you then, and feared it would be unwise to trust you with my secret. even now i must ask you not to tell any one that you have a turtle that knows how to talk.' chapter iii the turtle tells of the corrugated giant why, hy, it's wonderful!” said twinkle, who had listened eagerly to the turtle's speech. “it would be wonderful, indeed, if i were but a simple turtle,” was the reply. “but are n't you a turtle?” “of course, so far as my outward ap- pearance goes, i'm a common little mud- turtle,” it answered; "and i think you will agree with me that it was rather clever in the corrugated giant to transform me into such a creature." prince mud-turtle • what's a corrulated giant?" asked twinkle, with breathless interest. “the corrugated giant is a monster that is full of deep wrinkles, because he has no bones inside him to hold his flesh up properly,” said the turtle. “i hated this giant, who is both wicked and cruel, i assure you; and this giant hated me in return. so, when one day i tried to destroy him, the monster transformed me into the helpless little being you see before you." “but who were you before you were transformed ?” asked the girl. “a fairy prince named melga, the seventh son of the fairy queen flutterlight, who rules all the fairies in the north part of this land.” prince mud-turtle " and how long have you been been a turtle?" " “fourteen years," replied the creature, with a deep sigh. “at least, i think it is fourteen years; but of course when one is swimming around in brooks and grub- bing in the mud for food, one is apt to lose all track of time.” i should think so, indeed,” said twinkle. “but, according to that, you're older than i am.” “much older,” declared the turtle. “i had lived about four hundred years before the corrugated giant turned me into a turtle.” “was your head gray?” she asked; “and did you have white whiskers?” .دولار ار queen flutterlight prince mud-turtle no, indeed!” said the turtle. “fairies are always young and beautiful in ap- pearance, no matter how many years they have lived. and, as they never die, they 're bound to get pretty old sometimes, as a matter of course. “of course!” agreed twinkle. mama has told me about the fairies. but must you always be a mud-turtle?” “that will depend on whether you are willing to help me or not,” was the answer. why, it sounds just like a fairy tale in a book !” cried the little girl. “yes,” replied the turtle, “these things have been happening ever since there were fairies, and you might expect some of our prince mud-turtle “i won't have to fight that carbolated giant, will i?” twinkle asked doubtfully. “he is n't carbolated; he's corrugated. no, you won't have to fight at all. when the proper time comes i'll do the fight- ing myself. but you may have to come with me to the black mountains, in order to set me free.” “ is it far?" she asked. · yes; but it won't take us long to go there," answered the turtle. “now, i'll tell you what to do and, if my advice no one will ever know you 've been mixed up with fairies and strange adventures.” “and collerated giants,” she added. corrugated,” he corrected. " it is too you follow prince mud-turtle late, this saturday, to start upon our journey, so we must wait another week. but next saturday morning do you come to me bright and early, as soon as you 've had breakfast, and then i'll tell you what to do.” “ all right,” said twinkle; “i won't forget." “in the mean time, do give me a little clean water now and then. i'm a mud- turtle, sure enough; but i'm also a fairy prince, and i must say i prefer clean water." “i'll attend to it,” promised the girl. “now put me down and run away,” continued the turtle. the turtle. “it will take me all the week to think over my plans, and decide exactly what we are to do." chapter iv prince turtle remembers his magic as as she twinki soon as winkle was nervous could be during all the week that followed this strange conversation with prince turtle. every day, as school was out, she would run to the tub to see if the turtle was still safe for she worried lest it should run away or disappear in some strange manner. and during school hours it was such hard work to keep her mind on her lessons that teacher scolded her more than once. the fairy imprisoned in the turtle's prince mud-turtle form had nothing to say to her during this week, because he would not be al- lowed to talk again until saturday; so the most that twinkle could do to show her interest in the prince was to give him the choicest food she could get and sup- ply him with plenty of fresh, clean water. at last the day of her adventure arrived, and as soon as she could get away from the breakfast table twinkle ran out to the tub. there was her fairy turtle, safe as could be, and as she leaned over the tub he put out his head and called good morning!” in his small, shrill voice. “good morning,” she replied. “ are you still willing and ready to assist me?" asked the turtle. magine wright. enngat the trip through the air prince mud-turtle pleased. “i thought i had n't forgotten my fairy wisdom.” • where are we?” asked the child. in the black mountains, of colirse,” was the reply. we've come a good way, but it did n't take us long to arrive, did it?” “ no, indeed," she answered, still gazing down the mountain side at the flower- strewn grass-land of the valleys. “this,” said the turtle, sticking his little head out of the shell as far as it would go, “is the realm of the fairies, where i used to dwell. those beautiful palaces you see yonder are inhabited by queen flutterlight and my people, and that grim castle at your left, standing on magin wnight enrique rub your eyelids with it” prince mud-turtle the side of the mountain, is where the corrugated giant lives.” “i don't see anything!” exclaimed twinkle; " that is, nothing but the valleys and the flowers and grass.” • true; i had forgotten that these things are invisible to your mortal eyes. but it is necessary that you should see all clearly, if you are going to rescue me from this terrible form and restore me to my natural shape. now, put me down upon the ground, for i must search for a par- ticular plant whose leaf has a magic virtue.” so twinkle put him down, and the little turtle began running around here and there, looking carefully at the different plants that grew amongst the grass on prince mud-turtle the mountain side. but his legs were so short and his shell-covered body so heavy, that he could n't move very fast; so presently he called for her to pick him up again, and hold him close to the ground while she walked among the plants. she did this, and after what seemed a long search the turtle suddenly cried out: stop! here it is! this is the plant i want." “which — this?” asked the girl, touch- ing a broad green leaf. “yes. pluck the leaf from the stem and rub your eyelids with it." she obeyed, and having rubbed her lids well with the leaf, she again opened her eyes and beheld the real fairyland. chapter v twinkle promises to be brave a in n the center of the valley was great cluster of palaces that appeared to be built of crystal and silver and mother- of-pearl, and golden filigree-work. so dainty and beautiful were these fairy dwellings that twinkle had no doubt for an instant but that she gazed upon fairyland. she could almost see, from the far mountain upon which she stood, the airy, gauze- winged forms of the fairies themselves, float- ing gently amidst their pretty palaces and moving gracefully along the jeweled streets. prod ng es ybbs maust ennight . that fence is enchanted” prince mud-turtle i have brought you to this place, and the reason why you alone are able to help me.” “gracious!” cried twinkle; “must i meet the carbonated giant?" “he's corrugated,” said the turtle. “i know he's something dreadful,” she wailed, “because he's so hard to pro- nounce." “you will surely have to meet him," declared the turtle; “but do not fear, i will protect you from all harm.” "well, a corralated giant's a mighty big person,” said the girl, doubtfully, “and a mud-turtle is n't much of a fighter. i guess i'll go home.” “that is impossible,” declared the turtle. “you are too far from home ever to get hunting the magic flower prince mud - turtle “i know what i'm doing, and if you. obey me i'll not be scalded but an instant; for then i'll resume my own form. remember that i'm a fairy, and fairies can't be killed so easily as you seem to think.” “won't it hurt you?” she inquired. only for a moment; but the reward will be so great that i won't mind an instant's pain. will you do this favor for me?" “i'll try,” replied twinkle, gravely. “ then i will be very grateful,” said prince turtle, “and agree to afterward send you home safe and sound, and as quickly as you came." chapter vi twinkle meets the corrugated giant nd now, we and while are waiting,'' continued the fairy turtle, “i want to find a certain flower that has wonder- ful powers to protect mortals from any injury. not that i fear i shall be unable to take care of you, but it's just as well to be on the safe side." better,” said twinkle, earnestly. “where's the flower?” “we'll hunt for it,” replied the turtle. so holding him in her hand in such a way that he could see all the flowers that prince mud-turtle so grew, the girl began wandering over the mountain side, and everything was beautiful around her that she would have been quite contented and happy had not the gray castle been before her to remind her constantly that she must face the terrible giant who lived within it. they found the flower at last — a pretty pink blossom that looked like a double daisy, but must have been something else, because a daisy has no magic power that i ever heard of. and when it was found, the turtle told her to pick the flower and pin it fast to the front of her dress; which she did. by that time the smoke began to roll out of the giant's chimney in big maginelwenright twinkle manages to squeeze through prince mud-turtle black clouds; so the fairy turtle said the giant must be getting dinner, and the pot would surely be boiling by the time they got to the castle. twinkle could n't help being a little afraid to approach the giant's stronghold, but she tried to be brave, and so stepped along briskly until she came to the fence of iron spikes. “you must squeeze through between two of the spikes,” said the turtle. she did n't think it could possibly be done; but to her surprise it was quite easy, and she managed to squeeze through the fence without even tearing her dress. then she walked up a great driveway, which was lined with white skulls of many prince mud-turtle sheep which the giant had eaten, to the front door of the castle, which stood ajar. “go in," said the turtle; so she boldly entered and passed down a high arched hall toward a room in the rear. “this is the kitchen,” said the turtle. “enter quickly, go straight to the kettle, and throw me into the boiling water.” twinkle entered quickly enough, but then she stopped short with a cry of amaze- ment; for there before her stood the ugly giant, blowing the fire with an immense pair of bellows. chapter vii prince mud-turtle becomes prince melga themen, and as as he giant was as big around as ten men, and as tall two; but, having no bones, he seemed pushed to- gether, so that his skin wrinkled up like the sides of an accordeon, or a photograph camera, even his face being so wrinkled that his nose stuck out between two folds of flesh and his eyes from between two more. in one end of the kitchen was the great fireplace, above which hung an iron kettle with a big iron spoon in it. and at the other end was a table set for dinner. g twinkle meets the corrugated giant prince mud-turtle eat little girls myself. i prefer mutton." twinkle's heart almost stopped beating when she heard these awful words. all she could do was to stand still and look im- ploringly at the giant. but she held the fairy mud-turtle clasped tight in her hand, so that the monster could n't see it. "well, what are you staring at?” shouted the corrugated giant, angrily. “blow up that fire this instant, slave!” he stood aside for her to pass, and twinkle ran at once to the fireplace. the pot was now before her, and within easy reach, and it was bubbling hot. in an instant she reached out her hand and tossed the turtle into the boiling water; and then, with a cry of horror at prince mud-turtle her own action, she drew back to see what would happen. the turtle was a fairy, all right; and he had known very well the best way to break the enchantment his enemy had put upon him. for no sooner had twinkle tossed him into the boiling pot than a great hissing was heard, and a cloud of steam hid for an instant the fireplace. as it cleared away, a handsome young prince stepped forward, fully armed; for the turtle was again a fairy, and the kettle had changed into a strong shield which he bore upon his left arm, and the iron spoon was now a long and glittering sword. then, os pe the prince kisses twinkle's hand chapter viii twinkle receives a medal the he giant gave a roar like that of a baby bull when he saw prince melga standing before him, and in a twinkling he had caught up a big club that stood near and began whirling it over his head. but before it could could descend, the prince ran at him and stuck his sword as far as it would go into the corrugated body of the giant. again the monster roared and tried to fight; but the sword had hurt him badly, and the prince pushed it into the evil creature again and again, prince mud - turtle then, after a fine feast had been pre- pared, and the little girl had eaten all she could of the fairy sweetmeats, she told prince melga she would like to go home again. “very well,” said he. “don't forget me, twinkle, although we probably shall never meet again. i'll send you home quite as safely as you came; but as your eyes have been rubbed with the magic maita-leaf, you will doubtless always see many strange sights that are hidden from other mortals." “i don't mind,” said twinkle. then she bade good-bye to the fairies, and the prince spoke a magic word. there was another rush of wind, and when it prince mud - turtle had passed twinkle found herself once more in the back yard at home. as she sat upon the grass rubbing her eyes and wondering at the strange adven- ture that had befallen her, mamma came out upon the back porch and said: “your turtle has crawled out of the tub and run away.” “yes," said twinkle, “i know; and i'm glad of it! but she kept her secret to herself. the end twinkle’s enchantment twinkles enchantmnt list of chapters . c c i twinkle enters the big gulch ii the rolling stone iii some queer acquaintances iv the dancing bear v the cave of the waterfall vi prince nimble vii the grasshoppers' hop page . · . . . . twinkle's enchantment the side of the gulch was but a little way from the house. it was like a big ditch, only the sides were not too steep to crawl down; and in the middle of the gulch were rolling hills and deep gullies, all covered with wild bushes and vines and a few flowering plants—very rare in this par! of the country. twinkle had n't lived very long in this section of dakota, for her father had just bought the new farm that lay beside the gulch. so the big ditch was a great delight to her, and she loved to wander through it and pick the berries and flowers that never grew on the plains above. to-day she crept carefully down the path back of the house and soon reached the twinkle goes into the gulch twinkle's enchantment bottom of the gulch. then she began to search for the berries; but all were gone in the places where she had picked them before; so she found she must go further along. she sat down to rest for a time, and by and by she happened to look up at the other side and saw a big cluster of bushes hanging full of ripe blueberries—just about half way up the opposite bank. she had never gone so far before, but if she wanted the berries for papa's supper she knew she must climb up the slope and get them; so she rose to her feet and began to walk in that direction. it was all new to the little girl, and seemed to her like a beautiful fairyland; but she had no idea that the gulch was enchanted. soon a beetle twinkle's enchantment crawled across her path, and as she stopped to let it go by, she heard it say: “look out for the line of enchantment! you 'll soon cross it, if you don't watch out." “what line of enchantment?" asked twinkle. “it's almost under your nose,” replied the little creature. “i don't see anything at all,” she said, after looking closely. “of course you don't,” said the beetle. “it is n't a mark, you know, that any one can see with their eyes; but it's a line of enchantment, just the same, and whoever steps over it is sure to see strange things and have strange adventures." twinkle's enchantment “i don't mind that,” said twinkle. “well, i don't mind if you don't,” re- turned the beetle, and by that time he had crept across the path and disappeared underneath a big rock. twinkle went on, without being at all afraid. if the beetle spoke truly, and there really was an invisible line that divided the common, real world from an enchanted country, she was very eager to cross it, as any little girl might well be. and then it occurred to her that she must have crossed the enchanted line before she met the beetle, for otherwise she would n't have understood his language, or known what he was talking about. children don't talk with beetles in the real world, as twinkle twin kle's enchantment knew very well, and she was walking along soberly, thinking this over, when suddenly a voice cried out to her: "be careful!' സവn chapter ii the rolling stone o" f course twinkle stopped then, and looked around to see who had spoken. but no one was anywhere in sight. so she started on again. “look out, or you 'll step on me!” cried the voice a second time. she looked at her feet very carefully. there was nothing near them but a big round stone that was about the size of her head, and a prickly thistle that she never would step on if she could possibly help it. “who's talking?" she asked. twinkle's enchantment “i just “why, i'm talking,” answered the voice. “who do you suppose it is?” “i don't know," said twinkle. can't see anybody at all.” then you must be blind,” said the voice. “i'm the rolling stone, and i'm about two inches from your left toes." “the rolling stone!" “that's it. that's me. i'm the rolling stone that gathers no moss. "you can't be," said twinkle, sitting down in the path and looking carefully at the stone. “why not?” “because you don't roll,” she said. “you ’re a stone, of course; i can see that, all right. but you 're not rolling.” cena: wright twinkle looks carefully at the stone twinkle's enchantment i roll, and so i 'm called the rolling stone. sometimes you talk, and so you 're the talk- ing girl.” “no; i'm twinkle,” she said. “that does n't sound like a name,” re- marked the stone. “it's what papa calls me, anyway,” ex- plained the girl. then, thinking she had lingered long enough, she added: “i'm going up the hill to pick those berries. since you can roll, suppose you go with me.' “what! up hill?” exclaimed the stone. “why not?” asked twinkle. “who ever heard of a stone rolling up hill? it 's unnatural!” “ any stone can roll down hill,” said the - . wait a minute” the little learning twinkle's enchantment so that we may help ourselves whenever we are hungry. i wish i had been born in such a country.” “mother won't churn until saturday,” said twinkle. “i know, 'cause i've got to help her, and i just hate butter-making!” “then i won't go to the farm to-day," replied the butterfly. “good-bye, little girl. if you think of it, leave a dish of butter around where i can get at it.' “all right,” said twinkle, and the butter- fly waved its wings and fluttered through the air into the gulch below. then the girl started up the hill and the stone rolled slowly beside her, groaning and grumbling because the ground was so rough. presently she noticed running across the twinkle's enchantment path a tiny book, not much bigger than a postage-stamp. it had two slender legs, like those of a bumble-bee, and upon these it ran so fast that all the leaves fluttered wildly, the covers being half open. “what's that?” asked twinkle, looking after the book in surprise. “that is a little learning,” answered the stone. “look out for it, for they say it 's a dangerous thing." “it's gone already,” said twinkle. “let it go. nobody wants it, that i know of. just help me over this bump, will you ?” so she rolled the stone over the little hillock, and just as she did so her atten- tion was attracted by a curious noise that sounded like “pop! pop! pop!” twinkle's enchantment “what's that?" she inquired, hesitating to advance. “only a weasel," answered the stone. “stand still a minute, and you 'll see him. whenever he thinks he's alone, and there's no one to hear, 'pop' goes the weasel." sure enough, a little animal soon crossed their path, making the funny noise at every step. but as soon as he saw that twinkle was staring at him he stopped popping and rushed into a bunch of tall grass and hid himself. and now they were almost at the berry- bushes, and twinkle trotted so fast that the rolling stone had hard work to keep up with her. but when she got to the bushes she found a flock of strange birds sitting twinkle's enchantment upon them and eating up the berries as fast as they could. the birds were not much bigger than robins, and were covered with a soft, velvety skin instead of with feathers, and they had merry black eyes and long, slender beaks curving downward from their noses, which gave to their faces a saucy expression. the lack of usual feathers might not have surprised twinkle so much had she not noticed upon the tail of each bird one single, solitary feather of great length, which was certainly a remarkable thing. “i know what they are,” she said, nod- ding her head wisely; "they ’re birds of a feather.” at this the birds burst into a chorus of laughter, and one of them said: twinkle's enchantment "perhaps you think that's why we flock together." “well, is n't that the reason?” she asked. “not a bit of it,” declared the bird. the reason we flock together is because we're too proud to mix with common birds, who have feathers all over them." “i should think you'd be ashamed, 'cause you 're so naked," she returned. “the fact is, twinkle,” said another bird, as he pecked at a blueberry and swallowed it, “the common things in this world don't amount to much. there are millions of birds on earth, but only a few of us that have but one feather. in my opinion, if you had but one hair upon your head you'd be much prettier.” twinkle's enchantment “i'd be more 'strord’nary, i'm sure,” said twinkle, using the biggest word she could think of. “there's no accounting for tastes," re- marked the rolling stone, which had just arrived at twinkle's side after a hard roll up the path. “for my part, i haven't either hair or feathers, and i'm glad of it.” the birds laughed again, at this, and as they had eaten all the berries they cared for, they now flew into the air and disap- peared. e اليه waight (enricho twinkle meets the dancing bear twinkle's enchantment i don't remember going to sleep any time; but perhaps i did, after all.” “don't let it worry you,” said the stone, making a queer noise that twinkle thought was meant for a laugh. "if you wake up, you 'll be sorry you did n't dream longer; and if you find you haven't been asleep, this will be a wonderful adventure." “that's true enough,” the girl answered, and again began filling her pail with the berries. “when i tell mama all this, she won't believe a word of it. and papa will laugh and pinch my cheek, and say i'm like alice in wonderland, or dorothy in the land of oz." just then she noticed something big and black coming around the bushes from the twinkle's enchantment “are you really a dancing bear?" asked twinkle, curiously. "i am, my dear,” he replied, bowing low and then folding his arms proudly as he leaned against a big rock that was near. “i wish there was some one here who could tell you what a fine dancer i am. it would n't be modest for me to praise myself, you know.' “i s'pose not,” said twinkle. “but if you’re a dancing bear, why don't you dance?” “there it is again!” cried the rolling stone. “this girl twinkle wants to keep every body moving. she would n't believe, at first, that i was a rolling stone, because i was lying quiet just then. and now she twinkle's enchantment in trying to save herself from falling she pushed hard against the stone and tumbled it from the pathway. “now you've done it!” growled the stone, excitedly, as it whirled around. "here i go, for i 've lost my balance and i can't help myself!” even as he spoke the big round stone was flying down the side of the gulch, bumping against the hillocks and bits of rock—sometimes leaping into the air and then clinging close to the ground, but going faster and faster every minute. “dear me," said twinkle, looking after it; "i'm afraid the rolling stone will get hurt.' “no danger of that,” replied the bear. “it's as hard as a rock, and not a thing in twinkle's enchantment the gulch could hurt it a bit. but our friend would have to roll a long time to get back here again, so we won't wait. come along, my dear.” he held out his paw again, and twinkle took it with one of her hands while she carried the pail with the other, and so man- aged to get over the rough ground very easily. य lam mahtinea wright enrico the dancing bear displays his talents twinkle's enchantment kindly take a seat, my dear,” said the bear, “and i'll try to amuse you, and at the same time prove that i can dance." so to the music of the waterfall the bear began dancing. he climbed upon the flat stone, made a graceful bow to twinkle, and then balanced himself first upon one foot and then upon the other, and swung slowly around in a circle, and then back again. “how do you like it ?” he asked. “i don't care much for it,” said twinkle. “i believe i could do better myself.” “but you are not a bear,” he answered. “girls ought to dance better than bears, you know. but not every bear can dance. if i had a hand-organ to make the music, instead of this waterfall, i might do better.' twinkle's enchantment " then i wish you had one,” said the girl. the bear began dancing again, and this time he moved more rapidly and shuffled his feet in quite a funny manner. he al- most fell off the slab once or twice, so anx- ious was he to prove he could dance. and once he tripped over his own foot, which made twinkle laugh. just as he was finishing his dance a strange voice cried out: "for bear!” and a green monkey sprang into the cave and threw a big rock at the performer. it knocked the bear off the slab, and he fell into the pool of water at the foot of the waterfall, and was dripping wet when he scrambled out again. the green monkey makes mischief chapter vi prince nimble g ood gracious!” said the little girl, looking around her; “i'm as good as lost in this strange place, and i don't know in what direction to go to get home again." so she sat down on the grass and tried to think which way she had come, and which way she ought to return in order to get across the gulch to the farm-house. “if the rolling stone was here, he might tell me,” she said aloud. " but i'm all alone.” twinkle meets prince nimble. twinkle's enchantment oh, no, you 're not,” piped a small, sweet voice. “i'm here, and i know much more than the rolling stone does." twinkle looked this way and then that, very carefully, in order to see who had spoken, and at last she discovered a pretty grasshopper perched upon a long blade of grass nearby “did i hear you speak?” she inquired. yes,” replied the grasshopper. "i'm prince nimble, the hoppiest hopper in hoptown.” " where is that?" asked the child. “why, hoptown is near the bottom of the gulch, in that thick patch of grass you see yonder. it's on your way home, so i'd be pleased to have you visit it.” twinkle's enchantment “won't i step on some of you?" she asked. “not if you are careful,” replied prince nimble. “grasshoppers don't often get stepped on. we're pretty active, you know.” “all right,” said twinkle. “i'd like to see a grasshopper village.” “then follow me, and i'll guide you,” said nimble, and at once he leaped from the blade of grass and landed at least six feet away. twinkle got up and followed, keeping her eye on the pretty prince, who leaped so fast that she had to trot to keep up with him. nimble would wait on some clump of grass or bit of rock until the girl came up, and then away he'd go again. "how far is it?" twinkle once asked him. chapter vii the grasshoppers' hop t winkle now began to fear she would n't get home to supper, for the sun started to sink into the big prairie, and in the golden glow it left behind, the girl beheld most beautiful palaces and castles suspended in the air just above the hollow in which she stood. splendid banners floated from the peaks and spires of these magnificent buildings, and all the windows seemed of silver and all the roofs of gold. “what city is that?" she asked, standing still, in amazement. twinkle's enchantment "good gracious! it's night,” said twinkle, with a start. “i ought to be at home and in bed this very minute!" “never mind,” said the grasshopper; "you can sleep any time, but this is our annual ball, and it's a great privilege to witness it." suddenly the grass all around them be- came brilliantly lighted, as if from a thou- sand tiny electric lamps. twinkle looked closely, and saw that a vast number of fire- flies had formed a circle around them, and were illuminating the scene of the ball. in the center of the circle were assembled hundreds of grasshoppers, of all sizes. the small ones were of a delicate green color, and the middle-sized ones of a deeper green, the bugs' orchestra twinkle's enchantment when the orchestra began to play, the music was more pleasing than you might suppose; anyway, the grasshoppers liked it, for they commenced at once to dance. the antics of the grasshoppers made twinkle laugh more than once, for the way they danced was to hop around in a circle, and jump over each other, and then a lady grasshopper and a gentleman grasshopper would take hold of hands and stand on their long rear legs and swing partners until it made the girl dizzy just to watch them. sometimes two of them would leap at once, and knock against each other in the air, and then go tumbling to the ground, where the other dancers tripped over them. twinkle's enchantment she saw prince nimble dancing away with the others, and his partner was a lovely green grasshopper with sparkling black eyes and wings that were like velvet. they did n't bump into as many of the others as some did, and twinkle thought they danced very gracefully indeed. and now, while the merriment was at its height, and waiter-grasshoppers were passing around refreshments that looked like grass seeds covered with thick molasses, a big cat suddenly jumped into the circle. at once all the lights went out, for the fire-flies fled in every direction; but in the darkness twinkle thought she could still hear the drone of the big bass fiddle and the flute-like trill of the ladybugs. the awakening twinkle's enchantment the next thing twinkle knew, some one was shaking her shoulder. a मे a a a an wake up, dear,” said her mother's voice. "it's nearly supper-time, and papa's waiting for you. and i see you have n't picked a single blueberry.” why, i picked 'em, all right,” replied twinkle, sitting up and first rubbing her eyes and then looking gravely at her empty tin pail. “they were all in the pail a few i wonder whatever became of them!” minutes ago. the end sugar-loaf mountain sugar-loaf mountain . son gr list of chapters page . i the golden key ii through the tunnel iii sugar-loaf city iv to the king's palace v princess sakareen vi the royal chariot vii twinkle gets thirsty viii after the runaway . . lens maingh wrigk. snrk he. twinkle and chubbins sugar-loaf mountain “i'm willing,” said twinkle. so they climbed up a little way, to where some big rocks lay flat upon the mountain, and sat themselves down upon a slab of rock while they rested and ate some of the sandwiches and cake. “why do they call it sugar-loaf'?” asked the girl, looking far up to the top of the mountain. “i don't know,” replied chubbins. “it's a queer name," said twinkle, thoughtfully. “that's so,” agreed the boy. they might as well have called it .gingerbread' or 'rock-salt,' or 'tea-biscuit.' they call mountains funny names, don't they?” “seems as if they do,” said twinkle. sugar-loaf mountain for ages, they had been sitting upon the edge of one big flat rock, with their feet resting against another that was almost as large. these rocks appeared to have been there as if some big giants in olden days had tossed them carelessly down and then gone away and left them. yet as the children pushed their feet against this one, the heavy mass suddenly began to tremble and then slide downward. “look out!” cried the girl, frightened to see the slab of rock move. “ we 'll fall and get hurt!" but they clung to the rock upon which they sat and met with no harm whatever. nor did the big slab of stone below them move very far from its original position. mainel unt « may be it's a treasure” sugar - loaf mountain “well, chub, we can't get it, anyway," said the practical twinkle; “so let's climb the mountain." she got down from her seat and ap- proached the door, and as she did so she struck a small bit of rock with her foot and sent it tumbling down the hill. then she stopped short with a cry of wonder, for under the stone she had kicked away was a little hole in the rock, and within this they saw a small golden key. • perhaps,” she said, eagerly, as she stooped to pick up the key, “this will un- lock the iron door." “let's try it!” cried the boy. sugar-loaf mountain “no treasure here," said the little girl. “p'raps it's farther in,” replied chub- bins. “shall we go down?” “won't it be dangerous ?" she asked. “don't know,” said chubbins, honestly. “it's been years and years since this door was opened. you can see for yourself. that rock must have covered it up a long time.” “there must be something inside," she declared, “or there would n't be any door, or any steps.” “that's so,” answered chubbins. "i'll go down and see. you wait.” “no; i'll go too,” said twinkle. “i'd be just as scared waiting outside as i would be in. and i'm bigger than you are, chub.” “you ’re taller, but you ’re only a month mainel wright snlight they enter the tunnel sugar-loaf mountain twinkle was just about to say they'd better go back, when the passage sudden- ly turned, and far ahead of them shone a faint light. this encouraged them, and they went on faster, hoping they would soon come to the treasure. "keep it up, twink,” said the boy. “it's no use going home yet.” “we must be almost in the middle of sugar-loaf mountain,” she answered. "oh, no; it's an awful big mountain," said he. “but we've come quite a way, have n't we?” “i guess mama'd scold, if she knew where we are." “mamas,” said chubbins, “should n't know everything, 'cause they'd only worry. sugar-loaf mountain and if we don't get hurt i can't see as there's any harm done." ibut we must n't be naughty, chub.” “the only thing that's naughty,” he re- plied, “is doing what you're told not to do. and no one told us not to go into the middle of sugar-loaf mountain." just then they came to another curve in their path, and saw a bright light ahead. it looked to the children just like day- light; so they ran along and soon passed through a low arch and came out into well! the scene before them was so strange that it nearly took away their breath, and they stood perfectly still and stared as hard as their big eyes could pos- sibly stare. chapter iii sugar-loaf city sa ugar-loaf mountain was hollow in- side, for the children stood facing a great dome that rose so far above their heads that it seemed almost as high as the sky. and underneath this dome lay spread out the loveliest city imaginable. there were streets of houses, and buildings with round domes, and slender, delicate spires reaching far up into the air, and turrets beautifully ornamented with carvings. and all these were white as the driven snow and sparkling in every part like millions of sugar-loaf mountain children — who walked along the streets just as briskly as we do; only all were made of sugar. there were several differ- ent kinds of these sugar people. some, who strutted proudly along, were evidently of pure loaf-sugar, and these were of a most respectable appearance. others seemed to be made of a light brown sugar, and were more humble in their manners and seemed to hurry along as if they had business to at- tend to. then there were some of sugar so dark in color that twinkle suspected it was maple-sugar, and these folks seemed of less account than any of the others, being ser- vants, drivers of carriages, and beggars and idlers. carts and carriages moved along the sugar-loaf mountain streets, and were mostly made of brown sugar. the horses that drew them were either pressed sugar or maple-sugar. in fact, everything that existed in this won- derful city was made of some kind of sugar. where the light, which made all this place so bright and beautiful, came from, twinkle could not imagine. there was no sun, nor were there any electric lights that could be seen; but it was fully as bright as day and everything showed with great plainness. while the children, who stood just inside the archway through which they had en- tered, were looking at the wonders of sugar- loaf city, a file of sugar soldiers suddenly came around a corner at a swift trot. sugar-loaf mountain “halt!” cried the captain. he wore a red sugar jacket and a red sugar cap, and the soldiers were dressed in the same manner as their captain, but without the officer's yellow sugar shoulder-straps. at the command, the sugar soldiers came to a stop, and all pointed their sugar muskets at twinkle and chubbins. “surrender!” said the captain to them. surrender, or i'll — i'll —" he hesitated. “what will you do?” said twinkle. “i don't know what, but something very dreadful,” replied the captain. “but of course you 'll surrender.” “i suppose we'll have to," answered the girl. sugar-loaf mountain “that's right. i'll just take you to the king, and let him decide what to do,” he added pleasantly. so the soldiers surrounded the two chil- dren, shouldered arms, and marched away down the street, twinkle and chubbins walking slowly, so the candy folks would not have to run; for the tallest soldiers were only as high as their shoulders. “this is a great event,” remarked the captain, as he walked beside them with as much dignity as he could muster. was really good of you to come and be arrested, for i have n't had any excite- ment in a long time. the people here are such good sugar that they seldom do anything wrong.” " it sugar-loaf mountain stand back!” cried the captain, and the sugar soldiers formed a row between the children and the sugar citizens, and kept the crowd from getting too near. then the captain led twinkle and chubbins through a high sugar gateway and up a broad sugar walk to the entrance of the building “must be the king's castle,” said chub- bins. “the king's palace,” corrected the captain, stiffly. “what's the difference?" asked twinkle. but the sugar officer did not care to ex- plain. brown sugar servants in plum-colored sugar coats stood at the entrance to the his majesty the king sugar-loaf mountain “i hope so,” said the girl, a little doubt- fully. “then there's no harm in our being friendly while you 're here. and as you 've promised to go back to your own world soon, i have no objection to showing you around the town. you'd like to see how we live, would n't you?” “very much,” said twinkle. order my chariot, captain brittle,” said his majesty; and the captain again made one of his lowly bows and strutted from the room to execute the command. the king now introduced chubbins and twinkle to the sugar ladies and gentlemen who were present, and all of them treated the children very respectfully. sugar-loaf mountain no one here suspects it, and i'm considered very respectable; but the truth is, i'm just coated over with frosting, and not solid sugar at all.” “what's inside you?” 'asked chubbins. that," answered the man, “i do not know. i've never dared to find out. for if i broke my frosting to see what i'm stuffed with, every one else would see too, and i would be disgraced and ruined.” perhaps you ’re cake,” suggested the boy. · perhaps so," answered the man, sadly. “please keep my secret, for only those who are solid loaf-sugar are of any account in this country, and at present i am re- ceived in the best society, as you see.” sugar-loaf mountain - what you ever suspected the truth; but i'm only a sham, and it worries me dreadfully.” "i don't understand what you mean," said twinkle. “your sugar seems as pure and sparkling as that of the king.” “ things are not always what they seem," sighed the sugar lady. see of me, on the outside, is all right; but the fact is, i'm hollow ! ” “dear me!” exclaimed twinkle, in sur- prise. “how do you know it?” "i can feel it,” answered the lady, im- pressively “if you weighed me you'd find i'm not as heavy as the solid ones, and for a long time i've realized the bitter truth that i'm hollow. it makes me very un- happy, but i don't dare confide my secret sugar-loaf mountain to anyone here, because it would disgrace me forever.' "i would n't worry,” said the child. they 'll never know the difference.” “ not unless i should break,” replied the sugar lady. “but if that happened, all the world could see that i'm hollow, and instead of being welcomed in good society i'd become an outcast. it's even more respectable to be made of brown sugar, than to be hollow; don't you think so?” “i'm a stranger here,” said twinkle ; “so i can't judge. but if i were you, i would n't worry unless i got broke; and you may be wrong, after all, and as sound as a brick!" sugar-loaf mountain followed. then the children discovered men that lord cloy was the frosted man and princess sakareen was the sugar lady who had told twinkle that she was hollow. there was quite a crowd of sugar people at the gates to watch the departure of the royal party, and a few soldiers and police- were also present to keep order. twinkle sat beside the king, and chubbins sat on the same seat with the princess sakareen, while lord cloy was obliged to sit with the coachman. when all were ready the driver cracked a sugar whip (but did n't break it), and away the chariot dashed over a road paved with blocks of cut loaf-sugar. the air was cool and pleasant, but there sugar-loaf mountain was a sweet smell to the breeze that was peculiar to this strange country. sugar birds flew here and there, singing sweet songs, and a few sugar dogs ran out to bark at the king's chariot as it whirled along. “ have n't you any automobiles in your country?” asked the girl. “ no,” answered the king. “anything that requires heat to make it go is avoided here, because heat would melt us and ruin our bodies in a few minutes. auto- mobiles would be dangerous in sugar-loaf city.” “they ’re dangerous enough anywhere,” she said. • what do you feed to your horses?” sugar-loaf mountain “they eat a fine quality of barley-sugar that grows in our fields,” answered the king. “you ’l “ you 'll see it presently, for we will drive out to my country villa, which is near the edge of the dome, opposite to where you came in.” first, however, they rode all about the city, and the king pointed out the public buildings, and the theaters, and the churches, and a number of small but pretty public parks. and there was a high tower near the center that rose half-way to the dome, it was so tall. “ are n't you afraid the roof will cave in some time, and ruin your city?” twinkle asked the king. “oh, no,” he answered. we never la oooo way a sugar-loaf farm sugar-loaf mountain six sugar when the luncheon was over, they en- tered the carriage again and were driven back towards the city. on the way the horses became restless, and pranced around in so lively a manner that the sugar coachman could scarcely hold them in. and when they had nearly reached the palace a part of the harness broke, and without warning all six horses dashed madly away. the chariot smashed against a high wall of sugar and broke into many pieces, the sugar people, as well as twinkle and chubbins, being thrown out and scattered in all directions. the little girl was not at all hurt, nor was chubbins, who landed on top the wall and had to climb down again. but sugar-loaf mountain a dis- the king had broken one of the points off his crown, and sat upon the ground gazing sorrowfully at his wrecked chariot. and lord cloy, the frosted man, had smashed one of his feet, and everybody could now see that underneath the frosting was a material very like marshmallow - covery that was sure to condemn him as unfit for the society of the solid sugar-loaf aristocracy of the country. but perhaps the most serious accident of all had befallen princess sakareen, whose left leg had broken short off at the knee. twinkle ran up to her as soon as she could, and found the princess smiling happily and gazing at the part of the broken leg which she had picked up. kiel the princess' leg had broken sugar-loaf mountain “see here, twinkle,” she cried; “it's as solid as the king himself! i'm not hollow at all. it was only my imagination.' “i'm glad of that,” answered twinkle; “but what will you do with a broken leg?” “oh, that's easily mended,” said the princess. “all i must do is to put a little syrup on the broken parts, and stick them together, and then sit in the breeze until it hardens. i'll be all right in an hour from now." it pleased twinkle to hear this, for she liked the pretty sugar princess. y n sugar-loaf mountain they exchanged good-byes with all their sugar friends, and thanked the sugar king for his royal entertainment. then captain brittle and his soldiers escorted the chil- dren to the arch way through which they had entered sugar-loaf city. they had little trouble in going back, although the tunnel was so dark in places that they had to feel their way. but finally daylight could be seen ahead, and a few minutes later they scrambled up the stone steps and squeezed through the little doorway. there was their basket, just as they had left it, and the afternoon sun was shining softly over the familiar worldly landscape, which they were both rejoiced to see again. mm norm where's the key?” asked twinkle sugar-loaf mountain chubbins closed the iron door, and as soon as he did so the bolts shot into place, locking it securely. “where's the key ?” asked twinkle. “i put it into my pocket,” said chub- bins, “but it must have dropped out when i tumbled from the king's chariot.” “that's too bad,” said twinkle; “for now no one can ever get to the sugar city again. the door is locked, and the key is on the other side." “ never mind,” said the boy. • we've seen the inside of sugar-loaf mountain once, and that'll do us all our lives. come on, twink. let's go home and get a drink!" the end university of minnesota wils b ot baum, l. frank (lyman frank), - . twinkle and chubbins; their astonishing p brownies stories and other university of virginia library ادل x palmer cox ac. wat is opp from his graud poa watan christmas name wren without tten without assistance fany. / vichard cahoon watts die / library of the university of virginia pocoonose bsity of v f virgt unives ginia. : od presented by richard cahoon watts nh the children “going through." palmer cox. brownies and other aner stories illustrated nm by palmer cox. the stories told in prose by e. veale, the fairy tales authoress. chicago: m. a. donohue & co. nov ' pz n br oz copyr the brownies' visitors. the isle of fun and frolic was the home of the brownie boys and girls, and no one can e'er deny that the island was well named. these youngsters had no thought but to run and play, to sleep and to eat. they loved the flowers and they loved the birds—and the butterflies led them lively chases in their games of hide and seek. but one day came a change in their lives, and they learned that others lived in the world besides themselves. little peak hat discovered it, as she stood on the rock looking out toward the sea. it was a great vessel ploughing the waves, its white sails flapping in the winds, and as she watched she saw it moving steadily to- ward the island. all the brownies came rush: ing at her call, and their wonder knew no limit. on came the vessel, closer and closer; the brown- ies watched as long as they dared, and then, fearful of being seen, hurried away to hide them- selves where they might occasionally take a peep. what great big creatures were landing on the island, and what lord voices they hed as they called to each other. it sounded to the brownies like the roar of distant thunder. all day long the brownies' visitors. the little people remained hidden, but when night came they stole from their hiding places to talk it over. what kind little hearts these brown- ies had. all the nice pieces of wood should be wan piled up for these strange people's comfort, the best grapes should be saved for them, they would coax the fish to nibble, and do all in their power to maka these queer guests happy. indeed they : . chan mallinen n altele ei tahtunuing the fairy queen's palace. all the brownies had promised to help, and when a brownie undertakes a thing he works as busily as a beaver until it is accom- plished. now this is what they determined to do. the fairy queen's palace had been destroyed — a wind that had swept through the forest carrying trees before it, and spreading ruin as it traveled, had lifted up the fairy queen's home and dashed it all to pieces. poor little queen; how sorrowful she felt to lose the pretty house where the royal family of fairyland had so long w mt the fairy queen's pala. but true to their nature the brownies came to the rescue, promising to build a palace far more beautiful than the one that was lost. such help- ful little creatures as the brownies never lived. no chance of doing good to one in trouble ever escapes these generous little fellows, and certain- ly this was a work to be hailed with much joy. for a long while before they commenced, you could see them gathered in groups, discussing how and where they shuuld begin, and how they could make the palace more beautiful. they were a funny looking set when they started out for the place where the house was to be built. each one carried something. one little fellow had an axe; another, hammer and nails, one the mortar hod, and still another the plane, while the master worker could be seen with the square in his hand giving directions to the whole crowd. they commenced their work one beautiful moonlight night. brownies. you know, work when the darkness has put all the world to sleep. what a time they had getting all the things to- gether. arriving at the spot, some fell to chop ping wood, while others mixed the mortar and . rigged up the pulleys by which they were to raise the fairy queen's palace. the stuff to the roof. how the hammers rang out as they struck the bright little nails. the grind- stone went spinning around so fast it hummed quite a tune, as the carpenter sharpened his tools, for the brownies had so much to do they must work their very fastest. the plasterer mixed the mortar; the painters made their brushes fly over the house; the masons worked with a will at the chimney, and the paperhanger's scissors shut with a click as he cut off the paper for the palace walls, which were to be so prettily decorated. when morning came, all was finished, and the brownies felt proud and happy as they looked at their night's work. they worked as if by magic, and almost before you could think, the palace rose high in the air. the brownies don't have accidents very often, but they must have been nervous this time, for while four or five of them were seated on a "jack" painting the outside, over went the paint, brushes and all, and the little fellows who were standing on a ladder underneath had an unexpected bath. they were only sorry to think that they had left their camera at home, for they would have been happy to give the children a picture of the house as it looked when it was finished. the brownies' plum pudding. although they were tired, and their eyes were growing heavy with sleep, they felt repaid for all their efforts, especial- ly when the fairy queen seemed the proudest and happiest of them all. she thanked them heartily for their loving' service, and when they had seen her safely settled in her new home, they all disappeared, to be seen no more until there was more good work to be done. the brownies' plum pudding. 'twas the evening of the twenty-fourth of december. the clouds had been gray and heavy all day, and now the snow flakes were beginning to fall thick and fast, so fast that already quite a white blanket was spread over the earth. this did not please the brownies; they had work_to do, and a snow storm would hinder rather than help its progress. the brownies' plum pudding. the brownies' plum pudding. somewhere in the woods, nobody knew where, for the brownies kept the secret all to them- selves, was a great big christmas pudding full of plums and citrons, raisins and spices, and the brownies wanted to bring that pudding home. it was so big and heavy that they had built something that made one think of a raft or per- haps a ladder with the sides very far apart. how they put the pudding on it would be hard to tell, but they managed it and bravely they struggled with their burden perched on their little shoul- ders. they took turns so that no one got too tired, but all were glad when they were safely out of the woods and had landed the pudding in the hollow of the old tree back of the school house, for this had been the spot chosen for the grand feast of the morrow. then to their homes they skipped away to dream of the good times in store for them, and if their backs did ache and their poor little feet felt sore and weary, the vision of the pudding dancing in their heads made them forget all their woes. and what a treat they had on christmas day! the pudding was so good, and the day was so merry that the brownies wished, as they shut their sleepy eyes, that christmas came more the raid of the insects than once a year. they made up their minds that they would never let a christmas go by without having a plum pudding, for it was the best thing they had ever tasted. the raid of the insects. she was queen of the garden, this beautiful creature, and all the flowers loved her. each vied with the other in trying to please her. the tall white lilies held their heads still higher as she passed by, the tiny bud opened its curled petals further and further until it burst, into a the raid of the insects. glorious rose, the blue bells tinkled their sweet- est music, and the shy, gentle mignonette shed . palmer cox forth its loveliest perfume—every flower did all in its power for her sake. the raid of the insects. and the queen loved all the flowers, too. she begged the sun to shine down upon them, and she asked the morning dews to bathe their bright faces, and the gentle rains to give them plenty to drink. at last there came a day when the lilies hung their heads; blue bell and heart ease fell from their stems; the poppies that had gleamed so brightly in the sunlight covered their faces and shone no more, and all the garden seemed full of gloom and sadness. the insects had done it all. with their sharpest weapons they had attacker the flowers, making them one by one yield to their violence. how this grieved the flower queen; but at last she thought of the brownies, and she smiled, the raid of the insects. for well she knew these clever little workers. she found a trumpet flower that had escaped the . r w ra palmier cgi cruel foe, and blew one gentle blast. quick as a wink the brownies came running. their faces the brownies' wedding gift. looked sad when they heard the trouble, but they promised to do all in their power to help their gentle queen, and bravely they went to work. they took turns at the grindstone and sharpened their spears and swords and axes until they glistened in the moonlight, and the insects might well have trembled had they seen them. in the morning when the sun peeped out to waken the flowers, the insects once more started on their raid, but they were not prepared for what followed. curled up underneath flowers and bushes hid the brownies. out they rushed, and war raged fiercely; but the brownies came off the victors, and the bees and the beetles, the hornets, ants and caterpillars lay dead upon the ground. the brownies' wedding gift. once upon a time, long, long years ago, there lived somewhere the other side of the atlantic ocean, a maiden who was as beautiful as an angel, and better than being beautiful, she was also good and gentle. the brownies' wedding gift. elsie and her father lived alone, for her mother had died many years before, and this beautiful maid kept her father's house, and man- aged all things like some wise and noble queen. the poor people of the village loved her, for it was her gentie hands that brought broths and strengthening food to the sick mothers, her beau- tiful eyes that read comforting words to the old women, and in her untiring arms many a poor little baby had been rocked to the land of dreams. there was somebody in the village who loved her better than all the people put together, but he dared not tell her, for he was poor, very poor, and she was rich as a young princess. now it happened that the maiden loved the youth as much as he loved her, but she was too proud to show her love, because she thought that the young man did not care for her. one day great changes came to the home of elsie. her father had gone on a journey, and when he returned he did not come alone but brought with him a wife, and she brought with her two proud and unlovely daughters. it was a great trial for the maiden; she and her father had always been so happy together, and she wept when she thought of how little of his time and love could now be spared for her. well might she weepforthe new mother set right to work to put her daughters in the place of aza with cruel words and taunts com- pelled her to wait upon these step-sis- ters, until her kind and untrue, were carried to the father, and the brownies' wedding gift. when his wrath was turned upon her she could stand it no longer, and made up her mind to leave her home forever. one night, when they all had gone to a ball, so ross - - : v gi to which elsie also had been invited, but from which she had been compelled to stay away be- cause her beauty so far out-shone the gaudy make-up of the sisters—she packed a few treas- the brownies' wedding gift. ures, and with many tears and farewell glances, for the spot she loved so well, she went alone into the great, wide world. it chanced that earnest, the youth who loved the maiden with all his heart, had grown restless and unhappy thinking of his sweetheart, and yet not daring to tell her his love, and he had come to her home thinking that perhaps he might find comfort in being thus near her. he wandered up and down, when all at once he stopped, looked around him, and then rubbed. his eyes—for he surely must have been dream- ing; this could not be elsie who stood before him. but it was she and no other—poor elsie leaving her home, sad and broken-hearted. pride no longer held the youth speechless, and sorrow made elsie see the tenderness and sympathy in her lover's eyes. oh, how happy she was as she poured out to him all her troubles and found comfort and rest in his loving arms. while the lovers stood together planning a ife for the future—things had been entirely, taken out of their hands by the good little brownies. they had known elsie, and worshipped her for her goodness, and now the time had comow the brownies and the farmer. when they might show their appreciation; and while the lovers talked, they had gathered silently around them. then the queen of the brownies spoke: “good and lovely maiden, and noble youth,” said she, “we know of your trou- bles, and we want to help you. listen to what i tell you, and you shall have riches in abundance. go, when i have finished talking, enter the briarly woods. there, in the hollow tree, you will find a casket filled with bright and shining gold; take it, spend it wisely, and take with it the blessings and good will of the brownies.” it was a wonderful wedding present, and filled the lovers' hearts with gratitude. the brownies and the farmer. " brownies were sorrowful, more sorrowful ban they had ever been in their lives before, and that is saying a great deal; for brownies, you know, live such a long, long while, and the saddest part of all was that there seemed no way out of their trouble. the brownies who lived in the apple orchard saw it first, and when they the brownies and the farmer. told cheir friends, all with one voice cried out: “the wrong must be righted!” now this was the trouble. farmer grump had bought the old clover farm, where the brownies had lived happily for years, and now each day was full of trials and discomforts, for this cruel farmer seemed always to be finding a way to make the life of his stock miserable. the cows had great boards tied over their eyes—so large that they could not see, and so heavy that when the poor creatures went to crop the grass, bang! bang! went the board against their noses. the pigs suffered, too, into their noses had been driven rings that almost made them bleed when rooting in the ground. and what happi- ness do you suppose life holds for a pig if he cannot root? the brownies liked the donkey, for he seemed such a patient, long suffering animal; but the farmer's children made his life wretched—they beat him, they stoned him, they even took their naughty little feet and kicked him. the sheep suffered, and the horses, as they dragged the plough through the hard earth or hauled heavy loads along the sandy roads, felt the brownies and the farmer. constantly the slash, slash of the farmer's cow- hide whip. everything on the place suffered; so, do you wonder the brownies looked sorrowful? at last they could stand it no longer, and all met one night at the "seek us further” tree, for sale without win reserve, ("horned il cattle, pics with coats. domestic fowlis where the oldest brownie lived. he had gotten up in the limbs, so that all might hear, or, at any rate, see him, and announced that they had long witnessed these scenes of cruelty in silence, but now something must be done, and they wanted all the brownies to help. he thought it the brownies and the farmer. , w would be a good plan if they went when no one was around, and whispered in the sufferers' ears that the time had come when they must rebel. they must stand up for their rights. "hurrah!” and “three cheers!” cried the brownies in chorus, as they waved their funny little hats. the farmer heard the noise, but he thought it was only the wind blowing through the trees in the apple orchard. the meeting was dismissed, and quietly and carefully the brownies went about their work- and they did it well, too; for the next morning, when the farmer went to harness his horses, and, as usual, brought the cruel whip down on their back-ha found that two could play at the same game, for up went the horses' heels, and sorry trouble farmer grump had to get them har- nessed. then the pigs took their turn. they showed their long white tusks, and acted so savagely that the farmer left them in fright. even ned, the patient donkey, kicked up his heels, gal- loped away, and no one could come near him. everything seemed possessed with the sama spirit, and farmer grump went to his breakfast the most puzzled man you could possibly find, the brownies and the farmer. but the animals won the day, for that very after- noon the farmer went to town, and when he came back he was carrying a large board painted in great big letters, telling all the neighbors that his stock was to be sold the very next day. this he hung up by the roadside, and as it was market day, the farmers learned the news, as their tired palmerco horses jogged slowly along towards home. they decided that they would attend the sale, and were on hand bright and early the next day. the old farm place was crowded with buyers, anxious to get horses and pigs and other animals for little money. how happy the brownies were as they crowded around, for the new owners had thrown the brownies and the farmer. tu wy wiki wum aw the brownies' ride the cruel devices of farmer grump away. they were happy when they thought of the good homes these poor animals had found—but gladdest of all were they when they thought of ned, for widow love had bought him to cart to market the beautiful butter that she made every week. they knew that she would be very kind and gentle to their old friend. that he would have the softest of straw for his bed at night, and the finest oats for his dinner, while there would be no cruel children to beat and kick him and make his life miserable. ned lived a long while to enjoy this beautiful home, and the brownies always found him a faithful servant. the brownies' ride. “are you in the humor for a lark, boys?” it was dot, the very smallest, and, as everybody knows, the most mischievous of all the brownies, who said it. “we are that!” was the reply. they were coming home from school, these brownie boys, and dinner pails and books were the brownies' ride. thrown down at once while they crowded around dot to hear of the prospective fun. “you know that clover field to the right of we rex sc sle he ako na door pemain the big stone house,” he began. “well, some time ago grimes put up a sign, which read: horses taken to pasture.' you should see the luck he has had. i guess as many as a dozen.. the brownies' ride. horges are running around in that pasture field. it's bad for them to do nothing but eat all day, so i thought we would be doing a good thing for them, and for ourselves too, if to-night-you know it is moon-light-we borrow these horses and go for a ride." you should have heard the yells of delight with which this scheme was greeted. nobody but approved, except, of course, croak; he al- ways objects to everything, the plan was for them to meet at the school- house at ten o'clock, then go together to the pasture lot. a number of the brownies were to bring ropes, which they would tie around the horses' necks, and haul them into the road. the hour came; the brownies met, and the work began. they had forgotten saddles, but some of them crawled through the windows in the harness maker's shop and came back loaded with both saddles and bridles. such a time as they had getting them on, and so many brownies had been invited that there were not enough horses to go around; so two, and sometimes three saddles must be put on one horse. all was ready at last, and off they started. it was so funny to see them. some of them actually the quarrel. hung on to the stirrup straps. things went pretty smoothly at first, but, oh my! what a difference by and by. saddles slipped, bridles came undone, and the brownie boys, and even the poor horses, went over and rolled around in the mud. but the bitter must be taken with the sweet, so nobody dared complain. when the ride was over, and the horses and harness were put in their proper places, everybody pronounced it one of the best frolics he had ever had in his life. the quarrel. they were rivals—the gobbler and the gander. their home was at the brookside farm, and it would be hard to find a prettier home than this. it was a big old-fashioned house, and it had stood for years and years. the brook ran along on one side, and day after day it babbled as it flowed, and the little daisies lifted up their pretty heads to listen to its merry songs, and when night came their drowsy heads dropped as the brook murmured a low, sweet lullaby. the quarrel. the gander had been enjoying the cool, clear waters of the brook. he had thought himself a very beautiful bird, as he sailed gracefully up and down, arching his long white neck with a perfect air of contentment. the other geese at the farm were quite young, some of them so young that they looked like little lumps of yel- low gold as they plunged boldly into the water. and why should they fear? for the brook had murmured, coaxingly: "come, little baby bird. come hathe in my waters; i will not hurt you; i will sing you low, pretty songs.” the gander remembered when the brook had gently called to him, and he smiled as he thought how long ago. his swim over, he had come on shore, and once more donned his cap and trousers, and even better satisfied than ever, had started home for his dinner. "ha! ha! ha!” he heard behind him, and again, “ha! ha! ha!” turning around, whom should he see but the gobbler rigged in his very best, his tail spread out just as wide as he could get it, and looking very grand indeed, even the gander had to admit as much as his eyes rested upon him. the quarrel. "don't you think you are a sight!" said the gobbler. “go look at yourself in the brook over wh tegiseseoa sy a ramciclos palmer yonder; you'll surely agree with me that a mora ridiculous bird than yourself never lived." the quarrel.. "ridiculous, indeed!” replied the angry gander. “if you but knew what a sight you were, never again would you strut around the barn yard!” “strut do you call it?” exclaimed the gobbier. "i pride myself that my walk is most elegant. now, if i waddled as you do i'd hang my head with shame." “'tis but your jealousy that makes you talk so,” said the gander; "you think because you are tall and your legs are long, that you'll be much admired and praised—but people do not notice you when i am sailing on the waters; then it is that you must stand in the background, and my short legs and broad-web feet serve me as your feet and legs never can you.” word followed word, and these foolish birds grew angrier all the time. the rooster stopped the quarrel, for their loud words had attracted the other birds. “do you know,” said he, “you have kept up this foolish nonsense so long that now you have lost your dinner? 'tis an hour ago since ann came with her shining tin pan full of corn, but you paid no attention to her. today's loss is a small loss, but it might have been much greater. do hereafter remember the dissatisfied owl. your positions, and try to act more like grown-up fowls, than like two tiny, newly-hatched birds. remember that the little folks of the barnyard look to you as an example." the dissatisfied owl. blinky winky was a little gray owl that lived in the plum tree at the meeting of the cross- roads. he slept all day, and at night perched on one of the branches and greeted the wagons as they went by with a low "whoo! whoo!" he did not mean to be inquisitive, only pleasant and friendly, at least that is what he used to do, but now he has grown very quiet and solemn, and heeds not the wagons as they go rumbling by. the lark had been the cause of all the trouble. in the early spring she had come to live across the roar! from blinky, and her song, so sweet and clear, filled his whole heart with wonder and awe. "if the lark can sing,” thought blinky, "why can't i??? and he tried to throw back his head and pour forth the same sweet tones, but this was impossible with his short, fat neck, and his mightiest effort was of no avail. the dissatisfied owl. so day by day blinky grew sadder and sadder, but still the lark sang on, not knowing what un- happiness she brought to poor silly winky. re ban . guese .. . one night he left his home, more miserable than ever, and perched himself upon the fence rail to brood over his troubles. it the dissatisfied owl. was a bright moonlight night, and the owl family that lived in the apple tree saw blinky winky sitting all alone, and started off, one after the other, to bring him home with them. such a doleful bịrd as they found. it was a long while before blinky would tell them his secret, but once started, he poured forth his whole sad tale. they pitied and they scolded him, and their scolding did him good, for when morning dawned, and it was time to go home, they had led him to see the folly of his ways and to resolve to try to be satisfied with himself, and not aim to be like somebody else. he learned, after spending many unhappy days and weary nights, that god had not made his little throat in such a manner that he could sing. it was a good lesson for him and all his brothers and sisters. perhaps little boys and girls can learn something from this story of the dissatis- fied owl, and it is this: “don't think you can do everything you see other people doing." meddlesome peter. the bear family lived together in as pretty a place as you could well find. the trees grew tall and large and spread their branches over the earth, leaving only room enough for the sun to creep gently through by day, and for the little stars to twinkle brightly through at night. ferns tall and stately grew in this place, and delicate, pale green ferns with the gentle blue-eyed violet peeping from their midst, helped to beautify the bear family's dwelling place. the bruin household would have been just as happy as bears could be, if it had not been for troublesome peter. he was the oldest bruin cub and just as full of naughtiness as was possi- ble, and his greatest fault was his meddlesome ways. there was nothing into which he would not poke his paws. one day, while out on a ramble, he spied a bright, shining steel trap. now peter had never seen one before, and quick as a flash he grabbled it up to learn all about it, and he soon found out to his sorrow. snap went the spring, and poor peter howled with pain. fate was good to peter this time, for as he jumped around in his meddlesome peter. ered this place first and were using it as their ayi ww v un - .. v. wils tilfin il aylin u vida, inipir bau . ins v . vi isa dwuwuwuld vila ww palmer con windo store house for honey. now peter's intrusion was not to their liking, and their sharp little poor, sick bruin.. stings soon told him so. they swarmed all around him, until he felt as if he were covered with them, and the faster he ran, the more they chased him. he could neither run away, nor hide from them. not until he was well punished did they leave him, tingling with pain, but re- solved, we hope, to once more try to do better, and not to meddle. poor, sick bruin. once upon a time, when jack frost had com- menced to shake the leaves from the trees after first painting them in bright crimson and glow- ing yellow, and some in dull russet brown, mr. bruin fell sick. he had been to a dance in the kingston woods. miss bunny had invited him, and old bruin had thought her the brightest, cunningest little creature he had met for many a long day. of course she was too tiny for him to dance with, but he sat and chatted with her, which he really thought was much pleasanter, at least he had thought so at the time, but now he was paying for his frolic. the ground had poor, sick bruin. been too damp and cold, and the chill winds had gottez into his bones, and he was the most mis- erable fellow you could possibly find. “o dear," v sat plo/r/r pickleo.i. feet. palmer g thought he, “why was i so silly. well might i have known what folly it was to leave my good warm home, and spend all those hours out in the poor, sick bruin. chill night air.” but it was too late w sit and grumble over follies that have been committed, so bruin wrapped himself in a green plaid shawl, tied up his head in a red and white handkerchief, and sat to wait for dr. wolf to pass along. dr. wolf had been called to pay a visit to a little sick guinea-pig, and his way led him past old bruin's house. bruin saw him, called to him, and the doctor came trotting in. he took off his tall black hat, laid it on the table, put on his glasses, and prepared to examine his patient. the doctor felt his pulse, shook his head, and then looked at his tongue. “oh, ho! my friend,” , said he, "you have caught a cold, that is certain; but, my good fellow, i am afraid there is some- thing more. i fear that you feast too much upon the dainties of the land. your larder seems well filled with tempting food, but if you take my advice you will leave this alone for awhile, and content yourself with a good big bowl of mush and milk. you have a very high fever, and if you eat of such rich food you will surely die. am going to put you to bed, and you must not get up for a week; you are getting along in years, so you must take extra care of yourself. i shall leave you some pills to take every hour, the squirrel's visitor unless you are asleep. i shall be passing here again in the morning, and will drop in to see you. i hope to find you much better.” then the doctor went away, leaving bruin a sadder and wiser bear and resolved in the future to try to live more simply, and to let his poorer neigh- bors share the dainties that had proved his foe. the squirrel's visitor. in the maple woods, just outside the town, lived an old gray squirrel. he was a big squirrel and just as fat as butter. one time, long ago, he had been caught in a rat-trap, and his leg pretty badly torn. a bright-eyed, red-cheeked boy had found him, and carefully and gently laad lifted the heavy wire frame, and had taken frisk out. the poor little squirrel was hurt and frightened, and the boy felt sorry for him. he carried him home in his arms, and then wrapped him in a soft, warm blanket and put him in a basket. he meant to doctor his wounded leg and keep him for a pet. frisk, however, did not like this notion, and in the morning, when the the squirrel's visitor. boy came to find his prize, the basket was ernpty and frisk had hopped away on three legs. frisk was so frightened that he never got over it. he lived in a hollow tree all by himself, and each night when he put his night-cap on, he slipped his pistol under his pillow. one night, when the wind blew furiously and the rain came dashing against the tree, frisk sat all alone, thinking how good it was to have such a nice, warm house and so many delicious nuts stored away, when, tap! tap! tap! came against the side the wolf's first party. of the house. frisk was frightened, but he grabbled his pistol and peeped cautiously out of the door. not a sign of any one could he see, so he went quietly back. tap! tap! tap! came again. once more frisk looked out, and there stood a poor, drenched wood-pecker. he had been out hunting worms for his wife's supper while she stayed home upon the eggs. he had been overtaken by the storm, and now sought shelter with frisky. how they laughed when frisky showed him his pistol and told him how frightened he was, and that he had thought him a burglar. frisky insisted on his friend's coming in, and resting with him in his comfortable, snug little house until the storm was over. then he filled his friend's basket with the choisest bits his store house afforded, and sent him away happy. the wolf's first party. the wolf had been invited to a party, and his head was almost turned by this piece of good fortune, as he thought it. the fox had sent hise the invitation written in big round lettere the wolf's first party. on a piece of birch bark. “miss fox cequests the presence of mr. wolf at a party ir, the hol- low,” the invitation read, and the wolf felt as though he had some standing in the world now, palmer cox for never before had any one called him mr. wolf. ele got up bright and early the morning of the eventful day, and hurried from among the the crow. hands; so, remembering that some one had told him that you had better have an umbrella and not want it, than to want it and not have it, he carried his big green sun-shade. he was the first to arrive, and miss fox was so pleasant and made him so welcome that he never felt so happy before. nor did this happi- ness end, for when all the guests had taken leave, the wolf remained to tell miss fox that this had been the best and brightest time in all his life. for many days he thought about the fine times he had had at his first party, and wondered if he would always have such fun, and if all the ladies were as nice as miss fox. the crow. · did you ever notice a number of black ob- jects flying through the air or perhaps assembled in a flock hunting for worms, or caterpillars, or grubs, or maybe feasting on some fallen grains? these are crows, and if you could examine them closely you would see how beautifully their glossy, black wings are tinged with dull blue and brown and purple. they are very shy and the crow. cunning and very fearful of the farmer's gun, with which they seem to be well acquainted. one of them serves as watchman, and when he sees danger approaching he sounds the alarm, and all the crows within hearing distance fly ap and away. the eggs of the crow are laid in nests made of sticks woven with grasses and lined with soft roots, feathers, or wool. both the father and mother bird sit on the eggs, and watch with great care over their young. the crow can fly very swiftly, and sometimes to great heights, and it can also fly long distances. have you ever noticed one perched on a cow or perhaps a sheep's back? it has perched itself there to pick the worm out from the skin. their cry of caw! caw! caw! is very ugly, and what a din they make when they gather together in little parties early in the morning to go in search of food, or else at night when they are hunting for some pleasant roosting place. the crow is a very brave bird and is not afraid to attack the hawk that sometimes comes swooping down upon it. its sharp, black eyes are of great service in its search for food-indeed it is upon this sense that it depends and not upon the sense of smell. its keen sight also protects it from the attack of the bruin's visit. enemy. sometimes you come across a crow that is perfectly white, but this is not the case often. the crow makes a very amusing and interesting pet, except that it has the bad habit of stealing. thousands of crows are killed every year by traps or the farmer's gun, and often and often the poor little young ones are killed in their nests by the hands of cruel and naughty boys. the crow does steal the farmer's grain and pull up the young seedlings, but he would be less merciless to the poor bird, if he only saw how much good he does in destroying the worms and bugs, the mice and moles, which really eat up lots and lots more than the much abused black crow. sometimes the farmers set up "scare- crows” in the fields to frighten the thieves away, but they soon learn that it is only a make-believe man, and are not afraid. bruin's visit. jack frost was raging around in all his fury; great white flakes fell thick and fast and settled one above the other upon the ground, making a blanket soft and warm for the little plants that bruin's visit. lay hidden under the earth. the trees moaned and shook their boughs as the wind went whist- ling through them, and the little snow birds hopped gracefully from limb to limb hoping to find a stray worm or bug to satisfy their hungry little selves. bruin had started bricht and early that morn- ing to visit his cousin, a brown bear who lived in the woods beyond the school house. it was a long journey, but bruin cared little for that, for he knew the way, and knew also the good times that he and cousin bear enjoyed together. well he remembered his last visit. what sport they had playing ten pins, with sticks for pins and stones for balls. how they enjoyed the game of catch with the big horse chestnuts that fell from their prickly coverings and lay scattered on the grounů. the snow had put a stop to ten pins and catch, but it had brought sport of its own, for, what better fun could two young bears want than a jclly game of snow-ball or a ride on the school-house hill? with all these good times dancing in his head, bruin started off. mother nature had given him a thick furry coat, but old jack frost did his best to pierce through this heavy brown covering, and make him hurry mina sasa ra . m w anaantrers s tilly visi ) ) ) z en ya vel! nur ! w palmer. cox a bruin's visit. se along to keep good and warm. the school house came in sight as he turned the last corner, and cousin bear's home was soon reached. how glad cousin bear was to see him. they chatted away as busy as beavers, for there was so much to tell and so much to hear, but all was told at last, and then arose the question—what next to do. snow-balling was fun for awhile, but their paws got too cold. they could not go up on the hill, for all the school children were out with their sleds, and there certainly was not room for them both. "let's have a game of hide and seek,” said cousin bear. bruin liked that idea and cheerfully con- sented. cousin bear shut his eyes, and bruin hurried off to find some good hiding place. first he tried one and then another, but nothing suited him, until at last the very thing met his gaze. time had worn a great hole in an old oak trec. there it stood, bending its leafless limbs as though beckoning bruin to crawl inside. such a splendid chance could not be missed. my! how good and warm it was. bruin was tired, and before he knew it he had gone sound asleep. how long he slept he did not know, but when bruin's visit. he opened his eyes the shadows had crept heavily over the woods, and night was coming on apace. a ))))) na be palmer cox'- cousin bear started in surprise when bruin rushed breathlessly into his house, for as he bruin's visit. could not find him he thought he had gone home, and then how he laughed when bruin told of his hiding place, and they both thought it a great joke that bruin had fallen asleep, while he was playing. he said he would remember to look there for him next time they had a game. bruin warmed himself by the bright fire, and then said he must be going. cousin bear would not hear a word as to his leaving until they had had supper. so he set out the very best his store- house afforded, and they both had a very merry time, eating the turkey and fat little lamb, which the bear had stolen the night before. when they had cleared the table and washed the dishes, bruin trotted off towards his home as fast as he could. it was dark before he reached his own woods, but he was not afraid, for he knew every step of the way. he was pretty well tired out when he got home, and it did not take him very long to get ready for bed. as he curled himself up for a good long sleep, he felt satisfied over a very happy day, the owl and the bat. "good evening, miss bat,” said the grave gray owl, “pray may i come up and chat awhile?” “indeed, you may, mr. owl,” replied the bat. "it's such a beautiful evening that i have been sitting up here ever so long watching the moon, as she played hide and seek among the trees; the stars seem to be enjoying the game as much as i, for they twinkle as brightly as diamonds so far above us all.” “i see you have an eye for the beautiful, my dear young lady," said the owl, “but if you but knew it, the most beautiful thing i have seen in all my life is yourself.” the bat hung her head and looked quite shy, while the owl blinked his eyes and looked as though he whought he had really said something most elegant. "do you know, my heart dear,” continued the movement / abs owl, "i have watched murs the owl and the bat. you night after night as you floated around so gracefully, never interfering with the other birds, but going quietly about your own business, and i decided that some day or other i would ask you if you would not consent to be mrs. owl. the time has come, batty dear, and i hope you will say yes.” the bat did say yes, for she had long admired the owl. she liked his solemn ways, and thought him a very handsome bird. it was decided that they should be married very soon—the very next week, in fact, for the moon would be shining in all her glory then, and the guests could not be asked to come in the бо the owl and the bat. dark, even though it might be pleasanter for the bride and groom. the stork wrote the invitations. he wrote them on the leaves of the water-lilies, using his long sharp beak for a pen. the night of the wedding came, and with it many guests. the stork and the crane came to- gether, for they lived in the same pond. the eagle and the buzzard met as they came sailing through the air. the happy pair were soon made one, and then what merry times they had. the lark and the nightingale sang their brightest songs, and all joined hands in a lively dance. morning came only too soon, and the guests must go, and as the owl kissed his little bride, he wished that all her life might be just as happy as the first night had been. what a happy time the bridal party had for the next few weeks. when the guests had all gone, they packed their trunks, and hastened away to spend their honey-moon among the pine forests of the green mountains. they traveled from place to place, journeying by night and resting by day; for strange as it may seem, these queer creatures can neither of them see when the beautiful sun is shining. the owl and the bat. thy have such curious eyes that the light makes them blina. so they used to spend the long summer days nestled close together on the branch of some high tree at night they would fly about here and there, watching the other animals and enjoying the pure air. the owl is a very wise bird, you know, so he was able to tell his trusting little wife many in- teresting things. after spending a very pleasant time, they re- turned to their home, and settled down to spend a very happy life. unhappy bruin. poor bruin's life seemed marked with mis fortunes. bruin was not one of the happy crea- tures who have the good fortune to be born under a lucky star—the night must have been cloudy and most miserably starless when he opened his eyes in this wide, wide world. as the years went on poor bruin's troubles seemed to grow. fortune had no kindly smile for him, and try as he might, all his efforts to succeed were in vain. one time bruin left his home, and went strolling through the woods. he was all alone, for the other bears had gone off long before, but bruin had not been wanted. sorrowfully and lonely he trotted along, taking no heed of where he was going, until all at once he was brought to his senses by a sharp click, and try with all his might, he could not move. you've guessed what had happened—he had stumbled into a trap, and was held there as fast as fast could be. the hot sun poured down upon him, but no one came to release him; but at last, just as twilight fell upon the world, two great big men drove up in a cart, and with a loud shout at their horses, stopped unhappy bruin. in front of bruin. "fine luck we have had to day,” said one of them. “we will make a good thing out of him," said the other. then, as quick as a wink, a big black bag was thrown palmer coman uver bruin's head, and he was hoisted into the wagon. this was the beginning of poor bruin's new life. these men were street players—one of them brought forth squeaky sounds from an old unhappy bruin. fiddle, while the other made most dismal noises upon the harp. bruin was taken to their miserable home, and day by day was trained to dance and play tricks to amuse the people. bruin found it was wisest. to please these men, for cruel blows and kicks rewarded his failures. one day they rigged him up in a suit of clothes, put shoes on his feet and a hat in his hand, and led him out to dance upon the street. all day long he kept it up, and when night came he could scarcely move. his masters had gone to join some friends and chat with them, and had left bruin in charge of a boy. the boy grew tired of being alone, and seeing a chum, hurried after him, leaving bruin to his own de- vices. bruin knew his chance had come, and trotted away just as fast as ever his tired feet would carry him. he wandered on and on, until at last the woods were reached. then he lay down under a tree, nearly worn out, but very happy he felt that at last the wheel had turned and fortune had surely smiled on him. the ostrich. did yo: ever think anything about the way in which we jbtain the beautiful featbers that help to ornament our hats and bonnets away off, in a country called africa, lives a bird known as the ostrich. it is a large bird with long, slender legs, and such a great long neck that it is as tall as a very tall man. nature has given it these long legs to help it go over ground very rapidly. when pursued, it travels across the sandy plains where it lives with strides that carry it twenty- five miles an hour. the ostrich has very keen sight and sharp hearing, and its long neck aids it in seeing great distances. the nest where the mother bird lays the eggs is just a hollow made in the sand, with a shallow border all around it. the old bird sits on the eggs and keeps them warm at night, but the rays of the hot tropical sun do the work in the day-time. these eggs are very large, weighing from two to three pounds. the baby ostriches are very pretty birds. they look like young partridges, only they are many, many times larger and have little bristies all over them mixed with down. . the ostrich. when the ostrich is about a year and a half old it falls a vistim to the hunter's pursuit. there are a number of ways for catching them. ni sometimes the hunter clothes himself in the skin of the bird, and imitates its motion so ex- actly that it is almost impossible to tell the sham king leo's resolve. from the real bird. then, when he is within bow-shot of some unlucky bird, his arrow pierces it, and it falls his prey. sometimes the bird is caught with a lasso, and in some places the hunter mounts on horse-back and pursues it in that way. way off in california there are a number of ostrich farms, and when you get to be big, per- haps you will be able to go there and see them. but the very next time you go to the zoological garden, you must get your mammas to take you to see these wonderful birds. i am sure you will wonder how such beautiful feathers can come from such ugly looking birds. king leo's resolve. mother nature had carpeted the earth with a covering soft and brown and rustling. deep in the reds and yellows she had dipped her paint brush, and the trees gleamed in their grandeur like a flaming forge. the squirrels had been busy for weeks filling their store-houses with the nuts that would serve for the winter's food, and king leo's resolve. the song cf the birds had long since ceased, for far away they'd flown, seeking a warmer home. all the woods seemed hushed and forsaken. olu a i ili u kanen en lun edua mw illy, this um anveistos paradise king leo noticed all this as he paced through the forest with restless strides this autumn day. things had gone wrong with his majesty, and king leo's resolve. he wondered that the trees should glow in such brilliancy when all else seemed dressed in som- bre colors. “why must nature,” muttered he, "havư this dash of brightness in her adorning while my life is all gloom and all sadness? long have i reigned in the forest as king of beasts. i've held sway over the largest of them all, the tigers, wolves and bears have trembled at my roar, and at my command all have yielded. now i'm deserted. no longer am i consulted in affairs of wisdom. it's months since i have sai on my throne of holly boughs. i'm forsaken and alone. is there no way in which i can win them again? must all my life be thus, sorrow and gloom?” he sat down to think, and as he thought, his heart grew lighter, and something almost like a smile came over his face. "i'll try it,” he said to himself, as he rose from the rock on which he had been sitting and went towards home.“ and this was what king leo had been think- ing: have i ever done anything to make them care for me? they crowned me their king, but all my reign i have governed through fear. my roars were as mighty as the thunder; my will was hard and cruel. for a trifling offence ha palmer cox the willful young gobbler. i have taken their lives, and now i am reaping my reward. if it is not too late, i will begin again. love, not fear, shall be my motto this time, and perhaps some day my life will be full of happiness, instead of woe and misery. and poor king leo did begin again, and al- though the struggle was hard and the time of conquest long, he did prove himself victor at last, and died at a very old age, loved and re- spected by all the beasts of the forest, having proved to them all that love hath greater power than fear. the willful young gobbler. madame turkey put on her shawl and bonnet to go to hunt for the silliest young turkey about the place, because that silly young turkey was her son. he had been gone since early morning, and what had kept him his mother could not guess. mother turkey and her young offspring lived on a great big farm, and had been a very happy pair, but mother turkey was growing anxious. the fields had become bare and yel- low, the trees stood around them tall and leafless, the willful young gobbler. and this meant a most serious matter to the tur- key family. it meant that thanksgiving day was drawing near, and madame turkey well knew that perhaps this handsome young son of hers might grace the table at some beautifully prepared dinner. she had little fear for herself, for she had grown old and tough, but such a big, fat bird as the young gobbler would hardly escape the farmer's notice. well she remem- bered how, year after year, her children had fallen victims to the farmer's axe, and she had tried to show this great big son how day by day he was running into danger. but talk seemed to count for nothing, he did not heed his mother's warning words, but ate freely of the yellow corn and the handfuls of wheat that the farmer's wife scattered temptingly before them, a d of course he grew fatter all the time. now, do you wonder that madame turkey put on her bonnet and shawl to search for her head- strong son? she did not have far to go, for she met him coming home, his hands in his trousers' pockets, and his head up in the air, looking as though he knew neither fear nor danger. once more this good, thoughtful mother reasoned with her foolish son, but he only laughed at her fears, the willful young gobbler. and told her not to worry about him, for no tur- key on the place could run faster than he, and w on palmer he could easily escape the farmer should be choose him for his thanksgiving dinner. 'i'he bears and the hive. but old heads are often the wisest, and had this silly young gobbler only listened to his mother he might still be strutting around the barnyard, or perhaps wandering through the wheat field, picking up the full, ripe grains that he loved so dearly. the farmer one day, as he sauntered through the poultry-yard, spied this well-fed gobbler, and decided that no finer bird than he could be found, and before mr. turkey had time to run, he was firm in the farmer's clutches, and before many minutes his life was over. what a foolish bird he was, and how much better it would have been had he only listened to the words of warning from his good old mother. the bears and the hive. hug and squeeze were two fat little cubs, who lived with their grandmother. their mother had been captured in a trap when they were little, tiny bears, and mother bruin had taken them to her home and cared for them ever since. such times as she had with them—they seemed to have been born under an unlucky the bears and the hive. star, and poor old grandmother bruin had ber hands full. they had of course fallen victims to the measles, and next to the whooping-cough, and they would eat so many sweets that the toothache was almost a daily visitor. grand- y llo in s c : y wa mother bruin used to shake her poor old head until her stiffly starched cap with its large pur- ple bow would slip away off over her ear. she did want very much that they should be good little bears, and she would talk to hug and the bears and the hive. squeeze so earnestly that they would promise to be ever so much better, and they really meant it when they promised, but when mischief came into their heads, like a good many littls boys and girls—they forgot. tommy jones was the gardener's son, and tommy wanted very much to become rich. he had been given some money one day in the fall for gathering chestnuts for his master's children. tom was proud to have money of his own, and tried and tried to think of some plan to make it more. one day, as he passed a shop window, he saw little boxes with honey in them for sale; this put an idea into tommy's head. he would go home, build some hives, and when spring came get a swarm of bees, and then he, too, could have honey to sell. tommy was a wise little chap to settle on this plan, for the roses grew in great profusion, the lilies and honey- suckle made rich food for the bees, and the buckwheat fields that gleamed so white and beautiful had sweetness beyond measure for these busy little food gatherers. well, spring came, and tommy lumed with delight upon the neatly built hives that were to be the homes of the honey makers and the source the bears and the hive. w of his wealth. then summer came, and the · work went bravely on until the cones were dripping with the store of golden honey. now hug and squeeze had been growing all this while, and the spirit for adventure kept growing with them. one night grandmother bruin had put them to bed and bade them be good, obedient children. they lay very still un- til their grandmother had gone, and then, as quietly as mice they crept out of bed and stole cautiously away. through the woods they scampered, wild with joy over their freedom. the road reached, they could not make up their minds where to go, but the apples in the gar- dener's yard had made such fine balls before tha they decided to try a game once more. off they trotted, reached the garden, but stopped with wonder when they saw numbers of queer look- ing houses standing side by side. they had never seen hives before, and knew nothing about the savage little creatures that lived inside. “we will take one home,” said hug, “it w..] be fine to play with.” ball was forgotten, and hug shouldered the hive, while little squeeze scampered along at his side. but they had not gone far when hug felt the bears and the hive. a sharp pinch on his ear, then one on his arm, and then he began to feel as though he was being stabbed all over. the bees were not long in find- ing out squeeze, and run as they might, the cubs could not escape their tormentors. podczas ... sprintuvas mn la w. www.nowboa soy badle palmer cox! “they are in the box,” said squeeze, “throw it away, do.” hug threw away the box, but the bees still held fast. the more the bears tried to get rid of them the closer they clung, and the deeper they drove their stings. what a dreadful time the bears and the hive. they had getting rid of them, and what pitiful sights they were when they reached home. their faces were so swollen that it was hard to tell who they were. their ears were as large as two, and their poor paws were smarting as if from a burn. they were almost afraid to go home, for they knew they were to blame for all their suffering, but they felt so very badly that they decided they must go to grandmother for help. for little bears are like little children; when they get hurt, they always want to get home right away. so off they trotted as fast as possible, and grandmother was very kind to them in their trouble; she did not punish them, for she thought they had been well rewarded for their disobedience and meddlesome ways, but as she tucket them in bed once more, after spreading mud on their swollen hands and faces, she leaned over them and said: “will you try to let this bg a lesson, and listen more carefully hereafter to your old grandmother's advice?" i think tht; little bears learned a lesson which lasted them all their lives, for they lived a great many years in their old home, and never again meddled with what did not belong to them the fox's story. tell you a story, little chap? well, what do you suppose an old fellow like grandfather can tell to please you and bushy? it's something that happened when i was young, you want? well, let me think. so many things happened then, for grandfather was a gay young fox. i guess i'll tell you first about the great fox hunt from the castle. the castle stood high upon a hill, and one fine day the lords and ladies met there, and mounted upon their beautiful horses, started through the forest, the hounds dashing back of them, in front of them, and all around them, for the hounds go along to scent the fox, you know. i was young then, and the sight was new to me, and very dazzling, and although i had heard of the danger, i liked the excitement and noise. it was a beautiful sight, for the men wore bright scarlet jackets, which the dark dresses of the ladies made look still brighter. my curiosity came near putting an end to me that day, for i watched and waited almost too long, and only the greatest cunning on my part made the hounds lose the scent, and then the fun was spoiled. the fox's story. tell you some more? i'll give you some ad- vice this time. beware of traps. many a hand- some, brave young fox has been too curious, and has poked his paw into some queer looking ob relatin islating hisjadventu entures ject which he has discovered, only to have his little paw caught, and has so lost his freedom forever. there is something else you must remember, and it is to have lots of patience. one time, when the fox's story. your father and uncle were little chaps, i took them out to get our thanksgiving dinner. i had seen some fat, young turkeys roosting in a pear tree, and i wanted one of them very badly. the k mokya vi moon rose early that night, and when we reached the tree, there sat five as pretty birds as i ever saw, but i had not been sharp in measuring my distance, and they were far beyond our reach. the fox's story. so there we stood, and waited and waited, not knowing what to do. “let's go home,” said your father. "not without our dinner,” said i. "but we can't reach them,” he replied. “p- ;" i said, “we can wait,” and we did wait. we hid back of the barn until morning dawned, and when the turkeys flew down to hunt for some breakfast, one of them was doubtless very much surprised to find himself stowed away in a bag preparatory to taking a ride on my shoulder. it was patience that won the turkey, boys, for had we grown tired and gone away, we certainly would have lost our fine dinner. the farmer is no friend of ours, you know, and the farmer who lived at hillside was very hard on us. he and his boys were always setting traps to capture some venturesome feilow. one day during harvest time, when the fields were bright with golden grain, i started off in search of something to eat. i crept along cautiously until j espied a duck so round and fat that it made my mouth water to look at her. i tried to plan some way to capture her. this seemed al- most impossible, for the farmer was close by, and right by his side i could see the shining barrel of his trusty old gun, and i knew, if he the fox's story. caught sight of me, he would certainly kill me but the temptation was so great that i ventured closer and closer, grabbed the duck, stuffed her into the bag, and scampered away across the fields as fast as i could run. it is not wise to be so daring; caution is always better, and it was only luck that saved me that time. i want you to be brave, boys, but i want you to be careful as well. don't creep too far from behind the tree when you are lying in wait for frisky young rabbits. they are as sharp and watchful as any fox i ever knew, and i have known a great many. and now i think you have had stories enough for one day, and i want my the fox hunt. afternoon nap. i picked up a delicious fat goose this morning, and if you are good boys you can have it all before you creep into your piney beds and fall asleep to dream sweet dreams of the jolly times that are in store for all happy young foxes. and here we see them fast asleep in their beds the bones of the goose scattered all around. the fox hunt. little toby trotter came home from school on friday night, threw his books on the very top shelf of the cupboard, and exclaimed, “you can rest there, my friend, for two whole days. i have seen all i want of you for this week, and haven't i pegged at you these five days harder than i ever did in all my life?” to be sure, toby had a good reason for his hard work, which, of course, you would like to know. while toby was finishing his bowl of porridge and milk at breakfast monday morning, his big brother bill came into the room. “toby," said he, "if you'll come home on friday night, and tell me you are head of your class, i'll take you for a fox hunt on saturday.” the fox hunt. to say toby was pleased does not begin to express his feelings; he was wild with delight. “i'll do it, billy,” said he, "you see if i don't. i'll work day and night be- fore i will miss that fox hunt.” bill chuckled to him- self to see little toby so wrapt up in his studies. “i like the youngster's determination at any rate,” thought he. toby's hard work gained the day, and he could hardly wait until bill came home to tell him he had kept his part of the contract. bill was ready to do his part also, so they started from home the next morning, followed by old bowser, the dog. bill carried the gun. toby would have liked to carry one also, but bill thought he was better off without it. the woods where the fox lived was some little distance from the boys' home, and toby ran along by billy's side chattering as merrily as a magpie. a neigh- bor's dog, seeing old bowser, joined the party, but he soon grew tired and left them. if bowser had grown old he had not forgotten his early training as a hunter, and he went straight to the fox hunt. work to discover the whereabouts of mr. fox. he had a lively chase, here and there, in and around, but at last he seemed to be satisfied, and billy, who had watched hin, followed carefully. it was just outside the woods that bowser came upon the fox. the fox saw the dog at about the same time the dog saw him. with one great leap mr. fox bounded over the fence, bowser after him. on they flew, leaving bill and poor little toby far behind them. bowser did his best, and just as he thought the fox was his, the sly old fellow gave one swift turn, darted into a deep hole in the ground, and left poor old bowser looking the picture of sor- rowful defeat. the fox was lost, but toby still thought he had never known such sport in his life, and he coaxed his brother to take him again the next week. bill said that just as long as toby would stand at the head of his class he would take him every saturday. the ride in the balloon. fourth of july dawned bright and smiling upon the little village of browmew. every- where the flags were flying in honor of the glad ammm day and long streamers of red, white and blue bunting floated gaily to the breeze. the young people, roused from their slumbers by the bang- the ride in the balloon. ing of the cannon, hurried into the streets to celebrate this glorious day. the youths had donned their best suits, and all the happy young girls had bedecked themselves in the most charm- ing style. miss kitty stripe, the belle of the village, won the admiration of all, for where could one find a sweeter creature than she? her soft, pretty ears were tied with the loveliest pink ribbon, and the waving plume in her hat exactly matched the ribbon in color. quite proud foxy terry felt as he walked by her side that fine morning. fireworks blazed all day. it is true that spitzy white burnt all the hair off his pretty little face, and little mattie gray had her ear shot off by a pistol, but they did not mind such little accidents, and all agreed that the fireworks were quite a success. the great event of the day, however, was to be the balloon ascension. never had such an event been heard of in browmew. all the folks turned out to see it. old tortoise shell came,. although he was as blind as a bat, for he declared that it made him feel young again to hear the cheering. foxy terry and kitty stripe had agreed to take the ride. about four o'clock the the ride in the balloon. balloon was brought out, and ere long all was in readiness, and they had stepped into the basket a wem the ride in the balloon. and were rising from the earth. cheer after cheer went up as they left the ground. up, up they sailed. over roofs and steeples they rose, until it seemed to the crowd below that they would never stop. they rose so high that the ropes got tangled on the horn of the moon, which they had not been able to avoid, since they could not see it on account of the bright sunshine. poor pussy was greatly terrified, but brave foxy bids her be patient, and he will set matters right. he soon manages to get the bal- loon free, and slowly they begin to descend. the ride is a short one, but it satisfies miss kitty, and she is glad to come down. when they reach the ground, they are greeted with outstretched arms and praised for their bravery. so the day ends amid general rejoicing, and at a late hour all the sleepy young folks crawl into bed to dream of the sports of the day, and to look forward with pleasure to the next year, when they should be able to have another good time together on the green. lessons for young foxies, mrs. ruby bush was really a very handsome young fox—the handsomest in the whole neigh- borhood, so it was said, and they said, too, how good and gentle she was, which was lots better. than being called beautiful, for kindness goes a great deal farther than good looks. she and her husband and her two little ones lived in the “tall tree” forest as happy and lov- ing a family as the sun ever shone upon. the two little foxes, vic and vim, played together all day. they had the finest games of hide and go lessons for young foxies. seek, the great holes in the trunk of the old oak tree making the jolliest kind of hiding places. they pulled the tiny flowers that grew in the woods, and made wreaths and bouquets to carry home to mother bush. life was just one long play day to them. ruby bush was a good little mother, and she wanted to see her boys well brought up, so the time came when she thought it best to give them a lesson in hunting. the moon was new, but the night was clear and the stars twinkled brightly. vic had his turn first, and he and his mother started off to the nearest poultry yard, each carrying a long white bag. the turkeys were roosting on the top of a rail fence, not dreaming of any danger, and mother fox and vic had little trouble to fill their bags. vic was much pleased over his success, and thought it almost as much fun as playing with vim. father bush had seen a trap in the forest, and had told his wife about it. "now,” thought she, is the time to teach my boys of the danger of traps.” so, when the boys started off to play, as usual, she called them back, telling them she wanted them to go with her as she had some- lessons for young foxies. thing to show them. the trap was near their home, and the boys gazed in wonder at this strange object, and listened with interest to the wintip tales their mother told of its great dangers. a delicious piece of meat had been used for bait, and vic and vim and mother bush, too, wished the hunter treed. they might have it. to wish meant to try with mother bush, so she got a long stick, and telling her boys to keep away, carefully pried open the trap and drew out the treasure. what a fine time they had eating it and wishing they could find another! the hunter treed. for two or three weeks old jack frost had been at work in the forest, pinching the leaves from the trees, and sending the ripe nuts to the ground.. great piles of leaves, that nature's buchen own birtist had painted brown and red, gold and crim- son, lay on the ground, making a soft, thick car- pet for the dwellers of the forest. in this forest, the bear, the wolf and the fox lived, and three greater cronies you never heard : the hunter treed. of. the bear was the oldest and the biggest but little foxy always led the fun, for he was one of the brightest, smartest little chaps that ever dwelt in the forest. through the fallen zato wa palmer co leaves he came tramping one day to the house of neighbor bear, and with his usual cheery "how-do-you-do?”' greeted his friend. he had heard that much mischief was being done by a the hunter trı d. : cruel, hard-hearted hunter, and he wanted the bear and their friend, the wolf, go with him and try to put an end to the hunter's fun. they went to the wolf's house, and found him willing to help, so side by side they started through the woods. nothing happened for some time, but finally the sharp ears of little foxy heard the sound of a gun in the distance. bidding his friends be quiet, he waited until it sounded again. this time foxy learned the direction from which it came, and they hurried on toward the spot. bang, bang, bang! the gun kept sounding louder and louder as they sped along. now a new noise greeted their ears. it sounded like the chattering of many voices, and as they turned the corner they came upon a strange sight. up in the tree that bore but one branch and must at one time have been struck by light- ning, hung the cruel hunter, while below him on the ground danced and played a greedy crowa of wolves. one had his empty gun, two more were fighting for his hat, and the rest stood barking at the hunter in the wildest manner. the three cronies were too late to carry out their scheme, but they laughed merrily over the vic- tory of the others, and they were greatly pleased the hunter treed. that at last they were to be set free from the danger in which they had been so long, and the hunter treed. could now roam over the forest at their pleasure without fear of being killed by the hunter's gun. the poor fellow in the tree was in a very un- the lost dinner. wolves wone bad at last ape, and felt. comfortable position, as we can well see, and he was in constant fear lest the wolves, in some way, might be able to reach him. he saw no way in which he could escape, and felt sure that his time to die had at last come. he hoped the wolves would be attracted by something else, and go away and leave him, but that seemed to be almost too good a fortune. the wolves kept the poor man in the tree until they heard the sound of approaching footsteps and caught the sounds of frequently fired guns; then they all scampered away as fast as possible, and then the poor man was rescued by his friends, who had come in search of him. the three friends were very much disap- pointed when their victim escaped, but they koped he would be so badly frightened that he would, in the future, keep away from the forest, and so far as we know he never troubled them again. the lost dinner. “come, my dear,” said mrs. fox, as she pinned her plaid shawl around her shoulders and tied on her bonnet that was trimmed with one the lost dinner. good little boy, and promise not to get in the way, you may go to market with me. i have noticed for several evenings past that a fat young gobbler roosts on the fence that is built along the road. this is too good a prize to lose, my dear, and he shall be mine to-night. if i am not as young as i used to be, i have not forgotten the art of bagging game, and it will be well for you, my child, if you keep your eyes open and try to profit by my example.” “indeed, mother,” said young rufus," you will find me just as good as can be, and i am sure no one could be a better teacher than you, for well i remember the good dinners you have brought home from the farm-yard." the roadside and the rail fence were soon gained, and in less time than it takes to tell it, mr. gobbler had found a place inside mother fox's basket, and the lid was shut down tight, “oh dear me!” thought the poor turkey, “why was i so foolish as to roost on that rail fence? if i had only listened to my mother's warning, what a happy turkey i might still be; but i thought i was old enough and smart enough to take care of myself. if i could only get out i'à be so careful hereafter.” but the lid was shut the lost dinner. down tight, and there seemed no chance for the gobbler. gia dariya more ko ter the new spring suit. ling and exhausted; but having left the fox be- low. this was a hard lesson for the gobbler, but it was a good one, and never again did any one hear of that turkey roosting on a fence rail. he did not wish to run any more chances of getting into the clutches of the wily old fox. the new spring suit. spring had come again. spring, warm and gentlenot march with its howling winds pinch- ing your noses and fingers and toes, and bidding the big round tears to chase each other down your poor little faces. the warm april showers told that spring had come. as the rain pattered down upon the earth, softening the hard crust of winter, up popped the little faces of the snow- drop and daffodils, crocuses opened their eyes to the bright golden sun, and the tulips put on their robes of crimson and yellow to tell of spring's arrival. while nature was putting on her new and beautiful apparel, mr. rufus cunning began to | rss , cat/ the new spring suit. open his eyes and wonder if it was not about time for him to think of his spring costume. now one of rufus' great failings was his love for dress. it is a fact, though a very sorry one, that nearly all his time and thoughts were spent in planning what would be the most becoming style of clothing. off he started one fine morning to fit himself out with a rig most charming. first of all he visited the tailor and bought of him a suit which he considered quite a beauty. his linen was the next purchase, and the collar he chose was so high that one would pity him, did he not think him so very foolish to suffer thus for show. but people who are older and wiser than this gay young fox do just such silly things. his next stop was at the boot-maker's. mr. shoemaker never in all his life found anybody so hard to please, but at last a pair was found to suit him, and then a hat must be gotten. hat after hat was tried on, but by and by a hat, tall and black and shiny, met foxy's view, and his eyes danced with pleasure as he gazed at himself in the mirror. now all was complete except the gloves—these were not hard to find, and then he started for home. you should have seen this the new spring suit. vain young creature as he walked along the street -everything complete, from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet-not ever the walk- ing-stick, nor the eye-glass had been forgotten. if no one admired his fine appearance, foxy was happy in the entire satisfaction he felt in himself. but alas, alas! he had just taken his friend, miss bruin, out for a little stroll, when the worst shower of the whole season came up. you should have seen them run, when the first large drops came pattering down. there seemed to be no shelter near at hand, and they were getting pretty wet, when miss bruin spied some old friends gathered under an old umbrella, which little floy, the pet of the household, had left in the woods the day before. so foxy and she made a dash for this refuge and reached it just as the rain began to pour down in torrents. they were pretty well crowded, but they were very thankful to have even that much protection, aná tey really enjoyed themselves chatting with their friends. the shower lasted only a few minutes, and when it was over they started foz home, as it was too wet to go farther and foxy was very much worried over his new rig, which was nearly ruined. monkey jack. uncle mac had been away for years in south america, mother told us children, and south america became the extent of travel, the most remote corner of the world, to our childish minds. how we listened with the keenest in- terest to the occasional letters which arrived, and how we wondered what this far-away uncle was like, for rob and i were but babies when he went away. one night, i can remember it just monkey jack. : perfectly, although i was only a mite of a girl, we were gathered around the open fire in the library, for the september nights were chilly, when the maid announced a gentleman in the parlor. he gave no name, but said he knew he would be welcome. mother left us, but in al- most no time we heard her calling, “children, children, come quickly, your uncle mac is home!” rob and i pranced down like little ponies, and were almost smothered in this big uncle's arms. after the first welcome had been given, uncle asked if he might bring in his traveling companion, for he was sure he must be tired of being alone so long. we children wondered why the poor traveler had been left in the hall, but all wonderment was dispelled when a sleepy, corrowful looking monkey appeared in uncle's arms. oh! how wild rob was with de- light. i was rather timid and kept at a distance. before rob had finished admiring this funny little chap, nan, the nurse, came to take him off to bed. i am sorry to say that rob was not a bit good, but screamed dreadfully, until uncle told him that if he would stop crying, jack, as he called the monkey, might sleep in his room. mother shook her finger reprovingly at uncle 、 一 ​一 ​。 f tit htionstin monkey jack. and if we gave one to him hot, he would throw it from hand to hand until it became cool, and then with his clever little fingers he would re- move the shell just as daintily as possible. an- other favorite dish of his was red raspberries; jiriwa black he would not touch. one day the cook gave him some red berries in a china saucer, and determined to keep her eyes upon him, as he had no regard for crockery. something de- manded her attention, and she forgot the mon- the meeting on the bridge. beautiful river. but our story is about the bridge over the little stream, and what happened there. one morning the elephant dressed himself in his very best, put on his tall white hat, took his stick in his hand, and started through the woods to visit his friend, the giraffe. he took his time, for the day was warm, and he liked to listen to the birds and watch the gentle rustle of the leaves as the soft wind shook them. he was surprised when he looked at the sun and found that the morning was fast drawing to a close. he walked on much faster than was comfortable, and his temper was not the sweetest when he came to the bridge and found the don- key standing on it watching the waters flow over the rocks. "move on, my friend,” said the elephant, "this is no place for halting.” but the donkey was not pleased to be spoken to in this manner, and he made no effort to move. on the bridge stepped the elephant, but still the donkey did not stir. "perhaps you did not hear me," said the ele- phant. “i told you to move on." “quite plainly i heard you,” replied the don. metlarga wts tetes ya sul in ull! !!!! the meeting on the bridge. key, “but it does not please me to stir from this spot.” both the elephant and the donkey were grow- ing angrier every minute. at last the elephant, who, of course, was lots the larger, picked up the donkey with his trunk, and dipped him up and down in the cool stream until he cried for mercy, if the sun was hot, the water was cool, and this sudden plunge was certainly not to the donkey's liking, and his wild struggles afforded the ele- phant much amusement. as he stepped back, laughing at the donkey's frantic efforts, his foot slipped, and over he went, splash, into the water. the water was not very deep, and they soon scrambled to the shore, but both had learned a lesson, and before parting they decided that the better plan was to yield to one another. had the elephant spoken in a kindly manner, and had the donkey been more accommodating, each might have escaped a most unpleasant experience. the elephant's bath had left him in no condi- tion for calling, and his tall white hat he prized so much had gone floating down the stream, but he did not grumble, for he knew the fault was his own. he felt that he might have avoided this very unpleasant ending to the happy time the runaway pair. jacky leap—just the handsomest, largest frog in the whole pond. he and rhody had planned to leave the old place that night and go off and be married. this tutti palmer cox they were both young and wilful lovers, and because mother gray had said no when jack asked for rhody, they had made up their minds to have their own way, come what would. now then, do you wonder that rhody was frightened? it was growing so late that she felt sure jack had forgotten her, and her little heart went thumpty-bang! until she was certain some one she runaway pair. would hear it. poor foolish rhody, it only sounded so loud to her ears. but at last she caught sight of some gleaming white object al- most flying towards her, and what should it be but the white rabbit that had been bought at bun of their plans, and he had promised to help them—and he certainly did. jack was seated on his back, such a big, broad, furry back, and rhody was soon mounted behind her lover. to dash past them. poor little frightened rhody held on with all her might, fearing every minute that she might slip off and be left behind, until at last they came to the hollow tree where he blinked at them through his spectacles, but asked no questions, and in less than no time rhody was mrs. leap. bun was waiting for them, and they mounted once more and started for home. it was hard to tell mother gray what they had done—but she was a kind old rat, and concluded that the only way was to make the hest of things, so she gave them her blessings, and jack and his little wife rhody were as happy a couple as lived in the green. chanty's lesson. “cock a doodle doo!” shrilly crowed mr. chanticleer as he strutted around in the barn- yard. chanty had just learned to crow, and he was as proud as any rooster could be over his own voice. he was not a very beautiful bird, mimo tulla - palmere cox for his tail feathers had just commenced to grow, and his legs were so long and thin you wanted to laugh at him, if that had not been the rudest thing you could possibly do. but still, one could chanty's lesson. i not help thinking him a very foolish fellow as he watched him strutting around, as though he owned the barnyard. but grief, you know some- times comes to people who think themselves so far above their neighbors; so. listen to the narrow escape that chanty had one summer evening. down in the woods, not far away from the home of chanty, lived a smart red fox; he was young and called a very handsome fellow, and old mother fox smiled with approval when she saw her son going off rigged in his finest suit, his hat perched on one side, with a turkey feather sticking in it, and his sharp pointed knife shin- ing in his belt. one night this young fox bade good-bye to his mother, gathered up the bag that always hung back of the door, and started off towards the farm-yard. you can guess his purpose, per- haps—chanty's shrill crow had reached his ears, and he made up his mind in an instant that he would like the rooster in a pot-pie much better than strutting around the barnyard. fate had been kind to chanty this time, and when master fox reached the place, all he could see of the rooster was his tail feathers 'sticking through the stable door, and the farmer's man fido, the shepherd dog. this somebody laughed when he, fido, began licking his hand. "i'll take him," he heard the stranger say, and grow then, without another word, fido was tucked away into the pocket of the man's great coat. it seemed such a long while to fido before he heard the farmer say “whoa” to his horses, and fido, the shepherd dog. two had together. wherever nan went, fido followed, and nan was such a kind, loving little mistress that he loved her dearly. fido grew bigger and stronger every day, and he certainly made good the boy's promise of his becoming a fine dog. he found out by and by that life was not all play, for the farmer carried him off one day to teach him to mind the sheep. it was not long before fido knew all about it, and the farmer told little nan that he was the best shepherd dog he had ever had. now the old wolf, who lived in the woods back of the pasture lot, had found out what a good shepherd fido was, for try as he might, not once could he find him napping. one day this wolf thought he would be very cunning and get the best of fido, so he went carefully out to the corn field one night, and robbed the scare- crow of his clothes and rigged himself in them, thinking that fido would not know him. the moon was shining brightly, and as the wolf came across the field, fido pricked up his ears and looked at him suspiciously. he knew that he did not belong in the field any way, and so he kept pretty close watch over him. closer and closer came the wolf, and fido waited fido, the shepherd dog. quietly for him, and then, with one long, know- ing look, leaped upon him. it was too bad, but fido had grabbed the coat and not the wolf, so that mr. wolf slipped out of his covering and ca was off in the woods as fast as his legs could carry him, and never again, as far as we know, has he tried to play any tricks on fido. but for fido, nan's father might have lost the bicycle race. many of his valuable sheep, and he could not be grateful enough to the faithful dog for his good service. nan was very proud of her fido when her father told of the way in which he looked after the flock, and said she was quite sure nothing would ever harm them as long as he was around. quite often fide would go with nan's father, and help him drive his sheep to market, and he was always so faithful and trusty that nan's father was never sorry that he stopped that day and got the little fellow. the bicycle race. the glorious fourth had proclaimed itself all day long. bang! bang! bang! went the cannons, bang! bang! bang! echoed the crackers, and bang! bang! bang! sounded the torpedoes small and great. gunpowder made the air heavy and oppressive, and the clouds gathering in the sky made one very uncertain as to whether or not the rain would put an end to all the fun. large posters in red and blue letters had notified the people that the most beautiful fireworks they the bicycle race. had ever seen would be put off back of the more houses do you wonder that the sly was. watched most anxiously? now the people of the town were not alone in wishing for a clear night. the young folks who dwelt in the woods were watching the clouds with just the keenest interest, even the tiniest speck of blue sky was hailed with shouts of de light. were they, too, going to celebrate this day of independence? why, to be sure they were. they were not going to send off rockets and bombs. roman candles and pin-wheels were not part of their fun. these forest foks had in- vited all their friends to witness a bicycle race. the bear, the wolf, the fox, the rabbit, the porcupine and the catamount were to take part, and as no bicycle race had ever been ridden in these parts, the greatest interest was taken in it by all the animals in the country round. for weeks they had been practicing. early and late you might see these four-footed fellows mounted on their wheels, and pushing them along just as fast as ever they could. it was not all fun either, for tires would slip off the rims, nuts constantly became loose, and sometimes it happened that a stone or a twig or something of the bicycle race. the sort sent the rider off his wheel, and then bent handle-bars must be straightened, or worse still, bruised heads must be tied up—but all these woes were part of the undertaking, so no one dared complain, but must go to work and try again. well, all these trials were over now, and the evening had come when fate should decide to whom the honor belonged. what a crowd had gathered to see them. the squirrels sat chatter- ing together up in the trees; the crickets and katy-dids tried to outdo each other in their lively chirrup, and the nightingale raised her sweet voice and poured forth the loveliest music. one! two! three! croaked the frog, and off they started. the rabbit was first. “three cheers for bun!” shouted the crowd. "bruin is ahead! three cheers for bruin.” “it's the fox this time!" "no, he has lost his place, bruin is ahead again!” “oh, what a shame, the wolf has fallen off! no use trying again, poor wolf, the others are far ahead.” first it was one and then another, until at last, just as the goal was reached, little bun with one mighty effort came in first. how the crowd cheered, and what a happy fellow bun was. it u. the jolly chinee. tiny fans. they wore queer little shoes, that were so tight they pinched their toes dreadfully, and made them sway from side to side as they walked along. one day we wo wang said to his sisters, “my dears, i am sure, if i tried i imriuniti immmmiiduivuma .. . dermatoma might walk down those balusters. i think i might do it gracefully, too; i know just how i would balance my- self." his sisters were horrified at the idea, and begged him not to try, but we wo wang was determined. he mount- ed the rail, opened his fan, the jolly chinee. fluttered it from side to side, and commenced the descent. the servants hearing of their master's doings, hurried from all parts of the house to see the sight. but alas! for poor we wo wang; his foot slipped, and he came crashing down to the floor. away flew his hat, away flew his fan. servants rushed to pick him up, and his two little sisters came hobbling down the stairs as fast as ever they could, expecting to see we wo wang battered to pieces. there were no bones broken, and arnica and court plaster soon made him pretty comfortable. but there was some- thing hurt past healing, and that was we wo wang's pride. it grieved him to think his ser- vants had seen his failure. it was bad enough for his sisters to have been witnesses, but it was dreadful to have these chattering servants laugh and joke over his downfall. he made up his mind to punish them for having so much curios- ity, so he had one of them carry him into the hall, prop him up with pillows, and then he ordered them to walk down the ballusters, one after the other, while he sat and watched their defeat just as they had witnessed his. the servants were greatly terrified when they heard the jolly chinee. : this command, but of course they all had to try, because they dared not disobey their master's humum nudit command. one after another they mounted the stairs, and took their positions to descend, but a chinese adventure. not in the way we wo wang intended. off they tumbled, one after another, bruising their poor bodies and wishing they had kept out of the way, and not been so curious. we li ho came very near coming down in safety, but near the bottom his foot slipped, and he too fell down. as we wo wang sat and watched them, he laughed hard enough to split his sides, for no one was able to accomplish the feat. one a chinese adventure. we wing wo was a little yellow chinaman. he belonged to one of the best families, as any one could tell from his red and yellow girdle. that he never worked a day in his life might also be told by the great length of his finger nails, of which he was wonderfully proud. he was also proud of his round, plump figure, for chinamen, you know, like to be fat. like the rest of his , countrymen, he had almond-shaped eyes, and wore his shiny black hair in a long, carefully combed pig-tail. we wing wo was very fond of good things 正如国naes -- · a chinese adventure. to eat, and he thought no one could cook these good things as well as his servant, ho che lee. ha dotwo y art et how old we wing wo would smile with de- light when the bird's-nest soup was set before a chinese adventure. him; and then, again, how merrily he would chuckle over a dish of shark's fins or deer's sinews, and the never-forgotten pearly white rice! we wing wo could make his chop sticks fly when all these dainties graced his table. but above all things, we wing wo loved a cup of good, strong tea. it seemed to drive away all cares and troubles. ho che lee, always kept some ready in a funny brown tea-pot. we wing wo haù never been to sea, and he was siezed with a wild desire to try a trip on the briny deep. one day he called his faithful ho che lee to him, and telling him his wish, bade him pack a harper with eatables, hunt up a boat, and prepare to take the journey with him. poor ho che lee shook with fear at such a prospect, but he dared not question his master's order, and so went away to do his bidding. when all was ready, ho che lee suggested that it might be better to take with them somebody who knew a thirg or two about a boat. we wing wo agreed to this; a fellow was found, and the three set sail. all went well at first, but by and by poor we wing wo wished he was on shore, for he was growing sicker every minute. the eagle's christmas. it was easy enough to say, go home, but try as they might, neither the sailor nor he che lee could manage the boat. “throw out a line,” said we wing wo, “and see how deep it is.” out went the line, and out went luckless lee; not to drown, however, for after much pulling he was landed safely in the boat. how all .;f them longed for shore, and how very small their chances of getting there did seem! but fate is sometimes kind, and so she proved herself this time. some men had been watching the boat from the shore, and had seen the poor fellows' sorry plight; so they tied a rope round the waist of one good-hearted chinaman, and sent him to the rescue. he swam out to them, fastened the rope to the bow, and with many long, strong pulls we wing wo was hauled to shore. the eagle's christmas. on the top of a high mountain a mother eagle had built a nice, soft nest. she did not build where some eagles do, in the cleft of the the eagle's christmas. rocks, but in top of a large tree. in the uest she laid four eggs, and there, day after day, she sat on the nest, keeping the eggs warm, until one day she heard a gentle rap-rap against the shell. the knocking grew louder and louder, and a bit of the shell fell off the end of the egg, and slowly a little head came out, and then a little body, and in the course of a few hours the old mother eagle found herself with four little ones to look after. it kept her very busy indeed, supplying all their wants, and she had to make a good many trips to the valley to get them the food they wanted. all babies must have a name, and so the old mother eagle put on her thinking cap, and tried to find a name for each child; but, like all mam- mas, none was good enough. at last she de cided to call them tim, sam, chirp and baldy. they were a funny looking lot of creatures, to be sure, with their big heads, and mouths al- ways open, and we would not think them at ail pretty; but they seemed beautiful to their mamma, and she was always trying to think up ways of making them happy. no children ever spent more happy days than these little eagles. strange to say, they never quarreled. if sam tine eagle's christmas. felt cross, and was likely to scold, the other little ones would creep away, and leave him to himself until he was good-natured once more. they loved one another very dearly, and each one was ready to do as the others wished. they never said, “i won't play, if you do that,” as some little boys and girls do. they were still quite young, so young that they had not yet learned to fly, when the glad christmas time rolled around. the snow had been falling for several days, and the mountain tops were covered with a beautiful white blanket. on the fir trees just near the eagle's nest, the snow glistened like diamonds in the morning sun. sam and tim, baldy and chirp were up early that christmas morning, for, like all little folks, they wanted to see if santa claus had brought them anything. all the week they had been wild with excitement, for, although they had never had a christmas, their mamma had told them all about it, and it seemed as if they could never wait for the day to come. each tiny eagle had written down just what he wanted, and mamma had a long list when she started off that morning to get the gifts and the christmas dinner. santa claus was so busy supplying the the eagle's christmas. wants of the children down in the valley, that he did not have time to visit the nest, but he met the mother eagle one day as he was driving over the mountain, and he had promised to leave a lot of nice toys for the little ones hidden in the hollow tree at the foot of the mountain, where she could get them. santa claus has such a good, kind heart that he could not bear to think that even little eagles should be forgotten on this glad day, when all of god's creatures should be happy. all day the little eagles sat on the branches of the tree which was their home, craning their long necks and straining their eyes to catch the first sight of their mother as she flew homeward. they did not even take time for their mid-day nap, and if they had not been so anxious to see what their mamma would bring, i fear they would have dropped asleep and perhaps would have fallen out of the tree to the ground below. it was nearly twilight when the mother came home, and how joyfully the little ones greeted her, and how delighted they were with her well- filled basket. they chattered and chirped in their own language until their poor mother was almost wild with their noise, but she the eagle's christmas. was also very much pleased to see them all so happy. what a nice christmas dinner they had. true, their turkey was not roasted or garnished, as ours is, but they liked it all the better. first there was the nicest, sweetest fish you ever saw, served up in true eagle style. then a nice rabbit, two young pigeons and some fat ducks. when the youngsters had finished their dinner, their mamma brought out a bag of yellow corn and a lot of rosy cheeked apples, which she had stolen from a farmer's wagon. my, how those little eagles did eat. it was a great wonder they did not all die. when the feast was over, and the horns and drums, the bright picture books, and the other pretty toys were distributed, they all decided that christmas was the happiest time imaginable. “well, really,” said little baldy, "i wish christ- mas came oftener.” and all the others cried, “so do we.” tale of the ostrich hunter. did you ever hear of a bird that could not fly? that seems odd, does it not? but a bird, called the ostrich, belongs to this family. its wings are so tiny that they are of little use to him, except that while running they spread out and catch the air. if the ostrich has not the power of flying, which other birds possess, he is gifted with the ability to run at a wonderfully swift pace. to help him in this direction, he is provided with strong, long legs, that carry him across the country as rapidly as the swiftest. horse. the long neck of this bird is covered with soft, downy plumage, but its body is cov- ered with the beautiful, graceful plumes that are used for trimming our hats and bonnets. the home of the ostrich is in the hot, sunny desert land of África. it is a very tall bird, measuring six feet, and sometimes eight. its food is principally grass and grains, but it picks up and devours sand and pieces of stone and bone. it will also eat insects, small birds and snakes. large numbers of them will feed to- gether; in fact, they live in flocks, often of great size. the mother bird, before laying her eggs, ss and feces of birds ar tale of the ostrich hunter. scratches a hole in the ground, thus making her nest. she lays ten or twelve eggs in the same place. in the daytime she allows the heat of the sun to hatch them, but at night she sits on them tale of the ostrich hunter. desert to hunt his prey. pretty soon he came upon an ostrich that was resting in the sun, and raising his gun to his shoulder, he fired. he wounded the bird so that it could not walk very fast, and thinking that he would be able to cap- ole kling toolbo souza heim ture it, if he could wound it in such a manner as to stop its walking, he crept carefully toward it, and stooping down, attempted to cut off its leg with his sharp, strong sword. he felt quite sure of his prize now, but had not counted on what was going to happen. the ostrich is a very wise vacation at grandfather's. bird, and this fellow knew that he had the hunter just where he wanted him—completely in his power. what do you think that ostrich did? he dropped right down on top of the poor hunter, completely hiding him from view. that poor hunter wished he had not been so foolish as to get so near the huge bird, at least we sup pose he wished so; but we shall never know just how he did feel, for when the ostrich at last arose, there lay the poor hunter just as flat as a pancake, looking very much as if he had been under a heavy rolling machine. the ostrich hurried away as fast as he could go, leaving the poor hunter to his fate. we see what a powerful bird this is and how careful the poor hunter has to be. vacation at grandfather's. vacation had come, and dick and i were two of the happiest boys you could find after a good long search. · vacation did not simply mean to us that examinations were over, that now books and slates could be put away, and study hour given over to play. no, indeed! vacation vacation at grandfather's. meant lots more to us, it meant grandfather's. if and boy has a grandfather who lives on a big farm, with lots of horses and cows, and whose place is just filled with trees that grow in exactly the right style for climbing, and if he has a grandmother who knows how to make the best pies and puddings and ginger cake men that no baker could possibly make half as good, then he vilis * ignu dra hill march liv die has some idea of what vacation meant to dick and me. grandfather's place was many miles from our home. we had to start quite early in the morn- ing, and ride on the train all day—then, just about the time the sun commenced to creep down back of the hill, the train stopped at clearfield, —that's the name of the station—and out we popped, eyes wide open for the two big grays that grandfather always drove. they never vacation at grandfather's. failed us, and after getting a good big hug from grandfather, we always rubbed their soft noses, and patted their sleek, fat necks. grandmother knew the appetites of her two healthy grand- sons, and made ample prepara- tions. such piles of bread and butter as she cut for us, and how good it tasted, spread with grandmother's lovely butter and the golden honey that the busy bees made. “early to bed, and early to rise,” was grand- father's motto; so we boys must wait until breakfast time to tell all the home news, and to ask after towser, the watch-dog, and bess, the old donkey, and to hear about the cunning gray kittens in the barn, and the little fluffy ducklings only two days old, and the baby lambs. vacation at grandfather's. corner. dick went off to search for the cause, and there in an empty stall lay malty and her four malty babies. aaron gave us a saucer of milk for her, and she purred gently, as though she were trying to express her thanks. the old gobbler strutted around the barnyard, seeming to suggest that he, too, was a subject for ad- miration. the boy, dan, had gone to the corn field to pull out the weeds that had gathered between the rows. dick and i started off to join him, but what a laugh we had when we reached the top of the hill. there stood the funniest looking thing you ever saw. it was a scare-crow rigged up in an old suit of dan's, with one of grand- father's hats on its head, a wooden gun in its hand, and a powder flask swung under its arm. but the funniest sight of all was to see a crow perched on the top of the hat, no more scared than dick and i were. days went so fast that vacation was over be- fore we realized it, and the time had come for us to go home. it was hard work to leave so much fun, but we had to make the best of it, and look forward to another summer and more happy days at grandfather's. ted's birthday gift. it was ted's birthday. eight years ago, grandma told him as she wished him many happy returns of the day, and gave him a great, big hug and a kiss—he was just the tiniest mite of a thing, but now she considers him quite a good size boy for his age. ted liked to be told he was big, and he held up his head and threw back his shoulders, just to make himself as tall as ever he could. ted's birthday gift. word. papa looked almost as pleased as ted, he did so like to make his boy happy. ted's birthday came in the spring. hethought it was a beautiful time to have a birthday—the whole outside world seemed to put on its pret- tiest dress in honor of the day, and as ted sat at the table trying to eat his breakfast, but too full of delight over his wheel-barrow to care very much, the breezes, heavy ladened with the per- fume of the blossoms, stole softly in at the half opened windows. little bess was ted's three year old sister, and she was also his pet and plaything. ted was an idol to bess, and to share in his play was her greatest happiness. bess thought the new wheel- barrow the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. “go put your bonnet on, and i'll take you for a ride," said ted. what fun they had, and how frightened bess grew when ted trunneled her so swiftly around the corners. ted laughed at her fear, and went all the faster. but ted's fearlessness led to sad trouble. just as they started at full speed down the hill, off came the wheel, out went bess, and the pretty ted's birthday gift. red wheel-barrow feil all to pieces. no bones were broken, but two broken-hearted little chil- dren picked up the pieces, and went into the like xiv house to mother. mother kissed and petted them both, and comforted ted with the promise that father would mend it and make it as good as new. the little indian boy. did you ever think, when night comes and you see mother undress the baby and tuck him snugly in his snowy white bed, that perhaps there are some babies who have different cradles from his, and very different treatment, too? the little indian baby who lives in the north- western part of america has a very different cradle. his is only a piece of wood, sometimes birch bark, which is hollowed out. the baby is laid on the board, and his mother laces him in, passing the cord from side to side. a small piece of wood, covered with bark, is used for his pil- low. when the baby's mother goes for a walk, she carries the cradle and baby on her back, the little indian's head just peeping over his mother's shoulder. if she is busy, she hangs the cradle and baby on a tree, and the wind swings the cradle gently to and fro, often sending the little one to “shut-eye-town.” sometimes there are tiny bells fastened to the cradle, and their tinkle, tinkle, when the wind swings it, makes very sweet music. as soon as the little indian boy is old enough, his father takes him with him to learn hunting the little indian boy. and fishing. he holds the lighted torch while the old indian spears the fish at night, and he helps him also with the canoe or boat. he soon learns to use the bow and arrow, and to bring down the birds as they fly through the air. it is the fate, at times, of some unlucky animal to stop the arrow as it comes dashing towards the ground, for of course every arrow does not pierce the object toward which it is directed the indian children do not wear dainty clothes, like you little people. sometimes they have only a piece of cloth around them serving for a skirt. the father and mother indians wrap themselves in blankets, and the brighter the colors, the better they like them. their hair is long and straight and black, and they love to dress it with tall, stiff feathers. their shoes are not made like ours, but are pieces of skin, often beautifully trimmed with beads and worked with fancy silks. these shoes are called moccasins. once there was a little indian boy, who lived not far from the railroad. it happened one day that the 'train stopped for some reason or cther, and this little fellow, thinking he might coax some goodies from the passengers, sat down and cried as though his heart would break, sobbing the little indian boy. out from time to time how hungry he was. as he sat there on the edge of the platform, the people in the train felt very sorry for him, think- ing he had in some way become lost, and possibly might be starving; so, not knowing this was a trick, pitied the poor little fellow, opened their baskets, and generously shared their lunch with him, giving him the very best they had. they did not know that the father and mother were hiding in the bushes, and that this was a scheme of theirs to get their living. when the train moved on, he gathered up his treasures, carried them to his father and mother, and they had the grandest kind of a feast. there was dainty white bread, chicken, cakes and pies, good things of all sorts. we should not blame the little fel- low, for of course he thought it was all right, if mother said so, just as our little boys and girls think what their fathers and mothers say is just right and the proper thing to do. now this was a very naughty trick for the little indian boy to play, but we must remember that he had no one to teach him how wrong it is to deceive people, for his father and mother had never been taught either. it is we, who know how, who must try to be good. the first pair of trousers. the rain was falling thick and fast in the dim old forest. at first it had been nothing but a gentle shower, but now the great drops came dashing through the trees, twisting and turn- ing the leaves, and even bending the swaying branches. the clouds were so thick and black that old sol was hidden completely out of sight. little cubby bruin heard the sound of the falling rain when he opened his eyes in the hol- low of the great tree in which he lived. “oh deary, deary," muttered cubby. "now all my fun is spoiled. this is the day of cousin wolf's party, and mother will never let me go while the rain pours down in this style.” he crawled to the opening in the tree, and poked out his little head to see if there was any show of its clearing off, but the clouds hung heavy, and the rain poured down unceasingly. cubby crawled back again, and curled himself up for another nap. he slept once more, and dreamed of the games of catch and toss, and of the frolics of every kind that he and cousin wolf would enjoy together. pretty soon he the first pair of trousers. awoke to find no wolf there, and he himself tucked away in the old tree. it was mother bruin that had aroused the re vjet lin- the tables turned. them remembered what good work he used to do before the stiffness got into his old joints. some folks said that jimmy lived alone, but this was a mistake, for he shared his shanty, and also his food, with a big, long-horned goat called billy. billy loved old jimmy dearly, and would follow him around like a dog, but to every one but jimmy, billy was the crossest goat that ever lived. if jimmy was out of sight, strangers dared not venture too near the shanty. on the top of the hill, at the bottom of which jimmy's shanty was built, stood the school house. a score or more of round-faced, red-cheeked urchins came there every day to be taught their a-b-c's and as much other learning as their little brains could hold, for they were so crowded with mischief, it was hard work to wedge in any knowledge. now the boys all knew old jimmy, and they all knew billy, too, and billy. knew them. he had no liking for these school children. he re- membered sticks and stones that had been aimed at him from behind trees and other hiding places. one day the boys planned to have some fun with billy. one of them had seen jimmy's shanty tightly shut, and the goat tied to a tree. the queen bee's ball. down the hill they started, well ladened with stones and other missiles of one sort or another, and for some time they pelted billy to their hearts' content. but all at once the tables were turned; billy gave one mighty leap, broke the rope, and made a dash for his tormentors. away they flew, billy after them as fast as he could go. it was hard work getting up the hill, but they reached the school house at last, and entered it, a lot of breathless, scared youngsters. in fact, they had never before been quite so frightened, and they all decided that, in the future, they would let billy alone, for they might never again have such a lucky escape. the queen bee's ball. there was great excitement in the meadovi. as soon as dawn peeped out and said good morn- ing to the world, and old sol smilingly lifted his head from behind the trees in the pine woods, the fuss and confusion began. the queen of the bees was responsible for it all. she had de cided to give a ball, and had bidden her mes- the queen bee's ball. sengers fly far and near to tell all the insects in the meadow to come and join in the jolly dance that night. one flew here, and another flew there, their noisy buzz, buzz, as they flew from place to place making a constant din. a merry band of fiddlers lived in the swamp, and the queen's favorite messen- ger had been dispatched there in great haste, for you see, they were needed to provide the music for the dancing the katy-dids in their pretty green gowns were invited to sing a duet, half singing "katy- did,” and half responding with "katy-didn't.” the queen bee liked the crickets, and so did all the bees; they were such cheerful little fellows, and so, of course, they were invited, and they one and all accepted the invitation, for crickets never miss a chance for having fun, especially when katy-dids are around. the queen bee's ball. the spider, who was weaving a web in the spruce tree, sent his compliments to her royal highness, the queen, and bade the messenger tell her it would be his pleasure to come, but it was impossible for him to leave his beautiful web, that was so nearly finished. this message did not please madame queen very well, for she was always happiest when having her own way. the locusts had just shed their shells, and were attired in their new spring suits, so they accepted the invitation gladly, for the vain little fellows thought it would be great fun to show their fine clothes, even if they were not so giddy as the yellow jackets, whose striped coat was the envy of all the insects. tiny mrs. lady-bug promised to come, if she could find any one to stay with her babies, for only the night before she had left them alone, and she had been so nervous she had had no the queen bee's ball. pleasure, fur s'ne kept haring all the time, “ .ady-bug lady bird, fly m n at away home; your house many is on fire, your ci,ildren will burn." so she had made up her mind that she would not leave them alone again. grand-daddy-long-legs thought he had grown too old for balls, but the messengers coaxed so hard that he promised to take a good long nap, and to honor the occasion with his presence. the sun was shining in all his glory, and the hour of noou had arrived before all the guests had been notified. the messengers were weary from their busy morning, and hid themselves in the hearts of the flowers or among the tall, grace ful grasses to full asleep, and so refresh them- selves that they, , might be ready for the fun and frolic the evening was to bring. we could not begin to tell all the pleasant things that happeried, brit one was the meeting of yellow-jacket and mlex gauzy wings. they the queen bee's ball. had not been friends for a long time, but they met this day on their way to the ball, and found each other's company so pleasant that ere long jos winy yellow-jacket was on his knees, suing for miss gauzy wing's hand in marriage, and he must have been accepted, for he was very attentive to widow murphy's pig. her all through the evening, and when the ball was over, and all the insects said good-night and hastened away to their homes, they departed hand in hand, and be- fore very long there was a gathering of the insects to celebrate the wedding of this happy pair. so the queen bee's ball was the means of bringing about the event. widow n everybody knew her—she sold apples at the crossing, and her cheeks were as red and her smile as sweet as the tempting fruit that made the children's eyes sparkle with delight. rain or shine, she sat there, her stiff green bonnet crowning her head in summer, and her big black bonnet almost hiding her cherry face in winter. the great gingham umbrella that shielded her from rain and sun was often also the sheltering place of many an unlucky school boy caught in a shower. she lived on a tiny place, just outside the widow murphy's pig. town, and when jack, the lame newsboy, or ted, the black boot-black, or when any of her regular customers stopped for a chat, she loved to tell them of her “foine pratie patch that did so well, thanks to her airly risin," and of the hens that troubled her so by scratching in this much-prized garden, in spite of all the corn she scattered for their comfort. but by and by she revelled in a new treasure —a cunning black pig. one day, when widow murphy went to the farm house for her daily can of milk—the farmer's wife gave it to her, and what a prize it was to the poor old soul. 'twas sick and tiny and forlorn looking enough when she got it, but she nursed it most carefully, and its queer little grunt was like music to her ears. piggy learned to know her, and followed her around like a dog, and he really grew fatter every day in his comfortable new home. one morning, it was time to go to town with apples—and time for l'iggy to be shut in his pen; he was far too precious to be left roaming around—but where was le? the widow searched everywhere, and called and called, until at last she gave up in despair, and tired out, sat down upon the well curb to rest and think. widow murphy's pig. then she heard a noise that made her jump up in such a hurry that the ruffles on her snowy cap almost danced. it was piggy's grunt, and it certainly came from the well. way over leaned the old lady—and scarcely could she believe her own eyes, for there in the bucket, safe and sound, sat that naughty black pig. he had been peer- ing over the well, perhaps, admiring his funny snout in the clear waters below, lost his balance, and tumbled in, fortunately into the bucket that hung down low. how glad the widow was to find him, and how the boys laughed when she told them the tale. we hope that piggy learned a lesson, and be came ever after a less vain and less curious piggy. but one day a man came from a distant city to buy a fine little pig for a thanksgiving feast. widow murphy did not want to sell, but the price offered was too tempting, so she finally agreed to sell him. if she could have looked into that house on thanksgiving day, she would have seen piggy perched on a big platter in the center of the table. a chance acquaintance. pretty hungry by this time, so she timidly crept into a bakery, and succeeded in getting a good meal, for the baker was not the tidiest man in the world, and there were plenty of crumbs on the floor. the next day found rhody wandering along the river bank, where the pond lilies grew and the tall brown cat-tails nodded in the wind. all at once rhody was startled by the sound of a strange voice, and turning, saw a spry young frog at her side. “i see,” said he, “that you are admiring our river and its pretty, flowery banks. let me walk along with you, and enjoy it also, for though it is not new to me, it is ever beau- tiful.” “what a very nice creature this is,” thought rhody; so she dropped him a courtesy, and told him she was very glad of his company, and froggy, pleased with her approval of him, did his level best to be entertaining. rhody was charmed with her companion, and the two chatted as if they had long been friends. froggy was very much interested in rhody's story about her home in the stable and her trips to the feed box for food, and very much surprigird to learn. that she had never before seen the river. so a chance acquaintance. . he told all about the wonderful times he had in his watery home, and she was greatly interested in all he had to relate. she said it might be very pleasant, but she did not think she would like it, although some of her cousins lived in the water a great deal of the time. "how sorry i am,” said froggy, "that i can- not ask you to dine with me; but my larder con- tou foxes' quarrel. they could carry shemselves. as they hurried along, they met nany of their friends going out on hunting expeditions, for the night was favor- able. presently they reached the home of farmer tobbin, and quietly and carefully en- tered the yard, knowing that the slightest noise would be sure to waken bruno, the faithful watch-dog, and set the cocks crowing, and then it would be all over with them, for the farmer would appear with his gun. as they entered the yard, they caught sight of a rooster which had sauntered out to see if it were yet dawn. quick as a wink, darius seized him, while christopher secured a plump, fat duck that had forgotten to go inside to roost. in the excite- ment, poor little xerxes was quite forgotten, and the friends, throwing their game across their shoulders, started for home, well pleased with their luck. just as they entered the woods, a snipe met the eyes of christopher, but before he had captured it, darius caught sight of it. both rushed for it, and seized it. now, whose should it be? both claimed it. long and angrily the foxes quarreled. christopher claimed it because he saw it first, and darius claimed it because he got hold of it first. morning came, new year's eve. daddy bruin and his old wife had built a. house with the branches of trees closely packed together, and had covered the roof with thick coatings of mud. there they lived, as snug and comfortable as you please. the wind whistled all around them, but it could not enter their dwelling and bother them, so snugly were they housed. it was new year's eve in the forest, and daddy bruin had invited all the inhabitants thereof to meet with him in his home to talk about the past year. beasts of every shape, size and color gathered at his call, and even the wise old owl, having heard of the gathering, came with his little son. when they had all arrived, daddy wrapped himself in his blanket, and put on his tam o'shanter, and seating himself on a fallen log, began to talk to the eager group in his usual kind fashion. they all looked very much interested, and paid the best of attention to bruin's remarks, even to the tiny little mice that sat close by his feet. i suppose you would like to know what they were talking about, so i will tell you. bruin was trying to get them to give up their bad habits and live good lives. he said he had decided not to steal anything more new year's eve. from the farmers, but would hereafter depend on the fruits of field and wood for his living. ivile willklich one after another the animals confessed that they had done lots of bad things during the year, new year's eve. and, let us hope, in after days they followed peaceful, honest ways; ticle va vi "that guns and snares and traps severe were not required throughout the year." bomba, the merry old king. there is an island to the south of italy, called sicily. the weather is beautiful there, and flow- ers and fruits grow most plentifully. here, so the story goes, lived a king, called bumba. bomba was known as the merry old king, for he loved to play and romp and frolic, notwith- standing the fact that his hair had grown white as the driven snow, and his beard had also been touched by time's frosty hand. he lived in the royal palace with no one but his servants, more than a dozen of whom were kept to amuse and entertain this fun-loving sovereign. the grounds around the court were all devoted to his pleasures. there he played tennis, or enjoyed a game of ball, or else rigged himself in his suit, and became one of the play- ers in a jolly game of foot-ball. if bomba did not feel like taking part in the game, he would order his servants to play in their very best style; perhaps he would be umpire, or perhaps he would make himself comfortable, and devote his time to enjoying the fun. bomba loved to roll a hoop. his was made of the most beautiful red gold, and the stick he bomba, the merry old king. used for rolling it was nothing less than his own jeweled sceptre. it was the funniest sight to see bomba dashing after the hoop, his crown, pulled tightly down on his head, gleaming in the sun- light, and his purple gown, richly trimmed with ermine, flying about him in all directions. the marbles he used were made of gold, and his tops were of gold, too, set with precious stones of every kind and color. how they sparkled and gleamed as the top went spinning around and around, and how old bomba clapped his hands and roared with delight. now people thought, and they dared do no more than think, that their king was crazy. you see, if this had reached bomba's ears, there is no telling what might have happened to the person who said it. but still, the people had their own thoughts, and they felt very sad to think their king was really nothing but a foolish, fun-loving child. they wished some one, wise and good, might wear the purple robe, and the jeweled crown, and use the royal sceptre for some better purpose than rolling a golden hoop. one morning, after bomba had eaten his breakfast, and a good meal it was too, he called his jester to him. he told him to summon his · bomba, the merry old king. entertainers, bid them dress in their merriest costumes, and hasten to the great court garden. the jester went to do his bidding, and one and all wondered what scheme old bomba now had. they were all present when the king came among them. he gazed at them, laughed mer- rily at their rigs, and told them that now he was ready for a game of leap-frog; they should take turns at being the frog, while he did the leaping. this soon became a favorite sport with the king, and every day he would spend a portion of the time in this kind of play. people from all around came to see this merry old king indulge in the games and sports which children love. but, alas! for the king; he tried the game once too often. one day, when he had been having a particularly jolly game, and been more reckless than was his want, he tried to jump over one of his servants, who was very tall, but he missed his leap, slipped and fell, and lay a helpless heap, never to rise again. the courtiers gath- ered around him, trying to do something for him, for at first they thought he was only stunned, but all the doctors could do nothing, and at last they realized that their king was in- deed dead. it was a sad death for the merry a friendly pair. old monarch, and all the people pitied him, even though he had been nothing but a foolish old king, and they missed his merry laugh and his kind, gentle face. they missed him more and more as the days went by, and there was no fun in the palace. the next king was a very stern, hard master, and they often wished they were again living under merry old king bomba, though he did spend most of his time in idle sport. a friendly pair. winter had given way to spring, and the alli- gator had come out of the hole in the banks of the river in which he had slept away the chilly nights and days. he felt so strong and happy after his long sleep, and having given himself a vigorous shake and oft repeated stretches, he dived into the water for a cool, refreshing bath. this done, his thoughts turned toward some- thing to eat, and he opened and shut his big jaws, as if smacking his lips, when he thought of the delightful prospect, and there arose be- fore him visions of the shiny-backed fish that he would catch and dine upon. : a friendly pair. in a tiny stream that flowed through the marshes lived a fish that could be found no where else. mr. alligator liked this fish so well that he decided to go fishing in the stream, and the balky mule outwitted. bear, “i am only taking a morning walk in search of something to eat.” “well, i am on the same errand,” said the alligator; “if our ways are.to- gether, shall we not walk together?” this plan suited the bear, so they walked together side by side, and enjoyed a pleasant stroll. the balky mule outwitted. among a forest of cypress, fir and pine trees stood the palace of old sultan allah baba, with its cupolas and domes towering high above the wilderness of trees. it was built of white mar- ble, and kept always, at the order of the sultan, gleamingly white and beautiful. the windows were of the most gorgeous colors, through which the sun brightly shone, sending rainbow-like shadows in and around the rooms of the palace. at night the place was lighted by jeweled. studded lamps, which were hung from the ceil ings by great silken cords. allah baba had once been a tall, stately young fellow, but the happy, easy life he had led, to- gether with the many dainties that daily filled his table, had added many pounds to the sultan's the balky mule outwitted. weight. he liked this change in his appearance as little as he did the snow white beard that had taken the place of the jet black whiskers. the great cap that adorned his head covered the growth of snowy hair, but no such device hid the whiskers from sight. "i am growing old,” mused the sultan, "and that will never do. i must find some plan to bring me back my youth again. i'll dye my whiskers, but how can i rid myself of all this load of flesh?” allah baba thought and thought, but all in vain. finally he sent for one of the wise men of his court, and stating the case to him, asked what he should do. "your case is easily settled, your highness,” said he. “i am sure you would soon be as slen- der as a young willow if you would only ride a mule." “a delightful plan that,” said the sultan. “i will reward you richly for your noble efforts.” no time was lost in buying the mule, and of course they tried to select the very best in all the land. the sultan came from the palace to examine the new treasure, and smiled approv- ingly at the animal's long ears and shaggy coat the balky mule outwitted. “now i'll mount him," said allah baba, “and go dashing away on my first ride.” it was easy enough to mount, but the dashing away did not follow. not one inch would the mule move. allah baba coaxed and pulled, but for nought; his mule would not stir. "cut me a stick,” roared allah; "i'll teach him a lesson or two." but the stick, likewise, proved useless. at last allah grew desperate. "a fortune,” said he, “to the man who makes this miserable beast move!” "i'll earn it in no time, your highness," said one of his servants. right to work he went, and after several hours' labor he rigged the trouble- some mule in a complete set of sails. then, again, allah mounted his steed, and away they went, this time without the least trouble, for old longears had to go, whether he would or not. the wind filled the sails, and the mule was sur- prised at himself to think he could go so fast. as they sped along over the road, everything and everybody fled before them, for they knew not what to make of the queer looking object. it was a lively ride for the old sultan, but what pleased him best of all, was the conquering of the balky mule, and he was really conquered, fun in the woods. too. for several days the old sultan took his daily ride on his sail-rigged beast, but one day he decided to try him without all these things, so he told his servants to bring him to the door vith nothing but a saddle and bridle on. they obeyed, but were quite sure that when their master attempted to make the mule go, he would again show his ugly temper. great was their surprise, therefore, to see him start off at just as rapid a rate as ever, as soon as their master mounted his back, showing that he had discov- ered that the sultan was master of the situation. he never again was obliged to use the device which had been so useful to him, but always found his mule ready to obey his slightest word. fun in the woods. rex wolf and his friend, teddy fox, had played catch with the fallen blossoms until they were weary; then they played a game of hokey, but found it no fun. after this they tried hide and go seek and leap-frog, but nothing seemed to please them. so they had seated themselves fun in the woods. knew you would think of something before long." off these two youngsters scampered, and hav- ing found a fallen limb near at hand, they soon had it placed across the stump, and were taking a fine ride. up and down they went, thoroughly enjoying this new kind of sport. just about this time, a fat, black bear came strolling along. “give me a ride, foxy?" said he. “yes, if you like,” said foxy. “rex and i will get on one side, and you can get on the other." pretty soon they were all ready to start again. rex and teddy got on one end, and away they went up in the air, just as soon as the old black bear took his seat on the other, and there they stayed, too, for the old bear was so heavy that they could not lift him up. "this won't do," said teddy. “you are too heavy for us.” so he called to a little porcupine, who was watch- ing the fun. “get on,” prickly, and help us balance old fatty.” so prickly crawled up, and they just balanced the old fellow. then they had the greatest fun; now up, now down, until at last they got dizzy and tired, too. then they fun in the woods. thought they would play a trick on the old bear, so the three little fellows all jumped off to- gether, letting old fatty down rather suddenly. but he was such a good-natured fellow that he did not mind it, and invited them to go home ne si palmer with him, and they joyfully accepted the invi- tation. now blacky's sister had at one time found an accordion that some people had left in the woods, and she kept it hidden in the old hollow oak where she lived. blacky had told his friends of this treasure, so when they had chatted awhile, the monks' victory. teddy fox begged miss blacky to play for them. she willingly consented, and seating herself upon a log, began to play with all her might. it was not long before quite a merry party had gathered on the green, and among them were two bright little hares. they began to dance a jig to the lively music that was being played, and soon others joined them, and soon all were enjoying a good jolly dance. just before the party broke up, and they went away, the bear proposed that they should sit down and chat awhile. then he suggested that they should form a sort of a club, and have a meeting every week in the old woods. he said his sister would learn how to play some new pieces, especially dance music, and he thought they could have a fine time together. this they all thought would be great fun, and so they de- cided to meet each tuesday at five o'clock for a good old frolic. the monks' victory. the pale moon never shed her light nor the stars never twinkled over a more sorrowful spot the monks' victory. went straight to work to find some way out of the difficulty. “we will go boldly to diddle dee,” said one of the monks, “and see if our sacred calling will not have some weight with him.” now it happened that diddle dee dreaded nothing so much as the ill will of these holy men, so when they rode up to the castle, he re- ceived them very graciously. the two monks dismounted, tied their beasts to a couple of trees, and entered the house of diddle dee. in the room into which he led them burned a bright fire, and over the fire swurg an enormous kettle filled with water. "a boiling pot for the helpless little ones," thought one of the fathers, “but it has served its day for that use only one more victim shall ever fill it, and that is diddle dee himself.” with that he laid hold of the wicked fellow, and with the aid of his brother monk, plunged him into the pot. the water was hot, and diddle dee screamed for mercy, but the monks paid no heed to him until he was scared almost to death. “now," said the monk who had seized him, "are you willing to promise to leave this country the monks' victory. and your wicked work forever? we will take you to a place where you can do much good, and perhaps blot out some of your wicked past.” diddle dee was only too glad to promise any- thing, and when he was lifted out of the pot, stood before the fathers a humbled and sadder man. the monks tied diddle dee to his own iron bed, for they had no wish to lose their prize. then they locked around to see what they could find. quantities of good things filled the larder, and they soon had the air heavy with the de licious odor of cooking food. when all was finished, one of the monks rode to the village to tell the anxious villagers of their victory, and to bid them celebrate the event with them in feast- ing. the feast which the monks had prepared was truly wonderful and surpassed anything that had ever been held in the village before. it was indeed an occasion for great joy, since now the village was free from the ravages of this terrible creature, whose evil deeds had made life almost a burden, especially to those who had little ones in their families; therefore it is not surprising that the monks found people so ready to accept their invitations. everybody came, the brownies' kind deed. old and young, and the place was crowded. speeches were made, thanks were offered, and cheer after cheer went up for the brave, good monks. happiness once more reigned in the village, and diddle dee found that good deeds brought more satisfaction than cruelties. this was a great victory, and the people never forgot the kindness of the monks. the brownies' kind deed. little peter, one of the brownies, had perched himself on the trunk of a fallen tree to think. his tiny, round face did not wear its usual smile, and his bright, black eyes had a worried look. young toby tumble, passing through the woods, saw his little friend, peter, and scrambled up along- side of him. “you look blue, little peter,” said he, “have things gone wrong with you? tell me what the matter is, and maybe i can help you." the brownies' kind deed. “you are very kind,” said little peter, “but it is not about myself i feel so grieved, but about the widow good and her two little children. to- morrow is christmas, you know, and i heard her say that she had nothing for them, so there is no prospect of a good time at the good cottage.” toby tumble was looking grave himself by this time, and he sat with his face buried in his tiny hands. “i have it,” said he, “they'll do it, i'm sure,” and he clapped his hands in glee. "do what?” said peter. “help us, to be sure. we will call all the brownies together, tell them all about the matter, and i am sure that neither widow good or her little ones will want for anything to make up a christmas dinner.” no time was to be lost in carrying out their plans, and so they hastened out to find their comrades. of course the good brownies were all glad to help them, for they delight to help good people. their first movement was to borrow a large basket from greengoods, the grocer. the brownies had no money, so they decided to fill the basket from the shop, and pay the master in work, for brownies, you know, are very clever creatures, and can turn a band at anything. the gomation in the brownies' kind deed. little fellows could scarcely move the basket when filled, but all worked together, and by and by they had it mounted on sticks, and then, five or six on a side, they bore it along very com- fortably. how proud they felt as they looked at this well-filled basket! as they went along, they could see peeping from the covering of the basket, links of sausage, a fish, and the black feet of the big turkey that was to be such a treat to the children on the morrow. they were very tired when they reached the widow's house, so they sat down to rest until morning. when light came, and all the busy little fellows had hidden themselves where they could see and not be seen, toby tumble knocked at the door. he had only just time to run out of sight himself, when the widow opened it. the brownies had worked hard, but they felt fully rewarded when they saw the joy and happi- ness on the poor woman's face, and they decided that they would remember her again the next year, and that they would fully repay the grocer for all his goods, and would do it so quickly and thoroughly that he would never miss them. you may be sure the widow was very happy a pair of pets. - when she unpacked that basket, and found all the good things, for she felt that now she could give her children a little pleasure on christmas day. she could not imagine who it could be that had remembered her and her little ones, but her little son rob said he was sure it was the brownies. a pair of pets. brown peggy, the horse, did not like the strange yelping and squealing that disturbed her rest. it seemed to come from right beneath the feed box, and she feared to move, lest she should tread on the cause of all the noise, for she knew by the sound that it was alive. the stable was too dark to sce, and she had to wait until michael came and threw open the great doors. then peggy stepped back in her stall, and looking down, she saw, huddled close together, four of the cutest little brown puppies you ever saw. they twisted around and around, and rolled over each other in the most restless manner. when michael came with peggy's breakfast, he too heard the queer noise, and looking over a pair of pets. the feed box, he spied the little strangers. “well, if you are not about as cute and cunning as any- thing i ever saw,” said he. “i shall keep one of you little chaps, and i think it will be you, old fellow, for i like your snowy nose.” so spoke michael, as he leaned over and picked up one of the tiny puppies, the tip of whose nose was snowy white. michael had some little brothers and sisters at home, and so one day, when the puppies were old enough to leave their mother, and he was ready for his homeward walk, he remembered the little white nosed pup, and thought how much the children would enjoy playing with it, so puppy was tucked away in michael's pocket and taken to his new quarters, where his happy new life began. the children were delighted with their new playmate, and did all in their power to make him welcome. they had another pet, that had held full sway before the puppy came, and that was a little red pig. he was always a very tiny pig, and hai grown so little that he still looked like a baby pig, although many months had gone by since his entrance into the world. piggy did not like the idea of a rival, and jack, the giant of the sea. behaved very cross and ugly, but the children scolded him, and talked to him, and by and by, when he had gotten over his pouting, he visited the little dog, and before very long they were the best friends in the world. jack, the giant of the sea. many, many years ago there lived a great and powerful giant, whose name was jack. he was as tall as some of the houses in the village where he made his home, and so strong and powerful that the earth trembled when he walked. his cane was the trunk of a tree which he had torn up by the roots and stripped of its branches. do you wonder the people trembled with fear even at his name? his home was not built of wood or bricks, like ours. he lived in a cave down by the sea, and against this cave the waves beat day and night. old jack loved to hear them surge against his rocky home, and he would chuckle with delight when a heavy storm sent the break- ers dashing over his cave. “ha, ha!” roared he, "more fun for old jack. the fishermen will jack, the giant of the sea. think that the fury of the waves carried off their nets, but this old chap knows better; he knows aves palmer cox wp who stole their nets full of fish and carried them home on his back. it was old jack. ha, ha, ha!" jack, the giant of the sea. by and by this old giant grew so wicked that he would watch from the door of his cave until he saw the fishing boats near the shore. then into the water he would plunge, and boldly grab a net filled with the labor of a long, hard night, throw it over his back, and bear it to his cave, and the poor fishermen could do nothing but work bravely to save their own lives. the fishermen suffered from the bold, bad deeds of this wicked jack, but they were not the only ones. "fish is good food,” said jack, “but sometimes i relish a good fat ox.” then it was that he would leave his cave, and with his long, powerful strides hasten to the fields where the cattle were grazing. it took him no time to throw an ox over his shoulder and bear it away to his cave. when he wanted a change, he would pick up a sheep and bear it home in one hand. one day jack made up his mind to go fishing. “a fine fish i'll have for my supper,” said he. a tall sappling served him for a pole, and a rope that had been tied to a cow he had stolen the night before answered for a line, and he made his hook from a huge bolt, bendirg i into shape with his strong fingers. he som pulled in a large salmon, and threw out his line jack, the giant of the sea. for another trial. presently he felt something pull on the line. he had never before felt such a tug, and he felt that whatever there was at the other end of the line, it was pulling him more a thanksgiving tale. surface of the water, and jerked him from the rock, and drew him out faster and faster into the sea. the people of the village rushed to the shore, and cheered long and loud when they saw jack in such a sorry plight. they never saw him again, for the waves and the monster bore him away farther and still farther, until at last he was lost to sight. if he did not drown, we hope he learned to be a better giant. a thanksgiving tale. old uncle nathan howe and his wife debby lived in a tiny farm house, painted white. the shutters were green, and in summer a rose climbed up the sides of the house, almost cover- dark red roses. people driving by leaned from their carriages to take a peep at uncle nathan's cottage, and they smiled, as though pleased with the sight that had rewarded their efforts. but now the bloom had left the rose, and the leaves had fallen one by one, until only a few yellow stragglers lingered. a thanksgiving tale. uncle nathan and aunt debby, as everybody called them, lived all alone in their tiny white house, for they had neither kith nor kin to share it with them. thanksgiving day was drawing near, and/aunt debby' was busy making pump- kin pies, and plum pudding, frying doughnuts, and revelling in cooking to her heart's content. “such a pile of stuff,” thought she, "for two old people to get rid of. of course i shall send some to the minister, and some to dr. brown, but then there will be enough left to feed a big family.” and this last idea set aunt debby to thinking harder than ever. when uncle nathan came in to his dinner, he found his good wife with a very thoughtful face. "how does the poultry look, nathan?” said she. uncle nathan smiled at the question, for the poultry fell to his care, and aunt debby never bothered about it. “what is in the air now, old wife?” said he, somewhat surprised. “answer my question, and i'll tell you,” she replied. now was uncle nathan's turn to look grave. “they are lookin' poorly, debby,” said he, a thanksgiving tale. “poorer than i ever saw 'em lookin' afore. but there is a prime young gobbler and a duck or two, as pretty as you'd want to see.” now i'll tell you a secret. these wise fowls had determined not to be the victims of uncle nathan's axe, and furnish somebody's thauks- giving dinner, so they had gone without the food uncle nathan scattered for them for so long that now they were the weakest, sickest, most miserable looking things you could imagine. but there was a wilful young turkey and a pair of silly ducks, who said they had no fear of the axe, and could keep away from it. “that’s plenty,” said aunt debby, when she had heard of the gobbler and two ducks. "now i'll tell you my plans. i've cooked more than enough for us two, nathan, and i want to ask the widow love and her six children here to thanksgiving dinner. the dinner will do them all good, and i calculate we will get enough happiness out of it to last us a week. “and my three best fowls are for poor widow love and her six youngsters, hey? well, i call that a pretty good disposal to make of them, old wife, and i guess if you can make enough pies and puddings and cakes to fill 'em up, i fiddle-cum-fee. can do my part with the poultry and garden stuff.” and so the thing was settled, and when milk- ing was done that night, uncle nathan and aunt debby stepped across to the widow's, to ask if they were willing to come. to be sure they were, and there never was a more joyful thanks- giving than this. they all ate till they could hardly move, and went home tired and sleepy, but very happy. fiddle-cum-fee. a long, long time ago there was a little vil- lage called harmony. it lay between two tall mountains that sheltered it from the storms and tempests that swept over the neighboring towns. a beautiful stream flowed into the valley below, watering the earth and causing it to be very fertile. the grass grew very green and beautiful in this tiny village, and the fruit and flowers were larger and more abundant than anywhere around. the people loved their homes, and spared no pains or time in making them as beau- tiful as they possibly could. fiddle-cum-fee. but one day sorrow came to the village. old fiddle-cum-fee had heard of the beauties of the village of harmony, and had left his home some hundred miles away to visit this inuch- du fire talked-of place. fiddle-cum-fee was a great and powerful giant, feared and dreaded by all who heard of him. he started off one morning bright and early, so as to reach the village while fiddle-cum-fee. the day was yet young, and he could do this easily, for he wore shoes that carried him many miles at a single stride. most of the villagers were seated at their tables, quietly enjoying their morning meal, when, all of a sudden, the tables commenced to rock, plates jumped up and down, cups danced in the saucers, and even the houses seemed to tremble and shake. the people looked at each other in silence, feeling sure that an earth-quake had come to destroy their little vil- lage, and perhaps bring death to many of them. then they all rushed to their doors, and looked out, and then hastened out of doors, and were terrified to see the terrible giant coming through the street. it was his great weight that was shaking the village, and his mighty laugh, when he saw the fear and wonder of the people, sounded like a great clap of thunder "good people,” said he, as he halted in the center of the town, “i am fiddle-cum-fee; use me well, and i will be your friend, but use me badly, and you will see how fiddle-cum-fee can repay your bad treatment. i am tired of my mountain home, and need a change. your village seems to suit my purpose, so i am come to dwell among you until such time as it seems best to me to go . fiddle-cum-fee. away. i have had nothing to eat as yet this morning, so bring on your very best meat, your whitest bread, your choicest fowl and finest fruit, and i will give you a show of a fine healthy appetite. if some one will play sweet music, the time will pass more pleasantly.” almost paralyzed with fear, the people hurried away to do his bidding, while fiddle-cum-fee seated himself under an apple tree, for no house could possibly hold him. it seemed as though the ter- rible monster would never get enough, and all were kept busy satisfying his demands. break- fast over, fiddle-cum-fee wandered back to the mountain side to take a nap, for he felt smoth- ered in the little village. when he was gone, the people put their heads together, and tried to think of some way in which they could get rid of him, for they knew that they could never supply his wants. plan after plan was suggested and discussed, and at last they decided to cook him a great kettle full of soup. their idea was to prepare a fine lot of soup, place in it a drug, the fumes of which would overpower him as he leaned over to eat. when he became drowsy, they intended to pitch him over into the soup, and scald him to death. then they would put fiddle-cum-fee. him on a raft, and set him adrift on the stream, letting the current bear him off to sea. some of the kinder-hearted people could not bear to do this cruel act, even to so great an enemy, and ( latos so they finally persuaded the rest to rig up a monstrous balloon, and when he was drowsy from the effects of the drug, they fastened him in a basket and sent him up. higher and higher the balloon rose, until, finally, it was lost to the back yard party. sight. then suddenly they saw it appear again, and they saw it coming nearer and nearer to the earth. they were greatly frightened for fear it would drop on the land, but a favoring breeze bore it out to sea, and presently it sunk, never to be seen again. the back yard party. mrs. mouse laid down her pen and breathed a sigh of relief. she had been busily at work getting out invitations for a grand garden party in the back yard, and now she had finished. the field mice, the mice at the barn and wagon house, and of course the house mice, all were invited. mrs. mouse hoped that everything might be pleasant. the mice at the house were rather in- clined to hold themselves a little above the field mice, why she could not tell, for she was quite sure one family was as good as the other, and she had no wish to slight either. mrs. mouse felt all of a flutter when the night of the party arrived. she had allowed her four the back yard party. black cat. such a scampering you never saw, and no one stopped until he had safely reached his home. it was a shame that they should be so wanit mwelt rudely disturbed in the midst of their fun, for they were having a very gay time all by them- selves, and they are such cute and cunning little things that we like to see them enjoy themselves. the interrupted party. without being seen. yesterday dot had found such a pretty frock when she was hunting around gviny ma palmer cox the nursery closet. she often visited that closet, for nurse sometimes left the lid off the cracker lady nibble's ball. scratch! scratch! scratch! went the pen of lady nibble. it was a quill that had fallen out of the old gander's tail, and the bottle of blueing that the farmer's wife had left on the hanging shelf served splendidly for ink. lady nibble was writing invitations for a ball. the farmer's family were going to give a dance in the new barn. her ladyship knew this was so, for she had overheard the folks talking about it when she went into the kitchen cupboard after some cheese. she made up her mind at once that this was the time to entertain her friends, as there would be lots left to eat after the farmer's dance was over. she went right to work and sent invi- tations far and near. dicky scratch had been invited to play the music. he had a fiddle that had once adorned the children's christmas tree, but had been thrown out as rubbish, until dicky found it. peter squeak was to call out the figures, his voice was so high and shrill. the old clothes hamper that had been banished from the house would serve as a splendid stand for dicky and for peter squeak also. lady nibble was all in a flutter of excitement ( ) lady nibble's ball. when the night arrived, and how pleased she was when she found so many had responded to her in- vitation. they came in dress coats, sacque coats, cutaways and some less fortunate came without falme cox famię cok coats—but what they wore made no difference, for everything was lovely, and the best of all old ratty scamper and little mousey shy danced together perched upon an old dish-pan that had been turned up-side-down. how they all laughed lady nibble's ball. when poor old ratty forgot the smallness of the space on which he was dancing, and danced en- tirely off. they danced by twos and they danced by rights, saint and before they could realize it the farmer's guests were going home and lady nibble had invited them to step into the barn and partake of refresh- ments. what a feast they had ! her ladyship had chosen wisely in selecting this night, for such the adventure of the mice. rich dainties rarely fall to a mouse's lot with so little trouble. there were dainty bits of cheese, crackers, fine chicken and many other nice things, but the very best of all was the box of chocolates which old ratty scamper found hidden under the table. he had tasted nothing so good since the christmas before, when he had crept into little flossie gray's bed-room and taken a big bite of the candy cane old st. nicholas had left in her stocking. then they found a dish of strawberry ice cream, which someone had left. they had never tasted ice cream before, and at first they were afraid to touch it, but when they once got a taste, they all voted it very nice. it was all over at last, for even the best of things must end, and as lady nibble bade her guests good-night she felt satisfied that this had been the great success of her life. the adventure of the mice. things had reached a point where something must be done, so thought and so said the four gray mice that had met together to talk over their woes. these four mice had spent their lives in perfect comfort and happiness under the high back steps, den palmer cox ( ) the adventure of the mice. to view. of course the cheese smelt good and looked so tempting, but these sly little chaps had learned the danger of traps, and though they wished and sighed for the good things, they did not venture near these strong wire enemies. but worse than traps came into their lives. these they could keep away from, but a foe, big and powerful, had been brought to capture them. it was a large, sharp-eyed, shiney black cat. he never seemed to sleep, for try when they might to creep silently into the house his quick ears heard them, and his big round eyes looked eagerly around. these four little mice were growing as thin as shadows, for they dared not venture from their step home to get even a morsel of food. at last they met in council, and then it was decided that some- thing must be done. after much talking they concluded that puss must be killed and that they must do it. so armed with weapons and a good strong rope they started on their mission. you can't guess how brave they felt nor how sure of their success. but what a difference came when they started into the house. there stood the cat. then they forgot to be brave and off they scamp- ered, as fast as possible, never stopping to look behind. grandmother mouse's tale. grandmother mouse had invited her two oldest grand-daughters to tea. they were very nice little mice and great favorites with the old lady, and as they also were very fond of their grandmother, it was a pleasure for them to go. they put on their very best clothes and took lots of care in getting ready, for their grandmother was most particular. when they reached the limuse there she stood on the top one of the back kitchen steps, wearing her ruffled cap and her snowy white apron, and ready with a hearty welcome for both of them. grandmother mouse lived all by herself in the cupboard under the kitchen stairs. this had been her home all her life, and as they sat around the tea table that evening she told them the story of how this became her home. “mother," said she, “ went off one day to hunt for a bit of cheese or some nice fresh crackers and told me to stay where i was until she came back, i shut my eyes thinking i would take a nap while she was gone, for the time always seemed so dreary when mother was away—and i must have taken a good long nap, for it was dark when i opened nay eyes, but mother was not there, though, i called ( ) grandmother mouse's tale. not come, i knew something had happened to her - but whether the old cat had pounced upon her or whether she yielded to temptation in the form of a piece of cheese and so ended her life in a wicked trap, i never found out.” here grand- mother stopped to wipe her eyes, for though it was a long time ago, she could not tell the story with- out weeping. “well,” continued she, “i had grown very hungry by this time, so i stole quietly out to find something to eat. how strange i felt all alone in this new world. i seemed to be growing tinier every minute or else the great big cellar was grow- ing bigger. cook had made some lovely rusks and had put them in the cellar to cool. this was very kind in cook, i thought, and i ate all the sugar off the top of one and then began to nibble at the crust. but just then i heard footsteps, and oh my! how fast i scampered away. it was cook after the rusks, and i heard her mutter as she went up the stairs, “ mistress must certainly get a trap; the mice have been at work again.” i trembled so that i was afraid cook would hear me, and the vision of that trap made me so un- happy that i could not sleep one wink. then and there i made up my mind that nothing, noth- ing would ever tempt me to go near a trap, not grandmother mouse's tale. the richest piece of cheese, not the daintiest morsel of cake. i thought of the cake and cheese, my dears,” said the mouse, smiling, “because they were the two things i particularly loved, and i must own that i have not lost my fondness for them, if i am old and a grandmother. “day after day went by, and i was getting thin, for the vision of the trap had not left my mind, and i was afraid to venture out for food. but time is a great healer, you know, so at last i became quite brave and visited the pantry shelf nightly. “by and by i married your grandfather. his home was in one corner of the garret back of the camphor chest. i spent two nights there, but i was so homesick that your grandfather said he did not mind where he lived, and the cupboard under the stairs was quite good enough for him. so the next day back we came, and a happier mouse than i never lived. "your mother was born here and your grand- father died here. the world is very hard upon mice, my children, and is forever laying snares for them to fall into, and in an unlucky moment your grandfather ate of a piece of meat on which poison had been spread. he only lived a little while, and once more i was left alone, for your mother the candle feast. married and had gone to live in the next door kitchen. so now," finished grandmother, “you see this has always been my home, and i hope it always will be. but i think it is getting late now and that you had better be going—but come soon again, for you know i am always glad to see you. the candle feast. there was once a little gray mouse who was no larger or older than the other mice, but who was always so bright and clever and so full of all sorts of plans and schemes that the other mice had gotten into the habit of going to her in all their troubles, and she was always ready and pleased to put her little wits to work and to help them the very best she knew how. and she was such a brave little mouse, 'too. no matter how bold or how daring the scheme she might suggest, she was always ready to do her part in the undertaking. now miss mousy had been prowling around in the kitchen one morning and had seen the cook busily at work making pies and tarts, and, last of all, brown, spicy ginger snaps. if there was one thing in this world that miss mousey dearly loved it was ginger snaps. the candle feast. miss mousey was not going to spend her time in fretting, her little bright eyes glanced sharply palmer coc around the kitchen to find something else to satisfy the hunger of herself and her sorrowful-looking the mouse's easter egg. it was spring, and it was easter time. the mice knew it was easter because one of them while rummaging in the kitchen cupboard for a nibble w ord of something had overheard the cook giving the order to the grocer's boy. miss mousey had heard her say—“i want a great many eggs, for i have promised to dye some for the children, and besides ( ) the mouse's easter egg. easter is not easter without plenty of eggs.” the grocer's boy seemed to be of the same opinion, and cook laughed merrily when he told her how many he could eat. now miss mousey made up her mind that if cook and the grocer's boy found eggs such fine food, she must certainly try to have one for her breakfast on easter day. such a commotion as reigned in the kitchen on saturday morning! of course the children had no school, and they all wanted to help cook. you should have heard the bursts of gleeful laughter as the blue and crimson, green, purple and yellow eggs were put on a platter to cool. miss mousey saw and heard it all as she sat peeping through a crack in the cupboard door that morning. “if they will only leave them on the platter until to- morrow," thought miss mousey, “i can easily help myself, and i know the children will not mind letting me have just one.” fortune was good to this little gray lady, and when cook fixed the fire for the night and turned out the gas, the eggs still stood on the plate. now miss mousey knew that her two young brothers would like to try the eggs just as well as she, so she asked them to come with her, and armed with knife, fork and spoon they started on their journey. the mouse's easter egg. it was easy enough to reach the egg, but not quite so easy to take it home. it was so round and so smooth that, try as they might, not one could manage it. at last miss mousey jumped for joy—she had hit on a splendid plan. it was the easiest thing in the world to manage. she would lie down flat on her back, hold the egg with her four little feet, and then her two strong brothers could pull her along by her tail. to think was to act this time and before many minutes the egg was the monkeys' trick. : some other kind of caper. when night came they needed no rocking, for so tired were they that they om porty market beves porr file w or nolik veal -- do pod palner cos hardly had time to settle themselves for the night before they were in dreamland. the monkeys' trick. brown bruin was a solemn, dignified bear that dwelt in the forest where the monkey family lived. he had grown so fat in his old age that his greatest pleasure was to take things easy. hurrying and scurrying were not to his liking, and the merry, chattering ways of jocko and jerry bothered him no little. he had many times talked to them, and tried to show them how much better it was to live a quiet, peaceful life. the little monkeys listened to all he said, and they seemed so solemn that brown bruin felt sure his words had not been in vain ; but time showed him his mistake. old bruin had among his possessions a beauti- ful red hammock that he prized very highly, not only for itself, but for the many happy hours he had spent in it. he swung it up one morning as usual, and, placing his high hat on the ground be- neath, crawled into the hammock to read his morn- ing paper and take a little nap. jocko and jerry watched the bear preparing to spend a comfortable morning and decided to play a trick on him. so they sat very quietly, hidden among the leaves, until bruin was lost in the reading of his paper. poor fellow ! he was so deeply engaged in reading the report of the stock market and wondering whether he would not be able to indulge in a little veal, mutton and pork, now they were going so the magpie's revenge. little knife cut the rope, and down went mr. bruin all in a heap. how these merry little monkeys did chatter and laugh when they saw the old fellow on the ground, but they had good sense enough to run away as fast as they could go, for they knew, if they were caught, they would get a good scolding, and they should have a good hard scolding, for they were very naughty monkeys, indeed, to dis- turb the poor bear in his hammock. poor bruin did not know what to make of it when he found himself suddenly landed on his head on the hard ground, but he soon made up his mind that it was all a trick which mischievous jocko and jerry had played on him, and he felt very badly to think that his fine silk hat was ruined and his hammock injured just through the work of frolicsome monkeys, and he decided that he would find some other place to spend his leisure, where he would not be troubled by such naughty little creatures as jocko and jerry. the magpie's revenge. it was all due to the treatment which madame magpie had received at the time of the great ball in the early spring. invitations had been sent the search for food. “tick tock! tick tock ! tick tock !” slowly and steadily the hands of thekitchen clock moved for- lunuh aut ona ward, but still it kept on with its oft-repeating song. madame mouse felt as though she could stand ( ) the search for food. had once found there a lunch basket belonging to · one of the children, and there was quite a lot in it, too. as soon as he went into the closet a half dozen heads or more peeped out from holes in the floor. “you've come to a sorry place for food," said they, “we are almost starved." mr. mouse said not a word but turned towards home. having heard from her husband that the folks were away, mrs. mouse and her four babies had ventured out. mr. mouse saw them as soon as he entered the kitchen. tiny was in his mother's arms, while tip, top and teddy huddled around her. “iam too big a coward,” thought mr. mouse, “to go back to them empty handed," so he stole away without their having seen him. he wandered about the shed, wondering what next to do, when all at once his eyes spied some- thing round and white gleaming at him from the corner. “luck at last,” thought he, and it was, too, for it proved to be a long white candle. a few seconds brought him to his family, the good news was told, and they all hurried away to have a royal feast. it seemed such a treat after the long waiting and the tedious search they had had, and they all felt very thankful, even baby tiny who sat in his mother's arms and quietly nibbled away at his share. the visit to jerry's. friday afternoon had come round once more, which meant that lessons were done for the week, and to-morrow was free from books and study. tom and fred were chums. if the boys at school saw tom without fred, or fred without tom, they were sure something must be the matter, for where one went the other went also. they were in the same class at school ; they played on the same base-ball team ; they read the same books, in fact, they did everything as much alike as possible. ( ) the visit to jerry's. now, as they sauntered home from school this fri- day afternoon, their brains were busy planning some way to spend the next day. “if it were only time to go fishing," said tom, “ i'm just aching to try my luck with the pole and line that uncle gave me at christmas.” “i wish some of the fellows could play cricket," said fred, “i want to use my bat.” but wishes were useless, and this the boys knew, so they went to thinking once more. “let's go see old jerry, tom," said fred, “ we've not seen him for a long time." jerry used to work for tom's father and was very fond of the boys. now he lived on a little place just outside the city and raised pigs, which he brought into the town market. this plan pleased tom very much, and they agreed to meet bright and early the next morning, so that they might have a good long day. tom's mother had packed a basket of good things for jerry, for he lived all alone, and women's cooking was such a treat, he once told the boys. it was a beautiful day, and the boys leaped and shouted when they had left the city behind them and had entered into the freedom of the country roads. the sun was high up in the heavens when they reached jerry's and tom was glad to put down the basket, for it the vist to jerry's. was beginning to feel pretty heavy. fred wanted to help him, but tom insisted on carrying it all alone, too proud to own that he was tired. at length the cottage where jerry lived came in sight, and before long they lifted the latch of the gate and walked up the gravel walk to the house. how pleased jerry was to see them, and how full of delight over the basket of goodies ! jerry had a funny new pet to show the boys that day—a wee little pig that he had taught to come into the kitchen and drink milk from a saucer. the boys had a fine time, and when they said good-bye to jerry they promised him and them- selves, too, that it would not be long before they came again. the opportunity to again pay a visit to jerry came in the course of a few months, and bright and early one saturday the boys started on their the visit to jerry's. trip. jerry was delighted to see them, but they found him in so much trouble that they really pitied him. it was all on account of the pig that had been so cute and pretty when they visited him before. he had sent them a photograph of piggy as he looked when performing his tricks, and they fully expected to see him dance and play the fiddle. this was one great reason they were so anxious to go out to jerry's once more, for they were wild to see this wonderful creature about whom they had heard so much. as they drew near the house, they heard the pig squealing and grunting at a great rate, while above all the din rose the voice of jerry, evidently in no very pleasant frame of mind. opening the door, they beheld jerry standing, hat in hand, and look- ing very much troubled. tables and chairs were overturned, and the stove-pipe was just falling down, while the stove lay upset on the floor. in the midst of it all stood a great ugly hog, so huge that it seemed to fill the whole room. the boys were thunderstruck to see such a big hog in the house and wondered how it got there. then jerry explained to them that this was the little pig of which they had all been so fond. it had kept growing and growing, and every day he had thought he would put it out of doors, but he had che visit to jerry's. not done it, and now it was more of a task than he could do alone. the boys offered to heip him, and together they drove the pig to the door, but lavoro - - r! t vila & we alas, alas, he was so big that all he could get out- side the cottage door was his head. he would have been very glad to get out, for the house was uncomfortably small, but try as he might, he could ( ) in the meadow. by the robins, and at last four little beaks picked the shell and four little baby robins came out to live in this great, big world. the tree rocked them gently, and the mother thought that no baby robins ever had a prettier cradle than hers. the robin family stayed in the tree all summer, and the tree kept growing stronger and stronger, and taller and taller, and when the birdies flew away it was only comforted by the promise that the old birds would come back again the next year. just before he flew away the old robin lingered beneath the tree just long enough to sing a farewell song. down by the very brook over which hung the tree, which was the home of the robins, dwelt a handsome green frog. he was born there in the early spring, and before the robins came the tree had watched little froggy-woggy with great in- terest. it wondered to see him growing so fast, and he looked so jolly with his great grinning mouth and his big, bulging eyes. just as soon as the sun reached the banks of the little brook froggy would perch himself on a smooth stone, blinking and winking as though the world gave nothing but happiness to him. now the tree soon learned that froggy loved a little lady frog. every morning went the youthful lover to take his lady love for a walk; he carried a huge bou- in the meadow. quet of flowers so beautiful that the bees and but- terflies followed him, sipping of their sweetness. one day froggy and his lady love went away and never came back again. the tree felt sure they had found a home for themselves by some other stream. a hill sloped up from the brookside, and among usic chiwa c the grasses and low shrubs flowers of all sorts lifted their heads. daisies opened their bright eyes at the peep of morning, and nodded their sleepy little heads at the coming of the shadows. the blue violets shyly put forth their bloom, and the yellow buttercups sparkled and gleamed in the bright sunshine. but the hillside was most beauti- in the meadow. ful when the children coming home from school stopped to gather the posies. their chatter and joyous laughter rany out like the sweetest music, as beautiful, so thought the tree, as the song of the birds that sang so sweetly all day long. one night the flowers and trees were awakened from their happy dreams by the strangest noise they had ever heard. the moon was big and round that night and was shedding her brightest light, so that the meadow was almost as bright as day. flowers lifted their drowsy heads, and the trees bent and swayed to peep around each other to find out, if possible, the cause of so much trouble. they soon discovered that a flock of young birds that had doubtless wandered from their nests and had stayed out too late had been attacked by some big, round-eyed owls, and the loud cry of fear from the young birds as they hur- ried through the air had wakened all the sleeping · hillside and put sleep to flight. but the meadow was not only the home of the birds, the flowers and the fat little frogs, but the children used to go there and spend the long beauti- ful summer days playing in the soft, green grass hunting for the birds' nests and gathering the · bright, pretty flowers. but, best of all, they loved to chase the butterflies that flitted here and there, the lost prize. drinking the honey from the flower cupom end rest- ing lightly on the nodding grasses. take it all in all, the meadow was the most delightful place in the world, not only for the children, but for all the merry crowds of birds and insects that made it their home and their pleasure ground, and none of them would have known how to get along without it. the lost prize. kitty gray had been brought to her new home in a covered basket. she remembered well bow one of the boys had brought a saucer of new the lost prize. good, a gentle voice would always say, “lie still, kitty gray, and be real good.” when the basket was opened and kitty jumped out she found herself in a place very different from the big barn in which she had always lived. but she soon grew to like it very much. she loved the warm fire, beside which she curled her- self every night, and the cook gave her lots of good things to eat. cook sat by the fire reading one night, and kitty lay curled up in her lap. kit's eyes roamza lazily around the room until they rested upon at empty pickle bottle that cook had left standing on rival babies. daddy bear had gone off on a hunting trip. he had left madam bear and their little son alone, but he had brought such a fine young lamb from the neighboring farm-yard that he had no fear of their being in want while he was gone. daddy bear and his wife were very proud of their young son. they thought nothing so beauti- ful as his fat little body and his sharp little eyes, that looked so bright and charming. his funny attempts to growl like his parents made them both laugh merrily. very near to the home of the bears dwelt an- other family. this family consisted of father and mother fox and their little son. now the fox parents were just as fond and proud of their baby as daddy and madam bear were of theirs, and they used often to think that their son was just a little more cute than baby bear. these two little chaps were born about the same time, and each had been carefully watched and guarded by its fond parents, who tried to outdo each other in their devotion to their babies. if madam bear took her little boy walking, young master fox was soon taken out for a stroll. if little foxy appeared in a new pinafore, madam bear lost no ( ) d . da au ar n domonko ( ) the dance in the woods. for a stroll and had stopped to watch the merry butterflies. “we will dance together," said the raven. so the stork threw his long bill over the raven's shoulder, and wing to wing they whirled around, not pictures of grace, however, for they moved very, very awkwardly. the eagle, gazing from his lofty nest, saw the antics of the pair and laughed merrily to himself. “i'll fly down and get nearer the fun," said he. down he came, and meeting a plump, white goose, ne told him of the performance and asked him to come along and see it. the goose had hard work to keep up with the eagle, who walked along with the surprise party. fun to watch the stork and the raven, how much more fun it would be to trip it with them. so down he flew and commenced spinning around and around. this movement on the part of the jay put the hawk in the notion, and she also joined the dancers. the dodo and the crane were the next to fall in, and before very long couple after couple were hopping around enjoying the lively reel. the surprise party. dear me, did no one tell you about the party ? it was a perfect success all through. that funny little turtle that lives in the swamp back of the hedgehog's got it up. one morning he arose bright and early, did his work as quickly as pos- sible, and then started around to his friend's, the porcupine, to inake him a visit. “do you know," said the turtle, after a while, “i've been thinking how pleasant it would be to get up a surprise party for our neighbor, mr. bruin.” “the very thing,” replied the porcupine, “ if you are willing to invite the people.” “i'll be glad to do it," answered the turtle. the turtle would not stay to dinner, although the porcupine invited him, and that very afternoon he the raid of the rats. and performed many queer antics, which were ex- ceedingly amusing to the whole company. they were all so happy and time passed so pleasantly that the wee, small hours of the morning dawned before the party broke up. they all agreed that the turtle deserved much praise for the fine time he had been the means of affording them, and de- cided to arrange a surprise party for him some day. the raid of the rats. there was once a man named nathan brown, who kept the “silver lake mill.” the mill had been so named on account of the beautiful stream of water upon whose banks it was built. this water as it flowed on and on, day after day, turned the great wheel and ground the wheat that the farmers brought to nathan to be made into flour. nathan was a big, fat, red-cheeked fellow, who loved nothing better than a chat with his neigh- bors, and while the mill wheel kept busily and steadily turning the dusty miller kept up a merry chattering. one day nathan looked very solemn, and the farmer who had come with his bag of wheat won- dered what had happened. he asked no ques- the raid of the rats. tions, for he knew that in time the miller would tell him. when nathan had emptied the wheat into the hopper he sat down beside the farmer and began to talk. “do you know,” said he, “ there is something carrying off my wheat, and what it is i don't know, but i have my suspicions that it is the rats. i have about made up my mind to set traps and see if i can in that way discover who the thieves may be.” now it happened that the rats were the doers of all the mischief, and it also happened that one of them, who had taken a nap on a beam, wakened in time to hear what the miller said. “traps ? " thought he, “ that ends the fun for us. we will carry off all we can to-night, and then get away from this place.” just as soon as old ratty could leave without being seen he hur- ried off to tell the rest of the rats the news he had heard. they all agreed that they must get away the raid of the rats. as soon as possible, but, like him, they wanted one more night of fun. when night came a big crowd had gathered. they had merry times chasing one another, in and out among the bags, and crawling up them and sliding down again. “i have an idea,” said one of the rats ; “i think if we tried we might manage to carry away one of those small bags of flour. we could hide it in the wagon house and have a merry time with it." “that's a splendid idea," cried they all ; “we can do it if we try.” one of the smallest bags was selected, and all went to work, and they did work. it was not easy to lift the sack up on their shoulders, nor to the back. yard party. topped bonnet. grandmother skipper and her youngest grandchild came next, and after them came lady newly-wed and her husband. on they came, one after the other, until quite a large, merry crowd had gathered in the back yard. the young mice wanted to dance, so partners were ir as all chosen, and the merry whirlers went spinning round and round until they were almost ready to drop. billy nibble and patty pry grew tired of danc- ing and seated themselves on top of the gate. tucker gray saw them, and he felt jealous, for he adventures of the mice. said a very young mouse, “and i'll tell you how; i saw the most tempt- ing piece of cheese in the centre of a funny red box; so i put my head in to take a bite, and, bless you, a spring snapped down and held me tight. i jumped around and around with this thing on my head, and shook it as hard as ever i could, although i was nearly choked to death, but i could not get out. at last, by some rare good fortune, the wire that held the spring broke and set me free. it was a narrow escape, and it taught me a good lesson. never, as long as i live, will i venture near a trap.” “we had quite a scare, too,” spoke up one of my young squeaks. “my brothers and i crawled rulle iwwe cousin bear's party. slippers from his shoemaker. these, with his fine twisted cane, made up a very fine costume. mrs. bruin immediately summoned her dressmaker, and together they fashioned a gorgeous crimson gown. her bonnet of fine white straw was lined with red, and, to her delight, her fond husband bought her a fine feathered fan. the night of the party mr. bruin and his lov- ing wife started off in high glee. as they went along they were the objects of great admiration. mrs. bruin wore two magnificent sun flowers in her belt. the night was perfect. the moon was shining brightly, and the snow beneath their feet sparkled like diamonds. it was quite a long walk, but the house was finally reached, and a most de- lightful time they had. game followed game in quick succession, until the call to supper sounded in their ears. the refreshments were superb. mr. bruin declared that he had never eaten such pork, so tender and juicy, and the lamb was perfect. cousin bear whispered to mrs. bruin that she had gotten the pork from their neighbor, the farmer, while the lamb had been procured seven miles away. it was very late when the bruins started for home, and as they sauntered along beneath the stars they agreed that the party was a great success, and were more than glad to think that they had gone. cock robin. the variations = cationsغتيالات m palmer cox, cock robin lying in state. ( ) cock robin. who'll make a shroud so costly and fine ? i, said the beetle, with my thread and needle, the task shall be mine. who'll dig a grave in the yew-tree shade ? i, said the mole, will soon make a hole, i'll dig the grave. with my pickax and spade. cock robin. ced muoju :) out palmpar, go cock robin. who'll toll the bell in the chapel tower ? i, said the daw, with my long claw, i toll the bell for half an hour. who'll bear a blazing torch in the case ? i, said the kite, will carry the light and show the way to the burial place. cock robin. his se hur para > nevestu umfan. hold palmer cox.. cock robin. u vado waiting nis lilil cmitti indt 'palmer cox cock robin. who'll be the parson with faith and trust? i, said the rook, will read from my book, “ashes to ashes, and dust to dust.”' who'll mark the songster's earthy bed ? i, said the bat, will attend to that. i'll carve his name on the tree at his head. cock robin. c . n a sovie law son mias ju ii ny minimai jawa con in we về vl it. anda .. ua y . dly io the tales of hoffmann hoffmann. now, for his features... (he becomes absorbed.) chorus. now, for his features ?... hoffmann (very slowly). now, for his features... (hc rises.) ah, but her face was lovely! i see her lovely as on that day when, following after her, i foolishly left my father's house and fied away thro' valleys and forests. the dusky curtains of lier hair cast warm shadows upon her creamy throat, her eyes of deepest azure threw radiant glances, pure and serene; and as our car without shock or tremor carried onward our hearts and our loves, her vibrant voice sang to the listening skies a victorious chant whose eternal echo resounds in my heart! nathanael. most fantastic brain! whose portrait art thou painting? klein- zach? hoffmann. speak of her... nathanael . . (touching his shoulder). whom? hoffmann. no! nobody!... nothing, my spirit is troubled. nothing!... and klein-zach is better, de- formed though he be! chorus. flick, flack, there's klein-zach. hoffmann. quant aux traits de sa figure... (il semble s'absorber peu à peu dans sou rêve.) le choeur. quant aux traits de sa figure?... hoffmann (très lentement). quant aux traits de sa figure... (il se lève.) ah! sa figure était charmante!..je la vois, belle comme le jour où, courant après elle, je quittai comme un fou la maison paternelle et m'enfuis à travers les vallons et les bois! ses cheveux en torsades sombres sur son col élégant jetaient leurs, chaudes ombres. ses yeux, enveloppés d'azur, promenaient autour d'elle un regard frais et pur; et, comme notre char emportait sans secousse nos coeurs et nos amours, sa voix vibrante et douce aux cieux qui l'écoutaient jetait ce chant vainqueur dont l'éternel écho résonne dans mon coeur! nathanael. o bizarre cervelle! qui diable peins-tu là! klein-zach?... hoffmann. je parle d'elle. nathanael (lui touchant l'épaule). qui? hoffmann (sortant de son rêve). non! personne!...rien! mon esprit se troublait! rien!...et klein-zach vaut mieux, tout difforme qu'il est!... le choeur. flic, flac! voilà klein-zachl the tales of hoffmann hoffmann. the sky its radiance lends to beauty. but hidden in iron hearts lies hell! bliss of paradise where lovers meet, oaths, cursed hopes, dreams of life! oh, chastity, ( oh, purity, lies! the chorus. to the devil with him who weeps, etc., etc. schlemil (entering). . i see all is joy. congratulations, madame. giulietta. what! why, i've wept for you three whole days! pitichinaccio. indeed! schlemil (to pitichinaccio). scoundrel! pitichinaccio. hola! giulietta. calm yourselves! we have a stranger poet among us. (presenting.) hoffmann! schlemil (with bad grace). monsieur! hoffmann. le ciel te prête sa clarté, beauté. mais vous cachez, ô coeurs de fer, l'enfer! bonheur du paradis où l'amour convie, serments, espoirs maudits, rêves de la vie! o chastetés, o puretés, mentez!. le choeur. au diable celui qui pleure, etc., etc. schlemil (entrant en scène). je vois qu'on est en fête. a merveille, madame. giulietta. comment! mais je vous ai pleuré trois grands jours. pitichinaccio. dame! schlemil (à pitichinaccio). avorton pitichinaccio. holal giulietta. calmez-vous! nous avons un poète étranger parmi nous. (présentant hoffmann.) hoffmann! schlemil (de mauvaise grâce). monsieur f hoffmann monsieur! (ironically). hoffmann. (ironique). monsieurl copyright by the open court publishing company, prefatory note. tribute is here feelingly paid to the memory of professor john e. matzke, who, together with professor oliver m. johnston, of stanford university, was the writer's first romance teacher in this country. the writer also wishes to thank his friend, professor roy p. lingle, who has considerably aided him in reading the proofs. m. r. ~\ l\ ilton has convened many a man to diabolism," says \jj_ max beerbohm in his recent story, "enoch soames." among these converts must be counted frangois rene, yicomtc de chateaubriand. his return to catholicism was not inspired by his mother's death, but incited by milton's devil. chateaubriand him- self, as is well known, attributed bis religious conversion to his mother's death-bed appeal to him to return to her faith. "ma con- viction;' said he, "est sortie du cceur. j'ai pleure et j'ai cru." this story, however, is the purest of his fictions. it is truthful only to the extent that he inherited from his mother the tendency towards catholicism. the abruptness of his transition from the scepticism of his essai sur les revolutions ( )—"a book of doubt and sor- row," as he himseif called it—to the certainty of his genie du chris- tianismc ( - ) is a suspicious circumstance. the interval between "quelle sera la religion qui remplacera le christianisme?" (th? title of the last chapter of the essai) and his panegyric of the genius of christianity was too brief. the fanatical voltairian was too suddenly transformed into a fervent votary of the catholic faith. as a matter of fact, chateauhr'and remained the sceptic even after writing his genie du christianisme. this is shown by mar- ginal notes to the essai in the author's own handwriting found by sainte-reuve in a copy which had belonged to chateaubriand him- self. on the basis of this discovery alone our author's sincerity in enoch soames is the most recent imitator of theophilus, the ambitious priest of adana, who, as is well known, was the first to discover that man could enter into a bond with beelzebub. the story "enoch soames" first appeared in the century magazine for may, , and was reprinted in max beerbohm's book, seven men (london, ; new york, ). cf. augustin de sainte-beuve, chateaubriand ct son groupe litteraire. xouv. ed. ( vols., ), i. p. ; cf. also, i. ; see also georg brandes, main currents in nineteenth century literature (english translation, vols., london, - ), iii. . supernaturalism and satanism in chateaubriand. "the finest thing in connection with this [milton's] parad'se," says taine,' in his histoire de la litterature anglaise ( ), '"is hell: and in this history of god the chief part is taken by the devil." what fascinated chateaubriand also in milton poem was the char- acter of satan. our author prais-s the poetic personifications of evil in all christian poems, but finds milton's satan the finest conception of all. he considers this irreconcilable and irreirrdiable archangel an incomparable creation—a mighty angel fallen! the reader cannot but be affected by a sense of sorrow for this fall. some of the most eloquent passages in the gewe du christian'-sme treat of the emp> r an rebel in milton. in chat aubriand's opinion there is no poeticj character, ancient or modern, that equals this devil. contrasting milton with homer, he finds nothing in the odyssey that can be com- pared with satan's address to the sun in parad'se lost (genie, pt. ii. bk. vi. chap. ). "what is juno," chateaubriand asks, "repair- ing to the limits of the earth in ethiopia, compared to satan, speed- ing his course from the depths of chaos up to the frontiers oi nature?" (ibid, pt. ii, bk. iv, chap. ). "what is ajax," he exclaims, "compared with satan?" "what is pluto," echo;s victor hueo. "as compared with the christian devil?" it was the satan of milton who reveal:d to chateaubriand the poetic beauties of i christianity. of all christian supernatural beings it is the devil j who. as a poetic figure, is superior to all pagan divinities. the poetry of the christian religion is mainly manifested in the prince of demons. the genius of christianity is finally reduced, in its poeti- cal aspect, to the adversary. chateaubriand, who throughout the book takes issue at every turn with voltaire, seems to agree with his erstwhile master that the fiend was the fount and foundation of the christian faith. c'cette doctrine [du diable] devient depuis le fondement de la religion chretienne," essai sur les moeurs et vesprit des nations, chap, iii).'-' voltaire must have meant that from the old orthodox point of view christianity was inconceivable without satan. what need would there he for salvation through christ if there were no satan constantly plotting against man? supernaturalism and satanism in chateaubriand. assailed zeus, was chained to a rock in the caucasus; and loki, the calumniator of the northern gods, was strapped down with thongs of iron in his subterranean cavern. another serious deviation from tradition in les natchez is cha- teaubriand's placing the demon rumor at the southern extremity of our earth. to be canonically correct he should have domiciled her in the north. the north and not the south was looked upon as the devil's special domain. it is described as the devil's dwelling in the passage where the lucifer legend first finds expression (is. xiv. ; cf. also ler. i. f. and par. lost, v. ). "the lord," says lactantius, "so divided the world with the devil that occidens, septcntrio, tenebrac frigus ftl to the sphere of his adversary." this accords with the saying, "ab aquilone omne malum." the good goethe also said: "the further northward one doth go, the plentier soot and witches grow." by taking up his sojourn in the north, satan is but following his persian ancestor ahriman, who, as a winter-demon, had his habi- tation in the cold north, from whence he sent down hail, snow and devastating floods. the north side of a churchyard is considered unconsecrated ground and is reserved for suicides. as the entrance to a church is at the west end, the north is always to the left. for this reason the left has always been the seat of, and has practically become a synonym for, the opposition. the devil, like the tradi- tional hibernian, is always "agin the government" of heaven or oi earth. as a matter of fact, dublin was by some demonologists con- sidered to be satan's earthly capital. the scandinavian form of this name is divelina. burns had this fact in mind when he wrote: "is just as true's the deil's in hell or dublin city." chateaubriand may have been thinking of the daemonium meridianu of the vulgate for psalm xc. by this term, however, is meant the demon of noonday and not of the south. it was applied by joseph de maistre to napoleon, " and recently served as title for a novel by paul bourget ( ). the greater part of chateaubriand's demons are but dull and dreary abstractions devoid of body and blood. our author resorts to the simplest method of personification, in the medieval manner of correspondance diplomatique (published posthumously in ), ii. . cf. k. r. gallas, "a propos du titre ic demon de inidi," in neophilologus, vol. iv ( - ), pp. - . the writer of the note makes no mention of the passage in joseph de maistre. supernatural sm and satanism in chateaubriand. he holds in his hand. and all this fuss, as jules lemaitre rightly remarks, to inspire in a man the most natural of sentiments! chateaubriand's efforts to make his supernatural characters act naturally are also absurd. satan "borne down by the might of his crim-s desc nds naturally towards hell." we read also that dur- ing his physical contact with velleda the language of hell escaped naturally from the lips of eudorus. chateaubriand's mystic notions of the workings of the universe may be characterized as too silly for words. how amazing must sound to a modern man the explanation of high and low tide which the angel of the seas gives to gabriel! our author here sp?aks after the heart of his yoke-fellow joseph de maistre, who wished that a scientist might come forward and credit the lord and not the moon with the ebb and flow of the tide. what shall we say of chateau- briand's cosmogony? uriel, tin angel of the sun, informs in les xatchez the guardian angel of america how his planet was created. this star, he tells him, was not at all formed as men imagine, and then goes on to explain the origin of the sun: when the lord thinks, his thoughts send forth beams of light throughout the universe. the child emmanuel, playing one day with these thought-beams, breaks one of them; and out of a drop which he lets fall, the sun is formed. the sun spots, this angel instructs us further, are caused by the shadow of his wings, which he spreads whenever a thought crosses the divine intelligence: otherwise the universe would be consumed. and this in the days of laplace! mr. john foster in a review of les martyrs said that its author "has introduced some of the most foolish extravagances that ever popish fancy mistook for gran deur." the supernaturalism in chateaubriand's works conveys no illusion to the reader; it impresses him rather as singularly uncon- vincing. it is felt as a study in style, for which the author, as a nings" {martyrs, iii). the tendency on the part of the devil to mimic the deitv in every detail of his character and conduct has earned for him the appellation simia dei. for the evangelists, the wind is the proper vehicle for satan and his angels. "rain seems to have been commonly associated, as it sti'l is in the church of england, with the intervention of the deity, but wind and hail were invariably identified with the devil" (lecky). the witch's broom represents the sweeping storm. fi op. cit., p. . b in les martyrs, uriel resigned as guardian of the sun to take up his new duties as antrel of love. in les martyrs it is ihc old fiend himself who darkens the universe with his bat's wings. eclctic rcti'eii' of september. . reprinted in his critical essays contributed to "the eclectic review" (london, ), vol. ii, pp. - . supernaturalism and satanism in chateaubriand. science, as it manifests itself in our daily lives, the christian soul, as it reveals itself in acts of self-d'nial. the habitation of the spirits of good and evil is not in heaven and hell but in our own hearts. the conflict' between god and satan is fought within and not without us. of chateaubriand's christian supernaturalism all that remains is his satanism. the interest in biblical and medieval subjects which our author awakened among the romanticists was confined almost wholly to "diablerie." certain passages in his books inspired a few . of the most beautiful satanistic works of modern times., alfred de vigny derived his poem, eloa ( ), from chateaubriand, and suggested on his part lamartine's la chute d'un ange ( ), gau- tier's la larine dn diable ( ) and victor hugo's posthumous la tin de satan. in lamartine's poem, however, the angel, who became a human being through love of a mortal woman, soon loses contact with his former friends and takes up his abode among men. flau- bert's la tentation de saint-antoine ( ) and anatole france's thais ( ) go back to chateaubriand's description of the the hid. little did this "avocat poetique du christianisme" dream that all his efforts in behalf of christian supernaturalism would turn out to be only a "boost" for beelzebub. in one important respect. chateaubriand experienced the fate of his master. milton started out, in his poem, "to justify the ways of god to men" (par. lost, i. ), and ended by conferring lustre upon lucifer. his french imitator set out with the intention of rehabilitating christianity in the arts and in literature, and his work redounded to the glory of gehenna. of all his christian supernaturals it is satan who appealed most strongly to his contemporaries. in the romantic period the devil became an absorbing and alluring character and has dominated most literary forms down to the present day. to call the roll of the writers of the nineteenth century who celebrated satan in verse and prose is to marshal the names of almost all the makers of modern french letters. if we admit that the nineteenth century literature reached.its highest perfection in france, it should not be overlooked that this is at least in some degree due to the skillful exploitation in it of the fascinating prince of this world.